[transcriber's note: footnotes moved to the end of the text] sunny memories of foreign lands. by mrs. harriet beecher stowe, author of "uncle tom's cabin," etc. ... "when thou haply seest some rare note-worthy object in thy travels, make me partaker of thy happiness." shakspeare. illustrated from designs by hammatt billings. in two volumes. vol. i. boston: phillips, sampson, and company. new york: j.c. derby. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by phillips, sampson, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. wright and hasty, printers, no. water st. preface. this book will be found to be truly what its name denotes, "sunny memories." if the criticism be made that every thing is given _couleur de rose_, the answer is, why not? they are the impressions, as they arose, of a most agreeable visit. how could they be otherwise? if there be characters and scenes that seem drawn with too bright a pencil, the reader will consider that, after all, there are many worse sins than a disposition to think and speak well of one's neighbors. to admire and to love may now and then be tolerated, as a variety, as well as to carp and criticize. america and england have heretofore abounded towards each other in illiberal criticisms. there is not an unfavorable aspect of things in the old world which has not become perfectly familiar to us; and a little of the other side may have a useful influence. the writer has been decided to issue these letters principally, however, by the persevering and deliberate attempts, in certain quarters, to misrepresent the circumstances which, are here given. so long as these misrepresentations affected only those who were predetermined to believe unfavorably, they were not regarded. but as they have had some influence, in certain cases, upon really excellent and honest people, it is desirable that the truth should be plainly told. the object of publishing these letters is, therefore, to give to those who are true-hearted and honest the same agreeable picture of life and manners which met the writer's own, eyes. she had in view a wide circle of friends throughout her own country, between whose hearts and her own there has been an acquaintance and sympathy of years, and who, loving excellence, and feeling the reality of it in themselves, are sincerely pleased to have their sphere of hopefulness and charity enlarged. for such this is written; and if those who are not such begin to read, let them treat the book as a letter not addressed to them, which, having opened by mistake, they close and pass to the true owner. the english reader is requested to bear in mind that the book has not been prepared in reference to an english but an american public, and to make due allowance for that fact. it would have placed the writer far more at ease had there been no prospect of publication in england. as this, however, was unavoidable, in some form, the writer has chosen to issue it there under her own sanction. there is one acknowledgment which the author feels happy to make, and that is, to those publishers in england, scotland, france, and germany who have shown a liberality beyond the requirements of legal obligation. the author hopes that the day is not far distant when america will reciprocate the liberality of other nations by granting to foreign authors those rights which her own receive from them. the _journal_ which appears in the continental tour is from the pen of the rev. c. beecher. the _letters_ were, for the most part, compiled from what was written at the time and on the spot. some few were entirely written after the author's return. it is an affecting thought that several of the persons who appear in these letters as among the living, have now passed to the great future. the earl of warwick, lord cockburn, judge talfourd, and dr. wardlaw are no more among the ways of men. thus, while we read, while we write, the shadowy procession is passing; the good are being gathered into life, and heaven enriched by the garnered treasures of earth. h.b.s. contents of the first volume. introductory. letter i. the voyage. letter ii. liverpool.--the dingle.--a ragged school.--flowers.--speke hall.--antislavery meeting. letter iii. lancashire.--carlisle.--gretna green.--glasgow. letter iv. the baillie.--the cathedral.--dr. wardlaw.--a tea party--bothwell castle.--chivalry.--scott and burns. letter v. dumbarton castle.--duke of argyle.--linlithgow.--edinburgh. letter vi. public soirée.--dr. guthrie.--craigmiller castle.--bass rock.--bannockburn.--stirling.--glamis castle.--barclay of ury.--the dee.--aberdeen.--the cathedral.--brig o'balgounie. letter vii. letter from a scotch bachelor.--reformatory schools of aberdeen.--dundee.--dr. dick.--the queen in scotland. letter viii. melrose.--dry burgh.--abbotsford. letter ix. douglas of caver.--temperance soirée.--calls.--lord gainsborough.--sir william hamilton.--george combe.--visit to hawthornden.--roslin castle.--the quakers.--hervey's studio.--grass market.--grayfriars' churchyard. letter x. birmingham.--stratford on avon. letter xi. warwick.--kenilworth. letter xii. birmingham.--sybil jones.--j.a. james. letter xiii. london.--lord mayor's dinner. letter xiv. london.--dinner with earl of carlisle. letter xv. london.--anniversary of bible society.--dulwich gallery.--dinner with mr. e. cropper.--soirée at rev. mr. binney's. letter xvi. reception at stafford house. letter xvii. the sutherland estate. letter xviii. baptist noel.--borough school.--rogers the poet.--stafford house.--ellesmere collection of paintings.--lord john russell. introductory the following letters were written by mrs. stowe for her own personal friends, particularly the members of her own family, and mainly as the transactions referred to in them occurred. during the tour in england and scotland, frequent allusions are made to public meetings held on her account; but no report is made of the meetings, because that information, was given fully in the newspapers sent to her friends with the letters. some knowledge of the general tone and spirit of the meetings seems necessary, in order to put the readers of the letters in as favorable a position to appreciate them as her friends were when they were received. such knowledge it is the object of this introductory chapter to furnish. one or two of the addresses at each of several meetings i have given, and generally without alteration, as they appeared in the public journals at the time. only a very few could be published without occupying altogether too much space; and those selected are for the most part the shortest, and chosen mainly on account of their brevity. this is certainly a surer method of giving a true idea, of the spirit which actually pervaded the meetings than could be accomplished by any selection of mere extracts from the several speeches. in that case, there might be supposed to exist a temptation to garble and make unfair representations; but in the method pursued, such a suspicion is scarcely possible. in relation to my own addresses, i have sometimes taken the liberty to correct the reporters by my own recollections and notes. i have also, in some cases, somewhat abridged them, (a liberty which i have not, to any considerable extent, ventured to take with others,) though without changing the sentiment, or even essentially the form, of expression. what i have here related is substantially what i actually said, and what i am willing to be held responsible for. many and bitter, during the tour, were the misrepresentations and misstatements of a hostile press; to which i offer no other reply than the plain facts of the following pages. these were the sentiments uttered, this was the manner of their utterance; and i cheerfully submit them to the judgment of a candid public. i went to europe without the least anticipation of the kind of reception which awaited us; it was all a surprise and an embarrassment to me. i went with the strongest love of my country, and the highest veneration for her institutions; i every where in britain found the most cordial sympathy with this love and veneration; and i returned with both greatly increased. but slavery i do not recognize as an institution of my country; it is an excrescence, a vile usurpation, hated of god, and abhorred by man; i am under no obligation either to love or respect it. he is the traitor to america, and american institutions, who reckons slavery as one of them, and, as such, screens it from assault. slavery is a blight, a canker, a poison, in the very heart of our republic; and unless the nation, as such, disengage itself from it, it will most assuredly be our ruin. the patriot, the philanthropist, the christian, truly enlightened, sees no other alternative. the developments of the present session of our national congress are making this great truth clearly perceptible even to the dullest apprehension. c.e. stowe. andover, _may_ , . breakfast in liverpool--april . the rev. dr. m'neile, who had been requested by the respected host to express to mrs. stowe the hearty congratulations of the first meeting of friends she had seen in england, thus addressed her: "mrs. stowe: i have been requested by those kind friends under whose hospitable roof we are assembled to give some expression to the sincere and cordial welcome with which, we greet your arrival in this country. i find real difficulty in making this attempt, not from want of matter, nor from want of feeling, but because it is not in the power of any language i can command, to give adequate expression to the affectionate enthusiasm which pervades all ranks of our community, and which is truly characteristic of the humanity and the christianity of great britain. we welcome mrs. stowe as the honored instrument of that noble impulse which public opinion and public feeling throughout christendom have received against the demoralizing and degrading system of human slavery. that system is still, unhappily, identified in the minds of many with the supposed material interests of society, and even with the well being of the slaves themselves; but the plausible arguments and ingenious sophistries by which it has been defended shrink with shame from the facts without exaggeration, the principles without compromise, the exposures without indelicacy, and the irrepressible glow of hearty feeling--o, how true to nature!--which characterize mrs. stowe's immortal book. yet i feel assured that the effect produced by uncle tom's cabin is not mainly or chiefly to be traced to the interest of the narrative, however captivating, nor to the exposures of the slave system, however withering: these would, indeed, be sufficient to produce a good effect; but this book contains more and better than even these; it contains what will never be lost sight of--the genuine application to the several branches of the subject of the sacred word of god. by no part of this wonderful work has my own mind been so permanently impressed as by the thorough legitimacy of the application of scripture,--no wresting, no mere verbal adaptation, but in every instance the passage cited is made to illustrate something in the narrative, or in the development of character, in strictest accordance with the design of the passage in its original sacred context. we welcome mrs. stowe, then, as an honored fellow-laborer in the highest and best of causes; and i am much mistaken if this tone of welcome be not by far the most congenial to her own feelings. we unaffectedly sympathize with much which she must feel, and, as a lady, more peculiarly feel, in passing through that ordeal of gratulation which is sure to attend her steps in every part of our country; and i am persuaded that we cannot manifest our gratitude for her past services in any way more acceptable to herself than by earnest prayer on her behalf that she may be kept in the simplicity of christ, enjoying in her daily experience the tender consolations of the divine spirit, and in the midst of the most flattering commendations saying and feeling, in the instincts of a renewed heart, 'not unto me, o lord, not unto me, but unto thy name be the praise, for thy mercy, and for thy truth's sake.'" professor stowe then rose, and said, "if we are silent, it is not because we do not feel, but because we feel more than we can express. when that book was written, we had no hope except in god. we had no expectation of reward save in the prayers of the poor. the surprising enthusiasm which has been excited by the book all over christendom is an indication that god has a work to be done in the cause of emancipation. the present aspect of things in the united states is discouraging. every change in society, every financial revolution, every political and ecclesiastical movement, seems to pass and leave the african race without help. our only resource is prayer. god surely cannot will that the unhappy condition of this portion of his children should continue forever. there are some indications of a movement in the southern mind. a leading southern paper lately declared editorially that slavery is either right or wrong: if it is wrong, it is to be abandoned: if it is right, it must be defended. the _southern press_, a paper established to defend the slavery interest at the seat of government, has proposed that the worst features of the system, such as the separation of families, should be abandoned. but it is evident that with that restriction the system could not exist. for instance, a man wants to buy a cook; but she has a husband and seven children. now, is he to buy a man and seven children, for whom he has no use, for the sake of having a cook? nothing on the present occasion has been so grateful to our feelings as the reference made by dr. m'neile to the christian character of the book. incredible as it may seem to those who are without prejudice, it is nevertheless a fact that this book was condemned by some religious newspapers in the united states as anti-christian, and its author associated with infidels and disorganizers; and had not it been for the decided expression of the mind of english christians, and of christendom itself, on this point, there is reason to fear that the proslavery power of the united states would have succeeded in putting the book under foot. therefore it is peculiarly gratifying that so full an indorsement has been given the work, in this respect, by eminent christians of the highest character in europe; for, however some in the united states may affect to despise what is said by the wise and good of this kingdom and the christian world, they do feel it, and feel it intensely." in answer to an inquiry by dr. m'neile as to the mode in which southern christians defended the institution, dr. stowe remarked that "a great change had taken place in that respect during the last thirty years. formerly all christians united in condemning the system; but of late some have begun to defend it on scriptural grounds. the rev. mr. smylie, of mississippi, wrote a pamphlet in the defensive; and professor thornwell, of south carolina, has published the most candid and able statement of that argument which has been given. their main reliance is on the system of mosaic servitude, wholly unlike though it was to the american system of slavery. as to what this american system of slavery is, the best documents for enlightening the minds of british christians are the commercial newspapers of the slaveholding states. there you see slavery as it is, and certainly without any exaggeration. read the advertisements for the sale of slaves and for the apprehension of fugitives, the descriptions of the persons of slaves, of dogs for hunting slaves, &c., and you see how the whole matter as viewed by the southern mind. say what they will about it, practically they generally regard the separation of families no more than the separation of cattle, and the slaves as so much property, and nothing else. their own papers show that the pictures of the internal slave trade given in uncle tom, so far from being overdrawn, fall even below the truth. go on, then, in forming and expressing your views on this subject. in laboring for the overthrow of american slavery you are pursuing a course of christian duty as legitimate as in laboring to suppress the suttees of india, the cannibalism of the fejee islands, and other barbarities of heathenism, of which human slavery is but a relic. these evils can be finally removed by the benign influence of the love of christ, and no other power is competent to the work." public meeting in liverpool--april . the chairman, (a. hodgson, esq.,) in opening the proceedings, thus addressed mrs. beecher stowe: "the modesty of our english ladies, which, like your own, shrinks instinctively from unnecessary publicity, has devolved on me, as one of the trustees of the liverpool association, the gratifying office of tendering to you, at then request, a slight testimonial of their gratitude and respect. we had hoped almost to the last moment that mrs. cropper would have represented, on this day, the ladies with whom she has cooperated, and among whom she has taken a distinguished lead in the great work which you had the honor and the happiness to originate. but she has felt with you that the path most grateful and most congenial to female exertion, even in its widest and most elevated range, is still a retired and a shady path; and you have taught us that the voice which most effectually kindles enthusiasm in millions is the still small voice which comes forth from the sanctuary of a woman's breast, and from the retirement of a woman's closet--the simple but unequivocal expression of her unfaltering faith, and the evidence of her generous and unshrinking self-devotion. in the same spirit, and as deeply impressed with the retired character of female exertion, the ladies who have so warmly greeted your arrival in this country have still felt it entirely consistent with the most sensitive delicacy to make a public response to your appeal, and to hail with acclamation your thrilling protest against those outrages on our common nature which circumstances have forced on your observation. they engage in no political discussion, they embark in no public controversy; but when an intrepid sister appeals to the instincts of women of every color and of every clime against a system which sanctions the violation of the fondest affections and the disruption of the tenderest ties; which snatches the clinging wife from the agonized husband, and the child from the breast of its fainting mother; which leaves the young and innocent female a helpless and almost inevitable victim of a licentiousness controlled by no law and checked by no public opinion,--it is surely as feminine as it is christian to sympathize with her in her perilous task, and to rejoice that she has shed such a vivid light on enormities which can exist only while unknown or unbelieved. we acknowledge with regret and shame that that fatal system was introduced into america by great britain; but having in our colonies returned from our devious paths, we may without presumption, in the spirit of friendly suggestion, implore our honored transatlantic friends to do the same. the ladies of great britain have been admonished by their fair sisters in america, (and i am sure they are bound to take the admonition in good part,) that there are social evils in our own country demanding our special vigilance and care. this is most true; but it is also true that the deepest sympathies and most strenuous efforts are directed, in the first instance, to the evils which exist among ourselves, and that the rays of benevolence which flash across the atlantic are often but the indication of the intensity of the bright flame which is shedding light and heat on all in its immediate vicinity. i believe this is the case with most of those who have taken a prominent part in this great movement. i am sure it is preeminently the case with respect to many of those by whom you are surrounded; and i hardly know a more miserable fallacy, by which sensible men allow themselves to be deluded, than that which assumes that every emotion of sympathy which is kindled by objects abroad is abstracted from our sympathies at home. all experience points to a directly opposite conclusion; and surely the divine command, 'to go into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature,' should put to shame and silence the specious but transparent selfishness which would contract the limits of human sympathy, and veil itself under the garb of superior sagacity. but i must not detain you by any further observations. allow me, in the name of the associated ladies, to present you with this small memorial of great regard, and to tender to you their and my best wishes for your health and happiness while you are sojourning among us, for the blessing of god on your children during your absence, and for your safe return to your native country when your mission shall be accomplished. i have just been requested to state the following particulars: in december last, a few ladies met in this place to consider the best plan of obtaining signatures in liverpool to an address to the women of america on the subject of negro slavery, in substance coinciding with the one so nobly proposed and carried forward by lord shaftesbury. at this meeting it was suggested that it would be a sincere gratification to many if some testimonial could be presented to mrs. stowe which would indicate the sense, almost universally entertained, that she had been the instrument in the hands of god of arousing the slumbering sympathies of this country in behalf of the suffering slave. it was felt desirable to render the expression of such a feeling as general as possible; and to effect this it was resolved that a subscription should be set on foot, consisting of contributions of one penny and upwards, with a view to raise a testimonial, to be presented to mrs. stowe by the ladies of liverpool, as an expression of their grateful appreciation of her valuable services in the cause of the negro, and as a token of admiration for the genius and of high esteem for the philanthropy and christian feeling which animate her great work, uncle tom's cabin. it ought, perhaps, to be added, that some friends, not residents of liverpool, have united in this tribute. as many of the ladies connected with the effort to obtain signatures to the address may not be aware of the whole number appended, they may be interested in knowing that they amounted in all to twenty-one thousand nine hundred and fifty-three. of these, twenty thousand nine hundred and thirty-six were obtained by ladies in liverpool, from their friends either in this neighborhood or at a distance; and one thousand and seventeen were sent to the committee in london from other parts, by those who preferred our form of address. the total number of signatures from all parts of the kingdom to lord shaftesbury's address was upwards of five hundred thousand." professor stowe then said, "on behalf of mrs. stowe i will read from her pen the response to your generous offering: 'it is impossible for me to express the feelings of my heart at the kind and generous manner in which i have been received upon english shores. just when i had begun to realize that a whole wide ocean lay between me and all that is dearest to me, i found most unexpectedly a home and friends waiting to receive me here. i have had not an hour in which to know the heart of a stranger. i have been made to feel at home since the first moment of landing, and wherever i have looked i have seen only the faces of friends. it is with deep feeling that i have found myself on ground that has been consecrated and made holy by the prayers and efforts of those who first commenced the struggle for that sacred cause which has proved so successful in england, and which i have a solemn assurance will yet be successful in my own country. it is a touching thought that here so many have given all that they have, and are, in behalf of oppressed humanity. it is touching to remember that one of the noblest men which england has ever produced now lies stricken under the heavy hand of disease, through a last labor of love in this cause. may god grant us all to feel that nothing is too dear or precious to be given in a work for which such men have lived, and labored, and suffered. no great good is ever wrought out for the human race without the suffering of great hearts. they who would serve their fellow-men are ever reminded that the captain of their salvation was made perfect through suffering. i gratefully accept the offering confided to my care, and trust it may be so employed that the blessing of many "who are ready to perish" will return upon your heads. let me ask those--those fathers and mothers in israel--who have lived and prayed many years for this cause, that as they prayed for their own country in the hour of her struggle, so they will pray now for ours. love and prayer can hurt no one, can offend no one, and prayer is a real power. if the hearts of all the real christians of england are poured out in prayer, it will be felt through the heart of the whole american church. let us all look upward, from our own feebleness and darkness, to him of whom it is said, "he shall not fail nor be discouraged till he have set judgment in the earth." to him, the only wise god our saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. amen.'--these are the words, my friends, which mrs. stowe has written, and i cannot forbear to add a few words of my own. it was our intention, as the invitation to visit great britain came from glasgow, to make our first landing there. but it was ordered by providence that we should land here; and surely there is no place in the kingdom where a landing could be more appropriate, and where the reception could have been more cordial. [hear, hear!] it was wholly unexpected by us, i can assure you. we know that there were friendly hearts here, for we had received abundant testimonials to that effect from letters which had come to us across the atlantic--letters wholly unexpected, and which filled our souls with surprise; but we had no thought that there was such a feeling throughout england, and we scarcely know how to conduct ourselves under it, for we are not accustomed to this kind of receptions. in our own country, unhappily, we are very much divided, and the preponderance of feeling expressed is in the other direction, entirely in opposition, and not in favor. [hear, hear!] we knew that this city had been the scene of some of the greatest, most disinterested, and most powerful efforts in behalf of emancipation. the name of clarkson was indissolubly associated with this place, for here he came to make his investigations, and here he was in danger of his life, and here he was protected by friends who stood by him through the whole struggle. the names of cropper, and of stephen, and of many others in this city, were very familiar to us--[hear, hear!]--and it was in connection with this city that we received what to our feelings was a most effective testimonial, an unexpected letter from lord denman, whom we have always venerated. when i was in england in , there were no two persons whom i more desired to see than the duke of wellington and lord denman; and soon i sought admission to the house of lords, where i had the pleasure both of seeing and hearing england's great captain; and i found my way to the court of queen's bench, where i had the pleasure of seeing and hearing england's great judge. but how unexpected was all this to us! when that book was written, in sorrow, and in sadness, and obscurity, and with the heart almost broken in the view of the sufferings which it described, and the still greater sufferings which it dared not describe, there was no expectation of any thing but the prayers of the sufferers and the blessing of god, who has said that the seed which is buried in the earth shall spring up in his own good time; and though it may be long buried, it will still at length come forth and bear fruit. we never could believe that slavery in our land would be a perpetual curse; but we felt, and felt deeply, that there must be a terrible struggle before we could be delivered from it, and that there must be suffering and martyrdom in this cause, as in every other great cause; for a struggle of eighteen years had taught us its strength. and, under god, we rely very much on the christian public of great britain; for every expression of feeling from the wise and good of this land, with whatever petulance it may be met by some, goes to the heart of the american people. [hear, hear!] you must not judge of the american people by the expressions which have come across the atlantic in reference to the subject. nine tenths of the american people, i think, are, in opinion at least, with you on this great subject; [hear, hear!] but there is a tremendous pressure brought to bear upon all who are in favor of emancipation. the whole political power, the whole money power, almost the whole ecclesiastical power is wielded in defence of slavery, protecting it from all aggression; and it is as much as a man's reputation is worth to utter a syllable boldly and openly on the other side. let me say to the ladies who have been active in getting up the address on the subject of slavery, that you have been doing a great and glorious work, and a work most appropriate for you to do; for in slavery it is woman that suffers most intensely, and the suffering woman has a claim upon the sympathy of her sisters in other lands. this address will produce a powerful impression throughout the country. there are ladies already of the highest character in the nation pondering how they shall make a suitable response, and what they shall do in reference to it that will be acceptable to the ladies of the united kingdom, or will be profitable to the slave; and in due season you will see that the hearts of american women are alive to this matter, as well as the hearts of the women of this country. [hear, hear!] such was the mighty influence brought to bear upon every thing that threatened slavery, that had it not been for the decided expression on this side of the atlantic in reference to the work which has exerted, under god, so much influence, there is every reason to fear that it would have been crushed and put under foot, as many other efforts for the overthrow of slavery have been in the united states. but it is impossible; the unanimous voice of christendom prohibits it; and it shows that god has a work to accomplish, and that he has just commenced it. there are social evils in england. undoubtedly there are; but the difference between the social evils in england and this great evil of slavery in the united states is just here: in england, the power of the government and the power of christian sympathy are exerted for the removal of those evils. look at the committees of inquiry in parliament, look at the amount of information collected with regard to the suffering poor in their reports, and see how ready the government of great britain is to enter into those inquiries, and to remove those evils. look at the benevolent institutions of the united kingdom, and see how active all these are in administering relief; and then see the condition of slavery in the united states, where the whole power of the government is used in the contrary direction, where every influence is brought to bear to prevent any mitigation of the evil, and where every voice that is lifted to plead for a mitigation is drowned in vituperation and abuse from those who are determined that the evil shall not be mitigated. this is the difference: england repents and reforms. america refuses to repent and reform. it is said, 'let each country take care of itself, and let the ladies of england attend to their own business.' now i have always found that those who labor at home are those who labor abroad; [hear, hear!] and those who say, 'let us do the work at home,' are those who do no work of good either at home or abroad. [hear, hear!] it was just so when the great missionary effort came up in the united states. they said, 'we have a great territory here. let us send missionaries to our own territories. why should we send missionaries across the ocean?' but those who sent missionaries across the ocean were those who sent missionaries in the united states; and those who did not send missionaries across the ocean were those who sent missionaries nowhere. [hear, hear!] they who say, 'charity begins at home,' are generally those who have no charity; and when i see a lady whose name is signed to this address, i am sure to find a lady who is exercising her benevolence at home. let me thank you for all the interest you have manifested and for all the kindness which we have received at your hands, which we shall ever remember, both with gratitude to you and to god our father." the rev. c.m. birrell afterwards made a few remarks in proposing a vote of thanks to the ladies who had contributed the testimonial which had been presented to the distinguished writer of uncle tom's cabin. he said it was most delightful to hear of the great good which that remarkable volume had done, and, he humbly believed, by god's special inspiration and guidance, was doing, in the united states of america. it was not confined to the united states of america. the volume was going forth over the whole earth, and great good was resulting, directly and indirectly, by god's providence, from it. he was told a few days ago, by a gentleman fully conversant with the facts, that an edition of uncle tom, circulated in belgium, had created an earnest desire on the part of the people to read the bible, so frequently quoted in that beautiful work, and that in consequence of it a great run had been made upon the bible society's depositories in that kingdom. [hear, hear!] the priests of the church of rome, true to their instinct, in endeavoring to maintain the position which they could not otherwise hold, had published another edition, from which, they had entirely excluded all reference to the word of god. [hear, hear!] he had been also told that at st. petersburg an edition of uncle tom had been translated into the russian tongue, and that it was being distributed, by command of the emperor, throughout the whole of that vast empire. it was true that the circulation of the work there did not spring from a special desire on the part of the emperor to give liberty to the people of russia, but because he wished to create a third power in the empire, to act upon the nobles; he wished to cause them to set free their serfs, in order that a third power might be created in the empire to serve as a check upon them. but whatever was the cause, let us thank god, the author of all gifts, for what is done. sir george stephen seconded the motion of thanks to the ladies, observing that he had peculiar reasons for doing so. he supposed that he was one of the oldest laborers in this cause. thirty years ago he found that the work of one lady was equal to that of fifty men; and now we had the work of one lady which was equal to that of all the male sex. [applause.] public meeting in glasgow--april . the rev. dr. wardlaw was introduced by the chairman, and spoke as follows:-- "the members of the glasgow ladies' new antislavery association and the citizens of glasgow, now assembled, hail with no ordinary satisfaction, and with becoming gratitude to a kindly protecting providence, the safe arrival amongst them of mrs. harriet beecher stowe. they feel obliged by her accepting, with so much promptitude and cordiality, the invitation addressed to her--an invitation intended to express the favor they bore to her, and the honor in which they held her, as the eminently gifted authoress of uncle tom's cabin--a work of humble name, but of high excellence and world-wide celebrity; a work the felicity of whose conception is more than equalled by the admirable tact of its execution, and the christian benevolence of its design, by its exquisite adaptation to its accomplishment; distinguished by the singular variety and consistent discrimination of its characters; by the purity of its religious and moral principles; by its racy humor, and its touching pathos, and its effectively powerful appeals to the judgment, the conscience, and the heart; a work, indeed, of whose sterling worth the earnest test is to be found in the fact of its having so universally touched and stirred the bosom of our common humanity, in all classes of society, that its humble name has become 'a household word,' from the palace to the cottage, and of the extent of its circulation having been unprecedented in the history of the literature of this or of any other age or country. they would, at the same time, include in their hearty welcome the rev. c.e. stowe, professor of theological literature in the andover theological seminary, massachusetts, whose eminent qualifications, as a classical scholar, a man of general literature, and a theologian, have recently placed him in a highly honorable and responsible position, and who, on the subject of slavery, holds the same principles and breathes the same spirit of freedom with his accomplished partner; and, along with them too, another member of the same singularly talented family with herself. they delight to think of the amount of good to the cause of emancipation and universal liberty which her cabin has already done, and to anticipate the still larger amount it is yet destined to do, now that the key to the cabin has triumphantly shown it to be no fiction; and in whatever further efforts she may be honored of heaven to make in the same noble cause, they desire, unitedly and heartily, to cheer her on, and bid her 'god speed.' i cannot but feel myself highly honored in having been requested to move this resolution. in doing so, i have the happiness of introducing to a glasgow audience a lady from the transatlantic continent, the extraordinary production of whose pen, referred to in the resolution, had made her name familiar in our country and through europe, ere she appeared in person among us. my judgment and my heart alike fully respond to every thing said in the resolution respecting that inimitable work. we are accustomed to make a distinction between works of nature and works of art, but in a sense which, all will readily understand, this is preeminently both. as a work of art, it bears upon it, throughout, the stamp of original and varied genius. and yet, throughout, it equally bears the impress of nature--of human nature--in its worst and its best, and all its intermediate phases. the man who has read that little volume without laughing and crying alternately--without the meltings of pity, the thrillings of horror, and the kindlings of indignation--would supply a far better argument for a distinct race than a negro. [loud laughter and cheers.] he must have a humanity peculiarly his own. and he who can read it without the breathings of devotion must, if he calls himself a christian, have a christianity as unique and questionable as his humanity. [cheering.] never did work produce such a sensation. among us that sensation has happily been all of one kind. it has been the stirring of universal sympathy and unbounded admiration. not so in the country of its own and of its gifted authoress's birth. there, the ferment has been among the friends as well as the foes of slavery. among the former all is rage. among the latter, while there are some--we trust not a few--who take the same high and noble position with the talented authoress, there are too many, we fear, who are frightened by this uncompromising boldness, and who are drawn back rather than drawn forward by it--who 'halt between two opinions,' and are the advocates of medium principles and medium measures. by many among ourselves, the excitement which has been stirred is contemplated with apprehension. they regard it as unfavorable to emancipation, and likely to retard rather than to advance its progress. i must confess myself of a somewhat different mind. that the cause may be obstructed by it for a time, may be true. but it will work well in the long run. good will ultimately come out of it. stir is better than stagnancy. irritation is better than apathy. whence does it arise? from two sources. the conscience and the honor of the country have both been touched. conscience winces under the touch. the provocation shows it to be ill at ease. the wound is painful, and it naturally awakens fretfulness and resentment. but by and by the angry excitement will subside, and the salutary conviction will remain and operate. the national honor, too, has been touched. our friends across the wave boast, and with good reason, of the free principles of their constitution. they glory in their liberty. but they cannot fail to feel the inconsistency of their position, and the exposure of it to the world kindles on the cheek the blush of shame and the reddening fire of displeasure. now, the blush has aright source. it is the blush of patriotism--it is for their country. but there is anger with the shame; for few things are more galling than to feel that to be wrong which you are unable to justify, and which, yet, you are not prepared to relinquish. [loud applause.] on the whole, i cannot but regard the agitation which has been produced as an auspicious, rather than a discouraging omen. it was when the waters of the pool were troubled that their healing virtue was imparted. let us then hope that the troubling of the waters by this ministering angel of mercy may impregnate them with a similar sanative influence, [the reverend doctor here pointed towards mrs. stowe, while the audience burst out with enthusiastic acclamations and waving of handkerchiefs,] and thus ultimately contribute to the healing of the ghastly wounds of the chain and the lash, and to the setting of the crushed and bowed down erect in the soundness and dignity of their true manhood. [loud cheering.] sorry we are that mrs. stowe should appear amongst us in a state of broken health and physical exhaustion. no one who looks at the cabin and at the key, and who knows aught of the effect of severe mental labor on the bodily frame, will marvel at this. we fondly trust, and earnestly pray, that her temporary sojourn among us may, by the divine blessing, recruit her strength, and contribute to the prolongation of a life so promising of benefit to suffering humanity, and to the glory of god. [cheers.] meanwhile she enjoys the happy consciousness that she is suffering in a good cause. a better there could not be. it is one which involves the well being, corporeal and mental, physical and spiritual, temporal and eternal, of degraded, plundered, oppressed, darkened, brutalized, perishing millions. and, while we delight in furnishing her for a time with a peaceful retreat from 'the wrath of men,' from the resentment of those who, did they but rightly know their own interests, would have smiled upon her, and blessed her. we trust she enjoys, and ever will enjoy, quietness and assurance of an infinitely higher order--the divine master, whom she serves and seeks to honor; proving to her, in the terms of his own promise, 'a refuge from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' [enthusiastic cheering.] it may sound strangely, that, when assembled for the very purpose of denouncing 'property in man,' we should be putting in our claims for a share of property in woman. so, however, it is. we claim mrs. stowe as ours--[renewed, cheers]--not ours only, but still ours. she is british and european property as well as american. she is the property of the whole world of literature and the whole world of humanity. [cheers.] should our transatlantic friends repudiate the property, they may transfer their share--[laughter and cheers]--most gladly will we accept the transference." professor stowe, on rising to reply, was greeted with the most enthusiastic applause. he said that he appeared in the name of mrs. stowe, and in his own name, for the purpose of cordially thanking the people of glasgow for the reception that had been given to them. but he could not find words to do it. was it true that all this affectionate interest was merited? [cheers.] he could not imagine any book capable of exciting such expressions of attachment; indeed he was inclined to believe it had not been written at all--he "'spected it grew." [tremendous cheers.] under the oppression of the fugitive slave law the book had sprung from the soil ready made. he regretted exceedingly that in consequence of the state of mrs. stowe's health, and in consequence of the great pressure of engagements on himself, their stay in this country would be necessarily short. but he hoped they would accept of the expression of thanks they offered, and their apology for not being in a condition to meet their kindness as they would desire. when they were about to set out from andover, a friend of theirs expressed his astonishment that they should enter upon such a journey in the delicate state of mrs. stowe's health. the scotch people, he doubted not, would be kind to them--_they would kill them with kindness_; and he feared it would be so. it was from glasgow the idea of the invitation they had received had originated; and well might it originate in that city, for when had been the time that glasgow was not in earnest on the subject of freedom? they had had hard struggles for liberty, and they had been successful, and the people in the united states were now struggling for the same privilege. but they labored under circumstances greatly different from those in great britain. scotland had ever been distinguished for its love of freedom. [great applause.] the religious denominations in the united states--to a great extent, give few and feeble expressions of disapprobation against the system of slavery. two denominations had never been silent--the old scotch seceders, or covenanters, and the disciples of william penn--not one of their number, in the united states, owns a slave. not one can own a slave without being ejected from the society.[a] in fact, the general feeling was against slavery; but to avoid trouble, the people hesitate to give publicity to their feelings. were this done, slavery would soon come to an end. great sacrifices are sometimes made by slaveholders to get rid of slavery. he went once to preach in the state of ohio. he found there a little log house. inside was a delicate woman, feeble and with white hands. she seemed wholly unaccustomed to work. her husband had the same appearance of delicacy. they were very poor. how had they come into that state? they belonged to a slave state, where they had formerly possessed a little family of slaves. they had felt slavery to be wrong. they set them free, and with the remainder of their little property tried to get their living by farming; but like many similar cases, it had been one of martyrdom. the professor then proceeded to make some very practical remarks on the character of the fugitive slave law, after which he said that the prosperity of great britain in a great measure resulted from the products of slave labor. american cotton was the chief support of the system. we must, both in britain and america, get free-grown cotton, or slavery will not, at least for a long time to come, be abolished. what he would impress on the minds of christians was unity in this great work. let slaveholders be ever so much opposed to each other on other topics, they were unanimous in their endeavors to support slavery. but let the prayers of all christians and the efforts of all christians be united; and the system of oppression would speedily be destroyed forever. public meeting in edinburgh--april . the lord provost rose, and stated that a number of letters of apology had been received from parties who had been invited to take part in the meeting, but who had been unable to attend. among these he might mention professor blackie, the rev. mr. gilfillan, of dundee, rev. j. begg, d.d., the earl of buchan, dr. candlish, and sir w. gibson craig, all of whom expressed their regret that they could not be present. one of them, he observed, was from a gentleman who had long taken an interest in the antislavery cause,--lord cockburn,[b]--and his note was so warm, and sympathetic, and hearty on the subject about which they had met, that he could not resist the temptation of reading it. it proceeded, "i regret, that owing to my being obliged to be in ayrshire, it will not be in my power to join you in the expression of respect and gratitude to mrs. stowe; she deserves all the honor that can be done her; she has done more for humanity than was ever accomplished before by a single book of fiction. [cheers.] it did not require much to raise our british feeling against slavery, but by showing us what substantially are facts, and the necessary tendency of this evil in its most mitigated form, she has greatly strengthened the ground on which this feeling rests. her work may have no immediate or present influence on the states of her own country that are now unhappily under the curse, and may indeed for a time aggravate its horrors; but it is a prodigious accession to the constantly accumulating mass of views and evidence, which by reason of its force must finally prevail." [cheers.] the lord provost proceeded to say, that they had now assembled chiefly to do honor to their distinguished guest, mrs. stowe. [applause.] they had met, however, also to express their interest in the cause which it had been the great effort of her life to promote--the abolition of slavery. they took advantage of her presence, and the effect which was produced on the public mind of this country, to reiterate their love for the abolition cause, and their detestation of slavery. before they were aware that mrs. stowe was to grace the city of edinburgh with her presence, a committee had been organized to collect a penny offering--the amount to be contributed in pence, and other small sums, from the masses of this country--to be presented to her as some means of mitigating, through her instrumentality, the horrors of slavery, as they might come under her observation. it was intended at once as a mark of their esteem for her, of their confidence in her, of their conviction that she would do what was right in the cause, and, at the same time, as an evidence of the detestation in which the system of slavery was held in this free country. that penny offering now, he was happy to say, by the spontaneous efforts of the inhabitants of this and other towns, amounted to a considerable sum; to certain gentlemen in edinburgh forming the committee the whole credit of this organization was due, and he believed one of their number, the rev. mr. ballantyne, would present the offering that evening, and tell them all about it. he would not, therefore, forestall what he would have to say on the subject. they were also to have the pleasure of presenting mrs. stowe with an address from the committee in this city, which would be presented by another reverend friend, who would be introduced at the proper time. as there would be a number of speakers to follow during the evening, his own remarks must be exceedingly short; but he could not resist the temptation of saying how happy he felt at being once more in the midst of a great meeting in the city of edinburgh, for the purpose of expressing their detestation of the system of slavery. they could appeal to their brethren in the united states with clean hands, because they had got rid of the abomination themselves; they could therefore say to them, through their friends who were now present, on their return home, and through the press, which would carry their sentiments even to the slave states--they could say to them that they had washed their own hands of the evil at the largest pecuniary sacrifice that was ever made by any nation for the promotion of any good cause. [loud applause.] some parties said that they should not speak harshly of the americans, because they were full of prejudice with regard to the system which they had seen growing up around them. he said so too with all his heart; he joined in the sentiment that they should not speak harshly, but they might fairly express their opinion of the system with which their american friends were surrounded, and in which he thought all who supported it were guilty participators. [hear, hear!] they could denounce the wickedness, they could tell them that they thought it was their duty to put an end to it speedily. the cause of the abolition of slavery in our own colonies long hung without any visible progress, notwithstanding the efforts of many distinguished men, who did all they could to mitigate some of its more prominent evils; and yet, so long as they never struck at the root, the progress which they made was almost insensible. they knew how many men had spent their energies, and some of them their lives, in attempting to forward the cause; but how little effect was produced for the first half of the present century! the city of edinburgh had always, he was glad to say, taken a deep interest in the cause; it was one of the very first to take up the ground of total and entire abolition. [cheers.] a predecessor of his own in the civic chair was so kind as to preside at a meeting held in edinburgh twenty-three years ago, in which a very decided step was proposed to be taken in advance, and a resolution was moved by the then dean of faculty, to the effect that on the following first of january, , all the children born of slave parents in our colonies were from that date to be declared free. that was thought a great and most important movement by the promoters of the cause. there were, however, parties at that crowded meeting who thought that even this was a mere expedient--that it was a mere pruning of the branches, leaving the whole system intact. one of these was the late dr. andrew thomson--[cheers]--who had the courage to propose that the meeting should at once declare for total and immediate abolition, which proposal was seconded by another excellent citizen, mr. dickie. dr. thomson replied to some of the arguments which had been put forward, to the effect that the total abolition might possibly occasion bloodshed; and he said that, even if that did follow, it was no fault of his, and that he still stuck to the principle, which he considered right under any circumstances. the chairman, thereupon, threatened to leave the chair on account of the unnecessarily strong language used, and when the sentiments were reiterated by mr. dickie, he actually bolted, and left the meeting, which was thrown into great confusion. a few days afterwards, however, another meeting was held--one of the largest and most effective that had been ever held in edinburgh--at which were present mr. john shank more in the chair, the rev. dr. thomson, rev. dr gordon, dr. ritchie, mr. muirhead, the rev. mr. buchanan of north leith, mr. j. wigham, jr., dr. greville, &c. the lord provost proceeded to read extracts from the speeches made at the meeting, showing that the sentiments of the inhabitants of edinburgh, so far back as , as uttered by some of its most distinguished men,--not violent agitators, but ministers of the gospel, promoters of peace and order, and every good and every benevolent purpose,--were in favor of the immediate and total abolition of slavery in our colonies. he referred especially to the speech of dr. andrew thomson on this occasion, from which he read the following extract: "but if the argument is forced upon me to accomplish this great object, that there must be violence, let it come, for it will soon pass away--let it come and rage its little hour, since it is to be succeeded by lasting freedom, and prosperity, and happiness. give me the hurricane rather than the pestilence. give me the hurricane, with its thunders, and its lightnings, and its tempests--give me the hurricane, with its partial and temporary devastations, awful though they be--give me the hurricane, which brings along with it purifying, and healthful, and salutary effects--give me the hurricane rather than the noisome pestilence, whose path is never crossed, whose silence is never disturbed, whose progress is never arrested by one sweeping blast from the heavens--which walks peacefully and sullenly through the length and breadth of the land, breathing poison into every heart, and carrying havoc into every home--enervating all that is strong, defacing all that is beautiful, and casting its blight over the fairest and happiest scenes of human life--and which from day to day, and from year to year, with intolerant and interminable malignity, sends its thousands and tens of thousands of hapless victims into the ever-yawning and never-satisfied grave!"--[loud and long applause.] the experience which they had had, that all the dangers, all the bloodshed and violence which were threatened, were merely imaginary, and that none of these evils had come upon them although slavery had been totally abolished by us, should, he thought, be an encouragement to their american friends to go home and tell their countrymen that in this great city the views now put forward were advocated long ago--that the persons who now held them said the same years ago of the disturbances and the evils which would arise from pressing the question of immediate and total abolition--that the same kind of arguments and the same predictions of evil were uttered in england--and although she had not the experience, although she had not the opportunity of pointing to the past, and saying the evil had not come in such a case, still, even then, they were willing to face the evil, to stick to the righteous principle, and to say, come what would, justice must be done to the slave, and slavery must be wholly and immediately abolished. [cheers.] he had said so much on the question of slavery, because he was very sure it would be much more agreeable to their modest and retiring and distinguished guest that one should speak about any other thing than about herself. uncle tom's cabin needed no recommendation from him. [loud cheers.] it was the most extraordinary book, he thought, that had ever been published; no book had ever got into the same circulation; none had ever produced a tithe of the impression which it had produced within a given time. it was worth all the proslavery press of america put together. the horrors of slavery were not merely described, but they were actually pictured to the eye. they were seen and understood fully; formerly they were mere dim visions, about which there was great difference of opinion; some saw them as in a mist, and others more clearly; but now every body saw and understood slavery. every body in this great city, if they had a voice in the matter, would be prepared to say that they wished slavery to be utterly extinguished. [loud cheers.] professor stowe then rose, and was greeted with loud cheers. he begged to read the following note from mrs. stowe, in acknowledgment of the honor:-- "i accept these congratulations and honors, and this offering, which it has pleased scotland to bestow on me, not for any thing which i have said or done, not as in any sense acknowledging that they are or can be deserved, but with heartfelt, humble gratitude to god, as tokens of mercy to a cause most sacred and most oppressed. in the name of a people despised and rejected of men--in the name of men of sorrows acquainted with grief, from whom the faces of all the great and powerful of the earth have been hid--in the name of oppressed and suffering humanity, i thank you. the offering given is the dearer to me, and the more hopeful, that it is literally the penny offering, given by thousands on thousands, a penny at a time. when, in travelling through your country, aged men and women have met me with such fervent blessings, little children gathered round me with such loving eyes--when honest hands, hard with toil, have been stretched forth with such hearty welcome--when i have seen how really it has come from the depths of the hearts of the common people, and know, as i truly do, what prayers are going up with it from the humblest homes of scotland, i am encouraged. i believe it is god who inspires this feeling, and i believe god never inspired it in vain. i feel an assurance that the lord hath looked down from heaven to hear the groaning of the prisoner, and according to the greatness of his power, to loose those that are appointed to die. in the human view, nothing can be more hopeless than this cause; all the wealth, and all the power, and all the worldly influence is against it. but here in scotland, need we tell the children of the covenant, that the lord on high is mightier than all human power? here, close by the spot where your fathers signed that covenant, in an hour when scotland's cause was equally poor and depressed--here, by the spot where holy martyrs sealed it with their blood, it will neither seem extravagance nor enthusiasm to say to the children of such parents, that for the support of this cause, we look, not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are not seen; to that god, who, in the face of all worldly power, gave liberty to scotland, in answer to your fathers' prayers. our trust is in jesus christ, and in the power of the holy ghost, and in the promise that he shall reign till he hath put all things under his feet. there are those faithless ones, who, standing at the grave of a buried humanity, tell us that it is vain to hope for our brother, because he hath lain in the grave three days already. we turn from them to the face of him who has said, 'thy brother shall rise again.' there was a time when our great high priest, our brother, yet our lord, lay in the grave three days; and the governors and powers of the earth made it as sure as they could, seeding the stone and setting a watch. but a third day came, and an earthquake, and an angel. so shall it be to the cause of the oppressed; though now small and despised, we are watchers at the sepulchre, like mary and the trusting women; we can sit through the hours of darkness. we are watching the sky for the golden streaks of dawning, and we believe that the third day will surely come. for christ our lord, being raised from the dead, dieth no more; and he has pledged his word that he shall not fail nor be discouraged till he have set judgment on the earth. he shall deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy, and him that hath no helper. the night is far spent--the day is at hand. the universal sighing of humanity in all countries, the whole creation groaning and travailing in pain together--the earnest expectation of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of god--show that the day is not distant when he will break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free. and whatever we are able to do for this sacred cause, let us cast it where the innumerable multitude of heaven cast their crowns, at the feet of the lamb, saying, 'worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessings.'" the rev. professor then continued. "my lord provost, ladies and gentlemen: this cause, to be successful, must be carried on in a religious spirit, with a deep sense of our dependence on god, and with that love for our fellow-men which the gospel requires. it is because i think i have met this spirit since i reached the shores of great britain, in those who have taken an interest in the cause, that i feel encouraged to hope that the expression of your feeling will be effective on the hearts of christians on the other side of the atlantic. there are christians there as sincere, as hearty, and as earnest, as any on the face of the earth. they have looked at this subject, and been troubled; they have hardly known what to do, and their hearts have been discouraged. they have almost turned away their eyes from it, because they have scarcely dared encounter it, the difficulties appeared to them so great. wrong cannot always receive the support of christians; wrong must be done away with; and what must be--what god requires to be--that certainly will be. now, in this age, man is every where beginning to regard the sufferings of his fellow-man as his own. there is an interest felt in man, as man, which was not felt in preceding ages. the facilities of communication are bringing all nations in contact, and whatever wrong exists in any part of the world, is every where felt. there are wrongs and sufferings every where; but those to which we are accustomed, we look upon with most indifference, because being accustomed to them, we do not feel their enormity. you feel the enormity of slavery more than we do, because you are not immediately interested, and regard it at a distance. we regard some of the wrongs that exist in the old world with more sensibility than you can regard them, because we are not accustomed to them, and you are. therefore, in the spirit of christian love, it belongs to christian men to speak to each other with great fidelity. it has been said that you know little or nothing about slavery. o, happy men, that you are ignorant of its enormities. [hear, hear!] but you do know something about it. you know as much about it as you know of the widow-burning in india, or the cannibalism in the fejee islands, or any of those crimes and sorrows of paganism, that induced you to send forth your missionaries. you know it is a great wrong, and a terrible obstacle to the progress of the gospel; and that is enough for you to know to induce you to act. you have as much knowledge as ever induced a christian community in any part of the world to exert an influence in any other part of the world. slavery is a relic of paganism, of barbarism; it must be removed by christianity; and if the light of christianity shines on it clearly, it certainly will remove it. there are thousands of hearts in the united states that rejoice in your help. whatever expressions of impatience and petulance you may hear, be assured that these expressions are not the heart of the great body of the people. [cheers.] a large proportion of that country is free from slavery. there is an area of freedom ten times larger than great britain in territory.[c] [cheers.] but all the power over the slave is in the hands of the slaveholder. you had a power over the slaveholder by your national legislature; our national legislature has no power over the slaveholder. all the legislation that can in that country be brought to bear for the slave, is legislation by the slaveholders themselves. there is where the difficulty lies. it is altogether by persuasion, christian counsel, christian sympathy, christian earnestness, that any good can be effected for the slave. the conscience of the people is against the system--the conscience of the people, even in the slaveholding states; and if we can but get at the conscience without exciting prejudice, it will tend greatly towards the desired effect. but this appeal to the conscience must be unintermittent, constant. your hands must not be weary, your prayers must not be discontinued; but every day and every hour should we be doing something towards the object. it is sometimes said, americans who resist slavery are traitors to their country. no; those who would support freedom are the only true friends of their country. our fathers never intended slavery to be identified with the government of the united states; but in the temptations of commerce the evil was overlooked; and how changed for the worse has become the public sentiment even within the last thirty or forty years! the enormous increase in the consumption of cotton has raised enormously the market value of slaves, and arrayed both avarice and political ambition in defence of slavery. instruct the conscience, and produce free cotton, and this will be like cromwell's exhortation to his soldiers, '_trust in god, and keep your powder dry_.'" [continued cheers.] the rev. dr. r. lee then said: "i am quite sure that every individual here responds cordially to those sentiments of respect and gratitude towards our honored guest which have been so well expressed by the lord provost and the other gentlemen who have addressed us. we think that this lady has not only laid us under a great obligation by giving us one of the most delightful books in the english language, but that she has improved us as men and as christians, that she has taught us the value of our privileges, and made us more sensible than we were before of the obligation which lies upon us to promote every good work. i have been requested to say a few words on the degradation of american slavery; but i feel, in the presence of the gentleman who last addressed you, and of those who are still to address you, that it would be almost presumption in me to enter on such a subject. it is impossible to speak or to think of the subject of slavery without feeling that there is a double degradation in the matter; for, in the first place, the slave is a man made in the image of god--god's image cut in ebony, as old thomas fuller quaintly but beautifully said; and what right have we to reduce him to the image of a brute, and make property of him? we esteem drunkenness as a sin. why is it a sin? because it reduces that which was made in the image of god to the image of a brute. we say to the drunkard, 'you are guilty of a sacrilege, because you reduce that which god made in his own image "into the image of an irrational creature."' slavery does the very same. but there is not only a degradation committed as regards the slave--there is a degradation also committed against himself by him who makes him a slave, and who retains him in the position of a slave; for is it not one of the most commonplace of truths that we cannot do a wrong to a neighbor without doing a greater wrong to ourselves?--that we cannot injure him without also injuring ourselves yet more? i observe there is a certain class of writers in america who are fond of representing the feeling of this country towards america as one of jealousy, if not of hatred.. i think, my lord, that no american ever travelled in this country without being conscious at once that this is a total mistake--that this is a total misapprehension. i venture to say that there is no nation on the face of the earth in which we feel half so much interest, or towards which we feel the tenth part of the affection, which we do towards our brethren in the united states of america. and what is more than that--there is no nation towards which we feel one half so much admiration, and for which we feel half so much respect, as we do for the people of the united states of america. [cheers.] why, sir, how can it be otherwise? how is it possible that it should be the reverse? are they not our bone and our flesh? and their character, whatever it is, is it any thing more than our own, a little exaggerated, perhaps? their virtues and their vices, their faults and their excellences, are just the virtues and the vices, the faults and the excellences, of that old respectable freeholder, john bull, from whom they are descended. we are not much surprised that a nation which are slaves themselves should make other men slaves. this cannot very much surprise us: but we are both surprised and we are deeply grieved, that a nation which has conceived so well the idea of freedom--a nation which has preached the doctrines of freedom with such boldness and such fulness--a nation which has so boldly and perfectly realized its idea of freedom in every other respect--should in this only instance have sunk so completely below its own idea, and forgetting the rights of one class of their fellow-creatures, should have deprived them of freedom altogether. i say that our grief and our disapprobation of this in the case of our brethren in america arises very much from this, that in other respects we admire them so much, we are sorry that so noble a nation should allow a blot like this to remain upon its escutcheon. i am not ignorant--nobody can be ignorant--of the great difficulties which encompass the solution of this question in america. it is vain for us to shut our eyes to it. there can be no doubt whatever that great sacrifices will require to be made in order to get rid of this great evil. but the americans are a most ingenious people; they are full of inventions of all sorts, from the invention of a machine for protecting our feet from the water, to a machine for making ships go by means of heated air; from the one to the other the whole field of discovery is occupied by their inventive genius. there is not an article in common use among us but bears some stamp of america. we rise in the morning, and before we are dressed we have had half a dozen american articles in our hands. and during the day, as we pass through the streets, articles of american invention meet us every where. in short, the ingenuity of the people is proclaimed all over the world. and there can be no doubt that the moment this great, this ingenious people finds that slavery is both an evil and a sin, their ingenuity will be successfully exerted in discovering some invention for preventing its abolition from ruining them altogether. [cheers.] no doubt their ingenuity will be equal to the occasion; and i may take the liberty of adding, that their ingenuity in that case will find even a richer reward than it has done in those other inventions which have done them so much honor, and been productive of so much profit. i say, that sacrifices must be made; there can be no doubt about that; but i would also observe, that the longer the evil is permitted to continue, the greater and more tremendous will become the sacrifice which will be needed to put an end to it; for all history proves that a nation encumbered, with slavery is surrounded with danger. [applause.] has the history of antiquity been written in vain? does it not teach us that not only domestic and social pollutions are the inevitable results, but does it not teach us also that political insecurity and political revolutions as certainly slumber beneath the institution of slavery as fireworks at the basis of mount Ætna? [cheers.] it cannot but be so. men no more than steam can be compressed without a tremendous revulsion; and let our brethren in america be sure of this, that the longer the day of reckoning is put off by them, the more tremendous at last that reckoning will be." [loud, applause.] * * * * * in regard to this meeting at edinburgh, there was a ridiculous story circulated and variously commented on in certain newspapers of the united states, that _the american flag was there exhibited, insulted, torn, and mutilated_. certain religious papers took the lead in propagating the slander, which, so for as i know or can learn, _had no foundation_, unless it be that, in the arranging of the flag around its staff, the stars might have been more distinctly visible than the stripes. the walls were profusely adorned with drapery, and there were numerous flags disposed in festoons. truly a wonderful thing to make a story of, and then parade it in the newspapers from maine to texas, beginning in philadelphia! public meeting in aberdeen--april . address of the citizens. mrs h. beecher stowe. madam: the citizens of aberdeen have much pleasure in embracing the opportunity now afforded them of expressing at once their esteem for yourself personally, and their interest in the cause of which you have been the distinguished advocate. while they would, not render a blind homage to mere genius, however exalted, they consider genius such as yours, directed by christian principle, as that which, for the welfare of humanity, cannot be too highly or too fervently honored. without depreciating the labors of the various advocates of slave emancipation who have appeared from time to time on both sides of the atlantic, they may conscientiously award to you the praise of having brought about the present universal and enthusiastic sentiment in regard to the slavery which exists in america. the galvanic battery may be arranged and charged, every plate, wire, and fluid being in its appropriate place; but, until some hand shall bring together the extremities of the conducting medium, in vain might we expect to elicit the latent fire. every heart may throb with the feeling of benevolence, and every mind respond to the sentiment that man, in regard to man, should be free and equal; but it is the province of genius such as yours to give unity to the universal, and find utterance for the felt. when society has been prepared for some momentous movement or moral reformation, so that the hidden thoughts of the people want only an interpreter, the thinking community an organ, and suffering humanity a champion, distinguished is the honor belonging to the individual in whom all these requisites are found combined. to you has been assigned by providence the important task of educing the latent emotions of humanity, and waking the music that slumbered in the chords of the universal human heart, till it has pealed forth in one deep far rolling and harmonious anthem, of which the heavenly burden is, "liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound!" the production of your accomplished pen, which has already called forth such unqualified eulogy from almost every land where anglo-saxon literature finds access, and created so sudden and fervent an excitement on the momentous subject of american slavery, has nowhere been hailed with a more cordial welcome, or produced more salutary effects, than in the city of aberdeen. though long ago imbued, with antislavery principles and interested in the progress of liberty in every part of the world, our community, like many others, required such information, suggestions, and appeals as your valuable work contains in one great department of slavery, in order that their interest might be turned into a specific direction, and their principles reduced, to combined practical effort. already they have esteemed it a privilege to engage with some activity in the promotion of the interests of the fugitive slave; and they shall henceforth regard with a deeper interest than ever the movements of their american brethren in this matter, until there exists among them no slavery from which to flee. while they participate in your abhorrence of slavery in the american states, they trust they need scarcely assure you that they participate also in your love for the american people. it is in proportion as they love that nation, attached to them by so many ties, that they lament the existence of a system which, so long as it exists, must bring odium upon the national character, as it cannot fail to enfeeble and impair their best social institutions. they believe it to be a maxim that man cannot hold his fellow-man in slavery without being himself to some extent enslaved. and of this the censorship of the press, together with the expurgatorial indices of various religious societies in the southern states of america, furnish ample corroboration. it is hoped that your own nation may speedily be directed to recognize you as its best friend, for having stood forth in the spirit of true patriotism to advocate the claims of a large portion of your countrymen, and to seek the removal of an evil which has done much to neutralize the moral influence of your country's best (and otherwise free) institutions. accept, then, from the community of aberdeen their congratulations on the high literary fame which you have by a single effort so deservedly acquired, and their grateful acknowledgments for your advocacy of a cause in which the best interests of humanity are involved. signed in name and by appointment of a public meeting of the citizens of aberdeen within the county buildings, this st april, , a.d. geo. hessay, _provost of aberdeen_. public meeting in dundee--april . mr. gilfillan, who was received with great applause, said he had been intrusted by the committee of the ladies' antislavery association to present the following address to mrs. stowe, which he would read to the meeting:-- "madam: we, the ladies of the dundee antislavery association, desire to add our feeble voices to the acclamations of a world, conscious that your fame and character need no testimony from us. we are less anxious to honor you than to prove that our appreciation and respect are no less sincere and no less profound than those of the millions in other places and other lands, whom you have instructed, improved, delighted, and thrilled. we beg permission to lay before you the expressions of a gratitude and an enthusiasm in some measure commensurate with your transcendent literary merit and moral worth. we congratulate you on the success of the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of your genius, a success altogether unparalleled, and in all probability never to be paralleled in the history of literature. we congratulate you still more warmly on that nobility and benevolence of nature which made you from childhood the friend of the unhappy slave, and led you to accumulate unconsciously the materials for the immortal tale of uncle tom's cabin. we congratulate you in having in that tale supported with matchless eloquence and pathos the cause of the crushed, the forgotten, the injured, of those who had no help of man at all, and who had even been blasphemously taught by professed ministers of the gospel of mercy that heaven too was opposed to their liberation, and had blotted them out from the catalogue of man. we recognize, too, with delight, the spirit of enlightened and evangelical piety which breathes through your work, and serves to confute the calumny that none but infidels are interested in the cause of abolition--a calumny which cuts at christianity with a yet sharper edge than at abolition, but which you have proved to be a foul and malignant falsehood. we congratulate you not only on the richness of the laurels which you have won, but on the dignity, the meekness, and the magnanimity with which these laurels have been worn. we hail in you our most gifted sister in the great cause of liberty--we bid you warmly welcome to our city, and we pray almighty god, the god of the oppressed, to pour his selectest blessings on your head, and to spare your invaluable life, till yours, and ours, and others' efforts for the cause of abolition are crowned with success, and till the shouts of a universal jubilee shall proclaim that in all quarters of the globe the african is free." the address was handed to mrs. stowe amid great applause. mr. gilfillan continued: "in addition to the address which i have now read, i have been requested to add a few remarks; and in making these i cannot but congratulate dundee on the fact that mrs. stowe has visited it, and that she has had a reception worthy of her distinguished merits. [applause.] it is not dundee alone that is present here to-night: it is forfarshire, fifeshire, and i may also add, perthshire:--that are here to do honor to themselves in doing honor to our illustrious guest. [cheers.] there are assembled here representatives of the general feeling that boils in the whole land--not from our streets alone, but from our country valleys--from our glens and our mountains o! i wish that mrs. stowe would but spare time to go herself and study that enthusiasm amid its own mountain recesses, amid the uplands and the friths, and the wild solitudes of our own unconquered and unconquerable land. she would see scenery there worthy of that pencil which has painted so powerfully the glories of the mississippi; ay, and she would find her name known and reverenced in every hamlet, and see copies of uncle tom's cabin in the shepherd's shieling, beside bunyan's pilgrim's progress, the life of sir william wallace, rob roy, and the gaelic bible. i saw copies of it carried by travellers last autumn among the gloomy grandeurs of glencoe, and, as coleridge once said when he saw thomson's seasons lying in a welsh wayside inn, 'that is true fame,' i thought this was fame truer still. [applause.] it is too late in the day to criticize uncle tom's cabin, or to speculate on its unprecedented history--a history which seems absolutely magical. why, you are reminded of aladdin's lamp, and of the palace that was reared by genii in one night. mrs. stowe's genius has done a greater wonder than this--it has reared in a marvellously short time a structure which, unlike that arabian fabric, is a reality, and shall last forever. [applause.] she must not be allowed, to depreciate herself, and to call her glorious book a mere 'bubble.' such a bubble there never was before. i wish we had ten thousand such bubbles. [applause.] if it had been a bubble it would have broken long ago. 'man,' says jeremy taylor, 'is a bubble.' yea, but he is an immortal one. and such an immortal bubble is uncle tom's cabin; it can only with man expire; and yet a year ago not ten individuals in this vast assembly had ever heard of its author's name. [applause.] at its artistic merits we may well marvel--to find in a small volume the descriptive power of a scott, the humor of a dickens, the keen, observing glance of a thackeray, the pathos of a richardson or mackenzie, combined with qualities of earnestness, simplicity, humanity, and womanhood peculiar to the author herself. but there are three things which, strike me as peculiarly remarkable about uncle tom's cabin: it is the work of an american--of a woman--and of an evangelical christian. [cheers.] we have long been accustomed to despise american literature--i mean as compared with our own. i have heard eminent _litterateurs_ say, 'pshaw! the americans have no national literature.' it was thought that they lived entirely on plunder--the plunder of poor slaves, and of poor british authors. [loud cheers.] their own works, when, they came among us, were treated either with contempt or with patronizing wonder--yes, the 'sketch book' was a very good book to be an american's. to parody two lines of pope, we admired such wisdom in a yankee shape, and showed an irving as they show an ape.' [loud cheers.] and yet, strange to tell, not only of late have we been almost deluged with editions of new and excellent american writers, but the most popular book of the century has appeared on the west side of the atlantic. let us hear no more of the poverty of american brains, or the barrenness of american literature. had it produced only uncle tom's cabin, it had evaded contempt just as certainly as don quixote, had there been no other product of the spanish mind, would have rendered it forever illustrious. it is the work of a woman, too! none but a woman could have written it. there are in the human mind springs at once delicate and deep, which only the female genius can understand, or the female finger touch. who but a female could have created the gentle eva, painted the capricious and selfish marie st. clair, or turned loose a topsy upon the wondering world? [loud and continued cheering.] and it is to my mind exceedingly delightful, and it must be humiliating to our opponents, to remember that the severest stroke to american slavery has been given by a woman's hand. [loud cheers.] it was the smooth stone from the brook which, sent from the hand of a youthful david, overthrew goliath of gath; but i am less reminded of this than of another incident in scripture history. when the robber and oppressor of israel, abimelech, who had slain his brethren, was rushing against a tower, whither his enemies had fled, we are told that 'a certain woman cast a piece of a millstone upon abimelech's head, and all to break his skull,' and that he cried hastily to the young man, his armor-bearer, and said unto him, 'draw thy sword, and slay me, that men say not of me, a woman slew him.' it is a parable of our present position. mrs. stowe has thrown a piece of millstone, sharp and strong, at the skull of the giant abomination of her country; he is reeling in his death pangs, and, in the fury of his despair and shame, is crying, but crying in vain, 'say not, a woman slew me!' [applause.] but the world shall say, 'a woman slew him,' or, at least, 'gave him the first blow, and drove him to despair and suicide.' [cheers.] lastly, it is the work of an evangelical christian; and the piety of the book has greatly contributed to its power. it has forever wiped away the vile calumny, that all who love their african brother hate their god and savior. i look, indeed, on mrs. stowe's volume, not only as a noble contribution to the cause of emancipation, but to the general cause of christianity. it is an olive leaf in a dove's mouth, testifying that the waters of scepticism, which have rolled more fearfully far in america than here,--and no wonder, if the christianity of america in general is a slaveholding, man-stealing, soul-murdering christianity--that they are abating, and that genuine liberty and evangelical religion are soon to clasp hands, and to smile in unison on the ransomed, regenerated, and truly 'united states.' [loud and reiterated applause.]" address of the students of glasgow university--april . this address is particularly gratifying on account of its recognition of the use of intoxicating drinks as an evil analogous to slaveholding, and to be eradicated by similar means. the two reforms are in all respects similar movements, to be promoted in the same manner and with the same spirit. mrs. harriet beecher stowe. madam: the committee of the glasgow university abstainers' society, representing nearly one hundred students, embrace the opportunity which you have so kindly afforded them, of expressing their high esteem for you, and their appreciation of your noble efforts in behalf of the oppressed. they cordially join in the welcome with which you have been so justly received on these shores, and earnestly hope and pray that your visit may be beneficial to your own health, and tend greatly to the furtherance of christian philanthropy. the committee have had their previous convictions confirmed, and their hearts deeply affected, by your vivid and faithful delineations of slavery; and they desire to join with thousands on both sides of the atlantic, who offer fervent thanksgiving to god for having endowed you with those rare gifts, which have qualified you for producing the noblest testimony against slavery, next to the bible, which the world has ever received. while giving all the praise to god, from whom cometh every good and perfect gift, they may be excused for mentioning three characteristics of your writings regarding slavery, which awakened their admiration--a sensibility befitting the anguish of suffering millions; the graphic power which presents to view the complex and hideous system, stripped of all its deceitful disguises; and the moral courage that was required to encounter the monster, and drag it forth to the gaze and the execration of mankind. the committee feel humbled in being called to confess and deplore, as existing among ourselves, another species of slavery, not less ruinous in its tendency, and not less criminal in the sight of god--we mean the slavery by strong drink. we feel too much ashamed of the sad preëminence which these nations have acquired in regard to this vice to take any offence at the reproaches cast upon us from across the atlantic. such smiting shall not break our head. we are anxious to profit by it. yet when it is used as an argument to justify slavery, or to silence our respectful but earnest remonstrances, we take exception to the parallelism on which these arguments are made to rest. we do not justify our slavery. we do not try to defend it from the scriptures. we do not make laws to uphold it. the unhappy victims of our slavery have all forged and riveted their own fetters. we implore them to forbear; but, alas! in many cases without success. we invite them to be free, and offer our best assistance to undo their bonds. when a fugitive slave knocks at our door, escaping from a cruel master, we try to accost him in the spirit or in the words of a well-known philanthropist, "come in, brother, and get warm, and get thy breakfast." and when distinguished american philanthropists, who have done so much to undo the heavy burdens in their own land, come over to assist us, we hail their advent with rejoicing, and welcome them as benefactors. we are well aware that a corresponding feeling would be manifested in the united states by a portion, doubtless a large portion, of the population; but certainly not by those who justify or palliate their own oppression by a reference to our lamentable intemperance. we rejoice, madam, to know that as abstainers we can claim an important place, pot only in your sympathies, but in your literary labors. we offer our hearty thanks for the valuable contributions you have already furnished in that momentous cause, and for the efforts of that distinguished family with which you are connected. we bear our testimony to the mighty impulse imparted to the public mind by the extensive circulation of those memorable sermons which your honored father gave to europe, as well as to america, more than twenty-five years ago. it will be pleasing to him to know that the force of his arguments is felt in british universities to the present time, and that not only students in augmenting numbers, but learned professors, acknowledge their cogency and yield to their power. permit us to add that a movement has already begun, in an influential quarter in england, for the avowed purpose of combining the patriotism and christianity of these nations in a strenuous agitation for the suppression, by the legislature, of the traffic in alcoholic drinks. in conclusion, the committee have only further to express their cordial thanks for your kindness in receiving their address, and their desire and prayer that you may be long spared to glorify god, by promoting the highest interests of man; that if it so please him, you may live to see the glorious fruit of your labors here cm earth, and that hereafter you may meet the blessed salutation, "inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." norman s. kerr, _secretary_. stewart bates, _president_. glasgow, th april, . loud mayor's dinner at the mansion house, london--may . mr. justice talfourd,[d] having spoken of the literature of england and america, alluded to two distinguished authors then present. the one was a lady, who had shed a lustre on the literature of america, and whose works were deeply engraven on every english heart. he spoke particularly of the consecration of so much genius to so noble a cause--the cause of humanity; and expressed the confident hope that the great american people would see and remedy the wrongs so vividly depicted. the learned judge, having paid an eloquent tribute to the works of mr. charles dickens, concluded by proposing "mr. charles dickens and the literature of the anglo-saxons." mr. charles dickens returned thanks. in referring to mrs. h.b. stowe, he observed that, in returning thanks, he could not forget he was in the presence of a stranger who was the authoress of a noble book, with a noble purpose. but he had no right to call her a stranger, for she would find a welcome in every english home. stafford house reception--may . the duke of sutherland having introduced mrs. stowe to the assembly, the following short address was read and presented to her by the earl of shaftesbury:-- "madam: i am deputed by the duchess of sutherland, and the ladies of the two committees appointed to conduct 'the address from the women of england, to the women of america on the subject of slavery,' to express the high gratification they feel in your presence amongst them this day. "the address, which has received considerably more than half a million of the signatures of the women of great britain and ireland, they have already transmitted to the united states, consigning it to the care of those whom you have nominated as fit and zealous persons to undertake the charge in your absence. "the earnest desire of these committees, and, indeed, we may say of the whole kingdom, is to cultivate the most friendly and affectionate relations between the two countries; and we cannot but believe that we are fostering such a feeling when we avow our deep admiration of an american lady who, blessed by the possession of vast genius and intellectual powers, enjoys the still higher blessing, that she devotes them to the glory of god and the temporal and eternal interests of the human race." the following is a copy of the address to which lord shaftesbury makes reference:-- "_the affectionate and christian address of many thousands of women of great britain and ireland to their sisters, the women of the united states of america_. "a common origin, a common faith, and, we sincerely believe, a common cause, urge us at the present moment to address you on the subject of that system of negro slavery which still prevails so extensively, and even under kindly-disposed masters, with such frightful results, in many of the vast regions of the western world. "we will not dwell on the ordinary topics--on the progress of civilization; on the advance of freedom every where; on the rights and requirements of the nineteenth century; but we appeal to you very seriously to reflect, and to ask counsel of god, how far such a state of things is in accordance with his holy word, the inalienable rights of immortal souls, and the pure and merciful spirit of the christian religion. "we do not shut our eyes to the difficulties, nay, the dangers, that might beset the immediate abolition of that long-established system; we see and admit the necessity of preparation for so great an event; but in speaking of indispensable preliminaries, we cannot be silent on those laws of your country which, in direct contravention of god's own law, instituted in the time of man's innocency, deny, in effect, to the slave the sanctity of marriage, with all its joys, rights, and obligations; which separate, at the will of the master, the wife from the husband, and the children from the parents. nor can we be silent on that awful system which, either by statute or by custom, interdicts to any race of men, or any portion of the human family, education in the truths of the gospel, and the ordinances of christianity. "a remedy applied to these two evils alone would commence the amelioration of their sad condition. we appeal to you, then, as sisters, as wives, and as mothers, to raise your voices to your fellow-citizens, and your prayers to god, for the removal of this affliction from the christian world. we do not say these things in a spirit of self-complacency, as though our nation were free from the guilt it perceives in others. we acknowledge with grief and shame our heavy share in this great sin. we acknowledge that our forefathers introduced, nay, compelled the adoption of slavery in those mighty colonies. we humbly confess it before almighty god; and it is because we so deeply feel, and so unfeignedly avow, our own complicity, that we now venture to implore your aid to wipe away our common crime, and our common dishonor." congregational union--may . the rev. john angell james said, "i will only for one moment revert to the resolution.[e] it does equal honor to the head, and the heart, and the pen of the man who drew it. beautiful in language, christian in spirit, noble and generous in design, it is just such a resolution as i shall be glad to see emanate from the congregational body, and find its way across the atlantic to america. sir, we speak most powerfully, when, though we speak firmly, we speak in kindness; and there is nothing in that resolution that can, by possibility, offend the most fastidious taste of any individual present, or any individual in the world, who takes the same views of the evil of slavery, in itself, as we do. [hear, hear!] i shall not trespass long upon the attention of this audience, for we are all impatient to hear professor stowe speak in his own name, and in the name of that distinguished lady whom it is his honor and his happiness to call his wife. [loud cheers.] his station and his acquirements, his usefulness in america, his connection with our body, his representation of the pilgrim fathers who bore the light of christianity to his own country, all make him welcome here. [cheers.] but he will not be surprised if it is not on his own account merely that we give him welcome, but also on account of that distinguished woman to whom so marked an allusion has already been made. to her, i am sure, we shall tender no praise, except the praise that comes to her from a higher source than ours; from one who has, by the testimony of her own conscience, echoing the voice from above, said to her, 'well done, good and faithful servant.' long, sir, may it be before the completion of the sentence; before the welcome shall be given to her, when she shall hear him say, 'enter thou into the joy of thy lord.' [loud cheers.] but, though we praise her not, or praise with chastened language, we would say, madam, we do thank you from the bottom of our hearts, [hear, hear! and immense cheering,] for rising up to vindicate our outraged humanity; for rising up to expound the principles of our still nobler christianity. for my own part, it is not merely as an exposition of the evils of slavery that makes me hail that wondrous volume to our country and to the world; but it is the living exposition of the principles of the gospel that it contains, and which will expound those principles to many an individual who would not hear them from our lips, nor read them from our pens. i maintain, that uncle tom is one of the most beautiful imbodiments of the christian religion that was ever presented in this world. [loud cheers.] and it is that which makes me take such delight in it. i rejoice that she killed him. [laughter and cheers.] he must die under the slave lash--he must die, the martyr of slavery, and receive the crown of martyrdom from both worlds for his testimony to the truth. [turning to mrs. stowe, mr. james continued:] may the lord god reward you for what you have done; we cannot, madam--we cannot do it. [cheers.] we rejoice in the perfect assurance, in the full confidence, that the arrow which is to pierce the system of slavery to the heart has been shot, and shot by a female hand. right home to the mark it will go. [cheers.] it is true, the monster may groan and struggle for a long while yet; but die it will; die it must--under the potency of that book. [loud cheers.] it never can recover. it will be your satisfaction, perhaps, in this world, madam, to see the reward of your labors. heaven grant that your life may be prolonged, until such time as you see the reward of your labors in the striking off of the last fetter of the last slave that still pollutes the soil of your beloved country. [cheers.] for beloved it is; and i should do dishonor to your patriotism if i did not say it--beloved it is; and you are prepared to echo the sentiments, by changing the terms, which we often hear in old england, and say,-- 'america! with all thy faults i love thee still!' but still more intense will be my affection, and pure and devoted the ardor of my patriotism, when this greatest of all thine ills, this darkest of the blots upon thine escutcheon, shall be wiped out forever." [loud applause.] the rev. professor stowe rose amid loud, and repeated cheers, and said, "it is extremely painful for me to speak on the subject of american slavery, and especially out of the borders of my own country. [hear, hear!] i hardly know whether painful or pleasurable emotions predominate, when i look upon the audience to which i speak. i feel a very near affinity to the congregationalists of england, and especially to the congregationalists of london. [cheers.] my ancestors were residents of london; at least, from the time of edward iii.; they lived in cornhill and leadenhall street, and their bones lie buried in the old church of st. andrew under-shaft; and, in the year , on account of their nonconformity, they were obliged to seek refuge in the state of massachusetts; and i have always felt a love and a veneration for the congregational churches of england, more than for any other churches in any foreign land. [cheers.] i can only hope, that my conduct, as a religious man and a minister of christ, may not bring discredit upon my ancestors, and upon the honorable origin which i claim. [hear! and cheers.] i wish to say, in the first place, that in the united states the congregational churches, as a body, are free from slavery. [cheers.] i do not think that there is a congregational church in the united states in which a member could openly hold a slave without subjecting himself to discipline.[f] true, i have met with churches very deficient in their duty on this subject, and i am afraid there are members of congregational churches who hold slaves secretly as security for debt in the southern states. at the last great congregational convention, held in the city of albany, the churches took a step on the subject of slavery much in advance of any other great ecclesiastical body in the country. i hope it is but the beginning of a series of measures that will eventuate in the separation of this body from all connection with slavery. [hear, hear!] i am extensively acquainted with the united states; i have lived in different sections of them; i am familiar with people of all classes, and it is my solemn conviction, that nine tenths of the people feel on the subject of slavery as you do;[g] [cheers;] perhaps not so intensely, for familiarity with wrong deadens the conscience; but their convictions are altogether as yours are; and in the slaveholding states, and among slaveholders themselves, conscience is against the system. [cheers.] there is no legislative control of the subject of slavery, except by slaveholding legislators themselves. congress has no right to do any thing in the premises. they violated the constitution, as i believe, in passing the fugitive slave act. [cheers.] i do not believe they had any right to pass it. [hear, hear!] i stand here not as the representative of any body whatever. i only represent myself, and give you my individual convictions, that have been produced by a long and painful connection with the subject. [hear, hear!] as to the resolution, i approve it entirely. its sentiment and its spirit are my own. [cheers.] at the close of the revolutionary war, which separated the colonies from the mother country, every state of the union was a slaveholding state; every colony was a slaveholding colony; and now we have seventeen free states. [cheers.] slavery has been abolished in one half of the original colonies, and it was declared that there should be neither slavery nor the slave trade in any territory north and west of the ohio river; so that all that part is entirely free from actual active participation in this curse, laying open a free territory that, i think, must be ten times larger in extent than great britain. [loud cheers.] the state of massachusetts was the first in which slavery ceased. how did it cease? by an enactment of the legislature? not at all. they did not feel there was any necessity for such an enactment. the bill of rights declared, that all men were born free, and that they had an equal right to the pursuit of happiness and the acquisition of property. in contradiction to that, there were slaves in every part of massachusetts; and some philanthropic individual advised a slave to bring into court an action for wages against his master during all his time of servitude. the action was brought, and the court decided that the negro was entitled to wages during the whole period. [cheers.] that put an end to slavery in massachusetts, and that decision ought to have put an end to slavery in all states of the union, because the law applied to all. they abolished slavery in all the northern states--in maine, new hampshire, vermont, connecticut, and rhode island; and it was expected that the whole of the states would follow the example. when i was a child, i never heard a lisp in defence of slavery. [hear, hear, hear!] every body condemned it; all looked upon it as a great curse, and all regarded it as a temporary evil, which would soon melt away before the advancing light of truth. [hear, hear!] but still there was great injustice done to those who had been slaves. every body regarded the colored race as a degraded race; they were looked upon as inferior; they were not upon terms of social equality. the only thing approaching it was, that the colored children attended the schools with the white children, and took their places on the same forms; but in all other respects they were excluded from the common advantages and privileges of society. in the places of worship they were seated by themselves; and that difference always existed till these discussions came up, and they began to feel mortified at their situation; and hence, wherever they could, they had worship by themselves, and began to build places of worship for themselves; and now you will scarcely find a colored person occupying a seat in our places of worship. this stain still remains, and it is but a type of the feeling that has been generated by slavery. this ought to be known and understood, and this is just one of the out-croppings of that inward feeling that still is doing great injustice to the colored race; but there are symptoms of even that giving way. "i suppose you all remember dr. pennington--[cheers]--a colored minister of great talent and excellence--[hear, hear!]--though born a slave, and for many years was a fugitive slave. [hear, hear.] dr. pennington is a member of the presbytery of new york; and within the last six months he has been chosen moderator of that presbytery. [loud cheers.] he has presided in that capacity at the ordination of a minister to one of the most respectable churches of that city. so far so good--we rejoice in it, and we hope that the same sense of justice which has brought about that change, so that a colored man can be moderator of a presbytery in the city of new york, will go on, till full justice is done to these people, and until the grievous wrongs to which they have been subjected will be entirely done away. [cheers.] but still, what is the aspect which the great american nation now presents to the christian world? most sorry am i to say it; but it is just this--a christian republic upholding slavery--the only great nation on earth that does uphold it--a great christian republic, which, so far as the white people are concerned, is the fairest and most prosperous nation on earth--that great christian republic using all the power of its government to secure and to shield this horrible institution of negro slavery from aggression; and there is no subject on which the government is so sensitive--there is no institution which it manifests such a determination to uphold. [hear, hear!] and then the most melancholy fact of all is, that the entire christian church in that republic, with few exceptions, are silent, or are apologists for this great wrong. [hear, hear!] it makes my heart bleed to think of it; and there are many praying and weeping in secret places over this curse, whose voices are not heard. there is such a pressure on the subject, it is so mixed up with other things, that many sigh over it who know not what to say or what to do in reference to it. and what kind of slavery is it? is it like the servitude under the mosaic law, which is brought forward to defend it? nothing like it. let me read you a little extract from a correspondent of a new york paper, writing from paris. i will read it, because it is so graphic, and because i wish to show from what sources you may best ascertain the real nature of american slavery. the commercial newspapers, published by slaveholders, in slaveholding states, will give you a far more graphic idea of what slavery actually is, than you have from uncle tom's cabin; for there the most horrible features are softened. this writer says, 'and now a word on american representatives abroad. i have already made my complaint of the troubles brought on americans here by that "incendiary" book of mrs. stowe's, especially of the difficulty we have in making the french understand our institutions. but there was one partially satisfactory way of answering their questions, by saying that uncle tom's cabin was a romance. and this would have served the purpose pretty well, and spared our blushes for the model republic, if the slaveholders themselves would only withhold their testimony to the truth of what we were willing to let pass as fiction. but they are worse than mrs. stowe herself, and their writings are getting to be quoted here quite extensively. the _moniteur_ of to-day, and another widely-circulated journal that lies on my table, both contain extracts from those extremely incendiary periodicals, _the national intelligencer_, of february , and _the n.o. picayune_, of february . the first gives an auctioneer's advertisement of the sale of "a negro boy of eighteen years, a negro girl aged sixteen, three horses, saddles, bridles, wheelbarrows," &c. then follows an account of the sale, which reads very much like the description, in the dramatic _feuilletons_ here, of a famous scene in the _case de l'oncle tom_, as played at the _ambigu comique_. the second extract is the advertisement of "our esteemed fellow-citizen, mr. m.c.g.," who presents his "respects to the inhabitants of o. and the neighbouring parishes," and "informs them that he keeps a fine pack of dogs trained to catch negroes," &c. it is painful to think that there are men in our country who will write, and that there are others found to publish, such tales as these about our peculiar institution. i put it to mr. g., if he thinks it is patriotic. as a "fellow-citizen," and in his private relations, g. may be an estimable man, for aught i know, a christian and a scholar, and an ornament to the social circles of o. and the neighboring parishes. but as an author, g. becomes public property, and a fair theme for criticism; and in that capacity, i say g. is publishing the shame of his country. i call him g., without the prefatory mister, not from any personal disrespect, much as i am grieved at his course as a writer, but because he is now breveted for immortality, and goes down to posterity, like other immortals, without titular prefix.' [cheers.] now, here is where you get the true features of slavery. what is the reason that the churches, as a general thing, are silent--that some of them are apologists, and that some, in the extreme southern states, actually defend slavery, and say it is a good institution, and sanctioned by scripture? it is simply this--the overwhelming power of the slave system; and whence comes that overwhelming power? it comes from its great influence in the commercial world. [hear!] until the time that cotton became so extensively an article of export, there was not a word said in defence of slavery, as far as i know, in the united states. in , the presbyterian general assembly passed resolutions unanimously on the subject of slavery, to which this resolution is mildness itself; and not a man could be found to say one word against it. but cotton became a most valuable article of export. in one form and another, it became intimately associated with the commercial affairs of the whole country. the northern manufacturers were intimately connected with this cotton trade, and more than two thirds raised in the united states has been sold in great britain; and it is this cotton trade that supports the whole system. that you may rely upon. the sugar and rice, so far as the united states are concerned, are but small interests. the system is supported by this cotton trade, and within two days i have seen an article written with vigor in the _charleston mercury_, a southern paper of great influence, saying, that the slaveholders are becoming isolated, by the force of public opinion, from the rest of the world. they are beginning to be regarded as inhuman tyrants, and the slaves the victims of their cruelty; but, says the writer, just so long as you take our cotton, we shall have our slaves. now, you are as really involved in this matter as we are--[hear, hear!]--and if you have no other right to speak on the subject, you have a right to speak from being yourselves very active participators in the wrong. you have a great deal of feeling on the subject, honorable and generous feeling, i know--an earnest, philanthropic, christian feeling; but if you have nothing to do, that feeling will all evaporate, and leave an apathy behind. now, here is something to be done. it may be a small beginning, but, as you go forward, providence will develop other plans, and the more you do, the further you will see. i am happy to know that a beginning has been made. there are indications that a way has been so opened in providence that this exigency can be met. within the last few years, the chinese have begun to emigrate to the western parts of the united states. they will maintain themselves on small wages; and wherever they come into actual competition with slave labor, it cannot compete with them. very many of the slaveholders have spoken of this as a very remarkable indication. if slavery had been confined to the original slave states, as it was intended, slavery could not have lived. it was the intention that it should never go beyond those boundaries. had this been the case, it would increase the number of slaves so much that they would have been valueless as articles of property. i must say this for america, that the slaves increase in the slave states faster than the white people; and it shows that their physical condition is better than was that of the slaves at the west indies, or in cuba, where the number actually diminished. we must have more slave territories to make our slaves valuable, and there was the origin of that iniquitous mexican war, whereby was added the vast territory of texas; and then it was the intention to make california a slave state; but, i am happy to say, it has been received into the union as a free state, and god grant it may continue so. [hear, hear!] what has been the effect of this expansion of slave territory? it has doubled the value of slaves. since i can remember, a strong slave man would sell for about four hundred or six hundred dollars--that is, about one hundred pounds; but now, during the present season, i have known instances in which a slave man has been sold for two hundred and thirty pounds. there are more slaves raised in virginia and maryland than they can use in those states in labor, and, therefore, they sell them at one hundred, two hundred, or three hundred pounds, as the case may be, for cash. all that mrs. tyler intimates in that letter about slavery in america, and the impression it is calculated and intended to convey, that they treat their slaves so well, and do not separate their families, and so forth, is all mere humbug. [laughter and cheers.] it is well known that virginia has more profit from selling negroes than from any other source. the great sources of profit are tobacco and negroes, and they derive more from the sale of negroes than tobacco. you see the temptation this gives to avarice. suppose there is a man with no property, except fifteen or twenty negro men, whom he can sell, each one for two hundred pounds, cash; and he has as many negro women, whom he can sell for one hundred and fifty pounds, cash, and the children for one hundred pounds each: here is a temptation to avarice; and it is calculated to silence the voice of conscience; and it is the expansion of the slave territory, and the immense mercantile value of the cotton, that has brought so powerful an influence to bear on the united states in favor of slavery. [hear, hear.] now, as to free labor coming into competition with slave labor: you will see, that when the price of slaves is so enormous, it requires an immense outlay to stock a plantation. a good plantation would take two hundred, or three hundred hands. now, say for every hand employed on this plantation, the man must pay on an average two hundred pounds, which is not exorbitant at the present time. if he has to pay at this rate, what an immense outlay of capital to begin with, and how great the interest on that sum continually accumulating! and then there is the constant exposure to loss. these plantation negroes are very careless of life, and often cholera gets among them, and sweeps off twenty-five or thirty in a few days; and then there is the underground railroad, and, with all the precautions that can be taken, it continues to work. and now you see what an immense risk, and exposure to loss, and a vast outlay of capital, there is in connection with this system. but, if a man takes a cotton farm, and can employ chinese laborers, he can get them for one or two shillings a day, and they will do the work as well, if not better than negroes, and there is no outlay or risk. [hear, hear!]. if good cotton fields can be obtained, as they may in time, here is an opening which will tend to weaken the slave system. if christians will investigate this subject, and if philanthropists generally will pursue these inquiries in an honest spirit, it is not long before we shall see a movement throughout the civilized world, and the upholders of slavery will feel, where they feel most acutely--in their pockets. until something of this kind is done, i despair of accomplishing any great amount of good by simple appeals to the conscience and right principle. there are a few who will listen to conscience and a sense of right, but there are unhappily only a few. i suppose, though you have good christians here, you have many who will put their consciences in their pockets. [hear, hear!] i have known cases of this kind. there was a young lady in the state of virginia who was left an orphan, and she had no property except four negro slaves, who were of great commercial value. she felt that slavery was wrong, and she could not hold them. she gave them their freedom--[cheers]--and supported herself by teaching a small school. [cheers.] now, notwithstanding all the unfavorable things we see--notwithstanding the dark cloud that hangs over the country, there are hopeful indications that god has not forgotten us, and that he will carry on this work till it is accomplished. [hear!] but it will be a long while first, i fear; and we must pray, and labor, and persevere; for he that perseveres to the end, and he only, receives the crown. now, there are very few in the united states who undertake to defend slavery, and say it is right. but the great majority, even of professors of religion, unite to shield it from aggression. 'it is the law of the land,' they say, 'and we must submit to it.' it seems a strange doctrine to come from the lips of the descendants of the puritans, those who resisted the law of the land because those laws were against their conscience, and finally went over to that new world, in order that they might enjoy the rights of conscience. how would it have been with the primitive church if this doctrine had prevailed? there never would have been any christian church, for that was against the laws of the land. in regard to the distribution of the bible, in many states the laws prohibit the teaching of slaves, and the distribution of the bible is not allowed among them. the american bible society does not itself take the responsibility of this. it leaves the whole matter to the local societies in the several states, and it is the local societies that take the responsibility. well, why should we obey the law of the land in south carolina on this subject, and disobey the law of the land in italy? but our missionary societies and bible societies send bibles to other parts of the world, and never ask if it is contrary to the law of these lands, and if it is, they push it all the more zealously. they send bibles to italy and spain, and yet the bible is prohibited by those governments. the american tract society and the american sunday school union allow none of their issues to utter a syllable against slavery. they expunge even from their european books every passage of this kind, and excuse themselves by the law and the public sentiment. so are the people taught. there has been a great deal said on the subject of influence from abroad; but those who talk in that way interfered with the persecution of the madiai, and remonstrated with the tuscan government. we have had large meetings on the subject in new york, and those who refuse the bible to the slave took part in that meeting, and did not seem to think there was any inconsistency in their conduct. "the christian church knows no distinction of nations. in that church there is neither greek nor jew, barbarian, scythian, bond nor free, but all are one in christ; and whatever affects one part of the body affects the other, and the whole christian church every where is bound to help, and encourage, and rebuke, as the case may require. the christian church is every where bound to its corresponding branch in every other country; and thus you have, not only a right, but it is your duty, to consider the case of the american slave with just the same interest with which you consider the cause of the native hindoo, when you send out your missionaries there, or with which you consider madagascar; and to express yourselves in a christian spirit, and in a christian way continually, till you see that your admonitions have had a suitable influence. i do not doubt what you say, that you will receive with great pleasure men who come from the united states to promote the cause of temperance, and you may have the opportunity of showing your sincerity before long; and the manner in which you receive them will have a very important bearing on the subject of slavery. [cheers.] i have not the least doubt you will hail with joy those who will come across the atlantic to advance and promote still more earnestly those noble institutions, the ragged schools and the ragged churches. [cheers.] the men who want to do good at home are the men who do good abroad; and the same spirit of christian liberality that leads you to feel for the american slave will lead you to care for your own poor, and those in adverse circumstances in your own land, i would ask, is it possible, then, that admonition and reproof given in a christian spirit, and by a christian heart, can fail to produce a right influence on a christian spirit and a christian heart? i think the thing is utterly impossible; and that if such admonitions as are contained in the resolution, conceived in such a spirit, and so kindly expressed--if they are not received in a christian spirit, it is because the christian spirit has unhappily fled. i can answer for myself, at least, and many of my brethren, that it will be so; and, so far from desiring you to withhold your expressions on account of any bad feeling that they might excite, i wish you to reiterate them, and reiterate them in the same spirit in which they are given in this resolution; for i believe that these expressions of impatience and petulance represent the feelings of very few. who is it that always speaks first? the angry man, and it comes out at once; but the wise man keeps it in till afterwards; and it will not be long before you will find, that whatever you say in a christian spirit will be responded to on the other side of the water. now, i believe our churches have neglected their duty on this subject, and are still neglecting it. many do not seem to know what their duty is. yet i believe them to be good, conscientious men, and men who will do their duty when they know what it is. take, for example, the american board of foreign missions. there are not better men, or more conscientious men, on the face of the earth, or men more sincerely desirous of doing their duty; yet, in some things, i believe they are mistaken. i think it would be better to throw over the very few churches connected with the board which are slaveholding, than to endeavor to sustain them, and to have all this pressure of responsibility still upon them. but yet they are pursuing the course which they conscientiously think to be right. christian admonition will not be lost upon them.[h] i will say the same of the american home missionary society. they have little to do with slavery, as i have already remarked. many think they ought not to say any thing upon the subject, because they cannot do so without weakening their influence. but then this question comes: if good men do not speak, who will?--[hear, hear!]--and, as our savior said in regard to the children that shouted, hosannah, 'if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.' it is in consequence of their silence that stones have begun to cry out, and they rebuke the silence and apathy of good men; and this is made an argument against religion, which has had effect with unthinking people; so i think it absolutely necessary that men in the church, on that very ground, should speak out their mind on this great subject at whatever risk--[cheers]--and they must take the consequences. in due time god will prosper the right, and in due time the fetters will fall from every slave, and the black man will have the same privileges as the white. [applause.]" royal highland school society dinner, at the freemason's tavern, london--may . the chairman, sir archibald alison, gave "the health of her grace the duchess of sutherland, and the noble patronesses of the society," which was received with great applause. it was extremely gratifying, he said, to find a lady, belonging to one of the most ancient and noblest families of the kingdom, displaying so great an interest in their institution. [cheers.] not the least of their obligations to her grace was the opportunity she had given them to offer their respects to a lady, remarkable alike for her genius and her philanthropy, who had come from across the atlantic, and who, by her philanthropic exertions in the cause of negro emancipation, had enlisted the feelings and called forth the sympathies of thousands and tens of thousands on both sides of the ocean. [tremendous cheering.] she had shown that the genius, and talents, and energies, which such a cause inspired, had created a species of freemasonry throughout the world; it had set aside nationalities, and bound two nations together which the broad atlantic could not sever; and created a union of sentiment and purpose which he trusted would continue till the great work of negro emancipation had been finally accomplished. [cheers.] professor stowe responded to the allusion which had been made to mrs. stowe, and was greeted with hearty applause. he said he had read in his childhood the writings of sir walter scott, and thus became intensely interested in all that pertained to scotland. [cheers.] he had read, more recently, his life of napoleon, and also sir archibald alison's history of europe. [protracted cheers.] but he certainly never expected to be called upon to address such an assembly as that, and under such circumstances. nothing could exceed the astonishment which was felt by himself and mrs. stowe at the cordiality of their reception in every part of great britain, from persons of every rank in life. [cheers.] every body seemed to have read her book. [hear, hear! and loud cheers.] everyone seemed to have been deeply interested, [cheers,] and disposed to return a full-hearted homage to the writer. but all she claimed credit for was truth, and honesty, and earnestness of purpose. he had only to add that he cordially thanked the royal highland school society for the kindness which induced them to invite him and mrs. stowe to be present that evening. [cheers.] the work in which the society was engaged was one that they both held dear, and in which they felt the deepest interest, inasmuch as that object was to promote the education of youth among those whose poverty rendered them unable to provide the means of education for themselves. [hear, hear!] in such works as that they had themselves for most of their lives been diligently engaged. [cheers.] antislavery society, exeter hall--may . the earl of shaftesbury, who, on coming forward to open the proceedings, was received with much applause, spoke as follows: "we are assembled here this night to protest, with the utmost intensity, and with all the force which language can command, against the greatest wrong that the wickedness of man ever perpetrated upon his fellow-man--[loud cheers]--a wrong which, great in all ages--great in heathen times--great in all countries--great even under heathen sentiments--is indescribably monstrous in christian days, and exercised as it is, not unfrequently, over christian people. [hear!] it is surely remarkable, and exceedingly disgraceful to a century and a generation so boastful of its progress, and of the institution of so many bible societies, with so many professions and preachments of christianity--with so many declarations of the spiritual value of man before god--after so many declarations of this equality of every man in the sight of his fellow-man--that we should be assembled here this evening to protest against the conduct of a mighty and a protestant people, who, in the spirit of the romish babylon, which they had renounced, resort to her most abominable practices--making merchandise of the temples of god, and trafficking in the bodies and souls of men. [cheers.] we are not here to proclaim and maintain our own immaculate purity. we are not here to stand forward and say, 'i am holier than thou.' we have confessed, and that openly, and freely, and unreservedly, our share, our heavy share, in by-gone days, of vast wickedness; we have, we declare it again, and we had our deep remorse. we sympathize with the preponderating bulk of the american people; we acknowledge and we feel the difficulties which beset them; we rejoice and we believe in their good intentions; but we have no patience--i at least have none--with those professed leaders, be they political or be they clerical, who mislead the people--with those who, blasphemously resting slavery on the holy scriptures, desecrate their pulpits by the promulgation of doctrines better suited to the synagogue of satan--[cheers]--nor with that gentleman who, the greatest officer of the greatest republic in the whole world, in pronouncing an inaugural address to the assembled multitudes, maintains the institution of slavery; and--will you believe it?--invokes the almighty god to maintain those rights, and thus sanction the violation of his own laws!--[cries of 'shame!'] this is, indeed, a dismal prospect for those who tremble at human power; but we have this consolation: is it not said that, 'when the enemy shall come in like a flood, the spirit of the lord shall lift up a standard against him?' [hear, hear!] he has done so now, and a most wonderful and almost inspired protector has arisen for the suffering of this much injured race. [loud cheers.] feeble as her sex, but irresistible as virtue and as truth, she will prove to her adversary, and to ours, that such boasting shall not be for his honor, 'for the lord will sell sisera into the hands of a woman.' [hear, hear! and loud cheers.] now, i ask you this: is there one of you who believes that the statements of that marvellous book to which we have alluded present an exaggerated picture?--[tremendous cries of 'no, no.'] do they not know, say what they will, that the truth is not fully stated? [hear, hear!] the reality is worse than the fiction. [hear, hear!] but, apart from this, there is our solemn declaration that the vileness of the principle is at once exhibited in the mere notion of slavery, and the atrocities of it are the natural and almost inevitable consequences of the profession and exercise of absolute and irresponsible power. [hear, hear!] but do you doubt the fact? look to the document. i will quote to you from this book. i have never read any thing more strikingly illustrative or condemnatory of the system we are here to denounce. here is the judgment pronounced by one of the judges in north carolina. it is impossible to read this judgment, however terrible the conclusion, without feeling convinced that the man who pronounced it was a man of a great mind, and, in spite of the law he was bound to administer, a man of a great heart. [hear, hear!] hear what he says. the case was this: it was a 'case of appeal,' in which the defendant had hired a slave woman for a year. during this time she committed some slight offence, for which the defendant undertook to chastise her. after doing so he shot at her as she was running away. the question then arose, was he justified in using that amount of coercion? and whether the privilege of shooting was not confined to the actual proprietor? the case was argued at some length, and the court, in pronouncing judgment, began by deploring that any judge should ever be called upon to decide such a case, but he had to administer the law, and not to make it. the judge said, 'with whatever reluctance, therefore, the court is bound to express the opinion, that the dominion over a slave in carolina has not, as it has been argued, any analogy with the authority of a tutor over a pupil, of a master over an apprentice, or of a parent over a child. the court does not recognize these applications. there is no likeness between them. they are in opposition to each other, and there is an impassable gulf between them. the difference is that which exists between freedom and slavery--[hear, hear!]--and a greater difference cannot be imagined. in the one case, the end in view is the happiness of the youth, born to equal rights with the tutor, whose duty it is to train the young to usefulness by moral and intellectual instruction. if they will not suffice, a moderate chastisement maybe administered. but with slavery it is far otherwise.' mark these words, for they contain the whole thing. but with slavery it is far otherwise. the end is the profit of the master, and the poor object is one doomed, in his own person, and in his posterity, to live without knowledge, and without capacity to attain any thing which he may call his own. he has only to labor, that another may reap the fruits.' [hear, hear!] mark! this is from the sacred bench of justice, pronounced by one of the first intellects in america! 'there is nothing else which can operate to produce the effect; the power of the master must be absolute, to render the submission of the slave perfect. [hear, hear!] it is inherent in the relation of master and slave;' and then he adds those never-to-be-forgotten words, 'we cannot allow the right of the master to come under discussion in the courts of justice. the slave must be made sensible that there is no appeal from his master, and that his master's power is in no instance usurped; that these rights are conferred by the laws of man, at least, if not by the law of god.' [loud cries of 'shame, shame!'] this is the mode in which we are to regard these two classes of beings, both created by the same god, and both redeemed by the same savior as ourselves, and destined to the same immortality! the judgment, on appeal, was reversed; but, god be praised; there is another appeal, and that appeal we make to the highest of all imaginable courts, where god is the judge, where mercy is the advocate, and where unerring truth will pronounce the decision![protracted cheering.] there are some who are pleased to tell us that there is an inferiority in the race! that is untrue. [cheers.] but we are not here to inquire whether our black brethren will become shakspeares or herschels. [hear, hear!] i ask, are they immortal beings? [great applause.] do our adversaries, say no? i ask them, then, to show me one word in the handwriting of god which has thus levelled them with the brute beasts. [hear, hear!] let us bear in mind those words of our blessed savior--'whosoever shall offend one of these little ones who believe in me, it were better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were cast into the depths of the sea.' [loud cheers.] now, then, what is our duty? is it to stand still? yes! when we receive the command from the same authority that said to the sun, stand over gibeon! [loud cheers.] then, and not till then, will we stand still. [renewed cheers.] are we to listen to the craven and miserable talk about 'doing more harm than good'? [hear, hear!] this was an argument which would have checked every noble enterprise which has been undertaken since the world began. it would have strangled wilberforce, and checked the very exodus itself from the house of bondage in egypt. [hear, hear!] out on all such craven talk! [cheers.] slavery is a mystery, and so is all sin, and we must fight against it; and, by the blessing of god, we will. [loud cheers.] we must pray to almighty god, that we and our american brethren--who seem now to be the sole depositories of the protestant truth, and of civil and religious liberty, may be as one. [cheers.] we are feeble, if hostile; but, if united, we are the arbiters of the world. [cheers.] let us join together for the temporal and spiritual good of our race." professor stowe then came forward, and was received with unbounded demonstrations of applause. when the cheering had subsided, he said "he felt utterly exhausted by the heat and excitement of the meeting, and should therefore be glad to be excused from saying a single word; however, he would utter a few thoughts. the following was the resolution which he had to submit to the meeting: 'that with a view to the correction of public sentiment on this subject in slaveholding communities, it is of the first importance that those who are earnest in condemnation of slavery should observe consistency; and, therefore, that it is their duty to encourage the development of the natural resources of countries where slavery does not exist, and the soil of which is adapted to the growth of products--especially of cotton--now partially or chiefly raised by slave labor; and though the extinction of slavery is less to be expected from a diminished demand for slave produce than from the moral effects of a steadfast abhorrence of slavery itself, and from an unwavering and consistent opposition to it, this meeting would earnestly recommend, that in all cases where it is practicable, a decided preference should be given to the products of free labor, by all who enter their protest against slavery, so that at least they themselves may be clear of any participation in the guilt of the system, and be thus morally strengthened in their condemnation of it.' at the close of the revolutionary war, all the states of america were slaveholding states. in massachusetts, some benevolent white man caused a slave to try an action for wages in a court of justice. he succeeded, and the consequence was, that slavery fell in massachusetts. it was then universally acknowledged that slavery was a sin and shame, and ought to be abolished, and it was expected that it would be soon abolished in every state of the union. mr. jefferson, mr. madison, and benjamin franklin would not allow the word 'slave' to occur in the constitution, and mr. edwards, from the pulpit, clearly and broadly denounced slavery. and when he (professor stowe) was a boy, in massachusetts the negro children were admitted to the same schools with the whites. although there was some prejudice of color then, yet it was not so strong as at present. in , the general assembly of the presbyterian church in the united states passed, resolutions against slavery far stronger than those passed at the meeting this evening, and every man, north and south, voted for them. what had caused the change? it was the profitableness of the cotton trade. it was that which had spread the chains of slavery over the union, and silenced the church upon the subject. he had been asked, what right had great britain to interfere? why, great britain took four fifths of the cotton of america, and therefore sustained four fifths of the slavery. that gave them a right to interfere. [hear, hear!] he admitted that our participation in the guilt was not direct, but without the cotton, trade of great britain slavery would have been abolished long ago, for the american manufacturers consumed but one fifth of all the cotton grown in the country. the conscience of the cotton growers was talked of; but had the cotton consumer no conscience? [cheers.] it seemed to him that the british public had more direct access to the consumer than to the grower of cotton." professor stowe then read an extract from a paper published in charleston, south carolina, showing the influence of the american cotton trade on the slavery question. "the price of cotton regulated the price of slaves, who were now worth an average of two hundred pounds. a cotton plantation required in some cases two hundred, and in others four hundred slaves. this would give an idea of the capital needed. with free labor there was none of this outlay--there was none of those losses by the cholera, and the 'underground railroad,' to which the slave owners were subjected. [hear, hear!] the chinese had come over in large numbers, and could be hired for small wages, on which they managed to live well in their way. if people would encourage free-grown cotton, that would be the strongest appeal they could make to the slaveholder. there were three ways of abolishing slavery. first, by a bloody revolution, which few would approve. [hear, hear!] secondly, by persuading slaveholders of the wrong they commit; but this would have little effect so long as they bought their cotton. [hear, hear!] and the third and most feasible way was, by making slave labor unprofitable, as compared with free labor. [hear!] when the chinese first began to emigrate to california, it was predicted that slavery would be 'run out' that way. he hoped it might be so. [cheers.] the reverend gentleman then reverted to his previous visit to this country, seventeen years ago, and described the rapid strides which had been made in the work of education--especially the education of the poor--in the interval. it was most gratifying to him, and more easily seen by him than it would be by us, with whom the change had been gradual. he had been told in america that the english abolitionists were prompted by jealousy of america, but he had found that to be false. the christian feeling which had dictated efforts on behalf of ragged schools and factory children, and the welfare of the poor and distressed of every kind, had caused the same christian hearts to throb for the american slave. it was that christian philanthropy which received all men as brethren--children of the same father, and therefore he had great hopes of success. [cheers.]" * * * * * my remarks on the cotton business of britain were made with entire sincerity, and a single-hearted desire to promote the antislavery cause. they are sentiments which i had long entertained, and which i had taken every opportunity to express with the utmost freedom from the time of my first landing in liverpool, the great cotton mart of england, and where, if any where, they might be supposed capable of giving offence; yet no exception was taken to them, so far as i know, till delivered in exeter hall. there they were heard by some with surprise, and by others with extreme displeasure. i was even called _proslavery_, and ranked with mrs. julia tyler, for frankly speaking the truth, under circumstances of great temptation to ignore it. still i have the satisfaction of knowing that both my views and my motives were rightly understood and properly appreciated by large-hearted and clear-headed philanthropists, like the earl of shaftesbury and joseph sturge, and very fairly represented and commented upon by such religious and secular papers as the christian times, the british banner, the london daily news and chronicle; and even the _thundering political_ times seemed disposed, in a half-sarcastic way, to admit that i was more than half right. but it is most satisfactory of all to know that the best of the british abolitionists are now acting, promptly and efficiently, in accordance with those views, and are determined to develop the resources of the british empire for the production of cotton by free labor. the thing is practicable, and not of very difficult accomplishment. it is furthermore absolutely essential to the success of the antislavery cause; for now the great practical leading argument for slavery is, _without slavery you can have no cotton, and cotton you must and will have_. the latest work that i have read in defence of slavery (uncle tom in paris, baltimore, ) says, (pp. - ,) "_of the cotton which supplies the wants of the civilized world, the south produces per cent.; and without slave labor experience has shown that the cotton plant cannot be cultivated_." how the matter is viewed by sagacious and practical minds in britain, is clear from the following sentences, taken from the national era:-- "cotton is king.--charles dickens, in a late number of his household words, after enumerating the striking facts of cotton, says,-- "'let any social or physical convulsion visit the united states, and england would feel the shock from land's end to john o'groat's. the lives of nearly two millions of our countrymen are dependent upon the cotton crops of america; their destiny may be said, without any sort of hyperbole, to hang upon a thread. "'should any dire calamity befall the land of cotton, a thousand of our merchant ships would rot idly in dock; ten thousand mills must stop their busy looms, and two million mouths would starve for lack of food to feed them.' "how many non-slaveholders elsewhere are thus interested in the products of slaves? is it not worthy the attention of genuine philanthropists to inquire whether cotton cannot be profitably cultivated by free labor?" soirÉe at willis's rooms--may . mr. joseph sturge took the chair, announcing that he did so in the absence of the earl of shaftesbury, who was prevented from attending. it was announced that letters had been received from the duke of newcastle and the earls of carlisle and shaftesbury, expressing their sympathy with the object of the meeting, and their regret at being unable to attend. the secretary, samuel bowley, esq., of gloucester, then read the address, which was as follows:-- "madam: it is with feelings of the deepest interest that the committee of the british and foreign antislavery society, on behalf of themselves and of the society they represent, welcome the gifted authoress of uncle tom's cabin to the shores of great britain. "as humble laborers in the cause of negro emancipation, we hail, with emotions more easily imagined than described, the appearance of that remarkable work, which has awakened a world-wide sympathy on behalf of the suffering negro, and called forth a burst of honest indignation against the atrocious system of slavery, which, we trust, under the divine blessing, will, at no distant period, accomplish its entire abolition. we are not insensible to those extraordinary merits of uncle tom's cabin, as a merely literary production, which have procured for its talented authoress such universal commendation and enthusiastic applause; but we feel it to be our duty to refer rather to the christian principles and earnest piety which pervade its interesting pages, and to express our warmest desire, we trust we may say heartfelt prayer, that he who bestowed upon you the power and the grace to write such a work may preserve and bless you amid all your honours, and enable you, under a grateful and humble sense of his abundant goodness, to give him all the glory. "we rejoice to find that the great principles upon which our society is based are so fully and so cordially recognized by yourself and your beloved husband and brother--first, that personal slavery, in all its varied forms, is a direct violation of the blessed, precepts of the gospel, and therefore a sin in the sight of god; and secondly, that every victim of this unjust and sinful system is entitled to immediate and unconditional freedom. for, however we might acquiesce in the course of a nation which, under a sense of its participation in the guilt of slavery, should share the pecuniary loss, if such there were, of its immediate abolition, yet we repudiate the right to demand compensation for human flesh and blood, as (to employ the emphatic words of lord brougham) we repudiate and abhor 'the wild and guilty fantasy that man can hold property in man.' and we do not hesitate to express our conviction, strengthened by the experience of emancipation in our own colonies, that on the mere ground of social or political expediency, the immediate termination of slavery would be far less dangerous and far less injurious than, any system of compromise, or any attempt at gradual emancipation. "let it be borne in mind, however,--and we record it with peculiar interest on the present occasion,--that it was the pen of a woman that first publicly enunciated the imperative duty of immediate emancipation. amid vituperation and ridicule, and, far worse, the cold rebuke of christian friends, mrs. elizabeth heyrick boldly sent forth the thrilling tract which taught the abolitionists of great britain this lesson of justice and truth; and we honor her memory for her deeds. again we are indebted to the pen of a woman for pleading yet more powerfully the cause of justice to the slave; and again we have to admire and honor the christian heroism which has enabled you, dear madam, to brave the storm of public opinion, and to bear the frowns of the church in your own land, while you boldly sent forth your matchless volume to teach more widely and more attractively the same righteous lesson. "we desire to feel grateful for the measure of success that has crowned the advocacy of these sound antislavery principles in our own country; but we cannot but feel, that as regards the continuance of slavery in america, we have cause for humiliation and shame in the existence of the melancholy fact that a large proportion of the fruits of the bitter toil and suffering of the slaves in the western world are used to minister to the comfort and the luxury of our own population. when this anomaly of a country's putting down slavery by law on the one hand, and supporting it by its trade and commerce on the other, will be removed, it is not for us to predict; but we are conscious that our position is such as should at least dissipate every sentiment of self-complacency, and make us feel, both nationally and individually, how deep a responsibility still rests upon us to wash our own hands of this iniquity, and to seek by every legitimate means in our power to rid the world of this fearful institution. "true christian philanthropy knows no geographical limits, no distinctions of race or color; but wherever it sees its fellow-man the victim of suffering and oppression, it seeks to alleviate his sorrows, or drops a tear of sympathy over the afflictions which it has not the power to remove. we cannot but believe that these enlarged and generous sympathies will be aroused and strengthened in the hearts of thousands and tens of thousands of all classes who have wept over the touching pages of uncle tom's cabin. we have marked the rapid progress of its circulation from circle to circle, and from country to country, with feelings of thrilling interest; for we trust, by the divine blessing upon the softening influence and christian sentiments it breathes, it will be made the harbinger of a better and brighter day for the happiness and the harmony of the human family. the facilities for international intercourse which we now possess, while they rapidly tend to remove those absurd jealousies which have so long existed between the nations of the earth, are daily increasing the power of public opinion in the world at large, which is so well described by one of our leading statesmen in these forcible words: 'it is quite true, it may be said, what are opinions against armies? opinions, if they are founded in truth and justice, will in the end prevail against the bayonets of infantry, the fire of artillery, and the charges of cavalry.' responding most cordially to these sentiments, we rejoice with thanksgiving to god that you, whom we now greet and welcome as our dear and honored friend, have been enabled to exemplify their beauty and their truth; for it is our firm conviction that the united powers of europe, with all their military array, could not accomplish what you have done, through the medium of public opinion, for the overthrow of american slavery. "the glittering steel of the warrior, though steeped in the tyrant's blood, would be weak when compared with a woman's pen dipped in the milk of human kindness, and softened by the balm of christian love. the words that have drawn a tear from the eye of the noble, and moistened the dusky cheek of the hardest sons of toil, shall sink into the heart and weaken the grasp of the slaveholder, and crimson with a blush of shame many an american citizen who has hitherto defended or countenanced by his silence this bitter reproach on the character and constitution of his country. "to the tender mercies of him who died to save their immortal souls we commend the downcast slaves for freedom and protection, and, in the heart-cheering belief that you have been raised up as an honored instrument in god's hand to hasten the glorious work of their emancipation, we crave that his blessing, as well as the blessing of him that is ready to perish, may abundantly rest upon you and yours. with sentiments of the highest esteem and respect, dear madam, we affectionately subscribe ourselves your friends and fellow-laborers." professor stowe was received with prolonged cheering. he said, "besides the right which i have, owing to the relationship subsisting between us, to answer for the lady whom you have so honored, i may claim a still greater right in my sympathy for her efforts. [hear!] we are perfectly agreed in every point with regard to the nature of slavery, and the best means of getting rid of it. i have been frequently called on to address public meetings since i have been on these shores, and though under circumstances of great disadvantage, and generally with little time, if any, for preparation, still the very great kindness which has been manifested to mrs. stowe and to myself, and to our country, afflicted as it is with this great evil, has enabled me to bear a burden which otherwise i should have found insupportable. but of all the addresses we have received, kind and considerate as they have all been, i doubt whether one has so completely expressed the feelings and sympathies of our own hearts as the one we have just heard. it is precisely the expressions of our own thoughts and feelings on the whole subject of slavery. as this is probably the last time i shall have an opportunity of addressing an audience in england, i wish briefly to give you an outline of our views as to the best means of dealing with that terrible subject of slavery, for in our country it is really terrible in its power and influence. were it not that providence seems to be lifting a light in the distance, i should be almost in despair. there is now a system of causes at work which providence designs should continue to work, until that great curse is removed from the face of the earth. i believe that in dealing with the subject of slavery, and the best means of removing it, the first thing is to show the utter wrongfulness of the whole system. the great moral ground is the chief and primary ground, and the one on which we should always, and under all circumstances, insist. with regard to the work which has created so much excitement, the great excellence of it morally is, that it holds up fully and emphatically the extreme wrongfulness of the system, while at the same time showing an entire christian and forgiving spirit towards those involved in it; and it is these two characteristics which, in my opinion, have given it its great power. till i read that book, i had never seen any extensive work that satisfied me on those points. it does show, in the most striking manner, the horrible wrongfulness of the system, and, at the same time, it displays no bitterness, no unfairness, no unkindness, to those involved in it. it is that which gives the work the greater power, for where there is unfairness, those assailed take refuge behind it; while here they have no such refuge. we should always aim, in assailing the system of slavery, to awaken the consciences of those involved in it; for among slaveholders there are all kinds of moral development, as among every other class of people in the world. there are men of tender conscience, as well as men of blunted conscience; men with moral sense, and men with no moral sense whatever; some who have come into the system involuntarily, born in it, and others who have come into it voluntarily. there is a moral nature in every man, more or less developed; and according as it is developed we can, by showing the wrong of a thing, bring one to abhor it. we have the testimony of christian clergymen in slave holding states, that the greater portion of the christian people there, and even many slaveholders, believe the system is wrong; and it is only a matter of time, a question of delay, as to when they shall perform their whole duty, and bring it to an end.[i] one would believe that when they saw a thing to be wrong, they would at once do right; but prejudice, habit, interest, education, and a variety of influences check their aspirations to what is right; but let us keep on pressing it upon their consciences, and i believe their consciences will at length respond. public sentiment is more powerful than force, and it may be excited in many ways. conversation, the press, the platform, and the pulpit may all be used to awaken the feeling of the people, and bring it to bear on this question. i refer especially to the pulpit; for, if the church and the ministry are silent, who is to speak for the dumb and the oppressed? the thing that has borne on my mind with the most melancholy weight, and caused me most sorrow, is the apparent apathy, the comparative silence, of the church on this subject for the last twenty or five and twenty years in the united states. previous to that period it did speak, and with words of power; but, unfortunately, it has not followed out those words by acts. the influence of the system has come upon it, and brought it, for a long time, almost to entire silence; but i hope we are beginning to speak again. we hear voices here and there which will excite other voices, and i trust before long they will bring all to speak the same thing on this subject, so that the conscience of the whole nation may be aroused. there is another method of dealing with the subject, which is alluded to in the address, and also in the resolution of the society, at exeter hall. it is the third resolution proposed at that meeting, and i will read it, and make some comments as i proceed. it begins, 'that, with a view to the correction of public sentiment on this subject in slaveholding communities, it is of the first importance that those who are earnest in condemnation of slavery should observe consistency, and, therefore, that it is their duty to encourage the development of the natural resources of countries where slavery does not exist, and the soil of which is adapted to the growth of products, especially cotton, now partially or chiefly raised by slave labor.' now, i concur with this most entirely, and would refer you to countries where cotton can be grown even in your own dominions--in india, australia, british guiana, and parts of africa. but it can be raised by free labor in the united states, and indeed it is already raised there by free labor to a considerable extent; and, provided the plan were more encouraged, it could be raised more abundantly. the resolution goes on to say, 'and though the extinction of slavery is less to be expected from a diminished demand for slave produce than from the moral effects of a steadfast abhorrence of slavery, and from an unwavering and consistent opposition to it,' &c. now, my own feelings on that subject are not quite so hopeless as here expressed, and it seems to me that you are not aware of the extent to which free labor may come into competition with slave labor. i know several instances, in the most slaveholding states, in which slave labor has been displaced, and free labor substituted in its stead. the weakness of slavery consists in the expense of the slaves, the great capital to be invested in their purchase before any work can be performed, and the constant danger of loss by death or escape. when the chinese emigrants from the eastern portion of their empire came to the north-western states, their labor was found much cheaper and better than that of slaves. i therefore hope there may be a direct influence from this source, as well as the indirect influence contemplated by the resolution. at all events, it is an encouragement to those who wish the extinction of slavery to keep their eyes open, and assist the process by all the means in their power. the resolution proceeds: 'this meeting would earnestly recommend, in all cases where it is practicable, that a decided preference should be given to the products of free labor by all who enter their protest against slavery, so that at least they themselves may be clear of any participation in the guilt of the system, and be thus morally strengthened in their condemnation of it.' to that there can be no objection; but still the state of society is such that we cannot at once dispense with all the products of slave labor. we may, however, be doing what we can--examining the ways and methods by which this end may be brought about; and, at all events, we need not be deterred from self-denial, nor shrink before minor obstacles. if with foresight we participate in the encouragement of slave labor, we must hold ourselves guilty, in no unimportant sense, of sustaining the system of slavery. i will illustrate my argument by a very simple method. suppose two ships arrive laden with silks of the same quality, but one a pirate ship, in which the goods have been obtained by robbery, and the other by honest trade. the pirate sells his silks twenty per cent. cheaper than the honest trader: you go to him, and declaim against his dishonesty; but because you can get silks cheaper of him, you buy of him. would he think you sincere in your denunciations of his plundering his fellow-creatures, or would you exert any influence on him to make him abandon his dishonest practices? i can, however, put another case in which this inconsistency might, perhaps, be unavoidable. suppose we were in famine or great necessity, and we wished to obtain provisions for our suffering families: suppose, too, there was a certain man with provisions, who, we knew, had come by them dishonestly, but we had no other resource than to purchase of him. in that case we should be justified in purchasing of him, and should not participate in the guilt of the robbery. but still, however great our necessity, we are not justified in refusing to examine the subject, and in discouraging those who are endeavoring to set the thing on the right ground. that is all i wish, and all the resolution contemplates; and, happily, i find that that also is what was implied in the address. i may mention one other method alluded to in the address, and that is prayer to almighty god. this ought to be, and must be, a religious enterprise. it is impossible for any man to contemplate slavery as it is without feeling intense indignation; and unless he have his heart near to god, and unless he be a man of prayer and devotional spirit, bad passions will arise, and to a very great extent neutralize his efforts to do good. how do you suppose such a religious feeling has been preserved in the book to which the address refers? because it was written amid prayer from the beginning; and it is only by a constant exercise of the religious spirit that the good it had effected has been accomplished in the way it has. there is one more subject to which i would allude, and that is unity among those who desire to emancipate the slave. i mean a good understanding and unity of feeling among the opponents of slavery. what gives slavery its great strength in the united states? there are only about three hundred thousand slaveholders in the united states out of the whole twenty-five millions of its population, and yet they hold the entire power over the nation. that is owing to their unbroken unity on that one matter, however much, and however fiercely, they may contend among themselves on others. as soon as the subject of slavery comes up, they are of one heart, of one voice, and of one mind, while their opponents unhappily differ, and assail each other when they ought to be assailing the great enemy alone. why can they not work together, so far as they are agreed, and let those points on which they disagree be waived for the time? in the midst of the battle let them sink their differences, and settle them after the victory is won. i was happy to find at the great meeting of the peace society that that course has been adopted. they are not all of one mind on the details of the question, but they are of one mind on the great principle of diffusing peace doctrines among the great nations of europe. i therefore say, let all the friends of the slave work together until the great work of his emancipation is accomplished, and then they will have time to discuss their differences, though i believe by that time they will all think alike. i thank you sincerely for the kindness you have expressed towards my country, and for the philanthropy you have manifested, and i hope all has been done in such a christian spirit that every christian feeling on the other side of the atlantic will be compelled to respond to it." * * * * * concluding note. since the preceding addresses were delivered, the aspect of things among us has been greatly changed. it is just as was predicted by the sagacious lord cockburn, at the meeting in edinburgh, (see page xxvi.) the spirit of slavery, stimulated to madness by the indignation of the civilized world, in its frenzy bids defiance to god and man, and is determined to make itself respected by enlisting into its service the entire wealth, and power, and political influence of this great nation. its encroachments are becoming so enormous, and its progress so rapid, that it is now a conflict for the freedom of the citizens rather than for the emancipation of the slaves. the reckless faithlessness and impudent falsehood of our national proslavery legislation, the present season, has scarcely a parallel in history, black as history is with all kinds of perfidy. if the men who mean to be free do not now arise in their strength and shake off the incubus which is strangling and crushing them, they deserve to be slaves, and they will be. c.e.s. sunny memories of foreign lands. letter i. liverpool, april , . my dear children:-- you wish, first of all, to hear of the voyage. let me assure you, my dears, in the very commencement of the matter, that going to sea is not at all the thing that we have taken it to be. you know how often we have longed for a sea voyage, as the fulfilment of all our dreams of poetry and romance, the realization of our highest conceptions of free, joyous existence. you remember our ship-launching parties in maine, when we used to ride to the seaside through dark pine forests, lighted up with the gold, scarlet, and orange tints of autumn. what exhilaration there was, as those beautiful inland bays, one by one, unrolled like silver ribbons before us! and how all our sympathies went forth with the grand new ship about to be launched! how graceful and noble a thing she looked, as she sprang from the shore to the blue waters, like a human soul springing from life into immortality! how all our feelings went with her! how we longed to be with her, and a part of her--to go with her to india, china, or any where, so that we might rise and fall on the bosom of that magnificent ocean, and share a part of that glorified existence! that ocean! that blue, sparkling, heaving, mysterious ocean, with all the signs and wonders of heaven emblazoned on its bosom, and another world of mystery hidden beneath its waters! who would not long to enjoy a freer communion, and rejoice in a prospect of days spent in unreserved fellowship with its grand and noble nature? alas! what a contrast between all this poetry and the real prose fact of going to sea! no man, the proverb says, is a hero to his valet de chambre. certainly, no poet, no hero, no inspired prophet, ever lost so much on near acquaintance as this same mystic, grandiloquent old ocean. the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous is never taken with such alacrity as in a sea voyage. in the first place, it is a melancholy fact, but not the less true, that ship life is not at all fragrant; in short, particularly on a steamer, there is a most mournful combination of grease, steam, onions, and dinners in general, either past, present, or to come, which, floating invisibly in the atmosphere, strongly predisposes to that disgust of existence, which, in half an hour after sailing, begins to come upon you; that disgust, that strange, mysterious, ineffable sensation which steals slowly and inexplicably upon you; which makes every heaving billow, every white-capped wave, the ship, the people, the sight, taste, sound, and smell of every thing a matter of inexpressible loathing! man cannot utter it. it is really amusing to watch the gradual progress of this epidemic; to see people stepping on board in the highest possible feather, alert, airy, nimble, parading the deck, chatty and conversable, on the best possible terms with themselves and mankind generally; the treacherous ship, meanwhile, undulating and heaving in the most graceful rises and pauses imaginable, like some voluptuous waltzer; and then to see one after another yielding to the mysterious spell! your poet launches forth, "full of sentiment sublime as billows," discoursing magnificently on the color of the waves and the glory of the clouds; but gradually he grows white about the mouth, gives sidelong looks towards the stairway; at last, with one desperate plunge, he sets, to rise no more! here sits a stout gentleman, who looks as resolute as an oak log. "these things are much the effect of imagination," he tells you; "a little self-control and resolution," &c. ah me! it is delightful, when these people, who are always talking about resolution, get caught on shipboard. as the backwoodsman said to the mississippi river, about the steamboat, they "get their match." our stout gentleman sits a quarter of an hour, upright as a palm tree, his back squared against the rails, pretending to be reading a paper; but a dismal look of disgust is settling down about his lips; the old sea and his will are evidently having a pitched battle. ah, ha! there he goes for the stairway; says he has left a book in the cabin, but shoots by with a most suspicious velocity. you may fancy his finale. then, of course, there are young ladies,--charming creatures,--who, in about ten minutes, are going to die, and are sure they shall die, and don't care if they do; whom anxious papas, or brothers, or lovers consign with all speed to those dismal lower regions, where the brisk chambermaid, who has been expecting them, seems to think their agonies and groans a regular part of the play. i had come on board thinking, in my simplicity, of a fortnight to be spent something like the fortnight on a trip to new orleans, on one of our floating river palaces; that we should sit in our state rooms, read, sew, sketch, and chat; and accordingly i laid in a magnificent provision in the way of literature and divers matters of fancy work, with which to while away the time. some last, airy touches, in the way of making up bows, disposing ribbons, and binding collarets, had been left to these long, leisure hours, as matters of amusement. let me warn you, if you ever go to sea, you may as well omit all such preparations. don't leave so much as the unlocking of a trunk to be done after sailing. in the few precious minutes when the ship stands still, before she weighs her anchor, set your house, that is to say, your state room, as much in order as if you were going to be hanged; place every thing in the most convenient position to be seized without trouble at a moment's notice; for be sure that in half an hour after sailing an infinite desperation will seize you, in which the grasshopper will be a burden. if any thing is in your trunk, it might almost as well be in the sea, for any practical probability of your getting to it. moreover, let your toilet be eminently simple, for you will find the time coming when to button a cuff or arrange a ruff will be a matter of absolute despair. you lie disconsolate in your berth, only desiring to be let alone to die; and then, if you are told, as you always are, that "you mustn't give way," that "you must rouse yourself" and come on deck, you will appreciate the value of simple attire. with every thing in your berth dizzily swinging backwards and forwards, your bonnet, your cloak, your tippet, your gloves, all present so many discouraging impossibilities; knotted strings cannot be untied, and modes of fastening which seemed curious and convenient, when you had nothing else to do but fasten them, now look disgustingly impracticable. nevertheless, your fate for the whole voyage depends upon your rousing yourself to get upon deck at first; to give up, then, is to be condemned to the avernus, the hades of the lower regions, for the rest of the voyage. ah, _those_ lower regions!--the saloons--every couch and corner filled with prostrate, despairing forms, with pale cheeks, long, willowy hair and sunken eyes, groaning, sighing, and apostrophizing the fates, and solemnly vowing between every lurch of the ship, that "you'll never catch them going to sea again, that's what you won't;" and then the bulletins from all the state rooms--"mrs. a. is sick, and miss b. sicker, and miss c. almost dead, and mrs. e., f., and g. declare that they shall give up." this threat of "giving up" is a standing resort of ladies in distressed circumstances; it is always very impressively pronounced, as if the result of earnest purpose; but how it is to be carried out practically, how ladies _do_ give up, and what general impression is made on creation when they do, has never yet appeared. certainly the sea seems to care very little about the threat, for he goes on lurching all hands about just as freely afterwards as before. there are always some three or four in a hundred who escape all these evils. they are not sick, and they seem to be having a good time generally, and always meet you with "what a charming run we are having! isn't it delightful?" and so on. if you have a turn for being disinterested, you can console your miseries by a view of their joyousness. three or four of our ladies were of this happy order, and it was really refreshing to see them. for my part, i was less fortunate. i could not and would not give up and become one of the ghosts below, and so i managed, by keeping on deck and trying to act as if nothing was the matter, to lead a very uncertain and precarious existence, though with a most awful undertone of emotion, which seemed to make quite another thing of creation. i wonder that people who wanted to break the souls of heroes and martyrs never thought of sending them to sea and keeping them a little seasick. the dungeons of olmutz, the leads of venice, in short, all the naughty, wicked places that tyrants ever invented for bringing down the spirits of heroes, are nothing to the berth of a ship. get lafayette, kossuth, or the noblest of woman, born, prostrate in a swinging, dizzy berth of one of these sea coops, called state rooms, and i'll warrant almost any compromise might be got out of them. where in the world the soul goes to under such influences nobody knows; one would really think the sea tipped it all out of a man, just as it does the water out of his wash basin. the soul seems to be like one of the genii enclosed in a vase, in the arabian nights; now, it rises like a pillar of cloud, and floats over land and sea, buoyant, many-hued, and glorious; again, it goes down, down, subsiding into its copper vase, and the cover is clapped on, and there you are. a sea voyage is the best device for getting the soul back into its vase that i know of. but at night!--the beauties of a night on shipboard!--down in your berth, with the sea hissing and fizzing, gurgling and booming, within an inch of your ear; and then the steward conies along at twelve o'clock and puts out your light, and there you are! jonah in the whale was not darker or more dismal. there, in profound ignorance and blindness, you lie, and feel yourself rolled upwards, and downwards, and sidewise, and all ways, like a cork in a tub of water; much such a sensation as one might suppose it to be, were one headed up in a barrel and thrown into the sea. occasionally a wave comes with a thump against your ear, as if a great hammer were knocking on your barrel, to see that all within was safe and sound. then you begin to think of krakens, and sharks, and porpoises, and sea serpents, and all the monstrous, slimy, cold, hobgoblin brood, who, perhaps, are your next door neighbors; and the old blue-haired ocean whispers through the planks, "here you are; i've got you. your grand ship is my plaything. i can do what i like with it." then you hear every kind of odd noise in the ship--creaking, straining, crunching, scraping, pounding, whistling, blowing off steam, each of which to your unpractised ear is significant of some impending catastrophe; you lie wide awake, listening with all your might, as if your watching did any good, till at last sleep overcomes you, and the morning light convinces you that nothing very particular has been the matter, and that all these frightful noises are only the necessary attendants of what is called a good run. our voyage out was called "a good run." it was voted, unanimously, to be "an extraordinarily good passage," "a pleasant voyage;" yet the ship rocked the whole time from side to side with a steady, dizzy, continuous motion, like a great cradle. i had a new sympathy for babies, poor little things, who are rocked hours at a time without so much as a "by your leave" in the case. no wonder there are so many stupid people in the world. there is no place where killing time is so much of a systematic and avowed object as in one of these short runs. in a six months' voyage people give up to their situation, and make arrangements to live a regular life; but the ten days that now divide england and america are not long enough for any thing. the great question is how to get them off; they are set up, like tenpins, to be bowled at; and happy he whose ball prospers. people with strong heads, who can stand the incessant swing of the boat, may read or write. then there is one's berth, a never-failing resort, where one may analyze at one's leisure the life and emotions of an oyster in the mud. walking the deck is a means of getting off some half hours more. if a ship heaves in sight, or a porpoise tumbles up, or, better still, a whale spouts, it makes an immense sensation. our favorite resort is by the old red smoke pipe of the steamer, which rises warm and luminous as a sort of tower of defence. the wind must blow an uncommon variety of ways at once when you cannot find a sheltered side, as well as a place to warm your feet. in fact, the old smoke pipe is the domestic hearth of the ship; there, with the double convenience of warmth and fresh air, you can sit by the railing, and, looking down, command the prospect of the cook's offices, the cow house, pantries, &c. our cook has specially interested me--a tall, slender, melancholy man, with a watery-blue eye, a patient, dejected visage, like an individual weary of the storms and commotions of life, and thoroughly impressed with the vanity of human wishes. i sit there hour after hour watching him, and it is evident that he performs all his duties in this frame of sad composure. now i see him resignedly stuffing a turkey, anon compounding a sauce, or mournfully making little ripples in the crust of a tart; but all is done under an evident sense that it is of no use trying. many complaints have been made of our coffee since we have been on board, which, to say the truth, has been as unsettled as most of the social questions of our day, and, perhaps, for that reason quite as generally unpalatable; but since i have seen our cook, i am quite persuaded that the coffee, like other works of great artists, has borrowed the hues of its maker's mind. i think i hear him soliloquize over it--"to what purpose is coffee?--of what avail tea?--thick or clear?--all is passing away--a little egg, or fish skin, more or less, what are they?" and so we get melancholy coffee and tea, owing to our philosophic cook. after dinner i watch him as he washes dishes: he hangs up a whole row of tin; the ship gives a lurch, and knocks them all down. he looks as if it was just what he expected. "such is life!" he says, as he pursues a frisky tin pan in one direction, and arrests the gambols of the ladle in another; while the wicked sea, meanwhile, with another lurch, is upsetting all his dishwater. i can see how these daily trials, this performing of most delicate and complicated gastronomic operations in the midst of such unsteady, unsettled circumstances, have gradually given this poor soul a despair of living, and brought him into this state of philosophic melancholy. just as xantippe made a sage of socrates, this whisky, frisky, stormy ship life has made a sage of our cook. meanwhile, not to do him injustice, let it be recorded, that in all dishes which require grave conviction and steady perseverance, rather than hope and inspiration, he is eminently successful. our table excels in viands of a reflective and solemn character; mighty rounds of beef, vast saddles of mutton, and the whole tribe of meats in general, come on in a superior style. english plum pudding, a weighty and serious performance, is exhibited in first-rate order. the jellies want lightness,--but that is to be expected. i admire the thorough order and system with which every thing is done on these ships. one day, when the servants came round, as they do at a certain time after dinner, and screwed up the shelf of decanters and bottles out of our reach, a german gentleman remarked, "ah, that's always the way on english ships; every thing done at such a time, without saying 'by your leave,' if it had been on an american ship now, he would have said, 'gentlemen, are you ready to have this shelf raised?'" no doubt this remark is true and extends to a good many other things; but in a ship in the middle of the ocean, when the least confusion or irregularity in certain cases might be destruction to all on board, it does inspire confidence to see that there is even in the minutest things a strong and steady system, that goes on without saying "by your leave." even the rigidness with which lights are all extinguished at twelve o'clock, though it is very hard in some cases, still gives you confidence in the watchfulness and care with which all on board is conducted. on sunday there was a service. we went into the cabin, and saw prayer books arranged at regular intervals, and soon a procession of the sailors neatly dressed filed in and took their places, together with such passengers as felt disposed, and the order of morning prayer was read. the sailors all looked serious and attentive. i could not but think that this feature of the management of her majesty's ships was a good one, and worthy of imitation. to be sure, one can say it is only a form. granted; but is not a serious, respectful _form_ of religion better than nothing? besides, i am not willing to think that these intelligent-looking sailors could listen to all those devout sentiments expressed in the prayers, and the holy truths embodied in the passages of scripture, and not gain something from it. it is bad to have only _the form_ of religion, but not so bad as to have neither the form nor the fact. when the ship has been out about eight days, an evident bettering of spirits and condition obtains among the passengers. many of the sick ones take heart, and appear again among the walks and ways of men; the ladies assemble in little knots, and talk of getting on shore. the more knowing ones, who have travelled before, embrace this opportunity to show their knowledge of life by telling the new hands all sorts of hobgoblin stories about the custom house officers and the difficulties of getting landed in england. it is a curious fact, that old travellers generally seem to take this particular delight in striking consternation into younger ones. "you'll have all your daguerreotypes taken away," says one lady, who, in right of having crossed the ocean nine times, is entitled to speak _ex cathedra_ on the subject. "all our daguerreotypes!" shriek four or five at once. "pray tell, what for?" "they _will_ do it," says the knowing lady, with an awful nod; "unless you hide them, and all your books, they'll burn up--" "burn our books!" exclaim the circle. "o, dreadful! what do they do that for?" "they're very particular always to burn up all your books. i knew a lady who had a dozen burned," says the wise one. "dear me! will they take our _dresses_?" says a young lady, with increasing alarm. "no, but they'll pull every thing out, and tumble them well over, i can tell you." "how horrid!" an old lady, who has been very sick all the way, is revived by this appalling intelligence. "i hope they won't tumble over my _caps!_" she exclaims. "yes, they will have every thing out on deck," says the lady, delighted with the increasing sensation. "i tell you you don't know these custom house officers." "it's too bad!" "it's dreadful!" "how horrid!" exclaim all. "i shall put my best things in my pocket," exclaims one. "they don't search our pockets, do they?" "well, no, not here; but i tell you they'll search your _pockets_ at antwerp and brussels," says the lady. somebody catches the sound, and flies off into the state rooms with the intelligence that "the custom house officers are so dreadful--they rip open your trunks, pull out all your things, burn your books, take away your daguerreotypes, and even search your pockets;" and a row of groans is heard ascending from the row of state rooms, as all begin to revolve what they have in their trunks, and what they are to do in this emergency. "pray tell me," said i to a gentlemanly man, who had crossed four or five times, "is there really so much annoyance at the custom house?" "annoyance, ma'am? no, not the slightest." "but do they really turn out the contents of the trunks, and take away people's daguerreotypes, and burn their books?" "nothing of the kind, ma'am. i apprehend no difficulty. i never had any. there are a few articles on which duty is charged. i have a case of cigars, for instance; i shall show them to the custom house officer, and pay the duty. if a person seems disposed to be fair, there is no difficulty. the examination of ladies' trunks is merely nominal; nothing is deranged." so it proved. we arrived on sunday morning; the custom house officers, very gentlemanly men, came on board; our luggage was all set out, and passed through a rapid examination, which in many cases amounted only to opening the trunk and shutting it, and all was over. the whole ceremony did not occupy two hours. so ends this letter. you shall hear further how we landed at some future time. letter ii. dear father:-- it was on sunday morning that we first came in sight of land. the day was one of a thousand--clear, calm, and bright. it is one of those strange, throbbing feelings, that come only once in a while in life; this waking up to find an ocean crossed and long-lost land restored again in another hemisphere; something like what we should suppose might be the thrill of awakening from life to immortality, and all the wonders of the world unknown. that low, green line of land in the horizon is ireland; and we, with water smooth as a lake and sails furled, are running within a mile of the shore. every body on deck, full of spirits and expectation, busy as can be looking through spyglasses, and exclaiming at every object on shore,-- "look! there's skibareen, where the worst of the famine was," says one. "look! that's a ruined martello tower," says another. we new voyagers, who had never seen any ruin more imposing than that of a cow house, and, of course, were ravenous for old towers, were now quite wide awake, but were disappointed to learn that these were only custom house rendezvous. here is the county of cork. some one calls out,-- "there is o'connell's house;" and a warm dispute ensues whether a large mansion, with a stone chapel by it, answers to that name. at all events the region looks desolate enough, and they say the natives of it are almost savages. a passenger remarks, that "o'connell never really did any thing for the irish, but lived on his capacity for exciting their enthusiasm." thereupon another expresses great contempt for the irish who could be so taken in. nevertheless, the capability of a disinterested enthusiasm is, on the whole, a nobler property of a human being than a shrewd self-interest. i like the irish all the better for it. now we pass kinsale lighthouse; there is the spot where the albion was wrecked. it is a bare, frowning cliff, with walls of rock rising perpendicularly out of the sea. now, to be sure, the sea smiles and sparkles around the base of it, as gently as if it never could storm; yet under other skies, and with a fierce south-east wind, how the waves would pour in here! woe then to the distressed and rudderless vessel that drifts towards those fatal rocks! this gives the outmost and boldest view of the point. [illustration: view east of kinsale.] the albion struck just round the left of the point, where the rock rises perpendicularly out of the sea. i well remember, when a child, of the newspapers being filled with the dreadful story of the wreck of the ship albion--how for hours, rudderless and helpless, they saw themselves driving with inevitable certainty against these pitiless rocks; and how, in the last struggle, one human being after another was dashed against them in helpless agony. what an infinite deal of misery results from man's helplessness and ignorance and nature's inflexibility in this one matter of crossing the ocean! what agonies of prayer there were during all the long hours that this ship was driving straight on to these fatal rocks, all to no purpose! it struck and crushed just the same. surely, without the revelation of god in jesus, who could believe in the divine goodness? i do not wonder the old greeks so often spoke of their gods as cruel, and believed the universe was governed by a remorseless and inexorable fate. who would come to any other conclusion, except from the pages of the bible? but we have sailed far past kinsale point. now blue and shadowy loom up the distant form of the youghal mountains, (pronounced _yoole_.) the surface of the water is alive with fishing boats, spreading their white wings and skimming about like so many moth millers. about nine o'clock we were crossing the sand bar, which lies at the mouth of the mersey river, running up towards liverpool. our signal pennants are fluttering at the mast head, pilot full of energy on one wheel house, and a man casting the lead on the other. "by the mark, five," says the man. the pilot, with all his energy, is telegraphing to the steersman. this is a very close and complicated piece of navigation, i should think, this running up the mersey, for every moment we are passing some kind of a signal token, which warns off from some shoal. here is a bell buoy, where the waves keep the bell always tolling; here, a buoyant lighthouse; and "see there, those shoals, how pokerish they look!" says one of the passengers, pointing to the foam on our starboard bow. all is bustle, animation, exultation. now float out the american stars and stripes on our bow. before us lies the great city of liverpool. no old cathedral, no castles, a real new yorkish place. "there, that's the fort," cries one. bang, bang, go the two guns from our forward gangway. "i wonder if they will fire from the fort," says another. "how green that grass looks!" says a third; "and what pretty cottages!" "all modern, though," says somebody, in tones of disappointment. now we are passing the victoria dock. bang, bang, again. we are in a forest of ships of all nations; their masts bristling like the tall pines in maine; their many colored flags streaming like the forest leaves in autumn. "hark," says one; "there's, a chime of bells from the city; how sweet! i had quite forgotten it was sunday." here we cast anchor, and the small steam tender conies puffing alongside. now for the custom house officers. state rooms, holds, and cabins must all give up their trunks; a general muster among the baggage, and passenger after passenger comes forward as their names are called, much as follows: "snooks." "here, sir." "any thing contraband here, mr. snooks? any cigars, tobacco, &c.?" "nothing, sir." a little unlocking, a little fumbling. "shut up; all right; ticket here." and a little man pastes on each article a slip of paper, with the royal arms of england and the magical letters v.r., to remind all men that they have come into a country where a lady reigns, and of course must behave themselves as prettily as they can. we were inquiring of some friends for the most convenient hotel, when we found the son of mr. cropper, of dingle bank, waiting in the cabin, to take us with him to their hospitable abode. in a few moments after the baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the old ship, and went on board the little steam tender, which carries passengers up to the city. this mersey river would be a very beautiful one, if it were not so dingy and muddy. as we are sailing up in the tender towards liverpool, i deplore the circumstance feelingly. "what does make this river so muddy?" "o," says a bystander, "don't you know that 'the quality of mercy is not strained'?" and now we are fairly alongside the shore, and we are soon going to set our foot on the land of old england. say what we will, an american, particularly a new englander, can never approach the old country without a kind of thrill and pulsation of kindred. its history for two centuries was our history. its literature, laws, and language are our literature, laws, and language. spenser, shakspeare, bacon, milton, were a glorious inheritance, which we share in common. our very life-blood is english life-blood. it is anglo-saxon vigor that is spreading our country from atlantic to pacific, and leading on a new era in the world's development. america is a tall, sightly young shoot, that has grown from the old royal oak of england; divided from its parent root, it has shot up in new, rich soil, and under genial, brilliant skies, and therefore takes on a new type of growth and foliage, but the sap in it is the same. i had an early opportunity of making acquaintance with my english brethren; for, much to my astonishment, i found quite a crowd on the wharf, and we walked up to our carriage through a long lane of people, bowing, and looking very glad to see us. when i came to get into the hack it was surrounded by more faces than i could count. they stood very quietly, and looked very kindly, though evidently very much determined to look. something prevented the hack from moving on; so the interview was prolonged for some time. i therefore took occasion to remark the very fair, pure complexions, the clear eyes, and the general air of health and vigor, which seem to characterize our brethren and sisters of the island. there seemed to be no occasion to ask them, how they did, as they were evidently quite well. indeed, this air of health is one of the most striking things when one lands in england. they were not burly, red-faced, and stout, as i had sometimes conceived of the english people, but just full enough to suggest the idea of vigor and health. the presence of so many healthy, rosy people looking at me, all reduced as i was, first by land and then by sea sickness, made me feel myself more withered and forlorn than ever. but there was an earnestness and a depth of kind feeling in some of the faces, which i shall long remember. it seemed as if i had not only touched the english shore, but felt the english heart. our carriage at last drove on, taking us through liverpool, and a mile or two out, and at length wound its way along the gravel paths of a beautiful little retreat, on the banks of the mersey, called the "dingle." it opened to my eyes like a paradise, all wearied as i was with the tossing of the sea. i have since become familiar with these beautiful little spots, which are so common in england; but now all was entirely new to me. we rode by shining clumps of the portugal laurel, a beautiful evergreen, much resembling our mountain rhododendron; then there was the prickly, polished, dark-green holly, which i had never seen before, but which is, certainly, one of the most perfect of shrubs. the turf was of that soft, dazzling green, and had that peculiar velvet-like smoothness, which seem characteristic of england. we stopped at last before the door of a cottage, whose porch was overgrown with ivy. from that moment i ceased to feel myself a stranger in england. i cannot tell you how delightful to me, dizzy and weary as i was, was the first sight of the chamber of reception which had been prepared for us. no item of cozy comfort that one could desire was omitted. the sofa and easy chair wheeled up before a cheerful coal fire, a bright little teakettle steaming in front of the grate, a table with a beautiful vase of flowers, books, and writing apparatus, and kind friends with words full of affectionate cheer,--all these made me feel at home in a moment. the hospitality of england has become famous in the world, and, i think, with reason. i doubt not there is just as much hospitable feeling in other countries; but in england the matter of coziness and home comfort has been so studied, and matured, and reduced to system, that they really have it in their power to effect more, towards making their guests comfortable, than perhaps any other people. after a short season allotted to changing our ship garments and for rest, we found ourselves seated at the dinner table. while dining, the sister-in-law of our friends came in from the next door, to exchange a word or two of welcome, and invite us to breakfast with them the following morning. between all the excitements of landing, and meeting so many new faces, and the remains of the dizzy motion of the ship, which still haunted me, i found it impossible to close my eyes to sleep that first night till the dim gray of dawn. i got up as soon as it was light, and looked out of the window; and as my eyes fell on the luxuriant, ivy-covered porch, the clumps of shining, dark-green holly bushes, i said to myself, "ah, really, this is england!" i never saw any plant that struck me as more beautiful than this holly. it is a dense shrub growing from six to eight feet high, with a thickly varnished leaf of green. the outline of the leaf is something like this. i do not believe it can ever come to a state of perfect development under the fierce alternations of heat and cold which obtain in our new england climate, though it grows in the southern states. it is one of the symbolical shrubs of england, probably because its bright green in winter makes it so splendid a christmas decoration. a little bird sat twittering on one of the sprays. he had a bright red breast, and seemed evidently to consider himself of good blood and family, with the best reason, as i afterwards learned, since he was no other than the identical robin redbreast renowned in song and story; undoubtedly a lineal descendant of that very cock robin whose death and burial form so vivid a portion of our childish literature. i must tell you, then, as one of the first remarks on matters and things here in england, that "robin redbreast" is not at all the fellow we in america take him to be. the character who flourishes under that name among us is quite a different bird; he is twice as large, and has altogether a different air, and as he sits up with military erectness on a rail fence or stump, shows not even a family likeness to his diminutive english namesake. well, of course, robin over here will claim to have the real family estate and title, since he lives in a country where such matters are understood and looked into. our robin is probably some fourth cousin, who, like others, has struck out a new course for himself in america, and thrives upon it. we hurried to dress, remembering our engagements to breakfast this morning with a brother of our host, whose cottage stands on the same ground, within a few steps of our own. i had not the slightest idea of what the english mean by a breakfast, and therefore went in all innocence, supposing that i should see nobody but the family circle of my acquaintances. quite to my astonishment, i found a party of between thirty and forty people. ladies sitting with their bonnets on, as in a morning call. it was impossible, however, to feel more than a momentary embarrassment in the friendly warmth and cordiality of the circle by whom we were surrounded. the english are called cold and stiff in their manners; i had always heard they were so, but i certainly saw nothing of it here. a circle of family relatives could not have received us with more warmth and kindness. the remark which i made mentally, as my eye passed around the circle, was--why, these people are just like home; they look like us, and the tone of sentiment and feeling is precisely such as i have been accustomed to; i mean with the exception of the antislavery question. that question has, from the very first, been, in england, a deeply religious movement. it was conceived and carried on by men of devotional habits, in the same spirit in which the work of foreign missions was undertaken in our own country; by just such earnest, self-denying, devout men as samuel j. mills and jeremiah evarts. it was encountered by the same contempt and opposition, in the outset, from men of merely worldly habits and principles; and to this day it retains that hold on the devotional mind of the english nation that the foreign mission cause does in america. liverpool was at first to the antislavery cause nearly what new york has been with us. its commercial interests were largely implicated in the slave trade, and the virulence of opposition towards the first movers of the antislavery reform in liverpool was about as great as it is now against abolitionists in charleston. when clarkson first came here to prosecute his inquiries into the subject, a mob collected around him, and endeavored to throw him off the dock into the water; he was rescued by a gentleman, some of whose descendants i met on this occasion. the father of our host, mr. cropper, was one of the first and most efficient supporters of the cause in liverpool; and the whole circle was composed of those who had taken a deep interest in that struggle. the wife of our host was the daughter of the celebrated lord chief justice denman, a man who, for many years, stood unrivalled, at the head of the legal mind in england, and who, with a generous ardor seldom equalled, devoted all his energies to this sacred cause. when the publication of uncle tom's cabin turned the attention of the british public to the existing horrors of slavery in america, some palliations of the system appeared in english papers. lord denman, though then in delicate health and advanced years, wrote a series of letters upon the subject--an exertion which entirely prostrated his before feeble health. in one of the addresses made at table, a very feeling allusion was made to lord denman's labors, and also to those of the honored father of the two messrs. cropper. as breakfast parties are things which we do not have in america, perhaps mother would like to know just how they are managed. the hour is generally somewhere between nine and twelve, and the whole idea and spirit of the thing is that of an informal and social gathering. ladies keep their bonnets on, and are not dressed in full toilet. on this occasion we sat and chatted together socially till the whole party was assembled in the drawing room, and then breakfast was announced. each gentleman had a lady assigned him, and we walked into the dining room, where stood the tables tastefully adorned with flowers, and spread with an abundant cold collation, while tea and coffee were passed round by servants. in each plate was a card, containing the name of the person for whom it was designed. i took my place by the side of the rev. dr. mcniel, one of the most celebrated clergymen of the established church in liverpool. the conversation was flowing, free, and friendly. the old reminiscences of the antislavery conflict in england were touchingly recalled, and the warmest sympathy was expressed for those in america who are carrying on the same cause. in one thing i was most agreeably disappointed. i had been told that the christians of england were intolerant and unreasonable in their opinions on this subject; that they could not be made to understand the peculiar difficulties which beset it in america, and that they therefore made no distinction and no allowance in their censures. all this i found, so far as this circle were concerned, to be strikingly untrue. they appeared to be peculiarly affectionate in their feelings as regarded our country; to have the highest appreciation of, and the deepest sympathy with, our religious community, and to be extremely desirous to assist us in our difficulties. i also found them remarkably well informed upon the subject. they keep their eyes upon our papers, our public documents and speeches in congress, and are as well advised in regard to the progress of the moral conflict as our foreign missionary society is with the state of affairs in hindostan and burmah. several present spoke of the part which england originally had in planting slavery in america, as placing english christians under a solemn responsibility to bring every possible moral influence to bear for its extinction. nevertheless, they seem to be the farthest possible from an unkind or denunciatory spirit, even towards those most deeply implicated. the remarks made by dr. mcniel to me were a fair sample of the spirit and attitude of all present. "i have been trying, mrs. s.," he said, "to bring my mind into the attitude of those christians at the south who defend the institution of slavery. there are _real_ christians there who do this--are there not?" i replied, that undoubtedly there were some most amiable and christian people who defend slavery on principle, just as there had been some to defend every form of despotism. "do give me some idea of the views they take; it is something to me so inconceivable. i am utterly at a loss how it can be made in any way plausible." i then stated that the most plausible view, and that which seemed to have the most force with good men, was one which represented the institution of slavery as a sort of wardship or guardian relation, by which an inferior race were brought under the watch and care of a superior race to be instructed in christianity. he then inquired if there was any system of religious instruction actually pursued. in reply to this, i gave him some sketch of the operations for the religious instruction of the negroes, which had been carried on by the presbyterian and other denominations. i remarked that many good people who do not take very extended views, fixing their attention chiefly on the efforts which they are making for the religious instruction of slaves, are blind to the sin and injustice of allowing their legal position to remain what it is. "but how do they shut their eyes to the various cruelties of the system,--the separation of families--the domestic slave trade?" i replied, "in part, by not inquiring into them. the best kind of people are, in general, those who _know_ least of the cruelties of the system; they never witness them. as in the city of london or liverpool there may be an amount of crime and suffering which many residents may live years without seeing or knowing, so it is in the slave states." every person present appeared to be in that softened and charitable frame of mind which disposed them to make every allowance for the situation of christians so peculiarly tempted, while, at the same time, there was the most earnest concern, in view of the dishonor brought upon christianity by the defence of such a system. one other thing i noticed, which was an agreeable disappointment to me. i had been told that there was no social intercourse between the established church and dissenters. in this party, however, were people of many different denominations. our host belongs to the established church; his brother, with whom we are visiting, is a baptist, and their father was a friend; and there appeared to be the utmost social cordiality. whether i shall find this uniformly the case will appear in time. after the breakfast party was over, i found at the door an array of children of the poor, belonging to a school kept under the superintendence of mrs. e. cropper, and called, as is customary here, a ragged school. the children, however, were any thing but ragged, being tidily dressed, remarkably clean, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes. i must say, so far as i have seen them, english children have a much healthier appearance than those of america. by the side of their bright bloom ours look pale and faded. another school of the same kind is kept in this neighborhood, under the auspices of sir george stephen, a conspicuous advocate of the antislavery cause. i thought the fair patroness of this school seemed not a little delighted with the appearance of her protégés, as they sung, with great enthusiasm, jane taylor's hymn, commencing,-- "i thank the goodness and the grace that on my birth have smiled, and made me in these christian days a happy english child." all the little rogues were quite familiar with topsy and eva, and _au fait_ in the fortunes of uncle tom; so that, being introduced as the maternal relative of these characters, i seemed to find favor in their eyes. and when one of the speakers congratulated them that they were born in a land where no child could be bought or sold, they responded with enthusiastic cheers--cheers which made me feel rather sad; but still i could not quarrel with english people for taking all the pride and all the comfort which this inspiriting truth can convey. they had a hard enough struggle in rooting up the old weed of slavery, to justify them in rejoicing in their freedom. well, the day will come in america, as i trust, when as much can be said for us. after the children were gone came a succession of calls; some from very aged people, the veterans of the old antislavery cause. i was astonished and overwhelmed by the fervor of feeling some of them manifested; there seemed to be something almost prophetic in the enthusiasm with which they expressed their hope of our final success in america. this excitement, though very pleasant, was wearisome, and i was glad of an opportunity after dinner to rest myself, by rambling uninterrupted, with my friends, through the beautiful grounds of the dingle. two nice little boys were my squires on this occasion, one of whom, a sturdy little fellow, on being asked his name, gave it to me in full as joseph babington macaulay, and i learned that his mother, by a former marriage, had been the wife of macaulay's brother. uncle tom macaulay, i found, was a favorite character with the young people. master harry conducted me through the walks to the conservatories, all brilliant with azaleas and all sorts of flowers, and then through a long walk on the banks of the mersey. here the wild flowers attracted my attention, as being so different from those of our own country. their daisy is not our flower, with its wide, plaited ruff and yellow centre. the english daisy is "the wee modest crimson-tipped flower," which burns celebrates. it is what we raise in greenhouses, and call the mountain daisy. its effect, growing profusely about fields and grass plats, is very beautiful. we read much, among the poets, of the primrose, "earliest daughter of the spring." this flower is one, also, which we cultivate in gardens to some extent. the outline of it is as follows: the hue a delicate straw color; it grows in tufts in shady places, and has a pure, serious look, which reminds one of the line of shakspeare-- "pale primroses, which die unmarried." it has also the faintest and most ethereal perfume,--a perfume that seems to come and go in the air like music; and you perceive it at a little distance from a tuft of them, when you would not if you gathered and smelled them. on the whole, the primrose is a poet's and a painter's flower. an artist's eye would notice an exquisite harmony between the yellow-green hue of its leaves and the tint of its blossoms. i do not wonder that it has been so great a favorite among the poets. it is just such a flower as mozart and raphael would have loved. then there is the bluebell, a bulb, which also grows in deep shades. it is a little purple bell, with a narrow green leaf, like a ribbon. we often read in english stories, of the gorse and furze; these are two names for the same plant, a low bush, with strong, prickly leaves, growing much like a juniper. the contrast of its very brilliant yellow, pea-shaped blossoms, with the dark green of its leaves, is very beautiful. it grows here in hedges and on commons, and is thought rather a plebeian affair. i think it would make quite an addition to our garden shrubbery. possibly it might make as much sensation with us as our mullein does in foreign greenhouses. after rambling a while, we came to a beautiful summer house, placed in a retired spot, so as to command a view of the mersey river. i think they told me that it was lord denman's favorite seat. there we sat down, and in common with the young gentlemen and ladies of the family, had quite a pleasant talk together. among other things we talked about the question which is now agitating the public mind a good deal,--whether it is expedient to open the crystal palace to the people on sunday. they said that this course was much urged by some philanthropists, on the ground that it was the only day when the working classes could find any leisure to visit it, and that it seemed hard to shut them out entirely from all the opportunities and advantages which they might thus derive; that to exclude the laborer from recreation on the sabbath, was the same as saying that he should never have any recreation. i asked, why the philanthropists could not urge employers to give their workmen a part of saturday for this purpose; as it seemed to me unchristian to drive trade so that the laboring man had no time but sunday for intellectual and social recreation. we rather came to the conclusion that this was the right course; whether the people of england will, is quite another matter. the grounds of the dingle embrace three cottages; those of the two messrs. cropper, and that of a son, who is married to a daughter of dr. arnold. i rather think this way of relatives living together is more common here in england than it is in america; and there is more idea of home permanence connected with the family dwelling-place than with us, where the country is so wide, and causes of change and removal so frequent. a man builds a house in england with the expectation of living in it and leaving it to his children; while we shed our houses in america as easily as a snail does his shell. we live a while in boston, and then a while in new york, and then, perhaps, turn up at cincinnati. scarcely any body with us is living where they expect to live and die. the man that dies in the house he was born in is a wonder. there is something pleasant in the permanence and repose of the english family estate, which we, in america, know very little of. all which is apropos to our having finished our walk, and got back to the ivy-covered porch again. the next day at breakfast, it was arranged that we should take a drive out to speke hall, an old mansion, which is considered a fine specimen of ancient house architecture. so the carriage was at the door. it was a cool, breezy, april morning, but there was an abundance of wrappers and carriage blankets provided to keep us comfortable. i must say, by the by, that english housekeepers are bountiful in their provision for carriage comfort. every household has a store of warm, loose over garments, which are offered, if needed, to the guests; and each carriage is provided with one or two blankets, manufactured and sold expressly for this use, to envelope one's feet and limbs; besides all which, should the weather be cold, comes out a long stone reservoir, made flat on both sides, and filled with hot water, for foot stools. this is an improvement on the primitive simplicity of hot bricks, and even on the tin foot stove, which has nourished in new england. being thus provided with all things necessary for comfort, we rattled merrily away, and i, remembering that i was in england, kept my eyes wide open to see what i could see. the hedges of the fields were just budding, and the green showed itself on them, like a thin gauze veil. these hedges are not all so well kept and trimmed as i expected to find them. some, it is true, are cut very carefully; these are generally hedges to ornamental grounds; but many of those which separate the fields straggle and sprawl, and have some high bushes and some low ones, and, in short, are no more like a hedge than many rows of bushes that we have at home. but such as they are, they are the only dividing lines of the fields, and it is certainly a more picturesque mode of division than our stone or worm fences. outside of every hedge, towards the street, there is generally a ditch, and at the bottom of the hedge is the favorite nestling-place for all sorts of wild flowers. i remember reading in stories about children trying to crawl through a gap in the hedge to get at flowers, and tumbling into a ditch on the other side, and i now saw exactly how they could do it. as we drive we pass by many beautiful establishments, about of the quality of our handsomest country houses, but whose grounds are kept with a precision and exactness rarely to be seen among us. we cannot get the gardeners who are qualified to do it; and if we could, the painstaking, slow way of proceeding, and the habit of creeping thoroughness, which are necessary to accomplish such results, die out in america. nevertheless, such grounds are exceedingly beautiful to look upon, and i was much obliged to the owners of these places for keeping their gates hospitably open, as seems to be the custom here. after a drive of seven or eight miles, we alighted in front of speke hall. this house is a specimen of the old fortified houses of england, and was once fitted up with a moat and drawbridge, all in approved feudal style. it was built somewhere about the year . the sometime moat was now full of smooth, green grass, and the drawbridge no longer remains. this was the first really old thing that we had seen since our arrival in england. we came up first to a low, arched, stone door, and knocked with a great old-fashioned knocker; this brought no answer but a treble and bass duet from a couple of dogs inside; so we opened the door, and saw a square court, paved with round stones, and a dark, solitary yew tree in the centre. here in england, i think, they have vegetable creations made on purpose to go with old, dusky buildings; and this yew tree is one of them. it has altogether a most goblin-like, bewitched air, with its dusky black leaves and ragged branches, throwing themselves straight out with odd twists and angular lines, and might put one in mind of an old raven with some of his feathers pulled out, or a black cat with her hair stroked the wrong way, or any other strange, uncanny thing. besides this they live almost forever; for when they have grown so old that any respectable tree ought to be thinking of dying, they only take another twist, and so live on another hundred years. i saw some in england seven hundred years old, and they had grown queerer every century. it is a species of evergreen, and its leaf resembles our hemlock, only it is longer. this sprig gives you some idea of its general form. it is always planted about churches and graveyards; a kind of dismal emblem of immortality. this sepulchral old tree and the bass and treble dogs were the only occupants of the court. one of these, a great surly mastiff, barked out of his kennel on one side, and the other, a little wiry terrier, out of his on the opposite side, and both strained on their chains, as if they would enjoy making even more decided demonstrations if they could. there was an aged, mossy fountain for holy water by the side of the wall, in which some weeds were growing. a door in the house was soon opened by a decent-looking serving woman, to whom we communicated our desire to see the hall. we were shown into a large dining hall with a stone floor, wainscoted with carved oak, almost as black as ebony. there were some pious sentences and moral reflections inscribed in old english text, carved over the doors, and like a cornice round the ceiling, which was also of carved oak. their general drift was, to say that life is short, and to call for watchfulness and prayer. the fireplace of the hall yawned like a great cavern, and nothing else, one would think, than a cart load of western sycamores could have supplied an appropriate fire. a great two-handed sword of some ancestor hung over the fireplace. on taking it down it reached to c----'s shoulder, who, you know, is six feet high. we went into a sort of sitting room, and looked out through a window, latticed with little diamond panes, upon a garden wildly beautiful. the lattice was all wreathed round with jessamines. the furniture of this room was modern, and it seemed the more unique from its contrast with the old architecture. we went up stairs to see the chambers, and passed through a long, narrow, black oak corridor, whose slippery boards had the authentic ghostly squeak to them. there was a chamber, hung with old, faded tapestry of scripture subjects. in this chamber there was behind the tapestry a door, which, being opened, displayed a staircase, that led delightfully off to nobody knows where. the furniture was black oak, carved, in the most elaborate manner, with cherubs' heads and other good and solemn subjects, calculated to produce a ghostly state of mind. and, to crown all, we heard that there was a haunted chamber, which was not to be opened, where a white lady appeared and walked at all approved hours. now, only think what a foundation for a story is here. if our hawthorne could conjure up such a thing as the seven gables in one of our prosaic country towns, what would he have done if he had lived here? now he is obliged to get his ghostly images by looking through smoked glass at our square, cold realities; but one such old place as this is a standing romance. perhaps it may add to the effect to say, that the owner of the house is a bachelor, who lives there very retired, and employs himself much in reading. the housekeeper, who showed us about, indulged us with a view of the kitchen, whose snowy, sanded floor and resplendent polished copper and tin, were sights for a housekeeper to take away in her heart of hearts. the good woman produced her copy of uncle tom, and begged the favor of my autograph, which i gave, thinking it quite a happy thing to be able to do a favor at so cheap a rate. after going over the house we wandered through the grounds, which are laid out with the same picturesque mixture of the past and present. there was a fine grove, under whose shadows we walked, picking primroses, and otherwise enacting the poetic, till it was time to go. as we passed out, we were again saluted with a _feu de joie_ by the two fidelities at the door, which we took in very good part, since it is always respectable to be thorough in whatever you are set to do. coming home we met with an accident to the carriage which obliged us to get out and walk some distance. i was glad enough of it, because it gave me a better opportunity for seeing the country. we stopped at a cottage to get some rope, and a young woman came out with that beautiful, clear complexion which i so much admire here in england; literally her cheeks were like damask roses. i told isa i wanted to see as much of the interior of the cottages as i could; and so, as we were walking onward toward home, we managed to call once or twice, on the excuse of asking the way and distance. the exterior was very neat, being built of brick or stone, and each had attached to it a little flower garden. isa said that the cottagers often offered them a slice of bread or tumbler of milk. they have a way here of building the cottages two or three in a block together, which struck me as different from our new england manner, where, in the country, every house stands detached. in the evening i went into liverpool, to attend a party of friends of the antislavery cause. in the course of the evening, mr. stowe was requested to make some remarks. among other things he spoke upon the support the free part of the world give to slavery, by the purchase of the produce of slave labor; and, in particular, on the great quantity of slave-grown cotton purchased by england; suggesting it as a subject for inquiry, whether this cannot be avoided. one or two gentlemen, who are largely concerned in the manufacture and importation of cotton, spoke to him on the subject afterwards, and said it was a thing which ought to be very seriously considered. it is probable that the cotton trade of great britain is the great essential item which supports slavery, and such considerations ought not, therefore, to be without their results. when i was going away, the lady of the house said that the servants were anxious to see me; so i came into the dressing room to give them, an opportunity. while at mr. c.'s, also, i had once or twice been called out to see servants, who had come in to visit those of the family. all of them had read uncle tom's cabin, and were full of sympathy. generally speaking, the servants seem to me quite a superior class to what are employed in that capacity with us. they look very intelligent, are dressed with great neatness, and though their manners are very much more deferential than those of servants in our country, it appears to be a difference arising quite as much from self-respect and a sense of propriety as from servility. every body's manners are more deferential in england than in america. the next day was appointed to leave liverpool. it had been arranged that, before leaving, we should meet the ladies of the negroes' friend society, an association formed at the time of the original antislavery agitation in england. we went in the carriage with our friends mr. and mrs. e. cropper. on the way they were conversing upon the labors of mrs. chisholm, the celebrated female philanthropist, whose efforts for the benefit of emigrants are awakening a very general interest among all classes in england. they said there had been hesitation on the part of some good people, in regard to coöperating with her, because she is a roman catholic. it was agreed among us, that the great humanities of the present day are a proper ground on which all sects can unite, and that if any feared the extension of wrong sentiments, they had only to supply emigrant ships more abundantly with the bible. mr. c. said that this is a movement exciting very extensive interest, and that they hoped mrs. chisholm would visit liverpool before long. the meeting was a very interesting one. the style of feeling expressed in all the remarks was tempered by a deep and earnest remembrance of the share which england originally had in planting the evil of slavery in the civilized world, and her consequent obligation, as a christian nation, now not to cease her efforts until the evil is extirpated, not merely from her own soil, but from all lands. the feeling towards america was respectful and friendly, and the utmost sympathy was expressed with her in the difficulties with which she is environed by this evil. the tone of the meeting was deeply earnest and religious. they presented us with a sum to be appropriated for the benefit of the slave, in any way we might think proper. a great number of friends accompanied us to the cars, and a beautiful bouquet of flowers was sent, with a very affecting message from, a sick gentleman, who, from the retirement of his chamber, felt a desire to testify his sympathy. now, if all this enthusiasm for freedom and humanity, in the person of the american slave, is to be set down as good for nothing in england, because there are evils there in society which require redress, what then shall we say of ourselves? have we not been enthusiastic for freedom in the person of the greek, the hungarian, and the pole, while protecting a much worse despotism than any from which they suffer? do we not consider it our duty to print and distribute the bible in all foreign lands, when there are three millions of people among whom we dare not distribute it at home, and whom it is a penal offence even to teach to read it? do we not send remonstrances to tuscany, about the madiai, when women are imprisoned in virginia for teaching slaves to read? is all this hypocritical, insincere, and impertinent in us? are we never to send another missionary, or make another appeal for foreign lands, till we have abolished slavery at home? for my part, i think that imperfect and inconsistent outbursts of generosity and feeling are a great deal better than none. no nation, no individual is wholly consistent and christian; but let us not in ourselves or in other nations repudiate the truest and most beautiful developments of humanity, because we have not yet attained perfection. all experience has proved that the sublime spirit of foreign missions always is suggestive of home philanthropies, and that those whose heart has been enlarged by the love of all mankind are always those who are most efficient in their own particular sphere. letter iii. glasgow, april , . dear aunt e.:-- you shall have my earliest scotch letter; for i am sure nobody can sympathize in the emotions of the first approach to scotland as you can. a country dear to us by the memory of the dead and of the living; a country whose history and literature, interesting enough of itself, has become to us still more so, because the reading and learning of it formed part of our communion for many a social hour, with friends long parted from earth. the views of scotland, which lay on my mother's table, even while i was a little child, and in poring over which i spent so many happy, dreamy hours,--the scotch ballads, which were the delight of our evening fireside, and which seemed almost to melt the soul out of me, before i was old enough to understand their words,--the songs of burns, which had been a household treasure among us,--the enchantments of scott,--all these dimly returned upon me. it was the result of them all which i felt in nerve and brain. and, by the by, that puts me in mind of one thing; and that is, how much of our pleasure in literature results from its reflection on us from, other minds. as we advance in life, the literature which has charmed us in the circle of our friends becomes endeared to us from the reflected remembrance of them, of their individualities, their opinions, and their sympathies, so that our memory of it is a many-colored cord, drawn from many minds. so in coming near to scotland, i seemed to feel not only my own individuality, but all that my friends would have felt, had they been with me. for sometimes we seem to be encompassed, as by a cloud, with a sense of the sympathy of the absent and the dead. we left liverpool with hearts a little tremulous and excited by the vibration of an atmosphere of universal sympathy and kindness. we found ourselves, at length, shut from the warm adieus of our friends, in a snug compartment of the railroad car. the english cars are models of comfort and good keeping. there are six seats in a compartment, luxuriously cushioned and nicely carpeted, and six was exactly the number of our party. nevertheless, so obstinate is custom that we averred at first that we preferred our american cars, deficient as they are in many points of neatness and luxury, because they are so much more social. "dear me," said mr. s., "six yankees shut up in a car together! not one englishman to tell us any thing about the country! just like the six old ladies that made their living by taking tea at each other's houses." but that is the way here in england: every arrangement in travelling is designed to maintain that privacy and reserve which is the dearest and most sacred part of an englishman's nature. things are so arranged here that, if a man pleases, he can travel all through england with his family, and keep the circle an unbroken unit, having just as little communication with any thing outside of it as in his own house. from one of these sheltered apartments in a railroad car, he can pass to preëngaged parlors and chambers in the hotel, with his own separate table, and all his domestic manners and peculiarities unbroken. in fact, it is a little compact home travelling about. now, all this is very charming to people who know already as much about a country as they want to know; but it follows from it that a stranger might travel all through england, from one end to the other and not be on conversing terms with a person in it. he may be at the same hotel, in the same train with people able to give him all imaginable information, yet never touch them at any practicable point of communion. this is more especially the case if his party, as ours was, is just large enough to fill the whole apartment. as to the comforts of the cars, it is to be said, that for the same price you can get far more comfortable riding in america. their first class cars are beyond all praise, but also beyond all price; their second class are comfortless, cushionless, and uninviting. agreeably with our theory of democratic equality, we have a general car, not so complete as the one, nor so bare as the other, where all ride together; and if the traveller in thus riding sees things that occasionally annoy him, when he remembers that the whole population, from the highest to the lowest, are accommodated here together, he will certainly see hopeful indications in the general comfort, order, and respectability which prevail; all which we talked over most patriotically together, while we were lamenting that there was not a seventh to our party, to instruct us in the localities. every thing upon the railroad proceeds with systematic accuracy. there is no chance for the most careless person to commit a blunder, or make a mistake. at the proper time the conductor marches every body into their places and locks them in, gives the word, "all right," and away we go. somebody has remarked, very characteristically, that the starting word of the english is "all right," and that of the americans "go ahead." away we go through lancashire, wide awake, looking out on all sides for any signs of antiquity. in being thus whirled through english scenery, i became conscious of a new understanding of the spirit and phraseology of english poetry. there are many phrases and expressions with which we have been familiar from childhood, and which, we suppose, in a kind of indefinite way, we understand, which, after all, when we come on english ground, start into a new significance: take, for instance, these lines from l'allegro:-- "sometimes walking, not unseen, by hedge-row elms on hillocks green. * * * * * straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, while the landscape round it measures; russet lawns and fallows gray, where the nibbling flocks do stray; mountains, on whose barren breast the laboring clouds do often rest; meadows trim with daisies pied, shallow brooks and livers wide: towers and battlements it sees bosom'd high in tufted trees." now, these hedge-row elms. i had never even asked myself what they were till i saw them; but you know, as i said in a former letter, the hedges are not all of them carefully cut; in fact many of them are only irregular rows of bushes, where, although the hawthorn is the staple element, yet firs, and brambles, and many other interlopers put in their claim, and they all grow up together in a kind of straggling unity; and in the hedges trees are often set out, particularly elms, and have a very pleasing effect. then, too, the trees have more of that rounding outline which is expressed by the word "bosomed." but here we are, right under the walls of lancaster, and mr. s. wakes me up by quoting, "old john o' gaunt, time-honored lancaster." "time-honored," said i; "it looks as fresh as if it had been built yesterday: you do not mean to say that is the real old castle?" "to be sure, it is the very old castle built in the reign of edward iii., by john of gaunt." it stands on the summit of a hill, seated regally like a queen upon a throne, and every part of it looks as fresh, and sharp, and clear, as if it were the work of modern times. it is used now for a county jail. we have but a moment to stop or admire--the merciless steam car drives on. we have a little talk about the feudal times, and the old past days; when again the cry goes up,-- "o, there's something! what's that?" "o, that is carlisle." "carlisle!" said i; "what, the carlisle of scott's ballad?" "what ballad?" "why, don't you remember, in the lay of the last minstrel, the song of albert graeme, which has something about carlisle's wall in every verse? 'it was an english, laydie bright when sun shines fair on carlisle wall, and she would marry a scottish knight, for love will still be lord of all.' i used to read this when i was a child, and wonder what 'carlisle wall' was." carlisle is one of the most ancient cities in england, dating quite back to the time of the romans. wonderful! how these romans left their mark every where! carlisle has also its ancient castle, the lofty, massive tower of which forms a striking feature of the town. this castle was built by william rufus. david, king of scots, and robert bruce both tried their hands upon it, in the good old times, when england and scotland were a mutual robbery association. then the castle of the town was its great feature; castles were every thing in those days. now the castle has gone to decay, and stands only for a curiosity, and the cotton factory has come up in its place. this place is famous for cottons and ginghams, and moreover for a celebrated biscuit bakery. so goes the world,--the lively vigorous shoots of the present springing out of the old, mouldering trunk of the past. mr. s. was in an ecstasy about an old church, a splendid gothic, in which paley preached. he was archdeacon of carlisle. we stopped here for a little while to take dinner. in a large, handsome room tables were set out, and we sat down to a regular meal. one sees nothing of a town from a railroad station, since it seems to be an invariable rule, not only here, but all over europe, to locate them so that you can see nothing from them. by the by, i forgot to say, among the historical recollections of this place, that it was the first stopping-place of queen mary, after her fatal flight into england. the rooms which she occupied are still shown in the castle, and there are interesting letters and documents extant from lords whom elizabeth sent here to visit her, in which they record her beauty, her heroic sentiments, and even her dress; so strong was the fascination in which she held all who approached her. carlisle is the scene of the denouement of guy mannering, and it is from this town that lord carlisle gets his title. and now keep up a bright lookout for ruins and old houses. mr. s., whose eyes are always in every place, allowed none of us to slumber, but looking out, first on his own side and then on ours, called our attention to every visible thing. if he had been appointed on a mission of inquiry he could not have been more zealous and faithful, and i began to think that our desire for an english cicerone was quite superfluous. and now we pass gretna green, famous in story--that momentous place which marks the commencement of scotland. it is a little straggling village, and there is a roadside inn, which has been the scene of innumerable gretna green marriages. owing to the fact that the scottish law of marriage is far more liberal in its construction than the english, this place has been the refuge of distressed lovers from time immemorial; and although the practice of escaping here is universally condemned as very naughty and improper, yet, like every other impropriety, it is kept in countenance by very respectable people. two lord chancellors have had the amiable weakness to fall into this snare, and one lord chancellor's son; so says the guide book, which is our koran for the time being. it says, moreover, that it would be easy to add a lengthened list of _distingués_ married at gretna green; but these lord chancellors (erskine and eldon) are quoted as being the most melancholy monuments. what shall meaner mortals do, when law itself, in all her majesty, wig, gown, and all, goes by the board? well, we are in scotland at last, and now our pulse rises as the sun declines in the west. we catch glimpses of the solway frith, and talk about redgauntlet. one says, "do you remember the scene on the sea shore, with which it opens, describing the rising of the tide?" and says another, "don't you remember those lines in the young lochinvar song?-- 'love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide.'" i wonder how many authors it will take to enchant our country from maine to new orleans, as every foot of ground is enchanted here in scotland. the sun went down, and night drew on; still we were in scotland. scotch ballads, scotch tunes, and scotch literature were in the ascendant. we sang "auld lang syne," "scots wha ha'," and "bonnie doon," and then, changing the key, sang dundee, elgin, and martyrs. "take care," said mr. s.; "don't get too much excited." "ah," said i, "this is a thing that comes only once in a lifetime; do let us have the comfort of it. we shall never come into scotland for the _first time_ again." "ah," said another, "how i wish walter scott was alive!" while we were thus at the fusion point of enthusiasm, the cars stopped at lockerby, where the real old mortality is buried. all was dim and dark outside, but we soon became conscious that there was quite a number collected, peering into the window, and, with a strange kind of thrill, i heard my name inquired for in the scottish accent. i went to the window; there were men, women, and children there, and hand after hand was presented, with the words, "ye're welcome to scotland!" then they inquired for, and shook hands with, all the party, having in some mysterious manner got the knowledge of who they were, even down to little g----, whom they took to be my son. was it not pleasant, when i had a heart so warm for this old country? i shall never forget the thrill of those words, "ye're welcome to scotland," nor the "gude night." after that we found similar welcomes in many succeeding stopping-places; and though i did wave a towel out of the window, instead of a pocket handkerchief, and commit other awkwardnesses, from not knowing how to play my part, yet i fancied, after all, that scotland and we were coming on well together. who the good souls were that were thus watching for us through the night, i am sure i do not know; but that they were of the "one blood," which unites all the families of the earth, i felt. as we came towards glasgow, we saw, upon a high hill, what we supposed to be a castle on fire--great volumes of smoke rolling up, and fire looking out of arched windows. "dear me, what a conflagration!" we all exclaimed. we had not gone very far before we saw another, and then, on the opposite side of the car, another still. "why, it seems to me the country is all on fire." "i should think," said mr. s., "if it was in old times, that there had been a raid from the highlands, and set all the houses on fire." "or they might be beacons," suggested c. to this some one answered out of the lay of the last minstrel,-- "sweet teviot, by thy silver tide the glaring bale-fires blaze no more." as we drew near to glasgow these illuminations increased, till the whole air was red with the glare of them. "what can they be?" "dear me," said mr. s., in a tone of sudden recollection, "it's the iron works! don't you know glasgow is celebrated for its iron works?" so, after all, in these peaceful fires of the iron works, we got an idea how the country might have looked in the old picturesque times, when the highlanders came down and set the lowlands on fire; such scenes as are commemorated in the words of roderick dhu's song:-- "proudly our pibroch, has thrilled in glen fruin, and banmachar's groans to our slogan replied; glen luss and ross dhu, they are smoking in ruins, and the best of loch lomond lies dead on her side." to be sure the fires of iron founderies are much less picturesque than the old beacons, and the clink of hammers than the clash of claymores; but the most devout worshipper of the middle ages would hardly wish to change them. dimly, by the flickering light of these furnaces, we see the approach to the old city of glasgow. there, we are arrived! friends are waiting in the station house. earnest, eager, friendly faces, ever so many. warm greetings, kindly words. a crowd parting in the middle, through which we were conducted into a carriage, and loud cheers of welcome, sent a throb, as the voice of living scotland. i looked out of the carriage, as we drove on, and saw, by the light of a lantern, argyle street. it was past twelve o'clock when i found myself in a warm, cozy parlor, with friends, whom i have ever since been glad to remember. in a little time we were all safely housed in our hospitable apartments, and sleep fell on me for the first time in scotland. letter iv. dear aunt e.:-- the next morning i awoke worn and weary, and scarce could the charms of the social scotch breakfast restore me. i say scotch, for we had many viands peculiarly national. the smoking porridge, or parritch, of oatmeal, which is the great staple dish throughout scotland. then there was the bannock, a thin, wafer-like cake of the same material. my friend laughingly said when he passed it, "you are in the 'land o' cakes,' remember." there was also some herring, as nice a scottish fish as ever wore scales, besides dainties innumerable which were not national. our friend and host was mr. baillie paton. i believe that it is to his suggestion in a public meeting, that we owe the invitation which brought us to scotland. by the by, i should say that "baillie" seems to correspond to what we call a member of the city council. mr. paton told us, that they had expected us earlier, and that the day before quite a party of friends met at his house to see us, among whom was good old dr. wardlaw. after breakfast the calling began. first, a friend of the family, with three beautiful children, the youngest of whom was the bearer of a handsomely bound album, containing a pressed collection of the sea mosses of the scottish coast, very vivid and beautiful. if the bloom of english children appeared to me wonderful, i seemed to find the same thing intensified, if possible, in scotland. the children are brilliant as pomegranate blossoms, and their vivid beauty called forth unceasing admiration. nor is it merely the children of the rich, or of the higher classes, that are thus gifted. i have seen many a group of ragged urchins in the streets and closes with all the high coloring of rubens, and all his fulness of outline. why is it that we admire ragged children on canvas so much more than the same in nature? all this day is a confused dream to me of a dizzy and overwhelming kind. so many letters that it took c---- from nine in the morning till two in the afternoon to read and answer them in the shortest manner; letters from all classes of people, high and low, rich and poor, in all shades and styles of composition, poetry and prose; some mere outbursts of feeling; some invitations; some advice and suggestions; some requests and inquiries; some presenting books, or flowers, or fruit. then came, in their turn, deputations from paisley, greenock, dundee, aberdeen, edinburgh, and belfast in ireland; calls of friendship, invitations of all descriptions to go every where, and to see every thing, and to stay in so many places. one kind, venerable minister, with his lovely daughter, offered me a retreat in his quiet manse on the beautiful shores of the clyde. for all these kindnesses, what could i give in return? there was scarce time for even a grateful thought on each. people have often said to me that it must have been an exceeding bore. for my part, i could not think of regarding it so. it only oppressed me with an unutterable sadness. to me there is always something interesting and beautiful about a universal popular excitement of a generous character, let the object of it be what it may. the great desiring heart of man, surging with one strong, sympathetic swell, even though it be to break on the beach of life and fall backwards, leaving the sands as barren as before, has yet a meaning and a power in its restlessness, with which i must deeply sympathize. nor do i sympathize any the less, when the individual, who calls forth such an outburst, can be seen by the eye of sober sense to be altogether inadequate and disproportioned to it. i do not regard it as any thing against our american nation, that we are capable, to a very great extent, of these sudden personal enthusiasms, because i think that, with an individual or a community, the capability of being exalted into a temporary enthusiasm of self-forgetfulness, so far from being a fault, has in it a quality of something divine. of course, about all such things there is a great deal which a cool critic could make ridiculous, but i hold to my opinion of them nevertheless. in the afternoon i rode out with the lord provost to see the cathedral. the lord provost answers to the lord mayor in england. his title and office in both countries continue only a year, except in cases of reëlection. as i saw the way to the cathedral blocked up by a throng of people, who had come out to see me, i could not help saying, "what went ye out for to see? a reed shaken with the wind?" in fact, i was so worn out, that i could hardly walk through the building. it is in this cathedral that part of the scene of rob roy is laid. this was my first experience in cathedrals. it was a new thing to me altogether, and as i walked along under the old buttresses and battlements without, and looked into the bewildering labyrinths of architecture within, i saw that, with silence and solitude to help the impression, the old building might become a strong part of one's inner life. a grave yard crowded with flat stones lies all around it. a deep ravine separates it from another cemetery on an opposite eminence, rustling with dark pines. a little brook murmurs with its slender voice between. on this opposite eminence the statue of john knox, grim and strong, stands with its arm uplifted, as if shaking his fist at the old cathedral which in life he vainly endeavored to battle down. knox was very different from luther, in that he had no conservative element in him, but warred equally against accessories and essentials. at the time when the churches of scotland were being pulled down in a general iconoclastic crusade, the tradesmen of glasgow stood for the defence of their cathedral, and forced the reformers to content themselves with having the idolatrous images of saints pulled down from their niches and thrown into the brook, while, as andrew fairservice hath it, "the auld kirk stood as crouse as a cat when the fleas are caimed aff her, and a' body was alike pleased." we went all through the cathedral, which is fitted up as a protestant place of worship, and has a simple and massive grandeur about it. in fact, to quote again from our friend andrew, we could truly say, "ah, it's a brave kirk, nane o' yere whig-malceries, and curliewurlies, and opensteek hems about it--a' solid, weel-jointed mason wark, that will stand as lang as the warld, keep hands and gun-powther aff it." i was disappointed in one thing: the painted glass, if there has ever been any, is almost all gone, and the glare of light through the immense windows is altogether too great, revealing many defects and rudenesses in the architecture, which would have quite another appearance in the colored rays through painted windows--an emblem, perhaps, of the cold, definite, intellectual rationalism, which has taken the place of the many-colored, gorgeous mysticism of former times. after having been over the church, we requested, out of respect to baillie nicol jarvie's memory, to be driven through the saut market. i, however, was so thoroughly tired that i cannot remember any thing about it. i will say, by the way, that i have found out since, that nothing is so utterly hazardous to a person's strength as looking at cathedrals. the strain upon the head and eyes in looking up through these immense arches, and then the sepulchral chill which abides from generation to generation in them, their great extent, and the variety which tempts you to fatigue which you are not at all aware of, have overcome, as i was told, many before me. mr. s. and c----, however, made amends, by their great activity and zeal, for all that i could not do, and i was pleased to understand from them, that part of the old tolbooth, where rob roy and the baillie had their rencontre, was standing safe and sound, with stuff enough in it for half a dozen more stories, if any body could be found to write them. and mr. s. insisted upon it, that i should not omit to notify you of this circumstance. well, in consequence of all this, the next morning i was so ill as to need a physician, unable to see any one that called, or to hear any of the letters. i passed most of the day in bed, but in the evening i had to get up, as i had engaged to drink tea with two thousand people. our kind friends dr. and mrs. wardlaw came after us, and mr. s. and i went in the carriage with them. dr. wardlaw is a venerable-looking old man; we both thought we saw a striking resemblance in him to our friend dr. woods, of andover. he is still quite active in body and mind, and officiates to his congregation with great acceptance. i fear, however, that he is in ill health, for i noticed, as we were passing along to church, that he frequently laid his hand upon his heart, and seemed in pain. he said he hoped he should be able to get through the evening, but that when he was not well, excitement was apt to bring on a spasm about the heart; but with it all he seemed so cheerful, lively, and benignant, that i could not but feel my affections drawn towards him. mrs. wardlaw is a gentle, motherly woman, and it was a great comfort to have her with me on such an occasion. our carriage stopped at last at the place. i have a dim remembrance of a way being made for us through a great crowd all round the house, and of going with mrs. wardlaw up into a dressing room, where i met and shook hands with many friendly people. then we passed into a gallery, where a seat was reserved for our party, directly in front of the audience. our friend baillie paton presided. mrs. wardlaw and i sat together, and around us many friends, chiefly ministers of the different churches, the ladies and gentlemen of the glasgow antislavery society, and others. i told you it was a tea party; but the arrangements were altogether different from any i had ever seen. there were narrow tables stretched up and down the whole extent of the great hall, and every person had an appointed seat. these tables were set out with cups and saucers, cakes, biscuit, &c., and when the proper time came, attendants passed along serving tea. the arrangements were so accurate and methodical that the whole multitude actually took tea together, without the least apparent inconvenience or disturbance. there was a gentle, subdued murmur of conversation all over the house, the sociable clinking of teacups and teaspoons, while the entertainment was going on. it seemed to me such an odd idea, i could not help wondering what sort of a teapot that must be, in which all this tea for two thousand people was made. truly, as hadji baba says, i think they must have had the "father of all teakettles" to boil it in. i could not help wondering if old mother scotland had put two thousand teaspoonfuls of tea for the company, and one for the teapot, as is our good yankee custom. we had quite a sociable time up in our gallery. our tea table stretched quite across the gallery, and we drank tea "in sight of all the people." by _we_, i mean a great number of ministers and their wives, and ladies of the antislavery society, besides our party, and the friends whom i have mentioned before. all seemed to be enjoying themselves. after tea they sang a few verses of the seventy-second psalm in the old scotch version. "the people's poor ones he shall judge, the needy's children save; and those shall he in pieces break, who them oppressed have. for he the needy shall preserve, when he to him doth call; the poor, also, and him that hath no help of man at all. both from deceit and violence their soul he shall set free; and in his sight right precious and dear their blood shall be. now blessed be the lord, our god, the god of israel, for he alone doth wondrous works, in glory that excel. and blessed be his glorious name to all eternity; the whole earth let his glory fill: amen; so let it be." when i heard the united sound of all the voices, giving force to these simple and pathetic words, i thought i could see something of the reason why that rude old translation still holds its place in scotland. the addresses were, many of them, very beautiful; the more so for the earnest and religious feeling which they manifested. that of dr. wardlaw, in particular, was full of comfort and encouragement, and breathed a most candid and catholic spirit. could our friends in america see with what earnest warmth the religious heart of scotland beats towards them, they would be willing to suffer a word of admonition from those to whom love gives a right to speak. as christians, all have a common interest in what honors or dishonors christianity, and an ocean between us does not make us less one church. most of the speeches you will see recorded in the papers. in the course of the evening there was a second service of grapes, oranges, and other fruits, served round in the same quiet manner as the tea. on account of the feeble state of my health, they kindly excused me before the exercises of the evening were over. the next morning, at ten o'clock, we rode with a party of friends to see some of the _notabilia_. first, to bothwell castle, of old the residence of the black douglas. the name had for me the quality of enchantment. i cannot understand nor explain the nature of that sad yearning and longing with which one visits the mouldering remains of a state of society which one's reason wholly disapproves, and which one's calm sense of right would think it the greatest misfortune to have recalled; yet when the carriage turned under the shadow of beautiful ancient oaks, and mr. s. said, "there, we are in the grounds of the old black douglas family!" i felt every nerve shiver. i remembered the dim melodies of the lady of the lake. bothwell's lord was the lord of this castle, whose beautiful ruins here adorn the banks of the clyde. whatever else we have or may have in america, we shall never have the wild, poetic beauty of these ruins. the present noble possessors are fully aware of their worth as objects of taste, and, therefore, with the greatest care are they preserved. winding walks are cut through the grounds with much ingenuity, and seats or arbors are placed at every desirable and picturesque point of view. to the thorough-paced tourist, who wants to _do_ the proprieties in the shortest possible time, this arrangement is undoubtedly particularly satisfactory; but to the idealist, who would like to roam, and dream, and feel, and to come unexpectedly on the choicest points of view, it is rather a damper to have all his raptures prearranged and foreordained for him, set down in the guide book and proclaimed by the guide, even though it should be done with the most artistic accuracy. nevertheless, when we came to the arbor which commanded the finest view of the old castle, and saw its gray, ivy-clad walls, standing forth on a beautiful point, round which swept the brown, dimpling waves of the clyde, the indescribable sweetness, sadness, wildness of the whole scene would make its voice heard in our hearts. "thy servants take pleasure in her dust, and favor the stones thereof," said an old hebrew poet, who must have felt the inexpressibly sad beauty of a ruin. all the splendid phantasmagoria of chivalry and feudalism, knights, ladies, banners, glittering arms, sweep before us; the cry of the battle, the noise of the captains, and the shouting; and then in contrast this deep stillness, that green, clinging ivy, the gentle, rippling river, those weeping birches, dipping in its soft waters--all these, in their quiet loveliness, speak of something more imperishable than brute force. the ivy on the walls now displays a trunk in some places as large as a man's body. in the days of old archibald the grim, i suppose that ivy was a little, weak twig, which, if he ever noticed, he must have thought the feeblest and slightest of all things; yet archibald has gone back to dust, and the ivy is still growing on. such force is there in gentle things. i have often been dissatisfied with the admiration, which a poetic education has woven into my nature, for chivalry and feudalism; but, on a closer examination, i am convinced that there is a real and proper foundation for it, and that, rightly understood, this poetic admiration is not inconsistent with the spirit of christ. for, let us consider what it is we admire in these douglases, for instance, who, as represented by scott, are perhaps as good exponents of the idea as any. was it their hardness, their cruelty, their hastiness to take offence, their fondness for blood and murder? all these, by and of themselves, are simply disgusting. what, then, do we admire? their courage, their fortitude, their scorn of lying and dissimulation, their high sense of personal honor, which led them to feel themselves the protectors of the weak, and to disdain to take advantage of unequal odds against an enemy. if we read the book of isaiah, we shall see that some of the most striking representations of god appeal to the very same principles of our nature. the fact is, there can be no reliable character which has not its basis in these strong qualities. the beautiful must ever rest in the arms of the sublime. the gentle needs the strong to sustain it, as much as the rock flowers need rocks to grow on, or yonder ivy the rugged wall which it embraces. when we are admiring these things, therefore, we are only admiring some sparkles and glimmers of that which is divine, and so coming nearer to him in whom all fulness dwells. after admiring at a distance, we strolled through the ruins themselves. do you remember, in the lady of the lake, where the exiled douglas, recalling to his daughter the images of his former splendor, says,-- "when blantyre hymned, her holiest lays, and bothwell's walls flung back the praise"? these lines came forcibly to my mind, when i saw the mouldering ruins of blantyre priory rising exactly opposite to the castle, on the other side of the clyde. the banks of the river clyde, where we walked, were thick set with portuguese laurel, which i have before mentioned as similar to our rhododendron. i here noticed a fact with regard to the ivy which had often puzzled me; and that is, the different shapes of its leaves in the different stages of its growth. the young ivy has this leaf; but when it has become more than a century old every trace and indentation melts away, and it assumes this form, which i found afterwards to be the invariable shape of all the oldest ivy, in all the ruins of europe which i explored. this ivy, like the spider, takes hold with her hands in kings' palaces, as every twig is furnished with innumerable little clinging fingers, by which it draws itself close, as it were, to the very heart of the old rough stone. its clinging and beautiful tenacity has given rise to an abundance of conceits about fidelity, friendship, and woman's love, which have become commonplace simply from their appropriateness. it might, also, symbolize that higher love, unconquerable and unconquered, which has embraced this ruined world from age to age, silently spreading its green over the rents and fissures of our fallen nature, giving "beauty for ashes, and garments of praise for the spirit of heaviness." there is a modern mansion, where the present proprietor of the estate lives. it was with an emotion partaking of the sorrowful, that we heard that the douglas line, as such, was extinct, and that the estate had passed to distant connections. i was told that the present lord douglas is a peaceful clergyman, quite a different character from old archibald the grim. the present residence is a plain mansion, standing on a beautiful lawn, near the old castle. the head gardener of the estate and many of the servants came out to meet us, with faces full of interest. the gardener walked about to show us the localities, and had a great deal of the quiet intelligence and self-respect which, i think, is characteristic of the laboring classes here. i noticed that on the green sweep of the lawn, he had set out here and there a good many daisies, as embellishments to the grass, and these in many places were defended by sticks bent over them, and that, in one place, a bank overhanging the stream was radiant with yellow daffodils, which appeared to have come up and blossomed there accidentally. i know not whether these were planted there, or came up of themselves. we next went to the famous bothwell bridge, which scott has immortalized in old mortality. we walked up and down, trying to recall the scenes of the battle, as there described, and were rather mortified, after we had all our associations comfortably located upon it, to be told that it was not the same bridge--it had been newly built, widened, and otherwise made more comfortable and convenient. of course, this was evidently for the benefit of society, but it was certainly one of those cases where the poetical suffers for the practical. i comforted myself in my despondency, by looking over at the old stone piers underneath, which were indisputably the same. we drove now through beautiful grounds, and alighted at an elegant mansion, which in former days belonged to lockhart, the son-in-law of scott. it was in this house that old mortality was written. as i was weary, the party left me here, while they went on to see the duke of hamilton's grounds. our kind hostess showed me into a small study, where she said old mortality was written. the window commanded a beautiful view of many of the localities described. scott was as particular to consult for accuracy in his local descriptions as if he had been writing a guide book. he was in the habit of noting down in his memorandum book even names and characteristics of the wild flowers and grasses that grew about a place. when a friend once remarked to him, that he should have supposed his imagination could have supplied such trifles, he made an answer that is worth remembering by every artist--that no imagination could long support its freshness, that was not nourished by a constant and minute observation of nature. craignethan castle, which is the original of tillietudlem, we were informed, was not far from thence. it is stated in lockhart's life of scott, that the ruins of this castle excited in scott such delight and enthusiasm, that its owner urged him to accept for his lifetime the use of a small habitable house, enclosed within the circuit of the walls. after the return of the party from hamilton park, we sat down to an elegant lunch, where my eye was attracted more than any thing else, by the splendor of the hothouse flowers which adorned the table. so far as i have observed, the culture of flowers, both in england and scotland, is more universally an object of attention than with us. every family in easy circumstances seems, as a matter of course, to have their greenhouse, and the flowers are brought to a degree of perfection which i have never seen at home. i may as well say here, that we were told by a gentleman, whose name i do not now remember, that this whole district had been celebrated for its orchards; he added, however, that since the introduction of the american apple into the market, its superior excellence had made many of these orchards almost entirely worthless. it is a curious fact, showing how the new world is working on the old. after taking leave of our hospitable friends, we took to our carriages again. as we were driving slowly through the beautiful grounds, admiring, as we never failed to do, their perfect cultivation, a party of servants appeared in sight, waving their hats and handkerchiefs, and cheering us as we passed. these kindly expressions from them were as pleasant as any we received. in the evening we had engaged to attend another _soirée_, gotten up by the working classes, to give admission to many who were not in circumstances to purchase tickets for the other. this was to me, if any thing, a more interesting _réunion_, because this was just the class whom i wished to meet. the arrangements of the entertainment were like those of the evening before. as i sat in the front gallery and looked over the audience with an intense interest, i thought they appeared on the whole very much like what i might have seen at home in a similar gathering. men, women, and children were dressed in a style which showed both self-respect and good taste, and the speeches were far above mediocrity. one pale young man, a watchmaker, as i was told afterwards, delivered an address, which, though doubtless it had the promising fault of too much elaboration and ornament, yet i thought had passages which would do honor to any literary periodical whatever. there were other orators less highly finished, who yet spoke "right on," in a strong, forcible, and really eloquent way, giving the grain of the wood without the varnish. they contended very seriously and sensibly, that although the working men of england and scotland had many things to complain of, and many things to be reformed, yet their condition was world-wide different from that of the slave. one cannot read the history of the working classes in england, for the last fifty years, without feeling sensibly the difference between oppressions under a free government and slavery. so long as the working class of england produces orators and writers, such as it undoubtedly has produced; so long as it has in it that spirit of independence and resistance of wrong, which has shown itself more and more during the agitations of the last fifty years; and so as long as the law allows them to meet and debate, to form associations and committees, to send up remonstrances and petitions to government,--one can see that their case is essentially different from that of plantation slaves. i must say, i was struck this night with the resemblance between the scotchman and the new englander. one sees the distinctive nationality of a country more in the middle and laboring classes than in the higher, and accordingly at this meeting there was more nationality, i thought, than at the other. the highest class of mind in all countries loses nationality, and becomes universal; it is a great pity, too, because nationality is picturesque always. one of the greatest miracles to my mind about kossuth was, that with so universal an education, and such an extensive range of language and thought, he was yet so distinctively a magyar. one thing has surprised and rather disappointed us. our enthusiasm for walter scott does not apparently meet a response in the popular breast. allusions to bannockburn and drumclog bring down the house, but enthusiasm for scott was met with comparative silence. we discussed this matter among ourselves, and rather wondered at it. the fact is, scott belonged to a past, and not to the coming age. he beautified and adorned that which is waxing old and passing away. he loved and worshipped in his very soul institutions which the majority of the common people have felt as a restraint and a burden. one might naturally get a very different idea of a feudal castle by starving to death in the dungeon of it, than by writing sonnets on it at a picturesque distance. now, we in america are so far removed from feudalism,--it has been a thing so much of mere song and story with us, and our sympathies are so unchecked by any experience of inconvenience or injustice in its consequences,--that we are at full liberty to appreciate the picturesque of it, and sometimes, when we stand overlooking our own beautiful scenery, to wish that we could see, "on yon bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady's bower; in yonder meadow, far away, the turrets of a cloister gray;" when those who know by experience all the accompaniments of these ornaments, would have quite another impression. nevertheless, since there are two worlds in man, the real and the ideal, and both have indisputably a right to be, since god made the faculties of both, we must feel that it is a benefaction to mankind, that scott was thus raised up as the link, in the ideal world, between the present and the past. it is a loss to universal humanity to have the imprint of any phase of human life and experience entirely blotted out. scott's fictions are like this beautiful ivy, with which all the ruins here are overgrown,--they not only adorn, but, in many cases, they actually hold together, and prevent the crumbling mass from falling into ruins. to-morrow we are going to have a sail on the clyde. letter v. april . my dear sister:-- to-day a large party of us started on a small steamer, to go down the clyde. it has been a very, very exciting day to us. it is so stimulating to be where every name is a poem. for instance, we start at the broomielaw. this broomielaw is a kind of wharf, or landing. perhaps in old times it was a haugh overgrown with broom, from whence it gets its name; this is only my conjecture, however. we have a small steamer quite crowded with people, our excursion party being very numerous. in a few minutes after starting, somebody says,-- "o, here's where the kelvin enters." this starts up,-- "let us haste to kelvin grove." then soon we are coming to dumbarton castle, and all the tears we shed over miss porter's william wallace seem to rise up like a many-colored mist about it. the highest peak of the rock is still called wallace's seat, and a part of the castle, wallace's tower; and in one of its apartments a huge two-handed sword of the hero is still shown. i suppose, in fact, miss porter's sentimental hero is about as much like the real william wallace as daniel boone is like sir charles grandison. many a young lady, who has cried herself sick over wallace in the novel, would have been in perfect horror if she could have seen the real man. still dumbarton castle is not a whit the less picturesque for that. now comes the leven,--that identical leven water known in song,--and on the right is leven grove. "there," said somebody to me, "is the old mansion of the earls of glencairn." quick as thought, flashed through my mind that most eloquent of burns's poems, the lament for james, earl of glencairn. "the bridegroom may forget the bride was made his wedded wife yestreen; the monarch may forget the crown that on his head an hour hath been; the mother may forget the child that smiles sae sweetly on her knee; but i'll remember thee, glencairn, and a' that thou hast done for me." this mansion is now the seat of graham of gartmor. now we are shown the remains of old cardross castle, where it was said robert bruce breathed his last. and now we come near the beautiful grounds of roseneath, a green, velvet-like peninsula, stretching out into the widening waters. "peninsula!" said c----. "why, walter scott said it was an island." certainly, he did declare most explicitly in the person of mr. archibald, the duke of argyle's serving man, to miss dollie dutton, when she insisted on going to it by land, that roseneath was an island. it shows that the most accurate may be caught tripping sometimes. of course, our heads were full of david deans, jeanie, and effie, but we saw nothing of them. the duke of argyle's italian mansion is the most conspicuous object. hereupon there was considerable discussion on the present duke of argyle among the company, from which we gathered that he stood high in favor with the popular mind. one said that there had been an old prophecy, probably uttered somewhere up in the highlands, where such things are indigenous, that a very good duke of argyle was to arise having red hair, and that the present duke had verified the prediction by uniting both requisites. they say that he is quite a young man, with a small, slight figure, but with a great deal of energy and acuteness of mind, and with the generous and noble traits which have distinguished his house in former times. he was a pupil of dr. arnold, a member of the national scotch kirk, and generally understood to be a serious and religious man. he is one of the noblemen who have been willing to come forward and make use of his education and talent in the way of popular lectures at lyceums and athenæums; as have also the duke of newcastle, the earl of carlisle, and some others. so the world goes on. i must think, with all deference to poetry, that it is much better to deliver a lyceum lecture than to head a clan in battle; though i suppose, a century and a half ago, had the thing been predicted to mccallummore's old harper, he would have been greatly at a loss to comprehend the nature of the transaction. somewhere about here, i was presented, by his own request, to a broad-shouldered scotch farmer, who stood some six feet two, and who paid me the compliment to say, that he had read my book, and that he would walk six miles to see me any day. such a flattering evidence of discriminating taste, of course, disposed my heart towards him; but when i went up and put my hand into his great prairie of a palm, i was as a grasshopper in my own eyes. i inquired who he was, and was told he was one of the duke of argyle's farmers. i thought to myself, if all the duke's farmers were of this pattern, that he might be able to speak to the enemy in the gates to some purpose. roseneath occupies the ground between the gare loch and loch long. the gare loch is the name given to a bay formed by the river clyde, here stretching itself out like a lake. here we landed and went on shore, passing along the sides of the loch, in the little village of row. as we were walking along a carriage came up after us, in which were two ladies. a bunch of primroses, thrown from this carriage, fell at my feet. i picked it up, and then the carriage stopped, and the ladies requested to know if i was mrs. stowe. on answering in the affirmative, they urged me so earnestly to come under their roof and take some refreshment, that i began to remember, what i had partly lost sight of, that i was very tired; so, while the rest of the party walked on to get a distant view of ben lomond, mr. s. and i suffered ourselves to be taken into the carriage of our unknown friends, and carried up to a charming little italian villa, which stood, surrounded by flower gardens and pleasure grounds, at the head of the loch. we were ushered into a most comfortable parlor, where a long window, made of one clear unbroken sheet of plate glass, gave a perfect view of the loch with all its woody shores, with roseneath castle in the distance. my good hostesses literally overwhelmed me with kindness; but as there was nothing i really needed so much as a little quiet rest, they took me to a cozy bedroom, of which they gave me the freedom, for the present. does not every traveller know what a luxury it is to shut one's eyes sometimes? the chamber, which is called "peace," is now, as it was in christian's days, one of the best things that charity or piety could offer to the pilgrim. here i got a little brush from the wings of dewy-feathered sleep. after a while our party came back, and we had to be moving. my kind friends expressed so much joy at having met me, that it was really almost embarrassing. they told me that they, being confined to the house by ill health, and one of them by lameness, had had no hope of ever seeing me, and that this meeting seemed a wonderful gift of providence. they bade me take courage and hope, for they felt assured that the lord would yet entirely make an end of slavery through the world. it was concluded, after we left here, that, instead of returning by the boat, we should take carriage and ride home along the banks of the river. in our carriage were mr. s. and myself, dr. robson and lady anderson. about this time i commenced my first essay towards giving titles, and made, as you may suppose, rather an odd piece of work of it, generally saying "mrs." first, and "lady" afterwards, and then begging pardon. lady anderson laughed, and said she would give me a general absolution. she is a truly genial, hearty scotch woman, and seemed to enter happily into the spirit of the hour. as we rode on we found that the news of our coming had spread through the village. people came and stood in their doors, beckoning, bowing, smiling, and waving their handkerchiefs, and the carriage was several times stopped by persons who came to offer flowers. i remember, in particular, a group of young girls brought to the carriage two of the most beautiful children i ever saw, whose little hands literally deluged us with flowers. at the village of helensburgh we stopped a little while to call upon mrs. bell, the wife of mr. bell, the inventor of the steamboat. his invention in this country was about the same time of that of fulton in america. mrs. bell came to the carriage to speak to us. she is a venerable woman, far advanced in years. they had prepared a lunch for us, and quite a number of people had come together to meet us, but our friends said that there was not time for us to stop. we rode through several villages after this, and met quite warm welcome. what pleased me was, that it was not mainly from the literary, nor the rich, nor the great, but the plain, common people. the butcher came out of his stall, and the baker from his shop, the miller, dusty with his flour, the blooming, comely, young mother, with her baby in her arms, all smiling and bowing with that hearty, intelligent, friendly look, as if they knew we should be glad to see them. once, while we stopped to change horses, i, for the sake of seeing something more of the country, walked on. it seems the honest landlord and his wife were greatly disappointed at this; however, they got into the carriage and rode on to see me, and i shook hands with them with a right good will. we saw several of the clergymen, who came out to meet us, and i remember stopping, just to be introduced to a most delightful family who came out, one by one, gray-headed father and mother, with comely brothers and fair sisters, looking all so kindly and home-like, that i would have been glad to use the welcome that they gave me to their dwelling. this day has been a strange phenomenon to me. in the first place, i have seen in all these villages how universally the people read. i have seen how capable they are of a generous excitement and enthusiasm, and how much may be done by a work of fiction, so written as to enlist those sympathies which are common to all classes. certainly, a great deal may be effected in this way, if god gives to any one the power, as i hope he will to many. the power of fictitious writing, for good as well as evil, is a thing which ought most seriously to be reflected on. no one can fail to see that in our day it is becoming a very great agency. we came home quite tired, as you may well suppose. you will not be surprised that the next day i found myself more disposed to keep my bed than to go out. i regretted it, because, being sunday, i would like to have heard some of the preachers of glasgow. i was, however, glad of one quiet day to recall my thoughts, for i had been whirling so rapidly from scene to scene, that i needed time to consider where i was; especially as we were to go to edinburgh on the morrow. towards sunset mr. s. and i strolled out entirely alone to breathe a little fresh air. we walked along the banks of the kelvin, quite down to its junction with the clyde. the kelvin grove of the ballad is all cut away, and the kelvin flows soberly between stone walls, with a footpath on each side, like a stream that has learned to behave itself. "there," said mr. s., as we stood on the banks of the clyde, now lying flushed and tranquil in the light of the setting sun, "over there is ayrshire." "ayrshire!" i said; "what, where burns lived?" "yes, there is his cottage, far down to the south, and out of sight, of course; and there are the bonny banks of ayr." it seemed as if the evening air brought a kind of sigh with it. poor burns! how inseparably he has woven himself with the warp and woof of every scottish association! we saw a great many children of the poor out playing--rosy, fine little urchins, worth, any one of them, a dozen bleached, hothouse flowers. we stopped to hear them talk, and it was amusing to hear the scotch of walter scott and burns shouted out with such a right good will. we were as much struck by it as an honest yankee was in paris by the proficiency of the children in speaking french. the next day we bade farewell to glasgow, overwhelmed with kindness to the last, and only oppressed by the thought, how little that was satisfactory we were able to give in return. again in the railroad car on our way to edinburgh. a pleasant two hours' trip is this from glasgow to edinburgh. when the cars stopped at linlithgow station, the name started us as out of a dream. there, sure enough, before our eyes, on a gentle eminence stood the mouldering ruins of which scott has sung:-- "of all the palaces so fair, built for the royal dwelling, in scotland, far beyond compare linlithgow is excelling; and in its park in genial june, how sweet the merry linnet's tune, how blithe the blackbird's lay! the wild buck's bells from thorny brake. the coot dives merry on the lake,-- the saddest heart might pleasure take, to see a scene so gay." here was born that woman whose beauty and whose name are set in the strong, rough scotch heart, as a diamond in granite. poor mary! when her father, who lay on his death bed at that time in falkland, was told of her birth, he answered, "is it so? then god's will be done! it [the kingdom] came with a lass, and it will go with a lass!" with these words he turned his face to the wall, and died of a broken heart. certainly, some people appear to be born under an evil destiny. here, too, in linlithgow church, tradition says that james iv. was warned, by a strange apparition, against that expedition to england which cost him his life. scott has worked this incident up into a beautiful description, in the fourth canto of marmion. the castle has a very sad and romantic appearance, standing there all alone as it does, looking down into the quiet lake. it is said that the internal architectural decorations are exceedingly rich and beautiful, and a resemblance has been traced between its style of ornament and that of heidelberg castle, which has been accounted for by the fact that the princess elizabeth, who was the sovereign lady of heidelberg, spent many of the earlier years of her life in this place. not far from here we caught a glimpse of the ruins of niddrie castle, where mary spent the first night after her escape from lochleven. the avon here at linlithgow is spanned by a viaduct, which is a fine work of art. it has twenty-five arches, which are from seventy to eighty feet high and fifty wide. as the cars neared edinburgh we all exclaimed at its beauty, so worthily commemorated by scott:-- "such dusky grandeur clothes the height, where the huge castle holds its state, and all the steeps slope down, whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, piled deep and massy, close and high, mine own romantic town!" edinburgh has had an effect on the literary history of the world for the last fifty years, that cannot be forgotten by any one approaching her. the air seemed to be full of spirits of those who, no longer living, have woven a part of the thread of our existence. i do not know that the shortness of human life ever so oppressed me as it did on coming near to the city. at the station house the cars stopped amid a crowd of people, who had assembled to meet us. the lord provost met us at the door of the car, and presented us to the magistracy of the city, and the committees of the edinburgh antislavery societies. the drab dresses and pure white bonnets of many friends were conspicuous among the dense moving crowd, as white doves seen against a dark cloud. mr. s. and myself, and our future hostess, mrs. wigham, entered the carriage with the lord provost, and away we drove, the crowd following with their shouts and cheers. i was inexpressibly touched and affected by this. while we were passing the monument of scott, i felt an oppressive melancholy. what a moment life seems in the presence of the noble dead! what a momentary thing is art, in all its beauty! where are all those great souls that have created such an atmosphere of light about edinburgh? and how little a space was given them to live and to enjoy! we drove all over edinburgh, up to the castle, to the university, to holyrood, to the hospitals, and through many of the principal streets, amid shouts, and smiles, and greetings. some boys amused me very much by their pertinacious attempts to keep up with the carriage. "heck," says one of them, "that's _her_; see the _courls_." the various engravers, who have amused themselves by diversifying my face for the public, having all, with great unanimity, agreed in giving prominence to this point, i suppose the urchins thought they were on safe ground there. i certainly think i answered one good purpose that day, and that is, of giving the much oppressed and calumniated class, called boys, an opportunity to develop all the noise that was in them--a thing for which i think they must bless me in their remembrances. at last the carriage drove into a deep gravelled yard, and we alighted at a porch covered with green ivy, and found ourselves once more at home. letter vi. my dear sister:-- you may spare your anxieties about me, for i do assure you, that if i were an old sevres china jar, i could not have more careful handling than i do. every body is considerate; a great deal to say, when there appears to be so much excitement. every body seems to understand how good for nothing i am; and yet, with all this consideration, i have been obliged to keep my room and bed for a good part of the time. one agreeable feature of the matter is, it gave me an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the celebrated homoeopathic physician, dr. henderson, in whose experiments and experience i had taken some interest while in america. of the multitudes who have called, i have seen scarcely any. mrs. w., with whom i am staying, is a most thoughtful nurse. they are friends, and nothing can be more a pattern of rational home enjoyment, without ostentation and without parade, than a quaker family. though they reject every thing in arrangement which savors of ostentation and worldly show, yet their homes are exquisite in point of comfort. they make great use of flowers and natural specimens in adorning their apartments, and also indulge to a chaste and moderate extent in engravings and works of art. so far as i have observed, they are all "tee-totalers;" giving, in this respect, the whole benefit of their example to the temperance cause. to-morrow evening is to be the great tea party here. how in the world i am ever to live through it, i don't know. the amount of letters we found waiting for us here in edinburgh was, if possible, more appalling than in glasgow. among those from persons whom you would be interested in hearing of, i may mention, a very kind and beautiful one from the duchess of sutherland, and one also from the earl of carlisle, both desiring to make appointments for meeting us as soon as we come to london. also a very kind and interesting note from the rev. mr. kingsley and lady. i look forward with a great deal of interest to passing a little time with them in their rectory. letters also from mr. binney and mr. sherman, two of the leading congregational clergymen of london. the latter officiates at surrey chapel, which was established by rowland hill. both contain invitations to us to visit them in london. as to all engagements, i am in a state of happy acquiescence, having resigned myself, as a very tame lion, into the hands of my keepers. whenever the time comes for me to do any thing, i try to behave as well as i can, which, as dr. young says, is all that an angel could do in the same circumstances. as to these letters, many of them are mere outbursts of feeling; yet they are interesting as showing the state of the public mind. many of them are on kindred topics of moral reform, in which they seem to have an intuitive sense that we should be interested. i am not, of course, able to answer them all, but c---- does, and it takes a good part of every day. one was from a shoemaker's wife in one of the islands, with a copy of very fair verses. many have come accompanying little keepsakes and gifts. it seems to me rather touching and sad, that people should want to give me things, when i am not able to give an interview, or even a note, in return. c---- wrote from six to twelve o'clock, steadily, answering letters. april . last night came off the _soirée_. the hall was handsomely decorated with flags in front. we went with the lord provost in his carriage. the getting in to the hall is quite an affair, i assure you, the doorway is blocked up by such a dense crowd; yet there is something very touching about these crowds. they open very gently and quietly, and they do not look at you with a rude stare, but with faces full of feeling and intelligence. i have seen some looks that were really beautiful; they go to my heart. the common people appear as if they knew that our hearts were with them. how else should it be, as christians of america?--a country which, but for one fault, all the world has reason to love. we went up, as before, into a dressing room, where i was presented to many gentlemen and ladies. when we go in, the cheering, clapping, and stamping at first strikes one with a strange sensation; but then every body looks so heartily pleased and delighted, and there is such an all-pervading atmosphere of geniality and sympathy, as makes one in a few moments feel quite at home. after all i consider that these cheers and applauses, are scotland's voice to america, a recognition of the brotherhood of the countries. we were arranged at this meeting much as in glasgow. the lord provost presided; and in the gallery with us were distinguished men from the magistracy, the university, and the ministry, with their wives, besides the members of the antislavery societies. the lord provost, i am told, has been particularly efficient in all benevolent operations, especially those for the education of the poorer classes. he is also a zealous supporter of the temperance cause. among the speakers, i was especially interested in dr. guthrie, who seems to be also a particular favorite of the public. he is a tall, thin man, with a kind of quaintness in his mode of expressing himself, which sometimes gives an air of drollery to his speaking. he is a minister of the free church, and has more particularly distinguished himself by his exertions in behalf of the poorer classes. one passage in his speech i will quote, for i was quite amused with it. it was in allusion to the retorts which had been made in mrs. tyler's letter to the ladies of england, on the defects in the old country. "i do not deny," he said, "that there are defects in our country. what i say of them is this--that they are incidental very much to an old country like our own. dr. simpson knows very well, and so does every medical man, that when a man gets old he gets very infirm, his blood vessels get ossified, and so on; but i shall not enter into that part of the subject. what is true of an old country is true of old men, and old women, too. i am very much disposed to say of this young nation of america, that their teasing us with our defects might just get the answer which a worthy member of the church of scotland gave to his son, who was so dissatisfied with the defects in the church, that he was determined to go over to a younger communion. 'ah, sandy, sandy, man, when your lum reeks as lang as ours, it will, may be, need sweeping too.'[j] now, i do not deny that we need sweeping; every body knows that i have been singing out about sweeping for the last five years. let me tell my good friends in edinburgh, and in the country, that the sooner you sweep the better; for the chimney may catch fire, and reduce your noble fabric to ashes. "they told us in that letter about the poor needlewomen, that had to work sixteen hours a day. ''tis true, and pity 'tis 'tis true.' but does the law compel them to work sixteen hours a day? i would like to ask the writer of the letter. are they bound down to their garrets and cellars for sixteen hours a day? may they not go where they like, and ask better wages and better work? can the slave do that? do they tell us of our ragged children? i know something about ragged children. but are our ragged children condemned to the street? if i, or the lord provost, or any other benevolent man, should take one of them from the street and bring it to the school, dare the policeman--miscalled officer of justice--put his foot across the door to drag it out again to the street? nobody means to defend our defects; does any man attempt to defend them? were not these noble ladies and excellent women, titled and untitled, among the very first to seek to redress them?" i wish i could give you the strong, broad scotch accent. the national penny offering, consisting of a thousand golden sovereigns on a magnificent silver salver, stood conspicuously in view of the audience. it has been an unsolicited offering, given in the smallest sums, often from the extreme poverty of the giver. the committee who collected it in edinburgh and glasgow bore witness to the willingness with which the very poorest contributed the offering of their sympathy. in one cottage they found a blind woman, and said, "here, at least, is one who will feel no interest, as she cannot have read the book." "indeed," said the old lady, "if i cannot read, my son has read it to me, and i've got my penny saved to give." it is to my mind extremely touching to see how the poor, in their poverty, can be moved to a generosity surpassing that of the rich. nor do i mourn that they took it from their slender store, because i know that a penny given from a kindly impulse is a greater comfort and blessing to the poorest giver than even a penny received. as in the case of the other meeting, we came out long before the speeches were ended. well, of course, i did not sleep any all night. the next day i felt quite miserable. mrs. w. went with mr. s. and myself for a quiet drive in her carriage. it was a beautiful, sunny day that we drove out to craigmiller castle, formerly one of the royal residences. it was here that mary retreated after the murder of rizzio, and where, the chronicler says, she was often heard in those days wishing that she were in her grave. it seems so strange to see it standing there all alone, in the midst of grassy fields, so silent, and cold, and solitary. i got out of the carriage and walked about it. the short, green grass was gemmed with daisies, and sheep were peacefully feeding and resting, where was once all the life and bustle of a court. we had no one to open the inside of the castle for us, where there are still some tolerably preserved rooms, but we strolled listlessly about, looking through the old arches, and peeping through slits and loopholes into the interior. the last verse of queen mary's lamentation seemed to be sighing in the air:-- "o, soon for me shall simmer's suns nae mair light up the morn; nae mair for me the autumn wind wave o'er the yellow corn. but in the narrow house of death let winter round me rave, and the next flowers that deck the spring bloom on my peaceful grave." only yesterday, it seemed, since that poor heart was yearning and struggling, caught in the toils of this sorrowful life. how many times she looked on this landscape through sad eyes! i suppose just such little daisies grew here in the grass then, and perhaps she stooped and picked them, wishing, just as i do, that the pink did not grow on the under side of them, where it does not show. do you know that this little daisy is the _gowan_ of scotch poetry? so i was told by a "charming young jessie" in glasgow, one day when i was riding out there. the view from craigmiller is beautiful--auld reekie, arthur's seat, salisbury crags, and far down the frith of forth, where we can just dimly see the bass hock, celebrated as a prison, where the covenanters were immured. it was this fortress that habakkuk mucklewrath speaks of in his ravings, when he says, "am not i habakkuk mucklewrath, whose name is changed to magor-missabib, because i am made a terror unto myself, and unto all that are around me? i heard it: when did i hear it? was it not in the tower of the bass, that overhangeth the wide, wild sea? and it howled in the winds, and it roared in the billows, and it screamed, and it whistled, and it clanged, with the screams, and the clang, and the whistle of the sea birds, as they floated, and flew, and dropped, and dived, on the bosom of the waters." these salisbury crags, which overlook edinburgh, have a very peculiar outline; they resemble an immense elephant crouching down. we passed mushats cairn, where jeanie deans met robertson; and saw liberton, where reuben butler was a schoolmaster. nobody doubts, i hope, the historical accuracy of these points. thursday, st. we took cars for aberdeen. the appropriation of old historical names to railroad stations often reminds me of hood's whimsical lines on a possible railroad in the holy land. think of having bannockburn shouted by the station master, as the train runs whistling up to a small station house. nothing to be seen there but broad, silent meadows, through which the burn wimples its way. here was the very marathon of scotland. i suppose we know more about it from the "scots wha ha' wi' wallace bled," than we do from history; yet the real scene, as narrated by the historian, has a moral grandeur in it. the chronicler tells us, that when on this occasion the scots formed their line of battle, and a venerable abbot passed along, holding up the cross before them, the whole army fell upon their knees. "these scots will not fight," said edward, who was reconnoitring at a distance. "see! they are all on their knees now to beg for mercy." "they kneel," said a lord who stood by, "but it is to god alone; trust me, those men will win or die." the bold lyric of burns is but an inspired kind of version of the real address which bruce is said to have made to his followers; and whoever reads it will see that its power lies not in appeal to brute force, but to the highest elements of our nature, the love of justice, the sense of honor, and to disinterestedness, self-sacrifice, courage unto death. these things will live and form high and imperishable elements of our nature, when mankind have learned to develop them in other spheres than that of physical force. burns's lyric, therefore, has in it an element which may rouse the heart to noble endurance and devotion, even when the world shall learn war no more. we passed through the town of stirling, whose castle, magnificently seated on a rocky throne, looks right worthy to have been the seat of scotland's court, as it was for many years. it brought to our minds all the last scenes of the lady of the lake, which are laid here with a minuteness of local description and allusion characteristic of scott. according to our guide book, one might find there the visible counterpart of every thing which he has woven into his beautiful fiction--"the lady's rock, which rang to the applause of the multitude;" "the franciscan steeple, which pealed the merry festival;" "the sad and fatal mound," apostrophized by douglas,-- "that oft has heard the death-axe sound as on the noblest of the land, fell the stern headsman's bloody hand;"-- the room in the castle, where "a douglas by his sovereign bled;" and not far off the ruins of cambuskenneth abbey. one could not but think of the old days scott has described. "the castle gates were open flung, the quivering drawbridge rocked and rung, and echoed loud the flinty street beneath the coursers' clattering feet, as slowly down the steep descent fair scotland's king and nobles went, while all along the crowded way was jubilee and loud huzza." the place has been long deserted as a palace; but it is one of the four fortresses, which, by the articles of union between scotland and england, are always to be kept in repair. we passed by the town of perth, the scene of the "fair maid's" adventures. we had received an invitation to visit it, but for want of time were obliged to defer it till our return to scotland. somewhere along here mr. s. was quite excited by our proximity to scone, the old crowning-place of the scottish kings; however, the old castle is entirely demolished, and superseded by a modern mansion, the seat of the earl of mansfield. still farther on, surrounded by dark and solemn woods, stands glamis castle, the scene of the tragedy in macbeth. we could see but a glimpse of it from the road, but the very sound of the name was enough to stimulate our imagination. it is still an inhabited dwelling, though much to the regret of antiquarians and lovers of the picturesque, the characteristic outworks and defences of the feudal ages, which surrounded it, have been levelled, and velvet lawns and gravel walks carried to the very door. scott, who passed a night there in , while it was yet in its pristine condition, comments on the change mournfully, as undoubtedly a true lover of the past would. albeit the grass plats and the gravel walks, to the eye of sense, are undoubtedly much more agreeable and convenient. scott says in his demonology, that he never came any where near to being overcome with a superstitious feeling, except twice in his life, and one was on the night when he slept in glamis castle. the poetical and the practical elements in scott's mind ran together, side by side, without mixing, as evidently as the waters of the alleghany and monongahela at pittsburg. scarcely ever a man had so much relish for the supernatural, and so little faith in it. one must confess, however, that the most sceptical might have been overcome at glamis castle, for its appearance, by all accounts, is weird and strange, and ghostly enough to start the dullest imagination. on this occasion scott says, "after a very hospitable reception from the late peter proctor, seneschal of the castle, i was conducted to my apartment in a distant part of the building. i must own, that when i heard door after door shut, after my conductor had retired, i began to consider myself as too far from the living, and somewhat too near the dead. we had passed through what is called 'the king's room,' a vaulted apartment, garnished with stags' antlers and similar trophies of the chase, and said by tradition to be the spot of malcolm's murder, and i had an idea of the vicinity of the castle chapel. in spite of the truth of history, the whole night scene in macbeth's castle rushed at once upon my mind, and struck my imagination more forcibly than even when i have seen its terrors represented by the late john kemble and his inimitable sister. in a word, i experienced sensations which, though not remarkable either for timidity or superstition, did not fail to affect me to the point of being disagreeable, while they were mingled at the same time with a strange and indescribable kind of pleasure." externally, the building is quaint and singular enough; tall and gaunt, crested with innumerable little pepper box turrets and conical towers, like an old french chateau. besides the tragedy of macbeth, another story of still more melancholy interest is connected with it, which a pen like that of hawthorne, might work up with gloomy power. in the young and beautiful lady glamis of this place was actually tried and executed for witchcraft. only think, now! what capabilities in this old castle, with its gloomy pine shades, quaint architecture, and weird associations, with this bit of historic verity to start upon. walter scott says, there is in the castle a secret chamber; the entrance to which, by the law of the family, can be known only to three persons at once--the lord of the castle, his heir apparent, and any third person whom they might choose to take into their confidence. see, now, the materials which the past gives to the novelist or poet in these old countries. these ancient castles are standing romances, made to the author's hands. the castle started a talk upon shakspeare, and how much of the tragedy he made up, and how much he found ready to his hand in tradition and history. it seems the story is all told in holingshed's chronicles; but his fertile mind has added some of the most thrilling touches, such as the sleep walking of lady macbeth. it always seemed to me that this tragedy had more of the melancholy majesty and power of the greek than any thing modern. the striking difference is, that while fate was the radical element of those, free will is not less distinctly the basis of this. strangely enough, while it commences with a supernatural oracle, there is not a trace of fatalism in it; but through all, a clear, distinct recognition of moral responsibility, of the power to resist evil, and the guilt of yielding to it. the theology of shakspeare is as remarkable as his poetry. a strong and clear sense of man's moral responsibility and free agency, and of certain future retribution, runs through all his plays. i enjoyed this ride to aberdeen more than any thing we had seen yet, the country is so wild and singular. in the afternoon we came in sight of the german ocean. the free, bracing air from the sea, and the thought that it actually _was_ the german ocean, and that over the other side was norway, within a day's sail of us, gave it a strange, romantic charm. "suppose we just run over to norway," said one of us; and then came the idea, what we should do if we got over there, seeing none of us understood norse. the whole coast along here is wild and rock-bound; occasionally long points jut into the sea; the blue waves sparkle and dash against them in little jets of foam, and the sea birds dive and scream around them. on one of these points, near the town of stonehaven, are still seen the ruins of dunottar castle, bare and desolate, surrounded on all sides by the restless, moaning waves; a place justly held accursed as the scene of cruelties to the covenanters, so appalling and brutal as to make the blood boil in the recital, even in this late day. during the reigns of charles and james, sovereigns whom macaulay justly designates as belial and moloch, this castle was the state prison for confining this noble people. in the reign of james, one hundred and sixty-seven prisoners, men, women, and children, for refusing the oath of supremacy, were arrested at their firesides: herded together like cattle; driven at the point of the bayonet, amid the gibes, jeers, and scoffs of soldiers, up to this dreary place, and thrust promiscuously into a dark vault in this castle; almost smothered in filth and mire; a prey to pestilent disease, and to every malignity which brutality could inflict, they died here unpitied. a few escaping down the rocks were recaptured, and subjected to shocking tortures. a moss-grown gravestone, in the parish churchyard of dunottar, shows the last resting-place of these sufferers. walter scott, who visited this place, says, "the peasantry continue to attach to the tombs of these victims an honor which they do not render to more splendid mausoleums; and when they point them out to their sons, and narrate the fate of the sufferers, usually conclude by exhorting them to be ready, should the times call for it, to resist to the death in the cause of civil and religious liberty, like their brave forefathers." it is also related by gilfillan, that a minister from this vicinity, having once lost his way in travelling through a distant part of scotland, vainly solicited the services of a guide for some time, all being engaged in peat-cutting; at last one of the farmers, some of whose ancestors had been included among the sufferers, discovering that he came from this vicinity, had seen the gravestones, and could repeat the inscriptions, was willing to give up half a day's work to guide him on his way. it is well that such spots should be venerated as sacred shrines among the descendants of the covenanters, to whom scotland owes what she is, and all she may become. it was here that scott first became acquainted with robert paterson, the original of old mortality. leaving stonehaven we passed, on a rising ground a little to our left, the house of the celebrated barclay of ury. it remains very much in its ancient condition, surrounded by a low stone wall, like the old fortified houses of scotland. barclay of ury was an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under gustavus adolphus in germany, and one of the earliest converts to the principles of the friends in scotland. as a quaker, he became an object of hatred and abuse at the hands of the magistracy and populace; but he endured all these insults and injuries with the greatest patience and nobleness of soul. "i find more satisfaction," he said, "as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as i passed the city of aberdeen, to meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor." whittier has celebrated this incident in his beautiful ballad, called "barclay of ury." the son of this barclay was the author of that apology which bears his name, and is still a standard work among the friends. the estate is still possessed by his descendants. a little farther along towards aberdeen, mr. s. seemed to amuse himself very much with the idea, that we were coming near to dugald dalgetty's estate of drumthwacket, an historical remembrance which i take to be somewhat apocryphal. it was towards the close of the afternoon that we found ourselves crossing the dee, in view of aberdeen. my spirits were wonderfully elated: the grand sea scenery and fine bracing air; the noble, distant view of the city, rising with its harbor and shipping, all filled me with delight. besides which the dee had been enchanted for me from my childhood, by a wild old ballad which i used to hear sung to a scottish tune, equally wild and pathetic. i repeated it to c----, and will now to you. "the moon had climbed the highest hill that rises o'er the banks of dee, and from her farthest summit poured her silver light o'er tower and tree,-- when mary laid her down to sleep, her thoughts on sandy far at sea, and soft and low a voice she heard, saying, 'mary, weep no more for me.' she from her pillow gently raised her head, to see who there might be; she saw young sandy shivering stand, with pallid cheek and hollow ee. 'o mary dear, cold is my clay; it lies beneath the stormy sea; the storm, is past, and i'm at rest; so, mary, weep no more for me.' loud crew the cock; the vision fled; no more young sandy could she see; but soft a parting whisper said, 'sweet mary, weep no more for me.'" i never saw these lines in print any where; i never knew who wrote them; i had only heard them sung at the fireside when a child, to a tune as dreamy and sweet as themselves; but they rose upon me like an enchantment, as i crossed the dee, in view of that very german ocean, famed for its storms and shipwrecks. in this propitious state, disposed to be pleased with every thing, our hearts responded warmly to the greetings of the many friends who were waiting for us at the station house. the lord provost received us into his carriage, and as we drove along, pointed out to us the various objects of interest in the beautiful town. among other things, a fine old bridge across the dee attracted our particular attention. we were conducted to the house of mr. cruikshank, a friend, and found waiting for us there the thoughtful hospitality which we had ever experienced in all our stopping-places. a snug little quiet supper was laid out upon the table, of which we partook in haste, as we were informed that the assembly at the hall were waiting to receive us. there arrived, we found the hall crowded, and with difficulty made our way to the platform. whether owing to the stimulating effect of the air from the ocean, or to the comparatively social aspect of the scene, or perhaps to both, certain it is, that we enjoyed the meeting with great zest. i was surrounded on the stage with blooming young ladies, one of whom put into my hands a beautiful bouquet, some flowers of which i have now dried in my album. the refreshment tables were adorned with some exquisite wax flowers, the work, as i was afterwards told, of a young lady in the place. one of the designs especially interested me. it was a group of water lilies resting on a mirror, which gave them the appearance of growing in the water. we had some very animated speaking, in which the speakers contrived to blend enthusiastic admiration and love for america with detestation of slavery. all the afternoon the beautiful coast had reminded me of the state of maine, and the genius of the meeting confirmed the association. they seemed to me to be a plain, genial, strong, warm-hearted people, like those of maine. one of the speakers concluded his address by saying that john bull and brother jonathan, with paddy and sandy scott, should they clasp hands together, might stand against the world; which sentiment was responded to with thunders of applause. it is because america, like scotland, has stood for right against oppression, that the scotch love and sympathize with her. for this reason do they feel it as something taken from the strength of a common cause, when america sides with injustice and oppression. the children of the covenant and the children of the puritans are of one blood. they presented an offering in a beautiful embroidered purse, and after much shaking of hands we went home, and sat down to the supper table, for a little more chat, before going to bed. the next morning,--as we had only till noon to stay in aberdeen,--our friends, the lord provost, and mr. leslie, the architect, came immediately after breakfast to show us the place. the town of aberdeen is a very fine one, and owes much of its beauty to the light-colored granite of which most of the houses are built. it has broad, clean, beautiful streets, and many very curious and interesting public buildings. the town exhibits that union of the hoary past with the bustling present which is characteristic of the old world. it has two parts, the old and the new, as unlike as l'allegro and penseroso--the new, clean, and modern; the old, mossy and dreamy. the old town is called alton, and has venerable houses, standing, many of them, in ancient gardens. and here rises the peculiar, old, gray cathedral. these scotch cathedrals have a sort of stubbed appearance, and look like the expression in stone of defiant, invincible resolution. this is of primitive granite, in the same heavy, massive style as the cathedral of glasgow, but having strong individualities of its own. whoever located the ecclesiastical buildings of england and scotland certainly had an exquisite perception of natural scenery; for one notices that they are almost invariably placed on just that point of the landscape, where the poet or the artist would say they should be. these cathedrals, though all having a general similarity of design, seem, each one, to have its own personality, as much as a human being. looking at nineteen of them is no compensation to you for omitting the twentieth; there will certainly be something new and peculiar in that. this aberdeen cathedral, or cathedral of st. machar, is situated on the banks of the river don; one of those beautiful amber-brown rivers that color the stones and pebbles at the bottom with a yellow light, such as one sees in ancient pictures. old trees wave and rustle around, and the building itself, though a part of it has fallen into ruins, has, in many parts, a wonderful clearness and sharpness of outline. i cannot describe these things to you; architectural terms convey no picture to the mind. i can only tell you of the character and impression it bears--a character of strong, unflinching endurance, appropriately reminding one of the scotch people, whom walter scott compares to the native sycamore of their hills, "which scorns to be biased in its mode of growth, even by the influence of the prevailing wind, but shooting its branches with equal boldness in every direction, shows no weather side to the storm, and may be broken, but can never be bended." one reason for the sharpness and distinctness of the architectural preservation of this cathedral is probably that closeness of texture for which aberdeen granite is remarkable. it bears marks of the hand of violence in many parts. the images of saints and bishops, which lie on their backs with clasped hands, seem to have been wofully maltreated and despoiled, in the fervor of those days, when people fondly thought that breaking down carved work was getting rid of superstition. these granite saints and bishops, with their mutilated fingers and broken noses, seem to be bearing a silent, melancholy witness against that disposition in human nature, which, instead of making clean the cup and platter, breaks them altogether. the roof of the cathedral is a splendid specimen of carving in black oak, wrought in panels, with leaves and inscriptions in ancient text. the church could once boast in other parts (so says an architectural work) a profusion of carved woodwork of the same character, which must have greatly relieved the massive plainness of the interior. in , the parish minister attacked the "high altar," a piece of the most splendid workmanship of any thing of the kind in europe, and which had to that time remained inviolate; perhaps from the insensible influence of its beauty. it is said that the carpenter employed for the purpose was so struck with the noble workmanship, that he refused to touch it till the minister took the hatchet from his hand and gave the first blow. these men did not consider that "the leprosy lies deep within," and that when human nature is denied beautiful idols, it will go after ugly ones. there has been just as unspiritual a resting in coarse, bare, and disagreeable adjuncts of religion, as in beautiful and agreeable ones; men have worshipped juggernaut as pertinaciously as they have venus or the graces; so that the good divine might better have aimed a sermon at the heart than an axe at the altar. we lingered a long time around here, and could scarcely tear ourselves away. we paced up and down under the old trees, looking off on the waters of the don, listening to the waving branches, and falling into a dreamy state of mind, thought what if it were six hundred years ago! and we were pious simple hearted old abbots! what a fine place that would be to walk up and down at eventide or on a sabbath morning, reciting the penitential psalms, or reading st. augustine! i cannot get over the feeling, that the souls of the dead do somehow connect themselves with the places of their former habitation, and that the hush and thrill of spirit, which we feel in them, may be owing to the overshadowing presence of the invisible. st. paul says, "we are compassed about with a great cloud of witnesses." how can they be witnesses, if they cannot see and be cognizant? we left the place by a winding walk, to go to the famous bridge of balgounie, another dream-land affair, not far from here. it is a single gray stone arch, apparently cut from solid rock, that spans the brown rippling waters, where wild, overhanging banks, shadowy trees, and dipping wild flowers, all conspire to make a romantic picture. this bridge, with the river and scenery, were poetic items that went, with other things, to form the sensitive mind of byron, who lived here in his earlier days. he has some lines about it:-- "as 'auld lang syne' brings scotland, one and all, scotch, plaids, scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams, the dee, the don, balgounie's brig's black wall, all my boy-feelings, all my gentler dreams, of what i then dreamt clothed in their own pall, like banquo's offspring,--floating past me seems my childhood, in this childishness of mind: i care not--'tis a glimpse of 'auld lang syne.'" this old bridge has a prophecy connected with it, which was repeated to us, and you shall have it literatim:-- "brig of balgounie, black's your wa', wi' a wife's ae son, and a mare's a foal, doon ye shall fa'!" the bridge was built in the time of robert bruce, by one bishop cheyne, of whom all that i know is, that he evidently had a good eye for the picturesque. after this we went to visit king's college. the tower of it is surmounted by a massive stone crown, which forms a very singular feature in every view of aberdeen, and is said to be a perfectly unique specimen of architecture. this king's college is very old, being founded also by a bishop, as far back as the fifteenth century. it has an exquisitely carved roof, and carved oaken seats. we went through the library, the hall, and the museum. certainly, the old, dark architecture of these universities must tend to form a different style of mind from our plain matter-of-fact college buildings. here in aberdeen is the veritable marischal college, so often quoted by dugald dalgetty. we had not time to go and see it, but i can assure you on the authority of the guide book, that it is a magnificent specimen of architecture. after this, that we might not neglect the present in our zeal for the past, we went to the marble yards, where they work the aberdeen granite. this granite, of which we have many specimens in america, is of two kinds, one being gray, the other of a reddish hue. it seems to differ from other granite in the fineness and closeness of its grain, which enables it to receive the most brilliant conceivable polish. i saw some superb columns of the red species, which were preparing to go over the baltic to riga, for an exchange; and a sepulchral monument, which was going to new york. all was busy here, sawing, chipping, polishing; as different a scene from the gray old cathedral as could be imagined. the granite finds its way, i suppose, to countries which the old, unsophisticated abbots never dreamed of. one of the friends who had accompanied us during the morning tour was the celebrated architect, mr. leslie, whose conversation gave us all much enjoyment. he and mrs. leslie gave me a most invaluable parting present, to wit, four volumes of engravings, representing the "baronial and ecclesiastical antiquities of scotland," illustrated by billings. i cannot tell you what a mine of pleasure it has been to me. it is a proof edition, and the engravings are so vivid, and the drawing so fine, that it is nearly as good as reality. it might almost save one the trouble of a pilgrimage. i consider the book a kind of national poem; for architecture is, in its nature, poetry; especially in these old countries, where it weaves into itself a nation's history, and gives literally the image and body of the times. letter vii. dear cousin:-- while here in aberdeen i received a very odd letter, so peculiar and curious that i will give you the benefit of it. the author appears to be, in his way, a kind of christopher in his cave, or timon of athens. i omit some parts which are more expressive than agreeable. it is dated "stonehaven, n.b., kincardineshire, } ° n.w. this st april, . } "to mrs. harriet b. stowe:-- "my dear madam: by the time that this gets your length, the fouk o' aberdeen will be shewin ye off as a rare animal, just arrived frae america; the wife that writ uncle tom's cabin. "i wad like to see ye mysel, but i canna win for want o' siller, and as i thought ye might be writin a buke about the scotch when ye get hame, i hae just sent ye this bit auld key to sawney's cabin. "well then, dinna forget to speer at the aberdeenians if it be true they ance kidnappet little laddies, and selt them for slaves; that they dang down the quaker's kirkyard dyke, and houket up dead quakers out o' their graves; that the young boys at the college printed a buke, and maist naebody wad buy it, and they cam out to ury, near stonehaven, and took twelve stots frae davie barclay to pay the printer. "dinna forget to speer at ----, if it was true that he flogget three laddies in the beginning o' last year, for the three following crimes: first, for the crime of being born of puir, ignorant parents; second, for the crime of being left in ignorance; and, third, for the crime of having nothing to eat. "dinna be telling when ye gang hame that ye rode on the aberdeen railway, made by a hundred men, who were all in the stonehaven prison for drunkenness; nor above five could sign their names. "if the scotch kill ye with ower feeding and making speeches, be sure to send this hame to tell your fouk, that it was queen elizabeth who made the first european law to buy and sell human beings like brute beasts. she was england's glory as a protestant, and scotland's shame as the murderer of their bonnie mary. the auld hag skulked away like a coward in the hour of death. mary, on the other hand, with calmness and dignity, repeated a latin prayer to the great spirit and author of her being, and calmly resigned herself into the hands of her murderers. "in the capital of her ancient kingdom, when ye are in our country, there are eight hundred women, sent to prison every year for the first time. of fifteen thousand prisoners examined in scotland in the year , eight thousand could not write at all, and three thousand could not read. "at present there are about twenty thousand prisoners in scotland. in stonehaven they are fed at about seventeen pounds each, annually. the honest poor, outside the prison upon the parish roll, are fed at the rate of five farthings a day, or two pounds a year. the employment of the prisoners is grinding the wind, we ca' it; turning the crank, in plain english. the latest improvement is the streekin board; it's a whig improvement o' lord jonnie russell's. "i ken brawly ye are a curious wife, and would like to ken a' about the scotch bodies. weel, they are a gay, ignorant, proud, drunken pack; they manage to pay ilka year for whuskey one million three hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds. "but then their piety, their piety; weel, let's luke at it; hing it up by the nape o' the neck, and turn it round atween our finger and thumb on all sides. "is there one school in all scotland where the helpless, homeless poor are fed and clothed at the public expense? none. "is there a hame in all scotland for the cleanly but sick servant maid to go till, until health be restored? alas! there is none. "is there a school in all scotland for training ladies in the higher branches of learning? none. what then is there for the women of scotland? * * * * * "a weel, be sure and try a cupful of scottish kail broase. see, and get a sup scotch _lang milk_. "hand this bit line yout to the rev. mr. ----. tell him to store out fats nae true. "god bless you, and set you safe hame, is the prayer of the old scotch bachelor." i think you will agree with me, that the old testifying spirit does not seem to have died out in scotland, and that the backslidings and abominations of the land do not want for able exponents. as the indictment runs back to the time of charles ii., to the persecutions of the quakers in the days of barclay of ury, and brings up again the most modern offences, one cannot but feel that there are the most savory indications in it of scotch thoroughness. some of the questions which he wishes to have me "_speer_" at aberdeen, i fear, alas! would bring but an indifferent answer even in boston, which gives a high school only to boys, and allows none to girls. on one point, it seems to me, my friend might speer himself to advantage, and that is the very commendable efforts which are being made now in edinburgh and aberdeen both, in the way of educating the children of the poor. as this is one of the subjects which are particularly on my mind, and as all information which we can get upon this subject is peculiarly valuable to us in view of commencing efforts in america, i will abridge for you an account of the industrial schools of aberdeen, published by the society for improving the condition of the laboring classes, in their paper called the laborer's friend. in june, , it was ascertained that in aberdeen there were two hundred and eighty children, under fourteen years of age, who maintained themselves professedly by begging, but partly by theft. the first effort to better the moral condition of these children brought with it the discovery which our philanthropists made in new york, that in order to do good to a starving child, we must begin by feeding him; that we must gain his confidence by showing him a benevolence which he can understand, and thus proceed gradually to the reformation of his spiritual nature. in , therefore, some benevolent individuals in aberdeen hired rooms and a teacher, and gave out notice among these poor children that they could there be supplied with food, work, and instruction. the general arrangement of the day was four hours of lessons, five hours of work, and three substantial meals. these meals were employed as the incitement to the lessons and the work, since it was made an indispensable condition to each meal that the child should have been present at the work or lessons which preceded it. this arrangement worked admirably; so that they reported that the attendance was more regular than at ordinary schools. the whole produce of the work of the children goes towards defraying the expense of the establishment, thus effecting several important purposes,--reducing the expense of the school, and teaching the children, practically, the value of their industry,--in procuring for them food and instruction, and fostering in them, from the first, a sound principle of self-dependence; inasmuch as they know, from the moment of their entering school, that they give, or pay, in return for their food and education, all the work they are capable of performing. the institution did not profess to clothe the children; but by the kindness of benevolent persons who take an interest in the school, there is generally a stock of old clothes on hand, from which the most destitute are supplied. the following is the daily routine of the school: the scholars assemble every morning at seven in summer, and eight in winter. the school is opened by reading the scriptures, praise, and prayer, and religious instruction suited to their years; after which there is a lesson in geography, or the more ordinary facts of natural history, taught by means of maps and prints distributed along the walls of the school room; two days in the week they have a singing lesson; at nine they breakfast on porridge and milk, and have half an hour of play; at ten they again assemble in school, and are employed at work till two. at two o'clock they dine; usually on broth, with coarse wheaten bread, but occasionally on potatoes and ox-head soup, &c. the diet is very plain, but nutritious and abundant, and appears to suit the tastes of the pupils completely. it is a pleasing sight to see them assembled, with their youthful appetites sharpened by four hours' work, joining, at least with outward decorum, in asking god's blessing on the food he has provided for them, and most promptly availing themselves of the signal given to commence their dinner. from dinner till three, the time is spent in exercise or recreation, occasionally working in the garden; from three to four, they work either in the garden or in the work room; from four till seven, they are instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic. at seven they have supper of porridge and milk; and after short religious exercises, are dismissed to their homes at eight. on saturday, they do not return to school after dinner; and occasionally, as a reward of good behavior, they accompany the teacher in a walk to the country or the sea coast. on sunday, they assemble at half past eight for devotion; breakfast at nine; attend worship in the school room; after which they dine, and return home, so as, if possible, to go with their parents to church in the afternoon. at five they again meet, and have _sabbath school_ instruction in bible and catechism; at seven, supper; and after evening worship are dismissed. from this detail it will be seen that these schools differ from common day schools. in day schools, neither food nor employment is provided--teaching only is proposed, with a very little moral training. the principle on which the industrial school proceeds, of giving employment along with instruction--especially as that employment is designed at the same time, if possible, to teach a trade which may be afterwards available--appears of the highest value. it is a practical discipline--a moral training, the importance of which cannot be over-estimated. in a common school, too, there can be but little moral training, however efficiently the school may be conducted, just because there is little opportunity given for the development and display of individual character. the whole management of a school requires that the pupils be as speedily as possible brought to a uniform outward conduct, and thus an appearance of good behavior and propriety is produced within the school room, which is too often cast aside and forgotten the moment the pupils pass the threshold. the remark was once made by an experienced teacher, that for the purposes of moral training he valued more the time he spent with his pupils at their games, than that which was spent in the school room. the pecuniary value of the work done in these schools is not so great as was at first hoped, from the difficulty of procuring employment such as children so neglected could perform to advantage. the real value of the thing, however, they consider lies in the habits of industry and the sense of independence thus imparted. at the outset the managers of the school regretted extremely their want of ability to furnish lodgings to the children. it was thought and said that the homes, to which the majority of them were obliged to return after school hours, would deprave faster than any instruction could reform. fortunately it was impossible, at the time, to provide lodging for the children, and thus an experience was wrought out most valuable to all future laborers in this field. the managers report that after six years' trial, the instances where evil results from the children returning home, are very rare; while there have been most cheering instances of substantial good being carried by the child, from the school, through the whole family. there are few parents, especially mothers, so abandoned as not to be touched by kindness shown to their offspring. it is the direct road to the mother's heart. show kindness to her child, and she is prepared at once to second your efforts on its behalf. she must be debased, indeed, who will not listen to her child repeating its text from the bible, or singing a verse of its infant hymn; and by this means the first seeds of a new life may be, and have been, planted in the parent's heart. in cases where parents are so utterly depraved as to make it entirely hopeless to reform the child at home, they have found it the best course to board them, two or three together, in respectable families; the influences of the family state being held to be essential. the success which attended the boys' school of industry soon led to the establishment of one for girls, conducted on the same principles; and it is stated that the change wrought among poor, outcast girls, by these means, was even more striking and gratifying than among the boys. after these schools had been some time in operation, it was discovered that there were still multitudes of depraved children who could not or did not avail themselves of these privileges. it was determined by the authorities of the city of aberdeen, in conformity with the scripture injunction, to go out into the highways and hedges and _compel_ them to come in. under the authority of the police act they proposed to lay hold of the whole of the juvenile vagrants, and provide them with food and instruction. instructions were given to the police, on the th of may, , to convey every child found begging to the soup kitchen; and, in the course of the day, seventy-five were collected, of whom four only could read. the scene which ensued is indescribable. confusion and uproar, quarrelling and fighting, language of the most hateful description, and the most determined rebellion against every thing like order and regularity, gave the gentlemen engaged in the undertaking of taming them the hardest day's work they had ever encountered. still, they so far prevailed, that, by evening, their authority was comparatively established. when dismissed, the children were invited to return next day--informed that, of course, they could do so or not, as they pleased, and that, if they did, they should be fed and instructed, but that, whether they came or not, begging would not be tolerated. next day, the _greater part_ returned. the managers felt that they had triumphed, and that a great field of moral usefulness was now secured to them. the class who were brought to this school were far below those who attend the other two institutions--low as they appeared to be when the schools were first opened; and the scenes of filth, disease, and misery, exhibited even in the school itself, were such as would speedily have driven from the work all merely sentimental philanthropists. those who undertake this work must have sound, strong principle to influence them, else they will soon turn from it in disgust. the school went on prosperously; it soon excited public interest; funds flowed in; and, what is most gratifying, the working classes took a lively interest in it; and while the wealthier inhabitants of aberdeen contributed during the year about one hundred and fifty pounds for its support, the working men collected, and handed over to the committee, no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. very few children in attendance at the industrial schools have been convicted of any offence. the regularity of attendance is owing to the children receiving their food in the school; and the school hours being from seven in the morning till seven at night, there is little opportunity for the commission of crime. the experience acquired in these schools, and the connection which most of the managers had with the criminal courts of the city, led to the opening of a fourth institution--the child's asylum. acting from day to day as judges, these gentlemen had occasionally cases brought before them which gave them extreme pain. children--nay, infants--were brought up on criminal charges: the facts alleged against them were incontestably proved; and yet, in a moral sense, they could scarcely be held _guilty_, because, in truth, they did not know that they had done wrong. there were, however, great practical difficulties in the way, which could only be got over indirectly. the magistrate could adjourn the case, directing the child to be cared for in the mean time, and inquiry could be made as to his family and relations, as to his character, and the prospect of his doing better in future; and he could either be restored to his relations, or boarded in the house of refuge, or with a family, and placed at one or other of the industrial schools; the charge of crime still remaining against him, to be made use of at once if he deserted school and returned to evil courses. the great advantage sought here was to avoid stamping the child for life with the character of a convicted felon before he deserved it. once thus brand a child in this country, and it is all but impossible for him ever, by future good conduct, to efface the mask. how careful ought the law and those who administer it to be, not rashly to impress this stigma on the neglected child! the child's asylum was opened on the th of december, ; and as a proof of the efficiency of the industrial schools in checking juvenile vagrancy and delinquency, it may be noticed that nearly a week elapsed before a child was brought to the asylum. when a child is apprehended by the police for begging, or other misdemeanor, he is conveyed to this institution, and his case is investigated; for which purpose the committee meets daily. if the child be of destitute parents, he is sent to one of the industrial schools; if the child of a worthless, but not needy, parent, efforts are made to induce the parent to fulfil his duty, and exercise his authority in restraining the evil habits of the child, by sending him to school, or otherwise removing him out of the way of temptation. from the th of december up to the th of march, forty-seven cases, several of them more than once, had been brought up and carefully inquired into. most of them were disposed of in the manner now stated; but a few were either claimed by, or remitted to, the procurator fiscal, as proper objects of punishment. it is premature to say much of an institution which has existed for so short a time; but if the principle on which it is founded be as correct and sound as it appears, it must prosper and do good. there is, however, one great practical difficulty, which can only be removed by legislative enactment: there is no power at present to _detain_ the children in the asylum, or to force them to attend the schools to which they have been bent. such have been the rise and progress of the four industrial schools in aberdeen, including, as one of them, the child's asylum. all the schools are on the most catholic basis, the only qualification for membership being a subscription of a few shillings a year; and the doors are open to all who require admission, without distinction of sect or party. the experience, then, of aberdeen appears to demonstrate the possibility of reclaiming even the most abject and depraved of our juvenile population at a very moderate expense. the schools have been so long in operation, that, if there had been anything erroneous in the principles or the management of them, it must ere now have appeared; and if all the results have been encouraging, why should not the system be extended and established in other places? there is nothing in it which may not easily be copied in any town or village of our land where it is required. i cannot help adding to this account some directions, which a very experienced teacher in these schools gives to those who are desirous of undertaking this enterprise. " . the school rooms and appurtenances ought to be of the plainest and most unpretending description. this is perfectly consistent with the most scrupulous cleanliness and complete ventilation. in like manner, the food should be wholesome, substantial, and abundant, but very plain--such as the boys or girls may soon be able to attain, or even surpass, by their own exertions after leaving school. " . the teachers must ever be of the best description, patient and persevering, not easily discouraged, and thoroughly versed in whatever branch they may have to teach; and, above all things, they must be persons of solid and undoubted piety--for without this qualification, all others will, in the end, prove worthless and unavailing. "throughout the day, the children must ever be kept in mind that, after all, religion is 'the one thing needful;' that the soul is of more value than the body. " . _the schools must be kept of moderate size_: from their nature this is absolutely necessary. it is a task of the greatest difficulty to manage, in a satisfactory manner, a large school of children, even of the higher classes, with all the advantages of careful home-training and superintendence; but with industrial schools it is folly to attempt it. "from eighty to one hundred scholars is the largest number that ever should be gathered into one institution; when they exceed this, _let additional schools be opened_; in other words, _increase the number, not the size, of the schools_. they should be put down in the localities most convenient for the scholars, so that distance may be no bar to attendance; and if circumstances permit, a garden, either at the school or at no very great distance, will be of great utility. " . as soon as practicable, the children should be taught, and kept steadily at, some trade or other, by which they may earn their subsistence on leaving school; for the longer they have pursued this particular occupation at school, the more easily will they be able thereby to support themselves afterwards. "as to commencing schools in new places, the best way of proceeding is for a few persons, who are of one mind on the subject, to unite, advance from their own purses, or raise among their friends, the small sum necessary at the outset, get their teacher, open their school, and collect a few scholars, gradually extend the number, and when they have made some progress, then tell the public what they have been doing; ask them to come and see; and, if they approve, to give their money and support. public meetings and eloquent speeches are excellent things for exciting interest and raising funds, but they are of no use in carrying on the every-day work of the school. "let not the managers expect impossibilities. there will be crime and distress in spite of industrial schools; but they may be immensely reduced; and let no one be discouraged by the occasional lapse into a crime of a promising pupil. such things must be while sin reigns in the heart of man; let them only be thereby stirred up to greater and more earnest exertion in their work. "let them be most careful as to the parties whom they admit to _act_ along with them; for unless _all_ the laborers be of one heart and mind, divisions must ensue, and the whole work be marred. "it is most desirable that as many persons as possible of wealth and influence should lend their aid in supporting these institutions. patrons and subscribers should be of all ranks and denominations; but they must beware of interfering with the actual daily working of the school, which ought to be left to the unfettered energies of those who, by their zeal, their activity, their sterling principle, and their successful administration, have proved themselves every way competent to the task they have undertaken. "if the managers wish to carry out the good effect of their schools to the utmost, then they will not confine their labor to the scholars; _they will, through them, get access to the parents_. the good which the ladies of the aberdeen female school have already thus accomplished is not to be told; but let none try this work who do not experimentally know the value of the immortal soul." industrial schools seem to open a bright prospect to the hitherto neglected outcasts of our cities; for them a new era seems to be commencing: they are no longer to be restrained and kept in order by the iron bars of the prison house, and taught morality by the scourge of the executioner. they are now to be treated as reasonable and immortal beings; and may he who is the god of the poor as well as the rich give his effectual blessing with them, wherever they may be established, so that they may be a source of joy and rejoicing to all ranks of society. such is the result of the "speerings" recommended by my worthy correspondent. i have given them much at length, because they are useful to us in the much needed reforms commencing in our cities. as to the appalling statements about intemperance, i grieve to say that they are confirmed by much which must meet the eye even of the passing stranger. i have said before how often the natural features of this country reminded me of the state of maine. would that the beneficent law which has removed, to so great an extent, pauperism and crime from that noble state might also be given to scotland. i suppose that the efforts for the benefit of the poorer classes in this city might be paralleled by efforts of a similar nature in the other cities of scotland, particularly in edinburgh, where great exertions have been making; but i happened to have a more full account of these in aberdeen, and so give them as specimens of the whole. i must say, however, that in no city which i visited in scotland did i see such neatness, order, and thoroughness, as in aberdeen; and in none did there appear to be more gratifying evidences of prosperity and comfort among that class which one sees along the streets and thoroughfares. about two o'clock we started from aberdeen among crowds of friends, to whom we bade farewell with real regret. our way at first lay over the course of yesterday, along that beautiful sea coast--beautiful to the eye, but perilous to the navigator. they told us that the winds and waves raged here with an awful power. not long before we came, the duke of sutherland, an iron steamer, was wrecked upon this shore. in one respect the coast of maine has decidedly the advantage over this, and, indeed, of every other sea coast which i have ever visited; and that is in the richness of the wooding, which veils its picturesque points and capes in luxuriant foldings of verdure. at stonehaven station, where we stopped a few minutes, there was quite a gathering of the inhabitants to exchange greetings, and afterwards at successive stations along the road, many a kindly face and voice made our journey a pleasant one. when we got into old dundee it seemed all alive with welcome. we went in the carriage with the lord provost, mr. thoms, to his residence, where a party had been waiting dinner for us some time. the meeting in the evening was in a large church, densely crowded, and conducted much as the others had been. when they came to sing the closing hymn, i hoped they would sing dundee; but they did not, and i fear in scotland, as elsewhere, the characteristic national melodies are giving way before more modern ones. on the stage we were surrounded by many very pleasant people, with whom, between the services, we talked without knowing their names. the venerable dr. dick, the author of the christian philosopher and the philosophy of the future state, was there. gilfillan was also present, and spoke. together with their contribution to the scottish offering, they presented me with quite a collection of the works of different writers of dundee, beautifully bound. we came away before the exercises of the evening were finished. the next morning we had quite a large breakfast party, mostly ministers and their wives. good old dr. dick was there, and i had an introduction to him, and had pleasure in speaking to him of the interest with which his works have been read in america. of this fact i was told that he had received more substantial assurance in a comfortable sum of money subscribed and remitted to him by his american readers. if this be so it is a most commendable movement. what a pity it was, during scott's financial embarrassments, that every man, woman, and child in america, who had received pleasure from his writings, had not subscribed something towards an offering justly due to him! our host, mr. thoms, was one of the first to republish in scotland professor stuart's letters to dr. channing, with a preface of his own. he showed me professor stuart's letter in reply, and seemed rather amused that the professor directed it to the rev. james thom, supposing, of course, that so much theological zeal could not inhere in a layman. he also showed us many autograph letters of their former pastor, mr. cheyne, whose interesting memoirs have excited a good deal of attention in some circles in america. after breakfast the ladies of the dundee antislavery society called, and then the lord provost took us in his carriage to see the city. dundee is the third town of scotland in population, and a place of great antiquity. its population in was seventy-eight thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine, and the manufactures consist principally of yarns, linen, with canvas and cotton bagging, great quantities of which are exported to france and north and south america. there are about sixty spinning mills and factories in the town and neighborhood, besides several iron founderies and manufactories of steam engines and machinery. dundee has always been a stronghold of liberty and the reformed religion. it is said that in the grammar school of this town william wallace was educated; and here an illustrious confraternity of noblemen and gentry was formed, who joined to resist the tyranny of england. here wishart preached in the beginning of the reformation, preparatory to his martyrdom. here flourished some rude historical writers, who devoted their talents to the downfall of popery. singularly enough, they accomplished this in part by dramatic representations, in which the vices and absurdities of the papal establishment were ridiculed before the people. among others, one james wedderburn and his brother, john, vicar of dundee, are mentioned as having excelled in this kind of composition. the same authors composed books of song, denominated "gude and godly ballads," wherein the frauds and deceits of popery were fully pointed out. a third brother of the family, being a musical genius, it is said, "turned the times and tenor of many profane songs into godly songs and hymns, whereby he stirred up the affections of many," which tunes were called the psalms of dundee. here, perhaps, was the origin of "dundee's wild warbling measures." the conjoint forces of tragedy, comedy, ballads, and music, thus brought to bear on the popular mind, was very great. dundee has been a great sufferer during the various civil commotions in scotland. in the time of charles i. it stood out for the solemn league and covenant, for which crime the earl of montrose was sent against it, who took and burned it. it is said that he called dundee a most seditious town, the securest haunt and receptacle of rebels, and a place that had contributed as much as any other to the rebellion. yet afterwards, when montrose was led a captive through dundee, the historian observes, "it is remarkable of the town of dundee, in which he lodged one night, that though it had suffered more by his army than any town else within the kingdom, yet were they, amongst all the rest, so far from exulting over him, that the whole town testified a great deal of sorrow for his woful condition; and there was he likewise furnished with clothes suitable to his birth and person." this town of dundee was stormed by monk and the forces of parliament during the time of the commonwealth, because they had sheltered the fugitive charles ii., and granted him money. when taken by monk, he committed a great many barbarities. it has also been once visited by the plague, and once with a seven years' dearth or famine. most of these particulars i found in a history of dundee, which formed one of the books presented to me. the town is beautifully situated on the firth of tay, which here spreads its waters, and the quantity of shipping indicates commercial prosperity. i was shown no abbeys or cathedrals, either because none ever existed, or because they were destroyed when the town was fired. in our rides about the city, the local recollections that our friends seemed to recur to with as much interest as any, were those connected with the queen's visit to dundee, in . the spot where she landed has been commemorated by the erection of a superb triumphal arch in stone. the provost said some of the people were quite astonished at the plainness of the queen's dress, having looked for something very dazzling and overpowering from a queen. they could scarcely believe their eyes, when they saw her riding by in a plain bonnet, and enveloped in a simple shepherd's plaid. the queen is exceedingly popular in scotland, doubtless in part because she heartily appreciated the beauty of the country, and the strong and interesting traits of the people. she has a country residence at balmorrow, where she spends a part of every year; and the impression seems to prevail among her scottish subjects, that she never appears to feel herself more happy or more at home than in this her highland dwelling. the legend is, that here she delights to throw off the restraints of royalty; to go about plainly dressed, like a private individual; to visit in the cottages of the poor; to interest herself in the instruction of the children; and to initiate the future heir of england into that practical love of the people which is the best qualification for a ruler. i repeat to you the things which i hear floating of the public characters of england, and you can attach what degree of credence you may think proper. as a general rule in this censorious world, i think it safe to suppose that the good which is commonly reported of public characters, if not true in the letter of its details, is at least so in its general spirit. the stories which are told about distinguished people generally run in a channel coincident with the facts of their character. on the other hand, with regard to evil reports, it is safe always to allow something for the natural propensity to detraction and slander, which is one of the most undoubted facts of human nature in all lands. we left dundee at two o'clock, by cars, for edinburgh. in the evening we attended another _soirée_ of the working men of edinburgh. as it was similar in all respects to the one at glasgow, i will not dwell upon it, further than to say how gratifying to me, in every respect, are occasions in which working men, as a class, stand out before the public. _they_ are to form, more and more, a new power in society, greater than the old power of helmet and sword, and i rejoice in every indication that they are learning to understand themselves. we have received letters from the working men, both in dundee and glasgow, desiring our return to attend _soirées_ in those cities. nothing could give us greater pleasure, had we time and strength. no class of men are more vitally interested in the conflict of freedom against slavery than working men. the principle upon which slavery is founded touches every interest of theirs. if it be right that one half of the community should deprive the other half of education, of all opportunities to rise in the world, of all property rights and all family ties, merely to make them more convenient tools for their profit and luxury, then every injustice and extortion, which oppresses the laboring man in any country, can be equally defended. letter viii. dear aunt e.:-- you wanted us to write about our visit to melrose; so here you have it. on tuesday morning mr. s. and c---- had agreed to go back to glasgow for the purpose of speaking at a temperance meeting, and as we were restricted for time, we were obliged to make the visit to melrose in their absence, much to the regret of us all. g---- thought we would make a little quiet run out in the cars by ourselves, while mr. s. and c---- were gone back to glasgow. it was one of those soft, showery, april days, misty and mystical, now weeping and now shining, that we found ourselves whirled by the cars through this enchanted ground of scotland. almost every name we heard spoken along the railroad, every stream we passed, every point we looked at, recalled some line of walter scott's poetry, or some event of history. the thought that he was gone forever, whose genius had given the charm to all, seemed to settle itself down like a melancholy mist. to how little purpose seemed the few, short years of his life, compared with the capabilities of such a soul! brilliant as his success had been, how was it passed like a dream! it seemed sad to think that he had not only passed away himself, but that almost the whole family and friendly circle had passed with him--not a son left to bear his name! here we were in the region of the ettrick, the yarrow, and the tweed. i opened the lay of the last minstrel, and, as if by instinct, the first lines my eye fell upon were these:-- "call it not vain: they do not err who say, that when the poet dies, mute nature mourns her worshipper, and celebrates his obsequies; who say, tall cliff and cavern lone for the departed bard make moan; that mountains weep in crystal rill; that flowers in tears of balm distil; through his loved groves that breezes sigh, and oaks, in deeper groan, reply; and rivers teach their rushing wave to murmur dirges round his grave." "melrose!" said the loud voice of the conductor; and starting, i looked up and saw quite a flourishing village, in the midst of which rose the old, gray, mouldering walls of the abbey. now, this was somewhat of a disappointment to me. i had been somehow expecting to find the building standing alone in the middle of a great heath, far from all abodes of men, and with no companions more hilarious than the owls. however, it was no use complaining; the fact was, there was a village, and what was more, a hotel, and to this hotel we were to go to get a guide for the places we were to visit; for it was understood that we were to "_do_" melrose, dryburgh, and abbotsford, all in one day. there was no time for sentiment; it was a business affair, that must be looked in the face promptly, if we meant to get through. ejaculations and quotations of poetry could, of course, be thrown in, as william, of deloraine pattered his prayers, while riding. we all alighted at a very comfortable hotel, and were ushered into as snug a little parlor as one's heart could desire. [illustration: east window of melrose abbey.] the next thing was to hire a coachman to take us, in the rain,--for the mist had now swelled into a rain,--through the whole appropriate round. i stood by and heard names which i had never heard before, except in song, brought into view in their commercial relations; so much for abbotsford; and so much for dryburgh; and then, if we would like to throw in thomas the rhymer's tower, why, that would be something extra. "thomas the rhymer?" said one of the party, not exactly posted up. "was he any thing remarkable? well, is it worth while to go to his tower? it will cost something extra, and take more time." weighed in such a sacrilegious balance, thomas was found wanting, of course: the idea of driving three or four miles farther to see an old tower, supposed to have belonged to a man who is supposed to have existed and to have been carried off by a supposititious queen of the fairies into elfland, was too absurd for reasonable people; in fact, i made believe myself that i did not care much about it, particularly as the landlady remarked, that if we did not get home by five o'clock "the chops might be spoiled." as we all were packed into a tight coach, the rain still pouring, i began to wish mute nature would not be quite so energetic in distilling her tears. a few sprinkling showers, or a graceful wreath of mist, might be all very well; but a steady, driving rain, that obliged us to shut up the carriage windows, and coated them with mist so that we could not look out, why, i say it is enough to put out the fire of sentiment in any heart. we might as well have been rolled up in a bundle and carried through the country, for all the seeing it was possible to do under such circumstances. it, therefore, should be stated, that we did keep bravely up in our poetic zeal, which kindly mrs. w. also reënforced, by distributing certain very delicate sandwiches to support the outer man. at length, the coach stopped at the entrance of abbotsford grounds, where there was a cottage, out of which, due notice being given, came a trim, little old woman in a black gown, with pattens on; she put up her umbrella, and we all put up ours; the rain poured harder than ever as we went dripping up the gravel walk, looking much, i inly fancied, like a set of discomforted fowls fleeing to covert. we entered the great court yard, surrounded with a high wall, into which were built sundry fragments of curious architecture that happened to please the poet's fancy. i had at the moment, spite of the rain, very vividly in my mind washington irving's graceful account of his visit to abbotsford while this house was yet building, and the picture which he has given of walter scott sitting before his door, humorously descanting on various fragments of sculpture, which lay scattered about, and which he intended to immortalize by incorporating into his new dwelling. viewed as a mere speculation, or, for aught i know, as an architectural effort, this building may, perhaps, be counted as a mistake and a failure. i observe, that it is quite customary to speak of it, among some, as a pity that he ever undertook it. but viewed as a development of his inner life, as a working out in wood and stone of favorite fancies and cherished ideas, the building has to me a deep interest. the gentle-hearted poet delighted himself in it; this house was his stone and wood poem, as irregular, perhaps, and as contrary to any established rule, as his lay of the last minstrel, but still wild and poetic. the building has this interest, that it was throughout his own conception, thought, and choice; that he expressed himself in every stone that was laid, and made it a kind of shrine, into which he wove all his treasures of antiquity, and where he imitated, from the beautiful, old, mouldering ruins of scotland, the parts that had touched him most deeply. the walls of one room were of carved oak from the dunfermline abbey; the ceiling of another imitated from roslin castle; here a fireplace was wrought in the image of a favorite niche in melrose; and there the ancient pulpit of erskine was wrought into a wall. to him, doubtless, every object in the house was suggestive of poetic fancies; every carving and bit of tracery had its history, and was as truly an expression of something in the poet's mind as a verse of his poetry. a building wrought out in this way, and growing up like a bank of coral, may very possibly violate all the proprieties of criticism; it may possibly, too, violate one's ideas of mere housewifery utility; but by none of these rules ought such a building to be judged. we should look at it rather as the poet's endeavor to render outward and visible the dream land of his thoughts, and to create for himself a refuge from the cold, dull realities of life, in an architectural romance. these were thoughts which gave interest to the scene as we passed through the porchway, adorned with petrified stags' horns, into the long entrance hall of the mansion. this porch was copied from one in linlithgow palace. one side of this hall was lighted by windows of painted glass. the floor was of black and white marble from the hebrides. round the whole cornice there was a line of coats armorial, richly blazoned, and the following inscription in old german text: "these be the coat armories of the clanns and chief men of name wha keepit the marchys of scotland in the old tyme for the kynge. trewe men war they in their tyme, and in their defence god them defendyt." there were the names of the douglases, the elliots, the scotts, the armstrongs, and others. i looked at this arrangement with interest, because i knew that scott must have taken a particular delight in it. the fireplace, designed from a niche in melrose abbey, also in this room, and a choice bit of sculpture it is. in it was an old grate, which had its history also, and opposite to it the boards from the pulpit of erskine were wrought into a kind of side table, or something which served that purpose. the spaces between the windows were decorated with pieces of armor, crossed swords, and stags' horns, each one of which doubtless had its history. on each side of the door, at the bottom of the hall, was a gothic shrine, or niche, in both of which stood a figure in complete armor. then we went into the drawing room; a lofty saloon, the woodwork of which is entirely of cedar, richly wrought; probably another of the author's favorite poetic fancies. it is adorned with a set of splendid antique ebony furniture; cabinet, chairs, and piano--the gift of george iv. to the poet. we went into his library; a magnificent room, on which, i suppose, the poet's fancy had expended itself more than any other. the roof is of carved oak, after models from roslin castle. here, in a niche, is a marble bust of scott, as we understood a present from chantrey to the poet; it was one of the best and most animated representations of him i ever saw, and very much superior to the one under the monument in edinburgh. on expressing my idea to this effect, i found i had struck upon a favorite notion of the good woman who showed us the establishment; she seemed to be an ancient servant of the house, and appeared to entertain a regard for the old laird scarcely less than idolatry. one reason why this statue is superior is, that it represents his noble forehead, which the edinburgh one suffers to be concealed by falling hair: to cover _such_ a forehead seems scarcely less than a libel. the whole air of this room is fanciful and picturesque in the extreme. the walls are entirely filled with the bookcases, there being about twenty thousand volumes. a small room opens from the library, which was scott's own private study. his writing table stood in the centre, with his inkstand on it, and before it a large, plain, black leather arm chair. in a glass case, i think in this room, was exhibited the suit of clothes he last wore; a blue coat with large metal buttons, plaid trousers, and broad-brimmed hat. around the sides of this room there was a gallery of light tracery work; a flight of stairs led up to it, and in one corner of it was a door which the woman said led to the poet's bed room. one seemed to see in all this arrangement how snug, and cozy, and comfortable the poet had thus ensconced himself, to give himself up to his beloved labors and his poetic dreams. but there was a cold and desolate air of order and adjustment about it which reminds one of the precise and chilling arrangements of a room from which has just been carried out a corpse; all is silent and deserted. the house is at present the property of scott's only surviving daughter, whose husband has assumed the name of scott. we could not learn from our informant whether any of the family was in the house. we saw only the rooms which are shown to visitors, and a coldness, like that of death, seemed to strike to my heart from their chilly solitude. as we went out of the house we passed another company of tourists coming in, to whom we heard our guide commencing the same recitation, "this is," and "this is," &c., just as she had done to us. one thing about the house and grounds had disappointed me; there was not one view from a single window i saw that was worth any thing, in point of beauty; why a poet, with an eye for the beautiful, could have located a house in such an indifferent spot, on an estate where so many beautiful sites were at his command, i could not imagine. as to the external appearance of abbotsford, it is as irregular as can well be imagined. there are gables, and pinnacles, and spires, and balconies, and buttresses any where and every where, without rhyme or reason; for wherever the poet wanted a balcony, he had it; or wherever he had a fragment of carved stone, or a bit of historic tracery, to put in, he made a shrine for it forthwith, without asking leave of any rules. this i take to be one of the main advantages of gothic architecture; it is a most catholic and tolerant system, and any kind of eccentricity may find refuge beneath its mantle. here and there, all over the house, are stones carved with armorial bearings and pious inscriptions, inserted at random wherever the poet fancied. half way up the wall in one place is the door of the old tolbooth at edinburgh, with the inscription over it, "the lord of armeis is my protector; blissit ar thay that trust in the lord. ." a doorway at the west end of the house is composed of stones which formed the portal of the tolbooth, given to sir walter on the pulling down of the building in . on the east side of the house is a rude carving of a sword with the words, "up with ye, sutors of selkyrke. a.d. ." another inscription, on the same side of the house, runs thus:-- "by night, by day, remember ay the goodness of ye lord; and thank his name, whose glorious fame is spread throughout ye world.--a.c.m.d. ." in the yard, to the right of the doorway of the mansion, we saw the figure of scott's favorite dog maida, with a latin inscription-- "maidæ marmorea dormis sub imagine, maida, ad januam domini: sit tibi terra levis." which in our less expressive english we might render-- at thy lord's door, in slumbers light and blest, maida, beneath this marble maida, rest: light lie the turf upon thy gentle breast. one of the most endearing traits of scott was that sympathy and harmony which always existed between him and the brute creation. poor maida seemed cold and lonely, washed by the rain in the damp grass plat. how sad, yet how expressive is the scriptural phrase for indicating death! "he shall return to his house no more, neither shall his place know him any more." and this is what all our homes are coming to; our buying, our planting, our building, our marrying and giving in marriage, our genial firesides and dancing children, are all like so many figures passing through the magic lantern, to be put out at last in death. the grounds, i was told, are full of beautiful paths and seats, favorite walks and lounges of the poet; but the obdurate pertinacity of the rain compelled us to choose the very shortest path possible to the carriage. i picked a leaf of the portugal laurel, which i send you. next we were driven to dryburgh, or rather to the banks of the tweed, where a ferryman, with a small skiff waits to take passengers over. the tweed is a clear, rippling river, with a white, pebbly bottom, just like our new england mountain streams. after we landed we were to walk to the abbey. our feet were damp and cold, and our boatman invited us to his cottage. i found him and all his family warmly interested in the fortunes of uncle tom and his friends, and for his sake they received me as a long-expected friend. while i was sitting by the ingleside,--that is, a coal grate,--warming my feet, i fell into conversation with my host. he and his family, i noticed, spoke english more than scotch; he was an intelligent young man, in appearance and style of mind precisely what you might expect to meet in a cottage in maine. he and all the household, even the old grandmother, had read uncle tom's cabin, and were perfectly familiar with all its details. he told me that it had been universally read in the cottages in the vicinity. i judged from his mode of speaking, that he and his neighbors were in the habit of reading a great deal. i spoke of going to dryburgh to see the grave of scott, and inquired if his works were much read by the common people. he said that scott was not so much a favorite with the people as burns. i inquired if he took a newspaper. he said that the newspapers were kept at so high a price that working men were not able to take them; sometimes they got sight of them through clubs, or by borrowing. how different, thought i, from america, where a workingman would as soon think of going without his bread as without his newspaper! the cottages of these laboring people, of which there were a whole village along here, are mostly of stone, thatched with straw. this thatch sometimes gets almost entirely grown over with green moss. thus moss-covered was the roof of the cottage where we stopped, opposite to dryburgh grounds. there was about this time one of those weeping pauses in the showery sky, and a kind of thinning and edging away of the clouds, which gave hope that perhaps the sun was going to look out, and give to our persevering researches the countenance of his presence. this was particularly desirable, as the old woman, who came out with her keys to guide us, said she had a cold and a cough: we begged that she would not trouble herself to go with us at all. the fact is, with all respect to nice old women, and the worthy race of guides in general, they are not favorable to poetic meditation. we promised to be very good if she would let us have the key, and lock up all the gates, and bring it back; but no, she was faithfulness itself, and so went coughing along through the dripping and drowned grass to open the gates for us. this dryburgh belongs now to the earl of buchan, having been bought by him from a family of the name of haliburton, ancestral connections of scott, who, in his autobiography, seems to lament certain mischances of fortune which prevented the estate from coming into his own family, and gave them, he said, nothing but the right of stretching their bones there. it seems a pity, too, because the possession of this rich, poetic ruin would have been a mine of wealth to scott, far transcending the stateliest of modern houses. now, if you do not remember scott's poem, of the eve of st. john, you ought to read it over; for it is, i think, the most spirited of all his ballads; nothing conceals the transcendent lustre and beauty of these compositions, but the splendor of his other literary productions. had he never written any thing but these, they would have made him a name as a poet. as it was, i found the fanciful chime of the cadences in this ballad ringing through my ears. i kept saying to myself-- "the dryburgh bells do ring, and the white monks do sing for sir richard of coldinghame." and as i was wandering around in the labyrinth, of old, broken, mossy arches, i thought-- "there is a nun in dryburgh bower ne'er looks upon the sun; there is a monk in melrose tower, he speaketh word to none. that nun who ne'er beholds the day, that monk who speaks to none, that nun was smaylhome's lady gay, that monk the bold baron." it seems that there is a vault in this edifice which has had some superstitious legends attached to it, from having been the residence, about fifty years ago, of a mysterious lady, who, being under a vow never to behold the light of the sun, only left her cell at midnight. this little story, of course, gives just enough superstitious chill to this beautiful ruin to help the effect of the pointed arches, the clinging wreaths of ivy, the shadowy pines, and yew trees; in short, if one had not a guide waiting, who had a bad cold, if one could stroll here at leisure by twilight or moonlight, one might get up a considerable deal of the mystic and poetic. there is a part of the ruin that stands most picturesquely by itself, as if old time had intended it for a monument. it is the ruin of that part of the chapel called st. mary's aisle; it stands surrounded by luxuriant thickets of pine and other trees, a cluster of beautiful gothic arches supporting a second tier of smaller and more fanciful ones, one or two of which have that light touch of the moorish in their form which gives such a singular and poetic effect in many of the old gothic ruins. out of these wild arches and windows wave wreaths of ivy, and slender harebells shake their blue pendants, looking in and out of the lattices like little capricious fairies. there are fragments of ruins lying on the ground, and the whole air of the thing is as wild, and dreamlike, and picturesque as the poet's fanciful heart could have desired. underneath these arches he lies beside his wife; around him the representation of the two things he loved most--the wild bloom and beauty of nature, and the architectural memorial of by-gone history and art. yet there was one thing i felt i would have had otherwise; it seemed to me that the flat stones of the pavement are a weight too heavy and too cold to be laid on the breast of a lover of nature and the beautiful. the green turf, springing with flowers, that lies above a grave, does not seem, to us so hopeless a barrier between us and what was warm and loving; the springing grass and daisies there seem, types and assurances that the mortal beneath shall put on immortality; they come up to us as kind messages from the peaceful dust, to say that it is resting in a certain hope of a glorious resurrection. on the cold flagstones, walled in by iron railings, there were no daisies and no moss; but i picked many of both from, the green turf around, which, with some sprigs of ivy from the walls, i send you. it is strange that we turn away from the grave of this man, who achieved to himself the most brilliant destiny that ever an author did,--raising himself by his own unassisted efforts to be the chosen companions of nobles and princes, obtaining all that heart could desire of riches and honor,--we turn away and say, poor walter scott! how desolately touching is the account in lockhart, of his dim and indistinct agony the day his wife was brought here to be buried! and the last part of that biography is the saddest history that i know; it really makes us breathe a long sigh of relief when we read of the lowering of the coffin into this vault. what force does all this give to the passage in his diary in which he records his estimate of life!--"what is this world? a dream within a dream. as we grow older, each step is an awakening. the youth awakes, as he thinks, from childhood; the full-grown man despises the pursuits of youth as visionary; the old man looks on manhood as a feverish dream. the grave the last sleep? no; it is the last and final awakening." it has often been remarked, that there is no particular moral purpose aimed at by scott in his writings; he often speaks of it himself in his last days, in a tone of humility. he represents himself as having been employed mostly in the comparatively secondary department of giving innocent amusement. he often expressed, humbly and earnestly, the hope that he had, at least, done no harm; but i am inclined to think, that although moral effect was not primarily his object, yet the influence of his writings and whole existence on earth has been decidedly good. it is a great thing to have a mind of such power and such influence, whose recognitions of right and wrong, of virtue and vice, were, in most cases, so clear and determined. he never enlists our sympathies in favor of vice, by drawing those seductive pictures, in which it comes so near the shape and form of virtue that the mind is puzzled as to the boundary line. he never makes young ladies feel that they would like to marry corsairs, pirates, or sentimental villains of any description. the most objectionable thing, perhaps, about his influence, is its sympathy with the war spirit. a person christianly educated can hardly read some of his descriptions in the lady of the lake and marmion without an emotion of disgust, like what is excited by the same things in homer; and as the world comes more and more under the influence of christ, it will recede more and more from this kind of literature. scott has been censured as being wilfully unjust to the covenanters and puritans. i think he meant really to deal fairly by them, and that what _he_ called fairness might seem rank injustice to those brought up to venerate them, as we have been. i suppose that in old mortality it was scott's honest intention to balance the two parties about fairly, by putting on the covenant side his good, steady, well-behaved hero, mr. morton, who is just as much of a puritan as the puritans would have been had they taken sir walter scott's advice; that is to say, a very nice, sensible, moral man, who takes the puritan side because he thinks it the _right_ side, but contemplates all the devotional enthusiasm and religious ecstasies of his associates from a merely artistic and pictorial point of view. the trouble was, when he got his model puritan done, nobody ever knew what he was meant for; and then all the young ladies voted steady henry morton a bore, and went to falling in love with his cavalier rival, lord evandale, and people talked as if it was a preconcerted arrangement of scott, to surprise the female heart, and carry it over to the royalist side. the fact was, in describing evandale he made a living, effective character, because he was describing something he had full sympathy with, and put his whole life into; but henry morton is a laborious arrangement of starch and pasteboard to produce one of those supposititious, just-right men, who are always the stupidest of mortals after they are made. as to why scott did not describe such a character as the martyr duke of argyle, or hampden, or sir harry vane, where high birth, and noble breeding, and chivalrous sentiment were all united with intense devotional fervor, the answer is, that he could not do it; he had not that in him wherewith to do it; a man cannot create that of which he has not first had the elements in himself; and devotional enthusiasm is a thing which scott never felt. nevertheless, i believe that he was perfectly sincere in saying that he would, "if necessary, die a martyr for christianity." he had calm, firm principle to any extent, but it never was kindled into fervor. he was of too calm and happy a temperament to sound the deepest recesses of souls torn up from their depths by mighty conflicts and sorrows. there are souls like the "alabaster vase of ointment, very precious," which shed no perfume of devotion because a great sorrow has never broken them. could scott have been given back to the world again after the heavy discipline of life had passed over him, he would have spoken otherwise of many things. what he vainly struggled to say to lockhart on his death bed would have been a new revelation, of his soul to the world, could he have lived to unfold it in literature. but so it is: when we have learned to live, life's purpose is answered, and we die! this is the sum and substance of some conversations held while rambling among these scenes, going in and out of arches, climbing into nooks and through loopholes, picking moss and ivy, and occasionally retreating under the shadow of some arch, while the skies were indulging in a sudden burst of emotion. the poor woman who acted as our guide, ensconcing herself in a dry corner, stood like a literal patience on a monument, waiting for us to be through; we were sorry for her, but as it was our first and last chance, and she would stay there, we could not help it. near by the abbey is a square, modern mansion, belonging to the earl of buchan, at present untenanted. there were some black, solemn yew trees there, old enough to have told us a deal of history had they been inclined to speak; as it was, they could only drizzle. as we were walking through the yard, a bird broke out into a clear, sweet song. "what bird is that?" said i. "i think it is the mavis," said the guide. this brought up,-- "the mavis wild, wie mony a note, sings drowsy day to rest." and also,-- "merry it is in wild green wood, when mavis and merle are singing." a verse, by the by, dismally suggestive of contrast to this rainy day. as we came along out of the gate, walking back towards the village of dryburgh, we began, to hope that the skies had fairly wept themselves out; at any rate the rain stopped, and the clouds wore a sulky, leaden-gray aspect, as if they were thinking what to do next. we saw a knot of respectable-looking laboring men at a little distance, conversing in a group, and now and then stealing glances at us; one of them at last approached and inquired if this was mrs. stowe, and being answered in the affirmative, they all said heartily, "madam, ye're right welcome to scotland." the chief speaker, then, after a little conversation, asked our party if we would do him the favor to step into his cottage near by, to take a little refreshment after our ramble; to which we assented with alacrity. he led the way to a neat, stone cottage, with a flower garden before the door, and said to a thrifty, rosy-cheeked woman, who met us, "well, and what do you think, wife, if i have brought mrs. stowe and her party to take a cup of tea with us?" we were soon seated in a neat, clean kitchen, and our hostess hastened to put the teakettle over the grate, lamenting that she had not known of our coming, that she might have had a fire "ben the house," meaning by the phrase what we yankees mean by "in the best room." we caught a glimpse of the carpet and paper of this room, when the door was opened to bring out a few more chairs. "belyve the bairns cam dropping in," rosy-cheeked, fresh from school, with satchel and school books, to whom i was introduced as the mother of topsy and eva. "ah," said the father, "such a time as we had, when we were reading the book; whiles they were greetin' and whiles in a rage." my host was quite a young-looking man, with the clear blue eye and glowing complexion which one so often meets here; and his wife, with her blooming cheeks, neat dress, and well-kept house, was evidently one of those fully competent "to gar old claes look amaist as weel as new." i inquired the ages of the several children, to which the father answered with about as much chronological accuracy as men generally display in such points of family history. the gude wife, after correcting his figures once or twice, turned away with a somewhat indignant exclamation about men that didn't know their own bairns' ages, in which many of us, i presume, could sympathize. i must not omit to say, that a neighbor of our host had been pressed to come in with us; an intelligent-looking man, about fifty. in the course of conversation, i found that they were both masons by trade, and as the rain had prevented their working, they had met to spend their time in reading. they said they were reading a work on america; and thereat followed a good deal of general conversation on our country. i found that, like many others in this old country, they had a tie to connect them with the new--a son in america. one of our company, in the course of the conversation, says, "they say in america that the working classes of england and scotland are not so well off as the slaves." the man's eye flashed. "there are many things," he said, "about the working classes, which are not what they should be; there's room for a great deal of improvement in our condition, but," he added with an emphasis, "we are _no slaves!_" there was a, touch, of the "scots wha ha' wi' wallace bled" about the man, as he spoke, which made the affirmation quite unnecessary. "but," said i, "you think the affairs of the working classes much improved of late years?" "o, certainly," said the other; "since the repeal of the corn laws and the passage of the factory bill, and this emigration to america and australia, affairs have been very much altered." we asked them what they could make a day by their trade. it was much less, certainly, than is paid for the same labor in our country; but yet the air of comfort and respectability about the cottage, the well-clothed and well-schooled, intelligent children, spoke well for the result of their labors. while our conversation was carried on, the teakettle commenced singing most melodiously, and by a mutual system of accommodation, a neat tea table was spread in the midst of us, and we soon found ourselves seated, enjoying some delicious bread and butter, with the garniture of cheese, preserves, and tea. our host before the meal craved a blessing of him who had made of one blood all the families of the earth; a beautiful and touching allusion, i thought, between americans and scotchmen. our long ramble in the rain had given us something of an appetite, and we did ample justice to the excellence of the cheer. after tea we walked on down again towards the tweed, our host and his friends waiting on us to the boat. as we passed through the village of dryburgh, all the inhabitants of the cottages seemed to be standing in their doors, bowing and smiling, and expressing their welcome in a gentle, kindly way, that was quite touching. as we were walking towards the tweed, the eildon hill, with its three points, rose before us in the horizon. i thought of the words in the lay of the last minstrel:-- "warrior, i could say to thee, the words that cleft eildon hill in three, and bridled the tweed with a curb of stone." i appealed to my friends if they knew any thing about the tradition; i thought they seemed rather reluctant to speak of it. o, there was some foolish story, they believed; they did not well know what it was. the picturesque age of human childhood is gone by; men and women cannot always be so accommodating as to believe unreasonable stories for the convenience of poets. at the tweed the man with the skiff was waiting for us. in parting with my friend, i said, "farewell. i hope we may meet again some time." "i am sure we shall, madam," said he; "if not here, certainly hereafter." after being rowed across i stopped a few moments to admire the rippling of the clear water over the pebbles. "i want some of these pebbles of the tweed," i said, "to carry home to america." two hearty, rosy-cheeked scotch lasses on the shore soon supplied me with as many as i could carry. we got into our carriage, and drove up to melrose. after a little negotiation with the keeper, the doors were unlocked. just at that moment the sun was so gracious as to give a full look through the windows, and touch with streaks of gold the green, grassy floor; for the beautiful ruin is floored with green grass and roofed with sky: even poetry has not exaggerated its beauty, and could not. there is never any end to the charms of gothic architecture. it is like the beauty of cleopatra,-- "age cannot wither, custom, cannot stale her infinite variety." here is this melrose, now, which has been berhymed, bedraggled through infinite guide books, and been gaped at and smoked at by dandies, and been called a "dear love" by pretty young ladies, and been hawked about as a trade article in all neighboring shops, and you know perfectly well that all your raptures are spoken for and expected at the door, and your going off in an ecstasy is a regular part of the programme; and yet, after all, the sad, wild, sweet beauty of the thing comes down on one like a cloud; even for the sake of being original you could not, in conscience, declare you did not admire it. we went into a minute examination with our guide, a young man, who seemed to have a full sense of its peculiar beauties. i must say here, that walter scott's description in the lay of the last minstrel is as perfect in most details as if it had been written by an architect as well as a poet--it is a kind of glorified daguerreotype. this building was the first of the elaborate and fanciful gothic which i had seen, and is said to excel in the delicacy of its carving any except roslin castle. as a specimen of the exactness of scott's description, take this verse, where he speaks of the cloisters:-- "spreading herbs and flowerets bright, glistened with the dew of night, nor herb nor floweret glistened there, but were carved in the cloister arches as fair." these cloisters were covered porticoes surrounding the garden, where the monks walked for exercise. they are now mostly destroyed, but our guide showed us the remains of exquisite carvings there, in which each group was an imitation of some leaf or flower, such as the curly kail of scotland; a leaf, by the by, as worthy of imitation as the greek acanthus, the trefoil oak, and some other leaves, the names of which i do not remember. these gothic artificers were lovers of nature; they studied at the fountain head; hence the never-dying freshness, variety, and originality of their conceptions. another passage, whose architectural accuracy you feel at once, is this:-- "they entered now the chancel tall; the darkened, roof rose high, aloof on pillars lofty, light, and small: the keystone that locked, each ribbed aisle was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille; the corbels were carved grotesque and grim; and the pillars, with, clustered shafts so trim, with, base and with capital flourished around, seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound." the quatre-feuille here spoken of is an ornament formed by the junction of four leaves. the frequent recurrence of the fleur-de-lis in the carvings here shows traces of french hands employed in the architecture. in one place in the abbey there is a rude inscription, in which a french architect commemorates the part he has borne in constructing the building. these corbels are the projections from which, the arches spring, usually carved in some fantastic mask or face; and on these the shakspearian imagination of the gothic artists seems to have let itself loose to run riot: there is every variety of expression, from, the most beautiful to the most goblin and grotesque. one has the leer of fiendish triumph, with budding horns, showing too plainly his paternity; again you have the drooping eyelids and saintly features of some fair virgin; and then the gasping face of some old monk, apparently in the agonies of death, with his toothless gums, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. other faces have an earthly and sensual leer; some are wrought into expressions of scorn and mockery, some of supplicating agony, and some of grim, despair. one wonders what gloomy, sarcastic, poetic, passionate mind has thus amused itself, recording in stone all the range of passions--saintly, earthly, and diabolic--on the varying human face. one fancies each corbel to have had its history, its archetype in nature; a thousand possible stories spring into one's mind. they are wrought with such a startling and individual definiteness, that one feels as about shakspeare's characters, as if they must have had a counterpart in real existence. the pure, saintly nun may have been some sister, or some daughter, or some early love, of the artist, who in an evil hour saw the convent barriers rise between her and all that was loving. the fat, sensual face may have been a sly sarcasm on some worthy abbot, more eminent in flesh than spirit. the fiendish faces may have been wrought out of the author's own perturbed dreams. an architectural work says that one of these corbels, with an anxious and sinister oriental countenance, has been made, by the guides, to perform duty as an authentic likeness of the wizard michael scott. now, i must earnestly protest against stating things in that way. why does a writer want to break up so laudable a poetic design in the guides? he would have been much better occupied in interpreting some of the half-defaced old inscriptions into a corroborative account. no doubt it _was_ michael scott, and looked just like him. it were a fine field for a story writer to analyze the conception and growth of an abbey or cathedral as it formed itself, day after day, and year after year, in the soul of some dreamy, impassioned workman, who made it the note book where he wrought out imperishably in stone all his observations on nature and man. i think it is this strong individualism of the architect in the buildings that give the never-dying charm, and variety to the gothic: each gothic building is a record of the growth, character, and individualities of its builder's soul; and hence no two can be alike. i was really disappointed to miss in the abbey the stained glass which gives such a lustre and glow to the poetic description. i might have known better; but somehow i came there fully expecting to see the window, where-- "full in the midst his cross of red triumphant michael brandished; the moonbeam kissed the holy pane, and threw on the pavement the bloody stain." alas! the painted glass was all of the poet's own setting; years ago it was shattered by the hands of violence, and the grace of the fashion of it hath perished. the guide pointed to a broken fragment which commanded a view of the whole interior. "sir walter used to sit here," he said. i fancied i could see him sitting on the fragment, gazing around the ruin, and mentally restoring it to its original splendor; he brings back the colored light into the windows, and throws its many-hued reflections over the graves; he ranges the banners along around the walls, and rebuilds every shattered arch and aisle, till we have the picture as it rises on us in his book. i confess to a strong feeling of reality, when my guide took me to a grave where a flat, green, mossy stone, broken across the middle, is reputed to be the grave of michael scott. i felt, for the moment, verily persuaded that if the guide would pry up one of the stones we should see him there, as described:-- "his hoary beard in silver rolled, he seemed some seventy winters old; a palmer's amice wrapped, him round, with a wrought spanish baldric bound, like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: his left hand held his book of might; a silver cross was in his right; the lamp was placed beside his knee: high and majestic was his look, at which, the fellest fiends had shook, and all unruffled, was his face: they trusted his soul had gotten grace." i never knew before how fervent a believer i had been in the realities of these things. there are two graves that i saw, which correspond to those mentioned in these lines:-- "and there the dying lamps did burn before thy lone and lowly urn, o gallafit chief of otterburne, and thine, dark knight of liddesdale." the knight of otterburne was one of the earls douglas, killed in a battle with henry percy, called hotspur, in . the knight of liddesdale was another douglas, who lived in the reign of david ii., and was called the "flower of chivalry." one performance of this "flower" is rather characteristic of the times. it seems the king made one ramsey high sheriff of teviotdale. the earl of douglas chose to consider this as a personal affront, as he wanted the office himself. so, by way of exhibiting his own qualifications for administering justice, he one day came down on ramsey, _vi et armis_, took him off his judgment seat, carried him to one of his castles, and without more words tumbled him and his horse into a deep dungeon, where they both starved to death. there's a "flower" for you, peculiar to the good old times. nobody could have doubted after this his qualifications to be high sheriff. having looked all over the abbey from, below, i noticed a ruinous winding staircase; so up i went, rustling along through the ivy, which matted and wove itself around the stones. soon i found myself looking down on the abbey from a new point of view--from a little narrow stone gallery, which threads the whole inside of the building. there i paced up and down, looking occasionally through the ivy-wreathed arches on the green, turfy floor below. it seems as if silence and stillness had become a real presence in these old places. the voice of the guide and the company beneath had a hushed and muffled sound; and when i rustled the ivy leaves, or, in trying to break off a branch, loosened some fragment of stone, the sound affected me with a startling distinctness. i could not but inly muse and wonder on the life these old monks and abbots led, shrined up here as they were in this lovely retirement. in ruder ages these places were the only retreat for men of a spirit too gentle to take force and bloodshed for their life's work; men who believed that pen and parchment were better than sword and steel. here i suppose multitudes of them lived harmless, dreamy lives--reading old manuscripts, copying and illuminating new ones. it is said that this melrose is of very ancient origin, extending back to the time of the culdees, the earliest missionaries who established religion in scotland, and who had a settlement in this vicinity. however, a royal saint, after a while, took it in hand to patronize, and of course the credit went to him, and from, him scott calls it "st. david's lonely pile." in time a body of cistercian monks were settled there. according to all accounts the abbey has raised some famous saints. we read of trances, illuminations, and miraculous beatifications; and of one abbot in particular, who exhibited the odor of sanctity so strongly that it is said the mere opening of his grave, at intervals, was sufficient to perfume the whole establishment with odors of paradise. such stories apart, however, we must consider that for all the literature, art, and love of the beautiful, all the humanizing influences which hold society together, the world was for many ages indebted to these monastic institutions. in the reformation, this abbey was destroyed amid the general storm, which attacked the ecclesiastical architecture of scotland. "pull down the nest, and the rooks will fly away," was the common saying of the mob; and in those days a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes upon the carved work. melrose was considered for many years merely a stone quarry, from which materials were taken for all sorts of buildings, such as constructing tolbooths, repairing mills and sluices; and it has been only till a comparatively recent period that its priceless value as an architectural remain has led to proper efforts for its preservation. it is now most carefully kept. after wandering through the inside we walked out into the old graveyard, to look at the outside. the yard is full of old, curious, mouldering gravestones; and on one of them there is an inscription sad and peculiar enough to have come from the heart of the architect who planned the abbey; it runs as follows:-- "the earth walks on the earth, glittering with gold; the earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; the earth, builds on the earth, castles and towers; the earth, says to the earth, all shall be ours." here, also, we were interested in a plain marble slab, which marks the last resting-place of scott's faithful tom purdie, his zealous factotum. in his diary, when he hears of the wreck of his fortunes, scott says of this serving man, "poor tom purdie, such news will wring your heart, and many a poor fellow's beside, to whom my prosperity was daily bread." one fancies again the picture described by lockhart, the strong, lank frame, hard features, sunken eyes, and grizzled eyebrows, the green jacket, white hat, and gray trousers--the outer appointments of the faithful serving man. one sees scott walking familiarly by his side, staying himself on tom's shoulder, while tom talks with glee of "_our_ trees," and "_our_ bukes." one sees the little skirmishing, when master wants trees planted one way and man sees best to plant them another; and the magnanimity with which kindly, cross-grained tom at last agrees, on reflection, to "take his honor's advice" about the management of his honor's own property. here, between master and man, both freemen, is all that beauty of relation sometimes erroneously considered as the peculiar charm of slavery. would it have made the relation any more picturesque and endearing had tom been stripped of legal rights, and made liable to sale with the books and furniture of abbotsford? poor tom is sleeping here very quietly, with a smooth coverlet of green grass. over him is the following inscription: "here lies the body of thomas purdie, wood forester at abbotsford, who died th october, , aged sixty-two years. thou hast been faithful over a few things; i will make thee ruler over many things." matt. xxv. . we walked up, and down, and about, getting the best views of the building. it is scarcely possible for description to give you the picture. the artist, in whose mind the conception of this building arose, was a mozart in architecture; a plaintive and ethereal lightness, a fanciful quaintness, pervaded his composition. the building is not a large one, and it has not that air of solemn massive grandeur, that plain majesty, which impresses you in the cathedrals of aberdeen and glasgow. as you stand looking at the wilderness of minarets and flying buttresses, the multiplied shrines, and mouldings, and cornices, all incrusted with carving as endless in its variety as the frostwork on a window pane; each shrine, each pinnace, each moulding, a study by itself, yet each contributing, like the different strains of a harmony, to the general effect of the whole; it seems to you that for a thing so airy and spiritual to have sprung up by enchantment, and to have been the product of spells and fairy fingers, is no improbable account of the matter. speaking of gargoyles--you are no architect, neither am i, but you may as well get used to this descriptive term; it means the water-spouts which conduct the water from the gutters at the eaves of these buildings, and which are carved in every grotesque and fanciful device that can be imagined. they are mostly goblin and fiendish faces, and look as if they were darting out of the church in a towering passion, or a fit of diabolic disgust and malice. besides these gargoyles, there are in many other points of the external building representations of fiendish faces and figures, as if in the act of flying from the building, under the influence of a terrible spell: by this, as my guide said, was expressed the idea that the holy hymns and worship of the church put satan and all his forces to rout, and made all that was evil flee. one remark on this building, in billings's architectural account of it, interested me; and that is, that it is finished with the most circumstantial elegance and minuteness in those concealed portions which are excluded, from public view, and which can only be inspected by laborious climbing or groping; and he accounts for this by the idea that the whole carving and execution was considered as an act of solemn worship and adoration, in which the artist offered up his best faculties to the praise of the creator. [illustration of gargoyles] after lingering a while here, we went home to our inn or hotel. now, these hotels in the small towns of england, if this is any specimen, are delightful affairs for travellers, they are so comfortable and home-like. our snug little parlor was radiant with the light of the coal grate; our table stood before it, with its bright silver, white cloth, and delicate china cups; and then such a dish of mutton chops! my dear, we are all mortal, and emotions of the beautiful and sublime tend especially to make one hungry. we, therefore, comforted ourselves over the instability of earthly affairs, and the transitory nature of all human grandeur, by consolatory remarks on the _present_ whiteness of the bread, the sweetness of the butter; and as to the chops, all declared, with one voice, that such mutton was a thing unknown in america. i moved an emendation, except on the sea coast of maine. we resolved to cherish the memory of our little hostess in our heart of hearts, and as we gathered round the cheery grate, drying our cold feet, we voted that poetry was a humbug, and damp, old, musty cathedrals a bore. such are the inconsistencies of human nature! "nevertheless," said i to s----, after dinner, "i am going back again to-night, to see that abbey by moonlight. i intend to walk the whole figure while i am about it." just on the verge of twilight i stepped out, to see what the town afforded in the way of relics. to say the truth, my eye had been caught by some cunning little tubs and pails in a window, which i thought might be valued in the home department. i went into a shop, where an auld wife soon appeared, who, in reply to my inquiries, told me, that the said little tubs and pails were made of plum tree wood from dryburgh abbey, and, of course, partook of the sanctity of relics. she and her husband seemed to be driving a thriving trade in the article, and either plum trees must be very abundant at dryburgh, or what there are must be gifted with that power of self-multiplication which inheres in the wood of the true cross. i bought them in blind faith, however, suppressing all rationalistic doubts, as a good relic hunter should. i went up into a little room where an elderly woman professed to have quite a collection of the melrose relics. some years ago extensive restorations and repairs were made in the old abbey, in which walter scott took a deep interest. at that time, when the scaffolding was up for repairing the building, as i understood, scott had the plaster casts made of different parts, which he afterwards incorporated into his own dwelling at abbotsford. i said to the good woman that i had understood by washington irving's account, that scott appropriated _bona fide_ fragments of the building, and alluded to the account which he gives of the little red sandstone lion from melrose. she repelled the idea with great energy, and said she had often heard sir walter say, that he would not carry off a bit of the building as big as his thumb. she showed me several plaster casts that she had in her possession, which were taken at this time. there were several corbels there; one was the head of an old monk, and looked as if it might have been a mask taken of his face the moment after death; the eyes were hollow and sunken, the cheeks fallen in, the mouth lying helplessly open, showing one or two melancholy old stumps of teeth. i wondered over this, whether it really was the fac-simile of some poor old father ambrose, or father francis, whose disconsolate look, after his death agony, had so struck the gloomy fancy of the artist as to lead him to immortalize him in a corbel, for a lasting admonition to his fat worldly brethren; for if we may trust the old song, these monks of melrose had rather a suspicious reputation in the matter of worldly conformity. the impudent ballad says,-- "o, the monks of melrose, they made good, kail on fridays, when they fasted; they never wanted beef or ale as long as their neighbors' lasted." naughty, roistering fellows! i thought i could perceive how this poor father francis had worn his life out exhorting them to repentance, and given up the ghost at last in despair, and so been made at once into a saint and a corbel. there were fragments of tracery, of mouldings and cornices, and grotesque bits of architecture there, which i would have given a good deal to be the possessor of. stepping into a little cottage hard by to speak to the guide about unlocking the gates, when we went out on our moonlight excursion at midnight, i caught a glimpse, in an inner apartment, of a splendid, large, black dog. i gave one exclamation and jump, and was into the room after him. "ah," said the old man, "that was just like sir walter; he always had an eye for a dog." it gave me a kind of pain to think of him and his dogs, all lying in the dust together; and yet it was pleasant to hear this little remark of him, as if it were made by those who had often seen, and were fond of thinking of him. the dog's name was coal, and he was black enough, and remarkable enough, to make a figure in a story--a genuine melrose abbey dog. i should not wonder if he were a descendant, in a remote degree, of the "mauthe doog," that supernatural beast, which scott commemorates in his notes. the least touch in the world of such blood in his veins would be, of course, an appropriate circumstance in a dog belonging to an old ruined abbey. well, i got home, and narrated my adventures to my friends, and showed them my reliquary purchases, and declared my strengthening intention to make my ghostly visit by moonlight, if there was any moon to be had that night, which was a doubtful possibility. in the course of the evening came in mr. ----, who had volunteered his services as guide and attendant during the interesting operation. "when does the moon rise?" said one. "o, a little after eleven o'clock, i believe," said mr. ----. some of the party gaped portentously. "you know," said i, "scott says we must see it by moonlight; it is one of the proprieties of the place, as i understand." "how exquisite that description is, of the effect of moonlight!" says another. "i think it probable," says mr. ----, dryly, "that scott never saw it by moonlight himself. he was a man of very regular habits, and seldom went out evenings." the blank amazement with which this communication was received set s---- into an inextinguishable fit of laughter. "but do you really believe he never saw it?" said i, rather crestfallen. "well," said the gentleman, "i have heard him charged with never having seen it, and he never denied it." knowing that scott really was as practical a man as dr. franklin, and as little disposed to poetic extravagances, and an exceedingly sensible, family kind of person, i thought very probably this might be true, unless he had seen it some time in his early youth. most likely good mrs. scott never would have let him commit the impropriety that we were about to, and run the risk of catching the rheumatism by going out to see how an old abbey looked at twelve o'clock at night. we waited for the moon to rise, and of course it did not rise; nothing ever does when it is waited for. we went to one window, and went to another; half past eleven came, and no moon. "let us give it up," said i, feeling rather foolish. however, we agreed to wait another quarter of an hour, and finally mr. ---- announced that the moon _was_ risen; the only reason we did not see it was, because it was behind the eildon hills. so we voted to consider her risen at any rate, and started out in the dark, threading the narrow streets of the village with the comforting reflection that we were doing what sir walter would think rather a silly thing. when we got out before the abbey there was enough light behind the eildon hills to throw their three shadowy cones out distinctly to view, and to touch with a gloaming, uncertain ray the ivy-clad walls. as we stood before the abbey, the guide fumbling with his keys, and finally heard the old lock clash as the door slowly opened to admit us, i felt a little shiver of the ghostly come over me, just enough to make it agreeable. in the daytime we had criticized walter scott's moonlight description in the lines which say,-- "the distant tweed is heard, to rave, and the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave." "we hear nothing of the tweed, at any rate," said we; "that must be a poetic license." but now at midnight, as we walked silently through the mouldering aisles, the brawl of the tweed was so distinctly heard that it seemed as if it was close by the old, lonely pile; nor can any term describe the sound more exactly than the word "rave," which the poet has chosen. it was the precise accuracy of this little item of description which made me feel as if scott must have been here in the night. i walked up into the old chancel, and sat down where william of deloraine and the monk sat, on the scottish monarch's tomb, and thought over the words "strange sounds along the chancel passed, and banners wave without a blast; still spake the monk when the bell tolled one." and while we were there the bell tolled twelve. and then we went to michael scott's grave, and we looked through the east oriel, with its "slender shafts of shapely stone, by foliage tracery combined." the fanciful outlines showed all the more distinctly for the entire darkness within, and the gloaming moonlight without. the tall arches seemed higher in their dimness, and vaster than they did in the daytime. "hark!" said i; "what's that?" as we heard a rustling and flutter of wings in the ivy branches over our heads. only a couple of rooks, whose antiquarian slumbers were disturbed by the unwonted noise there at midnight, and who rose and flew away, rattling down some fragments of the ruin as they went. it was somewhat odd, but i could not help fancying, what if these strange, goblin rooks were the spirits of old monks coming back to nestle and brood among their ancient cloisters! rooks are a ghostly sort of bird. i think they were made on purpose to live in old yew trees and ivy, as much as yew trees and ivy were to grow round old churches and abbeys. if we once could get inside of a rook's skull, to find out what he is thinking of, i'll warrant that we should know a great deal more about these old buildings than we do now. i should not wonder if there were long traditionary histories handed down from one generation of rooks to another, and that these are what they are talking about when we think they are only chattering. i imagine i see the whole black fraternity the next day, sitting, one on a gargoyle, one on a buttress, another on a shrine, gossiping over the event of our nightly visit. we walked up and down the long aisles, and groped out into the cloisters; and then i thought, to get the full ghostliness of the thing, we would go up the old, ruined staircase into the long galleries, that "midway thread the abbey wall." we got about half way up, when there came into our faces one of those sudden, passionate puffs of mist and rain which scotch clouds seem to have the faculty of getting up at a minute's notice. whish! came the wind in our faces, like the rustling of a whole army of spirits down the staircase; whereat we all tumbled back promiscuously on to each other, and concluded we would not go up. in fact we had done the thing, and so we went home; and i dreamed of arches, and corbels, and gargoyles all night. and so, farewell to melrose abbey. letter ix. edinburgh, april. my dear sister:-- mr. s. and c---- returned from their trip to glasgow much delighted with the prospects indicated by the results of the temperance meetings they attended there. they were present at the meeting of the scottish temperance league, in an audience of about four thousand people. the reports were encouraging, and the feeling enthusiastic. one hundred and eighty ministers are on the list of the league, forming a nucleus of able, talented, and determined operators. it is the intention to make a movement for a law which shall secure to scotland some of the benefits of the maine law. it appears to me that on the questions of temperance and antislavery, the religious communities of the two countries are in a situation mutually to benefit each other. our church and ministry have been through a long struggle and warfare on this temperance question, in which a very valuable experience has been, elaborated. the religious people of great britain, on the contrary, have led on to a successful result a great antislavery experiment, wherein their experience and success can be equally beneficial and encouraging to us. the day after we returned from melrose we spent in resting and riding about, as we had two engagements in the evening--one at a party at the house of mr. douglas, of cavers, and the other at a public temperance _soirée_. mr. douglas is the author of several works which have excited attention; but perhaps you will remember him best by his treatise on the advancement of society in religion and knowledge. he is what is called here a "laird," a man of good family, a large landed proprietor, a zealous reformer, and a very devout man. we went early to spend a short time with the family. i was a little surprised, as i entered the hall, to find myself in the midst of a large circle of well-dressed men and women, who stood apparently waiting to receive us, and who bowed, courtesied, and smiled as we came in. mrs. d. apologized to me afterwards, saying that these were the servants of the family, that they were exceedingly anxious to see me, and so she had allowed them all to come into the hall. they were so respectable in their appearance, and so neatly dressed, that i might almost have mistaken them for visitors. we had a very pleasant hour or two with the family, which i enjoyed exceedingly. mr. and mrs. douglas were full of the most considerate kindness, and some of the daughters had intimate acquaintances in america. i enjoy these little glimpses into family circles more than any thing else; there is no warmth like fireside warmth. in the evening the rooms were filled. i should think all the clergymen of edinburgh must have been there, for i was introduced to ministers without number. the scotch have a good many little ways that are like ours; they call their clergy ministers, as we do. there were many persons from ancient families, distinguished in scottish history both for rank and piety; among others, lady carstairs, sir henry moncrief and lady. there was also the countess of gainsborough, one of the ladies of the queen's household, a very beautiful woman with charming manners, reminding one of the line of pope-- "graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride." i was introduced to dr. john brown, who is reckoned one of the best exegetial scholars in europe. he is small of stature, sprightly, and pleasant in manners, but with a high bald forehead and snow-white hair. there were also many members of the faculty of the university. i talked a little with dr. guthrie, whom i described in a former letter. i told him that one thing which had been an agreeable disappointment to me was, the apparent cordiality between the members of the free and the national church. he seemed to think that the wounds of the old conflict were, to a great extent, healed. he spoke in high terms of the duchess of sutherland, her affability, kindness, and considerateness to the poor. i forget from whom i received the anecdote, but somebody told me this of her--that, one of her servants having lost a relative, she had left a party where she was engaged, and gone in the plainest attire and quietest way to attend the funeral. it was remarked upon as showing her considerateness for the feelings of those in inferior positions. about nine o'clock we left to go to the temperance _soirée_. it was in the same place, and conducted in the same way, with the others which i have described. the lord provost presided, and one or two of the working men who spoke in the former _soirée_ made speeches, and very good ones too. the meeting was greatly enlivened by the presence and speech of the jovial lord conynghame, who amused us all by the gallant manner in which he expressed the warmth of scottish welcome towards "our american guests." if it had been in the old times of scottish hospitality, he said, he should have proposed a _bumper_ three times three; but as that could not be done in a temperance meeting, he proposed three cheers, in which he led off with a hearty good will. all that the scotch people need now for the prosperity of their country is the temperance reformation; and undoubtedly they will have it. they have good sense and strength of mind enough to work out whatever they choose. we went home tired enough. the next day we had a few calls to make, and an invitation from lady drummond to visit "classic hawthornden." accordingly, in the forenoon, mr. s. and i called first on lord and lady gainsborough; though, she is one of the queen's household, she is staying here at edinburgh, and the queen at osborne. i infer therefore that the appointment includes no very onerous duties. the earl of gainsborough is the eldest brother of rev. baptist w. noel. lady gainsborough is the daughter of the earl of roden, who is an irish lord of the very strictest calvinistic persuasion: he is a devout man, and for many years, we were told, maintained a calvinistic church of the english establishment in paris. while mr. s. talked with lord gainsborough, i talked with his lady, and lady roden, who was present. lady gainsborough inquired about our schools for the poor, and how they were conducted. i reflected a moment, and then answered that we had no schools for the poor as such, but the common school was open alike to all classes.[k] in england and scotland, in all classes, from the queen downward, no movements are so popular as those for the education and elevation of the poor; one is seldom in company without hearing the conversation turn upon them. the conversation generally turned upon the condition of servants in america. i said that one of the principal difficulties in american housekeeping proceeded from the fact that there were so many other openings of profit that very few were found willing to assume the position of the servant, except as a temporary expedient; in fact, that the whole idea of service was radically different, it being a mere temporary contract to render certain services, not differing essentially from the contract of the mechanic or tradesman. the ladies said they thought there could be no family feeling among servants if that was the case; and i replied that, generally speaking, there was none; that old and attached family servants in the free states were rare exceptions. this, i know, must look, to persons in old countries, like a hard and discouraging feature of democracy. i regard it, however, as only a temporary difficulty. many institutions among us are in a transition state. gradually the whole subject of the relations of labor and the industrial callings will assume a new form in america, and though we shall never be able to command the kind of service secured in aristocratic countries, yet we shall have that which will be as faithful and efficient. if domestic service can be made as pleasant, profitable, and respectable as any of the industrial callings, it will soon become as permanent. our next visit was to sir william hamilton and lady. sir william is the able successor of dugald stewart and dr. brown in the chair of intellectual philosophy. his writings have had a wide circulation in america. he is a man of noble presence, though we were sorry to see that he was suffering from ill health. it seems to me that scotland bears that relation to england, with regard to metaphysical inquiry, that new england does to the rest of the united states. if one counts over the names of distinguished metaphysicians, the scotch, as compared with the english, number three to one--reid, stewart, brown, all scotchmen. sir william still writes and lectures. he and mr. s. were soon discoursing on german, english, scotch, and american metaphysics, while i was talking with lady hamilton and her daughters. after we came away mr. s. said, that no man living had so thoroughly understood and analyzed the german philosophy. he said that sir william spoke of a call which he had received from professor park, of andover, and expressed himself in high terms of his metaphysical powers. after that we went to call on george combe, the physiologist. we found him and mrs. combe in a pleasant, sunny parlor, where, among other objects of artistic interest, we saw a very fine engraving of mrs. siddons. i was not aware until after leaving that mrs. combe is her daughter. mr. combe, though somewhat advanced, seems full of life and animation, and conversed with a great deal of warmth and interest on america, where he made a tour some years since. like other men in europe who sympathize in our progress, he was sanguine in the hope that the downfall of slavery must come at no distant date. after a pleasant chat here we came home; and after an interval of rest the carriage was at the door for hawthornden. it is about seven miles out from edinburgh. it is a most romantic spot, on the banks of the river esk, now the seat of mr. james walker drummond. scott has sung in the ballad of the gray brother,-- sweet are the paths, o, passing sweet, by esk's fair streams that run, o'er airy steep, through copse-woods deep, impervious to the sun. who knows not melville's beechy grove, and roslin's rocky glen, dalkeith, which all the virtues love, and classic hawthornden? "melville's beechy grove" is an allusion to the grounds of lord melville, through which we drove on our way. the beech trees here are magnificent; fully equal to any trees of the sort which i have seen in our american forests, and they were in full leaf. they do not grow so high, but have more breadth and a wider sweep of branches; on the whole they are well worthy of a place in song. i know in my childhood i often used to wish that i could live in a ruined castle; and this hawthornden would be the very beau ideal of one as a romantic dwelling-place. it is an old castellated house, perched on the airy verge of a precipice, directly over the beautiful river esk, looking down one of the most romantic glens in scotland. part of it is in ruins, and, hung with wreaths of ivy, it seems to stand just to look picturesque. the house itself, with its quaint, high gables, and gray, antique walls, appears old enough to take you back to the times of william wallace. it is situated within an hour's walk of roslin castle and chapel, one of the most beautiful and poetic architectural remains in scotland. our drive to the place was charming. it was a showery day; but every few moments the sun blinked out, smiling through the falling rain, and making the wet leaves glitter, and the raindrops wink at each other in the most sociable manner possible. arrived at the house, our friend, miss s----, took us into a beautiful parlor overhanging the glen, each window of which commanded a picture better than was ever made on canvas. we had a little chat with lady drummond, and then we went down to examine the caverns,--for there are caverns under the house, with long galleries and passages running from them through the rocks, some way down the river. several apartments are hollowed out here in the rock on which the house is founded, which they told us belonged to bruce; the tradition being, that he was hidden here for some months. there was his bed room, dining room, sitting room, and a very curious apartment where the walls were all honeycombed into little partitions, which they called his library, these little partitions being his book shelves. there are small loophole windows in these apartments, where you can look up and down the glen, and enjoy a magnificent prospect. for my part, i thought if i were bruce, sitting there with a book in my lap, listening to the gentle brawl of the esk, looking up and down the glen, watching the shaking raindrops on the oaks, the birches and beeches, i should have thought that was better than fighting, and that my pleasant little cave was as good an arbor on the hill difficulty as ever mortal man enjoyed. there is a ponderous old two-handed sword kept here, said to have belonged to sir william wallace. it is considerably shorter than it was originally, but, resting on its point, it reached to the chin of a good six foot gentleman of our party. the handle is made of the horn of a sea-horse, (if you know what that is,) and has a heavy iron ball at the end. it must altogether have weighed some ten or twelve pounds. think of a man hewing away _on men_ with this! there is a well in this cavern, down which we were directed to look and observe a hole in the side; this we were told was the entrance to another set of caverns and chambers under those in which we were, and to passages which extended down and opened out into the valley. in the olden days the approach to these caverns was not through the house, but through the side of a deep well sunk in the court yard, which communicates through a subterranean passage with this well. those seeking entrance were let down by a windlass into the well in the court yard, and drawn up by a windlass into this cavern. there was no such accommodation at present, but we were told some enterprising tourists had explored the lower caverns. pleasant kind of times those old days must have been, when houses had to be built like a rabbit burrow, with all these accommodations for concealment and escape. after exploring the caverns we came up into the parlors again, and miss s. showed me a scottish album, in which were all sorts of sketches, memorials, autographs, and other such matters. what interested me more, she was making a collection of scottish ballads, words and tunes. i told her that i had noticed, since i had been in scotland, that the young ladies seemed to take very little interest in the national scotch airs, and were all devoted to italian; moreover, that the scotch ballads and memories, which so interested me, seemed to have very little interest for people generally in scotland. miss s. was warm enough in her zeal to make up a considerable account, and so we got on well together. while we were sitting, chatting, two young ladies came in, who had walked up the glen despite the showery day. they were protected by good, substantial outer garments, of a kind of shag or plush, and so did not fear the rain. i wanted to walk down to roslin castle, but the party told me there would not be time this afternoon, as we should have to return at a certain hour. i should not have been reconciled to this, had not another excursion been proposed for the purpose of exploring roslin. however, i determined to go a little way down the glen, and get a distant view of it, and my fair friends, the young ladies, offered to accompany me; so off we started down the winding paths, which were cut among the banks overhanging the esk. the ground was starred over with patches of pale-yellow primroses, and for the first time i saw the heather, spreading over rocks and matting itself around the roots of trees. my companions, to whom it was the commonest thing in the world, could hardly appreciate the delight which i felt in looking at it; it was not in flower; i believe it does not blossom till some time in july or august. we have often seen it in greenhouses, and it is so hardy that it is singular it will not grow wild in america. we walked, ran, and scrambled to an eminence which commanded a view of roslin chapel, the only view, i fear, which will ever gladden my eyes, for the promised expedition to it dissolved itself into mist. when on the hill top, so that i could see the chapel at a distance, i stood thinking over the ballad of harold, in the lay of the last minstrel, and the fate of the lovely rosabel, and saying over to myself the last verses of the ballad:-- "o'er roslin, all that dreary night, a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watchfire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied, all the copsewood glen; 'twas seen from deyden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seemed all on fire that chapel proud, where roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seemed all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmered, all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair, so will they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high st. clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold lie buried, within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold; but the sea holds lovely rosabelle! and each st. clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung, the dirge of lovely rosabelle." there are many allusions in this which show scott's minute habits of observation; for instance, these two lines:-- "blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair." every buttress, battlement, and projection of the exterior is incrusted with the most elaborate floral and leafy carving, among which the rose is often repeated, from its suggesting, by similarity of sound, roslin. again, this line-- "shone every pillar foliage-bound"-- suggests to the mind the profusion and elaborateness of the leafy decorations in the inside. among these, one pillar, garlanded with spiral wreaths of carved foliage, is called the "apprentice's pillar;" the tradition being, that while the master was gone to rome to get some further hints on executing the plan, a precocious young mason, whom he left at home, completed it in his absence. the master builder summarily knocked him on the head, as a warning to all progressive young men not to grow wiser than their teachers. tradition points out the heads of the master and workmen among the corbels. so you see, whereas in old greek times people used to point out their celebrities among the stars, and gave a defunct hero a place in the constellations, in the middle ages he only got a place among the corbels. i am increasingly sorry that i was beguiled out of my personal examination of this chapel, since i have seen the plates of it in my baronial sketches. it is the rival of melrose, but more elaborate; in fact, it is a perfect cataract of architectural vivacity and ingenuity, as defiant of any rules of criticism and art as the leaf-embowered arcades and arches of our american forest cathedrals. from the comparison of the plates of the engravings, i should judge there was less delicacy of taste, and more exuberance of invention, than in melrose. one old prosaic commentator on it says that it is quite remarkable that there are no two cuts in it precisely alike; each buttress, window, and pillar is unique, though with such a general resemblance to each other as to deceive the eye. it was built in , by william st. clair, who was prince of orkney, duke of oldenburgh, lord of roslin, earl of caithness and strathearn, and so on _ad infinitum_. he was called the "seemly st. clair," from his noble deportment and elegant manners; resided in royal splendor at this castle of roslin, and kept a court there as prince of orkney. his table was served with vessels of gold and silver, and he had one lord for his master of household, one for his cup bearer, and one for his carver. his princess, elizabeth douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, fifty-three of whom were daughters of noblemen, and they were attended in all their excursions by a retinue of two hundred gentlemen. these very woods and streams, which now hear nothing but the murmurs of the esk, were all alive with the bustle of a court in those days. the castle was now distinctly visible; it stands on an insulated rock, two hundred and twenty yards from the chapel. it has under it a set of excavations and caverns almost equally curious with those of hawthornden; there are still some tolerably preserved rooms in it, and mrs. w. informed me that they had once rented these rooms for a summer residence. what a delightful idea! the barons of roslin were all buried under this chapel, in their armor, as scott describes in the poem. and as this family were altogether more than common folks, it is perfectly credible that on the death of one of them a miraculous light should illuminate the castle, chapel, and whole neighborhood. it appears, by certain ancient documents, that this high and mighty house of st. clair were in a particular manner patrons of the masonic craft. it is known that the trade of masonry was then in the hands of a secret and mysterious order, from whom probably our modern masons have descended. the st. clair family, it appears, were at the head of this order, with power to appoint officers and places of meeting, to punish transgressors, and otherwise to have the superintendence of all their affairs. this fact may account for such a perfect geyser of architectural ingenuity as has been poured out upon their family chapel, which was designed for a _chef-d'oeuvre_, a concentration of the best that could be done to the honor of their patron's family. the documents which authenticate this statement are described in billings's baronial antiquities. so much for "the lordly line of high st. clair." when we came back to the house, and after taking coffee in the drawing room, miss s. took me over the interior, a most delightful place, full of all sorts of out-of-the-way snuggeries, and comfortable corners, and poetic irregularities. there she showed me a picture of one of the early ancestors of the family, the poet drummond, hanging in a room, which tradition has assigned to him. it represents a man with a dark, spanish-looking face, with the broad elizabethan ruff, earnest, melancholy eyes, and an air half cavalier, half poet, bringing to mind the chivalrous, graceful, fastidious bard, accomplished scholar, and courtier of his time, the devout believer in the divine right of kings, and of the immunities and privileges of the upper class generally. this drummond, it seems, was early engaged to a fair young lady, whose death rendered his beautiful retreat of hawthornden insupportable to him, and of course, like other persons of romance, he sought refuge in foreign travel, went abroad, and remained eight years. afterwards he came back, married, and lived here for some time. among other traditions of the place, it is said that ben jonson once walked all the way from london to visit the poet in this retreat; and a tree is still shown on the grounds under which they are said to have met. it seems that ben's habits were rather too noisy and convivial to meet altogether the taste of his fastidious and aristocratic host; and so he had his own thoughts of him, which, being written down in a diary, were published by some indiscreet executor, after they were both dead. we were shown an old, original edition of the poems. i must confess i never read them. since i have seen the material the poet and novelist has on this ground, all i wonder at is, that there have not been a thousand poets to one. i should have thought they would have been as plenty as the mavis and merle, and sprouting out every where, like the primroses and heather bells. our american literature is unfortunate in this respect--that our nation never had any childhood, our day never had any dawn; so we have very little traditionary lore to work over. we came home about five o'clock, and had some company in the evening. some time to-day i had a little chat with mrs. w. on the quakers. she is a cultivated and thoughtful woman, and seemed to take quite impartial views, and did not consider her own sect as by any means the only form of christianity, but maintained--what every sensible person must grant, i think--that it has had an important mission in society, even in its peculiarities. i inferred from her conversation that the system of plain dress, maintained with the nicety which they always use, is by no means a saving in a pecuniary point of view. she stated that one young friend, who had been brought up in this persuasion, gave it as her reason for not adopting its peculiar dress, that she could not afford it; that is to say, that for a given sum of money she could make a more creditable appearance were she allowed the range of form, shape, and trimming, which the ordinary style of dressing permits. i think almost any lady, who knows the magical value of bits of trimming, and bows of ribbon judiciously adjusted in critical locations, of inserting, edging, and embroidery, considered as economic arts, must acknowledge that there is some force in the young lady's opinion. nevertheless the doric simplicity of a quaker lady's dress, who is in circumstances to choose her material, has a peculiar charm. as at present advised, the quaker ladies whom i have seen very judiciously adhere to the spirit of plain attire, without troubling themselves to maintain the exact letter. for instance, a plain straw cottage, with its white satin ribbon, is sometimes allowed to take the place of the close silk bonnet of fox's day. for my part, while i reverence the pious and unworldly spirit which dictated the peculiar forms of the quaker sect, i look for a higher development of religion still, when all the beautiful artistic faculties of the soul being wholly sanctified and offered up to god, we shall no longer shun beauty in any of its forms, either in dress or household adornment, as a temptation, but rather offer it up as a sacrifice to him who has set us the example, by making every thing beautiful in its season. as to art and letters, i find many of my quaker friends sympathizing in those judicious views which were taken by the society of friends in philadelphia, when benjamin west developed a talent for painting, regarding such talent as an indication of the will of him who had bestowed it. so i find many of them taking pleasure in the poetry of scott, longfellow, and whittier, as developments of his wisdom who gives to the human soul its different faculties and inspirations. more delightful society than a cultivated quaker family cannot be found: the truthfulness, genuineness, and simplicity of character, albeit not wanting, at proper times, a shrewd dash of worldly wisdom, are very refreshing. mrs. w. and i went to the studio of hervey, the scotch artist. both he and his wife received us with great kindness. i saw there his covenanters celebrating the lord's supper--a picture which i could not look at critically on account of the tears which kept blinding my eyes. it represents a bleak hollow of a mountain side, where a few trembling old men and women, a few young girls and children, with one or two young men, are grouped together, in that moment of hushed prayerful repose which precedes the breaking of the sacramental bread. there is something touching always about that worn, weary look of rest and comfort with which a sick child lies down on a mother's bosom, and like this is the expression with which these hunted fugitives nestle themselves beneath the shadow of their redeemer; mothers who had seen their sons "tortured, not accepting deliverance"--wives who had seen the blood of their husbands poured out on their doorstone--children with no father but god--and bereaved old men, from whom, every child had been rent--all gathering for comfort round the cross of a suffering lord. in such hours they found strength to suffer, and to say to every allurement of worldly sense and pleasure as the drowning margaret wilson said to the tempters in her hour of martyrdom, "i am _christ's child_--let me go." another most touching picture of hervey's commemorates a later scene of scottish devotion and martyr endurance scarcely below that of the days of the covenant. it is called leaving the manse. we in america all felt to our heart's core a sympathy with that high endurance which led so many scottish ministers to forsake their churches, their salaries, the happy homes where their children were born and their days passed, rather than violate a principle. this picture is a monument of this struggle. there rises the manse overgrown with its flowering vines, the image of a lovely, peaceful home. the minister's wife, a pale, lovely creature, is just locking the door, out of which her husband and family have passed--leaving it forever. the husband and father is supporting on his arm an aged, feeble mother, and the weeping children are gathering sorrowfully round him, each bearing away some memorial of their home; one has the bird cage. but the unequalled look of high, unshaken patience, of heroic faith, and love which seems to spread its light over every face, is what i cannot paint. the painter told me that the faces were _portraits_, and the scene by no means imaginary. but did not these sacrifices bring with them, even in their bitterness, a joy the world knoweth not? yes, they did. i know it full well, not vainly did christ say, there is no man that hath left houses or lands for my sake and the gospel's but he shall receive manifold more _in this life_. mr. hervey kindly gave me the engraving of his covenanters' sacrament, which i shall keep as a memento of him and of scotland. his style of painting is forcible and individual. he showed us the studies that he has taken with his palette and brushes out on the mountains and moors of scotland, painting moss, and stone, and brook, just as it is. this is the way to be a national painter. one pleasant evening, not long before we left edinburgh, c., s., and i walked out for a quiet stroll. we went through the grass market, where so many defenders of the covenant have suffered, and turned into the churchyard of the gray friars; a gray, old gothic building, with multitudes of graves around it. here we saw the tombs of allan ramsay and many other distinguished characters. the grim, uncouth sculpture on the old graves, and the quaint epitaphs, interested me much; but i was most moved by coming quite unexpectedly on an ivy-grown slab, in the wall, commemorating the martyrs of the covenant. the inscription struck me so much, that i got c---- to copy it in his memorandum book. "halt, passenger! take heed what you do see. here lies interred the dust of those who stood 'gainst perjury, resisting unto blood, adhering to the covenant, and laws establishing the same; which was the cause their lives were sacrificed unto the last of prelatists abjured, though here their dust lies mixed with murderers and other crew whom justice justly did to death pursue; but as for them, no cause was to be found worthy of death, but only they were found constant and steadfast, witnessing for the prerogatives of christ their king; which truths were sealed, by famous guthrie's head, and all along to mr. renwick's blood they did endure the wrath of enemies, reproaches, torments, deaths, and injuries; but yet they're those who from such troubles came and triumph now in glory with the lamb. "from may , , when the marquis of argyle was beheaded, to february , , when james renwick suffered, there were some eighteen thousand one way or other murdered, of whom were executed at edinburgh about one hundred noblemen, ministers, and gentlemen, and others, noble martyrs for christ." despite the roughness of the verse, there is a thrilling power in these lines. people in gilded houses, on silken couches, at ease among books, and friends, and literary pastimes, may sneer at the covenanters; it is much easier to sneer than to die for truth and right, as they died. whether they were right in all respects is nothing to the purpose; but it is to the purpose that in a crisis of their country's history they upheld a great principle vital to her existence. had not these men held up the heart of scotland, and kept alive the fire of liberty on her altars, the very literature which has been used to defame them could not have had its existence. the very literary celebrity of scotland has grown out of their grave; for a vigorous and original literature is impossible, except to a strong, free, self-respecting people. the literature of a people must spring from the sense of its nationality; and nationality is impossible without self-respect, and self-respect is impossible without liberty. it is one of the trials of our mortal state, one of the disciplines of our virtue, that the world's benefactors and reformers are so often without form or comeliness. the very force necessary to sustain the conflict makes them appear unlovely; they "tread the wine press alone, and of the people there is none with them." the shrieks, and groans, and agonies of men wrestling in mortal combat are often not graceful or gracious; but the comments that the children of the puritans, and the children of the covenanters, make on the ungraceful and severe elements which marked the struggles of their great fathers, are as ill-timed as if a son, whom a mother had just borne from a burning dwelling, should criticize the shrieks with which she sought him, and point out to ridicule the dishevelled hair and singed garments which show how she struggled for his life. but these are they which are "sown in weakness, but raised in power; which are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory:" even in this world they will have their judgment day, and their names which went down in the dust like a gallant banner trodden in the mire, shall rise again all glorious in the sight of nations. the evening sky, glowing red, threw out the bold outline of the castle, and the quaint old edifices as they seemed to look down on us silently from their rocky heights, and the figure of salisbury crags marked itself against the red sky like a couchant lion. the time of our sojourn in scotland had drawn towards its close. though feeble in health, this visit to me has been full of enjoyment; full of lofty, but sad memories; full of sympathies and inspirations. i think there is no nobler land, and i pray god that the old seed here sown in blood and tears may never be rooted out of scotland. letter x. my dear h.:-- it was a rainy, misty morning when i left my kind retreat and friends in edinburgh. considerate as every body had been about imposing on my time or strength, still you may well believe that i was much exhausted. we left edinburgh, therefore, with the determination to plunge at once into some hidden and unknown spot, where we might spend two or three days quietly by ourselves; and remembering your sunday at stratford-on-avon, i proposed that we should go there. as stratford, however, is off the railroad line we determined to accept the invitation, which was lying by us, from our friend joseph sturge, of birmingham, and take sanctuary with him. so we wrote on, intrusting him with the secret, and charging him on no account to let any one know of our arrival. well in the rail car, we went whirling along by preston pans, where was fought the celebrated battle in which colonel gardiner was killed; by dunbar, where cromwell told his army to "trust in god and keep their powder dry;" through berwick-on-the-tweed and newcastle-on-tyne; by the old towers and gates of york, with its splendid cathedral; getting a view of durham cathedral in the distance. the country between berwick and newcastle is one of the greatest manufacturing districts of england, and for smoke, smut, and gloom, pittsburg and wheeling bear no comparison to it. the english sky, always paler and cooler in its tints than ours, here seems to be turned into a leaden canopy; tall chimneys belch forth gloom and confusion; houses, factories, fences, even trees and grass, look grim and sooty. it is true that people with immense wealth can live in such regions in cleanliness and elegance; but how must it be with the poor? i know of no one circumstance more unfavorable to moral purity than the necessity of being physically dirty. our nature is so intensely symbolical, that where the outward sign of defilement becomes habitual, the inner is too apt to correspond. i am quite sure that before there can be a universal millennium, trade must be pursued in such a way as to enable the working classes to realize something of beauty and purity in the circumstances of their outward life. i have heard there is a law before the british parliament, whose operation is designed to purify the air of england by introducing chimneys which shall consume all the sooty particles which now float about, obscuring the air and carrying defilement with them. may that day be hastened! at newcastle-on-tyne and some other places various friends came out to meet us, some of whom presented us with most splendid bouquets of hothouse flowers. this region has been the seat of some of the most zealous and efficient antislavery operations in england. about night our cars whizzed into the depot at birmingham; but just before we came in a difficulty was started in the company. "mr. sturge is to be there waiting for us, but he does not know us, and we don't know him; what is to be done?" c---- insisted that he should know him by instinct; and so after we reached the depot, we told him to sally out and try. sure enough, in a few moments he pitched upon a cheerful, middle-aged gentleman, with a moderate but not decisive broad brim to his hat, and challenged him as mr. sturge; the result verified the truth that "instinct is a great matter." in a few moments our new friend and ourselves were snugly encased in a fly, trotting off as briskly as ever we could to his place at edgbaston, nobody a whit the wiser. you do not know how snug we felt to think we had done it so nicely. the carriage soon drove in upon a gravel walk, winding among turf, flowers, and shrubs, where we found opening to us another home as warm and kindly as the one we had just left, made doubly interesting by the idea of entire privacy and seclusion. after retiring to our chambers to repair the ravages of travel, we united in the pleasant supper room, where the table was laid before a bright coal fire: no unimportant feature this fire, i can assure you, in a raw cloudy evening. a glass door from the supper room opened into a conservatory, brilliant with pink and yellow azalias, golden calceolarias, and a profusion of other beauties, whose names i did not know. the side tables were strewn with books, and the ample folds of the drab curtains, let down over the windows, shut out the rain, damp, and chill. when we were gathered round the table, mr. sturge said that he had somewhat expected elihu burritt that evening, and we all hoped he would come. i must not omit to say, that the evening circle was made more attractive and agreeable in my eyes by the presence of two or three of the little people, who were blessed with the rosy cheek of english children. mr. sturge is one of the most prominent and efficient of the philanthropists of modern days. an air of benignity and easy good nature veils and conceals in him the most unflinching perseverance and energy of purpose. he has for many years been a zealous advocate of the antislavery cause in england, taking up efficiently the work begun by clarkson and wilberforce. he, with a friend of the same denomination, made a journey at their own expense, to investigate the workings of the apprentice system, by which the act of immediate emancipation in the west indies was for a while delayed. after his return he sustained a rigorous examination of seven days before a committee of the house of commons, the result of which successfully demonstrated the abuses of that system, and its entire inutility for preparing either masters or servants for final emancipation. this evidence went as far as any thing to induce parliament to declare immediate and entire emancipation. mr. sturge also has been equally zealous and engaged in movements for the ignorant and perishing classes at home. at his own expense he has sustained a private farm school for the reformation of juvenile offenders, and it has sometimes been found that boys, whom no severity and no punishment seemed to affect, have been entirely melted and subdued by the gentler measures here employed. he has also taken a very ardent and decided part in efforts for the extension of the principles of peace, being a warm friend and supporter of elihu burritt. the next morning it was agreed that we should take our drive to stratford-on-avon. as yet this shrine of pilgrims stands a little aloof from the bustle of modern progress, and railroad cars do not run whistling and whisking with brisk officiousness by the old church and the fanciful banks of the avon. the country that we were to pass over was more peculiarly old english; that phase of old english which is destined soon to pass away, under the restless regenerating force of modern progress. our ride along was a singular commixture of an upper and under current of thought. deep down in our hearts we were going back to english days; the cumbrous, quaint, queer, old, picturesque times; the dim, haunted times between cock-crowing and morning; those hours of national childhood, when popular ideas had the confiding credulity, the poetic vivacity, and versatile life, which distinguish children from grown people. no one can fail to feel, in reading any of the plays of shakspeare, that he was born in an age of credulity and marvels, and that the materials out of which his mind was woven were dyed in the grain, in the haunted springs of tradition. it would have been as absolutely impossible for even himself, had he been born in the daylight of this century, to have built those quaint, gothic structures of imagination, and tinted them with their peculiar coloring of marvellousness and mystery, as for a modern artist to originate and execute the weird designs of an ancient cathedral. both gothic architecture and this perfection of gothic poetry were the springing and efflorescence of that age, impossible to grow again. they were the forest primeval; other trees may spring in their room, trees as mighty and as fair, but not such trees. so, as we rode along, our speculations and thoughts in the under current were back in the old world of tradition. while, on the other hand, for the upper current, we were keeping up a brisk conversation on the peace question, on the abolition of slavery, on the possibility of ignoring slave-grown produce, on mr. cobden and mr. bright, and, in fact, on all the most wide-awake topics of the present day. one little incident occurred upon the road. as we were passing by a quaint old mansion, which stood back from the road, surrounded by a deep court, mr. s. said to me, "there is a friend here who would like to see thee, if thou hast no objections," and went on to inform me that she was an aged woman, who had taken a deep interest in the abolition of slavery since the time of its first inception under clarkson and wilberforce, though now lying very low on a sick bed. of course we all expressed our willingness to stop, and the carriage was soon driving up the gravelled walk towards the house. we were ushered into a comfortable sitting room, which looked out on beautiful grounds, where the velvet grass, tall, dark trees, and a certain quaint air of antiquity in disposition and arrangement, gave me a singular kind of pleasure; the more so, that it came to me like a dream; that the house and the people were unknown to me, and the whole affair entirely unexpected. i was soon shown into a neat chamber, where an aged woman was lying in bed. i was very much struck and impressed by her manner of receiving me. with deep emotion and tears, she spoke of the solemnity and sacredness of the cause which had for years lain near her heart. there seemed to be something almost prophetic in the solemn strain of assurance with which she spoke of the final extinction of slavery throughout the world. i felt both pleased and sorrowful. i felt sorrowful because i knew, if all true christians in america had the same feelings, that men, women, and children, for whom christ died, would no more be sold in my country on the auction block. there have been those in america who have felt and prayed thus nobly and sincerely for the heathen in burmah and hindostan, and that sentiment was a beautiful and an ennobling one; but, alas! the number has been few who have felt and prayed for the heathenism, and shame of our own country; for the heathenism which sells the very members of the body of christ as merchandise. when we were again on the road, we were talking on the change of times in england since railroads began; and mr. s. gave an amusing description of how the old lords used to travel in state, with their coaches and horses, when they went up once a year on a solemn pilgrimage to london, with postilions and outriders, and all the country gaping and wondering after them. "i wonder," said one of us, "if shakspeare were living, what he would say to our times, and what he would think of all the questions that are agitating the world now." that he did have thoughts whose roots ran far beyond the depth of the age in which he lived, is plain enough from numberless indications in his plays; but whether he would have taken any practical interest in the world's movements is a fair question. the poetic mind is not always the progressive one; it has, like moss and ivy, a need for something old to cling to and germinate upon. the artistic temperament, too, is soft and sensitive; so there are all these reasons for thinking that perhaps he would have been for keeping out of the way of the heat and dust of modern progress. it does not follow because a man has penetration to see an evil, he has energy to reform it. erasmus saw all that luther saw just as clearly, but he said that he had rather never have truth at all, than contend for it with the world in such a tumult. however, on the other hand, england did, in milton, have one poet who girt himself up to the roughest and stormiest work of reformation; so it is not quite certain, after all, that shakspeare might not have been a reformer in our times. one thing is quite certain, that he would have said very shrewd things about all the matters that move the world now, as he certainly did about all matters that he was cognizant of in his own day. it was a little before noon when we drove into stratford, by which time, with our usual fatality in visiting poetic shrines, the day had melted off into a kind of drizzling mist, strongly suggestive of a downright rain. it is a common trick these english days have; the weather here seems to be possessed of a water spirit. this constant drizzle is good for ivies, and hawthorns, and ladies' complexions, as whoever travels here will observe, but it certainly is very bad for tourists. this stratford is a small town, of between three and four thousand inhabitants, and has in it a good many quaint old houses, and is characterized (so i thought) by an air of respectable, stand-still, and meditative repose, which, i am afraid, will entirely give way before the railroad demon, for i understand that it is soon to be connected by the oxford, worcester, and wolverhampton line with all parts of the kingdom. just think of that black little screeching imp rushing through these fields which have inspired so many fancies; how every thing poetical will fly before it! think of such sweet snatches as these set to the tune of a railroad whistle:-- "hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins to rise, his steeds to water at those springs on chaliced flowers that lies. and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes, with everything that pretty bid my lady sweet to rise." and again:-- "philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell, nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh." i suppose the meadows, with their "winking mary-buds," will be all cut up into building lots in the good times coming, and philomel caught and put in a cage to sing to tourists at threepence a head. we went to the white lion, and soon had a little quiet parlor to ourselves, neatly carpeted, with a sofa drawn up to the cheerful coal fire, a good-toned piano, and in short every thing cheerful and comfortable. at first we thought we were too tired to do any thing till after dinner; we were going to take time to rest ourselves and proceed leisurely; so, while the cloth was laying, c---- took possession of the piano, and i of the sofa, till mr. s. came in upon us, saying, "why, shakspeare's house is right the next door here!" upon that we got up, just to take a peep, and from peeping we proceeded to looking, and finally put on our things and went over _seriatim_. the house has recently been bought by a shakspearian club, who have taken upon themselves the restoration and preservation of the premises. shakspeare's father, it seems, was a man of some position and substance in his day, being high sheriff and justice of the peace for the borough; and this house, therefore, i suppose, may be considered a specimen of the respectable class of houses in the times of queen elizabeth. this cut is taken from an old print, and is supposed to represent the original condition of the house. we saw a good many old houses somewhat similar to this on the road, particularly resembling it in this manner of plastering, which shows all the timber on the outside. parts of the house have been sold, altered, and used for various purposes; a butcher's stall having been kept in a part of it, and a tavern in another portion, being new-fronted with brick. the object of this shakspeare club has been to repurchase all these parts, and restore them as nearly as possible to their primeval condition. the part of the house which is shown consists of a lower room, which is floored with flat stones very much broken. it has a wide, old-fashioned chimney on one side, and opens into a smaller room back of it. from thence you go up a rude flight of stairs to a low-studded room, with rough-plastered walls, where the poet was born. the prints of this room, which are generally sold, allow themselves in considerable poetic license, representing it in fact as quite an elegant apartment, whereas, though it is kept scrupulously neat and clean, the air of it is ancient and rude. this is a somewhat flattered likeness. the roughly-plastered walls are so covered with names that it seemed impossible to add another. the name of almost every modern genius, names of kings, princes, dukes, are shown here; and it is really curious to see by what devices some very insignificant personages have endeavored to make their own names conspicuous in the crowd. generally speaking the inscription books and walls of distinguished places tend to give great force to the vulgate rendering of ecclesiastes i. , "the number of fools is infinite." to add a name in a private, modest way to walls already so crowded, is allowable; but to scrawl one's name, place of birth, and country, half across a wall, covering scores of names under it, is an operation which speaks for itself. no one would ever want to know more of a man than to see his name there and thus. back of this room were some small bed rooms, and what interested me much, a staircase leading up into a dark garret. i could not but fancy i saw a bright-eyed, curly-headed boy creeping up those stairs, zealous to explore the mysteries of that dark garret. there perhaps he saw the cat, with "eyne of burning coal, crouching 'fore the mouse's hole." doubtless in this old garret were wonderful mysteries to him, curious stores of old cast-off goods and furniture, and rats, and mice, and cobwebs. i fancied the indignation of some belligerent grandmother or aunt, who finds willie up there watching a mouse hole, with the cat, and has him down straightway, grumbling that mary did not govern that child better. we know nothing who this mary was that was his mother; but one sometimes wonders where in that coarse age, when queens and ladies talked familiarly, as women would blush to talk now, and when the broad, coarse wit of the merry wives of windsor was gotten up to suit the taste of a virgin queen,--one wonders, i say, when women were such and so, where he found those models of lily-like purity, women so chaste in soul and pure in language that they could not even bring their lips to utter a word of shame. desdemona cannot even bring herself to speak the coarse word with which her husband taunts her; she cannot make herself believe that there are women in the world who could stoop-to such grossness.[l] for my part i cannot believe that, in such an age, such deep heart-knowledge of pure womanhood could have come otherwise than by the impression on the child's soul of a mother's purity. i seem to have a vision of one of those women whom the world knows not of, silent, deep-hearted, loving, whom the coarser and more practically efficient jostle aside and underrate for their want of interest in the noisy chitchat and commonplace of the day; but who yet have a sacred power, like that of the spirit of peace, to brood with dovelike wings over the childish heart, and quicken into life the struggling, slumbering elements of a sensitive nature. i cannot but think, in that beautiful scene, where he represents desdemona as amazed and struck dumb with the grossness and brutality of the charges which had been thrown upon her, yet so dignified in the consciousness of her own purity, so magnanimous in the power of disinterested, forgiving love, that he was portraying no ideal excellence, but only reproducing, under fictitious and supposititious circumstances, the patience, magnanimity, and enduring love which had shone upon him in the household words and ways of his mother. it seemed to me that in that bare and lowly chamber i saw a vision of a lovely face which was the first beauty that dawned on those childish eyes, and heard that voice whose lullaby tuned his ear to an exquisite sense of cadence and rhythm. i fancied that, while she thus serenely shone upon, him like a benignant star, some rigorous grand-aunt took upon her the practical part of his guidance, chased up his wanderings to the right and left, scolded him for wanting to look out of the window because his little climbing toes left their mark on the neat wall, or rigorously arrested him when his curly head was seen bobbing off at the bottom of the street, following a bird, or a dog, or a showman; intercepting him in some happy hour when he was aiming to strike off on his own account to an adjoining field for "winking mary-buds;" made long sermons to him on the wickedness of muddying his clothes and wetting his new shoes, (if he had any,) and told him that something dreadful would come out of the graveyard and catch him if he was not a better boy, imagining that if it were not for her bustling activity willie would go straight to destruction. i seem, too, to have a kind of perception of shakspeare's father; a quiet, god-fearing, thoughtful man, given to the reading of good books, avoiding quarrels with a most christian-like fear, and with but small talent, either in the way of speech making or money getting; a man who wore his coat with an easy slouch, and who seldom knew where his money went to. all these things i seemed to perceive as if a sort of vision had radiated from the old walls; there seemed to be the rustling of garments and the sound of voices in the deserted rooms; the pattering of feet on the worm-eaten staircase; the light of still, shady summer afternoons, a hundred years ago, seemed to fall through the casements and lie upon the floor. there was an interest to every thing about the house, even to the quaint iron fastenings about the windows; because those might have arrested that child's attention, and been dwelt on in some dreamy hour of infant thought. the fires that once burned in those old chimneys, the fleeting sparks, the curling smoke, and glowing coals, all may have inspired their fancies. there is a strong tinge of household coloring in many parts of shakspeare, imagery that could only have come from such habits of quiet, household contemplation. see, for example, this description of the stillness of the house, after all are gone to bed at night:-- "now sleep yslaked hath the rout; no din but snores, the house about, made louder by the o'er-fed breast of this most pompous marriage feast. the cat, with, eyne of burning coal, now crouches 'fore the mouse's hole; and, crickets sing at th' oven's mouth, as the blither for their drouth." also this description of the midnight capers of the fairies about the house, from midsummer night's dream:-- puck. "now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with, weary task fordone. now the wasted brands do glow, whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, puts the wretch, that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night, that the graves all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the churchway paths to glide: and we fairies that do run by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallowed house: i am sent with, broom, before, to sweep the dust behind the door. obe. through this house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire: every elf, and fairy sprite, hop as light as bird, from brier; and this ditty after me sing, and dance it trippingly." by the by, one cannot but be struck with the resemblance, in the spirit and coloring of these lines, to those very similar ones in the penseroso of milton:-- "far from all resort of mirth, save the cricket on the hearth, or the bellman's drowsy charm, to bless the doors from nightly harm; while glowing embers, through the room, teach light to counterfeit a gloom." i have often noticed how much the first writings of milton resemble in their imagery and tone of coloring those of shakspeare, particularly in the phraseology and manner of describing flowers. i think, were a certain number of passages from lycidas and comus interspersed with a certain number from midsummer night's dream, the imagery, tone of thought, and style of coloring, would be found so nearly identical, that it would be difficult for one not perfectly familiar to distinguish them. you may try it. that milton read and admired shakspeare is evident from his allusion to him in l'allegro. it is evident, however, that milton's taste had been so formed by the greek models, that he was not entirely aware of all that was in shakspeare; he speaks of him as a sweet, fanciful warbler, and it is exactly in sweetness and fancifulness that he seems to have derived benefit from him. in his earlier poems, milton seems, like shakspeare, to have let his mind run freely, as a brook warbles over many-colored pebbles; whereas in his great poem he built after models. had he known as little latin and greek as shakspeare, the world, instead of seeing a well-arranged imitation of the ancient epics from his pen, would have seen inaugurated a new order of poetry. an unequalled artist, who should build after the model of a grecian temple, would doubtless produce a splendid and effective building, because a certain originality always inheres in genius, even when copying; but far greater were it to invent an entirely new style of architecture, as different as the gothic from the grecian. this merit was shakspeare's. he was a superb gothic poet; milton, a magnificent imitator of old forms, which by his genius were wrought almost into the energy of new productions. i think shakspeare is to milton precisely what gothic architecture is to grecian, or rather to the warmest, most vitalized reproductions of the grecian; there is in milton a calm, severe majesty, a graceful and polished inflorescence of ornament, that produces, as you look upon it, a serene, long, strong ground-swell of admiration and approval. yet there is a cold unity of expression, that calls into exercise only the very highest range of our faculties: there is none of that wreathed involution of smiles and tears, of solemn earnestness and quaint conceits; those sudden uprushings of grand and magnificent sentiment, like the flame-pointed arches of cathedrals; those ranges of fancy, half goblin, half human; those complications of dizzy magnificence with fairy lightness; those streamings of many-colored light; those carvings wherein every natural object is faithfully reproduced, yet combined into a kind of enchantment: the union of all these is in shakspeare, and not in milton. milton had one most glorious phase of humanity in its perfection; shakspeare had all united; from the "deep and dreadful" sub-bass of the organ to the most aerial warbling of its highest key, not a stop or pipe was wanting. but, in fine, at the end of all this we went back to our hotel to dinner. after dinner we set out to see the church. even walter scott has not a more poetic monument than this church, standing as it does amid old, embowering trees, on the beautiful banks of the avon. a soft, still rain was falling on the leaves of the linden trees, as we walked up the avenue to the church. even rainy though it was, i noticed that many little birds would occasionally break out into song. in the event of such a phenomenon as a bright day, i think there must be quite a jubilee of birds here, even as he sung who lies below:-- "the ousel-cock, so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill, the throstle with his note so true, the wren with little quill; the finch, the sparrow, and the lark, the plain-song cuckoo gray." the church has been carefully restored inside, so that it is now in excellent preservation, and shakspeare lies buried under a broad, flat stone in the chancel. i had full often read, and knew by heart, the inscription on this stone; but somehow, when i came and stood over it, and read it, it affected me as if there were an emanation from the grave beneath. i have often wondered at that inscription, that a mind so sensitive, that had thought so much, and expressed thought with such startling power on all the mysteries of death, the grave, and the future world, should have found nothing else to inscribe on his own grave but this:-- good friend for iesus sake forbare to digg t-e dust encloased here blese be t-e man t spares t-es stones y and curst be he t moves my bones y it seems that the inscription has not been without its use, in averting what the sensitive poet most dreaded; for it is recorded in one of the books sold here, that some years ago, in digging a neighboring grave, a careless sexton broke into the side of shakspeare's tomb, and looking in saw his bones, and could easily have carried away the skull had he not been deterred by the imprecation. there is a monument in the side of the wall, which has a bust of shakspeare upon it, said to be the most authentic likeness, and supposed to have been taken by a cast from his face after death. this statement was made to us by the guide who showed it, and he stated that chantrey had come to that conclusion by a minute examination of the face. he took us into a room, where was an exact plaster cast of the bust, on which he pointed out various little minutiae on which this idea was founded. the two sides of the face are not alike; there is a falling in and depression of the muscles on one side which does not exist on the other, such as probably would never have occurred in a fancy bust, where the effort always is to render the two sides of the face as much alike as possible. there is more fulness about the lower part of the face than is consistent with the theory of an idealized bust, but is perfectly consistent with the probabilities of the time of life at which he died, and perhaps with the effects of the disease of which he died. all this i set down as it was related to me by our guide; it had a very plausible and probable sound, and i was bent on believing, which is a great matter in faith of all kinds. it is something in favor of the supposition that this is an authentic likeness, that it was erected in his own native town within seven years of his death, among people, therefore, who must have preserved the recollection of his personal appearance. after the manner of those times it was originally painted, the hair and beard of an auburn color, the eyes hazel, and the dress was represented as consisting of a scarlet doublet, over which was a loose black gown without sleeves; all which looks like an attempt to preserve an exact likeness. the inscription upon it, also, seemed to show that there were some in the world by no means unaware of who and what he was. next to the tomb of shakspeare in the chancel is buried his favorite daughter, over whom somebody has placed the following quaint inscription:-- "witty above her sex, but that's not all, wise to salvation was good mistress hall. something of shakspeare was in that, but this wholly of him, with whom she is now in bliss; then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear, to weep with her that wept with, all-- that wept, yet set herself to cheer them, up with comfort's cordial? her lore shall live, her mercy spread, when thou hast ne'er a tear to shed." this good mistress hall, it appears, was shakspeare's favorite among his three children. his son, hamet, died at twelve years of age. his daughter judith, as appears from some curious document still extant, could not write her own name, but signed with her mark; so that the "wit" of the family must have concentrated itself in mistress hall. to her, in his last will, which is still extant, shakspeare bequeathed an amount of houses, lands, plate, jewels, and other valuables, sufficient to constitute quite a handsome estate. it would appear, from this, that the poet deemed her not only "wise unto salvation," but wise in her day and generation, thus intrusting her with the bulk of his worldly goods. his wife, ann hathaway, is buried near by, under the same pavement. from the slight notice taken of her in the poet's will, it would appear that there was little love between them. he married her when he was but eighteen; most likely she was a mere rustic beauty, entirely incapable either of appreciating or adapting herself to that wide and wonderful mind in its full development. as to mistress hall, though the estate was carefully entailed, through her, to heirs male through all generations, it was not her good fortune to become the mother of a long line, for she had only one daughter, who became lady barnard, and in whom, dying childless, the family became extinct. shakspeare, like scott, seems to have had the desire to perpetuate himself by founding a family with an estate, and the coincidence in the result is striking. genius must be its own monument. after we had explored the church we went out to walk about the place. we crossed the beautiful bridge over the avon, and thought how lovely those fields and meadows would look, if they only had sunshine to set them out. then we went to the town hall, where we met the mayor, who had kindly called and offered to show us the place. it seems, in , that garrick set himself to work in good earnest to do honor to shakspeare's memory, by getting up a public demonstration at stratford; and the world, through the talents of this actor, having become alive and enthusiastic, liberal subscriptions were made by the nobility and gentry, the town hall was handsomely repaired and adorned, and a statue of shakspeare, presented by garrick, was placed in a niche at one end. then all the chief men and mighty men of the nation came and testified their reverence for the poet, by having a general jubilee. a great tent was spread on the banks of the avon, where they made speeches and drank wine, and wound up all with a great dance in the town hall; and so the manes of shakspeare were appeased, and his position settled for all generations. the room in the town hall is a very handsome one, and has pictures of garrick, and the other notables who figured on that occasion. after that we were taken to see new place. "and what is new place?" you say; "the house where shakspeare lived?" not exactly; but a house built where his house was. this drawing is taken from an old print, and is supposed to represent the house as shakspeare fitted it up. we went out into what was shakspeare's garden, where we were shown his mulberry--not the one that he planted though, but a veritable mulberry planted on the same spot; and then we went back to our hotel very tired, but having conscientiously performed every jot and tittle of the duty of good pilgrims. as we sat, in the drizzly evening, over our comfortable tea table, c---- ventured to intimate pretty decidedly that he considered the whole thing a bore; whereat i thought i saw a sly twinkle around the eyes and mouth of our most christian and patient friend, joseph sturge. mr. s. laughingly told him that he thought it the greatest exercise of christian tolerance, that he should have trailed round in the mud with us all day in our sightseeing, bearing with our unreasonable raptures. he smiled, and said, quietly, "i must confess that i was a little pleased that our friend harriet was so zealous to see shakspeare's house, when it wasn't his house, and so earnest to get sprigs from his mulberry, when it wasn't his mulberry." we were quite ready to allow the foolishness of the thing, and join the laugh at our own expense. as to our bed rooms, you must know that all the apartments in this house are named after different plays of shakspeare, the name being printed conspicuously over each door; so that the choosing of our rooms made us a little sport. "what rooms will you have, gentlemen?" says the pretty chamber maid. "rooms," said mr. s.; "why, what are there to have?" "well, there's richard iii., and there's hamlet," says the girl. "o, hamlet, by all means," said i; "that was always my favorite. can't sleep in richard iii., we should have such bad dreams." "for my part," said c----, "i want all's well that ends well." "i think," said the chamber maid, hesitating, "the bed in hamlet isn't large enough for two. richard iii. is a very nice room, sir." in fact, it became evident that we were foreordained to richard; so we resolved to embrace the modern historical view of this subject, which will before long turn him out a saint, and not be afraid of the muster roll of ghosts which shakspeare represented as infesting his apartment. well, for a wonder, the next morning arose a genuine sunny, beautiful day. let the fact be recorded that such things do sometimes occur even in england. c---- was mollified, and began to recant his ill-natured heresies of the night before, and went so far as to walk, out of his own proper motion, to ann hathaway's cottage before breakfast--he being one of the brethren described by longfellow, "who is gifted with most miraculous powers of getting up at all sorts of hours;" and therefore he came in to breakfast table with that serenity of virtuous composure which generally attends those who have been out enjoying the beauties of nature while their neighbors have been ingloriously dozing. the walk, he said, was beautiful; the cottage damp, musty, and fusty; and a supposititious old bedstead, of the age of queen elizabeth, which had been obtruded upon his notice because it _might_ have belonged to ann hathaway's mother, received a special malediction. for my part, my relic-hunting propensities were not in the slightest degree appeased, but rather stimulated, by the investigations of the day before. it seemed to me so singular that of such a man there should not remain one accredited relic! of martin luther, though he lived much earlier, how many things remain! of almost any distinguished character how much more is known than of shakspeare! there is not, so far as i can discover, an authentic relic of any thing belonging to him. there are very few anecdotes of his sayings or doings; no letters, no private memoranda, that should let us into the secret of what he was personally who has in turns personated all minds. the very perfection of his dramatic talent has become an impenetrable veil: we can no more tell from his writings what were his predominant tastes and habits than we can discriminate among the variety of melodies what are the native notes of the mocking bird. the only means left us for forming an opinion of what he was personally are inferences of the most delicate nature from, the slightest premises. the common idea which has pervaded the world, of a joyous, roving, somewhat unsettled, and dissipated character, would seem, from many well-authenticated facts, to be incorrect. the gayeties and dissipations of his life seem to have been confined to his very earliest days, and to have been the exuberance of a most extraordinary vitality, bursting into existence with such force and vivacity that it had not had time to collect itself, and so come to self-knowledge and control. by many accounts it would appear that the character he sustained in the last years of his life was that of a judicious, common-sense sort of man; a discreet, reputable, and religious householder. the inscription on his tomb is worthy of remark, as indicating the reputation he bore at the time: "_judicio pylium, genio socratem, arte maronem_" (in judgment a nestor, in genius a socrates, in art a virgil.) the comparison of him in the first place to nestor, proverbially famous for practical judgment and virtue of life, next to socrates, who was a kind of greek combination of dr. paley and dr. franklin, indicates a very different impression of him from what would generally be expressed of a poet, certainly what would not have been placed on the grave of an eccentric, erratic will-o'-the-wisp genius, however distinguished. moreover, the pious author of good mistress hall's epitaph records the fact of her being "wise to salvation," as a more especial point of resemblance to her father than even her being "witty above her sex," and expresses most confident hope of her being with him in bliss. the puritan tone of the epitaph, as well as the quality of the verse, gives reason to suppose that it was not written by one who was seduced into a tombstone lie by any superfluity of poetic sympathy. the last will of shakspeare, written by his own hand and still preserved, shows several things of the man. the introduction is as follows:-- "in the name of god. amen. i, william shakspeare, at stratford-upon-avon, in the county of warwick, gentleman, in perfect health and memory, (god be praised,) do make and ordain this my last will and testament in manner and form following; that is to say,-- "first, i commend my soul into the hands of god my creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only merits of jesus christ, my savior, to be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth, whereof it is made." the will then goes on to dispose of an amount of houses, lands, plate, money, jewels, &c., which showed certainly that the poet had possessed some worldly skill and thrift in accumulation, and to divide them with a care and accuracy which would indicate that he was by no means of that dreamy and unpractical habit of mind which cares not what becomes of worldly goods. we may also infer something of a man's character from the tone and sentiments of others towards him. glass of a certain color casts on surrounding objects a reflection of its own hue, and so the tint of a man's character returns upon us in the habitual manner in which he is spoken of by those around him. the common mode of speaking of shakspeare always savored of endearment. "gentle will" is an expression that seemed oftenest repeated. ben jonson inscribed his funeral verses "to the memory of _my beloved_ mr. william shakspeare;" he calls him the "sweet swan of avon." again, in his lines under a bust of shakspeare, he says,-- "the figure that thou seest put, it was for gentle shakspeare cut." in later times milton, who could have known him only by tradition, calls him "my shakspeare," "dear son of memory," and "sweetest shakspeare." now, nobody ever wrote of sweet john milton, or gentle john milton, or gentle martin luther, or even sweet ben jonson. rowe says of shakspeare, "the latter part of his life was spent, as all men of good sense would wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends. his pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the gentlemen of the neighborhood." and dr. drake says, "he was high in reputation as a poet, favored by the great and the accomplished, and beloved by all who knew him." that shakspeare had religious principle, i infer not merely from the indications of his will and tombstone, but from those strong evidences of the working of the religious element which are scattered through his plays. no man could have a clearer perception of god's authority and man's duty; no one has expressed more forcibly the strength of god's government, the spirituality of his requirements, or shown with more fearful power the struggles of the "law in the members warring against the law of the mind." these evidences, scattered through his plays, of deep religious struggles, make probable the idea that, in the latter, thoughtful, and tranquil years of his life, devotional impulses might have settled into habits, and that the solemn language of his will, in which he professes his faith, in christ, was not a mere form. probably he had all his life, even in his gayest hours, more real religious principle than the hilarity of his manner would give reason to suppose. i always fancy he was thinking of himself when he wrote this character: "for the man doth fear god, howsoever it seem not in him by reason of some large jests he doth make." neither is there any foundation for the impression that he was undervalued in his own times. no literary man of his day had more success, more flattering attentions from the great, or reaped more of the substantial fruits of popularity, in the form of worldly goods. while his contemporary, ben jonson, sick in a miserable alley, is forced to beg, and receives but a wretched pittance from charles i., shakspeare's fortune steadily increases from year to year. he buys the best place in his native town, and fits it up with great taste; he offered to lend, on proper security, a sum of money for the use of the town of stratford; he added to his estate in stratford a hundred and seventy acres of land; he bought half the great and small tithes of stratford; and his annual income is estimated to have been what would at the present time be nearly four thousand dollars. queen elizabeth also patronized him after her ordinary fashion of patronizing literary men,--that is to say, she expressed her gracious pleasure that he should burn incense to her, and pay his own bills: economy was not one of the least of the royal graces. the earl of southampton patronized him in a more material fashion. queen elizabeth even so far condescended to the poet as to perform certain hoidenish tricks while he was playing on the stage, to see if she could not disconcert his speaking by the majesty of her royal presence. the poet, who was performing the part of king henry iv., took no notice of her motions, till, in order to bring him to a crisis, she dropped her glove at his feet; whereat he picked it up, and presented it her, improvising these two lines, as if they had been a part of the play:-- "and though, now bent on this high embassy, yet stoop we to take up our cousin's glove." i think this anecdote very characteristic of them both; it seems to me it shows that the poet did not so absolutely crawl in the dust before her, as did almost all the so called men of her court; though he did certainly flatter her after a fashion in which few queens can be flattered. his description of the belligerent old gorgon as the "fair vestal throned by the west" seems like the poetry and fancy of the beautiful fairy queen wasted upon the half-brute clown:-- "come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, while i thy amiable cheeks do coy, and stick musk roses in thy sleek, smooth, head, and kiss thy fair, large ears, my gentle joy." elizabeth's understanding and appreciation of shakspeare was much after the fashion of nick bottom's of the fairy queen. i cannot but believe that the men of genius who employed their powers in celebrating this most repulsive and disagreeable woman must sometimes have comforted themselves by a good laugh in private. in order to appreciate shakspeare's mind from his plays, we must discriminate what expressed the gross tastes of his age, and what he wrote to please himself. the merry wives of windsor was a specimen of what he wrote for the "fair vestal;" a commentary on the delicacy of her maiden meditations. the midsummer night's dream he wrote from his own inner dream world. in the morning we took leave of our hotel. in leaving we were much touched with the simple kindliness of the people of the house. the landlady and her daughters came to bid us farewell, with much feeling; and the former begged my acceptance of a bead purse, knit by one of her daughters, she said, during the winter evenings while they were reading uncle tom. in this town one finds the simple-hearted, kindly english people corresponding to the same class which we see in our retired new england towns. we received many marks of kindness from different residents in stratford; in the expression of them, they appreciated and entered into our desire for privacy with a delicacy which touched us sensibly. we had little time to look about us to see stratford in the sunshine. so we went over to a place on the banks of the avon, where, it was said, we could gain a very perfect view of the church. the remembrance of this spot is to me like a very pleasant dream. the day was bright, the air was soft and still, as we walked up and down the alleys of a beautiful garden that extended quite to the church; the rooks were dreamily cawing, and wheeling in dark, airy circles round the old buttresses and spire. a funeral train had come into the graveyard, and the passing bell was tolling. a thousand undefined emotions struggled in my mind. that loving heart, that active fancy, that subtile, elastic power of appreciating and expressing all phases, all passions of humanity, are they breathed out on the wind? are they spent like the lightning? are they exhaled like the breath of flowers? or are they still living, still active? and if so, where and how? is it reserved for us, in that "undiscovered country" which he spoke of, ever to meet the great souls whose breath has kindled our souls? i think we forget the consequences of our own belief in immortality, and look on the ranks of prostrate dead as a mower on fields of prostrate flowers, forgetting that activity is an essential of souls, and that every soul which has passed away from this world must ever since have been actively developing those habits of mind and modes of feeling which it began here. the haughty, cruel, selfish elizabeth, and all the great men of her court, are still living and acting somewhere; but where? for my part i am often reminded, when dwelling on departed genius, of luther's ejaculation for his favorite classic poet: "i hope god will have mercy on such." we speak of the glory of god as exhibited in natural landscape making; what is it, compared with the glory of god as shown in the making of souls, especially those souls which seem to be endowed with a creative power like his own? there seems, strictly speaking, to be only two classes of souls--the creative and the receptive. now, these creators seem to me to have a beauty and a worth about them entirely independent of their moral character. that ethereal power which shows itself in greek sculpture and gothic architecture, in rubens, shakspeare, and mozart, has a quality to me inexpressibly admirable and lovable. we may say, it is true, that there is no moral excellence in it; but none the less do we admire it. god has made us so that we cannot help loving it; our souls go forth to it with an infinite longing, nor can that longing be condemned. that mystic quality that exists in these souls is a glimpse and intimation of what exists in him in full perfection. if we remember this we shall not lose ourselves in admiration of worldly genius, but be led by it to a better understanding of what he is, of whom all the glories of poetry and art are but symbols and shadows. letter xi. dear h.:-- from stratford we drove to warwick, (or "warrick," as they call it here.) this town stands on a rocky hill on the banks of the avon, and is quite a considerable place, for it returns two members to parliament, and has upwards of ten thousand inhabitants; and also has some famous manufactories of wool combing and spinning. but what we came to see was the castle. we drove up to the warwick arms, which is the principal hotel in the place; and, finding that we were within the hours appointed for exhibition, we went immediately. with my head in a kind of historical mist, full of images of york and lancaster, and red and white roses, and warwick the king maker, i looked up to the towers and battlements of the old castle. we went in through a passage way cut in solid rock, about twenty feet deep, and i should think fifty long. these walls were entirely covered with ivy, hanging down like green streamers; gentle and peaceable pennons these are, waving and whispering that the old war times are gone. at the end of this passage there is a drawbridge over what was formerly the moat, but which is now grassed and planted with shrubbery. up over our heads we saw the great iron teeth of the portcullis. a rusty old giant it seemed up there, like pope and pagan in pilgrim's progress, finding no scope for himself in these peaceable times. when we came fairly into the court yard of the castle, a scene of magnificent beauty opened before us. i cannot describe it minutely. the principal features are the battlements, towers, and turrets of the old feudal castle, encompassed by grounds on which has been expended all that princely art of landscape gardening for which england is famous--leafy thickets, magnificent trees, openings, and vistas of verdure, and wide sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green, as the velvet moss we sometimes see growing on rocks in new england. grass is an art and a science in england--it is an institution. the pains that are taken in sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling, and otherwise nursing and coaxing it, being seconded by the misty breath and often falling tears of the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated. so again of trees in england. trees here are an order of nobility; and they wear their crowns right kingly. a few years ago, when miss sedgwick was in this country, while admiring some splendid trees in a nobleman's park, a lady standing by said to her encouragingly, "o, well, i suppose your trees in america will be grown up after a while!" since that time another style of thinking of america has come up, and the remark that i most generally hear made is, "o, i suppose we cannot think of showing you any thing in the way of trees, coming as you do from america!" throwing out of account, however, the gigantic growth of our western river bottoms, where i have seen sycamore trunks twenty feet in diameter--leaving out of account, i say, all this mammoth arboria, these english parks have trees as fine and as effective, of their kind, as any of ours; and when i say their trees are an order of nobility, i mean that they pay a reverence to them such as their magnificence deserves. such elms as adorn the streets of new haven, or overarch the meadows of andover, would in england be considered as of a value which no money could represent; no pains, no expense would be spared to preserve their life and health; they would never be shot dead by having gas pipes laid under them, as they have been in some of our new england towns; or suffered to be devoured by canker worms for want of any amount of money spent in their defence. some of the finest trees in this place are magnificent cedars of lebanon, which bring to mind the expression in psalms, "excellent as the cedars." they are the very impersonation of kingly majesty, and are fitted to grace the old feudal stronghold of warwick the king maker. these trees, standing as they do amid magnificent sweeps and undulations of lawn, throwing out their mighty arms with such majestic breadth and freedom of outline, are themselves a living, growing, historical epic. their seed was brought from holy land in the old days of the crusades; and a hundred legends might be made up of the time, date, and occasion of their planting. these crusades have left their mark every where through europe, from the cross panel on the doors of common houses to the oriental touches and arabesques of castles and cathedrals. in the reign of stephen there was a certain roger de newburg, second earl of warwick, who appears to have been an exceedingly active and public-spirited character; and, besides conquering part of wales, founded in this neighborhood various priories and hospitals, among which was the house of the templars, and a hospital for lepers. he made several pilgrimages to holy land; and so i think it as likely as most theories that he ought to have the credit of these cedars. these earls of warwick appear always to have been remarkably stirring men in their day and generation, and foremost in whatever was going on in the world, whether political or religious. to begin, there was guy, earl of warwick, who lived somewhere in the times of the old dispensation, before king arthur, and who distinguished himself, according to the fashion of those days, by killing giants and various colored dragons, among which a green one especially figures. it appears that he slew also a notable dun cow, of a kind of mastodon breed, which prevailed in those early days, which was making great havoc in the neighborhood. in later times, when the giants, dragons, and other animals of that sort were somewhat brought under, we find the earls of warwick equally busy burning and slaying to the right and left; now crusading into palestine, and now fighting the french, who were a standing resort for activity when nothing else was to be done; with great versatility diversifying these affairs with pilgrimages to the holy sepulchre, and founding monasteries and hospitals. one stout earl, after going to palestine and laying about him like a very dragon for some years, brought home a live saracen king to london, and had him baptized and made a christian of, _vi et armis_. during the scuffle of the roses, it was a warwick, of course, who was uppermost. stout old richard, the king maker, set up first one party and then the other, according to his own sovereign pleasure, and showed as much talent at fighting on both sides, and keeping the country in an uproar, as the modern politicians of america. when the times of the long parliament and the commonwealth came, an earl of warwick was high admiral of england, and fought valiantly for the commonwealth, using the navy on the popular side; and his grandson married the youngest daughter of oliver cromwell. when the royal family was to be restored, an earl of warwick was one of the six lords who were sent to holland for charles ii. the earls of this family have been no less distinguished for movements which have favored the advance of civilization and letters than for energy in the battle field. in the reign of queen elizabeth an earl of warwick founded the history lecture at cambridge, and left a salary for the professor. this same earl was general patron of letters and arts, assisting many men of talents, and was a particular and intimate friend of sir philip sidney. what more especially concerns us as new englanders is, that an earl of this house was the powerful patron and protector of new england during the earlier years of our country. this was robert greville, the high admiral of england before alluded to, and ever looked upon as a protector of the puritans. frequent allusion is made to him in winthrop's journal as performing various good offices for them. the first grant of connecticut was made to this earl, and by him assigned to lord say and seal, and lord brooke. the patronage which this earl extended to the puritans is more remarkable because in principle he was favorable to episcopacy. it appears to have been prompted by a chivalrous sense of justice; probably the same which influenced old guy of warwick in the king arthur times, of whom the ancient chronicler says, "this worshipful knight, in his acts of warre, ever consydered what parties had wronge, and therto would he drawe." the present earl has never taken a share in public or political life, but resided entirely on his estate, devoting himself to the improvement of his ground and tenants. he received the estate much embarrassed, and the condition of the tenantry was at that time quite depressed. by the devotion of his life it has been rendered one of the most flourishing and prosperous estates in this part of england. i have heard him spoken of as a very exemplary, excellent man. he is now quite advanced, and has been for some time in failing health. he sent our party a very kind and obliging message, desiring that we would consider ourselves fully at liberty to visit any part of the grounds or castle, there being always some reservation as to what tourists may visit. we caught glimpses of him once or twice, supported by attendants, as he was taking the air in one of the walks of the grounds, and afterwards wheeled about in a garden chair. the family has thrice died out in the direct line, and been obliged to resuscitate through collateral branches; but it seems the blood holds good notwithstanding. as to honors there is scarcely a possible distinction in the state or army that has not at one time or other been the property of this family. under the shade of these lofty cedars they have sprung and fallen, an hereditary line of princes. one cannot but feel, in looking on these majestic trees, with the battlements, turrets, and towers of the old castle every where surrounding him, and the magnificent parks and lawns opening through dreamy vistas of trees into what seems immeasurable distance, the force of the soliloquy which shakspeare puts into the mouth of the dying old king maker, as he lies breathing out his soul in the dust and blood of the battle field:-- "thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, under whose shade the rampant lion slept; whose top branch overpeered jove's spreading tree, and kept low shrubs from, winter's powerful wind. these eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black veil, have been as piercing as the midday sun to search, the secret treasons of the world: the wrinkles in my brow, now filled with blood, were likened oft to kingly sepulchres; for who lived king but i could dig his grave? and who durst smile when warwick bent his brow? lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood! my parks, my walks, my manors that i had, even now forsake me; and of all my lands is nothing left me but my body's length! why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? and live we how we can, yet die we must." during shakspeare's life warwick was in the possession of greville, the friend of sir philip sidney, and patron of arts and letters. it is not, therefore, improbable that shakspeare might, in his times, often have been admitted to wander through the magnificent grounds, and it is more than probable that the sight of these majestic cedars might have suggested the noble image in this soliloquy. it is only about eight miles from stratford, within the fair limits of a comfortable pedestrian excursion, and certainly could not but have been an object of deep interest to such a mind as his. i have described the grounds first, but, in fact, we did not look at them first, but went into the house where we saw not only all the state rooms, but, through the kindness of the noble proprietor, many of those which are not commonly exhibited; a bewildering display of magnificent apartments, pictures, gems, vases, arms and armor, antiques, all, in short, that the wealth of a princely and powerful family had for centuries been accumulating. the great hall of the castle is sixty-two feet in length and forty in breadth, ornamented with a richly carved gothic roof, in which figures largely the family cognizance of the bear and ragged staff. there is a succession of shields, on which are emblazoned the quarterings of successive earls of warwick. the sides of the wall are ornamented with lances, corselets, shields, helmets, and complete suits of armor, regularly arranged as in an armory. here i learned what the buff coat is, which had so often puzzled me in reading scott's descriptions, as there were several hanging up here. it seemed to be a loose doublet of chamois leather, which was worn under the armor, and protected the body from its harshness. here we saw the helmet of cromwell, a most venerable relic. before the great, cavernous fireplace was piled up on a sled a quantity of yew tree wood. the rude simplicity of thus arranging it on the polished floor of this magnificent apartment struck me as quite singular. i suppose it is a continuation of some ancient custom. opening from this apartment on either side are suits of rooms, the whole series being three hundred and thirty-three feet in length. these rooms are all hung with pictures, and studded with antiques and curiosities of immense value. there is, first, the red drawing room, and then the cedar drawing room, then the gilt drawing room, the state bed room, the boudoir, &c., &c., hung with pictures by vandyke, rubens, guido, sir joshua reynolds, paul veronese, any one of which would require days of study; of course, the casual glance that one could give them in a rapid survey would not amount to much. we were shown one table of gems and lapis lazuli, which cost what would be reckoned a comfortable fortune in new england. for matters of this kind i have little sympathy. the canvas, made vivid by the soul of an inspired artist, tells me something of god's power in creating that soul; but a table of gems is in no wise interesting to me, except so far as it is pretty in itself. i walked to one of the windows of these lordly apartments, and while the company were examining buhl cabinets, and all other deliciousness of the place, i looked down the old gray walls into the amber waters of the avon, which flows at their base, and thought that the most beautiful of all was without. there is a tiny fall that crosses the river just above here, whose waters turn the wheels of an old mossy mill, where for centuries the family grain has been ground. the river winds away through the beautiful parks and undulating foliage, its soft, grassy banks dotted here and there with sheep and cattle, and you catch farewell gleams and glitters of it as it loses itself among the trees. gray moss, wall flowers, ivy, and grass were growing here and there out of crevices in the castle walls, as i looked down, sometimes trailing their rippling tendrils in the river. this vegetative propensity of walls is one of the chief graces of these old buildings. in the state bed room were a bed and furnishings of rich, crimson velvet, once belonging to queen anne, and presented by george iii. to the warwick family. the walls are hung with brussels tapestry, representing the gardens of versailles as they were at the time. the chimney-piece, which is sculptured of verde antique and white marble, supports two black marble vases on its mantel. over the mantel-piece is a full-length portrait of queen anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar and jewels of the garter, bearing in one hand a sceptre, and in the other a globe. there are two splendid buhl cabinets in the room, and a table of costly stone from italy; it is mounted on a richly carved and gilt stand. the boudoir, which adjoins, is hung with pea-green satin and velvet. in this room is one of the most authentic portraits of henry viii., by holbein, in which that selfish, brutal, unfeeling tyrant is veritably set forth, with all the gold and gems which, in his day, blinded mankind; his fat, white hands were beautifully painted. men have found out henry viii. by this time; he is a dead sinner, and nothing more is to be expected of him, and so he gets a just award; but the disposition which bows down and worships any thing of any character in our day which is splendid and successful, and excuses all moral delinquencies, if they are only available, is not a whit better than that which cringed before henry. in the same room was a boar hunt, by rubens, a disagreeable subject, but wrought with wonderful power. there were several other pictures of holbein's in this room; one of martin luther. we passed through a long corridor, whose sides were lined with pictures, statues, busts, &c. out of the multitude, three particularly interested me; one was a noble but melancholy bust of the black prince, beautifully chiselled in white marble; another was a plaster cast, said to have been taken of the face of oliver cromwell immediately after death. the face had a homely strength amounting almost to coarseness. the evidences of its genuineness appear in glancing at it; every thing is authentic, even to the wart on his lip; no one would have imagined such a one, but the expression was noble and peaceful, bringing to mind the oft-quoted words,-- "after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." at the end of the same corridor is a splendid picture of charles i. on horseback, by vandyke, a most masterly performance, and appearing in its position almost like a reality. poor charles had rather hard measure, it always seemed to me. he simply did as all other princes had done before him; that is to say, he lied steadily, invariably, and conscientiously, in every instance where he thought he could gain any thing by it, just as charles v., and francis iv., and catharine de medicis, and henry viii., and elizabeth, and james, and all good royal folks had always done; and lo! _he_ must lose his head for it. his was altogether a more gentlemanly and respectable performance than that of henry, not wanting in a sort of ideal magnificence, which his brutal predecessor, or even his shambling old father never dreamed of. but so it is; it is not always on those who are sinners above all men that the tower of siloam falls, but only on those who happen to be under it when its time comes. so i intend to cherish a little partiality for gentlemanly, magnificent charles i.; and certainly one could get no more splendid idea of him than by seeing him stately, silent, and melancholy on his white horse, at the end of this long corridor. there he sits, facing the calm, stony, sleeping face of oliver, and neither question or reply passes between them. from this corridor we went into the chapel, whose gothic windows, filled with rich, old painted glass, cast a many-colored light over the oak-carved walls and altar-piece. the ceiling is of fine, old oak, wrought with the arms of the family. the window over the altar is the gift of the earl of essex. this room is devoted to the daily religious worship of the family. it has been the custom of the present earl in former years to conduct the devotions of the family here himself. about this time my head and eyes came to that point which solomon intimates to be not commonly arrived at by mortals--when the eye is satisfied with seeing. i remember a confused ramble through apartment after apartment, but not a single thing in them, except two pictures of salvator rosa's, which i thought extremely ugly, and was told, as people always are when they make such declarations, that the difficulty was entirely in myself, and that if i would study them two or three months in faith, i should perceive something very astonishing. this may be, but it holds equally good of the coals of an evening fire, or the sparks on a chimney back; in either of which, by resolute looking, and some imagination, one can see any thing he chooses. i utterly distrust this process, by which old black pictures are looked into shape; but then i have nothing to lose, being in the court of the gentiles in these matters, and obstinately determined not to believe in any real presence in art which i cannot perceive by my senses. after having examined all the upper stories, we went down into the vaults underneath--vaults once grim and hoary, terrible to captives and feudal enemies, now devoted to no purpose more grim than that of coal cellars and wine vaults. in oliver's time, a regiment was quartered there: they are extensive enough, apparently, for an army. the kitchen and its adjuncts are of magnificent dimensions, and indicate an amplitude in the way of provision for good cheer worthy an ancient house; and what struck me as a still better feature was a library of sound, sensible, historical, and religious works for the servants. we went into the beer vaults, where a man drew beer into a long black jack, such as scott describes. it is a tankard, made of black leather, i should think half a yard deep. he drew the beer from a large hogshead, and offered us some in a glass. it looked very clear, but, on tasting, i found it so exceedingly bitter that it struck me there would be small virtue for me in abstinence. in passing up to go out of the house, we met in the entry two pleasant-looking young women, dressed in white muslin. as they passed us, a door opened where a table was handsomely set out, at which quite a number of well-dressed people were seating themselves. i withdrew my eyes immediately, fearing lest i had violated some privacy. our conductor said to us, "that is the upper servants' dining room." once in the yard again, we went to see some of the older parts of the building. the oldest of these, caesar's tower, which is said to go back to the time of the romans, is not now shown to visitors. beneath it is a dark, damp dungeon, where prisoners used to be confined, the walls of which are traced all over with inscriptions and rude drawings. then you are conducted to guy's tower, named, i suppose, after the hero of the green dragon and dun cow. here are five tiers of guard rooms, and by the ascent of a hundred and thirty-three steps you reach the battlements, where you gain a view of the whole court and grounds, as well as of the beautiful surrounding landscape. in coming down from this tower, we somehow or other got upon the ramparts, which connect it with the great gate. we walked on the wall four abreast, and played that we were knights and ladies of the olden time, walking on the ramparts. and i picked a bough from an old pine tree that grew over our heads; it much resembled our american yellow pitch pine. then we went down and crossed the grounds to the greenhouse, to see the famous warwick vase. the greenhouse is built with a gothic stone front, situated on a fine point in the landscape. and there, on a pedestal, surrounded by all manner of flowering shrubs, stands this celebrated antique. it is of white marble, and was found at the bottom of a lake near adrian's villa, in italy. they say that it holds a hundred and thirty-six gallons; constructed, i suppose, in the roistering old drinking times of the roman emperors, when men seem to have discovered that the grand object for which they were sent into existence was to perform the functions of wine skins. it is beautifully sculptured with grape leaves, and the skin and claws of the panther--these latter certainly not an inappropriate emblem of the god of wine, beautiful, but dangerous. well, now it was all done. merodach baladan had not a more perfect _exposé_ of the riches of hezekiah than we had of the glories of warwick. one always likes to see the most perfect thing of its kind; and probably this is the most perfect specimen of the feudal ages yet remaining in england. as i stood with joseph sturge under the old cedars of lebanon, and watched the multitude of tourists, and parties of pleasure, who were thronging the walks, i said to him, "after all, this establishment amounts to a public museum and pleasure grounds for the use of the people." he assented. "and," said i, "you english people like these things; you like these old magnificent seats, kept up by old families." "that is what i tell them," said joseph sturge. "i tell them there is no danger in enlarging the suffrage, for the people would not break up these old establishments if they could." on that point, of course, i had no means of forming an opinion. one cannot view an institution so unlike any thing we have in our own country without having many reflections excited, for one of these estates may justly be called an institution; it includes within itself all the influence on a community of a great model farm, of model housekeeping, of a general museum of historic remains, and of a gallery of fine arts. it is a fact that all these establishments through england are, at certain fixed hours, thrown open for the inspection of whoever may choose to visit them, with no other expense than the gratuity which custom requires to be given to the servant who shows them. i noticed, as we passed from one part of the ground to another, that our guides changed--one part apparently being the perquisite of one servant, and one of another. many of the servants who showed them appeared to be superannuated men, who probably had this post as one of the dignities and perquisites of their old age. the influence of these estates on the community cannot but be in many respects beneficial, and should go some way to qualify the prejudice with which republicans are apt to contemplate any thing aristocratic; for although the legal title to these things inheres in but one man, yet in a very important sense they belong to the whole community, indeed, to universal humanity. it may be very undesirable and unwise to wish to imitate these institutions in america, and yet it may be illiberal to undervalue them as they stand in england. a man would not build a house, in this nineteenth century, on the pattern of a feudal castle; and yet where the feudal castle is built, surely its antique grace might plead somewhat in its favor, and it may be better to accommodate it to modern uses, than to level it, and erect a modern mansion in its place. nor, since the world is wide, and now being rapidly united by steam into one country, does the objection to these things, on account of the room they take up, seem so great as formerly. in the million of square miles of the globe there is room enough for all sorts of things. with such reflections the lover of the picturesque may comfort himself, hoping that he is not sinning against the useful in his admiration of the beautiful. one great achievement of the millennium, i trust, will be in uniting these two elements, which have ever been contending. there was great significance in the old greek fable which represented venus as the divinely-appointed helpmeet of vulcan, and yet always quarrelling with him. we can scarce look at the struggling, earth-bound condition of useful labor through the world without joining in the beautiful aspiration of our american poet,-- "surely, the wiser time shall come when this fine overplus of might, no longer sullen, slow, and dumb, shall leap to music and to light. in that new childhood of the world life of itself shall dance and play, fresh blood through time's shrunk veins be hurled, and labor meet delight half way."[m] in the new state of society which we are trying to found in america, it must be our effort to hasten the consummation. these great estates of old countries may keep it for their share of the matter to work out perfect models, while we will seize the ideas thus elaborated, and make them the property of the million. as we were going out, we stopped a little while at the porter's lodge to look at some relics. now, i dare say that you have been thinking, all the while, that these stories about the wonderful guy are a sheer fabrication, or, to use a convenient modern term, a myth. know, then, that the identical armor belonging to him is still preserved here; to wit, the sword, about seven feet long, a shield, helmet, breastplate, and tilting pole, together with his porridge pot, which holds one hundred and twenty gallons, and a large fork, as they call it, about three feet long; i am inclined to think this must have been his toothpick! his sword weighs twenty pounds. there is, moreover, a rib of the mastodon cow which he killed, hung up for the terror of all refractory beasts of that name in modern days. furthermore, know, then, that there are authentic documents in the ashmolean museum, at oxford, showing that the family run back to within four years after the birth of christ, so that there is abundance of time for them to have done a little of almost every thing. it appears that they have been always addicted to exploits, since we read of one of them, soon after the christian era, encountering a giant, who ran upon him with a tree which he had snapped off for the purpose, for it seems giants were not nice in the choice of weapons; but the chronicler says, "the lord had grace with him, and overcame the giant," and in commemoration of this event the family introduced into their arms the ragged staff. it is recorded of another of the race, that he was one of seven children born at a birth, and that all the rest of his brothers and sisters were, by enchantment, turned into swans with gold collars. this remarkable case occurred in the time of the grandfather of sir guy, and of course, if we believe this, we shall find no difficulty in the case of the cow, or any thing else. there is a very scarce book in the possession of a gentleman of warwick, written by one dr. john kay, or caius, in which he gives an account of the rare and peculiar animals of england in . in this he mentioned seeing the bones of the head and the vertebrae of the neck of an enormous animal at warwick castle. he states that the shoulder blade was hung up by chains from the north gate of coventry, and that a rib of the same animal was hanging up in the chapel of guy, earl of warwick, and that the people fancied it to be the rib of a cow which haunted a ditch near coventry, and did injury to many persons; and he goes on to imagine that this may be the bone of a bonasus or a urus. he says, "it is probable many animals of this kind formerly lived in our england, being of old an island full of woods and forests, because even in our boyhood the horns of these animals were in common use at the table." the story of sir guy is furthermore quite romantic, and contains some circumstances very instructive to all ladies. for the chronicler asserts, "that dame felye, daughter and heire to erle rohand, for her beauty called fely le belle, or felys the fayre, by true enheritance, was countesse of warwyke, and lady and wyfe to the most victoriouse knight, sir guy, to whom in his woing tyme she made greate straungeres, and caused him, for her sake, to put himself in meny greate distresses, dangers, and perills; but when they were wedded, and b'en but a little season together, he departed from her, to her greate hevynes, and never was conversant with her after, to her understandinge." that this may not appear to be the result of any revengeful spirit on the part of sir guy, the chronicler goes on further to state his motives--that, after his marriage, considering what he had done for a woman's sake, he thought to spend the other part of his life for god's sake, and so departed from his lady in pilgrim weeds, which raiment he kept to his life's end. after wandering about a good many years he settled in a hermitage, in a place not far from the castle, called guy's cliff, and when his lady distributed food to beggars at the castle gate, was in the habit of coming among them to receive alms, without making himself known to her. it states, moreover, that two days before his death an angel informed him of the time of his departure, and that his lady would die a fortnight after him, which happening accordingly, they were both buried in the grave together. a romantic cavern, at the place called guy's cliff, is shown as the dwelling of the recluse. the story is a curious relic of the religious ideas of the times. on our way from the castle we passed by guy's cliff, which is at present the seat of the hon. c.b. percy. the establishment looked beautifully from the road, as we saw it up a long avenue of trees; it is one of the places travellers generally examine, but as we were bound for kenilworth we were content to take it on trust. it is but a short drive from there to kenilworth. we got there about the middle of the afternoon. kenilworth has been quite as extensive as warwick, though now entirely gone to ruins. i believe oliver cromwell's army have the credit of finally dismantling it. cromwell seems literally to have left his mark on his generation, for i never saw a ruin in england when i did not hear that he had something to do with it. every broken arch and ruined battlement seemed always to find a sufficient account of itself by simply enunciating the word cromwell. and when we see how much the puritans arrayed against themselves all the æsthetic principles of our nature, we can somewhat pardon those who did not look deeper than the surface, for the prejudice with which they regarded the whole movement; a movement, however, of which we, and all which is most precious to us, are the lineal descendants and heirs. we wandered over the ruins, which are very extensive, and which scott, with his usual vivacity and accuracy, has restored and repeopled. we climbed up into amy robsart's chamber; we scrambled into one of the arched windows of what was formerly the great dining hall, where elizabeth feasted in the midst of her lords and ladies, and where every stone had rung to the sound of merriment and revelry. the windows are broken out; it is roofless and floorless, waving and rustling with pendent ivy, and vocal with the song of hundreds of little birds. we wandered from room to room, looking up and seeing in the walls the desolate fireplaces, tier over tier, the places where the beams of the floors had gone into the walls, and still the birds continued their singing every where. nothing affected me more than this ceaseless singing and rejoicing of birds in these old gray ruins. they seemed so perfectly joyous and happy amid the desolations, so airy and fanciful in their bursts of song, so ignorant and careless of the deep meaning of the gray desolation around them, that i could not but be moved. it was nothing to them how these stately, sculptured walls became lonely and ruinous, and all the weight of a thousand thoughts and questionings which arise to us is never even dreamed by them. they sow not, neither do they reap, but their heavenly father feeds them; and so the wilderness and the desolate place is glad in them, and they are glad in the wilderness and desolate place. it was a beautiful conception, this making of birds. shelley calls them "imbodied joys;" and christ says, that amid the vaster ruins of man's desolation, ruins more dreadfully suggestive than those of sculptured frieze and architrave, we can yet live a bird's life of unanxious joy; or, as martin luther beautifully paraphrases it, "we can be like a bird, that sits singing on his twig and lets god think for him." the deep consciousness that we are ourselves ruined, and that this world is a desolation more awful, and of more sublime material, and wrought from stuff of higher temper than ever was sculptured in hall or cathedral, this it must be that touches such deep springs of sympathy in the presence of ruins. we, too, are desolate, shattered, and scathed; there are traceries and columns of celestial workmanship; there are heaven-aspiring arches, splendid colonnades and halls, but fragmentary all. yet above us bends an all-pitying heaven, and spiritual voices and callings in our hearts, like these little singing birds, speak of a time when almighty power shall take pleasure in these stones, and favor the dust thereof. we sat on the top of the strong tower, and looked off into the country, and talked a good while. some of the ivy that mantles this building has a trunk as large as a man's body, and throws out numberless strong arms, which, interweaving, embrace and interlace half-falling towers, and hold them up in a living, growing mass of green. the walls of one of the oldest towers are sixteen feet thick. the lake, which scott speaks of, is dried up and grown over with rushes. the former moat presents only a grassy hollow. what was formerly a gate house is still inhabited by the family who have the care of the building. the land around the gate house is choicely and carefully laid out, and has high, clipped hedges of a species of variegated holly. thus much of old castles and ivy. farewell to kenilworth. letter xii. my dear h.:-- after leaving kenilworth we drove to coventry, where we took the cars again. this whole ride from stratford to warwick, and on to coventry, answers more to my ideas of old england than any thing i have seen; it is considered one of the most beautiful parts of the kingdom. it has quaint old houses, and a certain air of rural, picturesque quiet, which is very charming. coventry is old and queer, with narrow streets and curious houses, famed for the ancient legend of godiva, one of those beautiful myths that grow, like the mistletoe, on the bare branches of history, and which, if they never were true in the letter, have been a thousand times true in the spirit. the evening came on raw and chilly, so that we rejoiced to find ourselves once more in the curtained parlor by the bright, sociable fire. as we were drinking tea elihu burritt came in. it was the first time i had ever seen him, though i had heard a great deal of him from our friends in edinburgh. he is a man in middle life, tall and slender, with fair complexion, blue eyes, an air of delicacy and refinement, and manners of great gentleness. my ideas of the "learned blacksmith" had been of something altogether more ponderous and peremptory. elihu has been, for some years, operating in england and on the continent in a movement which many, in our half-christianized times, regard with as much incredulity as the grim, old, warlike barons did the suspicious imbecilities of reading and writing. the sword now, as then, seems so much more direct a way to terminate controversies, that many christian men, even, cannot conceive how the world is to get along without it. burritt's mode of operation has been by the silent organization of circles of ladies in all the different towns of the united kingdom, who raise a certain sum for the diffusion of the principles of peace on earth and good will to men. articles, setting forth the evils of war, moral, political, and social, being prepared, these circles pay for their insertion in all the principal newspapers of the continent. they have secured to themselves in this way a continual utterance in france, spain, italy, switzerland, austria, and germany; so that from week to week, and month to month, they can insert articles upon these subjects. many times the editors insert the articles as editorial, which still further favors their design. in addition to this, the ladies of these circles in england correspond with the ladies of similar circles existing in other countries; and in this way there is a mutual kindliness of feeling established through these countries. when recently war was threatening between england and france, through the influence of these societies conciliatory addresses were sent from many of the principal towns of england to many of the principal towns of france; and the effect of these measures in allaying irritation and agitation was very perceptible. furthermore, these societies are preparing numerous little books for children, in which the principles of peace, kindness, and mutual forbearance are constantly set forth, and the evil and unchristian nature of the mere collision of brute force exemplified in a thousand ways. these tracts also are reprinted in the other modern languages of europe, and are becoming a part of family literature. the object had in view by those in this movement is, the general disbandment of standing armies and warlike establishments, and the arrangement, in their place, of some settled system of national arbitration. they suggest the organization of some tribunal of international law, which shall correspond to the position of the supreme court of the united states with reference to the several states. the fact that the several states of our union, though each a distinct sovereignty, yet agree in this arrangement, is held up as an instance of its practicability. these ideas are not to be considered entirely chimerical, if we reflect that commerce and trade are as essentially opposed to war as is christianity. war is the death of commerce, manufactures, agriculture, and the fine arts. its evil results are always certain and definite, its good results scattered and accidental. the whole current of modern society is as much against war as against slavery; and the time must certainly come when some more rational and humane mode of resolving national difficulties will prevail. when we ask these reformers how people are to be freed from the yoke of despotism without war, they answer, "by the diffusion of ideas among the masses--by teaching the bayonets to think." they say, "if we convince every individual soldier of a despot's army that war is ruinous, immoral, and unchristian, we take the instrument out of the tyrant's hand. if each individual man would refuse to rob and murder for the emperor of austria, and the emperor of russia, where would be their power to hold hungary? what gave power to the masses in the french revolution, but that the army, pervaded by new ideas, refused any longer to keep the people down?" these views are daily gaining strength in england. they are supported by the whole body of the quakers, who maintain them with that degree of inflexible perseverance and never-dying activity which have rendered the benevolent actions of that body so efficient. the object that they are aiming at is one most certain to be accomplished, infallible as the prediction that swords are to be beaten into ploughshares, and spears into pruning-hooks, and that nations shall learn war no more. this movement, small and despised in its origin, has gained strength from year to year, and now has an effect on the public opinion of england which is quite perceptible. we spent the evening in talking over these things, and also various topics relating to the antislavery movement. mr. sturge was very confident that something more was to be done than had ever been done yet, by combinations for the encouragement of free, in the place of slave-grown, produce; a question which has, ever since the days of clarkson, more or less deeply occupied the minds of abolitionists in england. i should say that mr. sturge in his family has for many years conscientiously forborne the use of any article produced by slave labor. i could scarcely believe it possible that there could be such an abundance and variety of all that is comfortable and desirable in the various departments of household living within these limits. mr. sturge presents the subject with very great force, the more so from the consistency of his example. from what i have since observed, as well as from what they said, i should imagine that the quakers generally pursue this course of entire separation from all connection with slavery, even in the disuse of its products. the subject of the disuse of slave-grown produce has obtained currency in the same sphere in which elihu burritt operates, and has excited the attention of the olive leaf circles. its prospects are not so weak as on first view might be imagined, if we consider that great britain has large tracts of cotton-growing land at her disposal in india. it has been calculated that, were suitable railroads and arrangements for transportation provided for india, cotton could be raised in that empire sufficient for the whole wants of england, at a rate much cheaper than it can be imported from america. not only so, but they could then afford to furnish cotton cheaper at lowell than the same article could be procured from the southern states. it is consolatory to know that a set of men have undertaken this work whose perseverance in any thing once begun has never been daunted. slave labor is becoming every year more expensive in america. the wide market which has been opened for it has raised it to such an extravagant price as makes the stocking of a plantation almost ruinous. if england enters the race with free labor, which has none of these expenses, and none of the risk, she will be sure to succeed. all the forces of nature go with free labor; and all the forces of nature resist slave labor. the stars in their courses fight against it; and it cannot but be that ere long some way will be found to bring these two forces to a decisive issue. mr. sturge seemed exceedingly anxious that the american states should adopt the theory of immediate, and not gradual, emancipation. i told him the great difficulty was to persuade them to think of any emancipation at all; that the present disposition was to treat slavery as the pillar and ground of the truth, the ark of religion, the summary of morals, and the only true millennial form of modern society. he gave me, however, a little account of their antislavery struggles in england, and said, what was well worthy of note, that they made no apparent progress in affecting public opinion until they firmly advocated the right of every innocent being to immediate and complete freedom, without any conditions. he said that a woman is fairly entitled to the credit of this suggestion. elizabeth heyrick of leicester, a member of the society of friends, published a pamphlet entitled immediate, not gradual emancipation. this little pamphlet contains much good sense; and, being put forth at a time when men were really anxious to know the truth, produced a powerful impression. she remarked, very sensibly, that the difficulty had arisen from indistinct ideas in respect to what is implied in emancipation. she went on to show that emancipation did not imply freedom from government and restraint; that it properly brought a slave under the control of the law, instead of that of an individual; and that it was possible so to apply law as perfectly to control the emancipated. this is an idea which seems simple enough when pointed out; but men often stumble a long while before they discover what is most obvious. the next day was sunday; and, in order to preserve our incognito, and secure an uninterrupted rest, free from conversation and excitement, we were obliged to deprive ourselves of the pleasure of hearing our friend rev. john angell james, which we had much desired to do. it was a warm, pleasant day, and we spent much of our time in a beautiful arbor constructed in a retired place in the garden, where the trees and shrubbery were so arranged as to make a most charming retreat. the grounds of mr. sturge are very near to those of his brother--only a narrow road interposing between them. they have contrived to make them one by building under this road a subterranean passage, so that the two families can pass and repass into each other's grounds in perfect privacy. these english gardens delight me much; they unite variety, quaintness, and an imitation of the wildness of nature with the utmost care and cultivation. i was particularly pleased with the rockwork, which at times formed the walls of certain walks, the hollows and interstices of which were filled with every variety of creeping plants. mr. sturge told me that the substance of which these rockeries are made is sold expressly for the purpose. on one side of the grounds was an old-fashioned cottage, which one of my friends informed me mr. sturge formerly kept fitted up as a water cure hospital, for those whose means did not allow them to go to larger establishments. the plan was afterwards abandoned. one must see that such an enterprise would have many practical difficulties. at noon we dined in the house of the other brother, mr. edmund sturge. here i noticed a full-length engraving of joseph sturge. he is represented as standing with his hand placed protectingly on the head of a black child. we enjoyed our quiet season with these two families exceedingly. we seemed to feel ourselves in an atmosphere where all was peace and good will to man. the little children, after dinner, took us through the walks, to show us their beautiful rabbits and other pets. every thing seemed in order, peaceable and quiet. towards evening we went back through the arched passage to the other house again. my sunday here has always seemed to me a pleasant kind of pastoral, much like the communion of christian and faithful with the shepherds on the delectable mountains. what is remarkable of all these friends is, that, although they have been called, in the prosecution of philanthropic enterprises, to encounter so much opposition, and see so much of the unfavorable side of human nature, they are so habitually free from any tinge of uncharitableness or evil speaking in their statements with regard to the character and motives of others. there is also an habitual avoidance of all exaggerated forms of statement, a sobriety of diction, which, united with great affectionateness of manner, inspires the warmest confidence. c. had been, with mr. sturge, during the afternoon, to a meeting of the friends, and heard a discourse from sibyl jones, one of the most popular of their female preachers. sibyl is a native of the town of brunswick, in the state of maine. she and her husband, being both preachers, have travelled extensively in the prosecution of various philanthropic and religious enterprises. in the evening mr. sturge said that she had expressed a desire to see me. accordingly i went with him to call upon her, and found her in the family of two aged friends, surrounded by a circle of the same denomination. she is a woman of great delicacy of appearance, betokening very frail health. i am told that she is most of her time in a state of extreme suffering from neuralgic complaints. there was a mingled expression of enthusiasm and tenderness in her face which was very interesting. she had had, according to the language of her sect, a concern upon her mind for me. to my mind there is something peculiarly interesting about that primitive simplicity and frankness with which the members of this body express themselves. she desired to caution me against the temptations of too much flattery and applause, and against the worldliness which might beset me in london. her manner of addressing me was like one who is commissioned with a message which must be spoken with plainness and sincerity. after this the whole circle kneeled, and she offered prayer. i was somewhat painfully impressed with her evident fragility of body, compared with the enthusiastic workings of her mind. in the course of the conversation she inquired if i was going to ireland. i told her, yes, that was my intention. she begged that i would visit the western coast, adding, with great feeling, "it was the miseries which i saw there which have brought my health to the state it is." she had travelled extensively in the southern states, and had, in private conversation, been able very fully to bear her witness against slavery, and had never been heard with unkindness. the whole incident afforded me matter for reflection. the calling of women to distinct religious vocations, it appears to me, was a part of primitive christianity; has been one of the most efficient elements of power in the romish church; obtained among the methodists in england; and has, in all these cases, been productive of great good. the deaconesses whom the apostle mentions with honor in his epistle, madame guyon in the romish church, mrs. fletcher, elizabeth fry, are instances which show how much may be done for mankind by women who feel themselves impelled to a special religious vocation. the bible, which always favors liberal development, countenances this idea, by the instances of deborah, anna the prophetess, and by allusions in the new testament, which plainly show that the prophetic gift descended upon women. st. peter, quoting from the prophetic writings, says, "upon your sons and upon your daughters i will pour out my spirit, and they shall prophesy." and st. paul alludes to women praying and prophesying in the public assemblies of the christians, and only enjoins that it should be done with becoming attention to the established usages of female delicacy. the example of the quakers is a sufficient proof that acting upon this idea does not produce discord and domestic disorder. no class of people are more remarkable for quietness and propriety of deportment, and for household order and domestic excellence. by the admission of this liberty, the world is now and then gifted with a woman like elizabeth fry, while the family state loses none of its security and sacredness. no one in our day can charge the ladies of the quaker sect with boldness or indecorum; and they have demonstrated that even public teaching, when performed under the influence of an overpowering devotional spirit, does not interfere with feminine propriety and modesty. the fact is, that the number of women to whom this vocation is given will always be comparatively few: they are, and generally will be, exceptions; and the majority of the religious world, ancient and modern, has decided that these exceptions are to be treated with reverence. the next morning, as we were sitting down to breakfast, our friends of the other house sent in to me a plate of the largest, finest strawberries i have ever seen, which, considering that it was only the latter part of april, seemed to me quite an astonishing luxury. on the morning before we left we had agreed to meet a circle of friends from birmingham, consisting of the abolition society there, which is of long standing, extending back in its memories to the very commencement of the agitation under clarkson and wilberforce. it was a pleasant morning, the st of may. the windows of the parlor were opened to the ground; and the company invited filled not only the room, but stood in a crowd on the grass around the window. among the peaceable company present was an admiral in the navy, a fine, cheerful old gentleman, who entered with hearty interest into the scene. the lady secretary of the society read a neatly-written address, full of kind feeling and christian sentiment. joseph sturge made a few sensible and practical remarks on the present aspects of the antislavery cause in the world, and the most practical mode of assisting it among english christians. he dwelt particularly on the encouragement of free labor. the rev. john angell james followed with some extremely kind and interesting remarks, and mr. s. replied. as we were intending to return to this city to make a longer visit, we felt that this interview was but a glimpse of friends whom we hoped to know more perfectly hereafter. a throng of friends accompanied us to the depot. we had the pleasure of the company of elihu burritt, and enjoyed a delightful run to london, where we arrived towards evening. letter xiii. dear sister:-- at the station house in london, we found rev. messrs. binney and sherman waiting for us with carriages. c. went with mr. sherman, and mr. s. and i soon found ourselves in a charming retreat called rose cottage, in walworth, about which i will tell you more anon. mrs. b. received us with every attention which the most thoughtful hospitality could suggest. s. and w., who had gone on before us, and taken lodgings very near, were there waiting to receive us. one of the first things s. said to me, after we got into our room, was, "o, h----, we are so glad you have come, for we are all going to the lord mayor's dinner to night, and you are invited." "what!" said i, "the lord mayor of london, that i used to read about in whittington and his cat?" and immediately there came to my ears the sound of the old chime, which made so powerful an impression on my childish memory, wherein all the bells of london were represented as tolling. "turn again, whittington, thrice lord mayor of london." it is curious what an influence these old rhymes have on our associations. s. went on to tell me that the party was the annual dinner given to the judges of england by the lord mayor, and that there we should see the whole english bar, and hosts of _distingués_ besides. so, though i was tired, i hurried to dress in all the glee of meeting an adventure, as mr. and mrs. b. and the rest of the party were ready. crack went the whip, round went the wheels, and away we drove. we alighted at the mansion house, and entered a large illuminated hall, supported by pillars. chandeliers were glittering, servants with powdered heads and gold lace coats were hurrying to and fro in every direction, receiving company and announcing names. do you want to know how announcing is done? well, suppose a staircase, a hall, and two or three corridors, intervening between you and the drawing room. at all convenient distances on this route are stationed these grave, powdered-headed gentlemen, with their embroidered coats. you walk up to the first one, and tell him confidentially that you are miss smith. he calls to the man on the first landing, "miss smith." the man on the landing says to the man in the corridor, "miss smith." the man in the corridor shouts to the man at the drawing room door, "miss smith." and thus, following the sound of your name, you hear it for the last time shouted aloud, just before you enter the room. we found a considerable throng, and i was glad to accept a seat which was offered me in the agreeable vicinity of the lady mayoress, so that i might see what would be interesting to me of the ceremonial. the titles in law here, as in every thing else, are manifold; and the powdered-headed gentleman at the door pronounced them with an evident relish, which was joyous to hear--mr. attorney, mr. solicitor, and mr. sergeant; lord chief baron, lord chief justice, and lord this, and lord that, and lord the other, more than i could possibly remember, as in they came dressed in black, with smallclothes and silk stockings, with swords by their sides, and little cocked hats under their arms, bowing gracefully before the lady mayoress. i saw no big wigs, but some wore the hair tied behind with a small black silk bag attached to it. some of the principal men were dressed in black velvet, which became them finely. some had broad shirt frills of point or mechlin lace, with wide ruffles of the same round their wrists. poor c., barbarian that he was, and utterly unaware of the priceless gentility of the thing, said to me, _sotto voce_, "how can men wear such dirty stuff? why don't they wash it?" i expounded to him what an ignorant sinner he was, and that the dirt of ages was one of the surest indications of value. wash point lace! it would be as bad as cleaning up the antiquary's study. the ladies were in full dress, which here in england means always a dress which exposes the neck and shoulders. this requirement seems to be universal, since ladies of all ages conform to it. it may, perhaps, account for this custom, to say that the bust of an english lady is seldom otherwise than fine, and develops a full outline at what we should call quite an advanced period of life. a very dignified gentleman, dressed in black velvet, with a fine head, made his way through the throng, and sat down by me, introducing himself as lord chief baron pollock. he told me he had just been reading the legal part of the key to uncle tom's cabin, and remarked especially on the opinion of judge ruffin, in the case of state _v._ mann, as having made a deep impression on his mind. of the character of the decision, considered as a legal and literary document, he spoke in terms of high admiration; said that nothing had ever given him so clear a view of the essential nature of slavery. we found that this document had produced the same impression on the minds of several others present. mr. s. said that one or two distinguished legal gentlemen mentioned it to him in similar terms. the talent and force displayed in it, as well as the high spirit and scorn of dissimulation, appear to have created a strong interest in its author. it always seemed to me that there was a certain severe strength and grandeur about it which approached to the heroic. one or two said that they were glad such a man had retired from the practice of such a system of law. but there was scarce a moment for conversation amid the whirl and eddy of so many presentations. before the company had all assembled, the room was a perfect jam of legal and literary notabilities. the dinner was announced between nine and ten o'clock. we were conducted into a splendid hall, where the tables were laid. four long tables were set parallel with the length of the hall, and one on a raised platform across the upper end. in the midst of this sat the lord mayor and lady mayoress, on their right hand the judges, on their left the american minister, with other distinguished guests. i sat by a most agreeable and interesting young lady, who seemed to take pleasure in enlightening me on all those matters about which a stranger would naturally be inquisitive. directly opposite me was mr. dickens, whom i now beheld for the first time, and was surprised to see looking so young. mr. justice talfourd, known as the author of ion, was also there with his lady. she had a beautiful antique cast of head. the lord mayor was simply dressed in black, without any other adornment than a massive gold chain. i asked the lady if he had not robes of state. she replied, yes; but they were very heavy and cumbersome, and that he never wore them when he could, with any propriety, avoid it. it seems to me that this matter of outward parade and state is gradually losing its hold even here in england. as society becomes enlightened, men care less and less for mere shows, and are apt to neglect those outward forms which have neither beauty nor convenience on their side, such as judges' wigs and lord mayors' robes. as a general thing the company were more plainly dressed than i had expected. i am really glad that there is a movement being made to carry the doctrine of plain dress into our diplomatic representation. even older nations are becoming tired of mere shows; and, certainly, the representatives of a republic ought not to begin to put on the finery which monarchies are beginning to cast off. the present lord mayor is a member of the house of commons--a most liberal-minded man; very simple, but pleasing in his appearance and address; one who seems to think more of essentials than of show. he is a dissenter, being a member of rev. mr. binney's church, a man warmly interested in the promotion of sabbath schools, and every worthy and benevolent object. the ceremonies of the dinner were long and weary, and, i thought, seemed to be more fully entered into by a flourishing official, who stood at the mayor's back, than by any other person present. the business of toast-drinking is reduced to the nicest system. a regular official, called a toast master, stood behind the lord mayor with a paper, from which he read the toasts in their order. every one, according to his several rank, pretensions, and station, must be toasted in his gradation; and every person toasted must have his name announced by the official,--the larger dignitaries being proposed alone in their glory, while the smaller fry are read out by the dozen,--and to each toast somebody must get up and make a speech. first, after the usual loyal toasts, the lord mayor proposed the health of the american minister, expressing himself in the warmest terms of friendship towards our country; to which mr. ingersoll responded very handsomely. among the speakers i was particularly pleased with lord chief baron pollock, who, in the absence of lord chief justice campbell, was toasted as the highest representative of the legal profession. he spoke with great dignity, simplicity, and courtesy, taking occasion to pay very flattering compliments to the american legal profession, speaking particularly of judge story. the compliment gave me great pleasure, because it seemed a just and noble-minded appreciation, and not a mere civil fiction. we are always better pleased with appreciation than flattery, though perhaps he strained a point when he said, "our brethren on the other side of the atlantic, with whom we are now exchanging legal authorities, i fear largely surpass us in the production of philosophic and comprehensive forms." speaking of the two countries he said, "god forbid that, with a common language, with common laws which we are materially improving for the benefit of mankind, with one common literature, with one common religion, and above all with one common love of liberty, god forbid that any feeling should arise between the two countries but the desire to carry through the world these advantages." mr. justice talfourd proposed the literature of our two countries, under the head of "anglo-saxon literature." he made allusion to the author of uncle tom's cabin and mr. dickens, speaking of both as having employed fiction as a means of awakening the attention of the respective countries to the condition of the oppressed and suffering classes. mr. talfourd appears to be in the prime of life, of a robust and somewhat florid habit. he is universally beloved for his nobleness of soul and generous interest in all that tends to promote the welfare of humanity, no less than for his classical and scholarly attainments. mr. dickens replied to this toast in a graceful and playful strain. in the former part of the evening, in reply to a toast on the chancery department, vice-chancellor wood, who spoke in the absence of the lord chancellor, made a sort of defence of the court of chancery, not distinctly alluding to bleak house, but evidently not without reference to it. the amount of what he said was, that the court had received a great many more hard opinions than it merited; that they had been parsimoniously obliged to perform a great amount of business by a very inadequate number of judges; but that more recently the number of judges had been increased to seven, and there was reason to hope that all business brought before it would now be performed without unnecessary delay. in the conclusion of mr. dickens's speech he alluded playfully to this item of intelligence; said he was exceedingly happy to hear it, as he trusted now that a suit, in which he was greatly interested, would speedily come to an end. i heard a little by conversation between mr. dickens and a gentleman of the bar, who sat opposite me, in which the latter seemed to be reiterating the same assertions, and i understood him to say, that a case not extraordinarily complicated might be got through with in three months. mr. dickens said he was very happy to hear it; but i fancied there was a little shade of incredulity in his manner; however, the incident showed one thing, that is, that the chancery were not insensible to the representations of dickens; but the whole tone of the thing was quite good-natured and agreeable. in this respect, i must say i think the english are quite remarkable. every thing here meets the very freest handling; nothing is too sacred to be publicly shown up; but those who are exhibited appear to have too much good sense to recognize the force of the picture by getting angry. mr. dickens has gone on unmercifully exposing all sorts of weak places in the english fabric, public and private, yet nobody cries out upon him as the slanderer of his country. he serves up lord dedlocks to his heart's content, yet none of the nobility make wry faces about it; nobody is in a hurry to proclaim that he has recognized the picture, by getting into a passion at it. the contrast between the people of england and america, in this respect, is rather unfavorable to us, because they are by profession conservative, and we by profession radical. for us to be annoyed when any of our institutions are commented upon, is in the highest degree absurd; it would do well enough for naples, but it does not do for america. there were some curious old customs observed at this dinner which interested me as peculiar. about the middle of the feast, the official who performed all the announcing made the declaration that the lord mayor and lady mayoress would pledge the guests in a loving cup. they then rose, and the official presented them with a massive gold cup, full of wine, in which they pledged the guests. it then passed down the table, and the guests rose, two and two, each tasting and presenting to the other. my fair informant told me that this was a custom which had come down from the most ancient time. the banquet was enlivened at intervals by songs from professional singers, hired for the occasion. after the banquet was over, massive gold basins, filled with rose water, slid along down the table, into which the guests dipped their napkins--an improvement, i suppose, on the doctrine of finger glasses, or perhaps the primeval form of the custom. we rose from table between eleven and twelve o'clock--that is, we ladies--and went into the drawing room, where i was presented to mrs. dickens and several other ladies. mrs. dickens is a good specimen of a truly english woman; tall, large, and well developed, with fine, healthy color, and an air of frankness, cheerfulness, and reliability. a friend whispered to me that she was as observing, and fond of humor, as her husband. after a while the gentlemen came back to the drawing room, and i had a few moments of very pleasant, friendly conversation with mr. dickens. they are both people that one could not know a little of without desiring to know more. i had some conversation with the lady mayoress. she said she had been invited to meet me at stafford house on saturday, but should be unable to attend, as she had called a meeting on the same day of the city ladies, for considering the condition of milliners and dressmakers, and to form a society for their relief to act in conjunction with that of the west end. after a little we began to talk of separating; the lord mayor to take his seat in the house of commons, and the rest of the party to any other engagement that might be upon their list. "come, let us go to the house of commons," said one of my friends, "and make a night of it." "with all my heart," replied i, "if i only had another body to go into to-morrow." what a convenience in sight-seeing it would be if one could have a relay of bodies, as of clothes, and go from one into the other. but we, not used to the london style of turning night into day, are full weary already; so, good night. letter xiv. rose cottage, walworth, london, may . my dear:-- this morning mrs. follen called, and we had quite a long chat together. we are separated by the whole city. she lives at west end, while i am down here in walworth, which is one of the postscripts of london; for london has as many postscripts as a lady's letter--little suburban villages which have been overtaken by the growth, of the city, and embraced in its arms. i like them a great deal better than the city, for my part. here now, for instance, at walworth, i can look out at a window and see a nice green meadow with sheep and lambs feeding in it, which is some relief in this smutty old place. london is as smutty as pittsburg or wheeling. it takes a good hour's steady riding to get from here to west end; so that my american friends, of the newspapers, who are afraid i shall be corrupted by aristocratic associations, will see that i am at safe distance. this evening we are appointed to dine with the earl of carlisle. there is to be no company but his own family circle, for he, with great consideration, said in his note that he thought a little quiet would be the best thing he could offer. lord carlisle is a great friend to america; and so is his sister, the duchess of sutherland. he is the only english traveller who ever wrote notes on our country in a real spirit of appreciation. while the halls, and trollopes, and all the rest could see nothing but our breaking eggs on the wrong end, or such matters, he discerned and interpreted those points wherein lies the real strength of our growing country. his notes on america were not very extended, being only sketches delivered as a lyceum lecture some years after his return. it was the spirit and quality, rather than quantity, of the thing that was noticeable. i observe that american newspapers are sneering about his preface to uncle tom's cabin; but they ought at least to remember that his sentiments with regard to slavery are no sudden freak. in the first place, he comes of a family that has always been on the side of liberal and progressive principles. he himself has been a leader of reforms on the popular side. it was a temporary defeat, when run as an anti-corn-law candidate, which gave him leisure to travel in america. afterwards he had the satisfaction to be triumphantly returned for that district, and to see the measure he had advocated fully successful. while lord carlisle was in america he never disguised those antislavery sentiments which formed a part of his political and religious creed as an englishman, and as the heir of a house always true to progress. many cultivated english people have shrunk from acknowledging abolitionists in boston, where the ostracism of fashion and wealth has been enforced against them. lord carlisle, though moving in the highest circle, honestly and openly expressed his respect for them on all occasions. he attended the boston antislavery fair, which at that time was quite a decided step. nor did he even in any part of our country disguise his convictions. there is, therefore, propriety and consistency in the course he has taken now. it would seem that a warm interest in questions of a public nature has always distinguished the ladies of this family. the duchess of sutherland's mother is daughter of the celebrated duchess of devonshire, who, in her day, employed on the liberal side in politics all the power of genius, wit, beauty, and rank. it was to the electioneering talents of herself and her sister, the lady duncannon, that fox, at one crisis, owed his election. we americans should remember that it was this party who advocated our cause during our revolutionary struggle. fox and his associates pleaded for us with much the same arguments, and with the same earnestness and warmth, that american abolitionists now plead for the slaves. they stood against all the power of the king and cabinet, as the abolitionists in america in stood against president and cabinet. the duchess of devonshire was a woman of real noble impulses and generous emotions, and had a true sympathy for what is free and heroic. coleridge has some fine lines addressed to her,--called forth by a sonnet which she composed, while in switzerland, on william tell's chapel,--which begin,-- "o lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, where learn'dst thou that heroic measure?" the duchess of sutherland, in our times, has been known to be no less warmly interested on the liberal side. so great was her influence held to be, that upon a certain occasion when a tory cabinet was to be formed, a distinguished minister is reported to have said to the queen that he could not hope to succeed in his administration while such a decided influence as that of the duchess of sutherland stood at the head of her majesty's household. the queen's spirited refusal to surrender her favorite attendant attracted, at the time, universal admiration. like her brother lord carlisle, the duchess of sutherland has always professed those sentiments with regard to slavery which are the glory of the english nation, and which are held with more particular zeal by those families who are favorable to the progress of liberal ideas. at about seven o'clock we took our carriage to go to the earl of carlisle's, the dinner hour being here somewhere between eight and nine. as we rode on through the usual steady drizzling rain, from street to street and square to square, crossing waterloo bridge, with its avenue of lamps faintly visible in the seethy mist, plunging through the heart of the city, we began to realize something of the immense extent of london. altogether the most striking objects that you pass, as you ride in the evening thus, are the gin shops, flaming and flaring from the most conspicuous positions, with plate-glass windows and dazzling lights, thronged with men, and women, and children, drinking destruction. mothers go there with babies in their arms, and take what turns the mother's milk to poison. husbands go there, and spend the money that their children want for bread, and multitudes of boys and girls of the age of my own. in paris and other european cities, at least the great fisher of souls baits with something attractive, but in these gin shops men bite at the bare, barbed hook. there are no garlands, no dancing, no music, no theatricals, no pretence of social exhilaration, nothing but hogsheads of spirits, and people going in to drink. the number of them that i passed seemed to me absolutely appalling. after long driving we found ourselves coming into the precincts of the west end, and began to feel an indefinite sense that we were approaching something very grand, though i cannot say that we saw much but heavy, smoky-walled buildings, washed by the rain. at length we stopped in grosvenor place, and alighted. we were shown into an anteroom adjoining the entrance hall, and from that into an adjacent apartment, where we met lord carlisle. the room had a pleasant, social air, warmed and enlivened by the blaze of a coal fire and wax candles. we had never, any of us, met lord carlisle before; but the considerateness and cordiality of our reception obviated whatever embarrassment there might have been in this circumstance. in a few moments after we were all seated the servant announced the duchess of sutherland, and lord carlisle presented me. she is tall and stately, with a decided fulness of outline, and a most noble bearing. her fair complexion, blond hair, and full lips speak of saxon blood. in her early youth she might have been a rowena. i thought of the lines of wordsworth:-- "a perfect woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort, to command." her manners have a peculiar warmth and cordiality. one sees people now and then who seem to _radiate_ kindness and vitality, and to have a faculty of inspiring perfect confidence in a moment. there are no airs of grandeur, no patronizing ways; but a genuine sincerity and kindliness that seem to come from a deep fountain within. the engraving by winterhalter, which has been somewhat familiar in america, is as just a representation of her air and bearing as could be given. after this we were presented to the various members of the howard family, which is a very numerous one. among them were lady dover, lady lascelles, and lady labouchère, sisters of the duchess. the earl of burlington, who is the heir of the duke of devonshire, was also present. the duke of devonshire is the uncle of lord carlisle. the only person present not of the family connection was my quondam correspondent in america, arthur helps. somehow or other i had formed the impression from his writings that he was a venerable sage of very advanced years, who contemplated life as an aged hermit, from the door of his cell. conceive my surprise to find a genial young gentleman of about twenty-five, who looked as if he might enjoy a joke as well as another man. at dinner i found myself between him and lord carlisle, and perceiving, perhaps, that the nature of my reflections was of rather an amusing order, he asked me confidentially if i did not like fun, to which i assented with fervor. i like that little homely word _fun_, though i understand the dictionary says what it represents is vulgar; but i think it has a good, hearty, saxon sound, and i like saxon, better than latin or french either. when the servant offered me wine lord carlisle asked me if our party were all _teetotallers_, and i said yes; that in america all clergymen were teetotallers, of course. after the ladies left the table the conversation turned on the maine law, which seems to be considered over here as a phenomenon, in legislation, and many of the gentlemen, present inquired about it with great curiosity. when we went into the drawing room i was presented to the venerable countess of carlisle, the earl's mother; a lady universally beloved and revered, not less for superior traits of mind than for great loveliness and benevolence of character. she received us with the utmost kindness; kindness evidently genuine and real. the walls of the drawing room were beautifully adorned with works of art by the best masters. there was a rembrandt hanging over the fireplace, which showed finely by the evening light. it was simply the portrait of a man with a broad, flemish hat. there were one or two pictures, also, by cuyp. i should think he must have studied in america, so perfectly does he represent the golden, hazy atmosphere of our indian summer. one of the ladies showed me a snuff box on which was a picture of lady carlisle's mother, the celebrated duchess of devonshire, taken when she was quite a little girl; a round, happy face, showing great vivacity and genius. on another box was an exquisitely beautiful miniature of a relative of the family. after the gentlemen rejoined us came in the duke and duchess of argyle, and lord and lady blantyre. these ladies are the daughters of the duchess of sutherland. the duchess of argyle is of a slight and fairy-like figure, with flaxen hair and blue eyes, answering well enough to the description of annot lyle, in the legend of montrose. lady blantyre was somewhat taller, of fuller figure, with very brilliant bloom. lord blantyre is of the stuart blood, a tall and slender young man, with very graceful manners. as to the duke of argyle, we found that the picture drawn of him by his countrymen in scotland was every way correct. though slight of figure, with fair complexion and blue eyes, his whole appearance is indicative of energy and vivacity. his talents and efficiency have made him a member of the british cabinet at a much earlier age than is usual; and he has distinguished himself not only in political life, but as a writer, having given to the world a work on presbyterianism, embracing an analysis of the ecclesiastical history of scotland since the reformation, which is spoken of as written with great ability, in a most candid and liberal spirit. the company soon formed themselves into little groups in different parts of the room. the duchess of sutherland, lord carlisle, and the duke and duchess of argyle formed a circle, and turned the conversation upon american topics. the duke of argyle made many inquiries about our distinguished men; particularly of emerson, longfellow, and hawthorne; also of prescott, who appears to be a general favorite here. i felt at the moment that we never value our literary men so much as when placed in a circle of intelligent foreigners; it is particularly so with americans, because we have nothing but our men and women to glory in--no court, no nobles, no castles, no cathedrals; except we produce distinguished specimens of humanity, we are nothing. the quietness of this evening circle, the charm of its kind hospitality, the evident air of sincerity and good will which pervaded every thing, made the evening pass most delightfully to me. i had never felt myself more at home even among the quakers. such a visit is a true rest and refreshment, a thousand times better than the most brilliant and glittering entertainment. at eleven o'clock, however, the carriage called, for our evening was drawing to its close; that of our friends, i suppose, was but just commencing, as london's liveliest hours are by gaslight, but we cannot learn the art of turning night into day. letter xv. may . my dear s.:-- this morning i felt too tired to go out any where; but mr. and mrs. binney persuaded me to go just a little while in to the meeting of the bible society, for you must know that this is anniversary week, and so, besides the usual rush, and roar, and whirl of london, there is the confluence of all the religious forces in exeter hall. i told mrs. b. that i was worn out, and did not think i could sit through a single speech; but she tempted me by a promise that i should withdraw at any moment. we had a nice little snug gallery near one of the doors, where i could see all over the house, and make a quick retreat in case of need. in one point english ladies certainly do carry practical industry farther than i ever saw it in america. every body knows that an anniversary meeting is something of a siege, and i observed many good ladies below had made regular provision therefor, by bringing knitting work, sewing, crochet, or embroidery. i thought it was an improvement, and mean to recommend it when i get home. i am sure many of our marthas in america will be very grateful for the custom. the earl of shaftesbury was in the chair, and i saw him now for the first time. he is quite a tall man, of slender figure, with a long and narrow face, dark hazel eyes, and very thick, auburn hair. his bearing was dignified and appropriate to his position. people here are somewhat amused by the vivacity with which american papers are exhorting lord shaftesbury to look into the factory system, and to explore the collieries, and in general to take care of the suffering lower classes, as if he had been doing any thing else for these twenty years past. to people who know how he has worked against wind and tide, in the face of opposition and obloquy, and how all the dreadful statistics that they quote against him were brought out expressly by inquiries set on foot and prosecuted by him, and how these same statistics have been by him reiterated in the ears of successive houses of parliament till all these abuses have been reformed, as far as the most stringent and minute legislation can reform, them,--it is quite amusing to hear him exhorted to consider the situation of the working classes. one reason for this, perhaps, is that provoking facility in changing names which is incident to the english peerage. during the time that most of the researches and speeches on the factory system and collieries were made, the earl of shaftesbury was in the house of commons, with the title of lord ashley, and it was not till the death of his father that he entered the house of peers as lord shaftesbury. the contrast which a very staid religious paper in america has drawn between lord ashley and lord shaftesbury does not strike people over here as remarkably apposite. in the course of the speeches on this occasion, frequent and feeling allusions were made to the condition of three millions of people in america who are prevented by legislative enactments from reading for themselves the word of life. i know it is not pleasant to our ministers upon the stage to hear such things; but is the whole moral sense of the world to hush its voice, the whole missionary spirit of christianity to be restrained, because it is disagreeable for us to be reminded of our national sins? at least, let the moral atmosphere of the world be kept pure, though it should be too stimulating for our diseased lungs. if oral instruction will do for three million slaves in america, it will do equally well in austria, italy, and spain, and the powers that be, there, are just of the opinion that they are in america--that it is dangerous to have the people read the bible for themselves. thoughts of this kind were very ably set forth in some of the speeches. on the stage i noticed rev. samuel r. ward, from toronto in canada, a full blooded african of fine personal presence. he was received and treated with much cordiality by the ministerial brethren who surrounded him. i was sorry that i could not stay through the speeches, for they were quite interesting. c. thought they were the best he ever heard at an anniversary. i was obliged to leave after a little. mr. sherman very kindly came for us in his carriage, and took us a little ride into the country. mrs. b. says that to-morrow morning we shall go out to see the dulwich gallery, a fine collection of paintings by the old masters. now, i confess unto you that i have great suspicions of these old masters. why, i wish to know, should none but _old_ masters be thought any thing of? is not nature ever springing, ever new? is it not fair to conclude that all the mechanical assistants of painting are improved with the advance of society, as much as of all arts? may not the magical tints, which are said to be a secret with the old masters, be the effect of time in part? or may not modern artists have their secrets, as well, for future ages to study and admire? then, besides, how are we to know that our admiration of old masters is genuine, since we can bring our taste to any thing, if we only know we must, and try long enough? people never like olives the first time they eat them. in fact, i must confess, i have some partialities towards young masters, and a sort of suspicion that we are passing over better paintings at our side, to get at those which, though the best of their day, are not so good as the best of ours. i certainly do not worship the old english poets. with the exception of milton and shakspeare, there is more poetry in the works of the writers of the last fifty years than in all the rest together. well, these are my surmises for the present; but one thing i am determined--as my admiration is nothing to any body but myself, i will keep some likes and dislikes of my own, and will not get up any raptures that do not arise of themselves. i am entirely willing to be conquered by any picture that has the power. i will be a non-resistant, but that is all. may . well, we saw the dulwich gallery; five rooms filled with old masters, murillos, claudes, rubens, salvator rosas, titians, cuyps, vandykes, and all the rest of them; probably not the best specimens of any one of them, but good enough to begin with. c. and i took different courses. i said to him, "now choose nine pictures simply by your eye, and see how far its untaught guidance will bring you within the canons of criticism." when he had gone through all the rooms and marked his pictures, we found he had selected two by rubens, two by vandyke, one by salvator rosa, three by murillo, and one by titian. pretty successful that, was it not, for a first essay? we then took the catalogue, and selected all the pictures of each artist one after another, in order to get an idea of the style of each. i had a great curiosity to see claude lorraine's, remembering the poetical things that had been said and sung of him. i thought i would see if i could distinguish them by my eye without looking at the catalogue i found i could do so. i knew them by a certain misty quality in the atmosphere. i was disappointed in them, very much. certainly, they were good paintings; i had nothing to object to them, but i profanely thought i had seen pictures by modern landscape painters as far excelling them as a brilliant morning excels a cool, gray day. very likely the fault was all in me, but i could not help it; so i tried the murillos. there was a virgin and child, with clouds around them. the virgin was a very pretty girl, such as you may see by the dozen in any boarding school, and the child was a pretty child. call it the young mother and son, and it is a very pretty picture; but call it mary and the infant jesus, and it is an utter failure. not such was the jewish princess, the inspired poetess and priestess, the chosen of god among all women. it seems to me that painting is poetry expressing itself by lines and colors instead of words; therefore there are two things to be considered in every picture: first, the quality of the idea expressed, and second, the quality of the language in which it is expressed. now, with regard to the first, i hold that every person of cultivated taste is as good a judge of painting as of poetry. the second, which relates to the mode of expressing the conception, including drawing and coloring, with all their secrets, requires more study, and here our untaught perceptions must sometimes yield to the judgment of artists. my first question, then, when i look at the work of an artist, is, what sort of a mind has this man? what has he to say? and then i consider, how does he say it? now, with regard to murillo, it appeared to me that he was a man of rather a mediocre mind, with nothing very high or deep to say, but that he was gifted with an exquisite faculty of expressing what he did say; and his paintings seem to me to bear an analogy to pope's poetry, wherein the power of expression is wrought to the highest point, but without freshness or ideality in the conception. as pope could reproduce in most exquisite wording the fervent ideas of eloisa, without the power to originate such, so murillo reproduced the current and floating religious ideas of his times, with most exquisite perfection of art and color, but without ideality or vitality. the pictures of his which please me most are his beggar boys and flower girls, where he abandons the region of ideality, and simply reproduces nature. his art and coloring give an exquisite grace to such sketches. as to vandyke, though evidently a fine painter, he is one whose mind does not move me. he adds nothing to my stock of thoughts--awakens no emotion. i know it is a fine picture, just as i have sometimes been conscious in church that i was hearing a fine sermon, which somehow had not the slightest effect upon me. rubens, on the contrary, whose pictures i detested with all the energy of my soul, i knew and felt all the time, by the very pain he gave me, to be a real living artist. there was a venus and cupid there, as fat and as coarse as they could be, but so freely drawn, and so masterly in their expression and handling, that one must feel that they were by an artist, who could just as easily have painted them any other way if it had suited his sovereign pleasure, and therefore we are the more vexed with him. when your taste is crossed by a clever person, it always vexes you more than when it is done by a stupid one, because it is done with such power that there is less hope for you. there were a number of pictures of cuyp there, which satisfied my thirst for coloring, and appeared to me as i expected the claudes would have done. generally speaking, his objects are few in number and commonplace in their character--a bit of land and water, a few cattle and figures, in no way remarkable; but then he floods the whole with that dreamy, misty sunlight, such as fills the arches of our forests in the days of autumn. as i looked at them i fancied i could hear nuts dropping from the trees among the dry leaves, and see the goldenrods and purple asters, and hear the click of the squirrel as he whips up the tree to his nest. for this one attribute of golden, dreamy haziness, i like cuyp. his power in shedding it over very simple objects reminds me of some of the short poems of longfellow, when things in themselves most prosaic are flooded with a kind of poetic light from the inner soul. these are merely first ideas and impressions. of course i do not make up my mind about any artist from what i have seen here. we must not expect a painter to put his talent into every picture, more than a poet into every verse that he writes. like other men, he is sometimes brilliant and inspired, and at others dull and heavy. in general, however, i have this to say, that there is some kind of fascination about these old masters which i feel very sensibly. but yet, i am sorry to add that there is very little of what i consider the highest mission of art in the specimens i have thus far seen; nothing which speaks to the deepest and the highest; which would inspire a generous ardor, or a solemn religious trust. vainly i seek for something divine, and ask of art to bring me nearer to the source of all beauty and perfection. i find wealth of coloring, freedom of design, and capability of expression wasting themselves merely in portraying trivial sensualities and commonplace ideas. so much for the first essay. in the evening we went to dine with our old friends of the dingle, mr. and mrs. edward cropper, who are now spending a little time in london. we were delighted to meet them once more, and to hear from our liverpool friends. mrs. cropper's father, lord denman, has returned to england, though with no sensible improvement in his health. at dinner we were introduced to lord and lady hatherton. lord hatherton is a member of the whig party, and has been chief secretary for ireland. lady hatherton is a person of great cultivation and intelligence, warmly interested in all the progressive movements of the day; and i gained much information in her society. there were also present sir charles and lady trevelyan; the former holds some appointment in the navy. lady trevelyan is a sister of macaulay. in the evening quite a circle came in; among others, lady emma campbell, sister of the duke of argyle; the daughters of the archbishop of canterbury, who very kindly invited me to visit them, at lambeth; and mr. arthur helps, besides many others whose names i need not mention. people here continually apologize for the weather, which, to say the least, has been rather ungracious since we have been here; as if one ever expected to find any thing but smoke, and darkness, and fog in london. the authentic air with which they lament the existence of these things _at present_ would almost persuade one that _in general_ london was a very clear, bright place. i, however, assured them that, having heard from my childhood of the smoke of london, its dimness and darkness, i found things much better than i had expected. they talk here of spirit rappings and table turnings, i find, as in america. many rumors are afloat which seem to have no other effect than merely to enliven the chitchat of an evening circle. i passed a very pleasant evening, and left about ten o'clock. the gentleman who was handing me down stairs said, "i suppose you are going to one or two other places to-night." the idea struck me as so preposterous that i could not help an exclamation of surprise. may . a good many calls this morning. among others came miss greenfield, the (so called) black swan. she appears to be a gentle, amiable, and interesting young person. she was born the slave of a kind mistress, who gave her every thing but education, and, dying, left her free with a little property. the property she lost by some legal quibble, but had, like others of her race, a passion for music, and could sing and play by ear. a young lady, discovering her taste, gave her a few lessons. she has a most astonishing voice. c. sat down to the piano and played, while she sung. her voice runs through a compass of three octaves and a fourth. this is four notes more than malibran's. she sings a most magnificent tenor, with such a breadth and volume of sound that, with your back turned, you could not imagine it to be a woman. while she was there, mrs. s.c. hall, of the irish sketches, was announced. she is a tall, well-proportioned woman, with a fine color, dark-brown hair, and a cheerful, cordial manner. she brought with her her only daughter, a young girl about fifteen. i told her of miss greenfield, and, she took great interest in her, and requested her to sing something for her. c. played the accompaniment, and she sung old folks at home, first in a soprano voice, and then in a tenor or baritone. mrs. hall was amazed and delighted, and entered at once into her cause. she said that she would call with me and present her to sir george smart, who is at the head of the queen's musical establishment, and, of course, the acknowledged leader of london musical judgment. mrs. hall very kindly told me that she had called to invite me to seek a retreat with her in her charming little country house near london. i do not mean that _she_ called it a charming little retreat, but that every one who speaks of it gives it that character. she told me that i should there have positive and perfect quiet; and what could attract me more than that? she said, moreover, that there they had a great many nightingales. ah, this "bower of roses by bendemeer's stream," could i only go there! but i am tied to london by a hundred engagements. i cannot do it. nevertheless, i have promised that i will go and spend some time yet, when mr. s. leaves london. in the course of the day i had a note from mrs. hall, saying that, as sir george smart was about leaving town, she had not waited for me, but had taken miss greenfield to him herself. she writes that he was really astonished and charmed at the wonderful weight, compass, and power of her voice. he was also as well pleased with the mind in her singing, and her quickness in doing and catching all that he told her. should she have a public opportunity to perform, he offered to hear her rehearse beforehand. mrs. hall says this is a great deal for him, whose hours are all marked with gold. in the evening the house was opened in a general way for callers, who were coming and going all the evening. i think there must have been over two hundred people--among them martin farquhar tupper, a little man, with fresh, rosy complexion, and cheery, joyous manners; and mary howitt, just such a cheerful, sensible, fireside companion as we find her in her books,--winning love and trust the very first few moments of the interview. the general topic of remark on meeting me seems to be, that i am not so bad looking as they were afraid i was; and i do assure you that, when i have seen the things that are put up in the shop windows here with my name under them, i have been in wondering admiration at the boundless loving-kindness of my english and scottish friends, in keeping up such a warm heart for such a gorgon. i should think that the sphinx in the london museum might have sat for most of them. i am going to make a collection of these portraits to bring home to you. there is a great variety of them, and they will be useful, like the irishman's guideboard, which showed where the road did not go. before the evening was through i was talked out and worn out--there was hardly a chip of me left. to-morrow at eleven o'clock comes the meeting at stafford house. what it will amount to i do not know; but i take no thought for the morrow. letter xvi. may . my dear c.:-- in fulfilment of my agreement, i will tell you, as nearly as i can remember, all the details of the meeting at stafford house. at about eleven o'clock we drove under the arched carriage way of a mansion, externally, not very showy in appearance. it stands on the borders of st. james's park, opposite to buckingham palace, with a street on the north side, and beautiful gardens on the south, while the park is extended on the west. we were received at the door by two stately highlanders in full costume; and what seemed to me an innumerable multitude of servants in livery, with powdered hair, repeated our names through the long corridors, from one to another. i have only a confused idea of passing from passage to passage, and from hall to hall, till finally we were introduced into a large drawing room. no person was present, and i was at full leisure to survey an apartment whose arrangements more perfectly suited my eye and taste than any i had ever seen before. there was not any particular splendor of furniture, or dazzling display of upholstery, but an artistic, poetic air, resulting from the arrangement of colors, and the disposition of the works of _virtu_ with which the room abounded. the great fault in many splendid rooms, is, that they are arranged without any eye to unity of impression. the things in them may be all fine in their way, but there is no harmony of result. people do not often consider that there may be a general sentiment to be expressed in the arrangement of a room, as well as in the composition of a picture. it is this leading idea which corresponds to what painters call the ground tone, or harmonizing tint, of a picture. the presence of this often renders a very simple room extremely fascinating, and the absence of it makes the most splendid combinations of furniture powerless to please. the walls were covered with green damask, laid on flat, and confined in its place by narrow gilt bands, which bordered it around the margin. the chairs, ottomans, and sofas were of white woodwork, varnished and gilded, covered with the same. the carpet was of a green ground, bedropped with a small yellow leaf; and in each window a circular, standing basket contained a whole bank of primroses, growing as if in their native soil, their pale yellow blossoms and green leaves harmonizing admirably with the general tone of coloring. through the fall of the lace curtains i could see out into the beautiful grounds, whose clumps of blossoming white lilacs, and velvet grass, seemed so in harmony with the green interior of the room, that one would think they had been arranged as a continuation of the idea. one of the first individual objects which attracted my attention was, over the mantel-piece, a large, splendid picture by landseer, which i have often seen engraved. it represents the two eldest children of the duchess of sutherland, the marquis of stafford, and lady blantyre, at that time lady levison gower, in their childhood. she is represented as feeding a fawn; a little poodle dog is holding up a rose to her; and her brother is lying on the ground, playing with an old staghound. i had been familiar with landseer's engravings, but this was the first of his paintings i had ever seen, and i was struck with the rich and harmonious quality of the coloring. there was also a full-length marble statue of the marquis of stafford, taken, i should think, at about seventeen years of age, in full highland costume. when the duchess appeared, i thought she looked handsomer by daylight than in the evening. she was dressed in white muslin, with a drab velvet basque slashed with satin of the same color. her hair was confined by a gold and diamond net on the back part of her head. she received us with the same warm and simple kindness which she had shown before. we were presented to the duke of sutherland. he is a tall, slender man, with rather a thin face, light brown hair, and a mild blue eye, with an air of gentleness and dignity. the delicacy of his health prevents him from moving in general society, or entering into public life. he spends much of his time in reading, and devising and executing schemes of practical benevolence for the welfare of his numerous dependants. i sought a little private conversation with the duchess in her boudoir, in which i frankly confessed a little anxiety respecting the arrangements of the day: having lived all my life in such a shady and sequestered way, and being entirely ignorant of life as it exists in the sphere in which she moves, such apprehensions were rather natural. she begged that i would make myself entirely easy, and consider myself as among my own friends; that she had invited a few friends to lunch, and that afterwards others would call; that there would be a short address from the ladies of england read by lord shaftesbury, which would require no answer. i could not but be grateful for the consideration thus evinced. the matter being thus adjusted, we came back to the drawing room, when the party began to assemble. the only difference, i may say, by the by, in the gathering of such a company and one with us, is in the announcing of names at the door; a, custom which i think a good one, saving a vast deal of the breath we always expend in company, by asking "who is that? and that?" then, too, people can fall into conversation without a formal presentation, the presumption being that nobody is invited with whom, it is not proper that you should converse. the functionary who performed the announcing was a fine, stalwart man, in full highland costume, the duke being the head of a highland clan. among the first that entered were the members of the family, the duke and duchess of argyle, lord and lady blantyre, the marquis and marchioness of stafford, and lady emma campbell. then followed lord shaftesbury with his beautiful lady, and her father and mother, lord and lady palmerston. lord palmerston is of middle height, with a keen, dark eye, and black hair streaked with gray. there is something peculiarly alert and vivacious about all his movements; in short his appearance perfectly answers to what we know of him from his public life. one has a strange mythological feeling about the existence of people of whom one hears for many years without ever seeing them. while talking with lord palmerston i could but remember how often i had heard father and mr. s. exulting over his foreign despatches by our home fireside. the marquis of lansdowne now entered. he is about the middle height, with gray hair, blue eyes, and a mild, quiet dignity of manner. he is one of those who, as lord henry pettes, took a distinguished part with clarkson and wilberforce in the abolition of the slave trade. he has always been a most munificent patron of literature and art. there were present, also, lord john russell, mr. gladstone, and lord grenville. the latter we all thought very strikingly resembled in his appearance the poet longfellow. my making the remark introduced the subject of his poetry. the duchess of argyle appealed to her two little boys, who stood each side of her, if they remembered her reading evangeline to them. it is a gratification to me that i find by every english fireside traces of one of our american poets. these two little boys of the duchess of argyle, and the youngest son of the duchess of sutherland, were beautiful fair-haired children, picturesquely attired in the highland costume. there were some other charming children of the family circle present. the eldest son of the duke of argyle bears the title of the lord of lorn, which scott has rendered so poetical a sound to our ears. when lunch was announced, the duke of sutherland gave me his arm, and led me through a suite of rooms into the dining hall. each room that we passed was rich in its pictures, statues, and artistic arrangements; a poetic eye and taste had evidently presided over all. the table was beautifully laid, ornamented by two magnificent _épergnes_, crystal vases supported by wrought silver standards, filled with the most brilliant hothouse flowers; on the edges of the vases and nestling among the flowers were silver doves of the size of life. the walls of the room were hung with gorgeous pictures, and directly opposite to me was a portrait of the duchess of sutherland, by sir thomas lawrence, which has figured largely in our souvenirs and books of beauty. she is represented with a little child in her arms; this child, now lady blantyre, was sitting opposite to me at table, with a charming little girl of her own, of about the same apparent age. when one sees such things, one almost fancies this to be a fairy palace, where the cold demons of age and time have lost their power. i was seated next to lord lansdowne, who conversed much with me about affairs in america. it seems to me that the great men of the old world regard our country thoughtfully. it is a new development of society, acting every day with greater and greater power on the old world; nor is it yet clearly seen what its final results will be. his observations indicated a calm, clear, thoughtful mind--an accurate observer of life and history. meanwhile the servants moved noiselessly to and fro, taking up the various articles on the table, and offering them to the guests in a peculiarly quiet manner. one of the dishes brought to me was a plover's nest, precisely as the plover made it, with five little blue speckled eggs in it. this mode of serving plover's eggs, as i understand it, is one of the fashions of-the day, and has something quite sylvan and picturesque about it; but it looked so, for all the world, like a robin's nest that i used to watch out in our home orchard, that i had it not in my heart to profane the sanctity of the image by eating one of the eggs. the _cuisine_ of these west end regions appears to be entirely under french legislation, conducted by parisian artists, skilled in all subtle and metaphysical combinations of ethereal possibilities, quite inscrutable to the eye of sense. her grace's _chef_, i have heard it said elsewhere, bears the reputation of being the first artist of his class in england. the profession as thus sublimated bears the same proportion to the old substantial english cookery that mozart's music does to handel's, or midsummer night's dream to paradise lost. this meal, called _lunch_, is with the english quite an institution, being apparently a less elaborate and ceremonious dinner. every thing is placed upon the table at once, and ladies sit down without removing their bonnets; it is, i imagine, the most social and family meal of the day; one in which children are admitted to the table, even in the presence of company. it generally takes place in the middle of the day, and the dinner, which comes after it, at eight or nine in the evening, is in comparison only a ceremonial proceeding. i could not help thinking, as i looked around on so many men whom i had heard of historically all my life, how very much less they bear the marks of age than men who have been connected a similar length of time with the movements of our country. this appearance of youthfulness and alertness has a constantly deceptive influence upon one in england. i cannot realize that people are as old as history states them to be. in the present company there were men of sixty or seventy, whom i should have pronounced at the first glance to be fifty. generally speaking our working minds seem to wear out their bodies faster; perhaps because our climate is more stimulating; more, perhaps, from the intenser stimulus of our political _régime_, which never leaves any thing long at rest. the tone of manners in this distinguished circle did not obtrude itself upon my mind as different from that of highly-educated people in our own country. it appeared simple, friendly, natural, and sincere. they talked like people who thought of what they were saying, rather than how to say it. the practice of thorough culture and good breeding is substantially the same through the world, though smaller conventionalities may differ. after lunch the whole party ascended to the picture gallery, passing on our way the grand staircase and hall, said to be the most magnificent in europe. all that wealth could command of artistic knowledge and skill has been expended here to produce a superb result. it fills the entire centre of the building, extending up to the roof and surmounted by a splendid dome. on three sides a gallery runs round it supported by pillars. to this gallery you ascend on the fourth side by a staircase, which midway has a broad, flat landing, from which stairs ascend, on the right and left, into the gallery. the whole hall and staircase, carpeted with a scarlet footcloth, give a broad, rich mass of coloring, throwing out finely the statuary and gilded balustrades. on the landing is a marble statue of a sibyl, by rinaldi. the walls are adorned by gorgeous frescos from paul veronese. what is peculiar in the arrangements of this hall is, that although so extensive, it still wears an air of warm homelikeness and comfort, as if it might be a delightful place to lounge and enjoy life, amid the ottomans, sofas, pictures, and statuary, which are disposed here and there throughout. all this, however, i passed rapidly by as i ascended the staircase, and passed onward to the picture gallery. this was a room about a hundred feet long by forty wide, surmounted by a dome gorgeously finished with golden palm, trees and carving. this hall is lighted in the evening by a row of gaslights placed outside the ground glass of the dome; this light is concentrated and thrown down by strong reflectors, communicating thus the most brilliant radiance without the usual heat of gas. this gallery is peculiarly rich in paintings of the spanish school. among them are two superb murillos, taken from convents by marshal soult, during the time of his career in spain. there was a painting by paul de la roche of the earl of strafford led forth to execution, engravings of which we have seen in the print shops in america. it is a strong and striking picture, and has great dramatic effect. but there was a painting in one corner by a flemish artist, whose name i do not now remember, representing christ under examination before caiaphas. it was a candle-light scene, and only two faces were very distinct; the downcast, calm, resolute face of christ, in which was written a perfect knowledge of his approaching doom, and the eager, perturbed vehemence of the high priest, who was interrogating him. on the frame was engraved the lines,-- "he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed." the presence of this picture here in the midst of this scene was very affecting to me. the company now began to assemble and throng the gallery, and very soon the vast room was crowded. among the throng i remember many presentations, but of course must have forgotten many more. archbishop whately was there, with mrs. and miss whately; macaulay, with two of his sisters; milman, the poet and historian; the bishop of oxford, chevalier bunsen and lady, and many more. when all the company were together lord shaftesbury read a very short, kind, and considerate address in behalf of the ladies of england, expressive of their cordial welcome. the address will be seen in the morning advertiser, which i send you. the company remained a while after this, walking through the rooms and conversing in different groups, and i talked with several. archbishop whately, i thought, seemed rather inclined to be jocose: he seems to me like some of our american divines; a man who pays little attention to forms, and does not value them. there is a kind of brusque humor in his address, a downright heartiness, which reminds one of western character. if he had been born in our latitude, in kentucky or wisconsin, the natives would have called him whately, and said he was a real steamboat on an argument. this is not precisely the kind of man we look for in an archbishop. one sees traces of this humor in his historic doubts concerning the existence of napoleon. i conversed with some who knew him intimately, and they said that he delighted in puns and odd turns of language. i was also introduced to the bishop of oxford, who is a son of wilberforce. he is a short man, of very youthful appearance, with bland, graceful, courteous manners. he is much admired as a speaker. i heard him spoken of as one of the most popular preachers of the day. i must not forget to say that many ladies of the society of friends were here, and one came and put on to my arm a reticule, in which, she said, were carried about the very first antislavery tracts ever distributed in england. at that time the subject of antislavery was as unpopular in england as it can be at this day any where in the world, and i trust that a day will come when the subject will be as popular in south carolina as it is now in england. people always glory in the right after they have done it. after a while the company dispersed over the house to look at the rooms. there are all sorts of parlors and reception rooms, furnished with the same correct taste. each room had its predominant color; among them blue was a particular favorite. the carpets were all of those small figures i have described, the blue ones being of the same pattern with the green. the idea, i suppose, is to produce a mass of color of a certain tone, and not to distract the eye with the complicated pattern. where so many objects of art and _virtu_ are to be exhibited, without this care in regulating and simplifying the ground tints, there would be no unity in the impression. this was my philosophizing on the matter, and if it is not the reason why it is done, it ought to be. it is as good a theory as most theories, at any rate. before we went away i made a little call on the lady constance grosvenor, and saw the future marquis of westminster, heir to the largest estate in england. his beautiful mother is celebrated in the annals of the court journal as one of the handsomest ladies in england. his little lordship was presented to me in all the dignity of long, embroidered clothes, being then, i believe, not quite a fortnight old, and i can assure you that he demeaned himself with a gravity becoming his rank and expectations. there is a more than common interest attached to these children by one who watches the present state of the world. on the character and education of the princes and nobility of this generation the future history of england must greatly depend. this stafford house meeting, in any view of it, is a most remarkable fact. kind and gratifying as its arrangements have been to me, i am far from appropriating it to myself individually, as a personal honor. i rather regard it as the most public expression possible of the feelings of the women of england on one of the most important questions of our day--that, of individual liberty considered in its religious bearings. the most splendid of england's palaces has this day opened its doors to the slave. its treasures of wealth and of art, its prestige of high name and historic memories, have been consecrated to the acknowledgment of christianity in that form, wherein, in our day, it is most frequently denied--the recognition of the brotherhood of the human family, and the equal religious value of every human soul. a fair and noble hand by this meeting has fixed, in the most public manner, an ineffaceable seal to the beautiful sentiments of that most christian document, the letter of the ladies of great britain to the ladies of america. that letter and this public attestation of it are now historic facts, which wait their time and the judgment of advancing christianity. concerning that letter i have one or two things to say. nothing can be more false than the insinuation that has been thrown out in some american papers, that it was a political movement. it had its first origin in the deep religious feelings of the man whose whole life has been devoted to the abolition of the white-labor slavery of great britain; the man whose eye explored the darkness of the collieries, and counted the weary steps of the cotton spinners--who penetrated the dens where the insane were tortured with darkness, and cold, and stripes; and threaded the loathsome alleys of london, haunts of fever and cholera: this man it was, whose heart was overwhelmed by the tale of american slavery, and who could find no relief from, this distress except in raising some voice to the ear of christianity. fearful of the jealousy of political interference, lord shaftesbury published an address to the ladies of england, in which he told them that he felt himself moved by an irresistible impulse to entreat them to raise their voice, in the name of a common christianity and womanhood, to their american sisters. the abuse which has fallen upon him for this most christian proceeding does not in the least surprise him, because it is of the kind that has always met him in every benevolent movement. when in the parliament of england he was pleading for women in the collieries who were harnessed like beasts of burden, and made to draw heavy loads through miry and dark passages, and for children who were taken at three years old to labor where the sun never shines, he was met with determined and furious opposition and obloquy--accused of being a disorganizer, and of wishing to restore the dark ages. very similar accusations have attended all his efforts for the laboring classes during the long course of seventeen years, which resulted at last in the triumphant passage of the factory bill. we in america ought to remember that the gentle remonstrance of the letter of the ladies of england contains, in the mildest form, the sentiments of universal christendom. rebukes much more pointed are coming back to us even from, our own missionaries. a day is coming when, past all the temporary currents of worldly excitement, we shall, each of us, stand alone face to face with the perfect purity of our redeemer. the thought of such a final interview ought certainly to modify all our judgments now, that we may strive to approve only what we shall then approve. letter xvii. my dear c.:-- as to those ridiculous stories about the duchess of sutherland, which have found their way into many of the prints in america, one has only to be here, moving in society, to see how excessively absurd they are. all my way through scotland, and through england, i was associating, from day to day, with people of every religious denomination, and every rank of life. i have been with, dissenters and with churchmen; with the national presbyterian church and the free presbyterian; with quakers and baptists. in all these circles i have heard the great and noble of the land freely spoken of and canvassed, and if there had been the least shadow of a foundation for any such accusations, i certainly should have heard it recognized in some manner. if in no other, such warm friends as i have heard speak would have alluded to the subject in the way of defence; but i have actually never heard any allusion of any sort, as if there was any thing to be explained or accounted for. as i have before intimated, the howard family, to which the duchess belongs, is one which has always been on the side of popular rights and popular reform. lord carlisle, her brother, has been a leader of the people, particularly during the time of the corn-law reformation, and _she_ has been known to take a wide and generous interest in all these subjects. every where that i have moved through scotland and england i have heard her kindness of heart, her affability of manner, and her attention to the feelings of others spoken of as marked characteristics. imagine, then, what people must think when they find in respectable american prints the absurd story of her turning her tenants out into the snow, and ordering the cottages to be set on fire over their heads because they would not go out. but, if you ask how such an absurd story could ever have been made up, whether there is the least foundation to make it on, i answer, that it is the exaggerated report of a movement made by the present duke of sutherland's father, in the year , and which was part of a great movement that passed through, the highlands of scotland, when the advancing progress of civilization began to make it necessary to change the estates from military to agricultural establishments. soon after the union of the crowns of england and scotland, the border chiefs found it profitable to adopt upon their estates that system, of agriculture to which their hills were adapted, rather than to continue the maintenance of military retainers. instead of keeping garrisons, with small armies, in a district, they decided to keep only so many as could profitably cultivate the land. the effect of this, of course, was like disbanding an army. it threw many people out of employ, and forced them to seek for a home elsewhere. like many other movements which, in their final results, are beneficial to society, this was at first vehemently resisted, and had to be carried into effect in some cases by force. as i have said, it began first in the southern counties of scotland, soon after the union of the english and scottish crowns, and gradually crept northward--one county after another yielding to the change. to a certain extent, as it progressed northward, the demand for labor in the great towns absorbed the surplus population; but when it came into the extreme highlands, this refuge was wanting. emigration to america now became the resource; and the surplus population were induced to this by means such as the colonization society now recommends and approves for promoting emigration to liberia. the first farm that was so formed on the sutherland estate was in . the great change was made in - , and completed in - . the sutherland estates are in the most northern portion of scotland. the distance of this district from the more advanced parts of the kingdom, the total want of roads, the unfrequent communication by sea, and the want of towns, made it necessary to adopt a different course in regard to the location of the sutherland population from that which circumstances had provided in other parts of scotland, where they had been removed from the bleak and uncultivable mountains. they had lots given them near the sea, or in more fertile spots, where, by labor and industry, they might maintain themselves. they had two years allowed them for preparing for the change, without payment of rent. timber for their houses was given, and many other facilities for assisting their change. the general agent of the sutherland estate is mr. loch. in a speech of this gentleman in the house of commons, on the second reading of the scotch poor-law bill, june , , he states the following fact with regard to the management of the sutherland estate during this period, from to , which certainly can speak for itself: "i can state as from fact that, from to , not one sixpence of rent has been received from that county, but, on the contrary, there has been sent there, for the benefit and improvement of the people, a sum exceeding sixty thousand pounds." mr. loch goes on in the same speech to say, "there is no set of people more industrious than the people of sutherland. thirty years since they were engaged in illegal distillation to a very great extent; at the present moment there is not, i believe, an illegal still in the county. their morals have improved as those habits have been abandoned; and they have added many hundreds, i believe thousands, of acres to the land in cultivation since they were placed upon the shore. "previous to that change to which i have referred, they exported very few cattle, and hardly any thing else. they were, also, every now and then, exposed to all the difficulties of extreme famine. in the years - , and - , so great was the misery that it was necessary to send down oatmeal for their supply to the amount of nine thousand pounds, and that was given to the people. but, since industrious habits were introduced, and they were settled within reach of fishing, no such calamity has overtaken them. their condition was then so low that they were obliged to bleed their cattle, during the winter, and mix the blood with the remnant of meal they had, in order to save them from starvation. "since then the country has improved so much that the fish, in particular, which they exported, in , from one village alone, helmsdale, (which, previous to , did not exist,) amounted to five thousand three hundred and eighteen barrels of herring, and in thirty-seven thousand five hundred and ninety-four barrels, giving employment to about three thousand nine hundred people. this extends over the whole of the county, in which fifty-six thousand barrels were cured. "do not let me be supposed to say that there are not cases requiring attention: it must be so in a large population; but there can be no means taken by a landlord, or by those under him, that are not bestowed upon that tenantry. "it has been said that the contribution by the heritor (the duke) to one kirk session for the poor was but six pounds. now, in the eight parishes which are called sutherland proper, the amount of the contribution of the duke of sutherland to the kirk session is forty-two pounds a year. that is a very small sum but that sum merely is so given because the landlord thinks that he can distribute his charity in a more beneficial manner to the people; and the amount of charity which he gives--and which, i may say, is settled on them, for it is given regularly--is above four hundred and fifty pounds a year. "therefore the statements that have been made, so far from being correct, are in every way an exaggeration of what is the fact. no portion of the kingdom has advanced in prosperity so much; and if the honorable member (mr. s. crawford) will go down there, i will give him every facility for seeing the state of the people, and he shall judge with his own eyes whether my representation be not correct. i could go through a great many other particulars, but i will not trouble the house now with them. the statements i have made are accurate, and i am quite ready to prove them in any way that is necessary." this same mr. loch has published a pamphlet, in which he has traced out the effects of the system pursued on the sutherland estate, in many very important particulars. it appears from this that previously to the people were generally sub-tenants to middle men, who exacted high rents, and also various perquisites, such as the delivery of poultry and eggs, giving so many days' labor in harvest time, cutting and carrying peat and stones for building. since the people have become immediate tenants, at a greatly diminished rate of rent, and released from all these exactions. for instance, in two parishes, in , the rents were one thousand five hundred and ninety-three pounds, and in they were only nine hundred and seventy-two pounds. in another parish the reduction of rents has amounted, on an average, to thirty-six per cent. previous to the houses were turf huts of the poorest description, in many instances the cattle being kept under the same roof with the family. since a large proportion, of their houses have been rebuilt in a superior manner--the landlord having paid them for their old timber where it could not be moved, and having also contributed the new timber, with lime. before all the rents of the estates were used for the personal profit of the landlord; but since that time, both by the present duke and his father, all the rents have been expended on improvements in the county, besides sixty thousand pounds more which have been remitted from. england for the purpose. this money has been spent on churches, school houses, harbors, public inns, roads, and bridges. in there was not a carriage road in the county, and only two bridges. since that time four hundred and thirty miles of road have been constructed on the estate, at the expense of the proprietor and tenants. there is not a turnpike gate in the county, and yet the roads are kept perfect. before the mail was conveyed entirely by a foot runner, and there was but one post office in the county; and there was no direct post across the county, but letters to the north and west were forwarded once a month. a mail coach has since been established, to which the late duke of sutherland contributed more than two thousand six hundred pounds; and since mail gigs have been established to convey letters to the north and west coast, towards which the duke of sutherland contributes three hundred pounds a year. there are thirteen post offices and sub-offices in the county. before there was no inn in the county fit for the reception of strangers. since that time there have been fourteen inns either built or enlarged by the duke. before there was scarcely a cart on the estate; all the carriage was done on the backs of ponies. the cultivation of the interior was generally executed with a rude kind of spade, and there was not a gig in the county. in there were one thousand one hundred and thirty carts owned on the estate, and seven hundred and eight ploughs, also forty-one gigs. before there was no baker, and only two shops. in there were eight bakers and forty-six grocer's shops, in nearly all of which shoe blacking was sold to some extent, an unmistakable evidence of advancing civilization. in the cultivation of the coast side of sutherland was so defective that it was necessary often, in a fall of snow, to cut down the young scotch firs to feed the cattle on; and in hay had to be imported. _now_ the coast side of sutherland exhibits an extensive district of land cultivated according to the best principles of modern agriculture; several thousand acres have been added to the arable land by these improvements. before there were no woodlands of any extent on the estate, and timber had to be obtained from a distance. since that time many thousand acres of woodland have been planted, the thinnings of which, being sold to the people at a moderate rate, have greatly increased their comfort and improved their domestic arrangements. before there were only two blacksmiths in the county. in there were forty-two blacksmiths and sixty-three carpenters. before the exports of the county consisted of black cattle of an inferior description, pickled salmon, and some ponies; but these were precarious sources of profit, as many died in winter for want of food; for example, in the spring of two hundred cows, five hundred cattle, and more than two hundred ponies died in the parish of kildonan alone. since that time the measures pursued by the duke of sutherland, in introducing improved breeds of cattle, pigs, and modes of agriculture, have produced results in exports which tell their own story. about forty thousand sheep and one hundred and eighty thousand fleeces of wool are exported annually; also fifty thousand barrels of herring. the whole fishing village of helmsdale has been built since that time. it now contains from thirteen to fifteen curing yards covered with slate, and several streets with houses similarly built. the herring fishery, which has been mentioned as so productive, has been established since the change, and affords employment to three thousand nine hundred people. since , also, a savings bank has been established in every parish, of which the duke of sutherland is patron and treasurer, and the savings have been very considerable. the education of the children of the people has been a subject of deep interest to the duke of sutherland. besides the parochial schools, (which answer, i suppose, to our district schools,) of which the greater number have been rebuilt or repaired at an expense exceeding what is legally required for such purposes, the duke of sutherland contributes to the support of several schools for young females, at which sewing and other branches of education are taught; and in he agreed to establish twelve general assembly schools in such parts of the county as were without the sphere of the parochial schools, and to build school and schoolmasters' houses, which will, upon an average, cost two hundred pounds each; and to contribute annually two hundred pounds in aid of salaries to the teachers, besides a garden and cows' grass; and in he made an arrangement with the education committee of the free church, whereby no child, of whatever persuasion, will be beyond the reach of moral and religious education. there are five medical gentlemen on the estate, three of whom receive allowances from the duke of sutherland for attendance on the poor in the districts in which they reside. an agricultural association, or farmers' club, has been formed under the patronage of the duke of sutherland, of which the other proprietors in the county, and the larger tenantry, are members, which is in a very active and flourishing state. they have recently invited professor johnston to visit sutherland, and give lectures on agricultural chemistry. the total population of the sutherland estate is twenty-one thousand seven hundred and eighty-four. to have the charge and care of so large an estate, of course, must require very systematic arrangements; but a talent for system seems to be rather the forte of the english. the estate is first divided into three districts, and each district is under the superintendence of a factor, who communicates with the duke through a general agent. besides this, when the duke is on the estate, which is during a portion of every year, he receives on monday whoever of his tenants wishes to see him. their complaints or wishes are presented in writing; he takes them into consideration, and gives written replies. besides the three factors there is a ground officer, or sub-factor, in every parish, and an agriculturist in the dunrobin district, who gives particular attention to instructing the people in the best methods of farming. the factors, the ground officers, and the agriculturists all work to one common end. they teach the advantages of draining; of ploughing deep, and forming their ridges in straight lines; of constructing tanks for saving liquid manure. the young farmers also pick up a great deal of knowledge when working as ploughmen or laborers on the more immediate grounds of the estate. the head agent, mr. loch, has been kind enough to put into my hands a general report of the condition of the estate, which he drew up for the inspection of the duke, may , , and in which he goes minutely over the condition of every part of the estate. one anecdote of the former duke of sutherland will show the spirit which has influenced the family in their management of the estate. in , when there was much suffering on account of bad seasons, the duke of sutherland sent down his chief agent to look into the condition of the people, who desired the ministers of the parishes to send in their lists of the poor. to his surprise it was found that there were located on the estate a number of people who had settled there without leave. they amounted to four hundred and eight families, or two thousand persons; and though they had no legal title to remain where they were, no hesitation was shown in supplying them with food in the same manner with those who were tenants, on the sole condition that on the first opportunity they should take cottages on the sea shore, and become industrious people. it was the constant object of the duke to keep the rents of his poorer tenants at a nominal amount. what led me more particularly to inquire into these facts was, that i received by mail, while in london, an account containing some of these stories, which had been industriously circulated in america. there were dreadful accounts of cruelties practised in the process of inducing the tenants to change their places of residence. the following is a specimen of these stories:-- "i was present at the pulling down and burning of the house of william chisholm, badinloskin, in which was lying his wife's mother, an old, bed-ridden woman of near one hundred years of age, none of the family being present. i informed the persons about to set fire to the house of this circumstance, and prevailed on them to wait till mr. sellar came. on his arrival i told him of the poor old woman being in a condition unfit for removal. he replied, 'damn her, the old witch, she has lived too long; let her burn.' fire was immediately set to the house, and the blankets in which she was carried were in flames before she could be got out. she was placed in a little shed, and it was with great difficulty they were prevented from firing that also. the old woman's daughter arrived while the house was on fire, and assisted the neighbors in removing her mother out of the flames and smoke, presenting a picture of horror which i shall never forget, but cannot attempt to describe. she died within five days." with regard to this story mr. loch, the agent, says, "i must notice the only thing like a fact stated in the newspaper extract which you sent to me, wherein mr. sellar is accused of acts of cruelty towards some of the people. this mr. sellar tested, by bringing an action against the then sheriff substitute of the county. he obtained a verdict for heavy damages. the sheriff, by whom, the slander was propagated, left the county. both are since dead." having, through lord shaftesbury's kindness, received the benefit of mr. loch's corrections to this statement, i am permitted to make a little further extract from his reply. he says,-- "in addition to what i was able to say in my former paper, i can now state that the duke of sutherland has received, from, one of the most determined opposers of the measure, who travelled to the north of scotland as editor of a newspaper, a letter regretting all he had written on the subject, being convinced that he was entirely misinformed. as you take so much interest in the subject, i will conclude by saying that nothing could exceed the prosperity of the county during the past year; their stock, sheep, and other things sold at high prices; their crops of grain and turnips were never so good, and the potatoes were free from all disease; rents have been paid better than was ever known. * * * as an instance of the improved habits of the farmers, no house is now built for them that they do not require a hot bath and water closets." from this long epitome you can gather the following results; first, if the system were a bad one, the duchess of sutherland had nothing to do with it, since it was first introduced in , the same year her grace was born; and the accusation against mr. sellar dates in , when her grace was five or six years old. the sutherland arrangements were completed in , and her grace was not married to the duke till , so that, had the arrangement been the worst in the world, it is nothing to the purpose so far as she is concerned. as to whether the arrangement _is_ a bad one, the facts which have been stated speak for themselves. to my view it is an almost sublime instance of the benevolent employment of superior wealth and power in shortening the struggles of advancing civilization, and elevating in a few years a whole community to a point of education and material prosperity, which, unassisted, they might never have obtained, letter xviii. london, sunday, may . my dear s.:-- mr. s. is very unwell, in bed, worn out with, the threefold labor of making and receiving calls, visiting, and delivering public addresses. c. went to hear dr. mcneile, of liverpool, preach--one of the leading men of the established church evangelical party, a strong millenarian. c. said that he was as fine a looking person in canonicals as he ever saw in the pulpit. in doctrine he is what we in america should call very strong old school. i went, as i had always predetermined to do, if ever i came to london, to hear baptist noel, drawn thither by the melody and memory of those beautiful hymns of his[n], which must meet a response in every christian heart. he is tall and well formed, with one of the most classical and harmonious heads i ever saw. singularly enough, he reminded me of a bust of achilles at the london museum. he is indeed a swift-footed achilles, but in another race, another warfare. born of a noble family, naturally endowed with sensitiveness and ideality to appreciate all the amenities and suavities of that brilliant sphere, the sacrifice must have been inconceivably great for him to renounce favor and preferment, position in society,--which, here in england, means more than americans can ever dream of,--to descend from being a court chaplain, to become a preacher in a baptist dissenting chapel. whatever may be thought of the correctness of the intellectual conclusions which led him to such a step, no one can fail to revere the strength and purity of principle which could prompt to such sacrifices. many, perhaps, might have preferred that he should have chosen a less decided course. but if his judgment really led to these results, i see no way in which it was possible for him to have avoided it. it was with an emotion of reverence that i contrasted the bareness, plainness, and poverty of the little chapel with that evident air of elegance and cultivation which appeared in all that he said and did. the sermon was on the text, "now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three." naturally enough, the subject divided itself into faith, hope, and charity. his style calm, flowing, and perfectly harmonious, his delivery serene and graceful, the whole flowed over one like a calm and clear strain of music. it was a sermon after the style of tholuck and other german sermonizers, who seem to hold that the purpose of preaching is not to rouse the soul by an antagonistic struggle with sin through the reason, but to soothe the passions, quiet the will, and bring the mind into a frame in which it shall incline to follow its own convictions of duty. they take for granted, that the reason why men sin is not because they are ignorant, but because they are distracted and tempted by passion; that they do not need so much to be told what is their duty, as persuaded to do it. to me, brought up on the very battle field of controversial theology, accustomed to hear every religious idea guarded by definitions, and thoroughly hammered on a logical anvil before the preacher thought of making any use of it for heart or conscience, though i enjoyed the discourse extremely, i could not help wondering what an american theological professor would make of such a sermon. to preach on faith, hope, and charity all in one discourse--why, we should have six sermons on the nature of faith to begin with: on speculative faith; saving faith; practical faith, and the faith of miracles; then we should have the laws of faith, and the connection of faith with evidence, and the nature of evidence, and the different kinds of evidence, and so on. for my part i have had a suspicion since i have been here, that a touch of this kind of thing might improve english preaching; as, also, i do think that sermons of the kind i have described would be useful, by way of alterative, among us. if i could have but one of the two manners, i should prefer our own, because i think that this habit of preaching is one of the strongest educational forces that forms the mind of our country. after the service was over i went into the vestry, and was introduced to mr. noel. the congregation of the established church, to which he ministered during his connection with it, are still warmly attached to him. his leaving them was a dreadful trial; some of them can scarcely mention his name without tears. c. says, with regard to the church singing, as far as he heard it, it is twenty years behind that in boston. in the afternoon i staid at home to nurse mr. s. a note from lady john russell inviting us there. monday, may . i should tell you that at the duchess of sutherland's an artist, named burnard, presented me with a very fine cameo head of wilberforce, cut from a statue in westminster abbey. he is from cornwall, in the south of england, and has attained some celebrity as an artist. he wanted to take a bust of me; and though it always makes me laugh to think of having a new likeness, considering the melancholy results of all former enterprises, yet still i find myself easy to be entreated, in hopes, as mr. micawber says, that something may "turn up," though i fear the difficulty is radical in the subject. so i made an appointment with mr. burnard, and my very kind friend, mr. b., in addition to all the other confusions i have occasioned in his mansion, consented to have his study turned into a studio. upon the heels of this comes another sculptor, who has a bust begun, which he says is going to be finished in parian, and published whether i sit for it or not, though, of course, he would much prefer to get a look at me now and then. well, mr. b. says he may come, too; so there you may imagine me in the study, perched upon a very high stool, dividing my glances between the two sculptors, one of whom, is taking one side of my face, and one the other. to-day i went with mr. and mrs. b. to hear the examination of a borough-school for boys. mrs. b. told me it was not precisely a charity school, but one where the means of education were furnished at so cheap a rate, that the poorest classes could enjoy them. arrived at the hall, we found quite a number of _distingués_, bishops, lords, and clergy, besides numbers of others assembled to hear. the room was hung round with the drawings of the boys, and specimens of handwriting. i was quite astonished at some of them. they were executed by pen, pencil, or crayon--drawings of machinery, landscapes, heads, groups, and flowers, all in a style which any parent among us would be proud to exhibit, if done by our own children. the boys looked very bright and intelligent, and i was delighted with the system, of instruction which had evidently been pursued with them. we heard them first in the reading and recitation of poetry; after that in arithmetic and algebra, then in natural philosophy, and last, and most satisfactorily, in the bible. it was perfectly evident from the nature of the questions and answers, that it was not a crammed examination, and that the readiness of reply proceeded not from a mere commitment of words, but from a system of intellectual training, which led to a good understanding of the subject. in arithmetic and algebra the answers were so remarkable as to induce the belief in some that the boys must have been privately prepared on their questions; but the teacher desired lord john russell to write down any number of questions which he wished to have given to the toys to solve, from his own mind. lord john wrote down two or three problems, and i was amused at the zeal and avidity with which the boys seized upon and mastered them. young england was evidently wide awake, and the prime minister himself was not to catch them, napping. the little fellows' eyes-glistened as they rattled off their solutions. as i know nothing about mathematics, i was all the more impressed; but when they came to be examined in the bible, i was more astonished than ever. the masters had said that they would be willing any of the gentlemen should question them, and mr. b. commenced a course of questions on the doctrines of christianity; asking, is there any text by which you can prove this, or that? and immediately, with great accuracy, the boys would cite text upon text, quoting not only the more obvious ones, but sometimes applying scripture with an ingenuity and force which i had not thought of, and always quoting chapter and verse of every text. i do not know who is at the head of this teaching, nor how far it is a sample of english schools; but i know that these boys had been wonderfully well taught, and i felt all my old professional enthusiasm arising. after the examination lord john came forward, and gave the boys a good fatherly talk. he told them that they had the happiness to live under a free government, where all offices are alike open to industry and merit, and where any boy might hope by application and talent to rise to any station below that of the sovereign. he made some sensible, practical comments, on their scripture lessons, and, in short, gave precisely such a kind of address as one of our new england judges or governors might to schoolboys in similar circumstances. lord john hesitates a little in his delivery, but has a plain, common-sense way of "speaking right on," which seems to be taking. he is a very simple man in his manners, apparently not at all self-conscious, and entered into the feelings of the boys and the masters with good-natured sympathy, which was very winning. i should think he was one of the kind of men who are always perfectly easy and self-possessed let what will come, and who never could be placed in a situation in which he did not feel himself quite at home, and perfectly competent to do whatever was to be done. to-day the duchess of sutherland called with the duchess of argyle. miss greenfield happened to be present, and i begged leave to present her, giving a slight sketch of her history. i was pleased with the kind and easy affability with which the duchess of sutherland conversed with her, betraying by no inflection of voice, and nothing in air or manner, the great lady talking with the poor girl. she asked all her questions with as much delicacy, and made her request to hear her sing with as much consideration and politeness, as if she had been addressing any one in her own circle. she seemed much pleased with her singing, and remarked that she should be happy to give her an opportunity of performing in stafford house, so soon as she should be a little relieved of a heavy cold which seemed to oppress her at present. this, of course, will be decisive in her favor in london. the duchess is to let us know when the arrangement is completed. i never realized so much that there really is no natural prejudice against color in the human mind. miss greenfield is a dark mulattress, of a pleasing and gentle face, though by no means handsome. she is short and thick set, with a chest of great amplitude, as one would think on hearing her tenor. i have never seen in any of the persons to whom i have presented her the least indications of suppressed surprise or disgust, any more than we should exhibit on the reception of a dark-complexioned spaniard or portuguese. miss greenfield bears her success with much quietness and good sense. tuesday, may . c. and i were to go to-day, with mrs. cropper and lady hatherton, to call on the poet rogers. i was told that he was in very delicate health, but that he still received friends at his house. we found the house a perfect cabinet collection of the most rare and costly works of art--choicest marbles, vases, pictures, gems, and statuary met the eye every where. we spent the time in examining some of these while the servant went to announce us. the mild and venerable old man himself was the choicest picture of all. he has a splendid head, a benign face, and reminded me of an engraving i once saw of titian. he seemed very glad to see us, spoke to me of the gathering at stafford house, and asked me what i thought of the place. when i expressed my admiration, he said, "ah, i have often said it is a fairy palace, and that the duchess is the good fairy." again, he said, "i have seen all the palaces of europe, but there is none that i prefer to this." quite a large circle of friends now came in and were presented. he did not rise to receive them, but sat back in his easy chair, and conversed quietly with us all, sparkling out now and then in a little ripple of playfulness. in this room were his best beloved pictures, and it is his pleasure to show them to his friends. by a contrivance quite new to me, the pictures are made to revolve on a pivot, so that by touching a spring they move out from the wall, and can be seen in different lights. there was a picture over the mantel-piece of a roman triumphal procession, painted by rubens, which attracted my attention by its rich coloring and spirited representation of animals. the coloring of rubens always satisfies my eye better than that of any other master, only a sort of want of grace in the conception disturbs me. in this case both conception and coloring are replete with beauty. rogers seems to be carefully waited on by an attendant who has learned to interpret every motion and anticipate every desire. i took leave of him with a touch of sadness. of all the brilliant circle of poets, which has so delighted us, he is the last--and he so feeble! his memories, i am told, extend back to a personal knowledge of dr. johnson. how i should like to sit by him, and search into that cabinet of recollections! he presented me his poems, beautifully illustrated by turner, with his own autograph on the fly leaf. he writes still a clear, firm, beautiful hand, like a lady's. after that, we all went over to stafford house, and the duke and duchess of sutherland went with us into lord ellesmere's collection adjoining. lord ellesmere sails for america to-day, to be present at the opening of the crystal palace. he left us a very polite message. the duchess of argyle, with her two little boys, was there also. lord carlisle very soon came in, and with him--who do you think? tell hattie and eliza if they could have seen the noble staghound that came bounding in with him, they would have turned from all the pictures on the wall to this living work of art. landseer thinks he does well when he paints a dog; another man chisels one in stone: what would they think of themselves if they could string the nerves and muscles, and wake up the affections and instincts, of the real, living creature? that were to be an artist indeed! the dog walked about the gallery, much at home, putting his nose up first to one and then another of the distinguished persons by whom he was surrounded; and once in a while stopping, in an easy race about the hall, would plant himself before a picture, with his head on one side, and an air of high-bred approval, much as i have seen young gentlemen do in similar circumstances. all he wanted was an eyeglass, and he would have been perfectly set up as a critic. as for the pictures, i have purposely delayed coming to them. imagine a botanist dropped into the middle of a blooming prairie, waving with unnumbered dyes and forms of flowers, and only an hour to examine and make acquaintance with them! room, after room we passed, filled with titians, murillos, guidos, &c. there were four raphaels, the first i had ever seen. must i confess the truth? raphael had been my dream for years. i expected something which would overcome and bewilder me. i expected a divine baptism, a celestial mesmerism; and i found four very beautiful pictures--pictures which left me quite in possession of my senses, and at liberty to ask myself, am i pleased, and how much? it was not that i did not admire, for i did; but that i did not admire enough. the pictures are all holy families, cabinet size: the figures, mary, joseph, the infant jesus, and john, in various attitudes. a little perverse imp in my heart suggested the questions, "if a modern artist had painted these, what would be thought of them? if i did not know it was raphael, what should i think?" and i confess that, in that case, i should think that there was in one or two of them a certain hardness and sharpness of outline that was not pleasing to me. neither, any more than murillo, has he in these pictures shadowed forth, to my eye, the idea of mary. protestant as i am, no catholic picture contents me. i thought to myself that i had seen among living women, and in a face not far off, a nobler and sweeter idea of womanhood. it is too much to ask of any earthly artist, however, to gratify the aspirations and cravings of those who have dreamed of them for years unsatisfied. perhaps no earthly canvas and brash can accomplish this marvel. i think the idealist must lay aside his highest ideal, and be satisfied he shall never meet it, and then he will begin to enjoy. with this mood and understanding i did enjoy very much an assumption of the virgin, by guido, and more especially diana and her nymphs, by titian: in this were that softness of outline, and that blending of light and shadow into each other, of which i felt the want in the raphaels. i felt as if there was a perfection of cultivated art in this, a classical elegance, which, so far as it went, left the eye or mind nothing to desire. it seemed to me that titian was a greek painter, the painter of an etherealized sensuousness, which leaves the spiritual nature wholly unmoved, and therefore all that he attempts he attains. raphael, on the contrary, has spiritualism; his works enter a sphere where at is more difficult to satisfy the soul; nay, perhaps from the nature of the case, impossible. there were some glorious pieces of sunshine by cuyp. there was a massive sea piece by turner, in which the strong solemn swell of the green waves, and the misty wreathings of clouds, were powerfully given. there was a highly dramatic piece, by paul de la roche, representing charles i. in a guard room, insulted by the soldiery. he sits, pale, calm, and resolute, while they are puffing tobacco smoke in his face, and passing vulgar jokes. his thoughts appear to be far away, his eyes looking beyond them with an air of patient, proud weariness. independently of the pleasure one receives from particular pictures in these galleries, there is a general exaltation, apart from, critical considerations, an excitement of the nerves, a kind of dreamy state, which is a gain in our experience. often in a landscape we first single out particular objects,--this old oak,--that cascade,--that ruin,--and derive from them, an individual joy; then relapsing, we view the landscape as a whole, and seem, to be surrounded by a kind of atmosphere of thought, the result of the combined influence of all. this state, too, i think is not without its influence in educating the æsthetic sense. even in pictures which we comparatively reject, because we see them, in the presence of superior ones, there is a wealth of beauty which would grow on us from day to day, could we see them, often. when i give a sigh to the thought that in our country we are of necessity, to a great extent, shut from the world of art, i then rejoice in the inspiriting thought that nature is ever the superior. no tree painting can compare with a splendid elm, in the plenitude of its majesty. there are colorings beyond those of rubens poured forth around us in every autumn scene; there are murillos smiling by our household firesides; and as for madonnas and venuses, i think with byron,-- "i've seen more splendid women, ripe and real, than all the nonsense of their stone ideal." still, i long for the full advent of our american, day of art, already dawning auspiciously. after finishing our inspection, we went back to stafford house to lunch. in the evening we went to lord john russell's. we found lady russell and her daughters sitting quietly around the evening lamp, quite by themselves. she is elegant and interesting in her personal appearance, and has the same charm of simplicity and sincerity of manner which we have found in so marry of the upper sphere. she is the daughter of the earl of minto, and the second wife of lord john. we passed here an entirely quiet and domestic evening, with only the family circle. the conversation turned on various topics of practical benevolence, connected with the care and education of the poorer classes. allusion being made to mrs. tyler's letter, lady russell expressed some concern lest the sincere and well-intended expression of the feeling of the english ladies might have done harm. i said that i did not think the spirit of mrs. tyler's letter was to be taken as representing the feeling of american ladies generally,--only of that class who are determined to maintain the rightfulness of slavery. it seems to me that the better and more thinking part of the higher classes in england have conscientiously accepted the responsibility which the world has charged upon them of elevating and educating the poorer classes. in every circle since i have been here in england, i have heard the subject discussed as one of paramount importance. one or two young gentlemen dropped in in the course of the evening, and the discourse branched out on the various topics of the day; such as the weather, literature, art, spiritual rappings, and table turnings, and all the floating et ceteras of life. lady russell apologized for the absence of lord john in parliament, and invited us to dine with, them at their residence in richmond park next week, when there is to be a parliamentary recess. we left about ten o'clock, and went to pass the night with our friends mr. and mrs. cropper at their hotel, being engaged to breakfast at the west end in the morning. end of volume i. footnotes: [footnote a: since my return to the united states i have been informed that the freewill baptist denomination have adopted the same rigid principle of slavery exclusion that characterizes the scotch seceders and the quakers. let this be known to their honor.] [footnote b: this venerated, and erudite jurist, the friend and biographer of the celebrated lord jeffrey, has recently died.] [footnote c: this, alas! is no longer true. by the recent passage of the infamous nebraska bill, this whole region, with the exception of two states already organized, is laid open to slavery. this faithless measure was nobly resisted by a large and able minority in congress--honor to them.] [footnote d: this most learned and amiable judge recently died, while in the very act of charging a jury.] [footnote e: this resolution, drawn and offered, i think, by my hospitable friend, mr. binney, i have mislaid, and cannot find it. it was, however, in character and spirit, just what mr. james here declares it to be.] [footnote f: i have been told since my return, that there are some slaveholding congregational churches in the south; but they have no connection with our new england churches, and certainly are not generally known as congregationalists distinct from the presbyterians.] [footnote g: this has always been supposed and claimed in the united states. now the time has come to test its truth. if there is this antislavery feeling in nine tenths of the people, the impudent iniquity of the nebraska bill will call it forth.] [footnote h: eight years ago i conscientiously approved and zealously defended this course of the american board. subsequent events have satisfied me, that, in the present circumstances of our country, making concessions to slaveholders, however slightly, and with whatever motives, even if not wrong in principle, is productive of no good. it does but strengthen slavery, and makes its demands still more exorbitant, and neutralizes the power of gospel truth.] [footnote i: this state of things is fast changing. church members at the south now defend slavery as right. this is a new thing.] [footnote j: when your chimney has smoked as long as ours, it will, may be, need sweeping too.] [footnote k: had i known all about new york and boston which recent examinations have developed, i should have answered very differently. the fact is, that we in america can no longer congratulate ourselves on not having a degraded and miserable class in our cities, and it will be seen to be necessary for us to arouse to the very same efforts which, have been so successfully making in england.] [footnote l: this idea is beautifully wrought out by mrs. jamieson in her characteristics of the women of shakspeare, to which, the author is indebted for the suggestion.] [footnote m: james russell lowell's "beaver brook."] [footnote n: the hymns beginning with, these lines, "if human, kindness meet return," and "behold where, in a mortal form," are specimens.] europe--whither bound? (quo vadis europa?) being letters of travel from the capitals of europe in the year by stephen graham the ryerson press toronto copyright, , by d. appleton and company prefatory note the author's gratitude is due to many people in connexion with this book--to bishop nicholas of zicca and the rev. hugh chapman, of the savoy, and col. treloar and major-general sir fabian ware, and the editor of the "narodny listi," at prague, and mr. hyka,--to these and many others who helped a traveller on his way. the letters from each capital were published in "country life" under the general title of _quo vadis europa?_ a few after-thoughts have now been written on "extra leaves," and sewn in between these letters. no effort at an exhaustive study of any country is made here. the object of the author was to make a rapid tour from capital to capital, "keeping the taxi waiting," so to say, and thus obtain an idea of europe as a whole. it is perhaps one of the first books of travel written from the point of view of europe as a unity, and it is hoped it will help to make us all good europeans. contents letters of travel i. from athens extra leaves (i) _on passports and "circulation"_ ii. from constantinople (i) iii. from constantinople (ii) extra leaves (ii) _on "charity" and the stagnation of peoples_ iv. from sofia v. from belgrade (i) vi. from belgrade (ii) vii. from budapest viii. from vienna extra leaves (iii) _on money and league of nations currency_ ix. from prague x. from warsaw extra leaves (iv) _on nationality and an armistice baby_ xi. from munich xii. from berlin (i) xiii. from berlin (ii) extra leaves (v) _on "clay sparrows" and the failure of freedom_ xiv. from rome xv. from monte carlo xvi. from london xvii. from paris europe--whither bound? letters of travel i. from athens europe, whither goest thou?--the poignant question of to-day. the pride of christian culture, the greatest human achievement in history, with, as we thought before , the seal of immortality set upon her, is now perhaps moving towards dissolution and death. europe has begun a rapid decline, though no one dares to think that she will continue in it downward until she reaches the chaos and misery and barbarity from which she sprang. affairs will presently take a turn for the better, europe will recover her balance and resume the road of progress which she left seven years ago--prompts hope. "europe must die in order to be re-born as something better"; "all must be destroyed," say the theorists of revolution. "she staggers and falls and falls and plunges," seem to say the facts with the inexorableness of fate. prophecy can be left to all men--it does not alter the course of events. the historian in the future will ask what was the actual condition of europe at this time, and it is possible to assume that he would grasp eagerly at an account of a visit by an impartial observer to all the principal capitals of europe in the year . an effort to record what europe looks like now, a series of true reflections and verbal photographs of swirling humanity at the great congregating places, the capitals, cannot but be of value. so with the motto: "see all: reserve your judgment," let us proceed. the winds of the mountains traverse the well-shod civilization of a great city. at the end of each of the long streets rises a mountain, and on the mountain rest the clouds and the sky. you walk outwards, and climb the nearest and most prominent of the heights to the acropolis, to the mighty slabs of the marble of the parthenon, simple and pure in the mountain air, a point of view where it is always morning, and you look down from the ancient athens to the new. your eyes rest on modern athens all built in white stone, and extensive and handsome in a setting of mountains and sea, but the heart refuses to travel with the eyes. the heart remains in the ancient city, and there, somehow, is perfect happiness, and it is a place in which to abide. not without some sacred thought does one place one's feet upon the bare rock where walked the bright spirits of ancient athens. the morning sun of europe, the dawning vision of all that we europeans could be or mean, dawns again in the soul. as an old or invalid man, or one at least who in middle years has sinned and gone astray, one looks back to the innocence and promise of childhood. here shone the light of our being undimmed; here was kindled in europe the faith of the ideal. yonder is mars hill from which st. paul showed the new way when the light was growing dim. for greece identified man in part with the divine, but the new religion gave forgetful humanity its altar of remembrance, affirming that we do not belong to the beasts that perish but are affiliated to the almighty. it is perhaps strange that to-day the city which was the cradle of the ideal is a city where there are no ideals at all--either old or new, where plato now means nothing, where even bolshevism is not heard of. s----, who took his bachelorate on divinity at oxford, is writing a sympathetic treatise on nietzsche and christianity for his doctorate at the university of athens. but what a mistake! what an unfortunate choice of place and theme! who was nietzsche? "i have changed my title to 'nietzsche as the devil'" says s----. "ah, that's better," says his professor, "that we can understand." you come down from the heights into the modern city, and you behold the rising civilization of a new greece. here without question is a most pleasant city, with acacia avenues and white houses and full-bosomed abundant orange-trees hanging their golden fruits. thus happily bowered, merchants and bankers pursue their avocations, and shopkeepers display their wares in a pleasant array of modern shops. on the streets walk leisurely an indolent and elegant people; the dark women are especially _chic_ and it must be said refined and restrained, and not so seductive in appearance as the south would suggest. you see also at the many open-air cafés and in the street a very distinguished-looking type of man with finely cut features and plentiful iron-grey hair. you surmise that you are looking upon the most indolent people in the world--not lazy like russians or irish, but elegantly indolent, walking so slowly, playing meditatively with their beads--for nearly every man carries his string of jet or amber beads, which he mechanically tells, though without a thought of prayer. they walk with half-closed eyes, and whilst they seem to be thinking, they are but taking a passive pleasure in existence. they sit down together at their cafés which debouch upon the streets, and sip the sweetest of coffee, and light their cigarettes, and regard the world which passes slowly by. there are all manner of mendicants and of musicians flitting to and fro in the sun, like shabby butterflies, and the elegant greek says "no" to them, not by sound of voice, but by the slightest elevation of the eyebrows and movement of the eye. he sits and looks occasionally at the wonderful hills above him, so fresh, so virginal; but he does not, as an englishman might do, pay quickly and go out and go up. the modern greek would never build so high as the acropolis. you do not hear a good word said for the greek by any race in europe. italians, french, serbs, bulgars, turks, and even british are all more or less anti-greek. whilst it seems true to say that you scarcely find any nation that likes any other nation, yet the antipathy towards the greek seems more marked than most others. whatever illfeeling or irritative may be in the air is readily vented upon the greek. despite all this, however, the new greeks are a slowly but steadily rising and prospering people. one hundred years ago they obtained their liberation from the turk. the turkish mind was shown to be incapable of absorbing europeanism. the light of the nineteenth century scared the night-bird back to asia, and there arose serbs, and bulgars, and roumanians as european nations, and greece once more arose. modern civilization suits the greek much more than it does the turk. he can understand it and utilize it. because of it he has risen and perchance will rise. the greeks are by far the cleverest people in the balkans, and are perhaps the cleverest of the mediterranean nations as well. the greek temperament swings between the dead calm and passionless on the one hand, to the violent and maniacal on the other. the nation is still convalescent, its development is slow, and it is impossible to say how far new greece will develop. but its strength lies in its serpentine stillness and ancient unforgotten craft, and its weakness in that absence of ideals and in the sudden violence of partizanship which suggest pathological decay. what greece does is generally subtle and shrewd; what she says is often madness. she has little sense of humour, and takes offence where other nations would laugh. thus she wins by statecraft and loses by politics. in thought, and in the spoken word, greece is outmatched for instance by the slavs; but in silent action and in administrative policy greece more often excels her neighbours. you will always hear odious comparisons made in the near east between greek and turk, to the disadvantage of the former. but it seems rather absurd. the turk, at his best, is a child or a legendary hero--not one of ourselves--whereas the greek is a serious european with a race-consciousness of civilization thousands of years old. athens has quietened down after the political violence of the restoration of constantine. one sees pictures of the king everywhere--a cavalry officer with high greek military hat, bushy moustaches, and rather horse-like face. he has large strained eyes with a questioning, impatient expression. all these pictures were hidden during the king's exile, but on his return came forth to light again. common also are posters of constantine as st. george, and the venizelist administration as a three-headed dragon of which venizelos is the chief and certainly most loathly head. venizelos has become violently distasteful to the people--though possibly he may return to power by as violent a reaction. the chief reason for his fall was that he offended greek national pride by being the puppet of the allies. the revolution which he accomplished at the instigation of the french was highly resented. and all the mortification of the french contempt for greece was vented upon him. although greece won such a goodly share of the booty of the war, she was treated throughout the war with a brutal nonchalance. venizelos had much respect, but greece had none. a comparison is often made between the machinations of the allies in petrograd in for the deposing of the tsar, and the intrigues which forced constantine to flee. venizelos nevertheless was one of the cleverest statesmen of europe--granted one can be clever and not wise at the same time--clever and even stupid, his chief weakness being a crude violence of temperament which breaks out in his speeches: on vient de vous dire, s'écria-t-il, qu'il n'y avait pas de germanophiles an grèce. cela est vrai pour le peuple, pour les homines politiques de tous les partis en grande majorité. moi-même je viens de l'attester à la conference de londres. mais cela n'est vrai du roi, ni de son entourage. ceux-la ne sont pas seulement germanophiles. ils sont boches de la tête aux pieds! . . . the good order, the low cost of living, the high value of the drachma, the excellent condition of the army, the enhanced prestige of the greek nation after the war, all testify to the ability of venizelos. venizelos won for hellas territory which extends from salonica all the way to the black sea, and brought her almost to the gates of constantinople. the role of neutrality which king constantine affected would have left greece without the coveted war-glory, and, of course, without the dangerous responsibility she has now. thanks to venizelos, greece is almost an empire. and the greeks are glad to have this extra sway. no sentiment has stood in the way of constantine's government retaining what its arch-enemy had won. "we may fall out in politics, but where our material interests are concerned you will find complete solidarity," said an athenian journalist. and it seems true. not many signs of altruism are visible in greece. there are few germanophiles. "do not fear for us," said m. kalogeropoulos, to the french. "greece will not ally herself to a corpse"--meaning germany. in fact, there is among the greeks only graecophilism. if superlative and clamorous love of country is a virtue--they have it. for greece, when you are down, you are down. as for fallen germany, so for russia in her humiliation greece has no extra thought or care. not a humanitarian and philanthropic nation! one wonders how a greek mind would interpret the "big-brother-love" of the americans, which prompts the marvellous rescue-work now being done by the united states in all the stricken countries of europe. there, however, the indolence of the greek mind and the half-closed eye intervene. there is no curiosity about philanthropy. but it is a greek word by origin. one longs to see some sort of love towards the neighbour. there is a mortal enmity towards the bulgar, a cool reciprocity of italian dislike, a non-comprehension of the serb, traditional hatred of the turk--all these are intensified by egoism. new greece, with her hazardous northern frontier, needs to cultivate friendship, and will have to employ all her strategy to gain any. her mainstay is, of course, england. for us greece has the natural respect which a weak country pays to a strong friend, but she has also a curious covert regard for us as one nation of sailors for another, a petty maritime state for a great one. her weakness is in asking material favours at the same time as she pays compliments. greece is almost our ally in the near east. french rivalry has bound british and greeks together. in our employ are greeks; in the french employ, turks. there is no question but our employees are the cleverer and the more capable, but there is a continual clash on psychological grounds. the greeks make mistakes and the british are not ready to make allowances. the englishman demands that his friend shall be a "sportsman"--the turk is, the greek is not. therefore we cannot fit greece into the jig-saw puzzle which we call the comity of nations. the question is, can greece cut herself to fit--ought she to? it is strange to come into the martial display of athens and find the old war still going on, see the numbers of worn soldiers weighed down with all the impedimenta of "fighting order" coming home on leave or returning to the front, to see the turkish prisoners of war jobbing at the station and on the streets, to see the handsome evzones, the soldiers of the king's bodyguard, strutting together in fine style along the cobbled roadway. it is impressive, and shows greece in a new light. then the constituent assembly with its new turkish members in their fezes rather takes the eye as a novel synthesis of political interest in the near east. athens is a great capital where much that is vital in the future of europe is at stake. it stands somewhat aside from the general misery of europe, and for that reason more perhaps can be seen. not that greece has not its poor--its appalling beggars, its miserable war-cripples, its refugees. an extensive strike was in progress in february; it had to be settled by a threat of mobilization. "any workman not in his place on monday morning will be called up for the next draft to asia minor" proved an effectual way of meeting demands for higher pay. of the refugees, pity is first awakened for the russians. just outside the city of athens, in old barracks, lie the survivors of the tuberculosis hospitals evacuated from the crimea--pale and haggard as death--strange wisps of humanity, attended by devoted russian doctors and nurses; but fed on the scantiest of dry army rations, short of medicine and comfort of all kinds. one ward of dying women with staring eyes, an unforgettable impression! whilst in greece, every englishman should visit our cemeteries in macedonia, and realize that we planted many thousands of our people like seeds of a kind in this grecian soil--that a flower of freedom might grow. on a wind-blown moor, in sight of mt. olympus and the sea, ranges one regular array of british crosses--now of wood, but presently to be of marble, with a stone of remembrance in their midst. it will be done well, in the british way. even the dead might be pleased by what is being done. but here is a strange phenomenon which seems to make a mockery of our sacrifice. around this wonderful burying ground are growing up a miscellany of alien crosses, of all shapes and sizes, stuck in ugly heaps of upturned earth. every day a pit is dug and the dead-cart arrives. there is no service, no ceremony. but forty or fifty nearly naked bodies of women and children are shot into the pit and covered over hastily and a cross put over them. they are russians, the so-called russian greeks evacuated from the caucasus last year, now stricken with typhus and almost famished to death, some , of them in old army huts, living promiscuously together and attended by one desperate doctor and a few devoted sisters. europe is heaping her dead around us. this truly is not near athens, but above the ruined ramshackle port of salonica, once a fair city, but now facing the sea with almost a mile of fire-devastated streets. the refugees are confined to their huts, and are under a sort of military control. all the people are proletariat, and ought never to have been taken on board ships and brought to greece. a few would have been killed by bolsheviks, but not so many as will die here by disease. they cannot help russia outside of russia, and it is beyond belief that little countries can look after them indefinitely. it is pathetic to look into their huts, strung from wall to wall with crusts of bread, the floors multitudinous with people and especially with children; every serious person engaged in the hopeless task of destroying the lice. even if these people were at once put on transports and taken to russia half of their number would be destined to death. the russian scenes and episodes in greece foreshadow the immense tragedy to be witnessed in constantinople and on gallipoli and at lemnos. what touches the heart at athens will ravage the whole being at constantinople. but of that anon. an episode at athens on the day of arrival had a spice of novelty in it which soon dulled on the palate in a rapidity of repetition: it is sunday afternoon, and on the pavement of a quiet street stands a mute and gloomy man with an armful of what appears to be paper-money. he is holding it out in his two hands. impossible that it should be money! but it is. he is holding about half a million roubles in his hands. yes, they are for sale. this for so much, this other for so much. "i am sorry i have no greek money, but please take five liras italian and give it to your comrades. you must be very poor." a smile appeared on the man's face. "but you'll take some roubles," said he. "well, if you like, just a small note for remembrance. it doesn't matter what." "here's ten thousand roubles!" and he handed out a handsome new note for that amount. it fluttered from his hand to the pavement and was caught on the wind. "pick it up quickly! it's ten thousand roubles," one wished to cry anxiously to the passer-by. only ten thousand! and for something less than sixpence! "europe won't get right before the russian business is straightened out," said an american commercial traveller at the hotel. he, for his part, was engaged in the profitless task of disposing of large margins of goods at fifty per cent below cost of production whilst the leisurely, crafty greeks kept him waiting from day to day in the expectation of getting another ten per cent reduction. "the whole world's out of gear," said the american in disgust. "the war and the russian revolution are the cause. they have ruined the meaning of money." i was to find his words true to this extent that at every capital the european problem proved to be inextricably involved in the russian problem also. extra leaves (i) _on passports and "circulation"_ mr. h. g. wells, in "the salvaging of civilization," has very pleasantly contrasted the states of america with the states of europe--the disunited states. america, where you can travel by through trains without showing passports, without customs-barriers, without change of currency and without police-inquisition; america where there is a free interchange of peoples and opinions, europe lying in unexampled obstruction and stagnation; america with its cheap post and universally-used telephone service, europe with its expensive, ill-managed posts and local and limited and expensive and contumacious telephone. at the time of writing you can send a letter from san francisco to london for less than it costs to send a similar letter from one london suburb to another. in america you have inter-state telephone service, you have the constant extension of an elaborate and efficient system, whilst on our side of the water we intelligent europeans are asking to have the apparatus removed as a hindrance and a failure. passports, railway-service, post, telephone, currency--all these may fittingly be considered as aspects of one vital matter, namely, circulation. all living organic unity is dependent on circulation. as the health of the human body is dependent on an unobstructed circulation of the blood, of the lymph, of the air, so the health of a nation or a state or a group of states is dependent on the free circulation of peoples, goods, opinions, money, and what not. a bad circulation results in "pins and needles," and we europeans have so inverted common sense as to indulge habitually in a policy of pin-pricks. a bad circulation results in cold feet, in local stagnation, in lethargy. no circulation results in death. it means to die, and go we know not where, to lie in cold obstruction, and to rot. it may almost be said that shakespeare's formula for death describes europe--she goes she knows not where, she lies in cold obstruction and she rots. in reality it is not quite so bad as that. though there is local paralysis of an alarming kind, there is also a sluggish circulation. how impeded that circulation is let the traveller judge. in january, , i took a general passport for europe. the british passport office facilitated my struggles. for i am a well-known struggler there and am now excused the preliminary heats. i spent a week getting visas in london. i remembered his excellency of greece had changed his address. when the taxi-driver had located his new office in great tower street we found that he was having a holiday, celebrating new year's day in orthodox greek style about the fourteenth of the month. i returned in a few days' time and his excellency was celebrating epiphany. next time i resolved to take a precautionary twenty minutes at the telephone and find out whether there were any other festivals on. the poles, i remember, asked for answers to questions on two sheets of foolscap and charged thirty shillings for a visa that went out of date before i could get to their country. his excellency of bulgaria i made several trips to kensington to find, and i gave him up as apparently non-existent. with the representatives of latvia i had a troublous conversation and finally obtained another useless visa for forty shillings. the germans would not give a visa as i was entering germany from the other side of europe. i spent about ten pounds in london merely for the application of rubber stamps and consuls' signatures. in the course of my travels that passport became an appalling wilderness of visas and remarks climbing out of their legitimate spaces to get mixed up with wife's signature and the colour of the hair. the most flattering of these remarks is no doubt that affixed at sofia station--"not dangerous to society." but i had to show that passport not only to the police and the military of all nations, but also before entering the gambling halls of monte carlo on the one hand and before entering the gates of the cathedral of sancta sophia at constantinople on the other. one of the worst places is vintimiglia on the franco-italian line. the french frank you out of their country; the italians frank you in. you step into a separate chamber and are searched and asked particular and impertinent questions. before leaving italy the italian police demand your personal attendance and take a small due. in some countries you are required to obtain police permission to leave the country; in some not. no one tells you what you have to do. you can take a ticket and proceed gaily to the frontier and then be turned back. this can happen even in the enlightened state of czechoslovakia. greece, however, is one of the worst international offenders in this matter. the traveller has to spend a morning with the police, and he may be held up for some days if church festivals intervene. if he goes to the frontier without the police stamp on his passport he gets sent back. two examples of how this lack of international manners works out i append: a german officer captured by the russians in , was sent to siberia, escaped and got somehow down to tashkent, the ex-capital of russian central asia, struggled out of asia and through asia minor in an utterly indigent condition, and this year stowed away on a greek ship and got to athens. so great was the interest in his case that a subscription was made for him publicly, and he was given a first-class ticket to berlin, and a place in the sleeping car was reserved. incredible as it may seem, he was turned off the express at midnight at ghevgeli and returned to salonica by slow train because his passport had not the greek police visa. of course he lost his sleeping-car accommodation and resumed his journey homewards by ordinary trains. another case was that of a young roumanian returning from the far east after endless vicissitudes in the koltchak and bolshevik adventures. he also was turned off and had to go to salonica to visit the police. however, the british authorities could not throw stones at the greeks. it would be unwise. constantinople under british domination is one of the worst places of obstruction in europe. you need a military pass to get in; you need a good deal more than that to get out. the australian colonel in charge of the work going on at the dardanelles gave me a letter to g.h.q. constantinople, asking d.m.i. (we still talk of d.m.i.'s) to put my passport through quickly. here i was met by one of those drawling incapables who make england loathed on the continent. "i--don't--really--see," says he, and pauses, and looks at my weather-beaten cap and tramping boots--"i don't really see----" inability is a guiding sign of the administration. i went to the allied passport bureau, british section, where a tippable man was keeping a queue of all the rabble of the east, and i was to come tomorrow morning. when the british section had given the visa i went to the french, then to the italians. one loses one's patience, being kept waiting so long, and one breaks into a room sometimes before one is asked. it was so with the italians. i stepped suddenly into the room of the man who had to initial my pass, and he was tenderly embracing a charming brunette. he signed tacitly and rapidly and i was gone. . . . after the italians you seek out the greeks who are in an entirely different district. outside the consulate is a string of photographers with cameras and ricketty chairs. the greeks require photographs--you sit down on a chair on the open roadway, and in a quarter of an hour you have a sheaf of wet pictures of yourself by which it certainly would be hard to recognize you. inside the greek consulate rages a terrific hurly-burly. you wait and perspire in a vapour of garlic. . . . then for the bulgars. the bulgars have certainly hit on a novelty. the rubber stamp is applied to your passport in one office and the date is written but the visa has to be signed in another office a mile away. are we then through with everything? no. the orient express requires a doctor's certificate that you are free from vermin and infection. for this the doctors naturally charge a heavy fee. for my part i refused to see a doctor and carried the matter off with a high hand at the railway station, where they put me down as "officer in mufti." apparently officers are exempted from all this. it is only if you happen to be one of the ordinary dirty and despised free citizens of europe and not a member of any commission or red cross or y.m.c.a., or military unit--that you go through all this. europe for the man in uniform! so useful is the military uniform that some civilians carry their ex-khaki attire in an extra suit-case and put it on when they want to get along. i met an englishman, ex-officer, in this get-up in the serbian constituent assembly. he could beard whom he liked in jugo-slavia clad in an old uniform with ribbons. i heard of another in austria who was arrested at the chief station in vienna, having four millions of austrian crowns on his person. austrian crowns are worth much more in london than in vienna, and it is illegal to take large quantities out of the country. but an observant speculator had concluded that a british uniform would give him immunity from search. in this probably he was right, but he had overdone it. i found the serbs and the czechs to be the best people over passports in central europe. in western europe belgium is most enlightened, having practically abolished the visa. france is striving to follow belgium's lead. england in this matter, as in the matter of her charges for postage, telephones, and railway fares, seems to have completely lost that practical common sense which in the past has distinguished her from other nations. she charges foreigners heavily, keeps them waiting, and treats them impolitely. from americans, for instance, there is a chorus of complaint on the ground of incivility. not that americans shine in this matter of passports for their own country. america sets europe an unenlightened example of red-tape and venality. what then, is the game in europe? why do free men and women spend golden forenoons in stuffy rooms, to fill in forms, to be brow-beaten by police and porters and clerks, treated like criminals or paupers, or unemployed come for an allowance? perhaps they are paid for it? no, they actually have to pay, and pay heavily, suffering as it were injury on the top of insult. it was partly explained to me in munich by the british consul-general. at munich there is a polish consul and vice-consul, but there has been nothing to do, poland having remarkably little business in bavaria. the post languished. the vice-consul was recalled; the clerk was dismissed. one surmised the consul himself might go and hand over his minute business to some other consulate which, no doubt, would have done it cheaply. but no. one day a solution occurred to the consul. all polish subjects in bavaria ought to have polish passports from the polish consul. police orders to that effect were therefore issued. all who claimed to be polish, or to have been born in those parts of germany or austria now polish territory, were to put in an appearance. they would receive passports and would be duly charged. but, having registered the whole polish population, what then? "oh, i only give them visas for three months," says the consul. "every quarter they must come again." so he converted his consulate into a revenue-paying establishment. what does it matter about the public? it is only asked to give one day in ninety to these formalities and has the other eighty-nine to itself. the polish passport office in berlin fully confirms this point of view. here are inordinate crowds whom politics have separated from kith and kin, trying to get passes to go home, to live, to exist. the door-keeper smokes a cigar; the first clerk makes eyes at the women applicants, the girl clerks suck sweets, the consulate clock runs on, and you pay hundreds of german marks each for the upkeep of the business. the poles, or indeed, the british, or the americans, for we are all tarred by the same brush, might take a lesson from the czecho-slovaks, who have at vienna a bureau which will get your passport visa and your railway ticket for you, and reserve you a room in a hotel in prague without any fee. the enlightened government of this new republic understands that that is the best propaganda for their country which can be done. not that czecho-slovakia does not charge for a visa and charge for permission to go out of the country. at cheb i nearly missed my train whilst an official was weighing up in his mind how much he should charge for allowing me to go through without a visa. another aspect of the passport trouble in europe is local nationalism which at budapest takes the form of insisting on asking you questions in hungarian and refusing to understand any other tongue. as you have to spend hours with the police in the magyar capital before you obtain permission to stay there and again before you obtain permission to go away, this is peculiarly distressing. under such circumstances is it surprising that there is stagnation of peoples in europe? this stagnation is great, and it is noticeable in almost every great city of the continent. it is a rich time for the hotel-keepers. there is scarcely a capital in europe where you can reckon on finding a room without trouble. the following experiences are symptomatic enough: at rome i visited about twenty hotels; shut out for the night, got into a "strange place" about three a.m.; stuttgart, out all night; sofia, visited all hotels, all full, slept in guard-room of town-patrol; sofia, second time, shared a room with an officer; vienna, toured city in a cab and found nothing; warsaw, spent nine hours going from hotel to hotel, got a room for a thousand-mark tip. in constantinople you can find cases of three families in one apartment. wherever you go you are going to have adventures in finding a room, unless you are an officer or a member of an allied commission, or belong to the red cross or starving children's fund, or some organization that has facilities for looking out for itself. poor old europe! she was more of a unity in the days when we were "an armed camp." we have broken the power of militarism. there has been a revolution in russia. a british statesman in the house of commons, in , said it was bliss to be alive, and to be young was very heaven. some millions of young men died before armistice day, . since then there has been great work clearing away barbed-wire entanglements along the old front. but it seems to be a nightmare task: entanglements multiply upon us faster than we can clear the old ones away. you cannot get across europe because of the obstructions: you cannot circulate. letters of travel ii. from constantinople (i) it has been a bleak early spring with snow on the uplands of thrace. for those who travel from paris to constantinople on that western moving shuttle, the orient express, there would be nothing to trouble the mind unpleasantly--except in that the more comfortable we are, the more we demand and the more we grumble. but if you travel by the ordinary unheated train, where even the first-class carriages are more or less bereft of glass and have the windows loosely boarded up with bits of old packing-cases, you taste something of the persistent northern wind which blows down sleet and rain from the black sea, from russia, as it were russian unhappiness it was blowing down. you arrive at sofia at midnight in torrents of rain. you take a cab and visit every hotel, large or small, in the bulgarian capital, and are refused. people are already sleeping three or four in a room, sleeping in outhouses and bath-rooms, refugee bulgars from the lost bulgar territories, refugee turks, refugee russians. you return to the station and it is closed for the night, and you have a wordy discussion with the eternal cabman as to whether you shall pay a hundred or two hundred francs--bulgarian francs or levas which are, however, worth a bare three-farthings each to-day. you find shelter in a wayside café which is half café, half guard-house for the town patrol. soldiers are stretched out snoring on the floor. five levas to sit up, ten to lie down! by that time of night you are fain to lie down. a dreary journey on to philippopolis and svilengrad, with the wind lashing the train, lashing it all the way to the chataldja lines and the zone of allied control. eight passport examinations, eight examinations of your baggage, plentiful two, three, and four-hour stops, a land of ruined railway stations and bare hills, and only late on the second evening after sofia do you creep into the imperial city. it is stamboul at night, agleam with lights, running with mud, flocking with dense crowds. you change some money to piastres at a small booth, and your pocket is at once picked--a common experience. the pera tram is so crowded that you escape being asked for a fare, which is fortunate, seeing that you have no turkish money. so across the wonderful bridge on which all the nations of the world are seen walking, up to the so-called pleasant heights of pera and its hotels and palaces. here for a dirty little room one pays more than in a first-class hotel in new york. you are fortunate if you find even that soon. a greek-owned hotel. you scan the names of the occupants--they are of all nationalities of europe. russians and armenians seem most to abound. there appears to be a scotsman among them, a mr. fraser, but he is a scot resident in smyrna and smokes a narghile every evening after supper. the lounge of the hotel looks like a crèche for the children of refugees. but couples are seen here on the couches interested only in themselves, and a long-haired russian is at the piano playing scriabine devotedly and with deep concentration, as if the boisterousness of the children were unheard. constantinople has five times as many people as it can house, a city now of appalling unhappiness and misery, and of a concomitant luxury and waste. a scene at night: two children, a boy and a girl, lie huddled together on the pavement sleeping whilst the rain beats down upon them. the crowd keeps passing, keeps passing, and some step over them, many glance questioningly downward, but all pass on. no one stops. i stood at a corner and watched. then i walked up to the children and wakened them and tried to make them speak. but they stared with their pale faces and said nothing. at a neighbouring pastry-cook's i bought two cakes and brought them to them, and stirred them up to take them, which they did eagerly, each grasping tightly a cake in the little hand. i stopped a russian woman who was hesitating as she passed. "there are many," said she. "it is quite common. you see plenty babies lying in the rain. when you come? you come off a ship? . . . the only way to help them is give them piastres." i did that, and by that time a little crowd had gathered and every one began to fret and give a little money to them. so the crowd changed its mind, and the children began to have little sheaves of paper-money in their hands. and still they lay in the rain and no one could take them in. the russians have got constantinople at last. it is an irony of fate. there are a hundred thousand of them there, the best blood of russia, and the most charming and delightful people in europe in themselves, though now almost entirely destitute of means. a large russian army without arms is not very far away, and a russian generalissimo without power stays in his yacht at galata. the great city has been outwardly transformed by the russians who seem at first to have taken over all the business and to have dispossessed innumerable turks and greeks. russian is the predominant language; all the best restaurants and many of the shops seem to be russian, and russian pedlars in scores cry their wares in the streets. greek and turkish business is modest and retiring, but everything russian is advertised by large artistic signs. the gleaming lights of innumerable "lotto parlours" catch the eye, you pass with the rolling crowd into the cabaret, the music-hall, the theatre, the café, the restaurant, the book-shop--all russian. you see the establishments of russian doctors, lawyers, dentists, dancing-masters. in an improvised wooden hut you see a celebrated portrait-painter sitting, ready to paint you whilst you wait or execute commissions of any kind. the restaurants all have russian names and sometimes refer back to business left behind in russia--the restaurant "birzha" from rostof, "kievsky ugolok" from kiev, "veliky moskovsky kruzhok," the "yar," and the like. these are very tastefully arranged and the cooking is excellent, being under the supervision of celebrated russian chefs. thus at the "kievsky ugolok" it is well known that the cook of prince vorontsof is in charge, and the restaurant does not merely live by reputation but an excellence of cuisine testifies in itself to some master-hand. the waitresses at most of these russian establishments are often women of society, and some of them very beautiful in the simplicity of uniform. there is a fascinating added pleasure in being waited upon by such gracious women, but the heart aches for the fate of some of them. on each table is a ticket with the name and patronymic of the waitress, thus, tatiana mihailovna, or sophia vladimirovna. they are on a level with those they serve, and the women embrace them, the men kiss their hands. naturally there are no such things as tips; service is charged for in the bill. elegance mingles with melancholy. russians meet and talk endlessly, and sigh for russia, and the russian music croons the night long from the musicians' gallery or orchestra. the saddest shops are those which, no doubt, belong mostly to armenians and spanish jews, where "valuables" are exposed, the miscellaneous collections of the things the russians have sold or wish to sell. here are rings, lockets, bracelets, fur-coats and wraps, gold vases, trinket-cases, odd spoons of caucasian silver, cigarette-holders,--like so many locks of hair cut from diverse humanity. here lie intimate possessions, prized, not likely to be sold, seemingly quietly reproachful under the public gaze, baptismal crosses, jewelled girdles, gloves, paris blouses, english costumes. the refugees must sell all that they have, and some have sold all. i met the wife of a colonel of life guards. she was dressed in a cotton skirt, a cream-coloured "woolly," a waterproof, and a wretched cheap collar of fur. once she never stepped out of her house but into a car. now in weather-beaten thin old boots she must tramp from place to place over the cobbles, living in one room with her family, washes the clothes herself, scrubs the floor, has no money. the women have won the unbounded admiration of the british in constantinople. for pluck these russian women would be hard to rival. but what a destiny! they spend their money, they sell their jewels and rings, they sell their clothes, they take out trays of chocolates to sell in the streets and shiver at the street-corners; to feed their children they sell more clothes. hundreds of cases have been discovered in which the women are confined to their rooms, having sold almost all their wearing apparel, and having nothing in which to appear on the streets. the refugee peasantry and working class are mostly confined in barbed-wire internment camps outside the city, and guarded by sengalese. twenty per cent get permission to go into the city each day. the seventy or eighty thousand indigent russians in constantinople belong mostly to the upper classes. very many belong to petrograd society, and are people who fled to the crimea and the caucasus, were caught up in the deniken or wrangel panic, and transported hither. they are well-educated people, speaking english and french, and well-read and accomplished. but how little are those modern accomplishments when it comes to the elemental realities of life. a beautiful young countess is employed in a bakery to sell bread, and is lucky. an erstwhile lion and ex-general has a job in a laundry. pride intervenes only to stop them begging. how few are the beggars! but you see the nicest of girls with pinched white faces trying to sell _loukoum_. even hard scotsmen passing by are fain to give them money and take nothing in return. you see the strangest vendors--children standing at a street corner trying to sell a blouse and a pair of boots, tatterdemalions trying to dispose of unsaleable rags, ex-students with heaps of textbooks trying to sell to those students who, despite everything, are still carrying on. when new boat-loads of refugees arrive, the street-selling is naturally augmented by a more hopeful crowd, and it was possible to see one day little bears with scarlet ribbons round their necks being offered for sale on the pavement, tiny baby-bears with pink noses and sprawling feet, fed with milk from wine bottles: "_dvadsat lira, dvadsat lira!_" alas, the temptations are great. need becomes more and more incessant. starvation stares thousands in the face. one sees those who keep their heads up still, but we lose sight of many who are utterly cast down and lost. many a russian has gone down here in this great city and been lost, vanished into the hideous underworld of the levant. they sell all their jewels and then sell the last jewel of all. in the cabarets and night-halls of low amusement there is nude dancing and drink, lascivious greeks, drunken american sailors capable of enormities of behaviour, british tommies with the rolling eye, "seeing the world and being paid for it" as the posters say. the public places are a scandal, and the private dens got up in all sorts of styles with rose-coloured shaded lights and divans and cushions for abandonment to drugs and sensual affections must be explored individually to be described. a part of old russia has come to constantinople--to die. in charge of this imbroglio is a british general. the city is under allied control, and is patrolled by the troops of four nations, but the british is the main authority. g.h.q. constantinople occupies a large barracks which faces a parade-ground. indian sentries march to and fro outside and enjoy thus serving their king, a picture of polish and smartness. facing the barracks is a smaller building called "the jockey club" where the commander-in-chief himself and many of his staff meet to lunch or dine, play billiards, or chat pleasantly over their liqueurs in english style. "what a pleasure it is to see our fellows in the streets so clean and well-behaved, with no interest except in football, and to compare them with the loafers you see everywhere," says general m. "one thing the british empire can thank the jews for," says capt. c., "is that they've ruined russia." "what's the matter with the russians," says stout col. c., "is that there's no punch in them; they're a helpless sort of people, from a general to a private soldier, it's all the same; they cannot cross a road unless you take them by the hand and lead them across." "what's the matter with col. c. is that he warmed a seat in the war office all the war," says capt. t. "if he had ever faced a tenth of what the russians have faced he'd talk to a different tune." "what i dislike about them is that you see the rich ones doing themselves well in the restaurants whilst other poor beggars are starving outside," says another who does not like the russians now. "the french aristocrats went to their deaths with a smile," says another. "what do you think? oh, but you've got a soft spot in your heart for the russians." "i have a golden rule. i think it is in the worst of taste to say anything against a people who have suffered so much as the russians. and what should we be doing in their place--if the pride of england had been broken, and we also were all in exile eating the bread of strangers. should we present as brave a front?" but how difficult it is to put oneself in another person's place in the imagination, and how unreadily it is done! still, loathing other nations is a favourite after-dinner occupation of english people, and need not be taken too seriously. as a matter of actual behaviour, none in practice are kinder to the russians than these same who speak against them. kindness goes a long way; practical common sense would go further. most of the russians want permission to go to other parts of europe. the british command is theoretically in favour of letting the russians go. it is aware of the danger and distress of having a hundred thousand starving men and women on its hands. but it cannot extricate itself from the tangle of international red-tape which smothers constantinople. on the other hand it actually allows thousands of new refugees to come in and make the situation worse. the task of governing the city is so complicated that there is constant irritation. the rivalry of the french with ourselves, and of the turks and greeks to one another causes endless trouble. by herself england would, no doubt, govern constantinople well, cleanly and honourably, but in concert with french, italians, and greeks there is not much evidence of a strong hand or a clear mind. there is a strong sentiment in favour of handing the reins back to the "old turk," as he is lovingly called, and an equally strong one in favour of unique control. "we do not come till we are invited, but then we usually stay," is the formula. the greeks certainly still hope that they will hold the city. if the turks come back and the greeks remain at chataldja, and the allies for economy's sake go away, it will be a great temptation to the hellenes to try and assist providence in the fulfilment of the outstanding prophecy by bringing constantine to constantine's city. now, before entering the cathedral of sancta sophia you must pass turkish sentries and show your passport. otherwise you cannot get in. the turk has sworn that no greek shall enter, and in order to keep the greeks out he is ready to hold up the whole world. one day no doubt the turk will be turned out from his stolen mosque--be it by greeks, be it by russians, be it by bulgars. the war has weakened the turk more than is generally understood. turkey does not stand where it did in the nineteenth century, and cannot do so again. the vital capital of turkey has become angora. the kemalists are the force of turkey, and they are asiatic. in fact, turkey has now been turned "bag and baggage" out of europe, and the turks are playing a new rôle in politics and international life. pierre loti, in his book entitled "la mort de notre chère france en orient," gives a sentimental defence of the turk, deplores our english rule, and urges france to endeavour to take charge, making the whole mediterranean what it has been once before, a french lake. the air of the many blue soldiers in constantinople, and the continual clash of british and french authority in the city suggest that loti really speaks for france. there are, therefore, at least four powers which wish to have the key of europe and the control of the ways of life between asia minor and the west. the one power which now does not enter into men's considerations is the one which both traditionally and economically is most concerned--and that is russia. letters of travel: iii. from constantinople (ii) a night's journey in a trawler brings you to the dardanelles--the outermost vital significance of dominion at constantinople. by the use of mines an invincible protection is easily thrown out. by the simple closing of the straits russian trade is throttled, and even all the powers of imperial russia before the great war could not open a way. no wonder that all ambitious russians desired constantinople and the straits. if it ever becomes possible for some small power to stand in russia's way again, there is bound to be a recrudescence of russia's passion to go south. at the dardanelles, however, there remains allied control--british men-of-war, french black troops, greek governors, and the rest. all boats are challenged coming in, none going out, and otherwise there is freedom of the seas. a sentimental interest which is more than usual directs britain's gaze, and especially the gaze of the empire, to gallipoli, and that is the interest of sacrifice. here is the scene of a great and glorious attempt in war, and here lie many thousands of our dead. the flag of britain flies over anzac, and every th of april (anzac day) at anzac bay and throughout australia and new zealand, services are held to commemorate the landing in , and the bold attempt to win through, to beat the turk and liberate the russian. it is all pure poetry now, the wrecked lighters stuck in the sand, the sweep of ocean beach, the rounds of suvla bay. you see it one day, and all the sea is impotently angry, raging against a shore which does not reply; you see it another, and it is lapped in an eternal peace; you see it as it is going to look hundreds of years hence, when all the cemeteries are fitted out in stone, and the cypresses have grown around them, and the british have gone home, and no one visits gallipoli any more--serene, untroubled. you run from the once bullet-swept water's edge to the slight shelter of a sand-bank, and walk by the narrow sap into "shrapnel valley," still strewn with old water-bottles and broken rum-jars, by a trench then to "monash valley," and there probably you start coveys of partridge, which abound now in great numbers, or you start the silver fox or ever-present hare. wild life has returned as if there never had been a sound of gun. you walk the path up which the rations went in the old days, and see the litter still. you see the great charred patches where stores were burned before the evacuation. how untouched all seems between these giant crags! how vividly you see all that they saw, the grandeur of nature, the glimmer of the sea! you can still smell the dardanelles expedition, and tread in old footsteps which hardly have been worn away. it is an astonishing position, dominated by vast inaccessible ridges. leaving the so-aptly named "dead man's gully" on the left, you look up to the "sphinx," that perfect position of the sniper, climb to "battleship hill," and then to chunuk bair. in an hour or so you may walk all the way we ever got. and we did not need to have got much further than chunuk bair. down below on the one hand is the sea where the men-of-war lay and thundered with their guns. but across and in front gleams in the sunlight what was the promised land, the roofs of chanak and the purple narrows of the hellespont. the new zealanders will have their special monument here beside the cemeteries where their many dead are lying. they took chunuk bair, and unsupported, pressed on to win the day, only to be outnumbered and met by terrible odds of swarming turks. you may pause now and pick an anemone in that terrible no-man's land, where the skeletons of our old dead, picked clean by the jackals, were found otherwise untouched when we came again in the november of ' . you can see the damped, slightly discoloured patches where dead men lay, and even find still now and then a human bone--of friend or foe, who now can tell? we have gathered together the bones and have buried them all, be they english or turk, and have decently cleaned up gallipoli--as englishmen would. australians and new zealanders work there now with simple devotion and energy, and are astonishing the turks, who ask, "if they do so much for the dead, what will they do for the living?" a few army huts on the height above kellia bay mark the headquarters where col. hughes and his anzac staff are living. from ever-windy hills they look across the narrows to the wan house where byron lived. gangs of greeks are working for them. the extremity of gallipoli peninsula is as it were an imperial estate, and every day a round of work goes on at helles, at greenhill, at suvla, and the rest. with the coming of summer the ships are coming with the marble, and the stone slabs will climb the hills where once our fellows struggled upward. it is a fine undertaking. no ranks are distinguished in the gravestones, and all are equal in sacrifice. but dominating everything will be a tall white obelisk to be put up on the highest point of helles, visible to all ships passing through the gate and going forth upon the seas. australia will be there. england might lose its interest in the dardanelles--but the empire never. the younger men have their eyes upon it. and what a contrast the laodicean atmosphere of g.h.q., and the frankness of an australian and new zealand mess! a certain widow of a brave general who died in the attack, has, through wealth and influence, obtained permission to erect a personal monument to her husband on gallipoli. if this is carried out it will be greatly resented by the australians, who say, "if wealth can purchase a monument, there are plenty of rich australians who would readily erect memorials to their gallant kith and kin who perished here." a pity if the equality and simplicity of the gallipoli cemeteries is broken into. an exchange of hospitality with h.m.s. "tumult," standing off chanak, kept us in touch with the outside world, giving us the wireless messages each day. thus we heard of the application of the "sanctions" to germany, the conclusion of the trade treaty with soviet russia, the fall of batum, and other items of world interest. the first officer told us how they stood off at sevastopol and took on russian wounded, the most appalling cases of suffering where there was never a murmur from the men, and the russian sisters sat with them all day and all night with a never-tiring devotion. the commander and every one were strongly russophile--won to them by personal contact with the russians, and that although the ship "stank like a pole-cat" before it could bring the refugees to port. the commander very kindly gave me a passage to gallipoli, where a large part of wrangel's army was encamped. we tore up the channel at an unexampled pace, the cleft north wind driving angrily past as the destroyer rived its way through. and in an hour we came to the ramshackle capital and main port of the peninsula, where a host of khaki-clad soldiers stared at us from the quay. general wrangel's army numbered about eighty thousand men when it was transported from the crimea, and about ten thousand had left him for one cause and another at the time when the french presented the ultimatum--"go to brazil or back to soviet russia, or we shall cut off the rations on april the first." wrangel's war material, his guns and machine-guns and ammunition, were given mostly to the georgians, who promptly lost it to the bolsheviks or sold it to kemal. the greeks certainly complain that the kemalist army, after being almost devoid of artillery, suddenly became possessed of it in a mysterious way, and shelled them with french shells. the greek set-back at smyrna is no doubt partly attributable to the disposal of wrangel's weapons. his ships and stores were mostly commandeered by the french, and the value of them set off against the rations supplied to the army. france probably thought originally that she could yet employ these forces in a further adventure against the bolsheviks. her idea doubtless was to throw wrangel's army into the scale on another front of war whenever opportunity should arise. britain, in refusing to support wrangel, actually cut herself free from an enormous amount of material responsibility in case of wrangel's failure. wrangel's army was not aided by us as a fighting force, and it could not as a matter of policy be aided by us in its tragical plight after the débâcle. it had to depend on the french. wrangel, it is said, had a guarantee from the french that they would ration his army when they took upon them the transport to gallipoli and lemnos. france would no doubt have continued to do so but that the conclusion of the trading treaty between russia and england showed that the external fight against the bolsheviks was over, and, indeed, put france in a highly disadvantageous position. for as long as france retained general wrangel she could not reasonably hope to enter into trading relationship with soviet russia. the position of the army was greatly complicated by the hundreds of thousands of civil refugees who all, more or less, looked to wrangel as their leader, and grouped themselves around him--all of them, however, in an equally parlous plight. curiosity to see this army took me to gallipoli. there has been very little sympathy in england for armed intervention in russia; the ironside expedition, the judenitch folly, the vast undertakings with regard to koltchak and denikin, were highly unpopular with the masses if indulged in by society. this was not because english people affected bolshevism, but because they dislike military adventures in the domestic affairs of other nations--and also because the nation was not taken into the confidence of the war office in this matter. even the name of wrangel has been somewhat obnoxious. when the bolsheviks seized the crimea there was even a sense of relief in some quarters--the _coup de grâce_ had been given to the counter-revolutionary adventure. france, however, had felt that in backing wrangel she could not lose very much if he failed, but might reap a golden reward should fate play into his hands. if a favourable internal revolution had occurred whilst wrangel held the crimea, france would have been the favoured friend of the new government of russia, but britain would naturally have been out in the cold. and france did not give wrangel much material support. it is a mistake to think that france spent any very remarkable amount on the wrangel expedition. but france has been much annoyed at the subsequent trouble it has cost her. and, whereas you will find individual british officers with an unstinted admiration and affection for the russians, you find little on the french side but cold politeness or contempt. an interesting figure is col. treloar, ex-captain in the coldstream guards, a soldier of fortune, now serving in wrangel's army from pure devotion to the russians. appalled at the tragedy of the russians, here is a man who does not mind speaking out. he was with denikin before wrangel, and explained that general's downfall by the scoundrels and incapables by whom he was surrounded, and a curious type of english soldier in the rear capable of selling vast quantities of supplies. wrangel fell because the enemy was infinitely better equipped. the barrage in the crimea was more like that of a grand attack in france than anything previously encountered in the russian fighting. in treloar's opinion, wrangel's army still remained an army, and should be granted an "honourable return to russia," i.e., be put down somewhere on the black sea shore with arms and ammunition, and left to make what terms they could with their enemies. at gallipoli thirty thousand troops with fifteen hundred women and five hundred children were put down. some of these are housed in the town, but most are in tents on the hills outside. the american red cross does very remarkable work ministering to the sick and to the women and children. in general one has learned to distrust huge charitable organizations, but they do upon occasion give opportunity to extremely kind and simple-hearted men and women to give their life and energy to suffering humanity. such a case is that of major davidson at gallipoli, and another that of capt. macnab at lemnos, where men are working not merely for a salary but for sheer love of their fellow-men. davidson belonged to the middle west and had probably seldom been out of it before. he breathed american and was as pure a type as you could find. nothing of the cynicism of europe about him, for he was that old-fashioned and extra-lovable product, the god-fearing man. he was kind to every one, and had the natural religion of being kind. his door-keeper and sub-clerk at the main hut was an old russian aristocrat with a face that reminded one of alexander iii. "well, count?" davidson would query when he saw him, and smile cheeringly; "anything fresh?" the count had a rather characterless and cruel lower lip like a bit of rubber. he was capable of a great deal, but he was quiet and obedient in the presence of davidson as if he had found a tsar again. "we must have a tsar," said the count to me. "but he must be terrible. what the russian people need is cruelty--not machine-gun bullets and shells, but cruelty. they do not mind dying. the whip must be used!" the gospel of the knout! his countess bade me pay no attention when he said things of that kind. he was in reality the kindest of men and could not bear to look on suffering. he had lost lands, position, wealth, power of all kinds, in the old russia. he had something against the russian people. in a curious way he disapproved of davidson's kindness. a man in rags would come in for a pair of pants. davidson would give him a pair out there and then. "he does not understand us russians. he should make him come five times and then not give it him. that is the only way to get respected." davidson took me over the whole camp to all his hospitals, and showed all there was to be seen. wrangel's army seemingly arrived with nothing. one might have expected to see a hopeless rabble, all dirty and living in rags and filth, insubordinate and unkempt. how surprising to find the very opposite--an army apparently of picked men, very clean, well-disciplined and orderly, living in an encampment on which every human care was lavished. apparently the lower their hopes the greater had become their discipline and _amour propre_. on a daily ration of half-a-pound of bread and two ounces of very inferior "mince," the men still preserved the stamina to do daily drill, dress with care, and keep their tents in order. the tents had been mostly lent by the american red cross, and the beds inside were improvised from dried weeds. in the large green marquees, officers' quarters were divided off from the men's by evergreens. in the hospital tents, little wooden bedsteads had been framed everywhere of rough wood cut from the trees with sabres and bayonets. in other tents regimental chapels had been arranged, and religious paintings on cotton stretched upon hanging military blankets. stove-pipes for fires had been made of old "ideal" milk-tins stuck to one another in tens and twelves, with the bottoms all cut out. outside the various headquarters, behold formal gardens of various-coloured stones, new cypress avenues planted, a rostrum in a sort of park for wrangel to make his speeches from, new-built sentry-boxes with pleasant shades, a sun-clock, and the like. the soldiers mostly wear their medals, and naturally have a large number of them. each has a war-history which all might envy to possess and none envy to go through. questioned individually, one found them loyal to their chief, but complaining bitterly of their rations. not many were preparing for brazil or for a return to russia. their future presented itself as a strange and difficult problem--both collectively and individually. of the people in the married quarters one did not obtain such a favourable impression. rooms were divided into three parts by hanging army blankets, and a family was in each part. windows were lacking, insects very plentiful, and dirt unavoidable. here were a number of typhus hospitals in charge of the red cross, a children's feeding-station and nursery, a lying-in hospital. two mosques were used as hospitals and presented a remarkable picture, the patients lying in a circular group amid columns covered with arabic inscriptions. russian doctors were at work, and disease had been well stemmed. mortality was very low. only when the hot weather comes--if the army is still here--one fears for the ravages of dysentery and fever. of course there were discontented spirits in the army, and some who talked of marching on constantinople should rations cease, but there were only a few rifles and little ammunition left in the men's hands. by sheer weight of numbers they might achieve something, but constantinople is a hundred miles away, and that is a great distance for famished men to go. two nights lying on the deck of one of wrangel's transports brought me back to constantinople. this vessel was controlled by french officers, but captained by one-eyed admiral tsaref, of what was once the imperial fleet of russia. she did five knots an hour when the weather was fine; the railings at the stern had been carried away, and many parts of the ship were tied together with rope. the five french officers on board each had a cabin to himself; russian officers, american red cross, and myself, slept where we could. the french also had their meals served to them separately. nevertheless, we were a jolly company on board, and played an absurd wild game of solitaire each night, and the only tedium was the slow way we splashed like a lame duck up the narrow seas. in the harbour in constantinople in the morning a bright sun shone on four hulks packed from stem to stern with georgians, the latest comers to imperial city. they waited and stared whilst we slowly steamed to the french base. then in a short while we were in the great capital again amid the surging masses of humanity. i was asked by count tolstoy, the aide-de-camp, and also by treloar, if i would see the general, and accordingly did so, boarding a caique at galata, and being rowed to his yacht "luculle." first i saw the baroness wrangel, a bright, bird-like lady, trim and neat and cheerful, speaking english like one of us. baron wrangel is a tall, gaunt, and very remarkable-looking personage. his cossack uniform with ivory-topped cartridge-cases intensifies the length of his body and of his face. he has all the medals there are, but only wears two, a vladimir cross at the centre of his collar, like a brooch, and a georgian on his chest. his head is long, and his cheeks seem to curve inwards from his temples. there is sparse grey hair on his whitish scalp, and lifting his full-sleeved arm he scratched his head with an open penknife whilst he talked. in a strong military voice he said that two million russians outside russia acknowledged him as their leader. the french alternatives of brazil or "sovdepia" he considered shameful. soviet russia he always referred to as "sovdepia"--the new name for it. exodus to brazil without preliminary conditions meant, he said, white slavery. return to sovdepia meant the _chresvichaika_ and execution. time, he believed, was on his side. the allies would need his army yet, and would be foolish if they deserted those who had sacrificed themselves to the allied cause. like many other russians, baron wrangel believes in the coming complete disruption of europe. germany is almost bound to go the way of russia. that was the voice of baron wrangel, and one had the impression of a fine character which would stand the test of adversity. a soldier, however, and not a statesman or a prophet. but perhaps it takes neither a statesman nor a prophet to see that europe is in mortal danger. * * * * * * the supreme problem at constantinople and on the peninsula seems to be to liquidate the russian population fairly and honourably. even those who have no sympathy with the military adventures in russia will feel the call of humanity here. the russians are not guilty of any crime: they are only terribly unfortunate. shortly after i saw wrangel, he was isolated by the french authorities and forbidden to visit his army. the french then began the forcible return of the soldiers to soviet russia. as an alternative they could go to brazil. but the first transports for brazil were stopped by wireless. the government of brazil, after all, did not agree to receive the russians. so these miserables were put on the island of corsica. of the others little is known. large numbers have been returned to russia. serbia and czecho-slovakia have covenanted to take a few thousand. as for the civilian refugees, a hundred thousand of them are in desperate straits. they cannot live in constantinople, and they cannot get away. it is a death-trap for them. for the women it is a trap far worse than death. they are unpopular people in europe now--the gentry of russia, people of education and gentle upbringing, the people of the old landed families. i observe that with the signing of the trade treaty with soviet russia funds have at once been started with the object of feeding starving russians in russia. charities are a british and american vice, but something, not necessarily money, is due to the russian refugees. human attention is needed--an honourable effort to solve the problem of making these russians self-supporting economic units. mr. ilin, at the head of the russian organization, is the man to approach. he is a capable, quiet russian, who is under no illusions as to the enormity of the task or the difficulty of coping with it. i met a countess trubetskoy, as poor as poor. "all i ask is something to take my mind off our coming fate," said she. "imagine it. i am reading the tarzan series of novels right through. just to forget." they wish to forget, and we, who used to talk of loving the russians,--we have forgotten. extra leaves (ii) _on "charity" and the stagnation of peoples_ in company with mme. tyrkova-williams, i subsequently visited the offices of the "save the children fund" in london to try to get some extra help for constantinople, being convinced that the sufferings of the children there far exceeded those of the children of vienna and budapest and prague. but no money can save the russians at constantinople, or the "little things" which wrangel's army leaves behind them. refugee men and women ought, perhaps, to be fruitless, but they are not. the birthrate at gallipoli and constantinople is high, and the lying-in hospitals are full. is it not a characteristic paradox of life that babies should keep coming into a world that cannot find room for the parents? to provide for all these russians for any considerable time would involve the collecting of more money than the rich of the world have to spare. when the hospitals of london are threatened with closure for want of funds, it is clear that mere "charity" is a useless resort. "charity" moreover leaks. though it is much puffed up and advertiseth itself, and is supported on the public platforms with sounding brass and tinkling cymbal, nevertheless it faileth. there is knowledge, and it remains, prophecies and they are fulfilled, but this thing which we call "charity" faileth, it vanisheth away. "the fund will soon be exhausted," we hear on all sides. why not, then, try love? why not try human action? let men and women think a little more and forget mere money. inspired political action is required, the refugees should be given some means of helping themselves and should be distributed over europe in countries where for adults there is the chance at least of finding work, and where for the children food abounds. constantinople is an overcrowded caravanserai. there is no lasting means of living for more than one-fifth of the population, and almost no chance at all for the russians. in serbia, in bulgaria, in bohemia, in france and england, and in the new world there are at least chances of life for the homeless. at present there is scarcely a nation in the world that will take in the unfortunate russians unless they are possessed of material means. france in this is adamant. she keeps the russians waiting longest of all. and yet her responsibility for these russians is very direct. the russians helped to save france in the war, and these russians were used by france to try and regain her lost investments in russia. they believed in a generous noble france which never abandoned her friends. it is dumbfounding to the russians that it should be france that is now forcing them either to die or to return to soviet russia. rather than go back to "sovdepia" many who think their lives are forfeit there are ready to resort to desperate means of escape. they steal over to kemal and fight for him, or they sign on for brazil, or stow away in one or other of the many ships in the harbours. but whilst adventurous escapades are possible for the men there is not even that way open for the women and the old folk and the children. many are sure to die before they find salvation. the way to save the greatest number is assuredly to allow the refugees to circulate freely and find what life they can. has not england been plastered with the notice, "don't pity a man; find him a job." that is something to apply to the russians. we cannot find them a job, but at least let us give them a chance. there is room in europe for these russians, and they would not prove long a burden once they were in the way of life. in any case a great stagnant pool of human beings such as is found at constantinople, makes a dangerous place in the body politic of humanity. is the blood of all of us a little distempered? it comes from foul pools and sluggish channels where conditions of health are absent. letters of travel iv. from sofia the last night at constantinople was memorable, and it is strange to contrast the brilliance, the clamour, the poignancy, of that time with the quiet gloom and dirt of sofia. dinner with two young russians at the "kievsky ugolok"; vodka was taken as if it were part of a rite. we were served by a beautiful woman with little hands. all the lights were shaded and the violins crooned. "the best of my youth gone in senseless fighting," said count tolstoy. "twenty-two to twenty-eight, think of it; surely the best years of life, and campaigning all the while, from insterburg to sevastopol, and who knows what more." "i am going to cut it all and start afresh," said col. s. "i don't believe in the cause. if i could get a little farm in canada or california!" "well, you are married and have children, that makes the difference. you are bound to them. but honour binds me to russia--whatever happens." "it's a strange time." "yes, strange." "who knows what will happen next in europe!" "do you think european civilization will fall?" "i think it possible that it may." "in my opinion also--it may happen. the fall of russia is just a forewarning--it will all go down." once more the favourite theme of conversation. going home at midnight, one sees the miscellaneous crowd still on the street. from an open café window a gramaphone bleats out the strains of "pagliacci" into the street, as if "pagliacci" also were a refugee and was on the streets. listening to it there came the thought that our whole modern way of life, of which that opera is sufficiently characteristic, was being chased from its home, chased out into an unkind elemental world to beg its way. then on a corner of a street a hoarse woman calling repeatedly her price like a hawker at a market, "_chetiresta_! _chetiresta_!" quite a decent lady in russia, the wife of a bank-clerk or petty official, but now up against it, the great it of revolution. four crooked lanes go down to petits champs, all a-jingle with greek music and tinkling glasses and women's laughter. the great glass-house cabaret below is refulgent with electric light, and you see the figures swirl in a "_grande danse moscouvite_." you climb the mounting street to where dusky but handsome punjabi soldiers stand in front of the british embassy, looking with sinless gaze on sin passing by, and then to the hotel. you sleep in the office of the hotel, between two safes, because there is no room to be had anywhere. your curtainless windows are right on the street, and the endless razzle-dazzle of night-life goes on. in the disturbed after-hours of midnight or early hours of morning you may see a dozen or so drunken sailors pulling cabs and cabhorses on to the pavement, two sailors on each horse, cuffing its flanks with their hats, shouting and screeching, and evidently dreaming of the wild west whence they come, the turkish cab-drivers absolutely placid and passive, however, and the turkish gendarmes unalarmed, whilst strapping fellows of the american naval police with white bonnets on their heads, and neat blue jerkins, rush in and literally fell the sailors one by one with their truncheons, and fling them sprawling to the side-walk. next morning it is brilliantly and cruelly sunny, and on the way out of the city the eyes rest on a young woman dressed in the fashions of , but with burst boots and darned "tango" stockings, and rent, shabby dress. the strong light betrays the disguises of a long-lived hat and shines garishly on the powder and paint of a young-old face. so constantinople goes on. what a contrast when you return to sofia! it is a day's journey in the express--a very short time, far too short to efface the vivid impression on the senses made by constantinople. perhaps in one respect sofia resembles the great city, in that it is overcrowded. arriving at night, you are lucky to share a room with a bulgarian officer. the latter is lying in bed, and does not seem perturbed at a civilian being put into his room. perhaps he has been staying a long time without paying, and the management is retaliating. there is a bed which has sheets which may have been laid fresh for a german officer in , and you wisely follow the custom of the country and sleep with your clothes on. next day, when you step out on to the streets of the bulgarian capital, your eyes almost refuse to take in the change. you have such a strong expectation of the moving picture of the constantinople street that you feel, as it were, robbed and astonished, as by a spell cast over your world. you have been transported by enchantment to an entirely different scene. here is a strange quiet. a peasant population has come to town in heavy clothes and heavy faces. despite the war and all the trouble it has meant, there is a feeling that all able-bodied men and women are provided for. here is none of the elegance and indolence of athens, or of the ingenuity and cleverness of constantinople, but a steadiness and drabness of a peasant clumsiness mark the new sofia. it is neither so pleasant nor so promising a place as it was in . the soil of the black years is upon it. sofia was a peasant city without much fashion or style then, and this aspect has intensified itself. the peasant is the born enemy of the town, and whilst he may be perfect in the country he is a boorish and non-comprehending fellow when he comes to the capital to rule. the peasant in power has very little use for the brighter side of civilization. the more the latter is cut down the better for him. he has, unfortunately, grasped the truism that "without the peasant nothing can exist," and he is much disposed therefore to take more of the profit of living for himself and cut down the expenses of civilization. in bulgaria we have the curious anomaly of peasant communists in political power and a king. monarchy and a sort of bolshevism. "so you are all bolsheviks here?" "no, only peasant-communists." "is that not similar?" "no. we have no international programme. international politics do not interest us. we do not want any more wars. governments make the wars and the people have to fight them. ask anyone, did we want the last war? do we ever get anything out of wars? no. and now we have an administration who will keep us out of trouble." the speaker was an ordinary sofian proletariat, earning his living in a bakery. he seemed much pleased with bulgaria as she is now; did not want a port, or talk about plebiscites, or the alleged nationality of those who dwell in the wildernesses of macedonia. so it is, a people of few words and not much racial ambition is in power. the old diplomatists and politicians, the "bourgeois," as they are now called, are all in opposition. most of the educated and cultured and rich are out of office and power. they pursue the same old course of balkan intrigue, communicating their opinions to you in stage-whispers, but intrigue merely ends in intrigue and does not lead to action. the old regime and old politics naturally find allies in the press which, having been so venal in the past, finds it difficult to turn to honest journalism. the venality of the press in balkan countries is a characteristic which does more harm to nationhood in these parts than is understood. it springs from the original practice of giving state subsidies to authors and journalists and newspaper proprietors, on the ground that the reading public is too small to support such people entirely. receivers of subsidies are naturally chary of writing against their patrons, and a great opportunity arises for interested parties to buy the press. the advisability of buying sections of the balkan press is urged upon foreign governments. so journalism and the organs of public opinion become not only physically debauched but poisoned at heart. for that reason one need not pay much respect to the recrudescence in the press of attacks upon greece. it is true, bulgaria has lost dédéagatch, her southern port, her window on to the aegean, and a greek army is between bulgaria and constantinople, but peasant bulgaria will thrive quite well without a port; she virtually never used dédéagatch, and it would be obvious foolishness to shed more blood for the possession of this remote harbour. the exit of varna on the black sea suffices for all the wants of new bulgaria. one meets many partisans of bulgaria. english people naturally like the bulgars at first sight. the bulgar is a good fighting man, and that makes a strong appeal to the man of the world. he is simple, not bumptious, gives himself no airs of traditional culture or modern education, and therefore recommends himself. the cynical and false opinion of - regarding bulgaria--that she would come in to the war on the side that bid most money--is forgotten. and the disloyalties of bulgaria, disloyalty to the russia who set her free and to her erstwhile ally serbia, are overlooked. the stupid bulgarian hates and intractabilities are ignored, and the new european partisans would raise and strengthen her again, some being even ready, in opinion, to set her flying against greece once more. there is one constructive hope which appeals to most thinking minds, and that is, that at some time in the future bulgaria could be merged in jugo-slavia or federated with it. serbia abandoned her own good name and took this name of jugo-slavia or country of the southern slavs, that she might form the basis of a commonwealth of all the southern slav nationalities. and if she embraces croats and slovenes why not bulgars, too? it is said that the bulgars, in order to ingratiate themselves with their war-allies, pretended that they were not slav, that they were in reality also huns, kindred of hungarians and finns. but a people with a language so like russian could hardly cling to that deception. the best way to avoid trouble in the balkans is to have larger, more comprehensive states. therefore, one looks forward to the mergence of bulgaria in something better and safer by and by. many russians have found refuge in sofia, a few thousand of the more lucky ones who have managed to get away from constantinople. i daresay it is not realized how difficult it is to get out of that city to go even such a short distance as sofia. even for an englishman it is difficult enough. what takes days for one of us takes months for a russian, and then he has to have sponsors. however, when once he gets to sofia, he finds the cost of living reduced five times. a pound sterling would keep a russian in sofia for a week, but in constantinople for not much more than a day. of course you can starve for nothing in both cities: the cost of living ceases to be important when you have nothing at all. but sofia abounds in cheap white bread and butter. you get a pat of about two ounces with your morning roll. vienna and berlin may be on black bread, budapest without butter, but sofia does not lack. and sugar seems plentiful, and meat is not dear. oranges are cheap, and the wine of the country is accessible. manufactures, of course, depend on the exchange, and are expensive. there is cheap entertainment, the inexpensive tedium of the cinema and the use of a theatre. once more russia in exile affords some cultural help with performances of the theatre of art, concerts, and ballet. peter struve has taken up his abode, and now makes bold to re-issue one of russia's principal critical reviews, the "russkaya misl." here in sofia is a russian publishing house, which has printed a translation of wells' impressions of bolshevik russia, and "at the feast of the gods," by bulgakof, and struve's "thoughts on the revolution," new books of value which suggest that the old russia still lives. asked how the bulgars behaved toward the russians, a foreign and therefore perhaps neutral diplomat replied: "the bulgar will not do anything for people in distress. he is an egoist. he'll let his own father starve rather than sacrifice anything of his own. he has cause to be eternally grateful to the russians, and now he has a chance to pay back something of what he owes, but not he. he treats the russian as a beggar and an inferior, just because he sees him in a state of failure and misery." a serbian, asked whether bulgars and serbs could come to an understanding, said "no, because when the bulgars were put in power over serbs by the strength of german arms they set about abolishing the serbian nation. in a cold-blooded way they went through the whole of serbia, murdering and destroying. a nation like the bulgars," said he, "is incapable of friendship." a greek, asked, "could there not be an entente between greece and bulgaria, a burying of the hatchet," replied: "no, there is a mortal vendetta between us. there is something in the bulgarian which makes our people see red." when these matters were referred to a bulgarian, he smiled, and said: "we shall obtain the protection of england or france; that will be enough. bulgaria is impregnable against enemies. let any nation try and take bulgaria and her mountains, see what it would cost in human lives. but these wars, what is the use of them: does anyone ever gain anything by them?" bulgaria gained her freedom by a war. but of that it seemed untactful to remind this denizen of sofia. besides, he was a kind of bolshevik. if bolshevism were to sweep europe, he would not be put out of doors. bulgaria also would be in the political advance-guard of world-progress. "you do compulsory communal labour in the fields every year, do you not?" "such a law has been passed. you see, we are an agricultural people. food is our life. the war greatly disturbed our population, and it was not easy to get labour, or to get it at a reasonable price. so compulsory labour was introduced--every man to do his share in producing the daily bread." so bulgaria has met the peace. she was our enemy. but her money is at least worth more than that of one of our allies, and compares favourably with that of another. the cost of living is low. wages have gone up to a considerable extent, and the able-bodied working-man has enough for himself and his family. one saw how much more stable is an agricultural state than an industrial one. if our europe goes down in economic ruin it does not at all follow that little states like bulgaria will be engulfed. on the contrary, bulgaria as she is constituted to-day would almost certainly survive. it is industrialism and large business upon which our western superstructures depend, not on the tilling of the soil. "humanity, however, first depends on bread," said a bulgarian in a restaurant. "if civilization falls, it does not follow that humanity will fall." there was plenty of bread on the table in front of us. "well, thanks for the bread. but you know the text. there are some of us who still want to live by the word." letters of travel v. from belgrade (i) a personal friendship with bishop nicholas of zicca brought the gift of his rooms in the patriarchia, opposite the cathedral. nicholas, better known during the war years as father nicholas velimirovic, being on a mission to the united states, his simple white-walled rooms hung with bright-coloured ikons were free, and could be a home for a wanderer in an over-crowded city. kostya lukovic, who during the war graduated at cambridge, treated me as if i were the england to whom he could repay the gratitude he owed for our hospitality to him. dr. yannic, also known to us in england, then a priest, now temporarily secretary to the constituent assembly, was also very kind. a recommendation from balugdic, the minister at athens, opened many doors and obtained a separate carriage for me at night on some wild trains. archimandrites and abbots entertained me lavishly at the shrines of the frushta gora. it can therefore be said that the serbs know how to treat an englishman well when he passes through their country. salutations therefore, and thanks! they fought like lions, and they suffered as none others suffered in europe's terrible ordeal. a serbian spark at sarajevo fired the arsenal of european militarism, and a common ungenerous thought sometimes blames the spark instead of blaming the recklessness of those who allowed europe to be enkindled. and there used to be some who could not forget serbia's dynastic history. but that has been forgiven, and serbia has purchased a good name by a shedding of blood and a national unhappiness unparalleled in the war. people said, "serbia is no more, serbia can never be again." yet after complete loss of country to the most malevolent of foes, and after the agony of corfu, behold still serbia fighting. and was it not the vigour of serbia's reconstituted army in which, under misió and a french marshal, struck the critical blow at the bulgar which ruined the whole german confederation--brought about the surrender of bulgaria and austria, and led infallibly to the armistice! whatever happens in the new political turmoil, serbia has won our admiration and gratitude in the west. the impression which one obtains in passing through the towns and villages of macedonia is very painful. ghevgeli, on the greek frontier, and such places, remind one of the shattered areas of western europe. you realize, if you did not do so before, that the deadly disease of war ravaged this empty country as greedily as it did the fullness of flanders and france. ruin stares from thousands of lost homes, and from many you realize the inhabitants have been destroyed also. there is recovery. like convalescent maimed creatures, skoplye and nish creep into the sunlight and show signs of animation. not nearly so many fields are ploughed as in bulgaria. why? because the labouring hands are lost. you see many jolly, laughing turks in skoplye. they can laugh. their manhood survives plentifully, but death has gleaned in every serbian family down there. the trains go at a snail's pace through serbia. one day we went all day and part of the night at an average of five kilometres the hour. in bulgaria and greece the trains go slowly, but they are express compared with the trains from ghevgeli to skoplye. the reason is because the permanent way has been almost ruined and will need years of work upon it, and all bridges have been blown up. the train halts now and then, and then most fearfully budges forward, scarcely moves, budges, budges upon temporary wooden structures of bridges, and the workmen down below seem veritably holding the bridges up whilst the trains go over them. you stop hours at little villages, the exhausted and damaged engines surrendered to serbia by her ex-enemies being hopelessly out of repair and always in trouble. and in these villages you see the bare-footed war-waifs, skulking about in bits of old ruins, children who have lost father and mother and kith and kin, the kind care at best of american relief societies. there is said to be no actual want anywhere in serbia now, but no nation ever had so many orphans. at belgrade, despite many foreign elements, the most constant impression is one of a multiplied body politic. belgrade is said to have more cripples than any other capital of europe. and berlin comes second. it is a one-eyed city, a city of one-legged men, a city of men with beetling brows and contracted eyes, a city of unrelenting cobble-stones and broken houses. you go into the ministry of public enlightenment and the door-keeper cannot write; you go to the foreign office and are shown about laboriously by a one-legged man. in fact, the one-legged man might be taken as the type and symbol of the new serbia. in commerce it is as in politics. shop windows are one-third full of goods, the most ill-assorted goods, mostly coming through the old channels from austria and germany. there has not been enough energy left in the nation to find the means of making new trade connexions--as for instance, with england. a curious anomaly, surely, that there should be a glut of our own products on the home market whilst in serbia, even taking our exchange into account, prices range much higher. thus politics and trade. you see the new recruits of the conscripted army struggling along in sixes and sevens, men of all shapes and sizes apparently in one shape and size of war boot, causing such sufferings to young men. there are no feather-bed soldiers here. in the schools and universities, however, you see the rare earnestness of the slav. such is serbia. and if germany had won it would have been impossible to have seen her even in as fair terms as that. but some one outside of the machine has intervened and the dead has come to life. serbia still lives. one has to show a difference between serbia and jugo-slavia, or the kingdom of serbs, hrvats,[ ] and slovenes, "s.h.s." as it is commonly called. the new country is three times as large as the old one, and the two new parts of croatia and slovenia are well-built, fruitful, prosperous, with all the glamour of austrian civilization resting on them. on the one side of the old frontier the wild homelessness of the mountains, on the other side park-like country, model towns, and broad, fruitful plains. hard-bitten, bookless serbs, and softened bookish croats. as a responsibility of the peace serbia has taken over large tracts of smitten austria. looking at the new territory, one might reckon it a rich spoil of war. but comparing serbia as she is with this ex-austria, one cannot but be struck with the disparity between them. croats and slovenes are slav by race, but strongly austrian by education. they were glad to come into the new confederation and escape some of the penalties of defeated austria. but once they were definitely absorbed into the new state they did not feel so comfortable. the vanity and quarrelsomeness of the slav soon began to speak. they hated austria. but modern austrian civilization was a comfortable and well-oiled machine. the slavs derived enormous material benefits from their citizenship of the austrian empire. here despite all the feuds was a well-kept home of nations. left to themselves the croats would not have made a better state than the slavs usually make. but it is easy for them to imagine that the good schools, good trains and railway service, and good municipal administration, and the rest, were due to their own genius and not to that of the german. between serbia and the new territories stands belgrade, the capital of the whole. it is strikingly situated on the cliffs above the winding save which glimmers like silver in the evening. from the shell-splintered fortress one looks forth over the vast fruitful plain that was southernmost austria. here the kaiser had a seat made for himself in that he might look homeward in the evening. thus he turned his back on the balkans and his scheme of the world. belgrade below the fortress wall is extensive but poor. its tired main street stretches out a long way with flabby houses on each side of its cobbled wildness. there are as yet no buildings corresponding to the dignity of a great capital. the old parliament house is a little place like a town-school, the temporary one is a converted whitewashed barracks; the cathedral is a parish church on a site suitable for a mighty edifice; the moscow hotel looks like a seaside boarding establishment; the franco-serbian bank is housed in a place which might pass for an old clothes warehouse in whitechapel. there is a pleasant little white stone post-office. but the foreign office, the education office, and other government departments are in buildings that might well be blocks of flats or _pensions_ kept by respectable widows. the population, if we rule out the austrians, is mostly "the peasant come to town"--a proletarian crowd, though not governed by proletarians but by a small educated class plus an obedient army. you can see by the women that it is a peasant people--not a jumper or a short skirt in the whole of belgrade. they are quiet-eyed and modest. the serbs are much harder than the russians, and bear deeper in their souls the marks of their historic chains. a tortured look in the face and a certain dreadful impassivity of countenance are not uncommon. there is a mixture of geniuses and of people who have not yet begun to live. they have their mestrovic, velimirovic, petronievic. is there not in london a certain m---- made not for our civilization but for two or three grades higher in world development. of those who have not yet begun to live many are suspicious, violent, melancholy, with little instinct for making life more or fuller, for living and letting live; in business unenterprising and indisposed for work. the serbs are potentially gifted for literature, art, and thought; they are sincere and real in temperament, but despite their efforts probably not gifted for modern civilization as we know it. as regards belgrade, when prosperity returns we may see the growth of a fine new city, not a complete town-planned austrian city, supplied as it were whole and in every part from a department store, but something expressive of a new people. all these buildings we look upon to-day are bound to pass into obscurity. the rising pillars of the skupstchina, serbia's new parliament house at the foot of kossovo street, point to the future of some great new state. the croats say "when you go to zagreb you will see the difference. ah, there is a city; there is civilization." they kiss their hands to show what they mean. the croats are home rulers. like the irish, they are catholics. some of them look forward to the transfer of the capital to zagreb, and the changing of the letters of the kingdom to h.s.s. and putting hrvats first. croats insist on the title jugo-slavia; serbs are inclined to drop it and revert to the name serbia. the germans during the war are said to have promised the croats to form the german counterpart of the allies' idea of jugo-slavia, and had germany and austria won, a new constituent of central europe was to have been inaugurated with its capital of zagreb. the name jugo-slavia was familiar to the croats and popular with them before the serbs adopted it. the croats think that because they are more educated than the serbs they should be the dominant party in the government of the new state. the quarrel is aggravated by religious difference, croats being roman catholics and serbs orthodox. a number of the separatist leaders, the chief of whom is radic, an ex-bookseller, languish in gaol. these are evidently self-centred people. if they think that europe would tolerate another independent slav state with passports, frontiers, tariffs, armies, and the rest, surely they are mad. and if on the other hand, they would like to revert to ruined austria and have the value of all their money reduced ten times, surely they are not very sane. or if they think that they who suffered little should reap the major benefits of the war-victory, they are certainly pitiable egoists. what is lacking in the new state is goodwill and the spirit of co-operation. serbia is terribly hampered by lack of loyalty in her constituent elements. there is an impression of great uncertainty and instability. the general bad health of europe shows sharply at belgrade. the cost of living is irrationally high. there is something of the atmosphere of russia in . beggars swarm about the restaurants and cafés. cabmen, hawkers, and the poor hold one up for absurd prices. the shops have odd sets of goods which seldom correspond to one's desires. the value of the dinar fluctuates violently, and offers golden opportunities to the many speculators. the commonest trade-establishments are small banks and bucket-shops; they range in fours and fives before the eyes. the government is very poor, and never feels out of financial difficulties. "we are always faced with bankruptcy in three months," said dr. yannic in conversation. the government has been very hospitable to the russians, of whom it has almost , on its hands. it feeds them and tries to place them where they can do work. it treated with wrangel for the establishment of , cossacks to be planted along the marches of albania, and would have loved to have them, but has not as yet been able to take them for lack of money. serbia has done more for russia than any other nation. "we've received not a mark of the indemnity," says m. ribor, the chairman of the constituent assembly. "and we do not receive financial aid. on the other hand, is not france financing hungary--the eternal potential enemy of jugo-slavia?" there is no certainty about the attitude of france and england. england is felt to have cooled a little towards serbia. france is a source of bewilderment. the decoration of belgrade with the cross of the legion of honour was accepted in very good part, and the french marshal who brought it was lauded to the skies. but the after-thought was, when he went away--what did he come for? was it not perhaps to flatter serbia into undertaking a part in some new war, perhaps against the german, perhaps against the soviets? suspicion is a marked characteristic of political life in belgrade, suspicion and fear. they are afraid of the croat for his separatism, of the magyar for his malevolence, of the french for their intrigues, of the russians for their numbers and their superior gifts, of the austrians for their commercial enterprise. secret agents abound, and are evidently excellent. an enormous amount of information is collected--information too disquieting and too voluminous to be coped with. the serbs, however, have evidently tried hard to accommodate all talents and all opinions in the new state. in the new constitution complete freedom of religion is being guaranteed to all sects; the monarchy will be strictly constitutional; and all political ideas except separatism and bolshevism will be tolerated. regarding bolshevism the serbs have taken a strong line. it is a criminal offence, and propagandists are liable to swift arrest. no discrimination of any kind will be made against subjects of the kingdom of serbs, croats, and slovenes on the ground of race. serbia by herself has not a large educated class. she has not enough of her own to administer jugoslavia, and consequently she looks naturally to the employment of the croat and slovene educated class, and also to the refugee russians. many russian professors in exile have found posts; russian engineers and technicians are readily accepted in the hope that their services may be used. in the ministry and in the government offices the other races are amply represented. ribor himself, the speaker of the constituent assembly, is a croat. the previous obligations of the austrian government have in many cases been taken over. those who received pensions or subsidies from austria are provided for by serbia. not that that always gives content. a characteristic case is that of kossor, the well-known dramatist, an austrian croat. in the austrian style he received a state subsidy of three hundred crowns in encouragement of his talent. the serbs have continued that, and given him the equivalent in dinars. but he is attached to the art department of the ministry of education and has to put in an appearance every day--a duty which goes a long way to stultify one's inspirations. kossor is characteristically unhappy in belgrade. the cobblestones have a psychological effect on the soul. he feels restricted, and would like to travel: especially would he like to return to england, for which, like many others who were refugees among us, he retains the warmest feelings. the english in belgrade are inclined to say that all the serbian students who went to england returned atheists and bolshevists. a personal impression is, however, contrary. s---- and y---- who took their bachelorates of divinity at oxford, and lukovic, who graduated at cambridge, are warmly devoted to england, and stand for our culture where by far the most of the young educated people are frankly ignorant or entirely misinformed regarding england and england's ideals. whatever trouble we took and whatever we spent on giving education to serbian boys in england was not misapplied and will bear a good fruit of friendship by and by. that the students of new belgrade are free-thinkers, and chased dr. mott from the lecture hall is not of much importance--students usually do behave in that way nowadays. a university of students all believers would be edifying if it were not amusing. the modern way to real belief and understanding lies through denial and agnosticism and free-thinking of all kinds, and serbia is in a state of transit from peasant christianity to modern positive christianity. her need is for well-guided transitional education. there is no bridge from the simple piety of the peasant to instructed belief. the peasant marches to a precipice and then falls headlong into atheism. strangely enough, the church even when it realizes this danger seems unable to build the bridge. its only remedy is to try and stop the march of the peasant. this is dangerous, for in time the peasant can then push his obstruction also over the precipice. "if only we were as strong spiritually as we are militarily and economically i should feel happy about serbia," says bishop nicholas on his return from america. but jugo-slavia--one must think of the whole new state--is not strong in any way yet. her strength is very great and mysterious but is still potential. some day in the future perhaps five years hence, or ten, if jugo-slavia still holds together, we shall have a great state here with belgrade as a worthy capital. austria will have moved south. there are at least prospects of enormous commercial prosperity, and on that basis the arts will surely flourish. all depends on the slavs holding together and forgetting their differences. the spirit will blow where it listeth, and one day it will be with serbia and on another it will be gone. [ ] slav name for croats. letters of travel vi. from belgrade (ii) up on the cliff one evening a party of serbs were listening to a russian soldier, one of wrangel's army invalided to a hospital camp near belgrade. "which of these rivers is the danube?" said he. the serbs pointed out where the save joined the main stream, like a thread of silver joining a silver ribbon. "ah," said the russian. "and my grandfather was killed on that river, fighting to free the slavs. defenceless little brothers, the slavs! when the war began the enemy was right into your capital of belgrade at once, but we russians plunged into east prussia. yes, i was there, brothers, and was wounded and marched back to the niemen with my wound open----" he recounted where he had been in the war, and was so circumstantial that one by one the serbs said good-bye and wished him luck and went away. and he was left standing there alone, looking over the gloomy austrian plain below where night was descending fast. "would you like to have tea?" i asked. "my lodging is quite close." he readily agreed, and so we went across to the "patriarchate" and up to bishop nikolai's white room. budomir, nikolai's servant, a shell-shocked soldier, struck a posture of pleasure and stoked up the fire to boil some water. budomir had been a student and now could multiply numbers of four figures in his head though he could do little else. he was devoted to nikolai, and insisted on serving me because i was nikolai's friend. the russian soldier marvelled to find himself in a room so strongly orthodox in its appearance, and he did not fail to cross himself elaborately. then he showed us the various crosses which he wore round his neck. one of these touched him very much: it had been given him by his mother in august, , when he set out for the war. it had protected him ever since. he had gone through untold dangers and hardships, and had actually never seen his home and his wife and his child since that august morning when he marched away. he belonged to a guards regiment, and so i was interested to know what part he had taken in the revolution, and what he thought of it all. it should be remembered he was not a newspaper-reading russian. he called himself a _gosudarstvenny_ or state peasant, apparently indicating that his family had not been serfs but had been free men. he was normally a peaceful tiller of the soil, stopped at the plough and put into battle-harness by the politicians of europe. though now one of wrangel's army he attributed all russia's misfortunes to the "burgui." what a bourgeois really was he had not the remotest idea, but the word served. it was the burgui who brought about the march ' revolution in russia. "if we had been at petrograd then it could not have happened," said he. "how?" "well, before the revolution took place, the burgui arranged that the stanchest regiments should be sent to france. yes, our regiment of guards was actually in the lines below verdun when the tsar was dethroned. "they did not tell us what had happened. we learned it first from the germans. they began calling out to us, 'the tsar has abdicated.' we did not pay any attention, as they were always shouting lies. then they erected long banners outside their trenches with the words 'there is revolution in russia. the tsar has abdicated. why do you go on fighting?' "we were so infuriated by this that we planned a night attack on our own, and without the knowledge of our officers we entered the german trenches that night, just to show them what it meant to insult the tsar. there was a great noise. the german artillery awoke. ours replied. our neighbours on the right and left wondered what was happening, and in the morning our n.c.o.'s were called to explain what it was all about. they told the story and were strongly reprimanded. then officers addressed us and told us the bitter truth that there was actually revolution in russia. and we wept, and the officers wept with us. . . ." he was a sentimental warrior, and the tears glistened in his eyes now. he professed to be unendingly devoted to the tsar. his regiment would have made a mountain of its dead rather than let them take the tsar. if the tsar had even been in the crimea when wrangel was there they would never have given him up. "whom have you hope in now?" i asked. "general wrangel cannot do any more." "there's only one man." "who is that?" "that man is burtsef." what an extraordinary conjunction of sentiments!--devotion to the tsar and belief in burtsef! but here it was. the bourgeois were to blame for all russia's troubles, and yet he was a soldier in the army that wanted to restore the bourgeois. such paradoxical attitudes are no doubt responsible for the current official opinion in serbia that all russians tend to become bolshevik, and that they may be a dangerous element in the state. the soldier had three glasses of tea and then inverted his glass and got up and was most profuse in thanks, and for the present of a few dinars actually got down on his knees in thankfulness. "you are going back to your hospital camp--how will you go?" i asked. "on foot?" "no, by train. they give us a free pass on the railway. some say they'll soon give us a free pass back to russia!" he looked very woebegone. he showed me his georgian cross given for bravery in the field, and then once more the ikon his mother had given him. "seven years, and i haven't once been home," said he. "seven years," he repeated mechanically, and began stumbling out of the room. he was a strange and touching witness of the power of the human eruption in russia. as it were, a clod of earth had been lifted from the province of tambof and flung as far as the balkans. another witness of another kind was the old archbishop of minsk whom i found in the monastery of ravanitsa. the secretary of state for religion very kindly facilitated my journey to the shrine of st. lazar, where i saw serbia's mediaeval prince lying headless before the altar. strange to say, it seemed as if the body had a head. the shroud was raised to disclose his brown and wizened fingers and shrunken middle, and where the head should be were the contours of a head under a veil. at my desire the cloth was lifted, and i saw instead of a head a large jewelled mitre. the monks showed me "bulls" and charters and proclamations and manuscripts, mostly eloquent now of the ill-faith of serbia's neighbours. they were, however, humorous and vivacious and well-fed monks who bore no ill-will against turk or austrian or anyone; they were good fellows happily lodged by the church, and without much care or sorrow of any kind; such a contrast to those outside the church. they gave me a room with a comfortable bed and white sheets, and they regaled kostya lukovic and myself and anyone else who happened to arrive, with old-fashioned generosity of wine and viands. it was here we met the archbishop of minsk, once rector of the theological academy at petrograd. he had lost his diocese and lost his academy; a little old, stooping, grey-haired man, very witty, very sardonic and indulging in endless pleasantries at the expense of us all. he drank to england but not to lloyd george. he drank to meeting me again--in moscow. he drank to serbia, and hoped they'd raise the standard of doctorate of divinity. he drank to france, without her ally poland who had seized most of his diocese of minsk and was making it roman catholic. he drank to russia--and a change of heart. in fact, it is difficult to remember all the toasts he proposed. i responded in sips, he in half-glasses; the archimandrite, who had only a second place at the table, in tumblerfuls; the deacon opposite me having a strong character, refused to go on, and it was certainly curious to see this little old archbishop taunt him and ask him if he were afraid and stir him on to drink more than was good for him. but he was a russian first and then an archbishop, and he had lost all that he cared for. it may be asked, had he lost his faith, too? but do rectors of theological academies have faith? seldom, surely. "the teaching of theology has been abolished in russia now," said he next morning, sitting out in the sun and feeding young calves with bread which he had saved from the breakfast table. "there are no young students now preparing to be priests. the next generation will be without clergy." "but it is a people's church," i observed. "if there are no priests, they will take the services themselves. the peasants have an extraordinary amount of church lore among themselves." the prelate appeared to be scandalized. "that is of no use. a priest must first study and then be ordained. without knowledge the church would soon be lost." "what do you think of the patriarch of moscow? he has come to terms with lenin." "he is a weak man," said the archbishop. i recalled an opinion of bishop nicholas of serbia that patriarch tikhon would be next dictator of russia. the archbishop of minsk smiled gently and ironically, and then said quietly: "never. and he has too simple a mind to cope with the enemies of russia." "do you not think holy russia will reassert herself? you know the famous lines of solovyof: 'o russia, what sort of an east will you be, the east of xerxes or the east of christ?'" "it looks rather like the east of xerxes," said the old man. "but you believe differently----" and he smiled indulgently. i could not say whether he spoke sincerely or out of the depths of personal and national humiliation. i suppose it is hard for those who are not russians to realize what has happened in russia. propaganda has discredited news. the western world thinks of russia as the same country with a change of government. the colossal fact of the complete removal of the upper crust of russia is not realized. a third group of _deracinés_ whom i came across in serbia was an _artel_ of rostof engineers. i met a family i had known in russia. last time i had seen them it was one evening with their children scampering round a tall christmas tree on which all the candles were lighted. they were comfortable and capable people, and proud in their way of what they could do and of what they possessed. now, with all the other engineers of the vladikavsky railway, they had fled from the "terror" and were giving their services for the reconstruction of serbia. serbia did not particularly want them, and was not ready for their grand schemes. "you can't start anything in this country," said engineer n---- regretfully. "every one wants to make money out of it. the administration lives on the enterprise of the people. we have presented the government with a complete plan for the reorganization of the serbian railroads. we have brought the treasury of the vladikavsky railway with us, so we have a little capital, and given the authority we could make a gigantic improvement in jugo-slavia. but all we have been able to do so far is to arrange a few services of motor transport to places not reached by railway." my friends were in a poor little wooden hut on the outskirts of belgrade, very courageous and very sad, and their children, once petted and even pettish, were now grown and serious and facing life earnestly for themselves and for their parents' sake. a great chance for serbia lay in the use of these russian engineers. and the alternatives for the engineers are either to make good in serbia or to drift back eventually to mother russia. i am personally inclined to think that the serbs will let the chance slip through their fingers. serbs and russians, though they like one another, do not seem to be able to work together very well. the serbs are a smaller people, more intense and less adaptable than the russians. the difference between the two races as one sees and hears them on the streets of belgrade is very remarkable. the soft pervasive accents of russian speech are pregnant with a great race-consciousness and a feeling of world destiny. letters of travel vii. from budapest the ill-health of our new europe needs no demonstration. "she's an ailing old lady," says engineer n. "she's a typhoid convalescent," says dr. r. "she's deaf and dumb and paralytic and subject to fits. she has sore limbs and inflamed parts--in fact, a hopeless case," says a cheerful hungarian. "but what does it matter whether europe lives if her young daughter hungary survives her?" "that young daughter hungary has already been in the divorce court," i hazarded. "well, hungary is not going to alarm herself over the health of mother europe, anyway. hungary has to look after herself. mother won't look after her." the best train for budapest leaves belgrade at ten o'clock at night. from the capital of serbia to the neighbouring capital of hungary is only two hundred miles, formerly five or six hours' journey in a fast train without hindrance or anxiety. in a state of good health, to go from one main artery of europe to another ought to be almost as quick and as easy as thought. but now it is labour. no facilities are made by serbia for hungary or hungary for serbia. international trains with sleeping cars carefully avoid what are known as ex-enemy capitals. in this night-train from belgrade all the arrangements are discouraging and fatiguing. first, second, and third class carriages are the same, all wood, but some are marked " " and others " " and others " ." there are no lights in the train, and it is very crowded. you crawl all night through the ex-austrian territory now part of serbia. at four in the morning you arrive at subotitsa and wait six hours. you wait in a queue and show passports to serbian police; you take your baggage through the serbian _douane_ and it is searched for articles liable to export duty. you send a "d" telegram to budapest to reserve a room at a hotel. for this "d" telegram you pay two or three times the ordinary charge in order that it may have precedence of telegrams not marked "d." some time after ten in the morning you get into the serbian frontier train which takes you ten kilometres and deposits you in a hungarian no-man's land. hungarian gendarmes collect the passports of the passengers. you stand on a shelterless platform and wait for the hungarian frontier train which takes you ten kilometres further and deposits you at the station of szeged. here you congregate like lost souls in hades and wait and suffer. they say those suffer most who continue to have hope in that region. the hopeful clamour and push and mortify themselves, whilst highly indifferent and laconic magyars chuckle among themselves and throw ink across an inky table asking foreigners in hungarian their mother's maiden name and their natal town. the officials have adopted the principle of the division of labour--one makes out a form, another fills it in, a third franks it with a rubber stamp, a fourth registers details, and a fifth signs the visa. strange to say, this seems to multiply the time by five rather than divide it by five. and most people know that the train for budapest will leave at the scheduled hour, leaving half the passengers to wait all day at szeged for another train. after passports, there is a violent onslaught on your baggage by the customs officials. when they are convinced that you are carrying nothing dutiable you have to get a cab and make a hundred-crown journey across szeged to another train. you wait in a long queue for a ticket. heaven help you if you have baggage to register or re-register. it cannot be registered through from belgrade. as for the train, the passengers seem to be hanging from the roofs of the carriages like bats. it is like a seaside excursion express, and if you are lucky enough to get a place you find there is only half a back to your seat. a hungarian diplomat, anxious that i should see his country in a good light, helped me considerably on this journey, and i caught the train. i had the doubtful pleasure of reflecting that at least half of my fellow-passengers were still languishing at the first szeged station, victims of the division of labour and the verification of passports. "i do hope you get a hotel after all this," said the diplomat. "for my part, i wired to an actress," he added, with a knowing smile. "she knows how to get a room when others cannot." we arrived in budapest about p.m. the "d" telegram, alas, was languishing far behind. it was delivered next day about noon. knowing the expensive folly of taking a cab and trying to find a hotel i made a midnight exploration of the capital of hungary on foot, all sleeping, all apparently dead and without a spark of night life. there were no trains, no flocking crowds, but only occasional pedestrians and the accidental clatter of a horse-cab now and then. and the danube rolled through the stillness silently. i fell in with a late-going working man coming off a day shift. he piloted me to the "ritz," home of allied commissions and delegates of all kinds. that there should be a room there was unlikely enough, but it was possible to persuade the clerk to telephone to various obscure establishments on the "other side of the river." it is always obscure on the other side of the river. at last a hotel was found and located, and when the cabman had brought my things from the station and one asked timidly: "how much?" one received a characteristic reply. "a thousand crowns," said the unblushing cabby--rather more than the cost of a ticket for the whole journey from belgrade to budapest. i saw next day that i must report to the police within twenty-four hours of arrival, and also within twenty-four hours of departure. such is modern travel in europe, and i felt rather amused when the question was put to me, "are you travelling for pleasure or on business?" serbia and hungary are not on good terms. the hungarians will not forgive the loss to serbia of territory over which they claim to have ruled for a thousand years. hungary will not forgive the czechs or the roumanians either. they have been mightily despoiled by the nations. roumania has doubled her original territory at old hungary's expense. czechoslovakia holds pressburg, the ancient capital and coronation-city of the hungarian kings, and calls it bratislavl. "they might as well have called it new york," says a magyar contemptuously. there is nothing soft or relenting about the magyars. they are quite implacable, and they are a fighting people. there is no good will. on the contrary, there is definite ill-will on the part of hungary towards her neighbours. austria is soft towards the new nations which have arisen on the ruins of her empire, but hungary is hard. to the serb, the enmity of the magyar is disconcerting. by crossing the danube, serbia has become genuinely part of europe; she has turned her back on the balkans and the eternal strife on barren empty hills. the new serbia can afford to forget and forgive bulgaria, now a remote sort of country. she can retort to greece concerning salonica--we have no need of that port now, for we no longer aspire to be a power on the aegean, we are a central-european people. jugo-slavia is not a balkan country. she is ashamed of the balkans and of the balkan past. she will loyally look to geneva or any other capital of the league of nations. she will cling to the centre. all seems well. perhaps bulgaria will cease to be an enemy, and greece will cease to be a rival. serbia moves northward, but in the north she comes face to face with a worse potential enemy than either--the magyar. serbia becomes conscious of a european destiny, but hungary avers that a large stretch of hungarian territory has been torn from europe and is being balkanized, despoiled of the old comfort and civilization of the austro-hungarian state and made dirty and inefficient by slavs. every one blames some one else in this part of the world. there are bugs in the railway-carriages--the german soldiers brought them; they were not there before. the trains go slowly--the hungarian engine drivers have ruined all the locomotives by making big fires with little water in the boilers; contractors seem to take bribes--these are hungarians, "they'd sell their souls for a dinar." "look, look," says a magyar officer, pointing to the dirt on subotitsa station. "you never could see that in the old days. i used to be here with my regiment. it was as pretty and clean a place as you could find in hungary." nearing the frontier you pass in review a very sad sight, and that is, several hundred locomotives rusted to their very depths and eaten out with bad weather and neglect. "these are the locomotives we surrendered to the serbs after the armistice," says a hungarian. "the serbs could not use them. they have no engineers--no shops for their repair. we wouldn't have minded if the engines were used, but it makes us sick to think of such waste." on the other hand, perhaps, the hungarians in their malice surrendered the engines with their boilers burnt out and with other vital defects. one side or the other, or both, is to blame. but whatever the judgment might be, the engines remain in their rust--these useful iron servants of humanity have perished. they are symbols of a spoliatory peace. serbia discourages travel to hungary. hungary for her part bristles with spears. above the passport window on the danube quay at budapest you read: i believe in one god. i believe in god's eternal justice. i believe in the resurrection of hungary. --a dangerous creed. dr. m----, first assistant at the university of vienna, now made a czech subject against his will, put the matter well: "bismarck was a man of genius, but he made a great mistake in taking alsace and lorraine. and clemenceau was a great man, greater for instance than lloyd george; i treated him for twelve years, i know his character well, but he outdid bismarck by making a whole series of alsace-lorraines in europe. it means a century of wars to put it right." "there would be war now," said von k----, an ex-captain of the rd hussars. "but we shudder to take the responsibility of plunging europe once more into the bath of blood." the rd hussars is called the dead regiment now. it was reduced to five officers and a hundred and thirty-seven men in the war. it was resolved not to recruit for it again, but to leave it as it was left, and it paraded before the king at budapest in its original formation, showing all the gaps. "it was tremendously impressive," said the captain--"one man here, two there, three only on the right wing. many of us who had come through all that hell with dry eyes wept like children in the parade. "we often receive letters from our people in roumania, czecho-slovakia and jugo-slavia, saying 'why do you not come over and protect us?'" he went on. "if we marched into the stolen territories, the local populations would all rise in our favour. the time will come, but it is not yet. the last word has not been said." that conversation was at the beginning of april, and karl was actually in budapest endeavouring in a clumsy way to follow the example of constantine in greece and resume monarchical sway. budapest for a day was all agog with rumour and whispered conversations. karl was popular, but his failure was sensed by the populace. he had come inopportunely, despite the fact that the great powers seemed not unfavourable. france, by many accounts, had given secret countenance to the return of the hapsburg, karl being known as francophile in policy. "present us with a _fait accompli_," briand was reported to have said to karl, "and we will not oppose your return to power." evidently part of france favoured the adventure and was not a little annoyed at its failure. as an allied power with italy and england she had to show a forbidding front to karl, but as "le figaro" said, "_ce n'est pas sur le danube que nous menacent des perils mortels, c'est sur le rhin._" the allies, however, as they are called, had little power to help or stop ex-kaiser karl. it was the little states that stopped him--the petite entente of czecho-slovakia and jugo-slavia and roumania, and of these powers chiefly the czech. as long ago as january karl's attempt to return was anticipated by the czechs. they used it as the motive for making a ring round the hostile state. hungary was the potential enemy of the three states which had taken over ex-hungarian territory. hungary, moreover, had had her terrible moment of bolshevism and had got over it, she had become nationalistic again and had reorganized her army on national lines. to any one of the new states surrounding her she would be a formidable enemy. hungary, however, would stand little chance against three combined. so with great zest the new combination was formed. certainly the warmest national friendship in the near east to-day is that between czecho-slovakia and jugo-slavia, and it has been called into being by the common danger of the magyar. budapest is a handsome city with grand bridges spanning the bending danube. the fashionable part climbs upwards on crags to the higher light, and the danube flashes upward. the modern city is a first-class aggregation of business houses, cafés, and places of pleasure. there is pavement comfort. the people are well dressed, despite losses and troubles. the smooth pates of business men abound, and the knobbly skulls of the balkans are fewer. the women are in fashion, and as in the rest of central and western europe, wear bunches of artificial grapes hanging from one side of their hats. you see no grapes and hanging ribbons in belgrade and sofia. they will come there next year or in . the hungarian women are broad-faced and broad-bosomed, and talk more than they smile. city madam in elegant attire with languorous half-shut eyes and hungarian drawl is a man's darling. flesh-coloured stockings greatly abound. one is, however, strongly advised not to judge of hungary by the people who spend four or five hours of the day sitting in the cafés of budapest. the poor parts of the city present a different spectacle. here there are great numbers of crooked-legged spindly children, war-products evidently. the slums are nothing like so bad as those of london or chicago--only the children are less boisterous, less vital, and seem to have been underfed all their lives. the new babies look much better than the children of four or five. food is more abundant now, and a great deal of relief work is done at the schools. but it is doubtful if any philanthropic efforts can restore the war-children. budapest has a bad streak left in her town-population by the war, and it is visible. cotton goods are very expensive, and many of the poor children seem inadequately dressed. the price of cotton is dependent upon much speculation and bad business between the american cotton plantation and the obscure worker in hungary. it is a curious anomaly that americans should burn cotton-bales in the southern states to keep up the price, and that the american red cross on the other hand should in europe distribute free garments to those who cannot pay the world-price thus attained. the exchange is very low, five crowns to a penny, three hundred to a dollar. for a thousand crowns a week you can live--you can live in one room and keep body and soul together. for two thousand crowns a week you can live at a second-class hotel with board and lodging. an ordinary dinner with a glass of beer costs a hundred crowns. you can also get a seat at the back of the stalls in a theatre for that amount. there is a luxury-tax of ten per cent on all you buy at cafés and restaurants, on perfumery, and like objects. this, no doubt, brings in a large amount to the national exchequer if it is efficiently collected. the wages and salaries of all trades and professions are in a continual hurdle-race, vaulting cost of living and the rate of exchange. there are thousands of _nouveaux riches_, and there are thousands of ex-rich and gentry in decay. one feels that hungary, however, is a rich country even as she stands to-day, and that the people have sterling qualities which make for the recuperation of the new state. there is still a love of work in the country, and that is comparatively a rare virtue in modern europe. the working class, as in germany, feels that it lost the war and cannot expect extra fine conditions. the hungarian working man outworks and therefore undersells or can undersell the english working man. the nation whose working men are ready to do most work is the most fortunate in . if hungary can avoid indemnities and export taxes she is likely to do well. the government will no doubt undergo many changes, and most people believe that the king is bound to come back. by popular vote he probably would--just as constantine did in the greek elections. but external opposition is too great. if czechs and serbs quarrelled it would be different. international animosity and the general ill-will militate most against the peaceful development of the new hungary. budapest no doubt will always win friends for the country of which it is the capital. capitals can be of enormous service to states in the matter of silent propaganda. a handsome comfortable city of impressive buildings will always predispose foreigners in favour of the country itself. on the other hand, an inadequate capital will be a hindrance to a state. in this respect, belgrade, as it is to-day, is a handicap to jugo-slavia. but budapest will help hungary enormously. what a glamour there is upon budapest in the evening, with myriads of lights on each side of the gliding danube. formerly one arrived under the grand bridges in a house-boat at night and came alongside the stone quays, and without passports or customs walked up into one of the gayest and brightest cities of europe. but now the danube, mother of mighty countries, is enchanted and enthralled. when will she be disenchanted again? letters of travel viii. from vienna at budapest you begin to suspect that you are in europe; at vienna you are sure of it--with its great array of fine shops, full of elegancies and delectable grandeur which leave paris and new york in the shade. the whole press of europe seems to have "written up" vienna as "the ruined city" and "the end of a great capital," and even at constantinople where terrible affliction was constantly before the eyes, the fiction held that vienna was even worse. you are, therefore agreeably surprised to find the wheels of modern civilization running smoothly--a well-dressed, easy-going people on the streets and in the cafés, every business house working to full capacity, and all at first glance going well. the children, and especially those of the working class, look healthy and full of life. starving vienna seems somewhat of a myth. vienna is not like petrograd where the thousands of eyes of the nevski prospect have been put out and squads of dead shops stare at one from smashed windows and gutted interiors. and it is not a vast caravanserai for sufferers like constantinople. something, however, is wrong and has been wrong and will be worse, and this something has power to strike the imagination of every one who visits the great city of vienna. it is perhaps the contrast of luxury on the one hand and black bread on the other, and the almost fabulous descent of the crown. wrangel's officers use hundred-rouble notes for shaving-papers, and americans in vienna behave as unceremoniously with crowns. the lower denominations of the rouble are much cheaper than the price of paper, and the austrian crown is going that way.[ ] this depreciation of the currency strikes the mind of the visitor to vienna, and from it he deduces the general ruin of the country. he sees the shabby condition into which imperial palaces and state houses are falling, and talks with the aristocratic or cultured _nouveau pauvre_ carrying his lunch of sausage and black bread to a gloomy apartment at the back of a fourth floor, and he feels the calamity that has fallen upon austria. austria with a nominal crowns to the pound sterling cannot last. how then about poland with marks to the pound--an allied country with a close understanding with france? but nobody in vienna can understand how poland lives. the true inwardness of vienna's calamity seems to lie in the fact that she is the capital of a very badly governed country. much could obviously be done in little austria by an honest, intelligent, and industrious administrative staff. but they prefer to stand in the way and beg, the giant vienna and the dwarf austria, staggering the imagination of pilgrims, and whining for alms to passers-by. by all accounts there is not even the will to govern well and make the new austria into a going concern. hence arises the economic problem of austria, which is certainly grave. here is a state which persistently refuses to live on its income, and prints off paper money to make up its deficiency. a highly expensive bureaucracy five times as large as is needed for little austria pays itself first, and as for the rest of the population the devil can take the hindmost. the money-printing press works night and day. no loans, no foreign dole, will stop the operation of this machinery; what is necessary is a change of heart. the expression "starving austria" is a propaganda phrase. she may starve, she probably will, but the time is not yet. individual classes of workers starve until they get their wages raised. there have been many moments of struggle between the time when the tram-conductor earned forty crowns a week to the time when he earned several thousand. ten-thousand-crown notes are not uncommon among the working classes, and , crowns will purchase more than you could buy in england for five pounds, or in america for thirty dollars. a working-man's dinner with a glass of beer costs about a hundred crowns, a city man's lunch of three courses, a hundred and twenty. the working class is accused of constantly holding up the community for money by means of strikes. the truth is that here the organization of labour and the strike-weapon proved a highly convenient method for getting level with the money-printing press. labour has been more fortunate than the professional and clerical classes, who, not being organized, have been left badly in the background. there are now many professors at the university of vienna earning less than one-third of the wages of skilled artisans. there are teachers, clerks, doctors, journalists, and the like, in a most pitiable plight because they have not the means of forcing the community to pay them higher salaries as the crown depreciates. as for the condition of pensioned teachers and professors and officers, of the half-pay widows and the incapacitated of the war, it is a shame to all european ideals. when the government halves the value of the crown overnight by printing double the number in circulation--it robs first of all the educated class and the pensioners. it is among these that one must search for the heart-burning sorrows of vienna--and these are not paraded on the streets. the most characteristic places of vienna to-day are the new _wechselstuben_ or exchange offices, which have sprung up everywhere. here are such crowds waiting to change their money that you have to wait in a line for your turn. some of the large banks give a much better exchange than the little ones--and the better the exchange given the longer the queue. the large banks stop public business at half-past twelve, and after that hour is the opportunity of the bucket-shop. if you have little time, or if you lose patience, you run into one of the greedy little bureaus and help to make some one's fortune, not your own. this would not be of much importance for austria if the people one met waiting in these banks were mostly american, british, french. the sad fact is that the people who are changing their money thus are nearly all austrian or at least ex-austrian subjects. the old austrian empire has been divided into five parts, and each part has a different money which has to be exchanged whenever you come into another part. and there is a great difference in the values of the various moneys. thus the hungarian money is worth more than double that of austria. the twenty, the hundred, the thousand-crown notes are almost identical in appearance and printing--a small imprint of a rubber stamp being in many cases the only distinguishing mark--but even from a waiter in a hotel you can get two thousand austrian crowns for one thousand hungarian ones. roumanian lei are also much the same in appearance. czech crowns and serbo-croat crowns are certainly different. but when your home is in czecho-slovakia and your place of business in austria, and your aged father and mother in hungary and your uncles and cousins in croatia, you have a lively time with your money. and it plays prodigiously into the hands of those who have started changing-shops upon the public ways. an interest in the rate of exchange has developed among the masses of the people, who turn to the financial column of the morning paper as westerners do to football news or baseball results. there is considerable fluctuation in the values, and it is no doubt possible to make a living by speculation alone, and many people do so. in the banks are, therefore, crowds, both of speculators and of people who have just crossed the frontier and must get their money changed. the financial committee of the league of nations issuing its report in june foreshadowed the substitution at an early date of a new currency of definite value in gold. the austrian crowns which are now in use will then suddenly appear in a new light to the deluded austrian masses. they are probably worth nothing at all, and those who have become rich in them will prove to be rich in nothing. if, however, the peasant is paid for his wheat in the new gold-backed currency he will quickly go ahead in wealth. but if he is paid in gold value, how the cities will starve with their paper! between the money-changers in the great streets are the fine vienna shops exposing elegant craftsmanship of many kinds. here you can buy rich glass, leather-work, enamelled silver, worked ivory, lace, beautiful bindings, fans, house-ornaments of every conceivable kind in ultra-perfect taste. all that is for sale suggests a luxurious way of life--aristocratic and cultured existence, and certainly not the showy splendour of the parvenu. you will hear it said in other parts of europe you have still to go to vienna to buy certain things. as long as the skilled craftsmen and clever workers of many kinds remain, these objects of luxury will be for sale. besides these, there are, of course, many more ordinary things for which vienna is noted--velour hats, bronze shoes, and the rest. these, reckoned at world-price figures, are sold at one-third of their value. but there is little market for them. the next most characteristic things of the city must be the thousands of cafés, where you sit at your coffee surrounded by animated crowds of men reading papers, discussing politics and business, the whole press of europe at their disposal. your waiter brings your coffee and automatically at the same time the "daily telegraph," or "figaro," or the "chicago tribune," or the "berliner tageblatt," or "obshy delo," according to your accent and appearance. time seems to cease to have real value in a café; it is easy to spend hours over one cup of coffee and the newspapers--the difficulty is at last to pay and go. the restaurants also are full. though the bread is of rye the meat and potatoes are of the usual quality. waiters give you white bread surreptitiously. your hand is below the level of the table and suddenly you find that it is holding a soft roll of white bread. for this you will not be charged in your bill, as it is illegal to sell it you. you pay the waiter when he helps you on with your coat. you can get milk and butter and sugar in this way if you are ready to forget that someone's children may have to do without somewhere in vienna. there is an extraordinary diversity of styles and prices at restaurants. a lunch for yourself and three friends will cost three to four thousand crowns at the "bristol," but the same lunch round the corner goes for five hundred. going in with a certain m---- to a fashionable restaurant, one could see that the waiters knew him perfectly well, and the head waiter was most affable. but he averred as he looked round the restaurant that there was not an austrian in the place. none of those who could have been seen there formerly could afford it now. the best cuisine in vienna was now only at the service of the foreigner. hotels, like restaurants, are speculative institutions. but it is difficult to find a room on any terms. vienna has increased in population and not decreased. she also is crowded with homeless people and refugees. here are many whose houses are in detached parts of old austria, now in other states, and they will not go back, or cannot, or are afraid. there are also the russians once more in great numbers. at the stadt-theatre, the moscow theatre of art was giving nightly from its repertoire, and it was instructive to see that great theatre packed with russians, from the stalls to the standing-room at the back of the gallery, all listening intently to "the three sisters" of chekhof; many demonstrations at the end of the performance, too, and making the building resound with russian cheers and plaudits. at vienna you naturally spend some evenings at the theatre and the opera. it is famous for its stage. there, however, you do realize how vienna has fallen. the theatres are all full, but not full of the sort of people who demand excellence. perhaps it would be unfair to judge the opera by a performance of "parsifal," that heavily over-dressed story of sentimental religiosity and pedestrian symbolism, but it was done in the most slatternly perfunctory style. the theatre was crowded. but it was a strangely mixed crowd. in lonely grandeur in one of the boxes were three englishmen in evening dress. in the fifth row of the stalls was a servant-girl who kept asking her neighbours the time in the midst of parsifal's mystical moments. it was her night out, but she had to be home by ten. she looked at the play with her mouth, and lolled to and fro. occasionally some people down below set about clapping, but were silenced by hisses from the people up above, who hissed down all claps: the theme was too holy. however, in the entr'acts, how the beer flowed in the buffet. it was not too holy to drink beer. "the profiteers have all the seats in the theatres," say the cultivated austrians. "they don't understand opera and serious drama, but it has the name, and they could not afford to go before, so they go now. it is only the people in the gallery who know what is good." "the people in the gallery always know that," said i. "it is the people in the circles who are not sure." "what i mean is, the people who used to have stalls are now in the gallery, and the people who formerly never came to a theatre are now in the stalls," said the austrian solemnly. the intelligent austrians are in a very gloomy frame of mind. although the government is nominally christian-socialist, it is very weak and practically unable to cope with the communist and extreme radical elements. it is a common opinion that austria lies almost as low as russia. "the social destruction of russia is being done bloodlessly in austria. the working class is well-off; every one else, except the speculators, is in poverty," said dr. b. "we have the officials for a first-class state, and the need for the number of a third-class one," said capt. s. "our army now, the new army which we have obtained, is the worst army ever known in any country. i have been in haiti, and the haitians are splendid fellows compared with them. our soldiers are merely a bodyguard for the socialists, and robbers all. the true army, that went through the unspeakable sufferings of the war, was turned on the streets to starve. austria may have been serving a bad case, but the army was not to blame--it was doing its duty. but there is one humble consolation now; we have a condition of affairs in austria which cannot continue. austria has become an economic plague-spot in europe." "it would interest me to have your opinion," i asked. "has austria a national spirit? does the heart respond to its name?" capt. s. thought not. "i favour union with germany as the only issue. few would grieve if 'austria' were no more. we are german, and the idea of union with germany has now made considerable progress with the people. but it is possible that the idea is not so popular in germany. it would be a grave responsibility to unite any country with the financial and political wreck which we have here." i put this question of the future of austria to a monarchist. he did not favour the idea of a union with germany, but of a renewed union with hungary. he still believed the hapsburgs could return. i put it to a working man, but he favoured the state as it was. if only the cost of living could be brought down it would be a very fine state, as wages were so high. the petite entente of czecho-slovakia, serbia, and roumania, is strongly opposed to a reunion of austria and hungary, and would stop it by force of arms. the czechs are equally opposed to union with germany. "so what do you say?" i asked of a czech. "do you think that what is left of austria ought to be divided up between her neighbours?" "god forbid!" said he. "we've got enough germans in czecho-slovakia already. austria can very well exist by herself. does not switzerland exist by herself, and do very well, without half the natural advantages of the new austria?" the french solution for the problem is known to lie in the possible detachment of bavaria from germany, and the setting up of a new south-german state in union with austria. only on such terms would france agree to austria joining part of germany. the bavarians, however, show no signs of desiring to cut loose from the still great german confederation. a purely deliberative plebiscite taken in the austrian tyrol is all for union with germany. a similar plebiscite in the province of salzburg shows the same tendency, another in styria is certain to go the same way. these plebiscites are called passive propaganda by the french, and they for their part egg on the petite entente to stop them. but there seems little doubt that were austria free to choose she would now give up her name and fame, and merge herself in the german whole of which, ethnographically, she is a natural part. how strange that all the luxury and glamour of vienna, as you see it at this moment, is the concomitant of complete decline and mortal peril. in arriving in the city one felt at last that one was in europe, but it proves to be not the europe of the future. vienna in is part of the sunset of that old radiant, peaceful europe we knew before the war. night has to swallow it up, and the future lies on other horizons, in prague and belgrade and budapest, in the capitals of that new europe which arises from the defeat and ruin of the war. n.b.--by article of the treaty of versailles, "germany recognises and respects strictly the independence of austria, and recognises that this independence is inalienable unless the league of nations gives consent to change." and by article of the treaty of saint-germain austria engages "to abstain from all acts calculated to prejudice her independence either directly or indirectly." [ ] travellers to austria are seldom warned beforehand that there is an internal and external rate of exchange, and they frequently lose % on the exchange of their money. extra leaves (iii) _on money and league of nations currency_ in the course of this little tour of europe i bought , francs and , liras, and , drachmas, , dinars, and the same number of levas, some lei and , piastres, , hungarian crowns and , austrian crowns, , czech crowns, , german marks, , odd polish marks, belgian francs, and some paper money of the principality of monaco. you have to be somewhat of an arithmetician to think one week in piastres and the next in dinars, and the next in crowns, and the next in marks. you are always losing but you always think you are winning. you afford pleasure to strangers whenever you go because you can be robbed so easily and safely. in each country you can be robbed coming in and robbed going out and generally robbed in between. you do not mind very much, it is part of the legitimate expense of modern travel. you accumulate great wads of paper. see the people of vienna and warsaw, their inside pockets are all misshapen by the bulge of the money. the pockets of an international traveller are worse. he holds his unnegotiable accumulation of the money which is not worth changing nor yet worth throwing away. "how much do you expect to get for this?" said a hungarian banker surveying a bulky packet of turkish piastres. i mentioned a likely sum. "_grande erreur_!" he exclaimed, and lifted his hands in horror. in budapest they were marketable only for a tenth of what i gave for them. so the piastres remained together with provincial french notes and small denominations of dinars and what-not, nominally worth something somewhere, but in fact unsaleable. the germans have just now a very popular word for a _nouveau-riche_, it is a _schieber_, one who exchanges. getting your money changed is one of the most wasteful processes for you and one of the most gainful for him. a certain man had pounds which he exchanged for francs. then he exchanged the francs for lira; he journeyed by fiume to serbia and changed again for dinars. at belgrade he bought , hungarian crowns. he carried the money to budapest and then to vienna, where he had some luck and got , austrian crowns. however, at prague the bankers said they did not encourage the sale of austrian money as they did not know what it was worth. he got , czech crowns, which in turn he changed to , polish marks. he then changed those for roumanian lei, returned to poland again and only received , marks at the re-exchange. at berlin they looked very disparagingly at the polish money and offered him german marks for the lot. he changed this for florins in amsterdam, for which when he reached antwerp he received belgian francs. his pounds lingered tentatively over the abyss of a nothing. the title of this story should be "exchange is no robbery." a golden or at least a paper rule for merchants dealing with foreign firms is "pay them when the exchange is most in your favour." but the foreign firm under these circumstances, having expected to get so much, gets in reality so much less. it is not surprising then that trade is sticky. we hear much of the efforts of governments and financiers to regulate the exchanges, but nothing comes of it. the only obvious cure is a utopian one: institute one currency for europe in the name of the league of nations. let us have "league of nations gold currency." but to have that the resources of europe must be pooled. we are not ready for that. letters of travel ix. from prague czecho-slovakia is the watchdog of the new peace in central europe. she is the strongest new power, and is manifestly the best governed state which has arisen out of the ruins of the old. the new bohemia (for czecho-slovakia is truly bohemia) is a much more credible resurrection than the new poland. one london daily refused to believe in the existence of czecho-slovakia for a long while. "unless i see it," said the editor, "i will not be convinced." but czecho-slovakia is quite convincing--and is much less of a frankenstein than jugo-slavia. the czechs are no doubt obscurely placed in europe, but the traveller when he gets to their country--not the "seacoast of bohemia"--will find that they make good showing. prague is a fine old city on the rolling moldau--what a fine name, suggestive of rolling boulders down from the hills! ancient prague has this river for its moat. it rises on heights from old bridges to the royal palace and cathedral of the old kings of bohemia. the new city has yet to be built. it will be on the level ground below, where there is to-day an agglomeration of shops and hotels as yet unworthy of the capital of a great new state. here up above is all that is worth while, though seen from the battlements, the new below, especially on a cloudy day with lowering skies, is a very fine view. here lie the old kings of bohemia--one of them apparently "good king wenceslas." here at a little distance are the mysterious walls with sentries posted at the gates--walls curiously and accidentally associated in the minds of thousands of children with longfellow's lines: i have read in some old, marvellous tale that a midnight host of spectres pale beleaguered the walls of prague. not a good place in which to lose yourself at night--outside these walls--as a party of us found on our first expedition there. in the royal palace and offices are now accommodated the various ministeries of the new republic. up in this purer air live also the president, m. masaryk, and some of the diplomatic representatives of foreign powers. it is no doubt rare in this lazy age to find a new state administered and governed from the top of a crag, a steep climb on foot. but czecho-slovakia and prague are governed from a mountain, and have the mountain point of view, which is the view of youth and vision. the new state has some thirteen millions of inhabitants, and the majority of the people speak both czech and german. german is naturally discouraged as being anti-national, and it is now only used in emergencies. all names of places have been slavonized. even carlsbad and marienbad are now carlovivari and mariansky laznie. where names of places have to be printed both in german and in czech--german goes into small letters and czech into large. after the armistice was declared in , it only took a few hundred czechs to overthrow the austrian power and proclaim a new national republic. it was a bloodless revolution. france and england were benevolently disposed toward a czech republic, but america, thanks to the influence of the slavophile millionaire, charles crane, with wilson, and to the personal prestige of masaryk, did most to confirm and strengthen czecho-slovakia. gratitude to america is expressed everywhere, and prague, in , is perhaps the one capital in the world where wilson's name and fame are still undimmed. is not wilson's face in bas-relief on the wall of the main station, "gare wilson," supported, curiously enough, by the admiring figures of two bacchantes wreathed in the vine? it counts more to be an american in prague than to be english. crane's son is minister for the united states; crane's daughter-in-law, as painted by mucha, is engraved on the new hundred-crown note. american relief-work and mr. hoover enjoy great prestige, and altogether there is for the time being the atmosphere of an enduring friendship. the czechs adopted a parliamentary system, but finding that "one man one vote" brought to power new revolutionary elements, the system was quickly defunctionized. the administration is now appointed by the president, and he, having been elected by acclamation, "president for life," is in the nature of elective autocrat. however, after masaryk, the term is to be limited to seven years, and a president may not serve two terms. the largest parties in the parliament are the "germans" and the "social democrats," each of which has seventy-two deputies and about forty senators. the national democrats, who might be called the masaryk party, are in the minority of nineteen deputies and ten senators. this party, nevertheless, is likely to maintain and hold the intellectual leadership of the nation. czecho-slovakia is not a peasant state like bulgaria and jugo-slavia, but ex-austrian bourgeois, with a large proportion of educated people. it is a thick-set, burly, rather obstinate people, with imperturbable eyes. it is difficult to persuade one of the czechs to do a thing against his will, or to compromise between his opinion and yours. much more difficult to persuade than a russian. and they are not as obedient as the germans, or as amenable to splitting a difference as the british. it has been said they are russian translated into german. not polite or charming, but matter-of-fact, and a trifle on the rude side. there is in them a good deal of moderateness of gift, but they seem far more practical than the rest of the slavs, and more virile. they have been germanized and dullened by austria, but in many respects they are more capable than the germans. they seem to be the most capable people in their part of the world. i met dr. benes, the minister for foreign affairs, deputy-president in masaryk's absence. it was on his initiative that the little alliance of czecho-slovakia and jugo-slavia was founded, with the support of italy and eventually including roumania. whilst this was nominally to prevent the return of the hapsburgs or the reuniting of austria and hungary, it has also had another function--that of drawing together all the states deriving territory from the break up of austria--even uniting italy and serbia, up till recently preoccupied with mortal enmity over the dalmatic. it is a great service to unity to have this group of powers with a common understanding, and will perhaps be more highly appreciated in the future than it is now. dr. benes is a spare, pinched-faced man of the people, not a typical czech in appearance, a nervous type, of probably tireless energy. not one of those that "sleep o' nights." he had, however, an agreeable smile of acquiescence when complimented on his work for unity. "i do not believe in the war after the war," said he. "all the nations that composed austria-hungary were exasperated, and have been in a bad mental state greatly aggravated by the war. we want to get rid of the war-mind. with that in view we are developing a policy which should make for stability in central europe. the most dangerous word used in propaganda against us in 'balkanization'--as if to suggest that all these regions had become unstable and liable to balkan quarrels. but, in truth, in three years we have made great progress towards a settled state of affairs. "germany will fall. if she agrees to pay she will fall, and equally if the sanctions are applied she will fall. she will not go so low as austria because she is a much stronger national organism, but her export trade will be ruined, and the mark will become almost of no value. the application of the export duty on german goods is not popular, but we are applying it. it will raise the cost of living, and be a great inconvenience to many businesses which depend on germany, but on the other hand some of our younger industries may be helped by such a measure of protection----" regarding the little alliance dr. benes was clearly enthusiastic, but he could not see it developing into a customs-union. "we shall have treaties regarding tariffs according to our mutual needs." he hoped the alliance might develop to take in poland, but at present poland was in a difficult frame of mind, very readily jealous and not generally benevolent. the slavs are vociferous believers in unity. they invented the word "pan-humanity." it is the most vital idea in russia. but is it not strange that the peoples who are the strongest believers in human unity are the most quarrelsome amongst themselves. the greatest weakness of the slav nations lies in national vanity, egoism, and lack of solidarity. they have not the sense for discipline obtaining among latins and teutons. perhaps in this respect the czechs are wiser than poles, russians, and serbs. but the fact remains that the slavs do not readily co-operate, and as nations have little of the modern sense for "team-work." take the case of poland, czecho-slovakia's obstreporous northern neighbour. both have been raised from the dead at the same time, and are brothers in resurrection. both have great capacity to help one another. but one finds an almost complete detachment, as if the frontier line were an ocean. "we send goods into poland--and the polish government sequesters them," say the czechs. "we load our trains with stuff for them, and then our trains never come back. many whole trains have disappeared in poland, and we get no satisfaction." a new type of crime--train-stealing! "no," says dr. benes; "we must wait patiently till it occurs to the poles that a close brotherly relationship between the two countries is better than suspicion and jealousy." "why do you not take the step yourself?" "it would be suspected of having some hidden motive, or we should be thought to be in terrible need of poland's help," said bohemia's minister. as regards the interior troubles of czecho-slovakia, much is made of the slovak separatist movement, and the germans exploit the supposed racial animosities of the two slav tribes. the slovaks also obtain some sympathy from our "save the children" missionaries, who naturally prefer unspoiled peasants to educated foreigners of any kind. if the slovak hates the czech he hates the magyar also, but whether he hates or not he is not very important in europe, and is bound to find himself in a subordinate national position. the enmity of the german elements is more menacing, and it is not to be denied that the new state holds a million or so people who, by the accident of habitat, have to be called czecho-slovaks, though they are no more czecho-slovaks than lot and his wife. i met among others dr. isidor muller, first assistant at the university of vienna, but living at carlovivari (carlsbad), and naturally enough unable to speak czech and unacquainted with czechs, but written down as czecho-slovak now. still, it has its advantages. he told me that he was once being rudely treated by a french officer who took him for a boche. the frenchman was disinclined to shake hands. "but i am a czecho-slovak," said dr. muller, inspirationally. "oh!" the frenchman's face lighted up. he extended his hand. "we are brothers and allies." still some german czecho-slovaks think they will ultimately overthrow the new state and get into the saddle again. and they make a solid and dangerous political bloc. benes said they were much more amenable than a year ago, but in the parliament house--an adapted concert-hall--i saw all the carpenters at work in a litter of shavings and broken wood. "the german benches," said the editor of the "narodni listi," who was showing me round the institutions of prague. czecho-slovakia holds now, besides her natural constituent races, a considerable number of russian exiles, and these have their russian daily paper at prague and a number of local russian enterprises. with the calming down of soviet russia, some of these russians would naturally return home, but a few have taken root and will remain. it is not an uncongenial soil for the average russian. then the government has agreed to take ten thousand of general wrangel's soldiers, and will endeavour to settle them on the land. there are already too many non-slavonic elements in czecho-slovakia, and russians will help to neutralize some of the magyar and german influences. at least, such is the hope. as a step in this direction, there has developed also an important church movement. a large portion of the roman catholic clergy have split from rome and founded a czech national church. they have left the pope, and have in return been excommunicated. apparently excommunication has not a great terror, however. national catholicism without an infallible pope is not far removed from greek catholicism and even anglicanism. austria and hungary are roman catholic, but czecho-slovakia will remain either protestant or national catholic. the abandonment of the german language is also a remarkable phenomenon. the common will is to abandon it. unfortunately, the czech language is of limited use, but there is now a remarkable passion for learning english, and there are thousands of students at the university classes. this boom is due to president wilson. the russian language is also extensively known among the ex-soldiers who sojourned so many years as prisoners or as legionaries in russia. the french language having lost much of its value has not so many students. the "narodni listi," which is the principal czech newspaper in prague, prints two columns in french every day for the convenience of foreigners who do not understand bohemian. this idea is being extended, and a daily supplement in english is to be issued soon. two evenings spent at the theatre at prague were curiously in contrast: one at the german national theatre, to hear "the blue mazurka," by lehar, author of "the merry widow," and other less entertaining operettas. the imposing building of the deutsche theatre was crammed with germans who took pleasure in a characteristic sentimental operetta. the other evening was at the czech national theatre to see a performance of "coriolanus," and was more interesting. the czechs had great difficulties under the austro-hungarian regime in obtaining a national theatre. the imperial government was not anxious to encourage czech language and literature, and therefore refused to grant the state subsidy on which national theatres usually depend. this, however, did not deter the czechs. it made them only the more determined to have a national theatre. it should be remembered that drama has a much greater national importance in the continental countries of europe than it has in england or america. excitement over such a matter might seem incredible to anglo-saxons, not so to slavs or to germans. the proposed deprivation of the czechs of a national stage stirred the people to the depths, and it was not long before men and women were busy collecting the money to build and sustain a czech theatre at prague. the funds were raised, and the place was built, and the bohemian people inscribed over the proscenium the challenging words: "_narod sobe_"--the people for itself. "coriolanus" was conceived of rather as a struggle with the proletariat. hillar, the producer, has effectually disenchanted the footlights by putting steps down to the audience in the position of the prompter's box. the characters frequently make their entrances as it were from the body of the audience. this is especially striking in the crowding up of the roman bolsheviks on to the stage in the opening scene--a remarkable piece of life and action. however, though one naturally thought of the bolsheviks, there was nothing of the guise of lenin or liebknecht in the appearance of the popular tribunes, who, together with the rest of the citizens, were reduced to the level of dogberry, whilst the noble coriolanus was perhaps exaggerated in his nobility and his disdain. menenius agrippa was a balfourian old fellow who told the story of the belly and its members well. what a story for europe to learn now: it ought to be put in the reading-books of every tongue. what struck me about the czech performance of "coriolanus" was the dignity of personality and height of conception which the slavs bring to the interpretation of shakespeare. it was the same in moscow in the old days. hamlet was more interestingly conceived and better performed than anywhere else in the world. an interesting play reflecting in itself the world-drama, was lately produced at prague under the title "r.u.r.," or "rasum's universal rabots." a scientist named dr. rasum succeeded in inventing a human automaton, a human being except for the fact that it had no soul and no power of reproducing itself. they were excellent for use in factories and in armies, and the firm of rasum, ltd., supplied them in hundreds and thousands to companies and states. eventually the rabots, as they are called, combine and make war against the real people with the souls, and they destroy dr. rasum and his factory, and even the plan and the secret whereby the rabots are made. they also destroy the real people, all but one, and a great sadness comes upon the world as it is realized that man must die out. at the end of the play, however, a soul is born in one of the rabots, and he is touched to love, and so he obtains the power to reproduce the species, and the human story recommences. a striking idea for a drama, and capable of arousing much excitement in labour's literary circles. i heard that the rights had been bought for almost every country of europe. in the drama, as in music and art, the slavs are always passing teuton and latin, backward though they may be in other matters. enough has been said to register the opinion that the new state of bohemia is very promising, and that it is a redeeming case in the welter of new europe. as far as prague is concerned it leaves behind its provincial recent-past, recovers its ancient-past, and looks towards a great future. new buildings will arise worthy of a capital, new administrative offices and a new parliament house are to be built. around the parliament house it is designed to place the cycle of mucha's mystical paintings lately exhibited in new york. these traverse the whole story of the slavs, and especially that of the czechs, but not, however, omitting the story of russia, from the baptism of vladimir to the emancipation of the serfs. czecho-slovakia will raise the banner of a new pan-slavism and slav unity. the faith is kindled here that whilst many other nations are going mad, czecho-slovakia may keep her head and be one of those who by her example and leadership will save europe from disruption and chaos. letters of travel x. from warsaw as at constantinople, there is great over-crowding. there are three times as many people on the pavements as on the pavements of vienna or prague. the marshalkowsky is a-flocking from end to end. finding a room for the night is a hard task. you will see a great deal of warsaw before you find a room. it is not a bad way to obtain a first impression. i arrived at one in the afternoon and found a place for myself only at ten at night. the once luxurious hotel bristol was full to-day, no hope for to-morrow, no, nor for to-morrow week. at the royal hotel a lugubrious porter says "_l'hotel n'existe plus_." the victoria, which was the first hotel i ever stayed at in russia, knew me no more. at the metropole a preoccupied clerk said "_nima_" without looking up from the news from the silesian front which was engrossing him. i went into a terribly shabby and dirty hotel called the amerikansky, and hoped they'd say "no," which they certainly did. another doubtful establishment with girls on the stairs was also gorged and replete with visitors. the y.m.c.a. said they'd enough trouble finding rooms for their own people. the hotel de rome was occupied by the red cross. the kowiensky was _alles besetst_; the hotel de saxe had not even a hope. these efforts were naturally punctuated by visits to the polish "bar" and café. at these it came as somewhat of a surprise to have tips refused. i paid for my dinner and added the customary ten per cent. the waiter drew himself up and waved his hand in deprecation. "no, no," said he, proudly; "i'm polish." "what, no tips now?" "no." "that is certainly an improvement," i reflected. in warsaw, in russian days, most waiters fawned disgustingly for tips. but it seems now as if there were an entirely new population. however, i resumed my quest of a lodging. at the imperial hotel they kindly relieved me of my knapsack and overcoat, and advised me to come back at eight or nine at night--there might be a room then. meanwhile i should continue seeking. so the cracowsky was tried, and the lipsky, once leipzig, and the adlon and the pretoria, and many another haunt of mice and men. then i returned to the imperial for the second time. no, there was no room. it had been a lovely day, only too hot, and the evening was warm. i thought pleasantly of the saxon gardens and its seats. then poland revealed itself. "you want a room very badly, don't you?" said the imperial hotel porter. "i'll arrange it for you. but it will cost you something. you take my card to a certain hotel, which i will mention to you, hand it to the porter and give him a thousand marks, and he'll fix you up at once." so i repaired to the hotel vienna, opposite the vienna station. the night porter was very pessimistic, wouldn't take the thousand marks. "come back in an hour," said he in a loud voice; "if there is a room then you'll have it; if not, you can't." i went out to an orchestral "bar" near by and supped. when i came back the porter asked quietly for the thousand, and gave me the key of "number five." "at your service," said he, demurely. warsaw has greatly changed during the time i have known it, from the days of panic and police-assassinations in , when the miserable green waggons of open horse-trams woggled along the main ways, and it seemed a city of endless cobbled stones. warsaw was being governed by russia much as we govern ireland now, and murders of constabulary alternated with reprisals in which the innocent suffered more than the guilty. strangely enough, the relentless methods of official russia succeeded in subduing the revolutionaries, and in a few years was seen a calm and prosperous condition of affairs which lasted until the outbreak of the late war. a handsome service of electric trams and a great new bridge over the vistula raised warsaw's level from an external point of view, and made it something like a modern city. then came the war, the german aeroplanes and their bombs, the violent attacks and the panics, shell-fire, the blowing-up of bridges, wild exodus of warsaw people and entry of the germans. of the people who fled into russia in few seem to have returned. their places have been filled by poles from german and austrian poland. the german-speaking pole has displaced the pole who knew russian. the germans, of course, held the city from the summer of until the armistice, and they repaired the bridges and instituted german order in the city. the miracle of the armistice raised poland from death, and now we have warsaw as capital of a large new state. the maps of poland in the streets, poland as she is plus poland as she believes she will be, show a country considerably larger than germany. it used to seem rather amusing in the drinking scene in "the brothers karamazof," when the pole vrublevsky, in proposing the health of russia, inserted the proviso: "to russia, with the boundaries she had before ." but it is serious matter to-day. for poland has not only reached most of the boundaries of but some of them she has even transgressed, and still she asks more. poland is at enmity with all her neighbours, and by some of them is hated, loathed, and despised. and as an offset to the surrounding nations she has one open and rather noisy friendship, and that is with france. england she considered to be her enemy even before the british government stated its view on the question of silesia. she had decided to help france, and france had promised to help poland, and england stood in the way of all manner of injustice and aggression. it is pathetic to think now of the work done for poland by england during the war: the meetings that were held, the encouragement given to padarewski, dmowski and others, the immense sums subscribed to the great britain to poland fund, and to the polish relief fund. these latter "charities" printed the woes of poland in the advertisement columns of the british press for years, and collected the shillings and pounds of the benevolent everywhere. but you did not see such work being done for poland in france. the frenchman is more careful of his franc than the englishman of his pound. but perhaps it is not easy to find now the poles who benefited by british "charity." how much great britain subscribed and how the money was distributed is not generally known to the pole. and, in any case, who cares? the germans disdain the poles wordlessly. it is not easy to get a german to discuss the polish people. the russians do not like the poles, but they are indulgent towards them and wait the day when russia will wipe out insults. "russia has plenty of time," is the formula. it must be a little galling to the russian refugees, of whom general wrangel estimates there are , in poland, to see every public notice in the russian language blued out as if there were no russian-speaking people, to see russian monuments cast down, and churches despoiled of their golden domes. but they bear it with equanimity, biding their time. some, on the other hand, forgive the poles because they recognize that russians would have done the same in like case. the people of the other neighbouring states are distrustful or aloof. in a friendship with france, however, poland would make up for all other enmities. marshal pilsudsky, with the glory of having defeated the russians and won a victorious peace, is now pictured with napoleon. he is even represented on picture post-cards pinning an order of merit on the breast of napoleon--the occasion being the centenary of napoleon's death. pilsudsky is a man of sentiment, and when he made his important diplomatic journey to paris last february, he bore with him a picture of joan of arc by jan mateiks, in order to express the gratitude of the polish people to france. in pilsudsky's honour a lesson in polish geography and history was ordered to be given in all the schools of france on the th of february, . prince sapieha and marshal pilsudsky negotiated a secret treaty with france on that occasion--not with the allies as a whole, but with france. as a seasonal fruit of that treaty came the silesian adventure supported by france. the disarming of the population in upper silesia, conducted under french auspices, had taken the arms away from the germans but left arms with the poles. added to that, guns, machine-guns, rifles, and ammunition, were run over into the plebiscite area, and a mercenary "insurrectionary" army was raised, partly from the local polish population and partly from poland proper. an army which the french government held to be capable of intimidating the league of nations garrison of ten thousand fully equipped men, was thus improvised. the supposition is that interested parties connived at its improvisation. it could not otherwise have sprung spontaneously into being. after the first week of the rising, many of the insurgents began to desert the leader korfanty on the ground that their wages were not high enough. much money had to be spent in the affair. it might be asked what interest has france to support poland--is it sentiment? many will attribute it to a french quixoticism, which in truth does not exist. france will be ready to drop pilsudsky, as she has dropped wrangel, when it suits her. but the french programme for europe includes the complete dismantling of the german empire, and by taking away upper silesia from germany another great victory would be won in the war after the war. therefore it has been worth while. and to this end france proceeds not openly but in the old-fashioned channels of secret intrigue. the favourite device is the arranging of a _coup_ and then the presentation of the _fait accompli_, accompanied by a manipulation of the press. it is almost unnecessary to say in english that this sort of procedure has greatly damaged international understanding and good-will. the franco-polish intrigue was only too manifest this may in warsaw's streets. ascension and the centenary of the death of napoleon were on the same day. it was made into napoleon day and was a great festival. one of the principal squares had its name changed to place napoleon. there was a public mass for the repose of napoleon's soul. a statue of napoleon was unveiled. there were military processions and the fêting of the french military mission, special honours for general du moriez, who brought "_les precieuses reliques de napoleon_" to poland, and of general niessel, and of m. de panalieu, france's minister plenipotentiary in poland. the street crowds stopped the cars and lifted the frenchman on to their shoulders and carried them to plaudits and joy-shrieks and brass bands. it was amusing to see a diminutive french officer with grey head and beard, sprawling thus on a moving couch of polish hands whilst he waved his hat and was pelted from all hands with cowslips and lilac. "_vive la france_! _vive la france_!" polish cossacks with white pennants on their lances come trotting through and break the crowds, and then come artillerymen and their guns, and then french diplomatic personalities protected by mounted guards with flashing sabres. the surging populace intervenes, and sways, and gives, and closes again. here comes a great banner on which is embroidered the ominous white vulture of risen poland, the ghostly bird that has sojourned a hundred years in the death kingdoms, and on the reverse side of the banner is depicted the madonna and child. the crowd becomes instantly bareheaded, and the germans in it wisely take off their hats, too. polish patriots follow, dressed in white and bearing aloft notice-boards wreathed in coloured cloths; on the notice-boards are watchwords: "we will not give up our silesia," on others maps of the integral poland showing the province of "szlazk" in red. specimens of insurrectionaries follow these sign-bearers, and they are dressed-up peasants and miners carrying scythes on poles; more crowds, more cheers! the polish press leaps its headlines in jingoism. street politicians with bells bawl declamations across the many-headed. windows open on third-floors, and clouds of political leaflets are scattered to the wind. the same demonstrations with the same banners parade for days. on sunday there is a review in front of the russian cathedral, and a french general pins decorations on polish heroes. great throngs in the streets sing the marseillaise bareheaded. warsaw breathes in and breathes out--hot air. not all the poles, however, share in this excitement. there were many in warsaw who looked on coldly at the proceedings. "there is a governmental claque that starts all these demonstrations" said one of them. "you ought not to be deceived by that any more than by the new posters on the walls every day. bill-stickers are sent out by the government each night. the people do not paste up these posters themselves. most of us are in a desperate plight trying to earn an honest living. the only way to get rich is to work in with the administration and share in the spoil." it is a common opinion that the low value of the mark (over , to the pound sterling) is due to the government printing it _ad libitum_ to meet its private ends. it is a gross scandal that the exchange value should have so fallen. with such a currency it is doubtful whether the present constitution of poland can last. it already isolates poland economically from the rest of europe, and she cannot import goods even from germany at such a rate. there is a vast, poor, seedy, underfed population. food is comparatively cheap, and the peasant is evidently being quietly robbed, by giving him only a fifth of the money-value of his products, but even so a tiny loaf of bread costs twenty marks. there is butter. there is no sugar (at cafés there is liquid saccharine and you pass the saccharine bottle from one to another). an obligatory seventy-five mark dinner of two courses is served at the restaurants, but the mass of the people live on bread and sausage. there has been a great exodus from the ghetto to russia, and warsaw can no longer be said to be a predominantly jewish city. the dignified semite in his black gaberdine and low-crowned hat is now only an occasional figure on the jerozolimska and nowy swiat. and the poor jews of the slums are not multitudinous as they were. on the main street various trans-atlantic shipping companies have opened offices and offer to book emigrants right through to the united states. these offices from morning till evening are crammed with people trying to get away from poland. here may be found, in addition to the local population, a certain number of people from soviet russia who have bribed the polish officials and are trying to get to the land of opportunity as poles. the united states, however, looks very coldly on these would-be citizens, be they poles or russians or ukrainians or letts or lithuanians, or any other nationality of these suspected parts of europe. the number of visas granted is now being cut down to a three per cent of previous emigration basis. an interesting diversion from politics was provided by a visit to the polish theatre, where shakespeare's "kuplec wenecki" was being performed. the main interest was naturally in shylock. the polish actors made very attractive italian _signors_. portia was a full-bosomed polish beauty, who, with a male voice, made a fine effect as doctor of law. the prince of morocco and shylock were, however, ethnographical studies. the moor roared and barked and cut about in the air with his scimitar, and made the ladies scream and the audience laugh. shylock was deliciously over-studied. the daily life of warsaw was added to the grandeur of a rich oriental merchant. shylock's cleverness and intellectual assurance were obscured by funniosities such as a sing-song potash-and-perlmutter speech breaking into gabble, finger-counting, and beard-stroking, lying flat in the street and howling. but the audience appreciated this highly, and clapped only shylock. it was otherwise an old-fashioned performance. the polish stage seems not to have developed very much. polish literature has, however, increased considerably, and there are many shops well stocked with new polish books. you seldom see a foreign book in a shop window. russian books seem almost entirely to have disappeared. owing to the exchange situation french and english books cost enormous numbers of marks. a remarkable feature of the city's architecture today is the russian cathedral, with its slate-coloured domes divested of gold and divested of crosses, a mighty white stone building in the pride of place in the city. who is responsible for the damage it would be difficult to say. probably both poles and germans had something to do with it. the kolokolnaya is blown up. the walls of the cathedral stream externally with pitch. many of the frescoes inside have been damaged and the gold ornaments taken away. it is a grand orthodox interior, breathing the spirit of russia from every wall. it was regarded rather as a calculated affront to poland in the old days--as the russian population in warsaw was not large. now, however, a roman catholic altar has been erected, chairs have been brought in. there is a holy-water basin at the main entrance, an organ sounds forth from the choir's gallery, and a polish priest drones the latin liturgy. multitudes of poles flock in on sunday morning, smiling, untroubled, unselfconscious; bowing, kneeling on one knee, piously crossing themselves in latin style. if there are russians in the congregation they make no sign. but what they must be feeling! the appropriation of the cathedral is, no doubt, justified. but there is something in the coolness of it, in the hate of it and lack of tact which breeds the opposite of christian charity in human hearts. the slavs have much to learn. by the stealing of trains, the purloining of cathedrals, and false pretensions to their neighbours' lands, the poles are showing that there is yet national tragedy ahead for them. they will be deceived by some nations and slaughtered by others. what have we raised her from the dead for--but to live again, to live and let live. all have rejoiced in the risen poland, even the old destroyers of poland--germany, russia, and austria, all rejoiced until they realized the nature of the phantom. the beautiful white eagle that leapt from the tomb is a more sinister bird to-day, blood-ravenous, and scanning far horizons. extra leaves (iv) _on nationality and an armistice baby_ the personal idea of nationality suffered some heavy blows in the war and even heavier ones in the peace which followed. a mature austrian suddenly becomes a czech, a hungarian who knows only magyar becomes a roumanian, a self-conscious prussian is written into a pole, and their hearts are supposed to respond to new loyalties. the famous lines: "breathes there a man with soul so dead" have now a comical effect when recited in some parts of europe. men are saying such absurd things as "i am a german czecho-slovak," "i am a polish austrian jew," "i am a russian armenian greek." a relief from the imbroglio of nationalism might be found in the name of european with a higher loyalty to europe as a whole, but few have reached that stage of knowledge and feeling. asked at ellis island what his nationality was a gloomy gentleman from upper silesia recently answered, "plebiscite." and have there not been many babies born whose nationality has remained long in doubt, pending plebiscites and decisions of the supreme council? the plight of the plebiscite baby is, however, eclipsed by that of the armistice one. the following true story was told me by h.m. consul at munich. he had to decide the point at issue, or at least to take a decision upon it. the difficulty was that of stating the nationality of a child born on a ship at the time of the armistice. the ship was a german one which had been captured by the british. it had a british crew, but it was bringing refugees from murmansk, the arctic port of russia, to reval on the baltic. it was flying the neutrality flag. the ship, however, was wrecked off the coast of norway and was towed by a danish boat into the harbour of stavanger. none of the refugees were allowed ashore but the baby was born in the ship whilst it lay in the harbour. the parents were russian, but an attempt was made to get the british consul at stavanger to register it as british. he refused. the english law is that the flag decides nationality and in this case the flag was neutral. a neutral baby has, therefore, appeared on the scene. it is a case for the league of nations to decide, we can only hope they will find it possible to give it the status of a "good european." letters of travel xi. from munich the first day in munich was marked by police inspection in bed. the police come early to the hotels so as to catch people before they have got up and gone out. the only people who are immune are bavarians. if you are a foreigner, even if you are a german from another part of germany--a saxon, a prussian, a westphalian, it is all the same, you must present yourself at the police-station and obtain permission to reside in munich. this means some hours in a stuffy room. you must write a request for the permission in german and bring it some hours later and answer the usual set of questions and be charged marks. i said i had not come to germany to study the police system, and so by dint of perseverance cut through half the formalities and the waiting time and got away. an official wrote the request and even signed it for me himself. nowhere is red-tape more absurd than when it is being wound by a defeated nation after a great war. bavaria is encouraged to think of herself as a separate country. french policy foreshadows an independent state of southern catholics. with that in view a french minister plenipotentiary has been sent to munich, and we british have just followed the french suit by appointing our diplomatic representative also. bavaria is not supposed to enter into foreign relationships except through the reich. to this bavaria has remained loyal. she has stood by the reich even when the reich has protested an inability to control her. the appointment of the french plenipotentiary was, therefore, taken as a calculated provocation and the minister was accorded a very hostile greeting in the press. this annoyed him much, and he put it down, not to the general unpopularity of french policy, but to the secret intrigue of the british who, as it happens, are unusually intimate with munich editors. the rivalry of english and french in diplomatic action is as marked here as it is in other capitals of europe. here, also, the natural antipathy which french chauvinism arouses locally is thought to be aggravated by british intrigue. our diplomats are given credit for being much more active than they are. as i have already intimated, france favours a mergence of austria and bavaria in one state as a solution of austria's economic problem. bavaria would like austria to be added to germany as a whole. it would give the catholic party a stronger voice in the reich. but bavaria has up till now steadfastly refused to sacrifice the advantages of belonging to the german confederation. british policy is not averse from austria joining germany, but no active steps have been taken to facilitate such an amalgamation. the treaty of versailles practically inhibits it, and britain remains passively loyal to that inhibition. the time may come when the french rivalry may enkindle our people to action, but it will be because the questions at issue are not brought forward into the light of ordinary publicity and discussed openly and frankly. secret diplomacy among allies means secret quarreling. open diplomacy, when _both_ sides are open, is much more conducive to lasting loyalty and friendship. i met in munich several influential bavarians, thanks to the hospitality and keenness of our consul-general there, mr. smallbones. there was no ill-feeling of any kind towards english people, and, indeed, i met with no insult or cold treatment either from the working class or upper classes in bavaria--only some surprise as at a rare visitor. for there are extremely few english people there now. the famous picture-galleries are still powerless to attract the american art pilgrim, though that is due more to the difficulty of obtaining permission to reside than to lack of interest in the collections. possibly next year the police may relent. the food shortage is not so menacing. moreover, the village of ober-ammergau proposes once more to have its religious fête and stage the "life of christ." "whether we can have the play depends almost entirely on the americans," say the villagers. "the money of visitors alone makes the performance possible to-day." there is talk, however, of an american film corporation financing the "passion-spiel" if exclusive cinema rights can be obtained. the war made a dire defeat of village talent, however. several sure to have been billed for sacred parts were killed or crippled. other prospective saints who served the fatherland and came through whole are letting their beards grow now. if the difficulties are overcome and the play is performed, the sound of english will be no longer unfamiliar in bavaria's capital. before this possibly munich will have been for a few weeks europe's storm-centre. the storm which broke in budapest and then broke in poland and silesia will surely break again in munich. for it is there, perhaps, that the destiny of austria will be decided. for bavaria is the centre of the intrigue for the unification of austria and germany. concurrently the french are intriguing for their plan of an independent bavaria. i was at pains to inquire the general opinion of educated people and there seemed to be no separatism in bavaria, no sentiment of the kind, and there was apparently no roman catholic propaganda in favour of bavarian separatism. it is curious that whilst slav states are ravaged by all sorts of local sinn-feinism, the for-ourselves-alone-ism of slovaks, croats, montenegrins, little russians, and so forth, the instinct of all the constituent germanic nations is to stand together. teutonic solidarity is giving witness of itself in these days. the grievances of the tyrol were very strongly stated at a munich dinner-party, a bavarian count averring that that part of the tyrol which had fallen to the dole of italy was too strongly affiliated to the part which remained in austria. it was recognized, however, that italy was now friendly to germany, and that no good part was likely to be achieved by doing anything to alienate italian sympathy. the french, however, begin to count on some italian support when the austro-german idea is put to the test. the experimental plebiscite taken in the tyrol was said to have been arranged from munich. its astonishing success from a german point of view at once encouraged the intrigue. there was not much alarm on the subject of the "sanctions" which france threatened to apply. the bavarian is too lethargic, slow, and easy-going to be readily frightened--in temperament he has little in common with the high-spirited, nervous prussian. bavarians spoke of germany and germany's war-debt with an aloofness as of neutrals. it did not trouble them deeply. they were sceptical as to france's ability to collect a huge indemnity. the fifty per cent tax they regarded as an absurdity. "it is possible to ruin germany, but it is not possible to enslave her," was the common opinion. "but in the event of the complete ruin of the rest of germany, would it not be to the advantage of bavaria to accept the idea of a separate state?" i argued. "if france deprived germany of coal by occupying the ruhr basin and by allowing the poles to hold upper silesia, bavaria would have to look out for herself and make what arrangements she could," i was told. but it was an unwilling admission. in the french scheme of things that is when bavaria's moment comes. at one stage this may it seemed as if that moment were near, but now that germany has accepted the alternative plans of payment of reparations, and the british prime minister has intervened on her behalf to stop the polish annexation, the moment does not seem so near. but a great effort will doubtless yet be made to detach bavaria from the rest. meanwhile, bavaria took advantage of the intrigue to keep a territorial army of a kind undemobilized. the reich could demobilize it at will, but allows itself to appear helpless through bavaria's independence. the situation was not helped by the arrival of a young british staff-officer, who said that the british government sympathized with bavaria, believing that she needed what troops she had to keep off bolshevism. eventually the pressure in germany became so great that bavaria gave a verbal promise to disarm--though to what extent that promise will be carried out must remain doubtful. her militia is some protection for herself in case of a political conspiracy such as that of korfanty in silesia, but is no menace to any other neighbouring power. bavaria affects to be in deadly, daily fear of bolshevism. "under the shadow of the sanctions, communism was developing strongly," said one. speaking of the russians, "perhaps we shall all come to it," said another. a rich munich jew, a cinema merchant, wanted to adopt a vienna orphan. he wrote to vienna for a jewish male child, well-authenticated as an orphan; he did not want the parents to come and sponge on him in later years. the child was brought to munich. presently application was made to the police for an extra milk ration on account of the boy. then the police discovered the new arrival. "what!" said they, "living here without a permit! application for permission to reside must be made at once." application was made and permission was refused. the reason given was that the housing shortage in munich was too great. but some one was at pains to find out the real reason. it was that the boy was a jew, and who could say--in twenty years, educated in the best institutions of munich--he might become a trotsky or a bela kun or bavarian eisner. "but why not a disraeli?" said some one who listened to the story. permission was eventually granted. one attempt has been made to seize munich for the proletariat, and the comfortable bavarian realized that whilst he has a never-failing stomach for good brown beer he has no stomach for revolution. the great city is a monument of bourgeois enterprise. business is more than politics, and social conviviality than either. s---- drove me out to the valley of the iser, "iser rolling rapidly." we went to grunewald, we passed ludendorf's villa, curious credulous ludendorf, who took winston churchill at his word when the later penned his appeal to germany in the "evening news" to save europe by fighting the bolsheviks, and prepared a plan whereby the german army was reconstituted in the strength at which in it was dissolved. we surveyed from the hurrying car a fine park-like country, rich and calm, and sensibly remote from europe's centre. it was a lovely springtide, and new hope fallaciously decked southern germany, as if all trouble were over and all had been forgiven. we walked, too, in the gardens of the nymphenburg palace where the mad king used to play. we visited the state theatre, where wagnerian opera still holds the patient ear, and there we heard, not wagner, but shakespeare's "lear," done in a jog-trot, uninspired, later-victorian style. one felt as if the theatre had slept for thirty years and then, awakening, had resumed in the same style as before. it is often said reproachfully in germany that queen victoria would never have made the late war, and that victorian england was much nearer to germany. it was nearer to the germany of queen victoria's time. that is quite true. england has gone on and become more european; her passion for individual freedom and self-expression has steadily developed, whilst germany has remained submissively under the yoke of authority and discipline. germany, with all her learning and her industry, her unstinted application, and her good parts, has become dull. there was an enormous amount of dulness, genuine uninspired dulness, in the germans in the war. you can identify it now when you visit germany in peace. letters of travel xii. from berlin (i) old men and war-cripples as porters at the station, dirty streets encumbered by hawkers and their wares, strings of pitiful beggars shaking their hands and exposing mortified limbs--can this be berlin, berlin the prim, the orderly, the clean? something has happened here in seven years, some sort of psychological change has been wrought in the mind of a people. here, as in some slav countries, there are laws and they are not kept, regulations and they are not observed. unshaven men and ill-washed women on the streets, and dowdy, hatless girls with dirty hair crowding into cheap cinema theatres! a city that had no slums and no poor in now becoming a slum _en bloc_. and the litter on the roadways! you will not find its like in warsaw. you must seek comparisons in the bowery of new york or that part of the city of westminster called soho. the horse has come back to berlin to make up for loss of motors, and needs more scavengers to follow him than the modern municipality can afford. not that berlin has broken down in any way. it is the same great hive of industrialism. everyone is employed. more are employed than before. the leisured class is smaller. all the workshops and factories and offices are full. the shops display as many wares. there is evidence of an enormous overflowing productivity. cheap lines of goods are run out in hawkers' barrows and auctioned on the pavement, measures of cloth for suits, overcoats, soaps, stationery. trams, 'buses, railways all are used to the last seat and standing-room. and the working people are thinking about their work and their wages and their homes and their beer--and not about the peace treaty and the latest move of france for their destruction. it is sad to see the broken-down old fellows as porters at the railway-stations, panting with heavy trunks, and the same type among gangs of navvies repairing the roads. they ought to be seated at home with pipe and newspaper and easy slippers instead of earning a living still as a drudge. it is a convention to give your bag to a porter at a station, and in germany you usually give it to a man much older and weaker than yourself, and you are moved to help him to carry it as in his infirmity he struggles along. what a contrast to the stalwart porters of prague, or rome, or brussels. poor wights! it is they who are paying for the war. sightless soldiers led by little children come selling you sticking-plaster in the restaurants. germany is too poor to care for them. it is they who are paying for the war. the drab, many-headed middle class of berlin with its poverty-stricken breakfast-table, the old black bread of the war and no sugar and paper table-cloths; the women going about the streets with great bundles on their backs; the people making their clothes still do--they are paying somewhat. you see hugo stinnes and his like with a suite of rooms at the "adlon," or driving luxuriously along the unter den linden, the kaiser way, without the dignity of a kaiser. they are not paying very much. most active-thinking people are to-day working for the reconciliation of europe, and the greatest obstacle to reconstruction lies in a resentful, half-crushed, and continually harassed germany. berlin has been made a heart of ill-will, and the heart must somehow be changed. some will no doubt say it is paris that has the ill-will towards the peace of europe--change the heart of paris and all will go well. but even if france embarked on a policy of friendly tolerance towards germany it would be long ere berlin was converted. however that may be, it was naturally with a hope of sharing in the long task of reconciliation that the present writer visited germany. many englishmen have a soft spot in their hearts for the germans; perhaps it is the instinct of race, or it may be merely good sportsmanship: i am not one of those who will not shake fritz hand now that the war is done. as a soldier-poet has expressed it. i was told of a young german who set in front of himself the goal of a reconciled europe. i would work to the same end in london. it only remained to find a similar devoted type in paris to work from the french end, and we should have a triumvirate that might achieve the impossible. god can use the foolish of this world to confound the wise--the wise being mostly engaged in stirring up new quarrels. somehow the desirable frenchman ready to devote his life to that cause was not forthcoming--and that deficiency i suppose was symptomatic of the disease. for my part, i have made my journey of europe and taken a good look at that which it is proposed to reconcile. at the end i came to berlin and paris, the two main centres of the modern world. in germany naturally i sought the german who was ready to work unstintedly from the german side for the same cause. i had never met him, but i pictured an idealist, one who had suffered in the war and felt the folly of it all, who deplored the egoism of nations, and had found a way to devote himself to humanity as a whole. i was mistaken! it is our weakness as a nation to think of a foreigner merely as a sort of englishman who does not speak our tongue or know our conventions. so was it with me, and i soon found myself up against a real live german, a man of a type you would not find either in london or paris. it was a disillusion. here was a man unsuited by his national nature for the part for which he was cast. one could not see in him the potentiality of a helper of europe. the german as a german is in a troubled mental state. small wonder! because of the psychology of my friend in ---- i quickly began to surmise that the german at present has not got the spirit to save europe. perhaps he has not the ability to save himself. my german helper was a tall, handsome young man with an open countenance and an engaging smile. he had done war-service for the fatherland on several fronts in several capacities. among other things he had been commandant of a prisoners-of-war camp where british officers were really kindly treated and a most pleasant relationship existed between the command on the one hand and the prisoners on the other. he showed me photographs of himself with british officers, and he mentioned it as a matter of pride that these fellows asked for "deutschland uber alles" to be sung one night, and they stood reverently to attention through the performance. this was followed by "god save the king," which the germans honoured in the same way. it was explained to me that "deutschland uber alles" does not mean "germany over everybody else," but "germany first of all!" as one says "my country, right or wrong." the prisoners must, if they were genuine englishmen, have felt rather low-spirited. w----, however, saw in it evidence of what a happy family party germans and english could be, if they liked. he was undoubtedly pro-english, had been to oxford, had perhaps a quiver of an oxford accent in his english; he had studied england, as germans do, and made considerable research among us. his wife was openly and unreservedly friendly. he, however, was cautious, and corrected his wife when she said too much or went too far. it had been a great blow to them when england came in to the war, a personal and a national blow. they could not have believed it possible. and they imagined throughout the war that their friends in england did not share in the wild anti-german feeling and must at least passively be pro-german. of course, it was not so. they deplored the extraordinary lapse in tone in the "morning post" and "the times." "'the times' actually refers to us as 'huns.' at least, it can be said of our press, high or low, it never nicknamed its enemies. french were always french, english--english, russians--russians. it was beneath the dignity of the war to call our enemies names." he was amazed at the ignorance concerning the germans, and the credulity of such as those who believed they boiled their dead to make lard. i told him of the german ambassador's reception in london, dr. sthamer, how he was received by certain people in society and many were well disposed towards him, though at first he had difficulty in getting things done for him by the british working class. "and you, you'll go anywhere in germany, and every one will be only too ready to help you, to do your washing and clean our boots and the rest," said w---- reproachfully. "we are so good-natured." he had forgotten that the germans failed to ingratiate themselves with the london working class by dropping so many bombs in the east-end and terrorizing whole districts. he forgot the children who had been killed. he did not know the air-raids had had much effect. "they had an unfortunate psychological effect." "well, you don't forgive us." "on the contrary, the generality of englishmen forgive germany now she is down." my friend perceptibly winced at the word "down." i had used the wrong word. but it is true enough. "we know the quakers are our friends, and the pacifists," said he. "we are thankful for their friendship, but we need to win over the other people. make the business people feel that the versailles peace is bad business, and the imperialists that it is bad for empire." "they know that already, that it is not good for business and not very good for the empire. what we have to get over is something psychological--the belief in 'the dirty hun,' the belief in german trickery and spite." he had never heard of that sentence which is a motto in carmelite street, "they'll cheat you yet, those junkers," or "once a german always a german." there is a genuine belief among the english masses that the germans are cheating us, that they are pretending to demobilize and keeping a large army in secret readiness, pretending to be unable to pay "reparations," not taxing themselves, faking their figures. w---- and several others whom i met in germany put it in the foreground of the work to be done for re-establishing germany in the comity of nations, that it should be proved that germany was not responsible for the beginning of the war. it is still the theme of innumerable articles in the press. the german mind has not grasped the fact that no intelligent european blames germany exclusively. now that the hot mood of war is past we are all ready to recognize that we were all in part to blame. we all founded our security on armies and navies, the nation that produced the "dreadnought" most of all. we were all living and picnicking and unfortunately quarrelling in the great cordite warehouse of european militarism, and one day it blew up. if we had not been so well prepared it could not have happened so. if the kaiser pronounced the dreadful atheism of "let the guns speak," he really did so after the event. in debating this matter the german mentality disclosed itself in the germans with whom i conversed in berlin. i had a suspicion that one of them might have said england began it, if i had been other than an englishman. edward the seventh who arranged the _entente cordiale_ had evidently something to do with it. as i am a known warm friend of russia he could not say russia began it. his mind turned to a more obscure nation. "to think that europe should thus have been ruined and all those millions of lives lost," said he. "just for stupid little serbia." i am afraid i could not agree to that. the devil began it. what does it matter now? nobody cares. the present and the future hold the potentialities of happiness rather than the past. to discuss the past you'd have to raise the dead on both sides. england is not interested in history, but she is interested in actuality. mr. lloyd george has said that the german is not being taxed by his government in the proportion that the british are taxed by theirs--far from it. figures have been given in the press. and they have not been refuted by germans. the germans hold that they are being taxed so heavily that a maximum has been reached. w----, who was well-off before the war, has lost his income now, has taken a staff-post at the ministry of trade and gets , marks a year. he ought to pay a heavy income-tax on that. yes, but it is only eighty pounds a year in english money, and he has a wife and two children to keep on it. there are tens of thousands of professional men in the same plight. some of the very rich arrange matters to avoid some of the heavy dues. and as regards the working-class, it is notoriously hard to raise money from them by direct taxation. "then it is said that you are running your railway and postal services at a loss. and that is obviously true. england has raised her rates and made her public pay. she thinks germany should also." to this it is replied that germany does not believe in obstructing the ready movement of people and of intelligence in her country. she thinks it bad policy to charge highly for railway fares and letter postage. what is gained by extra charges is more than lost through business being hampered. "these are points which you educated germans should elucidate through the british press," said i. "the idea that germany escapes taxation is a very unfavourable one in england. it is much more important than the rights or wrongs of the old war." w----, who receives the "nation" regularly, nevertheless did not think any english paper would print what he might write on the theme. i visited, among others, herr baumfelder, the editor of the "european press," once dropped from aeroplanes among our lines under the title of the "european times," but now under entirely new management, though still a propagandist sheet. it is nothing like so strong a propagandist for germany as the "continental daily mail" is for france. but it has the potentiality of a counterblast. it makes one blush to see english newspapers on german book-stalls with "huns' latest whine" in large letters staring at the germans as they pass. strangely enough, the germans don't seem to mind these headlines; they don't tear the papers off the stalls and burn them in indignation. they've been drilled not to do such things. one would think, however, there would be considerable scope for a good german daily, printed in the english language, expounding european events from another point of view. the european press has that possibility. here, however, you find little that is helpful yet. i am all for truth. it is the best type of propaganda--the only type that is not loathsome. and surely there is enough in the domain of the simple truth about europe and germany to touch men's hearts, whilst there groans a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy. i hoped herr baumfelder would make his paper into a living journal which all would be glad to buy in order to know the facts of the hour in germany. no use to continue working the familiar lines of german propaganda such as the "menace to german women of the black troops on the rhine," now so much exploited in press and cinema in germany--or the "who was responsible for the war?" theme, alluded to above. it is sad to read the verbal violence of some president of "league of german patriots" who does not believe the editor of the "spectator" when he says "_we for our part, can honestly say that ever since the armistice we have wanted to create an atmosphere helpful to germany._" "you the murderers of hundreds of thousands of innocent german children dare to publish such a deliberate falsehood," says "the president." "you are practically sodden with falsehood and hypocrisy." no doubt the president of the l.g.p. has lost money in the war, and has an especial grudge against england, but that sort of writing makes potential friends into persistent enemies. and english readers of the paper will say, "after all, what fools the germans are." there is a cynical disbelief in england's idealism. perhaps that cannot be wondered at. we have been, or seem to have been, very false to our idealism at times. we are judged by our public acts. but because of our professed idealism we are hailed as hypocrites, appalling hypocrites. and yet those public acts and that idealism are distinct. both are authentic, and neither contradicts the other. we fastened on germany a shameful treaty at versailles. but the idealists never agreed to it, and do not do so now. our idealism is genuine enough and it is, indeed, the germ of europe's hope. but for that the outlook would be blacker still. all that has been done to ease the application of the treaty has been done at england's instance. we stand as wardens against the infringement of the treaty, as for instance in the silesian attack. indeed, the general tendency of england's policy is to save the integrity of germany and give her a chance to rehabilitate herself among the nations. the sophisticated educated class in germany smiles in superior knowledge, ascribing to us selfish motives of one kind or another. the contempt for englishmen passing through the country is somewhat brutally expressed in the phrase _valuta-englander_, the currency englishman, who is probably a nobody at home but swaggers here on the difference of the exchange of the mark and the pound sterling. the new educated class has always found difficulty in being tolerant and in recognizing who were its potential enemies or friends. but i noticed that the working class had less pre-judgment and was more open-hearted. the working class grasped the truth of the situation. it was not merely a desire to flatter and curry favour that prompted their attitude. "france is our real enemy--not england," was the frequent greeting of the ex-soldier working man who grinned and asked if i'd been a soldier, too, and on what front. rank and file on both sides conceived a respect for one another in the war, which the educated class somehow missed. perhaps the educated class in germany would be more indulgent if they were not so hard hit financially. the working man still has money, has, indeed, a flattering number of marks in his pocket. when he has not so much money he is as morose as his educated brother. in saxony, where an industrial depression not half so deep as that of england is being felt, you have a strong communist movement. the devitalized masses of leipzig are not so brotherly as the berliners. the signs of street-fighting are visible in the many cracked and broken windows of shops, and the helplessness of police seems to be expressed in gatherings under the auspices of the red flag, where internationalism is bawled across the square by unshaven, collarless young men, and it is "_hoch die weltrevolution_!" "if we lose our export trade then the enfeebled industrial population of places like leipzig must die off, and germany return to the land," said a leipzig editor to me. "but before they die off they'll make red war in germany." not an unedifying place for the trial of war-criminals! there is little at leipzig to give english witnesses an idea of a flourishing or promising germany. a true study of the after-the-war germany would naturally take in leipzig and the other great centres of industry and trade. berlin is admittedly deceptive, with its profiteers and its rich foreigners. bremen and hamburg would be vital points to reconsider. i visited the former--a beautiful quiet hanse town, very quiet now, once the port of sailing of the nord-deutscher lloyd boats, and a port of many ships. there is an impoverished and diminished population, and grass is growing in streets where it never could have grown before. the german mercantile marine has dropped from six-and-a-half million tons to one-half million of tonnage of little vessels. you feel that fact at bremen. the great ships, mishandled and in many cases disabled, now swell the numerical tonnage of other countries without adding so very much to their shipping power. the hamburg-america line and nord-deutscher lloyd and others, shorn of their real glory, still continue a pettifogging existence booking tickets for passengers on the ships of foreign lines. what a curious germany! she has made a strange backward progress since the days of the agadir incident, and the plea which eminent british and american journalists defended then, that she should be accorded "a place in the sun." letters of travel xiii. from berlin (ii) berlin is a city of reason, not a city of faith. you cannot get people to try and do the impossible there. it loves to grade itself upon the possible and do that. hence the apathy regarding germany's resurrection. here all is measured and planned and square and self-poised. no buildings aspire. the golden angels and the other things which are high--are perched there. some one put them up; they did not fly so high. all the great capitals of europe are redeemed more by their past than adorned by their present, but berlin has no old berlin to help her. if all that is worth while in london were built in the spirit of downing street and whitehall and the statue of nurse cavell, it might be said that london was not unlike berlin. clearly two ideas have tried to express themselves in germany's capital: one is modern commerce, and the other, and more characteristic, is military glory. the commercial houses are naturally much the same as in the rest of europe, gloomily utilitarian. the military in stone, however, is neither ornamental nor useful. strange that the kaiser, who was reputed to have quick intelligence, should not have felt how excruciatingly unspiritual and truly uninspiring the glory-statuary and architecture was. the german army was one of the greatest military organizations the world has seen, and it was in a potential terror to every nation in europe, but its reflection in art was ugly. the victory column, the statues of germany's heroes, the appalling queue of stone groups each side of the sieges allee, all show up now like a spiritual x-ray photograph of prussia. it may seem ungenerous to taunt some one who is down, after the event, but i did not see the avenue of victory before , and it came as a shock. despite the loathsome details of the war, there are many ex-enemies of germany who have kept in their hearts an altar of admiration for german arms. an idea of teutonic chivalry lurked somewhere in the imagination. but you can realize in berlin from the militarist self-confession in art that there is no idealism there. how the kaiser could go out day after day and confront these low conceptions of patriotism and of germany, and not order them to be swept away, explains in great part how it was germany made such a blunder as to go to war the way she did. one advantage of a revolution in germany might be to sweep away these sad tokens of the past. it was in this avenue of victory that old hindenburg's wooden statue was set up and the populace struck nails into it to boost war-charities. it became so ugly that it was hidden away at last, and despite the field-marshal's great popularity has lately been broken up and destroyed. that was really worth keeping, and ought to have found a place in a war-museum. it was authentic, but it did not flatter, and it had to go. hindenburg is the greatest hero in germany, and all the children idealize him. whatever he puts his name to, goes. he and a popular pastor worked up a huge subscription for war-waifs, and when the money had been raised it was found the waifs were already well provided for. i believe the money was appropriated to a fund for helping the indigent middle class. at a cabaret one night there appeared a clever impersonator. a slim, clean-shaven man entertained the people sitting at the dinner-tables by rapid changes of personization. he was in turn every one who had a share in the making of modern germany. thus he was bismarck and he was karl marx, and he was ebert, in rapid succession. no one cheered him, and the people looked at the undistinguished figure of ebert without enthusiasm. presently, as one foresaw, he came to hindenburg, and then every one cheered and the place rocked with excitement. there were even a sprinkling of claps over to applaud his next impersonization, the late emperor franz joseph who was sandwiched in to prepare the mind for something else. after that, one waited. would he show the kaiser? what would happen if suddenly the familiar face of wilhelm the second confronted that gathering of germans? the mimic, however, would not risk it, and his concluding make-up was not wilhelm but, very cleverly chosen, frederick the great. and every one was at ease again. germany is not ready to have the kaiser back. but, as at athens, so in berlin, national humiliation has reacted in favour of the monarch. there is a vague feeling that the kaiser is suffering for germany's sake, and that his exile typifies the unhappy downfall of germany. no one thinks the kaiser less virtuous than lloyd george or clemenceau. except for the communist movement, which naturally tends in an entirely different direction, there is a national sentimental reaction in favour of the hohenzollerns. this was clearly focussed in the honours paid to the dead kaiserin. before the passing of that funeral cortège the kaiser's portrait was rare in public places. now it has appeared again and is common. there are nevertheless few things in europe more improbable than the return of the kaiser. he might come back before he died. but it would be as the result of some strange turn of affairs in europe. he will probably die in holland. and then will he not come back and receive the greatest honour? i was naturally interested in the spirit of the rising generation, those who did not have to fight, those who perhaps will not be conscripted to fight the next war. the boys at school are said to be completely out of touch with the sordid reality of germany's position. masters dare not explain her helplessness in its entirety. they are ashamed of what their generation has done with the great inheritance. nevertheless the children know that germany has been beaten. they cannot know to what extent beaten. but a boy being asked what his politics were replied to a friend: "one thousand kilometres to the right of the right," and the constant thought in their talk, in their essays, in their boyish life is _we will get back strassburg_. the mature mind regards such impulses questioningly, and looks from the romantic children to the uninspired and uninspiring monuments of germany. what sort of a germany will it be fifty years hence, one asks. not the old set up again. but if a new germany, what will it be like and wherein will it excel? the scenery of these years will no doubt be cleared away. in several ways germany has excellence and possibilities of great service to humanity. in original research and invention, in applied science and in science itself, in scholarship, and in social and industrial development and organization, the german has shown himself to be a pioneer. in these pacific domains germany was in happy rivalry for the leadership of the world. in several of them germany actually was leader. it is very unfortunate that the war should continue to strike at these. and it would be idle to deny that those germans whose work serves humanity as a whole have in any way escaped the crippling effect of the downfall of the state. in fact, the educated people have been hit most, and are most threatened. moreover, the atmosphere of germany in these days is not creative. a black finger is pointing threateningly from the sky. the enormity of the punishment which fate threatens is incredibly great, and yet it keeps threatening. it is perpetually: the ides of march are come, aye caesar, but not gone. the first of may has come, the thirteenth of may has come, and so forth. the line trees are arrayed in tender green, and anon blossom along the length of the unter den linden, but it is not germany's new summer, and it has that irrelevance which the murderer remarks when he is being led some beautiful spring morning to the scaffold to be killed. it was a fine morning, but not for him. it is only too natural for the educated man to look out morbidly from the eye-gate of the soul. thus r----, whose fine work on central asia was published gratis by some learned society in england before the war, says, "i will renounce my german nationality and become english as soon as your home office will let me. germany is going to be no place for men of brains." thus the famous theologian harnack, having completed his latest work, speaks of circulating it only in manuscript as he is in no position to have it printed. thus z----, the chemist and metallurgist, has taken his laboratory and his assistants to switzerland to escape the spiritual paralysis which has overtaken his native land. doubtless this black will-to-the-nothing is reflected in many lives in germany, and in many spheres of activity. nietzsche anticipated it, though of course, he did not ask for germany the psychology of one who has been beaten, the evil resentful frame of mind. this latter is strongly exemplified on the serious stage, not serenely and universally, but tinged and circumstanced by germany's downfall--the what-does-it-matter-that-sophocles-was-great-if-germany-is-no-more point of view. "richard iii" at the state opera house was a strange performance. it was about the time of the shakespeare day celebration which germany keeps once a year. all the newspapers devoted articles to shakespeare, and one felt truly that a great master of words and of men was more honoured in ex-enemy germany than in the land of his birth. and that should have been good for germany; shakespeare is universal, and it takes the universal to cleanse the national. as a german philosopher has said, it needs an ocean to receive such a muddy stream as man. "richard iii," however, showed what the war-spirit can make of shakespeare. it was interpreted in the pedantic historical vein, and was given as a bloody, brutal mediaeval piece without a thought or a smile or a tear. richard was shown as a "hun" of the worst kind. his murderous career was facilitated by his characterless victims. anne was a "characteristic english hypocrite," pretending to mourn her husband, and yet quite ready to marry gloucester as "the average englishwoman would do if the proposal were made." clarence had no poetry in his soul, and was not even allowed to touch you by his dream in the tower. richard said his conscience-stricken, soul-torturing speech--"richard loves richard, that is i am i." in a matter-of-fact way. it is a great tragic note in shakespeare, but in berlin it was quite a playful matter. just as the murderers played at murdering clarence, so richard joked with himself over, "is there a murderer here--yes, i am." the only way to explain such a richard iii to the audience was to suggest--that is the sort of people the english are--thank their god for their humility whilst in reality they stick at nothing to gain their private ends, and are not troubled with conscience. this production was entirely modern in its presentment. there was a remarkable simplification of scenery. this was, perhaps, due to the new poverty of berlin. but it comprised merely a wall, a hole in the wall called the tower of london, a platform on top of the wall called tower hill, carpeted stairs against the wall called the court at westminster. clarence mopes in the hole with one electric light--his butt of malmsey wine is even out of view. richard appears between the two archbishops on the top of the wall, and finally he fights the battle of bosworth field up and down the carpeted stairs. indeed, he suddenly appears at the top of the stairs naked to his middle and then runs down the red carpet carrying his crown in his hand whilst he shouts, "mein konigsreich fur ein pferd,"--my kingdom for a horse. this last was deservedly hissed by the audience as a palpable absurdity being foisted on the half-stunned _intelligentsia_ of berlin. at the lessing theatre a few days later, "peer gynt," that poetical drama of the teuton's destiny--much better done because really nearer to the german soul than shakespeare. solveig had faith; though it was not quite certain that she was the sort of woman to whom one _had_ to return. peer's romantic return to his mother was, however, much stressed, as in the greig music. the sentiment that peer "had women behind him and, therefore, could not perish" appealed strongly to the german mood, though the application of the button-moulder idea to the plight of germany just now appeared to have been missed. peer ought to have been a shining button on the vest of the lord, but has missed his chance, and now is to be melted down with other buttons into something else--into a polish button, a czech button, an alsatian button. there was much scope for meditation looking at "peer gynt" at berlin in . in lighter vein the traveller finds much more to delight him in the operettas of berlin. as at vienna, they are better done than classical drama. that is not a slight on the stage. the vulgarity of english musical comedies and imported operettas is lacking on the berlin and vienna stage. german pieces of this kind are often extremely charming and diverting, and they impart that light-heartedness which is a first condition of a healthy mind. the audience is in no sense "highbrow," it is the general level of german humanity. it forgets and responds, and is ready to sing choruses with the leaders of song and dance. three or four evenings spent listening to operetta leave very pleasant memories, and the last of these was on the occasion of the first night of "morgen wieder lustik," a humorous presentation of the time when napoleon was splitting up germany much as the french wish to split her up now--and there was a king of westphalia who is still memorable for that one phrase, "_morgen wieder lustik!_"--to-morrow we shall be happy again! i visited strasbourg, now outwardly frenchified, but inwardly german enough. at the time of the commencement of the armistice and the german retirement "simplicimus" published a picture of a "farewell to strasbourg." it was a stormy sunset and late evening, and the black silhouette of the very memorable cathedral, the stark and ragged grandeur of that cathedral and its spire which looks as if nothing exists in strasbourg but it, stood for the significance of the city. some german horse-soldier symbolized the last to go, and lifting his hat, took one last look at the place, and said, "_auf wiedersehen_." and alsace became french once more. what a thing to graft two french provinces to the living body of germany for fifty years and then dispart, when the blood has learned to flow strongly from the new flesh to the heart! you feel the break, the interruption, when you go there now. and now the same two provinces, heavily germanized, are re-grafted back to the original flesh of france. it would be absurd to say that the circulation of the blood and the spirit have been re-established at once. there is a great deal of mortification in alsace and lorraine. it will be a long while before french life permeates the whole and surges through every vein. meanwhile the new process of frenchification proceeds. we seldom hear that the germans dare claim to hold alsace and lorraine on any grounds, and yet, in fact, quietly and persistently, they do dare. it is frequently urged in conversation that if a plebiscite had been taken in the two provinces, the majority would have been found desirous of remaining under german rule. this, no doubt, is partly vanity, and springs from belief in the supposed preferability of german civilization to french civilization--even french people who knew what it was to live under a french as well as a german regime might prefer the latter as more efficient and comfortable and up-to-date. but the belief that a plebiscite would have gone in german favour is based even more on the german population and on the strong business interests which link the industrial part with the industrial whole. alsace and lorraine through commercial development had become an exceedingly important constituent of modern germany before the war. germany, moreover, claims to have converted them from poor departments of france to wealthy industrial communities. naturally no one on the allied side of the peace-table ever dreamed of considering such arguments. and they are so lacking in practical cogency that they find no place in the current consideration of modern europe. they are useless arguments for a germany who lost the war, and they are assumed to be quite dead. germany has enough trouble to save westphalia and silesia and the ruhr valley, let alone think about the irrecoverables of the war. she might as well argue that the fleet she sank at scapa flow should be restored to her as think of alsace now. nevertheless, the arguments remain for another day to become the arguments of pretension and justification. france naturally is taking care that there shall never be another day of reckoning. but let france make a mistake in her diplomacy and "get in wrong," as they say in america, and it will all be fought over again. it was only fifty years after the franco-german war that this new war came. who knows what re-grouping of power there may be, or how germany will stand in ! in our reckonings and prognostications we should keep in mind that the german is the centre body of the teutonic race. he is down, but he is not finally beaten. his mind is resentful, and indeed full of the revenge instinct. he has not learned the lesson of humility and obedience in the great war. who has? he believes he is meant to be master in the vast european plain which he has fitly named "central europe--_mittel europa_," and identified with himself. extra leaves (v) _on "clay sparrows" and the failure of freedom_ france and germany are hazardously in agreement in regard to english and american liberal idealism. they think it moonshine and the league of nations a failure, and that freedom has been tried and found wanting. we are at school with christ and have made our clay sparrows. wilson's birds fly--ours won't. france is an obstinate clay sparrow who sits perched on the wall. and what shall we say of the other clay sparrows? do they look like flying? the peoples won't take the freedom and the light that is offered them. we sing to them and tempt them, but they do not respond. germany, however, does not believe in "free countries," and she is edified by the failure of freedom. "your gods fail you," said a bavarian to us at dinner. "you'll have to try our gods after all." "but it is not so. the little nations are all using their freedom," some one rejoined. "abusing it," said the german. "that is only their high spirits, the natural first excesses of people who have got free." "russia?" queried the teuton. "poland? roumania?" and he smiled indulgently. "human nature shows up badly when you give it a chance," said he. "you cannot trust individuals yet, and you cannot trust nations. for example: you are all lined up waiting to receive tickets for the theatre or a train. some have a sense for order and keep their turn, but others edge past them and get to the ticket window first. and then the orderly individuals are forced to do the same or lose their temper. now, to meet human nature we have invented a grill, and if you go to our state theatre in munich you will see this iron control which allows a large crowd to assemble but makes it impossible to go out of your turn." "an emblem of german civilization," i thought, "but it has its use." "we are all going back to preventatives," said another. "after all it is the foundation of mosaic law--the prevention of evil. america has adopted the idea. prohibition is not freedom. it is taking the bottle away and not giving you a chance. it is the same with other human sins. the best way to reduce the numbers of murders is to reduce the number of weapons and exact a heavy gun licence. the best way to stop robbery is to use more steel locks. make it difficult to commit crime and then crime won't be committed. but beware of freedom." the conversation was side-tracked on to the subject of the "dryness of america." but it provided an insight into the german point of view. coming into line with the rest of europe germany accepted the idea of freedom in november, . she watched how it worked and then very quickly turned her back on it. in truth, freedom is not congenial to germans. had germany won she hoped to impose her type of civilization everywhere, and she saw little harm in the fact of imposition. inferior nations ought to be raised to germany's cultural level by force, and they ought to be prevented from running amuck internationally, also by force. the german mind viewed complacently the bondage of the small nations in the austro-hungarian empire. it did not think that czechs or poles lost anything by being governed from vienna. its only reservation was that it might be still better for them if they were governed from berlin. berlin still believes that alsatians and danes and poles and russians and czechs are better in health under german discipline. europe organized militarily was the german conception of the future--that some one should order and some one should obey everywhere. great britain caught the idea through carlyle, though it was more congenial to the germanic type of southern scot than to english or irish. we talked of "captains of industry," and the "aristocracy of talent," and "benevolent autocracy," though we could not realize them. but to modern germany this idea was society's cement. it was preached from the lutheran pulpit, it was taught by sergeants in the army, it was unfolded and beflagged by politicians on election day. there were rebels against it but no national movement opposed it. it was even rooted in the home where husband ruled wife, and father ruled children with complete authority, and a man could point to his _frau_ or his _kind_ with his index finger, and say "to-morrow you will do that. now you shall do this!" the opposite note of liberty was at moscow where the children not infrequently, even under tsardom, went on strike against their teachers, where servants tell masters what they ought to do, where a rasputin is asked advice on imperial policy, the land of the slavs where obedience is at its lowest ebb, and all the parks and gardens and country-sides languish naturally in disorder. "love to russia is really love to the old mother-pig," said suvorin. "but no matter, you get used to it." the german, however, never gets used to it. that is why in the old days the farms of the german colonist in russia used to be neat patches of an entirely orderly pattern, looking like islands in the wild waste of slav disorder. it might almost be said that germany made war to make the russian _muzhik_ wash his face, and the russians made war so that people could go about with dirty faces if they wanted to. the question has not received a final answer. greece is fighting for an empire over turks. ireland is fighting the british empire to obtain the right to do what she wants in the world. the business penumbra of the united states has begun to cover mexico. five or six constituents of old russian have cut free. but france has become imperial and would impose a superior will on several nations. our curious clay sparrows stand on the wall. wilson's sparrows, it is reputed, fly; ours won't. as we made them, so they stand looking at us, waiting apparently. if some one does not sprinkle holy water on them soon they will either go to bits or have to be kneaded into the common lump once more. letters of travel xiv. from rome all roads lead to rome. it would doubtless be tedious at this point to describe the obstacles on the road, and, when rome has been achieved, the all-night hunt for a room in a hotel, an adventure which now commonly befalls the traveller to rome. but it is a wonderful impression which you receive of this mighty city in the silent watchful hours, when all are sleeping, and the living are nearer to the famous dead. the scenery seems laid for some great historical drama--but it is in truth only laid for you and the poor fellow shouldering your bag, and for a restless knocking at closed doors, trying to awaken slumberous porters who, like the man at macbeth's castle, swear they will "devil-porter it no longer." you settle down at last for a few hours sleep on a couple of chairs in a waiting-room, but are prevented by a loquacious gentleman who calls himself a "_chasseur des hotels_," and says that when a man has sought all night and found nothing, he is generally ready for a proposition. the _chasseur_ conducts you to a room in a house in a back street, a chill, red-tiled room, let by a buxom roman, whose little girl of twelve is in the capacity of general servant and makes the bed and empties the slops and serves the coffee without one self-conscious smile. rome indeed, and room enough! when you are lodged it does not matter much how you are lodged. rome, the capital of capitals, still continues to be a place of destiny in europe. it is not in the glare of light in which berlin and paris find themselves, but the fates of berlin and paris are secretly dependent on it. for rome sways the balance of power after the war. if rome backs germany, france at once feels isolated; if rome backs france, germany must come to terms. the french are victors and have the winning forces in their hands, but the italians are psychologists and know how to win without material force. hence has arisen the curious after-the-paris-conference situation. italy has been despised by france; italy, therefore, has renounced that war-after-the-war, dear to the french heart; italy has communed with dr. benes and planted another thorn in the side of the hapsburgs; she has secretly opposed french policy in hungary. with germany she has made a commercial entente--not a political or military one, but a pacific _laissez-faire_ for the purposes of trade. france envisages the complete ruin of german industry and commerce, and believes that foch is the man to do it. at this the italians smile quietly and counsel the timorous germans not to despair. rome chooses to hold to the thesis that a prosperous italy depends on a prosperous germany, and no outsider is qualified to dispute such a point of view. somehow italy manages to suggest a similar thought to england. a prosperous england depends on a prosperous germany. the british trade depression is thought to be due to the destructive policy of the french. the question of the taking of the ruhr basin becomes a test case: _very bad for english business_, say the english manufacturers in chorus. we are back to the treaty of versailles: votes count. england and italy are in the scale against france, and france must yield. the cup of hemlock is taken from germany's shut mouth and a cup of merely disagreeable medicine is placed there instead. italy and england sing to her a new song quietly and secretly, and she decides to take it so as to escape the hemlock. so italy has stopped france on the ruhr. it is an easier task to stop her in upper silesia where she is pushing the poles into a similar assault on german industries. lloyd george makes his violent anti-french speeches, and the british battalions follow after his hot words to enforce what he has said. the italian was despised but he can afford to smile. o julius caesar, thou art mighty yet! italy's main danger has been internal. her socialistic ferment was so great at one time that it did not appear likely that the old italy could long continue without revolution. "w lenin" [ ] is scrawled in black on many walls, and also, "down with the betrayers of the army," and "vote the full socialist programme." the idea of revolution is popular among the masses, and the efforts of the anti-communist volunteers have several times suggested a general outbreak of civil war. of all the allies italy has had the stormiest after-the-war period, and the outlook has seemed blackest for her. given time, she could, however, right herself--and the time has been given. if the working class had been impoverished and threatened with unemployment it is doubtful whether italy could have weathered all the trouble. but the proletariat was rich. the provincial banking accounts had become full. the peasants now are especially well-off, and if the proletariat wanted to fall upon the rich they would have to fall upon themselves. "the principal phenomenon of our life," said signor s---- at one of the ministries, "is a complete economic inversion. the number of our poor does not increase, for the wealth of the country has been exceedingly well shuffled and dealt out afresh to all." "do not be deceived by appearances of unrest," said b---- of the "messagero." "it is caused chiefly by the ex-soldiers who will not settle down. you have the phenomenon as well as we. it is common after war. only our men are more turbulent than any other in europe. you have seen them, large, full-blooded, and excitable heroes, not so sluggish and obedient as the french, more nervous and clamorous than the english. but we are working. the women and children are more industrious than formerly, and make up for the men's defection. italy will right herself." undoubtedly, external policy has helped italy greatly. whilst france and england have played a fitfully obstructionist and generally uninspired policy towards the restoration of european trade, italy has been steadily working in a positive direction. she has received substantial help from germany, help in return for help. the wasteful process of using switzerland as a fence for german goods has largely been abandoned in favour of a direct commercial exchange. italian shipping, augmented by its austrian spoils, has obtained considerable help and advice. quite surprising how many germans have posts in the italian shipping companies! germany has lost her own ships, but she has a large business executive in the background, the administrative organization of what was once a great mercantile marine. she has still a preponderant power in allocating business. the italian benefit and the success of italy's new policy have been reflected in the phenomenal appreciation of the lira which during the spring of actually gained / per cent in value, mounting from to the pound sterling in january to in may. such a rise in the value of the currency naturally helps italian industry, facilitating the import of raw materials and coal and oil. in the summer of italy became glutted with coal. such progress is not good news in moscow. the chief external hope of moscow must for long have been in italy. and conversely the chief hope of the socialists in italy must have been in the progress of moscow's international ideal. not that the proletarian leaders of comfortable italy realized what they were advocating. they are not such idealists in italy as to be ready to commit national suicide for the good of humanity as a whole, or even for the good of humanity as a class, as a working class. but, be that as it may, the moral authority waned when the russo-british trading treaty was signed. krassin killed the third internationale. you do not trade with a capitalistic state in order to destroy it. moscow began to set up a new bourgeois class, started shops again, and banks and private trading, and generally speaking, having buried the devil, dug him up again. with that, moscow ceased to inspire the grand international solidarity of proletariats. there was a set-back in wages over the whole world. at the same time the strike-weapon tended to fail. may day, , was one of the quietest of may days. in paris it was a joyous holiday; in berlin, though the jewellers ordered new steel screens for their goods, not a window was broken; in london the gloomy coal strike pursued its lonely road towards defeat, unsupported by even its own allies of transport and railroad, far less by an ideal from moscow. and bourgeois western europe--and italy not least--breathed afresh. rome is a spacious city. one feels that the great houses were built originally, not on streets, but on chosen spots, and the streets came to them. the house came to the man, and the street to the house, and that makes a nobler city than street-controlled lines and blocks. in rome there is no bondage of the street. and the many fountains with water-spouting nymphs and neptunes kill the drabness of business, and freshen modern civilization so that it ceases to know itself as such. when one compares rome with paris or berlin or london or new york, the newer capitals suffer. the mighty ruins have such authority over all that is new. it is one of the greatest standing-grounds and points of vantage in the world. it has been interpreted as the mountain of temptation from which satan showed the kingdom of _this_ world. it is the birthplace of caesardom and the modern idea of world-imperialism. it was once the seat of world-empire, and remains even now the rock of the church. for many all roads still lead to the cathedral of st. peter's as to the most representative temple in christendom. spiritually, rome abhors all sects and other centres of religious persuasion. spiritually, she claims to be the coincident centre of two worlds, this and the world to come. how fine is the interior of st. peter's, built to defy time, with its massive marbles and gigantic figures as fresh and new as if, indeed, a few hundred years were but as yesterday in god's sight. the exterior of the cathedral is transitory-looking, like an aspect of "this world." but inside is part of the eternal silence such as one might experience in a profound subterranean chamber. there is no aspiration, no adoration--but there is a sense of eternal law. the church is imposed on earth. about the dome is written, "thou art peter, and upon this rock i will build my church," in letters of gold--rome's ultimate authority. all is square and solid and heavy. there are no seats, but the extensive floor is of varying granites and marbles, on which those who believe kneel, and look so small, smaller than life-size in the presence of the thrice-magnified statues of the popes. so much for one mother-church of the world. it is well cared for in . the other mother-church of sancta sophia in constantinople still languishes under the pagan. rome swarms with all peoples. its base is italian, but it attracts the people of all nations--englishmen, americans, frenchmen, russians, are very common. the anglo-saxon party, guide-book in hand, is still staring at the ruins of ancient rome. the war has intervened, but it looks as if the tourist, engrossed in his "baedeker" had been doing the same every day all these years. the post card vendors and would-be guides still fret round the old monuments like crows. they alone disturb the equanimity of the old men and middle-aged ladies who love rome most. for the lovers of rome look at those wonderful columns of marcus aurelius and trajan with whole histories in spiral processionals climbing upwards to the pinnacle of fame--and their thoughts are not on these times. mightiest of the ruins of rome is certainly that of the colosseum, symbol of the decay of a great people debauched by their lusts and their rulers. the colosseum is sometimes included in the list of the wonders of the world, and it is certainly one of the most remarkable ruins of antiquity. if all modern rome were swept away by pestilence and earthquake, the colosseum would no doubt still stand, and be as provocative of thought as the pyramids themselves. it has already survived many earthquake shocks and nineteen noisy centuries. it stands to-day in grey serenity--a mighty stone structure of great height and massivity, with tier upon tier of galleries where could be accommodated surely all the rome of its day. there is no other place like it--with its two hundred and forty arched entrances, and its cages and prisons. it is vast and cruel and vain even now. all the circles glare down into the empty arena. imagine a festival at the albert hall when that little fragile building is packed from the expensive fringe of the stalls and the boxes to the mysterious height of the gallery, then magnify many times, and change wood into hewn rock, and take off the roof, and give roman air and sunlight, and change the character and dress of the people, and make them lust for blood and for strange sights, and give voices to their bellies and violent animation and excitability to their limbs and their features, and you have the roman amphitheatre, built to be a butchering-place for christians and captives of war, an arena for gladiators and a place of circuses. it is the symbol of the decay of rome. bede is said to have prophesied: "whilst the colosseum stands rome will stand; when the colosseum falls the world itself will fall," but that was merely testimony to its mighty structure. five or six palaces have been built of the marbles and other materials which have been taken away, and still the colosseum stands in all its architectural impressiveness. but the thing this amphitheatre was built for ruined rome. the taste for brutal pleasure which the emperors encouraged debauched the spirit of the romans, and deprived them of that traditional virtue of which they had been so proud. _panem et circenses_, the giving of bread unworked for, and the making of grand gladiatorial shows for the plebs. standing-room for twenty thousand plebians was actually given free, and the other eighty thousand people who could be accommodated paid little enough. the shows which gave pleasure also gave glory, and emperors and magistrates sunned themselves in the people's favour by the entertainment they could procure for the masses. wild beasts were let out upon little crowds of kneeling christian victims and tore them to pieces amid the guffaws and delighted yells of that vast concourse of people. or men fought with infuriated beasts--the foundation of the bull-fight. bears and lions and rhinoceroses and elephants and many other animals were opposed to men for the popular delight. or men fought men with swords, and champions arose and championships in plenty. we read of one gladiator worsting hundreds of other gladiators in the arena of the colosseum to the joy of the people, who got extremely excited as to whether the fight had been a sporting one, and whether they should have the defeated gladiator killed or let him go: thumbs up or thumbs down! rome fell: its era was supplanted by another greater era. the barbarian whom the romans had enslaved and tormented at last threw down the mighty empire. i see before me the gladiator lie butchered to make a roman holiday . . . shall he expire and unavenged? arise! ye goths and glut your ire as byron wrote. now little children are playing where wild beasts were held, and tourists peep into the empty dens where the christian prisoners were kept. a great war has lately been raging when all manner of anachronistic tendencies of mankind were displayed, but the popular lust for cruelty and blood, which once raged from all those burning roman eyes about the great arena, has not returned. few people now can bear to look on at cruelty. even executions are hidden from men's eyes, and if, upon occasion, we will cruelty, we demand that it shall be accomplished away from our eyes, and that we shall not be confronted with the details. here, where such gory things were done, if one of us saw an organ-grinder threatening a monkey with a knife we should leap to save the monkey--and ourselves. it may be the leaven of christianity, or the development of man, or the racial predominance of the sympathetic northern european, but it is none the less a remarkable fact that cruelty which was once public meat and drink for every one is now a hidden thing, lurking only in the secrets of prison-life or in places like those parts of the new world where the mob still burns its negroes alive and takes pleasure in the sight. joy in sheer cruelty has, however, been supplanted by brutal sport. the bull-fights of spain are true colosseum spectacles, and whilst the danger-thrills which throb through a human concourse at the assaults of an infuriated bull may not be as degrading as mere gloating over pain, what can we say of the disembowelling of the horses which is such a feature of that sport. and the modern prize fight and boxing championship has something of the gladiatorial spirit. the enormous interest in the dempsey-carpentier contest is evidence of the increasingly debauched taste of the world's democracies. the olympic games have much more to be said in their favour. but whilst they encourage professional athleticism it can hardly be said that they encourage europe to be more athletic. the sokol movement in czecho-slovakia and the boy scout movement are much more promising. the more you look on at games the less you play them, and the more you play them the less are you content to look on. the scene of our modern olympic games goes from capital to capital in europe, and thanks to public spirit and the subscriptions of industrial magnates, great stadiums such as that which we have now at athens, have come into being. perhaps when our old world has become the ancient world, and living civilization has fled across the oceans, the most remarkable of our ruins and remains of the past may be our stadiums and colosseums and arenas designed for international games and prize fights. ancient rome and its fate is our great unheeded warning. [ ] w a popular hieroglyphic for viva. letters of travel xv. from monte carlo the voice of a man in the riviera express: "i am absolutely broke. i'm up against it, up against the great it, and it's neck or nothing for me, my boy--so i'm off for monte carlo. i'm going to leave it to chance, and chance is the best counsellor after all. what's human wisdom by the side of chance? just a turn of the wheel, and all my troubles are solved." "god d---n it, it's more sporting than fretting my brains out in a dirty city like london or paris, and trying to find a way out of my tangle. heads i win, tails----well, devil take it, tails doesn't matter. i've lost, anyway." it reminded me somehow of the title of a famous story: "never bet the devil your head." but there's no need to feel righteous. we all do it. we yield to despair. a wise man said, "gambling is the real sin against the holy ghost because no man should be so unfaithful to his god-given reason as to resort to chance, and all things are possible for the man who believes." all things are possible for a man, for a nation, for a europe, no matter in what plight they find themselves, if only they will yield to the spirit. however, it is not of much use talking in this wise to a scoffer. he that maun to cupar maun to cupar. we're all in the same express train, plunging towards the riviera. the wild shore of north-western italy and southern france, tamed with villas and white halls, and luxurious with palms and vineyards hinting of north africa. you roll along a magnificent coast to the principality of monaco, and europe's formal garden of sin. it makes much difference whether you arrive there in despair, or just in a spirit of curiosity, or for a change, or "to make a little money," or for your health, or whether you just land up there through weariness of travel. but you always find monte carlo has been arranged for your arrival. it is serious; it is smart and clean. everything seems first class. there is something of the smartness of execution morning when a court-martial sentence is being carried out. yes, there are no poor at monte carlo; a poor person is thought to be ugly in himself, and is not allowed to dwell there. even an ill-dressed person might be conducted to the frontier. no beggars are allowed. no bits of dirty paper or refuse are lying in the streets, and certainly there are no weeds in the gardens. the profits of the gambling-tables provide the most efficient municipality in the world, and no one who lives in monaco is charged any taxes; the revenue derived from roulette covers all that and more besides. at the same time, no actual resident is allowed to stake his money at the tables. everything here is perfect. it has been produced like the scenery of a piece, and when you arrive the curtain goes slowly up, and it is your first night. the beauty which you see is strangely artificial, and all partakes of the grotesque. here flourishes that monstrous cactus-like growth called prickly-pear, with flat flap-like leaves resembling fingerless green hands; warped and brutal-looking stems looking like palsied arms. the cactus is abloom in red-hot poker ends. orange trees and lemon trees and olive trees abound. burlesquely-shaped palms, swathed in their overcoats, stand on the green lawns like waxwork figures. there is a strange field of palms, and above and behind them the great rocks of the mountain coast, and then the sea-serpents of green water and white foam. you walk along the parade-ground of the terrace where wealth and style show themselves to themselves, and then enter the gloomy portals of the gaming-halls, and you step at once into a new and very serious atmosphere. you feel something of the seriousness of an animal's mind when it has become conscious of the existence somewhere of a trap. the casino is like a great club. you leave your hat and stick and coat. you go upstairs, not as a visitor, but as one at home. the place is moving with well-dressed people, some passing one way, some another. you show your pass-ticket, and come not without trepidation to the actual tables. i have all my travelling expenses in my pocket--what if i get infected and put all on to a number? the first impression is pleasant. in a mellow, golden light, a whole series of happy afternoon-parties have been arranged. groups of interesting strangers have found a common interest and are sitting side by side in perfect good manners around tables. there is only one row of seats round each table, no tiers of seats. it is like a party at home. at the back of those who sit others are standing looking on--not indifferently. tokens--chips, as they are called--are being placed on various numbers, on the chance of a red number, or the chance of a black number, on the chance of an even or on the chance of uneven, pair or impair, _passé_ or _manqué_. it is so elementary that even the dullest of europeans can grasp the game at a few glances. the croupiers, with their rakes, also sit at table (among the guests), and help see that all is in order. the ball spins round. it rattles. it loses its clear course and will come to rest in a slot. it does. some have won, many have lost. the many parties, each with its separate table and distinct stories of chance and luck going on, are intense and preoccupied. the sitters have notebooks in which they record the numbers which win and on which they base their future "play." some play exclusively on colour, others on odds and evens, others on the dozens, others on _voisinage_, others on numbers, some on zero. it is very serious. in the secret hearts of the sitters some liken themselves to napoleon, who, they are persuaded, was at once one of the greatest of gamblers and the greatest of men. some are would-be cagliostros and michael scotts. you see the stupid, brainy european, devoid of superstition as he thinks, and yet eaten up with natural superstition. you see also the emotional turbulent soul developing abnormality and mania on absurd stakes for money, the mad, unpractical russian staking on zero or on the slenderest chance for the greatest of gains. the russians and the jews and the americans are the greatest of gamblers. no, it is not quite such a pleasant atmosphere as you thought when you first came in. it is an atmosphere in which vigilance tries to still the pulse. you pass restlessly from one hypnotized table of gamblers to another. the grandeur of gold and heavy glass make you feel as if you were swimming under water in some great untroubled lake. and as you tread softly and silently over the thick carpets it is something like swimming. there is an intense stillness about each roulette table. even the winners are impassive. and the groups are gloomier still at the stables where they are playing "trente et quarante." "every one came in to win, but nearly every one is losing--isn't it like life?" said a friend. "worse even than life." pompous and watchful lackeys dressed as for the stage are walking about, keeping their eyes open for sharps, for possible scandal-raisers, or would-be suicides. the greatest care is taken to preserve decorum. if you lose your whole fortune there you must not shout it out and strike a heroic posture or blow your brains out. these strong lackeys will whisk you dexterously from the scene before the other gamblers realize what you were about to do. there is a sense of being watched all the while. "_faites le jeu, messieurs!_" "_le jeu est fait._" "_rien ne va plus._" the winners get their winnings. the bank rakes in tremendous quantities of money-tokens. its success is very impressive. you see very clearly demonstrated how poor is the mental apparatus of the average man. no wonder it is difficult to get europe on to a basis of common sense when _homo sapiens_ has such a limited brain-box. "i'm staking on the number now," says one. "the number has not come up for thirty-four times. it's almost bound to come soon." "why's that?" "so as to correspond to the theory of chances." "i don't suppose the number is much excited about it." the number comes up. the exultant gambler pockets thirty-six times his stake, and then engrosses himself in his exercise-book of figures to find another number which hasn't come up for a long while. he stakes on . thirteen comes up again. "what a fool i was," he whispers in mortification. "i ought to have known there was a chance of its coming up a second time." to the theory of chances most minds are susceptible and this delightful theory lies at the bottom of most systems. not in the case, however, of a certain lady who claimed to have considerable success. she played by astrology. she kept the record of the winning numbers. "see," said she, "how many of them are even numbers." "why is that?" i murmured. "hercules is in the ascendant this month. that always means more even numbers." you do not see the humour of such a remark whilst you are in the casino. the strain on the minds of the gamblers tells on your mind, too. it is terribly tiring for every one taking part, and this is noticeable in the drawn and fatigued-looking faces. even the croupiers have to be changed every hour. the strain is utterly exhausting. it would doubtless be different in these fine high halls if there were currents of air, but there are not. it is thousand-times-breathed gamblers' breath that you are breathing, suffused with the heavy odour of the expensive perfumes on the women. what a change when you step outside into the fresh air once more. you realize what it feels like when the casino closes, and the maniacs with their hot heads are actually forced to leave the tables and come out. to think that at ten in the morning there are queues waiting to get in and get seats at the tables, and that men and women are ready to remain at the tables all day, and can live on it and die at it! up on the heights above, at rocco bruna, is a saracen-built little town with strange dark people who seldom come down from the heights. you go by shady steps between high white walls to a little chapel, and there on sunday a beloved _curé_ beguiles an innocent little flock with a murmuring, heavenly, sing-song voice, whilst the children with untroubled voices are like larks in a heaven above monte carlo, singing, "_sancta, sancta, nostra dama priez pour nous!_" i'd rather live at rocca bruna than in the main seat of the principality of monaco. so would we all. but the devil has got such a terrible pull. letters of travel xvi. from london you would hardly think that the greatest drama in world history is being played out in europe, and that england was taking a part. you would hardly think that england herself was in mortal danger. london astonishes the traveller. it seems entirely given over to trivial and alien interest. betting on horses has never reached such dimensions. whilst the street-criers of belgrade keep calling "_politika, politika!_" and the attention of berlin is ruefully pinned down to reparations, and paris is dignified and serious and national in both newspapers and conversation, you hear nothing in the streets of london but, "what's the latest, bill?" and "i can tell you of a 'orse." in the vestry of a fashionable church the admirers of a certain earnest preacher come to see him after the sermon. says a lady, "well, padre, can you tell us the great secret?" the priest pauses and reflects. "i suppose by the great secret you mean the love of god? i could not tell you that at once." "oh, no," says the lady, "i don't mean that. i mean who will be winner on june the first." derby day is given in the press the prominence of a grand european event. descriptions of what the ladies wear at ascot occupy as many columns in the newspaper as the condition of four million unemployed occupy lines. the attention of the public is engulfed in second-rate sport. it is not as if there were a real boom in sport. the war has effected men's physique and their nerves so that most sporting exhibitions are of the second class. strictly speaking, it is not an interesting cricket year. but the interest in the county competitions has been whipped up by the press till people buy special editions of papers, not for the latest news from silesia or turkey, or of the great strikes, but to know how middlesex or lancashire is getting on. england versus australia is greatly starred. england loses matches, and the nation seems as much plunged in gloom as she was at the failures of the old south african war. in the golf and tennis and polo competitions there is a similar neurotic interest in the supposed sporting rivalry of england and america. it seems even fortunate for the _mens sana_ of old britain that she has failed in boxing, and that the dempsey-carpentier match in america did not affect our national status in our own esteem. but even our secondary public interests are not in vital matters. the traveller returning to london in the summer of plunges into a whole series of unsavoury divorce cases being threshed out in public. divorce is applied for, considered, granted, in every capital in europe, but nowhere does it receive the publicity in the press that it does in england. its unseemly details are left in the obscurity of private life elsewhere, and not brought forward for public consideration as in england. one arrives in london just in time to hear the lord chief justice make a grand summing-up of a nullity suit, and to hear two other judges court the public eye with detailed remarks in levity of moral conduct and the immodesty of women. we sometimes in england refer to the poisonous daily press of paris, but paris, with all its men-and-women troubles, has no salacious columns in its papers comparable to those of england. it would not at present pay in paris; the people are not so much interested. sport is the first interest; divorce second; and only third comes the great coal strike which threatens a revolution in industrial life. fourth in interest come anti-waste crusades directed against an unpopular government. then the irish trouble, and after that probably european affairs. "they're writing so much about sport just to keep people's minds off the coal strike and more serious matters," says a comfortably-minded citizen. "the government gives the papers a hint every day as to the line to take." the idea that the government prompts the press came with the war and the efforts of the press bureau, and has come perhaps to stay. journalists have made great efforts since to regain for the british press that independence and freedom it had before the war. fleet street has been hard hit, and the free-lancers who live outside fleet street hit harder still. not that the writing profession has been beaten by the manipulators of public opinion. it is fighting hard in london and will ultimately win. but some one is responsible for a perversion of public interest at this time, and for leading the mind of the nation away from the real points of vital significance. it is not mere commerce. papers could have been sold in even greater numbers on the strength of the stupendous political events of england and the continent. england is a democracy, but what is the virtue of a democracy which languishes in ignorance? of all countries britain has now the broadest basis of franchise. we can vote, but what is the use of voting when you know nothing of the issues at stake, and when even the candidates are ignorant of affairs and try to win by making sentimental popular appeals to varying prejudices? england is low. it is a humiliating platitude. england stands far lower to-day than the level of her national sacrifices. the civil service and army and police are carrying on the administration of great britain and ireland, and foreign and imperial policy. politicians and statesmen seem to be inferior in mind and training to the civil servants who keep the machine going. the gifts requisite for getting into power in england are not the same gifts which are needed for wise government. what the undistinguished have learned painfully at school our leaders somehow have missed. one could forgive the politician if he understood the elements of political economy. but the unforgiveable confronts us, and our new system of government has admitted to power people capable of abrogating penny post and abolishing penny-a-mile railway travel, and of raising telephone charges because the more the subscribers the more the expense. if they are capable of these elementary mistakes it is not surprising that they should have failed to ward off the great trade depression, and failed to help europe to get together. the accessibility of markets in europe does not interest politicians except in the most casual way. a remarkable phenomenon of the time is the continuation of the grand traffic in public honours which reached such dimensions during the war. it cannot be thought that the party funds of the politicians in power are so low that they have to be supplemented two or three times a year. yet on june th, for instance, behold once more new barons, baronets, knights, orders of the bath, and privy councillors in columns of names. over and above the heads of the ordinary english people a new aristocracy, if one can call it so, is being built up from the ranks of business men. the ordinary british citizen begins to feel in a vague way that there are now many thousands of new titled people up above. one wonders what it means for the future. is england going to develop a new caste system which the commonalty will have to fight? there are now six barons of the press, and "the times" and "daily mail," the "daily telegraph," the "sunday herald," the "express," the "news of the world," the "daily chronicle," and "pall mall gazette," are, as it were, feudal castles and feudal organizations in our new england. it is enough to start a new war of the roses. lord northcliffe has much in common with the king-maker if prime ministers are uncrowned kings. these press barons in their way are remarkable men, but as the gates were opened to let them in a whole host of other people slipped through. it is a human weakness to desire decorations. it ought to be the function of a strong, wise government to save us from ourselves. in the sixteenth century spaniards gave coloured beads to indians in exchange for gold. in the twentieth century something similar obtains in england where successful gentlemen part with large sums in exchange for tiny decorations. perhaps the matter is not so important as it might seem to the theorist. japanese students of our life make many strange deductions from such phenomena as the extensive manufacture of new titles of nobility. but whether they are right or wrong in their far-drawn conclusions it must be admitted that so much honour bestowed in such unremarkable days has made us flabby as a nation. indeed, we suffer by comparison with the french and the americans who have notably increased the dignity of simple citizenship. and yet another contrast strikes one after a tour of europe in and that is that in england, despite protests about taxes, there are more people of independent means than in any other country. the _pensionnaires_ of the state and of industry have increased with us, whilst in many countries they have almost disappeared. fewer people are actually earning their living in england than in any other country; more people are just passengers on the economic machine. the working part of the population carries a mass of non-workers on its back all the while. anyone who did well in the great war could reasonably hope to lay by , pounds which gave him an income of , pounds a year tax free. that , pounds a year tax free has now to be earned by those who work and given to those who work not. in germany, in austria, there were also those who did well in the war and invested in war loans and the like. but their currency depreciated to such an extent that what would have been an income equivalent to , pounds a year had germany won, became in germany pounds a year, and in austria only pounds or pounds. they have to work nowadays. so have all the old moneyed class. and even in france and italy incomes have been reduced by one-half and two-thirds. england is fortunate no doubt; but in another sense she is unfortunate. we cannot exactly afford so many idle hands; nor can we afford the number of empty minds that england has to-day. and more time and trouble is being given to the education of children who will not do anything for england than to the education of the middle and working classes. the teachers generally are very enthusiastic for their profession and their work. like the journalists they would make for real values, but they are obstructed by forces which prove too great for them. the remedy which is generally propounded is "revolution," and revolution of a kind is bound to come. it is difficult to believe in the suggestion of chesterton, "our wrath come after russia's wrath, and our wrath prove the worst." it may not be wrath but it will be change. a few men on clydeside and a few in south wales are of the dangerous stuff, but most people in great britain are passive to a fault. a great economic change brought about by business depression is more probable than a stampede to the barricades. strangely enough, all winter, spring, and summer of the "cost of living" decreased in england. no doubt, if england resolved to live on european food instead of colonial food, and if she could get that food in sufficient quantities, and if she could import all the goods she requires, the "cost of living" would still go down for quite an appreciable time. down also would go the pound, and eventually up--very rapidly up--would go the cost of living. the position of the pound is in any case against nature. money and the cost of materials tend like water to find a common level. the majestic pound is standing up on end like the waters of the red sea to let the israelites pass over dry-shod out of egypt. when they get to the other side down will come the pound. there is besides the economic element of revolution a political one also. if england follows her parliamentary institutions and does not suspend them as czecho-slovakia has done hers, there is bound to be a great change soon. adult franchise of male and female ought certainly to bring labour into power. but the spirit of england will overcome the greed and vulgarity of the age. england still preserves a fine reputation on the continent. that is because of the code of a gentleman. the man who keeps his word, lives cleanly, and is generally reserved in conversation, is admired in every capital. the political efforts made to ease the peace treaty and help the germans, have done england's reputation no harm. the english fill the imagination as men of honour. it is difficult, however, to relate england to europe. in terms of england's honour we are nearer than we were, and _perfide albion_ is not nearly so perfidious. but as a business people we are out of touch. we have more bad types of business men than formerly. there are a lot of commercial rogues, who, at least, call themselves english, though their mothers may have played false. on the other hand, the stalwart, honest type does not get on so well as he did. the war has confused his mind a little. many still want to punish the germans. and in punishing the ex-enemy they punish themselves. one would think that the supposed "nation of shopkeepers" would be appealed to on grounds of commercial sagacity. a nation that has made the experiment of a business government might be expected to live by a business code. it is well known in business that good-will is the foundation of prosperous trade, and that hostile relationships do not pay. how often has one read this type of appeal in england. the sentences are taught in english commercial correspondence classes: "i want to make a proposition to you, a strictly commercial proposition. how can we help one another to do more business? how can we be mutually serviceable to one another? think it over. i do you a good turn now because i know you are certain to be in a position by and by to do me a good turn." it has been open for england to say this to germany, france, serbia, czecho-slovakia, the united states, and to many other countries, but for some reason or other we have held off. we have substituted another and not very worthy phrase, "let them stew in their own juice," forgetting that if we let them stew there we shall stew, too, in ours. and it is not likely to be a very good stew. "the times" has given its powerful influence to promote the idea of an alliance with france. but it came at a moment when france had just been thwarted by great britain in her european policy. moreover, it was not inspired by either the people or the government of england. france understood this. "the times" also has been developing the idea of anglo-american friendship, and that has made more progress there. the many titled american women in england naturally desire it, and collectively they have considerable power. most american writers in england and english writers in america work for it. "if we can't run together, we of the same blood and of the same tongue," says sinclair lewis, to a literary club one june night, "let's give it up. let's cry off altogether and admit that we are all a lot of savages." the english masses are indifferent to the idea of alliance. the real opposition to it is not in england, but in america where anglophobes abound. there are more haters of england in america than in the countries of europe--more lovers also. both are sensitive, and the game of mortifying one another goes on. germany, czecho-slovakia, serbia, hungary, are more eager for a constructive friendship with great britain, and indeed generally speaking europe needs england more than america needs her. there is one slight exception to the general apathy, and that is the abandonment of anti-bolshevik hate, and the signing of a trading treaty with russia--a long-delayed fruit of common sense. russia is in a desperate plight, and we cannot live by what she yields alone, but it will help. but if we can shake hands with bolsheviks why not with germans? it is curious that despite the strong sympathies for germany in england there is no public move for a friendly understanding between the two powers. pro-germans are still a little afraid of the war-epithets and abuse. commercial travellers in their quiet way are steadily placing orders for cheap german goods all over england, but there is no effort to exploit the situation to the mutual advantage of english and german. alone sir reginald mackenna, the chairman of the london city and midland bank, in a remarkable speech to the shareholders and directors indicated our astonishing passivity. the war has brought germany low, and the lower she goes the more dangerous she is to the rest of us. but no one will face it. if we did resolve to face it we should find many germans ready to co-operate and give help in exchange for help. the low german mark may seem to mean the ruin of english manufacturers, but we ought to bear in mind that there is no nation more direly in need of international help than this same fearsome germany. the trade slump is great, but it is perhaps only the beginning. people ignorantly blame the strikers, but many manufacturers have secretly not been sorry for the strikes. the strikes have damped down production. they have brought down wages, they have not raised them. it is of little use going on producing great quantities of goods for which there is at present no market, and no use producing above the european market price. it would be truer to say that the strikes are partly the result of the depression. most of the strikes have been caused by "cuts" in wages. wages have been sought to be reduced in order to turn out cheaper products and so be able to compete with other cheap european goods. the secret of the obduracy of the coal-owners has lain in the fact that british coal costs more than the world-price per ton. the difference in price could be put on to the private consumer but there are limits to his means of purchasing. it is impossible to do more trade with the consumer. the main coal business is with the factory and the ship, and these compete in world-markets for their own business. all want to keep the cost of production low in order to compete with the countries of low exchange. the european exchange is proving to be the most vital matter for english trade. its irregularities reflect the irregularities of our europe and they must be met. an equality of values must somehow be obtained, and it could be obtained in a spirit of general friendship and good-will. great sacrifices would be necessary from rich people of all the nations concerned, and large schemes of revenge and punishment would have to be abandoned. but in doing so we should all save one another; in not doing so we are likely all to ruin one another. letters of travel xvii. from paris france is the mainspring of the new mechanism, and paris the control. that is why i chose to go to paris last--so that all, even london, could be related to her. the initiative in european politics is taken by france and she has the most active policy. most other states wait to see what france is doing and shape their policies accordingly. london is generally in opposition to paris, but english action is so sluggish and so independable that even those states who loathe the new france are obliged to assume that england does not really count. with the exception of greece, england is not giving active support or practical sympathy to any other country in europe. but france backs poles and turks and hungarians and serbs, and is carrying out a grand scheme of world-policy clearly--if not very effectively. france has made great progress since the war. alone among the warring powers in this respect she stands higher than she did in . she stands higher than she has done at any time since the great napoleon. the government it is true is in direful need of money, and has always a difficult political path to tread, but both the french individual and the nation as a whole have gained enormously. peoples and governments are too often confused, and the plight of m. briand sometimes deceives people as to the position of france. "france is bankrupt," says a leading publicist, in one of the london reviews. but the french people are not bankrupt. far from it. on the average they are a very rich people. even in the devastated areas there has been a rapid financial recovery due to the hard work and perseverance of the returned inhabitants. the constant talk about the ruined north of france has been more a matter of propaganda than verity. though war was not carried into yorkshire and lancashire, it is quite clear that england is to-day in a much more ruinous state than france. the french drove our sentimental politicians through carefully chosen routes and showed them the grand spectacle of war's ruins. and they were impressed. but there is ruin which cannot be seen from a car window. an economic dry-rot at the heart of a country is more terrible than excoriations on the surface. in paris you realize at once a remarkable change in atmosphere after london. the barometer has risen. it suddenly feels better to be alive. there is a sense of something in the air; something doing. yes, the people are smarter and cleaner; their eyes are brighter. the streets are better kept. _amour propre_ is expressed in all the shop windows, in the manners of 'bus conductors, waiters, salesmen, chance acquaintances, in the tone of the press. what is the matter? can it be that paris has become first-class and london has ceased to be first-class? paris was not like this in . she was decidedly down-at-heel. there was no particular verve or dignity in the ways of parisians. they carried on in a second-rate way in a civilization which to the general european traveller seemed inferior both to london and berlin. something has intervened, and that something is not merely war but victory. victory has intervened and has fed the french soul with the thing which it required. we know now more of what france was like before . evidently for fifty years she has lived in a state of depression and spiritual thraldom, and now she has escaped and is more herself. france has recovered her national pride and self-consciousness. she has expanded. increase of territory and of national interests has given to french self-consciousness more room, and you behold the opposite type of development to that which is in process in germany, where national self-consciousness has been turned in on itself. that is why it is good to be alive in paris and not so good in london or berlin. it is possible to be winning and still remain down-hearted, but this is not the case at paris. the supposed fear of germany is only political bluff. france fears no germans. she fears nobody. perhaps she ought to fear--for the far future. but she has always had a belief in herself and her way of doing things and an inbred contempt for other races as for barbarians, and it has only needed this colossal victory in a world-war to set her on her pedestal of fame once more. it was in doubt for a while before the war, but now it is sure--all the world must learn french; if it cannot speak french it must at least think french. french is the universal medium of civilization and good manners. the emissaries of france in every country of europe carry france's civilizing mission and tell the foreign statesmen of the young states what to do and how to do it. as england sends missionaries to spread the gospel of christ so france sends hers to spread the gospel of france. the sense of this glorious activity comes back to the heart and the brain at paris, and it is small wonder that steps are lighter and eyes brighter. if only the government could fill its exchequer! france lives by loans, and even an interest of six per cent free of income-tax will not tempt the citizens to invest sufficient money to pay the government's way. the government cannot raise its revenue by taxes. an englishman slavishly pays half his income in taxes, but not a frenchman. it is difficult to get five per cent. and there one comes suddenly upon france's greatest vice and weakness--avarice. it is france's penuriousness and meanness and her exaggerated thrift that stands most in the way of her material greatness now. the government needs to spend a great deal more than it used to do before the war, must spend it, if it is to do the best for france. france has the consciousness of being the greatest power in europe, and she has the will to play the rôle of the greatest power, and she is called upon to do things in style. france is romantic in ambition, she is vivacious and happy and dignified, till she is called upon to pay anything. then the frenchwoman in the french nation reveals herself. the eyes become small, the lips thin, the cheeks pale, the whole being shrinks into itself and goes on the defensive. france wishes to run this new europe which has come into being, on the old lines, playing with hatreds and jealousies and conflicting interests as a chess-player with his pieces. the idealists of england and america want to eradicate the jealousies and hatreds and run the same new europe on principles of pure love. france says human nature never changes. britain and america say human nature has progressed with them and it must progress similarly in europe. france's final answer is laughter. so constant is france's amusement at the expense of the anglo-saxon that she has adopted the _sourire ironique_ as something necessary to typical beauty in a frenchman. it is, therefore, not surprising that m. octave duplessis in the "figaro" should find that characteristic work of h. g. wells, the "salvaging of civilization," quite ridiculous. il nous ramene aux rêves ineptes des fourier et des cabet, effacant de la surface de ce pauvre globe terraqué toutes les barrières, aplanissant avec intrépiditée les plus grands obstacles, niant le fait concret des nationalités, de plus en plus positif pourtant à mesure que progresse la civilisation, et saluant déjà l'aurore du jour où ce globe deplume, sans barbe et sans cheveux comme un grand potiron roulera dans les cieux m. britling nous ramene donc de cent ans en arriéré, au mauvais socialisme primitif de l'époque romantique. il ressuscite de poussiéreuses momies. by denying the possibility of realizing the dream of a world-state or a collective european state, the frenchman speaks for his country. france regards the development of european history with simple realism and without ideals. the only weak link in her chain-mail is the belief in the civilizing mission of france. if there is no progress why have a mission to civilize? perhaps the religious sentimentalism of western politicians was a revelation to french statesmen. france, for all her cosmopolitanism, has always been badly informed as to the life of the people in england and america. something of the general astonishment was voiced by clemenceau, if the story of him is true. he is supposed to have said of wilson: "he is an excellent man, but he thinks he's jesus christ." in france all excellence is excellence of form. the idea of the growth of the soul and of germinal excellence of any kind is foreign. for our part in england and america we understand little of form. france therefore can upon occasion show the world something which no one can deny to be excellent. the parisian can very well say in london or new york: "you have much that is large and fine, but it is clear that you do not understand art and have very little taste. in france we do things better than this." he does not put his _poilu inconnu_ in the depths of a cathedral in order to bring an unbelieving crowd into the house of god, but puts him in the public way under the arc de triomphe. he does not say that the soldier died for king and country, and then mutilate a text--"greater love hath no man than this," but he inscribes--"_ici repose un soldat français mort pour la patrie_," and leaves the living to make their own reflections. his paris is a city of statues and gardens but it is all dignified, it is all in good taste. even the houses and the shops conform to the general idea of the fitness and elegance of paris. among the emblems of the time, however, there is in paris one statue on exhibition which offends good taste, and even an englishman can see that it may become ludicrous. it is the marble figure representing the "_republique française pendant la guerre_," now placed at the head of the tuileries gardens. it is madame france wearing a _poilu's_ helmet. there is a look of triumph in her upturned face. france in her has become younger. most figures of france are diana-like, but here apparently is one the tender contour of whose limbs is not official but intimate. a policeman is in charge, but it verges on the indiscreet to ask him any questions. one dare be certain that paris will not accept this statue, for though it expresses something of the new spirit of france, it is not in perfect taste, it is not quite dignified. there is something very characteristic of france in the thousands of seeming-widows whom you see clad in becoming weeds. the widow's veil raises the dignity of the frenchwoman and confirms her piety so that she feels like a madonna when her husband is dead, and loves to walk like one. some wear this attire without being widowed--it conforms so well to a secret desire. the demure widow so dressed has much charm. there is, however, another and a better type, and that is the joan of arc type of young frenchwoman so often overlooked in a survey of french reality. the new, bright, white marble figure of joan in the cathedral of notre-dame is worth a prayer for france. one has met joan in life, she is generally sixteen or seventeen, ardent, heroic, romantic, with the poetry of corneille and racine upon her lips. she is full of effervescent devotion, impetuous and entirely "pure." what happens to her in modern france it would be difficult to say. the english do not come and burn her for a witch; but english people do not like the type, do not understand it, and generally prefer the insincere madonnas or the madame bovarys of france. but to understand france one must take cognizance of this feminine crusading spirit. much that is genuine and worth while in france can be associated with the type of joan. even in the midst of modern politics one should look for joan. french aspirations has a grand turn. we think of the french as realists, but they are romanticists. they look back and then look forward. they see events with long black shadows as at sunset. they harangue themselves. in the english people humour comes to chase the romantic away and it will not let us get into a heroic vein. but not so with the french. their humour is weak. so at school, in books, in inscriptions on statues, in public speeches, you will constantly come upon the heroic, romantic strain, and you will find adjurations to the french people: "_français, élevez vos âmes et vos résolutions à la hauteur des périls qui fondent sur la patrie. il dépend encore de vous de montrer à l'univers ce qu'est un peuple qui ne veut pas périr_," as it says on the gambetta monument. this splendid spirit is betrayed by the sordidness of modern life. the exchange for romantic idealism is cynicism and soullessness. joan does not remain joan all her life--if she 'scapes burning she is quickly destroyed by the world. the philosophy of _voila tout_ soon possesses her. i always remember the end of octave feuillet's "_histoire d'une jeune parisienne_"-- dans l'ordre moral, il ne nait point de monstres: dieu n'en fait pas; mais les hommes en font beaucoup. c'est ce que les mères ne doivent pas oublier. in france's plan for europe there is both the idealistic romantic and the cynical materialistic. if england really understood the spirit of france she would strengthen the former. and france might really take england into her confidence. england, and indeed most other nations, see in france a selfish, narrow, matter-of-fact power, and in seeing these things they help to make france so. if france took britain into her confidence she would possibly explain her policy in this way--"the great war which has just passed was first and foremost a war between germany and france. the germans do not understand us; they loathe and despise our civilization. they have been entirely wrong, but they had the big battalions on their side. once they beat us in the field and they took away and subjugated two of our provinces, almost killing the french spirit there and germanizing to the utmost of their ability. a second war has taken place and we, thanks to the help of allies, have won. we have gained an overwhelming victory. the germans have made a complete surrender. president wilson deceived them into thinking that they might arrange an easy peace, and they surrendered their weapons. france was glad to see her vain enemy fooled and despoiled of her means of continuing the strife. france, however, never accepted wilsonian idealism. why should she? america has never bled as france has bled. she has never lived in the danger in which france has lived. she does not understand europe. but france owed america a great deal of money and could not afford to offend her. she had the mortifying and difficult rôle to play second to wilson at the peace-table though first in sacrifice and first in danger. france's object has been and is to place germany completely _hors de combat_. her mortal enemy is in her power. france's first desire is not money or territory, but just security. france does not fear germany in her present spiritless, unarmed state. france does not fear germany at all. but the fruit of victory which she desires is that she should put it entirely out of the power of germany to return to the struggle. the league of nations is being arranged to stop warfare among all races. france does not believe that that is practicable, human nature being what it is. but france does see that one war of the future can be eliminated, and that is another franco-german struggle. with that in view france has embarked on a real policy embodied in the following programme:-- ( ) the complete demilitarization of the german people. we will not allow her to have an army or a navy. ( ) the dismantling of the german empire. we would undo what bismarck accomplished; for in destroying the unity of germany we should destroy most of its power to reorganize after defeat. the dismantling of modern germany implies for us: (a) alsace and lorraine for france. (b) upper silesia for poland. (c) a separate state of bavaria. (d) a separate state of westphalia. (e) a polish corridor to dantzig, separating east and west prussia. (f) no union between austria and germany. "france is not in favour of plebiscites, as the war was won not by a plebiscite but by a superior number of cannon. the plebiscite was a wilson invention and france regards it passively. if plebiscites stand in the way of a real policy in europe they ought to be disregarded. as regards questions such as that of the ruhr valley occupation france is ready to take any avenue which leads to a furtherance of her fundamental policy. the saddling of germany with an immense indemnity is primarily necessary in order to pay off the war debts of france and britain to the united states. for the rest, the indemnity debt can be used as a check on germany so that we can watch her." such is in any case france's policy. she pursues it in subterranean ways and through intrigue and by all the old tricks of secret diplomacy, evidently trusting no one but herself. it is unfortunate. much could be gained both in england and america by a clear, frank statement. with regard to russia there is little of the idealistic spirit in french policy. her attitude towards russia has little to do with her attitude towards europe as a whole. france does fear that poland may come to nothing, and that germany and russia may come into vital contact. otherwise russia is a place apart. russia is a place where many millions of french francs have been lost. france does not understand russia, does not want to. france is quite sufficient for france. but she has received a terrible blow in a most sensitive part. france's vice as we have said is avarice. she does not expect to lose money. france is not like america where one loses a fortune to-day and makes one to-morrow. in france when you make a fortune you keep it. the russia which confiscated foreign holdings and ceased to pay dividends is a thief of portentous guilt to france. france, therefore, steadfastly opposes that russia, and she has as steadfastly supported the other russia which says she will recognize these old debts and pay them back plus dividends. france disapproved of the original revolution, but is said to have been persuaded to it by england. france thought the march ' conspiracy very risky. and she soon realized that she had been right. revolution meant repudiation of debt. and russia will never pay back her debts now unless in the form of "rights of exploitation." france backed koltchak and yudenitch and denikin and wrangel and the polish war--all for the sake of her money. not because she was sorry for the russians or for the rights of humanity, or because she was scandalized by communism. her plan generally has been to persuade england to supply the outfit and pay for the expense, but she has also paid somewhat and has thrown good money after bad--the thief gone with so much and so much to find the thief! russia is a sore point, an aggravated loss. and now that the counter-revolutionaries have failed, france is almost as much out of sympathy with the russian refugees as she is with the bolsheviks themselves. paris, however, remains the capital of russia in exile. there are more distinguished russians there than in any other capital of europe, and russian world-policy is organized from there. it is general wrangel's civil headquarters. during the last days i was in paris the russian national congress constituted itself a "national union of russia," dedicated to the task of liberating russia from the third international and at the same time excluding partisans of a tsaristic restoration. it rejoiced in glowing terms in a russian army which though now vanishing was still the hope of russia. it pronounced against the trade treaties made by great britain and other powers with soviet russia, and it passed a resolution recognizing russia's old debts and commercial obligations as contracted under the tsardom. a national committee of seventy-four members was elected, from paris, constantinople, london, belgrade, berlin, finland, poland, switzerland, sofia, vienna, athens, riga, the united states, and amongst those elected were the following well-known russian personalities--burtsef, struve, kartashef, bunin, kuprin, roditchef, savitch, tyrkova, dioneo. this powerful organization is likely enough to go back to russia if lenin and trotsky fall. the latter are doing their utmost to safeguard themselves, but they are weaker than the tsar was. the tsardom had most of the brains and abilities of the russians at its disposal, but lenin has driven nearly all the educated and trained minds out of the country. russia as an internationalist state is a failure; as a peasant communist state she has not succeeded in straightening out the comparatively simple problems of her economic subsistence. of course, there are many abstentions from the russian national union, and among the most notable is milyukof who characterizes their actions as "words without force." milyukof and burtsef have quarrelled. burtsef stood for backing general wrangel, but milyukof has taken a strong line on that matter. he does not believe that wrangel can do anything, or that force applied externally can bring bolshevism down. he believes in the renovation of russia from within. milyukof's contention is undoubtedly sound, but it has resulted in a wordy warfare in the columns of burtsef's "obshy delo" and milyukof's "posledny novosti," both paris daily papers in russian which keep up a malevolent cross-fire on one another. one of the happiest evenings spent in paris was at babief's toy theatre--"the flittermouse," where i saw again a programme rendered in moscow in . russians in themselves are the most unmechanical people, the most emotional and unexpected in their ways. it is, therefore, curious that they should shine so much when they pretend that they are dolls, when they take on extra human limitations. in the russian ballet it is the doll-stories of "petrouchka" and "boutique fantasque" which charm most, and so it is in the programme of the flittermouse theatre, "the parade of the wooden soldiers" and the toy-box story of "katinka" are the favourites every night. i was touched, however, by one of their lesser successes, that was called "minuet," which seemed to have a national pathos in it. a young man is sitting on a seat in the garden of versailles or some such place of formal grandeur. it is after the revolution and the death of the king--one evening at twilight time-- "how i love to come here and dream a little," says the young man. "this is a beautiful place. and sometimes one sees strange people, the old courtiers of the king come walking as they used to walk." presently an aged man in court attire appears with a tall, gilded stick in his hand. "the king gave me this," says he in a quavering voice. and then an aged dame appears. they will not explain themselves to the young man, for he cannot understand. how can youth understand those who are old? the two old courtiers are bent and stiff. but they dance in the late dusk a minuet again. you fear all the time their stiffness and age will prevent them, but they dance it, not for the young man, but for themselves and for their king. how poignant it was, how terrible! like ghosts at ekaterinburg. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the automobilist abroad by francis miltoun author of "rambles in normandy," "rambles in brittany," "rambles on the riviera," "the cathedrals of northern france," "the cathedrals of southern france," "the cathedrals and churches of the rhine," etc. _with many illustrations from photographs, decorations, maps and plans_ by blanche mcmanus l.c. page & company boston mdccccvii preface _the general plan of this book is not original. it tells of some experiences not altogether new, and contains observations and facts that have been noted by other writers; but the author hopes that, from the viewpoint of an automobilist at least, its novelty will serve as a recommendation. as a pastime automobile touring is still new and is not yet accomplished without some considerable annoyance and friction. the conventional guides are of little assistance; and the more descriptive works on travel fail too often to note the continually changing conditions which affect the tourist alike by road and rail._ [illustration: hotel bellevue les andelys] contents part general information--the grand tour chapter an appreciation of the automobile chapter travel talk chapter roads and routes chapter hotels and things chapter the grand tour part touring in france chapter down through tourane: paris to bourdeaux chapter a little tour in the pyrenees chapter in languedoc and old provence chapter by rhône and saône chapter by seine and oise--a cruise in a canot-automobile chapter the road to the north part on britain's roads chapter the bath road chapter the south coast chapter land's end to john o'groats part in belgium, holland, and germany chapter on the road to flanders chapter by dykes and windmills chapter on the road by the rhine appendices index part i general information--the grand tour chapter i an appreciation of the automobile [illustration: an appreciation of the automobile] we have progressed appreciably beyond the days of the old horseless carriage, which, it will be remembered, retained even the dashboard. to-day the modern automobile somewhat resembles, in its outlines, across between a decapod locomotive and a steam fire-engine, or at least something concerning the artistic appearance of which the layman has very grave doubts. the control of a restive horse, a cranky boat, or even a trolley-car on rails is difficult enough for the inexperienced, and there are many who would quail before making the attempt; but to the novice in charge of an automobile, some serious damage is likely enough to occur within an incredibly short space of time, particularly if he does not take into account the tremendous force and power which he controls merely by the moving of a tiny lever, or by the depressing of a pedal. any one interested in automobiles should know something of the literature of the subject, which, during the last decade, has already become formidable. in english the literature of the automobile begins with mr. worby beaumont's cantor lectures ( ), and the pamphlet by mr. r. jenkins on "power locomotion on the highways," published in . in the library of the patent office in london the literature of motor road vehicles already fills many shelves. the catalogue is interesting as showing the early hopes that inventors had in connection with steam as a motive power for light road vehicles, and will be of value to all who are interested in the history of the movement or the progress made in motor-car design. in france the bibliothèque of the touring club de france contains a hundred entries under the caption "automobiles," besides complete files of eleven leading journals devoted to that industry. with these two sources of information at hand, and aided by the records of the automobile club de france and the automobile club of great britain and ireland, the present-day historian of the automobile will find the subject well within his grasp. there are those who doubt the utility of the automobile, as there have been scoffers at most new things under the sun; and there have been critics who have derided it for its "seven deadly sins," as there have been others who have praised its "christian graces." the parodist who wrote the following newspaper quatrain was no enemy of the automobile in spite of his cynicism. "a look of anguish underneath the car, another start; a squeak, a grunt, a jar! the aspiration pipe is working loose! the vapour can't get out! and there you are!" "strange is it not, that of the myriads who have empty tanks and know not what to do, not one will tell of it when he returns. as for ourselves, why, we deny it, too." the one perfectly happy man in an automobile is he who drives, steers, or "runs the thing," even though he be merely the hired chauffeur. for proof of this one has only to note how readily others volunteer to "spell him a bit," as the saying goes. change of scene and the exhilaration of a swift rush through space are all very well for friends in the _tonneau_, but for real "pleasure" one must be the driver. not even the manifold responsibilities of the post will mar one's enjoyment, and there is always a supreme satisfaction in keeping one's engine running smoothly. "nothing to watch but the road," is the general motto for the automobile manufacturer, but the enthusiastic automobilist goes farther, and, for his motto, takes "stick to your post," and, in case of danger, as one has put it, "pull everything you see, and put your foot on everything else." the vocabulary of the automobile has produced an entirely new "jargon," which is greek to the multitude, but, oh, so expressive and full of meaning to the initiated. an automobile is masculine, or feminine, as one likes to think of it, for it has many of the vagaries of both sexes. the french academy has finally come to the fore and declared the word to be masculine, and so, taking our clue once more from the french (as we have in most things in the automobile world), we must call it _him_, and speak of it as _he_, instead of _her_, or _she_. that other much overworked word in automobilism, _chauffeur_, should be placed once for all. the driver of an automobile is not really a _chauffeur_, neither is he who minds and cares for the engine; he is a _mécanicien_ and nothing else--in france and elsewhere. we needed a word for the individual who busies himself with, or drives an automobile, and so we have adapted the word _chauffeur_. purists may cavil, but nevertheless the word is better than _driver_, or _motor_-_man_ (which is the quintessence of snobbery), or _conductor_. the word, _chauffeur_, the paris _figaro_ tells us, was known long before the advent of automobiles or locomotives. history tells that about the year , men strangely accoutred, their faces covered with soot and their eyes carefully disguised, entered, by night, farms and lonely habitations and committed all sorts of depredations. they garroted their victims, or dragged them before a great fire where they burned the soles of their feet, and demanded information as to the whereabouts of their money and jewels. hence they were called _chauffeurs_, a name which frightened our grandfathers as much as the scorching _chauffeur_ to-day frightens our grandchildren. a motor-car is a fearsome thing,--when it goes, it goes; and when it doesn't, something, or many things, are wrong. a few years ago this uncertainty was to be expected, for, though the makers will not whisper it in gath, we are only just getting out of the bone-shaker age of automobiles. every one remembers what a weirdly ungraceful thing was the first safety bicycle, and so was the gaudy painted-up early locomotive--and they are so yet on certain english lines where their early victorian engines are like kipling's ocean tramp, merely "puttied up with paint." so with the early automobiles, they jarred and jerked and stopped--that is, under all but exceptional conditions. occasionally they did wonderful things,--they always did, in fact, when one took the word of their owners; but now they really do acquit themselves with credit, and so the public, little by little, is beginning to believe in them, even though the millennium has not arrived when every home possesses its own runabout. all this proves that we are "getting there" by degrees, and meantime everybody that has to do with motor-cars has learned a great deal, generally at somebody else's expense. to-day every one "motes," or wants to, and likewise a knowledge of many things mechanical, which had heretofore been between closed covers, is in the daily litany of many who had previously never known a clutch from a cam-shaft, or a sparking plug from a fly-wheel. most motor enthusiasts read all the important journals devoted to the game. the old-stager reads them for their hints and suggestions,-- though these are bewildering in their multiplicity and their contradictions,--and the ladies of the household look at them for the sake of their pretty pictures of scenery and ladies and veils and furry garments pertaining to the sport. catalogues are another bane of the motorist's life. he may have just become possessed of the latest thing in a mercédès (and paid an enhanced price for an early delivery), yet upon seeing some new make of car advertised, he will immediately send for a catalogue and prospectus, and make the most absurd inquiries as to what said car will or will not do. [illustration: types of cars] since the pleasures of motoring have found their champions in kipling, maeterlinck, and the late w. e. henley, the delectable amusement has, besides entering the daily life of most of us, generously permeated literature--real literature as distinct from recent popular fiction; "the lighting conductor" and "the princess passes," by mrs. williamson, and more lately, "the motor pirate," by mr. paternoster. "a motor car divorce" is the suggestive title of another work,--presumably fiction,--and one knows not where it may end, since "the happy motorist," a series of essays, is already announced. a drury lane melodrama of a season or two ago gave us a "_thrillin' hair-bre'dth 'scape_," wherein an automobile plunged precipitately-- with an all too-true realism, the first night--down a lath and canvas ravine, finally saving the heroine from the double-dyed villain who followed so closely in her wake. the last entry into other spheres was during the autumn just past, when paris's luxurious opera-house was given over to the fantastic revels of the ballet in an attempt to typify the _apotheosis of the automobile_. this was rather a rash venture in prognostication, for it may be easy enough to "apotheosize" the horse, but to what idyllic heights the automobile is destined to ultimately reach no one really knows. the average scoffer at things automobilistic is not very sincerely a scoffer at heart. it is mostly a case of "sour grapes," and he only waits the propitious combination of circumstances which shall permit him to become a possessor of a motor-car himself. this is not a very difficult procedure. it simply means that he must give up some other fad or fancy and take up with this last, which, be it here reiterated, is no _fad_. the great point in favour of the automobile is its sociability. once one was content to potter about with a solitary companion in a buggy, with a comfortable old horse who knew his route well by reason of many journeys. to-day the automobile has driven thoughts of solitude to the winds. two in the tonneau, and another on the seat beside you in front--a well-assorted couple of couples--and one may make the most ideal trips imaginable. every one looks straight ahead, there is no uncomfortable twisting and turning as there is on a boat or a railway train, and each can talk to the others, or all can talk at once, which is more often the case. it is most enjoyable, plenty to see, exhilarating motion, jolly company, absolute independence, and a wide radius of action. what mode of travel can combine all these joys unless it be ballooning--of which the writer confesses he knows nothing? on the road one must ever have a regard for what may happen, and roadside repairs, however necessary, are seldom more than makeshifts which enable one to arrive at his destination. if you break the bolt which fastens your cardan-shaft or a link of your side-chains, you and your friends will have a chance to harden your muscles a bit pushing the machine to the next village, unless you choose to wait, on perhaps a lonely road, for a passing cart whose driver willing, for a price, to detach his tired horse to haul your dead weight of a ton and a half over a few miles of hill and dale. this is readily enough accomplished in france, where the peasant looks upon the procedure as a sort of allied industry to farming, but in parts of england, in holland, and frequently in italy, where the little mountain donkey is the chief means of transportation, it is more difficult. the question of road speed proves nothing with regard to the worth of an individual automobile, except that the times do move, and we are learning daily more and more of the facility of getting about with a motor-car. a locomotive, or a marine engine, moves regularly without a stop for far greater periods of time than does an automobile, but each and every time they finish a run they receive such an overhauling as seldom comes to an automobile. in england the automobilist has had to suffer a great deal at the hands of ignorant and intolerant road builders and guardians. police traps, on straight level stretches miles from any collection of dwellings, will not keep down speed so long as dangerous cobblestoned alleys, winding through suburban london towns, have no guardian to regulate the traffic or give the stranger a hint that he had best go slowly. the milk and butchers' carts go on with their deadly work, but the police in england are too busy worrying the motorist to pay any attention. some county boroughs have applied a ten-mile speed limit, even though the great bulk of their area is open country; but twenty miles an hour for an automobile is far safer for the public than is most other traffic, regardless of the rate at which it moves. [illustration: "speed" painting, louis de schryver] speed, so far as the bystander is concerned, is a very difficult thing to judge, and the automobilist seldom, if ever, gets fair treatment if he meets with the slightest accident. most people judge the speed of an automobile by the noise that it makes. this, up to within a few years, put most automobiles going at a slow speed at a great disadvantage, for the slower they went the noisier they were; but matters of design and control have changed this somewhat, and the public now protests because "a great death-dealing monster crept up silently behind--coming at a terrific rate." you cannot please every one, and you cannot educate a non-participating public all at once. as for speed on the road, it is a variable thing, and a thing difficult to estimate correctly. electric cars run at a speed of from ten to twenty-two miles an hour in england, even in the towns, and no one says them nay. hansoms, on the thames embankment in london, do their regular fifteen miles an hour, but automobiles are still held down to ten. the official timekeeper of the automobile club of great britain and ireland took the following times (in ) in piccadilly, one of the busiest, if not the most congested thoroughfare in london. holloway horse-drawn bus . miles per hour cyclist . " " " private trap . " " " private buggy . " " " private brougham . " " " when one considers how difficult to control, particularly amid crowded traffic, a horse-drawn vehicle is, and how very easy it is to control an up-to-date automobile, one cannot but feel that a little more consideration should be shown the automobilist by those in authority. the road obstructions, slow-going traffic which will not get out of one's way, carts left unattended and the like, make most of the real and fancied dangers which are laid to the door of the very mobile motor-car. [illustration: london and paris traffic] in holland and belgium dogs seem to be the chief road obstructions, or at least dangers, not always willingly perhaps, but still ever-present. in england it is mostly children. in france not all the difficulties one meets with _en route_ are willful obstructors of one's progress. in la beauce the geese and ducks are prudent, in the nivernais the oxen are placid, and in provence the donkeys are philosophical; but in brittany the horses and mules and their drivers take fright immediately they suspect the coming of an automobile, and in the vendée the market-wagons, and those laden with the product of the vine, career madly at the extremities of exceedingly lusty examples of horse flesh to the pending disaster of every one who does not get out of the road. sheep and hens are everywhere that they ought not to be, and there seems no way of escaping them. one can but use all his ingenuity and slip through somehow. dogs are bad enough and ought to be exterminated. they are the silliest beasts which one finds uncontrolled on the roadways. children, of course, one defers to, but they are outrageously careless and very foolish at times, and in short are the greatest responsibility for the driver in the small towns of england and france. in france some effort is being made in the schools to teach them something about a proper regard for automobile traffic, and with good results; but no one has heard of anything of the sort being attempted in england. chapter ii travel talk [illustration: travel talk] touring abroad is nothing new, but, as an amusement for the masses, it has reached gigantic proportions. the introduction of the railroad gave it its greatest impetus, and then came the bicycle and the automobile. with the railway as the sole means of getting about one was more or less confined to the beaten track of travel in continental europe, but the automobile has changed all this. to-day, the cote d'azur, from st. raphael to menton, as well as the strip of norman coast-line around trouville, in summer, is scarcely more than a boulevard where the automobile tourist strolls for an hour as he does in the bois. the country lying back and between these two widely separated points is becoming known, and even modern taste prefers the idyllic countryside to a round of the same dizzy conventions that one gets in season at paris, london, or new york. france is the land _par excellence_ for automobile touring, not only from its splendid roads, but from the wide diversity of its sights and scenes, and manners and customs, and, last but not least, its most excellent hotels strung along its highways and byways like pearls in a collarette. this is not saying that travel by automobile is not delightful elsewhere; certainly it is equally so in many places along the rhine, in northern italy, and in england, where the chief drawback is the really incompetent catering of the english country hotel-keeper to the demands of the traveller who would dine off of something more attractive than a cut from a cold joint of ham, and eggs washed down with stodgy, bitter beer. the bibliography of travel books is long, and includes many famous names in literature. marco polo, froissart, mme. de sévigné, taine, bayard taylor, willis, stevenson, and sterne, all had opportunities for observation and made the most of them. if they had lived in the days of the automobile they might have sung a song of speed which would have been the most melodious chord in the whole gamut. a modern writer must be more modest, however. he can hardly hope to attract attention to himself or his work by describing the usual sights and scenes. the most he can do is to set down his method of travel, his approach, and his departure, and, for example, to tell those who may come after that the great double spires of notre dame de chartres are a beacon by land for nearly twenty kilometers in any direction, as he approaches them by road across the great plain of la beauce, the granary of france, rather than give a repetition of the well-worn guidebook facts concerning them. [illustration: ideal car] chartres is taken as an example because it is one of those "stock" sights, before mentioned, which any itinerary coming within the scope of the _grand tour_ is bound to include. almost the same phenomenon is true of antwerp's lacelike spire, the great gothic wonder of cologne and, to a lesser extent, that of canterbury in england; thus the automobilist _en route_ has his beacons and landmarks as has the sailor on the seas. man is an animal essentially mobile. he moves readily from place to place and is not tied down by anything but ways and means and, perhaps, confinement at laborious affairs. even in the latter case he occasionally breaks away for a more or less extended period, and either goes fishing in canada, shooting in scotland, or automobiling in france, with perhaps a rush over a swiss pass or two, and a dash around the italian lakes, and back down the rhine for a little tour in great britain. this is as delightful a holiday as one could imagine, and the foreign tour--which has often been made merely as a succession of nights of travel in stuffy sleeping-cars or a round of overfeeding orgies at parisian hotels and restaurants--has added charms of which the generation before the advent of automobiles knew nought. the question of comfortable travel is a never-ending one. the palanquin, the sedan-chair, the rickshaw, even the humble horse-drawn buggy have had their devotees, but the modern touring automobile has left them all far behind, whether for long-distance travel or promenades at fontainebleau, in the new forest or the ardennes. there is no question but that, when touring in an automobile, one has an affection for his steel-and-iron horse that he never felt for any other conveyance. the horse had some endearing qualities, no doubt, and we were bound to regard his every want; but he was only a part of the show, whereas the automobile, although it is nought but an inanimate combination of wheels and things, has to be humoured and talked to, and even cursed at times, in order to keep it going. but it works faithfully nevertheless, and never balks, at least not with the same crankiness as the horse, and always runs better toward night (this is curious, but it is a fact), which a horse seldom does. all the same an automobile is like david balfour's scotch advocate: hard at times to ken rightly--most of the time, one may say without undue exaggeration. often an automobile is as fickle as a stage fairy, or appears to be, but it may be that only your own blind stupidity accounts for the lack of efficiency. once in awhile an automobile gets uproariously full of spirits and runs away with itself, and almost runs away with you, too, simply for the reason that the carburetion is good and everything is pulling well. again it is as silent and immovable as a sphinx and gives no hint of its present or expected ailments. it is most curious, but an automobile invents some new real or fancied complaint with each fresh internal upheaval, and requires, in each and every instance, an entirely new and original diagnosis. with all its caprices, however, the automobile is the most efficient and satisfactory contrivance for getting about from place to place, for business or pleasure, that was ever devised. comparatively speaking, the railway is not to be thought of for a moment. it has all the disadvantages of the automobile (for indeed there are a few, such as dust and more or less cramped quarters, and, if one chooses, a nerve-racking speed) and none of its advantages, and, whether you are a mere man or a millionaire, you are tied down to rails and a strict itinerary, whereas you may turn the bonnet of your automobile down any by-road that pleases your fancy, and arrive ultimately at your destination, having made an enjoyable detour which would not otherwise have been possible. too great a speed undoubtedly detracts from the joy of travel, but a hundred and fifty, two hundred and fifty, or three hundred kilometres a day on the fine roads of france, or a hundred or a hundred and fifty miles on the leafy lanes of england's southern counties will give the stranger more varied impressions and a clearer understanding of men and matters than the touring of a country from end to end in express-trains which serve your meals _en route_, and whisk you from london to torquay between tea and dinner, or from paris to the cote d'azur between breakfast and nightfall. just how much pleasure and edification one can absorb during an automobile tour depends largely upon the individual--and the mood. once the craving for speed is felt, not all the historic monuments in the world would induce one to stop a sweetly running motor; but again the other mood comes on, and one lingers a full day among the charms of the lower seine from caudebec to rouen, scarce thirty miles. les andelys-sur-seine, your guide-book tells you, is noted for its magnificent ruins of richard coeur de lion's château gaillard, and for the culture of the sugar-beet, and so, often, merely on account of the banal mention of beet-roots, you ignore the attractions of richard's castle and make the best time you can parisward by the great route nationale on the other side of the seine. this is wrong, of course, but the mood was on, and the song of speed was ringing in your ears and nothing would drive it out. our fathers and grandfathers made the grand tour, in a twelvemonth, as a sort of topping-off to their early education, before they settled down to a business or professional life. they checked off in their guide-books melrose abbey, the tower of london, the cathedral of canterbury, and those of antwerp, cologne, rome, venice, and paris, as they did the cheshire cheese, mont blanc, and the ruins of carnac. it was all a part of the general scheme of travel, to cover a lot of ground and see all they could, for it was likely that they would pass that way but once. why, then, should one blame the automobilist--who really travels very leisurely in that he sees a lot of the countryside manners and customs off the beaten track--if he rushes over an intermediate stretch of country in order to arrive at one more to his liking? one sees the thing every day on any of the great highroads in france leading from the channel ports. one's destination may be the pyrenees, the cote d'azur, italy, or even austria, and he does the intermediate steps at full speed. the same is true if he goes to switzerland by the rhine valley, or to homburg by passing through belgium or holland. he might be just as well pleased with a fortnight in the ardennes, or even in holland or in touraine, but, if his destination is monte carlo or biarritz, he is not likely to linger longer by the way than the exigencies of food, drink, and lodging, and the care of his automobile demand. when he has no objective point he loiters by the way and no doubt enjoys it the more, but it is not fair to put the automobilist down as a scorcher simply because he is pushing on. the best guide-books are caprice and fantasy, if you are hot pressed for time. mile-stones, or rather _bornes kilométriques_, line the roadways of continental military europe mercilessly, and it's a bad sign when the chauffeur begins to count them off. all the same, he knows his destination a great deal better than does some plodding tourist by rail who scorns him for rushing off again immediately after lunch. one of the charms of travel, to the tried traveller, is, just as in the time of the abbé prévost, the ability to exchange remarks on one's itinerary with one's fellow travellers. in france it does not matter much whether they are automobilists or not. the _commis-voyageur_ is a more numerous class here, apparently, than in any other country on the globe, and the detailed information which he can give one about the towns and hotels and sights and scenes _en route_, albeit he is more familiar with travel by rail than by road, is marvellous in quantity and valuable as to quality. the automobile tourist, who may be an englishman or an american, has hitherto been catered to with automobile novels, or love stories, or whatever one chooses to call them, or with more or less scrappy, incomplete, and badly edited accounts of tours made by some millionaire possessor of a motor-car, or the means to hire one. some of the articles in the press, and an occasional book, have the merit of having been "good stuff," but often they have gone wrong in the making. the writer of this book does not aspire to be classed with either of the above classes of able writers; the most he would like to claim is that he should be able to write a really good handbook on the subject, wherein such topographical, historical, and economic information as was presented should have the stamp of correctness. perhaps four years of pretty constant automobile touring in europe ought to count for something in the way of accumulated pertinent information concerning hotels and highways and by-ways. not all automobilists are millionaires. the man of moderate means is the real giver of impetus to the wheels of automobile progress. the manufacturers of motor-cars have not wholly waked up to this fact as yet, but the increasing number of tourists in small cars, both in england and in france, points to the fact that something besides the forty, sixty, or hundred horse-power monsters are being manufactured. efficiency and reliability is the great requisite of the touring automobile, and, for that matter, should be of any other. efficiency and reliability cover ninety-nine per cent. of the requirements of the automobilist. chance will step in at the most inopportune moments and upset all calculations, but, with due regard given to these two great and fundamental principles, the rest does not much matter. it is a curious fact that the great mass of town folk, in france and probably elsewhere, still have a fear and dread of the mechanism of the automobile. "_c'est beau la mécanique, mais c'est tout de même un peu compliqué_," they say, as they regard your labours in posing a new valve or tightening up a joint here and there. the development of the automobile has brought about a whole new development of kindred things, as did the development of the battle-ship. first there was the battle-ship, then the cruiser, and then the torpedo-boat, and then another class of boats, the destroyers (destined to catch torpedo-boats), and finally the submarine. with the automobile the evolution was much the same; first it was a sort of horseless carriage, for town use, then something a little more powerful that would climb hills, so that one might journey afield, and then the "touring-car," and then the racing machine, and now we have automobile omnibuses, and even automobile ambulances to pick up any frightened persons possessed of less agility than a kangaroo or a jack-rabbit might inadvertently have been bowled over. these disasters are seldom the automobilist's fault, and, happily, they are becoming fewer and fewer; but the indecision that overcame the passer-by, in the early days of the bicycle, still exists with many whenever an automobile comes in sight, and they back, and fill, and worry the automobilist into such a bad case of nerves that, in spite of himself, something of the nature of an accident, for which he is in no way responsible, really does happen. once the writer made eleven hundred kilometres straight across france, from the manche to the mediterranean, and not so much as a puncture occurred. on another occasion a little journey of half the length resulted in the general smashing up, four times in succession, of a little bolt (no great disaster in itself), within the interior arrangements of the motor, which necessitated a half a day's work on each occasion in taking down the cylinder and setting it up again, and each time in a small town far away from any properly equipped machine-shop, and with the assistance only of the local locksmith. it's astonishing how good a job a locksmith in france can do, even on an automobile, the mechanism of which he perhaps has never seen before. officially the locksmith in france is known as a _serrurier_, but in the slang of the land he is the _cambrioleur du pays_, a name which is expressive, but which means nothing wicked. he can put a thread on a bolt or make a new nut to replace one that has mysteriously unscrewed itself, which is more than many a mere bicycle repairer can do. the automobilist touring france should make friends with the nearest _cambrioleur_ if he is in trouble. in england this is risky, a "gas-pipe thread" being the average lay workman's idea of "fixing you up." away back in chaucer's day folk were "longen to gon on pilgrimages," and it does not matter in the least what the ways and means may be, the motive is ever the same: a change of scene. this book is no unbounded eulogy of the automobile, although its many good qualities are recognized. there are other methods of travel that, in their own ways, are certainly enjoyable, but none quite equal the automobile for independence of action, convenience, and efficiency. it is well for all motor-car users, however, to realize that they are not the only road users, and to have a due regard for others,--not only their rights, but their persons. this applies even more forcibly, if possible, to the automobilist _en tour_. one must in duty bound regulate his pace and his actions by the vagaries of others, however little he may want to, or unfortunate consequences will many times follow. always he must have a sharp look ahead and must not neglect a backward glance now and then. he must not dash through muddy roads and splash passers-by (a particularly heinous offence in england), and in france he must observe the rule of the road (always to the right in passing,--no great difficulty for an american, but very puzzling to an englishman), or an accident may result which will bring him into court, and perhaps into jail, unless he can assuage the poor peasant's feelings for the damaged forelegs of his horse or donkey by a cash payment on the spot. maeterlinck's "wonderful, unknown beast" is still unknown (and feared) by the majority of outsiders, and the propaganda of education must go on for a long time yet. maeterlinck's great tribute to the automobile is his regard for it as the conqueror of space. never before has the individual man been able to accomplish what the soulless corporations have with railway trains. in steamboat or train we are but a part and parcel of the freight carried, but in the automobile we are stoker, driver, and passenger in one, and regard every road-turning and landmark with a new wonder and appreciation. we are the aristocrats of tourists, and we are bound therefore to have a kindly regard for other road users or a revolution will spring up, as it did in feudal times. take maeterlinck's wise sayings for your guide, and be tolerant of the rights of others. this will do automobilism more good than can be measured, for it has come to stay, and perhaps even advance. the days of the horse are numbered. "in accord with the needs of our insatiable, exacting soul, which craves at once for the small and the mighty, the quick and the slow; here it is of us at last, it is ours, and offers at every turn glimpses of beauty that, in former days, we could only enjoy when the tedious journey was ended." the "tour abroad" has ever been the lodestone which has drawn countless thousands of home-loving english and americans to continental europe. pleasure--mere pleasure--has accounted for many of these pilgrims, but by far the largest proportion have been those who seek education and edification combined. one likes to be well cared for when he journeys, whether by road or rail, and demands accordingly, if not all the comforts of home, at least many things that the native knows or cares little of. a frenchman does not desire a sitting-room, a reading-room, or a fire in his sleeping-room, and, according to his lights, he is quite right. he finds all this at a café, and prefers to go there for it. the steam-heated hotel, with running water everywhere, is a rarity in france, as indeed it is in england. outside paris the writer has found this combination but seldom in france; at lyons, marseilles, moulins in the allier, and at chatellerault in poitou only. modernity is making its way in france, but only in spots; its progress is steady, but as yet it has not penetrated into many outlying districts. modern _art nouveau_ ideas in france, which are banal enough, but which are an improvement over the eastlake and horsehair horrors of the victorian and louis-philippe periods, are tending to eliminate old-fashioned ideas for the benefit of the traveller who would rather eat his meals in a bright, airy apartment than in stuffy, dark hole known in england as a coffee-room. in france, in particular, the contrast of the new and old that one occasionally meets with is staggering. it is all very well in its way, this blending of antiquity and modernity, and gives one something of the thrill of romance, which most of us have in our make-up to a greater or lesser extent; but, on the other hand, romance gets some hard knocks when one finds a roman sarcophagus used as a watering-trough; or a chapel as an automobile garage, as he often will in the midi. one thing the american, and the britisher to a lesser extent, be he automobilist or mere tourist, must fully realize, and that is that the tourist business is a more highly developed industry in continental europe than it is anywhere else. in switzerland one may well say that it is a national industry, and in some parts of france (always omitting paris, which is not france) it is practically the same thing; holland and belgium are not far behind, and neither is the rhine country; so that the tourist in europe finds that creature comforts are always near at hand. the automobilist does not much care whether they are near at hand or not. if he doesn't find the accommodations he is looking for on the borders of dartmoor, he can keep on to exmoor, and if nevers won't suit his purpose for the night he can get to moulins in an hour. a hotel that is full and overflowing is no more a fear or a dread; the automobilist simply takes the road again and drops in on some market-town twenty, thirty, or fifty miles away and finds accommodations that are equally satisfactory, with the possibility--if he looks in at some little visited spot like meung or beaugency in touraine, ecloo in holland, or reichenberg on the rhine--that he will be more pleased with his surroundings than he would be in the large towns which are marked in heavy-faced type in the railway guides, and whose hotels are starred by baedeker. in most countries the passport is no longer a necessary document in the traveller's pocketbook, though the britisher still fondly arms himself with this "protection," and the american will, if it occurs to him, be only too glad to contribute his dollars to the fees of his consulate or embassy in order to possess himself of a gaudy thing in parchment and gold which he can wave in front of any one whom he thinks transgresses his rights as an american citizen: "from the land of liberty, and don't you forget it." this is all very well and is no doubt the very essence of a proper patriotism, but the best _pièce d'identité_ for the foreigner who takes up his residence in france for more than three months is a simple document which can be obtained from the commissaire de police. it will pass him anywhere in france that a passport will, is more readily understood and accepted by the banker or post-office clerk as a personal identification, and will save the automobile _chauffeur_ many an annoyance, if he has erred through lack of familiarity with many little unwritten laws of the land. the automobilist _en tour_ always has the identification papers of his automobile; in england his "license," and in france his "certificat de capacité" and "récépisse de déclaration," which will accomplish pretty much all the passport of other days would do if one flourished it to-day before a stubborn octroi official or the caretaker of a historical monument. the membership card of the italian, swiss, or french touring clubs will do much the same thing, and no one should be without them, since membership in either one or all is not difficult or costly. (see appendix.) france is the land _par excellence_ for the tourist, whether by road or rail. the art of "_le tourisme_" has been perfected by the french to even a higher degree than in switzerland. there are numerous societies, clubs, and associations, from the all-powerful touring club de france downward, which are attracting not only the french themselves to many hitherto little-known corners of "_la belle france_," but strangers from over the frontiers and beyond the seas. these are not the tourists of the conventional kind, but those who seek out the little-worn roads. it is possible to do this if one travels intelligently by rail, but it is a great deal more satisfactorily done if one goes by road. here and there, scattered all over france, in dauphiné, in savoie, and in the pyrenees, one finds powerful "syndicats d'initiative," which not only care for the tourist, but bring pressure to bear on the hotel-keeper and local authorities to provide something in the way of improvements, where they are needed, to make a roadway safe, or to restore a historical site or monument. in the pyrenees, and in the alps of savoie and dauphiné, one finds everywhere the insignia of the "club-alpin français," which caters with information, etc., not only to the mountain-climber, but to the automobilist and the general tourist as well. more powerful and effective than all--more so even than the famous automobile club de france--is the great touring club de france, which, with the patronage of the president of the republic, and the influence of more than a hundred thousand members, is something more than a mere touring club. in the fourteen years of its existence not only has the touring club de france helped the tourist find his way about, but also has taken a leading part in the clearing away of the debris in many a moss-grown ruin and making of it a historical monument as pleasing to view as jumièges on the seine, or world-famed les baux in provence. it has appointed itself the special guardian of roads and roadways, so far as the placing of signboards along the many important lines of communication is concerned; it has been the means of having dug up untold kilometres of renaissance pavement; has made, almost at its own expense, a magnificent forty-kilometre road known as the corniche de l'esterel; and has given the backward innkeeper such a shock that he has at last waked up to the needs of the twentieth-century traveller. all this is something for a touring organization to have accomplished, and when one can become a part and parcel of this great organization, and a sharer in the special advantages which it has to offer to its members for the absurdly small sum of five francs per annum, the marvel is that it has not half a million members instead of a hundred thousand. chapter iii roads & routes [illustration: roads & routes] "chacun suit dans ce monde une route incertaine, selon que son erreur le joue et le promene."--boileau the chief concern of the automobilist to-day, after his individual automobile, is the road question, the "good roads question," as it has become generally known. in a new country, like america, it is to be expected that great connecting highways should be mostly in the making. it is to be regretted that the development should be so slow, but things have been improving in the last decade, and perhaps america will "beat the world" in this respect, as she has in many others, before many future generations have been born. in the excellence and maintenance of her roads france stands emphatically at the head of all nations, but even here noticeable improvement is going on. the terrific "louis quatorze pavé," which one finds around paris, is yearly growing less and less in quantity. the worst road-bed in france is that awful stretch from bordeaux, via bazas, to pau in navarre, originally due to the energy of henri iv., and still in existence for a space of nearly a hundred kilometres. one avoids it by a détour of some twenty odd kilometres, and the writer humbly suggests that here is an important unaccomplished work for the usually energetic road authorities of france. after france the "good roads" of britain come next, though in some parts of the country they are woefully inadequate to accommodate the fast-growing traffic by road, notably in london suburbs, while some of the leafy lanes over which poets rhapsodize are so narrow that the local laws prevent any automobile traffic whatever. as one unfortunate individual expressed it, "since the local authorities forbid automobiles on roadways under sixteen feet in width, i am unable to get my motor-car within nine miles of my home!" in england something has been done by late generations toward roads improvement. the first awakening came in , and in the london-oxford road had been so improved that the former time of the stage-coaches had been reduced from eight to six hours. macadam in , and stevenson in , were the real fathers of the "roads improvement movement" in england. the great faults of english roads are that they are narrow and winding, almost without exception. there are , kilometres of highways (the figures are given on the metric scale for better comparison with continental facts and figures) and , of by-roads. there are sixty-six kilometres of roads to the square kilometre _(kilometre carré)_. in germany the roads system is very complex. in baden, the palatinate, and the grand duchy of hesse they cede nothing to the best roads anywhere, but in the central and northern provinces they are, generally speaking, much poorer. there are fifty-four kilometres of roads of all grades to the kilometre _carré_. in belgium the roads are greatly inferior to those of france, and there are immeasurable stretches of the vilest pavement the world has known, not only near the large towns, but great interior stretches as well. there are , kilometres of chemins vicinaux and , kilometres of chemins de grands communications. they average, taken together, eighty-three kilometres to the kilometre _carré_. in switzerland the roads are thoroughly good everywhere, but many, particularly mountain-roads, are entirely closed to automobile traffic, and the regulations in many of the towns are so onerous that it is anything but agreeable to make one's way through them. there are thirty-two kilometres to the kilometre _carré_. the simplon pass has only recently ( ) been opened to automobile traffic. no departure can be made from brigue, on the swiss side, or from gondo, in italy, after three p.m. speed _(vitesse)_ must not exceed ten kilometres on the stretches, or two kilometres around the corners. fines for infringement of the law run from twenty to five hundred francs. italy, with a surface area one-half that of france, has but a quarter of the extent of the good roads. they are of variable quality, but good on the main lines of travel. in the ancient kingdom of sardinia will be found the best, but they are poor and greatly neglected around naples, and, as might be expected, in sicily. in austria the roads are very variable as to surface and maintenance, and there are numerous culverts or _canivaux_ across them. there are , kilometres of national roads, , kilometres of provincial roads, and , of local roads. they average fourteen kilometres to the kilometre _carré_. the history of the development of the modern roadway is too big a subject to permit of its being treated here; suffice it to recall that in england and france, and along the rhine, the lines of the twentieth-century main roads follow the roman roads of classic times. in france, lyons, in the mid-rhône valley, was a great centre for the radiating roadways of gaul. strategically it was important then as it is important now, and roman soldiery of the past, as the automobilist of to-day, had here four great thoroughfares leading from the city. the first traversed the valleys of the rhine and the meuse; the second passed by autun, troyes, chalons, reims, soissons, noyon, and amiens; the third branched in one direction toward saintes, and in another to bordeaux; while the fourth dropped down the rhône valley direct to marseilles. more than thirty thousand kilometres of roadways were in use throughout gaul during the roman occupation, of which the four great routes _(viæ publicæ)_ formed perhaps four thousand. of the great highways of france, the _grandes routes nationales_, of which all travellers by road have the fondest and most vivid memories, it is well to recall that they were furthered, if not fathered, by none other than napoleon, who, for all he laid waste, set up institutions anew which more than compensated for the destructions. the great roadways of france, such as the route de bretagne, running due west from the capital, and those leading to spain, switzerland, italy, and the pays bas, had their origin in the days of philippe-auguste. his predecessors had let the magnificently traced itineraries of the romans languish and become covered with grass--if not actually timber-grown. the arrangement and classification laid down by philippe-auguste have never been changed, simply modified and renamed; thus the _routes royales_--such as followed nearly a straight line from paris by the right bank of the loire to amboise and to nantes--became the _routes nationales_ of to-day. soon wheeled traffic became a thing to be considered, and royal cortèges moved about the land with much the same freedom and stateliness of the state coaches which one sees to-day in pageants, as relics of a past monarchical splendour. louis xi. created the "_service des postes_" in france, which made new demands upon the now more numerous routes and roadways, and louis xii., françois i., henri ii., and charles ix., all made numerous ordinances for the policing and maintenance of them. henri iv., and his minister sully, built many more of these great lines of communication, and thus gave the first real and tangible aid to the commerce and agriculture of the kingdom. he was something of an aesthetic soul too, this henri of bearn, for he was the originator of the scheme to make the great roadways of france tree-shaded boulevards, which in truth is what many of them are to-day. this monarch of love, intrigues, religious reversion, and strange oaths passed the first (and only, for the present is simply a continuance thereof) _ordonnance_ making the planting of trees along the national highroads compulsory on the local authorities. under louis xiv., colbert continued the good work and put up the first mile-stone, or whatever its equivalent was in that day, measuring from the parvis de notre dame at paris. some of these louis xiv. _bornes_, or stones, still exist, though they have, of course, been replaced throughout by kilometre stones. the foregoing tells in brief of the natural development of the magnificent roads of france. their history does not differ greatly from the development of the other great european lines of travel, across northern italy to switzerland, down the rhine valley and, branching into two forks, through holland and through belgium to the north sea. [illustration: on french roads] in england the main travel routes run north, east, south, and west from london as a radiating centre, and each took, in the later coaching days, such distinctive names as "the portsmouth road," "the dover road," "the bath road," and "the great north road." their histories have been written in fascinating manner, so they are only referred to here. it is in france, one may almost say, that automobile touring begins and ends, in that it is more practicable and enjoyable there; and so _la belle france_ continually projects itself into one's horizon when viewing the subject of automobilism. it may be that there are persons living to-day who regret the passing of the good old times when they travelled--most uncomfortably, be it remarked--by stage-coach and suffered all the inclemencies of bad weather _en route_ without a word of protest but a genial grumble, which they sought to antidote by copious libations of anything liquid and strong. the automobile has changed all this. the traveller by automobile doesn't resort to alcoholic drinks to put, or keep, him in a good humour, and, when he sees a lumbering van or family cart making its way for many miles from one widely separated region to another, he accelerates his own motive power and leaves the good old ways of the good old days as far behind as he can, and recalls the words of sidney smith: "the good of other times let others state, i think it lucky i was born so late." a certain picturesqueness of travel may be wanting when comparing the automobile with the whirling coach-and-four of other days, but there is vastly more comfort for all concerned, and no one will regret the march of progress when he considers that nothing but the means of transportation has been changed. the delightful prospects of hill and vale are still there, the long stretches of silent road and, in france and germany, great forest routes which are as wild and unbroken, except for the magnificent surface of the roads, as they were when mediæval travelers startled the deer and wild boar. you may even do this to-day with an automobile in more than one forest tract of france, and that not far from the great centres of population either. the invention of carriage-springs--the same which, with but little variation, we use on the automobile--by the wife of an apothecary in the quartier de st. antoine at paris, in , was the prime cause of the increased popularity of travel by road in france. in , the routes of france were divided into four categories: . those leading from paris to the principal interior cities and seaports. . those communicating directly between the principal cities. . those communicating directly between the cities and towns of one province and those of another. . those serving the smaller towns and bourgs. those in the first class were to be . metres in width, the second . , the third , the fourth . . the road makers and menders of england and america could not get better models than these. the advent of the automobile has brought a new factor into the matter of road making and mending, but certainly he would be an ignorant person indeed who would claim that the automobile does a tithe of the road damage that is done by horse-drawn traffic. at a high rate of speed, however, the automobile does raise a fine sandy dust, and exposes the macadam. a french authority states that up to twenty to twenty-five kilometres an hour the automobile does little or no harm to the roads, but when they increase to over fifty kilometres an hour they do damage the surface somewhat. just what the ultimate outcome of it will be remains to be seen, but france is unlikely to do anything which will work against the interests of the automobilist. in consequence of this newer and faster mode of travelling, it is being found that on some parts of the roads the convexity of the surface is too great, and especially at curves, where fast motors frequently skid on the rounded surface. to obviate this a piece of road near the croix d'augas in the orleannais has had the outer side of the curve raised eight centimetres above the centre of the road, in somewhat the same manner as on the curve of a railway. since this innovation has proved highly successful and pleasing to the devotees of the new form of travel, it is likely to be further adopted. in the early period of the construction of french roads the earth formation was made horizontal, but trésaguet, a french engineer, introduced the rounded form, or camber, and this is the method now almost generally adopted, both in france and england. only some , kilometres of the national routes have a hand-set foundation, the others being what are termed broken-stone roads--the stone used is broken in pieces and laid on promiscuously, after the system introduced by macadam. some of the second and third class, roads are constructed of gravel, and others, of earth. from the official report of it appears that the cost of maintenance of roads in france was as follows: cost of labour and materials annual total annual cost cost per kilometre (av.) routes nationales , , fcs. fcs. routes départmentales , , chemins communication , , chemins vicinaux , , the above is for materials and labour on the roadways only, and something between / per cent, and per cent. is added for the maintenance of watercourses and sidewalks, the planting of trees, and for general administrative expenses. [illustration: kilometre stones in france] excepting for twenty kilometres or so around paris, the vehicular traffic on the country roads of france does not seem to be in any way excessive. the style of vehicles in france that carry into the cities farm and garden produce, wood, stone, etc., are large wagons with wheels six to seven feet in diameter. these wagons are more easily hauled and naturally do less damage to the roads than narrow-tired, low-wheeled trucks or drays. the horses in paris, and in the country, are nearly all plain shod, with no heels or toes to act like a pick to break up the surface. sometimes even one sees draught-horses with great flat, iron shoes extending out beyond the hoof in all directions. the question of the speed of the automobile on the roads, in france and england, as indeed everywhere else, has been the moot point in all legislation that has been attempted. the writer thinks the french custom the best. you may legally go at thirty kilometres an hour, and no more. if you exceed this you do it at your own risk. if an accident happens it _may_ go hard with you, but if not, all is well, and you have the freedom of the road in all that the term implies. in the towns you are often held down to ten, eight, or even six kilometres an hour, but that is merely a local regulation, for your benefit as much as for the safety of the public, for many a french town has unthought-of possibilities of danger in its crooked streets and unsafe crossings. good roads have much to do with the pleasure of automobilism, and competent control and care of them will do much more. where a picked bit of roadway has been chosen for automobile trials astonishing results have been obtained, as witness the gordon-bennett cup records of the last six years, where the average speed per hour consistently increased from thirty-eight miles to nearly fifty-five, and this for long distances (three hundred and fifty miles or more). to meet the new traffic conditions the authorities must widen the roads here and there, remove obstructions at corners, make encircling boulevards through narrowly laid out towns, and erect warning signs, like the following, a great deal more numerously than they have as yet. they have very good automobile laws in france in spite of their anomalies. you agree to thirty-seven prescribed articles, and go through sundry formalities and take to the road with your automobile. in the name of the president of the republic and the "_peuple français,_" you are allowed thirty kilometres an hour in the open country, and twenty in the towns. you can do anything you like beyond this--at your own risk, and so long as no accident happens nothing will be said, but you must pull up when you come to a small town where m. le maire, in the name of his forty-four electors, has decreed that his village is dangerously laid out for fast traffic,--and truth to tell it often is,--and accordingly you are limited to a modest ten or even less. it is annoying, of course, but if you are on a strange itinerary you had best go slow until you know what trouble lies ahead. in theory _la vitesse_ is national in france, but in practice it is communal, and the barriers rise, in the way of staring warnings posted at each village-end, like the barriers across the roads in the times of louis xi. except in holland, where some "private roads" still exist, and in certain parts of england, the toll-gate keeper has become almost an historical curiosity. it is true, however, that in england one does meet with annoying toll-bridges and gates, and in france one has equally annoying _octroi_ barriers. one recognizes the vested proprietary rights, many of which, in england, are hereditary, of certain toll-gates and bridges, but it is hard in these days, when franchises for the conduct of public services are only granted for limited periods, that legislation, born of popular clamour, should not confiscate, or, better, purchase at a fair valuation, these "rights," and make all roads and bridges free to all. in france there are no toll-gates or bridges, or at least not many (the writer recalls but one, a bridge at la roche-guyou on the seine, just above vernon), but there are various state ferries across the seine, the rhône, the saône, and the loire, where a small charge is made for crossing. these are particularly useful on the lower seine, in delightful normandy, as there are no bridges below rouen. in france one's chief delays on the road are caused by the _octroi_ barriers at all large towns, though only at paris and, for a time, at st. germain do they tax the supplies of _essence_ (gasoline) and oil, which the automobilist carries in his tanks. the _octroi_ taxes are onerous enough in all conscience, but it is a pity to annoy automobilists in the way the authorities do at the gates of paris, and it's still worse for a touring automobile to be stopped at the barrier of a town like evreux in normandy, or tarare in the beaujolais. whatever does the humble (and civil, too) guardian do it for, except to show his authority, and smile pleasantly, as he waves you off after having brought you to a full stop at the bottom of a twisting cobble-stoned, hilly street where you need all the energy and suppleness of your motor in order to reach the top. there are not many of these abrupt stops, outside the large towns, and nowhere do they tax you on your oil or _essence_ except at paris--where you pay (alas!) nearly as much as the original cost. at rouen the guardian comes up, looks in your tonneau to see if you have a fish or a partridge hidden away, and sends you on your way with a bored look, as though he disliked the business as much as you do. at tours, if you come to the barrier just as the official has finished a good lunch, he simply smiles, and doesn't even stop you. at marseilles you get up from your seat and let the official poke a bamboo stick down among your _chambres d'air_, and say nothing--provided he does not puncture them; if he does, you say a good deal, but he replies by saying that he was merely doing his duty, and meant no harm. at nantes, at rennes, at orleans, and bordeaux, all of them _grandes villes_, every one is civil and apologetic, but still the procedure goes on just the same. at lyons the _octroi_ tax has been abolished. real progress this! in the old coaching days road speeds fell far behind what they are to-day in a well-constructed and capable automobile, but, as they put in long hours on the road, they certainly did get over the ground in a fairly satisfactory manner. private conveyances, with private horses, could not hope to accomplish anything like it, simply because there is a limit to the working powers and hours of the individual horse. with the old mail-coaches, in england, and the _malle-poste_ and the _poste-chaise_, in france, things were different, for at every _poste_, or section, was a new relay; and on the coach went at the same pace as before. [illustration: days gone by] the london-birmingham coaches in covered the miles between the two points at an average speed of . miles per hour, the highest speed being eighteen, and the lowest eleven miles. in france the speeds were a little better. from lyons the old mail-coaches used to make the journey to paris in four days by way of auxerre, and in five by moulins, though the distance is the same, one hundred and twenty leagues. to-day the automobile, which fears not hills, take invariably the moulins road, and covers the distance between breakfast and dinner; that is, if the driver is a "scorcher;" and there are such in france. in there were thirteen great lines of _malle-postes_ in france as follows: to calais. by clermont, amiens, and abbeville. to lille. by senlis, noyon, st. quentin, cambrai, and douai. to mezières. by soissons, reims, and rhetel. to strasbourg. by chalons-sur-marne, metz, and sarrebourg. to besançon. by troyes and dijon. to lyon. by melun, auxerre, autun, and macon. to clermont-ferrand. by fontainebleau, briare, nevers, and moulins. to toulouse. by orleans, chateauroux, limoges, and cahors. to bordeaux. by orleans, blois, tours, poitiers, and angoulême. to nantes. by chartres, le mans, la fleche, and angers. to brest. by alençon, laval, rennes, and st. brieuc. to caen. by bonnières, evreux, and lisieux. to rouen. by neuilly-sur-seine, pontoise, gisors, ecouis, and fleury-sur-andelle. besides the _malle-poste_ there was another organization in france even more rapid. the following is copied from an old advertisement: avis au public "_messageries royales--nouvelles diligences_ "le public est averti: "il partira de paris toutes les semaines, pour dunkerque, passant par senlis, compiègne, et noyon, une diligence le lundi à heures du matin. elle repartira de dunkerque à paris, le mercredi à heures du matin. il partira aussi dans chaque sens une voiture pour les gros bagages et objets fragiles, le jeudi de chaque semaine. "les bureaux de ces diligences sont établis à paris, rue st. denis, vis-à-vis les filles-dieu." from paris to bordeaux, leagues, the messageries royales made the going at an easy pace in five days. to-day the express-trains do it in six and one-half hours, and the ever-ready automobile has knocked a half an hour off that, just for a record. "_tempus fugit._" the subject of roads and roadmaking is one that to-day more than ever is a matter of deep concern to those responsible for a nation's welfare. it might seem, in these progressive days, that it was in reality a matter which might take care of itself, at least so far as originally well-planned or well-built roads were concerned. this, however, is not the case; the railway has very nearly reached the limit of its efficiency (at any rate in thickly settled parts), and the electric roads have merely stepped in and completed its functions. it is certain that an improved system of road administration or control is needed. the turnpike or the highroad served its purpose well enough in coaching days as the most direct and quickest way between important towns. to-day, in many respects, conditions are changed. certain centres of population and commercial activity have progressed at the expense of less fortunate communities, and the one-time direct highroads now deviate considerably, with the result that there is often an unnecessary prolongation of distance and expenditure of time. examples of this sort are to be found all over britain, but a great deal less frequently in france, where the communication is by a more direct line between important centres, often leaving the small and unimportant towns out of the itinerary altogether. in england, centralization or nationalization of the road-building authority should remedy all this. cuts and deviations from existing lines, for the general good, would then be made without local jealousy or misapplied influence being brought to bear, and the general details of width and surface be carried on throughout the land, under one supreme power, and not, as often now is the case, by various local district and urban councils and county surveyors. "the great north road" and "the famous bath road" vary greatly throughout their length as to width and excellence; and yet popular opinion in the south of england would seem to indicate that these roads, to single them out from among others, are idyllic, both in character of surface and skill of engineering, throughout their length. this is manifestly not so. the "bath road," for example, in parts, is as flat and well-formed a surface as one could hope to find, even in france itself, but at times it degenerates into a mere narrow, guttery alley, especially in its passage through some of the thames-side towns, where the surface is never of that excellence that it should be; throughout its entire length of some hundred odd miles to bath there are ever-recurring evidence of bad road-making and worse engineering. one is bound to take into consideration that it is the automobile, and the general increase in automobile traffic, that, in all countries, is causing the wide-spread demand for improved roads. to illustrate the growth of the use of the automobile on the public highway, and taking france as an example, the following statistics are given from the _journal des débats:_ in there were taxed in france , _voitures-automobiles_ of more than two places, and of one or two places. in the figures had risen to , and , respectively. these figures may seem astonishingly small at first glance, but their percentage of growth is certainly abnormally large. these _voitures-automobiles_, be it recalled, are all pleasure carriages, and displaced in the same time (according to the same authority) , horse-drawn vehicles. at the same period paris alone claimed , _voitures-automobiles_ and , horse-drawn pleasure carriages. road reformers, wherever found, should agitate for two things: the efficient maintenance of existing roads and the laying out of new and improved thoroughfares where needed. in england and america the roadways are under the care of so many controlling bodies that they have suffered greatly. in england, for example, there is one eighteen-mile strip of road which is under the control of twelve different highway authorities, while the "great north road" from london to edinburgh, is, in england alone, subject to seventy-two separate authorities. local jealousies, rivalry and factions, and the quarrels of various road authorities interfere everywhere with good roads. the greatest good of the greatest number is sacrificed to village squabbles and to the advice of the local squire, who "detests motor-cars," as he does most other signs of progress. the roads of the future must be under some general control. at present, affairs in england are pretty bad; let america take heed in her new provisions for road supervision and government. there is at present an almost chinese jumble in the distribution of authority over roads in england and wales. there are in london alone twenty-nine highway authorities, and , throughout the rest of the country. in view of the fact that through motor traffic of all kinds will increase every year, it has been suggested that new loop roads should be constructed round towns on the chief roads, private enterprise being enlisted by the expectation of improved land value. this certainly would be a move in the right direction. [illustration: milestone pictures] mile-stone reform is another thing which is occupying the serious attention of the road user. in continental europe this matter is pretty well arranged, though there is frequently a discrepancy of two, three, or even five kilometres between the national mile-stones _(bornes kilométriques)_ and the sign-boards of the various local authorities and touring clubs. france has the best system extant of sign-boards and mile-stones. one finds the great national, departmental, and communal signs and stones everywhere, and at every hundred metres along the road are the intermediate little white-numbered stones, from which you may take your bearings almost momentarily, with never a fear that you are off your track. in addition to this the sign-boards of the touring club de france, the automobile club de france, and the association générale automobile satisfy any further demands that may be made by the traveller by automobile who wants to read as he runs. no such legible signs and warnings are known elsewhere. there is uniformity in all the kilometre and department boundary stones in france; but in england "mile-stones" of all shapes, sizes, materials, and degrees of legibility are found. there are some curious relics in the form of ancient mile-stones still in use, which may please the antiquarian, but are of no value to the automobilist. there is the "eightieth mile-stone on the holyhead road" in england, which carries one back through two centuries of road travel; and there is a heavy old veteran of perhaps a thousand years, which at one time marked the "_voie aurelian,_" as it crossed southern gaul. it is found in provence, in the bouches-du-rhône, near salon, and is a sight not to be missed by those curiously inclined. the question of dust is one of the chief problems yet to be solved for the benefit of automobilists and the general public alike. a good deal of the "dust nuisance" is due to badly made and badly kept roads, but we must frankly admit that the automobile itself is often the cause. "la ligue contre la poussière," in france, has made some interesting experiments, with the below enumerated results, as related to automobile traffic. road-builders and manufacturers of automobiles alike have something here to make a note of. ( ) sharp corners and excessive road cambers lead to slip, and, therefore, to dust. ( ) more dust is raised on a rough road than on an equally dusty smooth road. ( ) watering the road moderately diminishes the dust. ( ) the spreading on the road of crude oil, or of oil emulsions in water, is an important palliative. ( ) wood, asphalt, cobblestones, and square pavings are not dusty save after use by horse traffic. ( ) cars with smooth, boat-shaped under surfaces are less dusty than others. ( ) cars with large mud-guards and leather flaps near the road are more dusty. ( ) cars on high wheels well away from the ground are less dusty. ( ) cars with large tool-boxes at the back reaching low down between the back wheels are dusty. ( ) large car bodies are often dustier than small ones. ( ) blowing the exhaust near the ground increases the dust. ( ) cars fitted with engines having an insufficient fly-wheel or a non-uniform turning effort from any cause are more dusty. ( ) a car mounted on very easy springs having a large up-and-down play will suck up the dust with each rise and fall of the body on rough roads. ( ) front wheels--or rolling wheels--raise less dust than back wheels or driving wheels. ( ) smooth pneumatic tires are dusty. ( ) solid or pneumatic rubber tires are more dusty at higher speeds, and with high-powered engines. ( ) non-skid devices, such as small steel studs, etc., do not increase the dust. a writer on automobilism and roads cannot leave the latter subject without a reference to some of the obstructions and inconveniences to which the automobilist has to submit. if the automobilist proved himself a "road obstruction" like any of the following he would soon be banished and the industry would suffer. a correspondent in the _auto_, the chief parisian daily devoted to automobilism, gave the following list of obstructions encountered in a journey of a thousand kilometres: . drivers having left their horses entirely unattended - . drivers who would not make way to allow one to pass - . driver is asleep - . drivers not holding the reins - . drivers in carriages, or carts, without lights at night - . drivers stopping their horses in the middle of the road or at dangerous turnings - . drivers allowing their horses to descend hills unattended while they walked behind - . dogs throwing themselves in front of one - . flocks of sheep met without guardians near by - . cattle straying unattended - . geese, hens and children in the middle of the road - instead of seven sins, any of which might be deadly, there are eleven. legislation must sooner or later protect the automobilist better than it does to-day. chapter iv hotels & things [illustration: hotels & things] in all the literature of travel, that which is devoted to hotels has been conspicuously neglected. certainly a most interesting work could be compiled. among the primitive peoples travellers were dependent upon the hospitality of those among whom they came. after this arose a species of hostelry, which catered for man and beast in a more or less crude and uncomfortable manner; but which, nevertheless, was a great deal better than depending upon the generosity and hospitality of strangers, and vastly more comfortable than sleeping and eating in the open. in the middle ages there appeared in france the _cabaret_, the _gargot_, the _taverne_, and then the _auberge_, many of which, endowed with no more majestic name, exist even to-day. ici on loge à pied et à cheval is a sign frequently seen along the roadways of france, and even in the villages and small towns. it costs usually ten sous a night for man, and five sous for his beast, though frequently there is a fluctuating price. the _aubergiste_ of other days, on the routes most frequented, was an enterprising individual, if reports are to be believed. frequently he would stand at his door and cry out his prices to passers-by. "_au cheval blanc! on dine pour douze sous. huit sous le cocher. six liards l'écurie._" with the era of the diligences there came the hôtels de la poste, with vast paved courtyards, great stables, and meals at all hours, but the chambers still remained more or less primitive, and in truth have until a very recent date. there is absolutely no question but that automobilism has brought about a great change in the hotel system of france. it may have had some slight effect elsewhere, but in france its influence has been enormous. the guide-books of a former generation did nothing but put an asterisk against the names of those hotels which struck the fancy of the compiler, and it was left to the great manufacturers of "_pneumatiques_" for automobiles to carry the scheme to a considerably more successful issue. michelin, in preparing his excellent route-book, bombarded the hotel-keeper throughout the length and breadth of france with a series of questions, which he need not answer if he did not choose, but which, if he neglected, was most likely taken advantage of by his competitor. given a small _chef-lieu_, a market-town in france, with two competing establishments, the one which was marked by the compiler of this excellent road-book as having the latest sanitary arrangements, with perhaps a dark room for photographers, stood a much better chance of the patronage of the automobile traveller than he who had merely a blank against the name of his house. the following selection of this appalling array of questions, used in the preparation of the guide-michelin, will explain this to the full: is your hotel open all the year? what is the price per day which the automobilist _en tour_ may count on spending with you? (this is purposely noncommittal so far as an ironbound statement is concerned, being more particularly for classification, and is anyway a much better system of classification than by a detailed price-list of _déjeuner, dîner_, etc.) what is the price of an average room, with service and lights? (be it noted that only in avowed tourist resorts, or in the case of very new travellers, are the ridiculous items of "_service et bougie_"--service and lights--ever charged in france.) is wine included in your regular charges? (and it generally is except in the two above-mentioned instances.) have you a sign denoting adherence or alliance to the a. g. a.? have you a sign denoting adherence or alliance to the a. c. f.? have you a sign denoting adherence or alliance to the t. c f.? have you an arrangement with the touring club de france allowing members a discount of ten per cent.? (some four thousand country hotels of france have.) have you a bath-room? have you modernized hygienic bedrooms? have you water-closets with modern plumbing? (most important this.) have you a dark room for photographers? have you a covered garage for automobiles? (this must be free of charge to travellers, for two days at least, or a mention of the hotel does not appear.) how many automobiles can you care for? have you a telephone and what is its number? what is your telegraphic address? what are the chief curiosities and sights in your town? what interesting excursions in the neighbourhood? this information is afterwards compiled and most clearly set forth, with additional information as to population, railway facilities, etc. the annual of the automobile club de france marks with a little silhouetted knife and fork those establishments which deserve mention for their _cuisine_, and even marks good beds in a similar fashion. clearly the makers of old-time guide-books must wake up, or everybody will take to automobiling, if only to have the right to demand one of these excellent guides. to be sure the same information might to a very considerable extent be included in the recognized guide-books; indeed joanne's excellent series has in one or two instances added something of the sort in recent editions of their "normandie" and "provence," but each volume deals only with some special locality, whereas the guide-michelin deals with the whole of france, and the house also issues another covering belgium, holland, and the rhine country. the chief concern of the touring automobilist, after the pleasures of the road, is the choice of a hotel. the days when the diligences of europe drew up before an old-time inn, with the sign of a pewter plate, an _écu d'or_, a holly branch, or a prancing white horse, have long since disappeared. the classic good cheer of other days, a fowl and a bottle of beaune, a baron of beef and porter, or a carp and good rhine wine have gone, too. the automobile traveller requires, if not a stronger fare, at least a more varied menu, as he does a more ample supply of water for washing. these quaint old inns of other days, with fine mullioned windows, galleried courtyards, and vine-trellised façades, still exist here and there, but they have been much modernized, else they would not exist at all. there is not much romance in the make-up of the modern traveller, at least so far as his own comfort is concerned, and the tired automobilist who has covered two hundred kilometres of road, between lunch and dinner, requires something more heroic in the way of a bath than can be had in a tiny porcelain basin, and a more comfortable place to sit in than the average bar-parlour, such as he finds in most country inns in england. as sterne said: "they do things better in france," and the accommodation supplied the automobilist is there far ahead of what one gets elsewhere. the hotel demanded by the twentieth-century traveller need not necessarily be a palace, but it must be something which caters to the advancing needs of the time in a more efficient manner than the country inn of the eighteenth century, when the only one who travelled in comfort was he who thrust himself upon the hospitality of friends. we are living in a hygienic age, and to-day we are particular about things that did not in the least concern our forefathers. in england there is no public-spirited body which takes upon itself the task of pointing out the virtuous path to the country boniface. the automobile club of great britain and ireland has not succeeded very well with its task as yet and has not anything like the influence of its two sister organizations in france, or the very efficient touring club italiano. hygiene does not necessarily go so far as to demand a doctor's certificate as to the health of the birds and animals which the _chef_ presents so artistically in his celebrated _plats du jour_, and one need not take the _journaux comiques_ too seriously, as once did a gouty _milord_, who insisted that his duckling rouennais should, while alive, first be certificated as to the health of its _bronches_ and _poumons_. all the same one likes to know that due regard is given to the proprieties and necessities of his bedroom, and to know that the kitchen is more or less a public apartment where one can see what is going on, which one can almost invariably do in france, in the country, at any rate. therein lies one of the great charms of the french hotel. one of the latest moves of the automobile club de france is to call attention to the mountainous districts of france, the pyrenees, and the jura, and to exploit them as rivals to switzerland. further, a competition among hotel-keepers has been started throughout france, and a prize of ten thousand francs is offered yearly to that hotel-keeper who has added most to the attractions of his house. the club authorities furnish expert advice and recommendations as to hotel reforms to any hotel-keeper who applies. in england the newly established "road club" might promote the interests of british motor tourists, and the large numbers of americans and foreigners, by undertaking a similar work. to a great extent the tourist, by whatever means of travel, must find his hotels out for himself. he cannot always follow a guide-book, and if he does he may find that the endorsement of an old edition is no longer merited. by far the best hotel-guides for france, belgium, and holland, the rhine, switzerland, and italy are the excellent _annuaires_ of the automobile clubs and touring clubs, and the before-mentioned guide-michelin and "guide-routiere continental," issued by the great pneumatic tire companies. hotel-finding abroad, for the stranger, is a more or less difficult process, or he makes it such. the crowded resorts do not give one a tithe of the character or local colour to be had from a stay in some little market-town inn of france or germany. in the former, hotels are simply bad imitations of parisian establishments, while the best are often off the beaten track in the small towns. the question of tipping is an ever present one for the european traveller. it exists in britain and continental europe to an increasing and exasperating extent, and the advent of the automobile has done nothing to lessen it. there is no earthly, sensible logic which should induce a _garçon_ in a hotel or restaurant to think that because one arrives in an automobile he wishes to dine in a special room off of rare viands and drink expensive wines, but this is his common conception of the automobile tourist. one fights up or down through the scale of hotel servants, and does his best to allay any false ideas they may have, including those of the hostler, who has done nothing for you, and expects his tip, too. it's an up-hill process, and the idea that every automobilist is a millionaire is everywhere dying hard. the traveller demands not so much elegance as comfort, and, above all, fit accommodation for his automobile. some sort of a light, airy, and clean closed garage is his right to demand, and the hotel that supplies this, as contrasted with the one that does not, gets the business, even if other things be _not_ equal. the requirements of an automobile _en tour_ are almost as numerous and varied as those of its owner. hence the hotel proprietor must, if he values this clientele, provide something a great deal better than a mere outhouse, an old untidy stable-yard, or a lean-to. small concern is it to mine host of the local inn, who is somewhat off the beaten track of motorcars, as to what really constitutes a garage. he usually does not even know what the word means. any roofed-over shed or shack, with doors or not, is what one generally has to put up with to-day, for housing his resplendent brassy and varnishy automobile. once the writer remembers being turned into an old stable (in england), the floor of which was strewn with the broken bottles of a defunct local mineral water industry, and again into another, used as a carpenter's shop, the floor strewn with the paraphernalia and tools of the trade. if the english hotel-keeper (again they do things better on the continent) only would discriminate to the extent of believing that there is nothing harmful or indecent about an automobile, and let it live in the coach-house like a respectable dog-cart or the orthodox brougham, all would be well, and we should save our tempers and a vast lot of gray matter in attempting to show a conservative landlord how far he is behind the times. one other very important demand the automobilist makes of the hotel, and that is the possibility of being supplied with his coffee at any time after five in the morning. the automobile tourist, not of the butterfly order, is almost invariably an early bird. without question the continental hotel of all ranks is vastly superior to similar establishments in britain. the inferiority of the british inns may be due to tardiness and slothfulness on the part of the landlords, or long suffering and non-complaining on the part of their guests. it is either one or the other, or both, of these reasons, but the fact is the hotel-keeper, and his establishment as well, are each far inferior to those of continental europe. perhaps the real reason of the conservatism of the british hotel-keeper is yet to be fathomed, but it probably starts from the fact that he does not travel to learn. the young swiss serves his apprenticeship, and learns french, as a waiter at nice, just as he learns italian at san remo. ten years later you may find him as the manager of a big hotel at home. he has learned his business by hard, disagreeable work. how many english hotel-keepers have imitated him? another cause of backwardness in england is the "license" system, with its artificial augmentation of the value of all premises where alcoholic refreshment is provided. this tends to make the landlord look upon it as his chief, if not his sole, source of profit. even if he serves meals at a fair price, he looks to the accompanying, or casual, drinks to pay him best. this results in indifferent and slovenly food-catering. the public bar, with its foul-mouthed loafers,--there seems to be an idea that one can talk in an english tavern as one would not in an english street,--is often within ear-shot of the dining-room. this is one of the great defects of the english hotel system, in all but the largest towns, and even there it is not wholly absent. this is how the facts strike a foreigner, the frenchman, the dutchman, the belgian, and the german, whose hotels and restaurants are, first of all, for quiet, ordinary guests, and only secondarily as places where liquid refreshment--alcoholic or otherwise--is served with equal alacrity, but without invidious distinction. the old-time inns of england, and their very names, have a peculiar fascination for the stranger. some of us who know them intimately, and who how what discomfort and inefficient catering may lurk behind such a picturesque nomenclature as the "rose and crown" or the "hawthorne inn," have a certain disregard for the romance of it all. if one is an automobilist he has all the more reason to take cognizance of their deficiencies. all the same the mere mention of the old-time posting-houses of the "bath road," the "great north road" (particularly that portion between london and cambridge along which dick turpin took his famous ride) have a glamour for us that even the automobile will not wholly extinguish. according to story it was at one of the many inns along the "great north road" that turpin procured a bottle of wine, which once having passed down the throat of his famous "black bess" enabled the rascal to escape his pursuers. the automobilist will be fortunate if he can find gasoline along here to-day as easily as he can that peculiarly vile brand of beer known as "bitter." buntingford on the "north road" has an inn, which, in a way, is trying to cope with the new conditions. the landlord of the "george and the dragon" has come to a full realization that the motor-car has well-nigh suppressed all other forms of road traffic for pleasure, and, more or less incompletely, he is catering for the wants of motorists, as did his predecessors for the traveller by posting-carriage or stage-coach. this particular landlord, though he looks like one of the old school, should be congratulated on a perspicuity which few of his confreres in england possess. there are two other inns which travellers on the "north road" will recognize as they fly past in their automobiles, or stop for tea or a bite to eat, for, in spite of their devotion to the traffic in beer, these "north road" inns, within a radius of seventy-five or a hundred miles of london, seem more willing to furnish solid or non-alcoholic refreshment than most of their brethren elsewhere. the "bell inn" and the "red, white, and blue" (and the george and the dragon) of the north road in england deserve to linger in the memory of the automobilist, almost to the exclusion of any other english inns of their class. with regard to hotel charges for all classes of travellers, as well in england as on the continent, there is an undoubted upward tendency which the automobile has done absolutely nothing to allay. one good is coming to pass, however, and that is uniformity of price for the class of accommodation offered, and (in france and most other continental countries) the absolute abolition of the charge for "lights and service," an abominable and outrageous practice which still lingers in england--and for that matter scotland and ireland. the discussion of the subject has been worn threadbare, and it is useless to enter further into it here, save to remark that since the automobile is bringing about so many reforms and improvements perhaps the abolition of this species of swindling on the part of the british hotel-keeper will disappear along with antiquated sanitary arrangements and uncomfortable closed-in beds. in france--thanks again to the indefatigable touring club de france--they have eliminated this charge for service and lights entirely, and one generally finds hanging behind the door the little card advocated by the touring club, stating clearly the charge for that particular room and the price of the various things offered in the way of accommodation. this ought to be demanded, by law, of every hotel-keeper. not every hotel in france has fallen in line, but those that have are reaping the benefit. the automobilist is a good advertiser of what he finds _en route_ that pleases him, and scores pitilessly--to other automobilists--everything in the nature of a swindle that he meets with, and they are not few, for in many places the automobilist is still considered fair game for robbery. as to the fare offered in english inns, as compared with that of the continental hotel, the least said the better; the subject has been gone over again and again, so it shall not be reiterated here, save to quote pierre loti on what one eats for an english dinner. "we were assembled round a horrible bill of fare, which would not be good enough for one of our humblest cook-shops. but the english are extraordinary folk. when i saw the reappearance, for the fourth time, of the fatal dish of three compartments, for badly boiled potatoes, for peas looking poisonously green, and for cauliflower drenched with a glue-like substance, i declined, and sighed for poledor, who nourished my studious youth on a dainty repast at a shilling per day." the modern tourist, and especially the tourist by automobile, has done more for the improved conduct of the wayside hotel, and even those of the large towns, than whole generations of travellers of a former day. once the hotel drew its income from the hiring-out of posting-horses, and the sale of a little food and much wine. as the old saying goes: "four horses and four bottles of port went together in the account of every gentleman." travellers of those days, if comparatively few, were presumably wealthy. to-day no one, save the vulgar few, ever cares that the innkeeper, or the servants, should suspect him of being wealthy. it's a failing of the anglo-saxon race, however, to want to be taken for bigger personages than they really are, and often enough they pay for the privilege. this is only natural, seeing that even an innkeeper is human. charges suitable for a _milord_ or a millionaire have been inflicted on browns, joneses, and robinsons simply because they demanded such treatment--for fear they would not be taken for "gentlemen." such people are not numerous among real traveling automobilists; they are mostly found among that class who spend the week-end at brighton, or dine at versailles or st. germain or "make the fête" at trouville. they are known instinctively by all, and are only tolerated by the hotel landlord for the money they spend. the french cook's "_batterie de cuisine_" is a thing which is fearfully and wonderfully displayed in all the splendour of polished steel and copper; that is, it is frequently so displayed in the rather limited acquaintance which the general public has with the _cuisine_ of a great hotel or restaurant, whether it be in paris, london, or new york. [illustration: in french hotels] in provincial france it is quite another thing. the _chef-patron_ of a small hotel in a small town may be possessed of an imposing battery of pots and pans, but often, since he buys his _pâtisserie_ and sweetmeats of the local pastry-cook, and since his guests may frequently not number a dozen at a time, he has no immediate use for all of his _casseroles_ and _marmites_ and _plats ronds_ and _sauteuses_ at one time, and accordingly, instead of being picturesquely hung about the wall in all their polished brilliancy, they are frequently covered with a coating of dull wax or, more banal yet, enveloped in an ancient newspaper with only their handles protruding. it's a pity to spoil the romantically picturesque idea which many have of the french _batterie de cuisine_, but the before-mentioned fact is more often the case than not. occasionally, on the tourist-track, there is a "show hotel," like the hôtel du grand cerf at louviers (its catering in this case is none the worse for its being a "show-place," it may be mentioned) where all the theatrical picturesqueness of the imagination may be seen. there is the timbered sixteenth-century house-front, the heavily beamed, low ceiling of the _cuisine_, the great open-fire chimney with its _broche_, and all the brave showing of pots and pans, brilliant with many scrubbings of _eau de cuivre_, to present quite the ideal picture of its kind to be seen in france--without leaving the highroads and searching out the "real thing" in the byways. on the other hand, in the same bustling town, is the mouton d'argent, equally as excellent in its catering (perhaps more so), where the kitchen is about the most up-to-date thing imaginable, with a modern range, mechanical egg-beaters, etc. this last is nothing very wonderful to an american, but is remarkable in france, where the average cook usually does the work quite as efficiently with a two-tined fork, or something which greatly resembles a chop-stick. in the _cuisine_ electric lights are everywhere, but the up-to-dateness here stops abruptly; the _salle à manger_ is bare and uninviting, and the rooms above equally so, and the electric light has not penetrated beyond the ground floor. instead one finds ranged on the mantel, above the cook-stove in the kitchen, a regiment of candlesticks, in strange contrast to the rest of the furnishings. electric bells, too, are wanting, and there is still found the row of jangling _grelots_, their numbers half-obliterated, hanging above the great doorway leading to the courtyard. the european waiter is never possessed of that familiarity of speech with those he serves, which the american negro waiter takes for granted is his birthright. it's all very well to have a cheerful-countenanced waiter bobbing about behind one's chair, indeed it's infinitely more inspiring than such of the old brigade of mutton-chopped english waiters as still linger in some of london's city eating-houses, but the disposition of the coffee-coloured or coal-black negro to talk to you when you do not want to be talked to should be suppressed. the genuine french, german, or swiss waiter of hotel, restaurant, or café is neither too cringingly servile, nor too familiar, though always keen and agile, and possessed of a foresight and initiative which anticipates your every want, or at any rate meets it promptly, even if you ask for it in boarding-school french or german. there is a keen supervision of food products in france, by governmental inspection and control, and one is certain of what he is getting when he buys his _filet_ at the butcher's, and if he patronizes hotels and restaurants of an approved class he is equally sure that he is eating beef in his _bouille_ and mutton in his _ragoût_. horse-meat is sold largely, and perhaps certain substitutes for rabbit, but you only buy horsemeat at a horse butcher's, so there is no deception here. you buy horse-meat as horse-meat, and not as beef, in the same way that you buy oleomargarine as oleomargarine, and not as butter, and the french law deals hardly with the fraudulent seller of either. the law does not interfere with one's private likes and dislikes, and if you choose to make your breakfast off of oysters and crême chantilly--as more than one american has been known to do on the paris boulevards--there is no law to stop you, as there is in germany, if you want beer and fruit together. doubtless this is a good law; it sounds reasonable; but the individual should have sense enough to be able to select a menu from non-antagonistic ingredients. foreigners, by which english and americans mean people of continental europe, know vastly more of the art of catering to the traveller than do anglo-saxons. this is the first, last, and intermediate verse of the litany of good cheer. we may catch up with our latin and teuton brothers, or we may not. time will tell, if we don't expire from the over-eating of pie and muffins before that time arrives. [illustration: road map of france] chapter v the grand tour [illustration: grand tour] the advantages of touring by automobile are many: to see the country, to travel agreeably, to be independent of railways, and to be an opportunist--that is to say to be able to fly off at a tangent of fifty or a hundred kilometres at a moment's notice, in order to take in some fête or fair, or celebration or pilgrimage. "_le tourisme en automobile_" is growing all over the world, but after all it is generally only in or near the great cities and towns that one meets an automobile on the road. they hug the great towns and their neighbouring resorts with astonishing persistency. of the one thousand automobiles at nice in the season it is certain that nine-tenths of the number that leave their garages during the day will be found sooner or later on the famous "corniche," going or coming from monte carlo, instead of discovering new tracks for themselves in the charming background of the foot-hills of the maritime alps. in england, too, the case is not so very different. there are a thousand "week-enders" in automobiles on the way to brighton, southsea, bournemouth, scarborough, or blackpool to ten genuine tourists, and this even though england and wales and scotland form a snug little touring-grounds with roads nearly, if not always, excellent, and with accommodations--of a sort--always close at hand. in germany there seems to be more genuine touring, in proportion to the number of automobiles in use, than elsewhere. this may not prove to be wholly the case, as the author judges only from his observations made on well-worn roads. switzerland is either all touring, or not at all; it is difficult to decide which. at any rate most of the strangers within its frontiers are tourists, and most of the tourists are strangers, and many of them take their automobiles with them in spite of the "feeling" lately exhibited there against stranger automobilists. belgium and holland, as touring-grounds for automobilists, do not figure to any extent. this is principally from the fact that they are usually, so far as foreign automobilists are concerned, included in more comprehensive itineraries. they might be known more intimately, to the profit of all who pass through them. they are distinctly countries for leisurely travel, for their areas are so restricted that the automobilist who covers two or three hundred kilometres in the day will hardly remember that he has passed through them. northern italy forms very nearly as good a touring-ground as france, and the italian engineers have so refined the automobile of native make, and have so fostered automobilism, that accommodations are everywhere good, and the tourist to-day will not lack for supplies of _benzina_ and _olio_ as he did a few years ago. the bulk of the automobile traffic between france and italy enters through the gateway of the riviera, and, taken all in all, this is by far the easiest, and perhaps the most picturesque, of routes. alternatives are through gap and cuneo, briançon and susa, moutiers and aosta, or by the swiss passes, the latter perhaps the most romantic of routes in spite of their difficulties and other objections. [illustration: on english roads] automobiling in spain is a thing of the future, and it will be a big undertaking to make the highroads, to say nothing of the by-roads, suitable for automobile traffic. the present monarchs' enthusiasm for the sport may be expected, however, to do wonders. the most that the average tourist into spain by automobile will want to undertake is perhaps the run to madrid, which is easily accomplished, or to barcelona, which is still easier, or to just step over the border to feuntarabia or san sebastian, if he does not think overrefined biarritz will answer his purpose. more than one hardy traveller, before the age of automobiles, and even before the age of steam, has made "the grand tour," and then come home and written a book about it until there seems hardly any need that a modern traveller should attempt to set down his impressions of the craggy, castled rhine, the splendid desolation of pompeii, or the romantic reminders still left in old provence to tell the story of the days of the troubadours and the "courts of love." it is conceivable that one can see and enjoy all these classic splendours from an automobile, but automobilists from overseas have been known to rush across france in an attempt to break the record between some channel port and monte carlo, or dash down the rhine and into switzerland for a few days, and so on to rome, and ultimately naples, where ship is taken for home in the western world. this is, at any rate, the itinerary of many a self-made millionaire who thinks to enjoy himself between strenuous intervals of international business affairs. it is a pity he does not go slower and see more. the real grand tour, or, as the french call it, the "_circuit européen,_" may well begin at paris, and descend through poitou to biarritz, along the french slope of the pyrenees, finally skirting the mediterranean coast by marseilles and monte carlo, thence to genoa, in italy, and north to milan, finally reaching vienna. this city is generally considered the outpost of comfortable automobile touring, and rightly so, for the difficulty of getting gasoline and oil, along the route, and such small necessities as an automobile requires, continually oppresses one, and dampens his enthusiasm for the beauties of nature, the fascination of historic shrines, or the worship of art, the three chief things for which the most of us travel, unless we be mere vagabonds, and journey about for the sheer love of being on the move. from vienna to prague, to breslau, to berlin, hanover, and cologne, and finally to paris via reims finishes the "_circuit,_" which for variety and excellence of the roads cannot elsewhere be equalled. this, or something very near to it, would be the very best possible course for a series of reliability trials, and certainly nothing quite so suitable or enjoyable for the participants could otherwise be found. it is much better than a mere pegging away round and round a two hundred and fifty kilometre circuit, as some trials and races have been run. in all the distance is something like five thousand kilometres, which easily divides itself into stages of two hundred kilometres daily, and gives one an enjoyable twenty-five days or a month of travel, which, in all its illuminating variety, is far and away ahead of the benefits our forefathers derived from the box seat of a diligence or a post-chaise. on this trip one runs the whole gamut of the european climate, and eats the food of paris, of the midi, of italy, austria, and germany, and wonders why it is that he likes the last one partaken of the best. given a faultlessly running automobile (and there are many today which can do the work under these conditions) and no tire troubles, and one could hardly improve upon the poetry of motion which enables one to eat up the long silent stretches of roadway in la beauce or the landes, to climb the gentle slopes skirting the pyrenees, or the ruder ones of northern italy, until finally he makes that bee-line across half of europe, from berlin to paris. one's impressions of places when touring _en automobile_ are apt to be hazy; like those of the energetic american who, when asked if he had been to rome, replied, "why, yes; that's where i bought my panama _(sic)_ hat!" such a "grand tour" as outlined by the "_circuit européen_" presents a variety which it is impossible to equal. it is a tour which embraces country widely differing in characteristics--one which takes in both the long, broad, ribbon-like roads of central france, flanked by meadows, orchards, and farmsteads, and lofty mountains from the peaks of which other peaks capped with glistening snow may be gazed upon, sunlit valleys and sparkling lakes. it is a tour which no man could possibly make without a good machine, and yet it is a tour which, with a good machine, can be considered easy and comparatively inexpensive. one does not require a car with excessive horsepower for the trip, though he does need a machine which has been carefully constructed and adjusted, and above all he must guard carefully that his motor does not overheat, for the hills are stiff for the most part. when touring on an itinerary as varied as that here indicated one should have anti-skidding tires on the rear wheels, take descents with care, and, if you be the owner of a powerful machine, do not make that an excuse for rushing up the tortuous, twisting, and frightfully dangerous roads, banked by a cliff on one hand, and by a precipice on the other, which abound in all mountainous regions. in taking turnings on such roads also always keep to the right, even if this necessitates slowing down at the bends. one never knows what is descending, and in such parts slow-moving carts drawn by cattle are numerous, and generally keep the middle of the road. most of the automobile accidents which take place on mountain roads are due to this swishing round bends, heedless of what may be on the other side, and in allowing one's machine to gather too much speed on the long descents. this is gospel! there is both sport and pleasure to be had from such an itinerary as this, but it is a serious affair, for one has to have a lookout for many things that are unthought of in a two hours' afternoon suburban promenade. the _chauffeur_, be he professional or amateur, who brings his automobile back from the _circuit européen_ under its own power is entitled to be called expert. as for the value to automobilism of this great trial one can hardly overestimate it. there is no place here for the freak machine or scorching _chauffeur_, such as one has found in many great events of the past. a great touring contest over such a course would be bound to have important results in many ways. the ordinary class of _circuit_ is a very close approach to a racing-track, with gasoline and tire stations established at many points of the course. on the european circuit such advantages would be out of the question, everything would have to be taken as it exists naturally. in a sense, such a competition would be a return to the contests organized in the early days of the automobile, the paris-bordeaux and paris-berlin races, when the driver had ever to be on the alert for unforeseen difficulties unknown on the racing-circuit as understood in recent years. to follow the _circuit européen_ one traverses france, italy, austria, germany, and belgium; and one may readily enough, if time and inclination permit, get also a glimpse of spain, switzerland, and holland. generally the automobile tourist has confined his trip to france, as properly he might, but, if he would go further afield, the european circuit, as it has become classically known, is an itinerary vouched for as to its practicability and interest by the allied automobile and touring clubs of many lands. france is still far in the lead in the accommodation which it offers to the automobilist, but germany has made great strides of late, and the other frontier boundary states have naturally followed suit. roads improvement in germany has gone on at a wonderful rate of late, due, it is said, to the interest of the german emperor in the automobile industry, both from a sportive and a very practical side. from paris to the italian frontier one finds the roads uniformly excellent; but, as one enters italy, they deteriorate somewhat, except along the frontiers, where, curiously enough, nations seem to vie with each other in a careful maintenance of the highroads, which is, of course, laudable. this is probably due to strategic military reasons, but so long as it benefits the automobilist he will not cry out for disarmament. the austrian roads are fair--near vienna and prague they are quite good; but they are dangerous with deep ditches and gullies which the french know as _canivaux_, the austrians by some unpronounceable name, and the anglo-saxon as "thank-you-marms." from prague to breslau the roads are twisting and turning, and large stones jut here and there above the actual road level. this is a real danger, a very considerable annoyance. from breslau to potsdam one gets as dusty a bit of road travelling as he will find in all europe. one side of the road only is stone-rolled, the other apparently being merely loose sand, or some variety of dust which whirls up in clouds and even penetrates one's tightly closed bags and boxes. hanover, the home of continental tires, is surrounded in every direction with execrable cobblestones, or whatever the german equivalent is--"pflaster," the writer thinks. probably the makers of the excellent tires for automobiles have nothing to do with the existence of this awful _pavé_, and perhaps if you accused them of it they would repair your tires without charge! the writer does not know. from hanover to minden the roads improve, and when one actually strikes the trail of napoleon he finds the roads better and better. napoleon nearly broke up europe, or saved it--the critics do not agree, but he was the greatest road-builder since the romans. finally, crossing the rhine at cologne and passing through belgium, one enters france by the valley of the meuse. one of the most remarkable tours was that undertaken in by georges cormier, in a tiny six horse-power de dion populaire. he left the automobile club de france in mid-october for sens, his first stop, kilometres from paris. his route thenceforth was by dijon, les rousses, and the col de la faucille, whence he reached geneva, after crossing the swiss frontier, in a torrential rain. from geneva he reentered france by the pont de la caille, then to aiguebelle and st. jeanne de maurienne, where the women wear the most theatrical picturesque costumes to be seen in france. after passing modane and lanslebourg he followed the ascent of mont cenis for ten kilometres before he reached the summit of the pass. within three kilometres he struck the snow-line, and the falling snow continued to the summit. here he found two _douaniers_ and two _gendarmes_, who appeared glad enough to have the monotony of their lonely vigil relieved by the advent of an automobile, quite unlooked for at this season of the year. the descent to susa and the great plain of the po was long and dangerous. it is sixty-two kilometres from modane to susa, either up-hill or down-hill, with the descent by far the longest. it is one of the most enjoyable routes between france and italy. once on the italian side the whole climatic aspect of things changes. the towns are highly interesting whenever met with, and the panoramas superb, but there is a marked absence of that active life of the fields, of cattle and human labourers that one remarks in france. from turin the route of this energetic little car passed plaisance, crossed the appenines between bologna and florence, and so to venice, or rather to mestre, where the car was put in a garage while the conductor paid his respects to the queen of the adriatic. from mestre the route lay by udine, pontebba, pontafel, villac judenburg, and murzzuschlag, through styria to vienna, with the roadways continually falling off in excellence. here are m. cormier's own words: "_mais, par exemple, comme routes, dieu que c'est mauvais! malgré cela, j'y retournerai; le pays vaut la peine que l'on affronte les cailloux, les ornières, les dos d'âne at les dérapages sur le sol mouillé, comme je l'ai trop trouvé, hélas!_" of the road from vienna, through moravia and bohemia, the tourist wrote also feelingly. "may i never see those miserable countries again," he said. things must have improved in the last two or three years, but the cause of the little de dion's troubles was the frequent recurrence of culverts or _canivaux_ across the road. five hundred in one day nearly did for the little de dion, or would have done so had not it been carefully driven. from prague the german frontier was crossed at zinnwalo, a tiny hamlet well hidden on a mountain-top, beyond which is a descent of fifty kilometres to dresden. from dresden to berlin the way lay over delightful forest roads, little given to traffic, and most enjoyable at any season of the year, unless there be snow upon the ground. from berlin the route was by magdebourg, hanover, munster, and wesel, and holland was entered at beek, a little village ten kilometres from nymegen. at nymegen the waal was crossed by a steam ferry-boat, and at arnhem the rhine was passed by a bridge of boats, a surviving relic in continental europe still frequently to be found, as at wesel and dusseldorf in germany, and even in italy, near ferrara on the po. utrecht came next, then amsterdam--"a little tour of holland," as the de dion's conductor put it. in the suburbs of the large dutch towns, notably utrecht, one makes his way through miles and miles of garden walls, half-hiding coquettish villas. the surface of the roads here is formed of a peculiar variety of paving that makes them beloved of automobilists, it being of small brick placed edgewise, and very agreeable to ride and drive upon. from utrecht the route was more or less direct to antwerp. at the belgian frontier acquaintance was made with that horrible granite-block road-bed, for which belgium is notorious. after antwerp, brussels, then forty-five kilometres of road even worse--if possible--than that which had gone before. (the belgian _chauffeurs_ call that portion of the route between brussels and gemblout a disgrace to belgium.) the french frontier was gained, through namur, at rocroi, and paris reached, via meaux, thirty-nine days after the capital had previously been quitted. [illustration: how not to travel] this was probably the most remarkable "grand tour" which had been made up to that time, and it was done with a little six horse-power car, which suffered no accidents save those that one is likely to meet with in an afternoon's promenade. the automobile itself weighed, with its baggage and accessories, practically six hundred kilos, and with its two passengers kilos. the distance covered was , kilometres. part ii touring in france [illustration: touring france] chapter i down through touraine: paris to bordeaux as old residents of paris we, like other automobilists, had come to dread the twenty-five or thirty kilometres which lead from town out through choisy-le-roi and villeneuve st. georges, at which point the road begins to improve, and the execrable suburban paris pavement, second to nothing for real vileness, except that of belgium, is practically left behind, all but occasional bits through the towns. at any rate, since our automobile horse was eating his head off in the garage at st. germain, we decided on one bright may morning to conduct him forthwith by as comfortable a road as might be found from st. germain around to choisy-le-roi. getting across paris is one of the dreaded things of life. for the traveller by train who, fleeing from the fogs of london, as he periodically does in droves from november to february of each year, desires to make the south-bound connection at the gare de lyon, it is something of a problem. he may board the "_ceinture_" with a distrust the whole while that his train may not make it in time, or he may go by cab, provided he will run the risk of some of his numerous impedimenta being left behind, for--speak it lightly--the englishman is still found who travels with his bath-tub, though, if he is at all progressive, it may be a collapsible india-rubber affair which you blow up like the tires of an automobile. for the automobilist there is the same dread and fear. to avoid this one has simply to make his way carefully from st. germain, via port marly, or marly-bailly, to st. cyr (where is the great military school), to versailles, thence to choisy-le-roi via the _route nationale_ which passes to the south of sceaux. the route is not, perhaps, the shortest, and it takes something of the skill of the old pathfinders to worry it out, but it absolutely avoids the pavements between st. germain and versailles and equally avoids the drive through paris with its attendant responsibilities. the automobilist, once clear of paris, has only to think of the open road. there will be little to bother him now, save care in negotiating the oft-times narrow, awkward turnings of an occasional small town where, if it is market-day, untold disaster may await him if he does not look sharp. on the occasion of our flight south, nothing on the whole journey happened to give us any concern, save at pithiviers, where a market-wagon with a staid old farm-horse--who did not mean any harm--charged us and lifted off the right mud-guard, necessitating an hour's work or more at the blacksmith's to straighten it out again. [illustration: wayside inn in france] at any rate, we had covered a trifle over a hundred kilometres from paris, and that was something. we lunched well at the hôtel de la poste, and sent off to city-bound friends in the capital samples of the lark patties for which the town is famous. nearly every town in france has its specialty; pithiviers its _pâté des allouettes;_ montélimar its _nougat_; axat its _mousserons_; perigueux its _truffes_, and tours its _rillettes_. when one buys them away from the land of their birth he often buys dross, hence it is a real kindness to send back eatable souvenirs of one's round, much more kind than would be the tawdry jugs and plates emblazoned in lurid colours, or white wood napkin-rings and card-cases, usually gathered in as souvenirs. it is forty-two kilometres to orleans, one of the most historic and, at the same time, one of the most uninteresting cities in france, a place wholly without local dignity and distinction. its hotels, cafés, and shops are only second-rate for a place of its rank, and the manners and customs of its people but weak imitations of those of paris. you can get anything you may need in the automobile line most capably attended to, and you can be housed and fed comfortably enough in either of the two leading hotels, but there is nothing inspiring or even satisfying about it, as we knew from a half-dozen previous occasions. we slept that night beneath the frowning donjon walls of beaugency's l'ecu de bretagne, for something less than six francs apiece for dinner, lodging, and morning coffee, and did not regret in the least the twenty-five kilometres we had put between us and orleans. at one time it was undecided whether we should come on to beaugency, or put in at meung, the attraction of the latter place being, for the sentimentalist, that it is the scene of the opening pages of dumas's "trois mousquetaires," and, in an earlier day, the cradle of jehan de meung, the author of the "roman de la rose." no evidences of dumas's "franc meunier" remained, and, as there was no inn with as romantic a name as that at beaugency, we kept on another seven kilometres. we had made it a rule, while on the trip, not to sleep in a large town when we could do otherwise, and that is why orleans and blois and bordeaux are mere guide-posts in our itinerary. from beaugency to blois is thirty odd kilometres only, along the flat, national highway, with glimpses of the broad, shining ribbon of the loire here and there gleaming through the trees. blois is the gateway of the châteaux country; a score of them are within a day's compass by road or rail; but their delights are worthy of a volume, so they are only suggested here. the châteaux of blois, chambord, cheverny, amboise, chaumont, chenonceaux, loches, azay le rideau, luynes, and langeais, at any rate, must be included in even a hurried itinerary, and so we paid a hasty visit to them all in the order named, and renewed our acquaintance with their artistic charms and their historical memories of the days of françois and the renaissance. for the tourist the châteaux country of the loire has no beginning and no end. it is a sort of circular track encompassing both banks of the loire, and is, moreover, a thing apart from any other topographical division of france. its luxuriant life, its splendidly picturesque historical monuments, and the appealing interest of its sunny landscape, throughout the length and breadth of old touraine, are unique pages from a volume of historical and romantic lore which is unequalled elsewhere in all the world. the climate, too, combines most of the gentle influences of the southland, with a certain briskness and clearness of atmosphere usually found in the north. by road the loire valley forms a magnificent promenade; by rail, even, one can keep in close and constant touch with its whole length; while, if one has not the time or inclination to traverse its entire course, there is always the delightful "tour from town," by which one can leave the quai d'orsay by the orleans line at a comfortable morning hour and, before lunch-time, be in the midst of the splendour and plenty of touraine and its châteaux. we made our headquarters at blois, and again at tours, for three days each, and we explored the châteaux country, and some other more humble outlying regions, to our hearts' content. blois is tourist-ridden; its hotels are partly of the tourist orders, and its shopkeepers will sell you "american form" shoes and "best english" hats. it is really too bad, for the overpowering splendours of the château, the quaint old renaissance house-fronts, the streets of stairs, and the exceedingly picturesque and lively congregation of countryside peasants on a market-day would make it a delightful artists' sketching-ground were one not crowded out by "bounders" in bowler hats and others of the genus tripper. the hôtel d'angleterre et de chambord is good, well-conducted, and well-placed, but it is as unsympathetically disposed an hostelry as one is likely to find. just why this is so is inexplicable, unless it be that it is a frankly tourist hotel. at tours we did much better. the praises of the hôtel de l'univers are many; they have been sung by most latter-day travellers from henry james down; and the automobile club de france has bestowed its recommendation upon it--which it deserves. for all this one is not wholly at his ease here. we remembered that on one occasion, when we had descended before its hospitable doors, travel-worn and weary, we had been pained to find a sort of full-dress dinner going on where we expected to find an ordinary _table d'hôte_. for this reason alone we passed the hotel by, and hunted out the quaintly named hotel du croissant, in a dimly lighted little back street, indicated by a flaring crescent of electric lights over its _porte-cochère_. [illustration: in touraine] we drove our automobile more or less noisily inside the little flagged courtyard, woke up two dozing cats, who were lying full-length before us, and disturbed a round dozen of sleek french commercial travellers at their evening meal. they treated us remarkably well at tours's hôtel du croissant. "follow the _commis-voyageur_ in france and dine well (and cheaply)" might readily be the motto of all travellers in france. the bountiful fare, the local colour, the hearty greeting, and equally hearty farewell of the _patronne_, and the geniality of the whole personnel gave us an exceedingly good impression of the contrast between the tourist hotel of blois and the _maison bourgeois_ of tours, always to the advantage of the latter. the banks of the loire immediately below tours grow the only grape in france--perhaps in all the world--which is able to produce a satisfactory substitute for champagne. vineyard after vineyard line the banks for miles on either side and give great crops of the celebrated _vin mosseaux_, the most of which finds its way to paris, to be sold by second-rate dealers as the "vrai vin de champagne." there's no reason why it shouldn't be sold on its own merits; it is quite good enough; but commerce bows down to american millionaires, english dukes, and the german emperor, and the king of wines of to-day must be labelled champagne. from tours to niort is kilometres, and we stopped not on the way except to admire some particularly entrancing view, to buy gasoline for the automobile, and for lunch at poitiers. the whole aspect of things was changing; there was a breath of the south already in the air; and there was an unspeakable tendency on the part of everybody to go to sleep after the midday meal. we passed chatellerault and its quaint old turreted and bastioned bridge at just the hour of noon, and were tempted to stop, for we had just heard of the latest thing in the way of a hotel which was brand-new, with steam heat, and hot and cold water, electric lights, baths, etc. nothing was said about the bill of fare, though no doubt it was equally excellent. the combination didn't appeal, however; we were out after novelty and local colour, and so we rolled on and into poitiers's hôtel de l'europe and lunched well in the most charmingly cool garden-environed dining-room that it were possible to conceive. we had made a wise choice, though on a hit-or-miss formula, and we were content. here at least the dim echo of the rustle and bustle of paris, which drifts down the valley of the loire from orleans to the sea, was left behind; a whole new chromatic scale was being built up. no one hurried or rushed about, and one drank a "_tilleuil_" after _déjeuner_, instead of coffee, with the result that he got sleepy forthwith. there are five magnificent churches at poitiers, dating from roman and mediæval times, but we saw not one of them as we passed through the town. again we had decided we were out after local manners and customs, and, for the moment, churches were not in the category of our demands. we had only faint glimmerings as to where niort was, or what it stood for, but we were bound thither for the night. we left poitiers in mid-afternoon, gaily enough, but within five kilometres we had stopped dead. the sparking of course; nothing else would diagnose the case! it took three hours of almost constant cranking of the unruly iron monster before the automobile could be made to start again. once started, the automobile ran but fitfully the seventy-five kilometres to niort, the whole party, with fear and trembling, scarcely daring to turn sidewise to regard the landscape, or take an extra breath. there was no assistance to be had this side of niort, and should the sparking arrangements go back on us again, and we were not able to start, there was no hope of being towed in at the back of a sturdy farm-horse; the distance was too great. once we thought we had nearly lost it again, but before we had actually lost our momentum the thing recovered itself, and we ran fearingly down the broad avenue into niort, and asked anxiously as to whether there might be a _grand maison des automobiles_ in the town. indeed there was, and in the twinkling of an eye we had shunted our poor lame duck into the courtyard of a workshop which gave employment to something like seventy-five hands, all engaged in the manufacture of automobiles which were exported to the ends of the earth. here was help surely. nothing could be too great or too small for an establishment like this to undertake, and so we left the machine with an easy heart and hunted out the excellent hôtel de france--the best hotel of its class between paris and bordeaux. we dined sumptuously on all the good things of the north and the south, to say nothing of fresh sardines from la rochelle, not far distant, and we gave not a thought to the automobile again that night, but strolled on the quay by the little river sêvre-niortaise, and watched the moon rise over the old château donjon, and heard the rooks caw, and saw them circle and swing around its battlement in a final night-call before they went to rest. it was all very idyllic and peaceful, although niort is, as may be inferred, an important centre for many things. we had planned to be on the road again by eight the next morning, but, on arrival at the garage, or more correctly stated, the _usine_, where we had left the automobile the night before, we found it the centre of a curious group who were speculating--and had been since six o'clock that morning--as to what might be the particular new variety of disease that had attacked its vital parts so seriously that it still refused to go. it was twelve o'clock, high noon, before it was discovered--with the aid of the electrician from the electric light works--that two tiny ends of copper wire, inside the coil (which a frenchman calls a _bobine_), had become unsoldered, and only when by chance they rattled into contact would the sparking arrangements work as they ought. this was something new for all concerned. none of us will be likely to be caught that way again. the cost was most moderate. it was not the automobile owner who paid for the experience this time, a thing which absolutely could not have happened outside of france. pretty much the whole establishment had had a hand in the job, and, if the service had been paid for according to the time spent, it might have cost anything the establishment might have chosen to charge. ten francs paid the bill, and we went on our way rejoicing, after having partaken of a lunch, as excellent as the dinner we had eaten the night before, at the hôtel de france. la rochelle, the city of the huguenots, and later of richelieu, was reached just as the setting sun was slanting its red and gold over the picturesque old port and the tour de richelieu. if one really wants to know what it looked like, let him hunt up petitjean's "port de la rochelle" in the musée de luxembourg at paris. words fail utterly to describe the beauty and magnifycence of this hitherto unoverworked artists' sketching-ground. [illustration: la rochelle] we threaded our way easily enough through the old sentinel gateway spanning the main street, lined with quaint old arcaded, spanish-looking houses, and drew up abreast of the somewhat humble-looking hôtel du commerce, on the place d'armes, opposite the ugly little squat cathedral, once wedded to the haughty richelieu himself. the hôtel du commerce at la rochelle is the equal of the hôtel de france at niort, and has the added attraction of a glass-covered courtyard, where you may take your coffee and watch the household cats amusing themselves with the goldfish in the pool of the fountain which plays coolingly in the centre. la rochelle and its hôtel du commerce are too good to be treated lightly or abruptly by any writer; but, for fear they may both become spoiled, no more shall be said here except to reiterate that they are both unapproachable in quaintness, comfort, and charm by anything yet found by the writer in four years of almost constant wanderings by road and rail up and down france. offshore four kilometres is the ile de ré, an isle thirty kilometres long, where the inhabitants wear the picturesque _coiffe_ and costume which have not become contaminated with paris fashions. the one thing to criticize is the backwardness of the lives of the good folk of the isle and their enormous _pieds plats_. northward from la rochelle is a region, almost within sight of the ile de ré, where the women wear the most highly theatrical costumes to be seen anywhere in modern france, not even excepting the peasants of brittany. the chief distinction of the costume is a sort of tiny twisted bandanna over the head, a tight-fitting or folded fichu, a short ballet sort of a skirt, black stockings, and a gaily bordered apron and dainty, high-heeled, tiny shoes--in strong contrast in size and form to the ungainly feet of the women of the ile de ré. we left la rochelle with real regret, passed the fortified town of rochefort without a stop, and, in something over two hours, reeled off some sixty-eight kilometres of sandy, marshy roadway to saintes. saintes is noted for many things: its antiquity, its religious history, its roman remains, and the geniality of its toddling old dealer in sewing-machines (of american make, of course), who, as a "side" line, sells gasoline and oil at considerably under the prevailing rates elsewhere. truly we were in the ideal touring-ground for automobilists. to cognac is sixty-seven kilometres. if we had ever known that cognac was the name of a town we had forgotten it, for we had, for the moment, at any rate, thought it the name of the region where were gathered the grapes from which cognac was made. cognac is famous for the subtle spirit which is sold the world over under that name, and from the fact that it was the birthplace of the art-loving monarch, françois premier. for these two reasons, and for the bountiful lunch of the hôtel d'orleans, and incidentally for the very bad cognac which we got at a café whose name is really and truly forgotten, cognac is writ large in our note-books. the house where was born françois premier is easily found, sitting by the river's bank. to-day it is the counting-house of one of the great brandy shippers whose name is current the world over. its associations have changed considerably, and where once the new art instincts were born, in the person of the gallant françois, is now the cradle of commercialism. the question as to what constitutes good brandy has ever been a favourite one among possessors of a little knowledge. the same class has also been known to state that there is no good brandy nowadays, no _vrai cognac_. this is a mistake, but perhaps a natural one, as the cognac district in the charente was almost wholly devastated in the phylloxera ravages of half a century ago. things have changed, however, and there is as good cognac to-day as there ever was, though there is undoubtedly much more poor stuff being sold. down through the heart of the cognac region we sped, through blaye to bordeaux and all the busy traffic of its port. bordeaux is attractive to the automobilist in that one enters, from any direction, by wide, broad avenues. it is one of the great provincial capitals of france, a great gateway through which much of the intercourse with the outside world goes on. it is not so cosmopolitan as marseilles, nor so historically or architecturally interesting as rouen, but it is the very ideal of an opulent and well-conducted city, where one does not need to await the arrival of the daily papers from paris in order to know what has happened during the last round of the clock. hotels? the town is full of them! you may put up your automobile in the garage of the hôtel du chapon-fin, along with forty others, and you yourself will be well cared for, according to city standards, for twelve or fifteen francs a day,--which is not dear. on the other hand, bordeaux possesses second-class hotels where, all found, you may sleep and eat for the modest sum of seven francs a day. one of these is the hôtel français, a somewhat extensive establishment in a tiny back street. it is the cheapest _city_ hotel the writer has found in france. there was no garage at the hotel français, and we were forced to house our machine a block or two away, where, for the moderate sum of two francs, you might leave it twenty-four hours, and get it back washed and rubbed down, while for another fifty centimes they would clean the brass work,--a nasty job well worth the price. yes! bordeaux is pleasant for the automobilist! [illustration: bourdeaux, the gateway to the landes] two things the stranger, who does not want to go too far back into antiquity, will remark upon at bordeaux, the exceeding ampleness, up-to-date-ness, and cleanliness of the great open space in front of the opera, and the imposing and beautifully laid out place des quinconces, with its sentinel pillars and its waterside traffic of railway and shipping, blending into a whole which inspired one of the world's greatest pictures of the feverish life of modern activity, the painting by eugene boudin, known as the "port de bordeaux," in the luxembourg. you may find a good low-priced hotel at bordeaux, but you pay inflated prices for your refreshments in the cafés; a _café-glacê_ cost fifteen sous and a _glace à café_ twenty-five on the terrace of the magnificent establishment opposite the opera. [illustration: map of pyrenees] chapter ii a little tour in the pyrenees [illustration: the pyrenees] we had been touring france _en automobile_ for many months--for business purposes, one might say, and hence had followed no schedule or itinerary, but had lingered by the way and made notes, and the artist made sketches, and in general we acquired a knowledge of france and things french that otherwise might not have been our lot. the mere name of the pyrenees had long had a magic sound for us. we had seen them at a distance, from carcassonne and toulouse and pau, when we had made the conventional tour years ago, and had admired them greatly, to the disparagement of the swiss alps. this may be just, or unjust, but it is recorded here as a fact. to climb mountains in an automobile appealed to us as a sport not yet banal or overdone, and since switzerland--so hospitable to most classes of tourists--was treating automobilists badly just at the time, we thought we would begin by making the itinerary of the "_coupe des pyrénées;_" then, if we liked it, we could try the french alps in dauphiné and savoie, delightful and little-known french provinces which have all the advantages of switzerland and few of its disadvantages, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the valley hamlets and mountain towns have not become so _commerçant_ as their swiss brothers. in august, , was organized, by _la vie en grand air_ and _la dépêche de toulouse_, a great contest for touring automobiles, for an award to be known as the "_coupe des pyrénées._" as a work of art the "_coupe des pyrénées_" is far and away ahead of most "cups" of the sort. it was the work of the sculptor, ducuing, and the illustration herewith will show some of its charm. the "_coupe_" itself has disappeared from mortal view, it having been stolen from an automobile exposition in london. the trials was intended to develop that type of vehicle best suited to touring, and in every way the event was a great success. the itinerary covered the lovely mountain roads from the mediterranean to the atlantic, and was the immediate inspiration for the author of this book to follow along the same trail. it is one of the most delightful excursions to be made in all france, which is saying that it is one of the most delightful in all the world. we took our departure from toulouse, as did the participants in this famous trial of the year before. toulouse, the gay capital of the gay province of old languedoc, has abounding attractions for the tourist of all tastes, though it is seldom visited by those who, with the first swallows of spring-time, wing their way from the resorts of the riviera to biarritz. [illustration: coupe de pyrenees] toulouse has many historic sights and monuments, and a _cuisine_ which is well worth a trip across france. what with truffles and the famous _cassoulet_ and the _chapons fins de toulouse_ one forgets to speak of anything else on the menu, though the rest will be sufficiently marvellous. there are three "leading" hotels in toulouse catering for the automobile tourist. according to report they are all equally good. we chose the capoul, on the square lafayette, and had no cause to regret it. we dined sumptuously, slept in a great ducal sort of an apartment with a _hygiénique_ bedstead (a thing of brass openwork and iron springs) tucked away in one corner, full fifteen paces from the door by which one entered--"_un bon kilomètre encore,_" said the _garçon de chambre_, facetiously, as he showed us up. it promised airiness, at any rate, and if we were awakened at four in the morning by the extraordinarily early traffic of the city what did it matter, since automobiles invariably take early to the road. it's worth stating here that the _café au lait_ at six a. m. at the hôtel capoul was excellent. frequently hotel coffee in the morning in france (at no matter what hour) is abominable. usually it is warmed over from the night before. no wonder it is bad! toulouse delayed us not on this occasion. we had known it of old; so we started a little before seven on a brilliant september morning, just as the sun was rising over the cathedral towers and strengthening the shadows on the tree-lined boulevard which leads eastward via castlemaudry to the walled city of carcassonne, ninety-six kilometres away. the road-books say of this route; "_pl. roul. puis ond tr. pitt._" this freely translated means that the road is at first flat, then rolling and hilly, but very picturesque throughout. castlemaudry delayed us not a moment, except to extricate ourselves from a troop of unbridled, unhaltered little donkeys being driven to the market-place, where there was a great sale of these gentle little beasts of burden. _pas méchant_, these little donkeys, but stubborn, like their brethren elsewhere, and it was exceedingly difficult to force our way through two hundred of them, all of whom wiggled their ears at us and stood their ground until their guardians actually came and pushed them to one side. "you can often push a donkey when you can't pull him," they told us, a fact which was most apparent, though unknown to us previously. we arrived at carcassonne in time for lunch, which we had always supposed was called _déjeuner_ in france, but which we learned was here called _dîner_, the evening meal (at the fashionable hour of eight) being known as _souper_, though in reality it is a five-course dinner. carcassonne was a disappointment. imagine a puffed-up little metropolis of twenty-five thousand souls with all the dignity that half a dozen pretentious hotels and gaudy cafés can give it; not very clean, nor very well laid out, nor very ancient-looking, nor very picturesque. where was the carcassonne of the frowning ramparts, of the gem of a gothic church, and of the romance and history of which all school-books are filled? "oh! you mean _la cité,_" said the buxom hostess of our hotel. (they are always buxom hostesses in books, but this was one in reality.) well, yes, we did mean _la cité_, if by that name the referred to the old walled town of carcasonne, _la ville la plus curieuse de france, un monument unique au mond._ it is but a short kilometre to reach _la cité_ from the _ville basse_, as the modern city of carcassonne is known. once within the double row of walls, flanked by more than fifty towers, any preconceived ideas that one may have had of what it might be like will be dispelled in air. it is the most stupendously theatrical thing yet on top of earth, unless it be the sad and dismal pompeii or poor rent les baux, in provence. the history of this wonder-work cannot be compressed into a few lines. one can merely emphasize its marvellous attractions, so that those who are in the neighbourhood may go and study it all out for themselves. it will be worth whole volumes on history and architecture for the earnest student to see these things. among all the authorities who have proclaimed the magnificent attractions of carcassonne the words of viollet-le-duc are as convincing as any. he says: "in no part of europe is there anything so formidable, nor at the same time so complete, as the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth century fortifications of carcassonne." we stayed a full day at carcassonne, and reached the frowning battlements of the eglise st. nazaire, at béziers, at just two by the clock. this is the hour when all the _commis-voyageurs_, who may have taken lunch at the hôtel du nord, are dozing over their _café_ and _petites verres_, and the _patron_ and _patronne_ of the hotel are making preparations for their early afternoon siesta, an attribute of all the midi of france, as it is of spain. nothing loath, the kitchen staff, spurred on by the _patron_ (all thoughts of his siesta having vanished), turned out a most excellent lunch, _hors d'oeuvres_, fresh sardines, omelette, _cotelette d'agneau_ with _pommes paille_, delicious grapes, and all you wish of the red or white _vin du pays_. all for the absurd sum (considering the trouble they were put to) of three francs each. no "_doing_" the automobilist here; let other travellers make a note of the name! béziers is altogether one of the most remarkably disposed large towns of the south of france. its storied past is lurid enough to please the most bloodthirsty, as is recalled by the history of its fortress-church of st. nazaire, now the cathedral. for the rest the reader must hunt it out in his guide-book. we were doing no lightning tour, but we were of a mind to sleep that night at perpignan, approximately a hundred kilometres farther on. southward our road turned again, through narbonne, which, both from its history and from its present-day importance, stands out as one of the well-remembered spots in one's itinerary of france. it is full of local colour; its bridge of houses over its river is the delight of the artistic; its hôtel de ville and its cathedral are wonders of architectural art; and, altogether, as the ancient capital of an ancient province, one wonders that a seventeenth-century traveller had the right to call it "_cette vilaine ville de narbonne._" all the way to perpignan the roads were terrifically bad, being cut up into great dusty ruts by many great carts and drays hauling wine-pipes to the railway stations. the traffic is enormous, for it is the wines of roussillon that are shipped all over france for blending with and fortifying the weaker vintages, even those of the gironde. dusty in dry weather, and chalky mud in wet, are the characteristic faults of this hundred kilometres or more of herault roadway which one must cross to gain the shadow of the pyrenees. there seems to be no help for it unless cobblestones were to be put down, which would be a cure worse than the disease. perpignan is the most entrancing city between marseilles and barcelona. it has many of the characteristics of both, though of only thirty thousand inhabitants. the old fortifications, which once gave it an aspect of mediævalism, are now (by decree of ) being torn down, and only the quaintly picturesque castillet remains. the rest are--at the present writing--a mere mass of crumbled bricks and mortar, and a real blemish to an otherwise exceedingly attractive, gay little city. the automobile garages are all side by side on a new-made street, on the site of one line of the old fortifications, and are suitable enough when found, but no directions which were given us enabled us to house our machine inside of half an hour's time after we had entered the town. our hotel, unfortunately, was one of the few that did not have a garage as an adjunct of the establishment. in other respects the hôtel de la poste was a marvel of up-to-dateness. the sleeping-rooms were of that distinction known in france as _hygiénique_, and the stairways and walls were fire-proof, or looked it. one dined in a great first-floor apartment with a marble floor, and dined well, and there was ice for those who wanted it. (the americans did, you may be sure.) perpignan is possessed of much history, much character, and much local colour of the tone which artists love, and above all a certain gaiety and brilliancy which one usually associates only with spain. there is what might be called a street of cafés at perpignan, not far from the castillet. they are great, splendid establishments, with wide, overhung, awninged terraces, and potted plants and electric lights and gold and tinsel, and mixed drinks and ices and sorbets, and all the epicurean cold things which one may find in the best establishment in paris. these cafés are side by side and opposite each other, and are as typical of the life of the town as is the rambla typical of barcelona, or the cannebière of marseilles. they are dull enough places in the daytime, but with the hour of the _apéritif_, which may be anywhere between five and eight in the afternoon, they wake up a bit, then slumber until nine or nine-thirty, when gaiety descends with all its forces until any hour you like in the morning. they won't think of such a thing as turning the lights out on you in the cafés of perpignan. from perpignan we turned boldly into the cleft road through the valley of the têt, via prades and mont louis to bourg-madame, the frontier town toward spain, and the only decent route for entering spain by automobile via the mediterranean gateway. bourg-madame is marked on most maps, but it is all but unknown of itself; no one thinks of going there unless he be touring the pyrenees, or visiting andorra, one of the unspoiled corners of europe, as quaint and unworldly to-day as it ever was; a tiny republic of very, very few square kilometres, whose largest city or town, or whatever you choose to call it, has but five hundred inhabitants. if one is swinging round the pyrenean circle he goes on to porte, where, at the auberge michette, he will learn all that is needful for penetrating into the unknown darkest spot in europe. we thought to do the journey "_en auto,_" but on arrival at porte learned it was not to be thought of. a sure-footed little pyrenean donkey or mule was the only pathfinder used to the twistings and turnings and blind paths of this little mountain republic, where the people speak spanish, and religion and law are administrated by the french and spanish authorities in turn. it's a week's travel properly to visit andorra and view all its wild unworldliness, so the trip is here only suggested. [illustration: some snap-shots in the pyrenees] we took up our route again, crossing the col de puymorans ( , metres), and dropped down on hospitalet, which also is printed in large black letters on the maps, but which contains only inhabitants, unless there have been some births and no deaths since this was written. from hospitalet we were going down, down, down all of the time, the valley road of the ariége, dropping with remarkable precipitation. in eighteen kilometres we were at aix-les-thermes. the guide-books call it "_une jolie petite ville,_" and no one will dispute it, though it had no charms for us; we were more interested in routes and roads than in mere watering-places, and so, beyond a stop for gasoline for the motor, not having been able to get any for the last fifty kilometres, still following the valley of the ariége, we arrived at foix for lunch, at the most excellent hôtel benoit, just as the ice was being brought on the table and the _hors d'oeuvres_ were being portioned out. taken all in all, foix was one of the most delightful towns we found in all the pyrenean itinerary. it is quite the most daintily and picturesquely environed town imaginable, its triple-towered château and its _rocher_ looming high above all, and sounding a dominant note which carries one back to the days when gaston phoebus was the seigneur of foix. we planned to spend the night at the hôtel de france at st. girons, for it was marked down in the guide-michelin as being fitted with those modern refinements of travel which most of us appreciate, and there was furthermore a garage and a _fosse_, or inspection pit. we had need of the latter, for something was going wrong beneath the body of our machine which manifestly require being attended to without delay. we took the long way around, twenty kilometres more out of our direct road, for novelty of driving our automobile through the grotto of mas d'azil. we had been through grottoes before, the grotte de han in the north of france, the caves where they ripen rochefort cheeses, the mammoth cave of kentucky, and some others, but we had never expected to drive an automobile through one. the grotte de mas-d'azil is much like other dark, damp holes elsewhere, and the only novelty is the magnificent road which pierces it. the sensation of travelling over this road is most weird, and it was well worth the trouble of making the experiment. from st. girons to st. gaudens and montrejeau is sixty odd kilometres. nothing happened on the way except that the road was literally thronged with great slow-moving ox-teams transporting great logs down the mountainside to the sawmills in the lower valley. montrejeau was a surprise and a disappointment. it was a surprise that we should find such a winsome little hill-town, and such a very excellent hotel as was the grand hôtel du parc, which takes its name from a tiny hanging garden at the rear; but we were disappointed in that for a mortal half-hour we tried to make our usually willing automobile climb up on to the plateau upon which the town sits. three separate roads we tried, each three separate times, but climb the machine would not. no one knew why, the writer least of all, and he had been _chauffeur_ and driver of that automobile for many long months, and had never found a hill, great or small, that it would not climb. automobiles are capricious things, like women, and sometimes they will and sometimes they will not. at last, after the natives had had sufficient amusement, and had told us that they had seen many an automobile party go without lunch because they could not get up that steep little kilometre, we found a sort of back-door entrance which looked easy, and we went up like the proverbial bird. it was not the main road into town, and it took some finding. the writer hopes that others who pass this way will be as successful. montrejeau, with its three steep streets, its excellent hotel (when you finally got in touch with it), its old-world market-house, and its trim little café-bordered square, will be long remembered. we debated long as to whether we should drop down to luchon, and come around by bagnerres-de-bigorre or not, but since they were likely to be full of "five-o'-clockers" at this season we thought the better of it, and left them entirely out of our itinerary. when one wants it he can get the same sort of conventionality at ermenonville, and need not go so far afield to find it. we arrived at tarbes, at the hôtel des ambassadeurs, late on sunday afternoon. the name of the hotel augured well for good cheer, and on the whole we found it satisfactory enough. one of its most appealing features is the fact that the kitchens and the garage were once a convent. it has undergone a considerable change since then, but it lent a sort of glamour to things to know that you were stabling your automobile in such a place. tarbes is a great busy, overgrown, unlovely big town, which flounders under the questionable dignities of being a station of an army corps and a préfecture: bureaucracy and officialdom are writ large all over everything, and a poor mortal without a handle to his name, or a ribbon in his buttonhole, is looked upon as a sort of outcast when he enters a café, and accordingly he waits a long time to be served. we got out of tarbes at a _très bonne heure_ the next morning without a regret, headed for pau. all of us had always had an affection for pau, because, in a way, we admired old henri quatre, even his rascality. we found pau, too, a great, overgrown, fussy town, a bit more delightfully environed than tarbes, but still not at all what we had pictured it. we knew it to be a tourist resort, but we were hardly prepared for the tea-shops and the "bars" and the papers--in english and "american," as a local newsdealer told us when we went to him to buy the inevitable picture postcards. we found out, too, that pau has long held a unique position as the leading hunting centre on the continent. it costs sixty francs a day for the hire of a saddle-horse, and from francs to four hundred francs for the month--certainly rather dear. there are, as a rule, from thirty to forty hunters available for hire each year, but many of them are reserved by old stagers. of privately owned horses following the hunt, the number would usually somewhat exceed two hundred. the hounds meet three times a week, and the municipality of pau shows its appreciation of the good that hunting does for the pyrenees resort by voting a subsidy of five thousand francs. what history and romance there is about pau is pretty well blotted out by twentieth-century snobbism, it would seem. one learns that pau was the seat of a château of the princes of béarn as early as the tenth century. its great splendour and importance only came with the establishment here of the residence of gaston iv., comte de foix, the usurper of the throne of navarre in . in his train came a parliament, a university, an academy, and a mint. finally came the birth of henri quatre, and one may yet see the great turtle-shell used by the afterwards gay monarch for a cradle. these were gay times for pau, and the same gaiety, though of a forced nature, exists to-day with the throngs of english and americans who are trying hard to make of it a social resort. may they not succeed. one thing they have done is to raise prices for everything to everybody. this is bad enough to begin with, and so with this parting observation pau is crossed off the list. there are eight highroads which cross the frontier passes from france into spain, and two lines of railway, one along the border of the atlantic and hendaye, and the other following the mediterranean coast to barcelona. "_il n'y a plus de pyrénées,_" we were told as we were leaving pau. it seemed that news had just been received that in fourteen hours a spanish aeronaut had covered the kilometres from pau to grenada "_comme les oiseaux._" truly, after this, there are no more frontiers. after pau our route led to mauléon (seventy-two kilometres) via oloron, straight across béarn, where the peasants are still of that picturesque mien which one so seldom sees out of the comic-opera chorus. one reads that the béarnais are "irascible, jealous, and spirituel." this is some one's opinion of times long passed, but certainly we found nothing of the kind; nothing indeed different from all the folk of the south who dawdle at their work and spend most of their leisure energetically dancing or eating. mauléon, known locally as mauléon-licharre to distinguish it from mauléon-barousse, is the _douane_ station for entering france from spain (pampelune) via st. jean-pied-de-port and st. beat, neither of the routes much used, and not at all by automobiles. a typical little mountain town, mauléon is the _chef-lieu_ of the arrondissement, and the ancient capital of the vicomté de soule. it has an excellent hotel, allied to the touring club de france (hôtel saubidet), where one dines well off the fare of the country with no imitation parisian dishes. there is a sort of a historical monument here, the château de mauléon (malo-leone--mauvais lion--wicked lion: the reader may take his choice) of the fifteenth century, which surrounds itself accommodatingly with a legend which the native will tell you, if asked. there is no great accommodation for automobiles at mauléon, and one can only buy oil and gasoline by going to a man named etcheberrigary for it. his address is not given, but any one will tell you where he lives. they may not recognize your pronunciation, but they will recognize your dilemma at once and point the way forthwith. it was forty-one kilometres to st. jean-pied-de-port, over an "all-up-and-down-hill" road, if there ever was one--up out of one river valley and down into another all the way until we struck the road by the banks of the nive and approached the town. st. jean-pied-de-port takes its name from its proximity to one of the franco-spanish gateways through the pyrenees. it is in danger of becoming a resort, since the guide-books already announce it as a _station climatique_. its basque name of _donajouana_, or _don ilban-garici_, ought, however, to stop any great throng from coming. it lies directly at the foot of the col de roncevalles leading into spain ( , metres). the pass has ever been celebrated in the annals of war, from the days of the paladin roland to those of maréchal soult's attack on the english at pampelune. considering that st. jean-pied-de-port boasts of only fourteen hundred inhabitants, and is almost hidden in the pyrenean fastness, one does very well within its walls. there is a railway to bayonne, the post, telegraph, a pharmacy, and a red cross station, and the wants of the automobilist are attended to sufficiently well by the local locksmith. the hôtel central, on the place du marché, is vouched for by the touring club. it has a _salle des bains_ and other useful accessories often wanting in more pretentious establishments, a dark room for camera fiends, a pit for automobiles, and electric lights. for all this you pay six franc a day. "_pas cher!_" bayonne, through the basque country, is fifty odd kilometres distant, a gentle descent all the way, down the valley of the nive. the basques are a picturesque and lovable people, and they have kept their characteristics and customs bright and shining through many centuries of change round about them. they love the dance, all kinds of agile games like the _jeu de paume_ and _pelota_, and will dance for three days at a fête with a passion which does not tire. even to-day the basque thinks more of a local fête than he does of anything else, and will journey fifteen or twenty kilometres afoot--if he can't get a ride--to form a part of some religious procession or a _tournée de paume_. cambo, midway between st. jean-pied-de-port and bayonne, is a tiny spring and bath resort trying hard to be fashionable. there are many villas near-by of wealthy "basques-americains," from the argentine. the basques, at least the basques-français, are a disappearing factor in the population of europe. it is said there are more basques in the argentine republic than in the republic of france, and all because of the alienation of the basques by louis xiv. when he married marie-thérèse and her , écus of _dot_. since the real basque, he or she of the fine teeth, has been growing beautifully less in numbers, both in france and in spain. a certain fillip was given to cambo by the retreat here of edward rostand, the author of "cyrano" and "l'aiglon." in his wake followed litterateurs and journalists, and the fame of the hitherto unworldly little spot--sheltered from all the winds that blow--was bruited abroad, and the touring club de france erected a pavilion; thus all at once cambo became a "resort," in all that the name implies. a _mécanicien_ has not yet come to care for the automobilist in trouble, but the locksmith _(serrurier)_ will do what he can and charge you little for it. gasoline is high-priced, fifty sous a _bidon_. bayonne, with its tradition, its present-day prosperity, and its altogether charming situation, awaited us twenty odd kilometres away, and we descended upon its excellent, but badly named, grand hotel just at nightfall. there's another more picturesquely named near by, and no doubt as excellent, called the panier-fleuri. we would much rather have stopped at the latter,--if only on account of its name,--but there was no accommodation for the automobile. m. landlord, brace up! bayonne is a fortress of the first class, and commands the western gateway into spain. its brilliant aspect, its cosmopolitanism, and its storied past appealed to us more than did the attractions of its more fastidious neighbour, biarritz. one can see a better bull-fight at bayonne than he can at biarritz, where his sport must consist principally of those varieties of gambling games announced by european hotel-keepers as having "all the diversions of monte carlo." bull-fighting is forbidden in france, but more or less mysteriously it comes off now and then. we did not see anything of the sort at bayonne, but we had many times at arles, and nimes, and knew well that when the southern frenchman sets about to provide a gory spectacle he can give it quite as rosy a hue as his spanish brother. biarritz called us the next day, and, not wishing to be taken for dukes, or millionaires, or _chauffeurs_ and their friends out on a holiday, we left the automobile _en garage_, and covered the seven kilometres by the humble tramway. be wise, and don't take your automobile to a resort like biarritz unless you want to pay. it's a long way from the pont saint-esprit at bayonne to the _plage_ at biarritz, in manners and customs, at any rate, and the seeker after real local colour will find more of it at bayonne than he will at its seaside neighbour, where all is tinged with paris, st. petersburg, and london. the empress eugénie, or perhaps napoleon iii., "made" biarritz when he built the first villa in the little basque fishing-village, which had hitherto known neither courts nor coronets. there's no doubt about it; biarritz is a fine resort of its class, as are monte carlo and ostende. one can study human nature at all three, if that is what he is out for; so, too, he can--the same sort--on paris's boulevards. [illustration: on the road in the pyrenees] the month of october is time for the gathering of the fashionables and elegants of all capitals at biarritz. all the world bathes together in the warm waters of the plage des basques, and the sublime contrast of the pyrenees on one hand, and the open sea and sky on the other, give a panorama of grandeur that few of its competitors have. the visitors to biarritz daily augment in numbers, and, since it had been a sort of neutral trysting-ground for the king and queen of spain before their marriage, and since the seal of his approval has been given to it by edward vii. of england (to the great disconcern of the riviera hotel-keepers), it bids fair to become even more popular. from bayonne to the spanish frontier it is thirty kilometres by the road which runs through the basque country and through st. jean-de-luz, a delightful little seaside town which has long been a "resort" of the mildly homeopathic kind, and which, let us all hope, will never degenerate into another nice, or cannes, or menton. the great event of its historic past was the marriage here of louis xiv. with the infanta marie-thérès on the sixth of june, , but to-day everything (in the minds of the inhabitants) dates from the arrival of the increasing shoals of visitor from "_brumeuse angleterre_" in the first days of november, with the added hope that this year's visitors will exceed in numbers those of the last--which they probably will. those who know not st. jean-de-luz and its charms had best hurry up before they entirely disappear. the automobile club de france endorses the hôtel d'angleterre of st. jean as to its beds and its table, and also notes the fact that you may count on spending anything you like from thirteen francs a day upward for your accommodation. the touring club de france swears by the hôtel terminus-plage (equally unfortunately named), and here you will get off for ten francs or so per day, and probably be cared for quite as well as at the other. in any case they both possess a _salle des bains_ and a shelter for your automobile. we stopped only for lunch, and found it excellent, at the hôtel de la poste, with _vin compris_--which is not the case at the great hotels. _en passant_, let the writer say that the average "tourist" (not the genuine vagabond traveller) will not drink the _vin de table_, but prefers the same thing--at a supplementary price--for the pleasure of seeing the cork drawn before his eyes. the "_grands hôtels_" of the resorts recognize this and cater for the tourist accordingly. we were bound for fontarabia that night, just over the spanish border. the spanish know it as feuntarabia, and the basques as ondarriba. for this reason one's pronunciation is likely to be understood, because no two persons pronounce it exactly alike, and the natives' comprehensions have been trained in a good school. fontarabia is gay, is ancient, and is very _foreign_ to anything in france, even bordering upon the spanish frontier. we left the automobile at hendaye, not wishing to put up with the customs duties of eighteen francs a hundred kilos for the motor, and a thousand francs for the _carrosserie_, for the privilege of riding twenty kilometres out and back over a sandy, dreary road. we dined and slept that night at a little spanish hotel half built out over the sea, concha by name, and left the grand hôtel de palais miramar to those who like grand hotels. we lingered a fortnight at fontarabia, and did much that many tourists did not. one should see fontarabia and find out its delights for oneself. there is a quaintness and unworldliness about its old streets and wharves, which is indescribable in print; there is a wonderfully impressive expanse of sea and sky on the bay of bidassoa, a couple of kilometres away, and all sorts and conditions of men may find an occupation here for any passing mood they may have. we just missed the great fête of the eighth of september, when processions, and bull-fights, and all the movement of the sacred and profane rejoicings of the latins yearly astonish the more phlegmatic northerner. another great fête is that of vendredi-saint (good friday). either one or the other should be seen by all who may be in these parts at these times. near by, in the middle of the swift-flowing current of the bidassoa, is the historically celebrated ile des faisans, on which the conferences were held between the french minister mazarin and the spanish don louis de haro, which led to the famous treaty of the pyrenees, , and the marriage of louis xiv. with the daughter of philip iv. the representative of each sovereign advanced from his own territory, by a temporary bridge, to this bit of neutral ground, which then reached nearly up to the present bridge. the piles which supported the cardinal's pavilion were visible not many years ago. the death of velasquez, the painter, was caused by his exertions in superintending these constructions; duties more fitting to an upholsterer than a painter. we finished our tour of the pyrenees at fontarabia, having followed along the shadow of these great frontier mountains their entire length; not wholly unknown ground, perhaps, but for the most part entirely unspoiled, and, as a touring-ground for the automobilist, without a peer. chapter iii in languedoc and old provence [illustration: languedoc & provence] the dim purple curtain of the pyrenees had been drawn behind, us, and we were passing from the patois of languedoc to the patois of provence, where the peasants say _pardie_ in place of _pardou_ when an exclamation of surprise comes from their lips. cast your eyes over the map of ancient france, and you will distinguish plainly the lines of demarcation between the old political divisions which, in truth, the traveller by road may find to exist even to-day, in the manners and customs of the people at least. unconsciously we drew away from the sleepy indolence of perpignan and roussillon, and before we knew it had passed narbonne, and on through béziers to agde, where we proposed stopping for the night. quite as spanish-looking as perpignan, agde was the very antithesis of the gay and frivolous catalan city. the aspect of its purple-brown architecture, the bridge-piers crossing the herault, and the very pavements themselves were a colour-scheme quite unlike anything we had seen elsewhere. brilliant and warm as a painting of velasquez, there was nothing gaudy, and one could only dream of the time when the renaissance house-fronts sheltered lords and ladies of high degree instead of itinerant automobilists and travelling salesmen. the hôtel du cheval blanc was one of these. it is not a particularly up-to-date hostelry, and there is a scant accommodation for automobiles, but for all that it is good of its kind, and one dines and sleeps well to the accompaniment of the rushing waters of the river, at its very dooryard, on its way to the sea. from agde to montpellier is fifty odd kilometres over the worst stretch of roadway of the same length to be found in france, save perhaps that awful paved road of navarre across the landes. montpellier is one of the most luxurious and well-kept small cities of france. it is the seat of the préfecture, the assizes, and a university--whose college of medicine was famous in the days of rabelais. it has the modern attributes of steam-heated, electric-lighted hotels and restaurants, a tramway system that is appalling and dangerous to all other traffic by reason of its complexity, and an opera house and a hôtel de ville that would do credit to a city ten times its size. we merely took montpellier _en route_, just as we had many other places, and were really bound for aigues-mortes, where we proposed to lunch: one would not willingly sleep in a place with a name like that. of aigues-mortes ch. lentherie wrote, a quarter of a century ago: "the country round about is incomparably melancholy, the sun scorches, and the sandy soil gives no nourishment to plants, flowers, vines, or grain. cultivated land does not exist, it is a desert: ugly, melancholy, and abandoned. but aigues-mortes cannot, nay, must not perish, and will always remain the old city of st. louis, a magnificent architectural diadem, with its deserted _plage_ an _aureole_ most radiant, a glorious yet touching reminder." one other imaginative description is the poem of charles bigot on _la tour de constance_, in which the huguenot women were many long years imprisoned. it is written in the charming nimois patois, and runs thus in its first few lines: "tour de la simple et forte, simbol de glorie et de piété, tour de pauvres femmes mortes pour leur dieu et la liberté." these few introductory lines will recall to the memory of all who know the history of the crusades and of st. louis the part played by this old walled city of aigues-mortes. more complete, and more frowning and grim, than carcassonne, it has not a tithe of its interest, but, for all that, it is the most satisfying example of a walled stronghold of mediæval times yet extant. with all its gloom, its bareness, and the few hundreds of shaking pallid mortals which make up its present-day population, the marsh city of aigues-mortes is a lively memory to all who have seen it. one comes by road and drives his automobile in through the battlemented gateway over the cobbled main street, or struggles up on foot from the station of the puny and important little railway which brings people down from arles in something over an hour's time. ultimately, one and all arrive at the excellent hôtel st. louis, and eat bountifully of fresh fish of the mediterranean, well cooked by the _patron-chef_, and well served by a dainty arlésienne maiden of fifteen summers, who looks as though she might be twenty-two. "_c'est un chose à voir_" every one tells you in the bouches-du-rhône when you mention aigues-mortes; and truly it is. as before suggested, you will not want to sleep within its dreary walls, but "it's a thing to see" without question, and to get away from as soon as possible, before a peculiarly vicious breed of mosquito inoculates you with the toxic poison of the marshes. now we are approaching the land of the poet mistral, the most romantic region in all modern france, where the inhabitant in his repose and his pleasure still lives in mediæval times and chants and dances himself (and herself) into a sort of semi-indifference to the march of time. the crau and the camargue, lying south of arles between aigues-mortes and the etang de berre, is the greatest fête-making _pays_, one might think, in all the world. how many times, from january to january, the provençal "makes the fête" it would be difficult to state--on every occasion possible, at any rate. the great fête of provence is the day of the _ferrande_, a sort of a cattle round-up held on the camargue plain, something like what goes on in "_le far west,_" as the french call it, only on not so grand a scale. mistral describes it of course: "on a great branding-day came this throng, a help for the mighty herd-mustering, li santo, aigo marto, albaron, and from faraman, a hundred horses strong came out into the desert." here we were in the midst of the land of fêtes, and if we could not see a _ferrande_ in all its savage, unspoiled glory, we would see what we could. we were in luck, as we learned when we put into st. gilles for the night, and comfortably enough housed our auto in the _remise_ of the company, or individual, which has the concession for the stage line across the camargue, which links up the two loose ends of a toy railway, one of which ends at aigues-mortes, and the other at stes. maries-de-la-mer. our particular piece of luck was the opportunity to be present at the pilgrimage to the shrine of the three marys of judea, which took place on the morrow. the poet mistral sets it all out in romantic verse in his epic "mirèio," and one and all were indeed glad to embrace so fortunate an opportunity of participating in one of the most nearly unique pilgrimages and festivals in all the world. we entered the little waterside town the next morning soon after sunrise, _en auto_. others came by rail, on foot, on horseback, or by the slow-going _roulotte_, or caravan; pilgrims from all corners of the earth, the peasant folk of provence, the arlésiens and arlésiennes, and the dwellers of the great camargue plain. the picture is quite as "mirèio" saw it in the poem: the vision of the lone sentinel church by the sea, which rises above the dunes of the camargue to-day, as it did in the olden time. "'it looms at last in the distance dim, she sees it grow on the horizon's rim, the saintes' white tower across the billowy plain, like vessel homeward bound upon the main." on the dunes of the camargue, between the blue of the sky and the blue of the mediterranean waves, sits the gaunt, grim bourg of fisherfolk and herders of the cattle and sheep of the neighbouring plain. the lone fortress-church rises tall and severe in its outlines, and the whole may be likened to nothing as much as a desert mirage that one sees in his imagination. at the foot of the crenelated, battlemented walls of the church are the white, pink, and blue walled houses of the huddling population, and the dory-like boats of the fishers. officially the town is known as stes. maries-de-la-mer, but the _reliques_ of the three marys, who fled from judea in company with sts. lazare, maxim, and trophime, and other followers, including their servant sara, have given it the popular name of "les saintes." the exiles, barely escaping death by drowning, came to shore here, and, thankful for being saved from death, thereupon celebrated the first mass to be said in france, the saints maxim and lazare officiating. maxim, lazare, sidoine, marthe, and madeleine immediately set out to spread the word throughout provence in the true missionary spirit, but the others, the three marys, st. trophime, and sara, remained behind to do what good they might among the fishers. the pilgrimage to this _basilique_ of "les saintes" has ever been one of great devotion. in the bishops of paris and of coutances, in normandy, accorded their communicants many and varied indulgences for having made "_la feste s. mari cléophée qui est le xxve mai, et la feste s. marie salomé, xxiie octobre, festeront, o l'histoire d'elles prescherent, liront ou escouteront attentilment et devotement._" in the fourteenth century three thousand or more souls drew a livelihood from the industries of "les saintes" and the neighbourhood, and its civic affairs were administered by three consuls, who were assisted in their duties by three classes of citizen office-holders--_divities_, _mediocres_, and _paupers_, the latter doubtless the "_povres gens_" mentioned in the testament of louis i. of provence, he who bequeathed the guardianship of his soul to "_saintes maries jacobé et salomé, catherine, madeleine et marthe._" the first day's celebration was devoted to the further gathering of the throng and the "grand mess." at the first note of the "magnificat" the _reliques_ were brought forth from the upper chapel and the crowd from within and without broke into a thunderous "_vivent les saintes maries!_" then was sung the "_cantique des saintes:_" "o grandes saintes maries si chéries de notre divin sauveur," etc. on the second day a procession formed outside the church for the descent to the historic sands, upon which the holy exiles first made their landing, the men bearing on their shoulders a representation of the barque which brought the saints thither. there were prelates and plebeians and tourists and vagabond gipsies in line, and one and all they entered into the ceremony with an enthusiasm--in spite of the sweltering sun--which made up for any apparent lack of devoutness, for, alas! most holy pilgrimages are anything but holy when taken in their entirety. the church at "les saintes" is a wonder-work. as at assisi, in italy, there are three superimposed churches, a symbol of the three states of religion; the crypt, called the catacombs, and suggestive of persecution; the fortified nave, a symbol of the body which prays, but is not afraid to fight; and the _chapelle supérieure_, the holy place of the saints of heaven, the christian counsellors in whose care man has been confided. this, at any rate, is the professional description of the symbolism, and whether one be churchman or not he is bound to see the logic of it all. deep down in the darkened crypt are the _reliques_ of the dusky sara, the servant of the holy marys. she herself has been elevated to sainthood as the _patronne_ of the vagabond gipsies of all the world. on the occasion of the fête of les saintes maries the nomads, bohemians, and gitanos from all corners of the globe, who have been able to make the pilgrimage thither, pass the night before the shrine of their sainted _patronne_, as a preliminary act to the election of their queen for the coming year. the gipsy of tradition is supposed to be a miserly, wealthy, sacrilegious fellow who goes about stealing children and dogs and anything else he can lay his hands upon. he may have his faults, but to see him kneeling before the shrine of his "_patronne reine sara,_" ragged and travel-worn and yet burning costly candles and saying his _aves_ as piously and incessantly as a praying-machine of the east, one can hardly question but that they have as much devoutness as most others. the hotels of "les saintes" offer practically nothing in the way of accommodation, and what there is, which costs usually thirty sous a night, has, during the fête, an inflated value of thirty or even fifty francs, and, if you are an automobilist, driving the most decrepit out-of-date old crock that ever was, they will want to charge you a hundred. you will, of course, refuse to pay it, for you can eat up the roadway at almost any speed you like,--there is no one to say you nay on these lonesome roads,--and so, after paying fifty centimes a pailful for some rather muddy water to refresh the water circulation of your automobile, you pull out for some other place--at least we did. one must either do this, or become a real nomad and sleep in the open, with the stars for candles, and a bunch of beach-grass for a pillow. if you were a _romany cheil_ you would sleep in, or under, your own _roulotte_, on a mattress, which, in the daytime, is neatly folded away in the rear of your wagon, or hung in full view, temptingly spread with a lace coverlet. this in the hope that some passing pilgrim will take a fancy to the lace spread and want to buy it; when will come a trading and bargaining which will put horse-selling quite in the shade, for it is here that the woman of the establishment comes in, and the gipsy woman on a trade is a tartar. finally, on the last day, came the "_grande entrée des tauraux,_" which, it would seem, was the chief event which drew the camargue population thither. they came in couples, a man and a woman on the back of a single camargue pony, whole families in a provençal cart, on foot, on bicycles, and in automobiles. [illustration: peasants of the crau] six spanish-crossed bulls, were brought up in a great closed van and loosed in an improvised bull-ring, of which the church wall formed one side, and the roof a sort of a tribune. what the curé thought of all this is not clear, but as the alms-coffers of the church were already full to the lids, and the parish depends largely upon the contributions of visitors to replenish its funds, any seeming sacrilege was winked at. for three days we had "made the fête" and saw it all, and did most of the things that the others did, except that we always slept at st. gilles, far away by the long flat road which winds in and out among the marshes, flamingo nests, and rice-fields of the camargue. the "bull-fight," so called, was nothing so very bloodthirsty or terrifying; merely the worrying by the "amateurs" of a short-legged, little black bull, about the size of a well-formed newfoundland dog, or perhaps a little larger--appearances are often deceptive when one receives a disappointment. truly, as mistral says, provence is a land of joy and, laughter, and fêtes followed close on one another, it seemed. we had seen the announcements in the local journals of a "_mis à mort_" at nîmes, and a "_corrida de meurte_"--borrowing the phrase from the spanish--at arles, each to take place in the great roman arenas, which had not seen bloodshed for centuries; not since the days when the romans matched men against each other in gladiatorial combat, and turned tigers loose upon captive slaves. the "to-the-death" affairs of arles and nîmes appealed to us only that we might contrast the modern throngs that crowd the benches with those which history tells us viewed the combats of old. doubtless there is little resemblance, but all the same there is a certain gory tradition hanging about the old walls and arches of those great arenas which is utterly lacking in the cricket-field, tawdry plazas of some of the spanish towns. the grim arcades of these great roman arenas are still full of suggestion. we did not see either the "_mis à mort_" at arles, or the "_corrida de meurte_" at nîmes; the automobile got stalled for a day in the midst of the stony crau, with a rear tire which blew itself into pieces, and necessitated a journey by train into arles in order to get another to replace it. owing to the slowness of this apology for a railway train, and the awkwardness of the timetable, the great "_mis à mort_" at arles was long over ere we had set out over the moonlit crau for martigues on the shores of the etang de berre. [illustration: les saintes] we knew martigues of old, its _bouillabaisse_, the _père chabas_ and all the cronies of the café du commerce where you kept your own special bottle, of whatever _apéritif_ poison you fancied, in order that you might be sure of getting it unadulterated. "_la venise de provence,_" martigues, is known by artists far and wide. chabas and his rather grimy little hotel, which he calls the grand hotel something or other, has catered for countless hundreds of artist folk who have made the name and fame of martigues as an artist's sketching-ground. after a three weeks' pretty steady automobile run the artist of the party craved peace and rest and an opportunity of putting martigues's glorious sunsets on canvas, and so we camped out with chabas, and ate _bouillabaisse_ and the _beurre de provence_ and _langouste_ and chabas's famous straw potatoes and rum omelette for ten days, and were sorry when it was all over. chapter iv by rhône and saône [illustration: rhone & saone] it is the dream of the marseillais that some day the turgid rhône may be made to empty itself at the foot of the famous cannebière, and so add to the already great prosperity of the most cosmopolitan and picturesque of mediterranean ports. the idea has been thought of since roman times, and napoleon himself nearly undertook the work. in later days radical and vehement candidates for senatorships and deputyships have promised their marseilles and bouches-du-rhône constituencies much more, with regard to the same thing, than the hand of man is ever likely to be able to accomplish. the rhône still pushes its way through the crau and the camargue and comes to the sea many kilometres west of the planier light and château d'if, which guard the entrance to marseilles's old port. we had backed and filled many times between martigues and marseilles during the interval which we so enjoyably spent _chez chabas_, and we had come to know this unknown little corner of old provence intimately, and to love it. marseilles was our great dissipation, its hotels, its cafés and restaurants, its cosmopolitan life and movement, its gaiety and the picturesqueness of its old streets and wharves. marseilles is a neglected tourist point; it should be better known; but it is no place for automobilists, unless they are prepared for ten kilometres, in any direction, of the most villainous suburban roadway in france. the roadways themselves are good enough; it is the abnormal and the peculiar nature of the traffic that makes them so disagreeable; great hooting tramways, _charettes_ loaded with all the products of the earth and the hands of man, and drawn by long tandem lines, three, four, five, and even six horses to a single cart. added to this, the exits and entrances are all up and down hill, and, accordingly, the roadways of suburban marseilles are a terror to stranger automobilists and an eternal regret to those who live near-by. we went up the rhône in a howling mistral, against it, mark you, for it pleases the ruler of the universe to have that cyclonic breeze of the rhône valley, one of the three plagues of provence, blow always from the north. we left martigues in an extraordinary and unusual fog, reminiscent of london, except that it was not black and sooty. it was dense, however; dense as if it were enshrouding the grand banks, and of the same impenetrable, milky consistency. to be sure the morning sun had not had an opportunity as yet to burn it off--automobilists on tour are early birds, and the autumn sun rises late. up around the eastern shore of the etang de berre we went, and, crossing the tête noire, passed salon just as a pale yellow light struggled through the rifts just topping the maritime alps off to the eastward. we could not see the mountains, but we knew they were there, for we still had lingering memories of a long pull we once made off in that direction, with an old crock of an automobile of primitive make in the early days of the sport, or the art, whichever one chooses to call it, though it unquestionably was an art then to keep an automobile going at all. by the time arles was reached the sun was burning with a midsummer glare, as it does here for three hundred or more days in the year. at arles one is in the very cauldron of the atmosphere of things provençal, art, letters, history, and romance, all of which are kept alive by the _félibres_ and their fellows. mistral, the poet, is the master-singer of them all, and whether he chants of his "own glad kingdom of provence," at maillane among the olive-trees, far inland, or of: "the peace which descends upon the troubled ocean and he his wrath forgets, flock from martigues the boats with wing-like motion, and fishes fill their nets," it is all the same; the subtle, penetrating atmosphere and sentiment of provence is over all. arles is the head centre. it is a city of monumental and celebrated art, and one may spend a day, a week, or a month, wandering in and out and about its old roman arena (still so well preserved that it presents its occasional bull-fight for the delectation of the bloodthirsty), its antique theatre, its museums, its cathedral and its cloister, or among the tombs of the aliscamps. we did all these things, indeed we had done them before, but they were ever marvellous just the same, and in the museum we were always running on mistral himself, who, in his waning years, finds his greatest delight in arranging and rearranging the exhibits of his newly founded musée arletan. the hotels of arles are a disappointment. the hôtel du nord, with a portico of the old forum built into its walls, and the hôtel du forum, on the place du forum, are well enough in their way,--they are certainly well conducted,--but they lack "atmosphere," and instead of the _cuisine du pays_, you get ham and eggs and _bifteck_ served to you. this is wrong and bad business, if the otherwise capable proprietors only knew it. one does better in the environs. at st. rémy, at the grand hôtel de provence, you will get quite another sort of fare: _hors d'oeuvres_ of a peculiarly pungent variety, not forgetting the dark purple, over-ripe olives, a _ragoût en casserole_, a _filet d'agneau_ with a _sauce provençale_, and a _poulet_ and a salad which will make one dream of the all but lost art of brillat-savarin. they are good cooks, the _chefs_ of provence, of the small cities and large towns like st. rémy, cavaillon, salon, and carpentras, but everybody will not like their liberal douches of oil any more than they will the penetrating garlic flavour in everything. we took a turn backward on our route from arles and went to les baux, the now dismal ruin of a once proud feudal city whose seigneurs held sway over some sixty cities of provence. to-day it is a pompeii, except it is a hill town worthy to rank with those picturesque peaks of italy and dalmatia. its château walls have crumbled, but its subterranean galleries, cut three stories down into the rock itself, are much as they always were. everywhere are grim, doleful evidences of a glory that is past and a population that is dead or moved away. the sixteen thousand souls of mediæval times have shrunk to something like two hundred to-day--most of them shepherds, apparently, and the others picture post-card sellers. it is a very satisfactory little mountain climb from the surrounding plain up to the little plateau just below the peak at les baux, though the entire distance from arles is scarcely more than fifteen kilometres, and the actual climb hardly more than four. the razor-back mountain chain, upon one peak of which les baux sits, is known as the alpilles. all of the immediate neighbourhood (scarce a dozen kilometres from where the beaten track passes through arles) is a veritable museum of relics of the glory of the heroic age. caius marius entrenched himself within these walls of rock and two thousand years ago planted the foundations of the mausoleum and arc de triomphe which are the pride of the inhabitant of st. rémy and the marvel of what few strangers ever come. they are veritable antiques--"les antiquités," as the people of st. rémy familiarly call them, and rise to-day as monuments of the past, gilded by the southern sun and framed with all the brilliancy of a provençal landscape. we slept at st. rémy, and made the next morning for tarascon, with memories of dumas and daudet and tartarin and the tarasque pushing us on. tarascon has a real appeal for the stranger; at every step he will picture the _locale_ of daudet's whimsical tale, and will well understand how it was that the prisoners' view from the narrow-barred window of the château at tarascon was so limited. there is a fine group of renaissance architectural monuments at tarascon, and a street of arcaded house-fronts which will make the artist of the party want to settle down to work. across the river is beaucaire, famous for its great fair of ages past, the greatest trading fair of mediæval times, when merchants and their goods came from persia, india, and turkey, and all corners of the earth. the château of beaucaire is a fine ruin, but no more; it is not worth the climbing of the height to examine it. a little farther on is bellegarde, where dumas placed caderousse's little inn, the unworthy caderousse and his still more unworthy wife, who finished the career of edmond dantès while he was masquerading as the abbé. there is no inn here to-day which can be identified as that of the romance, but dumas's description of its sun-burnt surroundings, the canal, the scanty herbage, and the white, parched roadway, is much the same as what one sees today, and there is a tiny _auberge_ beside the canal, which might satisfy the imaginative. avignon, the city of the seven french popes, who reigned seventy years, was the next stopping-place on our itinerary. we put up at the hôtel crillon and fared much as one fares in any provincial large town. we were served with imitation parisian repasts, and were asked if we would like to read the london _times_. why the london _times_ no one knew: why not the new orleans _picayune_ and be done with it? we did not want to do anything of the sort, we merely wanted to "do" the town, to see the tomb of pope jean xxii. in the cathedral, to walk, if possible, upon the part left standing of st. benezet's old pont d'avignon, a memory which was burned into our minds since our schooldays, when we played and sang the french version of "london bridge is falling down"--"_sur le pont d'avignon._" the greatest monument of all is the magnificent palais des papes, its crenelated walls and battlements vying with the city walls and ramparts as a splendid example of mediæval architecture. we saw all these things and the museum with its excellent collections, and the library of thirty thousand volumes and four thousand manuscripts. one thing we nearly missed was villeneuve-les-avignon, a ruined wall-circled town on the opposite bank of the rhône. its machicolated crests glistened in the brilliant southern sunlight like an exotic of the saharan country. it is quite the most foreign and african-looking jumble of architectural forms to be seen in france. it took us three hours to cross the river and stroll about its debris-encumbered streets and get back again and start on our way northward, but it was worth the time and trouble. from st. rémy to orange, perhaps sixty kilometres, was not a long daily run by any means, and we would not have stopped at orange for the night except that it was imperative that we should see the fine antique theatre, the most magnificent, the largest, and the best preserved of all existing roman theatres. we saw it, and seeing it wondered, though, when one tries to project the mind back into the past and picture the scenes which once went on upon its boards, the task were seemingly impossible. [illustration: avignon and tournon] the roman arc de triomphe, too, at orange, which spans the roadway to the north--the same great natural road which all its length froth paris to antibes is known as the route d'italie--is a monument more splendid, as to its preservation, than anything of the kind outside italy itself. there is ample and excellent accommodation for the automobilist at orange, at the hôtel des princes, which sounds good and is good. they have even a writing-room in the hotel, a silly, stuffy little room which no one with any sense ever enters. one simply follows a well-fed _commis-voyageur_ to the nearest popular café and writes his letters there, as a well-habituated traveller should do. once on the road again we passed montelimar--"_le pays du nougât et de m. l'ex-president loubet,_" we were told by the _octroi_ official who held us up at the barrier of this self-sufficient, dead-and-alive, pompous little town. we didn't know m. loubet and we didn't like _nougât_, so we did not stop, but pushed on for tournon. there, at the little hôtel de la poste, beneath the donjon tower of the old _château_, we ate the most marvellously concocted _déjeuner_ we had struck for a long time. there's no use describing it; it won't be the same the next time; though no doubt it will be as excellent. it cost but two francs fifty centimes, including _vin du st. peray_, the rich red wine of the rhône, a rival to the wines of burgundy. we might have done a good deal worse had we stopped at progressive, up-to-date valence, where automobile tourists usually do stop, but we took the offering of the small town instead of the large one, and found it, as usual, very good. we had passed la voute-sur-rhône, that classic height which has been pictured many times in old books of travel. it, and tournon, and valence, and viviers, and pont st. esprit were once riverside stations for the _coches d'eau_ which did a sort of omnibus service with passengers on the rhône, between lyons and avignon. there is a steamboat service to-day which also carries passengers, but it is not to be recommended if one has the means of getting about by road. this town, too, and valence, were directly on the route of the _malle-poste_ from lyons to marseilles. the different _postes_ or relays were marked on the maps of the day by little twisted hunting-horns. for the most part an old-time route map of the great trunk lines of the _malle-poste_ and the _messageries_ would, serve the automobilist of to-day equally as well as a modern road map. the _malle-poste_, and the hiring out of post-horses, in france was an institution more highly developed than elsewhere. post-horses were only delivered one in france upon the presentation of a passport and payment, in advance, according to the following tariff. the price was fixed by law, being the same throughout all france. poste (about miles) franc centimes / " " / " " the postilion usually got one franc fifty per _poste_, but could only demand seventy-five centimes. certain carriages (chaises and cabriolets) would carry only portmanteaux (_vaches_), but _voitures fermées_, _calèches_, and the like might carry also a trunk (_malle_). as one goes north, sunburnt provence, its olive groves and its oil and garlic-seasoned viands are left behind, until little by little one draws upon the burgundian opulence of the côte d'or, a land where the native's manner of eating and drinking makes a full life and a merry one. we were not there yet; we had many kilometres yet to go, always by the banks of the rhône until lyons was reached. near givors, at eight o'clock at night, within twenty kilometres of lyons, the motor gave a weak asthmatic gasp, and stopped short. like the foolish virgins, we had no oil in our lamps, and dusk had already fallen, and no amount of coaxing after the habitual manner would induce the thing to move a yard. there was nothing for it but to get out the tow-ropes and wait--for a _remorqueur_, as the french call any four-footed beast strong enough to tow an automobile at the end of a line. (they also call a tug-boat the same thing, but as an automobile is not an amphibious animal it was a land _remorqueur_ that we awaited.) we did not get to lyons that night. there are always uncalled for "possibilities" rising up in automobiling that will upset the best thought-out schedule. this was one of them. what had happened to the machine no one yet really knows, but we had to be ignominiously towed, to the great amusement of the natives, at the end of a long rope by the power of a diminutive donkey which finally came along. the beast did not look as though he could draw a perambulator, but he buckled down to it with a will, and brought us safely through the half-kilometre or so of crooked streets which led to the centre of givors. finally, we, or the car rather, was pushed into an old wash-house, once a part of an ancient château, the _remise_ of the hotel itself, a dependance of the château of other days, having been preempted by an itinerant magic-lantern exhibittion ("la cinémetographe americaine," it was called on the bills), which proposed to show the good people of givors--"for one night only, and at ten sous each"--moving pictures of coney island, buffalo bill's wild west, niagara falls, new york's "flat iron" building, and other exotics from the new world. we dined and slept well at givors in spite of our accident, and were "up bright and early," as pepys might have said (londoners to-day do not get up bright and early, however!), to find out, if possible, what was the matter with the digestive apparatus of the automobile. nothing was the matter! the human, obstinate thing started off at the first trial, and probably would have done the same thing last night had we given the starting-crank one more turn. such is automobiling! we made our entrance into lyons _en pleine vitesse_, stopping not until we got to the centre of the city. the _octroi_ regulations had just been revised, and the gates were open to passing traffic without the obligation of having to declare one's possessions. progressive lyons! lyons is truly progressive. it is beautifully laid out and kept. it is nothing like as filthy as a large city usually is, on the outskirts, and its island faubourg, between the saône and the rhône, is the ideal of a well-organized and planned centre of affairs. lyons has, moreover, two up-to-date hotels, the very latest things, one might say, in the hotel line: the terminus hotel, which well serves travelers by rail, and the hôtel de l'univers et de l'automobilisme--rather a clumsy name, but that of a good, well-meaning hotel. its progressiveness consists in having abolished the _pourboire_. you have ten per cent. added on to your bill, however. this looks large when it comes to figures,--paying something for nothing,--but at least one knows where he stands, and he fears no black looks from chambermaid or boots. the thing is announced, by a little placard placed in every room, as an "innovation." it remains to be seen if it will prove successful. from lyons to dijon, kilometres between breakfast and lunch, was not bad. now, at last, we were in that opulent land of good living and good drinking, where the food and wine are alike both rich. he's a contented, fat, sleek-looking type, the native son of the côte d'or, and he looks with contempt on the cider-nourished norman and breton, and does not for a moment think that cognac is to be compared with the _eau de vie de marc_ of his own vineyards. the côte d'or is the richest wine-growing region of all the world. every direction-post and sign-board is like a review of the names on a wine card,--beaune, chambertin, st. georges, clos vougeot,--and of these the clos vougeot wines are the most renowned. a line drawn across france, just north of the confines of ancient burgundy, divides the region of the _vins ordinaires_--the light wines of the _tables d'hote_--and that of those vintages which have no price. this, at least, is the way the native puts it, and to some extent the simile is correct enough. the côte begins and the plain ends; the hillsides rise and the river-bottoms dwindle away in the distance: such is the feeling that one experiences as he climbs these vine-clad slopes from either the rhône, the loire, or the seine valleys, and here it is that the imaginary line is drawn between the _vins ordinaires_ and the _vins sans prix_. since there is no possibility of increasing the quantity of these rich, red burgundian wines, the highly cultured area being of but small extent, and because their quality depends upon the peculiar nature of the soil of this restricted tract, there is no question but that the monopoly of burgundian wines will remain for ever with the gold coast of france, whatever australian and californian patriots may claim for their own imitations. the phylloxera here, as elsewhere in france, caused a setback to the commerce in wines, as serious in money figures as the losses sustained during the franco-prussian war, but the time has now passed and the famous côte d'or has once more attained its time-honoured opulence and prosperity. "_le vin de bourgogne met la bonne humeur au coeur._" still northward, across the plateau of langres, we set a roundabout course for paris. there is one great pleasure about automobiling that is considerably curtailed if one sets out to follow precisely a preconceived itinerary, and for that reason we were, in a measure, going where fancy willed. we might have turned westward, via moulins, nevers, and montargis, from lyons, and followed the old coaching road into paris, entering by the same gateway through which we set out, but we had heard of the charms of the valley of the marne, and we wanted to see them for ourselves. our first acquaintance with it was at bar le duc, which is not on the marne at all, but on a little confluent some twenty or thirty miles from its junction. for a day we had been riding over corkscrew roads with little peace and comfort for the driver, and considerable hard work for the motor. the hills were numerous, but the surface was good and the scenery delightful, so, since most of us require variety as a component of our daily lives, we were getting what we wanted and no one complained. it was easy going by château thierry and the episcopal city of meaux, retracing almost the itinerary of the fleeing louis xvi., and, as we entered paris by the porte de vincennes,--always by villainous roadways, this getting in and out of paris,--we red-inked another twelve hundred kilometre stretch of roadway on our record map of france. chapter v by seine and oise--a cruise in a canot-automobile [illustration: by seine and oise] if automobiling on land in france is a pleasure, a voyage up a picturesque and historic french river in a _canot-automobile_ is a dream, so at least we thought, four of us--and a boy to clean the engine, run errands, and to climb overboard and push us off when we got stuck in the mud. our "home port" was les andelys on the seine, and we meet in the courtyard of the hôtel bellevue at five o'clock one misty, gray september morning for a fortnight's voyage up the oise, which joins the seine midway between les andelys and paris. there is nothing mysterious about an automobile boat any more than there is about the land automobile. it has its moods and vagaries, its good points _and some bad ones_. it is not as speedy as an automobile on shore, but it is more comfortable, a great deal more fun to steer, and less dangerous, and there is an utter absence of those chief causes of trouble to the automobile, punctures and what not happening to your tires. then again there is, generally speaking, no crowd of traffic to run you into danger, and there is an absence of dust, to make up for which, when you are lying by waiting to go through a lock, you have mosquitoes of a fierce bloodthirsty kind which even the smoke from the vile tobacco of french cigarettes will not keep at a distance. our facile little automobile boat was called the "_cà et là._" rightly enough named it was, too. the french give singularly pert and appropriate names to their boats. "_va t'on,_" "_quand même,_" and "_cà et là_" certainly tell the stories of their missions in their very names. the boat itself, and its motor, too, was purely a french production, and, though of modest force and dimensions, would do its dozen miles an hour all day long. we got away from the landing-stage of the touring club de france at les andelys in good time, our provisions, our gasoline and oil, our river charts, our wraps and ourselves all stowed comfortably away in the eight metres of length of our little boat. our siren gave a hoot which startled the rooks circling about the donjon walls of château gaillard over our heads, and we passed under the brick arches of the bridge for a twelve-mile run to the first lock at courcelles. the process of going through a river lock in france is not far different from the same process elsewhere, except that the all-powerful touring club de france has secured precedence for all pleasure boats over any other waiting craft. it really costs nothing, but you give a franc to the _éclusier_, and the way is thereby made the easier for the next arrival. the objection to river-locks is their frequency in some parts. there is one stretch of thirty or forty kilometres on the marne with thirty-three locks. that costs something, truly. we knew the seine valley intimately, by road along both its banks, at any rate, and we were hopeful of reaching triel that night, near the junction of the seine and oise. we passed our first lock at courcelles, just before seven o'clock, and had a good stretch of straight water ahead of us before vernon was reached. you cannot miss your way, of course, when travelling by river, but you can be at a considerable loss to know how far you have come since your last stopping-place, or rather you would be if the french government had not placed little white kilometre stones all along the banks of the "_navigable_" and "_flottable_" rivers, as they have along the great national roads on land. blessed be the paternal french government; the traveller in _la belle france_ has much for which to be grateful to it: its excellent roadways, its sign-boards, and its kilometre stones most of all. the motor-boat is highly developed in france from the simple fact that you can tour on it. you can go all over france by a magnificent system of inland waterways; from the seine to the marne; from the oise to the sambre--and so to antwerp and ghent; from the loire to the rhône; and even from the marne to the rhine; and from the mediterranean to the atlantic. france is the touring-ground par excellence for the automobile boat. here's a new project of travel for those who want to do what others have not done to any great extent. africa and the antartic continent have been explored, and the north pole bids fair to be discovered by means of a flying-machine ere long, so, with no new worlds to conquer, one might do worse in the way of pleasurable travel than to explore the waterways of france. maistre wrote his "voyage autour de ma chambre" and karr his "voyage autour de mon jardin," hence any one who really wants to do something similar might well make the tour of the ile de france by water. it can be done, and would be a revelation of novelty, if one would do it and write it down. for the moment we were bound up the oise; we had passed vernon and giverny, sitting snug on the hillside by the mouth of the ept, where we knew there were countless americans, artists _and others_, sitting in gaston's garden or playing tennis on a sunburnt field beside the road. foolish business that, with a river like the seine so near at hand, and because it was the custom at giverny, a custom grown to be a habit, which is worse, we liked not the place, in spite of its other undeniable charms. we put in for lunch at la roche-guyon, a trim little town lying close beneath the renaissance château of the la rochefoucauld's. there are two waterside hotels at la roche-guyon, beside the ugly wire-rope bridge, but we knew them of old, and knew they were likely to be full of an unspeakable class of parisian merrymakers. there may be others who patronize these delightfully situated riverside inns, but the former predominate in the season. out of season it may be quite different. we hunted out a little café in the town, whose _patron_ we knew, and prevailed upon his good wife to give us our lunch _en famille_, which she did and did well. it was _très bourgeois_, but that was what we wanted, and, after a couple of hours eating and lolling about and playing with the cats and talking to the parrot,--a martinique parrot who knew some english,--we took to the river again, and, after passing the locks at bonnières, arrived at mantes at five o'clock. the nights draw in quickly, even in the early days of september, and we were bound to push on, if we were to reach triel that night. we could have reached it, but were delayed at a lock, while it emptied itself and half a score of downriver barges, and, spying a gem of a riverside restaurant at meulan, overhanging the very water itself, and hung with great golden orange globes of light (so-called japanese lanterns, and nothing more), we were sentimentally enough inclined to want to dine with such claude melnotte accessories. this we did, and hunted up lodgings in the town for the night, vowing to get an extra early start in the morning to make up for lost time. the seine at meulan takes on a certain luxuryous aspect so far as river-boating goes. there is even a "cercle à la voile," with yachts which, in the narrow confines of the river, look like the real thing, but which after all are very diminutive members of the family. from this point the course of the seine is a complicated winding among _iles_ and _ilots_, which gives it that elongation which makes necessary hours of journeying by boat as against a quarter of the time by the road--as the crow flies--to the lower fortifications of paris. on either side, however, are _chemins vicinales_, which continually produce unthought-of vistas which automobilists who are making a record from trouville to paris know nothing of. triel possesses an imposing thirteenth-century gothic church and an abominably ugly suspension-bridge of wire rope. it is a good place to buy a boat or a cargo of gypsum, which we know as "plaster of paris;" otherwise the town is not remarkable, though charmingly situated. the oise is the first really great commercial tributary of the seine. there is a mighty flow of commerce which ascends and descends the bosom of the oise, extending even to the low countries and the german ocean, through the sambre to antwerp and the scheldt. the oise is classed as _flottable_ from beautor to chauny, a distance of twenty kilometres, and _navigable_ from chauny to the seine. mostly it runs through the great plain of picardie and forms the natural northern boundary to the ancient ile de france. the _navigable_ portion forms two sections. one, of fifty-five kilometres, extends between chauny and janville, and has been generally abandoned by water-craft because of the opening of the canal lateral à la oise; the other section, of one hundred and four kilometres, is canalized in that it has been straightened here and there at sharp corners, dredged and endowed with seven locks. the barge traffic of the oise is mostly towed in convoys of six, but there is a _chemin de halage_, a tow-path, throughout the river's length. in general, the boats are of moderate size, the _péniches_ being perhaps a hundred and twenty feet in length, the _bateaux picards_ somewhat longer, and the _chalands_ approximating one hundred and sixty to one hundred and seventy-five feet. while, as stated above, the traction is generally by steam towboat, the more picturesque, if slower and more humble, tow-horse is more largely in evidence here than elsewhere in france. the environs of conflans-fin-d'oise are of a marvellous charm, but the immediate surroundings, great garages of coal boats and barges, coal-yards where towboats are filling up, and all the grime of an enormous water-borne traffic which here divides, part to go parisward and part down-river, make it unlovely enough. three kilometres up-river is a little riverside inn called the "goujon de l'oise." it is a pleasant place to lunch, but otherwise "fishy," as might be supposed. back toward meulan and on the heights above triel are nestled a half-dozen picturesque little red-roofed villages which are not known at all to travellers from paris by road or rail. it is curious how many sylvan spots one can find almost within plain sight of paris. there are wheat-fields within sight of montmartre and haystacks almost under the shadow of mont valerian. at evequemont, just back of conflans, some eight hundred souls eke out an existence on their small farms and live the lives of their grandfathers before them, with never so much as a thought as to what may be happening at the capital twenty kilometres away. boisemont is another tiny village, with an eighteenth-century château which would form an idyllic retreat from the cares of city ways. courdimanche, a few miles farther on, is unknown and unspoiled. it crowns a hilltop, with its diminutive and unusual red-roofed church overtopping all and visible from the river, or from the rolling country round about, for many miles. here the oise makes a long parallelogram-like turn from maurecourt around to eragny, perhaps two miles in a bee-line, but seemingly twenty by the river's course. the land automobile has a distinct advantage here in speed over the _canot_, but one's point of view is not so lovely. it is only twelve kilometres to pontoise, where one passes the _barrage_ just below the town and saunters on shore for a spell, just to get acquainted with the place that parisians know so well by name, and yet so little in reality. pontoise is the metropolis of the oise, though it, too, is a veritable french country town, such as one would hardly expect to find within twenty kilometres of paris. the islands of the river are dotted with trees and _petit maisons de campagne_, and the right bank is bordered with great chalky cliffs, as is the seine in normandy. the general appearance of pontoise is most pleasing. at first glance it looks like a mediæval gothic city, and again even oriental. at any rate, it is an exceedingly unworldly sort of a place, with here and there remains of its bold ramparts and its zigzag and tortuous streets, but with no very great grandeur anywhere to be remarked, except in the eglise st. maclou. the history of pontoise is long and lurid, beginning with the times of the gauls when it was known as _briva isaroe_. it is a long time since the ramparts protected the old château of the counts of vexin--literally the land dedicated to vulcan _(pagus vulcanis)_ --where many french kings often resided. many religious establishments flourished here, too, all more or less under royal patronage, including the abbeys of st. mellon and st. martin, and the couvent des cordeliers, in whose splendid refectory the exiled parlement held its sessions in , , and . out of this circumstance grew the proverb or popular saying, "_avoir l'air de revenir de pontoise._" the domain of pontoise belonged in turn to many seigneurs, but up to the revolution it was still practically _une ville monastique_. as one comes to the lower streets of the town, near the station, and between it and the river, the resemblance to a little corner of the pays bas is remarkable, and therein lies its picturesqueness, if not grandeur. artists would love the narrow rue des attanets, with its curious flanking houses of wood and stone, and the rue de rouen, which partakes of much the same characteristics. along the river are great flour-mills, with wash-houses and red-armed, blue-bloused women eternally washing and rinsing. all this would furnish studies innumerable to those who are able to fabricate mouldy walls and tumble-down picturesqueness out of little tubes of colour and gray canvas. here, too, at pontoise, in its little port, none too cleanly because of the refuse and grime of ashes and coal soot, one sees the first of the heavy _chalands_ loaded with iron ore from the ardennes, or coal from belgium, making their way to the wharves of paris via the canal st. denis. more distant, and more pleasing to many, is that variety of landscape made famous, and even popular, by dupré and daubigny. so, on the whole, pontoise, and the country round about, should properly be classed among the things to which few have ever given more than a passing glance, but which have a vast reserve fund of attractions hidden behind them, needing only to be sought out to be admired. st. ouen l'aumône, a tiny little town of a couple of thousand souls, opposite pontoise, has two remarkable attractions which even a bird of passage might well take the time to view. one is the very celebrated abbaye de maubisson, indeed it might be called notorious, if one believed the chronicles relating to the proceedings which took place there under angelique d'estrees, sister of the none too saintly gabrielle. it was founded in by blanche of castile, for the former _religieuses_ of citeaux, and was justly celebrated in the middle ages for the luxuriousness of its appointments and the excellence of its design. the other feature of st. ouen l'aumône, which got its name, by the way, from a former archbishop of rouen, is a remarkable example of one of those great walled farmyards in which the north of france, normandy in particular, formerly abounded. it is all attached to what was known as the parc de maubisson, which itself is closed by a high, ancient wall with two turrets at the corners. this wall is supposed to date from the fourteenth century, and within are the remains of a vast storehouse or _grange_ of the same century. the only building at all approaching this great storehouse is the halle au blé at rouen, which it greatly resembles as to size. it is now in the hands of a grain merchant who must deal on a large scale, as he claims to have one hundred thousand _gerbes_ (sheaves) in storage at one time. the interior is divided into three naves by two files of monocylindrical columns, though the eastern aisle has practically been demolished. at auvers, just above pontoise, which is bound to méry by an ugly iron bridge across the oise, is a fine church of the best of twelfth and thirteenth century gothic, with a series of romanesque windows in the apse. here, too, the country immediately environing auvers and méry is of the order made familiar by daubigny and his school. french farmyards, stubble-thatched cottages, and all the rusticity which is so charming in nature draws continually group after group of artists from paris to this particular spot at all seasons of the year. the homely side of country life has ever had a charm for city dwellers. auvers is somewhat doubtfully stated as being the birthplace of françois villon--that prince of vagabonds. usually paris has been given this distinction. [illustration: vernon] mêry is an elevated little place of something less than fifteen hundred souls. it has a church of the thirteenth, sixteenth, and eighteenth centuries, and a château which was constructed at the end of the fourteenth century by the seigneur de méry, pierre d'orgemont, grand chancellor of france. the domain was created a _marquisat_ in . the famous banker, samuel bernard, it seems, became the occupant, of the château in the reign of louis xiv., and there received king and court. on a certain occasion, as the season had advanced toward the chill of winter, the opulent seigneur made great fires of acacia wood. the king, who was present, said courteously to his host: "know you well, samuel, it is not possible for me to do this in my palace;" from which we may infer that it was a luxury which even kings appreciated. there were no river obstructions to the free passage of our little craft between pontoise and l'isle-adam, above auvers. we were going by easy stages now, even the long tows of grain and coal-laden barges were gaining on us, for we were straggling disgracefully and stopping at almost every kilometre stone. we tied up at auvers, "daubigny's country," as we called it, and stayed for the night at the hostellerie du nord, a not very splendid establishment, but one with a character all its own. auvers, and its neighbour méry, together form one of the most delightful settlements in which to pass a summer, near to paris, that could be possibly imagined, but with this proviso, that on sunday one could take a day in town, for then _tout le monde_, the proprietor of the hostellerie du nord tells you, comes out to breathe the artistic atmosphere of daubigny. how much they really care for daubigny or his artistic atmosphere is a question. at such times the tiny garden and the dining-room of the hostellerie attempt to expand themselves to accommodate a hundred and fifty guests, whereas their capacity is perhaps forty. something very akin to pandemonium takes place; it is amusing, no doubt, but it is not comfortable. nothing ever goes particularly awry here, however; m. t--, the _patron_, is too good a manager for that, and a popular one, too, to judge from his _salon d'exposition_, which is hung about with a couple of hundred pictures presented by his admiring painter guests from time to time. the viands are bountiful and splendidly garnished and the _consommations au premier choix_. then there are the occupants of "_les petits ménages_" to swoop down on your table for crumbs,--pigeons only,--and in cages a score or more of canary-birds, and, as a sort of contrast, dogs and cats and fowls of all varieties of breed. it sounds rather uncomfortable, but we did not find it so at all, and, speaking from experience, it is one of the most enticing of the various "artists' resorts" known. [illustration: at a french inn] it is but a short six kilometres to l'isle-adam, and it was ten the next morning before we embarked. it is a small town mostly given over to suburban houses of paris brokers and merchants. it is an attractive enough town as a place of residence, but of works of artistic worth it has practically none, if we except the not very splendid fifteenth-century church. the largest of the islands here, just above the lock, was formerly occupied by the château of the prince de conti. it was destroyed at the revolution but its place has been taken by a modern villa whose gardens are kept up with remarkable skill and care, albeit it is nothing but a villa _coquette_ on a large scale. l'isle-adam received its name from the connetable adam who first built a château here in . the forêt de l'isle-adam is one of those noble woods in which the north of france abounds. like the forêt de ermenonville, compiègne, and chantilly it is beautifully kept, with great roads running straight and silent through avenues of oaks. the château de cassan, but a short distance into the forêt, has a wonderful formal garden, laid out after the english manner and ranking with the parks of the trianon and ermenonville. after l'isle-adam we did not stop, except for the lock at rougemont, till the smoke-stacks and factory-belchings of creil loomed up before us thirty kilometres beyond. creil is commercial, very commercial, and is a railway junction like clapham junction or south chicago,--no, not quite; nowhere else, on top of the green earth, are there quite such atrocious monuments to man's lack of artistic taste. it is a pity creil is so banal on close acquaintance, for it is bejewelled with emerald hills and a tiny belt of silvery water which, in the savage days of long ago, must have given it preeminence among similar spots in the neighbourhood. just above is pont st. maxence, delightfully named and delightfully placed, with a picture church of the best of renaissance architecture and an atmosphere which made one want to linger within the confines of the town long after his allotted time. we stayed nearly half a day; we ate lunch in a little restaurant in the shadow of the bridge; we bought and sent off picture postcards, and we took snap-shots and strolled about and gazed at the little gem of a place until all the gamins in town were following in our wake. compiègne was next in our itinerary. we knew compiègne, from the shore, as one might say, having passed and repassed it many times, and we knew all its charms and attractions, or thought we did, but we were not prepared for the effect of the rays of the setting sun on the quaintly serrated sky-line of the roof-tops of the city, as we saw it from the river. it was bloody red, and the willows along the river's bank were a dim purply mélange of all the refuse of an artist's palette. compiègne has many sides, but its picturesque sunset side is the most theatrical grouping of houses and landscape we had seen for many a long day. here at compiègne the vigour of the oise ends. above it is a weakly, purling stream, the greater part of the traffic going by the canal lateral, while below it broadens out into a workable, industrial sort of a waterway which is doing its best to contribute its share to the prosperity of france. we learn here, as elsewhere, where it has been attempted, that the hand of man cannot irretrievably make or reclaim the course of a river. deprived of its natural bed and windings, it will always form new ones of its own making in conformity to the law of nature. the attempt was made to straighten the course of the oise, but in a very short time the latent energies of the stream, more forceful than were supposed, made fresh windings and turnings, the ultimate development of which was found to very nearly approximate those which had previously been done away with, and so the canal lateral, which commences at compiègne, was built. compiègne's attractions are many, its generally well-kept and prosperous air, its most excellent hôtels (two of them, though we bestowed our august patronage on the hôtel de france), its château of royal days of louis xv., and its hôtel de ville. stevenson, in his "inland voyage," has said that what charmed him most at compiègne was the hôtel de ville. truly this will be so with any who have a soul above electric trams and the _art nouveau_; it is the most dainty and lovable of renaissance hôtels de ville anywhere to be seen, with pignons, and gables, and niches with figures in them jutting out all over it. then there is the novel and energetic little _jaquemart_, the little bronze figures of which strike the hours and even the halves and quarters. there is not a detail of this charming building, inside or out, which will not be admired by all. it is far and away more interesting in its appeal than the château itself. our next day's journey was to noyon. we were travelling by boat, to be sure, but a good part of the personnel of the hôtel, including the hostler, and the bus-driver, whose business was at the station, came down to see us off. like a bird in a cage he gazed at us with longing eyes, and once let fall the remark that he wished he had nothing else to do but sit in the bow of a boat and "twiddle a few things" to make it go faster. he overlooked entirely the things that might happen, such as having to pull your boat up on shore and pull out the weeds and rubbish which were stopping your intake pipe, or climb overboard yourself and disentangle water-plants from your propeller, if indeed it had not lost a blade and you were forced to be ignominiously towed into the next large town. it looks all very delightful travelling about in a dainty and facile little _canot-automobile_, and for our part we were immensely pleased with this, our first, experience of so long a voyage. nothing had happened to disturb the tranquillity of our journey, not a single mishap had delayed us, and we had not a quarrel with a bargeman or an _éclusier_, we had been told we should have. we were in luck, and though we only averaged from fifty to sixty kilometres a day, we were all day doing it, and it seemed two hundred. we lunched at ribecourt and struck the most ponderously named hotel we had seen in all our travels, and it was good in spite of its weight. "le courrier des pays et des trois jambons," or something very like it, was its name, and its _patronne_ was glad to see us, and killed a fowl especially on our account, culled some fresh lettuce in the garden, and made a dream of a rum omelette, which she said was the national dish of america. it isn't, as most of us know, but it was a mighty good omelette, nevertheless, and the rum was sufficiently fiery to give it a zest. we spent that night at noyon of blessed memory. noyon is not down in the itineraries of many guide-book tourists, which is a pity for them. it is altogether the most unspoiled old-world town between the ile de france and the channel ports of boulogne and calais through which so many anglo-saxon travellers enter. it is off the beaten track, though, and that accounts for it. blessed be the tourist agencies which know nothing beyond their regular routes, and thus leave some forgotten and neglected tourist-points yet to be developed. the majesty of noyon's cathedral of notre dame is unequalled in all the world. the grim towers rise boldly without ornament or decoration of any kind, and are cowled by a peculiarly strange roofing. the triple porch is denuded of its decorative statues, and there is a rank renaissance excrescence in the rear which is unseemly, but for all that, as a mediæval religious monument of rank, it appeals to all quite as forcibly as the brilliantly florid cathedral at beauvais, or the richly proud amiens, its nearest neighbours of episcopal rank. we did not sit in front of the hôtel du nord at noyon, as did stevenson, and hear the "sweet groaning of the organ" from the cathedral doorway, but we experienced all the emotions of which he wrote in his "inland voyage," and we were glad we came. the hôtel de france and the hôtel du nord share the custom of the ever-shifting traffic of _voyageurs_ at noyon. the latter is the "automobile" hotel, and accordingly possesses many little accessories which the other establishment lacks. otherwise they are of about the same value, and in either you will, unless you are a very heavy sleeper, think that the cathedral-bells were made to wake the dead, so reverberant are their tones and so frequent their ringing. it was stevenson's wish that, if he ever embraced catholicism, he should be made bishop of noyon. whether it was the simple magnitude of its quaint, straight-lined cathedral, or the generally charming and _riant_ aspect of the town, one does not know, but the sentiment was worthy of both the man and the place. "les affaires sont les affaires," as the french say, and business called us to paris; so, after a happy ten days on the seine and oise, we cut our voyage short with the avowed intention of some day continuing it. chapter vi the road to the north [illustration: the road north] we left paris by the ghastly route leading out through the plain of gennevilliers, where paris empties her sewage and grows asparagus, passing st. denis and its royal catacombs of the ancient abbey, and so on to pontoise, all over as vile a stretch of road as one will find in the north of france, always excepting the suburbs of st. germain. pontoise is all very well in its way, and is by no means a dull, uninteresting town, but we had no thoughts for it at the moment; indeed, we had no thoughts of anything but to put the horrible suburban paris _pavé_ as far behind us as we could before we settled down to enjoyment. at pontoise we suddenly discovered that we were on the wrong road. so much for not knowing our way out of town--twenty-five kilometres of axle-breaking cobblestones! we had some consolation in knowing that it was equally as bad by any northern road out of paris, so we only had the trouble of making a twenty-kilometre detour through the valley of the oise, by our old haunts of auvers and l'isle-adam to chantilly and senlis. we got our clue to the itinerary of the road to the north from a view of an old poster issued by the "_messageries royales_" just previous to the revolution (a copy of which is given elsewhere in this book). many were the times we, and all well-habituated travellers in france, had swung from calais to paris by train, with little thought indeed as to what lay between. true, we had, more than once, "stopped off" at amiens and abbeville to see their magnificent churches, and we had spent a long summer at etaples and montreuil-sur-mer, two "artists' haunts" but little known to the general traveller; but we never really knew the lay of the land north of paris, except as we had got it from the reading of dumas, stevenson's "inland voyage," and the sentimental journeyings of the always delightful sterne. we made chantilly our stop for lunch, _en route_ to senlis. we ought not to have done this, for what with the loafing horse-jockeys in the cafés, and the trainers and "cheap sports" hanging about the hotels, chantilly does not impress one as the historical shrine that it really is. chantilly is sporty, _très sportive_, as the french call it, as is inevitable of france's most popular race-track, and there is an odour of america, ireland, and england over all. how many jockeys of these nationalities one really finds at chantilly the writer does not know, but, judging from the alacrity with which the hotels serve you ham and eggs and the café waiters respond to a demand for whiskey (scotch, irish, or american), it may be assumed that the alien population is very large. we had our lunch at the hôtel du grand condé, which is marked with three stars in the automobile route-books. this means that it is expensive,--and so we found it. it was a good enough hotel of its kind, but there was nothing of local colour about it. it might have been at paris, biarritz, or monte carlo. the great attractions of chantilly are the château and park and the collections of the duc d'aumale, famed alike in the annals of history and art. we were properly appreciative, and only barely escaped being carried off by our guide to see the stables--as if we had not suffered enough from the horse craze ever since we had struck the town. the most we would do was to admire the park and the ramifications of its paths and alleys which dwindled imperceptibly into the great forêt de chantilly itself. the forest is one of those vast tracts of wildwood which are so plentifully besprinkled all over france. their equals are not known elsewhere, for they are crossed and recrossed in all directions by well-kept carriage roads where automobilists will be troubled neither by dust nor glaring sunlight. they are the very ideals of roads, the forest roads of france, and their length is many thousands of kilometres. senlis is but eight kilometres from chantilly. we had no reason for going there at all, except to have a look at its little-known, but very beautiful, cathedral, and to get on the real road to the north. we spent the night at senlis, for we had become fatigued with the horrible _pavé_ of the early morning, the sightseeing of the tourist order which we had done at chantilly, and the eternal dodging of race-horses being exercised all through the streets of the town and the roads of the forest. "_monsieur descend-il à l'hôtel du grand monarque?_" asked a butcher's boy of us, as we stopped the automobile beneath the cathedral tower to get our bearings. he was probably looking for a little commission on our hotel-bill for showing us the way; but, after all, this is a legitimate enough proposition. we told him frankly no; that we were looking for the hôtel des arènes; but that he knew nothing of. another, more enterprising, did, and we drove our automobile into the court of a tiny little commercial-looking hotel, and were soon strolling about the town free from further care for the day. the hotel was ordinary enough, neither good nor bad, _comme 'ci, comme ça_, the french would call it,--but they made no objection to getting up at six o'clock the next morning and making us fresh coffee which was a dream of excellence. this is a good deal in its favour, for the coffee of the ordinary french country hotel--in the north, in particular--is fearfully and wonderfully made, principally of chicory. sentiment would be served, and from senlis we struck across forty kilometres to what may be called the dumas country, crépy-en-valois and villers-cotterets. here was a little-trodden haunt which all lovers of romance and history would naturally fall in love with. crépy is a snug, conservative little town where life goes on in much the same way that it did in the days when alexandre dumas was a clerk here in a notary's office, before he descended upon the parisian world of letters. his "mémoires" tell the story of his early experiences here in his beloved valois country. it is a charming biographical work, dumas's "mémoires," and it is a pity it is not better known to english readers. dumas tells of his journey by road, from the town of his birth, villers-cotterets, to crépy, with his world's belongings done up in a handkerchief on a stick, "in bulk not more grand than the luggage of a savoyard when he leaves his native mountain home." crépy has a delightfully named and equally excellent hotel in the "trois pigeons," and one may eat of real country fare and be happy and forget all about the ham and eggs and bad whiskey of chantilly in the contemplation of omelettes and chickens and fresh, green salads, such as only the country innkeeper in france knows how to serve. crépy has a château, too, a relic of the days when the town was the capital of a _petit gouvernement_ belonging to a younger branch of the royal family of france in the fourteenth century. the château is not quite one's ideal of what a great mediæval château should be, but it is sufficiently imposing to give a distinction to the landscape and is in every way a very representative example of the construction of the time. the great _route nationale_ to the north runs through crépy to-day, as did the _route royale_ of the days of the valois. it is eighteen kilometres from crépy to villers-cotterets, dumas's birthplace. the great romancer describes it with much charm and correctness in the early pages of "the taking of the bastile." he calls it "a little city buried in the shade of a vast park planted by françois i. and henri ii." it is a place ever associated with romance and history, and, to add further to its reputation, it is but a few kilometres away from la ferte-milon, where racine was born, and only eight leagues from château-thierry, the birthplace of la fontaine. we had made up our minds to breathe as much of the spirit and atmosphere of villers-cotterets as was possible in a short time, and accordingly we settled down for the night at the hôtel alexandre dumas. the name of the hotel is unusual. there may be others similar, but the writer does not recall them at this moment. it was not bad, and, though entitled to be called a grand establishment, it was not given to pomposity or pretence, and we parted with regret, for we had been treated most genially by the proprietor and his wife, and served by a charming young maid, who, we learned, was the daughter of the house. it was all in the family, and because of that everything was excellently done. there are fragments of a royal château here, begun by françois i. in one of his building manias. his salamanders and the three crescents of diane de poitiers still decorate its walls, and accordingly it is a historical shrine of the first rank, though descended in these later days to use as a poorhouse. the château and forest of villers-cotterets were settled upon monsieur le grand by louis xiv., after they had sheltered many previous royal loves, but in the days of the later monarchy, that of philippe egalité, the place was used merely as a hunting rendezvous. the dumas birthplace is an ordinary enough and dismal-looking building from the street. as usual in france, there is another structure in the rear, the real birthplace, no doubt, but one gets only a glimpse through the open door or gate. carrier-belleus's fine statue of dumas, erected here in , is all that a monument of its class should be, and is the pride of the local inhabitant, who, when passing, never tires of stopping and gazing at its outlines. this may be a little exaggeration, but there is a remarkable amount of veneration bestowed upon it by all dwellers in the town. we went from villers-cotterets direct to soissons, the home of the beans of that name. we do not know these medium-sized flat beans as _soissons_ in america and england; to us they are merely beans; but to _soissons_ they are known all over france, and in the mind and taste of the epicure there is no other bean just like them. this may be so or not, but there is no possible doubt whatever but that "_soissons au beurre_" is a ravishing dish which one meets with too infrequently, even in france, and this in spite of the millions of kilos of them which reach the markets through the gateway of the town of soissons. soissons undoubtedly has a good hotel. how could it be otherwise in such a food-producing centre? we were directed, however, by a _commis-voyageur_ whom we had met at villers-cotterets, not to think of a hotel at soissons, if we were only to stop for lunch, but to go to the railway restaurant. of all things this would be the most strange for an automobilist, but we took his advice, for he said he knew what he was talking about. the "buffet" at the railway station at soissons is not the only example of a good railway eating-house in france, but truly it is one of the best. it is a marvellously conducted establishment, and you eat your meals in a beautifully designed, well-kept apartment, with the viands of the country of the best and of great variety. _soissons au beurre_ was the _pièce de résistance_, and there was _poulet au casserole_, an _omelette au rhum_, a crisp, cold lettuce salad, and fruits and "biscuits" galore to top off, with wine and bread _à discrétion_ and good coffee and cognac for ten sous additional, the whole totalling three francs fifty centimes. we were probably the first automobilists on tour who had taken lunch at the railway restaurant at soissons. perhaps we may not be the last. it was but a short detour of a dozen or fifteen kilometres to visit the romantic château de coucy, one of the few relics of mediævalism which still look warlike. it is more or less of a ruin, but it has been restored in part, and, taken all in all, is the most formidable thing of its kind in existence. it rises above the old walled town of coucy-le-château in quite the fashion that one expects, and, from the platform of the donjon, there spreads out a wonderful view over two deep and smiling valleys which, as much as the thickness of the château walls, effectually protected the occupants from a surprise attack. the thirteenth century saw the birth of this, perhaps the finest example still remaining of france's feudal châteaux, and, barring the effects of an earthquake in , and an attempt by richelieu to blow it up, the symmetrical outlines of its walls and roofs are much as they always were. its founder was enguerrand iii. de coucy, who took for his motto these boastful words--which, however, he and his descendants justified whenever occasion offered: _"roi je ne suis, prince, ni comte aussi, je suis le sire de coucy."_ we left coucy rejoicing, happy and content, expecting to reach laon that night. we had double-starred laon in our itinerary, because it was one of those neglected tourist-points that we always made a point of visiting when in the neighbourhood. laon possesses one of the most remarkable cathedrals of northern france, but its hotels are bad. we tried two and regretted we ever came, except for the opportunity of marvelling at the commanding site of the town and its cathedral. the long zigzag road winding up the hill offers little inducement to one to run his automobile up to the plateau upon which sits the town proper. it were wiser not to attempt to negotiate it if there were any way to avoid it. we solved the problem by putting up at a little hotel opposite the railway station (its name is a blank, being utterly forgotten) where the _commis-voyageur_ goes when he wants a meal while waiting for the next train. he seems to like it, and you do certainly get a good dinner, but, not being _commis-voyageurs_, merely automobilists, we were charged three prices for everything, and accordingly every one is advised to risk the dangerous and precipitous road to the upper town rather than be blackmailed in this way. laon's cathedral, had it ever been carried out according to the original plans, would have been the most stupendously imposing ecclesiastical monument in northern france. possibly the task was too great for accomplishment, for its stones and timbers were laboriously carried up the same zigzag that one sees to-day, and it never grew beyond its present half-finished condition. the year probably saw its commencement, and it is as thoroughly representative of the transition from romanesque to gothic as any other existing example of church building. on the great massive towers of laon's cathedral is to be seen a most curious and unchurchly symbolism in the shape of great stone effigies of oxen, pointing north, east, south, and west. there is no religious significance, we are told, but they are a tribute to the faithful services of the oxen who drew the heavy loads of building material from the plain to the hilltop. we had taken a roundabout road to the north, via laon, merely to see the oxen of the cathedral and to get swindled for our lunch at that unspeakable little hotel. the one was worth the time and trouble, the other was not. we left town the same night headed north, in the direction of arras, via st. quentin, anciently one of the famous walled towns of france, but now a queer, if picturesque, conglomeration of relics of a historical past and modern business affairs. it was sunday, and well into the afternoon, when we got away from laon, but the peasant, profiting by the fair harvest days, was working in the fields as if he never had or would have a holiday. unquestionably the peasant and labouring class in france is hard-working at his daily task and at his play, for when he plays he also plays hard. this, the eternal activity of the peasant or labourer, whatever his trade, and the worked-over little farm-holdings, with their varied crops, all planted in little bedquilt patches, are the chief characteristics of the french countryside for the observant stranger. we crossed the oise at la fere, la fere of wicked memory, as readers of stevenson will recall. nothing went very badly with us, but all the same the memory of stevenson's misadventure at his hotel made us glad we were not stopping there. we passed now innumerable little towns and villages clinging to red, brown, and green hillsides, with here and there a thatched cottage of other days, for, in the _agglomérations_, as the french government knows the hamlets and towns, it is now forbidden to thatch or rethatch a roof; you must renew it with tiles or slates when the original thatch wears out. soon after passing la fere one sees three hilltop forts, for we are now in more or less strategic ground, and militarism is rampant. st. quentin has been the very centre of a warlike maelstrom for ages, and the memory of blood and fire lies over all its history, though to-day, as we entered its encumbered, crooked streets, things looked far from warlike. we had our choice of the hôtel du cygne or the hôtel du commerce at st. quentin, and chose the latter as being nearer the soil, whereas the former establishment is blessed with electric lights, a _calorifère_, and a "bar"--importing the word and the institution from england or america. we found nothing remarkable in the catering of the hôtel du commerce. it was good enough of its kind, but not distinctive, and we got beer served with our dinner, instead of wine or cider. if you want either of the latter you must pay extra. we were in the beer region, not the cider country or the wine belt. it was the custom, and was not being "sprung" on us because we were automobilists. this we were glad to know after our experience at laon. st. quentin possesses a famous gothic church, known to all students of continental architecture, and there is a monument of the siege of , which is counted another "sight," though strictly a modern work. at st. quentin one remarks the canal de st. quentin, another of those inland waterways of france which are the marvel of the stranger and the profit of the inhabitant. this particular canal connects france with the extraterritorial commerce of the pays bas, and runs from the somme to the scheldt, burrowing through hillsides with tunnels, and bridging gaps and valleys with viaducts. one of these canal-tunnels, at riqueval, has a length of nearly four miles. we worried our way out through the crooked streets of st. quentin at an early hour the next morning, _en route_ for arras, via cambrai. forty-two kilometres of "_ond. dure._," but otherwise excellent roadway, brought us to cambrai. (for those who do not read readily the french route-book directions the above expression is translated as "rolling and difficult.") it matters little whether the roadways of france are marked rolling and serpentine, or hilly and winding, the surfaces are almost invariably excellent, and there is nothing met with which will annoy the modern automobile or its driver in the least, always excepting foolish people, dogs, and children. for the last we sometimes feel sorry and take extra precautions, but the others are too intolerant to command much sympathy. cambrai was burned into our memories by the recollection that fénélon was one-time bishop of the episcopal see, and because it was the city of the birth and manufacture of cambric, most of which, since its discovery, has gone into the making of bargain-store handkerchiefs. cambrai possessed twelve churches previous to the revolution, but only two remain at the present day, and they are unlovely enough to belong to liverpool or sioux city. we had some difficulty in finding a hotel at cambrai. our excellent "guide-michelin" had for the moment gone astray in the tool-box, and there was nothing else we could trust. we left the automobile at the shop of a _mécanicien_ for a trifling repair while we hunted up lunch. (cost fifteen sous, with no charge for housing the machine. happy, happy automobilists of france; how much you have to be thankful for!) the mouton blanc, opposite the railway station at cambrai, gave us a very good lunch, in a strictly _bourgeois_ fashion, including the sticky, bitter _bière du nord_. we paid two francs fifty centimes for our repast and went away with a good opinion of cambrai, though its offerings for the tourist in the way of remarkable sights are few. cambrai to arras was a short thirty kilometres. we covered them in an hour and found arras all that cambrai was not, though both places are printed in the same size type in the railway timetables and guide-books. arras has a combined hôtel de ville and belfry which puts the market-house and belfry of bruges quite in the shade from an impressive architectural point of view. there is not the quiet, splendid severity of its more famous compeer at bruges, but there is far more luxuriance in its architectural form, and, at any rate, it was a surprise and a pleasure to find that any such splendid monument were here. the spanish invasion of other days has left its mark all through flanders, and here at arras the florid renaissance architecture of the hôtel de ville and the vaults and roofs of the market-square are manifestly exotics from a land strange to french architectural ways. arras, with its quaint old arcaded market-place, is a great distributing-point for cereals. a million of francs' worth in value changes hands here in a year, and the sale, in small lots, out in the open, is a survival of the _moyen âge_ when the abbés of a neighbouring monastery levied toll for the privilege of selling on the market-place. today the toll-gatherer, he who collects the small fee from the stall-owners, is still known as the abbé. arras is quaint and interesting, and withal a lively, progressive town, where all manner of merchandizing is conducted along very businesslike lines. you can buy sewing-machines and agricultural machinery from america at arras, and felt hats and orange marmalade (which the frenchman calls, mysteriously, simply, "dundee") from britain. to douai, from cambrai, was another hour's run. douai has a hôtel de ville and belfry, too, which were entirely unlooked for. quaint, remarkable, and the pet and pride of the inhabitant, the bells of the belfry of bible-making douai ring out rag-time dances and sousa marches. such is the rage for up-to-dateness! there is a goodly bit to see at douai in the way of ecclesiastical monuments, but the chief attraction, that which draws strangers to the place, is the july "fête de gayant," at which m. and mme. gayant (giant), made of wickerwork and dressed more or less _à la mode_, are promenaded up and down the streets to the tune of the "air de gayante." all this is in commemoration of an unsuccessful attempt to capture the city by louis xi. in . the fête has been going on yearly ever since, and shows no signs of dying out, as does the guy fawkes celebration in england. we were now going through france's "black country," the coal-fields of the north, and the gaunt scaffolds of the mine-pits dotted the landscape here and there, as they do in pennsylvania or the midlands of england. they did not especially disfigure the landscape, but gave a modern note of industry and prosperity which was as marked as that of the farmyards of the peasants and high-farmers of normandy or la beance. france is an exceedingly wealthy, and, what is more, a "self-contained" nation; and this fact should not be forgotten by the critics of what they like to call _effete europe_. bethune is in the heart of the coal country, and is not a particularly lovely town. it has a dream of an old-world hotel, though, and one may go a great deal farther and fare a great deal worse than at bethune's hôtel du nord, a great rambling, stone renaissance building, with heavy decorated window-frames, queer rambling staircases, and ponderous, beamed ceilings. [illustration: villiers-cotterets] it sits on a little _place_, opposite an isolated belfry, from whose upper window there twinkles, at night, a little star of light, like a mariner's beacon. what it is all supposed to represent no ones seems to know, but it is an institution which dies hard, and some one pays the expense of keeping it alight. a belfry is a very useful adjunct to a town. if the writer ever plans a modern city he will plant a belfry in the very centre, with four clock-faces on it, a sun-dial, a thermometer, and a peal of bells. you find all these things on the belfry of bethune, and altogether it is the most picturesque, satisfying, and useful belfry the writer has ever seen. the food and lodging of the hôtel du nord at bethune are as satisfactory as its location, and we were content indeed to remain the following day in the dull little town, because of a torrential downpour which kept us house-bound till four in the afternoon. if one really wants to step back into the dark ages, just let him linger thirty-six hours as we did at bethune. more would probably drive him crazy with ennui, but this is just enough. the road to the north ended for us at calais. how many know calais as they really ought? to most travellers calais is a mere guide-post on the route from england or france. of less interest to-day, to the london tripper, than boulogne and its debatable pleasures, calais is a very cradle of history and romance. it was in october, , that sterne set out on his immortal "sentimental journey." he put up, as the tale goes, at dessein's hôtel at calais (now pulled down), and gave it such a reputation among english-speaking people that its proprietor suddenly grew rich beyond his wildest hopes. so much for the publicity of literature, which, since sterne's days, has boomed soap, cigars, and automobiles. sterne's familiarity with france was born of experience. he had fallen ill in london while supervising the publication of some of his literary works and was ordered to the south of france by his physicians. he obtained a year's absence from his curacy, and borrowed twenty pounds from his friend garrick (which history, or rumour, says he never repaid) and left for--of all places--paris, where a plunge into the whirl of social dissipation nearly carried him off his feet. sterne and stevenson have written more charmingly of france and things french than any others in the english tongue, and if any one would like to make three little pilgrimages off the beaten track, by road or rail, by bicycle or automobile, let him follow the trail of sterne in his "sentimental journey," or stevenson in his "inland voyage" and his "travels with a donkey." they do not follow the "personally conducted" tourist routes, but they give a much better idea of france to one who wants to see things for himself. charles dibdin, too, "muddled away five months at calais," to quote his own words. he arrived from england after a thirteen-hours' passage in a gale of wind, in which he composed his most famous sea-song, "blow high, blow low." travellers across the channel have been known to occupy thirteen hours on the passage since dibdin's time, and seemingly, in the experience of the writer, there is not a time when the words of the song might not apply. we had come to calais for the purpose of crossing the channel for a little tour awheel amid the natural beauties and historic shrines of merry england. it takes fifty-five minutes, according to the railway-steamship time-cards, to make the passage from calais to dover, but the writer has never been able to make one of these lightning passages. automobiles are transported by the mail-boats only upon "special arrangements," information upon which point is given so vaguely that one suspects bribery and craft. we did not bite, but went over by the night cargo-boat, at least the automobile did, at a cost of a hundred francs. this is cheap or dear, according to the way you look at it. for the service rendered it is dear, for the accommodation to you it is, perhaps, cheap enough. at any rate, it is cheap enough when you want to get away _from_ england again, its grasping hotel-keepers, and its persecuting police. why do so many english automobilists tour abroad, mr. british hotel-keeper and mr. police sergeant? one wonders if you really suspect. part iii on britain's roads chapter i the bath road [illustration: the bath road] the bath road is in many ways the most famed main road out of london. visions as varied as those of highwaymen on hounslow heath, boating at maidenhead, the days of the "dandies" at bath, and of john cabot at bristol flashed through our minds whenever we heard the bath road mentioned, so we set out with a good-will on the hundred and eighteen mile journey to bath. to-day the road's designation is the same as of yore, though palmer's coaches, that in left london at eight in the morning and arrived at bristol at eleven at night, have given way to automobiles which make the trip in three hours. you can be three hours or thirty, as you please. we figured it out for thirty-six and lunched, dined, slept, and breakfasted _en route_, and felt the better for it. the real popularity of the bath road and its supremacy in coaching circles a century and a quarter ago--a legacy which has been handed down to automobilists of to-day--was due to the initiative of one john palmer, a gentleman of property, who had opened a theatre at bath, and was sorely annoyed at the delays he had to submit to in obtaining star actors from london to appear on particular nights. palmer was a man with a grievance, but he was also a man with ability and purpose. he travelled about, and made notes and observations, and organized a scheme by which coaching might be brought into a complete system; he memorialized the government, was opposed by the post-office authorities, abused, sneered at, laughed at, but not beaten; finally he gained the ear of william pitt, who saw that there was more in the proposed plan than a mere experiment. on the th of august, , palmer ran his first mail-coach from london to bristol, and made the journey in fifteen hours. that was the turning-point. the old lumbering coaches, the abominable roads, the irresponsible drivers, the wretched delay, misery, and uncertainty rapidly gave place to lighter, stronger, and more commodious vehicles, better horses, more experienced drivers, careful guards, regular stages, marked by decent inns and comfortable hostelries, and improved roads. the post-office made a contract with the coaching speculator--a very safe contract indeed--by which he was to have two and one-half per cent of the money saved in the conveyance of letters. this would have yielded twenty thousand pounds a year; so the government broke its agreement, refused to vote the payment, and compromised with mr. palmer and its own conscience, after the fashion of politicians of all time, by a grant of fifty thousand pounds. [illustration: on the bath road] the bath road traverses a section of england that is hardly as varied as would be a longer route from north to south, but, on the whole, it is characteristically english throughout, and is as good an itinerary as any by which to make one's first acquaintance with english days and english ways. via hammersmith, kew bridge, brentford, and hounslow was our way out of town, and a more awful, brain-racking, and discouraging start it would have been impossible to make. london streets are ever difficult to thread with an automobile, and when the operation is undertaken on a misty, moisty morning with what the londoner knows as _grease_ thick under foot and wheel, the process is fraught with the possibility of adventure. out through piccadilly and knightsbridge was bad enough, but, by the time hammersmith broadway, its trams and tram-lines and its butchers' and bakers' and milk carts, was reached and passed, it was as if one had been trying to claw off a lee shore in a gale, and driver and passengers alike felt exceeding limp and sticky. the londoner who drives an automobile thinks nothing of it, and covers the intervening miles with a cool clear-headedness that is marvellous. we were new to automobiling in england, but we were fast becoming acclimated. on through chiswick there were still the awful tram-lines, but the roadway improved and was wider and free from abrupt turns and twists. we congratulated ourselves that at last we had got clear of town, but we had reckoned beyond our better judgment, for we had forgotten that we had been told that brentford was the most awful death-trap that the world has known for automobilists, cyclists, and indeed foot-passers as well. we should have kept a little of our nerve by us, for we needed it when we got shut in between a brewer's dray, an omnibus, and an electric tram-car in brentford's sixteen-foot "main road." it was like an interminable canyon, gloomy, damp, and dangerous for all living things which passed its portals, this main street of brentford. for some miles, apparently, this same congestion of traffic continued, a tram-car ahead and behind you, drays, trucks, and carts all around you, and fool butchers' cart and milk cart drivers turning unexpected corners to the likely death of you and themselves. here is an automobile reform which might well attract the attention of the authorities in england. the automobile has as much right to be a road user as any other form of traffic, and, if the automobile is to be regulated as to its speed and progress, it is about time that the same regulations were applied also to other classes of traffic. we finally got out of brentford and came to low, where suburban improvement has gone to widen the roadway and put the two lines of tramway in the middle, allowing a free passage on either side. the wood pavement, which we had followed almost constantly since leaving london, soon disappeared, and, finally, so did the tramway. after perhaps fifteen miles we were at last approaching open country; at least suburbia and perambulators had been left behind; and truck-gardens and market-wagons, often with sleepy drivers, had entered on the scene. here was a new danger, but not so terrible as those we had left behind, and the poor, docile horse usually had sense enough to draw aside and let us pass, even if the beer-drowsy driver had not. we soon reached the top of hounslow heath, but there was scarcely a suggestion of the former romantic aspect which we had always connected with it. we made inquiries and learned that there was one old neighbouring inn, the "green man," lying between the bath and exeter roads, which was a true relic of the past, and musty with the traditions of turnpike travellers and highwaymen of old. we found the "green man" readily enough, with a country yokel to point the way, for which he expected the price of a beer. in the palmy days of the robbing and murdering traffic of hounslow heath it was a convenient refuge for the duvals and turpins, and they made for it with a rush on occasion, secreting themselves in a hiding-place which can still be seen. this is in a little room on the left of the front door, and the entrance lies at the back of an old-fashioned fireplace. a hole leads to a passage which opens into a cavernous recess beneath, to which there is ample room for anybody to descend. the local wiseacres declare that there is, or was, a communication between this secret chamber and another famous highwayman's inn, the old "magpie" directly on the bath road, and that those who preyed on travellers used to bolt from one house to the other like hunted rabbits. no one seemingly has himself ever explored this mysterious subterranean passage. beyond hounslow, on the bath road, one passes through slough, leaving windsor, runnymede, and datchet on the left, as properly belonging to the routine tours which one makes from london and calls simply excursions. the thames is reached at maidenhead, where up-river society plays a part which reminds one of the stage melodramas, except that there is real water and real boat-races. it is a pretty enough aspect up and down the river from the bridge at maidenhead, but it is stagey and artificial. the hotels and restaurants of maidenhead make some pretence of catering to automobilists, and do it fairly well, after a suburban fashion, but there is nothing of the flavour or sentiment of the old inn-keeping days, neither are any of the establishments at all what the touring automobilist (as distinct from the promenading, or half-day excursion variety) expects and demands. [illustration: the road by the thames] the bath road runs straight on through twyford to reading, but we made a detour via great marlow and henley, merely for the satisfaction of lunching at the "red lion inn" at the latter place. the great social and sporting attractions of the thames, the annual henley regatta, had drawn us thither years ago, and we had enjoyed ourselves in the conventional manner, shouting ourselves hoarse over rival crews, lunching, picnic fashion, from baskets under the trees, and making our way back to town by the railway, amid a terrifying crush late at night. it was all very enjoyable, but once in a lifetime was quite enough. now we were taking things easier. the traditions hanging around the old "red lion inn," beside the bridge, probably account for its popularity, for certainly its present-day accommodations and catering are nothing remarkable, and the automobilist is looked upon with disfavour. why? this is hard to state. he is a good spender, the automobilist, and he comes frequently. all the same, the "red lion inn" at henley is one of those establishments marked down in the guide-books as "comfortable," and if its luncheon is a bit slow and stodgy, it is wholesome enough, and automobilists are generally blessed with good appetites. the shenstone legend and the window-pane verses about finding "one's warmest welcome at an inn" were originally supposed to apply to this inn at henley. later authorities say that they referred to an inn at henley-in-arden. perhaps an automobilist, even, would find the latter more to his liking. the writer does not know. to reading from henley is perhaps a dozen miles, by a pretty river road which shows all the characteristic loveliness of the thames valley about which poets have raved. by shiplake mill, sonning, and caversham bridge one finally enters reading. reading is famous for the remains of an old abbey and for its biscuits, but neither at the time had any attractions for us. we made another detour from our path and followed the river-road to abingdon. pangborne (better described as villadom) was passed, as was also mapledurham, which dick of william morris's "utopia" thought "a very pretty place." in fine it is a very pretty place, and the river hereabouts is quite at its prettiest. since we had actually left towns and trams behind us we found the roadways good, but abominably circuitous and narrow, not to say dangerous because of it. soon streatley hill rose up before us. streatley is one of those villages which have been pictured times innumerable. one often sees its winding streets, its picturesque cottages, its one shop, its old mill, "the bull inn," or its notorious bridge over the river to goring. to cross this bridge costs six pence per wheel, be your conveyance a cart, carriage, bicycle, or motor-car, so that if an automobile requires any slight attention from the machinist, who quarters himself at goring boat-house, it is appreciably cheaper to bargain with him to come to streatley. thus one may defeat the object of the grasping institution which, the _lady_ toll-taker tells you, is responsible for the outrage, and not she herself. you may well believe her; she hardly looks as though she approved of the means which serve to keep her in her modest position. [illustration: on the thames at henley] streatley hill, or rather the view from it, like the village itself, is famed alike by poet and painter. the following quatrain should be eulogy enough to warrant one's taking a rather stiff climb in the hope of experiencing, to a greater or a lesser degree, the same emotions: "when you're here, i'm told that you should mount the hill and see the view; and gaze and wonder, if you'd do its merits most completely." the poetry is bad, but the sentiment is sound. goring is more of a metropolis than streatley, but we did not visit the former town because of the atrocious toll-bridge charge. we were willing enough to make martyrs of ourselves in the good cause of the suppression of all such excessive charges to automobilists. on through abingdon, and still following the valley of the thames, we kept to faringdon and lechlade, where, at the latter place, at the subtly named "trout inn," we proposed passing the night. we did pass the night at the "trout inn," which has no accommodation for automobiles, except a populated hen-house, the general sleeping-place of most of the live stock of the landlord, dogs, cats, ducks, and geese; to say nothing of the original occupants--the hens. how much better they do things in france! at any rate there is no pretence about the "trout inn" at lechlade. we slept in a stuffy, diamond-paned little room with chintz curtains to windows, bed, and mantelpiece. we dined off of trout, beefsteak, and cauliflower, and drank bitter beer until midnight in the bar-parlour with a half-dozen old residents who told strange tales of fish and fishing. here at least was the real thing, though the appointments of the inn were in no sense picturesque, and the landlord, instead of being a rotund, red-faced person, was a tall, thin reed of a man with a white beard who, in spite of his eighty odd years, is about as lively a proposition as one will find in the business in england. mine host of "the trout," silvered as the aspen, but straight as the pine, bears his eighty-two years lightly, and will tell you that he is still able to protect his fishing rights, which he owns in absolute fee on four miles of river-bank, against trespassers--and they are many. he sleeps, he says, with one eye open, and his gun by his side, and thinks nothing of a sally forth in the dark hours of night and exploding a charge in the direction of a marauder. he and his cronies of the tap-room, of an evening, before a glowing fire of logs, above which is the significant gun-rack (quite in old picture-book fashion), will give a deal of copy to an able writer who seeks atmosphere and local colour. kelmscott, so identified with william morris, is even less of the world of to-day than is its neighbour, lechlade, and was one of the reasons for our coming here at all. the topographical surveys and books of reference will tell on that it is a "chapelry, in the parish of broadwell, union of faringdon, hundred of bampton, county of oxford;" that it is "two miles east of lechlade and contains inhabitants;" and that "by measurement it contains , acres, of which are arable and meadow and pasture." it is unlikely that the population has increased since the above description; the best authority claims that it has actually decreased, like so many of the small towns and villages of the countryside in england. kelmscott manor house was advertised for sale in , a fact which morris discovered quite by accident. writing to his friend faulkner he says: "i have been looking about for a house... my eye is turned now to kelmscott, a little village two miles above radcott bridge--a heaven on earth." the house is thirty miles or more from oxford, by water, approached by a lane which leads from lechlade just over st. john's bridge, by the "trout inn." the railway now reaches lechlade but this was not the case when morris first found this "_heaven._" most likely he reached it by carriage from faringdon, "by the grand approach over the hills of berkshire." we regained the bath road at marlborough, after our excursion into the realms of utopia, intending to reach bath for lunch. the best laid plans of mice and mere motor-men ofttimes go awry, and we did _not_ get to bath until well on into the night. there was really no reason for this except an obstinate _bougie_ (beg pardon, sparking-plug in english) which sparked beautyfully in the open air, but which refused positively to give a glimmer when put in its proper place. we did not know this, or even suspect it at first, but this was what delayed us four hours, just before we reached chippenham, where we stopped and lunched, through no choice of our own, for it was a bad lunch in every particular, and cost three shillings and sixpence a head. to add to the indignity, the local policemen came along and said we were making an obstruction, and insisted that we push the machine into the stable-yard, as if we were committing a breach of the law, when really it was only an opportunity for a "bobby" to show his authority. happy england! all the morning we had been running over typical english roads and running well. there is absolutely no question but that the countryside of england is unequalled for that unique variety of picturesqueness which is characteristic of the land, but it lacks the grandeur that one finds in france, or indeed in most countries of continental europe. crossing england thus, one gets the full force of rider haggard's remarks about the small farmer; how, because he cannot get a small holding, that can be farmed profitably, for his very own, he becomes a tenant, or remains always a labourer, never rising in the social scale. the peasant of continental europe may be poor and impoverished, may eat largely of bread instead of meat, and be forced to drink "thin wine" instead of body-building beer,--as the economists in england put it,--but he has much to be thankful for, nevertheless. we stopped just before beckhampton, at a puzzling crossroads, and asked a labourer of the fields if we were "right" for chippenham. he stared blankly, doffed his hat with humility, but for a time answered never a word. he knew calne, a town half a dozen miles away, for he occasionally, walked in there for a drinking-bout on a heavier brand of beer than he could buy locally, but, though he had always heard of chippenham, he did not know whether it lay north, east, south, or west. this is deplorable, of course, for it was within a twenty-mile radius, but it is astonishing the frequency with which one meets this blankness in england when looking for information. there are tens of thousands like this poor fellow, and one may well defy rider haggard to make a "landed proprietor" out of such poor stuff. you do not always get what you ask for in france, but the peasant at least knows enough to tell you, "oh! that's down in the eure" or "_plus loin, par là,_" and at any rate, you feel that he is a broad-gauge frenchman through and through, whereas the english labourer of the fields is a very "little englander" indeed. it is hard to believe on a bright may morning that here, in this blossoming, picturesque little village of chippenham, on one bitterly cold morning in the month of _april_, , when the bath coach reached its posting-house (the same, perhaps, mr. up-to-date automobilist, at which you have slept the night--worse luck), two of its outside passengers were found frozen to death, and a third all but dead. the old lithographs which pictured the "royal mail" stuck in a snow-drift, and the unhappy passengers helping to dig it out, are no longer apocryphal in your mind after you have heard this bit of "real history," which happened, too, in one of england's southern counties. the romance of other days was often stern and uncomfortable reality of a most bitter kind. we left chippenham, finally, very late in the day, lost our way at unsign-boarded and puzzling crossroads, had two punctures in a half a dozen miles, and ultimately reached the centre of bath, over the north parade bridge--for which privilege we paid three pence, another imposition, which, however, we could have avoided had we known the devious turnings of the main road into town. in two days we had covered something like two hundred and fifty miles in and out of highways and byways, had followed the thames for its entire boatable length, and had crossed england,--not a very great undertaking as automobile tours go, but a varied and enjoyable one in spite of the restrictions put upon the free passage of automobiles by the various governing bodies and the indifferent hotel-keepers. bath and its attractions for visitors are quite the best things of their kind in all england, in spite of the fact that the attractions, the teas, the concerts, and the lectures--to say nothing of drinking and bathing in the waters--lack individuality. we stayed the round of the clock at bath, two rounds and a half, in fact, in that we did not leave until the second morning after our arrival, and absorbed as much of the spirit and association of the place as was possible, including sundry gallons of the bubbling spring-water. bath has pleased many critical souls, james mcneill whistler for one, who had no patience with other english resorts. it pleased us, too. it was so different. from bath to bristol is a dozen miles only, and the topographical characteristics change entirely, following the banks of the little river avon. bristol was a great seaport in days gone by, but today only coasters and colliers make use of its wharves. the town is charmingly situated, but it is unlovely, and, for the tourist, is only a stepping-stone to somewhere else. the automobile club of great britain and ireland directs one to the suburb of clifton, or rather to clifton down, for hotel accommodation, but you can do much better than that by stopping at the half moon hotel in the main street, a frankly commercial house, but with ample garage accommodation and good plain fare, of which roast little pig, boiled mutton, cauliflower, and mashed potatoes, with the ever recurring apple tart, form the principal items. chapter ii the south coast [illustration: the south coast] the south coast of england is ever dear to the londoner who spends his week's end out of town. here he finds the nearest whiff of salt-water breeze that he can call his own. he may go down the thames on a palace steamer to southend, and he will have to content himself most of the way with a succession of mud-flats and eat winkles with a brassy pin when he gets there; he may even go on to margate and find a fresh east wind which will blow the london fog out of his brain; but, until he rounds the foreland, he will find nothing that will remind him in the least of his beloved eastbourne, brighton, and worthing. the most popular south coast automobile run from london is to brighton, fifty-two miles, via croyden, redhill, and crawley. many "weekenders" make this trip nearly every saturday to monday in the year, and get to know every rut and stone in the roadway and every degenerate policeman of the rapacious crew who hide in hedges and lie in wait for poor unfortunate automobilists who may have slipped down a sloping bit of clear roadway at a speed of twenty and one-tenth miles per hour (instead of nineteen and nine-tenths), all figured out by rule of thumb and with the aid of a thirty-shilling stop-watch. "_ils sont terribles, ces bétes des gendarmes on trouve en angleterre,_" said a terror-stricken french friend of ours who had been held up beyond crawley for a "technical offence." nothing was said against a drunken drayman who backed his wagon up against our friend's mudguard ten miles back, and smashed it beyond repair. justice, thy name is not in the vocabulary of the english policeman sent out by his sergeant to keep watch on automobilists! our road to the sea was by rochester, canterbury, and dover, in the first instance, following much the itinerary of chaucer's pilgrims. southwark's tabard inn exists to-day, in name if not in spirit, and it was easy enough to take it for our starting-point. getting out of london to the southeast is not as bad as by the northwest, but in all conscience it is bad enough, through deptford and its docks, and greenwich and woolwich, and over the plumstead marshes. there are variants of this itinerary, we were told, but all are equally smelly and sooty, and it was only well after we had passed gravesend that we felt that we had really left town behind, and even then we could see the vermilion stacks of great steamships making their way up london's river to the left, and the mouse-brown sails of the barges going round the coast to ipswich and yarmouth. at last a stretch of green unsmoked and unspoiled country, that via stroud to rochester, came into view. rochester on the medway, with its memories of mr. pickwick and the bull inn (still remaining), the cathedral and gad's hill, dickens's home near by, is a literary shrine of the first importance. we stopped _en route_ and did our duty, but were soon on our way again through the encumbered main street of chatham and up the long hill to sittingbourne, itself a dull, respectable market-town with a boiled mutton and grilled kipper inn which offers no inducements to a gormand to stop for lunch. we kept on to canterbury and didn't do much better at a hotel which shall be nameless. the hotels are all bad at canterbury, according to continental standards, and there is little choice between them. it is said that the oldest inn in england is "the fountain" at canterbury. "the fountain" claims to have housed the wife of earl godwin when she came to meet her husband on his return from denmark in the year , and to have been the temporary residence of archbishop lanfranc whilst his palace was being rebuilt in . there is a legend, too, that the four knights who murdered thomas à becket made this house their rendezvous. moreover, "the fountain" can boast of a testimonial to its excellence as an inn written six hundred years ago, for, when the marriage of edward the first to his second queen, margaret of france, was solemnized at canterbury cathedral on september , , the ambassador of the emperor of germany, who was among the distinguished guests, wrote thus to his master: "the inns in england are the best in europe, those of canterbury are the best in england, and 'the fountain,' wherein i am now lodged as handsomely as i were in the king's palace, the best in canterbury." times have changed since the days of edward i.! canterbury is a very dangerous town to drive through. its streets are narrow and badly paved, and there are unexpected turnings which bring up a lump in one's throat when he is driving at his most careful gait and is suddenly confronted with a governess's cart full of children, a perambulator, and a bath-chair, all in the middle of the road, where, surely, the two latter have no right to be. the grand old shrine of thomas à becket, the choir built by lanfranc's monks, and the general _ensemble_ of the cathedral close are worth all the risk one goes through to get to them. the cathedral impresses one as the most thoroughly french of all the gothic churches of britain, and because of this its rank is high among the ecclesiastical architectural treasures of the world. its history is known to all who know that of england, of the church, and of architecture, and the edifice tells the story well. the distant view from the road, as one approaches the city, is one that can only be described as grand. the fabric of the great cathedral, the rooftops of the houses, the sloping hills rising from the water's edge, and again falling lightly down to the town, form a grandly imposing view, the equal of which one seldom sees on the main travelled roads of england. between canterbury and winchester ran one of the oldest roads in england, the "pilgrim's way." many parts of it still exist, and it is believed by many to be the oldest monument of human work in these islands. about two-thirds of the length of the road is known with certainty, and to some extent the old itinerary forms the modern highway. its earliest route seems to have been from stonehenge to canterbury, but later the part from stonehenge to alton was abandoned in favour of that from winchester to alton. guildford and dorking were places that it touched, though it was impossible to say with certainty where it crossed the medway. margate, ramsgate, and the isle of thanet lay to the left of us, but we struck boldly across the downs to dover's bay, under the shadow of the shakespeare cliff, made famous in the scenic accessories of _the tempest_. dover, seventy-two miles by road from london, has a good hotel, almost reaching the continental standard, though it is not an automobile hotel and you must house your machine elsewhere. it is called the lord warden hotel, and is just off the admiralty pier head. it suited us very well in spite of the fact that the old-school englishman contemptuously refers to it as a place for brides and for seasick frenchmen waiting the prospect of a fair crossing by the calais packet. the descent into dover's lower town from the downs above is fraught with considerable danger for the automobilist. it is steep, winding, and narrow, and one climbs out of it again the next morning by an equally steep, though less narrow, road up over the shakespeare cliff and down again abruptly into folkestone. dover is not fashionable as a resort, and its one pretentious sea-front hotel is not a lovely thing--most sea-front hotels are not. in spite of this there is vastly more of interest going on, with the coming and going of the great liners and the cross-channel boats of the harbour, than is to be found in a mere watering-place, where band concerts, parade-walks, "nigger minstrels," tea fights, and excursions in the neighbourhood are the chief attractions which are advertised, and are fondly believed by the authorities to be sufficient to draw the money-spending crowds. dover is a very interesting place; the shakespeare cliff dominates it on one side and the old castle ruin on the other, to-day as they did when the first of the cinq-ports held england's destiny in the hollow of her hand. sir walter raleigh prayed his patron elizabeth to strengthen her fortifications here and formulate plans for a great port. much was done by her, but a fitting realization of dover's importance as a deep-water port has only just come to pass, and then only because of a significant hint from the german emperor. shakespeare's, or lear's, cliff at dover is one of the first things to which the transatlantic up-channel traveller's attention is called. blind old gloster has thus described it: "there is a cliff whose high and bending head looks fearfully into the confined deep." the english war department of today, it is rumoured, would erase this landmark, because the cliff obstructs the range of heavy guns, thus jeopardizing the defence of dover; but there are those who, knowing that chalk is valuable, suggest that commercialism is at the foundation of the scheme for destroying the cliff. the dover corporation has accordingly passed a resolution of remonstrance against the destruction of what they claim "would rob the english port of one of its most thrilling attractions." folkestone is more sadly respectable than dover; more homeopathic, one might say. the town is equally difficult for an automobile to make its way through, but as one approaches the water's edge things somewhat improve. wampach's hotel at folkestone is not bad, but b. b. b., as the "automobile club's hand book" puts it (bed, bath, and breakfast), costs eight shillings and sixpence a day. this is too much for what you get. we followed the shore road to hythe, dymchurch, new romney, and rye, perhaps thirteen miles all told, along a pebble-strewn roadway with here and there a glimpse of the shining sea and the smoke from a passing steamer. to our right was romney marsh, calling up memories of the smuggling days of old, when pipes of port and bales of tobacco mysteriously found their way inland without paying import duties. rye is by no means a resort; it is simply a dull, sleepy, red-roofed little seaside town, with, at sunset, a riot of blazing colour reflected from the limpid pools left by the retreating waters of the channel, which now lies five miles away across a mud-flat plain, although coastwise shipping once came to rye's very door-step. the entrance to the town, by an old mediæval gateway, is easily enough made by a careful driver, but an abrupt turn near the top of the slight rise cost us a mud-guard, it having been ripped off by an unexpected and most dangerous hitching-post. this may be now removed; it certainly is if the local policeman did his duty and reported our really atrocious language to the authorities. of all imbecilic and unneedful obstructions to traffic, rye's half-hidden hitching-post is one of the most notable seen in an automobile tour comprising seven countries and several hundreds, perhaps thousands, of large and small towns. the chief curiosities of rye are its quaint hilltop church, the town walls, and the ypres tower, all quite foreign in motive and aspect from anything else in england. those interested in literary shrines may well bow their heads before the door of the dignified georgian house near the church, in which resides the enigmatic henry james. there may be other literary lights who shed a glow over rye, but we did not learn of them, and surely none could be more worthy of the attention of literary lion-hunters than the american who has become "more english" than the english themselves. we left rye by a toll-gate road over the marshes, bound for winchelsea, and, passing through the ivy-clad tower which spans the roadway, stopped abruptly, like all hero or heroine worshippers, before the dainty home of ellen terry. the creeper-clung little brick cottage is a reminiscence of old-world peace and quiet which must be quite refreshing after an active life on the stage. hastings saw us for the night. hastings and st. leonards, twin sea-front towns, are what, for a better description, might be called snug and smug. they are simply the most depressing, unlovely resorts of sea-front and villas that one will see in a round of all the english resorts. as a pompous, bustling, self-sufficient little city, hastings, with its fisher men and women, its fish-market and the ruined castle-crowned height, has some quaintness and character; but as a resort where the chief amusements are scrappy, tuneless hurdy-gurdies, blatant brass bands, living picture shows, or third-rate repetitious of a last year's london theatrical successes, it is about the rankest boring proposition which ever drew the unwary visitor. we had our "b. b. b." that night at the queen's hotel, a vast barracks of a place near the end of the parade. the best thing about it was the view from the windows of our sleeping-rooms, and the fact that we could stable our automobile under the same roof. we made a little run inland from hastings the next morning to view old battle abbey. the battlement-crowned gateway is still one of the architectural marvels of england. it took us a dozen miles out of our way, but always among the rolling downs which dip down to the sea, chalk-faced and grass-grown in a manner characteristic only of the south coast of england. we came to eastbourne through pevensey, famed for its old ruined castle and much history. a low-lying marsh-grown fishing-port of olden times, pevensey was the landing-place of the conqueror when he came to lay the foundation-stones of england's greatness. it is a shrine that britons should bow down before, and reverently. eastbourne is a vast improvement, as a resort, over any south coast town we had yet seen. it is not gay, it is rather sedate, and certainly eminently respectable and dignified. giant wheels, hurdy-gurdies, and quack photographers are banished from its beach and esplanade, and one may stroll undisturbed by anything but perambulators and bath-chairs. its sea-front walk of a couple of miles or more is as fine as any that can be found from the foreland to the lizard. most energetically we climbed to the top of beachy head, gossiped with the coast-guard, stole a peep through the telescope by which lloyd's observer at the signal-station picks out passing ships, and got down the great hill again in time for lunch at the burlington hotel. we lunched in more or less stately fashion, well, if not luxuriously, in a great dining-room whose sole occupant, besides ourselves, was england's laureate. he is herein endorsed as possessing a good taste in seaside hotels, whatever one may think of the qualities of his verse. the burlington seemed to us the best conducted and most satisfactory hotel on all the south coast, except perhaps the lord warden at dover. it was a more or less rugged climb, by a badly made road, up over the downs from eastbourne, only to drop down again as quickly through eastdean to newhaven, a short ten miles, but a trying one. newhaven is a sickly burg sheltered well to the west of beachy head. its only excitements are the comings and goings of the dieppe steamers and a few fishing-boats. it is one of the best ports for shipping one's automobile to france, and one of the cheapest. in no other respect is newhaven worth a glance of the eye, and english travelers themselves have no good word for the abominable tea and coffee served to limp, half-famished travellers as they get off the dieppe boat. this well-worn and well-deserved reputation was no inducement for us to stop, so we made speed for brighton via rottingdean. rottingdean will be famous in most minds as being the rival of brattleboro, vt., as the home of rudyard kipling. sightseers came from brighton in droves and stared the author out of countenance, as they did at brattleboro, and he removed to the still less known, _and a great deal less accessible_, village of burwash in kent. thus passed the fame of rottingdean. brighton has been called london-on-sea, and with some truth, but as the sun shines here with frequency it differs from london in that respect. brighton is a brick and iron built town, exceedingly unlovely, but habitable. its two great towering sea-front hotels look american, but they are a great deal more substantially built. there are two rivals for popular favour, the grand and the metropole. they are much alike in all their appointments, but there are fewer tea-drinkers and after-dinner sleepers (and snorers) at the metropole. there is also a famous old coaching house, the ship hotel (most curiously named), which caters particularly for automobilists. brighton is the typical seaside resort of britain. it is like nothing on the continent; it is not even as attractive a place as most continental resorts; but it is the best thing in britain. brighton and hove have a sea-front of perhaps three miles. houses and hotels line the promenade on one side, a pebbly beach and the sea on the other. the attractions of brighton are conventional and an imitation of those in london. in addition one bathes, in summer, in the lapping waves, and in winter sits in a glass shelter which breaks the wind, and gazes seaward. there are theatrical attractions and operas in the theatre, and vocal and instrumental concerts on the pier, all through the year. there are also various sorts of functions which go on in the turnip-topped royal pavilion of the georges, which once seen will ever afterward be avoided. it is not always bright and sunny at brighton. we were storm-bound at the metropole for two days, and the channel waves dashed up over the pier and promenade and drowned out the strollers who sought to take their constitutional abroad. we sat tight in the hotel and listened to sousa marches, "hiawatha," and "the belle of new york" strummed out by a none too competent band. a genial fat-faced old lady of uncertain age tried to inveigle us into a game of bridge, but that was not what we came for, so we strenuously refused. the flood-tide of holiday trippers at brighton is in august. this is the month when, at certain periods of the day, the mile length of roadway from railway station to sea is a closely packed crowd of excursionists; when the long expanse of sea-front and sand presents its most animated spectacle of holiday-keeping people; when the steamers plying along the sussex coast, or to france, the white-sailed yachts, the rowing-boats, and motor-boats are the most numerous; and when the hundred and one entertainers and providers of all kinds do their busiest trade. there is a public bathing-station at the eastern end of the sea-front. a large marquee is provided, and a worthy lady, the incarnation of the british matron, sees to it that the curtains are properly drawn and that inquisitive small boys keep their distance. but it is rather a long walk from the marquee to the water when the tide is low, and one often hears the camera click on the irresistible charms of some swan-like creature ambling down to deep water. the authorities have promised to put a stop to such liberties. can they? we left brighton with a very good idea indeed of what it was like. it has a place to fill and it fills it very well, but the marvel is that the britisher submits to it, when he can spend his weekends, or his holiday, at boulogne or dieppe for practically the same expenditure of time and money, and get real genuine relaxation and a gaiety which is not forced. so much for brighton. the brighton police authorities have heeded the words of admonition of the tradesmen and hotel-keepers, and the automobilist has an easy time of it. it is an example which it is to be hoped will be far-reaching in its effects. the road by the coast runs along by new shoreham to worthing, where the automobilist is catered for in really satisfactory fashion at warne's hotel, which possesses what is called a motor dépôt, a name which describes its functions in an obvious manner. it is a good place to lunch and a good place to obtain gasoline and oil. what more does the touring automobilist want? not much but good roads and ever varying scenery. worthing has a population of twenty-five thousand conservative souls, and a mild climate. its popularity is only beginning, but it boasts , hours of sunshine, an exceedingly liberal allowance for an english resort. it has also a "school of cookery;" this may account for the fare being as excellent as it is at "warne's," though the proprietors are silent on this point. littlehampton came next in our itinerary. it almost equals rye as one of the picture spots of england's south coast. it may develop some day into an artist's sketching ground which will rival the cornish coast. it has a tidal river with old boats and barges lying picturesquely about, and it permits "mixed bathing," a rarity in england. in spite of this there appears to be no falling off in morals, and when other english seaside resorts adopt the same procedure they will be falling out of the conservatism which is keeping many of them from developing at the rate of littlehampton. we left the coast here to visit arundel and its castle, the seat of the duke of norfolk. it was a friday and the keep and park were open to the public. arundel is an ancient town which sleeps its life away and lives up to the traditions of mediævalism in truly conservative fashion. the automobile club of great britain and ireland makes no recommendation as to the hotels of arundel, and presumably the norfolk arms cares nothing for the automobile traffic. we did not stop at any hotel, but left our machine outside the castle gate, enjoyed the conventional stroll about inside the walls and in an hour were on the way to chichester. sussex is a county which, according to some traditions possesses four particular delicacies. izaak walton, in , named them as follows: a selsea cockle, a chichester lobster, an arundel mullet, and an amberley trout. another authority, ray, adds to these three more: a pulborough eel, a rye herring, and a bourn wheatear, which, he says, "are the best in their kind, understand it, of those that are taken in this country." chichester is a cathedral town not usually included in the itinerary of stranger-tourists. its proud old cathedral and its detached bell-tower are remarkable for many things, but the strangeness of the belfry, entirely unconnected with the church fabric itself, will strike the natives of the land of skyscrapers most of all. chichester is conservative in all things, and social affairs, said a public-house habitué, are entirely dominated by the cathedral clique. he may have been a bad authority, this doddering old septuagenarian, mouthing his pint of beer, but he entertained us during the half-hour of a passing shower with many plain-spoken opinions about many things, including subjects as wide apart as clericalism and submarines. our route from chichester was to portsmouth and southsea, neither of which interested us to any extent. the former is warlike in every turn of its crooked streets and the latter is full of retired colonels and majors, who keep always to the middle of the footpath across southsea common, and will not turn the least bit to one side, for courtesy or any other reason. too much curry on their rice or port after dinner probably accounts for it. we stopped at the george at portsmouth. it offers no accommodation for automobiles, but a garage is near by. the halo of sentiment and romance hung over the more or less dingy old hotel, dingy but clean, and possessed of a parlour filled with a collection of old furniture which would make the connoisseur want to carry it all away with him. this was the terminus of old-time travel from london to portsmouth. the portsmouth road, in coaching days as in automobile days, ran through england's fairest counties down to her emporium of ships. its beginnings go back to the foundations of england's naval power. edward iv. made portsmouth a strong place of defence, but the road from town only became well travelled in later centuries. along the old portsmouth road were, and are still, any number of nautically named inns. at liphook is the anchor--where pepys put up when on his way to england's chief naval town--and the ship; there is another anchor at ripley; at petersfield stands the dolphin, and near guildford is the jovial sailor. all these, and other signs of a like nature, suffice to tell the observant wayfarer that he is on the road which hordes of seamen have trod on their way to and from london, and that it was formerly deemed well worth while to hang out invitations to them. in prince george of denmark made nine miles in six hours on this road, an indication that the good roads movement had not begun. in doctor burton suggested that all the animals in sussex, including the women, were long-legged because of "the difficulty of pulling their feet out of the mud which covers the roads hereabouts." a hundred or more years ago nelson came by post by this road to portsmouth to hoist his flag upon the _victory_. he arrived at the george, the same which was sheltering our humble selves, at six in the morning, as the records tell, having travelled all night. the rest is history, but the old _victory_ still swings at her moorings in portsmouth harbour, a shrine before which all lovers of the sea and its tales may worship. portsmouth is the great storehouse of britain's battleships, and the solent from spithead to stokes bay is a vast pool where float all manner of warlike craft. [illustration: ryde] the isle of wight was the immediate attraction for us at portsmouth. one makes the passage by boat in thirty minutes, and when one gets there he finds leafy lanes and well-kept roads that will put many mainland counties to shame. the writer does not know the length of the roadways of the isle of wight, but there are enough to give one a good three days of excursions and promenades. we made our headquarters at ryde and sallied out after breakfast and after lunch each day, invariably returning for the night. [illustration: road map of wight] the beauties of the isle of wight are many and varied, with all the charms of sea and shore. for a literary shrine it has tennyson's freshwater and the tennyson beacon high up on the crest of the downs overlooking the needles, freshwater bay, and the busy traffic of the english channel, where the ships make landward to signal the observers at st. catherine's point. cowes and "cowes week" are preeminent annual events in society's periodical swing around the circle. the real development of cowes, the home of the royal yacht squadron, has been the evolution of week-end yachting in the summer months. city men, and jaded legislators, held to town by the parliamentary duties of a long summer session, rush down to southampton every saturday and each steps off his train or motor-car on to the deck of his yacht, and then, after a spin westward to the needles or eastward to the nab or warner lightship, soothed by the lapping of the waters, and refreshed by the pure sea air, returns on the monday to face again the terrors of london heat and "fag." taken all in all, we found the isle of wight the most enjoyable region of its area in all england. it is quite worth the trouble of crossing from the mainland with one's automobile in order to do it thoroughly; for what one wants is green fields and pastures new and a breadth of sea and sky. chapter iii land's end to john o'groats [illustration: land's end] we had already done a bit of conventional touring in england, and we thought we knew quite all of the charms and fascinations of the idyllic countryside of most of britain, not omitting even ireland. the cathedral towns had appealed to us in our youthful days, and we had rediscovered a good portion of dickens's england on another occasion, had lived for a fortnight on a house-boat on the thames, and had cruised for ten days on the norfolk broads, and besides had played golf in scotland, and _attempted_ to shoot grouse on a scottish moor. all this had furnished at least variety, and, when it came to automobiling through britain, it was merely going over well-worn ground that we had known in our cycling days, and usually we went merely where fancy willed. conditions had changed considerably, in fact all things had changed, we ourselves no less than certain aspects of the country which we had pictured as always being (in england) of that idyllic tenor of which the poet sings. this comes of living too much in london, and with too frequent week-ends at brighton, bournemouth, or cromer. for years, ever since we had first set foot in england in the days when cycling _en tandem_ (and even touring in the same manner) was in vogue, if not the fashion, we had heard of john o'groat's house, and we had seen land's end many a time coming up channel. we knew, too, that among scorching cyclists "land's end to john o'groat's" was a classic itinerary for those who would boast of their prowess and their grit. all this passed and then came the automobile. "land's end to john o'groat's" is nothing for an automobile, though it is the longest straightaway bit of road in all britain, miles, to be exact. if you are out for a record on an automobile you do it as a "non-stop" run. it's dull, foolhardy business that, and it proves nothing except your ability to keep awake for anything between thirty-six and forty-eight hours, which you can do just as well sitting up with a sick friend. in spite of the banal sound that the very words had for us, "land's end to john o'groat's" had a perennial fascination, and so we set out with our automobile to cover this much, talked of itinerary, with all its varied charms and deficiencies, for, taking it all in all, it is probably one of the hilliest roads in britain, rising as it does over eight distinct ranges of what are locally called mountains, and mountains they virtually are when it comes to crossing them by road. [illustration: map of land's end to john o'groats] there is nothing very exciting to be had from a tour such as this, though it is nearly a nine hundred mile straight-away promenade. for the most part one's road lies through populous centres, far more so than any american itinerary for a reliability trial for automobiles that was ever conceived. many are the "_events_" which have been run over this "land's end--john o'groat's" course, and the journey has proved the worth or worthlessness of many a new idea in automobilism. the modern automobile is getting complicated, but it is also becoming efficient, if not exactly approaching perfection as yet. the early days of automobiling were not fraught with so many technicalities as to-day, when the last new thing may be a benzine bus or a turbine trailer; formerly everything was simple and crude,--and more or less inefficient. to-day many cars are as complicated as a chronometer and require the education of an expert who has lived among their intricacies for many months in order to control their vagaries and doctor their ills, which, if not chronic, are as varied as those of an old maid of sixty. four of us started on our road to the north as fit as possible, and we were courageous enough to think our automobile was likewise, as it was a tried and trusty friend with some twenty thousand miles to its credit, and with never a breakage so far as its mechanism was concerned. [illustration: st. michael's mount] we had stayed a few days at penzance and got to knew something of cornwall and things cornish. unquestionably cornwall is the least spoiled section of southern britain; its coastline is rocky and serrated, and its tors and hills and rills are about as wild and unspoiled by the hand of man as can be imagined. there is a vast literature on the subject if one cares to read it, and the modern fictionists (like the painter-men) have even developed a "cornish school." however, there need be no discussion of its merits or demerits here. in mount's bay is the cornish counterpart of normandy's st. michel's mount. it is by no means so great or imposing, or endowed with such a wealth of architectural charm as the cross-channel mont st. michel, but the english st. michael's mount, a granite rock rising from the sea two hundred and fifty or more feet, was sufficient of an attraction to draw us to penzance for our headquarters and to keep us till we had visited its castle of the days of charles ii. there is no question of the age of st. michael's mount, for ptolemy charted it in roman days, and the roman warriors, who battled with the britons, made spear-heads and hatchets of the tin and iron which they dug from its rocky defences. the grim, unlovely little hotel at land's end sheltered us the night before the commencement of our journey north, and the longships lighthouse flashed its warning in through our open bedroom window all the night long and made us dream of wicked and unworldly monster automobiles bearing down upon us with a great blazing _phare_ which blotted out all else. the nightmare passed, we got ourselves together at five in the morning, drank tepid tea, and ate the inevitable bacon and eggs furnished one for breakfast in england, and, before lunch, had passed bodmin, crossed bodmin moor (a little exmoor), and skirted dartmoor, just north of great links tor, arriving at exeter at high noon. pople's new london hotel at exeter is the headquarters of the automobile club, is patronized by royalty (so the advertisements say), and is a very satisfactory-looking old-century inn which has not wholly succumbed to modern improvement, nor yet is it wholly backward. it is "fair to middling" only, so far as the requirements of the automobilist go (what royalty may think of it the writer does not know), but its proprietor ought to take a trip abroad and find out what his house lacks. the wonder of exeter for us was the carved west porch of its cathedral, not very good carving, we were told, but undeniably effective, peopled as it was with a whole regiment of sculptured effigies. exeter has a ruined castle, too, called rougement, a name which preserves the identity of its norman origin. exeter's high street is a curious stagy affair, with great jutting house gables, pillars, and pignons, undeniably effective, but a terror to automobilists because of its narrowness and the congestion of its traffic. the road turns north after leaving exeter and passes taunton, "one of the nicest towns in the west of england," as we were told by the landlord's daughter on leaving exeter. not knowing what her standard was for judgment, but suspecting it was tea and buns, we delved away into the county of somerset and reached wells, on the edge of the mendip hills, before dinner. somerset is reputed to be one of the loveliest counties in the west of england and one of the most countrified of all britain. it is a region of farming lands, of big and little estates, with the big ones predominating, which the land reformers, and all others who give it a thought, claim must some day be divided among the people. when that millennium comes somerset will be a paradise for the people. in spite of its productiveness and its suitability for farming, the great estates of the wealthy are used for the purposes of pleasure and not of profit, for the hunting of foxes and for the shooting of pheasants. wells is an episcopal city with a bishop who presides also over bath. wells is essentially ecclesiastical; never had it a momentous or warlike history; it is bare of romance; it has no manufactures and no great families. wells cathedral takes high rank for the originality of its architecture, its general constructive excellence, and its sculptures. [illustration: taunton] there are three picturesquely named hotels, the swan, the mitre, and the star. they are all equally dull, respectable, and conservative, and they stick to tradition and conventional english fare. you will probably arrive on boiled-mutton night; we did, and suspect that it recurs about three times a week, but it was good mutton, though it would have been a great deal better roasted, instead of boiled. via cheddar, where the cheeses come from, we made our way to bristol. bristol is one of the most progressive automobile towns in england. you may see all sorts and conditions of automobiles at bristol, even american automobiles, which are more or less of a rarity in europe, even in england. from bristol to gloucester, another cathedral town, we passed over good roads and pleasant ones, rounding meanwhile the cotswolds and passing direct to worcester, where we lunched. it is useless to attempt to describe a complete trip in pages such as these, and, beyond commenting on changing conditions and novel scenes, it is not attempted. generally speaking the road surfaces were excellent throughout, but the grades of the hills were ofttimes abnormal, and the narrowness of main roads, and the hedge-hidden byroads which crossed them, made travelling more or less of a danger for the stranger, particularly if he was not habituated to england's custom of "meeting on the left and passing on the right." following the valley of the severn, by shrewsbury and whitechurch, we crossed the great holyhead road, "the king's highway," from london to holyhead. from ogilby's road book, an old book-stall find of one of our party at shrewsbury, we learned that in days gone by the coach "wonder" left the bull and mouth, at st. martin's-le-grand in london, at . a. m., and was at shrewsbury at . the same night. good going indeed for those days! at shrewsbury one is within easy reach of the welsh border, but, in spite of the novelty promised us, we kept on our way north. this was not because we feared the "evil character" of the welsh (as an old writer put it), but because we feared their language. we left liverpool and its docks, and manchester and its cotton factories, to the left, and, passing through warrington and preston, arrived at lancaster for the night. it was the longest day's driving we had done in england, something over two hundred miles. all the ordinary characteristics of the southern counties had been left far behind. the _prettiness_ of conventional english scenery had made way for something more of _character_ and severity of outline. for the morrow we had to look forward to the climb over shap fell, one of england's genuine mountain roads, or as near like one as the country has. lancaster was perhaps not the best place we could have chosen for the night, but everything had been running well and we had pushed on simply for the joy of the running. the county hotel at lancaster was like other county hotels in england. _verb. sap._ they had the audacity to charge two shillings for housing our automobile for the night, and pointed out the fact that this was the special rate given members of the automobile club of great britain and ireland. well! it was the most awful "roast" we found in england! they must have some grudge against the club! "b. b. b." cost seven shillings and sixpence, and dinner four shillings more, a bottle of bordeaux five shillings, etc. four of us for the night (including a hot bath for each--which cost the hotel practically nothing) paid something like £ for our _accommodation_. it wasn't worth it! we passed the "lake district" to the left the next morning, where it always rains, we are told. perhaps it always does rain in some parts of westmoreland, but it was bright and sunny when we crossed shap fell, at a height of something like twelve hundred feet above sea-level. the railway station of shap summit is itself at an elevation of a thousand feet. we had crossed nothing like this previously in england, although it is not so very high after all, nor is it so very terrifying in the ascent or descent. the castle of comfort inn in the mendip hills was only seven hundred feet, but here we were five hundred feet above it, and the neighbouring fells, helvellyn and scafell in particular, raised their regular, rounded peaks to something over thirty-two hundred feet in the air. carlisle is commonly called the border town between england and scotland; at any rate it was a vantage-ground in days gone by that was of a great value to one faction and a thorn in the side to the other. the conquering and unconquered scots are the back-bone of britain, there's no denying that; and carlisle is near enough to the border to be intimately acquainted with their virtues. we inspected carlisle's cathedral, its ugly castle, and the county hotel,--and preferred the two former. one thing in carlisle struck us as more remarkable than all else, and that was that the mean annual temperature was stated to be ° f. it was just that, when we were there, though cloudy and unpromising as to weather. in our opinion carlisle is an unlovely, disagreeable place. gretna green, with its famous, or infamous, career as a marriage mart, had little to offer a passing tourist beyond some silly, vulgar postcards on sale at a newsdealer's. across the border topographical characteristics did not greatly change, at least not at once, from what had gone immediately before, and it was not until lockerbie was reached that we fully realized that we were in scotland. it was a long, long pull, and a hard, hard pull of seventy miles from lockerbie to edinburgh, via moffat, biggar, and penicuik, skirting the fells of peebleshire and running close beneath the pentland hills, with memories of stevenson's tales ever uppermost in our minds. via dalkeith the entrance into edinburgh is delightful, but via rosslyn it is unbeautiful enough until one actually drops down into world-famed princes' street. romantic edinburgh is known by european travellers as one of the sights never omitted from a comprehensive itinerary. it is quaint, picturesque, grand, squalid, and luxurious all rolled into one. its castle crowns the height above the town on one side, and arthur's seat does the same on the other, with gloomy old holyrood in the gulf between, the whole softened and punctuated with many evidences of modern life, the smoke and noise of railways, trams, and factories. there are many guide-books to edinburgh, but there are none so satisfactory as stevenson's tales dealing with the town. in "kidnapped," "the master of ballantrae," and "catriona," he pictures its old streets and "stairs," its historic spots, its very stones and flags, and the charming countryside around in incomparable fashion. the carlton hotel at edinburgh is _the_ automobile hotel of britain. there is nothing quite so good either in england or scotland. the proof of this is that the _automobile club de france_ have given it distinctive marks in its "_annuaire de l'etranger._" there is the tiny silhouette of a knife and fork, and four-poster bed, indicating that the tables and beds are of an agreeable excellence. this is a great deal more satisfying as a recommendation than baedeker's. we crossed the firth of forth via the granton ferry, from granton to burntisland,--pronounced burnt island--a fact that none of us knew previously. via kinross and loch leven we arrived at perth for lunch. we went to the salutation hotel, because of its celebrated "prince charlie room," and had no reason to regret the lunch that was given us, or the price paid for it. scottish hotels have had a reputation of not being as good as those of england and much more costly. we were finding things just the reverse. automobilism is an industry in scotland, not a fad, and the automobilist is catered for accordingly, at least so it seemed to us, and, since the leading british automobile is a scotch production, who can deny that the scot has grasped the salient points of the whole scheme of affairs in a far better manner than the sassenach. from perth, through the very heart of the scotch highlands, we passed through glen garry and the valley of the spey. cairn gorm rose something over four thousand feet immediately on our right, when, turning abruptly northwest, we came into inverness just at nightfall. it had been another long, hard day, and, since perth, over indifferent roads. the capital of the highlands, inverness, treated us very well at the alexandra hotel. as a summer or autumn resort inverness has scarcely its equal in britain. it is a lively, interesting, and picturesque town, and day lingers far on into the night by reason of its northern situation. its temperature, moreover, for the most part of the year, is by no means as low as in many parts farther south. [illustration: the highlands] from inverness, via dingwall, tain, and bonar bridge, the roads improved, lying almost at sea-level. here was a long sweep westward and then eastward again, around the moray firth, and it was not until we stopped at helmsdale for lunch, miles from inverness, that we left the coastline road, and then only for a short distance. again at berriedal we came to the coast, the surging, battering north sea waves carving grimly every foot of the shore line. lybster, albster, and thrumster were not even names that we had heard of previously, and we dashed through them at the legal limit, with only a glance of the eye at their quaintness and unworldliness. caithness is the most northern county of scotland, and its metropolis is wick, where one gets the nearest approach to the midnight sun that can be found with civilized, modern, and up-to-date surroundings. the scottish automobile club vouched for the accommodation of the station hotel, at wick, and we had no occasion to question their judgment. (b. b. b., six shillings; which is cheap--though it costs you two shillings to stable your machine at a neighbouring garage.) from wick to john o'groat's is thirty-six miles, out and back. we were all day doing it, loafing along over a heather-strewn plain and lunching at the hotel huna (the significance of which name we forgot to ask.) [illustration: wick, inverness and john o'groats] this ended our run to the north, five days in all, not a very terrific speed or a very venturesome proceeding, but as good a test of one's knowledge of how to keep his machine running as can be got anywhere. it was a sort of rapid review of many things of which we had hitherto only a scrappy, fragmentary knowledge, and is a trip which should not be omitted from any one's grand european itinerary if one has the time and means of covering it. part iv in belgium, holland, and germany chapter i on the road in flanders [illustration: flanders] there has been a noticeable falling off in touring in belgium. there is no reason for this except the caprice of fashion, and the automobile and its popularizing influence will soon change all this, in spite of the abominable stretches of paved highroads, which here and there and everywhere, and most unexpectedly, crop up and shake one almost to pieces, besides working dire disaster to the mechanical parts of one's automobile. the authorities are improving things, but it will be some time yet before belgium is as free from _pavé_ as is france. the good roads of belgium are as good as those anywhere to be found, and it is only the unlooked for and distressingly frequent stretches of paved highway which need give any concern. the natives speak french--of a sort--here and there in belgium, but they also speak flemish and walloon. we left paris by the route de belgique, crossed the frontier at givet, and made our first stop at rethel, kilometres away, where we passed the night, at the hôtel de france. for a town of less than six thousand people bethel is quite a metropolis. it has a grand establishment known as the société d'automobiles bauchet, which will cater for any and every want of the automobilist, and has a half-dozen sights of first rank, from the old hôtel dieu to the bizarre doubled-up eglise st. nicolas and the seventeenth-century, wood-roofed market-house. sorbon, four kilometres away, is the birthplace of robert sorbon, the founder of the sorbonne at paris, and is a classic excursion which is never omitted by true pilgrims who come to rethel. fifty-three kilometres from rethel is rocroi, a name which means little to most strangers in france. it is near the belgian frontier and saw bloody doings in the franco-prussian war. rocroi is a pompous little fortified place reached only by one road and a narrow-gauge railway--literally two streaks of iron rust--which penetrate up to the very doors of a pretentious hôtel de ville with a doric façade, and not much else that is remarkable. the town has a population of but two thousand, is surrounded by fortifications, contains a caserne, a sous-préfecture, a prison, and a palais de justice. all this officialdom weights things down considerably, and, what with the prospect of the custom-house arrangements at givet, and the necessity of demonstrating to an over-zealous _gendarme_ at rocroi that we really had a "certificat de capacité," and that the photograph which it bore (which didn't look the least like us) was really ours, we were considerably angered and delayed on our departure the next morning, particularly as we had already been three days _en route_ and the frontier was still thirty odd kilometres away. as one passes rocroi, belgium and france blend themselves into an indistinguishable unit so far as characteristics go. manners and customs here change but slowly, and the highroad must be followed many kilometres backward toward paris before one gets out of the influence of flemish characteristics. we finally got across the belgium frontier at givet, at least we got our _passavant_ here, though the belgian customs formalities took place at heer-agimont, formalities which are delightfully simple, though evolving the payment of a fee of twelve per cent. of the declared value of your automobile. you get your receipt for money paid, which you present at the frontier station by which you leave and get it back again--if you have not lost your papers. if you have you might as well prepare to live in belgium the rest of your life, as a friend of ours told us he had done, when we met him unexpectedly on a café terrace at ostende a week later. there be those who are content to grovel in dark alleys, among a sordid picturesqueness, surrounded by a throng of garlic-sodden natives, rather than while their time away on the open mountainside or wide-spread lake or plain. all such are advised to keep away from southern belgium, the ardennes, and the valley of the meuse at dinant and namur. we lunched at the hôtel des postes at dinant on the meuse, and so lovely was the town and its environs, and the twenty-eight kilometres of valley road to namur (no _pavé_ here), that it took us eight hours of a long summer's day to get away from dinant and get settled down again for the night in the hôtel d'harscamp at namur. the native declares there is nothing to equal the view from the fortress-height of the citadel of namur, neither in switzerland nor the pyrenees; but though we climbed the three twisting kilometres to the fort, there was nothing more than a ravishing view of the charming river valley at our feet. the majesty of it all was in the imagination of the inhabitant, but all the same it was of a loveliness that few artists can describe in paint, few authors picture in words, and no kodakist reproduce satisfactorily in print. there is but one thing for the curious to do, and that is to go and see it for himself. the rest of the journey across belgium to brussels the writer would like to forget. oh, that terrible next day! sixty kilometres of one of the worst and most destructive roads, for an automobile, in europe, and through a most uninteresting country. perhaps, if the road had been better, the landscape might not have had so oppressive an effect. as it was, an automobilist journeys along the road--which is practically across the kingdom--his eyes glued to it, his heart in his mouth, and he bumps and slides over the wearying kilometres until he all but forgets the beauties of the meuse now so far behind. kilometre after kilometre of this vile road is paved with blocks of stone as big as one's head, half of which are out of place. and when one's automobile sinks into the holes one can but shudder. one hears of a road that is paved with good intentions. it does not enjoy a good reputation, but it can't be worse than the road from namur to brussels! we passed through what, for the want of a better and more distinctive name, may be called the waterloo region; but, for the moment, we cared not a jot for battle-fields. our battle with the ugly roads of belgium was all-sufficient. southey's verses are so good, though, that they are here given in order that the writer may arrive the quicker at brussels and take his well-earned rest: "southward from brussels lies the field of blood, some three hours' journey for a well-girt man; a horseman who in haste pursued his road would reach it as the second hour began. the way is through a forest deep and wide, extending many a mile on either side." "no cheerful woodland this of antique trees, with thickets varied and with sunny glade; look where he will, the weary traveller sees one gloomy, thick impenetrable shade of tall straight trunks, which move before his sight, with interchange of lines of long green light." "here, where the woods receding from the road have left on either hand an open space for fields and gardens, and for man's abode, stands waterloo; a little lowly place, obscure till now, when it hath risen to fame, and given the victory its english name." finally we reached brussels, still over cobblestones, the road growing worse every minute, and stopped at the grand central hotel, in the place de la bourse, the correspondent of the touring club de france, and the only hotel of its class which serves its _table d'hôte_ "_vin compris._" brussels has ever been put down in the notebooks of conventional travellers as a little paris; but this is by no means the case. it resembles paris not at all, except that french francs pass current in its shops and the french tongue is the language of commerce and society. what has less frequently been remarked is that brussels has two contrasting elements of life, which, lying close, one upon the other, strongly exaggerate the french note of it all, and make the hotels, cafés, restaurants, etc., take on that boulevard aspect which we fondly think is parisian. french brussels and flemish brussels are as distinct elements in the make-up of this doubleheaded city as are the ingredients of oil and water, and like the latter they do not mix. when one descends from the hilltop on which is modern brussels, past the cathedral of ste. gudule, he leaves the shops, the cafés, and the boulevards behind him and enters the past. the small shopmen, and the men and women of the markets, all look and talk flemish, and the environment is everywhere as distinctly flemish as if one were standing on one of the little bridges which cross the waterways of ghent or bruges. the men and women are broad-bodied and coarse-featured,--quite different from the dutch, one remarks,--and they move slowly and with apparent difficulty in their clumsy _sabots_ and heavy clothing. the houses round about are tall and slim, and mostly in that state of antiquity and decay which we like to think is artistic. such is flemish brussels. even in the flemish part, the city has none of that winsome sympathetic air which usually surrounds a quaint mediæval bourg. rather it gives one the impression that old traditions are all but dead and that it is mere improvidence and _laisser-aller_ that allows them to exist. flemish brussels is picturesque enough, but it is squalid, except for the magnificent hôtel de ville, which stands to-day in all the glory that it did when charles v. of spain ruled the destinies of the country. it was in the square in front of the hôtel de ville that alva gloated over the flowing blood of his victims as it ran from the scaffold. the churches of brussels, as might be supposed from the historical importance of the city in the past, are numerous and celebrated, at least they are characteristically flemish in much of their belongings, though the great cathedral of ste. gudule itself is gothic of the unmistakable french variety. brussels, its cathedrals, its hôtel de ville, its cloth hall, and its corporation or guild houses, and many more splendid architectural sites and scenes are all powerful attractions for sightseers. we went from brussels to ghent, forty-eight kilometres, and still over _pavé_. the bicyclist is better catered for, he has cinder side-paths almost all over belgium and accordingly he should enjoy his touring in occidental and oriental flanders even more than the automobilist. ghent was one day a seaport of rank, much greater rank than that of to-day, for only a sort of sea-going canal-boat, a _chaland_ or a _caboteur_, ever comes up the canals to the wharves. ghent is a great big town, but it does not seem in the least like a city in spite of its hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. its churches, its belfry, its château, and its museum are the chief sights for tourists--automobilists and others. we visited them all after lunch, which was eaten (and paid for at paris prices) at the hôtel de la poste, and covered another forty-six kilometres of _pavé_, before we turned in for the night at bruges' hôtel du sablon. there are others, but the hôtel du sablon at bruges was modest in its price, efficient in its service, and excellent in its catering. the chief delicacy of the menu here is the _mossel_. one eats mussels _(mossels)_ in belgium--if he will--and it's hard for one to escape them. they are _moules_ in france, _mossels_ in belgium and holland, and mussels in england. they are a sea food which has never tickled the american palate; but, after many refusals and much resentment, we ate them--and found them good. bruges' sights are similar to those of ghent, except that its belfry is more splendid and more famous and the memlings of the hôpital st. jean draw crowds of art lovers to bruges who never even stop at ghent. our little run around belgium, a sort of willy-nilly blowing about by the north sea winds, drew us next to ostende. if there is one place more splendidly _chic_ than ostende it is monte carlo. the palm is still with monte carlo, but, for august at any rate, ostende, with its digue, its hotels and terrace cafés and restaurants, is the very glass of fashion and fashionables. it was only on entering ostende, over the last few kilometres of the road from bruges, just where it borders the slykens canal, that we met anything deserving to be called a good road since leaving the neighbourhood of namur. the roads of belgium served a former generation very well, but _tempus fugit_, and the world advances, and really belgium's highways are a disgrace to the country. the chief attraction of ostende--after the great hotels--is its digue, or dyke, a great longdrawn-out breakwater against whose cemented walls pound the furies of the north sea with such a virulence and force as to make one seasick even on land. "see our digue and die," say the fisherfolk of ostende,--those that have not been crowded out by the palace hotels,--"see our digue and eat our oysters." ostende is attractive, save on the august bank holiday, when the trippers come from london; then it looks like margate or southend so far as its crowds are concerned, and accordingly is frightful. one should not leave belgium without visiting ypres, that is if he wants to know what a highly respectable and thriving small city of belgium is like. ypres is typical of the best, though unfortunately, by whichever road you approach, you still make your way over granite blocks, none too well laid or cared for. the best and almost only way to avoid them is to take to the by-roads and trust to finding your way about. this is not difficult with the excellent map of the automobile club de belgique, but it requires some ingenuity to understand the native who answers your inquiry in bad french and worse walloon or flemish. at ypres the hôtel de la chatellenie will care for you and your automobile very well, though its garage is nothing to boast of. both meals and beds are good, and the rates are cheap, something less than nine francs a day for birds of passage. you must pay extra for wine, but beer is thrown in, thick, sticky, sugary beer, but it's better than england's "bitter," or the lager of rotterdam. [illustration: things seen in flanders] ypres is full of interesting buildings, but its hôtel de ville and its cloth hall, with its lacelike façade, are easily the best. ypres has a museum which, like most provincial museums, has some good things and some bad ones, a stuffed elephant, some few good pictures, sea-shells, the instruments which beheaded the comte d'egmont, and some wooden sculptures; variety enough to suit the most catholic tastes. from ypres we continued our zigzag through belgium, following most of the time dirt roads which, though not of superlative excellence, were an improvement on stone blocks. it took us practically all day to reach antwerp, a hundred and thirty kilometres away. belgium is everywhere quaint and curious, a sort of a cross between holland and france, but more like the former than the latter in its mode of life, its food and drink and its industries, except perhaps in the country between tournai and liège. the country between antwerp and brussels affords a good general idea of belgium. its level surface presents, in rapid succession, rich meadows, luxuriant corn-fields, and green hedgerows, with occasional patches of woodland. the smallness of the fields tells amongst how many hands the land is divided, and prepares one for the knowledge that east flanders is the most thickly peopled corner of europe. the exception to this general character of the scenery is found in the valley of the meuse, where the fruitful serenity of fertile meadows and pastoral hamlets is varied by bolder, more irregular, and move striking natural features. hills and rocks, bluff headlands and winding valleys, with beautiful stretches of river scenery, give a charm to the landscape which belgium in general does not display. the geographical description of antwerp is as follows: antwerp, in flemish _antwerpen_, the chief town of the province of that name, is situated in a plain ° ' " north latitude, and ° ' " east longitude, twenty leagues from the sea, on the right bank of the scheldt. the hôtel du grand-laboureur was marked out for us as the automobile hotel of antwerp. there was no doubt about this, when we saw the a. c. f., the a. c. b., and the m. c. b. signs on its façade. it is a very excellent establishment, but you pay extra for wine, or you drink beer instead. [illustration: antwerp street] the sights of antwerp are too numerous to be covered in the short time that was at our disposal on this occasion, but we gave some time to the works and shrine of the master rubens, and the wonderful cathedral spire, and the hôtel de ville and the guild houses and all the rest, not forgetting quentin matsys's well. we were, however, a practical party, and the shipping of the great port, the gay cafés, and the busy life of antwerp's marts of trade also appealed to us. antwerp is a wonderful storehouse of many things. "it is in the streets of antwerp and brussels," said sir walter scott, "that the eye still rests upon the forms of architecture which appear in pictures of the flemish school." "this rich intermixture of towers and battlements and projecting windows highly sculptured produces an effect as superior to the tame uniformity of a modern street as the casque of the warrior exhibits over the slouch-brimmed beaver of a quaker." this was true of sir walter scott's time, and it is true to-day. chapter ii by dykes and windmills [illustration: dykes and windmills] holland for automobilists is a land of one hill and miles and miles of brick-paved roads, so well laid with tiny bricks, and so straight and so level that it is almost an automobilist's paradise. we had come from belgium to holland, from antwerp to breda, a little short of fifty kilometres, to make a round of dutch towns by automobile, as we had done in the old days by the humble bicycle. custom-house regulations are not onerous in holland. the law says you must pay five per cent. duty on entering the country, or _at the discretion of the authorities_, bona-fide tourists will be given a temporary permit to "circulate" free. there are no speed limits in holland, but you must not drive to the common danger. the first we were glad to know, the second we did not propose to do. as we passed the frontier the _douaniers_ returned to their fishing opposite the little _cabaret_ where we had some needed refreshment. it is curious what satisfaction middle-class officialdom in continental europe gets out of fishing. it is their one passion, apparently, if their work lies near a well-stocked stream. the _chef de bureau_ goes fishing, the _commissionnaire_ goes fishing, and everybody goes fishing. a peaceful and innocent exercise for those who like it, but one which is inexplicable to an outsider. soon we are stopped at a toll-gate. the toll-gate keeper still exists in holland, chiefly on private bridges. he loses a good deal of his monetary return, however, as he has a lazy habit of putting out a great wooden _sabot_ to collect the fees, he, meanwhile, fishing or dozing some distance away. if you are a bad shot your coin sometimes goes overboard, or being an automobilist, and therefore down on all impositions, you simply do not put any more coins in the _sabots_ and think to depend on your speed to take you out of any brewing trouble. this old relic of the middle ages is sure to decrease in holland with the progress of the automobile. [illustration: "as far as we go"] holland is a beautiful country, one of nature's daintiest creations, where the sun and the moon and the sky seem to take the greatest delight in revealing their manifold charms, where the green fields and the clear-cut trees and the rushing rivers and the sluggish canals all seem to have been put in their place to conform to an artistic landscape design--for, truly, holland is a vast picture. its cattle are picture cattle, its myriad windmills seem to stand as alluring models to attract the artist, its sunsets, the haze that rests over its fields, its farms, its spick and span houses, its costumes--all seem to belong to the paraphernalia of pictorial art. it is a paradise for motorists who behave themselves, and do not rouse the ire of the dutchman. the regulations are exceedingly lenient, but the laws against fast speeding must not be disregarded, and the loud blowing of horns, on deserted streets in the middle of the night, is entirely forbidden. when tourists have scaled every peak and trodden every pass, let them descend once again to the lowlands and see if they cannot find pleasurable profit in a land whose very proximity to the borders of the sea gives it a character all its own. this is holland, and this is the attitude with which a party of four faced it, at breda and planned the tour outlined in the following pages. we stopped at breda to take breath and to reconnoitre a little. breda has a population of twenty thousand, and a good hotel, "der kroon," which knows well how to care for automobilists. breda to dordrecht is perhaps twenty-five kilometres in a straight line, but by the highroad, via gorinchem it is sixty-eight. since there are no amphibious automobiles as yet, and there are no facile means of crossing the hollandsch diep, the détour must be made. a stroll round breda, to brush up our history of the siege, a view of the château inside and out, including the reminders of count henry of nassau and william iii. of england, and we were on the road again by three in the afternoon. dordrecht and its hôtel belle-vue, on the boomstraat saw us for dinner that night. the trip had been without incident, save for the eternal crossing of canals by high-peaked donkeytack bridges which demanded careful driving till you found out what was on the other side of the crest, and the continual dodging from one side of the road to the other to avoid running over children at play. clearly holland, in this respect, was not far different from other countries. dordrecht is delightful and is as nearly canal-surrounded as amsterdam or venice, only it is not so large, and automobilists, must look out or they will tumble overboard when taking a sharp corner. you may eat, if you like, on the balcony of the hôtel belle-vue, and you may watch the throng of passers-by strolling through the courtyard of the hotel, from one street to another, as if it were a public thoroughfare. the only objection to it is that you fear for the safety of the loose things which you left in your automobile, but as you pay a franc for housing it the responsibility falls on the proprietor. no one ever heard of anything going astray, which argues well for the honesty of the people of dordrecht. the distant view of dordrecht, with a few spotted cattle in the foreground, might well pass for a tableau of cuyps, but as all dutch landscapes look more or less alike, at least they all look dutch, this description of dordrecht perhaps does not define it very precisely. of course dordrecht itself is typically dutch; one would not expect anything else of a place with a name like that. the tree-covered wharves and the typical dutch crowds, the dog-drawn little carts and the "morning waker," are all there. above all, almost in venetian splendour, looms the great lone tower of the church of st. mary, the groote kerk of the town. for six hundred years it has been a faithful guardian of the spiritual welfare of the people, and the ruggedness of its fabric has well stood the test of time, built of brick though it is. dordrecht is vulgarly and colloquially known as dordt, or dort, and, as such, is referred to in history and literature in a manner, which often puzzles the stranger. it is one of the most ancient cities of holland, and, in the middle ages, the most busy in its intercourse with the outside world. we left dordrecht in the early morning, expecting to cover quickly the twenty-seven kilometres to rotterdam. ever and ever the thin wisps of black smoke streaked into the sky from the flat directly ahead, but not until we had almost plumped down on the boompjes itself did things take material shapes and forms. there are many things to do and see at rotterdam, but the great, ceaseless commerce of the great world-port is one of the marvels which is often sniffed at and ignored; yet nowhere in any port in europe or america, unless it be at antwerp, is there to be seen such a ship-filled river as at rotterdam on the maas. the hotel weimar on the spanishkade, and the maas hotel on the boompjes, cater for the automobilist at rather high prices, but in an intelligent fashion, except that they charge a franc for garaging your machine overnight. we found the same thing at dordrecht; and in general this is the custom all over holland. we left the automobile to rest a day at rotterdam while we took a little trip by water, to gouda, famed for its cheeses. it is an unworldly sleepy place, though its commerce in cheeses is enormous. its population, when it does travel, goes mostly by boat on the maas. you pay an astonishingly small sum, and you ride nearly half a day, from rotterdam to gouda, amid a mixed freight of lovable fat little dutch women with gold spiral trinkets in their ears, little calves and cows, pigs, ducks, hens, and what not, and on the return trip amid a boat-load of pungent cheeses. we got back to rotterdam for the night, having spent a tranquil, enjoyable day on one of the chief waterways of holland, a foretaste of a projected tour yet to come, to be made by automobile boat when the opportunity comes. no one, not even the most naïve unsophisticated and gushing of travellers, has ever had the temerity to signalize rotterdam as a city of celebrated art. but it is a fondly interesting place nevertheless, far more so indeed than many a less lively mart of trade. as we slowly drifted our way into the city at dusk of a long june evening, on board that little slow-going canal and river-craft from gouda--known by so few casual travellers, but which are practically water stage-coaches to the native--it was very beautiful. the brilliant crimson sun-streaks latticed the western sky, the masts, spars, and sails of the quay-side shipping silhouetted themselves stereoscopically against this gleaming background, and the roar and grime of the city's wheels of trade blended themselves into a mélange which was as intoxicating to the artist and rhapsodist as would have been more hallowed ground. we left rotterdam at eight-thirty on a misty morning which augured that we should be deluged with rain forthwith; but all signs fail in holland with regard to weather, for we hardly passed the delftsche poort, the great renaissance gateway through which one passes to delft, schiedam, the hague, and all the well-worn place names of dutch history, before a rift of sunlight streaked through the clouds and framed a typical holland landscape in as golden and yellow a light as one might see in venice. it was remarkable, in every sense of the word, and we had good weather throughout a week of days when storm was all around and about us. schiedam, with its windmills, is well within sight of rotterdam. we had all of us seen windmills before, but we never felt quite so intimately acquainted with any as with these. don quixote's was but a thing of the imagination, and daudet's, in provence, was but a dismantled, unlovely, and unromantic ruin. these windmills of schiedam were very sturdy and practical things, broad of base and long of arm, and would work even in a fog, an ancient mariner-looking dutchman with _sabots_ and peg-top trousers told us. the windmills of holland pump water, grind corn, make cheese and butter, and have recently been adopted in some instances to the making of electricity. it has been found that with a four-winged mill, and the wind at a velocity of from twelve to thirty feet a second, four to five horsepower can be obtained with the loss of only fourteen per cent., caused by friction. a plant has been constructed in holland which lights lamps, earning about twelve per cent. interest on the capital invested. of course it is necessary to keep an oil-motor to provide for windless days or nights and also to keep a reserve of electrical power on hand, but this is but another evidence of the practicality and the extreme cleverness of the dutch. the cows that browse around the windmills of schiedam are of the same spotted black and white variety that one sees on the canvasses of the dutch painters. if you are not fortunate enough to see paul potter's great dutch bull in the gallery at the hague, you may see the same sort of thing hereabouts at any glance of the eye--the real living thing. from rotterdam to delft, all the way by the canal, allowing for the détour via schiedam, is less than twenty kilometres, and the journey is short for any sort of an automobile that will go beyond a snail's pace. visions of blue and white delftware passed through our minds as we entered the old town, which hardly looks as though worldly automobilists would be well received. delftware there is, in abundance, for the delectation of the tourist and the profit of the curio merchant, who will sell it unblushingly as a rare old piece, when it was made but a year ago. if you know delftware you will know from the delicate colouring of the blues and whites which is old and which is not. delft and delftshaven, near schiedam, in south holland, have a sentimental interest for all descendants of the puritans who fled to america in . delftshaven is an unattractive place enough to-day, but delft itself is more dignified, and, in a way, takes on many of the attributes of a metropolis. nearly destroyed by a fire in , the present city has almost entirely been built up since the sixteenth century. the old gothic church of the fifteenth century, one of the few remains of so early a date, shelters the tomb of the redoubtable van tromp, the vanquisher of the english. it was easy going along the road out of delft and we reached the hague in time for lunch at the hôtel des indes, where, although it is the leading hotel of the dutch capital, everything is as french as it would be in lyons, or at any rate in brussels. you pay the astonishingly outrageous sum of five francs for housing your machine over night, but nothing for the time you are eating lunch. we got away from the gay little capital, one of the daintiest of all the courts of europe, as soon as we had made a round of the stock sights of which the guide-books tell, not omitting, of course, the paintings of the hague gallery, the rubens, the van dycks and the holbeins. the binnenhof drew the romanticist of our party to it by reason of the memories of the brothers de witt. it is an irregular collection of buildings of all ages, most of them remodeled, but once the conglomerate residence of the counts of holland and the stadtholders. the binnenhof will interest all readers of dumas. it was here that there took place the culminating scenes in the lives of the brothers de witt, cornelius and john. dumas unquestionably manufactured much of his historical detail, but in the "black tulip" there was no exaggeration of the bloody incidents of the murder of these two noble men, who really had the welfare of holland so much at heart. we headed down the road to the sea, by the huis-ten-bosch (the house in the wood), the summer palace of dutch royalty, for the monte carlo of holland, scheveningen. it has all the conventional marks of a continental watering-place, a _plage_, a kursaale, bath houses, terraces, esplanades, chic hotels and restaurants, and a whole regiment of mushroom chairs and windshields dotting its wide expanse of north sea sand. [illustration: the polders] in the season the inhabitants live off of the visitors, and out of season live on their fat like the ground-hog, and do a _little_ fishing for profitable amusement. it is a thing to see, scheveningen, but it is no place for a prolonged stay unless you are a gambler or a blasé boulevardier who needs bracing up with sea air. there are good hotels, if you want to linger and can stand the prices, the best of which is called the palace hotel, but we had another little black coffee on the gayest-looking terrace café we could find, and made wheel-tracks for leyden, twenty kilometres distant. the distances in holland are mere bagatelles, but there is so much that is strange to see, and the towns of historical interest are so near together, that the automobilist who covers his hundred kilometres a day must be a scorcher indeed. we passed the night at the gouden-leuw, which a frenchman would call the lion d'or, and an anglo-saxon the golden lion. it was a most excellent hotel in the breestraat, and it possessed what was called a garage, in reality a cubby-hole which, on a pinch, might accommodate two automobiles, if they were small ones. leyden is a city of something like fifty-five thousand people. it has grown since the days when they chained down bibles in its churches, and books in the library of its university. the chief facts that stand out in leyden's history, for the visitor, are those referring to the exile of the puritans here, fleeing from persecution in england, and before they descended upon the new world. the famous university was founded by the government as a reward for the splendid defence made by the city against the spaniards in . it was a question as to whether the city should be exempted from future taxation or should be endowed with a university. the citizens themselves chose the latter dignity. leaving leyden and following the flat roadway by the glimmering canals, which chop the _polders_, and tulip gardens off into checker-board squares, one reaches haarlem, less than thirty kilometres away. the country was becoming more and more like what one imagines holland ought to be; the whole country practically a vast, sandy, sea-girt land of dykes and canals, and dunes and sunken gardens. holland has an area of about twenty thousand square miles, and something over five million inhabitants, with the greatest density of population on the coast between amsterdam, in the north, and rotterdam, in the south, and the fewest in numbers in the region immediately to the northward of the zuyder-zee. wherever in holland one strikes the brick roads, made from little red bricks standing on end, he is happy. there is no dust and there are no depressions in the surface which will upset the carburation and jar the bolts off your machine. it is an expensive way of road-building, one thinks, but it is highly satisfactory. near haarlem these brick roadways extend for miles into the open country in every direction. haarlem is the centre of the bulb country, the gardens where are grown the best varieties of tulips and hyacinths known over all the world as "dutch bulbs." the tulip beds of the _polders_ and sunken gardens of the neighbourhood of haarlem are one of the great sights of holland. besides bulbs, haarlem is noted for its shiphung church, and the pictures by franz hals in the local gallery. there are other good hals elsewhere, but the portraits of rotund, jolly men and women of his day, in the haarlem town hall, are unapproached by those of any of his contemporaries. fat, laughing burghers, roystering, knickerbockered dutchmen and _vrous_ gossiping, smoking, laughing, or drinking, are human documents of the time more graphic than whole volumes of fine writing or mere repetitions of historical fact. all these attributes has haarlem's collection of paintings by franz hals. there are all sorts of ways of getting from haarlem to amsterdam, by train, by boat, by electric tram, or by automobile over an idyllic road, tree-shaded, canal-bordered, and dustless. it is sixteen kilometres only, and it is like running over a causeway laid out between villas and gardens. nothing quite like it exists elsewhere, in holland or out of it. an automobile can be very high-geared, for there are no hills except the donkey-back bridges over the canals. amsterdam may properly enough be called the venice of the north, and the automobilist will speedily find that an automobile boat will do him much better service in town than anything that runs on land. there are half a million souls in amsterdam, and hotels of all ranks and prices. the bible hotel is as good as any, but they have no garage, nor indeed have any of the others. there are half a dozen "grands garages" in the city (with their signs written in french--the universal language of automobilism), and the hotel porter will jump up on the seat beside you and pilot you on your way, around sharp corners, over bridges, and through arcades until finally you plump down in as up-to-date and conveniently arranged an establishment for housing your machine as you will find in any land. amsterdam's sights will occupy the visitor for a couple of days, and its art gallery for a day longer. we were taking only a bird's-eye view, or review, and stayed only over one night, not making even the classic excursion to those artists' haunts of volendam, monnikendam, and marken, of which no book on holland should fail to make mention. [illustration: pictures of amsterdam] these old dutch towns of the zuyder-zee are unique in all the world, and amsterdam is the gateway to them. an automobile is useless for reaching them. the best means are those offered by existing boat and tram lines. for utrecht one leaves amsterdam via the amstel dyke and the utrechtsche zyde, and after forty kilometres of roadway, mostly brick-paved like that between haarlem and amsterdam, he reaches suburban utrecht. utrecht, with but a hundred thousand inhabitants, has suburbs, reaching out in every direction, that would do justice to a city five times it size. most of utrecht's population is apparently suburban, and is housed in little brick houses and villas with white trimmings and door-steps, a bulb garden, an iron fence, and a miniature canal flowing through the back yard. this is the formula for laying out a utrecht suburban villa. the het kasteel van antwerpen, on the oude gracht, is a hotel which treats you very well for five or six florins a day, and allows you also to put your automobile under roof, charging nothing for the service. this is worth making a note of in a country where it usually costs from one to five francs a night for your automobile. the chief sight of utrecht is its cathedral, with a fine gothic tower over a hundred metres in height. it is the proper thing to mount to its highest landing, whence one gets one of the most remarkable bird's-eye views imaginable. in a flat country like holland, the wide-spread panoramas, taken from any artificial height, embrace an extent of the world's surface not elsewhere to be taken in by a glance of the eye. the zuyder-zee and the lowlands of the north stretch out to infinity on one side; to the east the silver-spreading streaks of the waal and the oude rijn (later making the rhine) lead off toward germany. to the south are the green-grown prairies and windmill-outlined horizons of south holland; and westward are the _polders_ and dunes of the region between amsterdam and rotterdam, and even a glimpse, on a clear day, of the north sea itself. our one long ride in holland was from utrecht to nymegen, seventy-two kilometres. we left utrecht after lunch and slowly made our way along the picture landscapes of the holland countryside, through hobbema avenues, and under the shadow of quaint dutch church spires. one does not go to a foreign land to enjoy only the things one sees in cities. hotels, restaurants, and cafés are very similar all over europe, and the great shops do not vary greatly in rotterdam from those in liverpool. it is with the small things of life, the doings of the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker that the change comes in. in holland the housekeeper buys her milk from a little dog-drawn cart and can be waked at three in the morning, without fail, by leaving an order the night before with the "morning waker." if you do not have a fire going all the time, and want just enough to cook your dinner with, you go out and buy a few lumps of blazing coals. if it is boiling water you want for your coffee, you go out and buy it too. holland must be a housekeeper's paradise. nymegen, on the waal, cared for us for the night. on the morrow we were to cross the frontier and enter germany and the road by the rhine. nymegen and its hotel keizer karel, on the keizer karel plain, was a vivid memory of what a stopping-place for the night between two objective points should be. the city was delightful, its tree-grown boulevards, its attractive cafés, the music playing in the park, and all the rest was an agreeable interlude, and the catering--if an echo of things parisian--was good and bountiful. there was no fuss and feathers when we arrived or when we left, and not all the _personnel_ of the hotel, from the boots to the manager, were hanging around for tips. the head waiter and the chambermaid were in evidence; that was all. the rest were discreetly in the background. chapter iii on the road by the rhine [illustration: rhine] we had followed along the lower reaches of the rhine, through the little land of dykes and windmills, when the idea occurred to us: why not make the rhine tour _en automobile_? this, perhaps, was no new and unheard-of thing, but the rhine tour is classic and should not be left out of any one's travelling education, even if it is old-fashioned. at nymegen we saw the last of holland and soon crossed the frontier. there were no restrictions then in force against the entrance of foreign automobiles, though we were threatened with new and stringent regulations soon to be put in force. ( . a full résumé of these new regulations will be found in the appendix.) legally germany could demand eight marks a hundred kilos for the weight of our machine, but in practice all tourists were admitted free, provided one could convince the official that he intended to return across the frontier within a reasonable time. as we crossed the railway line we made our obeisance to the german customs authorities, saluted the black and white barber's-pole stripes of the frontier post, and filled up our tanks with gasoline, which had now assumed the name of _benzin_, instead of _benzine_, as in holland. emmerich, cleves, wesel, and xanten are not tourist points, and in spite of the wealth of history and romance which surrounds their very names, they had little attraction for us. for once were going to make a tour of convention. it is a fairly long step from nymegen to düsseldorf, one hundred and one kilometres, but we did it between breakfast and lunch, in spite of the difficulty of finding our way about by roads and regulations which were new to us. the low, flat banks of the rhine below düsseldorf have much the same characteristics that they have in holland, and, if the roadways are sometimes bad as to surface--and they are terrible in the neighbourhood of crefield--they are at least flat and otherwise suited to speed, though legally you are held down to thirty kilometres an hour. you may find anything you like in the way of hotel accommodation at düsseldorf, from the park hotel on the cornelius platz, at waldorf prices, to the modest and characteristic little german inn by the name of prince alexanders hof, which is as cheap as a french hotel of its class, and about as good. [illustration: the road by the rhine] it is at düsseldorf that one comes first into touch with the german institutions in all their completeness. immediately one comes to the borders of the rhine he comes into the sphere of world politics. the peace of europe lies buried at the mouth of the scheldt where the rhine enters the sea, and not on the bosphorus. "the rhine is the king of rivers," said a german politician, "and it is our fault if its mouth remains in the hands of foreigners." this is warlike talk, if you like, but if a german prince some day rises on the throne of holland, there may be a new-made map of europe which will upset all existing treaties and conventions. düsseldorf is a veritable big town, for, though it shelters two hundred and twenty-five thousand inhabitants, it is not "citified." it is one of the most lovely of rhine towns, and is the headquarters of the rhenish westphalian automobile club. to cologne is thirty-seven kilometres, with the roads still bad,--shockingly so we found them, though we were assured that this is unusual and that even then they were in a state of repair. this was evident, and in truth they needed it. the twin gothic splendours of cologne's cathedral rise high in air long before one reaches the confines of the city. cologne is the metropolis of the rhine country, and besides its four hundred thousand inhabitants possesses many institutions and industries which other rhine cities lack. of hotels for automobilists at cologne there are five, all of which will treat you in the real _tourist_ fashion, and charge you accordingly,--overcharge you in fact. we did not have time to hunt up what the sentimentalist of the party always called "a quaint little inn," and so we put into one almost under the shadow of the cathedral (purposely nameless). the sights of cologne are legion. "numerous churches, all very ancient" describes them well enough for an itinerary such as this; the guide-books must do the rest. the kolner automobile club will supply the touring automobilist graciously and gratuitously with information. a good thing to know! the beer and concert gardens of cologne's waterside are famous, almost as famous as the relics of the "three kings" in the cathedral. at cologne the pictured, storied rhine begins. a skeleton itinerary is given at the end of this chapter which allows some digression here for observations of a pertinent kind. let the traveller not be disappointed with the first glance at the river as he sees it at cologne. he is yet a few miles below the banks which have gained for the stream its fame for surpassing beauty, but higher up it justifies the rhapsodies of the poet. "a blending of all beauties; streams and dells, fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, and chiefless castles breathing stern farewells from gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. "and there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, all tenantless, save to the crannying wind, or holding dark communion with the cloud. there was a day when they were young and proud, banners on high, and battles passed below: but they who fought are in a bloody shroud, and those which wav'd are shredless dust ere now, and the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. "beneath battlements, within those walls, power dwelt amidst her passions: in proud state, each robber chief upheld his armed halls, doing his evil will, nor less elate than mightier heroes of a longer date. what want these outlaws conquerors should have? but history's purchas'd page to call them great? a wider space, an ornamented grave? their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave." the scenery, the history and legend, and the wines of the rhine make up the complete list of the charms of the river for the enthusiastic voyager on its bosom or on its banks. it is enjoyable enough when one is on the deck of a rhine steamboat, or would be if one were not so fearfully crowded, but it is doubly so when one is travelling along its banks by roadways which, from here on, improve greatly. the history and legend of the rhine are too big a subject to handle here, but some facts about rhine wine, picked up on the spot, may be of interest. the true german is not only eloquent when speaking of the _quality_ of the rhine wines, but he claims for them also the honours of antiquity. one may be content to date their history back merely to the days of probus, but others declare that bacchus only could be the parent of such admirable liquor, and point to bacharach as the resting-place of the deity when he came to taste the rhine grapes, and set an example to all future tipplers. it would not have been out of place to call the rhine the country of bacchus. the rhine, moselle, neckar, and main are gardens of the vine; but the germans have not been content with cultivating the banks of rivers alone, for the higher lands are planted as well. from bonn to coblenz, and from the latter city to mayence, the country is covered with vineyards. the johannisberger of "father" rhine, the gruenhauser or the brauneberger of the moselle, and the hochheimer of the main, each distinguish and hallow their respective rivers in the eyes of the connoisseur in wine. the vineyards of the rhine are a scene of surpassing beauty; erbach, enthroned among its vines; johannisberg, seated on a crescent hill of red soil, adorned with cheering vegetation; mittelheim, geisenheim, and rüdesheim with its strong, fine-bodied wine, the grapes from which bask on their promontory of rock, in the summer sun, and imbibe its generous heat from dawn to setting; then again, on the other side, bingen, delightful, sober, majestic, with its terraces of vines, topped by the château of klopp. the river and its riches, the corn and fruit which the vicinity produces, all remind the stranger of a second canaan. the bingerloch, the ruins, and the never-failing vines scattered among them, like verdant youth revelling amid age and decay, give a picture nowhere else exhibited, uniting to the joyousness of wine the sober tinge of meditative feeling. the hills back the picture, covered with feudal relics or monastic remains, mingled with the purple grape. landscapes of greater beauty, joined to the luxuriance of fruitful vine culture, can nowhere be seen. the glorious season of fruition--the _vintage_--is the time for the visit of a wine-lover to the rhine. it does not take place until the grapes are perfectly mature; they are then carefully gathered, and the bad fruit picked out, and, with the stalks, put aside. the wine of the pressing is separated, _most vom ersten druck, vom nachdruck_. the more celebrated of the wines are all fermented in casks; and then, after being repeatedly racked, suffered to remain for years in large _fudders_ of gallons, to acquire perfection by time. the wines mellow best in large vessels; hence the celebrated heidelberg tun, thirty-one feet long by twenty-one high, and holding one hundred and fifty _fudders_, or six hundred hogsheads. tübingen, grüningen, and königstein (the last , hogsheads) could all boast of their enormous tuns, in which the white wines of the country were thought to mellow better than in casks of less dimensions. these tuns were once kept carefully filled. the germans always had the reputation of being good drinkers, and of taking care of the "liquor they loved." misson says in his "travels," that he formerly saw at nuremberg the public cellar, two hundred and fifty paces long, and containing twenty thousand _ahms_ of wine. the names and birthplaces of the different german wines are interesting. the liebfrauenmilch is a well-bodied wine, grown at worms, and generally commands a good price. the same may be said of the wines of koesterick, near mayence; and those from mount scharlachberg are equally full-bodied and well-flavoured. nierstein, oppenheim, laubenheim, and gaubischeim are considered to yield first growths, but that of deidesheim is held to be the best. the river main runs up to frankfort close to mayence; and on its banks the little town of hochheim, once the property of general kellerman, stands upon an elevated spot of ground, in the full blaze of the sun. from hochheim is derived the name of hock, too often applied by the unknowing to all german wines. there are no trees to obstruct the genial fire from the sky, which the germans deem so needful to render their vintages propitious. the town stands in the midst of vineyards. the vineyard which produces the hochheimer of the first growth is about eight acres in extent, and situated on a spot well sheltered from the north winds. the other growths of this wine come from the surrounding vineyards. the whole eastern bank of the rhine to lorich, called the rheingau, has been remarkable centuries past for its wines. it was once the property of the church. near this favoured spot grows the schloss-johannisberger, once the property of the church, and also of the prince of orange. johannisberg is a town, with its castle (schloss) on the right bank of the rhine below mentz. the johannisberger takes the lead in the wines of the rhine. the vines are grown over the vaults of the castle, and were very near being destroyed by general hoche. the quantity is not large. rüdesheim produces wines of the first rhine growths; but the steinberger, belonging to the duke of nassau, takes rank after the schloss johannisberger among these wines. it has the greatest strength, and yet is one of the most delicate, and even sweetly flavoured. that called the "cabinet" is the best. the quantity made is small, of the first growth. graefenberg, which was once the property of the church, produces very choice wines which carries a price equal to the rüdesheim. marcobrunner is an excellent wine, of a fine flavour, especially when the vintage has taken place in a warm year. the vineyards of roth and königsbach grow excellent wines. the wine of bacharach was formerly celebrated, but time produces revolutions in the history of wines, as well as in that of empires. on the whole the wines of bischeim, asmannshäusen, and laubenheim are very pleasant wines; those of the most strength are marcobrunner, rüdesheimer, and niersteiner, while those of johannisberg, geisenheim, and hochheim give the most perfect delicacy and aroma. the germans themselves say, "_rhein-wein, fein wein; necker-wein, lecker wein; franken-wein tranken wein; mosel-wein, unnosel wein_" (rhine wine is good; neckar pleasant; frankfort bad; moselle innocent). the red wines of the rhine are not of extraordinary quality. the asmannshäuser is the best, and resembles some of the growths of france. near lintz, at neuwied, a good wine, called blischert, is made. keinigsbach, on the left bank of the rhine, altenahr, rech, and kesseling, yield ordinary red growths. the moselle wines are secondary to those of the rhine and main. the most celebrated is the brauneberger. the varieties grown near treves are numerous. a dutch merchant is said to have paid the abbey of maximinus for a variety called gruenhauser in , no less than eleven hundred and forty-four florins for two hundred and ninety english gallons in the vat. this wine was formerly styled the "nectar of the moselle." these wines are light, with a good flavour. they will not keep so long as the rhine wines, but they are abundant and wholesome. near treves are grown the wines of brauneberg, wehlen, graach, zeitingen, and piesport. the wines of rinsport and becherbach are considered of secondary rank. the wines of cusel and valdrach, near treves, are thought to be possessed of diuretic properties. in about five years these wines reach the utmost point of perfection for drinking. they will not keep more than ten or twelve in prime condition. the wines called "wines of the ahr" resemble those of the moselle, except that they will keep longer. the "wines of the neckar" are made from the best french, hungarian, and even cyprus vines. the most celebrated are those of bessingheim. they are of a light red colour, not deep, and of tolerable flavour and bouquet. wiesbaden grows some good wines at schierstein, and epstein, near frankfort. the best wines of baden are produced in the seigniory of badenweiler, near fribourg. at heidelberg, the great tun used to be filled with the wine of that neighbourhood, boasted to be a hundred and twenty years old, but it gave the wine no advantage over other neckar growths. some good wines are produced near baden. the red wines of wangen are much esteemed in the country of bavaria, but they are very ordinary. würzburg grows the stein and liesten wines. the first is produced upon a mountain so called, and is called "wine of the holy spirit" by the hospital of würzburg, to which it belongs. the liesten wines are produced upon mount st. nicholas. straw wines are made in franconia. a _vin de liqueur_, called calmus, like the sweet wines of hungary, is made in the territory of frankfort, at aschaffenburg. the best vineyards are those of bischofsheim. some wines are made in saxony, but they are of little worth. meissen, near dresden, and guben, produce the best. naumberg makes some small wines, like the inferior burgundies. with these pages as a general guide the touring automobilist must make his own itinerary. he will not always want to put up for the night in a large town, and will often prefer the quietness and the romantic picturesqueness of some little half-mountain-hidden townlet and its simple fare to a _table d'hôte_ meal, such as he gets at cologne or coblenz, which is simply a poor imitation of its parisian namesake. the following skeleton gives the leading points. cologne to bonn (hotel rheinfeck) kilometres bonn to godesberg (hotel blinzer) " godesberg to andernach (hotel schafer) " andernach to coblenz (hotel metropole) " coblenz to st. goar (hotel rheinfels) " st. goar to bingen (stakenburger hof) " bingen to mayence (pfalzer hof) " mayence to frankfort (savoy hotel) " frankfort to worms (europaischer hof) " worms to mannheim (pfalzer hof) " mannheim to heidelberg (hotel schrieder) " heidelberg to spire (pfalzer hof) " spire to carlsruhe (hotel erbprinz) " carlsruhe to baden (hotel stephanie) " baden to strasburg (hôtel de l'europe) " generally speaking, none of the hotels above mentioned include wine with meals. the trail of the tourist accounts for this. all have accommodation for the automobilist. [illustration: heidelburg and strasburg] from strasburg one may continue to bagel, if he is bound italyward through switzerland, but the chief distinctive features of the rhine tour end at strasburg. from strasburg one may enter france by st. dié, in the vosges, via the col de saales, the _douane_ (custom-house) station for which is at nouveau saales. the following are some of the signs and abbreviations met with in german hotels catering for stranger automobilists. ohne wein wine not included a. c. b. automobile club de belgique m. c. b. moto-club de belgique t. c. b. touring club de belgique t. c. n. touring club néerlandais a. c. f. automobile club de france t. c. f. touring club de france bade-raum bathroom grube fosse or inspection pit the end. appendices appendix i [illustration: road warning signs] appendix ii a short account of some famous european road races and trials in december, , _le petit journal_ of paris proposed a trial of self-propelled road-vehicles, to end with a run from paris to rouen. the distance was kilometres and the first car to arrive at rouen was a steam-tractor built by de dion, bouton et cie, to-day perhaps the largest manufacturers of the ordinary gasoline-motor. a peugot carriage, fitted with a daimler engine, followed next, and then a panhard. there were something like a hundred entries for this trial, of which one was from england and three from germany, but most of them did not survive the run. on the th of june, , was started the now historic paris-bordeaux race. sixteen gasoline and half a dozen steam cars started from the arc de triomphe, in paris, for the journey to bordeaux and back. it was a panhard-levassor that arrived back in paris first, but the prize was given to a peugot which carried four passengers, whereas the panhard carried but two. in the following year the new locomotion was evidently believed to have come to stay, for the first journal devoted to the industry and sport was founded in paris, under the name of _la locomotion automobile_, soon to be followed by another called _la france automobile_. in was held the paris-marseilles race, divided into five stages for the outward journey, and five stages for the homeward. twenty-four gasoline-cars started, and three propelled by steam, and there were five gasoline-tricycles. bolée's tandem tricycle was the sensation during the first stage, averaging twenty miles an hour. the itinerary out and back, of something like sixteen hundred kilometres, was covered first by a panhard-levassor, in sixty-seven hours, forty-two minutes, and fifty-eight seconds. the average speed of the winner was something like twenty-two kilometres an hour. in england a motor-car run was organized from london to brighton in , including many of the vehicles which had started in the paris-marseilles race in france. the first vehicles to arrive in brighton were the two bolée tricycles; a duryea was third, and a panhard fourth. in there was a race in france, on a course laid out between marseilles, nice, and la turbie. the struggle was principally between the comte chasseloup-laubat in a steam-car, and m. lemaitre in a panhard, with a victory for the former, showing at least that there were possibilities in the steam-car which gasoline had not entirely surpassed. pneumatic tires were used on the paris-bordeaux race in , but solid tires were used on the winning cars in , , and . another affair which came off in was a race from paris to dieppe, organized by two paris newspapers, the _figaro_ and _les sports_. the event was won by a three-wheeled bolée, with a de dion second, and a six-horse-power panhard third. in there took place the paris-amsterdam race. it was won by a panhard, driven by charron, and the distance was approximately a thousand miles, something like sixteen hundred kilometres. the "tour de france" was organized by the _matin_ in . the distance was practically two thousand kilometres. panhards won the first, second, third, and fourth places, though they were severely pressed by mors. [illustration: evolution of the racing car] the first gordon-bennett cup race was held in , between paris and lyons. the distance was not great, but the trial was in a measure under general road conditions, though it took on all the aspects of a race. it was won by charron in a panhard. in the gordon-bennett race was run from paris to bordeaux, perhaps the most ideal course in all the world for such an event. it was won by girardot in a forty-horse panhard. the paris-berlin race came in the same year, with fournier as winner, in a mors designed by brazier. in the gordon-bennett formed a part of the paris-vienna itinerary, the finish being at innsbruck in the tyrol. de knyff in a panhard had victory well within his grasp when, by a misfortune in the parting of his transmission gear, he was beaten by edge in the english napier. luck had something to do with it, of course, but edge was a capable and experienced driver and made the most of each and every opportunity. through to vienna the race was won by farman in a seventy-horse-power panhard, though marcel renault in a renault "_voiture legere_" was first to arrive. it was in that the famous mercédès first met with road victories. a thirty-five-horse power mercédès won the nice-salon-nice event in the south of france, and again in the following year the nice-la turbie event. in the circuit des ardennes event in , jarrot, in a seventy-horse panhard, and gabriel in a mors, were practically tied until the last round, when jarrot finally won, having made the entire distance (approximately kilometres) at an average speed of fifty-four and a half miles per hour. there were no _controles_. in the gordon-bennett cup race was held in ireland, over a course of miles, twice around a figure-eight track. germany won with a mercédès with jenatzy at the wheel, with de knyff in a panhard only ten minutes behind. in was undertaken the disastrous paris-madrid road race. between versailles and bordeaux the accidents were so numerous and terrible, due principally to reckless driving, that the affair was abandoned at bordeaux. gabriel in a mors car made the astonishing average of sixty-two and a half miles per hour, hence may be considered the winner as far as bordeaux. in the gordon-bennett race was run over the taunus course in germany, with thèry the winner in a richard-brazier car. in thèry again won on the circuit d'auvergne in the same make of car, making a sensational victory which--to the french at least--has apparently assured the automobile supremacy to france for all time. the event was the grand prix of the automobile club de france on the circuit de la sarthe. the astonishing victories of the renault car driven by szisz, which made the round of kilometres in two days at the average rate of speed of kilometres an hour, has elated all connected with the french automobile industry. it was a victory for removable rims also, as had szisz not been able to replace his tattered tires almost instanteously with others already blown up, he would certainly have been overtaken by one or more of the brazier cars, which suffered greatly from tire troubles. in another event was organized in france by the _matin_. it was hardly in the nature of a race, but a trial of over six thousand kilometres, an extended _tour de france_. forty-two automobiles of all ranks left the place de la concorde at paris on the d of august, and thirty-three arrived at paris on the th of the same month, twenty of them without penalization of any sort. no such reliability trial was ever held previously, and it showed that the worth of the comparatively tiny eight and ten horse machines for the work was quite as great as that of the forty and sixty horse monsters. the following tables show plainly the value of this great trial. coupe du matin list of automobiles engaged class "roues" (spring wheels and anti-skids) . antidérapant néron de deitrich . " vulcain i. de dion-bouton . " vulcain ii. corre . roues Élastiques soleil rochet-schneider . " " garchey i. de dion-bouton . " " garchey ii. mieusset . " " e. l. delauney-belleville class endurance st category motocyclettes, vitesse maxima, kilomètres à l'heure . motocycletto lurquin-coudert . " albatross (motor buchet) . " rené gillet d category tri-cars, vitesse maxima, kilomètres à l'heure . mototri contal i. . mototri contal ii. d category voiturette cylindre, alésage maximum millimètres . fouillaron . voiturette darracq ii. . de dion-bouton et cie i. . voiturette lacoste & . darracq et cie battmann i. . de dion-bouton et cie ii. . voiturette lacoste & . cottereau i. battmann ii. . voiturette roy . voiturette lacoste & . voiturette g. r. a. r. battmanu iii. . voiturette alcyon th category voitures cylindres, alésage maximum millimètres, ou cylindres, alésage maximum millimètres . darracq ii. . cottereau iv. . darracq . kallista i. . de dion-bouton et cie iii. . kallista ii. . d. thuault . panhard et levassor . cottereau ii. . corre . cottereau iii. . x. th category voitures cylindres, alésage maximum millimètres . c. v. r. i. . darracq v. . de dion-bouton et cie iv. . herald . de dion-bouton et cie v. . panhard . renault frères . de dion-bouton et cie vi. . c. i. a. . bayard clèment i. . c. v. r. ii. . corre . berliet th category voitures cylindres, alésage maximum millimètres . mercédès i. . mors. . scrive . mercédès ii. . pilain i. . clément . pilain ii. . darracq iv. . c. v. r. iii. . bayard-clément ii. . gobron . c. v. r. iv. . mercédès iii. th category voitures cylindres, alésage maximum millimètres . siddely . siddely . fiat appendix iii [illustration: route maps for famous races] appendix iv [illustration: average speed of racing cars] appendix v some famous hill climbs abroad england birdlip hill.--near gloucester. length, miles; average gradient, in ; steepest gradient, in dashwood hill.--near high wycombe. length, , yards; average gradient, in ; steepest gradient, in . . hindhead.--near guildford. length, / miles, rise, feet; average gradient, in . ; steepest gradient, in . porlock hill.--north devon. length, miles; rise, , feet; gradient, in to in . shap fell.--near penrith. rise, , feet, gradients, in , in , in , and in . snowdon.--mountain in wales. steepest gradient, in . westerham.--length, , feet; average gradient, in . . france château thierry.--near meaux. length, , yards. côte de gaillon.--near rouen. the scene of the most famous hill climbs in france. length, kilometres, rise, per cent. for the greater part of the distance. côte de laffray.--near grenoble. length, . miles; gradients, in , in , in , and in ; average, . per cent; many bad turns. la turbie.--a rude foot-hill climb in the maritime alps just back of monte carlo. mont ventoux.--near avignon. length, kilometres; rise , metres. mont cenis.--near turin. the "climb" begins at susa, on the italian side of the mountain, at the metre level, and continues for kilometres to the , metre level, a h.p. fiat climbed this in in minutes, / seconds. appendix vi [illustration: metric system] appendix vii the automobile industry in france number value of cars value exported year. built. fcs. fcs. , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , appendix viii hours of moonlight moon days old shines till pm (approx.) " " " " " pm " " " " " am moon days old rises at pm (approx.) " " " " " pm " " " " " pm " " " " " - pm appendix ix [illustration: the length of days] appendix x the touring club de france the touring club de france is the largest and most active national association for the promotion of touring. it is under the direct patronage of the president of the french republic, and the interests and wants of its members are protected and provided for in a full and practical manner by an excellent organization, whose influence is felt in every part of france and the adjacent countries. the membership is over , and is steadily growing. it includes a very considerable body of foreign members, those from the united kingdom and america alone numbering , , a circumstance which may be accepted, perhaps, as the best possible proofs of the value of the advantages which the club offers to tourists from abroad visiting france. the annual subscription is francs ( s.) for foreign members. there is no entrance fee and the election of candidates generally follows within a few days after the receipt of the application at the offices of the club in paris. the club issues a number of publications specially compiled for cyclists, comprising: a yearbook (annuaire) for france divided in two parts (north and south) with a list of over three thousand selected club hotels, at which members enjoy a privileged position as to charges; an admirable volume of skeleton tours covering the whole of france, from each large centre, and by regions, and supplemented by some three hundred card itineraries with sketch maps; a specially drawn cyclist's map of france, and a monthly club gazette, all designed to facilitate the planning and carrying out of interesting tours with comfort and economy. instructions to candidates fill in the application form and enclose it with the subscription ( francs) to m. le président du t. c. f., , avenue de la grande-armée, paris. _the applications of lady candidates should be signed by a male relative_--brother, father, husband--whether a member of the club or not. notice of resignation of membership must reach the paris office of the club not later than november th, failing which the member is liable for the following year's subscription. those who join after october st are entitled to the privileges of membership until the close of the following year for one subscription. post-office money orders should be made payable to m. le trésorier du t. c. f., , avenue de la grande-armée, paris, france. the addresses of the representatives of the touring club de france in england and america are as follows; further information concerning this admirable institution for _all travellers_ whether by train, bicycle, or automobile will be gladly furnished. they can also supply forms for application for membership. delegates new york city ch. dien - west d st. boston f. hesseltine tremont st. washington h. lazard massachusetts ave. london c. f. just victoria st. s. w. edinburgh dr. d. turner george square. dublin g. fottereil fleet st. appendix xi motor-car regulations and customs duties in europe great britain certain regulations are compulsory even for tourists. you may obtain a license to drive a motor-car in britain if you are over seventeen years of age (renewable every twelve months) at a cost of five shillings. you must register your motor-car at the county or borough council offices where you reside, fee £ . . . you must pay a yearly "male servant" tax of fifteen shillings for your chauffeur. in case of accident, en route, you must stop and, if required, give your name and address, also name and address of the owner of the car and the car number. every car must bear two number plates (the number is assigned you on registration), one front and one rear. the latter must be lighted at night. speed limit is twenty miles an hour except where notice is posted to the effect that ten miles an hour only is allowed, or that some particular road is forbidden to automobiles. in england one's car can be registered at any port on arrival, or, by letter addressed to any licensing authority, before arrival. the regulation as to driving licenses is as follows: "if any person applies to the council of a county or county borough for the grant of a license and the council are satisfied that he has no residence in the united kingdom, the council shall, if the applicant is otherwise entitled, grant him a license, notwithstanding that he is not resident within their county or county borough." as regards the inland revenue carriage license, however, it may be noted that twenty-one days' grace is allowed--in other words, that licenses must be obtained within twenty-one days after first becoming liable to the duty. there are no customs duties on automobiles entering great britain. france certificat de capacité and récépissé de déclaration before taking an automobile upon the road in france all drivers must procure the certificat de capacité, commonly known as the "carte rouge." the following letter should be addressed to the nearest préfecture, or sous-préfecture, written on stamped paper (papier timbré, centimes) and accompanied by two miniature photographs. "monsieur:--j'ai l'honneur de vous demander de me faire convoquer pour subir l'examen nécessaire à l'obtention d'un certificat de capacité pour la conduite d'une voiture... (indiquer la marque) mue par un moteur à petrole. "veuillez agréer, etc." [illustration: certificat de capacite] at the same time another letter should be addressed to the same authority requesting a récépissé de déclaration. these applications must be quite separate and distinct; each on its own papier timbre, which you buy at any bureau de tabac. "monsieur le préfet:--je soussigné ... (nom, prénom, domicile) propriétaire d'une voiture automobile actionnée par un moteur à pétrole système (type et numéro du type), ai l'honneur de vous demander un permis de circulation. "vous trouverez sons ce pli le procès-verbal de réception délivré par le constructeur. "veuillez agréer, etc." [illustration: recepisse de declaration] names of arrondissements and distinguishing letters borne by automobiles in france alais, a arras, r bordeaux, b chalon-sur-saône, c chambéry, h clermont-ferrand, f douai, d le mans, l marseille, m nancy, n poitiers, p rouen, y ou z saint-etienne, s toulouse, t paris, e, g, i, u, x customs duties in france. fifty francs per kilos on all motor vehicles weighing more than kilos. automobiles (including motor-cycles) weighing less than kilos pay a flat rate of francs. members of most cycling touring clubs can arrange for the entry of motor-cycles free of duty. all customs duties paid, in france may be reimbursed upon the exportation of the automobile. the formalities are very simple. inquire at burèau of entry. belgium customs dues. / per cent. ad valorem (owners' declaration as to value), but the authorities reserve the right to purchase at owners valuation if they think it undervalued. this is supposed to prevent fraud, and no doubt it does. a driving certificate is not required of tourists, but a registered number must be carried. plates and a permit are supplied at the frontier station by which one enters, or they may be obtained at brussels from the chef de police. speed limit: kilometres per hour in the open country and kilometres per hour in the towns, except, generally speaking, the larger cities hold down the speed to that of a trotting horse. holland customs dues are five per cent, ad valorem, but in practice nothing is demanded of genuine tourists and a permit is now given ( ) for eight days with a right of extension for a similar period. foreign number plates, once recorded by the dutch customs officials, will supplant the need of local number plates. switzerland customs dues are francs per kilos. this amount, deposited on entering the country, will be refunded upon leaving and complying with the formalities. legally a driving and "circulation" permit may be demanded, but often this is waived. in the canton valais only the main road from st. maurice to brigue is open for automobile traffic. many other roads are entirely closed. n.b. traffic regulations in many parts are exceedingly onerous and often unfair to foreigners. a recent conference of the different cantons has been held at berne to consider the question of automobile traffic in the country. it was decided to fix a blue sign on the roads where motorists must slacken speed, and a yellow sign where motoring is not allowed. the department of the interior was deputed to draw up a uniform code of rules for the guidance of police deputed to take charge of the roads. no decision was arrived at as regards uniformity in fines for infraction of the regulations, but steps are to be taken to put an end to the abuses to which it is alleged the police have subjected motorists. a resolution was furthermore adopted to the effect that no road is to be closed to motor-cars without an agreement between the authorities of all the cantons concerned, and that all foreign motorists shall be given a copy of the regulations on entering the country. the above information is given here that no one may be unduly frightened, but there is no question but that switzerland has not been so hospitable to automobile tourists as to other classes. the simplon pass, under certain restrictions has recently been opened to automobiles. open from june st to october th, except on mondays, thursdays, and saturdays, but no departure can be made from either brigue or gondo after three p. m. apply for pass at the gendarmerie. speed kilometres on the open road, and kilometres on curves and in tunnels. italy customs dues are according to weight. kilos fcs. - kilos fcs. above kilos fcs. motor cycles fcs. a certificate for importation temporaire is given by the customs officers on entering, and the same must be given up on leaving the country, when the sum deposited will be reimbursed. since january , , a driving certificate is compulsory, but the authorities will issue same readily to tourists against foreign certificates or licenses. speed during the day must be limited to kilometres an hour in the open country and kilometres in the towns. at night the speed (legally) may not exceed kilometres an hour. lamps white on the right, green on the left. there are special regulations for florence. luxembourg customs dues.--one hundred and fifty marks per automobile. a pièce d'identité will be given the applicant on entering, and upon giving this up on leaving the duties will be reimbursed. german, french, and belgian coins all pass current (except bronze money). germany customs dues.--temporary importation by tourists marks per auto. oil and gasoline in the tanks also pay duty under certain rulings. a small matter, this, anyway. according to recent regulations tourists are permitted to introduce motor-vehicles into germany for a temporary visit, free of customs duty, but it has been left to the discretion of the official to give motorists the benefit of this arrangement, or to charge the ordinary duty, with the result that some have had to make a deposit, and others have succeeded in passing their cars into the country free. uniform driving or tax regulations are wanting in germany, but something definite is evidently forthcoming from the authorities shortly ( - ), with, the probability that even visitors will have to pay a revenue tax. rule of the road is keep to the right and pass on the left, as in most continental countries. speed limits, during darkness, or in populous districts, vary from to kilometres per hour, but "driving to the common danger" is the only other cause which will prevent one making any speed he likes in the open country. foreigners should apply to the police authorities immediately on having entered the country for information as to new rules and regulations. spain customs dues vary greatly on automobiles. the motor pays francs, centimes per hundred kilos., and the carrosserie according to its form or design. ordinary tonneau type four places, , pesetas. for temporary importation receipts are given which will enable one to be reimbursed upon exportation of the vehicle. in general the road regulations of france apply to spain. speed limit, kilometres per hour in open country down to kilometres in the towns. a circulation permit and driving certificate should be obtained. m. j. lafitte, place de la liberté, biarritz, can "put one through" (at an appropriate fee), in a manner hardly possible for one to accomplish alone. a special "free-entry" permit is sometimes given for short periods. appendix xii some notes on map--making the most fascinating maps for tried traveller are the wonderful cartes d'etat major and of ministre de l'intérieur in france. the ordnance survey maps in england are somewhat of an approach thereto, but they are in no way as interesting to study. one must have a good eye for distances and the lay of the land, and a familiarity with the conventional signs of map-makers, in order to get full value from these excellent french maps, but the close contemplation of them will show many features which might well be incorporated into the ordinary maps of commerce. the great national roads are distinctly marked with little dots beside the road, representing the tree-bordered "routes nationales," but often there is a cut-off of equally good road between two points on one's itinerary which of course is not indicated in any special manner. for this reason alone these excellent maps are not wholly to be recommended to the automobilist who is covering new ground. for him it is much better that he should stick to the maps issued by the touring club de france or the cheaper, more legible, and even more useful cartes taride. in england, as an alternative to the ordnance survey maps, there are bartholemew's coloured maps, two miles to the inch, and the half inch map of england and wales. belgium is well covered by the excellent "carte de belgique" of the automobile club de belgique, italy by the maps of the italian touring club, and germany by the ingenious profile map known as "strassenprofilkarten," rather difficult to read by the uninitiated. one of the great works of the omnific touring club de france is the preparation of what might be called pictorial inventories of the historical monuments and natural curiosities of france made on the large-scale maps of the etat major. primarily these are intended to be filed away in their wonderful "bibliothèque," that all and sundry who come may read, but it is also further planned that they shall be displayed locally in hotels, automobile clubs, and the like. the mode of procedure is astonishingly simple. these detailed maps of the war department are simply cut into strips and mounted consecutively, and the "sights" marked on the margin (with appropriate notes) after the manner of the example here given. there seems no reason why one could not make up his own maps beforehand in a similar fashion, of any particular region or itinerary that he proposed to "do" thoroughly. one misses a great deal en route that is not marked clearly on the map before his eyes. appendix xiii a list of european map and road books great britain and ireland the contour road books vol. i. north england, including part of wales. vol. ii. west england vol. iii. southeastern england. very useful books, including about five hundred maps and plans, showing gradients and road profiles. bartholemew's revised map of england and wales.--complete in sheets, miles to the inch. half inch map of england, wales, and scotland.--published by gall and inglis (edinburgh). complete in sheets (england and wales). "strip" maps.--published by gall and inglis (edinburgh); miles to the inch. . edinburgh to inverness. . inverness to john o'groat's. . "brighton road," london to brighton; "portsmouth road," london to portsmouth. . "southampton road," london to bournemouth. . "exeter road," london to exeter. . "bath road," london to bristol. . "great north road," in two parts: london to york, leeds, or harrogate; york to edinburgh. . "land's end road," bristol to land's end. . "worcester road," bristol to birmingham, worcester to lancashire. . the north wales road: liverpool, manchester, and birmingham to holyhead. . london to birmingham, manchester, and liverpool. . "great north road," edinburgh to york. . "carlisle road," edinburgh to lancashire. . "highland road," edinburgh to inverness. . "john o'groat's road," inverness to caithness. excellent for tours over a straightaway itinerary. the cyclist's touring club road books vol. i. deals with the southern and southwestern counties south of the main road from london to bath and bristol. vol. ii. embraces the eastern and midland counties, including the whole of wales. vol. iii. covers the remainder of england to the scottish border. vol. iv. includes the whole of scotland. vol. v. southern ireland, deals with the country south of the main road from dublin to galway. vol. vi., northern ireland, deals with the country north of the main road froth dublin to galway. ordnance survey map of england and wales.--new series, complete in sheets, x inches. one mile to the inch. bartholemew's map of scotland.--complete in sheets, miles to the inch. ireland mecredy's road maps . dublin and wicklow. . kerry. . donegal. . connemara. . down. . east central ireland. mecredy's road book volumes vol. i. south of dublin and galway. vol. ii. north of dublin and galway. the continental road book for great britain--published by the continental gutta-percha co. excellent information on british roads, distances, hotels, etc., with a general map. the automobile hand book.--the official year book automobile club of great britain and ireland. contains all the "official" information concerning automobileism in britain. rules and regulations, statistics, a few routes and plans of the large towns, and a list of "official" hotels, repairers, etc. continental maps and road books france cartes taride.--excellent road maps of all france in sheets can be had everywhere, mounted on paper at franc, cloth fcs. centimes. all good roads marked in red; dangerous hills are marked, also railways. kilometres are also given between towns en route. the most useful and readable maps published of any country. a. taride, boulevard st. denis, paris, also publishes the rhine, north and south italy, and switzerland, each at the same price. guide taride (les routes de france).-- , itineraries throughout france and itineraries from paris to foreign cities and towns. contains notes as to nature of roads, kilometric distances, etc. l'annuaire de route.--the year book of the automobile club de france contains hotel, garage, and mècanicien list, charging-stations for electric apparatus and vendors of gasoline. c. t. c. road book of france (in english).--two volumes of road itineraries and notes. cartes de l'etat major.--published by the service géographique de l'armée and sold or furnished by all booksellers. can best be procured through the touring club de france, ave. de la grande armée, paris. scale - , , centimes per sheet. another scale - , . carte de la ministre d'intérieur.--scale - , and - , . printed in three colours. carte de france au , cq.--published by the service géographiqué and reproduced from the - , carte by photolithography. useful, but not so clear as the original. cartes du touring club de france.--scale - , . indicating all routes with remarks as to their surfaces, hills, culverts, railway crossings, etc. printed in five colours. sheets, x cm. these cartes lap over somewhat into germany, belgium, italy, and spain, and are very good. le guide-michelin--issued by michelin et cie, the tire manufacturers. the most handy and useful hotel and mécanicien list, with kilometric distances between french towns and cities. many miniature plans of towns and large map of france. guide-routiere continental.--issued by the manufacturers of continental tires. gives plans of towns and cities, detailed itineraries and hotel lists, etc., throughout france. equally useful as the guide-michelin, but more bulky. la carte bécherel.--reproduced from that of the etat major - , . price fcs., c. cartes de dion--excellent four-colour maps of certain sections environing the great cities. published and sold by de dion, bouton et cie. sur route (atlas-guide de poche pour cyclistes et automobilists). --published by hatchette & cie, fcs., c. a most useful condensed and abbreviated gazetteer of france, with a series of handy four-colour maps showing main roads sufficiently clearly for real use as an automobile route-book. annuaire général du touring club de france--hotel list, mécaniciens, etc., and prices of same throughout france. the touring club de france also issues an annuaire pour l'etranger, containing similar information of the neighbouring countries. guides-joanne.--the most perfectly compiled series of guidebooks in any language. the late editions of normandie, bretagne, etc., have miniature profile road maps and much other information of interest and value to automobile tourists. seventeen volumes, covering france, algeria, and corsica. italy the touring club italiano issues a series of five excellent maps covering the whole of italy. . lombardia, piemonte, and ligurie. . veneto. . central italy. . southern italy. . calabria and sicily. strade di grande-comunicazione--italia--(main roads of italy). an excellent profile road book of all of italy; miniature plans of all cities and large towns, with gradients of roads, population, etc. carte taride--italie, section nord.--published by a. taride, bvd. st. denis, paris. comprises aoste, bologne, come, florence, livourne, milan, nice, padoua, parma, pise, sienne, trente, turin, venise. fc. on paper, fcs., c. cloth. carte taride--italie, section centrale.--uniform with above. switzerland carte routière.--published by the touring club de suisse; is issued in four sheets. l'annuaire de route.--published by the automobile club de suisse; contains a small-scale road map, hotel list, etc. cyclist's touring club (london) road book for south and central europe includes switzerland. carte taride pour la suisse.--a continuation of the excellent series of cartes tarides (paris, bvd. st. denis) fc., c. paper, fcs. on cloth. belgium the cartes tarides (paris, a. taride, boulevard st. denis) include belgium under the nos. and bis. cyclist's touring club (london) road book for northern and central europe includes belgium. carte de belgique, issued by the touring club de belgique, covers all of belgium in one sheet. guide-michelin pour la belgique, hollande, et aux bords du rhin contains belgian hotel-list, plans of towns, etc. holland road atlas--published by the touring club of holland, which also issues many detailed road and route books for the pays bas. cyclists touring club (london) road book for north and central europe includes holland. guide-michelin pour la belgique includes holland, luxembourg, and the banks of the rhine, with information after the same manner as in the "guide-michelin" for france. afstandskaart van nederland.--an admirable road map of all holland in two sheets, showing also all canals and waterway. germany ravenstein's road maps of central europe. scale about miles to the inch. taride's bord du rhin.--excellent maps in three colours, main routes in red, with kilometric distances, towns, and picturesque sites clearly marked. ravenstein's road book for germany.--two vols., north and south germany. cyclist's touring club (london) road book for germany. none the distributed proofreaders europe revised by irvin s. cobb to my small daughter who bade me shed a tear at the tomb of napoleon, which i was very glad to do, because when i got there my feet certainly were hurting me. note the picture on page purporting to show the undersigned leaping head first into a german feather-bed does the undersigned a cruel injustice. he has a prettier figure than that--oh, oh, much prettier! the reader is earnestly entreated not to look at the picture on page . it is the only blot on the mccutcheon of this book. respectfully, the author. chapter i we are going away from here foreword.--it has always seemed to me that the principal drawback about the average guidebook is that it is over-freighted with facts. guidebooks heretofore have made a specialty of facts--have abounded in them; facts to be found on every page and in every paragraph. reading such a work, you imagine that the besotted author said to himself, "i will just naturally fill this thing chock-full of facts"--and then went and did so to the extent of a prolonged debauch. now personally i would be the last one in the world to decry facts as such. in the abstract i have the highest opinion of them. but facts, as someone has said, are stubborn things; and stubborn things, like stubborn people, are frequently tiresome. so it occurred to me that possibly there might be room for a guidebook on foreign travel which would not have a single indubitable fact concealed anywhere about its person. i have even dared to hope there might be an actual demand on the part of the general public for such a guidebook. i shall endeavor to meet that desire--if it exists. while we are on the subject i wish to say there is probably not a statement made by me here or hereafter which cannot readily be controverted. communications from parties desiring to controvert this or that assertion will be considered in the order received. the line forms on the left and parties will kindly avoid crowding. triflers and professional controverters save stamps. with these few introductory remarks we now proceed to the first subject, which is the sea: its habits and peculiarities, and the quaint creatures found upon its bosom. from the very start of this expedition to europe i labored under a misapprehension. everybody told me that as soon as i had got my sea legs i would begin to love the sea with a vast and passionate love. as a matter of fact i experienced no trouble whatever in getting my sea legs. they were my regular legs, the same ones i use on land. it was my sea stomach that caused all the bother. first i was afraid i should not get it, and that worried me no little. then i got it and was regretful. however, that detail will come up later in a more suitable place. i am concerned now with the departure. somewhere forward a bugle blares; somewhere rearward a bell jangles. on the deck overhead is a scurry of feet. in the mysterious bowels of the ship a mighty mechanism opens its metal mouth and speaks out briskly. later it will talk on steadily, with a measured and a regular voice; but now it is heard frequently, yet intermittently, like the click of a blind man's cane. beneath your feet the ship, which has seemed until this moment as solid as a rock, stirs the least little bit, as though it had waked up. and now a shiver runs all through it and you are reminded of that passage from pygmalion and galatea where pygmalion says with such feeling: she starts; she moves; she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel. you are under way. you are finally committed to the great adventure. the necessary good-bys have already been said. those who in the goodness of their hearts came to see you off have departed for shore, leaving sundry suitable and unsuitable gifts behind. you have examined your stateroom, with its hot and cold decorations, its running stewardess, its all-night throb service, and its windows overlooking the hudson--a stateroom that seemed so large and commodious until you put one small submissive steamer trunk and two scared valises in it. you are tired, and yon white bed, with the high mudguards on it, looks mighty good to you; but you feel that you must go on deck to wave a fond farewell to the land you love and the friends you are leaving behind. you fight your way to the open through companionways full of frenzied persons who are apparently trying to travel in every direction at once. on the deck the illusion persists that it is the dock that is moving and the ship that is standing still. all about you your fellow passengers crowd the rails, waving and shouting messages to the people on the dock; the people on the dock wave back and shout answers. about every other person is begging somebody to tell auntie to be sure to write. you gather that auntie will be expected to write weekly, if not oftener. as the slice of dark water between boat and dock widens, those who are left behind begin running toward the pierhead in such numbers that each wide, bright-lit door-opening in turn suggests a flittering section of a moving-picture film. the only perfectly calm person in sight is a gorgeous, gold-laced creature standing on the outermost gunwale of the dock, wearing the kind of uniform that a rear admiral of the swiss navy would wear--if the swiss had any navy--and holding a speaking trumpet in his hand. this person is not excited, for he sends thirty-odd-thousand-ton ships off to europe at frequent intervals, and so he is impressively and importantly blase about it; but everybody else is excited. you find yourself rather that way. you wave at persons you know and then at persons you do not know. you continue to wave until the man alongside you, who has spent years of his life learning to imitate a siren whistle with his face, suddenly twines his hands about his mouth and lets go a terrific blast right in your ear. something seems to warn you that you are not going to care for this man. the pier, ceasing to be a long, outstretched finger, seems to fold back into itself, knuckle-fashion, and presently is but a part of the oddly foreshortened shoreline, distinguishable only by the black dot of watchers clustered under a battery of lights, like a swarm of hiving bees. out in midstream the tugs, which have been convoying the ship, let go of her and scuttle off, one in this direction and one in that, like a brace of teal ducks getting out of a walrus' way. almost imperceptibly her nose straightens down the river and soon on the starboard quarter--how quickly one picks up these nautical terms!--looming through the harbor mists, you behold the statue of miss liberty, in her popular specialty of enlightening the world. so you go below and turn in. anyway, that is what i did; for certain of the larger ships of the cunard line sail at midnight or even later, and this was such a ship. for some hours i lay awake, while above me and below me and all about me the boat settled down to her ordained ship's job, and began drawing the long, soothing snores that for five days and nights she was to continue drawing without cessation. there were so many things to think over. i tried to remember all the authoritative and conflicting advice that had been offered to me by traveled friends and well-wishers. let's see, now: on shipboard i was to wear only light clothes, because nobody ever caught cold at sea. i was to wear the heaviest clothes i had, because the landlubber always caught cold at sea. i was to tip only those who served me. i was to tip all hands in moderation, whether they served me or not. if i felt squeamish i was to do the following things: eat something. quit eating. drink something. quit drinking. stay on deck. go below and lie perfectly flat. seek company. avoid same. give it up. keep it down. there was but one point on which all of them were agreed. on no account should i miss naples; i must see naples if i did not see another solitary thing in europe. well, i did both--i saw naples; and now i should not miss naples if i never saw it again, and i do not think i shall. as regards the other suggestions these friends of mine gave me, i learned in time that all of them were right and all of them were wrong. for example, there was the matter of a correct traveling costume. between seasons on the atlantic one wears what best pleases one. one sees at the same time women in furs and summer boys in white ducks. tweed-enshrouded englishmen and linen-clad american girls promenade together, giving to the decks that pleasing air of variety and individuality of apparel only to be found in southern california during the winter, and in those orthodox pictures in the book of robinson crusoe, where robinson is depicted as completely wrapped up in goatskins, while man friday is pirouetting round as nude as a raw oyster and both of them are perfectly comfortable. i used to wonder how robinson and friday did it. since taking an ocean trip i understand perfectly. i could do it myself now. there certainly were a lot of things to think over. i do not recall now exactly the moment when i ceased thinking them over. a blank that was measurable by hours ensued. i woke from a dream about a scrambled egg, in which i was the egg, to find that morning had arrived and the ship was behaving naughtily. here was a ship almost as long as main street is back home, and six stories high, with an english basement; with restaurants and elevators and retail stores in her; and she was as broad as a courthouse; and while lying at the dock she had appeared to be about the most solid and dependable thing in creation--and yet in just a few hours' time she had altered her whole nature, and was rolling and sliding and charging and snorting like a warhorse. it was astonishing in the extreme, and you would not have expected it of her. even as i focused my mind on this phenomenon the doorway was stealthily entered by a small man in a uniform that made him look something like an eton schoolboy and something like a waiter in a dairy lunch. i was about to have the first illuminating experience with an english manservant. this was my bedroom steward, by name lubly--william lubly. my hat is off to william lubly--to him and to all his kind. he was always on duty; he never seemed to sleep; he was always in a good humor, and he always thought of the very thing you wanted just a moment or two before you thought of it yourself, and came a-running and fetched it to you. now he was softly stealing in to close my port. as he screwed the round, brass-faced window fast he glanced my way and caught my apprehensive eye. "good morning, sir," he said, and said it in such a way as to convey a subtle compliment. "is it getting rough outside?" i said--i knew about the inside. "thank you," he said; "the sea 'as got up a bit, sir--thank you, sir." i was gratified--nay more, i was flattered. and it was so delicately done too. i really did not have the heart to tell him that i was not solely responsible--that i had, so to speak, collaborators; but lubly stood ready always to accord me a proper amount of recognition for everything that happened on that ship. only the next day, i think it was, i asked him where we were. this occurred on deck. he had just answered a lady who wanted to know whether we should have good weather on the day we landed at fishguard and whether we should get in on time. without a moment's hesitation he told her; and then he turned to me with the air of giving credit where credit is due, and said: "thank you, sir--we are just off the banks, thank you." lubly ran true to form. the british serving classes are ever like that, whether met with at sea or on their native soil. they are a great and a noble institution. give an english servant a kind word and he thanks you. give him a harsh word and he still thanks you. ask a question of a london policeman--he tells you fully and then he thanks you. go into an english shop and buy something--the clerk who serves you thanks you with enthusiasm. go in and fail to buy something--he still thanks you, but without the enthusiasm. one kind of englishman says thank you, sir; and one kind--the cockney who has been educated--says thenks; but the majority brief it into a short but expressive expletive and merely say: kew. kew is the commonest word in the british isles. stroidinary runs it a close second, but kew comes first. you hear it everywhere. hence kew gardens; they are named for it. all the types that travel on a big english-owned ship were on ours. i take it that there is a requirement in the maritime regulations to the effect that the set must be complete before a ship may put to sea. to begin with, there was a member of a british legation from somewhere going home on leave, for a holiday, or a funeral. at least i heard it was a holiday, but i should have said he was going home for the other occasion. he wore an honorable attached to the front of his name and carried several extra initials behind in the rumble; and he was filled up with that true british reserve which a certain sort of britisher always develops while traveling in foreign lands. he was upward of seven feet tall, as the crow flies, and very thin and rigid. viewing him, you got the impression that his framework all ran straight up and down, like the wires in a bird cage, with barely enough perches extending across from side to side to keep him from caving in and crushing the canaries to death. on second thought i judge i had better make this comparison in the singular number--there would not have been room in him for more than one canary. every morning for an hour, and again every afternoon for an hour, he marched solemnly round and round the promenade deck, always alone and always with his mournful gaze fixed on the far horizon. as i said before, however, he stood very high in the air, and it may have been he feared, if he ever did look down at his feet, he should turn dizzy and be seized with an uncontrollable desire to leap off and end all; so i am not blaming him for that. he would walk his hour out to the sixtieth second of the sixtieth minute and then he would sit in his steamer chair, as silent as a glacier and as inaccessible as one. if it were afternoon he would have his tea at five o'clock and then, with his soul still full of cracked ice, he would go below and dress for dinner; but he never spoke to anyone. his steamer chair was right-hand chair to mine and often we practically touched elbows; but he did not see me once. i had a terrible thought. suppose now, i said to myself--just suppose that this ship were to sink and only we two were saved; and suppose we were cast away on a desert island and spent years and years there, never knowing each other's name and never mingling together socially until the rescue ship came along--and not even then unless there was some mutual acquaintance aboard her to introduce us properly! it was indeed a frightful thought! it made me shudder. among our company was a younger son going home after a tour of the colonies--canada and australia, and all that sort of bally rot. i believe there is always at least one younger son on every well-conducted english boat; the family keeps him on a remittance and seems to feel easier in its mind when he is traveling. the british statesman who said the sun never sets on british possessions spoke the truth, but the reporters in committing his memorable utterance to paper spelt the keyword wrong--undoubtedly he meant the other kind--the younger kind. this particular example of the species was in every way up to grade and sample. a happy combination of open air, open pores and open casegoods gave to his face the exact color of a slice of rare roast beef; it also had the expression of one. with a dab of english mustard in the lobe of one ear and a savory bit of watercress stuck in his hair for a garnish, he could have passed anywhere for a slice of cold roast beef. he was reasonably exclusive too. not until the day we landed did he and the honorable member of the legation learn--quite by chance--that they were third cousins--or something of that sort--to one another. and so, after the relationship had been thoroughly established through the kindly offices of a third party, they fraternized to the extent of riding up to london on the same boat-train, merely using different compartments of different carriages. the english aristocrat is a tolerably social animal when traveling; but, at the same time, he does not carry his sociability to an excess. he shows restraint. also, we had with us the elderly gentleman of impaired disposition, who had crossed thirty times before and was now completing his thirty-first trip, and getting madder and madder about it every minute. i saw him only with his clothes on; but i should say, speaking offhand, that he had at least fourteen rattles and a button. his poison sacs hung 'way down. others may have taken them for dewlaps, but i knew better; they were poison sacs. it was quite apparent that he abhorred the very idea of having to cross to europe on the same ocean with the rest of us, let alone on the same ship. and for persons who were taking their first trip abroad his contempt was absolutely unutterable; he choked at the bare mention of such a criminal's name and offense. you would hear him communing with himself and a scotch and soda. "bah!" he would say bitterly, addressing the soda-bottle. "these idiots who've never been anywhere talking about this being rough weather! rough weather, mind you! bah! people shouldn't be allowed to go to sea until they know something about it. bah!" by the fourth day out his gums were as blue as indigo, and he was so swelled up with his own venom he looked dropsical. i judged his bite would have caused death in from twelve to fourteen minutes, preceded by coma and convulsive rigors. we called him old colonel gila monster or judge stinging lizard, for short. there was the spry and conversational gentleman who looked like an englishman, but was of the type commonly denominated in our own land as breezy. so he could not have been an englishman. once in a while there comes along an englishman who is windy, and frequently you meet one who is drafty; but there was never a breezy englishman yet. with that interest in other people's business which the close communion of a ship so promptly breeds in most of us, we fell to wondering who and what he might be; but the minute the suspect came into the salon for dinner the first night out i read his secret at a glance. he belonged to a refined song-and-dance team doing sketches in vaudeville. he could not have been anything else--he had jet buttons on his evening clothes. there was the young woman--she had elocutionary talents, it turned out afterward, and had graduated with honors from a school of expression--who assisted in getting up the ship's concert and then took part in it, both of those acts being mistakes on her part, as it proved. and there was the official he-beauty of the ship. he was without a wrinkle in his clothes--or his mind either; and he managed to maneuver so that when he sat in the smoking room he always faced a mirror. that was company enough for him. he never grew lonely or bored then. only one night he discovered something wrong about one of his eyebrows. he gave a pained start; and then, oblivious of those of us who hovered about enjoying the spectacle, he spent a long time working with the blemish. the eyebrow was stubborn, though, and he just couldn't make it behave; so he grew petulant and fretful, and finally went away to bed in a huff. had it not been for fear of stopping his watch, i am sure he would have slapped himself on the wrist. this fair youth was one of the delights of the voyage. one felt that if he had merely a pair of tweezers and a mustache comb and a hand glass he would never, never be at a loss for a solution of the problem that worries so many writers for the farm journals--a way to spend the long winter evenings pleasantly. chapter ii my bonny lies over the ocean--lies and lies and lies of course, we had a bridal couple and a troupe of professional deep-sea fishermen aboard. we just naturally had to have them. without them, i doubt whether the ship could have sailed. the bridal couple were from somewhere in the central part of ohio and they were taking their honeymoon tour; but, if i were a bridal couple from the central part of ohio and had never been to sea before, as was the case in this particular instance, i should take my honeymoon ashore and keep it there. i most certainly should! this couple of ours came aboard billing and cooing to beat the lovebirds. they made it plain to all that they had just been married and were proud of it. their baggage was brand-new, and the groom's shoes were shiny with that pristine shininess which, once destroyed, can never be restored; and the bride wore her going-and-giving-away outfit. just prior to sailing and on the morning after they were all over the ship. everywhere you went you seemed to meet them and they were always wrestling. you entered a quiet side passage--there they were, exchanging a kiss--one of the long-drawn, deep-siphoned, sirupy kind. you stepped into the writing room thinking to find it deserted, and at sight of you they broke grips and sprang apart, eyeing you like a pair of startled fawns surprised by the cruel huntsman in a forest glade. at all other times, though, they had eyes but for each other. a day came, however--and it was the second day out--when they were among the missing. for two days and two nights, while the good ship floundered on the tempestuous bosom of the overwrought ocean, they were gone from human ken. on the afternoon of the third day, the sea being calmer now, but still sufficiently rough to satisfy the most exacting, a few hardy and convalescent souls sat in a shawl-wrapped row on the lee side of the ship. there came two stewards, bearing with them pillows and blankets and rugs. these articles were disposed to advantage in two steamer chairs. then the stewards hurried away; but presently they reappeared, dragging the limp and dangling forms of the bridal couple from the central part of ohio. but oh, my countrymen, what a spectacle! and what a change from what had been! the going-away gown was wrinkled, as though worn for a period of time by one suddenly and sorely stricken in the midst of health. the bride's once well-coifed hair hung in lank disarray about a face that was the color of prime old sage cheese--yellow, with a fleck of green here and there--and in her wan and rolling eye was the hunted look of one who hears something unpleasant stirring a long way off and fears it is coming this way. side by side the stewards stretched them prone on their chairs and tucked them in. her face was turned from him. for some time both of them lay there without visible signs of life--just two muffled, misery-stricken heaps. then, slowly and languidly, the youth stretched forth an arm from his wrappings and fingered the swaddling folds that enveloped the form of his beloved. it may have been he thought it was about time to begin picking the coverlid, or it may have been the promptings of reawakened romance, once more feebly astir within his bosom. at any rate, gently and softly, his hand fell on the rug about where her shoulder ought to be. she still had life enough left in her to shake it off--and she did. hurt, he waited a moment, then caressed her again. "stop that!" she cried in a low but venomous tone. "don't you dare touch me!" so he touched her no more, but only lay there mute and motionless; and from his look one might plumb the sorrows of his soul and know how shocked he was, and how grieved and heartstricken! love's young dream was o'er! he had thought she loved him, but now he knew better. their marriage had been a terrible mistake and he would give her back her freedom; he would give it back to her as soon as he was able to sit up. thus one interpreted his expression. on the day we landed, however, they were seen again. we were nosing northward through a dimpled duckpond of a sea, with the welsh coast on one side and ireland just over the way. people who had not been seen during the voyage came up to breathe, wearing the air of persons who had just returned from the valley of the shadow and were mighty glad to be back; and with those others came our bridal couple. i inadvertently stumbled on them in an obscure companionway. their cheeks again wore the bloom of youth and health, and they were in a tight clinch; it was indeed a pretty sight. love had returned on roseate pinions and the honeymoon had been resumed at the point where postponed on account of bad weather. they had not been seasick, though. i heard them say so. they had been indisposed, possibly from something they had eaten; but they had not been seasick. well, i had my own periods of indisposition going over; and if it had been seasickness i should not hesitate a moment about coming right out and saying so. in these matters i believe in being absolutely frank and aboveboard. for the life of me i cannot understand why people will dissemble and lie about this thing of being seasick. to me their attitude is a source of constant wonderment. on land the average person is reasonably proud of having been sick--after he begins to get better. it gives him something to talk about. the pale and interesting invalid invariably commands respect ashore. in my own list of acquaintances i number several persons--mainly widowed ladies with satisfactory incomes--who never feel well unless they are ill. in the old days they would have had resort to patent medicines and the family lot at laurel grove cemetery; but now they go in for rest cures and sea voyages, and the baths at carlsbad and specialists, these same being main contributing causes to the present high cost of living, and also helping to explain what becomes of some of those large life-insurance policies you read about. possibly you know the type i am describing--the lady who, when planning where she will spend the summer, sends for catalogues from all the leading sanatoriums. we had one such person with us. she had been surgically remodeled so many times that she dated everything from her last operation. at least six times in her life she had been down with something that was absolutely incurable, and she was now going to homburg to have one of the newest and most fatal german diseases in its native haunts, where it would be at its best. she herself said that she was but a mere shell; and for the first few meals she ate like one--like a large, empty shell with plenty of curves inside it. however, when, after a subsequent period of seclusion, she emerged from her stateroom wearing the same disheveled look that jonah must have worn when he and the whale parted company, do you think she would confess she had been seasick? not by any means! she said she had had a raging headache. but she could not fool me. she had the stateroom next to mine and i had heard what i had heard. she was from near boston and she had the near-boston accent; and she was the only person i ever met who was seasick with the broad a. personally i abhor those evasions, which deceive no one. if i had been seasick i should not deny it here or elsewhere. for a time i thought i was seasick. i know now i was wrong--but i thought so. there was something about the sardels served at lunch--their look or their smell or something--which seemed to make them distasteful to me; and i excused myself from the company at the table and went up and out into the open air. but the deck was unpleasantly congested with great burly brutes--beefy, carnivorous, overfed creatures, gorged with victuals and smoking disgustingly strong black cigars, and grinning in an annoying and meaning sort of way every time they passed a body who preferred to lie quiet. the rail was also moving up and down in a manner that was annoying and wearisome for the eye to watch--first tipping up and up and up until half the sky was hidden, then dipping down and down and down until the gray and heaving sea seemed ready to leap over the side and engulf us. so i decided to go below and jot down a few notes. on arriving at my quarters i changed my mind again. i decided to let the notes wait a while and turn in. it is my usual custom when turning in to remove the left shoe as well as the right one and to put on my pajamas; but the pajamas were hanging on a hook away over on the opposite side of the stateroom, which had suddenly grown large and wide and full of great distances; and besides, i thought it was just as well to have the left shoe where i could put my hand on it when i needed it again. so i retired practically just as i was and endeavored, as per the admonitions of certain friends, to lie perfectly flat. no doubt this thing of lying flat is all very well for some people--but suppose a fellow has not that kind of a figure? nevertheless, i tried. i lay as flat as i could, but the indisposition persisted; in fact, it increased materially. the manner in which my pajamas, limp and pendent from that hook, swayed and swung back and forth became extremely distasteful to me; and if by mental treatment i could have removed them from there i should assuredly have done so. but that was impossible. along toward evening i began to think of food. i thought of it not from its gastronomic aspect, but rather in the capacity of ballast. i did not so much desire the taste of it as the feel of it. so i summoned lubly--he, at least, did not smile at me in that patronizing, significant way--and ordered a dinner that included nearly everything on the dinner card except lubly's thumb. the dinner was brought to me in relays and i ate it--ate it all! this step i know now was ill-advised. it is true that for a short time i felt as i imagine a python in a zoo feels when he is full of guinea-pigs--sort of gorged, you know, and sluggish, and only tolerably uncomfortable. then ensued the frightful denouement. it ensued almost without warning. at the time i felt absolutely positive that i was seasick. i would have sworn to it. if somebody had put a bible on my chest and held it there i would cheerfully have laid my right hand on it and taken a solemn oath that i was seasick. indeed, i believed i was so seasick that i feared--hoped, rather--i might never recover from it. all i desired at the moment was to get it over with as quickly and as neatly as possible. as in the case of drowning persons, there passed in review before my eyes several of the more recent events of my past life--meals mostly. i shall, however, pass hastily over these distressing details, merely stating in parentheses, so to speak, that i did not remember those string-beans at all. i was positive then, and am yet, that i had not eaten string-beans for nearly a week. but enough of this! i was sure i was seasick; and i am convinced any inexperienced bystander, had there been one there, would have been misled by my demeanor into regarding me as a seasick person--but it was a wrong diagnosis. the steward told me so himself when he called the next morning. he came and found me stretched prone on the bed of affliction; and he asked me how i felt, to which i replied with a low and hollow groan--tolerably low and exceedingly hollow. it could not have been any hollower if i had been a megaphone. so he looked me over and told me that i had climate fever. we were passing through the gulf stream, where the water was warmer than elsewhere in the atlantic ocean, and i had a touch of climate fever. it was a very common complaint in that latitude; many persons suffered from it. the symptoms were akin to seasickness, it was true; yet the two maladies were in no way to be confused. as soon as we passed out of the gulf stream he felt sure i would be perfectly well. meantime he would recommend that i get lubly to take the rest of my things off and then remain perfectly quiet. he was right about it too. regardless of what one may think oneself, one is bound to accept the statement of an authority on this subject; and if a steward on a big liner, who has traveled back and forth across the ocean for years, is not an authority on climate fever, who is? i looked at it in that light. and sure enough, when we had passed out of the gulf stream and the sea had smoothed itself out, i made a speedy and satisfactory recovery; but if it had been seasickness i should have confessed it in a minute. i have no patience with those who quibble and equivocate in regard to their having been seasick. i had one relapse--a short one, but painful. in an incautious moment, when i wist not wot i wotted, i accepted an invitation from the chief engineer to go below. we went below--miles and miles, i think--to where, standing on metal runways that were hot to the foot, overalled scots ministered to the heart and the lungs and the bowels of that ship. electricity spat cracklingly in our faces, and at our sides steel shafts as big as the pillars of a temple spun in coatings of spumy grease; and through the double skin of her we could hear, over our heads, a mighty niagaralike churning as the slew-footed screws kicked us forward twenty-odd knots an hour. someone raised the cover of a vat, and peering down into the opening we saw a small, vicious engine hard at work, entirely enveloped in twisty, coily, stewy depths of black oil, like a devil-fish writhing in sea-ooze and cuttle-juice. so then we descended another mile or two to an inferno, full of naked, sooty devils forever feeding sulphurous pitfires in the nethermost parlors of the damned; but they said this was the stokehole; and i was in no condition to argue with them, for i had suddenly begun to realize that i was far from being a well person. as one peering through a glass darkly, i saw one of the attendant demons sluice his blistered bare breast with cold water, so that the sweat and grime ran from him in streams like ink; and peering in at a furnace door i saw a great angry sore of coals all scabbed and crusted over. then another demon, wielding a nine-foot bar daintily as a surgeon wields a scalpel, reached in and stabbed it in the center, so that the fire burst through and gushed up red and rich, like blood from a wound newly lanced. i had seen enough and to spare; but my guide brought me back by way of the steerage, in order that i might know how the other half lives. there was nothing here, either of smell or sight, to upset the human stomach--third class is better fed and better quartered now on those big ships than first class was in those good old early days--but i had held in as long as i could and now i relapsed. i relapsed in a vigorous manner--a whole-souled, boisterous manner. people halfway up the deck heard me relapsing, and i will warrant some of them were fooled too--they thought i was seasick. it was due to my attack of climate fever that i missed the most exciting thing which happened on the voyage. i refer to the incident of the professional gamblers and the youth from jersey city. from the very first there was one passenger who had been picked out by all the knowing passengers as a professional gambler; for he was the very spit-and-image of a professional gambler as we have learned to know him in story books. did he not dress in plain black, without any jewelry? he certainly did. did he not have those long, slender, flexible fingers? such was, indeed, the correct description of those fingers. was not his eye a keen steely-blue eye that seemed to have the power of looking right through you? steely-blue was the right word, all right. well, then, what more could you ask? behind his back sinister yet fascinating rumors circulated. he was the brilliant but unscrupulous scion of a haughty house in england. he had taken a first degree at oxford, over there, and the third one at police headquarters, over here. women simply could not resist him. let him make up his mind to win a woman and she was a gone gosling. his picture was to be found in rogues' galleries and ladies' lockets. and sh-h-h! listen! everybody knew he was the identical crook who, disguised in woman's clothes, escaped in the last lifeboat that left the sinking titanic. who said so? why--er--everybody said so! it came as a grievous disappointment to all when we found out the truth, which was that he was the booking agent for a lyceum bureau, going abroad to sign up some foreign talent for next season's chautauquas; and the only gambling he had ever done was on the chance of whether the tyrolian yodelers would draw better than our esteemed secretary of state--or vice versa. meantime the real professionals had established themselves cozily and comfortably aboard, had rigged the trap and cheese-baited it, and were waiting for the coming of one of the class that is born so numerously in this country. if you should be traveling this year on one of the large trans-atlantic ships, and there should come aboard two young well-dressed men and shortly afterward a middle-aged well-dressed man with a flat nose, who was apparently a stranger to the first two; and if on the second night out in the smoking room, while the pool on the next day's run was being auctioned, one of the younger men, whom we will call mr. y, should appear to be slightly under the influence of malt, vinous or spirituous liquors--or all three of them at once--and should, without seeming provocation, insist on picking a quarrel with the middle-aged stranger, whom we will call mr. z; and if further along in the voyage mr. z should introduce himself to you and suggest a little game of auction bridge for small stakes in order to while away the tedium of travel; and if it should so fall out that mr. y and his friend mr. x chanced to be the only available candidates for a foursome at this fascinating pursuit; and if mr. z, being still hostile toward the sobered and repentant mr. y, should decline to take on either mr. y or his friend x as a partner, but chose you instead; and if on the second or third deal you picked up your cards and found you had an apparently unbeatable hand and should bid accordingly; and mr. x should double you; and mr. z, sitting across from you should come gallantly right back and redouble it; and mr. y, catching the spirit of the moment, should double again--and so on and so forth until each point, instead of being worth only a paltry cent or two, had accumulated a value of a good many cents--if all these things or most of them should befall in the order enumerated--why, then, if i were you, gentle reader, i would have a care. and i should leave that game and go somewhere else to have it too--lest a worse thing befall you as it befell the guileless young jerseyman on our ship. after he had paid out a considerable sum on being beaten--by just one card--upon the playing of his seemingly unbeatable hand and after the haunting and elusive odor of eau de rodent had become plainly perceptible all over the ship, he began, as the saying goes, to smell a rat himself, and straightway declined to make good his remaining losses, amounting to quite a tidy amount. following this there were high words, meaning by that low ones, and accusations and recriminations, and at eventide when the sunset was a welter of purple and gold, there was a sudden smashing of glassware in the smoking room and a flurry of arms and legs in a far corner, and a couple of pained stewards scurrying about saying, "ow, now, don't do that, sir, if you please, sir, thank you, sir!" and one of the belligerents came forth from the melee wearing a lavender eye with saffron trimmings, as though to match the sunset, and the other with a set of skinned knuckles, emblematic of the skinning operations previously undertaken. and through all the ship ran the hissing tongues of scandal and gossip. out of wild rumor and cross-rumor, certain salient facts were eventually precipitated like sediment from a clouded solution. it seemed that the engaging messrs. x, y and z had been induced, practically under false pretenses to book passage, they having read in the public prints that the prodigal and card-foolish son of a cheese-paring millionaire father meant to take the ship too; but he had grievously disappointed them by not coming aboard at all. then, when in an effort to make their traveling expenses back, they uncorked their newest trick and device for inspiring confidence in gudgeons, the particular gudgeon of their choosing had refused to pay up. naturally they were fretful and peevish in the extreme. it spoiled the whole trip for them. except for this one small affair it was, on the whole, a pleasant voyage. we had only one storm and one ship's concert, and at the finish most of us were strong enough to have stood another storm. and the trip had been worth a lot to us--at least it had been worth a lot to me, for i had crossed the ocean on one of the biggest hotels afloat. i had amassed quite a lot of nautical terms that would come in very handy for stunning the folks at home when i got back. i had had my first thrill at the sight of foreign shores. and just by casual contact with members of the british aristocracy, i had acquired such a heavy load of true british hauteur that in parting on the landing dock i merely bowed distantly toward those of my fellow americans to whom i had not been introduced; and they, having contracted the same disease, bowed back in the same haughty and distant manner. when some of us met again, however, in vienna, the insulation had been entirely rubbed off and we rushed madly into one another's arms and exchanged names and addresses; and, babbling feverishly the while, we told one another what our favorite flower was, and our birthstone and our grandmother's maiden name, and what we thought of a race of people who regarded a cup of ostensible coffee and a dab of honey as constituting a man's-size breakfast. and, being pretty tolerably homesick by that time, we leaned in toward a common center and gave three loud, vehement cheers for the land of the country sausage and the home of the buckwheat cake--and, as giants refreshed, went on our ways rejoicing. that, though, was to come later. at present we are concerned with the trip over and what we had severally learned from it. i personally had learned, among other things, that the atlantic ocean, considered as such, is a considerably overrated body. having been across it, even on so big and fine and well-ordered a ship as this ship was, the ocean, it seemed to me, was not at all what it had been cracked up to be. during the first day out it is a novelty and after that a monotony--except when it is rough; and then it is a doggoned nuisance. poets without end have written of the sea, but i take it they stayed at home to do their writing. they were not on the bounding billow when they praised it; if they had been they might have decorated the billow, but they would never have praised it. as the old song so happily put it: my bonny lies over the ocean! and a lot of others have lied over it too; but i will not--at least not just yet. perhaps later on i may feel moved to do so; but at this moment i am but newly landed from it and my heart is full of rankling resentment toward the ocean and all its works. i speak but a sober conviction when i say that the chief advantage to be derived from taking an ocean voyage is not that you took it, but that you have it to talk about afterward. and, to my mind, the most inspiring sight to be witnessed on a trip across the atlantic is the battery--viewed from the ocean side, coming back. do i hear any seconds to that motion? chapter iii bathing oneself on the other side my first experience with the bathing habits of the native aryan stocks of europe came to pass on the morning after the night of our arrival in london. london disappointed me in one regard--when i opened my eyes that morning there was no fog. there was not the slightest sign of a fog. i had expected that my room would be full of fog of about the consistency of scotch stage dialect--soupy, you know, and thick and bewildering. i had expected that servants with lighted tapers in their hands would be groping their way through corridors like caves, and that from the street without, would come the hoarse-voiced cries of cabmen lost in the enshrouding gray. you remember dickens always had them hoarse-voiced. this was what i confidently expected. such, however, was not to be. i woke to a consciousness that the place was flooded with indubitable and undoubted sunshine. to be sure, it was not the sharp, hard sunshine we have in america, which scours and bleaches all it touches, until the whole world has the look of having just been clear-starched and hot-ironed. it was a softened, smoke-edged, pastel-shaded sunshine; nevertheless it was plainly recognizable as the genuine article. nor was your london shadow the sharply outlined companion in black who accompanies you when the weather is fine in america. your shadow in london was rather a dim and wavery gentleman who caught up with you as you turned out of the shaded by-street; who went with you a distance and then shyly vanished, but was good company while he stayed, being restful, as your well-bred englishman nearly always is, and not overly aggressive. there was no fog that first morning, or the next morning, or any morning of the twenty-odd we spent in england. often the weather was cloudy, and occasionally it was rainy; and then london would be drenched in that wonderful gray color which makes it, scenically speaking, one of the most fascinating spots on earth; but it was never downright foggy and never downright cold. english friends used to speak to me about it. they apologized for good weather at that season of the year, just as natives of a florida winter resort will apologize for bad. "you know, old dear," they would say, "this is most unusual--most stroidinary, in fact. it ought to be raw and nasty and foggy at this time of the year, and here the cursed weather is perfectly fine--blast it!" you could tell they were grieved about it, and disappointed too. anything that is not regular upsets englishmen frightfully. maybe that is why they enforce their laws so rigidly and obey them so beautifully. anyway i woke to find the fog absent, and i rose and prepared to take my customary cold bath. i am much given to taking a cold bath in the morning and speaking of it afterward. people who take a cold bath every day always like to brag about it, whether they take it or not. the bathroom adjoined the bedroom, but did not directly connect with it, being reached by means of a small semi-private hallway. it was a fine, noble bathroom, white tiled and spotless; and one side of it was occupied by the longest, narrowest bathtub i ever saw. apparently english bathtubs are constructed on the principle that every englishman who bathes is nine feet long and about eighteen inches wide, whereas the approximate contrary is frequently the case. draped over a chair was the biggest, widest, softest bathtowel ever made. shem, ham and japhet could have dried themselves on that bathtowel, and there would still have been enough dry territory left for some of the animals--not the large, woolly animals like the siberian yak, but the small, slick, porous animals such as the armadillo and the mexican hairless dog. so i wedged myself into the tub and had a snug-fitting but most luxurious bath; and when i got back to my room the maid had arrived with the shaving water. there was a knock at the door, and when i opened it there stood a maid with a lukewarm pint of water in a long-waisted, thin-lipped pewter pitcher. there was plenty of hot water to be had in the bathroom, with faucets and sinks all handy and convenient, and a person might shave himself there in absolute comfort; but long before the days of pipes and taps an englishman got his shaving water in a pewter ewer, and he still gets it so. it is one of the things guaranteed him under magna charta and he demands it as a right; but i, being but a benighted foreigner, left mine in the pitcher, and that evening the maid checked me up. "you didn't use the shaving water i brought you to-day, sir!" she said. "it was still in the jug when i came in to tidy up, sir." her tone was grieved; so, after that, to spare her feelings, i used to pour it down the sink. but if i were doing the trip over again i would drink it for breakfast instead of the coffee the waiter brought me--the shaving water being warmish and containing, so far as i could tell, no deleterious substances. and if the bathroom were occupied at the time i would shave myself with the coffee. i judge it might work up into a thick and durable lather. it is certainly not adapted for drinking purposes. the english, as a race, excel at making tea and at drinking it after it is made; but among them coffee is still a mysterious and murky compound full of strange by-products. by first weakening it and wearing it down with warm milk one may imbibe it; but it is not to be reckoned among the pleasures of life. it is a solemn and a painful duty. on the second morning i was splashing in my tub, gratifying that amphibious instinct which has come down to us from the dim evolutionary time when we were paleozoic polliwogs, when i made the discovery that there were no towels in the bathroom. i glanced about keenly, seeking for help and guidance in such an emergency. set in the wall directly above the rim of the tub was a brass plate containing two pushbuttons. one button, the uppermost one, was labeled waiter--the other was labeled maid. this was disconcerting. even in so short a stay under the roof of an english hotel i had learned that at this hour the waiter would be hastening from room to room, ministering to englishmen engaged in gumming their vital organs into an impenetrable mass with the national dish of marmalade; and that the maid would also be busy carrying shaving water to people who did not need it. besides, of all the classes i distinctly do not require when i am bathing, one is waiters and the other is maids. for some minutes i considered the situation, without making any headway toward a suitable solution of it; meantime i was getting chilled. so i dried myself--sketchily--with a toothbrush and the edge of the window-shade; then i dressed, and in a still somewhat moist state i went down to interview the management about it. i first visited the information desk and told the youth in charge there i wished to converse with some one in authority on the subject of towels. after gazing at me a spell in a puzzled manner he directed me to go across the lobby to the cashier's department. here i found a gentleman of truly regal aspect. his tie was a perfect dream of a tie, and he wore a frock coat so slim and long and black it made him look as though he were climbing out of a smokestack. presenting the case as though it were a supposititious one purely, i said to him: "presuming now that one of your guests is in a bathtub and finds he has forgotten to lay in any towels beforehand--such a thing might possibly occur, you know--how does he go about summoning the man-servant or the valet with a view to getting some?" "oh, sir," he replied, "that's very simple. you noticed two pushbuttons in your bathroom, didn't you?" "i did," i said, "and that's just the difficulty. one of them is for the maid and the other is for the waiter." "quite so, sir," he said, "quite so. very well, then, sir: you ring for the waiter or the maid--or, if you should charnce to be in a hurry, for both of them; because, you see, one of them might charnce to be en--" "one moment," i said. "let me make my position clear in this matter: this lady susanna--i do not know her last name, but you will doubtless recall the person i mean, because i saw several pictures of her yesterday in your national art gallery--this lady susanna may have enjoyed taking a bath with a lot of snoopy old elders lurking round in the background; but i am not so constituted. i was raised differently from that. with me, bathing has ever been a solitary pleasure. this may denote selfishness on my part; but such is my nature and i cannot alter it. all my folks feel about it as i do. we are a very peculiar family that way. when bathing we do not invite an audience. nor do i want one. a crowd would only embarrass me. i merely desire a little privacy and, here and there, a towel." "ah, yes! quite so, sir," he said; "but you do not understand me. as i said before, you ring for the waiter or the maid. when one of them comes you tell them to send you the manservant on your floor; and when he comes you tell him you require towels, and he goes to the linen cupboard and gets them and fetches them to you, sir. it's very simple, sir." "but why," i persisted, "why do this thing by a relay system? i don't want any famishing gentleman in this place to go practically unmarmaladed at breakfast because i am using the waiter to conduct preliminary negotiations with a third party in regard to a bathtowel." "but it is so very simple, sir," he repeated patiently. "you ring for the waiter or the ma--" i checked him with a gesture. i felt that i knew what he meant to say; i also felt that if any word of mine might serve to put this establishment on an easy-running basis they could have it and welcome. "listen!" i said. "you will kindly pardon the ignorance of a poor, red, partly damp american who has shed his eagle feathers but still has his native curiosity with him! why not put a third button in that bathroom labeled manservant or valet or towel boy, or something of that general nature? and then when a sufferer wanted towels, and wanted 'em quick, he could get them without blocking the wheels of progress and industry. we may still be shooting mohawk indians and the american bison in the streets of buffalo, new york; and we may still be saying: 'by geehosaphat, i swan to calculate!--anyway, i note that we still say that in all your leading comic papers; but when a man in my land goes a-toweling, he goes a-toweling--and that is all there is to it, positively! in our secret lodges it may happen that the worshipful master calls the august swordbearer to him and bids him communicate with the grand outer guardian and see whether the candidate is suitably attired for admission; but in ordinary life we cut out the middleman wherever possible. do you get my drift?" "oh, yes, sir," he said; "but i fear you do not understand me. as i told you, it's very simple--so very simple, sir. we've never found it necessary to make a change. you ring for the waiter or for the maid, and you tell them to tell the manservant--" "all right," i said, breaking in. i could see that his arguments were of the circular variety that always came back to the starting point. "but, as a favor to me, would you kindly ask the proprietor to request the head cook to communicate with the carriage starter and have him inform the waiter that when in future i ring the bathroom bell in a given manner--to wit: one long, determined ring followed by three short, passionate rings--it may be regarded as a signal for towels?" so saying, i turned on my heel and went away, for i could tell he was getting ready to begin all over again. later on i found out for myself that, in this particular hotel, when you ring for the waiter or the maid the bell sounds in the service room, where those functionaries are supposed to be stationed; but when you ring for the manservant a small arm-shaped device like a semaphore drops down over your outer door. but what has the manservant done that he should be thus discriminated against? why should he not have a bell of his own? so far as i might judge, the poor fellow has few enough pleasures in life as it is. why should he battle with the intricacies of a block-signal system when everybody else round the place has a separate bell? and why all this mystery and mummery over so simple and elemental a thing as a towel? to my mind, it merely helps to prove that among the english the art of bathing is still in its infancy. the english claim to have discovered the human bath and they resent mildly the assumption that any other nation should become addicted to it; whereas i argue that the burden of the proof shows we do more bathing to the square inch of surface than the english ever did. at least, we have superior accommodations for it. the day is gone in this country when saturday night was the big night for indoor aquatic sports and pastimes; and no gentleman as was a gentleman would call on his ladylove and break up her plans for the great weekly ceremony. there may have been a time in certain rural districts when the bathing season for males practically ended on september fifteenth, owing to the water in the horsepond becoming chilled; but that time has passed. along with every modern house that is built to-day, in country or town, we expect bathrooms and plenty of them. with us the presence of a few bathtubs more or less creates no great amount of excitement--nor does the mere sight of open plumbing particularly stir our people; whereas in england a hotelkeeper who has bathrooms on the premises advertises the fact on his stationery. if in addition to a few bathrooms a continental hotelkeeper has a decrepit elevator he makes more noise over it than we do over a pompeian palmroom or an etruscan roofgarden; he hangs a sign above his front door testifying to his magnificent enterprise in this regard. the continental may be a born hotelkeeper, as has been frequently claimed for him; but the trouble is he usually has no hotel to keep. it is as though you set an interior decorator to run a livery stable and expected him to make it attractive. he may have the talents, but he is lacking in the raw material. it was in a london apartment house, out maida vale way, that i first beheld the official bathtub of an english family establishment. it was one of those bathtubs that flourished in our own land at about the time of the green-back craze--a coffin-shaped, boxed-in affair lined with zinc; and the zinc was suffering from tetter or other serious skin trouble and was peeling badly. there was a current superstition about the place to the effect that the bathroom and the water supply might on occasion be heated with a device known in the vernacular as a geezer. the geezer was a sheet-iron contraption in the shape of a pocket inkstand, and it stood on a perch in the corner, like a russian icon, with a small blue flame flickering beneath it. it looked as though its sire might have been a snare-drum and its dam a dark lantern, and that it got its looks from its father and its heating powers from the mother's side of the family. and the plumbing fixtures were of the type that passed out of general use on the american side of the water with the rutherford b. hayes administration. i was given to understand that this was a fair sample of the average residential london bathroom--though the newer apartment houses that are going up have better ones, they told me. in english country houses the dearth of bathing appliances must be even more dearthful. i ran through the columns of the leading english fashion journal and read the descriptions of the large country places that were there offered for sale or lease. in many instances the advertisements were accompanied by photographic reproductions in half tone showing magnificent old places, with queen anne fronts and tudor towers and elizabethan entails and georgian mortgages, and what not. seeing these views i could conjure up visions of rooks cawing in the elms; of young curates in flat hats imbibing tea on green lawns; of housekeepers named meadows or fleming, in rustling black silk; of old giles--fifty years, man and boy, on the place--wearing a smock frock and leaning on a pitchfork, with a wisp of hay caught in the tines, lamenting that the 'all 'asn't been the same, zur, since the young marster was killed ridin' to 'ounds; and then pensively wiping his eyes on a stray strand of the hay. with no great stretch of the imagination i could picture a gouty, morose old lord with a secret sorrow and a brandy breath; i could picture a profligate heir going deeper and deeper in debt, but refusing to the bitter end to put the ax to the roots of the ancestral oaks. i could imagine these parties readily, because i had frequently read about both of them in the standard english novels; and i had seen them depicted in all the orthodox english dramas i ever patronized. but i did not notice in the appended descriptions any extended notice of heating arrangements; most of the advertisements seemed to slur over that point altogether. and, as regards bathing facilities in their relation to the capacities of these country places, i quote at random from the figures given: eighteen rooms and one bath; sixteen rooms and two baths; fourteen rooms and one bath; twenty-one rooms and two baths; eleven rooms and one bath; thirty-four rooms and two baths. remember that by rooms bedrooms were meant; the reception rooms and parlors and dining halls and offices, and the like, were listed separately. i asked a well-informed englishman how he could reconcile this discrepancy between bedrooms and bathrooms with the current belief that the english had a practical monopoly of the habit of bathing. after considering the proposition at some length he said i should understand there was a difference in england between taking a bath and taking a tub--that, though an englishman might not be particularly addicted to a bath, he must have his tub every morning. but i submit that the facts prove this explanation to have been but a feeble subterfuge. let us, for an especially conspicuous example, take the house that has thirty-four sleeping chambers and only two baths. let us imagine the house to be full of guests, with every bedroom occupied; and, if it is possible to do so without blushing, let us further imagine a couple of pink-and-white english gentlemen in the two baths. if preferable, members of the opposite sex may imagine two ladies. very well, then; this leaves the occupants of thirty-two bedrooms all to be provided with large tin tubs at approximately the same hour of the morning. where would any household muster the crews to man all those portable tin tubs? and where would the proprietor keep his battery of thirty-two tubs when they were not in use? not in the family picture gallery, surely! from my readings of works of fiction describing the daily life of the english upper classes i know full well that the picture gallery is lined with family portraits; that each canvased countenance there shows the haughtily aquiline but slightly catarrhal nose, which is a heritage of this house; that each pair of dark and brooding eyes hide in their depths the shadow of that dread nemesis which, through all the fateful centuries, has dogged this brave but ill-starred race until now, alas! the place must be let, furnished, to some beastly creature in trade, such as an american millionaire. here at this end we have the founder of the line, dubbed a knight on the gory field of hastings; and there at that end we have the present heir, a knighted dub. we know they cannot put the tubs in the family picture gallery; there is no room. they need an armory for that outfit, and no armory is specified in the advertisement. so i, for one, must decline to be misled or deceived by specious generalities. if you are asking me my opinion i shall simply say that the bathing habit of merrie england is a venerable myth, and likewise so is the fresh-air fetish. the error an englishman makes is that he mistakes cold air for fresh air. in cold weather an englishman arranges a few splintered jackstraws, kindling fashion, in an open grate somewhat resembling in size and shape a wallpocket for bedroom slippers. on this substructure he gently deposits one or more carboniferous nodules the size of a pigeon egg, and touches a match to the whole. in the more fortunate instances the result is a small, reddish ember smoking intermittently. he stands by and feeds the glow with a dessert-spoonful of fuel administered at half-hour intervals, and imagines he really has a fire and that he is really being warmed. why the english insist on speaking of coal in the plural when they use it only in the singular is more than i can understand. conceded that we overheat our houses and our railroad trains and our hotel lobbies in america, nevertheless we do heat them. in winter their interiors are warmer and less damp than the outer air--which is more than can be said for the lands across the sea, where you have to go outdoors to thaw. if there are any outdoor sleeping porches in england i missed them when i was there; but as regards the ventilation of an english hotel i may speak with authority, having patronized one. to begin with, the windows have heavy shades. back of these in turn are folding blinds; then long, close curtains of muslin; then, finally, thick, manifolding, shrouding draperies of some airproof woolen stuff. at nighttime the maid enters your room, seals the windows, pulls down the shades, locks the shutters, closes the curtains, draws the draperies--and then, i think, calks all the cracks with oakum. when the occupant of that chamber retires to rest he is as hermetic as old rameses the first, safe in his tomb, ever dared to hope to be. that reddish aspect of the face noted in connection with the average englishman is not due to fresh air, as has been popularly supposed; it is due to the lack of it. it is caused by congestion. for years he has been going along, trying to breathe without having the necessary ingredients at hand. at that, england excels the rest of europe in fresh air, just as it excels it in the matter of bathing facilities. there is some fresh air left in england--an abundant supply in warm weather, and a stray bit here and there in cold. on the continent there is none to speak of. chapter iv jacques, the forsaken in germany the last fresh air was used during the thirty years' war, and there has since been no demand for any. austria has no fresh air at all--never did have any, and therefore has never felt the need of having any. italy--the northern part of it anyhow--is also reasonably shy of this commodity. in the german-speaking countries all street cars and all railway trains sail with battened hatches. in their palmiest days the jimmy hope gang could not have opened a window in a german sleeping car--not without blasting; and trying to open a window in the ordinary first or second class carriage provides healthful exercise for an american tourist, while affording a cheap and simple form of amusement for his fellow passengers. if, by superhuman efforts and at the cost of a fingernail or two, he should get one open, somebody else in the compartment as a matter of principle, immediately objects; and the retired brigadier-general, who is always in charge of a german train, comes and seals it up again, for that is the rule and the law; and then the natives are satisfied and sit in sweet content together, breathing a line of second-handed air that would choke a salamander. once, a good many years ago--in the century before the last i think it was--a member of the teutonic racial stock was accidentally caught out in the fresh air and some of it got into his lungs. and, being a strange and a foreign influence to which the lungs were unused, it sickened him; in fact i am not sure but that it killed him on the spot. so the emperors of germany and austria got together and issued a joint ukase on the subject and, so far as the traveling public was concerned, forever abolished those dangerous experiments. over there they think a draft is deadly, and i presume it is if you have never tampered with one. they have a saying: a little window is a dangerous thing. as with fresh air on the continent, so also with baths--except perhaps more so. in deference to the strange and unaccountable desires of their english-speaking guests the larger hotels in paris are abundantly equipped with bathrooms now, but the parisian boulevardiers continue to look with darkling suspicion on a party who will deliberately immerse his person in cold water; their beings seem to recoil in horror from the bare prospect of such a thing. it is plainly to be seen they think his intelligence has been attainted by cold water externally applied; they fear that through a complete undermining of his reason he may next be committing these acts of violence on innocent bystanders rather than on himself, as in the present distressing stages of his mania. especially, i would say, is this the attitude of the habitue of montmartre. i can offer no visual proof to back my word; but by other testimony i venture the assertion that when a boulevardier feels the need of a bath he hangs a musk bag round his neck--and then, as the saying is, the warmer the sweeter. his companion of the gentler sex apparently has the same idea of performing daily ablutions that a tabby cat has. you recall the tabby-cat system, do you not?--two swipes over the brow with the moistened paw, one forward swipe over each ear, a kind of circular rubbing effect across the face--and call it a day! drowning must be the most frightful death that a parisian sidewalk favorite can die. it is not so much the death itself--it is the attendant circumstances. across the river, in the older quarters of paris, there is excitement when anybody on the block takes a bath--not so much excitement as for a fire, perhaps, but more than for a funeral. on the eve of the fatal day the news spreads through the district that to-morrow poor jacques is going to take a bath! a further reprieve has been denied him. he cannot put it off for another month, or even for another two weeks. his doom is nigh at hand; there is no hope--none! kindly old angeline, the midwife, shakes her head sadly as she goes about her simple duties. on the morrow the condemned man rises early and sees his spiritual adviser. he eats a hearty breakfast, takes an affectionate leave of his family and says he is prepared for the worst. at the appointed hour the tumbrel enters the street, driven by the paid executioner--a descendant of the original sanson--and bearing the dread instrument of punishment, a large oblong tin tub. the rumble of the heavy wheels over the cobbles seems to wake an agonized chord in every bosom. to-day this dread visitation descends on jacques; but who can tell--so the neighbors say to themselves--when the same fate may strike some other household now happily unconscious! all along the narrow way sorrow-drooped heads protrude in rows; from every casement dangle whiskers, lank and stringy with sympathy--for in this section every true frenchman has whiskers, and if by chance he has not his wife has; so that there are whiskers for all. from the window of the doomed wretch's apartments a derrick protrudes--a crossarm with a pulley and a rope attached. it bears a grimly significant resemblance to a gallows tree. under the direction of the presiding functionary the tub is made fast to the tackle and hoisted upward as pianos and safes are hoisted in american cities. it halts at the open casement. it vanishes within. the whole place resounds with low murmurs of horror and commiseration. ah, the poor jacques--how he must suffer! hark to that low, sickening thud! 'tis the accursed soap dropping from his nerveless grasp. hist to that sound--like unto a death rattle! it is the water gurgling in the tub. and what means that low, poignant, smothered gasp? it is the last convulsive cry of jacques descending into the depths. all is over! let us pray! the tub, emptied but stained, is lowered to the waiting cart. the executioner kisses the citizen who has held his horse for him during his absence and departs; the whole district still hums with ill-suppressed excitement. questions fly from tongue to tongue. was the victim brave at the last? was he resigned when the dread moment came? and how is the family bearing up? it is hours before the place settles down again to that calm which will endure for another month, until somebody else takes a bath on a physician's prescription. even in the sanctity of a paris hotel a bath is more or less a public function unless you lock your door. all sorts of domestic servitors drift in, filled with a morbid curiosity to see how a foreigner deports himself when engaged in this strange, barbaric rite. on the occasion of my first bath on french soil, after several of the hired help had thus called on me informally, causing me to cower low in my porcelain retreat, i took advantage of a moment of comparative quiet to rise drippingly and draw the latch. i judged the proprietor would be along next, and i was not dressed for him. the lady susanna of whom mention has previously been made must have stopped at a french hotel at some time of her life. this helps us to understand why she remained so calm when the elders happened in. even as now practiced, bathing still remains a comparative novelty in the best french circles, i imagine. i base this presumption on observations made during a visit to versailles. i went to versailles; i trod with reverent step those historic precincts adorned with art treasures uncountable, with curios magnificent, with relics invaluable. i visited the little palace and the big; i ventured deep into that splendid forest where, in the company of ladies regarding whom there has been a good deal of talk subsequently, france's grandest and merriest monarch disported himself. and i found out what made the merriest monarch merry--so far as i could see, there was not a bathroom on the place. he was a true frenchman--was louis the fourteenth. in berlin, at the imperial palace, our experience was somewhat similar. led by a guide we walked through acres of state drawing rooms and state dining rooms and state reception rooms and state picture rooms; and we were told that most of them--or, at least, many of them--were the handiwork of the late andreas schluter. the deceased schluter was an architect, a painter, a sculptor, a woodcarver, a decorator, all rolled into one. he was the george m. cohan of his time; and i think he also played the clarinet, being a german. we traversed miles of these schluter masterpieces. eventually we heard sounds of martial music without, and we went to a window overlooking a paved courtyard; and from that point we presently beheld a fine sight. for the moment the courtyard was empty, except that in the center stood a great mass of bronze--by schluter, i think--a heroic equestrian statue of saint george in the act of destroying the first adulterated german sausage. but in a minute the garrison turned out; and then in through an arched gateway filed the relief guard headed by a splendid band, with bell-hung standards jingling at the head of the column and young officers stalking along as stiff as ramrods, and soldiers marching with the goosestep. in the german army the private who raises his knee the highest and sticks his shank out ahead of him the straightest, and slams his foot down the hardest and jars his brain the painfulest, is promoted to be a corporal and given a much heavier pair of shoes, so that he may make more noise and in time utterly destroy his reason. the goosestep would be a great thing for destroying grasshoppers or cutworms in a plague year in a kansas wheatfield. at the kaiser's palace we witnessed all these sights, but we did not run across any bathrooms or any bathtubs. however, we were in the public end of the establishment and i regard it as probable that in the other wing, where the kaiser lives when at home, there are plenty of bathrooms. i did not investigate personally. the kaiser was out at potsdam and i did not care to call in his absence. bathrooms are plentiful at the hotel where we stopped at berlin. i had rather hoped to find the bedroom equipped with an old-fashioned german feather bed. i had heard that one scaled the side of a german bed on a stepladder and then fell headlong into its smothering folds like a gallant fireman invading a burning rag warehouse; but this hotel happened to be the best hotel that i ever saw outside the united states. it had been built and it was managed on american lines, plus german domestic service--which made an incomparable combination--and it was furnished with modern beds and provided with modern bathrooms. probably as a delicate compliment to the kaiser, the bathtowels were starched until the fringes at the ends bristled up stiffly a-curl, like the ends of his imperial majesty's equally imperial mustache. just once--and once only--i made the mistake of rubbing myself with one of those towels just as it was. i should have softened it first by a hackling process, as we used to hackle the hemp in kentucky; but i did not. for two days i felt like an etching. i looked something like one too. in vienna we could not get a bedroom with a bathroom attached--they did not seem to have any--but we were told there was a bathroom just across the hall which we might use with the utmost freedom. this bathroom was a large, long, loftly, marble-walled vault. it was as cold as a tomb and as gloomy as one, and very smelly. indeed it greatly resembled the pictures i have seen of the sepulcher of an egyptian king--only i would have said that this particular king had been skimpily embalmed by the royal undertakers in the first place, and then imperfectly packed. the bathtub was long and marked with scars, and it looked exactly like a rifled mummy case with the lid missing, which added greatly to the prevalent illusion. we used this bathroom ad lib.: but when i went to pay the bill i found an official had been keeping tabs on us, and that all baths taken had been charged up at the rate of sixty cents apiece. i had provided my own soap too! for that matter the traveler provides his own soap everywhere in europe, outside of england. in some parts soap is regarded as an edible and in some as a vice common to foreigners; but everywhere except in the northern countries it is a curio. so in vienna they made us furnish our own soap and then charged us more for a bath than they did for a meal. still, by their standards, i dare say they were right. a meal is a necessity, but a bath is an exotic luxury; and, since they have no extensive tariff laws in austria, it is but fair that the foreigner should pay the tax. i know i paid mine, one way or another. speaking of bathing reminds me of washing; and speaking of washing reminds me of an adventure i had in vienna in connection with a white waistcoat--or, as we would call it down where i was raised, a dress vest. this vest had become soiled through travel and wear across europe. at vienna i intrusted it to the laundry along with certain other garments. when the bundle came back my vest was among the missing. the maid did not seem to be able to comprehend the brand of german i use in casual conversation; so, through an interpreter, i explained to her that i was shy one white vest. for two days she brought all sorts of vests and submitted them to me on approval--thin ones and thick ones; old ones and new ones; slick ones and woolly ones; fringed ones and frayed ones. i think the woman had a private vest mine somewhere, and went and tapped a fresh vein on my account every few minutes; but it never was the right vest she brought me. finally i told her in my best german, meantime accompanying myself with appropriate yet graceful gestures, that she need not concern herself further with the affair; she could just let the matter drop and i would interview the manager and put in a claim for the value of the lost garment. she looked at me dazedly a moment while i repeated the injunction more painstakingly than before; and, at that, understanding seemed to break down the barriers of her reason and she said, "ja! ja!" then she nodded emphatically several times, smiled and hurried away and in twenty minutes was back, bringing with her a begging friar of some monastic order or other. i would take it as a personal favor if some student of the various teutonic tongues and jargons would inform me whether there is any word in viennese for white vest that sounds like catholic priest! however, we prayed together--that brown brother and i. i do not know what he prayed for, but i prayed for my vest. i never got it though. i doubt whether my prayer ever reached heaven--it had such a long way to go. it is farther from vienna to heaven than from any other place in the world, i guess--unless it is paris. that vest is still wandering about the damp-filled corridors of that hotel, mooing in a plaintive manner for its mate--which is myself. it will never find a suitable adopted parent. it was especially coopered to my form by an expert clothing contractor, and it will not fit anyone else. no; it will wander on and on, the starchy bulge of its bosom dimly phosphorescent in the gloaming, its white pearl buttons glimmering spectrally; and after a while the hotel will get the reputation of being haunted by the ghost of a flour barrel, and will have a bad name and lose custom. i hope so anyway. it looks to be my one chance of getting even with the owner for penalizing me in the matter of baths. from vienna we went southward into the tyrolese alps. it was a wonderful ride--that ride through the semmering and on down to northern italy. our absurdly short little locomotive, drawing our absurdly long train, went boring in and out of a wrinkly shoulder-seam of the tyrols like a stubby needle going through a tuck. i think in thirty miles we threaded thirty tunnels; after that i was practically asphyxiated and lost count. if i ever take that journey again i shall wear a smoke helmet and be comfortable. but always between tunnels there were views to be seen that would have revived one of the seven sleepers. now, on the great-granddaddy-longlegs of all the spidery trestles that ever were built, we would go roaring across a mighty gorge, its sides clothed with perpendicular gardens and vineyards, and with little gray towns clustering under the ledges on its sheer walls like mud-daubers' nests beneath an eave. now, perched on a ridgy outcrop of rock like a single tooth in a snaggled reptilian jaw, would be a deserted tower, making a fellow think of the good old feudal days when the robber barons robbed the traveler instead of as at present, when the job is so completely attended to by the pirates who weigh and register baggage in these parts. then--whish, roar, eclipse, darkness and sulphureted hydrogen!--we would dive into another tunnel and out again--gasping--on a breathtaking panorama of mountains. some of them would be standing up against the sky like the jagged top of a half-finished cutout puzzle, and some would be buried so deeply in clouds that only their peaked blue noses showed sharp above the featherbed mattresses of mist in which they were snuggled, as befitted mountains of teutonic extraction. and nearly every eminence was crowned with a ruined castle or a hotel. it was easy to tell a hotel from a ruin--it had a sign over the door. at one of those hotels i met up with a homesick american. he was marooned there in the rain, waiting for the skies to clear, so he could do some mountain climbing; and he was beginning to get moldy from the prevalent damp. by now the study of bathing habits had become an obsession with me; i asked him whether he had encountered any bathtubs about the place. he said a bathtub in those altitudes was as rare as a chamois, and the chamois was entirely extinct; so i might make my own calculations. but he said he could show me something that was even a greater curiosity than a bathtub, and he led me to where a moonfaced barometer hung alongside the front entrance of the hotel. he said he had been there a week now and had about lost hope; but every time he threatened to move on, the proprietor would take him out there and prove that they were bound to have clearing weather within a few hours, because the barometer registered fair. at that moment streams of chilly rain-water were coursing down across the dial of the barometer, but it registered fair even then. he said--the american did--that it was the most stationary barometer he had ever seen, and the most reliable--not vacillating and given to moods, like most barometers, but fixed and unchangeable in its habits. i matched it, though, with a thermometer i saw in the early spring of at a coast resort in southern california. an eastern tourist would venture out on the windswept and drippy veranda, of a morning after breakfast. he would think he was cold. he would have many of the outward indications of being cold. his teeth would be chattering like a morse sounder, and inside his white-duck pants his knees would be knocking together with a low, muffled sound. he would be so prickled with gooseflesh that he felt like saint sebastian; but he would take a look at the thermometer--sixty-one in the shade! and such was the power of mercury and mind combined over matter that he would immediately chirk up and feel warm. not a hundred yards away, at a drug store, was one of those fickle-minded, variable thermometers, showing a temperature that ranged from fifty-five on downward to forty; but the hotel thermometer stood firm at sixty-one, no matter what happened. in a season of trying climatic conditions it was a great comfort--a boon really--not only to its owner but to his guests. speaking personally, however, i have no need to consult the barometer's face to see what the weather is going to do, or the thermometer's tube to see what it has done. no person needs to do so who is favored naturally as i am. i have one of the most dependable soft corns in the business. rome is full of baths--vast ruined ones erected by various emperors and still bearing their names--such as caracalla's baths and titus' baths, and so on. evidently the ancient romans were very fond of taking baths. other striking dissimilarities between the ancient romans and the modern romans are perceptible at a glance. chapter v when the seven a.m. tut-tut leaves for anywhere being desirous of tendering sundry hints and observations to such of my fellow countrymen as may contemplate trips abroad i shall, with their kindly permission, devote this chapter to setting forth briefly the following principles, which apply generally to railroad travel in the old world. first--on the continent all trains leave at or about seven a.m. and reach their destination at or about eleven p.m. you may be going a long distance or a short one--it makes no difference; you leave at seven and you arrive at eleven. the few exceptions to this rule are of no consequence and do not count. second--a trunk is the most costly luxury known to european travel. if i could sell my small, shrinking and flat-chested steamer trunk--original value in new york eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents--for what it cost me over on the other side in registration fees, excess charges, mental wear and tear, freightage, forwarding and warehousing bills, tips, bribes, indulgences, and acts of barratry and piracy, i should be able to laugh in the income tax's face. in this connection i would suggest to the tourist who is traveling with a trunk that he begin his land itinerary in southern italy and work northward; thereby, through the gradual shrinkage in weight, he will save much money on his trunk, owing to the pleasing custom among the italian trainhands of prying it open and making a judicious selection from its contents for personal use and for gifts to friends and relatives. third--for the sake of the experience, travel second class once; after that travel first class--and try to forget the experience. with the exception of two or three special-fare, so-called de-luxe trains, first class over there is about what the service was on an accommodation, mixed-freight-and-passenger train in arkansas immediately following the close of the civil war. fourth--when buying a ticket for anywhere you will receive a cunning little booklet full of detachable leaves, the whole constituting a volume about the size and thickness of one of those portfolios of views that came into popularity with us at the time of the philadelphia centennial. surrender a sheet out of your book on demand of the uniformed official who will come through the train at from five to seven minute intervals. however, he will collect only a sheet every other trip; on the alternate trips he will merely examine your ticket with the air of never having seen it before, and will fold it over, and perforate it with his punching machine and return it to you. by the time you reach your destination nothing will be left but the cover; but do not cast this carelessly aside; retain it until you are filing out of the terminal, when it will be taken up by a haughty voluptuary with whiskers. if you have not got it you cannot escape. you will have to go back and live on the train, which is, indeed, a frightful fate to contemplate. fifth--reach the station half an hour before the train starts and claim your seat; then tip the guard liberally to keep other passengers out of your compartment. he has no intention of doing so, but it is customary for americans to go through this pleasing formality--and it is expected of them. sixth--tip everybody on the train who wears a uniform. be not afraid of hurting some one's feelings by offering a tip to the wrong person. there will not be any wrong person. a tip is the one form of insult that anybody in europe will take. seventh--before entering the train inhale deeply several times. this will be your last chance of getting any fresh air until you reach your destination. for self-defense against the germ life prevailing in the atmosphere of the unventilated compartments, smoke a german cigar. a german cigar keeps off any disease except the cholera; it gives you the cholera. eighth--do not linger on the platform, waiting for the locomotive whistle to blow, or the bell to ring, or somebody to yell "all aboard!" if you do this you will probably keep on lingering until the following morning at seven. as a starting signal the presiding functionary renders a brief solo on a tiny tin trumpet. one puny warning blast from this instrument sets the whole train in motion. it makes you think of gabriel bringing on the day of judgment by tootling on a penny whistle. another interesting point: the engine does not say choo-choo as in our country--it says tut-tut. ninth--in england, for convenience in claiming your baggage, change your name to xenophon or zymology--there are always about the baggage such crowds of persons who have the commoner initials, such as t for thompson, j for jones, and s for smith. when next i go to england my name will be zoroaster--quintus p. zoroaster. tenth--if possible avoid patronizing the so-called refreshment wagons or dining cars, which are expensive and uniformly bad. live off the country. remember, the country is living off you. chapter vi la belle france being the first stop except eighty or ninety other things the british channel was the most disappointing thing we encountered in our travels. all my reading on this subject had led me to expect that the channel would be very choppy and that we should all be very seasick. nothing of the sort befell. the channel may have been suetty but it was not choppy. the steamer that ferried us over ran as steadily as a clock and everybody felt as fine as a fiddle. a friend of mine whom i met six weeks later in florence had better luck. he crossed on an occasion when a test was being made of a device for preventing seasickness. a frenchman was the inventor and also the experimenter. this frenchman had spent valuable years of his life perfecting his invention. it resembled a hammock swung between uprights. the supports were to be bolted to the deck of the ship, and when the channel began to misbehave the squeamish passenger would climb into the hammock and fasten himself in; and then, by a system of reciprocating oscillations, the hammock would counteract the motion of the ship and the occupant would rest in perfect comfort no matter how high she pitched or how deep she rolled. at least such was the theory of the inventor; and to prove it he offered himself as the subject for the first actual demonstration. the result was unexpected. the sea was only moderately rough; but that patent hammock bucked like a kicking bronco. the poor frenchman was the only seasick person aboard--but he was sick enough for the whole crowd. he was seasick with a gallic abandon; he was seasick both ways from the jack, and other ways too. he was strapped down so he could not get out, which added no little to the pleasure of the occasion for everybody except himself. when the steamer landed the captain of the boat told the distressed owner that, in his opinion, the device was not suited for steamer use. he advised him to rent it to a riding academy. in crossing from dover to calais we had thought we should be going merely from one country to another; we found we had gone from one world to another. that narrow strip of uneasy water does not separate two countries--it separates two planets. gone were the incredible stiffness and the incurable honesty of the race that belonged over yonder on those white chalk cliffs dimly visible along the horizon. gone were the phlegm and stolidity of those people who manifest emotion only on the occasions when they stand up to sing their national anthem: god save the king! the queen is doing well! gone were the green fields of sussex, which looked as though they had been taken in every night and brushed and dry-cleaned and then put down again in the morning. gone were the trees that maxfield parrish might have painted, so vivid were they in their burnished green-and-yellow coloring, so spectacular in their grouping. gone was the five-franc note which i had intrusted to a sandwich vender on the railroad platform in the vain hope that he would come back with the change. after that clincher there was no doubt about it--we were in la belle france all right, all right! everything testified to the change. from the pier where we landed, a small boy, in a long black tunic belted in at his waist, was fishing; he hooked a little fingerling. at the first tentative tug on his line he set up a shrill clamor. at that there came running a fat, kindly looking old priest in a long gown and a shovel hat; and a market woman came, who had arms like a wrestler and skirts that stuck out like a ballet dancer's; and a soldier in baggy red pants came; and thirty or forty others of all ages and sizes came--and they gathered about that small boy and gave him advice at the top of their voices. and when he yanked out the shining little silver fish there could not have been more animation and enthusiasm and excitement if he had landed a full-grown presbyterian. they were still congratulating him when we pulled out and went tearing along on our way to paris, scooting through quaint, stone-walled cities, each one dominated by its crumbly old cathedral; sliding through open country where the fields were all diked and ditched with small canals and bordered with poplars trimmed so that each tree looked like a set of undertaker's whiskers pointing the wrong way. and in these fields were peasants in sabots at work, looking as though they had just stepped out of one of millet's pictures. even the haystacks and the scarecrows were different. in england the haystacks had been geometrically correct in their dimensions--so square and firm and exact that sections might be sliced off them like cheese, and doors and windows might be carved in them; but these french haystacks were devil-may-care haystacks wearing tufts on their polls like headdresses. the windmills had a rakish air; and the scarecrows in the truck gardens were debonair and cocky, tilting themselves back on their pins the better to enjoy the view and fluttering their ragged vestments in a most jaunty fashion. the land though looked poor--it had a driven, overworked look to it. presently, above the clacking voice of our train, we heard a whining roar without; and peering forth we beheld almost over our heads a big monoplane racing with us. it seemed a mighty, winged thunder lizard that had come back to link the age of stone with the age of air. on second thought i am inclined to believe the thunder lizard did not flourish in the stone age; but if you like the simile as much as i like it we will just let it stand. three times on that trip we saw from the windows of our train aviators out enjoying the cool of the evening in their airships; and each time the natives among the passengers jammed into the passageway that flanked the compartments and speculated regarding the identity of the aviators and the make of their machines, and argued and shrugged their shoulders and quarreled and gesticulated. the whole thing was as frenchy as tripe in a casserole. i was wrong, though, a minute ago when i said there remained nothing to remind us of the right little, tight little island we had just quit; for we had two englishmen in our compartment--fit and proper representatives of a certain breed of englishman. they were tall and lean, and had the languid eyes and the long, weary faces and the yellow buck teeth of weary cart-horses, and they each wore a fixed expression of intense gloom. you felt sure it was a fixed expression because any person with such an expression would change it if he could do so by anything short of a surgical operation. and it was quite evident they had come mentally prepared to disapprove of all things and all people in a foreign clime. silently, but none the less forcibly, they resented the circumstance that others should be sharing the same compartment with them--or sharing the same train, either, for that matter. the compartment was full, too, which made the situation all the more intolerable: an elderly english lady with a placid face under a mid-victorian bonnet; a young, pretty woman who was either english or american; the two members of my party, and these two englishmen. and when, just as the train was drawing out of calais, they discovered that the best two seats, which they had promptly preempted, belonged to others, and that the seats for which they held reservations faced rearward, so that they must ride with their backs to the locomotive--why, that irked them sore and more. i imagine they wrote a letter to the london times about it afterward. as is the pleasing habit of traveling englishmen, they had brought with them everything portable they owned. each one had four or five large handbags, and a carryall, and a hat box, and his tea-caddy, and his plaid blanket done up in a shawlstrap, and his framed picture of the death of nelson--and all the rest of it; and they piled those things in the luggage racks until both the racks were chock-full; so the rest of us had to hold our baggage in our laps or sit on it. one of them was facing me not more than five or six feet distant. he never saw me though. he just gazed steadily through me, studying the pattern of the upholstery on the seat behind me; and i could tell by his look that he did not care for the upholstering--as very naturally he would not, it being french. we had traveled together thus for some hours when one of them began to cloud up for a sneeze. he tried to sidetrack it, but it would not be sidetracked. the rest of us, looking on, seemed to hear that sneeze coming from a long way off. it reminded me of a musical-sketch team giving an imitation of a brass band marching down main street playing the turkish patrol--dim and faint at first, you know, and then growing louder and stronger, and gathering volume until it bursts right in your face. fascinated, we watched his struggles. would he master it or would it master him? but he lost, and it was probably a good thing he did. if he had swallowed that sneeze it would have drowned him. his nose jibed and went about; his head tilted back farther and farther; his countenance expressed deep agony, and then the log jam at the bend in his nose went out with a roar and he let loose the moistest, loudest kerswoosh! that ever was, i reckon. he sneezed eight times. the first sneeze unbuttoned his waistcoat, the second unparted his hair, and the third one almost pulled his shoes off; and after that they grew really violent, until the last sneeze shifted his cargo and left him with a list to port and his lee scuppers awash. it made a ruin of him--the prophet isaiah could not have remained dignified wrestling with a sneezing bee of those dimensions--but oh, how it did gladden the rest of us to behold him at the mercy of the elements and to note what a sodden, waterlogged wreck they made of him! it was not long after that before we had another streak of luck. the train jolted over something and a hat fell down from the topmost pinnacle of the mountain of luggage above and hit his friend on the nose. we should have felt better satisfied if it had been a coal scuttle; but it was a reasonably hard and heavy hat and it hit him brim first on the tenderest part of his nose and made his eyes water, and we were grateful enough for small blessings. one should not expect too much of an already overworked providence. the rest of us were still warm and happy in our souls when, without any whistle-tooting or bell-clanging or station-calling, we slid silently, almost surreptitiously, into the gare du nord, at paris. neither in england nor on the mainland does anyone feel called on to notify you that you have reached your destination. it is like the old formula for determining the sex of a pigeon--you give the suspected bird some corn, and if he eats it he is a he; but if she eats it she is a she. in europe if it is your destination you get off, and if it is not your destination you stay on. on this occasion we stayed on, feeling rather forlorn and helpless, until we saw that everyone else had piled off. we gathered up our belongings and piled off too. by that time all the available porters had been engaged; so we took up our luggage and walked. we walked the length of the trainshed--and then we stepped right into the recreation hall of the state hospital for the criminal insane, at matteawan, new york. i knew the place instantly, though the decorations had been changed since i was there last. it was a joy to come on a home institution so far from home--joysome, but a trifle disconcerting too, because all the keepers had died or gone on strike or something; and the lunatics, some of them being in uniform and some in civilian dress, were leaping from crag to crag, uttering maniacal shrieks. divers lunatics, who had been away and were just getting back, and sundry lunatics who were fixing to go away and apparently did not expect ever to get back, were dashing headlong into the arms of still other lunatics, kissing and hugging them, and exchanging farewells and sacre-bleuing with them in the maddest fashion imaginable. from time to time i laid violent hands on a flying, flitting maniac and detained him against his will, and asked him for some directions; but the persons to whom i spoke could not understand me, and when they answered i could not understand them; so we did not make much headway by that. i could not get out of that asylum until i had surrendered the covers of our ticket books and claimed our baggage and put it through the customs office. i knew that; the trouble was i could not find the place for attending to these details. on a chance i tried a door, but it was distinctly the wrong place; and an elderly female on duty there got me out by employing the universal language known of all peoples. she shook her skirts at me and said shoo! so i got out, still toting five or six bags and bundles of assorted sizes and shapes, and tried all the other doors in sight. finally, by a process of elimination and deduction, i arrived at the right one. to make it harder for me they had put it around a corner in an elbow-shaped wing of the building and had taken the sign off the door. this place was full of porters and loud cries. to be on the safe side i tendered retaining fees to three of the porters; and thus by the time i had satisfied the customs officials that i had no imported spirits or playing cards or tobacco or soap, or other contraband goods, and had cleared our baggage and started for the cabstand, we amounted to quite a stately procession and attracted no little attention as we passed along. but the tips i had to hand out before the taxi started would stagger the human imagination if i told you the sum total. there are few finer things than to go into paris for the first time on a warm, bright saturday night. at this moment i can think of but one finer thing--and that is when, wearied of being short-changed and bilked and double-charged, and held up for tips or tribute at every step, you are leaving paris on a saturday night--or, in fact, any night. those first impressions of the life on the boulevards are going to stay in my memory a long, long time--the people, paired off at the tables of the sidewalk cafes, drinking drinks of all colors; a little shopgirl wearing her new, cheap, fetching hat in such a way as to center public attention on her head and divert it from her feet, which were shabby; two small errand boys in white aprons, standing right in the middle of the whirling, swirling traffic, in imminent peril of their lives, while one lighted his cigarette butt from the cigarette butt of his friend; a handful of roistering soldiers, singing as they swept six abreast along the wide, rutty sidewalk; the kiosks for advertising, all thickly plastered over with posters, half of which should have been in an art gallery and the other half in a garbage barrel; a well-dressed pair, kissing in the full glare of a street light; an imitation art student, got up to look like an apache, and--no doubt--plenty of real apaches got up to look like human beings; a silk-hatted gentleman, stopping with perfect courtesy to help a bloused workman lift a baby-laden baby carriage over an awkward spot in the curbing, and the workingman returning thanks with the same perfect courtesy; our own driver, careening along in a manner suggestive of what certain east side friends of mine would call the chariot race from ben hirsch; and a stout lady of the middle class sitting under a cafe awning caressing her pet mole. to the belgian belongs the credit of domesticating the formerly ferocious belgian hare, and the east indian fakir makes a friend and companion of the king cobra; but it remained for those ingenious people, the parisians, to tame the mole, which other races have always regarded as unbeautiful and unornamental, and make a cunning little companion of it and spend hours stroking its fleece. this particular mole belonging to the stout middle-aged lady in question was one of the largest moles and one of the curliest i ever saw. it was on the side of her nose. you see a good deal of mole culture going on here. later, with the reader's permission, we shall return to paris and look its inhabitants over at more length; but for the time being i think it well for us to be on our travels. in passing i would merely state that on leaving a paris hotel you will tip everybody on the premises. oh, yes--but you will! let us move southward. let us go to sunny italy, which is called sunny italy for the same reason that the laughing hyena is called the laughing hyena--not because he laughs so frequently, but because he laughs so seldom. let us go to rome, the eternal city, sitting on her seven hills, remembering as we go along that the currency has changed and we no longer compute sums of money in the franc but in the lira. i regret the latter word is not pronounced as spelled--it would give me a chance to say that the common coin of italy is a lira, and that nearly everybody in rome is one also. chapter vii thence on and on to verbotenland ah, rome--the roma of the ancients--the mistress of the olden world--the sacred city! ah, rome, if only your stones could speak! it is customary for the tourist, taking his cue from the guidebooks, to carry on like this, forgetting in his enthusiasm that, even if they did speak, they would doubtless speak italian, which would leave him practically where he was before. and so, having said it myself according to formula, i shall proceed to state the actual facts: if, coming forth from a huge and dirty terminal, you emerge on a splendid plaza, miserably paved, and see a priest, a soldier and a beggar; a beautiful child wearing nothing at all to speak of, and a hideous old woman with the eyes of a madonna looking out of a tragic mask of a face; a magnificent fountain, and nobody using the water, and a great, overpowering smell--yes, you can see a roman smell; a cart mule with ten dollars' worth of trappings on him, and a driver with ten cents' worth on him; a palace like a dream of stone, entirely surrounded by nightmare hovels; a new, shiny, modern apartment house, and shouldering up against it a cankered rubbish heap that was once the playhouse of a caesar, its walls bearded like a pard's face with tufted laurel and splotched like a brandy drunkard's with red stains; a church that is a dismal ruin without and a glittering aladdin's cave of gold and gems and porphyry and onyx within; a wide and handsome avenue starting from one festering stew of slums and ending in another festering stew of slums; a grimed and broken archway opening on a lovely hidden courtyard where trees are green and flowers bloom, and in the center there stands a statue which is worth its weight in minted silver and which carries more than its weight in dirt--if in addition everybody in sight is smiling and good-natured and happy, and is trying to sell you something or wheedle you out of something, or pick your pocket of something--you need not, for confirmatory evidence, seek the vast dome of st. peter's rising yonder in the distance, or the green tops of the cedars and the dusky clumps of olive groves on the hillsides beyond--you know you are in rome. to get the correct likeness of naples we merely reduce the priests by one-half and increase the beggars by two-thirds; we richen the color masses, thicken the dirt, raise the smells to the nth degree, and set half the populace to singing. we establish in every second doorway a mother with her offspring tucked between her knees and forcibly held there while the mother searches the child's head for a flea; anyhow, it is more charitable to say it is a flea; and we add a special touch of gorgeousness to the street pictures. for here a cart is a glory of red tires and blue shafts, and green hubs and pink body and purple tailgate, with a canopy on it that would have suited sheba's queen; and the mule that draws the cart is caparisoned in brass and plumage like a circus pony; and the driver wears a broad red sash, part of a shirt, and half of a pair of pants--usually the front half. with an outfit such as that, you feel he should be peddling aurora borealises, or, at the very least, rainbows. it is a distinct shock to find he has only chianti or cheeses or garbage in stock. in naples, also, there is, even in the most prosaic thing, a sight to gladden your eye if you but hold your nose while you look on it. on the stalls of the truckvenders the cauliflowers and the cabbages are racked up with an artistic effect we could scarcely equal if we had roses and orchids to work with; the fishmonger's cart is a study in still life, and the tripe is what artists call a harmonious interior. nearly all the hotels in italy are converted palaces. they may have been successes as palaces, but, with their marble floors and their high ceilings, and their dank, dark corridors, they distinctly fail to qualify as hotels. i should have preferred them remaining unsaved and sinful. i likewise observed a peculiarity common to hotelkeepers in italy--they all look like cats. the proprietor of the converted palace where we stopped in naples was the very image of a tomcat we used to own, named plutarch's lives, which was half maltese and half mormon. he was a cat that had a fine carrying voice--though better adapted for concert work than parlor singing--and a sweetheart in every port. this hotelkeeper might have been the cat's own brother with clothes on--he had plute's roving eye and his bristling whiskers and his sharp white teeth, and plute's silent, stealthy tread, and his way of purring softly until he had won your confidence and then sticking his claw into you. the only difference was, he stuck you with a bill instead of a claw. another interesting idiosyncrasy of the italian hotelkeeper is that he invariably swears to you his town is the only honest town in italy, but begs you to beware of the next town which, he assures you with his hand on the place where his heart would be if he had a heart, is full of thieves and liars and counterfeit money and pickpockets. half of what he tells you is true--the latter half. the tourist agencies issue pamphlets telling how you may send money or jewelry by registered mail in italy, and then append a footnote warning you against sending money or jewelry by registered mail in italy. likewise you are constantly being advised against carrying articles of value in your trunk, unless it is most carefully locked, bolted and strapped. it is good advice too. an american i met on the boat coming home told me he failed to take such precautions while traveling in italy; and he said that when he reached the swiss border his trunk was so light he had to sit on it to keep it from blowing off the bus on the way from the station to the hotel, and so empty that when he opened it at both ends the draft whistling through it gave him a bad cold. however, he may have exaggerated slightly. if you can forget that you are paying first-class prices for fourth-rate accommodations--forget the dirt in the carriages and the smells in the compartments--a railroad journey through the italian peninsula is a wonderful experience. i know it was a wonderful experience for me. i shall not forget the old walled towns of stone perched precariously on the sloping withers of razorbacked mountains--towns that were old when the saviour was born; or the ancient roman aqueducts, all pocked and pecked with age, looping their arches across the land for miles on miles; or the fields, scored and scarified by three thousand years of unremitting, relentless, everlasting agriculture; or the wide-horned italian cattle that browsed in those fields; or yet the woman who darted to the door of every signal-house we passed and came to attention, with a long cudgel held flat against her shoulder like a sentry's musket. i do not know why a woman should exhibit an overgrown broomstick when an italian train passes a flag station, any more than i know why, when a squad of paris firemen march out of the engine house for exercise, they should carry carbines and knapsacks. i only know that these things are done. in tuscany the vineyards make a fine show, for the vines are trained to grow up from the ground and then are bound into streamers and draped from one fruit tree or one shade tree to another, until a whole hillside becomes one long, confusing vista of leafy festoons. the thrifty owner gets the benefit of his grapes and of his trees, and of the earth below, too, for there he raises vegetables and grains, and the like. like everything else in this land, the system is an old one. i judge it was old enough to be hackneyed when horace wrote of it: now each man, basking on his slopes, weds to his widowed tree the vine; then, as he gayly quaffs his wine, salutes thee god of all his hopes. classical quotations interspersed here and there are wonderful helps to a guide book, don't you think? in rural italy there are two other scenic details that strike the american as being most curious--one is the amazing prevalence of family washing, and the other is the amazing scarcity of birdlife. to himself the traveler says: "what becomes of all this intimate and personal display of family apparel i see fluttering from the front windows of every house in this country? everybody is forever washing clothes but nobody ever wears it after it is washed. and what has become of all the birds?" for the first puzzle there is no key, but the traveler gets the answer to the other when he passes a meat-dealer's shop in the town and sees spread on the stalls heaps of pitiably small starlings and sparrows and finches exposed for sale. an italian will cook and eat anything he can kill that has wings on it, from a cassowary to a katydid. thinking this barbarity over, i started to get indignant; but just in time i remembered what we ourselves have done to decimate the canvas-back duck and the wild pigeon and the ricebird and the red-worsted pulse-warmer, and other pleasing wild creatures of the earlier days in america, now practically or wholly extinct. and i felt that before i could attend to the tomtits in my italian brother's eye i must needs pluck a few buffaloes out of my own; so i decided, in view of those things, to collect myself and endeavor to remain perfectly calm. we came into venice at the customary hour--to wit, eleven p.m.--and had a real treat as our train left the mainland and went gliding far out, seemingly right through the placid adriatic, to where the beaded lights of venice showed like a necklace about the withered throat of a long-abandoned bride, waiting in the rags of her moldered wedding finery for a bridegroom who comes not. better even than this was the journey by gondola from the terminal through narrow canals and under stone bridges where the water lapped with little mouthing tongues at the walls, and the tall, gloomy buildings almost met overhead, so that only a tiny strip of star-buttoned sky showed between. and from dark windows high up came the tinkle of guitars and the sound of song pouring from throats of silver. and so we came to our hotel, which was another converted palace; but baptism is not regarded as essential to salvation in these parts. on the whole, venice did not impress me as it has impressed certain other travelers. you see, i was born and raised in one of those ohio valley towns where the river gets emotional and temperamental every year or two. in my youth i had passed through several of these visitations, when the family would take the family plate and the family cow, and other treasures, and retire to the attic floor to wait for the spring rise to abate; and when really the most annoying phase of the situation for a housekeeper, sitting on the top landing of his staircase watching the yellow wavelets lap inch by inch over the keys of the piano, and inch by inch climb up the new dining-room wallpaper, was to hear a knocking at a front window upstairs and go to answer it and find that moscoe burnett had come in a john-boat to collect the water tax. the grand canal did not stir me as it has stirred some--so far back as ' i could remember when jefferson street at home looked almost exactly like that. going through the austrian tyrol, between vienna and venice, i met two old and dear friends in their native haunts--the plush hat and the hot dog. when such a thing as this happens away over on the other side of the globe it helps us to realize how small a place this world is after all, and how closely all peoples are knitted together in common bonds of love and affection. the hot dog, as found here, is just as we know him throughout the length and breadth of our own land--a dropsical wienerwurst entombed in the depths of a rye-bread sandwich, with a dab of horse-radish above him to mark his grave; price, creation over, five cents the copy. the woolly plush hat shows no change either, except that if anything it is slightly woollier in the alps than among us. as transplanted, the dinky little bow at the back is an affectation purely--but in these parts it is logical and serves a practical and a utilitarian purpose, because the mountain byways twist and turn and double, and the local beverages are potent brews; and the weary mountaineer, homeward-bound afoot at the close of a market day, may by the simple expedient of reaching up and fingering his bow tell instantly whether he is going or coming. this is also a great country for churches. every group of chalets that calls itself a village has at least one long-spired gray church in its midst, and frequently more than one. in one sweep of hillside view from our car window i counted seven church steeples. i do not think it was a particularly good day for churches either; i wished i might have passed through on a sunday, when they would naturally be thicker. along this stretch of railroad the mountaineers come to the stations wearing the distinctive costume of their own craggy and slabsided hills--the curling pheasant feather in the hatbrim; the tight-fitting knee-breeches; the gaudy stockings; and the broad-suspendered belt with rows of huge brass buttons spangling it up and down and crosswise. such is your pleasure at finding these quaint habiliments still in use amid settings so picturesque that you buy freely of the fancy-dressed individual's wares--for he always has something to sell. and then as your train pulls out, if by main force and awkwardness you jam a window open, as i did, and cast your eyes rearward for a farewell peek, as i did, you will behold him, as i did, pulling off his parade clothes and climbing into the blue overalls and the jean jumpers of prosaic civilization, to wait until the next carload lot of foreign tourists rolls in. the european peasant is indeed a simple, guileless creature--if you are careless about how you talk. in this district and on beyond, the sight of women doing the bulk of the hard and dirty farmwork becomes common. you see women plowing; women hoeing; women carrying incredibly huge bundles of fagots and fodder on their heads; women hauling heavy carts, sometimes with a straining, panting dog for a teammate, sometimes unaccompanied except by a stalwart father or husband, or brother or son, who, puffing a china-bowled pipe, walks alongside to see that the poor human draft-animals do not shirk or balk, or shy over the traces. to one coming from a land where no decent man raises his hand against a woman--except, of course, in self-defense--this is indeed a startling sight to see; but worse is in store for him when he reaches bohemia, on the upper edge of the austrian empire. in bohemia, if there is a particularly nasty and laborious job to be done, such as spading up manure in the rain or grubbing sugar-beets out of the half-frozen earth, they wish it on the dear old grandmother. she always seemed to me to be a grandmother--or old enough for one anyway. perhaps, though, it is the life they lead, and not the years, that bends the backs of these women and thickens their waists and mats their hair and turns their feet into clods and their hands into swollen, red monstrosities. surely the walrus, in alice in wonderland, had germany in mind when he said the time had come to speak of cabbages and kings--because germany certainly does lead the known world in those two commodities. everywhere in germany you see them--the cabbages by the millions and the billions, growing rank and purple in the fields and giving promise of the time when they will change from vegetable to vine and become the fragrant and luscious trailing sauerkraut; but the kings, in stone or bronze, stand up in the marketplace or the public square, or on the bridge abutment, or just back of the brewery, in every german city and town along the route. by these surface indications alone the most inexperienced traveler would know he had reached germany, even without the halt at the custom house on the border; or the crossing watchman in trim uniform jumping to attention at every road-crossing; or the beautifully upholstered, handswept state forests; or the hedges of willow trees along the brooks, sticking up their stubby, twiggy heads like so many disreputable hearth-brooms; or the young grain stretching in straight rows crosswise of the weedless fields and looking, at a distance, like fair green-printed lines evenly spaced on a wide brown page. also, one observes everywhere surviving traces that are unmistakable of the reign of that most ingenious and wideawake of all the earlier rulers of germany, king verboten the great. in connection with the life and works of this distinguished ruler is told an interesting legend well worthy of being repeated here. it would seem that king verboten was the first crowned head of europe to learn the value of keeping his name constantly before the reading public. rameses the third of egypt--that enterprising old constant advertiser who swiped the pyramids of all his predecessors and had his own name engraved thereon--had been dead for many centuries and was forgotten when verboten mounted the throne, and our own teddy roosevelt would not be born for many centuries yet to come; so the idea must have occurred to king verboten spontaneously, as it were. therefore he took counsel with himself, saying: "i shall now erect statues to myself. dynasties change and wars rage, and folks grow fickle and tear down statues. none of that for your uncle dudley k. verboten! no; this is what i shall do: on every available site in the length and breadth of this my realm i shall stick up my name; and, wherever possible, near to it i shall engrave or paint the names of my two favorite sons, ausgang and eingang--to the end that, come what may, we shall never be forgotten in the land of our birth." and then he went and did it; and it was a thorough job--so thorough a job that, to this good year of our lord you may still see the name of that wise king everywhere displayed in germany--on railroad stations and in railroad trains; on castle walls and dead walls and brewery walls, and the back fence of the young ladies' high school. and nearly always, too, you will find hard by, over doors and passageways, the names of his two sons, each accompanied or underscored by the heraldic emblem of their house--a barbed and feathered arrow pointing horizontally. and so it was that king verboten lived happily ever after and in the fullness of time died peacefully in his bed, surrounded by his wives, his children and his courtiers; and all of them sorrowed greatly and wept, but the royal signpainter sorrowed most of all. i know that certain persons will contest the authenticity of this passage of history; they will claim verboten means in our tongue forbidden, and that ausgang means outgoing, and eingang means incoming--or, in other words, exit and entrance; but surely this could not be so. if so many things were forbidden, a man in germany would be privileged only to die--and probably not that, unless he died according to a given formula; and certainly no human being with the possible exception of the comedian who used to work the revolving-door trick in hanlon's fantasma, could go out of and come into a place so often without getting dizzy in the head. no--the legend stands as stated. even as it is, there are rules enough in germany, rules to regulate all things and all persons. at first, to the stranger, this seems an irksome arrangement--this posting of rules and orders and directions and warnings everywhere--but he finds that everyone, be he high or low, must obey or go to jail; there are no exceptions and no evasions; so that what is a duty on all is a burden on none. take the trains, for example. pretty much all over the continent the railroads are state-owned and state-run, but only in germany are they properly run. true, there are so many uniformed officials aboard a german train that frequently there is barely room for the paying travelers to squeeze in; but the cars are sanitary and the schedule is accurately maintained, and the attendants are honest and polite and cleanly of person--wherein lies another point of dissimilarity between them and those scurvy, musty, fusty brigands who are found managing and operating trains in certain nearby countries. i remember a cup of coffee i had while going from paris to berlin. it was made expressly for me by an invalided commander-in-chief of the artillery corps of the imperial army--so i judged him to be by his costume, air and general deportment--who was in charge of our carriage and also of the small kitchen at the far end of it. he came into our compartment and bowed and clicked his heels together and saluted, and wanted to know whether i would take coffee. recklessly i said i would. he filled in several blanks of a printed form, and went and cooked the coffee and brought it back, pausing at intervals as he came along to fill in other blanks. would i take cream in my coffee? i would; so he filled in a couple of blanks. would i take sugar? i said i would take two lumps. he put in two lumps and filled in another blank. i really prefer my coffee with three lumps in it; but i noticed that his printed form was now completely filled in, and i hated to call for a third lump and put him to the trouble of starting his literary labors all over again. besides, by that time the coffee would be cold. so i took it as it was--with two lumps only--and it was pretty fair coffee for european coffee. it tasted slightly of the red tape and the chicory, but it was neatly prepared and promptly served. and so, over historic streams no larger than creeks would be in america, and by castles and cabbages and kings and cows, we came to berlin; and after some of the other continental cities berlin seemed a mighty restful spot to be in, and a good one to tarry in awhile. it has few historical associations, has berlin, but we were loaded to the gills with historical associations by now. it does not excel greatly in old masters, but we had already gazed with a languid eye upon several million old masters of all ages, including many very young ones. it has no ancient monuments and tombs either, which is a blessing. most of the statuary in berlin is new and shiny and provided with all the modern conveniences--the present kaiser attended competently to that detail. wherever, in his capital, there was space for a statue he has stuck up one in memory of a member of his own dynasty, beginning with a statue apiece for such earlier rulers as otho the oboe-player, and joachim, surnamed the half-a-ton--let some one correct me if i have the names wrong--and finishing up with forty or fifty for himself. that is, there were forty or fifty of him when i was there. there are probably more now. in its essentials berlin suggests a progressive american city, with teutonic trimmings. conceive a bit of new york, a good deal of chicago, a scrap of denver, a slice of hoboken, and a whole lot of milwaukee; conceive this combination as being scoured every day until it shines; conceive it as beautifully though somewhat profusely governed, and laid out with magnificent drives, and dotted with big, handsome public buildings, and full of reasonably honest and more than reasonably kindly people--and you have berlin. it was in berlin that i picked up the most unique art treasure i found anywhere on my travels--a picture of the composer verdi that looked exactly like uncle joe cannon, without the cigar; whereas uncle joe cannon does not look a thing in the world like verdi, and probably wouldn't if he could. i have always regretted that our route through the german empire took us across the land of the hessians after dark, for i wanted to see those people. you will recollect that when george the third, of england, first put into actual use the doctrine of hands across the sea he used the hessians. they were hired hands. chapter viii a tale of a string-bean it was at a small dinner party in a home out in passy--which is to paris what flatbush is to brooklyn--that the event hereinafter set forth came to pass. our host was an american who had lived abroad a good many years; and his wife, our hostess, was a french woman as charming as she was pretty and as pretty as she could be. the dinner was going along famously. we had hors-d'oeuvres, the soup and the hare--all very tasty to look on and very soothing to the palate. then came the fowl, roasted, of course--the roast fowl is the national bird of france--and along with the fowl something exceedingly appetizing in the way of hearts of lettuce garnished with breasts of hothouse tomatoes cut on the bias. when we were through with this the servants removed the debris and brought us hot plates. then, with the air of one conferring a real treat on us, the butler bore around a tureen arrangement full of smoking-hot string-beans. when it came my turn i helped myself--copiously--and waited for what was to go with the beans. a pause ensued--to my imagination an embarrassed pause. seeking a cue i glanced down the table and back again. there did not appear to be anything to go with the beans. the butler was standing at ease behind his master's chair--ease for a butler, i mean--and the other guests, it seemed to me, were waiting and watching. to myself i said: "well, sir, that butler certainly has made a j. henry fox pass of himself this trip! here, just when this dinner was getting to be one of the notable successes of the present century, he has to go and derange the whole running schedule by serving the salad when he should have served the beans, and the beans when he should have served the salad. it's a sickening situation; but if i can save it i'll do it. i'll be well bred if it takes a leg!" so, wearing the manner of one who has been accustomed all his life to finishing off his dinner with a mess of string-beans, i used my putting-iron; and from the edge of the fair green i holed out in three. my last stroke was a dandy, if i do say it myself. the others were game too--i could see that. they were eating beans as though beans were particularly what they had come for. out of the tail of my eye i glanced at our hostess, sitting next to me on the left. she was placid, calm, perfectly easy. again addressing myself mentally i said: "there's a thoroughbred for you! you take a woman who got prosperous suddenly and is still acutely suffering from nervous culture, and if such a shipwreck had occurred at her dinner table she'd be utterly prostrated by now--she'd be down and out--and we'd all be standing back to give her air; but when they're born in the purple it shows in these big emergencies. look at this woman now--not a ripple on the surface--balmy as a summer evening! but in about one hour from now, central european time, i can see her accepting that fool butler's resignation before he's had time to offer it!" after the beans had been cleared off the right-of-way we had the dessert and the cheese and the coffee and the rest of it. and, as we used to say in the society column down home when the wife of the largest advertiser was entertaining, "at a suitable hour those present dispersed to their homes, one and all voting the affair to have been one of the most enjoyable occasions among like events of the season." we all knew our manners--we had proved that. personally i was very proud of myself for having carried the thing off so well but after i had survived a few tables d'hote in france and a few more in austria and a great many in italy, where they do not have anything at the hotels except tables d'hote, i did not feel quite so proud. for at this writing in those parts the slender, sylphlike string-bean is not playing a minor part, as with us. he has the best spot on the evening bill--he is a headliner. so is the cauliflower; so is the brussels sprout; so is any vegetable whose function among our own people is largely scenic. therefore i treasured the memory of this incident and brought it back with me; and i tell it here at some length of detail because i know how grateful my countrywomen will be to get hold of it--i know how grateful they always are when they learn about a new gastronomical wrinkle. mind you, i am not saying that the notion is an absolute novelty here. for all i know to the contrary, prominent hostesses along the gold coast of the united states--bar harbor to palm beach inclusive--may have been serving one lone vegetable as a separate course for years and years; but i feel sure that throughout the interior the disclosure will come as a pleasant surprise. the directions for executing this coup are simple and all the deadlier because they are so simple. the main thing is to invite your chief opponent as a smart entertainer; you know the one i mean--the woman who scored such a distinct social triumph in the season of - by being the first woman in town to serve tomato bisque with whipped cream on it. have her there by all means. go ahead with your dinner as though naught sensational and revolutionary were about to happen. give them in proper turn the oysters, the fish, the entree, the bird, the salad. and then, all by itself, alone and unafraid, bring on a dab of string-beans. wait until you see the whites of their eyes, and aim and fire at will. settle back then, until the first hushed shock has somewhat abated--until your dazed and suffering rival is glaring about in a well-bred but flustered manner, looking for something to go with the beans. hold her eye while you smile a smile that is compounded of equal parts--superior wisdom, and gentle contempt for her ignorance--and then slowly, deliberately, dip a fork into the beans on your plate and go to it. believe me, it cannot lose. before breakfast time the next morning every woman who was at that dinner will either be sending out invitations for a dinner of her own and ordering beans, or she will be calling up her nearest and best friend on the telephone to spread the tidings. i figure that the intense social excitement occasioned in this country a few years ago by the introduction of russian salad dressing will be as nothing in comparison. this stunt of serving the vegetable as a separate course was one of the things i learned about food during our flittings across europe, but it was not the only thing i learned--by a long shot it was not. for example i learned this--and i do not care what anybody else may say to the contrary either--that here in america we have better food and more different kinds of food, and food better cooked and better served than the effete monarchies of the old world ever dreamed of. and, quality and variety considered, it costs less here, bite for bite, than it costs there. food in germany is cheaper than anywhere else almost, i reckon; and, selected with care and discrimination, a german dinner is an excellently good dinner. certain dishes in england--and they are very certain, for you get them at every meal--are good, too, and not overly expensive. there are some distinctive austrian dishes that are not without their attractions either. speaking by and large, however, i venture the assertion that, taking any first-rate restaurant in any of the larger american cities and balancing it off against any establishment of like standing in europe, the american restaurant wins on cuisine, service, price, flavor and attractiveness. centuries of careful and constant press-agenting have given french cookery much of its present fame. the same crafty processes of publicity, continued through a period of eight or nine hundred years, have endowed the european scenic effects with a glamour and an impressiveness that really are not there, if you can but forget the advertising and consider the proposition on its merits. take their rivers now--their historic rivers, if you please. you are traveling--heaven help you--on a continental train. between spells of having your ticket punched or torn apart, or otherwise mutilated; and getting out at the border to see your trunks ceremoniously and solemnly unloaded and unlocked, and then as ceremoniously relocked and reloaded after you have conferred largess on everybody connected with the train, the customs regulations being mainly devised for the purpose of collecting not tariff but tips--between these periods, which constitute so important a feature of continental travel--you come, let us say, to a stream. it is a puny stream, as we are accustomed to measure streams, boxed in by stone walls and regulated by stone dams, and frequently it is mud-colored and, more frequently still, runs between muddy banks. in the west it would probably not even be dignified with a regular name, and in the east it would be of so little importance that the local congressman would not ask an annual appropriation of more than half a million dollars for the purposes of dredging, deepening and diking it. but even as you cross it you learn that it is the tiber or the arno, the elbe or the po; and, such is the force of precept and example, you immediately get all excited and worked up over it. english rivers are beautiful enough in a restrained, well-managed, landscape-gardened sort of way; but americans do not enthuse over an english river because of what it is in itself, but because it happens to be the thames or the avon--because of the distinguished characters in history whose names are associated with it. hades gets much of its reputation the same way. i think of one experience i had while touring through what we had learned to call the dachshund district. our route led us alongside a most inconsequential-looking little river. its contents seemed a trifle too liquid for mud and a trifle too solid for water. on the nearer bank was a small village populated by short people and long dogs. out in midstream, making poor headway against the semi-gelid current, was a little flutter-tailed steamboat panting and puffing violently and kicking up a lather of lacy spray with its wheelbuckets in a manner to remind you of a very warm small lady fanning herself with a very large gauze fan, and only getting hotter at the job. in america that stream would have been known as mink creek or cassidy's run, or by some equally poetic title; but when i found out it was the danube--no less--i had a distinct thrill. on closer examination i discovered it to be a counterfeit thrill; but nevertheless, i had it. what applies in the main to the scenery applies in the main to the food. france has the reputation of breeding the best cooks in the world--and maybe she does; but when you are calling in france you find most of them out. they have emigrated to america, where a french chef gets more money in one year for exercising his art--and gets it easier--than he could get in ten years at home--and is given better ingredients to cook with than he ever had at home. the hotel in paris at which we stopped served good enough meals, all of them centering, of course, round the inevitable poulet roti; but it took the staff an everlastingly long time to bring the food to you. if you grew reckless and ordered anything that was not on the bill it upset the entire establishment; and before they calmed down and relayed it in to you it was time for the next meal. still, i must say we did not mind the waiting; near at hand a fascinating spectacle was invariably on exhibition. at the next table sat an italian countess. anyhow they told me she was an italian countess, and she wore jewelry enough for a dozen countesses. every time i beheld her, with a big emerald earring gleaming at either side of her head, i thought of a lenox avenue local in the new york subway. however, it was not so much her jewelry that proved such a fascinating sight as it was her pleasing habit of fetching out a gold-mounted toothpick and exploring the most remote and intricate dental recesses of herself in full view of the entire dining room, meanwhile making a noise like somebody sicking a dog on. the europeans have developed public toothpicking beyond anything we know. they make an outdoor pastime and function of it, whereas we pursue this sport more or less privately. over there, a toothpick is a family heirloom and is handed down from one generation to another, and is operated in company ostentatiously. in its use some europeans are absolutely gifted. but then we beat the world at open-air gum-chewing--so i reckon the honors are about even. this particular hotel, in common with all other first-class hotels in paris, was forgetful about setting forth on its menu the prices of its best dishes and its special dishes. i take it this arrangement was devised for the benefit of currency-quilted americans. a frenchman asks the waiter the price of an unpriced dish and then orders something else; but the american, as a rule, is either too proud or too foolish to inquire into these details. at home he is beset by a hideous fear that some waiter will think he is of a mercenary nature; and when he is abroad this trait in him is accentuated. so, in his carefree american way, he orders a portion of a dish of an unspecified value; whereupon the head waiter slips out to the office and ascertains by private inquiry how large a letter of credit the american is carrying with him, and comes back and charges him all the traffic will bear. as for the keeper of a fashionable cafe on a boulevard or in the rue de la paix--well, alongside of him the most rapacious restaurant proprietor on broadway is a kindly, christian soul who is in business for his health--and not feeling very healthy at that. when you dine at one of the swagger boulevard places the head waiter always comes, just before you have finished, and places a display of fresh fruit before you, with a winning smile and a bow and a gesture, which, taken together, would seem to indicate that he is extending the compliments of the season and that the fruit will be on the house; but never did one of the intriguing scoundrels deceive me. somewhere, years before, i had read statistics on the cost of fresh fruit in a paris restaurant, and so i had a care. the sight of a bunch of hothouse grapes alone was sufficient to throw me into a cold perspiration right there at the table; and as for south african peaches, i carefully walked around them, getting farther away all the time. a peach was just the same as a pesthouse to me, in paris. alas though! no one had warned me about french oysters, and once--just once--i ate some, which made two mistakes on my part, one financial and the other gustatory. they were not particularly flavorous oysters as we know oysters on this side of the ocean. the french oyster is a small, copper-tinted proposition, and he tastes something like an indisposed mussel and something like a touch of biliousness; but he is sufficiently costly for all purposes. the cafe proprietor cherishes him so highly that he refuses to vulgarize him by printing the asking price on the same menu. a person in france desirous of making a really ostentatious display of his affluence, on finding a pearl in an oyster, would swallow the pearl and wear the oyster on his shirtfront. that would stamp him as a person of wealth. however, i am not claiming that all french cookery is ultra-exorbitant in price or of excessively low grade. we had one of the surprises of our lives when, by direction of a friend who knew paris, we went to a little obscure cafe that was off the tourist route and therefore--as yet--unspoiled and uncommercialized. this place was up a back street near one of the markets; a small and smellsome place it was, decorated most atrociously. in the front window, in close juxtaposition, were a platter of french snails and a platter of sticky confections full of dark spots. there was no mistaking the snails for anything except snails; but the other articles were either currant buns or plain buns that had been made in an unscreened kitchen. within were marble-topped tables of the louie-quince period and stuffy wall-seats of faded, dusty red velvet; and a waiter in his shirtsleeves was wandering about with a sheaf of those long french loaves tucked under his arm like golf sticks, distributing his loaves among the diners. but somewhere in its mysterious and odorous depths that little bourgeois cafe harbored an honest-to-goodness cook. he knew a few things about grilling a pig's knuckle--that worthy person. he could make the knuckle of a pig taste like the wing of an angel; and what he could do with a skillet, a pinch of herbs and a calf's sweetbread passed human understanding. certain animals in europe do have the most delicious diseases anyway--notably the calf and the goose, particularly the goose of strasburg, where the pate de foie gras comes from. the engorged liver of a strasburg goose must be a source of joy to all--except its original owner! several times we went back to the little restaurant round the corner from the market, and each time we had something good. the food we ate there helped to compensate for the terrific disillusionment awaiting us when we drove out of paris to a typical roadside inn, to get some of that wonderful provincial cookery that through all our reading days we had been hearing about. you will doubtless recall the description, as so frequently and graphically dished up by the inspired writers of travelogue stuff--the picturesque, tumbledown place, where on a cloth of coarse linen--white like snow--old marie, her wrinkled face abeam with hospitality and kindness, places the delicious omelet she has just made, and brings also the marvelous salad and the perfect fowl, and the steaming hot coffee fragrant as breezes from araby the blest, and the vin ordinaire that is even as honey and gold to the thirsty throat. you must know that passage? we went to see for ourselves. at a distance of half a day's automobile run from paris we found an establishment answering to the plans and specifications. it was shoved jam-up against the road, as is the french custom; and it was surrounded by a high, broken wall, on which all manner of excrescences in the shape of tiny dormers and misshapen little towers hung, like texas ticks on the ears of a quarantined steer. within the wall the numerous ruins that made up the inn were thrown together any fashion, some facing one way, some facing the other way, and some facing all ways at once; so that, for the housefly, so numerously encountered on these premises, it was but a short trip and a merry one from the stable to the dining room and back again. sure enough, old marie was on the job. not desiring to be unkind or unduly critical i shall merely state that as a cook old marie was what we who have been in france and speak the language fluently would call la limite! the omelet she turned out for us was a thing that was very firm and durable, containing, i think, leather findings, with a sprinkling of chopped henbane on the top. the coffee was as feeble a counterfeit as chicory usually is when it is masquerading as coffee, and the vin ordinaire had less of the vin to it and more of the ordinaire than any we sampled elsewhere. right here let me say this for the much-vaunted vin ordinaire of europe: in the end it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder--not like the ordinary egyptian adder, but like a patent adder in the office of a loan shark, which is the worst stinger of the whole adder family. if consumed with any degree of freedom it puts a downy coat on your tongue next morning that causes you to think you inadvertently swallowed the pillow in your sleep. good domestic wine costs as much in europe as good domestic wine costs in america--possibly more than as much. the souffle potatoes of old marie were not bad to look on, but i did not test them otherwise. even in my own country i do not care to partake of souffle potatoes unless i know personally the person who blew them up. so at the conclusion of the repast we nibbled tentatively at the dessert, which was a pancake with jelly, done in the image of a medicated bandage but not so tasty as one. and then i paid the check, which was of august proportions, and we came sadly away, realizing that another happy dream of youth had been shattered to bits. only the tablecloth had been as advertised. it was coarse, but white like snow--like snow three days old in pittsburgh. yet i was given to understand that was a typical rural french inn and fully up to the standards of such places; but if the manager of a roadhouse within half a day's ride of new york or boston or philadelphia served such food to his patrons, at such prices, the sheriff would have him inside of two months; and everybody would be glad of it too--except the sheriff. also, no humane man in this country would ask a self-respecting cow to camp overnight in such outbuildings as abutted on the kitchen of this particular inn. i am not denying that we have in america some pretty bad country hotels, where good food is most barbarously mistreated and good beds are rare to find, but we admit our shortcomings in this regard and we deplore them--we do not shellac them over with a glamour of bogus romance, with intent to deceive the foreign visitor to our shores. we warn him in advance of what he may expect and urge him to carry his rations with him. it is almost unnecessary to add that old marie gave us veal and poulet roti. according to the french version of the story of the flood only two animals emerged from the ark when the waters receded--one was an immature hen and the other was an adolescent calf. at every meal except breakfast--when they do not give you anything at all--the french give you veal and poulet roti. if at lunch you had the poulet roti first and afterward the veal, why, then at dinner they provide a pleasing variety by bringing on the veal first and the poulet roti afterward. the veal is invariably stringy and coated over with weird sauces, and the poulet never appears at the table in her recognizable members--such as wings and drumsticks--but is chopped up with a cleaver into cross sections, and strange-looking chunks of the wreckage are sent to you. moreover they cook the chicken in such a way as to destroy its original taste, and the veal in such a way as to preserve its original taste, both being inexcusable errors. nowhere in the larger italian cities, except by the exercise of a most tremendous determination, can you get any real italian cooking or any real italian dishes. at the hotels they feed you on a pale, sad table-d'hote imitation of french cooking, invariably buttressed with the everlasting veal and the eternal poulet roti. at the finish of a meal the waiter brings you, on one plate, two small withered apples and a bunch of fly-specked sour grapes; and, on another plate, the mortal remains of some excessively deceased cheese wearing a tinfoil shroud and appropriately laid out in a small, white, coffin-shaped box. after this had happened to me several times i told the waiter with gentle irony that he might as well screw the lid back on the casket and proceed with the obsequies. i told him i was not one of those morbid people who love to look on the faces of the strange dead. the funeral could not get under way too soon to suit me. it seemed to me that this funeral was already several days overdue. that was what i told him. in my travels the best place i ever found to get italian dishes was a basement restaurant under an old brownstone house on forty-seventh street, in new york. there you might find the typical dishes of italy--i defy you to find them in italy without a search-warrant. however, while in italy the tourist may derive much entertainment and instruction from a careful study of table manners. in our own land we produce some reasonably boisterous trenchermen, and some tolerably careless ones too. several among us have yet to learn how to eat corn on the ear and at the same time avoid corn in the ear. a dish of asparagus has been known to develop fine acoustic properties, and in certain quarters there is a crying need for a sound-proof soup; but even so, and admitting these things as facts, we are but mere beginners in this line when compared with our european brethren. in the caskets of memory i shall ever cherish the picture of a particularly hairy gentleman, apparently of russian extraction, who patronized our hotel in venice one evening. he was what you might call a human hazard--a golf-player would probably have thought of him in that connection. he was eating flour dumplings, using his knife for a niblick all the way round; and he lost every other shot in a concealed bunker on the edge of the rough; and he could make more noise sucking his teeth than some people could make playing on a fife. there is a popular belief to the effect that the neapolitan eats his spaghetti by a deft process of wrapping thirty or forty inches round the tines of his fork and then lifting it inboard, an ell at a time. this is not correct. the true neapolitan does not eat his spaghetti at all--he inhales it. he gathers up a loose strand and starts it down his throat. he then respires from the diaphragm, and like a troupe of trained angleworms that entire mass of spaghetti uncoils itself, gets up off the plate and disappears inside him--en masse, as it were--and making him look like a man who is chinning himself over a set of bead portieres. i fear we in america will never learn to siphon our spaghetti into us thus. it takes a nation that has practiced deep breathing for centuries. chapter ix the deadly poulet routine under the head of european disillusionments i would rate, along with the vin ordinaire of the french vineyard and inkworks, the barmaid of britain. from what you have heard on this subject you confidently expect the british barmaid to be buxom, blond, blooming, billowy, buoyant--but especially blond. on the contrary she is generally brunette, frequently middle-aged, in appearance often fair-to-middling homely, and in manner nearly always abounding with a stiffness and hauteur that would do credit to a belted earl, if the belting had just taken place and the earl was still groggy from the effects of it. also, she has the notion of personal adornment that is common in more than one social stratum of women in england. if she has a large, firm, solid mound of false hair overhanging her brow like an impending landslide, and at least three jingly bracelets on each wrist, she considers herself well dressed, no matter what else she may or may not be wearing. often this lady is found presiding over an american bar, which is an institution now commonly met with in all parts of london. the american bar of london differs from the ordinary english bar of london in two respects, namely--there is an american flag draped over the mirror, and it is a place where they sell all the english drinks and are just out of all the american ones. if you ask for a bronx the barmaid tells you they do not carry seafood in stock and advises you to apply at the fishmongers'--second turning to the right, sir, and then over the way, sir--just before you come to the bottom of the road, sir. if you ask for a mamie taylor she gets it confused in her mind with a sally lunn and sends out for yeastcake and a cookbook; and while you are waiting she will give you a genuine yankee drink, such as a brandy and soda--or she will suggest that you smoke something and take a look at the evening paper. if you do smoke something, beware--oh, beware!--of the native english cigar. when rolled between the fingers it gives off a dry, rustling sound similar to a shuck mattress. for smoking purposes it is also open to the same criticisms that a shuck mattress is. the flames smolder in the walls and then burst through in unexpected places, and the smoke sucks up the airshaft and mushrooms on your top floor; then the deadly back draft comes and the fatal firedamp, and when the firemen arrive you are a ruined tenement. except the german, the french, the belgian, the austrian and the italian cigar, the english cigar is the worst cigar i ever saw. i did not go to spain; they tell me, though, the spanish cigar has the high qualifications of badness. spanish cigars are not really cigars at all, i hear; they fall into the classification of defective flues. likewise beware of the alleged american cocktail occasionally dispensed, with an air of pride and accomplished triumph, by the british barmaid of an american bar. if for purposes of experiment and research you feel that you must take one, order with it, instead of the customary olive or cherry, a nice boiled vegetable marrow. the advantage to be derived from this is that the vegetable marrow takes away the taste of anything else and does not have any taste of its own. in the eating line the englishman depends on the staples. he sticks to the old standbys. what was good enough for his fathers is good enough for him--in some cases almost too good. monotony of victuals does not distress him. he likes his food to be humdrum; the humdrummer the better. speaking with regard to the whole country, i am sure we have better beef uniformly in america than in england; but there is at least one restaurant on the strand where the roast beef is just a little bit superior to any other roast beef on earth. english mutton is incomparable, too, and english breakfast bacon is a joy forever. but it never seems to occur to an englishman to vary his diet. i submit samples of the daily menu: luncheon dinner roast beef boiled mutton boiled mutton roast beef potatoes, boiled cabbage, boiled cabbage, boiled potatoes, boiled jam tart custard custard jam tart cheese coffee coffee cheese tea! i know now why an englishman dresses for dinner--it enables him to distinguish dinner from lunch. his regular desserts are worthy of a line. the jam tart is a death-mask that went wrong and in consequence became morose and heavy of spirit, and the custard is a soft-boiled egg which started out in life to be a soft-boiled egg and at the last moment--when it was too late--changed its mind and tried to be something else. in the city, where lunching places abound, the steamer works overtime and the stewpan never rests. there is one place, well advertised to american visitors, where they make a specialty of their beefsteak-and-kidney pudding. this is a gummy concoction containing steak, kidney, mushroom, oyster, lark--and sometimes w and y. doctor johnson is said to have been very fond of it; this, if true, accounts for the doctor's disposition. a helping of it weighs two pounds before you eat it and ten pounds afterward. the kidney is its predominating influence. the favorite flower of the english is not the primrose. it is the kidney. wherever you go, among the restaurants, there is always somebody operating on a steamed flour dumpling for kidney trouble. the lower orders are much addicted to a dish known--if i remember the name aright--by the euphonious title of toad in the hole. toad in the hole consists of a full-grown and fragrant sheep's kidney entombed in an excavated retreat at the heart of a large and powerful onion, and then cooked in a slow and painful manner, so that the onion and the kidney may swap perfumes and flavors. these people do not use this combination for a weapon or for a disinfectant, or for anything else for which it is naturally purposed; they actually go so far as to eat it. you pass a cabmen's lunchroom and get a whiff of a freshly opened toad in the hole--and you imagine it is the german invasion starting and wonder why they are not removing the women and children to a place of safety. all england smells like something boiling, just as all france smells like something that needs boiling. seemingly the only londoners who enjoy any extensive variety in their provender are the slum-dwellers. out whitechapel-way the establishment of a tripe dresser and draper is a sight wondrous to behold, and will almost instantly eradicate the strongest appetite; but it is not to be compared with an east end meatshop, where there are skinned sheep faces on slabs, and various vital organs of various animals disposed about in clumps and clusters. i was reminded of one of those fourteenth street museums of anatomy--tickets ten cents each; boys under fourteen not admitted. the east end butcher is not only a thrifty but an inquiring soul. until i viewed his shop i had no idea that a sheep could be so untidy inside; and as for a cow--he finds things in a cow she didn't know she had. breakfast is the meal at which the englishman rather excels; in fact england is the only country in europe where the natives have the faintest conception of what a regular breakfast is, or should be. moreover, it is now possible in certain london hotels for an american to get hot bread and ice-water at breakfast, though the english round about look on with undisguised horror as he consumes them, and the manager only hopes that he will have the good taste not to die on the premises. it is true that, in lieu of the fresh fruit an american prefers, the waiter brings at least three kinds of particularly sticky marmalade and, in accordance with a custom that dates back to the time of the druids, spangles the breakfast cloth over with a large number of empty saucers and plates, which fulfill no earthly purpose except to keep getting in the way. the english breakfast bacon, however, is a most worthy article, and the broiled kipper is juicy and plump, and does not resemble a dried autumn leaf, as our kipper often does. and the fried sole, on which the englishman banks his breakfast hopes, invariably repays one for one's undivided attention. the english boast of their fish; but, excusing the kipper, they have but three of note--the turbot, the plaice and the sole. and the turbot tastes like turbot, and the plaice tastes like fish; but the sole, when fried, is most appetizing. i have been present when the english gooseberry and the english strawberry were very highly spoken of, too, but with me this is merely hearsay evidence; we reached england too late for berries. happily, though, we came in good season for the green filbert, which is gathered in the fall of the year, being known then as the kentish cobnut. the kentish cob beats any nut we have except the paper-shell pecan. the english postage stamp is also much tastier than ours. the space for licking is no larger, if as large--but the flavor lasts. as i said before, the englishman has no great variety of things to eat, but he is always eating them; and when he is not eating them he is swigging tea. yet in these regards the german excels him. the englishman gains a lap at breakfast; but after that first hour the german leaves him, hopelessly distanced, far in the rear. it is due to his talents in this respect that the average berliner has a double chin running all the way round, and four rolls of fat on the back of his neck, all closely clipped and shaved, so as to bring out their full beauty and symmetry, and a figure that makes him look as though an earthquake had shaken loose everything on the top floor and it all fell through into his dining room. your true berliner eats his regular daily meals--four in number and all large ones; and in between times he now and then gathers a bite. for instance, about ten o'clock in the morning he knocks off for an hour and has a few cups of hard-boiled coffee and some sweet, sticky pastry with whipped cream on it. then about four in the afternoon he browses a bit, just to keep up his appetite for dinner. this, though, is but a snack--say, a school of bismarck herring and a kraut pie, some more coffee and more cake, and one thing and another--merely a preliminary to the real food, which will be coming along a little later on. between acts at the theater he excuses himself and goes out and prepares his stomach for supper, which will follow at eleven, by drinking two or three steins of thick munich beer, and nibbling on such small tidbits as a rosary of german sausage or the upper half of a raw westphalia ham. there are forty-seven distinct and separate varieties of german sausage and three of them are edible; but the westphalia ham, in my judgment, is greatly overrated. it is pronounced westfailure with the accent on the last part, where it belongs. in germany, however, there is a pheasant agreeably smothered in young cabbage which is delicious and in season plentiful. the only drawback to complete enjoyment of this dish is that the grasping and avaricious german restaurant keeper has the confounded nerve to charge you, in our money, forty cents for a whole pheasant and half a peck of cabbage--say, enough to furnish a full meal for two tolerably hungry adults and a growing child. the germans like to eat and they love a hearty eater. there should never be any trouble about getting a suitable person to serve us at the kaiser's court if the administration at washington will but harken to the voice of experience. to the germans the late doctor tanner would have been a distinct disappointment in an ambassadorial capacity; but there was a man who used to live in my congressional district who could qualify in a holy minute if he were still alive. he was one of nature's noblemen, untutored but naturally gifted, and his name was john wesley bass. he was the champion eater of the world, specializing particularly in eggs on the shell, and cove oysters out of the can, with pepper sauce on them, and soda crackers on the side. i regret to be compelled to state, however, that john wesley is no more. at one of our mccracken county annual fairs, a few years back, he succumbed to overambition coupled with a mistake in judgment. after he had established a new world's record by eating at one sitting five dozen raw eggs he rashly rode on the steam merry-go-round. at the end of the first quarter of an hour he fainted and fell off a spotted wooden horse and never spoke again, but passed away soon after being removed to his home in an unconscious condition. i have forgotten what the verdict of the coroner's jury was--the attending physician gave it some fancy latin name--but among laymen the general judgment was that our fellow townsman had just naturally been scrambled to death. it was a pity, too--the german people would have cared for john wesley as an ambassador. he would have eaten his way right into their affections. we have the word of history for it that vienna was originally settled by the celts, but you would hardly notice it now. on first impressions you would say that about vienna there was a noticeable suggestion--a perceptible trace--of the teutonic; and this applies to the austrian food in the main. i remember a kind of wiener-schnitzel, breaded, that i had in vienna; in fact for the moment i do not seem to recall much else about vienna. life there was just one wiener-schnitzel after another. in order to spread sweetness and light, and to the end, furthermore, that the ignorant people across the salted seas might know something of a land of real food and much food, and plenty of it and plenty of variety to it, i would that i might bring an expedition of europeans to america and personally conduct it up and down our continent and back and forth crosswise of it. and if i had the money of a carnegie or a rockefeller i would do it, too, for it would be a greater act of charity than building public libraries or endowing public baths. i would include in my party a few delegates from england, where every day is all soles' day; and a few sausage-surfeited teutons; and some gauls, wearied and worn by the deadly poulet routine of their daily life, and a scattering representation from all the other countries over there. in especial i would direct the englishman's attention to the broiled pompano of new orleans; the kingfish filet of new york; the sanddab of los angeles; the boston scrod of the massachusetts coast; and that noblest of all pan fish--the fried crappie of southern indiana. to these and to many another delectable fishling, would i introduce the poor fellow; and to him and his fellows i fain would offer a dozen apiece of smith island oysters on the half shell. and i would take all of them to new england for baked beans and brown bread and codfish balls; but on the way we would visit the shores of long island for a kind of soft clam which first is steamed and then is esteemed. at portsmouth, new hampshire, they should each have a broiled lobster measuring thirty inches from tip to tip, fresh caught out of the piscataqua river. vermont should come to them in hospitality and in pity, offering buckwheat cakes and maple sirup. but rhode island would bring a genuine yankee blueberry pie and directions for the proper consumption of it, namely--discarding knife and fork, to raise a crusty, dripping wedge of blueberry pie in your hand to your mouth, and to take a first bite, which instantly changes the ground-floor plan of that pie from a triangle to a crescent; and then to take a second bite, and then to lick your fingers--and then there isn't any more pie. down in kentucky i should engage mandy berry, colored, to fry for them some spring chickens and make for them a few pones of real cornbread. in creole louisiana they should sample crawfish gumbo; and in georgia they should have 'possum baked with sweet potatoes; and in tidewater maryland, terrapin and canvasback; and in illinois, young gray squirrels on toast; and in south carolina, boiled rice with black-eyed peas; and in colorado, cantaloupes; and in kansas, young sweet corn; and in virginia, country hams, not cured with chemicals but with hickory smoke and loving hands; and in tennessee, jowl and greens. and elsewhere they should have their whacking fill of prairie hen and suckling pig and barbecued shote, and sure-enough beefsteak, and goobers hot from the parching box; and scrapple, and yams roasted in hot wood-ashes; and hotbiscuit and waffles and parker house rolls--and the thousand and one other good things that may be found in this our country, and which are distinctively and uniquely of this country. finally i would bring them back by way of richmond, and there i would give them each an eggnog compounded with fresh cream and made according to a recipe older than the revolution. if i had my way about it no living creature should be denied the right to bury his face in a brimming tumbler of that eggnog--except a man with a drooping red mustache. by the time those gorged and converted pilgrims touched the eastern seaboard again any one of them, if he caught fire, would burn for about four days with a clear blue flame, and many valuable packing-house by-products could be gleaned from his ruins. it would bind us all, foreigner and native alike, in closer ties of love and confidence, and it would turn the tide of travel westward from europe, instead of eastward from america. let's do it sometime--and appoint me conductor of the expedition! chapter x modes of the moment; a fashion article among the furbearing races the adult male of the french species easily excels. some fine peltries are to be seen in italy, and there is a type of farming englishman who wears a stiff set of burnishers projecting out round his face in a circular effect suggestive of a halo that has slipped down. in connection with whiskers i have heard the russians highly commended. they tell me that, from a distance, it is very hard to distinguish a muzhik from a bosky dell, whereas a grand duke nearly always reminds one of something tasty and luxuriant in the line of ornamental arborwork. the german military man specializes in mustaches, preference being given to the texas longhorn mustache, and the walrus and kitty-cat styles. a dehorned german officer is rarely found and a muley one is practically unknown. but the french lead all the world in whiskers--both the wildwood variety and the domesticated kind trained on a trellis. i mention this here at the outset because no frenchman is properly dressed unless he is whiskered also; such details properly appertain to a chapter on european dress. probably every freeborn american citizen has at some time in his life cherished the dream of going to england and buying himself an outfit of english clothes--just as every woman has had hopes of visiting paris and stocking up with parisian gowns on the spot where they were created, and where--so she assumes--they will naturally be cheaper than elsewhere. those among us who no longer harbor these fancies are the men and women who have tried these experiments. after she has paid the tariff on them a woman is pained to note that her paris gowns have cost her as much as they would cost her in the united states--so i have been told by women who have invested extensively in that direction. and though a man, by the passion of the moment, may be carried away to the extent of buying english clothes, he usually discovers on returning to his native land that they are not adapted to withstand the trying climatic conditions and the critical comments of press and public in this country. what was contemplated as a triumphal reentrance becomes a footrace to the nearest ready-made clothing store. english clothes are not meant for americans, but for englishmen to wear: that is a great cardinal truth which americans would do well to ponder. possibly you have heard that an englishman's clothes fit him with an air. they do so; they fit him with a lot of air around the collar and a great deal of air adjacent to the waistband and through the slack of the trousers; frequently they fit him with such an air that he is entirely surrounded by space, as in the case of a vacuum bottle. once there was a briton whose overcoat collar hugged the back of his neck; so they knew by that he was no true briton, but an impostor--and they put him out of the union. in brief, the kind of english clothes best suited for an american to wear is the kind americans make. i knew these things in advance--or, anyway, i should have known them; nevertheless i felt our trip abroad would not be complete unless i brought back some london clothes. i took a look at the shop-windows and decided to pass up the ready-made things. the coat shirt; the shaped sock; the collar that will fit the neckband of a shirt, and other common american commodities, seemed to be practically unknown in london. the english dress shirt has such a dinky little bosom on it that by rights you cannot refer to it as a bosom at all; it comes nearer to being what women used to call a guimpe. every show-window where i halted was jammed to the gunwales with thick, fuzzy, woolen articles and inflammatory plaid waistcoats, and articles in crash for tropical wear--even through the glass you could note each individual crash with distinctness. the london shopkeeper adheres steadfastly to this arrangement. into his window he puts everything he has in his shop except the customer. the customer is in the rear, with all avenues of escape expertly fenced off from him by the proprietor and the clerks; but the stock itself is in the show-window. there are just two department stores in london where, according to the american viewpoint, the windows are attractively dressed. one of these stores is owned by an american, and the other, i believe, is managed by an american. in paris there are many shops that are veritable jewel-boxes for beauty and taste; but these are the small specialty shops, very expensive and highly perfumed. the paris department stores are worse jumbles even than the english department stores. when there is a special sale under way the bargain counters are rigged up on the sidewalks. there, in the open air, buyer and seller will chaffer and bicker, and wrangle and quarrel, and kiss and make up again--for all the world to see. one of the free sights of paris is a frugal frenchman, with his face extensively haired over, pawing like a skye terrier through a heap of marked-down lingerie; picking out things for the female members of his household to wear--now testing some material with his tongue; now holding a most personal article up in the sunlight to examine the fabric--while the wife stands humbly, dumbly by, waiting for him to complete his selections. so far as london was concerned, i decided to deny myself any extensive orgy in haberdashery. from similar motives i did not invest in the lounge suit to which an englishman is addicted. i doubted whether it would fit the lounge we have at home--though, with stretching, it might, at that. my choice finally fell on an english raincoat and a pair of those baggy knee breeches such as an englishman wears when he goes to scotland for the moor shooting, or to the national gallery, or any other damp, misty, rheumatic place. i got the raincoat first. it was built to my measure; at least that was the understanding; but you give an english tailor an inch and he takes an ell. this particular tailor seemed to labor under the impression that i was going to use my raincoat for holding large public assemblies or social gatherings in--nothing that i could say convinced him that i desired it for individual use; so he modeled it on a generous spreading design, big at the bottom and sloping up toward the top like a pagoda. equipped with guy ropes and a centerpole it would make a first-rate marquee for a garden party--in case of bad weather the refreshments could be served under it; but as a raincoat i did not particularly fancy it. when i put it on i sort of reminded myself of a covered wagon. nothing daunted by this i looked up the address of a sporting tailor in a side street off regent street, whose genius was reputed to find an artistic outlet in knee breeches. before visiting his shop i disclosed my purpose to my traveling companion, an individual in whose judgment and good taste i have ordinarily every confidence, and who has a way of coming directly to the meat of a subject. "what do you want with a pair of knee breeches?" inquired this person crisply. "why--er--for general sporting occasions," i replied. "for instance, what occasions?" "for golfing," i said, "and for riding, you know. and if i should go west next year they would come in very handy for the shooting." "to begin with," said my companion, "you do not golf. the only extensive riding i have ever heard of your doing was on railway trains. and if these knee breeches you contemplate buying are anything like the knee breeches i have seen here in london, and if you should wear them out west among the impulsive western people, there would undoubtedly be a good deal of shooting; but i doubt whether you would enjoy it--they might hit you!" "look here!" i said. "every man in america who wears duck pants doesn't run a poultry farm. and the presence of a sailor hat in the summertime does not necessarily imply that the man under it owns a yacht. i cannot go back home to new york and face other and older members of the when-i-was-in-london club without some sartorial credentials to show for my trip. i am firmly committed to this undertaking. do not seek to dissuade me, i beg of you. my mind is set on knee breeches and i shan't be happy until i get them." so saying i betook myself to the establishment of this sporting tailor in the side street off regent street; and there, without much difficulty, i formed the acquaintance of a salesman of suave and urbane manners. with his assistance i picked out a distinctive, not to say striking, pattern in an effect of plaids. the goods, he said, were made of the wool of a scotch sheep in the natural colors. they must have some pretty fancy-looking sheep in scotland! this done, the salesman turned me over to a cutter, who took me to a small room where incompleted garments were hanging all about like the quartered carcasses of animals in a butcher shop. the cutter was a person who dropped his h's and then, catching himself, gathered them all up again and put them back in his speech--in the wrong places. he surveyed me extensively with a square and a measuring line, meantime taking many notes, and told me to come back on the next day but one. on the day named and at the hour appointed i was back. he had the garments ready for me. as, with an air of pride, he elevated them for my inspection, they seemed commodious--indeed, voluminous. i had told him, when making them, to take all the latitude he needed; but it looked now as though he had got it confused in his mind with longitude. those breeches appeared to be constructed for cargo rather than speed. with some internal misgivings i lowered my person into them while he held them in position, and when i had descended as far as i could go without entirely immuring myself, he buttoned the dewdabs at the knees; then he went round behind me and cinched them in abruptly, so that of a sudden they became quite snug at the waistline; the only trouble was that the waistline had moved close up under my armpits, practically eliminating about a foot and a half of me that i had always theretofore regarded as indispensable to the general effect. right in the middle of my back, up between my shoulder blades there was a stiff, hard clump of something that bored into my spine uncomfortably. i could feel it quite plainly--lumpy and rough. "ow's that, sir?" he cheerily asked me, over my shoulder; but it seemed to me there was a strained, nervous note in his voice. "a bit of all right--eh, sir?" "well," i said, standing on tiptoe in an effort to see over the top, "you've certainly behaved very generously toward me--i'll say that much. midships there appears to be about four or five yards of material i do not actually need in my business, being, as it happens, neither a harem favorite nor a professional sackracer. and they come up so high i'm afraid people will think the gallant coast-guards have got me in a lifebuoy and are bringing me ashore through the surf." "you'll be wanting them a bit loose, sir, you know," he interjected, still snuggling close behind me. "all our gentlemen like them loose." "oh, very well," i said; "perhaps these things are mere details. however, i would be under deep obligations to you if you'd change 'em from barkentine to schooner rig, and lower away this gaff-topsail which now sticks up under my chin, so that i can luff and come up in the wind without capsizing. and say, what is that hard lump between my shoulders?" "nothing at all, sir," he said hastily; and now i knew he was flurried. "i can fix that, sir--in a jiffy, sir." "anyhow, please come round here in front where i can converse more freely with you on the subject," i said. i was becoming suspicious that all was not well with me back there where he was lingering. he came reluctantly, still half-embracing me with one arm. petulantly i wrestled my form free, and instantly those breeches seemed to leap outward in all directions away from me. i grabbed for them, and barely in time i got a grip on the yawning top hem. peering down the cavelike orifice that now confronted me i beheld two spectral white columns, and recognized them as my own legs. in the same instant, also, i realized what that hard clump against my spine was, because when he took his hand away the clump was gone. he had been standing back there with some eight or nine inches of superfluous waistband bunched up in his fist. the situation was embarrassing, and it would have been still more embarrassing had i elected to go forth wearing my breeches in their then state, because, to avoid talk, he would have had to go along too, walking immediately behind me and holding up the slack. and such a spectacle, with me filling the tonneau and he back behind on the rumble, would have caused comment undoubtedly. that pantsmaker was up a stump! he looked reproachfully at me, chidingly at the breeches and sternly at the tapemeasure--which he wore draped round his neck like a pet snake--as though he felt convinced one of us was at fault, but could not be sure which one. "i'm afraid, sir," he said, "that your figure is changing." "i guess you're right," i replied with a soft sigh. "as well as i can judge i'm not as tall as i was day before yesterday by at least eighteen inches. and i've mislaid my diaphragm somewhere, haven't i?" "'ave them off, please, sir," he said resignedly. "i'll 'ave to alter them to conform, sir. come back to-morrow." i had them off and he altered them to conform, and i went back on the morrow; in fact i went back so often that after a while i became really quite attached to the place. i felt almost like a member of the firm. between calls from me the cutter worked on those breeches. he cut them up and he cut them down; he sheared the back away and shingled the front, and shifted the buttons to and fro. still, even after all this, they were not what i should term an unqualified success. when i sat down in them they seemed to climb up on me so high, fore and aft, that i felt as short-waisted as a crush hat in a state of repose. and the only way i could get my hands into the hip pockets of those breeches was to take the breeches off first. as ear muffs they were fair but as hip pockets they were failures. finally i told him to send my breeches, just as they were, to my hotel address--and i paid the bill. i brought them home with me. on the day after my arrival i took them to my regular tailor and laid the case before him. i tried them on for him and asked him to tell me, as man to man, whether anything could be done to make those garments habitable. he called his cutter into consultation and they went over me carefully, meantime uttering those commiserating clucking sounds one tailor always utters when examining another tailor's handiwork. after this my tailor took a lump of chalk and charted out a kind of queen rosamond's maze of crossmarks on my breeches and said i might leave them, and that if surgery could save them he would operate. at any rate he guaranteed to cut them away sufficiently to admit of my breast bone coming out into the open once more. in a week--about--he called me on the telephone and broke the sad news to me. my english riding pants would never ride me again. in using the shears he had made a fatal slip and had irreparably damaged them in an essential location. however, he said i need not worry, because it might have been worse; from what he had already cut out of them he had garnered enough material to make me a neat outing coat, and by scrimping he thought he might get a waistcoat to match. i have my english raincoat; it is still in a virgin state so far as wearing it is concerned. i may yet wear it and i may not. if i wear it and you meet me on the street--and we are strangers--you should experience no great difficulty in recognizing me. just start in at almost any spot on the outer orbit and walk round and round as though you were circling a sideshow tent looking for a chance to crawl under the canvas and see the curiosities for nothing; and after a while, if you keep on walking as directed, you will come to a person with a plain but substantial face, and that will be me in my new english raincoat. then again i may wear it to a fancy-dress ball sometime. in that case i shall stencil pike's peak or bust! on the sidebreadth and go as a prairie schooner. if i can succeed in training a missouri hound-dog to trail along immediately behind me the illusion will be perfect. after these two experiences with the english tailor i gave up. instead of trying to wear the apparel of the foreigner i set myself to the study of it. i would avoid falling into the habit of making comparisons between european institutions and american institutions that are forever favorable to the american side of the argument. to my way of thinking there is only one class of tourist-americans to be encountered abroad worse than the class who go into hysterical rapture over everything they see merely because it is european, and that is the class who condemn offhand everything they see and find fault with everything merely because it is not american. but i must say that in the matter of outer habiliments the american man wins the decision on points nearly every whack. in his evening garb, which generally fits him, but which generally is not pressed as to trouserlegs and coatsleeves, the englishman makes an exceedingly good appearance. the swallow-tailed coat was created for the englishman and he for it; but on all other occasions the well-dressed american leads him--leads the world, for that matter. when a frenchman attires himself in his fanciest regalia he merely succeeds in looking effeminate; whereas a german, under similar circumstances, bears a wadded-in, bulged-out, stuffed-up appearance. i never saw a german in germany whose hat was not too small for him--just as i never saw a japanese in occidental garb whose hat was not too large for him--if it was a derby hat. if a german has on a pair of trousers that flare out at the bottom and a coat with angel sleeves--i think that is the correct technical term--and if the front of his coat is spangled over with the largest-sized horn buttons obtainable he regards himself as being dressed to the minute. as for the women, i believe even the super-critical mantuamakers of paris have begun to concede that, as a nation, the american women are the best-dressed women on earth. the french women have a way of arranging their hair and of wearing their hats and of draping their furs about their throats that is artistic beyond comparison. there may be a word in some folks' dictionaries fitly to describe it--there is no such word in mine; but when you have said that much you have said all there is to say. a french woman's feet are not shod well. french shoes, like all european shoes, are clumsy and awkward looking. english children are well dressed because they are simply dressed; and the children themselves, in contrast to the overdressed, overly aggressive youngsters so frequently encountered in america, are mannerly and self-effacing, and have sane, simple, childish tastes. young english girls are fresh and natural, but frequently frumpy; and the english married woman is generally dressed in poor taste and appears to have a most limited wardrobe. apparently the husband buys all he wants, and then, if there is any money left over, the wife gets it to spend on herself. venturing one morning into a london chapel i saw a dowdy little woman of this type kneeling in a pew, chanting the responses to the service. her blouse gaped open all the way down her back and she was saying with much fervor, "we have left undone those things which we ought to have done." she had too, but she didn't know it, as she knelt there unconsciously supplying a personal illustration for the spoken line. the typical highborn english woman has pale blue eyes, a fine complexion and a clear-cut, rather expressionless face with a profile suggestive of the portraits seen on english postage stamps of the early victorian period; but in the arranging of her hair any french shopgirl could give her lessons, and any smart american woman could teach her a lot about the knack of wearing clothes with distinction. in england, that land of caste which is rigid enough to be cast iron, all men, with the exception of petty tradespeople, dress to match the vocations they follow. in america no man stays put--he either goes forward to a circle above the one into which he was born or he slips back into a lower one; and so he dresses to suit himself or his wife or his tailor. but in england the professional man advertises his calling by his clothes. extreme stage types are ordinary types in london. no southern silver-tongued orator of the old-time, string-tied, slouch-hatted, long-haired variety ever clung more closely to his official makeup than the english barrister clings to his spats, his shad-bellied coat and his eye-glass dangling on a cord. at a glance one knows the medical man or the journalist, the military man in undress or the gentleman farmer; also, by the same easy method, one may know the workingman and the penny postman. the workingman has a cap on his head and a neckerchief about his throat, and the legs of his corduroy trousers are tied up below the knees with strings--else he is no workingman. when we were in london the postmen were threatening to go on strike. from the papers i gathered that the points in dispute had to do with better hours and better pay; but if they had been striking against having to wear the kind of cap the british government makes a postman wear, their cause would have had the cordial support and intense sympathy of every american in town. it remains for the english clerk to be the only englishman who seeks, by the clothes he wears in his hours of ease, to appear as something more than what he really is. off duty he fair y dotes on the high hat of commerce. frequently he sports it in connection with an exceedingly short and bobby sackcoat, and trousers that are four or five inches too short in the legs for him. the parisian shopman harbors similar ambitions--only he expresses them with more attention to detail. the noon hour arriving, the french shophand doffs his apron and his air of deference. he puts on a high hat and a frock coat that have been on a peg behind the door all the morning, gathers up his cane and his gloves; and, becoming on the instant a swagger and a swaggering boulevardier, he saunters to his favorite sidewalk cafe for a cordial glassful of a pink or green or purple drink. when his little hour of glory is over and done with he returns to his counter, sheds his grandeur and is once more your humble and ingratiating servitor. in residential london on a sunday afternoon one beholds some weird and wonderful costumes. on a sunday afternoon in a sub-suburb of a kensington suburb i saw, passing through a drab, sad side street, a little cockney man with the sketchy nose and unfinished features of his breed. he was presumably going to church, for he carried a large testament under his arm. he wore, among other things, a pair of white spats, a long-tailed coat and a high hat. it was not a regular high hat, either, but one of those trick-performing hats which, on signal, will lie doggo or else sit up and beg. and he was riding a bicycle of an ancient vintage! the most impressively got-up civilians in england--or in the world, either, for that matter--are the assistant managers and the deputy cashiers of the big london hotels. compared with them the lilies of the field are as lilies in the bulb. their collars are higher, their ties are more resplendent, their frock coats more floppy as to the tail and more flappy as to the lapel, than it is possible to imagine until you have seen it all with your own wondering eyes. they are haughty creatures, too, austere and full of a starchy dignity; but when you come to pay your bill you find at least one of them lined up with the valet and the waiter, the manservant and the maidservant, the ox and the ass, hand out and palm open to get his tip. having tipped him you depart feeling ennobled and uplifted--as though you had conferred a purse of gold on a marquis. chapter xi dressed to kill with us it is the dress of the women that gives life and color to the shifting show of street life. in europe it is the soldier, and in england the private soldier particularly. the german private soldier is too stiff, and the french private soldier is too limber, and the italian private soldier has been away from the dry-cleanser's too long; but the british tommy atkins is a perfect piece of work--what with his dinky cap tilted over one eye, and his red tunic that fits him without blemish or wrinkle, and his snappy little swagger stick flirting the air. as a picture of a first-class fighting man i know of but one to match him, and that is a khaki-clad, service-hatted yankee regular--long may he wave! there may be something finer in the way of a military spectacle than the change of horse-guards at whitehall or the march of the foot-guards across the green in st. james' park on a fine, bright morning--but i do not know what it is. one day, passing buckingham palace, i came on a footguard on duty in one of the little sentry boxes just outside the walls. he did not look as though he were alive. he looked as though he had been stuffed and mounted by a most expert taxidermist. from under his bearskin shako and from over his brazen chin-strap his face stared out unwinking and solemn and barren of thought. i said to myself: "it is taking a long chance, but i shall ascertain whether this party has any human emotions." so i halted directly in front of him and began staring fixedly at his midriff as though i saw a button unfastened there or a buckle disarranged. for a space of minutes i kept my gaze on him without cessation. finally the situation grew painful; but it was not that british grenadier who grew embarrassed and fidgety--it was the other party to the transaction. his gaze never shifted, his eyes never wavered--but i came away feeling all wriggly. in no outward regard whatsoever do the soldiers on the continent compare with the soldiers of the british archipelago. when he is not on actual duty the german private is always going somewhere in a great hurry with something belonging to his superior officer--usually a riding horse or a specially heavy valise. on duty and off he wears that woodenness of expression--or, rather, that wooden lack of expression--which is found nowhere in such flower of perfection as on the faces of german soldiers and german toys. the germans prove they have a sense of humor by requiring their soldiers to march on parade with the goose step; and the french prove they have none at all by incasing the defenseless legs of their soldiers in those foolish red-flannel pants that are manufactured in such profusion up at the pantheon. in the event of another war between the two nations i anticipate a frightful mortality among pants--especially if the french forces should be retreating. the german soldier is not a particularly good marksman as marksmen go, but he would have to be the worst shot in the world to miss a pair of french pants that were going away from him at the time. still, when all is said and done, there is something essentially frenchy about those red pants. there is something in their length that instinctively suggests toulon, something in their breadth that makes you think of toulouse. i realize that this joke, as it stands, is weak and imperfect. if there were only another french seaport called toubagge i could round it out and improve it structurally. if the english private soldier is the trimmest, the austrian officer is the most beautiful to look on. an austrian officer is gaudier than the door-opener of a london cafe or the porter of a paris hotel. he achieves effects in gaudiness which even time italian officer cannot equal. the italian officer is addicted to cock feathers and horsetails on his helmet, to bits of yellow and blue let into his clothes, to tufts of red and green hung on him in unexpected and unaccountable spots. either the design of bottled italian chianti is modeled after the italian officer or the italian officer is modeled after the bottle of chianti--which, though, i am not prepared to say without further study of the subject. but the austrian officer is the walking sunset effect of creation. for color schemes i know of nothing in nature to equal him except the grand canyon of the colorado. circus parades are unknown in austria--they are not missed either; after an austrian officer a street parade would seem a colorless and commonplace thing. in his uniform he runs to striking contrasts--canary yellow, with light blue facings; silvers and grays; bright greens with scarlet slashings--and so on. his collar is the very highest of all high collars and the heaviest with embroidery; his cloak is the longest and the widest; his boots the most varnished; his sword-belt the broadest and the shiniest; and the medals on his bosom are the most numerous and the most glittering. alf ringling and john philip sousa would take one look at him--and then, mutually filled with an envious despair, they would go apart and hold a grand lodge of sorrow together. also, he constantly wears his spurs and his sword; he wears them even when he is in a cafe in the evening listening to the orchestra, drinking beer and allowing an admiring civilian to pay the check--and that apparently is every evening. there was one austrian colonel who came one night into a cafe in vienna where we were and sat down at the table next to us; and he put our eyes right out and made all the lights dim and flickery. his epaulets were two hairbrushes of augmented size, gold-mounted; his plimsoll marks were outlined in bullion, and along his garboard strake ran lines of gold braid; but strangest of all to observe was the locality where he wore what appeared to be his service stripes. instead of being on his sleeves they were at the extreme southern exposure of his coattails; i presume an austrian officer acquires merit by sitting down. this particular officer's saber kept jingling, and so did his spurs, and so did his bracelet. i almost forgot the bracelet. it was an ornate affair of gold links fastened on his left wrist with a big gold locket, and it kept slipping down over his hand and rattling against his cuff. the chain bracelet locked on the left wrist is very common among austrian officers; it adds just the final needed touch. i did not see any of them carrying lorgnettes or shower bouquets, but i think, in summer they wear veils. one opportunity is afforded the european who is neither a soldier nor a hotel cashier to dress himself up in comic-opera clothes--and that is when he a-hunting goes. an american going hunting puts on his oldest and most serviceable clothes--a european his giddiest, gayest, gladdest regalia. we were so favored by gracious circumstances as to behold several englishmen suitably attired for the chase, and we noted that the conventional morning costume of an english gentleman expecting to call informally on a pheasant or something during the course of the forenoon consisted, in the main, of a perfect dear of a norfolk jacket, all over plaits and pockets, with large leather buttons like oak-galls adhering thickly to it, with a belt high up under the arms and a saucy tail sticking out behind; knee-breeches; a high stock collar; shin-high leggings of buff or white, and a special hat--a truly adorable confection by the world's leading he-milliner. if you dared to wear such an outfit afield in america the very dickeybirds would fall into fits as you passed--the chipmunks would lean out of the trees and just naturally laugh you to death! but in a land where the woodlands are well-kept groves, and the undergrowth, instead of being weedy and briery, is sweet-scented fern and gorse and bracken, i suppose it is all eminently correct. thus appareled the englishman goes to scotland to shoot the grouse, the gillie, the heather cock, the niblick, the haggis and other scotch game. thus appareled he ranges the preserves of his own fat, fair shires in ardent pursuit of the english rabbit, which pretty nearly corresponds to the guinea pig, but is not so ferocious; and the english hare, which is first cousin to our molly cottontail; and the english pheasant--but particularly the pheasant. there was great excitement while we were in england concerning the pheasants. either the pheasants were preying on the mangel-wurzels or the mangel-wurzels were preying on the pheasants. at any rate it had something to do with the land bill--practically everything that happens in england has something to do with the land bill--and lloyd george was in a free state of perspiration over it; and the papers were full of it and altogether there was a great pother over it. we saw pheasants by the score. we saw them first from the windows of our railroad carriage--big, beautiful birds nearly as large as barnyard fowls and as tame, feeding in the bare cabbage patches, regardless of the train chugging by not thirty yards away; and later we saw them again at still closer range as we strolled along the haw-and-holly-lined roads of the wonderful southern counties. they would scuttle on ahead of us, weaving in and out of the hedgerows; and finally, when we insisted on it and flung pebbles at them to emphasize our desires, they would get up, with a great drumming of wings and a fine comet-like display of flowing tailfeathers on the part of the cock birds, and go booming away to what passes in sussex and kent for dense cover--meaning by that thickets such as you may find in the upper end of central park. they say king george is one of the best pheasant-shots in england. he also collects postage stamps when not engaged in his regular regal duties, such as laying cornerstones for new workhouses and receiving presentation addresses from charity children. i have never shot pheasants; but, having seen them in their free state as above described, and having in my youth collected postage stamps intermittently, i should say, speaking offhand, that of the two pursuits postage-stamp collecting is infinitely the more exciting and dangerous. through the closed season the keepers mind the pheasants, protecting them from poachers and feeding them on selected grain; but a day comes in october when the hunters go forth and take their stands at spaced intervals along a cleared aisle flanking the woods; then the beaters dive into the woods from the opposite side, and when the tame and trusting creatures come clustering about their feet expecting provender the beaters scare them up, by waving their umbrellas at them, i think, and the pheasants go rocketing into the air--rocketing is the correct sporting term--go rocketing into the air like a flock of sunday supplements; and the gallant gunner downs them in great multitudes, always taking due care to avoid mussing his clothes. for after all the main question is not "what did he kill?" but "how does he look?" at that, i hold no brief for the pheasant--except when served with breadcrumb dressing and currant jelly he is no friend of mine. it ill becomes americans, with our own record behind us, to chide other people for the senseless murder of wild things; and besides, speaking personally, i have a reasonably open mind on the subject of wild-game shooting. myself, i shot a wild duck once. he was not flying at the time. he was, as the stockword goes, setting. i had no self-reproaches afterward however. as between that duck and myself i regarded it as an even break--as fair for one as for the other--because at the moment i myself was, as we say, setting too. but if, in the interests of true sportsmanship, they must have those annual massacres i certainly should admire to see what execution a picked half dozen of american quail hunters, used to snap-shooting in the cane jungles and brier patches of georgia and arkansas, could accomplish among english pheasants, until such time as their consciences mastered them and they desisted from slaughter! be that as it may, pheasant shooting is the last word in the english sporting calendar. it is a sport strictly for the gentry. except in the capacity of innocent bystanders the lower orders do not share in it. it is much too good for them; besides, they could not maintain the correct wardrobe for it. the classes derive one substantial benefit from the institution however. the sporting instinct of the landed englishman has led to the enactment of laws under which an ordinary person goes smack to jail if he is caught sequestrating a clandestine pheasant bird; but it does not militate against the landowner's peddling off his game after he has destroyed it. british thrift comes in here. and so in carload lots it is sold to the marketmen. the result is that in the fall of the year pheasants are cheaper than chickens; and any person who can afford poultry on his dinner table can afford pheasants. the continental hunter makes an even more spectacular appearance than his british brother. no self-respecting german or french sportsman would think of faring forth after the incarnate brown hare or the ferocious wood pigeon unless he had on a green hat with a feather in it; and a green suit to match the hat; and swung about his neck with a cord a natty fur muff to keep his hands in between shots; and a swivel chair to sit in while waiting for the wild boar to come along and be bowled over. being hunted with a swivel chair is what makes the german wild boar wild. on occasion, also, the hunter wears, suspended from his belt, a cute little hanger like a sawed-off saber, with which to cut the throats of his spoil. then, when it has spoiled some more, they will serve it at a french restaurant. it was our fortune to be in france on the famous and ever-memorable occasion when the official stag of the french republic met a tragic and untimely end, under circumstances acutely distressing to all who believe in the divinity bestowed prerogatives of the nobility. the paris edition of the herald printed the lamentable tale on its front page and i clipped the account. i offer it here in exact reproduction, including the headline: hunting incident said to be due to conspiracy further details are given in this morning's figaro of the incident between prince murat and m. dauchis, the mayor of saint-felix, near clermont, which was briefly reported in yesterday's herald. a regular conspiracy was organized by m. dauchis, it is alleged, in order to secure the stag prince murat and comte de valon were hunting in the forest of la neuville-en-hetz. already, at the outset of the hunt, m. dauchis, according to le figaro, charged at a huntsman with a little automobile in which he was driving and threatened to fire. then when the stag ran into the wood, near the trye river, one of his keepers shot it. in great haste the animal was loaded on another automobile; and before either the prince or comte de valon could interfere it was driven away. while comte de valon spurred his horse in pursuit prince murat disarmed the man who had shot the stag, for he was leveling his gun at another huntsman; but before the gun was wrenched from his hands he had struck prince d'essling, prince murat's uncle, across the face with the butt. meantime comte de valon had overtaken the automobile and, though threatened with revolvers by its occupants, would have recaptured the stag if the men in charge of it had not taken it into the house of m. dauchis' father. the only course left for prince murat and comte de valon was to lodge a complaint with the police for assault and for killing the stag, which m. dauchis refused to give back. from this you may see how very much more exciting stag hunting is in france than in america. comparing the two systems we find but one point of resemblance--namely, the attempted shooting of a huntsman. in the north woods we do a good deal of that sort of thing: however with us it is not yet customary to charge the prospective victim in a little automobile--that may come in time. our best bags are made by the stalking or still-hunting method. our city-raised sportsman slips up on his guide and pots him from a rest. but consider the rest of the description so graphically set forth by le figaro--the intriguing of the mayor; the opposing groups rampaging round, some on horseback and some in automobile runabouts; the intense disappointment of the highborn prince murat and his uncle, the prince d'essling, and his friend, the comte de valon; the implied grief of the stag at being stricken down by other than noble hands; the action of the base-born commoner, who shot the stag, in striking the prince d'essling across his pained and aristocratic face with the butt--exact type of butt and name of owner not being given. only in its failure to clear up this important point, and in omitting to give descriptions of the costumes worn by the two princes and the comte, is le figaro's story lacking. they must have been wearing the very latest creations too. this last brings us back again to the subject of clothes and serves to remind me that, contrary to a belief prevalent on this side of the water, good clothes cost as much abroad as they cost here. in england a man may buy gloves and certain substantial articles of haberdashery in silk and linen and wool at a much lower figure than in america; and in italy he will find crocheted handbags and bead necklaces are to be had cheaper than at home--provided, of course, he cares for such things as crocheted handbags and bead necklaces. handmade laces and embroideries and sundry other feminine fripperies, so women tell me, are moderately priced on the continent, if so be the tourist-purchaser steers clear of the more fashionable shops and chases the elusive bargain down a back street; but, quality considered, other things cost as much in europe as they cost here--and frequently they cost more. if you buy at the shopkeeper's first price he has a secret contempt for you; if you haggle him down to a reasonably fair valuation--say about twice the amount a native would pay for the same thing--he has a half-concealed contempt for you; if you refuse to trade at any price he has an open contempt for you; and in any event he dislikes you because you are an american. so there you are. no matter how the transaction turns out you have his contempt; it is the only thing he parts with at cost. it is true that you may buy a suit of clothes for ten dollars in london; so also may you buy a suit of clothes for ten dollars in any american city, but the reasonably affluent american doesn't buy ten-dollar suits at home. he saves himself up to indulge in that form of idiocy abroad. in paris or rome you may get a five-course dinner with wine for forty cents; so you may in certain quarters of new york; but in either place the man who can afford to pay more for his dinner will find it to his ultimate well-being to do so. simply because a boarding house in france or italy is known as a pension doesn't keep it from being a boarding house--and a pretty average bad one, as i have been informed by misguided americans who tried living at a pension, and afterwards put in a good deal of their spare time regretting it. altogether, looking back on my own experiences, i can at this time of writing think of but two common commodities which, when grade is taken into the equation, are found to be radically cheaper in europe than in america--these two things being taxicabs and counts. for their cleanliness and smartness of aspect, and their reasonableness of meter-fare, taxicabs all over europe are a constant joy to the traveling american. and, though in the united states counts are so costly that only the marriageable daughters of the very wealthy may afford to buy them--and even then, as the count calendars attest, have the utmost difficulty in keeping them after they are bought--in continental europe anywhere one may for a moderate price hire a true-born count to do almost any small job, from guiding one through an art gallery to waiting on one at the table. counts make indifferent guides, but are middling fair waiters. outside of the counts and the taxicabs, and the food in germany, i found in all europe just one real overpowering bargain--and that was in naples, where, as a general thing, bargains are not what they seem. for the exceedingly moderate outlay of one lira--italian--or twenty cents--american--i secured this combination, to wit, as follows: in the background old vesuvius, like a wicked, fallen angel, wearing his plumy, fumy halo of sulphurous hell-smoke; in the middle distance the bay of naples, each larcenous wave-crest in it triple-plated with silvern glory pilfered from a splendid moon; on the left the riding lights of a visiting squadron of american warships; on the right the myriad slanted sails of the coral-fishers' boats, beating out toward capri, with the curlew-calls of the fishermen floating back in shrill snatches to meet a jangle of bell and bugle from the fleet; in the immediate foreground a competent and accomplished family troupe of six neapolitan troubadours--men, women and children--some of them playing guitars and all six of them, with fine mellow voices and tremendous dramatic effect, singing--the words being italian but the air good american--john brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave! i defy you to get more than that for twenty cents anywhere in the world! chapter xii night life--with the life part missing in our consideration of this topic we come first to the night life of the english. they have none. passing along to the next subject under the same heading, which is the night life of paris, we find here so much night life, of such a delightfully transparent and counterfeit character; so much made-to-measure deviltry; so many members of the madcaps' union engaged on piece-work; so much delicious, hoydenish derring-do, all carefully stage-managed and expertly timed for the benefit of north and south american spenders, to the end that the deliriousness shall abate automatically in exact proportion as the spenders quit spending--in short, so much of what is typically parisian that, really paris, on its merits, is entitled to a couple of chapters of its own. all of which naturally brings us to the two remaining great cities of mid-europe--berlin and vienna--and leads us to the inevitable conclusion that the europeans, in common with all other peoples on the earth, only succeed--when they try to be desperately wicked--in being desperately dull; whereas when they seek their pleasures in a natural manner they present racial slants and angles that are very interesting to observe and very pleasant to have a hand in. take the germans now: no less astute a world traveler than samuel g. blythe is sponsor for the assertion that the berliners follow the night-life route because the kaiser found his capital did not attract the tourist types to the extent he had hoped, and so decreed that his faithful and devoted subjects, leaving their cozy hearths and inglenooks, should go forth at the hour when graveyards yawn--and who could blame them?--to spend the dragging time until dawn in being merry and bright. so saying his majesty went to bed, leaving them to work while he slept. after viewing the situation at first hand the present writer is of the opinion that mr. blythe was quite right in his statements. certainly nothing is more soothing to the eye of the onlooker, nothing more restful to his soul, than to behold a group of germans enjoying themselves in a normal manner. and absolutely nothing is quite so ghastly sad as the sight of those same well-flushed, well-fleshed germans cavorting about between the hours of two and four-thirty a.m., trying, with all the pachydermic ponderosity of barnum's elephant quadrille, to be professionally gay and cutuppish. the prussians must love their kaiser dearly. we sit up with our friends when they are dead; they stay up for him until they are ready to die themselves. as is well known berlin abounds in pleasure palaces, so called. enormous places these are, where under one widespreading roof are three or four separate restaurants of augmented size, not to mention winecellars and beer-caves below-stairs, and a dancehall or so and a turkish bath, and a bar, and a skating rink, and a concert hall--and any number of private dining rooms. the german mind invariably associates size with enjoyment. to these establishments, after his regular dinner, the berliner repairs with his family, his friend or his guest. there is one especially popular resort, a combination of restaurant and vaudeville theater, at which one eats an excellent dinner excellently served, and between courses witnesses the turns of a first-rate variety bill, always with the inevitable team of american coon shouters, either in fast colors or of the burnt-cork variety, sandwiched into the program somewhere. in the friedrichstrasse there is another place, called the admiralspalast, which is even more attractive. here, inclosing a big, oval-shaped ice arena, balcony after balcony rises circling to the roof. on one of these balconies you sit, and while you dine and after you have dined you look down on a most marvelous series of skating stunts. in rapid and bewildering succession there are ballets on skates, solo skating numbers, skating carnivals and skating races. finally scenery is slid in on runners and the whole company, in costumes grotesque and beautiful, go through a burlesque that keeps you laughing when you are not applauding, and admiring when you are doing neither; while alternating lightwaves from overhead electric devices flood the picture with shifting, shimmering tides of color. it is like seeing a christmas pantomime under an aurora borealis. in america we could not do these things--at least we never have done them. either the performance would be poor or the provender would be highly expensive, or both. but here the show is wonderful, and the victuals are good and not extravagantly priced, and everybody has a bully time. at eleven-thirty or thereabout the show at the ice palace is over--concluding with a push-ball match between teams of husky maidens who were apparently born on skates and raised on skates, and would not feel natural unless they were curveting about on skates. their skates seem as much a part of them as tails to mermaids. it is bedtime now for sane folks, but at this moment a certain madness which does not at all fit in with the true german temperament descends on the crowd. some go upstairs to another part of the building, where there is a dancehall called the admiralskasino; but, to the truly swagger, one should hasten to the palais du danse on the second floor of the big metropolpalast in the behrenstrasse. this place opens promptly at midnight and closes promptly at two o'clock in the morning. inasmuch as the palais du danse is an institution borrowed outright from the french they have adopted a typically french custom here. as the visitor enters--if he be a stranger--a flunky in gorgeous livery intercepts him and demands an entrance fee amounting to about a dollar and a quarter in our money, as i recall. this tariff the american or englishman pays, but the practiced berliner merely suggests to the doorkeeper the expediency of his taking a long running start and jumping off into space, and stalks defiantly in without forking over a single pfennig to any person whatsoever. the palais du danse is incomparably the most beautiful ballroom in the world--so people who have been all over the world agree--and it is spotlessly clean and free from brackish smells, which is more than can be said of any french establishment of similar character i have seen. at the palais du danse the patron sits at a table--a table with something on it besides a cloth being an essential adjunct to complete enjoyment of an evening of german revelry; and as he sits and drinks he listens to the playing of a splendid band and looks on at the dancing. nothing is drunk except wine--and by wine i mainly mean champagne of the most sweetish and sickish brand obtainable. elsewhere, for one-twentieth the cost, the german could have the best and purest beer that is made; but he is out now for the big night. accordingly he saturates his tissues with the sugary bubble-water of france. he does not join in the dancing himself. the men dancers are nearly all paid dancers, i think, and the beautifully clad women who dance are either professionals, too, or else belong to a profession that is older even than dancing is. they all dance with a profound german gravity and precision. here is music to set a wooden leg a-jigging; but these couples circle and glide and dip with an incomprehensible decorum and slowness. when we were there, they were dancing the tango or one of its manifold variations. all europe, like all america, was, for the moment, tango mad. while we were in paris, m. jean richepin lectured before the forty immortals of the five academies assembled in solemn conclave at the institute of france. they are called the forty immortals because nobody can remember the names of more than five of them. he took for his subject the tango--his motto, in short, being one borrowed from the conductors in the new york subway--"mind your step!" while he spoke, which was for an hour or more, the bebadged and beribboned bosoms of his illustrious compatriots heaved with emotion; their faces--or such parts of their faces as were visible above the whiskerline--flushed with enthusiasm, and most vociferously they applauded his masterly phrasing and his tracing-out of the evolution of the tango, all the way from its genesis, as it were, to its revelation. i judge the revelation particularly appealed to them--that part of it appeals to so many. after that the tango seemed literally to trail us. we could not escape it. while we were in berlin the emperor saw fit officially to forbid the dancing of the tango by officers of his navy and army. we reached england just after the vogue for tango teas started. naturally we went to one of these affairs. it took place at a theater. such is the english way of interpreting the poetry of motion--to hire some one else to do it for you, and--in order to get the worth of your money--sit and swizzle tea while the paid performer is doing it. at the tango tea we patronized the tea was up to standard, but the dancing of the box-ankled professionals was a disappointment. beforehand i had been told that the scene on the stage would be a veritable picture. and so it was--rosa bonheur's horse fair. as a matter of fact the best dancer i saw in europe was a performing trick pony in a winter circus in berlin. i also remember with distinctness of detail a chorusman who took part in a new lehar opera, there in berlin. i do not remember him for his dancing, because he was no clumsier of foot than his compatriots in the chorus rank and file; or for his singing, since i could not pick his voice out from the combined voices of the others. i remember him because he wore spectacles--not a monocle nor yet a pair of nose-glasses, but heavy-rimmed, double-lensed german spectacles with gold bows extending up behind his ears like the roots of an old-fashioned wisdom tooth. come to think about it, i know of no reason why a chorusman should not wear spectacles if he needs them in his business or if he thinks they will add to his native beauty; but the spectacle of that bolster-built youth, dressed now as a spanish cavalier and now as a venetian gondolier, prancing about, with his spectacles goggling owlishly out at the audience, and once in a while, when a gleam from the footlights caught on them, turning to two red-hot disks set in the middle of his face, was a thing that is going to linger in my memory when a lot of more important matters are entirely forgotten. not even in paris did the tango experts compare with the tango experts one sees in america. at this juncture i pause a moment, giving opportunity for some carping critic to rise and call my attention to the fact that perhaps the most distinguished of the early school of turkey-trotters bears a french name and came to us from paris. to which i reply that so he does and so he did; but i add then the counter-argument that he came to us by way of paris, at the conclusion of a round trip that started in the old fourth ward of the borough of manhattan, city of greater new york; for he was born and bred on the east side--and, moreover, was born bearing the name of a race of kings famous in the south of ireland and along the bowery. and he learned his art--not only the rudiments of it but the final finished polish of it--in the dancehalls of third avenue, where the best slow-time dancers on earth come from. it was after he had acquired a french accent and had gallicized his name, thereby causing a general turning-over of old settlers in the graveyards of the county clare, that he returned to us, a conspicuous figure in the world of art and fashion, and was able to get twenty-five dollars an hour for teaching the sons and daughters of our richest families to trip the light fantastic go. at the same time, be it understood, i am not here to muckrake the past of one so prominent and affluent in the most honored and lucrative of modern professions; but facts are facts, and these particular facts are quoted here to bind and buttress my claim that the best dancers are the american dancers. after this digression let us hurry right back to that loyal berliner whom we left seated in the palais du danse on the behrenstrasse, waiting for the hour of two in the morning to come. the hour of two in the morning does come; the lights die down; the dancers pick up their heavy feet--it takes an effort to pick up those continental feet--and quit the waxen floor; the oberkellner comes round with his gold chain of office dangling on his breast and collects for the wine, and our german friend, politely inhaling his yawns, gets up and goes elsewhere to finish his good time. and, goldarn it, how he does dread it! yet he goes, faithful soul that he is. he goes, let us say, to the pavilion mascotte--no dancing, but plenty of drinking and music and food--which opens at two and stays open until four, when it shuts up shop in order that another place in the nature of a cabaret may open. and so, between five and six o'clock in the morning of the new day, when the lady garbagemen and the gentlemen chambermaids of the german capital are abroad on their several duties, he journeys homeward, and so, as mr. pepys says, to bed, with nothing disagreeable to look forward to except repeating the same dose all over again the coming night. this sort of thing would kill anybody except a prussian--for, mark you, between intervals of drinking he has been eating all night; but then a prussian has no digestion. he merely has gross tonnage in the place where his digestive apparatus ought to be. the time to see a german enjoying himself is when he is following his own bent and not obeying the imperial edict of his gracious sovereign. i had a most excellent opportunity of observing him while engaged in his own private pursuits of pleasure when by chance one evening, in the course of a solitary prowl, i bumped into a sort of berlinesque version of coney island, with the island part missing. it was not out in the suburbs where one would naturally expect to find such a resort. it was in the very middle of the city, just round the corner from the cafe district, not more than half a mile, as the blutwurst flies, from unter den linden. even at this distance and after a considerable lapse of time i can still appreciate that place, though i cannot pronounce it; for it had a name consisting of one of those long german compound words that run all the way round a fellow's face and lap over at the back, like a clergyman's collar, and it had also a subname that no living person could hope to utter unless he had a thorough german education and throat trouble. you meet such nouns frequently in germany. they are not meant to be spoken; you gargle them. to speak the full name of this park would require two able-bodied persons--one to start it off and carry it along until his larynx gave out, and the other to take it up at that point and finish it. but for all the nine-jointed impressiveness of its title this park was a live, brisk little park full of sideshow tents sheltering mildly amusing, faked-up attractions, with painted banners flapping in the air and barkers spieling before the entrances and all the ballyhoos going at full blast--altogether a creditable imitation of a street fair as witnessed in any american town that has a good live elks' lodge in it. plainly the place was popular. germans of all conditions and all ages and all sizes--but mainly the broader lasts--were winding about in thick streams in the narrow, crooked alleys formed by the various tents. they packed themselves in front of each booth where a free exhibition was going on, and when the free part was over and the regular performance began they struggled good-naturedly to pay the admission fee and enter in at the door. and, for a price, there were freaks to be seen who properly belonged on our side of the water, it seemed to me. i had always supposed them to be exclusively domestic articles until i encountered them here. there was a regular bosco--a genuine herr he alive them eats--sitting in his canvas den entirely surrounded by a choice and tasty selection of eating snakes. the orthodox tattooed man was there, too, first standing up to display the text and accompanying illustrations on his front cover, and then turning round so the crowd might read what he said on the other side. and there was many another familiar freak introduced to our fathers by old dan rice and to us, their children, through the good offices of daniel's long and noble line of successors. a seasonable sunday is a fine time; and the big zoological garden, which is a favorite place for studying the berlin populace at the diversions they prefer when left to their own devices. at one table will be a cluster of students, with their queer little pill-box caps of all colors, their close-cropped heads and well-shaved necks, and their saber-scarred faces. at the next table half a dozen spectacled, long-coated men, who look as though they might be university professors, are confabbing earnestly. and at the next table and the next and the next--and so on, until the aggregate runs into big figures--are family groups--grandsires, fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles and children, on down to the babies in arms. by the uncountable thousands they spend the afternoon here, munching sausages and sipping lager, and enjoying the excellent music that is invariably provided. at each plate there is a beer mug, for everybody is forever drinking and nobody is ever drunk. you see a lot of this sort of thing, not only in the parks and gardens so numerous in and near any german city but anywhere on the continent. seeing it helps an american to understand a main difference between the american sabbath and the european sunday. we keep it and they spend it. i am given to understand that vienna night life is the most alluring, the most abandoned, the most wicked and the wildest of all night life. probably this is so--certainly it is the most cloistered and the most inaccessible. the viennese does not deliberately exploit his night life to prove to all the world that he is a gay dog and will not go home until morning though it kill him--as the german does. neither does he maintain it for the sake of the coin to be extracted from the pockets of the tourist, as do the parisians. with him his night life is a thing he has created and which he supports for his own enjoyment. and so it goes on--not out in the open; not press-agented; not advertised; but behind closed doors. he does not care for the stranger's presence, nor does he suffer it either--unless the stranger is properly vouched for. the best theaters in vienna are small, exclusive affairs, privately supported, and with seating capacity for a few chosen patrons. once he has quit the public cafe with its fine music and its bad waiters the uninitiated traveler has a pretty lonesome time of it in vienna. until all hours he may roam the principal streets seeking that fillip of wickedness which will give zest to life and provide him with something to brag about when he gets back among the home folks again. he does not find it. charades would provide a much more exciting means of spending the evening; and, in comparison with the sights he witnesses, anagrams and acrostics are positively thrilling. he is tantalized by the knowledge that all about him there are big doings, but, so far as he is concerned, he might just as well be attending a sunday-school cantata. unless he be suitably introduced he will have never a chance to shake a foot with anybody or buy a drink for somebody in the inner circles of viennese night life. he is emphatically on the outside, denied even the poor satisfaction of looking in. at that i have a suspicion, born of casual observation among other races, that the viennese really has a better time when he is not trying than when he is trying. chapter xiii our friend, the assassin no taste of the night life of paris is regarded as complete without a visit to an apache resort at the fag-end of it. for orderly and law-abiding people the disorderly and lawbreaking people always have an immense fascination anyhow. the average person, though inclined to blink at whatever prevalence of the criminal classes may exist in his own community, desires above all things to know at firsthand about the criminals of other communities. in these matters charity begins at home. every new yorker who journeys to the west wants to see a few roadagents; conversely the westerner sojourning in new york pesters his new york friends to lead him to the haunts of the gangsters. it makes no difference that in a western town the prize hold-up man is more apt than not to be a real-estate dealer; that in new york the average run of citizens know no more of the gangs than they know of the metropolitan museum of art--which is to say, nothing at all. human nature comes to the surface just the same. in paris they order this thing differently; they exhibit the same spirit of enterprise that in a lesser degree characterized certain promoters of rubberneck tours who some years ago fitted up make-believe opium dens in new york's chinatown for the awed delectation of out-of-town spectators. knowing from experience that every other american who lands in paris will crave to observe the apache while the apache is in the act of apaching round, the canny parisians have provided a line of up-to-date apache dens within easy walking distance of montmartre; and thither the guides lead the round-eyed tourist and there introduce him to well-drilled, carefully made-up apaches and apachesses engaged in their customary sports and pastimes for as long as he is willing to pay out money for the privilege. being forewarned of this i naturally desired to see the genuine article. i took steps to achieve that end. suitably chaperoned by a trio of transplanted americans who knew a good bit about the paris underworld i rode over miles of bumpy cobblestones until, along about four o'clock in the morning, our taxicab turned into a dim back street opening off one of the big public markets and drew up in front of a grimy establishment rejoicing in the happy and well-chosen name of the cave of the innocents. alighting we passed through a small boozing ken, where a frowzy woman presided over a bar, serving drinks to smocked marketmen, and at the rear descended a steep flight of stone steps. at the foot of the stairs we came on two gendarmes who sat side by side on a wooden bench, having apparently nothing else to do except to caress their goatees and finger their swords. whether the gendarmes were stationed here to keep the apaches from preying on the marketmen or the marketmen from preying on the apaches i know not; but having subsequently purchased some fresh fruit in that selfsame market i should say now that if anybody about the premises needed police protection it was the apaches. my money would be on the marketmen every time. beyond the couchant gendarmes we traversed a low, winding passage cut out of stone and so came at length to what seemingly had originally been a winevault, hollowed out far down beneath the foundations of the building. the ceiling was so low that a tall man must stoop to avoid knocking his head off. the place was full of smells that had crawled in a couple of hundred years before and had died without benefit of clergy, and had remained there ever since. for its chief item of furniture the cavern had a wicked old piano, with its lid missing, so that its yellowed teeth showed in a perpetual snarl. i judged some of its most important vital organs were missing too--after i heard it played. on the walls were inscribed such words as naughty little boys write on schoolhouse fences in this country, and more examples of this pleasing brand of literature were carved on the whittled oak benches and the rickety wooden stools. so much for the physical furbishings. by rights--by all the hallowed rules and precedents of the american vaudeville stage!--the denizens of this cozy retreat in the bowels of the earth should have been wearing high-waisted baggy velvet trousers and drinking absinthe out of large flagons, and stabbing one another between the shoulder blades, and ever and anon, in the mystic mazes of the dance, playing crack-the-whip with the necks and heels of their adoring lady friends; but such was not found to be the case. in all these essential and traditional regards the assembled innocents were as poignantly disappointing as the costers of london had proved themselves. according to all the printed information on the subject the london coster wears clothes covered up with pearl buttons and spends his time swapping ready repartee with his donah or his dinah. the costers i saw were barren of pearl buttons and silent of speech; and almost invariably they had left their donahs at home. similarly these gentlemen habitues of the cave of the innocents wore few or no velvet pants, and guzzled little or none of the absinthe. their favorite tipple appeared to be beer; and their female companions snuggled closely beside them. we stayed among them fully twenty minutes, but not a single person was stabbed while we were there. it must have been an off-night for stabbings. still, i judged them to have been genuine exhibits because here, for the first, last and only time in paris, i found a shop where a stranger ready to spend a little money was not welcomed with vociferous enthusiasm. the paired-off cave-dwellers merely scowled on us as we scrouged past them to a vacant bench in a far corner. the waiter, though, bowed before us--a shockheaded personage in the ruins of a dress suit--at the same time saying words which i took to be complimentary until one of my friends explained that he had called us something that might be freely translated as a certain kind of female lobster. circumscribed by our own inflexible and unyielding language we in america must content ourselves with calling a man a plain lobster; but the limber-tongued gaul goes further than that--he calls you a female lobster, which seems somehow or other to make it more binding. however, i do not really think the waiter meant to be deliberately offensive; for presently, having first served us with beer which for obvious reasons we did not drink, he stationed himself alongside the infirm piano and rendered a little ballad to the effect that all men were spiders and all women were snakes, and all the world was a green poison; so, right off, i knew what his trouble was, for i had seen many persons just as morbidly affected as himself down in the malaria belt of the united states, where everybody has liver for breakfast every morning. the waiter was bilious--that was what ailed him. for the sake of the conventions i tried to feel apprehensive of grave peril. it was no use. i felt safe--not exactly comfortable, but perfectly safe. i could not even muster up a spasm of the spine when a member of our party leaned over and whispered in my ear that any one of these gentry roundabout us would cheerfully cut a man's throat for twenty-five cents. i was surprised, though, at the moderation of the cost; this was the only cheap thing i had struck in paris. it was cheaper even than the same job is supposed to be in the district round chatham square, on the east side of new york, where the credulous stranger so frequently is told that he can have a plain murder done for five dollars--or a fancy murder, with trimmings, for ten; rate card covering other jobs on application. in america, however, it has been my misfortune that i did not have the right amount handy; and here in paris i was handicapped by my inability to make change correctly. by now i would not have trusted anyone in paris to make change for me--not even an apache. i was sorry for this, for at a quarter a head i should have been very glad to engage a troupe of apaches to kill me about two dollars' worth of cabdrivers and waiters. for one of the waiters at our hotel i would have been willing to pay as much as fifty cents, provided they killed him very slowly. because of the reasons named, however, i had to come away without making any deal, and i have always regretted it. at the outset of the chapter immediately preceding this one i said the english had no night life. this was a slight but a pardonable misstatement of the actual facts. the englishman has not so much night life as the parisian, the berliner, the viennese or the budapest; but he has more night life in his town of london than the roman has in his town of rome. in rome night life for the foreigner consists of going indoors at eventide and until bedtime figuring up how much money he has been skinned out of during the course of the day just done--and for the native in going indoors and counting up how much money he has skinned the foreigner out of during the day aforesaid. london has its night life, but it ends early--in the very shank of the evening, so to speak. this is due in a measure to the operation of the early-closing law, which, however, does not apply if you are a bona-fide traveler stopping at your own inn. there the ancient tavern law protects you. you may sit at ease and, if so minded, may drink and eat until daylight doth appear or doth not appear, as is generally the case in the foggy season. there is another law, of newer origin, to prohibit the taking of children under a certain age into a public house. on the passage of this act there at once sprang up a congenial and lucrative employment for those horrible old-women drunkards who are so distressingly numerous in the poorer quarters of the town. regardless of the weather one of these bedrabbled creatures stations herself just outside the door of a pub. along comes a mother with a thirst and a child. surrendering her offspring to the temporary care of the hag the mother goes within and has her refreshment at the bar. when, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she comes forth to reclaim the youngster she gives the other woman a ha'penny for her trouble, and eventually the other woman harvests enough ha'penny bits to buy a dram of gin for herself. on a rainy day i have seen a draggled, sairey-gamp-looking female caring for as many as four damp infants under the drippy portico of an east end groggery. it is to the cafes that the early-closing law chiefly applies. the cafes are due to close for business within half an hour after midnight. when the time for shutting up draws nigh the managers do not put their lingering patrons out physically. the individual's body is a sacred thing, personal liberty being most dear to an englishman. it will be made most dear to you too--in the law courts--if you infringe on it by violence or otherwise. no; they have a gentler system than that, one that is free from noise, excitement and all mussy work. along toward twelve-thirty o'clock the waiters begin going about, turning out the lights. the average london restaurant is none too brightly illuminated to start with, being a dim and dingy ill-kept place compared with the glary, shiny lobster palace that we know; so instantly you are made aware of a thickening of the prevalent gloom. the waiters start in at the far end of the room and turn out a few lights. drawing nearer and nearer to you they turn out more lights; and finally, by way of strengthening the hint, they turn out the lights immediately above your head, which leaves you in the stilly dark with no means of seeing your food even; unless you have taken the precaution to spread phosphorus on your sandwich instead of mustard--which, however, is seldom done. a better method is to order a portion of one of the more luminous varieties of imported cheese. the best thing of all, however, is to take your hat and stick and go away from there. and then, unless you belong to a regular club or carry a card of admission to one of the chartered all-night clubs that have sprung up so abundantly in london, and which are uniformly stuffy, stupid places where the members take their roistering seriously--or as a last resort, unless you care to sit for a tiresome hour or two in the grill of your hotel--you might as well be toddling away to bed; that is to say, you might as well go to bed unless you find the scenes in the street as worth while as i found them. at this hour london's droning voice has abated to a deep, hoarse snore; london has become a great, broody giant taking rest that is troubled by snatches of wakefulness; london's grimy, lined face shows new wrinkles of shadow; and new and unexpected clumping of colors in monotone and halftone appear. from the massed-up bulk of things small detached bits stand vividly out: a flower girl whose flowers and whose girlhood are alike in the sere and yellow leaf; a soldier swaggering by, his red coat lighting up the grayish mass about him like a livecoal in an ashheap; a policeman escorting a drunk to quarters for the night--not, mind you, escorting him in a clanging, rushing patrol wagon, which would serve to attract public attention to the distressing state of the overcome one, but conveying him quietly, unostentatiously, surreptitiously almost, in a small-wheeled vehicle partaking somewhat of the nature of a baby carriage and somewhat of the nature of a pushcart. the policeman shoves this along the road jailward and the drunk lies at rest in it, stretched out full length, with a neat rubber bedspread drawn up over his prostrate form to screen him from drafts and save his face from the gaze of the vulgar. drunkards are treated with the tenderest consideration in london; for, as you know, britons never will be slaves--though some of them in the presence of a title give such imitations of being slaves as might fool even so experienced a judge as the late simon legree; and--as perchance you may also have heard--an englishman's souse is his castle. so in due state they ride him and his turreted souse to the station house in a perambulator. from midnight to daylight the taxicabs by the countless swarm will be charging about in every direction--charging, moreover, at the rate of eight pence a mile. think that over, ye taxitaxed wretches of new york, and rend your garments, with lamentations loud! there is this also to be said of the london taxi service--and to an american it is one of the abiding marvels of the place--that, no matter where you go, no matter how late the hour or how outlying and obscure the district, there is always a trim taxicab just round the next corner waiting to come instantly at your whistle, and with it a beggar with a bleak, hopeless face, to open the cab door for you and stand, hat in hand, for the penny you toss him. in the main centers, such as oxford circus and piccadilly circus and charing cross, and along the embankment, the strand and pall mall, they are as thick as fleas on the missouri houn' dawg famous in song and story--the taxis, i mean, though the beggars are reasonably thick also--and they hop like fleas, bearing you swiftly and surely and cheaply on your way. the meters are honest, openfaced meters; and the drivers ask no more than their legal fares and are satisfied with tips within reason. here in america we have the kindred arts of taxidermy and taxicabbery; one of these is the art of skinning animals and the other is the art of skinning people. the ruthless taxirobber of new york would not last half an hour in london; for him the jail doors would yawn. oldtime londoners deplored the coming of the taxicab and the motorbus, for their coming meant the entire extinction of the driver of the horse-drawn bus, who was an institution, and the practical extinction of the hansom cabby, who was a type and very frequently a humorist too. but an american finds no fault with the present arrangement; he is amply satisfied with it. personally i can think of no more exciting phase of the night life of the two greatest cities of europe than the stunt of dodging taxicabs. in london the peril that lurks for you at every turning is not the result of carelessness on the part of the drivers; it is due to the rules of the road. afoot, an englishman meeting you on the sidewalk turns, as we do, to the right hand; but mounted he turns to the left. the foot passenger's prerogative of turning to the right was one of the priceless heritages wrested from king john by the barons at runnymede; but when william the conqueror rode into the battle of hastings he rode a left-handed horse--and so, very naturally and very properly, everything on hoof or wheel in england has consistently turned to the left ever since. i took some pains to look up the original precedents for these facts and to establish them historically. the system suits the english mind, but it is highly confusing to an american who gets into the swirl of traffic at a crossing--and every london crossing is a swirl of traffic most of the time--and looks left when he should look right, and looks right when he should be looking left until the very best he can expect, if he survive at all, is cross-eyes and nervous prostration. i lost count of the number of close calls from utter and mussy destruction i had while in london. sometimes a policeman took pity on me and saved me, and again, by quick and frenzied leaping, i saved myself; but then the london cabmen were poor marksmen at best. in front of the savoy one night the same cabman in rapid succession had two beautiful shots at me and each time missed the bull's-eye by a disqualifying margin of inches. a new york chauffeur who had failed to splatter me all over the vicinage at the first chance would have been ashamed to go home afterward and look his innocent little ones in the face. even now i cannot decide in my own mind which is the more fearsome and perilous thing--to be afoot in paris at the mercy of all the maniacs who drive french motor cars or to be in one of the motor cars at the mercy of one of the maniacs. motoring in paris is the most dangerous sport known--just as dueling is the safest. there are some arguments to be advanced in favor of dueling. it provides copy for the papers and harmless excitement for the participants--and it certainly gives them a chance to get a little fresh air occasionally, but with motoring it is different. in paris there are no rules of the road except just these two--the pedestrian who gets run over is liable to prosecution, and all motor cars must travel at top speed. if i live to be a million i shall never get over shuddering as i think back to a taxicab ride i had in the rush hour one afternoon over a route that extended from away down near the site of the bastille to a hotel away up near the place vendome. the driver was a congenital madman, the same as all parisian taxicab drivers are; and in addition he was on this occasion acquiring special merit by being quite drunk. this last, however, was a detail that did not dawn on my perceptions until too late to cancel the contract. once he had got me safely fastened inside his rickety, creaky devil-wagon he pulled all the stops all the way out and went tearing up the crowded boulevard like a comet with a can tied to its tail. i hammered on the glass and begged him to slow down--that is, i hammered on the glass and tried to beg him to slow down. for just such emergencies i had previously stocked up with two french words--"doucement!" and "vite!" i knew that one of those words meant speed and the other meant less speed, but in the turmoil of the moment i may have confused them slightly. anyhow, to be on the safe side, i yelled "vite!" a while and then "doucement" a while; and then "doucement" and "vite!" alternately, and mixed in a few short, simple anglo-saxon cusswords and prayers for dressing. but nothing i said seemed to have the least effect on that demoniac scoundrel. without turning his head he merely shouted back something unintelligible and threw on more juice. on and on we tore, slicing against the sidewalk, curving and jibbing, clattering and careening--now going on two wheels and now on four--while the lunatic shrieked curses of disappointment at the pedestrians who scuttled away to safety from our charging onslaughts; and i held both hands over my mouth to keep my heart from jumping out into my lap. i saw, with instantaneous but photographic distinctness, a lady, with a dog tucked under her arm, who hesitated a moment in our very path. she was one of the largest ladies i ever saw and the dog under her arm was certainly the smallest dog i ever saw. you might say the lady was practically out of dog. i thought we had her and probably her dog too; but she fell back and was saved by a matter of half an inch or so. i think, though, we got some of the buttons off her shirtwaist and the back trimming of her hat. then there was a rending, tearing crash as we took a fender off a machine just emerging from a cross street, but my lunatic never checked up at all. he just flung a curling ribbon of profanity over his shoulder at the other driver and bounded onward like a bat out of the bad place. that was the hour when my hair began to turn perceptibly grayer. and yet, when by a succession of miracles we had landed intact at my destination, the fiend seemed to think he had done a praiseworthy and creditable thing. i only wish he had been able to understand the things i called him--that is all i wish! it is by a succession of miracles that the members of his maniacal craft usually do dodge death and destruction. the providence that watches over the mentally deficient has them in its care, i guess; and the same beneficent influence frequently avails to save those who ride behind them and, to a lesser extent, those who walk ahead. once in a while a paris cabman does have a lucky stroke and garner in a foot traveler. in an instant a vast and surging crowd convenes. in another instant the road is impassably blocked. up rushes a gendarme and worms his way through the press to the center. he has a notebook in his hand. in this book he enters the gloating cabman's name, his age, his address, and his wife's maiden name, if any; and gets his views on the dreyfus case; and finds out what he thinks about the separation of church and state; and tells him that if he keeps on the way he is headed he will be getting the cross of the legion of honor pretty soon. they shake hands and embrace, and the cabman cuts another notch in his mudguard, and gets back on the seat and drives on. then if, by any chance, the victim of the accident still breathes, the gendarme arrests him for interfering with the traffic. it is a lovely system and sweetly typical. under the general classification of thrilling moments in the night life of europe i should like to list a carriage trip through the outskirts of naples after dark. in the first place the carriage driver is an italian driver--which is a shorter way of saying he is the worst driver living. his idea of getting service out of a horse is, first to snatch him to a standstill by yanking on the bit and then to force the poor brute into a gallop by lashing at him with a whip having a particularly loud and vixenish cracker on it; and at every occasion to whoop at the top of his voice. in the second place the street is as narrow as a narrow alley, feebly lighted, and has no sidewalks. and the rutty paving stones which stretch from housefront to housefront are crawling with people and goats and dogs and children. finally, to add zest to the affair, there are lots of loose cows mooning about--for at this hour the cowherd brings his stock to the doors of his patrons. in an italian city the people get their milk from a cow, instead of from a milkman as with us. the milk is delivered on the hoof, so to speak. the grown-ups refuse to make way for you to pass and the swarming young ones repay you for not killing them by pelting pebbles and less pleasant things into your face. beggars in all degrees of filth and deformity and repulsiveness run alongside the carriage in imminent danger from the wheels, begging for alms. if you give them something they curse you for not giving them more, and if you give them nothing they spit at you for a base dog of a heretic. but then, what could you naturally expect from a population that thinks a fried cuttlefish is edible and a beefsteak is not? chapter xiv that gay paresis as you walk along the rue de la paix [footnote: the x being one of the few silent things in france.] and pay and pay, and keep on paying, your eye is constantly engaged by two inscriptions that occur and recur with the utmost frequency. one of these appears in nearly every shopwindow and over nearly every shopdoor. it says: english spoken here. this, i may tell you, is one of the few absolutely truthful and dependable statements encountered by the tourist in the french capital. invariably english is spoken here. it is spoken here during all the hours of the day and until far into the dusk of the evening; spoken loudly, clearly, distinctly, hopefully, hopelessly, stridently, hoarsely, despondently, despairingly and finally profanely by americans who are trying to make somebody round the place understand what they are driving at. the other inscription is carved, painted or printed on all public buildings, on most monuments, and on many private establishments as well. it is the motto of the french republic, reading as follows: liberality! economy! frugality! [footnote: free translation.] the first word of this--the liberality part--is applicable to the foreigner and is aimed directly at him as a prayer, an injunction and a command; while the rest of it--the economy and the frugality--is competently attended to by the parisians themselves. the foreigner has only to be sufficiently liberal and he is assured of a flattering reception wheresoever his straying footsteps may carry him, whether in paris or in the provinces; but wheresoever those feet of his do carry him he will find a people distinguished by a frugality and inspired by an economy of the frugalest and most economical character conceivable. in the streets of the metropolis he is expected, when going anywhere, to hail the fast-flitting taxicab [footnote: stops on signal only--and sometimes not then.], though the residents patronize the public bus. indeed, the distinction is made clear to his understanding from the moment he passes the first outlying fortress at the national frontier [footnote: flag station.]--since, for the looks of things if for no better reason, he must travel first-class on the de-luxe trains [footnote: diner taken off when you are about half through eating.], whereas the frenchmen pack themselves tightly but frugally into the second-class and the third-class compartments. before i went to france i knew saint denis was the patron saint of the french; but i did not know why until i heard the legend connected with his death. when the executioner on the hill at montmartre cut off his head the good saint picked it up and strolled across the fields with it tucked under his arm--so runs the tale. his head, in that shape, was no longer of any particular value to him, but your true parisian is of a saving disposition. and so the paris population have worshiped saint denis ever since. both as a saint and as a citizen he filled the bill. he would not throw anything away, whether he needed it or not. paris--not the paris of the art lover, nor the paris of the lover of history, nor yet again the paris of the worth-while parisians--but the paris which the casual male visitor samples, is the most overrated thing on earth, i reckon--except alligator-pear salad--and the most costly. its system of conduct is predicated, based, organized and manipulated on the principle that a foreigner with plenty of money and no soul will be along pretty soon. hence by day and by night the deadfall is rigged and the trap is set and baited--baited with a spurious gayety and an imitation joyousness; but the joyousness is as thin as one coat of sizing, and the brass shines through the plating; and behind the painted, parted lips of laughter the sharp teeth of greed show in a glittering double row. yet gallus mr. fly, from the u.s.a., walks debonairly in, and out comes monsieur spider, ably seconded by madame spiderette; and between them they despoil him with the utmost dispatch. when he is not being mulcted for large sums he is being nicked for small ones. it is tip, brother, tip, and keep right on tipping. i heard a story of an american who spent a month in paris, taking in the sights and being taken in by them, and another month motoring through the country. at length he reached the port whence he was to sail for home. he went aboard the steamer and saw to it that his belongings were properly stored; and in the privacy of his stateroom he sat down to take an inventory of his letter of credit, now reduced to a wan and wasted specter of its once plethoric self. in the midst of casting-up he heard the signal for departure; and so he went topside of the ship and, stationing himself on the promenade deck alongside the gang-plank, he raised his voice and addressed the assembled multitude on the pier substantially as follows: "if"--these were his words--"if there is a single, solitary individual in this fair land who has not touched me for something of value--if there be in all france a man, woman or child who has not been tipped by me--let him, her or it speak now or forever after hold their peace; because, know ye all men by these presents, i am about to go away from here and if i stay in my right mind i'm not coming back!" and several persons were badly hurt in the crush; but they were believed afterward to have been repeaters. i thought this story was overdrawn, but, after traveling over somewhat the same route which this fellow countryman had taken, i came to the conclusion that it was no exaggeration, but a true bill in all particulars. on the night of our second day in paris we went to a theater to see one of the topical revues, in which paris is supposed to excel; and for sheer dreariness and blatant vulgarity paris revues do, indeed, excel anything of a similar nature as done in either england or in america, which is saying quite a mouthful. in the french revue the members of the chorus reach their artistic limit in costuming when they dance forth from the wings wearing short and shabby undergarments over soiled pink fleshings and any time the dramatic interest begins to run low and gurgle in the pipes a male comedian pumps it up again by striking or kicking a woman. but to kick her is regarded as much the more whimsical conceit. this invariably sets the audience rocking with uncontrollable merriment. howsomever, i am not writing a critique of the merits of the performance. if i were i should say that to begin with the title of the piece was wrong. it should have been called lapsus lingerie--signifying as the latins would say, "a mere slip." at this moment i am concerned with what happened upon our entrance. at the door a middle-aged female, who was raising a natty mustache, handed us programs. i paid her for the programs and tipped her. she turned us over to a stout brunette lady who was cultivating a neat and flossy pair of muttonchops. this person escorted us down the aisle to where our seats were; so i tipped her. alongside our seats stood a third member of the sisterhood, chiefly distinguished from her confreres by the fact that she was turning out something very fetching in the way of a brown vandyke; and after we were seated she continued to stand there, holding forth her hand toward me, palm up and fingers extended in the national gesture, and saying something in her native tongue very rapidly. incidentally she was blocking the path of a number of people who had come down the aisle immediately behind us. i thought possibly she desired to see our coupons, so i hauled them out and exhibited them. she shook her head at that and gabbled faster than ever. it next occurred to me that perhaps she wanted to furnish us with programs and was asking in advance for the money with which to pay for them. i explained to her that i already secured programs from her friend with the mustache. i did this mainly in english, but partly in french--at least i employed the correct french word for program, which is programme. to prove my case i pulled the two programs from my pocket and showed them to her. she continued to shake her head with great emphasis, babbling on at an increased speed. the situation was beginning to verge on the embarrassing when a light dawned on me. she wanted a tip, that was it! she had not done anything to earn a tip that i could see; and unless one had been reared in the barbering business she was not particularly attractive to look on, and even then only in a professional aspect; but i tipped her and bade her begone, and straightway she bewent, satisfied and smiling. from that moment on i knew my book. when in doubt i tipped one person--the person nearest to me. when in deep doubt i tipped two or more persons. and all was well. on the next evening but one i had another lesson, which gave me further insight into the habits and customs of these gay and gladsome parisians. we were completing a round of the all-night cafes and cabarets. there were four of us. briefly, we had seen the dead rat, the abbey, the bal tabarin the red mill, maxim's, and the rest of the lot to the total number of perhaps ten or twelve. we had listened to bad singing, looked on bad dancing, sipped gingerly at bad drinks, and nibbled daintily at bad food; and the taste of it all was as grit and ashes in our mouths. we had learned for ourselves that the much-vaunted gay life of paris was just as sad and sordid and sloppy and unsavory as the so-called gay life of any other city with a lesser reputation for gay life and gay livers. a scrap of the gristle end of the new york tenderloin; a suggestion of a certain part of new orleans; a short cross section of the levee, in chicago; a dab of the barbary coast of san francisco in its old, unexpurgated days; a touch of piccadilly circus in london, after midnight, with a top dressing of gehenna the unblest--it had seemed to us a compound of these ingredients, with a distinctive savor of what was essentially gallic permeating through it like garlic through a stew. we had had enough. even though we had attended only as onlookers and seekers after local color, we felt that we had a-plenty of onlooking and entirely too much of local color; we felt that we should all go into retreat for a season of self-purification to rid our persons of the one and take a bath in formaldehyde to rinse our memories clean of the other. but the ruling spirit of the expedition pointed out that the evening would not be complete without a stop at a cafe that had--so he said--an international reputation for its supposed sauciness and its real bohemian atmosphere, whatever that might be. overcome by his argument we piled into a cab and departed thither. this particular cafe was found, in its physical aspects, to be typical of the breed and district. it was small, crowded, overheated, underlighted, and stuffy to suffocation with the mingled aromas of stale drink and cheap perfume. as we entered a wrangle was going on among a group of young frenchmen picturesquely attired as art students--almost a sure sign that they were not art students. an undersized girl dressed in a shabby black-and-yellow frock was doing a spanish dance on a cleared space in the middle of the floor. we knew her instantly for a spanish dancer, because she had a fan in one hand and a pair of castanets in the other. another girl, dressed as a pierrot, was waiting to do her turn when the spanish dancer finished. weariness showed through the lacquer of thick cosmetic on her peaked little face. an orchestra of three pieces sawed wood steadily; and at intervals, to prove that these were gay and blithesome revels, somebody connected with the establishment threw small, party-colored balls of celluloid about. but what particularly caught our attention was the presence in a far corner of two little darkies in miniature dress suits, both very wally of eye, very brown of skin, and very shaved as to head, huddled together there as though for the poor comfort of physical contact. as soon as they saw us they left their place and sidled up, tickled beyond measure to behold american faces and hear american voices. they belonged, it seemed, to a troupe of jubilee singers who had been imported from the states for the delectation of french audiences. at night, after their work at a vaudeville theater was done, the members of their company were paired off and sent about to the cafes to earn their keep by singing ragtime songs and dancing buck dances. these two were desperately, pathetically homesick. one of them blinked back the tears when he told us, with the plaintive african quaver in his voice, how long they had been away from their own country and how happy they would be to get back to it again. "we suttin'ly is glad to heah somebody talkin' de reg'lar new 'nited states talk, same as we does," he said. "we gits mighty tired of all dis yere french jabberin'!" "yas, suh," put in his partner; "dey meks a mighty fuss over cullud folks over yere; but 'tain't noways lak home. i comes from bummin'ham, alabama, myse'f. does you gen'lemen know anybody in bummin'ham?" they were the first really wholesome creatures who had crossed our paths that night. they crowded up close to us and there they stayed until we left, as grateful as a pair of friendly puppies for a word or a look. presently, though, something happened that made us forget these small dark compatriots of ours. we had had sandwiches all round and a bottle of wine. when the waiter brought the check it fell haply into the hands of the one person in our party who knew french and--what was an even more valuable accomplishment under the present circumstances--knew the intricate french system of computing a bill. he ran a pencil down the figures. then he consulted the price list on the menu and examined the label on the neck of the wine bottle, and then he gave a long whistle. "what's the trouble?" asked one of us. "oh, not much!" he said. "we had a bottle of wine priced at eighteen francs and they have merely charged us twenty-four francs for it--six francs overcharge on that one item alone. the total for the sandwiches should have been six francs, and it is put down at ten francs. and here, away down at the bottom, i find a mysterious entry of four francs, which seems to have no bearing on the case at all--unless it be that they just simply need the money. i expected to be skinned somewhat, but i object to being peeled. i'm afraid, at the risk of appearing mercenary, that we'll have to ask our friend for a recount." he beckoned the waiter to him and fired a volley of rapid french in the waiter's face. the waiter batted his eyes and shrugged his shoulders; then reversing the operation he shrugged his eyelids and batted his shoulderblades, meantime endeavoring volubly to explain. our friend shoved the check into his hands and waved him away. he was back again in a minute with the account corrected. that is, it was corrected to the extent that the wine item had been reduced to twenty-one francs and the sandwiches to eight francs. by now our paymaster was as hot as a hornet. his gorge rose--his freeborn, independent american gorge. it rose clear to the ceiling and threw off sparks and red clinkers. he sent for the manager. the manager came, all bows and graciousness and rumply shirtfront; and when he heard what was to be said he became all apologies and indignation. he regretted more than words could tell that the american gentlemen who deigned to patronize his restaurant had been put to annoyance. the garcon--here he turned and burned up that individual with a fiery sideglance--was a debased idiot and the misbegotten son of a yet greater and still more debased idiot. the cashier was a green hand and an imbecile besides. it was incredible, impossible, that the overcharging had been done deliberately; that was inconceivable. but the honor of his establishment was at stake. they should both, garcon and cashier, be discharged on the spot. first, however, he would rectify all mistakes. would monsieur intrust the miserable addition to him for a moment, for one short moment? monsieur would and did. this time the amount was made right and our friend handed over in payment a fifty-franc note. with his own hands the manager brought back the change. counting it over, the payee found it five francs short. attention being directed to this error the manager became more apologetic and more explanatory than ever, and supplied the deficiency with a shiny new five-franc piece from his own pocket. and then, when we had gone away from there and had traveled a homeward mile or two, our friend found that the new shiny five-franc piece was counterfeit--as false a thing as that manager's false smile. we had bucked the unbeatable system, and we had lost. earlier that same evening we spent a gloom-laden quarter of an hour in another cafe--one which owes its fame and most of its american customs to the happy circumstance that in a certain famous comic opera produced a few years ago a certain popular leading man sang a song extolling its fascinations. the man who wrote the song must have had a full-flowered and glamorous imagination, for he could see beauty where beauty was not. to us there seemed nothing particularly fanciful about the place except the prices they charged for refreshments. however, something unusual did happen there once. it was not premeditated though; the proprietor had nothing to do with it. had he known what was about to occur undoubtedly he would have advertised it in advance and sold tickets for it. by reason of circumstances over which he had no control, but which had mainly to do with a locked-up wardrobe, an american of convivial mentality was in his room at his hotel one evening, fairly consumed with loneliness. above all things he desired to be abroad amid the life and gayety of the french capital; but unfortunately he had no clothes except boudoir clothes, and no way of getting any, either, which made the situation worse. he had already tried the telephone in a vain effort to communicate with a ready-made clothing establishment in the rue st. honore. naturally he had failed, as he knew he would before he tried. among europeans the telephone is not the popular and handy adjunct of every-day life it is among us. the english have small use for it because it is, to start with, a wretched yankee invention; besides, an englishman in a hurry takes a cab, as his father before him did--takes the same cab his father took, if possible--and the latin races dislike telephone conversations because the gestures all go to absolute waste. the french telephone resembles a dingus for curling the hair. you wrap it round your head, with one end near your mouth and the other end near your ear, and you yell in it a while and curse in it a while; and then you slam it down and go and send a messenger. the hero of the present tale, however, could not send a messenger--the hotel people had their orders to the contrary from one who was not to be disobeyed. finally in stark desperation, maddened by the sounds of sidewalk revelry that filtered up to him intermittently, he incased his feet in bed-room slippers, slid a dressing gown over his pajamas, and negotiated a successful escape from the hotel by means of a rear way. once in the open he climbed into a handy cab and was driven to the cafe of his choice, it being the same cafe mentioned a couple of paragraphs ago. through a side entrance he made a hasty and unhindered entrance into this place--not that he would have been barred under any circumstances, inasmuch as he had brought a roll with him. a person with a cluster of currency on hand is always suitably dressed in paris, no matter if he has nothing else on; and this man had brought much ready cash with him. he could have gone in fig-leaved like eve, or fig-leafless like september morn, it being remembered that as between these two, as popularly depicted, morn wears even less than eve. so he whisked in handily, and when he had hidden the lower part of himself under a table he felt quite at home and proceeded to have a large and full evening. soon there entered another american, and by that mental telepathy which inevitably attracts like-spirit to like-spirit he was drawn to the spot where the first american sat. he introduced himself as one feeling the need of congenial companionship, and they shook hands and exchanged names, and the first man asked the second man to be seated; so they sat together and had something together, and then something more together; and as the winged moments flew they grew momentarily more intimate. finally the newcomer said: "this seems a pretty lachrymose shop. suppose we go elsewhere and look for some real doings." "your proposition interests me strangely," said the first man; "but there are two reasons--both good ones--why i may not fare forth with you. look under the table and you'll see 'em." the second man looked and comprehended, for he was a married man himself; and he grasped the other's hand in warm and comforting sympathy. "old man," he said--for they had already reached the old man stage--"don't let that worry you. why, i've got more pants than any man with only one set of legs has any right to have. i've got pants that've never been worn. you stay right here and don't move until i come back. my hotel is just round the corner from here." no sooner said than done. he went and in a surprisingly short time was back, bearing spare trousers with him. beneath the shielding protection of the table draperies the succored one slipped them on, and they were a perfect fit. now he was ready to go where adventure might await them. they tarried, though, to finish the last bottle. over the rim of his glass the second man ventured an opinion on a topic of the day. instantly the first man challenged him. it seemed to him inconceivable that a person with intelligence enough to have amassed so many pairs of trousers should harbor such a delusion. he begged of his new-found friend to withdraw the statement, or at least to abate it. the other man was sorry, but he simply could not do it. he stood ready to concede almost anything else, but on this particular point he was adamant; in fact, adamant was in comparison with him as pliable as chewing taffy. much as he regretted it, he could not modify his assertion by so much as one brief jot or one small tittle without violating the consistent principles of a consistent life. he felt that way about it. all his family felt that way about it. "then, sir," said the first man with a rare dignity, "i regret to wound your feelings; but my sensibilities are such that i cannot accept, even temporarily, the use of a pair of trousers from the loan collection of a person who entertains such false and erroneous conceptions. i have the pleasure, sir, of wishing you good night." with these words he shucked off the borrowed habiliments and slammed them into the abashed bosom of the obstinate stranger and went back to his captivity--pantless, 'tis true, but with his honor unimpaired. chapter xv symptoms of the disease the majority of these all-night places in paris are singularly and monotonously alike. in the early hours of the evening the musicians rest from their labors; the regular habitues lay aside their air of professional abandon; with true french frugality the lights burn dim and low. but anon sounds the signal from the front of the house. strike up the band; here comes a sucker! somebody resembling ready money has arrived. the lights flash on, the can-canners take the floor, the garcons flit hither and yon, and all is excitement. enter the opulent american gentleman. half a dozen functionaries greet him rapturously, bowing before his triumphant progress. others relieve him of his hat and his coat, so that he cannot escape prematurely. a whole reception committee escorts him to a place of honor facing the dancing arena. the natives of the quarter stand in rows in the background, drinking beer or nothing at all; but the distinguished stranger sits at a front table and is served with champagne, and champagne only. it is inferior champagne; but because it is labeled american brut--what ever that may denote--and because there is a poster on the bottle showing the american flag in the correct colors, he pays several times its proper value for it. from far corners and remote recesses coryphees and court jesters swarm forth to fawn on him, bask in his presence, glory in his smile--and sell him something. the whole thing is as mercenary as passing the hat. cigarette girls, flower girls and bonbon girls, postcard venders and confetti dispensers surround him impenetrably, taking him front, rear, by the right flank and the left; and they shove their wares in his face and will not take no for an answer; but they will take anything else. two years ago at a hunting camp in north carolina, i thought i had met the creature with the most acute sense of hearing of any living thing. i refer to pearl, the mare. pearl was an elderly mare, white in color and therefore known as pearl. she was most gentle and kind. she was a reliable family animal too--had a colt every year--but in her affiliations she was a pronounced reactionary. she went through life listening for somebody to say whoa! her ears were permanently slanted backward on that very account. she belonged to the whoa lodge, which has a large membership among humans. riding behind pearl you uttered the talismanic word in the thinnest thread of a whisper and instantly she stopped. you could spell whoa! on your fingers, and she would stop. you could take a pencil and a piece of paper out of your pocket and write down whoa!--and she would stop; but, compared with a sample assortment of these cabaret satellites, pearl would have seemed deaf as a post. clear across a hundred-foot dance-hall they catch the sound of a restless dollar turning over in the fob pocket of an american tourist. and they come a-running and get it. under the circumstances it requires self-hypnotism of a high order, and plenty of it, to make an american think he is enjoying himself. still, he frequently attains to that happy comsummation. to begin with, is he not in gay paree?--as it is familiarly called in rome center and all points west? he is! has he not kicked over the traces and cut loose with intent to be oh, so naughty for one naughty night of his life? such are the facts. finally, and herein lies the proof conclusive, he is spending a good deal of money and is getting very little in return for it. well, then, what better evidence is required? any time he is paying four or five prices for what he buys and does not particularly need it--or want it after it is bought--the average american can delude himself into the belief that he is having a brilliant evening. this is a racial trait worthy of the scientific consideration of professor hugo munsterberg and other students of our national psychology. so far the munsterberg school has overlooked it--but the canny parisians have not. they long ago studied out every quirk and wriggle of it, and capitalized it to their own purpose. liberality! economy! frugality!--there they are, everywhere blazoned forth--liberality for you, economy and frugality for them. could anything on earth be fairer than that? even so, the rapturous reception accorded to a north american pales to a dim and flickery puniness alongside the perfect riot and whirlwind of enthusiasm which marks the entry into an all-night place of a south american. time was when, to the french understanding, exuberant prodigality and the united states were terms synonymous; that time has passed. of recent years our young kinsmen from the sister republics nearer the equator and the horn have invaded paris in numbers, bringing their impulsive temperaments and their bankrolls with them. thanks to these young cattle kings, these callow silver princes from argentina and brazil, from peru and from ecuador, a new and more gorgeous standard for money wasting has been established. you had thought, perchance, there was no rite and ceremonial quite so impressive as a head waiter in a fifth avenue restaurant squeezing the blood out of a semi-raw canvasback in a silver duck press for a free spender from butte or pittsburgh. i, too, had thought that; but wait, just wait, until you have seen a maitre d'hotel on the avenue de l'opera, with the smile of the canary-fed cat on his face, standing just behind a hide-and-tallow baron or a guano duke from somewhere in far spiggottyland, watching this person as he wades into the fresh fruit--checking off on his fingers each blushing south african peach at two francs the bite, and each purple cluster of hothouse grapes at one franc the grape. that spectacle, believe me, is worth the money every time. there is just one being whom the dwellers of the all-night quarter love and revere more deeply than they love a downy, squabbling scion of some rich south american family, and that is a large, broad negro pugilist with a mouthful of gold teeth and a shirtfront full of yellow diamonds. to an american--and especially to an american who was reared below mason and dixon's justly popular line--it is indeed edifying to behold a black heavyweight fourthrater from south clark street, chicago, taking his ease in a smart cafe, entirely surrounded by worshipful boulevardiers, both male and female. now, as i remarked at an earlier stage of these observations, there is another paris besides this--a paris of history, of art, of architecture, of literature, of refinement; a paris inhabited by a people with a pride in their past, a pluck in their present, and a faith in their future; a paris of kindly aristocrats, of thrifty, pious plain people; a paris of students and savants and scientists, of great actors and great scientists and great dramatists. there is one paris that might well be burned to its unclean roots, and another paris that will be glorified in the minds of mankind forever. and it would be as unfair to say that the paris which comes flaunting its tinsel of vice and pinchbeck villainy in the casual tourist's face is the real paris, as it would be for a man from the interior of the united states to visit new york and, after interviewing one bowery bouncer, one tenderloin cabman, and one broadway ticket speculator, go back home and say he had met fit representatives of the predominant classes of new york society and had found them unfit. yes, it would be even more unfair. for the alleged gay life of new york touches at some point of contact or other the lives of most new yorkers, whereas in paris there are numbers of sane and decent folks who seem to know nothing except by hearsay of what goes on after dark in the montmartre district. besides, no man in the course of a short and crowded stay may hope to get under the skin of any community, great or small. he merely skims its surface cuticle; he sees no deeper than the pores and the hair-roots. the arteries, the frame, the real tissue-structure remain hidden to him. therefore the pity seems all the greater that, to the world at large, the bad paris should mean all paris. it is that other and more wholesome paris which one sees--a light-hearted, good-natured, polite and courteous paris--when one, biding his time and choosing the proper hour and proper place, goes abroad to seek it out. for the stranger who does at least a part of his sight-seeing after a rational and orderly fashion, there are pictures that will live in the memory always: the madeleine, with the flower market just alongside; the green and gold woods of the bois de boulogne; the grandstand of the racecourse at longchamp on a fair afternoon in the autumn; the opera at night; the promenade of the champs-elysees on a sunday morning after church; the gardens of the tuileries; the wonderful circling plaza of the place vendome, where one may spend a happy hour if the maniacal taxi-drivers deign to spare one's life for so unaccountably long a period; the arcades of the rue de rivoli, with their exquisite shops, where every other shop is a jeweler's shop and every jeweler's shop is just like every other jeweler's shop--which fact ceases to cause wonder when one learns that, with a few notable exceptions, all these shops carry their wares on commission from the stocks of the same manufacturing jewelers; the old ile de la cite, with the second-hand bookstalls stretching along the quay, and the seine placidly meandering between its man-made, man-ruled banks. days spent here seem short days; but that may be due in some part to the difference between our time and theirs. in paris, you know, the day ends five or six hours earlier than it does in america. the two palaces of fine arts are fine enough; and finer still, on beyond them, is the great pont alexandre iii; but, to my untutored instincts, all three of these, with their clumpings of flag standards and their grouping of marble allegories, which are so aching-white to the eye in the sunlight, seemed overly suggestive of a world's fair as we know such things in america. seeing them i knew where the architects who designed the main approaches and the courts of honor for all our big expositions got their notions for color schemes and statuary effects. i liked better those two ancient triumphal arches of st.-martin and st.-denis on the boulevard st.-denis, and much better even than these the tremendous sweep of the place de la concorde, which is one of the finest squares in the world, and the one with the grimmest, bloodiest history, i reckon. the paris to which these things properly appertain is at its very best and brightest on a sunny sunday afternoon in the parks where well-to-do people drive or ride, and their children play among the trees under the eyes of nursemaids in the quaint costumes of normandy, though, for all i know, it may be picardy. elsewhere in these parks the not-so-well-to-do gather in great numbers; some drinking harmless sirupy drinks at the gay little refreshment kiosks; some packing themselves about the man who has tamed the tree sparrows until they come at his call and hive in chattering, fluttering swarms on his head and his arms and shoulders; some applauding a favorite game of the middle classes that is being played in every wide and open space. i do not know its name--could not find anybody who seemed to know its name--but this game is a kind of glorified battledore and shuttlecock played with a small, hard ball capable of being driven high and far by smartly administered strokes of a hide-headed, rimmed device shaped like a tambourine. it would seem also to be requisite to its proper playing that each player shall have a red coat and a full spade beard, and a tremendous amount of speed and skill. if the ball gets lost in anybody's whiskers i think it counts ten for the opposing side; but i do not know the other rules. a certain indefinable, unmistakably gallic flavor or piquancy savors the life of the people; it disappears only when they cease to be their own natural selves. a woman novelist, american by birth, but a resident of several years in paris, told me a story illustrative of this. the incident she narrated was so typical that it could never have happened except in paris, i thought. she said she was one of a party who went one night to dine at a little cafe much frequented by artists and art students. the host was himself an artist of reputation. as they dined there entered a tall, gloomy figure of a man with a long, ugly face full of flexible wrinkles; such a figure and such a face as instantly commanded their attention. this man slid into a seat at a table near their table and had a frugal meal. he had reached the stage of demitasse and cigarette when he laid down cup and cigarette and, fetching a bit of cardboard and a crayon out of his pocket, began putting down lines and shadings; between strokes he covertly studied the profile of the man who was giving the dinner party. not to be outdone the artist hauled out his drawing pad and pencil and made a quick sketch of the long-faced man. both finished their jobs practically at the same moment; and, rising together with low bows, they exchanged pictures--each had done a rattling good caricature of the other--and then, without a word having been spoken or a move made toward striking up an acquaintance, each man sat him down again and finished his dinner. the lone diner departed first. when the party at the other table had had their coffee they went round the corner to a little circus--one of the common type of french circuses, which are housed in permanent wooden buildings instead of under tents. just as they entered, the premier clown, in spangles and peak cap, bounded into the ring. through the coating of powder on it they recognized his wrinkly, mobile face: it was the sketch-making stranger whose handiwork they had admired not half an hour before. hearing the tale we went to the same circus and saw the same clown. his ears were painted bright red--the red ear is the inevitable badge of the french clown--and he had as a foil for his funning a comic countryman known on the program as auguste, which is the customary name of all comic countrymen in france; and, though i knew only at second hand of his sketch-making abilities, i am willing to concede that he was the drollest master of pantomime i ever saw. on leaving the circus, very naturally we went to the cafe--where the first part of the little dinner comedy had been enacted. we encountered both artists, professional or amateur, of blacklead and bristol board, but we met a waiter there who was an artist--in his line. i ordered a cigar of him, specifying that the cigar should be of a brand made in havana and popular in the states. he brought one cigar on a tray. in size and shape and general aspect it seemed to answer the required specifications. the little belly band about its dark-brown abdomen was certainly orthodox and regular; but no sooner had i lit it and taken a couple of puffs than i was seized with the conviction that something had crawled up that cigar and died. so i examined it more closely and i saw then that it was a bad french cigar, artfully adorned about its middle with a second-hand band, which the waiter had picked up after somebody else had plucked it off one of the genuine articles and had treasured it, no doubt, against the coming of some unsophisticated patron such as i. and i doubt whether that could have happened anywhere except in paris either. that is just it, you see. try as hard as you please to see the real paris, the paris of petty larceny and small, mean graft intrudes on you and takes a peck at your purse. go where you will, you cannot escape it. you journey, let us assume, to the tomb of napoleon, under the great dome that rises behind the wide-armed hotel des invalides. from a splendid rotunda you look down to where, craftily touched by the softened lights streaming in from high above, that great sarcophagus stands housing the bones of bonaparte; and above the entrance to the crypt you read the words from the last will and testament of him who sleeps here: "i desire that my ashes may repose on the banks of the seine, among the french people i have so well loved." and you reflect that he so well loved them that, to glut his lusting after power and yet more power, he led sundry hundreds of thousands of them to massacre and mutilation and starvation; but that is the way of world--conquerors the world over--and has absolutely nothing to do with this tale. the point i am trying to get at is, if you can gaze unmoved at this sepulcher you are a clod. and if you can get away from its vicinity without being held up and gouged by small grafters you are a wonder. not tombs nor temples nor sanctuaries are safe from the profane and polluting feet of the buzzing plague of them. you journey miles away from this spot to the great cemetery of pere lachaise. you trudge past seemingly unending, constantly unfolding miles of monuments and mausoleums; you view the storied urns and animated busts that mark the final resting-places of france's illustrious dead. and as you marvel that france should have had so many illustrious dead, and that so many of them at this writing should be so dead, out from behind de musset's vault or marshal ney's comes a snoopy, smirky wretch to pester you to the desperation that is red-eyed and homicidal with his picture post cards and his execrable wooden carvings. you fight the persistent vermin off and flee for refuge to that shrine of every american who knows his mark twain--the joint grave [footnote: being french, and therefore economical, those two are, as it were, splitting one tomb between them.] of hell loisy and abie lard [footnote: popular tourist pronunciation.] and lo, in the very shadow of it there lurks a blood brother to the first pest! i defy you to get out of that cemetery without buying something of no value from one or the other, or both of them. the communists made their last stand in pere lachaise. so did i. they went down fighting. same here. they were licked to a frazzle. ditto, ditto. next, we will say, notre dame draws you. within, you walk the clattering flags of its dim, long aisles; without, you peer aloft to view its gargoyled waterspouts, leering down like nightmares caught in the very act of leering and congealed into stone. the spirit of the place possesses you; you conjure up a vision of the little maid esmeralda and the squat hunchback who dwelt in the tower above; and at the precise moment a foul vagabond pounces on you and, with a wink that is in itself an insult and a smile that should earn for him a kick for every inch of its breadth, he draws from beneath his coat a set of nasty photographs--things which no decent man could look at without gagging and would not carry about with him on his person for a million dollars in cash. by threats and hard words you drive him off; but seeing others of his kind drawing nigh you run away, with no particular destination in mind except to discover some spot, however obscure and remote, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary may be at rest for a few minutes. you cross a bridge to the farther bank of the river and presently you find yourself--at least i found myself there--in one of the very few remaining quarters of old paris, as yet untouched by the scheme of improvement that is wiping out whatever is medieval and therefore unsanitary, and making it all over, modern and slick and shiny. losing yourself--and with yourself your sense of the reality of things--you wander into a maze of tall, beetle-browed old houses with tiny windows that lower at you from under their dormered lids like hostile eyes. above, on the attic ledges, are boxes of flowers and coops where caged larks and linnets pipe cheery snatches of song; and on beyond, between the eaves, which bend toward one another like gossips who would swap whispered confidences, is a strip of sky. below are smells of age and dampness. and there is a rich, nutritious garlicky smell too; and against a jog in the wall a frowsy but picturesque rag-picker is asleep on a pile of sacks, with a big sleek cat asleep on his breast. i do not guarantee the rag-picker. he and his cat may have moved since i was there and saw them, although they had the look about them both of being permanent fixtures. you pass a little church, lolling and lopped with the weight of the years; and through its doors you catch a vista of old pillars and soft half-lights, and twinkling candles set upon the high altar. not even the jimcrackery with which the latin races dress up their holy places and the graves of their dead can entirely dispel its abiding, brooding air of peace and majesty. you linger a moment outside just such a tavern as a certain ragged poet of parts might have frequented the while he penned his versified inquiry which after all these centuries is not yet satisfactorily answered, touching on the approximate whereabouts of the snows that fell yesteryear and the roses that bloomed yesterweek. midway of a winding alley you come to an ancient wall and an ancient gate crowned with the half-effaced quarterings of an ancient house, and you halt, almost expecting that the rusted hinges will creak a warning and the wooden halves begrudgingly divide, and that from under the slewed arch will issue a most gallant swashbuckler with his buckles all buckled and his swash swashing; hence the name. at this juncture you feel a touch on your shoulder. you spin on your heel, feeling at your hip for an imaginary sword. but 'tis not master francois villon, in tattered doublet, with a sonnet. nor yet is it a jaunty blade, in silken cloak, with a challenge. it is your friend of the obscene photograph collection. he has followed you all the way from clear back into the middle ages, biding his time and hoping you will change your mind about investing in his nasty wares. with your wife or your sister you visit the louvre. you look on the winged victory and admire her classic but somewhat bulky proportions, meantime saying to yourself that it certainly must have been a mighty hard battle the lady won, because she lost her head and both arms in doing it. you tire of interminable portraits of the grand monarch, showing him grouped with his wife, the old-fashioned square upright; and his son, the baby grand; and his prime minister, the lyre; and his brother, the yellow clarinet, and the rest of the orchestra. you examine the space on the wall where mona lisa is or is not smiling her inscrutable smile, depending on whether the open season for mona lisas has come or has passed. wandering your weary way past acres of the works of rubens, and miles of titians, and townships of corots, and ranges of michelangelos, and quarter sections of raphaels, and government reserves of leonardo da vincis, you stray off finally into a side passage to see something else, leaving your wife or your sister behind in one of the main galleries. you are gone only a minute or two, but returning you find her furiously, helplessly angry and embarrassed; and on inquiry you learn she has been enduring the ordeal of being ogled by a small, wormy-looking creature who has gone without shaving for two or three years in a desperate endeavor to resemble a real man. some day somebody will take a squirt-gun and a pint of insect powder and destroy these little, hairy caterpillars who infest all parts of paris and make it impossible for a respectable woman to venture on the streets unaccompanied. let us, for the further adornment and final elaboration of the illustration, say that you are sitting at one of the small round tables which make mushroom beds under the awnings along the boulevards. all about you are french people, enjoying themselves in an easy and a rational and an inexpensive manner. as for yourself, all you desire is a quiet half hour in which to read your paper, sip your coffee, and watch the shifting panorama of street life. that emphatically is all you ask; merely that and a little privacy. are you permitted to have it? you are not. beggars beseech you to look on their afflictions. sidewalk venders cluster about you. and if you are smoking the spark of your cigar inevitably draws a full delegation of those moldy old whiskerados who follow the profession of collecting butts and quids. they hover about you, watchful as chicken hawks; and their bleary eyes envy you for each puff you take, until you grow uneasy and self-reproachful under their glare, and your smoke is spoiled for you. very few men smoke well before an audience, even an audience of their own selection; so before your cigar is half finished you toss it away, and while it is yet in the air the watchers leap forward and squabble under your feet for the prize. then the winner emerges from the scramble and departs along the sidewalk to seek his next victim, with the still-smoking trophy impaled on his steel-pointed tool of trade. in desperation you rise up from there and flee away to your hotel and hide in your room, and lock and double-lock the doors, and begin to study timetables with a view to quitting paris on the first train leaving for anywhere, the only drawback to a speedy consummation of this happy prospect being that no living creature can fathom the meaning of french timetables. it is not so much the aggregate amount of which they have despoiled you--it is the knowledge that every other person in paris is seeking and planning to nick you for some sum, great or small; it is the realization that, by reason of your ignorance of the language and the customs of the land, you are at their mercy, and they have no mercy--that, as walter pater so succinctly phrases it, that is what gets your goat--and gets it good! so you shake the dust from your feet--your own dust, not paris' dust--and you depart per hired hack for the station and per train from the station. and as the train draws away from the trainshed you behold behind you two legends or inscriptions, repeated and reiterated everywhere on the walls of the french capital. one of them says: english spoken here! and the other says: liberality! economy! frugality! chapter xvi as done in london london is essentially a he-town, just as paris is indubitably a she-town. that untranslatable, unmistakable something which is not to be defined in the plain terms of speech, yet which sets its mark on any long-settled community, has branded them both--the one as being masculine, the other as being feminine. for paris the lily stands, the conventionalized, feminized lily; but london is a lion, a shag-headed, heavy-pawed british lion. one thinks of paris as a woman, rather pretty, somewhat regardless of morals and decidedly slovenly of person; craving admiration, but too indolent to earn it by keeping herself presentable; covering up the dirt on a piquant face with rice powder; wearing paste jewels in her earlobes in an effort to distract criticism from the fact that the ears themselves stand in need of soap and water. london, viewed in retrospect, seems a great, clumsy, slow-moving giant, with hair on his chest and soil under his nails; competent in the larger affairs and careless about the smaller ones; amply satisfied with himself and disdainful of the opinions of outsiders; having all of a man's vices and a good share of his virtues; loving sport for sport's sake and power for its own sake and despising art for art's sake. you do not have to spend a week or a month or a year in either paris or london to note these things. the distinction is wide enough to be seen in a day; yes, or in an hour. it shows in all the outer aspects. an overtowering majority of the smart shops in paris cater to women; a large majority of the smart shops in london cater to men. it shows in their voices; for cities have voices just as individuals have voices. new york is not yet old enough to have found its own sex. it belongs still to the neuter gender. new york is not even a noun--it's a verb transitive; but its voice is a female voice, just as paris' voice is. new york, like paris, is full of strident, shrieking sounds, shrill outcries, hysterical babblings--a women's bridge-whist club at the hour of casting up the score; but london now is different. london at all hours speaks with a sustained, sullen, steady, grinding tone, never entirely sinking into quietude, never rising to acute discords. the sound of london rolls on like a river--a river that ebbs sometimes, but rarely floods above its normal banks; it impresses one as the necessary breathing of a grunting and burdened monster who has a mighty job on his hands and is taking his own good time about doing it. in london, mind you, the newsboys do not shout their extras. they bear in their hands placards with black-typed announcements of the big news story of the day; and even these headings seem designed to soothe rather than to excite--saying, for example, such things as special from liner, in referring to a disaster at sea, and meeting in ulster, when meaning that the northern part of ireland has gone on record as favoring civil war before home rule. the street venders do not bray on noisy trumpets or ring with bells or utter loud cries to advertise their wares. the policeman does not shout his orders out; he holds aloft the stripe-sleeved arm of authority and all london obeys. i think the reason why the londoners turned so viciously on the suffragettes was not because of the things the suffragettes clamored for, but because they clamored for them so loudly. they jarred the public peace--that must have been it. i can understand why an adult american might go to paris and stay in paris and be satisfied with paris, if he were a lover of art and millinery in all their branches; or why he might go to berlin if he were studying music and municipal control; or to amsterdam if he cared for cleanliness and new cheese; or to vienna if he were concerned with surgery, light opera, and the effect on the human lungs of doing without fresh air for long periods of time; or to rome if he were an antiquarian and interested in ancient life; or to naples if he were an entomologist and interested in insect life; or to venice if he liked ruins with water round them; or to padua if he liked ruins with no water anywhere near them. no: i'm blessed if i can think of a single good reason why a sane man should go to padua if he could go anywhere else. but i think i know, good and well, why a man might spend his whole vacation in london and enjoy every minute of it. for this old fogy, old foggy town of london is a man-sized town, and a man-run town; and it has a fascination of its own that is as much a part of it as london's grime is; or london's vastness and london's pettiness; or london's wealth and its stark poverty; or its atrocious suburbs; or its dirty, trade-fretted river; or its dismal back streets; or its still more dismal slums--or anything that is london's. to a man hailing from a land where everything is so new that quite a good deal of it has not even happened yet, it is a joyful thing to turn off a main-traveled road into one of the crooked byways in which the older parts of london abound, and suddenly to come, full face, on a house or a court or a pump which figured in epochal history or epochal literature of the english-speaking race. it is a still greater joy to find it--house or court or pump or what not--looking now pretty much as it must have looked when good queen bess, or little dick whittington, or chaucer the scribe, or shakspere the player, came this way. it is fine to be riding through the country and pass a peaceful green meadow and inquire its name of your driver and be told, most offhandedly, that it is a place called runnymede. each time this happened to me i felt the thrill of a discoverer; as though i had been the first traveler to find these spots. i remember that through an open door i was marveling at the domestic economies of an english barber shop. i use the word economies in this connection advisedly; for, compared with the average high-polished, sterilized and antiseptic barber shop of an american city, this shop seemed a torture cave. in london, pubs are like that, and some dentists' establishments and law offices--musty, fusty dens very unlike their yankee counterparts. in this particular shop now the chairs were hard, wooden chairs; the looking-glass--you could not rightly call it a mirror--was cracked and bleary; and an apprentice boy went from one patron to another, lathering each face; and then the master followed after him, razor in hand, and shaved the waiting countenances in turn. flies that looked as though they properly belonged in a livery stable were buzzing about; and there was a prevalent odor which made me think that all the sick pomade in the world had come hither to spend its last declining hours. i said to myself that this place would bear further study; that some day, when i felt particularly hardy and daring, i would come here and be shaved, and afterward would write a piece about it and sell it for money. so, the better to fix its location in my mind, i glanced up at the street sign and, behold! i was hard by drury lane, where sweet nelly once on a time held her court. another time i stopped in front of a fruiterer's, my eye having been caught by the presence in his window of half a dozen draggled-looking, wilted roasting ears decorated with a placard reading as follows: american maize or indian corn a vegetable--to be boiled and then eaten i was remarking to myself that these britishers were surely a strange race of beings--that if england produced so delectable a thing as green corn we in america would import it by the shipload and serve it on every table; whereas here it was so rare that they needs must label it as belonging to the vegetable kingdom, lest people should think it might be an animal--when i chanced to look more closely at the building occupied by the fruiterer and saw that it was an ancient house, half-timbered above the first floor, with a queer low-browed roof. inquiring afterward i learned that this house dated straight back to elizabethan days and still on beyond for so many years that no man knew exactly how many; and i began to understand in a dim sort of way how and why it was these people held so fast to the things they had and cared so little for the things they had not. better than by all the reading you have ever done you absorb a sense and realization of the splendor of england's past when you go to westminster abbey and stand--figuratively--with one foot on jonson and another on dryden; and if, overcome by the presence of so much dead-and-gone greatness, you fall in a fit you commit a trespass on the last resting-place of macaulay or clive, or somebody of equal consequence. more imposing even than westminster is st. paul's. i am not thinking so much of the memorials or the tombs or the statues there, but of the tattered battleflags bearing the names of battles fought by the english in every crack and cranny of the world, from quebec to ladysmith, and from lucknow to khartum. beholding them there, draped above the tombs, some faded but still intact, some mere clotted wisps of ragged silk clinging to blackened standards, gives one an uplifting conception of the spirit that has sent the british soldier forth to girth the globe, never faltering, never slackening pace, never giving back a step to-day but that he took two steps forward to-morrow; never stopping--except for tea. the fool hath said in his heart that he would go to england and come away and write something about his impressions, but never write a single, solitary word about the englishman's tea-drinking habit, or the englishman's cricket-playing habit, or the englishman's lack of a sense of humor. i was that fool. but it cannot be done. lacking these things england would not be england. it would be hamlet without hamlet or the ghost or the wicked queen or mad ophelia or her tiresome old pa; for most english life and the bulk of english conversation center about sporting topics, with the topic of cricket predominating. and at a given hour of the day the wheels of the empire stop, and everybody in the empire--from the king in the counting house counting up his money, to the maid in the garden hanging out the clothes--drops what he or she may be doing and imbibes tea until further orders. and what oceans of tea they do imbibe! there was an old lady who sat near us in a teashop one afternoon. as well as might be judged by one who saw her in a sitting posture only, she was no deeper than any other old lady of average dimensions; but in rapid succession she tilted five large cups of piping hot tea into herself and was starting on the sixth when we withdrew, stunned by the spectacle. she must have been fearfully long-waisted. i had a mental vision of her interior decorations--all fumed-oak wainscotings and buff-leather hangings. still, i doubt whether their four-o'clock-tea habit is any worse than our five-o'clock cocktail habit. it all depends, i suppose, on whether one prefers being tanned inside to being pickled. but we are getting bravely over our cocktail habit, as attested by figures and the visual evidences, while their tea habit is growing on them--so the statisticians say. as for the englishman's sense of humor, or his lack of it, i judge that we americans are partly wrong in our diagnosis of that phase of british character and partly right. because he is slow to laugh at a joke, we think he cannot see the point of it without a diagram and a chart. what we do not take into consideration is that, through centuries of self-repression, the englishman has so drilled himself into refraining from laughing in public--for fear, you see, of making himself conspicuous--it has become a part of his nature. indeed, in certain quarters a prejudice against laughing under any circumstances appears to have sprung up. i was looking one day through the pages of one of the critical english weeklies. nearly all british weeklies are heavy, and this is the heaviest of the lot. its editorial column alone weighs from twelve to eighteen pounds, and if you strike a man with a clubbed copy of it the crime is assault with a dull blunt instrument, with intent to kill. at the end of a ponderous review of the east indian question i came on a letter written to the editor by a gentleman signing himself with his own name, and reading in part as follows: sir: laughter is always vulgar and offensive. for instance, whatever there may be of pleasure in a theater--and there is not much--the place is made impossible by laughter ... no; it is very seldom that happiness is refined or pleasant to see--merriment that is produced by wine is false merriment, and there is no true merriment without it ... laughter is profane, in fact, where it is not ridiculous. on the other hand the english in bulk will laugh at a thing which among us would bring tears to the most hardened cheek and incite our rebellious souls to mayhem and manslaughter. on a certain night we attended a musical show at one of the biggest london theaters. there was some really clever funning by a straight comedian, but his best efforts died a-borning; they drew but the merest ripple of laughter from the audience. later there was a scene between a sad person made up as a scotchman and another equally sad person of color from the states. these times no english musical show is complete unless the cast includes a north american negro with his lips painted to resemble a wide slice of ripe watermelon, singing ragtime ditties touching on his chicken and his baby doll. this pair took the stage, all others considerately withdrawing; and presently, after a period of heartrending comicalities, the scotchman, speaking as though he had a mouthful of hot oatmeal, proceeded to narrate an account of a fictitious encounter with a bear. substantially this dialogue ensued: the scotchman--he was a vurra fierce grizzly bear, ye ken; and he rushed at me from behind a jugged rock. the negro--mistah, you means a jagged rock, don't you? the scotchman--nay, nay, laddie--a jugged rock. the negro--whut's dat you say? whut--whut is a jugged rock? the scotchman (forgetting his accent)--why, a rock with a jug on it, old chap. (a stage wait to let that soak into them in all its full strength.) a rock with a jug on it would be a jugged rock, wouldn't it--eh? the pause had been sufficient--they had it now. and from all parts of the house a whoop of unrestrained joy went up. witnessing such spectacles as this, the american observer naturally begins to think that the english in mass cannot see a joke that is the least bit subtle. nevertheless, however, and to the contrary notwithstanding--as colonel bill sterritt, of texas, used to say--england has produced the greatest natural humorists in the world and some of the greatest comedians, and for a great many years has supported the greatest comic paper printed in the english language, and that is punch. also, at an informal saturday-night dinner in a well-known london club i heard as much spontaneous repartee from the company at large, and as much quiet humor from the chairman, as i ever heard in one evening anywhere; but if you went into that club on a weekday you might suppose somebody was dead and laid out there, and that everybody about the premises had gone into deep mourning for the deceased. if any member of that club had dared then to crack a joke they would have expelled him--as soon as they got over the shock of the bounder's confounded cheek. saturday night? yes. monday afternoon? never! and there you are! speaking of punch reminds me that we were in london when punch, after giving the matter due consideration for a period of years, came out with a colored jacket on him. if the prime minister had done a highland fling in costume at high noon in oxford circus it could not have created more excitement than punch created by coming out with a colored cover. yet, to an american's understanding, the change was not so revolutionary and radical as all that. punch's well-known lineaments remained the same. there was merely a dab of palish yellow here and there on the sheet; at first glance you might have supposed somebody else had been reading your copy of punch at breakfast and had been careless in spooning up his soft-boiled egg. they are our cousins, the english are; our cousins once removed, 'tis true--see standard histories of the american revolution for further details of the removing--but they are kinsmen of ours beyond a doubt. even if there were no other evidences, the kinship between us would still be proved by the fact that the english are the only people except the americans who look on red meat--beef, mutton, ham--as a food to be eaten for the taste of the meat itself; whereas the other nations of the earth regard it as a vehicle for carrying various sauces, dressings and stuffings southward to the stomach. but, to the notice of the american who is paying them his first visit, they certainly do offer some amazing contradictions. in the large matters of business the english have been accused of trickiness, which, however, may be but the voice of envious competition speaking; but in the small things they surely are most marvelously honest. consider their railroad trains now: to a greenhorn from this side the blue water, a railroad journey out of london to almost any point in rural england is a succession of surprises, and all pleasant ones. to begin with, apparently there is nobody at the station whose business it is to show you to your train or to examine your ticket before you have found your train for yourself. there is no mad scurrying about at the moment of departure, no bleating of directions through megaphones. unchaperoned you move along a long platform under a grimy shed, where trains are standing with their carriage doors hospitably ajar, and unassisted you find your own train and your own carriage, and enter therein. sharp on the minute an unseen hand--at least i never saw it--slams the doors and coyly--you might almost say secretively--the train moves out of the terminal. it moves smoothly and practically without jarring sounds. there is no shrieking of steel against steel. it is as though the rails were made of rubber and the wheel-flanges were faced with noise-proof felt. no conductor comes to punch your ticket, no brakeman to bellow the stops, no train butcher bleating the gabbled invoice of his gumdrops, bananas and other best-sellers. glory be! it is all so peaceful and soothing; as peaceful and as soothing as the land through which you are gliding when once you have left behind smoky london and its interminable environs; for now you are in a land that was finished and plenished five hundred years ago and since then has not been altered in any material aspect whatsoever. every blade of grass is in its right place; every wayside shrub seemingly has been restrained and trained to grow in exactly the right and the proper way. streaming by your car window goes a tastefully arranged succession of the thatched cottages, the huddled little towns, the meandering brooks, the ancient inns, the fine old country places, the high-hedged estates of the landed gentry, with rose-covered lodges at the gates and robust children in the doorways--just as you have always seen them in the picture books. there are fields that are velvet lawns, and lawns that are carpets of green cut-plush. england is the only country i know of that lives up--exactly and precisely--to its storybook descriptions and its storybook illustrations. eventually you come to your stopping point; at least you have reason to believe it may be your stopping point. as well as you may judge by the signs that plaster the front, the sides, and even the top of the station, the place is either a beef extract or a washing compound. nor may you count on any travelers who may be sharing your compartment with you to set you right by a timely word or two. your fellow passengers may pity you for your ignorance and your perplexity, but they would not speak; they could not, not having been introduced. a german or a frenchman would be giving you gladly what aid he might; but a well-born englishman who had not been introduced would ride for nine years with you and not speak. i found the best way of solving the puzzle was to consult the timecard. if the timecard said our train would reach a given point at a given hour, and this was the given hour, then we might be pretty sure this was the given point. timetables in england are written by realists, not by gifted fiction writers of the impressionistic school, as is frequently the case in america. so, if this timecard says it is time for you to get off you get off, with your ticket still in your possession; and if it be a small station you go yourself and look up the station master, who is tucked away in a secluded cubbyhole somewhere absorbing tea, or else is in the luggage room fussing with baby carriages and patent-churns. having ferreted him out in his hiding-place you hand over your ticket to him and he touches his cap brim and says "kew" very politely, which concludes the ceremony so far as you are concerned. then, if you have brought any heavy baggage with you in the baggage car--pardon, i meant the luggage van--you go back to the platform and pick it out from the heap of luggage that has been dumped there by the train hands. with ordinary luck and forethought you could easily pick out and claim and carry off some other person's trunk, provided you fancied it more than your own trunk, only you do not. you do not do this any more than, having purchased a second-class ticket, or a third-class, you ride first-class; though, so far as i could tell, there is no check to prevent a person from so doing. at least an englishman never does. it never seems to occur to him to do so. the english have no imagination. i have a suspicion that if one of our railroads tried to operate its train service on such a basis of confidence in the general public there would be a most deceitful hiatus in the receipts from passenger traffic to be reported to a distressed group of stockholders at the end of the fiscal year. this, however, is merely a supposition on my part. i may be wrong. chapter xvii britain in twenty minutes to a greater degree, i take it, than any other race the english have mastered the difficult art of minding their own affairs. the average englishman is tremendously knowledgable about his own concerns and monumentally ignorant about all other things. if an englishman's business requires that he shall learn the habits and customs of the patagonians or the chicagoans or any other race which, because it is not british, he naturally regards as barbaric, he goes and learns them--and learns them well. otherwise your britisher does not bother himself with what the outlander may or may not do. an englishman cannot understand an american's instinctive desire to know about things; we do not understand his lack of curiosity in that direction. both of us forget what i think must be the underlying reasons--that we are a race which, until comparatively recently, lived wide distances apart in sparsely settled lands, and were dependent on the passing stranger for news of the rest of the world, where he belongs to a people who all these centuries have been packed together in their little island like oats in a bin. london itself is so crowded that the noses of most of the lower classes turn up--there is not room for them to point straight ahead without causing a great and bitter confusion of noses; but whether it points upward or outward or downward the owner of the nose pretty generally refrains from ramming it into other folks' business. if he and all his fellows did not do this; if they had not learned to keep their voices down and to muffle unnecessary noises; if they had not built tight covers of reserve about themselves, as the oyster builds a shell to protect his tender tissues from irritation--they would long ago have become a race of nervous wrecks instead of being what they are, the most stolid beings alive. in london even royalty is mercifully vouchsafed a reasonable amount of privacy from the intrusion of the gimlet eye and the chisel nose. royalty may ride in rotten row of a morning, promenade on the mall at noon, and shop in the regent street shops in the afternoon, and at all times go unguarded and unbothered--i had almost said unnoticed. it may be that long and constant familiarity with the institution of royalty has bred indifference in the london mind to the physical presence of dukes and princes and things; but i am inclined to think a good share of it should be attributed to the inborn and ingrown british faculty for letting other folks be. one morning as i was walking at random through the aristocratic district, of which st. james is the solar plexus and park lane the spinal cord, i came to a big mansion where foot-guards stood sentry at the wall gates. this house was further distinguished from its neighbors by the presence of a policeman pacing alongside it, and a newspaper photographer setting up his tripod and camera in the road, and a small knot of passers-by lingering on the opposite side of the way, as though waiting for somebody to come along or something to happen. i waited too. in a minute a handsome old man and a well-set-up young man turned the corner afoot. the younger man was leading a beautiful stag hound. the photographer touched his hat and said something, and the younger man smiling a good-natured smile, obligingly posed in the street for a picture. at this precise moment a dirigible balloon came careening over the chimneypots on a cross-london air jaunt; and at the sight of it the little crowd left the young man and the photographer and set off at a run to follow, as far as they might, the course of the balloon. now in america this could not have occurred, for the balloon man would not have been aloft at such an hour. he would have been on the earth; moreover he would have been outside the walls of that mansion house, along with half a million, more or less, of his patriotic fellow countrymen, tearing his own clothes off and their clothes off, trampling the weak and sickly underfoot, bucking the doubled and tripled police lines in a mad, vain effort to see the flagpole on the roof or a corner of the rear garden wall. for that house was clarence house, and the young man who posed so accommodatingly for the photographer was none other than prince arthur of connaught, who was getting himself married the very next day. the next day i beheld from a short distance the passing of the bridal procession. though there were crowds all along the route followed by the wedding party, there was no scrouging, no shoving, no fighting, no disorderly scramble, no unseemly congestion about the chapel where the ceremony took place. it reminded me vividly of that which inevitably happens when a millionaire's daughter is being married to a duke in a fashionable fifth avenue church--it reminded me of that because it was so different. fortunately for us we were so placed that we saw quite distinctly the entrance of the wedding party into the chapel inclosure. personally i was most concerned with the members of the royal house. as i recollect, they passed in the following order: his majesty, king george the fifth. her majesty, queen mary, the other four fifths. small fractional royalties to the number of a dozen or more. i got a clear view of the side face of the queen. as one looked on her profile, which was what you might call firm, and saw the mild-looking little king, who seemed quite eclipsed by her presence, one understood--or anyway one thought one understood--why an english assemblage, when standing to chant the national anthem these times, always puts such fervor and meaning into the first line of it. only one untoward incident occurred: the inevitable militant lady broke through the lines as the imperial carriage passed and threw a votes for women handbill into his majesty's lap. she was removed thence by the police with the skill and dexterity of long practice. the police were competently on the job. they always are--which brings me round to the subject of the london bobby and leads me to venture the assertion that individually and collectively, personally and officially, he is a splendid piece of work. the finest thing in london is the london policeman and the worst thing is the shamefully small and shabby pay he gets. he is majestic because he represents the majesty of the english law; he is humble and obliging because, as a servant, he serves the people who make the law. and always he knows his business. in charing cross, where all roads meet and snarl up in the bewildering semblance of many fishing worms in a can, i ventured out into the roadway to ask a policeman the best route for reaching a place in a somewhat obscure quarter. he threw up his arm, semaphore fashion, first to this point of the compass and then to that, and traffic halted instantly. as far as the eye might reach it halted; and it stayed halted, too, while he searched his mind and gave me carefully and painstakingly the directions for which i sought. in that packed mass of cabs and taxis and buses and carriages there were probably dukes and archbishops--dukes and archbishops are always fussing about in london--but they waited until he was through directing me. it flattered me so that i went back to the hotel and put on a larger hat. i sincerely hope there was at least one archbishop. another time we went to paddington to take a train for somewhere. following the custom of the country we took along our trunks and traps on top of the taxicab. at the moment of our arrival there were no porters handy, so a policeman on post outside the station jumped forward on the instant and helped our chauffeur to wrestle the luggage down on the bricks. when i, rallying somewhat from the shock of this, thanked him and slipped a coin into his palm, he said in effect that, though he was obliged for the shilling, i must not feel that i had to give him anything--that it was part of his duty to aid the public in these small matters. i shut my eyes and tried to imagine a new york policeman doing as much for an unknown alien; but the effort gave me a severe headache. it gave me darting pains across the top of the skull--at about the spot where he would probably have belted me with his club had i even dared to ask him to bear a hand with my baggage. i had a peep into the workings of the system of which the london bobby is a spoke when i went to what is the very hub of the wheel of the common law--a police court. i understood then what gave the policeman in the street his authority and his dignity--and his humility--when i saw how carefully the magistrate on the bench weighed each trifling cause and each petty case; how surely he winnowed out the small grain of truth from the gross and tare of surmise and fiction; how particular he was to give of the abundant store of his patience to any whining ragpicker or street beggar who faced him, whether as defendant at the bar, or accuser, or witness. it was the very body of the law, though, we saw a few days after this when by invitation we witnessed the procession at the opening of the high courts. considered from the stand-points of picturesqueness and impressiveness it made one's pulses tingle when those thirty or forty men of the wig and ermine marched in single and double file down the loftily vaulted hall, with the lord chancellor in wig and robes of state leading, and sir rufus isaacs, knee-breeched and sword-belted, a pace or two behind him; and then, in turn, the justices; and, going on ahead of them and following on behind them, knight escorts and ushers and clerks and all the other human cogs of the great machine. what struck into me deepest, however, was the look of nearly every one of the judges. had they been dressed as longshoremen, one would still have known them for possessors of the judicial temperament--men born to hold the balances and fitted and trained to winnow out the wheat from the chaff. so many eagle-beaked noses, so many hawk-keen eyes, so many smooth-chopped, long-jowled faces, seen here together, made me think of what we are prone to regard as the highwater period of american statesmanship--the clay-calhoun-benton-webster period. just watching these men pass helped me to know better than any reading i had ever done why the english have faith and confidence in their courts. i said to myself that if i wanted justice--exact justice, heaping high in time scales--i should come to this shop and give my trade to the old-established firm; but if i were looking for a little mercy i should take my custom elsewhere. i cannot tell why i associate it in my mind with this grouped spectacle of the lords of the law, but somehow the scene to be witnessed in hyde park just inside the marble arch of a sunday evening seems bound up somehow with the other institution. they call this place london's safety valve. it's all of that. long ago the ruling powers discovered that if the rabidly discontented were permitted to preach dynamite and destruction unlimited they would not be so apt to practice their cheerful doctrines. so, without let or hindrance, any apostle of any creed, cult or propaganda, however lurid and revolutionary, may come here of a sunday to meet with his disciples and spout forth the faith that is in him until he has geysered himself into peace, or, what comes to the same thing, into speechlessness. when i went to hyde park on a certain sunday rain was falling and the crowds were not so large as usual, a bored policeman on duty in this outdoor forum told me; still, at that, there must have been two or three thousand listeners in sight and not less than twelve speakers. these latter balanced themselves on small portable platforms placed in rows, with such short spaces between them that their voices intermingled confusingly. in front of each orator stood his audience; sometimes they applauded what he said in a sluggish british way, and sometimes they asked him questions designed to baffle or perplex him--heckling, i believe this is called--but there was never any suggestion of disorder and never any violent demonstration for or against a statement made by him. at the end of the line nearest the arch, under a flary light, stood an old bearded man having the look on his face of a kindly but somewhat irritated moo-cow. at the moment i drew near he was having a long and involved argument with another controversialist touching on the sense of the word tabernacle as employed scripturally, one holding it to mean the fleshly tenement of the soul and the other an actual place of worship. the old man had two favorite words--behoove and emit--but behoove was evidently his choice. as an emitter he was only fair, but he was the best behoover i ever saw anywhere. the orator next to him was speaking in a soft, sentimental tone, with gestures gently appropriate. i moved along to him, being minded to learn what particular brand of brotherly love he might be expounding. in the same tone a good friend might employ in telling you what to do for chapped lips or a fever blister he was saying that clergymen and armaments were useless and expensive burdens on the commonwealth; and, as a remedy, he was advocating that all the priests and all the preachers in the kingdom should be loaded on all the dreadnoughts, and then the dreadnoughts should be steamed to the deepest part of the atlantic ocean and there cozily scuttled, with all aboard. there was scattering applause and a voice: "ow, don't do that! listen, 'ere! hi've got a better plan." but the next speaker was blaring away at the top of his voice, making threatening faces and waving his clenched fists aloft and pounding with them on the top of his rostrum. "now this," i said to myself, "is going to be something worth while. surely this person would not be content merely with drowning all the parsons and sinking all the warships in the hole at the bottom of the sea. undoubtedly he will advocate something really radical. i will invest five minutes with him." i did; but i was sold. he was favoring the immediate adoption of a universal tongue for all the peoples of the earth--that was all. i did not catch the name of his universal language, but i judged the one at which he would excel would be a language with few if any h's in it. after this disappointment i lost heart and came away. another phase, though a very different one, of the british spirit of fair play and tolerance, was shown to me at the national sporting club, which is the british shrine of boxing, where i saw a fight for one of the championship belts that lord lonsdale is forever bestowing on this or that worshipful fisticuffer. instead of being inside the ring prying the fighters apart by main force as he would have been doing in america, the referee, dressed in evening clothes, was outside the ropes. at a snapped word from him the fighters broke apart from clinches on the instant. the audience--a very mixed one, ranging in garb from broadcloths to shoddies--was as quick to approve a telling blow by the less popular fighter as to hiss any suggestion of trickiness or fouling on the part of the favorite. when a contestant in one of the preliminary goes, having been adjudged a loser on points, objected to the decision and insisted on being heard in his own behalf, the crowd, though plainly not in sympathy with his contention, listened to what he had to say. nobody jeered him down. had he been a foreigner and especially had he been an american i am inclined to think the situation might have been different. i seem to recall what happened once when a certain middleweight from this side went over there and broke the british heart by licking the british champion; and again what happened when a yankee boy won the marathon at the olympic games in london a few years ago. but as this man was a briton himself these other britons harkened to his sputterings, for england, you know, grants the right of free speech to all englishmen--and denies it to all englishwomen. the settled englishman declines always to be jostled out of his hereditary state of intense calm. they tell of a man who dashed into the reading room of the savage club with the announcement that a lion was loose on the strand--a lion that had escaped from a traveling caravan and was rushing madly to and fro, scaring horses and frightening pedestrians. "great excitement! most terrific, old dears--on my word!" he added, addressing the company. over the top of the pink un an elderly gentleman of a full habit of life regarded him sourly. "is that any reason," he inquired, "why a person should rush into a gentleman's club and kick up such a deuced hullabaloo?" the first man--he must have been a colonial--gazed at the other man in amazement. "well," he asked, "what would you do if you met a savage lion loose on the strand?" "sir, i should take a cab!" and after meeting an englishman or two of this type i am quite prepared to say the story might have been a true one. if he met a lion on the strand to-day he would take a cab; but if to-morrow, walking in the same place, he met two lions, he would write a letter to the times complaining of the growing prevalence of lions in the public thoroughfares and placing the blame on the suffragettes or lloyd george or the nonconformists or the increasing discontent of the working classes--that is what he would do. on the other hand, if he met a squirrel on a street in america it would be a most extraordinary thing. extraordinary would undoubtedly be the word he would use to describe it. lions on the strand would be merely annoying, but chipmunks on broadway would constitute a striking manifestation of the unsettled conditions existing in a wild and misgoverned land; for, you see, to every right-minded englishman of the insular variety--and that is the commonest variety there is in england--whatever happens at home is but part of an orderly and an ordered scheme of things, whereas whatever happens beyond the british domains must necessarily be highly unusual and exceedingly disorganizing. if so be it happens on english soil he can excuse it. he always has an explanation or an extenuation handy. but if it happens elsewhere--well, there you are, you see! what was it somebody once called england--perfidious alibi-in', wasn't it? anyhow that was what he meant. the party's intentions were good but his spelling was faulty. an englishman's newspapers help him to attain this frame of mind; for an english newspaper does not print sensational stories about englishmen residing in england; it prints them about people resident in other lands. there is a good reason for this and the reason is based on prudence. in the first place the private life of a private individual is a most holy thing, with which the papers dare not meddle; besides, the paper that printed a faked-up tale about a private citizen in england would speedily be exposed and also extensively sued. as for public men, they are protected by exceedingly stringent libel laws. as nearly as i might judge, anything true you printed about an english politician would be libelous, and anything libelous you printed about him would be true. it befalls, therefore, as i was told on most excellent authority, that when the editor of a live london daily finds the local grist to be dull and uninteresting reading he straightway cables to his american correspondent or his paris correspondent--these two being his main standbys for sensations--asking, if his choice falls on the man in america, for a snappy dispatch, say, about an american train smash-up, or a nature freak, or a scandal in high society with a rich man mixed up in it. he wires for it, and in reply he gets it. i have been in my time a country correspondent for city papers, and i know that what mr. editor wants mr. editor gets. as a result america, to the provincial englishman's understanding, is a land where a hunter is always being nibbled to death by sheep; or a prospective mother is being so badly frightened by a chameleon that her child is born with a complexion changeable at will and an ungovernable appetite for flies; or a billionaire is giving a monkey dinner or poisoning his wife, or something. also, he gets the idea that a through train in this country is so called because it invariably runs through the train ahead of it; and that when a man in connecticut is expecting a friend on the fast express from boston, and wants something to remember him by, he goes down to the station at train time with a bucket. under the headlining system of the english newspapers the derailment of a work-train in arizona, wherein several mexican tracklayers get mussed up, becomes another frightful american railway disaster! but a head-on collision, attended by fatalities, in the suburbs of liverpool or manchester is a distressing suburban incident. yet the official blue book, issued by the british board of trade, showed that in the three months ending march , , persons were killed and , were injured on railway lines in the united kingdom. just as an english gentleman is the most modest person imaginable, and the most backward about offering lip-service in praise of his own achievements or his country's achievements, so, in the same superlative degree, some of his newspapers are the most blatant of boasters. about the time we were leaving england the job of remodeling and beautifying the front elevation of buckingham palace reached its conclusion, and a dinner was given to the workingmen who for some months had been engaged on the contract. it had been expected that the occasion would be graced by the presence of their majesties; but the king, as i recall, was pasting stamps in the new album the czar of russia sent him on his birthday, and the queen was looking through the files of godey's lady's book for the year , picking out suitable costumes for the ladies of her court to wear. at any rate they could not attend. otherwise, though, the dinner must have been a success. reading the account of it as published next morning in a london paper, i learned that some of the guests, "with rare british pluck," wore their caps and corduroys; that others, "with true british independence," smoked their pipes after dinner; that there was "real british beef" and "genuine british plum pudding" on the menu; and that repeatedly those present uttered "hearty british cheers." from top to bottom the column was studded thick with british thises and british thats. yet the editorial writers of that very paper are given to frequent and sneering attacks on the alleged yellowness and the boasting proclivities of the jingo yankee sheets; also, they are prone to spasmodic attacks on the laxity of our marriage laws. perhaps what they say of us is true; but for unadulterated nastiness i never saw anything in print to equal the front page of a so-called sporting weekly that circulates freely in london, and i know of nothing to compare with the brazen exhibition of a certain form of vice that is to be witnessed nightly in the balconies of two of london's largest music halls. it was upon the program of another london theater that i came across the advertisement of a lady styling herself "london's woman detective" and stating, in so many words, that her specialties were "divorce shadowings" and "secret inquiries." maybe it is a fact that in certain of our states marriage is not so much a contract as a ninety-day option, but the lady detective who does divorce shadowing and advertises her qualifications publicly has not opened up her shop among us. in the campaign to give the stay-at-home englishman a strange conception of his american kinsman the press is ably assisted by the stage. in london i went to see a comedy written by a deservedly successful dramatist, and staged, i think, under his personal direction. the english characters in the play were whimsical and, as nearly as i might judge, true to the classes they purported to represent. there was an american character in this piece too--a multimillionaire, of course, and a collector of pictures--presumably a dramatically fair and realistic drawing of a wealthy, successful, art-loving american. i have forgotten now whether he was supposed to be one of our meaty chicago millionaires, or one of our oily cleveland millionaires, or one of our steely pittsburgh millionaires, or just a plain millionaire from the country at large; and i doubt whether the man who wrote the lines had any conception when he did write them of the fashion in which they were afterward read. be that as it may, the actor who essayed to play the american used an inflection, or an accent, or a dialect, or a jargon--or whatever you might choose to call it--which was partly of the oldtime drawly wild western school of expression and partly of the oldtime nasal down east school. i had thought--and had hoped--that both these actor-created lingoes were happily obsolete; but in their full flower of perfection i now heard them here in london. also, the actor who played the part interpreted the physical angles of the character in a manner to suggest a pleasing combination of uncle joshua whitcomb, mike the bite, jefferson brick and coal-oil johnny, with a suggestion of jesse james interspersed here and there. true, he spat not on the carpet loudly, and he refrained from saying i vum! and great snakes!--quaint conceits that, i am told, every english actor who respected his art formally employed when wishful to type a stage american for an english audience; but he bragged loudly and emphatically of his money and of how he got it and of what he would do with it. i do not perceive why it is the english, who themselves so dearly love the dollar after it is translated into terms of pounds, shillings and pence, should insist on regarding us as a nation of dollar-grabbers, when they only see us in the act of freely dispensing the aforesaid dollar. they do so regard us, though; and, with true british setness, i suppose they always will. even so i think that, though they may dislike us as a nation, they like us as individuals; and it is certainly true that they seem to value us more highly than they value colonials, as they call them--particularly canadian colonials. it would appear that your true briton can never excuse another british subject for the shockingly poor taste he displayed in being born away from home. and, though in time he may forgive us for refusing to be licked by him, he can never forgive the colonials for saving him from being licked in south africa. when i started in to write this chapter, i meant to conclude it with an apology for my audacity in undertaking--in any wise--to sum up the local characteristics of a country where i had tarried for so short a time, but i have changed my mind about that. i have merely borrowed a page from the book of rules of the british essayists and novelists who come over here to write us up. why, bless your soul, i gave nearly eight weeks of time to the task of seeing europe thoroughly, and, of those eight weeks, i spent upward of three weeks in and about london--indeed, a most unreasonably long time when measured by the standards of the englishman of letters who does a book about us. he has his itinerary all mapped out in advance. he will squander a whole week on us. we are scarcely worth it, but, such as we are, we shall have a week of his company! landing on monday morning, he will spend monday in new york, tuesday in san francisco, and wednesday in new orleans. thursday he will divide between boston and chicago, devoting the forenoon to one and the afternoon to the other. friday morning he will range through the rocky mountains, and after luncheon, if he is not too fatigued, he will take a carriage and pop in on yosemite valley for an hour or so. but saturday--all of it--will be given over to the far southland. he is going 'way down south--to sunny south dakota, in fact, to see the genuine native american darkies, the real yankee blackamoors. most interesting beings, the blackamoors! they live exclusively on poultry--fowls, you know--and all their women folk are named honey gal. he will observe them in their hours of leisure, when, attired in their national costume, consisting of white duck breeches, banjos, and striped shirts with high collars, they gather beneath the rays of the silvery southern moon to sing their tribal melodies on the melon-lined shores of the old oswego; and by day he will study them at their customary employment as they climb from limb to limb of the cottonwood trees, picking cotton. on sunday he will arrange and revise his notes, and on monday morning he will sail for home. such is the program of solomon grundy, esquire, the distinguished writing englishman; but on his arrival he finds the country to be somewhat larger than he expected--larger actually than the midlands. so he compromises by spending five days at a private hotel in new york, run by a very worthy and deserving englishwoman of the middle classes, where one may get yorkshire puddings every day; and two days more at a wealthy tufthunter's million-dollar cottage at newport, studying the habits and idiosyncrasies of the common people. and then he rushes back to england and hurriedly embalms his impressions of us in a large volume, stating it to be his deliberate opinion that, though we mean well enough, we won't do--really. he necessarily has to hurry, because, you see, he has a contract to write a novel or a play--or both a novel and a play--with lord northcliffe as the central figure. in these days practically all english novels and most english comedies play up lord northcliffe as the central figure. almost invariably the young english writer chooses him for the axis about which his plot shall revolve. english journalists who have been discharged from one of northcliffe's publications make him their villian, and english journalists who hope to secure jobs on one of his publications make him their hero. the literature of a land is in perilous case when it depends on the personality of one man. one shudders to think what the future of english fiction would be should anything happen to his lordship! business of shuddering! chapter xviii guyed or guided? during our scientific explorations in the eastern hemisphere, we met two guides who had served the late samuel l. clemens, one who had served the late j. pierpont morgan, and one who had acted as courier to ex-president theodore roosevelt. after inquiry among persons who were also lately abroad, i have come to the conclusion that my experience in this regard was remarkable, not because i met so many as four of the guides who had attended these distinguished americans, but because i met so few as four of them. one man with whom i discussed the matter told of having encountered, in the course of a brief scurry across europe, five members in good standing of the international association of former guides to mark twain. all of them had union cards to prove it too. others said that in practically every city of any size visited by them there was a guide who told of his deep attachment to the memory of mr. morgan, and described how mr. morgan had hired him without inquiring in advance what his rate for professional services a day would be; and how--lingering with wistful emphasis on the words along here and looking meaningly the while at the present patron--how very, very generous mr. morgan had been in bestowing gratuities on parting. our first experience with guides was at westminster abbey. as it happened, this guide was one of the mark twain survivors. i think, though, he was genuine; he had documents of apparent authenticity in his possession to help him in proving up his title. anyhow, he knew his trade. he led us up and down those parts of the abbey which are free to the general public and brought us finally to a wicket gate, opening on the royal chapels, which was as far as he could go. there he turned us over to a severe-looking dignitary in robes--an archbishop, i judged, or possibly only a canon--who, on payment by us of a shilling a head, escorted our party through the remaining inclosures, showing us the tombs of england's queens and kings, or a good many of them anyway; and the black prince's helmet and breastplate; and the exquisite chapel of henry the seventh, and the ancient chair on which all the kings sat for their coronations, with the famous scotch stone of scone under it. the chair itself was not particularly impressive. it was not nearly so rickety and decrepit as the chairs one sees in almost any london barber shop. nor was my emotion particularly excited by the stone. i would engage to get a better-looking one out of the handiest rock quarry inside of twenty minutes. this stone should not be confused with the ordinary scones, which also come from scotland and which are by some regarded as edible. what did seem to us rather a queer thing was that the authorities of westminster should make capital of the dead rulers of the realm and, except on certain days of the week, should charge an admission fee to their sepulchers. later, on the continent, we sustained an even more severe shock when we saw royal palaces--palaces that on occasion are used by the royal proprietors--with the quarters of the monarchs upstairs and downstairs novelty shops and tourist agencies and restaurants, and the like of that. i jotted down a few crisp notes concerning these matters, my intention being to comment on them as evidence of an incomprehensible thrift on the part of our european kins-people; but on second thought i decided to refrain from so doing. i recalled the fact that we ourselves are not entirely free from certain petty national economies. abroad we house our embassies up back streets, next door to bird and animal stores; and at home there is many a public institution where the doormat says welcome! in large letters, but the soap is chained and the roller towel is padlocked to its little roller. guides are not particularly numerous in england. even in the places most frequented by the sightseer they do not abound in any profusion. at madame tussaud's, for example, we found only one guide. we encountered him just after we had spent a mournful five minutes in contemplation of ex-president taft. friends and acquaintances of mr. taft will be shocked to note the great change in him when they see him here in wax. he does not weigh so much as he used to weigh by at least one hundred and fifty pounds; he has lost considerable height too; his hair has turned another color and his eyes also; his mustache is not a close fit any more, either; and he is wearing a suit of english-made clothes. on leaving the sadly altered form of our former chief executive we descended a flight of stone steps leading to the chamber of horrors. this department was quite crowded with parents escorting their children about. like america, england appears to be well stocked with parents who make a custom of taking their young and susceptible offspring to places where the young ones stand a good chance of being scared into connipshun fits. the official guide was in the chamber of horrors. he was piloting a large group of visitors about, but as soon as he saw our smaller party he left them and came directly to us; for they were scotch and we were americans, citizens of the happy land where tips come from. undoubtedly that guide knew best. with pride and pleasure he showed us a representative assortment of england's most popular and prominent murderers. the english dearly love a murderer. perhaps that is because they have fewer murderers than we have, and have less luck than we do in keeping them alive and in good spirits to a ripe old age. almost any american community of fair size can afford at least two murderers--one in jail, under sentence, receiving gifts of flowers and angel cake from kind ladies, and waiting for the court above to reverse the verdict in his case because the indictment was shy a comma; and the other out on bail, awaiting his time for going through the same procedure. but with the english it is different. we rarely hang anybody who is anybody, and only occasionally make an issue of stretching the neck of the veriest nobody. they will hang almost anybody haman-high, or even higher than that. they do not exactly hang their murderer before they catch him, but the two events occur in such close succession that one can readily understand why a confusion should have arisen in the public mind on these points. first of all, though, they catch him; and then some morning between ten and twelve they try him. this is a brief and businesslike formality. while the judge is looking in a drawer of his desk to see whether the black cap is handy the bailiffs shoo twelve tradesmen into the jury box. a tradesman is generally chosen for jury service because he is naturally anxious to get the thing over and hurry back to his shop before his helper goes to lunch. the judge tells the jurors to look on the prisoner, because he is going away shortly and is not expected back; so they take full advantage of the opportunity, realizing it to be their last chance. then, in order to comply with the forms, the judge asks the accused whether he is guilty or not guilty, and the jurors promptly say he is. his worship, concurring heartily, fixes the date of execution for the first friday morning when the hangman has no other engagements. it is never necessary to postpone this event through failure of the condemned to be present. he is always there; there is no record of his having disappointed an audience. so, on the date named, rain or shine, he is hanged very thoroughly; but after the hanging is over they write songs and books about him and revere his memory forevermore. our guide was pleased to introduce us to the late mr. charles pease, as done in paraffin, with creped hair and bright, shiny glass eyes. mr. pease was undoubtedly england's most fashionable murderer of the past century and his name is imperishably enshrined in the british affections. the guide spoke of his life and works with deep and sincere feeling. he also appeared to derive unfeigned pleasure from describing the accomplishments of another murderer, only slightly less famous than the late mr. pease. it seemed that this murderer, after slaying his victim, set to dismembering the body and boiling it. they boil nearly everything in england. but the police broke in on him and interrupted the job. our attention was directed to a large chart showing the form of the victim, the boiled portions being outlined in red and the unboiled portions in black. considered as a murderer solely this particular murderer may have been deserving of his fame; but when it came to boiling, that was another matter. he showed poor judgment there. it all goes to show that a man should stick to his own trade and not try to follow two or more widely dissimilar callings at the same time. sooner or later he is bound to slip up. we found stratford-upon-avon to be the one town in england where guides are really abundant. there are as many guides in stratford as there are historic spots. i started to say that there is at least one guide in stratford for every american who goes there; but that would be stretching real facts, because nearly every american who goes to england manages to spend at least a day in stratford, it being a spot very dear to his heart. the very name of it is associated with two of the most conspicuous figures in our literature. i refer first to andrew carnegie; second to william shakspere. shakspere, who wrote the books, was born here; but carnegie, who built the libraries in which to keep the books, and who has done some writing himself, provided money for preserving and perpetuating the relics. we met a guide in the ancient schoolhouse where the bard--i am speaking now of william, not of andrew--acquired the rudiments of his education; and on duty at the old village church was another guide, who for a price showed us the identical gravestone bearing the identical inscription which, reproduced in a design of burnt wood, is to-day to be found on the walls of every american household, however humble, whose members are wishful of imparting an artistic and literary atmosphere to their home. a third guide greeted us warmly when we drove to the cottage, a mile or two from the town, where the hathaway family lived. here we saw the high-backed settle on which shakspere sat, night after night, wooing anne hathaway. i myself sat on it to test it. i should say that the wooing could not have been particularly good there, especially for a thin man. that settle had a very hard seat and history does not record that there was a cushion. shakspere's affections for the lady must indeed have been steadfast. or perhaps he was of stouter build than his pictures show him to have been. guides were scattered all over the birthplace house in stratford in the ratio of one or more to each room. downstairs a woman guide presided over a battery of glass cases containing personal belongings of shakspere's and documents written by him and signed by him. it is conceded that he could write, but he certainly was a mighty poor speller. this has been a failing of many well-known writers. chaucer was deficient in this regard; and if it were not for a feeling of personal modesty i could apply the illustration nearer home. two guides accompanied us as we climbed the stairs to the low-roofed room on the second floor where the creator of shylock and juliet was born--or was not born, if you believe what ignatius donnelly had to say on the subject. but would it not be interesting and valued information if we could only get the evidence on this point of old mrs. shakspere, who undoubtedly was present on the occasion? a member of our party, an american, ventured to remark as much to one of the guides; but the latter did not seem to understand him. so the american told him just to keep thinking it over at odd moments, and that he would be back again in a couple of years, if nothing happened, and possibly by that time the guide would have caught the drift of his observation. on second thought, later on, he decided to make it three years--he did not want to crowd the guide, he said, or put too great a burden on his mentality in a limited space of time. if england harbors few guides the continent is fairly glutted with them. after nightfall the boulevards of paris are so choked with them that in places there is standing room only. in rome the congestion is even greater. in rome every other person is a guide--and sometimes twins. i do not know why, in thinking of europe, i invariably associate the subject of guides with the subject of tips. the guides were no greedier for tips than the cabmen or the hotel helpers, or the railroad hands, or the populace at large. nevertheless this is true. in my mind i am sure guides and tips will always be coupled, as surely as any of those standard team-word combinations of our language that are familiar to all; as firmly paired off as, for example, castor and pollux, or damon and pythias, or fair and warmer, or hay and feed. when i think of one i know i shall think of the other. also i shall think of languages; but for that there is a reason. tipping--the giving of tips and the occasional avoidance of giving them--takes up a good deal of the tourist's time in europe. at first reading the arrangement devised by the guidebooks, of setting aside ten per cent of one's bill for tipping purposes, seems a better plan and a less costly one than the indiscriminate american system of tipping for each small service at the time of its performance. the trouble is that this arrangement does not work out so well in actual practice as it sounds in theory. on the day of your departure you send for your hotel bill. you do not go to the desk and settle up there after the american fashion. if you have learned the ropes you order your room waiter to fetch your bill to you, and in the privacy of your apartment you pore over the formidable document wherein every small charge is fully specified, the whole concluding with an impressive array of items regarding which you have no prior recollection whatsoever. considering the total, you put aside an additional ten per cent, calculated for division on the basis of so much for the waiter, so much for the boots, so much for the maid and the porter, and the cashier, and the rest of them. it is not necessary that you send for these persons in order to confer your farewell remembrances on them; they will be waiting for you in the hallways. no matter how early or late the hour of your leaving may be, you find them there in a long and serried rank. you distribute bills and coins until your ten per cent is exhausted, and then you are pained to note that several servitors yet remain, lined up and all expectant, owners of strange faces that you do not recall ever having seen before, but who are now at hand with claims, real or imaginary, on your purse. inasmuch as you have a deadly fear of being remembered afterward in this hotel as a piker, you continue to dip down and to fork over, and so by the time you reach the tail end of the procession your ten per cent has grown to twelve or fifteen per cent, or even more. as regards the tipping of guides for their services, i hit on a fairly satisfactory plan, which i gladly reveal here for the benefit of my fellow man. i think it is a good idea to give the guide, on parting, about twice as much as you think he is entitled to, which will be about half as much as he expects. from this starting point you then work toward each other, you conceding a little from time to time, he abating a trifle here and there, until you have reached a happy compromise on a basis of fifty-fifty; and so you part in mutual good will. the average american, on the eve of going to europe, thinks of the european as speaking each his own language. he conceives of the poles speaking polar; of the hollanders talking hollandaise; of the swiss as employing schweitzer for ordinary conversations and yodeling when addressing friends at a distance; and so on. such, however, is rarely the case. nearly every person with whom one comes in contact in europe appears to have fluent command of several tongues besides his or her own. it is true this does not apply to italy, where the natives mainly stick to italian; but then, italian is not a language. it is a calisthenic. between rome and florence, our train stopped at a small way station in the mountains. as soon as the little locomotive had panted itself to a standstill the train hands, following their habit, piled off the cars and engaged in a tremendous confab with the assembled officials on the platform. immediately all the loafers in sight drew cards. a drowsy hillsman, muffled to his back hair in a long brown cloak, and with buskins on his legs such as a stage bandit wears, was dozing against the wall. he looked as though he had stepped right out of a comic opera to add picturesqueness to the scene. he roused himself and joined in; so did a bearded party who, to judge by his uniform, was either a knight of pythias or a general in the army; so did all the rest of the crowd. in ten seconds they were jammed together in a hard knot, and going it on the high speed with the muffler off, fine white teeth shining, arms flying, shoulders shrugging, spinal columns writhing, mustaches rising and falling, legs wriggling, scalps and ears following suit. feeding hour in the parrot cage at the zoo never produced anything like so noisy and animated a scene. in these parts acute hysteria is not a symptom; it is merely a state of mind. a waiter in soiled habiliments hurried up, abandoning chances of trade at the prospect of something infinitely more exciting. he wanted to stick his oar into the argument. he had a few pregnant thoughts of his own craving utterance, you could tell that. but he was handicapped into a state of dumbness by the fact that he needed both arms to balance a tray of wine and sandwiches on his head. merely using his voice in that company would not have counted. he stood it as long as he could, which was not very long, let me tell you. then he slammed his tray down on the platform and, with one quick movement, jerked his coat sleeves back to his elbows, and inside thirty seconds he had the floor in both hands, as it were. he conversed mainly with the australian crawl stroke, but once in a while switched to the spencerian free-arm movement and occasionally introduced the chautauqua salute with telling effect. on the continent guides, as a class, excel in the gift of tongues--guides and hotel concierges. the concierge at our hotel in berlin was a big, upstanding chap, half russian and half swiss, and therefore qualified by his breeding to speak many languages; for the russians are born with split tongues and can give cards and spades to any talking crow that ever lived; while the swiss lag but little behind them in linguistic aptitude. it seemed such a pity that this man was not alive when the hands knocked off work on the tower of babel; he could have put the job through without extending himself. no matter what the nationality of a guest might be--and the guests were of many nationalities--he could talk with that guest in his own language or in any other language the guest might fancy. i myself was sorely tempted to try him on coptic and early aztec; but i held off. my coptic is not what it once was; and, partly through disuse and partly through carelessness, i have allowed my command of early aztec to fall off pretty badly these last few months. all linguistic freakishness is not confined to the continent. the english, who are popularly supposed to use the same language we ourselves use, sometimes speak with a mighty strange tongue. a great many of them do not speak english; they speak british, a very different thing. an englishwoman of breeding has a wonderful speaking voice; as pure as a boston woman's and more liquid; as soft as a southern woman's and with more attention paid to the r's. but the cockney type--wowie! during a carriage ride in florence with a mixed company of tourists i chanced to say something of a complimentary nature about something english, and a little london-bred woman spoke up and said: "thenks! it's vurry naice of you to sezzo, 'm sure." some of them talk like that--honestly they do! though americo-english may not be an especially musical speech, it certainly does lend itself most admirably to slang purposes. here again the britishers show their inability to utilize the vehicle to the full of its possibilities. england never produced a billy baxter or a george ade, and i am afraid she never will. most of our slang means something; you hear a new slang phrase and instantly you realize that the genius who coined it has hit on a happy and a graphic and an illuminating expression; that at one bound he rose triumphant above the limitations of the language and tremendously enriched the working vocabulary of the man in the street. whereas an englishman's idea of slinging slang is to scoop up at random some inoffensive and well-meaning word that never did him any harm and apply it in the place of some other word, to which the first word is not related, even by marriage. and look how they deliberately mispronounce proper names. everybody knows about cholmondeley and st. john. but take the scandinavian word fjord. why, i ask you, should the english insist on pronouncing it ferguson? at oxford, the seat of learning, magdalen is pronounced maudlin, probably in subtle tribute to the condition of the person who first pronounced it so. general-admission day is not the day you enter, but the day you leave. full term means three-quarters of a term. an ordinary degree is a degree obtained by a special examination. an inspector of arts does not mean an inspector of arts, but a student; and from this point they go right ahead, getting worse all the time. the droll creature who compiled the oxford glossary was a true englishman. when an englishman undertakes to wrestle with american slang he makes a fearful hash of it. in an english magazine i read a short story, written by an englishman who is regarded by a good many persons, competent to judge, as being the cleverest writer of english alive today. the story was beautifully done from the standpoint of composition; it bristled with flashing metaphors and whimsical phrasing. the scene of the yarn was supposed to be chicago and naturally the principal figure in it was a millionaire. in one place the author has this person saying, "i reckon you'll feel pretty mean," and in another place, "i reckon i'm not a man with no pull." another character in the story says, "i know you don't cotton to the march of science in these matters," and speaks of something that is unusual as being "a rum affair." a walled state prison, presumably in illinois, is referred to as a "convict camp"; and its warden is called a "governor" and an assistant keeper is called a "warder"; while a chicago daily paper is quoted as saying that "larrikins" directed the attention of a policeman to a person who was doing thus and so. the writer describes a "mysterious mere" known as pilgrim's pond, "in which they say"--a prison official is supposed to be talking now--"our fathers made witches walk until they sank." descendants of the original puritans who went from plymouth rock, in the summer of , and founded chicago, will recall this pond distinctly. cotton mather is buried on its far bank, and from there it is just ten minutes by trolley to salem, massachusetts. it is stated also in this story that the prairies begin a matter of thirty-odd miles from chicago, and that to reach them one must first traverse a "perfect no man's land." englewood and south chicago papers please copy. chapter xix venice and the venisons getting back again to guides, i am reminded that our acquaintanceship with the second member of the mark twain brotherhood was staged in paris. this gentleman wished himself on us one afternoon at the hotel des invalides. we did not engage him; he engaged us, doing the trick with such finesse and skill that before we realized it we had been retained to accompany him to various points of interest in and round paris. however, we remained under his control one day only. at nightfall we wrested ourselves free and fled under cover of darkness to german soil, where we were comparatively safe. i never knew a man who advanced so rapidly in a military way as he did during the course of that one day. our own national guard could not hold a candle to him. he started out at ten a.m. by being an officer of volunteers in the franco-prussian war; but every time he slipped away and took a nip out of his private bottle, which was often, he advanced in rank automatically. before the dusk of evening came he was a corps commander, who had been ennobled on the field of battle by the hand of napoleon the third. he took us to versailles. we did not particularly care to go to versailles that day, because it was raining; but he insisted and we went. in spite of the drizzle we might have enjoyed that wonderful place had he not been constantly at our elbows, gabbling away steadily except when he excused himself for a moment and stepped behind a tree, to emerge a moment later wiping his mouth on his sleeve. then he would return to us, with an added gimpiness in his elderly legs, an increased expansion of the chest inside his tight and shiny frock coat, and a fresh freight of richness on his breath, to report another deserved promotion. after he had eaten luncheon--all except such portions of it as he spilled on himself--the colonel grew confidential and chummy. he tried to tell me an off-color story and forgot the point of it, if indeed it had any point. he began humming the marseillaise hymn, but broke off to say he expected to live to see the day when a column of french troops, singing that air, would march up unter den linden to stack their arms in the halls of the kaiser's palace. i did not take issue with him. every man is entitled to his own wishes in those matters. but later on, when i had seen something of the kaiser's standing army, i thought to myself that when the french troops did march up unter den linden they would find it tolerably rough sledding, and if there was any singing done a good many of them probably would not be able to join in the last verse. immediately following this, our conductor confided to me that he had once had the honor of serving mr. clemens, whom he referred to as mick twine. he told me things about mr. clemens of which i had never heard. i do not think mr. clemens ever heard of them either. then the brigadier--it was now after three o'clock, and between three and three-thirty he was a brigadier--drew my arm within his. "i, too, am an author," he stated. "it is not generally known, but i have written much. i wrote a book of which you may have heard--'the wandering jew.'" and he tapped himself on the bosom proudly. i said i had somehow contracted a notion that a party named sue--eugene sue--had something to do with writing the work of that name. "ah, but you are right there, my friend," he said. "sue wrote 'the wandering jew' the first time--as a novel, merely; but i wrote him much better--as a satire on the anti-semitic movement." i surrendered without offering to strike another blow and from that time on he had his own way with us. the day, as i was pleased to note at the time, had begun mercifully to draw to a close; we were driving back to paris, and he, sitting on the front seat, had just attained the highest post in the army under the regime of the last empire, when he said: "behold, m'sieur! we are now approaching a wine shop on the left. you were most gracious and kind in the matter of luncheon. kindly permit me to do the honors now. it is a very good wine shop--i know it well. shall we stop for a glass together, eh?" it was the first time since we landed at calais that a native-born person had offered to buy anything, and, being ever desirous to assist in the celebration of any truly notable occasion, i accepted and the car was stopped. we were at the portal of the wine shop, when he plucked at my sleeve, offering another suggestion: "the chauffeur now--he is a worthy fellow, that chauffeur. shall we not invite the chauffeur to join us?" i was agreeable to that, too. so he called the chauffeur and the chauffeur disentangled his whiskers from the steering gear and came and joined us. the chauffeur and i each had a small glass of light wine, but the general took brandy. then ensued a spirited dialogue between him and the woman who kept the shop. assuming that i had no interest in the matter, i studied the pictures behind the bar. presently, having reduced the woman to a state of comparative silence, he approached me. "m'sieur," he said, "i regret that this has happened. because you are a foreigner and because you know not our language, that woman would make an overcharge; but she forgot she had me to deal with. i am on guard! see her! she is now quelled! i have given her a lesson she will not soon forget. m'sieur, the correct amount of the bill is two-francs-ten. give it to her and let us begone!" i still have that guide's name and address in my possession. at parting he pressed his card on me and asked me to keep it; and i did keep it. i shall be glad to loan it to any american who may be thinking of going to paris. with the card in his pocket, he will know exactly where this guide lives; and then, when he is in need of a guide he can carefully go elsewhere and hire a guide. i almost failed to mention that before we parted he tried to induce us to buy something. he took us miles out of our way to a pottery and urged us to invest in its wares. this is the main purpose of every guide: to see that you buy something and afterward to collect his commission from the shopkeeper for having brought you to the shop. if you engage your guide through the porter at your hotel you will find that he steers you to the shops the hotel people have already recommended to you; but if you break the porter's heart by hiring your guide outside, independently, the guide steers you to the shops that are on his own private list. only once i saw a guide temporarily stumped, and that was in venice. the skies were leaky that day and the weather was raw; and one of the ladies of the party wore pumps and silk stockings. for the protection of her ankles she decided to buy a pair of cloth gaiters; and, stating her intention, she started to go into a shop that dealt in those articles. the guide hesitated a moment only, then threw himself in her path. the shops hereabout were not to be trusted--the proprietors, without exception, were rogues and extortioners. if madame would have patience for a few brief moments he would guarantee that she got what she wanted at an honest price. he seemed so desirous of protecting her that she consented to wait. in a minute, on a pretext, he excused himself and dived into one of the crooked ways that thread through all parts of venice and make it possible for one who knows their windings to reach any part of the city without using the canals. two of us secretly followed him. beyond the first turning he dived into a shoe shop. emerging after a while he hurried back and led the lady to that same shop, and stood by, smiling softly, while she was fitted with gaiters. until now evidently gaiters had not been on his list, but he had taken steps to remedy this; and, though his commission on a pair of sixty-cent gaiters could not have been very large yet, as some philosopher has so truly said, every little bit added to what you have makes just a modicum more. indeed, the guide never overlooks the smallest bet. his whole mentality is focused on getting you inside a shop. once you are there, he stations himself close behind you, reenforcing the combined importunities of the shopkeeper and his assembled staff with gentle suggestions. the depths of self-abasement to which a shopkeeper in europe will descend in an effort to sell his goods surpasses the power of description. the london tradesman goes pretty far in this direction. often he goes as far as the sidewalk, clinging to the hem of your garment and begging you to return for one more look. but the continentals are still worse. a parisian shopkeeper would sell you the bones of his revered grandmother if you wanted them and he had them in stock; and he would have them in stock too, because, as i have stated once before, a true parisian never throws away anything he can save. i heard of just one single instance where a customer desirous of having an article and willing to pay the price failed to get it; and that, i would say, stands without a parallel in the annals of commerce and barter. an american lady visiting her daughter, an art student in the latin quartier, was walking alone when she saw in a shop window a lace blouse she fancied. she went inside and by signs, since she knew no french, indicated that she wished to look at that blouse. the woman in charge shook her head, declining even to take the garment out of the window. convinced now, womanlike, that this particular blouse was the blouse she desired above all other blouses the american woman opened her purse and indicated that she was prepared to buy at the shopwoman's own valuation, without the privilege of examination. the shopwoman showed deep pain at having to refuse the proposition, but refuse it she did; and the would-be buyer went home angry and perplexed and told her daughter what had happened. "it certainly is strange," the daughter said. "i thought everything in paris, except possibly napoleon's tomb, was for sale. this thing will repay investigation. wait until i pin my hat on. does my nose need powdering?" her mother led her back to the shop of the blouse and then the puzzle was revealed. for it was the shop of a dry cleanser and the blouse belonged to some patron and was being displayed as a sample of the work done inside; but undoubtedly such a thing never before happened in paris and probably never will happen again. in venice not only the guides and the hotel clerks and porters but even the simple gondolier has a secret understanding with all branches of the retail trade. you get into a long, snaky, black gondola and fee the beggar who pushes you off, and all the other beggars who have assisted in the pushing off or have merely contributed to the success of the operation by being present, and you tell your gondolier in your best italian or your worst pidgin english where you wish to go. it may be you are bound for the rialto; or for the bridge of sighs, which is chiefly distinguished from all the other bridges by being the only covered one in the lot; or for the house of the lady desdemona. the lady desdemona never lived there or anywhere else, but the house where she would have lived, had she lived, is on exhibition daily from nine to five, admission one lira. or perchance you want to visit one of the ducal palaces that are so numerous in venice. these palaces are still tenanted by the descendants of the original proprietors; one family has perhaps been living in one palace three or four hundred years. but now the family inhabits the top floor, doing light housekeeping up there, and the lower floor, where the art treasures, the tapestries and the family relics are, is in charge of a caretaker, who collects at the door and then leads you through. having given the boatman explicit directions you settle back in your cushion seat to enjoy the trip. you marvel how he, standing at the stern, with his single oar fitted into a shallow notch of his steering post, propels the craft so swiftly and guides it so surely by those short, twisting strokes of his. really, you reflect, it is rowing by shorthand. you are feasting your eyes on the wonderful color effects and the groupings that so enthuse the artist, and which he generally manages to botch and boggle when he seeks to commit them to canvas; and betweenwhiles you are wondering why all the despondent cats in venice should have picked out the grand canal as the most suitable place in which to commit suicide, when--bump!--your gondola swings up against the landing piles in front of a glass factory and the entire force of helpers rush out and seize you by your arms--or by your legs, if handier--and try to drag you inside, while the affable and accommodating gondolier boosts you from behind. you fight them off, declaring passionately that you are not in the market for colored glass at this time. the hired hands protest; and the gondolier, cheated out of his commission, sorrows greatly, but obeys your command to move on. at least he pretends to obey it; but a minute later he brings you up broadside at the water-level doors of a shop dealing in antiques, known appropriately as antichitas, or at a mosaic shop or a curio shop. if ever you do succeed in reaching your destination it is by the exercise of much profanity and great firmness of will. the most insistent and pesky shopkeepers of all are those who hive in the ground floors of the professedly converted palaces that face on three sides of the square of saint mark's. you dare not hesitate for the smallest fractional part of a second in front of a shop here. lurking inside the open door is a husky puller-in; and he dashes out and grabs hold of you and will not let go, begging you in spaghettified english to come in and examine his unapproachable assortment of bargains. you are not compelled to buy, he tells you; he only wants you to gaze on his beautiful things. believe him not! venture inside and decline to purchase and he will think up new and subtle italian forms of insult and insolence to visit on you. they will have brass bands out for you if you invest and brass knuckles if you do not. there is but one way to escape from their everlasting persecutions, and that is to flee to the center of the square and enjoy the company of the pigeons and the photographers. they--the pigeons, i mean--belong to the oldest family in venice; their lineage is of the purest and most undefiled. for upward of seven hundred years the authorities of the city have been feeding and protecting the pigeons, of which these countless blue-and-bronze flocks are the direct descendants. they are true aristocrats; and, like true aristocrats, they are content to live on the public funds and grow fat and sassy thereon, paying nothing in return. no; i take that part back--they do pay something in return; a full measure. they pay by the beauty of their presence, and they are surely very beautiful, with their dainty mincing pink feet and the sheen on the proudly arched breast coverts of the cock birds; and they pay by giving you their trust and their friendship. to gobble the gifts of dried peas, which you buy in little cornucopias from convenient venders for distribution among them, they come wheeling in winged battalions, creaking and cooing, and alight on your head and shoulders in that perfect confidence which so delights humans when wild or half-wild creatures bestow it on us, though, at every opportunity, we do our level best to destroy it by hunting and harrying them to death. at night, when the moon is up, is the time to visit this spot. standing here, with the looming pile of the doge's palace bulked behind you, and the gorgeous but somewhat garish decorations of the great cathedral softened and soothed into perfection of outline and coloring by the half light, you can for the moment forget the fallen state of venice, and your imagination peoples the splendid plaza for you with the ghosts of its dead and vanished greatnesses. you conceive of the place as it must have looked in those old, brave, wicked days, filled all with knights, with red-robed cardinals and clanking men at arms, with fair ladies and grave senators, slinking bravos and hired assassins--and all so gay with silk and satin and glittering steel and spangling gems. by the eye of your mind you see his illuminated excellency, the frosted christmas card, as he bows low before his eminence, the pink easter egg; you see, half hidden behind the shadowed columns of the long portico, an illustrated sunday supplement in six colors bargaining with a stick of striped peppermint candy to have his best friend stabbed in the back before morning; you see giddy poster designs carrying on flirtations with hand-painted valentines; you catch the love-making, overhear the intriguing, and scent the plotting; you are an eyewitness to a slice out of the life of the most sinister, the most artistic, and the most murderous period of italian history. but by day imperious caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, stops a hole to keep the wind away; and the wild ass of the ninety-day tour stamps his heedless hoofs over the spot where sleeps the dust of departed grandeur. by day the chug of the motor boat routs out old sleepy echoes from cracked and crannied ruins; the burnished golden frescoes of saint mark's blare at you as with brazen trumpets; every third medieval church has been turned into a moving-picture place; and the shopkeeping parasites buzz about you in vermin swarms and bore holes in your pocketbook until it is all one large painful welt. the emblem of venice is the winged lion. it should be the tapeworm. in rome it appears to be a standing rule that every authenticated guide shall be a violent socialist and therefore rampingly anticlerical in all his views. we were in rome during the season of pilgrimages. from all parts of italy, from bohemia and hungary and spain and tyrol, and even from france, groups of peasants had come to rome to worship in their mother church and be blessed by the supreme pontiff of their faith. at all hours of the day they were passing through the streets, bound for saint peter's or the vatican, the women with kerchiefs over their heads, the men in their sunday best, and all with badges and tokens on their breasts. at the head of each straggling procession would be a black-frocked village priest, at once proud and humble, nervous and exalted. a man might be of any religion or of no religion at all, and yet i fail to see how he could watch, unmoved, the uplifted faces of these people as they clumped over the cobbles of the holy city, praying as they went. some of them had been saving up all their lives, i imagine, against the coming of this great day; but our guide--and we tried three different ones--never beheld this sight that he did not sneer at it; and not once did he fail to point out that most of the pilgrims were middle-aged or old, taking this as proof of his claim that the church no longer kept its hold on the younger people, even among the peasant classes. the still more frequent spectacle of a marching line of students of one of the holy colleges, with each group wearing the distinctive insignia of its own country--purple robes or green sashes, or what not--would excite him to the verge of a spasm. but then he was always verging on a spasm anyway--spasms were his normal state. chapter xx the combustible captain of vienna our guide in vienna was the most stupid human being i ever saw. he was profoundly ignorant on a tremendously wide range of subjects; he had a most complete repertoire of ignorance. he must have spent years of study to store up so much interesting misinformation. this guide was much addicted to indulgence of a peculiar form of twisted english and at odd moments given to the consumption of a delicacy of strictly germanic origin, known in the language of the teutons as a rollmops. a rollmops consists of a large dilled cucumber, with a pickled herring coiled round it ready to strike, in the design of the rattlesnake-and-pinetree flag of the revolution, the motto in both instances being in effect: "don't monkey with the buzz saw!" he carried his rollmops in his pocket and frequently, in art galleries or elsewhere, would draw it out and nibble it, while disseminating inaccuracies touching on pictures and statues and things. among other places, he took us to the oldest church in vienna. as i now recollect it was six hundred years old. no; on second thought i will say it must have been older than that. no church could possibly become so moldy and mangy looking as that church in only six hundred years. the object in this church that interested me most was contained in an ornate glass case placed near the altar and alongside the relics held to be sacred. it did not exactly please me to gaze at this article; but the thing had a fascination for me; i will not deny that. it seems that a couple of centuries ago there was an officer in vienna, a captain in rank and a frenchman by birth, who, in the midst of disorders and licentiousness, lived so godly and so sanctified a life that his soldiers took it into their heads that he was really a saint, or at least had the making of a first-rate saint in him, and, therefore, must lead a charmed life. so--thus runs the tale--some of them laid a wager with certain doubting thomases, also soldiers, that neither by fire nor water, neither by rope nor poison, could he take harm to himself. finally they decided on fire for the test. so they waited until he slept--those simple, honest, chuckle-headed chaps--and then they slipped in with a lighted torch and touched him off. well, sir, the joke certainly was on those soldiers. he burned up with all the spontaneous enthusiasm of a celluloid comb. for qualities of instantaneous combustion he must have been the equal of any small-town theater that ever was built--with one exit. he was practically a total loss and there was no insurance. they still have him, or what is left of him, in that glass case. he did not exactly suffer martyrdom--though probably he personally did not notice any very great difference--and so he has not been canonized; nevertheless, they have him there in that church. in all europe i only saw one sight to match him, and that was down in the crypt under the church of the capuchins, in rome, where the dissected cadavers of four thousand dead--but not gone--monks are worked up into decorations. there are altars made of their skulls, and chandeliers made of their thigh bones; frescoes of their spines; mosaics of their teeth and dried muscles; cozy corners of their femurs and pelves and tibiae. there are two classes of travelers i would strongly advise not to visit the crypt of the capuchins' church--those who are just about to have dinner and want to have it, and those who have just had dinner and want to keep on having it. at the royal palace in vienna we saw the finest, largest, and gaudiest collection of crown jewels extant. that guide of ours seemed to think he had done his whole duty toward us and could call it a day and knock off when he led us up to the jewel collections, where each case was surrounded by pop-eyed american tourists taking on flesh at the sight of all those sparklers and figuring up the grand total of their valuation in dollars, on the basis of so many hundreds of carats at so many hundred dollars a carat, until reason tottered on her throne--and did not have so very far to totter, either. the display or all those gems, however, did not especially excite me. there were too many of them and they were too large. a blue kimberley in a hotel clerk's shirtfront or a pigeonblood ruby on a faro dealer's little finger might hold my attention and win my admiration; but where jewels are piled up in heaps like anthracite in a coal bin they thrill me no more than the anthracite would. a quart measure of diamonds of the average size of a big hailstone does not make me think of diamonds but of hailstones. i could remain as calm in their presence as i should in the presence of a quart of cracked ice; in fact, calmer than i should remain in the presence of a quart of cracked ice in italy, say, where there is not that much ice, cracked or otherwise. in italy a bucketful of ice would be worth traveling miles to see. you could sell tickets for it. in one of the smaller rooms of the palace we came on a casket containing a necklace of great smoldering rubies and a pair of bracelets to match. they were as big as cranberries and as red as blood--as red as arterial blood. and when, on consulting the guidebook, we read the history of those rubies the sight of them brought a picture to our minds, for they had been a part of the wedding dowry of marie antoinette. once on a time this necklace had spanned the slender white throat that was later to be sheared by the guillotine, and these bracelets had clasped the same white wrists that were roped together with an ell of hangman's hemp on the day the desolated queen rode, in her patched and shabby gown, to the place de la revolution. i had seen paintings in plenty and read descriptions galore of that last ride of the widow capet going to her death in the tumbril, with the priest at her side and her poor, fettered arms twisted behind her, and her white face bared to the jeers of the mob; but the physical presence of those precious useless baubles, which had cost so much and yet had bought so little for her, made more vivid to me than any picture or any story the most sublime tragedy of the terror--the tragedy of those two bound hands. chapter xxi old masters and other ruins it is naturally a fine thing for one, and gratifying, to acquire a thorough art education. personally i do not in the least regret the time i gave and the study i devoted to acquiring mine. i regard those two weeks as having been well spent. i shall not do it soon again, however, for now i know all about art. let others who have not enjoyed my advantages take up this study. let others scour the art galleries of europe seeking masterpieces. all of them contain masterpieces and most of them need scouring. as for me and mine, we shall go elsewhere. i love my art, but i am not fanatical on the subject. there is another side of my nature to which an appeal may be made. i can take my old masters or i can leave them be. that is the way i am organized--i have self-control. i shall not deny that the earlier stages of my art education were fraught with agreeable little surprises. not soon shall i forget the flush of satisfaction which ran through me on learning that this man dore's name was pronounced like the first two notes in the music scale, instead of like a cape cod fishing boat. and lingering in my mind as a fragrant memory is the day when i first discovered that spagnoletto was neither a musical instrument nor something to be served au gratin and eaten with a fork. such acquirements as these are very precious to me. but for the time being i have had enough. at this hour of writing i feel that i am stocked up with enough of bouguereau's sorrel ladies and titian's chestnut ones and rubens' bay ones and velasquez's pintos to last me, at a conservative estimate, for about seventy-five years. i am too young as a theatergoer to recall much about lydia thompson's blondes, but i have seen sufficient of botticelli's to do me amply well for a spell. i am still willing to walk a good distance to gaze on one of rembrandt's portraits of one of his kinfolks, though i must say he certainly did have a lot of mighty homely relatives; and any time there is a first-rate millet or corot or meissonier in the neighborhood i wish somebody would drop me a line, giving the address. as for pictures by tintoretto, showing venetian doges hobnobbing informally with members of the holy family, and raphael's angels, and michelangelo's lost souls, and guidos, and murillos, i have had enough to do me for months and months and months. nor am i in the market for any of the dead fish of the flemish school. judging by what i have observed, practically all the flemish painters were devout churchmen and painted their pictures on friday. there was just one drawback to my complete enjoyment of that part of our european travels we devoted to art. we would go to an art gallery, hire a guide and start through. presently i would come to a picture that struck me as being distinctly worth while. to my untutored conceptions it possessed unlimited beauty. there was, it seemed to me, life in the figures, reality in the colors, grace in the grouping. and then, just when i was beginning really to enjoy it, the guide would come and snatch me away. he would tell me the picture i thought i admired was of no account whatsoever--that the artist who painted it had not yet been dead long enough to give his work any permanent value; and he would drag me off to look at a cracked and crumbling canvas depicting a collection of saints of lacquered complexions and hardwood expressions, with cast-iron trees standing up against cotton batting clouds in the background, and a few extra halos floating round indiscriminately, like sun dogs on a showery day, and, up above, the family entrance into heaven hospitably ajar; and he would command me to bask my soul in this magnificent example of real art and not waste time on inconsequential and trivial things. guides have the same idea of an artist that a chinaman entertains for an egg. a fresh egg or a fresh artist will not do. it must have the perfume of antiquity behind it to make it attractive. at the louvre, in paris, on the first day of the two we spent there, we had for our guide a tall, educated prussian, who had an air about him of being an ex-officer of the army. all over the continent you are constantly running into men engaged in all manner of legitimate and dubious callings, who somehow impress you as having served in the army of some other country than the one in which you find them. after this man had been chaperoning us about for some hours and we had stopped to rest, he told a good story. it may not have been true--it has been my experience that very few good stories are true; but it served aptly to illustrate a certain type of american tourist numerously encountered abroad. "there were two of them," he said in his excellent english, "a gentleman and his wife; and from what i saw of them i judged them to be very wealthy. they were interested in seeing only such things as had been recommended by the guidebook. the husband would tell me they desired to see such and such a picture or statue. i would escort them to it and they would glance at it indifferently, and the gentleman would take out his lead pencil and check off that particular object in the book; and then he would say: 'all right--we've seen that; now let's find out what we want to look at next.' we still serve a good many people like that--not so many as formerly, but still a good many. "finally i decided to try a little scheme of my own. i wanted to see whether i could really win their admiration for something. i picked out a medium-size painting of no particular importance and, pointing to it, said impressively: 'here, m'sieur, is a picture worth a million dollars--without the frame!' "'what's that?' he demanded excitedly. then he called to his wife, who had strayed ahead a few steps. 'henrietta,' he said, 'come back here--you're missing something. there's a picture there that's worth a million dollars--and without the frame, too, mind you!' "she came hurrying back and for ten minutes they stood there drinking in that picture. every second they discovered new and subtle beauties in it. i could hardly induce them to go on for the rest of the tour, and the next day they came back for another soul-feast in front of it." later along, that guide confided to me that in his opinion i had a keen appreciation of art, much keener than the average lay tourist. the compliment went straight to my head. it was seeking the point of least resistance, i suppose. i branched out and undertook to discuss art matters with him on a more familiar basis. it was a mistake; but before i realized that it was a mistake i was out in the undertow sixty yards from shore, going down for the third time, with a low gurgling cry. he did not put out to save me, either; he left me to sink in the heaving and abysmal sea of my own fathomless ignorance. he just stood there and let me drown. it was a cruel thing, for which i can never forgive him. in my own defense let me say, however, that this fatal indiscretion was committed before i had completed my art education. it was after we had gone from france to germany, and to austria, and to italy, that i learned the great lesson about art--which is that whenever and wherever you meet a picture that seems to you reasonably lifelike it is nine times in ten of no consequence whatsoever; and, unless you are willing to be regarded as a mere ignoramus, you should straightway leave it and go and find some ancient picture of a group of overdressed clothing dummies masquerading as angels or martyrs, and stand before that one and carry on regardless. when in doubt, look up a picture of saint sebastian. you never experience any difficulty in finding him--he is always represented as wearing very few clothes, being shot full of arrows to such an extent that clothes would not fit him anyway. or else seek out saint laurence, who is invariably featured in connection with a gridiron; or saint bartholomew, who, you remember, achieved canonization through a process of flaying, and is therefore shown with his skin folded neatly and carried over his arm like a spring overcoat. following this routine you make no mistakes. everybody is bound to accept you as one possessing a deep knowledge of art, and not mere surface art either, but the innermost meanings and conceptions of art. only sometimes i did get to wishing that the old masters had left a little more to the imagination. they never withheld any of the painful particulars. it seemed to me they cheapened the glorious end of those immortal fathers of the faith by including the details of the martyrdom in every picture. still, i would not have that admission get out and obtain general circulation. it might be used against me as an argument that my artistic education was grounded on a false foundation. it was in rome, while we were doing the vatican, that our guide furnished us with a sight that, considered as a human experience, was worth more to me than a year of old masters and young messers. we had pushed our poor blistered feet--a dozen or more of us--past miles of paintings and sculptures and relics and art objects, and we were tired--oh, so tired! our eyes ached and our shoes hurt us; and the calves of our legs quivered as we trailed along from gallery to corridor, and from corridor back to gallery. we had visited the sistine chapel; and, such was our weariness, we had even declined to become excited over michelangelo's great picture of the last judgment. i was disappointed, too, that he had omitted to include in his collection of damned souls a number of persons i had confidently and happily expected would be present. i saw no one there even remotely resembling my conception of the person who first originated and promulgated the doctrine that all small children should be told at the earliest possible moment that there is no santa claus. that was a very severe blow to me, because i had always believed that the descent to eternal perdition would be incomplete unless he had a front seat. and the man who first hit on the plan of employing child labor on night shifts in cotton factories--he was unaccountably absent too. and likewise the original inventor of the toy pistol; in fact the absentees were entirely too numerous to suit me. there was one thing, though, to be said in praise of michelangelo's last judgment; it was too large and too complicated to be reproduced successfully on a souvenir postal card; and i think we should all be very grateful for that mercy anyway. as i was saying, we had left the sistine chapel a mile or so behind us and had dragged our exhausted frames as far as an arched upper portico in a wing of the great palace, overlooking a paved courtyard inclosed at its farther end by a side wall of saint peter's. we saw, in another portico similar to the one where we had halted and running parallel to it, long rows of peasants, all kneeling and all with their faces turned in the same direction. "wait here a minute," said our guide. "i think you will see something not included in the regular itinerary of the day." so we waited. in a minute or two the long lines of kneeling peasants raised a hymn; the sound of it came to us in quavering snatches. through the aisle formed by their bodies a procession passed the length of the long portico and back to the starting point. first came swiss guards in their gay piebald uniforms, carrying strange-looking pikes and halberds; and behind them were churchly dignitaries, all bared of head; and last of all came a very old and very feeble man, dressed in white, with a wide-brimmed white hat--and he had white hair and a white face, which seemed drawn and worn, but very gentle and kindly and beneficent. he held his right arm aloft, with the first two fingers extended in the gesture of the apostolic benediction. he was so far away from us that in perspective his profile was reduced to the miniature proportions of a head on a postage stamp; but, all the same, the lines of it stood out clear and distinct. it was his holiness, pope pius the tenth, blessing a pilgrimage. all the guides in rome follow a regular routine with the tourist. first, of course, they steer you into certain shops in the hope that you will buy something and thereby enable them to earn commissions. then, in turn, they carry you to an art gallery, to a church, and to a palace, with stops at other shops interspersed between; and invariably they wind up in the vicinity of some of the ruins. ruins is a roman guide's middle name; ruins are his one best bet. in rome i saw ruins until i was one myself. we devoted practically an entire day to ruins. that was the day we drove out the appian way, glorious in legend and tale, but not quite so all-fired glorious when you are reeling over its rough and rutted pavement in an elderly and indisposed open carriage, behind a pair of half-broken roman-nosed horses which insist on walking on their hind legs whenever they tire of going on four. the appian way, as at present constituted, is a considerable disappointment. for long stretches it runs between high stone walls, broken at intervals by gate-ways, where votive lamps burn before small shrines, and by the tombs of such illustrious dead as seneca and the horatii and the curiatii. at more frequent intervals are small wine groggeries. being built mainly of italian marble, which is the most enduring and the most unyielding substance to be found in all italy--except a linen collar that has been starched in an italian laundry--the tombs are in a pretty fair state of preservation; but the inns, without exception, stand most desperately in need of immediate repairing. a cow in italy is known by the company she keeps; she rambles about, in and out of the open parlor of the wayside inn, mingling freely with the patrons and the members of the proprietor's household. along the appian way a cow never seems to care whom she runs with; and the same is true of the domestic fowls and the family donkey. a donkey will spend his day in the doorway of a wine shop when he might just as well be enjoying the more sanitary and less crowded surroundings of a stable. it only goes to show what an ass a donkey is. anon, as the fancy writers say, we skirted one of the many wrecked aqueducts that go looping across country to the distant hills, like great stone straddlebugs. in the vicinity of rome you are rarely out of sight of one of these aqueducts. the ancient roman rulers, you know, curried the favor of the populace by opening baths. a modern ruler could win undying popularity by closing up a few. we slowed up at the circus of romulus and found it a very sad circus, as such things go--no elevated stage, no hippodrome track, no centerpole, no trapeze, and only one ring. p. t. barnum would have been ashamed to own it. a broken wall, following the lines of an irregular oval; a cabbage patch where the arena had been; and various tumble-down farmsheds built into the shattered masonry--this was the circus of romulus. however, it was not the circus of the original romulus, but of a degenerate successor of the same name who rose suddenly and fell abruptly after the christian era was well begun. old john j. romulus would not have stood for that circus a minute. no ride on the appian way is regarded as complete without half an hour's stop at the catacombs of saint calixtus; so we stopped. guided by a brown trappist, and all of us bearing twisted tapers in our hands, we descended by stone steps deep under the skin of the earth and wandered through dim, dank underground passages, where thousands of early christians had lived and hid, and held clandestine worship before rude stone altars, and had died and been buried--died in a highly unpleasant fashion, some of them. the experience was impressive, but malarial. coming away from there i had an argument with a fellow american. he said that if we had these catacombs in america we should undoubtedly enlarge them and put in band stands and lunch places, and altogether make them more attractive for picnic parties and sunday excursionists. i contended, on the other hand, that if they were in america the authorities would close them up and protect the moldered bones of those early christians from the vulgar gaze and prying fingers of every impious relic hunter who might come along. the dispute rose higher and grew warmer until i offered to bet him fifty dollars that i was right and he was wrong. he took me up promptly--he had sporting instincts; i'll say that for him--and we shook hands on it then and there to bind the wager. i expect to win that bet. we had turned off the appian way and were crossing a corner of that unutterably hideous stretch of tortured and distorted waste known as the campagna, which goes tumbling away to the blue alban mountains, when we came on the scene of an accident. a two-wheeled mule cart, proceeding along a crossroad, with the driver asleep in his canopied seat, had been hit by a speeding automobile and knocked galley-west. the automobile had sped on--so we were excitedly informed by some other tourists who had witnessed the collision--leaving the wreckage bottom side up in the ditch. the mule was on her back, all entangled in the twisted ruination of her gaudy gear, kicking out in that restrained and genteel fashion in which a mule always kicks when she is desirous of protesting against existing conditions, but is wishful not to damage herself while so doing. the tourists, aided by half a dozen peasants, had dragged the driver out from beneath the heavy cart and had carried him to a pile of mucky straw beneath the eaves of a stable. he was stretched full length on his back, senseless and deathly pale under the smeared grime on his face. there was no blood; but inside his torn shirt his chest had a caved-in look, as though the ribs had been crushed flat, and he seemed not to breathe at all. only his fingers moved. they kept twitching, as though his life was running out of him through his finger ends. one felt that if he would but grip his hands he might stay its flight and hold it in. just as we jumped out of our carriage a young peasant woman, who had been bending over the injured man, set up a shrill outcry, which was instantly answered from behind us; and looking round we saw, running through the bare fields, a great, bulksome old woman, with her arms outspread and her face set in a tragic shape, shrieking as she sped toward us in her ungainly wallowing course. she was the injured man's mother, we judged--or possibly his grandmother. there was nothing we could do for the human victim. our guides, having questioned the assembled natives, told us there was no hospital to which he might be taken and that a neighborhood physician had already been sent for. so, having no desire to look on the grief of his mother--if she was his mother--a young austrian and i turned our attention to the neglected mule. we felt that we could at least render a little first aid there. we had our pocket-knives out and were slashing away at the twisted maze of ropes and straps that bound the brute down between the shafts, when a particularly shrill chorus of shrieks checked us. we stood up and faced about, figuring that the poor devil on the muck heap had died and that his people were bemoaning his death. that was not it at all. the entire group, including the fat old woman, were screaming at us and shaking their clenched fists at us, warning us not to damage that harness with our knives. feeling ran high, and threatened to run higher. so, having no desire to be mobbed on the spot, we desisted and put up our knives; and after a while we got back into our carriage and drove on, leaving the capsized mule still belly-up in the debris, lashing out carefully with her skinned legs at the trappings that bound her; and the driver was still prone on the dunghill, with his fingers twitching more feebly now, as though the life had almost entirely fled out of him--a grim little tragedy set in the edge of a wide and aching desolation! we never found out his name or learned how he fared--whether he lived or died, and if he died how long he lived before he died. it is a puzzle which will always lie unanswered at the back of my mind, and i know that in odd moments it will return to torment me. i will bet one thing, though--nobody else tried to cut that mule out of her harness. in the chill late afternoon of a roman day the guides brought us back to the city and took us down into the roman forum, which is in a hollow instead of being up on a hill as most folks imagine it to be until they go to rome and see it; and we finished up the day at the golden house of nero, hard by the vast ruins of the coliseum. we had already visited the forum once; so this time we did not stay long; just long enough for some ambitious pickpocket to get a wallet out of my hip pocket while i was pushing forward with a flock of other human sheep for a better look at the ruined portico wherein mark antony stood when he delivered his justly popular funeral oration over the body of the murdered caesar. i never did admire the character of mark antony with any degree of extravagance, and since this experience i have felt actually bitter toward him. the guidebooks say that no visitor to rome should miss seeing the golden house of nero. when a guidebook tries to be humorous it only succeeds in being foolish. practical jokes are out of place in a guidebook anyway. imagine a large, old-fashioned brick smokehouse, which has been struck by lightning, burned to the roots and buried in the wreckage, and the site used as a pasture land for goats for a great many years; imagine the debris as having been dug out subsequently until a few of the foundation lines are visible; surround the whole with distressingly homely buildings of a modern aspect, and stir in a miscellaneous seasoning of beggars and loafers and souvenir venders--and you have the golden house where nero meant to round out a life already replete with incident and abounding in romance, but was deterred from so doing by reason of being cut down in the midst of his activities at a comparatively early age. in the presence of the golden house of nero i did my level best to recreate before my mind's eye the scenes that had been enacted here once on a time. i tried to picture this moldy, knee-high wall, as a great glittering palace; and yonder broken roadbed as a splendid roman highway; and these american-looking tenements on the surrounding hills as the marble dwellings of the emperors; and all the broken pillars and shattered porticoes in the distance as arches of triumph and temples of the gods. i tried to convert the clustering mendicants into barbarian prisoners clanking by, chained at wrist and neck and ankle; i sought to imagine the pestersome flower venders as being vestal virgins; the two unkempt policemen who loafed nearby, as centurions of the guard; the passing populace as grave senators in snowy togas; the flaunting underwear on the many clotheslines as silken banners and gilded trappings. i could not make it. i tried until i was lame in both legs and my back was strained. it was no go. if i had been a poet or a historian, or a person full of chianti, i presume i might have done it; but i am no poet and i had not been drinking. all i could think of was that the guide on my left had eaten too much garlic and that the guide on my right had not eaten enough. so in self-defense i went away and ate a few strands of garlic myself; for i had learned the great lesson of the proverb: when in rome be an aroma! chapter xxii still more ruins, mostly italian ones when i reached pompeii the situation was different. i could conjure up an illusion there--the biggest, most vivid illusion i have been privileged to harbor since i was a small boy. it was worth spending four days in naples for the sake of spending half a day in pompeii; and if you know naples you will readily understand what a high compliment that is for pompeii. to reach pompeii from naples we followed a somewhat roundabout route; and that trip was distinctly worth while too. it provided a most pleasing foretaste of what was to come. once we had cleared the packed and festering suburbs, we went flanking across a terminal vertebra of the mountain range that sprawls lengthwise of the land of italy, like a great spiny-backed crocodile sunning itself, with its tail in the tyrrhenian sea and its snout in the piedmonts; and when we had done this we came out on a highway that skirted the bay. there were gaps in the hills, through which we caught glimpses of the city, lying miles away in its natural amphitheater; and at that distance we could revel in its picturesqueness and forget its bouquet of weird stenches. we could even forget that the automobile we had hired for the excursion had one foot in the grave and several of its most important vital organs in the repair shop. i reckon that was the first automobile built. no; i take that back. it never was a first--it must have been a second to start with. i once owned a half interest in a sick automobile. it was one of those old-fashioned, late victorian automobiles, cut princesse style, with a plaquette in the back; and it looked like a cross between a fiat-bed job press and a tailor's goose. it broke down so easily and was towed in so often by more powerful machines that every time a big car passed it on the road it stopped right where it was and nickered. of a morning we would start out in that car filled with high hopes and bright anticipations, but eventide would find us returning homeward close behind a bigger automobile, in a relationship strongly suggestive of the one pictured in the well-known nature group entitled: "mother hippo, with young." we refused an offer of four hundred dollars for that machine. it had more than four hundred dollars' worth of things the matter with it. the car we chartered at naples for our trip to pompeii reminded me very strongly of that other car of which i was part owner. between them there was a strong family resemblance, not alone in looks but in deportment also. for patient endurance of manifold ills, for an inexhaustible capacity in developing new and distressing symptoms at critical moments, for cheerful willingness to play foal to some other car's dam, they might have been colts out of the same litter. nevertheless, between intervals of breaking down and starting up again, and being helped along by friendly passer-by automobiles, we enjoyed the ride from naples. we enjoyed every inch of it. part of the way we skirted the hobs of the great witches' caldron of vesuvius. on this day the resident demons must have been stirring their brew with special enthusiasm, for the smoky smudge which always wreathes its lips had increased to a great billowy plume that lay along the naked flanges of the devil mountain for miles and miles. now we would go puffing and panting through some small outlying environ of the city. always the principal products of such a village seemed to be young babies and macaroni drying in the sun. i am still reasonably fond of babies, but i date my loss of appetite for imported macaroni from that hour. now we would emerge on a rocky headland and below us would be the sea, eternally young and dimpling like a maiden's cheek; but the crags above were eternally old and all gashed with wrinkles and seamed with folds, like the jowls of an ancient squaw. then for a distance we would run right along the face of the cliff. directly beneath us we could see little stone huts of fishermen clinging to the rocks just above high-water mark, like so many gray limpets; and then, looking up, we would catch a glimpse of the vineyards, tucked into man-made terraces along the upper cliffs, like bundled herbs on the pantry shelves of a thrifty housewife; and still higher up there would be orange groves and lemon groves and dusty-gray olive groves. each succeeding picture was byzantine in its coloring. always the sea was molten blue enamel, and the far-away villages seemed crafty inlays of mosaic work; and the sun was a disk of hammered grecian gold. a man from san francisco was sharing the car with us, and he came right out and said that if he were sure heaven would be as beautiful as the bay of naples, he would change all his plans and arrange to go there. he said he might decide to go there anyhow, because heaven was a place he had always heard very highly spoken of. and i agreed with him. the sun was slipping down the western sky and was laced with red like a bloodshot eye, with a jacob's ladder of rainbow shafts streaming down from it to the water, when we turned inland; and after several small minor stops, while the automobile caught its breath and had the heaves and the asthma, we came to pompeii over a road built of volcanic rock. i have always been glad that we went there on a day when visitors were few. the very solitude of the place aided the mind in the task of repeopling the empty streets of that dead city by the sea with the life that was hers nearly two thousand years ago. herculaneum will always be buried, so the scientists say, for herculaneum was snuggled close up under vesuvius, and the hissing-hot lava came down in waves; and first it slugged the doomed town to death and then slagged it over with impenetrable, flint-hard deposits. pompeii, though, lay farther away, and was entombed in dust and ashes only; so that it has been comparatively easy to unearth it and make it whole again. even so, after one hundred and sixty-odd years of more or less desultory explorations, nearly a third of its supposed area is yet to be excavated. it was in the year that an architect named fontana, in cutting an aqueduct which was to convey the waters of the sarno to torre dell' annunziata, discovered the foundations of the temple of isis, which stood near the walls on the inner or land side of the ancient city. it was at first supposed that he had dug into an isolated villa of some rich roman; and it was not until that prying archaeologists hit on the truth and induced the government to send a chain gang of convicts to dig away the accumulations of earth and tufa. but if it had been a modern italian city that was buried, no such mistake in preliminary diagnosis could have occurred. anybody would have known it instantly by the smell. i do not vouch for the dates--i copied them out of the guidebook; but my experience with italian cities qualifies me to speak with authority regarding the other matter. afoot we entered pompeii by the restored marine gate. our first step within the walls was at the museum, a comparatively modern building, but containing a fairly complete assortment of the relics that from time to time have been disinterred in various quarters of the city. here are wall cabinets filled with tools, ornaments, utensils, jewelry, furniture--all the small things that fulfilled everyday functions in the first century of the christian era. here is a kit of surgical implements, and some of the implements might well belong to a modern hospital. there are foodstuffs--grains and fruits; wines and oil; loaves of bread baked in a. d. and left in the abandoned ovens; and a cheese that is still in a fair state of preservation. it had been buried seventeen hundred years when they found it; and if only it had been permitted to remain buried a few years longer it would have been sufficiently ripe to satisfy a bavarian, i think. grimmer exhibits are displayed in cases stretched along the center of the main hall--models of dead bodies discovered in the ruins and perfectly restored by pouring a bronze composition into the molds that were left in the hardened pumice after the flesh of these victims had turned to dust and their bones had crumbled to powder. huddled together are the forms of a mother and a babe; and you see how, with her last conscious thought, the mother tried to cover her baby's face from the killing rain of dust and blistering ashes. and there is the shape of a man who wrapped his face in a veil to keep out the fumes, and died so. the veil is there, reproduced with a fidelity no sculptor could duplicate, and through its folds you may behold the agony that made his jaw to sag and his eyes to pop from their sockets. nearby is a dog, which in its last spasms of pain and fright curled up worm fashion, and buried its nose in its forepaws and kicked out with its crooked hind legs. plainly dogs do not change their emotional natures with the passage of years. a dog died in pompeii in a. d. after exactly the same fashion that a dog might die to-day in the pound at pittsburgh. from here we went on into the city proper; and it was a whole city, set off by itself and not surrounded by those jarring modern incongruities that spoil the ruins of rome for the person who wishes to give his fancy a slack rein. it is all here, looking much as it must have looked when nero and caligula reigned, and much as it will still look hundreds of years hence, for the government owns it now and guards it and protects it from the hammer of the vandal and the greed of the casual collector. here it is--all of it; the tragic theater and the comic theater; the basilica; the greater forum and the lesser one; the market place; the amphitheater for the games; the training school for the gladiators; the temples; the baths; the villas of the rich; the huts of the poor; the cubicles of the slaves; shops; offices; workrooms; brothels. the roofs are gone, except in a few instances where they have been restored; but the walls stand and many of the detached pillars stand too; and the pavements have endured well, so that the streets remain almost exactly as they were when this was a city of live beings instead of a tomb of dead memories, with deep groovings of chariot wheels in the flaggings, and at each crossing there are stepping stones, dotting the roadbed like punctuation marks. at the public fountain the well curbs are worn away where the women rested their water jugs while they swapped the gossip of the town; and at nearly every corner is a groggery, which in its appointments and fixtures is so amazingly like unto a family liquor store as we know it that, venturing into one, i caught myself looking about for the business men's lunch, with a collection of greasy forks in a glass receptacle, a crock of pretzels on the counter, and a sign over the bar reading: no checks cashed--this means you! in the floors the mosaics are as fresh as though newly applied; and the ribald and libelous latin, which disappointed litigants carved on the stones at the back of the law court, looks as though it might have been scored there last week--certainly not further back than the week before that. a great many of the wall paintings in the interiors of rich men's homes have been preserved and some of them are fairly spicy as to subject and text. it would seem that in these matters the ancient pompeiians were pretty nearly as broad-minded and liberal as the modern parisians are. the mural decorations i saw in certain villas were almost suggestive enough to be acceptable matter for publication in a french comic paper; almost, but not quite. mr. anthony comstock would be an unhappy man were he turned loose in pompeii--unhappy for a spell, but after that exceedingly busy. we lingered on, looking and marveling, and betweenwhiles wondering whether our automobile's hacking cough had got any better by resting, until the sun went down and the twilight came. following the guidebook's advice we had seen the colosseum in rome by moonlight. there was a full moon on the night we went there. it came heaving up grandly, a great, round-faced, full-cream, curdy moon, rich with rennet and yellow with butter fats; but by the time we had worked our way south to naples a greedy fortnight had bitten it quite away, until it was reduced to a mere cheese rind of a moon, set up on end against the delft-blue platter of a perfect sky. we waited until it showed its thin rim in the heavens, and then, in the softened half-glow, with the purplish shadows deepening between the brown-gray walls of the dead city, i just naturally turned my imagination loose and let her soar. standing there, with the stage set and the light effects just right, in fancy i repopulated pompeii. i beheld it just as it was on a fair, autumnal morning in a. d. with my eyes half closed, i can see the vision now. at first the crowds are massed and mingled in confusion, but soon figures detach themselves from the rest and reveal themselves as prominent personages. some of them i know at a glance. yon tall, imposing man, with the genuine imitation sealskin collar on his toga, who strides along so majestically, whisking his cane against his leg, can be no other than gum tragacanth, leading man of the bon ton stock company, fresh from his metropolitan triumphs in rome and at this moment the reigning matinee idol of the south. this week he is playing claude melnotte in the lady of lyons; next week he will be seen in his celebrated characterization of matthias in the bells, with special scenery; and for the regular wednesday and saturday bargain matinees lady audley's secret will be given. observe him closely. it is evident that he values his art. yet about him there is no false ostentation. with what gracious condescension does he acknowledge the half-timid, half-daring smiles of all the little caramel-chewing floras and faunas who have made it a point to be on main street at this hour! with what careless grace does he doff his laurel wreath, which is of the latest and most modish fall block, with the bow at the back, in response to the waved greeting of mrs. belladonna capsicum, the acknowledged leader of the artistic and bohemian set, as she sweeps by in her chariot bound for blumberg brothers' to do a little shopping. she is not going to buy anything--she is merely out shopping. than this fair patrician dame, none is more prominent in the gay life of pompeii. it was she who last season smoked a cigarette in public, and there is a report now that she is seriously considering wearing an ankle bracelet; withal she is a perfect lady and belongs to one of the old southern families. her husband has been through the bankruptcy courts twice and is thinking of going through again. at present he is engaged in promoting and writing a little life insurance on the side. now her equipage is lost in the throng and the great actor continues on his way, making a mental note of the fact that he has promised to attend her next sunday afternoon studio tea. near his own stage door he bumps into commodious rotunda, the stout comedian of the comic theater, and they pause to swap the latest lambs' club repartee. this done, commodius hauls out a press clipping and would read it, but the other remembers providentially that he has a rehearshal on and hurriedly departs. if there are any press clippings to be read he has a few of his own that will bear inspection. superior maxillary, managing editor of the pompeiian "daily news-courier," is also abroad, collecting items of interest and subscriptions for his paper, with preference given to the latter. he enters the last chance saloon down at the foot of the street and in a minute or two is out again, wiping his mustache on the back of his hand. we may safely opine that he has been taking a small ad. out in trade. at the door of the county courthouse, where he may intercept the taxpayers as they come and go, is stationed our old friend, colonel pro bono publico. the colonel has been running for something or other ever since heck was a pup. to-day he is wearing his official campaign smile, for he is a candidate for county judge, subject to the action of the republican party at the october primaries. he is wearing all his lodge buttons and likewise his g. a. r. pin, for this year he figures on carrying the old-soldier vote. see who comes now! it is rigor mortis, the worthy coroner. at sight of him the colonel uplifts his voice in hoarsely jovial salutation: "rigsy, my boy," he booms, "how are you? and how is mrs. m. this morning?" "well, colonel," answers his friend, "my wife ain't no better. she's mighty puny and complaining. sometimes i get to wishing the old lady would get well--or something!" the colonel laughs, but not loudly. that wheeze was old in . in front of the drug-store on the corner a score of young bloods, dressed in snappy togas for varsity men, are skylarking. they are especially brilliant in their flashing interchanges of wit and humor, because the mastodon minstrels were here only last week, with a new line of first-part jokes. along the opposite side of the street passes nux vomica, m.d., with a small black case in his hand, gravely intent on his professional duties. being a young physician, he wears a beard and large-rimmed eyeglasses. young ossius dome sees him and hails him. "oh, doc!" he calls out. "come over here a minute. i've got some brand-new limerickii for you. tertiary tonsillitis got 'em from a traveling man he met day before yesterday when he was up in the city laying in his stock of fall and winter armor." the healer of ills crosses over; and as the group push themselves in toward a common center i hear the voice of the speaker: "say, they're all bully; but this is the bullissimus one of the lot. it goes like this: "'there was a young maid of sorrento, who said to her--'" i have regretted ever since that at this juncture i came to and so failed to get the rest of it. i'll bet that was a peach of a limerick. it started off so promisingly. chapter xxiii muckraking in old pompeii it now devolves on me as a painful yet necessary duty to topple from its pedestal one of the most popular idols of legendary lore. i refer, i regret to say, to the widely famous roman sentry of old pompeii. personally i think there has been entirely too much of this sort of thing going on lately. muckrakers, prying into the storied past, have destroyed one after another many of the pet characters in history. thanks to their meddlesome activities we know that paul revere did not take any midnight ride. on the night in question he was laid up in bed with inflammatory rheumatism. what happened was that he told the news to mrs. revere as a secret, and she in strict confidence imparted it to the lady living next door; and from that point on the word traveled with the rapidity of wildfire. horatius never held the bridge; he just let the blamed thing go. the boy did not stand on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; he was among the first in the lifeboats. that other boy--the spartan youth--did not have his vitals gnawed by a fox; the spartan youth had been eating wild grapes and washing them down with spring water. hence that gnawing sensation of which so much mention has been made. nobody hit billy patterson. he acquired his black eye in the same way in which all married men acquire a black eye--by running against a doorjamb while trying to find the ice-water pitcher in the dark. he said so himself the next day. even barbara frietchie is an exploded myth. she did not nail her country's flag to the window casement. being a female, she could not nail a flag or anything else to a window. in the first place, she would have used a wad of chewing gum and a couple of hairpins. in the second place, had she recklessly undertaken to nail up a flag with hammer and nails, she would never have been on hand at the psychological moment to invite stonewall jackson to shoot her old gray head. when general jackson passed the house she would have been in the bathroom bathing her left thumb in witch-hazel. furthermore, she did not have any old gray head. at the time of the confederate invasion of maryland she was only seventeen years old--some authorities say only seven--and a pronounced blonde. also, she did not live in frederick; and even if she did live there, on the occasion when the troops went through she was in baltimore visiting a school friend. finally, frederick does not stand where it stood in the sixties. the cyclone of moved it three miles back into the country and twisted the streets round in such a manner as to confuse even lifelong residents. these facts have repeatedly been proved by volunteer investigators and are not to be gainsaid. i repeat that there has been too much of this. if the craze for smashing all our romantic fixtures persists, after a while we shall have no glorious traditions left with which to fire the youthful heart at high-school commencements. but in the interests of truth, and also because i made the discovery myself, i feel it to be my solemn duty to expose the roman sentry, stationed at the gate of pompeii looking toward the sea, who died because he would not quit his post without orders and had no orders to quit. until now this party has stood the acid test of centuries. everybody who ever wrote about the fall of pompeii, from plutarch and pliny the younger clear down to bulwer lytton and burton holmes, had something to say about him. the lines on this subject by the greek poet laryngitis are familiar to all lovers of that great master of classic verse, and i shall not undertake to quote from them here. suffice it to say that the roman sentry, perishing at his post, has ever been a favorite subject for historic and romantic writers. i myself often read of him--how on that dread day when the devil's stew came to a boil and spewed over the sides of vesuvius, and death and destruction poured down to blight the land, he, typifying fortitude and discipline and unfaltering devotion, stood firm and stayed fast while all about him chaos reigned and fathers forgot their children and husbands forgot their wives, and vice versa, though probably not to the same extent; and how finally the drifting ashes and the choking dust fell thicker upon him and mounted higher about him, until he died and in time turned to ashes himself, leaving only a void in the solidified slag. i had always admired that soldier--not his judgment, which was faulty, but his heroism, which was immense. to myself i used to say: "that unknown common soldier, nameless though he was, deserves to live forever in the memory of mankind. he lacked imagination, it is true, but he was game. it was a glorious death to die--painful, yet splendid. those four poor wretches whose shells were found in the prison under the gladiators' school, with their ankles fast in the iron stocks--i know why they stayed. their feet were too large for their own good. but no bonds except his dauntless will bound him at the portals of the doomed city. duty was the only chain that held him. "and to think that centuries and centuries afterward they should find his monument--a vacant, empty mold in the piled-up pumice! had i been in his place i should have created my vacancy much sooner--say, about thirty seconds after the first alarm went in. but he was one who chose rather that men should say, 'how natural he looks!' than 'yonder he goes!' and he has my sincere admiration. when i go to pompeii--if ever i do go there--i shall seek out the spot where he made the supremest sacrifice to authority that ever any man could make, and i shall tarry a while in those hallowed precincts!" that was what i said i would do and that was what i did do that afternoon at pompeii. i found the gate looking toward the sea and i found all the other gates, or the sites of them; but i did not find the roman sentry nor any trace of him, nor any authentic record of him. i questioned the guides and, through an interpreter, the curator of the museum, and from them i learned the lamentably disillusioning facts in this case. there is no trace of him because he neglected to leave any trace. doubtless there was a sentry on guard at the gate when the volcano belched forth, and the skin of the earth flinched and shivered and split asunder; but he did not remain for the finish. he said to himself that this was no place for a minister's son; and so he girded up his loins and he went away from there. he went away hurriedly--even as you and i. chapter xxiv mine own people wherever we went i was constantly on the outlook for a kind of tourist who had been described to me frequently and at great length by more seasoned travelers--the kind who wore his country's flag as a buttonhole emblem, or as a shirtfront decoration; and regarded every gathering and every halting place as providing suitable opportunity to state for the benefit of all who might be concerned, how immensely and overpoweringly superior in all particulars was the land from which he hailed as compared with all other lands under the sun. i desired most earnestly to overhaul a typical example of this species, my intention then being to decoy him off to some quiet and secluded spot and there destroy him in the hope of cutting down the breed. at length, along toward the fag end of our zigzagging course, i caught up with him; but stayed my hand and slew not. for some countries, you understand, are so finicky in the matter of protecting their citizens that they would protect even such a one as this. i was fearful lest, by exterminating the object of my homicidal desires, i should bring on international complications with a friendly power, no matter however public-spirited and high-minded my intentions might be. it was in vienna, in a cafe, and the hour was late. we were just leaving, after having listened for some hours to a hungarian band playing waltz tunes and an assemblage of natives drinking beer, when the sounds of a dispute at the booth where wraps were checked turned our faces in that direction. in a thick and plushy voice a short square person of a highly vulgar aspect was arguing with the young woman who had charge of the check room. judging by his tones, you would have said that the nap of his tongue was at least a quarter of an inch long; and he punctuated his remarks with hiccoughs. it seemed that his excitement had to do with the disappearance of a neck-muffler. from argument he progressed rapidly to threats and the pounding of a fist upon the counter. drawing nigh, i observed that he wore a very high hat and a very short sack coat; that his waistcoat was of a combustible plaid pattern with gaiters to match; that he had taken his fingers many times to the jeweler, but not once to the manicure; that he was beautifully jingled and alcoholically boastful of his native land and that--a crowning touch--he wore flaring from an upper pocket of his coat a silk handkerchief woven in the design and colors of his country's flag. but, praises be, it was not our flag that he wore thus. it was the union jack. as we passed out into the damp viennese midnight he was loudly proclaiming that he "was'h bri'sh subjesch," and that unless something was done mighty quick, would complain to "is majeshy's rep(hic)shenativ' ver' firsch thing 'n morn'." so though i was sorry he was a cousin, i was selfishly and unfeignedly glad that he was not a brother. since in the mysterious and unfathomable scheme of creation it seemed necessary that he should be born somewhere, still he had not been born in america, and that thought was very pleasing to me. there was another variety of the tourist breed whose trail i most earnestly desired to cross. i refer to the creature who must be closely watched to prevent him, or her, from carrying off valuable relics as souvenirs, and defacing monuments and statues and disfiguring holy places with an inconsequential signature. in the flesh--and such a person must be all flesh and no soul--i never caught up with him, but more than once i came upon his fresh spoor. in venice our guide took us to see the nether prisons of the palace of the doges. from the level of the bridge of sighs we tramped down flights of stone stairs, one flight after another, until we had passed the hole through which the bodies of state prisoners, secretly killed at night, were shoved out into waiting gondolas and had passed also the room where pincers and thumbscrew once did their hideous work, until we came to a cellar of innermost, deepermost cells, fashioned out of the solid rock and stretching along a corridor that was almost as dark as the cells themselves. here, so we were told, countless wretched beings, awaiting the tardy pleasure of the torturer or the headsman, had moldered in damp and filth and pitchy blackness, knowing day from night only by the fact that once in twenty-four hours food would be slipped through a hole in the wall by unseen hands; lying here until oftentimes death or the cruel mercy of madness came upon them before the overworked executioner found time to rack their limbs or lop off their heads. we were told that two of these cells had been preserved exactly as they were in the days of the doges, with no alteration except that lights had been swung from the ceilings. we could well accept this statement as the truth, for when the guide led us through a low doorway and flashed on an electric bulb we saw that the place where we stood was round like a jug and bare as an empty jug, with smooth stone walls and rough stone floor; and that it contained for furniture just two things--a stone bench upon which the captive might lie or sit and, let into the wall, a great iron ring, to which his chains were made fast so that he moved always to their grating accompaniment and the guard listening outside might know by the telltale clanking whether the entombed man still lived. there was one other decoration in this hole--a thing more incongruous even than the modern lighting fixtures; and this stood out in bold black lettering upon the low-sloped ceiling. a pair of vandals, a man and wife--no doubt with infinite pains--had smuggled in brush and marking pot and somehow or other--i suspect by bribing guides and guards--had found the coveted opportunity of inscribing their names here in the doges' black dungeon. with their names they had written their address too, which was a small town in the northwest, and after it the legend: "send us a postal card." i imagine that then this couple, having accomplished this feat, regarded their trip to europe as being rounded out and complete, and went home again, satisfied and rejoicing. send them a postal card? somebody should send them a deep-dish poison-pie! looking on this desecration my companion and i grew vocal. we agreed that our national lawgivers who were even then framing an immigration law with a view to keeping certain people out of this country, might better be engaged in framing one with a view to keeping certain people in. our guide harkened with a quiet little smile on his face to what we said. "it cannot have been here long--that writing on the ceiling," he explained for our benefit. "presently it will be scraped away. but"-- and he shrugged his eloquent italian shoulders and outspread his hands fan-fashion--"but what is the use? others like them will come and do as they have done. see here and here and here, if you please!" he aimed a darting forefinger this way and that, and looking where he pointed we saw now how the walls were scarred with the scribbled names of many visitors. i regret exceedingly to have to report that a majority of these names had an american sound to them. indeed, many of the signatures were coupled with the names of towns and states of the union. there were quite a few from canada, too. what, i ask you, is the wisdom of taking steps to discourage the cutworm and abate the gypsy-moth when our government permits these two-legged varmints to go abroad freely and pollute shrines and wonderplaces with their scratchings, and give the nations over there a perverted notion of what the real human beings on this continent are like? for the tourist who has wearied of picture galleries and battlegrounds and ruins and abbeys, studying other tourists provides a pleasant way of passing many an otherwise tedious hour. certain of the european countries furnish some interesting types--notably britain, which producing a male biped of a lachrymose and cheerless exterior, who plods solemnly across the continent wrapped in the plaid mantle of his own dignity, never speaking an unnecessary word to any person whatsoever. and germany: from germany comes a stolid gentleman, who, usually, is shaped like a pickle mounted on legs and is so extensively and convexedly eyeglassed as to give him the appearance of something that is about to be served sous cloche. caparisoned in strange garments, he stalks through france or italy with an umbrella under his arm, his nose being buried so deeply in his guidebook that he has no time to waste upon the scenery or the people; while some ten paces in the rear, his wife staggers along in his wake with her skirts dragging in the dust and her arms pulled half out of their sockets by the weight of the heavy bundles and bags she is bearing. this person, when traveling, always takes his wife and much baggage with him. or, rather, he takes his wife and she takes the baggage which, by continental standards, is regarded as an equal division of burdens. however, for variety and individual peculiarity, our own land offers the largest assortment in the tourist line, this perhaps being due to the fact that americans do more traveling than any other race. i think that in our ramblings we must have encountered pretty nearly all the known species of tourists, ranging from sane and sensible persons who had come to europe to see and to learn and to study, clear on down through various ramifications to those who had left their homes and firesides to be uncomfortable and unhappy in far lands merely because somebody told them they ought to travel abroad. they were in europe for the reason that so many people run to a fire: not because they care particularly for a fire but because so many others are running to it. i would that i had the time, and you, kind reader, the patience so that i might enumerate and describe in full detail all the varieties and sub-varieties of our race that we saw--the pert, overfed, overpampered children, the aggressive, self-sufficient, prematurely bored young girls, the money-fattened, boastful vulgarians, scattering coin by the handful, intent only on making a show and not realizing that they themselves were the show; the coltish, pimply youths who thought in order to be high-spirited they must also be impolite and noisy. youth will be served, but why, i ask you--why must it so often be served raw? for contrasts to such as these, we met plenty of people worth meeting and worth knowing--fine, attractive, well-bred american men and women, having a decent regard for themselves and for other folks, too. indeed this sort largely predominated. but there isn't space for making a classified list. the one-volume chronicler must content himself with picking out a few particularly striking types. i remember, with vivid distinctness, two individuals, one an elderly gentleman from somewhere in the middle west and the other, an old lady who plainly hailed from the south. we met the old gentleman in paris, and the old lady some weeks later in naples. though the weather was moderately warm in paris that week he wore red woolen wristlets down over his hands; and he wore also celluloid cuffs, which rattled musically, with very large moss agate buttons in them; and for ornamentation his watch chain bore a flat watch key, a secret order badge big enough to serve as a hitching weight and a peach-stone carved to look like a fruit basket. everything about him suggested health underwear, chewing tobacco and fried mush for breakfast. his whiskers were cut after a pattern i had not seen in years and years. in my mind such whiskers were associated with those happy and long distant days of childhood when we yelled supe! at a stagehand and cherished old cap collier as a model of what--if we had luck--we would be when we grew up. by rights, he belonged in the second act of a rural indian play, of a generation or two ago; but here he was, wandering disconsolately through the louvre. he had come over to spend four months, he told us with a heave of the breath, and he still had two months of it unspent, and he just didn't see how he was going to live through it! the old lady was in the great national museum at naples, fluttering about like a distracted little brown hen. she was looking for the farnese bull. it seemed her niece in knoxville had told her the farnese bull was the finest thing in the statuary line to be found in all italy, and until she had seen that, she wasn't going to see anything else. she had got herself separated from the rest of her party and she was wandering along about alone, seeking information regarding the whereabouts of the farnese bull from smiling but uncomprehending custodians and doorkeepers. these persons she would address at the top of her voice. plainly she suffered from a delusion, which is very common among our people, that if a foreigner does not understand you when addressed in an ordinary tone, he will surely get your meaning if you screech at him. when we had gone some distance farther on and were in another gallery, we could still catch the calliope-like notes of the little old lady, as she besought some one to lead her to the farnese bull. that she came right out and spoke of the farnese bull as a bull, instead of referring to him as a gentleman cow, was evidence of the extent to which travel had enlarged her vision, for with half an eye anyone could tell that she belonged to the period of our social development when certain honest and innocent words were supposed to be indelicate--that she had been reared in a society whose ideal of a perfect lady was one who could say limb, without thinking leg. i hope she found her bull, but i imagine she was disappointed when she did find it. i know i was. the sculpturing may be of a very high order--the authorities agree that it is--but i judge the two artists to whom the group is attributed carved the bull last and ran out of material and so skimped him a bit. the unfortunate dirce, who is about to be bound to his horns by the sons of antiope, the latter standing by to see that the boys make a good thorough job of it, is larger really than the bull. you can picture the lady carrying off the bull but not the bull carrying off the lady. numerously encountered are the tourists who are doing europe under a time limit as exact as the schedule of a limited train. they go through europe on the dead run, being intent on seeing it all and therefore seeing none of it. they cover ten countries in a space of time which a sane person gives to one; after which they return home exhausted, but triumphant. i think it must be months before some of them quit panting, and certainly their poor, misused feet can never again be the feet they were. with them adherence to the time card is everything. if a look at the calendar shows the day to be monday, they know they are in munich, and as they lope along they get out their guidebooks and study the chapters devoted to munich. but if it be tuesday, then it is dresden, and they give their attention to literature dealing with the attractions of dresden; seeing dresden after the fashion of one sitting before a runaway moving picture film. then they pack up and depart, galloping, for prague with their tongues hanging out. for wednesday is prague and prague is wednesday--the two words are synonymous and interchangeable. surely to such as these, the places they have visited must mean as much to them, afterward, as the labels upon their trunks mean to the trunks--just flimsy names pasted on, all confused and overlapping, and certain to be scraped off in time, leaving nothing but faint marks upon an indurated surface. there is yet again another type, always of the female gender and generally middle-aged and very schoolteacherish in aspect, who, in company with a group of kindred spirits, is viewing europe under a contract arrangement by which a worn and wearied-looking gentleman, a retired clergyman usually, acts as escort and mentor for a given price. i don't know how much he gets a head for this job; but whatever it is, he earns it ninety-and-nine times over. this lady tourist is much given to missing trains and getting lost and having disputes with natives and wearing rubber overshoes and asking strange questions--but let me illustrate with a story i heard. the man from cook's had convoyed his party through the vatican, until he brought them to the apollo belvidere. as they ranged themselves wearily about the statue, he rattled off his regular patter without pause or punctuation: "here we have the far-famed apollo belvidere found about the middle of the fifteenth century at frascati purchased by pope julius the second restored by the great michelangelo taken away by the french in but returned in made of carara marble holding in his hand a portion of the bow with which he slew the python observe please the beauty of the pose the realistic attitude of the limbs the noble and exalted expression of the face of apollo belvidere he being known also as phoebus the god of oracles the god of music and medicine the son of leto and jupiter--" here he ran out of breath and stopped. for a moment no one spoke. then from a flat-chested little spinster came this query in tired yet interested tones: "was he--was he married?" he who is intent upon studying the effect of foreign climes upon the american temperament should by no means overlook the colonies of resident americans in the larger european cities, particularly the colonies in such cities as paris and rome and florence. in berlin, the american colony is largely made up of music students and in vienna of physicians; but in the other places many folks of many minds and many callings constitute the groups. some few have left their country for their country's good and some have expatriated themselves because, as they explain in bursts of confidence, living is cheaper in france than it is in america. i suppose it is, too, if one can only become reconciled to doing without most of the comforts which make life worth while in america or anywhere else. included among this class are many rather unhappy old ladies who somehow impress you as having been shunted off to foreign parts because there were no places for them in the homes of their children and their grandchildren. so now they are spending their last years among strangers, trying with a desperate eagerness to be interested in people and things for which they really care not a fig, with no home except a cheerless pension. also there are certain folk--products, in the main, of the eastern seaboard--who, from having originally lived in america and spent most of their time abroad, have now progressed to the point where they now live mostly abroad and visit america fleetingly once in a blue moon. as a rule these persons know a good deal about europe and very little about the country that gave them birth. the stock-talk of european literature is at their tongue's tip. they speak of ibsen in the tone of one mourning the passing of a near, dear, personal friend, and as for zola--ah, how they miss the influence of his compelling personality! but for the moment they cannot recall whether richard k. fox ran the police gazette or wrote the "trail of the lonesome pine." they are up on the history of the old world. from memory they trace the bourbon dynasty from the first copper-distilled charles to the last sourmashed louis. but as regards our own revolution, they aren't quite sure whether it was started by the boston tea party or mrs. o'leary's cow. languidly they inquire whether that quaint iowa character, uncle champ root, is still speaker of the house? and so the present vice-president is named elihu underwood? or isn't he? anyway, american politics is such a bore. but they stand ready, at a minute's notice, to furnish you with the names, dates and details of all the marriages that have taken place during the last twenty years in the royal house of denmark. some day we shall learn a lesson from europe. some fair day we shall begin to exploit our own historical associations. we shall make shrines of the spots where washington crossed the ice to help end one war and where eliza did the same thing to help start another. we shall erect stone markers showing where charley ross was last seen and carrie nation was first sighted. we shall pile up tall monuments to sitting bull and nonpareil jack dempsey and the man who invented the spit ball. perhaps then these truant americans will come back oftener from paris and florence and abide with us longer. meanwhile though they will continue to stay on the other side. and on second thought, possibly it is just as well for the rest of us that they do. in europe i met two persons, born in america, who were openly distressed over that shameful circumstance and could not forgive their parents for being so thoughtless and inconsiderate. one was living in england and the other was living in france; and one was a man and the other was a woman; and both of them were avowedly regretful that they had not been born elsewhere, which, i should say, ought to make the sentiment unanimous. i also heard--at second hand--of a young woman whose father served this country in an ambassadorial capacity at one of the principal continental courts until the administration at washington had a lucid interval, and endeared itself to the hearts of practically all americans residing in that country by throwing a net over him and yanking him back home; this young woman was so fearful lest some one might think she cherished any affection for her native land that once when a legation secretary manifested a desire to learn the score of the deciding game of a world's series between the giants and the athletics, she spoke up in the presence of witnesses and said: "ah, baseball! how can any sane person be excited over that american game? tell me--some one please--how is it played?" yet she was born and reared in a town which for a great many years has held a membership in the national league. let us pass on to a more pleasant topic. let us pass on to those well-meaning but temporarily misguided persons who think they are going to be satisfied with staying on indefinitely in europe. they profess themselves as being amply pleased with the present arrangement. for, no matter how patriotic one may be, one must concede--mustn't one?--that for true culture one must look to europe? after all, america is a bit crude, isn't it, now? of course some time, say in two or three years from now, they will run across to the states again, but it will be for a short visit only. after europe one can never be entirely happy elsewhere for any considerable period of time. and so on and so forth. but as you mention in an offhand way that cedar bluff has a modern fire station now, or that tulsanooga is going to have a great white way of its own, there are eyes that light up with a wistful light. and when you state casually, that polkdale is planning a civic center with the new county jail at one end and the carnegie library at the other, lips begin to quiver under a weight of sentimental emotion. and a month or so later when you take the ship which is to bear you home, you find a large delegation of these native sons of polkdale and tulsanooga on board, too. at least we found them on the ship we took. we took her at naples--a big comfortable german ship with a fine german crew and a double force of talented german cooks working overtime in the galley and pantry--and so came back by the mediterranean route, which is a most satisfying route, especially if the sea be smooth and the weather good, and the steerage passengers picturesque and light-hearted. moreover the coast of northern africa, lying along the southern horizon as one nears gibraltar, is one of the few sights of a european trip that are not disappointing. for, in fact, it proves to be the same color that it is in the geographies--pale yellow. it is very unusual to find a country making an earnest effort to correspond to its own map, and i think northern africa deserves honorable mention in the dispatches on this account. chapter xxv be it ever so humble homeward-bound, a chastened spirit pervades the traveler. he is not quite so much inclined to be gay and blithesome as he was going. the holiday is over; the sightseeing is done; the letter of credit is worn and emaciated. he has been broadened by travel but his pocketbook has been flattened. he wouldn't take anything for this trip, and as he feels at the present moment he wouldn't take it again for anything. it is a time for casting up and readjusting. likewise it is a good time for going over, in the calm, reflective light of second judgment, the purchases he has made for personal use and gift-making purposes. these things seemed highly attractive when he bought them, and when displayed against a background of home surroundings will, no doubt, be equally impressive; but just now they appear as rather a sad collection of junk. his english box coat doesn't fit him any better than any other box would. his french waistcoats develop an unexpected garishness on being displayed away from their native habitat and the writing outfit which he picked up in vienna turns out to be faulty and treacherous and inkily tearful. how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a fountain pen--that weeps! and why, when a fountain pen makes up its mind to cry a spell, does it crawl clear across a steamer trunk and bury its sobbing countenance in the bosom of a dress shirt? likewise the first few days at sea provide opportunity for sorting out the large and variegated crop of impressions a fellow has been acquiring during all these crowded months. the way the homeward-bound one feels now, he would swap any old master he ever saw for one peep at a set of sanitary bath fixtures. sight unseen, he stands ready to trade two cathedrals and a royal palace for a union depot. he will never forget the thrill that shook his soul as he paused beneath the dome of the pantheon; but he feels that, not only his soul but all the rest of him, could rally and be mighty cheerful in the presence of a dozen deep-sea oysters on the half shell--regular honest-to-goodness north american oysters, so beautifully long, so gracefully pendulous of shape that the short-waisted person who undertakes to swallow one whole does so at his own peril. the picture of the coliseum bathed in the italian moonlight will ever abide in his mind; but he would give a good deal for a large double sirloin suffocated samuel j. tilden style, with fried onions. beefsteak! ah, what sweet images come thronging at the very mention of the word! the sea vanishes magically and before his entranced vision he sees the one town, full of regular fellows and real people. somebody is going to have fried ham for supper--five thousand miles away he sniffs the delectable perfume of that fried ham as it seeps through a crack in the kitchen window and wafts out into the street--and the word passes round that there is going to be a social session down at the lodge to-night, followed, mayhap, by a small sociable game of quarter-limit upstairs over corbett's drug-store. at this point, our traveler rummages his elks' button out of his trunk and gives it an affectionate polishing with a silk handkerchief. and oh, how he does long for a look at a home newspaper--packed with wrecks and police news and municipal scandals and items about the persons one knows, and chatty mention concerning congressmen and gunmen and tango teachers and other public characters. thinking it all over here in the quiet and privacy of the empty sea, he realizes that his evening paper is the thing he has missed most. to the american understanding foreign papers seem fearfully and wonderfully made. for instance, german newspapers are much addicted to printing their more important news stories in cipher form. the german treatment of a suspected crime for which no arrests have yet been made, reminds one of the jokes which used to appear, a few years ago, in the back part of harper's magazine, where a good story was always being related of bishop x, residing in the town of y, who, calling one afternoon upon judge z, said to master egbert, the pet of the household, age four, and so on. a german newspaper will daringly state that banker ----, president of the bank of ---- at ---- who is suspected of sequestering the funds of that institution to his own uses is reported to have departed by stealth for the city of ----, taking with him the wife of herr ----. and such is the high personal honor of the average parisian news gatherer that one paris morning paper, which specializes in actual news as counter-distinguished from the other paris papers which rely upon political screeds to fill their columns, locks its doors and disconnects its telephones at o'clock in the evening, so that reporters coming in after that hour must stay in till press time lest some of them--such is the fear--will peddle all the exclusive stories off to less enterprising contemporaries. english newspapers, though printed in a language resembling american in many rudimentary respects, seem to our conceptions weird propositions, too. it is interesting to find at the tail end of an article a footnote by the editor stating that he has stopped the presses to announce in connection with the foregoing that nothing has occurred in connection with the foregoing which would justify him in stopping the presses to announce it; or words to that effect. the news stories are frequently set forth in a puzzling fashion, and the jokes also. that's the principal fault with an english newspaper joke--it loses so in translation into our own tongue. still, when all is said and done, the returning tourist, if he be at all fair-minded, is bound to confess to himself that, no matter where his steps or his round trip ticket have carried him, he has seen in every country institutions and customs his countrymen might copy to their benefit, immediate or ultimate. having beheld these things with his own eyes, he knows that from the germans we might learn some much-needed lessons about municipal control and conservation of resources; and from the french and the austrians about rational observance of days of rest and simple enjoyment of simple outdoor pleasures and respect for great traditions and great memories; and from the italians, about the blessed facility of keeping in a good humor; and from the english, about minding one's own business and the sane rearing of children and obedience to the law and suppression of unnecessary noises. whenever i think of this last god-given attribute of the british race, i shall recall a sunday we spent at brighton, the favorite seaside resort of middle-class london. brighton was fairly bulging with excursionists that day. a good many of them were bucolic visitors from up country, but the majority, it was plain to see, hailed from the city. no steam carousel shrieked, no ballyhoo blared, no steam pianos shrieked, no barker barked. upon the piers, stretching out into the surf, bands played soothingly softened airs and along the water front, sand-artists and so-called minstrel singers plied their arts. some of the visitors fished--without catching anything--and some listened to the music and some strolled aimlessly or sat stolidly upon benches enjoying the sea air. to an american, accustomed at such places to din and tumult and rushing crowds and dangerous devices for taking one's breath and sometimes one's life, it was a strange experience, but a mighty restful one. on the other hand there are some things wherein we notably excel--entirely too many for me to undertake to enumerate them here; still, i think i might be pardoned for enumerating a conspicuous few. we could teach europe a lot about creature comforts and open plumbing and personal cleanliness and good food and courtesy to women--not the flashy, cheap courtesy which impels a continental to rise and click his heels and bend his person forward from the abdomen and bow profoundly when a strange woman enters the railway compartment where he is seated, while at the same time he leaves his wife or sister to wrestle with the heavy luggage; but the deeper, less showy instinct which makes the average american believe that every woman is entitled to his protection and consideration when she really needs it. in the crowded street-car he may keep his seat; in the crowded lifeboat he gives it up. i almost forgot to mention one other detail in which, so far as i could judge, we lead the whole of the old world--dentistry. probably you have seen frequent mention in english publications about decayed gentlewomen. well, england is full of them. it starts with the teeth. the leisurely, long, slantwise course across the atlantic gives one time, also, for making the acquaintance of one's fellow passengers and for wondering why some of them ever went to europe anyway. a source of constant speculation along these lines was the retired hay-and-feed merchant from michigan who traveled with us. one gathered that he had done little else in these latter years of his life except to traipse back and forth between the two continents. what particularly endeared him to the rest of us was his lovely habit of pronouncing all words of all languages according to a fonetic system of his own. "yes, sir," you would hear him say, addressing a smoking-room audience of less experienced travelers, "my idee is that a fellow ought to go over on an english ship, if he likes the exclusability, and come back on a german ship if he likes the sociableness. take my case. the last trip i made i come over on the lucy tanner and went back agin on the grocer k. first and enjoyed it both ways immense!" nor would this chronicle be complete without a passing reference to the lady from cincinnati, a widow of independent means, who was traveling with her two daughters and was so often mistaken for their sister that she could not refrain from mentioning the remarkable circumstance to you, providing you did not win her everlasting regard by mentioning it first. likewise i feel that i owe the tribute of a line to the elderly britain who was engaged in a constant and highly successful demonstration of the fallacy of the claim set up by medical practitioners, to the effect that the human stomach can contain but one fluid pint at a time. all day long, with his monocle goggling glassily from the midst of his face, like one lone porthole in a tank steamer, he disproved this statement by practical methods and promptly at nine every evening, when his complexion had acquired a rich magenta tint, he would be carried below by two accommodating stewards and put--no, not put, decanted--would be decanted gently into bed. if anything had happened to the port-light of that ship, we could have stationed him forward in the bows with his face looming over the rail and been well within the maritime regulations--his face had a brilliancy which even the darkness of the night could not dim; and if the other light had gone out of commission, we could have impressed the aid of the bilious armenian lady who was sick every minute and very sick for some minutes, for she was always of a glassy green color. we learned to wait regularly for the ceremony of seeing sir monocle and his load toted off to bed at nine o'clock every night, just as we learned to linger in the offing and watch the nimble knife-work when the prize invalid of the ship's roster had cornered a fresh victim. the prize invalid, it is hardly worth while to state, was of the opposite sex. so many things ailed her--by her own confession--that you wondered how they all found room on the premises at the same time. her favorite evening employment was to engage another woman in conversation--preferably another invalid--and by honeyed words and congenial confidences, to lead the unsuspecting prey on and on, until she had her trapped, and then to turn on her suddenly and ridicule the other woman's puny symptoms and tell her she didn't even know the rudiments of being ill and snap her up sharply when she tried to answer back. and then she would deliver a final sting and go away without waiting to bury her dead. the poison was in the postscript--it nearly always is with that type of female. but afterward she would justify herself by saying people must excuse her manner--she didn't mean anything by it; it was just her way, and they must remember that she suffered constantly. some day when i have time, i shall make that lady the topic of a popular song. i have already fabricated the refrain: her heart was in the right place, lads, but she had a floating kidney! arrives a day when you develop a growing distaste for the company of your kind, or in fact, any kind. 'tis a day when the sea, grown frisky, kicks up its nimble heels and tosses its frothy mane. a cigar tastes wrong then and the mere sight of so many meat pies and so many german salads at the entrance to the dining salon gives one acute displeasure. by these signs you know that you are on the verge of being taken down with climate fever, which, as i set forth many pages agone, is a malady peculiar to the watery deep, and by green travelers is frequently mistaken for seasickness, which indeed it does resemble in certain respects. i may say that i had one touch of climate fever going over and a succession of touches coming back. at such a time, the companionship of others palls on one. it is well then to retire to the privacy of one's stateroom and recline awhile. i did a good deal of reclining, coming back; i was not exactly happy while reclining, but i was happier than i would have been doing anything else. besides, as i reclined there on my cosy bed, a medley of voices would often float in to me through the half-opened port and i could visualize the owners of those voices as they sat ranged in steamer chairs, along the deck. i quote: "you, raymund! you get down off that rail this minute." ... "my dear, you just ought to go to mine! he never hesitates a minute about operating, and he has the loveliest manners in the operating room. wait a minute--i'll write his address down for you. yes, he is expensive, but very, very thorough." ... "stew'd, bring me nozher brand' 'n' sozza." ... "well, now mr.--excuse me, i didn't catch your name?--oh yes, mr. blosser; well, mr. blosser, if that isn't the most curious thing! to think of us meeting away out here in the middle of the ocean and both of us knowing maxie hockstein in grand rapids. it only goes to show one thing--this certainly is a mighty small world." ... "raymund, did you hear what i said to you!" ... "do you really think it is becoming? thank you for saying so. that's what my husband always says. he says that white hair with a youthful face is so attractive, and that's one reason why i've never touched it up. touched-up hair is so artificial, don't you think?" ... "wasn't the bay of naples just perfectly swell--the water, you know, and the land and the sky and everything, so beautiful and everything?" ... "you raymund, come away from that lifeboat. why don't you sit down there and behave yourself and have a nice time watching for whales?" ... "no, ma'am, if you're askin' me i must say i didn't care so much for that art gallery stuff--jest a lot of pictures and statues and junk like that, so far as i noticed. in fact the whole thing--yurupp itself--was considerable of a disappointment to me. i didn't run acros't a single knights of pythias lodge the whole time and i was over there five months straight hard-runnin'." ... "really, i think it must be hereditary; it runs in our family. i had an aunt and her hair was snow-white at twenty-one and my grandmother was the same way." ... "oh yes, the suffering is something terrible. you've had it yourself in a mild form and of course you know. the last time they operated on me, i was on the table an hour and forty minutes--mind you, an hour and forty minutes by the clock--and for three days and nights they didn't know whether i would live another minute." a crash of glass. "stew'd, i ashidently turn' over m' drink--bring me nozher brand' 'n' sozza." ... "just a minute, mr. blosser, i want to tell my husband about it--he'll be awful interested. say, listen, poppa, this gentleman here knows maxie hockstein out in grand rapids." ... "do you think so, really? a lot of people have said that very same thing to me. they come up to me and say 'i know you must be a southerner because you have such a true southern accent.' i suppose i must come by it naturally, for while i was born in new jersey, my mother was a member of a very old virginia family and we've always been very strong southern sympathizers and i went to a finishing school in baltimore and i was always being mistaken for a southern girl." ... "well, i sure had enough of it to do me for one spell. i seen the whole shootin' match and i don't regret what it cost me, but, believe me, little old keokuk is goin' to look purty good to me when i get back there. why, them people don't know no more about makin' a cocktail than a rabbit." ... "that's her standing yonder talking to the captain. yes, that's what so many people say, but as a matter of fact, she's the youngest one of the two. i say, 'these are my daughters,' and then people say, 'you mean your sisters.' still i married very young--at seventeen--and possibly that helps to explain it." ... "oh, is that a shark out yonder? well, anyway, it's a porpoise, and a porpoise is a kind of shark, isn't it? when a porpoise grows up, it gets to be a shark--i read that somewhere. ain't nature just wonderful?" ... "raymund walter pelham, if i have to speak to you again, young man, i'm going to take you to the stateroom and give you something you won't forget in a hurry." ... "stew'd, hellup me gellup." thus the lazy hours slip by and the spell of the sea takes hold on you and you lose count of the time and can barely muster up the energy to perform the regular noonday task of putting your watch back half an hour. a passenger remarks that this is thursday and you wonder dimly what happened to wednesday. three days more--just three. the realization comes to you with a joyous shock. somebody sights a sea-gull. with eager eyes you watch its curving flight. until this moment you have not been particularly interested in sea-gulls. heretofore, being a sea-gull seemed to you to have few attractions as a regular career, except that it keeps one out in the open air; otherwise it has struck you as being rather a monotonous life with a sameness as to diet which would grow very tiresome in time. but now you envy that sea-gull, for he comes direct from the shores of the united states of america and if so minded may turn around and beat you to them by a margin of hours and hours and hours. oh, beauteous creature! oh, favored bird! comes the day before the last day. there is a bustle of getting ready for the landing. customs blanks are in steady demand at the purser's office. every other person is seeking help from every other person, regarding the job of filling out declarations. the women go about with the guilty look of plotters in their worried eyes. if one of them fails to slip something in without paying duty on it she will be disappointed for life. all women are natural enemies to all excise men. dirk, the smuggler, was the father of their race. comes the last day. dead ahead lies a misty, thread-like strip of dark blue, snuggling down against the horizon, where sea and sky merge. you think it is a cloud bank, until somebody tells you the glorious truth. it is the western hemisphere--your western hemisphere. it is new england. dear old new england! charming people--the new englanders! ah, breathes there the man with soul so dead who never to himself has said, this is my own, my native land? certainly not. a man with a soul so dead as that would be taking part in a funeral, not in a sea voyage. upon your lips a word hangs poised. what a precious sound it has, what new meanings it has acquired! there are words in our language which are singular and yet sound plural, such as politics and whereabouts; there are words which are plural and yet sound singular, such as brigham young, and there are words which convey their exact significance by their very sound. they need no word-chandlers, no adjective-smiths to dress them up in the fine feathers of fancy phrasing. they stand on their own merits. you think of one such word--a short, sweet word of but four letters. you speak that word reverently, lovingly, caressingly. nearer and nearer draws that blessed dark blue strip. nantucket light is behind us. long island shoulders up alongside. trunks accumulate in gangways; so do stewards and other functionaries. you have been figuring upon the tips which you will bestow upon them at parting; so have they. it will be hours yet before we land. indeed, if the fog thickens, we may not get in before to-morrow, yet people run about exchanging good-byes and swapping visiting cards and promising one another they will meet again. i think it is reckless for people to trifle with their luck that way. forward, on the lower deck, the immigrants cluster, chattering a magpie chorus in many tongues. the four-and-twenty blackbirds which were baked in a pie without impairment to the vocal cords have nothing on them. most of the women were crying when they came aboard at naples or palermo or gibraltar. now they are all smiling. their dunnage is piled in heaps and sailors, busy with ropes and chains and things, stumble over it and swear big round german oaths. why, gracious! we are actually off sandy hook. dear old sandy--how one loves those homely scotch names! the narrows are nigh and brooklyn, the city beautiful, awaits us around the second turning to the left. the pilot boat approaches. brave little craft! gallant pilot! do you suppose by any chance he has brought any daily papers with him? he has--hurrah for the thoughtful pilot! did you notice how much he looked like the pictures of santa claus? we move on more slowly and twice again we stop briefly. the quarantine officers have clambered up the sides and are among us; and to some of us they give cunning little thermometers to hold in our mouths and suck on, and of others they ask chatty, intimate questions with a view to finding out how much insanity there is in the family at present and just what percentage of idiocy prevails? three cheers for the jolly old quarantine regulations. even the advance guard of the customhouse is welcomed by one and all--or nearly all. between wooded shores which seem to advance to meet her in kindly greeting, the good ship shoves ahead. for she is a good ship, and later we shall miss her, but at this moment we feel that we can part from her without a pang. she rounds a turn in the channel. what is that mass which looms on beyond, where cloud-combing office buildings scallop the sky and bridges leap in far-flung spans from shore to shore? that's her--all right--the high picketed gateway of the nation. that's little old new york. few are the art centers there, and few the ruins; and perhaps there is not so much culture lying round loose as there might be--just bustle and hustle, and the rush and crush and roar of business and a large percentage of men who believe in supporting their own wives and one wife at a time. crass perhaps, crude perchance, in many ways, but no matter. all her faults are virtues now. beloved metropolis, we salute thee! and also do we turn to salute miss liberty. this series of adventure tales began with the statue of liberty fading rearward through the harbor mists. it draws to a close with the same old lady looming through those same mists and drawing ever closer and closer. she certainly does look well this afternoon, doesn't she? she always does look well, somehow. we slip past her and on past the battery too; and are nosing up the north river. what a picturesque stream it is, to be sure! and how full of delightful rubbish! in twenty minutes or less we shall be at the dock. folks we know are there now, waiting to welcome us. as close as we can pack ourselves, we gather in the gangways. some one raises a voice in song. 'tis not the marseillaise hymn that we sing, nor die wacht am rhein, nor ava maria, nor god save the king; nor yet is it columbia the gem of the ocean. in their proper places these are all good songs, but we know one more suitable to the occasion, and so we all join in. hark! happy voices float across the narrowing strip of rolly water between ship and shore: "'mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, (now then, altogether, mates:) be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!" none skip doughty, tiffany vergon, charles franks, and the online distributed sunny memories of foreign lands. by mrs. harriet beecher stowe, author of "uncle tom's cabin," etc. ..... "when thou haply seest some rare note-worthy object in thy travels, make me partake of thy happiness." shakespeare in two volumes. vol. ii. contents of the second volume. letter xix. breakfast.--macaulay.--hallam.--milman.--sir r. inglis.-- lunch at surrey parsonage.--dinner at sir e. buxton's. letter xx. dinner at lord shaftesbury's. letter xxi. stoke newington.--exeter hall.--antislavery meeting. letter xxii. windsor.--the picture gallery.--eton.--the poet gray. letter xxiii. rev. mr. gurney.--richmond, the artist.--kossuth.-- pembroke lodge.--dinner at lord john russell's.--lambeth palace. letter xxiv. playford hall.--clarkson. letter xxv. joseph sturge.--the "times" upon dressmaking.--duke of argyle.-- sir david brewster.--lord mahon.--mr. gladstone. letter xxvi. london milliners.--lord shaftesbury. letter xxvii. archbishop of canterbury's sermon to the ragged scholars.--mr. cobden.--miss greenfield's concert.--rev. s. r. ward. --lady byron.--mrs. jameson.--george thompson.--ellen crafts. letter xxviii. model lodging houses.--lodging house act.--washing houses. letter xxix. benevolent movements.--the poor laws.--the insane.-- factory operatives.--schools, &c. letter xxx. presentation at surrey chapel.--house of parliament.-- miss greenfield's second concert.--sir john malcolm.--the charity children.--mrs. gaskell.--thackeray. journal. london to paris.--church music.--the shops.--the louvre.--music at the tuileries.--a salon.--versailles.--m. belloc. letter xxxi. the louvre.--the venus de milon. journal. m. belloc's studio.--m. charpentier.--salon musicale.--peter parley.--jardin mabille.--remains of nineveh.--the emperor.-- versailles.--sartory.--père la chaise.--adolphe monod.--paris to lyons.--diligence to geneva.--mont blanc.--lake leman. letter xxxii. route to chamouni.--glaciers. letter xxxiii. chamouni.--rousse, the mule.--the ascent. journal. the alps. letter xxxiv. the ice fields. journal. chamouni to martigny.--humors of the mules. letter xxxv. alpine flowers.--pass of the tête noir. journal. the same. letter xxxvi. ascent to st. bernard.--the dogs. letter xxxvii. castle chillon.--bonnevard.--mont blanc from geneva.--luther and calvin.--madame de wette.--m. fazy. journal. a serenade.--lausanne.--freyburg.--berne.--the staubbach.-- grindelwald. letter xxxviii. wengern alps.--flowers.--glaciers.--the eiger. journal. glaciers.--interlachen.--sunrise in the mountains.--monument to the swiss guards of louis xvi.--basle.--strasbourg. letter xxxix. strasbourg. letter xl. the rhine.--heidelberg. journal. to frankfort. letter xli. frankfort.--lessing's "trial of huss." journal. to cologne.--the cathedral. letter xxii. cologne.--church of st. ursula.--relics.--dusseldorf. journal. to leipsic.--m. tauchnitz.--dresden.--the gallery.--berlin. letter xliii. the dresden gallery.--schoeffer. letter xliv. berlin.--the palace.--the museum. letter xlv. wittenberg.--luther's house.--melanchthon's house. letter xlvi. erfurt.--the cathedral.--luther's cell.--the wartburg. journal. the smoker discomfited.--antwerp.--the cathedral chimes.--to paris. letter xlvii. antwerp.--rubens. letter xlviii. paris.--school of design.--egyptian and assyrian remains.--mrs. s. c. hall.--the pantheon.--the madeleine.--notre dame.--béranger.--french character.--observance of sunday. journal. seasickness on the channel. letter xlix. york.--castle howard.--leeds.--fountains abbey.--liverpool.--irish deputation.--departure. letter xix. may . dear e.:-- this letter i consecrate to you, because i know that the persons and things to be introduced into it will most particularly be appreciated by you. in your evening reading circles, macaulay, sidney smith, and milman have long been such familiar names that you will be glad to go with me over all the scenes of my morning breakfast at sir charles trevelyan's yesterday. lady trevelyan, i believe i have said before, is the sister of macaulay, and a daughter of zachary macaulay--that undaunted laborer for the slave, whose place in the hearts of all english christians is little below saintship. we were set down at welbourne terrace, somewhere, i believe, about eleven o'clock, and found quite a number already in the drawing room. i had met macaulay before, but as you have not, you will of course ask a lady's first question, "how does he look?" well, my dear, so far as relates to the mere outward husk of the soul, our engravers and daguerreotypists have done their work as well as they usually do. the engraving that you get in the best editions of his works may be considered, i suppose, a fair representation of how he looks, when he sits to have his picture taken, which is generally very different from the way any body looks at any other time. people seem to forget, in taking likenesses, that the features of the face are nothing but an alphabet, and that a dry, dead map of a person's face gives no more idea how one looks than the simple presentation of an alphabet shows what there is in a poem. macaulay's whole physique gives you the impression of great strength and stamina of constitution. he has the kind of frame which we usually imagine as peculiarly english; short, stout, and firmly knit. there is something hearty in all his demonstrations. he speaks in that full, round, rolling voice, deep from the chest, which we also conceive of as being more common in england than america. as to his conversation, it is just like his writing; that is to say, it shows very strongly the same qualities of mind. i was informed that he is famous for a most uncommon memory; one of those men to whom it seems impossible to forget any thing once read; and he has read all sorts of things that can be thought of, in all languages. a gentleman told me that he could repeat all the old newgate literature, hanging ballads, last speeches, and dying confessions; while his knowledge of milton is so accurate, that, if his poems were blotted out of existence, they might be restored simply from his memory. this same accurate knowledge extends to the latin and greek classics, and to much of the literature of modern europe. had nature been required to make a man to order, for a perfect historian, nothing better could have been put together, especially since there is enough of the poetic fire included in the composition, to fuse all these multiplied materials together, and color the historical crystallization with them. macaulay is about fifty. he has never married; yet there are unmistakable evidences in the breathings and aspects of the family circle by whom he was surrounded, that the social part is not wanting in his conformation. some very charming young lady relatives seemed to think quite as much of their gifted uncle as you might have done had he been yours. macaulay is celebrated as a conversationalist; and, like coleridge, carlyle, and almost every one who enjoys this reputation, he has sometimes been accused of not allowing people their fair share in conversation. this might prove an objection, possibly, to those who wish to talk; but as i greatly prefer to hear, it would prove none to me. i must say, however, that on this occasion the matter was quite equitably managed. there were, i should think, some twenty or thirty at the breakfast table, and the conversation formed itself into little eddies of two or three around the table, now and then welling out into a great bay of general discourse. i was seated between macaulay and milman, and must confess i was a little embarrassed at times, because i wanted to hear what they were both saying at the same time. however, by the use of the faculty by which you play a piano with both hands, i got on very comfortably. milman's appearance is quite striking; tall, stooping, with a keen black eye and perfectly white hair--a singular and poetic contrast. he began upon architecture and westminster abbey--a subject to which i am always awake. i told him i had not yet seen westminster; for i was now busy in seeing life and the present, and by and by i meant to go there and see death and the past. milman was for many years dean of westminster, and kindly offered me his services, to indoctrinate me into its antiquities. macaulay made some suggestive remarks on cathedrals generally. i said that i thought it singular that we so seldom knew who were the architects that designed these great buildings; that they appeared to me the most sublime efforts of human genius. he said that all the cathedrals of europe were undoubtedly the result of one or two minds; that they rose into existence very nearly contemporaneously, and were built by travelling companies of masons, under the direction of some systematic organization. perhaps you knew all this before, but i did not; and so it struck me as a glorious idea. and if it is not the true account of the origin of cathedrals, it certainly ought to be; and, as our old grandmother used to say, "i'm going to believe it." looking around the table, and seeing how every body seemed to be enjoying themselves, i said to macaulay, that these breakfast parties were a novelty to me; that we never had them in america, but that i thought them the most delightful form of social life. he seized upon the idea, as he often does, and turned it playfully inside out, and shook it on all sides, just as one might play with the lustres of a chandelier--to see them glitter. he expatiated on the merits of breakfast parties as compared with all other parties. he said dinner parties are mere formalities. you invite a man to dinner because you _must_ invite him; because you are acquainted with his grandfather, or it is proper you should; but you invite a man to breakfast because you want to see _him_. you may be sure, if you are invited to breakfast, there is something agreeable about you. this idea struck me as very sensible; and we all, generally having the fact before our eyes that _we_ were invited to breakfast, approved the sentiment. "yes," said macaulay, "depend upon it; if a man is a bore he never gets an invitation to breakfast." "rather hard on the poor bores," said a lady. "particularly," said macaulay, laughing, "as bores are usually the most irreproachable of human beings. did you ever hear a bore complained of when they did not say that he was the best fellow in the world? for my part, if i wanted to get a guardian for a family of defenceless orphans, i should inquire for the greatest bore in the vicinity. i should know that he would be a man of unblemished honor and integrity." the conversation now went on to milton and shakspeare. macaulay made one remark that gentlemen are always making, and that is, that there is very little characteristic difference between shakspeare's women. well, there is no hope for that matter; so long as men are not women they will think so. in general they lump together miranda, juliet, desdemona, and viola, "as matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, and best distinguished as black, brown, or fair." it took mrs. jameson to set this matter forth in her characteristics of women; a book for which shakspeare, if he could get up, ought to make her his best bow, especially as there are fine things ascribed to him there, which, i dare say, he never thought of, careless fellow that he was! but, i take it, every true painter, poet, and artist is in some sense so far a prophet that his utterances convey more to other minds than he himself knows; so that, doubtless, should all the old masters rise from the dead, they might be edified by what posterity has found in their works. some how or other, we found ourselves next talking about sidney smith; and it was very pleasant to me, recalling the evenings when your father has read and we have laughed over him, to hear him spoken of as a living existence, by one who had known him. still, i have always had a quarrel with sidney, for the wicked use to which he put his wit, in abusing good old dr. carey, and the missionaries in india; nay, in some places he even stooped to be spiteful and vulgar. i could not help, therefore, saying, when macaulay observed that he had the most agreeable wit of any literary man of his acquaintance, "well, it was very agreeable, but it could not have been very agreeable to the people who came under the edge of it," and instanced his treatment of dr. carey. some others who were present seemed to feel warmly on this subject, too, and macaulay said,-- "ah, well, sidney repented of that, afterwards." he seemed to cling to his memory, and to turn from every fault to his joviality, as a thing he could not enough delight to remember. truly, wit, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. a man who has the faculty of raising a laugh in this sad, earnest world is remembered with indulgence and complacency, always. there were several other persons of note present at this breakfast, whose conversation i had not an opportunity of hearing, as they sat at a distance from me. there was lord glenelg, brother of sir robert grant, governor of bombay, whose beautiful hymns have rendered him familiar in america. the favorite one, commencing "when gathering clouds around i view," was from his pen. lord glenelg, formerly sir charles grant, himself has been the author of several pieces of poetry, which were in their time quite popular. the historian hallam was also present, whose constitutional history, you will remember, gave rise to one of macaulay's finest reviews; a quiet, retiring man, with a benignant, somewhat sad, expression of countenance. the loss of an only son has cast a shadow over his life. it was on this son that tennyson wrote his "_in memoriam_." sir robert h. inglis was also present, and mr. s. held considerable conversation with him. knowing that he was both high tory and high church, it was an agreeable surprise to find him particularly gentle and bland in manners, earnest and devout in religious sentiment. i have heard him spoken of, even among dissenters, as a devout and earnest man. another proof this of what mistakes we fall into when we judge the characters of persons at a distance, from what we suppose likely to be the effect of their sentiments. we often find the professed aristocrat gentle and condescending, and the professed supporter of forms spiritual. i think it very likely there may have been other celebrities present, whom i did not know. i am always finding out, a day or two after, that i have been with somebody very remarkable, and did not know it at the time. after breakfast we found, on consulting our list, that we were to lunch at surrey parsonage. of all the cities i was ever in, london is the most absolutely unmanageable, it takes so long to get any where; wherever you want to go it seems to take you about two hours to get there. from the west end down into the city is a distance that seems all but interminable. london is now more than ten miles long. and yet this monster city is stretching in all directions yearly, and where will be the end of it nobody knows. southey says, "i began to study the map of london, though dismayed at its prodigious extent. the river is no assistance to a stranger in finding his way; there is no street along its banks, and no eminence from whence you can look around and take your bearings." you may take these reflections as passing through my mind while we were driving through street after street, and going round corner after corner, towards the parsonage. surrey chapel and parsonage were the church and residence of the celebrated kowland hill. at present the incumbent is the rev. mr. sherman, well known to many of our american clergy by the kind hospitalities and attentions with which he has enriched their stay in london. the church maintains a medium rank between congregationalism and episcopacy, retaining part of the ritual, but being independent in its government. the kindness of mr. sherman had assembled here a very agreeable company, among whom were farquhar tupper, the artist cruikshank, from whom i received a call the other morning, and mr. pilatte, m. p. cruikshank is an old man with gray hair and eyebrows, strongly marked features, and keen eyes. he talked to me something about the promotion of temperance by a series of literary sketches illustrated by his pencil. i sat by a lady who was well acquainted with kingsley, the author of alton locke, hypatia, and other works, with whom i had some conversation with regard to the influence of his writings. she said that he had been instrumental in rescuing from infidelity many young men whose minds had become unsettled; that he was a devoted and laborious clergyman, exerting himself, without any cessation, for the good of his parish. after the company were gone i tried to get some rest, as my labors were not yet over, we being engaged to dine at sir edward buxton's. this was our most dissipated day in london. we never tried the experiment again of going to three parties in one day. by the time i got to my third appointment i was entirely exhausted. i met here some, however, whom i was exceedingly interested to see; among them samuel gurney, brother of elizabeth fry, with his wife and family. lady edward buxton is one of his daughters. all had that air of benevolent friendliness which is characteristic of the sect. dr. lushington, the companion and venerable associate of wilberforce and clarkson, was also present. he was a member of parliament with wilberforce forty or fifty years ago. he is now a judge of the admiralty court, that is to say, of the law relating to marine affairs. this is a branch of law which the nature of our government in america makes it impossible for us to have. he is exceedingly brilliant and animated in conversation. dr. cunningham, the author of world without souls, was present. there was there also a master of harrow school. he told me an anecdote, which pleased me for several reasons; that once, when the queen visited the school, she put to him the inquiry, "whether the educational system of england did not give a disproportionate attention to the study of the ancient classics." his reply was, "that her majesty could best satisfy her mind on that point by observing what men the public schools of england had hitherto produced;" certainly a very adroit reply, yet one which would be equally good against the suggestion of any improvement whatever. we might as well say, see what men we have been able to raise in america without any classical education at all; witness benjamin franklin, george washington, and roger sherman. it is a curious fact that christian nations, with one general consent, in the early education of youth neglect the volume which they consider inspired, and bring the mind, at the most susceptible period, under the dominion of the literature and mythology of the heathen world; and that, too, when the sacred history and poetry are confessedly superior in literary quality. grave doctors of divinity expend their forces in commenting on and teaching things which would be utterly scouted, were an author to publish them in english as original compositions. a christian community has its young men educated in ovid and anacreon, but is shocked when one of them comes out in english with don juan; yet, probably, the latter poem is purer than either. the english literature and poetry of the time of pope and dryden betray a state of association so completely heathenized, that an old greek or roman raised from the dead could scarce learn from them that any change had taken place in the religion of the world; and even milton often pains one by introducing second-hand pagan mythology into the very shadow of the eternal throne. in some parts of the paradise lost, the evident imitations of homer are to me the poorest and most painful passages. the adoration of the ancient classics has lain like a dead weight on all modern art and literature; because men, instead of using them simply for excitement and inspiration, have congealed them into fixed, imperative rules. as the classics have been used, i think, wonderful as have been the minds educated under them, there would have been more variety and originality without them. with which long sermon on a short text, i will conclude my letter. letter xx. thursday, may . my dear i.:-- yesterday, what with my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, i was, as the fashionable saying is, "fairly knocked up." this expression, which i find obtains universally here, corresponds to what we mean by being "used up." they talk of americanisms, and i have a little innocent speculation now and then concerning anglicisms. i certainly find several here for which i can perceive no more precedent in the well of "english undefiled," than for some of ours; for instance, this being "knocked up," which is variously inflected, as, for example, in the form of a participial adjective, as a "knocking up" affair; in the form of a noun, as when they say "such a person has got quite a knocking up," and so on. the fact is, if we had ever had any experience in london life we should not have made three engagements in one day. to my simple eye it is quite amusing to see how they manage the social machine here. people are under such a pressure of engagements, that they go about with their lists in their pockets. if a wants to invite b to dinner, out come their respective lists. a says he has only tuesday and thursday open for this week. b looks down his list, and says that the days are all closed. a looks along, and says that he has no day open till next wednesday week. b, however, is going to leave town tuesday; so that settles the matter as to dining; so they turn back again, and try the breakfasting; for though you cannot dine in but one place a day, yet, by means of the breakfast and the lunch, you can make three social visits if you are strong enough. then there are evening parties, which begin at ten o'clock. the first card of the kind that was sent me, which was worded, "at home at ten o'clock," i, in my simplicity, took to be ten in the morning. but here are people staying out night after night till two o'clock, sitting up all night in parliament, and seeming to thrive upon it. there certainly is great apology for this in london, if it is always as dark, drizzling, and smoky in the daytime as it has been since i have been here. if i were one of the london people i would live by gaslight as they do, for the streets and houses are altogether pleasanter by gaslight than by daylight. but to ape these customs under our clear, american skies, so contrary to our whole social system, is simply ridiculous. this morning i was exceedingly tired, and had a perfect longing to get but of london into some green fields--to get somewhere where there was nobody. so kind mrs. b. had the carriage, and off we drove together. by and by we found ourselves out in the country, and then i wanted to get out and walk. after a while a lady came along, riding a little donkey. these donkeys have amused me so much since i have been here! at several places on the outskirts of the city they have them standing, all girt up with saddles covered with white cloth, for ladies to ride on. one gets out of london by means of an omnibus to one of these places, and then, for a few pence, can have a ride upon one of them into the country. mrs. b. walked by the side of the lady, and said to her something which i did not hear, and she immediately alighted and asked me with great kindness if i wanted to try the saddle; so i got upon the little beast, which was about as large as a good-sized calf, and rode a few paces to try him. it is a slow, but not unpleasant gait, and if the creature were not so insignificantly small, as to make you feel much as if you were riding upon a cat, it would be quite a pleasant affair. after dismounting i crept through a hole in a hedge, and looked for some flowers; and, in short, made the most that i could of my interview with nature, till it came time to go home to dinner, for our dinner hour at mr. b.'s is between one and two; quite like home. in the evening we were to dine at lord shaftesbury's. after napping all the afternoon we went to grosvenor square. there was only a small, select party, of about sixteen. among the guests were dr. mcall, hebrew professor in king's college, lord wriothesley russell, brother of lord john, and one of the private chaplains of the queen, and the archbishop of canterbury. dr. mcall is a millenarian. he sat next to c. at table, and they had some conversation on that subject. he said those ideas had made a good deal of progress in the english mind. while i was walking down to dinner with lord shaftesbury, he pointed out to me in the hall the portrait of his distinguished ancestor, antony ashley cooper, earl of shaftesbury, whose name he bears. this ancestor, notwithstanding his sceptical philosophy, did some good things, as he was the author of the habeas corpus act. after dinner we went back to the drawing rooms again; and while tea and coffee were being served, names were constantly being announced, till the rooms were quite full. among the earliest who arrived was mr.----, a mulatto gentleman, formerly british consul at liberia. i found him a man of considerable cultivation and intelligence, evincing much good sense in his observations. i overheard some one saying in the crowd, "shaftesbury has been about the chimney sweepers again in parliament." i said to lord shaftesbury, "i thought that matter of the chimney sweepers had been attended to long ago, and laws made about it." "so we have made laws," said he, "but people won't keep them unless we follow them up." he has a very prompt, cheerful way of speaking, and throws himself into every thing he talks about with great interest and zeal. he introduced me to one gentleman, i forget his name now, as the patron of the shoeblacks. on my inquiring what that meant, he said that he had started the idea of providing employment for poor street boys, by furnishing them with brushes and blacking, and forming them into regular companies of shoeblacks. each boy has his' particular stand, where he blacks the shoes of every passer by who chooses to take the trouble of putting up his foot and paying his twopence. lord shaftesbury also presented me to a lady who had been a very successful teacher in the ragged schools; also to a gentleman who, he said, had been very active in the london city missions. some very ingenious work done in the ragged schools was set on the table for the company to examine, and excited much interest. i talked a little while with lord wriothesley russell. from him we derived the idea that the queen was particularly careful in the training and religious instruction of her children. he said that she claimed that the young prince should be left entirely to his parents, in regard to his religious instruction, till he was seven years of age; but that, on examining him at that time, they were equally surprised and delighted with his knowledge of the scriptures. i must remark here, that such an example as the queen sets in the education of her children makes itself felt through all the families of the kingdom. domesticity is now the fashion in high life. i have had occasion to see, in many instances, how carefully ladies of rank instruct their children. this argues more favorably for the continuance of english institutions than any thing i have seen. if the next generation of those who are born to rank and power are educated, in the words of fenelon, to consider these things "as a ministry," which they hold for the benefit of the poor, the problem of life in england will become easier of solution. such are lord shaftesbury's views, and as he throws them out with unceasing fervor in his conversation and conduct, they cannot but powerfully affect not only his own circle, but all circles through the kingdom. lady shaftesbury is a beautiful and interesting woman, and warmly enters into the benevolent plans of her husband. a gentleman and lady with whom i travelled said that lord and lady shaftesbury had visited in person the most forlorn and wretched parts of london, that they might get, by their own eyesight, a more correct gauge of the misery to be relieved. i did not see lord shaftesbury's children; but, from the crayon likenesses which hung upon the walls, they must be a family of uncommon beauty. i talked a little while with the bishop of tuam. i was the more interested to do so because he was from that part of ireland which sibyl jones has spoken of as being in so particularly miserable a condition. i said, "how are you doing now, in that part of the country? there has been a great deal of misery there, i hear." he said "there has been, but we have just turned the corner, and now i hope we shall see better days. the condition of the people has been improved by emigration and other causes, till the evils have been brought within reach, and we feel that there is hope of effecting a permanent improvement." while i was sitting talking, lord shaltesbury brought a gentleman and lady, whom he introduced as lord chief justice campbell and lady strathheden. lord campbell is a man of most dignified and imposing personal presence; tall, with a large frame, a fine, high forehead, and strongly marked features. naturally enough, i did not suppose them to be husband and wife, and when i discovered that they were so, expressed a good deal of surprise at their difference of titles; to which she replied, that she did not wonder we americans were sometimes puzzled among the number of titles. she seemed quite interested to inquire into our manner of living and customs, and how they struck me as compared with theirs. the letter of mrs. tyler was much talked of, and some asked me if i supposed mrs. tyler really wrote it, expressing a little civil surprise at the style. i told them that i had heard it said that it must have been written by some of the gentlemen in the family, because it was generally understood that mrs. tyler was a very ladylike person. some said, "it does us no harm to be reminded of our deficiencies; we need all the responsibility that can be put upon us." others said, "it is certain we have many defects;" but lord john campbell said, "there is this difference between our evils and those of slavery: ours exist contrary to law; those are upheld by law." i did not get any opportunity of conversing with the archbishop of canterbury, though this is the second time i have been in company with him. he is a most prepossessing man in his appearance--simple, courteous, mild, and affable. he was formerly bishop of chester, and is now primate of all england. it is some indication of the tendency of things in a country to notice what kind of men are patronized and promoted to the high places of the church. sumner is a man refined, gentle, affable, scholarly, thoroughly evangelical in sentiment; to render him into american phraseology, he is in doctrine what we should call a moderate new school man. he has been a most industrious writer; one of his principal works is his commentary on the new testament, in several volumes; a work most admirably adapted for popular use, combining practical devotion with critical accuracy to an uncommon degree. he has also published a work on the evidences of christianity, in which he sets forth some evidences of the genuineness of the gospel narrative, which could only have been conceived by a mind of peculiar delicacy, and which are quite interesting and original. he has also written a work on biblical geology, which is highly spoken of by sir charles lyell and others. if i may believe accounts that i hear, this mild and moderate man has shown a most admirable firmness and facility in guiding the ship of the establishment in some critical and perilous places of late years. i should add that he is warmly interested in all the efforts now making for the good of the poor. among other persons of distinction, this evening, i noticed lord and lady palmerston. a lady asked me this evening what i thought of the beauty of the ladies of the english aristocracy: she was a scotch lady, by the by; so the question was a fair one. i replied, that certainly report had not exaggerated their charms. then came a home question--how the ladies of england compared with the ladies of america. "now for it, patriotism," said i to myself; and, invoking to my aid certain fair saints of my own country, whose faces i distinctly remembered, i assured her that i had never seen more beautiful women than i had in america. grieved was i to be obliged to add, "but your ladies keep their beauty much later and longer." this fact stares one in the face in every company; one meets ladies past fifty, glowing, radiant, and blooming, with a freshness of complexion and fulness of outline refreshing to contemplate. what can be the reason? tell us, muses and graces, what can it be? is it the conservative power of sea fogs and coal smoke--the same cause that keeps the turf green, and makes the holly and ivy flourish? how comes it that our married ladies dwindle, fade, and grow thin--that their noses incline to sharpness, and their elbows to angularity, just at the time of life when their island sisters round out into a comfortable and becoming amplitude and fulness? if it is the fog and the sea coal, why, then, i am afraid we never shall come up with them. but perhaps there may be other causes why a country which starts some of the most beautiful girls in the world produces so few beautiful women. have not our close-heated stove rooms something to do with it? have not the immense amount of hot biscuits, hot corn cakes, and other compounds got up with the acrid poison of saleratus, something to do with it? above all, has not our climate, with its alternate extremes of heat and cold, a tendency to induce habits of in-door indolence? climate, certainly, has a great deal to do with it; ours is evidently more trying and more exhausting; and because it is so, we should not pile upon its back errors of dress and diet which are avoided by our neighbors. they keep their beauty, because they keep their health. it has been as remarkable as any thing to me, since i have been here, that i do not constantly, as at home, hear one and another spoken of as in miserable health, as very delicate, &c. health seems to be the rule, and not the exception. for my part, i must say, the most favorable omen that i know of for female beauty in america is, the multiplication of water cure establishments, where our ladies, if they get nothing else, do gain some ideas as to the necessity of fresh air, regular exercise, simple diet, and the laws of hygiene in general. there is one thing more which goes a long way towards the continued health of these english ladies, and therefore towards their beauty; and that is, the quietude and perpetuity of their domestic institutions. they do not, like us, fade their cheeks lying awake nights ruminating the awful question who shall do the washing next week, or who shall take the chambermaid's place, who is going to be married, or that of the cook, who has signified her intention of parting with the mistress. their hospitality is never embarrassed by the consideration that their whole kitchen cabinet may desert at the moment that their guests arrive. they are not obliged to choose between washing their own dishes, or having their cut glass, silver, and china left to the mercy of a foreigner, who has never done any thing but field work. and last, not least, they are not possessed with that ambition to do the impossible in all branches, which, i believe, is the death of a third of the women in america. what is there ever read of in books, or described in foreign travel, as attained by people in possession of every means and appliance, which our women will not undertake, single-handed, in spite of every providential indication to the contrary? who is not cognizant of dinner parties invited, in which the lady of the house has figured successively as confectioner, cook, dining-room girl, and, lastly, rushed up stairs to bathe her glowing cheeks, smooth her hair, draw on satin dress and kid gloves, and appear in the drawing room as if nothing were the matter? certainly the undaunted bravery of our american females can never enough be admired. other women can play gracefully the head of the establishment; but who, like them, could be head, hand, and foot, all at once? as i have spoken of stoves, i will here remark that i have not yet seen one in england; neither, so far as i can remember, have i seen a house warmed by a furnace. bright coal fires, in grates of polished steel, are as yet the lares and penates of old england. if i am inclined to mourn over any defection in my own country, it is the closing up of the cheerful open fire, with its bright lights and dancing shadows, and the planting on our domestic hearth of that sullen, stifling gnome, the air-tight. i agree with hawthorne in thinking the movement fatal to patriotism; for who would fight for an airtight! i have run on a good way beyond our evening company; so good by for the present. letter xxi may . dear father:-- to-day we are to go out to visit your quaker friend, mr. alexander, at stoke newington, where you passed so many pleasant hours during your sojourn in england. at half past nine we went into the congregational union, which is now in session. i had a seat upon the platform, where i could command a view of the house. it was a most interesting assemblage to me, recalling forcibly our new england associations, and impressing more than ever on my mind how much of one blood the two countries are. these earnest, thoughtful, intelligent-looking men seemed to transport me back to my own country. they received us with most gratifying cordiality and kindness. most naturally congregationalism in england must turn with deep interest and sympathy to congregationalism in america. in several very cordial addresses they testified their pleasure at seeing us among them, speaking most affectionately of you and your labors, and your former visit to england. the wives and daughters of many of them present expressed in their countenances the deepest and most affectionate feeling. it is cheering to feel that an ocean does not divide our hearts, and that the christians of america and england are one. in the afternoon we drove out to mr. alexander's. his place is called paradise, and very justly, being one more of those home edens in which england abounds, where, without ostentation or display, every appliance of rational enjoyment surrounds one. we were ushered into a cheerful room, opening by one glass door upon a brilliant conservatory of flowers, and by another upon a neatly-kept garden. the air was fresh and sweet with the perfume of blossoming trees, and every thing seemed doubly refreshing from the contrast with the din and smoke of london. our chamber looked out upon a beautiful park, shaded with fine old trees. while contemplating the white draperies of our windows, and the snowy robings of the bed, we could not but call to mind the fact, of which we were before aware, that not an article was the result of the unpaid oil of the slave; neither did this restriction, voluntarily assumed, fetter at all the bountifulness of the table, where free-grown sugar, coffee, rice, and spices seemed to derive a double value to our friends from this consideration. some of the quakers carry the principle so far as to refuse money in a business transaction which they have reason to believe has been gained by the unpaid toil of the slave. a friend in edinburgh told me of a brother of his in the city of carlisle, who kept a celebrated biscuit bakery, who received an order from new orleans for a thousand dollars worth of biscuit. before closing the bargain he took the buyer into his counting room, and told him that he had conscientious objections about receiving money from slaveholders, and that in case he were one he should prefer not to trade with him. fortunately, in this case, consistency and interest were both on one side. things like these cannot but excite reflection in one's mind, and the query must arise, if all who really believe slavery to be a wrong should pursue this course, what would be the result? there are great practical difficulties in the way of such a course, particularly in america, where the subject has received comparatively little attention. yet since i have been in england, i am informed by the friends here, that there has been for many years an association of friends in philadelphia, who have sent their agents through the entire southern states, entering by them into communication with quite a considerable number scattered through the states, who, either from poverty or principle, raise their cotton by free labor; that they have established a depot in philadelphia, and also a manufactory, where the cotton thus received is made into various household articles; and thus, by dint of some care and self-sacrifice, many of them are enabled to abstain entirely from any participation with the results of this crime. as soon as i heard this fact, it flashed upon my mind immediately, that the beautiful cotton lands of texas are as yet unoccupied to a great extent; that no law compels cotton to be raised there by slave labor, and that it is beginning to be raised there to some extent by the labor of free german emigrants. [footnote: one small town in texas made eight hundred bales last year by free labor.] will not something eventually grow out of this? i trust so. even the smallest chink of light is welcome in a prison, if it speak of a possible door which courage and zeal may open. i cannot as yet admit the justness of the general proposition, that it is an actual sin to eat, drink, or wear any thing which has been the result of slave labor, because it seems to me to be based upon a principle altogether too wide in extent. to be consistent in it, we must extend it to the results of all labor which is not conducted on just and equitable principles; and in order to do this consistently we must needs, as st. paul says, go out of the world. but if two systems, one founded on wrong and robbery, and the other on right and justice, are competing with each other, should we not patronize the right? i am the more inclined to think that some course of this kind is indicated to the christian world, from the reproaches and taunts which proslavery papers are casting upon us, for patronizing their cotton. at all events, the quakers escape the awkwardness of this dilemma. in the evening quite a large circle of friends came to meet us. we were particularly interested in the conversation of mr. and mrs. wesby, missionaries from antigua. antigua is the only one of the islands in which emancipation was immediate, without any previous apprenticeship system; and it is the one in which the results of emancipation have been altogether the most happy. they gave us a very interesting account of their schools, and showed us some beautiful specimens of plain needlework, which had been wrought by young girls in them. they confirmed all the accounts which i have heard from other sources of the peaceableness, docility, and good character of the negroes; of their kindly disposition and willingness to receive instruction. after tea mr. s. and i walked out a little while, first to a large cemetery, where repose the ashes of dr. watts. this burying ground occupies the site of the dwelling and grounds formerly covered by the residence of sir t. abney, with whom dr. watts spent many of the last years of his life. it has always seemed to me that dr. watts's rank as a poet has never been properly appreciated. if ever there was a poet born, he was that man; he attained without study a smoothness of versification, which, with pope, was the result of the intensest analysis and most artistic care. nor do the most majestic and resounding lines of dryden equal some of his in majesty of volume. the most harmonious lines of dryden, that i know of, are these:-- "when jubal struck the chorded shell, his listening brethren stood around, and wondering, on their faces fell, to worship that celestial sound. less than a god they thought there could not dwell within the hollow of that shell, that spoke so sweetly and so well." the first four lines of this always seem to me magnificently harmonious. but almost any verse at random in dr. watts's paraphrase of the one hundred and forty-eighth psalm exceeds them, both in melody and majesty. for instance, take these lines:-- "wide as his vast dominion lies, let the creator's name be known; loud as his thunder shout his praise, and sound it lofty as his throne. speak of the wonders of that love which gabriel plays on every chord: from all below and all above, loud hallelujahs to the lord." simply as a specimen of harmonious versification, i would place this paraphrase by dr. watts above every thing in the english language, not even excepting pope's messiah. but in hymns, where the ideas are supplied by his own soul, we have examples in which fire, fervor, imagery, roll from the soul of the poet in a stream of versification, evidently spontaneous. such are all those hymns in which he describes the glories of the heavenly state, and the advent of the great events foretold in prophecy; for instance, this verse from the opening of one of his judgment hymns:-- "lo, i behold the scattered shades; the dawn of heaven appears; the sweet immortal morning sheds its blushes round the spheres." dr. johnson, in his lives of the poets, turns him off with small praise, it is true, saying that his devotional poetry is like that of others, unsatisfactory; graciously adding that it is sufficient for him to have done better than others what no one has done well; and, lastly, that he is one of those poets with whom youth and ignorance may safely be pleased. but if dr. johnson thought irene was poetry, it is not singular that he should think the lyrics of watts were not. stoke newington is also celebrated as the residence of de foe. we passed by, in our walk, the ancient mansion in which he lived. new river, which passes through the grounds of our host, is an artificial stream, which is said to have been first suggested by his endlessly fertile and industrious mind, as productive in practical projects as in books. it always seemed to me that there are three writers which every one who wants to know how to use the english language effectively should study; and these are shakspeare, bunyan, and defoe. one great secret of their hold on the popular mind is their being so radically and thoroughly english. they have the solid grain of the english oak, not veneered by learning and the classics; not inlaid with arabesques from other nations, but developing wholly out of the english nationality. i have heard that goethe said the reason for the great enthusiasm with which his countrymen regarded him was, that he _did know how to write german,_ and so also these men knew how to write english. i think defoe the most suggestive writer to an artist of fiction that the english language affords. that power by which he wrought fiction to produce the impression of reality, so that his plague in london was quoted by medical men as an authentic narrative, and his life of a cavalier recommended by lord chatham as an historical authority, is certainly worth an analysis. with him, undoubtedly, it was an instinct. one anecdote, related to us this evening by our friends, brought to mind with new power the annoyances to which the quakers have been subjected in england, under the old system of church rates. it being contrary to the conscientious principles of the quakers to pay these church rates voluntarily, they allowed the officers of the law to enter their houses and take whatever article he pleased in satisfaction of the claim. on one occasion, for the satisfaction of a claim of a few pounds, they seized and sold a most rare and costly mantel clock, which had a particular value as a choice specimen of mechanical skill, and which was worth four or five times the sum owed. a friend afterwards repurchased and presented it to the owner. we were rejoiced to hear that these church rates are now virtually abolished. the liberal policy pursued in england for the last twenty-five years is doing more to make the church of england, and the government generally, respectable and respected than the most extortionate exactions of violence. we parted from our kind friends in the morning; came back and i sat a while to mr. burnard, the sculptor, who entertained me with various anecdotes. he had taken the bust of the prince of wales; and i gathered from his statements that young princes have very much the same feelings and desires that other little boys have, and that he has a very judicious mother. in the afternoon, mr. s., mrs. b., and i had a pleasant drive in hyde park, as i used to read of heroines of romance doing in the old novels. it is delightful to get into this fairyland of parks, so green and beautiful, which embellish the west end. in the evening we had an engagement at two places--at a highland school dinner, and at mr. charles dickens's. i felt myself too much exhausted for both, and so it was concluded that i should go to neither, but try a little quiet drive into the country, and an early retirement, as the most prudent termination of the week. while mr. s. prepared to go to the meeting of the highland school society, mr. and mrs. b. took me a little drive into the country. after a while they alighted before a new gothic congregational college, in st. john's wood. i found that there had been a kind of tea-drinking there by the congregational ministers and their families, to celebrate the opening of the college. on returning, we called for mr. s., at the dinner, and went for a few moments into the gallery, the entertainment being now nearly over. here we heard some scottish songs, very charmingly sung; and, what amused me very much, a few highland musicians, dressed in full costume, occasionally marched through the hall, playing on their bagpipes, as was customary in old scottish entertainments. the historian sir archibald alison, sheriff of lanarkshire, sat at the head of the table--a tall, fine-looking man, of very commanding presence. about nine o'clock we retired. may . heard mr. binney preach this morning. he is one of the strongest men among the congregationalists, and a very popular speaker. he is a tall, large man, with a finely-built head, high forehead, piercing, dark eye, and a good deal of force and determination in all his movements. his sermon was the first that i had heard in england which seemed to recognize the existence of any possible sceptical or rationalizing element in the minds of his hearers. it was in this respect more like the preaching that i had been in the habit of hearing at home. instead of a calm statement of certain admitted religious facts, or exhortations founded upon them, his discourse seemed to be reasoning with individual cases, and answering various forms of objections, such as might arise in different minds. this mode of preaching, i think, cannot exist unless a minister cultivates an individual knowledge of his people. mr. binney's work, entitled how to make the best of both worlds, i have heard spoken of as having had the largest sale of any religious writing of the present day. may . this evening is the great antislavery meeting at exeter hall. lord shaftesbury in the chair. exeter hall stands before the public as the representation of the strong democratic, religious element of england. in exeter hall are all the philanthropies, foreign and domestic; and a crowded meeting there gives one perhaps a better idea of the force of english democracy--of that kind of material which goes to make up the mass of the nation--than any thing else. when macaulay expressed some sentiments which gave offence to this portion of the community, he made a defence in which he alluded sarcastically to the bray of exeter hall. the expression seems to have been remembered, for i have often heard it quoted; though i believe they have forgiven him for it, and concluded to accept it as a joke. the hall this night was densely crowded, and, as i felt very unwell, i did not go in till after the services had commenced--a thing which i greatly regretted afterwards, as by this means i lost a most able speech by lord shaftesbury. the duchess of sutherland entered soon after the commencement of the exercises, and was most enthusiastically cheered. when we came in, a seat had been reserved for us by her grace in the side gallery, and the cheering was repeated. i thought i had heard something of the sort in scotland, but there was a vehemence about this that made me tremble. there is always something awful to my mind about a dense crowd in a state of high excitement, let the nature of that excitement be what it will. i do not believe that there is in all america more vehemence of democracy, more volcanic force of power, than comes out in one of these great gatherings in our old fatherland. i saw plainly enough where concord, lexington, and bunker hill came from; and it seems to me there is enough of this element of indignation at wrong, and resistance to tyranny, to found half a dozen more republics as strong as we are. a little incident that occurred gave me an idea of what such a crowd might become in a confused state of excitement. a woman fainted in a distant part of the house, and a policeman attempted to force a way through the densely-packed crowd. the services were interrupted for a few moments, and there were hoarse surgings and swellings of the mighty mass, who were so closely packed that they moved together like waves. some began to rise in their seats, and some cried "order! order!" and one could easily see, that were a sudden panic or overwhelming excitement to break up the order of the meeting, what a terrible scene might ensue. "what is it?" said i to a friend who sat next to me. "a pickpocket, perhaps," said she. "i am afraid we are going to have a row. they are going to give you one of our genuine exeter hall _'brays.'_" i felt a good deal fluttered; but the duchess of sutherland, who knew the british lion better than i did, seemed so perfectly collected that i became reassured. the character of the speeches at this meeting, with the exception of lord shaftesbury's, was more denunciatory, and had more to pain the national feelings of an american, than any i had ever attended. it was the real old saxon battle axe of brother john, swung without fear or favor. such things do not hurt me individually, because i have such a radical faith in my country, such a genuine belief that she will at last right herself from every wrong, that i feel she can afford to have these things said. mr. s. spoke on this point, that the cotton trade of great britain is the principal support to slavery, and read extracts from charleston papers in which they boldly declare that they do not care for any amount of moral indignation wasted upon them by nations who, after all, must and will buy the cotton which they raise. the meeting was a very long one, and i was much fatigued when we returned. to-morrow we are to make a little run out to windsor. letter xxii. may . dear m.:-- i can compare the embarrassment of our london life, with its multiplied solicitations and infinite stimulants to curiosity and desire, only to that annual perplexity which used to beset us in our childhood on thanksgiving day. having been kept all the year within the limits which prudence assigns to well-regulated children, came at last the governor's proclamation, and a general saturnalia of dainties for the little ones. for one day the gates of license were thrown open, and we, plumped down into the midst of pie and pudding exceeding all conception but that of a yankee housekeeper, were left to struggle our way out as best we might. so here, beside all the living world of london, its scope and range of persons and circles of thought, come its architecture, its arts, its localities, historic, poetic, all that expresses its past, its present, and its future. every day and every hour brings its' conflicting allurements, of persons to be seen, places to be visited, things to be done, beyond all computation. like miss edgeworth's philosophic little frank, we are obliged to make out our list of what man _must_ want, and of what he _may_ want; and in our list of the former we set down, in large and decisive characters, one quiet day for the exploration and enjoyment of windsor. we were solicited, indeed, to go in another direction; a party was formed to go down the thames with the right hon. sidney herbert, secretary at war, and visit an emigrant ship just starting for australia. i should say here, that since mrs. chisholm's labors have awakened the attention of the english public to the wants and condition of emigrants, the benevolent people of england take great interest in the departing of emigrant ships. a society has been formed called the family colonization loan society, and a fund raised by which money can be loaned to those desiring to emigrate. this society makes it an object to cultivate acquaintance and intimacy among those about going out by uniting them into groups, and, as far as possible, placing orphan children and single females under the protection of families. any one, by subscribing six guineas towards the loan, can secure one passage. each individual becomes responsible for refunding his own fare, and, furthermore, to pay a certain assessment in case any individual of the group fails to make up the passage money. the sailing of emigrant ships, therefore, has become a scene of great interest. those departing do not leave their native shore without substantial proofs of the interest and care of the land they are leaving. in the party who were going down to-day were mr. and mrs. binney, mr. sherman, and a number of distinguished names; among whom i recollect to have heard the names of lady hatherton, and lady byron, widow of the poet. this would have been an exceedingly interesting scene to us, but being already worn with company and excitement, we preferred a quiet day at windsor. for if we took warwick as the representative feudal estate, we took windsor as the representative palace, that which imbodies the english idea of royalty. apart from this, windsor has been immortalized by the merry wives; it has still standing in its park the herne oak, where the mischievous fairies played their pranks upon old falstaff. and the castle still has about it the charm of the poet's invocation:-- "search windsor castle, elves, within, without, strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room, that it may stand till the perpetual doom in state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit, worthy the owner, and the owner it. the several chairs of order, look you, scour with juice of balm and every precious flower, each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, with loyal blazon evermore be blest. and nightly, meadow fairies, look you, sing like to the garter's compass, in a ring. the expressure that it bears, green let it be, more fertile, fresh, than all the field to see, and honi soit qui mal y pense, write in emerald tufts, flowers, purple, blue, and white, like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, fairies use flowers for their charactery." as if for the loyal purpose of recommending old windsor, the english skies had cleared up into brightness. about nine o'clock we found ourselves in the cars, riding through a perpetual garden of blooming trees and blossoming hedges; birds in a perfect fury of delight. our spirits were all elated. good, honest, cackling mrs. quickly herself was not more disposed to make the best of every thing and every body than were we. mr. s., in particular, was so joyous that i was afraid he would break out into song, after the fashion of sir hugh evans,-- "melodious birds sung madrigals: whenas i sat in babylon," &c. by the by, the fishing ground of izaak walton is one of the localities connected with windsor. the ride was done all too soon. one should not whirl through such a choice bit of england in the cars; one should rather wish to amble over the way after a sleepy, contemplative old horse, as we used to make rural excursions in new england ere yet railroads were. however, all that's bright must fade, and this among the rest. about eleven o'clock we found ourselves going up the old stone steps to the castle. it was the last day of a fair which had been holden in this part of the country, and crowds of the common people were flocking to the castle, men, women, and children pattering up the stairs before and after us. we went first through the state apartments. the principal thing that interested me was the ball room, which was a perfect gallery of vandyke's paintings. here was certainly an opportunity to know what vandyke is. i should call him a true court painter--a master of splendid conventionalities, whose portraits of kings are the most powerful arguments for the divine right i know of. nevertheless, beyond conventionality and outward magnificence, his ideas have no range. he suggests nothing to the moral and ideal part of us. here again was the picture of king charles on horseback, which had interested me at warwick. it had, however, a peculiar and romantic charm from its position at the end of that long, dim corridor, vis-a-vis with the masque of cromwell, which did not accompany it here, where it was but one among a set of pictures. there was another, presenting the front side and three quarters face of the same sovereign, painted by vandyke for benini to make a bust from. there were no less than five portraits of his wife, henrietta maria, in different dresses and attitudes, and two pictures of their children. no sovereign is so profusely and perseveringly represented. the queen's audience chamber is hung with tapestry representing scenes from the book of esther. this tapestry made a very great impression upon me. a knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome in the material part of painting is undoubtedly an unsuspected element of much of the pleasure we derive from it; and for this reason, probably, this tapestry appeared to us better than paintings executed with equal spirit in oils. we admired it exceedingly, entirely careless what critics might think of us if they knew it. another room was hung with gobelin tapestry representing the whole of the tragedy of medea. first you have jason cutting down the golden fleece, while the dragon lies slain, and medea is looking on in admiration. in another he pledges his love to medea. in a third, the men sprung from the dragon's teeth are seen contending with each other. in another the unfaithful lover espouses creusa. in the next creusa is seen burning in the poisoned shirt, given her by medea. in another medea is seen in a car drawn by dragons, bearing her two children by jason, whom she has stabbed in revenge for his desertion. nothing can exceed the ghastly reality of death, as shown in the stiffened limbs and sharpened features of those dead children. the whole drawing and grouping is exceedingly spirited and lifelike, and has great power of impression. i was charmed also by nine landscapes of zuccarelli, which adorn the state drawing room. zuccarelli was a follower of claude, and these pictures far exceed in effect any of claude's i have yet seen. the charm of them does not lie merely in the atmospheric tints and effects, as those of cuyp, but in the rich and fanciful combination of objects. in this respect they perform in painting what the first part of the castle of indolence, or tennyson's lotus eaters, do in poetry-- evoke a fairyland. there was something peculiar about their charm for me. who can decide how much in a picture belongs to the idiosyncrasies and associations of the person who looks upon it. artists undoubtedly powerful and fine may have nothing in them which touches the nervous sympathies and tastes of some persons: who, therefore, shall establish any authoritative canon of taste? who shall say that claude is finer than zuccarelli, or zuccarelli than claude? a man might as well say that the woman who enchants him is the only true venus for the world. then, again, how much in painting or in poetry depends upon the frame of mind in which we see or hear! whoever looks on these pictures, or reads the lotus eaters or castle of indolence, at a time when soul and body are weary, and longing for retirement and rest, will receive an impression from them such as could never be made on the strong nerves of our more healthful and hilarious seasons. certainly no emotions so rigidly reject critical restraints, and disdain to be bound by rule, as those excited by the fine arts. a man unimpressible and incapable of moods and tenses, is for that reason an incompetent critic; and the sensitive, excitable man, how can he know that he does not impose his peculiar mood as a general rule? from the state rooms we were taken to the top of the hound tower, where we gained a magnificent view of the park of windsor, with its regal avenue, miles in length, of ancient oaks; its sweeps of greensward; clumps of trees; its old herne oak, of classic memory; in short, all that constitutes the idea of a perfect english landscape. the english tree is shorter and stouter than ours; its foliage dense and deep, lying with a full, rounding outline against the sky. every thing here conveys the idea of concentrated vitality, but without that rank luxuriance seen in our american growth. having unfortunately exhausted the english language on the subject of grass, i will not repeat any ecstasies upon that topic. after descending from the tower we filed off to the proper quarter, to show our orders for the private rooms. the state apartments, which we had been looking at, are open at all times, but the private apartments can only be seen in the queen's absence, and by a special permission, which had been procured for us on this occasion by the kindness of the duchess of sutherland. one of the first objects that attracted my attention when entering the vestibule was a baby's wicker wagon, standing in one corner; it was much such a carriage as all mothers are familiar with; such as figures largely in the history of almost every family. it had neat curtains and cushions of green merino, and was not royal, only maternal. i mused over the little thing with a good deal of interest. it is to my mind one of the providential signs of our times, that, at this stormy and most critical period of the world's history, the sovereignty of the most powerful nation on earth is represented by a woman and a mother. how many humanizing, gentle, and pacific influences constantly emanate from this centre! one of the most interesting apartments was a long corridor, hung with paintings and garnished along the sides with objects of art and _virtu_. here c. and i renewed a dispute which had for some time been pending, in respect to canaletto's paintings. this canaletto was a venetian painter, who was born about , and died in london in , and was greatly in vogue with the upper circles in those days. he delighted in architectural paintings, which he represents with the accuracy of a daguerreotype, and a management of perspective, chiaro oscuro, and all the other mysteries of art, such as make his paintings amount to about the same as the reality. well, here, in this corridor, we had him in full force. here was venice served up to order--its streets, palaces, churches, bridges, canals, and gondolas made as real to our eye as if we were looking at them out of a window. i admired them very warmly, but i could not go into the raptures that c. did, who kept calling me from every thing else that i wanted to see to come and look at this canaletto. "well, i see it," said i; "it is good--it is perfect--it cannot be bettered; but what then? there is the same difference between these and a landscape of zuccarelli as there is between a neatly-arranged statistical treatise and a poem. the latter suggests a thousand images, the former gives you only information." we were quite interested in a series of paintings which represented the various events of the present queen's history. there was the coronation in westminster abbey--that national romance which, for once in our prosaic world, nearly turned the heads of all the sensible people on earth. think of vesting the sovereignty of so much of the world in a fair young girl of seventeen! the picture is a very pretty one, and is taken at the very moment she is kneeling at the feet of the archbishop of canterbury to receive her crown. she is represented as a fair-haired, interesting girl, the simplicity of her air contrasting strangely with the pomp and gorgeous display around. the painter has done justice to a train of charming young ladies who surround her; among the faces i recognized the blue eyes and noble forehead of the duchess of sutherland. then followed, in due order, the baptism of children, the reception of poor old louis philippe in his exile, and various other matters of the sort which go to make up royal pictures. in the family breakfast room we saw some fine gobelin tapestry, representing the classical story of meleager. in one of the rooms, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic china vase, a present from the emperor of russia, and in the state rooms before we had seen a large malachite vase from the same donor. the toning of this room, with regard to color, was like that of the room i described in stafford house--the carpet of green ground, with the same little leaf upon it, the walls, chairs, and sofas covered with green damask. around the walls of the room, in some places, were arranged cases of books about three feet high. i liked this arrangement particularly, because it gives you the companionship of books in an apartment without occupying that space of the wall which is advantageous for pictures. moreover, books placed high against the walls of a room give a gloomy appearance to the apartment. the whole air of these rooms was very charming, suggestive of refined taste and domestic habits. the idea of home, which pervades every thing in england, from the cottage to the palace, was as much suggested here as in any apartments i have seen. the walls of the different rooms were decorated with portraits of the members of the royal family, and those of other european princes. after this we went through the kitchen department--saw the silver and gold plate of the table; among the latter were some designs which i thought particularly graceful. to conclude all, we went through the stables. the man who showed them told us that several of the queen's favorite horses were taken to osborne; but there were many beautiful creatures left, which i regarded with great complacency. the stables and stalls were perfectly clean, and neatly kept; and one, in short, derives from the whole view of the economics of windsor that satisfaction which results from seeing a thing thoroughly done in the best conceivable manner. the management of the estate of windsor is, i am told, a model for all landholders in the kingdom. a society has been formed there, within a few years, under the patronage of the queen, prince albert, and the duchess of kent, in which the clergy and gentry of the principal parishes in this vicinity are interested, for improving the condition of the laboring classes in this region. the queen and prince albert have taken much interest in the planning and arranging of model houses for the laboring people, which combine cheapness, neatness, ventilation, and all the facilities for the formation of good personal habits. there is a school kept on the estate at windsor, in which the queen takes a very practical interest, regulating the books and studies, and paying frequent visits to it during the time of her sojourn here. the young girls are instructed in fine needlework; but the queen discourages embroidery and ornamental work, meaning to make practical, efficient wives for laboring men. these particulars, with regard to this school, were related to me by a lady living in the vicinity of windsor. we went into st. george's chapel, and there we were all exceedingly interested and enchained in view of the marble monument to the princess charlotte. it consists of two groups, and is designed to express, in one view, both the celestial and the terrestrial aspect of death--the visible and the invisible part of dying. for the visible part, you have the body of the princess in all the desolation and abandonment of death. the attitude of the figure is as if she had thrown herself over in a convulsion, and died. the body is lying listless, simply covered with a sheet, through every fold of which you can see the utter relaxation of that moment when vitality departs, but the limbs have not yet stiffened. her hand and a part of the arm are hanging down, exposed to view beneath the sheet. four figures, with bowed heads, covered with drapery, are represented as sitting around in mute despair. the idea meant to be conveyed by the whole group is that of utter desolation and abandonment. all is over; there is not even heart enough left in the mourners to straighten the corpse for the burial. the mute marble says, as plainly as marble can speak, "let all go; 'tis no matter now; there is no more use in living--nothing to be done, nothing to be hoped!" above this group rises the form of the princess, springing buoyant and elastic, on angel wings, a smile of triumph and aspiration lighting up her countenance. her drapery floats behind her as she rises. two angels, one carrying her infant child and the other with clasped hands of exultant joy, are rising with her, in serene and solemn triumph. now, i simply put it to you, or to any one who can judge of poetry, if this is not a poetical conception. i ask any one who has a heart, if there is not pathos in it. is there not a high poetic merit in the mere conception of these two scenes, thus presented? and had we seen it rudely chipped and chiselled out by some artist of the middle ages, whose hand had not yet been practised to do justice to his conceptions, should we not have said this sculptor had a glorious thought within him? but the chiselling of this piece is not unworthy the conception. nothing can be more exquisite than the turn of the head, neck, and shoulders; nothing more finely wrought than the triumphant smile of the angel princess; nothing could be more artistic than the representation of death in all its hopelessness, in the lower figure. the poor, dead hand, that shows itself beneath the sheet, has an unutterable pathos and beauty in it. as to the working of the drapery,--an inferior consideration, of course,--i see no reason why it should not compare advantageously with any in the british museum. well, you will ask, why are you going on in this argumentative style? who doubts you? let me tell you, then, a little fragment of my experience. we saw this group of statuary the last thing before dinner, after a most fatiguing forenoon of sightseeing, when we were both tired and hungry,--a most unpropitious time, certainly,--and yet it enchanted our whole company; what is more, it made us all cry--a fact of which i am not ashamed, yet. but, only the next day, when i was expressing my admiration to an artist, who is one of the authorities, and knows all that is proper to be admired, i was met with,-- "o, you have seen that, have you? shocking thing! miserable taste--miserable!" "dear me," said i, with apprehension, "what is the matter with it?" " ," said he, "melodramatic, melodramatic--terribly so!" i was so appalled by this word, of whose meaning i had not a very clear idea, that i dropped the defence at once, and determined to reconsider my tears. to have been actually made to cry by a thing that was melodramatic, was a distressing consideration. seriously, however, on reconsidering the objection, i see no sense in it. a thing may be melodramatic, or any other _atic_ that a man pleases; so that it be strongly suggestive, poetic, pathetic, it has a right to its own peculiar place in the world of art. if artists had had their way in the creation of this world, there would have been only two or three kinds of things in it; the first three or four things that god created would have been enacted into fixed rules for making all the rest. but they let the works of nature alone, because they know there is no hope for them, and content themselves with enacting rules in literature and art, which make all the perfection and grace of the past so many impassable barriers to progress in future. because the ancients kept to unity of idea in their groups, and attained to most beautiful results by doing so, shall no modern make an antithesis in marble? and why has not a man a right to dramatize in marble as well as on canvas, if he can produce a powerful and effective result by so doing? and even if by being melodramatic, as the terrible word is, he can shadow forth a grand and comforting religious idea--if he can unveil to those who have seen only the desolation of death, its glory, and its triumph--who shall say that he may not do so because he violates the lines of some old greek artist? where would shakspeare's dramas have been, had he studied the old dramatic unities? so, you see, like an obstinate republican, as i am, i defend my right to have my own opinion about this monument, albeit the guide book, with its usual diplomatic caution, says, "it is in very questionable taste." we went for our dinner to the white hart, the very inn which shakspeare celebrates in his merry wives, and had a most overflowing, merry time of it. the fact is, we had not seen each other for so long that to be in each other's company for a whole day was quite a stimulant. after dinner we had a beautiful drive, passing the colleges at eton, and seeing the boys out playing cricket; had an excellent opportunity to think how true gray's poem on the prospect of eton is to boy-nature then, now, and forever. we were bent upon looking up the church which gave rise to his elegy in a country churchyard, intending, when we got there, to have a little scene over it; mr. s., in all the conscious importance of having been there before, assuring us that he knew exactly where it was. so, after some difficulty with our coachman, and being stopped at one church which would not answer our purpose in any respect, we were at last set down by one which looked authentic; embowered in mossy elms, with a most ancient and goblin yew tree, an ivy-mantled tower, all perfect as could be. there had been a sprinkle of rain,--an ornament which few english days want,--and the westering beams of the sun twinkled through innumerable drops. in fact, it was a pretty place; and i felt such "dispositions to melancholies," as sir hugh evans would have it, that i half resented mr. s.'s suggestion that the cars were waiting. however, as he was engaged to speak at a peace meeting in london, it was agreed he should leave us there to stroll, while he took the cars. so away he went; and we, leaning on the old fence, repeated the elegy, which certainly applies here as beautifully as language could apply. what a calm, shady, poetical nature is expressed in these lines! gray seems to have been sent into the world for nothing but to be a poem, like some of those fabulous, shadowy beings which haunted the cool grottoes on grecian mountains; creatures that seem to have no practical vitality--to be only a kind of voice, an echo, heard for a little, and then lost in silence. he seemed to be in himself a kind of elegy. from thence we strolled along, enjoying the beautiful rural scenery. having had a kind invitation to visit labouchère park that day, which we were obliged to decline for want of time, we were pleased to discover that we had two more hours, in which we could easily accomplish a stroll there. by a most singular infelicity, our party became separated; and, misunderstanding each other, we remained waiting for w. till it was too late for us to go, while he, on the other hand, supposing us to have walked before him, was redoubling his speed all the while, hoping to overtake us. in consequence of this, he accomplished the walk to labouchère park, and we waited in the dismal depot till it was too late to wait any longer, and finally went into london without him. after all, imagine our chagrin on being informed that we had not been to the genuine churchyard. the gentleman who wept over the scenes of his early days on the wrong doorstep was not more grievously disappointed. however, he and we could both console ourselves with the reflection that the emotion was admirable, and wanted only the right place to make it the most appropriate in the world. the genuine country churchyard, however, was that at stoke pogis, which we should have seen had not the fates forbidden our going to labouchère park. letter xxiii. dear sister:-- the evening after our return from windsor was spent with our kind friends, mr. and mrs. gurney. mr. gurney is rector of mary-le-bone parish, one of the largest districts in london; and he is, i have been told, one of the court chaplains; a man of the most cultivated and agreeable manners, earnestly and devoutly engaged in the business of his calling. as one of the working men of the church establishment, i felt a strong interest in his views and opinions, and he seemed to take no less interest in mine, as coming from a country where there is and can be no church establishment. he asked many questions about america; the general style of our preaching; the character of our theology; our modes of religious action; our revivals of religion; our theories of sudden and instantaneous conversion, as distinguished from the gradual conversion of education; our temperance societies, and the stand taken by our clergy in behalf of temperance. he wished to know how the english style of preaching appeared to me in comparison with that of america. i told him one principal difference that struck me was, that the english preaching did not recognize the existence of any element of inquiry or doubt in the popular mind; that it treated certain truths as axioms, which only needed to be stated to be believed; whereas in american sermons there is always more or less time employed in explaining, proving, and answering objections to, the truths enforced. i quoted baptist noel's sermon in illustration of what i meant. i asked him to what extent the element of scepticism, with regard to religious truth, had pervaded the mind of england? adding that i had inferred its existence there from such novels as those of kingsley. he thought that there was much of this element, particularly in the working classes; that they were coming to regard the clergy with suspicion, and to be less under their influence than in former times; and said it was a matter of much solicitude to know how to reach them. i told him that i had heard an american clergyman, who had travelled in england, say, that dissenters were treated much as free negroes were in america, and added that my experience must have been very exceptional, or the remark much overstated, as i had met dissenting clergymen in all circles of society. he admitted that there might be a good deal of bigotry in this respect, but added that the infrequency of association was more the result of those circumstances which would naturally draw the two parties to themselves, than to superciliousness on the side of the establishment, adding that where a court and aristocracy were in the established church, there would necessarily be a pressure of fashion in its favor, which might at times bring uncomfortable results. the children were sitting by studying their evening lessons, and i begged mrs. gurney to allow me to look over their geographies and atlases; and on her inquiring why, i told her that well-informed people in england sometimes made such unaccountable mistakes about the geography of our country as were quite surprising to me, and that i did not understand how it was that our children should know so much more about england than they about us. i found the children, however, in possession of a very excellent and authentic map of our country. i must say also that the most highly educated people i have met in england have never betrayed any want of information on this subject. the next morning we had at breakfast two clergymen, members of the established church. they appeared to be most excellent, devout, practical men, anxious to do good, and thoughtfully seeking for suggestions from any quarter which might assist them in their labors. they renewed many of the inquiries which mr. gurney had made the evening before. after breakfast i went with mr. gurney and mr. s. to richmond's studio to sit for a likeness, which is to be presented to mr. s. by several friends. richmond's name is one which in this london sphere has only to be announced to explain itself; not to know him argues yourself unknown. he is one of the most successful artists in a certain line of portrait painting that the present day affords. he devotes himself principally to crayon and water-color sketches. his crayon heads are generally the size of life; his water-colors of a small size. he often takes full-lengths in this way, which render not merely the features, but the figure, air, manner, and what is characteristic about the dress. these latter sketches are finished up very highly, with the minuteness of a miniature. his forte consists in seizing and fixing those fleeting traits of countenance, air, and movement, which go so far towards making up our idea of a person's appearance. many of the engravings of distinguished persons, with which we are familiar, have come from his designs, such as wilberforce, sir powell buxton, elizabeth fry, and others. i found his studio quite a gallery of notabilities, almost all the _distingués_ of the day having sat to him; so i certainly had the satisfaction of feeling myself in good company. mr. richmond looks quite youthful, (but i never can judge of any one's age here,) is most agreeable in conversation, full of anecdote in regard to all the moving life of london. i presume his power of entertaining conversation is one secret of his successful likenesses. some portrait painters keep calling on you for expression all the while, and say nothing in the world to awaken it. from richmond's, mr. s., c., and i drove out to call upon kossuth. we found him in an obscure lodging on the outskirts of london. i would that some of the editors in america, who have thrown out insinuations about his living in luxury, could have seen the utter bareness and plainness of the reception room, which had nothing in it beyond the simplest necessaries. here dwells the man whose greatest fault is an undying love of his country. we all know that if kossuth would have taken wealth and a secure retreat, with a life of ease for himself, america would gladly have laid all these at his feet. but because he could not acquiesce in the unmerited dishonor of his country, he lives a life of obscurity, poverty, and labor. all this was written in his pale, worn face, and sad, thoughtful blue eye. but to me the unselfish patriot is more venerable for his poverty and his misfortunes. have we, among the thousands who speak loud of patriotism in america, many men, who, were she enfeebled, despised, and trampled, would forego self, and suffer as long, as patiently for her? it is even easier to die for a good cause, in some hour of high enthusiasm, when all that is noblest in us can be roused to one great venture, than to live for it amid wearing years of discouragement and hope delayed. there are those even here in england who delight to get up slanders against kossuth, and not long ago some most unfounded charges were thrown out against him in some public prints. by way of counterpoise an enthusiastic public meeting was held, in which he was presented with a splendid set of shakspeare. he entered into conversation with us with cheerfulness, speaking english well, though with the idioms of foreign languages. he seemed quite amused at the sensation which had been excited by mr. s.'s cotton speech in exeter hall. c. asked him if he had still hopes for his cause. he answered, "i hope still, because i work still; my hope is in god and in man." i inquired for madame kossuth, and he answered, "i have not yet seen her to-day," adding, "she has her family affairs, you know, madam; we are poor exiles here;" and, fearing to cause embarrassment, i did not press an interview. when we parted he took my hand kindly, and said, "god bless you, my child." i would not lose my faith in such men for any thing the world could give me. there are some people who involve in themselves so many of the elements which go to make up our confidence in human nature generally, that to lose confidence in them seems to undermine our faith in human virtue. as shakspeare says, their defection would be like "another fall of man." we went back to mr. gurney's to lunch, and then, as the afternoon was fine, mr. and mrs. gurney drove with us in their carriage to pembroke lodge, the country seat of lord john russell. it was an uncommonly beautiful afternoon, and the view from richmond hill was as perfect a specimen of an english landscape, seen under the most benignant auspices, as we could hope to enjoy. orchards, gardens, villas, charming meadows enamelled with flowers, the silver windings of the thames, the luxuriant outlines of the foliage, varied here and there by the graceful perpendicular of the poplars, all formed one of the richest of landscapes. the brow of the hill is beautifully laid out with tufts of trees, winding paths, diversified here and there with arbors and rustic seats. richmond park is adorned with clumps of ancient trees, among which troops of deer were strolling. pembroke lodge is a plain, unostentatious building, rising in the midst of charming grounds. we were received in the drawing room by the young ladies, and were sorry to learn that lady russell was so unwell as to be unable to give us her company at dinner. two charming little boys came in, and a few moments after, their father, lord john. i had been much pleased with finding on the centre table a beautiful edition of that revered friend of my childhood, dr. watts's divine songs, finely illustrated. i remarked to lord john that it was the face of an old friend. he said it was presented to his little boys by their godfather, sir george grey; and when, taking one of the little boys on his knee, he asked him if he could repeat me one of his hymns, the whole thing seemed so new england-like that i began to feel myself quite at home. i hope i shall some day see in america an edition of dr. watts, in which the illustrations do as much justice to the author's sentiments as in this, for in all our modern religious works for children there is nothing that excels these divine songs. there were only a few guests; among them sir george grey and lady; he is nephew to earl grey, of reform memory, and she is the eldest daughter of the pious and learned bishop ryder, of lichfield. sir george is a man of great piety and worth, a liberal, and much interested in all benevolent movements. there was also the earl of albemarle, who is a colonel in the army, and has served many years under wellington, a particularly cheerful, entertaining, conversable man, full of anecdote. he told several very characteristic and comical stories about the duke of wellington. at dinner, among other things, the conversation turned upon hunting. it always seemed to me a curious thing, that in the height of english civilization this vestige of the savage state should still remain. i told lord albemarle that i thought the idea of a whole concourse of strong men turning out to hunt a poor fox or hare, creatures so feeble and insignificant, and who can do nothing to defend themselves, was hardly consistent with manliness; that if they had some of our american buffaloes, or a bengal tiger, the affair would be something more dignified and generous. thereupon they only laughed, and told stories about fox hunters. it seems that killing a fox, except in the way of hunting, is deemed among hunters an unpardonable offence, and a man who has the misfortune to do it would be almost as unwilling to let it be known as if he had killed a man. they also told about deer stalking in the highlands, in which exercise i inferred lord john had been a proficient. the conversation reminded me of the hunting stories i had heard in the log cabins in indiana, and i amused myself with thinking how some of the narrators would appear among my high-bred friends. there is such a quaint vivacity and droll-cry about that half-savage western life, as always gives it a charm in my recollection. i thought of the jolly old hunter who always concluded the operations of the day by discharging his rifle at his candle after he had snugly ensconced himself in bed; and of the celebrated scene in which henry clay won an old hunter's vote in an election, by his aptness in turning into a political simile some points in the management of a rifle. now there is, to my mind, something infinitely more sublime about hunting in real earnest amid the solemn shadows of our interminable forests, than in making believe hunt in parks. it is undoubtedly the fact, that these out-of-door sports of england have a great deal to do with the firm health which men here enjoy. speaking of this subject, i could not help expressing my surprise to lord john at the apparently perfect health enjoyed by members of parliament, notwithstanding their protracted night labors. he thinks that the session of parliament this year will extend nearly to august. speaking of breakfasts, he said they often had delightful breakfasts about three o'clock in the day; this is a total reverse of all our ideas in regard to time. after dinner lord and lady ribblesdale came in, connections of lord john by a former marriage. i sat by lord john on the sofa, and listened with great interest to a conversation between him and lady grey, on the working of the educational system in england; a subject which has particularly engaged the attention of the english government since the reign of the present queen. i found a difficulty in understanding many of the terms they used, though i learned much that interested me. after a while i went to lady russell's apartment, and had an hour of very pleasant conversation with her. it greatly enlarges our confidence in human nature to find such identity of feeling and opinion among the really good of different countries, and of all different circles in those countries. i have never been more impressed with this idea than during my sojourn here in england. different as the institutions of england and america are, they do not prevent the formation of a very general basis of agreement in so far as radical ideas of practical morality and religion are concerned; and i am increasingly certain that there is a foundation for a lasting unity between the two countries which shall increase constantly, as the increasing facilities of communication lessen the distance between us. lady russell inquired with a good deal of interest after prescott, our historian, and expressed the pleasure which she and lord john had derived from his writings. we left early, after a most agreeable evening. the next day at eleven o'clock we went to an engagement at lambeth palace, where we had been invited by a kind note from its venerable master, the archbishop of canterbury. lambeth is a stately pile of quaint, antique buildings, rising most magnificently on the banks of the thames. it is surrounded by beautiful grounds, laid out with choice gardening. through an ancient hall, lighted by stained-glass windows, we were ushered into the drawing room, where the guests were assembling. there was quite a number of people there, among others the lady and eldest son of the bishop of london, the earl and countess waldegrave, and the family friends of the archbishop. the good archbishop was kind and benign, as usual, and gave me his arm while we explored the curiosities of the palace. now, my dear, if you will please to recollect that the guide book says, "this palace contains all the gradations of architecture from early english to late perpendicular," you will certainly not expect me to describe it in one letter. it has been the residence of the archbishops of canterbury from time immemorial, both in the days before the reformation and since. the chapel was built between the years and , and there used to be painted windows in it, as archbishop laud says, which contained the whole history of the world, from the creation to the day of judgment. unfortunately these comprehensive windows were destroyed in the civil wars. the part called the lollards' tower is celebrated as having been the reputed prison of the lollards. these lollards, perhaps you will remember, were the followers of john wickliffe, called lollards as christ was called a "nazarene," simply because the word was a term of reproach. wickliffe himself was summoned here to lambeth to give an account of his teachings, and in , william courtnay, archbishop of canterbury, called a council, which condemned his doctrines. the tradition is, that at various times these lollards were imprisoned here. in order to get to the tower we had to go through a great many apartments, passages, and corridors, and terminate all by climbing a winding staircase, steeper and narrower than was at all desirable for any but wicked heretics, who ought to be made as uncomfortable as possible. however, by reasonable perseverance, the archbishop, the bishop's lady, and all the noble company present found themselves safely at the top. our host remarked, i think, that it was the second time he had ever been there. the room is thirteen feet by twelve, and about eight feet high, wainscotted with oak, which is scrawled over with names and inscriptions. there are eight large iron rings in the wall, to which the prisoners were chained; for aught we know, wickliffe himself may have been one. as our kind host moved about among us with his placid face, we could not but think that times had altered since the days when archbishops used to imprison heretics, and preside over grim, inquisitorial tribunals. we all agreed, however, that, considering the very beautiful prospect this tower commands up and down the thames, the poor lollards in some respects might have been worse lodged. we passed through the guard room, library, and along a corridor where hung a row of pictures of all the archbishops from the very earliest times; and then the archbishop took me into his study, which is a most charming room, containing his own private library: after that we all sat down to lunch in a large dining hall. i was seated between the archbishop and a venerable admiral in the navy. among other things, the latter asked me if there were not many railroad and steamboat accidents in america. o my countrymen, what trouble do you make us in foreign lands by your terrible carelessness! i was obliged, in candor, to say that i thought there was a shocking number of accidents of that sort, and suggested the best excuse i could think of--our youth and inexperience; but i certainly thought my venerable friend had touched a very indefensible point. among other topics discussed in the drawing room, i heard some more _on dits_ respecting spiritual rappings. every body seems to be wondering what they are, and what they are going to amount to. we took leave of our kind host and his family, gratefully impressed with the simplicity and sincere cordiality of our reception. there are many different names for goodness in this world; but, after all, true brotherly kindness and charity is much the same thing, whether it show itself by a quaker's fireside or in an archbishop's palace. leaving the archbishop's i went to richmond's again, where i was most agreeably entertained for an hour or two. we have an engagement for playford hall to-morrow, and we breakfast with joseph sturge: it being now the time of the yearly meeting of the friends, he and his family are in town. letter xxiv. my dear s.:-- the next morning c. and i took the cars to go into the country, to playford hall. "and what's playford hall?" you say. "and why did you go to see it?" as to what it is, here is a reasonably good picture before you. as to why, it was for many years the residence of thomas clarkson, and is now the residence of his venerable widow and her family. playford hall is considered, i think, the oldest of the fortified houses in england, and is, i am told, the only one that has water in the moat. the water which is seen girdling the wall, in the picture, is the moat: it surrounds the place entirely, leaving no access except across the bridge, which is here represented. after crossing this bridge, you come into a green court yard filled with choice plants and flowering shrubs, and carpeted with that thick, soft, velvet-like grass which is to be found nowhere else in so perfect a state as in england. the water is fed by a perpetual spring, whose current is so sluggish as scarcely to be perceptible, but which yet has the vitality of a running stream. it has a dark and glassy stillness of surface, only broken by the forms of the water plants, whose leaves float thickly over it. the walls of the moat are green with ancient moss, and from the crevices springs an abundant flowering vine, whose delicate leaves and bright yellow flowers in some places entirely mantle the stones with their graceful drapery. [illustration: _of playford hall._] the picture i have given you represents only one side of the moat. the other side is grown up with dark and thick shrubbery and ancient trees, rising and embowering the entire place, adding to the retired and singular effect of the whole. the place is a specimen of a sort of thing which does not exist in america. it is one of those significant landmarks which unite the present with the past, for which we must return to the country of our origin. playford hall is peculiarly english, and thomas clarkson, for whose sake i visited it, was as peculiarly an englishman--a specimen of the very best kind of english mind and character, as this is of characteristic english architecture. we anglo-saxons have won a hard name in the world. there are undoubtedly bad things which are true about us. taking our developments as a race, both in england and america, we may be justly called the romans of the nineteenth century. we have been the race which has conquered, subdued, and broken in pieces other weaker races, with little regard either to justice or mercy. with regard to benefits by us imparted to conquered nations, i think a better story, on the whole, can be made out for the romans than for us. witness the treatment of the chinese, of the tribes of india, and of our own american indians. but still there is in anglo-saxon blood, a vigorous sense of justice, as appears in our habeas corpus, our jury trials, and other features of state organization; and, when this is tempered, in individuals, with the elements of gentleness and compassion, and enforced by that energy and indomitable perseverance which are characteristic of the anglo-saxon mind, they form a style of philanthropy peculiarly efficient. in short, the anglo-saxon is efficient, in whatever he sets himself about, whether in crushing the weak or lifting them up. thomas clarkson was born in a day when good, pious people imported cargoes of slaves from africa, as one of the regular christianized modes of gaining a subsistence and providing for themselves and their households. it was a thing that every body was doing, and every body thought they had a right to do. it was supposed that all the sugar, molasses, and rum in the world were dependent on stealing men, women, and children, and could be got in no other way; and as to consume sugar, molasses, and rum, were evidently the chief ends of human existence, it followed that men, women, and children must be stolen to the end of time. some good people, when they now and then heard an appalling story of the cruelties practised in the slave ship, declared that it was really too bad, sympathetically remarked, "what a sorrowful world we live in!" stirred their sugar into their tea, and went on as before, because, what was there to do?--"hadn't every body always done it? and if they didn't do it, wouldn't somebody else?" it is true that for many years individuals at different times had remonstrated, written treatises, poems, stories, and movements had been made by some religious bodies, particularly the quakers, but the opposition had amounted to nothing practically efficient. the attention of clarkson was first turned to the subject by having it given out as the theme for a prize composition in his college class, he being at that time a sprightly young man, about twenty-four years of age. he entered into the investigation with no other purpose than to see what he could make of it as a college theme. he says of himself, "i had expected pleasure from the invention of arguments, from the arrangement of them, from the putting of them together, and from the thought, in the interim, that i was engaged in an innocent contest for literary honor; but all my pleasures were damped by the facts which were now continually before me." "it was but one gloomy subject from morning till night; in the daytime i was uneasy, in the night i had little rest; i sometimes never closed my eyelids for grief." it became not now so much a trial for academical reputation as to write a work which should be useful to africa. it is not surprising that a work written under the force of such feelings should have gained the prize, as it did. clarkson was summoned from london to cambridge, to deliver his prize essay publicly. he says of himself, on returning to london, "the subject of it almost wholly engrossed my thoughts. i became at times very seriously affected while on the road. i stopped my horse occasionally, dismounted, and walked." "i frequently tried to persuade myself that the contents of my essay could not be true; but the more i reflected on the authorities on which they were founded, the more i gave them credit. coming in sight of wade's mill, in hertfordshire, i sat down disconsolate on the turf by the roadside, and held my horse. here a thought came into my mind, that if the contents of the essay were true, it was time that somebody should see these calamities to an end." these reflections, as it appears, were put off for a while, but returned again. this young and noble heart was of a kind that could not comfort itself so easily for a brother's sorrow as many do. he says of himself, "in the course of the autumn of the same year, i walked frequently into the woods, that i might think of the subject in solitude, and find relief to my mind there; but there the question still recurred, 'are these things true?' still, the answer followed as instantaneously, 'they are;' still the result accompanied it--surely some person should interfere. i began to envy those who had seats in parliament, riches, and widely-extended connections, which would enable them to take up this cause. "finding scarcely any one, at the time, who thought of it, i was turned frequently to myself; but here many difficulties arose. it struck me, among others, that a young man only twenty-four years of age could not have that solid judgment, or that knowledge of men, manners, and things, which were requisite to qualify him to undertake a task of such magnitude and importance; and with whom was i to unite? i believed, also, that it looked so much like one of the feigned labors of hercules, that my understanding would be suspected if i proposed it." he, however, resolved to do something for the cause by translating his essay from latin into english, enlarging and presenting it to the public. immediately on the publication of this essay he discovered, to his astonishment and delight, that he was not the only one who had been interested in this subject. being invited to the house of william dillwyn, one of these friends to the cause, he says, "how surprised was i to learn, in the course of our conversation, of the labors of granville sharp, of the writings of ramsey, and of the controversy in which the latter was engaged! of all which i had hitherto known nothing. how surprised was i to learn that william dillwyn had, two years before, associated himself with five others for the purpose of enlightening the public mind on this great subject! "how astonished was i to find that a society had been formed in america for the same object! these thoughts almost overpowered me. my mind was overwhelmed by the thought that i had been providentially directed to this house; the finger of providence was beginning to be discernible, and that the daystar of african liberty was rising." after this he associated with many friends of the cause, and at last it became evident that, in order to effect any thing, he must sacrifice all other prospects in life, and devote himself exclusively to this work. he says, after mentioning reasons which prevented all his associates from doing this, "i could look, therefore, to no person but myself; and the question was, whether i was prepared to make the sacrifice. in favor of the undertaking, i urged to myself that never was any cause, which had been taken up by man, in any country or in any age, so great and important; that never was there one in which so much misery was heard to cry for redress; that never was there one in which so much good could be done; never one in which the duty of christian charity could be so extensively exercised; never one more worthy of the devotion of a whole life towards it; and that, if a man thought properly, he ought to rejoice to have been called into existence, if he were only permitted to become an instrument in forwarding it in any part of its progress. "against these sentiments, on the other hand, i had to urge that i had been designed for the church; that i had already advanced as far as deacon's orders in it; that my prospects there on account of my connections were then brilliant; that, by appearing to desert my profession, my family would be dissatisfied, if not unhappy. these thoughts pressed upon me, and rendered the conflict difficult. "but the sacrifice of my prospects staggered me, i own, the most. when the other objections which i have related occurred to me, my enthusiasm instantly, like a flash of lightning, consumed them; but this stuck to me, and troubled me. i had ambition. i had a thirst after worldly interest and honors, and i could not extinguish it at once. i was more than two hours in solitude under this painful conflict. at length i yielded, not because i saw any reasonable prospect of success in my new undertaking,--for all cool-headed and cool-hearted men would have pronounced against it,--but in obedience, i believe, to a higher power. and i can say, that both on the moment of this resolution and for some time afterwards, i had more sublime and happy feelings than at any former period of my life." in order to show how this enterprise was looked upon and talked of very commonly by the majority of men in those times, we will extract the following passage from boswell's life of johnson, in which bozzy thus enters his solemn protest: "the wild and dangerous attempt, which has for some time been persisted in, to obtain an act of our legislature to abolish so very important and necessary a branch of commercial interest, must have been crushed at once, had not the insignificance of the zealots, who vainly took the lead in it, made the vast body of planters, merchants, and others, whose immense properties are involved in that trade, reasonably enough suppose that there could be no danger. the encouragement which the attempt has received excites my wonder and indignation; and though some men of superior abilities have supported it, whether from a love of temporary popularity when prosperous, or a love of general mischief when desperate, my opinion is unshaken. "to abolish a _status_ which in all ages god has sanctioned, and man has continued, would not only be robbery to an innumerable class of our fellow-subjects, but it would be extreme cruelty to the african savages, a portion of whom it saves from massacre or intolerable bondage in their own country, and introduces into a much happier state of life; especially now, when their passage to the west indies, and their treatment there, is humanely regulated. to abolish this trade would be to '--shut the gates of mercy on mankind.'" one of the first steps of clarkson and his associates was the formation of a committee of twelve persons, for the collection and dissemination of information on the subject. the contest now began in earnest, a contest as sublime as any the world ever saw. the abolition controversy more fully aroused the virtue, the talent, and the religion of the great english nation, than any other event or crisis which ever occurred. wilberforce was the leader of the question in parliament. the other members of the antislavery committee performed those labors which were necessary out of it. this labor consisted principally in the collection of evidence with regard to the traffic, and the presentation of it before the public mind. in this labor clarkson was particularly engaged. the subject was hemmed in with the same difficulties that now beset the antislavery cause in america. those who knew most about it were precisely those whose interest it was to prevent inquiry. an immense moneyed interest was arrayed against investigation, and was determined to suppress the agitation of the subject. owing to this powerful pressure, many, who were in possession of facts which would bear upon this subject, refused to communicate them; and often, after a long and wearisome journey in search of an individual who could throw light upon the subject, clarkson had the mortification to find his lips sealed by interest or timidity. as usual, the cause of oppression was defended by the most impudent lying; the slave trade was asserted to be the latest revised edition of philanthropy. it was said that the poor african, the slave of miserable oppression in his own country, was wafted by it to an asylum in a christian land; that the middle passage was to the poor negro a perfect elysium, infinitely happier than any thing he had ever known in his own country. all this was said while manacles, and handcuffs, and thumbscrews, and instruments to force open the mouth, were a regular part of the stock for a slave ship, and were hanging in the shop windows of liverpool for sale. for clarkson's attention was first called to these things by observing them in the shop window, and on inquiring the use of one of them, the man informed him that many times negroes were sulky, and tried to starve themselves to death, and this instrument was used to force open their jaws. of clarkson's labor in this investigation some idea may be gathered from his own words, when, stating that for a season he was compelled to retire from the cause, he thus speaks:-- "as far as i myself was concerned, all exertion was then over. the nervous system was almost shattered to pieces. both my memory and my hearing failed me. sudden dizzinesses seized my head. a confused singing in the ear followed me wherever i went. on going to bed the very stairs seemed to dance up and down under me, so that, misplacing my foot, i sometimes fell. talking, too, if it continued but half an hour, exhausted me so that profuse perspiration followed, and the same effect was produced even by an active exertion of the mind for the like time. "these disorders had been brought on by degrees, in consequence of the severe labors necessarily attached to the promotion of the cause. for seven years i had a correspondence to maintain with four hundred persons, with my own hand; i had some book or other annually to write in behalf of the cause. in this time i had travelled more than thirty-five thousand miles in search of evidence, and a great part of these journeys in the night. all this time my mind had been on the stretch. it had been bent, too, to this one subject, for i had not even leisure to attend to my own concerns. the various instances of barbarity which had come successively to my knowledge, within this period, had vexed, harassed, and afflicted it. the wound which these had produced was rendered still deeper by those cruel disappointments before related, which arose from the reiterated refusals of persons to give their testimony, after i had travelled hundreds of miles in quest of them. but the severest stroke was that inflicted by the persecution, begun and pursued by persons interested in the continuance of the trade, of such witnesses as had been examined against them, and whom, on account of their dependent situation in life, it was most easy to oppress. as i had been the means of bringing these forward on these occasions, they naturally came to me, when thus persecuted, as the author of their miseries and their ruin. from their supplications and wants it would have been ungenerous and ungrateful to have fled. these different circumstances, by acting together, had at length brought me into the situation just mentioned; and i was, therefore, obliged, though very reluctantly, to be borne out of the field where i had placed the great honor and glory of my life." i may as well add here that a mr. whitbread, to whom clarkson mentioned this latter cause of distress, generously offered to repair the pecuniary losses of all who had suffered in this cause. one anecdote will be a specimen of the energy with which clarkson pursued evidence. it had been very strenuously asserted and maintained that the subjects of the slave trade were only such unfortunates as had become prisoners of war, and who, if not carried out of the country in this manner, would be exposed to death or some more dreadful doom in their own country. this was one of those stories which nobody believed, and yet was particularly useful in the hands of the opposition, because it was difficult legally to disprove it. it was perfectly well known that in very many cases slave traders made direct incursions into the country, kidnapped and carried off the inhabitants of whole villages; but the question was, how to establish it. a gentleman whom clarkson accidentally met on one of his journeys informed him that he had been in company, about a year before, with a sailor, a very respectable-looking young man, who had actually been engaged in one of these expeditions; he had spent half an hour with him at an inn; he described his person, but knew nothing of his name or the place of his abode; all he knew was, that he belonged to a ship of war in ordinary, but knew nothing of the port. clarkson determined that this man should be produced as a witness, and knew no better way than to go personally to all the ships in ordinary, until the individual was found. he actually visited every seaport town, and boarded every ship, till in the very _last_ port, and on the very _last_ ship, which remained, the individual was found, and found to be possessed of just the facts and information which were necessary. by the labors of clarkson and his contemporaries an incredible excitement was produced throughout all england. the pictures and models of slave ships, accounts of the cruelties practised in the trade, were circulated with an industry which left not a man, woman, or child in england uninstructed. in disseminating information, and in awakening feeling and conscience, the women of england were particularly earnest, and labored with that whole-hearted devotion which characterizes the sex. it seems that after the committee had published the facts, and sent them to every town in england, clarkson followed them up by journeying to all the places, to see that they were read and attended to. of the state of feeling at this time clarkson gives the following account:-- "and first i may observe, that there was no town through which i passed in which there was not some one individual who had left off the use of sugar. in the smaller towns there were from ten to fifty, by estimation, and in the larger from two to five hundred, who made this sacrifice to virtue. these were of all ranks and parties. hich and poor, churchmen and dissenters, had adopted the measure. even grocers had left off trading in the article in some places. in gentlemen's families, where the master had set the example, the servants had often voluntarily followed it; and even children, who were capable of understanding the history of the sufferings of the africans, excluded, with the most virtuous resolution, the sweets, to which they had been accustomed, from their lips. by the best computation i was able to make, from notes taken down in my journey, no fewer than three hundred thousand persons had abandoned the use of sugar." it was the reality, depth, and earnestness of the public feeling, thus aroused, which pressed with resistless force upon the government; for the government of england yields to popular demands quite as readily as that of america. after years of protracted struggle, the victory was at last won. the slave trade was finally abolished through all the british empire; and not only so, but the english nation committed, with the whole force of its national influence, to seek the abolition of the slave trade in all the nations of the earth. but the wave of feeling did not rest there; the investigations had brought before the english conscience the horrors and abominations of slavery itself, and the agitation never ceased till slavery was finally abolished through all the british provinces. at this time the religious mind and conscience of england gained, through this very struggle, a power which it never has lost. the principle adopted by them was the same so sublimely adopted by the church in america in reference to the foreign missionary cause: "the field is the world." they saw and felt that, as the example and practice of england had been powerful in giving sanction to this evil, and particularly in introducing it into america, there was the greatest reason why she should never intermit her efforts till the wrong was righted throughout the earth. clarkson, to his last day, never ceased to be interested in the subject, and took the warmest interest in all movements for the abolition of slavery in america. at the ipswich depot we were met by a venerable lady, the daughter of clarkson's associate, william dillwyn. she seemed overjoyed to meet us, and took us at once into her carriage, and entertained us all our way to the hall by anecdotes and incidents of clarkson and his times. she read me a manuscript letter from him, written at a very advanced age, in which he speaks with the utmost ardor and enthusiasm of the first antislavery movements of cassius m. clay in kentucky. she described him to me as a cheerful, companionable being, frank and simple-hearted, and with a good deal of quiet humor. it is remarkable of him that, with such intense feeling for human suffering as he had, and worn down and exhausted as he was by the dreadful miseries and sorrows with which he was constantly obliged to be familiar, he never yielded to a spirit of bitterness or denunciation. the narrative which he gives is as calm and unimpassioned, and as free from any trait of this kind, as the narratives of the evangelists. thus riding and talking, we at last arrived at the hall. the old stone house, the moat, the draw bridge, all spoke of days of violence long gone by, when no man was safe except within fortified walls, and every man's house literally had to be his castle. to me it was interesting as the dwelling of a conqueror, as one who had not wrestled with flesh and blood merely, but with principalities and powers, and the rulers of the darkness of this world, and who had overcome, as his great master did before him, by faith, and prayer, and labor. we were received with much cordiality by the widow of clarkson, now in her eighty-fourth year. she has been a woman of great energy and vigor, and an efficient co-laborer in his plans of benevolence. she is now quite feeble. i was placed under the care of a respectable female servant, who forthwith installed me in a large chamber overlooking the court yard, which had been clarkson's own room; the room where, for years, many of his most important labors had been conducted, and from whence his soul had ascended to the reward of the just. the servant who attended me seemed to be quite a superior woman, like many of the servants in respectable english families. she had grown up in the family, and was identified with it; its ruling aims and purposes had become hers. she had been the personal attendant of clarkson, and his nurse during his last sickness; she had evidently understood, and been interested in his plans; and the veneration with which she therefore spoke of him had the sanction of intelligent appreciation. a daughter of clarkson, who was married to a neighboring clergyman, with her husband, was also present on this day. after dinner we rode out to see the old church, in whose enclosure the remains of clarkson repose. it was just such a still, quiet, mossy old church as you have read of in story books, with the graveyard spread all around it, like a thoughtful mother, who watches the resting of her children. the grass in the yard was long and green, and the daisy, which, in other places, lies like a little button on the ground, here had a richer fringe of crimson, and a stalk about six inches high. it is, i well know, the vital influence from the slumbering dust beneath which gives the richness to this grass and these flowers; but let not that be a painful thought; let it rather cheer us, that beauty should spring from ashes, and life smile brighter from the near presence of death. the grave of clarkson is near the church, enclosed by a railing, and marked by a simple white marble slab; it is carefully tended, and planted with flowers. in the church was an old book of records, and among other curious inscriptions was one recording how a pious committee of old noll's army had been there, knocking off saints' noses, and otherwise purging the church from the relics of idolatry. near by the church was the parsonage, the home of my friends, a neat, pleasant, sequestered dwelling, of about the style of a new england country parsonage. the effect of the whole together was inexpressibly beautiful to me. for a wonder, it was a pleasant day, and this is a thing always to be thankfully acknowledged in england. the calm stillness of the afternoon, the seclusion of the whole place, the silence only broken by the cawing of the rooks, the ancient church, the mossy graves with their flowers and green grass, the sunshine and the tree shadows, all seemed to mingle together in a kind of hazy dream of peacefulness and rest. how natural it is to say of some place sheltered, simple, cool, and retired, here one might find peace, as if peace came from without, and not from within. in the shadiest and stillest places may be the most turbulent hearts; and there are hearts which, through the busiest scenes, carry with them unchanging peace. as we were walking back, we passed many cottages of the poor. i noticed, with particular pleasure, the invariable flower garden attached to each. some pansies in one of them attracted my attention by their peculiar beauty, so very large and richly colored. on being introduced to the owner of them, she, with cheerful alacrity, offered me some of the finest. i do not doubt of there being suffering and misery in the agricultural population of england, but still there are multitudes of cottages which are really very pleasant objects, as were all these. the cottagers had that bright, rosy look of health which we seldom see in america, and appeared to be both polite and self-respecting. in the evening we had quite a gathering of friends from the neighborhood--intelligent, sensible, earnest people, who had grown up in the love of the antislavery cause as into religion. the subject of conversation was, "the duty of english people to free themselves from any participation in american slavery, by taking means to encourage the production of free cotton in the british provinces." it is no more impossible or improbable that something effective may be done in this way than that the slave trade should have been abolished. every great movement seems an impossibility at first. there is no end to the number of things declared and proved impossible which have been done already, so that this may become something yet. mrs. clarkson had retired from the room early; after a while she sent for me to her sitting room. the faithful attendant of whom i spoke was with her. she wished to show me some relics of her husband, his watch and seals, some of his papers and manuscripts; among these was the identical prize essay with which he began his career, and a commentary on the gospels, which he had written with great care, for the use of his grandson. his seal attracted my attention--it was that kneeling figure of the negro, with clasped hands, which was at first adopted as the badge of the cause, when every means was being made use of to arouse the public mind and keep the subject before the public. mr. wedgwood, the celebrated porcelain manufacturer, designed a cameo, with this representation, which was much worn as an ornament by ladies. it was engraved on the seal of the antislavery society, and was used by its members in sealing all their letters. this of clarkson's was handsomely engraved on a large, old-fashioned carnelian; and surely, if we look with emotion on the sword of a departed hero,--which, at best, we can consider only as a necessary evil,--we may look with unmingled pleasure on this memorial of a bloodless victory. when i retired to my room for the night i could not but feel that the place was hallowed: unceasing prayer had there been offered for the enslaved and wronged race of africa by that noble and brotherly heart. i could not but feel that those prayers had had a wider reach than the mere extinction of slavery in one land or country, and that their benign influence would not cease while a slave was left upon the face of the earth. letter xxv. dear c.:-- we returned to london, and found mr. s. and joseph sturge waiting for us at the depot. we dined with mr. sturge. it seems that mr. s.'s speech upon the subject of cotton has created some considerable disturbance, different papers declaring themselves for or against it with a good deal of vivacity. after dinner mr. sturge desired me very much to go into the meeting of the women; for it seems that, at the time of the yearly meeting among the friends, the men and women both have their separate meetings for attending to business. the aspect of the meeting was very interesting--so many placid, amiable faces, shaded by plain quaker bonnets; so many neat white handkerchiefs, folded across peaceful bosoms. either a large number of very pretty women wear the quaker dress, or it is quite becoming in its effect. there are some things in the mode of speaking among the friends, particularly in their public meetings, which do not strike me agreeably, and to which i think it would take me some time to become accustomed; such as a kind of intoning somewhat similar to the manner in which the church service is performed in cathedrals. it is a curious fact that religious exercises, in all ages and countries, have inclined to this form of expression. it appears in the cantilation of the synagogue, the service of the cathedral, the prayers of the covenanter and the puritan. there were a table and writing materials in this meeting, and a circle of from fifty to a hundred ladies. one of those upon the platform requested me to express to them my opinion on free labor. in a few words i told them i considered myself upon that subject more a learner than a teacher, but that i was deeply interested in what i had learned upon this subject since my travelling in england, and particularly interested in the consistency and self-denial practised by their sect. i have been quite amused with something which has happened lately. it always has seemed to me that distinguished people here in england live a remarkably out-door sort of life; and newspapers tell a vast deal about people's concerns which it is not our custom to put into print in america. such, for instance, as where the hon. mr. a. is staying now, and where he expects to go next; what her grace wore at the last ball, and when the royal children rode out, and what they had on; and whom lord such-a-one had to dinner; besides a large number of particulars which probably never happen. could i have expected dear old england to make me so much one of the family as to treat my humble fortunes in this same public manner? but it is even so. this week the times has informed the united kingdom that mrs. stowe is getting a new dress made!--the charming old aristocratic times, which every body declares is such a wicked paper, and yet which they can no more do without than they can their breakfast! what am i, and what is my father's house, that such distinction should come upon me? i assure you, my dear, i feel myself altogether too much flattered. there, side by side with speculations on the eastern question, and conjectures with regard to the secret and revealed will of the emperor of russia, news from her majesty's most sacred retreat at osborne, and the last debates in parliament, comes my brown silk dress! the times has omitted the color; i had a great mind to send him word about that. but you may tell the girls--for probably the news will spread through the american papers--that it is the brown chinese silk which they put into my trunk, unmade, when i was too ill to sit up and be fitted. mr. times wants to know if mrs. stowe is aware what sort of a place her dress is being made in, and there is a letter from a dressmaker's apprentice stating that it is being made up piecemeal, in the most shockingly distressed dens of london, by poor, miserable white slaves, worse treated than the plantation slaves of america. now, mrs. stowe did not know any thing of this, but simply gave the silk into the hands of a friend, and was in due time waited on in her own apartment by a very respectable woman, who offered to make the dress; and lo, this is the result! since the publication of this piece, i have received earnest missives, from various parts of the country, begging me to interfere, hoping that i was not going to patronize the white slavery of england, and that i would employ my talents equally against oppression under every form. the person who had been so unfortunate as to receive the weight of my public patronage was in a very tragical state; protested her innocence of any connection with dens, of any overworking of hands, &c., with as much fervor as if i had been appointed on a committee of parliamentary inquiry. let my case be a warning to all philanthropists who may happen to want clothes while they are in london. some of my correspondents seemed to think that i ought to publish a manifesto for the benefit of distressed great britain, stating how i came to do it, and all the circumstances, since they are quite sure i must have meant well, and containing gentle cautions as to the disposal of my future patronage in the dressmaking line. could these people only know in what sacred simplicity i had been living in the state of maine, where the only dressmaker of our circle was an intelligent, refined, well-educated woman, who was considered as the equal of us all, and whose spring and fall ministrations to our wardrobe were regarded a double pleasure,--a friendly visit as well as a domestic assistance,--i say, could they know all this, they would see how guiltless i was in the matter. i verily never thought but that the nice, pleasant person, who came to measure me for my silk, was going to take it home and make it herself; it never occurred to me that she was the head of an establishment. and now, what am i to do? the times seems to think that, in order to be consistent, i ought to take up the conflict immediately; but, for my part, i think otherwise. what an unreasonable creature! does he suppose me so lost to all due sense of humility as to take out of his hands a cause which he is pleading so well? if the plantation slaves had such a good friend as the times, and if every over-worked female cotton picker could write as clever letters as this dressmaker's apprentice, and get them published in as influential papers, and excite as general a sensation by them as this seems to have done, i think i should feel that there was no need of my interfering in a work so much better done. unfortunately, our female cotton pickers do not know how to read and write, and it is against the law to teach them; and this instance shows that the law is a sagacious one, since, doubtless, if they could read and write, most embarrassing communications might be made. nothing shows more plainly, to my mind, than this letter, the difference between the working class of england and the slave. the free workman or workwoman of england or america, however poor, is self-respecting; is, to some extent, clever and intelligent; is determined to resist wrong, and, as this incident shows, has abundant means for doing so. when we shall see the columns of the charleston courier adorned with communications from cotton pickers and slave seamstresses, we shall then think the comparison a fair one. in fact, apart from the whimsicality of the affair, and the little annoyance which one feels at notoriety to which one is not accustomed, i consider the incident as in some aspects a gratifying one, as showing how awake and active are the sympathies of the british public with that much-oppressed class of needlewomen. horace greeley would be delighted could his labors in this line excite a similar commotion in new york. we dined to-day at the duke of argyle's. at dinner there were the members of the family, the duchess of sutherland, lord carlisle, lord and lady blantyre, &c. the conversation flowed along in a very agreeable channel. i told them the more i contemplated life in great britain, the more i was struck with the contrast between the comparative smallness of the territory and the vast power, physical, moral, and intellectual, which it exerted in the world. the duchess of sutherland added, that it was beautiful to observe how gradually the idea of freedom had developed itself in the history of the english nation, growing clearer and more distinct in every successive century. i might have added that the history of our own american republic is but a continuation of the history of this development. the resistance to the stamp act was of the same kind as the resistance to the ship money; and in our revolutionary war there were as eloquent defences of our principles and course heard in the british parliament as echoed in faneuil hall. i conversed some with lady caroline campbell, the duke's sister, with regard to scottish preaching and theology. she is a member of the free church, and attends, in london, dr. cumming's congregation. i derived the impression from her remarks, that the style of preaching in scotland is more discriminating and doctrinal than in england. one who studies the pictures given in scott's novels must often have been struck with the apparent similarity in the theologic training and tastes of the laboring classes in new england and scotland. the hard-featured man, whom he describes in rob roy as following the preacher so earnestly, keeping count of the doctrinal points on his successive fingers, is one which can still be seen in the retired, rural districts of new england; and i believe that this severe intellectual discipline of the pulpit has been one of the greatest means in forming that strong, self-sustaining character peculiar to both countries. the duke of argyle said that chevalier bunsen had been speaking to him in relation to a college for colored people at antigua, and inquired my views respecting the emigration of colored people from america to the west india islands. i told him my impression was, that canada would be a much better place to develop the energies of the race. first, on account of its cold and bracing climate; second, because, having never been a slave state, the white population there are more thrifty and industrious, and of course the influence of such a community was better adapted to form thrift arid industry in the negro. in the evening, some of the ladies alluded to the dressmaker's letter in the times. i inquired if there was nothing done for them as a class in london, and some of them said,-- "o, lord shaftesbury can tell you all about it; he is president of the society for their protection." so i said to lord shaftesbury, playfully, "i thought, my lord, you had reformed every thing here in london." "ah, indeed," he replied, "but this was not in one of my houses. i preside over the west end." he talked on the subject for some time with considerable energy; said it was one of the most difficult he had ever attempted to regulate, and promised to send me a few documents, which would show the measures he had pursued. he said, however, that there was progress making; and spoke of one establishment in particular, which had recently been erected in london, and was admirably arranged with regard to ventilation, being conducted in the most perfect manner. quite a number of distinguished persons were present this evening; among others, sir david brewster, famed in the scientific world. he is a fine-looking old gentleman, with silver-white hair, who seemed to be on terms of great familiarity with the duke. he bears the character of a decidedly religious man, and is an elder in the free church. lord mahon, the celebrated historian, was there, with his lady. he is a young-looking man, of agreeable manners, and fluent in conversation. this i gather from mr. s., with whom he conversed very freely on our historians, prescott, bancroft, and especially dr. sparks, his sharp controversy with whom he seems to bear with great equanimity. lady mahon is a handsome, interesting woman, with very pleasing manners. mr. gladstone was there also, one of the ablest and best men in the kingdom. it is a commentary on his character that, although one of the highest of the high church, we have never heard him spoken of, even among dissenters, otherwise than as an excellent and highly conscientious man. for a gentleman who has attained to such celebrity, both in theology and politics, he looks remarkably young. he is tall, with dark hair and eyes, a thoughtful, serious cast of countenance, and is easy and agreeable in conversation. on the whole, this was a very delightful evening. letter xxvi. dear c.:-- i will add to this a little sketch, derived from the documents sent me by lord shaftesbury, of the movements in behalf of the milliners and dressmakers in london for seven years past. about thirteen years ago, in the year , lord shaftesbury obtained a parliamentary commission of inquiry into the employment of children and young persons in various trades and manufactures. this commission, among other things, was directed toward the millinery and dressmaking trade. these commissioners elicited the following facts: that there were fifteen hundred employers in this trade in london, and fifteen thousand young people employed, besides a great number of journeywomen who took the work home to their own houses. they discovered, also, that during the london season, which occupied about four months of the year, the regular hours of work were fifteen, but in many establishments they were entirely unlimited,--the young women never getting more than six hours for sleep, and often only two or three; that frequently they worked all night and part of sunday. they discovered, also, that the rooms in which they worked and slept were overcrowded, and deficient in ventilation; and that, in consequence of all these causes, blindness, consumption, and multitudes of other diseases carried thousands of them yearly to the grave. these facts being made public to the english nation, a society was formed in london in , called the association for the aid of milliners and dressmakers. the president of this society is the earl of shaftesbury; the vice presidents are twenty gentlemen of the most influential position. besides this there is a committee of ladies, and a committee of gentlemen. at the head of the committee of ladies stands the name of the duchess of sutherland, with seventeen others, among whom we notice the countess of shaftesbury, countess of ellesmere, lady robert grosvenor, and others of the upper london sphere. the subscription list of donations to the society is headed by the queen and royal family. the features of the plan which the society undertook to carry out were briefly these:-- first, they opened a registration office, where all young persons desiring employment in the dressmaking trade might enroll their names free of expense, and thus come in a manner under the care of the association. from the young people thus enrolled, they engaged to supply to the principals of dressmaking establishments extra assistants in periods of uncommon pressure, so that they should not be under the necessity of overtaxing their workwomen. this assistance is extended only to those houses which will observe the moderate hours recommended by the association. in the second place, an arrangement is made by which the young persons thus registered are entitled to the best of medical advice at any time, for the sum of five shillings per year. three physicians and two consulting surgeons are connected with the association. in the third place, models of simple and cheap modes of ventilation are kept at all times at the office of the society, and all the influence of the association is used to induce employers to place them in the work and sleeping rooms. fourth, a kind of savings bank has been instituted, in which the workwomen are encouraged to deposit small earnings on good interest. this is the plan of the society, and as to its results i have at hand the report for , from which you can gather some particulars of its practical workings. they say, "eight years have elapsed since this association was established, during which a most gratifying change has been wrought in respect to the mode of conducting the dressmaking and millinery business. "without overstepping the strict limits of truth, it may be affirmed that the larger part of the good thus achieved is attributable to the influence and unceasing efforts of this society. the general result, so far as the metropolis is concerned, may be thus stated: first, the hours of work, speaking generally, now rarely exceed twelve, whereas formerly sixteen, seventeen, and even eighteen hours were not unusual. "second, the young persons are rarely kept up all night, which was formerly not an unusual occurrence. "third, labor on the lord's day, it is confidently believed, has been entirely abrogated. "under the old system the health and constitution of many of the young people were irretrievably destroyed. at present permanent loss of health is rarely entailed, and even when sickness does from any cause arise, skilful and prompt advice and medicine are provided at a moderate charge by the association. "in addition to these and similar ameliorations, other and more important changes have been effected. among the heads of establishments, as the committee are happy to know and most willing to record, more elevated views of the duties and responsibilities, inseparable from employers, have secured to the association the zealous cooperation of numerous and influential principals, without whose aid the efforts of the last few years would have been often impeded, or even in many instances defeated. nor have the young persons engaged in the dressmaking and millinery business remained uninfluenced amidst the general improvement. finding that a strenuous effort was in progress to promote their physical and moral welfare, and that increased industry on their part would be rewarded by diminished hours of work, the assistants have become more attentive, the workrooms are better managed, and both parties, relieved from a system which was oppressive to all and really beneficial to none, have recognized the fundamental truth, that in no industrial pursuit is there any real incompatibility between the interests, rightfully interpreted, of the employer and the employed. although not generally known, evils scarcely less serious than those formerly prevalent in the metropolis were not uncommon in the manufacturing towns and fashionable watering-places. it is obviously impracticable to ascertain to what extent the efforts of the association have been attended with success in the provinces; but a rule has been established that in no instance shall the cooperation of the office, in providing assistants, be extended to any establishment in which the hours of work are known to exceed those laid down by the association. on these conditions the principals of many country establishments have for several years been supplied; latterly, indeed, owing to the great efficiency of the manager, miss newton, and to the general satisfaction thus created, these applications have so much increased as to constitute a principal part of the business of the office; and with the increase the influence of the association has been proportionally extended." this, as you perceive, was the report for . lord shaftesbury has kindly handed me the first proof of the report for , from which i will send you a few extracts. after the publication of the letter from the ladies of england to the ladies of america, much was said in the times and other newspapers with regard to the condition of the dressmakers. these things are what are alluded to in the commencement of the report. they say,-- "in presenting their annual report, the committees would in the first place refer to the public notice that has lately been directed to the mode in which the dressmaking and millinery business is conducted: this they feel to be due both to the association and to those employers who have cooperated in the good work of improvement. it has been stated in former reports, that since the first establishment of this society, in the year , and essentially through its influence, great ameliorations have been secured; that the inordinate hours of work formerly prevalent had, speaking generally, been greatly reduced; that sunday labor had been abolished; that the young people were rarely kept up all night; and that, as a consequence of these improvements, there had been a marked decrease of serious sickness. "at the present moment, in consequence of the statements that have appeared in the public journals, and in order to guard against misconceptions, the committees are anxious to announce that they perceive no reason for withdrawing any of their preceding statements-- the latest, equally with former investigations, indicating the great improvement effected in recent years. the manager at the office has been instructed to make express inquiries of the young dressmakers themselves; and the result distinctly proves that, on the whole, there has been a marked diminution in the hours of work. "the report of mr. trouncer, the medical officer who has attended the larger number of the young persons for whom advice has been provided by the association, is equally satisfactory. this gentleman, after alluding to the great evils in regard to health inflicted in former years, remarks that these have, through the instrumentality of the association, been greatly ameliorated; that as regards consumption,-- although the nature of the employment itself, however modified by kindness, has a tendency to develop the disease where the predisposition exists,--he is happy to state that the average number of cases, even in the incipient stage, has not been so great as might, from the circumstances, have been anticipated; that during the last two years, out of about two hundred and fifty cases of sickness, no death has occurred; and that but in a few instances only has it been necessary to advise a total cessation of business. mr. trouncer adds --and this is a statement which the committees have much pleasure in announcing--that, in the majority of the west end houses, the principals have, in cases of sickness, acted the part of parents, evincing, in some instances, even more care than the young persons themselves. "in addition to these satisfactory and reliable statements, it is a matter of simple justice to state that many houses of business have cooperated with the association in reducing the hours of work, in improving the workrooms and sleeping apartments, and generally in promoting the comfort of those in their employ. some employers have also very creditably, and at considerable expense, exerted themselves to secure a good system of ventilation--a subject to which the committees attach great importance, both as regards the health and comfort of those employed. "it is not, by these statements, intended to be said that all requiring amendment has been corrected. in their last report the committees remarked that some few houses of business systematically persisted in exacting excessive labor from their assistants; and they regret to state that this observation is still applicable. the important subject of ventilation is still much neglected, and there is reason to apprehend that the sleeping apartments are often much overcrowded. another and a more prevailing evil relates to the time allowed for meals: this is often altogether insufficient, and strongly contrasted with the custom in other industrial pursuits, in which one hour for dinner, and half an hour for breakfast or tea, as the case may be, is the usual allowance. in an occupation so sedentary as dressmaking, and especially in the case of young females, hurried meals are most injurious, and are a frequent cause of deranged health. it is also the painful duty of the committees to state that in some establishments, according to the medical report, the principals, in cases of sickness, will neither allow the young people an opportunity of calling on the medical officer for his advice, nor permit that gentleman to visit them at the place of business. the evils resulting from this absence of all proper feeling are so obvious that it is hoped this public rebuke will in future obviate the necessity of recurring to so painful a topic." the committee after this proceed to publish the following declaration, signed by fifty-three of the west end dressmakers:-- "'we, the undersigned principals of millinery and dress-making establishments at the west end of london, having observed in the newspapers statements of excessive labor in our business, feel called upon, in self-defence, to make the following public statement, especially as we have reason to believe that some of the assertions contained in the letters published in the newspapers are not wholly groundless:-- "' . during the greater portion of the year we do not require the young people in our establishments to work more than twelve hours, inclusive of one hour and a half for meals: from march to july we require them to work thirteen hours and a half, allowing during that time one hour's rest for dinner, and half an hour's rest for tea. "' . it has been our object to provide suitable sleeping accommodations, and to avoid overcrowding. "' . in no case do we require work on sundays, or all night. "' . the food we supply is of the best quality, and unlimited in quantity.'" five of these dressmakers, whose names are designated by stars, signed with the understanding that on rare occasions the hours might possibly be exceeded. the remarks which the committee make, considering that it has upon its list the most influential and distinguished ladies of the london world, are, i think, worth attention, as showing the strong moral influence which must thus be brought to bear, both on the trade and on fashionable society, by this association. they first remark, with regard to those employers who signed with the reservation alluded to, that they have every reason to believe that the feeling which prompted this qualification is to be respected, as it originated in a determination not to undertake more than they honestly intended to perform. they say of the document, on the whole, that, though not realizing all the views of the association, it must be regarded as creditable to those who have signed it, since it indicates the most important advance yet made towards the improvement of the dressmaking and millinery business. the committees then go on to express a most decided opinion, first, that the hours of work in the dressmaking trade ought not to exceed ten per diem; second, that during the fashionable season ladies should employ sufficient time for the execution of their orders. the influence of this association, as will be seen, has extended all over england. in manchester a paper, signed by three thousand ladies, was presented to the principals of the establishments, desiring them to adopt the rules of the london association. i mentioned, in a former letter, that the lady mayoress of london, and the ladies of the city, held a meeting on the subject only a short time since, with a view of carrying the same improvement through all the establishments of that part of london. the lady mayoress and five others of this meeting consented to add their names to the committee, so that it now represents the whole of london. the bishop of london and several of the clergy extend their patronage to the association. letter xxvii. dear s.:-- the next day we went to hear a sermon in behalf of the ragged schools, by the archbishop of canterbury. the children who attended the ragged schools of that particular district were seated in the gallery, each side of the organ. as this was the sunday appropriated to the exercise, all three of the creeds were read--the apostles', athanasian, and nicene; all which the little things repeated after the archbishop, with great decorum, and probably with the same amount of understanding that we, when children, had of the assembly's catechism. the venerable archbishop was ushered into the pulpit by beadles, with gold lace cocked hats, striking the ground majestically with their long staves of office. his sermon, however, was as simple, clear, and beautiful an exposition of the duty of practical christianity towards the outcast and erring as i ever heard. he said that, should we find a young child wandering away from its home and friends, we should instinctively feel it our duty to restore the little wanderer; and such, he said, is the duty we owe to all these young outcasts, who had strayed from the home of their heavenly father. after the sermon they took up a collection; and when we went into the vestry to speak to the archbishop, we saw him surrounded by the church wardens, counting over the money. i noticed in the back part of the church a number of children in tattered garments, with rather a forlorn and wild appearance, and was told that these were those who had just been introduced into the school, and had not been there long enough to come under its modifying influences. we were told that they were always thus torn and forlorn in their appearance at first, but that they gradually took pains to make themselves respectable. the archbishop said, pleasantly, "when they return to their right mind they appear _clothed_, also, and sitting at the feet of jesus." the archbishop sent me afterwards a beautiful edition of his sermons on christian charity, embracing a series of discourses on various topics of practical benevolence, relating to the elevation and christianization of the masses. they are written with the same purity of style, and show the same devout and benevolent spirit with his other writings. my thoughts were much saddened to-day by the news, which i received this week, of the death of mary edmonson. it is not for her that i could weep; for she died as calmly and serenely as she lived, resigning her soul into the hands of her savior. what i do weep for is, that under the flag of my country--and that country a christian one--such a life as mary's could have been lived, and so little said or done about it. in the afternoon i went to the deanery of st. paul's--a retired building in a deep court opposite the cathedral. after a brief conversation with mr. and mrs. milman, we went to the cathedral. i had never seen it before, and was much impressed with the majesty and grace of the interior. nevertheless, the italian style of architecture, with all its elegance, fails to affect me equally with the gothic. the very rudeness of the latter, a something inchoate and unfinished, is significant of matter struggling with religious ideas too vast to be fully expressed. even as in the ancient scriptures there are ideas which seem to overtask the powers of human language. i sat down with mrs. m. in one of the little compartments, or _stalls,_ as they are called, into which the galleries are divided, and which are richly carved in black oak. the whole service was chanted by a choir expressly trained for the purpose. some of the performers are boys of about thirteen years, and of beautiful countenances. there is a peculiar manner of reading the service practised in the cathedrals, which is called "intoning." it is a plaintive, rhythmical chant, with as strong an unction of the nasal as ever prevailed in a quaker or methodist meeting. i cannot exactly understand why episcopacy threw out the slur of "nasal twang" as one of the peculiarities of the conventicle, when it is in full force in the most approved seats of church orthodoxy. i listened to all in as uncritical and sympathetic a spirit as possible, giving myself up to be lifted by the music as high as it could waft me. to one thus listening, it is impossible to criticize with severity; for, unless positively offensive, any music becomes beautiful by the power of sympathy and association. after service we listened to a short sermon from the rev. mr. villiers, fervent, affectionate, and evangelical in spirit, and much in the general style of sermonizing which i have already described. monday morning, may . we went to breakfast at mr. cobden's. mr. c. is a man of slender frame, rather under than over the middle size, with great ease of manner, and flexibility of movement, and the most frank, fascinating smile. his appearance is a sufficient account of his popularity, for he seems to be one of those men who carry about them an atmosphere of vivacity and social exhilaration. we had a very pleasant and social time, discussing and comparing things in england and america. mr. cobden assured us that he had had curious calls from americans, sometimes. once an editor of a small village paper called, who had been making a tour through the rural districts of england. he said that he had asked some mowers how they were prospering. they answered, "we ain't prosperin'; we're hayin'." said cobden, "i told the man, 'now don't you go home and publish that in your paper;' but he did, nevertheless, and sent me over the paper with the story in it." i might have comforted him with many a similar anecdote of americans, as for example, the man who was dead set against a tariff, "'cause he knew if they once got it, they'd run the old thing right through his farm;" or those immortal pennsylvania dutchmen, who, to this day, it is said, give in all their votes under the solemn conviction that they are upholding general jackson's administration. the conversation turned on the question of the cultivation of cotton by free labor. the importance of this great measure was fully appreciated by mr. cobden, as it must be by all. the difficulties to be overcome in establishing the movement were no less clearly seen, and ably pointed out. on the whole, the comparison of views was not only interesting in a high degree, but to us, at least, eminently profitable. we ventured to augur favorably to the cause from the indications of that interview. from this breakfast we returned to dine at surrey parsonage; and, after dinner, attended miss greenfield's concert at stafford house. mr. s. could not attend on account of so soon leaving town. the concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall i have before described to you. it looked more picture-like and dreamy than ever. the piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. it was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly _banked up_ among hothouse flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. sir george smart presided. the choicest of the _élite_ were there. ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. miss greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a sympathetic murmur among the audience. she is not handsome, but looked very well. she has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet headdress and white carnelian earrings, a black mohr antique silk, made high in the neck, with white lace falling sleeves and white gloves. a certain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal kindness shown her, sat well upon her. chevalier bunsen, the prussian ambassador, sat by me. he looked at her with much interest. "are the race often as good looking?" he said. i said, "she is not handsome, compared with many, though i confess she looks uncommonly well to-day." among the company present i noticed the beautiful marchioness of stafford. i have spoken of her once before; but it is difficult to describe her, there is something so perfectly simple, yet elegant, in her appearance; but it has cut itself like a cameo in my memory--a figure under the middle size, perfectly moulded, dressed simply in black, a beautiful head, hair _à la madonna_, ornamented by a band of gold coins on black velvet: a band of the same kind encircling her throat is the only relief to the severe simplicity of her dress. the singing was beautiful. six of the most cultivated glee singers of london sang, among other things, "spring's delights are now returning," and "where the bee sucks there lurk i." the duchess said," these glees are peculiarly english." it was indeed delightful to hear shakspeare's aerial words made vocal within the walls of this fairy palace. the duchess has a strong nationality; and nationality, always interesting, never appears in so captivating a form as when it expresses itself through a beautiful and cultivated woman. one likes to see a person identifying one's self with a country, and she embraces england, with its history, its strength, its splendor, its moral power, with an evident pride and affection which i love to see. miss greenfield's turn for singing now came, and there was profound attention. her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating vibrant quality, its _"timbre"_ as the french have it, cut its way like a damascus blade to the heart. it was the more touching from occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from art. she sang the ballad, "old folks at home," giving one verse in the soprano, and another in the tenor voice. as she stood partially concealed by the piano chevalier bunsen thought that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. he was perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. this was rapturously encored. between the parts sir george took her to the piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without connection, from d in alt to a first space in bass clef: she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger touched the key. this brought out a burst of applause. after the concert we walked through the rooms. the effect of the groups of people sauntering through the hall or looking down from the galleries was picture-like. two of the duke's highland pipers, in full costume, playing their bagpipes, now made their appearance, and began to promenade the halls, playing. their dress reminds me, in its effect, of that of our american indians, and their playing is wild and barbaric. it had a striking effect among these wide halls and corridors. there is nothing poetic connected with the history and position of the family of which the fair owner of the halls does not feel the power, and which she cannot use with artistic skill in heightening the enchantments of an entertainment. rev. s. r. ward attracted attention in the company, as a full-blooded african--tall enough for a palm tree. i observed him in conversation with lords, dukes, and ambassadors, sustaining himself modestly, but with self-possession. all who converse with him are satisfied that there is no native difference between the african and other men. the duchess took me to look at a model of dunrobin--their castle on the sutherland estate. it is in the old french chateau style in general architecture, something like the print of glamis. it is curious that the french architecture has obtained in scotland. her grace kindly invited me to visit dunrobin on my return to scotland in the autumn, taking it after inverary. this will be delightful. that scottish coast i love almost like my own country. lord shaftesbury was there. he came and spoke to us after the concert. speaking of miss greenfield, he said, "i consider the use of these halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a _consecration_. this is the true use of wealth and splendor when it is employed to raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten." in the evening, though very weary, c. persuaded me to accept an invitation to hear the creation, at exeter hall, performed by the london sacred harmonic society. they had kindly reserved a gallery for us, and when we went in mr. surman, the founder and for twenty years conductor of the society, presented me with a beautifully bound copy of the creation. having never heard it before, i could not compare the performance with others. i heard it as i should hear a poem read, simply thinking of the author's ideas, and not of the style of reading. haydn i was thinking of,--the bright, brilliant, cheerful haydn,--who, when complained of for making church music into dancing tunes, replied, "when i think of god my soul is always so full of joy that i want to dance!" this creation is a descriptive poem--the garden parts unite thomson and milton's style--the whole effect pastoral, yet brilliant. i was never more animated. i had had a new experience; it is worth while to know nothing to have such a fresh sensation. the next day, tuesday, may , we went to lunch with miss r., at oxford terrace. among a number of distinguished guests was lady byron, with whom i had a few moments of deeply interesting conversation. no engravings that ever have been circulated of her in america do any justice to her appearance. she is of a slight figure, formed with exceeding delicacy, and her whole form, face, dress, and air unite to make an impression of a character singularly dignified, gentle, pure, and yet strong. no words addressed to me in any conversation hitherto have made their way to my inner soul with such force as a few remarks dropped by her on the present religious aspect of england--remarks of such a quality as one seldom hears. lady byron's whole course, i have learned, has been one made venerable by consistent, active benevolence. i was happy to find in her the patroness of our american outcasts, william and ellen crafts. she had received them into the schools of her daughter, lady lovelace, at occum, and now spoke in the highest terms of their character and proficiency in study. the story of their misfortunes, united with their reputation for worth, had produced such an impression on the simple country people, that they always respectfully touch their hats when meeting them. ellen, she says, has become mother of a most beautiful child, and their friends are now making an effort to put them into some little business by which they may obtain a support. i could not but observe with regret the evident fragility of lady byron's health; yet why should i regret it? why wish to detain here those whose home is evidently from hence, and who will only then fully live when the shadow we call life is passed away? here, also, i was personally introduced to a lady with whom i had passed many a dreamy hour of spiritual communion--mrs. jameson, whose works on arts and artists were for years almost my only food for a certain class of longings. mrs. jameson is the most charming of critics, with the gift, often too little prized, of discovering and pointing out beauties rather than defects; beauties which we may often have passed unnoticed, but which, when so pointed out, never again conceal themselves. this shows itself particularly in her characteristics of shakspeare's women, a critique which only a true woman could have written. she seemed rather surprised to find me inquiring about art and artists. i asked her where one might go to study that subject most profitably, and her answer was, in munich. by her side was mrs. chisholm, the author of those benevolent movements for the emigrants, which i have mentioned to you. she is a stout, practical looking woman, who impresses you with the idea of perfect health, exuberant life, and an iron constitution. her face expresses decision, energy, and good sense. she is a woman of few words, every moment of whose time seems precious. one of her remarks struck me, from the quaint force with which it was uttered. "i found," said she, "if we want any thing done, we must go to work and _do_; it is of no use to talk, none whatever." it is the secret of her life's success. mrs. chisholm first began by _doing_ on a small scale what she wanted done, and people seeing the result fell in with and helped her, but to have convinced them of the feasibility of her plans by _talking_, without this practical demonstration, would have been impossible. at this _réunion_, also, was mr. george thompson, whom i had never seen before, and many of the warmest friends of the slave. during this visit i was taken ill, and obliged to return to mr. gurney's, where i was indisposed during the remainder of the day, and late in the evening drove home to surrey parsonage. the next evening, wednesday, may , we attended an antislavery _soirée_, at willis's rooms, formerly known as almack's; so at least i was told. a number of large rooms were thrown open, brilliantly lighted and adorned, and filled with throngs of people. in the course of the evening we went upon the platform in the large hall, where an address was presented by s. bowley, esq., of gloucester. it was one of the most beautiful, sensible, judicious, and christian addresses that could have been made, and i listened to it with unmingled pleasure. in reply, mr. s. took occasion still further to explain his views with respect to the free-grown cotton movement in england, and its bearings on the future progress of the cause of freedom. [footnote: we are happy to say that a large body of religious persons in great britain have become favorable to these views. a vigorous society has been established, combining india reform and free cotton with the antislavery cause. the earl of albemarle made, while we were in london, a vigorous india reform speech in the house of lords, and messrs. bright and cobden are fully in for the same object in the commons. there is much hope in the movement.] after the addresses we dispersed to different rooms, where refreshment tables were bountifully laid out and adorned. by my side, at one end of them, was a young female of pleasing exterior, with fine eyes, delicate person, neatly dressed in white. she was introduced to me as ellen crafts--a name memorable in boston annals. her husband, a pleasant, intelligent young man, with handsome manners, was there also. had it not been for my introduction i could never have fancied ellen to have been any other than some english girl with rather a paler cheek than common. she has very sweet manners, and uses uncommonly correct and beautiful language. let it not be supposed that, with such witnesses as these among them, our english brethren have derived their first practical knowledge of slavery from uncle tom's cabin. the mere knowledge that two such persons as william and ellen crafts have been rated as merchantable commodities, in any country but ours would be a sufficient comment on the system. we retired early after a very agreeable evening. letter xxviii. may . my dear cousin:-- this morning lord shaftesbury came according to appointment, to take me to see the model lodging houses. he remarked that it would be impossible to give me the full effect of seeing them, unless i could first visit the dens of filth, disease, and degradation, in which the poor of london formerly were lodged. with a good deal of satisfaction he told me that the american minister, mr. ingersoll, previous to leaving london, had requested the police to take him over the dirtiest and most unwholesome parts of it, that he might see the lowest as well as the highest sphere of london life. after this, however, the policeman took him through the baths, wash houses, and model lodging houses, which we were going to visit, and he expressed himself both surprised and delighted with the improvement that had been made. [illustration: _of the facade of "the model lodging house."_] we first visited the lodging house for single men in charles street, drury lane. this was one of the first experiments made in this line, and to effect the thing in the most economical manner possible, three old houses were bought and thrown into one, and fitted up for the purpose. on the ground floor we saw the superintendent's apartment, and a large, long sitting room, furnished with benches and clean, scoured tables, where the inmates were, some of them, reading books or papers: the day being wet, perhaps, kept them from their work. in the kitchen were ample cooking accommodations, and each inmate, as i understand, cooks for himself. lord shaftesbury said, that--something like a common table had been tried, but that it was found altogether easier or more satisfactory for each one to suit himself. on this floor, also, was a bathing room, and a well-selected library of useful reading books, history, travels, &c. on the next floor were the dormitories--a great hall divided by board partitions into little sleeping cells about eight feet square, each containing a neat bed, chair, and stand. the partition does not extend quite up to the wall, and by this means while each inmate enjoys the privacy of a small room, he has all the comfort of breathing the air of the whole hall. a working man returning from his daily toil to this place, can first enjoy the comfort of a bath; then, going into the kitchen, make his cup of tea or coffee, and sitting down at one of the clean, scoured tables in the sitting room, sip his tea, and look over a book. or a friendly company may prepare their supper and sit down to tea together. lord shaftesbury said that the effect produced on the men by such an arrangement was wonderful. they became decent, decorous, and self-respecting. they passed rules of order for their community. they subscribed for their library from their own earnings, and the books are mostly of their own selection. "it is remarkable," said his lordship, "that of their own accord they decided to reject every profane, indecent, or immoral work. it showed," he said, "how strong are the influences of the surroundings in reforming or ruining the character." it should be remarked that all these advantages are enjoyed for the same price charged by the most crowded and filthy of lodging houses, namely, fourpence per night, or two shillings per week. the building will accommodate eighty-two. the operation supports itself handsomely. i should remark, by the by, that in order to test more fully the practicability of the thing, this was accomplished in one of the worst neighborhoods in london. from these we proceeded to view a more perfect specimen of the same sort in the model lodging house of george street, bloomsbury square, a house which was built _de novo_, for the purpose of perfectly illustrating the principle. this house accommodates one hundred and four working men, and combines every thing essential or valuable in such an establishment--complete ventilation and drainage; the use of a distinct living room; a kitchen and a wash house, a bath, and an ample supply of water, and all the conveniences which, while promoting the physical comfort of the inmates, tend to increase their self-respect, and elevate them in the scale of moral and intellectual beings. the arrangement of the principal apartments are such as to insure economy as well as domestic comfort, the kitchen and wash house being furnished with every requisite convenience, including a bath supplied with hot and cold water; also a separate and well-ventilated safe for the food of each inmate. under the care of the superintendent is a small, but well-selected library. the common room, thirty-three feet long, twenty-three feet wide, and ten feet nine inches high, is paved with white tiles, laid on brick arches, and on each side are two rows of tables with seats; at the fireplace is a constant supply of hot water, and above it are the rules of the establishment. the staircase, which occupies the centre of the building, is of stone. the dormitories, eight in number, ten feet high, are subdivided with movable wood partitions six feet nine inches high; each compartment, enclosed by its own door, is fitted up with a bed, chair, and clothes box. a shaft is carried up at the end of every room, the ventilation through it being assisted by the introduction of gas, which lights the apartment. a similar shaft is carried up the staircase, supplying fresh air to the dormitories, with a provision for warming it, if necessary. the washing closets on each floor are fitted up with slate, having japanned iron basins, and water laid on. during the fearful ravages of the cholera in this immediate neighborhood, not one case occurred in this house among its one hundred and four inmates. from this place we proceeded to one, if any thing, more interesting to me. this was upon the same principle appropriated to the lodgment of single women. when one considers the defenceless condition of single women, who labor for their own subsistence in a large city, how easily they are imposed upon and oppressed, and how quickly a constitution may be destroyed for want of pure air, fresh water, and other common necessaries of life, one fully appreciates the worth of a large and beautiful building, which provides for this oppressed, fragile class. the thanksgiving model buildings at port pool lane, gray's inn, are so called because they were built with a thank-offering collected in the various religious societies of london, as an appropriate expression of their gratitude to god for the removal of the cholera. this block of buildings has in it accommodations for twenty families, and one hundred and twenty-eight single women; together with a public wash house, and a large cellar, in which are stored away the goods of those women who live by the huckster's trade. the hundred and twenty-eight single women, of whom the majority are supposed to be poor needlewomen, occupy sixty-four rooms in a building of four stories, divided by a central staircase; a corridor on either side forms a lobby to eight rooms, each twelve feet six inches long, by nine feet six inches wide, sufficiently large for two persons. they are fitted up with two bedsteads, a table, chairs, and a washing stand. the charge is one shilling per week for each person, or two shillings per room. lord shaftesbury took me into one of the rooms, where was an aged female partially bedridden, who maintained herself by sewing, the room was the picture of neatness and comfort; a good supply of hot and cold water was furnished in it. her work was spread out by her upon the bed, together with her bible and hymn book; she looked cheerful and comfortable. she seemed pleased to see lord shaftesbury, whom she had evidently seen many times before, as his is a familiar countenance in all these places. she expressed the most fervent thankfulness for the quiet, order, and comfort of her pleasant lodgings, comparing them very feelingly with what used to be her condition before any such place had been provided. [illustration: _of a four story rectangular brick/masonry structure._] from this place we drove to the streatham street lodging house for families, of which the following is an outside view. this building is, in the first place, fire proof; in the second, the separation in the parts belonging to different families is rendered complete and perfect by the use of hollow brick for the partitions, which entirely prevents, as i am told, the transmission of sound. the accompanying print shows the plan of one tenement. [illustration: _of an apartment's plan (no scale)_: ..::::........................::::.........................::::.. open gallery, five feet wide :::xx:::::::-------:::::xx: :xx::::::::-------::::::::xx:::: :: +--+ +-------+:::::: entry :: :: :: | | | |+--+:: :: :: :: +--+ | h ||i |:: :: :: :: f +-------++--+:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: xx:+ :: :: :: : | l* :: e :: d c :: xx:+:::::xx :: :: :: :: :: :: :: g :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: xx: :xx: :xx: :xx :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: xx:::::::::::::::::::::::xx:::: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: a :: b :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :::xx::::::::::----------::::::::::xx:::::::----------::::::xx:::: a living room b bed room ascii key: c bed room d lobby :: wall e scullery ::xx:: wall intersection f water closet ::--:: window g bed closet ::..:: balcony h sink +----+ fixture edge i meat safe l dust flue (*_not identified on original plan--location estimated from author's description_)] [illustration: _of the multi-story brick/masonry structure with covered galleries._] by means of the sleeping closet adjoining the living room, each dwelling affords three good sleeping apartments. the meat safe preserves provisions. the dust flue is so arranged that all the sweepings of the house, and all the refuse of the cookery, have only to be thrown down to disappear forever; while the sink is supplied to an unlimited extent with hot and cold water. these galleries, into which every tenement opens, run round the inside of the hollow court which the building encloses, and afford an admirable play-place for the little children, out of the dangers and temptations of the street, and in view of their respective mothers. the foregoing print, representing the inner half of the quadrangle, shows the arrangement of the galleries. "now," said lord shaftesbury, as he was showing me through these tenements, which were models of neatness and good keeping, "you must bear in mind that these are tenanted by the very people who once were living in the dirtiest and filthiest lodging houses; people whom the world said, it did no good to try to help; that they liked to be dirty better than clean, and would be dirty under any circumstances." he added the following anecdote to show the effect of poor lodgings in degrading the character. a fine young man, of some considerable taste and talent, obtained his living by designing patterns for wall paper. a long and expensive illness so reduced his circumstances, that he was obliged to remove to one of these low, filthy lodging houses already alluded to. from that time he became an altered man; his wife said that he lost all energy, all taste in designing, love of reading, and fondness for his family; began to frequent drinking shops, and was visibly on the road to ruin. hearing of these lodging houses, he succeeded in renting a tenement in one of them, for the same sum which he had paid for the miserable dwelling. under the influence of a neat, airy, pleasant, domestic home, the man's better nature again awoke, his health improved, he ceased to crave ardent spirits, and his former ingenuity in his profession returned. "now, this shows," said lord shaftesbury, "that hundreds may have been ruined simply by living in miserable dwellings." i looked into this young man's tenement; it was not only neat, but ornamented with a great variety of engravings tastefully disposed upon the wall. on my expressing my pleasure in this circumstance, he added, "it is one of the pleasantest features of the case, to notice how soon they began to ornament their little dwellings; some have cages with singing birds, and some pots of flowering plants; some, pictures and engravings." "and are these buildings successful in a pecuniary point of view?" i said. "do they pay their own way?" "yes," he replied, "they do. i consider that these buildings, if they have done nothing more, have established two points: first, that the poor do not prefer dirt and disorder, where it is possible for them to secure neatness and order; and second, that buildings with every proper accommodation can be afforded at a price which will support an establishment." said i, "are people imitating these lodging houses very rapidly?" "to a great extent they are," he replied, "but not so much as i desire. buildings on these principles have been erected in the principal towns of england and scotland. the state of the miserable dwellings, courts, alleys, &c., is the consequence of the neglect of former days, when speculators and builders were allowed to do as they liked, and run up hovels, where the working man, whose house must be regulated, not by his choice, but by his work, was compelled then, as he is now, to live, however narrow, unhealthy, or repulsive the place might be. this was called 'the liberty of the subject.'" it has been one of lord shaftesbury's most arduous parliamentary labors to bring the lodging houses under governmental regulation. he told me that he introduced a bill to this effect in the house of commons, while a member, as lord ashley, and that just as it had passed through the house of commons, he entered the house of lords, as lord shaftesbury, and so had the satisfaction of carrying the bill to its completion in that house, where it passed in the year . the provisions of this bill require every keeper of a lodging house to register his name at the metropolitan police office, under a penalty of a fine of five pounds for every lodger received before this is done. after having given notice to the police, they are not allowed to receive lodgers until the officers have inspected the house, to see whether it accords with the required conditions. these conditions are, that the walls and ceilings be whitewashed; that the floors, stairs, beds, and bed clothes are clean; that there be some mode of ventilating every room; that each house be provided with every accommodation for promoting decency and neatness; that the drains and cesspools are perfect; the yards properly paved, so as to run dry; and that each house has a supply of water, with conveniences for cooking and washing; and finally, that no person with an infectious disease is inhabiting the house. it is enacted, moreover, that only so many shall be placed in a room as shall be permitted by the commissioners of the police; and it is made an indispensable condition to the fitness of a house, that the proprietor should hang up in every room a card, properly signed by the police inspector, stating the precise number who are allowed to be lodged there. the law also strictly forbids persons of different sexes occupying the same room, except in case of married people with children under ten years of age: more than one married couple may not inhabit the same apartment, without the provision of a screen to secure privacy. it is also forbidden to use the kitchens, sculleries, or cellars for sleeping rooms, unless specially permitted by the police. the keeper of the house is required thoroughly to whitewash the walls and ceilings twice a year, and to cleanse the drains and cesspools whenever required by the police. in case of sickness, notice must be immediately given to the police, and such measures pursued, for preventing infection, as may be deemed judicious by the inspector. the commissioner of police reports to the secretary of state systematically as to the results of this system. after looking at these things, we proceeded to view one of the model washing houses, which had been erected for the convenience of poor women. we entered a large hall, which was divided by low wood partitions into small apartments, in each of which a woman was washing. the whole process of washing clothes in two or three waters, and boiling them, can be effected without moving from the spot, or changing the tub. each successive water is let out at the bottom, while fresh is let on from the top. when the clothes are ready to be boiled, a wooden cover is placed over them, and a stream of scalding steam is directed into the tub, by turning a stop cock; this boils the water in a few moments, effectually cleansing the clothes; they are then whirled in a hollow cylinder till nearly dry, after which they are drawn through two rollers covered with flannel, which presses every remaining particle of water out of them. the clothes are then hung upon frames, which shut into large closets, and are dried by steam in a very short space of time. lord shaftesbury, pointing out the partitions, said, "this is an arrangement of delicacy to save their feelings: their clothes are sometimes so old and shabby they do not want to show them, poor things." i thought this feature worthy of special notice. in addition to all these improvements for the laboring classes, very large bathing establishments have been set up expressly for the use of the working classes. to show the popularity and effectiveness of this movement, five hundred and fifty thousand baths were given in three houses during the year . these bathing establishments for the working classes are rapidly increasing in every part of the kingdom. when we returned to our carriage after this survey, i remarked to lord shaftesbury that the combined influence of these causes must have wrought a considerable change in the city. he answered, with energy, "you can have no idea. whole streets and districts have been revolutionized by it. the people who were formerly savage and ferocious, because they supposed themselves despised and abandoned, are now perfectly quiet and docile. i can assure you that lady shaftesbury has walked alone, with no attendant but a little child, through streets in london where, years ago, a well-dressed man could not have passed safely without an escort of the police." i said to him that i saw nothing now, with all the improvements they were making throughout the kingdom, to prevent their working classes from becoming quite as prosperous as ours, except the want of a temperance reformation. he assented with earnestness. he believed, he said, that the amount spent in liquors of various kinds, which do no good, but much injury, was enough to furnish every laborer's dwelling, not only with comforts, but with elegances. "but then," he said, "one thing is to be considered: a reform of the dwellings will do a great deal towards promoting a temperance reformation. a man who lives in a close, unwholesome dwelling, deprived of the natural stimulus of fresh air and pure water, comes into a morbid and unhealthy state; he craves stimulants to support the sinking of his vital powers, caused by these unhealthy influences." there is certainly a great deal of truth in this; and i think that, in america, we should add to the force of our maine law by adopting some of the restrictions of the lodging house act. i have addressed this letter to you, my dear cousin, on account of the deep interest you have taken in the condition of the poor and perishing in the city of new york. while making these examinations, these questions occurred to my mind: could our rich christian men employ their capital in a more evangelical manner, or more adorn the city of new york, than by raiding a large and beautiful lodging house, which should give the means of health, comfort, and vigor to thousands of poor needlewomen? the same query may be repeated concerning all the other lodging houses i have mentioned. furthermore, should not a movement for the registration and inspection of common lodging houses keep pace with efforts to suppress the sale of spirits? the poison of these dismal haunts creates a craving for stimulants, which constantly tends to break over and evade law. letter xxix. dear father:-- i wish in this letter to give you a brief view of the movements in this country for the religious instruction and general education of the masses. if we compare the tone of feeling now prevalent with that existing but a few years back, we notice a striking change. no longer ago than in the time of lady huntington we find a lady of quality ingenuously confessing that her chief source of scepticism in regard to christianity was, that it actually seemed to imply that the educated, the refined, the noble, must needs be saved by the same savior and the same gospel with the ignorant and debased working classes. traces of a similar style of feeling are discernible in the letters of the polished correspondents of hannah more. robert walpole gayly intimates himself somewhat shocked at the idea that the nobility and the vulgar should be equally subject to the restraints of the sabbath and the law of god--equally exposed to the sanctions of endless retribution. and young makes his high-born dame inquire, "shall pleasures of a short duration chain a _lady's_ soul in everlasting pain?" in broad contrast to this, all the modern popular movements in england are based upon the recognition of the equal value of every human soul. the times, the most aristocratic paper in england, publishes letters from needlewomen and dressmakers' apprentices, and reads grave lectures to duchesses and countesses on their duties to their poor sisters. one may fancy what a stir this would have made in the courtly circles of the reign of george ii. fashionable literature now arrays itself on the side of the working classes. the current of novel writing is reversed. instead of milliners and chambermaids being bewitched with the adventures of countesses and dukes, we now have fine lords and ladies hanging enchanted over the history of john the carrier, with his little dot, dropping sympathetic tears into little charlie's wash tub, and pursuing the fortunes of a dressmaker's apprentice, in company with poor smike, and honest john brodie and his little yorkshire wife. punch laughs at every body but the work people; and if, occasionally, he laughs at them, it is rather in a kindly way than with any air of contempt. then, prince albert visits model lodging houses, and commands all the ingenuity of the kingdom to expend itself in completing the ideal of a workman's cottage for the great world's fair. lords deliver lydeum lectures; ladies patronize ragged schools; committees of duchesses meliorate the condition of needlewomen. in short, the great ship of the world has tacked, and stands on another course. the beginning of this great humanitarian movement in england was undoubtedly the struggle of clarkson, wilberforce, and their associates, for the overthrow of the slave trade. in that struggle the religious democratic element was brought to bear for years upon the mind of parliament. the negro, most degraded of men, was taken up, and for years made to agitate british society on the simple ground that he had a human soul. of course the religious obligations of society to _every_ human soul were involved in the discussion. it educated parliament, it educated the community. parliament became accustomed to hearing the simple principles of the gospel asserted in its halls as of binding force. the community were trained in habits of efficient benevolent action, which they have never lost. the use of tracts, of committees, of female cooperation, of voluntary association, and all the appliances of organized reform were discovered and successfully developed. the triumphant victory then achieved, moreover, became the pledge of future conquests in every department of reform. concerning the movements for the elevation of the masses, lord shaftesbury has kindly furnished me with a few brief memoranda, set down as nearly as possible in chronological order. in the first place, there has been reform of the poor laws. so corrupt had this system become, that a distinct caste had well nigh sprung into permanent existence, families having been known to subsist in idleness for five generations solely by means of skilful appropriation of public and private charities. the law giving to paupers the preference in all cases where any public work was to be done, operated badly. good workmen might starve for want of work: by declaring themselves paupers they obtained employment. thus, virtually, a bounty was offered to pauperism. his lordship remarks,-- "there have been sad defects, no doubt, and some harshness, under the new system; but the general result has been excellent; and, in many instances, the system has been reduced to practice in a truly patriarchal spirit. the great difficulty and the great failure are found in the right and safe occupation of children who are trained in these workhouses, of which so much has been said." in the second place, the treatment of the insane has received a thorough investigation. this began, in , by a committee of inquiry, moved for by mr. gordon. an almost incredible amount of suffering and horrible barbarity was thus brought to light. for the most part it appeared that the treatment of the insane had been conducted on the old, absurd idea which cuts them off from humanity, and reduces them below the level of the brutes. the regimen in private madhouses was such that lord shaftesbury remarked of them, in a speech on the subject, "i have said before, and now say again, that should it please god to visit me with such an affliction, i would greatly prefer the treatment of paupers, in an establishment like that of the surrey asylum, to the treatment of the rich in almost any one of these receptacles." instances are recorded of individuals who were exhumed from cells where they had existed without clothing or cleansing, as was ascertained, _for years after they had entirely recovered the exercise of sound reason_. lord shaftesbury procured the passage of bills securing the thorough supervision of these institutions by competent visiting committees, and the seasonable dismissal of all who were pronounced cured; and the adoption for the pauper insane of a judicious course of remedial treatment. the third step was the passage of the ten hour factory bill. this took nearly eighteen years of labor and unceasing activity in parliament and in the provinces. its operation affects full half a million of actual workers, and, if the families be included, nearly two millions of persons, young and old. two thirds as many as the southern slaves. it is needless to enlarge on the horrible disclosures in reference to the factory operatives, made during this investigation. england never shuddered with a deeper thrill at the unveiling of american slavery than did all america at this unveiling of the white-labor slavery of england. in reading the speeches of lord shaftesbury, one sees, that, in presenting this subject, he had to encounter the same opposition and obloquy which now beset those in america who seek the abolition of slavery. in the beginning of one of his speeches, his lordship says, "nearly eleven years have now elapsed since i first made the proposition to the house which i shall renew this night. never, at any time, have i felt greater apprehension, or even anxiety. not through any fear of personal defeat; for disappointment is 'the badge of our tribe;' but because i know well the hostility that i have aroused, and the certain issues of indiscretion on my part affecting the welfare of those who have so long confided their hopes and interests to my charge." one may justly wonder on what conceivable grounds any could possibly oppose the advocate of a measure like this. he was opposed on the same ground that clarkson was resisted in seeking the abolition of the slave trade. as boswell said that "to abolish the slave trade would be to shut the gates of mercy on mankind," so the advocates of eighteen hours labor in factories said that the ten hour system would diminish produce, lower wages, and bring starvation on the workmen. his lordship was denounced as an incendiary, a meddling fanatic, interfering with the rights of masters, and desiring to exalt his own order by destroying the prosperity of the manufacturers. in the conclusion of one of his speeches he says, "sir, it may not be given me to pass over this jordan; other and better men have preceded me, and i entered into their labors; other and better men will follow me, and enter into mine; but this consolation i shall ever continue to enjoy--that, amidst much injustice and somewhat of calumny, we have at last 'lighted such a candle in england as, by god's blessing, shall never be put out.'" the next effort was to regulate the labor of children in the calico and print works. the great unhealthiness of the work, and the tender age of the children employed,--some even as young as four years--were fully disclosed. an extract from his lordship's remarks on this subject will show that human nature takes the same course in all countries: "sir, in the various discussions on these kindred subjects, there has been a perpetual endeavor to drive us from the point under debate, and taunt us with a narrow and one-sided humanity. i was told there were far greater evils than those i had assailed--that i had left untouched much worse things. it was in vain to reply that no one could grapple with the whole at once; my opponents on the ten hour bill sent me to the collieries; when i invaded the collieries i was referred to the print works; from the print works i know not to what i shall be sent; for what can be worse? sir, it has been said to me, more than once, 'where will you stop?' i reply, nowhere, so long as any portion of this mighty evil remains to be removed. i confess that my desire and ambition are to bring all the laboring children of this empire within the reach and opportunities of education, within the sphere of useful and happy citizens. i am ready, so far as my services are of any value, to devote what little i have of energy, and all the remainder of my life, to the accomplishment of this end. the labor would be great, and the anxieties very heavy; but i fear neither one nor the other. i fear nothing but defeat." from the allusion, above, to the colliery effort, it would seem that the act for removing women and children from the coalpits preceded the reform of the printworks. concerning the result of these various enterprises, he says, "the present state of things may be told in few words. full fifty thousand children under thirteen years of age attend school every day. none are worked more than seven, generally only six, hours in the day. those above thirteen and under eighteen, and all women, are limited to ten hours and a half, exclusive of the time for meals. the work begins at six in the morning and ends at six in the evening. saturday's labor ends at four o'clock, and there is no work on sunday. the printworks are brought under regulation, and the women and children removed from the coalpits." his lordship adds, "the report of inspectors which i send you will give you a faint picture of the physical, social, and moral good that has resulted. i may safely say of these measures, that god has blessed them far beyond my expectation, and almost equal to my heart's desire." the next great benevolent movement is the ragged school system. from a miserable hole in field lane, they have grown up to a hundred and sixteen in number. of these lord shaftesbury says, "they have produced--i speak seriously--some of the most beautiful fruits that ever grew upon the tree of life. i believe that from the teachers and from the children, though many are now gone to their rest, might have been, and might still be, selected some of the most pure, simple, affectionate specimens of christianity the world ever saw." growing out of the ragged school is an institution of most interesting character, called "a place for repentance." it had its origin in the efforts of a young man, a mr. nash, to reform two of his pupils. they said they wished to be honest, but had nothing to eat, and _must_ steal to live. though poor himself, he invited them to his humble abode, and shared with them his living. other pupils, hearing of this, desired to join with them, and become honest too. soon he had six. now, the _honest_ scholars in the ragged school, seeing what was going on, of their own accord began to share their bread with this little band, and to contribute their pennies. gradually the number increased. benevolent individuals noticed it, and supplies flowed in, until at last it has grown to be an establishment in which several hundreds are seeking reformation. to prevent imposition, a rigid probation is prescribed. fourteen days the applicant feeds on bread and water, in solitary confinement, with the door unfastened, so that he can depart at any moment. if he goes through with that ordeal it is thought he really wants to be honest, and he is admitted a member. after sufficient time spent in the institution to form correct habits, assistance is given him to emigrate to some of the colonies, to commence life, as it were, anew. lord shaftesbury has taken a deep interest in this establishment; and among other affecting letters received from its colonists in australia, is one to him, commencing, "kind lord ashley," in which the boy says, "i wish your lordship would send out more boys, and use your influence to convert all the prisons into ragged schools. as soon as i get a farm i shall call it after your name." a little anecdote related by mr. nash shows the grateful feelings of the inmates of this institution. a number of them were very desirous to have a print of lord shaftesbury, to hang up in their sitting room. mr. nash told them he knew of no way in which they could earn the money, except by giving up something from their daily allowance of food. this they cheerfully agreed to do. a benevolent gentleman offered to purchase the picture and present it to them; but they unanimously declined. they wanted it to be their own, they said, and they could not feel that it was so unless they did something for it themselves. connected with the ragged school, also, is a movement for establishing what are called ragged churches--a system of simple, gratuitous religious instruction, which goes out to seek those who feel too poor and degraded to be willing to enter the churches. another of the great movements in england is the institution of the laborer's friend society, under the patronage of the most distinguished personages. its principal object has been the promotion of allotments of land in the country, to be cultivated by the peasantry after their day's labor, thus adding to their day's wages the produce of their fields and gardens. it has been instrumental, first and last, of establishing nearly four hundred thousand of these allotments. it publishes, also, a monthly paper, called the laborer's friend, in which all subjects relative to the elevation of the working classes receive a full discussion. in consequence of all these movements, the dwellings of the laboring classes throughout great britain are receiving much attention; so that, if matters progress for a few years as they have done, the cottages of the working people will be excelled by none in the world. another great movement is the repeal of the corn laws, the benefit of which is too obvious to need comment. what has been doing for milliners and dressmakers, for the reform lodging houses, and for the supply of baths and wash houses, i have shown at length in former letters. i will add that the city of london has the services of one hundred and twenty city missionaries. there is a great multiplication of churches, and of clergymen to labor in the more populous districts. the pastoral aid society and the scripture reading society are both extensive and fruitful laborers for the service of the mass of the people. there has also been a public health act, by which towns and villages are to be drained and supplied with water. this has gone into operation in about one hundred and sixty populous places with the most beneficial results. in fine, lord shaftesbury says, "the best proof that the people are cared for, and that they know it, appeared in the year . all europe was convulsed. kings were falling like rotten pears. we were as quiet and happy in england as the president of the united states in his drawing room." it is true, that all these efforts united could not radically relieve the distress of the working classes, were it not for the outlet furnished by emigration. but australia has opened as m new world of hope upon england. and confirmatory of all other movements for the good of the working classes, come the benevolent efforts of mrs. chisholm and the colonizing society formed under her auspices. i will say, finally, that the aspect of the religious mind of england, as i have been called to meet it, is very encouraging in this respect; that it is humble, active, and practical. with all that has been done, they do not count themselves to have attained, or to be already perfect; and they evidently think and speak more of the work that yet remains to be done than of victories already achieved. could you, my dear father, have been with me through the different religious circles it has been my privilege to enter, from the humble cotter's fireside to the palace of the highest and noblest, your heart would share with mine a sincere joy in the thought that the lord "has much people" in england. called by different names, churchman, puseyite, dissenter, presbyterian, independent, quaker, differing widely, sincerely, earnestly, i have still found among them all evidence of that true piety which consists in a humble and childlike spirit of obedience to god, and a sincere desire to do good to man. it is comforting and encouraging to know, that while there are many sects and opinions, there is, after all, but one christianity. i sometimes think that it has been my peculiar lot to see the exhibition of more piety and loveliness of spirit in the differing sects and ranks in england than they can see in each other. and it lays in my mind a deep foundation of hope for that noble country. my belief is, that a regenerating process is going on in england; a gradual advance in religion, of which contending parties themselves are not aware. under various forms all are energizing together, i trust, under the guidance of a superior spirit, who is gently moderating acerbities, removing prejudices, inclining to conciliation and harmony, and preparing england to develop, from many outward forms, the one, pure, beautiful, invisible church of christ. letter xxx. london, june . my dear husband:-- according to request i will endeavor to keep you informed of all our goings on after you left, up to the time of our departure for paris. we have borne in mind your advice to hasten away to the continent. c. wrote, a day or two since, to mrs. c. at paris, to secure very private lodgings, and by no means let any one know that we were coming. she has replied, urging us to come to her house, and promising entire seclusion and rest. so, since you departed, we have been passing with a kind of comprehensive skip and jump over remaining engagements. and first, the evening after you left, came off the presentation of the inkstand by the ladies of surrey chapel. our kind mr. sherman showed great taste as well as energy in the arrangements. the lecture room of the chapel was prettily adorned with flowers. lord shaftesbury was in the chair, and the duchess of argyle and the marquis of stafford were there. miss greenfield sang some songs, and there were speeches in which each speaker said all the obliging things he could think of to the rest. rev. mr. binney complimented the nobility, and lord shaftesbury complimented the people, and all were but too kind in what they said to me--in fact, there was general good humor in the whole scene. the inkstand is a beautiful specimen of silverwork. it is eighteen inches long, with a group of silver figures on it, representing religion with the bible in her hand, giving liberty to the slave. the slave is a masterly piece of work. he stands with his hands clasped, looking up to heaven, while a white man is knocking the shackles from his feet. but the prettiest part of the scene was the presentation of a _gold pen_, by a band of beautiful children, one of whom made a very pretty speech. i called the little things to come and stand around me, and talked with them a few minutes, and this was all the speaking that fell to my share. now this, really, was too kind of these ladies, and of our brotherly friend mr. s., and i was quite touched with it; especially as i have been able myself to do so very little, socially, for any body's pleasure. mr. sherman still has continued to be as thoughtful and careful as a brother could be; and his daughter, mrs. b., i fear, has robbed her own family to give us the additional pleasure of her society. we rode out with her one day into the country, and saw her home and little family. saturday morning we breakfasted at stafford house, i wish you could have been there. all was as cool, and quiet, and still there, as in some retreat deep in the country. we went first into the duchess's boudoir,--you remember,--where is that beautiful crayon sketch of lady constance. the duchess was dressed in pale blue. we talked with her some time, before any one came in, about miss greenfield. i showed her a simple note to her grace in which miss g. tried to express her gratitude, and which she had sent to me to _correct_ for her. the duchess said, " , give it me! it is a great deal better as it is. i like it just as she wrote it." people always like simplicity and truth better than finish. after entering the breakfast room the duke and duchess of argyle, and lord carlisle appeared, and soon after lord shaftesbury. we breakfasted in that beautiful green room which has the two statues, the eve of thorwaldsen and the venus of canova. the view of the gardens and trees from the window gave one a sense of seclusion and security, and made me forget that we were in great, crowded london. a pleasant talk we had. among other things they proposed various inquiries respecting affairs in america, particularly as to the difference between presbyterians and congregationalists, the influence of the assembly's catechism, and the peculiarities of the other religious denominations. the duke of argyle, who is a presbyterian, seemed to feel an interest in those points. he said it indicated great power in the assembly's catechism that it could hold such ascendency in such a free country. in the course of the conversation it was asked if there was really danger that the antislavery spirit of england would excite ill feeling between the two countries. i said, were it possible that america were always to tolerate and defend slavery, this might be. but this would be self-destruction. it cannot, must not, will not be. we shall struggle, and shall overcome; and when the victory has been gained we shall love england all the more for her noble stand in the conflict. as i said this i happened to turn to the duchess, and her beautiful face was lighted with such a strong, inspired, noble expression, as set its seal at once in my heart. lord carlisle is going to constantinople to-morrow, or next day, to be gone perhaps a year. the eastern question is much talked of now, and the chances of war between russia and turkey. lord shaftesbury is now all-engaged upon the _fête_ of the seven thousand charity children, which is to come off at st. paul's next thursday. the duchesses of sutherland and argyle were to have attended, but the queen has just come to town, and the first drawing room will be held on thursday, so that they will be unable. his lordship had previously invited me, and this morning renewed the invitation. our time to leave london is fixed for friday; but, as i am told, there is no sight more peculiar and beautiful than this _fête_, and i think i can manage both to go there and be forward with my preparations. in the afternoon of this day i went with lord shaftesbury over the model lodging houses, which i have described very particularly in a letter to mr. c. l. b. on thursday, at five p. m., we drove to stafford house, to go with her grace to the house of parliament. what a magnificent building! i say so, in contempt of all criticism. i hear that all sorts of things are said against it. for my part, i consider that no place is so utterly hopeless as that of a modern architect intrusted with a great public building. it is not his fault that he is modern, but his misfortune. things which in old buildings are sanctioned by time he may not attempt; and if he strikes out _new_ things, that is still worse. he is fair game for every body's criticism. he builds too high for one, too low for another; is too ornate for this, too plain for that; he sacrifices utility to aesthetics, or aesthetics to utility, and somebody is displeased either way. the duchess has been a sympathizing friend of the architect through this arduous ordeal. she took pleasure and pride in his work, and showed it to me as something in which she felt an almost personal interest. for my part, i freely confess that, viewed as a national monument, it seems to me a grand one. what a splendid historic corridor is old westminster hall, with its ancient oaken roof! i seemed to see all that brilliant scene when burke spoke there amid the nobility, wealth, and fashion of all england, in the warren hastings trial. that speech always makes me shudder. i think there never was any thing more powerful than its conclusion. then the corridor that is to be lined with statues of the great men of england will be a noble affair. the statue of hampden is grand. will they leave out cromwell? there is less need of a monument to him, it is true, than to most of them. we went into the house of lords. the earl of carlisle made a speech on the cuban question, in the course of which he alluded very gracefully to a petition from certain ladies that england should enforce the treaties for the prevention of the slave trade there; and spoke very feelingly on the reasons why woman should manifest a particular interest for the oppressed. the duke of argyle and the bishop of oxford came over to the place where we were sitting. her grace intimated to the bishop a desire to hear from him on the question, and in the course of a few moments after returning to his place, he arose and spoke. he has a fine voice, and speaks very elegantly. at last i saw lord aberdeen. he looks like some of our presbyterian elders; a plain, grave old man, with a bald head, and dressed in black; by the by, i believe i have heard that he is an elder in the national kirk; i am told he is a very good man. you don't know how strangely and dreamily this house of lords, as _seen_ to-day, mixed itself up with my historic recollections of by-gone days. it had a very sheltered, comfortable parlor-like air. the lords in their cushioned seats seemed like men that had met, in a social way, to talk over public affairs; it was not at all that roomy, vast, declamatory national hall i had imagined. then we went into the house of commons. there is a kind of latticed gallery to which ladies are admitted--a charming little oriental rookery. there we found the duchess of argyle and others. lord carlisle afterwards joined us, and we went all over the house, examining the frescoes, looking into closets, tea rooms, libraries, smoking rooms, committee rooms, and all, till i was thoroughly initiated. the terrace that skirts the thames is magnificent. i inquired if any but members might enjoy it. no; it was only for statesmen; our short promenade there was, therefore, an act of grace. on the whole, when this parliament house shall have gathered the dust of two hundred years,--when victoria's reign is among the myths,--future generations will then venerate this building as one of the rare creations of old masters, and declare that no modern structure can ever equal it. the next day, at three o'clock, i went to miss greenfield's first public morning concert, a bill of which i send you. she comes out under the patronage of all the great names, you observe. lady hatherton was there, and the duchess of sutherland, with all her daughters. miss greenfield did very well, and was heard with indulgence, though surrounded by artists who had enjoyed what she had not--a life's training. i could not but think what a loss to art is the enslaving of a race which might produce so much musical talent. had she had culture equal to her voice and ear, _no_ singer of any country could have surpassed her. there could even be associations of poetry thrown around the dusky hue of her brow were it associated with the triumphs of art. after concert, the duchess of s. invited lady h. and myself to stafford house. we took tea in the green library. lady c. campbell was there, and her grace of argyle. after tea i saw the duchess of s. a little while alone in her boudoir, and took my leave then and there of one as good and true-hearted as beautiful and noble. the next day i lunched with mrs. malcolm, daughter-in-law of your favorite traveller, sir john malcolm, of persian memory. you should have been there. the house is a cabinet of persian curiosities. there was the original of the picture of the king of persia in ker porter's travels. it was given to sir john by the monarch himself. there were also two daggers which the king presented with his own hand. i think sir john must somehow have mesmerized him. then captain m. showed me sketches of his father's country house in the himalaya mountains: think of that! the alps are commonplace; but a country seat in the himalaya mountains is something worth speaking of. there were two bricks from babylon, and other curiosities innumerable. mrs. m. went with me to call on lady carlisle. she spoke much of the beauty and worth of her character, and said that though educated in the gayest circles of court, she had always preserved the same unworldly purity. mrs. m. has visited dunrobin and seen the sutherland estates, and spoke much of the duke's character as a landlord, and his efforts for the improvement of his tenantry. lady carlisle was very affectionate, and invited me to visit castle howard on my return to england. thursday i went with lord shaftesbury to see the charity children. what a sight! the whole central part of the cathedral was converted into an amphitheatre, and the children with white caps, white handkerchiefs, and white aprons, looked like a wide flower bed. the rustling, when they all rose up to prayer, was like the rise of a flock of doves, and when they chanted the church service, it was the warble of a thousand little brooks. as spenser says,-- "the angelical, soft, trembling voices made unto the instruments respondence meet." during the course of the services, when any little one was overcome with sleep or fatigue, he was carefully handed down, and conveyed in a man's arms to a refreshment room. there was a sermon by the bishop of chester, very evangelical and practical. on the whole, a more peculiar or more lovely scene i never saw. the elegant arches of st. paul's could have no more beautiful adornment than those immortal flowers. after service we lunched with a large party, with mrs. milman, at the deanery near by. mrs. jameson was there, and mrs. gaskell, authoress of mary barton and ruth. she has a very lovely, gentle face, and looks capable of all the pathos that her writings show. i promised her a visit when i go to manchester. thackeray was there with his fine figure, and frank, cheerful bearing. he spoke in a noble and brotherly way of america, and seemed to have highly enjoyed his visit in our country. after this we made a farewell call at the lord mayor's. we found the lady mayoress returned from the queen's drawing room. from her accounts i should judge the ceremonial rather fatiguing. mrs. m. asked me yesterday if i had any curiosity to see one. i confessed i had not. merely to see public people in public places, in the way of parade and ceremony, was never interesting to me. i have seen very little of ceremony or show in england. well, now, i have brought you down to this time. i have omitted, however, that i went with lady hatherton to call on mr. and mrs. dickens, and was sorry to find him too unwell to be able to see us. mrs. dickens, who was busy in attending him, also excused herself, and we saw his sister. to-morrow we go--go to quiet, to obscurity, to peace; to paris--to switzerland: there we shall find the loneliest glen, and, as the bible says, "fall on sleep." for our adventures on the way, meanwhile, i refer you to c.'s journal. journal london to paris june , . bade adieu with regret to dear surrey parsonage, and drove to the great south-western station house. "paris?" said an official at our cab door. "paris, by folkestone and boulogne," was our answer. and in a few moments, without any inconvenience, we were off. reached folkestone at nine, and enjoyed a smooth passage across the dreaded channel. the steward's bowls were paraded in vain. at boulogne came the long-feared and abhorred ordeal of passports and police. it was nothing. we slipped through quite easily. a narrow ladder, the quay, gens-d'armes, a hall, a crowd, three whiskers, a glance at the passport, the unbuckling of a bundle, _voila tout_. the moment we issued forth, however, upon the quay again, there was a discharge of forty voices shouting in french. for a moment, completely stunned, i forgot where we were, which way going, and what we wanted. up jumped a lively little _gamin_. "_monsieur veut aller à pan's, n'est ce pas?_" "going to paris, are you not, sir?" "_oui._" "is monsieur's baggage registered?" "yes." "does monsieur's wish to go to the station house?" "can one find any thing there to eat?" "yes, just as at a hotel." we yielded at discretion, and _garçon_ took possession of us. "english?" said _garçon_, as we enjoyed the pleasant walk on the sunny quay. "no. american," we replied. "ah!" (his face brightening up, and speaking confidentially,) "you have a republic there." we gave the lad a franc, dined, and were off for paris. the ride was delightful. cars seating eight; clean, soft-cushioned, _nice_. the face of the country, though not striking, was pleasing. there were many poplars, with their silvery shafts, and a mingling of trees of various kinds. the foliage has an airy grace--a certain _spirituelle_ expression--as if the trees knew they were growing in _la belle france_, and must be refined. then the air is so different from the fog and smoke of london. there is more oxygen in the atmosphere. a pall is lifted. we are led out into sunshine. fields are red with a scarlet white-edged poppy, or blue with a flower like larkspur. wheat fields half covered with this unthrifty beauty! but alas! the elasticity is in nature's works only. the works of man breathe over us a dismal, sepulchral, stand-still feeling. the villages have the nightmare, and men wear wooden shoes. the day's ride, however, was memorable with novelty; and when we saw mont martre, and its moth-like windmills, telling us we were coming to paris, it was almost with regret at the swiftness of the hours. we left the cars, and flowed with the tide into the salle d'attente, to wait till the baggage was sorted. then came the famous ceremony of unlocking. the officer took my carpet bag first, and poked his hand down deep in one end. "what is this?" "that is my collar box." "_ah, ça_" and he put it back hastily, and felt of my travelling gown. "what is this?" "only a wrapping gown." "_ah, ça_" after fumbling a little more, he took sister h.'s bag, gave a dive here, a poke there, and a kind of promiscuous rake with his five fingers, and turned to the trunk. there he seemed somewhat dubious. eying the fine silk and lace dresses,--first one, then the other,--"ah, ah!" said he, and snuffed a little. then he peeped under this corner, and cocked his eye under that corner; then, all at once, plunged his arm down at one end of the trunk, and brought up a little square box. "what's that?" said he. he unrolled and was about to open it, when suddenly he seemed to be seized with an emotion of confidence. "_non, non_" said he, frankly, and rolled it up, shoved it back, stuffed the things down, smoothed all over, signed my ticket, and passed on. we locked up, gave the baggage to porters, and called a fiacre. as we left the station two ladies met us. "is there any one here expecting to see mrs. c.?" said one of them. "yes, madam," said i; "_we_ do." "god bless you," said she, fervently, and seized me by the hand. it was mrs. c. and her sister. i gave he into their possession. our troubles were over. we were at home. we rode through streets whose names were familiar, crossed the carrousel, passed the seine, and stopped before an ancient mansion in the hue de verneuil, belonging to m. le marquis de brige. this faubourg st. germain is the part of paris where the ancient nobility lived, and the houses exhibit marks of former splendor. the marquis is one of those chivalrous legitimists who uphold the claims of henri vi. he lives in the country, and rents this hotel. mrs. c. occupies the suite of rooms on the lower floor. we entered by a ponderous old gateway, opened by the _concierge_, passed through a large paved quadrangle, traversed a short hall, and found ourselves in a large, cheerful parlor, looking out into a small flower garden. there was no carpet, but what is called here a parquet floor, or mosaic of oak blocks, waxed and highly polished. the sofas and chairs were covered with a light chintz, and the whole air of the apartment shady and cool as a grotto. a jardinière filled with flowers stood in the centre of the room, and around it a group of living flowers--mother, sisters, and daughters--scarcely less beautiful. in five minutes we were at home. french life is different from any other. elsewhere you do as the world pleases; here you do as you please yourself. my spirits always rise when i get among the french. sabbath, june . headache all the forenoon. in the afternoon we walked to the madeleine, and heard a sermon on charity; listened to the chanting, and gazed at the fantastic ceremonial of the altar. i had anticipated so much from henry's description of the organs, that i was disappointed. the music was fine; but our ideal had outstripped the real. the strangest part of the performance was the censer swinging at the altar. it was done in certain parts of the chant, with rhythmic sweep, and glitter, and vapor wreath, that produced a striking effect. there was an immense audience--quiet, orderly, and to all appearance devout. this was the first romish service i ever attended. it ought to be impressive here, if any where. yet i cannot say i was moved by it rome-ward. indeed, i felt a kind of puritan tremor of conscience at witnessing such a theatrical pageant on the sabbath. we soon saw, however, as we walked home, across the gardens of the tuileries, that there is no sabbath in paris, according to our ideas of the day. monday, june . this day was consecrated to knick-knacks. accompanied by mrs. c., whom years of residence have converted into a perfect _parisienne_, we visited shop after shop, and store after store. the politeness of the shopkeepers is inexhaustible. i felt quite ashamed to spend a half hour looking at every thing, and then depart without buying; but the civil frenchman bowed, and smiled, and thanked us for coming. in the evening, we rode to l'arc de triomphe d'etoile, an immense pile of massive masonry, from the top of which we enjoyed a brilliant panorama. paris was beneath us, from the louvre to the bois de boulogne, with its gardens, and moving myriads; its sports, and games, and light-hearted mirth--a vast vanity fair, blazing in the sunlight. a deep and strangely-blended impression of sadness and gayety sunk into our hearts as we gazed. all is vivacity, gracefulness, and sparkle, to the eye; but ah, what fires are smouldering below! are not all these vines rooted in the lava and ashes of the volcano side? tuesday, june . _a la louvre_! but first the ladies must "shop" a little. i sit by the counter and watch the pretty parisian _shopocracy_. a lady presides at the desk. trim little grisettes serve the customers so deftly, that we wonder why awkward men should ever attempt to do such things. nay, they are so civil, so evidently disinterested and solicitous for your welfare, that to buy is the most natural thing imaginable. but to the louvre! provided with catalogues, i abandoned the ladies, and strolled along to take a kind of cream-skimming look at the whole. i was highly elated with one thing. there were three madonnas with dark hair and eyes: one by murillo, another by carracci, and another by guido. it showed that painters were not so utterly hopeless as a class, and given over by common sense to blindness of mind, as i had supposed. h. begins to recant her heresy in regard to rubens. here we find his largest pieces. here we find the real originals of several real originals we saw in english galleries. it seems as though only upon a picture as large as the side of a parlor could his exuberant genius find scope fully to lay itself out. when i met ii. at last--after finishing the survey--her cheek was flushed, and her eye seemed to swim. "well, h.," said i, "have you drank deep enough this time?" "yes," said she, "i have been _satisfied_, for the first time." wednesday, june . a day on foot in paris. surrendered h. to the care of our fair hostess. attempted to hire a boat, at one of the great bathing establishments, for a pull on the seine. why not on the seine, as well as on the thames? but the old triton demurred. the tide _marched_ too strong--"_il marche trop fort._" onward, then, along the quays; visiting the curious old book stalls, picture stands, and flower markets. lean over the parapet, and gaze upon this modern euphrates, rushing between solid walls of masonry through the heart of another babylon. the river is the only thing not old. these waters are as turbid, tumultuous, unbridled, as when forests covered all these banks--fit symbol of peoples and nations in their mad career, generation after generation. institutions, like hewn granite, may wall them in, and vast arches span their flow, and hierarchies domineer over the tide; but the scorning waters burst into life unchangeable, and sweep impetuous through the heart of vanity fair, and dash out again into the future, the same grand, ungovernable euphrates stream. i do not wonder egypt adored her nile, and rome her tiber. surely, the life artery of paris is this seine beneath my feet! and there is no scene like this, as i gaze upward and downward, comprehending, in a glance, the immense panorama of art and architecture--life, motion, enterprise, pleasure, pomp, and power. beautiful paris! what city in the world can compare with thee? and is it not chiefly because, either by accident or by instinctive good taste, her treasures of beauty and art are so disposed along the seine as to be visible at a glance to the best effect? as the instinct of the true parisienne teaches her the mystery of setting off the graces of her person by the fascinations of dress, so the instinct of the nation to set off the city by the fascinations of architecture and embellishment. hence a chief superiority of paris to london. the seine is straight, and its banks are laid out in broad terraces on either side, called _quais,_ lined with her stateliest palaces and gardens. the thames forms an elbow, and is enveloped in dense smoke and fog. london lowers; the seine sparkles; london shuts down upon the thames, and there is no point of view for the whole river panorama. paris rises amphitheatrically, on either side the seine, and the eye from the pont d'austerlitz seems to fly through the immense reach like an arrow, casting its shadow on every thing of beauty or grandeur paris possesses. rapidly now i sped onward, paying brief visits to the palais de justice, the hotel de ville, and spending a cool half hour in notre dame. i love to sit in these majestic fanes, abstracting them from the superstition which does but desecrate them, and gaze upward to their lofty, vaulted arches, to drink in the impression of architectual sublimity, which i can neither analyze nor express. cathedrals do not seem to me to have been built. they seem, rather, stupendous growths of nature, like crystals, or cliffs of basalt. there is little ornament here. that roof looks plain and bare; yet i feel that the air is dense with sublimity. onward i sped, crossing a bridge by the hotel dieu, and, leaving the river, plunged into narrow streets. explored a quadrangular market; surveyed the old church of st geneviève, and the new--now the pantheon; went onward to the jardin des plantes, and explored its tropical bowers. many things remind me to-day of new orleans, and its levee, its mississippi, its cathedral, and the luxuriant vegetation of the gulf. in fact, i seem to be walking in my sleep in a kind of glorified new orleans, all the while. yet i return to the gardens of the tuileries and the place vendome, and in the shadow of napoleon's column the illusion vanishes. hundreds of battles look down upon me from their blazonry. in the evening i rested from the day's fatigue by an hour in the garden of the palais royal. i sat by one of the little tables, and called for an ice. there were hundreds of ladies and gentlemen eating ices, drinking wine, reading the papers, smoking, chatting; scores of pretty children were frolicking and enjoying the balmy evening. here six or eight midgets were jumping the rope, while papa and mamma swung it for them. pretty little things, with their flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, how they did seem to enjoy themselves! what parent was ever far from home that did not espy in every group of children his own little ones--his mary or his nelly, his henry or charlie? so it was with me. there was a ring of twenty or thirty singing and dancing, with a smaller ring in the centre, while old folks and boys stood outside. but i heard not a single oath, nor saw a rough or rude action, during the whole time i was there. the boys standing by looked on quietly, like young gentlemen. the best finale of such a toilsome day of sightseeing was a warm bath in the rue du bac, for the trifling sum of fifteen sous. the cheapness and convenience of bathing here is a great recommendation of paris life. they will bring you a hot bath at your house for twenty-five cents, and that without bustle or disorder. and nothing so effectually as an evening bath, as my experience testifies, cures fatigue and propitiates to dreamless slumber. thursday, june . at the louvre. studied three statues half an hour each--the venus victrix, polyhymnia, and gladiateur combattant. the first is mutilated; but if _disarmed_ she conquers all hearts, what would she achieve in full panoply? as to the gladiator, i noted as follows on my catalogue: a pugilist; antique, brown with age; attitude, leaning forward; left hand raised on guard, right hand thrown out back, ready to strike a side blow; right leg bent; straight line from the head to the toe of left foot; muscles and veins most vividly revealed in intense development; a wonderful _petrifaction,_ as if he had been smitten to stone at the instant of striking. here are antique mosaics, in which colored stones seem liquefied, realizing the most beautiful effects of painting--quadrigae, warriors, arms, armor, vases, streams, all lifelike. ascending to the hall of french paintings i spent an hour in studying one picture--la méduse, by géricault. it is a shipwrecked crew upon a raft in mid ocean. i gazed until all surrounding objects disappeared, and i was alone upon the wide atlantic. those transparent emerald waves are no fiction; they leap madly, hungering for their prey. that distended sail is filled with the lurid air. that dead man's foot hangs off in the seething brine a stark reality. what a fixed gaze of despair in that father's stony eye! what a group of deathly living ones around that frail mast, while one with intense eagerness flutters a signal to some far-descried bark! coleridge's ancient mariner has no colors more fearfully faithful to his theme. heaven pities them not. ocean is all in uproar against them. and there is no voice that can summon the distant, flying sail! so france appeared to that prophet painter's eye, in the subsiding tempests of the revolution. so men's hearts failed them for fear, and the dead lay stark and stiff among the living, amid the sea and the waves roaring; and so mute signals of distress were hung out in the lurid sky to nations afar. for my part, i remain a heretic. give to these french pictures the mellowing effects of age, impregnating not merely the picture, but the eye that gazes on it, with its subtle quality; let them be gazed at through the haze of two hundred years, and they will--or i cannot see why they will not--rival the productions of any past age. i do not believe that a more powerful piece ever was painted than yon raft by gericault, nor any more beautiful than several in the luxembourg; the "décadence de rome," for example, exhibiting the revels of the romans during the decline of the empire. let this décadence unroll before the eyes of men the _cause_, that wreck by géricault symbolize the _effect_, in the great career of nations, and the two are sublimely matched. after visiting the luxembourg, i resorted to the gardens of the tuileries. the thermometer was at about eighty degrees in the shade. from the number of people assembled one would have thought, if it had been in the united states, that some great mass convention was coming off. under the impenetrable screen of the trees, in the dark, cool, refreshing shade, are thousands of chairs, for which one pays two cents apiece. whole families come, locking up their door, bringing the baby, work, dinner, or lunch, take a certain number of chairs, and spend the day. as far as eye can reach you see a multitude seated, as if in church, with other multitudes moving to and fro, while boys and girls without number are frolicking, racing, playing ball, driving hoop, &c., but contriving to do it without making a hideous racket. how french children are taught to play and enjoy themselves without disturbing every body else, is a mystery. "_c'est gentil_" seems to be a talismanic spell; and "_ce n'est pas gentil ça_" is sufficient to check every rising irregularity. o that some _savant_ would write a book and tell us how it is done! i gazed for half an hour on the spectacle. a more charming sight my eyes never beheld. there were grayheaded old men, and women, and invalids; and there were beautiful demoiselles working worsted, embroidery, sewing; men reading papers; and, in fact, people doing every thing they would do in their own parlors. and all were graceful, kind, and obliging; not a word nor an act of impoliteness or indecency. no wonder the french adore paris, thought i; in no other city in the world is a scene like this possible! no wonder that their hearts die within them at thoughts of exile in the fens of cayenne! but under all this there lie, as under the cultivated crust of this fair world, deep abysses of soul, where volcanic masses of molten lava surge and shake the tremulous earth. in the gay and bustling boulevards, a friend, an old resident of paris, poised out to me, as we rode, the bullet marks that scarred the houses--significant tokens of what seems, but is not, forgotten. at sunset a military band of about seventy performers began playing in front of the tuileries. they formed an immense circle, the leader in the centre. he played the octave flute, which also served as a baton for marking time. the music was characterized by delicacy, precision, suppression, and subjugation of rebellious material. i imagined a congress of horns, clarinets, trumpets, &c., conversing in low tones on some important theme; nay, rather a conspiracy of instruments, mourning between whiles their subjugation, and ever and anon breaking out in a fierce _émeute_, then repressed, hushed, dying away; as if they had heard of baron munchausen's frozen horn, and had conceived the idea of yielding their harmonies without touch of human lips, yet were sighing and sobbing at their impotence. perhaps i detected the pulses of a nation's palpitating heart, throbbing for liberty, but trodden down, and sobbing in despair. in the evening mrs. c. had her _salon_, a fashion of receiving one's friends on a particular night, that one wishes could be transplanted to american soil. no invitations are given. it is simply understood that on such an evening, the season through, a lady _receives_ her friends. all come that please, without ceremony. a little table is set out with tea and a plate of cake. behind it presides some fairy emma or elizabeth, dispensing tea and talk, bonbons and bon-mots, with equal grace. the guests enter, chat, walk about, spend as much time, or as little, as they choose, and retire. they come when they please, and go when they please, and there is no notice taken of entree or exit, no time wasted in formal greetings and leave takings. up to this hour we had conversed little in french. one is naturally diffident at first; for if one musters courage to commence a conversation with propriety, the problem is how to escape a scylla in the second and a charybdis in the third sentence. said one of our fair entertainers, "when i first began i would think of some sentence till i could say it without stopping, and courageously deliver myself to some guest or acquaintance." but it was like pulling the string of a shower bath. delighted at my correct sentence, and supposing me _au fait_, they poured upon me such a deluge of french that i held my breath in dismay. considering, however, that nothing is to be gained by half-way measures, i resolved upon a desperate game. launching in, i talked away right and left, up hill and down,--jumping over genders, cases, nouns, and adjectives, floundering through swamps and morasses, in a perfect steeple chase of words. thanks to the proverbial politeness of my friends, i came off covered with glory; the more mistakes i made the more complacent they grew. nothing can surpass the ease, facility, and genial freedom of these _soirées_. conceive of our excellent professor of arabic and sanscrit, count m. fairly cornered by three wicked fairies, and laughing at their stories and swift witticisms till the tears roll down his cheeks. behold yonder tall and scarred veteran, an old soldier of napoleon, capitulating now before the witchery of genius and wit. here the noble russian exile forgets his sorrows in those smiles that, unlike the aurora, warm while they dazzle. and our celebrated composer is discomposed easily by alert and nimble-footed mischief. and our professor of greek and hebrew roots is rooted to the ground with astonishment at finding himself put through all the moods and tenses of fun in a twinkling. ah, culpable sirens, if the pangs ye have inflicted were reckoned up unto you,--the heart aches and side aches,--how could ye repose o' nights? saturday, june . versailles! when i have written that one word i have said all. i ought to stop. description is out of the question. describe nine miles of painting! describe visions of splendor and gorgeousness that cannot be examined in months! suffice it to say that we walked from hall to hall until there was no more soul left within us. then, late in the afternoon we drove away, about three miles, to the villa of m. belloc, _directeur de l'ecole imperials de dessein_. madame belloc has produced, assisted by her friend, mademoiselle montgolfier, the best french translation of uncle tom's cabin. at this little family party we enjoyed ourselves exceedingly, in the heart of genuine domestic life. two beautiful married daughters were there, with their husbands, and the household seemed complete. madame b. speaks english well; and thus, with our limited french, we got on delightfully together. i soon discovered that i had been sinning against all law in admiring any thing at versailles. they were all bad paintings. there might be one or two good paintings at the luxembourg, and one or two good modern paintings at the louvre--the méduse, by géricault, for example: (how i rejoiced that i had admired it!) but all the rest of the modern paintings m. belloc declared, with an inimitable shrug, are poor paintings. there is nothing safely admirable, i find, but the old masters. all those battles of all famous french generals, from charles hartel to napoleon, and the battles in algiers, by horace yernet, are wholly to be snuffed at. in painting, as in theology, age is the criterion of merit. yet vernet's paintings, though decried by m. le directeur, i admired, and told him so. said i, in french as lawless as the sentiment, "monsieur, i do not know the rules of painting, nor whether the picture is according to them or not; i only know that i like it." but who shall describe the social charms of our dinner? all wedged together, as we were, in the snuggest little pigeon hole of a dining room, pretty little chattering children and all, whom papa held upon his knee and fed with bonbons, all the while impressing upon them the absolute necessity of their leaving the table! there the salad was mixed by acclamation, each member of the party adding a word of advice, and each, gayly laughing at the advice of the other. there a gay, red lobster was pulled in pieces among us, with infinite gout; and madame belloc pathetically expressed her fears that we did not like french cooking. she might have saved herself the trouble; for we take to it as naturally as ducks take to the water. and then, when we returned to the parlor, we resolved ourselves into a committee of the whole on coffee, which was concocted in a trim little hydrostatic engine of latest modern invention, before the faces of all. and so we right merrily spent the evening. h. discussed poetry and art with our kind hosts to her heart's content, and at a late hour we drove to the railroad, and returned to paris. letter xxxi. my dear l.:-- at last i have come into dreamland; into the lotus-eater's paradise; into the land where it is always afternoon. i am released from care; i am unknown, unknowing; i live in a house whose arrangements seem to me strange, old, and dreamy. in the heart of a great city i am as still as if in a convent; in the burning heats of summer our rooms are shadowy and cool as a cave. my time is all my own. i may at will lie on a sofa, and dreamily watch the play of the leaves and flowers, in the little garden into which my room opens; or i may go into the parlor adjoining, whence i hear the quick voices of my beautiful and vivacious young friends. you ought to see these girls. emma might look like a madonna, were it not for her wicked wit; and as to anna and lizzie, as they glance by me, now and then, i seem to think them a kind of sprite, or elf, made to inhabit shady old houses, just as twinkling harebells grow in old castles; and then the gracious mamma, who speaks french, or english, like a stream of silver--is she not, after all, the fairest of any of them? and there is caroline, piquant, racy, full of conversation--sharp as a quartz crystal: how i like to hear her talk! these people know paris, as we say in america, "like a book." they have studied it aesthetically, historically, socially. they have studied french people and french literature,--and studied it with enthusiasm, as people ever should, who would truly understand. they are all kindness to me. whenever i wish to see any thing, i have only to speak; or to know, i have only to ask. at breakfast every morning we compare notes, and make up our list of wants. my first, of course, was the louvre. it is close by us. think of it. to one who has starved all a life, in vain imaginings of what art might be, to know that you are within a stone's throw of a museum full of its miracles, greek, assyrian, egyptian, roman sculptors and modern painting, all there! i scarcely consider myself to have seen any thing of art in england. the calls of the living world were so various and _exigeant_, i had so little leisure for reflection, that, although i saw many paintings, i could not study them; and many times i saw them in a state of the nervous system too jaded and depressed to receive the full force of the impression. a day or two before i left, i visited the national gallery, and made a rapid survey of its contents. there were two of turner's masterpieces there, which he presented on the significant condition that they should hang side by side with their two finest claudes. i thought them all four fine pictures, but i liked the turners best. yet i did not think any of them fine enough to form an absolute limit to human improvement. but, till i had been in paris a day or two, perfectly secluded, at full liberty to think and rest, i did not feel that my time for examining art had really come. it was, then, with a thrill almost of awe that i approached the louvre. here, perhaps, said i to myself, i shall answer, fully, the question that has long wrought within my soul, what is art? and what can it do? here, perhaps, these yearnings for the ideal will meet their satisfaction. the ascent to the picture gallery tends to produce a flutter of excitement and expectation. magnificent staircases, dim perspectives of frescoes and carvings, the glorious hall of apollo, rooms with mosaic pavements, antique vases, countless spoils of art, dazzle the eye of the neophyte, and prepare the mind for some grand enchantment. then opens on one the grand hall of paintings arranged by schools, the works of each artist by themselves, a wilderness of gorgeous growths. i first walked through the whole, offering my mind up aimlessly to see if there were any picture there great and glorious enough to seize and control my whole being, and answer, at once, the cravings of the poetic and artistic element. for any such i looked in vain. i saw a thousand beauties, as also a thousand enormities, but nothing of that overwhelming, subduing nature which i had conceived. most of the men there had painted with dry eyes and cool hearts, thinking only of the mixing of their colors and the jugglery of their art, thinking little of heroism, faith, love, or immortality. yet when i had resigned this longing; when i was sure i should not meet there what i sought, then i began to enjoy very heartily what there was. in the first place, i now saw claudes worthy of the reputation he bore. three or four of these were studied with great delight; the delight one feels, who, conscientiously bound to be delighted, suddenly comes into a situation to be so. i saw, now, those atmospheric traits, those reproductions of the mysteries of air, and of light, which are called so wonderful, and for which all admire claude, but for which so few admire him who made claude, and who every day creates around us, in the commonest scenes, effects far more beautiful. how much, even now, my admiration of claude was genuine, i cannot say. how can we ever be sure on this point, when we admire what has prestige and sanction, not to admire which is an argument against ourselves? certainly, however, i did feel great delight in some of these works. one of my favorites was rembrandt. i always did admire the gorgeous and solemn mysteries of his coloring. rembrandt is like hawthorne. he chooses simple and everyday objects, and so arranges light and shadow as to give them a sombre richness and a mysterious gloom. the house of seven gables is a succession of rembrandt pictures, done in words instead of oils. now, this pleases us, because our life really is a haunted one; the simplest thing in it is a mystery, the invisible world always lies round us like a shadow, and therefore this dreamy golden gleam of rembrandt meets somewhat in our inner consciousness to which it corresponds. there were no pictures in the gallery which i looked upon so long, and to which i returned so often and with such growing pleasure, as these. i found in them, if not a commanding, a drawing influence, a full satisfaction for one part of my nature. there were raphaels there, which still disappointed me, because from raphael i asked and expected more. i wished to feel his hand on my soul with a stronger grasp; these were too passionless in their serenity, and almost effeminate in their tenderness. but rubens, the great, joyous, full-souled, all-powerful rubens!--there he was, full as ever of triumphant, abounding life; disgusting and pleasing; making me laugh and making me angry; defying me to dislike him; dragging me at his chariot wheels; in despite of my protests forcing me to confess that there was no other but he. this medici gallery is a succession of gorgeous allegoric paintings, done at the instance of mary of medici, to celebrate the praise and glory of that family. i was predetermined not to like them for two reasons: first, that i dislike allegorical subjects; and second, that i hate and despise that medici family and all that belongs to them. so no sympathy with the subjects blinded my eyes, and drew me gradually from all else in the hall to contemplate these. it was simply the love of power and of fertility that held me astonished, which seemed to express with nonchalant ease what other painters attain by laborious efforts. it occurred to me that other painters are famous for single heads, or figures, and that were the striking heads and figures with which these pictures abound to be parcelled out singly, any one of them would make a man's reputation. any animal of rubens, alone, would make a man's fortune in that department. his fruits and flowers are unrivalled for richness and abundance; his old men's leads are wonderful; and when he chooses, which he does not often, he can even create a pretty woman. generally speaking his women are his worst productions. it would seem that he had revolted with such fury from the meagre, pale, cadaverous outlines of womankind painted by his predecessors, the van eyks, whose women resembled potato sprouts grown in a cellar, that he altogether overdid the matter in the opposite direction. his exuberant soul abhors leanness as nature abhors a vacuum; and hence all his women seem bursting their bodices with fulness, like overgrown carnations breaking out of their green calyxes. he gives you venuses with arms fit to wield the hammer of vulcan; vigorous graces whose dominion would be alarming were they indisposed to clemency. his weakness, in fact, his besetting sin, is too truly described by moses:-- "but jeshurun waxed fat and kicked; thou art waxen fat, thou art grown thick, thou art covered with fatness." scornfully he is determined upon it; he will none of your scruples; his women shall be fat as he pleases, and you shall like him nevertheless. in this medici gallery the fault appears less prominent than elsewhere. many of the faces are portraits, and there are specimens among them of female beauty, so delicate as to demonstrate that it was not from any want of ability to represent the softer graces that he so often becomes hard and coarse. my friend, m. belloc, made the remark that the genius of rubens was somewhat restrained in these pictures, and chastened by the rigid rules of the french school, and hence in them he is more generally pleasing. i should compare rubens to shakspeare, for the wonderful variety and vital force of his artistic power. i know no other mind he so nearly resembles. like shakspeare, he forces you to accept and to forgive a thousand excesses, and uses his own faults as musicians use discords, only to enhance the perfection of harmony. there certainly is some use even in defects. a faultless style sends you to sleep. defects rouse and excite the sensibility to seek and appreciate excellences. some of shakspeare's finest passages explode all grammar and rhetoric like skyrockets--the thought blows the language to shivers. as to murillo, there are two splendid specimens of his style here, as exquisite as any i have seen; but i do not find reason to alter the judgment i made from my first survey. here is his celebrated picture of the assumption of the virgin, which we have seen circulated in print shops in america, but which appears of a widely different character in the painting. the virgin is rising in a flood of amber light, surrounded by clouds and indistinct angel figures. she is looking upward with clasped hands, as in an ecstasy: the crescent moon is beneath her feet. the whole tone of the picture-- the clouds, the drapery, her flowing hair--are pervaded with this amber tint, sublimated and spiritual. do i, then, like it? no. does it affect me? not at all. why so? because this is a subject requiring earnestness; yet, after all, there is no earnestness of religious feeling expressed. it is a _surface_ picture, exquisitely painted--the feeling goes no deeper than the canvas. but how do i know murillo has no earnestness in the religious idea of this piece? how do i know, when reading pope's messiah, that _he_ was not in earnest--that he was only most exquisitely reproducing what others had thought? does he not assume, in the most graceful way, the language of inspiration and holy rapture? but, through it all, we feel the satisfied smirk of the artist, and the fine, sharp touch of his diamond file. what is done from a genuine, strong, inward emotion, whether in writing or painting, always mesmerizes the paper, or the canvas, and gives it a power which every body must feel, though few know why. the reason why the bible has been omnipotent, in all ages, has been because there were the emotions of god in it; and of paintings nothing is more remarkable than that some preserve in them such a degree of genuine vital force that one can never look on them with indifference; while others, in which every condition of art seems to be met, inspire no strong emotion. yet this picture is immensely popular. hundreds stand enchanted before it, and declare it imbodies their highest ideal of art and religion; and i suppose it does. but so it always is. the man who has exquisite gifts of expression passes for more, popularly, than the man with great and grand ideas who utters but imperfectly. there are some pictures here by correggio--a sleeping venus and cupid--a marriage of the infant jesus and st. catharine. this correggio is the poet of physical beauty. light and shadow are his god. what he lives for is, to catch and reproduce fitting phases of these. the moral is nothing to him, and, in his own world, he does what he seeks. he is a great popular favorite, since few look for more in a picture than exquisite beauty understood between us that his sphere is to be earth, and not heaven; were he to attempt, profanely, to represent heavenly things, i must rebel. i should as soon want tom moore to write me a prayer book. a large saloon is devoted to the masters of the french school. the works of no living artists are admitted. there are some large paintings by david. he is my utter aversion. i see in him nothing but the driest imitation of the classics. it would be too much praise to call it reproduction. david had neither heart nor soul. how could he be and artist?--he who coolly took his portfolio to the guillotine to take lessons on the dying agonies of its victims--how could he ever paint any thing to touch the heart? in general, all french artists appear to me to have been very much injured by a wrong use of classic antiquity. nothing could be more glorious and beautiful than the grecian development; nothing more unlike it that the stale, wearisome, repetitious imitations of it in modern times. the greek productions themselves have a living power to this day; but all imitations of them are cold and tiresome. these old greeks made such beautiful things, because they did _not_ imitate. that mysterious vitality which still imbues their remains, and which seems to enchant even the fragments of their marbles, is the mesmeric vitality of fresh, original conception. art, built upon this, is just like what the shadow of a beautiful woman is to the woman. one gets tired in these galleries of the classic band, and the classic headdress, and the classic attitude, and the endless repetition of the classic urn, and vase, and lamp, as if nothing else were ever to be made in the world except these things. again: in regard to this whole french gallery, there is much of a certain quality which i find it very difficult to describe in any one word--a dramatic smartness, a searching for striking and peculiar effects, which render the pictures very likely to please on first sight, and to weary on longer acquaintance. it seems to me to be the work of a race whose senses and perceptions of the outward have been cultivated more than the deep inward emotions. few of the pictures seem to have been the result of strong and profound feeling, of habits of earnest and concentrated thought. there is an abundance of beautiful little phases of sentiment, pointedly expressed; there is a great deal of what one should call the picturesque of the _morale;_ but few of its foundation ideas. i must except from these remarks the very strong and earnest painting of the méduse, by géricault, which c. has described. that seems to me to be the work of a man who had not seen human life and suffering merely on the outside, but had felt, in the very depths of his soul, the surging and earthquake of those mysteries of passion and suffering which underlie our whole existence in this world. to me it was a picture too mighty and too painful--whose power i confessed, but which i did not like to contemplate. on the whole, french painting is to me an exponent of the great difficulty and danger of french life; that passion for the outward and visible, which all their education, all the arrangements of their social life, every thing in their art and literature, tends continually to cultivate and increase. hence they have become the leaders of the world in what i should call the minor artistics--all those little particulars which render life beautiful. hence there are more pretty pictures, and popular lithographs, from france than from any other country in the world; but it produces very little of the deepest and highest style of art. in this connection i may as well give you my luxembourg experience, as it illustrates the same idea. i like paul de la roche, on the whole, although i think he has something of the fault of which i speak. he has very great dramatic power; but it is more of the kind shown by walter scott than of the kind shown by shakspeare. he can reproduce historical characters with great vividness and effect, and with enough knowledge of humanity to make the verisimilitude admirably strong; but as to the deep knowledge with which shakspeare searches the radical elements of the human soul, he has it not. his death of queen elizabeth is a strong walter scott picture; so are his execution of strafford, and his charles i., which i saw in england. as to horace vernet, i do not think he is like either scott or shakspeare. in him this french capability for rendering the outward is wrought to the highest point; and it is outwardness as pure from any touch of inspiration or sentiment as i ever remember to have seen. he is graphic to the utmost extreme. his horses and his men stand from the canvas to the astonishment of all beholders. all is vivacity, bustle, dazzle, and show. i think him as perfect, of his kind, as possible; though it is a _kind_ of art with which i do not sympathize. the picture of the décadence de rome indicates to my mind a painter who has studied and understood the classical forms; vitalizing them, by the reproductive force of his own mind, so as to give them the living power of new creations. in this picture is a most grand and melancholy moral lesson. the classical forms are evidently not introduced because they are classic, but in subservience to the expression of the moral. in the orgies of the sensualists here represented he gives all the grace and beauty of sensuality without its sensualizing effect. nothing could be more exquisite than the introduction of the busts of the departed heroes of the old republic, looking down from their pedestals on the scene of debauchery below. it is a noble picture, which i wish was hung up in the capitol of our nation to teach our haughty people that as pride, and fulness of bread, and laxness of principle brought down the old republics, so also ours may fall. although the outward in this painting, and the classical, is wrought to as fine a point as in any french picture, it is so subordinate to the severity of the thought, that while it pleases it does not distract. but to return to the louvre. the halls devoted to paintings, of which i have spoken, give you very little idea of the treasures of the institution. gallery after gallery is filled with greek, roman, assyrian, and egyptian sculptures, coins, vases, and antique remains of every description. there is, also, an apartment in which i took a deep interest, containing the original sketches of ancient masters. here one may see the pen and ink drawings of claude, divided into squares to prepare them for the copyist. one compares here with interest the manners of the different artists in jotting down their ideas as they rose; some by chalk, some by crayon, some by pencil, some by water colors, and some by a heterogeneous mixture of all. mozart's scrap bag of musical jottings could not have been more amusing. on the whole, cravings of mere ideality have come nearer to meeting satisfaction by some of these old mutilated remains of greek sculpture than any thing which i have met yet. in the paintings, even of the most celebrated masters, there are often things which are excessively annoying to me. i scarcely remember a master in whose works i have not found a hand, or foot, or face, or feature so distorted, or coloring at times so unnatural, or something so out of place and proportion in the picture as very seriously to mar the pleasure that i derived from it. in this statuary less is attempted, and all is more harmonious, and one's ideas of proportion are never violated. my favorite among all these remains is a mutilated statue which they call the venus de milon. this is a statue which is so called from having been dug up some years ago, piecemeal, in the island of milos. there was quite a struggle for her between a french naval officer, the english, and the turks. the french officer carried her off like another helen, and she was given to paris, old louis philippe being bridegroom by proxy. _savans_ refer the statue to the time of phidias; and as this is a pleasant idea to me, i go a little further, and ascribe her to phidias himself. the statue is much mutilated, both arms being gone, and part of the foot. but there is a majesty and grace in the head and face, a union of loveliness with intellectual and moral strength, beyond any thing which i have ever seen. to me she might represent milton's glorious picture of unfallen, perfect womanhood, in his eve:-- "yet when i approach her loveliness, so absolute she seems, and in herself complete, so well to know her own, that what she wills to do or say seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best. all higher knowledge in her presence falls degraded; wisdom, in discourse with her, loses discountenanced, and like folly shows. authority and reason on her wait, as one intended first, not after made occasionally; and to consummate all, greatness of mind, and nobleness, their seat build in her, loveliest, and create an awe about her, like a guard angelic placed." compared with this matchless venus, that of medici seems as inane and trifling as mere physical beauty always must by the side of beauty baptized, and made sacramental, as the symbol of that which alone is truly fair. with regard to the arrangements of the louvre, they seem to me to be admirable. no nation has so perfectly the qualifications to care for, keep, and to show to best advantage a gallery of art as the french. during the heat of the outburst that expelled louis philippe from the throne, the louvre was in some danger of destruction. destructiveness is a native element of human nature, however repressed by society; and hence every great revolutionary movement always brings to the surface some who are for indiscriminate demolition. moreover there is a strong tendency in the popular mind, where art and beauty have for many years been monopolized as the prerogative of a haughty aristocracy, to identify art and beauty with oppression; this showed itself in england and scotland in the general storm which wrecked the priceless beauty of the ecclesiastical buildings. it was displaying itself in the same manner in germany during the time of the reformation, and had not luther been gifted with a nature as strongly aesthetic as progressive, would have wrought equal ruin there. so in the first burst of popular enthusiasm that expelled the monarchy, the cry was raised by some among the people, "we shall never get rid of kings till we pull down the palaces;" just the echo of the old cry in scotland, "pull down the nests, and the rooks will fly away." the populace rushed in to the splendid halls and saloons of the louvre, and a general encampment was made among the pictures. in this crisis a republican artist named jeanron saved the louvre; saved the people the regret that must have come over them had they perpetrated barbarisms, and liberty the shame of having such outrages wrought in her name. appointed by the provisional government to the oversight of the louvre, and well known among the people as a republican, he boldly came to the rescue. "am i not one of you?" he said. "am i not one of the people? these splendid works of art, are they not ours? are they not the pride and glory of our country? shall we destroy our most glorious possession in the first hour of its passing into our hands?" moved by his eloquence the people decamped from the building, and left it in his hands. empowered to make all such arrangements for its renovation and embellishment as his artistic taste should desire, he conducted important repairs in the building, rearranged the halls, had the pictures carefully examined, cleaned when necessary, and distributed in schools with scientific accuracy. he had an apartment prepared where are displayed those first sketches by distinguished masters, which form one of the most instructive departments of the louvre to a student of art. the government seconded all his measures by liberal supplies of money; and the louvre is placed in its present perfect condition by the thoughtful and cherishing hand of the republic. these facts have been communicated to me from a perfectly reliable source. as an american, and a republican, i cannot but take pleasure in them. i mention them because it is often supposed, from the destructive effects which attend the first advent of democratic principles where they have to explode their way into existence through masses of ancient rubbish, that popular liberty is unfavorable to art. it never could be so in france, because the whole body of the people are more thoroughly artistic in their tastes and feelings than in most countries. they are almost slaves to the outwardly beautiful, taken captive by the eye and the ear, and only the long association of beauty with tyranny, with suffering, want, and degradation to themselves, could ever have inspired any of them with even a momentary bitterness against it. journal--(continued.) monday, june . went this morning with h. and mrs. c. to the studio of m. belloc. found a general assembly of heads, arms, legs, and every species of nude and other humanity pertaining to a studio; also an agreeable jumble of old pictures and new, picture frames, canvas, brushes, boxes, unfinished sketches, easels, palettes, a sofa, some cushions, a chair or two, bottles, papers, a stove rusty and fireless, and all things most charmingly innocent of any profane "clarin' up times" whatsoever. the first question which m. belloc proposed, with a genuine french air, was the question of "_pose_" or position. it was concluded that as other pictures had taken h. looking at the spectator, this should take her looking away. m. belloc remarked, that m. charpentier said h. appeared always with the air of an observer--was always looking around on every thing. hence m. belloc would take her "_en observatrice, mais pas en curieuse_"--with the air of observation, but not of curiosity. at it he went. i stood behind and enjoyed. rapid creative sketching in chalk and charcoal. then a chaos of colors and clouds, put on now with brushes, now with fingers. "god began with chaos," said he, quoting prudhon. "we cannot expect to do better than god." with intensest enjoyment i watched the chaotic clouds forming on the canvas round a certain nucleus, gradually resolving themselves into shape, and lightening up with tints and touches, until a head seemed slowly emerging from amidst the shadows. meanwhile, an animated conversation was proceeding. m. belloc, in his rich, glorious french, rolling out like music from an organ, discussed the problems of his art; while we ever and anon excited him by our speculations, our theories, our heresies. h. talked in english, and mrs. c. translated, and i put in a french phrase sidewise every now and then. by and by, m. charpentier came in, who is more voluble, more _ore rotundo, grandiose_, than m. belloc. he began panegyrizing uncle tom; and this led to a discussion of the ground of its unprecedented success. in his thirty-five years' experience as a bookseller, he had known nothing like it. it surpassed all modern writers. at first he would not read it; his taste was for old masters of a century or two ago. "like m. belloc in painting," said i. at length, he found his friend, m. alfred de musée, the first intelligence of the age, reading it. "what, you too?" said he. "ah, ah!" said de musée; "say nothing about this book! there is nothing like it. this leaves us all behind--all, all, miles behind!" m. belloc said the reason was because there was in it more _genuine faith_ than in any book. and we branched off into florid eloquence touching paganism, christianity, and art. "christianity," m. belloc said, "has ennobled man, but not made him happier. the christian is not so happy as the old greek. the old greek mythology is full of images of joy, of lightness, and vivacity; nymphs and fauns, dryads and hamadryads, and all sportive creations. the arts that grow up out of christianity are all tinged with sorrow." "this is true in part," replied h., "because the more you enlarge a person's general capacity of feeling, and his quantity of being, the more you enlarge his capacity of suffering. a man can suffer more than an oyster. christianity, by enlarging the scope of man's heart, and dignifying his nature, has deepened his sorrow." m. belloc referred to the paintings of eustache le soeur, in the louvre, in illustration of his idea--a series based on the experience of st. bruno, and representing the effects of maceration and ghostly penance with revolting horrors. "this," h. replied, "is not my idea of christianity. religion is not asceticism, but a principle of love to god that beautifies and exalts common life, and fills it with joy." m. belloc ended with a splendid panegyric upon the ancient greeks, the eloquence of which i will not mar by attempting to repeat. ever and anon h. was amused at the pathetic air, at once genuinely french and thoroughly sincere, with which the master assured her, that he was "_désolé_" to put her to so much trouble. as to christianity not making men happier, methinks m. belloc forgets that the old greek tragedies are filled with despair and gloom, as their prevailing characteristic, and that nearly all the music of the world before christ was in the minor scale, as since christ it has come to be in the major. the whole creation has, indeed, groaned and travailed in pain together until now; but the mighty anthem has modulated since the cross, and the requiem of jesus has been the world's birthsong of approaching jubilee. music is a far better test, moreover, on such a point, than painting, for just where painting is weakest, namely, in the expression of the highest moral and spiritual ideas, there music is most sublimely strong. altogether this morning in the painter's studio was one of the most agreeable we ever spent. but what shall i say then of the evening in a _salon musicale_; with the first violoncello playing in the world, and the princess czartoryski at the piano? we were invited at eight, but it was nine before we entered our carriage. we arrived at the hotel of mrs. erskine, a sister of lord dundalk, and found a very select party. there were chairs and sofas enough for all without crowding. there was frankomm of the conservatoire, with his stradivarius, an instrument one hundred and fifty years old, which cost six thousand dollars. there was his son, a little lad of twelve, who played almost as well as his father. i wish f. and m. could have seen this. he was but a year older than f., and yet played with the most astonishing perfection. among other things the little fellow performed a _morceau_ of his own composition, which was full of pathos, and gave tokens of uncommon ability. his father gave us sonatas of mozart, chopin, &c., and a _polonaise_. the princess czartoryski accompanied on the piano with extraordinary ability. that was an evening to be remembered a lifetime. one heard, probably, the best music in the world of its kind, performed under prepared circumstances, the most perfectly adapted to give effect. there was no whispering, no noise. all felt, and heard, and enjoyed. i conversed with the princess and with frankomm. the former speaks english, the latter none. i interpreted for h., and she had quite a little conversation with him about his son, and about music. she told him she hoped the day was coming when art would be consecrated to express the best and purest emotions of humanity. he had read uncle tom; and when he read it he exclaimed, "this is genuine christianity"--"_ceci est la vraie christianisme!_" the attentions shown to h. were very touching and agreeable. there is nothing said or done that wearies or oppresses her. she is made to feel perfectly free, at large, at ease; and the regard felt for her is manifested in a way so delicate, so imperceptibly fine and considerate, that she is rather strengthened by it than exhausted. this is owing, no doubt, to the fact that we came determined to be as private as possible, and with an explicit understanding with mrs. c. to that effect. instead of trying to defeat her purpose, and force her into publicity, the few who know of her presence seem to try to help her carry it out, and see how much they can do for her, consistently therewith. tuesday, june . to-day we dined at six p. m., and read till nine. then drove to an evening _salon_--quite an early little party at mrs. putnam's. saw there peter parley and la rochejaquelin, the only one of the old nobility that joined louis napoleon. peter parley is consul no longer, it seems. we discussed the empire a very little. "to be, or not to be, that is the question." opinions are various as the circles. every circle draws into itself items of information, that tend to indicate what it wishes to be about to happen. still, peter parley and i, and some other equally cautious people, think that _this_ cannot always last. by _this_, of course, we mean this "thing"--this empire, so called. sooner or later it must end in revolution; and then what? said a gentleman the other day, "nothing holds him up but fear of the red." [footnote: that is, fear of the red republicans.] after chatting a while, weston and i slipped out, and drove to the jardin mabille, a garden in the champs elysées, whither thousands go every night. we entered by an avenue of poplars and other trees and shrubs, so illuminated by jets of gas sprinkled amongst the foliage as to give it the effect of enchantment. it was neither moonlight nor daylight, but a kind of spectral aurora, that made every thing seem unearthly. as we entered the garden, we found flower beds laid out in circles, squares, lozenges, and every conceivable form, with diminutive jets of gas so distributed as to imitate flowers of the softest tints, and the most perfect shape. this, too, seemed unearthly, weird. we seemed, in an instant, transported into some thalaba's cave, infinitely beyond the common sights and sounds of every-day life. in the centre of these grounds there is a circle of pillars, on the top of each of which is a pot of flowers, with gas jets, and between them an arch of gas jets. this circle is very large. in the midst of it is another circle, forming a pavilion for musicians, also brilliantly illuminated, and containing a large cotillion band of the most finished performers. around this you find thousands of gentlemen and ladies strolling singly, in pairs, or in groups. there could not be less than three thousand persons present. while the musicians repose, they loiter, sauntering round, or recline on seats. but now a lively waltz strikes the ear. in an instant twenty or thirty couples are whirling along, floating, like thistles in the wind, around the central pavilion. their feet scarce touch the smooth-trodden earth. round and round, in a vortex of life, beauty, and brilliancy they go, a whirlwind of delight. eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, and gauzy draperies floating by; while the crowds outside gather in a ring, and watch the giddy revel. there are countless forms of symmetry and grace, faces of wondrous beauty, both among the dancers and among the spectators. there, too, are feats of agility and elasticity quite aerial. one lithe and active dancer grasped his fair partner by the waist. she was dressed in a red dress; was small, elastic, agile, and went by like the wind. and now and then, in the course of every few seconds, he would give her a whirl and a lift, sending her spinning through the air, around himself as an axis, full four feet from the ground. then the music ceases, the crowd dissolves, and floats and saunters away. on every hand are games of hazard and skill, with balls, tops, wheels, &c., where, for five cents a trial, one might seek to gain a choice out of glittering articles exposed to view. then the band strike up again, and the whirling dance renews its vortex; and so it goes on, from hour to hour, till two or three in the morning. not that _we_ staid till then; we saw all we wanted to see, and left by eleven. but it is a scene perfectly unearthly, or rather perfectly parisian, and just as earthly as possible; yet a scene where earthliness is worked up into a style of sublimation the most exquisite conceivable. entrance to this paradise can be had for, gentlemen, a dollar; ladies, _free_. this tells the whole story. nevertheless, do not infer that there are not any respectable ladies there. it is a place so remarkable, that very few strangers stay long in paris without taking a look at it. and though young ladies residing in paris never go, and matrons very seldom, yet occasionally it is the case that some ladies of respectability look in. the best dancers, those who exhibit such surprising feats of skill and agility, are _professional_--paid by the establishment. nevertheless, aside from the impropriety inherent in the very nature of waltzing, there was not a word, look, or gesture of immorality or impropriety. the dresses were all decent; and if there was vice, it was vice masked under the guise of polite propriety. how different, i could not but reflect, is all this from the gin palaces of london! there, there is indeed a dazzling splendor of gas light. but there is nothing artistic, nothing refined, nothing appealing to the imagination. there are only hogsheads, and barrels, and the appliances for serving out strong drink. and there, for one sole end, the swallowing of fiery stimulant, come the nightly thousands--from the gay and well dressed, to the haggard and tattered, in the last stage of debasement. the end is the same--by how different paths! here, they dance along the path to ruin, with flowers and music; there, they cast themselves bodily, as it were, into the lake of fire. wednesday, june . went in the forenoon to m. belloc's studio, and read while h. was sitting. then we drove to madame roger's, who is one of the leaders of paris taste and legislation in dress, and who is said to have refused to work for a duchess who neglected to return her husband's bow. i sat in the outer courts while some mysterious affairs were being transacted in the inner rooms of state. then we drove to the louvre, and visited the remains from nineveh. they are fewer in number than those in the british museum, which i have not yet seen. but the pair of human-headed, winged bulls are said to be equal in size to any. i was very much impressed, not only by the solemn grandeur of the thought that thirty centuries were looking down upon me out of those stony eyes, but by what i have never seen noticed, the magnificent phrenological development of the heads. the brow is absolutely prodigious--broad, high, projecting, massive. it is the brow of a divinity indeed, or of a cherub, which i am persuaded is the true designation of these creatures. they are to me but the earliest known attempts to preserve the cherubim that formed the fiery portals of the eden temple until quenched in the purges of the deluge. out of those eyes of serene, benign, profound reflection, therefore, not thirty, but sixty centuries look down upon me. i seem to be standing at those mysterious eden gates, where adam and eve first guided the worship of a world, amid the sad, yet sublime symbols of a previous existence in heavenly realms. after leaving the louvre h. and i took a _calèche_, or open two-seat carriage, and drove from thence to the madeleine, and thence the whole length of the boulevards, circling round, crossing the pont d'austerlitz, and coming back by the avenue de l'observatoire and the luxembourg. then we saw theatres, the port st. denis, port st. martin, the site of the bastille, and the most gay, beautiful, and bustling boulevards of the metropolis. as we were proceeding along the boulevard des italiens, i saw the street beginning to line with people, the cabs and carriages drawing to either side and stopping; police officers commanding, directing, people running, pushing, looking this way and that. "_qu' y a-t-il?_" said i, standing up by the driver--"what's the matter?" "the emperor is coming," said he. "well," said i, "draw to one side, and turn a little, so that we can see." he did so, and h. and i both stood up, looking round. we saw several outriders in livery, on the full trot, followed by several carriages. they came very fast, the outriders calling to the people to get out of the way. in the first carriage sat the emperor and the empress--he, cold, stiff, stately, and homely; she, pale, beautiful, and sad. they rode not two rods from us. there was not a hat taken off, not a single shout, not a "_vive l'empereur_? without a single token of greeting or applause, he rode through the ever-forming, ever-dissolving avenue of people--the abhorred, the tolerated tyrant." why do they not cry out?" i said to the coachman, "why do they not cry, '_vive l'empereur_'?" a most expressive shrug was the answer, and "i do not know. i suppose, because they do not choose." thursday, june . immediately after breakfast we were to visit chateau de corbeville. the carriage came, and h., mrs. c., and w. entered. i mounted the box with the "_cocker_," as usual. to be shut up in a box, and peep out at the window while driving through such scenes, is horrible. by the way, our party would have been larger, but for the arrest of monsieur f., an intimate friend of the family, which took place at five o'clock in the morning. he was here yesterday in fine spirits, and he and his wife were to have joined our party. his arrest is on some political suspicion, and as the result cannot be foreseen, it casts a shadow over the spirits of our household. we drove along through the bright, fresh morning--i enjoying the panorama of paris exceedingly--to the western railway station, where we took tickets for versailles. we feel as much at home now, in these continental railroad stations, as in our own--nay, more so. every thing is so regulated here, there is almost no possibility of going wrong, and there is always somebody at hand whose business it is to be very polite, and tell you just what to do. a very pleasant half hour's ride brought us to versailles. there we took a barouche for the day, and started for the chateau. in about an hour and a half, through very pleasant scenery, we came to the spot, where we were met by madame v. and her daughter, and, alighting, walked to the chateau through a long avenue, dark with overarching trees. we were to have a second breakfast at about one o'clock in the day; so we strolled out to a seat on the terrace, commanding a fine and very extensive prospect. madame v. is the wife of an eminent lawyer, who held the office of intendant of the civil list of louis philippe, and has had the settlement of that gentleman's pecuniary affairs since his death. at the time of the _coup d'état_, being then a representative, he was imprisoned, and his wife showed considerable intrepidity in visiting him, walking on foot through the prison yard, amongst the soldiers sitting drunk on the cannon. at present monsieur v. is engaged in his profession in paris. madame v. is a pleasant-looking french woman, of highly-cultivated mind and agreeable manners; accomplished in music and in painting. her daughter, about fifteen, plays well, and is a good specimen of a well-educated french demoiselle, not yet out. they are simply ciphers, except as developed in connection with and behind shelter of their mother. she performed some beautiful things beautifully, and then her mother played a duet with her. we took a walk through the groves, and sat on the bank, on the brow of a commanding eminence. a wide landscape was before us, characterized by every beauty of foliage conceivable, but by none more admirable, to my eye, than the poplars, which sustain the same relation to french scenery that spruces do to that of maine. reclining there, we could almost see, besides the ancient territory of the duke d'orsay, the celebrated valley of chartreuse, where was the famous abbey of port royal, a valley filled with historic associations. if it had not been for a hill which stood in the way, we should have seen it. at our leisure we discussed painting. before us, a perfect landscape; around us, a deep solitude and stillness, broken by the sighing of ancient aristocratic shades, and the songs of birds; within us, emotions of lassitude and dreamy delight. we had found a spot where existence was a blessing; a spot where to exist was enough; where the "to be" was, for a moment, disjoined from the inexorable "to do," or "to suffer." how agreeable to converse with cultivated and refined artistic minds! how delightful to find people to whom the beautiful has been a study, and art a world in which they could live, move, and have their being! and yet it was impossible to prevent a shade of deep sadness from resting on all things--a tinge of melancholy. why?--why this veil of dim and indefinable anguish at sight of whatever is most fair, at hearing whatever is most lovely? is it the exiled spirit, yearning for its own? is it the captive, to whom the ray of heaven's own glory comes through the crevice of his dungeon walls? but this is a digression. returning, we examined the mansion, a fine specimen of the old french chateau; square-built, with high norman roof, and a round, conical-topped tower at each corner. in front was a garden, curiously laid out in beds, and knots of flowers, with a fountain in the centre. this garden was enclosed on all sides by beech trees, clipped into lofty walls of green. the chateau had once been fortified, but now the remains of the fortifications are made into terraces, planted with roses and honeysuckles. here we heard, for the first time in our lives, the nightingale's song; a gurgling warble, with an occasional crescendo, _à la_ jenny lind. at five we dined; took carriage at seven, cars at nine, and arrived in paris at ten. friday, june . at twelve o'clock i started for versailles to visit the camp at sartory, where i understood the emperor was to review the troops. at versailles i mounted the top of an omnibus with two parisian gentlemen. as i opened my umbrella one of them complimented me on having it. i replied that it was quite a necessary of life. he answered, and we were soon quite chatty. i inquired about the camp at sartory, and whether the emperor was to be there. he said he had heard so. he then asked me if we had not a camp near london, showing that he took me for an englishman. i replied that there was a camp there, though i had not seen it, and that i was an american. in reply he congratulated me that the americans were far ahead of the english. i complimented him then in turn on versailles and its galleries, and told him there was not a nation on earth that had such monuments of its own history and greatness. they were highly elated at this, and we rode along in the best possible humor together. nothing will make a frenchman thoroughly your friend sooner than heartily to praise his country. it is for this i love them. arrived at sartory i had a long walk to reach the camp; and instead of inquiring, as i ought to have done, whether the review was to take place, i took it for granted. i saw bodies of soldiers moving in various directions, officers galloping about, and flying artillery trundling along, and heard drums, trumpets, and bands, and thought it was all right. a fifteen minutes' walk brought me to the camp, where tents for some twenty-five thousand whiten the plain far as the eye can reach. there, too, i saw distant masses of infantry moving. i might have known by their slouchy way that they were getting home from parade, not preparing for it. but i thought the latter, and lying down under a tree, waited for the review to begin. it was almost three o'clock. i waited and waited. the soldiers did not come. i waited, and waited, and waited. the soldiers seemed to have _gone_ more and more. the throne where the emperor was to sit remained unoccupied. at last it was four o'clock. thought i, i will just ask these redcaps here about this. "messieurs," said i, "will you be so good as to inform me if the emperor is to be here to-day?" "no," they replied, "he comes on sunday." "and what is to be done here, then?" i asked. "here," they replied, "to-day? nothing; _c'est fini_--it is all over. the review was at one o'clock." there i had been walking from versailles, and waiting for a parade some two hours after it was all over, among crowds of people who could have told me at once if i had not been so excessively modest as not to ask. about that time an american might have been seen precipitately seeking the railroad. i had _not_ seen the elephant. it was hot, dusty, and there was neither cab nor _calèche_ in reach. i arrived at the railroad station just in time to see the train go out at one end as i came in at the other. this was conducive to a frame of mind that scarcely needs remark. out of that depot (it was half past four, and at six they dine in paris) with augmented zeal and decision i pitched into a cab. "_a l'autre station, vite, vite!_"--to the other station, quick, quick! he mounted the box, and commenced lashing his rosinante, who was a subject for crows to mourn over, (because they could hope for nothing in trying to pick him,) and in an ambling, scrambling pace, composed of a trot, a canter, and a kick, we made a descent like an avalanche into the station yard. there richard was himself again. i assumed at once the air of a gentleman who had seen the review, and walked about with composure and dignity. no doubt i had seen the emperor and all the troops. i succeeded in getting home just in the middle of dinner, and by dint of hard eating caught up at the third course with the rest. that i consider a very white day. some might call it _green_, but i mark such days with white always. in the evening we attended the _salon_ of lady elgin, a friend of our hostess. found there the marquis de m., whose book on the spiritual rappings comes out next week. we conversed on the rappings _ad nauseam_. by the way, her ladyship rents the hotel de la rochefoucauld, in the rue de varenne, faubourg st. germain. st. germain is full of these princely, aristocratic mansions. mournfully beautiful--desolately grand. out of the stern, stony street, we entered a wide, square court, under a massive arched gateway, then through the rez-de-chaussée, or lower suite of rooms, passed out into the rear of the house to find ourselves in the garden, or rather a kind of park, with tall trees, flooded in moonlight, bathed in splendors, and with their distant, leafy arches (cut with artistic skill) reminding one of a gothic temple. such a magnificent forest scene in the very heart of paris! saturday, june . after breakfast rode out to arc de triomphe--de l'etoile, and thence round the exterior barriers and boulevards to père la chaise. at every entrance to the city past the barriers, (which are now only a street,) there is a gate, and a building marked "octroi," which means customs. no carriage can pass without being examined, though the examination is a mere form. père la chaise did not interest me much, except that from the top of the hill i gained a good view of the city. it is filled with tombs and monuments, and laid out in streets. the houses of the dead are smaller than the houses of the living, but they are made like houses, with doors, windows, and an empty place inside for an altar, crucifix, lamps, wreaths, &c. tombs have no charm for me. i am not at all interested or inspired by them. they do not serve with me the purpose intended, viz., of calling up the memory of the departed. on the contrary, their memory is associated with their deeds, their works, the places where they wrought, and the monuments of themselves they have left. here, however, in the charnel house is commemorated but the event of their deepest shame and degradation, their total vanquishment under the dominion of death, the triumph of corruption. here all that was visible of them is insulted by the last enemy, in the deepest, most humiliating posture of contumely. from père la chaise i came home to dinner at six. h., meanwhile, had been sitting to m. belloc. after dinner h. and the two misses c. rode out to the bois de boulogne, the fashionable drive of paris. we saw all the splendid turnouts, and all the _not_ splendid. our horse was noted for the springhalt. it is well to have something to attract attention about one, you know. sabbath, june . after breakfast went with miss w. to the temple st. marie, to hear adolphe monod. was able to understand him very well. gained a new idea of the capabilities of the french language as the vehicle of religious thought and experience. i had thought that it was a language incapable of being made to express the hebrew mind and feeling of scripture. i think differently. the language of canaan can make its way through all languages, and in the french it has a pathos, point, and simplicity which are wonderful. there were thoughts in the sermon which i shall never forget. i feel myself highly rewarded for going. the congregation was as large as the church could possibly hold, and composed of very interesting and intelligent-looking people. his subject was, "if any man lack wisdom, let him ask of god, who giveth willingly, and without upbraiding," &c. it was most touchingly adapted to the wants of the unhappy french, and of all poor sinners; and it came home to me in particular, as if it had been addressed to me singly, so that i could not help crying. the afternoon and evening spent at home, reading. h. went in the morning with madame de t. to the catholic service, at the church st. germaine l'auxerrois, and her companion pointed out the different parts of the service. h. said she was moved with compassion towards these multitudes, who seem so very earnest and solemn. their prayer books contain much that is excellent, if it was not mixed with so much that is idolatrous. monday, june . went to have our passport _viséd_. the sky was black, and the rain pouring in torrents. as i reached the quay the seine was rushing dark, and turbidly foaming. i crept into a fiacre, and was amused, as we rattled on, to see the plight of gay and glittering paris. one poor organ grinder, on the pont national, sat with his umbrella over his head, and his body behind the parapet, grinding away, in the howling storm. it was the best use for a hand organ i ever saw. the gardens of the tuileries presented a sorry sight. the sentries slunk within their boxes. the chairs were stacked and laid on their sides. the paths were flooded; and the classic statues looked as though they had a dismal time of it, in the general shower bath. my passport went through the office of the american embassy, prefecture of the police, and the _bureau des affaires étrangères_, and the swiss legation, and we were all right for the frontier. our fair hostesses are all alpine mountaineers, posted up in mountain lore. they make you look blank one moment with horror at some escape of theirs from being dashed down a precipice; the next they run you a rig indeed over the righi; anon you shamble through chamounix, and break your neck over the col-de-balme, and, before you are aware, are among the lacking at interlachen. wednesday, june . adieu to paris! ho for chalons sur saone! after affectionate farewells of our kind friends, by eleven o'clock we were rushing, in the pleasantest of cars, over the smoothest of rails, through burgundy that was; i reading to h. out of dumas' _impressions de voyage_, going over our very route. we arrived at chalons at nine in the evening, and were soon established in the hotel du park, in two small, brick-floored chambers, looking out upon the steamboat landing. thursday, . eight o'clock a. m. since five we have had a fine bustle on the quay below our windows. there lay three steamers, shaped, for all the world, like our last night's rolls. one would think ichabod crane might sit astride one of them and dip his feet in the water. they ought to be swift. _l'hirondelle_ (the swallow) flew at five; another at six. we leave at nine. eleven o'clock. here we go, down the saone. cabin thirty feet by ten, papered and varnished in invitation of maple. ladies knitting, netting, nodding, napping; gentlemen yawning, snoring; children frolicking; dogs whining. overhead a constant tramping, stamping, and screeching of the steam valve. h. suggests an excursion forward. we heave up from hades, and cautiously thread the crowded _al sirat_ of a deck. the day is fine; the air is filled with golden beams. more and more beautiful grows the scene as we approach the rhone--the river broader, hills more commanding, and architecture tinged with the italian. bradshaw says it equals the rhine. at lyons there was a scene of indescribable confusion. out of the hold a man with a rope and hook was hauling baggage up a smooth board. three hundred people were sorting their goods without checks. porters were shouldering immense loads, four or five heavy trunks at once, corded together, and stalking off atlantean. hatboxes, bandboxes, and valises burst like a meteoric shower out of a crater. "_a moi, à moi!_" was the cry, from old men, young women, soldiers, shopkeepers, and _prêtres_, scuffling and shoving together. careless at once of grammar and of grace, i pulled and shouted with the best, till at length our plunder was caught, corded and poised on an herculean neck. we followed in the wake, h. trembling lest the cord should break, and we experience a pre-alpine avalanche. at length, however, we breathed more freely in rooms _au quatrième of hotel de l'univers_. after dinner we drove to the cathedral. it was st. john's eve. "at twelve o'clock to-night," said h., "the spirits of all who are to die this year will appear to any who will go alone into the dark cathedral and summon them"! we were charmed with the interior. twilight hid all the dirt, cobwebs, and tawdry tinsel; softened the outlines, and gave to the immense arches, columns, and stained windows a strange and thrilling beauty. the distant tapers, seeming remoter than reality, the kneeling crowds, the heavy vesper chime, all combined to realize, h. said, her dreams of romance more perfectly than ever before. we could not tear ourselves away. but the clash of the sexton's keys, as he smote them together, was the signal to be gone. one after another the tapers were extinguished. the kneeling figures rose; and shadowily we flitted forth, as from some gorgeous cave of grammarye. saturday, june . lyons to genève. as this was our first experience in the diligence line, we noticed particularly every peculiarity. a diligence is a large, heavy, strongly-built, well-hung stage, consisting of five distinct departments,--coupé, berline, omnibus, banquette, and baggage top. [illustration: _of a diligence coach drawn by four horses._] after setting up housekeeping in our berline, and putting all "to rights," the whips cracked, bells jingled, and away we thundered by the arrowy rhone. i had had the idea that a diligence was a rickety, slow-moulded antediluvian nondescript, toiling patiently along over impassable roads at a snail's pace. judge of my astonishment at finding it a full-blooded, vigorous monster, of unscrupulous railway momentum and imperturbable equipoise of mind. down the macadamized slopes we thundered at a prodigious pace; up the hills we trotted with six horses, three abreast; madly through the little towns we burst, like a whirlwind, crashing across the pebbled streets, and out upon the broad, smooth road again. before we had well considered the fact that we were out of lyons, we stopped to change horses. done in a jiffy; and whoop, crick, crack, whack, rumble, bump, whirr, whisk, away we blazed, till, ere we knew it, another change, and another. "really, h.," said i, "this is not slow. the fact is, we are going ahead. _i_ call this travelling--never was so comfortable in my life." "nor i," quoth she. "and, besides, we are unwinding the rhone all along." and, sure enough, we were; ever and anon getting a glimpse of him spread mazily all abroad in some beautiful vale, like a midguard anaconda done in silver. at nantua, a sordid town, with a squalid inn, we dined, at two, deliciously, on a red shrimp soup; no, not soup, it was a _potage_; no, a stew; no, a creamy, unctuous mess, muss, or whatever you please to call it. sancho panza never ate his olla podrida with more relish. success to mine host of the jolly inn of nantua! then we thunderbolted along again, shot through a grim fortress, crossed a boundary line, and were in switzerland. vive switzerland! land of alps, glaciers, and freemen! as evening drew on, a wind sprang up, and a storm seemed gathering on the jura. the rain dashed against the panes of the berime, as we rode past the grim-faced monarch of the "misty shroud." a cold wind went sweeping by, and the rhone was rushing far below, discernible only in the distance as a rivulet of flashing foam. it was night as we drove into geneva, and stopped at the messagerie. i heard with joy a voice demanding if this were monsieur besshare. i replied, not without some scruples of conscience, "_oui, monsieur, c'est moi,_" though the name did not sound exactly like the one to which i had been wont to respond. in half an hour we were at home, in the mansion of monsieur fazy. genève, monday, june . the day dawned clear over this palace of enchantment. the mountains, the lake, the entire landscape on every side revealed itself from our lofty windows with transparent brilliancy. this house is built on high ground, at the end of the lake near where the rhone flows out. it is very high in the rooms, and we are in the fourth story, and have distant views on all four sides. the windows are very large, and open in leaves, on hinges, like doors, leaving the entire window clear, as a frame for the distant picture. in the afternoon we rode out across the rhone, where it breaks from the lake, and round upon the ascending shore. it is seldom here that the alps are visible. the least mist hides them completely, so that travellers are wont to record it in their diaries as a great event, "i saw mont blanc to-day." yesterday there was nothing but clouds and thick gloom; but now we had not ridden far before h. sprang suddenly, as if she had lost her senses--her cheeks flushed, and her eye flashing. i was frightened. "there," said she, pointing out of the side of the carriage across the lake, "there he is--there's mont blanc." "pooh," said i, "no such thing." and some trees for a moment intervened, and shut out the view. presently the trees opened, and h. cried, "there, that _white_; don't you see?--there--there!" pointing with great energy, as if she were getting ready to fly. i looked and saw, sure enough, behind the dark mass of the mole, (a huge blue-black mountain in the foreground,) the granite ranges rising gradually and grim as we rode; but, further still, behind those gray and ghastly barriers, all bathed and blazing in the sun's fresh splendors, undimmed by a cloud, unveiled even by a filmy fleece of vapor, and oh, so white--so intensely, blindingly white! against the dark-blue sky, the needles, the spires, the solemn pyramid, the transfiguration cone of mont blanc. higher, and still higher, those apocalyptic splendors seemed lifting their spectral, spiritual forms, seeming to rise as we rose, seeming to start like giants hidden from behind the black brow of intervening ranges, opening wider the amphitheatre of glory, until, as we reached the highest point in our road, the whole unearthly vision stood revealed in sublime perspective. the language of the revelation came rushing through my soul. this is, as it were, a door opened in heaven. here are some of those everlasting mountain ranges, whose light is not of the sun, nor of the moon, but of the lord god and of the lamb. here is, as it were, a great white throne, on which one might sit before whose face heaven and earth might flee; and here a sea of glass mingled with fire. nay, rather, here are some faint shadows, some dim and veiled resemblances, which bring our earth-imprisoned spirits to conceive remotely what the disencumbered eye of the ecstatic apostle gazed upon. with solemn thankfulness we gazed--thankfulness to god for having withdrawn his veil of clouds from this threshold of the heavenly vestibule, and brought us across the atlantic to behold. and as our eyes, blinded by the dazzling vision,--which we might reside here years without beholding in such perfection,--filled with tears, we were forced to turn them away and hide them, or fasten them upon the dark range of jura on the other side of us, until they were able to gaze again. thus we rode onward, obtaining new points of view, new effects, and deeper emotions; nor can time efface the impressions we received in the depths of our souls. a lady, at whose door we alighted for a moment to obtain a particular point of view, told us that at sunset the mountain assumed a peculiar transparency, with most mysterious hues of blue and purple; so that she had seen irreligious natures, frivolous and light, when suddenly called out to look, stand petrified, or rather exalted above themselves, and irresistibly turning their faces, their thoughts, their breathings of adoration up to god. i do not wonder that the eternal home of the glorified should be symbolized by a mount zion. i do not wonder that the psalmist should say, "i will lift up mine eyes unto the _hills,_ from whence cometh my help!" for surely earth cannot present, nor unassisted fancy conceive, an object more profoundly significant of divine majesty than these mountains in their linen vesture of everlasting snow. tuesday, june . the morning dawned clear, warm, and cloudless. a soft haze rested on the distant landscape, without, however, in the least dimming its beauty. at about eleven we set off with two horses in an open carriage, by the left shore, to visit st. cergue, and ascend the jura. all our way was gradually ascending, and before us, or rather across the lake on one side, stood the glorious new jerusalem scene. we were highly favored. every moment diminished the intervening mountains, and lifted the gorgeous pageant higher into the azure. every step, every turn, presented it in some new point of view, and extended the range of observation. new alps were continually rising, and diamond-pointed peaks glancing up behind sombre granite bulwarks. at noon _cocher_ stopped at a village to refresh his horses. we proceeded to a cool terrace filled with trees, and lulled by the splash of a fountain, from whence the mountain was in full view. here we investigated the mysteries of a certain basket which our provident hostess had brought with her. after due refreshment and repose we continued our route, ascending the jura, towards the dôle, which is the highest mountain of that range. a macadamized road coiled up the mountain side, affording us at every turning a new and more splendid view of the other shore of the lake. at length we reached st. cergue, and leaving the carriage, h. and i, guided by a peasant girl, went through the woods to the highest point, where were the ruins of the ancient chateau. far be it from me to describe what we saw. i feel that i have already been too presumptuous. we sat down, and each made a hasty sketch of mont blanc. we took tea at the hotel, which reminded us, by the neatness of its scoured chambers with their white bedspreads, of the apartments of some out-of-the-way new england farm house. the people of the neighborhood having discovered who h. was, were very kind, and full of delight at seeing her. it was scotland over again. we have had to be unflinching to prevent her being overwhelmed, both in paris and geneva, by the same demonstrations of regard. to this we were driven, as a matter of life and death. it was touching to listen to the talk of these secluded mountaineers. the good hostess, even the servant maids, hung about h., expressing such tender interest for the slave. all had read uncle tom. and it had apparently been an era in their life's monotony, for they said, "o, madam, do write another! remember, our winter nights here are _very_ long!" the proprietor of the inn (not the landlord) was a gentleman of education and polished demeanor. _he had lost an eva_, he said. and he spoke with deep emotion. he thanked h. for what she had written, and at parting said, "have courage; the sacred cause of liberty will yet prevail through the world." ah, they breathe a pure air, these generous swiss, among these mountain tops! may their simple words be a prophecy divine. at about six we returned, and as we slowly wound down the mountain side we had a full view of all the phenomena of color attending the sun's departure. the mountain,--the city rather,--for so high had it risen, that i could imagine a new jerusalem of pearly white, with mont blanc for the central citadel, or temple,--the city was all a-glow. the air behind, the sky, became of a delicate apple green; the snow, before so incandescent in whiteness, assumed a rosy tint. we paused-- we sat in silence to witness these miraculous transformations. "charley," said h., "sing that hymn of yours, the new jerusalem." and in the hush of the mountain solitudes we sang together,-- "we are on our journey home, where christ our lord is gone; we will meet around his throne, when he makes his people one in the new jerusalem. we can see that distant home, though clouds rise oft between; faith views the radiant dome, and a lustre flashes keen from the new jerusalem. o, glory shining far from the never-setting sun! o, trembling morning star! our journey's almost done to the new jerusalem. our hearts are breaking now those mansions fair to see: o lord, thy heavens bow, and raise us up with thee to the new jerusalem." the echoes of our voices died along the mountain sides, as slowly we wended our downward way. the rosy flush began to fade. a rich creamy or orange hue seemed to imbue the scene, and finally, as the shadows from the jura crept higher, and covered it with a pall, it assumed a startling, deathlike pallor of chalky white. mont blanc was dead. mont blanc was walking as a ghost upon the granite ranges. but as darkness came on, and as the sky over the jura, where the sun had set, obtained a deep, rosy tinge, mont blanc revived a little, and a flush of delicate, transparent pink tinged his cone, and mont blanc was asleep. good night to mont blanc. wednesday morning, june . the day is intensely hot; the weather is exceedingly fair, but mont blanc is not visible. not a vestige--not a trace. all vanished. it does not seem possible. there do not seem to exist the conditions for such celestial pageant to have stood there. what! there--where my eyes now look steadily and piercingly into the blue, into the seemingly fathomless azure--there, will they tell me, i saw that enraptured vision, as it were, the city descending from god out of heaven, as a bride adorned for her husband? incredible! it must be a dream, a vision of the night. evening. after the heat of the day our whole household, old and young, set forth for a boating excursion on the lake. dividing our party in two boats, we pulled about a mile up the left shore. lake leman was before us in all its loveliness; and we were dipping our oar where byron had floated past scenes which scarce need to become classic to possess a superior charm. the sun was just gone behind the jura, leaving a glorious sky. mont blanc stood afar behind a hazy veil, like a spirit half revealed. we saw it pass before our eyes as we moved. "it stood still, but we could not discern the form thereof." as we glided on past boats uncounted, winged or many-footed, motionless or still, we softly sung,-- "think of me oft at twilight hour, and i will think of thee; remembering how we felt its power when thou wast still with me. dear is that hour, for day then sleeps upon the gray cloud's breast; and not a voice or sound e'er keeps his wearied eyes from rest." the surface of the lake was unruffled. the air was still. an occasional burst from the band in the garden of rousseau came softened in the distance. enveloped in her thick shawl h. reclined in the stern, and gave herself to the influences of the hour. darkness came down upon the deep. and in the gloom we turned our prows towards the many-twinkling quays, far in the distance. we bent to the oar in emulous contest, and our barks foamed and hissed through the water. in a few moments we were passing through the noisy crowd on the quay towards our quiet home. letter xxxii. dear children:-- i promised to write from chamouni, so to commence at the commencement. fancy me, on a broiling day in july, panting with the heat, gazing from my window in geneva upon lake leman, which reflects the sun like a burning glass, and thinking whether in america, or any where else, it was ever so hot before. this was quite a new view of the subject to me, who had been warned in paris only of the necessity of blanket shawls, and had come to switzerland with my head full of glaciers, and my trunk full of furs. while arranging my travelling preparations, madame f. enters. "have you considered how cold it is up there?" she inquires. "i am glad if it is cold any where," said i. "ah, you will find it dreadful; you will need to be thoroughly guarded." i suggested tippets, flannels, and furs, of which i already possessed a moderate supply. but no; these were altogether insufficient. it was necessary that i should buy two immense fur coats; one for c., and one for myself. i assure you that such preparations, made with the thermometer between eighty and ninety, impress one with a kind of awe. "what regions must they be," thought i to myself, "thus sealed up in eternal snows, while the country at their feet lies scorching in the very fire!" a shadow of incredulity mingled itself with my reflections. on the whole, i bought but _one_ fur coat. at this moment c. came up to tell me that w., s., and g. had all come back from italy, so that our party was once more together. it was on the th of july that s. and i took our seats in the _coupé_ of the diligence. now, this _coupé_ is low and narrow enough, so that our condition reminded me slightly of the luckless fowls which i have sometimes seen riding to the cincinnati market in _coupés_ of about equal convenience. nevertheless, it might be considered a peaceable and satisfactory style of accommodation in an ordinary country. but to ride among the wonders of the alps in such a vehicle is something like contemplating infinity through the nose of a bottle. it was really very tantalizing and provoking to me till c. was so obliging as to resign his seat on top in my favor, and descend into _sheol_, as he said. then i began to live; for i could see to the summit of the immense walls of rock under which we were passing. by and by we were reminded, by the examination of our passports, that we had entered sardinia; and the officers, being duly satisfied that we were not going to chamouni to levy an army among the glaciers, or raise a sedition among the avalanches, let us pass free. the discretion and wisdom of this passport system can never be sufficiently admired. it must be entirely owing to this, that the alps do not break out on europe generally, and tear it in pieces. but the mountains--how shall i give you the least idea of them? old, sombre, haggard genii, half veiled in clouds, belted with pines, worn and furrowed with storms and avalanches, but not as yet crowned with snow. for many miles after leaving geneva, the mole is the principal object; its blue-black outline veering and shifting, taking on a thousand strange varieties of form as you approach it, others again as you recede. it is a cloudy day; and heavy volumes of vapor are wreathing and unwreathing themselves around the gaunt forms of the everlasting rocks, like human reasonings, desires, and hopes around the ghastly realities of life and death; graceful, undulating, and sometimes gleaming out in silver or rosy wreaths. still, they are nothing but mist; the dread realities are just where they were before. it is odd, though, to look at these cloud caperings; quite as interesting, in its way, as to read new systems of transcendental philosophy, and perhaps quite as profitable. yonder is a great, whiteheaded cloud, slowly unrolling himself in the bosom of a black pine forest. across the other side of the road a huge granite cliff has picked up a bit of gauzy silver, which he is winding round his scraggy neck. and now, here comes a cascade right over our heads; a cascade, not of water, but of cloud; for the poor little brook that makes it faints away before it gets down to us; it falls like a shimmer of moonlight, or a shower of powdered silver, while a tremulous rainbow appears at uncertain intervals, like a half-seen spirit. [illustration: _of waterfalls._] the cascade here, as in mountains generally, is a never-failing source of life and variety. water, joyous, buoyant son of nature, is calling to you, leaping, sparkling, mocking at you between bushes, and singing as he goes down the dells. a thousand little pictures he makes among the rocks as he goes; like the little sketch which i send you. then, the _bizarre_ outline of the rocks; well does goethe call them "the giant-snouted crags;" and as the diligence winds slowly on, they seem to lean, and turn, and bend. now they close up like a wall in front, now open in piny and cloudy vistas: now they embrace the torrent in their great, black arms; and now, flashing laughter and babbling defiance through rifted rocks and uprooted pines, the torrent shoots past them, down into some fathomless abyss. these old alp mothers cannot hold their offspring back from abysses any better than poor earth mothers. there are phases in nature which correspond to every phase of human thought and emotion; and this stern, cloudy scenery answers to the melancholy fatalism of greek tragedy, or the kindred mournfulness of the book of job. these dark channelled rocks, worn, as with eternal tears,--these traces, so evident of ancient and vast desolations,--suggest the idea of boundless power and inexorable will, before whose course the most vehement of human feelings are as the fine spray of the cataract. "for, surely, the mountain, falling, cometh to nought; the rock is remored out of his place; the waters wear the stones; thou washest away the things that grow out of the earth, and thou destroyest the hopes of man; thou prevailest against him, and he passeth; thou changest his countenance, and sendest him away." the sceptical inquirer into the mysteries of eternal things might here, if ever, feel the solemn irony of eliphaz the temanite:-- "should a wise man utter vain knowledge? should he reason with unprofitable talk? or with speeches that can do no good? art thou the first man that ever was born? or wast thou made before the hills?" there are some of my fellow-travellers, by the by, who, if they _had_ been made before the hills, would never have been much wiser. all through these solemn passages and gorges, they are discussing hotels, champagne, wine, and cigars. i presume they would do the same thing at the gates of the celestial city, if they should accidentally find themselves there. it is one of the dark providences that multitudes of this calibre of mind find leisure and means to come among these scenes, while many to whom they would be an inspiration, in whose souls they would unseal ceaseless fountains of beauty, are forever excluded by poverty and care. at noon we stopped at sallenches, famous for two things; first, as the spot where people get dinner, and second, where they take the _char_, a carriage used when the road is too steep for the diligence. here s., who had been feeling ill all the morning, became too unwell to proceed, so that we had to lie by an hour or two, and did not go on with the caravan. i sat down at the room window to study and sketch a mountain that rose exactly opposite. i thought to myself, "now, would it be possible to give to one that had not seen it an idea of how this looks?" let me try if words can paint it. right above the fiat roof of the houses on the opposite side of the street rose this immense mountain wall. the lower tier seemed to be a turbulent swell of pasture land, rolling into every imaginable shape; green billows and dells, rising higher and higher in the air as you looked upward, dyed here and there in bright yellow streaks, by the wild crocus, and spotted over with cattle. dark clumps and belts of pine now and then rise up among them; and scattered here and there in the heights, among green hollows, were cottages, that looked about as big as hickory nuts. above all this region was still another, of black pines and crags; the pines going up, and up, and up, till they looked no larger than pin feathers; and surmounting all, straight, castellated turrets of rock, looking out of swathing bands of cloud. a narrow, dazzling line of snow crowned the summit. you see before you three distinct regions--of pasture, of pine, of bare, eternal sterility. on inquiring the name of the mountain, i was told that it was the "aiguille" something, i forget what; but i discovered that almost all the peaks in this region of the alps are called aiguille, (needle,) i suppose from the straight, sharp points that rise at their summits. there is a bridge here in sallenches, from which, in clear weather, one of the best views of mont blanc can be obtained--so they tell us. to-day it is as much behind the veil, and as absolutely a matter of faith as heaven itself. looking in that direction you could not believe that there ever had been, or could be, a mountain there. the concealing clouds look as gray, as cool, and as absolutely unconscious of any world of glory behind them as our dull, cold, every-day life does of a heaven, which is, perhaps, equally near us. as we were passing the bridge, however, a gust of icy wind swept down the course of the river, whose chilly breath spoke of glaciers and avalanches. our driver was one of those merry souls, to be found the world over, whose hearts yearn after talk; and when i volunteered to share the outside seat with him, that i might see better, he inquired anxiously if "mademoiselle understood french," that he might have the pleasure of enlightening her on the localities. of course mademoiselle could do no less than be exceedingly grateful, since a peasant on his own ground is generally better informed than a philosopher from elsewhere. our path lay along the banks of the arve, a raving, brawling, turbulent stream of muddy water. a wide belt of drifted, pebbly land, on either side of it, showed that at times the torrent had a much wider sweep than at present. in fact, my guide informed me that the arve, like most other mountain streams, had many troublesome and inconvenient personal habits, such as rising up all of a sudden, some night, and whisking off houses, cattle, pine trees; in short, getting up sailing parties in such a promiscuous manner that it is neither safe nor agreeable to live in his neighborhood. he showed me, from time to time, the traces of such kuhleborn pranks. we were now descending rapidly through the valley of chamouni, by a winding road, the scenery becoming every moment more and more impressive. the path was so steep and so stony that our guide was well enough contented to have us walk. i was glad to walk on alone; for the scenery was so wonderful that human sympathy and communion seemed to be out of the question. the effect of such scenery to our generally sleeping and drowsy souls, bound with the double chain of earthliness and sin, is like the electric touch of the angel on peter, bound and sleeping. they make us realize that we were not only made to commune with god, but also what a god he is with whom we may commune. we talk of poetry, we talk of painting, we go to the ends of the earth to see the artists and great men of this world; but what a poet, what an artist is god! truly said michael angelo, "the true painting is only a copy of the divine perfections--a shadow of his pencil." i was sitting on a mossy trunk of an old pine, looking up admiringly on the wonderful heights around me--crystal peaks sparkling over dark pine trees--shadowy, airy distances of mountain heights, rising crystalline amid many-colored masses of cloud; while, looking out over my head from green hollows, i saw the small cottages, so tiny, in their airy distance, that they seemed scarcely bigger than a squirrel's nut, which he might have dropped in his passage. a pretty savoyard girl, i should think about fifteen years old, came up to me. "madame admires the mountains," she said. i assented. "yes," she added, "strangers always admire our mountains." "and don't you admire them?" said i, looking, i suppose, rather amused into her bright eyes. "no," she said, laughing. "strangers come from hundreds of miles to see them all the time; but we peasants don't care for them, no more than the dust of the road." i could but half believe the bright little puss when she said so; but there was a lumpish, soggy fellow accompanying her, whose nature appeared to be sufficiently unleavened to make almost any thing credible in the line of stupidity. in fact, it is one of the greatest drawbacks to the pleasure with which one travels through this beautiful country, to see what kind of human beings inhabit it. here in the alps, heaven above and earth beneath, tree, rock, water, light and shadow, every form, and agent, and power of nature, seem to be exerting themselves to produce a constant and changing poem and romance; every thing is grand, noble, free, and yet beautiful: in all these regions there is nothing so repulsive as a human dwelling. a little further on we stopped at a village to refresh the horses. the _auberge_ where we stopped was built like a great barn, with an earth floor, desolate and comfortless. the people looked poor and ground down, as if they had not a thought above the coarsest animal wants. the dirty children, with their hair tangled beyond all hope of combing, had the begging whine, and the trick of raising their hands for money, when one looked at them, which is universal in the catholic parts of switzerland. indeed, all the way from the sardinian frontier we had been dogged by beggars continually. parents seemed to look upon their children as valuable only for this purpose; the very baby in arms is taught to make a pitiful little whine, and put out its fat hand, if your eye rests on it. the fact is, they are poor--poor because invention, enterprise, and intellectual vigor--all that surrounds the new england mountain farmer with competence and comfort--are quenched and dead, by the combined influence of a religion and government whose interest it is to keep people stupid that they may be manageable. yet the savoyards, as a race, it seems to me, are naturally intelligent; and i cannot but hope that the liberal course lately adopted by the sardinian government may at last reach them. my heart yearns over many of the bright, pretty children, whose little hands have been up, from time to time, around our carriage. i could not help thinking what good schools and good instruction might do for them. it is not their fault, poor little things, that they are educated to whine and beg, and grow up rude, uncultured, to bring forth another set of children just like themselves; but what to do with them is the question. one generally begins with giving money; but a day or two of experience shows that it would be just about as hopeful to feed the locusts of egypt on a loaf of bread. but it is hard to refuse children, especially to a mother who has left five or six at home, and who fancies she sees, in some of these little eager, childish faces, something now and then that reminds her of her own. for my part, i got schooled so that i could stand them all, except the little toddling three-year olds--they fairly overcame me. so i supplied my pocket with a quantity of sugar lozenges, for the relief of my own mind. i usually found the little fellows looked exceedingly delighted when they discovered the nature of the coin. children are unsophisticated, and like sugar better than silver, any day. in this _auberge_ was a little chamois kid, of which fact we were duly apprised, when we got out, by a board put up, which said, "here one can see a live chamois." the little live representative of chamoisdom came skipping out with the most amiable unconsciousness, and went through his paces for our entertainment with as much propriety as a new england child says his catechism. he hopped up on a table after some green leaves, which were then economically used to make him hop down again. the same illusive prospect was used to make him jump over a stick, and perform a number of other evolutions. i could not but admire the sweetness of temper with which he took all this tantalizing, and the innocence with which he chewed his cabbage leaf after he got it, not harboring a single revengeful thought at us for the trouble we had given him. of course the issue of the matter was, that we all paid a few sous for the sight--not to the chamois, which would have been the most equitable way, but to those who had appropriated his gifts and graces to eke out their own convenience. "where's his mother?" said i, desiring to enlarge my sphere of natural history as much as possible. "_on a tué sa mere_"--"they have killed his mother," was the reply, cool enough. there we had the whole story. his enterprising neighbors had invaded the domestic hearth, shot his mother, and eaten her up, made her skin into chamois leather, and were keeping him till he got big enough for the same disposition, using his talents meanwhile to turn a penny upon; yet not a word of all this thought he; not a bit the less heartily did he caper; never speculated a minute on why it was, on the origin of evil, or any thing of the sort; or, if he did, at least never said a word about it. i gave one good look into his soft, round, glassy eyes, and could see nothing there but the most tranquil contentment. he had finished his cabbage leaf, and we had finished our call; so we will go on. it was now drawing towards evening, and the air began to be sensibly and piercingly cold. one effect of this mountain air on myself is, to bring on the most acute headache that i ever recollect to have felt. still, the increasing glory and magnificence of the scenery overcame bodily fatigue. mont blanc, and his army of white-robed brethren, rose before us in the distance, glorious as the four and twenty elders around the great white throne. the wonderful gradations of coloring in this alpine landscape are not among the least of its charms. how can i describe it? imagine yourself standing with me on this projecting rock, overlooking a deep, piny gorge, through which flow the brawling waters of the arve. on the other side of this rise mountains whose heaving swells of velvet green, cliffs and dark pines, are fully made out and colored; behind this mountain, rises another, whose greens are softened and shaded, and seem to be seen through a purplish veil; behind that rises another, of a decided cloud-like purple; and in the next still the purple tint changes to rosy lilac; while above all, like another world up in the sky, mingling its tints with the passing clouds, sometimes obscured by them, and then breaking out between them, lie the glacier regions. these glaciers, in the setting sun, look like rivers of light pouring down from the clouds. such was the scene, which i remember with perfect distinctness as enchaining my attention on one point of the road. we had now got up to the valley of chamouni. i looked before me, and saw, lying in the lap of the green valley, a gigantic pile of icy pillars, which, seen through the trees, at first suggested the idea of a cascade. "what is that?" said i to the guide. "the glacier de boisson." i may as well stop here, and explain to you, once for all, what a glacier is. you see before you, as in this case, say thirty or forty mountain peaks, and between these peaks what seem to you frozen rivers. the snow from time to time melting, and dripping down the sides of the mountain, and congealing in the elevated hollows between the peaks, forms a half-fluid mass--a river of ice--which is called a glacier. as it lies upon the slanting surface, and is not entirely solid throughout, the whole mass is continually pushing, with a gradual but imperceptible motion, down into the valleys below. at a distance these glaciers, as i have said before, look like frozen rivers; when one approaches nearer, or where they press downward into the valley, like this glacier de boisson, they look like immense crystals and pillars of ice piled together in every conceivable form. the effect of this pile of ice, lying directly in the lap of green grass and flowers, is quite singular. the village of chamouni itself has nothing in particular to recommend it. the buildings and every thing about it have a rough, coarse appearance. before we had entered the valley this evening the sun had gone down; the sky behind the mountains was clear, and it seemed for a few moments as if darkness was rapidly coming on. on our right hand were black, jagged, furrowed walls of mountain, and on our left mont blanc, with his fields of glaciers and worlds of snow; they seemed to hem us in, and almost press us down. but in a few moments commenced a scene of transfiguration, more glorious than any thing i had witnessed yet. the cold, white, dismal fields of ice gradually changed into hues of the most beautiful rose color. a bank of white clouds, which rested above the mountains, kindled and glowed, as if some spirit of light had entered into them. you did not lose your idea of the dazzling, spiritual whiteness of the snow, yet you seemed to see it through a rosy veil. the sharp edges of the glaciers, and the hollows between the peaks, reflected wavering tints of lilac and purple. the effect was solemn and spiritual above every thing i have ever seen. these words, which had been often in my mind through the day, and which occurred to me more often than any others while i was travelling through the alps, came into my mind with a pomp and magnificence of meaning unknown before--"for by him were all things created in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers; all things are by him and for him; and he is before all things, and by him all things subsist." in this dazzling revelation i saw not that cold, distant, unfeeling fate, or that crushing regularity of power and wisdom, which was all the ancient greek or modern deist can behold in god; but i beheld, as it were, crowned and glorified, one who had loved with our loves, and suffered with our sufferings. those shining snows were as his garments on the mount of transfiguration, and that serene and ineffable atmosphere of tenderness and beauty, which seemed to change these dreary deserts into worlds of heavenly light, was to me an image of the light shed by his eternal love on the sins and sorrows of time, and the dread abyss of eternity. letter xxxiii. my dear:-- well, i waked up this morning, and the first thought was, "here i am in the valley of chamouni, right under the shadow of mont blanc, that i have studied about in childhood and found on the atlas." i sprang up, and ran to the window, to see if it was really there where i left it last night. yes, true enough, there it was! right over our heads, as it were, blocking up our very existence; filling our minds with its presence; that colossal pyramid of dazzling snow! its lower parts concealed by the roofs, only the three rounded domes of the summit cut their forms with icy distinctness on the intense blue of the sky! on the evening before i had taken my last look at about nine o'clock, and had mentally resolved to go out before daybreak and repeat coleridge's celebrated hymn; but i advise any one who has any such liturgic designs to execute them over night, for after a day of climbing one acquires an aptitude for sleep that interferes with early rising. when i left last evening its countenance was "filled with rosy light," and they tell us, that hours before it is daylight in the valley this mountain top breaks into brightness, like that pillar of fire which enlightened the darkness of the israelites. i rejoice every hour that i am among these scenes in my familiarity with the language of the bible. in it alone can i find vocabulary and images to express what this world of wonders excites. mechanically i repeat to myself, "the everlasting mountains were scattered; the perpetual hills did bow; his ways are everlasting." but as straws, chips, and seaweed play in a thousand fantastic figures on the face of the ocean, sometimes even concealing the solemn depths beneath, so the prose of daily existence mixes itself up with the solemn poetry of life, here as elsewhere. you must have a breakfast, and then you cannot rush out and up mont blanc _ad libitum_; you must go up in the regular appointed way, with mule and guides. this matter of guides is perfectly systematized here; for, the mountains being the great overpowering fact of life, it follows that all that enterprise and talent which in other places develop themselves in various forms, here take the single channel of climbing mountains. in america, if a man is a genius he strikes out a new way of cleaning cotton; but in chamouni, if he is a genius he finds a new way of going up mont blanc. as a sailor knows every timber, rope, and spar of his ship, and seems to identify his existence with her, so these guides their mountains. the mountains are their calendar, their book, their newspaper, their cabinet, herbarium, barometer, their education, and their livelihood. in fine, behold us about eight o'clock, c., s., w., little g., and self, in all the bustle of fitting out in the front of our hotel. two guides, balmat and alexandre, lead two mules, long-eared, slow-footed, considerate brutes, who have borne a thousand ladies over a thousand pokerish places, and are ready to bear a thousand more. equipped with low-backed saddles, they stand, their noses down, their eyes contemplatively closed, their whole appearance impressing one with an air of practical talent and reliableness. your mule is evidently safe and stupid as any conservative of any country; you may be sure that no erratic fires, no new influx of ideas will ever lead him to desert the good old paths, and tumble you down precipices. the harness they wear is so exceedingly ancient, and has such a dilapidated appearance, as if held together only by the merest accident, that i could not but express a little alarm on mounting. "those girths--won't they break?" "o, no, no, mademoiselle!" said the guides. in fact, they seem so delighted with their arrangements, that i swallow my doubts in silence. a third mule being added for the joint use of the gentlemen, and all being equipped with iron-pointed poles, off we start in high spirits. a glorious day; air clear as crystal, sky with as fixed a blue as if it could not think a cloud; guides congratulate us, "_qu'il fait très beau!_" we pass the lanes of the village, our heads almost on a level with the flat stone-laden roofs; our mules, with their long rolling pace, like the waves of the sea, give to their riders a facetious wag of the body that is quite striking. now the village is passed, and see, a road banded with green ribands of turf. s.'s mule and guide pass on, and head the party. g. rides another mule. c. and w. leap along trying their alpenstocks; stopping once in a while to admire the glaciers, as their brilliant forms appear through the pines. here a discussion commences as to where we are going. we had agreed among ourselves that we would visit the mer de glâce. we fully meant to go there, and had so told the guide on starting; but it appears he had other views for us. there is a regular way of seeing things, orthodox and appointed; and to get sight of any thing in the wrong way would be as bad as to get well without a scientific physician, or any other irregular piece of proceeding. it appeared from the representations of the guide that to visit mer de glâce before we had seen la flégère, would no more answer than for jacob to marry rachel before he had married leah. determined not to yield, as we were, we somehow found ourselves vanquished by our guide's arguments, and soberly going off his way instead of ours, doing exactly what we had resolved not to do. however, the point being yielded we proceeded merrily. as we had some way, however, to trot along the valley before we came to the ascending place, i improved the opportunity to cultivate a little the acquaintance of my guide. he was a tall, spare man, with black eyes, black hair, and features expressive of shrewdness, energy, and determination. either from paralysis, or some other cause, he was subject to a spasmodic twitching of the features, producing very much the effect that heat lightning does in the summer sky--it seemed to flash over his face and be gone in a wink; at first this looked to me very odd, but so much do our ideas depend on association, that after i had known him for some time, i really thought that i liked him better with, than i should without it. it seemed to give originality to the expression of his face; he was such a good, fatherly man, and took such excellent care of me and the mule, and showed so much intelligence and dignity in his conversation, that i could do no less than like him, heat lightning and all. this valley of chamouni, through which we are winding now, is every where as flat as a parlor floor. these valleys in the alps seem to have this peculiarity--they are not hollows, bending downward in the middle, and imperceptibly sloping upward into the mountains, but they lie perfectly flat. the mountains rise up around them like walls almost perpendicularly. "_voilà!_" says my guide, pointing to the left, to a great, bare ravine, "down there came an avalanche, and knocked down those houses and killed several people." "ah!" said i; "but don't avalanches generally come in the same places every year?" "generally, they do." "why do people build houses in the way of them?" said i. "ah! this was an unusual avalanche, this one here." "do the avalanches ever bring rocks with them?" "no, not often; nothing but snow." "there!" says my guide, pointing to an object about as big as a good-sized fly, on the side of a distant mountain, "there's the _auberge_, on la flégère, where we are going." "up there?" say i, looking up apprehensively, and querying in my mind how my estimable friend the mule is ever to get up there with me on his back. "o yes," says my guide, cheerily, "and the road is up through that ravine." the ravine is a charming specimen of a road to be sure, but no matter--on we go. "there," says a guide, "those black rocks in the middle of that glacier on mont blanc are the grands mulets, where travellers sleep going up mont blanc." we wind now among the pine tree still we come almost under the mer de glâce. a most fairy-like cascade falls down from under its pillars of ice over the dark rocks,--a cloud of feathery foam,--and then streams into the valley below. "_voilà, l'arveiron!_" says the guide. "o, is that the arveiron?" say i; "happy to make the acquaintance." but now we cross the arve into a grove of pines, and direct our way to the ascent. we begin to thread a zigzag path on the sides of the mountain. as mules are most determined followers of precedent, every one keeps his nose close by the heels of his predecessor. the delicate point, therefore, of the whole operation is keeping the first mule straight. the first mule in our party, who rejoiced in the name of rousse, was selected to head the caravan, perhaps because he had more native originality than most mules, and was therefore better fitted to lead than to follow. a troublesome beast was he, from a habit of abstract meditation which was always liable to come on him in most inconvenient localities. every now and then, simply in accordance with his own sovereign will and pleasure, and without consulting those behind him, he would stop short and descend into himself in gloomy revery, not that he seemed to have any thing in particular on his mind,--at least nothing of the sort escaped his lips,--but the idea would seem to strike him all of a sudden that he was an ill-used beast, and that he'd be hanged if he went another step. now, as his stopping stopped all the rest, wheresoever they might happen to be, it often occurred that we were detained in most critical localities, just on the very verge of some tremendous precipice, or up a rocky stairway. in vain did the foremost driver admonish him by thumping his nose with a sharp stick, and tugging and pulling upon the bridle. rousse was gifted with one of those long, india rubber necks that can stretch out indefinitely, so that the utmost pulling and jerking only took his head along a little farther, but left his heels planted exactly here they were before, somewhat after this fashion. his eyes, meanwhile, devoutly closed, with an air of meekness overspreading his visage, he might have stood as an emblem of conscientious obstinacy. [illustration: _of two men trying to force forward a stubborn mule with a female rider._] the fact is, that in ascending these mountains there is just enough danger to make one's nerves a little unsteady; not by any means as much as on board a rail car at home; still it comes to you in a more demonstrable form. here you are, for instance, on a precipice two thousand feet deep; pine trees, which, when you passed them at the foot you saw were a hundred feet high, have dwindled to the size of pins. no barrier of any kind protects the dizzy edge, and your mule is particularly conscientious to stand on the very verge, no matter how wide the path may be. now, under such circumstances, though your guide assures you that an accident or a person killed is a thing unknown, you cannot help seeing that if the saddle should turn, or the girths break, or a bit of the crumbling edge cave away--all which things appear quite possible--all would be over with you. yet i suppose we are no more really dependent upon god's providence in such circumstances, than in many cases where we think ourselves most secure. still the thrill of this sensation is not without its pleasure, especially with such an image of almighty power and glory constantly before one's eyes as mont blanc. our own littleness and helplessness, in view of these vast objects which surround us, give a strong and pathetic force to the words, "the eternal god is thy refuge, and underneath thee are the everlasting arms." i like best these snow-pure glaciers seen through these black pines; there is something mysterious about them when you thus catch glimpses, and see not the earthly base on which they rest. i recollect the same fact in seeing the cataract of niagara through trees, where merely the dizzying fall of water was visible, with its foam, and spray, and rainbows; it produced an idea of something supernatural. i forgot to say that at the foot of the mountain a party of girls started to ascend with us, carrying along bottles of milk and small saucers full of mountain strawberries. about half way up the ascent we halted by a spring of water which gushed from the side of the mountain, and there we found the advantage of these arrangements. the milk is very nice, almost as rich as cream. i think they told me it was goat's milk. the strawberries are very small indeed, like our field strawberries, but not as good. one devours them with great relish, simply because the keen air of the mountain disposes one to eat something, and there is nothing better to be had. they were hearty, rosy-looking girls, cheerful and obliging, wore the flat, swiss hat, and carried their knitting work along with them, and knit whenever they could. when you asked them the price of their wares they always said, "_au plaisir_" i. e., whatever you please; but when we came to offer them money, we found "_au plaisir_" meant so much at _any rate_, and as much more as they could get. there were some children who straggled up with the party, who offered us flowers and crystals "_au plaisir_" to about the same intent and purpose. this _cortége_ of people, wanting to sell you something, accompanies you every where in the alps. the guides generally look upon it with complacency, and in a quiet way favor it. i suppose that the fact was, these were neighbors and acquaintances, and the mutual understanding was, that they should help each other. it was about twelve o'clock, when we gained a bare board shanty as near the top of la flégère as it is possible to go on mules. it is rather a discouraging reflection that one should travel three or four hours to get to such a desolate place as these mountain tops generally are; nothing but grass, rocks, and snow; a shanty, with a show case full of minerals, articles of carved wood, and engravings of the place for sale. in these show cases the alps are brought to market as thoroughly as human ingenuity can do the thing. the chamois figures largely; there are pouches made of chamois skin, walking sticks and alpenstocks tipped with chamois horn; sometimes an entire skin, horns and all, hanging disconsolately downward. then all manner of crystals, such as are found in the rocks, are served up--agate pins, rings, seals, bracelets, cups, and snuffboxes--all which are duly urged on your attention; so, instead of falling into a rapture at the sight of mont blanc, the regular routine for a yankee is to begin a bargain for a walking stick or a snuffbox. there is another curious fact, and that is, that every prospect loses by being made definite. as long as we only see a thing by glimpses, and imagine that there is a deal more that we do not see, the mind is kept in a constant excitement and play; but come to a point where you can fairly and squarely take in the whole, and there your mind falls listless. it is the greatest proof to me of the infinite nature of our minds, that we almost instantly undervalue what we have thoroughly attained. this sensation afflicted me, for i had been reining in my enthusiasm for two days, as rather premature, and keeping myself in reserve for this ultimate display. but now i stood there, no longer seeing by glimpses, no longer catching rapturous intimations as i turned angles of rock, or glanced through windows of pine--here it was, all spread out before me like a map, not a cloud, not a shadow to soften the outline--there was mont blanc, a great alabaster pyramid, with a glacier running down each side of it; there was the arve, and there was the arveiron, names most magical in song, but now literal geographic realities. but in full possession of the whole my mind gave out like a rocket that will not go off at the critical moment. i remember, once after finishing a very circumstantial treatise on the nature of heaven, being oppressed with a similar sensation of satiety,--that which hath not entered the heart of man to conceive must not be mapped out,-- hence the wisdom of the dim, indefinite imagery of the scriptures; they give you no hard outline, no definite limit; occasionally they part as do the clouds around these mountains, giving you flashes and gleams of something supernatural and splendid, but never fully unveiling. but la flegerc is doubtless the best point for getting a statistically accurate idea of how the alps lie, of any easily accessible to ladies. this print you may regard more as a chart than as a picture. our guide pointed out every feature with praiseworthy accuracy. midmost is mont blanc; on the right the glacier de boisson. two or three little black peaks' in it are the sleeping-place for travellers ascending--the zigzag line shows their path. on the left of the mountain lies mer de glâce, with the arveiron falling from it. the arve crosses the valley below us; the fall is not indicated in this view. the undulations, which, on near view, are fifty feet high, seem mere ripples. its purity is much soiled by the dust and debris which are constantly blown upon it, making it look in some places more like mud than ice. its soiled masses contrast with the dazzling whiteness of the upper regions, just as human virtue exposed to the wind and dust of earth, with the spotless purity of jesus. [illustration: _of a long view of mountains with glacial valley in foreground. what follows is a rough ascii interpretation_: /\ /\ /\_/ \ /\/\ __ /\/\_ /'\/\/ \__/ \ \_/\ '/\ _/ / / \ _ / \_ _ '' / \ | _/ __ __ / \ \, / ___,,__ ____,___/ / \ _ \__--' _/ \ '--' | \____,| \ / / __/ |\ | \ \\ \ | \/ |/ | \ \ \\ \| _ | \ | \ \_ \\ \\ \ \ \__ \ \_ \\ \\ \_ \ \ \===-'--'----> '-----\=====================\ streams // settlement || \ \_ > > trees / / explanation of illustration. . mont blanc. . deme de goute. . aiguille de goute. . grand plateau. . les grands mulets. . glacier de tacconnaz. . glacier de boisson. . mer de glâce. . montauvert.] these mulets, which at this distance appear like black points, are needle cliffs rising in a desert of snow, thus-- [illustration: _of narrow jagged dark rocks about feet across at the base and rising to about feet from the base._] coming down i mentally compared mont blanc and niagara, as one should compare two grand pictures in different styles of the same master. both are of that class of things which mark eras in a mind's history, and open a new door which no man can shut. of the two, i think niagara is the most impressive, perhaps because those aerial elements of foam and spray give that vague and dreamy indefiniteness of outline which seems essential in the sublime. for this reason, while niagara is equally impressive in the distance, it does not lose on the nearest approach--it is always mysterious, and, therefore, stimulating. those varying spray wreaths, rising like ossian's ghosts from its abyss; those shimmering rainbows, through whose veil you look; those dizzying falls of water that seem like clouds poured from the hollow of god's hand; and that mystic undertone of sound that seems to pervade the whole being as the voice of the almighty,--all these bewilder and enchant the discriminative and prosaic part of us, and bring us into that cloudy region of ecstasy where the soul comes nearest to him whom no eye hath seen, or can see. i have sometimes asked myself if, in the countless ages of the future, the heirs of god shall ever be endowed by him with a creative power, by which they shall bring into being things like these? in this infancy of his existence, man creates pictures, statues, cathedrals; but when he is made "ruler over many things," will his father intrust to him the building and adorning of worlds? the ruling of the glorious, dazzling forces of nature? at the foot of the mountain we found again our company of strawberry girls, with knitting work and goat's milk, lying in wait for us. they knew we should be thirsty and hungry, and wisely turned the circumstance to account. some of our party would not buy of them, because they said they were sharpers, trying to get all they could out of people; but if every body who tries to do this is to be called a sharper, what is to become of respectable society, i wonder? on the strength of this reflection, i bought some more goat's milk and strawberries, and verily found them excellent; for, as shakspeare says, "how many things by season seasoned are." we returned to our hotel, and after dining and taking a long nap, i began to feel fresh once more, for the air here acts like an elixir, so that one is able to do twice as much as any where else. s. was too much overcome to go with us, but the rest of us started with our guides once more at five o'clock. this time we were to visit the cascade des pèlérins, which comes next on the orthodox list of places to be seen. it was a lovely afternoon; the sun had got over the mont blanc side of the world, and threw the broad, cool shadow of the mountains quite across the valley. what a curious kind of thing shadow is,--that invisible veil, falling so evenly and so lightly over all things, bringing with it such thoughts of calmness, of coolness, and of rest. i wonder the old greeks did not build temples to shadow, and call her the sister of thought and peace. the hebrew writers speak of the "overshadowing of the almighty;" they call his protection "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." even as the shadow of mont blanc falls like a sabbath across this valley, so falls the sense of his presence across our weary life-road! as we rode along under the sides of the mountain every thing seemed so beautiful, so thoughtful, and so calm! all the goats and cows were in motion along the mountain paths, each one tinkling his little bell and filling the rocks with gentle melodies. you can trace the lines of these cattle paths, running like threads all along the sides of the mountains. we went in the same road that we had gone in the morning. how different it seemed, in the soberness of this afternoon light, from its aspect under the clear, crisp, sharp light of morning! we pass again through the pine woods in the valley, and cross the arve; then up the mountain side to where a tiny cascade throws up its feathery spray in a brilliant _jet d'eau_. every body knows, even in our sober new england, that mountain brooks are a frisky, indiscreet set, rattling, chattering, and capering in defiance of all law and order, tumbling over precipices, and picking themselves up at the bottom, no whit wiser or more disposed to be tranquil than they were at the top; in fact, seeming to grow more mad and frolicsome with every leap. well, that is just the way brooks do here in the alps, and the people, taking advantage of it, have built a little shanty, where they show up the capers of this child of the mountain, as if he tumbled for their special profit. here, of course, in the shanty are the agates, and the carved work, and so forth, and so on, and you must buy something for a souvenir. i sat down on the rocks to take, not a sketch,--for who can sketch a mountain torrent?--but to note down on paper a kind of diagram, from which afterwards i might reconstruct an image of this feathery, frisky son of kuhleborn. and while i was doing this, little g. seemed to be possessed by the spirit of the brook to caper down into the ravine, with a series of leaps far safer for a waterfall than a boy. i was thankful when i saw him safely at the bottom. after sketching a little while, i rambled off to a point where i looked over towards mont blanc, and got a most beautiful view of the glacier de boisson. imagine the sky flushed with a rosy light, a background of purple mountains, with darts of sunlight streaming among them, touching point and cliff with gold. against this background rises the outline of the glacier like a mountain of the clearest white crystals, tinged with blue; and against their snowy whiteness in the foreground tall forms of pines. i rejoiced in the picture with exceeding joy as long as the guide would let me; but in all these places you have to cut short your raptures at the proper season, or else what becomes of your supper? i went back to the cottage. a rosy-cheeked girl had held our mules, and set a chair for us to get off, and now brings them up with "_au plaisir, messieurs_" to the bearers of our purse. half a dozen children had been waiting with the rose des alps, which they wanted to sell us "_au plaisir_" but which we did not buy. these continual demands on the purse look very alarming, only the coin you pay in is of such infinitesimal value that it takes about a pocket full to make a cent. such a currency is always a sign of poverty. we had a charming ride down the mountain side, in the glow of the twilight. we passed through a whole flock of goats which the children were driving home. one dear little sturdy savoyard looked so like a certain little charley at home that i felt quite a going forth of soul to him. as we rode on, i thought i would willingly live and die in such a place; but i shall see a hundred such before we leave the alps. journal--(continued.) thursday, july . weather still celestial, as yesterday. but lo, these frail tabernacles betray their earthliness. h. remarked at breakfast that all the "tired" of yesterday was piled up into to-day. and s. actually pleaded inability, and determined to remain at the hotel. however, the mer de glâce must be seen; so, at seven william, georgy, h., and i, set off. when about half way or more up the mountain we crossed the track of the avalanches, a strip or trail, which looks from beneath like a mower's swath through a field of tall grass. it is a clean path, about fifty rods wide, without trees, with few rocks, smooth and steep, and with a bottom of ice covered with gravel. "hurrah, william," said i, "let's have an avalanche!" "agreed," said he; "there's a big rock." "monsieur le guide, monsieur le guide!" i shouted, "stop a moment. h., stop; we want you to see our avalanche." "no," cried h., "i will not. here you ask me to stop, right on the edge of this precipice, to see you roll down a stone!" so, on she ambled. meanwhile william and i were already on foot, and our mules were led on by the guide's daughter, a pretty little lass of ten or twelve, who accompanied us in the capacity of mule driver. we found several stones of inferior size, and sent them plunging down. at last, however, we found one that weighed some two tons, which happened to lie so that, by loosening the earth before and under it with our alpenstocks, we were able to dislodge it. slowly, reluctantly, as if conscious of the awful race it was about to take, the huge mass trembled, slid, poised, and, with a crunch and a groan, went over. at the first plunge it acquired a heavy revolving motion, and was soon whirling and dashing down, bounding into the air with prodigious leaps, and cutting a white and flashing path into the icy way. then first i began to realize the awful height at which we stood above the plain. tracts, which looked as though we could almost step across them, were reached by this terrible stone, moving with frightful velocity; and bound after bound, plunge after plunge it made, and we held our breath to see each tract lengthen out, as if seconds grew into minutes, inches into rods; and still the mass moved on, and the microscopic way lengthened out, till at last a curve hid its further progress from our view. what other cliffs we might have toppled over the muse refuses to tell; for our faithful guide returned to say that it was not quite safe; that there were always shepherds and flocks in the valley, and that they might be injured. so we remounted, and soon overtook h. at a fountain, sketching a pine tree of special physiognomy. "ah," said i, "h., how foolish you were! you don't know what a sight you have lost." "yes," said she, "all c. thinks mountains are made for is to roll stones down." "and all h. thinks trees made for," said i, "is to have ugly pictures made of them." "ay," she replied, "you wanted me to stand on the very verge of the precipice, and see two foolish boys roll down stones, and perhaps make an avalanche of themselves! now, you know, c., i could not spare you; first, because i have not learned french enough yet; and next, because i don't know how to make change." "add to that," said i, "the damages to the _bergers_ and flocks." "yes," she added; "no doubt when we get back to the inn we shall have a bill sent in, 'h. b. s. to a. b., dr., to one shepherd and six cows, --fr.'" and so we chatted along until we reached the _auberge_, and, after resting a few moments, descended into the frozen sea. here a scene opened upon us never to be forgotten. from the distant gorge of the everlasting alpine ranges issued forth an ocean tide, in wild and dashing commotion, just as we have seen the waves upon the broad atlantic, but all motionless as chaos when smitten by the mace of death; and yet, not motionless! this denser medium, this motionless mass, is never at rest. this flood moves as it seems to move; these waves are actually uplifting out of the abyss as they seem to lift; the only difference is in the time of motion, the rate of change. these prodigious blocks of granite, thirty or forty feet long and twenty feet thick, which float on this grim sea of ice, _do float_, and are _drifting_, drifting down to the valley below, where, in a few days, they must arrive. we walked these valleys, ascended these hills, leaped across chasms, threw stones down the _crevasses_, plunged our alpenstocks into the deep baths of green water, and philosophized and poetized till we were tired. then we returned to the _auberge_, and rode down the zigzag to our hotel. letter xxxiv. my dear:-- the mer de glâce is exactly opposite to la flégère, where we were yesterday, and is reached by the ascent of what is called montanvert, or green mountain. the path is much worse than the other, and in some places makes one's nerves twinge, especially that from which c. projected his avalanche. just think of his wanting to stop me on the edge of a little shelf over that frightful chasm, and take away the guide from the head of my mule to help him get up avalanches! i warn you, if ever you visit the alps, that a travelling companion who has not the slightest idea what fear is will give you many a commotion. for instance, this mer de glâce is traversed every where by _crevasses_ in the ice, which go to--nobody knows where, down into the under world--great, gaping, blue-green mouths of hades; and c. must needs jump across them, and climb down into them, to the mingled delight and apprehension of the guide, who, after conscientiously shouting out a reproof, would say to me, in a lower tone, "ah, he's the man to climb mont blanc; he would do well for that!" the fact is, nothing would suit our guides better, this clear, bright weather, than to make up a party for the top of mont blanc. they look longingly and lovingly up to its clear, white fields; they show us the stages and resting-places, and seem really to think that it is a waste of this beautiful weather not to be putting it to that most sublime purpose. why, then, do not we go up? you say. as to us ladies, it is a thing that has been done by only two women since the world stood, and those very different in their _physique_ from any we are likely to raise in america, unless we mend our manners very much. these two were a peasant woman of chamouni, called marie de mont blanc, and mademoiselle henriette d'angeville, a lady whose acquaintance i made in geneva. then, as to the gentlemen, it is a serious consideration, in the first place, that the affair costs about one hundred and fifty dollars apiece, takes two days of time, uses up a week's strength, all to get an experience of some very disagreeable sensations, which could not afflict a man in any other case. it is no wonder, then, that gentlemen look up to the mountain, lay their hands on their pockets, and say, no. our guide, by the way, is the son, or grandson, of the very first man that ascended mont blanc, and of course feels a sort of hereditary property and pride in it. c. spoke about throwing our poles down the pools of water in the ice. there is something rather curious about these pools. our guide saw us measuring the depth of one of them, which was full of greenish-blue water, colored only by the refraction of the light. he took our long alpenstock, and poising it, sent it down into the water, as a man might throw a javelin. it disappeared, but in a few seconds leaped up at us out of the water, as if thrown back again by an invisible hand. a poet would say that a water spirit hurled it back; perhaps some old under-ground gnome, just going to dinner, had his windows smashed by it, and sent it back with a becoming spirit, as a gnome should. it was a sultry day, and the sun was exercising his power over the whole ice field. i sat down by a great ice block, about fifty feet long, to interrogate it, and see what i could make of it, by a cool, confidential proximity and examination. the ice was porous and spongy, as i have seen it on the shores of the connecticut, when beginning to thaw out under the influence of a spring sun. i could see the little drops of water percolating in a thousand tiny streams through it, and dropping down on every side. putting my ear to it, i could hear a fine musical trill and trickle, and that still small click and stir, as of melting ice, which showed that it was surely and gradually giving way, and flowing back again. drop by drop the cold iceberg was changing into a stream, to flow down the sides of the valley, no longer an image of coldness and death, but bearing fertility and beauty on its tide. and as i looked abroad over all the rifted field of ice, i could see that the same change was gradually going on throughout. in every blue ravine you can hear the clink of dropping water, and those great defiant blocks of ice, which seem frozen with uplifted warlike hands, are all softening in that beneficent light, and destined to pass away in that benignant change. so let us hope that those institutions of pride and cruelty, which are colder than the glacier, and equally vast and hopeless in their apparent magnitude, may yet, like that, be slowly and surely passing away. like the silent warfare of the sun on the glacier, is that overshadowing presence of jesus, whose power, so still, yet so resistless, is now being felt through all the moving earth. those defiant waves of death-cold ice might as well hope to conquer the calm, silent sun, as the old, frozen institutions of human selfishness to resist the influence which he is now breathing through the human heart, to liberate the captive, to free the slave, and to turn the ice of long winters into rivers of life for the new heaven and the new earth. all this we know is coming, but we long to see it now, and breathe forth our desires with the hebrew prophet, "o that thou wouldst rend the heavens, that thou wouldst come down, that the mountains might flow down at thy presence." i had, while upon this field of ice, that strange feeling which often comes over one, at the sight of a thing unusually beautiful and sublime, of wanting, in some way, to appropriate and make it a part of myself. i looked up the gorge, and saw this frozen river, lying cradled, as it were, in the arms of needle-peaked giants of amethystine rock, their tops laced with flying silvery clouds. the whole air seemed to be surcharged with tints, ranging between the palest rose and the deepest violet--tints never without blue, and never without red, but varying in the degrees of the two. it is this prismatic hue diffused over every object which gives one of the most noticeable characteristics of the alpine landscape. this sea of ice lies on an inclined plane, and all the blocks have a general downward curve. i told you yesterday that the lower part of the glacier, as seen from la flégère, appeared covered with dirt. i saw to-day the reason for this. although it was a sultry day in july, yet around the glacier a continual high wind was blowing, whirling the dust and _débris_ of the sides upon it. some of the great masses of ice were so completely coated with sand as to appear at a distance like granite rocks. the effect of some of these immense brown masses was very peculiar. they seemed like an army of giants, bending forward, driven, as by an invisible power, down into the valley. it reminds one of such expressions as these in job:-- "have the gates of death been open to thee, or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death?" one should read that sublime poem in such scenes as these. i remained on the ice as long as i could persuade the guides and party to remain. then we went back to the house, where, of course, we looked at some wood work, agates, and all the et cetera. then we turned our steps downward. we went along the side of the glacier, and i desired to climb over as near as possible, in order to see the source of the arveiron, which is formed by the melting of this glacier. its cradle is a ribbed and rocky cavern of blue ice, and like a creature born full of vigor and immortality, it begins life with an impetuous leap. the cold arms of the glaciers cannot retain it; it must go to the warm, flowery, velvet meadows below. the guide was quite anxious about me; he seemed to consider a lady as something that must necessarily break in two, or come apart, like a german doll, if not managed with extremest care; and therefore to see one bounding through bushes, leaping, and springing, and climbing over rocks at such a rate, appeared to him the height of desperation. the good, faithful soul wanted to keep me within orthodox limits, and felt conscientiously bound to follow me wherever i went, and to offer me his hand at every turn. i considered, on the whole, that i ought not to blame him, since guides hold themselves responsible for life and limb; and any accident to those under their charge is fatal to their professional honor. going down, i held some conversation with him on matters and things in general, and life in chamouni in particular. he inquired with great interest about america; which, throughout europe, i find the working classes regard as a kind of star in the west, portending something of good to themselves. he had a son, he said, settled in america, near st. louis. "and don't you want to go to america?" said i, after hearing him praise the good land. "ah, no," he said, with a smile. "why not?" said i; "it is a much easier country to live in." he gave a look at the circle of mountains around, and said, "i love chamouni." the good soul! i was much of his opinion. if i had been born within sight of glorious mont blanc, with its apocalyptic clouds, and store of visions, not all the fat pork and flat prairies of indiana and ohio could tempt me. no wonder the swiss die for their native valleys! i would if i were they. i asked him about education. he said his children went to a school kept by catholic sisters, who taught reading, writing, and latin. the dialect of chamouni is a patois, composed of french and latin. he said that provision was very scarce in the winter. i asked how they made their living when there were no travellers to be guided up mont blanc. he had a trade at which he wrought in winter months, and his wife did tailoring. i must not forget to say that the day before there had been some confidential passages between us, which began by his expressing, interrogatively, the opinion that "mademoiselle was a young lady, he supposed." when mademoiselle had assured him, on the contrary, that she was a venerable matron, mother of a thriving family, then followed a little comparison of notes as to numbers. madame he ascertained to have six, and he had four, if my memory serves me, as it generally does not in matters of figures. so you see it is not merely among us new englanders that the unsophisticated spirit of curiosity exists as to one's neighbors. indeed, i take it to be a wholesome development of human nature in general. for my part, i could not think highly of any body who could be brought long into connection with another human being and feel no interest to inquire into his history and surroundings. as we stopped, going down the descent, to rest the mules, i looked up above my head into the crags, and saw a flock of goats browsing. one goat, in particular, i remember, had gained the top of a kind of table rock, which stood apart from the rest, and which was carpeted with lichens and green moss. there he stood, looking as unconscious and contemplative as possible, the wicked fellow, with his long beard! he knew he looked picturesque, and that is what he stood there for. but, as they say in new england, he did it "_as nat'ral as a pictur!_" by the by, the girls with strawberries, milk, and knitting work were on hand on the way down, and met us just where a cool spring gushed out at the roots of a pine tree; and of course i bought some more milk and strawberries. how dreadfully hot it was when we got down to the bottom! for there we had the long, shadeless ride home, with the burning lenses of the glaciers concentrated upon our defenceless heads. i was past admiring any thing, and glad enough for the shelter of a roof, and a place to lie down. after dinner, although the glacier de boisson had been spoken of as the appointed work for the afternoon, yet we discovered, as the psalm book says, that "the force of nature could no farther go" [illustration: _of an ice climbing party scaling a large serac._] what is glacier de boisson, or glacier any thing else, to a person used up entirely, with no sense or capability left for any thing but a general aching? no; the glacier de boisson was given up, and i am sorry for it now, because it is the commencement of the road up mont blanc; and, though i could not go to the top thereof, i should like to have gone as far as i could. in fact, i should have been glad to sleep one night at the grands mulets: however, that was impossible. to look at the apparently smooth surface of the mountain side, one would never think that the ascent could be a work of such difficulty and danger. yet, look at the picture of crossing a _crevasse_, and compare the size of the figures with the dimensions of the blocks of ice. madame d'angeville told me that she was drawn across a _crevasse_ like this, by ropes tied under her arms, by the guides. the depth of some of the _crevasses_ may be conjectured from the fact stated by agassiz, that the thickest parts of the glaciers are over one thousand feet in depth. journal--(continued.) friday, july .--chamouni to martigny, by tête noir. mules _en avant_. we set off in a _calèche_. after a two hours' ride we came to "_those mules_." on, to the pass of tête noir, by paths the most awful. as my mule trod within six inches of the verge, i looked down into an abyss, so deep that tallest pines looked like twigs; yet, on the opposite side of the pass, i looked up the steep precipice to an equal height, where giant trees seemed white fluttering fringe. a dizzy sight. we swept round an angle, entered a dark tunnel blasted out through the solid rock, emerged, and saw before us, on our right, the far-famed tête noir, a black ledge, on whose face, so high is the opposite cliff, the sun never shines. a few steps brought us to a hotel. william and i rolled down some avalanches, by way of getting an appetite, while dinner was preparing. [illustration: _of the rearing head and neck of a bridled mule._] after dinner we commenced descending towards martigny, alternately riding and walking. here, while i was on foot, my mule took it into his head to run away. i was never more surprised in my life than to see that staid, solemn, meditative, melancholy beast suddenly perk up both his long ears, thus, and hop about over the steep paths like a goat. not more surprised should i be to see some venerable d. d. of princeton leading off a dance in the jardin mabille. we chased him here, and chased him there. we headed him, and he headed us. we said, "now i have you," and he said, "no, you don't!" until the affair began to grow comically serious. "_il se moque de vous!_" said the guide. but, at that moment, i sprang and caught him by the bridle, when, presto! down went his ears, shut went the eyes, and over the entire gay brute spread a visible veil of stolidity. and down he plodded, _slunging_, shambling, pivotting round zigzag corners, as before, in a style which any one that ever navigated such a craft down hill knows without further telling. after that, i was sure that the old fellow kept up a "terrible thinking," in spite of his stupid looks, and knew a vast deal more than he chose to tell. [illustration: _of a mule's head lowered, with ears flattened._] at length we opened on the rhone valley; and at seven we reached hotel de la tour, at martigny. here h. and s. managed to get up two flights of stone stairs, and sank speechless and motionless upon their beds. i must say they have exhibited spirit to-day, or, as mr. c. used to say, "pluck." after settling with our guides,--fine fellows, whom we hated to lose,--i ordered supper, and sought new guides for our route to the convent. our only difficulty in reaching there, they say, is the _snow_. the guides were uncertain whether mules could get through so early in the season. only to think! to-day, riding broilingly through hay-fields--to-morrow, stuck in snow drifts! letter xxxv. dear henry:-- you cannot think how beautiful are these alpine valleys. our course, all the first morning after we left chamouni, lay beside a broad, hearty, joyous mountain torrent, called, perhaps from the darkness of its waters, eau noire. charming meadows skirted its banks. all the way along i could think of nothing but bunyan's meadows beside the river of life, "curiously adorned with lilies." _these_ were curiously adorned, broidered, and inwrought with flowers, many and brilliant as those in a western prairie. were i to undertake to describe them, i might make an inventory as long as homer's list of the ships. there was the canterbury bell of our garden; the white meadow sweet; the blue and white campanula; the tall, slender harebell, and a little, short-tufted variety of the same, which our guide tells me is called "les clochettes," or the "little bells"--fairies might ring them, i thought. then there are whole beds of the little blue forget-me-not, and a white flower which much resembles it in form. i also noticed, hanging in the clefts of the rocks around tête noir, the long golden tresses of the laburnum. it has seemed to me, when i have been travelling here, as if every flower i ever saw in a garden met me some where in rocks or meadows. there is a strange, unsatisfying pleasure about flowers, which, like all earthly pleasure, is akin to pain. what can you do with them?--you want to do something, but what? take them all up, and carry them with you? you cannot do that. get down and look at them? what, keep a whole caravan waiting for your observations! that will never do. well, then, pick and carry them along with you. that is what, in despair of any better resource, i did. my good old guide was infinite in patience, stopping at every new exclamation point of mine, plunging down rocks into the meadow land, climbing to the points of great rocks, and returning with his hands filled with flowers. it seemed almost sacrilegious to tear away such fanciful creations, that looked as if they were votive offerings on an altar, or, more likely, living existences, whose only conscious life was a continued exhalation of joy and praise. these flowers seemed to me to be earth's raptures and aspirations --her better moments--her lucid intervals. like every thing else in our existence, they are mysterious. in what mood of mind were they conceived by the great artist? of what feelings of his are they the expression--springing up out of the dust, in these gigantic, waste, and desolate regions, where one would think the sense of his almightiness might overpower the soul? born in the track of the glacier and the avalanche, they seem to say to us that this almighty being is very pitiful, and of tender compassion; that, in his infinite soul, there is an exquisite gentleness and love of the beautiful, and that, if we would be blessed, his will to bless is infinite. the greatest men have always thought much of flowers. luther always kept a flower in a glass, on his writing table; and when he was waging his great public controversy with eckius, he kept a flower in his hand. lord bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. as to shakspeare, he is a perfect alpine valley--he is full of flowers; they spring, and blossom, and wave in every cleft of his mind. witness the midsummer night's dream. even milton, cold, serene, and stately as he is, breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he marshals the flowers, as in lycidas and comus. but all this while the sun has been withering the flowers the guide brought me; how they look! blue and white canterbury bells, harebells, clochettes, all bedraggled and wilted, like a young lady who has been up all night at a ball. "no, no," say i to the guide; "don't pick me any more. i don't want them. the fact is, if they are pretty i cannot help it. i must even take it out in looking as i go by." one thing is evident; he who made the world is no utilitarian, no despiser of the fine arts, and no condemner of ornament; and those religionists, who seek to restrain every thing within the limits of cold, bare utility, do not imitate our father in heaven. cannot a bonnet cover your head, without the ribbon and the flowers, say they? yes; and could not a peach tree bear peaches without a blossom? what a waste is all this colored corolla of flowers, as if the seed could not mature without them! god could have created the fruit in good, strong, homely bushel baskets, if he had been so disposed. "turn off my eyes from beholding vanity," says a good man, when he sees a display of graceful ornament. what, then, must he think of the almighty being, all whose useful work is so overlaid with ornament? there is not a fly's leg, nor an insect's wing, which is not polished and decorated to an extent that we should think positive extravagance in finishing up a child's dress. and can we suppose that this being can take delight in dwellings and modes of life or forms of worship where every thing is reduced to cold, naked utility? i think not. the instinct to adorn and beautify is from him; it likens us to him, and if rightly understood, instead of being a siren to beguile our hearts away, it will be the closest affiliating band. if this power of producing the beautiful has been always so fascinating that the human race for its sake have bowed down at the feet even of men deficient in moral worth, if we cannot forbear loving the painter, poet, and sculptor, how much more shall we love god, who, with all goodness, has also all beauty! but all this while we have been riding on till we have passed the meadows, and the fields, and are coming into the dark and awful pass of the tête noir, which c. has described to you. one thing i noticed which he did not. when we were winding along the narrow path, bearing no more proportion to the dizzy heights above and below than the smallest insect creeping on the wall, i looked across the chasm, and saw a row of shepherds' cottages perched midway on a narrow shelf, that seemed in the distance not an inch wide. by a very natural impulse, i exclaimed, "what does become of the little children there? i should think they would all fall over the precipice!" my guide looked up benevolently at me, as if he felt it his duty to quiet my fears, and said in a soothing tone, "o, no, no, no!" of course, i might have known that little children have their angels there, as well as every where else. "when they have funerals there," said he, "they are obliged to carry the dead along that road," pointing to a road that resembled a thread drawn on the rocky wall. what a strange idea--such a life and death! it seemed to me, that i could see a funeral train creeping along; the monks, with their black cloaks, carrying tapers, and singing psalms; the whole procession together not larger in proportion than a swarm of black gnats; and yet, perhaps, hearts there wrung with an infinite sorrow. in that black, moving point, may be a soul, whose convulsions and agonies cannot be measured or counted by any thing human, so impossible is it to measure souls by space. what can they think of, these creatures, who are born in this strange place, half way between heaven and earth, to whom the sound of avalanches is a cradle hymn, and who can never see the sun above the top of the cliff on either side, till he really gets into the zenith? what they can be thinking of i cannot tell. life, i suppose, is made up of the same prosaic material there that it is every where. the mother thinks how she shall make her goat's milk and black bread hold out. the grandmother knits stockings, and runs out to see if jaques or pierre have not tumbled over the precipice. jaques and pierre, in return, tangle grandmother's yarn, upset mother's milk bucket, pull the goat's beard, tear their clothes to pieces on the bushes and rocks, and, in short, commit incredible abominations daily, just as children do every where. in the night how curiously this little nest of houses must look, lighted up, winking and blinking at the solitary traveller, like some mysterious eyes looking out of a great eternity! there they all are fast asleep, pierre, and jaques, and grandmother, and the goats. in the night they hear a tremendous noise, as if all nature was going to pieces; they half wake, open one eye, say, "nothing but an avalanche!" and go to sleep again. this road, through the pass of the tête noir, used to be dangerous; a very narrow bridle-path, undefended by any screen whatever. to have passed it in those old days would have had too much of the sublime to be quite agreeable to me. the road, as it is, is wide enough, i should think, for three mules to go abreast, and a tunnel has been blasted through what seemed the most difficult and dangerous point, and a little beyond this tunnel is the hotel de la couronne. if any body wanted to stop in the wildest and lonesomest place he could find in the alps, so as to be saturated with a sense of savageness and desolation, i would recommend this hotel. the chambers are reasonably comfortable, and the beds of a good quality--a point which s. and i tested experimentally soon after our arrival. i thought i should like to stay there a week, to be left there alone with nature, and see what she would have to say to me. but two or three hours' ride in the hot sun, on a mule's back, indisposes one to make much of the grandest scenes, insomuch that we were glad to go to sleep; and on awaking we were glad to get some dinner, such as it was. well, after our dinner, which consisted of a dish of fried potatoes and some fossiliferous bread, such as prevails here at the small hotels in switzerland, we proceeded onward. after an intolerably hot ride for half an hour we began to ascend a mountain called the forclaz. there is something magnificent about going up these mountains, appalling as it seems to one's nerves, at particular turns and angles of the road, where the mule stops you on the very "brink of forever," as one of the ladies said. well, at last we reached the top, and began to descend; and there, at our feet, as if we were looking down at it out of a cloud, lay the whole beautiful valley of the rhone. i did not know then that this was one of the things put down in the guide book, that we were expected to admire, as i found afterwards it was; but nothing that i saw any where through the alps impressed me as this did. it seemed to me more like the vision of "the land that is very far off" than any thing earthly. i can see it now just as distinctly as i saw it then; one of these flat, swiss valleys, green as a velvet carpet, studded with buildings and villages that looked like dots in the distance, and embraced on all sides by these magnificent mountains, of which those nearest in the prospect were distinctly made out, with their rocks, pine trees, and foliage. the next in the receding distance were fainter, and of a purplish green; the next of a vivid purple; the next, lilac; while far in the fading view the crystal summits and glaciers of the oberland alps rose like an exhalation. the afternoon sun was throwing its level beams in between these many-colored ranges, and on one of them the ruins of an old roman tower stood picturesquely prominent. the simplon road could be seen, dividing the valley like an arrow. i had gone on quite ahead of my company, and as my mule soberly paced downward in the almost perpendicular road, i seemed to be poised so high above the enchanting scene that i had somewhat the same sensation as if i were flying. i don't wonder that larks seem to get into such a rapture when they are high up in the air. what a dreamlike beauty there is in distance, disappearing ever as we approach! as i came down towards martigny into the pasture land of the great mountain, it seemed to me that the scenery might pass for that of the delectable mountains--such beautiful, green, shadowy hollows, amid great clumps of chestnut and apple trees, where people were making their hay, which smelled so delightfully, while cozy little swiss cottages stood in every nook. all were out in the fields, men, women, and children, and in one hayfield i saw the baby's cradle--baby, of course, concealed from view under a small avalanche of a feather bed, as the general fashion in these parts seems to be. the women wore broad, flat hats, and all appeared to be working rather lazily, as it was coming on evening. this place might have done for arcadia, or utopia, or any other of those places people think of when they want to get rid of what is, and get into the region of what might be. i was very far before my party, and now got off my mule, and sat down on a log to wait till they came up. then the drama enacted by c.'s mule took place, which he has described to you. i merely saw a distant commotion, but did not enter into the merits of the case. as they were somewhat slow coming down, i climbed over a log into a hayfield, and plucked a long, delicate, white-blossomed vine, with which i garlanded the top of my flat hat. one is often reminded of a text of scripture in these valleys--"he sendeth springs into the valleys, which run among the hills." every where are these little, lively, murmuring brooks falling down the rocks, prattling through the hayfields, sociably gossiping with each other as they go. here comes the party, and now we are going down into martigny. how tired we were! we had to ride quite through the town, then through a long, long row of trees, to come to the hotel de la tour. how delightful it seemed, with its stone entries and staircases, its bedrooms as inviting as cleanliness could make them! the eating saloon opened on to a beautiful garden filled with roses in full bloom. there were little tables set about under the trees for people to take their strawberries and cream, or tea, in the open air if they preferred it, a very common and pleasant custom of continental hotels. a trim, tidy young woman in a white cap, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, ushered us up two flights of stone stairs, into a very clean, nice apartment, with white muslin window curtains. now, there is no feature of a room that speaks to the heart like white muslin window curtains; they always shed light on the whole scene. after resting a while we were called down to a supper of strawberries and cream, and nice little rolls with honey. this honey you find at every hotel in switzerland, as one of the inevitables of the breakfast or tea table. here we were to part from our chamouni guides, and engage new ones to take us to st. bernard. i had become so fond of mine that it really went quite to my heart; we had an affecting leave-taking in the dark stone entry, at the foot of the staircase. in the earnestness of my emotion i gave him all the change i had in my pocket, to buy _souvenirs_ for his little folks at home, for you know i told you we had compared notes on sundry domestic points. i really flattered myself that i was doing something quite liberal; but this deceitful swiss coin! i found, when i came to tell c. about it, that the whole stock only amounted to about twenty cents: like a great many things in this world, it looked more than it was. the good man, however, seemed as grateful as if i had done something, wished all sorts of happiness to me and my children, and so we parted. peace go with him in his chamouni cottage. journal--(continued.) saturday, july . rose in a blaze of glory. rode five mortal hours in a _char-à-banc_, sweltering under a burning sun. but in less than ten minutes after we mounted the mules and struck into the gorge, the ladies muffled themselves in thick shawls. we seemed to have passed, almost in a moment, from the tropics into the frigid zone. a fur cloak was suggested to me, but as it happened i was adequately calorified without. chancing to be the last in the file, my mule suddenly stopped to eat. "_allez_, _allez_!" said i, twitching the bridle. "i _won't_!" said he, as plainly as ears and legs could speak. "_allez_!" thundered i, jumping off and bestowing a kick upon his ribs which made me suffer if it did not him. "i _won't_!" said he, stuffily. "won't you?" said i, pursuing the same line of inductive argument, with rhetorical flourishes of the bridle. "never!" he replied again, most mulishly. "then if words and kicks won't do," said i, "let us see what virtue there is in stones;" and suiting the action to the word, i showered him with fragments of granite, as from a catapult. at every concussion he jumped and kicked, but kept his nose in the same relative position. i redoubled the logical admonition; he jumped the more perceptibly; finally, after an unusually affecting appeal from a piece of granite, he fairly budged, and i seized the bridle to mount. "not at all," said he, wheeling round to his first position, like a true proslavery demagogue. "ah," said i; and went over the same line of argument in a more solid and convincing manner. at length the salutary impression seemed permanently fastened on his mind; he fairly gave in; and i rode on in triumph to overtake the party--having no need of a fur coat. horeb, sinai, and hor! what a wilderness! what a sudden change! nothing but savage, awful precipices of naked granite, snowy fields, and verdureless wastes! in every other place in the alps, we have looked upon the snow in the remote distance, to be dazzled with its sheeny effulgence--ourselves, meanwhile, in the region of verdure and warmth. here we march through a horrid desert--not a leaf, not a blade of grass--over the deep drifts of snow; and we find our admiration turns to horror. and this is the road that hannibal trod, and charlemagne, and napoleon! they were fit conquerors of rome, who could vanquish the sterner despotism of eternal winter. after an hour's perilous climbing, we reached, at last, the _hospice_, and in five minutes were sitting at the supper table, by a good blazing fire, with a lively company, chatting with a gentlemanly abbé, discussing figs and fun, cracking filberts and jokes, and regaling ourselves genially. but ever and anon drawing, with a half shiver, a little closer to the roaring fagots in the chimney, i thought to myself, "and this is our midsummer nights' dream"! letter xxxvi. dear:-- during breakfast, we were discussing whether we could get through the snow to mont st. bernard. some thought we could, and some thought not. so it goes here: we are gasping and sweltering one hour, and plunging through snow banks the next. after breakfast, we entered the _char-à-banc_, a crab-like, sideway carriage, and were soon on our way. our path was cut from the breast of the mountain, in a stifling gorge, where walls of rock on both sides served as double reflectors to concentrate the heat of the sun on our hapless heads. to be sure, there was a fine foaming stream at the bottom of the pass, and ever so much fine scenery, if we could have seen it; but our chars opened but one way, and that against the perpendicular rock, close enough, almost, to blister our faces; and the sun beat in so on our backs that we were obliged to have the curtain down. thus we were as uncognizant of the scenery we passed through as if we had been nailed up in a box. nothing but the consideration that we were travelling for pleasure could for a moment have reconciled us to such inconveniences. as it was, i occasionally called out to c., in the back carriage, to be sure and take good care of the fur coat; which always brought shouts of laughter from the whole party. the idea of a fur coat seemed so supremely ridiculous to us, there was no making us believe we ever should or could want it. that was the most unpleasant day's ride i had in the alps. we stopped to take dinner in the little wretched village of liddes. you have no idea what a disagreeable, unsavory concern one of these villages is. houses, none of which look much better than the log barns in our western states, set close together on either side of a street paved with round stones; coarse, sunburnt women, with their necks enlarged by the goitre; and dirty children, with tangled hair, and the same disgusting disease,--these were the principal features of the scene. this goitre prevails so extensively in this region, that you seldom see a person with the neck in a healthy condition. the worst of the matter is, that in many cases of children it induces idiocy. cases of this kind were so frequent, that, after a while, whenever i met a child, i began to search in its face for indications of the approach of this disease. they are called _cretins_. in many cases the whole head appears swelled and deformed. as usual, every one you look at puts out the hand to beg. the tavern where we stopped to dine seemed more like a great barn, or cavern, than any thing else. we go groping along perfectly dark stone passages, stumbling up a stone staircase, and gaining light only when the door of a kind of reception room opens upon us--a long, rough-looking room, without any carpet, furnished with a table, and some chairs, and a rude sofa. we were shown to a bed room, carpetless, but tolerably clean, with a very high feather bed in each corner, under a canopy of white curtains. after dinner we went on towards st. pierre, a miserable hamlet, where the mules were taken out of the chars, and we prepared to mount them. it was between three and four o'clock. our path lay up a desolate mountain gorge. after we had ascended some way the cold became intense. the mountain torrent, by the side of which we went up, leaped and tumbled under ribs of ice, and through banks of snow. i noticed on either side of the defile that there were high posts put up on the rocks, and a cord stretched from one to the other. the object of these, my guide told me, was to show the path, when this whole ravine is filled up with deep snow. i could not help thinking how horrible it must be to go up here in the winter. our path sometimes came so near to the torrent as to suggest uncomfortable ideas. in one place it swept round the point of a rock which projected into the foaming flood, so that it was completely under water. i stopped a little before i came to this, and told the guide i wanted to get down. he was all accommodation, and lifted me from my saddle, and then stood to see what i would do next. when i made him understand that i meant to walk round the point, he very earnestly insisted that i should get back to the saddle again, and was so positive that i had only to obey. it was well i did so, for the mule went round safely enough, and could afford to go up to his ankles in water better than i could. as we neared the _hospice_ i began to feel the effects of the rarefied air very sensibly. it made me dizzy and sick, bringing on a most acute headache--a sharp, knife-like pain. s. was still more affected. i was glad enough when the old building came in view, though the road lay up an ascent of snow almost perpendicular. at the foot of this ascent we paused. our guides, who looked a little puzzled, held a few moments' conversation, in which the word "_fonce_" was particularly prominent, a word which i took to be equivalent to our english "_slump;_" and indeed the place was suggestive of the idea. the snow had so far melted and softened under the influence of the july sun, that something of this kind, in going up the ascent, seemed exceedingly probable. the man stood leaning on his alpenstock, looking at the thing to be demonstrated. there were two paths, both equally steep and snowy. at last he gathered up the bridle, and started up the most direct way. the mule did not like it at all, evidently, and expressed his disgust by occasionally stopping short and snuffing, meaning probably to intimate that he considered the whole thing a humbug, and that in his opinion we should all slump through together, and go to--nobody knows where. at last, when we were almost up the ascent, he did slump, and went up to his breast in the snow; whereat the guide pulled me out of the saddle with one hand, and pulled him out of the hole with the other. in a minute he had me into the saddle again, and after a few moments more we were up the ascent and drawing near the _hospice_--a great, square, strong, stone building, standing alone among rocks and snowbanks. as we drove up nearer i saw the little porch in front of it crowded with gentlemen smoking cigars, and gazing on our approach just as any set of loafers do from the porch of a fashionable hotel. this was quite a new idea of the matter to me. we had been flattering ourselves on performing an incredible adventure; and lo, and behold, all the world were there waiting for us. [illustration: _of a large multi-story hospice and other buildings in a remote-looking mountain valley. a river flows in the foreground._] we came up to the steps, and i was so crippled with fatigue and so dizzy and sick with the thin air, that i hardly knew what i was doing. we entered a low-browed, dark, arched, stone passage, smelling dismally of antiquity and dogs, when a brisk voice accosted me in the very choicest of french, and in terms of welcome as gay and courtly as if we were entering a _salon_. keys clashed, and we went up stone staircases, our entertainer talking volubly all the way. as for me, all the french i ever knew was buried under an avalanche. c. had to make answer for me, that madame was very unwell, which brought forth another stream of condolence as we came into a supper room, lighted by a wood fire at one end. the long table was stretched out, on which they were placing supper. here i had light enough to perceive that our entertainer was a young man of a lively, intelligent countenance, in the augustine monks' dress, viz., a long, black camlet frock, with a kind of white band over it, which looks much like a pair of suspenders worn on the outside. he spoke french very purely, and had all that warm cordiality and graceful vivacity of manner which seems to be peculiar to the french. he appeared to pity us very much, and was full of offers of assistance; and when he heard that i had a bad headache, insisted on having some tea made for me, the only drink on the table being wine the supper consisted of codfish, stewed apples, bread, filberts, and raisins. immediately after we were shown up stone staircases, and along stone passages, to our rooms, of which the most inviting feature was two high, single beds covered with white spreads. the windows of the rooms were so narrow as to seem only like loopholes. there was a looking glass, table, chair, and some glazed prints. a good old woman came to see if we wanted any thing. i thought, as i stretched myself in the bed, with feathers under me and feathers over me, what a heaven of rest this place must have seemed to poor travellers benighted and perishing in the snow. in the morning i looked out of my loophole on the tall, grim rocks, and a small lake frozen and covered with snow. "is this lake always frozen?" said i to the old serving woman who had come to bring us hot water for washing. "sometimes," says she, "about the latter part of august, it is thawed." i suppose it thaws the last of august, and freezes the first of september. after dressing ourselves we crept down stairs in hopes of finding the fire which we left the night before in the sitting room. no such thing. the sun was shining, and it was what was called a warm day, that is to say, a day when a little thaw trickles down the south side of snow banks; so the fire was out, and the windows up, and our gay augustine friend, coming in, congratulated us on our charming day. the fireplace was piled up with wood and kindlings ready to be lighted in the evening; but being made to understand that it was a very sultry day, we could not, of course, suggest such an extravagance as igniting the tempting pile--an extravagance, because every stick of wood has to be brought on the backs of mules from the valleys below, at a very great expense of time and money. the same is true of provisions of all sorts, and fodder for cattle. well, after breakfast i went to the front porch to view the prospect. and what did i see there? banks of dirty, half-melted snow, bones, and scraps of offal, patches of bare earth, for a small space, say about fifty feet round, and then the whole region shut in by barren, inaccessible rocks, which cut off all view in every direction. along by the frozen lake there is a kind of causeway path made for a promenade, where one might walk to observe the beauties of the season, and our cheery entertainer offered to show it to us; so we walked out with him. under the rocks in one place he showed us a little plat, about as large as a closet door, which, he said, laughing, was their garden. i asked him if any thing ever really grew there. he shrugged his shoulders, and said, "sometimes." we pursued this walk till we came to the end of the lake, and there he showed me a stone pillar. "there," said he, "beyond that pillar is italy." "well," said i, "i believe i shall take a trip into italy." so, as he turned back to go to the house, w. and i continued on. we went some way into italy, down the ravine, and i can assure you i was not particularly struck with the country. i observed no indications of that superiority in the fine arts, or of that genial climate and soil, of which i had heard so much. w. and i agreed to give ourselves airs on this subject whenever the matter of italy was introduced, and to declare that we had been there, and had seen none of the things of which people write in books. "what a perfectly dismal, comfortless place!" said i; but climbing up the rocks to rest me in a sunny place, i discovered that they were all enamelled with the most brilliant flowers. [illustration: _of a cluster of small five-petaled flowers with blunt tips growing very close to the ground._] in particular i remarked beds of velvet moss, which bore a pink blossom, in form somewhat like this. then there was a kind of low, starry gentian, of a bright metallic blue; i tried to paint it afterwards, but neither ultramarine nor any color i could find would represent its brilliancy; it was a kind of living brightness. i examined the petals to see how this effect was produced, and it seemed to be by a kind of prismatic arrangement of the small round particles of which they were composed. the shape of the flower was somewhat like this. [illustration: _of a cluster of small five petaled flowers with sharp points growing on short stalks near the ground._] i spread down my pocket handkerchief, and proceeded to see how many varieties i could gather, and in a very small circle w. and i collected eighteen. could i have thought, when i looked from my window over this bleak region, that any thing so perfectly lovely as this little purple witch, for example, was to be found there? it was quite a significant fact. there is no condition of life, probably, so dreary that a lowly and patient seeker cannot find its flowers. [illustration: _of a clump of a small flowering plant attached to what appears to be its rhizome._] i began to think that i might be contented even there. but while i was looking i was so sickened by headache, and disagreeable feelings arising from the air, that i often had to lie down on the sunny side of the bank. w., i found, was similarly troubled; he said he really thought in the morning he was going to have a fever. we went back to the house. there were services in the chapel; i could hear the organ pealing, and the singers responding. seven great dogs were sunning themselves on the porch, and as i knew it was a subject particularly interesting to you, i made minute inquiries respecting them. like many other things, they have been much overstated, i think, by travellers. they are of a tawny-yellow color, short haired, broad chested, and strong limbed. as to size, i have seen much larger newfoundland dogs in boston. i made one of them open his mouth, and can assure you it was black as night; a fact which would seem to imply newfoundland blood. in fact the breed originally from spain is supposed to be a cross between the pyrenean and the newfoundland. the biggest of them was called pluto. here is his likeness, which w. sketched. [illustration: _of a large, light-colored dog with medium-short fur at rest and wearing a broad patterned collar._] for my part, i was a little uneasy among them, as they went walloping and frisking around me, flouncing and rolling over each other on the stone floor, and making, every now and then, the most hideous noises that it ever came into a dog's head to conceive. as i saw them biting each other in their clumsy frolics, i began to be afraid lest they should take it into their heads to treat me like one of the family, and so stood ready to run. the man who showed them wished to know if i should like to see some puppies; to which, in the ardor of natural history, i assented: so he opened the door of a little stone closet, and sure enough there lay madam in state, with four little blind, snubbed-nosed pledges. as the man picked up one of these, and held it up before me in all the helplessness of infancy, looking for all the world like a roly-poly pudding with a short tail to it, i could not help querying in my mind, are you going to be a st. bernard dog? one of the large dogs, seeing the door open, thought now was a good time to examine the premises, and so walked briskly into the kennel, but was received by the amiable mother with such a sniff of the nose as sent him howling back into the passage, apparently a much wiser and better dog than he had been before. their principal use is to find paths in the deep snow when the fathers go out to look for travellers, as they always do in stormy weather. they are not longlived; neither man nor animal can stand the severe temperature and the thin air for a long time. many of the dogs die from diseases of the lungs and rheumatism, besides those killed by accidents, such as the falling of avalanches, &c. a little while ago so many died that they were fearful of losing the breed altogether, and were obliged to recruit by sending down into the valleys for some they had given away. one of the monks told us that, when they went out after the dogs in the winter storms, all they could see of them was their tails moving along through the snow. the monks themselves can stand the climate but a short time, and then they are obliged to go down and live in the valleys below, while others take their places. they told us that there were over a hundred people in the _hospice_ when we were there. they were mostly poor peasants and some beggars. one poor man came up to me, and uncovered his neck, which was a most disgusting sight, swollen with goitre. i shut my eyes, and turned another way, like a bad christian, while our augustine friend walked up to him, spoke in a soothing tone, and called him "my son." he seemed very loving and gentle to all the poor, dirty people by whom we were surrounded. i went into the chapel to look at the pictures. there was st. bernard standing in the midst of a desolate, snowy waste, with a little child on one arm and a great dog beside him. this st. bernard, it seems, was a man of noble family, who lived nine hundred and sixty-two years after christ. almost up to that time a temple to jupiter continued standing on this spot. it is said that the founding of this institution finally rooted out the idolatrous worship. on monday we returned to martigny, and obtained a _voiture_ for villeneuve. drove through the beautiful rhone valley, past the celebrated fall of the pissevache, and about five o'clock reached the hotel byron, on the shore of the lake. letter xxxvii. hotel byron. my dear:-- here i am, sitting at my window, overlooking lake leman. castle chillon, with its old conical towers, is silently pictured in the still waters. it has been a day of a thousand. we took a boat, with two oarsmen, and passed leisurely along the shores, under the cool, drooping branches of trees, to the castle, which is scarce a stone's throw from the hotel. we rowed along, close under the walls, to the ancient moat and drawbridge. there i picked a bunch of blue bells, "les clochettes," which were hanging their aerial pendants from every crevice--some blue, some white. [illustration: _of blue bell flowers with sharp-bladed leaves._] i know not why the old buildings and walls in europe have this vivacious habit of shooting out little flowery ejaculations and soliloquies at every turn. one sees it along through france and switzerland, every where; but never, that i remember, in america. on the side of the castle wall, in a large white heart, is painted the inscription, _liberté et patrie_! we rowed along, almost touching the castle rock, where the wall ascends perpendicularly, and the water is said to be a thousand feet deep. we passed the loopholes that illuminate the dungeon vaults, and an old arch, now walled up, where prisoners, after having been strangled, were thrown into the lake. last evening we walked over the castle. an interesting swiss woman, who has taught herself english for the benefit of her visitors, was our _cicerone_. she seemed to have all the old swiss vivacity of attachment for "_liberté et patrie_." [illustration: _of a interior space of hewn stone with high vaulted gothic arches._] she took us first into the dungeon, with the seven pillars, described by byron. there was the pillar to which, for protecting the liberty of geneva, bonnevard was chained. there the duke of savoy kept him for six years, confined by a chain four feet long. he could take only three steps, and the stone floor is deeply worn by the prints of those weary steps. six years is so easily said; but to _live_ them, alone, helpless, a man burning with all the fires of manhood, chained to that pillar of stone, and those three unvarying steps! two thousand one hundred and ninety days rose and set the sun, while seedtime and harvest, winter and summer, and the whole living world went on over his grave. for him no sun, no moon, no star, no business, no friendship, no plans--nothing! the great millstone of life emptily grinding itself away! what a power of vitality was there in bonnevard, that he did not sink in lethargy, and forget himself to stone! but he did not; it is said that when the victorious swiss army broke in to liberate him, they cried,-- "bonnevard, you are free!" "_et genève?_" "geneva is free also!" you ought to have heard the enthusiasm with which our guide told this story! near by are the relics of the cell of a companion of bonnevard, who made an ineffectual attempt to liberate him. on the wall are still seen sketches of saints and inscriptions by his hand. this man one day overcame his jailer, locked him in his cell, ran into the hall above, and threw himself from a window into the lake, struck a rock, and was killed instantly. one of the pillars in this vault is covered with names. i think it is bonnevard's pillar. there are the names of byron, hunt, schiller, and many other celebrities. after we left the dungeons we went up into the judgment hall, where prisoners were tried, and then into the torture chamber. here are the pulleys by which limbs were broken; the beam, all scorched with the irons by which feet were burned; the oven where the irons were heated; and there was the stone where they were sometimes laid to be strangled, after the torture. on that stone, our guide told us, two thousand jews, men, women, and children, had been put to death. there was also, high up, a strong beam across, where criminals were hung; and a door, now walled up, by which they were thrown into the lake. i shivered. "'twas cruel," she said; "'twas almost as cruel as your slavery in america." then she took us into a tower where was the _oubliette_. here the unfortunate prisoner was made to kneel before an image of the virgin, while the treacherous floor, falling beneath him, precipitated him into a well forty feet deep, where he was left to die of broken limbs and starvation. below this well was still another pit, filled with knives, into which, when they were disposed to a merciful hastening of the torture, they let him fall. the woman has been herself to the bottom of the first dungeon, and found there bones of victims. the second pit is now walled up. "all this," she said, "was done for the glory of god in the good old times." the glory of god! what has not been done in that name! yet he keeps silence; patient he watches; the age-long fever of this world, the delirious night, shall have a morning. ah, there is an unsounded depth in that word which says, "he is long-suffering." this it must be at which angels veil their faces. on leaving the castle we offered the woman the customary gratuity. "no;" she would "have the pleasure of showing it to me as a friend." and she ran into a charming little garden, full of flowers, and brought me a bouquet of lilies and roses, which i have had in my room all day. to-night, after sunset, we rowed to byron's "little isle," the only one in the lake. o, the unutterable beauty of these mountains--great, purple waves, as if they had been dashed up by a mighty tempest, crested with snow-like foam! this purple sky, and crescent moon, and the lake gleaming and shimmering, and twinkling stars, while far off up the sides of a snow-topped mountain a light shines like a star-- some mountaineer's candle, i suppose. in the dark stillness we rowed again over to chillon, and paused under its walls. the frogs were croaking in the moat, and we lay rocking on the wave, and watching the dusky outlines of the towers and turrets. then the spirit of the scene seemed to wrap me round like a cloak. back to geneva again. this lovely place will ever leave its image on my heart. mountains embrace it. strength and beauty are its habitation. the salève is a peculiar looking mountain, striped with different strata of rock, which have a singular effect in the hazy distance; so is the mole, with its dark marked outline, looking blacker in clear weather, from being set against the snow mountains beyond. there is one peculiarity about the outline of mont blanc, as seen from geneva, which is quite striking. there is in certain positions the profile of a gigantic head visible, lying with face upturned to the sky. mrs. f. was the first to point it out to me, calling it a head of napoleon. like many of these fanciful profiles, i was some time in learning to see it; and after that it became to me so plain that i wondered i had not seen it before. i called it not napoleon, however, but as it gained on my imagination, lying there so motionless, cold, and still, i thought of prometheus on mount caucasus; it seemed as if, his sorrows ended, he had sunk at last to a dreamless sleep on that snowy summit. this sketch may, perhaps, give you some faint idea of how such an outline might be formed in one's imagination. [illustration: _of mont blanc in the distance._] we walked out the other evening, with m. fazy, to a beautiful place, where servetus was burned. soft, new-mown meadow grass carpets it, and a solemn amphitheatre of mountains, glowing in the evening sky, looked down--mont blanc, the blue-black mole, the saleve! never was deed done in a more august presence chamber! ere this these two may have conferred together of the tragedy, with far other thoughts than then. the world is always unjust to its progressive men. if one fragment of past absurdity cleaves to them, they celebrate the absurdity as a personal peculiarity. hence we hear so much of luther's controversial harshness, of calvin's burning servetus, and of the witch persecutions of new england. luther was the poet of the reformation, and calvin its philosopher. luther fused the mass, calvin crystallized. he who fuses makes the most sensation in his day; he who crystallizes has a longer and wider power. calvinism, in its essential features, never will cease from the earth, because the great fundamental facts of nature are calvinistic, and men with strong minds and wills always discover it. the predestination of a sovereign will is written over all things. the old greek tragedians read it, and expressed it. so did mahomet, napoleon, cromwell. why? they found it so by their own experience; they tried the forces of nature enough to find their strength. the strong swimmer who breasts the rhone is certain of its current. but ranke well said, that in those days when the whole earth was in arms against these reformers, they had no refuge except in exalting god's sovereignty above all other causes. to him who strives in vain with the giant forces of evil, what calm in the thought of an overpowering will, so that will be crowned by goodness! however grim, to the distrusting, looks this fortress of sovereignty in times of flowery ease, yet in times when "the waters roar and are troubled, and the mountains shake with the swelling thereof," it has been always the refuge of god's people. all this i say, while i fully sympathize with the causes which incline many fine and beautiful minds against the system. the wife of de wette has twice called upon me--a good, plain, motherly, pious old lady as any in andover. she wanted me to visit her daughter, who, being recently deprived of her only little girl, has since been wholly lost to life. the only thing in which she expressed any interest was uncle tom's cabin, and she was earnestly desiring to see me. so i went. i found mrs. de wette in a charming saloon, looking out upon the botanic gardens. a very beautiful picture of a young lady hung on the wall. "that _was_ my poor clara," said mrs. de wette, "but she is so altered now!" after a while clara came in, and i was charmed at a glance--a most lovely creature, in deep mourning, with beautiful manners; so much interested for the poor slaves! so full of feeling, inquiring so anxiously what she could do for them! "do ministers ever hold slaves?" she said. " , yes; many." " ! but how can they be christians?" "they reason in this way," said i; "they say, 'these people are not fit to take care of themselves; therefore we must hold them, and educate them, till they are fit to be free.'" "i wish," said she, looking very pretty and fierce, "that they might all be sold themselves, and see how they would like it." her husband, who speaks only french, now asked what we were talking about, and she repeated the conversation. "i would shoot every one of them," said he, with a significant movement. "now, see," said mrs. de wette, "clara would sell them, and her husband would _shoot_ them; for my part, i would rather _convert_ them." we all laughed at this sally. "ah," said clara, "the last thing my little darling looked at was the pictures in uncle tom; when she came to the death of eva, she said, 'now i am weary, i will go to sleep;' and so closed her eyes, and never opened them more." clara said she had met the key in turin and milan. the cabin is made a school reading book in sardinia, for those who wish to learn english, with explanatory notes in italian. the feeling here on the continent for the slave is no less earnest than in england and scotland. i have received most beautiful and feeling letters from many christians of switzerland, which i will show you. i am grieved to say, that there are american propagandists of slavery here, who seem to feel it incumbent on them to recognize this hideous excrescence as a national peculiarity, and to consider any reflection upon it, on the part of the liberty-loving swiss, as an insult to the american nation. the sophisms by which slaveholding has been justified from the bible have left their slimy track even here. alas! is it thus america fulfils her high destiny? must she send missionaries abroad to preach despotism? walking the other evening with m. fazy, who is, of course, french in education, we talked of our english literature. he. had hamlet in french--just think of it. one never feels the national difference so much as in thinking of shakspeare in french! madame de stael says of translation, that music written for one instrument cannot be played upon another. i asked if he had read milton. "yes." "and how did you like him?" " ," with a kind of shiver, "he is so cold!" now, i felt that the delicate probe of the french mind had dissected out a shade of feeling of which i had often been conscious. there is a coldness about all the luscious exuberance of milton, like the wind that blows from, the glaciers across these flowery valleys. how serene his angels in their adamantine virtue! yet what sinning, suffering soul could find sympathy in them? the utter want of sympathy for the fallen angels, in the whole celestial circle, is shocking. satan is the only one who weeps. "for millions of spirits for his fault amerced, and from eternal splendors flung." god does not care, nor his angels. ah, quite otherwise is god revealed in him who wept over jerusalem, and is touched with the feeling of our infirmities. i went with mrs. fazy the other night to call on mrs. c.'s friend, pastor c. they were so affectionate, so full of beautiful kindness! the french language sounds sweetly as a language of affection and sympathy: with all its tart vivacity, it has a richness in the gentler world of feeling. then, in the evening, i was with a little circle of friends at the house of the sister of merle d'aubigne, and they prayed and sang together. it was beautiful. the hymn was one on the following of jesus, similar to that german one of old godfrey arnold, which is your favorite. these christians speak with deep sorrow of our slavery; it grieves, it distresses them, for the american church has been to them a beloved object. they have leaned towards it as a vine inclines towards a vigorous elm. to them it looks incomprehensible that such a thing could gain strength in a free christian republic. i feel really sorry that i have had to withdraw so much from proffered kindness here, and to seem unwilling to meet feeling; but so it has been. yet, to me, apparently so cold, many of these kind genevese have shown most considerate attention. fruit and flowers have been sent in anonymously; and one gentleman offered to place his garden at my disposal for walks, adding that, if i wished to be entirely private, neither he nor his family would walk there. this, i thought, was too much kindness. one social custom here is new to me. the husband, by marriage, takes the wife's name. thus m. fazy, our host, is known as m. fazy meyer-- meyer being his wife's name--a thing which at first perplexed me. i was often much puzzled about names, owing to this circumstance. from the conversation i hear i should think that democracy was not entirely absolute in switzerland. i hear much about _patrician_ families, particularly at berne, and these are said to be quite exclusive; yet that the old swiss fire still burns in switzerland, i see many indications. the other day i visited beautte's celebrated watch and jewelry store, and saw all the process of making watches, from the time the case is cut from a sheet of gold, on through the enamelling, engraving, and finishing. enamel is metallic paint, burned on in a furnace. many women are employed in painting the designs. the workmen looked intelligent and thoughtful, like men who can both think and do. some glimpses showed their sympathy with republicanism--as one should see fire through a closed door. i have had full reason to observe that difference between protestant and catholic cantons on which horace greeley commented while here. they are as different as our slave and free states, and in the same ways. geneva seems like new england--the country around is well cultivated, and speaks of thrift. but, still, i find no land, however beautiful, that can compare with home--andover hill, with its arched elms, its blue distance pointing with spires, its merrimac crowned with labor palaces, and, above all, an old stone house, brown and queer, &c. good by. journal--(continued.) thursday, july . spent a social evening at mrs. la v.'s, on the lake shore. mont blanc invisible. we met m. merle d'aubigne, brother of our hostess, and a few other friends. returned home, and listened to a serenade to h. from a glee club of fifty performers, of the working men of geneva. the songs were mostly in french, and the burden of one of them seemed to be in words like these:-- "travaillons, travaillez, pour la liberte!" friday, july . mrs. c. and her two daughters are here from paris. they intend to come to madame fazy till we leave. saturday, july . our whole company resorted to the lake, and spent the forenoon on its tranquil waters. if this life seem idle, we remember that there must be valleys between mountains; and as, in those vales, tired mountaineers love to rest, so we, by the silver shore of summer leman, while away the quiet hours, in this interval, between great mountain epochs chamouni and oberland. monday, july . weather suspicious. stowed ourselves and our baggage into our _voiture_, and bade adieu to our friends and to geneva. ah, how regretfully! from the market-place we carried away a basket of cherries and fruit, as a consolation. dined at lausanne, and visited the cathedral and picture gallery, where was an exquisite _eva._ slept at meudon. tuesday, july . rode through payerne to freyburg. stopped at the zahringer hof--most romantic of inns. our gentlemanly host ushered us forth upon a terrace overhanging the deep gorge of the saärine, spanned, to the right and left of us, by two immense suspension bridges, one of which seemed to spring from the hotel itself. ruins of ancient walls and watch towers lined the precipice. after dinner we visited the cathedral to hear the celebrated organ. the organist performed a piece descriptive of a storm. we resigned ourselves to the illusion. low, mysterious wailings, swelling, dying away in the distance, seeming at first exceedingly remote, drew gradually near. fitful sighings and sobbings rose, as of gusts of wind; then low, smothered roarings. anon came flashes of lightning, rattling hail, and driving rain, succeeded by bursts of storm, and howlings of a hurricane--fierce, furious, frightful. i felt myself lost in a snow storm in winter, on the pass of great st. bernard. one note there was of strange, terrible clangor--bleak, dark, yet of a lurid fire--that seemed to prolong itself through all the uproar, like a note of doom, cutting its way to the heart as the call of the last archangel. yes, i felt myself alone, lost in a boundless desert, beyond the abodes of man; and this was a call of terror-stern, savage, gloomy--the call as of fixed fate and absolute despair. then the storm died away, in faint and far-off murmurs; and we broke, as it were, from the trance, to find ourselves, _not_ lost, but here among the living. we then drove quietly to berne. wednesday, july . examined, not the lions, but the bears of berne. it is indeed a city of bears, as its name imports. there are bears on its gates, bears on its fountains, bears in its parks and gardens, bears every where. but, though berne rejoices in a fountain adorned with an image of saturn eating children, nevertheless, the old city--quaint, quiet, and queer--looks as if, bear-like, it had been hybernating good-naturedly for a century, and were just about to wake up. engaged a _voiture_, and drove to thun. dined, and drove by the shore of the lake to interlachen, arriving just after a brilliant sunset. thursday, july . s. and g. remained at the belvedere. w., ii., and i took a guide and _voiture_ for lauterbrunn. here we visited byron's apocalyptic horse-tail waterfall, the staubbach. this waterfall is very sublime, all except the water and the fall. whoever has been "under the sheet" at niagara will not be particularly impressed here. this picture is sufficiently accurate, with the exception of the cottage. people here do not build cottages under waterfalls. [illustration: _of the waterfall and cliff rising sharply to the left of the roadway. a cabin appears to be located very near its base._] here we crossed the wengern alps to grindelwald. the jungfrau is right over against us--her glaciers purer, tenderer, more dazzlingly beautiful, if possible, than those of mont blanc. slept at grindelwald. letter xxxviii. dear children:-- to-day we have been in the wengern alps--the scenes described in manfred. imagine us mounting, about ten o'clock, from the valley of lauterbrunn, on horseback--our party of three--with two guides. we had first been to see the famous staubbach, a beautiful, though not sublime, object. up we began to go among those green undulations which form the lower part of the mountain. [illustration: _of narrow, high alpine meadows with grazing livestock._] it is haying time; a bright day; all is cheerful; the birds sing; men, women, and children are busy in the field. up we go, zigzag; it grows steeper and steeper. now right below me is a field, where men are literally working almost on a perpendicular wall, cutting hay; now we are so high that the houses in the valley look like chips. here we stand in a place two thousand feet above the valley. there is no shield or screen. the horse stands on the very edge; the guide stops, lets go his bridle, and composedly commences an oration on the scene below. " , for mercy's sake, why do you stop here?" i say. "pray go on." he looks in my face, with innocent wonder, takes the bridle on his arm, and goes on. now we have come to the little village of wengern, whence the wengern alps take their name. how beautiful! how like fairyland! up here, midway in air, is a green nook, with undulating dells, and shadowy, breezy nests, where are the cottages of the haymakers. the delectable mountains had no scene more lovely. each house has its roof heavily loaded with stones. "what is that for?" i ask. "the whirlwinds," says my guide, with a significant turn of his hands. "this is the school house," he adds, as we pass a building larger than the rest. now the path turns and slopes down a steep bank, covered with haycocks, to a little nook below, likewise covered with new hay. if my horse is going to throw me any where, i wish it may be here: it is not so bad a thing to roll down into that hay. but now we mount higher; the breezy dells, enamelled with flowers and grass, become fewer; the great black pines take their place. right before us, in the purest white, as a bride adorned for her husband, rises the beautiful jungfrau, wearing on her forehead the silver horn, and the snow horn. the silver horn is a peak, dazzlingly bright, of snow; and its crest is now seen in relief against a sky of the deepest blue. see, also, how those dark pines of the foreground contrast with it, like the stern, mournful realities of life seen against the dazzling hopes of heaven. there is something celestial in these mountains. you might think such a vision as that to be a bright footstool of heaven, from which the next step would be into an unknown world. the pines here begin to show that long white beard of moss which i admire so much in maine. now, we go right up over their heads. there, the tall pines are under our feet. a little more--and now above us rise the stern, naked rocks, where only the chamois and the wild goat live. but still, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, looks forth the jungfrau. we turn to look down. that staubbach, which in the valley seemed to fall from an immense precipice, higher than we could gaze, is now a silver thread, far below our feet; and the valley of lauterbrunn seems as nothing. only bleak, purplish crags, rising all around us, and silent, silver mountains looking over them. "that one directly before you is the monk," says c., calling to me from behind, and pointing to a great snow peak. our guide, with animation, introduced us by name to every one of these snow-white genii--the falhorn, the schreckhorn, the wetterhorn, the great eiger, and i cannot remember what besides. the guides seem to consider them all as old friends. certainly nothing could be so singular, so peculiar as this ascension. we have now passed the limit of all but grass and alpine flowers, which still, with their infinite variety, embroider the way; and now the _auberge_ is gained. good night, now, and farewell. that is to say, there we stopped--on the summit, in fair view of the jungfrau, a wall of rock crowned with fields of eternal snow, whose dazzling brightness almost put my eyes out. my head ached, too, with the thin air of these mountains. i thought i should like to stay one night just to hear avalanches fall; but i cannot breathe well here, and there is a secret sense of horror about these sterile rocks and eternal snows. so, after dinner, i gladly consent to go down to grindelwald. off we start--i walking--for, to tell the truth, i have no fondness for riding down a path as steep in some places as a wall; i leave that to c., who never fears any thing. so i walked all the way to grindelwald, nine miles of a very rough road. there was a lady with her husband walking the same pass, who had come on foot the whole way from lauterbrunn, and did not seem in the least fatigued. my guide exhausted all his eloquence to persuade me that it was better to ride; at last i settled him by saying, "why, here is a lady who has walked the whole route." so he confined himself after that to helping me find flowers, and carrying the handkerchief in which i stowed them. alas! what herbarium of hapless flowers, laid out stark, stiff, and motionless, like beauty on its bier, and with horrible long names written under them, can ever give an idea of the infinite variety and beauty of the floral crown of these mountains! the herbarium resembles the bright, living reality no more than the _morgue_ at st. bernard's is a specimen of mountain travellers. yet one thing an herbarium is good for: in looking at it you can recall how they looked, and glowed, and waved in life, with all their silver-crowned mountains around them. after we arrived at grindelwald, tired as i was, i made sketches of nine varieties, which i intend to color as soon as we rest long enough. so much i did for love of the dear little souls. one noticeable feature is the predominance of _yellow_ flowers. these, of various kinds, so abound as to make a distinct item of coloring in a distant view. one of the most common is this--of a vivid chrome yellow, sometimes brilliantly striped with orange. [illustration: _of a flowered bract._] one thing more as to botanical names. what does possess botanists to afflict the most fragile and delicate of earth's children with such mountainous and unpronounceable names? now there was a dear little flower that i first met at st. bernard--a little purple bell, with a fringe; it is more particularly beautiful from its growing just on the verge of avalanches, coming up and blossoming through the snow. i send you one in this letter, which i dug out of a snow bank this morning. and this fair creation--this hope upon a death bed--this image of love unchilled and immortal--how i wanted to know it by name! [illustration: _of a tiny plant with a single flowering stem and two simple circular leaves._] today, at the summit house of the mountain, i opened an herbarium, and there were three inches of name as hopeless and unpronounceable as the german of our guides, piled up on my little flower. i shut the herbarium. this morning we started early from grindelwald--that is, by eight o'clock. an unclouded, clear, breezy morning, the air full of the sounds of cascades, and of the little bells of the herds. as we began to wind upward into that delectable region which forms the first stage of ascent, i said to c., "the more of beautiful scenery i see, the more i appreciate the wonderful poetry of the pilgrim's progress." the meadows by the river of life, the delectable mountains, the land of beulah, how often have i thought of them! from this we went off upon painting, and then upon music, the freshness of the mountain air inspiring our way. at last, while we were riding in the very lap of a rolling field full of grass and flowers, the sharp blue and white crystals of the glacier rose at once before us. "o, i want to get down," said i, "and go near them." down i did get, and taking what seemed to be the straightest course, began running down the hill side towards them. "no, no! back, back!" shouted the guide, in unimaginable french and german. _"ici, ici!"_ i came back; and taking my hand, he led me along a path where travellers generally go. i went closer, and sat down on a rock under them, and looked up. the clear sun was shining through them; clear and blue looked the rifts and arches, all dripping and beautiful. we went down upon them by steps which a man had cut in the ice. there was one rift of ice we looked into, which was about fifty feet high, going up into a sharp arch. the inside of this arch was clear blue ice, of the color of crystal of blue vitriol. here, immediately under, i took a rude sketch just to show you how a glacier looks close at hand. [illustration: _of the broken and chiseled surface of a glacier._] c. wanted, as usual, to do all sorts of improper things. he wanted to stone down blocks of ice, and to go inside the cave, and to go down into holes, and insisted on standing particularly long on a spot which the guide told him was all undermined, in order that he might pelt a cliff of ice that seemed inclined to fall, and hear it smash. the poor guide was as distressed as a hen when her ducks take to the water; he ran, and called, and shouted, in german, french, and english, and it was not till c. had contrived to throw the head of the little boy's hatchet down into a _crevasse_, that he gave up. there were two francs to pay for this experiment; but never mind! our guide book says that a clergyman of yevay, on this glacier, fell into a _crevasse_ several hundred feet deep, and was killed; so i was glad enough when c. came off safe. he ought to have a bell on his neck, as the cows do here; and _apropos_ to this, we leave the glacier, and ride up into a land of pastures. here we see a hundred cows grazing in the field--the field all yellow with buttercups. they are a very small breed, prettily formed, and each had on her neck a bell. how many notes there are in these bells! quite a diapason--some very deep toned, and so on up to the highest! how prettily they sound, all going together! the bells are made of the best of metal, for the tone is of an admirable quality. , do look off there, on that patch of snow under the wetterhorn! it is all covered with cows; they look no bigger than insects. "what makes them go there?" said we to our guides. "_to be cool_" was the answer. hark! what's that? a sudden sound like the rush of a cascade. "avalanche! avalanche!" exclaimed the guide. and now, pouring down the sides of the wetterhorn, came a milk-white cascade, looking just like any other cascade, melting gracefully over the rocks, and spreading, like a stream of milk, on the soiled snow below. this is a summer avalanche--a mere _bijou_--a fancy article, got up, or rather got down, to entertain travellers. the winter avalanches are quite other things. witness a little further in our track, where our guide stops us, and points to a place where all the pines have been broken short off by one of them. along here some old ghostly pines, dead ages ago, their white, ghastly skeletons bleached by a hundred storms, stand, stretching out their long, bony arms, like phantom giants. these skeleton pines are a striking image; i wonder i have not seen them introduced into pictures. there, now, a little ahead, is a small hut, which marks the summit of the grand scheidich. our horses come up to it, and we dismount. some of the party go in to sleep--i go out to climb a neighboring peak. at the foot of this peak lay a wreath of snow, soiled and dirty, as half-melted snow always is; but lying amid the green grass and luxuriant flowers, it had a strange air. it seemed a little spot of death in the green lap of rejoicing life--like that death-spot which often lies in the human heart--among all seeming flowers, cold and cheerless, unwarmed by the sunbeam, and unmelted by the ray that unfolds thousands of blooms around. now, i thought, i have read of alpine flowers leaning their cheeks on the snows. i wonder if any flowers grow near enough to that snow to touch it. i mean to go and see. so i went; there, sure enough, my little fringed purple bell, to which i have given the name of "suspirium," was growing, not only close to the snow, but in it. thus god's grace shining steadily on the waste places of the human heart, brings up heavenward sighings and aspirations which pierce through the cold snows of affliction, and tell that there is yet life beneath. i climbed up the grassy sides of the peak, flowers to the very top. there i sat down and looked. this is alpine solitude. all around me were these deep, green dells, from which comes up the tinkle of bells, like the dropping of rain every where it seems to me the air is more elastic and musical here than below, and gives grace to the commonest sound. now i look back along the way we have been travelling. i look at the strange old cloudy mountains, the eiger, the wetterhorn, the schreckhorn. a kind of hazy ether floats around them--an indescribable aerial halo--which no painter ever represents. who can paint the air--that vivid blue in which these sharp peaks cut their glittering images? of all peaks, the eiger is the most impressive to me. [illustration: _of the sharp pointed eiger, with mountain goats on a pinnacle in the foreground._] it is a gigantic ploughshare of rock, set up against the sky, its thin, keen, purple blade edged with glittering frost; for so sharp is its point, that only a dazzling line marks the eternal snow on its head. i walked out as far as i could on a narrow summit, and took a last look. glaciers! snows! mountains! sunny dells and flowers! all good by. i am a pilgrim and a stranger. already, looking down to the shanty, i see the guide like a hen that has lost a chicken, shaking her wings, and clucking, and making a great ado. i could stay here all day. i would like to stay two or three--to see how it would look at sunrise, at sunset--to lie down in one of these sunny hollows, and look up into the sky--to shut my eyes lazily, and open them again, and so let the whole impression _soak in_, as mrs. h. used to say. but no; the sleepers have waked up, the guide has the horses ready, and i must come down. so here i descend my hill difficulty into the valley of humiliation. we stumble along, for the roads here are no turnpikes, and we come to a place called the _black forest;_ not _the_ black forest, but truly a black one. i always love pines, to all generations. i welcome this solemn old brotherhood, which stand gray-bearded, like monks, old, dark, solemn, sighing a certain mournful sound--like a _benedicite_ through the leaves. about noon we came to rosenlaui. as we drew near the hotel the guide struck off upon a path leading up the mountain, saying, by way of explanation, _"the glacier!"_ now, i confess that it was rather too near dinner time, and i was too tired at once to appreciate this movement. i regret to say, that two glaciers, however beautiful, on an empty stomach, appear rather of doubtful utility. so i remonstrated; but the guide, as all guides do, went dead ahead, as if i had not said a word. c., however, rode composedly towards the hotel, saying that dinner was a finer sight than a glacier; and i, though only of the same mind, thought i would follow my guide, just to see. w. went with me. after a little we had to leave our horses, and scramble about a mile up the mountain. "c. was right, and we are wrong," said my companion, sententiously. i was just dubious enough to be silent. pretty soon we came to a tremendous ravine, as if an earthquake had rent a mountain asunder. a hundred feet down in this black gorge, a stream was roaring in a succession of mad leaps, and a bridge crossed it, where we stood to gaze down into its dark, awful depths. then on we went till we came to the glacier. what a mass of clear, blue ice! so very blue, so clear! this awful chasm runs directly under it, and the mountain torrent, formed by the melting of the glacier, falls in a roaring cascade into it. you can go down into a cavern in this rift. above your head a roof of clear, blue ice; below your feet this black chasm, with the white, flashing foam of the cascade, as it leaps away into the darkness. on one side of the glacier was a little sort of cell, or arched nook, up which an old man had cut steps, and he helped me up into it. i stood in a little gothic shrine of blue, glittering ice, and looked out of an arched window at the cascade and mountains. i thought of coleridge's line-- "a pleasure bower with domes of ice." [illustration: _of a glacier's terminus, with animals and small buildings in the foreground._] on the whole, the glacier of rosenlaui paid for looking--even at dinner time--which is saying a good deal. journal--(continued.) friday, july , grindelwald to meyringen. on we came, to the top of the great schiedich, where h. and w. botanized, while i slept. thence we rode down the mountain till we reached rosenlaui, where, i am free to say, a dinner was to me a more interesting object than a glacier. therefore, while h. and w. went to the latter, i turned off to the inn, amid their cries and reproaches. i waved my cap and made a bow. a glacier!--go five rods farther to see a glacier! catch me in any such folly. the fact is, alps are good, like confections, in moderation; but to breakfast, dine, and sup on alps surfeits my digestion. here, for example, i am writing these notes in the _salle-à-manger_ of the inn, where other voyagers are eating and drinking, and there h. is feeding on the green moonshine of an emerald ice cave. one would almost think her incapable of fatigue. how she skips up and down high places and steep places, to the manifest perplexity of honest guide kienholz, _père_, who tries to take care of her, but does not exactly know how. she gets on a pyramid of _débris_, which the edge of the glacier is ploughing and grinding up, sits down, and falls--not asleep exactly--but into a trance. w. and i are ready to go on; we shout; our voice is lost in the roar of the torrent. we send the guide. he goes down, and stands doubtfully. he does not know exactly what to do. she hears him, and starts to her feet, pointing with one hand to yonder peak, and with the other to that knifelike edge, that seems cleaving heaven with its keen and glistening cimeter of snow, reminding one of isaiah's sublime imagery, "for my sword is bathed in heaven." she points at the grizzly rocks, with their jags and spear points. evidently she is beside herself, and thinks she can remember the names of those monsters, born of earthquake and storm, which cannot be named nor known but by sight, and then are known at once, perfectly and forever. mountains are nature's testimonials of anguish. they are the sharp cry of a groaning and travailing creation. nature's stern agony writes itself on these furrowed brows of gloomy stone. these reft and splintered crags stand, the dreary images of patient sorrow, existing verdureless and stern because exist they must. in them hearts that have ceased to rejoice, and have learned to suffer, find kindred, and here, an earth worn with countless cycles of sorrow, utters to the stars voices of speechless despair. and all this time no dinner! all this time h. is at the glacier! how do i know but she has fallen into a _crevasse_? how do i know but that a cliff, one of those ice castles, those leaning turrets, those frosty spearmen, have toppled over upon her? i shudder at the reflection. i will write no more. i had just written thus far, when in came h. and w. in high feather. o, i had lost the greatest sight in switzerland! there was such a chasm, a mountain cut in twain, with a bridge, and a man to throw a stone down; and you could hear it go _boom_, and _he held his hat!_ "not a doubt of that," said i. then there was a cavern in the ice, and the ice was so green, and the water dripped from the roof, and a great river rushed out. such was the substance of their united enthusiasm. but, alas! it was not enough to lose the best glacier in switzerland; i must needs lose two cascades and a chamois. just before coming to meyringen, i was composedly riding down a species of stone gridiron, set up sidewise, called a road, when the guide overtook me, and requested me to walk, as the road was bad. stupid fellow! he said not a word about cascades and chamois, and so i went down like a chamois myself, taking the road that seemed best and nearest, and reached the inn an hour before the rest. after waiting till i became alarmed, and was just sending back a messenger to inquire, lo, in they came, and began to tell me of cascades and chamois. "what cascade? what chamois? i have not seen any!" and then what a burst! "not seen any! what, two cascades, one glacier, and a four-year-old chamois, lost in one day! what will become of you? is this the way you make the tour of switzerland?" saturday, july . rode in a _voiture_ from meyringen to brienz, on the opposite end of the lake from interlachen. embarked in a rowboat of four immense oars tied by withs. two men and one woman pulled three, and w. and i took turns at the fourth. the boat being high built, flat bottomed, with awning and flagstaff, rolled and tipped so easily that soon h., with remorseful visage, abandoned her attempt to write, and lay down. there is a fresh and savage beauty about this lake, which can only be realized by rowing across. interlachen is underrated in the guide books. it has points of unrivalled loveliness; the ruins of the old church of rinconberg, for example, commanding a fine view of both lakes, of the country between, and the alps around, while just at your feet is a little lake in a basin, some two hundred feet above the other lakes. then, too, from your window in the belvedere, you gaze upon the purity of the jungfrau. the church, too, where on sabbath we attended episcopal service, is embowered in foliage, and seems like some new england village meeting house. monday, july . adieu to interlachen! ho for lucerne and the righi! dined at thun in a thunder storm. stopped over night at langnau, an out-of-the-way place. h. and g. painted alpine flowers, while i played violin. this violin must be of spotless pedigree, even as our genevese friend, monsieur--, certified when he reluctantly sold it me. none but a genuine amati, a hundred years old, can possess this mysterious quality, that can breathe almost inaudible, like a mornbeam in the parlor, or predominate imperious and intense over orchestra and choir, illuminating with its fire, like chain lightning, the arches of a vast cathedral. enchanted thing--what nameless spirit impregnates with magnetic ether the fine fibres of thy mechanism! tuesday, . rode from langnan to lucerne just in time to take the boat for weggis. from the door of the hotel de la concorde, at weggis, the guide _chef_ fitted us out with two _chaises à porteur_, six _carriers_, two mules with grooms, making a party of fourteen in all. after ascending a while the scenery became singularly wild and beautiful. vast walls and cliffs of conglomerate rose above us, up which our path wound in zigzags. below us were pines, vales, fields, and hills, themselves large enough for mountains. there, at our feet, with its beautiful islands, bays, capes, and headlands, gleams the broad lake of the four cantons, consecrated by the muse of schiller and the heroism of tell. new plains are unrolling, new mountain tops sinking below our range of vision. we plunged into a sea of mist. it rolled and eddied, boiling beneath us. through its mysterious pall we saw now a skeleton pine stretch out its dark pointing hand--now a rock, shapeless and uncouth, far below, like a behemoth petrified in mid ocean. then an eddy would sweep a space for the sun to pour a flood of gold on this field far down at our feet, on that village, on this mountain side with its rosy vapor-wreaths, upon yon distant lake, making it a crater of blinding brightness. on we went wrapped in mantles, mist, and mystery, trembling with chilliness and enthusiasm. we reached the summit just as the sunset-gazing crowd were dispersing. and this is righi kulm! wednesday, . at half past three in the morning we were aroused by the alpine horn. we sprang up, groping and dressing in the dark, and went out in the frosty air. ascending the ridge we looked off upon a sleeping world. mists lay beneath like waves, clouds, like a sea. on one side the oberland alps stretched along the horizon their pale, blue-white peaks. other mountains, indistinct in color and outline, chained round the whole horizon. yes, "the sleeping rocks did dream" all over the wide expanse, as they slumbered on their cloudy pillow, and their dream was of the coming dawn. twelve lakes, leaden pale or steel blue, dreamed also under canopies of cloud, and the solid land dreamed, and all her wilds and forests. and in the silence of the dream already the tinge of clairvoyance lit the gray east; a dim, diffuse aurora, while yet the long, low clouds hung lustreless above; nor could the eye prophesy where should open the door in heaven. at length, a flush, as of shame or joy, presaged the pathway. tongues of many-colored light vibrated beneath the strata of clouds, now dappled, mottled, streaked with fire; those on either hand of a light, flaky, salmon tint, those in the path and portal of the dawn of a gorgeous blending and blazoning of golden glories. the mists all abroad stirred uneasily. tufts of feathery down came up out of the mass. soft, floating films lifted from the surface and streamed away dissolving. strange hues came out on lake and shore, far, far below. the air, the very air became conscious of a coming change, and the pale tops of distant alps sparkled like diamonds. it was night in the valleys. and we heard the cocks crowing below, and the uneasy stir of a world preparing to awake. so isaiah foresaw a slumbering world, while messiah's coming glanced upon the heights of zion, and cried,-- "behold, darkness shall cover the earth and gross darkness the people; but the lord shall rise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee!" hushed the immense crowd of spectators waited; then he came. on the gray edge of the horizon, under the emblazoned strata, came a sudden coal of fire, as shot from the altar of heaven. it dazzled, it wavered, it consumed. its lambent lines lengthened sidelong. at length, not a coal, but a shield, as the shield of jehovah, stood above the east, and it was day. the vapor sea heaved, and broke, and rolled up the mountain sides. the lakes flashed back the conquering splendor. the wide panorama, asleep no more, was astir with teeming life. tuesday, july . one of the greatest curiosities in lucerne is the monument to those brave swiss guards who were slain for their unshaken fidelity to the unhappy louis xvi. in a sequestered spot the rocky hill side is cut away, and in the living strata is sculptured the colossal figure of a dying lion. a spear is broken off in his side, but in his last struggle he still defends a shield, marked with the _fleur de lis_ of france. below are inscribed in red letters, as if charactered in blood, the names of the brave officers of that devoted band. from many a crevice in the rock drip down trickling springs, forming a pellucid basin below, whose dark, glossy surface, encircled with trees and shrubs, reflects the image. the design of the monument is by thorwaldsen, and the whole effect of it has an inexpressible pathos. [illustration: _of the memorial. above the grotto reads:_ helvetiorum fidei ac virtuti _on the monument's plinth can be read the following:_ die x augusti ii et iii septembris mdccxcii haec sunt nomina eorum outne sacra (illegible) (illegible) dues xxvi duces ] rode in our private _voiture_ to basle, and rested our weary limbs at the three kings. friday, . visited the celebrities of basle, and took the cars for strasbourg, where we arrived in time to visit the minster. saturday, . left strasbourg by the rhine morning boat; a long, low, slender affair. the scenery exceedingly tame, like portions of the lower mississippi. disembarked at manheim, and drove over to heidelberg, through a continual garden. french is useless here. all our negotiations are in german, with w., s., and g. as a committee on gutturals. letter xxxix. strasbourg. my dear:-- we arrived here this evening. i left the cars with my head full of the cathedral. the first thing i saw, on lifting my eyes, was a brown spire. said i,-- "c., do you think that can be the cathedral spire?" "yes, that must be it." "i am afraid it is," said i, doubtfully, as i felt, within, that dissolving of airy visions which i have generally found the first sensation on visiting any celebrated object. the thing looked entirely too low and too broad for what i had heard of its marvellous grace and lightness; nay, some mischievous elf even whispered the word "dumpy" hi my ear. but being informed, in time, that this was the spire, i resisted the temptation, and determined to make the best of it. i have since been comforted by reading in goethe's autobiography a criticism on its proportions quite similar to my own. we climbed the spire; we gained the roof. what a magnificent terrace! a world itself; a panoramic view sweeping the horizon. here i saw the names of goethe and herder. here they have walked many a time, i suppose. but the inside!--a forest-like firmament, glorious in holiness; windows many hued as the hebrew psalms; a gloom solemn and pathetic as man's mysterious existence; a richness gorgeous and manifold as his wonderful nature. in this gothic architecture we see earnest northern races, whose nature was a composite of influences from pine forest, mountain, and storm, expressing, in vast proportions and gigantic masonry, those ideas of infinite duration and existence which christianity opened before them. a barbaric wildness mingles itself with fanciful, ornate abundance; it is the blossoming of northern forests. the ethereal eloquence of the greeks could not express the rugged earnestness of souls wrestling with those fearful mysteries of fate, of suffering, of eternal existence, declared equally by nature and revelation. this architecture is hebraistic in spirit, not greek; it well accords with the deep ground-swell of hebrew prophets. "lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. "before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art god. "a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past. "and as a watch in the night." the objection to gothic architecture, as compared with greek, is, that it is less finished and elegant. so it is. it symbolizes that state of mind too earnest for mere polish, too deeply excited for laws of exact proportions and architectural refinement. it is alpine architecture--vast, wild, and sublime in its foundations, yet bursting into flowers at every interval. the human soul seems to me an imprisoned essence, striving after somewhat divine. there is a struggle in it, as of suffocated flame; finding vent now through poetry, now in painting, now in music, sculpture, or architecture; various are the crevices and fissures, but the flame is one. moreover, as society grows from barbarism upward, it tends to inflorescence, at certain periods, as do plants and trees; and some races flower later than others. this architecture was the first flowering of the gothic race; they had no homers; the flame found vent not by imaged words and vitalized alphabets; they vitalized stone, and their poets were minster builders; their epics, cathedrals. this is why one cathedral--like strasbourg, or notre dame--has a thousand fold the power of any number of madeleines. the madeleine is simply a building; these are poems. i never look at one of them without feeling that gravitation of soul towards its artist which poetry always excites. often the artist is unknown; here we know him; erwin von steinbach, poet, prophet, priest, in architecture. we visited his house--a house old and quaint, and to me _full_ of suggestions and emotions. ah, if there be, as the apostle vividly suggests, houses not made with hands, strange splendors, of which these are but shadows, that vast religious spirit may have been finding scope for itself where all the forces of nature shall have been made tributary to the great conceptions of the soul. save this cathedral, strasbourg has nothing except peaked-roofed houses, dotted with six or seven rows of gable windows. letter xl. heidelberg. my dear:-- to-day we made our first essay on the rhine. switzerland is a poor preparation for admiring any common scenery; but the rhine from strasbourg to manheim seemed only a muddy strip of water, with low banks, poplars, and willows. if there was any thing better, we passed it while i was asleep; for i did sleep, even on the classic rhine. day before yesterday, at basle, i went into the museum, and there saw some original fragments of the dance of death, and many other pictures by holbein, with two miniature likenesses of luther and his wife, by lucas cranach; they are in water colors. catharine was no beauty at that time, if lucas is to be trusted, and luther looks rather savage. but i saw a book of autographs, and several original letters of luther's. i saw the word "jesus" at the top of one of them, thus, "j. u. s." the handwriting was fair, even, and delicate. i laid my hand on it, and thought his hand also had passed over the paper which he has made living with his thoughts. melanchthon, of whom a far more delicate penmanship might have been expected, wrote a coarse, rugged hand, quite like dr. bishop's. it somehow touched my heart to see this writing of luther's, so fair, and clean, and flowing; and to think of his _vive_ and ever-surging spirits, his conflicts and his victories. we were awakened, about eight o'clock this morning, by the cathedral bell, which is near by, and by the chanting of the service. it was a beautiful, sunny morning, and i could hear them sing all the time i was dressing. i think, by the style of the singing, it was protestant service: it brought to mind the elms of andover--the dewy, exquisite beauty of the sabbath mornings there; and i felt, more than ever, why am i seeking any thing more beautiful than home? but today the sweet shadow of god's presence is still over me, and the sense of his love and protection falls silently into my soul like dew. at breakfast time professor m. and his daughter called, as he said, to place themselves at our disposal for the castle, or whatever we might wish to see. i intimated that we would prefer spending the day in our new england manner of retirement--a suggestion which he took at once. after breakfast the servant asked us if we should like to have a room commanding a view of the castle. "to be sure," said i. so he ushered us into a large, elegantly-furnished apartment, looking out immediately upon it. there it sat, upon its green throne, a regal, beautiful, poetic thing, fair and sad. we had singing and prayers, and a sermon from c. we did not go to the _table d'hôte_, for we abominate its long-drawn, endless formalities. but one part of the arrangements we enjoyed without going: i mean the music. to me all music is sacred. is it not so? all real music, in its passionate earnest, its blendings, its wild, heart-searching tones, is the language of aspiration. so it may not be meant, yet, when we know god, so we translate it. in the evening we took tea with professor m., in a sociable way, much like the _salon_ of paris. mrs. m. sat at a table, and poured out tea, which a servant passed about on a waiter. gradually quite a circle of people dropped in--among them professor mittemeyer, who, i was told, is the profoundest lawyer in germany; also there was heinrich von gagen, who was head of the convention of the empire in , and prime minister. he is tall, has a strongly-marked face, very dark hair and eyebrows. there was also a very young man, with quite light hair, named fisher, who, they told me, was one of the greatest philosophers of the time; but government had taken away his license to lecture, on account of his pantheistic principles. i understand that this has occasioned much feeling, and that some of the professors side with, and some against him. a lady told me that the theological professors were against him. i wonder people do not see that this kind of suppression of opinion is a sword with two edges, which may cut orthodoxy equally with pantheism. "let both grow together," says christ, "the wheat and the tares." in america we do this, and a nodding crop of all sorts we have. the more the better; the earth must exhaust herself before the end can come. mr. m. spoke english, as did his very pretty daughter, ida; his wife only french and german. now, if you had only been there, we might have had quite a brilliant time; but my ignorance of german kept me from talking with any but those who could speak english. professor mittemeyer summoned english enough to make a long compliment, to which i responded as usual, by looking very foolish. there was a well informed gentleman there, who was formerly private secretary to prince albert, and who speaks english well. he has a bright, ingenious mind, and knows every thing, and seemed particularly willing to give me the benefit of his knowledge, for which i was suitably grateful. on the whole, i spent a very pleasant evening, and we parted about nine o'clock, miss ida promising to be our guide to the castle in the morning. well, in the morning i was too unwell to leave the sofa. i knew the old symptoms, and remained in my room, while professor m. and daughter, with s, w., and g, went up to the castle. i lay all day on the sofa, until, at five o'clock at night, i felt so much better that i thought we might take a carriage and drive up. c. accompanied me, and _cocher_ took us by a beautiful drive along the valley of the neckar, over the hills back of the castle, and finally through the old arched gateway into the grounds. i had no idea before of the extent or the architectural beauty of the place. the terrace behind the castle is a most lovely spot. it wanted only silence and solitude to make it perfect; it was full of tourists, as also was each ruined nook and arch. i sauntered about alone, for c. had a sick headache, and was forced to sit on one of the stone benches. heidelberg castle is of vast extent, and various architecture; parts of it, a guide book says, were designed by michael angelo. over one door was a hebrew inscription. marshalled in niches in the wall stood statues of electors and knights in armor--silent, lonely. the effect was quite different from the old gothic ruins i had seen. this spoke of courts, of princes; and the pride and grandeur of the past, contrasted with the silence and desertion, reminded me of the fable of the city of enchantment, where king and court were smitten to stone as they stood. a mournful lion's head attracted my attention, it had such a strange, sad look; and there was a fountain broken and full of weeds. i looked on the carvings, the statues, the broken arches, where bluebells and wild flowers were waving, and it seemed inexpressibly beautiful. it haunted me in my dreams, and i found myself walking up and down that terrace, in a kind of dim, beautiful twilight, with some friend: it was a strange dream of joy. but i felt myself very ill even while there, and had to take my sofa again as soon as i returned. there lying, i took my pencil, and drew just the view of the castle which i could see from my window, as a souvenir of the happiness i had felt at heidelberg. [illustration: _of the author's window view of heidelberg._] now, i know you will say with me that a day of such hazy, dreamy enjoyment is worth a great deal. we cannot tell why it is, or what it is, but one feels like an Æolian breathed on and touched by soft winds. [illustration: _of heidelberg castle._] this sketch of the castle gives only about half of it. those tiny statues indicated in it on the points of the gables are figures in armor of large size. the two little kiosks or summer houses that you see, you will find, by turning back to the other picture, mark the extremities of the terrace. there is a singular tinge of the moorish about this architecture which gives me great delight. that moorish development always seemed to me strangely exciting and beautiful. journal--(continued.) tuesday, august . we leave heidelberg with regret. at the railway station occurred our first loss of baggage. as w. was making change in the baggage room, he missed the basket containing our books and sundries. unfortunately the particular word for _basket_ had just then stepped out. "_wo ist mein--pannier?_" exclaimed he, giving them the french synonyme. they shook their heads. "_wo ist mein--basket?_" he cried, giving them english; they shook their heads still harder. "_wo ist mein-- --_" "whew--w!" shrieked the steam whistle; "ding a-ling-ling!" went the bell, and, leaving his question unfinished, w. ran for the cars. in our car was an elderly couple, speaking french. the man was evidently a quiet sort of fellow, who, by long caudling, had subdued--whole volcanos into dumbness within him. little did he think what eruption fate was preparing. ii. sat opposite _his hat_, which he had placed on the empty seat. there was a tower, or something, coming; h. rose, turned round, and innocently took a seat on his chapeau. such a voice as came out of that meekness personified! in the twinkling of an eye--for there is a peculiar sensation which a person experiences in sitting upon, or rather into a hat; ages are condensed into moments, and between the first yielding of the brittle top and the final crush and jam, as between the top of a steeple and the bottom, there is room for a life's reflection to flash through the mind--in the twinkling of an eye h. agonizingly felt that she was sitting on a hat, that the hat was being jammed, that it was getting flat and flatter every second, that the meek man was howling in french; and she was just thinking of her husband and children when she started to her feet, and the nightmare was over. the meek man, having howled out his french sentence, sat aghast, stroking his poor hat, while his wife opposite was in convulsions, and we all agog. the gentleman then asked h. if she proposed sitting where she was, saying, very significantly, "if you do, i'll put my hat there;" suiting the action to the word. we did not recover from this all the way to frankfort. arrived at frankfort we drove to the hotel de russie. then, after visiting all the lions of the place, we rode to see dannecker's ariadne. it is a beautiful female riding on a panther or a tiger. the light is let in through a rosy curtain, and the flush as of life falls upon the beautiful form. two thoughts occurred to me; why, when we gaze upon this form so perfect, so entirely revealed, does it not excite any of those emotions, either of shame or of desire, which the living reality would excite? and again; why does not the immediate contact of feminine helplessness with the most awful brute ferocity excite that horror which the sight of the same in real life must awaken? why, but because we behold under a spell in the transfigured world of art where passion ceases, and bestial instincts are felt to be bowed to the law of mind, and of ideal truth. letter xli. dear:-- to-day we came to frankfort, and this afternoon we have been driving out to see the lions, and in the first place the house where goethe was born. over the door, you remember, was the family coat of arms. well, while we were looking i perceived that a little bird had accommodated the crest of the coat to be his own family residence, and was flying in and out of a snug nest wherewith he had crowned it. little fanciful, feathery amateur! could nothing suit him so well as goethe's coat of arms? i could fancy the little thing to be the poet's soul come back to have a kind of breezy hovering existence in this real world of ours--to sing, and perch, and soar; for i think you told me that his principal grace and characteristic was an exquisite perception and expression of physical beauty. goethe's house was a very grand one for the times, was it not? now a sign in the window tells us it is used as a manufactory of porcelain. then we drove through the jews' quarters. you remember how queer and old they look; they have been much modernized since you were there. _cocher_ stopped before one house, and said something in german about rothschild, which c. said sounded like "here rothschild hung his boots out." we laughed and rode on. after this we went to the romer, the hall that you have told me of, where the emperors were chosen, all painted with their portraits in compartments; and i looked out on the fountain in front, that used, on these occasions, to flow with wine. then i walked around to see all the emperors, and to wish i knew more about history. charles v. is the only one of whom i have any distinct recollection. then we went to a kind of museum. _cocher_ stopped at the door, and we heard a general sputtering of gutturals between him, w., and g., he telling them something about luther. i got it into my head that the manuscript of luther's bible was inside; so i rushed forward. it was the public library. a colossal statue of goethe, by an italian artist, was the first thing i saw. what a head the man had i a jupiter of a head. and what a presence! the statue is really majestic; but was goethe so much, really think you? that egotistical spirit shown in his diary sets me in doubt. shakspeare was not self-conscious, and left no trace of egotism; if he knew himself, he did not care to tell what he knew. yet the heads are both great and majestic heads, and would indicate a plenary manhood. we went into the library, disturbing a quiet, good sort of bibliopole there, who, with some regret, put aside his book to guide us. "is luther's bible here?" w. and g. opened on him. "no;" but he ushered us into a cabinet. "there are luther's _shoes!_" "shoes!" we all exclaimed; and there was an irreverent laugh. yes, there they were in a glass case,--his shoes, large as life,--shoes without heels; great, clumping, thick, and black! what an idea! however, there was a genuine picture by lucas cranach, and another of catharine, by holbein, which gave more consolatory ideas of her person than that which i saw before at basle. there were also autographs of goethe and schiller, as well as of luther and melanchthon. our little bibliopole looked mournfully at us, as if we were wasting his time, and seemed glad when we went out. c. thought he was huffy because we laughed at luther's shoes; but i think he was only yearning after his book. c. offered him a fee, but he would not take it. going down stairs, in the entry, i saw a picture of the infant goethe on an eagle. we rode, also, to see a bronze statue of him in some street or other, and i ate an ice cream there to show my regard for him. we are delighted on the whole with frankfort. now, after all, that i should forget the crown of all our seeings, dannecker's ariadne! it is in a pavilion in a gentleman's garden. could mere beauty and grace delight and fill the soul, one could not ask for more than the ariadne. the beautiful head, the throat, the neck, the bust, the hand, the arm, the whole attitude, are exquisite. but after all, what is it? no moral charm,--mere physical beauty, cold as greek mythology. i thought of his _christ_, and did not wonder that when he had turned his art to that divine representation, he should refuse to sculpture from classic models. "he who has sculptured a christ cannot sculpture a venus." our hotel here is very beautiful. i think it must have been some palace, for it is adorned with fine statues, and walls of real marble. the staircase is beautiful, with brass railing, and at the foot a marble lion on each side. the walls of my bed room are lined with green damask, bordered by gilt bands; the attendance here is excellent. in every hotel of each large city, there is a man who speaks english. the english language is slowly and surely creeping through. europe; already it rivals the universality of the french. two things in this city have struck me singularly, as peculiarly german: one was a long-legged stork, which i saw standing on a chimney top, reminding me of the oft-mentioned "dear white stork" of german stories. why don't storks do so in america, i wonder? another thing was, waking suddenly in the middle of the night, and hearing the hymn of the watchman as he announced the hour. i think this is a beautiful custom. in the morning, i determined to get into the picture gallery. now c., who espoused to himself an "_amati_" at geneva, has been, like all young bridegrooms, very careless about every thing else but his beloved, since he got it. painting, sculpture, architecture, all must yield to music. nor can all the fascinations of raphael or rubens vie in his estimation with the melodies of mozart, or the harmonies of beethoven. so, yesterday, when we found the picture gallery shut, he profanely remarked, "what a mercy!" and this morning i could enlist none of the party but w. to go with me. we were paid for going. there were two or three magnificent pictures of sunrise and sunset in the alps by modern artists. never tell me that the _old_ masters have exhausted the world of landscape painting, at any rate. am i not competent to judge because i am not an artist? what! do not all persons feel themselves competent to pronounce on the merits of natural landscapes, and say which of two scenes is finer? and are painters any greater artists than god? if they say that we are not competent to judge, because we do not understand the mixing of colors, the mysteries of foreshortening, and all that, i would ask them if they understand how god mixes his colors? "canst thou understand the balancing of the clouds? the wondrous ways of him who is perfect in wisdom?" if, therefore, i may dare to form a judgment of god's originals, i also will dare to judge of man's imitations. nobody shall impose old, black, smoky poussins and salvator rosas on me, and so insult my eyesight and common sense as to make me confess they are better than pictures which i can see have all the freshness and bloom of the living reality upon them. so, also, a most glorious picture here. the trial of john huss before the council of constance, by lessing--one of the few things i have seen in painting which have had power deeply to affect me. i have it not in my heart to criticize it as a mere piece of coloring and finish, though in these respects i thought it had great merits. but the picture had the power, which all high art must have, of rebuking and silencing these minor inquiries in the solemnity of its _morale_. i believe the highest painter often to be the subject of a sort of inspiration, by which his works have a vitality of suggestion, so that they sometimes bring to the beholder even more than he himself conceived when he created them. in this picture, the idea that most impressed me was, the representation of that more refined and subtle torture of martyrdom which consists in the incertitude and weakness of an individual against whom is arrayed the whole weight of the religious community. if against the martyr only the worldly and dissolute stood arrayed, he could bear it; but when the church, claiming to be the visible representative of christ, casts him out; when multitudes of pious and holy souls, as yet unenlightened in their piety, look on him with horror as an infidel and blasphemer, --then comes the very wrench of the rack. as long as the body is strong, and the mind clear, a consciousless of right may sustain even this; but there come weakened hours, when, worn by prison and rack, the soul asks itself, "can it be that all the religion and respectability of the world is wrong, and i alone right?" such an agony luther expressed in that almost superhuman meditation written the night before the diet at worms. such an agony, the historian tells us, john huss passed through the night before his execution. now for the picture. the painter has arrayed, with consummate ability, in the foreground a representation of the religious respectability of the age: italian cardinals, in their scarlet robes, their keen, intellectual, thoughtful faces, shadowed by their broad hats; men whom it were no play to meet in an argument; there are gray-headed, venerable priests, and bishops with their seal rings of office,--all that expressed the stateliness and grandeur of what huss had been educated to consider the true church. in the midst of them stands huss, habited in a simple dark robe; his sharpened features, and the yellow, corpse-like pallor of his face, tell of prison and of suffering. he is defending himself; and there is a trembling earnestness in the manner with which his hand grasps the bible. with a passionate agony he seems to say, "am i not right? does not this word say it? and is it not the word of god?" so have i read the moral of this noble picture, and in it i felt that i had seen an example of that true mission of art which will manifest itself more and more in this world as christ's kingdom comes; art which is not a mere juggler of colors, a gymnastic display of effects, but a solemn, inspiring poetry, teaching us to live and die for that which it noblest and truest. i think this picture much superior to its companion, the martyrdom of huss, which i had already seen in america. journal--(continued.) wednesday, august . frankfort to cologne. hurrah for the rhine! at eleven we left the princely palace, calling itself hotel de russie, whose halls are walled with marble, and adorned with antique statues of immense value. lo, as we were just getting into our carriage, the lost parcel! basket, shawl, cloak, and all! we tore along to the station; rode pleasantly over to mayenz; made our way on board a steamer loaded down with passengers; established ourselves finally in the centre of all things on five stools, and deposited our loose change of baggage in the cabin. the steamer was small, narrow, and poor, though swift. thus we began to see the rhine under pressure of circumstances. the french and germans chatted merrily. the english tourists looked conscientiously careworn. papa with three daughters peered alternately into the guide book, and out of the loophole in the awning, in evident terror lest something they ought to see should slip by them. escaping from the jam, we made our way to the bow, carrying stools, umbrellas, and books, and there, on the very beak of all things, we had a fine view. duly and dutifully we admired bingen, cob-lentz, ehrenbreitstein, bonn, drachenfels, and all the other celebrities, and read childe harold on the rhine. reached cologne at nine. thursday, august . we drove to the cathedral. i shall not recapitulate murray, nor give architectural details. i was satisfied with what i saw and heard, and wished that so magnificent a conception, so sublime a blossom of stone sculpture, might come to ripe maturity, not as a church, indeed, but rather as a beautiful petrifaction, a growth of prolific, exuberant nature. why should not the yeasty brain of man, fermenting, froth over in such crestwork of gothic pinnacle, spire, and column? the only service i appreciated was the organ and chant: hidden in the midst of forest arches of stone, pouring forth its volumes of harmony as by unseen minstrelsy, it seemed to create an atmosphere of sound, in which the massive columns seemed transfused,--not standing, as it were, but floating,--not resting, as with weight of granite mountains, but growing as by a spirit and law of development. filled with those vast waves and undulations, the immense edifice seemed a creature, tremulous with a life, a soul, an instinct of its own; and out of its deepest heart there seemed to struggle upward breathings of unutterable emotion. letter xlii. cologne, o'clock, hotel bellevue. dear:-- the great old city is before me, looming up across the rhine, which lies spread out like a molten looking glass, all quivering and wavering, reflecting the thousand lights of the city. we have been on the rhine all day, gliding among its picture-like scenes. but, alas i i had a headache; the boat was crowded; one and all smoked tobacco; and in vain, under such circumstances, do we see that nature is fair. it is not enough to open one's eyes on scenes; one must be able to be _en rapport_ with them. just so in the spiritual world, we sometimes _see_ great truths,--see that god is beautiful, glorious, and surpassingly lovely; but at other times we feel both nature and god, and , how different _seeing_ and _feeling!_ to say the truth, i have been quite homesick to-day, and leaning my head on the rails, pondered an immediate flight, a giving up of all engagements on the continent and in england, an immediate rush homeward. does it not seem absurd, that, when within a few days' journey of what has been the long-desired dream of my heart, i should feel so--that i should actually feel that i had rather take some more of our pleasant walks about andover, than to see all that europe has to offer? this morning we went to the cologne cathedral. in the exterior of both this and strasbourg i was disappointed; but in the interior, who could be? there is a majesty about those up-springing arches--those columns so light, so lofty--it makes one feel as if rising like a cloud. then the innumerable complications and endless perspectives, arch above arch and arch within arch, all lighted up and colored by the painted glass, and all this filled with the waves of the chant and the organ, rising and falling like the noise of the sea; it was one of the few overpowering things that do not _satisfy_, because they transport you at once beyond the restless anxiety to be satisfied, and leave you no time to ask the cold question, am i pleased? ah, surely, i said to myself, as i walked with a kind of exultation among those lofty arches, and saw the clouds of incense ascending, the kneeling priests, and heard the pathetic yet grand voices of the chant--surely, there is some part in man that calls for such a service, for such visible images of grandeur and beauty. the wealth spent on these churches is a sublime and beautiful protest against materialism--against that use of money which merely brings supply to the coarse animal wants of life, and which makes of god's house only a bare pen, in which a man sits to be instructed in his duties. yet a moment after i had the other side of the question brought forcibly to my mind. in an obscure corner was a coarse wooden shrine, painted red, in which was a doll dressed up in spangles and tinsel, to represent the virgin, and hung round with little waxen effigies of arms, hands, feet, and legs, to represent, i suppose, some favor which had been accorded to these members of her several votaries through her intercessions. before this shrine several poor people were kneeling, with clasped hands and bowed heads, praying with an earnestness which was sorrowful to see. "they have taken away their lord, and they know not where they have laid him." such is the end of this superb idolatry in the illiterate and the poor. yet if we _could_, would we efface from the world such cathedrals as strasbourg and cologne? i discussed the question of outward pomp and ritual with myself while i was walking deliberately round a stone balustrade on the roof of the church, and looking out through the flying buttresses, upon the broad sweep of the rhine, and the queer, old-times houses and spires of the city. i thought of the splendors of the hebrew ritual and temple, instituted by god himself. i questioned where was the text in the gospel that forbade such a ritual, provided it were felt to be desirable; and then i thought of the ignorance and stupid idolatry of those countries where this ritual is found in greatest splendor, and asked whether these are the necessary concomitants of such churches and such forms, or whether they do not result from other causes. the hebrew ritual, in a far more sensuous age, had its sculptured cherubim, its pictorial and artistic wealth of representation, its gorgeous priestly vestments, its incense, and its chants; and they never became, so far as we know, the objects of idolatrous veneration. but i love to go back over and over the scenes of that cathedral; to look up those arches that seem to me, in their buoyant lightness, to have not been made with hands, but to have shot up like an enchantment--to have risen like an aspiration, an impersonation of the upward sweep of the soul, in its loftiest moods of divine communion. there were about five minutes of feeling, worth all the discomforts of getting here; and it is only for some such short time that we can enjoy--then our prison door closes. there are four painted glass windows, given by the king of bavaria. i have got for h. the photograph of two of them, representing the birth and death of christ. they are gorgeous paintings by the first masters. the windows round the choir were painted in a style that reminded me of our forests in autumn. well, after our sublimities came a farce. we went to st. ursula's church, to see the bones of the eleven thousand virgins, who, the chronicle says, were slain here because they would not break their vows of chastity. i was much amused. as we entered the church, c. remarked impressively, "it is evident that these virgins have no connection with cologne water!" the fact was lamentably apparent. doleful looking figures of virgins, painted in all the colors of the rainbow, were looking down upon us from all quarters; and in front, in a glass frame, was a bill of fare, in french, of the relics which could be served up to order. c. read the list aloud, and then we proceeded to a small side room to see the exhibition. the upper portion of the walls was covered with small bones, strung on wires and arranged in a kind of fanciful arabesque, much as shell boxes are made; and the lower part was taken up with busts in silver and gold gilding, representing still the interminable eleven thousand. a sort of cupboard door half opened showed the shelves all full of skulls, adorned with little satin caps, coronets, and tinsel jewelry; which skulls, we were informed, were the original head-pieces of the same redoubtable females. at the other end of the room was a raised stage, where the most holy relics of all were being displayed, under the devout eye of a priest in a long, black robe. c. and i went upon the stage to be instructed. s., whom the aforesaid lack of cologne water in the establishment had rendered peculiarly unpropitious, stood at a majestic distance; but c., assuming an air of profound faith, stood up to be initiated. "that," says the priest, in a plaintive voice, pitched to the exact point between lamentation and veneration, "is the ring of st. ursula." "indeed," says c., "her ring!" "yes," says the priest, "it was found in her tomb." "it was found in her tomb--only think!" says c., turning gravely to me. i had to look another way, while the priest proceeded to introduce, by name, four remarkably yellow skulls, with tastefully trimmed red caps on, as those of st. ursula and sundry of her most intimate friends. s. looked gloriously indignant, and c. increasingly solemn. "dere," said the priest, opening an ivory box, in which was about a quart of _teeth_ of different sizes, "dere is de teeth of the eleven thousand." "indeed," echoes c., "their teeth!" s., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say, swept from the apartment. i turned round, shaking with laughter, while the priest went on. "dere is a rib of st. ----." "ah, his rib; indeed!" "and dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of st. ursula." "h.," says c., "here is the arrow that killed st. ursula." (the wicked scamp knew i was laughing!) "dere is the net that was on her hair." "this is what she wore on her hair, then," says c., eyeing the rag with severe and melancholy gravity. "and here is some of the blood of the martyr stephen," says the priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it. in the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of christ, and a piece of the virgin's petticoat. "and here is the waterpot of stone, in which our lord made the wine at the marriage in cana." "indeed," said c., examining it with great interest; "where are the rest of them?" "the rest?" says the priest. "yes; i think there were six of them; where are they?" the priest only went over the old story. "this came from rome, and the piece broken out of the side is at rome yet." it is to be confessed that i felt in my heart, through this disgusting recital, some of s.'s indignation; and i could not help agreeing with her that the odor of sanctity, as generally developed in the vicinity, was any thing but agreeable. i did long to look that man once steadily in the eyes, to see if he was such a fool as he pretended; but the ridiculousness of the whole scene overcame me so that i could not look up, and i marched out in silence. the whole church is equally full of virgins. the altar piece is a vast picture of the slaughter, not badly painted. through various glass openings you perceive that the walls are full of the bones and skulls. did the worship of egypt ever sink lower in horrible and loathsome idolatry? i had heard of such things; but it is one thing to hear of them, and another to see them by the light of this nineteenth century, in a city whose streets look much like the streets of any other, and where men and women appear much as they do any where else. here we saw, in one morning, the splendor and the rottenness of the romish system. from those majestic arches, that triumphant chant, there is but a step down to the worship of dead men's bones and all uncleanness. we went also into the jesuits' church. the effect, to my eye, was that of a profusion of tawdry, dirty ornament; only the railing of the choir, which was a splendid piece of carving, out from a single block of carrara marble. the guide book prescribes, i think, no less than half a dozen churches in cologne as a dose for the faithful; but we were satisfied with these three, and went back to our hotel. as a general thing i would not recommend more than three churches on an empty stomach. the outer wall of cologne is a very fine specimen of fortification, (i am quoting my guide book,) and we got a perfect view of it in crossing the bridge of boats to return to our hotel. why they have a bridge of boats here i cannot say; perhaps on account of the width and swiftness of the river. having heard so much of the dirt and vile smells of cologne, i was surprised that our drive took us through streets no way differing from those of most other cities, and, except in the vicinity of the eleven thousand virgins, smelling no worse. still, there may be vile, ill-smelling streets; but so there are in edinburgh, london, and new york. from cologne we went, at four o'clock, to dusseldorf, a little town, celebrated for the head quarters of the dusseldorf school of painting. i cannot imagine why they chose this town for a school of the fine arts, as it is altogether an indifferent, uninteresting place. it is about an hour's ride from cologne. we arrived there in time to go into the exhibition of the works of the artists, which is open all summer. i don't know how good a specimen it is, but i thought it rather indifferent. there were some few paintings that interested me, but nothing equal to those. i have seen in the dusseldorf gallery at home. whittridge lives there, but, unfortunately, was gone for eight days. our hotel was pleasant--opening on a walk shaded by double rows of trees. we ordered a nice little tea in our room, arid waxed quite merry over it. this morning we started at seven, and here we are to-night in leipsic--as uninteresting a country as i have seen yet. moreover, we had passed beyond the limits of our rhine guide book, and as yet had no other, and so did not know any thing about the few objects of interest which presented themselves. the railroads, of course, persist in their invariable habit of running you up against a dead wall, so that you see nothing where you stop. the city of magdeburg is the only interesting object i have seen. i had a fair view of its cathedral, which i think, though not so imposing, yet as picturesque and beautiful as any i remember to have seen; and its old wall, too. we changed cars here, going through the wall into the city, and i saw just enough to make me wish to see more; and now to-night we are in leipsic. morning. we are going out now, and i must mail this letter. to-morrow we spend at halle. journal--(continued.) friday, august . dusseldorf to leipsic, three hundred and seventy-three miles. a very level and apparently fertile country. if well governed it ought to increase vastly in riches. saturday, august . called at the counting house of m. tauchnitz, the celebrated publisher. an hour after, accompanied by mrs. t., he came with two open carriages, and took us to see the city and environs. we visited the battle ground, and saw the spot where napoleon stood during the engagement; a slight elevation, commanding an immense plain in every direction, with the spires of the city rising in the distance. after seeing various sights of interest, we returned to our hotel, where our kind friends took their leave. in the afternoon m. tauchnitz sent h. a package of his entertaining english publications, to read in the cars, also a murray for germany. h. and i then took the cars for halle, where we hoped to spend the sabbath and meet with dr. tholuck. travellers sometimes visit chamouni without seeing mont blanc, who remains enveloped in clouds during their stay. so with us. in an hour we were in rooms at the kron prince. we sent a note to the professor; the waiter returned, saying that dr. tholuck was at kissengen. our theological mont blanc was hid in mist. blank enough looked we! "h., is there no other professor we want to see?" "i believe not." pensively she read one of the tauchnitz library. plaintively my _amati_ sighed condolence. "h." said i, "perhaps we might reach dresden to-night." "do you think so? is it possible? is there a train?" "we can soon ascertain." "how amazed they would look!" we summoned the _maître d'hotel_, ordered tea, paid, packed, raced, ran, and hurried, _presto, prestissimo,_ into a car half choked with voyagers, changed lines at leipsic, and shot off to dresden. by deep midnight we were thundering over the great stone pont d'elbe, to the hotel de saxe, where, by one o'clock, we were lost in dreams. in the morning the question was, how to find our party. "waiter, bring me a directory." "there is no directory, sir." "no directory? then how shall we contrive to find our friends?" "monsieur has friends residing in dresden?" "no, no! our party that came last night from leipsic." "at what hotel do they stop?" "that is precisely what i wish to find out." "will monsieur allow me to give their description to the police?" ( , ho, thought i; that is your directory, is it? wonder if that is the reason you have none printed.) "_non, merci,"_ said i, and set off on foot to visit the principal hotels. i knew they would go by murray or bradshaw, and lo, sure enough they were at the hotel bellevue, just sitting down to breakfast. s. started as if she had seen a ghost. "why, where did you come from? what has happened? where is h.? we thought you were in halle!" explanations followed. h. was speedily transferred to their hotel, where they had bespoken rooms for us; and we sallied forth to the court church to hear the music of high mass. this music is celebrated throughout germany. it is, therefore, undoubtedly superior. the organ is noble, the opera company royal. but more perfect than all combined are the echoes of the church, which (though the guide book does not mention it) nullify every effect. monday, . visited the walks and gardens on the banks of the elbe. the sky was clear, the weather glorious, and all nature full of joy. we almost think this elbe another seine; these bruhlsche gardens and terraces, these majestic old bridges, and cleft city, another paris! here, too, is that out-of-doors life, life in gardens, we admire so much. breakfast in the public gardens; hundreds of little groups sipping their coffee! dinner, tea, and supper in the gardens, with music of birds and bands! visited the picture gallery. if one were to chance upon an altar in this german athens inscribed to the "unknown god," he might be tempted to suggest that that deity's name is decency. the human form is indeed divine, as m. belloc insists, and rightly, sacredly drawn, cannot offend the purest eye. all nature is symbolic. the universe itself is a complex symbol of spiritual ideas. so in the structure and relation of the human body, some of the highest spiritual ideas, the divinest mysteries of pure worship, are designedly shadowed forth. if, then, the painter rightly and sacredly conceives the divine meaning, and creates upon the canvas, or in marble, forms of exalted ideal loveliness, we cannot murmur even if, like adam and eve in eden, "they are naked, and are not ashamed." and yet even sacred things love mystery, and holiest emotions claim reserve. nature herself seems to tell us that the more sacred some works of art might be, the less they should be unveiled. there are flowers that will wither in the sun the passion of love, when developed according to the divine order, is, even in its physical relations, so holy that it cannot retain its delicacy under the sultry blaze of profane publicity. but it is far otherwise with paintings where the _animus_ is not sacred, nor the meaning spiritual. no excellences of coloring, no marvels of foreshortening, no miracles of mechanism can consecrate the salacious images of mythologic abomination. the cheek that can forget to blush at the venus and cupid by titian, at leda and her swan, at jupiter and io, and others of equally evil intent, ought never to pretend to blush at any thing. such pictures are a disgrace to the artists that painted, to the age that tolerates, and to the gallery that contains them. they are fit for a bagnio rather than a public exhibition. evening. dresden is the home of madame jenny lind goldschmidt. h. sent her card. this evening mr. g. called to express regret that she was unable to see any one, on account of her recent confinement. he kindly offered us the use of his carriage and assistance in sightseeing. h. discussed with him the catalogues of the gallery of paintings. as to music, we learn, with regret, that it is out of season for concerts, oratorios, or any thing worth hearing. wednesday, august . dresden to berlin. drove to charlottenburg, and saw the monument of queen louisa. thursday, . visited the picture gallery, and various stores and shops. saturday, august . berlin to wittenberg, two hours' ride. examined the schloss-kirche, where luther is buried, passing on our way through the public square containing his monument. at nine in the evening took cars for erfurt. that night ride, with the moon and one star hanging beautifully over the horizon, was pleasant. there is a wild and thrilling excitement in thus plunging through the mysterious night in a land utterly unknown. reached erfurt at two in the morning. monday, august . erfurt to eisenach by eight. drove to the wartburg. letter xliii. dresden. dear:-- i went to dresden as an art-pilgrim, principally to see raphael's great picture of the madonna di san sisto, supposing that to be the best specimen of his genius out of italy. on my way i diligently studied the guide book of that indefatigable friend of the traveller, mr. murray, in which descriptions of the finest pictures are given, with the observations of artists; so that inexperienced persons may know exactly what to think, and where to think it. my expectations had been so often disappointed, that my pulse was somewhat calmer. nevertheless, the glowing eulogiums of these celebrated artists could not but stimulate anticipation. we made our way, therefore, first to the _salon_ devoted to the works of raphael and correggio, and soon found ourselves before the grand painting. trembling with eagerness, i looked up. was that the picture? w. whispered to me, "i think we have mistaken the painting." "no, we have not," said i, struggling to overcome the disappointment which i found creeping over me. the source of this disappointment was the thin and faded appearance of the coloring, which at first suggested to me the idea of a water-colored sketch. it had evidently suffered barbarously in the process of cleaning, a fact of which i had been forewarned. this circumstance has a particularly unfavorable effect on a picture of raphael's, because his coloring, at best, is delicate and reserved, and, as compared with, that of rubens, approaches to poverty; so that he can ill afford to lose any thing in this way. then as to conception and arrangement, there was much which annoyed me. the virgin and child in the centre are represented as rising in the air; on one side below them is the kneeling figure of pope sixtus; and on the other, that of st. barbara. now this pope sixtus is, in my eyes, a very homely old man, and as i think no better of homely old men for being popes, his presence in the picture is an annoyance. st. barbara, on the other side, has the most beautiful head and face that could be represented; but then she is kneeling on a cloud with such a judicious and coquettish arrangement of her neck, shoulders, and face, to show every fine point in them, as makes one feel that no saint (unless with a parisian education) could ever have dropped into such a position in the _abandon_ of holy rapture. in short, she looks like a theatrical actress; without any sympathy with the solemnity of the religious conception, who is there merely because a beautiful woman was wanted to fill up the picture. then that old, faded green curtain, which is painted as hanging down on either side of the picture, is, to my eye, a nuisance. the whole interest, therefore, of the piece concentrates in the centre figures, the madonna and child, and two angel children gazing up from the foot of the picture. these angel children were the first point on which my mind rested, in its struggle to overcome its disappointment, and bring itself _en rapport_ with the artist. in order fully to appreciate their spiritual beauty, one must have seen an assortment of those things called angels, which occur in the works of the old masters. generally speaking, i know of nothing more calculated to moderate any undue eagerness to go to heaven than the common run of canvas angels. far the greater part are roistering, able-bodied fellows with wings, giving indisputable signs of good living, and of a coarseness slightly suggestive of blackguardism. far otherwise with _these_ fair creatures, with their rainbow-colored wings, and their serene, upturned eyes of thought baptized with emotion. they are the first things i have seen worthy of my ideas of raphael. as to the madonna, i think that, when wilkie says she is "nearer the perfection of female elegance and grace than any thing in painting," he does not speak with discrimination. mere physical beauty and grace are not _the_ characteristics of the figure: many more perfect forms can be found, both on canvas and in marble. but the merits of the figure, to my mind, are, first, its historic accuracy in representing the dark-eyed jewish maiden; second, the wonderful fulness and depth of expression thrown into the face; and third, the mysterious resemblance and sympathy between the face of the mother and that of the divine child. to my eye, this picture has precisely that which murillo's assumption in the louvre wants: it has an unfathomable depth of earnestness. the murillo is its superior in coloring and grace of arrangement. at first sight of the murillo every one exclaims at once, "plow beautiful!"--at sight of this they are silent. many are at first disappointed; but the picture fastens the attention, and grows upon the thoughts; while that of murillo is dismissed with the words of admiration on the lips. this picture excited my ponderings and inquiries. there was a conflict of emotion in that mother's face, and shadowed mysteriously in the child's, of which i queried, "was it fear? was it sorrow? was it adoration and faith? was it a presage of the hour when a sword should pierce through her own soul? yet, with this, was there not a solemn triumph in the thought that she alone, of all women, had been called to that baptism of anguish? and in that infant face there seemed a foreshadowing of the spirit which said, "now is my soul troubled; and what shall i say? father, save me from this hour? but for this cause came i unto this hour." the deep-feeling soul which conceived this picture has spread over the whole divine group a tender and transparent shadow of sorrow. it is this idea of sorrow in heaven--sorrow, for the lost, in the heart of god himself--which forms the most sacred mystery of christianity; and into this innermost temple of sorrow had raphael penetrated. he is a sacred poet, and his poetry has precisely that trait which milton lacks--tenderness and sympathy. this picture, so unattractive to the fancy in merely physical recommendations, has formed a deeper part of my inner consciousness than any i have yet seen. i can recall it with perfect distinctness, and often return to ponder it in my heart. in this room there was also the _chef-d'luvre_ of correggio--his celebrated notte, or the nativity of jesus; and, that you may know what i ought to have thought, i will quote you a sentence from wilkie. "all the powers of art are here united to make a perfect work. here the simplicity of the drawing of the virgin and child is shown in contrast with the foreshortening of the group of angels--the strongest unity of effect with the most perfect system of intricacy. the emitting the light from the body of the child, though a supernatural illusion, is eminently successful. the matchless beauty of the virgin and child, the group of angels overhead, the daybreak in the sky, and the whole arrangement of light and shadow, give it a right to be considered, in conception at least, the greatest of his works." i said before that light and shadow were correggio's gods--that the great purpose for which he lived, moved, and had his being, was to show up light and shadow. now, so long as he paints only indifferent objects,--nymphs, and fauns, and mythologic divinities,--i had no objection. light and shadow are beautiful things, capable of a thousand blendings, softenings, and harmonizings, which one loves to have represented: the great artist of all loves light and shadow; why else does he play such a magical succession of changes upon them through all creation? but for an artist to make the most solemn mystery of religion a mere tributary to the exhibition of a trick of art, is a piece of profanity. what was in this man's head when he painted this representation of the hour when his maker was made flesh that he might redeem a world? nothing but _chiaro-scuro_ and foreshortening. this overwhelming scene would give him a fine chance to do two things: first, to represent a phosphorescent light from the body of the child; and second, to show off some foreshortened angels. now, as to these angels, i have simply to remark that i should prefer a seraph's head to his heels; and that a group of archangels, kicking from the canvas with such alarming vigor, however much it may illustrate foreshortening, does not illustrate either glory to god in the highest, or peace on earth and good will to men. therefore i have quarrelled with correggio, as i always expected to do if he profaned the divine mysteries. how could any one, who had a soul to understand that most noble creation of raphael, turn, the next moment, to admire this? here also are six others of correggio's most celebrated paintings. they are all mere representations of the physical, with little of the moral. his picture of the virgin and child represents simply a very graceful, beautiful woman, holding a fine little child. his peculiar excellences in the management of his lights and shades appear in all. in one of the halls we found a magdalen by battoni, which gave me more pleasure, on first sight, than any picture in the gallery. it is a life-sized figure of the magdalen stretched upon the ground, reading an open bible. i like it, first, because the figure is every way beautiful and well proportioned; second, on account of an elevated simplicity hi the arrangement and general effect. the dark, rocky background throws out distinctly the beautiful figure, raised on one elbow, her long, golden hair floating loosely down, as she bends forward over her book with parted lips, slightly flushed cheek, and an air of rapt and pleased attention. though the neck and bosom are exposed, yet there is an angelic seriousness and gravity in the conception of the piece which would check an earthly thought. the woman is of that high class about whom there might seem to be a hovering angelic presence--the perfection of beauty and symmetry, without a tinge of sensual attraction. all these rooms are full of artists copying different paintings,--some upon slabs of dresden china,--producing pictures of exquisite, finish, and very pretty as boudoir ornaments. after exhausting this first room, we walked through the galleries, which i will name, to give you some idea of their extent. two rooms, of old german and dutch masters, are curious,--as exhibiting the upward struggles of art. many of the pictures are hard as a tavern sign, and as ill drawn; but they mark the era of dawning effort. then a long corridor of dutch paintings, in which rubens figures conspicuously, displaying, as usual, all manner of scarlet abominations, mixed with most triumphant successes. he has a boar hunt here, which is absolutely terrific. rubens has a power peculiar to himself of throwing into the eyes of animals the phosphorescent magnetic gleam of life and passion. here also was a sketch of his for a large picture at munich of the last judgment, in which the idea of physical torture is enlarged upon with a most revolting vigor of imagery. then a small room devoted to the spanish and italian schools, containing pictures by murillo and velasquez. then the french hall, where were two magnificent claudes, the finest i had yet seen. they were covered with glass, (a bad arrangement,) which rendered one of them almost entirely _unseeable_. i studied these long, with much interest. the combinations were poetical, the foregrounds minutely finished, even to the painting of flowers, and the fine invisible veil of ether that covers the natural landscape given as i have never before seen it. the peculiarity of these pieces is, that they are painted in _green_--a most common arrangement in god's landscapes, but very uncommon in those of great masters. painters give us trees and grounds, brown, yellow, red, chocolate, any color, in short, but green. the reason of this is, that green is an exceedingly difficult color to manage. i have seen, sometimes, in spring, set against a deep-blue sky, an array of greens, from lightest yellow to deepest blue of the pines, tipped and glittering with the afternoon's sun, yet so swathed in some invisible, harmonizing medium, that the strong contrasts of color jarred upon no sense. all seemed to be bound by the invisible cestus of some celestial venus. yet what painter would dare attempt the same? herein lies the particular triumph of claude. it is said that he took his brush and canvas into the fields, and there studied, hour after hour, into the mysteries of that airy medium which lies between the eye and the landscape, as also between the foreground and the background. hence he, more than others, succeeds in giving the green landscape and the blue sky the same effect that god gives them. if, then, other artists would attain a like result, let them not copy claude, but claude's master. would that our american artists would remember that god's pictures are nearer than italy. to them it might be said, (as to the christian,) "the word is nigh thee." when we shall see a new england artist, with his easel, in the fields, seeking, hour after hour, to reproduce on the canvas the magnificent glories of an elm, with its firmament of boughs and branches,--when he has learned that there is in it what is worth a thousand claudes--then the morning star of art will have risen on our hills. god send us an artist with a heart to reverence his own native mountains and fields, and to veil his face in awe when the great master walks before his cottage door. when shall arise the artist whose inspiration shall be in prayer and in communion with god?--whose eye, unsealed to behold his beauty in the natural world, shall offer up, on canvas, landscapes which shall be hymns and ascriptions? by a strange perversity, people seem to think that the author of nature cannot or will not inspire art; but "he that formed the eye, shall he not see? he that planted the ear, shall he not hear?" are not god's works the great models, and is not sympathy of spirit with the master necessary to the understanding of the models? but to continue our walk. we entered another dutch apartment, embellished with works by dietrich, prettily colored, and laboriously minute; then into a corridor devoted chiefly to the works of rembrandt and scholars. in this also were a number of those minute culinary paintings, in which cabbages, brass kettles, onions, potatoes, &c., are reproduced with praiseworthy industry. many people are enraptured with these; but for my part i have but a very little more pleasure in a turnip, onion, or potato in a picture than out, and always wish that the industry and richness of color had been bestowed upon things in themselves beautiful. the great master, it is true, gives these models, but he gives them not to be looked at, but eaten. if painters could only contrive to paint vegetables (cheaply) so that they could be eaten, i would be willing. two small saloons are next devoted to the modern dutch and german school. in these is denner's head of an old woman, which cowper celebrates in a pretty poem--a marvel of faithful reproduction. one would think the old lady must have sat at least a year, till he had daguerreotyped every wrinkle and twinkle. how much better all this labor spent on the head of a good old woman than on the head of a cabbage! and now come a set of italian rooms, in which we have some curious specimens of the romish development in religion; as, for instance, the fathers gregory, augustine, and jerome, meditating on the immaculate conception of the virgin. think of a painter employing all his powers in representing such a fog bank! next comes a room dedicated to the works of titian, in which two nude venuses, of a very different character from the de milon, are too conspicuous. titian is sensuous; a greek, but not of the highest class. the next room is devoted to paul veronese. this paul has quite a character of his own--a grand old venetian, with his head full of stateliness, and court ceremony, and gorgeous conventionality, half oriental in his passion for gold, and gems, and incense. as a specimen of the subjects in which his soul delights, take the following, which he has wrought up into a mammoth picture: faith, love, and hope, presenting to the virgin mary a member of the old venetian family of concina, who, after having listened to the doctrines of the reformation, had become reconciled to the church. here is paul's piety, naively displayed by giving to the virgin all the courtly graces of a high-born signorina. he paints, too, the adoration of the magi, because it gives such a good opportunity to deal with camels, jewels, turbans, and all the trappings of oriental royalty. the virgin and child are a small part of the affair. i like paul because he is so innocently unconscious of any thing _deep_ to be expressed; so honestly intent on clothes, jewels, and colors. he is a magnificent master of ceremonies, and ought to have been kept by some king desirous of going down to posterity, to celebrate his royal praise and glory. another room is devoted to the works of guido. one or two of the ecce homo are much admired. to me they are, as compared with my conceptions of jesus, more than inadequate. it seems to me that, if jesus christ should come again on earth, and walk through a gallery of paintings, and see the representations of sacred subjects, he would say again, as he did of old in the temple, "take these things hence!" how could men who bowed down before art as an idol, and worshipped it as an ultimate end, and thus sensualized it, represent these holy mysteries, into which angels desired to look? there are many representations of christ here, set forth in the guide book as full of grace and majesty, which, any soul who has ever felt his infinite beauty would reject as a libel. and as to the virgin mother, one's eye becomes wearied in following the countless catalogue of the effeminate inane representations. there is more pathos and beauty in those few words of the scripture, "now there stood by the cross of jesus his mother," than in all these galleries put together. the soul that has learned to know her from the bible, loving without idolizing, hoping for blest communion with her beyond the veil, seeking to imitate only the devotion which stood by the cross in the deepest hour of desertion, cannot be satisfied with these insipidities. only once or twice have i seen any thing like an approach towards the representations of the _scriptural_ idea. one is this painting by raphael. another is by him, and is called madonna maison d'alba: of this i have seen only a copy; it might have been painted on the words, "now mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart." the figure is that of a young jewess, between girl and womanhood, in whose air and eye are expressed at once the princess of the house of david, the poetess, and the thoughtful sequestered maiden. she is sitting on the ground, the book of the prophets in one hand, lying listless at her side; the other hand is placed beneath the chin of her infant son, who looks inquiringly into her face. she does not see him--her eye has a sorrowful, far-darting look, as if beyond this flowery childhood she saw the dim image of a cross and a sepulchre. this was mary, i have often thought that, in the reaction from the idolatry of romanism, we protestants were in danger of forgetting the treasures of religious sweetness, which the bible has given us in her brief history. it seems to me the time demands the forming of a new school of art based upon protestant principles. for whatever vigor and originality there might once be in art, based on romanism, it has certainly been worn threadbare by repetition. apropos to this. during the time i was in paris, i formed the acquaintance of schoeffer, whose _christus consolator_ and remumrator and other works, have made him known in america. i went with a lady who has for many years been an intimate friend, and whose head has been introduced into several of his paintings. on the way she gave me some interesting particulars of him and his family. his mother was an artist--a woman of singularly ethereal and religious character. there are three brothers devoted to art; of these ary is the one best known in america, and the most distinguished. for some time, while they were studying, they were obliged to be separated, and the mother, to keep up the sympathy between them, used to copy the design of the one with whom she resided for the other two. a singular strength of attachment unites the family. we found schoeffer in retired lodgings in the outskirts of paris, and were presented to his very pretty and agreeable english wife. in his studio we saw a picture of his mother, a most lovely and delicate woman, dressed in white, like one of the saints in the revelation. then we saw his celebrated picture, francisca rimini, representing a cloudy, dark, infernal region, in which two hapless lovers are whirled round and round in mazes of never-ending wrath and anguish. _his_ face is hid from view; his attitude expresses the extreme of despair. but she clinging to his bosom--what words can tell the depths of love, of an anguish, and of endurance unconquerable, written in her pale sweet face! the picture smote to my heart like a dagger thrust; i felt its mournful, exquisite beauty as a libel on my father in heaven. no. it is _not_ god who eternally pursues undying, patient love with storms of vindictive wrath. alas! well said jesus, "o righteous father, the world hath not known thee." the day will come when it will appear that in earth's history the sorrowing, invincible tenderness has been all on his part and that the strange word, _long-suffering_, means just what it says. nevertheless, the power and pathos of this picture cannot be too much praised. the coloring is beautiful, and though it pained me so much, i felt that it was one of the most striking works of art i had seen. schoeffer showed us a large picture, about half finished, in which he represents the gradual rise of the soul through the sorrows of earth to heaven. it consisted of figures grouped together, those nearest earth bowed down and overwhelmed with the most crushing and hopeless sorrow; above them are those who are beginning to look upward, and the sorrow in their faces is subsiding into anxious inquiry; still above them are those who, having caught a gleam of the sources of consolation, express in their faces a solemn calmness; and still higher, rising in the air, figures with clasped hands, and absorbed, upward gaze, to whose eye the mystery has been unveiled, the enigma solved, and sorrow glorified. one among these, higher than the rest, with a face of rapt adoration, seems entering the very gate of heaven. he also showed us an unfinished picture of the temptation of christ. upon a clear aerial mountain top, satan, a thunder-scarred, unearthly figure, kneeling, points earnestly to the distant view of the kingdoms of this world. there is a furtive and peculiar expression of eager anxiety betrayed in his face, as if the bitterness of his own blasted eternity could find a momentary consolation in this success. it is the expression of a general, who has staked all his fortune on one die. of the figure of jesus i could not judge, in its unfinished state. whether the artist will solve the problem of uniting energy with sweetness, the godhead with the manhood, remains to be seen. the paintings of jesus are generally unsatisfactory; but schoefier has approached nearer towards expressing my idea than any artist i have yet seen. the knowing ones are much divided about schoeffer. some say he is no painter. nothing seems to me so utterly without rule or compass as this world of art divided into little cliques, each with his shibboleth, artists excommunicate each other as heartily as theologians, and a neophyte who should attempt to make up a judgment by their help would be obliged to shift opinions with every circle. i therefore look with my own eyes, for if not the best that might be, they are the best that god has given me. schoeffer is certainly a poet of a high order. his ideas are beautiful and religious, and his power of expression quite equal to that of many old masters, who had nothing very particular to express. i should think his chief danger lay in falling into mannerism, and too often repeating the same idea. he has a theory of coloring which is in danger of running out into coldness and poverty of effect. his idea seems to be, that in the representation of spiritual subjects the artist should avoid the sensualism of color, and give only the most chaste and severe tone. hence he makes much use of white, pale blue, and cloudy grays, avoiding the gorgeousness of the old masters. but it seems probable that in the celestial regions there is more, rather than less, of brilliant coloring than on earth. what can be more brilliant than the rainbow, yet what more perfectly free from earthly grossness? nevertheless, in looking at the pictures of schoeffer there is such a serene and spiritual charm spread over them, that one is little inclined to wish them other than they are. no artist that i have ever seen, not even raphael, has more power of glorifying the human face by an exalted and unearthly expression. his head of joan of arc, at versailles, is a remarkable example. it is a commentary on that scripture--"and they beheld his face, as it were the face of an angel." schoeffer is fully possessed with the idea of which i have spoken, of raising protestant art above the wearisome imitations of romanism. the object is noble and important. i feel that he must succeed. his best award is in the judgments of the unsophisticated heart. a painter who does not burn incense to his palette and worship his brushes, who reverences ideas above mechanism, will have all manner of evil spoken against him by artists, but the human heart will always accept him. letter xliv. berlin, august . my dear:-- here we are in berlin--a beautiful city. these places that kings build, have of course, more general uniformity and consistency of style than those that grow up by chance. the prevalence of the greek style of architecture, the regularity and breadth of the streets, the fine trees, especially in the unter den linden, on which are our rooms, struck me more than any thing i have seen since paris. why paris charms me so much more than other cities of similar recommendations, i cannot say, any more than a man can tell why he is fascinated by a lady love no fairer to his reason than a thousand others. perhaps it is the reflected charm of the people i knew there, that makes it seem so sunny. this afternoon we took a guide, and went first through the royal palace. the new chapel, which is being built by the present prince, is circular in form, with a dome one hundred and thirty feet high. the space between the doors is occupied by three circular recesses, with figures of prophets and apostles in fresco. over one door is the nativity,--over the other, the resurrection,--also in fresco. on the walls around were pictures somewhat miscellaneous, i thought; for example, john huss, st. cecilia, melanchthon, luther, several women, saints, apostles, and evangelists. these paintings are all by the first german artists. the floor is a splendid mosaic, and the top of the dome is richly adorned with frescoes. still, though beautiful, the chapel seemed to me deficient in unity of effect. one admires the details too much to appreciate it as a whole. we passed through the palace rooms. its paintings are far inferior to those of windsor. the finest royal paintings have gone to adorn the walls of the museum. there was one magnificent vandyke, into which he has introduced a large dog--some relief from his eternal horses. there was david's picture of bonaparte crossing the alps, of which mrs. p. has the engraving, and you can tell her that it is much more impressive than the painting. opposite to this picture hangs blucher, looking about as amiable as one might suppose a captain of a regiment of mastiffs. our guide, pointing to the portrait of napoleon, with evident pride, said, "blucher brought that from paris. he said napoleon had carried so many pictures from other countries to paris, that now he should be carried away himself." there were portraits of queen louisa, very beautiful; of queen victoria, a present; one of the empress of russia; also a statue of the latter. the ball room contained a statue of victory, by ranch, a beautiful female figure, the model of which, we were told, is his own daughter. he had the grace to allow her some clothing, which was fatherly, for an artist. the palace rooms were very magnificent. the walls were covered with a damask of silk and gold, into which was inwrought the prussian eagle. in the crowning room was an immense quantity of plate, in solid gold and silver. the guide seemed not a little proud of _our_ king, princes, and palace. men will attach themselves to power and splendor as naturally as moss will grow on a rock. there is, perhaps, a foundation for this in human nature-- witness the israelites of old, who could not rest till they obtained a king. the guide told us there were nine hundred rooms in the palace, but that he should only take us through the best. we were duly sensible of the mercy. then we drove to charlottenburg to see the mausoleum. i know not when i have been more deeply affected than there; and yet, not so much by the sweet, lifelike statue of the queen as by that of the king, her husband, executed by the same hand. such an expression of long-desired rest, after suffering and toil, is shed over the face!--so sweet, so heavenly! there, where he has prayed year after year,--hoping, yearning, longing,--there, at last, he rests, life's long anguish over! my heart melted as i looked at these two, so long divided,--he so long a mourner, she so long mourned,--now calmly resting side by side in a sleep so tranquil. we went through the palace. we saw the present king's writing desk and table in his study, just as he left them. his writing establishment is about as plain as yours. men who really mean to do any thing do not use fancy tools. his bed room, also, is in a style of severe simplicity. there were several engravings fastened against the wall; and in the anteroom a bust and medallion of the empress eugenie--a thing which i should not exactly have expected in a born king's palace; but beauty is sacred, and kings cannot call it _parvenu_. then we went into the queen's bed room, finished in green, and then through the rooms of queen louisa. those marks of her presence, which you saw during the old king's lifetime, are now removed: we saw no traces of her dresses, gloves, or books. in one room, draped in white muslin over pink, we were informed the empress of russia was born. in going out to charlottenburg, we rode through the thiergarten, the tuileries of berlin. in one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is the monument erected by the people of berlin to their old king. the pedestal is carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called garden pleasures--children in all manner of out-door sports, and parents fondly looking on. it is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those grounds where parents and children are constantly congregating. the whole is surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble--the finest representation of him i have ever seen. thoughtful, yet benign, the old king seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch over the pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. there was something about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and pastoral, that i at once preferred them to all i had seen in europe. choice flowers are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks, as if they had grown by accident; and an air of sweet, natural wildness is left amid the most careful cultivation. the people seemed to be enjoying themselves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in france, but with a calm inwardness. each nation has its own way of being happy, and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of appropriateness to character. the trim, gay, dressy, animated air of the tuileries suits admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society there. both, in their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal, and more according to nature. as we were riding home, our guide, who was a full feathered monarchist, told us, with some satisfaction, the number of palaces in prussia. suddenly, to my astonishment, "young america" struck into the conversation in the person of little g. "we do things more economically in america. our president don't have sixty palaces; he has to be satisfied with one white house." the guide entered into an animated defence of king and country. these palaces--did not the king keep them for the people? did he not bear all the expense of caring for them, that they might furnish public pleasure grounds and exhibition rooms? had we not seen the people walking about in them, and enjoying themselves? this was all true enough, and we assented. the guide continued, did not the king take the public money to make beautiful museums for the people, where they could study the fine arts?--and did our government do any such thing? i thought of our surplus revenue, and laid my hand on my mouth. but yet there is a progress of democratic principle indicated by this very understanding that the king is to hold things for the benefit of the people. times are altered since louis xiv. was instructed by his tutor, as he looked out on a crowd of people, "these are all yours;" and since he said, "_l'élot, c'est moi_" our guide seemed to feel bound, however, to exhaust himself in comparison of our defects with their excellences. "some prussians went over to america to live," he said, "and had to come back again; they could not live there." "why not?" said i. "o, they said there was nothing done there but working and going to church!" "that's a fact," said w., with considerable earnestness. "yes," said our guide; "they said we have but one life to live, and we want to have some comfort in it." it is a curious fact, that just in proportion as a country is free and self-governed it has fewer public amusements. america and scotland have the fewest of any, and italy the most. nevertheless, i am far from thinking that this is either necessary or desirable: the subject of providing innocent public amusements for the masses is one that we ought seriously to consider. in berlin, and in all other german cities, there are gardens and public grounds in which there are daily concerts of a high order, and various attractions, to which people can gain admittance for a very trifling sum. these refine the feelings, and cultivate the taste; they would be particularly useful in america in counteracting that tendency to a sordid materialism, which is one of our great national dangers. we went over the berlin museum. in general style greek--but greek vitalized by the infusion of the german mind. in its general arrangements one of the most gorgeous and impressive combinations of art which i have seen. here are the great frescoes of kaulbach, cornelius, and other german artists, who have so grafted grecian ideas into the german stock that the growth has the foliage and coloring of a new plant. one set of frescoes, representing the climate and scenery of greece, had on me a peculiar and magical effect. alas! there never has been the greece that we conceive; we see it under the soft, purple veil of distance, like an alpine valley embraced by cloudy mountains; but there was the same coarse dust and _débris_ of ordinary life there as with us. the true arcadia lies beyond the grave. the collection of pictures is rich in historic curiosities--valuable as marking the progress of art. one claude lorraine here was a matchless specimen--a perfect victory over all the difficulties of green landscape painting. letter xlv. wittenberg. my dear:-- i am here in the station house at wittenberg. i have been seeing and hearing to-day for you, and now sit down to put on paper the results of my morning. "what make you from wittenberg?" wittenberg! name of the dreamy past; dimly associated with hamlet, denmark, the moonlight terrace, and the baltic sea, by one line of shakspeare; but made more living by those who have thought, loved, and died here; nay, by those who cannot die, and whose life has been life to all coming ages. how naturally, on reaching a place long heard of and pondered, do we look round for something uncommon, quaint, and striking! nothing of the kind was here; only the dead flat of this most level scenery, with its dreary prairie-like sameness. certainly it was not this scenery that stirred up a soul in luther, and made him nail up his theses on the wittenberg church door. "but, at any rate, let us go to wittenberg," said i; "get a guide, a carriage, cannot you?" as i walked to one window of the station house and another, and looked out to see something wonderful. nothing was in sight, however; and after the usual sputter of gutturals which precedes any arrangement in this country, we were mounted in a high, awkward carriage, and rode to the town. two ancient round tower and a wall first met my eye; then a drawbridge, arched passage, and portcullis. under this passage we passed, and at our right hand was the church, where once was laid the worn form that had stood so many whirlwinds--where, in short, luther was buried. but this we did not then know; so we drove by, and went to a hotel. talked english and got german; talked french with no better success. at last, between w., g., and the dictionary, managed to make it understood that we wanted a guide to the luther relics. a guide was after a time forthcoming, in the person of a little woman who spoke no english, whom, guide book in hand, we followed. the church is ancient, and, externally, impressive enough; inside it is wide, cold, whitewashed, prosaic; whoever gets up feeling does it against wind and tide, so far as appearances are concerned. we advance to the spot in the floor where our guide raises a trap door, and shows us underneath the plate inscribed with the name of luther, and by it the plate recording the resting-place of his well-beloved philip melanchthon; then to the grave of the elector of saxony, and john the steadfast; on one side a full length of luther, by lucas cranach; on the other, one of melanchthon, by the same hand. well, we have seen; this is all; "he is not here, he is risen." "is this all?" "all," says our guide, and we go out. i look curiously at the old door where luther nailed up his theses; but even this is not the identical door; that was destroyed by the french. still, under that arched doorway he stood, hammer and nails in hand; he held up his paper, he fitted it straight; rap, rap,--there, one nail--another--it is up, and he stands looking at it. these very stones were over that head that are now over mine, this very ground beneath his feet. as i turned away i gave an earnest look at the old church. grass is growing on its buttresses; it has a desolate look, though strong and well kept. the party pass on, and i make haste to overtake them. down we go, doing penance over the round paving stones; and our next halt is momentary. in the market-place, before the town house, (a huge, three-gabled building, like a beast of three horns,) stands luther's bronze monument; apple women and pear women, onion and beet women, are thickly congregated around, selling as best they may. there stands luther, looking benignantly, holding and pointing to the open bible; the women, meanwhile, thinking we want fruit, hold up their wares and talk german. but our conductress has a regular guide's trot, inexorable as fate; so on we go. wittenberg is now a mean little town; all looks poor and low; yet it seems like a place that has seen better days. houses, now used as paltry shops, have, some of them, carved oaken doors, with antic freaks of architecture, which seem to signify that their former owners were able to make a figure in the world. in fact, the houses seem a sort of phantasmagoria of decayed gentlefolk, in the faded, tarnished, old-fashioned finery of the past. our guide halts her trot suddenly before a house, which she announces as that of louis cranach; then on she goes. louis is dead, and magdalen, his wife, also; so there is no one there to welcome us; on we go also. once louis was a man of more consequence. now we come to luther's house--a part of the old convent. wide yawns the stone doorway of the court; a grinning masque grotesquely looks down from its centre, and odd carvings from the sides. a colony of swallows have established their nests among the queer old carvings and gnome-like faces, and are twittering in and out, superintending their domestic arrangements. we enter a court surrounded with buildings; then ascend, through a strange doorway, a winding staircase, passing small, lozenge-shaped window. up these stairs _he_ oft trod, in all the moods of that manifold and wonderful nature--gay, joyous, jocose, fervent, defiant, imploring; and up these stairs have trod wondering visitors, thronging from all parts of the world, to see the man of the age. up these stairs come philip melanchthon, lucas cranach, and their wives, to see how fares luther after some short journey, or some new movement. now, all past, all solitary; the stairs dirty, the windows dim. [illustration: _of luther's room._] and this is luther's room. it was a fine one in its day, that is plain. the arched recesses of the windows; the roof, divided in squares, and, like the walls and cornice, painted in fresco; the windows, with their quaint, round panes,--all, though now so soiled and dim, speak plainly of a time when life was here, and all things wore a rich and joyous glow. in this room that great heart rejoiced in the blessedness of domestic life, and poured forth some of those exulting strains, glorifying the family state, which yet remain. here his little magdalen, his little jacky, and the rest made joyous uproar. there stands his writing table, a heavy mass of wood; clumsy as the time and its absurdities, rougher now than ever, in its squalid old age, and partly chipped away by relic seekers. here he sat; here lay his paper; over this table was bent that head whose brain power was the earthquake of europe. here he wrote books which he says were rained, hailed, and snowed from the press in every language and tongue. kings and emperors could not bind the influence from this writing table; and yet here, doubtless, he wrestled, struggled, prayed, and such tears as only he could shed fell upon it. nothing of all this says the table. it only stands a poor, ungainly relic of the past; the inspiring angel is gone upward. catharine's nicely-carved cabinet, with its huge bunches of oaken flowers hanging down between its glass panels, shows luther's drinking cup. there is also his embroidered portrait, on which, doubtless, she expended much thought, as she evidently has much gold thread. i seem to see her conceiving the bold design--she will work the doctor's likeness. she asks magdalen cranach's opinion, and magdalen asks lucas's, and there is a deal of discussion, and lucas makes wise suggestions. in the course of many fireside chats, the thing grows. philip and his kate, dropping in, are shown it. little jacky and magdalen, looking shyly over their mother's shoulder, are wonderfully impressed with the likeness, and think their mother a great woman. luther takes it in hand, and passes some jests upon it, which make them laugh all round, and so at last it grows to be a veritable likeness. poor, faded, tarnished thing! it looks like a ghost now. in one corner is a work of art by luther--no less than a stove planned after his own pattern. it is a high, black, iron pyramid, panelled, each panel presenting in relief some scripture subject. considering the remote times, this stove is quite an affair; the figures are, some of them, spirited and well conceived, though now its lustre, like all else here, is obscured by dust and dirt. why do the germans leave this place so dirty? the rooms of shakspeare are kept clean and in repair; the catholics enshrine in gold and silver the relics of their saints, but this protestant mecca is left literally to the moles and the bats. i slipped aside a panel in the curious old windows, and looked down into the court surrounded by the university buildings. i fancied the old times when students, with their scholastic caps and books, were momently passing and repassing. i thought of the stir there was here when the pope's bull against luther came out, and of the pattering of feet and commotion there were in this court, when luther sallied out to burn the pope's bull under the oak, just beyond the city wall near by. the students thought it good fun; students are always progressive; they admired the old boy for his spirit; they threw up caps and shouted, and went out to see the ceremony with a will. philip melanchthon wondered if brother martin was not going a little too fast, but hoped it would be overruled, and that all would be for the best! so, coming out, i looked longingly beyond the city gate, and wanted to go to the place of the oak tree, where the ceremony was performed, but the party had gone on. [illustration: _of melanchthon's house._] coming back, i made a pause opposite the house on which is seen the inscription, "here melanchthon lived, labored, and died." a very good house it was, too, in its day; in architecture it was not unlike this. i went across the street to take a good look at it; then i came over, and as the great arched door stood open, i took the liberty of walking in. like other continental houses, this had an arched passage running through to a back court and a side door. a stone stairway led up from this into the house, and a small square window, with little round panes, looked through into the passage. a young child was toddling about there, and i spoke to it; a man came out, and looked as if he rather wondered what i might be about; so i retreated. then i threaded my way past queer peaked-roofed buildings to a paved court, where stood the old church--something like that in halle, a great gothic structure, with two high towers connected by a gallery. i entered. like the other church it has been whitewashed, and has few architectural attractions. it is very large, with two galleries, one over the other, and might hold, i should think, five thousand people. here luther preached. these walls, now so silent, rung to the rare melody of that voice, to which the roman catholic writers attributed some unearthly enchantment, so did it sway all who listened. here, clustering round these pillars, standing on these flags, were myriads of human beings; and what heart-beatings, what surgings of thought, what tempests of feeling, what aspirations, what strivings, what conflicts shook that multitude, and possessed them as he spoke! "i preach," he said, "not for professor this or that, nor for the elector or prince, but for poor jack behind the door;" and so, striking only on the chords common to all hearts, he bowed all, for he who can inspire the illiterate and poor, callous with ignorance and toil, can move also the better informed. here, also, that voice of his, which rose above the choir and organ, sang the alto in those chorals which he gave to the world. monmouth, sung in this great church by five thousand voices, must needs have a magnificent sound. the altar-piece is a lord's supper, by louis cranach, who appears in the foreground as a servant. on each side are the pictures of the sacraments. in baptism, melanchthon stands by a laver, holding a dripping baby, whom he has just immersed, one of luther's children, i suppose, for he is standing by; a venerable personage in a long beard holds the towel to receive the little neophyte. from all i know of babies, i should think this form of baptism liable to inconvenient accessories and consequences. on the other side, luther is preaching, and opposite, foremost of his audience are, catharine and her little son. every thing shows how strictly intimate were luther, melanchthon, and cranach; good sociable times they had together. a slab elaborately carved, in the side of the church, marks the last rest of lucas and magdalen cranach. i passed out of the church, and walked slowly down to the hotel, purchasing by the way, at a mean little shop, some tolerable engravings of luther's room, the church, &c. to show how immutable every thing has been in wittenberg since luther died, let me mention that on coming back through the market-place, we found spread out for sale upon a cloth about a dozen pairs of shoes of the precise pattern of those belonging to luther, which we had seen in frankfort--clumsy, rude, and heelless. i have heard that swedenborg said, that in his visit to the invisible world, he encountered a class of spirits who had been there fifty years, and had not yet found out that they were dead. these wittenbergers, i think, must be of the same conservative turn of mind. failing to get a carriage to the station, we started to walk. i paused a moment before the church, to make some little corrections and emendations in my engravings, and thought, as i was doing so, of that quite other scene years ago, when the body of luther was borne through this gate by a concourse of weeping thousands. these stones, on which i was standing, then echoed all night to the tread of a closely-packed multitude--a muffled sound, like the patter of rain among leaves. there rose through the long, dark hours, alternately, the unrestrained sobbings of the throng, and the grand choral of luther's psalms, words and music of his own. never since the world began was so strange a scene as that. i felt a kind of shadow from it, as i walked homeward gazing on the flat, dreamy distance. a great windmill was creaking its sombre, lazy vanes round and round,--strange, goblin things, these windmills,--and i thought of one of luther's sayings. "the heart of a human creature is like the millstones: if corn be shaken thereon, it grindeth the corn, and maketh good meal; but if no corn be there, then it grindeth away itself." luther tried the latter process all the first part of his life; but he got the corn at last, and a magnificent grist he made. arrived at the station, we found we must wait till half past five in the afternoon for the train. this would have been an intolerable doom in the disconsolate precincts of an english or american station, but not in a german one. as usual, this had a charming garden, laid out with exquisite taste, and all glowing and fragrant with plats of verbena, fuschias, heliotropes, mignonette, pansies, while rows of hothouse flowers, set under the shelter of neatly trimmed hedges, gave brightness to the scene. among all these pretty grounds were seats and walks, and a gardener, with his dear pipe in his mouth, was moving about, watering his dear flowers, thus combining the two delights of a german, flowers and smoke. these germans seem an odd race, a mixture of clay and spirit--what with their beer drinking and smoking, and their slow, stolid ways, you would think them perfectly earthly; but an ethereal fire is all the while working in them, and bursting out in most unexpected little jets of poetry and sentiment, like blossoms on a cactus. the station room was an agreeable one, painted prettily in frescoes, with two sofas. so we arranged ourselves in a party. s. and i betook ourselves to our embroidery, and c. read aloud to us, or tried the amati, and when we were tired of reading and music we strolled in the garden, and i wrote to you. i wonder why we anglo-saxons cannot imitate the liberality of the continent in the matter of railroad stations, and give the traveller something more agreeable than the grim, bare, forbidding places, which now obtain in england and america. this wittenberg is but a paltry town; and yet how much care is spent to make the station house comfortable and comely! i may here say that nowhere in europe is railway travelling so entirely convenient as in germany, particularly in prussia. all is systematic and orderly; no hurrying or shoving, or disagreeable fuss at stations. the second class cars are, in most points, as good as the first class in england; the conductors are dignified and gentlemanly; you roll on at a most agreeable pace from one handsome station house to another, finding yourself disposed to be pleased with every thing. there is but one drawback to all this, and that is the smoking. mythologically represented, these germans might be considered as a race born of chimneys, with a necessity for smoking in their very nature. a german walking without his pipe is only a dormant volcano; it is in him to smoke all the while; you may be sure the crater will begin to fume before long. smoking is such an acknowledged attribute of manhood, that the gentler sex seem to have given in to it as one of the immutable things of nature; consequently all the public places where both sexes meet are redolent of tobacco! you see a gentleman doing the agreeable to a lady, cigar in mouth, treating her alternately to an observation and a whiff, both of which seem to her equally matters of course. in the cars some attempt at regulation subsists; there are cars marked "_nich rauchen_" into which _we_ were always very careful to get; but even in these it is not always possible to make a german suspend an operation which is to him about the same as breathing. on our way from frankfort to halle, in a "_nich rauchen_" car, too, a jolly old gentleman, whose joyous and abundant german sounded to me like the clatter of a thousand of brick, wound up a kind of promiscuous avalanche of declamation by pulling a matchbox from his pocket, and proceeding deliberately to light his pipe. the tobacco was detestable. now, if a man _must_ smoke, i think he is under moral obligation to have decent tobacco. i began to turn ill, and c. attacked the offender in french; not a word did he understand, and puffed on tranquil and happy. the idea that any body did not like smoke was probably the last that could ever be made to enter his head, even in a language that he did understand. c. then enlisted the next neighbor, who understood french, and got him to interpret that smoke made the lady ill. the chimney-descended man now took his pipe out, and gazed at it and me alternately, with an air of wondering incredulity, and seemed trying to realize some vast conception, but failing in the effort, put his pipe back, and smoked as before! some old ladies now amiably offered to change places with me, evidently regarding me as the victim of some singular idiosyncrasy. as i changed, a light seemed to dawn on the old chimney's mind--a good-natured one he was; he looked hard at me, and his whiffs became fainter till at last they ceased, and he never smoked more till i was safe out of the cars. letter xlvi. erfurt, saturday evening. my dear:-- i have just been to luther's cell in the old augustine convent, and if my pilgrimage at wittenberg was less interesting by the dirt and discomfort of the actual present, here were surroundings less calculated to jar on the frame the scene should inspire. it was about sunset,--a very golden and beautiful one, and c. and i drove through various streets of this old town. i believe i am peculiarly alive to architectural excitements, for these old houses, with their strange windows, odd chimneys, and quaint carvings, delight me wonderfully. many of them are almost gnome-like in their uncouthness; they please me none the less for that. we drove first to the cathedral, which, with an old deserted church, seemingly part of itself, forms a pile of gothic architecture, a wilderness of spires, minarets, arches, and what not, more picturesque than any cathedral i have seen. it stands high on a sort of platform overlooking a military parade ground, and reached by a long flight of steps. the choir is very beautiful. i cannot describe how these lofty arches, with their stained glass windows, touch my heart. architecture never can, and never will, produce their like again. they give us aspiration in its highest form and noblest symbol, and wonderful was that mind which conceived them. this choir so darkly bright, its stalls and seats carved in black oak, its flame-like arches, gorgeous with evening light, were a preparation and excitement of mind. yet it's remarkable about these old-time cathedrals, that while their is every grand and solemn effect of architecture, there is also always an abundance of subordinate parts, mean, tawdry, revolting, just like the whole system they represent. out of this beautiful choir i wanted to tear all the tinsel fixtures on its altar, except two very good pictures, and leave it in it noble simplicity. i remarked here a black oak chandelier, which the guide said was taken from the cathedral of cologne. it was the very perfection of gothic carving, and resembled frostwork in its lightness. the floor of the cathedral was covered with effigies in stone, trod smooth by the feet of worshippers; so we living ones are ever walking above the dead, though we do not always, as here, see the outward sign thereof. from the cathedral we passed out, and stopped a moment to examine the adjoining church, now deserted, but whose three graceful spires have a peculiar beauty. after a turn upon the platform we descended, and drove to the augustine convent, now used as an orphan asylum. we ascended through a court yard, full of little children, by some steps into a gallery, where a woman came out with her keys. we passed first into a great hall, the walls of which were adorned with holbein's dance of death. from this hall we passed into luther's room--a little cell, ten feet square; the walls covered with inscriptions from his writings. there we saw his inkstand, his pocket testament, a copy of the bible that was presented to him, (by whom i could not understand,) splendidly bound and illuminated. but it was the cell itself which affected me, the windows looking out into what were the cloisters of the monastery. here was that struggle--that mortal agony--that giant soul convulsing and wearing down that strong frame. these walls! to what groans, to what prayers had they listened! could we suppose a living human form imperishable, capable of struggling and suffering, but not of dying, buried beneath the whole weight of one of these gloomy cathedrals, suffocating in mortal agony, hearing above the tramp of footsteps, the peal of organs, the triumphant surge of chants, and vainly striving to send up its cries under all this load,--such, it would seem, was the suffering of this mighty soul. the whole pomp and splendor of this gorgeous prison house was piled up on his breast, and _his_ struggles rent the prison for the world! on a piece of parchment which is here kept framed is inscribed in luther's handwriting, in latin, "death is swallowed up in victory!" nothing better could be written on the walls of this cell. this afternoon i walked out a little to observe the german sabbath. not like the buoyant, voluble, social sunday of paris, though still consecrated to leisure and family enjoyment more than to religious exercises. as i walked down the streets, the doors were standing open, men smoking their pipes, women knitting, and children playing. one place of resort was the graveyard of an antiquated church. a graveyard here is quite different from the solitary, dismal place where we lay our friends, as if to signify that all intercourse with them is at an end. each grave was trimmed and garlanded with flowers, fastened with long strings of black or white ribbon. around and among the graves men, women, and children were walking, the men smoking and chatting, not noisily, but in a cheerful, earnest way. it seems to me that this way of treating the dead might lessen the sense of separation. i believe it is generally customary to attend some religious exercise once on sunday, and after that the rest of the day is devoted to this sort of enjoyment. [illustration: _of the wartburg._] the morning we started for eisenach was foggy and rainy. this was unfortunate, as we were changing from a dead level country to one of extreme beauty. the thuringian forest, with its high, wooded points crowned here and there with many a castle and many a ruin, loomed up finely through the mist, and several times i exclaimed, "there is the wartburg," or "that must be the wartburg," long before we were near it. it was raining hard when we reached eisenach station, and engaged a carriage to take us to the wartburg. the mist, which wreathed thickly around, showed us only glimpses as we wound slowly up the castle hill--enough, however, to pique the imagination, and show how beautiful it might be in fair weather. the grounds are finely kept: winding paths invite to many a charming stroll. when about half way up, as the rain had partially subsided, i left the carriage, and toiled up the laborious steep on foot, that i might observe better. you approach the castle by a path cut through the rock for about thirty or forty feet. at last i stood under a low archway of solid stone masonry, about twenty feet thick. there had evidently been three successive doors; the outer one was gone, and the two inner were wonderfully massive, braced with iron, and having each a smaller wicket door swung back on its hinges. as my party were a little behind, i had time to stop and meditate. i fancied a dark, misty night, and the tramp of a party of horsemen coming up the rocky path to the gateway; the parley at the wicket; the unbarred doors, creaking on their rusty hinges,--one, two, three,--are opened; in clatters the cavalcade. in the midst of armed men with visors down, a monk in cowl and gown, and with that firm look about the lips which is so characteristic in luther's portraits. but here our party came up, and the vision was dispelled. as none of us knew a word of german, we stood rather irresolutely looking at the buildings which, in all shapes and varieties, surround the court. i went into one room--it was a pantry; into another--it was a wash room; into a third--it was a sitting room, garnished with antlers, and hung round with hard old portraits of princes and electors, and occupied by germans smoking and drinking beer. one is sure that in this respect one cannot fail of seeing the place as it was in luther's time. if they were germans, of course they drank beer out of tall, narrow beer glasses; that is as immutable a fact as the old stones of the battlement. "h.," said c., "did the germans use to smoke in luther's day?" "no. why?" " , nothing. only, what could they do with themselves?" "i do not know, unless they drank the more beer." "but what could they do with their chimney-hood?" so saying, the saucy fellow prowled about promiscuously a while, assailing one and another in french, to about as much purpose as one might have tried to storm the walls with discharges of thistle down; all smoked and drank as before. but as several other visitors arrived, and it became evident that if we did not come to see the castle, it was not likely we came for any thing else, a man was fished up from some depths unknown, with a promising bunch of keys. he sallied forth to that part of the castle which is undergoing repairs. passing through bricks and mortar, under scaffolds, &c., we came to the armory, full of old knights and steeds in complete armor; that is to say, the armor was there, and, without peeping between the crevices, one could hardly tell that their owners were not at home in their iron houses. there sat the elector of saxony, in full armor, on his horse, which was likewise cased in steel. there was the suit of armor in which constable bourbon fell under the walls of rome, and other celebrated suits, some covered with fine engraved work, and some gilded. a quantity of banners literally hung in tatters, dropping to pieces with age. here were the middle ages all standing. then we passed up to a grand hall, which is now being restored with great taste after the style of that day--a long, lofty room, with an arched roof, and a gallery on one side, and beyond, a row of romanesque arched windows, commanding a view of the country around. having finished the tour of this part, we went back, ascended an old, rude staircase, and were ushered into luther's patmos, about ten or twelve feet square. the window looked down the rocky sides into an ocean of seething mist. i opened it, but could see nothing of all those scenes he describes so graphically from this spot. i thought of his playful letter on the "diet of the rooks," but there was not a rook at hand to illustrate antiquity. there was his bedstead and footstool, a mammoth vertebra, and his writing table. a sculptured chair, the back of which is carved into a cherub's head, bending forward and shadowing with its wings the head of the sitter, was said to be of the time of luther, but not _his_ chair. there were some of his books, and a rude, iron-studded clothes press. thus ended for me the lutheran pilgrimage. i had now been perseveringly to all the shrines, and often inquired of myself whether our conceptions are helped by such visitations. i decided the question in the affirmative; that they are, if from the dust of the present we can recreate the past, and bring again before us the forms as they then lived, moved, and had their being. for me, i seem to have seen luther, cranach, melanchthon, and all the rest of them--to have talked with them. by the by, i forgot to mention the portraits of luther's father and mother, which are in his cell. they show that his _mother_ was no common woman. she puts me in mind of the mother of samuel j. mills--a strong, shrewd, bright, new england character. i must not forget to notice, too, a little glitter of effect--a little, shadowy, fanciful phase of feeling--that came over me when in luther's cell at erfurt. the time, as i told you, was golden twilight, and little birds were twittering and chirping around the casement, and i thought how he might have sat there, in some golden evening, sad and dreamy, hearing the birds chirp, and wondering why he alone of all creation should be so sad. i have not a doubt he has done that very thing in this very spot. journal--(continued.) monday, august . from eisenach, where we dined cozily in the railroad station house, we took the cars for cassel. after we had established ourselves comfortably in a _nich rauchen_ car, a gentleman, followed by a friend, came to the door with a cigar in his mouth. seeing ladies, he inquired if he could smoke. comprehending his look and gesture, we said, "no." but as we spoke very gently, he misunderstood us, and entered. seeing by our looks that something was amiss, he repeated the question more emphatically in german: "can i smoke? yes, or no." "no," we answered in full chorus. discomfited, he retired with rather a flushed cheek. we saw him prospecting up and down the train, hunting for a seat, followed by his _fidus achates_. finally, a guard took him in tow, and after navigating a while brought him to our door; but the gentleman recoiled, said something in german, and passed on. again they made the whole circuit of the train, and then we saw the guard coming, with rather a fierce, determined air, straight to our door. he opened it very decidedly, and ordered the gentleman to enter. he entered, cigar and all. his friend followed. "well," said h., in english, "i suppose he must either smoke or die." "ah, yes," i replied, "for the sake of saving his life we will even let him smoke." "hope the tobacco is good," added h.; and we went on reading our "villette," which was very amusing just then. the gentleman had his match already lighted, and was just in the act of puffing preliminarily when h. first spoke. i thought i saw a peculiar expression on his friend's face. he dropped a word or two in german, as if quite incidentally, and i soon observed that the smoking made small progress. pie kept the cigar in his mouth, it is true, for a while, just to show he would smoke if he chose; but his whiffs were fewer and fainter every minute; and after reading several chapters, happening to cast my eye that way, the cigar had disappeared. not long after the friend, sitting opposite me, addressed w. in _good english_, and they were soon well agoing in a friendly discussion of our route. the winged word had hit the mark that time. we passed the night in an agreeable hotel, roi de prusse, at cassel. by the way, it occurred to us that this was where the hessians came from in the old revolutionary times. tuesday, august . a long, dull ride from cassel to dusseldorf. wednesday, august . whittridge came at breakfast. the same mellow, friendly, good-humored voice, and genial soul, i had loved years ago in the heart of indiana. we had a brief festival of talk about old times, art, artists, and friends, and the tide of time rolled in and swept us asunder. success to his pencil in the enchanted glades of germany! america will yet be proud of his landscapes, as italy of claude, or england of turner. ho for anvers! (antwerp.) through aix-la-chapelle, liége, malines, till nine at night. thursday, august . what gnome's cave is this antwerp, where i have been hearing such strange harmonies in the air all night? we drive to the cathedral, whose tower reminded napoleon of mechlin lace. what a shower of sprinkling music drops comes from the sky above us! we must go up and see about this. we spiralize through a tubular stairway to an immense height--a tube of stone, like a titanic organ pipe, filled with waves of sound pouring down like a deluge. undulations tremendous, yet not intolerable: we soon learned their origin. reaching a small door, i turned aside, and came where the great bell was hung, which twenty men were engaged in ringing. it was a _fête_ day. i crept inside the frame, and stood actually under the colossal mass, as it swung like a world in its spheric chime. a new sense was developed, such as i had heard of the deaf possessing. i seemed existing in a new medium. i _felt_ the sound in my lungs, in my bones, on all my nerves to the minutest fibre, and yet it did not stupefy nor stun me with a harsh clangor. it was _deep_, deep. it was an abyss, gorgeously illuminated of velvet softness, in which i floated. the sound was fluid like water about me. i closed my eyes. where was i? had some prodigious monster swallowed me, and, like another jonah, had i "gone down beneath the bottoms of the mountains"? i escaped from that perilous womb of sound, and ascended still higher. there was the mystery of that nocturnal minstrelsy. seventy-three bells in chromatic diapason--with their tinkling, ringing, tolling, knolling peal! was not that a chime? a chime of chimes? and all these goblin hammers, like hands and feet of sprites, rising and falling, by magic, by hidden mechanism. of all german cactus blossoms this is the most ethereal. what head conceived those harmonies, so ghostlike? every ten minutes, if you lie wakeful, they wind you up in a net of silver wirework, and swing you in the clouds; and the next time they swing you higher, and the next higher, and when the round hour is full the giant bell strikes at the gate of heaven to bring you home! but this is dreaming. fie, fie! let us come down to pictures, masses, and common sense. we came down. we entered the room, and sat before the descent from the cross, where the dead body of jesus seems an actual reality before you. the waves of the high mass came rolling in, muffled by intervening walls, columns, corridors, in a low, mysterious murmur. then organ, orchestra, and choir, with rising voices urged the mighty acclaim, till the waves seemed beating down the barriers upon us. the combined excitement of the chimes, the painting, the music, was too much. i seemed to breathe ether. treading on clouds, as it were, i entered the cathedral, and the illusion vanished. friday, august . antwerp to paris. saturday, august . h. and i take up our abode at the house of m. belloc, where we find every thing so pleasant, that we sigh to think how soon we must leave these dear friends. the rest of our party are at the hotel bedford. letter xlvii. antwerp. my dear:-- of all quaint places this is one of the most charming. i have been rather troubled that antiquity has fled before me where i have gone. it is a fatality of travelling that the sense of novelty dies away, so that we do not realize that we are seeing any thing extraordinary. i wanted to see something as quaint as nuremberg in longfellow's poem, and have but just found it. these high-gabled old flemish houses, nine steps to each gable! the cathedral, too, affects me more in externals than any yet. and the spire looks as i expected that of strasbourg would. as to the grammarye of bells and chimes, i deliver that over to charlie. but--i have seen rubens's painting! before i came to europe, longfellow said to me, "you must go to antwerp, to see rubens." "i do not think i shall like rubens," was my reply. "but you will, though. yet never judge till you have been to antwerp." so, during our various meanders, i kept my eye with a steady resolve on this place. i confess i went out to see the painting without much enthusiasm. my experience with correggio's notte, and some of the celebrities of dresden, was not encouraging. i was weary, too, with sightseeing. i expected to find an old, dim picture, half spoiled by cleaning, which i should be required to look into shape, by an exercise of my jaded imagination. alter coming down from hearing the chimes, we went into a side room, and sat down before the painting. my first sensation was of astonishment, blank, absolute, overwhelming. after all that i had seen, i had no idea of a painting like this. i was lifted off my feet, as much as by cologne cathedral, or niagara falls, so that i could neither reason nor think whether i was pleased or not. it is difficult, even now, to analyze the sources of this wonderful power. the excellence of this picture does not lie, like raphael's, in a certain ideal spirituality, by which the scene is raised above earth to the heavenly sphere; but rather in a power, strong, human, almost homely, by which, not an ideal, but the real scene is forced home upon the heart. _christ is dead_,--dead to your eye as he was to the eye of mary and of john. death absolute, hopeless, is written in the faded majesty of that face, peaceful and weary; death in every relaxed muscle. and, surely, in painting this form, some sentiment of reverence and devotion softened into awestruck tenderness that hand commonly so vigorous; for, instead of the almost coarse vitality which usually pervades his manly figures, there is shed over this a spiritualized refinement, not less, but more than human, as if some heavenly voice whispered, "this is the lamb slain from the foundation of the world!" the figures of the disciples are real and individual in expression. the sorrow is homely, earnest, unpicturesque, and grievously heart broken. the cheek of the kneeling mary at his feet is wet with tears. you cannot ask yourself whether she is beautiful or not. you only see and sympathize with her sorrow. but the apostle john, who receives into his arms the descending form, is the most wonderful of all. painters that i have seen represent him too effeminately. they forget the ardent soul whom jesus rebuked for wishing to bring down fire from heaven on his enemies; they forget that it was john who was called the son of thunder, and that his emblem in the early church was the eagle. from the spiritualized softness of his writings we have formed another picture, forgetting that these are the writings of an aged man, in whom the ardor of existence has been softened by long experience of suffering, and habits of friendship with a suffering lord. rubens's conception of john is that of a vigorous and plenary manhood, whose rush is like that of a torrent, in the very moment when his great heart is breaking. he had loved his master with a love like an eternity; he had believed him; heart and soul, mind and strength--all had he given to that kingdom which he was to set up; and he had seen him die--die by lingering torture. and at this moment he feels it all. there is no christ, no kingdom--nothing! all is over. "we _trusted_ it had been he who should have redeemed israel." with that miraculous, lifelike power that only rubens has, he shows him to us in this moment of suppressed agony; the blood choking his heart, the veins swollen, and every muscle quivering with the grief to which he will not give way. o, for this wonderful and deep conception, this almost divine insight into the mysteries of that hour, one might love rubens. this picture cannot be engraved. no engraving is more than a diagram, to show the places of the figures. for, besides its mesmeric life, which no artist can reproduce, there is a balancing of colors, a gorgeousness about it, as if he had learned coloring from the great master himself. even in the overpowering human effect of this piece, it is impossible not to perceive that every difficulty which artists vaunt themselves on vanquishing has in this piece been conquered with apparently instinctive ease, simply because it was habitual to do so, and without in the least distracting the attention from the great moral. magical foreshortenings and wonderful effects of color appear to be purely incidental to the expression of a great idea. i left this painting as one should leave the work of a great religious master-- thinking more of jesus and of john than of rubens. after this we went through many galleries and churches devoted to his works; for antwerp is rubens's shrine. none of them impressed me, as compared with this. one of his madonnas, however, i must not forget to describe, it was a conceit so just like him. instead of the pale, downcast, or upturned faces, which form the general types of madonna, he gives her to us, in one painting, as a gorgeous oriental sultana, leaning over a balcony, with full, dark eye and jewelled turban, and rounded outlines, sustaining on her hand a brilliant paroquet. ludicrous as this conception appears in a scriptural point of view, i liked it because there was life in it; because he had painted it from an internal sympathy, not from a chalky, second-hand tradition. and now, farewell to antwerp. art has satisfied me at last. i have been conquered, and that is enough. to-morrow for paris. adieu. letter xlviii. paris, saturday, august . my dear:-- i am seated in my snug little room at m. belloc's. the weather is overpoweringly hot, but these parisian houses seem to have seized and imprisoned coolness. french household ways are delightful. i like their seclusion from the street, by these deep-paved quadrangles. i like these cool, smooth, waxed floors so much that i one day queried with my friends, the c.'s, whether we could not introduce them into america. l., who is a yankee housekeeper, answered, with spirit, "no, indeed; not while the mistress of the house has every thing to do, as in america; i think i see myself, in addition to all my cares, on my knees, waxing up one of these floors." "ah," says caroline, "the thing is managed better in paris; the _frotteur_ comes in before we are up in the morning, shod with great brushes, and dances over the floors till they shine." "i am sure," said i, "here is fourrier's system in one particular. we enjoy the floors, and the man enjoys the dancing." madame belloc had fitted up my room with the most thoughtful care. a large bouquet adorns the table; fancy writing materials are displayed; and a waiter, with sirups and an extempore soda fount, one of parisian household refinements, stands just at my elbow. above all, my walls are hung with beautiful engravings from claude and zuccarelli. this house pertains to the government, and is held by m. belloc in virtue of his situation as director of the imperial school of design, to which institution about one half of it is devoted. a public examination is at hand, in preparing for which m. belloc is heart and soul engaged. this school is a government provision for the gratuitous instruction of the working classes in art. i went into the rooms where the works of the scholars are arranged for the inspection of the judges. the course of instruction is excellent--commencing with the study of nature. around the room various plants are growing, which serve for models, interspersed with imitations in drawing or modelling, by the pupils. i noticed a hollyhock and thistle, modelled with singular accuracy. as some pupils can come only at evening, m. belloc has prepared a set of casts of plants, which he says are plaster daguerreotypes. by pouring warm gelatine upon a leaf, a delicate mould is made, from which these casts are taken. he showed me bunches of leaves, and branches of the vine, executed by them, which were beautiful. in like manner the pupil commences the study of the human figure, with the skeleton, which he copies bone by bone. gutta percha muscles are added in succession, till finally he has the whole form. besides, each student has particular objects given him to study for a certain period, after which he copies them from memory. the same course is pursued with prints and engravings. when an accurate knowledge of forms is gained, the pupil receives lessons in combination. such subjects as these are given: a vase of flowers, a mediæval or classic vase, shields, helmets, escutcheons, &c., of different styles. the first prize composition was a hunting frieze, modelled, in which were introduced fanciful combinations of leaf and scroll work, dogs, hunters, and children. figures of almost every animal and plant were modelled; the drawings and modellings from memory were wonderful, and showed, in their combination, great richness of fancy. scattered about the room were casts of the best classic figures of the louvre, placed there, as m. belloc gracefully remarked, not as models, but as inspirations, to cultivate the sense of beauty. i was shown, moreover, their books of mathematical studies, which looked intricate and learned, but of which i appreciated only the delicate chirography. "and where," said i, "are these young mechanics taught to read and write?" "in the brothers' schools," he said. paris is divided into regular parishes, centring round different churches, and connected with each church is a parochial school, for boys and girls, taught by ecclesiastics and nuns. with such thorough training of the sense of beauty, it may be easily seen that the facility of french enthusiasm in aesthetics is not, as often imagined, superficial pretence. the nerves of beauty are so exquisitely tuned and strung that they must thrill at every touch. one sees this, in french life, to the very foundation of society. a poor family will give, cheerfully, a part of their bread money to buy a flower. the idea of artistic symmetry pervades every thing, from the arrangement of the simplest room to the composition of a picture. at the chateau of madame v. the whiteheaded butler begged madame to apologize for the central flower basket on the table. he "had not had time to study the composition." the english and americans, seeing the french so serious and intent on matters of beauty, fancy it to be mere affectation. to be serious on a barrel of flour, or a bushel of potatoes, we can well understand; but to be equally earnest in the adorning of a room or the "composition" of a bouquet seems ridiculous. but did not he who made the appetite for food make also that for beauty? and while the former will perish with the body, is not the latter immortal? with all new england's earnestness and practical efficiency, there is a long withering of the soul's more ethereal part,--a crushing out of the beautiful,--which is horrible. children are born there with a sense of beauty equally delicate with any in the world, in whom it dies a lingering death of smothered desire and pining, weary starvation. i know, because i have felt it.--one in whom this sense has long been repressed, in coming into paris, feels a rustling and a waking within him, as if the soul were trying to unfold her wings, long unused and mildewed. instead of scorning, then, the lighthearted, _mobile_, beauty-loving french, would that we might exchange instructions with them--imparting our severer discipline in religious lore, accepting their thorough methods in art; and, teaching and taught, study together under the great master of all. i went with m. belloc into the gallery of antique sculpture. how wonderful these old greeks i what set them out on such a course, i wonder--anymore, for instance, than the sandwich islanders? this reminds me to tell you that in the berlin museum, which the king of prussia is now finishing in high style, i saw what is said to be the most complete egyptian collection in the world; a whole egyptian temple, word for word--pillars, paintings, and all; numberless sarcophagi, and mummies _ad nauseam!_ they are no more fragrant than the eleven thousand virgins, these mummies! and my stomach revolts equally from the odor of sanctity and of science. i saw there a mummy of a little baby; and though it was black as my shoe, and a disgusting, dry thing, nevertheless the little head was covered with fine, soft, auburn hair. four thousand years ago, some mother thought the poor little thing a beauty. also i saw mummies of cats, crocodiles, the ibis, and all the other religious _bijouterie_ of egypt, with many cases of their domestic utensils, ornaments, &c. the whole view impressed me with quite an idea of barbarism; much more so than the assyrian collection. about the winged bulls there is a solemn and imposing grandeur; they have a mountainous and majestic nature. these egyptian things give one an idea of inexpressible ungainliness. they had a clumsy, elephantine character of mind, these egyptians. there was not wanting grace, but they seemed to pick it up accidentally; because among all possible forms some must be graceful. they had a kind of grand, mammoth civilization, gloomy and goblin. they seem to have floundered up out of nile mud, like that old, slimy, pre-adamite brood, the what's-their-name--_megalosaurus, ichthyosaurus, pterodactyle, iguanodon_, and other misshapen abominations, with now and then wreaths of lotus and water lilies round their tusks. the human face, as represented in assyrian sculptures, is a higher type of face than even the greek: it is noble and princely; the egyptian faces are broad, flat, and clumsy. if egypt gave birth to greece, with her beautiful arts, then truly this immense, clumsy roc's egg hatched a miraculous nest of loves and graces. among the antiques here, my two favorites are venus de milon, which i have described to you, and the diane chasseresse: this goddess is represented by the side of a stag; and so completely is the marble made alive, that one seems to perceive that a tread so airy would not bend a flower. every side of the statue is almost equally graceful. the small, proud head is thrown back with the freedom of a stag; there is a gay, haughty self-reliance, an airy defiance, a rejoicing fulness of health and immortal youth in the whole figure. you see before you the whole greek conception of an immortal--a creature full of intellect, full of the sparkle and elixir of existence, in whom the principle of life seems to be crystallized and concentrated with a dazzling abundance; light, airy, incapable alike of love and of sympathy; living for self, and self only. alas for poor souls, who, in the heavy anguish of life, had only such goddesses to go to! how far in advance is even the idolatry of christianity! how different the idea of mary from the diana! yet, as i walked up and down among these remains of greek art, i could not but wonder at the spectacle of their civilization: no modern development reproduces it, nor ever can or will. it is well to cherish and make much of that ethereal past, as a specimen of one phase of humanity, for it is past _forever_. those isles of greece, with their gold and purple haze of light and shadow, their exquisite, half-spiritual, half-bodily formation--islands where flesh and blood became semi-spiritual, and where the sense of beauty was an existence--have passed as a vision of glory, never to return. one scarcely realizes how full of poetry was their mythology; all successive ages have drawn on it for images of beauty without exhausting it; and painters and artists, to this day, are fettered and repressed by vain efforts to reproduce it. but as a religion for the soul and the heart, all this is vain and void; all powerless to give repose or comfort. one who should seek repose on the bosom of such a mythology is as one who seeks to pillow himself on the many-tinted clouds of evening; soft and beautiful as they are, there is nothing real to them but their dampness and coldness. here m. and madame belloc entered, and as he wanted my opinion of the diane, i let her read this part of the letter to him in french. you ought to have seen m. belloc, with tears in his eyes, defending the old greeks, and expounding to me, with all manner of rainbow illustrations, the religious meanings of greek mythology, and the _morale_ of greek tragedy. such a whole souled devotion to a nation dead and gone could never be found but in france. madame belloc was the translator of maria edgeworth by that lady's desire; corresponded with her for years, and still has many of her letters. her translation of uncle tom has to me all the merit and all the interest of an original composition. in perusing it i enjoy the pleasure of reading the story with scarce any consciousness of its ever having been mine. in the evening mr. and mrs. s. c. hall called. they are admirably matched--he artist, she author. the one writes stories, the other illustrates them. madame m. also called. english by birth, she is a true _parisienne,_ or, rather, seems to have both minds, as she speaks both languages, perfectly. her husband being a learned oriental scholar, she, like some other women enjoying similar privileges, has picked up a deal of information, which she tosses about in conversation, in a gay, piquant manner, much as a kitten plays with a pin ball. madame remembers mesdames recamier and de stael, and told me several funny anecdotes of the former. madame r., she said, was always coquetting with her own funeral; conversed with different artists on the arrangements of its details, and tempting now one, now another, with the brilliant hope of the "composition" of the scene. madame m. offered me her services as _cicerone_ to paris, and so to-day out we went--first to the pantheon, of which, in her gay and piquant style, she gave me the history. begun first in the time of louis xvi. as a church, in the revolution its destination was altered, and it was to be a temple to the manes of great men, and accordingly rousseau, voltaire, and many more are buried here. well, after the revolution, the bourbons said it should not be a temple for great men, it should be a church. the next popular upset tipped it back to the great men again; and it staid under their jurisdiction until louis napoleon, who is very pious, restored it to the church. it is not possible to say how much further this very characteristic rivalry between great men and their creator is going to extend. all i have to say is, that i should not think the church much of an acquisition to either party. he that sitteth in the heavens must laugh sometimes at what man calls worship. this pantheon is, as one might suppose from its history, a hybrid between a church and a theatre, and of course good for neither--purposeless and aimless. the madeleine is another of these hybrid churches, begun by d'ivry as a church, completed as a temple to victory by napoleon, and on second thoughts, re-dedicated to god. after strolling about a while, the sexton, or some official of the church, asked us if we did not want to go down into the vaults below. as a large party seemed to be going to do the same, i said, " , yes, by all means; let us see it out." our guide, with his cocked hat and lantern, walked ahead, apparently in a now of excellent spirits. these caverns and tombs appeared to be his particular forte, and he magnified his office in showing them. down stairs we went, none of us knowing what we wanted to see, or why. our guide steps forth, unlocks the gate? of hades, and we enter a dark vault with a particularly earthy smell. bang! he shuts the door after him. clash! he locks it; now we are in for it! and elevating his lantern, he commences a deafening proclamation of some general fact concerning the very unsavory place in which we find ourselves. of said proclamation i hear only the thundering _"voilà"_ at the commencement. next he proceeds to open the doors of certain stone vaulted chambers, where the great men are buried, between whose claims and their creator's there seems to be such an uncertainty in france. well, here they were, sure enough, maintaining their claim by right of possession. _"voilà le tombeau de rousseau!"_ says the guide. all walked in piously, and stood to see a wooden tomb painted red. at one end the tomb is made in the likeness of little doors, which stand half open, and a hand is coming out of them holding a flambeau, by which it is intimated, i suppose, that rousseau in his grave is enlightening the world. after a short proclamation here, we were shown into another stone chamber with _"voilà le tombeau de voltaire!"_ this was of wood also, very nicely speckled and painted to resemble some kind of marble. each corner of the tomb had a tragic mask on it, with that captivating expression of countenance which belongs to the tragic masks generally. there was in the room a marble statue of voltaire, with that wiry, sharp, keen, yet somewhat spiteful expression which his busts commonly have. but our guide has finished his prelection here, and is striding off in the plenitude of his wisdom. now we are shown a long set of stone apartments, provided for future great men. considering the general scarcity of the article in most countries, these sleeping accommodations are remarkably ample. nobody need be discouraged in his attempts at greatness in paris, for fear at last there won't be room to bury him. after this we were marched to a place where our guide made a long speech about a stone in the floor--very instructive, doubtless, if i had known what it was: my parisian friend said he spoke with such a german accent she could not understand; so we humbly took the stone _on trust,_ though it looked to the eye of sense quite like any other. then we were marched into a part of the vault celebrated for its echo. our guide here outdid himself; first we were commanded to form a line _en militaire_ with our backs to the wall. well, we did form _en militaire._ i did it in the innocence of my heart, entirely ignorant of what was to come next. our guide, departing from that heroic grandeur of manner which had hitherto distinguished him, suddenly commenced screaming and hooting in a most unparalleled style. the echo was enough to deafen one, to be sure, and the first blast of it made us all jump. i could think of nothing but apollyon amusing himself at the expense of the poor pilgrims in the valley of the shadow of death; for the exhibition was persisted in with a pertinacity inscrutable to any wisdom except his own. it ended by a brace of thumps on the wall, each of which produced a report equal to a cannon; and with this salvo of artillery the exhibition finished. this worthy guide is truly a sublime character. long may he live to show the pantheon; and when he dies, if so disagreeable an event must be contemplated, may he have the whole of one of these stone chambers to himself; for nothing less could possibly contain him. he regretted exceedingly that we could not go up into the dome; but i had had enough of stair climbing at strasbourg, antwerp, and cologne, and not even the prospect of enjoying his instructions could tempt me. now this pantheon seems to me a monument of the faults and the weakness of this very agreeable nation. its history shows their enthusiasm, their hero worship, and the want of stable religious convictions. nowhere has there been such a want of reverence for the creator, unless in the american congress. the great men of france have always seemed to be in confusion as to whether they made god or he made them. there is a great resemblance in some points between the french and the ancient athenians: there was the same excitability; the same keen outward life; the same passion for ideas; the same spending of life in hearing or telling some new thing; the same acuteness of philosophical research. the old athenians first worshipped, and then banished their great men,--buried them and pulled them up, and did generally a variety of things which we anglo-saxons should call fantastic. there is this difference, that the athenians had the advantage of coming first. the french nation, born after this development, are exposed by their very similarity of conformation, and their consequent sympathy with the old classic style of feeling, to become imitators. this betrays itself in their painters and sculptors, and it is a constant impulse to a kind of idolatry, which is not in keeping with this age, and necessarily seems absurd. when the greeks built altars to force, beauty, victory, and other abstract ideas, they were doing an original thing. when the french do it, they imitate the greeks. apotheosis and hero worship in the old times had a freshness to it; it was one of the picturesque effects of the dim and purple shadows of an early dawning, when objects imperfectly seen are magnified in their dimensions; but the apotheosis, in modern times, of a man who has worn a dress coat, wig, and shoes is quite another affair. i do not mean either to say, as some do, that the french mind has very little of the religious element. the very sweetest and softest, as well as the most austere and rigid type of piety has been given by the french mind; witness fénélon and john calvin--fénélon standing as the type of the mystic, and calvin of the rationalistic style of religion. fénélon, with his heart so sweet, so childlike, so simple and tender, was yet essentially french in his nature, and represented one part of french mind; and what english devotional writer is at all like him? john newton had his simplicity and lovingness, but wanted that element of gracefulness and classic sweetness which gave so high a tone to the writings of fénélon. as to calvin, his crystalline clearness of mind, his calm, cold logic, his severe vehemence are french, also. to this day, a french system of theology is the strongest and most coercive over the strongest of countries--scotland and america; and yet shallow thinkers flippantly say the french are incapable of religious ideas. after madame m. and i had finished the pantheon we drove to the conciergerie; for i wanted to see the prison of the hapless marie antoinette. that restless architectural mania, which never lets any thing alone here, is rapidly modernizing it; the scaffoldings are up, and workmen busy in making it as little historical as possible. nevertheless, the old, gloomy arched gateway, and the characteristic peaked norman towers, still remain; and we stopped our carriage the other side of the seine, to get a good look at it. we drove to the door, and tried to go in, but were told that we could not without an order from somebody or other. (i forget who;) so we were obliged to content ourselves with an outside view. so we went to take another view of notre dame; the very same notre dame whose bells in the good old days could be rung by the waving of michael scott's wand:-- "him listed but his wand to wave the bells should ring in notre dame." i had been over it once before with mrs. c., and sitting in a dark corner, with my head against a cold, stone pillar, had heard vespers, all in the most approved style of the poetic. i went back to it now to see how it looked after the cathedrals of germany. the churches of france have suffered dreadfully by the whirlwind spirit of its revolutions. at different times the painted glass of this church has been shattered, and replaced by common, till now there is too much light in it, though there are exquisite windows yet remaining. these cathedrals _must_ have painted glass; it is essential; the want of it is terrible; the dim, religious light is necessary to keep you from seeing the dirty floors, hanging cobwebs, stacks of little, old rush-bottomed chairs, and the prints where dirty heads and hands have approached too near the stone pillars. as i sat hearing vespers in notre dame the first time, seeing these all too plainly, may i be forgiven, but i could not help thinking of lucifer's soliloquy in a cathedral in the golden legend:-- "what a darksome and dismal place! i wonder that any man has the face to call such a hole the house of the lord and the gate of heaven--yet such is the word. ceiling, and walls, and windows old, covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould; dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs." * * * * * however, notre dame is a beautiful church; but i wish it was under as good care as cologne cathedral, and that instead of building madeleines and pantheons, france would restore and preserve her cathedrals--those grand memorials of the past. i consider the king of prussia as not only a national benefactor, but the benefactor of the world. cologne, when finished, will be the great epic of architecture, and belong, like all great epics, to all mankind. well, madame m. and i wandered up and down the vast aisles, she with her lively, fanciful remarks, to which there was never wanting a vein both of shrewdness and good sense. when we came out of notre dame, she chattered about the place. "there used to be an archbishop's palace back of the church in that garden, but one day the people took it into their heads to pull it down. i saw the silk-bottomed chairs floating down the seine. they say that somebody came and told thiers, 'do you know the people are rummaging the archbishop's palace?' and he shrugged his shoulders and said, 'let 'em work.' that's the say, you know; mind, i don't say it is true! well, he got enough of it at last. the fact is, that with, the french, destructiveness is as much developed as constructiveness, and they are as good at one as the other." as we were passing over one of the bridges, we saw a flower market, a gay show of flowers of all hues, and a very brisk trade going on about them. madame told me that there was a flower market every day in the week, in different parts of the city. the flower trade was more than usually animated to-day, because it is a saint's _fête,_ the _fête_ of st. louis, the patron of paris. the streets every where showed men, women, and children, carrying their pots of blooming flowers. every person in paris named louis or louise, after this saint, has received this day little tokens of affection from their friends, generally bouquets or flowers. madame belloc is named louise, and her different friends and children called and brought flowers, and a beautiful india china vase. the life of paris, indeed of the continent, is floral, to an extent of which the people in the united states can form no conception. flowers are a part of all their lives. the churches are dressed with flowers, and on _fête_ days are fragrant with them. a _jardinière_ forms a part of the furniture of every parlor; a _jardinière_ is a receptacle made in various fanciful forms for holding pots of flowers. these pots are bought at the daily flower market for a trifle, in full bloom and high condition; they are placed in the _jardinière,_ the spaces around them filled with sand and covered with moss. again, there are little hanging baskets suspended from the ceilings, and filled with flowers. these things give a graceful and festive air to apartments. when the plants are out of bloom, the porter of the house takes them, waters, prunes, and tends them, then sells them again: meanwhile the parlor is ornamented with fresh ones. along the streets on saints' days are little booths, where small vases of artificial flowers are sold to dress the altars. i stopped to look at one of these stalls, all brilliant with cheaply-made, showy vases of flowers, that sell for one or two sous. we went also to the national academy of fine arts, a government school for the gratuitous instruction of artists, a grecian building, with a row of all the distinguished painters in front. in the doorway, as we came in, was an antique, headless statue of minerva; literally it was minerva's _gown_ standing up--a pillar of drapery, nothing more, and drapery soiled, tattered, and battered; but then it was an antique, and that is enough. now, when antique things are ugly, i do not like them any better for being antique, and i should rather have a modern statue than minerva's old gown. we went through all the galleries in this school, in one of which the prize pieces of scholars are placed. whoever gets one of these prizes is sent to study in rome at the expense of the government. we passed through the hall where the judges sit to decide upon pictures, and through various others that i cannot remember. i was particularly interested in the apartment devoted to the casts from the statuary in the louvre and in other palaces. these casts are taken with mathematical exactness, and subjected to the inspection of a committee, who order any that are defective to be broken. proof casts of all the best works, ancient and modern, are thus furnished at a small price, and so brought within the reach of the most moderate means. this morning m. and madame belloc took me with them to call on béranger, the poet. he is a charming old man, very animated, with a face full of feeling and benevolence, and with that agreeable simplicity and vivacity of manner which is peculiarly french. it was eleven o'clock, but he had not yet breakfasted; we entreated him to waive ceremony, and so his maid brought in his chop and coffee, and we all plunged into an animated conversation. béranger went on conversing with shrewdness mingled with childlike simplicity, a blending of the comic, the earnest, and the complimentary. conversation in a french circle seems to me like the gambols of a thistle down, or the rainbow changes in soap bubbles. one laughs with tears in one's eyes. one moment confounded with the absolute childhood of the simplicity, in the next one is a little afraid of the keen edge of the shrewdness. this call gave me an insight into a french circle which both amused and delighted me. coming home, m. belloc enlarged upon beranger's benevolence and kindness of heart. "no man," he said, "is more universally popular with the common people. he has exerted himself much for the families of the unfortunate deportes to cayenne." then he added, laughing, "a mechanic, one of my model sitters, was dilating upon his goodness--'what a man! what sublime virtue! how is he beloved! could i live to see his funeral! _quelle spectacle! quelle grande emotion!'"_ at tea, madame m. commented on the manners of a certain english lady of our acquaintance. "she's an actress; she's too affected!" madame belloc and i defended her. "ah," said m. belloc, "you cannot judge; the french are never natural in england, nor the english in france. frenchmen in england are stupid and cross, trying to be dignified; and when the english come to france, it's all guitar playing and capering, in trying to have _esprit._" but it is hard to give a conversation in which the salient points are made by a rapid pantomime, which effervesces like champagne. madame belloc and madame m. agree that the old french _salon_ is no more; that none in the present iron age can give the faintest idea of the brilliancy of the institution in its palmiest days. the horrors and reverses of successive revolutions, have thrown a pall over the french heart. i have been now, in all, about a month in this gay and flowery city, seeing the french people, not in hotels and _cafes,_ but in the seclusion of domestic life; received, when introduced, not with ceremonious distance, as a stranger, but with confidence and affection, as a friend. though, according to the showing of my friends, paris is empty of many of her most brilliant ornaments, yet i have been so fortunate as to make the acquaintance of many noble and justly celebrated people, and to feel as if i had gained a real insight into the french heart. i liked the english and the scotch as well as i could like any thing. and now, i equally like the french. exact opposites, you will say. for that reason all the more charming. the goodness and beauty of the divine mind is no less shown in the traits of different races than of different tribes of fruits and flowers. and because things are exact opposites, is no reason why we should not like both. the eye is not like the hand, nor the ear like the foot; yet who condemns any of them for the difference? so i regard nations as parts of a great common body, and national differences as necessary to a common humanity. i thought, when in english society, that it was as perfect and delightful as it could be. there was worth of character, strength of principle, true sincerity, and friendship, charmingly expressed. i have found all these, too, among the french, and besides them, something which charms me the more, because it is peculiar to the french, and of a kind wholly different from any i have ever had an experience of before. there is an iris-like variety and versatility of nature, a quickness in catching and reflecting the various shades of emotion or fancy, a readiness in seizing upon one's own half-expressed thoughts, and running them out in a thousand graceful little tendrils, which is very captivating. i know a general prejudice has gone forth, that the french are all mere outside, without any deep reflection or emotion. this may be true of many. no doubt that the strength of that outward life, that acuteness of the mere perceptive organization, and that tendency to social exhilaration, which prevail, will incline to such a fault in many cases. an english reserve inclines to moroseness, and scotch perseverance to obstinacy; so this aerial french nature may become levity and insincerity; but then it is neither the sullen englishman, the dogged scotchman, nor the shallow frenchman that we are to take as the national ideal. in each country we are to take the very best as the specimen. now, it is true that, here in france, one can find people as judicious, quiet, discreet, and religious, as any where in the world; with views of life as serious, and as earnest, not living for pretence or show, but for the most rational and religious ends. now, when all this goodness is silvered over, as it were, reflecting like mother-of-pearl or opal, a thousand fanciful shades and changes, is not the result beautiful? some families into which i have entered, some persons with whom i have talked, have left a most delightful impression upon my mind; and i have talked, by means of imperfect english, french, and interpretations, with a good many. they have made my heart bleed over the history of this most beautiful country. it is truly mournful that a people with so many fine impulses, so much genius, appreciation, and effective power, should, by the influence of historical events quite beyond the control of the masses, so often have been thrown into a false position before the world, and been subjected to such a series of agonizing revulsions and revolutions. "o, the french are half tiger, half monkey!" said a cultivated american to me the other day. such remarks cut me to the heart, as if they had been spoken of a brother. and when they come from the mouth of an american, the very shade of lafayette, it would seem, might rise and say, "_et tu, brute!_" it is true, it is a sarcasm of voltaire's; but voltaire, though born a frenchman, neither imbodied nor was capable of understanding the true french ideal. the french _head_ he had, but not the french heart. and from his bitter judgment we might appeal to a thousand noble names. the generous henri iv., the noble sully, and bayard the knight _sans peur et sans reproche_, were these half tiger and half monkey? were john calvin and fénélon half tiger and half monkey? laplace, geoffroy st. hilaire, cuvier, des cartes, malebranche, arago--what were they? the tree of history is enriched with no nobler and fairer boughs and blossoms than have grown from the french stock. it seems a most mysterious providence that some nations, without being wickeder than others, should have a more unfortunate and disastrous history. the woes of france have sprung from the fact that a jezebel de medici succeeded in exterminating from the nation that portion of the people corresponding to the puritans of scotland, england, and germany. the series of persecutions which culminated in the massacre of st. bartholomew, and ended with the dragonades under louis xiv., drained france of her lifeblood. other nations have profited by the treasures then cast out of her, and she has remained poor for want of them. some of the best blood in america is of the old huguenot stock. huguenots carried arts and manufactures into england. an expelled french refugee became the theological leader of puritanism in england, scotland, and america; and wherever john calvin's system of theology has gone, civil liberty has gone with it; so that we might almost say of france, as the apostle said of israel, "if the fall of them be the riches of the world, and the diminishing of them the riches of the gentiles, how much more their fulness!" when the english and americans sneer at the instability, turbulence, and convulsions of the french nation for the last century, let us ask ourselves what our history would have been had the "gunpowder plot" succeeded, and the whole element of the reformation been exterminated. it is true, vitality and reactive energy might have survived such a process; but that vitality would have shown itself just as it has in france--in struggles and convulsions. the frequent revolutions of france are not a thing to be sneered at; they are not evidences of fickleness, but of constancy; they are, in fact, a prolonged struggle for liberty, in which there occur periods of defeat, but in which, after every interval of repose, the strife is renewed. their great difficulty has been, that the destruction of the reformed church in france took out of the country entirely that element of religious rationalism which is at once conservative and progressive. there are three forces which operate in society: that of blind faith, of reverent religious freedom, and of irreverent scepticism. now, since the human mind is so made that it must have religion, when this middle element of reasonable religious freedom is withdrawn, society vibrates, like a pendulum, between scepticism and superstition; the extreme of superstition reacting to scepticism, and then the barrenness of scepticism reacting again into superstition. when the persecutions in france had succeeded in extinguishing this middle element, then commenced a series of oscillations between religious despotism and atheistic license, which have continued ever since. the suppression of all reasonable religious inquiry, and the consequent corruption of the church, produced the school of voltaire and his followers. the excesses of that school have made devout catholics afraid of the very beginning of religious rationalism; and these causes act against each other to this day. the revolution in england, under cromwell, succeeded, because it had an open bible and liberty of conscience for its foundation, and united both the elements of faith and of reason. the french revolution had, as lamartine says, plutarch's lives for its bible, and the great unchaining of human passion had no element of religious control. plad france, in the time of her revolution, had leaders like admiral coligny, her revolution might have prospered as did england's under cromwell. but these revolutions, needlessly terrible as they have been, still have accomplished something; without them france might have died away into what spain is. as it is, progress has been made, though at a fearful sacrifice. no country has been swept cleaner of aristocratic institutions, and the old bastiles and prisons of a past tyranny. the aspiration for democratic freedom has been so thoroughly sown in france, that it never will be rooted up again. how to get it, and how to _keep_ it when it is got, they do not yet clearly see; but they will never rest till they learn. there is a liberty of thought and of speech in france which the tongue-tied state of the press cannot indicate. could france receive the bible--could it be put into the hands of all the common people--_that_ might help her. and france is receiving the bible. spite of all efforts to the contrary, the curiosity of the popular mind has been awakened; the yearnings of the popular heart are turning towards it; and therein lie my best hopes for france. one thing more i would say. since i have been here, i have made the french and continental mode of keeping sunday a matter of calm, dispassionate inquiry and observation. i have tried to divest myself of the prejudices--if you so please to call them--of my new england education--to look at the matter sympathetically, in the french or continental point of view, and see whether i have any occasion to revise the opinions in which i had been educated. i fully appreciate all the agreeableness, the joyousness, and vivacity of a day of recreation and social freedom, spent in visiting picture galleries and public grounds, in social _réunions_ and rural excursions. i am far from judging harshly of the piety of those who have been educated in these views and practices. but, viewing the subject merely in relation to things of this life, i am met by one very striking fact: there is not a single nation, possessed of a popular form of government, which has not our puritan theory of the sabbath. protestant switzerland, england, scotland, and america cover the whole ground of popular freedom; and in all these this idea of the sabbath prevails with a distinctness about equal to the degree of liberty. nor do i think this result an accidental one. if we notice that the lutheran branch of the reformation did not have this element, and the calvinistic branch, which spread over england and america, did have it, and compare the influence of these two in sustaining popular rights, we shall be struck with the obvious inference. now, there are things in our mode of keeping the sabbath which have a direct tendency to sustain popular government; for the very element of a popular government must be self-control in the individual. there must be enough intensity of individual self-control to make up for the lack of an extraneous pressure from government. the idea of the sabbath, as observed by the puritans, is the voluntary dissevering of the thoughts and associations from the things of earth for one day in seen, and the concentrating of the mind on purely spiritual subjects. in all this there is a weekly recurring necessity for the greatest self-control. no way could be devised to educate a community to be thoughtful and reflective better than the weekly recurrence of a day when all stimulus, both of business and diversion, shall be withdrawn, and the mind turned in upon itself. the weekly necessity of bringing all business to a close tends to give habits of system and exactness. the assembling together for divine worship, and for instruction in the duties of christianity, is a training of the highest and noblest energies of the soul. even that style of abstract theologizing prevailing in new england and scotland, which has grown out of sabbath sermonizing, has been an incalculable addition to the strength and self-controlling power of the people. ride through france, you see the laborer in his wooden shoes, with scarce a thought beyond his daily toil. his sunday is a _féte_ for dancing and recreation. go through new england, and you will find the laborer, as he lays his stone fence, discussing the consistency of foreordination with free will, or perchance settling some more practical mooted point in politics. on sunday this laborer gets up his wagon, and takes his wife and family to church, to hear two or three sermons, in each of which there are more elements of mental discipline than a french peasant gets in a whole lifetime. it is a shallow view of theological training to ask of what practical use are its metaphysical problems. of what practical value to most students is geometry? on the whole, i think it is the puritan idea of the sabbath, as it prevails in new england, that is one great source of that individual strength and self-control which have supported so far our democratic institutions. in regard to the present state of affairs here, it has been my lot to converse unreservedly with some of all parties sufficiently to find the key note of their thoughts. there are, first, the bourbonists--mediaeval people--believers in the divine right of kings in general, and of the bourbons in particular. there are many of them exceedingly interesting. there is something rather poetic and graceful about the antique cast of their ideas; their chivalrous loyalty to an exiled family, and their devout belief of the catholic religion. these, for the most part, keep out of paris, entirely ignore the present court, and remain in their chateaus in the country. a gentleman of this class, with whom i talked, thought the present emperor did very well in keeping other parties out till the time should come to strike a blow for the true king. then there are the partisans and friends of the orleans family. i heard those who spoke, even with tears, of louis philippe and his dynasty. they were patrons of letters and of arts, they say, of virtue and of religion; and these good, faithful souls cling lovingly to their memory. and then there are the republicans--men of the real olden time, capable of sacrificing every thing that heart holds dear for a principle; such republicans as were our fathers in all, save their religion, and because lacking that, losing the chief element of popular control. nevertheless, grander men have never been than some of these modern republicans of france; americans might learn many lessons from them. besides all these there is another class, comparatively small, having neither the prestige of fashion, rank, or wealth, but true, humble, evangelical christians, in whom the simplicity and spirituality of the old huguenot church seems revived. these men are laboring at the very foundation of things; laboring to bring back the forgotten bible; beginning where christ began, with preaching the gospel to the poor. if any would wish to see christianity in its loveliest form, they would find it in some of these humble laborers. one, with whom i conversed, devotes his time to the _chiffoniers,_ (rag pickers.) he gave me an account of his labors, speaking with such tenderness and compassion, that it was quite touching. "my poor people," he said, "they are very ignorant, but they are not so very bad." and when i asked him, "who supports you in your labors?" he looked upward, with one of those quick, involuntary glances by which the french express themselves without words. there was the same earnestness in him as in one of our city missionaries, but a touching grace peculiarly national. it was the piety of fénélon and st. john. and i cannot believe that god, who loves all nations alike, and who knows how beautifully the french mind is capable of reflecting the image of jesus, will not yet shine forth upon france, to give the light of the knowledge of his glory in the face of christ. it was the testimony of all with whom i conversed, that the national mind had become more and more serious for many years past. said a french gentleman to me one evening, "the old idea of _l'homme d'esprit_ of louis xiv.'s time, the man of _bon-mots_, bows, and _salons_, is almost passed away; there is only now and then a specimen of it left. the french are becoming more earnest and more religious." in the roman catholic churches which i attended, i saw very full audiences, and great earnestness and solemnity. i have talked intimately, also, with roman catholics, in whom i felt that religion was a real and vital thing. one of them, a most lovely lady, presented me with the imitation of christ, by thomas à kempis, as a ground on which we could both unite. i have also been interested to see in these french catholics, in its most fervent form, the exhibition of that antislavery spirit which, in other ages, was the boast of that church. one charming friend took me to the church of st. germain l'auxerrois, pointing out with great interest the statues and pictures of saints who had been distinguished for their antislavery efforts in france. in a note expressing her warm interest in the cause of the african slave, she says, "it is a tradition of our church, that of the three kings which came to worship jesus in bethlehem, one was black; and if christians would kneel oftener before the manger of bethlehem they would think less of distinctions of caste and color." madame belloc received, a day or two since, a letter from a lady in the old town of orleans, which gave name to joan of arc, expressing the most earnest enthusiasm in the antislavery cause. her prayers, she says, will ascend night and day for those brave souls in america who are conflicting with this mighty injustice. a lady a few days since called on me, all whose property was lost in the insurrection at hayti, but who is, nevertheless, a most earnest advocate of emancipation. a catholic lady, in a letter, inquired earnestly, why in my key i had not included the romish clergy of the united states among the friends of emancipation, as that, she said, had been always the boast of their church. i am sorry to be obliged to make the reply, that in america the catholic clergy have never identified themselves with the antislavery cause, but in their influence have gone with the multitude. i have received numerous calls from members of the old french abolition society, which existed here for many years. among these i met, with great interest, m. dutrone, its president; also m. ----, who presented me with his very able ethnological work on the distinctive type of the negro race. one gentleman, greatly distressed in view of the sufferings of the negro race in america, said, naively enough, to mrs. c., that he had heard that the negroes had great capability for music, dancing, and the fine arts, and inquired whether something could not be done to move sympathy in their behalf by training them to exhibit characteristic dances and pantomimes. mrs. c. quoted to him the action of one of the great ecclesiastical bodies in america, in the same breath declining to condemn slavery, but denouncing dancing as so wholly of the world lying in wickedness as to require condign ecclesiastical censure. the poor man was wholly lost in amazement. in this connection, i cannot but notice, to the credit of the french republican provisional government, how much more consistent they were in their attachment to the principles of liberty than ever our own has been. what do we see in our own history? our northern free states denouncing slavery as a crime, confessedly inconsistent with their civil and religious principles, yet, for commercial and pecuniary considerations, deliberately entering into a compact with slaveholders tolerating a twenty years' perpetuation of the african slave trade, the rendition of fugitives, the suppression of servile insurrections, and allowing to the slaveholders a virtual property basis of representation. it should qualify the contempt which some americans express of the french republic, that when the subject of the slave colonies was brought up, and it was seen that consistency demanded immediate emancipation, they immediately emancipated; and not only so, but conferred at once on the slaves the elective franchise. this point strongly illustrates the difference, in one respect, between the french and the anglo-saxons. as a race the french are less commercial, more ideal, more capable of devotion to abstract principles, and of following them out consistently, irrespective of expediency. there is one thing which cannot but make one indignant here in paris, and which, i think, is keenly felt by some of the best among the french; and that is, the indifference of many americans, while here, to their own national principles of liberty. they seem to come to paris merely to be hangers on and applauders in the train of that tyrant who has overthrown the hopes of france. to all that cruelty and injustice by which thousands of hearts are now bleeding, they appear entirely insensible. they speak with heartless levity of the revolutions of france, as of a pantomime got up for their diversion. their time and thoughts seem to be divided between defences of american slavery and efforts to attach themselves to the skirts of french tyranny. they are the parasites of parasites--delighted if they can but get to an imperial ball, and beside themselves if they can secure an introduction to the man who figured as a _roué_, in the streets of new york. noble-minded men of all parties here, who have sacrificed all for principle, listen with suppressed indignation, while young america, fresh from the theatres and gambling saloons, declares, between the whiffs of his cigar, that the french are not capable of free institutions, and that the government of louis napoleon is the best thing france could have. thus from the plague- spot at her heart has america become the propagandist of despotism in europe. nothing weighs so fearfully against the cause of the people of europe as this kind of american influence. through almost every city of europe are men whose great glory it appears to be to proclaim that they worship the beast, and wear his name in their foreheads. i have seen sometimes, in the forests, a vigorous young sapling which had sprung up from the roots of an old, decaying tree. so, unless the course of things alters much in america, a purer civil liberty will spring up from her roots in europe, while her national tree is blasted with despotism. it is most affecting, in moving through french circles, to see what sadness, what anguish of heart, lies under that surface which seems to a stranger so gay. each revolution has cut its way through thousands of families, ruining fortunes, severing domestic ties, inflicting wounds that bleed, and will bleed for years. i once alluded rather gayly to the numerous upsets of the french government, in conversation with a lady, and she laughed at first, but in a moment her eyes filled with tears, and she said, "ah, you have no idea what these things are among us." in conversation nothing was more common than the remark, "i shall do so and so, provided things hold out; but then there is no telling what will come next." on the minds of some there lie deep dejection and discouragement. some, surrounded by their growing families, though they abhor the tyranny of the government, acquiesce wearily, and even dread change lest something worse should arise. we know not in america how many atrocities and cruelties that attended the _coup d'etat_ have been buried in the grave which intombed the liberty of the press. i have talked with eye witnesses of those scenes, men who have been in the prisons, and heard the work of butchery going on in the prison yards in the night. while we have been here, a gentleman to whom i had been introduced was arrested, taken from bed by the police, and carried off, without knowing of what he was accused. his friends were denied access to him, and on making application to the authorities, the invariable reply was, "be very quiet about it. if you make a commotion his doom is sealed." when his wife was begging permission for a short interview, the jailer, wearied with her importunities, at last exclaimed unguardedly, "madam, there are two hundred here in the same position; what would you have me do?" [footnote: that man has remained in prison to this day.] at that very time an american traveller, calling on us, expatiated at length on the peaceful state of things in paris--on the evident tranquillity and satisfaction universally manifest. journal--(continued.) saturday, august . left paris with h., the rest of our party having been detained. reached boulogne in safety, and in high spirits made our way on board the steamer, deposited our traps below, came on deck, and prepared for the ordeal. a high north-wester had been blowing all day, and as we ran along behind the breakwater, i could see over it the white and green waves fiendishly running, and showing their malign eyes sparkling with hungry expectation. "come out, come out!" they seemed to say; "come out, you little black imp of a steamer; don't be hiding behind there like a coward. we dare you to come out here and give us a chance at you--we will eat you up, as so many bears would eat a lamb." and sure enough, the moment her bows passed beyond the pier, the sea struck her, and tossed her like an eggshell, and the deck, from stem to stern, was drenched in a moment, and running with floods as if she had been under water. for a few moments h. and i both enjoyed the motion. we stood amidships, she in her shawl, i in a great tarpauling which i had borrowed of jack, and every pitch sent the spray over us. we exulted that we were not going to be sick. suddenly, however, so suddenly that it was quite mysterious, conscience smote me. a profound, a deep-seated remorse developed itself just exactly in the deepest centre of the pit of my stomach. "h.," said i, with a decided, grave air, "i'm going to be seasick." "so am i," said she, as if struck by the same convictions that had been impressed on me. we turned, and made our way along the leeward quarter, to a seat by the bulwarks. i stood holding on by the railrope, and every now and then addressing a few incoherent and rather guttural, not to say pectoral, remarks to the green and gloomy sea, as i leaned over the rail. after every paroxysm of communicativeness, (for in seasickness the organ of secretiveness gives way,) i regained my perpendicular, and faced the foe, with a determination that i would stand it through--that the grinning, howling brine should get no more secrets out of me. and, in fact, it did not. meanwhile, what horrors--what complicated horrors--did not that crowded deck present! did the priestly miscreants of the middle ages ever represent among the torments of purgatory the deck of a channel steamer? if not, then they forgot the "lower deep," that satan doubtless thought about, according to milton. there were men and women of every age and complexion, with faces of every possible shade of expression. defiance, resolute and stern, desperate resolves never to give in, and that very same defiant determination sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. a deep abyss of abdominal discontent, revealing afar the shadow, the penumbra, of the approaching retch. and there were _bouleversements,_ and hoarse confidences to the sea of every degree of misery. the wind was really risen quite to a gale, and the sea ran with fearful power. two sailors, standing near, said, "i wouldn't say it only to you, jack, but in all the time i've crossed this here channel, i've seen nothin' like this." "nor i neither," was the reply. about mid channel a wave struck the windward quarter, just behind the wheel, with a stroke like a rock from a ballista, smashed in the bulwarks, stove the boat, which fell and hung in the water by one end, and sent the ladies, who were sitting there with boxes, baskets, shawls, hats, spectacles, umbrellas, cloaks, down to leeward, in a pond of water. one girl i saw with a bruise on her forehead as large as an egg, and the blood streaming from her nostrils. shrieks resounded, and for a few moments, we had quite a tragic time. about this time h. gave in, and descended to tartarus, where the floor was compactly, densely stowed with one mass of heaving wretches, with nothing but washbowls to relieve the sombre mosaic. how h. fared there she may tell; i cannot. i stood by the bulwark with my boots full of water, my eyes full of salt spray, and my heart full of the most poignant regret that ever i was born. alas! was that channel a channel at all? had it two shores? was england over there, where i saw nothing but monstrous, leaping, maddening billows, saying, "we are glad of it; we want you; come on here; we are waiting for you; we will serve you up"? at last i seriously began to think of tartarus myself, and of a calm repose flat on my back, such as h. told of in his memorable passage. but just then, dim and faint on the horizon, i thought i discerned the long line of a bank of land. it was. this was a channel; that was the shore. england had not sunk. i stood my ground; and in an hour we came running, bounding, and rolling towards the narrow mouth of the folkstone pier heads. letter xlix london. my dear:-- our last letters from home changed all our plans. we concluded to hurry away by the next steamer, if at that late hour we could get passage. we were all in a bustle. the last shoppings for aunts, cousins, and little folks were to be done by us all. the palais royal was to be rummaged; bronzes, vases, statuettes, bonbons, playthings--all that the endless fertility of france could show--was to be looked over for the "folks at home." you ought to have seen our rooms at night, the last evening we spent in paris. when the whole gleanings of a continental tour were brought forth for packing, and compared with the dimensions of original trunks--ah, what an hour was that! who should reconcile these incongruous elements--bronzes, bonnets, ribbons and flowers, plaster casts, books, muslins and laces--elements as irreconcilable as fate and freedom; who should harmonize them? and i so tired! "ah," said jladame b., "it is all quite easy; you must have a packer." "a packer?" "yes. he will come, look at your things, provide whatever may be necessary, and pack them all." so said, so done. the man came, saw, conquered; he brought a trunk, twine, tacks, wrapping paper, and i stood by in admiration while he folded dresses, arranged bonnets, caressingly enveloped flowers in silk paper, fastened refractory bronzes, and muffled my plaster animals with reference to the critical points of ears and noses,--in short, reduced the whole heterogeneous assortment to place and proportion, shut, locked, corded, labelled, handed me the keys, and it was done. the charge for all this was quite moderate. how we sped across the channel c. relates. we are spending a few very pleasant days with our kind friends, the l.'s, in london. on board the arctic, wednesday, september . on thursday, september , we reached york, and visited the beautiful ruins of st. mary's abbey, and the magnificent cathedral. how individual is every cathedral! york is not like westminster, nor like strasbourg, nor cologne, any more than shakspeare is like milton, or milton like homer. in london i attended morning service in westminster, and explored its labyrinths of historic memories. the reading of the scriptures in the english tongue, and the sound of the chant, affected me deeply, in contrast with the pictorial and dramatic effects of romanism in continental churches. as a simple matter of taste, protestantism has made these buildings more impressive by reducing them to a stricter unity. the multitude of shrines, candlesticks, pictures, statues, and votive offerings, which make the continental churches resemble museums, are constantly at variance with the majestic grandeur of the general impression. therein they typify the church to which they belong, which has indeed the grand historic basis and framework of christianity, though overlaid with extraneous and irrelevant additions. this cathedral of york has a severe grandeur peculiar to itself. i saw it with a deep undertone of feeling; for it was the last i should behold. no one who has appreciated the wonders of a new world of art and association can see, without emotion, the door closing upon it, perhaps forever. i lingered long here, and often turned to gaze again; and after going out, went back, once more, to fill my soul with a last, long look, in which i bade adieu to all the historic memories of the old world. i thought of the words, "we have a building of god, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." these glorious arches, this sublime mystery of human power and skill, is only a shadow of some eternal substance, which, in the ages to come, god will yet reveal to us. it rained with inflexible pertinacity during all the time we were at york; and the next day it rained still, when we took the cars for castle howard station. in riding through the park from the station, we admired an avenue composed of groups of magnificent beeches, sixteen or eighteen in a group, disposed at intervals on either hand. the castle, a building in the italian style, rose majestically on a slight eminence in the centre of a green lawn. we alighted in the crisis of one of the most driving gusts of wind and rain, so that we really seemed to be fleeing for shelter. but within all was bright and warm. lady carlisle welcomed us most affectionately, and we learned that, had we not been so reserved at the york station, in concealing our names, we should have received a note from her. however, as we were safely arrived, it was of no consequence. several of the family were there, among the rest lady dover and mr. and mrs. e. howard. they urged us to remain over night; but as we had written to leeds that we should be there in the evening train, we were obliged to decline. we were shown over the castle, which is rich in works of art. there was a gallery of antiques, and a collection of paintings from old masters. in one room i saw tapestry exactly like that which so much interested us in windsor, representing scenes from the book of esther. it seemed to be of a much more ancient date. i was also interested in a portrait of an ancestor of the family, the identical "belted will" who figures in scott's lay. "belted will howard shall come with speed, and william of deloraine, good at need." in one of the long corridors we were traversing, we heard the voice of merriment, and found a gay party of young people and children amusing themselves at games. i thought what a grand hide-and-go-seek place the castle must be--whole companies might lose themselves among the rooms. the central hall of the building goes up to the roof, and is surmounted by a dome. the architecture is in the italian style, which i think much more suited to the purposes of ordinary life than for strictly religious uses. i never saw a church in that style that produced a very deep impression on me. this hall was gorgeously frescoed by italian masters. the door commands the view of a magnificent sweep of green lawn, embellished by an artificial lake. it is singular in how fine and subtle a way different nationalities express themselves in landscape gardening, while employing the same materials. i have seen no grounds on the continent that express the particular shade of ideas which characterize the english. there is an air of grave majesty about the wide sweep of their outlines--a quality suggestive of ideas of strength and endurance which is appropriate to their nationality. [illustration: _of castle howard, with the artificial lake in the foreground._] in lord carlisle's own room we saw pictures of sumner, prescott, and others of his american friends. this custom of showing houses, which prevails over europe, is, i think, a thing which must conduce greatly to national improvement. a plea for the beautiful is constantly put in by them--a model held up before the community, whose influence cannot be too highly estimated. before one of the choicest paintings stood the easel of some neighboring artist, who was making a copy. he was quite unknown to the family, but comes and goes at his pleasure, the picture being as freely at his service as if it were an outside landscape. after finishing our survey, i went with lady carlisle into her own _boudoir_. there i saw a cabinet full-length picture of her mother, the duchess of devonshire. she is represented with light hair, and seemed to have been one whose beauty was less that of regular classic model, than the fascination of a brilliant and buoyant spirit inspiring a graceful form. lady carlisle showed me an album, containing a kind of poetical record made by her during a passage through the alps, which she crossed on horseback, in days when such an exploit was more difficult and dangerous than at present. i particularly appreciated some lines in closing, addressed to her children, expressing the eagerness with which she turned from all that nature and art could offer, in prospect of meeting them once more. lord carlisle is still in turkey, and will, probably, spend the winter in greece. his mother had just received a letter from him, and he thinks that war is inevitable. in one of the rooms that we traversed i saw an immense vase of bog oak and gold, which was presented to lord carlisle by those who favored his election on the occasion of his defeat on the corn-law question. the sentiment expressed by the givers was, that a defeat in a noble undertaking was worthy of more honor than a victory in an ignoble one. after lunch, having waited in vain for the rain to cease, and give us a sunny interval in which to visit the grounds, we sallied out hooded and cloaked, to get at some of the most accessible points of view. the wind was unkindly and discourteous enough, and seemed bent on baffling the hospitable intentions of our friends. if the beauties of an english landscape were set off by our clear sky and sun, then patriotism, i fancy, would run into extravagance. i could see that even one gracious sunset smile might produce in these lawns and groves an effect of enchantment. i was pleased with what is called the "kitchen garden," which i expected to find a mere collection of vegetables, but found to be a genuine old-fashioned garden, which, like eden, brought forth all that was pleasant to the eye and good for food. there were wide walks bordered with flowers, enclosing portions devoted to fruit and vegetables, and, best of all this windy day, the whole enclosed by a high, solid stone wall, which bade defiance to the storm, and made this the most agreeable portion of our walk. our friends spoke much of sumner and prescott, who had visited there; also of mr. lawrence, our former ambassador, who had visited them just before his return. after a very pleasant day we left, with regret, the warmth of this hospitable circle, thus breaking one more of the links that bind us to the english shore. nine o'clock in the evening found us sitting by a cheerful fire in the parlor of mr. e. baines, at leeds. the father of our host was one of the most energetic parliamentary advocates of the repeal of the corn laws. mr. b. spoke warmly of lord carlisle, and gave me the whole interesting history of the campaign which the vase at castle howard commemorated, and read me the speech of lord c. on that occasion. it has occurred to me, that the superior stability of the english aristocracy, as compared with that of other countries, might be traced, in part, to their relations with the representative branch of the government. the eldest son and heir is generally returned to the house of commons by the vote of the people, before he is called to take his seat in the house of peers. thus the same ties bind them to the people which bind our own representatives--a peculiarity which, i believe, never existed permanently with the nobles in any other country. by this means the nobility, when they enter the house of lords, are better adapted to legislate wisely for the interests, not of a class, but of the whole people. the next day the house was filled with company, and the leeds offering was presented, the account of which you will see in the papers. every thing was arranged with the greatest consideration. i saw many interesting people, and was delighted with the strong, religious interest in the cause of liberty, pervading all hearts. truly it may be said, that wilberforce and clarkson lighted a candle which will never go out in england. monday we spent in a delightful visit to fountains abbey; less rich in carvings than melrose, but wider in extent, and of a peculiar architectural beauty. we lunched in what _was_ the side gallery of the refectory, where some drowsy old brother used to read the lives of saints to the monks eating below. we walked over the graves of abbots, and through the scriptorium, which reminded me of the exquisite scene in the golden legend, of the old monk in the scriptorium busily illuminating a manuscript. in the course of the afternoon a telegraph came from the mayor of liverpool, to inquire if our party would accept a public breakfast at the town hall before sailing, as a demonstration of sympathy with the cause of freedom. remembering the time when clarkson began his career, amid such opposition in liverpool, we could not but regard such an evidence of its present public sentiment as full of encouragement, although the state of my health and engagements rendered it necessary for me to decline. tuesday we parted from our excellent friends in leeds, and soon found ourselves once more in the beautiful dingle; our first and our last resting-place on english shores. sad letters from home met us there; yet not sad, since they only told us of friends admitted before us to that mystery of glory for which we are longing--of which all that we have seen in art or nature are but dim suggestions and images. a deputation from ireland here met me, presenting a beautiful bog oak casket, lined with gold, and carved with appropriate national symbols, containing an offering for the cause of the oppressed. they read a beautiful address, and touched upon the importance of inspiring with the principles of emancipation the irish nation, whose influence in our land is becoming so great. had time and strength permitted, it had been my purpose to visit ireland, to revisit scotland, and to see more of england. but it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps. and now came parting, leave taking, last letters, notes, and messages. the mayor of liverpool and the rev. dr. raffles breakfasted with us, and after breakfast dr. r. commended us in prayer to god. could we feel in this parting that we were leaving those whom we had known for so brief a space? never have i so truly felt the unity of the christian church, that oneness of the great family in heaven and on earth, as in the experience of this journey. a large party accompanied us to the wharf, and went with us on board the tender. the shores were lined with sympathizing friends, who waved their adieus to us as we parted. and thus, almost sadly as a child might leave its home, i left the shores of kind, strong old england--the mother of us all. the end. [illustration: signed:--geo. h. heffner] the youthful wanderer; or an account of a tour through england, france, belgium, holland, germany and the rhine, switzerland, italy, and egypt adapted to the wants of young americans taking their first glimpses at the old world by geo. h. heffner. . preface. it had been fashionable among the ancients, for men of learning to visit distant countries and improve their education by traveling, after they had completed their various courses of study in literary institutions, and the same custom still prevails in europe at the present time; but in our country, comparatively few avail themselves of this finishing course. it is not strange that this should have been so with a people who are separated from the rest of the world by such wide oceans as we are, which could, up to a comparatively recent period, only have been crossed at a sacrifice of much time and money, and at the risk of loosing either life or health. these difficulties have been greatly reduced by the application of steam-power to navigation, and the time has come when an american can make the tour of europe with but little more expenditure of time and money than it costs even a native of europe to do it. one of my principal objects in writing this book is to encourage others to make similar tours. we would have plenty of books no traveling, if some of them did represent the readers in the humbler spheres of life, but the general impression in america is that no one can see europe to any satisfaction in less than a year or two and with an outlay of from a thousand to two thousand dollars. this is a great mistake. if one travels for pleasure mainly, it will certainly require a great deal of time and money, but a hard-working student can do much in a few months. permit me to say, that one will see and experience more in two weeks abroad, than many a learned man in america expects could be seen in a year. i sometimes give the particulars of sights and adventures in detail, that the reader may take an example of my experience, for any tour he may propose to make. the times devoted to different places are given that he may form an estimate of the comparative importance of different places. statistics form a leading feature of this work, and these have been gathered and compiled with special reference to the wants of the student. many an american scholar studies the geography and history of foreign countries at a great disadvantage, because he can not obtain a general idea of the institutions of europe, unless he reads half a dozen works on the subject. to do this he has not the time. this work gives, in the compass of a single volume, a general idea of all the most striking features of the manners, customs and institutions of the people of some eight different nations speaking as many different languages and dialects. as the sights that one sees abroad are so radically different from what we are accustomed to see at home, i feel pained whenever i think of describing them to any one. if you would know the nature of my perplexity, then go to washington and see the stately magnificence of our national capitol there, and then go and describe what you have seen to one who has never seen a larger building than his village church; or go and see the centennial exposition at philadelphia, and then tell your neighbor who has never seen anything greater than a county fair, how, what he has seen compares with the world's fair! i too am proud of our country, (not so much for what she now is, but because she promises to become the greatest nation that ever existed), but it must be confessed, that america presents little in the sphere of architecture that bears comparison with the castles, palaces and churches of the old world. the capitol at washington, erected at the cost of twelve and a half millions, the city hall of baltimore, perhaps more beautiful but less magnificent, and other edifices that have been erected of late, are structures of which we may justly be proud; but let us take the buildings of the "centennial exposition" for a standard and compare them with some of those in europe. the total expenses incurred in erecting all the exposition buildings, and preparing the grounds, &c., with all the contingent expenses, is less than ten million. but st. peter's in rome cost nine times, and the palace and pleasure-garden of versailles twenty times as much as this! it is safe to assert, that if a young man had but two hundred dollars with six weeks of time at his command, and would spend it in seeing london and paris, he could never feel sorry for it. _young student go east._ contents. chapter i. leaving home new york brooklyn--plymouth church extracts from henry ward beecher's sermon greenwood cemetery barnum's hippodrome on board the "manhattan" setting sail--the parting hour sea-sickness a shoal of whales approaching queenstown--the first sight of land coasting ireland and wales personal incidents--life-boat, no. chapter ii. liverpool the mystical letters "ihs" mean jesus the wonderful clock of jacob lovelace chapter iii. chester--origin of the name the rows or second-story pavements the cathedral and st. john's the walls birmingham _railroads in europe_ chapter iv. stratford-on-avon--- shakespeare's birthplace shottery--anne hathaway's home shakespeare's grave chapter v. warwick--st. mary's kenilworth castle approaching coventry--"the lover's promenade" coventry--its fine churches warwick castle oxford--the great university chapter vi. london. its underground railroads territory, population and other statistics st. paul's cathedral crystal palace the houses of parliament westminster abbey _ensigns armorial, &c._ sunday in london hyde park--radical meeting the tower of london chapter vii. london to paris. strait of dover calais chapter viii. paris. its railway stations, _lack of delicacy in many of the social habits and institutions among the people of warm countries_ the boulevards, rues, &c. arcades and passages palais royal its diamond windows the cafe--a characteristic feature of modern civilization champs elysees palais de l'industrie or the exhibition buildings place de la concorde and the obelisk of luxor garden of the tuileries the arch of triumph other triumphal arches the tomb of napoleon i artesian wells notre dame cathedral the pantheon the madeleine the louvre theaters and operas at a ball incidents chapter ix. st. cloud the palace at versailles the pleasure-garden chapter x. leaving paris brussels the cathedral hotel de ville antwerp _the spirit of revolution_ notre dame cathedral the museum chapter xi. holland. the hague _cloak-rooms_ utrecht chapter xii. cologne the cathedral the museum depths of man's degradation bonn the kreuzberg the drachenfels chapter xiii. coblentz geological laws on the rhine frankfort darmstadt worms chapter xiv. the palatinate, (_die pfalz_). mannheim neustadt heidelberg the castle the great tun stuttgart strassburg the black forest chapter xv. switzerland. the rigi the giessbach falls the rhone glacier the grimsel the cathedral of freiburg berne chapter xvi. geneva to turin mont cenis tunnel italy. its fair sky and beautiful people, milan venice san marco chapter xvii. venice to bologne florence pisa going southward chapter xviii. rome. the colosseum the roman forum the site of the ancient capitol "twelve" the temple of cæsar the baths of caracalla the pyramid of cestius st. peter's the lateran santa maria maggiore museums chapter xix. rome to brindisi. ascent of mount vesuvius, the ruins of pompeii chapter xx. on the mediterranean alexandria cairo wretchedness of the poorer classes the return trip conclusion subjects treated in a general way are distinguished by being rendered in italics, in this table of contents. [illustration: the keystone state normal school.] chapter i. leaving home. while engaged in making the preliminary arrangements for leaving soon after the "commencement" of the keystone state normal school (coming off june th), information was received that the "manhattan," an old and well-tried steamer of the guion line, would sail from new york for liverpool on the nd of june. she had been upon the ocean for nine years, and had acquired the reputation of being "_safe but slow_." as i esteemed _life_ more precious than _time_, though either of them once lost can never be recovered, i soon decided to share my fate with her--by her, to be carried safely to the "farther shore," or with her, to seek a watery grave. the idea of remaining for the commencement, was at once abandoned; short visits, abrupt farewells, and a hasty preparation for the pilgrimage, were my portion for the few days still left me, and saturday, the th, was determined upon as the day for leaving home. it would be evidence of gross ingratitude to forget the kind wishes, tender good-byes, and many other marks of attention, on the part of friends and acquaintances, which characterized the parting hour. both literary societies had passed resolutions to turn out, and on the ringing of the bell at : a.m., all assembled in the chapel, and addresses were delivered. half an hour later, we left in procession for the depot, where we arrived in time to exchange our last tokens of remembrance--cards, books, bouquets &c., and shake hands once more. while the train was moving away, the benedictions and cheers of a hundred familiar voices rang upon the air, and waving handkerchiefs caught the echoes even from the distant cupola of the now fast receding normal school buildings. a number of torpedoes that had been placed under the wheels of the locomotive, had already apprised us that the train was in motion, and would soon hurry us out of sight. during all this excitement of the parting hour, which seemed to affect some so deeply, i was either looking into the future, or contemplating the present, rather, from an _active_ than from a _passive_ standpoint; and, as a natural consequence, remained quite tranquil and composed--my feelings and emotions being at a lower ebb than they could now be, if the occasion would repeat itself. the idea of making a tour through europe and to the orient, had been continually revolving in my mind for many years; and now, that i saw the prospect open of once realizing the happy dreams of my childhood, and the schemes of early youth, i took no time for contemplating the dangers of sea voyages or any of the other perils of adventure. before we came to easton, i formed the acquaintance of a swiss mother, who seemed much pleased to find one that was about to visit her dear "fatherland," where she had spent the sunny days of her childhood. after giving me directions and letters of introduction, she entreated me very earnestly to visit her home and kin, and bring them word from her. new york was reached at : p.m. as there were but three days remaining for seeing the city, i immediately began my visits to some of its principal points of interest. having first engaged a room at a hotel in the vicinity of the new post-office, i commenced to stroll about, and at : p.m., entered trinity church. its capacious interior soon disclosed to me numerous architectural peculiarities, such as are characteristic of the english parish churches or of cathedrals in general; and which render old trinity quite conspicuous among her american sisters. a fee of twelve cents entitled me to an ascent of its lofty spire, which can be made to the height of (?) steps, or about feet. sunday, june th. rose at : a.m. and visited central park. this being an importune time for seeing the gay and fashionable life of the city, i contended myself with a walk to the managerie, and returned in time to attend the forenoon service of plymouth church, in brooklyn. i reached the place before : o'clock, and formed the acquaintance of a young gentleman who was a great admirer of the rev. henry ward beecher, and, being an occasional visitor at this church, knew how to get a seat in that congregation, which generally closed its doors against the faces of hundreds, after every available seat was occupied. we at once took our stand at the middle gate, and there endured the pressure of the crowd for more than half an hour before the doors opened. we were the first two that entered, and running up stairs at the head of the dashing throng, succeeded in making sure of a place in the audience. the church has seating capacity for about , adults. all the pews are rented to members of the congregation by the year, except the outer row of seats along the three walls; but these are generally all occupied in one or several minutes after the doors open. the choir files in at : . a "voluntary" by the organist at : , and by the choir at : , during which time mr. beecher comes in, jerks his hat behind a boquet stand, and takes his seat. leads in a prayer in so low a strain that he can not be understood at any remote place in the audience. at : he baptizes eight infants, whose names are passed to him on cards. concludes another prayer at : and announces his text, "christ and him crucified." i cor. ii. extracts from the sermon. "one of christ's followers once said, 'if all that christ said and did were written in books, the world could not contain them. this is an _exageration_, (_a ripple of laughter dances over the congregation_), having a great meaning, however." * * * * "david gives us only his _intense_ life." (_the audience smile_). ( : ). the preacher becoming dramatic in gesticulation and oratorical in delivery, walks back and forth upon the elevated platform. while describing the crosses which he saw yesterday, he becomes highly excited, swinging his arms above his head. "crosses everywhere. all the way up street; on every beauty's breast." (_explosive laughter_). "some may have cost $ , others possibly $ , ; perhaps some cost $ , ." (_claps his hands in excitement_). "some say 'the church handed down christianity'; but i say christianity kept the church alive. what was it, that, in the reformation, made blood such a sweet manure for souls?" ( : p.m.) pleads earnestly for the weak and the erring. "a man that has gone wrong, and has nobody to be sorry for it is lost; pity may save." sermon concluded at : . prayer. dismissal by singing. mr. beecher's voice is so clear and powerful, that he can be readily understood in the most distant parts of the house. after leaving church, i went up to columbia heights, the most aristocratic section of brooklyn, where i enjoyed myself in contemplating the beautiful and magnificent buildings which constitute the quiet and charming homes of those wealthy people living there. how partial heaven is to some of her children! thence i found my way to greenwood cemetery, where i spent the remainder of the day amid the tombs and monuments of "the great city of the dead." guide books containing all the carriage roads and foot-paths of that burial ground, are sold at or near the gate. one of these i procured, and found it was so perfect in the particulars, that i could readily find the grave of any one of the many distinguished persons mentioned in the index, without further assistance whatever. it is impossible here to give an account of the many splendid tombs and monuments erected there by loving hearts and skillful hands, in memory of dear friends and relatives that have "gone away!" what multitudes of strange and curious designs meet the eye here! some few perhaps seem odd; but most of them bear appropriate emblems, and convey sweet thoughts and tender sentiments in behalf of those "sleeping beneath the sod." what a place for meditation! how quiet, how solemn! no one should visit new york without allotting at least half a day to these holy grounds. how i wander from grave to grave! here i am struck with the text of an impressive epitaph, and there i see the delicate and elaborate workmanship of a skillful master. here my heart is touched by the sweet simplicity of a simple slab bearing some touching lines, there i stand in silent admiration before the magnificent proportions of a towering monument, or sit down to study the meaning of some obscure design. a mere sketch of all that i saw there would fill a volume, but i found one monument which i cannot pass by without some notice. it stands on hilly ridge, and was erected to the memory of six "_lost at sea_, on board the steamer 'arctic,' sept. th, ." these words arrested my attention, and a minute later, i had ascended the domical summit of the hill, and stood at the foot of the high monument. it has a square granite base upon which stand four little red pillars of polished russian granite, supporting a transversely arched canopy, with a high spire. under the canopy is represented the ocean and the shipwreck of the "arctic." the vessel is assailed by a terrible storm, and fiercely tossed upon the foaming waves! she has already sprung a leak, and through the ugly gash admits a copious stream of the fatal liquid, while the raging sea, like an angry monster, is about to swallow her distined prey! down she goes, and among the many passengers on board, are grace, _wife of geo. f. allen and daughter of james brown, born aug. th, ._ herbert, _infant child of geo. f. and grace allen, born sept, th, ._ william b., _son of james brown, born april rd, ._ clara, _wife of wm. b. brown and daughter of chas. moulton, born june th, ._ clara alice jane, _daughter of william b. and clara brown, born aug. , ._ maria miller, _daughter of james brown, born sept. th, ._ what a sad story! as the ship wreck occurred in the fall, it is highly probable that the party was homeward bound and, had better fortune been with them, might in a very few days have again been safe and happy in their respective homes, relating stories of their strange but pleasant experiences in the old world. how changed the tale! how their friends must have been looking and waiting for the "arctic!" one line told the whole story, and perhaps all that was ever heard of them, "the 'arctic' is wrecked!" not far away, on the crown of locust hill, sleeps horace greeley, america's great journalist and political economist. at the head of his grave stands a temporal memorial stone in the form of a simple marble slab, bearing the inscription, "horace greeley, born february rd, ; died november th, ." i left the cemetery at : p.m., and returned to my quarters in new york. monday, june st. having procured passage with the "manhattan," which was to sail on the morrow, i straightway went to pier no. , north river, _to take a look at her_! at : p.m. i stood in the third story of a.t. stewart's great dry goods establishment, perhaps the largest of kind in the world. it is six stories high, and covers nearly two acres of ground. my next point of destination was brooklyn court-house. the afternoon session opened at : o'clock, but i did not reach the place until half an hour later. the court-room was crowded as usual, and many had been turned away, who stood in knots about the halls and portico, holding the posts, and discussing politics and church matters. i entered hastily, like one behind time and in a hurry, and inquired where the court-room was. "it is crowded to over-flowing, you can not enter," was the reply; but i went for the reporter's door. a few raps, and it was opened. i offered my card and asked for a place in the audience as a reporter. the reply was that the room was already jammed full. but i retained my position in the door all the same! "what paper do you represent?" asked the door-keeper. "i am a correspondent of the _national educator"_ was my response; whereupon he bid me step in. the court-room was a small one for the occasion, affording seats for about on the floor, and for more in the gallery. some twenty-five or thirty ladies were scattered through the audience. mr. beech, tilton's senior lawyer, was summing up his closing speech. tilton and fullerton sat immediately behind him, but mr. beecher was not in court. toward the close of the session there was a kind of "clash of arms" among the opposing lawyers. fullerton repeated the challenge previously made by beech, offering to prove that corrupt influences were made to bear upon the jury. the judge appointed a time for hearing the complaint, and adjourned the court. barnum's hippodrome was visited in the evening, where i saw for the first time on a grand scale, the charming features of the european _"cafe_" (pronounced cä'f[=a]'). here are combined the attractions of the pleasure garden or public square, with the ornaments and graces of the ball-room and the opera. it is a magnificent parlor abounding in trees, fountains, statuary and rustic retreats. gilmore's large band of seventy-five to a hundred pieces, occupying an elevated platform in the centre, render excellent music. fifteen hundred to two thousand gas jets, eveloped by globes of different colors (red, white, blue, yellow and green) and blazing from the curves of immense arches, spanning the hippodrome in different directions, illuminate the entire building with the brilliancy of the noon-day sun. to the right of the entrance is an artificial water-fall about thirty feet in height. two stationary engines supply the water, elevating , gallons per minute, which issues from beneath the arched roof of a subterranean cavern, and dashing down in broken sheets over a series of cascades and rapids, plunges into a basin below. from this basin it flows away into tanks in an other building, where four to five tons of ice are consumed daily to keep it at a low temperature, so that the vapor and breeze produced by this ice-water, at the foot of the cataract, refreshes the air and keeps it cool and pleasant during the warm summer evenings. the admittance is fifty cents, and , to , persons enter every night, during the height of the season. here meets "youth and beauty," and the wealth, gayety and fashion of new york is well represented, tuesday, june d. i spent the morning in writing farewell letters, and making the final preparations for leaving. at one o'clock i went on board the "manhattan," which was still quite empty. in order to have something to do by which to while away the slow dull hours yet remaining, i commenced writing a letter. none of my friends or acquaintances being with me, i bid all my farewells by note. but such writing! though the vessel was locked to the pier by immense cables, still she was anything but steady. as passengers began to multiply, acquaintances were formed. by and by the stewart came around, and assigned to us our berths. ship government is monarchic in form. the officers have almost absolute authority, and the passengers, like bashful pupils, do their best to learn the new rules and regulations and adapt their conduct to them, as soon as possible, so that nobody may find occasion for making observations or passing remarks. all these things remind one very much of a first day at school. as the parting hour approaches, large numbers of the friends and relatives of some of our passengers, came upon deck to bid good-by. some cried, others laughed, and many more _tried_ to laugh. some that seemed to relish repetition, or were carried away by enthusiasm and the excitement of the hour, shook hands over, and over again with the same person. at : o'clock p.m., the gangway was lowered and the cables were removed. a shock, a boom, and the vessel swung away and glided into the river! the die was cast, and our fate was sealed. shouts and huzzas rent the air, as the steamer skimmed proudly over the waves, while clouds of handkerchiefs, on deck and upon the receding shore, waved in the air as long as we could see each other. down, down the river glided the steady "manhattan," and our thoughts began to run in new channels. "good-by! dear, sweet america," thought we a hundred times, while we watched the retreating shores; perhaps our thoughts were whispers! europe with its innumerable attractions, its alps, appennines and vesuvius, its castles, palaces, walled towns, fine cities, great battle fields, ancient ruins and a thousand other milestones of civilization, lay before us; but a wide ocean, and all the dangers and perils of a long sea voyage lay between us and that other--longed for shore. the question whether we would ever realize the pleasure of a visit to the old world, was now reduced to the alternatives of _success_, or _failure by accident or disease_. sea-sickness. i had labored under the erroneous impression that sea-sickness was bred of fear and terror, and would attack only women (of both sexes) and children of tender minds and frail constitutions. but, when the waves commenced to roll higher, and the ship began a ceaseless rocking, which was in direct opposition to the wants and comfort of my system, as all manner of swinging ever was, i began to have fears that it was not _fright_, but _swinging_, that made people sick at sea. the inner man threatened to rebel, and i made my calculations how much higher the billows might swell, before stomachs would be apt to revolt. we sailed out of sight of the land before dusk, by which time, however, numbers of ill-mannered stomachs had given evidence of their bad humor. though i nodded but once or twice to old neptune, during the entire voyage, still i suffered much during the first five days, from the pressure of intense dizziness and headache, occasioned by the incessant rocking of our vessel upon the restless waves. we had a very fine passage, as the sailors would say, but it was far from being as fine as i had always fancied fine sea voyages would be. the rocking of the ship would never be less than about two feet up and down in its width of thirty feet. when the winds blew hard and the waves rolled high, it swung some, twenty or twenty-five feet up and down at its bow and at the stern. the highest waves that we saw in our outward passage were probably from twelve to eighteen feet. that the rocking or swinging of the ship, is the one and only cause of sea-sickness, may admit of a question; but that it is the principal cause, there can be little doubt. my observations and experiences in five or six voyages (long and short) did not point to any other cause. as the sea air is generally regarded as more salubrious and healthier than that on land, it can certainly not be a cause of sea-sickness. fright and terror, in a timid person might perhaps aggravate the disease in few instances, though it seems doubtful, to say the least. when the sea is calm and smooth, everybody feels well, even if the vessel swims in the middle of the ocean; but let a storm come on, and the number of sick will increase in proportion to its violence. whales. on the second day of our voyage, in the afternoon at about : o'clock, we came across a shoal of whales. there must have been two or three dozen of them. they apparently avoided our ship, as only a few made their appearance very close by, though we sailed through the midst of them. they swam about leisurely near the surface, betraying their whereabouts frequently by spouting; but occasionally they would rise considerably above the surface of the water, and expose large portions of their bodies to our view. the excitement occasioned among all on board, by the appearance of so many of these terrible monsters, greatly quickened our dull spirits, and tended much to alleviate the lonesomeness occasioned by the monotony of the sea voyage. no one who has never experienced it, can form an idea of how the mind is depressed and benumbed by the monotony of sea life. the nights drag along so slowly, and the days--they seem to have no end. one will often loose his "bearings" so completely, that he knows neither what day of the week it is, nor whether it is forenoon or afternoon. without keeping a diary or record of some kind, it would be difficult for many to keep a sure run of the date. ordinarily, one sits down early in the morning _to wait for the evening to draw by_, and often it happens, when it seems to him that he has waited the length of three days on the land, he is mortified by the announcement that it is yet far from being noon! an eternal present seems to swallow up both the past and the future. after a week or two of such weary waiting, one feels as if he had forgotten almost every thing that happened before the day of his leaving home. i remarked one day to a company of passengers on deck, that i could scarcely recall any thing that had happened in the past; indeed, it required quite an effort to remember that i had ever been in america, or anywhere else except on the old "manhattan" in an everlasting voyage. "yes," observed one of the company, "and i heard a fellow say yesterday that time seemed so long to him, that he had really forgotten how many children he had." there is little doubt, that if a ship-load of passengers could be suddenly and unexpectedly landed upon the grassy slope of a verdant hillside; many would under momentary impulse of overwhelming pleasure, kiss the dear earth, as columbus did on landing at san salvador, if, indeed, extreme joy did not impel them to make themselves ridiculous by imitating old nebuchadnezzar, in commencing to graze on the herbage! but the longest day must have an end, and so have sea voyages. the first sight of land. on saturday morning, july rd, everybody came upon deck in hope of seeing land. a report was soon circulated, that the sailors with their telescopes, had already seen the mountains of ireland. those passengers that had telescopes or opera glasses soon brought them upon deck. some said they saw the land, but others using the same glasees could see nothing. this, created a pleasant excitement with but little satisfaction, however, except a lively hope of soon seeing _terra firma_ again. at about : o'clock ( : o'clock penna. time) it was believed by the passengers generally, that land was really in sight. when i first saw the outline of the mountains through the mist and clouds that hung near the horizon, it stood out so clear and bold that i felt surprised at not having been able to see it long before, as some others had. there were some who could not see the land till an hour afterwards. the inexperienced must first _learn_, before they will know _how_ to see land. the first light-house (one sixty miles from queenstown) came into view at : a.m. we passed it at : o'clock. white sea-gulls come one or two days' journey into the sea to meet the ships, and follow them for food. these had been increasing from an early hour, and amounted to about fifty in number in the afternoon. it seems as if their wings would never tire. all-day long they fly after the ships, sometimes even coming over the deck near the passengers. a great excitement prevailed on board during the whole day, because a number of our passengers were to leave us there. while these were getting ready to depart, and bidding good-by to their many friends on board, many of us were busy writing letters to our friends and relatives in america. those letters were taken on to queenstown, there mailed, and brought the first news of our safe passage across the atlantic. we were still a day from liverpool, but it was a day of pleasure. the dangers of the deep were now forgotten, the strong winds of the ocean had abated, and health and happiness over all on board prevailed. our course continued along. the coasts of ireland and wales. at about : o'clock p.m., the little steamer "lord lyons" came up to our ship to fetch the passengers that were bound for queenstown. a company of fruit-women came on board with gooseberries, raspberries and many other good things with which they fed our famished passengers. these were our first fruits of the season, and were highly relished by all. the vegetation of ireland is remarkable for its fresh, green color. we all agreed that we had never seen such a rich green color before. "emerald isle" (the _green island_) is a very appropriate name for ireland, we saw many light-houses and beautiful castles hanging upon the rocky shores or standing proudly upon commanding eminences. steamers keep so close to the shore in sailing from queenstown to liverpool, that the land is nearly always in sight. on sunday morning, july th, the charming fields of ireland had been exchanged for the lofty mountains of wales. we passed holyhead at : o'clock, and liverpool came into sight at : p.m. an hour later we came so near to the coast that the individual trees of a shady wood upon the shores could readily he discerned. by : we had entered the mersey, and "half-speed" was ordered. five minutes later, we anchored and were touched by a tender. here we learned what custom-house officers are for. every trunk, carpet-bag and satchel had to be opened for them, and their busy hands were run all through our wardrobes. in order to detect any smuggling that might be attempted, they will examine every trunk or chest, &c., from top to bottom. they did not search our pockets, however, but short of that they are required to do most anything disagreeable to the traveler. as it was sunday, all the shipping was tessellated with the colors of every nation. it is a grand sight to see acres upon acres of ships so profusely decorated with flags that it seems as if the sky was ablaze with their brilliant colors. our own "manhattan" sailed proudly into port with twenty-six flags streaming from her mast-head and rigging. after we had passed muster, we passed over a kind of bridge or gangway from the "manhattan" into a little steamer that had come down the river to fetch us. how glad we were to leave the good old ship, and bound into the arms of another that promised to take us ashore in a very few minutes! it was a glorious time! we had come to regard the "manhattan" as a prison-house, from which we had long desired to take our leave, if we only could. but now that the parting hour had come, how changed our feelings! as the little boat sailed away, we felt sorry to leave her, and commenced to call her by pet names. "good-by dear 'manhattan,' many thanks to you for carrying us so safely across the deep wide sea," cried many of us; while others gave the customary _three cheers_ and waved their hats. though we left her empty behind--no friends, and no acquaintances remaining there, still we continued to wave our handkerchiefs at her so long as we could see her, and have ever since remembered her as the noblest of all the ships that was in harbor that day. her, colors seemed the brightest, and a hundred happy passengers separated that hour that will never cease to sing her praises. permit me, kind reader, to add one line more, and in that line make mention of life-boat, no. . you may not be able to understand it, or to appreciate how a small party of our passengers came to regard her as almost a sacred thing, but there are a few that know the spell, and who will ever bless the page that tells the tale! thither we went when the winds blew harder and the waves rolled higher, when our heads became heavier and our steps unsteady! she hung at or near the center of the ship, where there was the least rocking or swinging of all places in the whole vessel. during day-time we lay down beneath her shade, and at night, we would sit by her side relating to each other our feelings and experiences, &c. when sea-sickness had left our company, we agreed upon that place as our general rendezvous by day and by night, for the remainder of the voyage. there we spent our days and there we met every night! if our sleep was interrupted by a storm at the midnight hour, thither would we go for relief! a thousand recollections gather around that boat, and bind our hearts together there, as with so many cords; because our hearts meet there in fond remembrance, therefore will we never forget the place. stepping ashore. i had bid adieu to all my acquaintances before leaving the steamer, and consequently went ashore quite by myself. i did not experience that piercing thrill through my system as i had expected to, on touching the firm earth again; for we had seen the shore so long before we could land, that all its novelty had disappeared. chapter ii. liverpool. traveling-bag in hand, which contained my entire wardrobe, i now went in search of an hotel. the "angel hotel" was soon pointed out to me, and on entering it, i learned that several of my fellow-passengers had already taken rooms there. it is entirely under the control of ladies, being managed by a proprietress and female clerks. the house is an excellent one, and the accommodations are first-class. it bears a very appropriate name. after partaking of a hardy supper, i walked out to "take a look at europe!" at : p.m., i entered st. peter's church, and was conducted to a pew. here, as elsewhere in europe, the young and the old of both sexes occupy the same seat together. one of the little boys of the family occupying the same pew with me, gave me a hymn-book. a part of the exercises consisted in chanting psalms. the eagle lectant and the bible characters represented in the stained glass of the windows, soon enlisted my attention, but the meaning of having two birds perched upon a high stand in the middle of the church, i could not unfold, nor was there any one about that could tell me. the next day i saw the same bird beside a noble female form in the museum. "what bird is that?" said i to a by-stander. "that figure," said he, "is the emblem of liverpool, and the bird is the _liver_, which abounded down in the pools, and after which the place was first named." st. luke's was visited after service. the chorister seemed much pleased to meet an american, and showed me every mark of attention. when asked whether all the churches of liverpool had their chancels in the _east_ ends, he answered in the affirmative. i afterwards found this to be true all over europe. the dead are buried everywhere so as to face the rising sun. around st. john's the memorial slabs lie flat upon the graves. ihs, with a cross over the h, is engraved upon the tombstones of the catholics. these same letters ihs equivalent to jes or jesus, are to be seen, in almost every church and chapel in all christian europe. upon goblets, chrismatories and crosses in the churches they are generally written in gold; while myriads of crosses on headstones in the graveyards bear the same mystical letters. various other interpretations are given to them by different writers, but every explanation except the one above given, seems far-fetched and of doubtful origin, to say the least. in summer, the sun sets after : o'clock in the latitude of liverpool. i saw some twilight after : o'clock. the early dawn becomes visible before : o'clock in the morning, and he who wants to see the sun rise, must content himself with a short night. the exchange is one of the most elegant buildings of its class in europe. st. george's hall contains the largest organ in england. in front of it are the colossal lions and the _equestion statue_ of _prince albert. britania_ (england's crest) which surmounts the dome of the town hall, and the wellington statue, both face _south_. i had expected to see people dressed differently in liverpool from what is customary in america. in this and a dozen other anticipations i was utterly disappointed. thus i was surprised at every step, because i was not surprised. it was a scource of great grief to me that i could not indulge in refreshments on sunday evening. a passenger after landing, is much like a patient after the fever has left him, he is hungry all the time. i had some american silver in my pocket, which i repeatedly offered to exchange for cakes, fruits and refreshments, at the numerous stores and stands which i passed, but no one was willing to invest in my stock of change. thus i had to suffer both from hunger and thirst, because i did not have the right kind of money. on monday i drew my check in english currency, and bought a suitable purse; but i was very awkward for a few days at counting money. england has the oddest and most irregular money table that i found from there to egypt, except those of holland and germany. many of the coins are old and purseworn, so that it is impossible to decipher either the image or the superscription (matt. xxii. ), consequently the value must he guessed by their size. i spent a great part of the day in the museum. it contains a large and well classified collection of natural history, of objects of ancient and medieval art, of ancient manuscripts, of coins, of pictures, sculpture, &c. saw the horns of a south african ox, each of which was about four feet long and five or six inches thick. the wonderful clock of jacob lovelace. in the second story of the building stands a magnificent clock, weighing half a ton. its case is about five feet long by three feet wide, and ten feet high. upon its face are seven hands. it is a very old and complicated machine, and near it in a frame i found the following description: "it is a the work of jacob lovelace, of exeter, ornamented with oriental figures and finely executed paintings, guilted by fretworks." the movements are st--a moving panorama descriptive of day and night, day is beautifully represented by apollo in his car, drawn by four spirited coursers, accompanied by the twelve hours, and diana in her car, drawn by stags attended by twelve hours, represents night. nd--two guilt figures in roman costume who turn their heads and salute with their swords as the panorama revolves; and also move in the same manner while the bells are ringing. rd--a perpectual almanac showing the day of the month on a semi-circular plate, the index returning to the first day of the month on the close of each month, without alteration even in leap years, regulated only once in years. th--a circle, the index of which shows the day of the week with its appropriate planet. th--a perpetual almanac showing the days of the month weekly and the equation of time. th--a circle showing the leap year, the index revolving once in four years. th--a time piece that strikes the hours and chimes the quarters, on the face of which the whole of the twenty-four hours (twelve day and twelve night) are shown and regulated; within this circle the sun is seen in his course, with the time of rising and setting by an horison receding or advancing as the days lengthen and shorten, and under is seen the moon showing her different quarters, phases, age, &c. th--two female figures, one on each side of the dial plate, representing fame and terpsichore, who move in time when the organ plays. th--a movement regulating the clock as a repeater to strike or be silent. th--saturn, the god of time, who beats in movement while the organ plays. th--a circle of the face shows the names of eight celebrated tunes played by the organ in the interior of the cabinet every four hours. th--a belfry with six ringers, who ring a merry peal _ad libitum_; the interior of this part of the cabinet is ornamented with beautiful paintings, representing some of the principal ancient buildings of the city of exeter. th--connected with the organ there is a bird organ, which plays when required. this unrivaled piece of mechanism was perfectly cleaned and repaired by _w. frost_, of exeter, a self-taught artist. jacob lovelace, the maker, ended his days in great poverty in exeter, at the age of sixty years, having been thirty-four years in completing it. this museum also contains glass of the roman period--a.d. - . the best specimens are a little greenish, but quite clear. one of the egyptian mummies is wrapped up by a bandage of cloth, that was woven , years ago. it is still in a good state of preservation. tuesday, july th. the sultan of zanzibar, who was on a tour of inspection, started from the north-western hotel at about : o'clock to drive out to the docks. he was accompanied by two natives from his own country, and the mayor and thirteen british cavaliers. the appearance, in liverpool, of this south african dignitary, created a considerable sensation. chapter iii. chester. at : i left liverpool for chester. edge hill tunnel, which is about a mile or a mile and a quarter in length, was passed in five minutes. grain ripens from one to two months later here, than in pennsylvania. the farmers were busy making hay, and the wheat still retained a dark green color. harvesting is done in august and september. wheat, rye, barley and potatoes are the staple products. no corn is cultivated in northern england. wood is so scarce and dear in great britain, as well as upon the continent, that the farmers can not afford to build rail-fences. hedge-fences, walls and ditches, therefore, take their places in every european country. all this is new to the american when he first comes to the old world. pass some fields of clover still in bloom. see men mow with the same "german" scythes that we use in america. we reached chester before noon. this is one of the oldest cities, if not the oldest in the country. here one sees the england of his dreams, the england he so long desired to see, and which now presents to his gaze, as it were in a focus, both the monuments and the rubbish of many ages. it was once a great military station of the romans in britain, who called it the city of legions. king Æthelfrith reduced it to ruins in the year , and it remained "a waste chester" (a waste castra or fortification) for three centuries. the danes made its walls a stronghold against alfred and Æthelred, and the lady of the mercians, who was the daughter of alfred and the wife of Æthelred, recognized the importance of the place, and built it up again. it was the last city in england to hold out against william the conqueror. during the civil wars the city adhered to the royal cause, and was besieged and taken by the parliamentary forces in . the _phoenix tower_ bears the incription: _king charles stood on this tower september_ , , _and saw his army defeated on rowton moor_. _the rows_ are a very curious feature of the two principal streets running at right angles to each other. besides the ordinary walks or pavements of these streets, there is a continuous covered gallery through the front of the second story. some one has said, "great is the puzzle of the stranger as to whether the roadway is down in the cellar, or he is upstairs on the landing, or the house has turned outside of the window." on this "upstairs street," as some call it, are situated all the first-class shops, the others being in the lower story on a level with the road. picture to yourself a row of houses having porches in the second story but not in the first, and you have a correct idea of the rows of chester. to compare them to the arcades of rue de rivoli in paris, is a mistake, as they do not resemble those more, than a porch over a pavement resembles one in the second story. the cathedral is a grand old church. it was built in the latter part of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries, upon the same site where two of its predecessors had already crumbled into decay. "_st. john's church_ is even more ancient than the cathedral, having been built in the eleventh century. i shall never forget its weather-beaten walls and its mossy roof. in many places, the thickness of the walls is greatly reduced by the rain and hail that have washed and beaten against it so long. in my rambles through chester i had the good fortune of meeting and forming the acquaintance of an irish catholic priest and a wine merchant from wolverhampton, two intelligent and amiable gentlemen, who taught me much about those curious relics still found in heaps among the ruins of old chester. at about : o'clock we stood upon the high square: tower of st. john's (thirty-five feet each side at the top) amidst the elderberries and grass which flourish at that giddy height. looking at the town from this elevation, one gets no idea of its _unique_ features, as the numerous slate-roofs give it the appearance of a modern town. the descent was made with difficulty, land even attended with some danger, for the long wooden stairs or ladders are becoming shaky and a break of one of its steps might precepitate one from such a height that instant death was the most desirable alternative. but who would not become bold, or even sometimes more that, amid such surroundings! when one says we _can't_ get there, another is sure to declare that we _must_ get there! "what! would you come so far to see antiquity, and then count your steps how near you would approach her?" eight bells constitute the peal in this venerable old tower. near by, stand the ivy-clad and moss-covered ruins of portions of the sacred edifices that date back, even to the earlier ages of the christian era, and from among the dust and rubbish are picked up the broken images of hideous-looking idols that were the ornaments (?) of the temples once standing there. we found a large collection of those ghastly-looking idols piled away in the crypt of the church. whether the emblems of druid, or christian worship, these "images cut out of stone" evidently represent an age, in which the heart was subdued by superstitious fear rather than by "_love_." the walls merit especial attention. they still surround the city completely, and form, in a certain sense, the proudest and most admirable promenade that the world affords anywhere. from it are obtained the best views of the cathedral and of the country around. the ascent to it is made by a flight of steps on the north side of the east-gate. a ditch or canal about twenty-five feet wide, runs all around the wall and used to render the battering of the wall a matter of extreme difficulty before the invention of powder and the introduction of fire-arms. the pavement, on top of the wall, is four and a half to six feet wide, and skirted on both sides by thinner walls; that on the outside being about four or five feet high. from behind this wall the soldiers would hurl spears, javelins, &c., at the attacking enemy, and keep them in check. how things have changed since that time! now this walk forms the peaceful and delightful promenade of the private citizens. here meet the young and the gay, fashion displays its gaudiest colors, and lovers take their "moonlight strolls." such is the use now made of the walls of chester! america has no walled cities; europe has but few without walls. in the early history of europe, every town even had its walls. in many places where the walls have almost disappeared, there are still remaining the gates of the city. at those points the walls were made doubly strong, and high and impregnable towers built over them, in which were stationed strong guards "to defend the gates." then no stranger could enter without some kind of "pass" from recognized authorities. did not the system of "pass-ports" which has been handed down to our day, but which seems to be falling into disuse even in europe, have its origin in this way? at : i left chester for birmingham. on our way we passed crewe, one of the great railroad centers of england. at this station _five hundred_ trains pass each other every twenty-four hours. we arrived at birmingham at : p.m. between wolverhampton and birmingham lies the great ore and manufacturing district of england. ore-beds and smoke-stacks cover all the area some thirty miles long and sixteen miles wide, except that occupied by the miserable cottages (some of them mere hovels) of the laborers. looking at this immense area from the cars, it presents the appearance of one continuous town. no wonder that england can accommodate a population of some twenty odd millions on an area but little more than that of pennsylvania, when poor humanity is thus crowded together. in the cars, i had formed the acquaintance of a sociable party of ladies and gentlemen, who pointed out places to me, and instructed me concerning the manners and social habits of the people. from liverpool hither, i found very small brick houses the rule and spacious buildings like our pennsylvania farm houses, the exception. barns, i saw none; small stables supply their places even on large farms. we saw several very fine castles by the way, however. birmingham is known as "the toy-shop of europe," "but most of the toys are for children of larger growth." one can nowhere see richer sights than in the show-rooms of many of these shops. one that i visited, a glass show-room containing chandeliers priced upwards of a thousand dollars, and all varieties of fancy-wares of every description, had large mirrors at the ends of the room, covering the entire walls, and producing the grandest effect conceivable. the objects in the room were thus infinitely multiplied in both directions, so that whichever way one turned his face, glittering glassware was seen "as far as the eye could reach." such sights are simply bewildering! it is a little difficult to gain admittance to the manufacturing departments of many of these places, but to literary characters that represent "newspapers," the doors are generally opened quite readily. in hunting these shops, i discovered a great want of system in the naming and numbering of the streets of this otherwise quite elegant city. i had passed a certain street twice, from end to end, in search of a particular number. upon further inquiry, i learned that what i had considered one street, was numbered and named as two, though there was not the slightest deviation from a perfectly straight line at any point of it. to make bad worse, the houses were counted and numbered upwards on one side of the street, and downwards on the other side. in such a city the stranger must find places by _speculation!_ strange things one meets at every step in europe, and soon gets so used to it, that it seems the strangest to see something that is not strange; but oddities are perhaps no plentier on one side of the atlantic than they are on the other, and are equally amusing everywhere. upon the burial ground of st. philip's, stands a monument in honor and memory of a wife that died at the age of fifty-nine years, which has a bee-hive and the inscription: "she looked well to the ways of her household, and did not eat the bread of idleness." a number of fine statues adorn some of the public squares. one of these, a bronze statue to _peel_ faces _east_; while _priestley's_ marble statue faces _south_. the first thing that arrests the tourist's attention on arriving at birmingham, is its magnificent railroad station, the largest and finest that i had thus far met with in england. as it was late in the evening when i arrived, i had no time to pay much attention to it until the next day. the part entered by the trains is about , feet long and feet wide, all in one apartment. this part is sprung by forty-two immense iron arches, supporting a roof half of whose covering is glass. the numerous tracks are separated by platforms running lengthwise through the building, from which the passengers enter the cars. in order to avoid the danger of crossing the tracks, there is a fine foot-bridge, eighteen feet wide, running across the tracks above the reach of the locomotive stacks. from this bridge, stairs descent to the platforms between the tracks, as before mentioned. three hundred trains pass through this station every twenty-four hours. an officer receives and dismisses these trains by means of a signal-bell. the ticket-offices are in the second story of a large building adjoining. railroads in europe. there are no "conductors" upon the trains after they leave the "stations" (which, by the way, i never heard any one call depots, in europe) but officers are stationed at the head of every stairway to punch the tickets. five minutes before any particular train leaves, the ticket-office is closed and the conductors pass through the cars and inspect the tickets. if any one did come into a wrong car or train, there is still time left to correct the mistake. tickets are not collected till one's destination is reached, where they _must_ be delivered to the door-keeper on leaving the station. without it, a passenger is a prisoner. "railroading" is so perfectly systemized in europe, that it is quite impossible either to cheat a company, or to be cheated out of one's time by missing trains. there is little danger of missing a train even in countries where one can not speak the language. the cars are divided into compartments _(ger. abtheilungen)_ of two seats or benches each, running across the car, with doors at the sides. in st class cars, the seats are finely cushioned and the compartments are about as inviting in appearance as our palace cars; in nd class cars the seats are comfortable but common; but rd class cars have only bare wooden benches. there are in some countries, th class cars, which have no seats. i did not see any of those, but from what i learned of others, they must resemble our freight cars. in those, too, passengers have the privilege of standing or sitting down, according to their taste or comfort. tickets to st class cars cost about the same as in this country, nd class tickets cost three-fourths, and rd class about half as much. in hilly sections of the country, the railways generally cross the wagon roads by bridges; but wherever the two kinds of roads intersect each other on a level, travel on the latter is interrupted by gates and watchmen, who permit no one to pass while a train is approaching the crossing. thus every railway crossing in europe is superintended day and night by watchmen. these watchmen are noticed by signal-bells, at the departure of every train running in the direction of their crossings. under such a system, accidents are impossible. even the doors of each "compartment" are barred by the conductors before the trains are dismissed, and will not be opened by the conductors of the next station, until the train stands still. the tickets, besides containing the ordinary matter on tickets in this country, have also the price printed upon them. some of the stations of the old world, are buildings of extraordinary beauty and magnificence. the grandest structure of this kind, is, probably, the station (ger. _station_ or _bahnhof_, italian _stazione_) of stuttgart. among many others, might also be mentioned the stations of paris, of turin, of milan, and of rome; but the great western station of london, lakes the palm of those all, for magnificence, beauty and convenience combined. what the station at clapham (seven miles above london) looks like, i do not know, but it is said, that from , to , trains run through it every twenty-four hours! what multitudes of people must be streaming over the platforms and past the windows of the ticket-offices of such a station, every day! at birmingham and at crewe, where and trains pass daily, the swarming thousands remind one of _floods_ and _inundations_, but how must it look at clapham? july th, : p.m. leave birmingham for stratford on the avon (pron. [=a]'von). chapter iv. stratford-upon-avon. arrived at : p.m., july th. it had been my intention to pay this place only a brief visit, giving but a glance at "the poet's" home and birthplace, and then start on foot for coventry; but i soon found that stratford possesses more charms than i had anticipated. shakespeare's fame has an influence over his native town, that is simply marvelous. the thousands of tourists that come from every land, and from every clime, _to see the scenes that the poet saw, and breath the same air that he breathed,_ make the place one of the most popular resorts of literary pilgrims, that can be found anywhere. the buildings of stratford are small and low, as is the rule, rather than the exception, in english towns and villages. many are covered with tiles, but the thatch roof is also very common here. this consists of a mixture of straw and earth, often more than a foot in thickness, and covered with moss and grass. notwithstanding this, both the houses and the streets are kept remarkably clean and inviting; so much so, that i felt nowhere else so soon and so perfectly at home as here. its people seem to be possessed of every virtue, and preëminent among them all, is that of hospitality which seems to be blooming in the hearts of all its citizens to-day, as did poetry in the mind of shakespeare three hundred years ago. the streets of this town are kept as clean as a floor, by sweepers watching the streets all day long, collecting and carrying away all the refuse matter. one day, i felt ill at ease about a small piece of paper that had become a superfluity in my pocket, but which i was afraid to throw upon the street, as it would there seem as much out of place as if i should drop it upon the carpet in a parlor. i passed along the pavement with it, until i met a street-sweeper, and there threw it upon his heap with a nod, which he reciprocated with a bow. on entering stratford, my foot first tended toward shakespeare's birthplace, a large two-story house, about fifty feet long, having three large dormer-windows and two chimneys, one of them running up on the outside of the house. the custodian takes the visitor through every apartment of it, giving the history of the same and of numerous articles of furniture and shakesperian relics, &c., which constitute a considerable museum. when william shakespeare's father was a "well-to-do" man, he occupied the whole house; but after he had become poor, the east end was rented to a hotel-keeper, and he lived in the middle part only, which has later been used as a butcher-shop. "on the th of september, , it (the building) was put up for sale by the magniloquent mr. george robins, and in consequence of a strong appeal to the feelings of the people, made through the public press, by which a _national subscription_ was raised for the purpose; this house was bought at the bidding of mr. peter cunningham, for something more than , pounds sterling, and was placed under trustees on behalf of the nation." space will not permit me to make mention of more than a few of the many interesting books, manuscripts, works of art, antiques and relics, found in this library and museum. among them stands the desk at which little "willie" sat at school, also a ring which he wore at his thumb (later in life), and upon which are engraved the letters "w.s." and a "true lover's knot." i spent nearly an hour here, a studying how things looked in shakespeare's time. the ground floors of the house, are covered with flagstones broken in varied forms, as accident would have it, while the rough massive timbers of the floors above stand out unpainted and unplastered. after taking a pleasant walk, with a gay party, through the garden, in which are cultivated all the flowers of which shakespeare speaks in his works, and, (i must not fail also to mention), after having taken our turns in sitting upon _shakespeare's chair_, i bade the sociable company "good-by!" and started for shottery, "a genuine country village, consisting of a few straggling farm-houses and brick and timber cottages, standing apart from each other in their old gardens and orchard-crofts. simple, old-fashioned, and almost untouched by the innovations of modern life, we are here amidst the charmed past of shakespeare's time." here is still to be seen, the cottage in which was born and lived anne hathaway, the wife of wm. shakespeare. this village lies about a mile from stratford, and is approached by a pleasant walk across quiet and fertile fields and pasture lands, the same path along which "willie" used to steal when he went a-wooing his anne. the hathaway cottage is a large old-fashioned thatch-roofed building--very plain but very homely. the clumsy string-lifted wooden door-latches, and the wooden pins fixing the framing, and which have never been cut off, but stick up some inches from the wall, are still all there. it was dusk before i got there. my rap at the door was responded to by the appearance of an old lady custodian, a descendent of the hathaway family, who immediately busied herself to light a tallow candle. that being successfully accomplished, she commenced her story by pointing out the old hearth, and explaining the kitchen arrangements of olden times. among the old articles of furniture, is a plain wooden settee or bench which used to stand outside against the house near the door, during the summer, and which, as tradition, has it, was willie's and anne's courting settee. pictures of their courtships hang against the walls, exhibiting styles and fashions well in keeping with the antique furniture of the room. an old carved bed-stead of the shakespeare era, stands in the room above. here the custodian offered me a book of autographs, asking me to sign my name, as has been customary since october th, . six books have been filled with autographs, since that time. among the signatures i saw one emma r., july th, . "this," said the custodian, "is the signature of the queen of the sandwich islands." henry w. longfellow's signature, who was here with his brother (and families), june rd, , and that of chas. dickens, here in , were also pointed out. the old lady would not let me go away without having taken a drink from "the spring where anne used to drink." after presenting me with "lavender" and "rosemary" for mementoes, and a button-hole boquet consisting of a fine rose and buds, for immediate display, she wished me god-speed on my journey, and i retraced the path across the fields to stratford. new place, the home of shakespeare, is the most charming place in all stratford. the extensive yard and garden which belonged to the property in shakespeare's time, had been partially cut up in lots and covered with houses; but these have all been removed again, and the grounds laid out into walks, lawns and flower beds, as the poet was wont to have them. his yard and garden covered an area of about two acres. the gentleman who has charge of the property now, exerts himself to the utmost, to make the surroundings pleasant and inviting, aiming particularly to plant the same trees and flowers that the poet had planted there, and to keep his favorite trees, or lineal successors of them, in the same sites. among the ornamental trees and flowers, he pointed out a number that he obtained from vick, the florist, of rochester, n.y. shakespeare was buried in the church of the holy trinity. his wife, his only daughter susanna and her husband, thomas nash, lie with him in the same row, immediately in front of the altar-rails. his tombstone bears the following inscription: good frend for jesvs sake forbeare, to digg the bvst encloased heare: blese be ye man yt spares thes stones, and cvrst be he yt moves my bones. the only typographical peculiarity not rendered here, is the grouping together of he in heare and th in thes, after the fashion of monograms. this church also contains a half-length figure of shakespeare, painted after nature. there is evidence extant that it had already taken its place against the wall in the year . beneath is inscribed: judicio pylivm genio socratem, arte maronem, terra tegit, popvlvs mæret, olympvs habet[a] stay, passenger; why goest thov by so fast? read, if thov canst, whom enviovs death hath plast within this monvment; shakespeare, with whom quick natvre dide; whose name doth deck ys. tombe far more than cost; sith all yt. he hath writt leaves living art bvt page to serve his witt. obiit. ano. doi. . Ætatis . die . ap. [footnote a: in judgment a nestor, in genius a socrates, in art a virgil. the earth covers him, the people mourn for him, olympus has him.] of the guildhall, the grammar school, and the beautiful avon, with their hundred sweet associations, i dare say nothing more. after a stay of three days, during which time i had recovered from the effects of the severe strain and close application of mind and body, by which both had suffered exhaustion, and been driven almost to the verge of prostration, in the museum at liverpool and the ruins of chester; i started on way to warwick (pron. war'rick) and coventry. as my purpose was to walk the whole distance, about twenty miles, i sent my sachel by rail, to the former place. chapter v. stratford to coventry. this is the walk referred to by the two englishmen who laid a wager as to which was the finest walk in england. "after the money had been put up, one named the walk from stratford to coventry, and the other from coventry to stratford. how the umpire decided the case, is not recorded." it was late in the afternoon on saturday, july th, when i bade adieu to stratford, and went away rejoicing, in the hope of soon seeing the beauties of england's most charming agricultural section. after two hours, i entered charlecote park, where i disturbed several herds of deer, some hundred head in all. from this park, as lame tradition has it, shakespeare once stole deer, and became an exile for the crime! on sunday forenoon i attended service at st. mary's church, in warwick. the choir, lady chapel and chapter-house are among the purest examples of decorated work, and date from . the tomb of richard beauchamp (bee'cham) in the lady chapel, is considered the most splendid in the kingdom, with the single exception of that of henry vii. in westminster abbey. a very high tower stands over the entrance door, at the west end of the church. the organ and choir (at the same end) rendered the finest music that i heard in england. there were several very highly cultivated voices among those of the half dozen ladies that occupied the space in front of the organ. everything else about the services is eminently examplery of the olden times. preaching is the least important part of the exercises. pulpit oratory finds no place here. singing, praying and readings are the leading feature of worship in the english church in general, and of old churches like this, in particular. such exercises seem to be eminently appropriate for a people whose hearts and minds are almost petrified in civil and religious forms and ceremonies. the step which the english church took away from catholicism, must have been an extremely short one, if it was a step at all. this congregation still turn their faces toward the east, during a certain part of their recitals, and bow ceremoniously, in concert, as often, as they mention the name of "jesus christ." two miles from warwich, is leamington, (l[)e]m'ington), a fashionable "spa," which i visited in the afternoon. it is a very pretty town, and emphatically modern in style; presenting nothing that is anti-american in appearance, except its clusters of chimney-tops, so common everywhere in europe. as soon as one has crossed the atlantic he will seldom longer see single square tops built upon the chimneys, but each apartment of the house has its own chimney; all these converge, but do not meet before coming out of the roof, so that from two to six or eight tops generally keep each other company on the house-tops. at : p.m., i started from warwick for coventry. the road leading from this place to coventry is an excellent turnpike, just as that is from stratford hither, and has a splendid gravel walk for pedestrians on one side, and a riding path for those on horseback, on the other side. five miles brought me to kenilworth castle. great must have been its glories when elizabeth came here in to visit liecester. cromwell dismantled it, and laid waste the gardens around it, and the tooth of time has been gnawing at it ever since, but it is magnificent even in its ruins. "go round about it, tell the towers thereof, and mark well its bulwarks, if you would know what a mighty fortress it must have been when it held out for half a year against henry iii. in , or what a lordly palace when it thrice welcomed elizabeth to its hospitalities, three hundred years later." a quarter or half a mile further on, is a fine church, and nearby an ivy-covered arch. a passing gentleman told me this had been the entrance to an ancient abbey; and others said it was a part of the ruined castle of kenilworth. it was : o'clock when i left here, and had five miles more to coventry. a mile and a half on this side of that city lie the extensive possessions of lord leigh. this wealthy peer owns here, in one stretch, about twenty square miles of the finest and most fertile land in the world. about a mile from coventry i encountered an enormous stream of pedestrians coming out of the city to take their evening walk. the promenade, which is about ten feet wide at that place, was so thronged with the gay young couples, that i found it impossible to walk against the mighty stream, and took the middle of the street. after. i had entered the gate, i found the pavements on both sides of the road becoming more and more crowded, all bound for a pleasant grassy grove known as "the lovers quarters." it is difficult to make estimates under such circumstances, but there can hardly have been less than , to , persons upon the promenade that evening. coventry. coventry is remarkable for its elegant parish churches, which are among the finest in england. "st. michael's church is one of the largest (some say _the_ largest) and noblest parish churches in england." its steeple built between and , is feet high. the church was finished in , when henry vi. heard mass there. the second and third of the "three tall spires" of coventry are that of trinity church and of christ church. st. john's is famous for its magnificent western window. coventry is well worth, a visit on account of those famous churches. i was accompanied to those fine edifices by two precociously intelligent little beauties, (of seven and eleven years respectively), whose gayety and cheer fulness not only rendered their society very accept able to "a stranger in a strange land;" but the simple fact of their being permitted to accompany so perfect a stranger to all parts of the city, showed how much trust some foreigners have in amercans, and consequently, to what extent one may put confidence in them. such incidents are very pleasant and encouraging to the lonely pilgrim and may be made a matter of almost daily occurence by any social but circumspective traveler. the traveling public in europe are so social, and etiquette so free, that the tourist can at every step form the acquaintance of some one who is bound for the same church, museum or pleasure garden and thus be continually enjoying the benefits of intelligent and cheerful company. on monday noon, july th, i left coventry by rail, to return to warwick via leamington. at : p.m., i had passed through the many elegant apartments of warwick castle, and stood at the top of its tower, overlooking the wood groves, and flower garden, occupying the acres of ground belonging to that princely mansion. among the ornamental trees, our guide pointed out "one that queen victoria planted with her own hands." scott calls warwich castle "the farest monument of ancient and chivalrous splender which yet remains uninjured by time." it is said to have been founded in the th century, destroyed in the th, and restored by thomas de beauchamp in the th. it has been preserved so well that it looks almost like a new palace, to-day oxford with its score of colleges scattered all over the city, constituting the world renowned university of the same name, was "done" the next day, but done in a hurry. it is a depressing business to pass by so much, giving but a glance here and there, and not be able to see so many things more at leisure, magnificent libraries and museums, grand churches and chapels, and extensive buildings and botanical gardens, were rushed through and passed by, as if the charm and beauty of oxford's scenes consisted rather in making the images of them flit in quick succession across the retina of the eye, than in examining, studying and contemplating them. merton college, founded , contains a library years old. many of its large and rare books are chained to their respective shelves, like dogs to their kennels; and with chains too, of sufficient strength to check any canine's wanderings. christ church i entered by the tower-gate, so named after the great bell contained in the cupola of the tower over it. this bell weighs about , pounds. the quadrangle inclosed by the buildings of this college, is "the largest and the most noble in oxford." its dimensions are by feet, or nearly an acre and a half in extent. the "hall" is feet by forty, and fifty feet in height. "the roof is of carved oak, with very elegant pendants, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings and badges of king henry viii. and cardinal wolsey, and has the date ." its bay window at the end of the dais with its rich grained vault of fan-tracery, is admired by every one. christ church meadow, with its "broad walk" one and a quarter mile in circuit, and addison walk, near st. mary magdalen college, are among the most bewitching promenades that can be found anywhere, while "the manner in which high street opens upon the view, in walking from the botanic garden, is probably one of the finest things of the kind in europe." oxford is all history and poetry. there is a tradition that upon the top of the elegant tower st. mary magdalen, formerly on every may-day morning, at four o'clock, was sung a requiem for the soul of henry vii., the reigning monarch at the time of its erection. the custom of chanting a hymn beginning with "te deum patrem colimus, te laudibus prosequimur," in the same place is still preserved, on the same morning of each year, at five o'clock. the dark lantern which guy fawks used in the gunpowder plot in , and a picture of the conspirators are contained in the new museum. from oxford i went directly to london by a fast line, which occupied less than two hours in making the journey. from the cars, we saw windsor castle, with its colors raised, meaning that the queen was there. we also passed some large patches of flowers in the fields, which were cultivated for the london flower-market. foreigners in general have a great passion for flowers. while ladies wear them in their hair, upon their bosoms, and carry them in their hand, the gentlemen will carry button-hole bouquets, and many even stick them upon their hats. they are fashionable with all ages and all classes. from blooming maidenhood to gray-headed age, all will adorn themselves with flowers. the english seem to _cultivate_ the most flowers, while the french and the italians, and (lately?) the germans, _wear most_ upon their persons. in england, every available spot of spare soil about the yard, is planted with flowers; on the continent, all the fashionable restaurants and cafes must daily be supplied with fresh bouquets, with which these halls are decorated in lavish profusion. chapter vi. london. we now approach london, the mighty mistress of the commercial world, the most populous city on our globe. here, certers the trade of all nations here, is transacted the business of the world. if you would know how it looks where concentration of business has reached its climax, then come to london. many of its streets are so crowded with omnibuses, wagons, dray-carts, &c., that it is almost impossible for a pedestrian to cross them. when the principal streets intersect each other, the bustle and tumult of trade is so great, that it becomes a dangerous undertaking to attempt to effect a crossing at such a square. for the protection and accommodation of those on foot, the squares are provided with little platforms elevated a step above the surface of the road and surrounded with a thick row of stone posts between these, the pedestrian can enter, but they shield him from the clanger of being tread under the feet of horses, or run over by vehicles. here one stands perfectly safe, even when everything is confusion for an acre around. as soon as an opportunity opens, he runs to the next landing; and thus continues, from landing to landing, until the opposite side of the square is reached. it often requires five minutes to accomplish this feat. it has been estimated that no less than , teams and equestrians, and , pedestrians cross london bridge every twenty-four hours. by police arrangement, slow traffic travel at the sides and the quick in the center. it is feet long and fifty-four wide. not only are the streets crowded, but beneath the houses and streets, in the dark bosom of the earth, there is a net-work of underground railroads, extending to all parts of the city, which pick up that surplus of travel which it has become impossible to accomplish above. there are some thirty miles of tunneled railways in london, now, and the work of extending them is carried on with increasing energy. this railway is double track everywhere, and forms two circuits, upon one of which the trains continually run in one direction, while those on the other track run in the opposite direction. collisions are therefore impossible between these two systems of counter-currents. numerous stations are built all along these roads, where travelers can descend to meet the trains or leave them, to make their ascend to the city above. to give the reader an idea of the immense amount of traveling done in these dark passages under london, it need only be stated that long trains of cars pass each station every "ten minutes," and are as well filled with passengers as those of railroads on the surface of the earth. the cars are comfortably lighted, so that after one has taken his seat and the train begins to run along, it resembles night-traveling so perfectly, that the difference is scarcely perceptible. of all modes of travel, these underground railroads afford the quickest, cheapest, safest and most convenient manner of transit. this great metropolis includes the cities of london and westminster, the borough of southwark, and thirty-six adjacent parishes, precincts, townships, &c. it covers an area of square miles, and has a population of about , , , that of the _city of london proper_ being no more than about , . murray's modern london contains the following statistics: "the metropolis is supposed to consume in one year , , quarters of wheat, , bullocks, , , sheep, , calves, and , pigs." (if these animals were arranged in a double line, they would constitute a drove over a thousand miles long!) "one market alone (leadenhall) supplies about , , head of game. this, together with , , of salmon, irrespective of other fish and flesh, is washed down by , , gallons of porter and ale, , , gallons of spirits, and , pipes of wine. to fill its milk and cream jugs, , cows are kept. to light it at night, , gas-lights fringe the streets, consuming, every twenty-four hours, , , cubic feet of gas; while the private consumption of gas in a year amounts to , , , cubic feet. its arterial or water system supplies the enormous quantity of , , gallons per day, while its venous or sewer system carries off , , cubic feet of refuse. to warm its people and to supply its factories, a fleet, amounting to upwards of a thousand sail, is employed in bringing annually , , tons of coal, exclusive of , , tons brought by rail. the thirsty souls of london need have no fear of becoming thirstier so long as there are upwards of , public houses and , wine merchants to minister to their deathless thirst. "the bread to this enormous quantity of sack is represented by , bakers, , butchers, not including pork butchers, , tea dealers and grocers, , coffee-room keepers, nearly , dairy-men, and , tobacconists. to look after the digestion of this enormous amount of food upwards of , duly licensed practitioners, surgeons and physicians are daily running to and fro through this mighty metropolis, whose patients, in due course of time and physic, are handed over to the tender mercies of undertakers. nearly , boot and shoe-makers give their aid to keep our feet dry and warm, while , tailors do as much for the rest of our bodies. the wants of the fairer portion of the population are supplied, by , linen drapers, , milliners and dressmakers; , private schools take charge of their children; and pawn-brokers' shops find employment and profit out of the reverses, follies, and vices of the community. it is said that , _cats_ are kept in london, to maintain whom large part of the , horses which die every week is sold by cat's-meat vendors. about , ( ) houses give shelter to upwards of three millions of people, whose little differences are aggravated or settled by upwards of , attorneys and , barristers. "the spiritual wants of this mighty aggregate of human souls are cared for by more than , clergymen and dissenting ministers, who respectively preside over churches and chapels, of which latter buildings the independents have , the baptists , the wesleyans , the roman, catholics about , whereas in they had but , the calvinists and, english presbyterians each, the quakers , and the jews ; the numerous other sects being content with numbers varying from one to five each. to wind up with the darkest part of the picture, the metropolis contains on an average , paupers." on my way to london, i fell in company with a young gentleman who was well acquainted in the metropolis, and who gave me much valuable information, and assisted me in establishing myself in a central location, where excursions to all sections could be conveniently made. this was "king's cross station," the terminus of the great northern railway, and one of the principal stations of the metropolitan (or underground) railroad; besides, it is in the heart of the great city. we reached it by the underground railway from paddington, the terminus of the great western railway. when we _came up out of the earth_ at kings cross, i saw a _busy-ness_ such as i had never seen before. my friend went with me a short distance to point out a street where private rooms could be rented. the tourist who wants to make the most of his time must never engage to board at his lodging-place, as it will be very inconvenient and at a sacrifice of much time, to return thither for his meals. the most economical way is to have a room either at a hotel or at a private house, and to take the meals at the numerous restaurants, one of which can be reached anywhere in five minutes. i had great difficulty in procuring a room, but persisted in my inquiries until i succeeded. the traveler will learn quicker than any other person that _perseverence is the only road to success_. he must often see everything go contrary for a whole hour, and even sometimes for half a day in succession. such reverses frequently occasion a "blue-monday" in the middle of the week. my first walk, after i had found a home in london, was to the post-office, to look for letters from my friends in america, this was about three miles off. i returned a different way, and took a look at the exterior of st. paul's. as the covent garden theater (the finest in london) was already full before i reached it, i went on to the oxford street music theater and spent my first evening there. the next day (wednesday, july th,) i entered st. paul's cathedral, the noblest building in england in the classic style. its length from east to west is feet and its height to the top of the cross feet. under the dome is an area affording seats for , persons. here , charity children are collected on the first thursday in june every year, to unite their voices in songs of praise. besides the dome, st. paul's has two other towers, each feet high. in one of these is the clock and the great bell upon which it strikes. the length of the minute-hand of the clock is eight feet, and its weight seventy-five pounds; the length of the hour-hand is five feet five inches, and its weight forty-four pounds. the bell is ten feet in diameter and weighs , pounds. "it is inscribed, 'richard phelps made, me, ,' and is never used except for striking the hour, and for tolling at the deaths and funerals of any of the royal family, the bishops of london, the deans of st. paul's, and the lord mayor, should he die in his mayoralty." it requires a man three quarters of an hour every day to wind the clock, the striking weight alone weighing , pounds. the dome constitutes a very remarkable whisper gallery, the slightest whisper being transmitted from one side to the other with the greatest distinctness. this cathedral contains many fine monuments interesting from the persons they commemorate. among them are those to the duke of wellington, to nelson, to lord cornwallis, to sir charles napier, to sir william jones, the oriental scholar, and numerous others. crystal palace, which is outside of the city, is perhaps the grandest exposition building in the world, and possibly the only structure of the kind in existence, since the destruction, by fire, of crystal palace, in new york. this great exhibition building was first built upon hyde park, covering nearly nineteen acres of ground. it was visited by upwards of , , persons during the twenty-four weeks that it was open, or about , persons daily. the receipts amounted to over $ , , . it was re-erected and enlarged at sydenham, in kent, - , at a cost of over $ , , . it must be over a quarter of a mile long, and about one-fourth as wide. the entire sides and the whole of the immense arched roof are of glass, admitting all the light except what little is intercepted by the sashes, thus affording an illumination quite equal to that outside, under the clear canopy of heaven. the exterior gardens and water-works are magnificent. among the attractions about the yard, is a glass tower about forty-five or fifty feet in diameter and over feet high. beautiful indeed is this magnificent crystal tower. a clock with sixty-nine faces shows the times of so many different places on our planet. for the accommodation of such as are astronomically inclined, i render the following record as i entered it upon my diary, july th: civil middle time, : p.m.; astronomical middle time, : ½ p.m.; sidereal time, : ¾; true time, : ½ p.m. around its great organ, there is seating accommodation for a choir of , singers. for seeing the building only, one could well afford to go a great distance; but there are also constantly on exhibition a large collection of curiosities of every description, while extensive bazars expose for sale the richest and finest goods and wares of all kinds, and from the stores of every quarter of the globe. there is also on exposition a large collection of plants, and a magnificent art gallery of paintings, sculpture, &c. concert every day. london has much fog and rain. i had but two fair days out of the eight i spent there. one very rainy morning i started out to see the houses of parliament. on my way thither i came to trafalgar square. in the center stands the magnificent nelson column, surrounded by statues and fountains. in order to-shield myself from the rain, and to enjoy the view of the grand square before me, and of the parliamentary buildings in the distance, i took refuge upon the portico of the national gallery of paintings. here i incidentally met and formed the acquaintance of the brother of miss rosie hersee, a songstress, who had lately made herself popular in this country. after accompanying me through the art gallery, he changed his programme for the afternoon, and had the kindness to spent the balance of the day with me, showing me through the houses of parliament and westminster abbey. the tourist should constantly be on the lookout for some suitable companion who is well posted at the place that he proposes to visit. without such a person to point out things and explain them, one will miss more than he sees. i had just taken leave of a gentleman who had given me considerable assistance, but whose course so differed from my programme, that i was in fear of losing time should i accompany him longer. my new companion was a short-hand reporter of one of the london papers, and thoroughly acquainted in westminster. the houses of parliament. this is one of the largest buildings ever erected continuously in europe--perhaps the largest gothic edifice in the world. it stands upon the bank of the thames, occupying the site of the old royal palace of westminster, burnt down in , and covers nearly eight acres. this building has staircases, more than two miles of corridors, and , apartments! the cost of erection was some $ , , , or a little more than that of the capitol of the united states. having procured tickets we entered by the royal entrance under the victoria tower, one of the most stupendous structures of the kind in the world. it is feet high and seventy-five feet square. the entrance archway is sixty-five feet high, and the vault is a rich and beautiful grained roof of elaborate workmanship, while the interior is decorated with statues of her present majesty, supported by justice and mercy, and the statues of the patron saints of england, scotland and ireland. the first apartment that we entered, was the robing room. from this room, after the ceremony of robing, her majesty on her way to the throne passes through a magnificent hall feet long, forty-five feet wide and forty-five feet high, called the victoria gallery. it contains two magnificent frescoes of events in the history of england, covering large sections of the two side-walls. one represents the death of nelson, and the other the meeting of wellington and blücher after the battle of waterloo. _the house of peers_, ninety-seven feet long, forty-five feet wide, and forty-five high, is one of the richest and most magnificent chambers in the world. to the left of the entrance is the throne on which her majesty sits when she attends the house, and beside it, the chair of the prince of wales. rich in carvings and lavishly gilt, this noble chamber presents a view of great grandeur. the subdued light, admitted by the stained glass of its windows, does not dazzle the eye as would a perfect illumination of such giltings, but what is lost in _splendor_, is perhaps gained in _modest grandeur_. "the arrival of her majesty is announced within the house by the booming of the cannon. her entrance is preceeded by the heralds in their rich dress, and by some of the chief officers of state in their robes. all the peers are in their robes. the speech is presented to her majesty by the lord chancellor, kneeling, and is read by her majesty or by him; the royal princes and princesses with the mistress of the robes and one of the ladies of the bed-chamber standing by her side on the dais. the return to buckingham palace is by three at the latest." the old custom of examining the cellars underneath the house of lords, some hours before her majesty's arrival, is still observed. this custom had its origin in the infamous gunpowder plot of . _the house of commons_ is sixty-two feet long by forty-five feet broad and forty-five feet high; to which england and wales return members, ireland , and scotland , making in all members. st. stephens hall feet long, feet wide, and feet high to the apex of the stone groining, is lined by twelve "statues of parliamentary statesmen who rose to eminence by the eloquence and abilities they displayed in the house of commons," fox and pitt are here placed on opposite sides of the hall, "facing" each other after the manner they were wont to in the house of commons. westminster hall is feet in length, feet in width, and feet in height. "it is the largest apartment not supported by pillars in the world." let the reader picture to himself the scenes of the events which history records as having taken place in this venerable hall. "here were hung the banners taken from charles i., at the battle of naseby; from charles ii. at the battle of worcester; at preston and dunbar; and, somewhat later, those taken at the battle of blenheim. here, at the upper end of the hall, oliver cromwell was inaugurated as lord protector, sitting in a robe of purple velvet lined with ermine, on a rich cloth of state, with the gold sceptre in one hand, the bible richly gilt and bossed in the other, and his sword at his side. here, four years later, at the top of the hall fronting palace-yard, his head was set on a pole, with the skulls of ireton on one side, of bradshaw on the other. here, shameless ruffians sought employment as hired witnesses, and walked openly in the hall with a straw in the shoe to denote their quality; and here the good, the great, the brave, the wise, and the abandoned have been brought to trial. here (in the hall of rufus) sir william wallace was tried and condemned; in this very hall, sir thomas more and protector sommerset were doomed to the scaffold. here, in henry viii.'s reign ( ), entered the city apprentices, implicated in the murders on 'evil may day' of the aliens settled in london, each with a halter round his neck, and crying 'mercy, gracious lord, mercy,' while wolsey stood by, and the king, beneath his cloth of state, heard their defense and pronounced their pardon--the prisoners shouting with delight and casting up their halters to the hall roof, 'so that the king,' as the chroniclers observe, 'might perceive they were none of the descreetest.' here the notorious earl and countess of somerset were tried in the reign of james i. for the murder of sir thomas overbury. here, the great earl of stafford was condemned; the king being present, and the commons sitting bareheaded all the time. the _high court of justice_ which condemned king charles i. sat in this hall, the upper part hung with scarlet cloth, and the king sitting underneath, with the naseby banners suspended above his head. lilly, the astrologer, who was present, saw the silver top fall from the king's staff, and others heard lady fairfax exclaim, when her husband's name was called over, 'he has more wit than to be here.' here, in the reign of james ii., the seven bishops were acquitted. here dr. sacheverel was tried and pronounced guilty by a majority of seventeen. here the rebel lords of , kilmarnock, balmerino, and lovat, were heard and condemned. here, warren hastings was tried, and burke and sheridan grew eloquent and impassioned, while senators by birth and election, and the beauty and rank of great britain, sat earnest spectators and listeners of the extraordinary scene. the last public trial in the hall was lord melville's in ; and the last coronation dinner in the hall was that of george iv., when, according to the custom maintained for ages, and for the last time probably, the king's champion (dymocke) rode into the hall in full armor, and threw down the gauntlet, challenging the world in a king's behalf. silver plates were laid, on the same occasion, for guests,"--_murray_. the _central_ or _octagon hall_ is an elegant and well lighted apartment eighty feet in height. it is covered by a groined roof ornamented with bosses. the _clock tower_ is forty feet square and feet high. the palace clock in this tower is an eighty-day clock, striking the hours and chiming the quarters upon eight bells. its four dials on the tower are each thirty feet in diameter. from the houses of parliament we went over to see westminster abbey, which is on the opposite side of the street. the contrast between those buildings is so striking, that old westminster seemed to be quite an ordinary edifice. as i looked at its weather-beaten and moss-covered walls, and its small proportions as compared with the grand edifice which we had just left; i speculated what the old stable-like building might look like on the inside. we had not entered long before i observed that it was somewhat larger than i had imagined. it is feet long, feet across the transepts, and feet inches to the roof. back of the high altar is edward the confessor's chapel containing the graves and monuments of nine kings and queens. in this chapel are the two _coronation chairs_ upon which all the sovereigns of great britain have been crowned since the death of henry iii., (by whom westminster abbey was built), beginning with the coronation of his son? edward i., and queen eleanor, october th, . one of these chairs has for a seat the venerable stone on which the scottish kings had been crowned at scone from time immemorial; but which together with the regalia of scotland, edward i. brought with him as trophies in . "this stone is inches long, inches wide, and inches thick." in the "poet's corner" we joined a party and were guided through the chapels. in henry vii.'s chapel we found a very beautiful effigy of the princess sophia lying in an alabaster cradle. this infant princess was the daughter of james i., and is not mentioned by some historians, having died at a very tender age. this chapel contains many royal tombs. among others are the altar-tomb, with effigy of the mother of lord darnley, husband of mary, queen of scots; tomb, with effigy of queen elizabeth (her sister, mary, being buried in the same grave); and the tomb, with a fine effigy of mary, queen of scots, erected by her son, king james iv., of scotland, (being james i. of england). the face of this image is very beautiful, and generally recognized as a genuine likeness of the queen. oliver cromwell's bones were speedily ejected from this chapel at the restoration. in the e. aisle of the north transept is a remarkable monument to mr. and mrs. nightingale. death represented in the ghastly form of a sheeted skeleton has just issued from a dark aperture in the lower part of the monument, and aims his dart at the sick lady who has sunk affrighted into her husband's arms. "this dying woman," says cunningham, "would do honor to any artist." in another part of the church, we found a fine monument to "major john andre, who raised by his merit, at an early period of life, to the rank of adj. general of the british forces in america, and employed in an important but hazardous enterprise, fell a sacrifice to his zeal and his king and country on the nd of october, a.d., , aged years, universally beloved and esteemed. his gracious sovereign, king george the third, has caused this monument to be erected. the remains of major john andre were on the th of august, , removed from tappan by james buchanan, esq., his majesty's consul at new york, under instruction from his royal highness, the duke of york, and with the permission of dean and chapter finally deposited in a grave contiguous to this monument on the th of november, ." there are altogether between twenty-five and thirty kings and queens buried in this abbey, besides a host of england's most famous statesmen, soldiers, poets and other eminent persons that have flourished within the last five or six centuries, a mere catalogue of whose names would fill whole pages. it seems odd enough to an american to find large graveyards in the interior of churches and cathedrals, and to see monuments, tombs and altar-tombs, with the effigies of persons lying in state having all kinds of animals (their crests) lying at their feet; but a day in westminster will accustom one to such scenes. arms and crests. in england, it is very common to place the crests of the nobility with their effigies upon their tombs. thus mary, queen of scots, has the lion lying at her feet, and in st. mary's, at warwick, i learned that the muzzled bear is the earl of warwick's crest, while the marquis of northampton has the black swan, and richard beauchamp the bear and griffin. even literary characters were not without them, shakespeare for example, had adopted the falcon rising argent, supporting a spear, in pale. sunday in london. on sunday morning, july th, i started out at random to find a church where religious service was held. before going far i came to a large church edifice (st. pancras) where numbers of people were assembling from all directions and gradually filling up that capacious building which has seats for about , worshipers. upon the portico i met the superintendent of the mission house, who had accompanied the vicar of st. pancras on a visit to canada, some years ago, and who seemed as much pleased to meet an american as i was benefited by his kind attentions and accommodations. for three-fourths of an hour, he answered me questions and explained the organization of the church of england, which by the way, is quite as complicated as the organization of the civil government of a nation. arch-bishops, bishops, vicars, canons, deans, chapters, curates, &c., constitute a list of ecclesiastical dignitaries whose functions are not very easily defined and comprehended by a stranger. just before service commenced, he conducted me to a seat near the pulpit. rev. thorold, the officiating clergyman, is a very able speaker, and made the first attempt at argument in his discourse that i had yet listened to in england. preaching, in england, like the reciting of prayers, is all so much blank assertion--no more, and no less. i had never before so felt the force of _unquestioned authority_ as i learned to feel and appreciate it in the services of the episcopal church of england. the very fact of arguing a question is in itself a compromise of its one-sidedness and of the infallibility of the position the preacher may have taken; but let the clergy of an entire nation read the same mass and recite the same prayers in all their congregations, and let them refrain from discussing scriptural texts, and all give one and the same answer to each and every question, and there will soon be an end of sectarianism. the best reasoning has always provoked more doubt than it has established faith, and in consequence, ever been more fruitful of contention than of peace. so long as a people are one-minded they will be peaceful and contended even if they are bound in wretched slavery, but the tide of revolution has set in at london, and the church begins to tremble, and the clergy to argue. in the afternoon, the weather being very fair, i went to hyde park. this park has an area of acres, upon which may be seen all the wealth and fashion and splendid equipages of the nobility and gentry of england. a meeting of the radicals had been announced and placarded over the city, inviting all workingmen to be present and enter their protest against parliament appropriating any money to the prince of wales for defraying the expenses of his contemplated trip to india. the novelty of seeing a political meeting on _sunday_, and that too on the part of the republicans in monarchial england, was enough to entice me thither, so i went early and spent an hour with a silver-haired clergyman, upon a settee under the shade of a tree not far from "the reform tree," around which, as this gentleman informed me, the nucleus of radical meetings is always formed. on my way to the park, i was accompanied for some distance by a certain policeman, (whose acquaintance i had formed during the week); to him i expressed my surprise at seeing great britain compromise the sacredness of the sabbath with radical republicanism and rationalism! "well," said he, "if we let them have their own way, they will come here and hold their meetings and after they have listened to their leaders awhile and cheered right lustily, they will scatter and that is the end of it, but when we interfere, there is no telling where the matter will end. in , we once closed the park against them, and the consequence was a riot in which the police suffered severely from brick-bats, and the mob finally took hold of the iron fence and tore it away for a long distance along the park, made their entry, and took their own way." "well could you not have punished those offenders according to due process of law?" i asked. "yes," he rejoined, "we might, but their number was so great that we could never have finished trying them all!" thus it often happens that what is criminal for one or several to do, goes unpunished when a thousand offend, and besides they open the way to new privileges and greater liberties. at : o'clock a mighty flood of the reform party, headed by bradlaugh and watts, marched into the park and, soon a large meeting of many thousands was formed, which increased in numbers as long as the speakers continued to address them. it is a striking feature of these reform agitations, perhaps of every revolutionary movement that has ever been undertaken and accomplished, that they are headed and lead by men whose personal influence embodies the whole power of the organizations, and whose word and command are their supreme law. this meeting was variously estimated at between , and , persons, and this immense concourse of people was us perfectly under the control of chas. bradlaugh as the best organized army can be under its general. this harmony must be attributed to the fact that the movement is a spontaneous one in which each member participates because he likes the leader and his principles. it is an encouraging feature of these reformers that they do not despise _everything_ that the past has handed down to our time, as the hot-blooded communists of paris seemed to be inclined to do in the late _crisis_. the dress of these agitators speak nothing about bloody revolution as did the "red cap" and slouch hat of the political reformers of europe of earlier times. bradlaugh, for an example, wears a black dress coat, silk dress hat, lay-down collar and black necktie, and carries a cane. the great majority of the meeting wore also the fashionable "stove-pipe." these things and the sound judgment of the leaders promise "peaceable reforms" but the boundless enthusiasm of the mass of them when imflammatory remarks are made, betray the existence of feelings that are akin to pent up volcanoes, and may break out in violent eruptions when least expected. there is certainly fire enough in european republicanism to impel them on to mighty efforts when the proper time comes. the part played by several ladies in this movement has a salutary influence for moderation and order. mrs. besant and the two daughters of mr. bradlaugh are always accompanying him wherever he lectures in london. a table was placed in the center of a circle formed around the leaders, and upon this mr. bradlaugh took his stand in addressing the meeting. his voice is far more powerful than that of any other man that i have ever heard, and by the use of medicine which his elder daughter (alice) reaches up to him very frequently during his speeches, he keeps it perfectly clear to the end; though in these open air meetings he often, stands in the face of , to , persons, speaking by the hour with a force quite equal to the roaring of a lion. this violent exercise of his vooal organs, he sometimes repeats several times every day for a month in succession, displaying powers of endurance which are perhaps not equaled by any other living orator. it is an exciting scene to behold acres of hats beclouding the sky while "cheers rend the air," and to see a field white with hands when votes are taken. only three persons in this entire meeting voted in favor of granting the prince of wales the $ , asked for, while some acres of people voted against it. it should be remembered that this was a meeting of the _extreme_ branch of the republican party in london. there is a more moderate party headed by leaders who only despise royalty, but abide with the church and the christian religion, and which is said to be far more numerous than the extremists are. in the evening the radicals had a meeting in the hall of science, where mr. bradlaugh addressed them on the subject of religion and social ethics. his discourses here are generally very abtruse. none but a very intelligent audience, and educated in his system of philosophy would understand his logic or appreciate his wit and humor at the expense of royalty and christianity. the hall will hold about , adults and his congregation (?) is a mixed one comprising both sexes, just like all church organizations; after which, it is a copy. there is no praying, but the miss brad laughs render music upon a melodian or organ both before and after the lecture. in place of the "collection," they charge a small admittance, which becomes a source of considerable revenue; as the hall is crowded at almost every meeting. i must here record, one more feature which implies, besides the oratorical powers and progressive originality of the father, an intensity of interest on the part of a daughter, in her father's views, such as is seldom witnessed. miss alice b. will, from the beginning to the end of every lecture, keep the eye of her father, watching every change of his countenance from the flush of a glowing enthusiasm to the pallor of bitter contempt, catching every syllable he utters, reflecting with beaming smiles every happy hit he makes, and sinking down to the paleness of utter disdain with him, when he comes to the recital of the heartless oppressions of the aristocracy; continually following his remarks with such an interest as if she was seeing and hearing him for the first time in her life. i have given a somewhat lengthy account of these radical meetings and rationalistic sentiments, not on account of their popularity in england, for though hundreds of thousands endorse the movement in london and a number of other cities in great britain, still they are by far in the minority, at least when the question of religion is taken; but upon the continent of europe--in france, germany, and i had almost added switzerland and italy, the case is already different or fast becoming so. rationalism is rampant, and the reader should constantly bear in mind, as i may not often return to this topic, that the majority of the intelligent people in most places are of the camp that i have described as holding these meetings on hyde park and in the hall of science in london. those radical societies have their own hymn-books, and even their children are baptised and the dead buried, according to their own forms and ceremonies, of unbelief. of the numerous other parks in london, i have no room to make mention. of the british museum, comprising a collection of books, works of art, antiquities, and curiosities, larger than that of any other museum contained under one roof in the world, costing in the aggregate $ , , , and the building $ , , , and of the south kensington museum fast approaching the british museum in the vastness of its collection, i can only add, that a complete catalogue of their collections would fill several large volumes, and to examine all their contents would require many weeks. there are numerous other museums and galleries of art strewn over the great metropolis, each more comprehensive than the pride and boast of many other cities of pretention in the world, but in london they are only regarded as second rate collections. if a tourist has only a few days to devote to london, he should not fail to pass through park lane (along hyde park, at the foot of which lives the son of arthur, the duke of wellington, commander at waterloo) thence along piccadilly, passing charing cross, trafalgar square, the strand and fleet street, and, having visited westminster abbey and st. paul's cathedral, will now find the tower of london. next in importance. this ancient citadel is the most celebrated in england, and dates back to the time of william the conqueror (a.d., ) at least; but tradition refers it even to caesar's time. it covers over twelve acres, and its walls are about three-fifth of a mile in circuit. the outer walls of the white tower, which stands within the fortifications, are fifteen feet thick. "this tower" (the tower of london) "is a citadel to defend or command the city; a royal palace; a prison of state for the most dangerous offenders; the armory for warlike provisions; the treasury of the ornaments and jewels of the crown; and general conserver of most of the records of the king's courts of justice at westminster."--_stow_. the bloody tower, so called because within it was committed the murder of the princes, edward v. and duke of york, sons of edward iv., by order of richard iii. in this tower is the jewel-house containing the regalia and the crown jewels. among these, are st. edward's crown which was made for the coronation of charles ii., (a.d., ), and used in the coronations of all the sovereigns since his time. the crown made for the coronation of victoria, consisting of a purple velvet cap enclosed by hoops of silver, and studded with diamonds. it weighs ¾ pounds. this crown is estimated at £ , (about $ , ). the crown of the prince of wales, of pure gold, unadorned by jewels. the queen consort's crown, of gold adorned with precious stones. the queen's diadem. besides, staffs, sceptres, spurs, the ampulla of the holy oil, the coronation spoon, the golden salt-cellar of state, in the shape of a castle, baptismal font, used at the christening of the royal children, a silver wine fountain, maces, swords, bracelets &c.,--all arranged upon a large table, enclosed by a glass case and shielded by iron palings. these treasures are estimated at $ , , ! the horse armory is contained in a hall feet long and feet wide. in the center, is a line of equestrian figures, in number, clothed in the armor of the various reigns from the time of edward i. to james ii. ( - ). when armory had reached its height, just before the introduction of gunpowder, the suits of armor were so heavy and covered the bodies of the soldiers and horses so completely, that a knight in full armor looked much like a turtle sitting upon an armadillo. i saw a suit of armor that weighs pounds, and a spear feet in length. in those days physical strength carried almost everything, while intelligence frequently counted nothing. looking at those mailed figures makes one almost feel ashamed of his ancestry. besides one of the blocks upor which were beheaded both the innocent and the guilty in former times, there are also on exhibition the collar of torture, pounds in weight, the thumb-screw, the stocks, &c., a collection of instruments of torture well calculated to restore in the mind of the beholder, a vivid picture of the dark and wretched past, when man's greatest and most dangerous enemy was his brother. it seemed then to be the best policy of kings, queens, and of all noblemen, to get rid of brothers and sisters at the earliest convenience! on our way to beauchamp tower, the prison of anne boleyn and lady jane grey, we passed tower green, where anne boleyn, lady jane grey and catherine howard, three queens, were beheaded. this is the place where king henry viii. had several of his six wives dispatched, which he could not well have got rid of, by divorce. i had intended to touch in these remarks a number of other points about london, and especially the almost boundless resources of england's welthy lords, but i can only present a single example, and must then hurry on with my account to continental europe. the wealthiest nobleman whose home and dwelling-place i passed, is the duke of maclew (a scotchman) whose annual income is estimated at £ , or about $ , , . he lives at white hall, near westminster bridge. chapter vii. london to paris. on wednesday, july st, the eight day of my stay in london, i went to charing cross station and procured a ticket for paris. before leaving however, i exchanged my english currency for french money. the rate of exchange is francs for one sovereign. the exchange clerk explained to me the relative values of the french coins which i found to be much easier to understand than english money. the table runs thus: centimes equal one franc; and francs, one napoleon. the coins are: napoleons, ( £), franc and franc pieces in gold; francs and half-franc coins in silver; and centime, centime, (the sou), and centime copper and nickle coins, though the centime is not in general circulation now, being equal to but one fifth of a cent in our money. it was a great consolation to me to know that i would understand the french money perfectly, especially as i expected not to be able to speak with anybody in paris, except, now and then, with a stray german or englishman. soon after entering the train at charing cross i met a frenchman (prof. p. simond who could speak english fluently, having occupied his time in england in teaching french, and was on his way to paris to spend his vacation there. he offered at once, very kindly, to assist me in paris, and i felt from that moment that i should be ten-fold luckier in making my entry into paris than i had thus far had reason to expect. the train left london at : p.m., and was to make connection with a steamer for calais, (pron. k[)a]l'[)i]), thence by rail to paris, reaching the latter place the next afternoon. the "through ticket" rd class, from london to paris, cost shillings. distance miles. soon after leaving london, i discovered that i was surrounded by the family of an english merchant, who, having retired from business, had taken his wife and daughters to make a trip to the continent, with a view to see france and germany. the mother expressed great delight on learning that i was an american, remarking that "americans are not so _stiff_ in their intercourse." it was lot long before i felt that i was in a fair position to spend the _day and night en route from london to paris_ pleasantly, even if we were to be confined to the cars and the boat with the exception of a few hours. we crossed the strait of dover at about midnight, though not _unawares_! as i had no fears of getting sea-sick upon the strait of dover, i took my seat on the deck in confidence of a pleasant voyage. mrs. l. soon asked me whether i did not expect to get sick, stating that she was in great fear of it. i replied that i hoped our passage was too short for getting sick, as the waves were not apt to rise very high in such a narrow strait. but i was mistaken; the sick were soon moaning in every direction. my gay companions all disappeared except the old gentleman and his younger daughter. a large steamship of , tons burden would probably show more dignity, but the little steamer upon which we had taken passage, was as fiercely knocked about by the waves, and made fully as much ado about it, as the old "manhattan" ever did in the middle of the atlantic. the young lady was keeping close to her father and had already ceased to laugh, when i asked him the last time about their health. _he_ was well, but the young lady was also becoming dizzy from the rocking, and turning pale at the terrors of the sea. i hastened to the cabin below and sought relief in lying down. being both weary and giddy i soon fell into a sleep, from which i did not wake until we reached calais. the train for paris was not to leave until the next morning, so i tried to find rest and sleep in the waiting room, but without success. by and by a gentleman came round and offered to conduct us to lodging places. i followed him into the city, through strange streets into a strange house, and was shown to retire in a strange room. everything seemed in its place, however, so that i had no occasion for feeling uneasy. the next morning i rose at break of day and took a long walk through the city of calais, to look about and see as much, as possible before i had to leave. this was my first walk on the continent of europe. i looked about where i might get breakfast, but as most of the business houses were not yet open, i stood a poor chance. into the saloons i would not go, as i could not have asked for what i wanted on account of my inability to speak french; my only hope, therefore, was to find a shop or store that displayed in the window what i wanted, so that i could make my purchase by gestures. i had provided myself with a conversational guide book, in london, containing the french, italian and german equivalents of english words and phrases, most necessary to the tourist; but the french pronunciation is so difficult that i could after all not make myself understood except by pointing out these french words to the shop-keepers. to give the reader an idea of what mistakes an american is apt to make in pronouncing french, i offer the names of two of the most common articles of food. they are _pain_ (bread) pronounced pä, and _lait_ (milk) pronounced l[=a]. i succeeded, however, later in the morning, when the shops were generally open, to procure a breakfast, whereupon, after having visited a very antique church and examined the strong fortifications of the city, i started for the railway station. on my way thither i passed the open door of a saloon in which mr. and mrs. l., whose friendship i had formed the previous day, sat at coffee. it was a pleasant surprise, and i took my seat with them, drinking coffee for the benefit of the milk (_du lait_) which i poured into it. this done, mr. l. invited me to accompany him to their hotel to "see what a nice place they had found last night!" it was a excellant hotel, and as we approached the beautiful flower-beds which lined the path leading to the entrance, their daughter came down the walk, and greeted us, the old gentleman remarking that they had been inquiring last night what had become of me. it is very pleasant and agreeable to fall into such society, and to behold the cloth spread and the china and glass ware set with an excellent breakfast (a regular home-fashion scene) after one has spent several hours in lingual conflicts for a breakfast, and seen nothing but the outside of old weather-beaten houses. i took my seat with the english party and my french friend (prof. p.s.) in the same car, and left calais at : a.m. everything looked strange again; even more so than when i first came to england. everybody, except our english company, spoke french, and the cars, the buildings, and the tickets and conductors, seemed all different from what i was accustomed to in england. the houses which we saw from the train, were small and covered with tiles like those which i had seen in northwestern england. we soon passed burial grounds in which the graves were headed with crosses, in place of marble slabs, for tombstones. large quantities of peat and the white stone quarries in the chalk formations, next arrested our attention. though it was the nd of july, haying was not yet finished. some of the farmers were, however, engaged in reaping both their wheat and barley. at : a.m., the english channel came again into view. thus we passed along enjoying the scenery of "belle france," (beautiful france), but by and by we became tired of watching landscapes. to see odd styles of architecture, and watch the strange ways about a people, may afford a pleasant diversion for a time; but the eyes, too, become tired of looking. a striking feature about the agriculture is the smallness of many of the fields; there being no fences, the fields are distinguished by their crops. some of them are but several rods in extent. the various colors which the different kinds of vegetables assume in their progress of growth and ripening, make the landscape look like an immense expanse of checkered carpet, exceedingly beautiful to behold. when these scenes seemed no longer to be charming, or we had become too fatigued to appreciate them, we commenced to amuse ourselves in games, joking and tricks, of which the traveler sees and enjoys his fill. gambling; which is such a wide-spread social evil in america, is prohibited or restricted to certain fixed days of the year, in some countries of europe; but games of various kinds are played, by the best society, almost everywhere. notwithstanding all the arguments that may be advanced in favor of games at chess and back-gammon, as exercises in mental gymnastics, and of playing cards as affording pleasant diversion for mixed parties, the diligent tourist, like the industrious student, should not squander much of his time at it. chapter viii. paris. in the middle of the afternoon, we reached the northern railway terminus _(embarcadere du nord) _ in paris. this magnificent station covers nearly acres of ground. the arrival and departure sheds in the center are metres long, and metres wide. (the meter is equal to . inches). its facade is metres long, metres (about feet) high and consists of a lofty central arch and two lateral arches. this imposing front is adorned with twenty-three colossal statues of noble female figures, representing the following, principal cities of europe: paris, (surmounting the central arch), londres, st. petersburg, berlin, frankfort, vienne, bruixelles, cologne, amsterdam, donai, dunkerque, boulogne, compeigne, st. quentin, cambrai, beauvais, lille, armiens, rouen, arras, laon, calais, valengiens. ( ). there are a number of other very fine railway stations in paris, but we can only take room to define their area. the largest is the strasbourg railway terminus, nearly acres in extent; while the western railway terminus covers an area of acres. as soon as our train had stopped, i followed my french companion (prof. s.) into the extensive apartments of the station, and passed muster. i expected to be asked for my "passport," but slipped through unchallenged. on passing out into the yard i was again saluted by my english friends who were about entering a "bus" to drive to a hotel. in bidding each other good-by and god-speed on our journeys, i ran a great risk of losing my parisian friend, in the great multitude of people that thronged the yard and pavement; but fortunately, i found him again in a few minutes. before we reached the street, i was already made to feel that some strange scenes and experiences were undoubtedly in store for me in paris and likely throughout the rest of my continental tour, for i had already observed one of those strange social habits of the parisians in a most public place which the nice delicacies of our language and customs forbid to describe. the french, the italians, and many of the inhabitants of south germany and parts of switzerland--i should say all the sunny lands in europe--have handed down to our day, manners and customs which speak in a language that cannot be misunderstood, and with a force far louder than a whisper, that _it is not very long since man took to dressing himself_. in my intercourse with those people, from paris to egypt, i nowhere observed any baneful influences exerted over morality by these practices in question, for they are not thought about by those people which are guilty of them, but many an american will be shocked at them, and go home declaring that such indecencies _must_ lead to immoralities, even if they have never gone to the trouble to see whether they actually _do_. their pernicious influence upon american tastes and manners may be granted, but that does not prove that foreigners, who are cradled, nursed and brought up in these customs, will be affected in like manner. american and english tourists are alike shocked and provoked at the sight of the innumerable nude statues and paintings, on the, pleasure gardens and in the art galleries, but the ladies of the continent seem to see as little of indecencies or improprieties in those things, as we do in opening our bibles and seeing saints and apostles represented with bare feet--the _toes_ standing out naked over the sandals, or when we read in the family circle and in the public capacity of teachers and ministers, passages from scriptures, such as no one would be capable of reading if they were found in a periodical or a newspaper. during my first month on the continent, i was often vexed to think that much of what i saw, that was not only very interesting and impressive, but which had likewise an important bearing on history, was of such a nature that it would either constitute unfit material for general diffusion, or seem to be incredible to the average reader. we went down boulevard (pron. bool'var') de magenta about one-third of a mile, to boulevard de strasbourg, (pron. straws'boor'), thence along that avenue (?) to the foot of it (another third of a mile) and continued our walk down boulevard de sebastopol to rue de rivoli, along which latter street we went half a mile west, where my friend, guide and teacher procured for me a room not far from _his_ home. [with this gentleman i spent from three to five hours daily, during my first stay of fifteen days, in walking about the city seeing sights and studying french reading and pronunciation]. as soon as i had taken my room, i retraced my steps to the railway station and fetched my sachel; this time, alone. it was not a little task, for the distance from my quarters, which were near the center of paris, to the station, was over two miles. the names of the boulevards "magenta, strasbourg and sebastopol," i was constantly repeating in my mind, so that i might not forget the way that i had come with my friend, the first time. it was dark by the time i reached my lodging place the second time, but i had seen and learned enough for one day. almost two miles of _boulevards_ and nearly half a mile of rue de rivoli (the finest _rue_ in paris) thrice walked that afternoon, had presented to me more that was new, than i had expected to see in a week. the boulevards, like a dozen other of the distinguishing features of paris, are _new things_ to the american; and as they are quite different from anything that i have yet seen of the kind in this country, i shall here take room to note some of their striking characteristics. they are the grandest streets in paris, sustaining about the same relation to the "rues" that the avenues in our american cities sustain to the streets. in the french nomenclature, the names applied the different classes of thoroughfares, &c., run as follows: st., avenues; nd., boulevards; rd., rues; th., allees or ruelles, and th., passages (pron. pahsahjes). in america, the corresponding terms are st., avenues; nd.,----; rd., streets; th., alleys, and th., passages. it will be observed, that we have here nothing to correspond with the boulevard. in the classification here presented, the term avenue is to designate thoroughfares of great width and shaded with rows of trees on each side, as are the avenues in washington, d.c. in most american cities, the avenues are diagonal streets or openings connecting distant points of the cities, but this definition loses most of its force when applied to european cities, as they are not built square or rectangular. champs elysees intersects a fine and extensive reservation, (having many of the characteristics of the pleasure garden), extending from the jardin des tuileries (garden of the tuileries) to the arc de triomphe (the arch of triumph). its length is a mile and a quarter, and the garden or park of which it is the grand thoroughfare, is, in one place, about a third of a mile in width. the buildings are consequently a considerable distance off from this carriage-way; but in the boulevards, nothing except the pavement intervenes between the street and the houses. the boulevards of paris are its widest as well as its noblest streets. the pavements on each side of them, are, in many instances from twenty-five to thirty feet in width. thick rows of large and elegant shade-trees border them on both sides, and under these are placed numerous wooden settees for the accommodation of the public. many of the , cafes which are strewn over paris, grace these boulevards with their glass fronts. during the summer season, most of the refreshments and meals are served in front of the cafes on the pavements, and grand is the sight of seeing ten thousand gay parisians seated along these splendid streets, chattering away over their wine and coffee! paris is about five miles long by four miles wide, and few are the houses in the entire city that are less than five or six stories high. a few only of the outer streets have as low as four and five story houses. these houses are mostly built of stone, having stone floors, even. each room is arched over from the four walls; upon these arches are placed the flagstones constituting the next floor, and it is in consequence of this arching that each story is so very high. the white sandstone of the paris basin constitutes the principal building stone. the city is divided into seven sections, and each section is required by law, to either scrape the fronts of their houses once every seven years, so that the walls look new again, or to paint them anew. no proprietor can choose his time, but when the year is come for his section to repair their houses, it must be done. in consequence of this regulation, the streets never look _checkered_ by old and new houses contrasting with each other, but the external appearance of the buildings is made to harmonize, and each street is a unit in appearance. in the finest part of paris there are few alleys or stables, but splendid rues and boulevards lined with magnificent buildings with elegant fronts, have taken their places. this section is over three miles in length, nearly two in width, and presents scenes of beauty, grandeur and magnificence which are _unrivaled_ by anything that the first other cities of the world have ever brought forth. its beautiful balconies, as numerous as the windows, constitute another very charming feature of parisian scenery. the streets are always kept clean and wet by sweepers and sprinklers, and the broad smooth pavements along the boulevards, free from dust and all manner of rubbish or obstructions, afford a suitable promenade for gayety, wealth and fashion to roam. here beauty's feet may stray, arrayed in the most showy colors or the stateliest attire, without fear of encountering nasty crossings or of being splashed over and soiled by teams upon muddy streets. ladies attired in gaudy ball-room dresses with long trails, would scarcely present a contrast in dress with the average promenaders. all dress equally well, on sundays, and on week-days, so that paris presents to the foreigner, the appearance of a city celebrating an eternal sabbath. even when it rains, the pedestrian can walk _for miles_ about the city, without being in want of an umbrella. in that event he need only confine his course to the arcades and passages. webster defines an arcade as "a long, arched building or gallery lined on each side with shops." may the reader not be misled by this definition; for the arcades of paris do not have shops on _both_ sides. they are a uniform system of porticoes generally from twenty to thirty feet in width. those on rue de rivoli are about a mile in length, and the houses to which they belong have been exempted from taxes for thirty years. from these ramify numerous passages and other arcades, connecting different parts of the city. a "passage" (pron. pä-sahj) is a street covered with a glass roof, elegantly paved, animals and vehicles excluded or shut off, and lined by the first-class shops in the city. the most remarkable are the passages des panoramas, jouffroy, verdean, vivienne, colbert, choiseul, delorine du saumon, &c. the first of these are the most brilliant and are perhaps not excelled or even equaled by any other in the world, with the solitary exception of passage des victor emanuel of milan, in italy. some of these passages are called galleries. the galerie d'orleans in palais royal, is a good example. this lofty hall, forty feet wide and feet long, extending between a double range of shops, connects the arcades extending around the other three sides of the inner court of that palace, (now turned into shops, bazaars, etc.) many of the grand boulevards and rues of paris have been built since , and the work of widening and improving old streets and building new ones is still going on with constantly increasing vigor. there are now in progress of construction, broad boulevards, which can only be constructed at the sacrifice of many acres of some of the finest buildings in paris; but only beauty and grandeur are regarded anything in this noble city, expenses being but little estimated. notwithstanding the lavish expenditure of money upon this class of improvements, paris is, of all cities, perhaps the most prosperous on the globe. of the wide-spread destruction of public buildings, occasioned by the late war and the stormy days of the commune, there are but few marks remaining. the palace of the tuileries, hotel de ville, and a few other buildings, lie still in ruins; but the thirty or more churches which were either greatly damaged or quite demolished, and numerous other public edifices that have been destroyed, have already been restored--some of them with increased magnificence. besides this, the french have almost finished paying their immense war-debt, while america, whose war ended seven years before theirs, is obliged to sail into the centennial year, still heavily freighted with the obnoxious burden. did heaven ever smile upon a more blessed city than paris? to give the reader an idea of how buildings are torn down to make room for the purpose of extending fine streets, let us refer to the statistics concerning rue de rivoli. this street cost $ , , . it is two miles in length, and its establishment caused the demolition of upwards of one thousand houses! thirty millions of dollars, enough to pay for a tract of land that is twenty miles long and eleven miles wide, bought at the rate of $ per acre; and all this expended on the improvement of two miles of road! in the old world, a strip of three to five or six story houses, several hundred feet wide and a quarter of a mile to upwards of a mile in length, is torn down with as much complacent indifference concerning the destruction, as men manifest in mowing so much grass! as among the most fashionable places in paris, may be mentioned, boulevard des italiens, palais royal, champs elysees, jardin des tuileries and other pleasure gardens and public squares. boulevard des italiens, in fair weather, is densely crowded with ladies and gentlemen seated on chairs hired for two to three sous (cents) each. the city clears over $ , a year from this source of revenue. but several hundred steps toward the west of this street stand the academic de musique (the most splendid opera-house in the world) and the grand hotel--two of the most brilliant edifices in the city. palais royal, as it now stands, was completed in . this building, like most of the palaces in europe, is built around a quadrangle, and its plan may be compared to a pupil's slate used for ciphering. the frame corresponds to the form or ground-plan of the buildings, and the slate, to the court or yard which they inclose. this inner court or garden, feet long and feet wide, containing nearly five acres of land, is planted with lime (linden?) trees from end to end, and two flower gardens. in the middle is a fine _jet d'eau_ (a fountain). "the garden was thus arranged in ; it contains bronze copies of diane a la biche of the louvre, and the apollo belvedere; two modern statues in white marble, one of a young man about to bathe, by d'espercieux; the other of a boy struggling with a goat, by lemoine; ulysses on the sea-shore, by bra; and eurydice stung by the snake, by nanteuil, a fine copy in bronze, but more fitted for a gallery than the place it now occupies. near this statue is a _solar cannon_, which is fired by the sun when it reaches the meridian, and regulates the clocks of palais royal." from the privilege of supplying refreshments and from the hiring of chairs, the government derives an annual rent of $ , . the shops under the arcades are chiefly devoted to articles of luxury, and are among the most elegant in paris. many restaurants are on the first floor; here, were formerly the gambling-houses which rendered this place so notorious. the best time for visiting palais royal is in the evening, when the garden and arcades are brilliantly illuminated and full of people. the shops of the watch-makers and the diamond windows are then particularly brilliant. in the most magnificent windows the articles have no price marks; but in the best windows in which the articles have price marks, i saw lockets priced $ ; rings for $ ; ear-rings for $ , a pair; a pair of diamond studs for $ , ; crosses for $ ; and a necklace worth $ , . palais royal has been called the capital of paris. during the early part of the first revolution, its gardens became the resort of the most violent politicians; here, the tri-coloured cockade was first adopted, and the popular party decided on many of its bolder measures. there is little room for doubt, that the cafe, one of the characteristic features of french society, is a potent factor in civilizing and refining the human race, in these latter times. religion and intelligence--moral ideas, moral habits and the collective knowledge of our ancestors--has been transmitted from one generation to another down to our time, by the church and the schools, principally. but the affairs of the human race have taken a new turn since the invention of printing, by which the steady development of traditional ideas has been arrested, so that the propriety of retaining the standards of ancient civilization as patterns for the present, is being questioned and discussed everywhere. in this great revolutionary era, the authority of the past and even the respect naturally due to parents is very generally disregarded. this latter sad feature of failing to do homage to the aged, is not more the result of a lack of love and esteem, on the part of children for their parents, than of the want of confidence which parents have in themselves. we can take an illustration from our young ladies. a few generations ago, the traditional white cap constituted the head-dress of the young maidens among the catechumens, when they presented themselves for the first time at the altar; now, in place of having all the heads look alike, every head must present a different phase. we still find sections in the old world, where all the dresses of the young are "cut out of the same piece," so to say, and made after the same pattern, so that all the individuals of a company are almost as nearly dressed alike, as soldiers in uniform. rev. bausman, in his wayside gleanings, page , in describing the appearance of people at church in a certain section of germany, portrays one feature in these words: "very pleasant was it to see every lady, old and young, having her hymn book carefully folded in her white handkerchief." the clergy, and the monks and nuns in europe display like uniformity in their dress. in every old picture or painting, representing a group or company of persons, it will be observed that all the individuals are dressed and combed after the same fashion. this incessant yearning and seeking for something new is of recent date, and the key-note of a universal system of revolutions. every season brings a new style of dress, and what is true of fashion is true of everything else. as it would ill become mothers to leave their family for a time and learn the milliners' trade, she makes choice of one of her daughters to be educated in that trade. this young girl after she has learned dressmaking takes the place of the mother in the matter of providing clothes for the family, and becomes in a large measure the mistress of the house. the same thing happens to the baking department of the family. a score of new kinds of pies and cakes have become fashionable in our day, and it is the daughters that have the greatest opportunity to earn this baking of pastries the quickest. the consequence is that the mother soon turns out to be only a _second rate cook!_ fully aware that she can neither cook nor make dresses, she resigns her position as head of these departments, respectively to her daughters, who, when once master of the culinary and millinery, affairs, will soon be master of the balance of the household affairs. need i say that the fathers of this generation are served about the same way by their sons? and it is the same between the teacher and the pupil. "old fogy teacher" or "he has the old ways yet" are expressions that are too common to require any explanation. happily, most old teachers have cleared the turf, and yielded their laurels to a host of youngsters, ranging in age from about sixteen to twenty years! thus all difficulties are surmounted in this line, and "young america" has the reins to himself! look at the improvements that have resulted from the efforts of inventive genius, and at the progress that the arts and sciences have made. we are in a _new world_, so different from that of our forefathers, that their experiences count almost nothing in this new era. it is a sad picture to see the young and the inexperienced thus groping in the dark, but it is the inevitable consequence of the new turn that things have taken since the inauguration of the _age of reason_ [dating from the introduction of printing (?)], nevertheless, the young would display much greater prudence, if they would bring many of their schemes and purposes to a lower temperature by sitting still when age rises to speak, and were they to take heed of the counsels and admonitions of those who are older than themselves. this radical change in the affairs of the world being recognized, it becomes apparent how the power and influence of the church and schools must abate in a measure, and give scope, for a season, to a class of institutions more fitted for revolutionary times. this transition era will likely be marked as a glacial period in the history of religion, during which time rationalism and infidelity will possibly be rampant in europe, if indeed they do not even establish their dominion in america, but we may hope for a calm after the storm, when things will be steadied down again to a smooth and even flow. in this our time, the transition era, theaters, operas, cafes and the printing press, will play a very important part; the press for the literary public in general, the theaters and operas for the social benefit of the upper class and the cafe for the middle and _large class_, the class which give shape and character to the predominant methods of social evolution. the first cafe in paris was established in by an armenian, and like the establishment of the hippodrome in new york by barnum, was a success from the beginning. these institutions increased rapidly in number under louis xv., and became the favorite resort of distinguished individuals. at present, they abound in every quarter, and justly rank among the most remarkable features of the city, being very generally decorated with unrivaled costliness and splendor. besides coffee, wine, beer and other refreshments, they frequently provide breakfast, and many of them also dinners and suppers. in , there were over , cafes in paris, doing business to the amount of $ , , annually, or an average income of $ , to each establishment! the furniture of the cafe and the plan of conducting its business resembles that of our fashionable ice-cream saloons more than any other establishment that we are acquainted with. the halls are furnished with little tables or marble-stands surrounded by chairs or costly sofas, and every person that enters, is expected to order some kind of drink or refreshment as soon as he has taken his seat. both sexes frequent them alike, and a grand sight it is to see a brilliant company of ladies and gentlemen sitting in groups and couples about these gorgeously decorated halls, enjoying their wine and each other's company, thus presenting scenes of gayety and festive pleasure that are seldom outvied, even in the ball-room and the opera in this country. a band of musicians render music from an elevated platform all evening, and an open space in front of the platform is provided for the accommodation of those who delight in the dance. the waiting girls of these cafes are usually ladies of remarkable beauty and refinement, whose elegant dresses, graceful manners and rare accomplishment in conversation and address, are well in keeping with the charming brilliancy of the hall, and the merryand refined company around them. it is astonishing how cheap these splendid accommodations of the cafe, almost princely in their style, can be rendered. a person may enter a cafe early in the evening, sit down with his friends and acquaintances, order a glass of wine or beer and enjoy the best music and the pleasures of the most refined society for an hour or two, and when he leaves, his purse is only from three to eight cents the poorer for it. a gentleman may take a lady to the cafe _five_ evenings in a week, for between thirty cents and a dollar. he may spent twice as much or even ten or fifty times as much, if he washes to spend his time in a building whose very window sashes and external ornamentations glitter with gold; but such a lavish expenditure of money is not _required_ to be comfortable and happy. these cafes are very orderly houses. it is not fashionable to consume a glass of wine or beer in less than half an hour, and many drink the whole evening at one glass. no one can get drunk at this rate, and any one who would drink fast and should become wild, he would not be tolerated in the cafe, as no lady would remain in his society. there are some fast drinking-houses even in paris, and more in some sections of germany, but even those sent few or no drunk men upon the streets. a fellow that would stagger upon the pavement would be conducted to the station house at once. i did not see a single drunk person in paris in half a month's stay, and only several in the rest of my tour through europe. it is an encouraging sign of the times, that the cafe is being introduced in america. may it soon take the place of our gambling-halls and drinking-hells. see what macaulay says of the cafe, as he is quoted by webster in his unabridged dictionary under the word coffee-house. champs elysees, champs elysees, (pron. shangs-ai-le-zai), a term equivalent to "the elysian fields" of the greeks, is perhaps the most charming place in the world. it is a paradise in reality, as its names implies; and during the summer evenings, when its many thousand gas jets blaze in globes of various colors, and the magnificent illuminations of its grand cafes produce a brilliancy of coloured light intense enough to see pins on its walks and flower-beds, the scenes become grand beyond description. immense throngs of people gather around the cafes in the evening to see the youths and beauties whirl in the mazy dance, and listen to the bewitching strains of the sweet music there rendered. it is not a rare thing to see spectators go into raptures on these occasions, for i have seen few places where nature and art so harmonize and unite in producing scenes of enchanting beauty and creating feelings of ecstatic delight, as here on champs elysees. the atmosphere of paris, too, is preeminently soft and balmy, and the temperature so even that ladies may sit in the most brilliant attire all evening in the open air under the trees of this pleasure-garden without the least danger of contracting a cold. one of the first evenings that i enjoyed these scenes of indescribable beauty, i could not help but observe to my companion, that the finest poetical descriptions of a celestial paradise, were not ideal representations of imaginary pleasures, but true word images of the joys and beauties of the "elysian fields" (champs ely sees) in paris. the buildings which front upon this lovely place are among the most elegant in the city, being finely painted, even on the outside, like those in the boulevards. i saw one, whose balconies were all gilt, from the bottom to the attic story, reminding one of the splendor of the foremost royal mansions. palais de l'elysee, lies contiguous to this place and gave origin to its name. it was a favorite residence of napoleon i. when he returned from elba, he occupied it until after the defeat of waterloo. it was also the official residence of napoleon iii. while he was president of the french republic. at present it is occupied by marshal macmahon during the recesses of the national assembly. in about the center of champs elysees, is the palais de l'industrie, the great exhibition buildings, in which the world's fair was held in . the avenue des champs elysees intersects champs elysees, and is a mile and a quarter in length. its foot-pavements are twelve feet wide, this is the favorite walk of the gay parisians. "on sunny winter-days, or cool summer-evenings numerous parties of all classes are seen, enjoying the lively spectacle before them, seated on iron chairs hired for three or four sous, (cents), or on the wooden benches placed at intervals on the sides of the avenue, while elegant carriages roll in procession along the road."--_galignani's paris guide_. place de la concorde, called place de la revolution in , (when the guillotine was erected here), is at the east end of champs elysees, adjoining the jardin des tuileries. the square is enclosed with balustrades, upon which stand eight colossal statues of the chief provincial cities. in the center of it stands the obelish of luxor. this magnificent monument of ancient egypt, was brought to paris in and erected in . it weighs tons, and to transport it from thebes to the place where it now stands required three years. it is one of two monoliths that stood in front of the great temple of thebes, where they were erected years before christ. both of them were given to the french government, by mehemet all, viceroy of egypt, "in consideration of advantages conferred by france on egypt in aiding to form the arsenal and naval establishment of alexandria." only one was removed. it is feet inches high. its greatest width is feet inches at the base, and feet inches at the top. the pedestal upon which it stands, is feet by feet at the bottom and feet at the top, and weighs tons. the transportation and re-erection of this obelisk cost the french government about $ , . a dear present! no wonder that they did not go to fetch the other one. galignani enumerates the following events which occurred here and rendered the place de la concorde famous: "july , .--a collision between prince de lambesc's regiment and the people became the signal for the destruction of the bastille. "jan. , .--louis xvi. suffered death on this place. "from jan. , , to may , , more than , persons were executed here by the guillotine. "feb. , .--the first disturbances that ushered in the memorable revolution of that year took place here. "feb. , --flight of louis philippe and his family by the western entrance of the tuileries garden. "nov. , .--the constitution of the republic was solemnly proclaimed here, in the presence of the constituent assembly. "sept. , .--the downfall of napoleon iii. and the third republic proclaimed, after the disaster of sedan. "may , .--a desperate conflict between the versailles troops and the communists, the latter in their retreat setting fire to public and private bubldings." jardin des tuileries, a pleasure-garden over fifty acres in extent (containing flower-beds, an extensive orangery, trees, statues and fountains) intervenes between place de la concorde and the palace of the tuileries, and, in connection with champs elysees, constitutes a continuous garden and park whose total length is over a mile and three quarters. this magnificent reservation penetrates almost to the heart of the city. its width is in one place nearly half a mile, being about one fifth of a mile wide at the tuileries on the east, while it tapers down to about feet (the width of avenue des champs elysees) at the arch of triumph on the west end of it. the avenue des champs elysees and the principal avenue in the tuileries garden are in a perfectly strait line, so that a person standing in the center of the avenue at the tuileries will see both sides of the arch of triumph, nearly two miles away from him; while the center is concealed from his view by the obelisk of luxor standing in the center of place de la concorde, as above described. stepping a few yards to either side throws the obelisk out of the way and affords one a perfect view of that noble arch (one of the most stately monuments in existence). the tourist can not approach that imposing monument called arc de triomphe de l'etoile to greater advantage than by this avenue, starting out from the ruins of the tuileries. as some of the finest scenes and most important places in paris are met with, by this approach, one should allot a whole day to this walk. he will have half a mile to the obelisk in the center of place de la concorde, which, with its surroundings, will require him hours to see. three thousand feet further, is the rond point of champs elysees. a quarter of a mile short of this, he will have found the exhibition buildings on his left and palais de l'elysees on his right. having seen these, he may make his approach of the arch of triumph without further interruption. from rond point to the center of the arch, it is about , feet more. it is only after the visitor comes within half a mile of its base that the monument begins to assume its gigantic proportions. this proud monument was designed by chalgrin, having been decreed by napoleon i. in . the work was suspended from till ; labor was resumed then, but it was not completed before . thus, thirty years of time and over $ , , were bestowed upon the erection of this historic monument, which is perhaps destined to hand down to future generations both the names of the victors and of the numerous vanquished cities that were subject to the authority of napoleon i. the great central arch is forty-five feet wide and ninety feet high, over which rises a bold entablature and the crowning attic. the transversal arch is twenty-five feet wide and fifty-seven feet high. the total height of the monument being feet; and its breadth and depth feet and feet respectively. the fronts of the structure are towards champs elysees and porte de neuilly, the city gate near bois de boulogne. the general plan of this imposing monument is borrowed from that of the famous arches at rome; but the transversal arch is an additional feature, while its reliefs, and inscriptions, and its colossal proportions throw the arches of rome into comparative insignificance. the interior sides of the piers are inscribed with the names of ninety-six victories; under the transversal arches are the names of generals. a group upon the northern pier of the eastern front represents the departure of the army in :--"the genius of war summons the nation to arms." the group on the southern front represents the triumph of :--victory is in the act of crowning napoleon. history with pencil in hand is about to record his deeds upon a tablet before her; conquered towns are at his feet. fame surmounts the whole, blowing her bugle of praise. the group on the southern pier of the western front represents the french nation's resistance to the invading army of :--a young man defends his wife, his children and his father; a warrior falls slain from his horse, and the genius of the future encourages them to action. upon the northern pier is represented the peace of :--the warrior sheathes his sword, the farmer has caught a bull with a rope, and is taming him for purposes of agriculture, while a mother with her children is sitting by, and minerva sheds her protecting influence over them. every group is feet in height and each figure feet. a chain fence encircles this proud and noble monument, and shuts off all conveyances. pedestrians can enter until dusk. an ascent of steps brings the visitor to the platform at the top, from which one of the finest views of paris and the surrounding country may be enjoyed. there are three other triumphal arches in paris. the oldest is that of porte st. denis. it was erected by the city of paris in . the principal arch is feet wide, and feet high; and the total height of the structure is feet. its reliefs and other representations are superb. the triumphal arch over porte st. martin is feet wide by feet high. the central arch is feet wide by feet in elevation. it was built in , two years after the erection of porte st. denis. the last of the three inferior arches was erected by order of napoleon in . it has a base of feet by feet, and is feet high. the cost of erection was about $ , . it stands near the tuileries at the place du carrousel, after which it was named, and which was so called from a great tournament held by louis xiv. in . the entablature is supported by eight corinthian columns of marble, with bases and capitals of bronze, adorned with eagles. the attic of this arch is surmounted by a figure of victory in a triumphal car with four bronze horses hitched to it. these were modelled by bosio from the celebrated historic horses which napoleon brought from venice to paris in , but which were restored by the allies in , and now stand again in the piazza of st. mark at venice, as they had since . the original (those in venice) are gilt, but those in paris are black. the tomb of napoleon i. the tomb and last burial place of the great napoleon, which is in eglise des invalids, is perhaps the most imposing monument of the kind in the world. i have not found its equal anywhere; nor anything to rival it even, in costliness and splendor, except those of several of the popes at rome. the tomb which covers the sarcophagus into which the mortal remains of napoleon i. brought from st. helena, were placed april nd, , consists of a immense monolith of porphyry weighing tons, brought from lake onega in russia at an expense of $ , . this tomb, ½ feet in height, stands in the center of a circular crypt, and is surrounded by twelve colossal statues representing so many victories. the pavement of the crypt contains a crown of laurels in mosaic, and a black circle upon which are inscribed the names of the following victories: rivoli, pyramids, marengo, austerlitz, iena, friedland, wagram and moskowa. a large bouquet of immortelles (everlasting flowers) lying upon the tomb is emblamatic of the immortality of the great soldier's fame. over the bronze door which leads to the crypt, are inscribed the following words, quoted from the emperor's will: "je desire que mes cendres reposent sur les bordes de la seine, au milieu de ce peuple francais que j'ai tant aime." "i wish my remains to be laid on the banks of the seine, amongst that french people whom i have loved so much."--_p. simond_. in the center of an adjoining chapel, stands the tomb of joseph, king of spain, the eldest brother of napoleon i. his mortal remains were brought hither in . the dome which rises over the tomb of napoleon i. is one of the proudest monuments in paris, and its gilt and glittering cupola may be seen many miles around. the cross on top of the globe and spire surmounting this dome is feet above the pavement. leaving eglise des invalids from the southern entrance, which leads to the tomb of napoleon i., a spectacle presents itself to the beholder in the form of a grand fountain throwing its water high into the air. it is at the artesian well of grenelle. m. mulot commenced to bore at this well in , but did not succeed in reaching water until february th, , by which time his boring instrument had reached the depth of , feet, and the water suddenly gushed forth with tremendous force. the whole depth is lined by a galvanized iron tube that is inches in diameter at the top and inches at the bottom. the, amount of water yielded every hours is , gallons. its temperature is about degrees fahrenheit. twenty years after the sinking of this well, that is in , the artesian well of passy, near the arch of triumph, was completed. this yielded at first , , gallons in hours; it yields now over , , gallons per day. a third artesian well is in boulevard de la gare. there are, besides these artesian wells, monumental fountains, plain fountains and over , water-plugs in the city. notre dame. the cathedral church of notre dame is the grandest church of the rose-window class that i met with in my whole tour of europe, the length of this edifice is feet, and its greatest width at the transepts feet. it is said to be capable of holding , persons. the nave is feet long, feet wide and feet in height to the vaulting; the windows are feet high. its two western towers are each feet high, and the spire about feet. the first thing that arrests the attention of the visitor on approaching it, are the grotesque figures of its antique gargoyles, several hundred in all, which give the church a very odd appearance. the three portals (at the west end) contain about images. its organ is feet broad, feet high and contains , pipes. but among the most remarkable features of this magnificent cathedral are its splendid rose-windows, representing a variety of scripture and legendary subjects, and its choir and sacristy. here, are mitres and crosses glittering with jewels, and the church-utensils and vestments. the most gorgeous are the robes worn by pius vii. at the coronation of napoleon i., and several series of brilliant robes profusely embroidered in silver and gold. it seems that the place upon which notre dame now stands, was first occupied by a heathen temple erected in the time of the romans; for, among nine large stones dug up in , one bears the effigy of the gallic deity hesus, and the other was a votive altar raised to jove. the pantheon. about half a mile distant from the island of the seine upon which notre dame stands, on an eminence south of the river, is located the pantheon, or church of st. genevieve. this building cost $ , , . the six fluted columns of its portico are feet in diameter and feet high. the whole number of corinthian columns in and about this superb edifice is . the arched ceilings of the interior are feet high. the dome is feet in diameter and its height from the pavement to the top is feet. i have seen no other dome in europe that resembles so closely the dome on the capitol of the united states, both on account of its fine illumination by natural light, and in its general design. one section of the frescoes in the canopy of the dome on our national capitol, represents the deification of washington. in the dome of the pantheon at paris, clovis, charlemagne, st. louis and louis xviii., are represented as rendering homage to ste. genevieve, who descends towards them on clouds, and glory embraces napoleon. in the heavenly regions are represented, louis xvi. and marie antoinette, louis xvii. and madame elizabeth. in , mirabeau was interred here with great pomp, and in the same year took place, the celebrated apotheoses (deifications) of voltaire and rousseau. the remains of mirabeau and of marat were afterwards depantheonized, and the body of the latter was thrown into a common sewer. the vaults are under the western nave. in these the "monuments and funeral urns are arranged like the roman tombs in pompeii." there are two concentric passages in the center, where small sounds are repeated by loud echoes. a hand holding a torch issues from one side of rousseau's tomb, meaning that he is a light to the world even after death. la madeleine is the third and the last of the large churches of paris to which i can direct particular attention. it is feet long by feet wide, covering over an acre of ground, and its erection cost over $ , , . this structure was commenced in , but the work was suspended during the revolution of . napoleon had once directed vignon to complete it for a temple of glory, but louis xviii. restored it to its original destination in . it is approached at each end by a flight of steps, (the same number that constitute the scala sancta at rome), extending along the whole length of the facade; and a corinthian colonnade of columns, each feet high and five feet in diameter, surrounds it on every side. there are scores of other churches in paris that are interesting on account of the various styles of architecture which they represent, but i will only make mention of one more, and that on account of its terrible historical associations. it is the church of st. germain l'auxerrois (pron. sang jer-mang lo-zher-wa). it was from the belfry of this church, that the signal was given for the commencement of the massacre of st. bartholomew, august rd, . its bells tolled during the whole of that dreadful night. this church was the theater of another outbreak on the th of february, , when everything within the church was destroyed. the louvre. the reader may form an idea of the extent of these buildings, when he reflects that the space covered and inclosed by the old and new louvre and the tuileries, is upwards of sixty acres. the court of the louvre is one of the finest in europe, and its art galleries are among the richest in the world. the long gallery alone covers nearly an acre and a quarter, being feet wide and , feet long! a person can well spend weeks or even months in the museum of the louvre, but simply to walk through all of its brilliant galleries will require about three hours! i cannot stop to say more than that its collections of paintings and of sculpture is probably much larger than any other in the world. besides what i have already described and enumerated, paris has its bois de boulogne containing large botanical and zological gardens, three race courses, the longest nearly two miles in circuit, lakes and drives; also many other gardens, squares, towers, columns, &c.--all full of beauty or interesting on account of the historical events and incidents associated with them; but i must now devote the remainder of my space to the theatres, operas and other places of amusement of the great capital of the social world. places of amusement are the leading feature of paris, and a boundless variety, adapted to the wants and tastes of every class of society, are strewn in endless profusion all over the city. the concert season lasts almost all the year round, though the highest class are limited to the winter and spring. masked balls take place throughout the carnival, in the winter season, and are thus spoken of and described by galignani: "the most amusing are at the opera-house, where they begin at midnight and continue till daybreak. no stranger who visits paris at this season of the year should omit a visit to one of the _bals masques_ at this theater, for it is difficult to imagine a scene more curious and fantastic than that presented in the _salle_ of the grand opera at a carnival ball. on these nights the pit is boarded over and joins the stage; the vast area of the whole theater forming a ball-room of magnificent proportions, which, brilliantly lighted, and crowded with thousands of gay maskers attired in every variety of colour and costume, forms a sight not easily forgotten. ladies should not go except as spectators in a box and under the protection of their relatives. the ticket costs $ . . to witness this scene in perfection the visitor should wait until or o'clock, when the company is completely assembled and the votaries of the dance are in full activity. on entering the vast _salle_ at such a moment the effect is scarcely imaginable, the gorgeousness of the immense theater, the glitter of the lights, the brilliancy and variety of the costumes, the enlivening strains of music, the mirth of the browd, and, above all, the the untiring velocity with which the dancers whirl themselves through the mazes of the waltz, polka and mazourka, present an appearance of bewindering gayety not to be described. * * * * on some occasions of special enthusiasm the crowd take up the leader of the orchestra with the most frantic plaudits, and in more than one instance have carried him in triumph round the theater. it is scarcely necessary to add that at these balls the _roue_ (profligate) may find an endless variety of pleasant adventures." on some days during the carnival, crowds of masked persons, exhibiting all sorts of antics, appear in the streets, and people assemble on horseback, in carriages and on foot, to witness the scene. "the carnival was prohibited in , and not resumed till bonaparte was elected first consul." great was the joy of the parisians when the carnival was again restored! the opera-house referred to in the extract above quoted, is the academie nationals de musique, or french opera-house, also sometimes called the new opera-house. it is generally admitted to be the finest opera-house in the world. the space covered by this magnificent building is metres by , (about feet by ), or nearly four and a half acres. it has seats for , spectators. the staircases, walls and ceiling are of the finest marble. the "house" for the spectators or audience is built entirely of stone and iron, rich in decorations and thick with gold. the stage alone is a quarter of an acre in extent, being feet wide by feet long. below the stage there is a depth of feet, from which the scenes are drawn up all in one piece. this abyss below the stage was obtained at an immense cost, as the architect had to lay the foundations far below a subterranean body of water, but the advantage thus gained enables them to present scenes that are marvelous. "the singers in this opera are pupils of the conservatoire, and the _corps de ballet_ consists of the most distinguished dancers of the day. great attention is paid to costume and general effect." during the matchless performances of a night that i was present, there were at one time nine large horses and a procession of several hundred actors upon the stage, and it was far from being full. one of the most beautiful and astounding performances of the night was the production of a series of transformations that were as sudden and as astonishing in their developments as is the metamorphosis of the gaudy butterfly from the groveling worm. as the curtain rose there stood upon the stage a mighty fortress, massive and strong. we had seen it but long enough to observe how thick and how rough from age its weather-beaten walls were, when there was heard a crash, and the mighty citadel had fallen out of sight; but there still remained a most beautiful castle which must have been contained inside of the citadel but hid from the view by its towering walls. this castle was beautiful beyond description. it was fairer far than the castles of the kings seem to be, except when "distance lends enchantment to their view." but the second scene was as ephemeral as the first. we beheld its fascinating beauties only a few seconds when its four walls again dropped into the abyss below, and there issued from its inner apartment a host of beautiful little actresses such as i did not see upon any other stage in europe. these little fairy-like beauties, many perhaps not more than from to years of age, all dressed in the most brilliant costumes, at once skipped into a dance "running the ring and tracing the mazy round," to the great satisfaction of the admiring spectators, who were as much delighted by the gayety, grace and accomplishment which they displayed in their performances, as they have been astonished at their sudden and almost miraculous appearance. at a ball. dancing is the favorite amusement in paris, and these exercises are conducted on a grand scale, even during the summer season. i attended a public ball one evening, when almost the entire floor (covering nearly three fourths of an acre) and the adjoining garden of about the same area, were thronged by thousands of gay and jovial dancers, all wild from the excitement produced by the rhythmical motions and music of that playful exercise. incidents. the reader can not be more curious to know how one that is unacquainted with the french language can get along in paris, than i was when i first took up my residence there. the first morning i went out to seek some place where i might get fresh milk; _lait_ is the french name of it as i found it in my conversational guide book. i soon found that name upon a card of pasteboard hanging at the door of a shop where bread and fruits were displayed in the window. on entering the store a clever frenchman politely addressed me, but he soon discovered that i was none of the _loquacious_ kind, in french. i asked for _lait_, pronouncing the word as if it was spelt l-a-t-e, but he did not understand me. i could adorn my conversation neither with verbs nor with adjectives, so i repeated the word _lait_ several times with the rising inflection, by which he readily inferred that i wanted something, though what that something was, remained a mistery to him, all the same. by and by, i pointed out the word lait to him, on seeing which, he exclaimed "---- du lá!" and gave me what i wanted. thereafter i visited him from two to five times every day, according to convenience, to get my "du l[=a]_it!_". of "du pä_in_" (bread) and smoked sausages, i constantly kept a supply in my satchel, so that when i entered a new city, i could well get along until i had become acquainted. fruits and a very healthy and nutricious kind of nuts, (the brazilian nuts), i bought in great abundance and exceedingly cheap from such as hawked them about on the streets. five to ten centimes ( to cents) would buy or large brazilian nuts and to fine juicy pears, or as many delicious plums, of which i was extremely fond. by thus reducing the number and variety of my dishes at the regular meals, i only enhanced the pleasures of the palate instead of reducing them; for he who "does not eat but when he is hungry, nor drink except when he is thirsty," will enjoy the humblest meal much more than the pampered dedauchee can relish the richest feast. as beer does not please my palate, and because the water fountains of paris were often out of my reach when i was thirsty, i soon took fruit to supply the place of drink, and thus, in paris already, i laid the foundation of a dietary system that ensured me not only health, happiness and convenience of procuring it alike in all countries, but that proved to be very economical too. for from to cents a day, i supplied all the necessaries, and more of the luxuries of life, than most of us are accustomed to, even in voluptuous america. chapter ix. versailles. on my voyage across the atlantic, i had formed the friendship of a young clergyman, (rev. o.), of new york, who wished to make a summer vacation tour through western europe, visiting ireland, scotland, england, france, italy, switzerland and germany. on comparing programmes, we noticed that he would likely come to paris during the time that i had alotted to that city. we therefore agreed that each should drop a letter to the other, immediately after reaching paris, so that he who should happen to come last might at once know where to find the other. one evening, when i came home, the card of rev. o., my american friend, was handed to me by the landlord, who informed me by his gestures that he had been there to call on me. the card was backed by a note asking me to meet him at no.--, rue--------. though that street is perhaps not more than an eighth of a mile long, i soon found it upon my map of paris, which was a very excellent one, as the maps of all large foreign cities generally are and must be, in order that persons who cannot speak the languages of those cities, may still be able to find any places without asking any one where they are or which way to go. the map of paris, for example, is divided into numerous squares by arbitrary lines. those which run vertically down the map are lettered, and those which cross it horizontally are numbered. at the side of the map is a table of all the streets, with references to the squares on the map, designating between what lines they are found, or which they intersect. by the aid of such a map, i started out the next morning to meet my friend, whose quarters were in a distant part of the city, about three miles away. i found him without difficulty. he was accompanied by two gentlemen from london that had come with him to see paris and its environs. it is both novel and pleasant for two such lonely pilgrims as my new york friend and i were when we left home, to meet each other again in a foreign city, and introduce to each other the friends which one picked up by the way. we soon agreed to go all together to versailles, the french capital, that day. this was tuesday, july th. at : a.m., we crossed the fortifications of paris, and soon came into view of bois de boulogne, the great park of paris. five minutes later we crossed the seine at st. cloud, a small town, where we stopped to see the ruins occasioned by the siege of paris in . we had considerable trouble, however, in identifying the strongholds and redoubts held by the prussians in that memorable siege, as nobody seemed to understand any of our french! on one occasion, rev. o., while asking a lady for a certain place, called on mr. k----, one of the londoners, to come and see whether he could make this woman understand any of _his_ french! it was altogether a day of odd adventures and fun. after enjoying the lovely prospects an hour, we walked another hour in great perplexity as to what directions we should take to find a railway station where we might take a train for versailles, but finally succeeded. we did not understand more from those who directed us, than the direction we should take, never knowing the distance. it is more than a joke, for a party to be obliged to walk several miles for a station, when they had expected to reach it in a quarter or half a mile at most! when we arrived at the station at sevres, our difficulties only commenced. "when will the next train leave for versailles, and where can we procure our tickets?" were questions which engaged our best energies and all our ingenuity for half an hour, besides a rash adventure on my part, before they were solved. (it seems to me now, that throughout my tour, i always got into more trouble when i had company to rely upon, than when i was alone). by means of motions with our hands and by pronouncing the name versailles, we made them understand where we intended to go to; but when we asked for "billets," they did not offer us any. they showed us, however, that the train was due at : , by pointing out those figures on the dial of the clock. about minutes before the train was due, we asked again for tickets, and when they were again refused, we began to fear that the tickets had to be procured on the opposite side of the railroad. we therefore crossed by a foot-bridge near the station, but could not approach the house on the other side, on account of the high fence which shut every body off from the tracks. when our plans were thus frustrated our company became alarmed with the fear that we might miss the train for want of tickets, and fail to see versailles that day. at this crisis i ascended the bridge and climbed down along the walls on the inside of the fence; suspending myself from the lowest iron bars along the bridge, i thus dropped myself into the yard below! but our discouragement reached its climax, when i found that the door was closed and locked, which we had hoped was the ticket office. i could not get out of that inclosure, as the fences were high, the gates locked and the bridge from which i had dropped myself, was out of my reach. several railroad men saw me immediately, who appeared as much astonished at my coming into that place, as i was perplexed in my awkward position. i did not misinterpret their french this time, however, for the way they looked up toward the sky, and their gestures and chattering, plainly indicated that they wondered where i came from. i motioned them that i came "from above," and pointed toward the bridge. what fine or punishment might have been inflicted for my intrusion i do not know, but i was only rebuked in language which i did not understand, and sent out through one of the office doors which they unlocked for the purpose. my companions were now in great glee at this termination of my adventure, one of them observing that i might soon be landed in _close quarters_, at my present rate of progress! i responded that we were a party corporate, and that three fourths of what any one did was to the credit of the other three. the train soon came, and we took our places on the top of the cars and rode on to versailles. this was the only ride i had in two-story railway cars, but our trip was such a delightful one in the second story of those cars, that i often wished for like accommodations again. the national assembly was in session when we reached versailles, but we could not gain admittance. we immediately went to the palace, which is devoted to the reception of a rich and splendid historical museum unparalleled in europe. there are altogether some salles or galleries, which require upwards of an hour to walk through. the paintings are arranged chronologically, and it is this classification, as well as the magnitude of the collection, that render the museum one of the most famous in europe. adjoining this palace, are the gardens and park, upon the establishment and improvement of which, louis xiv., ( ) spent $ , , ! this immense sum would pay a tract of land miles long and miles wide, bought at $ per acre! many millions have since been spent upon it. it is at the present day one of the finest pleasure-gardens in europe. its fountains are among the most magnificent in existence. these are made to play only once (the first sunday) every month; to supply the water in sufficient aboundance for this magnificent display, costs on each occasion $ , ! it is a source of the purest happiness for a party of republicans, as ours was, to see the very palace and gardens which napoleon iii. once occupied as a royal mansion, now held as the common property and the peaceful promenade of the pleasure-seeking masses. how changed the scene! that which was prepaired for the king, is now enjoyed by the common people. such are the fruits of the french republic, which has now broken the fetters of royalty for the third time. on sunday, august st., i visited this garden and park again, this time to see the fountains play. it is impossible to do justice to this pleasure-garden even in two days. in the center is the grand canal feet wide and nearly a mile long, intersected at right angles by another canal that is , feet long. my rambles were confined to the section intervening between the palace and the bassin d'apollon, which is at the nearer end of the grand canal. the fountains and jets in this section, north and south of the allee du tapis vert (green lawn), are almost innumerable. they do not all play at the same time, so the crowd can follow them from basin to basin until neptune with his numerous jets, the last and the greatest of them all, is reached. the terrasse du chateau with silenus, antinous, apollo and bacchus, after the antique, lies next to the palace. immediately below is the parterre d'eau, upon whose border repose twenty-four magnificent groups in bronze, namely, eight groups of children, eight nymphs and the four principal rivers of france, with their tributaries. toward the left of this lies the parterre du midi, and still further south, along the palace, lies the orangerie. a flight of steps lead down to an iron gate on the road to brest. parterre de latone lies in advance of parterre d'eau, which two paterres (pits) the allee du tapis vert (green carpet) and the grand canal, lie in a straight line and present a charming view nearly a mile and a quarter in length. bassin latone is surrounded by a semi-circular terrace crowned with yew-trees and a range of statues and groups in marble. (it would require the space of a volume to describe all the fine statuary of this garden). this fountain consists of five circular basins rising one above the other in the form of a pyramid, surmounted by a group of latona with apollo and diana. "the goddess implores the vengeance of jupiter against the peasants of libya, who refused her water, and the peasants, already metamorphosed, some half, and others entirely, into frogs and tortoises, are placed on the edge of the different tablets, and throw forth water upon latona in every direction, thus forming liquid arches of the most beautiful effect." walking down the green velvet lawn, we came to the bassin d'apollon. apollo, the god of day, is emerging from the water in a chariot drawn by four horses, and surrounded by a throng of sea-monsters. several other fountains represent the seasons. spring is represented by flora and summer by ceres. winter appears in a group representing saturn surrounded by children; and bacchus, reclining upon grapes and surrounded by infant satyrs, represents autumn. near the tapis vert, in the midst of a dense grove, is a magnificent rotunda composed of marble columns, united by arches and supporting a number of marble vases. under the arcades, are a circular range of fountains, "and in the middle is a fine group of the rape of proserpine." the largest and most splendid fountain in the park, is the bassin de neptune. upon its southern border stand ornamental vases, each with a jet in the center. against the same side, are three colossal groups in lead. the central one represents neptune and amphitrite seated in an immense shell and surrounded by tritons, nymphs and sea-monsters. on the left is oceanus resting upon a sea-unicorn, and on the right, proteus, the son of oceanus. there are several other groups; and from the jets of these, amounting to some or in all, issues a deluge of water, when the gates are opened. a quarter of an hour in advance of the appointed time, about , persons had assembled upon the circular terrace, facing this magnificent fountain, and were waiting with breathless anxiety to see old neptune take his turn. we had seen the wonders and beauties presented by the other fountains as they shot their silvery columns, and clouds of vapor high into the air, or spanned their pyramidal basins with innumerable liquid arches intersecting each other in every conceivable direction; but the grandest sight, it was said, was still in store for us. all the other fountains had commenced their playing with humble spasms--the columns rising higher by degrees, but old neptune took every body by surprise. hundreds leaped and shouted for joy, when they saw that the southern heavens, which had been so clear and beautiful but a moment before, were suddenly whitened with clouds of vapor upon which the rays of the western sun produced a most charming effect. a gentle breeze gave to each spouting jet, a misty tail, comet-like in appearance to the admiring spectators. an incident which added much to my pleasures and enjoyments of that glorious day, deserves notice here, as it illustrates that if one even starts to make the tour of the world alone, so that he may not be detained by the loiterings of a companion whose tastes and fancies differ from his, need not therefore be without pleasant associates when he is in want of them. early in the afternoon, as i was about taking my seat under the shade of a yew-tree on a terrace where i might have a fair view of bassin de latone, (the play of whose liquid arches render it the most _beautiful_ of all in the garden), i was accidentally met by the same english party with whom i had traveled from london to paris. it was a happy meeting indeed, and the incidents of our walks and conversations upon that pleasure-garden will ever remain fresh and green on memory's tablet. they had finished their tour of germany and returned in time to spent the great day of the month at versailles. as the band was discoursing excellent music, the fountains playing, and crowds of people streaming hither and thither in the midst of these splendid scenes, one of the ladies passed a remark which i only learned to appreciate fully, several months afterwards. she said, "_i love the quiet english sabbath_." her father had experienced before what the continental sabbath was, but his daughters, though they appreciated these charming scenes none the less, would have preferred them on week-days; for, nearly a month of sight-seeing among a people who keep no sundays such as we do, had made them long for a day of sweet and silent repose. several months later, after i had traveled through france, belgium, germany, switzerland and italy, without finding a day of rest such as england and america make of their sundays, i felt that even the pleasure-seeker should rest one day in seven. often thought of the "quiet english" and american sabbaths. chapter x. leaving paris. on the th of august, after a stay of fifteen happy days in paris, i began to make preparations to leave for brussels. i had walked during that time according to my daily register, about miles, making an average of over miles per day, for i could not avail myself of the omnibuses and city cars, as i had done in london; because i could not make myself understood in french. paris had presented so much that was new or radically different from what i had seen elsewhere in the world, even london not excepted, that i felt justified in addressing the following conclusion to an american journalist:--in paris, there is such a harmonious combination of civilizing and refining instrumentalities and influences, which, if i do not elsewhere find a nearer approach to than i have thus far, will not only throw sufficient light upon the question, "how does she lead the nations in thought and fashion," that the most thoughtless may be able to solve it, but which will even entitle her to be styled _queen of cities and capital of the social world._ as i had definitely decided to return from egypt to america by way of paris, in order that i might see the great city once more toward the end of my tour, and be the better qualified to estimate her true position in the world, i made a little bundle of the guide books and views, which i had already accumulated on my trip, and also dropped some of the superfluities of my wardrobe--these things i gave into the care of my chamberlain, and bade good-by to paris for a season. my friend and tutor prof. p.s., accompanied me to the station and bought me a ticket for brussels, as we call it in our language, but the french and belgians call it bruixelle (pron. broo-[)i]x-el). my friend informed me of this and gave me a drill on pronouncing the word correctly, for if i should have called it brussels, no frenchman would have understood what i meant. i was now about to leave the only acquaintance that could speak my language, and go to another people of the same strange language as the parisians speak, with no right to expect that i should be so lucky again in meeting a suitable companion. i had ordered my mail to be forwarded to cologne, germany, until september st. at : p.m., august th, the train moved away with me toward belgium. i had forgotten to ask how often and where i must "change cars" from paris to brussels, and now, where no one understood either english or german, what could be done! possibly, i need not make a change all night; and perhaps i should at the next station already! how readily my friend could have informed me, had i only asked him! but i managed to keep the right track, though at the expense of considerable anxiety and the sacrifice of some rest and sleep that i might otherwise have enjoyed during that night-journey. i learned a lesson, however, which aided me in avoiding such perplexities in the future. as soon is we reached the first station, i ran to a conductor and, holding up my ticket, cried out, "broox-el?" he understood me and motioned me to keep my seat. some accommodating frenchman soon told me that he was traveling the same way for a considerable distance, (as his ticket also made clear to me), and offered kindly to inform me when i had to leave that train. my peace of mind being thus restored again, i made a pillow of my satchel and went to sleep. the next forenoon (saturday, august th) we reached douane, where we had to pass muster under the belgian custom-house officers. i was now with the wooden-shoed belgians. a large company of the poor peasants passed muster with me. each was provided with a pick or a hoe, or both, lying over his shoulder, and a large flaxen bag of other implements, &c., suspended from it. nearly all wore caps, and the whole company looked very shabby, indeed. my clothes were in strange contrast with their tattered garments, for there was not another well-dressed passenger in the whole company; and i felt like one out of his element, because i did not also have a pick or hoe! a hundred belgians with a hundred bundles crowded into several small apartments of the station, found little room for their, careers, which consisted of the irony ends of their picks and hoes, so that those occasionally hooked the prominent points of the faces of those immediately behind them! strange to say, these collisions did not provoke any to insults or the use of vulgar adverbs, but gentle reproofs kept them all cool and steady till we entered the cars again. the reader will pardon me for saying that a similar crowd of persons in this country, placed under the same tempting and exasperating circumstances, would have created a row in five minutes, as would be the natural consequence if there were but a single ruffian in the whole lot. nothing will strike the american tourist more when he comes to the old world, than the good order which prevails everywhere. to meet two persons scolding and insulting each other, is an extremely rare occurrence. the orderly behavior of such a company of peasants will impress one more with the importance of teaching the young, lessons of patience, humility and _obedience_ (which latter quality of character is the mother of a hundred virtues), than volumes of dry philosophy on social ethics will generally avail. i saw an elderly lady kiss a middle-aged man alternately upon each cheek; an incident that is common in european social life, and that shows how the affections of the heart are cultivated and find expression. in brussels i saw a son rest his hand affectionately upon his mother's shoulder, as they stood amongst the multitude in a public square. i reached bruixelle (brussels) at about three o'clock in the afternoon. in order to see what kind of money was in circulation in belgium, i immediately bought some pears of a fruit-woman, and handed her half a franc ( cents). you may imagine how i was perplexed when the lady handed me a dozen coins of various sizes and values, as my change. knowing, however, that though the coins had different impressions, the-system was the same as that of french money, i murmered to myself, "blessed be the decimal system," and went to some retired quarter to count it! one piece was a large whitish coin marked c., and worth cents in our money; others were centimes, which are equivalent to but one fifth of our cent! i soon learned to know them all. after having taken a long walk through the city, i engaged a room at a hotel where one of the boarders could speak a little english, and soon retired to take an afternoon nap. i awoke to broad daylight, but did not at once know whether it was _that day_, or _the next day already_; and there was no one about, just then, whom i could have asked! as the sun was standing in the western sky, i concluded that it was more likely that i had slept only a few hours, than that i should have slept hours; and when the landlord was contended with the payment of one night's lodging, i felt satisfied that i could not have stayed two nights with him! on saturday afternoon, after my nap, i went out again to see the city. brussels is one of the most progressive capitals in all europe. several splendid boulevards lined with fine cafes and large edifices adorned with innumerable balconies, reminded me of paris and its architectural scenery. it has a passage that compares well, both in brilliancy and magnificence, with some of the grandest in paris. the bourse de commerce, (just completed), with its four elegant facades, would do credit to any city, and its market houses are among the finest that i have ever seen. on sunday (august th) i found all kinds of business being transacted, just as is done in paris. on my way to the cathedral, i met a dozen dog-teams that sunday morning. quite a small dog will draw a larger cart load of milk, than i would have expected that half a dozen of them could pull. the milk is distributed over the city by women, principally. it seems strange, how much work must be done by the women, where the men are required to spend a large portion of their time in the service of their respective countries, constituting the large standing armies with which europe is flooded. some of these women have large dogs to draw their milk-carts, others have smaller ones hitched to one side and assist them by pulling themselves on the other side of the shaft! the cathedral (st. gudule), is a grand old church, some portions of it dating from the th and th centuries. "it is rich in old stained glass and monuments. the carved wooden pulpit by verbrüggen ( ) represents the expulsion of adam and eve from paradise." the choir renders excellent music. an odd feature in the religious exercises of this church, is the manner in which the choir is noticed when to sing, by the ringing of a common bell. hotel de ville. hotel de ville (the town hall) is an elegant building dating from the th century. it is four stories high to the roof, besides there are rows of dormer-windows in the roof (four stories in the garret!) its graceful tower is (?) steps, feet high. the view from the top is magnificent. behind this building, at the crossing of two fine streets, stands the curious "mannikin ----" statue and fountain, evidently a relic of the _shameless age_. i spent some of my time with an intelligent merchant who had been traveling in america, and could, in consequence, speak the english quite well. he informed me that he was not aware that belgium had any sunday-laws upon her statutes. any one may do upon the sabbath-day everything that he might do on week-days, if he feels so inclined. on sunday afternoon, i left brussels for antwerp (anvers). nothing can be more delightful than the rural scenery of belgium. the whole country is as carefully tilled as a garden--every foot of available soil being under cultivation. most of the dwelling houses are small, but everything about the houses, yards and gardens is kept in the most perfect order. occasionally, a beautiful vista opens to a fine residence in the distance. as we rode along in the cars, we would occasionally see an afternoon or evening party seated around a richly laden table glittering with glassware, and enjoy their dinners and suppers under some shade trees in the midst of their gardens. this custom is common in europe, and presents most beautiful and homely sights. soon after i had entered the cars, i noticed that the tone of the conversation among the passengers was different from what i had been accustomed to hear in france and belgium thus far. i now heard the chatter of the dutch, but understood no more than if it had been so much french. dutch and german are two entirely different languages. dutch print in the newspapers does, however, not look so perfectly strange, as the conversation sounds to the ear. after arriving at antwerp i was soon found by a porter who conducted me to a german hotel. how social and hospitable these germans are--and, i must add, europeans in general. _die "deutsche wirthschaft"_ (german hotel) occupied quite a small building, which presented a very ordinary appearance on the outside, but i shall never forget that carpeted bar-room, the costly furniture of the parlor, and the accommodating landlady which we found there. taste and comfort are always consulted, even where the greatest simplicity prevails. antwerp is one of the most catholic cities (some say the most catholic city) in the world. its streets are filled with images of the virgin and child, the savior and the cross. these stand at the corners of the crossings, or preside over the street lamps. on one of its church towers, over a gas light, is represented a candle stick with the rays emanating from its light. on each side, is a little cherub--one has a cross and the other an anchor. over them, stand the mystical letters "ihs," the cross being combined with the h after the fashion of a monogram. beneath is the following inscription: geloofd zy jesus christus in het allerheyligste sacrament. in another part of the city i found a representation of the crucifixion, the cross upon which christ is nailed being about feet high. effigies of two women in oriental costume stand on either side of it. in antwerp, as in brussels, the spirit of progress: has seized the leading circles, and the hand of improvement has commenced tearing down her ancient houses and building new streets upon the modern plan and style of architecture. one of the most handsome avenues in the world, being from to feet in width, and about two miles long, runs through the very heart of this city. it has several moderate angles, which render it convenient to assign different names to different sections of it. avenue du commerce reaches from the northern end of the city to its magnificent squares in the center, known as place de la commune and place de la victoire. here begins avenue des arts, which, with avenue de l'industrie, leads to the southern confines of the city. these avenues consist of three parallel roadways with two broad foot-pavements between them, and wide pavements at the sides. let us cross this avenue from one side to the other, and estimate the width of its different parts. first we cross a broad payement of perhaps feet; then a roadway of about feet; next a foot-pavement lined by thick rows of trees whose branches form an arch over it; then the central roadway, perhaps feet wide; and afterwards, another foot-pavement, a roadway and the pavement on the other side, corresponding with those already mentioned. the great square in the center of the city occupies about acres. in this section of antwerp, nearly all the old buildings have been torn down and new ones erected during the last few years; and in many other sections the same work of widening streets and erecting new buildings in place of the old, is being done with reckless haste. it seems as if old houses were regarded as a disgrace to the city. that few images are to be seen in the new sections of the city, is a sure sign that commerce, art and industry (see the names of three avenues which run through this city) have sounded the tocsin of revolution, and that the ancient religion with its emblems, forms and ceremonies, is yielding to the spirit of modern civilization and refinement, as many other cities of europe have already done. it is a remarkable fact, that as catholicism sinks in continental europe, its communicants will not stop to join prodestantism, but go strait over to rationalism. france, for example, has had these two extreme elements fighting each other for the ascendency, for a long time, and no middle-road sentiment ever gained a foothold. prodestant europe will cling to the church the longest, and, do we not already see the indications very planely that after all europe has turned rationalistic, america will continue to cherish the church and built her a rome for future generations to bless as the fostering mother of modern christianity? notre dame cathedral. the cathedral is the most elegant gothic church in belgium, and one of the most famous in the world. some parts of it date from the th and others from the th centuries. the spire ( feet in height) is a proud rival of that on the cathedral of strasbourg, and its chimes of bells are deservedly famous. within the church, are some of the most celebrated paintings of rubens. among them are "descent from the cross," (considered his master piece), "elevation of the cross," "assumption" and "resurrection." the interior of this church is ornamented with master paintings and fine works of art in lavish profusion. the cathedral is free in the morning, but at noon the paintings of rubens are unveiled, and a fee of fr. is charged for admission. there were about other tourists there during the afternoon that i visited it. the church of st. jaques contains the tomb of rubens, and many pictures, a number of them veiled and shown only for a fee. the museum. the museum contains some of the best (most natural) paintings in europe. the pencil of rubens has imitated nature so perfectly that the eye almost fails to detect a flaw in the execution. the spectator may know that he only stands before a flat surface of paper daubed with paint; but his soul will be stirred, his pulse begins to beat faster and his imagination runs away with him, as he looks at such masterly executions of a skillful hand as is the "dead jesus" and some others in this museum. the congealed blood in his side, upon his hands and on his head, with the tears of joseph and mary and others, so natural that one mistakes the pictures for the reality, create feelings in the beholder such as he seldom experiences elsewhere, even in europe. he first mourns for the dead and pities the afflicted; then he recovers himself again, and thanks the artist for having given him a key to the thoughts and feelings which he himself must have cherished while executing this painting. it is said, that when roubiliac was erecting the nightingale monument in westminster abbey, described on page , "he was found one day by gayfere, the abbey mason, standing with his arms folded, and his looks fixed on one of the knightly figures which support the canopy over the statue of sir francis vere; as gayfere approached, the enthusiastic frenchman laid his hand on his arm, pointed to the figure, and said in a whisper, 'hush! hush! he vil speak presently.'" can we conceive that rubens painted the "dead jesus" without sobs and tears? i had seen acres of paintings in the kensington museum in london, in the louvre in paris and in palais de versailles; but it was reserved for me to see the paintings of rubens and of van dyck last, so that i might know their merit. near the entrance of the museum, stands a fine monument and statue to the honor and memory of antonio van dyck p. cic.icccc.lvi. no one would wish to leave antwerp without having seen the "gilded halls" by the river side, containing some of the most brilliant apartments in existence. antwerp has a population of about , inhabitants, and is the chief sea-port of belgium. the scaut fleuve (river scheldt) is from a quarter to a third of a mile wide at antwerp. chapter xi. holland. early on tuesday morning (august th) i started on "a run through holland." the meuse and the rhine form numerous mouths, and their deltas are low and marshy. a most magnificent bridge crosses these, which is several (three?) miles in length. fourteen immense iron arches are required to span one of the mouths of the rhine. much of the land is lower than the ocean, and a great conflict is waged between the hollanders and the sea, for the possession of the land. it is a strange sight to see vessels sail along the embankments higher than the chimney tops of the houses along the shore! watchmen are stationed along these embankments and when the ocean breaks a leak, they will ring the alarm bells and every body will arm himself with a spade or shovel and run to the sea-shore to battle with the water. thus have these people defended their property against the encroachments of the sea for many centuries. a great part of holland is as level as the ocean, and there are neither fences nor hedges to be seen. but ditches surround every little field and lot, and innumerable wind-mills pump the water that gathers into these ditches, up into canals, which intersect the country like a net-work, and conduct the water to the sea. extensive meadows and rich pasture land support large, herds of fine cattle and sheep, which constitute the wealth of flemish industry. these hollanders have some very curious styles of dress, and, like the swiss, still wear their ancient costumes, even after the rest of europe have adopted the fashions of paris. in the larger towns and cities, however, the tide of revolution has set in and the young belles and beaux have commenced to "sail in paris styles." a few years more, and the traditional costumes of the flanders will have disappeared altogether. the men are very partial to "burnsides" and wear their hair pretty long, combed wet and stroked down so as to look smooth and glossy. the old women, in place of ear-rings, wear ornaments in the form of immense spirals suspended from the ends of half of a brass hoop that passes around their heads below their white caps. these hang down over the cheeks and are almost as long as their faces. some of the young ladies coming in from the rural districts, carry a head rigging--i do not know what else to call it, for it is neither bonnet, hat, nor cap, nor any combination of these; but it is an apparatus for the head that baffles description, and which, for want of a better name, we must call a _tremendous thing_, both in magnitude and in design! i have seen women with straw hats that must have been well nigh a yard in diameter! in the hague, i saw little girls, however, (from to or years of age) that were dressed as tidily and looked as fair and as sweet as any of our american school-girls. public highways. in holland, these are _highways_ in fact as well as in name. they run in perfectly strait lines through the country, are about a yard higher than the meadows at their sides, and are lined by thick rows of willow-trees. they are turnpiked of course, as are all the roads in civilized europe. from these roads the traveler has always the same field of vision--a circle around him that is about to miles in diameter. towering spires may be seen in all directions. i visited dordrecht, rotterdam, the hague, amsterdam, utrecht, arnheim and intermediate places. the hague, in dutch 's gravenhage or 's hage, in french la haye, is the capital of holland as well as one of its finest towns. "it was originally a hunting seat of the counts of holland (whence its name, 's graven hage, 'the count's enclosure')."--_hurd and houghton's satchel guide to europe_. the supreme attraction, is the museum rich im the best paintings of the dutch school. "here is paul potter's world renowned 'bull,' alone worth, a trip to holland to see." this famous picture represents a rural scene. a ram, a ewe, a lamb, a bull and a cow are gathered together under an old tree, and the old farmer, standing somehow behind the tree, taking a look at them. it is so perfectly true to nature that one can hardly persuade himself that the living animals are not before him. the pictures known as rembrandt's "school of anatomy" are also as deservedly famous. what ever the criticism of one who is no artist may be worth, it is my opinion that rubens's paintings and some of those in this museum, are the truest to nature of all that i have seen in europe. raphael's paintings in rome are shady in comparison to those of the dutch school. tuesday, august th, : p.m. leave the hague for amsterdam, where i arrived at : p.m., having passed haarlem at : p.m. at o'clock, as i sat on the platform of the oosterspoorweg station, the bells of three different towers commenced simultaneously to chime their peals and that too with mathematical precision. the exactness with which the clocks in the clock-towers of europe keep time is remarkable; and the music of the pealing bells is beautiful, when numbers of them chime at the same time. at amsterdam i was asked for my passport, i told the "blue coats" that i had it in my satchel, "you should have it with you," said the german-speaking official. i replied that i had not been aware of that; and as i had not been asked for it either in england, france or belgium, i had placed it into my satchel, so as not to wear it out in my pockets. i sent the porter to fetch my satchel, took the passport from it, and, after having shown it to the officials, placed it into my pocket again, so that i might have it ready in any emergency. these officers were very accommodating to me afterwards, however, during the time that i waited for the next train for utrecht. after having had quite a social chat with them, i asked them what they would have done with me if i could not have produced them a passport from the government of my country. "well," said one of them, "we would have been obliged to subject you to an examination, and if your answers would have satisfied the committee, you would have been allowed to pass on." cloak-rooms. in connection with the railway stations, wherever i traveled in europe, there are "cloak-rooms," in which the baggage of the travelers is stored away. it costs to cents to have a package, parcel, umbrella or satchel deposited into one of these, and then the depositor receives a receipt or check for his luggage, which he must present when he wishes to have it again. but holland offers none of these excellent accommodations, else i would have spent a day more among these flanders. when i came to amsterdam, i was immediately assailed by a herd of porters, each anxious to take my satchel into charge. it had been my rule to carry it to the cloak-room myself, but here i could not find one! after a vehement struggle with the fierce porters, one of them who could say "yes," in german, and who nodded his head when i asked him whether he would take it to a cloak-room, took it and carried it into the station, a distance of about fifty feet. but they kept no cloak-room as i observed when it was not placed into a special apartment for the purpose. it did not seem homelike at all to me, so i asked the agent whether he would give me a receipt for it. "yes, if you satisfy the porter, i will," he answered. this reply made me more tired of amsterdam than anything else, for, thought i, if the agent of the would-be "cloak-room" is a party to such a set of fellows, i must indeed have fallen into pretty bad company. i offered the porter cents, which was twice as much as it cost me in other cities to have my satchel cared for a whole day, but he refused to take it. being unwilling to become the victim of their extortions, i took my satchel and carried it (almost three fourths of a mile) through town to the oosterspoorweg on the other side of the city. there i obtained good accommodations. i had asked for lodging while coming through the city, but could not suit myself; so i decided to start that evening with the first train for utrecht. how different was the social atmosphere of the oosterspoorweg station! not only were the porters and the officers civil, but there was an excellent restaurant connected with it, and the waiting-girls of the coffee-room were tidily dressed in french costume, spoke german, and were social, polite and accommodating. at : , i left by train for utrecht, which i reached at : p.m. the station was a new and spacious one and the accommodations were again like those which i had been accustomed to, before i saw holland; so i felt quite at home again. utrecht. it is entirely wrong for the tourist to come into a strange city late at night, but i could not avoid it this time on account of my sudden determination in amsterdam not to spend the night there, as had been my intention. a clever and kind-hearted gentleman accompanied me through comparatively dark streets, and found a good hotel for me. the next forenoon i ascended the high tower ( steps, feet in height). in this tower, at the height of steps, lives the lady custodian of this stupendous building. she must have "_high_ times" up there! the tower is a large square structure affording plenty of room even for several families; but i was thinking that she must have quite a time of it carrying up her water and all the numerous other things necessary to house-keeping. the view from the top of the tower takes in the greater part of holland. the country all around is quite level, as far as the eye can see. level, in holland, _means_ level. here one sees the innumerable wind-mills, and the labyrinthic net-work of canals which intersect holland. an almost boundless expanse of meadow land stretches out in every direction, and affords excellent pasture to the lowing herds that roam upon it. one sees but a few scattered trees, and several small woods, all the rest is clear and bear--no hedge-fences even to interrupt the dull monotony of the scene below. a strong wind, and it was high too, whistled around that lofty tower, reminding me of our winter storms when they whistle over the chimney-tops--a music that often makes melancholy hearts home-sick. it was exactly : o'clock, and i was in the middle of the sentence, "how beautiful these bells chime," when a boy motioned me to come quickly to a certain place where i could see the cylinder revolve which communicates with the peal of bells. two points of lightning-rods crown this tower. few lightning-rods are to be seen upon private buildings, in europe, but upon public buildings they are occasionally met with. i must not leave holland without once more referring to the rattling of the wooden shoes upon the pavements, the red artificial flowers which old gray-headed women wear upon their heads and the gaudy colors of some of their dresses; also to the universal custom of carrying everything upon their heads. the denominations of dutch money are _florins_ or _guldins,_ and cents; cents equal one florin. the florin is equal to cents in united states money. at : p.m., i left by train for cologne, germany. by : o'clock we entered a desolate section of country consisting of barren sandy soil, scanty crops, and dwarfish shrubs and trees. on our way, i formed the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman who moved from holland to this country nineteen years ago. this gentleman explained to me the agricultural institutions of holland. he now lives in new holland, ottowa co., michigan, a town of , inhabitants, most of which are natives of holland. there are about , more of his native countrymen living in the neighborhood of new holland and at grand rapids. they have a newspaper published in their language in this country. at : we reached arnheim where my dutch friend left me. at zeevenaar (near the boundary between holland and germany) we passed muster. soon after we crossed the rhine on a ferry, which carried us and the whole trains of cars over together. thence we rode through rhenish prussia on, on, until we reached cologne. chapter xii. cologne. köln, (or cologne), the principal town in the rhenish province of prussia, the seat of the supreme court of justice for the west bank of the rhine, one of the chief commercial cities in germany, and a military stronghold of the first class, is an old catholic city dating its foundation from the st century of the christian era. in the beginning of the present century, it had churches and chapels; it has at present only, two of which are prodestant. the cathedral. the first place that the traveler naturally goes to visit is the cathedral, (ger. dom), which "is perhaps" says bædeker, "the most magnificent gothic edifice in the world." this superb edifice is over an acre and a half in extent! it is feet long and feet through the transepts; the choir is feet high. the magnificent south portal cost more than $ , . the central portal in the west end is feet high, and feet wide. the central window is feet in height and feet wide. the projected height of the twin towers is feet. these are intended to consist of four stories, the third of which is approaching completion. a model representing in miniature what this structure is intended to be in the height of its glory when its towers are completed and crowned with spires, may be seen in a store adjacent to the _dom-platz,_ where the "only veritable" cologne water (eau de cologne) may also be obtained. the foundation of this vast edifice was laid in . little work was done at it between and the beginning of the th century, and none from the latter date until , when its restoration was begun under the auspices of the king of prussia. since that time $ , , have been expended upon it. those lower portions of the walls which were built years ago, are old and gray and washed thinner by the rains of those half a dozen centuries. such as appreciate the poetry of architecture, see in its multitude of spires and finials (large and small) a thousand vegetable forms, uniting to produce a bewildering effect upon the imagination; but no word-picture can do justice to the almost matchless beauty of this fine blossom of gothic architecture. the tourist will love to go round about it and inspect and contemplate its every part, to take near views and distant views of it, and to revisit it time and again; and when he has bid adieu to cologne and returned to his far distant home, he will dream dreams, by day and by night, in which he revisits and beholds again the beauties and glories of this magnificent temple. _st. ursula,_ a church that is said to have been been built in the th century, contains a monument erected ( ) to st. ursula, a princess of england, who, according to the legend, when on her return from a pilgrimage to rome, was barbarously murdered by the huns at cologne with her , virgin attendants. the skulls and bones of these martyrs are preserved in cases placed round the church. large sections of the walls in the church are shelved and divided into pigeon holes, each containing a skull! i saw no less than or of these skulls (by actual count). the bones "are worked into the walls in a species of sepulchral mosaic." these bones, it is said, had been in their graves about years. the old pictures of the apostles are painted upon slates, one of them bearing the date . in the golden chamber are preserved the most sacred relics; here is a bone which is claimed to have been in the right arm of st. ursula, while a gilded shrine contains the rest of her bones. do these identifications not prove conclusively that anatomy was better understood when these bones were classified than it is even now? the name of the anatomist who selected st. ursula's bones from among , and identified them is not given, but he certainly deserves much credit for it. here are thorns from the crown and a piece of the rod with which christ was scorged, one of the six jars of alabaster used at the marriage in galilee, and a piece, about as thick as a hair and an inch or two long, of the "true cross." so they _say_. these things were brought hither from syria by the crusaders in . the museum. the museum in cologne is one of the most interesting that i have yet seen. its curious old paintings carry one back to the wretched times of the middle ages, when nothing but superstition and the night-mare of hell could influence predatory man to humanity on civil order. a picture of the last judgement is characteristic of the religious notions of those early times. in this, christ is represented as sitting on one rainbow and resting his feet upon another. to his right stands a beautiful castle, into which numbers of beautiful persons are going. but on the left, how horrible! a massive time-worn citadel from whose large chimney tower issue flames and smoke, into which winged devils are descending, while others, carrying wretched-looking men in their clutches, fly about near it, or are approaching it with their struggling victims, and hideous monsters of quaint, fantastic forms accompany them in their excursions! one of these hideous beasts is represented with an extra head upon one shoulder and one under its breast; it has also faces upon its knees! among the other relics of antiquity, is cheopetra with a little snake creeping over her bosom, christ on the cross surrounded by mary and the apostles, madonna in an arbor of roses, lions fighting, mourning jews, summer night on the rhine, and galileo in prison, deserve special notice among the hundreds of other admirable paintings. a fine iron bridge , feet long, and wide enough for a double line of rails and a separate roadway, crosses the rhine directly east of the cathedral. in traveling through foreign lands, one sees so much that is indecent, obscene, and shockingly profane, according to his our way of thinking, that he scarcely knows what to include and what to suppress in his accounts of foreign manners, customs and institutions. some writers incline to the policy of rendering a true account of what they touch, but will restrain their pens from giving any notice of about one fourth of all they see, because they do not wish to pain the feelings of their readers by reciting to them narrations of horrible tragedies that occurred in the past, or of groveling superstitions that prevailed; such as we all wish had never disgraced the history of infant humanity or constituted the day-dreams of our ancestors. they carefully select that which flatters and pleases the vanity of their fellows, and pass by unnoticed, everything else. this course may tickle vain people, but it cannot meet with favor among those who love the truth, and the whole truth. there are sins of _omission_ as well as of _commission,_ and writers betray and deceive the world as much by the former class as by the latter. some fastidious writers are afraid to call things by their proper names, considering it more appropriate to paint an african with a brownish color than to shock the beholder with a picture of a man with a _black_ face! i can not take the reader through europe in that way. to paint a negro we need _black_ paint, and to describe scenes which are unfamiliar we need words and language that is not used in the drawing room or parlor every time we meet. so much for the introduction to an episode that is characteristic of the profanity of some of the descendents of the old teutonic stock, when they become exasperated. the second day that i spent in cologne, i went to a german barber to be put into trim for making my descend into the lower latitudes and consequently warmer countries. another customer was ahead of me. while the barber was at work upon him, all the time in a rage and swearing _barber_ously at some proceedings, a thunder storm came up very suddenly, and so obscured the light of the sun (though it was midday) that he could not see to go on with his work. hereupon he began first to swear at the clouds, then at the lord himself, using all the epithets of abuse that he could find in his entire vocabulary of profanity, there were heavy peals of thunder and vivid flashes of lightning, but, the darker it became and the more tremendous the crashes of the thunderbolts, the more the senseless and exasperated barber cursed and swore. after the shower and hail, i walked out into the pure fresh air and under the blue vault of heaven smiling down upon the refreshed vegetation, and tried to draw a picture of that profane man's mental panorama, but i never succeeded even to this day. such behavior is not of rare occurrence, else i should not have related it; but even sacred history refers to similar incidents. the wicked, it is recorded, danced and were merry even until the waters of the flood swept them away. a certain divine related to me a similar story concerning the behavior of a large body of the passengers with him on the "great eastern," when she was foundered at sea and obliged to return, after they had advanced miles. when the storm was assailing the great ship, breaking down its masts and tearing away its rigging, so that most of the passengers were in despair and expected to sink any hour, they kept prayer-meetings almost continually. another faction found fault with these, declared that praying was an intolerable nuisance and asked the captain to prohibit it. the captain decided that he would not interfere, whereupon the party offended took to dancing, cursing and swearing, and tried their utmost in this way to break up the prayer-meetings, i heard similar profanity on my return trip across the atlantic. one night when a storm assailed our ship, so that the waves rolled over the deck and the fierce rocking of the vessel threw many almost out of their beds, i heard many of them swear, even during the very time that the thunder rolled with tremendous roarings and crashes across the heavens. it seems almost impossible that conscious intelligent beings could behave thus, but the fact that they do, helps us to believe other strange truths recorded in history, without which, no correct conception of man's former depraved condition can be formed at this advanced day. for example, few seem to appreciate the part played by the catholic church with her images, shrines, sacred relics, paid magnificent temples, in taming and civilizing man, because they do not know who and what he was when the light of intelligence first began to direct his footsteps, and he had not yet learned to control his selfish nature which had hitherto been guided by an instinct worth a hundred times more than intelligence without morality or religion. we make a sad mistake yet in the nineteenth century, in cultivating the intellect and leaving morality so much out of the question. we see some of the fruits already in the corruption which prevails alike in all circles without regard to party or sect. i will recur to this again in speaking of the influence of the church, when i come to describe the magnificent churches of italy. on the second afternoon that i spent at cologne there had been a shower, and from sunset till dusk i beheld one of the grandest atmospheric phenomena that i had ever witnessed. from a window of mlüler's hotel (facing the _dom-platz_) i was looking over the cathedral at the western sky, as the sun throw its colored light through the small drops of rain still descending, and thus colored both the green foliage of the trees and the grand edifice before me, presenting a scene of such enchanting beauty as would afford almost a sufficient excuse for one to go into raptures, or sink down in a fit of ecstatic delight. i may add that before leaving cologne, i saw among the many dog-teams used in distributing produce over the city, a span whose disproportion i shall never forget; there was a dog hitched to one side of the shaft and a woman took hold of the other side and assisted him in pulling the load! bonn. on friday morning, august th, i left cologne and went by rail to bonn, miles further up the rhine. it is the seat of the freidrich wilhelm university, and contains about , inhabitants. the poppelsdorfer allee, an excellent quadruple avenue of fine horse-chestnuts, three quarters of a mile long, is the principal promenade of the town. at the end of it stands the schloss containing the university, with a library ( , volumes) and a museum rich in roman antiquities. the münster (or cathedral) dates from the th and th centuries. in the münsterplatz stands a fine bronze statue of beethoven, a celebrated german musician, who was born in the bonngasse, no. . this statue faces south, (as do most of the statues that i have seen in europe, except when the surroundings are unfavorable). one side of the pedestal contains the following inscription: ludwig van beethoven geb. zu bonn mdcclxx. the other three sides contain base reliefs representing muses playing upon musical instruments. half a mile above the poppelsdorfer schloss rises the kreuzberg ( feet high) crowned with a white church. this contains the "holy steps" in number, which must only be ascended on the knees, and are in imitation of the scala sancta at the lateran in rome, piously believed to be the identical steps of the prætorium ascended by the savior when he appeared before pilate. the view from the tower of this church is one of the most beautiful on the rhine. after enjoying the scenery a while, with a party of ladies and gentlemen whose society i had joined in the church below, we came down, and i took a rustic seat on an eminence and surveyed the beauties of the landscape more at leisure. the most beautiful part of the rhine is from bonn to mayence, and this view from the kreuzberg constituted for me a fine initiation into the charming scenery that fell to my portion to enjoy the coming three days. large sections of the country here are entirely without fences, there being no hedge-fences even, and the landscape checkered by the different fresh colors of the various crops, spreads out like a beautiful carpet of green, red, yellow, gray, and a dozen other tints and shakes, all mixed up, or like a pavement rich in mosaics. we had also gone into the cellar of the church to see the skeletons and bodies of _servitten_ lying about in boxes or coffins set in rows upon the ground. these, it is said, built the church in . the bodies of several of them seem to have petrified more or less perfectly, but the rest of them are mere skeletons, and present an anatomical display that reminded me of what i had seen in st. ursula, in cologne, as above described. this cellar is perfectly dark and is entered by a trap-door in the form of a heavy stone, which an attendant removes by means of a crow-bar. the steps leading down are narrow and the passage very low, so that several of the ladies at first declined to enter, but we persuaded them, however, to accompany us. a tallow candle afforded us some little light, and after brushing away the cobwebs which the spiders had spun since the last party had made their entry, we came upon the sickening sight of the dozen or more skeletons still preserved. the ladies in the party were intelligent and dressed tastefully, and i shall never forget how the gaudy colors of their dresses contrasted with the gloom of that nasty cellar. the frequent odd adventures into such places as many would not like to enter in their own homes in the presence of their friends and companions, constitutes a prolific source of amusement. after we had crept out of that dirty cobwebbed passage, our clothes were slightly soiled and cobwebby. with the remark, "if we were all with our fashionable circles at home, i suppose we should not go on this way," or some such allusion, that reminds the company of how differently they are wont to go on at home,-one can, under such circumstances generally provoke a fit of merriment. to the traveler, every day is a day of adventures--frequently of rather funny adventures! at : p.m., i left bonn by rail for mehlen, ( miles further up), where i crossed the rhine on a ferry and came to königswinter on its right bank. southeast of this village lie "the seven mountains" (siebengebirge). from the drachenfels ( , feet high) the view is the most picturesque, and this one, about a mile from the village, i ascended. donkeys and donkey boys are found here in aboundance, but i would have nothing to do with the donkey, and immediately set out to make the ascent on foot. i did not come far before a girl crowned me, with a wreath made of leaves, and asked me to buy it. the scenery is so romantic, here, that many will yield to the importunities of these poor girls and give them a _groschen_ ( ½ cents) and make the rest of their journeys with wreaths of leaves upon their hats! the ruins of the castle of drachenfels (or dragon's rock) erected in the beginning of the th century, is near the summit of the peak. the cavern of the dragon may be seen from the rhine half way up the hill. "this dragon was slain by sigfried, the hero from the low countries, who, having bathed himself in its blood, became invulnerable." the summit of drachenfels commands one of the noblest prospects of the rhine. here sat byron when he wrote the following beautiful lines: "the castled crag of drachenfels frowns o'er the wide and winding rhine, whose breast of waters broadly swells between the banks which hear the vine; and hills all rich with blossomed trees, and fields which promise corn and wine and scattered cities crowning these, whose far white walls along them shine, have strew'd a scene which i should see with double joy went _thou_ with me." while luxuriating here amidst these grand and beautiful scenes of the rhine, we were visited, by a shower, after which i enjoyed the sublime sight of _looking down upon a rainbow_ which stood in the valley below me! that evening i rode by rail to ehrenbreitstein which is opposite to coblentz. chapter xiii. coblentz. on saturday afternoon, august th, i prepared a programme of my contemplated trip through south germany, switzerland, italy and the east, which, together with several hundred cards, i got printed in the afternoon. by means of these programmes i informed my correspondents in america, in which cities i would look for mail matter and at what times i expected to reach them. mr. elmer, of the _coblentzer volkszeitung_, told me that the dialects of the german language are so different, that the people of coblentz and those of cologne can scarcely understand each other when they speak their peculiar dialects. the principle, that whenever a stream of water makes a curve, the outside bank (that which turns the water from its strait course) is always more precipitous than the other in proportion to the amount of curvature of the stream, is well illustrated at the confluence of the mosel and the rhine at coblentz, by the course of the latter. the waters of the mosel flow almost perpendicularly against the right bank of the rhine, and have helped it in forming the precipitous rock of ehrenbreitstein rising to the height of feet above the river, upon which stand the famous fortifications of that name. the rhine curves toward the left for about six or eight miles, and its right bank is in consequence high and steep, while the left bank is in the form of a gradual slope, bearing a striking resemblance to the valley of the jordan for a mile around siegersville, lehigh co., pa. another principle, that the width of a valley and the hardness of its bed is always in proportion to the fall of the stream of water flowing through it, does also find as ample illustrations in the sweeping rhine as in any of the humbler streams whose courses i had watched and studied at home. these two principles afford perhaps the strongest and most conclusive of all proofs, that the hills and valleys of our planet are all the result of erosion. the streets of coblentz are mostly narrow, as are also its pavements, many of the latter being only from one to two feet wide. there are several remarkable churches, one, the church of st. castor dating from , being an example of the early "lombard style." in order to enjoy the rhine scenery to the greatest advantage, i took passage on a steamer to bingen, and started out on sunday morning at o'clock. one of the steamers had been delayed about three hours that morning on account of the fog, but the day turned out to be a most beautiful one. i took a seat near the prow of the steamer, where i could conveniently watch the views of both banks without interruption from any source. i was now about to ascend the most romantic part of the rhine--the rhine of history and of poetry, upon whose precipitous banks the germans erected their castles in the early and middle ages and defended their "fatherland" against the attacks of their warlike neighbors. only after one has seen the castled steam with its numerous watch-towers crowning every towering peak, and the indescribable beauties of this noble river, will the national air, "die wacht am rhein," (watch at the rhine), seem so beautiful to him, as it does to the sons of germany, whose souls are stirred by its boundless historic associations. i cannot stop to describe the scores of schlösser, (castles), the charming prospects, the beautiful valleys with their verdant hillsides peeping into the rhine, and the rich vineyards upon its sloping banks in some places, or the romantic scenery of the bare rocky mountains that rise almost perpendicularly at its sides to the height of to feet, in other places. several objects claim particular attention, however. some or miles up the river from coblentz, on the left bank, rise the imposing rocks of the lurlei to the height of feet above the rhine. the river is very narrow in this place, has much fall and makes a decided turn, so that it is with considerable difficulty and some danger that steamers make their ascent. the river is here feet deep and its waters form a whirlpool, (gewirre). this place and every other one of interest along the rhine, as well as all its castles, have their legends. it is said that a siren who had her abode on the rock, was wont by means of charming music to entice sailors and fishermen to their destruction in the rapids at the foot of the precipice. as it is dangerous for steamers to meet on these rapids, they have a rule that every steamer coming up the stream must fire a few small cannons as soon as it approaches the lurlei, so that steamers that are descending may hear it and wait to let the ascending steamer pass before they enter upon the rapids. near bingen is the mouse tower, so called because the cruel archbishop hatto, of mayence? had once compared some poor famishing people to mice bent on devouring corn, and caused them to be burned in his barn after having invited them to come there and receive provisions which it had been his duty to give them. after this outrage he was immediately attacked by mice, which tormented him day and night. he sought refuge in this tower, but was followed by his persecutors and soon devoured alive. thus runs the legend. we reached bingen at : p.m., and started by rail for frankfort on the main an hour later. at : we crossed the rhine by the magnificent iron bridge at mayence, from which we had a good view of the extensive fortifications of that city, also the rich decorations of the entire city with banners, for, though it was sunday, the republicans (internationals or communists as they call themselves) had a great political meeting. i formed the acquaintance of one of their number who traveled with me to frankfort and gave me an invitation to accompany him to one of their meetings the next evening. the communists which fled from paris after the storm of , are now busy in different countries assisting those opposed to royalty to form organizations for the purpose of instituting other revolutionary movements some future day. frankfort. frankfort, the home of the rothschilds, down to a free city of the german confederation and the seat of the diet, has a population of , inhabitants. it has , catholics and , jews. the römer is historically the most interesting building in frankfort. it became the town-hall in . in the second story is the kaisersaal (imperial hall) containing the portraits of emperors reigning from a.d. to . in front of it is the römerberg, (a large square), or market-place, which was the scene of public rejoicings on the occasion of the election of an emperor. after dining in the kaisersaal he would show himself from the balcony to the assembled multitudes upon it. down to the end of the last century no jew was permitted to enter it. the judengasse (or jew's street) was founded in and until the beginning of the present century all the jews of the city lived there in an isolated community. every evening and on sundays and holidays, this street was closed with gates, and a jew who would venture into any part of the town was subject to a heavy penalty. the church of st. paul is immediately behind the römer. it is a circular building having seating capacity for , adults, and was used in - for the meetings of the "german national assembly for remodeling the constitution." frankfort is the birthplace of goethe, and has embellished one of its squares with a fine monument to his memory. it has also a fine monument to schiller and a magnificent one to gutenberg. in some of the old streets of this city the upper stories of the houses are built out over the streets, making a break in the wall at every story, so that some of the narrow streets are thus almost arched over. i left frankfort by rail on the th of august, at : o'clock, and reached darmstadt at : p.m. before leaving home, i had been presented by different persons with the addresses of a number of their friends and acquaintances in different countries of europe, and also with letters of introduction to them. on account of my unbounded success in forming congenial friendships with foreigners, i never departed from my programme in order to meet persons for whom i carried letters, and consequently met none of them except a young american lady who had been abroad for several years with the object of studying the german language, and who was now connected with an educational institution at darmstadt. though i had been almost continually surrounded by tourists whose society and friendship i enjoyed and appreciated, still this meeting with a friend of one of my friends at home, seemed to me just like meeting an old acquaintance. we seated ourselves under a tree in the beautiful garden belonging to the boarding school, and had a long talk about what each had seen in europe, and how the social, political and literary institution of the old world differ from those of america. the next day my new friend kindly accompanied me through the large museum contained in the schloss, comprising a valuable collection of about paintings, among them some fine specimens of the dutch school. the library in the schloss consists of , volumes. on our way to the schloss garden we saw a little hut nestled in the garrets of other large buildings and surrounded by them on every side, except one of its gable-ends. the old peasant (so says tradition) would not part with it for any price, therefore his neighbors built their houses _around_, _beneath_ and _over_ his, leaving but _one_ side clear through which he could admit the light of heaven into his humble apartment! darmstadt has about , inhabitants, and is one of the cleanest and most modern in appearance of all the cities that i met in the old world. its broad and shaded streets intersecting each other at right angles, give it much of the appearance of an american city. the view from the ludwigsäule commands a fine prospect of the level country around, with its large woods of "tall trees" so rare in europe, and the rhein strasse (rhine street) loosing itself only in the distance, is the straitest and longest street that i have yet seen. worms. worms is one of the oldest towns in germany. "the war against the saxons was planned here in, , and here the great contest concerning the investure of the bishops with ring and staff was adjusted by the concordat between, the emp. henry v. and pope calixtus ii." it had once , inhabitants, but it contains now only , , ( / prodestant). the _cathedral_ is a remarkably fine romanesque edifice with four elegant towers, and two domes. the towers are adorned with odd figures of animals and gurgoyles. most of this church dates from the th century. in the pediment is "the figure of a woman with a mural crown, mounted on an animal, whose four heads (angel, lion, ox, eagle,) are symbols of the four evangelists, the whole being emblematic of the victorious church." "in the bishofshof was held the diet of april , in which luther defended his doctrines in the presence of charles v., six electors, and a numerous assembly, concluding with the words: 'here i stand, i cannot act otherwise, god help me! amen.'" the baptistry contains some curious sculptures. upon the roof of the building (stable) represented in connection with the nativity, there lies a wheel, the signification of which no one could tell me. among other musical instruments represented in relief in this church, there are the harp, the bugle and rows of violins or fiddles! in the luther-platz stands the great luther monument, an imposing memorial of the great reformer. its execution occupied nine years and cost $ , . chapter xiv. die pfalz (palatinate). from worms i went to frankenthal, where i spent the night (of august th) at the pfalzhof. it was now nearly two months since i had left america, and since that time, in all my wanderings, i had met no people that resembled the americans. even in germany had i not yet seen any one whose physiognomy spoke of near kinship to any that i knew on the other side of the atlantic. but at frankenthal i was introduced to a new class of experiences which were as unexpected as they were pleasant. if i had not here experienced it, i could never have anticipated the feelings of a lonely wanderer who, when thousands of miles away from home, was addressed in tones so like unto the voices of those he loved to hear at home, that he felt as if he was all the time hearing familiar voices in every direction. at worms my attention had already been arrested by social phases that reminded me of america, but at frankenthal i met an officer at the station, who, upon being asked where the peculiar palatinate dialect was spoken, not only mentioned to me the places, but also gave me a list of pfälzish words that are peculiar to them, most of which are purely pennsylvania german both in their pronunciation and their meanings. a young girl at the hotel and her brother not only used language similar to ours, but betrayed their kinship in various other ways. i spent about a week in mannheim, neustadt, speyer and the surrounding country, during which time i devoted all my attention to the question of our common ancestry. that those people are cousins to many of our pennsylvania germans can easily be proved in a variety of ways, even when we throw aside the traditional and historic evidences which we have that many pennsylvanians have emigrated from the pfalz in times past. the most convincing proof to those who can not go there and see the people themselves, likely consists in the fact that many of the family names of the pfälzer and of our pennsylvania germans are the same. i attended the large annual sängerfest at neustadt, in which singers from all parts of the pfalz participated. i procured a catalogue of their names and found that a very large proportion are the same as those of the majority of our people. when we contrast with this the fact that the proportion of names common between our people and that of any other section, is much smaller, we see the force of the argument. but this is by no means the first thing that strikes the visitor. consanguinity or relationship by blood betrays itself in a hundred ways. particular words and expressions, peculiar pitches of the voice, styles of address, forms of salutations, and special ways of performing certain kinds of work, tell their tale with an emphasis that makes itself understood even to the unscientific observer. the expression of the face and the very ring of the laugh often impressed me with the truth that it was that of a cousin's brother or sister. i often expressed my surprise at these things to those around me, and by a free indulgence in the peculiarities of their idiom enlisted the attention and gained the friendship of those people with magical effect. from frankenthal i went to mannheim, which is the most regularly built town in germany. it is divided into squares like a chess-board, and has about , inhabitants. it consists of sections lettered from a to u (the j being excluded from the nomenclature) and the squares of each sections numbered from to . as the city enlarges in territory the numbers of the squares run from upwards. the streets are named as in other cities, but the houses are numbered _around_ the squares. thus the _mannheimer familienblatter_ (a newspaper published in the pfälzisch dialect, which is like the pennsylvania german) is printed at e . .--section e, square , no. . neustadt. at neustadt i made my home for half a week whence i took excursions into the country. one day i went to drachenfels, walking about miles in the woods, where i had nothing but paths and guide-boards to lead me; but the latter are found wherever two paths meet, so that i could easily find my way back again. in order to meet these people in every sphere of life, i used to go out to see the poor men and women work in the fields. one saturday afternoon i struck out from landau toward the haardt mountains with a view to put up for the night in a certain town that i saw on a distant hill. when i had come a short distance, i overtook a little maiden whom i asked the name of that town, so that i might ask the way thither if i should come into a valley where i could not have pointed it out any longer. i pleased the young girl very much by presenting her with my card, and induced her to use her glib tongue volubly in telling me about their schools--what they studied, how long the terms last, &c. she would get along very well in our pennsylvania german dialect. when we parted, she skipped away and proudly showed the card which she had received from an "american," to one of her schoolmates (?). here one may see women hauling hay and grain with cows, though i also saw some men use horses. toward evening i met a peasant of böchingen, who had finished his work and was about to return home. on learning that i was an american, he asked me to accompany him to his village, saying that _kirmes_ had come, the great jubilee season of the year when all the churches were being re-dedicated, after which ceremony the people would go to the public houses and keep up dancing and drinking wine and beer from sunday noon till monday night, and that i could therefore see a great many palatinates together in his town i asked him what hotel accommodations their town had; to which he replied that there were several hotels and he would conduct me to a good one. on reaching the place i accompanied him first to his home and was introduced to his family. i had here one of those opportunities, so rare to the traveler, of seeing the kitchen arrangements of the middle and lower classes. when we came to the hotel he asked the landlord for a room for me, who immediately came to me and explained that on account of the great "fest" (anniversary) he had turned all the spare rooms of the house into coffee-rooms, "but," said he, "though i know that americans are used to good accommodations, i can only offer you the _fruchtkammer_ (granery) to-night, where i have a good nice bed for you, however, if that will suit you." the homelike cheerful tone and conversation of the landlord at once captivated me, and when i looked at the large house and saw all his rooms already filled with guests enjoying their wine and beer together, after the german fashion, i soon decided to stay with them. the room which he gave me was a very large one in the second story of the house, and, though there were large heaps of grain and different kinds of farming implements there, the end where the bed stood was clean and inviting, considering the circumstances. there was no lock at the door, but the landlord's honest face and assurances soon put me at ease about that matter. he told me that i might place some barrels against it, however, if i felt so inclined, which of course i did. there was a lady in that town who had been spending her time in philadelphia for several years, but who had on this occasion come home to böchingen on a visit. an invitation was sent to her in the evening already, asking her to come to the hotel where an american was waiting to meet her, and early on sunday morning she met me in the coffee-room where we spent the morning. one's partiality to the english language seldom displeased me in europe, but as this lady was a native of that part of the pfalz whose people spoke a dialect more like the pennsylvania german than i heard anywhere else, i insisted upon conversing with her in "the dialect." the landlord who did not understand any english was with us most of the time, so that out of respect for him she also felt constrained to speak german when he was present, but whenever he left us she would speak english, the language of her new american home. she had visited allentown, pa., and was well acquainted with the resemblance of the pfälzish and the pennsylvania german dialects. i went home to neustadt that forenoon and attended the great pfälzer sängerfest (the annual concert of the palatinate choirs). the city was splendidly decorated with flags, and the "fest" was a grand success in every respect. from neustadt i went to speyer, and a day later to heidelberg. heidelberg was the only place where i found lady ticket agents at the railway station. the station is a very large and important one, and the positions held by those ladies are of great responsibility. in continental europe, it is the ladies that transact most of the business in almost every city. hotels, stores, shops, cafes, drinking stands, &c., are generally managed by ladies. heidelberg was the last city in which i felt that i was hourly seeing the cousins of the pennsylvania germans. here still, i did occasionally see one who not only favored some of our people in form and features, but whose voice and accent also spoke of kinship. i had heard persons speak in some parts of the pfalz and particularly around böchingen (about miles s.s.w. from neustadt and miles w.s.w. from speyer) from to per cent of whose words corresponded to the pennsylvania german. dürkheim, landau, (and some say, kaiserslautern too), are good examples. the old renowned university of heidelberg has students, and a library of , volumes and , mss. the castle is the most magnificent ruin in germany. the towers, turrets, buttresses, balconies, and fine statues still stand there, proud and bold, even in its ruins. and the portcullis of iron in one of its lofty gateways gave me the first idea how the balance of the enemy could be shut off, after a portion had been admitted into the yard of the fortifications with a view of slaughtering them. the iron bars of this portcullis or sliding gate are very thick and heavy, and have sharp points below. a tower stands over the gate, into which the portcullis is drawn up. the defenders of castles would sometimes conceal themselves and keep perfectly silent on the approach of an enemy, as if the castle had been abandoned, but as soon as as large a portion of them as they thought they could dispose of, had entered, the portcullis was dropped, which, on account of its immense weight, of course made its way to the ground even, if it had to pierce the bodies of a dozen that stood under it! hereupon the alarm was sounded and all that were inside were barbarously slaughtered. in some castles there were large pit-falls full of pointed spears standing upwards. as soon as a large part of the enemy were upon this pit, they would be precipitated into the spears below! at other places there were immense rollers, and only one approach to the castle, which lead directly up the hill. when the assaulting enemy made its approach by this, the hillside was filled with the enemy's soldiers, these rollers would be loosened upon them, and thus the bodies of many thousands would be mangled in a minute! such was the barbarity of the ancients. i will not forget the long walk i had all alone through one of the underground passages of the heidelberg castle. i saw a pale light at the other end, when i entered; but it was dark in the middle, and turned out to be much longer than i had anticipated. these passages are about feet high and feet wide, and are arched by a brick vault. the illumination of this ruined castle on the evening of august rd, constituted one of my grandest sights in all europe. it seemed to be enveloped with flames of such an intense heat, that its walls, towers, &c., appeared to be about to melt down! as the colors of the illuminating light changed suddenly from yellowish white to blue, green and red, the scene was so indescribably beautiful, that numbers of the ten thousand spectators actually went into raptures. the tun, in the castle of heidelberg, the largest of all the tuns in the world, is feet long, feet in diameter at both ends and feet in the center. its eighteen wooden hoops are inches thick and inches broad, and its staves are inches thick. the bung-hole is to inches in diameter. to built it cost the enormous sum of $ , , and its capacity is equal to about , common barrels! on top of it is a dancing-floor having the bung-hole in the center! what a joy it must be for the dancers to reflect that there is such a flood of wine still beneath them! this giant tun erected as an altar to the jovial god "bacchus," has been filled completely three times, ( , , ). "in heidelberg beim grossen fass da liess sich's fröhlich sein, bei einem vollgefülten glas von edlem pfälzer wein; den als dies fass kam einst zum stand do war ein jubel in dem land, da freut' sich alles, gross und klein, denn voll war es mit pfälzer wein." "in heidelberg, the 'grosse fass,' caused merry days to shine, when all enjoyed the well filled glass of noble pfälzer wine; for when this tun first came to light, all did in joy combine, to see the 'fass,' oh wondrous sight! fill'd up with pfälzer wine." the philosophenweg, (philosopher's way), two miles in length, commands some of the finest prospect on the rhine. it winds through charming vineyards, and from it may be enjoyed splendid views of the town, castle, valley, and of the beautiful outlines of the haardt mountains and the cathedral of speyer in the distance. from heidelberg i went to stuttgart, remarkable for the vast collection of books ( , vols.) in the royal library. among these are about , bibles, in some languages! the railway station in stuttgart is remarkable both for magnificence and the beauty of its interior. its wide and lofty passages and splendid waiting-rooms, are among the grandest in the world. from stuttgart i went to carlsruhe, famous for the manner in which the streets meet at the castle, from every point of the compass. some thirty streets meet here like so many sticks of a circular fan. near the botanic garden, is a large hall of art rich in paintings and relics. strassburg. strassburg, the capital of alsace and lorraine, is situated on the river ill, miles from the rhine, and comprises a population of , inhabitants. its cathedral, covering more than an acre of ground and feet in height, is deservedly famous. its elegant spire, the highest in europe, is feet in height. to procure a permit from the city authorities to ascend to the "lantern," which is immediately below the extreme summit, i walked about the city nearly an hour to find the proper official. the view from the platform or roof of the building ( feet high) affords a fine view of the beautiful plains of alsace, but many ascend to the "lantern" simply for the satisfaction of saying that they have done it. no one is allowed to go higher than the platform, except by special permission from the city authorities, and accompanied by a guide and protector, for which an extra ticket is required. the ascent is quite easy for some distance, but by and by the spire becomes too narrow to have stairs on the inside, so that we had to climb up on the outside along ladder-like steps. if one would become giddy in this place, he might fall from a hight of over four hundred feet into the street below! i cannot stop to speak of the world-renowned astronomical clock which is contained in this cathedral. the railroad through the black forest is one of the great victories of civil engineering which characterize this age of great undertakings. we passed in exactly one hour through tunnels, during which time, in our ascent of the mountains, we passed through one valley three times! when we had reached the highest point, we saw the two other tracks at different elevations on the mountain side below us! here we passed for many hours through pine forests, all the trees of which were raised from seed, (some sown, and others planted). many square miles of this mountainous section is covered with pines planted as regularly as our orchards; and the scenery of these mountain-sides green with dense forests in which the comical tree-tops stand with mathematical exactness in the square or quincunx order, is among the most beautiful imaginable. chapter xv. switzerland. it is almost impossible to describe the scenery of the alps to one who had never yet ascended mountains above the region of the clouds, without so bewildering his imagination that his fancy will call forth and accept more fictitious notions than true ones. the best description that i had ever heard of the alps, was the occasion of my most incorrect conceptions about them. i think the speaker did not misstate or exaggerate anything in a single word, but as he could in an hour's talk tell only one tenth of what one ought to know, in order to form a correct notion of what the alps look like, my fanciful imagination promptly supplied the coloring of the other nine tenths of the picture which he left untouched; and consequently when i came to see the alps, i found them entirely different from what i had anticipated. the ordinary school maps represent the alps as extending along the borders of switzerland, as if they consisted of a single range, or possibly of several parallel ranges, and mount blanc as its towering peak. with what surprise a scholar who only saw these maps, will look about him, when he reaches the summit of any high peak in switzerland! on the rigi, for example, one sees an extent of territory almost miles in circuit, every part of which is studded with ice-capped peaks. these range not in any one particular direction, nor do they number only several dozen, but many hundreds of them stand around the beholder toward every point of the compass and at variable distances, from the pilatus near by to the most distant part of the horizon--more than miles away. the snow-clad crowns of many of these rise high above the clouds, so that "through the parting clouds only the earth can be seen, far down 'neath the vapour the meadows of green." those forms of clouds called cumuli, (p.g. gewitter wolken), presenting themselves the appearance of mountains covered with ice, often creep around these peaks at less than half their height! at zurich i first beheld the strange sight of mountains and clouds piled upon each other so that i could not well distinguish them. it was on a sunny afternoon that i stood on the banks of the _zuricher see_ (lake zurich) and, looking over its calm waters, i beheld in the distant southeast a strange phenomenon. there stood the high glittering banks of clouds, and over them i saw the black sides of a towering peak whose top was covered with ice and snow. i then visited the rigi and looked at alpine switzerland from its giddy heights. this, since the railroad has been completed to its top, is one of the most famous mountains in switzerland. though it stands beneath the line of perpectual snow, its top being covered with grass in summer, still it commands a panoramic view of indescribable grandeur. numerous hotels stand around the top where thousands of tourists find shelter during the summer nights, and among them is one of the finest hotels in the world. when fall comes, all the landlords must take their families and move down from the mountain, as it would be impossible to keep the track of the railroad clear during the winter to bring up the necessary provisions for them. the snow is often from to feet deep on these alps. all swiss scenery, whether one is on the lakes, upon the mountains, or in the valleys and ravines, is singularly charming, and bears no resemblance to the scenery which one sees elsewhere; so that for this lack of having something with which to compare it, no one can do it justice in any description short of a volume. the reader will therefore pardon our haste in this country. one who sees the rest of europe and not switzerland, will not miss any particular links in the historic chain of social, religious and political development of the human race, but he will not have seen the sublime in nature. the alps are the poetry of inorganic creation, and a week or two spent on their lakes, in their valleys and gorges, amid the high waterfalls or upon their snowfields and glaciers, teaches one to associate new meanings to the words, grand, sublime, lofty, inspiring, overawing, romantic, wild, precipitous and bewildering, &c. it took me two days to ascend as high as the rhone glacier, during which time i walked over miles up hill along old military roads which the romans constructed through switzerland. i saw the snow and ice on the first day already, and it seemed as if i was but a little below it, but in place of reaching the snow line in the afternoon as i judged i might, i did not reach it until the next afternoon at : o'clock. the valleys are narrow and the mountains rise in some places almost perpendicularly at the sides, so that the snow and ice which melts near the tops of the mountains, falls down thousands of feet into the streams below. water-falls that are from several hundred to a thousand feet in height are numerous among the alps. the giessbach falls which i ascended on the th of september, descends in a series of seven cascades , feet, and the handeck falls, which i passed on the th, precipitates in an unbroken sheet from the height of feet! rainbows stand over all the falls of the alps, whenever the sun shines. on the second day (sept. th) of my ascend of the alps, i could look upwards and see the eternal snows, or look down into the valleys, and see the people in the meadows and fields making hay or cutting grain! haymakers may drink the water that was an hour before part of the mass of ice and snow which they see hanging near the top of the mountains several thousand feet above their heads! avalanches slide down into the valleys every month of the year, and i passed through tunnels and bridges that are purposely constructed that the snow may thus slide over the roads without doing harm to any one. where the mountains rise too precipitously, it is in some places impossible to construct a road along the edge; in these cases they pierce through the mountains for considerable distances. the axenstrasse, along lake luzerne, has many such tunnels, one of which is about one eighth of a mile in length. in the grimsel, the road avoids a water-fall by passing through a tunnel under it. the rhone glacier, the only ice-field that i crossed, is upwards of nine miles in length and rises from , feet to , feet in height. about the time of sunset on the th of september, i entered the cavern of ice from which issues the stream that constitutes the source of the rhone river. "this is the rhodanus of the ancients, which was said to issue 'from the gates of eternal night at the foot of the pillar of the sun.'" i descended through the grimsel pass ( , feet) and haslithal along the upper waters of the aare down to meiringen, in one day. though there is only a bridle-path through the almost unparalled wildnesses of this valley, still there is a telegraphic wire running up to the hotel at the upper end, near the rhone glacier! no language can describe the picturesqueness of the bare rocky sides of this valley. i heard persons who thought they were alone, utter a dozen exclamations of surprise while making a single turn where a new view opened! the solitary tourist will ejaculate his exclamations without number; and it is under such circumstances that the unpoetical soul seeks some personification to whom it may do homage. it would not require a worshipper of images to kneel down, in the grimsel or ober haslithal, before any emblem that embodied any adequate representation of the crushingly sublime scenery that one beholds there! i met a lake whose depths seemed as boundless as the blue heavens above me. the water of many of the swiss lakes is as clear as crystal, so that white objects at their bottoms may be discerned at great depths. while sailing along the lake of geneva one day, i could as little see substance in the water below me, when i looked upon it at a certain distance from the steamer, as in the clear sky; both seemed alike blue and boundless! the weather and the temperature changes very suddenly among the high alps. the climate in the valleys of switzerland is as warm as ours, in summer, while some thousand feet higher lie the everlasting glaciers. from these, avalanches of cold air precipitate into the valleys, so that the mercury often falls from to degrees in ten minutes! one is in danger of taking "a cold" every day in switzerland. besides "the alps" and the _lovely lakes_ among them, the tourist may also see castles, museums, art galleries, pleasure gardens, &c., in switzerland, but i will only enumerate a few of the most striking objects that i met and saw in this curious country, and then pass on to italy. one of the bridges of lucerne is adorned with very curious paintings representing the "dance of death." scores of skeletons, some blowing the bugle or playing with the triangles, others equipped with hoes and spades, are jubilant over their work! one of the finest organs in europe is the far-famed one at freiburg, having stops and , pipes, some of them feet long. this instrument has such a range of volume that it can simulate the roaring thunder as well as the faintest echo. the portal of the same cathedral which contains the famous organ is also adorned (?) with a curious representation of the last judgment. st. peter leads the blessed to the door of heaven, but half a dozen evil ones busy themselves in disposing of the wicked. one of them that has a head like a hog, carries them from the scales into a large caldron where they are boiled. others with forks in their hands pitch them into the mouth of the large dragon-devil who is represented as glutting them, and whose capacious mouth admits of several of them at a time! the time has almost arrived when one may no longer describe what he sees in the churches of europe! this reminds me of a monster that stands upon a fountain in bern, called the kindlifresser, (the ogre), who is in the act of eating a child, while others doomed to the same fate protrude from his girdle and pockets! berne is a great place for bears. besides those connected with the curious machinery of the clock on one of its clock-towers, among the dead bears, they also keep a large den of living bears at the expense of the government. the bear is the heraldic emblem of switzerland, as is our eagle of american freedom. of the fictitous hero, william tell, and the nature and character of the swiss republic, i can not say more in the compass of this book, than that the former is a myth and that the latter was in a great measure the outgrowth of poverty. the reader may form an idea of the miserable dwellings of the peasantry on the mountains, when he is told that many are hardly distinguishable from the stables in which the cattle are sheltered. when i came into view of guttannen, the first village of any considerable extent that i passed after seeing the rhone glacier and the wildnesses of the grimsel and haslithal, where no houses except hotels, and in some places not even trees or grass abound, i felt glad once more to see a group of human habitations, and determined to count them, so that i might record their number. i passed along the edge of the mountains where i could easily overlook the village, but it was in many instances impossible to determine by a survey of their external appearances, which were the stables and which the houses or huts, so i counted them all, large and small, and found their number between and . i once intended to count these buildings only with windows, as houses; but i soon discovered that some huts had windows only on one or several sides, and looked like stables on the other sides! a question to dairy men: do thunder and lightning affect fresh milk? a lady keeping a cafe in brienz, told me that if a thunder storm overtook those which were bringing the fresh milk from the mountains, the milk would suddenly turn sour, so that it could no longer be boiled for drinking it sweet. she said, "_es thut sie verbolera, so das sie gerinnt wen man sie kochen will!_" chapter xvi. geneva to turin. switzerland has two national languages, the german and the french, both of which are recognized by the government. geneva is french, so i had some trouble in getting my information and procuring a ticket for italy. i left geneva at : a.m., september th; and after passing through a number of tunnels, one of which required - / minutes of moderate railway speed, we arrived at bellegarde, on the french border, and passed muster. from : to : o'clock we were detained at culoz, and by noon we saw the snow-covered alps again. at : p.m., we arrived at modane and passed muster for italy. mont cenis tunnel. we entered the mouth of this great tunnel, over miles in length, at : - / p.m., and were exactly minutes in the very bowels of the earth, where absolute darkness reigns. temperature in the middle, ° fahrenheit. italy. we now come to a country which contrasts as strangely with the nations of western europe, as those do with america, or as alpine switzerland does with the rest of the world. when i parted at paris with my new york friend, he bound for rome, i for the north, we still had our school-boy ideas of germany, switzerland and italy; and i shall never forget the remark which he then made, and which embodied my notions and anticipations perhaps as well as his own. he said, "i suppose we have now seen the brightest side of the picture, the trouble is that scenes will now become tamer as we advance toward the cradle of humanity." i had been pleasantly disappointed almost every time that i entered a new country, but now, as i was entering italy, i expected that i would surely not see much to interest me except her rich stores of art and the ancient ruins. but less than a day at turin convinced me that i had by no means entered a country whose people were behind hand in civilization and refinement; and when on my way from turin to milan i saw how much clearer and brighter the blue heavens were, how much sweeter the air smelt than any i had ever breathed before, (not excepting that of paris, even), and how much fairer the people were than any other that i had yet seen, i felt that i must surely be on the border of that charming paradise which the poets make of italy, but for which i had never given them due credit. italy's fair sons and daughters. i now come to a dry subject, especially for old people; but numbers of my young friends, among them several editors and teachers, requested me very earnestly to take particular notice which country contained the fairest specimens of the human species. why these literary characters are so deeply interested in this question, i cannot tell, but my duty is plain enough--they want "a true and impartial statement of the facts," which i will endeavor to render them. i observed everywhere that _culture_ and _personal beauty_ always go together. when i came to a city that had clean and beautiful streets and houses, i invariably found good looking people there; but in the rural districts generally, and in suburbs and wretched towns, beauty and culture are at a lower ebb. i now refer to that form of beauty which is dependent upon personal accomplishments and intellectual endowments and culture--that beauty which beams from an intellectual countenance and sparkles from eyes that glisten with pleasure. that is the kind of beauty that renders per cent. of the individuals in all cultivated society acceptable, and per cent. charming and attractive, but which is wanting to nine tenths of those who cannot, or do not, pay attention to cultivation and refinement. there are a very few persons whose forms and features please and fascinate even without the aid of accomplishments. these may be said to be possessed of _native_ beauty, which is met with very seldom in all countries that have a climate unfavorable to health. if i had not gone to italy, i should not have hesitated to give my preference to the mild climate of paris, where health and beauty are the natural result of a warm temperature, almost semi-tropical in mildness, and where the highest art assists to make every grace shine. but when i saw how nature dotes upon italy, i felt as if she was only acting the step-mother to the rest of the world. the loveliest portion of italy is the valley of the po. one sees fewer sickly or consumptive people in some parts of england, france and germany, than in our section of america, but in turin and milan every person looks hale, healthy, happy and beautiful, from the tender days of infancy to a ripe old age. nothing that i saw in europe surprised me more than to come so suddenly into the midst of a people whose very countenance bear the bloom of youth, even until the gray locks of age appear. old age even knows no wingles here! i know that it seems incredible to any one that has never been in warmer climes, but the word beauty has a new meaning here. the glow which is lambent upon the faces of the sons and daughters of this section of sunny italy, is something that i never saw elsewhere, and that cannot be described. it is a solemn truth, that nine tenths of all the ladies of turin and milan are perfect beauties; and i need not say less for the full round forms of the gentlemen. only after i had observed that several very fair persons, who happened, to pass near me, had gray hair, did i notice that the bloom of youth still glows upon the faces of those who are to years of age! when i first came into this paradise of fairy angels, (for a paradise is the valley of the po), i mistook this bloom of youth and glow of health and vigor for the lambent flames which flash from the countenances of the intellectual--it seemed to me that i must be surrounded by a halo of literary sages and muses, all gifted alike with every grace and charm that nature can bestow or art improve; but when i observed the youths at work in the fields and the maidens at the garden gates, who turned for a moment from their respective tasks to see our train move along, look as happy, as gay and as beautiful as the belles of the cafes and the beaus of the cities, i concluded that it must be the healthy state of the body that makes every face look rosy and bright in this fair and sunny clime. at milan i asked some of my companions how far this _paradise of beauties_ extended southward in italy. "to florence," was the answer. but i did not find that to be quite correct, for though florence may have more fair people than any northern city, the proportion of beauties to the whole population, which is perhaps ninety per cent, in turin and milan, cannot be more than or per cent, in florence. in order to be able to correct any false impression that i might have imbibed in my first visit to the valley of the po, i paid particular attention to the same subject on my return from egypt. at milan there was then an immense concourse of people assembled from all parts of europe to see emperor william of germany and king victor emanuel of italy parade the streets of that elegant city, with a retinue of over , soldiers; the consequence was, that the fair people of milan were lost in the multitude. but on my return to turin, i found that her beautiful sons and daughters, again presented the same dream-like and enchanting scene of a pleasure-garden full of fair and merry beings possessed of angelic beauty, and enjoying their blessed existance just as i had seen them a month before. i met travelers that say the same thing of nature's children in other sunny lands--spain for example. the truth seems to be, that in warm climates only, will man attain that perfect healthy and beautiful physical development which has constituted the model of the artist and the theme of the poet, in every age. i have heard some pronounce the statue of venus de medici, the ideal perfection of female form and beauty. it is probably as near as sculpture can reach it, but who would suppose that a white stone could do justice to the beauty of a pure child of nature? the marble may present a most perfect _form_; but what becomes of the glow of life and flush of beauty upon the maiden's cheek, the ruby lips and the grace and elegance of her movements and winning manners? we may speak of ideal beauty in countries where the physical development of the inhabitants is blasted by the severities of the extreme heat and cold of an inhospitable clime, where the blasts of winter make every form shiver for many months of the year; but the superior beauty of the daughters of northern italy, if they were placed side by side with venus de medici, would laugh that frigid form to scorn! as compared with these, i thought i had seen no others that could either _talk_ or _laugh_ or _walk_! the italians live upon a very simple diet. when i first saw numbers of them make meals of dry bread and fruit, i supposed poverty impelled them to partake of so scant a diet, but by the time i came back from egypt, i too had learned to sit down and eat dry bread and grapes together, though i could procure meat as cheap in italy as elsewhere in europe. it is not advisable to partake of much meat in any warm country. any one may form an idea of what kind of a consumer of food cold is, when he reflects how much more flesh we consume in winter than in summer. i did not partake of more than half the amount of food in southern italy and egypt that i needed in england, germany or switzerland, and there is little room for doubt that many italians do with one third of the amount of food that we require in the severer climate of the middle states. i was always reminded of the story of "cornaro the italian," related in wilson's fourth reader, whenever i saw them eat their simple meals. it is very singular, too, that they should all look full, healthy and robust; and many of us, on the contrary, lean and sickly. twelve ounces of solid food and thirteen ounces of drink, seems a very spare supply to an american, but i do not believe that it is accounted very extraordinary in italy. milan. the praises of the magnificence and splendor of the cathedral of milan are sung all over the world. it is nearly feet long and feet wide through the transepts, covering an area of almost _two acres and three quarters!_ the height of the nave is feet! its entire walls, and its pinnacles, spire and roof are all constructed of fine marble. the spire is over feet high. the marble slabs constituting the roof are about three inches thick; how enormous the weight of that roof must be! each of the pinnacles or smaller spires is crowned with a statue, and throngs of others (some , ) ornament the outside of this magnificent building. the interior of this edifice is one of the most imposing in the world. as i looked at the rich decorations and delicate traceries of its high ceiling, feet above me, i felt as if no human being could be worthy of enjoying such a magnificent view. but, "unless a language be invented full of lance-headed characters, and gothic vagaries of arch and finial, flower and fruit, bird and beast," the beauties and glories of the temples of italy, and her unparalleled galleries of art, can never be described. from milan i went to vicenza, where i spent a sleepless night in skirmishes with the mosquitoes! the number and variety of obnoxious insects multiplies fearfully as one approaches the topical regions. thence i went to venice. as i was very much disappointed with venice, i shall not occupy much time in describing this _daughter of the sea_. the railway bridge which leads to this city is about two miles long. i expected that a city whose streets are canals and whose carriages are all boats, would present a very unique appearance, but when i once saw them, they were so exactly what i had anticipated, that i felt disgusted and left the city without doing justice even to the vast collection of paintings in the ducal palace, which alone is worth going a great distance to see. san marco. the church of _san marco_ is one of the grandest and most wonderful structures in italy, and i can only refrain from copying ruskin's very fine description of it, because his account, though true in every particular, would, to one who has never seen any of the architectural glories of italy, seem more like the attempt of a poet to depict in glowing language the vagaries of a dream, than like the description of an edifice really in existance. on the piazza above the portal of san marco, stand the celebrated bronze horses "which constantine carried from rome to constantinople, whence marino zeno brought them hither in ; they were taken to paris by napoleon in , but restored by the allies in ." chapter xvii. venice to bologna. in place of spending several days at venice, as i now think i should have, i left already in the afternoon at : o'clock, and reached bologna that evening. it required between and minutes to cross the bridge, over two miles long, which connects venice with the land. the water is not deep, and most of this bridge is a mere bank of earth running into the sea. it was on account of my being disgusted at the general unpretending appearance of venice, that i left her so soon. among the objects of interest that i saw between venice and bologna, was a herd of a hundred deer on a hill-side, and the merry bells of stage-teams jingling like our sleigh-bells, but which may be heard in italy and switzerland all the year round. when i observed in my satchel guide that bologna has two _leaning towers_, one of them nearly feet high leaning feet, and the other about half that height and leaning feet, i determined to go and see them. they are massive but plain brick structures, and it is difficult to decide which way the higher one leans. the inclination of the lower one, however, is decided, but presents nothing striking or threatening in its appearance. i felt afraid that the leaning tower of pisa might possibly also fail to present anything that was remarkable or imposing to the beholder when i would come to see it once, just as a thousand and one other objects do which antiquity and poetry have rendered sacred and famous; and i walked away with down-cast countenance and took passage for firenze (florence). florence. the cathedral, (il duomo), begun in , is feet long; and feet through the transepts. the nave is feet high; the cupola is feet in diameter or about the same as that of st. peter's in rome, for which it also served michael angelo as a model. close by the cathedral is giotto's campanile, feet high, the most beautiful of all the towers that i have seen in europe. the square blocks of many colored marble with which its four sides are coated, produce a richness of effect that is indescribable. decorated from top to bottom with all manner of statues and architectural ornamentations, "it is like a toy of ivory, which some ingenious and pious monk might have spent his life-time in adorning with sculptural designs and figures of saints; and when it was finished, seeing it so beautiful, he prayed that it might be miraculously magnified from the size of one foot to that of three hundred." the view of this superb structure in connection with the grand edifice (the cathedral) to which it belongs, opens so suddenly upon the visitor, that he will never forget what feelings of joy and surprise he experienced on making the last turn around the corner, when these splendid edifices leaped upon him so unexpectedly in all their beauty and magesty. the church of santa croce, whose foundation was laid in , is "the pantheon of tuscany." it contains the tomb of michael angelo, and magnificent monuments of dante, of alfiero, of macchiavelli, of galileo and of many others of less fame. the houses in which were born michael angelo, dante, amerigo vespucci, macchiavelli and galileo may be found and identified by the memorial tablets which mark them. _piazza della signoria_ is the business as well as the historic center of florence. here stands the old capitol of the republic, begun in . it was afterwards the residence of cosmo i. near this palace is a magnificent fountain of the time of cosmo i. i cannot tell positively, now, whether the sculpture and architecture of florence is so much richer than what i saw elsewhere in europe, or whether the enchanting beauty of sculpturesque and architectural master-strokes at the cathedral, the campanile, st. croce, and the fountain and palace in this magnificent square, may not have thrown me into the condition of one in a dream; but i certainly felt all the time that i spent in florence like one in another world, where scenes of fascinating beauty were surrounding me on every side, and feelings of ecstatic delight precluding me from any but a dream-like enjoyment of the scenery around. i was without any acquaintance or companion the whole day, which in connection with the fact that i was thousands of miles away from the familiar scenes of home, where every object that i contemplated was new and different from what i was wont to see, could not fail to make me feel like one in a dream. i went along the _portico degli uffizi_ adorned with throngs of statues of celebrated tuscans, and into the famous uffizi gallery, founded by the medici, and one of the most precious collections in the world. in the _tribune_, the inner sanctuary of the great temple of art ("the richest room in all the world, a heart that draws all hearts to it") i saw the venus de medici, the dancing faun, the apollino, the wrestlers, and other masterpieces of ancient sculpture; also, among the paintings, some of the best works of raphael, angelo, titian and others. i must however admit that the out-door scenery of florence charmed me more than what i saw in its world renowned museum. it seems to me, that raphael and m. angelo deserve more praise for the inventive genius which they evinced in translating bible stories and poetical imagery into pictures, than for their mechanical execution. to such as understand anything about paintings, it will seem very absurd, of course, that i should presume to criticise the paintings of these great masters, but they must admit that a hundred of those who roam the world and come to see the works of the masters, are ignorant of painting and sculpture, as i am, to half a dozen that are able to criticise them from the standpoint of one who is himself an artist. the "hundred" unskilled in the fine arts, have as great a desire to know how they will likely be affected by the sight of those works as the half dozen artists are; permit me to speak to the "hundred!" it is true that the paintings of raphael and angelo may have faded, but, whatever they may have been when they were first hung to the wall, they now look pale, shady and inferior in artistic execution to many of those of rubens and of the masters of the dutch school in general; that is, if we consider nature as the standard and copying it as the only criterion of a master's talents. but for inventive originality of conception, the dutch masters are no rivals even, certainly not, of the italians. need i repeat that wherever one finds such a rich store of art as in florence, there too will he find ladies and gentlemen of beauty, culture and refinement? the same fascinating forms and features which characterize the men and women of turin and milan, are also met with here, but they comprise a much smaller proportion of the whole population. it is fair to presume, however, that a large proportion of those which i saw in florence were natives of distant parts of the globe, which streamed thither, by the thousand, to see that charming city. one can nowhere see more intelligent company than in such a place as florence; but how the most symmetrical and best looking people of all other countries contrast with italian beauties, none but those few who ever go thither will ever learn to form the least conception of. it has become my duty, however, to record the fact, that the most favored of all countries when they sail into the society of the fair daughters of sunny italy cast a shadow about them, as we may fancy any human would when coming into the company of the beautiful angels of a heavenly paradise. go reader, if you cannot visit italy personally, and see what the poets say about these people, and believe every word they can say in favor of their charms. pisa. from florence i went to pisa with the special object of seeing the famous leaning tower ( - ). it is circular, having pillars in the wall of the first story and in each of the six succeeding ones. on top of these, is another one (the eighth) much smaller than the rest, and probably built upon it after the tower had reached the amount of inclination which it now has. the entire structure is feet high, and feet inches in circumference (according to my own measurement). the walls are from to feet thick. there is a peal of bells at the top, the heaviest weighing tons. nothing is more evident than that this tower assumed its leaning position by _accident_. it is probable that this structure, which is the finest in italy except giotto's campanile at florence, was originally designed to be a very high one, (perhaps feet). it is likely that the foundation did not give way until at the seventh story, and that after it came to a stand-still again, they capped it off abruptly by the odd little story which we now see at the top of it. the inclination amounts to about feet. there is a circular pavement around it about feet wide, which has the same angle of inclination that the tower itself has. it is sunk feet into the ground on one side and feet on the other side. upon careful examination and measurement i discovered that the diameter of the basin thus formed is to the height of the tower, as the inclination of pavement constituting the floor of the basin is to the amount of inclination of the tower. let it be remembered, that this tower is not an independent structure, but that it stands near the east end of the cathedral, as the elegant campanile at florence stands near the cathedral of that city. the cathedral. the cathedral ( - ) is feet long, feet wide, and the nave feet high. the great bronze lamp which gave galileo the hint of the pendulum, still hangs in its nave. the baptistry ( - ) stands a little distance from the west end of the cathedral. it is about feet in diameter and its dome is feet high. peabody considers it "the most faultlessly and exquisitely beautiful building" he ever saw. these three most elegant buildings, the cathedral, the baptistry and the campanile or leaning tower, are a unite in architectural beauty and design, and for effect in external appearance are scarcely outvied by anything that i have seen of the kind in all italy. no one will feel sorry for having traveled a hundred miles to see the "leaning tower," and the traveler will observe with pleasure and satisfaction that its two companions are even more elegant than itself. on tuesday noon, september th, i left pisa for rome. it was continually getting warmer, as i progressed southward. at london i had received information that i must by no means go to rome before october, as i might not be able to endure the intense heat of summer in central italy. the tourist must not always believe all that is said. though it is not so pleasant to visit rome in july or august, as later in the season, still it is quite as safe, if one takes the necessary precautions against fever. no one should eat much meat in italy and egypt. i lived upon milk, bread and fruit principally, and dressed in flannel; and as a consequence, never experienced much inconvenience from any source--not from heat even. at rome i used an umbrella during the middle of the day, and in egypt all of the day, but with that to protect me from the effect of the direct rays of the sun, i could get along tolerably well. at milan a young friend had cautioned me to be careful at rome, as persons were often murdered there in broad daylight! i was not at all alarmed by that remark, because i had previously received similarly reports in regard to the morality of other cities, and had discovered that they were unfounded. as our train was sweeping on toward rome, i apprehended little danger, therefore, from these sources, and after having formed the acquaintance of a certain frenchman, the professor of mathematics of the university of brest, who could speak a very little english, i began to have brighter hopes in regard to my visit to rome. chapter xviii. rome. the sun set soon after we had passed orbetello, and the moon rose about the same time. we had still two hours to civita vecchia and four hours to rome, but i shall never forget the happiness and emotional excitement that prevailed among our passengers, as we were approaching the city of the caesars and of the popes, on that pleasant moonlight evening. the light of the full moon cast a charm about every scene, and as we watched the appearance of tropical species of plants and trees under the subdued and enchanted light of the moon and stars, we felt that we were about to enter the celestial city under eminently fascinating circumstances. at : o'clock we were intently looking from the windows, each for the first glimpse of rome. will we reach the tiber soon? as our train leaped upon the bridge and my french companion first saw the glassy surface of the historic stream, he, half distracted by solemnity of the occasion, exclaimed with a forced but feeble effort, "the tiber, _the tiber_!" none was his own, and the enraptured professor, sinking from the effects of an ecstatic swoon, grasped hold of me and with labored enunciation spoke in a low voice, saying, "i feel in-ex-pres-si-ble e-mo-sions!" at : we entered the shed of the great railway station. it was my good fortune to meet a german porter who conducted me and my new companion to an excellent hotel (albergo torino e trattoria duetto da abrate--via principe amedo in prossimita alla stazione) where we took rooms together. one sees a thousand strange and curious things at rome that my limited space will preclude me from describing or mentioning, even. the gable-end of the stazione (station) has in base relief a representation of the traditional she-wolf nursing the twin brothers, romulus and remus, the founders of rome. emblems unique and obscure in design, may be seen in almost every street. i saw in one place the hands of a clock dial in the form of snakes. i did more justice to my eyes than to my feet, during my first day in rome. the column of marcus aurelius, the post-office, castello s. angelo, st. peter, the vatican, the colosseum _(amfiteatro flavia,_ or _coliseo_) and the fountains, arches and ruins of ancient heathen temples that i passed on my way, gave me a pretty good practical idea of the rome that i had read about in the books. only the approaching darkness and the dread of walking alone through the suburbs of rome under cover of night, could induce me on the evening of the first day to tear myself away from the crumbling heaps of stones which constitute the ruins of ancient rome, so charming and grand to behold. it required about three days of close study before i could readily identify on my map of ancient rome, the temples of vespasian, of saturn, of castor and pollux, of julius caesar, of faustina, and of venus and roma; the triumphal arches of titus, of severus and of constantine; the _meta sudarite_, and the column of phocas, in the _roman forum_; also the column of trajan and other objects in the forum of trajan, and numerous other ruins of ancient rome, including the aqueducts, baths, and the little round temple of vesta (?) on the left bank of the tiber. the rome of to-day is about a mile and a half square, and has a population of , inhabitants. ancient rome occupied much more territory, and its population was _at the beginning of the nd century_ about - / million. the ruins of ancient rome cover a desolate area of several square miles in extent, besides what is covered by the modern city. its walls are miles in circuit. whatever may be said of the churches of rome, (including seven called basilicae, namely: st. peter, st. john lateran, santa maria maggiore, and santa croce in gerusalemme, within the city, and st. paolo, san lorenzo and san sebastian, outside of the walls), all agree, that the colosseum is the _elephant_ among the ruins of the old city. this stupendous structure is eliptical in form, measuring feet through the longer diameter and feet through the shorter, covering more than - / acres of ground. in the height of its glory , spectators could he accommodated within its walls! it is feet high, but has no roof. the sailors of the imperial fleet used to stretch sail-cloth over it to exclude the burning rays of the sun. the arena is feet by feet. this building was begun in a.d. , and dedicated by titus in a.d. . it was inaugurated by gladiatorial combats which lasted days, during which time , wild animals were killed. about one third of the building is still preserved, and presents a scene to the beholder of overawing magnificence and grandeur. when i walked into the cathedral of milan, i felt as if its elevated ceiling was about to lift me up, but, standing in the arena of this vast amphitheater, one feels as if its stupendous walls would crush him to the ground. close by the colosseum is the meta sudans, and the arch of constantine which spans the _via triumphalis_ and unites it with _via sacra_ (the sacred way). this arch has three passages and is adorned with admirable sculptures. it was erected in , when constantine declared himself in favor of christianity. following the sacred way, toward the north, we first come to the arch of titus and afterwards to the roman forum. the sacred way, it seems, was about / of a mile in length and extended from the arch of constantine or the northern end of the colosseum near by, to the capitol. near the capitol stands the triumphal arch of septimius severus, feet high and feet wide, with three passages. it was erected in honor of that emperor and his two sons caracalla and geta in a.d. , to commemorate victories. it was once surmounted by a brazen chariot with six horses, on which stood severus, crowned by victory. the pavement of the forum, which has been laid bare by recent diggings, lies some twenty feet lower than the level of the street which now passes at the side of the diggings. near the northern end stands the column of phocas, feet high, which was erected in in honor of the tyrant phocas, of the eastern empire. all around the forum stand what remains of the ancient temples, once dedicated to the deities which it was believed presided over the destinies of rome, before the advent of christianity. the broken pillars of ruined temples are seen on every side. the tabularium. the only relics still extant of the ancient capitol of rome are the ruins of the tabularium, erected b.c. , by the consul q. lutatius catulus for the reception of the state archives. the modern capitol covers a part of it. the tarpeian rock, from which the condemned used to be thrown by the ancient romans, is close by this edifice, _if_ the _rupe tarpeia_ still pointed out is the veritable one. adjoining the tabularium is the _schola xantha_, "with the _colonnade of the twelve gods_, whose images vettius agorius prætextatus, the præfectus urbi, and one of the principal champions of expiring paganism, erected here in a.d. ." the _twelve gods_ stand in base relief, on a beautiful vase in the corridor of the capitoline museum, in the following order: jupiter, juno, minerva, hercules, apollo, diana, mars, venus, vesta, mercury, neptune and vulcan. it is a remarkable coincidence(?), that there are: first, _twelve_ lunations in a year; second, _twelve_ months in a year; third, _twelve_ constellations in the heavens; fourth, _twelve_ gods in the ancient mythology; fifth, _twelve_ labors of hercules; sixth, see law of the _twelve_ tables(?), encyclopædia britannica on burying; seventh, _twelve_ sons of jacob; eighth, _twelve_ tribes of israel; ninth, _twelve_ apostles of christ; tenth, _twelve_ virtues and _twelve_ vices represented in base reliefs in notre dame, paris; eleventh, _twelve_ colossal statues facing the tomb of napoleon i.; and twelfth, _twelve_ units in a dozen. it is strange enough that there are _a dozen dozen_ of these curious _dozens_! did pythagoras not also have twelve spheres to make his sphere-music? between the tabularium and the forum, about feet southeast from the former, and near the arch of severus, are the "remains of the rostra, or orator's tribune, a name derived from the iron prows of the war-ships of antium with which the tribune was adorned after the capture of that town in b.c. . at the end of it was the _umbilicus urbis romæ_, or ideal center of the city and empire, the remains of which are recognizable. at the other end, below the street, are a few traces of the _miliareum aureum_, or central mile-stone of the roads radiating from rome, erected by augustus in b.c. . it is however doubtful whether these names are correctly applied to these remains." the temple of cæsar is situated on the east side of the forum, with its front toward the capitol. to this, "caesar, in addition to other alterations made by him, transferred the tribune of the orators. this was now named the _rostra julia_, and from it, on the occasion of the funeral of the murdered dictator on the th or th march, b.c. , mark antony pronounced the celebrated oration which wrought so wonder-fully on the passions of the excited populace. a funeral pyre was hastily improvised, and the unparalleled honor accorded to the illustrious dead of being burned in view of the most sacred shrines of the city. a column with the inscription 'parenti patriae' was afterwards erected here to commemorate the event. at a later period augustus erected this temple in honor of 'divus julius,' his defied uncle and adopted father, and dedicated it to him in b.c. , after the battle of actium. at the same time he adorned the rostra with prows of the captured egyptian vessels."--_bædeker_. the baths of caracalla. as an example of the magnificence of the ancient roman baths, we may take the thermae of caracalla which could accommodate , bathers at a time! this establishment, now the largest mass of ruins in rome, except the colosseum, was feet long and feet wide. a flight of steps lead to the roof which (the roof) has now tumbled down. this structure covered over six acres of ground, and had its porticoes, race course, &c., surrounded by a wall. the total area of the grounds is nearly acres! the baths of diocletian, erected in the th century, were , feet in perimeter and its number of daily bathers were , . the pyramid of cestius. "the egyptian pyramidal form was not unfrequently employed by the romans in the construction of their tombs." that of cestius, who died within the last thirty years before christ, is feet high and feet square at the base. it is constructed with bricks and covered with marble blocks. upon the cemetery of st. lorenzo, "the great modern burial-ground of rome," i saw one or several small monuments or head stones which were in the form of pyramids. here, as in catholic burial-grounds generally in europe, crosses take the place of memorial stones, except some of the latest interments are marked by marble slabs and monuments. the catacombs or underground burial-places of rome, are not quite as interesting as many suppose who have read large chapters and heard long addresses upon the subject. the passages are almost innumerable, intersecting each other in every direction and ranging in some places many stories above each other, but still, as you pass along in the dim light of a little taper, it appears much like a subterranean stone-quarry containing pigeon-holes for the dead. the temple of vesta. the little round temple referred to on page , was once supposed to have been the temple of vesta, but it is now quite certain that this was a mistake. it is feet in diameter and each of its corinthian columns which constitute the circular colonnade around it, is feet high. wherever the temple of vesta may have stood, it is evident that from its eternal fires was borrowed the custom, still extant in catholic churches, of keeping up a perpetual flame by means of tapers. six vestal virgins sworn to perpetual virginity, used to watch the sacred flame upon the altar in the temple of vesta, and it is an impressive sight to see the same sacred and eternal flame still burning around the high altar in st. peter's. from what may still be seen in europe in general, and at rome in particular, it is evident that all or nearly all of the emblems, forms and ceremonies of the _early_ catholic church were borrowed from ancient mythology. obelisks and fountains. the many magnificent fountains of rome are all adorned with groups representing characters of ancient mythology, as is the case with nearly all the fountains of europe and america, even unto this day, and the half a dozen or more obelisks of rome are likewise monuments of the heathen origin of modern civilization. these, it seems, were first erected and dedicated to the sun, as we may infer from the fact that globes representing the sun surmount them. since the introduction of the christian religion, a figure of st. peter with the cross is placed upon some of them. hence, the development of religious ideas stands chronologically thus: first, sun-worship and afterwards the elevation of st. peter, and of the cross. judging from what we see on ancient monuments and in the churches, it is perhaps a fair question, whether st. peter, the virgin and other saints were not at one time quite as much the' object of worship, as christ himself? st. peter's. "st. peter's stands on the site of the circus of nero, where many christians were martyred and where st. peter is said to have been buried after his crucifixion." an oratory (chapel?) stood here as early as a.d. . in a basilica, half the size of what st. peter's now is, was begun by constantine. it was the grandest church of that time. "the crypt is now the only remnant of this early basilica." the building of the present edifice was commenced in by julius ii. michael angelo worked years at it (to ). it was completed and "consecrated by pope urban viii., on th november, , on the th anniversary of the day on which st. silvester is said to have consecrated the original edifice." this church contains altars, besides the high altar. "its area is , sq. ft., while that of the cathedral of milan is , , st. paul's at london , , st. sophia at constantinople , , and the cathedral of cologne , sq. ft." the nave is feet wide and feet high, and the dome is feet in diameter ( feet less than that of the pantheon) and some feet high. one might fill a volume in describing its rich marble pavement, its massive columns, its gilded chapels and ceiling, its fine sculpture, and the thousand and one objects in and about it that render it the most imposing as well as the largest church in the world. imagine yourself in the middle of a church occupying over five acres, whose high altar stands under a brass canopy feet high, and weighing tons, and whose _confessio_ is surrounded by burning lamps! the total cost of the edifice is about $ , , . [it should always be remembered that labor has been twice to three times as cheap in europe as it is now in this country]. "the expense of erecting this church was so heavy that julius ii. and leo x. resorted to the sale of indulgences to raise the money, and this lead to the reformation." the lateran is the church of the pope as bishop of rome, and here his coronation takes place. "it takes the precedence even of st. peter, in ecclesiastical rank, being, as the inscription on its facade sets forth, '_c ominum urbis et urbis ecclesiarum mater et caput._'" if st. peter's had not the advantage of a piazza that is unrivaled in magnificence, i think the lofty facade of the lateran would present a view of more imposing grandeur, even, than that stately structure. the interior of this church is very beautiful. it must not be supposed that st. peter's has no rivals in beauty. even in rome it does not seem to stand alone. of the other churches in the great city of churches, there are numbers that vie with it in the beauty and perfection of some particular portions. santa maria maggiore. "the virgin appeared simultaneously to the devout roman patrician johannes and to pope liberius in their dreams, commanding them to erect a church to her on the spot where they should find a deposit of snow on the following morning (august th)." the basilica liberiana which was erected in obedience of this vision, was succeeded by a church named s. maria mater dei (a.d. ) and later by the present edifice. almost every church in rome has its legend. i have seen no other church that seemed so rich in gold, precious alabaster and many other kinds of beautiful and costly stones. its panelled roof is gilt with the first gold brought to spain from south america, and presented to the pope by ferdinand and isabella. near s. maria maggiore is the church of s. antonio abbate, to which are brought the horses, mules, cows, etc., during the week following the feast of the saint (january - ). on the rd, the pope and many persons of the higher classes send their horses here to be blessed and sprinkled with holy water. the scala santa referred to on page of this book, are in a church near the lateran. they were brought to rome by the empress helena and may only be ascended on the knees. they are partly covered with boards, to save the stones from being worn away by the thousands that ascend it. two adjoining stairways are for the descent. s. pietro in vincoli was founded about , as the receptacle for the chains of st. peter, which had been presented by eudoxia, wife of valentinian iii., to pope leo i. this church contains the famous statue of moses with horns, by michael angelo. mediaeval christian artists generally represented moses with horns, owing to an erroneous translation of exodus xxxiv., . michael angelo represented these horns upon the head of moses as having been about three inches in length. s. maria in aracoeli probably occupies the site of the temple of jupiter. its present altar encloses an ancient altar which is said to have been erected by augustus. "according to a legend of the th century, this was the spot where the sibyl tibur appeared to the emperor, whom the senate proposed to elevate to the rank of a god, and revealed to him a vision of the virgin and her son." this church is approached by a very high flight of steps rising from the foot of those leading to the piazza of the modern capitol, and "the interior is vast, solemn, and highly picturesque. it was here, as gibbon tells us, that on the th of october, , as he sat musing amidst the ruins of the capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers, the idea of writing the 'decline and fall' of the city first started to his mind." the vatican has been the residence of the popes since their return from avignon, in france, where they had resided from to . it is now the most extensive palace in the world, being three stories high and , feet long by feet wide, covering over acres! the palace comprises courts, eight grand staircases and two hundred smaller ones, and is said to contain , halls, chapels, saloons and private apartments. since the italian occupation, pope pius ix. considers himself a prisoner in his own palace, though strange to say, there are no doors locked except those which he locks himself on the inside! king victor emanuel, though, excommunicated by the pope in the most indecent language that ever fell from human lips, has done no violence to the person of the pope, and now contents himself as an outsider of the church. the masses can now no longer "go to rome to see the pope," for he neither ventures forth from his palace into the city for exercise and pleasure, as he used to, neither does he hold any public receptions. my french companion who had come to rome for the purpose of making a present of several hundred dollars to the pope, insisted on my accompanying him, as he was allowed a private interview, but i could not avail myself of the opportunity. the galleries and museums of the palace are the richest in the world, in roman and christian antiquities. here are the paintings which have rendered raphael and angelo immortal to fame. they are almost innumerable. these masters translated the bible into pictures, and here are the originals of many of the cuts that adorn our finely illustrated family bibles. michael angelo painted months ( - ) at the ceiling of the sixtine chapel. in the loggie, raphael represents god in the person of an old man wearing a long gray beard and attired in the oriental costume. museums. the principal museums in rome are the christian and the gregorianum lateranense in the lateran; the etruscan, the egyptian and the museum of christian antiquities in the vatican; and the capitoline museum, on capitoline hill. the vast stores of ancient art contained in these, brings the beholder back again to the strange scenes of the distant past, as do perhaps no other museums in the world. to do justice to these collections would require many weeks, and a mere catalogue of their contents would cover many pages. among the most interesting apartments of the capitoline museum, are the room of the dying gladiator, the room of the philosophers, the room of the busts of the emperors, the room of venus, &c. baedeker guides the tourist through rome by means of pages of description in fine print. it may be proper to observe here, that murray leads the visitor in the same way through london by means of a guide-book of pages, and galignani has pages on paris, exclusive of the tables of contents. in regard to the brilliant and magnificent churches of italy, which, for beauty, throw those of the rest of the world into the shade, i will here add that their overawing grandeur assisted materially in making man a humble and submissive being; and possibly taught him to take the first steps from ancient barbarity toward civilization and refinement. several square miles of ancient rome lying in ruins, is now unoccupied, and many of the roads which intersect this desolate area are lined on both sides by walls from to or feet in height. they are plastered white and overgrown by the ivy; and as one walks along in these, he may well occupy his time in watching a species of little reptiles that are very nimble but shy, running up the high smooth walls as easily as along the ground. they are harmless, no doubt, but i dreaded them quite as much as if i had been in a similar danger of treading upon snakes! they dart like arrows across the streets, and in their reckless haste of attempting to cross the street to avoid me, they frequently came near losing their lives under my feet! they are about to inches long, we will say; have four legs as near as i could count, and are very slim, resembling the snake in form and the frog in features. good-by, old rome! i spent days in london, in paris and in rome; doing to one city about as much justice as to the other, in those various periods of time; but if one would come to rome first, he would not be able to tear himself away in less than a few weeks. no one should travel any other way than _against_ the course of civilization, on his first visit to europe. in my course from liverpool to rome i enjoyed new sights in a constant flow, like that of a steady rain. i do not believe that it would be well for an american to be abruptly transported to rome and awake one morning there. the strange sights would assail him suddenly, like a flood of angry waters! chapter xix. rome to brindisi. from rome i went to pompeii, stopping long enough at naples, however, to learn that the impudence of the pestiferous porters is quite unendurable. italy throughout is much infested with porters, but in the southern section of the peninsula they are a regular pest, which at times becomes epidemic. during the traveling season it seems as if everybody was a porter. sometimes they will surround the traveler and assail him on every side, asking him to let them carry his baggage. sometimes i found them to be of great service in finding hotels for me, but at other times i was much inconvenienced by their attacks. i think it was at naples, where a dozen or more of them yelled at me all at the same time, each desirous of carrying my satchel. as none of them could speak in a language that i understood, i declined to let any one have it. each one evinced his earnestness by taking hold of my baggage while asking for it. after taking turns at their chances in this way for a while, at the same time crowding the path in front of me so that i could not proceed, one of them in his greediness almost tore my satchel out of my hands, i responded to his supplication with such a tremendous no, that the next fellow assumed a stooping posture and asked me in a whisper! these people deserve our pity rather than censure. many of them are evidently sometimes in a famishing condition. but few who have not seen, can form an idea of the poverty which reigns in some sections of southern italy, especially between naples and brindisi. i saw children running about in this section, that had little of clothing save a shirt, which was generally torn in every part; some few, below the age of about six or eight years, had not even a thread of clothing upon their bodies. an elderly man that was plowing with a pair of oxen, as is the custom in italy, was accompanied by his wife who was well dressed, but he wore only a shirt that reached to his knees, and a hat. i spent a sunday at brindisi, and observed that people keep no sunday there. all the people wear old and tattered garments, and i could not see a hat, a coat or a pair of pantaloons on the person of one of the hundreds that thronged the market-place all sunday, that looked as if it had been new at any time within the last few years! the railroad tunnels are even more numerous than in the black forest. in some places it becomes impossible to read in the cars, as the train is much of the time under the mountains. from the window of the cars i saw a man with his bare feet in a tub treading grapes, for the purpose of making wine. it reminded me of the way, as it is said, some made their sourcrout in this country some forty-five or fifty years ago. i spent a day among the ruins of pompeii and in the ascent of mount vesuvius. pompeii was a town of about , inhabitants when it was destroyed by an eruption of old vesuvius in a.d. . on the th of august a dense shower of ashes covered the town feet in thickness, but allowed the inhabitants time to escape. only of those which returned to recover valuables, &c., were overtaken and covered by the shower of red hot rapilli, or fragments of pumice-stone, which, with succeeding showers of ashes, covered the town to the depth of - feet. "the present superincumbent mass is about feet in thickness." in the one third of the town already excavated the skeletons of some have been found. casts of bodies found in , were made by pouring plaster of paris into the cavities where they had lain, and the figures of the deceased in their death-struggle are thus obtained. bædeker devotes pages to a description of the wonders and curiosities of this exhumed town. the ascent of vesuvius required about six hours. we started at : in the morning and returned at : p.m. the distance from pompeii, which stands at its foot, to the top of it is about miles in a straight line, and eight miles by the paths. mules can ascend half-way; but i took a guide and walked the whole distance. at the point where the mules must be abandoned, a number of guides offered to carry me up, or to drag me up by means of a rope! but i climbed it. a cloud hangs over it all the time, which is occasioned by the column of steam that issues from its crater. the entire upper part of the peak is perfectly bare of vegetation, and covered with fine cinders, rapilli, &c., through which escapes a gas that almost suffocates the ascending traveler. at the top we shouted into the crater and heard distinct echos after two seconds, which proves that the mouth of the crater reflected the sound at the depth of about , or , feet! from pompeii i returned to naples and spent the night there. early on thursday morning i went to the "stazione" (station) and left for brindisi. the temperature was degrees in the shade, in the afternoon. some people have constructed artificial caves which they use as stables, for their cattle; and possibly some have such rude grottos for their homes! chapter xx. on the mediterranean. on monday morning, september th, at : o'clock a.m., i stepped on board the steamship "avoca" to take passage for alexandria. brindisi, like havre, is one of the finest places in the world to leave! almost everything about it is repulsive. i saw many children there that have possibly never seen a washing day in their lives! i sailed for egypt with great reluctance, for i had already my misgivings about the property of tourists from civilized nations going thither for sight-seeing. well one does see sights there--but, _such sights_! our voyage to egypt was a very prosperous and, i may say, a pleasant one. time, some eighty hours. as first and second class passage is unreasonably high, boarding costing $ --$ per day, i took third class passage, and with a special outlay of a few dollars obtained acceptable meals. the steamer belonged to an english line, and it was one of the most pleasant incidents of my entire tour, to hear a company of sailors chime in one evening and sing "kiss me mother, kiss your darling." i had heard little english speaking for months, and now to hear that old familiar tune, five thousand miles away from home, made me feel as if america could after all not be so very far off! there were no storms, nor was their any cool night air upon that "summer seat." i slept one night on deck, without even an awning of canvass over me,--how pleasant it was at night to awake and see the winter constellation of orion as high up already in september, as i was wont to see it in america in the month of january! we reached alexandria on the fourth day after leaving the coasts of italy. perhaps i can not give the reader a better idea of what a blank egypt seems to one who has luxuriated for months amid the scenes of europe, than by leaving my chapter on egypt a blank one. a great deal too much has been written about egypt and the east, already. what profitable example can we take from those semi-barbarians? a young man who was just returning from a tour through egypt and greece, had told me already at rome, that "going to see the east is done mostly for the name of having done the thing." he had been disappointed, and so was i. why do tourists speak so much about the pyramids, after returning from egypt? because there is little else to be seen there or to talk about! and these are not half the wonders that many imagine who falsely presume that the building of the entire structures were undertaken at once. the broad foundation of acres, which constitutes the base of the greatest, was not undertaken at one time; but only a small pyramid was at first reared, and around this, as a nucleus, was built layer after layer, until the structure assumed the amazing proportions which now characterize the astounding magnificence of the great pyramids on the plains of geezeh. thus at whatever time the sovereign might die, his pyramid would be almost complete, and would be large or small, in proportion to the time spent upon it. perhaps succeeding generations built at some of the larger pyramids. they are monuments erected to the memory of kings or ruling families, and contain their tombs. such, at least, is a plausible solution of the problem of pyramid-building. cairo. at cairo i engaged a guide whom i paid three dollars for accompanying me as many hours, and bargained with him that he must furnish the mules, (or donkeys i should have said), and pay all the contingent expenses. we visited the mosk of mohamet ali in the citadel, the mosk of hassen and others. attendants at the doors provided us with slippers, for no one is allowed to tread the fine carpet (or matting?) of these holy temples with his shoes. hats must be kept on, however. a large mosque generally consists of porticoes surrounded a square open court, containing a fountain or tank in the center. here every mussulman washes his hands and feet before he goes to prayers. they sometimes would here bathe their whole bodies in former times! it is not at all surprising that washing of feet should have become a part of the religious ceremonies in countries like egypt, where washing is quite as necessary to existence, as eating and drinking, even. i wish they had pure water enough to wash themselves a dozen times a day. they would certainly be, what we consider very dirty, more than half the time, even then. as it is, they must take their untanned goat-skin bags and collect the luke-warm water which they find in dirty pools, and take it home for drinking purposes! it is impossible for the poor egyptians to keep themselves clean. it rains only about three days in a year, and the wind takes so much dust into the air that one can often neither see or breath for a few seconds. this dust collected in such a thick layer upon my body, the first day, that i could in the evening plow furrows with my fingers upon any portion of my skin. i protected my eyes, by hiding my face in my shawl, during the most dangerous busts; but being ignorant of the necessity of putting cotton into my ears, i lost the hearing of one of them, which i only recovered quite lately. hundreds of people in cairo are blind, and certainly the majority of them have but poor sight or have very sore eyes! what wretched houses they live in! many of the huts in their villages consist of but a single apartment, large enough for a person to lie down lengthwise in it, but not more than feet wide. the walls and roof are all mud, and so low that a man cannot stand erect in some of them! these mud-huts have no doors even! the men as well as the women wear long flowing garments, like those represented in our picture bibles. many of the poor women have but a single garment to cover their bodies with. this consists of a hood-like covering for the head, and a loose flowing robe, all in one piece; having neither shoes nor the other garments to make themselves presentable in any decent or refined society. many present pictures of indescribable wretchedness. i saw a woman nurse her child in the cars, who, when presented with an apple for her babe, returned her thanks _without a smile,_ even, to the giver! these people are in too great misery to know what it is to feel happy! i saw men and women speak by the hour in the train without once turning into any pleasant mood. how my pity might have turned into joy, could i only have seen them indulge in a hearty laugh occasionally! some of their girls and women of all ages will still ride the donkey, after the oriental style. the middle and poorer classes of egyptians will eat little snails and fish fried with the heads, scales and all the appurtenances of their internal structures! in the east they churn the butter in bags made of untanned goat-skins, having the hair inside. moreover, they bring the butter upon the table without doing so much as to comb it, even! when i had seen these things, and was informed that on account of the cholera which was still raging in syria, the surrounding nations had interposed a quarantine, so that if i would venture to go on to joppa (which i could have reached in a few hours), i would become a prisoner, i soon decided that i would rather not see a people (the syrians) that is more miserable than the egyptians, even, than be in danger of being obliged to partake of food that could scarcely have failed to make me sick. crossing the desert by rail, meeting large caravans of camels, and seeing the palm-trees, the minarets, the mosks, the pyramids, the muddy waters of the nile, and above all the curious styles of the oriental costume, are interesting enough to one that comes to egypt with ordinary expectations and correct information in regard to the country; but i did not expect to find the egyptians a black inferior race, that would fight with each other on the pavements in the largest cities in broad daylight, violently tear my property out of my hands in sight of the finest square in alexandria, carry naked children upon their shoulders in their large towns, and seat themselves around large dishes of rice and gravy mixing the same with their fingers and conveying it to their mouths in the palms of their hands! numbers of them will dine without the use of either knives, forks or spoons, and when dinner is over, there is but one dish to be washed. each has two hands and ten fingers to clean, and washing those, ends the whole matter! these are extreme cases, of course. some live decently, too. some _few_ of the ruling classes, in luxury, perhaps. from cairo i traveled by rail to ismalia, thence by the suez canal to port said, where i spent the sunday (october rd). on tuesday i reached alexandria again. i there put up at a first-class hotel (for travelers from civilized and refined nations can not enjoy themselves at inferior hotels in egypt), and stayed five days, until the next steamer sailed for brindisi. the hotel contained an excellent cafe, where ten intelligent and refined ladies and four gentlemen, all natives of austria, were engaged to render music every evening for a whole year. one evening as i sat in the cafe at my supper, a poor boy came in to sell flowers; for what we must pay in this country for a drink, i bought a bouquet almost as large as a bucket, and when the next lady came to collect for the music, i gave her the bouquet as a present to the whole company. it was worth more than an introduction to the entire party, and for the balance of my stay i was always well entertained, and was kindly informed of anything that i asked in regard to the manners and customs of oriental life. the people of every nation under the sun, travel in egypt in the habits of their own peculiar national costumes--the turk with his turban, the greek with his red cap, and the arabians, east indians, russians, and all the nations of western europe are represented here, all wearing their own peculiar styles and fashions. the money too is a mixture of the coins of a dozen different countries. none except the poorest women will come out of their houses without having their faces covered with thick black veils. on the "home-stretch." i do not know where i was the happiest, when i reached the coasts of italy and saw dear europe again, when i reached paris, or when i landed at new york and was finally again ushered into the sweet scenes of home! but i remember well that i left no city with so much regret as paris. how i watched to see the last glimmering rays of its ten thousand gas-jets, as our train moved away at the silent midnight hour of october nd. i had stopped at milan to see the grand peagent of emperor william of germany, and king victor emanuel of italy, with a retinue of some , militia, with which they held a military drill, and saw the illumination of the cathedral on that memorable occasion; besides i had stopped a day at rome, and two at paris; yet i made my return trip from alexandria to new york in days, sleeping but nights in comfortable beds in all that time. sleeping in the cars and on the ships, never amounted to much. i made this haste on account of the now rapidly approaching winter. conclusion. notwithstanding the influence which the church and the political powers of rome, in earlier times, and which paris and the spirit of progress in later years, have exerted to the contrary, the manners, customs and institutions of the people are still so different that the people of the western continent can not form correct ideas of european life without having first visited portions of it. for want of a standard of comparison, the reader is often utterly deceived by fine poetical descriptions, because he can not properly construe the language. a tour of ordinary length and duration can now be made through the western nations of europe, with less expense than is generally believed, as may be inferred from the fact that my entire tour of nearly fourteen thousand miles, cost less than seven hundred dollars. many travelers lose forty percent of their money by imposition, and others are more careless and extravagant than they ought. if i could not have spoken german, it would have cost me several hundred dollars more. could i have spoken french, it might have cost me a hundred dollars less. the expenses of making the tour of england, france and switzerland are from $ to $ , , according to the style in which one wishes to travel; but a young man who wishes to spent $ , in educating himself, will make the best investment by spending half of it in traveling in foreign lands. he will there lay such a sure foundation for a correct knowledge of the institutions of the world, as no amount of reading can ever afford him. let the enterprising "go west," but the student should see eastern countries. the end. proofreading team from images generously made available by gallica (bibliotheque nationale de france) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. after waterloo reminiscences of european travel - by major w.e. frye edited with a preface and notes by salomon reinach member of the institute of france london to v.a.m. s.r. preface the knowledge of major frye's manuscript and the privilege of publishing it for the first time i owe to the kindness of two french ladies, the misses g----. their father, a well known artist and critic, used to spend the summer months at saint germain-en-laye together with his wife, who was an english woman by birth. they had been for a long time intimately acquainted with major frye, who lived and ended his life in that quiet town. the major's hostess, mme. de w----, after his death in , brought the manuscript to mrs. g---- and gave it to her in memory of her friend. it was duly preserved in the g---- family, but remained unnoticed. the misses g---- rediscovered it in , when it had been lying in a cupboard for upwards of half a century. on their showing it to me i thought it was interesting for many reasons, and worthy of introduction to the public. i hope the reader will share my opinion, which is also that of several english scholars and men of letters, to whom i communicated extracts from the manuscript. the reminiscences are in the form of letters addressed to a correspondent who, however, is never named and of whose health, family and private circumstances not the slightest mention is to be found. so i am inclined to believe that he never existed, and that major frye chose to imitate president de brosses and others who thus recorded their travelling experiences in epistolary form. the manuscript--which will eventually be deposited in a public library--is entirely in major frye's large and legible hand; at some later time it was evidently revised by himself, but many names which i have endeavoured to complete were left in blank or only indicated by initials. there are three folio volumes, bound in paper boards. in this edition it has been thought advisable to leave out a certain number of pages devoted to theatricals, of which major frye was a great votary, and also some lengthy descriptions of landscapes, museums and churches, the interest of which to modern readers does not correspond to the space occupied by them. for the information contained in the footnotes i am indebted to many correspondents, english, french, swiss, belgian and italian, to whom i here express my hearty thanks. i am under special obligation to sir charles dilke, mr oscar browning, professor novati, professor corrado ricci, commandant espérandieu, professor cumont, professor stilling and mr höchberg. major frye's tombstone is in the cemetery of saint germain, and reads thus: "to the memory of major william edward frye, who departed this life the th day of october, ." on the same stone has been added in french: "perceval edmond litchfield, décédé le avril, ." about p.e. litchfield i know nothing; he must have been the major's intimate friend during the last period of his life. * * * * * w.e. frye was born oct. , , and received his education at eton ( - ) in the time of the french revolution. "the system was," he says, "to drill into the heads of the boys strong aristocratic principles and hatred of democracy and of the french in particular." the effect produced on the youth was the reverse of that intended. from to he belonged to the british army: here is an abstract of his services: ensign, nd foot, th august, . lieutenant, nd foot, th march, . half-pay, th foot, th april, . lieutenant, th foot, th december, . captain, th foot, th april, . rd ceylon regt., th feb., . half-pay, rd foot, th march, . th foot, th feb., . brevet-major, th august, . sold out, th august, . in , frye took a part in the british expedition to holland. in he was in egypt with lord abercrombie's army and received the medal for war service. his career in india lasted six years and gave him occasion to visit the three presidencies and ceylon. in he returned on furlough to europe and was in brussels during the waterloo campaign. the subsequent years-- to --he employed visiting western europe, as appears from his reminiscences. i have read letters of his which prove that he lived in paris from to . later, about , he took an apartment in saint germain, and died there in . major frye was a very distinguished linguist; besides knowing greek and latin, he understood almost all european languages, and was capable of writing correctly in french, italian and german. the misses g---- have shown me a rare book published by him at paris in under the following title: "trois chants de l'edda. vaftrudnismal, thrymsquidal, skirnisfor, traduits en vers français, accompagnés de notes explicatives des mythes et allégories, et suivis d'autres poèmes par w.e. frye, ancien major d'infanterie au service d'angleterre, membre de l'académie des arcadiens de rome. se vend à paris, pour l'auteur, chez heideloff & cie, libraires, rue des filles st. thomas. " (in vo, xii, pp.) at the end of that volume are translations by major frye of several northern poems--in german, italian and english verse--from the danish and the swedish; then come two sonnets in french verse, the one in honour of lafayette, the other about the duke of orléans, whose premature death he compares with that of the northern hero of the edda, balder. a part of frye's translation of the edda, before appearing in book form, had been published in _l'echo de la littérature et des beaux arts_, a periodical edited by the major's friend, m. de belenet. frye loved poetry, though his ideas on the subject were rather those of the eighteenth century than our own. it is interesting to find an english officer reading voltaire, gessner, ariosto, and quoting them from memory (which explains that some of his quotations had to be corrected). the sentimental vein of rousseau's generation still flows and vibrates in him, as when he says that he has never been able to read the letters of wolmar to st preux in rousseau's _nouvelle héloïse_ without shedding tears. german minor poetry, now quite forgotten, attracted him almost as much as the great pages of schiller, bürger, and goethe. the misses g. possess a manuscript translation in three volumes, in the major's own hand, of wieland's _agathodemon_ done into english. this he evidently intended to publish, as he had written the title-page which is worded as follows: "agathodemon, a philosophical romance translated from the german of wieland by w.e. frye, member of the academy degli arcadi in rome, and of the royal society of northern antiquarians of copenhagen, ex-major of infantry in his british majesty's service." frye describes with accuracy, and shows much appreciation of fine scenery and architecture. his judgements in painting and sculpture are sincere, though often betraying the autodidact and amateur. he loved music, especially rossini's operas which were then beginning their long career of triumph. theatricals of all sorts, especially ballets, had a great attraction for him and elicited his enthusiastic comments. in comparing tragedies and comedies which he had seen performed in different countries, he gave repeated proofs of his knowledge and critical insight. we can take him as a good example of that intelligent class of english travellers whose intercourse with the continental _litterati_ has so well contributed to establish the good reputation of british culture and refined appreciation of the arts. the chief interest of frye's reminiscences lies, however, in quite another direction. he was a friend of liberty, a friend of france, an admirer of napoleon, and a hater of the tory régime which brought about napoleon's downfall. "france's attempts at european domination, in the napoleonic era, are graciously described as but so many efforts towards spreading the light of civilization over europe." these words, written about a quite recent work and à propos of the "entente cordiale," apply perfectly to frye's reminiscences. travelling immediately before and after the emperor's collapse, he found that everywhere, excepting in tuscany, the french domination was regretted, because the ideals of liberty and equality had shone and vanished with the tricolour flag. he admires the french people, though not the _ultras_ and bigots, and has fine words of praise for the french army: "yes, the french soldier is a fine fellow. i have served against them in holland and in egypt, and i will never flinch from rendering justice to their exemplary conduct and lofty valour." he takes trouble to refute the exaggerated reports which were then circulated all over europe about the cruelties and vandalism practised by the french: "if the french since the revolution have not always fought for liberty, they have done so invariably for science; and wherever they carried their victorious arms abuses were abolished, ameliorations of all kinds followed and the arts of life were improved. our government, since the accession of george iii, has never raised its arm except in favour of old abuses, to uphold despotism and unfair privileges or to establish commercial monopoly." sometimes, indeed, speaking of his own country and its government, major frye uses very hard words, which might seem unpatriotic if we did not know, from many other memoirs and letters, to what a terrible strain orthodox toryism, coupled with bigotry and hypocrisy, had put the patience of liberal englishmen at that period. he called the british government "the most dangerous, artful, and determined enemy of all liberty,"--"england," he says, "has been always ready to lend a hand to crush liberty, to perpetuate abuses and to rivet the fetters of monarchical, feudal and ecclesiastical tyranny." and later on he inveighs against the english merchants, who "contributed with their gold to uphold the corrupt system of pitt and to carry on unjust, unreasonable and liberticide wars." whatever may be the final judgement of history on the tory principles in politics in the days of the congress of vienna, major frye's love of liberty and intellectual progress entitle him to the sympathy of those who share his generous feelings and do not consider that personal freedom and individual rights are articles for home use only. since frye wrote, the whole of europe, excepting perhaps russia, has reaped the benefits of the french revolution, and reduced, if not suppressed, what the major called "kingcraft and priestcraft." he did not attempt to divine the future, but the history of europe in the nineteenth century has been largely in accordance with his desires and hopes. it is not a small merit for a writer, in the midst of one of the most rabid reactions that the world has known, to have clung with such tenacity to ideals, the complete victory of which may now be contemplated in the near future. s.r. contents part i. chapter i may-june, passage from ceylon to england--napoleon's return--ostend--bruges --ghent--the king of france at mass--alost--bruxelles--the duke of wellington very confident--feelings of the belgians--good conduct of british troops--monuments in bruxelles--theatricals--genappe and namur--complaints against the prussian troops--mons--major-general adam--tournay--a french deserter--general clinton's division--cavalry review--the duke de berri--back to bruxelles--unjust opinions about napoleon and the french--battle at ligny--the day of waterloo in bruxelles--visit to the battlefield--terrible condition of the wounded--kindness of the bruxellois. chapter ii from bruxelles to liége--a priest's declamation against the french revolution--maastricht--aix-la-chapelle--imperial relics--napoleon regretted--klingmann's "faust"--a tyrolese beauty--cologne--difficulties about a passport--the cathedral--king-craft and priest-craft--the rhine--bonn and godesberg--goethe's "götz von berlichingen"--the seven mountains--german women--andernach--ehrenbreitstein--german hatred against france--coblentz--intrigues of the bourbon princes in coblentz--mayence-- bieberich--conduct of the allies towards napoleon--frankfort on the mayn--an anecdote about lord stewart and lafayette--german poetry--the question of alsace and lorraine--return to bruxelles--napoleon's surrender. chapter iii from bruxelles to paris--restoration of louis xviii--the officers of the allied armies--the palais royal--the louvre--protest of the author against the proposed despoiling of the french museums--unjust strictures against napoleon's military policy--the _cant_ about revolutionary robberies--the grand opera--monuments in paris--the champs elysées--saint-cloud--the hôtel des invalides--the luxembourg--general labédoyère--priests and emigrants--prussian plunder--handsome behaviour of the english officers--reminiscences of eton--versailles. chapter iv from paris to bruxelles--visiting the plains of waterloo--the duke de berri at lille--beauvais--return to paris--remarks on the french theatre --talma--mlle duchesnois--mlle georges--french alexandrine verse--the abbé delille--the opéra comique. chapter v from paris to milan through dijon, chalon-sur-saone, lyons, geneva and the simplon--auxerre--dijon--napoleon at chalon-sur-saone--the army of the loire--mâcon--french _grisettes_--lyons--monuments and theatricals-- geneva--character and opinions of the genevois--voltaire's chateau at ferney--the chevalier zadera--from geneva to milan--crossing the simplon--arona--the theatres in milan--rossini--monuments in milan--art encouraged by the french--mr eustace's bigotry--return to switzerland --clarens and vevey--lausanne--society in lausanne--return to paris--the louvre stripped--death of marshal ney. part ii chapter vi march-june, ball at cambray, attended by the duke of wellington--an adventure between saint quentin and compiègne--paris revisited--colonel wardle and mrs wallis--society in paris--the sourds-muets--the cemetery of père la chaise--apathy of the french people--the priests--marriage of the duke de berri. chapter vii journey from paris to lausanne--besançon--french refugees in lausanne --francois lamarque--general espinassy--bordas--gautier--michau--m. de laharpe--mlle michaud--levade, a protestant minister--chambéry--aix --details about m. de boigne's career in india--english toryism and intolerance--valley of maurienne--passage across mont cenis and arrival at suza--turin. chapter viii journey from turin to bologna--asti--schiller and alfieri--italian _cuisine_--the _vetturini_--marengo--piacenza--the trebbia--parma--the empress maria louisa--modena--bologna--the university--the marescalchi gallery--character of the bolognese. chapter ix journey across the appennines to florence--tuscan idioms and customs--monuments and galleries at florence--the cascino--churches-- theatres--popularity of the grand duke--napoleon's downfall not regretted--academies in florence. chapter x journey from florence to rome--sienna--radicofani--bolsena--montefiascone wine--viterbo--baccano--the roman campagna--the papal _douans_--monuments and museums in rome--intolerance of the catholic christians--the tiber and the bridges--character of the romans--the _palazzi_ and _ville_--canova's atelier--theatricals--an execution in rome. chapter xi from rome to naples--albano--velletri--the marshes--terracina--mola di gaeta--capua--the streets of naples--monuments and museums--visit to pompeii and ascent to vesuvius--dangerous ventures--puzzuoli and baiae--theatres at naples--pulcinello--return to rome--tivoli. chapter xii november-december, from rome to florence--sismondi the historian--reminiscences of india--lucca--princess elisa baciqochi--pisa--the campo santo--leghorn-- hebrews in leghorn--lord dillon--the story of a lost glove--from florence to lausanne by milan, turin and across mont cenis--lombardy in winter--the hospice of mont cenis. part iii chapter xiii march-september, journey from lausanne to clermont-ferrand--a wretched conveyance--the first dish of frogs--society in clermont-ferrand--general de vergennes-- cleansing the town--return to lausanne--a zealous priest--journey to bern and back to lausanne--avenches--lake morat--lake neufchatel--the diet in bern--character of the bernois--a beautiful milanese lady. chapter xiv september, -april, journey from lausanne to milan, florence, rome and naples--residence at naples--the theatre of san carlo--rossini's operas--gaming in naples--the _lazzaroni_--public writers--carbonarism--return to rome--christmas eve at santa maria maggiore--mme dionigi--theatricals--society in rome--the papal government--lucien bonaparte, prince of canino--louis napoleon, ex-king of holland--pope pius vii--thorwaldsen--granet--the holy week in rome--the duchess of devonshire--from rome to florence by the perugia road. chapter xv april-july, journey from florence to pisa and from thence by the appennines to genoa--massa--carrara--genoa--monuments and works of art--the genoese--return to florence--journey from florence through bologna and ferrara to venice--monument to ariosto in ferrara--a description of venice--padua--vicenza--verona--cremona--return to milan--the scala theatre--verona again--from verona to innspruck. chapter xvi july-september, innspruck--tyrol and the tyrolese--from innspruck to munich--monuments and churches--theatricals--journey from munich to vienna on a floss--trouble with a passport--complicated system of austrian money--description of vienna--the prater--the theatres--schiller's _joan of arc_--a _kinderballet_--the young napoleon at schoenbrunn--journey from vienna to prague. chapter xvii september, -march, the splendid city of prague--the german expression, "to give the basket"-- journey from prague to dresden--journey from dresden to berlin--a description of berlin--the prussian army--theatricals--peasants talk about napoleon--prussians and french should be allies--absurd policy of the english tories--journey from berlin to dresden--a description of dresden--the battle of dresden in --clubs at dresden--theatricals-- german beds--saxon scholars--the picture gallery--tobacco an ally of legitimacy--saxon women--meissen--unjust policy of europe towards the king of saxony. chapter xviii march-april, journey from dresden to leipzig--the university of leipzig--liberal spirit--the english disliked in saxony--the english government hostile to liberty--journey to frankfort--from frankfort to metz and paris--a.f. lemaître--_bon voyage_ to the allies--return to england. * * * * * chapter i may-june, passage from ceylon to england--napoleon's return--ostend--bruges--ghent-- the king of france at mass--alost--bruxelles--the duke of wellington very confident--feelings of the belgians--good conduct of british troops--monuments in bruxelles--theatricals--genappe and namur--complaints against the prussian troops--mons--major-general adam--tournay--a french deserter--general clinton's division--cavalry review--the duke de berri--back to bruxelles--unjust opinions about napoleon and the french--battle at ligny--the day of waterloo in bruxelles--visit to the battlefield--terrible condition of the wounded--kindness of the bruxellois. bruxelles, may , . i proceed to the fulfilment of my promise, to give you from time to time the details of my tour, and my reflections on the circumstances that occur at this momentous crisis. to me, who have spent the greatest part of my life out of europe, the whole scene is so new that i am quite bewildered with it; and you will, i am afraid, as i write on the impulse of the moment, find my ideas at times rather incoherently put together. what changes have taken place in europe within the last two years! and how great were those which occurred during the interval of my passage from ceylon last year, which island i quitted about the time that we received in that part of the world intelligence of the battle of leipsic! having had a long passage from distant taprobane, it was only on my arrival at the cape of good hope, that i learned, to my utter astonishment, the news of the capitulation of paris to the allied powers, and of the overthrow of the power and dynasty of napoleon. i recollect that at the cape there was great rejoicing and jubilee on this occasion; but i confess, as to myself, i did not see any reason for giving vent to this extravagant joy; and i must have had even at that time somehow or other a presentiment of what would soon happen, as in communicating this intelligence to a friend in india i made use of these words: "get a court dress made, my good friend, and a big wig, ruffled shirt, and hair-powder, and stick an old-fashioned sword by your side, for, depend on it, old fashions will come into play again; the most arbitrary and aristocratic notions will be revived and terrible machinations will be framed against the liberties of europe." of course at the cape we only heard one side of the question; and i began to be almost convinced that it was as necessary for humanity, as for the repose of europe, that the giant should be put down; and i was consoled when it was effected, ostensibly, at least, by the voice of the people. i had scarcely been three months in england, when the return of napoleon from elba, and the extraordinary dislocation of the bourbons from the throne of france, summoned europe again to arms; the crusade is preached at vienna, and behold! his grace of wellington appointed the godfrey of the holy league. i had reason, about six weeks before the news of this event reached london, from some conversation i had with an intelligent friend, who had just returned from a tour on the continent, to suppose that the slightest combination against the bourbons would prove successful, from their injudicious conduct and from the temper of the people; but i never could have supposed that the return of the man of elba would be hailed with such unparalleled and unanimous acclamation. as i had long ago wished for an opportunity of visiting the continent of europe, which had never before occurred to me, i eagerly embraced the offer made to me by my friend major-general wilson, formerly lieut.-governor of ceylon,[ ] to accompany him on a military tour through the country about to be the theatre of war. though i had never before visited the continent (except with the british army in the invasion of holland in , when i began my military career), yet i was not wholly unprepared for travelling, having united to a classical, as well as military education, a tolerable knowledge of history, and a partial acquirement of the principal modern european languages, which i had begun to learn when very young and which i kept up during my leisure hours in india, which, like those of don quixote, were many. i preferred this study infinitely to that of the asiatic languages, for which i never felt any taste, as i dislike bombast, hyperbole and exaggeration; and though an ardent admirer of the muses, i never could find pleasure in what voltaire terms "le bon style oriental, ou l'on fait danser les montagnes et les collines," and i prefer the amatory effusions of ovid to those of the great king solomon himself. the war will no doubt commence in belgium, and of course the emperor napoleon will be the assailant, for it cannot be supposed that after the act of ban passed against him by the amphictyons of vienna he will remain tranquil, and not strike the first blow, which may render him master of belgium and its resources. we embarked at ramsgate on the first of may for ostend on board of a small vessel bound thither. our fellow passengers were two officers of dragoons, several commissaries with their servants, horses, etc. after a passage of twenty-four hours, we entered the harbour of ostend at one o'clock the following day. ostend, once so flourishing and opulent, has long since fallen into decay; its usual dullness is however just now interrupted by the bustle of troops landing to join the allied army. cavalry, infantry, artillery, horses, guns, stores, etc., are landed every minute. the quays are the only parts of this city which can boast of handsome buildings; the fortifications seem to be much out of repair; in fact, the aggrandizement of antwerp occasioned necessarily the deterioration of ostend. the general and myself went to put up at the _tête d'or_, the only inn where we could procure beds; and we embarked early next morning at the embouchure of the canal on board of a _treckschuyt_ which conveyed us in three hours to bruges. the landscape between ostend and bruges is extremely monotonous, it being a uniformly flat country; yet it is pleasing to the eye at this season of the year from the verdure of the plains, which are all appropriated to pasturage, and from the appearance of the different villages and towns, of which the eye can embrace a considerable number. there is a good road on the banks of the canal, and the troops, on their line of march, enlivened much the scene. bruges, formerly the grand mart and emporium of the commerce of the east, not only for the low countries, but for all the north of europe, seems, if we may judge from the state of the buildings and the stillness that prevails, to be also in a state of decline. we however had only time to visit the _hotel de ville_ and to remark the immense height of the steeple on the _grande place_. we observed a number of pretty women in the streets and in the shops employed in lace making. bruges has been at all times renowned for the beauty of the female sex, and this brought to my recollection a passage in schiller's tragedy of the _maid of orleans_, wherein the duke of burgundy says that the greatest boast of bruges is the beauty of its women. another _treckschuyt_ was to start at twelve o'clock for ghent; but we preferred going by land and general wilson hired a carriage for that purpose. the distance is about thirty miles. the road from bruges to ghent or gand is perfectly straight, lined with trees and paved like a street. the country is quite flat, and though there is nothing to bound the horizon, the trees on each side of the road intercept the view. we arrived at ghent about six in the afternoon of the th and had some difficulty in finding room, as the different hotels were filled with officers of the allied army; but at length, after many ineffectual applications at several, we obtained admission at the _hotel de flandre_, where we took possession of a double-bedded room, the only one unoccupied. gand seems to be a very neat, clean and handsome city, with an air of magnificence about it. the _grande place_ is very striking, and the promenades are aligned with trees. we inspected the exterior of several public buildings and visited the interior of several churches. in the cathedral we had the honour of seeing at high mass his most christian majesty, monsieur and the comte de blacas, vicomte de chateaubriand and others, composing the court of _notre père de gand_, as louis xviii is humorously termed by the french, from his having fixed his head-quarters here. a great many french officers who have followed his fortunes are also here, but they seem principally to belong to the gardes du corps. a number of military attended the service in the cathedral in order to witness the devotions of the bourbon family. monsieur has all the appearance of a worn out debauchee, and to see him with a missal in his hand and the strange contrite face he assumes, is truly ridiculous. these princes, instigated no doubt by the priests, make a great parade of their sanctity, for which however those who are acquainted with their character will not give them much credit. but religious cant is the order of the day _intra et extra iliacos muros_, abroad as well as in england. the king of france takes the lead, having in view no doubt the advice of buckingham to richard iii: a pray'r book in your hand, my lord, were well, for on that ground i'll make an holy descant. and m. de chateaubriand will no doubt trumpet forth the devotion and christian humility of his master. those, however, who are at all acquainted with this prince's habits, and are not interested in palliating or concealing them, insinuate that his devotions at the table are more sincere than at the altar and that, like the giant margutte in the morgante maggiore of pulci, he places more faith and reliance on a cappone lesso ossia arrosto than on the consecrated but less substantial wafer.[ ] after contemplating this edifying spectacle, we returned to our inn, and the next morning after breakfast we set out on our journey to bruxelles. the road is exactly similar to that between bruges and gand, but the country appears to be richer and more diversified, and many country houses were observable on the road side. we passed thus several neat villages. at one o'clock we stopped at alost to refresh our horses and dine. at the table d'hôte were a number of french officers belonging to the gardes du corps. on entering into conversation with one of them, i found that he as well as several others of them had served under napoleon, and had even been patronised and promoted by him; but i suppose that being the sons of the ancient _noblesse_ they thought that gratitude to a _parvenu_ like him was rather too plebeian a virtue. some of them, however, with whom i conversed after dinner seemed to regret the step they had taken. "if we are successful," said they, "it can only be by means of the allied armies, and who knows what conditions they may impose on france? if we should be unsuccessful, we are exiled probably for life from our country." during dinner, two pretty looking girls with musical instruments entered the hall, and regaled our ears with singing some romances, among which were _dunois le troubadour_ and _la sentinelle_. they sang with much taste and feeling. i surmise this is not the only profession they exercise, if i might judge from the _doux yeux_ they occasionally directed to some of the officers. these girls did not at least seem by their demeanour as if likely to incur the anathema of rinaldo in the _orlando furioso_: meritamente muoro una crudele, but rather more disposed to dar vita all'amator fidele.[ ] alost is a neat, clean town or large village, and the same description will serve for all the towns and villages in brabant and flanders, as they are built on the same plan. we arrived at bruxelles late in the evening and put up at the _hotel d'angleterre_. this morning, the general and myself went to pay our respects to the _gran capitano_ of the _holy league_, and we left our cards. he is, i hear, very confident of the result of the campaign, and no doubt he has for him the prayers of all the pious in england against those atheistical fellows the french; and these prayers will surely elicit a "host of angels" to come down to aid in the destruction of the pandemonium of paris where satan's lieutenant sits enthroned. the reflecting people here are astonished that napoleon does not begin the attack. the inhabitants of belgium are in general, from all that i can hear or see, not at all pleased with the present order of things, and they much lament the being severed from france. the two people, the belgians and hollanders, do not seem to amalgamate; and the former, though they render ample justice to the moderation, good sense, and beneficent intentions of the present monarch, who is personally respected by every one, yet do not disguise their wish to be reunited to france and do not hesitate to avow their attachment to the emperor napoleon. this union does not please the hollanders either, on other grounds. they complain that their interests have been sacrificed entirely to those of the house of orange, and they say that from the readiness they displayed in shaking off the yoke of france, and the great weight they thereby threw into the scale, they were entitled to the restitution of all their colonies in asia, africa, and america. the colonies of the cape of good hope and ceylon are what they most regret; for these colonies in particular furnished ample employment and the means of provision for the cadets of patrician families. if you tell them they have acquired the belgic provinces as an indemnification, they answer: "so much the worse for us, for now the patronage of the colonial offices must be divided between us and the belgians." the preparations for the grand conflict about to take place are carried on with unabating activity; the conscription is rigorously enforced and every youth capable of bearing arms is enrolled. almost all the officers of the belgian army and a great proportion of the soldiery have served with the french and have been participators of their laurels; one cannot therefore suppose that they are actuated by any very devouring zeal against their former commander; nor have i found amongst the shop-keepers or respectable people with whom i have conversed, and who have been falsely represented as having suffered much from the tyranny of napoleon, any who dislike either his person or government, and certainly none either high or low express the cannibal wish that i heard some english country gentlemen and london merchants utter for the destruction of paris and of the french people, nor would it be easy to find here men of the _humane_ and _generous_ sentiments professed by some of our aldermen and contractors when they welcomed with ferocious acclamations of joy and were ready to embrace the baschkir or cossack who told them that he had slaughtered so many french with his own hand; nor would the ladies here be so eager to kiss old blucher as was the case in london. this city is filled with british and hanoverian troops. their conduct is exemplary, nor is any complaint made against them. the highland regiments are however the favourites of the bruxellois, and the inhabitants give them the preference as lodgers. they are extremely well behaved (they say, when speaking of the highlanders) and they cheerfully assist the different families on whom they are quartered in their household labour. this reflects a good deal of credit on the gallant sons of caledonia. their superior morality to those of the same class either in england or in ireland must strike every observer, and must, in spite of all that the _obscuranten_ or _chevaliers de l'eteignoir_ and others who wish to check the progress of the human mind may urge to the contrary, be mainly attributed to the general prevalence of education _a la portée de tout le monde_. wherever the people are enlightened there is less crime; ignorance was never yet the safeguard of virtue. as for myself i honour and esteem the scottish nation and i must say that i have found more liberal ideas and more sound philosophy among individuals of that nation than among those of any other, and it is a tribute i owe to them loudly to proclaim my sentiments; for though personal gratitude may seem to influence me a little on this subject, yet i should never think of putting forth my opinion in public, were it not founded on an impartial observation of the character of this enterprising and persevering people. a woman who had some highlanders quartered in her house told me in speaking of them: "monsieur, ce sont de si bonnes gens; ils sont doux comme des agneaux." "ils n'en seront pas moins des lions an jour du combat," was my reply. i have amused myself with visiting most of the remarkable objects here, but you must not expect from me a detail of what you will find in every description book. you wish to have my ideas on the subjects that most strike me individually, and those you shall have; but it would be very absurd and presumptuous in me to attempt to give a _catalogue raisonné_ of buildings and pictures and statues, or to set up as a connoisseur when i know nothing either of sculpture, of architecture or painting; nor am i desirous of imitating the young englishman, who, in writing to his father from italy, described so much in detail, and so scientifically, every production, or staple, peculiar to the cities which he happened to visit, that he wrote like a cheese-monger from parma, like a silk mercer from leghorn, like an olive and oil merchant from lucca, like a picture dealer from florence, and like an antiquarian from rome. bruxelles, may . the _hôtel d'angleterre_ where we are lodged is within four minutes walk from the finest part of the city, where the parc and royal palace is situated. the parc is not large, but is tastefully laid out in the dutch style, and is the fashionable promenade for the _beau monde_ of bruxelles. the women, without being strikingly handsome, have much grace; their air, manner and dress are perfectly _à la francaise_. a good café and restaurant is in the centre of one of the sides, and the buildings on the quadrangle environing the parc, which form the palace and other tenements are superb. the next place i went to see was the _hôtel de ville_ and its tower of immense height. it is a fine gothic building, but that which should be the central entrance is not directly in the centre of the edifice, so that one wing of it appears considerably larger than the other, which gives it an awkward and irregular appearance. on the place or square as we should call it, where the _hôtel de ville_ stands, is held the fruit and vegetable market, and a finer one or more plentifully supplied i never beheld. this _place_ is interesting to the historian as being the spot where counts egmont and hoorn suffered decapitation in the reign of philip ii of spain, by order of the duke of alva, who witnessed the execution from a window of one of the houses. the conduct of these noblemen at the place of execution was so dignified that even the ferocious duke could not avoid wiping his eyes, hardened as his heart was by religious and political fanaticism; and though he held them in abhorrence as rebels and traitors a tear did fall for them down his iron cheek. how fortunate for the liberties of holland that william the taciturn did not also fall into the claws of that moloch philip! i next visited the museum and picture gallery, where i witnessed the annual exposition of the modern school of painting. the specimens i saw pleased me much, particularly because the subjects were well chosen from history and the mythology, which to me is far more agreeable than the subjects of the paintings of the old flemish school; but i am told often that i know nothing about painting, so i shall make no further remarks but content myself with sending you a catalogue, with the pictures marked therein which made most impression on me. with respect to the churches of brussels those of ste. gudule and of the capuchins are the finest and most remarkable. in the former is the temptation of adam by the serpent, richly carved in wood in figures as large as life grouped round the pulpit.[ ] the _place du sablon_ is very striking from the space it occupies, and on it is a fountain erected by lord bruce.[ ] the fountains which are to be met with in various parts of the city are highly ornamental, and among them i must not omit to mention a singularly grotesque one which is held in great veneration by the lower orders of the bruxellois and is by them regarded as a sort of palladium to the city. it is the figure of a little boy who is at _peace_, according to the late lord melville's[ ] pronunciation of the words, and who spouts out his water incessantly, reckless of decorum and putting modesty to the blush. what would our vice-hunters say to this? he is a sabbath breaker in the bargain and continues his occupation on sundays as well as other days and _in fine_ he rejoices in the name of _mannekenpis_. the ramparts, or rather site of the ramparts (for the fortifications of bruxelles no longer exist), form an agreeable promenade; but the favourite resort of all the world at bruxelles in the afternoon is the _attee verte_. here all classes meet; here the rich display their equipages and horses; and the lower orders assemble at the innumerable _guinguettes_ which are to be met with here, in order to play at bowls, dominoes, smoke and drink beer, of which there is an excellent sort called _bitterman._ the avenues on each side of the carriage road are occupied by pedestrians, and on one side of the road is the canal, covered at all times with barges and boats decked with flags and streamers. at the cabarets are benches and tables in the open air under the trees; and here are to be seen the artisan, the bargeman and the peasant taking their afternoon _délassement_, and groups of men, women and children drinking beer and smoking. these groups reminded me much of those one sees so often in the old flemish pictures, with this difference, that the old costume of the people is almost entirely left off. female minstrels with guitars stroll about singing french romances and collecting contributions from this cheerful, laughter-loving people. the dark walk, as it is called, near the park is a favourite walk of the upper classes in the evening. there his grace of wellington is sometimes to be seen with a fair lady under his arm. he generally dresses in plain clothes, to the astonishment of all the foreign officers. he is said to be as successful in the fields of idalia as in those of bellona, and the ladies whom he honours with his attentions suffer not a little in their reputations in the opinion of the _compères_ and _commères_ of bruxelles. i have only been twice to the theatre since i have been here. the _salle de spectacle_ is indifferent, but they have an excellent company of comedians. the representations are in french. i saw the _festin de pierre_ of corneille exceedingly well performed. the actors who did the parts of don juan and sganarelle were excellent, and the scene with m. dimanche, wherein he demands payment of his bill, was admirably given. i have also seen the _plaideurs_ of racine, a very favourite piece of mine; every actor played his part most correctly, and the scene between the comtesse de pimbeche and chicaneau and l'intimé wherein the latter, disguised as a _bailli_, offers himself to be kicked by the former, was given in very superior style. the scene of the trial of the dog, with the orations of petit jean as _demandeur_ and l'intimé as _défenseur_, were played with good effect. i never recollect having witnessed a theatrical piece which afforded me greater amusement. namur, may . we left brussels yesterday afternoon, and having obtained passports to visit the military posts we went to genappe, a small village half-way between bruxelles and namur, where we brought to for the night at a small but comfortable inn called _le roi d'espagne_. two battalions of the regiment nassau-usingen are quartered in genappe. we arrived at namur this morning at nine o'clock and put up at the _hôtel d'arenberg_. on the road we stopped at a peasant's house to drink coffee; and we were entertained by our hostess with complaints against the prussians, who commit, as she said, all sorts of exactions on the peasantry on whom they are quartered. not content with exacting three meals a day, when they were only entitled to two, and for which they are bound to give their rations, they sell these, and appropriate the money to their own use; then the demand for brandy and _schnapps_ is increasing. but what can be expected from an army whose leader encourages them in all their excesses? blucher by all accounts is a vandal and is actuated by a most vindictive spirit. the prussians reproach the belgians with being in the french interest; how can they expect it to be otherwise? they have prospered under french domination, and certainly the conduct of the prussians is not calculated to inspire them with any love towards themselves nor veneration for the sovereign who has such all-devouring allies. i asked this woman why she did not complain to the officers. she answered! "hélas, monsieur, c'est inutile; on donne toujours la même réponse: '_nichts verstehn_,'" for it appears when these complaints are made the prussian officers pretend not to understand french. namur is now the head-quarters of marshal blucher, who is in the enjoyment of divers _noms de guerre_, such as "marshall vorwärts," "der alte teufel." on the high road, about two miles and a half before we reached namur, we met with a party of prussian lancers, who were returning from a foraging excursion. they were singing some warlike song or hymn, which was singularly impressive. it brought to my recollection the description of the rhenish bands in the _lay of the last minstrel_: who as they move, in rugged verse songs of teutonic feuds rehearse. the prussian cavalry seem to be composed of fine-looking young men, and i admire the genuine military simplicity of their dress, to which might be most aptly applied the words of xenophon when describing the costume of the younger cyrus: [greek: _en tae persikae stolae ouden ti hubrsmenae_][ ] in substituting merely the word [greek: _prussikae_] for [greek: _persikae_]. one sees in it none of those absurd ornaments and meretricious foppery which give to our cavalry officers the appearance of astley's men.[ ] the situation of namur is exceedingly picturesque, particularly when viewed from the heights which tower above the town, whereon stood the citadel which was demolished by order of joseph ii, as were the fortifications of all the frontier fortresses. the present belgian government however mean to reconstruct them, and namur in particular, the citadel of which, from the natural strength of its position, is too important a post to be neglected. the town itself is situated on the confluent of the sambre and meuse and lies in a valley completely commanded and protected by the citadel. the churches are splendid, and there is an appearance of opulence in the shops. the inhabitants, from its being a frontier town, are of course much alarmed at the approaching contest, for they will probably suffer from both parties. we heard at the inn and in the shops which we visited the same complaints against the prussians. the country in the environs of this place is exceedingly diversified, and it presents the first mountain scenery we have yet met with. the banks of the meuse hereabouts present either an abrupt precipice or coteaux covered with vines gently sloping to the water's edge. namur is distant thirty-four miles from brussels, and there is water conveyance on the meuse from here to liége and maastricht. mons, may . we started yesterday morning at four o'clock from namur. the whole road between namur and mons presents a fine, rich open country abounding in wheat, but not many trees. we stopped to breakfast at fleurus, at an inn where there were some prussian officers. one of them, a lieutenant in the nd west prussian regiment, had the kindness to conduct us to see the field of battle where the french under jourdan defeated the austrians in . it is at a very short distance from the town; he explained the position of the two armies in a manner perfectly clear and satisfactory to us. the prussian officers all seem very eager for the commencement of hostilities, and their only fear is now that all these mighty preparations will end in nothing; viz., either that the french people, alarmed at the magnitude of the preparations against them, will compel the emperor napoleon to abdicate, or that the allies will grow cool and, under the influence of austria, bring about a negotiation which may end in a recognition of the imperial title and dynasty. they would compound for a defeat at first, provided the war were likely to be prolonged. in the meantime, reinforcements continue to arrive daily for their army. we hear but little news of the intentions or movements of the other allies; it being forbidden to enter into political discussions, it is difficult to ascertain the true state of affairs. we continued our journey through charleroy and binch to this place. at a small village between binch and mons we were stopped by a sentinel at a prussian outpost and our passports demanded. neither the sentinel, however, nor the sergeant, nor any of the soldiers present, could read or understand french, in which language the passport was drawn up; but the sergeant told me that the officers were in a house about a quarter of a mile distant and that he would conduct me thither, but that he himself could not presume to let us pass, from not knowing the tenor of our passport. i went accordingly with the sergeant to this house, there i found the officer commanding the piquet and several others sitting at table, carousing with beer and tobacco and nearly invisible from the clouds of smoke which pervaded the room. i explained to the officer who we were and requested him to put on the passport his _visa_ in the german language, so that the non-commissioned officers at the various posts through which we might pass would be able to understand it and let us pass without hindrance. this he did accordingly and we proceeded on our journey. we arrived here in the evening and put up at the _hôtel royal_. we found at charleroy, binch and here, a number of people employed in repairing and reconstructing the fortifications. men, women and boys are all put in requisition to accelerate this object, as it is the intention of the belgian government to put all the frontier fortresses in the most complete state of defence. on ascending one of the steeples this morning we had a fine view of the surrounding country and of the height of genappe, which are close to mons and memorable for the brilliant victory gained by dumouriez over the austrians in . the landscape presents an undulating campaign country, gentle slopes and alternate plains covered with corn, as far as the eye can reach, and interspersed with villages and farmhouses. in mons is a very large splendid shop or warehouse of millinery, perfumery, jewellery, etc. it is called _la toilette de vénus_, and is served by a very pretty girl, who, i have no doubt from her simpering look and eloquent eyes, would have no objection to be a sedulous priestess at the altar of the goddess of amathus. a battalion of hollanders--a very fine body of men--marched into this place yesterday evening; the rest of the garrison is composed of belgians, chiefly conscripts. leuze, may . yesterday morning we left mons and proceeded to ath to breakfast. a multitude of people were employed there also at the fortifications. the garrison of ath is composed of hanoverians. ath reminded me of the wars of king william iii and my uncle toby's sieges.[ ] there was so little remarkable to be seen at ath that we proceeded to this place shortly after breakfast and arrived at one o'clock, it being only ten miles distance between ath and leuze. we took up our quarters with major-general adam, who commands the light brigade of general sir h. clinton's division. this brigade is quartered here and in the adjacent farmhouses. general adam, though he has attained his rank at a very early age, is far more fitted for it than many of our older generals, some of whom (i speak from experience) have few ideas beyond the fixing of a button or lappel, or polishing a belt, and who place the whole _ars recondita_ of military discipline in pipe-clay, heel-ball and the goose step. fortunately for this army, the duke of wellington has too much good sense to be a martinet and the good old times are gone by, thank god, when a soldier used to be sentenced to two or three hundred lashes for having a dirty belt or being without a _queue_. to the duke of york also is humanity much indebted for his endeavours to check the frequency of corporal punishment. the duke of york, with all his zeal for the service, never loses sight of the comfort of the soldier and is indefatigable in his exertions to ameliorate his conditions. we had a pleasant dinner party at general adam's, and at night i went to sleep at the house occupied by captain c., one of the aides-de-camp of the general,[ ] an active, intelligent officer who had formerly served in the marines, which service he had quitted in order to enter the regular army. may . yesterday morning we paid a visit to tournay, which is distant from leuze about ten miles, and we breakfasted at the _signe d'or_. we then proceeded to pay our respects to the commandant general v.[ ] the garrison consists of belgians. general v. had been some time in england as a prisoner of war. he was made prisoner, i think he said, at batavia. he received us very politely, and not only gave us permission to visit the works of the citadel, but sent a sergeant to accompany us. the new citadel is building on the site of the old one, and, like it, is to be a regular pentagon. the fortifications of the city itself are not to be reconstructed; these of the citadel, which will be very strong, rendering them superfluous. the sergeant was a native of würtemberg and had served in the army of his own country and in that of france in most of the campaigns under napoleon. he was a fine old veteran, and very intelligent, for he explained to us the nature of the works with great perspicuity. with true suabian dignity he refused a five franc piece which i offered him as a slight remuneration for the trouble he had taken, and as he seemed, i thought, rather offended at the offer, i felt myself bound to apologize. from the number of workmen employed in repairing the citadel, it will not be long before it is placed in a respectable state of defence. tournay is a large handsome city and the spacious quais on the banks of the scheld which runs through it add much to the neatness of its appearance. it is only ten miles distant from lille, but all communication from france is stopped. we learned that some of the hanoverians had been deserting. in return we met with a young french hussar who had come over to the allies. he seemed to be an impudent sort of fellow, and said, with the utmost _sang-froid_, that the reason he deserted was that he had not been made an officer as he was promised, and he hoped that louis xviii would be more sensible of his merits than the emperor napoleon. we returned to leuze to dinner in the afternoon. this morning we went to assist at a review of general clinton's division, on a plain called _le paturage_, about seven miles distant from leuze. the light brigade and the hanoverian brigades form this division. the manoeuvres were performed with tolerable precision, but they were chiefly confined to advancing in line, retiring by alternate companies covered by light infantry and change of position on one of the flanks by _échelon_. the british troops were perfect; the hanoverians not so, they being for the most part new levies. in one of the _échelon_ movements, when the line was to be formed on the left company of the left battalion, a hanoverian battalion, instead of preserving its parallelism, was making a terrible diversion to its right, when a thundering voice from the commander of the brigade to the commandant of the battalion: "_mein gott, herr major, wo gehn sie hin?_" roused him from his reverie; when he must have perceived, had he wheeled up into line, the fearful interval he had left between his own and the next battalion on the left. after the review had finished we repaired to the château of the prince de ligne, then occupied by lieut.-general sir h. clinton, to partake of a breakfast given by him and his lady. on the breaking up of the breakfast party, general wilson and myself remained at the château to dine with general adam _al fresco_ in the garden under the trees. the palace and garden of the prince de ligne are both very magnificent. the latter is of great extent, but too regular, too much in the dutch taste to please me. little or no furniture is in the palace; but there are some family pictures and a theatre fitted up in one of the halls for the purpose of private theatricals. in the garden is a monument erected by the late prince de ligne to one of his sons, charles by name, who was killed in the russian service at the siege of ismail. the present prince is a minor and resides at bruxelles. grammont, may . we left leuze yesterday afternoon and arrived here at seven in the evening in order to be present at the cavalry review the next morning. we partook of an elegant supper given to us by our friend, major grant of the th hussars, and we were much entertained and enlivened by the effusions of his brilliant genius and inexhaustible wit. the whole cavalry of the british army passed in review this morning before the duke of wellington, who was there with all his staff and received the salutes of all the corps like godfrey, _con volto placido e composto_. it was a very brilliant spectacle. the duke de berri was present. i think i never beheld so ignoble and disagreeable a countenance as this prince possesses. i thought to myself that he had much better have stayed away from this review; for he must be insensible to all patriotism who could take pleasure in contemplating a foreign force about to enter and ravage his own country. we learn that the duchess d'angoulême is to have a review of the _fidèles_ very shortly. she is certainly much more warlike than the males of that family; this disposition is increased by her religious fanaticism. this renders her, of course, a most dangerous person to meddle with politics; but great allowances must be made for her feelings, which must naturally be embittered by the recollection of so much suffering during the revolution and of the barbarous and inhuman treatment experienced by her father and mother. i observed a peculiarity in this part of the country, viz., that there are villages lying close to each other in some of which french is spoken, in others flemish; and that, with some few exceptions, the inhabitants of neighbouring villages are reciprocally unintelligible. general wilson does not intend to return to bruxelles. i shall accompany him as far as gand and then return to bruxelles to await the issue of the contest. bruxelles, june . i took leave of general wilson at gand on the nd of last month and immediately returned here, where i have been ever since. i have shifted my quarters to a less expensive hotel and am now lodged at the _hôtel de la paix_. we get an excellent dinner at the table d'hôte for one and a half francs, wine not included; this is paid for extra, and is generally at the price of three francs per bottle. this hotel is very neatly fitted up and is very near the _hôtel de ville_. at the table d'hôte i frequently meet prussian officers who on coming in to visit bruxelles put up here. we have just learned the proceedings of the _champ de mai_ at paris, by which it appears that napoleon is solemnly recognized and confirmed as emperor of the french. this intelligence sent a young prussian officer, who sat next to me, in a transport of joy, for this makes the war certain. the prussians seem determined to revenge themselves for the humiliation they suffered from the french during the time they occupied their country, and i sincerely pity by anticipation the fate of the french peasants upon whom these gentlemen may chance to be quartered. terrible will be the first shock of battle, and it may be daily expected, and dreadful will be the consequences to the poor inhabitants of the seat of war. cannot this war be avoided? i am not politician enough to foresee the consequences of allowing napoleon to keep quiet and undisturbed possession of the throne of france; but the consequences of a defeat on the part of the allies will be the loss of belgium and the probable annihilation of the british army; certainly the dissolution of the coalition, for the minor german powers, and very likely austria also, would be induced to make a separate peace. we can clearly see that napoleon has not now the power he formerly possessed and that the republican party, into whose hands he has thrown himself, seem disposed not only to remain at peace, but to shackle him in every possible manner. it is evident, too, that his last success was owing to the dislike of the people to the bourbons from their injudicious and treacherous conduct; and the threats and impossible language held by the priests and emigrants towards the holders of property paved the way for the success of his enterprise and enabled him to achieve a triumph unparalleled in history. on the contrary, by forcing him to go to war, should he gain the first victory, belgium will be re-united to france, all the resources of that country brought into the scale against the allies; napoleon will be more popular than ever, the republican party will be put to silence, the enthusiasm of the army will rise beyond all restraint, and, in a word, napoleon will be himself again. the other allies can do little without the assistance of england, and our finances are by no means in a state to bear such intolerable drains. as to the prussians, on minute enquiry i do not find that they were so ill-treated by the french as is generally believed, and that, except the burden of having troops quartered on them (no small annoyance, i allow), they had not much reason to complain. the quartering of the troops on them and the payment of the war contributions was the necessary consequence of the occupation of their country by an enemy; but i have just been reading a german work, written by a native of berlin, shortly after the entry of the french troops in that city after the battle of jena in . this work is entitled _vertraute briefe aus berlin_, and in it the author distinctly declares that the discipline observed by the french troops during the occupation of berlin was highly strict and praiseworthy, and that the few excesses that took place were committed by the troops of the rhenish confederation; and he adds that the inhabitants preferred having a french soldier quartered on them to a westphalian, bavarian or würtembergher. further, the troops that behaved with the greatest oppression and insolence towards the burghers were those belonging to a corps composed of native prussians, raised for the service of napoleon by the prince of isenburg.[ ] in his recruiting address the prince invites the prussian youth to enter into the service of the invincible napoleon, and tells him that to the soldier of napoleon everything is permitted. the regiment was soon fitted up and the soldiers began to put in practice in good earnest the theory of the _affiche_. they committed excesses of all sorts; and one officer in particular behaved so brutally and infamously to a poor tailor on whom he was quartered, and to whom, before he entered the french service, he was under the greatest obligations, that general hulin, the commandant of the place at berlin during the french occupation, was obliged to cashier him publicly on the parade and to cause his epaulettes to be torn from his coat in order to mark the disgust and indignation that he and all the french officers felt at the base ingratitude of this man. this work, "vertraute briefe" (confidential letters), contains much curious matter and very interesting anecdotes respecting the corruption, venality and depravation that prevailed in the prussian court and army previous to the war in . let this suffice to show that the prussians have not so much reason to complain against the french as they pretend to have; besides, the conduct of the prussian government itself was so vacillating and contradictory that they had themselves only to blame for what they suffered. they should have supported austria in . but the fact is that the vanity and the _amour propre_ of the prussian military were so hurt at the humiliation they experienced at and after the battle of jena that it was this that has embittered them so much against the french. let it not, however, be supposed for a moment that i seek to excuse or palliate the conduct of napoleon towards prussia. i have always thought it not only unjust but impolitic. impolitic, because prussia was, and ought always to be, the obvious and natural ally of france, and napoleon, instead of endeavouring to crush that power, should have aggrandized her and made her the paramount power in germany. it was in fact his obvious policy to cede hanover in perpetuity to prussia, and have rendered thereby the breach between the houses of brandenburgh and hanover irreparable and irreconcilable. this would have thrown prussia necessarily into the arms of france, in whose system she must then have moved, and all british influence on the continent would have been effectually put an end to. another prime fault of napoleon was that he did not crush and dismember austria in as he had it in his power to do; and by so doing he would have merited and obtained the thanks and good will of all germany for having overturned so despotic and light-fearing a government. but he has paid dearly for these errors. instead of destroying a despotic power (austria), he chose rather to crush an enlightened and liberal nation, for such i esteem the prussian nation, and i always separate the prussian people from their government. the latter fell, and fell unpitied, after one battle; but it has been almost miraculously restored by the unparalleled exertions and energies of the burghers and people. may this be a lesson to the government! and may the king of prussia not prove ungrateful! troops continue to arrive here daily, and now that the ceremony of the _champ de mai_ is over, we may expect that napoleon will repair to his army and commence operations. june . napoleon arrived at maubeuge on the th and the grand conflict has begun. the prussians were attacked on the th and th at ligny and driven from their position.[ ] they are said to have suffered immense loss and to be retreating with the utmost confusion. our turn comes next. the thunder of the cannon was heard here distinctly the most part of yesterday and some part of our army must have been engaged. our troops have all marched out of bruxelles in the direction of the frontier. in the affair with the prussians we learn that the duke of brunswick was killed and that blucher narrowly escaped being made prisoner. june . the grand conflict has begun with us. it is now four o'clock p.m. the issue is not known. the roar of the cannon continues unabated. all is bustle, confusion and uncertainty in this city. cars with wounded are coming in continually. the general opinion is that our army will be compelled to retreat to antwerp, and it is even expected that the french will be in bruxelles to-night. all the towns-people are on the ramparts listening to the sound of the cannon. this city has been in the greatest alarm and agitation since the th, when a violent cannonade was heard during the afternoon. from what i have been able to collect, the french attacked the prussians on the th, and a desperate conflict took place on that day, and the whole of the th,[ ] when the whole of the prussian army at ligny, fleurus and charleroy was totally defeated and driven from its position; a dislocation of our troops took place early in the morning of the th, and our advanced guard, consisting of the highland brigade and two battalions of nassau-usingen, fell in with the advanced guard of the french army commanded by marshal ney near quatre-bras, and made such a gallant defence against his corps d'armée as to keep it in check the whole day and enable itself to fall back in good order to its present position with the rest of the army, about ten miles in front of bruxelles. indeed, i am informed that nothing could exceed the admirable conduct of the corps above mentioned. yesterday we heard no cannonade, but this afternoon it has been unceasing and still continues. all the caricatures and satires against napoleon have disappeared from the windows and stalls. the shops are all shut, the english families flying to antwerp; and the proclamation of the baron de capellen[ ] to the inhabitants, wherein he exhorts them to be tranquil and assures them that the bureaux of government have not yet quitted bruxelles, only serves to increase the confusion and consternation. the inhabitants in general wish well to the arms of napoleon, but they know that the retreat of the english army must necessarily take place through their town; that our troops will perhaps endeavour to make a stand, and that the consequences will be terrible to the inhabitants, from the houses being liable to be burned or pillaged by friend or foe. all the baggage of our army and all the military bureaux have received orders to repair and are now on their march to antwerp, and the road thither is so covered and blocked up by waggons that the retreat of our army will be much impeded thereby. probably my next letter may be dated from a french prison. bruxelles, june . judge, my friend, of my astonishment and that of almost everybody in this city, at the news which was circulated here early on the morning of the th, and has been daily confirmed, viz., that the french army had been completely defeated and was in full flight, leaving behind it pieces of cannon and all its baggage, waggons and _munitions de guerre_. i have not been able to collect all the particulars, but you will no doubt hear enough of it, for i am sure it will be _said_ or _sung_ by all the partisans of the british ministry and all the tories of the united kingdom for months and years to come; for further details, therefore, i shall refer you to the gazette. the following, however, you may consider as a tolerably fair précis of what took place. the attack began on the th about ten o'clock[ ] and raged furiously along the whole line, but principally at hougoumont, a large _métairie_ on the right of our position, which was occupied by our troops, and from which all the efforts of the enemy could not dislodge them. the slaughter was terrible in this quarter. from twelve o'clock till evening several desperate charges of cavalry and infantry were made on the rest of our line. both sides fought with the utmost courage and obstinacy, and were prodigal of life in the extreme. but it is generally supposed that our army must have succumbed towards the evening had it not been for the arrival of bulow's division of prussians, followed closely by blucher and the rest of the army, which had rallied with uncommon celerity. these moved on the right flank of the french, and decided the fortune of the day by a charge which was seconded by a general charge from the whole of the english line on the centre and left of the french. seeing themselves thus turned, a panic, it is said, spread among the young guard of the french army, and a cry of "_sauve qui peut! nous sommes trahis!_" spread like wildfire. the flight became universal; the old guard alone remained, refused quarter and perished like leonidas and his spartans. the prussian cavalry being fresh pursued the enemy all night, _l'épée dans les reins_, and it may be conceived from their previous disposition that they would not be very merciful to the vanquished. indeed, on the th, it is said that the french were not very merciful to them. it was like the combat of achilles and hector. no thought but rage and never ceasing strife till death extinguish rage and thought and life. france will now call out to napoleon as augustus did to varus, "give me back my legions!" the loss on both sides was very great, but it must have been prodigious on the side of the french. the whole allied army is in full pursuit. several friends and acquaintances of mine perished in this battle, viz., lieut.-general sir t. picton, colonel sir h. ellis and colonel morice. june . this morning i went to visit the field of battle, which is a little beyond the village of waterloo, on the plateau of mont st jean; but on arrival there the sight was too horrible to behold. i felt sick in the stomach and was obliged to return. the multitude of carcases, the heaps of wounded men with mangled limbs unable to move, and perishing from not having their wounds dressed or from hunger, as the allies were, of course, obliged to take their surgeons and waggons with them, formed a spectacle i shall never forget. the wounded, both of the allies and the french, remain in an equally deplorable state. at hougoumont, where there is an orchard, every tree is pierced with bullets. the barns are all burned down, and in the court-yard it is said they have been obliged to burn upwards of a thousand carcases, an awful holocaust to the war-demon. as nothing is more distressing than the sight of human misery when we are unable to silence it, i returned as speedily as possible to bruxelles with cowper's lines in my head: war is a game, which, were their subjects wise, kings should not play at. i hope this battle will, at any rate, lead to a speedy peace. june . we have no other news from the allied army, except that they are moving forward with all possible celerity in the direction of paris. you may form a guess of the slaughter and of the misery that the wounded must have suffered, and the many that must have perished from hunger and thirst, when i tell you that all the carriages in bruxelles, even elegant private equipages, landaulets, barouches and berlines, have been put in requisition to remove the wounded men from the field of battle to the hospitals, and that they are yet far from being all brought in. the medical practitioners of the city have been put in requisition, and are ordered to make domiciliary visits at every house (for each habitation has three or four soldiers in it) in order to dress the wounds of the patients. the bruxellois, the women in particular, have testified the utmost humanity towards the poor sufferers. it was suggested by some humane person that they who went to see the field of battle from motives of curiosity would do well to take with them bread, wine and other refreshments to distribute among the wounded, and most people did so. for my part i shall not go a second time. napoleon, it is said, narrowly escaped being taken. his carriage fell into the hands of the allies, and was escorted in triumph into bruxelles by a detachment of dragoons. so confident was napoleon of success that printed proclamations were found in the carriage dated from "our imperial palace at laecken," announcing his victory and the liberation of belgium from the insatiable coalition, and wherein he calls on the belgians to re-unite with their old companions in arms in order to reap the fruits of their victory. this was certainly rather premature, and reminds me of an anecdote of a spanish officer at the siege of gibraltar, related by drinkwater in his narrative of that siege.[ ] when the british garrison made a sortie, they carried the advanced spanish lines and destroyed all their preparations; the spanish officer on guard at the outermost post was killed, but on the table of his guard room was found his guard report filled up and signed, stating that "nothing extraordinary had happened since guard-mounting." mr l. of northumberland, having proposed to me to make a tour with him to aix-la-chapelle and the banks of the rhine, i shall start with him in a day or two. [ ] sir wiltshire wilson ( - ), commander of the royal artillery in ceylon, - .--ed. [ ] pulci, _morgante_, canto xviii, ottava - . the giant morgante meets the villain margutte and asks him if he be a christian or a saracen. margutte answers that he cares not, but only believes in boiled or in roasted capon: rispose allor margutte: a dirtel tosto io non credo pio al nero ch'all' azzurro. ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogll arrosto.... [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, iv, , f.--ed. [ ] a work of h, verbruggen of antwerp ( ).--ed. [ ] lord bruce, earl of ailesbury, caused this fountain to be erected in , as a token of gratitude to the town of bruxelles where he had lived in exile.--e.d. [ ] henry dundas, viscount melville ( - ), elevated to the peerage in .--ed. [ ] xenophon, _education of cyrus_, ii, , .--ed. [ ] astley's amphitheatre, near westminster bridge.--ed. [ ] uncle toby, in laurence sterne's _tristram shandy_.--ed. [ ] lieutenant r.p. campbell, aide-de-camp to major-general adam.--ed. [ ] in may, , the officer commanding-in-chief at tournai was general-major a.c. van diermen.--ed. [ ] karl friedrich ludwig moritz, fürst zu ysenburg-bierstein ( - ), took service with austria ( ), with prussia ( ), and later with napoleon ( ), who commissioned him as brigadier-general. the shameless conduct of this officer is exposed by b. poten, _allgemeine deutsche biographie_, vol. xliv, p. .--ed. [ ] the battle at ligny was fought on june .--ed. [ ] the facts and dates here given are of course inaccurate; but this proves that major frye wrote his text in the very midst of the crisis, and that his manuscript has not been tampered with.--ed. [ ] baron van capellen, a dutch statesman, was governor-general of the belgian provinces, residing at bruxelles. he was afterwards governor-general of dutch india. born in , he died in . his memoirs have been published in french by baron sirtema de grovestins ( ), and contain an interesting passage on that momentous day, th june, .--ed. [ ] not before half past eleven.--ed. [ ] john drinkwater, also called bethune ( - ), published a well-known _history of the siege of gibraltar, - _.--ed. chapter ii from bruxelles to liége--a priest's declamation against the french revolution--maastricht--aix-la-chapelle--imperial relics--napoleon regretted--klingmann's "faust"--a tyrolese beauty--cologne--difficulties about a passport--the cathedral--king-craft and priest-craft--the rhine--bonn and godesberg--goethe's "götz von berlichingen"--the seven mountains--german women--andernach--ehrenbreitstein--german hatred against france--coblentz--intrigues of the bourbon princes in coblentz--mayence-- bieberich--conduct of the allies towards napoleon--frankfort on the mayn--an anecdote about lord stewart and lafayette--german poetry--the question of alsace and lorraine--return to bruxelles--napoleon's surrender. liÉge, june . mr l. and myself started together in the diligence from bruxelles at seven o'clock in the evening of the th inst. and arrived here yesterday morning at twelve o'clock. i experienced considerable difficulty in procuring a passport to quit bruxelles, my name having been included in that of general wilson, which he carried back with him to england. our ambassador was absent, and i was bandied about from bureau to bureau without success; so that i began at last to think that i should be necessitated to remain at bruxelles all my life, when fortunately it occurred to mr l. that he was intimately acquainted with the english consul, and he kindly undertook to procure me one and succeeded. on arrival here we put up at the _pommelette d'or_. the price of a place in the diligence from bruxelles to liége is fifteen franks. we passed thro' louvain, but too late to see anything. the country about liége is extremely striking and picturesque; the river meuse flows thro' the city, and the banks of the river outside the town are very _riants_ and agreeable. liége is a large, well-built city, but rather gloomy as to its appearance, and lies in a hollow completely surrounded by lofty hills. the remains of its ancient citadel stand on a height which completely commands the city; on another height stands a monastery, a magnificent building. there are a great many coal-pits in the vicinity of liége, and a great commerce of coals is carried on between this city and holland by the _treckschuyte_ on the meuse. we visited the ancient episcopal palace and the churches. the palace is completely dismantled. this city suffered much during the revolt of the belgian provinces against the emperor joseph ii, and having distinguished itself by the obstinacy of its defence, it was treated with great rigour by the austrian government. the fortifications were blown up, and nothing now remains on the site of the old citadel but a large barrack. i remained two whole hours on this height to contemplate the beauties of the expanse below. the banks of the river, which meanders much in these parts, and the numerous _maisons de campagne_ with the public promenades and allées lined with trees, exhilarate the scene of the environs, for the city itself is dull enough. several pretty villas are situated also on the heights, and were i to dwell here i should choose one of them and seldom descend into the valley and city below, where narrow cares and strife and envy dwell. liége, however sombre in its appearance, is a place of much opulence and commerce. a belgian garrison does duty here. at the inn, after dinner, i fell into conversation with a belgian priest, and as i was dressed in black he fancied i was one of the cloth, and he asked me if i were a belgian, for that i spoke french with a belgian accent; "apparemment monsieur est ecclésiastique?--monsieur, je suis né anglais et protestant." he then began to talk about and declaim against the french revolution, for that is the doctrine now constantly dinned into the ears of all those who take orders; and he concluded by saying that things would never go on well in europe until they restored to god the things they had taken from him. i told him that i differed from him very much, for that the sale of the church domains and of the lands and funds belonging to the suppressed ecclesiastical establishments had contributed much to the improvement of agriculture and to the comfort of the peasantry, whose situation was thereby much ameliorated; and that they were now in a state of affluence compared with what they were before the french revolution. i added: "enfin, monsieur, dieu n'a pas besoin des choses terrestres." on my saying this he did not chuse to continue the conversation, but calling for a bottle of wine drank it all himself with the zest of a tartuffe. i believe that he was surprised to find that an englishman should not coincide with his sentiments, for i observe all the adherents of the ancient régime of feudality and superstition have an idea that we are anxious for the re-establishment of all those abuses as they themselves are, and it must be confessed that the conduct of our government has been such as to authorize them fully in forming such conjectures, and that we shall be their staunch auxiliaries in endeavouring to arrest and retrograde the progress of the human mind. in fact, i soon perceived that my friend was not overloaded with wit and that he was one of those priests so well described by metastasio: il di cui sapere sta nel nostro ignorar.... maastricht, th june. this morning, after a promenade on the banks of the meuse--for i am fond of rivers and woods (_flumina amo silvasque inglorius_)--we embarked on a _treckschuyt_ and arrived here after a passage of four hours. the scenery on the banks of the meuse all the way from liége to maastricht is highly diversified and extremely romantic; but here at maastricht this ceases and the dull uniformity of the dutch landscape begins. when on the ramparts of the city to the north and west an immense plain as far as the eye can reach presents itself to view; a few trees and sandhills form the only relief to the picture. the town itself is neat, clean and dull, like all dutch towns. the fortifications are strong and well worth inspection. the most remarkable thing in the neighbourhood of maastricht is the montagne de st pierre, which from having been much excavated for the purpose of procuring stone, forms a labyrinth of a most intricate nature. i advise every traveller to visit it, and if he has a classical imagination he may fancy himself in the labyrinth of crete. aix-la-chapelle, th june. we started in the morning of the th from maastricht in the diligence for aix-la-chapelle and arrived here at twelve o'clock, putting up at van gülpen's hotel, _zum pfälzischen hofe_ (à la cour palatine), which i recommend as an excellent inn and the hosts as very good people. the price of our journey from liége to maastricht in the water-diligence was - / franks, and from maastricht to aix-la-chapelle by land was franks the person. the road from maastricht to this place is not very good, but the country at a short distance from maastricht becomes picturesque, much diversified by hill and dale and well wooded. as the meuse forms the boundary between the belgic and prussian territory, we enter the latter sooner after leaving maastricht. i find my friend l. a most agreeable travelling companion; travelling seems to be his passion, as it is mine; and fortune has so far favoured me in this particular, that my professional duties and private affairs have led me to visit the four quarters of the globe. after dinner, on the first day of our arrival here, we went to visit the _hôtel de ville_, before which stands on a pedestal in a bason an ancient bronze statue of charlemagne. it has nothing to recommend it but its antiquity. the _hôtel de ville_ is similar to other gothic buildings used for the same purpose. in the great hall thereof there is a large picture representing the ambassadors of all the powers who assisted at the signing of the treaty of aix-la-chapelle in ; and a full length portrait of the present king of prussia, as master of the city, occupies the place where once stood that of napoleon, its late lord. we next went to see the cathedral and sat down on the throne on which the german caesars used to be crowned. we viewed likewise the various costly articles of plate, the gifts of pious princes. the most remarkable things among them are several superb dresses of gold and silver embroidery, so thickly laid on that they are of exceeding weight. these dresses form part of the wardrobe of the virgin mary. next to be seen is a case or chest of massy silver, adorned with innumerable precious stones of great value; which case contains the bones or ashes of charlemagne. his right arm bone is however preserved separate in a glass case. the sword of this prince too, and the imperial crown is to be seen here. the sacristan next proceeded to show to us the other relics, but having begun with the exhibition of a rag dipped in the sweat of jesus christ and a nail of the holy cross, we began to think we had seen enough and went away perfectly satisfied. there is no other monument in honour of charlemagne, but a plain stone on the floor of the church with the simple inscription "carolo magno." on going out of the city thro' one of the gates, and at a short distance from it, we ascended the mountain or rather hill called the louisberg on which are built a ridotto and café, as also a column erected in honour of napoleon with a suitable inscription; the inscription is effaced and is about to be replaced by another in the german language in commemoration of the downfall of the _tyrant_, as the coalition are pleased to call him. this tyrant is however extremely regretted by the inhabitants of aix-la-chapelle and not without reason, for he was a great benefactor to them and continually embellished the city, confirming and increasing its privileges. the inhabitants are not at all pleased with their new masters; for the behaviour of the prussian military has been so insulting and overbearing towards the burghers and students that it is, i am told, a common exclamation among the latter, alluding to the prussians having stiled themselves their deliverers: _de nostris liberatoribus, domine, libera nos_. indeed, i can evidently discern that they are not particularly pleased at the result of the battle of waterloo. in the evening i went to the theatre, which has the most inconvenient form imaginable, being a rectangle. as anti-gallicanism is the order of the day, only german dramas are allowed to be performed and this night it was the tragedy of faust, or dr faustus as we term him in england, not the faust of goethe, which is not meant for nor at all adapted to the stage, but a drama of that name written by klingmann.[ ] it is a strange wild piece, quite in the german style and full of horrors and diableries. in this piece the sublime and terrible border close on the ridiculous; for instance the devil and faust come to drink in a beer-schenk or ale-house. 'tis true the devil is incognito at the time and is called "der fremde" or "the stranger"; it is only towards the conclusion of the piece that he discovers himself to be satan.... the actor who played the part of the stranger had something in his physiognomy very terrific and awe-inspiring. in another scene, which to us would appear laughable and absurd, but which pleases a german audience, three women in masks come on the stage to meet faust, in a churchyard, and on unmasking display three skeleton heads. poor faust had stipulated to give his soul to the devil for aiding him in the attainment of his desires; the devil on his part agrees to allow him to commit four deadly sins before he shall call on him to fulfil his contract. faust, in the sequel, kills his wife and his father-in-law. satan then claims him. faust pleads in arrest of judgement, that he has only committed two crimes out of the four for which he had agreed; and that there consequently remained two others for him to commit before he could be claimed. the devil in rejoinder informs him that his wife was with child at the time he killed her, which constituted the third crime, and that the very act of making a contract with the devil for his soul forms the fourth. faust, overwhelmed with confusion, has not a word to say; and satan seizing him by the hair of his head, carries him off in triumph. this piece is written in iambics of ten syllables and the versification appeared to me correct and harmonious, and the sentiments forcible and poetical; this fully compensated for the bizarrerie of the story itself, which, by the bye, with all the reproach thrown by the adherents of the classic taste on those of the romantic, is scarcely more _outré_ than the introduction of death ([greek: _thanatos_]) as a dramatic personage in the _alcestis_ of euripides. there is at aix-la-chapelle at one of the hotels a faro bank; it is open like the gates of hell _noctes atque dies_ and gaming goes forward without intermission; this seems, indeed, to be the only occupation of the strangers who visit these baths. there is near this hotel a sort of place or quadrangle with arcades under which are shops and stalls. at one of these shops i met with the most beautiful girl i ever beheld, a tyrolese by birth and the daughter of a print-seller. she was from the italian tyrol; roveredo, i think she said, was her birthplace. she united much grace and manner with her beauty, on account of which i could not avoid complimenting her in her native tongue, which she seemed pleased to hear. her eyes and eyebrows brought to my recollection the description of those of alcina: sotto due negri e sottilissimi archi, son due neri occhi, anzi, due chiari soli, pietosi a riguardare, a mover parchi, intorno a cui par che amor scherzi e volí.[ ] two black and slender arches rise above two clear black eyes, say suns of radiant light; which ever softly beam and slowly move; round these appears to sport in frolic flight, hence scattering all his shafts, the little love. --_trans_. w.s. rose. we then proceeded to look at the suburb of this city called bortscheid, by far the finest part of the city and at some elevation above it. it commands an extensive view. we also visited the various bath establishments; the taste of the water had some resemblance to that of harrogate, and is good in bilious, scrofulous and cutaneous complaints. on our return to the hotel we learned the news of the capitulation of paris to the allied powers. it is said to be purely a military convention by which the french army is to evacuate paris and retire behind the loire. there is no talk and no other intelligence about napoleon, except that he had been compelled by the two houses of legislature to abdicate the throne. we are still in the dark as to the intentions of the allies. i regret much that my friend and fellow traveller l. is obliged to return to bruxelles and cannot accompany me to cologne, to which place i am impatient to go and to pay my respects to old father rhine, so renowned in history. cologne. i left aix-la-chapelle on the morning of the nd of july and arrived at cologne about six o'clock in the evening, putting up at the inn _zum heiligen geist_ (holy ghost), which is situated on the banks of the river. the price of the journey in the diligence is franks. on the road hither lies juliers, a large and strongly fortified town surrounded by a marsh. it must be very important as a military post. the road after quitting juliers runs for the most part thro' a forest, and has been much improved and enlarged by the french; before they improved it, it was almost impassable in wet weather. we met on the road several prussian waggons and reinforcements on their march to bruxelles. two of my fellow travellers in the diligence were very intelligent young men belonging to respectable families in cologne and were returning thither; they likewise complained much of the overbearing demeanour of the prussian military towards the burghers. cologne is a large, but very dull looking city, as dull as liége; it would seem as if all towns and cities under ecclesiastical domination were dull or rendered so by the prohibition of the most innocent amusements. the fortifications are out of repair; but the prussian government intend to make cologne a place of great strength. the name of the village on the opposite of the river is deutz, and in the time of the french occupation there was a _tête-de-pont_. the next morning i was obliged to appear before the police, and afterwards before the _commandant de la place_, in order to have my passport examined and _visé_. at the bureau of the police it was remarked to me that my passport was not _en règle_, the features of the bearer not being therein specified. i replied that it was not my fault; that it was given to me in that shape by the english consul at bruxelles and that it was not my province to give to the consul any directions as to its form and tenor. the commissary of police then asked me what business i was about in travelling, and the following conversation took place: "was haben sie für geschäfte?"--"keine; ich reise nur um vergnügen's willen."--" sonderbar!"--"worin liegt das sonderbare, dass man reist um ein schönes land zu sehen?"[ ]--he made no answer to this, but one of his coadjutors standing by him said in a loud whisper, "ein herumreiser," which means an adventurer or person who travels about for no good,--in a word, a suspicious character. i then said with the utmost calm and indifference: "gentlemen, as soon as you shall have finished all your commentaries on the subject of my passport, pray be so good as to inform me what i am to do, whether i may go on to mayence and frankfort as is my intention, or return to bruxelles." the commissary, after a slight hesitation, signed the _visa_ and i then carried it to the bureau of the commandant, whose secretary signed it without hesitation, merely asking me if i were a military man. in the afternoon i went to visit the dome or cathedral. it is a fine specimen of gothic architecture, but singular enough the steeple is not yet finished. in this cathedral the most remarkable thing is the chapel of the three kings, wherein is deposited a massy gold chest inlaid with precious stones of all sorts and of great value, containing the bones of the identical three kings (it is said) who came from the east to worship the infant jesus at bethlehem. the scriptures say it was three wise men or magi. the legend however calls them kings and gives them gothic names. let schoolmen and theologians reconcile this difference: _ce n'est point notre affaire_. to me it appears that when the german tribes embraced christianity and enrolled themselves under the banner of st peter, it was thought but fair to allow them to give vent to a little nationality and to blend their old traditions with the new-fangled doctrine, and no doubt the sovereign pontiffs thought that the people could never be made to believe too much; the same policy is practised by the jesuit missionaries in china, where in order to flatter the national vanity and bend it to their purposes they represent jesus christ as being a great personal friend and correspondent of confucius. to return to these monarchs, wise men or magi: their _sculls_ are kept separate to the rest of the bones and each _scull_ bears a crown of gold. but if you are fond of miracles, legends, and details of relics, come with me to the church of st ursula in this city, and see the proof positive of the miraculous legend of the eleven thousand virgins who suffered martyrdom in this city, in the time of attila; the bones of all of whom are carefully preserved here and adorn the interior walls of the church in the guise of arms arranged in an armoury. eleven thousand sculls, each bearing a golden or gilt crown, grin horribly on the spectator from the upper part of the interior walls of the church, where they are placed in a row. what a fine subject this would make for a ballad in the style of bürger to suppose that on a particular night in the year, at the midnight hour when mortals in slumbers are bound, the bones all descending from the walls where they are arranged, forming themselves into bodies, clapping on their heads and dancing a skeleton dance round the ghost of attila! the people of cologne, in the time of the ecclesiastical electorate, had the reputation of being extremely superstitious, and no doubt there were many who implicitly believe this pious tale; indeed, who could refuse their assent to its authenticity, on beholding the proof positive in the sculls and bones? i recollect that in the history of the compère mathiew[ ] the père jean rates mightily the natives of cologne for their bigotry and superstition and for the bad reception they gave to him and to his philosophy. that people are happier from a blind belief, as some pretend, appears to me extremely problematical. for my part, under no circumstances can i think bliss to consist in ignorance; nor have i felt any particular discomfort in having learned at a very early age to put under my feet, as lucretius expresses it, the _strepitum acherontis avari_. on the contrary, it has made me a perfect cosmopolitan, extinguished all absurd national and religious prejudices, and rendered me at home wherever i travel; and i meet the catholic, the lutheran, the moslem, the jew, the hindou and the guebre as a brother. _quo me cunque ferat tempestas, deferor hospes_.[ ] let me add one word more to obviate any misrepresentation of my sentiments from some malignant pharisee, that tho' i am no friend to king-craft and priest-craft, and cannot endure that religion should ever be blended with politics, yet i am a great admirer of the beautiful and consoling philosophy or theosophy of jesus christ which inculcates the equality of mankind, and represents the creator of the universe, the author of all being, as the universal father of the human race. cologne derives its name from _colonia_, as it was a roman colony planted here to protect the left bank of the rhine from the incursions of the german hordes. it is here that the grand and original manufactory of the far-famed _eau de cologne_ is to be seen. the _eau de cologne_ is a sovereign remedy for all kinds of disorders, and if the _affiches_ of the proprietor, jean-marie farina, be worthy of credit, he is as formidable a check to old pluto as ever aesculapius was. the sale of this water is immense. on my return to the inn, i met with a dutch clergyman who was travelling with his pupils, three very fine boys, the sons of a dutch lady of rank. he was to conduct them to the university of neuwied, on the right bank of the rhine, in order to place them there for their education. the young men seem to have profited much from their studies. their tutor seemed to be a well-informed man and of liberal ideas; he preferred speaking german to french, as he said he had not much facility in expressing himself in the latter language. he said if i were going his way he would be happy to have the pleasure of my company, to which i very willingly acceded, and we agreed to start the next morning early so as to arrive at bonn to breakfast, and then to go on to godesberg, where he proposed to remain a few days. from the windows of our inn we have a fine view of the river, and i have not omitted doing hommage to old father rhine by taking up some of his water in the hollow of my hand to drink. the rhine of later years has been considered the guardian of germany against the hostile incursions of the french, and schiller represents this river as a swiss vigilant on his post, yet in spite of his vigilance and fidelity unable to prevent his restless neighbour from forcing his safeguard. the following are the lines of schiller where the river speaks in a distich: treu wie dem schwfeizer gebührt bewach'ich germaniens grenze, aber der gallier hüpft über den duldenden strom. in vain my stream i interpose to guard germania's realm from foes; the nimble gauls my cares deride and often leap on t'other side. godesberg, th july. the distance from cologne to bonn is miles and godesberg is three miles further. we stopped to breakfast at bonn and after breakfast made a promenade thro' the city. bonn is a handsome, clean, well-built and cheerful looking city and the houses are good and solid. the electoral palace is a superb building, but is not occupied and is falling rapidly to decay. from the terrace in the garden belonging to this palace, which impends over the rhine, you have a fine view of this noble river. this palace was at one time made use of as a barrack by the french, and since the secularization of the ecclesiastical electorates it has not been thought worth while to embellish or even repair it. there is a roman antiquity in this town called the _altar of victory_, erected on the place st remi, but remarkable for nothing but its antiquity; it seems to be a common roman altar.[ ] the road from bonn to godesberg is three miles in length and thro' a superb avenue of horse-chesnut trees; but before you arrive at godesberg, there is on the left side of the road a curious specimen of gothic architecture called _hochkreutz_, very like waltham cross in appearance, but much higher and in better preservation; it was erected by some feudal baron to expiate a homicide. the castle of godesberg is situated on an eminence and commands a fine prospect; it is now a mass of rums and the walls only remain. it derives its name of godesberg or götzenberg from the circumstance of its having been formerly the site of a temple of minerva built in the time of the romans, and thence called götzenberg by the christians, _götze_ in german signifying an idol. on the plain at the foot of the hill of godesberg and at the distance of an eighth of a mile from the river, a shelving cornfield intervening, stand three large hotels and a ridotto, all striking edifices. to the south of these is situated a large wood. these hotels are always full of company in the summer and autumn: they come here to drink the mineral waters, a species of seltzer, the spring of which is about a quarter of a mile distant from the hotels. the hotel at which we put up bears the name of _die schöne aussicht_ (la belle vue) and well does it deserve the name; for it commands a fine view of the reaches of the river, north and south. directly on the opposite bank, abruptly rising, is the superb and magnificent chain of mountains called the _sieben gebirge_ or seven mountains. on the summit of these mountains tower the remains of gothic castles or keeps, still majestic, tho' in ruins, and frowning on the plains below; they bring to one's recollection the legends and chronicles of the middle ages. they bear terrible awe-inspiring names such as drachenfels, löwenberg; the highest of them is called drachenfels or the rock of dragons and on it stood the burg or chateau of a feudal count or _raubgraf_, who was the terror of the surrounding country, and has given rise to a very interesting romance called _the knights of the seven mountains_. this feudal tyrant used to commit all sorts of depredations and descend into the plains below, in order to intercept the convoys of merchandize passing between aix-la-chapelle and frankfort. it was to check these abuses and oppressions that was instituted the famous secret tribunal _das heimliche gericht_, the various governments in germany being then too weak to protect their subjects or to punish these depredations. this secret tribunal, from the summary punishments it inflicted, the mysterious obscurity in which it was enveloped, and the impossibility of escaping from its pursuit, became the terror of all germany. they had agents and combinations everywhere, and exercised such a system of espionage as to give to their proceedings an appearance of supernatural agency. a simple accusation was sufficient for them to act upon, provided the accuser solemnly swore to the truth of it without reserve, and consented to undergo the same punishment as the accused was subjected to, in case the accusation should be false; till this solemnity was gone through, no pursuit was instituted against the offender. there was scarcely ever an instance of a false accusation, for it was well known that no power could screen the delator from the exemplary punishment that awaited him; and there were no means of escaping from the omniscience and omnipotence of the secret tribunal. to return to godesberg, it is a most beautiful spot and much agreeable society is here to be met with. the families of distinction of the environing country come here for the purpose of recreation and drinking the mineral waters. we sit down usually sixty to dinner, and i observe some very fine women among them. on sunday there is a ball at the ridotto. the promenades in the environs are exceedingly romantic, and this place is the favourite resort of many new married couples who come here to pass the honeymoon. the scenery of the surrounding country is so picturesque and beautiful as to require the pencil of an ariosto or wieland to do justice to it: ne se tutto cercato avessi il mondo vedria di questo un pin gen til paese.[ ] and, had he ranged the universal world, would not have seen a lovelier in his round. --_trans_. w.s. rose. to the researches of the naturalist and mineralogist the seven mountains offer inexhaustible resources. the living and accommodation of the three hotels are very reasonable. for one and a half florins you have an excellent and plentiful dinner at the table d'hôte, including a bottle of moselle wine and seltzer water at discretion; by paying extra you can have the rhine wines of different growths and crops and french wines of all sorts. i am much pleased with the little i have seen of the german women. they appear to be extremely well educated. i observe many of them in their morning walks with a book in their hand either of poetry or a novel. schiller is the favourite poet among them and augustus lafontaine the favourite novel writer.[ ] he is a very agreeable author were he not so prolix; yet we english have no right to complain of this fault, since there is no novel in all germany to compare in point of prolixity with clarissa, sit charles grandison, or tom jones. the great fault of augustus lafontaine is that of including in one novel the history of two or three generations. a beautiful and very interesting tale of his, however, is entirely free from this defect and is founded on a fact. it is called _dankbarkeit und liebe_ (gratitude and love). there is more real pathos in this novelette than in the _nouvelle héloïse_ of rousseau. ehrenbreitstein, july. after a _sèjour_ of three days at godesberg, we left that delightful residence and proceeded to neuwied to deposit the boys. we stopped, however, for an hour or two at andernach, which is situated in a beautiful valley on the left bank. we viewed the remains of the palace of the kings of austrasia and the church where the body of the emperor valentinian is preserved embalmed. andernach is remarkable for being the exact spot where julius caesar first crossed the rhine to make war on the german nations. directly opposite neuwied, which is on the right bank, stands close to the village of weissenthurm the monument erected to the french general hoche. we crossed over to neuwied in a boat. neuwied is a regular, well-built town, but rather of a sombre melancholy appearance and is only remarkable for its university. science could not chuse a more tranquil abode. this university has been ameliorated lately by its present sovereign the king of prussia. it was not the interest of napoleon to favour any establishment on the right bank at the expence of those on the left, the former being out of his territory. at neuwied i took leave of my agreeable fellow travellers, as they intended to remain there and i to go on to ehrenbreitstein. an opportunity presented itself the same afternoon of which i profited. i met with an austrian captain of infantry and his lady at the inn where i stopped who were going to ehrenbreitstein in their _calèche_, and they were so kind as to offer me a place in it. i found them both extremely agreeable; both were from austria proper. he had left the austrian service some time ago and had since entered into the russian service; from that he was lately transferred, together with the battalion to which he belonged, into the service of prussia and placed on the retired list of the latter with a very small pension. he did not seem at all satisfied with this arrangement. he had served in several campaigns against the french in germany, italy and france, and was well conversant in french and italian litterature. we stopped _en passant_ at a _maison de plaisance_ and superb english garden belonging to the duke of nassau-weilburg. the house is in the style of a cottage _orné_, but very roomy and tastefully fitted up; but nothing can be more diversified and picturesque than the manner in which the garden is laid out. the ground being much broken favours this; and in one part of it is a ravine or valley so romantic and savage, that you would fancy yourself in tinian or juan fernandez. we arrived late in the evening in the thal ehrenbreitstein, which lies at the foot of the gigantic hill fortress of that name, which frowns over it and seems as if it threatened to fall and crush it. my friends landed me at the inn _zum weissen pferd_ (the white horse), where there is most excellent accommodation. just opposite ehrenbreitstein, on the left bank, is coblentz; a superb flying bridge, which passes in three minutes, keeps up the communication between the two towns. early the next morning, i ascended the stupendous rock of ehrenbreitstein, which has a great resemblance to the hill forts in india, such as gooty, nundydroog, etc. it is a place of immense natural strength, but the fortifications were destroyed by the french, who did not chuse to have so formidable a neighbour so close to their frontier, as the rhine then was. the prussian government, however, to whom it now belongs, seem too fully aware of its importance not to reconstruct the fortifications with as little delay as possible. ehrenbreitstein completely commands all the adjacent country and enfilades the embouchure of the moselle which flows into the rhine at coblentz, where there is an elegant stone bridge across the moselle. troops without intermission continue to pass over the flying bridge bound to france, from the different german states, viz., saxons, hessians, prussians, etc., so that one might apply to this scene anna comnena's expression relative to the crusades, and say that all germany is torn up from its foundation and precipitated upon france. i suppose no less than , men have passed within these few days. the german papers, particularly the _rheinische mercur_, continue to fulminate against france and the war yell resounds with as much fury as ever. from the number of troops that continue to pass it would seem as if the allies did not mean to content themselves with the abdication of napoleon, but will endeavour to dismember france. the prussian officers seem to speak very confidently that alsace and lorraine will be severed from france and reunited to the germanic body, to which, they say, every country ought to belong where the german language is spoken, and they are continually citing the words of an old song: wo ist das deutsche vaterland?.... wo man die deutsche zunge spricht, da ist das deutsche vaterland.[ ] in english: "where is the country of the germans? where the german language is spoken, there is the country of the germans!" coblentz is a clean handsome city, but there is nothing very remarkable in it except a fine and spacious "place." but in the neighbourhood stands the _chartreuse_, situated on an eminence commanding a fine view of the whole _thalweg_. this _chartreuse_ is one english mile distant from the town and my friend the austrian captain had the goodness to conduct me thither. it is a fine large building, but is falling rapidly to decay, being appropriated to no purpose whatever. the country is beautiful in the environs of this place, and has repeatedly called forth the admiration and delight of all travellers. near coblentz is the monument erected to the french general marceau, who fell gloriously fighting for the cause of liberty, respected by friend and foe. july th. we had a large society this day at the table d'hôte. the conversation turned on the restoration of the bourbons, which nobody at table seemed to desire. several anecdotes were related of the conduct of the bourbon princes and of the emigration, who held their court at coblentz when they first emigrated; these anecdotes did not redound much to their honor or credit, and i remark that they are held in great disgust and abhorrence by the inhabitants of these towns, on account of their treacherous and unprincipled conduct. it was from here that "la cour de coblentz," as it was called, intrigued by turns with the jacobins and the brissotins and, by betraying the latter to the former, were in part the cause of the sanguinary measures adopted by robespierre.[ ] the object of this atrocious policy was that the french people would, by witnessing so many executions, become disgusted at the sanguinary tyranny of robespierre and recall the bourbons unconditionally; which, fortunately for france and thanks to the heroism and bravery of the republican armies, did not take place; for had the restoration taken place at that time, a dreadful reaction would have been encouraged and the cruelties of the reign of terror surpassed. with the same view, emissaries were dispatched from the court of coblentz to the south of france in order, under the disguise of patriots, to preach up the most exaggerated corollaries to the theories of liberty and equality. among other things at ehrenbreitstein is a superb pleasure barge belonging to the dukes of nassau for water excursions up and down the rhine. a _coche d'eau_ starts from here daily to mayence and another to cologne. the price is ten franks the person. the superb _chaussée on_ the left bank of the rhine, which extends all the way from cologne to mayence, was constructed by the direction of napoleon. in the evening i went to the theatre at coblentz, where mozart's opera of don giovanni was represented. i recollected my old acquaintance "la ci darem la mano," which i had often heard in england. mayence, th july. i embarked in the afternoon of the th in the _coche d'eau_ bound to mayence. except an old "schiffer," i was the only passenger on board, as few chuse to go up stream on account of the delay. i, however, being master of my own time, and wishing to view the lovely scenery on the banks of the river, preferred this conveyance, and i was highly gratified. after boppart, the bed of the river narrows much. high rocks on each bank hem in the stream and render it more rapid. nothing can be more sublime and magnificent than the scenery; at every turn of the river you would suppose its course blocked up by rocks, perceiving no visible outlet. remains of gothic castles are to be seen on their summits at a short distance from each other, and where the banks are not abrupt and _escarpés_ there are _coteaux_ covered with vines down to the water's edge. the tolling of the bells at the different villages on the banks gives a most aweful solemn religious sound, and the reverberation is prolonged by the high rocks, which seem to shut you out from the rest of the world. there are the walls nearly entire of two castles of the middle ages, the one called "die katze" (the cat); the other "die maus" (the mouse); each has its tradition, for which and for many other interesting particulars i refer you to klebe's and schreiber's description of the banks of the rhine. we arrived early in the evening at st goar, where we stopped and slept. st goar is a fine old gothic town, romantically situated, and is famous from having two whirlpools in its neighbourhood. it is completely commanded and protected by rheinfels, an ancient hill fortress, but the fortification of which no longer exist. it requires half an hour's walk to ascend to the summit of rheinfels, but the traveller is well repaid for the fatigue of the ascent by the fine view enjoyed from the top. i remained at rheinfels nearly an hour. what a solemn stillness seems to pervade this part of the river, only interrupted by the occasional splash of the oar, and the tolling of the steeple bell! bingen on the right bank is the next place of interest, and on an island in the centre of the river facing bingen stand the ruins of a celebrated tower call'd the "maüsethurm" (mouse tower), so named from the circumstance of bishop hatto having been devoured therein by rats according to the tradition. this was represented as a punishment from heaven on the said bishop for his tyranny and oppression towards the poor; but the story was invented by the monks in order to vilify his memory, for it appears he was obnoxious to them on account of his attempts to enforce a rigid discipline among them and to check their licentiousness. bieberich, a superb palace belonging to the dukes of nassau on the right bank, next presents itself to view on your left ascending; to your right, at a short distance from bieberich, you catch the first view of mayence on the left bank, with its towers and steeples rising from the glade. we reached mayence at o'clock p.m., and i went to put up at the three crowns (_drei-kronen_). the first news i learned on arriving at mayence was that napoleon had surrendered himself to the captain of an english frigate at oléron; but though particulars are not given, louis xviii is said to be restored, which i am very sorry to hear. the allies then have been guilty of the most scandalous infraction of their most solemn promise, since they declared that they made war on napoleon alone and that they never meant to dictate to the french people the form of government they were to adopt. napoleon having surrendered and louis being restored, the war may be considered as ended for the present, unless the allies should attempt to wrest any provinces from france, and in this case there is no saying what may happen. this has finally ended the career of napoleon. there is in mayence a remarkably fine broad spacious street called "die grosse bleiche" and in general the buildings are striking and solid, but too much crowded together as is the case in all ancient fortified cities. the cathedral is well worth seeing and contains many things of value and costly relics. when one views the things of value in the churches here, at aix-la-chapelle and at cologne, what a contradiction does it give to the calumnies spread against the french republicans that they plundered the churches of the towns they occupied! there is an agreeable promenade lined with trees on the banks of the river called _l'allée du rhin._ mayence is strongly fortified and has besides a citadel (a pentagon) of great strength, which is separated from the town by an esplanade. the _place du marché_ is striking and in the _place verte_ i saw for the first time in my life the austrian uniform, there being an austrian garrison as well as troops belonging to the other germanic states, such as prussians, bavarians, saxons, hessians, and troops of the duchy of berg. this city belongs to the germanic confederation and is to be always occupied by a mixed garrison. the archduke charles has his head-quarters here at present. i attended an inspection of a battalion of berg troops on the _place verte_; they had a very military appearance and went thro' their manoeuvres with great precision. from the top of the steeple of the church of sanct stephen you have a fine view of the whole rheingau. opposite to mayence, on the right bank, communicating by an immensely long bridge of boats, is the small town and fort of castel, which forms a sort of _tête-de-pont_ to mayence. the works of castel take in flank and enfilade the embouchure of the river mayn which flows into the rhine. one of the redoubts of castel is called the redoubt of montebello, thus named after marshal lannes, duke of montebello. the german papers continue their invectives against france. in one of them i read a patriotic song recommending the youth of germany to go into france to revenge themselves, to drink the wine and live at the cost of the inhabitants, and then is about to recommend their making love to the wives and daughters of the french, when a sudden flash of patriotism comes across him, and he says: "no! for that a german warrior makes love to german girls and german women only!" (_und küsst nur deutsche mädchen._) with regard to the women here, those that i have hitherto met with, and those i saw at ehrenbreitstein, were exceedingly handsome, so that the german warriors, if love is their object, will do well to remain here, as they may go further and fare worse, for i understand the women of lorraine and champagne are not very striking for personal beauty. there were some good paintings in the picture gallery here and this and the fortifications are nearly all that need call forth the attention of a traveller who makes but a fleeting visit. frankfort-on-the-mayn, th july. i arrived here the day before yesterday in the diligence from mayence, the price of which is two and a half florins the person, and the distance twenty-five english miles; there is likewise a water conveyance by the mayn for half the money. the road runs thro' the village of hockheim, which in england gives the name of _hock_ to all the wines of rhenish growth. the country is undulating in gentle declivities and vales and is highly cultivated in vines and corn. i put up here at the _hotel zum schwan_ (the swan), which is a very large and spacious hotel and has excellent accommodation. there is a very excellent table d'hôte at one o'clock at this hotel, for which the price is one and a half florins the person, including a pint of moselle wine and a _krug_ or jar of seltzer water. about four or five o'clock in the afternoon it is the fashion to come and drink old rhine wine _à l'anglaise_. that sort called _rudesheimer_ i recommend as delicious. there is also a very pleasant wine called the _ingelheimer_, which is in fact the "red hock." at one of these afternoon meetings a gentleman who had just returned from paris related to us some anecdotes of what passed at the conference between the french commissioners who were sent after the abdication of napoleon, by the provisional government, to treat with the allies; in which it appeared that the british commissioner, lord s[tewart],[ ] brother to the secretary of state for foreign affairs, made rather a simple figure by his want of historical knowledge or recollection. he began, it seems, in rather a bullying manner, in the presence of the commissioners, to declaim against what he called the perfidy and mutiny of the french army against their lawful sovereign; when the venerable lafayette, who was one of the commissioners and who is ever foremost when his country has need of his assistance, remarked to him that the english revolution in , which the english were accustomed always to stile glorious, and which he (lafayette) stiled glorious also, was effectuated in a similar manner by the british army abandoning king james and ranging themselves under the standard of the prince of orange; that if it was a crime on the part of the french army to join napoleon, their ancient leader who had led them so often to victory, it was a still greater crime on the part of the english army to go over to the prince of orange who was unknown to them and a foreigner in the bargain; and that therefore this blame of the french army, coming from the mouth of an englishman, surprised him, the more so as the duke of marlborough, the boast and pride of the english, set the example of defection from his sovereign, who had been his greatest benefactor. lord s[tewart], who did not appear to be at all conscious of this part of our history, was staggered, a smile was visible on the countenances of all the foreign diplomatists assembled there, and lord s[tewart], to hide his confusion, and with an ill-disguised anger, turned to lafayette and said that the allies would not treat until napoleon should be delivered to them. "je m'étonne, my lord, qu'en faisant une proposition si infâme et si deshonorante, vous vous plaisez de vous adresser au prisonnier d'olmütz," was the dignified answer of that virtuous patriot and ever ardent veteran of liberty.[ ] the main street in frankfort called the _zeil_ is very broad and spacious, and can boast of a number of splendid houses belonging to individuals, particularly the house of schweitzer[ ]; and on the quai, on the banks of the mayn, there is a noble range of buildings. the bridge across the mayn is very fine and on the other side of the river is the suburb of sachsenhansen, which is famous for being the head-quarters of the priestesses of the venus vulgivaga who abound in this city. there are in frankfort an immense number of jews, who have a quarter of the city allotted to them. the gardens that environ the town are very tastefully laid out, and serve as the favourite promenade of the _beau monde_ of frankfort. the cathedral will always be a place of interest as the temple wherein in later times the german caesars were crowned and inaugurated. at the _hôtel de ville_ called the _römer_, which is an ugly gothic building, but interesting from its being in this edifice that the emperors were chosen, is to be seen the celebrated golden bull which is written on parchment in the latin language with a golden seal attached to it. in the hall where the electors used to sit on the election of an emperor of the romans, are to be seen the portraits of several of the emperors, and a very striking one in particular of the emperor joseph ii, in full length, in his imperial robes. there is no table d'hôte at the _swan_ for supper, but this meal is served up _à la carte_, which is very convenient for those who do not require copious meals. at the same table with me at supper sat a very agreeable man with whom i entered into conversation. he was a hessian and had served in a hessian battalion in the english service during the american war. he was so kind as to procure me admission to the casino at the hotel rumpf,[ ] where there is a literary institution and where they receive newspapers, pamphlets and reviews in the german, french, english and italian languages. in frankfort there are several houses of individuals which merit the name of palaces, and there is a great display of opulence and industry in this city. in the environs there is abundance of _maisons de plaisance_. for commerce it is the most bustling city (inland) in all germany, besides it being the seat of the present german diet; and from here, as from a centre, diverge the high roads to all parts of the empire. i have been once at the theatre, which is very near the _swan_. a german opera, the scene whereof was in india, was given. the scenery and decorations were good, appropriate, and the singing very fair. the theatre itself is dirty and gloomy. the german language appears to me to be better adapted to music than either the french or english. the number of dactylic terminations in the language give to it all the variety that the _sdruccioli_ give to the italian. as to poetry, no language in the world suits itself better to all the vagaries and phantasies of the muse, since it possesses so much natural rythm and allows, like the greek, the combination of compound words and a redundancy of epithets, and it is besides so flexible that it lends itself to all the ancient as well as the modern metres with complete success: indeed it is the only modern language that i know of which does so. as for political opinions here, the germans seem neither to wish nor to care about the restoration of the bourbons; but they talk loudly of the necessity of tearing alsace and lorraine from france. in fact, they wish to put it out of the power of the french ever to invade germany again; a thing however little to be hoped for. for the minor and weaker germanic states have always hitherto (and will probably again at some future day) invoked the assistance of france against the greater and stronger. i observe that the austrian government is not at all popular here, and that its bad faith in financial matters is so notorious and has been so severely felt here, that a merchant told me, alluding to the bankruptcy of the austrian government on two occasions when there was no absolute necessity for the measure, that frankfort had suffered more from the bad faith of the austrian government than from all the war contributions levied by the french. bruxelles, th july. on arrival at coblentz we heard that napoleon had surrendered himself unconditionally to capt. maitland of the _bellerophon_. he never should have humiliated himself so far as to surrender himself to the british ministry. he owed to himself, to his brave fellow soldiers, to the french nation whose sovereign he had been, not to take such a step, but rather die in the field like our richard iii, a glorious death which cast a lustre around his memory in spite of the darker shades of his character; or if he could not fall in the field, he should have died like hannibal, rather than commit himself into the hands of a government in which generosity is by no means a distinguishing feature, and which on many occasions has shown a petty persecuting and vindictive spirit, and thus i have no hesitation in portraying the characteristics of our tory party, which, unfortunately for the cause of liberty, rules with undivided sway over england. he will now end his days in captivity, for his destination appears to be already fixed, and st helena is named as the intended residence; he will, i say, be exposed to all the taunts and persecutions that petty malice can suggest; and this with the most uncomfortable reflections: for had he been more considerate of the spirit of the age, he might have set all the monarchs, ultras and oligarchs and their ministers at defiance. but he wished to ape charlemagne and the caesars and to establish an universal empire: a thing totally impossible in our days and much to be deprecated were it possible. consigned to st helena, napoleon will furnish to posterity a proverb like that of dionysius at corinth. this banishment to st helena will be very ungenerous and unjust on the part of the english government, but i suppose their satellites and adherents will term it an act of clemency, and some _church and kingmen_ would no doubt recommend hewing him in pieces, as samuel did to agag. i stopped three days at aix-la-chapelle to drink the waters and then came straight to this place stopping half a day in liége. i shall start for paris in a couple of days, as the communication is now open and the public conveyances re-established. my passport is _visé_ in the following terms: "bon pour aller à paris en suivant la route des armées alliées." i am quite impatient to visit that celebrated city. [ ] philipp klingmann ( - ) was better known as an actor than as an author.--ed. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, vii, , .--ed. [ ] "what business have you? none, i travel for amusement. strange! what is there strange in travelling to see a fine country?" [ ] _le compère mathieu_, a satirical novel by the abbé henri joseph dulaurens, published and sometimes (though wrongly) attributed to voltaire. one of the prominent talkers in the dialogues is père jean de domfront.--ed. [ ] horace, _epist_., i, i, .--ed. [ ] this altar, inscribed _deae victoriae sacrum (corpus inscr. lat_. xiii, ), was erected by the roman fleet on the rhine at the place now called _altsburg_ near cologne and, after its discovery, taken to bonn, where it was set up on the _remigius-platz_ (now called _roemer-platz_) on dec, , . it is now in the provincial museum.--ed. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, vi, , .--ed. [ ] august lafontaine ( - ), born in brunswick of a family of french protestants, was the very prolific and now quite forgotten author of many novels and novelettes.--ed. [ ] from ernst moritz arndt's ( - ) celebrated poem, _des deutschen vaterland_.--ed. [ ] there seems to be much truth in this opinion, though the question of the intrigues of louis xviii with robespierre is still shrouded in obscurity. some pages of general thiébault's memoirs might have cleared it up, but they have been torn out from the manuscript (_mémoires du général baron thiébault_, vol. i, p. ). louis xviii paid a pension to robespierre's sister, charlotte.--ed. [ ] sir charles stewart, created lord stewart in ; he was a half-brother of lord castlereagh.--ed. [ ] the same story is given, with slight differences, by lafayette himself (_mémoires_, vol. v, p. - ; paris and leipzig, ). see also _souvenirs historiques et parlementaires du comte de pontécoulant_, vol. iii, p. (paris, ). major frye's narrative is by far the oldest and seems the most trustworthy.--ed. [ ] the house in question was built about by nicolas de pigage for the rich merchant, franz von schweizer; pigage was the son of the architect of king stanislas at nancy. the schweizer palace became later on the _hôtel de russie_ and was demolished about , the imperial post office having been erected in its place. the schweizer family is now extinct.--ed. [ ] a _casinogesellschaft_, still in existence ( ), was founded at frankfort in , with the object of uniting the aristocratic elements of the city, admittance being freely allowed to distinguished strangers, in particular to the envoys of the _bundestag_. the _gesellschaft_ or club occupied spacious rooms in the house of the once famous _tapissier_ and decorator major rumpf, grandfather of the german sculptor of the same name. that building, situated at the corner of the _rossmarkt_, was demolished about .--ed. chapter iii from bruxelles to paris--restoration of louis xviii--the officers of the allied armies--the palais royal--the louvre--protest of the author against the proposed despoiling of the french museums--unjust strictures against napoleon's military policy--the _cant_ about revolutionary robberies--the grand opera--monuments in paris--the champs elysées--saint-cloud--the hôtel des invalides--the luxembourg--general labédoyère--priests and emigrants--prussian plunder--handsome behaviour of the english officers-- reminiscences of eton--versailles. paris, august rd. here i am in paris. i left bruxelles the th july, stopped one night at mons and passing thro' valenciennes, péronne and st quentin arrived here on the third day. the villages and towns on the road had been pretty well stripped of eatables by the allied army, as well as by the french, so that we did not meet with the best fare. in every village the white flag was displayed by way of propitiating the clemency of the allies and averting plunder. august th. i have put up at the _hôtel de cahors_, rue de richelieu, where i pay five francs per diem for a single room; such is the dearness of lodgings at this moment. it is well furnished, however, with sofas, commodes, mirrors and a handsome clock and is very spacious withal, there being an alcove for the bed. this situation is extremely convenient, being close to the palais royal, rue st honoré, théâtre français, louvre and the tuileries on one side, and to the grand opera, the théâtre feydeau, the italian opera and the boulevards on the other. the national library is not many yards distant from my hotel, and a few yards from that _en face_ is the grand opera house or _académie royale de musique_. this city is filled with officers and travellers of all kinds who have followed the army. the house of legislature of the hundred days,--as it is the fashion to style napoleon's last reign--dissolved themselves on the demand of a million of francs as a war contribution made by marshall blucher. louis xviii has been hustled into paris, and now occupies the throne of his ancestors under the protection of a million of foreign bayonets, and the _bannière des lis_ has replaced the tricolor on the castle of the tuileries. a detachment of the british army occupies montmartre, where the british flag is flying, and in the champs elysées and bois de boulogne are encamped several brigades of english and hanoverians. the sovereigns of russia, austria and prussia are expected and then it is said that the fate of france will be decided. the army of the loire has at length made its submission to the king, after stipulating but in vain for the beloved tricolor. report says it is to be immediately dissolved and a new army raised with more legitimate inclinations. should the king accede to this, france will be completely disarmed and at the mercy of the allies, and the king himself a state prisoner. the entrance into paris, thro' the faubourg st denis, does not give to the stranger who arrives there for the first time a great idea of the magnificence of paris; he should enter by the avenue de neuilly or by the porte st antoine, both of which are very striking and superb. now you must not expect that i shall or can give you a description of all the fine things that i have seen or am about to see, for they have been so often described before that it would be a perfect waste of time, and i can do better in referring you at once to the _guide des voyageurs à paris_; so that i shall content myself with merely indicating these objects which make the most impression on me. my first visit was, as you will have no doubt guessed, to the palais royal: there i breakfasted, there i dined, and there i passed the whole day without the least _ennui_. it is a world in itself. it swarms at present with officers of the allied army. the variety of uniforms adds to the splendour and novelty of the scene. the restaurants and cafés are filled with them. the palais royal is certainly the temple of animal gratification, the paradise of gastronomes. the officers are indulging in all sorts of luxury, revelling in champaign and burgundy, in all the pleasures of the belly, as well as _in iis quae sub ventre sunt_. 'twill be a famous harvest for the restaurateurs and for the cyprians who parade up and down the arcades, sure of a constant succession of suitors. in fact, whatever be the taste of a man, whether sensual or intellectual or both, he can gratify himself here without moving out of the precincts of the palais royal. here are cafés, restaurants, shops of all kinds whose display of clocks, jewellery, stuffs, silks, merchandize from all parts of the world, is most brilliant and dazzling; here you find reading-rooms where newspapers, reviews and pamphlets of all tongues, nations and languages are to be met with; here are museums of paintings, statues, plans in relief, cosmoramas; here are libraries, gaming houses, houses of fair reception; cellars where music, dancing and all kinds of orgies are carried on; exhibitions of all sorts, learned pigs, dancing dogs, military canary birds, hermaphrodites, giants, dwarf jugglers from hindostan, catawbas from america, serpents from java, and crocodiles from the nile. here, so kotzebue has calculated, you may go through all the functions of life in one day and end it afterwards should you be so inclined. you may eat, drink, sleep, bathe, go to the _cabinet d'aisance_, walk, read, make love, game and, should you be tired of life, you may buy powder and ball or opium to hasten your journey across styx; or should you desire a more classic _exit_, you may die like seneca opening your veins in a bath. deep play goes forward day and night, and i verily believe there are some persons in paris who never quit these precincts. the restaurants and cafés are most brilliantly fitted up. one, _le café des mille colonnes_, so called from the reflection of the columns in the mirrors with which the wainscoat is lined, boasts of a _limonadière_ of great beauty. she is certainly a fine woman, dresses very well, as indeed most french women do, and has a remarkably fine turned arm which she takes care to display on all occasions. i do not, however, perceive much animation in her; she always appears the same, nor has she made any more impression on me--tho' i am of a very susceptible nature in this particular--than a fine statue or picture would do. there she sits on a throne and receives the hommage and compliments of most of the visitors and the money of all, which seems to please her most, for she receives the compliments which are paid her with the utmost _sang-froid_ and indifference, and the money she takes especial care to count. english troops, conjointly with the national guard, do duty at the entrance of the palais royal from the rue st honoré; and it became necessary to have a strong guard to keep the peace, as frequent disputes take place between the young men of the capital and the prussian officers, against whom the french are singularly inveterate. the french, when left to themselves, are very peaceable in their pleasures and the utmost public decorum is observed; their sobriety contributes much to this; but if there were in london an establishment similar to that of the palais royal, it would become a perfect pandemonium and would require an army to keep the peace. the french police keep a very sharp look-out on all political offences, but are more indulgent towards all moral ones, as long as public decorum is not infringed, and then it is severely punished. but they have none of that censoriousness or prying spirit in france which is so common in england to hunt out and criticise the private vices of their neighbours, which, in my opinion, does not proceed from any real regard for virtue, but from a fanatical, jealous, envious, and malignant spirit. those vice-hunters never have the courage to attack a man of wealth and power; but a poor artisan or labourer, who buys a piece of meat after twelve o'clock on saturday night, or a glass of spirits during church-time on sunday, is termed a sabbath-breaker and imprisoned without mercy. in the palais royal the three most remarkable temples of dissipation are very's for gastronomes, robert's faro bank for gamesters, and the café montausier for those devoted to the fair sex. the café montausier is fitted up in the guise of a theatre where music, singing and theatrical pieces are given; you pay nothing for admission, but are expected to call for some refreshment. it is splendidly illuminated, and is the café _par excellence_, frequented by those ladies who have made the opposite choice to that of hercules, and who, taking into consideration the shortness and uncertainty of life, dedicate it entirely to pleasure, reflecting that laggiù nell' inferno, nell' obblio sempiterno, in sempiterno orrore, non si parla d'amore. of course, this saloon is crowded with amateurs, and the prussians and english are not the least ardent votaries of the goddess of paphos; many a vanquished victor sinks oppressed with wine and love on the breast of a dalilah: this last comparison suggests itself to me from the immense quantity of hair worn by the prussians, as if their strength, like that of samson's, depended on their _chevelure_. there is a very pretty graceful girl who attends here and at the different restaurants and cafés with an assortment of bijouterie and other knick-knacks to sell. she is full of wit and repartee; but her answer to all those who attempt to squeeze her hand and make love to her is always: "_achetez quelque chose._" her name is céline and she has a great flow of conversation on all subjects but that of love, which she invariably cuts short by "_achetez quelque chose._" th august. i have been to see the museum of sculpture and painting in the louvre, but what is to be seen there baffles all description: se tante lingue avessi e tante voci quanti occhi il cielo o quante arene il mare non basterian a dir le lodi immense. the _apollo belvedere_, the _venus de medici_ and the _laocoon_ first claimed my attention, and engaged me for at least an hour and a half before i could direct my attention to the other masterpieces. i admire indeed the _laocoon_, still more the _venus_, but the _apollo_ certainly bears away the palm and i fully participate of all winkelmann's enthusiasm for that celebrated statue. the _venus_ is a very beautiful woman, but the _apollo_ is a god. one is lost, and one's imagination is bewildered when one enters into the halls of sculpture of this unparalleled collection, amidst the statues of gods, demi-gods, heroes, philosophers, poets, roman emperors, statesmen and all the illustrious worthies that adorned the greek and roman page. what subjects for contemplation! a chill of awe and veneration pervaded my whole frame when i first entered into that glorious temple of the arts. i felt as i should were i admitted among supernatural beings, or as if i had "shuffled off this mortal coil" and were suddenly ushered into the presence of the illustrious tenants of another world; in fact, i felt as if olympus and the whole court of immortals were open to my view. no! i cannot describe these things, i can only feel them; i throw down the pen and call upon expressive silence to muse their praise. of the picture gallery too what can i say that can possibly give you an idea of its variety and extent? here are the finest works of the italian, flemish, and french schools, and you are as much embarrassed to single out the favourite object, as the grand signor would be, among six or seven hundred of the most beautiful women in the world, to make his choice. the only fault i find in this collection is that there were rather too many scripture pieces, crucifixions, martyrdoms and allegorical pictures, and too few from historical or mythological subjects. yet perhaps i am wrong in classing the scripture pieces with martyrdoms, crucifixions, grillings of saints and madonnas; there are very many beautiful episodes in the scriptures which would furnish admirable subjects for painters. why then have they chosen disgusting subjects such as judith sawing off holofernes' head, siserah's head nailed to the bedpost, john the baptist's on a trencher, etc.? but the pictures representing martyrdoms are too revolting to the eye and should not be placed in this museum. it is reported that the allies mean to strip this museum [of sculpture and painting]. no! it cannot be, they never surely can be guilty of such an act of vandalism and contemptible spite. i am aware that there is a great clamour amongst a certain description of english for restoring these statues and pictures to the countries from whence they came, and that it is the fashion to term the translation of them to paris a revolutionary robbery; but let us bring these gentlemen to a calm reasoning on the subject. the statues and paintings in question belonged either to governments at war with france, or to individuals inhabiting those countries; now, with respect to individuals, i will venture to affirm, on the best authority, that the property of no individual was taken from him without an equivalent. those who had statues and pictures of value and wished to sell them, received their full value from the french government, but there was no force used on the occasion; in fact, many who were in want of money were rejoiced at the opportunity of selling, as they could never have otherwise disposed of those valuable articles to individuals at the same price that the french government gave. i recollect a day or two ago being in conversation with a milanese on this subject and others connected with the occupation of italy by the french. i happened to mention that the conquest of italy by the republican armies must have been attended with confiscation of property; he assured me that no such thing as confiscation of property took place; that so far from being the losers by the french invasion and the establishment of their system, they had on the contrary been considerable gainers, for that the country flourished under their domination in a manner before unknown, and that one of the greatest advantages attendant on the occupation was the establishment of an equality of weight and measures, the decimal division of the coin, the introduction of an admirable code of laws free'd from all barbarisms--legal, political and theological--and intelligible to all classes, so that there was no occasion to cite old authors and go back for three or four hundred years to hunt out authorities and precedents for what men of sense could determine at once by following the dictates of their own judgment. with respect to the statues and pictures belonging to the different governments of italy, it must never be forgotten that these governments made war against the french revolution either openly or insidiously, and did their utmost to aid the coalition to crush the infant liberties of france. those who did not act openly did so covertly and indirectly; in short, from their tergiversations and intrigues, they had no claim whatever on the mercy of the conquerors, who treated them with a great deal of clemency. the destruction of these governments was loudly called for by the people themselves, who looked on the french as their deliverers. it will be admitted, i believe, that it is and has been the custom on the continent, in all wars, for all parties to levy war contributions on the conquered or occupied countries; but buonoparte thought it more glorious for the french name to take works of art instead of money; and not a statue or picture was taken from the vanquished governments except by a solemn treaty of cession, or given in lieu of contributions at the option of the owners, and the princes were very glad to give up their pictures and statues, which the most of them did not know how to appreciate, in lieu of money which they were all anxious to keep; and on these articles a fair value was fixed by competent judges. in this manner did the french become the possessors of these valuable objects of art, and in this manner was the noble museum in paris filled up, and surely nothing could be more generous and liberal than the use made of the museum by the french government; foreigners were indeed more favoured than the inhabitants themselves. to the inhabitants of paris this museum is open twice a week; but to foreigners on producing their passports, it is open every day in the week all the year round; artists of all nations are allowed, during a certain number of hours each day, to come to copy the statues and pictures which suit their taste; and stoves are lighted for their accommodation during winter, and all this gratis.--now, before these objects of art were collected here, they were distributed, some in churches, and some in government palaces. to see the first, required a specific introduction to the owner; to see the second, application to the attendants of the churches became necessary, and for both these you were required to pay fees to the servants and church-attendants, who are always impatient to take your fee and hurry you through the apartments or chapels, scarcely giving you time to examine anything. to be admitted into the government palaces was a matter of favour, and here also fees were required.[ ] here in the louvre there is no introduction required; no court to be paid to _major-domos_, no favour; it is open to all classes, high and low, without exception, and no money is allowed to be given. but there are some people, in their ridiculous fury against the french revolution, who would fain persuade us that before that epoch there was a golden age on the earth, that there were no acts of violence committed, no frauds practised, no property injured, no individuals ill-used; that every prince governed like numa; that every noble was a bayard, and every priest like a primitive apostle. why i need go no further than the seven years' war to show that in that war, during the height of european civilisation, and carried on between the most polished nations in europe, there were much more acts of violence and rapine carried on than ever were done by the french republicans. i by no means wish to excuse or even palliate the acts of ferocity which took place at that epoch of the french revolution called the reign of terror, which were executed by a people wrought up to frenzy by a recollection of their wrongs; and i know too well that many virtuous individuals fell victims to their indiscriminating fury; but i do believe and aver that much more clamour was made at the execution of a handful of corrupt courtiers, intriguing and profligate women of quality and worthless priests, than all the rest put together. to return to the seven years' war (i may be permitted to take this retrospect, i hope, since it is the fashion, and those who differ with me in opinions go much farther back than i do), let the french royalists and emigrants recollect the confiscation of property and barbarity exercised by marshall richelieu in hanover, where many families were reduced to beggary. they may not chuse to recollect this; but the hanoverians do and they have not forgotten the _pavillon de hanovre_, so called by the wits of the time from its having been built by the marshall with money arising from the spoils of hanover; will they recollect also the harsh treatment inflicted on the burghers and citizens of a town in germany, who were shut up in a room and kept without food or drink for nearly three days because they would not consent to fix a heavy and unwarrantable contribution on their fellow citizens; when these unhappy but virtuous men were only allowed to go out for the necessities of nature attended by sentries, and on the third day, when fainting with hunger, a little bread and water was given to them, with an assurance that in future they were not to expect such luxuries. have they forgot the devastation committed in berlin by the austrians in the seven years' war, when they pillaged, burned or destroyed all the valuable property of the royal palaces, the most valuable works of art, vases, statues of antiquity, the loss of which could never be replaced; when they lopped off the heads, arms and legs of the statues? have they forgot the conduct of the belligerent powers at the siege of dresden at the same epoch, when whole families, among whom were helpless old men and women with children at the breast, were compelled to leave dresden in the middle of a most rigorous winter and were driven to take refuge in the fields where the most of them perished with hunger and cold; and where many individuals lost their reason and became insane from the treatment they received? have they forgotten the merciless barbarities inflicted by the russians in the same war on the inhabitants of the prussian territory? their ripping up and burning men, women, and children? and the dreadful retaliation inflicted on them at the battle of zorndorff, when the prussians, exasperated at the idea of those horrors so fresh in their memory, on being ordered to bury the russian dead, threw the wounded men also belonging to that nation into the graves dug for the dead, to be thus buried alive, and hastily filled them up with earth, as if fearful that they might relent, did they give themselves time for reflection? these are not exaggerations; they are given by an author celebrated for his impartiality and deep research and who was an eye-witness of many of these proceedings; i mean archenholz in his admirable history of the seven years' war.[ ] then again in the war of american independence (and here my countrymen must excuse me if i point out the acts of injustice committed by them, when acting in obedience to an unprincipled and arbitrary government and in a cause hostile to freedom), who does not recollect the private property wantonly destroyed and confiscated by the english? their employing the indian tribes, those merciless savages of the forest, to scalp, etc., which called forth the indignation of a chatham? and the grossly unjust pillage and confiscation of property which took place at st eustatius by the commanders of a _religious and gracious king_?[ ] again, who does not recollect the gentle but deep reproof given by the american general schuyler to the english general burgoyne, when the latter was made prisoner by the americans under gates? general schuyler's valuable house, barns, etc., had been burned by the express order of burgoyne. nevertheless, schuyler received him with dignified politeness, magnanimously stifled the recollection of the injury he had received, and obtained for him a good quarter, merely remarking, "general, had my house and farms not been burned, i could have offered you a more comfortable abode." how burgoyne must have felt this reproof! yet he was not by nature a harsh man, but he had the orders of his government to exercise severities; he was educated in tory principles, and passive obedience is their motto. can one forget likewise even, in the late war, nelson's conduct to caraccioli at naples, whom he caused to be hanged on board of an english ship of war, together with a number of other patriots, in violation of a solemn capitulation, by which it had been stipulated that they should be considered as prisoners of war and sent to france? then again the wanton destruction of the capitol and other public buildings at washington not devoted to military purposes, which it is not usual to destroy or deface; and the valuable public library too which was burned? what excuse can be offered for this? were the times of omar returned? it is fair and allowed by the laws of war to blow up and destroy arsenals, magazines, containing warlike stores and engines of destruction, but to destroy with gothic barbarity buildings of great symmetry and beauty, and a library too--o fie! why i will defy any man to point out a single instance where the french republican armies or napoleon ever injured or wantonly destroyed a single national edifice, a single work of art, a single book belonging to any other country! on the contrary, they invariably extended their protection to the arts and sciences. why at vienna, where there is, i understand, a most splendid museum, and many most valuable works of art and antiquity, tho' this city fell twice into their possession, they never destroyed or took away a single article; but, on the contrary, there, as well as in berlin, they invited the inhabitants to form a civic guard for the protection of their property. as to the vandalism shewn during the reign of terror, and i by no means seek to palliate it, that was of short duration, it was madness, if you will, but it was disinterested--and other nations who talk a great deal about their superior morality would do well to look at home. they would there observe, in their own historic page, that the atrocities of the french revolution have not only been equalled but surpassed perhaps by more dreadful scenes committed at wexford in , under the auspices of the government then ruling ireland and which the noble and virtuous ----[ ] disdained to serve. excuse this long digression, but i feel it my duty to open the eyes of my countrymen and prevent them from supporting on all occasions the unjust acts of their government, which reflect dishonour on a great and enlightened nation; which can boast, among its annals, of some of the most heroic, splendid, and disinterested characters that ever the world produced. all that i need add on the subject of the statues and pictures is, that putting out of the question the justice or injustice of the restitution, it will be a great loss to england and to english artists in particular, should they be removed: many an artist can afford to make a trip to paris, who would find it beyond his means to make a journey to florence or rome. if these objects of art are to be taken away, it should be stipulated so in the treaty of peace; and then everybody would understand it. this would be putting it on the fairest footing. you then say to france: "you gained these things by conquest; you lose them by defeat"; but for god's sake let us have no more of that _cant_ about revolutionary robberies! paris, ---- i went for the first time to the grand opera, or, as it is here called, the académie royale de musique, which is in the rue de richelieu. _armida_ was the piece performed, the music by glück. the decorations were splendid and the dancing beyond all praise. the scenes representing the garden of armida and the nymphs dancing fully expressed in the mimic art those beautiful lines of tasso: cogliam d'amor la rosa! amiamo or, quando esser si puote riamato amando![ ] the effect of the dissolution of the palace and gardens by the waving of armida's wand is astonishing; it appears completely to be the work of inchantment, from the rapidity of execution which follows the _potentissime parole_. the french recitative however does not please me. the serious opera is an exotic and does not seem to thrive on the soil of france. the language does not possess sufficient intonation to give effect to the recitative. on the contrary, the comic operas are excellent; and here the national music and singing appear to great advantage. it never degenerates to the grotesque or absurd _buffo_ of the italians, but is always exquisitely graceful, simple, touching and natural. among the ballets, i have seen perhaps three of the best, viz., _achille à scyros, flore et zéphire_ and _la folle par amour_. in the ballet of flore and zéphire, the dancers who did these two parts appeared more aerian than earthly. to use a phrase of burke's, i never beheld so _beautiful a vision. nina_, or _la folle par amour_, is a ballet from private life. the title sufficiently explains its purport; it is exquisitely touching and pathetic. o what a divine creature is bigottini! what symmetry of form! what innate grace, what a captivating expression of countenance; and then the manner in which she did the mad scenes and her return to reason! oh! i was moved even to tears. never had any performance such an effect upon me. what a magnificent _tout ensemble_ is the grand opera at paris! whenever i feel chagrined or melancholy i shall come here; i feel as if i were in a new world; the fiction appears reality; my senses are ravished, and i forget all my cares. i have very little pleasure in visiting royal palaces, unless they have been the residence of some transcendent, person like napoleon or frederick ii of prussia, as the sight of splendid furniture and royal pomp affords me no gratification; and i would rather visit washington's or lafayette's farms in company with these distinguished men than dine with all the monarchs of europe. after a hasty glance at the furniture of the tuileries, what fixed my attention for a considerable time was "la salle des maréchaux," where are the portraits of all the modern french marshalls. they are all full length portraits and are striking resemblances; some are in the marshall's undress uniform and others in the full court costume which is very elegant, being the costume of the time of francis i with the spanish hat and plumes. i did not observe ney's or soult's portraits among them. in front of the great square of the tuileries where the troops exercise, stands the arch of triumph erected by napoleon, commonly called _l'arc du carrousel_. it is a beautiful piece of architecture, but is far too small to tally with such a vast mass of buildings as the palace and offices of the tuileries. by the side of them it appears almost lilliputian. it would have been better to have made it in the style of the triumphal arch of the porte st denis. on this arc of the carrousel are _bas-reliefs_ both outside and inside, representing various actions of napoleon's life. he is always represented in the roman costume, with the imperial laurel on his brows, with kings kneeling, and presenting the keys of conquered cities. on the outside are statues, large as life, in modern military costume, representing the different _armes_ which compose the french army.[ ] on the top of this arc du carrousel is an antique car of triumph, to which are harnessed the four bronze horses which were taken from the façade of the church of san marco in venice. they are of beautiful workmanship and of great antiquity. what various and mighty revolutions have these horses witnessed! cast in corinth in the time of the glories of the grecian commonwealths and removed by conquest to rome, they witnessed the successive fall of the grecian and roman states; transferred to constantinople in the time of constantine, and from thence removed to venice when constantinople fell into the hands of the french and venetians; transferred from thence to paris in , they have witnessed the successive falls of the eastern and western empires, of the republic of venice and the napoleonic dynasty and empire. report says they are to be restored to venice; and who knows whether they may not be destined one day to return to their original country, greece, under perhaps russian auspices? the gardens of the tuileries which lie at the back part of the palace are very spacious, well laid out in walks and lined with trees. large basins inlaid with stone, fountains and statues add to the grandeur of these gardens; they extend from the tuileries as far as the place louis xv parallel to the seine, and are separated by a wall and parapet and a beautiful cast iron railing from the quai, and on the other side from the rue de rivoli, one of the new streets, and the best in paris for pedestrians. on the side opposite the palace itself is the _place louis xv_, called in the time of the republic _place de la révolution_, and where the unfortunate louis xvi suffered decapitation. the _place louis xv_ is by far the most magnificent thing of the kind i have ever seen and far exceeds the handsomest of our squares in london. on one side of it is the _hótel du garde meuble_, a superb edifice. on the other the quai, the river; and on the other side of the river is the _palais du corps législatif_, now the place where the chamber of deputies hold their sitting, and which has a magnificent façade. in front of this place are the champs elysées and avenue of neuilly and behind the gardens and palace of the tuileries. my next visit was to the _place vendôme_, where stands the majestic column of the grand army. to me this column is the most striking thing of its kind that i have hitherto seen. it is of bronze and of the most beautiful workmanship, cast from the cannon taken from the austrians in the war of , and on it are figured in bas-relief the various battles and achievements, winding round and round from the base to the capital. it is constructed after the model of the column of trajan in rome. the next place i visited was the chamber of deputies. it is a fine building with a doric façade and columns; it is peculiarly striking from its noble simplicity. on the façade are bas-reliefs representing actions in napoleon's life. the flight of steps leading to the façade is very grand, and there are colossal figures representing prudence, justice, fortitude and other legislative virtues. the chamber itself where the deputies hold their sittings is in the form of a greek theatre; the arch of the semi-circle forms the gallery appropriated to the audience, and comprehends in its enclosure the seats of the deputies like the seats in a greek theatre; on the chord of the semi-circle where the _proscenium_ should be, is the tribune and president's seat. the whole is exceedingly elegant. the orator whose turn it is to speak leaves his seat, ascends the tribune and faces the deputies. the anti-rooms adjoining this chamber are fitted up with long tables and fauteuils and are appropriated to the sittings of the various committees. these antichambers are hung round with pictures representing the victories of the french armies; but they are covered with green baize and carefully concealed from the public eye in order to stifle recollections and prevent comparisons. paris, august. i mounted on horseback and rode out to st cloud to breakfast, passing through the champs elysées, the bois de boulogne and the little town of passy, and returned by the quai, as far as the bridge of jéna, which i passed and went to visit the _hôtel des invalides, le champ de mars_, the _pantheon_ or church of st geneviève and the palace of the luxembourg. this was pretty good work for one day; and as you will expect some little account of my ideas thereon, i shall give you a _précis_ of what most interested me. in the champs elysées are quartered several english regiments who are encamped there, and this adds to the liveliness of the scene; our soldiers seem to enjoy themselves very much. they are in the midst of places of recreation of all kinds, such as guinguettes, tennis-courts, dancing salons and cafés, and besides these (places of elysium for english soldiers), wine and brandy shops innumerable; our soldiers seem to agree very well with the inhabitants. in the bois de boulogne are hanoverian troops as well as english. at passy i stopped at the house occupied by my friend, major c. of the rd regt.,[ ] who was to accompany me to st cloud. st cloud is an exceedingly neat pretty town, well and solidly built, and tolerably large. there are a great many good restaurants and cafes, as st cloud with its palace, promenades and gardens forms one of the most favourite resorts of the parisians on sundays and _jours de fête_. diners _de société_ and _noces et festins_ are often made here; and there is both land and water conveyance during the whole day. there are two roads by land from paris: the one on the quai the whole way; the other through the bois de boulogne and champs elysées. the gardens of st cloud are laid out something in the style of a _jardin anglais_, but mixed with the regular old fashioned garden; it abounds in lofty trees, beautiful sites and well arranged vistas commanding extensive views of paris and the country environing. st cloud was the favourite residence of napoleon; and the furniture in the palace here shows him to be a man of the most refined taste. all is elegant and classic; there is nothing superfluous; the furniture is modern, but in strict imitation of the furniture of the ancients and chiefly in bronze. there are superb vases and candelabras in marble, magnificent clocks of various kinds, marble busts, and busts in bronze of great men, and bronze statues large as life holding lamps. the chairs and sofas too are in a classic taste, as are the beds and baths. we were informed here that blucher, who passed one night here, tore with his spur the satin covering of one of the sofas and that he did it wilfully; but i never can believe that the old man would be so silly, and i rather think that this story is an invention of the keeper of the palace, or that if it was done, it was done by an accident merely. but the fact is that blucher has a contempt for and hates the parisians and likes to mortify them on all occasions; he threatens to do a number of things which he never seriously intends, merely for the sake of teasing them; and it must be owned that they deserve a little contempt from the want of _caractère_ they showed on the entrance of the allies. be it as it may, blucher is the _bête noire_ of the parisians and they are as much afraid of him as the children are of _monsieur croque-mitaine_. we returned from st cloud by the quai, crossed the bridge of jéna, galloped along the _champs de mars_, took a hasty glance at the _hôtel des invalides_, a magnificent edifice and which may be distinguished from all other buildings by its gilded cupola. it is a superb establishment in every respect, and is furnished with an excellent library. a great many old soldiers are to be seen in this library occupied in reading; they are very polite to all visitors, particularly to ladies. nothing can better demonstrate the superior character, intelligence and deportment of the french soldiers over those of all other countries than the way in which they employ their time in literary pursuits, their dignified politeness to visitors and the intelligent answers they give to questions. i am afraid our british veterans, brave as they are in the field, occupy themselves, when laid up as invalids, more in destroying their bodies by spirituous liquors than in improving their minds by reading. the chapel of this establishment where were displayed the banners and trophies taken at different epochs from the enemies of france, and which were much mutilated by the wars since the revolution, is now stripped of all the ensigns of glory. they were all burned by the french themselves previous to the capitulation of paris in , in order to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy. an old soldier who was my guide related this with tears in his eyes, but suddenly checking himself said: "_mais telle est l'histoire_." the only things now in this chapel that interest the eye of the traveller are the monuments of vauban and turenne. of the rest nought remains but the brilliant souvenirs. fuit ilium, et ingens gloria teucrorum!...[ ] i had a great deal of difficulty in inducing this old soldier to accept of three franks; i told him at last that, as he did not want it himself, to take it and give it to somebody that did. i then visited the rest of the establishment. there is a whole range of rooms which contains models or plans in relief of all the fortresses of france; they are admirably and most minutely executed; not only the fortifications and public buildings, but the private houses, the gardens, orchards, meadows, mountains, hill and dale, bridges, trees, every feature of the ground in fine and of the surrounding country are given in miniature. in fact it gives you the same idea of the places themselves and of the environing country as if you were held up in the air over them to inspect them; or as if you viewed them from a balloon at the distance of yards from the earth. the models of strassburg, lille and three or four others have been taken away by the austrians and prussians, but i have seen those of calais, dunkirk, villefranche, toulon, and brest, and in fact almost every other french fortress. this is one of the most interesting sights in paris, and for this we are certainly indebted to the occupation; for i question much if travellers were ever permitted to see these models until paris fell into the hands of the allies. prussian sentries do duty at the doors; how grating this must be to the old invalids! among the models i must not omit to mention a very curious one which represents the battle of lodi. the town of lodi, the bridge and river are admirably executed. the soldiers are represented by little figures about a quarter of an inch in height and cobwebs are disposed so as to represent the smoke of the firearms, buonaparte and his staff are on horseback on one side of the bridge. there is also a very fine model of the _hôtel des invalides_ itself. from hence we went to the garden and palace of the luxembourg. these gardens form the midday and afternoon promenade of that part of the city. in one wing of the palace is the chamber of peers, elegantly fitted up and in some respect resembling a greek theatre. the busts of cicero, brutus, demosthenes, phocion and other great men of antiquity adorn the niches of this chamber and on the grand _escalier_ are the statues in natural size of kleber, dessaix, caffarelli and other french generals. report says that these statues will be removed. in the picture gallery at the luxembourg is a choice collection of pictures of the modern french school such as guérin, david, etc. the subjects are extremely well chosen, being taken from the mythology or from ancient and modern history. i was too glad to find no crucifixions, martyrdoms, nor eternal madonnas. i distinguished in particular the _judgment of brutus_ and the _serment des horaces et des curiaces_. connoisseurs find the attitudes too stiff and talk to you of the italian school; but i prefer these; yet i had better hold my tongue on this subject, for i am told i know nothing about painting. poor labédoyère[ ] is sentenced to be shot by the court martial which tried him, and the sentence will be carried immediately into execution. his fate excites universal sympathy, and i have seen many people shed tears when talking on this subject. he certainly ought to be protected by the th article of the capitulation. the french are very uneasy; the allies have begun to strip the louvre and there is no talk of what the terms of peace are to be, or what is the determination of the allies. this is a dreadful state of uncertainty for the french people and may lead to a general insurrection. the allies continue pouring troops into france and levying contributions. "_vae victis_" seems their motto. france is now a disarmed nation, and no french uniform is to be seen except that of the national guard and the "garde royale." france is at the mercy of her enemies and prostrate at their feet; a melancholy prospect for european liberty! the allies have parades and reviews two or three times a week and the sovereigns of russia, austria and prussia constantly attend; wellington is their showman. these crowned heads like mightily playing at soldiers; i should think his grace must be heartily tired of them. massacres and persecutions of the protestants have begun to take place in the south of france, and the priests are at work again threatening with excommunication and hell the purchasers and inheritors of emigrant estates and church lands. these priests and emigrants are incorrigible. frequent quarrels take place almost every evening in the palais royal between the prussian officers and the french, particularly some of the officers from the army of the loire. i rather suspect these latter are the aggressors. the prussians being gorged with plunder come there to eat, drink and amuse themselves and have as little stomach for fighting as the soldier of lucullus had after having enriched himself; but the officers of the army of the loire are, poor fellows, in a very different predicament; they have not even been paid what is due to them, and they, having none of those nice felicities (to use an expression of charlotte smith's)[ ] which make life agreeable, are ready for any combat, to set their life on any cast, "to mend it, or to be rid of 't." the prussians indulge in every sort of dissipation, which they are enabled to do by the plunder which they have accumulated, and of which they have formed, i understand, a _dépôt_ at st germain. they send these articles of plunder to town every day to be sold, and then divide the profits, which are sure to be spent in the palais royal, and other places of revel and debauchery. they sometimes affect a fastidiousness of stomach which is quite laughable, and not at all peculiar to the germans, who are in general blessed by nature with especial good appetites; and they spend so much money that the english officers who have not had the advantages of plunder that these prussians have had must appear by the side of them stingy and niggardly. i was witness one day to a whimsical scene, which will serve to give you an idea of the airs of importance these gentlemen give themselves. i was one day at versailles and after having visited the palace and gardens i entered the salon of a restaurateur and called for a veal cutlet and _vin ordinaire_. there was a fat prussian major with two or three of his companions at one of the tables, who had been making copious libations to bacchus in burgundy and champaign. he heard me call for _vin ordinaire_, and whether it was to show his own magnificence i know not, but he called out to the _cafetière_: "madame, votre vin ordinaire est il buvable? car j'en veux donner a mon trompette, et s'il n'est pas bon, il n'en boira pas. faites venir mon trompette." now i dare say in his own country this major would not have disdained even the "schwarze bier" of brandenburgh. scarcely any quarrels, i believe, take place between the english and french, nor did i hear of any violent fracas but one. in this instance, the english officers concerned must have been sad, brutal, vulgar fellows. they, however, after behaving in a most gross insulting manner, were compelled by some frenchmen not to eat but to drink their words, and that out of a vessel not usually employed in drinking. i shall not repeat the contemptible affair, but it furnished the subject of a caricature. the english officers in general behave in a handsome and liberal manner, and their conduct was spoken of in high terms of encomium by very many of the french themselves. i regret however exceedingly that any of the british officers should have imbibed the low prejudices and vulgar hatred against the french, which certain people preach up in england to cover their own peculations and interested views. a young friend of mine, with whom i was one day talking on political subjects, said to me: "i cannot help agreeing with you in many things, but i am staggered when i think that your ideas and reasoning are so contrary to the ideas in which i have been brought up; so that i rather avoid entering at all on political questions." i do not wonder at all at this, for i recollect when i was at school at eton, the system was to drill into the heads of the boys strong aristocratic principles and hatred of democracy and of the french in particular; we were ordered to write themes against the french revolution and verses of triumph over their defeats, with now and then a sly theme on the great advantage of hereditary nobility; in these verses god almighty was to be represented as closely allied to the british government and a _sleeping partner_ of the administration. one of the fellows of eton college actually told the late mr adam walker, the celebrated lecturer on natural and experimental philosophy, who was accustomed to give lectures annually to the etonians, that his visits were no longer agreeable and would be dispensed with in future; as "philosophy had done a great deal of harm and had caused the french revolution." with respect to my visit to versailles, i was much struck with the vast size and magnificence of the buildings and with the ingenuity displayed in the arrangement of the grounds and the numerous groups of statues, grottos, aqueducts, fountains and ruins. still it pleases me less than st cloud, for i prefer the taste of the present day in gardening and the arrangement of ground, to the ponderous and tawdry taste of the time of louis xiv, and i prefer st cloud to versailles, just as i should prefer a grecian nymph in the simple costume of arcadia to a fine court lady rouged and dressed out with hoops, diamonds, and headdress of the tune of queen anne. napoleon must have had an exquisite taste. [ ] exceptions to this are, i understand, the gallery at florence, and the museo vaticano at rome, which are both open to all and no fees allowed. [ ] johann wilhelm archenholz ( - ), author of the _geschichte des siebenjährigen krieges_, .--ed. [ ] in february, , before the declaration of war was generally known in the west indies, rodney's fleet surrounded the dutch island of eustatius, which had become a sort of entrepôt for supplying america with british goods; two hundred and fifty ships, together with several millions worth of merchandise, were seized and sold at a military auction. the plunder of eustatius was bitterly commented upon in the british house of commons.--lee richard hildreth, _the history of the united states_, vol. iii, p. .--ed. [ ] the name is in blank. major frye may have meant beauchamp bagenal harvey ( - ), the squire of wexford who deserted to the irish rebels.--ed. [ ] tasso, _jerusalemme liberata_, canto xvi, ottava .--ed. [ ] for instance, a cuirassier, a dragoon, a grenadier, a tirailleur, an artilleryman. [ ] major g. colclough, senior major of the rd regt.--ed. [ ] virgil, _aen_., ii. .--ed. [ ] la bédoyere (charles huchet, comte de) distinguished himself in several of the napoleonic wars, in particular at ratisbonne and borodino. being a colonel at grenoble, in march, , he deserted to napoleon's cause and was nominated by him general and _pair de france_. in july, , he was arrested in paris, tried for high treason and shot, august , in spite of benj. constant's efforts to save him.--ed. [ ] charlotte smith ( - ), author of _emmeline, or the orphan of the castle_ ( ), _celestina_ ( ), _the old manor house_ ( ), etc.--ed. chapter iv from paris to bruxelles--visiting the plains of waterloo--the duke de berri at lille--beauvais--return to paris--remarks on the french theatre-- talma--mlle duchesnois--mlle georges-french alexandrine verse--the abbé delille--the opéra comique. i met with my brother-in-law and his nephew at paris, and hearing from them that they had an intention of returning to england by the way of bruxelles, with the idea of visiting the plains of waterloo, i was induced to accompany them. we started on the th august, taking the exact route from paris that was taken by napoleon. passed the first night at st quentin; the second at a small village on the line between mons and charleroy in the belgian territory. the next morning, after breakfasting at nivelles, we proceeded to quatre bras and mont st jean. at the little cabaret called _à la belle alliance_ we met a host of englishmen who had been to behold the field of battle; lacoste, the peasant who was napoleon's guide on the day of battle, was about to conduct them across the fields to hougoumont. we followed them. the devastation of the place, every tree being pierced with bullets, and the whole premises being nearly burned to the ground, seemed to astonish their _weak minds_; one of them was not contented till he had measured the length and breadth of the garden and orchards. cuirasses, helmets, swords and various other spoils of war found on the spot, were offered for sale by some boys and eagerly bought up as relics. my brother-in-law made a purchase of a helmet, sword and cuirass, intending to hang it up in his hall. for my part i have seen, and can see no reason whatever to rejoice at this event. i fear it is pregnant with infinite mischief. we arrived at bruxelles on the afternoon of the th august and after visiting thepark, _alée verte_ and palace of laeken, we proceeded the next morning on our journey to lille. the duke of berri was at lille and a grand _fête_ was given in the evening to celebrate the second restoration of the bourbons. fireworks were let off, the city was brilliantly illuminated and boys (hired of course) went about the streets singing the following refrain À bas, à bas napoléon! vivent, vivent les bourbons! a number of beautiful women elegantly attired paraded up and down the public promenades, which are exceedingly well and tastefully laid out. this city is built with great regularity, and the streets are broad, neat, and clean. it is by far the handsomest city i have ever seen either in france or belgium. the _hôtel de ville_ and the theatre both are on the _grande place_ and are well worth seeing. lille is renowned for its fortifications; i much wished to visit the citadel but i was not permitted. at dinner at the table d'hôte at the _hôtel du commerce_, i remarked a french officer declaiming violently against napoleon; but i heard afterwards that he was the son of an emigrant; the rest of the company did not seem to approve his discourse and shewed visible impatience at it. lille may be easily recognised at its approach from the immense quantity of wind-mills that are in the vicinity of this city, some of which are used for grinding of wheat and others for the expression of oil. a great deal of flax from whence the oil is made, grows in the country. i left lille on the morning of the th inst., with the courier for amiens. from amiens i took the diligence to beauvais and on arrival there i put up under the hospitable roof of my friend major g., of the th light dragoons, lately made lt.-colonel for his gallantry at waterloo.[ ] i did not want for amusement here, for the next day a _fête champêtre_ was given just outside the walls of the town, and i admired the grace and tournure of the female peasantry and their good dancing. how much more creditable are these innocent and agreeable _fêtes_ to the fairs and meetings in england, which are generally signalized in drunkenness! the next afternoon presented a novel sight to the inhabitants of beauvais, it being a grand cricket match played between the officers of the th and th dragoons. it was won by the latter, mainly owing to the superior play of colonel g. of the th, who never touched a bat since he was at burney's school. the officers afterwards dined _al fresco_ and many toasts accompanied by the huzzas were given, to the astonishment of the bystanders, who seemed to consider us as little better than barbarians. one of the officers wishing to pay a compliment to the inhabitants of beauvais proposed the health of louis xviii, but they seemed to take it coldly and not at all to be flattered by the compliment. after five days very agreeable residence at beauvais, i put myself in the diligence to return to paris. during the journey an ardent political altercation arose between a young lady, who appeared to be a warm partisan of napoleon, on the one side, and a garde du corps on the other. the lady was seconded by a young gentleman, of whom it was difficult to say, whether he sustained her argument from a dislike to the present order of things, or from a wish to ingratiate himself in her favour. the argument of the garde du corps was espoused, but soberly, by one of the passengers who was a mathematical professor at one of the lyceums; he was not by any means an ultra, but he supported the bourbons, with moderate, gentlemanly and i therefore believe sincere attachment. this professor seemed a well informed sort of man; he told me that he was acquainted with sir james m., formerly recorder at bombay. on our arrival at the _bureau des messageries_, the whole company forgot their disputes and parted good friends; and the young man who was partisan of the young lady in the political dispute took care to inform himself of her abode in paris. * * * * * remarks on the various dramatic performances which i witnessed at paris, with opinions on the french theatre in general. in my ideas of dramatic works i am neither rigidly classic nor romantic, and i think both styles may be good if properly managed and the interest well kept up; in a word i am pleased with all genres _hors le genre ennuyux_,[ ] and tho' a great admirer of shakespeare and schiller, i am equally so of voltaire, racine and corneille; i take equal delight in the pathos of the sentimental dramas of kotzebue as in the admirable satire and _vis comica_ of the unrivalled molière, so that on my arrival at paris i was not violently prejudiced either for or against the french stage, but rather pre-occupied, to use a gentler term, in its favour; and i have not been at all disappointed, for i think i can pronounce it with safety the first, perhaps the only stage in europe. i now mean to speak not of operas, nor of operas-comiques, nor of melodrames, nor of vaudevilles; all these have their respective merits; but when i speak of the french stage, i confine myself to the regular theatre of tragedy and comedy, of their classical pieces; in a word, to the dramatic performances usually given at the _théâtre français_. the first piece i saw performed was _manlius_;[ ] but i was too far off from the stage to judge of the acting, and could do little more than catch the sounds. the parterre and the whole house was full. i was in the fourth tier of boxes, yet i could distinguish at intervals the finest and most prominent traits, of talma's acting, particularly in that scene where he upbraids his friend with having betrayed him. this he gave with uncommon energy and effect. the plot of this piece is very similar to that of _venice preserved_.[ ] the next piece i saw represented was the _avare_ of molière, which to me was one of the greatest dramatic treats i had ever witnessed. every part was well supported. the next was _athalie_ of racine. here too i was highly gratified. mlle georges performed the part of athalie and gave me the perfect ideal of the haughty queen. her narration of the dream was given with the happiest effect, and in her attempt to conceal her uneasiness and her affected contempt of the dream in these lines: un songe, me devrois--je inquiéter d'un songe? she seemed in reality to labour under all the anxiety and fatigue arising from it. that fine scene between joad and joas was well given, and the little girl who did the part of joas performed with a good deal of spirit. the actor who played joad recited in a most impressive manner the advice to the young prince terminating in these lines: vous souvenant, mon fils, que caché sous ce lin, comme eux vous fûtes pauvre et comme eux orphelin. the interrogating scene between athalie and joad was given spiritedly, but the rather abrupt and uncourtierlike reply to the queen's remark, "ils sont deux puissans dieux"--"lui seul est dieu, madame, et le vôtre n'est rien"-- excited a laugh and i fancy never fails to do so, every time the piece is performed. racine has several passages in his tragedies which perhaps have rather too much _naiveté_ for the dignity of the cothurnus; for instance in the answer of agamemnon to achille in the tragedy of _iphigénie_: puisque vous le savez, pourquoi le demander? a poet of to-day would be quizzed for a line like the above, but who dare venture to point out any defect in an author of whom voltaire has said and with justice too, that the only criticism to be made of him (racine) would be to write under every page: "admirable, harmonieux, sublime!" the costume and the decorations at the _théâtre français_ are so strictly classical and appropriate in every respect, that it is to me a source of high delight to witness the representation of the favourite pieces of racine, corneille, molière and voltaire, which i have so often read with so much pleasure in the closet and no small quantity of which i have by heart. the next piece i saw was the _cinnna_ of corneille; and here it was that i beheld talma for the second time. i was of course highly pleased, tho' i was rather far off to hear very distinctly; this was, however, no very great loss, as i was perfectly well acquainted with the tragedy. talma's gestures, his pause's, his natural mode of acting gave a great relief to the long declamation with which this tragedy abounds. when this tragedy was given it was during the time that poor labédoyère's trial was going on, and the allusions to augustus' clemency were eagerly seized and applauded. it was hoped that louis xviii would imitate augustus. vain hope! i have seen _phèdre_; the part of phèdre by that admirable actress mlle duchesnois, who performs the part so naturally and with so much passion that we entirely forget the extreme plainness of the person. she acts with far more feeling and pathos than mlle georges. i shall never be able to forget mlle duchesnois in _phèdre_. she gave me a full idea of the impassioned queen, nor were it possible to depict with greater fidelity the "vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée," as in that beautiful speech of phèdre to oenone wherein she reveals her passion for hippolyte and pourtrays the terrible struggle between duty and female delicacy on the one hand, and on the other a flame that could not be overcome, convinced as it were of the complete inutility of further efforts of resistance and invoking death as her only refuge. i was moved even to tears. i am so great an admirer of the whole of this speech beginning "mon mal vient de plus lorn" etc., and ending "un reste de chaleur tout prêt à s'exhaler," that i think in it racine has not only united the excellencies of euripides, sappho and theocritus in describing the passion of love, but has far surpassed them all; that speech is certainly the masterpiece of french versification and scarcely inferior to it is that beautiful and ingenuous confession of love by hippolyte to aricie. what an admirable _pendant_ to the love of phèdre! in hippolyte you behold the innocence, simplicity and ingenuousness of a first and pure attachment: in phèdre the _embrasement_, the ungovernable delirium of a criminal passion. i have seen mlle duchesnois again in the _mérope_ of voltaire and admire her more and more. this is an admirable play. the dialogue is so spirited; the agitation of maternal tenderness, and the occasional bursts of feelings impossible to be restrained, render this play one of the most interesting perhaps on the french stage, and mlle duchesnois gave with the happiest effect her part in those two scenes; the first wherein she supposes egisthe to be the person who has killed her son; in the other where having discovered the reality of his person, she is obliged to dissemble the discovery, but on egisthe being about to be sacrificed she exclaims "barbare, c'est mon fils!" the part of egisthe was given by a young actor who made his appearance at this theatre for the first tune, and he executed his part with complete success (firmin, i think, was his name). lafond did the part of polyphonte and did it well. at this tragedy many allusions were caught hold of by the audience according as they were bourbonically or napoleonically inclined; at that part of polyphonte's speech wherein he says: le premier qui fut roi fut un soldat heureux. qui sert bien son pays n'a pas besoin d'ayeux. thunders of applause proceeded from those who applied it to napoleon. at the line: est il d'autre parti que celui de nos rois? a loud shout and clapping proceeded from the royalists; but i fancy if hands had been shown these last would have been in a sad minority. i have often amused myself with comparing the _mérope_ of voltaire with that of maffei and am puzzled to which to give the preference. maffei has made polyphonte a more odious and perhaps on that account a more theatrical character, while voltaire's polyphonte is more in real life. in the play of voltaire he is a rough brutal soldier, void of delicacy of feeling and not very scrupulous, but not that praeternatural deep designing villain that he is represented in the piece of maffei. in fact maffei's polyphonte appears too _outré_; but then on the stage may not a little exaggeration be allowed, just as statues which are destined to be placed in the open air or on columns appear with greater effect when larger than the natural size? alfleri seems to have given the preference to the mérope of voltaire. i have seen talma a second time in the part of nero in the britannicus of racine; mlle georges played the part of agrippina. talma was nero from head to foot; his very entry on the stage gave an idea of the fiery and impatient character of the tyrant, and in the scene between him and his mother agrippina nothing could be better delineated. the forced calm of agrippina, while reproaching her son with his ingratitude, and the impatience of nero to get rid of such an importunate monitress, were given in a style impossible to be surpassed. talma's dumb show during this scene was a masterpiece of the mimic art. if talma gives such effects to his rôles in a french drama, where he is shackled by rules, how much greater would he give on the english or german stages in a tragedy of shakespeare or schiller! blank verse is certainly better adapted to tragedy than rhymed alexandrines, but then the french language does not admit of blank verse, and to write tragedies in prose, unless they be tragedies in modern life, would deprive them of all charm; but after all i find the harmonious pomp and to use a phrase of pope's "the long majestic march and energy divine" of the french alexandrine, very pleasing to the ear. i am sure that the french poets deserve a great deal of credit for producing such masterpieces of versification from a language, which, however elegant, is the least poetical in europe; which allows little or no inversion, scarce any poetic license, no _enjambement_, compels a fixed caesura; has in horror the hiatus; and in fine is subject to the most rigorous rules, which can on no account be infringed; which rejects hyperbole; which is measured by syllables, the pronunciation of which is not felt in prose; compels the alternative termination of a masculine or feminine rhyme; and with all this requires more perhaps than any other language that cacophony be sedulously avoided. such are the difficulties a french poet has to struggle with; he must unite the most harmonious sound with the finest thought. in italian very often the natural harmony of the language and the music of the sound conceal the poverty of the thought; besides italian poetry has innumerable licenses which make it easy to figure in the tuscan parnassus, and where anyone who can string together _rime_ or _versi sciolti_ is dignified with the appellation of a poet; whereas from french poetry, a mediocrity is and must be of necessity banished. neither is it sufficient for an author to have sublime ideas; these must be filed and pruned. inspiration can make a poet of a german, an italian or an englishman, because he may revel in unbounded license of metre and language, but in french poetry inspiration is by no means sufficient; severe study and constant practise are as indispensable as poetic verve to constitute a french poet. the french poets are sensible of this and on this account they prefer imitating the ancients, polishing their rough marble and fitting it to the national taste, to striking out a new path. the abbé delille, the best poet of our day that france has produced, has gone further; he had read and admired the best english poets such as milton, pope, collins and goldsmith, and has not disdained to imitate them; yet he has imitated them with such elegance and judgment that he has left nothing to regret on the part of those of his countrymen who are not acquainted with english, and he has rendered their beauties with such a force that a foreigner versed in both languages who did not previously know which was the original, and which the translation, might take up passages in pope, thomson, collins and goldsmith and read parallel passages in delille and be extremely puzzled to distinguish the original: for none of the beauties are lost in these imitations. and yet, in preferring to imitate, it must not be inferred that he was deficient in original thoughts. to return to the theatre, i have seen mlle mars in the _rôle_ of henriette in the _femmes savantes_ of molière. oh! how admirable she is! she realizes completely the conception of a graceful and elegant frenchwoman of the first society. she does not act; she is at home as it were in her own salon, smiling at the silly pretensions of her sister and at the ridiculous pedantry of trissotin; her refusing the kiss because she does not understand greek was given with the greatest _naiveté_. in a word mlle mars reigns unrivalled as the first comic actress in europe. i have seen too, _les plaideurs_ of racine and _les fourberies de scapin_ of molière, both exceedingly well given; particularly the scene in the latter wherein it is announced to géronte that his son had fallen into the hands of a turkish corsair, and his answer "que diable allait-il faire dans la galère?" i have seen also _andromaque_, _iphigénie_ and _zaïre_. mlle volnais did the part of andromaque; but the monotonous plaintiveness of her voice, which never changes, wearies me. in _iphigénie_ i was more gratified; for mlle georges did the part of clytemnestre, and her sister, a young girl of seventeen, made her début in the part of iphigénie with great effect. the two sisters supported each other wonderfully well, and lafond did agamemnon very respectably. mlle georges the younger, having succeeded in _iphigénie_, appeared in the part of zaïre, a bold attempt, and tho' she did it well and with much grace, yet it was evidently too arduous a task for her. the whole onus of this affecting piece rests on the _rôle_ of zaïre. in the part where _naiveté_ was required she succeeded perfectly and her burst: "mais orosmane m'aime et j'ai tout oublie" was most happy; but she was too faint and betrayed too little emotion in portraying the struggle between her love for orosmane and the unsubdued symptoms of attachment to her father and brother and to the religion of her ancestors. in short, where much passion and pathos was required, there she proved unequal to the task; but she has evidently all the qualities and dispositions towards becoming a good actress, and with more study and practise i have no doubt that three or four years hence, she will be fully equal to the difficult task of giving effect to and portraying to life, the exquisitely touching and highly interesting _rôle_ of zaïre. she was not called for to appear on the stage after the termination of the performance, tho' frequently applauded during it. the actor who did the part of orosmane, in that scene wherein he discovers he has killed zaïre unjustly, gave a groan which had an unhappy effect; it was such an awkward one, that it made all the audience laugh; no people catch ridicule so soon as the french. what i principally admire on the french stage is that the actors are always perfect in their parts and all the characters are well sustained; the performance never flags for a moment; and i have experienced infinitely more pleasure in beholding the dramas of racine and voltaire than those of shakespeare, and for this reason that, on our stage, for one good actor you have the many who are exceedingly bad and who do not comprehend their author: you feel consequently a _hiatus valde deflendus_ when the principal actor or actress are not on the stage. i have been delighted to see kemble, and mrs siddons and miss o'neil, and while they were on the stage i was all eyes and ears; but the other actors were always so inferior that the contrast was too obvious and it only served to make more conspicuous the flagging of interest that pervades the tragedies of shakespeare, _macbeth_ alone perhaps excepted. i speak only of shakespeare's faults as a dramaturgus and they are rather the faults of his age than his own; for in everything else i think him the greatest litterary genius that the world ever produced, and i place him far above any poet, ancient or modern; yet in allowing all this, i do not at all wonder that his dramatic pieces do not in general please foreigners and that they are disgusted with the low buffoonery, interruption of interest and want of arrangement that ought of necessity to constitute a drama; for i feel the same objections myself when reading shakespeare, and often lose patience; but then when i come to some sublime passage, i become wrapt up in it alone and totally forget the piece itself. in order to inspire a foreigner with admiration for shakespeare, i would not give him his plays to read entire, but i would present him with a _recueil_ of the most beautiful passages of that great poet; and i am sure he would be so delighted with them that he would readily join in the "all hail" that the british nation awards him. thus you may perceive the distinction i make between the creative genius who designs, and the artist who fills up the canvas; between the poet and the dramaturgus. i am probably singular in my taste as an englishman, when i tell you that i prefer shakespeare for the closet and racine or voltaire or corneille for the stage: and with regard to english tragedies, i prefer as an acting drama home's _douglas_[ ] to any of shakespeare's, _macbeth_ alone excepted; and for this plain reason that the interest in _douglas_ never flags, nor is diverted. in giving my mite of admiration to the french stage, i am fully aware of its faults, of the long declamation and the _fade galanterie_ that prevailed before voltaire made the grand reform in that particular: and on this account i prefer voltaire as a tragedian to racine and corneille. the _phédre_ and _athalie_ of racine are certainly masterpieces, and little inferior to them are _iphigénie, andromaque_ and _britannicus_, but in the others i think he must be pronounced inferior to voltaire; as a proof of my argument i need only cite _zaïre, alzire, mahomet, sémiramis, l'orphelin de la chine, brutus_. voltaire has, i think, united in his dramatic writings the beauties of corneille, racine and crébillon and has avoided their faults; this however is not, i believe, the opinion of the french in general, but i follow my own judgment in affairs of taste, and if anything pleases me i wait not to ascertain whether the "master hath said so." it shows a delicate attention on the part of the directors of the _théâtre français_, now that so many foreigners of all nations are here, to cause to be represented every night the masterpieces of the french classical dramatic authors, since these are pieces that every foreigner of education has read and admired; and he would much rather go to see acted a play with which he was thoroughly acquainted than a new piece of one which he has not read; for as the recitation is extremely rapid it would not be so easy for him to seize and follow it without previous reading. of molière i had already seen the _avare_, the _femmes savantes_ and the _fourberies de scapin_. since these i have seen the _tartuffe_ and _george dandin_ both inimitably performed; how i enjoyed the scene of the _pauvre homme!_ in the _tartuffe_ and the lecture given to george dandin by m. and mme de sotenville wherein they recount the virtues and merits of their respective ancestors. of molière indeed there is but one opinion throughout europe; in the comic line he bears away the palm unrivalled and here i fully agree with the "general." i must not quit the subject of french theatricals without speaking of the _opéra comique_ at the _théâtre faydeau_. it is to the sort of light pieces that are given here, that the french music is peculiarly appropriate, and it is here that you seize and feel the beauty and melody of the national music; these little _chansons_, _romances_ and _ariettas_ are so pleasing to the ear that they imprint themselves durably on the memory, which is no equivocal proof of their merit. i cannot say as much for the tragic singing in the _opéra seria_ at the grand french opera, which to my ear sounds a perfect psalmody. there is but one language in the world for tragic recitative and that is italian. on the other hand, in the _genre_ of the _opéra comique_, the french stage is far superior to the italian. in the french comedy everything is graceful and natural; the italians cannot catch this happy medium, so that their comedies and comic operas are mostly _outré_, and degenerate into downright farce and buffoonery. [ ] major james grant, of the th light dragoons, was made a brevet lieutenant colonel on th june, .--ed. [ ] a phrase in prose, often quoted as a verse, from voltaire's preface to the _enfant prodigue: tous les genres sont bons, hors le genre ennuyeux_.--ed. [ ] a tragedy often acted by talma, the work of antoine d'aubigny de lafosse ( - ).--ed. [ ] thomas otway's once celebrated tragedy, .--ed. [ ] _the tragedy of douglas_, by john home ( - ).--ed. chapter v from paris to milan through dijon, chalon-sur-saône, lyons, geneva and the simplon--auxerre--dijon--napoleon at chalon-sur-saône--the army of the loire--mâcon--french _grisettes_--lyons--monuments and theatricals-- geneva--character and opinions of the genevois--voltaire's chateau at ferney--the chevalier zadera--from geneva to milan--crossing the simplon--arona--the theatres in milan--rossini--monuments in milan--art encouraged by the french--mr eustace's bigotry--return to switzerland-- clarens and vevey--lausanne--society in lausanne--return to paris--the louvre stripped--death of marshal ney. i left paris on the th sept., in the diligence of auxerre, the company was as follows: a young genevois who had served in the national guard at paris, and had been wounded in a skirmish against the prussians near that city; a young irish templar; a fat citizen of dijon and an equally fat woman going to dole. we arrived the following day at o'clock at auxerre, a town situated on the banks of the seine. water conveyance may be had from paris to auxerre, price francs the person: the price in the diligence is francs. we had during our journey much political conversation; the bourbons and the english government were the objects of attack, and neither my friend the barrister nor myself felt the least inclined to take up their cause. the genevois had with him fouché's exposé of the state of the nation, wherein he complains bitterly of the conduct of the allies. all france is now disarmed and no troops are to be seen but those in foreign uniform. the face of the country between paris and auxerre is not peculiarly striking; but the soil appears fertile and the road excellent. after breakfast we started from auxerre and stopped to sup and sleep the same night at avallon. at semur, which we passed on the following day, there is a one arched bridge of great boldness across the river armançon. we arrived in the evening at dijon. the country between auxerre and dijon is very undulating in gentle hill and dale, but for the want of trees and inclosures it has a bleak appearance. as you leave avallon and approach dijon, the hills covered with vines indicate your arrival in a wine country. i put up at the _chapeau rouge_ at dijon and remained there one day, in order to visit the _chartreuse_ which is at a short distance from the town and commands an extensive view. it was devastated during the revolution. the view from it is fine and extensive and that is all that is worth notice. the country about it is rich and cultivated, and the following lines of ariosto might serve for its description: culte pianure e delicati colli, chiare acque, ombrose ripe e prati molli.[ ] 'mid cultivated plain, delicious hill, moist meadow, shady bank, and crystal rill. --_trans_. w.s. rose. the city of dijon is large, handsome and well built. it has an appearance of industry, comfort and airiness. there are several mustard manufactories in this town. a dinner was given yesterday by the municipality to the national guard, and an immense quantity of mustard was devoured on the occasion in honor of the staple manufactory of dijon. from dijon i put myself in the diligence to go to chalon and after stopping two hours at beaune, arrived at chalon at o'clock p.m. the country between dijon and chalon is flat, but cultivated like a garden. it is likewise the wine country _par excellence_. i do not know a wine more agreeable to palate than the wine of beaune. at chalon i put up at the _hôtel du parc_. chalon is beautifully situated on the banks of the saône. the quai is well constructed and forms an agreeable promenade. there is an austrian garrison in chalon. the hostess of the inn told me that napoleon stopped at her house on his way from lyons to paris, when he returned from elba, and she related to me with great eagerness many anecdotes of that extraordinary man: she said that such was the _empressement_ on the part of the inhabitants to see him, and embrace him by way of testifying their affection, that the emperor was obliged to say: "mais vous m'étouffez, mes enfans!" in fact, had the army remained neutral, the peasantry alone would have carried the emperor on their shoulders to paris. it is quite absurd to say that a faction did this and that it was effectuated merely by the disaffection of the army. the army did its duty in the noblest manner, for it is the duty of every army to support the national cause and the voice of the people, and by no means to become the blind tools of the prince; for it is absurd, as it is degrading to humanity, it is impious to consider the prince as the proprietor of the country and the master of the people; he is, or ought to be, the principal magistrate, the principal soldier paid by the people, like any other magistrate or soldier, and like them liable to be cashiered for misconduct or breach of faith. this is not a very fashionable doctrine nowadays, and there is danger of it being forgotten altogether in the rage for what is falsely termed legitimacy; it becomes therefore the bounden duty of every friend of freedom to din this unfashionable doctrine into the ears of princes and unceasingly to exclaim to them and to their ministers: discite justitiam moniti et non temnere gentes.[ ] in their conduct on this occasion the french soldiers proved themselves far more constitutional than those of any other army in europe; let despots, priests and weak-headed tories say what they please to the contrary. i embarked the following morning at o'clock in the _coche d'eau_ for lyons. there was a very numerous and motley company on board: there were three bourgeois belonging to lyons returning thither from paris; a quiet good-humoured sort of woman not remarkable either for her beauty nor vivacity; a young spaniard, an adherent of king joseph napoleon, very taciturn and wrapped up in his cloak tho' the weather was exceeding hot; he seemed to do nothing else but smoke _cigarros_ and drink wine, of which he emptied three or four bottles in a very short time--a young piedmontese officer, disbanded from the army of the loire, who no sooner sat down on deck than he began to chaunt filicaja's beautiful sonnet, "_italia, italia, o tu cui feo la sorte_," etc.--a merchant of lyons who had been some time in england, and spoke english well--a lyonnese major of infantry, also of the army of the loire, who had served in egypt in the nd demi-brigade; three austrian officers of artillery with their servants. a large barge which followed and was towed by the _coche d'eau_ was filled with austrian soldiers, and on the banks of the river were a number of soldiers of the army of the loire returning to their families and homes. the peaceable demeanour and honourable conduct of this army is worthy of admiration, and can never be sufficiently praised: not a single act of brigandage has taken place. the austrian officers expressed to me their astonishment at this, and said they doubted whether any other army in europe, disbanded and under the same circumstances, would behave so well. i told them the french soldier was a free-man and a citizen and drawn from a respectable class of people, which was not the case in most other countries. yes, these gallant fellows who had been calumniated by furious ultras, by the base ministerial prints of england, and the venal satellites of toryism, who had been represented as brigands or as infuriated jacobins with red caps and poignards, these men, in spite, of the contumely and insult they met with from servile prefects, and from those who never dared to face them in the field, are a model of good conduct and they preserve the utmost subordination, tho' disbanded: they respect scrupulously the property of the inhabitants and pay for everything. mr. l., the young irish barrister, told me at dijon that he left his purse by mistake in a shop there in which were napoleons in gold, when a soldier of the army of the loire, who happened to be in the shop, perceived it and came running after him with it, but refused to accept of anything, tho' much pressed by mr. l., who wished to reward him handsomely for his disinterested conduct. yes, the french soldier is a fine fellow. i have served against them in holland and in egypt and i will never flinch from rendering justice to their exemplary conduct and lofty valour. no! it is not the french soldiery who can be accused of plundering and exaction, but what brought the french name in disrepute was the conduct of certain _prefects_ and _administrators_ in germany who were promoted to these posts for no other reason than because they were of the old _noblesse_ or returned _emigrants_, whom napoleon favoured in preference to the republicans whom he feared. these emigrants repaid his favours with the basest ingratitude; after being guilty of the grossest and most infamous _concussions_ on the inhabitants of those parts of germany where their jurisdiction extended, they had the hypocrisy after the restoration to declaim against the oppression of the _usurper's_ government and its system: but napoleon richly deserved to meet with this ingratitude for employing such unprincipled fellows. i believe he was never aware of the villany they carried on, or they would have met with his severest displeasure in being removed from office, as was the case with wirion at verdun.[ ] i do not find that the french soldiers with whom i have conversed are so much attached to the person of the emperor as i was led to believe; but they are attached to their country and liberty; and in serving him, they conceived they were serving the man _par excellence_ of the people. the french army too was beloved by the people, instead of being dreaded by them as the armies of most other european nations are. in short, whenever i met with and held conversation with soldiers of this army, i was always tempted to address them in the words of elvira to pizarro when she seeks to console him for his defeat: yet think another morning shall arise, nor fear the future, nor lament the past.[ ] the french major was very much inclined to take up a quarrel with an austrian officer, on my account, but i dissuaded him. the cause was as follows. a young austrian boy, servant to one of the officers of artillery, had entered the _coche d'eau_ at chalon, some minutes before his master, and began to avail himself of the right of conquest by taking possession of the totality of one of the cabins and endeavouring to exclude the other passengers; among other things he was going to thrust my portmanteau out of its place. i called to him to let it alone, when the french major stepped forward and said that if he dared to touch any of the baggage belonging to the passengers, he would punish him on the spot and his master also, for that he longed to measure swords with those "jean f---- d'autrichiens." fearful of a serious quarrel between them and being unwilling that any dispute should occur on my account, i requested the major not to meddle with the business, for that i was sure the austrian officer would check the impertinence of his servant when he came on board; and that if he did not, i was perfectly able and willing to defend my own cause. the austrian officers came on board a few minutes after, when i addressed them in german, and explained to them the behaviour of the boy; they scolded him severely for his impertinence to us and threatened him with the _schlag_, should it occur again. the rest of the journey passed without any incident. i found that my friend the major had served in the french army in egypt in the division lanusse in the battle of the st march, , ( ventose) and that consequently we were opposed to each other in that battle, as i was then serving as a lieutenant in the queen's regiment, commanded by that excellent and amiable officer the earl of d[alhousie] in general doyle's brigade. the voyage on the saône presents some pleasing and picturesque points of view; the _coteaux_ on the banks of the river are covered with vines. we arrived at o'clock in the evening to sup and sleep at mâcon and put up at the _hôtel des sauvages_. we had a most sumptuous repast, fish, flesh, fowls, game, fruit and wine in profusion, for all which, including our beds, we had only to pay - / francs the person. there is a spacious quai at mâcon, which always adds to the beauty of a city, and there are some fine buildings, public and private. i need not enlarge on the excellence of the mâcon wine. the country girls we observed on the banks of the river as we floated along, and the _grisettes_ of the town who were promenading on the quai when we arrived, wore a peculiarly elegant _costume_ and their headdress appeared to me to be something asiatic. the voyage on the subsequent day was more agreeable than the preceding one. the country between mâcon and lyons is much more beautiful and diversified than that which we have hitherto seen and resembles much the picturesque scenery of the west-indian landscape. one part between mâcon and trévoux resembles exactly the island of montserrat. within two miles of trévoux we were hailed by some _grisettes_ belonging to the inns at that place, in order to invite us to dine at their respective inns. there was one girl exceedingly beautiful whose name was sophie, daughter of the proprietor of the _hôtel des sauvages_ at trévoux. she, by her grace and coquetry, obtained the most recruits and when we disembarked from the boat, she led us in triumph to her hotel. from her beauty and graceful manner, sophie, in a country where so much hommage is paid to beauty, must be a most valuable acquisition to the interests of the inn, and tho' she smiles on all, she takes care not to make herself cheap, and like corisca in the _pastor fido_ she holds put hopes which she does not at all intend to gratify. after passing by the superb scenery on the banks of the river (which increases in interest as you approach lyons), the _isle barbe_ and _la tour de la belle allemande_, we arrived at lyons at p.m. and debarked on the _quai de la saône_. a _fiacre_ took me up and deposited me safe at the _hôtel du nord_ situated on the _place st claire_ and not many yards distant of the _quai du rhône_. lyons, th sept. lyons is situated on a tongue of land at the junction of the saône and rhône, and there is a fine bridge on the spot where the streams unite, called _le pont du confluent_, which joins the extremity of the tongue of land with the right bank of the saône. there is besides a large bridge across the rhône, higher up, before it joins the saône, leading in a right line from the _hôtel de ville_; and two other bridges across the saône. the _quai du rhône_ is by far the finest and most agreeable part of the city. it is spacious, well paved, aligned with trees, and boast the finest edifices public and private in the whole city; it is the favourite promenade of the _beaux_ and _belles_ of lyons. the sight of the broad and majestic rhône itself is a grand object, and on a fine day the prospect is augmented by the distant view of the fleecy head of mont blanc. on this quai and within a yards of the bridge on the rhône are the justly celebrated _bains du rhône_, fitted up in a style of elegance even superior to those called _les bains vigier_ on the seine at paris. the grand hospital is also on the quai; the facade is beautiful; its architecture is of the ionic order and the building itself as well as its interior economy has frequently elicited the admiration of travellers. among the places in this city the finest is that of bellecour. the scenery is extremely diversified in the environs of lyons, and in the city there is great appearance of wealth and splendour. lyons flourished greatly during the time of the continental blockade, as it was the central depôt of the commerce between france and italy. napoleon is much respected and regretted here, and with reason, as he was a great benefactor to this city. the lyonnese are too frank, too open in their sentiments and too grateful not to render justice to his great talents and good qualities, while they blame and deplore his ambition. in fact an experience of a few days and some acquaintance i made here has given me a very favourable impression of the inhabitants of this city. the men are frank in their manners, polite, well informed, and free from all frivolity. the women are in general handsome, well shaped, and have much grace and are exceedingly well educated; they seem totally free from the _petite-maîtressism_ of the parisian women, and both sexes seem to possess a good deal of what the french term _caractère_. had the parisians resembled the lyonnese, paris would never have fallen twice into the hands of the enemy, nor would the lyonnese women have welcomed the entry of the invaders into their city with waving handkerchiefs, etc. these qualities of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the cheapness of all the comforts and luxuries of life, would make lyons one of the most agreeable places of residence to a foreigner of liberal sentiments and principles. cloth and silk are the staple manufactures of lyons, particularly the latter; i accompanied my friend mr m---- to see his fabrique of silk which is of considerable extent and importance, and everything appeared to me, as far as one totally ignorant of the business and its process could judge, admirably regulated and rapid in its execution. the _tournure_ of the _grisettes_ of lyons is very striking and they possess completely the _grata protervitas_, the _vultus nimium lubricus aspici_ which horace so much admires in glycera. i visited both the theatres here, viz.: the _grand théâtre_, situated near the _hôtel de ville_, and the smaller one called the _théâtre des célestins_. at the former was some good dancing, and at the latter i was engaged in a conversation which i cannot forbear citing as it will serve to show the dislike the people have to the feudal system and the dread they have of its re-establishment, tho' they can know nothing about it except by tradition. the piece performed was called _le petit poucet_ (tom thumb and the ogre); but i missed my old acquaintance the ogre and his seven-league boots of mother goose, and found that in this melodrama he was transformed into a tyrannical and capricious _seigneur féodal_. there was a very pretty young lady about years of age accompanied by her father in the same box with me, and i observed to her, "où est donc l'ogre? il parait que l'on en a fait un seigneur féodal." "oui, monsieur (she replied), et avec raison, car ils étaient bien les ogres de ce temps là." i entered into a long conversation with my fair neighbour and found her well informed and well educated, with great good sense and knowledge of the world far beyond her years. she told me that she had begun to study english and that her father was a miniature painter. i took leave of her not without feeling much affected and my heart not a little "percosso dall' amoroso strale." i must not forget to mention that there is a most spacious and magnificent building on the _quai du rhône_ to the north of the bridge, which serves as a café and ridotto or assembly room for balls, etc. i am afraid to say how many feet it has in length; but it is the most superb establishment of the kind i have ever met with. fortunately for the city of lyons, the famous decree of robespierre for its destruction, and the column with the inscription, "lyon a porté les armes contre la liberté; lyon n'est plus," which was to occupy its place, was never put in execution and tho' this city suffered much from revolutionary vandalism yet it soon recovered and has flourished ever since in a manner unheard of at any former period. no people are more sensible than the lyonnese of the great benefits produced by the revolution, and no people more deprecate a return to the _ancien régime_. oct. nd, geneva. i started in the diligence for geneva on the th sept. and found it exceedingly cold on ascending the mountain called the _cerdon_; the scenery is savage and wild, and the road in many parts is on the brink of precipices. we stopped at nantua for supper and partook of some excellent trout. there is a large lake near the town, and 'tis here that the swiss landscape begins. commanding a narrow pass stands the fort of l'ecluse. the austrians lost a great many men in attempting to force it. from this place you have a noble view of the alps and mont-blanc towering above them. as this was the first time i beheld these celebrated mountains i was transported with delight and my mind was filled with a thousand classical and historical recollections! the scenery, the whole way from fort l'ecluse to geneva, is most magnificent and uncommonly varied. mountain and valley, winter and summer, on the same territory. descending, the city of geneva opens gradually; you behold the lake leman and the rhône issuing from it. we entered the city, which is fortified, and after crossing the double bridge across the rhône, we arrived at the _hôtel de l'eau de genève_ at o'clock. the most striking thing in the city of geneva to the traveller's eye as he enters it, is the view of the arcades on each side of the street, excellent for pedestrians and for protection against sun and rain, but which give a heavy and gloomy appearance to the city. an immense number of watch-makers is another distinguishing feature in this city. the first thing shewn to me by my _valet de place_ was the house where jean jacques rousseau was born; i then desired him to shew me the spot where that barbarian calvin caused to be burnt the unhappy servetus for not having the same religious opinions as himself. the most agreeable promenades of the city are on the bastions and ramparts, a place called _la treille_ and a garden or park of small extent called _plain palais_. in this park stands on a column the bust of j.j. rousseau. this park was the scene of a great deal of bloodshed in on account of political disputes between the aristocratic and democratic parties, or rather between the admirers and imitators of the french revolution and those who dreaded such innovations. this affair excited so much horror, and the recollection of it operated so powerfully on the imagination of the inhabitants, that the place became entirely abandoned as a public promenade, and avoided as a polluted spot for many years. very likely however a sort of lustration has taken place; an oration was pronounced and the place again declared worthy of contributing to the recreation of the inhabitants. it is now become the favourite promenade of the citizens of geneva, tho' there are still some who cannot get over their old prejudices and never set their foot in it. there is likewise a pleasant walk as far as the town of carrouge in savoy, which town has been lately ceded by the king of sardinia to the republic of geneva. in geneva the sentiments of the inhabitants do not seem to be favourable either to the french revolution, or to napoleon. their political ideas accord very much with those professed by the government party in england, and they make a great parade of them just now, as a means of courting the favour of england and of the allied sovereigns. the government here have shewn a great disposition to second the views of the allied powers in persecuting those frenchmen who have been proscribed by the bourbon government. this state lost its independence during the revolutionary wars and was incorporated with france. as the citizens were suspected of being more favourable to the english than suited the policy of the french government of that time, they were viewed with a jealous eye and i believe some individuals were harshly treated; but what most vexed and displeased them was the enforcement of the conscription among them, for the genevois do not like compulsion; they are besides more pacific than war-like and tho' like the dutch they have displayed great valour where their interest is at stake, yet mercury is a deity far more in veneration among them than bellona. the natural talent of this people is great, and it has been favoured and developed by the freedom of their institutions; and this republic has produced too many eminent men for that talent to be called in question; they seem to have decided talents and dispositions for financial operations. a genevois has the aptitude of great application united to a very discerning, natural genius, and he generally succeeds in everything he undertakes. literature is much cultivated here, and the females, who are in general handsome and graceful, excel not only in the various feminine accomplishments, such as music, dancing and drawing, but they carry their researches into the higher branches of litterature and science and acquire with great facility foreign languages. it is true that you now and then meet with a little pedantry on the part of the young men and some of the young women are _tant soit feu précieuses_; and you may guess from their conversation, which is sometimes forced, that the person who speaks has been learning his discourse by heart from some book in the morning, with the intention of sporting it as a natural conversation in the evening. in short, one does not meet with that _abandon_ in society that is to be met with in paris; you must measure your words well to shine in a genevese society. this, however, is a very pardonable sort of coxcombry; and tho' it appear sometimes pedantic, and occasionally laughable, yet it tends to encourage learning and science, and compels the young men to read in order to shine and captivate the fair. the genevese women make excellent wives and mothers; and many strangers, struck with their beauty and talent, as well as with the _agrémens_ of the country in general, marry at geneva and settle themselves there for life. it is observed that the genevoises are so attached to their country that on forming a matrimonial connection with foreigners, they always stipulate that they shall not be removed from it. on the dismemberment of the empire of napoleon, geneva was _agregé_ to the helvetic confederation, as an independent canton of which there are now twenty-two. three, viz. geneva, vaud, and neufchatel, are french in language and manners. one, the tessino, is italian, and the remaining eighteen are all german. it is a great advantage to geneva to belong to the helvetic confederacy, as formerly, when she was an isolated independent state, she was in continual dread of being swallowed up by one or other of her two powerful neighbours, france and the king of sardinia, and only existed by their forbearance and mutual jealousy. i walked out one morning to ferney in order to visit the chateau of voltaire and to do hommage to the memory of that great man, the benefactor of the human race. it was he who gave the mortal blow to superstition and to the power of the clergy. it is the fashion for priests, ultras and tories to rail against him, but i judge him by his works and the effect of his works. his memory is held in reverence by the inhabitants of ferney as their father and benefactor. he spent his whole fortune in acts of the most disinterested charity; he saved entire families from ruin and portioned off many a young woman who was deprived of the gifts of fortune and enabled them to form happy matrimonial connections; in short, doing good seems to have been one of the most ardent passions of his soul. in three memorable instances he shewed his hatred of cruelty and injustice, and unmasked triumphantly ecclesiastical imposture and fanaticism. he has been reproached with vanity, but surely that may be pardoned in a man who received the hommage of the whole literary world, who was considered as an oracle, and whose every sentence was recorded; whose talent was so universal, that he excelled in every branch of litterature that he undertook. ferney, which was only a miserable village when voltaire first took up his residence there, is now a large flourishing and opulent town. i found voltaire's chateau occupied by a fat heavy swiss officer who was on duty there, ferney being at this moment occupied by the troops of the swiss confederation. he was at breakfast, but on my stating to him that i was come to see the apartments of voltaire he directed the housekeeper to shew them to me. on the left hand side after ascending a flight of steps, before you come into the château, is a chapel built by voltaire with this simple inscription: "_deo erexit voltaire_." in the apartment usually occupied by him for the purpose of composition, are preserved his chair, table, inkstand and bed as sacred relics; and in the salon are to be seen the portraits of several public characters, his contemporaries, and which were constantly appended there in his life time. among these portraits i distinguished those of frederick the great of prussia, catherine ii of russia, lekain, diderot, alembert, franklin, helvetius, marmontel and washington, besides many others. there is nothing remarkable either in the château, or in the gardens appertaining to it; but as it stands on an elevation, it commands a fine view, which is so well described in that ode which begins: Ô maison d'aristippe, ô jardins d'epicure! i returned to geneva and dined with my friend m. picot the banker, who presented me to his brother's family, which i found a very amiable one, and i was particularly delighted with his father, a fine venerable old man, who is a pastor of the church of geneva and a great admirer of our poets thomson and milton. i have made acquaintance at the _ecu de genève_ with a very gallant and accomplished officer, the chevalier zadera, a pole by birth and a colonel in the french army.[ ] he had been on the staff of the prince d'eckmühl at hamburgh and had served previously in st domingo, in germany and in italy. he had just quitted the french service, having a great repugnance to serve under the bourbon dynasty, and he is about to go to italy on private business. he seems a very well informed man and well versed in french, italian and german litterature. he also understands well to read and write english and speaks it, but not at all fluently. he acquired his english in the united states of america, whither he went when he escaped from the horrors of st domingo. by the americans he was received with open arms and unbounded hospitality as the compatriot of pulaski who fell gloriously fighting in their cause, the cause of liberty, at the battle of savannah. he was liberally supplied with money by several individuals without the smallest expectation or chance of repayment at the time, and was forwarded in this manner from town to town and from state to state throughout the whole union; so that the tour he made and the time he passed in that land of liberty, he reckons as far the most agreeable epoch of his life. one evening at the _ecu de genève_ i found zadera in altercation on political subjects with two french ultras who had been emigrants, a genevois and a bernois, both anti-liberal. this was fearful odds for poor zadera to be alone against four _acharnés_. i sat down and espoused his cause and we maintained our argument gloriously. the dispute began on the occasion of zadera condemning the harshness shewn by the government of geneva towards the _conventionnels_ and others who were banished from france on the second restoration of louis xviii by a vote of the _chambre introuvable_ in refusing them an asylum in the republic and compelling them to depart immediately in a very contumelious manner. i said it was inconsistent and unworthy of the genevese who called themselves republicans to persecute or join in the persecution of the republicans of france in order to please foreign despots. the others then began to be very violent with me. i replied, "messieurs, vous avez beau parler; les genevois sont de très bons cambistes et les meilleurs banquiers de l'europe, mais il ne sont pas bons républicains." geneva has been so often described by tourists that i shall not attempt any description except to remark that there are several good cabinets and collections of pictures belonging to individuals. there is a magnificent public library. the manufactures are those of watches and models of the alps which are exceedingly ingenious. there are no theatrical amusements here; and during divine service on sunday the gates of the city are shut, and neither ingress nor egress permitted; fortunately their liturgy (the calvinistic) is at least one hour shorter than the anglican. balls and concerts take place here very often and the young genevois of both sexes are generally proficient in music. they amuse themselves too in summer with the "tir de l'arc" in common with all the swiss cantons. october rd. i have been in doubt whether i should go to lausanne, return to paris or extend my journey into italy; but i have at length decided for the latter, as zadera, who intends to start immediately for milan, has offered me a place in his carriage _à frais communs_. i found him so agreeable a man and possessing sentiments so analogous to my own that i eagerly embraced the offer, and we are to cross the simplon, so that i shall behold a travel over that magnificent _chausée_ made by napoleon's orders, which i have so much desired to see and which everybody tells me is a most stupendous work and exceeding anything ever made by the romans. as the chevalier has served in italy and was much _répandu_ in society there, i could not possibly have a pleasanter companion. he has with him dante and alfieri, and i have gessner's _idylls_ and my constant travelling companion ariosto, so that we shall have no loss for conversation, for when our native wits are exhausted, a page or two from any of the above authors will suggest innumerable ideas, anecdotes, and subjects of discourse. milan, th oct. we started from geneva at seven in the morning of the th october, and in half an hour entered the savoyard territory, of which _douaniers_ with blue cockades (the cockade of the king of sardinia) gave us intimation. the road is on the south side of the lake leman. in evian and thonon, the two first villages we passed thro', we do not find that _aisance_, comfort and cleanliness that is perceivable on the other side of the lake, in the delightful canton de vaud. the double yoke of priestcraft and military despotism presses hard upon the unhappy savoyard and wrings from him his hard-earned pittance, while no people are better off than the vaudois; yet the savoyards are to the full as deserving of liberty as the swiss. the savoyard possesses honesty, fidelity and industry in a superior degree, and these qualities he seldom or ever loses, even when exposed to the temptations of a great metropolis like paris, to which they are compelled to emigrate, as their own country is too poor to furnish the means of subsistence to all its population. when in paris and other large cities, the savoyards contrive, by the most indefatigable industry and incredible frugality, to return to their native village after a certain lapse of time, with a little fortune that is amply sufficient for their comfort. the poorest savoyard in paris never fails to remit something for the support of his parents. both voltaire and rousseau have rendered justice to the good qualities of this honest people. it is a thousand pities that this country (savoy) is not either incorporated with france, or made to form part of the helvetic confederacy. on passing by la meillerie we were reminded of "la nouvelle héloise" and the words of st preux: "le rocher est escarpé: l'eau est profonde et je suis au désespoir." on the opposite side of the lake is to be seen the little white town of clarens, the supposed residence of the divine julie. a little beyond st gingolph, which lies at the eastern extremity of the lake, we quit savoy and enter into the valais, which now forms, a component part of the helvetic confederacy. german is the language spoken in the valais. as the high road into italy passes thro' the whole length of this canton, napoleon caused it to be separated from the helvetic union and to form a republic apart, with the ulterior view and which he afterwards carried into execution of annexing it to the french empire. the valais forms a long and exceedingly narrow valley, thro' the whole length of which the rhône flows and falls into the lake leman at st gingolph. the breadth of this valley in its widest part is not more probably than , yards, and in most places considerably narrower, and it is enclosed on each side, or rather walled up by the immense mountains of the higher alps which rise here very abruptly and seem to shut out this valley from the rest of the world. the high road runs nearly parallel to the course of the rhône and is sometimes on one side of the river and sometimes on the other, communicating by bridges; from the sinuosity of the road and the different points of view presented by the salient and re-entering angles, of the mountains the scenery is extremely picturesque, grand and striking, and as sometimes no outlet presents itself to view, you do not perceive how you are ever to get out of this valley but by a stratagem similar to that of sindbad in the valley of diamonds. at st maurice is a remarkable one-arched bridge built by the romans. we stopped at martigny to pass the night; within one mile of martigny and before arriving at it, we perceived the celebrated waterfall called the _pissevache_; and the appellation, though coarse, is perfectly applicable. from martigny a bridle road branches off which leads across the grand st bernard to aoste. the next morning we arrived at sion, called in the language of the country sitten, the metropolis of the valais; it is a neat-looking and tolerably large town, and which from its position might be made a most formidable military post, as there is a steep hill close to it which rises abruptly from the centre of the valley, and commands an extensive view east and west. works erected on this height would enfilade the whole road either way and totally obstruct the approach of an enemy. there is besides a large castle on the southern _paroi_ of mountains which hem in this valley, which would expose to a most galling fire and take in flank completely those who should attempt to force the passage whether coming from st maurice or brieg. we stopped two hours at sion to mend a wheel and this gave me time to ascend the mountain on which the castle stands. there were several masons and workmen employed in the construction of a church which they are erecting at the request and entire expense of his sardinian majesty. i could not ascertain what were the reasons that induced the king to build a church in a foreign territory. i did not observe either on the road or in any of the village thro' which we passed any striking specimen of valaisan female beauty; but i often remarked the prominent bosom that rousseau describes as frequent among them. we met with several _crétins_ or idiots, all of whom had _goitres_ in a greater or less degree. these _souls of god without sin_, as the crétins are called, are very merry souls; they always appear to be laughing. they seem to have adopted and united three systems of philosophy: they are diogenes as to independence and neglect of decency and cleanliness; democriti as to their disposition to laugh perpetually; and aristippi inasmuch as they seem to be perfectly contented with their state. they are in general fat and well fed, for the poorest inhabitants give them something. they have a good deal of cunning, and many curious anecdotes are related of them which shews that they are endowed with a sort of sagacity resembling the instinct of animals. i recollect one myself mentioned by zimmermann in his essay on solitude, of a crétin who was accustomed to imitate with his voice the sound of the village clock whenever it struck the hours and quarters; one day, by some accident, the clock stopped; yet the cretin went through the chimes of the hours and quarters with the same regularity as the clock would have done had it been going. we arrived at night at the village of brieg at the foot of the simplon and put up at a very comfortable inn. brieg and glisse are two small villages lying within a quarter of a mile distance from each other. the direct road runs thro' brieg and is a great advantage to this town; while glisse lost this benefit from the opposition shewn by its inhabitants to the annexation of the valais to the french empire. they now deeply regret this refusal as few travellers chuse to stop at glisse. _passage of the simplon_. chi mi darà la voce e le parole convenienti a si nobil soggetto?[ ] who will vouchsafe me voice that shall ascend as high as i would raise my noble theme? --trans. w.s. rose. how shall i describe the simplon and the impressions that magnificent piece of work, the _chaussée_ across it, made on my mind? on arrival at the village of the simplon, which lies at nearly the greatest elevation off the road and is more than half-way across, i wrote in my enthusiasm for the author of this gigantic work, the following lines: o viaggiator, se avessi tu veduto quel monte, pria che fosse il cammin fatto, leveresti le mani, e stupefatto diresti, "chi l'avrebbe mai creduto? son come quel d'alcide i tuoi miracoli! vincesti, napoleon', più grandi ostacoli!" imagine a fine road or causeway broad enough for three carriages to go abreast, cut in the flanks of the mountains, winding along their contours, sometimes zigzag on the flank of one ravine, and sometimes turning off nearly at right angles to the flank of another; separated from each other by precipices of tremendous depth, and communicating by one-arched bridges of surprising boldness; besides stone bridges at each re-entering angle, to let pass off the water which flows from the innumerable cascades, which fall from the summits of the mountains. ice and snow eternal on the various _pics_ or _aiguilles_ (as the summits are here called) which tower above your head, and yet in the midst of these _belles horreurs_ the road is so well constructed, so smooth, and the slope so gentle that when there are fogs, which often happen here and prevent you from beholding the surrounding scenery, you would suppose you were travelling on a plain the whole time. balustrades are affixed on the sides of the most abrupt precipices and buttresses also in order to secure the exterior part of the _chaussèe_. on the whole length of the _chaussèe_ on the exterior side are conical stones of four feet in height at ten paces distant from each other, in order to mark the road in case of its being covered with snow. there are besides _maisons de refuge_ or cottages, at a distance of one league from each other, wherein are stationed persons to give assistance and food to travellers, or passengers who may be detained by the snow storms. there is always in these cabins a plentiful supply of biscuit, cheese, salt and smoked meats, wine, brandy and fire-wood. in those parts of the road where the sides of the ravines are not sloping enough to admit of the road being cut along them, subterraneous galleries have been pierced through the rock, some of fifty, some of a hundred and more yards in length, and nearly as broad as the rest of the road. in a word it appears to me the grandest work imagined or made by man, and when combined with its extreme utility, far surpasses what is related of the seven wonders of the world. there are fifty-two bridges throughout the whole of this route, which begins at the distance of three miles from geneva, skirts the southern shore of the lake, runs thro' the whole valais, traverses the simplon and issuing from the gorges of the mountains at domo d'ossola terminates at rho in the milanese. from brieg to the toll-house, the highest part of the road, the distance is about miles. it made me dreadfully giddy to look down the various precipices; and what adds to the vertigo one feels is the deafening noise of the various waterfalls. as the road is cut zigzag, in many parts, you appear to preserve nearly the same distance from brieg after three hours' march, as after half an hour only, since you have that village continually under your eyes, nor do you lose sight of it till near the toll-house. brieg appears when viewed from various points of the road like the card-houses of children, the valais like a slip of green baize, and the rhône like a very narrow light blue ribband; and when at brieg before you ascend you look up at the toll-house, you would suppose it impossible for any human being to arrive at such a height without the help of a balloon. it reminded me of the castle of the enchanter in the _orlando furioso_, who keeps ruggiero confined and who rides on the hippogriff. the village of the simplon is a mile beyond the toll-house, descending. we stopped there for two hours to dine. a snow storm had fallen and the weather was exceedingly cold; the mountain air had sharpened our appetite, but we could get nothing but fish and eggs as it was a _jour maigre_, and the valaisans are rigid observers of the ordinances of the catholic church. we however, on assuring the landlord that we were _militaires_, prevailed on him to let us have some ham and sausages. german is the language here. the road from the toll-house to domo d'ossola (the first town at the foot of the mountain on the italian side) is a descent, but the slope is as gentle as on the rest of the road. fifteen miles beyond the village of the simplon stands the village of isella, which is the frontier town of the king of sardinia, and where there is a rigorous _douane_, and ten miles further is domo d'ossola, where we arrived at seven in the evening. between isella and domo d'ossola the scenery becomes more and more romantic, varying at every step, cataracts falling on all sides, and three more galleries to pass. domo d'ossola appears a large and neat clean town, and we put up at a very good inn. at isella begins the italian language, or rather piedmontese. the next morning we proceeded on our journey till we reached fariolo, which is on the northern extremity of the _lago maggiore_. the road from domo d'ossola thro' the villages of ornavasso and vagogna is thro' a fertile and picturesque valley, or rather gorge, of the mountain, narrow at first, but which gradually widens as you approach to the lake. the river toso runs nearly in a parallel direction with the road. the air is much milder than in switzerland, and you soon perceive the change of climate from its temperature, as well as from the appearance of the vines and mulberry trees and indian corn called in this country _grano turco_. at fariolo, after breakfast, my friend zadera took leave of me and embarked his carriage on the lake in order to proceed to lugano; and i who was bound to milan, having hired a cabriolet, proceeded to arona, after stopping one hour to refresh the horses at belgirate. the whole road from fariolo to arona is on the bank of the _lago maggiore_, and nothing can be more neat than the appearance of all these little towns which are solidly and handsomely built in the italian taste. before i arrived at arona, and at a distance of two miles from it, i stopped in order to ascend a height at a distance of one-eighth of a mile from the road to view the celebrated colossal statue in bronze of st charles borromaeus, which may be seen at a great distance. it is seventy cubits high, situated on a pedestal of twenty feet, to ascend which requires a ladder. you then enter between his legs, or rather the folds of his gown, and ascend a sort of staircase till you reach his head. there is something so striking in the appearance of this black gigantic figure when viewed from afar, and still more when you are at the foot of it, that you would suppose yourself living in the time of fairies and enchanters, and it strongly reminded me of the arabian nights, as if the statue were the work of some génie or peri; or as if it were some rebel genius transformed into black marble by solomon the great prophet. i am not very well acquainted with the life and adventures of this saint, but he was of the borromean family, who are the most opulent proprietors of the milanese. every tract of land, palace, castle, farm in the environs of arona seem to belong to them. if you ask whose estate is that? whose villa is that? whose castle is that? the answer is, to the count borromeo, who seems to be as universal a proprietor here as _nong-tong-paw_ at paris or _monsieur kaniferstane_ at amsterdam.[ ] arona is a large, straggling but solidly built town, and presents nothing worth notice. we proceeded on our journey the next morning. shortly after leaving arona, the road diverges from the lake and traverses a thick wood until it reaches the banks of the tessino; on the other bank of which, communicating by means of a flying bridge, stands the town of sesto calende. the tessino divides and forms the boundary between the sardinian and austrian territory, and sesto calende is the frontier of his imperial, royal and apostolic majesty. after a rigorous search of my portmanteau at the _douane_, and exhibiting my passport, i was allowed to proceed on my journey to milan. at rho, where i stopped to dine, stands a remarkably ancient tree said to have been planted in the time of augustus. the country presents a perfect plain, highly cultivated, all the way from sesto to milan. the _chaussée_ is broad and admirably well kept up and lined on both sides with poplars. the roads in lombardy are certainly the finest in europe. i entered milan by the gate which leads direct to the esplanade between the citadel and the city, and drove to the _pension suisse_, which is in a street close to the cathedral and ducal palace. milan, october. i am just returned from the _teatro della scala_, renowned for its immense size: it certainly is the most stupendous theatre i ever beheld and even surpassed the expectation i had formed of it, so much so that i remained for some minutes lost in astonishment. i was much struck with the magnificence of the scenery and decorations. an _opera_ and _ballo_ are given every night, and the same are repeated for a month, when they are replaced by new ones. the boxes are all hired by the year by the different noble and opulent families, and in the _parterre_ the price is only thirty soldi or sous, about fifteen pence english, for which you are fully as well regaled as at the _grand opéra_ at paris for three and a half francs and far better than at the italian theatre in london for half a guinea. the opera i saw represented is called _l'italiana in algieri_, opera buffa, by rossini. the _ballo_ was one of the most magnificent spectacles i ever beheld. the scenery and decorations are of the first class and superior even to those of the _grand opéra_ at paris. the _ballo_ was called _il cavaliere del tempio_. the story is taken from an occurrence that formed an episode in the history of the crusades and which has already furnished to walter scott the subject of a very pleasing ballad entitled the _fire-king_, or _count albert and fair rosalie_. battles of foot and horse with real horses, christians and moslems, dancing, incantations, excellent and very appropriate music leave nothing to be desired to the ravished spectator. in the _ballo_ all is done in pantomime and the acting is perfect. the italians seem to inherit from their ancestors the faculty of representing by dumb show the emotions of the mind as well as the gestures of the body, and in this they excel all other modern nations. the dancing is not quite so good as what one sees at the paris theatre, and besides that sort of dancing they are very fond in italy of grotesque dances which appear to me to be mere _tours de force_. but the decorations are magnificent, and the cost must be great. it was a fine moonlight night on my return from the _scala_, which gave a very pleasing effect to the _duomo_ or cathedral as i passed by it. the innumerable aiguilles or spires of the most exquisite and delicate workmanship, tapering and terminating in points all newly whitened, gave such an appearance of airiness and lightness to this beautiful building that it looked more visionary than substantial, and as if a strong puff of wind would blow it away. the next morning i went to visit the cathedral in detail. it stands in the place called _piazza del duomo_. on this _piazza_ stands also the ducal palace; the principal cafés and the most splendid shops are in the same _piazza_, which forms the morning lounge of milan. parallel to one side of the _duomo_ runs the _corsia de' servi_, the widest and most fashionable street in milan, the resort of the _beau monde_ in the evening, and leading directly out to the _porta orientale_. the cathedral appears to me certainly the most striking gothic edifice i ever beheld. it is as large as the cathedral of notre dame at paris, and the architecture of the interior is very massive. there is little internal ornament, however, except the tomb or mausoleum of st charles borromeo, round which is a magnificent railing; there are also the statues of this saint and of st ambrogio. there are several well-executed bas-reliefs on the outside of the church, from scripture subjects, and the view from any of the balconies of the spires is very extensive. on the north the alps, covered with snow and appearing to rise abruptly within a very short horizon, tho' their distance from milan is at least sixty or seventy miles; and on all the other sides a vast and well-cultivated plain as far as the eye can reach, thickly studded with towns and villages, and the immense city of milan nine miles in circumference at your feet. the streets in general in milan are well paved; there is a line of trottoir on each side of the street equi-distant from the line of houses; so that these trottoirs seem to be made for the carriage wheels to roll on, and not for the foot passengers, who must keep within the space that lies between the trottoirs and line of houses. with the exception of the _piazza del duomo_ there is scarcely anything that can be called a _piazza_ in all milan, unless irregular and small open places may be dignified with that name; the houses and buildings are extremely solid in their construction and handsome in their appearance. a canal runs thro' the city and leads to pavia; on this canal are stone bridges of a very solid construction. the shops in milan are well stored with merchandize, and make a very brilliant display. the finest street, without doubt, is the _corsia de' servi_. in the part of it that lies parallel to the cathedral, it is about as broad as the _rue st honoré_ at paris; but two hundred yards beyond it, it suddenly widens and is then broader than portland place the whole way to the _porta orientale_. on the left hand of this street, on proceeding from the cathedral to the _porta orientale_, is a beautiful and extensive garden; an ornamental iron railing separates it from the street. from the number of fine trees here there is so much shade therefrom that it forms a very agreeable promenade during the heat of the day. on the right hand side of the _corsia de' servi_, proceeding from the cathedral, are the finest buildings (houses of individuals) in milan, among which i particularly distinguished a superb palace built in the best grecian taste with a colonnaded portico, surmounted by eight columns. just outside the _porta orientale_ is the _corso_, with a fine spacious road with _allées_ on each side lined with trees. the _corso_ forms the evening drive and _promenade à cheval_ of the _beau monde_. i have seen nowhere, except in hyde park, such a brilliant show of equipages as on the corso of milan. i observe that the women display a great _luxe de parure_ at this promenade. the women here appear to me in general handsome, and report says not at all cruel. they have quite a _fureur_ for dress and ornaments, hi the adapting of which, however, they have not so much taste as the french women have. the milanese women do not understand the _simplicité recherchée_ in their attire, and are too fond of glaring colours. the milanese women are accused of being too fond of wine, and a calculation has been made that two bottles _per diem_ are drank by each female in milan; but, supposing this calculation were true, let not the english be startled, for the wine of this, country is exceedingly light, lighter indeed than the weakest burgundy wine; indeed, i conceive that two bottles of lombard wine are scarce equivalent in strength to four wine glasses of port wine. the lombards for this reason never drink water with their wine; and indeed it is not necessary, for i am afraid that all the wine drank in milan is already baptised before it leaves the hands of the vendor, except that reserved for the priesthood; such, at any rate, was the case before the french revolution, and no doubt the wine sellers would oppose the abolition of so _ancient_ and _sacred_ a custom. the milanese are a gay people, hospitable and fond of pleasure: they are more addicted to the pleasures of the table than the other people of italy, and dinner parties are in consequence much more frequent here than in other italian towns. the women here are said to be much better educated than in the rest of italy, for napoleon took great pains to promote and encourage female instruction, well knowing that to be the best means of regenerating a country. the dialect spoken in the milanese has a harsh nasal accent, to my ear peculiarly disagreeable. pure italian or tuscan is little spoken here, and that only to foreigners. french, on the contrary, is spoken a good deal; but the milanese, male and female, among one another, speak invariably the _patois_ of the country, which has more analogy to the french than to the italian, but without the grace or euphony of either. i have visited likewise the _zecca_, or mint, where i observed the whole process of coining. they still continue to coin here napoleons of gold and silver, with the date of , and they coin likewise crowns or dollars with maria theresa's head, with the date of the last year of her reign. the double napoleon of forty _franchi_ of the kingdom of italy is a beautiful coin; on the run are the words, _dio protegge l'italia_. it may not be unnecessary to remark that in italy by the word _napoleone_, as a coin, is meant the five franc piece with the head of napoleon, and a twenty franc gold piece is called _napoleone d'oro_. at the _zecca_ i was shown some gold, silver and bronze medals, struck in commemoration of the formation of the lombardo-venetian kingdom, under the sceptre of austria. they bear the following inscription, which, if i recollect aright, is from horace: redeunt in aurum tempora priscum,[ ] but this golden age is considered by the italians as a very leaden one; and it seems to bear as much analogy to the golden age, as the base austrian copper coin, daubed over with silver, and made to pass for fifteen and thirty soldi, has to the real gold and silver _napoleoni_, which by the way are said to be fast disappearing; they are sent to vienna, and milan will probably be in time blessed with a similar paper currency to that of vienna. napoleon seems to be as much regretted by the milanese as the austrian government is abhorred; in fact, everybody speaks with horror and disgust of the _aspro boreal scettro_ and of the _aquila che mangia doppio_, an allusion taken from the arms of austria, the double-headed eagle. i have visited the ancient ducal, now the royal, palace; it is a spacious building, chaste in its external appearance, but its ulterior very magnificent; its chiefest treasures are the various costly columns and pilasters of marble and of _jaune antique_ which are to be met with. the _salle de danse_ is peculiarly elegant, and in one of the apartments is a fine painting on the plafond representing jupiter hurling thunderbolts on the giants. jupiter bears the head of napoleon. good god! how this man was spoiled by adulation! the staircase of the palace is superb, and the furniture is of the most elegant description, being faithfully and classically modelled after the antique roman and grecian. after visiting the ambrosian library (by the way, it is quite absurd to visit a library unless you employ whole days to inspect the various editions), i went to the hospital, which is a stupendous building, and makes up , beds. the arrangement of this hospital merits the greatest praise. i then peeped into several churches, and i verily believe my conductor would have made me visit every church in milan, if i had not lost all patience, and cried out: _perche sempre chiese? sempre chiese? andiamo a vedere altra cosa_. he conducted me then to the citadel, or rather place where the citadel stood, and which now forms a vast barrack for the austrian troops. we then went to visit the _teatro olimpico_, which was built by napoleon. it is built in the style of the roman amphitheatres, but much more of an oval form than the roman amphitheatres were in general; that is to say, the transverse axis is much longer in proportion to the conjugate diameter than is the case in the roman amphitheatres, and it is by no means so high. in the time of napoleon, games were executed in this circus in imitation of the games of the ancients, for napoleon had a great hankering to ape the roman caesars in everything. there were, for instance, gymnastic exercises, races on foot, horse races, chariot races like those of the romans, combats of wild beasts, and as water can be introduced into the arena, there were sometimes exhibited _naumachiae_ or naval fights. these exhibitions were extremely frequent at milan during the vice-regency of prince eugène napoleon; during this government, indeed, milan flourished in the highest degree of opulence and splendour and profited much by being one of the principal depôts of the inland trade between france and italy, during the continental blockade, besides enjoying the advantage of being the seat of government during the existence of the _regno d'italia_. even now, tho' groaning under the leaden sceptre of austria, it is one of the most lively and splendid cities i ever beheld; and i made this remark to a milanese. he answered with a deep sigh: "ah! monsieur, si vous aviez été ici dans le temps du prince eugène! mais aujourd'hui nous sommes ruinés." my next visit was to the _porta del sempione_, which is at a short distance from the amphitheatre, and which, were it finished, would be the finest thing of the kind in europe; it was designed, and would have been completed by napoleon, had he remained on the throne. figures representing france, italy, fortitude and wisdom adorn the façade and there are several bas-reliefs, among which is one representing napoleon receiving the keys of milan after the battle of marengo. all is yet unfinished; columns, pedestals, friezes, capitals and various other architectural ornaments, besides several unhewn blocks of marble, lie on the ground; and probably this magnificent design will never be completed for no other reason than because it was imagined by napoleon and might recall his glories. verily, legitimacy is childishly spiteful! yesterday morning i went to see an italian comedy represented at the _teatro re_. the piece was _l'ajo nell' imbarazzo_--a very droll and humorous piece--but it was not well acted, from the simple circumstance of the actors not having their parts by heart, and the illusion of the stage is destroyed by hearing the prompter's voice full as loud as that of the actors, who follow his promptings something in the same way that the clerk follows the clergyman in that prayer of the anglican liturgy which says "we have erred and strayed from our ways like lost sheep." an italian audience is certainly very indulgent and good-natured, as they never hiss, however miserable the performance. but in speaking of theatrical performances, no person should leave milan without going to see the _teatro girolamo_, which is one of the "curiosities" of the place, peculiar to milan, and more frequented, perhaps, than any other. this is a puppet theatre, but puppets so well contrived and so well worked as to make the spectacle well worth the attention of the traveller. it is the _nec plus ultra of marionettism_, in which signer girolamo, the proprietor, has made a revolution, which will form an epoch in the annals of puppetry; having driven from the stage entirely the _graziosissima maschera d'arlecchino_, who used to be the hero of all the pieces represented by the puppets and substituted himself, or rather a puppet bearing his name, in the place of harlequin, as the principal _farceur_ of the performance. he has contrived to make the puppet girolamo a little like himself, but so much caricatured and so monstrously ugly a likeness that the bare sight of it raises immediate laughter. the theatre itself is small, being something under the size of our old haymarket little theatre, but is very neatly and tastefully fitted up. the puppets are about half of the natural size of man, and girolamo, aided by one or two others, works them and gives them gesture, by means of strings, which are, however, so well contrived as to be scarcely visible; and girolamo himself speaks for all, as, besides being a ventriloquist, he has a most astonishing faculty of varying his voice, and adapting it to the _rôle_ of each puppet, so that the illusion is complete. the scenery and decorations are excellent. sometimes he gives operas as well as dramas, and there is always a _ballo_, with transformation of one figure into another, which forms part of the performance. these transformations are really very curious and extremely well executed. almost all the pieces acted on the theatre are of girolamo's own composition, and he sometimes chooses a classical or mythological subject, in which the puppet girolamo is sure to be introduced and charged with all the wit of the piece. he speaks invariably with the accent and _patois_ of the country, and his jokes never fail to keep the audience in a roar of laughter; his mode of speech and slang phrases form an absurd contrast to the other figures, who speak in pure italian and pompous _versi sciolti_. for instance, the piece i saw represented was the story of alcestis and was entitled _la scesa d'ercole nell inferno_, to redeem the wife of admetus. hercules, before he commences this undertaking, wishes to hire a valet for the journey, has an interview with girolamo, and engages him. hercules speaks in blank verse and in a phrase, full of _sesquipedalia verba_, demands his country and lineage. girolamo replies in the piedmontese dialect and with a strong nasal accent: "_de mi pais, de piemong_." girolamo, however, though he professes to be as brave as mars himself has a great repugnance to accompanying his master to the shades below, or to the "_casa del diavolo_," as he calls it; and while hercules fights with cerberus, he shakes and trembles all over, as he does likewise when he meets _madonna morte_. all this is very absurd and ridiculous, but it is impossible not to laugh and be amused at it. an anecdote is related of the _flesh and blood_ girolamo, that he had a very pretty wife, who took it into her head one day to elope with a french officer; and that to revenge himself he dramatized the event and produced it on his own theatre under the title of _colombina scampata coll'uffiziale_, having filled the piece with severe satire and sarcastic remarks against women in general and colombina in particular. the atelier of the famous artist in mosaic rafaelli is well worth inspecting; and here i had an opportunity of beholding a copy in mosaic and nearly finished of the celebrated picture of leonardo da vinci representing the _caena domini_. what a useful as well as admirable art is the mosaic to perpetuate the paintings of the greatest masters! i recollected on beholding this work that eustace, in his _tour thro' italy_,[ ] relates with a pious horror that the french soldiers used the original picture as a target to practise at with ball cartridge, and that christ's head was singled out as the mark. this absurd tale, which had not the least shadow of truth in it, has, it appears, gained some credit among weak-minded people; and i therefore beg leave to contradict it in the most formal manner. it was buonaparte who, the moment the picture was discovered, ordered it to be put in mosaic. no! the french were the protectors and encouragers, and by no means the destroyers of the works of art; and this ridiculous story of the picture being used as a target was probably invented by the priesthood, who seemed to have taken great delight in imposing on poor eustace's credulity. to me it seems that such a story could only have been invented by a monk, and believed and repeated by an old woman or a bigot. the priests and french emigrants have invented and spread the most shameful and improbable calumnies against the french republicans and against napoleon, and that credulous gull john bull has been silly enough to give full credence to all these tales, and stand staring with his eyes and mouth open at the recital, while a vulgar jobbing ministry (as cobbet would say) _picked his pockets_. quite of a piece with this is the said mr eustace's bigotry, in not chusing to call lombardy by its usual appellation "lombardy," and affectedly terming it "the plain of the po." why so, will be asked? why because mr eustace hates the ancient lombards, and holds them very nearly in as much horror as he does the modern french; because, as he says, they were the enemies of the church and made war on and despoiled the holy see. the fact is that the lombard princes were the most enlightened of all the monarchs of their time; they were the first who began to resist the encroachments of the clergy and to shake off that abject submission to the holy see which was the characteristic of the age. the lombards were a fine gallant race of men and not so bigoted as the other nations of europe. where has there ever reigned a better and more enlightened and more just and humane prince than theodoric?[ ] but theodoric was an arian, hence mr eustace's aversion, for he, with the most servile devotion, rejects, condemns and anathematizes whatever the church rejects, condemns and anathematizes. for myself i look on the extinction of the lombard power by charlemagne to have been a great calamity; had it lasted, the reformation and deliverance of europe from papal and ecclesiastical tyranny would have happened probably three hundred years sooner and the inquisition never have been planted in spain. i have made this digression from a love of justice and from a wish to vindicate the french republic and napoleon from one at least of the many unjust aspersions cast on them. i feel it also my duty to state on every occasion that i, belonging to an army sent to egypt in order to expel them from that country, have been an eyewitness of the good and beneficial reforms and improvements that the french made in egypt during a period of only three years. they did more for the good of that country in this short period, than we have done for india in fifty years. being obliged to be in london on the th december i took leave of the agreeable city of milan with much regret on the th of october and engaged a place in a swiss _voiture_ going to lausanne. my fellow travellers were two brunswick officers in the service of the princess of wales, who were returning to their native country; and a hungarian and his son settled in domo d'ossola. nothing occurred till we arrived at arona, where we were detained a whole day, in consequence of some informality in the passport of the two germans, viz., that of its not having been _visé_ by the sardinian chargé d'affaires at milan. during our detention at arona, i fell in with a young frenchman who was going to milan in company of some swiss friends. the swiss were permitted to proceed, but the other was not, for no other reason than because he was a frenchman; so that he took a place in our carriage in order to return to switzerland. i found him a very agreeable companion, for tho' much chagrined and vexed at this harsh and ungenerous treatment on the part of the piedmontese authorities, he soon recovered his good humour, and contributed much to the pleasure of our journey. the germans came back to arona very late at night, and during the rest of the journey gave vent to their feelings with many an execration such as _verfluchter spitzbube, hundsfott_, on the heads of the inexorable police officers of arona. the next day, on passing by belgirate, we took a boat to visit the borromean islands, and afterwards returned to rejoin our carriage at fariolo. the first of these islands that we visited was the _isola bella_, where there is a large and splendid villa, belonging to the borromean family. the rooms are of excellent and solid structure, and there are some good family pictures. the furniture is ancient, but costly. the _rez de chaussée_ or lower part of the house, which is completely _à fleur d'eau_ with the lake, is tastefully paved, and the walls decorated with a mosaic of shells. one would imagine it the abode of a sea nymph. i thought of calypso and galatea. there are in these apartments _à fleur d'eau_ two or three exquisite statues. lausanne, th november. i have been now nearly three weeks at lausanne and am much pleased both with the inhabitants, who are extremely affable and well-informed, and with the beautiful sites that environ this city, the capital of the canton de vaud. the sentiments of the vaudois, with the exception of a few absurd families among the _noblesse_, who from ignorance or prejudice are sticklers for the old times, are highly liberal; and as they acquired their freedom and emancipated themselves from the yoke of the bernois, thro' the means of the french revolution, they are grateful to that nation and receive with hospitality those who are proscribed by the present french government; their behaviour thus forming a noble contrast to the servility of the genevese. the government of the canton de vaud is wholly democratic and is composed of a landamman and grand and petty council, all _bourgeois_, or of the most intelligent among the agricultural class, who know the interests of their country right well, and are not likely to betray them, as the _noblesse_ are but too often induced to do, for the sake of some foolish ribband, rank, or title. the _noblesse_ are in a manner self-exiled (so they say) from all participation in the legislative and executive power; for they have too much _morgue_ to endure to share the government with those whom they regard as _roturiers_; but the real state of the case is that the people will not elect them, and the people are perfectly in the right, for at the glorious epoch when, without bloodshed, the burghers and plebeians upset the despotism of bern, the conduct of the _noblesse_ was very equivocal. la harpe was the leader of this beneficial revolution, for which, however, the public mind was fully prepared and disposed; and la harpe was a virtuous, ardent and incorruptible patriot. this canton had been for a long period of years in a state of vassalage to that of bern; all the posts and offices of government were filled by bernois and the vaudois were excluded from all share in the government, and from all public employments of consequence. when the sun of revolution, after gloriously rising in america, had shone in splendour on france, and had successfully dissipated the mists of tyranny, feudality, priestcraft and prejudice, it was natural that those states which had languished for so many years in a humiliating situation should begin to look about them and enquire into the origin of all the shackles and restraints imposed on them; and no doubt the vaudois soon discovered that it was an anomaly in politics as well as in reason that two states of such different origin, the one being a latin and the other a teutonic people, with language, customs, and manners so different, should be blended together in a system in which all the advantages were on the side of bern, and nought but vassalage on the part of vaud. a chief was alone wanting to give the impulse; he was soon found; the business was settled in forty-eight hours; and by the mediation of the french government, vaud was declared and acknowledged an independent state and for ever released from the dominion of bern. the federative constitution was then abolished throughout the union, and a general government, called the helvetic republic, substituted in its place; but this constitution not suiting the genius and habits of the people, nor the locality of the country, was not of long duration; troubles broke out and insurrections, which were fomented and encouraged by the adherents of the old régime. but napoleon, by a wise and salutary mediation, stepped in between them, and prevented the effusion of blood, by restoring the old confederation, modified by a variety of ameliorations. in the act of mediation, napoleon contented himself with separating the valais entirely from the confederation, and shortly after annexing it to france, on account of the high road into italy across the simplon running thro' that territory, and which it became of the utmost importance to him to be master of. the new helvetic confederation was inviolably respected and protected by napoleon; for never after the act of mediation did any french troops enter in the canton de vaud, or any part of the union to pass into italy. they always moved on the savoy side of the lake to enter into the valais. this act of mediation saved probably a good deal of bloodshed and in a very short time gave such general satisfaction, and was in every respect so useful and beneficial to the helvetic union, that in spite of the intrigues of the senate of bern, who have never been able to digest the loss of vaud, the allied powers in the year solemnly guaranteed the helvetic confederation as established by the act of mediation, merely restoring the valais to its independence and aggregating it as an independent canton to the general union. geneva, on its being severed from the french empire, and recovering its independence, solicited the helvetic union to be admitted as a member and component part of that confederacy; which was agreed to, and it was and remains aggregated to it also. in , on the return of napoleon from elba and on the renewal of the war, the bern government made a most barefaced attempt to regain possession of the canton de vaud; to this they were no doubt secretly encouraged by the allies, and principally it is said by the british government, the most dangerous, artful and determined enemy of all liberty; but this project was completely foiled, by the penetration, energy and firmness of the inhabitants of the canton de vaud and of its government in particular. the central government of the union was at that time held at bern and it was agreed upon in the diet that switzerland should remain perfectly neutral during the approaching conflict; an army of observation of , men was voted and levied to enforce this neutrality, but the command of it was given to de watteville, who had been a colonel in the english service, and was a determined enemy of the french revolution and of everything connected with or arising out of it. on the approach of the austrian army, de watteville, instead of defending the frontier and repelling the invasion, disbanded his army and allowed the austrians to enter. no doubt he was encouraged, if not positively ordered to do this, by the government of bern, many members of which are supposed to have received bribes from the british government to render the decreed neutrality null and void. at the same moment that this army was disbanded, the directoral canton (bern) caused to be intimated to the canton de valid that it was the wish and intention of the high allies to replace switzerland in the exact state it was in, previous to the french revolution; and that, in consequence, two commissioners would be sent from bern to lausanne, to take charge of the bureaux, archives and _insignia_ of government, etc., and to act as a provisional government under the direction of bern. the landamman and the grand and petty council at lausanne, on learning this intelligence, immediately saw thro' the scheme that was planned to deprive them of their independence; they, therefore, passed a decree, threatening to arrest and punish as conspirators the commissioners, should they dare to set their foot in the canton, and declaring such of their countrymen who should aid or abet this scheme, or deliver up a single document to the commissioners, traitors and rebels; they likewise called on the whole canton to arm in defence of its independence and proclaimed at the same time that should this plan be attempted to be carried into execution, they would join their forces to those of napoleon and thus endanger the position of the allies. they took their measures accordingly; the whole canton sew to arms; the bernois and the allies were alarmed and consultations held; the count de bubna, the austrian general, being consulted, thought the attempt so hazardous and so pregnant with mischief that he had the good sense to recommend to the allied powers and to the canton of bern to desist from their project and not to make or propose any alteration in the helvetic constitution, as guaranteed in . his advice was of great weight and was adopted, and thus the vaudois by their firmness preserved their independence. they met with great support likewise on this trying occasion from general la harpe, preceptor to the emperor of russia, and a relation to the gentleman of the same name who was so instrumental in the emancipation of vaud. la harpe, who enjoyed the confidence of his pupil, exerted himself greatly in procuring his good offices in favour of the vaudois his countrymen, and this was no small weight in the scale. lausanne is an irregularly built city, and not very agreeable to pedestrians, for its continual steep ascents and descents make it extremely fatiguing, and there is a part of the town to which you ascend by a flight of stairs; the houses in lausanne have been humorously enough compared to musical notes. the country in the environs is beautiful beyond description and has at all times elicited the admiration of travellers. there is an agreeable promenade just outside the town, on the left hand side of the road which leads to geneva, called _montbenon_, which is the fashionable promenade and commands a fine view of the lake. on the left hand side is a casino and garden used for the _tir de l'arc_, of which the vaudois, in common with the other helvetic people, are extremely fond. on the right hand side of the road is a deep ravine planted in the style of an english garden, with serpentine gravel walks, and on the other side of the ravine stands the upper part of the city, the cathedral, _hôtel de ville_, and the _chateau du bailli_, which is the seat of government. from the terrace of the cathedral you enjoy a fine view, but a still finer and far more comprehensive one is from the signal house, or _belvédère_ near the forest of sauvabelin (_silva bellonae_ in pagan times)[ ]. in this wood fairs, dances and other public festivals are held, and it is the favourite spot for parties of pleasure to dine _al fresco_; it is a pity, however, that the edifice called the _belvédère_ was not conceived in a better taste; it has an uncouth and barbarous appearance. lausanne is situated about a quarter of a mile (in a right line) from the lake, and you descend continually in going from the city to the lake leman by a good carriage road, until you arrive on the borders of the lake, where stands a neat little town called ouchy, or as it is sometimes termed _le port de lausanne_. there is a good quai and pier. the passage across the lake from ouchy to the savoy side requires four hours with oars. i have made several pleasant acquaintances here, viz., m. pidon the landamman, a litterato of the first order; genl la harpe, the tutor of the emperor of russia; but the most agreeable of all is the baron de f[alkenskiold], an old gentleman of whose talents, merits and delightful disposition i cannot speak too highly. he has the most liberal and enlightened views and opinions, and is extremely well versed in english, french and german litterature. he is a dane by birth and was exiled early in life from his own country, on account of an accusation of being implicated in the affair of struensee; and it is generally supposed that he was one of queen matilda's favoured lovers, which supposition is not improbable, as in his youth, to judge from his present dignified and majestic appearance, he must have been an uncommonly handsome man. he has lived ever since at lausanne, and tho' near seventy-four years of age and tormented with the gout, he never loses his cheerfulness, and passes his time mostly with his books. he gives dinner parties two or three times a week, which are exceedingly pleasant, and one is sure to meet there a small, but well informed society of natives and foreigners. most german travellers of rank and litterary attainments, who pass thro' lausanne, bring letters of introduction and recommendation to the baron and are sure to meet with the utmost hospitality and attention. the women of the canton de vaud are in general very handsome, well shaped and graceful; litterature, music, dancing and drawing are cultivated by them with success; and among the men, tho' one does not meet perhaps with quite as much instruction as at geneva (i mean that it is not so general), yet no pedantry whatever prevails as in geneva. at lausanne they have sincere and solid republican principles and they do not pay that servile court to the english that the genevese do; nor have they as yet adopted the phrase "_dieu me damne_." paris, dec. th. i returned to paris by geneva and crossing the jura chain of mountains passed thro' dole, auxonne and dijon. at geneva, where i stopped three days, i met, at a musical party given by m. picot the banker, the celebrated cantatrice grassini, who looked as beautiful as ever, and sung in the most fascinating style several airs, particularly "_quelle pupille tenere_" in the opera of the _orazj e curiazi_. to my taste her style of singing is far preferable to that of catalani; there is much more pathos and feeling in the singing of grassini; it is completely and truly the "_cantar che nell'anima si sente_." catalani is very powerful, wonderful, if you will, in execution; but she does not touch my heart as grassini does. on my return to paris from geneva i found that the conditions of peace had been made public. they are certainly hard, not so much on account of the cession of territory, which is trifling, as on account of the vast sums of money that prance is obliged to pay, and the still more galling condition of having to pay and feed at her expense an army of occupation of , men, of the allied troops, for a term of three or five years, and to cede during that period several important fortresses. the inhabitants of paris look very gloomy and nobody seems to think that the peace will last half as long. prussia and austria strove hard to wrest alsace and german lorraine from france; hosts of german publicists had accompanied their armies into france and had written pamphlet upon pamphlet to prove that mountains and not rivers were the proper boundaries of nations and that wherever the german language prevails, the country ought to belong to the germanic body. ergo, the vosges mountains were the natural boundaries of france, and alsace and german lorraine should revert to germany. russia and england, however, opposed this, and insisted that these two provinces should remain with france; but i have no doubt that the first movements that may occur in france (and they will perhaps be secretly encouraged) will serve as a pretext for the allies to separate these countries definitively from france. the louvre has been stripped of the principal statues and pictures which have been sent back to the places from whence they were taken, to the great mortification of the parisians, most of whom would have consented to the cession of alsace and lorraine and half of france to boot on condition of keeping the statues and pictures. the english bureaux are preparing to leave paris and the troops will soon follow; a new french army is organizing and several swiss battalions are raised. it is generally supposed that by the end of december france, with the exception of the fortresses and districts to be occupied by the allied powers, will be freed from the pressure of foreign troops. the chamber of peers is occupied with the trial of marshall ney, the conseil de guerre, which was ordered to assemble for that purpose having declared itself incompetent. the friends of ney advised him to claim the protection of the th article of the capitulation of paris, and madame ney, it is said, applied both to the duke of wellington and to the emperor of russia; both ungenerously refused; to the former nature has not given a heart with much sensibility, and the latter bears a petty spite against ney on account of his title, _prince de la moskowa_. it is pretty generally anticipated that poor ney will be condemned and executed; for tho' at the representation of _cinna_ a few nights ago, at the théâtre français, the allusions to clemency were loudly caught hold of and applauded by the audience, yet i suspect louis xviii is by no means of a relenting nature, and that he is as little inclined to pardon political trespasses as his ancestor louis ix was disposed to pardon those against religion; for, according to gibbon, his recommendation to his followers was: _"si quelqu'un parle contre la foi chrétienne dans votre présence, donnez lui l'épée ventre-dedans_." december th. i met with an emigrant this day at the palais royal who was acquainted with my family in london. it was the vicomte de b*****ye.[ ] he had resided some time in england and also in switzerland. he is an amiable man, but a most incorrigible ultra. he displayed at once the ideas that prevail among the ultras, which must render them eternally at variance with the mass of the french nation. in speaking of the state of france, he said: "_je n'ai jamais cessé et jamais je ne cesserai de regarder comme voleurs tous les acquéreurs des biens des émigrés. il faudroit, pour le bonheur de la france, qu'elle fût placés dans le même état ou elle était avant la révolution._" he would not listen to my reasons against the possibility of effecting such a plan, even were the plan just and reasonable in itself. i told him that for the emigrants to expect to get back their property was just as absurd as for the descendants of those saxon families in england, whose ancestors were dispossessed of their estates by william the conqueror, to think of regaining them, and to call upon the duke of northumberland, for instance, as a descendant of a norman invader, to give up his property as unjustly acquired by his progenitors. we did not hold long converse after this; his ideas and mine diverged too much from each other. the english are very much out of favour with the emigrants, as well on account of the stripping of the louvre as on account of not having shot all the _libéraux_. they had the folly to believe that the allied troops would merely make war for the emigrants' interests, and after having put to death a considerable quantity of those who should be designated as rebels and jacobins by them (the emigrants), would replace france in the exact position she was in , and then depart. poor marshall ney's fate is decided. he was sentenced to death, and the sentence was carried into execution not on the _place de grenelle_ as was given out, but in the gardens of luxemburgh at a very early hour. he met his fate with great firmness and composure. i leave paris to-morrow for london. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, vi, , . [ ] virgil, _aen_., vi, (temnere _divos_).--ed. [ ] louis wirion ( - ), an officer of _gendarmerie_, commander-general of the _place_ de verdun since , was accused in of having extorted money from certain english prisoners quartered in verdun (estwick, morshead, garland, etc.). wirion shot himself before the end of the long proceedings, which do not seem to have established his guilt, but had reduced him to misery and despair.--ed. [ ] richard brinsley sheridan's ( - ) _pizarro_, produced at drury lane in .--ed. [ ] three brothers zadera, all born in warsaw, served in the imperial army.--ed. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_ iii, , i.--ed. [ ] these words mean, or are supposed to mean, in french and in dutch: "i don't understand" (_je n'entends pas_).--ed. [ ] horace, _carm._, iv, , .--ed. [ ]john chetwode eustace ( - ), author of _a tour through italy_ ( vol., london, ), the eighth edition of which appeared in .--ed. [ ] theodoric was a goth, not a lombard.--ed. [ ] of course, _silva beleni_.--ed. [ ] perhaps clement françois philippe de laâge bellefaye, mentioned in the _souvenirs_ of baron de frénilly, p. . his large estates had been confiscated in the revolution.--ed. after waterloo part ii chapter vi march-june, ball at cambray, attended by the duke of wellington--an adventure between saint quentin and compiègne--paris revisited--colonel wardle and mrs wallis--society in paris--the sourds-muets--the cemetery of père la chaise--apathy of the french people--the priests--marriage of the duke de berri. march, . this time i varied my route to paris, by passing thro' st omer, douay and cambray. at cambray i was present at a ball given by the municipality. the duke of wellington was there. he had in his hand an extraordinary sort of hat which had something of a shape of a folding cocked hat, with divers red crosses and figures on it, so that it resembled a conjurer's cap. i understand it is a hat given to his grace by magnanimous alexander; st nicholas perhaps commissioned the emperor to present it to wellington, for his grace is entitled to the eternal gratitude of the different saints, as well as of the different sovereigns, for having maintained them respectively in their celestial and terrestrial dominions; and it is to be hoped, after his death, that the latter will celebrate for him a brilliant apotheosis, and the former be as complaisant to him and make room for him in the empyreum as virgil requests the scorpion to do for augustus: ...ipse tibi jam brachia contrahit ardens scorpios, et coeli jusiâ plus parts reliquit.[ ] i met with an adventure in my journey from st quentin to compiègne, which, had it happened a hundred years ago in france, would have alarmed me much for my personal safety. it was as follows. i had taken my place at st quentin to go to paris; but all the diligences being filled, the _bureau_ expedited a _calèche_ to convey me as far as compiègne, there to meet the paris diligence at nine the next morning. it was a very dark cold night, and snowed very hard. between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, half way between st quentin and compiègne, the axle tree of the carriage broke; we were at least two miles from any village one way and three the other; but a lone house was close to the spot where the accident happened. we had, therefore, the choice of going forward or backward, the postillion and myself helping the carriage on with our hands, or to take refuge at the lone house till dawn of day. i preferred the latter; we knocked several times at the door of the lone house, but the owner refused to admit us, saying that he was sure we were _gens de mauvaise vie_, and that he would shoot us if we did not go away. the postillion and i then determined on retrograding two miles, the distance of the nearest village, and remaining there till morning. we arrived there with no small difficulty and labour, for it snowed very fast and heavily, and it required a good deal of bodily exertion to push on the carriage. arrived at the village, we knocked at the door of a small cottage, the owner of which sold some brandy. he received me very civilly, gave me some eggs and bacon for supper, and a very fair bed. the next morning, after having the axle tree repaired, we proceeded on our journey to compiègne. i suffered much from the cold during this adventure, and did not sleep well, having fallen into a train of thought which prevented me from so doing; and i could not help bringing to my recollection the adventure of raymond in the forest near strassburg, in the romance of _the monk_. nothing worthy of note occurred during the rest of the journey; but this adventure obliged me to remain one day at compiègne to wait for the next diligence. paris, april th, . i delivered my letters to the wardle family and am very much pleased with them. i meet a very agreeable society at their house. col wardle is quite a republican and very rigid in his principles.[ ] his daughter is a young lady of first rate talents and has already distinguished herself by some poetical compositions. i met at their house mrs wallis, the sister of sir r. wilson.[ ] she is an enthusiastic napoleonist, and wears at times a tricolored scarf and a gold chain with a medal of napoleon's head attached to it; this head she sometimes, to amuse herself, compels the old emigrants she meets with in society to kiss. the trial of her brother is now going on for aiding and abetting the escape of lavalette. i sincerely hope he will escape any severity of punishment, but i more fear the effects of tory vengeance against him in england, in the shape of depriving him of his commission, than i do the sentence of any french court. yet tho' i wish him well, i cannot help feeling the remains of a little grudge against him for his calumny against napoleon in accusing him of poisoning the sick of his own army before the walls of st jean d'acre. i have always vindicated the character of napoleon from this most unjust and unfounded aspersion, because having been in egypt with abercrombie's army and having had daily intercourse with belliard's division of the french army, after the capitulation of cairo, and during our joint march on the left bank of the nile to rosetta, i knew that there was not a syllable of truth in the story. mrs wallis, however, tells me that her brother has expressed deep regret that he ever gave credence and currency to such a report; and that he acknowledges that he was himself deceived. but he did napoleon an irreparable injury, and his work on the egyptian campaign contributed in a very great degree to excite the hatred of the english people against napoleon, as well as to flatter the passions and prejudices of the tories. in the affair however of lavalette wilson has nobly retrieved his character and obliterated all recollection of his former error. it is amazing the popularity he and his two gallant associates have acquired in france by this generous and chevaleresque enterprise. i meet at col wardle's a very pleasant french society: conversation, music and singing fill up the evening. april th. i have been presented to a very agreeable lady, madame esther fournier, who holds a _conversazione_ at her house in the rue st honoré every wednesday evening. here there is either a concert, a ball or private theatricals; while in a separate room play goes forward and _crebs_, a game of dice similar to hazard, is the fashionable game. refreshments are handed round and at twelve o'clock the company break up. mme fournier is a lady of very distinguished talent and always acts a principal rôle herself in the dramatic performances given at her private theatricals. i have become acquainted too with a very pleasant family, m. and mme vanderberg, who are the proprietors of a large house and magnificent garden in the faubourg du roule. m. vanderberg is a man of very large fortune.[ ] he has three daughters, handsome and highly accomplished, and one son; one of them was married to general r----, but is since divorced; the second is married to a young colonel of hussars, and the third is still unmarried; but being very young, handsome, accomplished and rich, there will be no lack of suitors whenever she is disposed to accept the connubial chain. i have dined several times with this family. there is an excellent table. the choicest old wines are handed about during dinner, and afterwards we adjourn to another room to take coffee and liqueurs. if there is no evening party, the company retire, some for the theatre, some for other houses, where they have to pass the evening; if the family remain at home you have the option of retiring or remaining with them, and the evening is filled up with music or _petits jeux_. i meet with several agreeable and distinguished people at this house, among whom are m. anglas, mme duthon from the canton de vaud, a lady of great vivacity and talent, and general guilleminot and his lady. col. paulet, who married m. vanderberg's second daughter, was on the staff of general guilleminot at the battle of waterloo and suffered much from a fever and ague that he caught on the night bivouacs. i have attended a séance of the institution of the _sourds-muets_ founded by the famous abbé de l'epée, and continued with equal success by his successor the abbé s[icard],[ ] who delivered the lecture and exhibited the talent and proficiency of his pupils. the eldest pupil, massieu, himself deaf and dumb, is an extraordinary genius and he may be said in some measure to direct all the others. massieu, who has a very interesting and even handsome countenance, and manners extremely prepossessing, conducts the examination of the pupils by means of signs, and writing on a slate or paper; and it is wonderful to observe the progress made by these interesting young persons, who have been so harshly treated by nature. the definitions they give of substances and qualities are so just and happy; and in their situation, definition is everything, for they cannot learn by rote, as other boys often do, who, in the study of philology, acquire only words and not things or meanings. the deaf and dumb persons, on the contrary, acquire at once by this method of instruction the philosophy of grammar; and then it is far from being the dry study that many people suppose. a german princess who was present exclaimed in a transport of admiration at some of the specimens of definitions and inferences given by the pupils; " oh! i wish that i were born deaf and dumb, were it only to learn grammar properly!" sir sidney smith was present at this lecture and seemed inclined to make himself a little too conspicuous. for instance, before the examination began, he seated himself close by the abbé s[icard] and pulling a paper out of his pocket said that he had found it on the ground on his way hither; and that it was part of a leaf from an edition of cicero which contained a sentence so applicable to the character and talents of his friend the abbé, that he requested permission to read it aloud and translate it into french for the benefit of those who did not understand latin. he then read the sentence. the abbé, not to be out-done in compliments, then rose and made a most flaming speech in eulogium of his friend "the heroic defender of st john d'acre" and pointed him out to the audience as the first person who had foiled the arms of the "usurper." now this word "usurper" applied to napoleon did not at all please the audience, and it shewed a great deal of servility on the part of the abbé to insult fallen greatness, and in the person too of a man who had rendered such vast services to science. in fact this episode was received coldly, and somewhat impatiently by the audience; and many thought it was a thing _got up_ between the admiral and the abbé to flatter each other's vanity; indeed my friend mrs wallis, next to whom i was placed, and who does not at all agree with the gallant admiral in politics, intimated this in a whisper, loud enough to be heard by all the audience and added: "such a humbug is enough to make one sick." sir sidney smith heard all this and seemed a good deal abashed and disconcerted; he, however, had the good sense to say nothing, and the examination began. paris, may th. i formed a party with some friends to visit the cemetery of père la chaise. we remarked in particular the places where poor labédoyère and marshal ney are buried. there is no tombstone on the former, but some shrubs have been planted, and a black wooden cross fixed to denote the spot where he lies. to marshal ney there is a stone sepulchre with this inscription: "_cy-gît le maréchal ney, prince de la moskowa_." this cemetery is most beautifully laid out. the multitude of tombs, the variety of inscriptions in prose and verse, some of which are very affecting, the yews, the willows, all render this a delightful spot for contemplation; it commands an extensive view of paris and the surrounding country. foreigners of distinction who die in paris are generally buried here; but it would require a volume to describe to you in detail this interesting cemetery. i think the practice of strewing flowers over the grave is very touching and classic; it reminded me of the description of marcellus's death in virgil: ... manibus date lilia plenis. we however strewed over the tombs of labédoyère and ney not lilies, but violets, for my friend mrs w[allis], who was of our party, has a great aversion to the lily. we have just heard of didier's capture and execution at grenoble.[ ] there are continual reports of insurrections and plots, but it is now well known that the most of them are _got up_ by the ultras to entrap the unwary. the french people seem sunk in apathy and to wish for peace at any rate; nothing but the most extreme provocation will induce them to take up arms; but then, if they once do so, woe to the _chambre introuvable_, as the present chamber of deputies is called; certainly such a set of venal, merciless and ignorant bigots and blockheads never were collected in any assembly. there have occurred several scandalous scenes at nîmes and other places. the protestants are openly insulted and threatened, and the government is either too weak to prevent it, or, as is supposed, secretly encourages those excesses. in fact in paris there are two polices; the one, that of the government, the other, and by far the most troublesome, that of _monsieur_[ ] and the violent ultra party, or as they are collectively called the _pavilion marsan_.[ ] the priests are at work everywhere trumping up old legends, forging communications from the holy ghost, receiving letters dropped from heaven by jesus christ, and all this is done with the idea of working on fanatical minds, to induce them to commit acts of outrage and violence on those whom the priests designate as enemies to the faith, and on weak ones, with the idea of frightening them into restoring the lands and property which they have purchased or inherited and which formerly belonged to emigrants or to the church. a lady of my acquaintance (to give you an idea of the arts of these holy hypocrites) sent for a priest to confess and to receive absolution, not from any faith in the efficacy of the business, but merely from a desire of conforming to the ceremonies of the national worship. the priest arrived, but began by apologizing to her that he was sorry he could not administer to her the sacrament of absolution; she, surprized, asked the reason; he answered that it was because her uncle had purchased church lands, which she inherited, and that unless she could resolve to restore them to the church, he could not think of giving her absolution. the lady was at a loss whether to be indignant at his impudence or to laugh outright at his folly. she however assumed a becoming gravity and _sang-froid_, and told him that he was very much mistaken if he thought he had got hold of a simpleton or a bigot in her; that she had sent for him merely with the idea of conforming to the national worship, and not with the most remote persuasion of the necessity or efficacy of his or any other priest's absolution; she added: "your conduct has opened my eyes as to the views of all your cloth; i see you are incurable. i shall never send for any of you again; and be assured this anecdote shall not be forgotten. you may retire." the priest, abashed and mortified in finding himself mistaken in his supposed prey, stammered an excuse and retired. i intend to remain at paris until after the marriage ceremony of the duke and duchess of berri, and i shall then proceed to lausanne. it is expected there will be some disturbance on the occasion of this marriage. i have witnessed an execution by the guillotine on the place de grève near the _hôtel de ville_. the criminal was guilty of a burglary and murder. it is the only execution (except political ones) that has taken place at paris for the last six months, whereas in england they are strung up by dozens every fortnight. independent of there being far less crimes committed in france than in england, the french code punishes but few offences with death. why is not the sanguinary english criminal code with death in every line--why is it not reformed, i say? 'twould be well if our legislators, instead of their puerile and frothy declamations against revolutionary principles and the ambition of napoleon, would occupy themselves seriously with this subject. but then the lawyers would all oppose the simplification of our code. they find by experience that a complicated one, obstructed by customs, statutes and acts of parliament, difficult to be correctly interpreted, and frequently at variance with each other, is a much more profitable thing, a much wider and more lucrative field for the exercise of their profession, than the simplicity of the code napoléon; and they would die of rage and despair at the thought of anybody not a lawyer being able to interpret the laws himself. now as our country gentlemen and members of parliament are always much inclined to take lawyer's advice, and are besides fully persuaded and convinced that there are no abuses whatever in england and that everything is as it should be, there is no hope of any amelioration in this particular. all reasoning and argument is lost on such political optimists. the punishment of the guillotine certainly appears to be the most humane mode of terminating the existence of a man that could possibly be invented. the apparatus is preserved in the _hôtel de ville_, and is never exposed to view or erected on the place of execution, till about an hour before the execution itself takes place. at the hour appointed the criminal is brought to the scaffold, fastened to the board, placed at right angles with the fatal instrument, the head protruding thro' the groove, which embraces the neck; the executioner pulls a cord, the axe descends and the head of the criminal falls into a basket. the whole ceremony of the execution does not take three minutes when the criminal once arrives at the foot of the guillotine. there is none of that horrible struggling that takes place in the operation of hanging. june st, . the ceremony of the marriage of the duke and duchess of berri passed off quietly enough. several people, it is true, were arrested for seditious expressions, but no tumult occurred. a great apprehension seemed to prevail lest something should occur, but the gendarmerie and police were so vigilant that all projects, had there been any, would have proved abortive. [ ] virgil, _georg._, i, .--ed. [ ] colonel gwyllym lloyd wardle was the celebrated exposer of the scandal in - , when the mistress of the duke of york was found to be trafficking in commissions. he had retired from active service in , with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. financial reasons obliged him, after , to live on the continent; he died in florence, .--ed. [ ] sir robert thomas wilson ( - ), author of _the history of the british expedition to egypt_, ; a french translation of that work elicited a protest from napoleon.--ed. [ ] vanderberg had made a fortune as a contractor to the french army; he is mentioned in ida saint elme's _mémoires d'une contemporaine_ and elsewhere.--ed. [ ] abbé sicard (rooh ambroise) was director of the institution of sourds-muets from to and from to .--ed. [ ] paul didier ( - ) took part in a bonapartist conspiracy at lyons in , raised an insurrection in the isère and fled to piedmont, whence he was surrendered to the french authorities, condemned to death and executed at grenoble.--ed. [ ] the king's brother, afterwards charles x.--ed. [ ] the n.e. pavilion of the tuileries.--ed. chapter vii journey from paris to lausanne--besançon--french refugees in lausanne--françois lamarque--general espinassy--bordas--gautier--michau-- m. de laharpe--mlle michaud--levade, a protestant minister--chambéry--aix-- details about m. de boigne's career in india--english toryism and intolerance--valley of maurienne--passage across mont cenis and arrival at suza--turin. lausanne, july th. departing from paris on the th june, , i varied my journey into switzerland this time, for instead of travelling thro' lyons or dole, i took the route of besangon, pontarlier, jougne and orbe. the country between dijon and besançon is a rich and fertile plain. at besançon the mountainous country begins; it is a strong fortress, and the last considerable town of the french frontier. it lies in a very picturesque situation, being nearly environed by the doubs, which meanders under its walls, and by very lofty mountains; on the other side of the doubs stands the citadel, its chief strength. the town of besangon is exceedingly handsome and well built, and there are several agreeable promenades, two of which i must particularize, viz., the promenade de chamarre and the garden of the palace of granvelle. there are besides several roman antiquities and the remains of a large amphitheatre. i amused myself very well for a couple of days at besançon, and met with some agreeable society at the _hôtel de france_ where i lodged. i left besançon at eight in the morning of the th june, and arrived at pontarlier at six the same evening. pontarlier is a dreary, melancholy looking place, consisting of a very long street and several offsets of streets, situated in the midst of mountains, eternally covered with snow. winter reigns here during nine months of the year. at pontarlier the whole garrison were under arms, when i arrived, to pay the last duties to a most respectable and respected officer, whose death was occasioned by falling into the river, while at the _necessary_, by the under board giving way. this officer had served in almost all the campaigns of napoleon and had greatly distinguished himself. what a cruel death for a warrior who had been in fifty battles! that death should have shunned him in the field of battle, to make him fall in a manner at once inglorious and ridiculous! yet such is destiny. pyrrhus fell by a tile flung from a house by an old woman, and i am acquainted with a gallant captain in the british navy who lost his leg by amputation, having broken it (oh horror!) by a fall from the top of a stage coach. i left pontarlier on the d july, and arrived at lausanne the same evening at five o'clock. on my return to lausanne i had the pleasure to form an acquaintance with several eminent frenchmen proscribed and banished from france, on account of having voted the death of louis xvi, as members of the national convention, which tried him, and for having voted, after the return of napoleon from elba, the _acte additionnel_, which excluded the bourbons for ever from the throne of france, among them are, st, monsieur lamarque, who was one of the commissioners sent by the convention to arrest dumouriez, but being seized by him, and delivered over to the austrians, he passed some time in captivity and was at length released, by being exchanged with some others against the duchess d'angoulême.[ ] he is a very able man and seems to have far more political talent than any of the other _conventionnels_ who are here. on napoleon's return from elba he voted for him, but made strong objections against the formation of a peerage, which he said was perfectly useless in france, and pregnant with mischief to boot, as it would only serve as an _appui_ to despotism. he wrote a pamphlet with some excellent remarks on this, subject. he therein points out the evils of an hereditary chamber, and of a priviledged aristocracy, who have nothing to expect from the people, but all from the prince; and in its stead he proposes an additional elective chamber, something on the plan of the senate in america, but he decidedly reprobates an hereditary peerage. the next is general espinassy, a very good classical scholar and a most upright and amiable man.[ ] in his vote he was solely influenced by strong but conscienscious republican principles; he resides here with his wife and two sons; he was considered as one of the best engineer officers in france and he opposed the nomination of napoleon to the imperial dignity in . another, m. bordas,[ ] opposed napoleon's assumption of the consulship on the th brumaire, and was proscribed by him for a short time, but afterwards amnestied and received into favour. he gave his vote for napoleon on the _champ de mai_ in , but accompanied this vote by a bold speech towards napoleon wherein he found fault with his former despotic practises, and reminded him of the solemnity of his promise to govern in future paternally and nationally, as became the sovereign of a free people. m. bordas is a very cheerful, lively, companionable man and tho' seventy years of age, he has an uncommon share of vivacity, with something of the _ci-devant jeune homme_ about him, and he is pleased to be considered still as a man _à bonnes fortunes_. the next to him is m. gauthier, who had been a lawyer, and held a considerable post as a magistrate in the time of the republic and under the empire.[ ] he possesses a good deal of talent, close logical reasoning, and has determined public principle. the next, m. michaud, had been also an advocate, and is possessor of considerable property in the department of the doubs;[ ] he is a most rigid unbending republican, something in the style of verrina in schiller's _fiesco_; he opposed the assumption of the supreme power by buonaparte on the th brumaire; he voted against the consulship for life, as well as against the assumption of the imperial dignity. he is a very good classical scholar. he is a widower and has with him here mlle elisa, his only daughter, who follows her father's fortunes. she is a very amiable and accomplished young lady; she has a thorough knowledge of music and of painting in oils, and is classically versed in the italian language. i soon became acquainted with the whole of these illustrious exiles, and i find great delight and instruction from their conversation; and this is a great relief to me, for the life one leads in a swiss town is rather monotonous. lausanne. i dine very often with my neighbour the baron de falkenskioeld, and at his house i became acquainted with m. de laharpe, who was preceptor to the present emperor of russia. he is a native of this canton, and has returned here to pass the remainder of his life. he is married to a very amiable russian lady, and having acquired a pretty good fortune in russia, he lives here very happily and comfortably; but notwithstanding this, he is often tempted to visit paris, milan and other great cities, and when there, sighs to return to his native mountains. as the ultras of france bear a great hatred towards the inhabitants of the canton de vaud, on account of the asylum given and sympathy shown to the _proscrits_, they have been at the pains of trumping up and printing a pretended petition from the inhabitants of the department of the doubs, praying that the french government would endeavor to obtain the removal of these _proscrits_ from the canton de vaud, and stating that the said canton was the _foyer_ of jacobinical principles, and the place where napoleon's return from elba was planned and accelerated, and thro' which the conveyance of intelligence backwards and forwards was conducted. i have no doubt that in this petition more is meant than meets the ear; that the oligarchs of bern, as well as the ultras of france, have a share in it, and that it may be considered not so much as an attempt to compel the canton to refuse asylum to these exiles, as to excite the great powers to enforce the abolition of the independence of vaud, and to replace it under the dominion and authority of the canton of bern. everybody here, however, sees thro' the drift of this petition, and many persons whose names are put down as having signed it, have written to their friends at lausanne, to declare not only that they never signed such a petition, but their entire ignorance even of the agitation of the question till they saw the petition itself in print. the french government, however, has not ventured to act any further upon it, than to make a pompous display of the royalist zeal and _bon esprit_ that pervades the department of the doubs. i see a good deal of mlle michaud. i find her conversation extremely agreeable. she had lent to me an italian work by verri entitled _le notti romane al sepolcro di stipione_. she is a very rigid catholic, having been educated by a priest of very strict ideas. her devotion however does not render her less cheerful or less amiable. she having expressed a wish to hear the protestant church service, i offered to accompany her and we went together one sunday to the cathedral church at lausanne. but it unfortunately happened that on that day a sermon was preached which must have given a great deal of pain to her filial feelings. mr levade, the minister, took it into his head to give a political sermon, in which, after a great deal of commonplace abuse of voltaire, rousseau and the french revolution, and very fulsome adulation towards the english government (a subject which was brought in by the head and shoulders), of that _island_ (as he termed it) _surrounded by the ocean_, he lavished a great deal of still more fulsome adulation on the bourbons; and then most wantonly and unnecessarily began a furious declamation against the _régicides_ as he termed them, who had taken refuge in the canton, and intimated pretty plainly how pleasing it would be to god almighty that they should be expelled from it. this intolerant discourse, more worthy of a raving jesuit than of a protestant minister, was deservedly scouted by the inhabitants of lausanne; but this did not hinder poor mlle michaud from being much affected at the opprobrious tirade directed against a set of men, among whom her father bore a conspicuous part, and who acted from patriotic motives. i must not omit to state that in this discourse m. levade interwove some hyperbolical compliments towards the young prince of sweden, who attended the service that morning. he told him that the eyes of all europe were fixed upon him, and that providence had him under his especial care. now the following is the character of m. levade.[ ] he is a time-serving, meddling priest, and a most flagrant adulator of the powers that be. he thinks that by declaiming against the french revolution, and against voltaire and rousseau, that he will get into favor with the great people who pass thro' lausanne, with the french and english government adherents, and with the great tory families of england. no considerable personage ever passes through lausanne, but mr levade is the first to make him a visit; and no rich or noble english family arrives with whom he does not ingratiate himself, and he is not sparing of his adulations. this mode of procedure has been a very profitable concern to him, as he has received a vast number of presents, and several valuable legacies, besides securing a number of pupils among the english families, that come or that have been here. he is in short a thorough parasite and time server, in every sense of the word. this adulation of the bourbon family in his sermon, besides the meanness of it, was highly misplaced, coming from the mouth of a protestant minister, and somebody exclaimed on leaving the church: "_que doit-on penser d'un ministre protestant du canton de vaud, qui prodigue des louanges à une famille qui a été l'ennemie acharnée de l'elise reformée, et qui a persécuté les protestants d'une manière si atroce?_" but mr levade (tho' to the honor of the clergymen of the canton de vaud he is singular among _them_), yet he has many persons who perfectly resemble him among the members of the church of england, and who are as eager to support despotism and to crush liberty as any disciple of loyola or any janissary of the grand signor. the other protestant ministers of this canton were highly indignant at this sermon; in fact, it was the first time in this city that the house of god had been profaned by the introduction of political subjects into a religious discourse. this sermon was the common topic of conversation for many days after. chambÉry, d august. i left lausanne for geneva on july. i stopped at nyon to pay a visit to mme duthon, with whom i became acquainted at paris. i dined with her and passed a most agreeable day. her talents are of the first order, and she is as great an enthusiast for the german language and litterature as myself, besides being well versed in italian. she had a female relation with her. we took a boat after dinner to navigate the lake, and we visited the château and domains of joseph napoleon. the next day i proceeded to geneva. i determined on making the journey into italy this time by mont-cenis, and to make it on foot as far as the foot of mont-cenis on the italian side, intending to profit of the opportunity of the first conveyance i should meet with at suza to proceed to turin. i accordingly forwarded my portmanteau to turin to the care of a banker there, and sallied forth from geneva at six o'clock on the morning of st august. i stopped to dine at frangy and reached romilly at seven in the evening. there is nothing worthy of remark at romilly. the next morning i stopped at aix to breakfast, and visited the bath establishment. the scenery is picturesque on this route, and the whole road from aix to chambéry is aligned with remarkably fine large trees. at three in the afternoon i arrived at chambéry, the capital of savoy. it is a large handsome city, situated in a fruitful valley, with a great many gardens and orchards surrounding it. there is a strong garrison here. among the many _maisons de plaisance_ in the environs of this city, the most distinguishable is the villa of general de boigne, who has passed the greatest part of his life in india, in the service of scindiah, one of the mahratta chiefs;[ ] and it was by de boigne's assistance that scindiah, from being a petty chief, with not more than three or four hundred horse, became the founder of a powerful kingdom, comprized chiefly of the provinces of the ganges and jumna, torn from the mogol empire, whose sovereign fell into the hands of scindiah. scindiah caused the mogol emperor's eyes to be put out, and kept him as a state prisoner in delhi, till the year , when on the mahrattas engaging in war with the english, scindiah was defeated by lake and lost the greater part of his conquests. de boigne had quitted india in , long before this rupture took place, and at that time scindiah had a fine regular army of thirty battalions of , men, each disciplined, armed and equipped in the european manner. he had likewise sixty squadrons of regular cavalry and a formidable train of artillery. at chambéry i met with two french _voyageurs de commerce_, who with that positiveness, which is often the national characteristic, insisted that de boigne owed his riches and fortune to his treachery, in having betrayed and sold tippoo saib to the english, when he was in tippoo's service; and i find this is the current report all over savoy. now it is an accusation totally devoid of foundation, as i shall presently show; and i took this opportunity of vindicating the reputation of de boigne, by simply stating that de boigne could never have betrayd tippoo, since he was never in his service; dly, that he had, when in the service of scindiah, fought against tippoo, when the mahrattas coalesced with the english against that prince in ; and that had it not been for the assistance given by the mahrattas to the english (a most impolitic coalition on the part of the mahrattas, as it turned out afterwards), tippoo would not have been compelled to conclude so humiliating a treaty of peace; dly, that de boigne had quitted india in , three years before the second war and death of tippoo in . i stated, too, that i was perfectly well acquainted with these particulars of de boigne's career, from having served six years in india, and from having been personally acquainted with a gentleman of the name of lucius ferdinand smith, who was the ultimate friend of de boigne and his lieutenant general in the service of scindiah; i added that i could not conceive how so unjust and unfounded an aspersion on de boigne's character could find currency. i hope that what i said will be effectual towards doing away this injurious report; but very probably it will not, for when the vulgar once imbibe an opinion, it is difficult to eradicate it from their minds, and they are not at all obliged to the person who endeavors to undeceive them, so that general de boigne's treachery and sale of tippoo to the english will be handed down to posterity among the savoyards, as a fact of which it will be as little permitted to doubt as of the treachery of judas. chambÉry, august d. at the _table d'hôte_ this day i nearly lost all patience on hearing an elderly english gentleman extolling the english ministry to the skies, and abusing the army of the loire, calling them rebels and traitors. i stood up in defence of these gallant men, and stated that the french army in the time of the republic and of the empire were the most constitutional of all the european armies, since they were taken from and identified with the people; and that it was this brotherly feeling for their fellow citizens that induced them to join the standards of napoleon, on his return from elba; that they only followed the voice of the nation; that all france was indignant at the tergiversation and breach of faith on the part of the restored government, in a variety of instances; and that, had napoleon and the army been out of the question, the bourbons would not have failed to be upset, from the indignation their measures had excited among the people. he then said that the army of the loire was a most dangerous body of men, and that that was the reason why the allies insisted on their being disbanded. i replied that this was the highest compliment he could pay them, and the greatest feather in their cap, since it went to prove, that as long as this army was in existence, neither the crowned despots, nor the ultras thought themselves safe; and that they could not venture to pursue their anti-national projects, which were all directed towards depriving the french people of all they had gained by the revolution and bringing them back to the _blessings_ of the ancient _régime_. he could say nothing in reply, but that he feared i had jacobin principles, to which i made rejoinder: "if these be jacobin principles, i glory in them." some sardinian officers, who were present, seemed to enjoy my argument, tho' they said nothing; and one took me aside, when we quitted the table, and said he rejoiced to see me take the old man in hand, as he disgusted them every day by his tirades against the liberal party, and by his fulsome adulations of the british government. the old gentleman held forth likewise in a long speech respecting the finances of england, in praise of the sinking fund, and when it was suggested to him that england from the immense national debt must one day become bankrupt: "_non, monsieur_," (he said),"_la caisse d'amortissement empêchera cela_." in fine, the _caisse d'amortissement_ was to work miracles. i replied that the principle of the _caisse d'amortissement_ was good, provided a constant and consistent economy were practised; but that at present and during the whole time from its establishment, it had been a mockery on the understanding of the nation, when we reflected on the profligate expenditure of public money, occasioned by the ruinous, unjust and liberticide wars, which were entered into and fomented by the british government. indeed, i said it was like the conduct of a man who possessing an income of £ per annum, should set apart, in a box as a _caisse d'épargne_, £ annually, and at the same time continue a style of living, the annual expence of which would so far exceed his income, as to oblige him to borrow or £ every year. the old gentleman was all amort at this comparison, which must be obvious to every one. nothing shows in a more glaring light the blind and superstitious reverence paid to great names; for because this sinking fund was proposed by pitt, all his adherents extol it to the skies, without analysing it, and give him besides the credit of an invention to which he had no right whatever. st jean de maurienne. i started from chambéry on the morning of the fourth of august, and stopped at montmélian to breakfast. here begins the valley of maurienne, and as this valley, along which the road is cut, is extremely narrow, being hemmed in on each side by the high alps, montmélian, which stands on an eminence in the centre of the valley (the road running thro' the town), must be a post of the utmost importance towards the defence of this pass. it was a fortified place of great consideration in the former wars, and if the fortifications were repaired and improved, it might be made almost impregnable, as it would enfilade the road on each side. from the above-mentioned features of the ground, the valley narrowing more and more as you proceed, from the high mountains that align it and from its sinuosities, it follows that at every angle or curve caused by these sinuosities, you appear as if you were shut out from all the rest of the world and could proceed no further. the river isère runs thro' and parallel with this valley. it rises in the mountains of savoy and falls into the rhône in dauphiné. i passed the night at aiguebelle. from aiguebelle to st jean de maurienne is twelve leagues, and i found myself so tired with walking, and my legs from being swelled gave me so much pain, that i determined to give up the _gloriole_ of making the whole journey on foot as i intended and to remain here for two days to repose and then profit by the first conveyance that might pass to conduct me to turin. from aiguebelle the valley becomes still more narrow, and there is a continual ascent, tho' it is so gentle as scarcely to be perceptible. every spot of ground in this valley, which will admit of cultivation, is put to profit by the industry of the inhabitants. here one sees beans, indian corn, and even wines; for the heat is very great indeed in summer and autumn, owing to the rays of the sun being concentrated, as it were, into a focus, in this narrow valley, and were the bed of the isère to be deepened, or were it less liable to overflow, from the melting of the snow in spring and summer, much land, which is now a marsh, might be applied to agricultural purposes. the inhabitants of this valley regret very much the separation of savoy from france, as during the time that duchy was annexed to the french empire, each peasant possessing an ass could earn three franks per diem in transporting merchandise across mont-cenis. st jean de maurienne is a neat little town. i put up at the same inn, and slept in the same bedroom which was occupied by poor didier who was put to death at grenoble for having raised the standard of liberty. he was surprized here in bed by the _carabiniere reali_ of the sardinian government, those satellites of despotism; and according to the barbarous principles laid down by the crowned heads, delivered over to the french authorities. i observed a great many _crétins_ in this valley. suza, th august. on the morning of the th august two _vetturini_ passed by the inn at st jean de maurienne, and i engaged a place in one of them, as far as turin. we arrived at the village of modena in the evening. the landscape is much the same as what we have hitherto passed, but the climate is considerably colder, from the land being more elevated. hitherto i had suffered much inconvenience from the heat. the next morning we reached lans-le-bourg, the last town of savoy lying at the foot of mount cenis. after breakfast we began the ascent of mont cenis, and i made the whole way from lans-le-bourg to the _hospice_ of mont cenis, that is, the whole ascent, a distance of twenty-five italian miles, on foot. this _chaussée_ is another wonderful piece of work of napoleon; a broad carriage road, wide enough for three carriages to go abreast, and cut zig-zag with so gentle a slope as to allow a heavy french diligence to pass, with the utmost ease, across a mountain where it was formerly thought impossible a wheel could ever run. this _chaussée_ is passable at all seasons of the year; the mountain is not so high as that of the simplon and is less liable to impediments from the snow; the obstacles from nature are less, and you can descend in a sledge from the _hospice_ by gliding down the side of the cone, and thus descending in nine or ten minutes, whereas the ascent requires four hours' time. from lans-le-bourg to the _hospice_ on mont-cenis the road is on the flank of an immense mountain and you have no ravines to cross; the road is cut zig-zag on the flank of the mountain and forms a considerable number of very acute angles, as it is made with so gentle a slope that you scarcely feel the difficulty of the ascent. these repeated zig-zags and acute angles formed by the road, and the very slight slope given to the ascent, make the different branches appear to be almost parallel to each other, and it is a very curious and novel sight when a number of carriages are travelling together on this road to see them with their horses' heads turned different ways, yet all following the same course, just like ships on different tacks beating against the wind to arrive at the same port, a comparison that could not fail immediately to occur to a sailor. there is scarcely ever any detention on this road from the fall of snow, as there are a considerable number of persons employed to _deblay_ it as soon as it falls; but here, as well as on the simplon, there are _maisons de refuge_ at a short distance from each other. we stopped for two hours at the inn at mont-cenis, which is about one hundred yards from the _hospice_. it was a remarkable fine day, and i enjoyed my walk very much. the mountain air was keen and bracing and particularly delightful after being shut up for some many days in the close valley. we had some excellent trout for dinner. at mont-cenis, near the _hospice_, is a large lake which is frozen during eight months of the year. here reigns eternal winter and the mountains are covered with snows that never melt. from mont-cenis to suza the descent is very grand and striking, and the scenery resembles that of the simplon; there are more obstacles of nature than on the former part of the road, and here ravines are connected by the means of bridges, and there are subterraneous galleries to pass thro. several _chutes d'eau_ are here observable; one of them i cannot avoid mentioning, as being very magnificent. it is formed by the cenischia[ ] which divides savoy from piedmont and runs into the dora at suza. we were highly gratified at the sight of the sublime scenery on all sides, and at the magnificent _chaussée_, and we all (i mean the passengers in the two coaches and myself) did hommage to the mighty genius who conceived and caused to be executed such a stupendous work. we arrived at suza at six o'clock p.m. turin, th august. suza is a tolerably large town and has a neat appearance. it is commanded and defended by the fort of brunetti, now dismantled, but which is to be repaired according to the treaty of . it will then be a very important post and completely barr the pass of suza. the road from suza to rivoli is thro' a valley widening at every step; at rivoli you _débouche_ at once from the gorge of the mountain into a boundless plain. the road is then on a magnificent _chaussée_ the whole way to turin, and every vegetable production announces a change of climate to those coming from savoy. here are fields of wheat, indian corn, mulberry and elm trees and vines hung in festoons from tree to tree, which give a most picturesque appearance to the landscape, and, together with the country houses, serve as a relief to the boundless plain. the _chaussée_ is lined with trees on each side the whole way from rivoli to turin; i observed among carriages of all sorts small cars, like those used by children, drawn by dogs. these cars contain one person each. they are frequent in this part of the country, and such a conveyance is called a _cagnolino_. the convent of st michael, situated on an immense height to the right of the road between suza and rivoli, is a very striking object. the mountain forms a single cone and it appears impossible to reach the summit except on the back of a hippogriff: e ben appar che d'animal ch'abbia ale sia questa stanza nido o tana propria.[ ] the castle seemed the very neat and lair of animal, supplied with plume and quill. --trans. w.s. rose. turin, august. turin is a large, extremely fine and regular city, with all the streets built at right angles. the shops are very brilliant; the two _places_, the _piazza del castello_ and the _piazza di san carlo_, are very spacious and striking, and there are arcades on each side of the quadrangle formed by them. the _contrada del po_ (for in turin the streets are called _contrade_) leads down to the po, and is one of the best streets in turin. over the po is a superb bridge built by napoleon. in the centre of the _piazza del castello_ stands the royal palace, and on one side of the _piazza_ the grand opera house. the streets in turin are kept clean by sluices. the favorite promenades are, during the day, under the arcades of the _piazza del castello_ and those of the _contrada del po_; and in the evening round the ramparts of the city, or rather on the site where the ramparts stood. the french, on blowing up the ramparts, laid out the space occupied by them in walks aligned by trees. the fortifications of the citadel were likewise destroyed. in the cathedral church here the most remarkable thing is the _chapelle du saint suaire_ (holy winding sheet). it is of a circular form, is inlaid with black marble and admits scarce any light; so that it has more the appearance of a mausoleum than of a chapel. it reminded me of the _palace of tears_ in the arabian nights. in the environs of turin, the most remarkable buildings are a villa belonging to the king called _la venezia_, and the _superga_, a magnificent church built on an eminence, five miles distant from turin. in the royal palace, on the _piazza del castello_, there is some superb furniture, but the exterior is simple enough. the country environing turin forms a plain with gentle undulations, increasing in elevation towards the alps, which are forty miles distant, and is so stocked with villas, gardens and orchards as to form a very agreeable landscape. from the steeple of the _superga_ the view is very fine. in the university of turin is a very good _cabinet d'histoire naturelle_, containing a great variety of beasts, birds and fishes stuffed and preserved; there is also a cabinet of comparative anatomy, and various imitations in wax of anatomical dissections. among the antiquities, of which there is a most valuable collection, are two very remarkable ones: the one a beautiful bronze shield, found in the po, called the shield of marius; it represents, in figures in bas-relief, the history of the jugurthine war.[ ] this shield is of the most exquisite workmanship. the other is a table of the most beautiful black marble incrusted and inlaid with figures and hieroglyphics of silver. it is called the _table of isis_, was brought from egypt and is supposed to be of the most remote antiquity. it is always kept polished. among the many valuable pieces of sculpture to be met with here is a most lovely cupid in parian marble. he is represented sleeping on a lion's skin. it is the most beautiful piece of sculpture i have ever seen next to the apollo belvédère and the venus dei medici; it appears alive, and as if the least noise would awake it.[ ] turin used to be in the olden time one of the most brilliant courts and cities in europe, and the most abounding in splendid equipages; now very few are to be seen. when piedmont was torn from the domination of the house of savoy and annexed to france, turin, ceasing to be the capital of a kingdom, necessarily decayed in splendor, nor did its being made the _chef lieu_ of a _préfecture_ of the french empire make amends for what it once was. the restoration arrived, but has not been able to reanimate it; an air of dullness pervades the whole city. obscurantism and anti-liberal ideas are the order of the day. i witnessed a military review at which the king of sardinia assisted. the troops made a very brilliant appearance and manoeuvred well. his majesty has a very good seat on horseback and a distinguished military air. he is a man of honor tho' he has rather too high notions of the royal dignity and authority, and is too much of a bigot in religion; but his word can be depended on, a great point in a king; there are so many of them that break theirs and falsify all their promises. he will not hear of a constitution, and endeavors to abolish or discountenance all that has been effected during his absence. the priests are caressed and restored to their privileges, so that the inhabitants of piedmont are exposed to a double despotism, a military and a sacerdotal one; the last is ten times more ruinous and fatal to liberty and improvement than the former. i have put up in turin in the _pension suisse_, where for seven franks per diem i have breakfast, dinner, supper and a princely bed room. the houses are in general lofty, spacious and on a grand scale. [ ] francois lamarque, born , a member of the convention, ambassador in sweden, prefect of the tarn and member of the cour de cassation ( ). he was exiled in .--ed. [ ] major frye (who wrote the name despinassy) certainly means antoine-joseph marie espinassy de fontanelle's ( - ), who was a member of the convention, voted the king's death and served in the republican army of the alps. in , he was banished and went to lausanne, where he died .--ed. [ ] pardoux bordas ( - ) was a member of the convention. though he had not voted the death of louis xvi, he was banished from france in and did not return there before .--ed. [ ] antoine francis gauthier des orcières ( - ) was elected to the etats généraux in , and, in , to the convention, where he voted the death of louis xvi. later on, he was member of the conseil des anoiena, juge au tribunal de la seine and conseiller à la cour impériale de paris ( ). banished in , he returned to france in . [ ] jean baptists michaud, a member of the directoire du département du doubs, and a member of the national convention, voted the death of louis xvi and against the proposed appeal to the people.--ed. [ ] jean daniel paul etienne levade ( - ), protestant minister first in england, then in amsterdam, finally minister at lausanne and professor of theology at the _académie_ of the same town.--ed. [ ] countess de boigne, in her interesting _memoirs_ (of which there is an english translation) abstained from describing her husband's career in india; this lends additional interest to the information collected by major frye,--ed. [ ] the manuscript has _sennar_, a name quite unknown at suza.--ed. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, iv, , .--ed. [ ] this shield, now at the _armoria reale_, is not antique, but is ascribed to benvenuto cellini.--ed. [ ] this statue of cupid is not antique, and has been recently ascribed to michelangelo (knapp, _michelangelo_, p. .)--ed. chapter viii journey from turin to bologna--asti--schiller and alfieri--italian _cuisíne_--the _vetturini_--marengo--piacenza--the trebbia--parma--the empress maria louisa--modena--bologna--the university--the marescalchi gallery--character of the bolognese. august ---- 'twas on a fine morning the th august that i took my departure from turin with a _vetturino_ bound to bologna. i agreed to pay him sixty francs for my place in the coach, supper and bed. when this stipulation for supper and bed is included in the price fixed for your place with the _vetturino_, you are said to be _spesato_, and then you have nothing extra to pay for but your breakfast. there were two other travellers in the _vettura_, both frenchmen; the one about forty years of age was a captain of cavalry _en retraite_, married to a hungarian lady and settled at florence, to which place he was returning; the other, a young man of very agreeable manners, settled likewise at florence, as chief of a manufactory there, returning from lyons, his native city, whither he had been to see his relations. i never in my life met with two characters so diametrically opposite. the captain was quite a _bourru_ in his manners, yet he had a sort of dry, sarcastic, satirical humour that was very diverting to those who escaped his lash. whether he really felt the sentiments he professed, or whether he assumed them for the purpose of chiming in with the times, i cannot say, but he said he rejoiced at the fall of napoleon. my other companion, however, expressed great regret as his downfall, not so much from a regard for the person of napoleon, as for the concomitant degradation and conquest of his country, and he spoke of the affairs of france with a great deal of feeling and patriotism. the captain seemed to have little or no feeling for anybody but himself; indeed, he laughed at all sentiment and said he did not believe in virtue or disinterestedness. when, among other topics of conversation, the loss the french army sustained at waterloo was brought on the _tapis_, he said, "_eh bien! qu 'importe? dans une seule nuit à paris on en fabriquera assez pour les remplacer!_" a similar sentiment has been attributed to the great condé.[ ] we had a variety of amusing arguments and disputes on the road; the captain railed at merchants, and said that he did not believe that honor or virtue existed among mercantile people (no compliment, by the bye, to the young fabricant, who bore it, however, with great good humour, contenting himself with now and then giving a few slaps at the military for their rapacity, which mercantile people on the continent have now and then felt, before the french revolution, as well as after). the whole road from turin to alexandria della paglia is a fine broad _chausée_. the first day's journey brought us to asti. a rich plain on each side of the road, the horizon on our right bounded by the appennines, on our left by the alps, both diverging, formed the landscape. asti is an ancient, well and solidly built city, but rather gloomy in its appearance. it is remarkable for being the birthplace of vittorio alfieri, the celebrated tragic poet, who has excelled all other dramatic poets in the general _dénouement_ of his pieces, except, perhaps, voltaire alone. i do not speak of alfleri so much as a poet as a _dramaturgus_. i may be mistaken, and it is, perhaps, presumptuous in me to attempt to judge, but it has always appeared to me that voltaire and alfieri have managed dramatic effect and the intrigue and catastrophe of their tragedies better than any other authors. shakespeare, god as he is in genius, is in this particular very deficient. schiller, too, the greatest modern poetic genius perhaps and the shakespeare of germany, has here failed also, and nothing can be more correct than the estimate of alfieri made by forsyth[ ] when, after speaking of his defects, he says: "yet where lives the tragic poet equal to alfieri? schiller (then living also) may perhaps excel him in those peals of terror which flash thro' his gloomy and tempestuous scene, but he is far inferior in the mechanism of his drama." to return to my first day's journey from turin. it was a very long day's work, and we did not arrive at asti till very late, after having performed the last hour, half in the dark, on a road which is by no means in good repute. the character of the lower class of piedmontese is not good. they are ferocious, vindictive and great marauders. they make excellent soldiers during war and they not unfrequently, on being disbanded after peace, by way of keeping their hand in practise and of having the image of war before their eyes, ease the traveller of his coin and sometimes of his life. our conversation partook of these reminiscences, and during the latter part of our journey turned entirely on bandits "force and guile," so that we were quite rejoiced at seeing the smoke and light of the town of asti and hearing the dogs bark, which reminded me of ariosto's lines: non molto va che dalle vie supreme de' tetti uscir vede il vapor del fuoco sente cani abbajar, muggire armento, viene alla villa, e piglia alloggiamenti.[ ] nor far the warrior had pursued his best, ere, eddying from a roof, he saw the smoke, heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, and thitherward in quest of lodging hied. --_trans_. w.s. rose. we met on alighting at the door of a large spacious inn, two ladies who had very much the appearance of the two damsels at the inn where don quixote alighted and received his order of knighthood; but, in spite of their amorous glances and a decided leer of invitation, i had like sacripante's steed more need of "_riposo e d'esca che di nuova giostra_." the usual italian supper was put before us, and very good it was, viz., _imprimis: a minestra_ (soup), generally made of beef or veal with vermicelli or macaroni in it and its never failing accompaniment in italy, grated parmesan cheese. then a _lesso_ (bouilli) of beef, veal or mutton, or all three; next an _umido_ (fricassée) of cocks' combs and livers, a favourite italian dish; then a _frittura_ of chickens' livers, fish or vegetables fried. then an _umido_ or ragout of veal, fish with sauce; and lastly, an arrosto (roast) of fowls, veal, game, or all three. the _arrosto_ is generally very dry and done to cinders almost. vegetables are served up with the _umidi_, but plain boiled, leaving it optional to you to use melted butter or oil with them. a salad is a constant concomitant of the _arrosto_. a desert or fruit concludes the repast. wine is drank at discretion. the wine of lombardy is light and not ill flavored; it is far weaker than any wine i know of, but it has an excellent quality, that of facilitating digestion. a cup of strong coffee is generally made for you in the morning, for which you pay three or four _soldi_ (sous), and in giving five or six _soldi_ to the waiter, all your expenses are paid supposing you are _spesato_, i.e., that the _vetturino_ pays for your supper and bed; if not, your charges are left to the conscience of the aubergiste, which in italy is in general of prodigious width. i therefore advise every traveller who goes with a _vetturino_ to be a spesato, otherwise he will have to pay four or five times as much and not be a whit better regaled. the _vetturini_ generally pay from three to three and a half francs for the supper and bed of their passengers. as the _vetturini_ invariably make a halt of an hour and half or two hours at mid-day in some town or village, this halt enables you to take your _déjeuner à la fourchette_, which you pay for yourself, unless you stipulate for the payment of that also with the _vetturino_ by paying something more, say one a half franc per diem for that. in this part, and indeed in the whole of the north of italy not a female servant is to be seen at the inns and men make the beds. it is otherwise, i understand, in tuscany. the whole appearance of the country from asti to alexandria presents an immense plain extremely fertile, but the crops of corn being off the ground, the landscape would not be pleasing to the eye, were it not relieved by the frequency of mulberry trees and the vines hung in festoons from tree to tree. the villages and farmhouses on this road are extremely solid and well built. we arrived at alexandria about twelve o'clock, and after breakfast i hired a horse to visit the field of battle of marengo, which is in the neighbourhood of this city, marengo itself being a village five miles distant from alexandria. arrived on the plain, i was conducted to the spot where the first consul stood at the time that he perceived the approach of desaix's division. i figured to myself the first consul on his white charger, halting his army, then in some confusion, riding along the line exposed to a heavy fire from the austrians, who cannonaded the whole length of the line; aides-de-camp and orderlies falling around him, himself calm and collected, "spying 'vantage," and observing that the austrian deployment was too extended, and their centre thereby weakened, suddenly profiting of this circumstance to order desaix's division to advance and lead the charge which decided the victory on that memorable day, which, according to mascheroni: _splende nell' abisso de' secoli, qual sole_. the whole field of battle is an extensive plain, with but few trees, and to use campbell's lines: every turf beneath the feet marks out a soldier's sepulchre. the column, erected to commemorate this glorious victory, has been thrown down by order of the austrian government--a poor piece of puerile spite, but worthy of legitimacy. alexandria is, or rather _was_, for the fortifications no longer exist, more remarkable for being an important military post than for the beauty of the city itself. there is, however, a fine and spacious _place_, which serves as a parade for the garrison, and being planted with trees by the french when they held it, forms an agreeable promenade. the fortifications were blown up by the austrians before the place was given over to the sardinian authorities, a flagrant breach of faith and contract, since by the treaty of they were bound to give up all the fortified places that were restored or ceded to the king of sardinia in the same state in which they were found when the french evacuated them, and the austrians took possession provisorily. the french regarding (and with reason) this fortress as the key of lombardy always kept the fortifications in good repair and well provided with cannon. but the austrian government, knowing itself to be unpopular in italy and trembling for the safety of her dominions, being always fearful that the piedmontese government might one day be induced to favour an insurrectionary or national movement in the north of italy, determined, finding that it could not keep the fortress for itself, which it strove hard to do under divers pretexts, to render it of as little use as they possibly could do to the king of sardinia; so they blew up the fortifications and carried off the cannon, leaving the king without a single fortified place in the whole of his italian dominions to defend himself, in case of attack, against an austrian invasion. on the morning of the th august we passed thro' tortona, now no longer a fortress of consequence. all this country may be considered as classic ground, immortalized by the campaigns of napoleon, when commander in chief of the army of the french republic in italy, a far greater and more illustrious _rôle_ than when he assumed the imperial bauble and condescended to mix with the vulgar herd of kings. we arrived at voghera to breakfast and at casteggio at night. the country is much the same as that which we have already passed thro', being a plain, with a rich alluvial soil, mulberry trees and a number of solidly built stone farmhouses. the next morning at eleven o'clock we arrived at piacenza on the po, and were detained a quarter of an hour at the _douane_ of her majesty the archduchess, as maria louisa, the present duchess of parma, is stiled, we being now arrived in her dominions. we drove to the _hôtel di san marco_, which is close to the _piazza grande_, and alighted there. on the piazza stands the _hôtel de ville_, and in front of it are two equestrian statues in bronze of the princes farnesi; the statues, however, of the riders appear much too small in proportion with the horses, and they resemble two little boys mounted on lincolnshire carthorses. i did not visit the churches and palaces in this city from not having time and, besides, i did not feel myself inclined or _bound_ (as some travellers think themselves) to visit every church and every town in italy. i really believe the _ciceroni_ think that we _ultramontani_ live in mud hovels in our own country, and that we have never seen a stone edifice, till our arrival in italy, for every town house which is not a shop is termed a _palazzo_, and they would conduct you to see all of them if you would be guided by them. i had an opportunity, during the two hours we halted here, of walking over the greater part of the city, after a hasty breakfast. piacenza is a large handsome city; among the females that i saw in the streets the spanish costume seems very prevalent, no doubt from being so long governed by a spanish family. on leaving piacenza we passed thro' a rich meadow country and met with an immense quantity of cattle grazing. the road is a fine broad _chaussée_ considerably elevated above the level of the fields and is lined with poplars. where this land is not in pasture, cornfields and mulberry trees, with vines in festoons, vary the landscape, which is additionally enlivened by frequent _maisons de plaisance_ and excellently built farmhouses. we passed thro' firenzuola, a long well-built village, or rather _bourg_, and we brought to the night at borgo san donino. at this place i found the first bad inn i have met with in italy, that is, the house, tho' large, was so out of repair as to be almost a _masure_; we however met with tolerably good fare for supper. we fell in with a traveller at borgo san donino, who related to us an account of an extraordinary robbery that had been committed a few months before near this place, in which the _then_ host was implicated, or rather was the author and planner of the robbery. it happened as follows. a swiss merchant, one of those men who cannot keep their own counsel, a _bavard_ in short, was travelling from milan to bologna with his cabriolet, horse and a large portmanteau. he put up at this inn. at supper he entered into conversation with mine host, and asked if there was any danger of robbers on the road, for that he should be sorry (he said) to fall into their hands, inasmuch as he had with him in his portmanteau , franks in gold and several valuable articles of jewellery. mine host assured him that there was not the slightest danger. the merchant went to bed, directing that he should be awakened at daybreak in order to proceed on his journey. mine host, however, took care to have him called full an hour and half before daybreak, assuring him that light would soon dawn. the merchant set out, but he had hardly journeyed two miles when a shot from behind a hedge by the road side brought his horse to the ground. four men in masks rushed up, seized him and bound him to a tree; they then rifled his portmanteau, took out his money and jewels and wished him good morning. before we arrived at borgo san donino we crossed the trebbia, one of the many tributary streams of the po, and which is famous for two celebrated battles, one in ancient, the other in modern tunes (and probably many others which i do not recollect); but here it was that hannibal gained his second victory over the romans; and here, in , the russians under souvoroff defeated the french under macdonald after an obstinate and sanguinary conflict; but they could not prevent macdonald from effecting his junction with massena, to hinder which was souvoroff's object. in fact, in this country, to what reflections doth every spot of ground we pass, over, give rise! every field, every river has been the theatre of some battle or other memorable event either in ancient or modern times. _quis gurges aut quae flumina lugubris ignara belli?[ ]_ we started from borgo san donino next morning; about ten miles further on the right hand side of the road stands an ancient gothic fortress called castel guelfo. between this place and parma there is a very troublesome river to pass called the taro, which at times is nearly dry and at other times, so deep as to render it hazardous for a carriage to pass, and it is at all times requisite to send on a man to ford and sound it before a carriage passes. this river fills a variety of separate beds, as it meanders very much, and it extends to such a breadth in its _débordements_, as to render it impossible to construct a bridge long enough to be of any use. this, however, being the dry season, we passed it without difficulty. two or three other streams on this route, _seguaci del po_, are crossed in the same manner. the road to parma, after passing the taro, lies nearly in a right line and is bordered with poplars. if i am not mistaken, it was somewhere in this neighbourhood that the carthaginians under hannibal suffered a great loss in elephants, who died from cold, being incamped during the winter. i am told there is not a colder country in europe than lombardy during the winter season, which arises no doubt from its vicinity to the alps. opulence seems to prevail in all the villages in the vicinity of parma, and an immense quantity of cattle is seen grazing in the meadows on each side of the road. the female peasantry wear the spanish costume and are remarkably well dressed. we arrived at parma at twelve o'clock and stopped there three hours. parma. after a hasty breakfast, mr g-- and myself sallied forth to see what was possible during the time we stopped in this city, leaving the captain, who refused to accompany us, to smoke his pipe. this city is very large and there is a very fine _piazza._ the streets are broad, the buildings handsome and imposing, and there is a general appearance of opulence. we first proceeded to visit the celebrated amphitheatre, called _l'amfiteatro farnese_ in honour of the former sovereigns of the duchy. it is a vast building and unites the conveniences both of the ancient and modern theatres. it has a roof like a modern theatre, and the seats in the _parterre_ are arranged like the seats in an ancient greek theatre. above this are what we should call boxes, and above them again what we usually term a gallery. a vast and deep arena lies between the _parterre_ and the orchestra and fills up the space between the audience and the _proscenium_. it is admirably adapted both for spectators and hearers; when a tragedy, comedy or opera is acted, a scaffolding is erected and seats placed in the arena. at other times the arena is made use of for equestrian exercises and chariot races in the style of the ancients, combats with wild beasts, etc., or it may be filled with water for the representation of naval fights (_naumachia_); in this case you have a vast oval lake between the spectators and the stage. it is a great pity that this superb and interesting building is not kept in good repair; the fact is it is seldom or ever made use of except on very particular occasions: it is almost useless in a place like parma, "so fallen from its high estate," but were such an amphitheatre in paris, london, or any great city, it might be used for all kinds of _spectacles_ and amusements. a small theatre from the design of bernino stands close to this amphitheatre, and is built in a light tasteful manner. if fresh painted and lighted up it would make a very brilliant appearance. this may be considered as the court theatre. at a short distance from the theatres is the museum of parma, in which there is a well chosen gallery of pictures. among the most striking pictures of the old school is without doubt that of st jerôme by correggio; but i was full as much, dare i be so heretical as to say more pleased, with the productions of the modern school of parma. a distribution of prizes had lately been made by the empress maria louisa, and there were many paintings, models of sculpture and architectural designs, that did infinite credit to the young artists. i remarked one painting in particular which is worthy of a fuseli. it represented the battle of the river god scamander with achilles. the subjects of most of the paintings i saw here were taken from the mythology or from ancient and modern history; and this is perhaps the reason that they pleased me more than those of the ancient masters. why in the name of the [greek: to kalon] did these painters confine themselves so much to madonnas, crucifixions, and martyrdoms, when their own poets, ariosto and tasso, present so many subjects infinitely more pleasing? then, again, in many of these crucifixions and martyrdoms, the gross anachronisms, such as introducing monks and soldiers with match-locks and women in gothic costume at the crucifixion, totally destroy the seriousness and interest of the subject by annihilating all illusion and exciting risibility. parma will ever be renowned in history as the birthplace of caius cassius, the mend and colleague of brutus. the empress maria louisa lives here in the ducal palace, which is a spacious but ornamental edifice. she lives, 'tis said, without any ostentation. out of her own states, her presence in italy would be attended with unpleasant consequences to the powers that be, on account of the attachment borne to napoleon by all classes of society; and it is on this account that on her last visit to bologna she received an intimation from the papal authorities to quit the roman territory in twenty-four hours. we next passed thro' st hilario and reggio and brought to the evening at the village of rubbiera. at st hilario is the entrance into the duke of modena's territory, and here we underwent again &n examination of trunks, as we did both on entering and leaving the territory of maria louisa. reggio is a large walled city, but i had only time to visit the cathedral and to remark therein a fine picture of the virgin and the chapel called "capella della morte." reggio pretends to the honour of having given birth to the divine ariosto: quel grande che cantò l'armi e gli amorl, as guarini describes him, i believe. the face of the country from parma to reggio is exactly the same as what we have passed thro' already. the next day ( august) we passed thro' modena, where we stopped to breakfast and refresh horses. it is a large and handsome city, the ducal palace is striking and in the cathedral is presented the famous bucket which gave rise to the poem of tassoni called _la secchia rapita._ an air of opulence and grandeur seems to prevail in modena. at samoggia we entered the papal territory and again underwent a search of trunks. within three miles of bologna a number of villas and several tanneries, which send forth a most intolerable odour, announce the approach to that celebrated and venerable city. on the left hand side, before entering the town, is a superb portico with arcades, about one and a half miles in length, which leads from the city to the church of san luca. on the right are the appennines, towering gradually above you. bologna lies at the foot of these mountains on the eastern side and here the plain ends for those who are bound to florence, which lies on the western side of the vast ridge which divides italy. we arrived at bologna at half-past seven in the evening, and here we intend to repose a day or two; i shall then cross the appennines for the first time in my life. a reinforcement of mules or oxen is required for every carriage; from the ascent the whole way you can travel, i understand, very little quicker _en poste_ than with a _vetturino_. we are lodged at bologna in a very comfortable inn called _locanda d'inghilterra_. bologna, d august. the great popularity of bologna, which is a very large and handsomely built city, lies in the colonnaded porticos and arcades on each side of the streets throughout the whole city. these arcades are mightily convenient against sun and rain, and contradict the assertion of rousseau, who asserted that england was the only country in the world where the safety of foot passengers is consulted, whereas here in bologna not only are _trottoirs_ broader than those of london in general, but you are effectually protected against sun and rain, and are not obliged to carry an umbrella about with you perpetually as in london. this arcade system, is, however, rather a take off from the beauty of the city, and gives it a gloomy heavy appearance, which is not diminished by the sight of friars and mendicants with which this place swarms, and announce to you that you are in the holy land. at bologna it is necessary to have a sharp eye on your baggage, on account of the crowds of ragged _fainéans_ that surround your carriage while it is unloading. the first thing that the _ciceroni_ generally take you to see in italy are the churches, and mine would not probably have spared me one, but i was more anxious to see the university. i however allowed him to lead me into two of the principal churches, viz., the _duomo_ or cathedral, and the church of san petronio, both magnificent gothic temples and worth the attention of the traveller. on the _piazza del gigante_ is a fine bronze statue of neptune. the _piazza_ takes its name from this statue, as at one time in italy, after the introduction of christianity and when the ancient mythology was totally forgotten, the statues of the gods were called giants or named after devils and their prototypes believed to be such. in the museum at the university is an admirable collection of fossils, minerals, and machines in every branch of science. there are some excellent pictures also; the university of bologna was, you know, at all times famous and its celebrity, is not at all diminished, for i believe bologna boasts more scientific men, and particularly in the sciences _positives_, than any other city in italy. in the _palazzo pubblico_ (_hôtel de ville_) is a christ and a samson by guido reni; but what pleased me most in the way of painting was the collection in the gallery of count marescalchi. the count has been at great pains to form it and has shown great taste and discernment. it is a small but unique collection. here is to be seen a head of christ, the colouring of which is so brilliant as to illuminate the room in which it is appended, when the shutters are closed, and in the absence of all other light except what appears thro' the crevices of the window shutters. this head, however, does not seem characteristic of christ; it wants the gravity, the soft melancholy and unassuming meekness of the _great reformer_: in short, from the vivid fire of the eyes and the too great self-complacency of the countenance, it gave me rather the idea del biondo dio che in tessalia si adorá. i passed two hours in this cabinet. i next repaired to the centre of the city with the intention of ascending one at least of the two square towers or _campanili_ which stand close together, one of which is _strait_, the other a leaning one. _garisendi_ is the name of the leaning tower, and it forms a parallelipipedon of feet in height and about twenty feet in breath and length. it leans so much as to form an angle of seventy-five degrees with the ground on which it stands. the other tower, the strait one, is called _asinelli_ and is a parallelipipedon of feet in height and about twenty-five feet in length and breadth. i ascended the leaning tower, but i found the fatigue so great that i was scarcely repaid by the fine view of the surrounding country, which presents on one side an immense plain covered with towns, villages and villas, and on the other the appennines towering one above another. when on the top of _garisendi_, _asinelli_ appears to be four times higher than its neighbour, and the bare aspect of its enormous height deterred me from even making the attempt of ascending it. when viewed or rather looked down upon from _garisendi_, bologna, from its being of an elliptical form and surrounded by a wall and from having these two enormous towers in the centre, resembles a boat with masts. from the great celebrity of its university and the eminent men it has produced, bologna is considered as the most litterary city of italy. galvani was born in bologna and studied at this university, and among the modern prodigies is a young lady who is professor of greek and who is by all accounts the most amiable _bas bleu_ that ever existed.[ ] the bolognese are a remarkably fine, intelligent and robust race of people, and are renowned for their republican spirit, and the energy with which they at all times resisted the encroachments of the holy see. bologna was at one time a republic, and on their coins is the word libertas. the bolognese never liked the papal government and were much exasperated at returning under the domination of the holy father. in the time of napoleon, bologna formed part of the _regno d'ltalia_ and partook of all its advantages. napoleon is much regretted by them; and so impatiently did the inhabitants bear the change, on the dismemberment of the kingdom of italy, and their transfer to the pontifical sceptre, that on murat's entry in their city in the students and other young men of the town flew to arms and in a few hours organised three battalions. had the other cities shown equal energy and republican spirit, the revolution would have been completed and italy free; but the fact is that the italians in general, tho' discontented, had no very high opinion of murat's talents as a political character, and he besides _committed_ a great fault in not entering rome on his march and revolutionising it. murat, like most men, was ruined by half-measures. the last tune that maria louisa was here the people surrounded the inn where she resided and hailed her with cries of _viva i'imperatrice!_ the pope's legate in consequence intimated to her the expediency of her immediate departure from the city, with a request that she would not repeat her visit. bologna is considered by the ultras, _obscuranten,_ and _Éteignoirs_ as the focus and headquarters of carbonarism. in the evening i visited the theatre built by bibbiena and had the pleasure of hearing for the first time an italian tragedy, which, however, are now rarely represented and scarcely ever well acted. this night's performance formed an exception and was satisfactory. the piece was _romeo and giulietta_. the actress who did the part of giulietta performed it with great effect, particularly in the tomb scene. in this scene she reminded me forcibly of our own excellent actress, miss o'neill. this was the only part of the play that had any resemblance to the tragedy of shakespeare. all the rest was on the french model. i saw a number of beautiful women in the boxes. the bolognese women are remarkable for their fine complexions; those that i saw were much inclined to _embonpoint_. [ ] and also to napoleon, after the battle at eylau.--ed. [ ] joseph forsyth ( - ), author of _remarks on antiquities, arts and letters in italy_, london, .--ed. [ ] horace, _carm._, ii, i, .--ed. [ ] the young woman in question was clotilda tambroni ( - ). she taught greek at the university of bologna and was in correspondence with the great french scholar ansse de villoison.--ed. chapter ix journey across the appennines to florence--tuscan idioms and customs--monuments and galleries at florence--the cascino--churches-- theatres--popularity of the grand duke--napoleon's downfall not regretted--academies in florence. florence, th august. the moment you leave bologna to go to florence you enter the gorges of the appennines, and after journeying seven miles, begin to ascend the ridge. the ascent begins at pianoro. among these mountains the scenery is wild and romantic, and tho' not so grandiose and sublime as that of the alps, is nevertheless extremely picturesque. one meets occasionally with the ruins of old castles on some of the heights, and i was strongly reminded, at the sight of these antique edifices, of the mysteries of udolpho and the times of the condottieri. the silence that reigns here is only interrupted by the noise of the waterfall and the occasional scream of the eagle. the wild abrupt transition of landscape would suggest the idea of haunting places for robbers, yet one seldom or never hears of any, on this road. in tuscany there is, i understand, so much industry and morality, that a robbery is a thing unknown; but in his holiness's dominions, from the idleness and poverty that prevails, they are said to be frequent. why it does not occur in these mountains, in that part of them, at least, which belongs to the papal government, i am at a loss to conceive. here the chesnut and olive trees salute the ultramontane traveller for the first time. the olive tree, tho' a most useful, is not an ornamental one, as it resembles a willow or osier in its trunk and in the colour of its leaves. the chesnut tree is a glorious plant for an indolent people, since it furnishes food without labour, as the xaca or jack fruit tree does to the cingalese in ceylon. on one of the heights between pianoro and lojano you have in very clear weather a view of both the adriatic and tyrrhene seas. we brought to the night at scarica l'asino and the next morning early we entered the tuscan territory at pietra mala, where there is a _douane_ and consequently an examination of trunks. at one o'clock we arrived at an inn called _le maschere_, about fifteen miles distance from florence; it is a large mansion and being situated on an eminence commands an extensive view. one becomes soon aware of being in the tuscan territory from the number of cultivated spots to be seen in this part of the appennines: for such is the industry of the inhabitants that they do wonders on their naturally sterile soil. one sees a number of farms. every spot of ground is in cultivation, between _le maschere_ and florence in particular; these spots of ground, gardens, orchards and villas forming a striking and pleasing contrast with the wild and dreary scenery of the appennines. another thing that indicates one's arrival among the tuscans is their aspiration of the letter _c_ before _a_, _o_ and _u_, which is at first extremely puzzling to a foreigner accustomed only to the roman pronunciation. for instance, instead of _camera_, _cotto_, _curvo_, they pronounce these words _hamera_, _hotto_, and _hurvo_ with an exceeding strong aspiration of the _h_. it is the same too with the _ch_ which they aspirate, _ex gr._ instead of _pochino_, _chiave_, they say _pohino_, _hiave_. the language however which is spoken is the most classical and pure italian and except the above mentioned aspiration it is delightful to the ear; peculiarly so to those who come from the north of italy, and have only hitherto heard the unpleasing nasal twang of the milanese and the exceeding uncouth barbarous dialect of bologna. another striking peculiarity is the smart appearance of the tuscan peasantry. they are a remarkably handsome race of men; the females unite with their natural beauty a grace and elegance that one is quite astonished to find among peasants. they express themselves in the most correct and classical language and they have a great deal of repartee. as the peasantry of tuscany enjoy a greater share of _aisance_ than falls to the lot of those of any other country, and as the females dress with taste and take great pains to appear smart on all occasions, they resemble rather the shepherdesses on the opera stage or those of the fabled arcadia than anything in real life. the females too are remarkably industrious and will work like horses all the week to gain wherewithal to appear smart on holidays. their dress is very becoming, and they wear sometimes jewellery to a large amount on their persons; a very common ornament among them is a collar of gold around their necks. their usual head-dress is either a white straw hat, or a black round beaver hat, with black ostrich feathers. i prefer the straw hat; it is more tasteful than the round hat which always seems to me too masculine for a woman. at the inn at _le maschere_ we were waited on by three smart females. the whole road from _le maschere_ to florence is very beautiful and diversified. vineyards, gardens, farm houses and villas thicken as one approaches and when arrived within three miles of florence, which lies in a basin surrounded by mountains, one is quite bewildered at the sight of the quantity of beautiful villas and _maisons de plaisance_ in every direction. every thing indicates life, industry and comfort in this charming country. we stopped at a villa belonging to the grand duke called _ii pratolino_, seven miles distant from florence. here is to be seen the famous statue representing the genius of the appennines. the villa is unfurnished and out of repair and the garden and grounds are neglected: it is a great pity, for it is a fine building and in a beautiful position. the celebrated bianca capello, a venetian by birth, and mistress of francesco ii de' medici, grand duke of tuscany, used to reside here. florence, th august. i am extremely well pleased with my accommodations at the hotel where i am lodged. mme hembert, the proprietor, was once _femme de chambre_ to the empress joséphine; she is an excellent woman and a very attentive hostess, and i recommend her hotel to all those travellers who visit florence and do not care to incur the expence of schneider's. there is an excellent and well served _table d'hôte_ at two o'clock, wine at discretion, for which, and for my bedroom, i pay seven _paoli_ per day. this hotel has the advantage of being in a very central situation. it is close to the _piazza del gran duca_, the post-office, the _palazzo vecchio_, the bureaux of government, the celebrated gallery of sculpture and painting and to the arno. it is only yards from the _piazza del duomo_, where the cathedral stands, and yards from the principal theatre _della pergola_ on the one side; while on the other side, after crossing the _ponte vecchio_, stands the _palazzo pitti_, the residence of the grand duke, at a distance of seven or yards. the _piazza del gran duca_ is very striking to the eye of the northern traveller; the statues of the gods in white marble in the open air would make him fancy himself in athens in the olden time. the following statues in bronze and white marble are to be seen on this _piazza_. in bronze are: a statue of perseus by cellini; judith with the head of holofernes by donatello; david and goliath; samson. in white marble are the following beautiful statues: a group representing hercules and cacus; another representing a roman carrying off a sabine woman. the hercules, who is in the act of strangling cacus, rests on one leg. nearly in the centre of the _piazza_, opposite to the post office and in front of the _palazzo vecchio_, is the principal ornament of the _piazza_, which consists of a group representing neptune in his car or conch (or shell) drawn by sea-horses and accompanied by tritons. the statue of neptune is of colossal size, the whole group is in marble and the conch of egyptian granite. this group forms a fountain. there is likewise on this _piazza_ an immense equestrian statue in bronze of cosmo the first by john of bologna. the _palazzo vecchio_ is a large gothic building by arnulpho and has a very lofty square tower or _campanile_. the gallery of florence being so close to my abode demanded next my attention. the building in which this invaluable museum is preserved forms three sides of a parallelogram, two long ones and one short one, of which the side towards the south of the quai of the arno is the short one. on the north is an open space communicating with the _piazza del gran duca_. the gallery occupies the whole first floor of this vast building. the _rez de chaussée_ is occupied, on the west side, by the bureaux of government, and on the south and east sides by shopkeepers, in whose shops is always to be seen a brilliant display of merchandize. as there are arcades on the three sides of this parallelogram, they form the favorite meridian promenade of the _belles_ and _beaux_ of florence, particularly on sundays and holidays, after coming out of church. i ascended the steps from a door on the east side of the building, to visit the gallery. the quantity and variety of objects of art, of the greatest value, baffle all description, and it would require months and years to attempt an analysis of all it contains. i shall therefore content myself with pointing out those objects which imprinted themselves the most forcibly on my imagination and recollection. in a chamber on the left hand of one wing of the gallery stands the venus de' medici, sent back last year from france. in the same chamber with her are the following statues: the extremely beautiful _apollino_; the spotted faun; the _rémouleur_ or figure which is in the act of whetting a sickle. all these were in paris, and are now restored to this gallery. in this chamber two pictures struck me in particular: the one the venus of titian, a most voluptuous figure; the other a portrait of the mistress of rafaello, called "_la fornarina_," from her being a baker's daughter. returning to the gallery i was quite bewildered at the immense number of statues, pictures, sarcophagi, busts, altars, etc. among the pieces of sculpture those that most caught my attention were: the _venus genetrix_ (which i had seen before at paris); the _venus victrix_; the _venus anadyomene_; hercules and nessus, a superb groupe; a young bacchus; and an exquisitely chiselled group representing pan teaching olympus to play the syrinx, tho' the attitude of the former is rather indecorous from not being in a very quiescent state; a fine statue of leda with the swan; a mercury, both worthy of great attention. i remarked also in particular a statue of marsyas attached to a tree and flayed. it is of a pale reddish marble, and tho' i perfectly agree with forsyth, that colored marble is not at all adapted to statuary, yet in this instance it gives a wonderful effect and is strikingly suitable, as the slight reddish colour gives a full idea of the flesh after the skin is torn off. it makes one shudder to look at it. in one of the halls are the statues of niobe and her daughters, a beautiful group. then there is the celebrated copy of the group of the laocoon by bandinelli, which none but the most perfect and skilful connoisseur could distinguish from the original. but it is totally impossible for me to describe the immense variety of paintings, historical, portrait and landscape; the statues single or in groups; the sarcophagi, altars, bas-reliefs, inscriptions, bronzes, medals, vases, baths, candelabra, cameos, etruscan and egyptian idols with which this admirable museum is filled. in a line on each side of the gallery near the ceiling is a succession of portraits in chronological order of the grand dukes of tuscany, the germanic emperors, the kings of france, of england, of spain, of portugal, of the popes and of the ottoman emperors. among the antiquities i particularly noticed a large steel mirror and a roman eagle in bronze of the th legion. having passed full four hours in this museum, i descended the steps, crossed the arno and repaired to the building in which is preserved the _cabinet d'histoire naturelle_. in this museum what is most remarkable are the imitations in wax of the whole anatomy of the human body. it is the first collection of its kind; indeed it is unique in europe. these imitations are kept in glass cases and are so true and so perfectly correct as to leave nothing to desire to the student in anatomy. these imitations in wax not only include all the details of anatomy, but also the progress of generation, gestation, and of almost every malady to which the human body is liable. they are of a frightful exactitude. there are likewise in this museum imitations in wax of various plants and shrubs exotic as well as indigenous and the collection of stuffed birds, beasts and fishes and that of insects, mineralogy and conchology scarcely yields to the collection at the _jardin des plantes_ at paris. neither here nor at the florentine gallery are fees allowed to be taken; on the contrary a strict prohibition of them is posted up in the french, italian, german and english languages. on the _ponte vecchio_ on each side are jewellers' shops, who sell besides jewellery, cameos and works in mosaic. the quais on each side of the arno are very broad and spacious and form agreeable promenades in the winter season. the buildings on the banks of the arno are magnificent. the streets of florence have this peculiarity that they are all paved with large flag stones, which makes them mightily pleasant for pedestrians, but dangerous at times for horses who are apt to slip. most of the houses in florence have walls of prodigious thickness; one would suppose each house was meant to be a fortress in case of necessity. florence, th august. on the other side of the arno, a little beyond the _cabinet physique_ and museum of natural history stands the _palazzo pitti_, the residence of the grand duke. it is a vast building and has a large and choice collection of pictures; but its finest ornament in my opinion is the statue of venus by canova, which to me at least appears to equal the medicean venus in beauty and in grace. the magnificent and spacious garden belonging to the palace is called the garden of boboli. these gardens form the grand promenade of the florentines on sundays and holidays. the alleys are well shaded by trees, which effectually protect the promenaders from the rays of the sun. there are a great many statues in this garden, but the most striking is a group which lies nearly in the centre of the garden. it is environed by a large circular basin or lake lined with stone and planted with orange trees on the whole circumference. in the centre of the lake is a rock and on this rock is a colossal statue in white marble of neptune in his car. the car is in the shape of a marine conch and serves as a basin and fountain at the same time. there are several other fountains and _jets d'eau_, among which is a group representing adam and eve and the statue of a man pouring out water from a vase which he has on his shoulder. the _corso_ or grand evening promenade for carriages and equestrians is on a place called the cascino, pronounced by the florentines _hascino_. the cascino consists of pleasure grounds on the banks of the arno outside the town, laid out in roads, alleys and walks for carriages, equestrians and pedestrians. there is a very brilliant display of carriages every evening. there are _restaurants_ on the cascino and supper parties are often formed here. this place is often the scene of curious adventures. cicisbeism is universal at florence, tho' far from being always criminal, as is generally supposed by foreigners. i find the florentine women very graceful and many very handsome; but in point of beauty the female peasantry far exceed the _noblesse_ and burghers. all of them however dress with taste. the handsomest woman in florence is the wife of an apothecary who lives in the _piazza del duomo_ and she has a host of admirers. on the promenade _lungo l'arno_ near the cascino is a fountain with a statue of pegasus, with an inscription in italian verse purporting that pegasus having stopped there one day to refresh himself at this fountain, found the place so pleasant that he remained there ever since. this is a poetic nation _par excellence_. _affiches_ are announced in sonnets and other metres; and tho' in other countries the votaries of the muses are but too apt to neglect the ordinary and vulgar concerns of life, yet here it by no means diminishes industry, and the nine ladies are on the best possible terms with mr mercury. i shall not attempt a description of the various _palazzi_ and churches of florence, tho' i have visited, thanks to the zeal and importunity of my _cicerone_, nearly all, except to remark that no one church in florence, the cathedral and baptistery on the _piazza del duomo_ excepted, has its façade finished, and they will remain probably for ever unfinished, as the completion of them would cost very large sums of money, and the restored government, however anxious to resuscitate the _ancient faith_, are not inclined to make large disbursements from their own resources for that purpose. i wish however they would finish the façade of two of these churches, viz., that of _santa maria novella_ and that of _santa croce_. _santa maria novella_ stands in the piazza of that name which is very large. it is a beautiful edifice, and can boast in the interior of it several columns and pilasters of _jaune antique_ and of white marble. but they have a most barbarous custom in florence of covering these columns with red cloth on _jours de fête_, which spoils the elegant simplicity of the columns and makes the church itself resemble a _théâtre des marionnettes_. but the italians are dreadfully fond of gaudy colours. in the church of _santa croce_ what most engaged my attention was the monument erected to vittorio alfieri, sculptured by canova. it is a most beautiful piece of sculpture. a figure of italy crowned with turrets seems fully sensible of the great loss she has sustained in one who was so ardent a patriot, as well as an excellent tragic poet. this monument was erected at the expence of the countess of albany (queen of england, had _legitimacy_ always prevailed, or been as much in fashion as it now is) as a mark of esteem and affection towards one who was so tenderly attached to her, and of whom in his writings alfieri speaks with the endearing and affectionate appellation of _mia donna_. the beautiful sonnet to her, which accompanies the dedication of his tragedy of _mirra_, well deserves the monument; there is so much feeling in it that i cannot retrain from transcribing it: vergognando talor, che ancor si taccia, donna, per me l'almo tuo nome in fronte di queste omai glà troppe a te ben conte tragedie, ond'io di folle avrommi taccia; or vo' qual d'esse meno a te dispiaccia di te fregiar; benchè di tutte il fonte tu sola fosti, e'l viver mio non conte se non dal di, ch'al viver tuo si allaccia. della figlia di ciniro infelice l'orrendo a un tempo ed innocente amore sempre da' tuoi begli occhi il planto elice; prova emmi questo, ch'al mio dubbio core tacitamente imperiosa dice, ch'io di mirra consacri a te il dolore. in this sanctuary (church of the _santa croce_) are likewise the tombs and monuments of other great men which italy has produced. there is the monument erected to galileo which represents the earth turning round the sun with the emphatic words: _eppur si muove._ here too repose the ashes of machiavelli and michel angelo. this church is in fact the westminster abbey of florence. to go from the _piazza del gran duca_ to the _piazza del duomo_, where stands the cathedral, you have only to pass thro' a long narrow street or rather alley (for it is impervious to carriages) with shops on each side and always filled with people going to or returning from the duomo. this cathedral is of immense size. the architecture is singular from its being a mixture of the gothic and greek. it appears the most ponderous load that ever was laid on the shoulders of poor mother earth. there is nothing light in its structure to relieve the massiveness of the building, and in this respect it forms a striking contrast to the cathedral of milan which appears the work of sylphs. the outside of this duomo of florence is decorated and incrusted with black and white marble, which increases the massiveness of its appearance. the steeple or campanile stands by itself, altogether separate from the cathedral, and this is the case with most of the churches in italy that are not of pure gothic architecture. this _campanile_ is curiously inlaid and incrusted on its outside with red, white and black marble. the baptistery is another building on the same _piazza_. it is in the same stile of building as the duomo, but incloses much less space, and was formerly a separate church, called the church of st john the baptist. the immense bronze doors or rather gates, both of the duomo and battisterio, attracted my peculiar notice. on them are figured bas-reliefs of exquisite and admirable workmanship, representing scripture histories. it was the symmetry and perfection of these gates that induced michel angelo to call them in a fit of enthusiasm _the gates of paradise_. at the door of the battisterio are the columns in red granite, which once adorned the gates of the city at pisa, and were carried off by the florentines in one of their wars. chains are fastened round these columns, as a memorial of the conquest. the cupolas both of the duomo and battisterio are octangular. there is a stone seat on the _piazza del duomo_ where they pretend that dante used occasionally to sit; hence it is called to this day _il sasso di dante_. you will now no doubt expect me to give some account of the theatres. at the _pergola_, which is a large and splendid theatre, i have seen two operas; the one, _l'italiana in algieri_, which i saw before at milan last year; the other, the _barbieri di seviglia_ by rossini, which afforded to my ears the most delightful musical feast they ever enjoyed. the cavatina _una voce poco fa_ gave me inconceivable delight. the _ballo_ was of a very splendid description and from a subject taken from the oriental history entitled _macbet sultan of delhi_. how the mogul sultan came to have the name of macbet i know not. on the _plafond_ of the _pergola_ is an allegorical painting representing the restored kings of europe replaced on their thrones by valor and justice. the decorations at this theatre are not quite so splendid as those of the _scala_ at milan, but living horses and military evolutions seem to be annexed to every historical _ballo_. horses indeed appear to be an indispensable ingredient in the _balli_ in the large cities of italy. in the _teatro cocomera_, comedies are performed, and very generally those of the inexhaustible goldoni. i saw the _bugiardo_ very fairly performed at this theatre. the story is nearly the same as that of our piece, _the liar_, which is i believe imitated from _le menteur_ of corneille. the actor who did the liar was a very good one. the actresses screamed too much and were rather coarse. another night at the theatre i saw a piece call'd _ii furioso_, a _comédie larmoyante_ which was interesting and well given; but the voice of the prompter was occasionally too loud. tragedies are very seldom played; the language of alfieri could never, i will not say be given with effect, but even conceived by the modern actors. it would be like a tragedy of sophocles performed by boys at school. there is another reason too why these tragedies are not given; they abound too much in republican and patriotic sentiments to be grateful to the ears of the princes who reign in italy, all of whom being of foreign extraction and unshackled by constitutions, come under the denomination of those beings called by greeks [greek: turannoi], i use this word in its greek sense. of the tuscan government it is but justice to say that from the days of leopold to the present day it was and is a mild, just and paternal government, more so perhaps than any in europe; and the only one that can any way reconcile one altogether to those lines of pope: for forms of government let fools contest; whate'er is best administer'd is best.[ ] in the time of leopold the factious nobility were kept in check, and the industrious classes, mercantile and agricultural, encouraged. the peasantry were, and are, the most affluent in europe; and this is no small incitement to the industry that prevails. on the elevation of leopold to the throne of the caesars, the present grand duke succeeded in tuscany; and he followed the same system that leopold did, and was equally beloved by his subjects. tuscany was the only country in italy that did not desire a change at the period of the french conquest, and the only state wherein the french were not hailed as deliverers. the tuscans exhibited a very honorable spirit on the occasion of buonaparte's visit to the grand duke in . they went together to the theatre della pergola, and on their entering into the grand ducal box, the grand duke was hailed with cries of _viva il nostro sovrano_: now this proof of attachment at a period when buonaparte was all-mighty in italy, when the grand duke was but an inferior personage, at a time too when it was doubtful whether or not he would be dethroned, and in the very presence of the mighty conqueror, reflects great honor and credit on the tuscan character. buonaparte was much struck at this proof of disinterested attachment on the part of the florentines towards their sovereign, and told the grand duke very ingenuously that he had received orders to revolutionize the country, from the french directory; but that as he perceived the people were so happy, and the prince so beloved, he could not and would not attempt to make any change. the applause given to the grand duke at this critical period is so much the more creditable to the florentines as they in general receive their prince, on his presenting himself at the theatre, with no other ceremonial than rising once and bowing. there is no fulsome _god save the king_ repeated even to nausea, as at the english theatres. in fact none of the italians pay that servile adulation to their sovereigns that the french and english do. the changes projected in italy at the treaty of lunéville by napoleon then first consul, and his further views on italy, induced him at length to eject an austrian prince from the sovereignty of a country which he intended to annex to the french empire. the grand duke was indemnified with a principality in germany, where he remained until the downfall of napoleon in ; subsequent arrangements again restored him to the sway of the land he loved so well, and he returned to florence as if he had only been absent on a tour, finding scarcely any change in the laws and customs and habits of the country; for tho' tuscany was first erected into a kingdom by the title of etruria, and afterwards annexed to the french empire, the institutions and laws laid down by leopold and followed strictly by his successor were preserved; very little innovation took place, and the few innovations that were effected were decided ameliorations; for the emperor napoleon had too much tact not to preserve and protect the good he found, tho' he abolished all old abuses. the improvements introduced by the french have been preserved and confirmed by the grand duke on his return, for he is a man of too much good sense, and has too much love of justice, to think of abolishing the good that has been done, merely because it was done by the french. tuscany has now a respectable military force of , men well armed, clothed and equipped in the french manner. tuscany is the only part of italy where the downfall of napoleon was not regretted; the inhabitants of leghorn indeed rejoiced at it, for the commerce of tuscany being chiefly maritime, leghorn suffered a good deal from the continental system. leghorn in fact decayed in the same proportion that milan and other inland cities rose into opulence. the character of the tuscan people is so amiable and pacific that crime is very rare indeed. murder is almost unknown and the punishment of death is banished from the penal code. where the government is good, the people are or soon become good. i know of no country in the world more agreeable for a foreigner to settle in than tuscany. i omitted to remark that in the street called _borgo d'ognissanti_ is a large house or _palazzo_ which belonged to americo vespucci. his bust is to be seen in the florentine gallery. it is curious to remark the different appellations given to the word _street_ in the different cities of italy. in milan a street is called _vico_ and in turin, _contrada_; in florence _strada_ and in rome, i understand, _via_. florence, st sept. i shall start in a day or two for rome, being very impatient to behold the eternal city, a plan which i have had in view from my earliest days and which i have not been able hitherto to effect; for like the abbé delille i had sworn to visit the sacred spot where so many illustrious men had spoke and acted, and to do hommage in person to their manes. i was always a great admirer of the "_popolo re_." in florence there are a great many literary societies such as the _infuocati, immobili_, and the far renowned _la crusca_. frequent _academies_, for so a sitting of a litterary society in italy is termed, are held in florence. there are likewise two casinos, one for the nobility and the other for the merchants and burghers; the wives and daughters of the members attend occasionally; and cards, music and dancing are the amusements. florence abounds in artists in alabaster whose workmanship is beautiful. they make models in alabaster of the most celebrated pieces of sculpture and architecture, on any scale you chuse: they fabricate busts too and vases in alabaster. the vases made in imitation of the ancient greek vases are magnificent, and some of them are of immense size. foreigners generally chuse to have their busts taken; for almost all foreigners who arrive here are or pretend to be smitten with an ardent love for the fine arts, and every one wishes to take with him models of the fine things he has seen in italy, on his return to his native country. here are english travellers who at home would scarcely be able to distinguish the finest piece of ancient sculpture--the mercury, for instance, in the florentine gallery, from a mercury in a citizen's garden at highgate--who here affect to be in extacies at the sight of the venus, apollino, &c., and they are fond of retailing on all occasions the terms of art and connoisseurship they have learned by rote, in the use of which they make sometimes ridiculous mistakes. for instance i heard an englishman one day holding forth on the merits of the vierge _quisouse_, as he called it. i could not for some time divine what he meant by the word _quisouse_, but after some explanation i found that he meant the celebrated painting of the _vierge qui coud_, or _vierge couseuse_, as it is sometimes called, which latter word he had transformed into _quisouse_. this affectation, however, of passion for the _belle arti_, tho' sometimes open to ridicule, is very useful. it generates taste, encourages artists, and is surely a more innocent as well as more rational mode of spending money and passing time than in encouraging pugilism or in racing, coach driving and cock fighting. [ ] pope, _essay on man_, ep. iii, - .--ed. chapter x journey from florence to rome--sienna--radicofani--bolsena--montefiascone wine--viterbo--baccano--the roman campagna--the papal _douane_--monuments and museums in rome--intolerance of the catholic christians--the tiber and the bridges--character of the romans--the _palassi_ and _ville_--canova's atelier--theatricals--an execution in rome. september----, . i made an agreement with a _vetturino_ to take me to rome for three _louis d'or_ and to be _spesato_. in the carriage were two other passengers, viz., a neapolitan lady, the wife of a colonel in the neapolitan service, and a young roman, the son of the _barigello_ or _capo degli sbirri_ at rome. we issued from the _porta romana_ at o'clock a.m. the d september. the road winds thro' a valley, and has a gentle ascent nearly the whole way to poggibonsi, where we brought to the first night. the soil hereabouts is far from fertile, but every inch of it is put to profit. the olive tree is very frequent and several farms and villages are to be met with. the next day we arrived at o'clock at sienna. the approach to sienna is announced by a quantity of olive trees. the situation of this city being on an elevation, makes it cold and bleak. we remained here three hours, so that i had time to visit some of the places worthy of remark in this venerable city, which is handsome and very solidly built, but has rather a sombre appearance. the _piazza grande_ lies in a bottom to which you descend from the environing streets. it is in the shape of a mussel shell and of very large size. the cathedral is gothic and is a very majestic and venerable building. inside it is of black and yellow marble. the pavement of this church contains scripture histories in mosaic. a library is annexed to the church. the librarian pointed out to me folio volumes of church music with illuminated plates; likewise an ancient piece of sculpture much mutilated, viz., a group of the three graces. in one of the chapels of this cathedral are eight columns of _verd-antique_. i observed a monument of the piccolomini family who belong to this city; one of which family figured a good deal in the thirty years' war in germany. i saw several women in the cathedral and at the windows of the houses. the greater part of them were handsome. the italian language is spoken here in its greatest purity; it is the pure tuscan dialect without the tuscan aspiration. the siennese language is in fact the identical _lingua toscana in bocca romana_. we arrived the same evening at buon convento, an old dismal dirty-looking town formerly fortified; but the country in the environs is pleasing enough. the inn here is very bad. on the road between sienna and this place i observed a number of mulberry trees. the next morning, the th sept., we arrived at radicofani or rather at an inn or post house facing radicofani. this is a very ancient city, and from its being on an eminence it has an imposing appearance. above it towers an immense conical shaped mountain, evidently a volcano in former times. in fact, the whole country hereabouts is volcanic, which is plainly seen from the immense masses of calcined stones, the exhalations of sulphur and the dreary wild appearance of the country, where scarce a tree is to be seen. i never in my life saw so many calcined rocks and stones of great magnitude heaped together as at radicofani. it gave the idea as if it were the identical field of battle between jupiter and the titans, and as if the masses of rock that everywhere meet the eye had been hurled at the empyreum by the titans and had fallen back on the spot from whence they were torn up. it is indeed very probable that this volcano which vomited forth rocks and stones in a very remote age, gave rise to the fable of the war between jupiter and the giants; just as the volcanos in sicily and stromboli gave rise to the story of the cyclops with one eye (the crater) in their forehead. but the mountain of radicofani must have been a volcano anterior even to aetna; it presents the image of an ancient world destroyed by fire. at ponte centino the next morning we took our leave of _la patria bella di vaghe donne e di dolce favella;_ in plain prose, we left the tuscan territory, and re-entered the dominions of his holiness. after being detained half an hour at the _douane_, we proceeded to acquapendente to breakfast. the country between radicofani and acquapendente is dreary, thinly populated, little cultivated, and volcanic steams of sulphur assail the nostrils. before we arrived at acquapendente we had a troublesome river to cross, which at times is nearly dry, and at other times the water comes down in torrents from the surrounding mountains and precipices, so as to render its passage extremely dangerous. it is always necessary previous to the passage of a carriage, to send on a man to ford and sound it, from its meandering and forming different beds crossed seven times, twice less than styx _novies interfusa_, and it is a very slow operation from the number of rocks and quicksands; so that, should the torrent come down while you are in the act of crossing, you and your whole equipage would be swept away by the stream and drowned or dashed to pieces. travellers going to and returning from rome are frequently detained for a day or two at ponte centino or acquapendente during the rainy season; for immediately after heavy rains, there is always a great risk and it is better to halt for several hours to allow the waters to pass off. the extent of ground that this river covers by its meandering and forming so many beds nearly parallel to each other renders it impossible to construct a bridge long enough; and it would be always liable to be swept away by the torrent. nobody ever thinks of crossing the river in the dark. there having no rain fallen for several days we passed it without difficulty. within a mile of acquapendente the landscape varies and the approach to this town is exceedingly picturesque. acquapendente is situated on a lofty eminence from which several magnificent cascades descend into the ravine below and which give the name to the town. there are a great number of trees about this town and they afford a great relief to the eye of the traveller after so many hours' journey thro' volcanic wastes. the town of acquapendente is very ancient; it is very large, but ill-paved and dirty; the best buildings in it are, however, modern. the inhabitants appear lazy and dirty. on entering into conversation with some soldiers belonging to the papal army, who were stationed at this place, i found that most of them had served under napoleon. they spoke of him with tears of affection in their eyes, and i pleased them much by reciprocating their opinions of that great man. to speak well of napoleon is the surest passport to civility and good treatment on the part of the soldiers and _douaniers_. in the evening we arrived at bolsena, the ancient volsinium, a city of the volscians. it is an ancient looking town, not very clean, and inhabited by indolent people. it is situated on the banks of a large lake, on which there are three small islands. it is very aguish and unhealthy, and the inhabitants appear sickly, with marvellous sallow complexions. the inn where we put up was a pretty good one, and as this lake abounds in fish, we had some excellent trout and pike for supper; among other dishes there was one that was very gratifying to me, an old east and west indian; and that was the _peveroni_ or large red and green peppers or capsicums fried in oil. some excellent orvieto wine crowned our repast, and helped to restore us from our fatigues. on leaving bolsena the next morning, the th, and within a very short distance from that town we entered a thick and venerable forest, thro' which the road runs for several miles. fine old trees of immense height covered with foliage and thickly studded together give to this forest an aweful and romantic appearance. it is quite a _lucus opaca ingens_. this forest has been held sacred since the earliest times and is even now held in such superstitious veneration by the people that they do not allow it to be cut. the dryads and hamadryads have no doubt long ago taken their flight, but the wood, from its length and opaqueness, inspired me with some apprehension lest it might be the abode of some modern votaries of mercury, people having confused ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_, and the _appropriative faculty_ too strongly developed in their organization, and i expected every moment to hear a shot and the terrible cry of _ferma_; but we met with no accident nor did we fall in with a living soul. on issuing from this forest we perceived on an eminence before us, at a short distance, the town of montefiascone. we stopped there as almost all travellers do to taste the famous montefiascone wine or _est_ wine, as it is frequently called. this wine is fine flavored, _pétillant_ and wonderfully exhilarating. it is renowned for having occasioned the death of a german prelate in the sixteenth century, who was travelling in italy and who was remarkably fond of good wine. the story is as follows. he was accustomed to send on his servant to the different towns thro' which he was to pass with directions, to taste and report on the quality of the different wines to be found there, and if they were good to mark the word _est_ on the casks from which he tasted them. the servant, on arrival at montefiascone, was highly pleased with the flavour of the wine, of which there were three casks at the inn where they put up. he accordingly wrote the word _est_ on each of the casks. the bishop arrived soon after and took such a liking to this wine that he died in a few days of a fever brought on by continual intoxication. he was buried in one of the churches at montefiascone and the monks of the convent there, themselves _bons-vivans_, determined to give him a suitable epitaph. they accordingly caused to be engraved on his tomb the following latin inscription commemorative of the event: _est, est, est, propter nimium est, dominus episcopus mortuus_ est. from the above circumstance this wine is called _vino d'est_, and it affords no small revenue to the proprietor of the _cabaret_ on the road side who sells it. we arrived at viterbo to breakfast and at ronciglione in the evening. viterbo is a large and handsome city and contains several striking buildings. it is paved with lava and contains a great variety of fountains. there is some appearance of commerce and industry in this town and there are several _maisons de plaisance_ in the neighbourhood. from viterbo, thro' monterosi, to ronciglione the road lies over a mountain of steep ascent; here and there are patches of forest. there is not a house to be seen on this route and from there being a good deal of wood, and no appearance of cultivation, one fancies oneself rather in the wilds of a new country like america, than in so old a one as italy. ronciglione is an old rubbishing town half in ruins and contains no one thing remarkable. the next morning at four o'clock we started from ronciglione and reached baccano to breakfast. baccano contains only two buildings; but they are both very large and roomy; the one is the inn, and the other serves as a barrack for the military. there is always a strong military detachment here for the security of the road against robbers, who occasionally infest this neighbourhood. the inn is of immense size. travellers, who arrive here late, would do well to halt here the whole night, as not only the road is dangerous on account of robbers, but because if they arrive at rome after five o'clock p.m., they cannot release their baggage and carriage from the custom house till next day. every carriage public or private that arrives in rome is bound, unless a special permission to the contrary be obtained from the government, to drive direct to the custom house (_dogana_). in the like manner, on travelling from rome to florence, people generally prefer to start from rome at twelve o'clock and bring to the night at baccano, so as to avoid the bad inn at ronciglione and sleep in preference at viterbo. i here speak only of those who travel by short stages as the _vetturini_ do. ariosto has given a celebrity to this wretched place baccano in his poem of the _orlando furioso_, in the story of giocondo in the th canto, as being the identical place where fausto, the brother of giocondo, remained to await the return of his brother from rome, to which place he had gone back, when half way between baccano and rome, to fetch the _monile_ which he had left behind him, and found his wife not _alone_ and _dying with grief_ as he apprehended, but _sotto la coltre_ with a servant of the family. the country between baccano and rome is as unpleasing and even worse than that between the former place and ronciglione. it is hilly, but not a tree, nor a house, nor a sign of cultivation to be seen except the two or three wretched hovels at la storta. there is nothing at all that announces the approach to a capital city; and in addition to the dismal landscape there is a sight still more dismal that salutes the eye of the traveller at intervals of two or three miles and which does not tend to inspire pleasing ideas; and this is the sight of arms and legs of malefactors and murderers suspended on large poles on the road side; for it is the custom here to cut off the arms and legs of murderers after decapitation, and to suspend them _in terrorem_ on poles, erected on the very spot where they committed the murder. the sight of these limbs dangling in the wind is not a very comfortable one towards the close of the evening. we left the _sepolero di nerone_, an ancient tomb so called, on the right of our road and half a mile beyond it crossed the tiber at the _ponte molle (pons milvius)_, where there is a gate, bridge and military post. from this post to the _porta del popolo_, the entrance into the city for those coming from the north, the distance is one mile; there is a white wall on each side of the road the whole way, and some farm houses and villas. near the _ponte molle_ is the field of battle where maxentius was defeated by constantine. we entered the _porta del popolo_, crossed the _piazza_ of the same name, where three streets present themselves to view. in the centre is the street called the _corso_, running in a direct line from the _porta_ across the _piazza_. we drove along the _corso_ till we arrived at a _piazza_ on our right hand, which _piazza_ is called _della colonna_ from the column of antoninus, which stands on it. we then crossed the _piazza_ which is very large and soon reached the _dogana_ or custom house, formerly the temple of antoninus pius, where vile modern walls are built to fill up the intervals between eleven columns of grecian marble. here our baggage underwent a rigorous research; this rigour is not so much directed against the fraudulent introduction of contraband or duty-bearing merchandise, as against _books_, which undergo a severe scrutiny. against voltaire and rousseau implacable war is waged, and their works are immediately confiscated. other authors too are sometimes examined, to see whether they contain anything against mother church. as the people employed in inspecting books are not much versed in any litterature or language but their own, except perhaps a little french, it is not easy for them to find out the contents of books in other languages. i had schiller's works with me, a volume of which one of the _douaniers_ took up and looked at; on seeing the gothic letter he seemed as much astonished as if he had got hold of a book of _cabbala_ or _magic_. he detained the whole work, but it was sent to me the next day, on my declaring that there was nothing damnable or heretical in it; for there was no person belonging to the department who could read german. when the _douaniers_ proceeded to the examination of the books belonging to one of my fellow travellers, the neapolitan lady, she expressed great repugnance to the procedure; the _douaniers_ however insisted and, behold! there were several _livres galants_ with plates somewhat _lubriques_, the discovery of which excited blushes on her part and considerable laughter on the part of the byestanders. these books, however, not being contraband, were immediately returned to her, as was an edition of baffo, belonging to my other fellow traveller, returned to him. now this baffo was a venetian poet and his works are the most profligate that ever were penned or imagined by mortal man. martial and petronius arbiter must hide their diminished heads before baffo. the owner of this book chose to read out loud, quite unsolicited, several _choice_ sonnets of this poet for our edification during the journey; and this branch of litterature seemed to be the only one with which he was acquainted. when the examination was over i took leave of my fellow travellers, and repaired to the _german hôtel_ in the _via de' condotti_, where i engaged an apartment, and sat down to dinner at an excellent _table d'hôte_ at five o'clock. there was a profusion of everything, particularly of fish and game. mullets and wild boar are constant dishes at a roman table. the mullets at rome are small but delicious, and this was a fish highly prized by the ancient romans. game of all kinds is very cheap here, from the abundance of it that is to be met with in wild uninhabited wastes of latium and in the pontine marshes. every peasant is a sportsman and goes constantly armed with fire-arms, not only to kill game, but to defend himself against robbers, who infest the environs of rome, and who sometimes carry their audacity so far as to push their _reconnaissances_ close to the very walls of the city. at the _german hôtel_ the price of the dinner at _table d'hôte_, including wine at discretion, is six _paoli_, about three franks. i pay for an excellent room about three _paoli_ per diem and my breakfast at a neighbouring _caffé_ costs me one _paolo_. a _paolo_ is worth about five pence english. there are ten _paoli_ to a _scudo romano_ and ten _bafocchi_ to a _paolo_, the _bafocco_ is a copper coin. rome, th sept. a great number of germans dine at the _table d'hôte_ of franz's hotel. among them i distinguished one day a very intelligent bavarian jew. i proposed to him a walk to the coliseum the following morning, as independent of the benefit i derived from his conversation i was curious to see whether it was true or not that the jews always avoided walking under the arch of titus, which was erected in commemoration of the capture of jerusalem by the romans under titus, in the reign of vespasian. on stepping out of the _hôtel allemand_, the first thing that met my eye was the identical beggar described by kotzebue in his travels in italy, and he gives the very same answer now as then to those who give him nothing, viz., _pazienza_. we crossed the _piazza di spagna_, ascended the superb flight of steps of the _trinità de' monti_, where there is a french church called the church of st louis: near it is the _villa medici_, which is the seat of the french academy of the fine arts at rome. we then filed along the _strada felice_ till we arrived at the church of _santa maria maggiore_, a superb edifice, the third church in rome in celebrity, and the second in magnificence. an immense egyptian obelisk stands before it. we then, turning a little to the right, made the best of our way to the coliseum where we remained nearly two hours. i had figured to myself the grandest ideas of this stupendous building, but the aspect of it far exceeded the sketch even of my imagination. in egypt i have seen the pyramids, but even these vast masses did not make such an impression on me as the coliseum has done. i am so unequal to the task of description that i shall not attempt it; i will give you however its dimensions which my friend the jew measured. it is an ellipse of which the transverse axis is feet in length and its conjugate diameter ; but it is not so much the length and breadth as the solidity of this building that strikes the traveller with astonishment. the arcaded passage or gallery (on the _rez de chaussée_ between the interior and the exterior wall), which has a vaulted roof over which the seats are built, is broad enough to admit three carriages abreast: and the walls on each side of this gallery are at least twenty feet thick. what a magnificent spectacle it must have been in the time of the ancient romans, when it was ornamented, gilded, and full of spectators, of which it could contain, it is said, , ! the coliseum has been despoiled by various popes and cardinals to furnish stone and marble to build their palaces; otherwise, so solid is the building, time alone would never suffice to destroy it. at present strict orders are given and sentries are posted to prevent all further dilapidations, and buttresses have been made to prop up those parts which had given way. what a pity it is that the arena has not been left empty, instead of being fitted up with tawdry niches and images representing the different stations of the crucifixion! in the centre is an immense cross, which whoever kisses is entitled to one hundred days indulgence. to what reflections the sight of this vast edifice leads! what combats of gladiators and wild beasts! what blood has been spilled! was it not here that the tyrannical and cowardly domitian ordered ulpius glabrio, of consular dignity, to descend into the arena and fight with a lion? the christian writers mention that many of their sect suffered martyrdom here by being compelled to fight with wild beasts; but even this was not half so bad as the conduct of the christians, when they obtained possession of political power and dominion, in burning alive poor jews, moors and heretics some centuries afterwards. indeed the cruelty of the pagans was much exaggerated by the above writers and were it even true to its full extent, their severity was far more excusable than that of the christians in later times, for the efforts of the christian sect in the times of paganism were unceasingly directed towards the destruction of the whole fabric of polytheism, on which was based the entire, social and political order of the empire; and they thus brought on themselves perhaps merited persecution, by their own intolerance; whereas, when they got the upper hand, they showed no mercy to those of a different religion, and orthodoxy has wallowed successively in the blood of arians, jews, moors and protestants. how many a poor jew or moor in spain and portugal has been burned alive for no other reason than _pour n'avoir point quitté la foi de leurs ancêtres._ no, no; no sect or religion was ever so persecuting as the catholic christians! the polytheists of all times, both ancient and modern, were tolerant to all religions and so far from striving to make proselytes, often adopted the ceremonies of other worships in addition to their own; witness the egyptians, greeks and romans of old, and the hindoos and chinese of the present day. the jews, ferocious and prejudiced as they were, never persecuted other nations on the ground of religion, and if they held these nations in abhorrence as idolaters, and considered themselves alone as the holy people, the people of god (yahoudi), they never dreamed of making converts. the mussulmans tho' they hold it as a sacred precept of their religion to endeavour to make converts to islam, do not use violent means and only compel those of a different faith to pay a higher tribute. at any rate, they never have or do put people to death merely for the difference of religious opinions. such were the reflections i made on walking about the arena of this colossal edifice so worthy of the _popolo re_. on leaving the coliseum the first thing that meets the eye is the arch of constantine, under which the roman triumphal and ovationary processions moved towards the capitol. the arch of constantine stands just outside the coliseum. it is of immense size and extremely well preserved. the ground on which it stands being much filled up and only half of the arch appearing, the rest remaining buried in the earth, it was judged adviseable to excavate all around it in order to come to the pedestal; so that now there is a walled enclosure all around it and into this enclosure it is a descent of at least eighteen feet from the ground outside. several statues of captive kings and bas-reliefs representing the victories of constantine adorn the facade of this triumphal arch. the inscriptions are perfect, and the letters were formerly filled up with bronze; but these have been taken out at the repeated sackings that poor rome has undergone from friend and foe. at a short distance from the arch of constantine is the arch of titus, under which we moved along on our road towards the capitol and my friend the jew was too much of a cosmopolite to feel the smallest repugnance at walking under the arch. our conversation then turned on the absurd hatred and prejudice that existed between christians and jews; he was very liberal on this subject and in speaking of jesus christ he said: "jesus christ was a jew and a real philosopher and was therefore persecuted, for his philosophy interfered too much with, and tended to shake the political fabric of the jewish constitution and to subvert our old customs and usages: for this reason he was put to death. i seek not to defend or palliate the injustice of the act or the barbarity with which he was treated; but our nation did surely no more than any other nation ancient or modern has done or would still do against reformers and innovators." the arch of titus is completely defaced outside, but in the interior of the arch, on each side, is a bas relief: the one representing vespasian's triumph over the jews, and the emperor himself in a car drawn by six horses; the other represents the soldiers and followers of the triumph, bearing the spoils of the conquered nation, and among them the famous candlesticks that adorned the temple of jerusalem are very conspicuous. these figures are in tolerable preservation, only that the emperor has lost his head and one of the soldiers has absconded. on issuing from the arch of titus we found ourselves in the forum, now the _campo vaccino_: so that cattle now low where statesmen and orators harangued, and lazy priests in procession tread on the sacred dust of heroes. où des prêtres heureux foulent d'un pied tranquille les tombeaux des catons et les cendres d'emile. so sings voltaire, i believe, or if they are not his lines, they are the abbé delille's.[ ] the imagination is quite bewildered here from the variety of ancient monuments that meet the eye in every direction. what vast souvenirs crowd all at once on the mind! look all around! the _via sacra_, the arch of severus, and the capitol in front; on one side of you, the temple of peace, that of faustina and that of the sun and moon: on the other the remaining three columns of the temple of jupiter stator; the three also of the temple of jupiter tonans; the eight columns of the temple of concord; and the solitary column of phocas. at a short distance the temple of castor and pollux and that of romulus and remus, which is a round building of great antiquity, whose rusticity forms a striking contrast with the elegance of the colonnaded temples, and which was evidently built before the conquest of greece by the romans and the consequent introduction of the fine arts and of the grecian orders of architecture. you may wish to know my sensations on traversing this sacred ground. the _via sacra_ recalled to me horace meeting the _bavard_ who addresses him: _quid agis, dulcissime rerum_?[ ] i then thought of the sabine rape; of brutus' speech over the body of lucretia; then i almost fancied i could see the spot where stood the butcher's shop, from whence virginius snatched the knife to immolate his daughter at the shrine of honor; next the shade of regulus flitted before my imagination, refusing to be exchanged; then i figured to myself cicero thundering against catiline; or the same with delicate irony ridiculing the ultra-rigor of the stoics, so as to force even the gravity of cato to relax into a smile; then the grand, the heroic act of marcus brutus in immolating the great caesar at the altar of liberty. all these recollections and ideas crowded on my imagination without regard to order or chronology, and i remained for some time in a state of the most profound reverie, from which i was only roused by my friend the jew reminding me that we had a quantity of other things to see. the first object that engaged my attention on being roused from my reverie, was the arch of severus at the foot of the capitol which towers above it. excavations have been made around this arch (for otherwise only half of it could be seen) and a stone wall built around the excavated ground in the same manner as at the arch of constantine. round several of the columns of the temples i have above enumerated, excavations have been also made; otherwise the lower half of them would remain buried in the earth and give to the monuments the appearance of a city which had been half swallowed up by an earthquake. by dint of digging round the column of phocas, the ancient paved road which led to the capitol has been discovered and is now open to view. this ancient road is at least thirty feet below the surface of the present road and the ground about it. this shows how the ground must have been filled up by the destruction of buildings at the different sackings of rome and the consequent accumulation of rubbish. the french when they were here began these excavations and the duchess of devonshire continues them.[ ] it is useful in every way; it employs a number of poor people and may be the means of discovering some valuable remains of antiquity and objects of art. at any rate it is highly gratifying to have discovered the identical road to the capitol on which so many consuls, dictators and emperors moved in triumph, and so many captive kings wept in chains. we then ascended the steps that lead to the modern capitol and mounted on the _campanile_ of the same, from whence there is a superb panoramic view of rome. on descending from the _campanile_, we visited the tarpeian rock, which is now of inconsiderable height, the ground about it and heaps of rubbish having filled up the abyss below. we then entered the court yard of the capitol. the capitol and building annexed to it form three sides of a rectangle, the centre or _corps de logis_ lying north and south, and the wings east and west, the whole inclosing a court yard open on the south side of the rectangle, from whence you descend into the street on the plain below, by a most magnificent escalier or flight of steps. of the capitol, the _corps de logis_ or central building to which the _campanile_ belongs, is reserved for the occupation and habitation of the _senator romano_, a civil magistrate, corresponding something to the mayor in france or _oberbürgermeister_ in the german towns, and who is chosen from among the nobility and nominated by the pope. the wings contain the _museum capitolinum_ of painting and sculpture. there is a great deal to call forth the admiration of the traveller in the court yard of the capitol. the most prominent object is the famous bronze equestrian statue of marcus aurelius, which cannot fail to rivet the attention of the least enthusiastic spectator. i observed at each angle of the façade of the capitol a colossal statue of a captive king in a phrygian dress; but still more striking than these are the colossal statues of castor and pollux leading horses, which stand a little in front of the equestrian statue of marcus aurelius, and nearer the _escalier_, the one on the right the other on the left. two lions in basalt on each side of the _escalier_ are very striking objects, and the _escalier_ itself is the most superb thing of the kind perhaps in the world. this _escalier_ and the marcus aurelius, unique also in its kind, are both the workmanship of michael angelo.[ ] we descended this _escalier_ and then fronted it to take a view of the capitol from the bottom; but the statue of marcus aurelius is so prominent and so grand that it absorbed all my attention. after dinner i walked a little in the gardens on the pincian hill, and then visited some friends belonging to the french academy of painting and sculpture, who were so good as to shew me their productions, and also a copy of the superb folio edition of denon's work on egypt which to me, who had been in that country, was highly gratifying. oh! what a pity that the french could not keep that country! what a paradise they would have made of it! as it is (and to their credit be it said) they did more good for the country during three years only, than we have done for our possessions in india for fifty years. rome, th septr. the next morning, after an early breakfast, i repaired to the pantheon, now called _santa maria della rotonda_, and appropriated to the catholic worship. it is easily recognizable by its rotundity and by the simple grandeur of its façade and portico. the bronze has been taken out of the letters of the inscription. this beautiful specimen of ancient architecture is situated in a small _piazza_ or square called _piazza della rotonda_, where a market of poultry, game, and vegetables is held. there are only now three or four steps on the _escalier_ to ascend, in order to enter into the portico; but as it is known that according to the descriptions of the pantheon in ancient times there was an immense flight of steps to ascend, it is an additional proof how much the ground on which modern rome stands has been filled up, and consequently it is evident that the greater part of this flight of steps remains still buried in the earth. if i was so struck with the appearance of this interesting edifice outside, how much more so should i have been on seeing the inside, were not the niches, where formerly stood the statues of the gods, filled with tawdry dolls representing the virgin mary and _he_ and _she_ saints. the columns and pilasters in the interior of this temple are beautiful, all of _jaune antique_ and one entire stone each. how much better would it have been to replace the statues of the _dii majorum gentium_ which occupied the niches, by statues in marble of the apostles, instead of the dolls dressed in tawdry colors, and the frippery gilding of the altars on which they stand, which disfigure this noble building. the pantheon was built by agrippa as the inscription shews. in the interior are sixteen columns of _jaune antique_. the bronze that formerly ornamented this temple was made use of to fabricate the baldachin of st peter's. of late years it has been the fashion to erect monuments affixed to the walls of the interior of the pantheon to the memory of the great men and heroes of poetry, painting, sculpture and music who were natives of italy, or for foreigners, celebrated for their excellence in those arts, who have died in rome. here are for instance, tablets to the memory of metastasio, rafael mengs, sacchini, poussin, winckelmann; the phidias of modern days, the illustrious canova, has recommended the placing in the pantheon of the busts in marble of all the great men who have flourished in italy, as the most appropriate ornament to this temple. he himself with a princely liberality has made a present to it of the busts of dante, petrarca, ariosto, tasso, guarini, alfieri, michel angelo, rafaello, metastasio and various other worthies. these busts are all the production either of canova himself, or made by his pupils under his direction; they are not the least remarkable ornament of the place. in the centre of the _piazza della rotonda_ stands an obelisk brought from egypt, which belonged to a temple sacred to isis in that country. i next repaired to the _piazza di navona_, a large and spacious square, where there is a superb fountain representing a vast rock with four colossal figures, one of which reclines at the foot of the rock, at each angle of the pedestal that supports it, and it is surmounted by an obelisk which was brought from egypt and was found in the gardens of sallust. the four colossal figures represent the four river gods of the four great rivers in europe, asia, africa and america, viz., the danube, the ganges, the nile, and the plata. the statue of the nile has his head half-concealed by a cloak, emblematical of the source of that river not being discovered. in the _piazza_ are frequently held fairs, shews of wild beasts, theatrical exhibitions and sometimes combats of wild beasts. i crossed the tiber on my way to st peter's at the _ponte di sant' angelo_; directly on the other side of the river stands the castle of that name, an immense edifice formerly the _moles adriana_ or mausoleum of the emperor adrian. it is of a circular form and is a remarkably striking object. from here there is a spacious street as broad as portland place, which leads to the magnificent _piazza_, where stands the metropolitan church of the christian world, the pride of christendom, the triumph of modern architecture, flanked on each side by a semi-circular colonnaded portico, which constitutes one of its greatest beauties and distinguishes it from all the other temples in the world. on the piazza, considerably in front of this wonderful edifice and nearly in the centre, stands an immense egyptian obelisk, and at a short distance on each side of the obelisk two magnificent fountains which spout water to a great height and which contribute greatly to the ornament of the _piazza_. now you must not expect me to give you a description of this glorious temple. i never in my life possessed descriptive powers, even for objects of no great importance: how then could i attempt to delineate the innumerable beauties of this edifice? yet, vast as it is, the proportions of the façade are so correct, that they, together with the semi-circular colonnaded portico, serve to diminish its apparent size and to render its mass less imposing, but perhaps more beautiful. on this account it appears at first sight of less size than the church of st paul's in london. the beauty of the architecture, viz., of the façade and of the colonnaded portico would require days to examine and admire. what shall i say then of the wonders of the interior, crowded and charged as it is with the finest pieces of sculpture, columns of the most beautiful _verd antique_ and of _jaune antique_; the masterpieces of painting copied in mosaic; the precious, stones and marbles of all sorts that adorn the variety of magnificent chapels and altars; the immense baldachin with its twisted columns of bronze (the spoils of the pantheon and of the temple of jerusalem); the profusion of gilding and ornament of all sorts and where in spite of this profusion there seems _rien de trop_. at first entrance the eye is so dazzled with the magnificent _tout ensemble_ as to be incapable for a long time of examining any thing in detail. each chapel abounds in the choicest marbles and precious stones: in a word it would seem as if the whole wealth of the earth were concentrated here. without impiety or exaggeration, i felt on entering this majestic temple for the first time just as i conceive a resuscitated mortal would feel on being ushered into the scene of the glories of heaven. the masterpieces of painting are here perpetuated in mosaic, and so correctly and beautifully done, that unless you approach exceedingly close indeed, it is impossible to distinguish them from paintings. what an useful as well as ornamental art is the mosaic! there are a great variety of confessionals where penitents and pilgrims may confess, each in his own tongue, for there is a confessional for the use of almost every native tongue and language in the catholic world. the cupola! what an astonishing sight when you look up at it from below! how can i better describe it than by relating the anecdote of michel angelo its constructor, who when some one made a remark on the impossibility of making a finer cupola than that of the pantheon, burst out into the following exclamation: "do you think so? then i will throw it in the air," and he fulfilled his word; for the cupola of st peter's is exactly of the size of that of the pantheon, tho' at such an elevation as to give it only the appearance of one fourth of its real size, or even less. the sublimity of the design can only be equalled by the boldness and success of its execution. till it was done, it was thought by every artist impossible to be done. what an extraordinary genius was this michel angelo! ariosto has hot at all exaggerated in his praise when he speaks of him in punning on his name: _michel_ più che mortal, _angel_ divino.[ ] michael, less man than angel and divine. --trans, w.s. rose. among the various splendid marble monuments with which this temple abounds is one erected to the memory of pope rezzonico, constructed by canova and reckoned one of his masterpieces. the pope is represented in his canonicals. behind and above him is a colossal statue of religion with a cross in one hand and rays in form of spikes issuing from her head. i do not like these spikes. on the dexter side of this monument, is a beautiful male youthful figure representing a funereal genius with an inverted torch. the signal delicacy, beauty and symmetry of this statue forms a striking contrast with the figure of an immense lion sleeping on the sinister side; and this lion is an irrefragable proof that canova excels in the delineation of the terrible as well as the beautiful, for it is admirably executed. at another monument is a superb female figure of colossal size representing truth. it was formerly naked, but they have contrived to execute in coloured marble a vestment to cover her loins and veil her secret beauties. the reason of which is, that this beautiful statue made such an impression once upon a traveller (some say he was an englishman, others a spaniard) that it inspired him with a sort of pygmalionic passion which he attempted to gratify one night; he was discovered in the attempt, and since that time, to prevent further scandal or attempts of the sort and to conceal from profane eyes the charms of the too alluring goddess, this colored marble vestment was imagined and executed. this story is borrowed from lucian.[ ] there is also here a fine statue of pope gregory xiii and a magnificent bas-relief, the subject of which is the reform of the calendar by that pope. here too is a monument to christina queen of sweden, and a bas-relief representing her abjuration of the lutheran faith. but why should i attempt to detail all these monuments, while it would require folios for the purpose; let me rather introduce you to the hero and tutelary saint of this sanctuary. st peter, a superb bronze statue something above the usual size of men, is seated on a curule chair in the nave of the church on the right hand side as you approach the baldachin. he holds in his hands the keys of heaven. he receives the adoration of all the faithful who enter into this temple, and this adoration is performed by kissing his foot which, from the repeated kissings, is become of a bright polish and is visibly wearing away. the statue was formerly a statue of jupiter capitolinus, but on the grand revolution among the inhabitants of olympus and the downfall of jupiter, it was broken to pieces, melted down and fabricated into an image of st peter, so that this statue has lost little of its former sovereignty and still rules heaven and earth if not with regal, with at least vice-regal power, tho' under a different name. in the sistine chapel is the celebrated painting al fresco of the day of judgment by michel angelo, an aweful subject and nobly and awefully executed. in the porch under the façade of st peter's are two marble statues on horseback, one at each end of the porch: they represent constantine the great and charlemagne, the two great benefactors of the holy catholic church; the one, in fact, its founder, the other its preserver. as the palace of the vatican stands close to the church of st peter's and communicates with it by an _escalier_, i ascended the _escalier_ in order to behold and examine the famous museum of the vatican, the first in the world, and unique for the vast treasures of the fine arts that it contains; treasures which the united wealth of all europe and india to boot could not purchase at their just price. here in fact it may be said are preserved the riches and plunder of the whole world, which was stripped of all its valuables by those illustrious brigands the ancient romans. and mark in this point the good fortune of rome; instead of losing them again as other nations have lost their trophies, superstition came to her aid and caused them to be respected and preserved, 'till an enlightened age arose which guided by philosophy, humanity and science will for ever preserve them secure against all attacks of barbarians in a sanctuary so worthy of them. _museum vaticanum_[ ] a superb flight of steps leads into a hall of immense length filled on each side with statues, busts, sarcophagi, altars, urns, vases and candelabra, all monuments of antiquity and of the most exquisite workmanship. the walls on each side of this hall are inlaid with tablets bearing inscriptions in greek, latin and etruscan. one is quite bewildered amongst such a profusion of gods, semi-gods, heroes. i must single out a few of the most remarkable for their workmanship. here is a group representing the sacrifice of mithras. on ascending a few steps at the other end of this hall, in a small octangular room, are the statue of meleager; the famous torso; the tomb of scipio with bas-reliefs. on leaving the chamber you come into an octangular gallery, issuing from which are four circular chambers; each chamber contains a masterpiece of art. in one is the apollo belvedere, in another the laocoon (both safely arrived from paris); in the third antinous; in the fourth the perseus of canova, with medusa's head and his famous group of the two pugilists. descriptions of the three first would be superfluous-- for of them mills altri han detto e con via miglior plettro, and even with respect to the perseus of canova, i shall content myself with remarking that the sculptor had evidently the apollo belvedere in his ideal, and if he has not quite equalled that celebrated statue, it is because it is impossible; but he certainly has given the nearest possible approximation to its excellence. in another hall and just at its entrance are the statues of menander and posidippus in a sitting posture, one on either side. in this hall are innumerable fine statues, but the further end of it, fronting you as you enter, is a statue which at once engages and rivets your undivided attention; it at once induces you to approach and to take no notice of the statues on the right and left of the hall. and how should it be otherwise, since it is the identical statue of the father of the gods and men, the famous jupiter capitolinus which adorned the capitol in ancient rome. he is sitting on a throne with a sceptre in one hand and the thunderbolts in the other, at his feet an eagle. it is a glorious statue and in every respect characteristic; such grandeur, such majesty in the countenance! it is impossible not to feel awe and reverence on beholding it. it was on contemplating this venerable statue that an englishman who was at rome some sixty years ago, stood wrapt for a time in silent veneration; then suddenly breaking silence he made a profound obeisance before the statue and exclaimed: "recollect, o father of the gods and men, that i have paid my hommage to you in your adversity and do not forget me, should you ever raise your head above water again!" in the hall of the muses are the statues of the tuneful nine which were found underground among the ruins of hadrian's villa at tivoli. in the centre of a circular chamber of vast dimensions, is an enormous circular basin of porphyry, of forty-one feet in diameter. a superb mosaic adorns the floor of the centre of this chamber, and is inclosed. appropriate ornaments to this immense chamber are the colossal statues of the _dii majorum gentium_. here are juno, minerva, cybele, jupiter, serapis, mars, ceres, and others. in another hall are two enormous egyptian gods in yellow granite; two superb sarcophagi in red marble and two immense sphinxes in granite. in another chamber is an antique car drawn by two horses: the near one is modern, the off one ancient. the wheels of this car are modern; both car and horses are of exquisite workmanship. several fine statues adorn this chamber, among which the most remarkable are a phocion, a paris, an antinous, and a triton carrying off a nereid. i must not omit to mention that in one of the halls is the famous group of the nile, represented by an enormous colossal river god, surrounded by fourteen children playing with young crocodiles. opposite to this group is another equally celebrated, viz., the colossal statue of the tiber, with the she-wolf giving suck to romulus and remus by his side. the mosaic pavements in this museum surpass in richness any in the world. in one of the halls, among the works of modern times, are two beautiful marble tables richly inlaid with all sorts of stones of value, with bas-reliefs on them; the one representing the visit of the emperor joseph ii, and the other that of gustavus iii of sweden to rome, and their reception by the pope. one of the halls of sculpture is appropriated to the figures of animals of all kinds, from the lion and eagle down to the rat and crawfish in marbles of all colors, and of all sizes; the best executed among them appeared to me a group representing a greyhound bitch giving suck to her young. as for the valuable cameos, coins, medals, and smaller remnants of antiquity in this museum, they are innumerable. with regard to the paintings that belong to this museum, there is only a small, collection but it is unique. here is the transfiguration and some other masterpieces of rafaello. in the _stanze di rafaello_ (so they are called) are several large fresco paintings, viz., one representing the battle of maxentius and constantine; another, the school of athens and socrates sitting among the other philosophers; a third representing a fire; besides others. in one of these _stanze_ is a work in tapestry representing jesus christ bursting forth from the sepulchre, but he has a visage far too rubicund and wanting in dignity; he looks like a person flushed with wine issuing from a tavern; in the countenance there is depicted (so it appears to me) a vulgar, not a dignified triumph. the palace of the vatican is of immense size and is said to cover as much ground as the city of turin; and i am inclined to think that there is not a great deal of exaggeration in this statement, for the vista along the corridors and galleries appears to be endless. the library of the vatican is of course very extensive and of immense value; but the books, as well as the manuscripts, are kept in presses which are locked, and it is rather awkward to be continually applying to the _custode_ to take out and put back a book. the museum of the vatican is open twice a week to the public, viz. thursdays and sundays; but foreigners, on shewing their passports, may obtain admission at any time. rome, th sept. my next visit was to the capitol in order to inspect the _museum capitolinum_. this time i ascended the magnificent _escalier_ of michel angelo, having the equestrian statue of marcus aurelius in front. on arriving at the courtyard, i entered the building on my left (which is on the right of the façade). under the colonnaded portico of this wing are the statues of caesar and augustus; here too is the naval column of the consul duilius, in commemoration of the first naval victory gained over the carthaginians; also a colossal statue of the rhine called marforio. in one of the halls two large statues of the egyptian goddess isis and various other egyptian divinities. in this museum among other things is an altar representing claudia drawing to the land the ship of cybele; a magnificent sarcophagus with a bas relief on its side representing the progress of life; amalthea giving suck to jupiter; the god anubis found among the ruins of adrian's palace at tivoli. on ascending the staircase, i observed on the right hand fixed in the wall a tablet with a plan of ancient rome carved on it. in one of the halls above stairs the most remarkable statue is that of the dying gladiator (brought back from paris); this is certainly a noble piece of sculpture; the bodily pain and mental anguish are singularly well expressed in the countenance; a superb bronze statue of hercules; a centaur in black marble; a faun in _rosso antico_; a group of cupid and psyche; a venus in parian marble rather larger than the common size. one of the halls in this museum contains the busts of all the philosophers; another those of all the roman emperors; there is also a colossal statue of pyrrhus; a superb agrippina and the celebrated mosaic of the four pigeons. in enumerating the above i have only to observe that they only constitute a thousandth part of what is to be seen here. after passing three hours in this wing of the building, i went over across the courtyard to the other wing. under the portico of this wing the following are the most remarkable among the statues: a roman _triumphans_, two phrygian kings in black marble. in one of the rooms above stairs is a very remarkable piece of antiquity, viz., the bronze wolf giving suck to romulus and remus, which was found in the temple of romulus and which was struck by lightning during the consulate of julius: the marks made by the lightning are quite distinct. there is in this wing a small but excellent collection of paintings, and a great variety of statues, busts, sarcophagi, candelabra, and antiquities of all sorts. the front part, or _corps de logis_ of the capitol is called _il palazzo del senato conservatore_, and is the residence of the _senator romano_ who is chosen by the pope. by the bye, i understand this dignity is generally given to a foreigner, the pontiffs being, rather jealous of the roman nobility. this wing of the capitol employed me two hours; but i must visit this museum as well as that of the vatican often again; for it would require months and years to examine them duly. rome, th sept. on this side of the river which is called _transtevere_, i had an opportunity of observing the inhabitants, who are called _transteverini_, the most of whom pretend to be the descendants of the ancient romans, unmixed with any foreign blood. they certainly have very much of that physiognomy that is attributed to the ancient romans, for they are a tall, very robust race of men having something of a ferocious dignity in their countenance which, however, is full of expression, and the aquiline nose is a prominent feature among them. they are exceedingly jealous of their women, whom they keep within doors as much as they can, and if a stranger on passing by their doors should chance to observe their wives or daughters who may be standing there and should stop to admire them (for many of them have an air of antique beauty and majesty of countenance which is remarkably striking), they will instantly order the females to retire, with an air of asperity. whether they really be the pure descendants of the ancient romans is difficult to say: but it is by no means improbable, since even to this day they intermarry solely with one another, and refuse to give their daughters in marriage to foreigners or to those of mixed blood. instances have been known of these families, who are for the most part very poor, refusing the most advantageous offers of marriage made to their daughters by rich foreign merchants and artists, on the ground merely that the suitors were not _romani_ but _barbari._ as for the _bourgeoisie_ of rome in general, they _have been_ for some centuries back and _are_ a very mixed race, composed of all the nations of europe. most of the foreign artists who come here to study the fine arts, viz., belgians, dutch, german, french, english, swedes, danes, poles and russians, as well as those from other parts of italy, struck with the beauty of the women, and pleased with the tranquility and agreeable society that prevails in this metropolis, and the total freedom from all _gêne_ and etiquette, marry roman women and fix here for life: so that among this class you meet with more foreign names than roman; and it is this sort of colonisation which keeps up the population of rome, which would otherwise greatly decrease as well from the celibacy of the number that become priests, as from the malaria that prevails in and about the city in july and august. rome, th sept. i have been employed for the last two days in visiting some of the churches, _palazzi_ and villas of modern rome; but the number is so prodigious and there are such a variety of things to be seen in each that i shall only make mention of a few; indeed there are many that i have not seen and probably shall not have time to see. as sacred things should precede profane, let us begin with the churches. the first that claims the attention of the traveller after st peter's, is the church of st john lateran which is the oldest church in christendom, and was the metropolitan of rome and of the christian world before the building of st peter's. it lies very nearly in a right line with the _piazza di spagna_, and on a prolonged line, forming an obtuse angle with the church of santa maria maggiore, which, as i first visited, i shall first describe and afterwards resume what i have to remark on the subject of st john lateran. santa maria maggiore is the third church in importance, but the second in magnificence in rome. before its façade stands a single column of granite of the corinthian order. the façade of this church is beautiful but it would be far better without the _campanile_, which i think always disfigures a church of grecian architecture; besides it is not in the centre of the building. the church is richly adorned with mosaics and its several chapels are admirable from the execution of their architecture and sculpture and the value of the different rich marbles and precious stones with which the monuments therein are made and incrusted. among these chapels are those of sixtus v, paul v. the grand altar is of porphyry. but the most striking beauty of this church and which eclipses all its other ornaments, are the forty columns of beautiful grecian marble on each side of the nave. the ceiling, too, is superb and richly gilt; the gilding must have cost an immense sum and was done, it is said, with the first gold that was brought from america. nothing can be more rich than this plafond. the above forty columns belonged formerly to the temple of juno lucina. it is singular that the ceremony of the _accouchement_ of the virgin and the birth of christ should be performed here. on the th december this pantomime is regularly acted, and crowds of all sorts of people attend, particularly women. at the moment that the virgin is supposed to be delivered a salve of artillery announces the good tidings. this is singular, i say, when one recollects the peculiar attributes of juno lucina and the assistance she was supposed to give to persons in the same situation. you cannot expect me to detail to you all the riches in precious stones and gifts of pious princes that adorn the several chapels of this and other churches; but they appear to contain every stone and jewel mentioned in the arabian nights as being to be found in the cave where aladdin was left by the magician; and it must be allowed that the popes have been remarkably adroit inchanters in conjuring to rome all the riches of the earth. the church of st john lateran is larger and more striking as to its exterior and as to its architecture than that of santa maria maggiore, but it is not so charged with ornament and there is scarce any gilding. there is a simple elegance about it that i think far more pleasing than the magnificence of santa maria. st john lateran contains several beautiful pieces of sculpture in white marble, rather larger than the usual size of man, of the twelve apostles, six on one side of the nave and six on the other; and above them are bas-reliefs, also in marble, representing the various scenes from the history of the old and new testament. these twelve statues are admirably well executed and they give to this temple an air of simple grandeur. in this church are very few paintings on mosaics, but little gilding and no superfluous ornaments. sculpture is, in my opinion, far more appropriate to a place of worship than paintings or dazzling ornaments. another very striking beauty of this noble and venerable temple are the columns it contains some of which are in granite and others of the most beautiful _verd-antique_. there are besides two superb corinthian columns of bronze which adorn one of the altars. among the chapels of this cathedral is one belonging to the corsini family, which is probably the richest in europe, and contains more precious stones and marbles than any other. yet as this and the other chapels are in recesses and separated from the aisles of the church by large bronze gates, you cannot see their contents till you enter the said chapels; and thus your attention is not diverted by them from the contemplation of the simple grandeur of the columns and statues which adorn the body of the temple. the bronze columns above mentioned were taken from the temple of jupiter capitolinus. on one side in front of the church of st john lateran stands an immense egyptian obelisk feet in height, brought from egypt to rome in the time of constantine. i think the placing of these obelisks in front of the façade of the most remarkable edifices is an excellent arrangement, as they are never-failing landmarks to distinguish from afar off the edifices to which they belong. this obelisk was found in the _circus maximus_, from which it was removed and placed on this spot by sixtus v. a large orphan establishment is close to this church; and close to it also the _battisterio_ of constantine, which rests on forty-eight columns of porphyry, said to be the finest in europe. another church in the vicinity contains _la scala santa_ or holy staircase of marble which, according to the tradition, adorned pontius pilate's palace at jerusalem, and on which identical staircase jesus christ ascended to be interrogated by pilate. the tradition further says that it was transported to rome by angels. this staircase has twenty-eight steps, and no one is allowed to mount it except on his knees. nobody ever descends it, but there are two other _escaliers_ parallel to it, one on the right hand, the other on the left, by which you descend in the usual manner. not being aware of this ceremony, i, on entering the edifice, began to ascend the _escalier_ which was nearest to me, which proved to be the _scala santa_, for no sooner had i begun to ascend it as i would any other flight of steps than two or three voices screamed out: "_signore! o signore! a ginocchia; o'è la scala santa_!" i asked what was meant and was then told the whole story, and that it was necessary to mount this staircase on one's knees or not at all. this i did not think worth the trouble, being quite contented with beholding it. the marble of this staircase is much worn by the number of devout people who ascend it in this manner, and this ceremony, aided by a _quantum suff_ of faith is no doubt of great efficacy. the fourth church in estimation, and i believe the next ancient in rome to st john lateran, is the church of _san paolo fuor della mura_, so called from its being situated outside the gates of the city. it is of immense size, but out of repair and neglected. the most striking object of its architectural contents are the columns of parian marble which support its nave. _st pietro in vincoli_ is chiefly remarkable for its being built near the dungeon where, according to the tradition, st peter was confined and from whence he was released by angels; its chief ornament is the colossal statue of moses. somewhere close to this place are shewn the ruins of the mamertine prison where jugurtha was incarcerated and died. there are in rome about three hundred other churches, all of which can boast of very interesting and valuable contents. one in particular called the portuguese church is uncommonly beautiful tho' small; another, that of st ignazio, or the jesuits' church, is vast and imposing, and very fine singing is occasionally to be heard there. rome, st sept. the palace occupied by the pope is that of the quirinal, standing on the quirinal hill, which is commonly called _monte cavallo_ from the statues of the two _hippodamoi_ or tamers of horses, thought to be meant for castor and pollux which stand on this hill; this group is surmounted by an egyptian obelisk. these statues are said to be the work of phidias; but there is a terrible disproportion between the men and the horses they are leading; they give you the idea of brobdignagians leading shetland ponies. the quirinal palace is every way magnificent and worthy of the sovereign pontiff; there are large grounds annexed to it; it stands nearly in the centre of rome and from this palace are dated the papal edicts. the pope resides here during the whole year, with the exception of three or four months in the hot season, when he repairs to castel gandolfo near la riccia. of the fountains the grandest and most striking is that of trevi, which lies at the foot of quirinal hill. here is a magnificent group in marble of neptune, in his car in the shape of a mussel-shell drawn by sea-horses and surrounded by nymphs and tritons. an immense basin of white marble, as large as a moderate sized pond, receives the water which gushes from the nostrils of the sea-horses and from the mouths of the tritons. there is a very good and just remark made on the subject of this group by stolberg, viz. the attention of neptune seems too much directed towards one of his horses, a piece of minutiae more worthy of a charioteer endeavouring to turn a difficult corner, than of the god who at a word could control the winds and tranquillize the ocean. the fountain termina, so called from its vicinity to the thermes of diocletian, is the next remarkable fountain. here is a colossal statue of moses striking the rock and causing the water to gush forth. the grandeur and majesty of this statue would be more striking but for the incongruity of the arcades on each side of the rock, and the two lions in black basalt who spout water. moses and the rock would have been sufficient. simplicity is, in my opinion, the soul of architecture, and where is there in all history a subject more peculiarly adapted to a fountain than this part of the history of moses? the fountain paolina is a fountain that springs from under a beautiful arcade, but there are no statues nor bas-reliefs. it is a plain neat fountain and the water is esteemed the best in rome. this fountain is situated on the janicule hill, from which you have perhaps the best view of rome; as it re-unites more than any other position, at one _coup d'oeil_, both the modern and débris of the ancient city, without the view of the one interfering with or being intercepted by the other. from here you can distinguish rums of triumphal arches, broken columns, aqueducts, etc., as far as the eye can reach. it demonstrates what an immense extent of ground ancient rome must have covered. near the fountain is the church where st peter is said to have suffered martyrdom with his head downwards. the column of trajan is near the fountain trevi, and it stands in an inclosure, the pavement of which is seven feet lower than the _piazza_ on which it stands. the inclosure is walled round. had not this excavation been made, one third of the column (lower part) would not be seen. the _piazza_, on which this column stands is called _il foro trajano_. the column represents trajan's triumphs over the daci, quadi and marcomanni, and is the model from whence napoleon's column of the grand army in the _place vendôme_ at paris is taken. a statue of st peter stands on this column. the column of antoninus stands on the _piazza colonna_; on it are sculptured the victories gained by that emperor. round this column it has not been necessary to make excavations. on this column stands the statue of st paul. amongst the immense variety of edifices and ruins of edifices which most interest the antiquarian are the thermes of diocletian. here are four different semi-circular halls, two of which were destined for philosophers, one for poets and one for orators; baths; a building for tennis or rackets; three open courts, one for the exercise of the discus, one for athletes and one for hurling the javelin. of this vast building part is now a manufactory, and the hall of the wrestlers is a carthusian church. i have now, i believe, visited most, if not all that is to be seen in rome. i have visited the pyramid of cestius, the tomb of metella, i have consulted, the nymph egeria, smelled at the _cloaca maxima_; in fine, i have given in to all the _singeries_ of _pedantry_ and _virtù_ with as much ardour as martinus scriblerus himself would have done. but it yet remains for me to speak of the most interesting exhibition that modern rome can boast, and of the most interesting person in it and in all italy, and that is the atelier of canova and canova himself, the greatest sculptor, perhaps, either of ancient or modern times, except the mighty unknown who conceived and executed the apollo of the vatican. in the atelier of canova the most remarkable statues i observed are: a group of hector and ajax of colossal size, not quite finished; a centaur, also colossal; a hebe; two ballerine or dancing girls, one of which rivetted my attention most particularly. she is reclining against a tree with her cheek _appuyéd_ on one hand; one of her feet is uplifted and laid along the other leg as if she were reposing from a dance. the extreme beauty of the leg and foot, the pulpiness of the arms, the expressive sweetness of the face, and the resemblance of the marble to wax in point of mellowness, gives to this beautiful statue the appearance of a living female _brunette_. it was a long time before i could withdraw my eyes from that lovely statue. the next object that engaged my attention was a group representing a nymph reclining on a couch _semi-supine_, and a cupid at her feet. the luxurious contour of the form of this nymph is beyond expression and reminded me of the description of olympia: le parti che solea coprir la stola fur di tanta eccellenza, ch'anteporse a quante n'avea il mondo potean forse.[ ] parts which are wont to be concealed by gown are such, as haply should be placed before whate'er this ample world contains in store. --trans. w.s. rose this group is destined for the prince regent of england. another beautiful group represents the three graces; this is intended for the duke of bedford. were it given to me to chuse for myself among all the statues in the atelier of canova, i should chuse these three, viz., the ballerina, the nymph reclining, and this group of the graces. canova certainly is inimitable in depicting feminine beauty, grace and delicacy. among the other statues in this atelier the most prominent are: a statue of the princess leopoldina esterhazy in the attitude of drawing on a tablet with this inscription: _anch'io voglio tentar l'arte del bello._ this lady is, it seems, a great proficient in painting. here too are the moulds of the different statues made by canova, the statues themselves having been finished long ago and disposed of; viz., of the empress maria louisa of france; of the mother of napoleon (_madame mère_ as she is always called) in the costume and attitude of agrippina; of a colossal statue of napoleon (the statue itself is, i believe, in the possession of wellington.[ ]) here too is the bust of canova by canova himself, besides a great variety of bas-reliefs and busts of individuals, models of monuments, etc. and now, my friend, i have given you a _précis_ not of all that i have seen, but of what has most interested me and made on my mind impressions that can never be effaced. i trust entirely to my memory, for i made no notes on the spot. many of the things i have seen too much in a hurry to form accurate ideas and judgment thereon; most of what we see here is shewn to us like the figures in a _lanterna magica_, for in the various _palazzi_ and villas the servants who exhibit them hurry you from room to room, impatient to receive your fee and to get rid of you. i am about to depart for naples. on my return to rome i shall not think of revisiting the greater number of the _palazzi_, villas and churches; but there are some things i shall very frequently revisit and these are the two museums of the vatican and of the capitol, st peter's, the coliseum and antiquities in its neighbourhood, the pantheon, and last but not least the atelier of the incomparable canova. you may perhaps be unwilling to let me depart from rome without some information as to theatricals. with regard to these, rome must hang down her head, for the pettiest town in all the rest of italy or france is better provided with this sort of amusement than rome. there is a theatre called _teatro della valle_, where there is a very indifferent set of actors, and this is the only theatre which is open throughout the year. comedies only and farces are given. the theatres aliberti and argentino are open during the carnaval only. operas are given at the argentino, and masquerades at the aliberti. but in fact the lovers of operas and of the drama must not come to rome for gratification. it is not considered conformable to the dignity and sanctity of an ecclesiastical government to patronize them; and it is not the custom or etiquette for the pope, cardinals or higher clergy ever to visit them. the consequence is that no performer of any consideration or talent is engaged to sing at rome, except one or two by chance at the time of the carnaval. in amends for this you have a good deal of music at the houses of individuals who hold _conversazioni_ or assemblies; in which society would flag very much but for the music, which prevents many a yawn, and which is useful and indispensable in italy to make the evening pass, as cards are in england. i intend to stop several days here on my return from naples, for which place i shall start the day after to-morrow having engaged a place in a _vettura_ for two and half _louis d'or_ and to be _spesato_. i am not to be deterred from my journey by the many stories of robberies and assassinations which are said to occur so frequently on that road. by the bye, talking of robberies and murders, a man was executed the day before yesterday on the _piazza del popolo_ for a triple murder. i saw the guillotine, which is now the usual mode of punishment, fixed on the centre of the _piazza_ and the criminal escorted there by a body of troops; but i did not stop to witness the decapitation, having no taste for that sort of _pleasuring_. this man richly deserved his punishment. [ ] these lines are from voltaire's _henriade_, a poem which no frenchman reads nowadays, but that major frye could quote from memory. the correct reading of the first verse is: _des prêtres fortunés_, etc. (_henriade_, canto iv. ed. kehl, vol. x, p. .)--ed. [ ] horace, _sat_., , , .--ed. [ ] lady elizabeth hervey, second wife of william, fifth duke of devonshire ( ); died march, .--ed. [ ] a singular slip of the pen; frye must have known that the equestrian statue is a roman work--ed. [ ] ariosto, orlando furioso, xxxiii, , .--ed. [ ] see lucian, _imag._, iv; _amores_, xv, xvi.--ed. [ ] major frye's description is incorrect in many particulars, on which it seemed unnecessary to draw attention.--ed. [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, xi, , . [ ] that colossal marble statue was given to the duke of wellington by louis xviii, and is still to be seen in london, at apsley house.--ed. chapter xi from rome to naples--albano--velletri--the marshes--terracina--mola di gaeta--capua--the streets of naples--monuments and museums--visit to pompeii and ascent to vesuvius--dangerous ventures--puzzuoli and baiae--theatres at naples--pulcinello--return to rome--tivoli. i started from rome on the th september; in the same _vettura_ i found an intelligent young frenchman of the name of r---- d----, a magistrate in corsica, who was travelling in italy for his amusement. there were besides a roman lawyer and not a very bright one by the bye; and a fat woman who was going to naples to visit her lover, a captain in the austrian service, a large body of austrian troops being still at naples. we issued from rome by the _porta latina_ and reached albano (the ancient alba) sixteen miles distant at twelve o'clock. we reposed there two hours which gave me an opportunity of visiting the _villa doria_ where there are magnificent gardens. these gardens form the promenade of the families who come to albano to pass the heat of the summer and to avoid the effect of the exhalations of the marshy country about rome. as albano is situated on an eminence, you have a fine view of the whole plain of latium and rome in perspective. the country of latium however is flat, dreary and monotonous; it affords pasture to an immense quantity of black cattle, such as buffaloes, etc. just outside of albano, on the route to naples, is a curious ancient monument called _il sepolcro degli orazj e curiazj._ it is built of brick, is extremely solid, of singular appearance, from its being a square monument, flanked at each angle by a tower in the shape of a cone. it is of an uncouth rustic appearance and must certainly have been built before _grecia capia ferum victorem cepit et artes intulit agresti latio....._[ ] and i see no reason against its being the sepulchre of the horatii and curiatii, particularly as it stands so near alba where the battle was fought; but be this as it may there is nothing like faith in matters of antiquity; the sceptic can have little pleasure. the country on leaving albano becomes diversified, woody and picturesque. near gensano is the beautiful lake of nemi, and it is the spot feigned by the poets as the scene of the amours of mars and rhea silvia. near gensano also is the country residence of the sovereign pontiffs called castel gandolfo. la riccia, the next place we passed thro', is the ancient aricia, mentioned in horace's journey to brundusium. we arrived in the evening at velletri. velletri is a large town or rather city situated on a mountain, to which you ascend by a winding road skirting a beautiful forest. from the terrace of one of the _palazzi_ here, you have a superb view of all the plain below as far as the rock of circe, comprehending the pontine marshes. there are several very fine buildings at velletri, and it is remarkable as being the birthplace of augustus caesar. there is a spacious _piazza_ too on which stands a bronze statue of pope urban viii. velletri is twenty-eight miles from rome. the next morning, the th, we started early so as to arrive by six o'clock in the evening at terracina. at cisterna is a post-house and at torre tre ponti is a convent, a beautiful building, but now delapidated and neglected. near it is a wretched inn, where however you are always sure to find plenty of game to eat. here begin the pontine marshes and the famous appian road which runs in a right line for twenty-five miles across the marshes. it was repaired and perfectly reconstructed by pius vi, and from him it bears its present appellation of _linea pia_. this convent and church were also constructed by pius vi with a view to facilitate the draining and cultivating of the marshes by affording shelter to the workmen. the _linea pia_ is a very fine _chaussée_ considerably raised above the level of the marsh, well paved, lined with trees and a canal sunk on one side to carry off the waters. the pontine marshes extend all the way from torre tre ponti to terracina. on the left hand side, on travelling from rome to naples, you have two miles or thereabouts of plain bounded by lofty mountains; on the right a vast marshy plain bounded by the sea at a distance of seven or eight miles. nothing can be more monotonous than this strait road twenty-five miles in length, and the same landscape the whole way. the air is extremely damp, aguish and unhealthy. those who travel late in the evening or early in the morning are recommended not to let down the glasses of the carriage, in order to avoid inhaling the pestilential miasma from the marshes, which even the canal has not been able to drain sufficiently. no one can find amusement in this desolate region but the sportsman; and he may live in continual enjoyment, and slay wild ducks and snipes in abundance; a number of buffaloes are to be seen grazing on the marshes. they are not to be met with to the north of rome. they resemble entirely the buffaloes of egypt and india, being black, and they are very terrific looking animals to the northern traveller, who beholds them here for the first time. these marshes supply rome abundantly with waterfowl and other game of all kinds. every _vetturino_ who is returning to rome, on passing by, buys a quantity, for a mere trifle, from the peasantry, who employ themselves much _à la chasse_, and he is certain to sell them again at rome for three or four times the price he paid, and even then it appears marvellous cheap to an englishman, accustomed as he is to pay a high price for game in his own country. we arrived a little before six at terracina, which is on the banks of the mediterranean and may be distinguished at a great distance by its white buildings. the chain of mountains on the left of our road hither form a sort of arch to the chord of the _linea pia_ and terminates one end of the arch by meeting the _linea pia_ at terracina, which forms what the sailors call a bluff point. terracina stands on the situation of the ancient anxur and the description of it by horace in his brundusian journey; impositum saxis late candentibus anxur[ ] is perfectly applicable even now. it is a handsome looking city and is the last town in the pope's territory: part of it is situated on the mountain and part on the plain at its foot close to the sea. the fine white buildings on the heights, the temple of jupiter anxurus (of which the façade and many columns remain entire) towering above them, the orange trees and the sea, afford a view doubly pleasing and grateful to the traveller after the dreary landscape of the pontine marshes. there is but one inn at terracina but that is a very large one; there is, however, but very indifferent fare and bad attendance. the innkeeper is a sad over-reaching rascal, who fleeces in the most unmerciful manner the traveller who is not _spesato_. he is obliged to furnish those who are _spesati_ with supper and lodging at the _vetturino's_ price; but he always grumbles at it, gives the worst supper he can and bestows it as if he were giving alms. as the road between terracina and fondi (the first neapolitan town) is said to be at times infested by robbers, few travellers care to start till broad daylight. we did so accordingly the following morning. on arriving at a place called the _epitafio_, from there being an ancient tomb there, we took leave of the last roman post. at one mile and half beyond the _epitafio_ is the first neapolitan post at a place called _torre de' confini_, where we were detained half an hour to have our passports examined and our portmanteaus searched. three miles beyond this post is the miserable and dirty town of fondi, wherein our baggage again underwent a strict search. on leaving terracina the road strikes inland and has mountains covered with wood to the right and to the left, nor do we behold the sea again till just before we arrive at mola di gaeta, which is an exceeding long straggling town on its banks; several fishing vessels lie here and it is here that part of the bay of naples begins to open. the country from terracina to fondi is uncultivated and very mountainous; between fondi and mola di gaeta it is pretty well cultivated; itri, thro' which we passed, is a long, dirty, wretched looking village. the next day at twelve o'clock we arrived and stopped to dine at st agatha, a miserable village, with a very bad tho' spacious inn the half of which is unroofed. we arrived at capua the same evening having passed the rivers garigliano and volturno, and leaving the falernian hills on our left during part of the road. the landscape is very varied on this route, sometimes mountainous, sometimes thro' a rich plain in full cultivation. capua is a fortified town situated in a flat country and marshy withal. it is a gloomy, dirty looking city and whatever may have been its splendour and allurements in ancient times, it at present offers nothing inviting or remarkable. the lower classes of the people of this town are such thieves that our _vetturino_ recommended us to remove every thing from the carriage into our bed rooms, so that we had the trouble of repacking every thing next morning. capua is the only place on the whole route where it is necessary to take the trunks from the carriage. from capua to naples is twenty miles; a little beyond capua are the remains of a large amphitheatre and this is all that exists to attest the splendour of ancient capua. the road between capua and naples presents on each side one of the richest and most fruitful countries i ever beheld. it is a perfect garden the whole way. the _chaussée_ is lined with fruit trees. halfway is the town or _borgo_ of aversa which is large, well-built, opulent and populous. we entered naples at one o'clock, drove thro' the _strada di toledo_ and from thence to the _largo di medina_ where we put up at the inn called the _aquila nera_. a cordon of austrian troops lines the whole high road from fondi to the gates of naples; and there are double sentries at a distance of one mile from each other the whole way. naples, octr. th. in naples the squares or _piazze_ are called _larghi_; they are exceedingly irregular as to shape; a trapezium would be the most appropriate denomination for them. the _largo di medina_ is situated close to the mole and light house and is not far from the _largo del palazzo_ where the royal palace stands, nor from the _strada di toledo_, which is the most bustling part of the town. on the mole and sometimes in the _largo di medini_ pulcinello holds forth all day long, quacks scream out the efficacy of their nostrums and _improvisatori_ recite battles of paladins. here and in the _strada di toledo_ the noise made by the vendors of vegetables, fruit, lemonade, iced water and water-melons, who on holding out their wares to view, scream out "_o che bella cosa_!"--the noise and bustle of the cooks' shops in the open air and the cries of "_lavora_!" made by the drivers of _calessini_ (sort of carriage) makes such a deafening _tintamarre_ that you can scarcely hear the voice of your companion who walks by your side. in the _largo del palazzo_ there is always a large assembly of officers and others, besides a tolerable quantity of _ruffiani_, who fasten upon strangers in order to recommend to them their female acquaintances. a little further is the quai of st lucia, where the fish market is held, and here the cries increase. the quantity of fish of all sorts caught in the bay and exposed for sale in the market is immense and so much more than can be sold, that the rest is generally given away to the _lazzaroni_. here are delicious mullets, oysters, whitings, soles, prawns, etc. there is on the quai of st lucia a _restaurant_ where naught but fish is served, but that is so well dressed and in such variety that amateurs frequently come to dine here on _maigre_ days; for two _carlini_[ ] you may eat fish of all sorts and bread at discretion. the wine is paid for extra. on the quai of st lucia is a fountain of mineral water which possesses the most admirable qualities for opening the _primae viae_ and purifying the blood. it is an excellent drink for bilious people or for those afflicted with abdominal obstructions and diseases of the liver. it has a slight sulfurous mixed with a ferruginous taste, and is impregnated with a good deal of fixed air, which makes it a pleasant beverage. it should be taken every morning fasting. the presidency over this fountain is generally monopolized by a piscatory nymph who expects a _grano_ for the trouble of filling you a glass or two. in reaching it to you she never fails to exclaim _"buono per le natiche,"_ and it certainly has a very rapid effect; i look upon it as more efficacious than the cheltenham waters and it is certainly much more agreeable in taste. at the end of the quai of st lucia is the _castello dell 'uovo,_ a gothic fortress, before the inner gate of which hangs an immense stuffed crocodile. this crocodile is said to have been found alive in the _fossé_ of the castle, but how he came there has never been explained; there is an old woman's story that he came every day to the dungeon where prisoners were confined, and took out one for his dinner. the _castello dell 'uovo_ stands on the extremity of a tongue of land which runs into the sea. after passing the _castello dell 'uovo_ i came to the _chiaia_ or quai properly so called, which is the most agreeable part of naples and the favorite promenade of the _beau-monde._ the finest buildings and _palazzi_ line the _chiaia_ on the land side and above them all tower the castle of st elmo and the _chartreuse_ with several villas intervening. the garden of the _chiaia_ contains gravel walks, grass plots, alleys of trees, fountains, plantations of orange, myrtle and laurel trees which give a delightful fragrance to the air; and besides several other statues, it boasts of one of the finest groups in europe, called the _toro farnese._ it is a magnificent piece of sculpture and represents three men endeavouring to hold a ferocious bull. it is a pity, however, that so valuable a piece of sculpture should be exposed to the vicissitudes of the season in the open air. the marble has evidently suffered much by it. why is such a valuable piece of sculpture not preserved in the museum? on the _chiaia_ are _restaurants_ and _cafés_. 'tis here also that the nobility display their carriages and horses, it being the fashionable drive in the afternoon: and certainly, except in london, i have never seen such a brilliant display of carriages as at naples. the principal street at naples is the _strada di toledo_. it resembles the _rue st honoré_ and can boast of as much wealth in its shops. the houses are good, solid and extremely lofty, and the streets are paved with lava. there are two excellent _restaurants_ at naples, one in the _largo del palazzo_, nearly opposite the royal palace, called the _villa di napoli_; the other not far from it in the _strada di toledo_, called _la corona di ferro_. naples is renowned for the excellency of its ices. you have them in the shape of all kinds of fruit and wonderfully cheap. many of the ice houses and _caffès_ remain open day and night; as do some of the gaming tables, which are much frequented by the upper classes. the theatre of st carlo, which was consumed last year by fire, is rising rapidly from its ashes and will soon be finished. in the mean time operas are performed at the _teatro fondi_, a moderate sized theatre. i here saw performed the opera of _don giovanni_ of mozart, with the _ballo_ of _la pazza per amore_. mme colbran, a spanish lady, is the _prima donna_ and an excellent singer. in all the private societies at naples a great deal of gaming goes on, and at some houses those visitors, who do not play, are coolly received. the following may be considered as a very fair specimen of the life of a young man of rank and fashion at naples. he rises about two p.m., takes his chocolate, saunters about in the _strada di toledo_ or in the _largo del palazzo_ for an hour or two, then takes a _promenade à cheval_ on the _chiaia_; dines between six and seven; goes to the opera where he remains till eleven or half-past eleven; he then saunters about in the different cafés for an hour or two; and then repairs to the gaming table at the _ridotto_, which he does not quit till broad daylight. the ladies find a great resource in going to church, which serves to pass away the time that is not spent in bed, or at the opera, or at the _promenade en voiture_. the ladies seldom take exercise on foot at naples. there being very little taste for litterature in this vast metropolis, the most pleasant society is among the foreign families who inhabit naples or at the houses of the _corps diplomatique_. there is, however, a good _cabinet littéraire_ and library in the _strada di san giacomo_, where various french and italian newspapers may be read. the austrians occupy the greater part of the military posts at naples; at the royal palace however the sicilian guards do duty; they are clothed in scarlet and _à anglaise_. naples, th octr. one day i went to visit the museum or _studii_, as it is called, which is situated at the extremity of the _strada di toledo_ on the land side. here is a superb collection of sculpture and painting; and this building contains likewise the national library, and a choice and unique collection of etruscan vases. a large hall contains these vases, which were found at pompeii[ ]; they are much admired for their beauty and simplicity; each vase has a mythological or historical painting on it. in this museum i was shewn the rolls of papyrus found in pompeii and herculaneum and the method of unrolling them. the work to unroll which they are now employed at this museum is a greek treatise on philosophy by epicurus. it is a most delicate operation to unroll these leaves, and with the utmost possible care it is impossible to avoid effacing many of the letters, and even sentences, in the act of unrolling. it must require also considerable learning and skill in the greek language, combined with a good deal of practise, to supply the deficiency of the words effaced. when these manuscripts are put in print, the letters that remain on the papyrus are put in black type, and the words guessed at are supplied in red; so that you see at one glance what letters have been preserved, and what are supplied to replace those effaced by the operation of unrolling; and in this manner are all the papyrus manuscripts' printed. _visit to pompeii and ascent of vesuvius_. _ th oct_. we returned, mr r---- d---- and i, from our visit to vesuvius, half dead with fatigue from having had little or no rest the whole night, about three o'clock to naples. we left naples in a _calèche_ yesterday after breakfast and drove to portici. portici, resina, and torre del greco are beautiful little towns on the sea-shore of the bay of naples or rather they may be termed a continuation of the city, as they are close together in succession, and the interval filled up with villas. the distance from the gates of naples to portici is three miles. the road runs through the court yard of the royal palace at portici which has a large archway at its entrance and sortie. we proceeded to resina and alighted in order to descend under ground to herculaneum, resina being built on the spot where herculaneum stood. there are always guides on this road on the look out for travellers; one addressed us, and conducted us to a house where we alighted and entered. our guide then prepared a flambeau, and having unlocked and lifted up a trap door invited us to descend. a winding _rampe_ under ground leads to herculaneum. we discovered a large theatre with its proscenium, seats, corridors, vomitories, etc., and we were enabled, having two lighted torches with us, to read the inscriptions. some statues that were found here have been removed to the museum at portici. this is the only part of herculaneum that has been excavated; for if any further excavations were attempted, the whole town of resina, which is built over it, would fall in. herculaneum no doubt contains many things of value, but it would be rather too desperate a stake to expose the town of resina to certain ruin, for the sake of what _might_ be found. at pompeii the case is very different, there being nothing built over its site. after having satisfied our curiosity here, we regained the light of heaven in resina, and proceeded to pompeii, which is seven miles further, the total distance from naples to pompeii being ten miles. the part of pompeii already discovered looks like a town with the houses unroofed situated in a deep gravel or sand pit, the depth of which is considerably greater than the height of the buildings standing in it. you descend into it from the brink, which is on a level with the rest of the country; pompeii is consequently exposed to the open air, and you have neither to go under ground, nor to use _flambeaux_ as at herculaneum, but simply to descend as into a pit. there is always a guard stationed at pompeii to protect the place from delapidation and thefts of antiquarians. from its resembling, as i have already said, a town in the centre of a deep gravel pit, you come upon it abruptly and on looking down you are surprized to see a city newly brought to day. the streets and houses here remain entire, the roofs of the houses excepted, which fell in by the effect of the excavation; so that you here behold a roman city nearly in the exact state it was hi when it was buried under the ashes of vesuvius, during its first eruption in the year of the christian era. it does not appear to me that the catastrophe of pompeii could have been occasioned by an earthquake, for if so the streets and houses would not be found upright and entire: it appears rather to have been caused by the showers of ashes and _écroulement_ of the mountain, which covered it up and buried it for ever from the sight of day. the first place our guide took us to see was a superb amphitheatre about half as large as the coliseum: the arena and seats are perfect, and all the interior is perfectly cleared out: so are the dens where the wild beasts were kept; so that you look down into this amphitheatre as into a vast basin standing on its brink, which is on a level with the rest of the ground around it, and by means of the seats and passages you may descend into the _arena_. this amphitheatre is at a short distance from the rest of the town. what is at present discovered of this city consists of a long street with several off-sets of streets issuing from it: a temple, two theatres, a praetorium, a large barrack, and a peculiarly large house or villa belonging probably to some eminent person, but no doubt when the excavation shall be recommenced many more streets will be discovered, as from the circumstance of there being an amphitheatre, two other theatres and a number of sepulchral monuments outside the gates, it must have been a city of great consequence. most of the houses seem to have had two stories; the roofs fell in of course by the act of excavation, but the columns remain entire. i observe that the general style of building in pompeii in most of the houses is as follows: that in each building there is a court yard in the centre, something like the court yard of a convent, which is sometimes paved in mosaic, and generally surrounded by columns; in the middle of this court is a fountain or basin: the court has no roof and the wings of the house form a quadrangle environing it. the windows and doors of the rooms are made in the interior sides of the quadrangle looking into the court yard; on the exterior there appears to be only a small latticed window near the top of the room to admit light. i have seen in egypt and in india similarly built houses, and it is the general style of building in andalusia and barbary. in the rooms are niches in the walls for lamps, precisely in the style of the moorish buildings in india. in many of the chambers of the houses at pompeii are paintings _al fresco_ and arabesques on the walls which on being washed with water appear perfectly fresh. the subjects of these paintings are generally from the mythology. in some of the rooms are paintings _al fresco_ of fish, flesh, fowl and fruit; in others venus and the graces at their toilette, from which we may infer that the former were dining rooms and the latter boudoirs. a large villa (so i deem it as it stands without the gates) has a number of rooms, two stories entire and three court yards with fountains, many beautiful fresco paintings on the walls of the chambers. annexed to this villa is a garden arranged in terraces and a fish pond. a covered gallery supported by pillars on one of the sides of the garden served probably as a promenade in wet weather. in the cellars of this villa are a number of _amphorae_ with narrow necks. had the ancients used corks instead of oil to stop their _amphorae_, wine eighteen hundred years old might have been found here. it is not the custom even of the modern italians to use corks for the wine they keep for their own use: a spoonful of oil is poured on the top of the wine in the flask and when they mean to drink it they extract the oil by means of a lump of cotton fastened to a stick or long pin which enters the neck of the flask and absorbs and extracts the oil. among the buildings discovered in pompeii is a large temple of isis; here you behold the altar and the pillar to which the beasts of sacrifice were fastened. in this temple at the time of the first excavation were found all the instruments of sacrifice and other things appertaining to the worship of that goddess. these and other valuables such as statues, coins, utensils of all sorts were removed to portici, where they are now to be seen in the museum of that place. the _praetorium_ at pompeii is the next remarkable thing; it is a vast enclosure: a great number of columns are standing upright here and the most of them entire; the steps forming the ascent to the elevated seat where the praetor usually sat, remain entire. there is a large building and court yard near one of the gates of the city supposed to have been a barrack for soldiers; three skeletons were found here with their legs in a machine similar to our stocks. the scribbling and caricatures on the walls of this barrack are perfectly visible and legible. when one wanders thro' the streets of this singularly interesting city, one is tempted to think that the inhabitants have just walked out. what a dreadful lingering death must have befallen these inhabitants who could not escape from pompeii at the time of the eruption of vesuvius which covered it with ashes. the air could only be exhausted by degrees, so that a prolonged suffocation or a death by hunger must have been their lot. four skeletons were found upright in the streets, having in their hands boxes containing jewellery and things of value, as if in the act of endeavouring to make their escape: these must soon have perished, but the skeleton of a woman found in one of the rooms of the houses close to a bath shews that her death must have been one of prolonged suffering. what a fine subject pompeii would furnish for the pen of a byron! as i have before remarked, all the valuables and utensils of all sorts found here have been removed to portici; it is a great pity that everything could not be left in pompeii in the exact situation in which it was found on its first discovery at the excavation. what a light it would have thrown (which no description can give) on the melancholy catastrophe as well as on the private life and manners of the ancients! but if they had been left here, they would, even tho' a guard of soldiers were stationed here to protect them, have been by degrees all stolen. there were some magnificent tombs just outside the gates which must have been no small ornament to the city. we returned to resina to dinner at six o'clock. we had made an arrangement with one of the guides of vesuvius called salvatore that he should be ready for us at resina at seven o'clock with a mule and driver for each of us to ascend the mountain, and we found him very punctual at the door of the inn at that hour. the terms of the journey were as follows. one _scudo_ for salvatore and one _scudo_ for each mule and driver for which they were to forward us to the mountain, remain the whole night and reconduct us to resina the following morning. the object in ascending at night and remaining until morning is to combine the night view of the eruption with the visit (if possible) to the crater, which cannot with safety be undertaken by night, and to enjoy likewise the noble view at sunrise of the whole bay and city of naples and the adjacent islands. we started therefore at a quarter past seven and arrived at half past nine at a small house and chapel, called the hermitage of vesuvius, which is generally considered as half-way up the mountain. in this house dwells an old ecclesiastic who receives travellers and furnishes them with a couch and frugal repast. we dismounted here and our worthy host provided us with some mortadella and an omelette; and we did not fail to do justice to his excellent _lacrima christi_, of which he has always a large provision. we then betook ourselves to rest, leaving orders to be awakened at two o'clock in order to proceed further up the mountain. there was a pretty decent eruption of the mountain, which vomited fire, stones and ashes at an interval of twenty-five minutes, so that we enjoyed this spectacle during our ascent. a violent noise, like thunder, accompanies each eruption, which increases the awefulness and grandeur of the sight. at two o'clock our guide and muleteers being very punctual, we bade adieu to the hermit, promising him to come to breakfast with him the next morning; we then mounted our mules and after an hour's march arrived at the spot where the ashes and cinders, combined with the steepness of the mountain, prevent the possibility of going any further except on foot. we dismounted therefore at this place, and sent back our mules to the hermitage to wait for us there. we now began to climb among the ashes, and tho' the ascent to the position of the ancient crater is not more than probably eighty yards in height, we were at least one hour before we reached it, from its excessive steepness and from gliding back two feet out of three at every step we made. we at length reached the old crater and sat ourselves down to repose till day-break. tho' it was exceeding cold, the exhalation from the veins of fire and hot ashes kept us as warm as we could wish: for here every step is literally _per ignes suppositos cineri doloso_.[ ] we remained on this spot till broad daylight and witnessed several eruptions at an interval of twenty or twenty-five minutes. i remarked that the mountain toward the summit forms two cones, one of which vomited fire and smoke, and the other calcined stones and ashes, accompanied by a rumbling noise like thunder. the stones came clattering down the flanks of the mountain and some of them rolled very near us; had we been within the radius formed by the erupted stones we probably should have been killed. at daylight mr r---- d---- proposed to ascend the two cones in spite of the remonstrances of our guide salvatore, who told us that no person had yet been there and that we must expect to be crushed to death by the stones, should an eruption take place, and that it was almost as much madness to attempt it, as it would be to walk before a battery of cannon in the act of being fired. tho' i did not admit all the force of this comparison, yet i began to think there was a little too much risk in the attempt; my french friend however was deaf to all remonstrance and said to me, "_as-tu peur_?" i replied: "no! that i was at all times very indifferent as to life or death, but that i did not like pain, and was not at all desirous to have an arm or leg broken, the former accident having happened to a german a few days before; nevertheless, i added, if you persist in going, i will accompany you." we accordingly started to ascend the cone, which vomited fire and smoke, taking care to place ourselves on the windward side in ascending, and after much fatigue we arrived in about fifteen minutes close to the apex of the cone, after groping amidst the ashes and stumbling on a vein of red hot cinders. my shoes were sadly burnt, my stockings singed and my feet scorched; my friend was less fortunate, for he tumbled down with his hands on a vein of red hot cinders and burned them terribly. my great and principal apprehension in making this ascent was of stumbling upon holes slightly encrusted with ashes and that the whole might give way and precipitate me into some _gouffre._ on arrival at the summit of the cone we had just time to look down and perceive that there was a hole or _gouffre,_ but whether it were very deep or not we could not ascertain, for a blast of fire and smoke issuing from it at this moment nearly suffocated us; we immediately lost no time in gliding down the ashes on the side of the cone on our breech, and reached its base in a few seconds, where we waited till an eruption took place from the other cone, in order to profit of the interval to ascend it also. it required four minutes' walk to reach the base of the other cone and about twelve to ascend to its apex; on arrival at the brink, where we remained about two minutes, we had just sufficient time to observe that there was no deep hole or bottomless _gouffre_ as we expected, but that it formed a crater with a sort of slant and not exceeding thirty feet in depth to the bottom, which looked exactly like a lime-kiln, being of a dirty white appearance, and in continual agitation, as it were of limestones boiling; so that a person descending to the bottom of this crater would probably be scorched to death or suffocated in a few minutes, but would infallibly be ejected and thrown into the air at the first eruption. i mean by this that he would not disappear or fall into a bottomless pit (as i should have supposed before i viewed the crater), but that his friends would be sure of finding his body either yet living or dead, outside the brink of the crater, within the radius made by the erupted stones and ashes. our guide now begged us for god's sake to descend, as an eruption might be expected every minute. we accordingly glided down the exterior surface of the cone among the ashes, on our breech, for it is impossible to descend in any other way and in a few seconds we reached its base. finding ourselves on a little level ground we began to run or rather wade thro' the ashes in order to get out of reach of the eruption, but we had not gone thirty yards when one took place. the stones clattered down with a frightful noise and we received a shower of ashes on our heads, the dust of which got into our eyes and nearly blinded us. on reaching the brink of the old crater we stopped half an hour to enjoy the fine view of parthenope in all her glory at sunrise. we then descended rapidly, sometimes plunging down the ashes on our feet and sometimes gliding on our breech till we arrived at the place where we had descended from our mules, and this distance, which required one hour to ascend, cost us in its descent not more than seven minutes. we then walked to the hermitage in about an hour and a quarter, and arrived there with no other accident than having our shoes and stockings totally spoiled, our feet a little singed, the hands of mr. r.d. severely burned and both begrimed with ashes like blacksmiths. the ecclesiastic gave us a breakfast of coffee and eggs and a glass of maraschino, and we gave him two _scudi_ each. before we departed he presented to us his album, which he usually does to all travellers, inviting them to write something. i took up the pen and feeling a little inspiration wrote the following lines: anch'io salito son sul gran vesuvio, mentre cadsa di cineri un diluvio; questo cammin mi piace d'aver fatto, ma plù mi piace il ritornare intatto. which pleased the old man very much to see a foreigner write italian verse. i pleased him still more by letting him know that i was an enthusiastic admirer and humble cultivator of the tuscan muse, and that having read and studied most of their poets, particularly _il divino ariosto_, i now and then caught a _scintilletta_ from his verse. we now took a cordial farewell of our worthy old host, mounted our mules and descended the mountain. on arrival at portici we dismissed our guide salvatore with a _scudo pour boire_, besides the stipulated price. salvatore asked me to give him a written certificate of his services, which he generally sollicits from all those whom he conducts to the volcano. i asked him for his certificate book, and begged to know whether he would have it in prose or verse. he laughed and said: _vostra excellenza è padrone_. i took out my pencil and wrote the following quatrain: dal monte ignivomo tornati siam stanchissimi, e del buon salvator siam tutti contentissimi; felice il pellogrin che a salvator si fida, che di lui non si può trovare un miglior guida. i never saw any body so delighted as salvatore appeared when i read to him what i had written in his book. i have another observation to make before i take leave of this celebrated mountain, which is, that the liquid lava which it ejects is far more dangerous and destructive than the eruption of stones and ashes; the lava flows from the flanks of the mountain in a liquid stream. sometimes there will be an eruption and no lava flowing: at other tunes the lava flows from the flanks of the mountain, without any eruption from the crater; at other times, and then it is most alarming, the eruption takes place accompanied by the flowing of the lava. all this demonstrates that the volcano is the effect of the efforts of the subterraneous fire to get some vent and escape from its confinement. this time i did not observe any lava flowing, except a slight vein of it on the spot where mr r.d. fell down and burned his hands; but it is easy to observe on the side of the mountain the course and route taken at different times by the lava, which has become hardened and is very plainly to be distinguished, as it resembles a _river_ (if i may use the word) of slate meandering between the green sward of the mountain and descending toward the sea. you can plainly distinguish the course and direction of the lava which destroyed part of torre del greco and swept it into the sea. at portici, having washed ourselves at the inn from head to foot in order to get rid of our blacksmith's appearance, and having purchased a new pair of shoes and stockings each, we visited the royal palace and museum with a view principally of examining the objects of art and valuables discovered in pompeii. the royal palace is called _la favorita_, its architecture is beautiful; the garden or rather lawn which is ornamented by statues and enriched by orange groves extends to the sea. the first thing that presents itself to the view of the visitor at the museum of portici are the two equestrian statues of marcus balbus proconsul and procurator and of his son, which statues were found in herculaneum. i forgot to mention that there is an inscription with that name on the side of the proscenium of the theatre easily legible by the light of _flambeaux_. to return to the museum at portici, we were then shewn into a room containing curious _morceaux_ of antiquity discovered at pompeii: a tripod in bronze and various other articles of the same metal; tables, various lamps in bronze, resembling exactly those used in hindostan, wooden pens, dice, grains of corn quite black and scorched, a skeleton of a woman with the ashes incrusted round it (the form of her breast is seen on the crust of ashes; golden armlets were found on her which were shewn to us), steel mirrors, combs, utensils for culinary purposes, such as _casseroles_, frying pans, spoons, forks, pestles and mortars, instruments of sacrifice, weights and measures, coins, a _carcan_ or _stock_, &c. in the upper rooms are to be seen the paintings and _fresques_ found in the same place. the paintings are poor things, and in their landscapes the romans seem to have had little more idea of perspective than the chinese; but the _fresques_ are beautiful: the female figures belonging thereto are delineated with the utmost grace and delicacy. they consist of subjects chiefly from the mythology. i noticed the following in particular, viz., chiron teaching the young achilles to draw the bow; the discovery of orestes; theseus and the minotaur (he has just slain the minotaur and a boy is in the act of kissing his hand as if to thank him for his deliverance; the minotaur is here represented as a monster with the body of a man and the head of a bull); a centaur carrying off a nymph; a car drawn by a parrot and driven by a cricket: a woman offering to another little loves for sale (she is pulling out the little cupids from a basket and holding them by their wings as if they were fowls); a beautiful female figure seated on a monster something like the chimaera of the ancients and holding a cup before the monster's mouth (emblematical of hope nourishing a chimaera). the arabesques taken from pompeii and preserved here are very beautiful. here also are two statues found in pompeii: the one representing a drunken faun, the other a sitting mercury. we met two polish ladies here, who were amusing themselves in copying the _fresques_. we returned to naples at five o'clock, and dined at the _villa di napoli_. in the evening we went to the _teatro de' fiorentini_. the piece performed was pamela or _la virtû premiata,_ which i understand is quite a stock piece in italy. it is written by goldoni. it was very badly performed; the actors were not perfect in their parts, and the prompter's voice was as loud as usual. the costume was appropriate enough, which is far from being always the case at this theatre. naples, octr. we started on the th at six o'clock in the morning (mr r----- d. and myself) in a _calèche_ in order to visit puzzuoli, baii and all the classical ground in that direction. we of course passed through the grotto of pausilippo. this grotto is thirty feet high and about five hundred feet long. in fact, it is a vast rock undermined and a high road running thro' it, the breadth of which is sufficient for three carriages to go abreast. from its great length it is of course exceeding dark; in order therefore to obviate this inconvenience lamps constantly lighted are suspended from the roof and on the sides of the grotto, and holes pierced towards the top to admit a little daylight. the road pierced thro' this rock and called the grotto of pausilippo abridges the journey to puzzuoli very considerably, as otherwise you would be obliged to go round by cape margelina, which would increase the distance ten miles. on issuing from the grotto on the other side, you arrive in a few minutes on the seashore, on the bay formed between cape margelina and puzzuoli. we stopped at the lake agnano which is strongly impregnated with sulfur. on the banks of this lake are the _thermae_ or vapour baths, and here is also the famous _grotto del cane_, the pestilential vapour arising from which rises about three inches from the ground and has the appearance of a spider's web. an unfortunate dog performs the miracle of the resurrection to all those who visit this natural curiosity; and we also were curious to see its effect. the guardian of the thermes seized the poor animal and held his nose close to the place from whence the vapour exhales. the dog was seized with strong convulsions and in two minutes he was perfectly senseless and to all appearance dead; but on being placed in the open air, he soon recovers. the poor beast shews evident repugnance to the experiment, and i wonder he does not endeavor to make his escape, for he has sometimes to perform this feat four or five times a day. i should suppose that he will not be very long lived, for the repeated doses of this mephitic vapour must surely accelerate his dissolution. the heat of the _thermae_ and steam of the sulphur is almost insupportable; but it has a most beneficial effect on maladies of the nerves and cutaneous complaints. we then proceeded on our journey to puzzuoli, the ancient puteoli, where are the remains of the famous mole (or bridge as others call it) of caligula, intended to embrace or unite the two extremes of the bay of baiae formed on one side by puzzuoli and on the other by cape misenus. we alighted to take a _déjeuner à la fourchette_ at puzzuoli, and then went to visit the temple of jupiter serapis, which is a vast edifice and tho' in ruins very imposing. on wandering thro' the enceinte of this famous temple, i thought of apollonius of tyana and his sudden appearance to his friend damis at the porch of this very temple, when he escaped from the fangs of domitian and when it was believed that, by means of magic art, he had been able at once to transport himself from the praetorium at rome to puteoli. as i said before, the bay included by cape misenus and puzzuoli is what is called baiae. the land is low and marshy from puzzuoli to a little beyond the lake avernus; but from monte nuovo it begins to rise and form high cliffs nearly all way to cape misenus. it was on these high cliffs that the opulent romans built their villas and they must have been as much crowded together as the villas at ramsgate and broadstairs. we embarked in a boat at puzzuoli to cross over to baiae (i.e., the place where the villas begin), but we stopped on our way thither at a landing place nearly in the centre of the bay in order to visit the lake avernus and the cave of the cumaean sybil, described by virgil, as the entrance into the realm of pluto. the lake avernus, in spite of its being invested by the poets with all that is terrible in the mythology as a river of hell, looks very like any other lake, and tho' it is impregnated with sulphur, and emits a most unpleasant smell, birds do not drop down dead on flying over it as formerly. the ground about it is marshy and unwholesome. the silence and melancholy appearance of this lake and its environing groves of wood are not calculated to inspire exhilarating ideas. full of classic souvenirs we went to descend into the cave of the sybil, and as we descended i could not refrain from repeating aloud virgil's lines: _di quibus imperium est animarum umbrasque silentes_,[ ] etc. this descent really is fitted to give one an idea of the descent to the shades below, and what added to the illusion was that when we arrived at the bottom of the descent and just at the entrance of the cave where the sybil held her oracles, we discovered four fierce looking fellows with lighted torches in their hands standing at the entrance. my friend cried out _voilà les furies_, and these proved to be our boatmen who, while we were contemplating the _bolge d'averno_, had run on before to provide torches to shew us the interior of the grotto of the sybil. as this grotto is nearly knee-deep filled with water we got on the backs of the boatmen to enter it. it is about twenty-five feet long, fifteen broad and the height about thirteen feet. as we were neither devoured by cerberus nor hustled by old charon into his boat, we returned from the _shades below_ to the light of heaven, triumphant like ulysses or aeneas, considering ourselves now among the _pauci quos aequus amavit jupiter_.[ ] acheron, the dreadful acheron, is not far from avernus and is likewise a lake, tho' call'd a river in the mythology. it is also sulfuric and the ground about it is woody, low, marshy and consequently aguish. we next ascended the cliffs of baiae and we were shown the remains of the villas of cicero, caesar, sylla and other great names. we then went to the baths of nero (so called). here it is the fashion to descend under ground in order to feel the effect of the sulfuric heat, which is intense, and my friend who descended soon returned dripping with perspiration and calling out: _qui n'a pas vu cela n'a rien vu!_ but i did not chuse to descend, as i could feel no pleasure in being half stifled and the _grotto del cane_ had already given me a full idea of the force of the vapour of the _thermes_. we then descended from the cliffs of baiae on the other side, and visited the remains of three celebrated temples of antiquity situated on the beach nearly and very close to each other, viz., the temples of diana, of venus and of mercury; all striking objects and majestic, tho' in a state of dilapidation. each of these temples has cupolas. we then ascended the slope of ground leading towards cape misensus, to visit the _cento camarelle_ and _piscina mirabile_, both vast edifices under ground, serving as cellars or appendages to a palace that stood on this spot. we then visited the lake called the _mare morto_ or styx; and then went round to the other side of it, to visit those beautiful _coteaux_ planted in vines and their summits crowned with groves which have obtained the name of the elysian fields. this styx and these elysian fields look like any other lake and _coteaux_ and are entirely indebted to the lyre of maro for their celebrity. from thence we went to the extremity of cape misenus and embarked in our boat (which we had sent on there to wait for us) to return to puzzuoli by crossing the bay at once. in this bay and near cape misenus a roman fleet was usually stationed and pliny's uncle, i believe, commanded one there at the time of the first eruption of vesuvius which cost him his life. there is a singular phenomenon in this bay of a mountain that in one of the later eruptions and earthquakes was formed in twenty-four hours near the seashore and was named _monte nuovo._ the small salt water lake called _lacus lucrinus_ is also on this bay. it appears to me to be an artificial lake, made probably by the opulent romans who resided at baiae to hold their mullets and other sea fish which they wished to fatten. near puzzuoli likewise is the famous _solfaterra,_ the bed of an ancient volcano. it is well worth examining. it has been long since extinguished, but you meet with vast beds of sulphur and calcined stones, and the smell is at times almost insupportable. we returned to naples by half-past seven o'clock, not a little tired but highly gratified by our excursion. naples, th oct. at the _teatro nuovo_ i have seen another italian tragedy performed. the piece was _tito manlio torquato_, taken from the well known anecdote in the roman history. the scenery, decorations and _costume_ were good and appropriate, not so the acting; for the actors as usual were imperfect in their parts. i fully agree with alfieri that italy must be united and enjoy a free popular government before one can expect to see tragedies well performed. it is very diverting to see the puppet shows at naples and to hear the witticisms and various artifices of the showman of pulcinello to secure payment in advance from his audience, who would otherwise go away without paying as soon as the performance was over. this performance is much attended by the _lazzaroni_ and _fainéans_ of the lower orders of naples and the puppet showman is obliged to have recourse to various stratagems and ingenious sallies to induce a handsome contribution to be made. sometimes he will say with a very grave face (the curtain being drawn up and no pulcinello appearing) that he is very sorry there can be no performance this day; for that poor signor pulcinello is sick and has no money to pay the doctor: but that if a _quête_ be made for him, he will get himself cured and make his appearance as usual. all the while that one of the showmen goes about collecting the _grani_, the other holds a dialogue with pulcinello (still invisible). pulcinello groans and is very miserable. at length the collection is made. pulcinello takes medicine, says he is well again, makes his appearance and begins. at another time the audience is informed that there can be no performance as pulcinello is arrested for debt and put in prison, where he must remain unless a subscription of money be made for him to pay his debts and take him out of gaol. then follows an absurd dialogue between pulcinello (supposed to answer from the prison) and the showman. the showman scolds him for being a spendthrift and leading a profligate life, calls him a _briccone_, a _birbante_, and pulcinello only groans out in reply, _povero me, povero pulcinello, che disgrazia! sventurato di me! di non aver denari!_ these strokes of wit never fail to bring in many a _grano_. at another time the curtain is drawn up and discovers a gibbet and pulcinello standing on a ladder affixed to it with a rope round his neck. the showman with the utmost gravity and assumed melancholy informs the audience that a most serious calamity is about to happen to naples: that signor pulcinello is condemned to be hanged for a robbery, and that unless he can procure _molti denari_ to bribe the officers of justice to let him escape, he will inevitably be hanged and the people will never more behold their unhappy friend pulcinello. the showman now implores the commiseration of the audience, and now reproaches pulcinello with his profligacy and nefarious pranks which have brought him to an untimely end. pulcinello sobs, cries, promises to reform and to attend mass regularly in future. what neapolitan heart can resist such an appeal? the _grani_ are collected. pulcinello gives money to the puppet representing the executioner; down goes the gibbet, and pulcinello is himself again. i shall return in a day or two to rome, having seen nearly all that naples affords. i have now full liberty to die when i chuse according to the proverb: _veder napoli e poí morire_. naples certainly is, taking it all in all, the most interesting city in europe, for it unites every thing that is conducive to the _agrémens_ of life. a beautiful city, a noble bay, a vast commerce, provisions of the best sort, abundant and cheap, a pleasant society, a delicious climate, music, operas, _balli,_ libraries, museums of painting and sculpture; in its neighbourhood two subterraneous cities, a volcano in full play, and every spot of ground conveying the most interesting _souvenirs_ and immortalized in prose and verse. add thereto the vapour baths of sulphur for stringing anew the nerves of those debilitated by a too ardent pursuit of pleasure, and the fountain of st lucia for those suffering from a redundancy of bile. now tell me of any other residence which can equal this? adieu. rome, nd octr. nothing material occurred on my return from naples to rome; but on the d day after my arrival i made an excursion to tivoli, which is about eighteen miles distant from rome. i passed the night at the only inn at tivoli. the next morning i walked to the _villa d'este_ in this neighbourhood, which is a vast edifice with extensive grounds. here on a terrace in front of the villa are models in marble of all the principal edifices and monuments, ancient and modern, of rome, very ingeniously executed. from the _villa d'este_ is a noble view of the whole plain of latium and of the "eternal city." from hence i walked about two miles further to visit the greatest antiquity and curiosity of the place, which is the villa or rather the ruins of the celebrated villa built by adrian, which must have been of immense size from the vast space of ground it occupies. it was intended to unite everything that the magnificent ideas of a prince could devise who wished to combine every sort of recreation, sensual as well as intellectual, within the precincts of his palace; columns, friezes, capitals, entablatures and various other spoils of rich architecture cover the ground in profusion: many of the walls and archways are entire and almost an entire cupola remains standing. besides the buildings above ground, here are cellars under ground intended as quarters for the guards and capable of holding three thousand men, as well as stabling for horses. in the inclosure of and forming part of this villa, which covers a circumference of seven miles, were a gymnasium, baths, temples, a school of philosophers, tanks, a theatre, &c. the greatest part of these buildings are choaked up and covered with earth, since it is by excavation alone that what does appear was brought to light. it was by excavation that a man discovered a large hall wherein he found the nine beautiful statues of the muses, which now adorn the museum of the vatican; and no doubt if the roman government would recommence the excavations many more valuables might be found. hadrian's villa has already furnished many a statue, column and pilaster to the museums, churches and palaces of rome. i was much more gratified in beholding the remains of this villa than in visiting tivoli and i remained here several hours. at four o'clock in the afternoon i started on my return to rome; it was imprudent not to have started sooner, as it is always dangerous to be outside the walls of rome after dark, in consequence of the brigands who infest the environs and sometimes come close to the walls of the city. i reached my hotel in rome at nine o'clock, one hour and half after dark, but had the good fortune to meet nobody. the roman peasantry generally go armed and those who feed cattle in the fields of the campagna or have any labour to perform there never sleep there on account of the _mal'aria._ [ ] horace, _epist.,_ ii, , .--ed. [ ] horace, sat., i, , .--ed. [ ] a _carlino_ is of the value of half a franc or five pence english. the accounts in naples are kept in _ducati_, _carlini_ and _grani_. ten _carlini_ make a ducat and ten _grani_ (a copper coin) make a carlino. a grano is a _sou_ french in value. the _ducato_ is an imaginary coin. the _soudo napoletano_, a handsome silver coin of the size of an _écu de six francs_, is equal to twelve carlini. [ ] not one of these vases was found at pompeii.--ed. [ ] horace, _carm_., ii, , .--ed. [ ] virgil, _aen_., vi, .--ed. [ ] virgil, _aen_., vi, .--ed. chapter xii november-december, from rome to florence--sismondi the historian--reminiscences of india--lucca--princess elisa baciocchi--pisa--the campo santo--leghorn-- hebrews in leghorn--lord dillon--the story of a lost glove--from florence to lausanne by milan, turin and across mont cenis--lombardy in winter--the hospice of mont cenis. florence, novr. th. i bade adieu to rome on the th october and returned here by the same road i went, viz., by radicofani and sienna. i arrived here after a journey of six days, having been detained one day at aquapendente on account of the swelling of the waters. the day after my arrival here i despatched a letter to pescia to mr sismondi de' sismondi, the celebrated author of the history of the italian republics, to inform him of my intended visit to him, and i forwarded to him at the same time two letters of introduction, one from colonel wardle and the other from mr piton, banker at geneva, who mentioned me in his letter to sismondi as having _des idées parfaitement analogues aux siennes_. i received a most friendly answer inviting me to come to pescia and to pass a few days with him at his villa. pescia is thirty miles distant from florence and the same from leghorn. i was delighted with the opportunity of seeing a man whom i esteemed so much as an author and as a citizen, and of visiting at the same time the different cities of tuscany, particularly lucca and pisa. i accordingly hired a cabriolet and on the morning of the th novr drove to prato, a good-sized handsome town, solidly built, ten miles distant from florence. the country on each side of the road appears highly cultivated, and the road is lined with villas and farm houses with gardens nearly the whole way. changing horses at prato, i proceeded ten miles further to pistoia, a large elegant and well-built town on the banks of the ombrone. the streets in pistoia are broad and well paved and the _palazzo pubblico_ is a striking building; so is the _seminario_ or college. here i changed horses again and proceeded to pescia, where i alighted at the villa of m. sismondi. the distance between pistoia and pescia is about ten or eleven miles. pescia is a beautiful little town, very clean and solidly built, lying in a valley surrounded nearly on all sides by mountains. its situation is extremely romantic and picturesque, and there are several handsome villas on the slopes and summits of these mountains. on market days pescia is crowded with the country people who flock hither from all parts, and one is astonished to see such a number of beautiful and well dressed country girls. industry and comfort are prevalent here, as is the case indeed all over tuscany; i mean agricultural industry, for commerce is just now at a stand. i passed three most delightful days and which will live for ever in my recollection, with mr sismondi, in whom i found an inexhaustible fund of talent and information, combined with such an unassuming simplicity of character and manner that he appeared to me by far the most agreeable litterary man that i ever met with. his mother, who is a lady of great talent and perfectly conversant in english litterature, resides with him. his sister also is settled at pescia, being married to a tuscan gentleman of the name of forti. the sister has a full share of the talents and amiable qualities of her mother and brother. with a family of such resources as this, you may suppose our conversation did not flag for a moment, nor do i recollect in the course of my whole life having passed such a pleasant time; and i only wished that the three days could be prolonged to three years. politics, the occurrences of the day, living characters, classical reminiscences, french, english, italian and german litterature, afforded us an inexhaustible variety of topics for conversation: and the profound local knowledge that mr sismondi possesses of italy, of its history and antiquities, renders his communications of the utmost value to the traveller. our supper was prolonged to a late hour and i question if the suppers and conversations of scipio and atticus, those _nodes caenaeque deum_[ ] were more piquant or afforded more variety than ours. shakespeare, schiller, voltaire, ariosto, dante, filangieri, michel angelo, washington, napoleon, all furnished anecdotes and reflexions in abundance. the last evening that i passed here, two families of pescia came in. one of the gentlemen was a great reader of voyages and travels, and india suddenly became the subject of discourse. as i had passed six years in that country, during which time i had visited the three presidencies of calcutta, madras, and bombay, having ascended the ganges as far as benares, having visited the mysore country and nizam's territory, having sojourned three weeks among the splendid and magnificent ruins of bijanagur or bisnagar, having travelled thro' the whole of the deccan from pondicherry to cape comorin, besides having traversed on horseback the whole circumference of ceylon and across the whole island from east to west by the wanny, i was enabled to furnish them with many an anecdote from the eastern world, which to them was a great treat, and i dare say at times my narration appeared almost as marvellous as a story in the arabian nights, particularly when i related the various religious ceremonies, the grim idol of juggernaut, the swinging to _recover cast_, the exposure of old people to the holy death in the ganges by stopping up their nose, mouth and ears with mud, and placing them on the water's edge at low tide in order that they should be swept off at the high water; the holy city of benares; the magnificent remains of bisnagar; the splendid pagodas of ramisseram; the policy of the bramins; the appalling voluntary penances of the _joguis_ or _fakirs_ as the europeans call them; the bed of spikes; the arm held up in the air for fifteen years; the tiger hunt; the method of catching the elephant in ceylon; the pearl fishery; sepoy establishment; in short i must have appeared to them a ulysses or a sindbad, and i dare say that they thought i added from time to time a little embellishment from my imagination, tho' i can safely and solemnly aver that i did not extenuate nor exaggerate any thing, but simply related what i had myself seen and witnessed. mr sismondi is under a sort of banishment from his native country geneva in consequence of the side of the question he took in his writings on the return of the emperor napoleon from elba. it was indeed natural for the restored government (the bourbons) to desire the removal from france of a man of talent who had exposed their past and might scrutinize their future conduct and wilful faults; but why the government of geneva should espouse their quarrel and visit one of their most estimable citizens with banishment for opinions not at all connected with nor influential upon geneva, appears to me not only absurd and anomalous, but unjust in the highest degree. but such is the state of degradation to which europe is reduced by the triumph of the old _régime_; and the swiss governments are compelled to become the instruments of the vengeance of the coalition. but i shall dwell no more on this subject at present. let us hope that in a short time a more liberal spirit will arise, and the genevese will be eager to recall in triumph the illustrious citizen of whom they have so much reason to be proud. we spent our mornings, mr sismondi and i, in promenades towards the most striking points of the country immediately environing pescia, and as i had at this time some idea of coming to settle in tuscany, he was so kind as to conduct me to look at several villas that were to let; and i inspected three very beautiful ones well furnished and each capable of holding a large family, that were to be let for , , and _louis d'or_ per annum. wine and every article of life is of prodigious cheapness here, and the inhabitants are so respectable, and there is such an absence of all crime, that pescia must be a very desirable and economical residence for any foreign family possessing a sufficient knowledge of italian to mix with the society of the natives. there are several ancient and noble families in the neighbourhood, highly respectable in point of moral character and manners, but rather in _décadence_ in point of fortune. it was with the greatest regret that i bade adieu to the amiable sismondi, his mother and sister; but i hope for a time only, as i have some idea of removing my domicile from lausanne to this part of the world. i started at o'clock a.m. on the th of november and after two hours' journey in a cabriolet arrived at lucca, a distance of ten miles, and put up at the _hôtel del pelicano._ the road runs thro' a highly cultivated country. lucca is a large fortified city, situated hi a beautifully luxuriant plain or basin surrounded on all sides by hills and mountains of various slopes, contours and heights, and abounding in villas, vineyards, mulberry and olive plantations. every spot of ground is in cultivation and the industry of the inhabitants of lucca is proverbial. indeed the whole territory of this little _ci-devant_ republic is a perfect paradise. the city itself, from the massiveness and solidity of the edifices, has more of a solemn than a lively appearance; but there is a delightful walk on the ramparts which are lined with trees. the streets are well paved. the extreme antiquity of the city and style of its edifices make it appear less _riani_ than the other cities in tuscany. the cathedral is gothic and there are in it the statues of the four evangelists. this and the _palazzo pubblico_ are the most conspicuous edifices. tho' the republic is annihilated, the word _libertas_ still remains on an escutcheon on the gates of the city. lucca, tho' no longer a republic and enclavée in tuscany, is for the present an independent state and belongs to an infanta of spain (formerly princess of parma) who takes the title of duchess of lucca. it is generally supposed however that on the demise of maria louisa, ex-empress of the french and now duchess of parma, this family, viz., the duchess of lucca and her son will resume their ancient possessions in the parmesan, and that lucca will then be incorporated with tuscany. before the fall of napoleon the princess elisa baciocchi his sister was sovereign of lucca, and she it was who has embellished the outside of the city with some beautiful promenades. she devoted her whole time, talents and resources to the good of her subjects and is highly esteemed and much regretted by them. the present duchess of lucca has no other character but that which seems common to the royal families of france, spain and naples; viz., of being very weak and priest-ridden. lucca furnishes excellent female servants who are remarkable for their industry and probity. their only solace is their lover or _amoroso_, as they term him; and when they enter into the service of any family, they always stipulate for one day in the week on which they must have liberty to visit their _amoroso_, or the _amoroso_ must be allowed to come to the house to visit them. this is an ancient custom among them and has no pernicious consequences, nor does it interfere with their other good qualities. at the back of lucca is an immense mountain which stands between it and pisa, and intercepts the reciprocal view of the two cities which are only ten miles distant from each other. this mountain and its peculiarity is the very one mentioned by dante in his _inferno_ in the _episode_ of ugolino: _cacciando il lupo e i lupicini_ al monte, per che i pisan veder lucca non ponno.[ ] i started from lucca in a cabriolet and in two hours arrived at pisa, putting up at the _tre donzelle_ on the quai of the arno. between lucca and pisa are the _bagni di lucca_, a favorite resort for the purpose of bathing and drinking the mineral waters. pisa is one of the most beautiful cities i have seen in italy. the extreme elegance and comfort of the houses, the spacious quai on the arno which furnishes a most agreeable promenade, the splendid style of architecture of the _palazzi_ and public buildings, the cleanliness of the streets, the salubrity of the climate, the mildness of the winter, the profusion and cheapness of all the necessaries of life, and above all the amenity and simplicity of the inhabitants, combine to make pisa an agreeable and favorite residence. yet the population having much decreased there appears an air of melancholy stillness about the city and grass may be seen in some of the streets. this decay in population causes lodgings to be very cheap. the most striking object in pisa is the leaning tower _(torre cadente)_ and after that the cathedral, baptistery, and _campo santo_ which are all close to the tower and to each other. imagine two fine gothic churches in a square or place like lincoln's inn fields; a large oblong building nearly at right angles with the churches and inclosing a green grass plot in its quadrangle and a leaning tower of cylindrical form facing the churches: and then you will have a complete idea of this part of pisa. i must not omit to mention that there is a breed of camels here belonging to the grand duke; i believe it is the only part of europe except turkey where the breed of camels is attempted to be propagated. leghorn, novr. i left pisa for leghorn on the morning of the th november, and after a drive of two hours in a cabriolet i arrived at the latter place and put up at the _aquila nera._ the distance between pisa and leghorn is only or miles and a plain with few trees, either planted in corn or in pasturage, forms the landscape between the two cities. leghorn (livorno), being a modern city, does not offer anything remarkably interesting to the classical traveller either from its locality or its history. founded under the auspices of the medici it has risen rapidly to grandeur and opulence, and has eclipsed genoa in commerce. it is a remarkably handsome city, the streets being all broad and at right angles; the _piazze_ are large and the _piazza grande_ in particular is magnificent. there is a fine broad street leading from the _piazza grande_ to the port. the port and mole are striking objects and considerable commercial bustle prevails there. among the few things worthy of particular notice is the jewish synagogue, decorated with costly lamps and inscriptions in gold in the hebrew and spanish languages, many of which allude to the hospitality and protection afforded to the hebrew nation by the sovereigns of tuscany. there are a great number of hebrew families here: they all speak spanish, being the descendants of those unfortunate jews who were expelled from spain at the time of the expulsion of the moors in the reign of don felipe iii surnamed _el discreto_, who was determined not to suffer either a jew, mahometan or heretic in all his dominions. this barbarous decree was the ruin and destruction of a number of industrious families, thousands of whom died of despair at being exiled from their native land. in return for this what has spain gained? the inquisition--despotism in its worst form--poverty--rags --lice--an overbearing insolent and sanguinary priesthood of whom the monarch is either the puppet or the slave; a degraded nobility; a half savage, grossly ignorant, lazy and brutal people. a proper judgment on the spanish nation for its cruelty and fanaticism! my guide at leghorn conducted me to see the burying ground belonging to the english factory, which is interesting enough from the variety of tombs, monuments and inscriptions. here all protestants, to whatever nation they belong, are buried. i noticed smollett's tomb. it is on the whole an interesting spot, tho' not quite so much so as the cemetery of père la chaise at paris. i returned to florence from leghorn _tout d'une traite_ in the diligence. we stopped at fornacetti (half way) to dine. there is a good _table d'hôte (ordinario)_ there. florence, nd novr. i have become acquainted with lord dillon[ ] and his family, who are residing here and from whom i have received much civility. i met at his house the marchese giuliani, one of the adherents of king joachim, a very amiable and clever man who speaks english fluently. lord dillon is a man of much reading and information and his conversation is at all times a great treat. his lady too is very amiable and accomplished. i went one day with a friend of mine to a _pique-nique_ party at the cascino, where a laughable adventure occurred perfectly in the stile of the _novelle_ of boccacio. as it is not the custom in florence that husbands and wives should go together to places of public amusement, the lady is generally accompanied by her _cavalier servente:_ but it by no means follows that the _cavalier servente_ is the favored lover: one is often adopted as a cover to another who enjoys the peculiar favors of the lady. a gentleman who arrived at the hall where the supper table was laid out, somewhat earlier than the rest of the company and before the chamber was lighted, observed a gentleman and lady ascend the staircase, turn aside by a corridor and enter a chamber together. it was dark and he could not distinguish their persons. he waited fifteen or twenty minutes and observed them leave the chamber together, pass along the corridor and disappear. he had the curiosity to go into the chamber they had just left and found on the bed a lady's glove. he took up the glove and put it in his pocket, determined that this incident should afford him some amusement at supper and the company also by putting some fair one to the blush. accordingly, when the supper was nearly over, he held up the glove and asked with a loud voice if any lady had lost a glove; when his own wife who was sitting at the same table at some distance from him called out with the utmost _sangfroid: e il mio! dammelo: l'ho lasciato cadere._ you may conceive what a laugh there was against him, for he had related the circumstances of his finding it to several of the company before they sat down to supper. this reminded me of an anecdote mentioned by brantôme as having occurred at milan in his time, a glove being in this case also the cause of the _désagrément_. a married lady had been much courted by a spanish cavalier of the name of leon: one day, thinking he had made sure of her, he followed her into her bedroom, but met with a severe and decided repulse and was compelled to leave her _re infectà_. in his confusion he left one of his gloves on the bed which remained there unperceived by the lady. the husband of the lady arrived shortly afterwards and as he was aware of the attentions of the spaniard to his wife and had noticed his going into the house, he went directly to his wife's chamber, where the first thing that captivated his attention was a man's military glove on the bed. he, however, said nothing, but from that moment abstained from all conjugal duty. the lady finding herself thus neglected by a husband who had been formerly tender and attentive, was at a loss to know the reason, and determined to come to an _éclaircissement_ with him in as delicate a manner as she could. she therefore took a slip of paper, wrote the following lines thereon and placed it on his table: _vigna era, vigna son; era podada, or più non son; e non sò per qual cagion non mi poda il mio patron._[ ] the husband, on reading these lines, wrote the following in answer: _vigna eri, vigna sei; eri podada, e più non sei; per la gran fa del leon non ti poda il tuo patron._ the lady on reading these lines perceived at once the cause of her husband's estrangement and succeeded in explaining the matter satisfactorily to him, which was facilitated by the ingenuous declaration of leon himself that he had tried to succeed but had been repulsed. the husband and wife being perfectly reconciled lived happily and no doubt the vine was cultivated as usual. i left florence the th november, and arrived at turin th december. in an evil hour i engaged myself to accompany an old swiss baroness with whom i became acquainted at the hotel of mine hembert to accompany her to turin. she had with her her son, a fine boy of thirteen years of age but very much spoiled. we engaged a _vetturino_ to conduct us to turin, stopping one day at milan. the baroness did not speak italian and generally sent for me to interpret for her when any disputes occurred between her and the people at the inns, and these disputes were tolerably frequent, as she always gave the servants wherever she stopped a good deal of trouble and on departing generally forgot to give them the _buona grazia._ i sometimes paid them for her myself in order to avoid noise and tumult; at other times we departed under vollies of abuse and imprecations such as _brutta vecchia, maladetta carogna,_ and so forth. the baroness had strong aristocratic prejudices and was a bitter enemy of the french revolution to which she attributed collectively all the _désagrémens_ she had experienced during life and all the inconveniences she met with during our present journey. the negligence and impertinence of the servants in italy were invariably attributed by her to the revolutionary principle and she told me that the servants in her native canton bern were the best in the world, but that even in them the french revolution had made a great deal of difference and that they were not so submissive as they used to be. as she sent for me to be her dragoman in all her disputes on the road, you may conceive how glad i was to arrive at turin to be rid of her. she put me in mind of gabrina in the _orlando furioso._ we stopped one day at milan but we were very near being detained two or three days at fiacenza owing to an informality in the baroness's passport, which had not been visé by the austrian legation at florence. in vain she pleaded that she was told at the inn at florence that such _visa_ was not necessary; the police officer at the austrian _douane_, at a short distance beyond piacenza, was inexorable and refused to _viser_ her passport to allow her to proceed. she was in a sad dilemma and it was thought we should be obliged to remain at piacenza. i however recommended her to be guided by me and not to talk with or scold anybody, and that i would ensure her arrival at milan without difficulty, for i had observed that her scolding the officer at the _douane_ only served to make him more obstinate. i recommended her therefore that when we should arrive within sixty or seventy paces of the gate at milan, she should get out of the carriage with her son and walk thro' the gate on foot with the utmost unconcern as if she belonged to the town and was returning from a promenade; and that while they stopped us who were in the carriage to examine our passports, she should walk direct to the inn where we were to lodge, then write to the consul of her nation to explain the business. she followed my advice and passed unobserved and unmolested into milan. on the preceding evening at castel-puster-lengo at supper i asked whether she thought the rigour of the austrian government was also the offspring of the french revolution. the baroness had brought up her son in all these feelings and particularly in a determined hatred of the canton de vaud; for in the evening when we arrived at the inn and were sitting round the fire, he would shake the burning faggots about and say: _voilà la ville de lausanne en cendres!_ if he grows up with these ideas and acts upon them, he stands a good chance of being shot in a duel by some vaudois. it is a pity to see a child so spoiled, for he was a very fine boy, tho' very violent in his temper which probably he inherited from his mother. somebody at the _pension surpe_ at milan who knew her told me that the baroness was of an aristocratic family and had married a rich _bourgeois_ of bern whom she treated rather too much _de haut en bas;_ in short that it was a marriage quite _à la george dandin_, till the poor man took it into his head to die one day. at turin we parted company, she for genoa and i for lausanne. _from turin to lausanne_. i felt the cold very sensibly in the journey from florence to milan and turin. there is not a colder country in europe than lombardy in the winter. the vicinity of the alps contributes much to this; and the houses being exceedingly large and having no stoves it is quite impossible that the fireplaces can give heat sufficient to warm the rooms. i started from turin on the morning of the th december in the french diligence bound to lyon, but taking my place only as far as chambéry. in the diligence were a piedmontese colonel who had served under napoleon, and a young scotchman, a relation of lord minto. the latter was fond of excursions in ice and snow and on our arrival at suza he proposed to me to start from there two or three hours before the diligence and to ascend mont cenis on foot as far as the _hospice_ and i was mad enough to accede to the proposal, for it certainly was little less than madness in a person of my chilly habits and susceptibility of cold and who had passed several years within the tropics to scale the alps on foot in the middle of december and to walk miles in snow and ice at one o'clock in the morning, which was the hour at which we started. i was well clad in flannel and i went thro' the journey valiantly and in high spirits and without suffering much from the cold till within five miles of the hospice, when a heavy snow storm came on; it then began to look a little ugly and but for napoleon's grand _chaussès_ we were lost. we struggled on three miles further in the snow before we fell in with a _maison de refuge_. we knocked there and nobody answered. we then determined _coûte que coûte_ to push on to the _hospice_ which we knew could not be more than two miles distant; indeed it was much more advisable so to do than to run the risk of being frozen by remaining two or three hours in the cold air till the diligence should come up. in standing still i began to feel the cold bitterly; so in spite of the snow storm, we pushed on and arrived at the inn at mont-cenis at five in the morning. we rubbed our hands and faces well with snow and took care not to approach the fire for several minutes, fortifying ourselves in the interim with a glass of brandy. we then had some coffee made and laid ourselves down to sleep by the side of an enormous fire until the diligence arrived, which made its appearance at eight o'clock. the passengers stopped to breakfast and the scotchman proposed to me to make the descent of lans-le-bourg also on foot; but i was quite satisfied with the prowess i had already exhibited and declined the challenge. he however set off alone and thus performed the entire passage of mont cenis on foot. as for the rest of us we were carried down on a _traineau_; that is to say the diligence was unloaded and its wheels taken off; the baggage and wheels were put on one _traineau_ and the diligence with the passengers in it on another, and in this manner we descended to lans-le-bourg. nothing remarkable occurred on this journey and we arrived at chambéry in good case. i hired a _calèche_ to go to geneva, remained there three days and arrived at lausanne on the th december. [ ] horace, _sat_., ii, , .--ed. [ ] dante, _inferno_, i, , .--ed. [ ] henry augustus, thirteenth viscount dillon ( - ), married ( ) to henrietta browne (died ).--ed. [ ] quoted from memory, with mistakes. the text has been corrected as it stands in brantôme, _les dames galantes_, ed. chasles, vol. i, p. .--ed. after waterloo part iii. chapter xiii march-september, journey from lausanne to clermont-ferrand--a wretched conveyance--the first dish of frogs--society in clermont-ferrand--general de vergeunes--cleansing the town--return to lausanne--a zealous priest--journey to bern and back to lausanne--avenches--lake morat--lake neufchatel--the diet in bern--character of the bernois--a beautiful milanese lady. i started from lausanne on the th march , and arrived on the same day at o'clock at geneva. on my arrival at geneva, my banker informed me that i had been denounced to the police, for some political opinions i had spoken at the _hôtel de l'ecu de genéve_, previous to my journey into italy, and that i had been traced as far as turin. i went directly on hearing this to the police, and desired to know who my accusers were, and that the accusation against me might be investigated immediately. both these propositions were however declined, and i was told it was an _affaire passeé_, and of no sort of consequence; so that from that day to this i have never been able to ascertain who my friends were. i left lausanne with the intention of paying a visit to my friend col. wardle and his family at clermont-ferrand, in the department of the puy de dôme, in auvergne, where they are residing. i staid three days at geneva, and then set off at in the evening on the th march with the courier for lyons. i never regretted any thing so much, and was near paying severely for my rashness in putting myself into such a wretched conveyance, at such a season of the year; but i had made the agreement with the courier without inspecting his carriage, and was obliged to adhere to the bargain. it was a vehicle entirely open before; it was a bitter cold, rainy, snowy night; and i had the rain and snow in my face the whole way, and on crossing the cerdon i was seized with a violent ague fit, and suffered so much from it that on arrival at a village beyond nantua where we stopped for supper, i determined to proceed no further, but to rest there that night; and i asked the innkeeper if he could furnish me with a bed for the night. he however made so many objections and seemed so unwilling that i should remain, that i was obliged to make up my mind to proceed. i allayed the _frissonnement_ by a large glass of brandy and water, made fiery hot. at eight o'clock next morning i arrived at lyons, more dead than alive. a warm bath, however, remaining in bed the whole day, buried in blankets, abstaining from all food, a few grains of calomel at night and copious libations of rice gruel the next day restored me completely to health; and after a _séjour_ of four days at lyons, i was enabled to proceed on my journey to clermont on the th march. we arrived at roanne in the evening and i stopped there the whole night. between lyons and roanne is the mountain of tarare where the road is cut right athwart the mountain and is consequently terribly steep; indeed it is the steepest ascent for a carriage i ever beheld. all the passengers were obliged to _bundle out_ and ascend on foot; and even then it is a most arduous _montée_ for such a cumbrous machine as a french diligence. the country between lyons and roanne appears diversified; but this is not the season for enjoying the beauties of nature. roanne consists of one immensely long street, but it is broad, and contains excellently built houses and shops. there is a theatre also and baths. it is situated on the loire which i now salute for the first time. the following morning at nine o'clock a _patache_ (a sort of two wheeled carriage) was in waiting to convey me the remainder of my journey; and i arrived at night at a large village or town called thiers. halfway between roanne and thiers, on stopping at a small village to dine, i observed a dish of frogs at the kitchen fire at the inn; and as it was the first time i had observed them as an article of food in france, i was desirous to taste them. they were dressed in a _fricassée_ of white sauce, and i found them excellent. the legs only are used. they would be delicious as a curry. the next morning we continued our journey; and crossing the river allier at twelve o'clock, arrived at clermont-ferrand at p.m., and dined with col. wardle. clermont and ferrand are two towns within a mile and half distant from each other and this clermont is generally called clermont-ferrand to distinguish it from other towns of the same name. clermont, march th. i have taken lodgings for a month, and board with a french family for franks per month. on the road hither the immense mountain called the puy de dôme is discernible at a great distance; it is said to have been a volcano. clermont is a very ancient city and has an air of dullness; but the _place_ and promenades round the town are excellent. it is the capital of this department (puy de dôme). there is a terrible custom here of emptying the _aguas mayores y menores_ (as the spaniards term those secretions) into the small streets that lie at the back of the houses. the consequence is that they are clogged up with filth and there is always a most abominable stench. one must be careful how one walks thro' these streets at night, from the liability of being saluted by a golden shower. the lower classes of the auvergnats have the reputation of being dirty, slovenly and idle. here is a church built by the english in the time of edward iii, when the black prince commanded in this country; and it was in a chapel in this city, the remains of which still exist, that peter the hermit preached the first crusade. these are almost the only things worthy of remark in the town itself, except that there is a good deal of commerce carried on, manufactures of crockery, cloth and silk stockings. but in the natural curiosities of the environs of clermont there is a great deal to interest the botanist and mineralogist and above all there is a remarkable petrifying well, very near the town, where by leaving pieces of wood, shell-fish and other articles exposed to the dropping of the water, they become petrified in a short time. this water has the same effect on dead animals and rapidly converts them into stone. i have myself seen a small basket filled with plovers' eggs become in eight days a perfect petrifaction. clermont, april d. i am arrived here at rather a dull season: the carnaval is just over and all the young ladies are taking to their _livres d'heures_ to atone for any levity or indiscretion they may have been guilty of during the hey day of the carnaval. the wardle family have a very pleasant acquaintance here, chiefly among the _libéraux_, or moderate royalists, but there are some most inveterate _ultras_ in this city, who keep aloof from any person of liberal principles, as they would of a person infected with the plague. the noblesse of auvergne have the reputation of being in general ignorant and despotic. there is but little _agrément_ or instruction to be derived from their society, for they have not the ideas of the age. in general the nobles of auvergne, tho' great sticklers for feudality and for their privileges, and tho' they disliked the revolution, had the good sense not to emigrate. there is a swiss regiment of two battalions quartered here. it bears the name of its colonel, de salis. as there are a number of officers of the old army here, on half pay, about three hundred in number, it is said, frequent disputes occur between them and the swiss officers. the swiss are looked upon by the people at large as the satellites of despotism and not without reason. it is, i think, degrading for any country to have foreign troops in pay in time of peace. several attempts have been made in the chamber of deputies to obtain their removal or _licencíement_, but without success. as it is supposed that the song of the _ranz des vaches_ affects the sensibility of the swiss very much, and makes them long to return to their native mountains, a wag has recommended to all the young ladies in france who are musicians to play and sing the _ranz des vaches_ with all their might, in order to induce the swiss to betake themselves to their native country. there has been a great deal of denunciation going forward here; but the general de v----[ ] who commands the troops in clermont, determined to put a stop to it. he had the good sense to see that such a system, if encouraged, would be destructive of all society, prejudicial to the government, and vexatious to himself; as he would be thereby kept continually in hot water. accordingly, on a delator presenting himself and accusing another of not being well affected to the present order of things, and of having spoken disrespectfully of the king, m. de v---- said to him: "i have no doubt, sir, that your denunciation proceeds from pure motives, and i give you full credit for your zeal and attachment to the royal cause; but i cannot take any steps against the person whom you accuse, unless you are willing to give me leave to publish your name and consent to be confronted with him, so that i may examine fairly the state of the case, and render justice to both parties." the accuser declined acceding to this proposition. the general desired him to withdraw, and shortly after intimated publicly that he would listen to no denunciation, unless the denouncer gave up his name and consented to be confronted with the accused. the consequence of this intimation was that all denunciations ceased. the late prefect however was not so prudent, and chose rather to encourage delation; but mark the consequence! he arrested several persons wrongfully, was obliged to release them afterwards, was in continual hot water and it ended by the government being obliged to displace him. to avoid the merited vengeance of many individuals whom he had ill-treated, he was obliged, on giving up his prefecture, to make a precipitate retreat from clermont. the delators attempted the same system with the new prefect and col. wardle, having invited some of the swiss officers to a ball, to which were likewise invited people of all opinions, an information was lodged against him, purporting that he wanted to corrupt the swiss officers from their allegiance. the prefect sent the letter to col. wardle and said that it had not made the slightest impression on his mind, and that he treated it as a malicious report. the new prefect adopted the same system as the general and tranquillity is since perfectly restored. things have been taking a better turn since the dissolution of the _chambre introuvable_. decazes, the present minister, is an able man, and if he is not _contrarié_ by the _libéraux_, he will keep the fanatical _ultras_ in good order. the bishop of clermont is a liberal man also, and as it seems the wish of the present public functionaries here to conciliate, it is to be hoped that their example will not be lost on the _bons vieux gentilshommes_ of auvergne. i find an inexhaustible fund of entertainment from the conversation of m. c----. he has so many interesting anecdotes to relate respecting the french revolution. with regard to his present occupations, which are directed towards rural economy, he tells me that he has succeeded in a plan of cleansing the town from its augean filth, and making it very profitable to himself; and that he calculates to obtain a revenue thereby of twenty thousand franks annually. he has, in short, undertaken to be the grand _scavenger_ of the town, and the government, in addition to a salary of , francs per annum, which they give him for his trouble, give to him the exclusive privilege of removing all the dung he can collect in the precincts of the city, and of converting it to his own advantage. he began by fitting up a large enclosure, walled on each side, and in which he deposits all the filth he can collect in the stables, yards and streets of clermont. he sends his carts round the town every morning to get them loaded. all their contents are brought to this repository, and shot out there. straw is then placed over this dung, and then earth or soil collected from gullies and ravines, and this arranged _stratum super stratum_, till it forms an immense compact cake of rich compost; and when it has filled one of the yards and has completed a thickness of five feet, he sells it to the farmers, who send their carts to carry it off. he has divided this enclosure or repository into three or four compartments. the compost therefore is prepared, and ready to be carried off in one yard, while the others are filling. in this he has rendered a great benefit to the public, for the auvergnats are incurable in their custom of emptying their _pots de chambre_ out of the windows; so that the streets every morning are in a terrible state: but thanks to the industry of c---- his cars go round to collect the precious material, and all is cleared away by twelve o'clock. he collects bones too, and offal to add to the compost. he conducted me to see his premises; but the odour was too strong.... i returned to lausanne by the same route, leaving clermont on the th april, staying four days at lyons and as many at geneva. young wardle accompanied me. we met with no other adventure on the road than having a young catholic priest, fresh from the seminary, for our travelling companion, from thiers to roanne. this young man wished to convert wardle and myself to catholicism. among many arguments that he made use of was that most silly one, which has been so often sported by the catholic theologians, viz.: that it is much safer to be a catholic than a protestant, inasmuch as the catholics do not allow that any person can be saved out of the pale of their church, whereas the protestants do allow that a catholic may be saved. i answered him that this very argument made more against catholicism than any other, and that this intolerant spirit would ever prevent me (even had such an idea entered into my head) of embracing such a religion. i then told him that, once for all, i did not wish to enter into any theological disputes; that i had fully made up my mind on these subjects; and that i would rather take the opinion of a voltaire or a franklin on these matters than all the opinions of all the theologians and churchmen that ever sat in council from the council of nicsea to the present day. this silenced him effectually. such is the absurd line of conduct pursued by the catholic priests of the present day in france. instead of reforming the discipline and dogmas of their church and adapting it to the enlightened ideas of the present age, they are sedulously employd in preaching intolerant doctrines, and reviving absurd legends, and pretended miracles, which have been long ago consigned to contempt and oblivion by all rational catholics; and by this they hope to re-establish the ecclesiastical power in its former glory and preponderance. vain hope! by the american and french revolutions a great light is gone up to the _gentiles_. catholicism is on its last legs, and they might as soon attempt to replace our old friend and school acquaintance jupiter on the throne of heaven, as to re-establish the papal power in its pristine splendour; to borrow the language of the _pilgrim's progress_, the giant _pope_ will be soon as dead as the giant _pagan_. on arrival at lyons we put up at the _hôtel du parc_, where i found cheaper and better entertainment than at the _hôtel du nord_. my friend young wardle has fallen in love with a very beautiful _cafetière_ at lyons', and spends a great part of his time in the _café_, at which this nymph administers, and looks at her, _sighs, looks and sighs again_. it is not probable however that he will succeed in his suit, for she has been courted by very many others and no one has succeeded. she remains constant to her _good man_, and the breath of calumny has never ventured to assail her. i met one day at lyons with my old friend w----s of strassburg, who was a lieutenant in the th regiment in the french service and served in the battle of waterloo.[ ] he is now here and being on _demi-solde_, employs himself in a mercantile house here as principal commis. he dined with us and we passed a most pleasant day together. i arrived on the th april at lausanne. * * * * * after remaining some weeks, at lausanne on my return from clermont, i determind on making a pedestrian trip as far as bern and neufchatel previous to returning into italy, which it is my intention to do in september. i sent on my portmanteau accordingly to payerne near avenches, intending to pay a visit and pass three days with my friend, the revd. mr. j[omini],[ ] the rector of the parish there, from whom i had received a pressing invitation. i was acquainted at lausanne with his daughter, mme c----, and was much pleased in her society. she had great talent of conversation, and i never in my life met with a lady possessed of so much historical knowledge. i started on the th june from lausanne, passed the first night at mondon and the next afternoon arrived at avenches, the _aventicum_ of the ancient romans. payerne is only a mile distant from avenches, and i was received with the utmost cordiality by the worthy pastor and his daughter. the scenery on the road to avenches is very like the scenery in all the rest of the canton de vaud, viz., alternate mountain and valley, lofty trees, and every spot capable of cultivation bearing some kind of produce; corn just ready for the sickle and fruit such as cherries and strawberries in full bloom. avenches has an air of great antiquity and looks very gloomy withal, which forms a striking contrast to the neat, well built towns and villages of this canton on the banks of the lake leman where everything appears so stirring and cheerful. avenches, on the contrary, is very dull, and there is little society. at mr. j[omini] there were, besides his daughter, his son and his son's wife. all the _ministres_ (for such is the word in use to designate protestant clergymen and you would give great offence were you to call them _prêtres_) have a fixed salary of £ sterling per annum, with a house and ground attached to the cure; so that by farming a little they can maintain then? families creditably. m. jomini lost his wife some time ago, and still remains a widower. i left payerne on the fifth of july and walked to the _campagne_ of m. de t[reytorre]us,[ ] situated on the banks of the lake morat. it is a very pretty country house, spacious and roomy, and i was received with the utmost cordiality by m. de t[reytorrens] and his amiable family. he is a very opulent proprietor in this part of the country, and has spent part of his life in england. he is a dignified looking man, a little too much perhaps of the old school and no friend to the innovations and changes arising from the french revolution. having lived much among the tory nobility of england, he has imbibed their ideas and views of things. his son is now employed in one of the public offices in london. his wife and three daughters, one of whom is married to a _ministre_, dwell with him. with this family i passed three days in the most agreeable manner. i find the style and manner of living of the _noblesse_ (or country gentlemen, as we should style them) of switzerland very comfortable, in every sense of the word. i wish my friends the french would take more to a country life, it would essentially benefit the nation. the way of living in m. de t[reytorre]us family is as follows. a breakfast of coffee and bread and butter is served up to each person separately in their own room, or in the _salle à manger_, before dinner every one follows his own avocation or amusement. at one, the family assemble to dinner which generally consist of soup, _bouilli, entrées_ of fish, flesh and fowl, _entremets_ of vegetables, a _rôti_ of butcher's meat, fowl or game, pastry and desert. the wine of the country is drunk at dinner as a table wine, and _old_ wines of the country or wines of foreign growth are handed round to each guest during the desert. after dinner coffee and liqueurs are served. after an hour's conversation or repose, promenades are proposed which occupy the time till dusk. music, cards or reading plays fill up the rest of the evening, till supper is announced at nine o'clock, which is generally as substantial as the dinner. on taking leave of mr. de t[reytorre]ns' family i walked to the banks of the lake neufchâtel, having a stout fellow with me to carry my _sac-de nuit_. on arrival at the lake i crossed over in a boat to neufchâtel, which lies on the other side. i remained there the whole of the day. it is a very pretty neat little city, in a romantic position. its government is a complete anomaly. neufchâtel forms a component part of the helvetic confederacy, and yet the inhabitants are vassals of the king of prussia, and the aristocracy are proud of this badge of servitude. the king of prussia however does not at all interfere with its internal government, and his supremacy is in no other respects useful to him than in giving him a slight revenue. french is the language spoken in the canton. there is a marked distinction of rank all over switzerland, except in geneva, vaud and the small democratic cantons such as zug and schwytz, where it is merely nominal. in short, tranquillity is the order of the day. each rank respects the privileges of the other and the peasant, however rich, is not at all disposed to vary from his usual mode of life or to ape the noble; and hence, tho' sumptuary laws are no longer in force, they continue so virtually and the peasantry in all the german cantons adhere strictly to the national costume. bern, july. i put myself in the diligence that plies between neufchatel and bern at nine p.m., on the july, and the following morning put up at the _crown inn_ in the city of bern, in the _pays allemand_, whereas the french cantons are termed the _pays romand_. bern is a remarkably elegant city as much so as any in italy, and much cleaner withal. the streets are broad, and in most of them are _trottoirs_ under arcades. there are a great number of book-sellers here, and the best editions of the german authors are to be procured very cheap. bern is situated on an eminence forming almost an island as it were in the middle of the river aar; steep ravines are on all sides of it; and there is a bridge over the aar to keep up the communication; and as the borders of the island, on which the city stands, are very steep, a zig-zag road, winding along the ravines, brings you to the city gates. these gates are very superb. on each side of the gates are two enormous white stone bears, the emblems of the tutelary genius of this city. the houses are very lofty and solidly built. the promenades in the environs of bern are the finest i have seen anywhere, and the grounds allotted to this purpose are very tastefully laid out. these promenades are paved with gravel and cut thro' the forests, that lie on the _coteaux_ and ravines on the other side of the aar. there are several neat villas in the neighbourhood of these promenades, and there are _cafés_ and _restaurants_ for those who chuse to refresh themselves. such is the beauty of these walks, that one feels inclined to pass the whole day among them. they are laid out in such variety, and are so multiplied, that you often lose your way; you are sure however to be brought up by a _point de vue_ at one or other of the angles of the zig-zag; and this serves as a guide _pour vous orienter_, as the french say. another favorite promenade is a garden, in the town itself, that environs the whole city from which and from the superb terrace of the cathedral you have a magnificent view of the glaciers that tower above the grindelwald and lauterbrunn. the immense forests that are in the neighbourhood of bern form a striking contrast with the cornfields in the vallies and on the _coteaw._ there are but few vineyards in the neighbourhood of bern. bern, july. the diet is held this year in bern and it is now sitting. i have met with the two deputies of the canton de vaud, mm. p----- and m-----. i am glad to hear from them that the animosity existing between the two cantons of bern and vaud is beginning to subside. m. p------ has made a most able and conciliating speech at the diet. still there is a good deal of jealousy rankling in the breast of the bern _noblesse_ and the _avulsumimperium_ is a very sore subject with them. i recollect once at lausanne meeting with a young man of one of the principal families of bern, who had been hi the english service. the conversation happened to turn on the emancipation of the canton de vaud from the domination of bern, when the young man became perfectly furious and insisted that the vaudois had no right whatever to their liberty, for that the canton of bern had purchased the province of vaud from the dukes of savoy. _"en un mot" (said he), "ils sont nos esclaves, nos ilotes et ils sont aussi clairement notre propriété que les nègres de la jamaïque le sont de leurs maîtres"_ a very harsh measure has lately been passed in the diet, evidently suggested by the aristocracy of bern, which tended to fine and punish those swiss officers who remained in prance to serve under napoleon after his return from elba, and who did not obey the order of the diet which recalled them. a very able objection has been made to this measure in a _brochure,_ wherein it is stated that many of these officers had no means of living out of france and that, on a former occasion, when a number of swiss officers were serving the english government and were employed in america in the war against the united states in and , the diet, then under napoleon's influence, issued a decree recalling them and commanding them to quit the english service forthwith. this they refused to do and continued to serve. no notice whatever was taken of this act of disobedience, when they returned to their native country on being disbanded in , and they were very favourably received. why then, says the author of this pamphlet, is a similar act of disobedience to pass unnoticed in one instance and to be so severely punished in another? or do you wish to prove that your vengeance is directed only against those who remained in france, to fight for its liberties, when invaded by a foreign foe, while those who remained in america to fight against the liberties and existence of the american republic you have received with applause and congratulation? is such conduct worthy of republicans? o, fie! such an argument is in my opinion convincing for all the world except for an english tory, a french _ultra_ or a bern oligarch. the arsenal here is well worth seeing; here is a superb collection of ancient armour, much of which were the spoils of the austrian and burgundian chivalry, who fell in their attempts to crush helvetic liberty. by way of shewing how fond the bernois are of old institutions and customs, they have been at the trouble to catch three or four bears and keep them in a walled pit in the city, where they are well fed and taken care of. the popular superstition is that the bears entertained in this manner contribute to the safety of the commonwealth; and this establishment continued ever in full force, until the dissolution of the old confederacy took place and the establishment in its place of the helvetic republic under the influence of the french directorial government. the custom, then, appearing absurd and useless, was abolished, and the bears were sold. but since the peace of other bears have been caught and are nourishd, as the former ones were, at the expence of the state. bern derives its name from _büren_, the german word for _bears_ (plural number). only the french spell _berne_, with an _e_ at the end of it. there are no theatrical amusements going forward here. cards and now and then a little music form the evening recreations. in the inn at bern i became acquainted with a most delightful milanese lady and her son. her name is l------; she is the widow of an opulent banker at milan and has a large family of children. she was about thirty-eight years of age and is still a remarkably handsome woman. time has made very little impression on her and she unites very pleasing manners with a great taste for litterature. she is greatly proficient in the english language and litterature, which she understands thoroughly, tho' she speaks it with difficulty. she is an enthusiastic admirer of shakespeare, milton and byron. she had been to zurich for her son, who was employed in a commercial house there, in order to take him back with her into italy. she spoke french as well as italian, and her son had a very good knowledge of german. she offered me a seat in her carriage, on the understanding that i was going to lausanne, where she intended to stop a day or two. an offer of the kind made by so elegant and fascinating a woman you may be assured i did not scruple to accept, and i was in hopes of improving on this acquaintance and renewing it at milan. indeed, did not business oblige me to remain some weeks at lausanne, i should certainly offer my services to escort her all the way to milan. she had letters of introduction for lausanne, and during her stay there i acted as her _cicerone_, to point out the most interesting objects and points of view, which the place affords. [ ] louis charles joseph gravier, vicomte de vergennes d'alonné, was the son of the comte de vergennes, who was minister under the reign of louisi xvi. born at constantinople in , he took service at the early age of thirteen, was promoted captain in and colonel in . having emigrated in , he served in condé's army, then took service in england from to . on the rd march, , he re-entered the army as "maréchal de camp," and, on the nd november of that same year, was promoted general commander of the department of puy de dôme. he retired on the th march, , and seems to have been much regretted at clermont. died .--ed. [ ] jean françois wlnkens, born at aix-la-chapelle in , is mentioned in the records of the french war office as having served in the th regiment at waterloo. his family may have belonged to strassburg.--ed. [ ] pierre jacques jomini, protestant minister at avenches from to .--ed. [ ] the treytorrens family, of old nobility and fame, now extinct, possessed a large estate at guévaux, on the borders of the lake of morat.--ed. chapter xiv september -april journey from lausanne to milan, florence, rome and naples--residence at naples--the theatre of san carlo--rossini's operas--gaming in naples--the _lazzaroni_--public writers--carbonarism--return to rome--christmas eve at santa maria maggiore--mme dionigi--theatricals--society in rome--the papal government--lucien bonaparte, prince of canino--louis napoleon, ex-king of holland--pope pius vii--thorwaldsen--granet--the holy week in rome--the duchess of devonshire--from rome to florence by the perugia road. i started from lausanne with a party of two ladies in a milanese _vettura_ on the morning of the th september. we arrived at milan on the th late in the evening. on passing the simplon we met with three or four men who had the appearance of soldiers, and asked for alms something in the style of the old spanish soldier who accosted gil blas on his first journey. our ladies were a little alarmed. on travelling over the plains of lombardy, one of these ladies, who had never before been out of her country (switzerland) and was consequently accustomed to see the horizon bounded at a very short distance by immense mountains on all sides, was much alarmed, on arrival at the plain, at seeing no bounds to the horizon; she was apprehensive of _falling down_ and _rolling over_. her remark reminded me of one of the objections made to the project of columbus's voyage in discovery of a western passage to india; it was said that in consequence of the rotundity of the earth they would roll down and never be able to get up again. the sensation experienced by my fellow traveller, however, may be well accounted for and explained by any one who from a plain surface situated on a great height looks down without a railing or balcony. these ladies were quite delighted with the splendour and bustle of milan and particularly when i took them to the _scala_ theatre, where a very splendid _ballo_ was given, intitled _sammi ré d'egitto_. the scenery and decorations were magnificent, being taken from denon's drawings of egyptian views, and the costume was exceedingly appropriate. my fellow travellers were much struck at the appearance of the horses on the stage and the grotesque dancing. the last scene was the most magnificent. it represented the great pyramids, on the angles of which stood a line of soldiers from the _base_ to the _apex_ holding lighted torches. the _coup d'oeil_ was enchanting. i took the ladies to see my old friend girolamo and in fine was their _cicerone_ every where. we remained only four days at milan and then proceeded to florence, where we arrived on the th october. we employed six days for our journey and one day we halted at bologna. after remaining four days at florence and taking the radicofani road we arrived at rome the th october. at rome i met my friend p.g. and his wife who were travelling towards naples and i likewise made two very pleasant acquaintances, the one a portuguese, the other a milanese. the milanese is a cousin of the neapolitan minister di m------; and the portuguese (m. de n------) had been employed by his government in a diplomatic capacity at vienna. at rome i engaged appartments from the th of december for three months and then started for naples, with the intention of passing two months there, and returning to rome, to be in time to witness the fete at christmas eve. at velletri i met with a jamaica family, mr and mrs o------, with their daughter and daughter-in-law; and we were strongly advised to take an escort as far as _torre tre ponti_, being obliged to start very early from velletri in order to reach terracina before night-fall. nothing however occurred and we arrived at terracina without accident. the rascally innkeeper there made mr o------ pay forty franks for each miserable room that he occupied, and fifteen franks a head for his supper; he was very insolent with all. i was rejoiced to find that in one instance he failed in his hopes of extortion. as he is obliged by law to furnish supper and beds at a fixed price to those who travel with _vetturini_ and are _spesati_, he, whenever a _vetturino_ arrives locks up all his decent chambers and says that they are engaged, in order to keep them for those travellers who may arrive in their own carriages and whom he can fleece _ad libitum_. a friend of mine and his lady, who were travelling in their own carriage, had, in order to avoid this extortion, engaged with a _vetturino_ to conduct them from naples to rome with _his horses_, but their own carriage, and, had stipulated to be _spesati_. mine host of terracina, seeing a smart carriage drive up, ordered one of his best rooms to be got ready, ushered them in himself and returnd in half an hour to ask what they would have for supper; when to his great astonishment and mortification, they referred him for the arrangement of the supper to the _vetturino_, saying that they were _spesati_. he then began to curse and swear, said that they should not have that room, and wanted to turn them out of it forcibly; but my friend major g---- took up one of his pistols, which were lying on the table, and told the innkeeper that if he did not cease to molest them and instantly quit the room, he would blow out his brains. this threat had the desired effect, and he withdrew. it appears that this fellow has in the end outwitted himself, for most people now, who travel on this road in their own carriage, chuse to travel with a _vetturino_ and his horses and are _spesati_, solely in order to avoid the extortion practised upon them. we arrived at naples on the th october without accident. a _buona grazia_ of a _scudo_ at the frontier obviated the delay which would otherwise have occurred in examining our baggage by the _douaniers_. i put up at no _largo st anna di palazzo_, near the _strada di toledo_, at the house of one berlier, who had been a domestic of poor murat's. the austrian troops being now withdrawn, the military cordon of sentinels from the frontier to naples is kept up by the neapolitan troops; but what a contrast between the vigilance of the austrian sentinels, and the negligence of the neapolitans! the last time i travelled on this road, i never failed, after dusk, to hear the shout of _wer da?_ of the austrian sentries, long before i came up to them, and i always found them alert. now that the cordon was neapolitan, i always found the sentries either asleep, or playing at cards with their companion (the sentries being double), both having left their arms at the place where they were posted. at night i have no doubt they all fall asleep, so that three or four active _banditti_ might come and cut the throats of the whole chain of sentries in detail. th october, . i have begun my course of water drinking at the fountain of sta lucia. since i was here the last time, the theatre of st carlo has been finished and i went to visit it the second night after my arrival. it is a noble theatre and of immense size, larger it is said than the _scala_ at milan, tho' it does not appear so. the profusion of ornament and gilding serves to diminish the appearance of its magnitude. it is probably now the most magnificent theatre in europe. the performance was _il babiere di siviglia_ by rossini, and afterwards a superb _ballo_ taken closely from coleman's _blue-beard_ and arranged as a _ballo_ by vestris. the only difference lies in the costume and the scenery; for here the _barbe bleue,_ instead of being a turkish pacha, as in coleman's piece, is a chinese mandarin, and the decorations are all chinese. a great deal of scotch music is introduced in this _ballo,_ and seems to give great satisfaction. at the little theatre of san carlino i witnessed the representation of rossini's _cenerentola,_ a most delightful piece. the young actress who did the part of cenerentola acted it to perfection and sung so sweetly and correctly, that it would seem as if the _rôle_ were composed on purpose for her. the part of don magnifico was extremely well played, and those of the sisters very fairly and appropriately. the three actresses who did the part of cenerentola and her sisters, were all handsome, but she who did cenerentola surpassed them all; she was a perfect beauty and a grace. i think the music of this opera would please the public taste in england. rossini seems to have banished every other musical composer from the stage. i have seen, at the theatre of san carlo, the _don giovanni_ of mozart; but certainly, after being accustomed to the extreme vivacity of rossini's style, the music, even of the divine mozart, appears to go off heavily. there is too much of what the french call _musique de fanfares_ in the opera of _don giovanni_ and i believe most of the italians are of my way of thinking. we have just heard of the death of the poor princess charlotte. i am no great admirer of kings and queens; and yet i must own, i could not help feeling regret for the death of this princess. i had formed a very high opinion of her, from many traits in her character; and i fancied and hoped that she was destined to redeem england from the degradation and bad odour into which she had been plunged by the borough-mongers and bureaucrats, engendered by the pitt system. she had liberal ideas and an independent spirit. i really almost caught myself shedding tears at this event, and had she been buried here, i should have gone to scatter flowers upon her tomb: his saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani munere.[ ] has no royalist or ministerial poet been found to do hommage to her _manes_? had she lived to be queen of england she would have found a thousand venal pens to give her every virtue under heaven. there is a professor of natural philosophy now at naples, of the name of amici, from modena, who has invented a microscope of immense power. the circulation of the blood in the thigh of a frog (the coldest animal in nature), when viewed thro' this microscope, appears to take place with the rapidity of a swiss torrent. since i have been here, i have once more ascended vesuvius; there was no eruption at all this time, but i witnessed the sight of a stream of red-hot liquid lava flowing slowly down the flank of the mountain. it was about two and a half feet broad. in my letters from naples, the last time i was there, i gave you some idea of the state of society. among the upper classes gaming is reduced to a science and is almost exclusively the order of the day. there is little or no taste for litterature among any part of the native society. the upper classes are sensualists; the middling ignorant and superstitious. with regard to the _lazzaroni_, i do not think that they at all deserve the ill name that has been given to them. they always seem good humoured and willing to work, when employment is given to them; and they do not appear at all disposed to disturb the public peace, which, from their being so numerous and formidable a body, they could easily do. the neapolitan dialect has a far greater affinity to the spanish than to the tuscan, and there are likewise, a great many greek words in it. when one takes into consideration the extreme ignorance that prevails among the neapolitans in general, one is astonished that such a prodigy of genius as filangieri could have sprung up among them. what talent, application, deep research and judgment were united in that illustrious man! and yet there are many neapolitans of rank who have never heard of him. would you believe that on my asking one of the principal booksellers in naples for filangieri's work on legislation (an immortal work which has called forth the admiration and eulogy of the greatest geniuses of the age, of which benjamin franklin and sir wm jones spoke in the most unqualified terms of approbation; a work which has been translated into all the languages of europe), i was told by the bookseller that he had never heard either of the author or of his work. a very curious thing at naples is the number of public writers; who compose letters and memorials in booths, fitted up in the streets. as the great majority of the people are so ignorant as to be unable to read or write, it follows that when they receive letters, they must find somebody to read them for them and to write the answers required. they accordingly, on the receipt of a letter, bring it to one of these public scribes, ask him to read it for them and to write an answer, for which trouble he receives a fixed pay. these writers are thus let into the secrets of family affairs of more than half of the city; and as some-of them are in the pay of the government for communicating intelligence, you may guess how formidable they may become to liberty and how dangerous an engine in the hands of a despotic government. it appears that the theatre of san carlo is principally kept up by gaming; that is to say, the managers and proprietors would not undertake the direction of it without the gaming bank being annexed to it; for otherwise they would lose money, the expence of the opera on account of the magnificent decorations of the ballets being very great, which the receipts of the theatre are insufficient to meet; but the profits of the casino cover all and amply reimburse the proprietors. with regard to political opinions here there is a great stagnation. it costs the neapolitans too much trouble to think and reflect. m-----, the principal minister, is however no favourite; neither is n-----, who has quitted the austrian service, and is nominated captain-general of the neapolitan army.[ ] there is a great talk about the increase of carbonarism. you will probably ask me what carbonarism means. i am not initiated in the secret of the carbonari; but as far as i can understand, this sect or secret society has its mysteries like modern free-masonry or like the orphics of old, and several progressive degrees of initiation are required. its secret object is said to be the emancipation of italy from a foreign despotism and the forming of a government purely national. this is the reason why this sect is regarded with as much jealousy by the different governments of italy as the early christians used to be by the pagan emperors. great proofs of courage, constancy and self denial are required from the initiated; and very many fail, or do not rise beyond the lower degrees of initiation, for it is very difficult for an italian to withstand sensuality. but the leaders of this sect are perfectly in the right to require such proofs, for no man is fit to be trusted with any political design whatever, who has not obtained the greatest mastery over his passions. the word _carbonari_, i need not tell you, means _coalmen_; the italian history presents many examples of secret societies taking their appellation from some mechanical profession. i have now been nearly two months in naples, and the _zampogne_ or bag-pipes, which play about the streets at night, announce the speedy approach of christmas, so that i shall soon take my departure for rome. * * * * * i left naples on the th of december and arrived at rome on the d. i am settled in my old lodgings, no. _piazza di spagna_. nothing worth mentioning occurred during the journey. the fete, of the birth of christ held at santa maria maggiore on the evening of the th december is of the most splendid description, and attended by an immense crowd of women. guns are fired on the moment that the birth of the saviour is announced, and this event occurs precisely at midnight. the romans seem to rejoice as much at the anniversary of this event, as if it happened for the first time, and as if immediate temporal advantage were to be derived from it. i have mixed a good deal in society in rome since my return from naples. among other acquaintance i must particularly distinguish mme dionigi, a very celebrated lady, possessing universality of talent.[ ] she is well known all over italy, for the extent of her litterary attainments, but more particularly for her proficiency in the fine arts, above all in painting, of which she is an adept. she also possesses the most amiable qualities of the heart, and is universally beloved and respected for the worth of her private character, and for her generous disposition. she has all the vivacity of intellect belonging to youth, tho' now nearly eighty-six years of age,[ ] and of a very delicate physical constitution; in short she affords, and i often tell her so, the most striking proof of the immortality of the soul. there is a _conversazione_ at her house twice a week, where you meet with foreign as well as italian _litterati_, and persons of distinction of all nations, tongues and languages. her eldest daughter, mme d'orfei, is an excellent _improvisatrice_, and has frequently given us very favourable specimens of the inspiration which breathes itself in her soul. i have likewise witnessed the talent of two very extraordinary _improvisatori_, the one a young girl of eighteen years of age, by name rosa taddei. she is the daughter of the proprietor of the _teatro della valle_ at rome, and sometimes performs herself in dramatic pieces; yet, strange to say, tho' she is an admirable _improvisatrice_ and possesses a thorough classic and historical knowledge, she is but an indifferent actress. it is a great shame that her father obliges her to act on the stage in very inferior parts, when she ought only to exhibit on the tripod. i assisted at an _accademia_ given by her one evening at the _teatro della valle_, when she improvised on the following subjects, which were proposed by various members of the audience: st, _la morte d'egeo_; dy, _la madre ebrea_; rd, _coriolano alle mura di roma_; th, _ugolino_; th, _saffo e faone_; th, in the carnaval with the following _intercalario: "maschera ti conosco, tieni la benda al cor_!" which _intercalario_ compels a rhyme in _osco_, a most difficult one. the _madre ebrea_ and _coriolano_ were given in _ottava rima_ with a _rima obbligata_ for each stanza. the _morte d'egeo_ was given in _terza rima_. her versification appeared to be excellent, nor could i detect the absence or superabundance, of a single syllable. she requires the aid of music, chuses the melody; the audience propose the subject, and _rima obbligata_, and the _intercalario_, where it is required. in her gestures, particularly before she begins to recite, she reminded me of the description given of the priestess of. delphi. she walks along the stage for four or five minutes in silent meditation on the subject proposed, then suddenly stops, calls to the musicians to play a certain symphony and then begins as if inspired. among the different rhimes in _osco_, a gentleman who sat next to me proposed to her _cimosco_. i asked him what _cimosco_ he meant; he replied a tuscan poet of that name. for my part, i had never heard of any other of that name than the king _cimosco_ in the _orlando furioso_, who makes use of fire-arms; and rosa taddei was, it appears, of my opinion, since this was the _cimosco_ she chose to characterise; and she made thereby a very neat and happy comparison between the gun of cimosco and the arrow of cupid. this talent of the _improvisatori_ is certainly wonderful, and one for which there is no accounting. it appears peculiar to the italian nation alone among the moderns, but probably was in vogue among the ancient greeks also. it is certain that rosa taddei gives as fine thoughts as are to be met with in most poets, and i am very much tempted to incline to forsyth's opinion that homer himself was neither more nor less than an _improvisatore_, the greek language affording nearly as many poetic licences as the italian, and the faculty of heaping epithet on epithet being common in both languages. the other genius in this wonderful art is signer sgricci. he is so far superior to rosa taddei in being five or six years older, in being a very good latinist and hi _improvising_ whole tragedies on any subject, chosen by the audience. when the subject is chosen, he develops his plan, fixes his _dramatis personae_ and then strikes off in _versi sciolti_. he at times introduces a chorus with lyric poetry. i was present one evening at an _accademia_ given by him in the palazzo chigi. the subject chosen was _sophonisba_ and it was wonderful the manner in which he varied his plot from that of every other dramatic author on the same subject. he _acted_ the drama, as well as composed it, and pourtrayed the different characters with the happiest effect. the ardent passion and impetuosity of massinissa, the studied calm philosophy and stoicism of scipio, the romantic yet dignified attachment of sophonisba, and the plain soldierlike honorable behaviour of syphax were given in a very superior style. i recollect particularly a line he puts in the mouth of scipio, when he is endeavouring to persuade massinissa to resist the allurements and blandishments of love: chè cor di donne è laberinto, in quale facil si perde l'intelletto umano. this drama he divided into three acts, and on its termination he improvised a poem in _terza rima_ on the subject of the contest of ajax and ulysses for the armour of achilles. wonderful, however, as this act of improvising may appear, it is not perhaps so much so as the mathematical faculty of a youth of eight years of age, yorkshireman by birth, who has lately exhibited his talent for arithmetical calculation _improvised_ in england and who in a few seconds, from mental calculation, could give the cube root of a number containing fifteen or sixteen figures. is not all this a confirmation of doctor gall's theory on craniology? viz., that our faculties depend on the organisation of the scull. i think i have seen this frequently exemplified at eton. i have known a boy who could not compose a verse, make a considerable figure in arithmetic and geometry; and another, who could write latin verse with almost ovidian elegance, and yet could not work the simplest question in vulgar fractions. indeed, i think there seems little doubt that we are born with dispositions and propensities, which may be developed and encouraged, or damped and checked altogether by education. i have become acquainted with several families at rome, so that i am at no loss where to spend my evenings. music is the never failing resource for those with whom the spirit of conversation fails. the society at rome is perfectly free from etiquette or _gêne_. when once presented to a family you may enter their house every evening without invitation, make your bow to the master and mistress of the house, enter into conversation or not as you please. you may absent yourself for weeks together from these _conversazioni_, and nobody will on your re-appearance enquire where you have been or what you have been doing. in short, in the intercourse with roman society, you meet with great affability, sometimes a little _ennui_, but no _commérage_. the _avvocati_ may be said to form almost exclusively the middling class in rome, and they educate their families very respectably. this class was much caressed by the french government during the time that rome was annexed to the french empire, and most of the employés of the government at that time were taken from this class. i have met with several sensible well-informed people, who have been accurate observers of the times, and had derived profit in point of instruction from the scenes they had witnessed. the papal government began, as most of the restored governments did, by displacing many of these gentlemen, for no other fault than because they had served under the ex-government, and replaced them by ecclesiastics, as in the olden time. but the papal government very soon discovered that the whole political machine would be very soon at a stand, by such an _épuration_; and the most of them have been since reinstated. consalvi, the secretary of state, is a very sensible man; he has hard battles to fight with the _ultras_ of rome in order to maintain in force the useful regulations introduced by the french government, particularly the organisation of a vigilant police, and the putting a stop to the murders and robberies, which used formerly to be committed with impunity. the french checked the system of granting asylum to these vagabonds altogether. but on the restoration of the papal government a strong interest was made to allow asylums, as formerly, to criminals. many of these gentry began to think that the good old times were come again, wherein they could commit with impunity the most atrocious crimes; and no less than eighty persons were in prison at one time for murder. this opened the eyes of the government, and consalvi insisted on the execution of these men and carried his point of establishing a vigilant police. the army too has been put on a better footing. the papal troops are now clothed and disciplined in the french manner, and make a most respectable appearance. the infantry is clothed in white; the cavalry in green. the cockade is white and yellow. no greater proof can be given of the merit and utility of the french institutions in italy, than the circumstance of all the restored governments being obliged by their interests (tho' contrary to their wishes and prejudices), to adopt and enforce them. there is still required, however, a severer law for the punishment of post office defalcations. simple dismissal is by no means adequate, when it is considered how much mischief may ensue from such offences. a very serious offence of this nature and which has made a great sensation, has lately occurred. as all foreign letters must be franked, and as the postage to england is very high, one of the clerks at the post office had been in the habit of receiving money for the franking of letters, appropriated it to his own use, and never forwarded the letters. this created great inconvenience; a number of families having never received answers to their letters and being without the expected remittances, began to be uneasy and to complain. an enquiry was instituted, and it was discovered that the clerk above mentioned had been carrying on this game to a great extent. he used to tear the letters and throw the fragments into a closet. several scraps of letters were thus discovered and, on being examined, he made an ample confession of his practises. he was merely discharged, and no other punishment was indicted on him. i am no advocate for the punishment of death for any other crime but wilful murder; but surely this fellow was worse than a robber, and deserved a greater severity of punishment. rome, th february, . the carnaval has long since begun, and this is the heaven of the roman ladies. on my remarking to a lady that i was soon tired of it and after a day or two found it very childish, she replied: "_bisogna esser donna e donna italiana per ben godere de' piaceri del carnevale_." when i speak of the carnaval, i speak of the last ten days of it which precede lent. the following is the detail of the day's amusement during the season. after dinner, which is always early, the masks sally out and repair to the _corso_. the windows and balconies of the houses are filled with spectators, in and out of masks. a scaffolding containing an immense number of seats is constructed in the shape of a rectangle, beginning at the _piazza del popolo_, running parallel to the _corso_ on each side, and terminating near the _piazza di venezia_; close to which is the goal of the horse race that takes place in this enclosure. carriages, with persons in them, generally masked, parade up and down this space in two currents, the one ascending, the other descending the _corso_. they are saluted as they pass with showers of white comfits from the spectators on the seats of the scaffolding, or from the balconies and windows on each side of the street. these comfits break into a white powder and bespatter the clothes of the person on whom they fall as if hair-powder had been thrown on them. this seems to be the grand joke of this part of the carnival. after the carriages have paraded about an hour, a signal is given by the firing of a gun that the horse race is about to begin. the carriages, on the gun being fired, must immediately evacuate the _corso_ in order to leave it clear for the race; some move off and _rendezvous_ on the _piazza del popolo_ just behind the scaffolding, from the foot of which the horses start; others file off by the _via ripetta_ and take their stand on the _piazza colonna_. the horse-race is performed by horses without riders, generally five or six at a time. they are each held with a bridle or halter by a man who stands by them, in order to prevent their starting before the signal is given; and this requires no small degree of force and dexterity, as the horses are exceedingly impatient to set off. the manes of the horses are dressed in ribbands of different colours to distinguish them. pieces of tin, small bells and other noisy materials are fastened to their manes and tails, in order by frightening the poor animals, to make them run the faster, and with this view also squibs and crackers are discharged at them as they pass along. a second gun is the signal for starting; the keepers loose their hold, and off go the horses. the horse that arrives the first at the goal wins the grand prize; and there are smaller ones for the two next. this race is repeated four or five times till dusk, and then the company separate and return home to dress. they then repair to the balls at the different casinos, and at the conclusion of the ball, supper parties are formed either at _restaurants_ or at each other's houses. during the time occupied in the balls and promenades, as every body goes masked either in character or in _domino_, there is a fine opportunity for pairing off, and it is no doubt turned to account. this is a pretty accurate account of a roman carnaval. a great deal of wit and repartee takes place among the masks and they are in general extremely well supported, and indeed they ought to be, for there is a great sameness of character assumed at every masquerade, and very little novelty is struck out, except perhaps by some foreigner, who chuses to introduce a national character of his own, which is probably but little, or not at all, understood by the natives, and very often not at all well supported by the foreigner himself. an american gentleman once made his appearance as an indian warrior with his war-hatchet and calumet; he danced the war dance, which excited great astonishment. he then presented his calumet to a mask, who not knowing what the ceremony meant, declined it, when the mohawk flourished his hatchet and gave such a dreadful shriek as to set the whole company in alarm.[ ] on the whole this character was so little understood that it was looked upon as a _mauvaise plaisanterie_. the usual characters are pulcinelli, arlecchini, spanish grandees, turks, fortune tellers, flower girls and devils; sometimes too they go in the costume of the gods and goddesses of the ancient mythology. i observe that the english ladies here prefer to appear without masks in the costume of the swiss and italian peasantry. there is a very large english society at rome, and at some of the parties here, you could suppose yourself in grosvenor square. the late political changes have brought together in rome many persons of the most opposite parties and sentiments, who have fallen from the height of political power and influence into a private station, but who enjoy themselves here unmolested, and even protected by the government, and are much courted by foreigners. i have seen at the same masquerade, in the _teatro aliberti_, in boxes close to each other, the queen of spam (mother of ferdinand vii), and the princess borghese, napoleon's sister. in a box at a short distance from them were lucian buonaparte, his wife and daughters. besides these, the following ex-sovereigns and persons of distinction, fallen from their high estate, reside in rome, viz., king charles iv of spain; the ex-king of holland, louis buonaparte; the abdicated king of sardinia, victor emanuel; don manuel godoy, the prince of peace; cardinal fesch, and madame letitia, the mother of napoleon. i had an opportunity of being presented to lucian, who bears the title of prince of canino, before i left rome for naples, as on leaving the pays de vaud i was charged by a swiss gentleman to deliver a letter to him, the purport of which was to state that he had rendered services to joseph napoleon, when he was resident in that canton, in consequence of which he had been persecuted and deprived of his employment at lausanne, which was that of captain of the gendarmerie; and in the letter he sollicited pecuniary assistance from the prince of canino. i rode out one morning to the villa of ruffinella where the prince resides and was very politely received; it appeared however that the prince was totally unacquainted with the person who wrote the letter, nor was he at all aware of the circumstances therein mentioned. i told him that i was but little acquainted with the writer of the letter, but that he, on hearing of my intention of going to rome, asked me to deliver it personally. the prince told me he would write himself to the applicant on the subject. here the negotiation ended; but on my taking leave the prince said he should be happy to see me whenever i chose to call. the prince has the character of being an excellent father and husband, and seems entirely and almost exclusively devoted to his family. he has a remarkably fine collection of pictures and statues in his house at rome. i had an opportunity likewise of seeing the ex-king of holland, louis napoleon, who seems to be a most excellent and amiable man, and in fact everybody agrees in speaking of him with eulogy. with regard to the present pontiff pius vii, from the excellence of his private character and virtues, and from his unassuming manners and goodness of heart, there is but one opinion respecting him. even those who do not like the ecclesiastical government, and behold in it the degradation of italy, render justice to the good qualities of pius vii. he always displayed the greatest moderation and humanity in prosperity, and in adversity he was firm and dignified. in his morals and habits he is quite a primitive christian, and if he does not possess that great political talent which has distinguished some of his predecessors, he has been particularly fortunate and discriminating in the choice of his minister, in whom are united ability, firmness, suavity of manner and unimpeachable character. i think i have thus given a faithful delineation of cardinal consalvi. rome, march th. i have made a very valuable acquaintance in m. k[ölle][ ] the envoy of the king of würtemberg, to the holy see. he is an enthusiastic admirer of his countryman the poet schiller, and thro' his means of procuring german books, i am enabled to prosecute my studies in that noble language. an italian lady there having heard much of schiller and bürger, and not being acquainted with the german language, requested me to make an italian translation of some of the pieces of those poets; chusing the _leonora_ of bürger as one, and leaving to myself the choice of one from schiller, i represented the extreme difficulty of the task, but as she had read a sonnet of mine on lord guildford's project of establishing an university in the italian language, she would not hear of any excuse. to work then i set, and completed the translation of _leonora_, together with one of schiller's _feast of eleusis_. these and my sonnet were the cause of my being recommended for admission as a member of the academy _degli arcadi_ in rome and i received the pastoral name of _galeso itaoense_. the carnaval is now over and the ladies are all at their _livres d'heures_, posting masses and prayers to the credit side, to counterbalance the sins and frailties committed during the carnaval in the account which they keep in the ledger of heaven. dancing and masquerading are now over and _requiems_ and the _miserere_ the order of the day at the _conversazioni_. at mr k[ölle]'s house i have become acquainted with thorwaldsen, the famous danish sculptor, who is by many considered as the successful rival of canova; but their respective styles are so different, that a comparison can scarce be made between them. canova excels in the soft and graceful, in the figures of youthful females and young men; thorwaldsen in the grave, stern and terrible. in a word, did i wish to have made a hebe, a venus, an antinoüs, an apollo, i should charge canova with their execution. did i wish for an ajax, an hercules, a neptune, a jupiter, i should give the preference to thorwaldsen. in their private characters they much resemble each other, being both honorable, generous, unassuming, and enthusiastic lovers of their profession and of the fine arts hi general. i have been to see a remarkably fine picture, by a modern french artist, of the name of granet. it may be considered as the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the perspective or dioramic art. this picture represents the ulterior of the convent of the capuchins, near the barberini palace. the picture is by no means a very large one; but the optical deception is astonishing. you fancy you are standing at the entrance of a long hall and ready to enter it; on looking at it, thro' a piece of paper rolled hi form of a speaking trumpet--which by hiding from the sight the frame of the picture, prevents the illusion from being dissipated--you suppose you could walk into the hall; and each figure of a monk therein appears a real human creature, seen from a long distance, so skilfully has the artist disposed his light and shade. this picture has excited the admiration of connoisseurs, as well as others, and it is universally proclaimed a masterpiece. m. granet's house is filled every day with persons coming to see this picture, and many repeat their visits several tunes in the week. he has received several orders for copies of this picture, and i fancy he begins to be tired of eternally copying the same thing; for he told me that he wished that the gentlemen who employed him would vary their subjects, and either chuse some other themselves, or let him chuse for them. but no! such is the effect of vogue and fashion, and such the despotic influence they exercise even over the polite arts, that everybody must have a copy of granet's picture of the interior of the convent of capuchins _coûte que coûte_; so that poor granet seems bound to this convent for life; except in the intervals of his labours, he should hit off another subject, with equal felicity, and this alone may perhaps serve to diminish the universal desire of possessing a copy of the convent. the original picture is destined for the king of france.[ ] i remarked, in the collection of the works of this artist, a small picture representing galileo in prison, and a monk descending the steps of the dungeon bringing him his scanty meal. a lamp hangs suspended from the roof, in the centre of the dungeon, and the artist has made a very happy hit in throwing the whole glare of the lamp on the countenance of galileo, who is seated reading a book, while the gaoler monk is left completely in the shade. on seeing this i exclaimed: _veramente, signor granet, e buonissimo quel vostro concetto!_ easter tuesday. i have at length seen all the fine sights that rome affords during the holy week, and have witnessed most of the religious ceremonies, viz., the illuminated cross hi st peter's on good friday; the high mass celebrated by the pope in person on easter sunday; the papal benediction from a window of the church above the façade on the same day; the illumination of the façade of st peter's on easter monday, and the _girandola_ or grand firework at the castle of st angelo on the same evening. the ceremony of the pope washing the feet of twelve poor men i did not see, for i could not get into the sistine chapel, where the ceremony was performed: and at the mass performed by the pope in the sistine chapel i did contrive to enter, but was so oppressed by the crowd and heat, that i almost fainted away, and was very glad to get out of the chapel again, before the ceremony commenced. why in the name of commonsense do they perform these ceremonies in the sistine chapel which is small, instead of doing them in the church of st peter's, which would contain so many people and produce a much grander effect? a great many people are deprived of seeing the ceremonies in the sistine chapel from the difficulty of getting in. the pope's swiss guard attend on that day in their ancient _costume_, with helmets, cuirasses and halberds; these guard the entrance of the staircase leading to the chapel, and they have no small trouble and difficulty in maintaining order, as there is always a great scuffle to get in, and they are particularly importuned by german visitors, who thinking to be favored by them, in speaking to them in their own language, vociferate; _ich bin ihr landsmann!_ and hope by this to obtain a preference. on friday evening a large cross is erected before the grand altar; every part of this cross is filled with lamps, and at seven in the evening the whole is illuminated. it has a most brilliant appearance and gives the happiest _chiaro-oscuro_ effect to the statues, columns and pilasters which abound in this vast temple. there is no other light on this occasion than that reflected from the cross. on easter sunday, when the pope celebrates high mass in the church of st peter's, the papal noble guard, composed of young men from the principal families in rome, form a hedge on each side of the nave of the church, from the entrance of the facade to the grand altar. the street or interval formed between this double line may be about thirty feet broad, and behind this guard or in any other part of the church, the spectators may stand; but as these guards wear very large feathers in their hats, they intercept very much the sight of those who stand behind them. the uniform of the papal noble guard is very splendid, being a scarlet coat, covered with gold lace, white feathers, white breeches and long military boots. the approach of the pope is announced by the thunder of cannon, and he is brought into the church dressed in full pontificals, with the triple crown on his head, on a chair borne by men, _palanquin_ fashion; he is conducted thro' the lane formed by the papal guard, and as he passes he makes the sign of the cross several times with his finger, repeating the words: _urbi et orbi_. he is then set down, with his face fronting the baldachin, when he immediately takes off the tiara, and begins the ceremony. that ended, he leaves the church in the same state, and then ascends the staircase, in order to prepare to give the benediction, which is usually given from a window above the facade of the church. the pope is there seated on a chair with the triple crown on his head. troops of cavalry and infantry are drawn up in a semi-circle before the façade of the church, and the whole vast _arena_ of the _piazza di san pietro_ is covered with spectators. on a sudden his holiness rises, extends his hands towards heaven, then spreads them open, and seems as if he scattered something he held in them on the crowd below; a silly young frenchman who was standing next to me said: _le voilà! le voilà qui arrache la bénédiction au ciel, et qui la répand sur tout le monde!_ i could not refrain from laughing at this sally, tho' i was much impressed with the solemnity of the scene, which i think one of the grandest and most sublime i ever beheld. this ceremony concluded, salves of ordnance were fired. the pope retires amidst clouds of smoke, and seems to vanish from the earth. the troops then fire a _feu de joie_ and move off, playing a march in quick time, and the company disperse. it is the étiquette on these occasions that no person be admitted either into the church of st peter or into the sistine chapel except in full toilette. the ladies dress generally in black with caps and feathers; the gentlemen either in black full dress or in military uniform. from the variety of foreigners of all nations that are here, most of whom are military men, or intitled to wear military uniforms, much is added to the splendour of the spectacle. on the evening of easter monday, i was present at the illumination of the facade of st peter's. rows of lamps are suspended the whole length of the columns and pilasters and all over the cupola, so that, when illuminated, the style of the architecture is perceptible. the illumination takes place almost at once. how it is managed i cannot say; but a splendid illuminated temple seems at once to drop from the clouds, like the work of an enchanter; i say _drop from the clouds_, because the illumination begins from the cross and cupola and is communicated with the rapidity of lightning to every other part of the edifice. about ten o'clock the same evening the most magnificent firework perhaps in the world begins to play from the castle of st angelo. all kinds of shapes are assumed by these fireworks: here are castles, pagodas, dragons, griffins, etc. these last about an hour and then conclude, and with them conclude all the ceremonies used in commemoration of the crucifixion and resurrection of jesus christ. among the sights of rome i must not omit that of a famous robber of the name of barbone, who was the terror of the whole surrounding country from the depredations he committed. having capitulated, and surrendered himself to the papal government, he is now confined in the castle of st angelo as a state prisoner. his wife, or a woman calling herself so, is confined there with him, and she is said to be a woman of uncommon beauty. it is quite the rage among the english here to go to see these _illustrious_ captives, and madame barbone, superbly dressed, receives the hommage of the visitors. the duchess of d[evonshire] is said to have visited her, and made her a present of a pearl necklace. i hope this is not true. surely the duchess, who is a woman of talent and an encourager of the fine arts, might have found some other object worthier of her munificence. what claims the mistress, or even the wife, of a public robber can have on the generosity of travellers, i am at a loss to conceive; but such is the _bizarrerie_ and _inconsequence_ of the english, and no doubt, be this story of her grace of d[evonshire] having given a present true or not, it will occasion many other presents being made to the captive princess by a host of silly lord-aping english men and women. barbone has, it is said, made an excellent capitulation. he has stipulated to be released from prison after a year and a day's confinement, and no doubt he will then resume his old trade of brigandage. in the meantime he has disbanded his troops, as he calls them; but will his troops obey him, now that he is a captive? will they not rather chuse another leader? in the time of the french occupation, nothing of this kind took place; but the present government is weak and timid. i have not been myself to see either barbone or his wife, but i have heard quite enough about them; they form one of the principal sights in rome, and i am quite _unfashionable_ in not having gone to visit them; for according to the opinion of my english acquaintance, he who has not seen barbone and his wife has seen nothing. * * * * * i started from rome on the second of april with a _vetturino_, and on arrival at baccano, we struck off into a road on the right hand, and arrived at cività castellana at a late hour. cività castellana merits no further attention, except that it is supposed to stand on the site of the ancient city of veii. the following day at ten o'clock we reached the small town of narni. here are the remains of a beautiful bridge, constructed over the ravine, thro' which flows the river nera, and which was built in the time of augustus. it affords a very favorable specimen of the roman bridge architecture. there is a small chapel here, and it contains, engraved on a stone, a description of a miracle wrought here about four years ago by the virgin mary, who saved the life of a postillion. he went into the river to water his horses, when he was carried off by the torrent and would have been drowned, had not the virgin, on her aid being invoked, dashed into the river and haled him out by the hair of his head. of this story, to use a phrase of old josephus,[ ] every one may believe as much as he thinks proper; but certain it is that the postillion made oath (which oath is registered) that his life was saved by the virgin mary in this manner, and he has put up a votive tablet at her shrine, which remains to this day, commemorative of the event. there is also a roman aqueduct in the neighbourhood, eleven italian miles in length. we arrived at terni at three o'clock and immediately hired a _calèche_ (the other travellers and myself) to visit the famous cascade of the velino, about three miles distant from the town of terni. the road thither is very rugged, and is a continual ascent on the flank of a ravine. for a long time before you arrive on the brink of the cascade, you hear the roaring of the waters; and it certainly is the most magnificent and awe-inspiring sight of the kind i ever beheld. it is far more stupendous than any cascade in switzerland. that of tivoli compared to it is as an infant six months old to a goliath. the velino forms three successive falls, and the last is tremendous, since it falls from a height of , feet into the abyss below. the foam and the froth it occasions is terrific; and the spray ascends so high that in standing at the distance of fifty yards from the fall you become as wet as if you had been standing in a shower of rain. the first fall it forms is of feet; the second little less; the third i have stated already. no painting can possibly give a faithful delineation of this, and very possibly no poetic description can give an adequate idea thereof. we passed the whole night at terni and the next morning we stopped to dine at spoleto. the same evening we arrived at foligno. spoleto is a neat town and well paved. several ruins of ancient buildings are in its vicinity. before you arrive there, on the left of the road, is an immensely high two-arched bridge. there is an aqueduct likewise just outside the town. we did not omit to read the inscription on the gate of the town, in commemoration of the repulse of hannibal, who failed in his attempt to make himself master of this city, after having beat the romans near the lake trasymene. the gate is called in consequence _porta fugae_, and this gate constitutes the principal glory of spoleto. we were shown the rums of a palace built by theodoric. on leaving the town, just outside the gate, we were shewn a bridge which had laid underground for many centuries and had been lately discovered. a bridge was known to have been built here in the time of augustus, and it is very probably the identical one; we could only see the top and part of the parapet. foligno is a large, well built city, neatly paved, populous and commercial, renowned for manufactories of paper, wax, and confectionary. the whole road between spoleto and foligno is thro' a beautiful valley in high cultivation. there is a good deal of rich pasture ground, and it is watered by the river called in ancient tunes clitumnus. here are to be seen a fine breed of white cattle for which this part of the country has been long renowned, which cattle were used, in preference, for sacrifices (_albi, clitumne, greges_).[ ] a similar breed is to be found in india and egypt. the streets in foligno are broad. i remarked the _palazzo pubblico_ and cathedral as very fine buildings. our next day's journey brought us to perugia, after passing by assisi, the birth place of the famous st francis, founder of the order of franciscans. it is situated on an eminence: convents and churches abound therein. perugia is a large and opulent city, standing like a fortress on a mountain, and towering over the plain below. it is of steep ascent from the plain, and there are various terraces along the ramparts, commanding several fine points of view of the rich and fertile plains all round. these terraces are planted with trees and form the promenades appertaining to the city. the architecture of the various churches and palaces is very superior. the streets are broad and every building has an air of magnificence. the cathedral, dedicated to st laurence, is well worth visiting; it stands on the _piazza del duomo_, where there is a fine fountain ornamented with statues. in the church of st peter's there are some fine columns of marble and some pictures of perugino and raffaello. [ ] virgil, _aen_., vi, .--ed. [ ] of the two persons here mentioned, by their initials only, the first, luigi de' medici, was chosen as chancellor of the exchequer by king ferdinando in june, . the second was nugent, an austrian _marescallo_, who became _capitano generale_ of the neapolitan army, august, , and _capo del supremo comando_, february, .--ed. [ ] this most distinguished lady, marianna candidi, was born in rome in ; her mother, magdalena scilla, was the daughter of a well known antiquary of messina, agostino scilla. marianna learned latin, drawing and music; she achieved a reputation as landscape painter, and was elected a member of the academies of st luke in rome, of bologna, pisa and philadelphia. she married the lawyer domenico dionigi, and gave him seven children, one of whom, henrietta, became madame orfei, and was much esteemed as "improvisatrice." madame dionigi herself published several works, among which a _storia de' tempi presenti_, written in view of the education of her children. her _salon_ in rome was frequented by many men of distinction, such as visconti, d'agincourt, erskine, etc. she died on the th june, , at the age of seventy. --ed. [ ] she was no more than sixty-two at that time.--ed. [ ] to present the calumet is an offer of peace and amity among the aborigines of north america and to refuse it is regarded as the greatest insult. [ ] frye gives only the initial of the name, which i have completed from the _almanach de gotha_, .--ed. [ ] the interior of the convent of the capucini was first painted by granet in the year . none of the numerous replicas are in the louvre, but there is one in london (buckingham palace) and one at chatsworth.--ed. [ ] the author may have meant "old herodotus."--ed. [ ] virgil, _georg._, ii, .--ed. chapter xv april-july, journey from florence to pisa and from thence by the appennines to genoa--massa-carrara--genoa--monuments and works of art--the genoese--return to florence--journey from florence through bologna and ferrara to venice--monument to ariosto in ferrara--a description of venice--padua--vicenza--verona--cremona--return to milan--the scala theatre--verona again--from verona to innspruck. it is the custom for most travellers going to genoa to embark on board of a _felucca_ at spezia, which lies on the sea coast, not far from sarzana: but i preferred to go by land, and i cannot conceive why anyone should expose himself to the risks, inconveniences and delays of a sea passage, when it is so easy to go by land thro' the appennines. i started accordingly the following morning, mounted on a mule, and attended by a muleteer with another mule to convey my portmanteau. i found this journey neither dangerous nor difficult, but on the contrary agreeable and romantic. the road is only a bridle road. i paid forty-eight franks for my two mules and driver, and started at seven in the morning from sarzana. the wild appearance of the appennines, the aweful solitudes and the highly picturesque points of view that present themselves at the various sinuosities of the mountains and valleys; the view of the sea from the heights that tower above the towns of oneglia and sestri levante, rendered this journey one of the most interesting i have ever made. i stopped to dine at borghetto and brought to the night at sestri levante, breakfasted the next morning at rapallo, and arrived the same evening at four o'clock in genoa. borghetto is a little insignificant town situate in a narrow valley surrounded on all sides by the lofty crags of the appennines. sestri levante is a long and very straggling town, part of it being situated on the sea shore, and the other part on the gorge of the mountain descending towards the sea beach; so that the former part of the town lies nearly at right angles with the latter, with a considerable space intervening. the road for the last four miles between borghetto and sestri levante is a continual descent. the inn was very comfortable and good at sestri levante. the beginning of the road between sestri and rapallo is on the beach till near rapallo, when it strikes again into the mountains and is of considerable ascent. rapallo is a very neat pretty place, situate on an eminence commanding a fine view of the sea. the greater part of the road between rapallo and genoa is on the sea-coast, but cut along the mountains which here form a bluff with the sea. villas, gardens and vineyards line the whole of this route and nothing can be more beautiful. the neatness of the villas and the abundance of the population form a striking contrast to the wild solitudes between sarzana and sesto, where (except at borghetto) there is not a house to be seen and scarce a human creature to be met, and where the eagle seems to reign alone the uncontrolled lord of the creation. genoa, rd april. the view of genoa from the sea is indisputably the best; for on entering by land from the eastern side, the ramparts are so lofty as to intercept the fine view the city would otherwise afford. from the sea side it rises in the shape of an amphitheatre; a view therefore taken from the sea gives the best idea of its grandeur and of the magnificence of its buildings, for everybody on beholding this grand spectacle must allow that this city well deserves its epithet of _superba_. i observe in my daily walks on the _esplanade_ a number of beautiful women. the genoese women are remarkable for their beauty and fine complexions. they dress generally in white, and their style of dress is spanish; they wear the _mezzara_ or veil, in the management of which they display much grace and not a little coquetry. instead of the fan exercise recommended to women by the _spectator_, the art of handling the _mezzara_ might be reduced to a manual and taught to the ladies by word of command. i put up at the house of a spanish lady on the _piazza st siro_, and here for four _livres_ a day i am sumptuously boarded and lodged. there are three principal streets in genoa, viz., _strada nuova_, _balbi_, and _nuovissima_. yet these three streets may be properly said to form but one, inasmuch as they lie very nearly in a right line. these streets are broad and aligned with the finest buildings in genoa. this street or streets are the only ones that can be properly called so, according to the idea we usually attach to the word. the others deserve rather the names of lanes and alleys, tho' exceedingly well paved and aligned with excellent houses and shops. in fact the streets _nuova_, _nuovissima_ and _balbi_ are the only ones thro' which carriages can pass. the others are far too narrow to admit of the passage of carriages. the houses on each side of them are of immense height, being of six or seven stories, which form such a shade as effectually to protect those who walk thro' these alleys from the rays of the sun. the houses diminish in height in proportion as they are built on the slant of the mountain from the bottom to the top, those at the bottom being the loftiest. carriages are scarcely of any use in the city of genoa, except to drive from one end of the town to another thro' the streets _nuova_, _balbi_ and _nuovissima_; and accordingly a carriage with four wheels, or even with two, is a rare conveyance in genoa. the general mode of conveyance is on a sedan chair, carried by porters, or on the backs of mules or asses. genoa is distinguished by the beauty of the palaces of its patricians, which are more numerous and more magnificent than those of any other city, probably, in the world. the ducal palace or palace of government, where the doge used to reside, claimed my first attention; yet, tho' much larger, it is far less splendid than many of the palaces of individual patricians. in fact, the ducal palace is built in the gothic taste and resembles a gothic fortress, having round towers at each angle. the hall, where the grand council used to sit, is superb, and is adorned with columns of _jaune antique_. on the _plafond_ is a painting representing the discovery of america by columbus; for the genoese duly appreciate, and never can forget their illustrious countryman. the lines of tasso, "_un uom della liguria avrà ardimento_," etc., and the following stanza, _tu spiegherai colombo a urn nuovo polo_, etc. are in the mouth of everyone.[ ] the hall of the petty council is neat, but it is the recollection of the history of this once famous republic that renders the examination of this palace so interesting. but now genoa's glory is gone; she has been basely betrayed into the hands of a government she most detested. the king of sardinia is nowhere; and he is not a little proud of being the possessor of such a noble sea port, which enables him to rank as a maritime power. the genoese are laborious and make excellent sailors; but now there is nothing to animate them; and they will never exert themselves in the service of a domination which is so little congenial to them. they sigh for their ancient government, of whose glories they had so often heard and whose brilliant exploits have been handed down to the present day not merely by historical writers and poets, but by _improvisatori_ from mouth to mouth. the genoese nobles, those merchant kings, whose riches exceeded at one time those of the most powerful monarchs of europe, who were the pawn-brokers to those sovereigns, are now in a state of decay. commerce can only flourish on the soil of liberty, and takes wing at the sight of military and sacerdotal chains; and tho' the present sovereign affects to caress the genoese _noblesse_, they return his civilities with sullen indifference, and half concealed contempt and aversion. the commerce of genoa is transferred to leghorn, which increases in prosperity as the former decays. the climate of genoa is said to be exceedingly mild during the winter, being protected on the north by the appennines, which tower above it to an immense height. beautiful villas and grounds tastefully laid out in plantations of orange trees, pomegranates, etc., abound in the environs of this city, and everything announces the extreme industry of the inhabitants, for the soil is proverbially barren. this shews what they have done and what they could still do were they free; but now they have nothing to animate their exertions. the public promenades are on the bastions and curtains of the fortifications, on the _esplanade_ and in the streets _balbi_, _nuova_ and _nuovissima_. there is also another very delightful promenade, tho' not much used by the ladies, viz., on the mola or pier enveloping the harbour. one of the most remarkable constructions in genoa is the bridge of carignano, which is built over an immense ravine and unites the hills fengano and carignano. it is so high that houses of six stories stand under its arches in the valley below. no water except in times of flood runs under this bridge and it much resembles, tho' somewhat larger, the bridge at edinburgh which unites the old and new towns. the principal churches are: first, the cathedral, which is not far from the ducal palace; it is richly ornamented and incrusted with black marble; the church of the annunziata and that of st sire. they are all in the gothic style of architecture and loaded with that variety of ornament and diversity of beautiful marbles which distinguish the churches of italy from those of any other country. near the bridge of carignano is a church of the same name, wherein are four marble colossal statues. on the west of the city and running two miles along the sea-beach is the _faubourg_ of st pietro d'arena, which presents a front of well built houses the whole way; these houses are principally used as magazines and store houses. florence, may. i left genoa on the th april, returned on mule-back from genoa to sarzana, stopping the first night at sestri. the second evening when near sarzana, it being very dark, i somehow or other got out of the road and my mule fell with me into a very deep ditch; but i was only slightly bruised by the fall; my clothes however were covered with dirt and wet. the road from genoa to sarzana might with very little expense be made fit for carriages by widening it. at present it is only a bridle road, and on some parts of it, on the sides of ravines, it is i think a little ticklish to trust entirely to the discretion of one's _monture_; at least i thought so and dismounted twice to pass such places on foot. a winding stream is to be forded in two or three places, but it is not deep except after rains; and then i think it must be sometimes dangerous to pass, till the waters run off. those, who are fond of mountain scenery will, like myself, be highly gratified in making this journey; for it is thro' the loftiest, wildest and most romantic part of the appennines. from sarzana i hired a cabriolet to return to pisa and from thence i took the diligence to florence. ferrara. on the th of may i set out from florence on my journey hither. two days' journey brought me to bologna where i stopped one day; and the following day i reached this place (ferrara), six miles distant from bologna. the country between these two cities is a perfect plain and very fertile. at malalbergo (half-way) we crossed the reno in a boat. i put up at the _tre mori_ in ferrara. having remained two and half days here i have had time to inspect and examine almost everything of consequence that the city affords. the city itself has an imposing, venerable appearance and can boast of some fine buildings; yet with all this there is an air of melancholy about it. it is not peopled in proportion to its size and grass is seen growing in several of the streets. i believe the unhealthiness of the environing country is the cause of the decrease of population, for ferrara lies on a marshy plain, very liable to inundation in the centre of the city stands the ancient palace of the dukes of ferrara, a vast gothic edifice, square, and flanked with round towers, and a large court-yard in the centre. it was in this court-yard that hugo and parisina were decapitated. from the top of this palace a noble view of the plain of the po represents itself, and you see the meanderings of that king of rivers, as the italian poets term it. as the po runs thro' a perfectly flat country, and is encreased and swollen by the torrents from the alps and appennines that fall into the smaller rivers, which unite their tributary streams with the po and accompany him as his _seguaci_ to the adriatic, this country is liable to the most dreadful inundations: flocks and herds, farm-houses and sometimes whole villages are swept away. dykes, dams and canals innumerable are in consequence constructed throughout this part of the country, to preserve it as much as possible from such calamities. ariosto's description of an over-flowing of this river is very striking, and i here transcribe it: con quel furor che il re de' fiumi altero, quando rompe tal volta argine e sponda, e che ne' campi ocnei si apre il sentiero, e i grassi solchi e le biade feconde, e con le sue capanne il gregge intero, e co' cani i pastor porta neil' onde, etc.[ ] even with that rage wherewith the stream that reigns, the king of rivers--when he breaks his mound. and makes himself a way through mantuan plains-- the greasy furrows and glad harvests, round, and, with the sheepcotes, nock, and dogs and swains bears off, in his o'erwhelming waters drowned. --trans. w.s. rose. the next place i went to see was the lyceum or university, where there is a very fair cabinet of natural history in all its branches. the library is very remarkable, and possesses a great number of valuable manuscripts. but my principal object in visiting this museum was to see the monument erected in honour of ariosto, which has been transferred here from the benedictine church. the inkstand and chair of this illustrious bard are carefully preserved and exhibited. they exactly resemble the print of them that accompanies the first edition of hoole's translation of the _orlando furioso_. among the manuscripts what gratified me most was the manuscript of the _gerusalemme liberata_ of tasso. but few corrections appear in this manuscript; tho from the extreme polish and harmony of the versification one would expect a great many. it is written in an extremely legible hand. i also inspected the original manuscripts of the _pastor fido_ of guarini and of the _suppositi_ of ariosto. i then went to visit the hospital of st anna, for the sake of seeing the dungeon where poor tasso was confined and treated as mad for several years. when one beholds this wretched place, where a man can scarce stand upright, one only wonders how he could survive such treatment; or how he could escape becoming insane altogether. the old wooden door of this cell will soon be entirely cut away by amateurs, as almost everyone who visits the dungeon chops off a piece of wood from the door to keep as a relic. the door is in consequence pieced and repaired with new wood, and in a short time will be in the state of sir john cutter's worsted stockings which were darned so often with silk that they became finally all silk. ferrara has a strong citadel which is still garrisoned by austrian troops; and they will probably not easily be induced to evacuate it. the austrian eagle seldom looses his hold. venice, th may. on the th may at six o'clock in the morning i left ferrara in a _cabriolet_ to go to the _ponte di lago oscuro_, which is a large village on the south bank of the po, three miles distant from ferrara. a flying bridge wafted me across the river, which is exceedingly broad and rapid to the north bank, where a barge was in waiting to receive passengers for venice. this barge is well fitted up and supplied with _comestibles_ of all sorts and couches to recline on. the price is twelve francs for the passage, and you pay extra for refreshments. the bark got under weigh at seven o'clock and descended rapidly this majestic river, which however, from its great breadth, and from the country on each side of it being perfectly flat, did not offer any interesting points of view. plains and cattle grazing thereon were the only objects, for they take care to build the farms and houses at a considerable distance from the banks, on account of the inundations. after having descended the po for a considerable distance, we entered a canal which unites the po with the adige. we then descended the adige for a short distance, and entered another canal which unites the adige with the brenta. here we stopped to change barges, and it required an hour and half to unload and reload the baggage. we then entered the brenta and from thence into the lagoons, and passing by the islands of malamocco and chiozzo entered venice by the _canale grande_ at three o'clock in the morning. the whole night was so dark as totally to deprive us of the view of the approach of venice. the barge anchored near the post office and i hired a gondola to convey me to the inn called _le regina d'ungheria_. venice, th may. i was much struck, as everyone must be who sees it for the first time, at the singular appearance of venice. an immense city in the midst of the ocean, five miles distant from any land; canals instead of streets; gondolas in lieu of carriages and horses! yet it must not be inferred from this that you are necessarily obliged to use a gondola in order to visit the various parts of the city; for its structure is as follows. it is built in compartments on piles on various mud banks, always covered indeed by water, but very shallow and separated from each other (the mud banks i mean) by deep water. on each of these compartments are built rows of houses, each row giving front to a canal. the space between the backs of the rows of houses forms a narrow street or alley paved with flag stones, very like cranborn alley for instance; and these compartments are united to each other (at the crossings as we should say) by means of stone bridges; so that there is a series of alleys connected by a series of bridges which form the _tout ensemble_ of this city; and you may thus go on foot thro' every part of it. to go on horseback would be dangerous and almost impracticable, for each bridge has a flight of steps for ascent and descent. all this forms such a perfect labyrinth from the multiplicity and similarity of the alleys and bridges, that it is impossible for any stranger to find his way without a guide. i lost my way regularly every time that i went from my inn to the _piazza di san marco_, which forms the general rendezvous of the promenaders and is the fashionable lounge of venice; and every time i was obliged to hire a boy to reconduct me to my inn. on this account, in order to avoid this perplexity and the expence of hiring a gondola every time i wished to go to the _piazza di san marco_ i removed to another inn, close to it, called _l'osteria della luna_, which stands on the banks of the _canale grande_ and is not twenty yards from the _piazza_. i then hired a gondola for four days successively and visited every canal and every part of the city. almost every family of respectability keeps a gondola, which is anchored at the steps of the front door of the house. after the _piazza di san marco_, of which i shall speak presently, the finest buildings and palaces of the nobility are on the banks of the _canale grande_, which, from its winding in the shape of an s, has all the appearance of a river. the _rialto_ is the only bridge which connects the opposite banks of the _canale grande_; but there are four hundred smaller bridges in venice to connect the other canals. the _rialto_, the resort of the money changers and jews, is a very singular and picturesque construction, being of one arch, a very bold one. on each side of this bridge is a range of jewellers' shops. a narrow quai runs along the banks of the _canale grande_. i have visited several of the _palazzi_, particularly those of the families morosini, cornaro, pisani, grimani, which are very rich in marbles of _vert_ and _jaune antique_; but they are now nearly stripped of all their furniture, uninhabited by their owners, or let to individuals, mostly shopkeepers; for since the extinction of the venetian republic almost all the nobility have retired to their estates on the _terra firma_, or to their villas on the banks of the brenta; so that venice is now inhabited chiefly by merchants, shopkeepers, chiefly jewellers and silk mercers, seafaring people, the constituted authorities, and the garrison of the place. tho' venice has fallen very much into decay, since the subversion of the republic, as might naturally be expected, and still more so since it has been under the austrian domination, yet it is still a place of great wealth, particularly in jewellery, silks and all articles of dress and luxury. in the _merceria_ you may see as much wealth displayed as in cheapside or in the rue st honoré. i have had the pleasure of witnessing a superb regatta or water _féte_, given in honour of the visit of the archduke rainier to this city, in his quality of viceroy of the lombardo-venetian kingdom. there were about one hundred and fifty barges, each fitted up by some department of trade and commerce, with allegorical devices and statues richly ornamented, emblematical of the trade or professions to which the barge belonged. each barge bore an appropriate ensign, and the dresses of the crew were all tasteful, and thoroughly analogous to the profession they represented. these barges are richly gilded, and from the variety of the costumes and streamers, i thought it one of the most beautiful sights i ever beheld. here were the bankers' barge, the jewellers', the mercers', the tailors', the shoe-makers', and, to crown all, the printers' barge, which showered down from the masthead sonnets in honor of the _féte_, printed on board of the barge itself. every trade or profession, in short, had a barge and appropriate flag and costumes. a quantity of private barges and gondolas followed this procession. the archduke and his staff occupied the government barge, which is very magnificent and made in imitation of the bucentaur. musicians were on board of many of the barges, and the houses on both banks of the _canale grande_ were filled with beautiful women and other spectators waving their handkerchiefs. guns were fired on the embarkation of the viceroy from the _piazzetta di san marco_, and on his return. the _piazza_ itself was splendidly illuminated, and the _cafés_ which abound there, and which constitute one half of the whole quadrangle, were superbly and tastefully decorated. the _piazza di san marco_ is certainly the most beautiful thing of the kind in the world. it is a good deal in the style of the _palais royal_ at paris, and tho' not so large, is far more striking, from the very tasteful and even sumptuous manner in which the _cafés_ are fitted up, both internally and externally; they have spacious rooms with mirrors on all sides, some in the shape of turkish tents, others in that of egyptian temples. the _piazza_, forming an oblong rectangle, is arcaded on the two long sides, and of the two short ones, one presents a superb modern palace built by napoleon, and richly adorned with the statues of all the heathen gods on the top, which palace was usually occupied by eugene napoléon; the other presents the church of st marco and the old palace of government, where in the time of the republic the doge used to reside. the church of st mark is unique as a temple in europe, for it is neither grecian nor gothic, but in a style completely oriental, from the singularity of its structure, its many gilded cupolas and the variety of its exterior ornaments. at _first sight_ it appears a more striking object than either st peter's in rome or st paul's in london. on the top of the façade, which is singularly picturesque, stand the four bronze horses which have been brought back from paris to their old residence. i ascended the top of the façade in order to examine them. they are beautifully formed, in very good cast and have not at all been damaged by the journey. the _piazza_ is paved with broad flagged stones. the doge's palace is a vast building, very picturesque withal, and seems a _mélange_ of gothic and moorish architecture. at right angles to it and facing the _piazzetta_, which issues from the _piazza_ and forms a quai to the _canale grande_, stands the famous state prison and _ponte de 'sospiri_. on the _piazzetta_ and fronting the landing place stand two columns of white marble, on one of which stands the winged lion of st marco and on the other a crocodile, emblematical of the foreign commerce and possessions of the republic. the space between these two columns was allotted for the execution of state criminals. not far from the church of st marco, and near to that angle of the _piazza_ which connects it with the _piazzetta_, stands the famous _campanile_ or steeple of san marco. it is a square building feet in height, from the top of which one has the best view of venice and its adjacent isles, the distant alps and the _marina dove il po discende_. a quai, if quai it may be called, which has a row of houses on each side, one row of which is on the water's edge, leads from the _piazzetta_ to some gardens, which terminate on a point of land. this quai is very broad and well paved, and is the only thing that can be called a street in all venice. the _piazza di san marco_, therefore, this quai and the garden before mentioned form the only promenades in venice. this garden moreover has trees, and these are the only trees that are to be met with in this city. in this garden are two _cafés_. the variety of costume is another very agreeable spectacle at venice. here you meet with albanians, greeks, turks, moors, sclavonians and armenians, all in their respective national costumes. the first armenian i met with here was sitting on a stone bench on the _piazza di san marco_, and this brought forcibly to my recollection the armenian in schiller's _ghost-seer_. these _cafés_ and _casinos_ on the _piazza_ are open day and night. ices and coffee superiorly made and other refreshments of all kinds at very low prices are to be had. some of these _casinos_ are devoted to gaming. the first families in venice repair to the _piazza_ in the evening after the opera, female as well as male. they promenade up and down the _piazza_ or sit down and converse in the _cafés_ and _casinos_ till a late hour. few go to bed in venice in the summer time before six in the morning, so that sleep seems for ever banished from the _piazza_. music and singing goes forward in these _casinos_, and the ear is often charmed with the sound of those delightful venetian airs, whose simple melody ravishes the soul. the venetian dialect is very pleasing, and scarcely yields in harmony to the tuscan. it contains a great many sclavonic words. it is the only dialect of italy that is at all pleasing to my ear, for i do not at all relish the nasal twang and truncated terminations of the piedmontese and lombard dialects, nor the semi-barbarous jargon of the genoese and the neapolitan and, least of all, the execrable cacophony of the bolognese. i visited of course the arsenal and the doge's palace. the apartments in the latter are very spacious and ornamented in the gothic taste of grandeur. the chamber of the council is peculiarly magnificent. there is a good deal of tapestry and some fine paintings and statues: among the former i particularly noticed an allegorical picture, representing the triumph of venice over the league of cambray. venice is represented by the winged lion, and the powers of the coalition are pourtrayed by various other beasts. among the latter is a beautiful group in marble representing ganymede and the eagle. the terror depicted in the countenance of the beautiful boy, and the passion that seems to agitate the eagle, are surprizingly well pourtrayed. the principal theatre at venice, the _teatro fenice_, is not open; but i have visited the other theatres, and among other things witnessed the representation of a new opera, call'd _il lupo d'ostende_. the piece itself was rather interesting; but the music was feeble and did not seem to give general satisfaction. the singing is in general very good at venice, but in scenery, dresses and decorations the theatres here are far inferior to those of milan and naples. i find the air of venice very hot and unpleasant, arising from the exhalation from the canals; and it appears to me as if i were on board of an enormous ship. i begin to pant for _terra firma_ and green fields. i have visited in a gondola some of the islands, viz., malamocco and st lazare, where there is a convent of armenian monks. why are the gondolas hung with black? it gives to them such a dismal funereal appearance. they always resemble the bodies of hearses placed on boats. i am not fond of gaudy colours in general, yet i do think a gondola should have a somewhat livelier color than black. padua, th june. padua is not above ten miles distant from fusina. as i started from venice at six in the morning i had a fine receding view of the ocean queen, with her steeples and turrets rising from the sea. venice has no fortifications and needs them not. her insular position protects her from land attacks, and the shoals prevent the approach of ships of war. floating batteries therefore and gunboats are her best defence. the road from fusina to padua is on the banks of the brenta the whole way, and is lined with trees. there are a great number of villas on the banks of the brenta, well built in the best style of architecture, the most of them after the designs of palladio, the prince of modern architects. padua is an exceedingly large city: but its arcades and the narrowness of the streets give it a gloomy appearance. there are however some beautiful promenades in the suburbs. there are also the remains of an ancient arena. padua is famous for its seminario or university, which is a superb edifice. the church of st anthony of padua is of vast size, having six cupolas. there are four organs in this church. in the chapel of the saint himself are a great many ornaments, among which are a crucifix in bronze and fresques representing the different actions and miracles of this patron saint of the padovani. probably as this city was founded by the trojan antenor they have transformed his name into that of a christian saint and called him st anthony, just as virgil has been transformed into a magician at naples. there is a fine view from the steeple of this immense edifice. there is another magnificent church also in this city, that of st justine, built after the designs of palladio, the principal ornament of which is a painting of the martyrdom of the saint by paul veronese. but one of the greatest curiosities in this ancient city is the immense saloon in the _palazzo della giustizia_. it is, i presume, the loftiest and largest hall in the world that is supported by nothing but its walls, it being three hundred feet long, one hundred feet broad and one hundred feet high. in the saloon is the tomb of livy, the historian, who was a native of padua. the inhabitants of padua dress much in black, seem a quiet, staid sort of people, and are very industrious. i put up at the _stella d'oro_, a good inn. vicenza, th june. i arrived at this beautiful _bijou_ of a town on the morning of the th june at eight o'clock. i call it a _bijou_ from its exceeding neatness, and the extreme beauty of the architecture of its edifices, which are almost all after the designs of palladio, of white stone and in the greek taste. palladio was a native of vicenza. the _piazza_ and _palazzo pubblico_ perfectly correspond with the beauty of the rest of the city, and the promenades about it are tastefully laid out. but the two most striking objects in point of edifices in vicenza and both constructed by palladio are the covered portico and the _teatro olimpico_. the covered portico is two miles in length and leads to the chapel of the _madonna del monte_, situated on an eminence, at that distance from the city. a magnificent triumphal arch stands before it, and there is an extensive view of the surrounding country. the _teatro olimpico_ is a small, but beautiful theatre, built strictly after the model of the ancient greek theatres. it is peculiarly precious as being the only one of the kind in europe. how admirably adapted both for seeing and hearing are such theatres! it has, for scenery, the model of a palacé, curiously carved in wood, which represents a royal palace, for the ancients never shifted their scenes, and this may account for their adhering so strictly to the unities. statues and bas-reliefs adorn this beautiful little theatre. many years ago, on particular occasions, it was the custom to act plays here, either translated from the greek, or taken strictly from the greek model. this theatre is esteemed palladio's _chef d'oeuvre_. the _campo di marie_ is a vast _place_ outside the town. the place and its gate are well worth inspecting, so is the famous villa with the rotonda, belonging to the marchese di capra, the original after which the villa belonging to the duke of devonshire at chiswick is built. the environs of this interesting city are very beautiful and present an exceeding rich soil, highly cultivated in corn, mulberry trees and vines hanging from them in festoons. verona, th june. i started yesterday morning from vicenza and arrived here in about three hours, the distance being nearly the same as between vicenza and padua. we crossed the adige which divides the city into two unequal parts and drove to the _due torri_, a large and comfortable inn with excellent rooms and accommodations. verona is a very handsome city, for here also palladio was the designer or builder of many edifices. it has a very cheerful and gay appearance, tho' not quite so much so as vicenza. the reason of this difference is that in verona the greater part of the buildings are in the gothic style, which always appears heavy and melancholy, whereas in vicenza all is grecian. the amphitheatre of course claimed my first notice. it yields only to the coliseum in size and grandeur and is in much better preservation, the whole of the ellipse and its walls being entire, whereas in the coliseum part of the walls have been pulled down. indeed the amphitheatre of verona may be said to be almost perfectly entire. _tempus edax rerum_ has been its only enemy; whereas avarice and religious fanaticism have contributed, much more than time, to the dilapidation of the coliseum. the amphitheatre of verona can contain , persons. in it is constructed a temporary theatre of wood, where they perform plays and farces in the open air. verona is much embellished by several _palazzi_ built by palladio, which form a curious contrast with the other buildings and churches which are in the gothic style. verona can boast among its antiquities of three triumphal arches, the first, _porta de' bursari_, erected in the year in the reign of the emperor gallienus; the second, called _porta del foro_; and the third, built by vitruvius himself, in honour of the family gavia. the churches here are richly ornamented and the _palazzo del consiglio_ has many fine marble and bronze statues. in this city also are the tombs and monuments of the scala family, who were at one time sovereigns of verona. they are in the gothic style and of curious execution. the cathedral has an immense _campanile_ (steeple), from which is a fine view of the surrounding country, and the progressive risings of the alps, the lower parts of which lie close upon verona. beautiful villas and farmhouses abound in the neighbourhood of this city. the favourite promenades are the _corso_ and the _bra_. on the _bra_ i saw a very brilliant display of carriages, and some very pretty women in them. the theatre is by palladio, is exquisitely beautiful, and very tastefully fitted up. i assisted at the representation of _la gazza ladra_, one of rossini's best operas. i should think verona would be a very delightful séjour; everything is very cheap; a fine country highly cultivated; a remarkably healthy climate; a society which unites much urbanity and a love of amusement with a taste for the fine arts and for the graver sciences, and a general appearance of opulence and comfort. the shops in verona appear very splendid, and the _bra_, when lighted up in the evening, is a very lively and animating scene. mantua, june. i could not go to milan without stepping a little out of my road to visit this ancient and redoubtable fortress, so celebrated in the early campaigns of buonaparte, besides the other claims it has on the traveller's attention as the birth place of virgil. this place is of immense strength, as a military post; being situated on a small isthmus of land, separating two lakes, and communicating with the rest of the country by an exceeding narrow causeway. this position, added to the strength of the fortifications, render the fortress impregnable, if well garrisoned and provisioned. the city is, however, unhealthy from the lake and marshy land about it, and there is but a scanty population. grass grows in the streets and it is the dullest and indeed the only dull town in all italy. everything in this city announces decay and melancholy, and i met with several men looking full as halfstarved and deplorable as shakespeare's apothecary in romeo and juliet. yet the city is by no means an ugly one. the buildings are imposing, the streets broad and well paved, and there is a fine circular promenade in the centre of which is a monument erected in honor of virgil by the french general miollis, who had a great veneration for all poets. the _palazzo pubblico_ and the cathedral are the most striking buildings. the latter contains the tombs and monuments of the gonzaga family, the whilom sovereigns of mantua. there are also several monuments in honor of some french officers, who were killed in the campaigns of italy under buonaparte and erected to their memory by his direction. outside the town, at a short distance from the causeway and _tête de pont_, is the celebrated palace called the t, from its being in the form of that letter, which was the usual residence of the dukes of mantua. it is a noble edifice and its gardens are well laid out. these gardens have this peculiarity, that at the entrance of each of the grand avenues is a figure of a man on horseback caparizoned in armour, like the knights of old. this is all i have to say about mantua. the mincio beset with "osiers dank" flows into the lake. cremona, th june. from mantua i directed my course to this city, which is large and fortified, situated on the po which forms many little islands in the environs. this city is of great antiquity, and has a number of gothic buildings. you do not find here the specimens and imitations of grecian architecture as at vicenza and verona. the _campanile_ of the cathedral is of immense height, but one is repaid for the fatigue of ascending by the extensive view from its summit. there are steps. i put up at the _colombina_, a very good inn. the cremonese seem to be an industrious people. there is a great deal of pasture land in the environs of this city and much cheese is made here and in the lodesan. several ricefields are also to be met with between this place and lodi. milan, june. i have been on a visit to the ancient and venerable city of pavia, which is about eighteen miles distant from milan, thro' a rich highly cultivated plain. the road lies in a right line the whole way. about three miles distant from pavia on the milan side stands the celebrated _certosa_, which we stopped to visit. the church of the _certosa_ contains the greatest quantity of riches in marbles, and precious stones, of any building in the world, probably. the architecture is gothic, and the workmanship of the exterior exquisite; but the ulterior is most dazzling; and at the sight of the rich marbles and innumerable precious stones of all kinds with which it abounds, i was reminded of aladdin and began to fancy myself in the cavern of the wonderful lamp. this church was built by galeazzo visconti, whose coffin is here, and his statue also, in white marble. there are several bas-reliefs of exquisite workmanship. there are no fewer than seventeen altars here and of the most beautiful structure you can conceive, being inlaid in mosaic with jasper, onyx and lapis-lazuli. besides these precious marbles of every colour and quantity under heaven, here are abundance of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, aquamarines and topazes, incrusted in the different chapels and altars. here again is a proof of the falsehood and injustice of the aspersions cast on the french army, as being the plunderers of churches; for if they were so, how comes it that the _certosa_ the richest of all, was spared? mr eustace[ ] in his admiration of church splendour, should at least have given the french no small degree of credit for their abstinence from so rich a prize. a canal runs parallel to the road the whole way from milan to pavia, where it joins the tessino. the banks of the canal and each side of the road are lined with poplars. pavia is one of the most ancient cities in italy and has something very antique and solemn in its appearance. it is quite gothic and was the capital city of the lombard kings. the streets are broad and the _piazza_ is large. i could not find any traces of the ancient palace of the lombard kings, which i should like much to have done; for then i should have endeavoured to make out the chamber into which jocondo peeped and discovered what cured him of his melancholy, and where the impatient queen received the petulant answer from her beloved nano, conveyed by one of her waiting maids who told her: e per non stare in perdita d'un soldo, a voi nega venire fl manigoldo.[ ] nor, lest he lose a doit, his paltry stake, will that discourteous churl his game forsake --_trans._ w.s. rose. milan, th june. i have been to the _scala_ theatre, to see the _ballet of the vestal_, one of the most interesting ballets i ever beheld. oh! what a mighty magician is the ballet master vigano, and as for the prima ballerina, pallerini, what praises can equal her merit? then, the delightful soul soothing music, so harmonious, so pathetic, and the decorations so truly tasteful and classical! i can never forget the impression this fascinating ballet made on me. it is called _la vestale_. it opens with a view of the circus in ancient rome, and various gymnastic exercises, combats of gladiators, of athletes, and ends with a chariot race with real horses. the roman consuls are present in all their pomp, surrounded by lictors with axes and fasces. the vestal virgins assist at this spectacle, and from one of them the victor in the games receives a garland, as the recompense of his prowess. the victor is the son of one of the consuls and the hero of the piece; the heroine is the vestal virgin who crowns him with the garland. the young victor becomes desperately enamored of the vestale, and she appears also to feel an incipient flame. after the games are over, the victor returns to his father's house, and meeting there one of his friends, discloses to him his love for the vestale and his idea of entering by stealth into the temple of vesta, where his beloved was appointed to watch the sacred fire. his friend endeavors, but in vain, to dissuade him from so rash an attempt, which can only end in the destruction, both of his beloved and himself. all the remonstrances, however, of the friend are vain; and the hero fixed in his resolve watches for the opportunity, when it is the turn of his beloved to officiate in the temple of vesta, and enters therein. the vestale is terrified and supplicates him to retire: in vain; and after a long but ineffectual struggle she sinks into his arms at the foot of the altar. suddenly the sacred flame becomes extinguished; a noise is heard; the vestals enter; the unfortunate fair is roused from her stupor by the noise of footsteps and has just time to oblige her lover to retire, which he reluctantly does, but not unperceived by the vestals. the matron of the vestals reproaches her with the crime she has committed and orders her to be placed in a dungeon. she is brought out to be examined by the high priest, found guilty and condemned by him to the usual punishment of the vestals for a breach of their vow, viz., the being buried alive outside the gates of rome. the moment the sentence is pronounced a black veil is thrown over her. the scene then changes to the place of execution; the funeral procession takes place; the vault is dug and a man stands by with a pitcher of water and loaf of bread, to deliver to her when she should descend. the consuls are present, attended by the lictors and aediles. all the other vestals are present, of whom the culprit takes an affectionate leave and is about to descend into the vault. suddenly a noise of arms and shouts are heard. it is her lover who having collected a few followers come rushing forward with arms in their hands to arrest the execution. he forces his way into the presence of the consuls, but the sight of his father inspires him with awe; he staggers back; at this moment a lictor at the command of the other consul plunges a spear into his breast. the vestal is hurried to the brink of the vault, into which she is forced to descend to the accompaniment of mournful music, while her dying lover vainly endeavours to crawl towards her. the curtain falls. the exquisite acting of la pallerini drew tears from my eyes: it was indeed too horrible a subject for a _ballo_, which in my opinion ought to end happily. the scenery was the finest of the kind i think i ever witnessed. the first scene represents the _circus maximus_; the interior of the temple of vesta and the place of execution outside the walls of rome were most classically correct and appropriate: the music was beyond all praise and singularly affecting. this ballet has excited such an enthusiastic approbation that vigano the ballet master, pallerini who acts the vestal and the young man who performs the hero of the piece were summoned every evening after the termination of the ballet, to appear on the stage, and receive applauses, which seemed to increase at every representation. i have been to see this ballet six or seven times, and always with increased delight. i was there on the last night of its representation, when some amateurs and people connected with the theatre put in practice what appeared to mean ill-judged _concetto_, however well merited the compliment it meant to convey. when the vestal was about to descend into the vault, a genius with wings rose from it and repeated a few lines beginning _tu non morrai_ and telling her that the suffrages of the insubrian people had decreed to her immortality, and printed sonnets were showered down on the stage from all parts of the house. i think it would have been much better to let the piece finish in the usual way, and then at its termination call for la pallerini to advance and receive the garlands and hommage so justly her due. i was in the _loge_ belonging to my friend mme l-----; there were three or four _litterati_ with her, and they were all unanimous that it was an absurd and pedantic _concetto_. in a day or two i shall start from milan for munich thro' brescia and verona and the tyrol. chapter xvi july-september innspruck--tyrol and the tyrolese--from innspruck to munich--monuments and churches--theatricals--journey from munich to vienna on a floss--trouble with a passport--complicated system of austrian money--description of vienna--the prater--the theatres--schiller's _joan of arc_--a _kinderballet_--the young napoleon at schoenbrunn--journey from vienna to prague. innspruck, th july. i had engaged with a _vetturino_ to convey me from verona to innspruck for four _louis d'or_ and to be _spesato_. a roman gentleman and his lady were my fellow travellers; they were going to pass the summer months at a small _campagne_ they possess in the tyrol. we stopped the first night at roveredo. the road from verona to roveredo is on the banks of the adige (called in german the etsch) in a narrow and deep valley, shut up on both sides by mountains, almost immediately on leaving verona. we found the weather extremely hot in this valley. roveredo seems to be a very neat clean little city, and the adige flows with astonishing rapidity along this narrow valley. the women of roveredo have the reputation of being very beautiful; and i recollect having seen two roveredo girls at venice, who were models of female beauty. they have a happy mixture of german and italian blood and manners, but italian is the language of the country. the second morning of our journey we arrived and stopped to dinner at the venerable and celebrated city of trent. the country we passed thro' is much the same as that between verona and roveredo, the adige being on our left. trent lies also in the valley of the adige, shut up between the alps. the whole valley appears in high cultivation. the streets of trent are broad; the cathedral is a remarkably fine gothic building. in the church of sta maria maggiore was held the famous council of trent. there are a great many silk mills in trent. german as well as italian is spoken; indeed the two languages are equally familiar to most of the inhabitants. in the evening we arrived at sabern after passing thro' lavis. one description will serve for these towns and indeed for most of the towns in the tyrol, viz., that of being neat, clean and solidly built. the inns are excellent and the inhabitants very civil. the adige runs close to the road and parallel to it, nearly the whole way to bolsano or botzen, where italian ceases to be spoken and german is the national tongue. botzen is a large and flourishing place. one general description will serve for the tyrol, regarding the towns, adjacent country, customs, inns, inhabitants, dress and manners. first the towns are fully as neat, clean and well built as those in switzerland; the country too is very similar, tho' not quite on so grand a scale of sublimity; but you have fully as much variety in mountain and valley, glacier and cascade. the climate is exactly the same as that of switzerland, being very hot in the valleys in summer. the inns are clean and good, the provisions excellent and well cooked, the wines much better than those of switzerland; there is good attendance by females and all at a far cheaper rate than in switzerland. the tyroleans are much more courteous in their manners than the swiss; they have not that boorishness and are of more elegant figure than their helvetic neighbours. the women of the tyrol are in general remarkably beautiful, exceedingly well shaped and of fine complexions. in the towns the bourgeoises dress well, something in the french style, and it is their custom to salute travellers who pass by kissing their hands to them. the dress of the female peasantry, however, is unpleasing to the eye and so uncouth, that it would make the most beautiful women appear homely. in the first place i will speak of their head dress, of which there are three different kinds, two of which are as _bizarre_ as can be imagined. the first sort is a cap of sheepskin, the fleece of which is as white as snow, and the cap is of conical shape, the base being exceeding large in proportion to its height, and resembles much the sugar loaves made in egypt. the second is a black scull cap, with the three pieces of stiff black _gaze_, sticking out like the vanes of a windmill; so that when put on the head, one vane stands upright from the forehead and the other two from each ear. the third head dress is a broad straw hat, and i wish they would stick to this coiffure, and discard the two others. then the waist of their dress is as long as ...du pole antarctique an détroit de davis.[ ] their petticoats are exceedingly short, scarcely reaching the calf of the legs, which are enveloped in a pair of flaming red stockings. who the devil could invent such an ungraceful dress for a female? the costume of the men on the contrary is becoming and graceful. it resembles very much the costume of the andalusians. the hat is exactly the same, the crown being small and the rim very broad. the tyroleans are a fine gallant race of men and are excellent marksmen. they were formerly much attached to the house of austria; but that attachment is now entirely changed to dislike, from the ingratitude they have met with, since they have been replaced under that scepter. the only fault i find in the tyroleans, is that they are rather too devout and consequently too much under the influence of the clergy. yet in their devotion there is not the smallest tinge of hypocrisy and they are esteemed a highly moral people. if you arrive at an inn in the evening, while the family are at prayer, neither master nor servants will come to wait on you, till prayers are over; and then you will be served with sufficient alacrity; but the prayers are rather long. i believe the priests extort a good deal of money from these good people. the road thro' the tyrol was made by the romans, in the time of septimus severus. an immense number of crucifixes on the road attest and command the devotion of the people. how kotzebue can call innspruck a dirty town i am at a loss to conceive. he must have visited it during very rainy weather; for to me it appears one of the cleanest and most chearful towns i have ever seen. there are several very fine buildings, for instance the jesuits' college, and the franciscan monastery; nothing can be more picturesque than the situation of this city in the valley of the inn and its romantic windings. the suburbs are very extensive and can boast several fine houses. the cupola of the government house is gilded, which gives it a splendid appearance. in the _hofkirche_ or church of the court there are a number of statues, large as life, in bronze; among which my guide pointed out to me those of clovis, godfrey of bouillon, albert the wise, charles v, philip ii of spain, rudolph of hapsburgh, and to my great astonishment the british king arthur; there were twenty-eight statues altogether. but on my return to my inn, i found that my guide had made a great error respecting king arthur, and that the said statue represented prince arthur, son of henry vii, king of england, and not the old hero of romance; and my hostess' book further informed me that these statues were those of the kings and princes belonging to families connected by descent and blood with maximilian i. in the same _hofkirche_ is a fine monument erected to maximilian and a statue of bronze of this emperor is figured kneeling between four bronze figures representing four virtues. in the gardens of the palace of the archduke ferdinand in this city is a fine equestrian statue which rests entirely on the hind feet of the horse. from innspruck there is a water passage by the river inn all the way to vienna, as the inn flows into the danube at passau. the banks of the inn are so romantic and picturesque that i would willingly prolong my _séjour_ at innspruck, but as i mean to take the journey from mittenwald to munich by the river isar, i must take advantage of the raft which starts from that place the day after to-morrow. munich, th july. i left innspruck in a _chaise de poste_ on the th, and arrived the same evening at five o'clock at mittenwald. at a short distance before i arrived at mittenwald, i entered the bavarian territory, which announces itself by a turnpike gate painted white and blue, the colours and _feldzeichen_ of bavaria. in the austrian territory the barriers are painted black and yellow, these being the characteristic colors of austria. mittenwald is a small neat town, offering nothing remarkable but a church yard or _ruhe-garten_ (garden of repose) as it is called, where there are a number of quaint inscriptions on the tombstones. at mittenwald i had some trouble about my passport, as it was not _visé_ by a bavarian authority; but i explained to the officer that i had never fallen in with any bavarian authority since i left rome, and that, while at rome, i had no intention of going thro' bavaria; that at milan the austrian authorities had _visé_ my passport for vienna and that i should only pass thro' munich, without making a longer stay than one week. he acquiesced in my argument, but inserted my explanation on the passport. at half a quarter of a mile beyond mittenwald i met the raft just about to get under weigh at eleven o'clock a.m. this raft is about as long as the length of a thirty-six gun frigate, and formed of spars fastened together; on this is a platform about one and a half feet high. the isar begins its course close to mittenwald, and the place on which the raft stood, previous to departure, was very shallow; but water was quickly let in from sluices to float the raft, and off we set with a cargo of peasants, male and female, and merchandise bound for munich. as the river isar rushes between immense mountains, and forms a continual descent until the plains of bavaria open to view, you may conceive with what rapidity we went. we encountered several falls of water of two, three, four and sometimes five feet which we had to _shoot_, which no boat could possibly do without being upset. the lower part of the raft was frequently under water in making these _shoots_ and we were obliged to hold on fast to our seats to prevent being jerked off. nothing can be more romantic and picturesque than this journey, and there is something aweful in _shooting_ these falls; these rafts are, however, so solidly constructed that there is no danger whatever. they can neither sink nor upset. we arrived and halted the evening at tölz, a large village or town on the right bank of the isar. what gives to tölz a remarkably singular appearance is, that on a height at a short distance from the town, and hanging abruptly over the river, you perceive several figures in wood, larger than the life, which figures form groups, representing the whole history of the passion of jesus christ. at a short distance, if you are not prepared for this, you suppose that they are real men, and that a procession or execution is going forward. on landing i immediately ascended this hill in order to observe this curiosity, and there i beheld the following groups, first: christ in the midst of his disciples preaching; secondly: the disciples asleep in a cave, and christ watching and praying; next was judas betraying christ to the soldiery; then the judgment of christ before pilate; then christ bearing his cross to the place of execution; and lastly the crucifixion on mount calvary. the ground is curiously laid out so as to represent, as much as possible, the ground in the environs of jerusalem. tölz is a pretty village, but contains nothing more remarkable than the above groups. the next day at twelve o'clock we perceived the spires of munich, and at two anchored close to one of the bridges from whence, having hired a wheelbarrow to trundle my portmanteau, i repaired to the inn called the golden cross--_zum goldenen kreutz_. at tölz the rhetian alps recede from the view; the landscape then presents a sloping plain which is perfectly level within four miles of munich. the river widens immediately on issuing from the gorges of the tyrol and for the last five miles we were followed by boys on the banks of the river, begging for wood, with which our raft was laden, and we threw to them many a faggot. wood is the great export from the tyrol to bavaria, as the latter is a flat country and has not much wood, with which on the contrary the tyrol abounds. a sensible difference of climate is now felt and the air is keener than in the tyrol. the price of a place on the raft from mittenwald to munich cost only one florin, and at tölz an excellent supper, bed and coffee in the morning cost me only one florin. munich, rd july. munich, the capital of bavaria, is an ancient gothic city of venerable appearance. the houses are very solid in structure, and the streets sufficiently broad to give to the city a cheerful appearance. there are some suburbs added to it, built in the modern taste, which embellish it greatly. a large place outside the old town, called the _carolinen-platz,_ presents a number of villas disposed in the form of a circus. in these suburbs the people assemble on holidays and sundays, to smoke and drink beer, of which a great quantity is consumed, it being the favorite and national beverage. from the lively scene of the lower class of the bourgeoisie, male and female, meeting here in the _biersschanks_ and _tanzsaale_ i was reminded of the lines in faust: gewiss man findet hier die schönsten mädchen, und das beste bier, which may be thus rendered: here let us halt! 'tis here we're sure to find beer of the best and maidens fair and kind! there are other very agreeable promenades outside the town, laid out as _jardins anglais,_ the garden of ostenwald for instance; and should you wish to extend your walk further, there is nymphenburg, a royal palace and gardens, just one league distant from the city. the _residenz-schloss_ or palace of the king is a solid building. the interior is well worth seeing. there is a superb saloon with a vast number of valuable miniatures appended to the wainscoating. an enormously heavy bed, groaning with gold and silver embroidery and pearls and which is said to weigh a ton, is to be seen here. there is a very good collection of pictures, chiefly portraits, of the electoral, now royal family. there is a fine chapel too belonging to this palace; a superb staircase of marble, and some fine old tapestry representing the actions of otto von wittelsbach. there is likewise a curious miniature copy of trajan's column in gold and incrusted with precious stones, besides a variety of other things of value. there are two theatres in munich; one called the hof or court theatre, where there is a company of comedians for tragedy and comedy, the expences of which are defrayed principally by the king. the boxes are generally let to the nobility and the _parterre_ is open to every body on payment. i witnessed the representation of mozart's _nozze di figaro._ the king was present and was greeted with much affection. he has a very benignant expression of countenance. he is much beloved by his subjects, for he has governed them paternally. he has given to them a constitution _unasked;_ for they were so contented with the old government, that they desired no change; but he, with his usual good sense, saw the propriety of consulting and complying with the spirit of the age. a german writer of some eminence at the time of the french revolution, when the aristocrats and alarmists of all countries were crying out against it, and proposing harsh measures to arrest its progress, said: "sovereigns of europe, do you wish to set bounds to the progress of french principles? nothing can be more simple; you have only to govern your people like maximilian of bavaria and frederick of saxony, and your subjects will never desire a change." at the german (national) theatre which is a fair sized one, i saw a tragedy performed called _der wald bey herman-stadt_ (the forest near hermanstadt),[ ] it was an interesting piece taken from a feudal legend. the part of elisene was performed by mlle vohs, a very good actress. i missed very much one thing in munich, and that is the want of _cafés_ like those in france and italy, which have so brilliant an appearance. they make coffee here at the inns; and there are two or three dull places up one pair of stairs, where they play at billiards, and make as indifferent coffee as is made in england. the hour of dining at munich is in general one o'clock. a slice of ham or sausage with beer form the _goûter,_ usually taken at five or six o'clock; and at nine follows a supper as solid as the dinner. the germans are not loungers as the french and italians, who, for the most part, spend all their spare time in coffee-houses. when i mentioned to a bavarian that i could find no _cafés_ in munich resembling those in france and italy, he said with emphasis! _gott bewahre_ (god forbid)! i could not help thinking he was in the right; for those splendid _cafés_ are very seducing to young people and tend to encourage a life of idleness and to keep them from their studies. the lower _bourgeoisie_ and _stubenmädchen_ (_maidservants_) wear a singular head dress. it is made of stuff worked with silver or gold and resembles two horns sticking out one at each ear. this head dress must be costly. this class of women wear also on _fête_ days gold crosses, collars and earrings. the bavarians seem a frank, honest set of people, tho' sometimes a little rough, in their exterior deportment. the character of otto of wittelsbach, in the tragedy of that name, gives the best idea of the bavarian character. i have made acquaintance here with a mr f-----, an austrian gentleman, and two polish gentlemen, the one an officer and the other a medical man. they are brothers and had both served in the french army. we have agreed to travel to vienna together on board of the raft which starts every week from munich to vienna. this raft brings to every day between twelve o'clock and two near some town or village on the banks of the river, in order to allow the passengers to dine, and anchors every evening at seven o'clock near some town or village to sup and sleep. you have only to tell the _flossmeister_, or master of the raft, at what inn you mean to put up, or if you have no preference, he will recommend you one; and at five the next morning he goes his rounds to the different inns to collect his passengers, and at six gets under weigh. vienna, nd august. i left munich on the th july and arrived on the th day of our journey, th july, at vienna, the _floss_, or raft, on board of which we embarked, is about as long as the main deck of an eighty-four gun ship and about forty feet in breadth. it is constructed of strong spars lashed together. on the spars is constructed a large platform and on the platform several cabins, containing tables and chairs. mr f----, the poles and myself hired a cabin to ourselves. on the raft was a great deal of merchandize going to vienna. at vienna the _flossmeister_, after landing his passengers and merchandize, sells his raft and returns on horseback to munich. a raft is constructed weekly at munich from wood felled in the tyrol and floated on the isar down to munich. we arrived the first evening at freysingen, but it was nearly dark when we arrived; it seemed however as far as we could observe to be a neat village; at any rate, we met with a very comfortable inn there with good fare and good beds. we met with a very pleasant family on board the raft, bound to landshut; m. and mme s. were extremely well-informed people and their two daughters very fine girls. we arrived the following day at twelve o'clock at landshut, which is a very fine town. there is an immense gothic tower or steeple to the church of st martin, about feet in height. at deckendorf, where the isar flows into the danube, i saluted for the first time that noble river. we stopped the night at pillshofen and arrived the following day at twelve o'clock at passau. passau is a large, well built and handsome city, and is situated on the confluent of three rivers, the inn, the illst and the danube; for here the two former flow into the latter, one on each side. each of these rivers just before the point of juncture seem to be of different colors; for example the danube appears blue, the inn white, and the illst black. at passau we put up at the wild man (_zum wilden mann_), a favorite sign for inns in these parts. the cathedral and _residenz-schloss_ are striking buildings, and the city has a lively and grand appearance. the women appear to be in general handsome and well dressed. we brought to the evening at engelhardtzell, where the barrier, painted black and yellow, announced our return to the austrian territory. we underwent at the customs house a rigid search for tobacco: they even took away the tobacco that some passengers had in their pouches. they were likewise very rigid about our passports. the english passports do not please them at all, on account of the features of the bearer not being specified therein, and as i answered their questions in german, they supposed me to be a native of that country and asked me what business i had with a british passport. i replied: _weil ich ein engländer bin.--sie ein engländer? sie 'sind gewiss aus nord deutschland. sie sprechen recht gut deutsch.--meine herren, ich bin ein engländer: viele engländer studieren und sprechen deutsch, und wenn sièmit mir eine langeunterredung gehalten hätten, so hätten sie bald ausgefunden durch meine sprachfehler, dass ich kein geborner deutscher bin.--aber sie haben unsere fragen vollkommen gut beantwortet.--warum nicht? man hat mir die nehmlichen fragen so wiederholten malen gestellt, dass ich die dazu gehörigen antworte auswendig habe, wie em katechismus_.[ ] the officer laughed, took up a pen, _viséd_ and gave me back my passport. the whole of the country on the banks of this noble river the danube is picturesque and presents much variety. there cannot be a more delightful summer tour than a descent down this river. the next town of consequence that we arrived at was linz, a large, populous and beautifully built city and capital of upper austria. the circumjacent country is in part mountainous. the danube is very broad here, and there is an immensely long wooden bridge. we put up at the inn _zum goldenen kreutz_ (golden cross). here it became indispensably necessary to change our money for austrian paper, for that sort of it called _wiener währung_ (vienna security), since neither foreign coin nor another description of austrian paper, called _conventions-münze_ (conventional currency), are current for ordinary purposes; and it is necessary to get them changed for the current paper _wiener währung._to explain this matter more fully and clearly: there are two sorts of paper money in the austrian dominions. one is called _conventions-münze_ (conventional currency), which is fully equivalent to gold and sliver and cannot be refused as such throughout the whole of the austrian dominions; the other, called _wiener währung_ (vienna security) is current and payable in austria proper only, and bears a loss, out of the archduchy. the value of the _wiener währung_ fluctuates considerably, but the usual par of exchange is as to : that means, two hundred florins _wiener währung_ are equal to one hundred _convenzions-münze_ or gold and silver money. even the _convenzions-münze_ bears a loss, tho' trifling, out of the imperial dominions. the exchange has been known to have been at per cent; that is, four hundred florins _wiener währung_ were only worth one hundred florins gold and silver; but just now it may be reckoned a little beyond par, fluctuating from to . in fact, the value of a florin _wiener währung_ may be calculated at a frank in french money. all this is exceedingly troublesome to travellers, particularly to those who do not understand the german language; for as they cannot read the inscription, it would be difficult for them to know the difference between one sort of paper money and the other and they might be seriously imposed upon. i advise therefore all travellers, before they arrive at the austrian frontier, whether coming from bavaria, saxony, or italy, to buy up the _wiener währung_ notes they may meet with, and which may be purchased at great profit, probably, beyond the frontier, whereas if they defer purchasing till they arrive within the austrian frontier, they can only procure the _wiener währung_ at the common rate of exchange current. at linz we find ourselves again in a wine country. linz is renowned for the beauty of its women, and we had a most favorable specimen in our landlord's daughter, one of the most beautiful girls i ever beheld. we talked to her a great deal, and a scene ridiculous enough occurred. she has very beautiful arms which we all seemed to admire; and all at once, by instinct as it were, the two poles lifted up one arm and i the other, and our respective lips were fastened on either arm at the same moment as if by word of command. we apologized for the liberty we took, saying that her arms were perfectly irresistible and that we had never seen such fine ones before. she accepted our excuse with the utmost good nature, and laughed very heartily. her father is a man of information and a good classical scholar, a thing which is by no means uncommon among the inn-keepers of germany. we stopped here that night, and the ensuing forenoon. we had an excellent supper, very good wine, and we drank to the health of the fair amalia, the host's daughter. our host, who was a friend of mr f----'s, gave us the best of every thing, and our expences did not amount to more than seven florins _wiener währung_, for supper, bed, breakfast and dinner. we passed the forenoon in visiting the different parts of the city and we were struck with the appearance of opulence and industry that prevails. before we arrived at mölk, which is the next important place, we passed the town of ens and beyond that the famous _strudel_ or whirlpool which is dangerous at times for boats. our raft was completely whirled round. this whirlpool is caused by rocks rising abruptly out of the water. the popular tradition is that this whirlpool is the abode of a very malicious and spiteful _wassernixe_, undine or water goblin, who delighted in drowning passengers. the scenery hereabouts is more wild and romantic than what we have hitherto passed and bears a great resemblance to the landscape on the rhine between mayence and coblentz. mölk is an abbey and a very magnificent edifice it is, situated on an eminence which forms the angle with the river and rises quite _à pio_ from the water's edge; it lies quite _en face_ to those who approach it, descending the stream, so that the river seems to be terminated by it. it commands a noble prospect. i had only time to inspect hastily the church. beyond mölk is a range of rocks that bear a great resemblance to a wall, and jut out a great deal towards the river. it is called the _devil's wall_ from the tradition of the devil having endeavoured to make a wall to dam up the river. above this wall is the famous castle and vineyard called _spitz am platz_, and further on is the castle of dierenstein, situated on a mountain on the left bank of the danube. the ascent is very steep; this castle, now in ruins, was the place where richard coeur de lion was confined. the walls only of the castle and part of the chapel are all that remain; we did not fail to visit a place of such celebrity. a convent lies below it. we brought to the night at a large village where there is an excellent inn; and the next day, the leopoldsberg, bursting forth to view, announced to us the approach to vienna. we anchored at nussdorf, where there is a custom house, and from whence the distance to vienna is about one and half mile english. after having my trunk examined, i hired a hackney coach and drove into vienna. the barriers beyond the suburb are called _lines_, and between the suburbs and the old town is an esplanade. we entered the suburbs by the _währinger linie_, and the old town by the _rothes thor_ (red gate); and from thence i repaired to the inn _zum weissen wolf_ (white wolf) in the _altem fleischmarkt_ (old meat-market). vienna, augt. . the old town of vienna is not very large, since you can walk round its circumference on the ramparts in two hours. it was formerly fortified, but the french blew up the fortifications, leaving only the rampart; and by so doing they did a thing of great utility for the viennese, and gave to the austrian government an excellent opportunity of joining the old town to the magnificent faubourgs, by filling up the esplanade which separates them with streets and squares, which would prevent the unpleasant effects of dust in dry, and the mud in wet weather, for this dust and mud renders the esplanade almost at all times a disagreeable promenade, there being a sharp wind prevalent almost the whole year at vienna, which blows about the dust _en tourbillons_. here then was an excellent opportunity, afforded by the blowing up of the fortifications, of paving the whole of the esplanade and filling it up with streets. but no! the austrian government seem determined upon restoring the fortifications, and a considerable number of workmen are employed. this is very silly, for these fortifications are not of the least use against a foreign enemy, inasmuch as the enemy can always erect his batteries among the faubourgs and need only make one parallel, the protection and cover afforded to him by the faubourgs rendering the other two superfluous. the faubourgs are by far the finest part of the city, and the garrison of the old town, in endeavouring to defend it, would destroy by every shot they should fire the fine buildings on the faubourgs. of the folly of making such a defence they were made fully sensible in . one of the archdukes threw himself into the old town of vienna, with an intention of defending it to the last and refused to surrender. napoleon caused batteries to be erected on the _rennweg_ or _corso_ covered by the church of st charles, the manege and palace of the hungarian noble guard, all magnificent buildings in the faubourgs. he then summoned the garrison of the old town again to surrender saying: "every shot fired against the besiegers destroys your own most valuable property and finest edifices." this argument, backed by the entreaties of the citizens, had its effect and the capitulation was signed. this shows the perfect inutility of fortifying the old town of vienna against a foreign enemy. indeed a capital city should never be fortified; it generally contains too many things of value, ever to be exposed to the risk of a bombardment. it would seem, however, that the object of the austrian government in reconstructing these works were to keep its own subjects at vienna in check. but in this case it would be much more advisable to construct a fortress on the heights of kahlenberg or of leopoldsberg, both of which command the city and the whole expanse below. the turks were encamped on the kahlenberg at the famous siege of vienna. vienna proper, the old town, is a gothic city, but a very handsome one. the streets are in general broad and well paved; but the _places_ or squares are small. with the exception of the _herrengasse_, where the nobility reside, the rest of vienna is inhabited by shopkeepers and wholesale dealers; and the shops are brilliant and well fitted up. the _kärnthner strasse_, a long and tolerably broad street, and the _kohlmarkt_ present the greatest display of wealth. indeed the _kärnthner strasse_ may be considered as the principal street; this street and the _kohlmarkt_ have a great resemblance to the finest parts of holborn. the _graben_ also present a fine display of shops and may be termed the bond street of vienna. the _sanct stephans platz_ where the cathedral church of vienna, called _st stephans kirche_, stands, is the largest _place_ in vienna. the cathedral is a very ancient and curious gothic edifice, and the steeple is nearly feet high. i happened to enter the cathedral one day on the occasion of a solemn requiem celebrated for the soul of prince metternich's father. had it been for the son, instead of the father, many an honorable man persecuted at the instigation of that most machiavelic of all ministers, might exclaim in making a slight alteration in a well known epitaph: cy-gît m---- ah! qu'il est bien pour son repos et pour le mien! among the other striking buildings in the old town is the _hofburg_ or imperial palace, a very extensive quadrangular building, with a large court in its centre. a guard mounts here every day at eleven o'clock. it was in one of the saloons of this palace that the celebrated congress of vienna was held; a congress whose labours will be long and severely felt by europe and duly appreciated by posterity, who will feel any other sentiment but that of gratitude for the arrangements entered into there. the _hofburg_ was built by leopold vii in . this building, from its being extremely irregular and from its having received additions at intervals in the different styles of architecture, has been aptly enough considered as the type of the austrian monarchy, and of its growth from a markgraviate to an empire; in _this_, by the continued acquisition of foreign territories differing from each other in manners and hi speech; in _that_, by the continued addition of various specimens of architecture and style of building in its augmentation. vienna, aug. th. i am very well content with my abode at the _weisser wolf_, tho' it is not a first-rate hotel. they are very civil people, and i have an excellent and spacious room for two florins _wiener whärung_ per diem. lodgings are the only things that are dear in vienna, every other article is, however, cheaper than in any other city i have yet been in. all kinds of hungarian wine may be had at the most reasonable prices. i generally breakfast at a neighbouring _café_ in the _fleischmarkt_ for the sake of reading the _allgemeine zeitung_ which is taken in there, and which is the only journal having a shade of liberality which is permitted in the austrian dominions. from the hours of twelve to three, dinners _à la carte_ are served at the _weisser wolf_. for two and half florins _w.w._, i get an excellent dinner with a bottle of offener wine. the wine of offen resembles much that of bordeaux in its quality and flavor. the tariff however of the dinners and wines varies daily a few kreutzers, in consequence of the eternal fluctuation of the _w.w._, so that every morning a fresh tariff is affixed to the wainscot of the saloon where the dinners are served. supper, served likewise _à la carte_, is at its full tide between the hours of eight and ten o'clock; and as vienna is renowned for the celebrity of its beefsteaks and cutlets, called here _rostbraten_, these and a salad seem to be the favourite dish for supper. my mornings i have hitherto passed in lounging about the _kärnthner gasse, st stephen's platz, kohlmarkt_, etc. for an hour before dinner the fashionable promenade is on the rampart in front of the palace of duke albert of saxe-teschen; in the evening on the _prater_, in a carriage, on horseback, or on foot. the _prater_ is of immense extent and offers a great variety of amusements and sights. i generally return home at night pretty well fatigued from my rambles. there is another great inconvenience at vienna, resulting from the fluctuation of the current money, and this is that a stranger, dwelling at an inn, is sure to be disturbed five or six times in the morning, sometimes as early as five or six o'clock, by jews who rap at his door to enquire if he wants to exchange gold and silver against currency or _vice versâ_. i used to lose all patience at being so disturbed in the morning, and was obliged in self-defence to put an affiche on the door of my room to this effect: "_man kauft und verkauft hier nichts; kein wechsler darf hereintreten_." "here there is no buying and selling; no money changer is allowed to come in," and i hereby recommend to all strangers not to treat with these jews, but on their arrival, or at any time they think fit, to go to a banking establishment in this city, where every day after eleven o'clock you can exchange your gold and silver for paper at the just rate of exchange, as published at the bourse, paying only a very slight premium, and on leaving vienna to go to the same establishment to change your superfluous _wiener währung_ for _convenzions münze_ or gold and silver money. for when the jews tell you the rate of exchange is so and so, you conclude probably your bargain with them, and on enquiring at the bourse you find that the jew has made a percentage of six or eight per cent, out of you. _louis d'or_ are the best foreign coin to bring into the austrian dominions. next to them in utility are the dutch ducats, or _geharnischte männer_ as they are termed, from the figure of the man in armour upon them. all other corns suffer a loss in proportion. the bankers in vienna pay the foreign bill of exchange in _convenzions münze_, which you must afterwards change for _wiener währung_, the only current money in vienna and austria. but what makes it additionally troublesome is that here in vienna there are particular payments, which must absolutely be paid in gold or silver or _convenzions münze_, and _not wiener währung_; for instance the franking of foreign letters at the post office, where they do not take the _wiener währung_. in vain you may intreat them to take the _wiener währung_ at any rate they please; no! you must go elsewhere and buy from the first person you can meet with as much gold and silver as is required for the franking of the letters; so bigotted are they in the austrian dominions to the letter of the law! this happened to me: i wanted to frank three letters for england and i went to the post office with _wiener währung_ paper, not being aware of this regulation, and i was obliged to return to my hotel, to lay hold of a jew, and to buy from him as much gold and silver as was requisite for the franking of the letters. at the _wechselbank_ or bank of exchange i have before mentioned, the crowd that attends daily is immense; but the business is carried on without hurry or confusion. you hand in your paper or your gold and silver coin, the clerk who receives it gives you an order on paper for the amount specified, which paper you take into another room and therein receive the amount. this establishment, however, remains open only two hours every day, between eleven and one i believe; so if you are too late for this interval of time, you must apply to the brokers, christian or israelite. vienna, august th. we left the old town by the _burg-thor,_ and crossing the esplanade, directed our course to the _rennweg,_ one of the suburbs, in order to view the majestic edifice of st charles, which is equal in the beauty of its architecture to many of the finest churches in rome. its façade and cupola render it one of the most striking buildings belonging to vienna. we next visited the _manège_ and the palace called the palace of the hungarian noble guard. they are both beautiful edifices. the faubourgs of vienna are built in the modern style and their buildings, both public and private, excellent in their way and in the best state. the streets of the faubourgs are broad but not paved. the most celebrated of these faubourgs are _maria hülf_, _leopold-stadt_, _landstrasse_, the _rennweg_, the _wühringer gasse_; and i am persuaded that if the old town were united to the faubourg by means of streets and squares and the esplanade filled up with buildings, vienna would perhaps be the handsomest city in europe and the fourth in size, for the best buildings and palaces are in the faubourgs, viz., the military college, the polytechnic school, st charles' church, the porcelain fabric, the palaces of esterhazy, kaunitz, stahremberg, schwarzenberg, palfy, and the beautiful palace and ground of belvedere in which last is a noble collection of pictures open to the public. at the polytechnic school one of the principal professors is a friend of mr f------'s, and he explained to us the nature of the establishment and the course of studies pursued. the apparatus for every branch of science is on the grandest scale. after dinner we repaired to the _prater_, crossing a branch of the danube which here forms several islands. the _prater_ requires and deserves particular mention. part of it is something in the style of the _champs elysées_ at paris, and it is fully equal to it in the variety of amusements and enjoyments to be met with there; but it is far larger and more beautiful on account of its landscape and the diversified manner in which the grounds are laid out. the _prater_, then, is an immense park, laid out on an island of considerable extent on the danube. the nearest faubourg to it is the _leopoldstadt_, which is also the most fashionable one, and a bridge conducts you from that faubourg direct into the _prater_. the _prater_ presents a mixture of garden, meadow, upland and forest; the lofty trees arranged in avenues or in clumps give a delightful protecting shade. on the road destined for the carriages there is every afternoon a most brilliant display of carriages. another avenue is destined for equestrians, and two avenues, one on each side of these two, for pedestrians. there are besides winding footpaths, that conduct you all over this vast extent of ground, and circular grass plots surrounded by trees where the pedestrian may repose and eat and drink if he will. here are _restaurants_ in plenty, _cafés_, panoramas, exhibitions of wild beasts, swings, tennis courts, places for running at the ring, do for burlesque dramatic performances, _farceurs_, jugglers, de bach's equestrian amphitheatre in the style of franconi, _salles de danse_, baths, billiard rooms, gaming tables, and even houses appropriated to gallantry. in fact, the _prater_ is quite the paradise of the bourgeoisie of vienna, who are fond of the pleasures of the table and take every opportunity of making dinner and supper parties. the bourgeois of vienna are far more sensual than spiritual and not at all disposed to self-denial. excellent hams and sausages are to be had here; and the viennese who dines and sups heartily at his own house never fails, during his evening promenade, to take a tolerable good portion of ham or sausage, with a proportion of offen wine or maylander beer, by way of staying his stomach during the tedious interval between dinner and supper. i need scarce add that smoking is universal, as indeed it is all over germany, for i scarcely ever see a german without a pipe either in his mouth or fastened to his coat and a bag or pouch of tobacco either in his pocket or attached to his button hole. in the _prater_ dances often take place in the open air between the grisettes of vienna, who are in general handsome and well made, and who dress well, and their lovers and admirers. the _prater_ was first opened to the public by the emperor joseph ii. the _au-garten_ is another place of recreation and amusement, but on a smaller and much more tranquil and sober scale, than the _prater_. none of the lower classes think of coming here, tho' it is open to every body decently dressed: there is not that profuse eating and drinking going forward. it is more properly speaking a promenade, and forms a garden with alleys of trees where music is often performed and there is a superb saloon where refreshments may be had. the _au-garten_ is frequented chiefly by the _noblesse_ and _haute bourgeoisie_. in the morning likewise it is a fashionable resort to drink the mineral waters. it adjoins the _prater_, being on the same island. it was the favourite lounge of joseph ii, who opened it to the public by affixing this inscription on one of the gates: allen menschen gewidmete erlustigung von ihrem schätzer "place of recreation open to all men by their esteemer." vienna, aug. th. there are a great number of theatres at vienna. two are situated in the old town, viz., the _hof-theater_ and the _burg-theater_. the _hof-theater_ is only open when the court are at vienna, and they are now at baden, ten leagues distant. the _burg-theater_ is open all the year round, and may be considered as the national theatre. it is much frequented by the bourgeoisie and inhabitants of the old town, who do not chuse to take the trouble to go to the _wieden-theater_, which is situated in the faubourgs, and which is more of a classical and fashionable theatre than the other, inasmuch as it is more elegantly and classically built, better fitted up, and has a far better company of comedians. at the _burgtheater_ i saw kotzebue's _edelsinn und armuth_ performed. the wieden theatre which is, as i have said, in the faubourgs, is the handsomest theatre perhaps in europe for its size. it is not large, but it is fitted up with so much taste and you see and hear so well; every ornament is so chaste and there is nothing at all tawdry or superfluous. it is, i really think, a model of what every theatre ought to be. there is a good deal of bronze about it which gives it a classical appearance, and the boxes are supported by caryatides in bronze. there is a peculiarity in all the theatres at vienna, which is, that in the _parterre_ you must sit in the place the number of which is marked on your ticket. these places are called _gesperrte sitze,_ and each seat resembles an armchair. when not occupied, the seat is folded up and locked to the back of the chair, until the person who holds the ticket corresponding to its number comes to take it; so that no other but the person holding the ticket corresponding to the number can take it, and you are thus never likely to be shoved out of your place, as you are at most of the theatres in europe. there are men stationed at the doors who follow you into the _parterre_ to unlock and let down a seat for you, and to them you give your ticket with a slight gratification, which is however quite optional; your ticket you previously pay for at the door. vienna, augt. th. i have been to see schönbrunn, the usual residence of the young napoleon; but he is now at baden with the imperial family, where his mother, who is lately arrived from italy, is also on a visit. the young napoleon is said to be a remarkable fine boy, and a great favorite with his grandfather the emperor. many are the anecdotes related of him. i shall mention one. he had heard so often talk of his father, that shortly after the arrival of his mother, he wished to see his father also and asked his attendants repeatedly and not in a very patient tone: _wo ist denn mein vater?_[ ] this was told to his grandfather the emperor; and he gave directions that the child should be brought to him, the very next time he should put the question. he then said to him: _du möchtestwissen wo dein vater ist? er ist in verhaft. man hat es mit ihm gut gemeint; weil er aber unruhig war, so hat man ihn in verhaft gestellt, und dich wird man auch verhaften, wenn du unruhig bist._[ ] so much for this anecdote; but i did not hear what was the answer of the young prince. the young napoleon is, it appears, a great favorite of the soldiers, who quite adore him, and he will sometimes go into the kitchen to get bread and meat to give to the soldiers on guard at the palace. a singular event happened lately to maria louisa. during her stay at schõnbrunn, her _chatouille,_ with several things of value in it, _bijouterie,_ etc., was stolen from her. she caused enquiries to be made, and researches to be set on foot. nobody has been able to find out who took it; but it was put back in the precise place from whence it was taken, and not a single article of the _bijouterie_ or things of value was missing. it is supposed this theft was made for political purposes, in order to discover the nature of her epistolary correspondence, if any existed. had it been taken by a vulgar thief, it is not probable that the articles of value would have been restored. such is the unhappy condition of that princess to be always an object of suspicion and espionnage. _journey to prague_. i left vienna on the th august in a _landkutsche_ and arrived at prague on the first of september. these _landkutsche_ are on the same plan and footing with the _vetture_ in italy, and travel in the same manner, with this difference, however; that the _landkutscher_ do not usually, as the _vetturini_ do, undertake to provide for the supper and bed of their passengers. in a word, you are not _spesato;_ and in germany there is not the least necessity for it, for there is no such thing as extortion on the part of the german innkeepers, who are by far the most respectable of that profession. besides, in most places, everything is _tariffed,_ and where it is not, the landlord never makes an unreasonable demand, or attempts to make foreigners pay more than natives; whereas in italy if you are not _spesato_ there are no bounds to the rapacity of the innkeepers, witness mine host of terracina. both italy and germany present the greatest convenience for travellers, as the _landkutsche_ or _vetture_ are continually passing from town to town. there is however this difference between them, that the italian _vetturini_ will abate their price, if their carriage is full excepting one place, and that they must start, whereas the german _landkutscher_ never abate their price. i paid for my journey from vienna to prague thirty-five florins _wiener währung,_ and we made the journey in five days. our first day's journey brought us to höllabrunn, having stoppd to dinner at stockeran. the road is excellent and the several towns and villages we past thro' clean and well built. the landscape was either a plain, or gently undulating and extremely well cultivated. bohemia resembles moravia, being an exceedingly rich corn country, generally open; not many trees about the country near the road side, except at the _chateau_ and farm houses. the language is a dialect of the sclavonic, mixed with some german; but at the inns there is always one or two servants who speak german. in bohemia a traveller not speaking german, and who has no interpreter with him, would find himself greatly embarrassed. the bohemians call themselves in their own language _cherschky_, and the hungarians call themselves _magyar_. [ ] tasso, _gerusalemme liberata_, canto xv, ottave , : un uom della liguria avrà ardimento all' incognito corao esporsi in prima... tu spiegherai, colombo, a un nuovo polo lontane si le fortunate antenne...--ed. [ ] ariosto, orlando furioso, xl, , .--ed. [ ] see reference to eustace p. . [ ] ariosto, _orlando furioso_, xxviii, , .--ed. [ ] boileau, _satires_, xi, v. . [ ] the drama, _der wold bei hermannstadt,_ is the work of johanna fraenul von weissenthurn ( - ), a celebrated viennese actress and authoress. an opera was written on the same text by w. westmeyer, --ed. [ ] because i am an englishman--you are an englishman? you are certainly a north-german; you speak very correct german.--gentlemen, i tell you i am an englishman; many english study and speak the german language and if you had held a long conversation with me, you would soon have perceived from my faults in speaking, that i am not a german.--but you have answered our questions so correctly.--why not, the same questions have been put to me so often that i have all the necessary answers by heart like a catechism. [ ] where is my father? [ ] "you wish to know where your father is? he is under arrest; people were well disposed to him; but he is placed under arrest, because he was unruly, and if you are unruly you will be placed under arrest likewise." chapter xvii september -march the splendid city of prague--the german expression, "to give the basket"--journey from prague to dresden--journey from dresden to berlin--a description of berlin--the prussian army--theatricals--peasants talk about napoleon--prussians and french should be allies--absurd policy of the english tories--journey from berlin to dresden--a description of dresden--the battle of dresden in --clubs at dresden--theatricals-- german beds--saxon scholars--the picture gallery--tobacco an ally of legitimacy--saxon women--meissen--unjust policy of europe towards the king of saxony. prague, sept. prague is a far more striking and splendid city than vienna, without its faubourgs. the streets are broader; and it has a more cheerful and less confined appearance than the old town of vienna. the position of prague too is very romantic and picturesque, part of it lying on a mountain and part on a plain; and it stands on the confluent of two rivers, the mulda and the braun. the upper part of the city, called oberburg, stands on a height called ratschin, and on this height stands a most magnificent palace and other stately buildings. there is a beautiful panoramic view from this part of prague. in this part of the city too is the cathedral of st wenzel or wenceslaus, who was its founder. his tomb and that of st john nepomucene, a favorite saint of the bohemians, is in this church. the cathedral is of extreme solidity, but little ornamented, having been plundered by the swedes in . the canopy over the shrine of st john nepomucene has a profusion of votive offerings appended to it. the lower part of prague is divided into two parts by the mulda. the bridge across the mulda is one of the finest in europe. it has twenty-four arches, its length is feet and its breadth . among several statues on this bridge is a very remarkable one of jesus christ, made of bronze gilt, which cost a large sum of money to its founder, a jew! there is a latin inscription on it which explains the paradox. there stood on the same spot a wooden statue of christ in the xvi century. one day an opulent jew, on passing by, made some scoffing or contemptuous remark on it. he was overheard by some of the people, accused of blasphemy and condemned to die; but on expressing great contrition and offering to pay a fine to any amount, he was pardoned, on the condition of his promising to erect a bronze statue gilt of jesus christ on the same spot, at his own expense, with an inscription explaining the reason of its construction; which promise he punctually performed. prague abounds in jews. two-thirds at least of its population are of that persuasion. in the lower town the most striking edifices are the palace of the wallenstein family, descendants of the famous wallenstein, so distinguished in the thirty years war. annexed to this palace is a spacious garden, which is open to the public as a promenade. it is well laid out. there is a large aviary. this palace covers a vast extent of ground. the colloredo family, who are descended from wenceslaus, have a superb palace in this city; and there is a stable belonging to it, partly in marble and of rich architecture, capable of containing thirty-six horses. no traveller who comes to prague should omit visiting these two palaces of wallenstein and colloredo. on the bridge over the mulda before mentioned, is the statue in bronze of st john nepomucene, on the spot from whence he was thrown into the river by his brother saint, king wenceslaus, for refusing to divulge the gallantries of his (wenceslaus') wife, to whom he was confessor. a favorite promenade on sundays is on the _färber insel_ or dyers island, which is a small island on the mulda. here the young men of the town come to dance with the _grisettes_ and milliner girls of prague, who are renowned for their beauty and complaisance. the jewish burying ground is a curiosity for a person who has never visited the oriental countries. the tombstones are stowed thick together. everybody recollects the anecdote of the ingenious method adopted by joseph ii for squeezing a large sum of money from the jews of prague, by giving out that he intended to claim this cemetery, in order to build therein a palace. the jews who, like all the orientals, have the most profound veneration for the spot where their ancestors are buried, presented a large sum of money to the emperor, to induce him to renounce his design. the _stadt-haus_ (hotel de ville) is a fine building; and the _marktplatz_ (market square) is very spacious, and contributes much to the beauty of the town. in the centre of it stands an ancient fountain of a dodecagonal form. the basin is of red marble, and near it stands a large stone column, with a statue of the virgin, bronze gilt, on its summit. a well supplied market, or rather fair, is carried on here every day in the week. the theatre is a fine building and is of immense size. i witnessd the representation of a burlesque tragedy called _die belagerung von ypsilon_ (the siege of ypsilon), but i could not at all comprehend the cream of the jest. madame catalani, who is here, sang at this theatre one night. the theatre was completely filled and the price of admission to the boxes and _parterre_ a ducat. the street adjoining to the theatre was crowded by people endeavoring to catch the sweet sounds. immense hommage has been paid to catalani by the authorities here. the balls of the _bourgeoisie_ of prague are splendid and well attended. the _bourgeoisie_ is very opulent in this city. there are but few residents _noblesse_. the expences at the inns here are rather greater than those at vienna, wine being a foreign commodity and beer the national beverage. my daily expences here for lodging, dinner, supper and breakfast amounted to four florins _convenzions münze_, about nine franks nearly, french money. the country environing prague is rich and abounding in corn; there are likewise hops. the walls of prague still bear the marks made by frederic's shot when he blockaded prague. prague, th sept. to-morrow i shall start for dresden, the diligence goes off only once a week, but i have engaged a car or rather light basket waggon drawn by two horses (a vehicle very common in germany) to convey me to dresden in two days and half. i am to pay for half of the waggon, and another traveller will pay for the remaining half. before i leave prague i must tell you that i have found out the origin of the german phrases _jemand den korb zu geben (to give the basket)_, which means a refusal of marriage. thus when a young lady refuses an offer of marriage on the part of her admirer, the phrase is: _sie hat ihm den korb gegeben_ (_she has given him the basket_). hitherto i have not met with any one who could explain to me satisfactorily the origin of so singular a phrase; but on reading lately a volume of the _volksmährchen_ (_popular tales_) i found not only the derivation of this phrase, but also that of the name of the city of prague. both are connected in the same story, and both concern the history of prague. the story is as follows. libussa, duchess of bohemia, had three lovers, two of whom were not remarkably intelligent, but the third possessed a great deal of talent and was her favorite. she was much importuned by the rival suitors. she appeared before them one day with a basket filled with plums in her hand; and said she would give her hand in marriage to whoever of them should guess the following arithmetical riddle. she said: "one of you shall take half the plums that are in this basket, and one over: another shall take half of what remains, and one over: the third shall take half of what still remains and three over, and then all the plums will have been taken. now tell me how many plums there are in the basket." her favorite was the only one who could guess the number of plums which was _thirty_. to him therefore she gave her hand and the plums, and to the other suitors the empty basket. hence the phrase. the solution of the question is as follows: a takes half of the plums in the basket ( ) and one over . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + = b half of what remained ( ) and one over . . . . . + = c half of what remained ( ) and three over . . . . . + = --- total now with regard to the origin of the city of prague. the former residence was much too small, and libussa directed her workmen to build a town on the spot, where they should find at midday a man making the _best use of his teeth_. they began their research and one day at that hour discovered a carpenter sawing a block of wood. it struck them that this laborious man was making a better use of his teeth (viz., teeth of his saw) than the mere feeder and they judged that this ought to be the place where the town should be built. they therefore proceeded to trace with a plough the circumference of the town. on asking the carpenter what he was about to make with the block he was sawing, he said " a threshold for a door," which is called _prah_ or _praha_ in the bohemian language and libussa gave to the city the name of _praha_ or _prag_. berlin, th sept. berlin has a splendid and cheerful appearance, with fine broad streets, superb white buildings and palaces, for the most part in the grecian taste; it has quite the appearance in short of an italian city. nearly all the streets are at right angles; they are kept very clean and the shops make a brilliant display. i felt so much pain in my legs, from the effect of my pedestrian journey, that i was obliged to remain in my chamber one entire day. there is a very good _table d'hôte_ at my bin for twelve _groschen_. wine is paid for extra, and at the rate of from to _groschen_ the bottle. the sort usually drunk here is the medoc. the prices of articles of prune necessity are dearer in berlin than either at dresden or vienna; particularly the article of washing, which is dearer than in any country i have yet visited. the next morning i began my rambles, and directed my course to the favorite and fashionable promenade of the _beau monde_, at all hours of the day, i mean in the fine street or alley _unter den linden_, so called from it being planted with lime trees. there is a range of elegant buildings on each side, and at the end, near the _thier garten_ (park), is a superb gate called the _brandenburger thor_ in the shape of a triumphal arch ornamented with a statue of peace, with an olive branch in her hand, standing on a car drawn by four horses abreast, the whole groupe being of bronze and of exquisite workmanship. the four horses are imitated from the corinthian horses at venice and yield to them in nothing but antiquity. indeed they have a much more pleasing and striking effect, in being thus attached to a car, than standing by themselves, as the venetian ones do, on the top of the façade of a church. this _brandenburger thor_ is constructed after the model of the propylaeum of athens. the opera house, a building in the grecian taste erected by frederic the great with the inscription _apollini et musis_, and after that the academy of the fine arts engaged my attention. both these buildings are remarkable, and they are near the _linden_. the old town is much intersected by canals communicating with the spree which divides it. i call it the old town, to distinguish it from the quarter composed of streets of recent construction between the former _enceinte_ of the town and the brandenburger thor. the hotel of the invalides, a ponderous building, bears the following inscription: _laesis non victis_. the bank and the arsenal next engaged my attention, as also a guard house of recent construction in the shape of a doric temple. the royal palace is an immense building, partly in the gothic and partly in the grecian style. it is very heavy but imposing. the interior of this palace is royally fitted up, except the little room occupied by the great frederic, which is left in the same state as when he occupied it; and you know he was not fond of superfluous ornament. in the green before the palace stands the statue of the prince of anhalt dessau, the founder of the prussian infantry system, and at a short distance from this, on the _lange brücke,_ stands the colossal equestrian statue in bronze of the great elector. the _königstrasse_ is the principal street and a very fine one it is; next to it in point of beauty is the _französische_ _strasse_. the _wilhelm platz_ is adorned with the statues in marble of schwerin, seidlitz, keith, winterfeld, and ziethen. but i cannot enumerate all the splendid public establishments and fine things to be seen in this beautiful city. the most striking church is that of st hedwig. i call it the most striking from its resemblance to the pantheon at rome. the cathedral is perhaps a finer building. 'tis in this last that the electoral and royal remains are deposited. the streets 'here swarm with military, and indeed the profession of arms seems to have too much sway in the prussian dominions. the subalterns and young men of the prussian army are said to have republican sentiments, and they, in common with all the burghers, desire a constitution. it galls them to see one enjoyed by the bavarians, whom they affect to look upon as inferior to them in intelligence, and that it should be refused to them. most of the nobility and the greater part of the general and field officers are however inveterate aristocrats. you have heard, i dare say, of the attempt made by some officers among the nobility to exclude from the service, after the peace, those officers who were not noble. when it is considered that their best and most zealous officers sprung from the burghers, and that prussia, when abandoned by her king and nobles, was saved from permanent subjection only by the unparalleled exertions of her burghers and peasantry, one is shocked at such ingratitude and absurdity. but the officers of the royal guard went so far as to draw up a petition to the king, requesting him to dismiss all the officers of the corps who were not noble, and blucher was applied to to present this petition to the king. blucher read the paper and ordered all the officers to assemble on the parade and thus addressed them: "gentlemen, i have received your paper and read its contents with the utmost astonishment. all the remarks that i shall permit myself to make on the subject of this petition, are, that it makes me ashamed of being myself a noble." he then tore the petition in pieces and dismissed them. i have been once at the theatre. _lodoiska_ was performed. i saw a number of fine women in the boxes. formerly gallantry and pleasure were the order of the day at berlin; but now, the court assuming the exterior of rigid morality and strictly exercised religious devotion, mystic cant and dullness is the order of the day. the death of the queen of prussia threw a great damp over the amusements of the court. at charlottenburg, which is a short distance from berlin, in the grounds there, they point out to you her favourite spots. she was a most amiable princess, and united to great personal beauty so much grace and fascination and so many good qualities that she was beloved by all, and the breath of calumny never ventured to assail her. the alley _unter den linden_ in the evening presents a great assemblage of cyprian nymphs, who promenade up and down; they dress well and are perfectly well behaved. there is a superb establishment of this kind at berlin, which all strangers should visit out of curiosity. it is not indispensably necessary to sacrifice to the goddess whose worship is carried on there; but you may limit yourself to admire the temple, call for refreshments and contemplate the priestesses. there is the utmost moral and political freedom at berlin, and tho' the government is despotic in form, freedom of speech is allowed. an army of , men admirably disciplined and armed, of these a garrison of , men in berlin and as many at potsdam, are quite sufficient to keep in check all attempts to put political theories and speculations into practice. indeed, it would be very difficult to excite a revolt; the various german governments are carried on very paternally and the government is scarcely felt; habits of obedience have taken deep root among the people, and a german peasant as long as he gets enough to eat and drink, does not conceive himself unhappy, or thinks of a change. i could not help laughing the other day, at a little village near berlin, when i heard some peasants talking of napoleon; one of them, who seemed to have some partiality for him, exclaimed, meaning to blame him for leaving elba: _aber warum verliess er seine insel? er hatte doch zu essen und trinken so viel er wolte_ (why did he leave elba? he had surely plenty to eat and drink). this good peasant could not conceive that a man blessed with these comforts should like to change his situation or run any risks to do so. french as well as german is commonly spoken in berlin, and i am glad to see that the prejudice against the french is wearing off. if the french and prussians could understand one another, and knew their own interests, or if the french had a liberal national government, i mean, one more identified with the interests of the people than the present one is, what advantage might not rise therefrom? they are natural allies, and united they might be able effectually to humble the overbearing insolence and political coxcombry of the czar, shake to its centre the systematic despotism and light-fearing leader of austria, and keep in check the commercial greediness, monopolizing spirit and tory arrogance of england. the german political writers duly appreciate the illiberal policy of england towards the continental nations, by which she invariably helps to crush liberty on the continent in the hopes of paralysing their energies and industry, in order to compel them to buy english manufactures, and in fine to make them dependent on england for every article of consumption. england, ever since the beginning of the reign of george iii to the present day, has been always ready to lend a hand to crush liberty, to perpetuate abuses and to rivet the fetters of monarchial, feudal and ecclesiastical tyranny. these are facts and cannot be denied. the english people have been taxed to the last farthing to support a war of privileges against freedom; and europe is in consequence prostrate at the feet of an unprincipled coalition, thro' england's arms and england's gold; and then an english minister, and his vile hireling journals, tell you that the continental nations are not ripe for and do not deserve liberty. even the pope and grand turk, both so much dreaded by our pious ancestors, have been supported, caressed and subsidized, in order to help to put down all efforts made to obtain rational liberty, which the courtiers always affect to stigmatize with the name of "jacobinism," while a number of needy individual have enriched themselves by the public plunder and byaiding and abetting the system, all _novi homines_, men who, had there been more to gain on the other side than by espousing toryism, would not have been backward; men who are jacobins in the real sense of the word, however they cloak themselves under the specious names of church and king men; upholders of pitt and his system, for which they affect a veneration they are far from really feeling; men, in fact, whose political scruples of whatever nature they be, would soon melt away. dresden, th october. i have been fortunate in getting into very comfortable lodgings, having two rooms and as much firing as i chuse for eight _reichsthalers_ per month. coffee is made for me at home in the morning, and i generally dine and sup at a _restaurant_ close by near the bridge. the _platz_ in the neustadt is close to my lodgings, and being very large and well paved and lined with trees, it affords a very agreeable promenade. rows of elegant houses line the sides of this plata, among which the _stadthaus_ is particularly remarkable. the famous _japan palace_, as it is called, is also in the _neustadt_, and but a short distance from the _platz_. the gardens of count marcolini afford also a pleasant promenade; but by far the most agreeable walk, in my opinion, is on the _zwinger_, a sort of terrace on the left bank of the elbe in the old town, adjoining the palace and gardens of count bruhl. from this place you have a noble view of a long reach of the elbe. it is besides the favorite promenade of the ladies. on the _zwinger_ too is a building containing a fine collection of paintings. here are _cafés_ likewise and a _restaurant_. the evening promenades are in the gardens of the _linkischer bad_ (bath of link) on the banks of the elbe, where there is a summer theatre. this is the favourite resort of the _bourgeoisie_ on sundays and _jours de fête; goûters_ and supper parties are formed here and very good music is heard. the elbe bridge is of beautiful structure, and there is a good regulation with respect to those who pass over this bridge; which is that one side of the bridge is reserved for those going from the new to the old town, and the other side for those going from the old to the new town, and if you attempt to go on the wrong side you are stopped by a sentry, so that there is no jostling nor lounging on this bridge. an arch of this bridge was blown up by marshal davoust in order to arrest the progress of the russians, and a great deal of management was necessary to effectuate it, for the worthy saxons have a great veneration for this bridge, and in order to inforce the execution of this resolution on the part of the marshal, the personal order of the king and the employment of saxon troops were necessary. it has been rebuilt since, and no one would know that the arch had ever been blown up, but from the extreme whiteness of the new arch, contrasting with the darker color of the old ones. in the old town or dresden proper, the finest buildings are: the catholic church, standing near the bridge, an edifice yielding in beauty but to few in italy and to none in other countries. here you hear excellent music during the church service; and the king and royal family, all of whom are catholics, attend constantly. the royal palace is very near the church and not far from it is the theatre. saxony being a lutheran country, the public exercise of the catholic religion was not permitted until napoleon's time, when he proposed an arrangement to permit to the king and all other catholics the public celebration of their religion, which proposition was acceded to with universal approbation on the part of the protestants, and now the host is frequently displayed in the streets. there are however but few catholics in dresden among the natives. so great is the respect for usages and customs in germany, that the electors of saxony, on going over to catholicism, never thought even of requesting the indulgence of exercising their religion publicly, and the granting it has produced no evil consequence, liberalism and the most unreserved toleration in matters of religion being the order of the day. the royal palace is a very fine and extensive building and the interior is well worth seeing, particularly the superb _riesen-saal_ where augustus ii used to give his magnificent _fêtes_. one of the last and most brilliant _fêtes_ given here was that given by the king of saxony to the emperor napoleon just before the russian campaign, at which the emperor and empress of austria and most of the sovereigns of germany assisted, to do hommage to the great conqueror. the _schloss-gasse_ or castle street leads from the palace into the _markt platz_ where the markets and fairs are held. in this place, in the _schloss-gasse_ and in another street parallel to it, that leads from the porcelain manufactory to the _grosser platz_ (_grande place_), are the finest shops and greatest display of wealth. on the _grosser platz_ stands the _frauen-kirche_, a superb protestant church, and which may be considered as the cathedral church of dresden. the _platz_ is large. there is great cleanliness in all the streets of dresden, and the houses are well built and uniform; but there are few other very prominent edifices except those i have mentioned. on going outside the town by the gate of pirna stands, almost immediately on the right, on turning down a road, the gardens and palace of prince anthony. leaving this on your right and proceeding along the _chaussée_ or high road which is nearly parallel to the river, at the distance of three-quarters mile from the gate, stands the palace and gardens called _der grosse garten_ (grand garden), which you leave on your right, if you continue your route on the _chaussée_ towards pirna. i have not yet visited the _grosse garten_. there is likewise a fine promenade on the banks of the elbe, but quite in an opposite direction to the pirna gate, for to arrive at it from this gate, you must traverse the pirna street and _grosser platz_; and on arrival near the bridge direct your course to the left, which will lead you out of one of the gates into an immensely long avenue of elm trees parallel to the river which forms the promenade. dresden, oct. th. i have been to see the palace and grounds of the _grosser garten_. the garden and park, for it unites both, is of great extent, and beautifully laid out; but a number of fine trees have been knocked down and mutilated by cannon shot during the battle of dresden in , when this garden was occupied by the allied troops and exposed to a heavy fire of fifty pieces of cannon, from a battery erected by napoleon on the opposite side of the river, which completely commanded and enfiladed the whole range of the garden. how the palace itself escaped being knocked to pieces is wonderful; but i suppose napoleon must have given orders to spare it as much as possible. this palace is of beautiful structure and in the style of an italian villa; statues of the twelve caesars and bas-reliefs adorn the exterior. the columns and pilasters are of the corinthian order. as for the interior, it is unfurnished, and has been so since the seven years' war, when it was plundered by the enemy, and has never since been inhabited by the electoral family. there is a superb rectangular basin of water in this garden. these gardens are delightfully laid out; why they are not more frequented i cannot conceive, but i have hitherto met with very few people there, tho' they are open to all the world. they will form my morning's promenade, for i prefer solitude to a crowd in a morning walk. but one of the gardeners here tells me that on sunday evening there is generally a good deal of company, who come to listen to the music which is played in a building fitted up for the purpose at one side of the garden. wine, coffee, beer and other refreshments are to be had; but beer is the favorite beverage. smoking is universal among the young men; the most ardent admirers of the fair sex never forget their pipe. during the courtship the surest sign that the fair one does not intend to _give_ her lover _the basket_ is when she presents him with a bag to hold his tobacco. her consent is implied thereby. during the battle of dresden, the slaughter in this garden was immense, and the allies were finally driven out of it. the gardener related to me an affecting story of a young lady of dresden, whose lover was killed in this battle and buried in the _grosser garten_. she has taken it so much to heart that she comes here three or four times in the week to visit this grave and strew flowers over it. she remains for some time absorbed in silent meditation and then withdraws. she has a settled melancholy, but it has not yet affected her understanding. dresden, oct. th. i met with my old friend, sir w.i., who was travelling to berlin, with the idea of passing the winter there and of proceeding in the summer to moscow. thro' the interests of my friends, col. d------ and baron de f------ i have been ballotted for and admitted a member of a club or society here called the _ressource_. it is held in a large house on the _markt platz_, and is indeed a most agreeable resource to all foreigners; for 'tis in this society that they are likely to meet and form acquaintance with the _noblesse_, principal _bourgeoisie_ and _litterati_. it is conducted on the most liberal scale and not confined to those of birth and fortune. good character, polite behaviour and litterary requirements will ensure admittance to a candidate. this society consists of members and honorary members; among the honorary members are foreigners and others whose stay in dresden is short; but whoever remains for more than one year must cease to be an honorary member and must be ballotted for in order to become a permanent member, and should he be blackballed he ceases to belong to the society altogether. this is a very good regulation. a year is a sufficient time of proof for the character and conduct of a person, and should he during this interval prove himself obnoxious to the members of the society, they can at its expiration exclude him for ever afterwards. no enquiry is made as to the character and conduct of a person who is admitted as an honorary member: it is sufficient that he be recommended by a permanent member, which is deemed a sufficient guarantee for his respectability. in this society there are dining rooms, billiard rooms, card rooms, a large reading room. here too is a small but well chosen library and three or four newspapers in every european language; all the german newspapers and reviews and the principal periodical works in the german, french, english and italian languages. the english papers taken in here are the _times, courier_ and _chronicle_. of the french, the _moniteur, journal des débats, constitutionel, journal du commerce, gazette de france_ and _gazette de lausanne_, and of the italian the _gazette di milano, di venezia, di firenze_ and _di lugano_. every german newspaper is, i believe, to be found here. the society lay in their stock of wine, which is of the best quality; good cooks and servants are kept. dinners go forward from one to three. you dine _à la carte_ and pay the amount of what you call for to the waiters. coffee, liqueurs and all sorts of refreshments are likewise to be had. supper, likewise _à la carte_, goes forward between nine and eleven. the evening before supper may be employed, if you chuse, in cards, billiards, or reading. very pleasant and useful acquaintances are made at the _ressource_, since if a foreigner renders himself agreeable to the gentlemen who frequent this society, they generally propose taking him to their houses and introducing him to their families. after an introduction, you may go at any hour of the evening you please: but morning visits are not much in fashion, since the _toilette_ is seldom made till after dinner, which is always early in germany. there is no getting dinner after three o'clock in any part of dresden. besides the _ressource_ there are several other clubs here, such as the _harmonic_ and others. the public balls are given at the _hôtel de pologne_ twice a week, viz., one for the _noblesse_ and one for the _bourgeoisie_. none of the female _bourgeoisie_ are admitted to the balls and societies of the _noblesse_, and only such of the males as occupy posts or employments at court or under government such as _königs-rath_, _hof-rath_, or officers of the army. it is therefore usual, when the sovereign wishes to introduce a person of merit among the _bourgeoisie_ into the upper circles, that he gives him the title of _rath_ or counsellor; but this priviledge of being presentable at court does not extend to their wives and daughters. all the military officers, from whatever class of life they spring, have introduction _de jure_ into the balls and societies of the _noblesse_, and are always in uniform. but when they attend the balls of the _bourgeoisie_, it is the etiquette for them to wear plain clothes: at the balls of the _bourgeoisie_, therefore, not an uniform is to be seen. i observed by far the prettiest women at the balls of the _bourgeoisie_, and very many are to be found there who in education and accomplishments fully equal those of the _noblesse_, and this is no small merit, for the women in saxony of the higher classes are extremely well educated; most of them are proficient in music and are versed in french and italian litterature. they seem amiable and goodnatured and by no means _minaudières_, as lady mary wortley montague has rather unjustly termed them; for they appear to me to be the most frank, artless creatures i ever beheld, and to have no sort of _minauderie_ or _coquetterie_ about them. beauty is the appanage of the saxon women, hence the proverb in rhyme: darauf bin ich gegangen nach sachsen, wo die schönen mädchen auf den baümen wachsen. in english: behold me landed now on saxon ground, where lovely damsels on the trees are found. a taste for litterature is indeed general throughout the whole nation; and this city is considered as the athens of germany. dresden, nov. th. i have been at the theatre and witnessed the representation of a tragedy called _die schuld_, written by adolphus müllner. it is a most interesting piece, and the novelty of it has made a striking impression on me. it is written in the eight-footed trochaic metre, similar to that in which the spanish tragedies are written. it hinges on a prophecy made by a gipsey, in which the person to whom the prophecy is made, in endeavoring to avert it, hastens its accomplishment. the piece is full of interest and the versification harmonious. i have been twice at the italian opera, where i saw the _gazza ladra_ and _il matrimonio secreto_. i came here with the idea of giving myself up entirely to the study of the german language; but such is the beauty of the country environing dresden that, though winter has commenced i employ the greatest part of the day in long walks. for instance i have been to pillnitz, which is on the right bank of the elbe about seven miles from dresden, ascending the river. the road is on the bank of the river the whole way. the palace at pillnitz is vast and well built. during a part of the year the royal family reside there. pillnitz will remain "damn'd to everlasting fame" as the place where the famous treaty was signed, the object of which was to put down the french revolution, which mr pitt and the british ministry knew of and sanctioned, tho' they pretended ignorance of it and professed to have no desire to interfere with the affairs of france. every thing pleases me at dresden except the beds. i wish it were the fashion to use blankets and _édredons_ for the upper covering instead of the _lits de plumes_; for they are too heavy and promote rather too intense a perspiration, and if you become impatient of the heat, and throw them off you catch an intense cold. you know how partial i am to the germans, and can even put up with their eternal smoking, tho' no smoker myself, but to their beds i shall never be reconciled. a german bed is as follows: a _paillasse_, over that a mattress, then a featherbed with a sheet fastened to it, and over that again another featherbed with a sheet fastened to it; and thus you lie between two featherbeds; but these are not always of sufficient length, and you are often obliged to coil up your legs or be exposed to have them frozen by their extending beyond the featherbeds; for the cold is very great during the winter. the more i see of the people here, the more i like them. the national character of the germans is integrity, tho' sometimes cloaked under a rough exterior as in bavaria and austria; but here in saxony it is combined with a suavity of manners that is very striking, for the saxons are the tuscans of germany in point of politeness, and they are far more accomplished because they take more pains in cultivating their minds. a savant in italy is a man who writes a volume about a coin, filled with hypotheses, when, with all his learning forced into the service, he proves nothing; and this very man is probably ignorant in the extreme of modern political history, and that of his own times, and has more pedantry than taste. such a man is often however in italy termed a _portento_, but in dresden and in most of the capitals of germany where there are so many of science and deep research, a man must not only be well read in antiquities, but also well versed in political economy and in analysis before he can venture to give a work to the public. latin quotations, unsupported by reason and philosophical argument will avail him nothing, for the german is a terrible _erforscher_ and wishes to know the _what_, the _how_ and the _when_ of every thing; besides an italian _savant_ is seldom versed in any other tongue than his own and the latin, with perhaps a slight knowledge of french; whereas in germany it is not only very common to find a knowledge of french, english, italian, latin and greek united in the same person, but very many add hebrew, arabic and even sanscrit to their stock of philology. as a specimen for instance of german industry, i have seen, at the club of the _ressource_, odes on the peace in thirty-six different languages, and all of them written by native saxons. this shows to what an extent philology is cultivated in germany; indeed, it is quite a passion and a very useful one it is. i know that many people regard it as a loss of time, and say that you acquire only new words, and no new ideas; but i deny this. i maintain that every new language learned gives you new ideas, as it puts you at once more _au fait_ of the manners and customs of the people, which can only be thoroughly learned by reading popular authors in their original language: for there are several authors of the merit of whose style it is impossible to form an adequate idea in a translation, however correct and excellent it be. indeed i wonder that the study of the german language is not more attended to in england, france, and italy; but to the english, methinks, it is indispensable. all the customs and manners of europe are taken from the german; all modern europe bears the teutonic stamp. we are all the descendants of the teutonic hordes who subjugated the roman empire and changed the face of europe; 'tis they who have given and laid down the grand and distinguishing feature between modern europe and ancient europe and asia: i mean the respect paid to women. to what nation, i say, is due the chivalrous respect to women which is the surest sign of civilization, and which was unknown to the ancient greeks and romans, except to the germans, who even in their most uncivilized state paid such veneration to their women as to consult them as oracles on all occasions and to admit them to their councils? tacitus particularly mentions this; and speaking of the germans of his time, he says, "they have an idea that there is something divine about a woman."[ ] it is this feeling, handed down to us from our teutonic ancestors, that contributes mainly to make the european so superior to all the asiatic nations, where woman still remains a degraded being, and 'tis this feeling that gives to us the palm above all greek and roman glory. what are the modern european nations, the english, french, italians, switzers, even spanish and portuguese, but the descendants of these warlike teutonic tribes who swept away the effeminate romans from the face of the earth? and do we not see the teutonic policy and usages, defective and degenerated as they sometimes are, the best safeguard of liberty against the insidious interpretation of the roman law, which is founded on the pretended superiority of one nation, the inferred inferiority of all the rest? with regard to theatricals, i have witnessed the representation of a tragedy, lately published, called _sappho_, by a young poet of the name of grillparzer. this tragedy is strictly on the greek model. its versification in iambics is so beautiful that it is regarded as the triumph of the _classics_ over the _romantics_; and by this piece grillparzer has proved the universality of his genius; for he wrote a short time ago a dramatic piece in the _romantic_ style and in the eight rhymed trochaic metre called _die anhfrau_ (the ancestress) where supernatural agency is introduced. this i have read; it is a piece full of interest; still it was thought too _outré_ by the _classiker_. it was supposed that this was the peculiar style of the author, and that he adopted it from inability to compose in the classic taste, when behold! by way of proving the contrary, he has given us a drama simple in its plot, where all the unities are preserved, and where the subject one would think was too well known to produce much interest; he has given, i say, to this piece (sappho), from the extreme harmony of its versification and the pathos of the sentiments expressed therein, an effect which i doubt any tragedy of euripides or sophocles surpasses. the character of sappho and her passion for phaon; his indifference to her and attachment to the young melitta, an attendant and slave of sappho's, and sappho throwing herself into the sea after uniting phaon and melitta, constitute the plot of the drama. but simple as the plot, and old as the story is, it excites the greatest interest, and never fails to draw tears from the audience. what can be more artless and pathetic, for instance, than these lines of the young melitta when she regrets her expatriatioa: kein busen schlägt mlr bier in diesem lande, und meine freunden wohnen weit von hier. in english: no bosom beats for me in this strange land, and far from here my friends and parents dwell. i have no doubt that some of these days _sappho_ will be translated into the idiom of modern greece and acted in that country. the actress, who did the part of sappho, gave it full effect, and the part of the young melitta was fairly performed; but i did not approve of the acting of the performer who played phaon. he overstepped the modesty of nature and the intention of the author; for he was in his gesture and manner grossly rude and insolent to poor sappho, whereas, tho' his love to melitta was paramount, he ought to have shown no ordinary struggle in stifling his gratitude to his benefactress sappho. i admire the german word _gebieterinn_ (mistress). it is majestic and harmonious, and the only word, in any modern language that i know of, poetic enough to render aptly the greek word [greek: despoina]. dresden, decr. st. i have been to visit the famous gallery of paintings here; but you must not expect from me a description. i shall send you a catalogue. it would be endless to describe the various _chefs-d'oeuvre_ which are contained in this valuable collection. dresden has always been considered as the florence of germany and has always been renowned for its gallery of paintings; hence the almost innate taste of the saxons for the _beaux arts_ and the great encouragement given to them at all tunes by this government. it is here and at meissen that the best german is thought to be spoken, tho' hanover disputes this prerogative with dresden. i have been to see the antiquities and curiosities of the _japanischer palast_ (palace of japan), as it is called. in this palace is a quantity of ancient armour and the most superb collection of porcelain i believe in europe. the collection of precious stones is also immense; and i never in my life saw such a profusion of diamonds, emeralds, turquoises, sapphirs, amethysts and topazes. in this museum are three statues found in herculaneum on its first discovery or excavation, viz., an athlete, an esculapius, and a venus. here too, and from this circumstance, the palace takes its name, is a collection of japanese antiquities and ornaments, lacker work in gold and silver, which is unique in the world. from the royal library, a foreigner, on being recommended, may have at his own house all such books to read as can be replaced if lost or spoiled; but the manuscripts and scarce and valuable editions are not permitted to be taken out of the library. any person once admitted on recommendation may go to read in this library at stated hours and may consult any book or manuscript he pleases on applying to the librarian. a person fond of music will be in a continual state of enjoyment at dresden. besides the fine music in the royal chapel, the band of the king's guard is composed of first rate musicians, who attend regularly at guard mounting and play for an hour together. there is also a band of music every evening during the summer months that plays in the gardens of the _linkischer bad_. then there are various other places of recreation and amusement, at all of which musicians are in attendance; for a saxon cannot enjoy his repast or his pipe without music and good music too to facilitate his digestion. there is a custom in dresden that on the occasion of the death of a person the young choristers of the cathedral are sent for to sing hymns, standing in a semi-circle round the door of the house of the defunct. these choristers are all dressed in black and their style of singing is melodious, solemn and impressive. smoking is so prevalent here and in all parts of germany that if you wish to denote one of the male sex, _smoker_ would be quite a synonymous word. such is the passion for this enjoyment that even at the balls the young men, the moment they have finished the waltz, quit the hands of their partners and rush into another room in order to smoke; nor would the beauty of venus nor the wit of minerva be powerful enough to restrain the young german from giving way to his darling practise. smoking tobacco has i think this visible effect, that it serves to calm all tumultuous passions, and what confirms me in this idea is, that most young germans, in commencing life as adults, are full of enthusiastic and even exaggerated notions of liberty and equality. they are romantic to a degree that is difficult to be conceived, and seem to be restrained by no selfish or worldly ideas. this you would suppose would tend to render them rather turbulent subjects, under an autocratical government; but all this _schwärmerey_ evaporates literally in smoke: they take to their pipe, and by degrees the fumes of tobacco cause all these lofty ideas to dissipate: the pipe becomes more and more necessary to their existence, and consoles them for their wrongs real or imaginary; and in three or four years they sit down contentedly to their several occupations, as strait-forward, painstaking, plodding men, quite satisfied to follow the routine chalked out for them, and either totally forget all ambitious views, or become too indolent to make any sacrifice to obtain them, and this _virtue comes from tobacco_!! the german hippogriff becomes an ox, dull and domestic, and treads out the corn placed before him, content to have his share thereof in peace and quietness. the german governments, which are mild and paternal, are fully aware of this and allow the utmost liberty of speech; well knowing that, thanks to that friend and ally of legitimacy, tobacco, the romantic visionary and somewhat refractory youth will subside into a tranquil _ganz alltäglicher mann_ and become totally averse to any innovation which demands the sacrifice of repose. the pipe which has this sedative effect on political effervescence, has a still stronger similar effect, it is said, on the passion of love; hence the german husbands are proverbially sluggish. but the ladies, none of whom smoke, preserve their romanticity during their whole lives, and would, if they had their choice, give their hands to foreigners, who are more attentive to them than their own countrymen. the young ladies here are, 'tis said, extremely romantic in their ideas of love and capable of the strongest attachment. they think that any thing should be pardoned to sincere passion. it has been related to me that some time ago a young man, who was devotedly attached to a girl, on the father refusing his consent to the marriage, stabbed the girl and then himself. an immense number of young ladies attended their funeral, to throw flowers over the grave of the two lovers. assuredly the young man was only a noviciate in smoking. everybody must, i think, admire the saxon women. they are in general handsome and have fine shapes; they are warm hearted and affectionate; and they are almost universally well educated. indeed the whole saxon people are so amiable that foreigners find themselves so happy here that they are unwilling to quit the country. very many form matrimonial attachments. in short, this people fully merit the epithet a celebrated english traveller (sherlock)[ ] has bestowed on them when he called them a _herrliches volk_. dresden, jan. d, . i have made an excursion to meissen which lies on the same bank of the river with the old town of dresden at a distance of twelve miles. as there is no road on the left bank of the river to meissen, you must cross the river twice to arrive at it, viz., once at neustadt and once at meissen, the road being on the right bank. i put up at the _hirsch_ (stag), a very comfortable inn. i went to meissen with a view of seeing the russian contingent pass the elbe on their return from france, which has been evacuated in consequence of the arrangement at aix-la-chapelle. they appeared a fine body of men, clothed _à la française_ and seemed in high spirits. they seem to have imbibed liberal ideas during their residence in france, for some of the officers who dined at the inn at meissen spoke very freely on passing events. the return of the saxon contingent is expected in dresden in a day or two, and there will no doubt be a great deal of rejoicing among the military and their relations to meet their old comrades and friends; and potent libations of _doppel bier_ will no doubt be made. meissen is said to be famous for the beauty of its women and the few that i saw in the streets did not contradict this reputation. dresden, jany. th, . we have had several balls here. waltzing is the only sort of dance in fashion at dresden, excepting now and then a polonaise. i have witnessed an interesting spectacle in the _grosser garten_. the pond or basin is completely frozen over, and a russian prince, gallitzin, who is here, has fitted up a sort of _montagnes russes_ as they are called. blocks of ice are placed on an inclined plane to the top of which you mount by means of a staircase; and then, seating yourself in a sort of sledge, you slide down the inclined plane with immense velocity. the prince often persuades a lady to sit on this sleigh on his lap and descend together; and this no doubt serves to _break the ice_ of many an amorous intrigue. this construction of the prince gallitzin has contributed to fill the _grosser garten_ with the _beau monde_, every day from twelve to two o'clock; so that you see we are in no want of amusements at dresden. the king frequently attends the theatre; he is a tall, fine looking man, and is usually dressed in the uniform of his foot-guards, which is scarlet faced with yellow. the poor king has taken much to heart the injustice with which he has been treated by the coalition, and no doubt will not easily forget the ill-bred and insolent letter of castlereagh to the congress, wherein he said that the king of saxony deserved to lose his dominions for adhering to napoleon. but how the king of saxony could act otherwise i am at a loss to find: so little could he possibly deserve this treatment for adhering to napoleon, that had his advice been taken in the year , the french would never have been able to extend their conquests so far, nor to dictate laws to germany. but lord castlereagh seems to have either never known or wilfully forgotten the anterior political conduct of saxony. had he been more versed in german affairs, or had studied with more accuracy the events passing before his eyes, it would have been a check upon his arrogance; but here was a genuine disciple of the pitt school (that school of ignorance and insolence), who sets himself up as the moral regenerator of nations and as a distributor of provinces, while he is grossly ignorant of the political system of the country on whose destinies he pretends to decide so peremptorily. had castlereagh paid attention to what was going forward in germany in , he would have seen too that of all powers prussia was the very _last_ who with any _shadow of justice_ could pretend to an indemnification at the expense of saxony. in the year , the king, then elector of saxony, strongly advised the prussian cabinet to forget its ancient rivalry and jealousy of austria and to coalesce with the latter power, in resisting the encroachments of napoleon, in order to prevent the latter from attempting the overthrow of the whole fabric of the constitution of the holy roman empire, with the intricacy and fragility of which no prince in germany was better acquainted than the elector of saxony. prussia however was still reluctant to engage in the contest and gave no support whatever to austria. napoleon defeats the austrians at austerlitz and dictates peace. six months after the prussian cabinet, excited by a patriotic but rash and ill-calculating party, has recourse to arms, not from any generous policy, but because she sees herself outwitted by napoleon, who refuses to cede to her hanover in perpetuity. prussia begins the war and calls on saxony, who always moved in her orbit, to join her. to the elector of saxony this war (in ) appeared then ill-timed and too late; but with that good faith, nevertheless, which invariably characterized him, he remained faithful to his engagement and furnished his quota of troops to prussia. the saxon troops fought nobly at the battle of jena. this battle annihilates all the power of prussia, and lays saxony entirely at the mercy of the conqueror; but napoleon not only treats saxony with moderation, but with rare generosity; he does not take from her a single village, but aggrandizes her and gives to her the duchy of warsaw and to her sovereign the title of king. saxony becomes in consequence a member of the confederation of the rhine and is bound to support the protector in all his wars offensive and defensive. the russian war in begins: every german state, austria and prussia in the number, furnishes its contingent of troops. the campaign is unsuccessful, the climate of russia having annihilated the french army, and napoleon returns to paris. saxony is now exposed to invasion and harassed by the incursions of the cossacks. the king of saxony is perplexed in what manner to act, so as to ensure to his subjects that protection which was ever uppermost in his thoughts; feeling however with his usual sagacity that every thing would ultimately depend on the dispositions of austria, he repairs himself to prague, in order to have an interview with one of the austrian ministers, and to sound that cabinet. austria however still vacillates and declines stating what her intentions are. napoleon returns from paris, defeats the prussians and russians at bautzen and re-occupies all saxony. he then writes to the king of saxony to desire him to return immediately to his dominions and to fulfil his engagements. what was the king to do? austria still refusing to declare herself, was he to sacrifice his crown and dominions uselessly to the vengeance of napoleon, to please the emperor of russia and king of prussia, who for aught he knew might patch up a peace the next day? and this was the more probable from their having been beaten at bautzen, which circumstance also might with equal probability induce austria to coalesce with, instead of against france. all the other members of the confederation of the rhine remained staunch to napoleon and poured their contingents into saxony; was he to be the only unfaithful ally and towards a monarch who had always treated him with the strongest marks of attachment and regard? and when neither russia nor prussia were likely to give him the least assistance? he therefore returned to dresden; and napoleon took up his grand position the whole length of the elbe, from the mountains of bohemia to hamburgh, thus covering the whole of saxony with his army. austria however at last comes forward to join the coalition. fortune changes; the saxon troops, tired of beholding their country the perpetual theatre of war and trusting to the generosity of the allies, go over to them in the middle of a battle, and decide, thereby, the fate of the day at leipzig. the king of saxony is made a prisoner, and then he is punished for what he could not help. why was he to be punished more than any other member of the confederation of the rhine? one would think that the seasonable defection of his troops at leipzig should have induced the allies to treat him with moderation. the other states of the confederation did not abandon napoleon until after he was completely beaten at leipzig; and austria refused to accede to the coalition until a _carte blanche_ was given her to help herself in italy. let every impartial man therefore review the whole of this proceeding and then say whether the king of saxony, so proverbial for his probity, so adored by his subjects, deserved to be insulted by such an unfeeling letter as that of castlereagh. no! the king of saxony better deserves to reign than any king of them all. would they had even a small share of his virtues! another proof and a still stronger one of the great integrity and honor of this excellent prince, is, that when napoleon offered to mediatize in his favor the various ducal houses in saxony, such as weimar, gotha, cobourg, etc., and to annex these countries to his dominions, he declined the offer. would prussia, austria, or hanover have been so scrupulous? the young ladies here, tho' well versed and delighting in various branches of litterature, cannot overcome that strong national propensity to tales and romances wherein the _terrific and supernatural_ abounds; in all their romances accordingly this taste prevails strongly; nay, even in some of the romances, where the scene is laid in later times, there is some such anachronism as the story of a spectre. i recollect reading a novel, the scene of which is laid in italy about the time of the battle of marengo, wherein a ghost is introduced who contributes mainly to the unravelling of the piece. a young lady here of considerable talent and of general information confessed to me, when i asked her, what subjects pleased her most in the way of reading, that nothing gave her so much delight as "_geistergeschichten_." lewis' romance of "_the monk_" is a great favorite in germany.[ ] by the bye, his poetical tale of _alonzo and imogen_ is evidently taken from a similar subject in the _volks-mährchen_. the weather has set in very cold and the elbe is nearly frozen over. it is impossible to go out of the house without a _pelz_ or cloak lined with fur; for otherwise, on leaving a room heated by a stove, the effect of the cold is almost instantaneous and brings on an ague fit. this i attribute to the excessive heat kept up in the rooms and houses by the stoves. as smoking is so prevalent here, this contributes much also to keeping the body in a praeternatural heat and rendering it still more obnoxious to cold on removal from a room to the open air. it has been remarked by a medical author, in the russian campaign in , that the soldiers of the southern nations and provinces, viz., provençaux, gascons, italians, spaniards, and portuguese, endured the cold much better and suffered less from it than the germans and hollanders. the reason is sufficiently obvious: the former live in the open air even in the middle of winter and seldom make use of a fire to warm themselves; whereas the germans and dutch live in an atmosphere of stove-heat and smoke and seldom like to stir abroad in the open air during winter, unless necessity obliges them. hence they become half-baked, as it were; their nerves are unstrung, their flesh flabby and they become so chilly, as to suffer from the smallest exposure to the atmosphere. in the houses in germany, on account of the stoves, the cold is never felt, whereas it is very severely in italy and spain where many of the houses have no fireplaces. on this account i prefer germany as a winter residence, for i think there is no sensation so disagreeable as to feel cold in the house. in the open air i do not care a fig for it, for my cloak lined with bearskin protects me amply. the climate here in winter is a dry cold, which is much more salubrious and agreeable to me than the changeable, humid climate of great britain, where, though the cold is not so great, it is much more severely felt. [ ] tacitus, _germania_, c, viii.--ed. [ ] martin sherlock (d. ), author of _lettres d'un voyageur anglais_, which were published in paris and, the year after, in london. [ ] matthew gregory lewis, - , published _ambrosio or the monk_ in .--ed. chapter xviii march-april journey from dresden to leipzig--the university of leipzig--liberal spirit--the english disliked in saxony--the english government hostile to liberty--journey to frankfort--from frankfort to metz and paris--a.f. lemaître--_bon voyage_ to the allies--return to england. i left dresden on the nd march, . a _landkutsche_ conveyed me as far as leipzig in a day and half, stopping the first night at oschaly, where there is a good inn. at leipzig i put up at the _hôtel de bavière_ and remained five days. leipzig is a fine old gothic city. it is, as everybody knows, famous for its university and its fair, which is held twice a year, in spring and in autumn, and which is the greatest mart for books perhaps in the world. the university of leipzig and indeed all the universities of germany are in bad repute among the _obscuranten_ and _éteignoirs_ of the day, on account of the liberal ideas professed by the teachers and scholars. in the university of leipzig every thing may be learned by those who chuse to apply, but those who prefer remaining idle may do so, as there is less compulsion than at the english universities. there is however such a national enthusiasm for learning, in all parts of germany, that the most careless and ill-disposed youth would never be about to support the ridicule of his fellow students were he backward in obtaining prizes, but after all i have heard of the dissipation, lawlessness, and want of discipline at leipzig, i can safely affirm that all these stories are grossly exaggerated: and i fancy there is little other dissipation going forward than amours with _stubenmädchen_. i do not hear of any drunkenness, gaming or horse racing; nor do the professors themselves, who ought to be the best judges of what is going on, complain of the insubordination of their pupils. but what i principally admire in this, and indeed in other german universities, is that there are no distinctions of rank, such as gold tassels, etc., no servile attention paid to sprigs of nobility, as in the universities in england, where the heads of colleges and fellows are singularly condescending to the son of a peer, a minister, or a bishop. perfect equality prevails in leipzig and the son of the proudest _reichsgraf_ is allowed no more priviledges than the son of a barber; nor do the professors make the least difference between them. in fact, in spite of the vulgar belief in england respecting the _hauteur_ of the german _noblesse_ and the vassalage of the other classes, i must say, from experience, that the german nobility show far less _hauteur_ and have in general more really liberal ideas than most part of our english aristocracy, and a german burgher or shop-keeper would disdain to cringe before a nobleman as many shopkeepers, aye, and even gentry, are sometimes known to do in england. another circumstance too proves on how much more liberal a footing leipzig and other german universities are than our english ones, which is, that in england none but those who profess the religion of the church of england, or conform to its ritual, are admitted; but here all sects are tolerated and admitted, and all live in perfect harmony with each other. the students are at liberty to chuse their place of worship and the sermons that are preached in the catholic as well as the protestant churches are such as sensible men of whatever opinion might listen to with profit, and without being shocked by absurdities or intolerant ideas. mysteries, theologic sophistry and politics are carefully avoided, and a pure morality, a simple theosophy, comprehensible to the meanest understanding, pervades these simple discourses. the consequence of this toleration and liberal spirit is that an union between the lutheran and calvinistic churches has been effected. i met a number of mercantile people at the _table d'hôte_ at leipzig in the _hôtel de bavière_, and i entered a good deal into conversation with them; but when they discovered i was an englishman, i could see a sudden coldness and restraint in their demeanour, for we are very unpopular in germany, owing to the conduct of our cabinet, and they have a great distrust of us. the saxons complain terribly of our government for sanctioning the dismemberment of their country and of the insolent letter of castlereagh. it is singular enough that saxony is the only country where english goods are allowed to be imported free of duty; but our great and good ally the king of prussia (as these goods must pass thro' his territory) has imposed a tolerably heavy transit duty. i am glad of it; this is as it should be. i rejoice at any obstacles that are put to british commerce; i rejoice when i hear of our merchants suffering and i quite delight to hear of a bankruptcy. they, the english merchants, contributed with their gold to uphold the corrupt system of pitt and to carry on unjust, unreasonable and liberticide wars. yes! it is perfectly fit and proper that the despotic governments they have contributed to restore should make them feel their gratitude. if the french since their revolution have not always fought for liberty, they have done so invariably for science; and wherever they carried their victorious arms, abuses were abolished, ameliorations of all kinds followed, and the arts of life were improved. our government since the accession of george iii has never raised its arm except in favor of old abuses, to uphold despotism and unfair privileges, or to establish commercial monopoly. our victories so far from being of beneficial effect to the countries wherein we gained them, have been their curse. we can interfere and be prodigal of money and blood to crush any attempt of the continental nations towards obtaining their liberty; but when it is necessary to intercede in favour of oppressed patriots, then we are told that we have no right to interfere with the domestic policy of other nations. we can send ships to protect and carry off in safety a worthless royal family, as at naples in , but we can view with heartless indifference, and even complacency, the murders committed in spain by the infamous ferdinand and his severities against those to whom he owes his crown, all of whom had the strongest daim to our protection as having fought with us in the same cause and contributed to our success. the _platz_ at leipzig is large and here it is that the fair is held. the theatre is an elegant building and lies just outside one of the gates of the city. innumerable shops of booksellers are here and it is astonishing at how cheap a rate printing in all languages is carried forward. there are some pleasant promenades in the environs of leipzig; but this is not a time of the year to judge of the beauty of the country. i went, however, to view the house occupied by napoleon on the eve of the battle of leipzig. a monument is to be erected to the memory of poniatowsky in the spot where he perished. i started from leipzig on th march at eleven o'clock. i was five days en route from leipzig to frankfort, tho' the distance does not exceed forty-five german miles. i travelled in the diligence, but had i known that the arrangements were so uncomfortable, i should have preferred going in a _landkutsche_, which would have made the journey in seven days and afforded me an opportunity of stopping every night to repose; whereas in the diligence, tho' they go _en poste_, they travel exceedingly slow and it is impossible to persuade the postillion to accelerate his usual pace. he is far more careful of his horses than of his passengers. this i however excuse; but it is of the frequent stoppages and bad arrangement of them that i complain. instead of stopping at some town for one whole night or two whole nights out of the five, they stop almost at every town for three, four and five hours; so that these short stoppages do not give you time enough to go to bed and they are besides generally made in the day time or early in the morning and evening. we passed thro' the following cities and places of eminence, viz., lutzen; the spot where gustavus adolphus was killed is close to the road on the left hand with a plain stone and the initials g.a. inscribed on it. weimar is a very neat city and where i should like much to have staid; but i had only time to view the outside of the palace and the _stadthaus_. erfurt and gotha are both fine looking cities. in gotha i had only time to see the outside of the _residenz schloss_ or ducal palace, which is agreeably situated on an eminence, and to remark in the _neumarkt kirche_ the portrait of duke bernard of saxe weimar and the monuments of the princes of that family. at erfurt there is the tomb of a count gleichen who was made prisoner in the holy land, in the time of the crusades, and was released by a mahometan princess on condition of his espousing her. the count was already married in germany and there he had left his wife; but such was his gratitude to the fair musulmane, that he married her with the full consent of his german wife and they all three lived happily together. fulda, where we stopped four hours, appears a fine city, and is situated on an eminence commanding a noble view of a very fertile and extensive plain. the episcopal palace and the churches are magnificent, and the general appearance of the town is striking. the bishopric of fulda was formerly an independent ecclesiastical state, but was secularised at the treaty of lunéville and now forms part of the territory of hesse-cassel. the _feld-zeichen_ of hesse-cassel is green and red. after passing thro' hanau, where we halted three hours, which gave me an opportunity of viewing the field of battle there, we proceeded to frankfort and arrived there at twelve o'clock the th of march. i put up at the _swan_ inn. in summer time the country about fulda and in general between fulda and frankfort must be very pleasing from the variety of the features of the ground. we lived very well and very cheap on the road. the price of the diligence from leipzig to frankfort was eleven _reichsthaler_. after remaining three days to repose at frankfort i took my place to mayence and from thence to metz and paris. in the diligence from mayence and indeed all the way to paris i found a very amusing society. there were two physicians and m. l[emaître], a most entertaining man and of inexhaustible colloquial talent; for, except when he slept, he never ceased to talk. his conversation was however always interesting and entertaining, for he had figured in the early part of the french revolution and was well known in the political and litterary world as the editor of a famous journal called _le bonhomme richard_.[ ] metz is a large, well built and strongly fortified city. verdun, thro' which we passed, became quite an english colony during the war from the number of _detenus_ of that nation who were compelled to reside there. at epernay we drank a few bottles of champagne and a toast was given by one of the company, which met with general applause. it was _bon voyage_ to the allies who have now finally evacuated france to the great joy of the whole nation, except of the towns where they were cantoned, where they contributed much towards enriching the shopkeepers and inhabitants. i remained in paris six days and then proceeded to england. [ ] _le bonhomme richard aux bonnes gens_ was not a "famous journal," as only two numbers appeared in (m. tourneux, _bibliographie de l'histoire de paris pendant la révolution_, vol. , p. , n. , ). the publisher, antoine-françois lemaître, whom major erye mentions in this passage, was the author of some other revolutionary pamphlets, e.g., _lettres bougrement patriotiques_, etc.--ed. index acheron, lake. adam, major-general commands light brigade of general sir h. clinton's division. aix-la-chapelle: hotel-de-ville; cathedral; relics of charlemagne; napoleon's benefactions; overbearing demeanour of prussian soldiers; faro bank; interesting tyrolese girl; baths. albanot villa doria, ancient monument. albany, countess of, her claim to be the legitimate queen of england; alfieri's attachment to. alexandria: austrian government destroys fortifications of alfieri: compared with shakespeare, schiller, and voltaire, monument erected to, by canova; his sonnet to countess of albany. alsace-lorraine: severance of, from france anticipated by prussian officers. andernach: ruins of palace of kings of austrasia, church containing embalmed body of emperor valentinian; crossing of rhine by julius caesar at. angoulême, duchesse d': temperament and religious fanaticism of. antwerp: english families fly from brussels to. archenholz: historian of the seven years' war. army of the loire: exemplary conduct of, when disbanded. arona: colossal statue of st charles borromeus at. austria: fluctuations in the value of the paper currency of napoleon's policy as regarded. avernus, lake. baciocchi, princess elise: sister of napoleon and sovereign of lucca. baffo, venetian poet. baiae: baths of nero, ruins of temples; the styx; elysian fields. belgium: dislike to severance from france; feeling towards holland; attachment to napoleon; preparations for the campaign; all inhabitants requisitioned for the repair of fortifications. berlin: occupation of, after jena, excellent conduct of french troops of occupation; excesses committed by troops of rhenish confederation; insolent conduct of troops raised by prince of isenburg; art treasures of, respected by french republican armies; unter den linden; brandenburger thor; public buildings; streets; statues of great men in the wilhelm platz; churches; the officers of the army; anecdote of blucher. bern: attempts in to regain possession of the canton de vaud. bigottini: fine performance at the grand opera, paris. bingen: mausethurm, bishop hatto. blacas, vicomte de: at court of louis xviii at ghent. blucher: popularity of, in london, encourages the excesses of his soldiery; nicknames of; narrowly escapes capture at ligny; saves english at hougoumont; anecdote related of. bohemia: dialect of. bologna: arcades, remarkable picture in gallery of count marescalchi; leaning tower; lady-professor of greek; carbonari; theatre; women; barbarous dialect. bonn: electoral palace; roman antiquity; legends of the sieben gebirge; das heimliche gericht. bordas, m, politics of. borgo san donino, remarkable highway robbery at. borromean islands, splendid villa in isola bella. bourbons, the: want of patriotism of the duc de berri, their injudicious conduct; louis xviii and monsieur at ghent; amusing nickname of louis xviii; dislike of the french people to; their atrocious policy; send emissaries to south of france from coblentz; unpopularity of; fulsome adulation of; cause removal of sismondi from geneva; character of royal families of france, spain, and naples. brussels: description of, historical associations; place du sablon, celebrated fountain; theatres; humanity of inhabitants of, to the wounded after waterloo. caffarelli, statue of, in palais du luxembourg. canova, works of, in st peter's, master-pieces in his atelier in rome; character of his genius. capellen, baron de, proclamation of, to the inhabitants of brussels. capua, thievishness of lower classes of. carbonari, degrees and initiation, object; meaning of name. castlereagh, lord: insolent letter of, respecting king of saxony. catalani: singing of. ceylon: frye's travels in. chalon: affection felt for napoleon in, austrian officers in. charleroy: defeat of prussian army at. chateaubriand: at the court of louis xviii at ghent. chatham, earl of: indignation of, at employment of indians in the war of independence. clermont: peter the hermit preaches first crusade in, petrifying well; swiss regiment; anonymous denunciations; method of cleansing town. coblentz: monument to marceau, bourbon intrigues with jacobins and brissotins. code napoléon: simplicity and advantages of, as compared with english criminal law. cologne: cathedral, the three kings; the eleven thousand virgins; etymology of the name; jean-marie farina. cremona: gothic buildings, campanile of cathedral. consalvi, cardinal: character and abilities of. campagna: limbs of quartered malefactors hung up on roadsides, armed peasants; the malaria. david: pictures by, in palais du luxembourg. de l'epée, abbé: founder of the institution of the _sourds-muets_. dessaix: statue of, in palais du luxembourg. de watteville: disbands his army. delille, abbé, his poetry. de boigne, general: his great services to scindiah, unjustly accused of treachery towards tippoo sahb. didier: handed over by the sardinian government to the french, his execution at grenoble. dijon: the town, manufactories of. dionigi, mme: literary and artistic attainments of. d'orfei, mme. dresden: the japanischer palast, music in; prince galhitzin; the king; bridge over the elbe; marshal davoust; grosser garten; ressource club; etiquette; title of "rath"; theatres; beds; scholars. duchesnois, mlle: fine acting of. egypt: striking testimony to the good done by the french in. ehrenbreitstein: flying bridge, great natural strength; beauty of women of. ellis, col. sir h.: perishes at waterloo. emigrés, the: incorrigibility of; ingratitude to napoleon; their foolish expectations; efforts to cause restoration of lands formerly theirs. ens: whirlpool; the waternixie. erfurt: legend of count gleichen. espinassy, general: republican principles of. eton: principles instilled into boys at. eustace, mr: examples of his credulity and bigotry. ferrara: hugo and parisina; the po; relics of ariosto; mss of ariosto, tasso, guarini; hospital of st anna. firmin: acting of. fleurus: prussian army defeated at. florence: the duomo; battisterio; il sasso di dante; theatres; public buildings; statues; gallery; venus; de medici; paintings and sculpture; portraits of sovereigns; roman antiquities; remarkable imitations in wax of human anatomy; ponte vecchio; street paving; thickness of walls of houses; palazzo pitti; canova's venus; boboli gardens; cascino; beauty of the women; pegasus; italian fondness for gaudy colours; canova's monument to alfieri; church of santa croce; the florentine westminster abbey; academies; la crusca; english travellers; lord dillon; story illustrating florentine life. fouché: complains of the conduct of the allies. frankfort: venus vulgivaga; jews; cathedral; inauguration of roman caesars in the römer; the golden bull; portraits of the emperors; theatre; adaptation of german language to music; political opinion in; dislike to austria. french revolution: worst excesses of, surpassed. galileo: monument erected to, in church of santa croce. gauthier, m.: exiled to lausanne. geneva: scenery, fort de l'Écluse; arcades; j.j. rousseau; calvin; servetus; sentiments of genevese towards napoleon and the revolution; literary aptitude of genevese; attachment to their country; the women; french refugees refused an asylum in; admitted into helvetic confederation. genoa: the women of, peculiarities of the streets; ducal palace; columbus; bridge of carignano; churches. georges, mlle: fine acting of, her rendering of "agrippina"; plays the part of "clytemnestra," supported by her sister as "iphigénie". ghent: court of louis xviii at. girolamo, signor: anecdote of. godesberg: interesting ruins near. granet: remarkable pictures by. grassini: singing of. grillparzer, author of the tragedy "sappho". grotto of pausilippo. grotto del cane. guérin: pictures by, in palais du luxembourg. guillotine, the. helvetic confederation: guaranteed by the allied powers in , geneva admitted into. herculaneum. hockheim; rhenish wines. holland: feeling towards the house of orange, regret at loss of cape of good hope and ceylon. hougoumont: bulow and blucher march to the assistance of the english at devastation of. hulin, general: cashiers a prussian officer in the french service. india: frye's travels in. innspruck: the hofkirche, statues of kings and princes connected with maximilian i. kléber: statue of, in palais du luxembourg. klingmann, philipp: plot of his tragedy "faust". labédoyère: execution of. lacoste: acts as napoleon's guide at waterloo. lafayette: rebukes british commissioner at the conference. lafond: acting of. lafontaine, augustus: comparison of works of, with the "nouvelle heloise" of rousseau. la harpe, general: influences emperor of russia in favour of the vaudois. lamarque: sent by the convention to arrest dumouriez, delivered over to the austrians; votes for napoleon. landshut: church of st martin at. language: influence of, upon the poetry and plays of italy, france, england and germany. lausanne: steep ascents, beauty of environs; republican principles of; intolerant discourse of minister. leipzig: saxon troops go over to the mies during the battle of, the university; unpopularity of the english in. leghorn: hebrew families in, don felipe iii; smollett's tomb. liége: situation of, coal-pits near; commerce with holland; fortifications; destroyed by joseph ii. linz: beauty of the women, curious incident; learned innkeepers. lodi: interesting model in the hôtel des invalides of battle of. louvre: works of art in, stripping of, by the allies. lucca: female servants, the amoroso; dante's mountain. lyons: buildings, scenery; feelings towards napoleon; character of inhabitants; manufactures. maastricht: situation, montagne de st pierre. machiavelli: entombed in church of santa croce. mâcon: quai, wine; grisettes. maffei: his "polyphonte" compared with that of voltaire. maitland, captain: napolean surrenders to. mantua: situation, cathedral; monuments of the gonzagas; the t palace and gardens. marengo: the battle of, commemoration column thrown down. maria louisa: ordered to quit papal territory, enthusiastic reception of, at bologna; victim of a strange theft. mars, mlle: graceful acting of. massieu: pupil of the abbé sicard. mayence: cathedral, citadel. michel angelo: anecdote of. milan: _teatro della scala_, the _duomo_; the women of; dialect; the _zecca_; palace; ambrosian library; hospital; _teatro olimpico_; porta del sempione; italian comedy and audiences; teatro girolamo; milanese twang; ballet; acting of la pallerini. mittenwald: great raft, interesting journey. mölk: tradition of the devil's wall, ruins of castle of dierenstein; richard coeur de lion. mont cenis: description of the chaussée. mont st. jean: dreadful sight on plateau of. montefiascone: story of the _vino d'est_. morice, colonel: death at waterloo. munich: the king, national theatre; social life in; female head-dress. murat: italian opinion of. namur: situation of, citadel demolished by joseph ii; complaints against. prussian soldiery. napoleon: takes tribute of works of art from vanquished governments, calumniated by the _émigrés_; unjust aspersions on; narrow escape from capture; confident of success before waterloo; constructs chaussée of mont cenis. naples: life of a man of fashion in; etruscan vases and papyri in museum; theatres; _pulcinello_; social advantages; lazzaroni; dialect; effect of general ignorance. nelson, lord: conduct towards caraccioli, neuwied: university of. ney, marshall: wellington and emperor of russia refuse to interfere in favour of padua: university; church of st anthony; palazzo della giustizia; tomb of livy. paris: louis xviii in, kotzebue on the _palais royal_; café montausier; the louvre; statues and paintings collected by the french government; productions at the grand opera; column of the _place vendôme_; gardens of the tuileries; chamber of deputies; the _invalides_; models of the fortresses of france; picture gallery of the palais du luxembourg; frequency of quarrels between french and prussian officers in the; _palais royal_; behaviour of english officers in; masterpieces performed in the _théâtre français_; ney shot in the gardens of the luxembourg. parma: "l'amfiteatro farnese", paintings; birthplace of cassius. passau: junction of the danube, inn and illst. perugia. pescia, advantages of living in. picton, lieut-genl sir t.: perishes at waterloo. piedmont: character of the lower classes of. pillnitz: the palace; treaty of. pisa. pitt: credited with the invention of the sinking fund. pius vii: character and virtues of. pompeii: amphitheatre; houses; temple of isis; praetorium; antiquities removed to museum of portici. pontine marshes. prague: situation, bridge over the mulda; remarkable statue; jews; palaces of the wallensteins and colloredos; st john nepomucene; joseph ii's ingenious method of extorting money from the jews; catalani; story of the duchess libussa. rafaelli: mosaic work of. rho: ancient tree. rome: censorship of books at the dogana, coliseum; arch of constantine; _via sacra_--excavations; tarpeian rock; capitol; st peter's; anecdote of michel angelo; statue of st peter; masterpieces of sculpture in capitoline museum; transteverini; effect of the settling of foreign artists in; santa maria maggiore; church of st john lateran; egyptian obelisk; la scala santa; quirinal; fountains; column of trajan; baths of diocletian; theatres; masterpieces of art in the vatican museum; statue of jupiter capitolinus; stanze di rafaello; appian road; social life in; the _avvocati_; papal government; post office defalcations; the carnival; races in the corso; masquerades; sovereigns and persons of distinction living in rome in ; easter in; swiss guard; noble guard; papal benediction; illumination of st peter's; fireworks from castle of st angelo; the brigand barbone; his wife. savoy: character of inhabitants of. schönbrunn: anecdote of napoleon's son. schuyler, general: his reproof of general burgoyne. scindiah: career of. sgricci, signor: his genius for improvisation. sicard, abbeé; director of the institution of the _sourds-muets_, eulogises sir sidney smith. sienna: cathedral, piccolomini monument; dialect. simplon: road over the, chaussée; _maisons de refuge_. sismondi, the historian banished from geneva. smith, lucius f.: friend of de boigne. smith, sir sidney: his eulogy of the abbé sicard. spoleto: ruins of ancient buildings. st cloud: favourite residence of napoleon. st eustatius: pillaged by admiral rodney. st germain: depôt for articles plundered by prussian officers. st helena: injustice of napoleon's banishment to. stewart, lord: conduct of, at conference of french commissioners with the allies. taddei, rosa: her talent for improvisation. talma, his ailing at the théâtre français. thorwaldsen: character of his genius. tivoli: the villa d'este, adrian's villa. tölz: remarkable groups of figures in wood, representing history of christ. tournay, citadel of. trévoux: scenery on the road between mâcon and, hotel-keeper's beautiful daughter. turin: chapelle du saint suaire, remarkable works of art in; the king of sardinia. tuscany: contrast with papal dominions, pronunciation; peasantry; fondness of tuscan women for dress; feeling towards napoleon in; character of the people; house of americo vespucci. tyrol, the: general description of, dress of the peasant women. valais: crétins of. vaud, canton de: character of inhabitants of, gratitude to france; democratic spirit; la harpe; defends its independence; hatred of french royalists to. velino: remarkable cascade. venice: canale grande, rialto; palaces of great families; the merceria; water-fête; piazza di san marco; church of st mark; campanile; variety of costumes in; dialect; social life in; doge's palace; theatres; gondolas. verbruggen, h.: work of, in church of st gudule, brussels. verona: amphitheatre, palladio; scala family; social advantages in. versailles: magnificence of. "vertraute briefe" the. vesuvius: eruptions, lava. vicenza. vienna: art treasures of, respected by french republican armies, great raft; streets; cathedral; hofburg; congress of; wechselbank; belvedere palace; prater; theatres. visconte, galeazzo: builds church of the certosa. volnais, mlle: acting of. voltaire: his play, "mérope", his benefactions to ferney; relics of; portraits of contemporaries in his château. walker, adam: his lectures to etonians stopped. wardle, col.: republican principles of, anonymous denunciation of. waterloo: french officer's remarks on. wellington: his confidence in the result of the campaign, gallantry of; checks frequency of corporal punishment in the army. wilson, maj.-genl: accompanies frye on a tour through the theatre of war. wilson, sir r.: his charges against napoleon. wirion: removed from office by napoleon. york, duke of, opposes frequent corporal punishment in the army. zedera, chevalier: political dispute with genevese, his journey with frye to italy; his parting with frye. this file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. views a-foot; or europe seen with knapsack and staff. by j. bayard taylor. with a preface by n.p. willis. "jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, and merrily hent the stile-a; a merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a." _winter's tale_. in two parts. part i. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by wiley and putnam, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. preface. by n.p. willis. the book which follows, requires little or no introduction. it tells its own story, and tells it well. the interest in it, which induces the writer of this preface to be its usher to the public, is simply that of his having chanced to be among the first appreciators of the author's talent--an appreciation that has since been so more than justified, that the writer is proud to call the author of this book his friend, and bespeak attention to the peculiar energies he has displayed in travel and authorship. mr. taylor's poetical productions while he was still a printer's apprentice, made a strong impression on the writer's mind, and he gave them their due of praise accordingly in the newspaper of which he was then editor. some correspondence ensued, and other fine pieces of writing strengthened the admiration thus awakened, and when the young poet-mechanic came to the city, and modestly announced the bold determination of visiting foreign lands--with means, if they could be got, but with reliance on manual labor if they could not--the writer, understanding the man, and seeing how capable he was of carrying out his manly and enthusiastic scheme, and that it would work uncorruptingly for the improvement of his mind and character, counselled him to go. he went--his book tells how successfully for all his purposes. he has returned, after two years' absence, with large knowledge of the world, of men and of manners, with a pure, invigorated and healthy mind, having passed all this time abroad, and seen and accomplished more than most travelers, _at the cost of only $ , and this sum earned on the road_. this, in the writer's opinion, is a fine instance of character and energy. the book, which records the difficulties and struggles of a printer's apprentice achieving this, must be interesting to americans. the pride of the country is in its self-made men. what mr. taylor is, or what he is yet to become, cannot well be touched upon here, but that it will yet be written, and on a bright page, is, of course, his own confident hope and the writer's confident expectation. the book, which is the record of his progress thus far, is now cordially commended to the public, and it will be read, perhaps, more understandingly after a perusal of the following outline sketch of the difficulties the author had to contend with--a letter written in reply to a note from the writer asking for some of the particulars of his start and progress: _to. mr. willis_,-- my dear sir:-- nearly three years ago (in the beginning of ) the time for accomplishing my long cherished desire of visiting europe, seemed to arrive. a cousin, who had long intended going abroad, was to leave in a few months, and although i was then surrounded by the most unfavorable circumstances, i determined to accompany him, at whatever hazard. i had still two years of my apprenticeship to serve out; i was entirely without means, and my project was strongly opposed by my friends, as something too visionary to be practicable. a short time before, mr. griswold advised me to publish a small volume of youthful effusions, a few of which had appeared in graham's magazine, which he then edited; the idea struck me, that by so doing, i might, if they should be favorably noticed, obtain a newspaper correspondence which would enable me to make the start. the volume was published; a sufficient number was sold among my friends to defray all expenses, and it was charitably noticed by the philadelphia press. some literary friends, to whom i confided my design, promised to aid me with their influence. trusting to this, i made arrangements for leaving the printing-office, which i succeeded in doing, by making a certain compensation for the remainder of my time. i was now fully confident of success, feeling satisfied, that a strong will would always make itself a way. after many applications to different editors and as many disappointments, i finally succeeded, about two weeks before our departure, in making a partial engagement. mr. chandler of the united states gazette and mr. patterson of the saturday evening post, paid me fifty dollars, each, in advance for twelve letters, to be sent from europe, with the probability of accepting more, if these should be satisfactory. this, with a sum which i received from mr. graham for poems published in his magazine, put me in possession of about a hundred and forty dollars, with which i determined to start, trusting to future remuneration for letters, or if that should fail, to my skill as a compositor, for i supposed i could at the worst, work my way through europe, like the german hand werker. thus, with another companion, we left home, an enthusiastic and hopeful trio. i need not trace our wanderings at length. after eight months of suspense, during which time my small means were entirely exhausted, i received a letter from mr. patterson, continuing the engagement for the remainder of my stay, with a remittance of one hundred dollars from himself and mr. graham. other remittances, received from time to time, enabled me to stay abroad two years, during which i traveled on foot upwards of three thousand miles in germany, switzerland, italy and france. i was obliged, however, to use the strictest economy--to live on pilgrim fare, and do penance in rain and cold. my means several times entirely failed; but i was always relieved from serious difficulty through unlooked-for friends, or some unexpected turn of fortune. at rome, owing to the expenses and embarrassments of traveling in italy, i was obliged to give up my original design of proceeding on foot to naples and across the peninsula to otranto, sailing thence to corfu and making a pedestrian journey through albania and greece. but the main object of my pilgrimage is accomplished; i visited the principal places of interest in europe, enjoyed her grandest scenery and the marvels of ancient and modern art, became familiar with other languages, other customs and other institutions, and returned home, after two years' absence, willing now, with satisfied curiosity, to resume life in america. yours, most sincerely, j. bayard taylor. contents. i.--the voyage ii.--a day in ireland iii.--ben lomond and the highland lakes iv.--the burns' festival v.--walk from edinburgh over the border and arrival at london vi.--some of the "sights" of london vii.--flight through belgium viii.--the rhine to heidelberg ix.--scenes in and around heidelberg x.--a walk through the odenwald xi.--scenes in frankfort--an american composer--the poet freiligrath xii.--a week among the students xiii.--christmas and new year in germany xiv.--winter in frankfort--a fair, an inundation and a fire xv.--the dead and the deaf--mendelssohn the composer xvi.--journey on foot from frankfort to cassel xvii.--adventures among the hartz xviii.--notes in leipsic and dresden xix.--rambles in the saxon switzerland xx.--scenes in prague xxi.--journey through eastern bohemia and moravia to the danube xxii.--vienna xxiii.--up the danube xxiv.--the unknown student xxv.--the austrian alps xxvi.--munich xxvii.--through wurtemberg to heidelberg xxviii.--freiburg and the black forest xxix.--people and places in eastern switzerland xxx.--passage of the st gothard and descent into italy xxxi.--milan xxxii.--walk from milan to genoa xxxiii.--scenes in genoa, leghorn and pisa xxxiv.--florence and its galleries xxxv.--a pilgrimage to vallombrosa xxxvi.--walk to siena and pratolino--incidents in florence xxxvii.--american art in florence xxxviii.--an adventure on the great st. bernard--walks around florence xxxix.--winter traveling among the appenines xl.--rome xli.--tivoli and the roman campagna xlii.--tivoli and the roman campagna (_continued_) xliii.--pilgrimage to vaucluse and journey up the rhone xliv.--traveling in burgundy--the miseries of a country diligence xlv.--poetical scenes in paris xlvi.--a glimpse of normandy xlvii.--lockhart, bernard barton and croly--london chimes and greenwich fair xlviii.--homeward bound--conclusion to frank taylor, these records of the pilgrimage, whose toils and enjoyments we have shared together, are affectionately inscribed, by his relative and friend. views a-foot. chapter i. the voyage. an enthusiastic desire of visiting the old world haunted me from early childhood. i cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that i should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long wandered. the want of means was for a time a serious check to my anticipations; but i could not content myself to wait until i had slowly accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels. it seemed to me that a more humble method of seeing the world would place within the power of almost every one, what has hitherto been deemed the privilege of the wealthy few. such a journey, too, offered advantages for becoming acquainted with people as well as places--for observing more intimately, the effect of government and education, and more than all, for the study of human nature, in every condition of life. at length i became possessed of a small sum, to be earned by letters descriptive of things abroad, and on the st of july, , set sail for liverpool, with a relative and friend, whose circumstances were somewhat similar to mine. how far the success of the experiment and the object of our long pilgrimage were attained, these pages will show. * * * * * land and sea. there are springs that rise in the greenwood's heart, where its leafy glooms are cast, and the branches droop in the solemn air, unstirred by the sweeping blast. there are hills that lie in the noontide calm, on the lap of the quiet earth; and, crown'd with gold by the ripened grain, surround my place of birth. dearer are these to my pining heart, than the beauty of the deep, when the moonlight falls in a bolt of gold on the waves that heave in sleep. the rustling talk of the clustered leaves that shade a well-known door, is sweeter far than the booming sound of the breaking wave before. when night on the ocean sinks calmly down, i climb the vessel's prow, where the foam-wreath glows with its phosphor light, like a crown on a sea-nymph's brow. above, through the lattice of rope and spar, the stars in their beauty burn; and the spirit longs to ride their beams, and back to the loved return. they say that the sunset is brighter far when it sinks behind the sea; that the stars shine out with a softer fire-- not thus they seem to me. dearer the flush of the crimson west through trees that my childhood knew. when the star of love with its silver lamp, lights the homes of the tried and true! could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity of "creature comforts," a sea-voyage would be delightful. to the landsman there is sublimity in the wild and ever-varied forms of the ocean; they fill his mind with living images of a glory he had only dreamed of before. but we would have been willing to forego all this and get back the comforts of the shore. at new york we took passage in the second cabin of the oxford, which, as usual in the liverpool packets, consisted of a small space amid-ships, fitted up with rough, temporary berths. the communication with the deck is by an open hatchway, which in storms is closed down. as the passengers in this cabin furnish their own provisions, we made ourselves acquainted with the contents of certain storehouses on pine st. wharf, and purchased a large box of provisions, which was stowed away under our narrow berth. the cook, for a small compensation, took on himself the charge of preparing them, and we made ourselves as comfortable as the close, dark dwelling would admit. as we approached the banks of newfoundland, a gale arose, which for two days and nights carried us on, careering mazeppa-like, up hill and down. the sea looked truly magnificent, although the sailors told us it was nothing at all in comparison with the storms of winter. but we were not permitted to pass the banks, without experiencing one of the calms, for which that neighborhood is noted. for three days we lay almost motionless on the glassy water, sometimes surrounded by large flocks of sea-gulls. the weed brought by the gulf stream, floated around--some branches we fished up, were full of beautiful little shells. once a large school of black-fish came around the vessel, and the carpenter climbed down on the fore-chains, with a harpoon to strike one. scarcely had he taken his position, when they all darted off in a straight line, through the water, and were soon out of sight. he said they smelt the harpoon. we congratulated ourselves on having reached the banks in seven days, as it is considered the longest third-part of the passage. but the hopes of reaching liverpool in twenty days, were soon overthrown. a succession of southerly winds drove the vessel as far north as lat. deg., without bringing us much nearer our destination. it was extremely cold, for we were but five degrees south of the latitude of greenland, and the long northern twilights came on. the last glow of the evening twilight had scarcely faded, before the first glimmering of dawn appeared. i found it extremely easy to read, at p.m., on the deck. we had much diversion on board from a company of iowa indians, under the celebrated chief "white cloud," who are on a visit to england. they are truly a wild enough looking company, and helped not a little to relieve the tedium of the passage. the chief was a very grave and dignified person, but some of the braves were merry enough. one day we had a war-dance on deck, which was a most ludicrous scene. the chief and two braves sat upon the deck, beating violently a small drum and howling forth their war-song, while the others in full dress, painted in a grotesque style, leaped about, brandishing tomahawks and spears, and terminating each dance with a terrific yell. some of the men are very fine-looking, but the squaws are all ugly. they occupied part of the second cabin, separated only by a board partition from our room. this proximity was any thing but agreeable. they kept us awake more than half the night, by singing and howling in the most dolorous manner, with the accompaniment of slapping their hands violently on their bare breasts. we tried an opposition, and a young german student, who was returning home after two years' travel in america, made our room ring with the chorus from der freischütz--but in vain. they _would_ howl and beat their breasts, and the pappoose _would_ squall. any loss of temper is therefore not to be wondered at, when i state that i could scarcely turn in my berth, much less stretch myself out; my cramped limbs alone drove off half the night's slumber. it was a pleasure, at least, to gaze on their strong athletic frames. their massive chests and powerful limbs put to shame our dwindled proportions. one old man, in particular, who seemed the patriarch of the band, used to stand for hours on the quarter deck, sublime and motionless as a statue of jupiter. an interesting incident occurred during the calm of which i spoke. they began to be fearful we were doomed to remain there forever, unless the spirits were invoked for a favorable wind. accordingly the prophet lit his pipe and smoked with great deliberation, muttering all the while in a low voice. then, having obtained a bottle of beer from the captain, he poured it solemnly over the stern of the vessel into the sea. there were some indications of wind at the time, and accordingly the next morning we had a fine breeze, which the iowas attributed solely to the prophet's incantation and eolus' love of beer. after a succession of calms and adverse winds, on the th we were off the hebrides, and though not within sight of land, the southern winds came to us strongly freighted with the "meadow freshness" of the irish bogs, so we could at least _smell_ it. that day the wind became more favorable, and the next morning we were all roused out of our berths by sunrise, at the long wished-for cry of "land!" just under the golden flood of light that streamed through the morning clouds, lay afar-off and indistinct the crags of an island, with the top of a light-house visible at one extremity. to the south of it, and barely distinguishable, so completely was it blended in hue with the veiling cloud, loomed up a lofty mountain. i shall never forget the sight! as we drew nearer, the dim and soft outline it first wore, was broken into a range of crags, with lofty precipices jutting out to the sea, and sloping off inland. the white wall of the light-house shone in the morning's light, and the foam of the breakers dashed up at the foot of the airy cliffs. it was worth all the troubles of a long voyage, to feel the glorious excitement which this herald of new scenes and new adventures created. the light-house was on tory island, on the north-western coast of ireland. the captain decided on taking the north channel, for, although rarely done, it was in our case nearer, and is certainly more interesting than the usual route. we passed the island of ennistrahul, near the entrance of londonderry harbor, and at sunset saw in the distance the islands of islay and jura, off the scottish coast. next morning we were close to the promontory of fairhead, a bold, precipitous headland, like some of the palisades on the hudson; the highlands of the mull of cantire were on the opposite side of the channel, and the wind being ahead, we tacked from shore to shore, running so near the irish coast, that we could see the little thatched huts, stacks of peat, and even rows of potatoes in the fields. it was a panorama: the view extended for miles inland, and the fields of different colored grain were spread out before us, a brilliant mosaic. towards evening we passed ailsa crag, the sea-bird's home, within sight, though about twenty miles distant. on sunday, the th, we passed the lofty headland of the mull of galloway and entered the irish sea. here there was an occurrence of an impressive nature. a woman, belonging to the steerage, who had been ill the whole passage, died the morning before. she appeared to be of a very avaricious disposition, though this might indeed have been the result of self-denial, practised through filial affection. in the morning she was speechless, and while they were endeavoring to persuade her to give up her keys to the captain, died. in her pocket were found two parcels, containing forty sovereigns, sewed up with the most miserly care. it was ascertained she had a widowed mother in the north of ireland, and judging her money could be better applied than to paying for a funeral on shore, the captain gave orders for committing the body to the waves. it rained drearily as her corpse, covered with starred bunting, was held at the gangway while the captain read the funeral service; then one plunge was heard, and a white object, flashed up through the dark waters, as the ship passed on. in the afternoon we passed the isle of man, having a beautiful view of the calf, with a white stream tumbling down the rocks into the sea; and at night saw the sun set behind the mountains of wales. about midnight, the pilot came on board, and soon after sunrise i saw the distant spires of liverpool. the welsh coast was studded with windmills, all in motion, and the harbor spotted with buoys, bells and floating lights. how delightful it was to behold the green trees on the banks of the mersey, and to know that in a few hours we should be on land! about o'clock we came to anchor in the channel of the mersey, near the docks, and after much noise, bustle and confusion, were transferred, with our baggage, to a small steamboat, giving a parting cheer to the iowas, who remained on board. on landing, i stood a moment to observe the scene. the baggage-wagons, drawn by horses, mules and donkeys, were extraordinary; men were going about crying "_the celebrated tralorum gingerbread!_" which they carried in baskets; and a boy in the university dress, with long blue gown and yellow knee-breeches, was running to the wharf to look at the indians. at last the carts were all loaded, the word was given to start, and then, what a scene ensued! away went the mules, the horses and the donkeys; away ran men and women and children, carrying chairs and trunks, and boxes and bedding. the wind was blowing, and the dust whirled up as they dashed helter-skelter through the gate and started off on a hot race, down the dock to the depot. two wagons came together, one of which was overturned, scattering the broken boxes of a scotch family over the pavement; but while the poor woman was crying over her loss, the tide swept on, scarcely taking time to glance at the mishap. our luggage was "passed" with little trouble; the officer merely opening the trunks and pressing his hands on the top. even some american reprints of english works which my companion carried, and feared would be taken from him, were passed over without a word. i was agreeably surprised at this, as from the accounts of some travellers, i had been led to fear horrible things of custom-houses. this over, we took a stroll about the city. i was first struck by seeing so many people walking in the middle of the streets, and so many gentlemen going about with pinks stuck in their button-holes. then, the houses being all built of brown granite or dark brick, gives the town a sombre appearance, which the sunshine (when there is any) cannot dispel. of liverpool we saw little. before the twilight had wholly faded, we were again tossing on the rough waves of the irish sea. chapter ii. a day in ireland. on calling at the steamboat office in liverpool, to take passage to port rush, we found that the fare in the fore cabin was but two shillings and a half, while in the chief cabin it was six times as much. as i had started to make the tour of all europe with a sum little higher than is sometimes given for the mere passage to and fro, there was no alternative--the twenty-four hours' discomfort could be more easily endured than the expense, and as i expected to encounter many hardships, it was best to make a beginning. i had crossed the ocean with tolerable comfort for twenty-four dollars, and was determined to try whether england, where i had been told it was almost impossible to breathe without expense, might not also be seen by one of limited means. the fore _cabin_ was merely a bare room, with a bench along one side, which was occupied by half a dozen irishmen in knee-breeches and heavy brogans. as we passed out of the clarence dock at p.m., i went below and managed to get a seat on one end of the bench, where i spent the night in sleepless misery. the irish bestowed themselves about the floor as they best could, for there was no light, and very soon the morphean deepness of their breathing gave token of blissful unconsciousness. the next morning was misty and rainy, but i preferred walking the deck and drying myself occasionally beside the chimney, to sitting in the dismal room below. we passed the isle of man, and through the whole forenoon were tossed about very disagreeably in the north channel. in the afternoon we stopped at larne, a little antiquated village, not far from belfast, at the head of a crooked arm of the sea. there is an old ivy-grown tower near, and high green mountains rise up around. after leaving it, we had a beautiful panoramic view of the northern coast. many of the precipices are of the same formation as the causeway; fairhead, a promontory of this kind, is grand in the extreme. the perpendicular face of fluted rock is about three hundred feet in height, and towering up sublimely from the water, seemed almost to overhang our heads. my companion compared it to niagara falls petrified; and i think the simile very striking. it is like a cataract falling in huge waves, in some places leaping out from a projecting rock, in others descending in an unbroken sheet. we passed the giant's causeway after dark, and about eleven o'clock reached the harbor of port rush, where, after stumbling up a strange old street, in the dark, we found a little inn, and soon forgot the irish coast and everything else. in the morning when we arose it was raining, with little prospect of fair weather, but having expected nothing better, we set out on foot for the causeway. the rain, however, soon came down in torrents, and we were obliged to take shelter in a cabin by the road-side. the whole house consisted of one room, with bare walls and roof, and earthen floor, while a window of three or four panes supplied the light. a fire of peat was burning on the hearth, and their breakfast, of potatoes alone, stood on the table. the occupants received us with rude but genuine hospitality, giving us the only seats in the room to sit upon; except a rickety bedstead that stood in one corner and a small table, there was no other furniture in the house. the man appeared rather intelligent, and although he complained of the hardness of their lot, had no sympathy with o'connell or the repeal movement. we left this miserable hut, as soon as it ceased raining--and, though there were many cabins along the road, few were better than this. at length, after passing the walls of an old church, in the midst of older tombs, we saw the roofless towers of dunluce castle, on the sea-shore. it stands on an isolated rook, rising perpendicularly two hundred feet above the sea, and connected with the cliffs of the mainland by a narrow arch of masonry. on the summit of the cliffs were the remains of the buildings where the ancient lords kept their vassals. an old man, who takes care of it for lord antrim, on whose property it is situated, showed us the way down to the castle. we walked across the narrow arch, entered the ruined hall, and looked down on the roaring sea below. it still rained, the wind swept furiously through the decaying arches of the banqueting hall and waved the long grass on the desolate battlements. far below, the sea foamed white on the breakers and sent up an unceasing boom. it was the most mournful and desolate picture i ever beheld. there were some low dungeons yet entire, and rude stairways, where, by stooping down, i could ascend nearly to the top of one of the towers, and look out on the wild scenery of the coast. going back, i found a way down the cliff, to the mouth of a cavern in the rock, which extends under the whole castle to the sea. sliding down a heap of sand and stones, i stood under an arch eighty feet high; in front the breakers dashed into the entrance, flinging the spray half-way to the roof, while the sound rang up through the arches like thunder. it seemed to me the haunt of the old norsemen's sea-gods! we left the road near dunluce and walked along the smooth beach to the cliffs that surround the causeway. here we obtained a guide, and descended to one of the caves which can be entered from the shore. opposite the entrance a bare rock called sea gull isle, rises out of the sea like a church steeple. the roof at first was low, but we shortly came to a branch that opened on the sea, where the arch was forty-six feet in height. the breakers dashed far into the cave, and flocks of sea-birds circled round its mouth. the sound of a gun was like a deafening peal of thunder, crashing from arch to arch till it rolled out of the cavern. on the top of the hill a splendid hotel is erected for visitors to the causeway; after passing this we descended to the base of the cliffs, which are here upwards of four hundred feet high, and soon began to find, in the columnar formation of the rocks, indications of our approach. the guide pointed out some columns which appeared to have been melted and run together, from which sir humphrey davy attributed the formation of the causeway to the action of fire. near this is the giant's well, a spring of the purest water, the bottom formed by three perfect hexagons, and the sides of regular columns. one of us observing that no giant had ever drunk from it, the old man answered--"perhaps not: but it was made by a giant--god almighty!" from the well, the causeway commences--a mass of columns, from triangular to octagonal, lying in compact forms, and extending into the sea. i was somewhat disappointed at first, having supposed the causeway to be of great height, but i found the giant's loom, which is the highest part of it, to be but about fifty feet from the water. the singular appearance of the columns and the many strange forms which they assume, render it nevertheless, an object of the greatest interest. walking out on the rocks we came to the ladies' chair, the seat, back, sides and footstool, being all regularly formed by the broken columns. the guide said that any lady who would take three drinks from the giant's well, then sit in this chair and think of any gentleman for whom she had a preference, would be married before a twelvemonth. i asked him if it would answer as well for gentlemen, for by a wonderful coincidence we had each drank three times at the well! he said it would, and thought he was confirming his statement. a cluster of columns about half-way up the cliff is called the giant's organ--from its very striking resemblance to that instrument, and a single rock, worn by the waves into the shape of a rude seat, is his chair. a mile or two further along the coast, two cliffs project from the range, leaving a vast semicircular space between, which, from its resemblance to the old roman theatres, was appropriated for that purpose by the giant. halfway down the crags are two or three pinnacles of rock, called the chimneys, and the stumps of several others can be seen, which, it is said, were shot off by a vessel belonging to the spanish armada, in mistake for the towers of dunluce castle. the vessel was afterwards wrecked in the bay below, which has ever since been called spanish bay, and in calm weather the wreck may be still seen. many of the columns of the causeway have been carried off and sold as pillars for mantels--and though a notice is put up threatening any one with the rigor of the law, depredations are occasionally made. returning, we left the road at dunluce, and took a path which led along the summit of the cliffs. the twilight was gathering, and the wind blew with perfect fury, which, combined with the black and stormy sky, gave the coast an air of extreme wildness. all at once, as we followed the winding path, the crags appeared to open before us, disclosing a yawning chasm, down which a large stream, falling in an unbroken sheet, was lost in the gloom below. witnessed in a calm day, there may perhaps be nothing striking about it, but coming upon us at once, through the gloom of twilight, with the sea thundering below and a scowling sky above, it was absolutely startling. the path at last wound, with many a steep and slippery bend, down the almost perpendicular crags, to the shore, at the foot of a giant isolated rock, having a natural arch through it, eighty feet in height. we followed the narrow strip of beach, having the bare crags on one side and a line of foaming breakers on the other. it soon grew dark; a furious storm came up and swept like a hurricane along the shore. i then understood what horne means by "the lengthening javelins of the blast," for every drop seemed to strike with the force of an arrow, and our clothes were soon pierced in every part. then we went up among the sand hills, and lost each other in the darkness, when, after stumbling about among the gullies for half an hour, shouting for my companions, i found the road and heard my call answered; but it happened to be two irishmen, who came up and said--"and is it another gintleman ye're callin' for? we heard some one cryin', and didn't know but somebody might be kilt." finally, about eleven o'clock we all arrived at the inn, dripping with rain, and before a warm fire concluded the adventures of our day in ireland. chapter iii. ben lomond and the highland lakes. the steamboat londonderry called the next day at port rush, and we left in her for greenock. we ran down the irish coast, past dunluce castle and the causeway; the giant's organ was very plainly visible, and the winds were strong enough to have sounded a storm-song upon it. farther on we had a distant view of carrick-a-rede, a precipitous rock, separated by a yawning chasm from the shore, frequented by the catchers of sea-birds. a narrow swinging bridge, which is only passable in calm weather, crosses this chasm, feet above the water. the deck of the steamer was crowded with irish, and certainly gave no very favorable impression of the condition of the peasantry of ireland. on many of their countenances there was scarcely a mark of intelligence--they were a most brutalized and degraded company of beings. many of them were in a beastly state of intoxication, which, from the contents of some of their pockets, was not likely to decrease. as evening drew on, two or three began singing and the others collected in groups around them. one of them who sang with great spirit, was loudly applauded, and poured forth song after song, of the most rude and unrefined character. we took a deck passage for three shillings, in preference to paying twenty for the cabin, and having secured a vacant place near the chimney, kept it during the whole passage. the waves were as rough in the channel as i ever saw them in the atlantic, and our boat was tossed about like a plaything. by keeping still we escaped sickness, but we could not avoid the sight of the miserable beings who filled the deck. many of them spoke in the irish tongue, and our german friend (the student whom i have already mentioned) noticed in many of the words a resemblance to his mother tongue. i procured a bowl of soup from the steward, but as i was not able to eat it, i gave it to an old man whose hungry look and wistful eyes convinced me it would not be lost on him. he swallowed it with ravenous avidity, together with a crust of bread, which was all i had to give him, and seemed for the time as happy and cheerful as if all his earthly wants were satisfied. we passed by the foot of goat fell, a lofty mountain on the island of arran, and sped on through the darkness past the hills of bute, till we entered the clyde. we arrived at greenock at one o'clock at night, and walking at random through its silent streets, met a policeman, whom we asked to show us where we might find lodgings. he took my cousin and myself to the house of a poor widow, who had a spare bed which she let to strangers, and then conducted our comrade and the german to another lodging-place. an irish strolling musician, who was on board the dumbarton boat, commenced playing soon after we left greenock, and, to my surprise, struck at once into "hail columbia." then he gave "the exile of erin," with the most touching sweetness; and i noticed that always after playing any air that was desired of him, he would invariably return to the sad lament, which i never heard executed with more feeling. it might have been the mild, soft air of the morning, or some peculiar mood of mind that influenced me, but i have been far less affected by music which would be considered immeasurably superior to his. i had been thinking of america, and going up to the old man, i quietly bade him play "home." it thrilled with a painful delight that almost brought tears to my eyes. my companion started as the sweet melody arose, and turned towards me, his face kindling with emotion. dumbarton rock rose higher and higher as we went up the clyde, and before we arrived at the town i hailed the dim outline of ben lomond, rising far off among the highlands. the town is at the head of a small inlet, a short distance from the rock, which was once surrounded by water. we went immediately to the castle. the rock is nearly feet high, and from its position and great strength as a fortress, has been called the gibraltar of scotland. the top is surrounded with battlements, and the armory and barracks stand in a cleft between the two peaks. we passed down a green lane, around the rock, and entered the castle on the south side. a soldier conducted us through a narrow cleft, overhung with crags, to the summit. here, from the remains of a round building, called wallace's tower, from its having been used as a look-out station by that chieftain, we had a beautiful view of the whole of leven vale to loch lomond, ben lomond and the highlands, and on the other hand, the clyde and the isle of bute. in the soft and still balminess of the morning, it was a lovely picture. in the armory, i lifted the sword of wallace, a two-handed weapon, five feet in length. we were also shown a lochaber battle-axe, from bannockburn, and several ancient claymores. we lingered long upon the summit before we forsook the stern fortress for the sweet vale spread out before us. it was indeed a glorious walk, from dumbarton to loch lomond, through this enchanting valley. the air was mild and clear; a few light clouds occasionally crossing the sun, chequered the hills with sun and shade. i have as yet seen nothing that in pastoral beauty can compare with its glassy winding stream, its mossy old woods, and guarding hills--and the ivy-grown, castellated towers embosomed in its forests, or standing on the banks of the leven--the purest of rivers. at a little village called renton, is a monument to smollett, but the inhabitants seem to neglect his memory, as one of the tablets on the pedestal is broken and half fallen away. further up the vale a farmer showed us an old mansion in the midst of a group of trees on the bank of the leven, which he said belonged to smollett--or roderick random, as he called him. two or three old pear trees were still standing where the garden had formerly been, under which he was accustomed to play in his childhood. at the head of leven vale, we set off in the steamer "water witch" over the crystal waters of loch lomond, passing inch murrin, the deer-park of the duke of montrose, and inch caillach, ----"where gray pines wave their shadows o'er clan alpine's grave." under the clear sky and golden light of the declining sun, we entered the highlands, and heard on every side names we had learned long ago in the lays of scott. here were glen fruin and bannochar, ross dhu and the pass of beal-ma-na. further still, we passed rob roy's rock, where the lake is locked in by lofty mountains. the cone-like peak of ben lomond rises far above on the right, ben voirlich stands in front, and the jagged crest of ben arthur looks over the shoulders of the western hills. a scotchman on board pointed out to us the remarkable places, and related many interesting legends. above inversnaid, where there is a beautiful waterfall, leaping over the rock and glancing out from the overhanging birches, we passed mcfarland's island, concerning the origin of which name, he gave a history. a nephew of one of the old earls of lennox, the ruins of whose castle we saw on inch murrin, having murdered his uncle's cook in a quarrel, was obliged to flee for his life. returning after many years, he built a castle upon this island, which was always after named, on account of his exile, _far-land_. on a precipitous point above inversnaid, are two caves in the rock; one near the water is called rob roy's, though the guides generally call it bruce's also, to avoid trouble, as the real bruce's cave is high up the hill. it is so called, because bruce hid there one night, from the pursuit of his enemies. it is related that a mountain goat, who used this probably for a sleeping place, entered, trod on his mantle, and aroused him. thinking his enemies were upon him, he sprang up, and saw the silly animal before him. in token of gratitude for this agreeable surprise, when he became king, a law was passed, declaring goats free throughout all scotland--unpunishable for whatever trespass they might commit, and the legend further says, that not having been repealed, it continues in force at the present day. on the opposite shore of the lake is a large rock, called "bull's rock," having a door in the side, with a stairway cut through the interior to a pulpit on the top, from which the pastor at arroquhar preaches a monthly discourse. the gaelic legend of the rock is, that it once stood near the summit of the mountain above, and was very nearly balanced on the edge of a precipice. two wild bulls, fighting violently, dashed with great force against the rock, which, being thrown from its balance, was tumbled down the side of the mountain, till it reached its present position. the scot was speaking with great bitterness of the betrayal of wallace, when i asked him if it was still considered an insult to turn a loaf of bread bottom upwards in the presence of a montieth. "indeed it is, sir," said he, "i have often done it myself." until last may, travellers were taken no higher up the lake than rob roy's cave, but another boat having commenced running, they can now go beyond loch lomond, two miles up glen falloch, to the inn of inverarnan, thereby visiting some of the finest scenery in that part of the highlands. it was ludicrous, however, to see the steamboat on a river scarcely wider than herself, in a little valley, hemmed in completely with lofty mountains. she went on, however, pushing aside the thickets which lined both banks, and i almost began to think she was going to take the shore for it, when we came to a place widened out for her to be turned around in; here we jumped ashore in a green meadow, on which the cool mist was beginning to descend. when we arose in the morning, at o'clock, to return with the boat, the sun was already shining upon the westward hills, scarcely a cloud was in the sky, and the air was pure and cool. to our great delight ben lomond was unshrouded, and we were told that a more favorable day for the ascent had not occurred for two months. we left the boat at rowardennan, an inn at the southern base of ben lomond. after breakfasting on loch lomond trout, i stole out to the shore while my companions were preparing for the ascent, and made a hasty sketch of the lake. we purposed descending on the northern side and crossing the highlands to loch katrine; though it was represented as difficult and dangerous by the guide who wished to accompany us, we determined to run the risk of being enveloped in a cloud on the summit, and so set out alone, the path appearing plain before us. we had no difficulty in following it up the lesser heights, around the base. it wound on, over rock and bog, among the heather and broom with which the mountain is covered, sometimes running up a steep acclivity, and then winding zigzag round a rocky ascent. the rains two days before, had made the bogs damp and muddy, but with this exception, we had little trouble for some time. ben lomond is a doubly formed mountain. for about three-fourths of the way there is a continued ascent, when it is suddenly terminated by a large barren plain, from one end of which the summit shoots up abruptly, forming at the north side, a precipice feet high. as we approached the summit of the first part of the mountain, the way became very steep and toilsome; but the prospect, which had before been only on the south side, began to open on the east, and we saw suddenly spread out below us, the vale of menteith, with "far loch ard and aberfoil" in the centre, and the huge front of benvenue filling up the picture. taking courage from this, we hurried on. the heather had become stunted and dwarfish, and the ground was covered with short brown grass. the mountain sheep, which we saw looking at us from the rock above, had worn so many paths along the side, that we could not tell which to take, but pushed on in the direction of the summit, till thinking it must be near at hand, we found a mile and a half of plain before us, with the top of ben lomond at the farther end. the plain was full of wet moss, crossed in all directions by deep ravines or gullies worn in it by the mountain rains, and the wind swept across with a tempest-like force. i met, near the base, a young gentleman from edinburgh, who had left rowardennan before us, and we commenced ascending together. it was hard work, but neither liked to stop, so we climbed up to the first resting place, and found the path leading along the brink of a precipice. we soon attained the summit, and climbing up a little mound of earth and stones, i saw the half of scotland at a glance. the clouds hung just above the mountain tops, which rose all around like the waves of a mighty sea. on every side--near and far--stood their misty summits, but ben lomond was the monarch of them all. loch lomond lay unrolled under my feet like a beautiful map, and just opposite, loch long thrust its head from between the feet of the crowded hills, to catch a glimpse of the giant. we could see from ben nevis to ayr--from edinburgh to staffa. stirling and edinburgh castles would have been visible, but that the clouds hung low in the valley of the forth and hid them from our sight. the view from ben lomond is nearly twice as extensive as that from catskill, being uninterrupted on every side, but it wants the glorious forest scenery, clear, blue sky, and active, rejoicing character of the latter. we stayed about two hours upon the summit, taking refuge behind the cairn, when the wind blew strong. i found the smallest of flowers under a rock, and brought it away as a memento. in the middle of the precipice there is a narrow ravine or rather cleft in the rock, to the bottom, from whence the mountain slopes regularly but steeply down to the valley. at the bottom we stopped to awake the echoes, which were repeated four times; our german companion sang the hunter's chorus, which resounded magnificently through this highland hall. we drank from the river forth, which starts from a spring at the foot of the rock, and then commenced descending. this was also toilsome enough. the mountain was quite wet and covered with loose stones, which, dislodged by our feet, went rattling down the side, oftentimes to the danger of the foremost ones; and when we had run or rather slid down the three miles, to the bottom, our knees trembled so as scarcely to support us. here, at a cottage on the farm of coman, we procured some oat cakes and milk for dinner, from an old scotch woman, who pointed out the direction of loch katrine, six miles distant; there was no road, nor indeed a solitary dwelling between. the hills were bare of trees, covered with scraggy bushes and rough heath, which in some places was so thick we could scarcely drag our feet through. added to this, the ground was covered with a kind of moss that retained the moisture like a sponge, so that our boots ere long became thoroughly soaked. several considerable streams were rushing down the side, and many of the wild breed of black highland cattle were grazing around. after climbing up and down one or two heights, occasionally startling the moorcock and ptarmigan from their heathery coverts, we saw the valley of loch con; while in the middle of the plain on the top of the mountain we had ascended, was a sheet of water which we took to be loch ackill. two or three wild fowl swimming on its surface were the only living things in sight. the peaks around shut it out from all view of the world; a single decayed tree leaned over it from a mossy rock, which gave the whole scene an air of the most desolate wildness. i forget the name of the lake; but we learned afterwards that the highlanders consider it the abode of the fairies, or "men of peace," and that it is still superstitiously shunned by them after nightfall. from the next mountain we saw loch ackill and loch katrine below, but a wet and weary descent had yet to be made. i was about throwing off my knapsack on a rock, to take a sketch of loch katrine, which appeared very beautiful from this point, when we discerned a cavalcade of ponies winding along the path from inversnaid, to the head of the lake, and hastened down to take the boat when they should arrive. our haste turned out to be unnecessary, however, for they had to wait for their luggage, which was long in coming. two boatmen then offered to take us for two shillings and sixpence each, with the privilege of stopping at ellen's isle; the regular fare being two shillings. we got in, when, after exchanging a few words in gaelic, one of them called to the travellers, of whom there were a number, to come and take passage at two shillings--then at one and sixpence, and finally concluded by requesting them all to step on board the shilling boat! at length, having secured nine at this reduced price, we pushed off; one of the passengers took the helm, and the boat glided merrily over the clear water. it appears there is some opposition among the boatmen this summer, which is all the better for travelers. they are a bold race, and still preserve many of the characteristics of the clan from which they sprung. one of ours, who had a chieftain-like look, was a macgregor, related to rob roy. the fourth descendant in a direct line, now inhabits the rob roy mansion, at glengyle, a valley at the head of the lake. a small steamboat was put upon loch katrine a short time ago, but the boatmen, jealous of this new invasion of their privilege, one night towed her out to the middle of the lake and there sunk her. near the point of brianchoil is a very small island with a few trees upon it, of which the boatman related a story that was new to me. he said an eccentric individual, many years ago, built his house upon it--but it was soon beaten down by the winds and waves. having built it up with like fortune several times, he at last desisted, saying, "bought wisdom was the best;" since when it has been called the island of wisdom. on the shore below, the boatman showed us his cottage. the whole family were out at the door to witness our progress; he hoisted a flag, and when we came opposite, they exchanged shouts in gaelic. as our men resumed their oars again, we assisted in giving three cheers, which made the echoes of benvenue ring again. some one observed his dog, looking after us from a projecting rock, when he called out to him, "go home, you brute!" we asked him why he did not speak gaelic also to his dog. "very few dogs, indeed," said he, "understand gaelic, but they all understand english. and we therefore all use english when speaking to our dogs; indeed, i know some persons, who know nothing of english, that speak it to their dogs!" they then sang, in a rude manner, a gaelic song. the only word i could distinguish was inch caillach, the burying place of clan alpine. they told us it was the answer of a highland girl to a foreign lord, who wished to make her his bride. perhaps, like the american indian, she would not leave the graves of her fathers. as we drew near the eastern end of the lake, the scenery became far more beautiful. the trosachs opened before us. ben ledi looked down over the "forehead bare" of ben an, and, as we turned a rocky point, ellen's isle rose up in front. it is a beautiful little turquoise in the silver setting of loch katrine. the northern side alone is accessible, all the others being rocky and perpendicular, and thickly grown with trees. we rounded the island to the little bay, bordered by the silver strand, above which is the rock from which fitz-james wound his horn, and shot under an ancient oak which flung its long grey arms over the water; we here found a flight of rocky steps, leading to the top, where stood the bower erected by lady willoughby d'eresby, to correspond with scott's description. two or three blackened beams are all that remain of it, having been burned down some years ago, by the carelessness of a traveler. the mountains stand all around, like giants, to "sentinel this enchanted land." on leaving the island, we saw the goblin's cave, in the side of benvenue, called by the gaels, "coirnan-uriskin." near it is beal-nam-bo, the pass of cattle, overhung with grey weeping birch trees. here the boatmen stopped to let us hear the fine echo, and the names of "rob roy," and "roderick dhu," were sent back to us apparently as loud as they were given. the description of scott is wonderfully exact, though the forest that feathered o'er the sides of benvenue, has since been cut down and sold by the duke of montrose. when we reached the end of the lake it commenced raining, and we hastened on through the pass of beal-an-duine, scarcely taking time to glance at the scenery, till loch achray appeared through the trees, and on its banks the ivy-grown front of the inn of ardcheancrochan, with its unpronounceable name. chapter iv. the burns festival. we passed a glorious summer morning on the banks of loch katrine. the air was pure, fresh and balmy, and the warm sunshine glowed upon forest and lake, upon dark crag and purple mountain-top. the lake was a scene in fairy-land. returning over the rugged battle-plain in the jaws of the trosachs, we passed the wild, lonely valley of glenfinlas and lanric mead, at the head of loch vennachar, rounding the foot of ben ledi to coilantogle ford. we saw the desolate hills of uam-var over which the stag fled from his lair in glenartney, and keeping on through callander, stopped for the night at a little inn on the banks of the teith. the next day we walked through doune, over the lowlands to stirling. crossing allan water and the forth, we climbed stirling castle and looked on the purple peaks of the ochill mountains, the far grampians, and the battle-fields of bannockburn and sheriff muir. our german comrade, feeling little interest in the memory of the poet-ploughman, left in the steamboat for edinburg; we mounted an english coach and rode to falkirk, where we took the cars for glasgow in order to attend the burns festival, on the th of august. this was a great day for scotland--the assembling of all classes to do honor to the memory of her peasant-bard. and right fitting was it, too, that such a meeting should be hold on the banks of the doon, the stream of which he has sung so sweetly, within sight of the cot where he was born, the beautiful monument erected by his countrymen, and more than all, beside "alloway's witch-haunted wall!" one would think old albyn would rise up at the call, and that from the wild hunters of the northern hills to the shepherds of the cheviots, half her honest yeomanry would be there, to render gratitude to the memory of the sweet bard who was one of them, and who gave their wants and their woes such eloquent utterance. for months before had the proposition been made to hold a meeting on the doon, similar to the shakspeare festival on the avon, and the th of july was first appointed for the day, but owing to the necessity of further time for preparation, it was postponed until the th of august. the earl of eglintoun was chosen chairman, and professor wilson vice-chairman; in addition to this, all the most eminent british authors were invited to attend. a pavilion, capable of containing two thousand persons, had been erected near the monument, in a large field, which was thrown open to the public. other preparations were made and the meeting was expected to be of the most interesting character. when we arose it was raining, and i feared that the weather might dampen somewhat the pleasures of the day, as it had done to the celebrated tournament at eglintoun castle. we reached the station in time for the first train, and sped in the face of the wind over the plains of ayrshire, which, under such a gloomy sky, looked most desolate. we ran some distance along the coast, having a view of the hills of arran, and reached ayr about nine o'clock. we came first to the new bridge, which had a triumphal arch in the middle, and the lines, from the "twa brigs of ayr:" "will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime, compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?" while on the arch of the 'old brig' was the reply: "i'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless stane." as we advanced into the town, the decorations became more frequent. the streets were crowded with people carrying banners and wreaths, many of the houses were adorned with green boughs and the vessels in the harbor hung out all their flags. we saw the wallace tower, a high gothic building, having in front a statue of wallace leaning on his sword, by thom, a native of ayr, and on our way to the green, where the procession was to assemble, passed under the triumphal arch thrown across the street opposite the inn where tarn o'shanter caroused so long with souter johnny. leaving the companies to form on the long meadow bordering the shore, we set out for the doon, three miles distant. beggars were seated at regular distances along the road, uttering the most dolorous whinings. both bridges were decorated in the same manner, with miserable looking objects, keeping up, during the whole day, a continual lamentation. persons are prohibited from begging in england and scotland, but i suppose, this being an extraordinary day, license was given them as a favor, to beg free. i noticed that the women, with their usual kindness of heart, bestowed nearly all the alms which these unfortunate objects received. the night before, as i was walking through the streets of glasgow, a young man of the poorer class, very scantily dressed, stepped up to me and begged me to listen to him for a moment. he spoke hurriedly, and agitatedly, begging me, in god's name, to give him something, however little. i gave him what few pence i had with me, when he grasped my hand with a quick motion, saying: "sir, you little think how much you have done for me." i was about to inquire more particularly into his situation, but he had disappeared among the crowd. we passed the "cairn where hunters found the murdered bairn," along a pleasant road to the burns cottage, where it was spanned by a magnificent triumphal arch of evergreens and flowers. to the disgrace of scotland, this neat little thatched cot, where burns passed the first seven years of his life, is now occupied by somebody, who has stuck up a sign over the door, "_licensed to retail spirits, to be drunk on the premises_;" and accordingly the rooms were crowded full of people, all drinking. there was a fine original portrait of burns in one room, and in the old fashioned kitchen we saw the recess where he was born. the hostess looked towards us as if to inquire what we would drink, and i hastened away--there was profanity in the thought. but by this time, the bell of old alloway, which still hangs in its accustomed place, though the walls only are left, began tolling, and we obeyed the call. the attachment of the people for this bell, is so great, that a short time ago, when it was ordered to be removed, the inhabitants rose en masse, and prevented it. the ruin, which is close by the road, stands in the middle of the church-yard, and the first thing i saw, on going in the gate, was the tomb of the father of burns. i looked in the old window, but the interior was filled with rank weeds, and overshadowed by a young tree, which had grown nearly to the eaves. the crowd was now fast gathering in the large field, in the midst of which the pavilion was situated. we went down by the beautiful monument to burns, to the "auld brig o' doon," which was spanned by an arch of evergreens, containing a representation of tam o'shanter and his grey mare, pursued by the witches. it had been arranged that the procession was to pass over the old and new bridges, and from thence by a temporary bridge over the hedge into the field. at this latter place a stand was erected for the sons of burns, the officers of the day, and distinguished guests. here was a beautiful specimen of english exclusiveness. the space adjoining the pavilion was fenced around, and admittance denied at first to any, except those who had tickets for the dinner, which, the price being fifteen shillings, entirely prevented the humble laborers, who, more than all, should participate on the occasion, from witnessing the review of the procession by the sons of burns, and hearing the eloquent speeches of professor wilson and lord eglintoun. thus, of the many thousands who were in the field, but a few hundred who were crowded between the bridge and the railing around the pavilion, enjoyed the interesting spectacle. by good fortune, i obtained a stand, where i had an excellent view of the scene. the sons of burns were in the middle of the platform, with eglintoun on the right, and wilson on their left. mrs. begg, sister of the poet, with her daughters, stood by the countess of eglintoun. she was a plain, benevolent looking woman, dressed in black, and appearing still active and vigorous, though she is upwards of eighty years old. she bears some likeness, especially in the expression of her eye, to the poet. robert burns, the oldest son, appeared to me to have a strong resemblance of his father, and it is said he is the only one who remembers his face. he has for a long time had an office under government, in london. the others have but lately returned from a residence of twenty years in india. professor wilson appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene better than any of them. he shouted and waved his hat, and, with his fine, broad forehead, his long brown locks already mixed with gray, streaming over his shoulders, and that eagle eye glancing over the vast assemblage, seemed a real christopher north, yet full of the fire and vigor of youth--"a gray-haired, happy boy!" about half of the procession consisted of lodges of masons, all of whom turned out on the occasion, as burns was one of the fraternity. i was most interested in several companies of shepherds, from the hills, with their crooks and plaids; a body of archers in lincoln green, with a handsome chief at their head, and some highlanders in their most picturesque of costumes. as one of the companies, which carried a mammoth thistle in a box, came near the platform, wilson snatched a branch, regardless of its pricks, and placed it on his coat. after this pageant, which could not have been much less than three miles long, had passed, a band was stationed on the platform in the centre of the field, around which it formed in a circle, and the whole company sang, "ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon." just at this time, a person dressed to represent tam o'shanter, mounted on a gray mare, issued from a field near the burns monument and rode along towards alloway kirk, from which, when he approached it, a whole legion of witches sallied out and commenced a hot pursuit. they turned back, however, at the keystone of the bridge, the witch with the "cutty sark" holding up in triumph the abstracted tail of maggie. soon after this the company entered the pavilion, and the thousands outside were entertained, as an especial favor, by the band of the th regiment, while from the many liquor booths around the field, they could enjoy themselves in another way. we went up to the monument, which was of more particular interest to us, from the relics within, but admission was denied to all. many persons were collected around the gate, some of whom, having come from a great distance, were anxious to see it; but the keeper only said, such were the orders and he could not disobey them. among the crowd, a grandson of the original tam o'shanter was shown to us. he was a raw-looking boy of nineteen or twenty, wearing a shepherd's cap and jacket, and muttered his disapprobation very decidedly, at not being able to visit the monument. there were one or two showers during the day, and the sky, all the time, was dark and lowering, which was unfavorable for the celebration; but all were glad enough that the rain kept aloof till the ceremonies were nearly over. the speeches delivered at the dinner, which appeared in the papers next morning, are undoubtedly very eloquent. i noticed in the remarks of robert burns, in reply to professor wilson, an acknowledgment which the other speakers forgot. he said, "the sons of burns have grateful hearts, and to the last hour of their existence, they will remember the honor that has been paid them this day, by the noble, the lovely and the talented, of their native land--by men of genius and kindred spirit from our sister land--and lastly, they owe their thanks to the inhabitants of the far distant west, a country of a great, free, and kindred people! (loud cheers.)" in connexion with this subject, i saw an anecdote of the poet, yesterday, which is not generally known. during his connexion with the excise, he was one day at a party, where the health of pitt, then minister, was proposed, as "his master and theirs." he immediately turned down his glass and said, "i will give you the health of a far greater and better man--george washington!" we left the field early and went back through the muddy streets of ayr. the street before the railway office was crowded, and there was so dense a mass of people on the steps, that it seemed almost impossible to get near. seeing no other chance, i managed to take my stand on the lowest steps, where the pressure of the crowd behind and the working of the throng on the steps, raised me off my feet, and in about a quarter of an hour carried me, compressed into the smallest possible space, up the steps to the door, where the crowd burst in by fits, like water rushing out of a bottle. we esteemed ouvselves fortunate in getting room to stand in an open car, where, after a two hours' ride through the wind and pelting rain, we arrived at glasgow. chapter v. walk from edinburg over the border and arrival at london. we left glasgow on the morning after returning from the burns festival, taking passage in the open cars for edinburg, for six shillings. on leaving the depot, we plunged into the heart of the hill on which glasgow cathedral stands and were whisked through darkness and sulphury smoke to daylight again. the cars bore us past a spur of the highlands, through a beautiful country where women were at work in the fields, to linlithgow, the birth-place of queen mary. the majestic ruins of its once-proud palace, stand on a green meadow behind the town. in another hour we were walking through edinburg, admiring its palace-like edifices, and stopping every few minutes to gaze up at some lofty monument. really, thought i, we call baltimore the "monumental city" for its two marble columns, and here is edinburg with one at every street-corner! these, too, not in the midst of glaring red buildings, where they seem to have been accidentally dropped, but framed in by lofty granite mansions, whose long vistas make an appropriate background to the picture. we looked from calton hill on salisbury crags and over the firth of forth, then descended to dark old holyrood, where the memory of lovely mary lingers like a stray sunbeam in her cold halls, and the fair, boyish face of rizzio looks down from the canvass on the armor of his murderer. we threaded the canongate and climbed to the castle; and finally, after a day and a half's sojourn, buckled on our knapsacks and marched out of the northern athens. in a short time the tall spire of dalkeith appeared above the green wood, and we saw to the right, perched on the steep banks of the esk, the picturesque cottage of hawthornden, where drummond once lived in poetic solitude. we made haste to cross the dreary waste of the muirfoot hills before nightfall, from the highest summit of which we took a last view of edinburg castle and the salisbury crags, then blue in the distance. far to the east were the hills of lammermuir and the country of mid-lothian lay before us. it was all _scott_-land. the inn of torsonce, beside the gala water, was our resting-place for the night. as we approached galashiels the next morning, where the bed of the silver gala is nearly emptied by a number of dingy manufactories, the hills opened, disclosing the sweet vale of the tweed, guarded by the triple peak of the eildon, at whose base lay nestled the village of melrose. i stopped at a bookstore to purchase a view of the abbey; to my surprise nearly half the works were by american authors. there wore bryant, longfellow, channing, emerson, dana, ware and many others. the bookseller told me he had sold more of ware's letters than any other book in his store, "and also," to use his own words, "an immense number of the great dr. channing." i have seen english editions of percival, willis, whittier and mrs. sigourney, but bancroft and prescott are classed among the "standard _british_ historians." crossing the gala we ascended a hill on the road to selkirk, and behold! the tweed ran below, and opposite, in the midst of embowering trees planted by the hand of scott, rose the grey halls of abbotsford. we went down a lane to the banks of the swift stream, but finding no ferry, b---- and i, as it looked very shallow, thought we might save a long walk by wading across. f---- preferred hunting for a boat; we two set out together, with our knapsacks on our backs, and our boots in our hands. the current was ice-cold and very swift, and as the bed was covered with loose stones, it required the greatest care to stand upright. looking at the bottom, through the rapid water, made my head so giddy, i was forced to stop and shut my eyes; my friend, who had firmer nerves, went plunging on to a deeper and swifter part, where the strength of the current made him stagger very unpleasantly. i called to him to return; the next thing i saw, he gave a plunge and went down to the shoulder in the cold flood. while he was struggling with a frightened expression of face to recover his footing, i leaned on my staff and laughed till i was on the point of falling also. to crown our mortification, f---- had found a ferry a few yards higher up and was on the opposite shore, watching us wade back again, my friend with dripping clothes and boots full of water. i could not forgive the pretty scotch damsel who rowed us across, the mischievous lurking smile which told that she too had witnessed the adventure. we found a foot-path on the other side, which led through a young forest to abbotsford. rude pieces of sculpture, taken from melrose abbey, were scattered around the gate, some half buried in the earth and overgrown with weeds. the niches in the walls were filled with pieces of sculpture, and an antique marble greyhound reposed in the middle of the court yard. we rang the bell in an outer vestibule, ornamented with several pairs of antlers, when a lady appeared, who, from her appearance, i have no doubt was mrs. ormand, the "duenna of abbotsford," so humorously described by d'arlincourt, in his "three kingdoms." she ushered us into the entrance hall, which has a magnificent ceiling of carved oak and is lighted by lofty stained windows. an effigy of a knight in armor stood at either end, one holding a huge two-handed sword found on bosworth field; the walls were covered with helmets and breastplates of the olden time. among the curiosities in the armory are napoleon's pistols, the blunderbuss of hofer, rob roy's purse and gun, and the offering box of queen mary. through the folding doors between the dining-room, drawing-room and library, is a fine vista, terminated by a niche, in which stands chantrey's bust of scott. the ceilings are of carved scottish oak and the doors of american cedar. adjoining the library is his study, the walls of which are covered with books; the doors and windows are double, to render it quiet and undisturbed. his books and inkstand are on the table and his writing-chair stands before it, as if he had left them but a moment before. in a little closet adjoining, where he kept his private manuscripts, are the clothes he last wore, his cane and belt, to which a hammer and small axe are attached, and his sword. a narrow staircase led from the study to his sleeping room above, by which he could come down at night and work while his family slept. the silence about the place is solemn and breathless, as if it waited to be broken by his returning footstep. i felt an awe in treading these lonely halls, like that which impressed me before the grave of washington--a feeling that hallowed the spot, as if there yet lingered a low vibration of the lyre, though the minstrel had departed forever! plucking a wild rose that grew near the walls, i left abbotsford, embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to melrose. we went immediately to the abbey, in the lower part of the village, near the tweed. as i approached the gate, the porteress came out, and having scrutinized me rather sharply, asked my name. i told her;--"well," she added, "there is a _prospect_ here for you." thinking she alluded to the ruin, i replied: "yes, the view is certainly very fine." "oh! i don't mean that," she replied, "a young gentleman left a prospect here for you!"--whereupon she brought out a spy-glass, which i recognized us one that our german comrade had given to me. he had gone on, and hoped to meet us at jedburgh. melrose is the finest remaining specimen of gothic architecture in scotland. some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows--the south and east oriels--are of a lightness and grace of execution really surprising. we saw the tomb of michael scott, of king alexander ii, and that of the douglas, marked with a sword. the heart of bruce is supposed to have been buried beneath the high altar. the chancel is all open to the sky, and rooks build their nests among the wild ivy that climbs over the crumbling arches. one of these came tamely down and perched upon the hand of our fair guide. by a winding stair in one of the towers we mounted to the top of the arch and looked down on the grassy floor. i sat on the broken pillar, which scott always used for a seat when he visited the abbey, and read the disinterring of the magic book, in the "lay of the last minstrel." i never comprehended its full beauty till then: the memory of melrose will give it a thrilling interest, in the future. when we left, i was willing to say, with the minstrel: "was never scene so sad and fair!" after seeing the home and favorite haunt of scott, we felt a wish to stand by his grave, but we had ancrum moor to pass before night, and the tweed was between us and dryburgh abbey. we did not wish to try another watery adventure, and therefore walked on to the village of ancrum, where a gate-keeper on the road gave us lodging and good fare, for a moderate price. many of this class practise this double employment, and the economical traveller, who looks more to comfort than luxury, will not fail to patronize them. next morning we took a foot-path over the hills to jedburgh. from the summit there was a lovely view of the valley of the teviot, with the blue cheviots in the distance. i thought of pringle's beautiful farewell: "our native land, our native vale, a long, a last adieu, farewell to bonny teviot-dale, and cheviot's mountains blue!" the poet was born in the valley below, and one that looks upon its beauty cannot wonder how his heart clung to the scenes he was leaving. we saw jedburgh and its majestic old abbey, and ascended the valley of the jed towards the cheviots. the hills, covered with woods of a richness and even gorgeous beauty of foliage, shut out this lovely glen completely from the world. i found myself continually coveting the lonely dwellings that were perched on the rocky heights, or nestled, like a fairy pavilion, in the lap of a grove. these forests formerly furnished the wood for the celebrated jedwood axe, used in the border forays. as we continued ascending, the prospect behind us widened, till we reached the summit of the carter fell, whence there is a view of great extent and beauty. the eildon hills, though twenty-five miles distant, seemed in the foreground of the picture. with a glass, edinburgh castle might be seen over the dim outline of the muirfoot hills. after crossing the border, we passed the scene of the encounter between percy and douglass, celebrated in "chevy chase," and at the lonely inn of whitelee, in the valley below, took up our quarters for the night. travellers have described the cheviots as being bleak and uninteresting. although they are bare and brown, to me the scenery was of a character of beauty entirely original. they are not rugged and broken like the highlands, but lift their round backs gracefully from the plain, while the more distant ranges are clad in many an airy hue. willis quaintly and truly remarks, that travellers only tell you the picture produced in their own brain by what they see, otherwise the world would be like a pawnbroker's shop, where each traveller wears the cast-off clothes of others. therefore let no one, of a gloomy temperament, journeying over the cheviots in dull november, arraign me for having falsely praised their beauty. i was somewhat amused with seeing a splendid carriage with footmen and outriders, crossing the mountain, the glorious landscape full in view, containing a richly dressed lady, _fast asleep!_ it is no uncommon thing to meet carriages in the highlands, in which the occupants are comfortably reading, while being whirled through the finest scenery. and _apropos_ of this subject, my german friend related to me an incident. his brother was travelling on the rhine, and when in the midst of the grandest scenes, met a carriage containing an english gentleman and lady, both asleep, while on the seat behind was stationed an artist, sketching away with all his might. he asked the latter the reason of his industry, when he answered, "oh! my lord wishes to see every night what he has passed during the day, and so i sketch as we go along!" the hills, particularly on the english side, are covered with flocks of sheep, and lazy shepherds lay basking in the sun, among the purple heather, with their shaggy black dogs beside them. on many of the hills are landmarks, by which, when the snow has covered all the trucks, they can direct their way. after walking many miles through green valleys, down which flowed the red water, its very name telling of the conflicts which had crimsoned its tide, we came to the moors, and ten miles of blacker, drearier waste i never saw. before entering them we passed the pretty little village of otterburn, near the scene of the battle. i brought away a wild flower that grew on soil enriched by the blood of the percys. on the village inn, is their ancient coat of arms, a lion rampant, on a field of gold, with the motto, "_esperance en dieu_." scarcely a house or a tree enlivened the black waste, and even the road was marked on each side by high poles, to direct the traveller in winter. we were glad when at length the green fields came again in sight, and the little village of whelpington knowes, with its old ivy-grown church tower, welcomed us after the lonely walk. as one specimen of the intelligence of this part of england, we saw a board conspicuously posted at the commencement of a private road, declaring that "all persons travelling this way will be _persecuted_." as it led to a _church_, however, there may have been a design in the expression. on the fifth day after leaving edinburgh, we reached a hill, overlooking the valley of the tyne and the german ocean, as sunset was reddening in the west. a cloud of coal-smoke made us aware of the vicinity of newcastle. on the summit of the hill a large cattle fair was being held, and crowds of people were gathered in and around a camp of gaudily decorated tents. fires were kindled here and there, and drinking, carousing and horse-racing were flourishing in full vigor. we set out one morning to hunt the roman wall. passing the fine buildings in the centre of the city and the lofty monument to earl grey, we went towards the western gate and soon came to the ruins of a building, about whose origin there could be no doubt. it stood there, blackened by the rust of ages, a remnant of power passed away. there was no mistaking the massive round tower, with its projecting ornaments, such as are often seen in the ruder works of the romans. on each side a fragment of wall remained standing, and there appeared to be a chamber in the interior, which was choked up with rubbish. there is another tower, much higher, in a public square in another part of the city, a portion of which is fitted up as a dwelling for the family which takes care of it; but there was such a ridiculous contrast between the ivy-grown top, and the handsome modern windows and doors of the lower story, that it did not impress me half as much as the other, with all its neglect. these are the farthest limits of that power whose mighty works i hope hereafter to view at the seat of her grandeur and glory. i witnessed a scene at newcastle that cannot soon be forgotten; as it showed more plainly than i had before an opportunity of observing, the state to which the laboring classes of england are reduced. hearing singing in the street, under my window, one morning, i looked out and saw a body of men, apparently of the lower class, but decent and sober looking, who were singing in a rude and plaintive strain some ballad, the purport of which i could not understand. on making inquiry, i discovered it was part of a body of miners, who, about eighteen weeks before, in consequence of not being able to support their families with the small pittance allowed them, had "struck" for higher wages. this their employers refused to give them, and sent to wales, where they obtained workmen at the former price. the houses these laborers had occupied were all taken from them, and for eighteen weeks they had no other means of subsistence than the casual charity given them for singing the story of their wrongs. it made my blood boil to bear those tones, wrung from the heart of poverty by the hand of tyranny. the ignorance, permitted by the government, causes an unheard amount of misery and degradation. we heard afterwards in the streets, another company who played on musical instruments. beneath the proud swell of england's martial airs, there sounded to my ears a tone whose gathering murmur will make itself heard ere long by the dull cars of power. at last at the appointed time, we found ourselves on board the "london merchant," in the muddy tyne, waiting for the tide to rise high enough to permit us to descend the river. there is great competition among the steamboats this summer, and the price of passage to london is reduced to five and ten shillings. the second cabin, however, is a place of tolerable comfort, and as the steward had promised to keep berths for us, we engaged passage. following the windings of the narrow river, we passed sunderland and tynemouth, where it expands into the german ocean. the water was barely stirred by a gentle wind, and little resembled the stormy sea i expected to find it. we glided over the smooth surface, watching the blue line of the distant shore till dark, when i went below expecting to enjoy a few hours' oblivion. but the faithless steward had given up the promised berth to another, and it was only with difficulty that i secured a seat by the cabin table, where i dozed half the night with my head on my arms. it grew at last too close and wearisome; i went up on deck and lay down on the windlass, taking care to balance myself well before going to sleep. the earliest light of dawn awoke me to a consciousness of damp clothes and bruised limbs. we were in sight of the low shore the whole day, sometimes seeing the dim outline of a church, or group of trees over the downs or flat beds of sand, which border the eastern coast of england. about dark, the red light of the nore was seen, and we hoped before many hours to be in london. the lights of gravesend were passed, but about ten o'clock, as we entered the narrow channel of the thames, we struck another steamboat in the darkness, and were obliged to cast anchor for some time. when i went on deck in the gray light of morning again, we were gliding up a narrow, muddy river, between rows of gloomy buildings, with many vessels lying at anchor. it grew lighter, till, as we turned a point, right before, me lay a vast crowd of vessels, and in the distance, above the wilderness of buildings, stood a dim, gigantic dome in the sky; what a bound my heart gave at the sight! and the tall pillar that stood near it--i did not need a second glance to recognize the monument. i knew the majestic bridge that spanned the river above; but on the right bank stood a cluster of massive buildings, crowned with many a turret, that attracted my eye. a crowd of old associations pressed bewilderingly upon the mind, to see standing there, grim and dark with many a bloody page of england's history--the tower of london! the morning sky was as yet but faintly obscured by the coal-smoke, and in the misty light of coming sunrise, all objects seemed grander than their wont. in spite of the thrilling interest of the scene, i could not help thinking of byron's ludicrous but most expressive description: "a mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping, dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye can reach; with here and there a sail just skipping in sight, then lost amidst the forestry of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping on tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; a huge dun cupola, like a fool's-cap crown on a fool's head,--and there is london town." chapter vi. some of the "sights" of london. in the course of time we came to anchor in the stream; skiffs from the shore pulled alongside, and after some little quarrelling, we were safely deposited in one, with a party who desired to be landed at the tower stairs. the dark walls frowned above us as we mounted from the water and passed into an open square on the outside of the moat. the laborers were about commencing work, the fashionable _day_ having just closed, but there was still noise and bustle enough in the streets, particularly when we reached whitechapel, part of the great thoroughfare, extending through the heart of london to westminster abbey and the parliament buildings. further on, through leadenhall street and fleet street--what a world! here come the ever-thronging, ever-rolling waves of life, pressing and whirling on in their tumultuous career. here day and night pours the stream of human beings, seeming amid the roar and din and clatter of the passing vehicles, like the tide of some great combat. how lonely it makes one to stand still and feel that of all the mighty throng which divides itself around him, not a being knows or cares for him! what knows he too of the thousands who pass him by? how many who bear the impress of godlike virtue, or hide beneath a goodly countenance a heart black with crime? how many fiery spirits, all glowing with hope for the yet unclouded future, or brooding over a darkened and desolate past in the agony of despair? there is a sublimity in this human niagara that makes one look on his own race with something of awe. we walked down the thames, through the narrow streets of wapping, over the mouth of the tunnel is a large circular building, with a dome to light the entrance below. paying the fee of a penny, we descended by a winding staircase to the bottom, which is seventy-three feet below the surface. the carriage-way, still unfinished, will extend further into the city. from the bottom the view of the two arches of the tunnel, brilliantly lighted with gas, is very fine; it has a much less heavy and gloomy appearance than i expected. as we walked along under the bed of the river, two or three girls at one end began playing on the french horn and bugle, and the echoes, when not too deep to confuse the melody, were remarkably beautiful. between the arches of the division separating the two passages, are shops, occupied by venders of fancy articles, views of the tunnel, engravings, &c. in the middle is a small printing press, where, a sheet containing a description of the whole work is printed for those who desire it. as i was no stranger to this art, i requested the boy to let me print one myself, but he had such a bad roller i did not succeed in getting a good impression. the air within is somewhat damp, but fresh and agreeably cool, and one can scarcely realize in walking along the light passage, that a river is rolling above his head. the immense solidity and compactness of the structure precludes the danger of accident, each of the sides being arched outwards, so that the heaviest pressure only strengthens the whole. it will long remain a noble monument of human daring and ingenuity. st. paul's is on a scale of grandeur excelling every thing i have yet seen. the dome seems to stand in the sky, as you look up to it; the distance from which you view it, combined with the atmosphere of london, give it a dim, shadowy appearance, that perfectly startles one with its immensity. the roof from which the dome springs is itself as high as the spires of most other churches--blackened for two hundred years with the coal-smoke of london, it stands like a relic of the giant architecture of the early world. the interior is what one would expect to behold, after viewing the outside. a maze of grand arches on every side, encompasses the dome, which you gaze up at, as at the sky; and from every pillar and wall look down the marble forms of the dead. there is scarcely a vacant niche left in all this mighty hall, so many are the statues that meet one on every side. with the exceptions of john howard, sir astley cooper and wren, whose monument is the church itself, they are all to military men. i thought if they had all been removed except howard's, it would better have suited such a temple, and the great soul it commemorated. i never was more impressed with the grandeur of human invention, than when ascending the dome. i could with difficulty conceive the means by which such a mighty edifice had been lifted into the air. that small frame of sir christopher wren must have contained a mind capable of vast conceptions. the dome is like the summit of a mountain; so wide is the prospect, and so great the pile upon which you stand. london lay beneath us, like an ant-hill, with the black insects swarming to and fro in their long avenues, the sound of their employments coming up like the roar of the sea. a cloud of coal-smoke hung over it, through which many a pointed spire was thrust up; sometimes the wind would blow it aside for a moment, and the thousands of red roofs would shine out clearer. the bridged thames, covered with craft of all sizes, wound beneath us like a ringed and spotted serpent. the scene was like an immense circular picture in the blue frame of the hills around. continuing our way up fleet street, which, notwithstanding the gaiety of its shops and its constant bustle, has an antique appearance, we came to the temple bar, the western boundary of the ancient city. in the inside of the middle arch, the old gates are still standing. from this point we entered the new portion of the city, which wore an air of increasing splendor as we advanced. the appearance of the strand and trafalgar square is truly magnificent. fancy every house in broadway a store, all built of light granite, the park stripped of all its trees and paved with granite, and a lofty column in the centre, double the crowd and the tumult of business, and you will have some idea of the view. it was a relief to get into st. james's park, among the trees and flowers again. here, beautiful winding walks led around little lakes, in which were hundreds of water-fowl, swimming. groups of merry children were sporting on the green lawn, enjoying their privilege of roaming every where at will, while the older bipeds were confined to the regular walks. at the western end stood buckingham palace, looking over the trees towards st. paul's; through the grove on the eminence above, the towers of st. james's could be seen. but there was a dim building, with two lofty square towers, decorated with a profusion of pointed gothic pinnacles, that i looked at with more interest than these appendages of royalty. i could not linger long in its vicinity, but going back again by the horse guards, took the road to _westminster abbey_. we approached by the general entrance, poet's corner. i hardly stopped to look at the elaborate exterior of henry viith's chapel, but passed on to the door. on entering, the first thing that met my eyes were the words, "oh rare ben jonson," under his bust. near by stood the monuments of spenser and gay, and a few paces further looked down the sublime countenance of milton. never was a spot so full of intense interest. the light was just dim enough to give it a solemn, religious appearance, making the marble forms of poets and philosophers so shadowy and impressive, that i felt as if standing in their living presence. every step called up some mind linked with the associations of my childhood. there was the gentle feminine countenance of thompson, and the majestic head of dryden; addison with his classic features, and gray, full of the fire of lofty thought. in another chamber, i paused long before the ashes of shakspeare; and while looking at the monument of garrick, started to find that i stood upon his grave. what a glorious galaxy of genius is here collected--what a constellation of stars whose light is immortal! the mind is completely fettered by their spirit. everything is forgotten but the mighty dead, who still "rule us from their urns." the chapel of henry vii., which we next entered, is one of the most elaborate specimens of gothic workmanship in the world. if the first idea of the gothic arch sprung from observing the forms of trees, this chapel must resemble the first conceptions of that order, for the fluted columns rise up like tall trees, branching out at the top into spreading capitals covered with leaves, and supporting arches of the ceiling resembling a leafy roof. the side-chapels are filled with tombs of knightly families, the husband and wife lying on their backs on the tombs, with their hands clasped, while their children, about the size of dolls, are kneeling around. numberless are the barons and earls and dukes, whose grim effigies stare from their tombs. in opposite chapels are the tombs of mary and elizabeth, and near the former that of darnley. after having visited many of the scenes of her life, it was with no ordinary emotion that i stood by the sepulchre of mary. how differently one looks upon it and upon that of the proud elizabeth! we descended to the chapel of edward the confessor, within the splendid shrine of which repose his ashes. here we were shown the chair on which the english monarchs have been crowned for several hundred years, under the seat is the stone, brought from the abbey of scone, whereon the kings of scotland were crowned. the chair is of oak, carved and hacked over with names, and on the bottom some one has recorded his name with the fact that, he once slept in it. we sat down and rested in it without ceremony. passing along an aisle leading to the grand hall, we saw the tomb of aymer de valence, a knight of the crusades. near here is the hall where the knights of the order of bath met. over each seat their dusty banners are still hanging, each with its crest, and their armor is rusting upon the wall. it seemed like a banqueting hall of the olden time, where the knights had left their seats for a moment vacant. entering the nave, we were lost in the wilderness of sculpture. here stood the forms of pitt, fox, burke, sheridan and watts, from the chisels of chantry, bacon and westmacott. further down were sir isaac newton and sir godfrey kneller--opposite andre, and paoli, the italian, who died here in exile. how can i convey an idea of the scene? notwithstanding all the descriptions i had read, i was totally unprepared for the reality, nor could i have anticipated the hushed and breathless interest with which i paced the dim aisles, gazing, at every step, on the last resting place of some great and familiar name. a place so sacred to all who inherit the english tongue, is worthy of a special pilgrimage across the deep. to those who are unable to visit it, a description may be interesting; but so far does it fall short of the scene itself, that if i thought it would induce a few of our wealthy idlers, or even those who, like myself, must travel with toil and privation to come hither, i would write till the pen dropped from my hand. more than twenty grand halls of the british museum are devoted to antiquities, and include the elgin marbles--the spoils of the parthenon--the fellows marbles, brought from the ancient city of xanthus, and sir william hamilton's collection of italian antiquities. it was painful to see the friezes of the parthenon, broken and defaced as they are, in such a place. rather let them moulder to dust on the ruin from which they were torn, shining through the blue veil of the grecian atmosphere, from the summit of the acropolis! the national gallery, on trafalgar square, is open four days in the week, to the public. the "raising of lazarus," by sebastian del piombo, is considered the gem of the collection, but my unschooled eyes could not view it as such. it is also remarkable for having been transferred from wood to canvass, without injury. this delicate operation was accomplished by gluing the panel on which it was painted, flat on a smooth table, and planing the wood gradually away till the coat of hardened paint alone remained. a proper canvass was then prepared, covered with a strong cement, and laid on the back of the picture, which adhered firmly to it. the owner's nerves must have had a severe trial, if he had courage to watch the operation. i was enraptured with murillo's pictures of st. john and the holy family. st. john is represented as a boy in the woods, fondling a lamb. it is a glorious head. the dark curls cluster around his fair brow, and his eyes seem already glowing with the fire of future inspiration. there is an innocence, a childish sweetness of expression in the countenance, which makes one love to gaze upon it. both of these paintings wore constantly surrounded by ladies, and they certainly deserved the preference. in the rooms devoted to english artists, there are many of the finest works of west, reynolds, hogarth and wilkie. we spent a day in visiting the _lungs of london_, as the two grand parks have been called. from the strand through the regent circus, the centre of the fashionable part of the city, we passed to piccadilly, culling on our way to see our old friends, the iowas. they were at the egyptian hall, in connexion with catlin's indian collection. the old braves knew us at once, particularly blister feet, who used often to walk a linweon deck with me, at sea. further along piccadilly is wellington's mansion of apsley house, and nearly opposite it, in the corner of hyde park, stands the colossal statue of achilles, cast from cannon taken at salamanca and vittoria. the park resembles an open common, with here and there a grove of trees, intersected by carriage roads, it is like getting into the country again to be out on its broad, green field, with the city seen dimly around through the smoky atmosphere. we walked for a mile or two along the shady avenues and over the lawns, having a view of the princely terraces and gardens on one hand, and the gentle outline of primrose hill on the other. regent's park itself covers a space of nearly four hundred acres! but if london is unsurpassed in splendor, it has also its corresponding share of crime. notwithstanding the large and efficient body of police, who do much towards the control of vice, one sees enough of degradation and brutality in a short time, to make his heart sick. even the public thorough fares are thronged at night with characters of the lowest description, and it is not expedient to go through many of the narrow bye-haunts of the old city in the day-time. the police, who are ever on the watch, immediately seize and carry off any offender, but from the statements of persons who have had an opportunity of observing, as well as from my own slight experience, i am convinced that there is an untold amount of misery and crime. london is one of the wonders of the world, but there is reason to believe it is one of the curses of the world also; though, in fact, nothing but an active and unceasing philanthropy can prevent any city from becoming so. _aug. ._--i have now been six days in london, and by making good use of my feet and eyes, have managed to become familiar with almost every object of interest within its precincts. having a plan mapped out for the day, i started from my humble lodgings at the aldgate coffee house, where i slept off fatigue for a shilling a night, and walked up cheapside or down whitechapel, as the case might be, hunting out my way to churches, halls and theatres. in this way, at a trifling expense, i have perhaps seen as much as many who spend here double the time and ten times the money. our whole tour from liverpool hither, by way of ireland and scotland, cost us but twenty-five dollars each! although, except in one or two cases, we denied ourselves no necessary comfort. this shows that the glorious privilege of looking on the scenes of the old world need not be confined to people of wealth and leisure. it may be enjoyed by all who can occasionally forego a little bodily comfort for the sake of mental and spiritual gain. we leave this afternoon for dover. tomorrow i shall dine in belgium! chapter vii. flight through belgium. _bruges._--on the continent at last! how strangely look the century-old towers, antique monuments, and quaint, narrow streets of the flemish cities! it is an agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners are different from one's own. the old buildings around, linked with many a stirring association of past history, gratify the glowing anticipations with which one has looked forward to seeing them, and the fancy is busy at work reconciling the _real_ scene with the _ideal_; but the want of a communication with the living world about, walls one up with a sense of loneliness he could not before have conceived. i envy the children in the streets of bruges their childish language. yesterday afternoon we came from london through the green wooded lawns and vales of england, to dover, which we reached at sunset, passing by a long tunnel through the lofty shakspeare cliff. we had barely time before it grew dark to ascend the cliff. the glorious coast view looked still wilder in the gathering twilight, which soon hid from our sight the dim hills of france. on the cliff opposite frowned the massive battlements of the castle, guarding the town, which lay in a nook of the rocks below. as the ostend boat was to leave at four in the morning, my cousin aroused us at three, and we felt our way down stairs in the dark. but the landlord was reluctant to part with us; we stamped and shouted and rang bells, till the whole house was in an uproar, for the door was double-locked, and the steamboat bell began to sound. at last he could stand it no longer; we gave a quick utterance to our overflowing wrath, and rushed down to the boat but a second or two before it left. the water of the channel was smooth as glass and as the sun rose, the far chalky cliffs gleamed along the horizon, a belt of fire. i waved a good-bye to old england and then turned to see the spires of dunkirk, which were visible in the distance before us. on the low belgian coast we could see trees and steeples, resembling a mirage over the level surface of the sea; at length, about ten o'clock, the square tower of ostend came in sight. the boat passed into a long muddy basin, in which many unwieldy, red-sailed dutch craft were lying, and stopped beside a high pier. here amid the confusion of three languages, an officer came on board and took charge of our passports and luggage. as we could not get the former for two or three hours, we did not hurry the passing of the latter, and went on shore quite unincumbered, for a stroll about the city, disregarding the cries of the hackney-coachmen on the pier, "_hotel d'angleterre_," "_hotel des bains!_" and another who called out in english, "i recommend you to the royal hotel, sir!" there is little to be seen in ostend. we wandered through long rows of plain yellow houses, trying to read the french and low dutch signs, and at last came out on the wall near the sea. a soldier motioned us back as we attempted to ascend it, and muttering some unintelligible words, pointed to a narrow street near. following this out of curiosity, we crossed the moat and found ourselves on the great bathing beach. to get out of the hands of the servants who immediately surrounded us, we jumped into one of the little wagons and were driven out into the surf. to be certain of fulfilling the railroad regulations, we took our seats quarter of an hour before the time. the dark walls of ostend soon vanished and we were whirled rapidly over a country perfectly level, but highly fertile and well cultivated. occasionally there was a ditch or row of trees, but otherwise there was no division between the fields, and the plain stretched unbroken away into the distance. the twenty miles to bruges we made in forty minutes. the streets of this antique city are narrow and crooked, and the pointed, ornamented gables of the houses, produce a novel impression on one who has been accustomed to the green american forests. then there was the endless sound of wooden shoes clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most unmusical of all languages, low dutch. walking at random through the streets, we came by chance upon the cathedral of notre dame. i shall long remember my first impression of the scene within. the lofty gothic ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the light came but dimly--it was all still, solemn and religious. a few worshippers were kneeling in silence before some of the shrines and the echo of my tread seemed like a profaning sound. on every side were pictures, saints gilded shrines. a few steps removed one from the bustle and din of the crowd to the stillness and solemnity of the holy retreat. we learned from the guide, whom we had engaged because he spoke a few words of english, that there was still a _treckshuyt_ line on the canals, and that one boat leaves to-night at ten o'clock for ghent. wishing to try this old dutch method of travelling, he took us about half a mile along the ghent road to the canal, where a moderate sized boat was lying. our baggage deposited in the plainly furnished cabin, i ran back to bruges, although it was beginning to grow dark, to get a sight of the belfry; for longfellow's lines had been running through my head all day: "in the market place of bruges, stands the belfry old and brown, thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town." and having found the square, brown tower in one corner of the open market square, we waited to hear the chimes, which are said to be the finest in europe. they rang out at last with a clear silvery tone, most beautifully musical indeed. we then returned to the boat in the twilight. we were to leave in about an hour, according to the arrangement, but as yet there was no sound to be heard, and we were the only tenants. however, trusting to dutch regularity, we went to sleep in the full confidence of awakening in ghent. i awoke once in the night and saw the dark branches of trees passing before the window, but there was no perceptible sound nor motion; the boat glided along like a dream, and we were awakened next morning by its striking against the pier at ghent. after paying three francs for the whole night journey, the captain gave us a guide to the railroad station, and as we had nearly an hour before the train left, i went to see the cathedral of st. bavon. after leaving ghent, the road passes through a beautiful country, cultivated like a garden. the dutch passion for flowers is displayed in the gardens around the cottages; even every vacant foot of ground along the railway is planted with roses and dahlias. at ghent, the morning being fair, we took seats in the open cars. about noon it commenced raining and our situation was soon anything but comfortable. my cousin had fortunately a water-proof indian blanket with him, which he had purchased in the "far west," and by wrapping this around all three of us, we kept partly dry. i was much amused at the plight of a party of young englishmen, who were in the same car; one of them held a little parasol which just covered his hat, and sent the water in streams down on his back and shoulders. we had a misty view of liege, through the torrents of rain, and then dashed away into the wild, mountain scenery of the meuse. steep, rocky hills, covered with pine and crowned with ruined towers, hemmed in the winding and swollen river, and the wet, cloudy sky seemed to rest like a canopy on their summits. instead of threading their mazy defiles, we plunged directly into the mountain's heart, flew over the narrow valley on lofty and light-sprung arches, and went again into the darkness. at verviers, our baggage was weighed, examined and transferred, with ourselves, to a prussian train. there was a great deal of disputing on the occasion. a lady, who had a dog in a large willow basket, was not allowed to retain it, nor would they take it as baggage. the matter was finally compromised by their sending the basket, obliging her to carry the dog, which was none of the smallest, in her arms! the next station bore the sign of the black eagle, and here our passports were obliged to be given up. advancing through long ranges of wooded hills, we saw at length, in the dull twilight of a rainy day, the old kingly city of aix la chapelle on a plain below us. after a scene at the custom-house, where our baggage was reclaimed with tickets given at verviers, we drove to the _hotel du rhin_, and while warming our shivering limbs and drying our damp garments, felt tempted to exclaim with the old italian author: "o! holy and miraculous tavern!" the cathedral with its lofty gothic tower, was built by the emperor otho in the tenth century. it seems at present to be undergoing repairs, for a large scaffold shut out the dome. the long hall was dim with incense smoke as we entered, and the organ sounded through the high arches with an effect that startled me. the windows glowed with the forms of kings and saints, and the dusty and mouldering shrines which rose around were colored with the light that came through. the music pealed out like a triumphal march, sinking at times into a mournful strain, as if it celebrated and lamented the heroes who slept below. in the stone pavement nearly under my feet was a large square marble slab, with words "carolo magno." it was like a dream, to stand there on the tomb of the mighty warrior, with the lofty arches of the cathedral above, filled with the sound of the divine anthem. i mused above his ashes till the music ceased and then left the cathedral, that nothing might break the romantic spell associated with that crumbling pile and the dead it covered. i have always revered the memory of charlemagne. he lived in a stern age, but he was in mind and heart a man, and like napoleon, who placed the iron crown which had lain with him centuries in the tomb, upon his own brow, he had an alpine grandeur of mind, which the world was forced to acknowledge. at noon we took the _chars-à-banc_, or second-class carriages, for fear of rain, and continued our journey over a plain dotted with villages and old chateaux. two or three miles from cologne we saw the spires of the different churches, conspicuous among which were the unfinished towers of the cathedral, with the enormous crane standing as it did when they left off building, two hundred years ago or more. on arriving, we drove to the bonn railway, where finding the last train did not leave for four hours, we left our baggage and set out for the cathedral. of all gothic buildings, the plan of this is certainly the most stupendous; even ruin as it is, it cannot fail to excite surprise and admiration. the king of prussia has undertaken to complete it according to the original plan, which was lately found in the possession of a poor man, of whom it was purchased for , florins, but he has not yet finished repairing what is already built. the legend concerning this plan may not be known to every one. it is related of the inventor of it, that in despair of finding any sufficiently great, he was walking one day by the river, sketching with his stick upon the sand, when he finally hit upon one which pleased him so much that he exclaimed: "this shall be the plan!" "i will show you a better one than that!" said a voice suddenly behind him, and a certain black gentleman who figures in all german legends stood by him, and pulled from his pocket a roll containing the present plan of the cathedral. the architect, amazed at its grandeur, asked an explanation of every part. as he knew his soul was to be the price of it, he occupied himself while the devil was explaining, in committing its proportions carefully to memory. having done this, he remarked that it did not please him and he would not take it. the devil, seeing through the cheat, exclaimed in his rage: "you may build your cathedral according to this plan, but you shall never finish it!" this prediction seems likely to be verified, for though it was commenced in , and built for years, only the choir and nave and one tower to half its original height, are finished. we visited the chapel of the eleven thousand virgins, the walls of which are full of curious grated cells, containing their bones, and then threaded the narrow streets of cologne, which are quite dirty enough to justify coleridge's lines: "the river rhine, it is well known doth wash the city of cologne; but tell me nymphs, what power divine shall henceforth wash the river rhine!" chapter viii. the rhine to heidelberg. heidelberg, august . here at last! and a most glorious place it is. this is our first morning in our new rooms, and the sun streams warmly in the eastern windows, as i write, while the old castle rises through the blue vapor on the side of the kaiser-stuhl. the neckar rushes on below; and the odenwald, before, me, rejoices with its vineyards in the morning light. the bells of the old chapel near us are sounding most musically, and a confused sound of voices and the rolling of vehicles comes up from the street. it is a place to live in! i must go back five or six days and take up the record of our journeyings at bonn. we had been looking over murray's infallible "handbook," and observed that he recommended the "star" hotel in that city, as "the most moderate in its prices of any on the rhine;" so when the train from cologne arrived and we were surrounded, in the darkness and confusion, by porters and valets, i sung out: "_hotel de l'etoile d'or!_" our baggage and ourselves were transferred to a stylish omnibus, and in five minutes we stopped under a brilliantly-lighted archway, where mr. joseph schmidt received us with the usual number of smiles and bows bestowed upon untitled guests. we were furnished with neat rooms in the summit of the house, and then descended to the _salle à manger_. i found a folded note by my plate, which i opened--it contained an engraving of the front of the hotel, a plan of the city and catalogue of its lions, together with a list of the titled personages who have, from time to time, honored the "golden star" with their custom. among this number were "their royal highnesses the duke and duchess of cambridge, prince albert," etc. had it not been for fatigue, i should have spent an uneasy night, thinking of the heavy bill which was to be presented on the morrow. we escaped, however, for seven francs apiece, three of which were undoubtedly for the honor of breathing an aristocratic atmosphere. i was glad when we were really in motion on the swift rhine, the next morning, and nearing the chain of mountains that rose up before us. we passed godesberg on the right, while on our left was the group of the seven mountains which extend back from the drachenfels to the wolkenberg, or castle of the clouds. here we begin to enter the enchanted land. the rhine sweeps around the foot of the drachenfels, while opposite the precipitous rock of rolandseek, crowned with the castle of the faithful knight, looks down upon the beautiful island of nonnenwerth, the white walls of the convent still gleaming through the trees, as they did when the warrior's weary eyes looked upon them for the last time. i shall never forget the enthusiasm with which i saw this scene in the bright, warm sunlight, the rough crags softened in the haze which filled the atmosphere, and the wild mountains springing up in the midst of vineyards, and crowned with crumbling towers, filled with the memories of a thousand years. after passing andernach, we saw in the distance the highlands of the middle rhine, which rise above coblentz, guarding the entrance to its wild scenery, and the mountains of the moselle. they parted as we approached; from the foot shot up the spires of coblentz, and the battlements of ehrenbreitstein crowning the mountain opposite, grew larger and broader. the air was slightly hazy, and the clouds seemed laboring among the distant mountains to raise a storm. as we came opposite the mouth of the moselle and under the shadow of the mighty fortress, i gazed up with awe at its massive walls. apart from its magnitude and almost impregnable situation on a perpendicular rock, it is filled with the recollections of history and hallowed by the voice of poetry. the scene went past like a panorama, the bridge of boats opened, the city glided behind us and we entered the highlands again. above coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. one feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force. i sat upon the deck the whole afternoon, as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment. every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends i had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face. the english tourists, with whom the deck was covered, seemed interested too, but in a different manner. with murray's handbook open in their hands, they sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then, to observe that it was "_very nice_." as we passed boppart, i sought out the inn of the "star," mentioned in "hyperion"; there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been paul flemming's fair boat-woman. the clouds which had here gathered among the hills, now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck of its crowd of admiring tourists. as we were approaching lurlei berg, i did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the rhine alone. the mountains approach each other at this point, and the lurlei rock rises up for six hundred feet from the water. this is the haunt of the water nymph, lurlei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while his barque was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. it is also celebrated for its remarkable echo. as we passed between the rocks, a guard, who has a little house built on the road-side, blew a flourish on his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky battlements of lurlei. the german students have a witty trick with this echo: they call out, "who is the burgomaster of oberwesel?" a town just above. the echo answers with the last syllable "esel!" which is the german for _ass_. the sun came out of the cloud as we passed oberwesel, with its tall round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of schonberg castle, made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty air. a rainbow sprang up out of the rhine, and lay brightly on the mountain side, coloring vineyard and crag, in the most singular beauty, while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high summits. in the bed of the river were the seven countesses of schonberg, turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness towards the knights whom their beauty had made captive. in front, at a little distance was the castle of pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from the heights above caub frowned the crumbling citadel of gutenfels. imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should last a life-time! we came at last to bingen, the southern gate of the highlands. here, on an island in the middle of the stream, is the old mouse tower where bishop hatto of mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds. passing rudesheim and geissenheim, celebrated for their wines, at sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a line of stars across the water, we saw before us the bridge of mayence. the next morning i parted from my friends, who were going to heidelberg by way of mannheim, and set out alone for frankfort. the cars passed through hochheim, whose wines are celebrated all over the world; there is little to interest the traveler till he arrives at frankfort, whose spires are seen rising from groves of trees as he approaches. i left the cars, unchallenged for my passport, greatly to my surprise, as it had cost me a long walk and five shillings in london, to get the signature of the frankfort consul. i learned afterwards it was not at all necessary. before leaving america, n.p. willis had kindly given me a letter to his brother, richard s. willis, who is now cultivating a naturally fine taste for music in frankfort, and my first care was to find the american consul, in order to learn his residence. i discovered at last, from a gentleman who spoke a little french, that the consul's office was in the street _bellevue_, which street i not only looked for through the city, but crossed over the bridge to the suburb of sachsenhausen, and traversed its narrow, dirty alleys three several times, but in vain. i was about giving up the search, when i stumbled upon the office accidentally. the name of the street had been given to me in french and very naturally it was not to be found. willis received me very kindly and introduced me to the amiable german family with whom he resides. after spending a delightful evening with my newly-found friends, i left the next morning in the omnibus for heidelberg. we passed through sachsenhausen and ascended a long hill to the watch-tower, whence there is a beautiful view of the main valley. four hours' driving over the monotonous plain, brought me to darmstadt. the city wore a gay look, left by the recent _fêtes_. the monument of the old duke ludwig had just been erected in the centre of the great square, and the festival attendant upon the unveiling of it, which lasted three days, had just closed. the city was hung with garlands, and the square filled with the pavilions of the royal family and the musicians, of whom there were a thousand present, while everywhere were seen red and white flags--the colors of darmstadt. we met wagons decorated with garlands, full of pleasant girls, in the odd dress which they have worn for three hundred years. after leaving darmstadt we entered upon the bergstrasse, or mountain-way, leading along the foot of the mountain chain which extends all the way to heidelberg on the left, while on the right stretches far away the rhine-plain, across which we saw the dim outline of the donnersberg, in france. the hills are crowned with castles and their sides loaded with vines; along the road the rich green foliage of the walnut trees arched and nearly met above us. the sun shone warm and bright, and every body appeared busy and contented and happy. all we met had smiling countenances. in some places we saw whole families sitting under the trees shelling the nuts they had beaten down, while others were returning from the vineyards, laden with baskets of purple and white grapes. the scene seemed to realize all i had read of the happiness of the german peasantry, and the pastoral beauty of the german plains. with the passengers in the omnibus i could hold little conversation. one, who knew about as much french as i did, asked me where i came from, and i shall not soon forget his expression of incredulity, as i mentioned america. "why," said he, "you are white--the americans are all black!" we passed the ruined castles of auerback and starkenburg, and burg windeck, on the summit of a mountain near weinheim, formerly one of the royal residences of charlemagne, and finally came to the heiligenberg or holy mountain, guarding the entrance into the odenwald by the valley of the neckar. as we wound around its base to the river, the kaiserstuhl rose before us, with the mighty castle hanging upon its side and heidelberg at its feet. it was a most strikingly beautiful scene, and for a moment i felt inclined to assent to the remark of my bad-french acquaintance--"america is not beautiful--heidelberg is beautiful!" the sun had just set as we turned the corner of the holy mountain and drove up the bank of the neckar; all the chimes of heidelberg began suddenly to ring and a cannon by the riverside was fired off every minute--the sound echoing five times distinctly from mountain back to mountain, and finally crashing far off, along the distant hills of the odenwald. it was the birthday of the grand duke of baden, and these rejoicings were for the closing _fête_. chapter ix. scenes in and around heidelberg. _sept. ._--there is so much to be seen around this beautiful place, that i scarcely know where to begin a description of it. i have been wandering among the wild paths that lead up and down the mountain side, or away into the forests and lonely meadows in the lap of the odenwald. my mind is filled with images of the romantic german scenery, whose real beauty is beginning to displace the imaginary picture which i had painted with the enthusiastic words of howitt. i seem to stand now upon the kaiser-stuhl, which rises above heidelberg, with that magnificent landscape around me, from the black forest and strasburg to mainz, and from the vosges in france to the hills of spessart in bavaria. what a glorious panorama! and not less rich in associations than in its natural beauty. below me had moved the barbarian hordes of old, the triumphant followers of arminius, and the cohorts of rome; and later, full many a warlike host bearing the banners of the red cross to the holy land,--many a knight returning with his vassals from the field, to lay at the feet of his lady-love the scarf he had worn in a hundred battles and claim the reward of his constancy and devotion. but brighter spirits had also toiled below. that plain had witnessed the presence of luther, and a host who strove with him to free the world from the chains of a corrupt and oppressive religion. there had also trodden the master spirits of german song--the giant twain, with their scarcely less harmonious brethren: they, too, had gathered inspiration from those scenes--more fervent worship of nature and a deeper love for their beautiful fatherland! oh! what waves of crime and bloodshed have swept like the waves of a deluge down the valley of the rhine! war has laid his mailed hand on those desolate towers and ruthlessly torn down what time has spared, yet he could not mar the beauty of the shore, nor could time himself hurl down the mountains that guard it. and what if i feel a new inspiration on beholding the scene? now that those ages have swept by, like the red waves of a tide of blood, we see not the darkened earth, but the golden sands which the flood has left behind. besides, i have come from a new world, where the spirit of man is untrammeled by the mouldering shackles of the past, but in its youthful and joyous freedom, goes on to make itself a noble memory for the ages that are to come! then there is the wolfsbrunnen, which one reaches by a beautiful walk up the bank of the neckar, to a quiet dell in the side of the mountain. through this the roads lead up by rustic mills, always in motion, and orchards laden with ripening fruit, to the commencement of the forest, where a quaint stone fountain stands, commemorating the abode of a sorceress of the olden time, who was torn in pieces by a wolf. there is a handsome rustic inn here, where every sunday afternoon a band plays in the portico, while hundreds of people are scattered around in the cool shadow of the trees, or feeding the splendid trout in the basin formed by the little stream. they generally return to the city by another walk leading along the mountain side, to the eastern terrace of the castle, where they have fine views of the great rhine plain, terminated by the alsatian hills, stretching along the western horizon like the long crested swells on the ocean. we can even see these from the windows of our room on the bank of the neckar; and i often look with interest on one sharp peak, for on its side stands the castle of trifels, where coeur de lion was imprisoned by the duke of austria, and where blondel, his faithful minstrel, sang the ballad which discovered the retreat of the noble captive. the people of heidelberg are rich in places of pleasure and amusement. from the carl platz, an open square at the upper end of the city, two paths lead directly up to the castle. by the first walk we ascend a flight of steps to the western gate, passing through which, we enter a delightful garden, between the outer walls of the castle, and the huge moat which surrounds it. great linden, oak and beech trees shadow the walk, and in secluded nooks, little mountain streams spring from the side of the wall into stone basins. there is a tower over the moat on the south side, next the mountain, where the portcullis still hangs with its sharp teeth as it was last drawn up; on each side stand two grim knights guarding the entrance. in one of the wooded walks is an old tree brought from america in the year . it is of the kind called _arbor vitæ_, and uncommonly tall and slender for one of this species; yet it does not seem to thrive well in a foreign soil. i noticed that persons had cut many slips off the lower branches, and i would have been tempted to do the same myself if there had been any i could reach. in the curve of the mountain is a handsome pavilion, surrounded with beds of flowers and fountains; here all classes meet together in the afternoon to sit with their refreshments in the shade, while frequently a fine band of music gives them their invariable recreation. all this, with the scenery around them, leaves nothing unfinished to their present enjoyment. the germans enjoy life under all circumstances, and in this way they make themselves much happier than we, who have far greater means of being so. at the end of the terrace built for the princess elizabeth, of england, is one of the round towers, which was split in twain by the french. half has fallen entirely away, and the other semicircular shell which joins the terrace and part of the castle buildings, clings firmly together, although part of its foundation is gone, so that its outer ends actually hang in the air. some idea of the strength of the castle may be obtained when i state that the walls of this tower are twenty-two feet thick, and that a staircase has been made through them to the top, where one can sit under the lindens growing upon it, or look down from the end on the city below with the pleasant consciousness that the great mass upon which he stands is only prevented from crashing down with him by the solidity of its masonry. on one side, joining the garden, the statue of the archduke louis, in his breastplate and flowing beard, looks out from among the ivy. there is little to be seen about the castle except the walls themselves. the guide conducted us through passages, in which were heaped many of the enormous cannon balls which it had received in sieges, to some chambers in the foundation. this was the oldest part of the castle, built in the thirteenth century. we also visited the chapel, which is in a tolerable state of preservation. a kind of narrow bridge crosses it, over which we walked, looking down on the empty pulpit and deserted shrines. we then went into the cellar to see the celebrated tun. in a large vault are kept several enormous hogsheads, one of which is three hundred years old, but they are nothing in comparison with the tun, which itself fills a whole vault. it is as high as a common two story house; on the top is a platform upon which the people used to dance after it was filled, to which one ascends by two flights of steps. i forgot exactly how many casks it holds, but i believe eight hundred. it has been empty for fifty years. we are very pleasantly situated here. my friends, who arrived a day before me, hired three rooms (with the assistance of a courier) in a large house on the banks of the neckar. we pay for them, with attendance, thirty florins--about twelve dollars--a month, and frau dr. grosch, our polite and talkative landlady, gives us a student's breakfast--coffee and biscuit--for about seven cents apiece. we are often much amused to hear her endeavors to make us understand. as if to convey her meaning plainer, she raises both thumbs and forefingers to her mouth and pulls out the words like a long string; her tongue goes so fast that it keeps my mind always on a painful stretch to comprehend an idea here and there. dr. s----, from whom we take lessons in german, has kindly consented to our dining with his family for the sake of practice in speaking. we have taken several long walks with them along the banks of the neckar, but i should be puzzled to repeat any of the conversations that took place. the language, however, is fast growing more familiar, since _women_ are the principal teachers. opposite my window rises the heiligenberg, on the other side of the neckar. the lower part of it is rich with vineyards, and many cottages stand embosomed in shrubbery among them. sometimes we see groups of maidens standing under the grape arbors, and every morning the peasant women go toiling up the steep paths with baskets on their heads, to labor among the vines. on the neckar below us, the fishermen glide about in their boats, sink their square nets fastened to a long pole, and haul them up with the glittering fish, of which the stream is full. i often lean out of the window late at night, when the mountains above are wrapped in dusky obscurity, and listen to the low, musical ripple of the river. it tells to my excited fancy a knightly legend of the old german time. then comes the bell, rung for closing the inns, breaking the spell with its deep clang, which vibrates far away on the night air, till it has roused all the echoes of the odenwald. i then shut the window, turn into the narrow box which the germans call a bed, and in a few minutes am wandering in america. half way up the heiligenberg runs a beautiful walk, dividing the vineyards from the forest above. this is called the philosopher's way, because it was the favorite ramble of the old professors of the university. it can be reached by a toilsome, winding path among the vines, called the snake-way, and when one has ascended to it he is well rewarded by the lovely view. in the evening, when the sun has got behind the mountain, it is delightful to sit on the stone steps and watch the golden light creeping up the side of the kaiser-stuhl, till at last twilight begins to darken in the valley and a mantle of mist gathers above the neckar. we ascended the mountain a few days ago. there is a path which leads up through the forest, but we took the shortest way, directly up the side, though it was at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. it was hard enough work, scrambling through the thick broom and heather, and over stumps and stones. in one of the stone-heaps i dislodged a large orange-colored salamander, seven or eight inches long. they are sometimes found on these mountains, as well as a very large kind of lizard, called the _eidechse_, which the germans say is perfectly harmless, and if one whistles or plays a pipe, will come and play around him. the view from the top reminded me of that from catskill mountain house, but is on a smaller scale. the mountains stretch off sideways, confining the view to but half the horizon, and in the middle of the picture the hudson is well represented by the lengthened windings of the "abounding rhine." nestled at the base below us, was the little village of handschuhheim, one of the oldest in this part of germany. the castle of its former lords has nearly all fallen down, but the massive solidity of the walls which yet stand, proves its antiquity. a few years ago, a part of the outer walls which was remarked to have a hollow sound, was taken down, when there fell from a deep niche built therein, a skeleton, clad in a suit of the old german armor. we followed a road through the woods to the peak on which stand the ruins of st. michael's chapel, which was built in the tenth century and inhabited for a long time by a sect of white monks. there is now but a single tower remaining, and all around is grown over with tall bushes and weeds. it had a wild and romantic look, and i sat on a rock and sketched at it, till it grew dark, when we got down the mountain the best way we could. we lately visited the great university library. you walk through one hall after another, filled with books of all kinds, from the monkish manuscript of the middle ages, to the most elegant print of the present day. there is something to me more impressive in a library like this than a solemn cathedral. i think involuntarily of the hundreds of mighty spirits who speak from these three hundred thousand volumes--of the toils and privations with which genius has ever struggled, and of his glorious reward. as in a church, one feels as it were, the presence of god; not because the place has been hallowed by his worship, but because all around stand the inspirations of his spirit, breathed through the mind of genius, to men. and if the mortal remains of saints and heroes do not repose within its walls, the great and good of the whole earth are there, speaking their counsels to the searcher for truth, with voices whose last reverberation will die away only when the globe falls into ruin. a few nights ago there was a wedding of peasants across the river. in order to celebrate it particularly, the guests went to the house where it was given, by torchlight. the night was quite dark, and the bright red torches glowed on the surface of the neckar, as the two couriers galloped along the banks to the bridegroom's house. here, after much shouting and confusion, the procession was arranged, the two riders started back again with their torches, and the wagons containing the guests followed after with their flickering lights glancing on the water, till they disappeared around the foot of the mountain. the choosing of conscripts also took place lately. the law requires one person out of every hundred to become a soldier, and this, in the city of heidelberg, amounts to nearly . it was a sad spectacle. the young men, or rather boys, who were chosen, went about the city with cockades fastened on their hats, shouting and singing, many of them quite intoxicated. i could not help pitying them because of the dismal, mechanical life they are doomed to follow. many were rough, ignorant peasants, to whom nearly any kind of life would be agreeable; but there were some whose countenances spoke otherwise, and i thought involuntarily, that their drunken gaiety was only affected to conceal their real feelings with regard to the lot which had fallen upon them. we are gradually becoming accustomed to the german style of living, which is very different from our own. their cookery is new to us, but is, nevertheless, good. we have every day a different kind of soup, so i have supposed they keep a regular list of three hundred and sixty-five, one for every day in the year! then we have potatoes "done up" in oil and vinegar, veal flavored with orange peel, barley pudding, and all sorts of pancakes, boiled artichokes, and always rye bread, in loaves a yard long! nevertheless, we thrive on such diet, and i have rarely enjoyed more sound and refreshing sleep than in their narrow and coffin-like beds, uncomfortable as they seem. many of the german customs are amusing. we never see oxen working here, but always cows, sometimes a single one in a cart, and sometimes two fastened together by a yoke across their horns. the women labor constantly in the fields; from our window we can hear the nut-brown maidens singing their cheerful songs among the vineyards on the mountain side. their costume, too, is odd enough. below the light-fitting vest they wear such a number of short skirts, one above another, that it reminds one of an animated hogshead, with a head and shoulders starting out from the top. i have heard it gravely asserted that the wealth of a german damsel may be known by counting the number of her "kirtles." an acquaintance of mine remarked, that it would be an excellent costume for falling down a precipice! we have just returned from a second visit to frankfort, where the great annual fair filled the streets with noise and bustle. on our way back, we stopped at the village of zwingenberg, which lies at the foot of the melibochus, for the purpose of visiting some of the scenery of the odenwald. passing the night at the inn there, we slept with one bed under and two above, and started early in the morning to climb up the side of the melibochus. after a long walk through the forests, which were beginning to change their summer foliage for a brighter garment, we reached the summit and ascended the stone tower which stands upon it. this view gives one a better idea of the odenwald, than that from the kaiser-stuhl at heidelberg. in the soft autumn atmosphere it looked even more beautiful. after an hour in that heaven of uplifted thought, into which we step from the mountain-top, our minds went with the path downward to earth, and we descended the eastern side into the wild region which contains the _felsenmeer_, or sea of rocks. we met on the way a student from fulda--a fine specimen of that free-spirited class, and a man whose smothered aspiration was betrayed in the flashing of his eye, as he spoke of the present painful and oppressed condition of germany. we talked so busily together that without noticing the path, which had been bringing us on, up hill and down, through forest and over rock, we came at last to a halt in a valley among the mountains. making inquiries there, we found we had gone wrong, and must ascend by a different path the mountain we had just come down. near the summit of this, in a wild pine wood, was the felsenmeer--a great collection of rocks heaped together like pebbles on the sea shore, and worn and rounded as if by the action of water: so much do they resemble waves, that one standing at the bottom and looking up, cannot resist the idea, that they will flow down upon him. it must have been a mighty tide whose receding waves left these masses piled up together! the same formation continues at intervals, to the foot, of the mountains. it reminded me of a _glacier_ of rocks instead of ice. a little higher up, lies a massive block of granite called the "giant's column." it is thirty-two feet long and three to four feet in diameter, and still bears the mark of the chisel. when or by whom it was made, remains a mystery. some have supposed it was intended to be erected for the worship of the sun, by the wild teutonic tribes who inhabited this forest; it is more probably the work of the romans. a project was once started, to erect it as a monument on the battle-field of leipsic, but it was found too difficult to carry into execution. after dining at the little village of reichelsdorf in the valley below, where the merry landlord charged my friend two kreutzers less than myself because he was not so tall, we visited the castle of schönberg, and joined the bergstrasse again. we walked the rest of the way here; long before we arrived, the moon shone down on us over the mountains, and when we turned around the foot of the heiligenberg, the mist descending in the valley of the neckar, rested like a light cloud on the church spires. chapter x. a walk through the odenwald. b---- and i are now comfortably settled in frankfort, having, with mr. willis's kind assistance, obtained lodgings with the amiable family, with whom he has resided for more than two years. my cousin remains in heidelberg to attend the winter course of lectures at the university. having forwarded our baggage by the omnibus, we came hither on foot, through the heart of the odenwald, a region full of interest, yet little visited by travellers. dr. s---- and his family walked with us three or four miles of the way, and on a hill above ziegelhausen, with a splendid view behind us, through the mountain-door, out of which the neckar enters on the rhine-plain, we parted. this was a first, and i must confess, a somewhat embarrassing experience in german leave-taking. after bidding adieu three or four times, we started to go up the mountain and they down it, but at every second step we had to turn around to acknowledge the waving of hands and handkerchiefs, which continued so long that i was glad when we were out of sight of each other. we descended on the other side into a wild and romantic valley, whose meadows were of the brightest green; a little brook which wound through them, put now and then its "silvery shoulder" to the wheel of a rustic mill. by the road-side two or three wild-looking gipsies sat around a fire, with some goats feeding near them. passing through this valley and the little village of schönau, we commenced ascending one of the loftiest ranges of the odenwald. the side of the mountain was covered with a thick pine forest. there was no wind to wake its solemn anthem; all was calm and majestic, and even awful. the trees rose all around like the pillars of a vast cathedral, whose long arched aisles vanished far below in the deepening gloom. "nature with folded hands seemed there, kneeling at her evening prayer," for twilight had already begun to gather. we went on and up and ever higher, like the youth in "excelsior;" the beech and dwarf oak took the place of the pine, and at last we arrived at a cleared summit whose long brown grass waved desolately in the dim light of evening. a faint glow still lingered over the forest-hills, but down in the valley the dusky shades hid every vestige of life, though its sounds came up softened through the long space. when we reached the top a bright planet stood like a diamond over the brow of the eastern hill, and the sound of a twilight bell came up clearly and sonorously on the cool damp air. the white veil of mist slowly descended down the mountain side, but the peaks rose above it like the wrecks of a world, floating in space. we made our way in the dusk down the long path, to the rude little dorf of elsbach. i asked at the first inn for lodging, where we were ushered into a great room, in which a number of girls who had been at work in the fields, were assembled. they were all dressed in men's jackets, and short gowns, and some had their hair streaming down their back. the landlord's daughter, however, was a beautiful girl, whose modest, delicate features contrasted greatly with the coarse faces of the others. i thought of uhland's beautiful little poem of "the landlady's daughter," as i looked on her. in the room hung two or three pair of antlers, and they told us deer were still plenty in the forests. when we left the village the next morning, we again commenced ascending. over the whole valley and halfway up the mountain, lay a thick white frost, almost like snow, which contrasted with the green trees and bushes scattered over the meadows, produced the most singular effect. we plucked blackberries ready iced from the bushes by the road-side, and went on in the cold, for the sun shone only on the top of the opposite mountain, into another valley, down which rushed the rapid ulver. at a little village which bears the beautiful name _anteschönmattenwag_, we took a foot-path directly over a steep mountain to the village of finkenbach. near the top i found two wild-looking children, cutting grass with knives, both of whom i prevailed upon for a few kreutzers to stand and let me sketch them. from the summit the view on the other side was very striking. the hills were nearly every one covered with wood, and not a dwelling in sight. it reminded me of our forest scenery at home. the principal difference is, that our trees are two or three times the size of theirs. at length, after scaling another mountain, we reached a wide, elevated plain, in the middle of which stood the old dorf of beerfelden. it was then crowded with people, on account of a great cattle-fair being held there. all the farmers of the neighborhood were assembled, clad in the ancient country costume--broad cocked hats and blue frocks. an orchard near the town was filled with cattle and horses, and near by, in the shade, a number of pedlars had arranged their wares. the cheerful looking country people touched their hats to us as we passed. this custom of greeting travellers, universal in germany, is very expressive of their social, friendly manners. among the mountains, we frequently met groups of children, who sang together their simple ballads as we passed by. from beerfelden we passed down the valley of the mimling to erbach, the principal city in the odenwald, and there stopped a short time to view the rittersaal in the old family castle of the counts of erbach. an officer, who stood at the gates, conducted us to the door, where we were received by a noble-looking, gray-headed steward. he took us into the rittersaal at once, which was like stepping back three hundred years. the stained windows of the lofty gothic hall, let in a subdued light which fell on the forms of kings and knights, clad in the armor they wore during life. on the left as we entered, were mail-covered figures of john and cosmo do medici; further on stood the emperor maximilian, and by his side the celebrated dwarf who was served up in a pie at one of the imperial feasts. his armor was most delicate and beautiful, but small as it was, general thumb would have had room in it. gustavus adolphus and wallenstein looked down from the neighboring pedestals, while at the other end stood goetz von berlichingen and albert of brunswick. guarding the door were hans, the robber-knight of nuremberg, and another from the thüringian forest. the steward told me that the iron hand of goetz was in possession of the family, but not shown to strangers; he pointed out, however, the buckles on the armor, by which it was fastened. adjoining the hall is an antique chapel, filled with rude old tombs, and containing the sarcophagus of count eginhard of denmark, who lived about the tenth century. there were also monkish garments five hundred years old hanging up in it. the collection of antiquities is large and interesting; but it is said that the old count obtained some of them in rather a questionable manner. among other incidents, they say that when in rome he visited the pope, taking with him an old servant who accompanied him in all his travels, and was the accomplice in most of his antiquarian thefts. in one of the outer halls, among the curiosities, was an antique shield of great value. the servant was left in this hall while the count had his audience, and in a short time this shield was missed. the servant who wore a long cloak, was missed also; orders were given to close the gates and search every body, but it was too late--the thief was gone. leaving erbach we found out the direction of snellert, the castle of the wild huntsman, and took a road that led us for two or three hours along the top of a mountain ridge. through the openings in the pine and larch forests, we had glimpses of the hills of spessart, beyond the main. when we finally left the by-road we had chosen it was quite dark, and we missed the way altogether among the lanes and meadows. we came at last to a full stop at the house of a farmer, who guided us by a foot path over the fields to a small village. on entering the only inn, kept by the burgomaster, the people finding we were americans, regarded us with a curiosity quite uncomfortable. they crowded around the door, watching every motion, and gazed in through the windows. the wild huntsman himself could scarcely have made a greater sensation. the news of our arrival seemed to have spread very fast, for the next morning when we stopped at a prune orchard some distance from the village to buy some fruit, the farmer cried out from a tree, "they are the americans; give them as many as they want for nothing!" with the burgomaster's little son for a guide, we went back a mile or two of our route to snellert, which we had passed the night before, and after losing ourselves two or three times in the woods, arrived at last at the top of the mountain, where the ruins of the castle stand. the walls are nearly level with the ground. the interest of a visit rests entirely on the romantic legend, and the wild view over the hills around, particularly that in front, where on the opposite mountain are the ruins of rodenstein, to which the wild huntsman was wont to ride at midnight--where he now rides no more. the echoes of rodenstein are no longer awakened by the sound of his bugle, and the hoofs of his demon steed clanging on the battlements. but the hills around are wild enough, and the roar of the pine forests deep enough to have inspired the simple peasants with the romantic tradition. stopping for dinner at the town of rheinheim, we met an old man, who, on learning we were americans, walked with us as far as the next village. he had a daughter in america and was highly gratified to meet any one from the country of her adoption. he made me promise to visit her, if i ever should go to st. louis, and say that i had walked with her father from rheinheim to zwangenburg. to satisfy his fears that i might forget it, i took down his name and that of his daughter. he shook me warmly by the hand at parting, and was evidently made happier for that day. we reached darmstadt just in time to take a seat in the omnibus for frankfort. among the passengers were a bavarian family, on their way to bremen, to ship from thence to texas. i endeavored to discourage the man from choosing such a country as his home, by telling him of its heats and pestilences, but he was too full of hope to be shaken in his purpose. i would have added that it was a slave-land, but i thought on our own country's curse, and was silent. the wife was not so sanguine; she seemed to mourn in secret at leaving her beautiful fatherland. it was saddening to think how lonely they would feel in that far home, and how they would long, with true german devotion, to look again on the green vintage-hills of their forsaken country. as night drew on, the little girl crept over to her father for his accustomed evening kiss, and then sank back to sleep in a corner of the wagon. the boy, in the artless confidence of childhood, laid his head on my breast, weary with the day's travel, and soon slept also. thus we drove on in the dark, till at length the lights of frankfort glimmered on the breast of the rapid main, as we passed over the bridge, and when we stopped near the cathedral, i delivered up my little charge and sent my sympathy with the wanderers on their lonely way. chapter xi. scenes in frankfort--an american composer--the poet freiligrath. _dec. ._--this is a genuine old german city. founded by charlemagne, afterwards a rallying point of the crusaders, and for a long time the capital of the german empire, it has no lack of interesting historical recollections, and notwithstanding it is fast becoming modernized, one is every where reminded of the past. the cathedral, old as the days of peter the hermit, the grotesque street of the jews, the many quaint, antiquated dwellings and the mouldering watch-towers on the hills around, give it a more interesting character than any german city i have yet seen. the house we dwell in, on the markt platz, is more than two hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building, gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left brings me to the square of the roemerberg, where the emperors were crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house, formerly the residence of luther. there are legends innumerable connected with all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old houses, of secret chambers and staircases. when you add to all this, the german love of ghost stories, and, indeed, their general belief in spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable residence. i often look out on the singular scene below my window. on both sides of the street, leaving barely room to enter the houses, sit the market women, with their baskets of vegetables and fruit. the middle of the street is filled with women buying, and every cart or carriage that comes along, has to force its way through the crowd, sometimes rolling against and overturning the baskets on the side, when for a few minutes there is a babel of unintelligible sounds. the country women in their jackets and short gowns go backwards and forwards with great loads on their heads, sometimes nearly as high as themselves. it is a most singular scene, and so varied that one never tires of looking upon it. these women sit here from sunrise till sunset, day after day, for years. they have little furnaces for cooking and for warmth in winter, and when it rains they sit in large wooden boxes. one or two policemen are generally on the ground in the morning to prevent disputing about their places, which often gives rise to interesting scenes. perhaps this kind of life in the open air is conducive to longevity; for certainly there is no country on earth that has as many old women. many of them look like walking machines made of leather; and to judge from what i see in the streets here, i should think they work till they die. on the st of october a most interesting fete took place. the magnificent monument of goethe, modelled by the sculptor schwanthaler, at munich, and cast in bronze, was unveiled. it arrived a few days before, and was received with much ceremony and erected in the destined spot, an open square in the western part of the city, planted with acacia trees. i went there at ten o'clock, and found the square already full of people. seats had been erected around the monument for ladies, the singers and musicians. a company of soldiers was stationed to keep an entrance for the procession, which at length arrived with music and banners, and entered the enclosure. a song for the occasion was sung by the choir; it swelled up gradually, and with such perfect harmony and unity, that it seemed like some glorious instrument touched by a single hand. then a poetical address was delivered; after which four young men took their stand at the corners of the monument; the drums and trumpets gave a flourish, and the mantle fell. the noble figure seemed to rise out of the earth, and thus amid shoutings and the triumphal peal of the band, the form of goethe greeted the city of his birth. he is represented as leaning on the trunk of a tree, holding in his right hand a roll of parchment, and in his left a wreath. the pedestal, which is also of bronze, contains bas reliefs, representing scenes from faust, wilhelm meister and egmont. in the evening goethe's house, in a street near, was illuminated by arches of lamps between the windows, and hung with wreaths of flowers. four pillars of colored lamps lighted the statue. at nine o'clock the choir of singers came again in a procession, with colored lanterns, on poles, and after singing two or three songs, the statue was exhibited in the red glare of the bengal light. the trees and houses around the square were covered with the glow, which streamed in broad sheets up against the dark sky. within the walls the greater part of frankfort is built in the old german style--the houses six or seven stones high, and every story projecting out over the other, so that those living in the upper part can nearly shake hands out of the windows. at the corners figures of men are often seen, holding up the story above on their shoulders and making horrible faces at the weight. when i state that in all these narrow streets which constitute the greater part of the city, there are no sidewalks, the windows of the lower stories with an iron grating extending a foot or so into the street, which is only wide enough for one cart to pass along, you can have some idea of the facility of walking through them, to say nothing of the piles of wood, and market-women with baskets of vegetables which one is continually stumbling over. even in the wider streets, i have always to look before and behind to keep out of the way of the fiacres; the people here get so accustomed to it, that they leave barely room for them to pass, and the carriages go dashing by at a nearness which sometimes makes me shudder. as i walked across the main, and looked down at the swift stream on its way from the distant thuringian forest to join the rhine, i thought of the time when schiller stood there in the days of his early struggles, an exile from his native land, and looking over the bridge, said in the loneliness of his heart, "that water flows not so deep as my sufferings!" in the middle, on an iron ornament, stands the golden cock at which goethe used to marvel when a boy. perhaps you have not heard the legend connected with this. the bridge was built several hundred years ago, with such strength and solidity that it will stand many hundred yet. the architect had contracted to build it within a certain time, but as it drew near, without any prospect of fulfilment, the devil appeared to him and promised to finish it, on condition of having the first soul that passed over it. this was agreed upon end the devil performed his part of the bargain. the artist, however, on the day appointed, drove a cook across before he suffered any one to pass over it. his majesty stationed himself under the middle arch of the bridge, awaiting his prey; but enraged at the cheat, he tore the unfortunate fowl in pieces and broke two holes in the arch, saying they should never be built up again. the golden cock was erected on the bridge as a token of the event, but the devil has perhaps lost some of his power in these latter days, for the holes were filled up about thirty years ago. from the hills on the darmstadt road, i had a view of the country around--the fields were white and bare, and the dark tannus, with the broad patches of snow on his sides, looked grim and shadowy through the dim atmosphere. it was like the landscape of a dream--dark, strange and silent. the whole of last month we saw the sun but two or three days, the sky being almost continually covered with a gloomy fog. england and germany seem to have exchanged climates this year, for in the former country we had delightfully clear weather. i have seen the banker rothschild several times driving about the city. this one--anselmo, the most celebrated of the brothers--holds a mortgage on the city of jerusalem. he rides about in style, with officers attending his carriage. he is a little bald-headed man, with marked jewish features, and is said not to deceive his looks. at any rate, his reputation is none of the best, either with jews or christians. a caricature was published some time ago, in which he is represented as giving a beggar woman by the way-side, a kreutzer--the smallest german coin. she is made to exclaim, "god reward you, a thousand fold!" he immediately replies, after reckoning up in his head: "how much have i then?--sixteen florins and forty kreutzers!" i have lately heard one of the most perfectly beautiful creations that ever emanated from the soul of genius--the opera of fidelio. i have caught faint glimpses of that rich world of fancy and feeling, to which music is the golden door. surrendering myself to the grasp of beethoven's powerful conception, i read in sounds far more expressive than words, the almost despairing agony of the strong-hearted, but still tender and womanly fidelio--the ecstatic joy of the wasted prisoner, when he rose from his hard couch in the dungeon, seeming to fuel, in his maniac brain, the presentiment of a bright being who would come to unbind his chains--and. the sobbing and wailing, almost-human, which came from the orchestra, when they dug his grave, by the dim lantern's light. when it was done, the murderer stole into the dungeon, to gloat on the agonies of his victim, ere he gave the death-blow. then, while the prisoner is waked to reason by that sight, and fidelio throws herself before the uplifted dagger, rescuing her husband with the courage which love gives to a woman's heart, the storm of feeling which has been gathering in the music, swells to a height beyond which it seemed impossible for the soul to pass. my nerves were thrilled till i could bear no more. a mist seemed to come before my eyes and i scarcely knew what followed, till the rescued kneeled together and poured forth in the closing hymn the painful fullness of their joy. i dreaded the sound of voices after the close, and the walk home amid the harsh rattling of vehicles on the rough streets. for days afterwards my brain was filled with a mingled and confused sense of melody, like the half-remembered music of a dream. why should such magnificent creations of art be denied the new world? there is certainly enthusiasm and refinement of feeling enough at home to appreciate them, were the proper direction given to the popular taste. what country possesses more advantages to foster the growth of such an art, than ours? why should not the composer gain mighty conceptions from the grandeur of our mountain scenery, from the howling of the storm through our giant forests, from the eternal thunder of niagara? all these collateral influences, which more or less tend to the development and expansion of genius, are characteristics of our country; and a taste for musical compositions of a refined and lofty character, would soon give birth to creators. fortunately for our country, this missing star in the crown of her growing glory, will probably soon be replaced. richard s. willis, with whom we have lived in delightful companionship, since coming here, has been for more than two years studying and preparing himself for the higher branches of composition. the musical talent he displayed while at college, and the success following the publication of a set of beautiful waltzes he there composed, led him to choose this most difficult but lofty path; the result justifies his early promise and gives the most sanguine anticipations for the future. he studied the first two years here under schnyder von wartensee, a distinguished swiss composer; and his exercises have met with the warmest approval from mendelsohn, at present the first german composer, and rinck, the celebrated organist. the enormous labor and application required to go through the preparatory studies alone, would make it seem almost impossible for one with the restless energy of the american character, to undertake it; but as this very energy gives genius its greatest power, we may now trust with confidence that willis, since he has nearly completed his studies, will win himself and his country honor in the difficult path he has chosen. one evening, after sunset, we took a stroll around the promenades. the swans were still floating on the little lake, and the american poplar beside it, was in its full autumn livery. as we made the circuit of the walks, guns were firing far and near, celebrating the opening of the vintage the next day, and rockets went glittering and sparkling up into the dark air. notwithstanding the late hour and lowering sky, the walks were full of people and we strolled about with them till it grew quite dark, watching the fire-works which arose from the gardens around. the next day, we went into the frankfort wood. willis and his brother-in-law, charles f. dennett, of boston, dr. dix and another young gentleman from the same city, formed the party--six americans in all; we walked over the main and through the dirty suburbs of sachsenhausen, where we met many peasants laden with the first day's vintage, and crowds of people coming down from the vineyards. as we ascended the hill, the sound of firing was heard in every direction, and from many vineyards arose the smoke of fires where groups of merry children were collecting and burning the rubbish. we became lost among the winding paths of the pine forest, so that by the time we came out upon the eminence overlooking the valley of the main, it was quite dark. from every side, far and near, rockets of all sizes and colors darted high up into the sky. sometimes a flight of the most brilliant crimson and gold lights rushed up together, then again by some farm-house in the meadow, the vintagers would burn a roman candle, throwing its powerful white light on the gardens and fields around. we stopped under a garden wall, by which a laughing company were assembled in the smoke and red blaze, and watched several comets go hissing and glancing far above us. the cracking of ammunition still continued, and when we came again upon the bridge, the city opposite was lighted as if illuminated. the full moon had just risen, softening and mellowing the beautiful scene, while beyond, over the tower of frankfort, rose and fell the meteors that heralded the vintage. since i have been in frankfort, an event has occurred, which shows very distinctly the principles at work in germany, and gives us some foreboding of the future. ferdinand freiligrath, the first living poet with the exception of uhland, has within a few weeks published a volume of poems entitled, "my confession of faith, or poems for the times." it contains some thrilling appeals to the free spirit of the german people, setting forth the injustice under which they labor, in simple but powerful language, and with the most forcible illustrations, adapted to the comprehension of everyone. viewed as a work of genius alone, it is strikingly powerful and original: but when we consider the effect it is producing among the people--the strength it will add to the rising tide of opposition to every form of tyranny, it has a still higher interest. freiligrath had three or four years before, received a pension of three hundred thalers from the king of prussia, soon after his accession to the throne: he ceased to draw this about a year ago, stating in the preface to his volume that it was accepted in the belief the king would adhere to his promise of giving the people a new constitution, but that now since free spirit which characterises these men, who come from among the people, shows plainly the tendency of the times; and it is only the great strength with which tyranny here has environed himself, and the almost lethargic _slowness_ of the germans, which has prevented a change ere this. in this volume of freiligrath's, among other things, is a translation of bryant's magnificent poem "the winds," and burns's "a man's a man for a' that;" and i have translated one of his, as a specimen of the spirit in which they are written: freedom and right. oh! think not she rests in the grave's chilly slumber nor sheds o'er the present her glorious light, since tyranny's shackles the free soul incumber and traitors accusing, deny to us right! no: whether to exile the sworn ones are wending, or weary of power that crushed them unending, in dungeons have perished, their veins madly rending,[*] yet freedom still liveth, and with her, the right! freedom and right! a single defeat can confuse us no longer: it adds to the combat's last gathering might, it bids us but doubly to struggle, and stronger to raise up our battle-cry--"freedom and right!" for the twain know a union forever abiding, together in truth and in majesty striding; where right is, already the free are residing and ever, where dwell the free, governeth right! freedom and right! and this is a trust: never made, us at present, the glad pair from battle to battle their flight; never breathed through the soul of the down-trodden peasant, their spirit so deeply its promptings of light! they sweep o'er the earth with a tempest-like token; from strand unto strand words of thunder are spoken: already the serf finds his manacles broken, and those of the negro are falling from sight freedom and right! yes, every where wide is their war-banner waving. on the armies of wrong their revenge to requite; the strength of oppression they boldly are braving and at last they will conquer, resistless in might! oh, god! what a glorious wreath then appearing will blend every leaf in the banner they're bearing--the olive of greece and the shamrock of erin, and the oak-bough of germany, greenest in light! freedom and right! and many who suffered, are now calmly sleeping, the slumber of freemen, borne down by the fight; while the twain o'er their graves still a bright watch are keeping, whom we bless for their memories--freedom and right! meanwhile lift your glasses! to those who have striven! and striving with bold hearts, to misery were driven! who fought for the right and but wrong then were given! to right, the immortal--to freedom through right! freedom through right! [footnote *: this allusion is to weidig, who, imprisoned for years at darmstadt on account of his political principles, finally committed suicide by cutting his throat with the glass of his prison-window.] chapter xii. a week among the students. receiving a letter from my cousin one bright december morning, the idea of visiting him struck me, and so, within an hour, b---- and i were on our way to heidelberg. it was delightful weather; the air was mild as the early days of spring, the pine forests around wore a softer green, and though the sun was but a hand's breadth high, even at noon, it was quite warm on the open road. we stopped for the night at bensheim; the next morning was as dark as a cloudy day in the north can be, wearing a heavy gloom i never saw elsewhere. the wind blew the snow down from the summits upon us, but being warm from walking, we did not heed it. the mountains looked higher than in summer, and the old castles more grim and frowning. from the hard roads and freezing wind, my feet became very sore, and after limping along in excruciating pain for a league or two, i filled my boots with brandy, which deadened the wounds so much, that i was enabled to go on in a kind of trot, which i kept up, only stopping ten minutes to dinner, till we reached heidelberg. the same evening there was to be a general _commers_, or meeting of the societies among the students, and i determined not to omit witnessing one of the most interesting and characteristic features of student-life. so borrowing a cap and coat, i looked the student well enough to pass for one of them, though the former article was somewhat of the _philister_ form. baader, a young poet of some note, and president of the "palatia" society, having promised to take us there, we met at eight o'clock at an inn frequented by the students, and went to the rendezvous, near the markt platz. a confused sound of voices came from the inn, as we drew near; groups of students were standing around the door. in the entry we saw the red fisherman, one of the most conspicuous characters about the university. he is a small, stout man, with bare neck and breast, red hair, whence his name, and a strange mixture of roughness and benevolence in his countenance. he has saved many persons at the risk of his own life, from drowning in the neckar, and on that account is leniently dealt with by the faculty whenever he is arrested for assisting the students in any of their unlawful proceedings. entering the room i could scarcely see at first, on account of the smoke that ascended from a hundred pipes. all was noise and confusion. near the door sat some half dozen musicians who were getting their instruments ready for action, and the long room was filled with tables, all of which seemed to be full and the students were still pressing in. the tables were covered with great stone jugs and long beer glasses; the students were talking and shouting and drinking.--one who appeared to have the arrangement of the meeting, found seats for us together, and having made a slight acquaintance with those sitting next us, we felt more at liberty to witness their proceedings. they were all talking in a sociable, friendly way, and i saw no one who appeared to be intoxicated. the beer was a weak mixture, which i should think would make one fall over from its _weight_ before it would intoxicate him. those sitting near me drank but little, and that principally to make or return compliments. one or two at the other end of the table were more boisterous, and more than one glass was overturned on the legs below it. leaves containing the songs for the evening lay at each seat, and at the head, where the president sat, were two swords crossed, with which he occasionally struck upon the table to preserve order. our president was a fine, romantic-looking young man, dressed in the old german costume, which is far handsomer than the modern. i never saw in any company of young men, so many handsome, manly countenances. if their faces were any index of their characters, there were many noble, free souls among them. nearly opposite to me sat a young poet, whose dark eyes flashed with feeling as he spoke to those near him. after some time passed in talking and drinking together, varied by an occasional air from the musicians, the president beat order with the sword, and the whole company joined in one of their glorious songs, to a melody at the same time joyous and solemn. swelled by so many manly voices it rose up like a hymn of triumph--all other sounds were stilled. three times during the singing all rose up, clashed their glasses together around the tables and drank to their fatherland, a health and blessing to the patriot, and honor to those who struggle in the cause of freedom, at the close thundering out their motto: "fearless in strife, to the banner still true!" after this song the same order as before was continued, except that students from the different societies made short speeches, accompanied by some toast or sentiment. one spoke of germany--predicting that all her dissensions would be overcome, and she would rise up at last, like a phoenix among the nations of europe; and at the close gave 'strong, united, regenerated germany!' instantly all sprang to their feet, and clashing the glasses together, gave a thundering "_hoch!_" this enthusiasm for their country is one of the strongest characteristics of the german students; they have ever been first in the field for her freedom, and on them mainly depends her future redemption. cloths were passed around, the tables wiped off, and preparations made to sing the "_landsfather_" or consecration song. this is one of the most important and solemn of their ceremonies, since by performing it the new students are made _burschen_, and the bands of brotherhood continually kept fresh and sacred. all became still a moment, then they commenced the lofty song: "silent bending, each one lending to the solemn tones his ear, hark, the song of songs is sounding-- back from joyful choir resounding, hear it, german brothers, hear! "german proudly, raise it loudly, singing of your fatherland-- fatherland! thou land of story, to the altars of thy glory consecrate us, sword in hand! "take the beaker, pleasure seeker, with thy country's drink brimmed o'er! in thy left the sword is blinking. pierce it through the cap, while drinking to thy fatherland once more!" with the first line of the last stanza, the presidents sitting at the head of the table, take their glasses in their right hands, and at the third line, the sword in their left, at the end striking their glasses together and drinking. "in left hand gleaming, thou art beaming, sword from all dishonour free! thus i pierce the cap, while swearing, it in honor ever wearing, i a valiant bursch will be!" they clash their swords together till the third line is sung, when each takes his cap, and piercing the point of the sword through the crown, draws it down to the guard. leaving their caps on the swords, the presidents stand behind the two next students, who go through the same ceremony, receiving the swords at the appropriate time, and giving it back loaded with their caps also. this ceremony is going on at every table at the same time. these two stanzas are repeated for every pair of students, till all have gone through with it, and the presidents have arrived at the bottom of the table, with their swords strung full of caps. here they exchange swords, while all sing: "come thou bright sword, now made holy, of free men the weapon free; bring it solemnly and slowly, heavy with pierced caps, to me! from its burden now divest it; brothers be ye covered all, and till our next festival, hallowed and unspotted rest it! "up, ye feast companions! ever honor ye our holy band! and with heart and soul endeavor e'er as high-souled men to stand! up to feast, ye men united! worthy be your fathers' fame, and the sword may no one claim, who to honor is not plighted!" then each president, taking a cap of his sword, reached it to the student opposite, and they crossed their swords, the ends resting on the two students' heads, while they sang the next stanza: "so take it back; thy head i now will cover and stretch the bright sword over. live also then this bursche, hoch! wherever we may meet him, will we, as brother greet him-- live also this, our brother, hoch!" this ceremony was repeated till all the caps were given back, and they then concluded with the following: "rest, the bursehen-feast is over, hallowed sword and thou art free! each one strive a valiant lover of his fatherland to be! hail to him, who, glory-haunted, follows still his fathers bold; and the sword may no one hold but the noble and undaunted!" the landsfather being over, the students were less orderly; the smoking and drinking began again and we left, as it was already eleven o'clock, glad to breathe the pure cold air. in the university i heard gervinus, who was formerly professor in göttingen, but was obliged to leave on account of his liberal principles. he is much liked by the students and his lectures are very well attended. they had this winter a torchlight procession in honor of him. he is a stout, round-faced man, speaks very fast, and makes them laugh continually with his witty remarks. in the room i saw a son of rückert, the poet, with a face strikingly like his father's. the next evening i went to hear schlosser, the great historian. among his pupils are the two princes of baden, who are now at the university. he came hurriedly in, threw down his portfolio and began instantly to speak. he is an old, gray-headed man, but still active and full of energy. the germans find him exceedingly difficult to understand, as he is said to use the english construction almost entirely; for this reason, perhaps, i understood him quite easily. he lectures on the french revolution, but is engaged in writing a universal history, the first numbers of which are published. two or three days after, we heard that a duel was to take place at neuenheim, on the opposite side of the neckur, where the students have a house hired for that purpose. in order to witness the spectacle, we started immediately with two or three students. along the road were stationed old women, at intervals, as guards, to give notice of the approach of the police, and from these we learned that one duel had already been fought, and they were preparing for the other. the red fisherman was busy in an outer room grinding the swords, which are made as sharp as razors. in the large room some forty or fifty students were walking about, while the parties were preparing. this was done by taking off the coat and vest and binding a great thick leather garment on, which reached from the breast to the knees, completely protecting the body. they then put on a leather glove reaching nearly to the shoulder, tied a thick cravat around the throat, and drew on a cap with a large vizor. this done, they were walked about the room a short time, the seconds holding out their arms to strengthen them; their faces all this time betrayed considerable anxiety. all being ready, the seconds took their stations immediately behind them, each armed with a sword, and gave the words: "_ready--bind your weapons--loose!_" they instantly sprang at each other, exchanged two or three blows, when the seconds cried "halt!" and struck their swords up. twenty-four rounds of this kind ended the duel, without either being hurt, though the cap of one of them was cut through and his forehead grazed. all their duels do not end so fortunately, however, as the frightful scars on the faces of many of those present, testified. it is a gratification to know that but a small portion of the students keep up this barbarous custom. the great body is opposed to it; in heidelberg, four societies, comprising more than one half the students, have been formed against it. a strong desire for such a reform seems to prevail, and the custom will probably be totally discontinued in a short time. this view of the student-life was very interesting to me; it appeared in a much better light than i had been accustomed to view it. their peculiar customs, except duelling and drinking, of course, may be the better tolerated when we consider their effect on the liberty of germany. it is principally through them that a free spirit is kept alive; they have ever been foremost to rise up for their fatherland, and bravest in its defence. and though many of their customs have so often been held up to ridicule, among no other class can one find warmer, truer or braver hearts. chapter xiii. christmas and new year in germany. _jan. , ._--i have lately been computing how much my travels have cost me up to the present time, and how long i can remain abroad to continue the pilgrimage, with my present expectations. the result has been most encouraging to my plan. before leaving home, i wrote to several gentlemen who had visited europe, requesting the probable expense of travel and residence abroad. they sent different accounts; e. joy morris said i must calculate to spend at least $ a year; another suggested $ , and the most moderate of all, said that it was _impossible_ to live in europe a year on less than $ . now, six months have elapsed since i left home--six months of greater pleasure and profit than any _year_ of my former life--and my expenses, in full, amount to $ ! this, however, nearly exhausts the limited sum with which i started, but through the kindness of the editorial friends who have been publishing my sketches of travel, i trust to receive a remittance shortly. printing is a business attended with so little profit here, as there are already so many workmen, that it is almost useless for a stranger to apply. besides, after a tough grapple, i am just beginning to master the language, and it seems so necessary to devote every minute to study, that i would rather undergo some privation, than neglect turning these fleeting hours into gold, for the miser memory to stow away in the treasure-vaults of the mind. we have lately witnessed the most beautiful and interesting of all german festivals--christmas. this is here peculiarly celebrated. about the commencement of december, the christmarkt or fair, was opened in the roemerberg, and has continued to the present time. the booths, decorated with green boughs, were filled with toys of various kinds, among which during the first days the figure of st. nicholas was conspicuous. there were bunches of wax candles to illuminate the christmas tree, gingerbread with printed mottos in poetry, beautiful little earthenware, basket-work, and a wilderness of playthings. the th of december, being nicholas evening, the booths were lighted up, and the square was filled with boys, running from one stand to another, all shouting and talking together in the most joyous confusion. nurses were going around, carrying the smaller children in their arms, and parents bought presents decorated with sprigs of pine and carried them away. some of the shops had beautiful toys, as for instance, a whole grocery store in miniature, with barrels, boxes and drawers, all filled with sweetmeats, a kitchen with a stove and all suitable utensils, which could really be used, and sets of dishes of the most diminutive patterns. all was a scene of activity and joyous feeling. many of the tables had bundles of rods with gilded bands, which were to be used that evening by the persons who represented st. nicholas. in the family with whom we reside, one of our german friends dressed himself very comically, with a mask, fur robe and long tapering cap. he came in with a bunch of rods and a sack, and a broom for a sceptre. after we all had received our share of the beating, he threw the contents of his bag on the table, and while we were scrambling for the nuts and apples, gave us many smart raps over the fingers. in many families the children are made to say, "i thank you, herr nicolaus," and the rods are hung up in the room till christmas to keep them in good behavior. this was only a forerunner of the christ-kindchen's coming. the nicolaus is the punishing spirit, the christ-kindchen the rewarding one. when this time was over, we all began preparing secretly our presents for christmas. every day there were consultations about the things which should be obtained. it was so arranged that all should interchange presents, but nobody must know beforehand what he would receive. what pleasure there was in all these secret purchases and preparations! scarcely anything was thought or spoken of but christmas, and every day the consultations became more numerous and secret. the trees were bought sometime beforehand, but as we were to witness the festival for the first time, we were not allowed to see them prepared, in order that the effect might be as great as possible. the market in the roeinerberg square grew constantly larger and more brilliant. every night it was lit up with lamps and thronged with people. quite a forest sprang up in the street before our door. the old stone house opposite, with the traces of so many centuries on its dark face, seemed to stand in the midst of a garden. it was a pleasure to go out every evening and see the children rushing to and fro, shouting and seeking out toys from the booths, and talking all the time of the christmas that was so near. the poor people went by with their little presents hid under their cloaks, lest their children might see them; every heart was glad and every countenance wore a smile of secret pleasure. finally the day before christmas arrived. the streets were so full i could scarce make my way through, and the sale of trees went on more rapidly than ever. these wore commonly branches of pine or fir, set upright in a little miniature garden of moss. when the lamps were lighted at night, our street had the appearance of an illuminated garden. we were prohibited from entering the rooms up stairs in which the grand ceremony was to take place, being obliged to take our seats in those arranged for the guests, and wait with impatience the hour when christ-kindchen should call. several relations of the family came, and what was more agreeable, they brought with them five or six children. i was anxious to see how they would view the ceremony. finally, in the middle of an interesting conversation, we heard the bell ringing up stairs. we all started up, and made for the door. i ran up the steps with the children at my heels, and at the top met a blaze of light coming from the open door, that dazzled me. in each room stood a great table, on which the presents were arranged, amid flowers and wreaths. from the centre, rose the beautiful christmas tree covered with wax tapers to the very top, which made it nearly as light as day, while every bough was hung with sweetmeats and gilded nuts. the children ran shouting around the table, hunting their presents, while the older persons had theirs pointed out to them. i had qui'e a little library of german authors as my share; and many of the others received quite valuable gifts. but how beautiful was the heart-felt joy that shone on every countenance! as each one discovered he embraced the givers, and all was a scene of the purest feelings. it is a glorious feast, this christmas time! what a chorus from happy hearts went up on that evening to heaven! full of poetry and feeling and glad associations, it is here anticipated with joy, and leaves a pleasant memory behind it. we may laugh at such simple festivals at home, and prefer to shake ourselves loose from every shackle that bears the rust of the past, but we would certainly be happier if some of these beautiful old customs were better honored. they renew the bond of feeling between families and friends, and strengthen their kindly sympathy; even life-long friends require occasions of this kind to freshen the wreath that binds them together. new year's eve is also favored with a peculiar celebration in germany. every body remains up and makes himself merry till midnight. the christmas trees are again lighted, and while the tapers are burning down, the family play for articles which they have purchased and hung on the boughs. it is so arranged that each one shall win as much as he gives, which change of articles makes much amusement. one of the ladies rejoiced in the possession of a red silk handkerchief and a cake of soap, while a cup and saucer and a pair of scissors fell to my lot! as midnight drew near, it was louder in the streets, and companies of people, some of them singing in chorus, passed by on their way to the zeil. finally three-quarters struck, the windows were opened and every one waited anxiously for the clock to strike. at the first sound, such a cry arose as one may imagine, when thirty or forty thousand persons all set their lungs going at once. every body in the house, in the street, over the whole city, shouted, _"prosst neu jahr?"_ in families, all the members embrace each other, with wishes of happiness for the new year. then the windows are thrown open, and they cry to their neighbors or those passing by. after we had exchanged congratulations, dennett, b---- and i set out for the zeil. the streets were full of people, shouting to one another and to those standing at the open windows. we failed not to cry, _"prosst neu jahr!"_ wherever we saw a damsel at the window, and the words came back to us more musically than we sent them. along the zeil the spectacle was most singular. the great wide street was filled with companies of men, marching up and down, while from the mass rang up one deafening, unending shout, that seemed to pierce the black sky above. the whole scene looked stranger and wilder from the flickering light of the swinging lamps, and i could not help thinking it must resemble a night in paris during the french revolution. we joined the crowd and used our lungs as well as any of them. for some time after we returned home, companies passed by, singing "with us 'tis ever so!" but at three o'clock all was again silent. chapter xiv. winter in frankfort--a fair, an inundation and a fire. after new year, the main, just above the city, and the lakes in the promenades, were frozen over. the ice was tried by the police, and having been found of sufficient thickness, to the great joy of the schoolboys, permission was given to skate. the lakes were soon covered with merry skaters, and every afternoon the banks were crowded with spectators. it was a lively sight to see two or three hundred persons darting about, turning and crossing like a flock of crows, while, by means of arm-chairs mounted on runners, the ladies were enabled to join in the sport, and whirl around among them. some of the broad meadows near the city, which were covered with water, were the resort of the schools. i went there often in my walks, and always found two or three schools, with the teachers, all skating together, and playing their winter games on the ice. i have often seen them on the meadows along the main; the teachers generally made quite as much noise as the scholars in their sports. in the art institute i saw the picture of "huss before the council of constance," by the painter lessing. it contains upwards of twenty figures. the artist has shown the greatest skill in the expression and grouping of these. bishops and cardinals in their splendid robes are seated around a table, covered with parchment folios, and before them stands huss alone. his face, pale and thin with long imprisonment, he has lain one hand on his breast, while with the other he has grasped one of the volumes on the table; there is an air of majesty, of heavenly serenity on his lofty forehead and calm eye. one feels instinctively that he has truth on his side. there can be no deception, no falsehood in those noble features. the three italian cardinals before him appear to be full of passionate rage; the bishop in front, who holds the imperial pass given to huss, looks on with an expression of scorn, and the priests around have an air of mingled curiosity and hatred. there is one, however, in whose mild features and tearful eye is expressed sympathy and pity for the prisoner. it is said this picture has had a great effect upon catholics who have seen it, in softening the bigotry with which they regarded the early reformers; and if so, it is a triumphant proof how much art can effect in the cause of truth and humanity. i was much interested in a cast of the statue of st. george, by the old italian sculptor donatello. it is a figure full of youth and energy, with a countenance that seems to breathe. donatello was the teacher of michael angelo, and when the young sculptor was about setting off for rome, he showed him the statue, his favorite work. michael gazed at it long and intensely, and at length, on parting, said to donatello, "it wants but one thing." the artist pondered long over this expression, for he could not imagine in what could fail the matchless figure. at length, after many years, michael angelo, in the noon of his renown, visited the death-bed of his old master. donatello begged to know, before he died, what was wanting to his st. george. angelo answered, "_the gift of speech!_" and a smile of triumph lighted the old man's face, as he closed his eyes forever. the eschernheim tower, at the entrance of one of the city gates, is universally admired by strangers, on account of its picturesque appearance, overgrown with ivy and terminated by the little pointed turrets, which one sees so often in germany, on buildings three or four centuries old. there are five other watch towers of similar form, which stand on different sides of the city, at the distance of a mile or two, and generally upon an eminence overlooking the country. they were erected several centuries ago, to discern from afar the approach of an enemy, and protect the caravans of merchants, which at that time travelled from city to city, from the attacks of robbers. the eschernheim tower is interesting from another circumstance, which, whether true or not, is universally believed. when frankfort was under the sway of a prince, a swiss hunter, for some civil offence, was condemned to die. he begged his life from the prince, who granted it only on condition that he should fire the figure with his rifle through the vane of this tower. he agreed, and did it; and at the present lime, one can distinguish a rude on the vane, as if cut with bullets, while two or three marks at the side appear to be from shots that failed. the promise of spring which lately visited us, was not destined for fulfilment. shortly afterwards it grew cold again, with a succession of snows and sharp northerly winds. such weather at the commencement of spring is not uncommon at home; but here they say there has not been such a winter known for years. in the north of prussia many persons have been starved to death on account of provisions becoming scarce. among the hartz also, the suffering is very great. we saw something of the misery even here. it was painful to walk through the streets and see so many faces bearing plainly the marks of want, so many pale, hollow-eyed creatures, with suffering written on every feature. we were assailed with petitions for help which could not be relieved, though it pained and saddened the heart to deny. the women, too, labor like brutes, day after day. many of them appear cheerful and contented, and are no doubt, tolerably happy, for the germans have all true, warm hearts, and are faithful to one another, as far as poverty will permit; but one cannot see old, gray-headed women, carrying loads on their heads as heavy as themselves, exposed to all kinds of weather and working from morning till night, without pity and indignation. so unusually severe has been the weather, that the deer and hares in the mountains near, came nearly starved and tamed down by hunger, into the villages to hunt food. the people fed them everyday, and also carried grain into the fields for the partridges and pheasants, who flew up to them like domestic fowls. the poor ravens made me really sorry; some lay dead in the fields and many came into the city perfectly tame, flying along the main with wings hardly strong enough to boar up their skeleton bodies. the storks came at the usual time, but went back again. i hope the year's blessing has not departed with them, according to the old german superstition. _march ._--we have hopes of spring at last. three days ago the rain began and has continued with little intermission till now. the air is warm, the snow goes fast, and every thing seems to announce that the long winter is breaking up. the main rises fast, and goes by the city like an arrow, whirling large masses of ice upon the banks. the hills around are coming out from under the snow, and the lilac-buds in the promenades begin to expand for the second time. the fair has now commenced in earnest, and it is a most singular and interesting sight. the open squares are filled with booths, leaving narrow streets between them, across which canvas is spread. every booth is open and filled with a dazzling display of wares of all kinds. merchants assemble from all parts of europe. the bohemians come with their gorgeous crystal ware; the nuremborgers with their toys, quaint and fanciful as the old city itself; men from the thuringian forest, with minerals and canes, and traders from berlin, vienna, paris and switzerland, with dry goods and wares of all kinds. near the exchange are two or three companies of tyrolese, who attract much of my attention. their costume is exceedingly picturesque. the men have all splendid manly figures, and honor and bravery are written on their countenances. one of the girls is a really handsome mountain maiden, and with her pointed, broad-brimmed black hat, as romantic looking as one could desire. the musicians have arrived, and we are entertained the whole day long by wandering bands, some of whom play finely. the best, which is also the favorite company, is from saxony, called "the mountain boys." they are now playing in our street, and while i write, one of the beautiful choruses from norma comes up through the din of the crowd. in fact, music is heard over the whole city, and the throngs that fill every street with all sorts of faces and dresses, somewhat relieve the monotony that was beginning to make frankfort tiresome. we have an ever-varied and interesting scene from our window. besides the motley crowd of passers-by, there are booths and tables stationed thick below. one man in particular is busily engaged in selling his store of blacking in the auction style, in a manner that would do credit to a real down-caster. he has flaming certificates exhibited, and prefaces his calls to buy with a high-sounding description of his wonderful qualities. he has a bench in front, where he tests on the shoes of his customers, or if none of those are disposed to try it, he rubs it on his own, which shine like mirrors. so he rattles on with amazing fluency in french, german and italian, and this, with his black beard and moustache and his polite, graceful manner, keeps a crowd of customers around him, so that the wonderful blacking goes off as fast as he can supply it. _april ._--old winter's gales are shut close behind us, and the sun looks down with his summer countenance. the air, after the long cold rain, is like that of paradise. all things are gay and bright, and everybody is in motion. spring commenced with yesterday in earnest, and lo! before night the roads were all dry and fine as if there had been no rain for a month; and the gardeners dug and planted in ground which, eight days before, was covered with snow! after having lived through the longest winter here, for one hundred and fifty years, we were destined to witness the greatest flood for sixty, and little lower than any within the last three hundred years. on the th of march, the river overflooded the high pier along the main, and rising higher and higher, began to come into the gates and alleys. before night the whole bank was covered and the water intruded into some of the booths in the römerberg. when i went there the next morning, it was a sorrowful sight. persons were inside the gate with boats; so rapidly had it risen, that many of the merchants had no time to move their wares, and must suffer great damage. they were busy rescuing what property could bo seized in the haste, and constructing passages into the houses which were surrounded. no one seemed to think of buying or selling, but only on the best method to escape the danger. along the main it was still worse. from the measure, it had risen seventeen feet above its usual level, and the arches of the bridge were filled nearly to the top. at the upper-main gate, every thing was flooded--houses, gardens, workshops, &c.; the water had even overrun the meadows above and attacked the city from behind, so that a part of the beautiful promenades lay deep under water. on the other side, we could see houses standing in it up to the roof. it came up through the sewers into the middle of frankfort; a large body of men were kept at work constructing slight bridges to walk on, and transporting boats to places where they were needed. this was all done at the expense of the city; the greatest readiness was everywhere manifested to render all possible assistance. in the fischergasse, i saw them taking provisions to the people in boats; one man even fastened a loaf of bread to the end of a broomstick and reached it across the narrow street from an upper story window, to the neighbor opposite. news came that hausen, a village towards the taunus, about two miles distant, was quite under water, and that the people clung to the roofs and cried for help; but it was fortunately false. about noon, cannon shots were heard, and twenty boats were sent out from the city. in the afternoon i ascended the tower of the cathedral, which commands a wide view of the valley, up and down. just above the city the whole plain was like a small lake--between two and three miles wide. a row of new-built houses stretched into it like a long promontory, and in the middle, like an island, stood a country-seat with large out-buildings. the river sent a long arm out below, that reached up through the meadows behind the city, as if to clasp it all and bear it away together. a heavy storm was raging along the whole extent of the taunus; but a rainbow stood in the eastern sky. i thought of its promise, and hoped, for the sake of the hundreds of poor people who were suffering by the waters, that it might herald their fall. we afterwards went over to sachsenhausen, which was, if possible, in a still more unfortunate condition. the water had penetrated the passages and sewers, and from these leaped and rushed up into the streets, as out of a fountain. the houses next to the main, which were first filled, poured torrents out of the doors and windows into the street below. these people were nearly all poor, and could ill afford the loss of time and damage of property it occasioned them. the stream was filled with wood and boards, and even whole roofs, with the tiles on, went floating down. the bridge was crowded with people; one saw everywhere mournful countenances, and heard lamentations over the catastrophe. after sunset, a great cloud, filling half the sky, hung above; the reflection of its glowing crimson tint, joined to the brown hue of the water, made it seem like a river of fire. what a difference a little sunshine makes! i could have forgotten the season the next day, but for the bare trees and swelling main, as i threaded my way through the hundreds of people who thronged its banks. it was that soft warmth that comes with the first spring days, relaxing the body and casting a dreamy hue over the mind. i leaned over the bridge in the full enjoyment of it, and listening to the roaring of the water under the arches, forgot every thing else for a time. it was amusing to walk up and down the pier and look at the countenances passing by, while the phantasy was ever ready, weaving a tale for all. my favorite tyrolese were there, and i saw a greek leaning over the stone balustrade, wearing the red cap and white frock, and with the long dark hair and fiery eye of the orient. i could not but wonder, as he looked at the dim hills of the odenwald, along the eastern horizon, whether they called up in his mind the purple isles of his native archipelago. the general character of a nation is plainly stamped on the countenances of its people. one who notices the faces in the streets, can soon distinguish, by the glance he gives in going by, the englishman or the frenchman from the german, and the christian from the jew. not less striking is the difference of expression between the germans themselves; and in places where all classes of people are drawn together, it is interesting to observe how accurately these distinctions are drawn. the boys have generally handsome, intelligent faces, and like all boys, they are full of life and spirit, for they know nothing of the laws by which their country is chained down, and would not care for them, if they did. but with the exception of the students, who _talk_, at least, of liberty and right, the young men lose this spirit and at last settle down into the calm, cautious, _lethargic_ citizen. one distinguishes an englishman and i should think an american, also, in this respect, very easily; the former, moreover, by a certain cold stateliness and reserve. there is something, however, about a jew, whether english or german, which marks him from all others. however different their faces, there is a family character which runs through the whole of them. it lays principally in their high cheek-bones, prominent nose and thin, compressed lips; which, especially in elderly men, gives a peculiar miserly expression that is unmistakeable. i regret to say, one looks almost in vain, in germany, for a handsome female countenance. here and there, perhaps, is a woman with regular features, but that intellectual expression, which gives such a charm to the most common face, is wanting. i have seen more beautiful women in one night, in a public assembly in america, than during the seven months i have been on the continent. some of the young jewesses, in frankfort, are considered handsome, but their features soon become too strongly marked. in a public walk the number of positively ugly faces is really astonishing. about ten o'clock that night, i heard a noise of persons running in the street, and going to the römerberg, found the water had risen, all at once, much higher, and was still rapidly increasing. people were setting up torches and lengthening the rafts, which had been already formed. the lower part of the city was a real venice--the streets were full of boats and people could even row about in their own houses; though it was not quite so bad as the flood in georgia, where they went _up stairs to bed_ in boats! i went to the bridge. persons were calling around--"the water! the water! it rises continually!" the river rushed through the arches, foaming and dashing with a noise like thunder, and the red light of the torches along the shore cost a flickering glare on the troubled waves. it was then twenty-one feet above its usual level. men were busy all around, carrying boats and ladders to the places most threatened, or emptying cellars into which it was penetrating. the sudden swelling was occasioned by the coming down of the floods from the mountains of spessart. part of the upper quay cracked next morning and threatened to fall in, and one of the projecting piers of the bridge sunk away from the main body three or four inches. in sachsenhausen the desolation occasioned by the flood is absolutely frightful; several houses have fallen into total ruin. all business was stopped for the day; the exchange was even shut up. as the city depends almost entirely on pumps for its supply of water, and these were filled with the flood, we have been drinking the muddy current of the main ever since. the damage to goods is very great. the fair was stopped at once, and the loss in this respect alone, must be several millions of florins. the water began to fall on the st, and has now sunk about ten feet, so that most of the houses are again released, though in a bad condition. yesterday afternoon, as i was sitting in my room, writing, i heard all at once an explosion like a cannon in the street, followed by loud and continued screams. looking out the window, i saw the people rushing by with goods in their arms, some wringing their hands and crying, others running in all directions. imagining that it was nothing less than the tumbling down of one of the old houses, we ran down and saw a store a few doors distant in flames. the windows were bursting and flying out, and the mingled mass of smoke and red flame reached half way across the street. we learned afterwards it was occasioned by the explosion of a jar of naphtha, which instantly enveloped the whole room in fire, the people barely escaping in time. the persons who had booths near were standing still in despair, while the flames were beginning to touch their property. a few butchers who first came up, did almost everything. a fire engine arrived soon, but it was ten minutes before it began to play, and by that time the flames were coming out of the upper stories. then the supply of water soon failed, and though another engine came up shortly after, it was sometime before it could be put in order, so that by the time they got fairly to work, the fire had made its way nearly through the house. the water was first brought in barrels drawn by horses, till some officer came and opened the fire plug. the police were busy at work seizing those who came by and setting them to work; and as the alarm had drawn a great many together, they at last began to effect something. all the military are obliged to bo out, and the officers appeared eager to use their authority while they could, for every one was ordering and commanding, till all was a scene of perfect confusion and uproar. i could not help laughing heartily, so ludicrous did the scene appear. there were little, miserable engines, not much bigger than a hand-cart, and looking as if they had not been used for half a century, the horses running backwards and forwards, dragging barrels which were emptied into tubs, after which the water was finally dipped up in buckets, and emptied into the engines! these machines can only play into the second or third story, after which the hose was taken up in the houses on the opposite side of the street, and made to play across. after four hours the fire was overcome, the house being thoroughly burnt out; it happened to have double fire walls, which prevented those adjoining from catching easily. chapter xv. the dead and the deaf--mendelssohn the composer. it is now a luxury to breathe. these spring days are the perfection of delightful weather. imagine the delicious temperature of our indian summer joined to the life and freshness of spring, add to this a sky of the purest azure, and a breeze filled with the odor of violets,--the most exquisite of all perfumes--and you have some idea of it. the meadows are beginning to bloom, and i have already heard the larks singing high up in the sky. those sacred birds, the storks, have returned and taken possession of their old nests on the chimney-tops; they are sometimes seen walking about in the fields, with a very grave and serious air, as if conscious of the estimation in which they are held. everybody is out in the open air; the woods, although they still look wintry, are filled with people, and the boatmen on the main are busy ferrying gay parties across. the spring has been so long in coming, that all are determined to enjoy it well, while it lasts. we visited the cemetery a few days ago. the dead-house, where corpses are placed in the hope of resuscitation, is an appendage to cemeteries found only in germany. we were shown into a narrow chamber, on each side of which were six cells, into which one could distinctly see, by means of a large plate of glass. in each of these is a bier for the body, directly above which hangs a cord, having on the end ten thimbles, which are put upon the fingers of the corpse, so that the slightest motion strikes a bell in the watchman's room. lamps are lighted at night, and in winter the rooms are warmed. in the watchman's chamber stands a clock with a dial-plate of twenty-four hours, and opposite every hour is a little plate, which can only be moved two minutes before it strikes. if then the watchman has slept or neglected his duty at that time, he cannot move it afterwards, and his neglect, is seen by the superintendent. in such a case, he is severely lined, and for the second or third offence, dismissed. there are other rooms adjoining, containing beds, baths, galvanic battery, &c. nevertheless, they say there has been no resuscitation during the fifteen years it has been established. we afterwards went to the end of the cemetery to see the bas-reliefs of thorwaldsen, in the vault of the bethmann family. they are three in number, representing the death of a son of the present banker, moritz von bethmann, who was drowned in the arno about fourteen years ago. the middle one represents the young man drooping in his chair, the beautiful greek angel of death standing at his back, with one arm over his shoulder, while his younger brother is sustaining him, and receiving the wreath that drops from his sinking hand. the young woman who showed us these, told us of thorwaldsen's visit to frankfort, about three years ugo. she described him as a beautiful and venerable old man, with long white locks hanging over his shoulders, still vigorous and active for his years. there seems to have been much resemblance between him and dannecker--not only in personal appearance and character, but, in the simple and classical beauty of their works. the cemetery contains many other monuments; with the exception of one or two by launitz, and an exquisite death angel in sandstone, from a young frankfort sculptor, they are not remarkable. the common tomb-stone is a white wooden cross; opposite the entrance is a perfect forest of them, involuntarily reminding one of a company of ghosts, with outstretched arms. these contain the names of the deceased with mottoes, some of which are beautiful and touching, as for instance: "_through darkness unto light_;" "_weep not for her; she is not dead, but sleepeth_" "_slumber sweet!_" etc. the graves are neatly bordered with grass, and planted with flowers, and many of the crosses have withered wreathes hanging upon them. in summer it is a beautiful place; in fact, the very name of cemetery in german--_friedhuf_ or court of peace--takes away the idea of death; the beautiful figure of the youth, with his inverted torch, makes one think of the grave only us a place of repose. on our way back we stopped at the institute for the deaf; for by the new method of teaching they are no longer dumb. it is a handsome building in the gardens skirting the city. we applied, and on learning we were strangers, they gave us permission to enter. on finding we were americans, the instructress immediately spoke of dr. howe, who had visited the institute a year or two before, and was much pleased to find that mr. dennett was acquainted with him. she took us into a room where about fifteen small children were assembled, and addressing one of the girls, said in a distinct tone: "these gentlemen are from america; the deaf children there speak with their fingers--canst thou speak so?" to which the child answered distinctly, but with some effort: "no, we speak with our mouths." she then spoke to several others with the same success; one of the boys in particular, articulated with astonishing success. it was interesting to watch their countenances, which were alive with eager attention, and to see the apparent efforts they made to utter the words. they spoke in a monotonous tone, slowly and deliberately, but their voices had a strange, sepulchral sound, which was at first unpleasant to the ear. i put one or two questions to a little boy, which he answered quite readily; as i was a foreigner, this was the best test that could be given of the success of the method. we conversed afterwards with the director, who received us kindly, and appointed a day for us to come and witness the system more fully. he spoke of dr. howe and horace mann, of boston, and seemed to take a great interest in the introduction of his system in america. we went again at the appointed time, and as their drawing teacher was there, we had an opportunity of looking over their sketches, which were excellent. the director showed us the manner of teaching them, with a looking-glass, in which they were shown the different positions of the organs of the mouth, and afterwards made to feel the vibrations of the throat and breast, produced by the sound. he took one of the youngest scholars, covered her eyes, and placing her hand upon his throat, articulated the second sound of a. she followed him, making the sound softer or louder as he did. all the consonants were made distinctly, by placing her hand before his mouth. their exercises in reading, speaking with one another, and writing from dictation, succeeded perfectly. he treated them all like his own children, and sought by jesting and playing, to make the exercise appear as sport. they call him father and appear to be much attached to him. one of the pupils, about fourteen years old, interested me through his history. lie and his sister were found in sachsenhausen, by a frankfort merchant, in a horrible condition. their mother had died about two years and a half before, and during all that time their father had neglected them till they were near dead through privation and filth. the boy was placed in this institute, and the girl in that of the orphans. he soon began to show a talent for modelling figures, and for some time he has been taking lessons of the sculptor launitz. i saw a beautiful copy of a bas-relief of thorwaldsen which he made, as well as an original, very interesting, from its illustration of his history. it was in two parts; the first represented himself and his sister, kneeling in misery before a ruined family altar, by which an angel was standing, who took him by one hand, while with the other he pointed to his benefactor, standing near. the other represented the two kneeling in gratitude before a restored altar, on which was the anchor of hope. from above streamed down a light, where two angels were rejoicing over their happiness. for a boy of fourteen, deprived of one of the most valuable senses, and taken from such a horrible condition of life, it is a surprising work and gives brilliant hopes for his future. we went lately into the roemerberg, to see the kaisersaal and the other rooms formerly used by the old emperors of germany, and their senates. the former is now in the process of restoration. the ceiling is in the gorgeous illuminated style of the middle ages; along each side arc rows of niches for the portraits of the emperors, which have been painted by the best artists in berlin, dresden, vienna and munich. it is remarkable that the number of the old niches in the hall should exactly correspond with the number of the german emperors, so that the portrait of the emperor francis of austria, who was the last, will close the long rank coming down from charlemagne. the pictures, or at least such of them as are already finished, are kept in another room; they give one a good idea of the changing styles of royal costumes, from the steel shirt and helmet to the jewelled diadem and velvet robe. i looked with interest on a painting of frederic barbarossa, by leasing, and mused over the popular tradition that he sits with his paladins in a mountain cave under the castle of kyffhäuser, ready to come forth and assist his fatherland in the hour of need. there was the sturdy form of maximilian; the martial conrad; and ottos, siegfrieds and sigismunds in plenty--many of whom moved a nation in their day, but are now dust and forgotten. i yesterday visited mendelssohn, the celebrated composer. having heard rame of his music this winter, particularly that magnificent creation, the "walpurgisnacht," i wished to obtain his autograph before leaving, and sent a note for that purpose. he sent a kind note in answer, adding a chorus out of the walpurgisnacht from his own hand. after this, i could not repress the desire of speaking with him. lie received me with true german cordiality, and on learning i was an american, spoke of having been invited to attend a musical festival in new york. he invited me to call on him if he happened to bo in leipsic or dresden when we should pass through, and spoke particularly of the fine music there. i have rarely seen a man whose countenance bears so plainly the stamp of genius. he has a glorious dark eye, and byron's expression of a "dome of thought," could never be more appropriately applied than to his lofty and intellectual forehead, the marble whiteness and polish of which arc heightened by the raven hue of his hair. he is about forty years of age, in the noon of his fame and the full maturity of his genius. already as a boy of fourteen he composed an opera, which was played with much success at berlin; he is now the first living composer of germany. moses mendelssohn, the celebrated jewish philosopher, was his grandfather; and his father, now living, is accustomed to say that in his youth he was spoken of as the son of the great mendelssohn; now he is known as the father of the great mendelssohn! chapter xvi. journey on foot from frankfort to cassel. the day for leaving frankfort came at last, and i bade adieu to the gloomy, antique, but still quaint and pleasant city. i felt like leaving a second home, so much had the memories of many delightful hours spent there attached me to it: i shall long retain the recollection of its dark old streets, its massive, devil-haunted bridge and the ponderous cathedral, telling of the times of the crusaders. i toiled up the long hill on the road to friedberg, and from the tower at the top took a last look at the distant city, with a heart heavier than the knapsack whose unaccustomed weight rested uneasily on my shoulders. being alone--starting out into the wide world, where us yet i know no one,--i felt much deeper what it was to find friends in a strange land. but such is the wanderer's lot. we had determined on making the complete tour of germany on foot, and in order to vary it somewhat, my friend and i proposed taking different routes from frankfort to leipsic. he choose a circuitous course, by way of nuremberg and the thuringian forests; while i, whose fancy had been running wild with goethe's witches, preferred looking on the gloom and grandeur of the rugged hartz. we both left frankfort on the d of april, each bearing a letter of introduction to the same person in leipsic, where we agreed to meet in fourteen days. as we were obliged to travel as cheaply as possible, i started with but seventynine florins, (a florin is forty cents american) well knowing that if i took more, i should, in all probability, spend proportionally more also. thus, armed with my passport, properly _visèd_, a knapsack weighing fifteen pounds and a cane from the kentucky mammoth cave, i began my lonely walk through northern germany. the warm weather of the week before had brought out the foliage of the willows and other early trees--violets and cowslips were springing up in the meadows. keeping along the foot of the taunus, i passed over great, broad hills, which were brown with the spring ploughing, and by sunset reached friedberg--a, largo city, on the summit of a hill. the next morning, after sketching its old, baronial castle, i crossed the meadows to nauheim, to see the salt springs there. they are fifteen in number; the water, which is very warm, rushes up with such force as to leap several feet above the earth. the buildings made for evaporation are nearly two miles in length; a walk along the top gives a delightful view of the surrounding valleys. after reaching the _chaussée_ again, i was hailed by a wandering journeyman, or _handwerker_, as they are called, who wanted company. as i had concluded to accept all offers of this kind, we trudged along together very pleasantly, he was from holstein, on the borders of denmark and was just returning home, after an absence of six years, having escaped from switzerland after the late battle of luzerne, which he had witnessed. he had his knapsack and tools fastened on two wheels, which he drew after him quite conveniently. i could not help laughing at the adroit manner in which he begged his way along, through every village. he would ask me to go on and wait for him at the other end; after a few minutes he followed, with a handful of small copper money, which he said he had _fought for_,--the handworker's term for _begged._ we passed over long ranges of hills, with an occasional view of the vogelsgebirge, or bird's mountains, far to the cast. i knew at length, by the pointed summits of the hills, that we were approaching giessen and the valley of the lahn. finally, two sharp peaks appeared in the distance, each crowned with a picturesque fortress, while the spires of giessen rose from the valley below. parting from my companion, i passed through the city without stopping, for it was the time of the university vacation, and dr. liebeg, the world-renowned chemist, whom i desired to see, was absent. crossing a hill or two, i came down into the valley of the lahn, which flows through meadows of the brightest green, with redroofed cottages nestled among gardens and orchards upon its banks. the women here wear a remarkable costume, consisting of a red boddice with white sleeves, and a dozen skirts, one above another, reaching only to the knees. i slept again at a little village among the hills, and started early for marburg. the meadows were of the purest emerald, through which the stream wound its way, with even borders, covered to the water's edge with grass so smooth and velvety, that a fairy might have danced along on it for miles without stumbling over an uneven tuft. this valley is one of the finest districts in germany. i thought, as i saw the peaceful inhabitants at work in their fields, i had most probably, on the battle-field of brandywine, walked over the bones of some of their ancestors, whom a despotic prince had torn from their happy homes, to die in a distant land, fighting against the cause of freedom. i now entered directly into the heart of hesse cassel. the country resembled a collection of hills thrown together in confusion--sometimes a wide plain left between them, sometimes a clustre of wooded peaks, and here and there a single pointed summit rising above the rest. the vallies were green as ever, the hill-sides freshly ploughed and the forests beginning to be colored by the tender foliage of the larch and birch. i walked two or three hours at a "stretch," and then, when i could find a dry, shady bank, i would rest for half an hour and finish some hastily sketched landscape, or lay at full length, with my head on my knapsack, and peruse the countenances of those passing by. the observation which every traveller excites, soon ceases to be embarrassing. it was at first extremely unpleasant; but i am now so hardened, that the strange, magnetic influence of the human eye, which we cannot avoid feeling, passes by me as harmlessly as if turned aside by invisible mail. during the day several showers came by, but as none of them penetrated further than my blouse, i kept on, and reached about sunset a little village in the valley. i chose a small inn, which had an air of neatness about it, and on going in, the tidy landlady's "be you welcome," as she brought a pair of slippers for my swollen feet, made me feel quite at home. after being furnished with eggs, milk, butter and bread, for supper, which i ate while listening to an animated discussion between the village schoolmaster and some farmers, i was ushered into a clean, sanded bedroom, and soon forgot all fatigue. for this, with breakfast in the morning, the bill was six and a half groschen--about sixteen cents! tin air was freshened by the rain and i journeyed over the hills at a rapid rate. stopping for dinner at the large village of wabern, a boy at the inn asked me if i was going to america? i said no, i came from there. he then asked me many silly questions, after which he ran out and told the people of the village. when i set out again, the children pointed at me and cried: "see there! he is from america!" and the men took off their hats and bowed! the sky was stormy, which added to the gloom of the hills around, though some of the distant ranges lay in mingled light and shade--the softest alternation of purple and brown. there were many isolated, rocky hills, two of which interested me, through their attendant legends. one is said to have been the scene of a battle between the romans and germans, where, after a long conflict the rock opened and swallowed up the former. the other, which is crowned with a rocky wall, so like a ruined fortress, as at a distance to be universally mistaken for one, tradition says is the death-place of charlemagne, who still walks around its summit every night, clad in complete armor. on ascending a hill late in the afternoon, i saw at a great distance the statue of hercules, which stands on the wilhelmshöhe, near cassel. night set in with a dreary rain, and i stopped at an inn about five miles short of the city. while tea was preparing a company of students came in and asked for a separate room. seeing i was alone, they invited me up with them. they seemed much interested in america, and leaving the table gradually, formed a ring around me, where i had enough to do to talk with them all at once. when the omnibus came along, the most of them went with it to cassel; but five remained and persuaded me to set out with them on foot. they insisted on carrying my knapsack the whole way, through the rain and darkness, and when i had passed the city gate with them, unchallenged, conducted me to the comfortable hotel, "_zur krone_." it is a pleasant thing to wake up in the morning in a strange city. every thing is new; you walk around it for the first time in the full enjoyment of the novelty, or the not less agreeable feeling of surprise, if it is different from your anticipations. two of my friends of the previous night called for me in the morning, to show me around the city, and the first impression, made in such agreeable company, prepossessed me very favorably. i shall not, however, take up time in describing its many sights, particularly the frederick's platz, where the statue of frederick the second, who sold ten thousand of his subjects to england, has been re-erected, after having lain for years in a stable where it was thrown by the french. i was much interested in young carl k----, one of my new acquaintances. his generous and unceasing kindness first won my esteem, and i found on nearer acquaintance, the qualities of his mind equal those of his heart. i saw many beautiful poems of his which were of remarkable merit, considering his youth, and thought i could read in his dark, dreamy eye, the unconscious presentiment of a power he does not yet possess. he seemed as one i had known for years. he, with a brother student, accompanied me in the afternoon, to wilhelmshöhe, the summer residence of the prince, on the side of a range of mountains three miles west of the city. the road leads in a direct line to the summit of the mountain, which is thirteen hundred feet in height, surmounted by a great structure, called the giant's castle, on the summit of which is a pyramid ninety-six feet high, supporting a statue of hercules, copied after the farnese, and thirty-one feet in height. by a gradual ascent through beautiful woods, we reached the princely residence, a magnificent mansion standing on a natural terrace of the mountain. near it is a little theatre built by jerome buonaparte, in which he himself used to play. we looked into the green house in passing, where the floral splendor of every zone was combined. there were lofty halls, with glass roofs, where the orange grew to a great tree, and one could sit in myrtle bowers, with the brilliant bloom of the tropics around him. it was the only thing there i was guilty of coveting. the greatest curiosity is the water-works, which are perhaps unequalled in the world. the giant's castle on the summit contains an immense tank in which water is kept for the purpose; but unfortunately, at the time i was there, the pipes, which had been frozen through the winter, were not in condition to play. from the summit an inclined plane of masonry descends the mountain nine hundred feet, broken every one hundred and fifty feet by perpendicular descents. these are the cascades, down which the water first rushes from the tank. after being again collected in a great basin at the bottom, it passes into an aqueduct, built like a roman ruin, and goes over beautiful arches through the forest, where it falls in one sheet down a deep precipice. when it has descended several other beautiful falls, made in exact imitation of nature, it is finally collected and forms the great fountain, which rises twelve inches in diameter from the middle of a lake to the height of one hundred and ninety feet! we descended by lovely walks through the forest to the löwenburg, built as the ruin of a knightly castle, and fitted out in every respect to correspond with descriptions of a fortress in the olden time, with moat, drawbridge, chapel and garden of pyramidal trees. farther below, are a few small houses, inhabited by the descendants of the hessians who fell in america, supported here at the prince's expense! chapter xvii. adventures among the hartz. on taking leave of carl at the gate over the göttingen road, i felt tempted to bestow a malediction upon traveling, from its merciless breaking of all links, as soon as formed. it was painful to think we should meet no more. the tears started into his eyes, and feeling a mist gathering over mine, i gave his hand a parting pressure, turned my back upon cassel and started up the long mountain, at a desperate rate. on the summit i passed out of hesse into hanover, and began to descend the remaining six miles. the road went down by many windings, but i shortened the way considerably by a foot-path through a mossy old forest. the hills bordering the weser are covered with wood, through which i saw the little red-roofed city of münden, at the bottom. i stopped there for the night, and next morning walked around the place. it is one of the old german cities that have not yet felt the effect of the changing spirit of the age. it is still walled, though the towers are falling to ruin. the streets are narrow, crooked, and full of ugly old houses, and to stand in the little square before the public buildings, one would think himself born in the sixteenth century. just below the city the werra and fulda unito and form the weser. the triangular point has been made into a public walk, and the little steamboat was lying at anchor near, waiting to start for bremen. in the afternoon i got into the omnibus for göttingen. the ride over the wild, dreary, monotonous hills was not at all interesting. there were two other passengers inside, one of whom, a grave, elderly man, took a great interest in america, but the conversation was principally on his side, for i had been taken with a fever in münden. i lay crouched up in the corner of the vehicle, trying to keep off the chills which constantly came over me, and wishing only for göttingen, that i might obtain medicine and a bed. we reached it at last, and i got out with my knapsack and walked wearily through half a dozen streets till i saw an inn. but on entering, i found it so dark and dirty and unfriendly, that i immediately went out again and hired the first pleasant looking boy i met, to take me to a good hotel. he conducted me to the first one in the city. i felt a trepidation of pocket, but my throbbing head plead more powerfully, so i ordered a comfortable room and a physician. the host, herr wilhelm, sent for professor trefurt, of the university, who told me i had over-exerted myself in walking. he made a second call the next day, when, as he was retiring, i inquired the amount of his fee. he begged to be excused and politely bowed himself out. i inquired the meaning of this of herr wilhelm, who said it was customary for travellers to leave what they chose for the physician, as there was no regular fee. he added, moreover, that twenty groschen, or about sixty cents, was sufficient for the two visits! i stayed in göttingen two dull, dreary, miserable days, without getting much better. i took but one short walk through the city, in which i saw the outsides of a few old churches and got a hard fall on the pavement. thinking that the _cause_ of my illness might perhaps become its _cure_, i resolved to go on rather than remain in the melancholy--in spite of its black-eyed maidens, melancholy--göttingen. on the afternoon of the second day, i took the post to nordheim, about twelve miles distant. the göttingen valley, down which we drove, is green and beautiful, and the trees seem to have come out all at once. we were not within sight of the hartz, but the mountains along the weser were visible on the left. the roads were extremely muddy from the late rains, so that i proceeded but slowly. a blue range along the horizon told me of the hartz, as i passed; although there were some fine side-glimpses through the hills, i did not see much of them till i reached osterode, about twelve miles further. here the country begins to assume a different aspect. the city lies in a narrow valley, and as the road goes down a steep hill towards it, one sees on each side many quarries of gypsum, and in front the gloomy pine mountains are piled one above another in real alpine style. but alas! the city, though it looks exceedingly romantic from above, is one of the dirtiest i ever saw. i stopped at herzberg, six miles farther, for the night. the scenery was very striking; and its effect was much heightened by a sky full of black clouds, which sent down a hail-storm as they passed over. the hills are covered with pine, fir and larch. the latter tree, in its first foliage, is most delicate and beautiful. every bough is like a long ostrich plume, and when one of them stands among the dark pines, it seems so light and airy that the wind might carry it away. just opposite herzberg, the hartz stands in its gloomy and mysterious grandeur, and i went to sleep with the pleasant thought that an hour's walk on the morrow would shut me up in its deep recesses. the next morning i entered them. the road led up a narrow mountain valley, down which a stream was rushing--on all sides were magnificent forests of pine. it was glorious to look down their long aisles, dim and silent, with a floor of thick green moss. there was just room enough for the road and the wild stream which wound its way zigzag between the hills, affording the most beautiful mountain-view along the whole route. as i ascended, the mountains became rougher and wilder, and in the shady hollows were still drifts of snow. enjoying every thing very much, i walked on without taking notice of the road, and on reaching a wild, rocky chasm called the "schlucht," was obliged to turn aside and take a footpath over a high mountain to andreasberg, a town built on a summit two thousand feet above the sea. it is inhabited almost entirely by the workmen in the mines. the way from andreasberg to the brocken leads along the rehberger graben, which carry water about six miles for the oreworks. after going through a thick pine wood, i came out on the mountain-side, where rough crags overhung the way above, and through the tops of the trees i had glimpses into the gorge below. it was scenery of the wildest character. directly opposite rose a mountain wall, dark and stern through the gloomy sky; far below the little stream of the oder foamed over the rocks with a continual roar, and one or two white cloud-wreaths were curling up from the forests. i followed the water-ditch around every projection of the mountain, still ascending higher amid the same wild scenery, till at length i reached the oderteich, a great dam, in a kind of valley formed by some mountain peaks on the side of the brocken. it has a breastwork of granite, very firm, and furnishes a continual supply of water for the works. it began to rain soon, and i took a foot-path which went winding up through the pine wood. the storm still increased, till everything was cloud and rain, so i was obliged to stop about five o'clock at oderbruch, a toll-house and tavern on the side of the brocken, on the boundary between brunswick and hanover--the second highest inhabited house in the hartz. the brocken was invisible through the storm and the weather forboded a difficult ascent. the night was cold, but by a warm fire i let the winds howl and the rain beat. when i awoke the next morning, we were in clouds. they were thick on every side, hiding what little view there was through the openings of the forest. after breakfast, however, they were somewhat thinner, and i concluded to start for the brocken. it is not the usual way for travellers who ascend, being not only a bad road but difficult to find, as i soon discovered. the clouds gathered around again after i set out, and i was obliged to walk in a storm of mingled rain and snow. the snow lay several feet deep in the forests, and the path was, in many places, quite drifted over. the white cloud-masses were whirled past by the wind, continually enveloping me and shutting out every view. during the winter the path had become, in ninny places, the bed of a mountain torrent, so that i was obliged sometimes to wade kneedeep in snow, and sometimes to walk over the wet, spongy moss, crawling under the long, dripping branches of the stunted pines. after a long time of such dreary travelling, i came to two rocks called the stag horns, standing on a little peak. the storm, now all snow, blew more violently than ever, and the path became lost under the deep drifts. comforting myself with the assurance that if i could not find it, i could at least make my way back, i began searching, and after some time, came upon it again. here the forest ceased; the way led on large stones over a marshy ascending plain, but what was above, or on either side, i could not see. it was solitude of the most awful kind. there was nothing but the storm, which had already wet me through, and the bleak gray waste of rocks. it grew sleeper and steeper; i could barely trace the path by the rocks which were worn, and the snow threatened soon to cover these. added to this, although the walking and fresh mountain air had removed my illness, i was still weak from the effects of it, and the consequences of a much longer exposure to the storm were greatly to be feared. i was wondering if the wind increased at the same rate, how much longer it would be before i should be carried off, when suddenly something loomed up above me through the storm. a few steps more and i stood beside the brocken house, on the very summit of the mountain! the mariner, who has been floating for days on a wreck at sea, could scarcely be more rejoiced at a friendly sail, than i was on entering the low building. two large alpine dogs in the passage, as i walked in, dripping with wet, gave notice to the inmates, and i was soon ushered into a warm room, where i changed my soaked garments for dry ones, and sat down by the fire with feelings of comfort not easily imagined. the old landlord was quite surprised, on hearing the path by which i came, that i found the way at all. the summit was wrapped in the thickest cloud, and he gave me no hope for several hours of any prospect at all, so i sat down and looked over the stranger's album. i saw but two names from the united states--b.f. atkins, of boston, and c.a. hay, from york, pa. there were a great many long-winded german poems--among them, one by schelling, the philosopher. some of them spoke of having seen the "spectre of the brocken." i inquired of the landlord about the phenomenon; he says in winter it is frequently seen, in summer more seldom. the cause is very simple. it is always seen at sunrise, when the eastern side of the brocken is free from clouds, and at the same time, the mist rises from the valley on the opposite side. the shadow of every thing on the brocken is then thrown in grand proportions upon the mist, and is seen surrounded with a luminous halo. it is somewhat singular that such a spectacle can be seen upon the brocken alone, but this is probably accounted for by the formation of the mountain, which collects the mist at just such a distance from the summit as to render the shadow visible. soon after dinner the storm subsided and the clouds separated a little. i could see down through the rifts on the plains of brunswick, and sometimes, when they opened a little more, the mountains below us to the east and the adjoining plains, as far as magdeburg. it was like looking on the earth from another planet, or from some point in the air which had no connection, with it; our station was completely surrounded by clouds, rolling in great masses around us, now and then giving glimpses through their openings of the blue plains, dotted with cities and villages, far below. at one time when they were tolerably well separated, i ascended the tower, fifty feet high, standing near the brocken house. the view on three sides was quite clear, and i can easily imagine what a magnificent prospect it must be in fine weather. the brocken is only about four thousand feet high, nearly the same as the loftiest peak of the catskill, but being the highest mountain in northern germany, it commands a more extensive prospect. imagine a circle described with a radius of a hundred miles, comprising thirty cities, two or three hundred villages and one whole mountain district! we could see brunswick and magdeburg, and beyond them the great plain which extends to the north sea in one direction and to berlin in the other, while directly below us lay the dark mountains of the hartz, with little villages in their sequestered valleys. it was but a few moments i could look on this scene--in an instant the clouds swept together again and completely hid it. in accordance with a custom of the mountain, one of the girls made me a "brocken nosegay," of heather, lichens and moss. i gave her a few pfennings and stowed it away carefully in a corner of my knapsack. i now began descending the east side, by a good road over fields of bare rock and through large forests of pine. two or three bare brown peaks rose opposite with an air of the wildest sublimity, and in many places through the forest towered lofty crags. this is the way by which goethe brings faust up the brocken, and the scenery is graphically described in that part of the poem. at the foot of the mountain is the little village of schiercke, the highest in the hartz. here i took a narrow path through the woods, and after following a tediously long road over the hills, reached elbingerode, where i spent the night, and left the next morning for blankenburg. i happened to take the wrong road, however, and went through rubeland, a little village in the valley of the bode. there are many iron works here, and two celebrated caves, called "baumann's höhle," and "biel's höhle." i kept on through the gray, rocky hills to huttenrode, where i inquired the way to the rosstrappe, but was directed wrong, and after walking nearly two hours in a heavy rain, arrived at ludwigshütte, on the bode, in one of the wildest and loneliest corners of the hartz. i dried my wet clothes at a little inn, ate a dinner of bread and milk, and learning that i was just as far from the rosstrappe as ever, and that the way was impossible to find alone, i hunted up a guide. we went over the mountains through a fine old forest, for about two hours, and came out on the brow of a hill near the end of the hartz, with a beautiful view of the country below and around. passing the little inn, the path led through thick bushes along the summit, over a narrow ledge of rocks that seemed to stretch out into the air, for on either side the foot of the precipice vanished in the depth below. arrived at last at the end, i looked around me. what a spectacle! i was standing on the end of a line of precipice which ran out from the mountain like a wall for several hundred feet--the hills around rising up perpendicularly from the gorge below, where the bode pressed into a narrow channel foamed its way through. sharp masses of gray rock rose up in many places from the main body like pillars, with trees clinging to the clefts, and although the defile was near seven hundred feet deep, the summits, in one place, were very near to one another. near the point at which i stood, which was secured by a railing, was an impression in the rock like the hoof of a giant horse, from which the place takes its name. it is very distinct and perfect, and nearly two feet in length. i went back to the little inn and sat down to rest and chat awhile with the talkative landlady. notwithstanding her horrible prussian dialect, i was much amused with the budget of wonders, which she keeps for the information of travelers. among other things, she related to me the legend of the rosstrappe, which i give in her own words: "a great many hundred years ago, when there were plenty of giants through the world, there was a certain beautiful princess, who was very much loved by one of them. now, although the parents of this princess were afraid of the giant, and wanted her to marry him, she herself hated him, because she was in love with a brave knight. but, you see, the brave knight could do nothing against the great giant, and so a day was appointed for the wedding of the princess. when they were married, the giant had a great feast and he and all his servants got drunk. so the princess mounted his black horse and rode away over the mountains, till she reached this valley. she stood on that square rock which you see there opposite to us, and when she saw her knight on this side, where we are, she danced for joy, and the rock is called the _tanzplatz_, to this very day. but when the giant found she had gone, he followed her as fast as he might; then a holy bishop, who saw the princess, blessed the feet of her horse, and she jumped on it across to this side, where his fore feet made two marks in the rock, though there is only one left now. you should not laugh at this, for if there were giants then, there must have been very big horses too, as one can see from the hoofmark, and the valley was narrower then than it is now. my dear man, who is very old now, (you see him through the bushes, there, digging,) says it was so when he was a child, and that the old people living then, told him there were once four just such hoof-tracks, on the _tanzplatz_, where the horse stood before he jumped over. and we cannot doubt the words of the good old people, for there were many strange things then, we all know, which the dear lord does not let happen now. but i must tell you, lieber herr, that the giant tried to jump after her and fell away down into the valley, where they say he lives yet in the shape of a big black dog, guarding the crown of the princess, which fell off as she was going over. but this part of the story is perhaps not true, as nobody, that i ever heard of, has seen either the black dog or the crown!" after listening to similar gossip for a while, i descended the mountain-side, a short distance to the bülowshöhe. this is a rocky shaft that shoots, upward from the mountain, having from its top a glorious view through the door which the bode makes in passing out of the hartz. i could see at a great distance the towers of magdeburg, and further, the vast plain stretching away like a sea towards berlin. from thale, the village below, where the air was warmer than in the hartz and the fruit-trees already in blossom, it was four hours' walk to halberstadt, by a most tiresome road over long ranges of hills, all ploughed and planted, and extending as far as the eye could reach, without a single fence or hedge. it is pleasant to look over scenes where nature is so free and unshackled; but the _people_, alas! wear the fetters. the setting sun, which lighted up the old brocken and his snowy top, showed me also halberstadt, the end of my hartz journey; but its deceitful towers fled as i approached, and i was half dead with fatigue on arriving there. the ghostly, dark and echoing castle of an inn (the black eagle) where i stopped, was enough to inspire a lonely traveller, like myself, with unpleasant fancies. it looked heavy and massive enough to have been a stout baron's stronghold in some former century; the taciturn landlord and his wife, who, with a solemn servant girl, were the only tenants, had grown into perfect keeping with its gloomy character. when i groped my way under the heavy, arched portal into the guests' room--a large, lofty, cheerless hall--all was dark, and i could barely perceive, by the little light which came through two deep-set windows, the inmates of the house, sitting on opposite sides of the room. after some delay, the hostess brought a light. i entreated her to bring me something _instantly_ for supper, and in half an hour she placed a mixture on the table, the like of which i never wish to taste again. she called it _beer-soup_! i found, on examination, it was _beer_, boiled with meat, and seasoned strongly with pepper and salt! my hunger disappeared, and pleading fatigue as an excuse for want of appetite, i left the table. when i was ready to retire, the landlady, who had been sitting silently in a dark corner, called the solemn servant girl, who took up a dim lamp, and bade me follow her to the "sleeping chamber." taking up my knapsack and staff, i stumbled down the steps into the arched gateway; before me was a long, damp, deserted court-yard, across which the girl took her way. i followed her with some astonishment, imagining where the sleeping chamber could be, when she stopped at a small, one-story building, standing alone in the yard. opening the door with a rusty key, she led me into a bare room, a few feet square, opening into another, equally bare, with the exception of a rough bed. "certainly," said i, "i am not to sleep here!" "yes," she answered, "this is the sleeping chamber," at the same time setting down the light and disappearing. i examined the place--it smelt mouldy, and the walls were cold and damp; there had been a window at the head of the bed, but it was walled up, and that at the foot was also closed to within a few inches of the top. the bed was course and dirty; and on turning down the ragged covers, i saw with horror, a dark brown stain near the pillow, like that of blood! for a moment i hesitated whether to steal out of the inn, and seek another lodging, late as it was; at last, overcoming my fears, i threw my clothes into a heap, and lay down, placing my heavy staff at the head of the bed. persons passed up and down the courtyard several times, the light of their lamps streaming through the narrow aperture up against the ceiling, and i distinctly heard voices, which seemed to be near the door. twice did i sit up in bed, breathless, with my hand on the cane, in the most intense anxiety; but fatigue finally overcame suspicion, and i sank into a deep sleep, from which i was gladly awakened by daylight. in reality, there may have been no cause for my fears--i may have wronged the lonely innkeepers by them; but certainly no place or circumstances ever seemed to me more appropriate to a deed of robbery or crime. i left immediately, and when a turn in the street hid the ill-omened front of the inn, i began to breathe with my usual freedom. chapter xviii. notes in leipsic and dresden. _leipsic, may ._--i have now been nearly two days in this wide-famed city, and the more i see of it the better i like it. it is a pleasant, friendly town, old enough to be interesting, and new enough to be comfortable. there in much active business life, through which it is fast increasing in size and beauty. its publishing establishments are the largest in the world, and its annual fairs attended by people from all parts of europe. this is much for a city to accomplish, situated alone in the middle of a great plain, with no natural charms of scenery or treasures of art to attract strangers. the energy and enterprise of its merchants have accomplished all this, and it now stands, in importance, among the first cities of europe. the bad weather obliged me to take the railroad at halberstadt, to keep the appointment with my friend, in this city. i left at six for magdeburg, and after two hours' ride over a dull, tiresome plain, rode along under the mounds and fortifications by the side of the elbe, and entered the old town. it was very cold, and the streets were muddy, so i contented myself with looking at the broadway, (_der breite weg_,) the cathedral and one or two curious old churches, and in walking along the parapet leading to the fortress, which has a view of the winding elbe. the citadel was interesting from having been the prison in which baron trenck was confined, whose narrative i read years ago, when quite a child. we were soon on the road to leipsic. the way was over one great, uninterrupted plain--a more monotonous country, even, than belgium. two of the passengers in the car with me were much annoyed at being taken by the railway agents for poles. their movements were strictly watched by the gens d'arme at every station we passed, and they were not even allowed to sit together! at kothen a branch track went off to berlin. we passed by halle without being able to see anything of it or its university, and arrived here in four hours after leaving magdeburg. on my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, i passed the _augustus platz_--a broad green lawn, on which front the university and several other public buildings. a chain of beautiful promenades encircles the city, on the site of its old fortifications. following their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with flowering shrubs, i passed a small but chaste monument to sebastian bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private cost of mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which bach once directed the choirs. as i was standing beside it, a glorious choral, swelled by a hundred voices, came through the open windows, like a tribute to the genius of the great master. having found my friend we went together to the _stern warte_, or observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and in particular the battle field. the castellan who is stationed there, is well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the hostile armies. it was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles which history records. the army of napoleon stretched like a semicircle around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here. schwarzenberg, with his austrians, came from dresden; blucher, from halle, with the emperor alexander. their forces amounted to three hundred thousand, while those of napoleon ranked at one hundred and ninety-two thousand men. it must have been a terrific scene. four days raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. the small rivers which flow through leipsic were swollen with blood, and the vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. it is difficult to conceive of such slaughter, while looking at the quiet and tranquil landscape below. it seemed more like a legend of past ages, when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event which the last half century witnessed. for the sake of humanity it is to be hoped that the world will never see such another. there are some lovely walks around leipsic. we went yesterday afternoon with a few friends to the rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by forests of the german oak, very few of whose druid trunks have been left standing. there are swiss cottages embowered in the foliage, where every afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee enjoy a few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets, one can walk for miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows, or the banks of some shaded stream. we visited the little village of golis, a short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs the sign: "schiller's room." some of the leipsic literati have built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "here dwelt schiller in , and wrote his hymn to joy." every where through germany the remembrances of schiller are sacred. in every city where he lived, they show his dwelling. they know and reverence the mighty spirit who has been among them. the little room where he conceived that sublime poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits. i was anxious to see the spot where poniatowsky fell. we returned over the plain to the city and passed in at the gate by which the cossacks entered, pursuing the flying french. crossing the lower part, we came to the little river elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. the stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the french, to cut off pursuit. napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till the poles had all passed over, as the river, though narrow, is quite deep, and the banks are steep. nevertheless, his officers did not wait, and the poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to plunge into the stream to join the french army, which had begun the retreat towards frankfort. poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way through a garden near and escaped on horseback into the water. he became entangled among the fugitives and sank. by walking a little distance along the road towards frankfort, we could see the spot where his body was taken out of the river; it is now marked by a square stone, covered with the names of his countrymen who have visited it. we returned through the narrow arched way, by which napoleon fled when the battle was lost. another interesting place in leipsic is auerback's cellar, which, it is said, contains an old manuscript history of faust, from which goethe derived the first idea of his poem. he used to frequent this cellar, and one of his scenes in "faust" is laid in it. we looked down the arched passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretence for entering. the streets are full of book stores and one half the business of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and binding. the publishers have a handsome exchange of their own, and during the fairs, the amount of business transacted is enormous. the establishment of brockhaus is contained in an immense building, adjoining which stands his dwelling, in the midst of magnificent gardens. that of tauchnitz is not less celebrated. his edition of the classics, in particular, are the best that have ever been made; and he has lately commenced publishing a number of english works, in a cheap form. otto wigand, who has also a large establishment, has begun to issue translations of american works. he has already published prescott and bancroft, and i believe intends giving out shortly, translations from some of our poets and novelists. i became acquainted at the museum, with a young german author who had been some time in america, and was well versed in our literature. he is now engaged in translating american works, one of which--hoffman's "wild scenes of the forest and prairie"--will soon appear. in no place in germany have i found more knowledge of our country, her men and her institutions, than in leipsic, and as yet i have seen few that would be preferable as a place of residence. its attractions lie not in its scenery, but in the social and intellectual character of its inhabitants. _may ._--at last in this "florence of the elbe," as the saxons have christened it. exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely surpassed by any in europe, dresden charms one by the natural beauty of its environs. it stands in a curve of the elbe, in the midst of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of saxony sweeping around like an amphitheatre, and the craggy peaks of the highlands looking at it from afar. the domes and spires at a distance give it a rich italian look, which is heightened by the white villas, embowered in trees, gleaming on the hills around. in the streets there is no bustle of business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment. the railroad brought us in three hours from leipsic, over the eighty miles of plain that intervene. we came from the station through the _neustadt_, passing the japanese palace and the equestrian statue of augustus the strong, the magnificent bridge over the elbe was so much injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we worn obliged to go some distance up the river bank and cross on a bridge of boats. next morning my first search was for the picture gallery. we set off at random, and after passing the church of our lady, with its lofty dome of solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with frederick the great, came to an open square, one side of which was occupied by an old, brown, red-roofed building, which i at once recognized, from pictures, as the object of our search. i have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it with real regret; for, during the two visits, raphael's heavenly picture of the madonna and child had so grown into my love and admiration, that it was painful to think i should never see it again. there are many more which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest degree the love for the beautiful, that i left them with sadness, and the thought that i would now only have the memory. i can see the inspired eye and god-like brow of the jesus-child, as if i were still standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the madonna still looks upon me. yet, though this picture is a miracle of art, the first glance filled me with disappointment. it has somewhat faded, during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of raphael worked on the canvass, and the glass with which it is covered for better preservation, injures the effect. after i had gazed on it awhile, every thought of this vanished. the figure of the virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were not in motion. an aerial lightness clothes her form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds. two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred child. those two faces beam from the picture like those of angels. the wild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young jesus chains one like a spell. there is something more than mortal in its expression--something in the infant face which indicates a power mightier than the proudest manhood. there is no glory around the head; but the spirit which shines from those features, marks his divinity. in the sweet face of the mother there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed with its tenderness, as if she knew the world into which the saviour was born, and foresaw the path in which he was to tread. it is a picture which one can scarce look upon without tears. there are in the same room six pictures by correggio, which are said to be among his best works; one of them his celebrated magdalen. there is also correggio's "holy night," or the virgin with the shepherds in the manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the child. the surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully expressed. in one of the halls there is a picture by van der werff, in which the touching story of hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. the young ishmael is represented full of grief at parting with isaac, who, in childish unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the corner of his mother's mantle around him, and smiles at the tears of his lost playmate. nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two portraits of raphael mengs, painted by himself when quite young. you almost think the artist has in sport crept behind the frame, and wishes to make you believe he is a picture. it would be impossible to speak of half the gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. there are twelve large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures. the plain, south of dresden, was the scene of the hard-fought battle between napoleon and the allied armies, in . on the heights above the little village of räcknitz, moreau was shot on the second day of the battle. we took a foot-path through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. the monument is simple--a square block of granite, surmounted by a helmet and sword, with the inscription: "_the hero moreau fell here by the side of alexander, august th, _." i gathered, as a memorial, a few leaves of the oak which shades it. by applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to the royal library. it contains three hundred thousand volumes--among them the most complete collection of historical works in existence. each hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large room is filled with that of saxony alone. there is a large number of rare and curious manuscripts, among which are old greek works of the seventh and eighth centuries; a koran which once belonged to the sultan bajazet; the handwriting of luther and melancthon; a manuscript volume with pen and ink sketches, by albert durer, and the earliest works after the invention of printing. among these latter was a book published by faust and schaeffer, at mayence, in . there were also mexican manuscripts, written on the aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish volumes of the middle ages. we were fortunate in seeing the _grüne gewölbe_, or green gallery, a collection of jewels and costly articles, unsurpassed in europe. the entrance is only granted to six persons at a time, who pay a fee of two thalers. the customary way is to employ a _lohnbedienter_, who goes around from one hotel to another, till he has collected the number, when he brings them together and conducts them to the person in the palace, who has charge of the treasures. as our visit happened to be during the pentecost holidays, when every body in dresden goes to the mountains, there was some difficulty in effecting this, but after two mornings spent in hunting up curious travelers, the servant finally conducted us in triumph to the palace. the first hall into which we were ushered, contained works in bronze. they were all small, and chosen with regard to their artistical value. some by john of bologna were exceedingly fine, as was also a group in iron, _cut_ out of a single block; perhaps the only successful attempt in this branch. the next room contained statues, and vases covered with reliefs, in ivory. the most remarkable work was the fall of lucifer and his angels, containing ninety-two figures in all, carved out of a single piece of ivory sixteen inches high! it was the work of an italian monk, and cost him many years of hard labor. there were two tables of mosaic-work, that would not be out of place in the fabled halls of the eastern genii, so much did they exceed my former ideas of human skill. the tops were of jasper, and each had a border of fruit and flowers, in which every color was represented by some precious stone, all with the utmost delicacy and truth to nature! it is impossible to conceive the splendid effect it produced. besides some fine pictures on gold by raphael mengs, there was a madonna, the largest specimen of enamel painting in existence. however costly the contents of these halls, they were only an introduction to those which followed. each one exceeded the other in splendor and costliness. the walls were covered to the ceiling with rows of goblets, vases, &c., of polished jasper, agate and lapiz lazuli. splendid mosaic tables stood around, with caskets of the most exquisite silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of them weighing six hundred pounds were placed at the foot of the columns. we were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers, made of gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the spanish dwarf, nearly as large as a pullet's egg; globes and vases cut entirely out of the mountain crystal; magnificent nuremberg watches and clocks, and a great number of figures, made ingeniously of rough pearls and diamonds. the officer showed us a hen's egg of silver. there was apparently nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing, it came apart, and disclosed the yelk of gold. this again opened and a golden chicken was seen; by touching a spring, a little diamond crown came from the inside, and the crown being again taken apart, out dropped a valuable diamond ring! the seventh hall contains the coronation robes of augustus ii., of poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood, a cherry stone is shown in a glass case, which has one hundred and twenty-five faces, all perfectly finished, carved upon it! the next room we entered sent back a glare of splendor that perfectly dazzled us. it was all gold, diamond, ruby and sapphire! every case sent out such a glow and glitter that it seemed like a cage of imprisoned lightnings. wherever the eye turned it was met by a blaze of broken rainbows. they were there by hundreds, and every gem was a fortune. whole cases of swords, with hilts and scabbards of solid gold, studded with gems; the great two-handed coronation sword of the german emperors; daggers covered with brilliants and rubies; diamond buttons, chains and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and emerald, and the order of the golden fleece made in gems of every kind. we were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and four inches broad! one of the most remarkable works is the throne and court of aurungzebe, the indian king, by dinglinger, a celebrated goldsmith of the last century. it contains one hundred and thirty-two figures, all of enamelled gold, and each one most perfectly and elaborately finished. it was purchased by prince augustus for fifty-eight thousand thalers,[**] which was not a high sum, considering that the making of it occupied dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven years! it is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these halls contain. that of the gold and jewels alone must bo many millions of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is incredible. as monuments of patient and untiring toil, they are interesting: but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy have been wasted, in producing things which are useless to the world, and only of secondary importance as works of art. perhaps, however, if men could be diverted by such play-things from more dangerous games, it would be all the better. [footnote **: a prussian or saxon thaler is about cts.] chapter xix. rambles in the saxon switzerland. after four days' sojourn in dresden we shouldered our knapsacks, not to be laid down again till we reached prague. we were elated with the prospect of getting among the hills again, and we heeded not the frequent showers which had dampened the enjoyment of the pentecost holidays, to the good citizens of dresden, and might spoil our own. so we trudged gaily along the road to pillnitz and waved an adieu to the domes behind us as the forest shut them out from view. after two hours' walk the road led down to the elbe, where we crossed in a ferry-boat to pillnitz, the seat of a handsome palace and gardens, belonging to the king of saxony. he happened to be there at the time, on an afternoon excursion from dresden; as we had seen him before, in the latter place, we passed directly on, only pausing to admire the flower-beds in the palace court. the king is a tall, benevolent looking man, and is apparently much liked by his people. as far as i have yet seen, saxony is a prosperous and happy country. the people are noted all over germany for their honest, social character, which is written on their cheerful, open countenances. on our entrance into the saxon switzerland, at pillnitz, we were delighted with the neatness and home-like appearance of every thing. every body greeted us; if we asked for information, they gave it cheerfully. the villages were all pleasant and clean and the meadows fresh and blooming. i felt half tempted to say, in the words of an old ballad, which i believe longfellow has translated: "the fairest kingdom on this earth, it is the saxon land!" going along the left bank of the elbe, we passed over meadows purple with the tri-colored violet, which we have at home in gardens, and every little bank was bright with cowslips. at length the path led down into a cleft or ravine filled with trees, whose tops were on a level with the country around. this is a peculiar feature of saxon scenery. the country contains many of these clefts, some of which are several hundred feet deep, having walls of perpendicular rock, in whose crevices the mountain pine roots itself and grows to a tolerable height without any apparent soil to keep it alive. we descended by a foot-path into this ravine, called the liebethaler grund. it is wider than many of the others, having room enough for a considerable stream and several mills. the sides are of sandstone rock, quite perpendicular. as we proceeded, it grew narrower and deeper, while the trees covering its sides and edges nearly shut out the sky. an hour's walk brought us to the end, where we ascended gradually to the upper level again. after passing the night at the little village of uttewalde, a short distance further, we set out early in the morning for the bastei, a lofty precipice on the elbe. the way led us directly through the uttewalder grund, the most remarkable of all these chasms. we went down by steps into its depths, which in the early morning were very cold. water dripped from the rocks, which but a few feet apart, rose far above us, and a little rill made its way along the bottom, into which the sun has never shone. heavy masses of rock, which had tumbled down from the sides lay in the way, and tall pine trees sprung from every cleft. in one place the defile is only four feet wide, and a large mass of rock, fallen from above, has lodged near the bottom, making an arch across, under which the traveller has to creep. after going under two or three arches of this kind, the defile widened and an arrow cut upon a rock directed us to a side path, which branched off from this into a mountain. here the stone masses immediately assumed another form. they projected out like shelves sometimes as much as twenty feet from the straight side, and hung over the way, looking as if they might break off every moment. i felt glad when we had passed under them. then as we ascended higher, we saw pillars of rock separated entirely from the side and rising a hundred feet in height, with trees growing on their summits. they stood there gray and limeworn, like the ruins of a titan temple. the path finally led us out into the forest and through the clustering pine trees, to the summit of the bastei. an inn has been erected in the woods and an iron balustrade placed around the rock. protected by this, we advanced to the end of the precipice and looked down to the swift elbe, more than seven hundred feet below! opposite through the blue mists of morning, rose königstein, crowned with an impregnable fortress, and the crags of lilienstein, with a fine forest around their base, frowned from the left bank. on both sides were horrible precipices of gray rock, with rugged trees hanging from the crevices. a hill rising up from one side of the bastei, terminates suddenly a short distance from it, in on abrupt precipice. in the intervening space stand three or four of those rock-columns, several hundred feet high, with their tops nearly on a level with the bastei. a wooden bridge has been made across from one to the other, over which the traveller passes, looking on the trees and rocks far below him, to the mountain, where a steep zigzag path takes him to the elbe below. we crossed the elbe for the fourth time at the foot of the bastei, and walked along its right bank towards königstein. the injury caused by the inundation was everywhere apparent. the receding flood had left a deposit of sand, in many places several feet deep on the rich meadows, so that the labor of years will be requisite to remove it and restore the land to an arable condition. even the farm-houses on the hillside, some distance from the river, had been reached, and the long grass hung in the highest branches of the fruit trees. the people wore at work trying to repair their injuries, but it will fall heavily upon the poorer classes. the mountain of königstein is twelve hundred feet high. a precipice, varying from one to three hundred feet in height, runs entirely around the summit, which is flat, and a mile and a half in circumference. this has been turned into a fortress, whose natural advantages make it entirely impregnable. during the thirty years' war and the late war with napoleon, it was the only place in saxony unoccupied by the enemy. hence is it used as a depository for the archives and royal treasures, in times of danger. by giving up our passports at the door, we received permission to enter; the officer called a guide to take us around the battlements. there is quite a little village on the summit, with gardens, fields, and a wood of considerable size. the only entrance is by a road cut through the rock, which is strongly guarded. a well seven hundred feet deep supplies the fortress with water, and there are storehouses sufficient to hold supplies for many years. the view from the ramparts is glorious--it takes in the whole of the saxon highlands, as far as the lofty schneeberg in bohemia. on the other side the eye follows the windings of the elbe, as far as the spires of dresden. lilienstein, a mountain of exactly similar formation, but somewhat higher, stands directly opposite. on walking around, the guide pointed out a little square tower standing on the brink of a precipice, with a ledge, about two feet wide, running around it, just below the windows. he said during the reign of augustus the strong, a baron attached to his court, rose in his sleep after a night of revelry, and stepping out the window, stretched himself at full length along the ledge. a guard fortunately observed his situation and informed augustus of it, who had him bound and secured with cords, and then awakened by music. it was a good lesson, and one which no doubt sobered him for the future. passing through the little city of königstein, we walked on to schandau, the capital of the saxon switzerland, situated on the left bank. it had sustained great damage from the flood, the whole place having been literally under water. here we turned up a narrow valley which led to the kuhstall, some eight miles distant. the sides, as usual, were of steep gray rock, but wide enough apart to give room to some lovely meadows, with here and there a rustic cottage. the mountain maidens, in their bright red dresses, with a fanciful scarf bound around the head, made a romantic addition to the scene. there were some quiet secluded nooks, where the light of day stole in dimly through the thick foliage above and the wild stream rushed less boisterously over the rocks. we sat down to rest in one of these cool retreats, and made the glen ring with a cheer for america. the echoes repeated the name as if they had heard it for the first time, and i gave them a strict injunction to give it back to the next countryman who should pass by. as we advanced further into the hills the way became darker and wilder. we heard the sound of falling water in a little dell on one side, and going nearer, saw a picturesque fall of about fifteen feet. great masses of black rock were piled together, over which the mountain-stream fell in a snowy sheet. the pines above and around grew so thick and close, that not a sunbeam could enter, and a kind of mysterious twilight pervaded the spot. in greece it would have been chosen for an oracle. i have seen, somewhere, a picture of the spirit of poetry, sitting beside just such a cataract, and truly the nymph could choose no more appropriate dwelling. but alas for sentiment! while we were admiring its picturesque beauty, we did not notice a man who came from a hut near by and went up behind the rocks. all at once there was a roar of water, and a real torrent came pouring down. i looked up, and lo! there he stood, with a gate in his hand which had held the water imprisoned, looking down at us to observe the effect, i motioned him to shut it up again, and he ran down to us, lest he should lose his fee for the "sight!" our road now left the valley and ascended through a forest to the kuhstall, which we came upon at once. it is a remarkable natural arch, through a rocky wall or rampart, one hundred and fifty feet thick. going through, we came at the other end to the edge of a very deep precipice, while the rock towered precipitously far above. below lay a deep circular valley, two miles in diameter, and surrounded on every side by ranges of crags, such as we saw on the bastei. it was entirely covered with a pine forest, and there only appeared to be two or three narrow defiles which gave it a communication with the world. the top of the kuhstall can be reached by a path which runs up through a split in the rock, directly to the summit. it is just wide enough for one person to squeeze himself through; pieces of wood have been fastened in as steps, and the rocks in many places close completely above. the place derives its name from having been used by the mountaineers as a hiding-place for their cattle in time of war. next morning we descended by another crevice in the rock to the lonely valley, which we crossed, and climbed the little winterberg on the opposite side. there is a wide and rugged view from a little tower on a precipitous rock near the summit, erected to commemorate the escape of prince augustus of saxony, who, being pursued by a mad stag, rescued himself on the very brink, by a lucky blow. among the many wild valleys that lay between the hills, we saw scarcely one without the peculiar rocky formation which gives to saxon scenery its most interesting character. they resemble the remains of some mighty work of art, rather than one of the thousand varied forms in which nature delights to clothe herself. the great winterberg, which is reached by another hour's walk along an elevated ridge, is the highest of the mountains, celebrated for the grand view from its summit. we found the handsome swiss hotel recently built there, full of tourists who had come to enjoy the scone, but the morning clouds hid every thing. we ascended the tower, and looking between them as they rolled by, caught glimpses of the broad landscape below. the giant's mountains in silesia were hidden by the mist, but sometimes when the wind freshened, we could see beyond the elbe into bohemian switzerland, where the long schneeberg rose conspicuous above the smaller mountains. leaving the other travellers to wait at their leisure for clearer weather, we set off for the prebisehthor, in company with two or three students from the polytechnic school in dresden. an hour's walk over high hills, whose forest clothing had been swept off by fire a few years before, brought us to it. the prebisehthor is a natural arch, ninety feet high, in a wall of rock which projects at right angles from the precipitous side of the mountain. a narrow path leads over the top of the arch to the end of the rock, where, protected by a railing, the traveller seems to hang in the air. the valley is far below him--mountains rise up on either side--and only the narrow bridge connects him with the earth. we descended by a wooden staircase to the bottom of the arch, near which a rustic inn is built against the rock, and thence into the valley below, which we followed through rude lonely scenery, to hirnischkretschen (!) on the elbe. crossing the river again for the sixth and last time, we followed the right bank to neidergrund, the first austrian village. here our passports were visèd for prague, and we were allowed to proceed without any examination of baggage. i noticed a manifest change in our fellow travelers the moment we crossed the border. they appeared anxious and careful; if we happened to speak of the state of the country, they always looked around to see if anybody was near, and if we even passed a workman on the road, quickly changed to some other subject. they spoke much of the jealous strictness of the government, and from what i heard from austrians themselves, there may have been ground for their cautiousness. we walked seven or eight miles along the bank of the elbe, to tetschen, there left our companions and took the road to teplitz. the scenery was very picturesque; it must be delightful to float down the swift current in a boat, as we saw several merry companies do. the river is just small enough and the banks near enough together, to render such a mode of travelling delightful, and the strength of the current would carry one to dresden in a day. i was pleasantly disappointed on entering bohemia. instead of a dull, uninteresting country, as i expected, it is a land full of the most lovely scenery. there is every thing which can gratify the eye--high blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old ruins. the very name of bohemia is associated with wild and wonderful legends, of the rude barbaric ages. even the chivalric tales of the feudal times of germany grow tame beside these earlier and darker histories. the fallen fortresses of the rhine, or the robber-castles of the odenwald had not for me so exciting an interest as the shapeless ruins cumbering these lonely mountains. the civilized saxon race was left behind; i saw around me the features and heard the language of one of those rude sclavonic tribes, whose original home was on the vast steppes of central asia. i have rarely enjoyed traveling more than our first two days' journey towards prague. the range of the erzgebirge ran along on our right; the snow still lay in patches upon it, but the valleys between, with their little clusters of white cottages, were green and beautiful. about six miles before reaching teplitz, we passed kulm, the great battle-field, which in a measure decided the fate of napoleon. he sent vandamme with , men to attack the allies before they could unite their forces, and thus effect their complete destruction. only the almost despairing bravery of the russian guards under ostermann, who held him in check till the allied troops united, prevented napoleon's design. at the junction of the roads, where the fighting was hottest, the austrians have erected a monument to one of their generals. not far from it is that of prussia, simple and tasteful. a woody hill near, with the little village of kulm at its foot, was the station occupied by vandamme at the commencement of the battle. there is now a beautiful chapel on its summit, which can be seen far and wide. a little distance further, the emperor of russia has erected a third monument to the memory of the russians who fell. four lions rest on the base of the pedestal, and on the top of the shaft, forty-five feet high, victory is represented as engraving the date, "aug. , ," on a shield. the dark, pine-covered mountains on the right, overlook the whole field and the valley of teplitz; napoleon rode along their crests several days after the battle, to witness the scene of his defeat. teplitz lies in a lovely valley, several miles wide, bounded by the bohemian mountains on one side, and the erzgebirge on the other. one straggling peak near is crowned with a picturesque ruin, at whose foot the spacious bath-buildings lie half hidden in foliage. as we went down the principal street, i noticed nearly every house was a hotel; we learned afterwards that in summer the usual average of visitors is five thousand. the waters resemble those of the celebrated carlsbad; they are warm and particularly efficacious in rheumatism and diseases of like character. after leaving teplitz, the road turned to the east, towards a lofty mountain, which we had seen the morning before. the peasants as they passed by, saluted us with "christ greet you!" we stopped for the night at the foot of the peak called the milleschauer, and must have ascended nearly , feet, for we had a wide view the next morning, although the mists and clouds hid the half of it. the weather being so unfavorable, we concluded not to ascend, and taking leave of the jena student who came there for that purpose, descended through green fields and orchards snowy with blossoms, to lobositz, on the elbe. here we reached the plains again, where every thing wore the luxuriance of summer; it was a pleasant change from the dark and rough scenery we left. the road passed through theresienstadt, the fortress of northern bohemia. the little city is surrounded by a double wall and moat, which can be filled with water, rendering it almost impossible to be taken. in the morning we were ferried over the moldau, and after journeying nearly all day across barren, elevated plains, saw late in the afternoon the sixty-seven spires of prague below us! the dark clouds which hung over the hills, gave us little time to look upon the singular scene; and we were soon comfortably settled in the half-barbaric, half-asiatic city, with a pleasant prospect of seeing its wonders on the morrow. chapter xx. scenes in prague. _prague._--i feel as if out of the world, in this strange, fantastic, yet beautiful old city. we have been rambling all morning through its winding streets, stopping sometimes at a church to see the dusty tombs and shrines, or to hear the fine music which accompanies the morning mass. i have seen no city yet that so forcibly reminds one of the past, and makes him forget everything but the associations connected with the scenes around him. the language adds to the illusion. three-fourths of the people in the streets speak bohemian and many of the signs are written in the same tongue, which is not at all like german. the palace of the bohemian kings still looks down on the city from the western heights, and their tombs stand in the cathedral of the holy johannes. when one has climbed up the stone steps lending to the fortress, there is a glorious prospect before him. prague, with its spires and towers, lies in the valley below, through which curves the moldau with its green islands, disappearing among the hills which enclose the city on every side. the fantastic byzantine architecture of many of the churches and towers, gives the city a peculiar oriental appearance; it seems to have been transported from the hills of syria. its streets are full of palaces, fallen and dwelt in now by the poorer classes. its famous university, which once boasted forty thousand students, has long since ceased to exist. in a word, it is, like venice, a fallen city; though as in venice, the improving spirit of the age is beginning to give it a little life, and to send a quicker stream through its narrow and winding arteries. the railroad, which, joining that to brünn, shall bring it in connection with vienna, will be finished this year; in anticipation of the increased business which will arise from this, speculators are building enormous hotels in the suburbs and tearing down the old buildings to give place to more splendid edifices. these operations, and the chain bridge which spans the moldau towards the southern end of the city, are the only things which look modern--every thing else is old, strange and solemn. having found out first a few of the locations, we hunted our way with difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or interest. reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and ascend to the hradschin--the palace of the bohemian kings. the bridge was commenced in , and was one hundred and fifty years in building. that was the way the old germans did their work, and they made a structure which will last a thousand years longer. every pier is surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and time-beaten, that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had any. the most important of them, at least to bohemians, is that of the holy "johannes of nepomuck," now considered as the patron-saint of the land. he was a priest many centuries ago, whom one of the kings threw from the bridge into the moldau, because he refused to reveal to him what the queen confessed. the legend says the body swam for some time on the river, with five stars around its head. the th of may, the day before we arrived, was that set apart for his particular honor; the statue on the bridge was covered with an arch of green boughs and flowers, and the shrine lighted with burning tapers. a railing was erected around it, near which numbers of the believers were kneeling, and a priest stood in the inside. the bridge was covered with passers-by, who all took their hats off till they had passed. had it been a place of public worship, the act would have been natural and appropriate, but to uncover before a statue seemed to us too much like idolatry, and we ventured over without doing it. a few years ago it might have been dangerous, but now we only met with scowling looks. there are many such shrines and statues through the city, and i noticed that the people always took off their hats and crossed themselves in passing. on the hill above the western end of the city, stands a chapel on the spot where the bavarians put an end to protestantism in bohemia _by the sword_, and the deluded peasantry of the land make pilgrimages to this spot, as if it were rendered holy by an act over which religion weeps! ascending the broad flight of steps to the hradschin, i paused a moment to look at the scene below. a slight blue haze hung over the clustering towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream. it was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and misty are the memories that haunt its walls. there was no need of a magician's wand to bid that light cloud shadow forth the forms of other times. they came uncalled for, even by fancy. far, far back in the past, i saw the warrior-princess who founded the kingly city--the renowned libussa, whose prowess and talent inspired the women of bohemia to rise at her death and storm the land that their sex might rule where it obeyed before. on the mountain opposite once stood the palace of the bloody wlaska, who reigned with her amazon band for seven years over half bohemia. those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of huss, and the castle of his follower--the blind ziska, who met and defeated the armies of the german empire--moulders on the mountain above. many a year of war and tempest has passed over the scene. the hills around have borne the armies of wallenstein and frederic the great; the war-cry of bavaria, sweden and poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often gleamed along the "blood-dyed waters" of the moldau! but this was a day-dream. the throng of people coming up the steps waked me out of it. we turned and followed them through several spacious courts, till we arrived at the cathedral, which is magnificent in the extreme. the dark gothic pillars, whose arches unite high above, are surrounded with gilded monuments and shrines, and the side chapels are rich in elaborate decorations. a priest was speaking from a pulpit in the centre, in the bohemian language, which not being the most intelligible, i went to the other end to see the shrine of the holy johannes of nepomuck. it stands at the end of one of the side aisles and is composed of a mass of gorgeous silver ornaments. at a little distance, on each side, hang four massive lamps of silver, constantly burning. the pyramid of statues, of the same precious metal, has at each corner a richly carved urn, three feet high, with a crimson lamp burning at the top. above, four silver angels, the size of life, are suspended in the air, holding up the corners of a splendid drapery of crimson and gold. if these figures were melted down and distributed among the poor and miserable people who inhabit bohemia, they would then be angels indeed, bringing happiness and blessing to many a ruined home- altar. in the same chapel is the splendid burial-place of the bohemian kings, of gilded marble and alabaster. numberless tombs, covered with elaborate ornamental work, fill the edifice. it gives one a singular feeling to stand at one end and look down the lofty hall, dim with incense smoke and dark with the weight of many centuries. on the way down again, we stepped into the st. nicholas church, which was built by the jesuits. the interior has a rich effect, being all of brown and gold. the massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely ornamented in the same style. the music chained me there a long time. there was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of singers. it was placed above, and at every sound of the priest's bell, the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal. it was like a triumphal strain; the soul became filled with thoughts of power and glory--every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of rapture, which held the spirit as if spell-bound. i could almost forgive the jesuits the superstition and bigotry they have planted in the minds of men, for the indescribable enjoyment that music gave. when it ceased, we went out to the world again, and the recollection of it seems now like a dream--but a dream whose influence will last longer than many a more palpable reality. not far from this place is the palace of wallenstein, in the same condition as when he inhabited it, and still in the possession of his descendants. it is a plain, large building, having beautiful gardens attached to it, which are open to the public. we went through the courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock, and entered the garden where a revolving fountain was casting up its glittering arches. among the flowers at the other end of the garden there is a remarkable fountain. it is but a single jet of water which rises from the middle of a broad basin of woven wire, but by some means it sustains a hollow gilded ball, sometimes for many minutes at a time. when the ball drops, the sloping sides of the basin convey it directly to the fountain again, and it is carried up to dance a while longer on the top of the jet. i watched it once, thus supported on the water, for full fifteen minutes. there is another part of prague which is not less interesting, though much less poetical--the jews' city. in our rambles we got into it before we were aware, but hurried immediately out of it again, perfectly satisfied with one visit. we came first into a dark, narrow street, whose sides were lined with booths of old clothes and second-hand articles. a sharp featured old woman thrust a coat before my face, exclaiming, "herr, buy a fine coat!" instantly a man assailed me on the other side, "here are vests! pantaloons! shirts!" i broke loose from them and ran on, but it only became worse. one seized me by the arm, crying, "_lieber_ herr, buy some stockings!" and another grasped my coat: "hats, herr! hats! _buy something, or sell me something!_" i rushed desperately on, shouting "no! no!" with all my might, and finally got safe through. my friend having escaped their clutches also, we hunted the way to the old jewish cemetery. this stands in the middle of the city, and has not been used for a hundred years. we could find no entrance, but by climbing upon the ruins of an old house near, i could look over the wall. a cold shudder crept over me, to think that warm, joyous life, as i then felt it, should grow chill and pass back to clay in such a foul charnel-house. large mounds of earth, covered with black, decaying grave-stones, which were almost hidden under the weeds and rank grass, filled the inclosure. a few dark, crooked alder-trees grew among the crumbling tombs, and gave the scene an air of gloom and desolation, almost fearful. the dust of many a generation lies under these mouldering stones; they now scarcely occupy a thought in the minds of the living; and yet the present race toils and seeks for wealth alone, that it may pass away and leave nothing behind--not even a memory for that which will follow it! chapter xxi. journey through eastern bohemia and moravia to the danube. our road the first two days after leaving prague led across broad, elevated plains, across which a cold wind came direct from the summits of the riesengebirge, far to our left. were it not for the pleasant view we had of the rich valley of the upper elbe, which afforded a delightful relief to the monotony of the hills around us, the journey would have been exceedingly tiresome. the snow still glistened on the distant mountains; but when the sun shone out, the broad valley below, clad in the luxuriance of summer, and extending for at least fifty miles with its woods, meadows and white villages, looked like a real paradise. the long ridges over which we travelled extend for nearly a hundred and fifty miles--from the elbe almost to the danube. the soil is not fertile, the inhabitants are exceedingly poor, and from our own experience, the climate must be unhealthy. in winter the country is exposed to the full sweep of the northern winds, and in summer the sun shines down on it with unbroken force. there are few streams running through it, and the highest part, which divides the waters of the baltic from those of the black sea is filled for a long distance with marshes and standing pools, whose exhalations must inevitably subject the inhabitants to disease. this was perceptible in their sallow, sickly countenances; many of the women are afflicted with the _goitre_, or swelling of the throat; i noticed that towards evening they always carefully muffled up their faces. according to their own statements, the people suffer much from the cold in winter, as the few forests the country affords are in possession of the noblemen to whom the land belongs, and they are not willing to let them be cut down. the dominions of these petty despots are marked along the road with as much precision as the boundaries of an empire; we saw sometimes their stalely castles at a distance, forming quite a contrast to the poor scattering villages of the peasants. at kollin, the road, which had been running eastward in the direction of olmutz, turned to the south, and we took leave of the elbe, after tracing back his course from magdeburg nearly to his home in the mountains of silesia. the country was barren and monotonous, but a bright sunshine made it look somewhat cheerful. we passed, every few paces, some shrine or statue by the roadside. this had struck me, immediately on crossing the border, in the saxon switzerland--it seemed as if the boundary of saxony was that of protestantism. but here in the heart of bohemia, the extent to which this image worship is carried, exceeds anything i had imagined. there is something pleasing as well as poetical in the idea of a shrine by the wayside, where the weary traveller can rest, and raise his heart in thankfulness to the power that protects him; it was no doubt a pious spirit that placed them there; but the people appear to pay the reverence to the picture which they should give to its spiritual image, and the pictures themselves are so shocking and ghastly, they seem better calculated to excite horror than reverence. it was really repulsive to look on images of the saviour covered with blood, and generally with swords sticking in different parts of the body. the almighty is represented as an old man, wearing a bishop's mitre, and the image of the virgin is always drest in a gay silk robe, with beads and other ornaments. from the miserable painting, the faces often had an expression that would have been exceedingly ludicrous, if the shock given to our feelings of reverence were not predominant. the poor, degraded peasants always uncovered or crossed themselves when passing by these shrines, but it appeared to be rather the effect of habit than any good impulse, for the bohemians are noted all over germany for their dishonesty; we learned by experience they deserve it. it is not to be wondered at either; for a people so poor and miserable and oppressed will soon learn to take advantage of all who appear better off than themselves. they had one custom which was touching and beautiful. at the sound of the church bell, as it rung the morning, noon and evening chimes, every one uncovered, and repeated to himself a prayer. often, as we rested at noon on a bank by the roadside, that voice spoke out from the house of worship and every one heeded its tone. would that to this innate spirit of reverence were added the light of knowledge, which a tyrannical government denies them! the third night of our journey we stopped at the little village of stecken, and the next morning, after three hours' walk over the ridgy heights, reached the old moravian city of iglau, built on a hill. it happened to be _corpus christi_ day, and the peasants of the neighborhood were hastening there in their gayest dresses. the young women wore a crimson scarf around the head, with long fringed and embroidered ends hanging over the shoulders, or falling in one smooth fold from the back of the head. they were attired in black velvet vests, with full white sleeves and skirts of some gay color, which were short enough to show to advantage their red stockings and polished shoe-buckles. many of them were not deficient in personal beauty--there was a gipsy-like wildness in their eyes, that combined with their rich hair and graceful costume, reminded me of the italian maidens. the towns too, with their open squares and arched passages, have quite a southern look; but the damp, gloomy weather was enough to dispel any illusion of this kind. in the neighborhood of iglau, and, in fact, through the whole of bohemia, we saw some of the strangest teams that could well be imagined. i thought the frankfort milkwomen with their donkeys and hearse-like carts, were comical objects enough, but they bear no comparison with these bohemian turn-outs. dogs--for economy's sake, perhaps--generally supply the place of oxen or horses, and it is no uncommon thing to see three large mastiffs abreast, harnessed to a country-cart. a donkey and a cow together, are sometimes met with, and one man, going to the festival at iglau, had his wife and children in a little wagon, drawn by a dog and a donkey. these two, however, did not work well together; the dog would bite his lazy companion, and the man's time was constantly employed in whipping him off the donkey, and in whipping the donkey away from the side of the road. once i saw a wagon drawn by a dog, with a woman pushing behind, while a man, doubtless her lord and master, sat comfortably within, smoking his pipe with the greatest complacency! the very climax of all was a woman and a dog harnessed _together_, taking a load of country produce to market! i hope, for the honor of the country, it was not emblematic of woman's condition there. but as we saw hundreds of them breaking stone along the road, and occupied at other laborious and not less menial labor, there is too much reason to fear that it is so. as we approached iglau, we heard cannon firing; the crowd increased, and following the road, we came to an open square, where a large number were already assembled; shrines were erected around it, hung with pictures and pine boughs, and a long procession of children was passing down the side as we entered. we went towards the middle, where neptune and his tritons poured the water from their urns into two fountains, and stopped to observe the scene. the procession came on, headed by a large body of priests, in white robes, with banners and crosses. they stopped before the principal shrine, in front of the rathhaus, and began a solemn religious ceremony. the whole crowd of not less than ten thousand persons, stood silent and uncovered, and the deep voice of the officiating priest was heard over the whole square. at times the multitude sang responses, and i could mark the sound, swelling and rolling up like a mighty wave, till it broke and slowly sank down again to the deepest stillness. the effect was marred by the rough voice of the officers commanding the soldiery, and the volleys of musquetry which were occasionally discharged. it degraded the solemnity of the pageant to the level of a military parade. in the afternoon we were overtaken by a travelling _handwerker_, on his way to vienna, who joined company with us. we walked several miles together, talking on various matters, without his having the least suspicion we were not germans. he had been at trieste, and at length began speaking of the great beauty of the american vessels there. "yes," said i, "_our_ vessels are admired all over the world." he stared at me without comprehending;--"_your_ vessels?" "our country's," i replied; "we are americans!" i can see still his look of incredulous astonishment and hear the amazed tone with which he cried: "_you_ americans--it is impossible!" we convinced him nevertheless, to his great joy, for all through germany there is a curiosity to see our countrymen and a kindly feeling towards them. "i shall write down in my book," said he, "so that i shall never forget it, that i once travelled with two americans!" we stopped together for the night at the only inn in a large, beggarly village, where we obtained a frugal supper with difficulty, for a regiment of polish lancers was quartered there for the night, and the pretty _kellnerin_ was so busy in waiting on the officers that she had no eye for wandering journeymen, as she took us to be. she even told us the beds were all occupied and we must sleep on the floor. just then the landlord came by. "is it possible, herr landlord," asked our new companion, "that there is no bed here for us? have the goodness to look again, for we are not in the habit of sleeping on the floor, like dogs!" this speech had its effect, for the _kellnerin_ was commanded to find us beds. she came back unwillingly after a time and reported that _two_, only, were vacant. as a german bed is only a yard wide, we pushed these two together, but they were still too small for three persons, and i had a severe cold in the morning, from sleeping crouched up against the damp wall. the next day we passed the dividing ridge which separates the waters of the elbe from the danube, and in the evening arrived at znaim, the capital of moravia. it is built on a steep hill looking down on the valley of the thaya, whose waters mingle with the danube near pressburg. the old castle on the height near, was formerly the residence of the moravian monarchs, and traces of the ancient walls and battlements of the city are still to be seen. the handwerker took us to the inn frequented by his craft--the leather-curriers--and we conversed together till bed-time. while telling me of the oppressive laws of austria, the degrading vassalage of the peasants and the horrors of the conscription system, he paused as in deep thought, and looking at me with a suppressed sigh, said: "is it not true, america is free?" i told him of our country and her institutions, adding that though we were not yet as free as we hoped and wished to be, we enjoyed far more liberty than any country in the world. "ah!" said he, "it is hard to leave one's fatherland oppressed as it is, but i wish i could go to america!" we left next morning at eight o'clock, after having done full justice to the beds of the "golden stag," and taken leave of florian francke, the honest and hearty old landlord. znaim appears to great advantage from the vienna road; the wind which blew with fury against our backs, would not permit us to look long at it, but pushed us on towards the austrian border. in the course of three hours we were obliged to stop at a little village; it blew a perfect hurricane and the rain began to soak through our garments. here we stayed three hours among the wagoners who stopped on account of the weather. one miserable, drunken wretch, whom one would not wish to look at more than once, distinguished himself by insulting those around him, and devouring like a beast, large quantities of food. when the reckoning was given him, he declared he had already paid, and the waiter denying it, he said, "stop, i will show you something!" pulled out his passport and pointed to the name--"baron von reitzenstein." it availed nothing; he had fallen so low that his title inspired no respect, and when we left the inn they were still endeavoring to get their money and threatening him with a summary proceeding if the demand was not complied with. next morning the sky was clear and a glorious day opened before us. the country became more beautiful as we approached the danube; the hills were covered with vineyards, just in the tender green of their first leaves, and the rich valleys lay in sabbath stillness in the warm sunshine. sometimes from an eminence we could see far and wide over the garden-like slopes, where little white villages shone among the blossoming fruit-trees. a chain of blue hills rose in front, which i knew almost instinctively stood by the danube; when we climbed to the last height and began to descend to the valley, where the river was still hidden by luxuriant groves, i saw far to the southwest, a range of faint, silvery summits, rising through the dim ether like an airy vision. there was no mistaking those snowy mountains. my heart bounded with a sudden thrill of rapturous excitement at this first view of _the alps!_ they were at a great distance, and their outline was almost blended with the blue drapery of air which clothed them. i gazed till my vision became dim and i could no longer trace their airy lines. they called up images blended with the grandest events in the world's history. i thought of the glorious spirits who have looked upon them and trodden their rugged sides--of the storms in which they veil their countenances, and the avalanches they hurl thundering to the valleys--of the voices of great deeds, which have echoed from their crags over the wide earth--and of the ages which have broken, like the waves of a mighty sea, upon their everlasting summits! as we descended, the hills and forests shut out this sublime vision, and i looked to the wood-clothed mountains opposite and tried to catch a glimpse of the current that rolled at their feet. we here entered upon a rich plain, about ten miles in diameter, which lay between a backward sweep of the hills and a curve of the danube. it was covered with the richest grain; every thing wore the luxuriance of summer, and we seemed to have changed seasons since leaving the dreary hills of bohemia. continuing over the plain, we had on our left the fields of wagram and essling, the scene of two of napoleon's blood-bought victories. the outposts of the carpathians skirted the horizon--that great mountain range which stretches through hungary to the borders of russia. at length the road came to the river's side, and we crossed on wooden bridges over two or three arms of the danube, all of which together were little wider than the schuylkill at philadelphia. when we crossed the last bridge, we came to a kind of island covered with groves of the silver ash. crowds of people filled the cool walks; booths of refreshment stood by the roadside, and music was everywhere heard. the road finally terminated in a circle, where beautiful alleys radiated into the groves; from the opposite side a broad street lined with stately buildings extended into the heart of the city, and through this avenue, filled with crowds of carriages and people on their way to those delightful walks, we entered vienna! chapter xxii. vienna. _may ._--i have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great capital--this german paris--this connecting link between the civilization of europe and the barbaric magnificence of the east. it looks familiar to be in a city again, whose streets are thronged with people, and resound with the din and bustle of business. it reminds me of the never-ending crowds of london, or the life and tumult of our scarcely less active new york. although the end may be sordid for which so many are laboring, yet the very sight of so much activity is gratifying. it is peculiarly so to an american. after residing in a foreign land for some time, the peculiarities of our nation are more easily noticed; i find in my countrymen abroad a vein of restless energy--a love for exciting action--which to many of our good german friends is perfectly incomprehensible. it might have been this which gave at once a favorable impression of vienna. the morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the leopoldstadt, to explore the world before us. entering the broad praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the danube, which separates this part of the new city from the old. a row of magnificent coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their breakfasts in the shady porticoes. the ferdinand's bridge, which crosses the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the dark-eyed greek, and turks in their turbans and flowing robes. little brown hungarian boys were going around, selling bunches of lilies, and italians with baskets of oranges stood by the side-walk. the throng became greater as we penetrated into the old city. the streets were filled with carts and carriages, and as there are no side-pavements, it required constant attention to keep out of their way. splendid shops, fitted up with great taste, occupied the whole of the lower stories, and goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvass awnings in front of them. almost every store or shop was dedicated to some particular person or place, which was represented on a large panel by the door. the number of these paintings added much to the splendor of the scene; i was gratified to find, among the images of kings and dukes, one dedicated "_to the american_," with an indian chief in full costume. the _altstadt_, or old city, which contains about sixty thousand inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population, taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a million. it is situated on a small arm of the danube, and encompassed by a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a quarter to half a mile in length, called the glacis. this formerly belonged to the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up so rapidly on all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk. the city is still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat; but since it was taken by napoleon in , the moat has been changed into a garden, with a beautiful carriage road along the bottom, around the whole city. it is a beautiful sight, to stand on the summit of the wall and look over the broad glacis, with its shady roads branching in every direction, and filled with inexhaustible streams of people. the vorstaedte, or new cities, stretch in a circle around, beyond this; all the finest buildings front on the glacis, among which the splendid vienna theatre and the church of san carlo borromeo are conspicuous. the mountains of the vienna forest bound the view, with here and there a stately castle on their woody summits. i was reminded of london as seen from regent's park, and truly this part of vienna can well compare with it. on penetrating into the suburbs, the resemblance is at an end. many of the public thoroughfares are still unpaved, and in dry weather one is almost choked by the clouds of fine dust. a furious wind blows from the mountains, sweeping the streets almost constantly and filling the eyes and ears with it, making the city an unhealthy residence for strangers. there is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. beside the numberless walks of the glacis, there are the imperial gardens, with their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the augarten, laid out and opened to the public by the emperor joseph: and the prater, the largest and most beautiful of all. it lies on an island formed by the arms of the danube, and is between two and three miles square. from the circle at the end of the praterstrasse, broad carriage-ways extend through its forests of oak and silver ash, and over its verdant lawns to the principal stream, which bounds it on the north. these roads are lined with stately horse chesnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense canopy, completely shutting out the sun. every afternoon the beauty and nobility of vienna whirl through the cool groves in their gay equipages, while the sidewalks are thronged with pedestrians, and the numberless tables and seats with which every house of refreshment is surrounded, are filled with merry guests. here, on sundays and holidays, the people repair in thousands. the woods are full of tame deer, which run perfectly free over the whole prater. i saw several in one of the lawns, lying down in the grass, with a number of children playing around or sitting beside them. it is delightful to walk there in the cool of the evening, when the paths are crowded, and everybody is enjoying the release from the dusty city. it is this free, social life which renders vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws yearly thousands of visitors from all parts of europe. st. stephen's cathedral, in the centre of the old city, is one of the finest specimens of gothic architecture in germany. its unrivalled tower, which rises to the height of four hundred and twenty-eight feet, is visible from every part of vienna. it is entirely of stone, most elaborately ornamented, and is supposed to be the strongest in europe. if the tower was finished, it might rival any church in europe in richness and brilliancy of appearance. the inside is solemn and grand; but the effect is injured by the number of small chapels and shrines. in one of these rests, the remains of prince eugene of savoy, "_der edle ritter_," known in a ballad to every man, woman and child in germany. the belvidere gallery fills thirty-five halls, and contains three thousand pictures! it is absolutely bewildering to walk through such vast collections; you can do no more than glance at each painting, and hurry by face after face, and figure after figure, on which you would willingly gaze for hours and inhale the atmosphere of beauty that surrounds them. then after you leave, the brain is filled with their forms--radiant spirit-faces look upon you, and you see constantly, in fancy, the calm brow of a madonna, the sweet young face of a child, or the blending of divine with mortal beauty in an angel's countenance. i endeavor, if possible, always to make several visits--to study those pictures which cling _first_ to the memory, and pass over those which make little or no impression. it is better to have a few images fresh and enduring, than a confused and indistinct memory of many. from the number of madonnas in every european gallery, it would almost seem that the old artists painted nothing else. the subject is one which requires the highest genius to do it justice, and it is therefore unpleasant to see so many still, inexpressive faces of the virgin and child, particularly by the dutch artists, who clothe their figures sometimes in the stiff costume of their own time. raphael and murillo appear to me to be almost the only painters who have expressed what, perhaps, was above the power of other masters--the combined love and reverence of the mother, and the divine expression in the face of the child, prophetic of his mission and godlike power. there were many glorious old paintings in the second story, which is entirely taken up with pictures; two or three of the halls were devoted to selected works from modern artists. two of these i would give every thing i have to possess. one of them is a winter scene, representing the portico of an old gothic church. at the base of one of the pillars a woman is seated in the snow, half-benumbed, clasping an infant to her breast, while immediately in front stands a boy of perhaps seven or eight years, his little hands folded in prayer, while the chill wind tosses the long curls from his forehead. there is something so pure and holy in the expression of his childish countenance, so much feeling in the lip and sorrowful eye, that it moves one almost to tears to look upon it. i turned back half a dozen times from the other pictures to view it again, and blessed the artist in my heart for the lesson he gave. the other is by a young italian painter, whose name i have forgotten, but who, if he never painted anything else, is worthy a high place among the artists of his country. it represents some scene from the history of venice. on an open piazza, a noble prisoner, wasted and pale from long confinement, has just had an interview with his children. he reaches his arm toward them as if for the last time, while a savage keeper drags him away. a lovely little girl kneels at the feet of the doge, but there is no compassion in his stern features, and it is easy to see that her father is doomed. the lower belvidere, separated from the upper by a large garden, laid out in the style of that at versailles, contains the celebrated _ambraser sammlung_, a collection of armor. in the first hall i noticed the complete armor of the emperor maximilian, for man and horse--the armor of charles v., and prince moritz of saxony, while the walls were filled with figures of german nobles and knights, in the suits they wore in life. there is also the armor of the great "baver of trient," trabant of the archduke ferdinand. he was nearly nine feet in stature, and his spear, though not equal to satan's, in paradise lost, would still make a tree of tolerable dimensions. in the second hall we saw weapons taken from the turkish army who besieged vienna, with the horse-tail standards of the grand vizier, kara mustapha. the most interesting article was the battle-axe of the unfortunate montezuma, which was probably given to the emperor charles v., by cortez. it is a plain instrument of dark colored stone, about three feet long. we also visited the _bürgerliche zeughaus_, a collection of arms and weapons, belonging to the citizens of vienna. it contains sixteen thousand weapons and suits of armor, including those plundered from the turks, when john sobieski conquered them and relieved vienna from the siege. besides a great number of sabres, lances and horsetails, there is the blood-red banner of the grand vizier, as well as his skull and shroud, which is covered with sentences from the koran. on his return to belgrade, after the defeat at vienna, the sultan sent him a bow-string, and he was accordingly strangled. the austrians having taken belgrade some time after, they opened his grave and carried off his skull and shroud, as well as the bow-string, as relics. another large and richly embroidered banner, which hung in a broad sheet from the ceiling, was far more interesting to me. it had once waved from the vessels of the knights of malta, and had, perhaps, on the prow of the grand master's ship, led that romantic band to battle against the infidel. a large number of peasants and common soldiers were admitted to view the armory at the same time. the grave _custode_ who showed us the curiosities, explaining every thing in phrases known by heart for years and making the same starts of admiration whenever he came to any thing peculiarly remarkable, singled us out as the two persons most worthy of attention. accordingly his remarks were directed entirely to us, and his humble countrymen might as well have been invisible, for the notice he took of them. on passing out, we gave him a coin worth about fifteen cents, which happened to be so much more than the others gave him, that, bowing graciously, he invited us to write our names in the album for strangers. while we were doing this, a poor handwerker lingered behind, apparently for the same object, whom he scornfully dismissed, shaking the fifteen cent piece in his hand, and saying: "the album is not for such as you--it is for noble gentlemen!" on our way through the city, we often noticed a house on the southern side of st. stephen's platz, dedicated to "the iron stick." in a niche by the window, stood what appeared to be the limb of a tree, completely filled with nails, which were driven in so thick that no part of the original wood is visible. we learned afterwards the legend concerning it. the vienna forest is said to have extended, several hundred years ago, to this place. a locksmith's apprentice was enabled, by the devil's help, to make the iron bars and padlock which confine the limb in its place; every locksmith's apprentice who came to vienna after that, drove a nail into it, till finally there was room for no more. it is a singular legend, and whoever may have placed the limb there originally, there it has remained for two or three hundred years at least. we spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to strauss's band. we went about sunset to the odeon, a new building in the leopoldstadt. it has a refreshment hall nearly five hundred feet long, with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a garden walk of the same length. both the hall and garden were filled with tables, where the people seated themselves as they came, and conversed sociably over their coffee and wine. the orchestra was placed in a little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which i stationed myself, for i was anxious to see the world's waltz-king, whose magic tones can set the heels of half christendom in motion. after the band had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized, handsome man stepped forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand and bow in the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a magician summoning his spirits. as if he had waved the sound out of his bow, the tones leaped forth from the instruments, and guided by his eye and hand, fell into a merry measure. the accuracy with which every instrument performed its part, was truly marvellous. he could not have struck the measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his own piano, than from that large band. the sounds struggled forth, so perfect and distinct, that one almost expected to see them embodied, whirling in wild dance around him. sometimes the air was so exquisitely light and bounding, the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it sank into a mournful lament, with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away in a long-breathed sigh. strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. he would wave his fiddle-bow awhile, then commence playing with desperate energy, moving his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from his brow. a book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use of it. he often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at the restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from bounding to the magic measure. it was the horn of oberon realized. the composition of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted more in the exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the perfect, the wonderful exactness with which each performed its part--a piece of art of the most elaborate and refined character. the company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of enjoyment. they sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight, with the stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. we walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends, and the language our mother tongue! we went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon, to a little cemetery about a mile from the city, to find the grave of beethoven. on ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. i passed up the narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till i came to the tomb of franz clement, a young composer, who died two or three years ago. on turning again, my eye fell instantly on the word "beethoven," in golden letters, on a tombstone of gray marble. a simple gilded lyre decorated the pedestal, above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem of resurrection to eternal life. here then, mouldered the remains of that restless spirit, who seemed to have strayed to earth from another clime, from such a height did he draw his glorious conceptions. the perfection he sought for here in vain, he has now attained in a world where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. there were no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius; only one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long ago by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their bright blossoms over the slab. it might have been wrong, but i could not resist the temptation to steal one or two, while the old grave-digger was busy preparing a new tenement. i thought that other buds would open in a few days, but those i took would be treasured many a year as sacred relics. a few paces off is the grave of schubert, the composer, whose beautiful songs are heard all over germany. it would employ one a week to visit all the rich collections of art in vienna. they are all open to the public on certain days of the week, and we have been kept constantly in motion, running from one part of the city to another, in order to arrive at some gallery at the appointed time. tickets, which have to be procured often in quite different parts of the city, are necessary for admittance to many; on applying after much trouble and search, we frequently found we came at the wrong hour, and must leave without effecting our object. we employed no guide, but preferred finding every thing ourselves. we made a list every morning, of the collections open during the day, and employed the rest of the time in visiting the churches and public gardens, or rambling through the suburbs. we visited the imperial library a day or two ago. the hall is feet long, with a magnificent dome in the centre, under which stands the statue of charles v., of carrara marble, surrounded by twelve other monarchs of the house of hapsburg. the walls are of variegated marble, richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling and dome are covered with brilliant fresco paintings. the library numbers , volumes, and , manuscripts, which are kept in walnut cases, gilded and adorned with medallions. the rich and harmonious effect of the whole cannot easily be imagined. it is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such splendor, should be used to hold a library. the pomp of a palace may seem hollow and vain, for it is but the dwelling of a man; but no building can be too magnificent for the hundreds of great and immortal spirits to dwell in, who have visited earth during thirty centuries. among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a brass plate, containing one of the records of the roman senate, made years before christ, greek manuscripts of the fifth and sixth centuries, and a volume of psalms, printed on parchment, in the year , by faust and schaeffer, the inventors of printing. there were also mexican manuscripts, presented by cortez; the prayer-book of hildegard, wife of charlemagne, in letters of gold; the signature of san carlo borromeo, and a greek testament of the thirteenth century, which had been used by erasmus in making his translation and contains notes in his own hand. the most interesting article was the "jerusalem delivered" of tasso, in the poet's own hand, with his erasions and corrections. we also visited the cabinet of natural history, which is open twice a week "to all _respectably dressed_ persons," as the notice at the door says. but heaven forbid that i should attempt to describe what we saw there. the mineral cabinet had a greater interest to me, inasmuch as it called up the recollections of many a school-boy ramble over the hills and into all kinds of quarries, far and near. it is said to be the most perfect collection in existence. i was pleased to find many old acquaintances there, from the mines of pennsylvania; massachusetts and new york were also very well represented. i had no idea before, that the mineral wealth of austria was so great. besides the iron and lead mines among the hills of styria and the quicksilver of idria, there is no small amount of gold and silver found, and the carpathian mountains are rich in jasper, opal and lapiz lazuli. the largest opal ever found, was in this collection. it weighs thirty-four ounces and looks like a condensed rainbow. in passing the palace, we saw several persons entering the basement story under the library, and had the curiosity to follow them. by so doing, we saw the splendid equipages of the house of austria. there must have been near a hundred carriages and sleds, of every shape and style, from the heavy, square vehicle of the last century to the most light and elegant conveyance of the present day. one clumsy, but magnificent machine, of crimson and gold, was pointed out as being a hundred and fifty years old. the misery we witnessed in starving bohemia, formed a striking contrast to all this splendor. beside the imperial picture gallery, there are several belonging to princes and noblemen in vienna, which are scarcely less valuable. the most important of these is that of prince liechtenstein, which we visited yesterday. we applied to the porter's lodge for admittance to the gallery, but he refused to open it for two persons; as we did not wish a long walk for nothing, we concluded to wait for other visitors. presently a gentleman and lady came and inquired if the gallery was open. we told him it would probably be opened now, although the porter required a larger number, and he went to ask. after a short time he returned, saying: "he will come immediately; i thought best to put the number a little higher, and so i told him there were _six_ of us!" having little artistic knowledge of paintings, i judge of them according to the effect they produce upon me--in proportion as they gratify the innate love for the beautiful and the true. i have been therefore disappointed in some painters whose names are widely known, and surprised again to find works of great beauty by others of smaller fame. judging by such a standard, i should say that "cupid sleeping in the lap of venus," by correggio, is the glory of this collection. the beautiful limbs of the boy-god droop in the repose of slumber, as his head rests on his mother's knee, and there is a smile lingering around his half-parted lips, as if he was dreaming new triumphs. the face is not that of the wicked, mischief-loving child, but rather a sweet cherub, bringing a blessing to all he visits. the figure of the goddess is exquisite. her countenance, unearthly in its loveliness, expresses the tenderness of a young mother, as she sits with one finger pressed on her rosy lip, watching his slumber. it is a picture which "stings the brain with beauty." the chapel of st. augustine contains one of the best works of canova--the monument of the grand duchess, maria christina, of sachsen-teschen. it is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high, with an opening in the side, representing the entrance to a sepulchre. a female figure personating virtue bears in an urn to the grave, the ashes of the departed, attended by two children with torches. the figure of compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. on the lower step rests a mourning genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the pyramid above represents an angel carrying christina's image, surrounded with the emblem of eternity, to heaven. a spirit of deep sorrow, which is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the whole group. while we looked at it, the organ breathed out a slow, mournful strain, which harmonized so fully with the expression of the figures, that we seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they mourned. the combined effect of music and sculpture, thus united in their deep pathos, was such, that i could have sat down and wept. it was not from sadness at the death of a benevolent though unknown individual,--but the feeling of grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so powerfully represented, came to the heart like an echo of its own emotion, and carried it away with irresistible influence. travellers have described the same feeling while listening to the miserere in the sistine chapel, at rome. canova could not have chiseled the monument without tears. one of the most interesting objects in vienna, is the imperial armory. we were admitted through tickets previously procured from the armory direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told to wait in the court till our turn came. around the wall on the inside, is suspended the enormous chain which the turks stretched across the danube at buda, in the year , to obstruct the navigation. it has eight thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. the court is filled with cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from other nations. i saw a great many which were cast during the french revolution, with the words "_liberté! egalité!_" upon them, and a number of others bearing the simple letter "n." finally the first company came down and the forty or fifty persons who had collected during the interval, were admitted. the armory runs around a hollow square, and must be at least a quarter of a mile in length. we were all taken into a circular hall, made entirely of weapons, to represent the four quarters of the globe. here the crusty old guide who admitted us, rapped with his stick on the shield of an old knight who stood near, to keep silence, and then addressed us: "when i speak every one must be silent. no one can write or draw anything. no one shall touch anything, or go to look at anything else, before i have done speaking. otherwise, they shall be taken immediately into the street again!" thus in every hall he rapped and scolded, driving the women to one side with his stick and the men to the other, till we were nearly through, when the thought of the coming fee made him a little more polite. he had a regular set of descriptions by heart, which he went through with a great flourish, pointing particularly to the common military caps of the late emperors of prussia and austria, as "treasures beyond all price to the nation!" whereupon, the crowd of common people gazed reverently on the shabby beavers, and i verily believe, would have devoutly kissed them, had the glass covering been removed. i happened to be next to a tall, dignified young man, who looked on all this with a displeasure almost amounting to contempt. seeing i was a foreigner, he spoke, in a low tone, bitterly of the austrian government. "you are not then an austrian?" i asked. "no, thank god!" was the reply: "but i have seen enough of austrian tyranny. i am a pole!" the first wing contains banners used in the french revolution, and liberty trees with the red cap; the armor of rudolph of hapsburg, maximilian i., the emperor charles v., and the hat, sword and order of marshal schwarzenberg. some of the halls represent a fortification, with walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. a long room in the second wing contains an encampment, in which twelve or fifteen large tents are formed in like manner. along the sides are grouped old austrian banners, standards taken from the french, and horsetails and flags captured from the turks. "they make a great boast," said the pole, "of a half dozen french colors, but let them go to the hospital des invalides, in paris, and they will find _hundreds_ of the best banners of austria!" they also exhibited the armor of a dwarf king of bohemia and hungary, who died, a gray-headed old man, in his twentieth year; the sword of marlborough; the coat of gustavus adolphus, pierced in the breast and back with the bullet which killed him at lützen; the armor of the old bohemian princess libussa, and that of the amazon wlaska, with a steel visor made to fit the features of her face. the last wing was the most remarkable. here we saw the helm and breastplate of attila, king of the huns, which once glanced at the head of his myriads of wild hordes, before the walls of rome; the armor of count stahremberg, who commanded vienna during the turkish siege in , and the holy banner of mahomet, taken at that time from the grand vizier, together with the steel harness of john sobieski of poland, who rescued vienna from the turkish troops under kara mustapha; the hat, sword and breastplate of godfrey of bouillon, the crusader-king of jerusalem, with the banners of the cross the crusaders had borne to palestine, and the standard they captured from the turks on the walls of the holy city! i felt all my boyish enthusiasm for the romantic age of the crusaders revive, as i looked on the torn and mouldering banners which once waved on the hills of judea, or perhaps followed the sword of the lion heart through the fight on the field of ascalon! what tales could they not tell, those old standards, cut and shivered by spear and lance! what brave hands have carried them through the storm of battle, what dying eyes have looked upwards to the cross on their folds, as the last prayer was breathed for the rescue of the holy sepulchre! i must now close the catalogue. this morning we shall look upon vienna for the last time. our knapsacks are repacked, and the passports (precious documents!) visèd for munich. the getting of this visè, however, caused a comical scene at the police office, yesterday. we entered the inspector's hall and took our stand quietly among the crowd of persons who were gathered around a railing which separated them from the main office. one of the clerks came up, scowling at us, and asked in a rough tone, "what do you want here?" we handed him our tickets of sojourn (for when a traveler spends more than twenty-four hours in a german city, he must take out a permission and pay for it) with the request that he would give us our passports. he glanced over the tickets, came back and with constrained politeness asked us to step within the railing. here we were introduced to the chief inspector. "desire herr---- to come here," said he to a servant; then turning to us, "i am happy to see the gentlemen in vienna." an officer immediately came up, who addressed us in fluent english. "you may speak in your native tongue," said the inspector:--"excuse our neglect; from the facility with which you speak german, we supposed you were natives of austria!" our passports were signed at once and given us with a gracious bow, accompanied by the hope that we would visit vienna again before long. all this, of course, was perfectly unintelligible to the wondering crowd outside the railing. seeing however, the honors we were receiving, they crowded back and respectfully made room for us to pass out. i kept a grave face till we reached the bottom of the stairs, when i gave way to restrained laughter in a manner that shocked the dignity of the guard, who looked savagely at me over his forest of moustache. i would nevertheless have felt grateful for the attention we received as americans, were it not for our uncourteous reception as suspected austrians. we have just been exercising the risible muscles again, though from a very different cause, and one which, according to common custom, ought to draw forth symptoms of a lachrymose nature. this morning b---- suggested an examination of our funds, for we had neglected keeping a strict account, and what with being cheated in bohemia and tempted by the amusements of vienna, there was an apparent dwindling away. so we emptied our pockets and purses, counted up the contents, and found we had just ten florins, or four dollars apiece. the thought of our situation, away in the heart of austria, five hundred miles from our frankfort home, seems irresistibly laughable. by allowing twenty days for the journey, we shall have half a florin a day, to travel on. this is a homoeopathic allowance, indeed, but we have concluded to try it. so now adieu, vienna! in two hours we shall be among the hills again. chapter xxiii. up the danube. we passed out of vienna in the face of one of the strongest winds it was ever my lot to encounter. it swept across the plain with such force that it was almost impossible to advance till we got under the lee of a range of hills. about two miles from the barrier we passed schoenbrunn, the austrian versailles. it was built by the empress maria theresa, and was the residence of napoleon in , when vienna was in the hands of the french. later, in , the duke of reichstadt died in the same room which his father once occupied. behind the palace is a magnificent garden, at the foot of a hill covered with rich forests and crowned with an open pillared hall, feet long, called the _gloriette_. the colossal eagle which surmounts it, can be seen a great distance. the lovely valley in which schoenbrunn lies, follows the course of the little river vienna into the heart of that mountain region lying between the styrian alps and the danube, and called the vienna forest. into this our road led, between hills covered with wood, with here and there a lovely green meadow, where herds of cattle were grazing. the third day we came to the danube again at melk, a little city built under the edge of a steep hill, on whose summit stands the palace-like abbey of the benedictine monks. the old friars must have had a merry life of it, for the wine-cellar of the abbey furnished the french army , measures for several days in succession. the shores of the danube here are extremely beautiful. the valley where it spreads out, is filled with groves, but where the hills approach the stream, its banks are rocky and precipitous, like the rhine. although not so picturesque as the latter river, the scenery of the danube is on a grander scale. on the south side the mountains bend down to it with a majestic sweep, and there must be delightful glances into the valleys that lie between, in passing down the current. but we soon left the river, and journeyed on through the enchanting inland vales. to give an idea of the glorious enjoyment of traveling through such scenes, let me copy a leaf out of my journal, written as we rested at noon on the top of a lofty hill:--"here, while the delightful mountain breeze that comes fresh from the alps cools my forehead, and the pines around are sighing their eternal anthem, i seize a few moments to tell what a paradise is around me. i have felt an elevation of mind and spirit, a perfect rapture from morning till night, since we left vienna. it is the brightest and balmiest june weather; an ever fresh breeze sings through the trees and waves the ripening grain on the verdant meadows and hill-slopes. the air is filled with bird-music. the larks sing above us out of sight, the bullfinch wakes his notes in the grove, and at eve the nightingale pours forth her thrilling strain. the meadows are literally covered with flowers--beautiful purple salvias, pinks such as we have at home in our gardens and glowing buttercups, color the banks of every stream. i never saw richer or more luxuriant foliage. magnificent forests clothe the hills, and the villages are imbedded in fruit trees, shrubbery and flowers. sometimes we go for miles through some enchanting valley, lying like a paradise between the mountains, while the distant, white alps look on it from afar; sometimes over swelling ranges of hills, where we can see to the right the valley of the danube, threaded by his silver current and dotted with white cottages and glittering spires, and farther beyond, the blue mountains of the bohemian forest. to the left, the range of the styrian alps stretches along the sky, summit above summit, the farther ones robed in perpetual snow. i could never tire gazing on those glorious hills. they fill the soul with a conception of sublimity, such as one feels when listening to triumphal music. they seem like the marble domes of a mighty range of temples, where earth worships her maker with an organ-anthem of storms! "there is a _luxury_ in traveling here. we walk all day through such scenes, resting often in the shade of the fruit trees which line the road, or on a mossy bank by the side of some cool forest. sometimes for enjoyment as well as variety, we make our dining-place by a clear spring instead of within a smoky tavern; and our simple meals have a relish an epicure could never attain. away with your railroads and steamboats and mail-coaches, or keep them for those who have no eye but for the sordid interests of life! with my knapsack and pilgrim-staff, i ask not their aid. if a mind and soul full of rapture with beauty, a frame in glowing and vigorous health, and slumbers unbroken even by dreams, are blessings any one would attain, let him pedestrianize it through lower austria!" i have never been so strongly and constantly reminded of america, as during this journey. perhaps the balmy season, the same in which i last looked upon the dear scenes of home, may have its effect; but there is besides a richness in the forests and waving fields of grain, a wild luxuriance over every landscape, which i have seen nowhere else in europe. the large farm houses, buried in orchards, scattered over the valleys, add to the effect. everything seems to speak of happiness and prosperity. we were met one morning by a band of wandering bohemian gipsies--the first of the kind i ever saw. a young woman with a small child in her arms came directly up to me, and looking full in my face with her wild black eyes, said, without any preface: "yes, he too has met with sorrow and trouble already, and will still have more. but he is not false--he is true and sincere, and will also meet with good luck!" she said she could tell me three numbers with which i should buy a lottery ticket and win a great prize. i told her i would have nothing to do with the lottery, and would buy no ticket, but she persisted, saying: "has he a twenty kreutzer piece?--will he give it? lay it in his hand and make a cross over it, and i will reveal the numbers!" on my refusal, she became angry, and left me, saying: "let him take care--the third day something will happen to him!" an old, wrinkled hag made the same proposition to my companion with no better success. they reminded me strikingly of our indians; their complexion is a dark brown, and their eyes and hair are black as night. these belonged to a small tribe who wander through the forests of bohemia, and support themselves by cheating and stealing. we stopped the fourth night at enns, a small city on the river of the same name, which divides upper from lower austria. after leaving the beautiful little village where we passed the night before, the road ascended one of those long ranges of hills, which stretch off from the danube towards the alps. we walked for miles over the broad and uneven summit, enjoying the enchanting view which opened on both sides. if we looked to the right, we could trace the windings of the danube for twenty miles, his current filled with green, wooded islands; white cities lie at the foot of the hills, which, covered to the summit with grain fields and vineyards, extended back one behind another, till the farthest were lost in the distance. i was glad we had taken the way from vienna to linz by land, for from the heights we had a view of the whole course of the danube, enjoying besides, the beauty of the inland vales and the far-off styrian alps. from the hills we passed over we could see the snowy range as far as the alps of salzburg--some of them seemed robed to the very base in their white mantles. in the morning the glaciers on their summit glittered like stars; it was the first time i saw the sun reflected at a hundred miles' distance! on descending we came into a garden-like plain, over which rose the towers of enns, built by the ransom money paid to austria for the deliverance of the lion-hearted richard. the country legends say that st. florian was thrown into the river by the romans in the third century, with a millstone around his neck, which, however, held him above the water like cork, until he had finished preaching them a sermon. in the villages we often saw his imago painted on the houses, in the act of pouring a pail of water on a burning building, with the inscription beneath--"oh, holy florian, pray for us!" this was supposed to be a charm against fire. in upper austria, it is customary to erect a shrine on the road, wherever an accident has happened, with a painting and description of it, and an admonition to all passers-by to pray for the soul of the unfortunate person. on one of them, for instance, was a cart with a wild ox, which a man was holding by the horns; a woman kneeling by the wheels appeared to be drawing a little girl by the feet from under it, and the inscription stated: "by calling on jesus, mary and joseph, the girl was happily rescued." many of the shrines had images which the people no doubt, in their ignorance and simplicity, considered holy, but they were to us impious and almost blasphemous. from enns a morning's walk brought us to linz. the peasant girls in their broad straw hats were weeding the young wheat, looking as cheerful and contented as the larks that sung above them. a mile or two from linz we passed one or two of the round towers belonging to the new fortifications of the city. as walls have grown out of fashion, duke maximilian substituted an invention of his own. the city is surrounded by thirty two towers, one to three miles distant from it, and so placed that they form a complete line of communication and defence. they are sunk in the earth, surrounded with a ditch and embankments, and each is capable of containing ten cannon and three hundred men. the pointed roofs of these towers are seen on all the hills around. we were obliged to give up our passports at the barrier, the officer telling us to call for them in three hours at the city police office; we spent the intervening time very agreeably in rambling through this gay, cheerful-looking town. with its gilded spires and ornamented houses, with their green lattice blinds, it reminds one strongly of italy, or at least, of what italy is said to be. it has now quite an active and business-like aspect, occasioned by the steamboat and railroad lines which connect it with vienna, prague, ratisbon and salzburg. although we had not exceeded our daily allowance by more than a few kreutzers, we found that twenty days would be hardly sufficient to accomplish the journey, and our funds must therefore be replenished. accordingly i wrote from linz to frankfort, directing a small sum to be forwarded to munich, which city we hoped to reach in eight days. we took the horse cars at linz for lambach, seventeen miles on the way towards gmunden. the mountains were covered with clouds as we approached them, and the storms they had been brewing for two or three days began to march down on the plain. they had nearly reached us, when we crossed the traun and arrived at lambach, a small city built upon a hill. we left the next day at noon, and on ascending the hill after crossing the traun, had an opportunity of seeing the portrait on the traunstein, of which the old landlord told us. i saw it at the first glance--certainly it is a most remarkable freak of nature. the rough back of the mountain forms the exact profile of the human countenance, as if regularly hewn out of the rock. what is still more singular, it is said to be a correct portrait of the unfortunate louis xvi. the landlord said it was immediately recognized by all frenchmen. the road followed the course of the traun, whose green waters roared at the bottom of the glen below us; we walked for several miles through a fine forest, through whose openings we caught glimpses of the mountains we longed to reach. the river roared at last somewhat louder, and on looking down the bank, i saw rocks and rapids, and a few houses built on the edge of the stream. thinking it must be near the fall, we went down the path, and lo! on crossing a little wooden bridge, the whole affair burst in sight! judge of our surprise at finding a fall of fifteen feet, after we had been led to expect a tremendous leap of forty or fifty, with all the accompaniment of rocks and precipices. of course the whole descent of the river at the place was much greater, and there were some romantic cascades over the rocks which blocked its course. its greatest beauty consisted in the color of the water--the brilliant green of the waves being broken into foam of the most dazzling white--and the great force with which it is thrown below. the traunstein grew higher as we approached, presenting the same profile till we had nearly reached gmunden. from the green upland meadows above the town, the view of the mountain range was glorious, and i could easily conceive the effect of the unknown student's appeal to the people to fight for those free hills. i think it is howitt who relates the incident--one of the most romantic in german history. count pappenheim led his forces here in the year , to suppress a revolution of the people of the whole salzburg region, who had risen against an invasion of their rights by the austrian government. the battle which took place on these meadows was about being decided in favor of the oppressors, when a young man, clad as a student, suddenly appeared and addressed the people, pointing to the alps above them and the sweet lake below, and asking if that land should not be free. the effect was electrical; they returned to the charge and drove back the troops of pappenheim, who were about taking to flight, when the unknown leader fell, mortally wounded. this struck a sudden panic through his followers, and the austrians turning again, gained a complete victory. but the name of the brave student is unknown, his deed unsung by his country's bards, and almost forgotten. chapter xxiv. the unknown student. ha! spears on gmunden's meadows green, and banners on the wood-crowned height! rank after rank, their helmets' sheen sends back the morning light! where late the mountain maiden sang, the battle-trumpet's brazen clang vibrates along the air; and wild dragoons wheel o'er the plain. trampling to earth the yellow grain, from which no more the merry swain his harvest sheaves shall bear. the eagle, in his sweep at morn, to meet the monarch-sun on high, heard the unwonted warrior's horn peal faintly up the sky! he saw the foemen, moving slow in serried legions, far below, against that peasant-band, who dared to break the tyrant's thrall and by the sword of austria fall, or keep the ancient right of all, held by their mountain-land; they came to meet that mail-clad host from glen and wood and ripening field; a brave, stout arm, each man could boast-- a soul, unused to yield! they met: a shout, prolonged and loud, went hovering upward with the cloud that closed around them dun; blade upon blade unceasing clashed, spears in the onset shivering crashed, and the red glare of cannon flashed athwart the smoky sun! the mountain warriors wavered back, borne down by myriads of the foe, like pines before the torrent's track when spring has warmed the snow. shall faith and freedom vainly call, and gmunden's warrior-herdsmen fall on the red field in vain? no! from the throng that back retired, a student boy sprang forth inspired, and while his words their bosoms fired, led on the charge again! "and thus your free arms would ye give so tamely to a tyrant's band, and with the hearts of vassals live in this, your chainless land? the emerald lake is spread below, and tower above, the hills of snow-- here, field and forest lie; this land, so glorious and so free-- say, shall it crushed and trodden be? say, would ye rather bend the knee than for its freedom die? "look! yonder stand in mid-day's glare the everlasting alps of snow, and from their peaks a purer air breathes o'er the vales below! the traun his brow is bent in pride-- he brooks no craven on his side-- would ye be fettered then? there lifts the sonnenstein his head, there chafes the traun his rocky bed and aurach's lovely vale is spread-- look on them and be men! "let, like a trumpet's sound of fire, _these_ stir your souls to manhood's part-- the glory of the alps inspire each yet unconquered heart! for, through their unpolluted air soars fresher up the grateful prayer from freemen, unto god;-- a blessing on those mountains old! on to the combat, brethren bold! strike, that ye free the valleys hold, where free your fathers trod!" and like a mighty storm that tears the icy avalanche from its bed, they rushed against th' opposing spears-- the student at their head! the bands of austria fought in vain; a bloodier harvest heaped the plain at every charge they made; each herdsman was a hero then-- the mountain hunters stood like men, and echoed from the farthest glen the clash of blade on blade! the banner in the student's hand waved triumph from the fight before; what terror seized the conq'ring band?-- it fell, to rise no more! and with it died the lofty flame, that from his lips in lightning came and burned upon their own; dread pappenheim led back the foe, the mountain peasants yielded slow, and plain above and lake below were red when evening shone! now many a year has passed away since battle's blast rolled o'er the plain, the alps are bright in morning's ray-- the traunstein smiles again. but underneath the flowery sod, by happy peasant children trod, a hero's ashes lay. o'er him no grateful nation wept, fame, of his deed no record kept, and dull forgetfulness hath swept his very name away! in many a grave, by poets sung, there falls to dust a lofty brow, but he alone, the brave and young, sleeps there forgotten now. the alps upon that field look down, which won his bright and brief renown, beside the lake's green shore; still wears the land a tyrant's chain-- still bondmen tread the battle-plain, culled by his glorious soul in vain to win their rights of yore. chapter xxv. the austrian alps. it was nearly dark when we came to the end of the plain and looked on the city at our feet and the lovely lake that lost itself in the mountains before us. we were early on board the steamboat next morning, with a cloudless sky above us and a snow-crested alp beckoning on from the end of the lake. the water was of the most beautiful green hue, the morning light colored the peaks around with purple, and a misty veil rolled up the rocks of the traunstein. we stood on the prow and enjoyed to the fullest extent the enchanting scenery. the white houses of gmunden sank down to the water's edge like a flock of ducks; halfway we passed castle ort, on a rock in the lake, whose summit is covered with trees. as we neared the other extremity, the mountains became steeper and loftier; there was no path along their wild sides, nor even a fisher's hut nestled at their feet, and the snow filled the ravines more than half-way from the summit. an hour and a quarter brought us to ebensee, at the head of the lake, where we landed and plodded on towards ischl, following the traun up a narrow valley, whose mountain walls shut out more than half the sky. they are covered with forests, and the country is inhabited entirely by the woodmen who fell the mountain pines and float the timber rafts down to the danube. the steeps are marked with white lines, where the trees have been rolled, or rather _thrown_ from the summit. often they descend several miles over rooks and precipices, where the least deviation from the track would dash them in a thousand pieces. this generally takes place in the winter when the sides are covered with snow and ice. it must be a dangerous business, for there are many crosses by the way-side where the pictures represent persons accidentally killed by the trees; an additional painting represents them as burning in the flames of purgatory, and the pious traveler is requested to pray an ave or a paternoster for the repose of their souls. on we went, up the valley of the traun, between mountains five and six thousand feet high, through scenes constantly changing and constantly grand, for three or four hours. finally the hills opened, disclosing a little triangular valley, whose base was formed by a mighty mountain covered with clouds. through the two side angles came the traun and his tributary the ischl, while the little town of ischl lay in the centre. within a few years this has become a very fashionable bathing place, and the influx of rich visitors, which in the summer sometimes amounts to two thousand, has entirely destroyed the primitive simplicity the inhabitants originally possessed. from ischl we took a road through the forests to st. wolfgang, on the lake of the same name. the last part of the way led along the banks of the lake, disclosing some delicious views. these alpine lakes surpass any scenery i have yet seen. the water is of the most beautiful green, like a sheet of molten beryl, and the cloud-piercing mountains that encompass them shut out the sun for nearly half the day. st. wolfgang is a lovely village in a cool and quiet nook at the foot of the schafberg. the houses tire built in the picturesque swiss style, with flat, projecting roofs and ornamented balconies, and the people are the very picture of neatness and cheerfulness. we started next morning to ascend the schafberg, which is called the righi of the austrian switzerland. it is somewhat higher than its swiss namesake, and commands a prospect scarcely less extensive or grand. we followed a footpath through the thick forest by the side of a roaring torrent. the morning mist still covered the lake, but the white summits of the salzburg and noric alps opposite us, rose above it and stood pure and bright in the upper air. we passed a little mill and one or two cottages, and then wound round one of the lesser heights into a deep ravine, down in whose dark shadow we sometimes heard the axe and saw of the mountain woodmen. finally the path disappeared altogether under a mass of logs and rocks, which appeared to have been whirled together by a sudden flood. we deliberated what to do; the summit rose several thousand feet above us, almost precipitously steep, but we did not like to turn back, and there was still a hope of meeting with the path again. clambering over the ruins and rubbish we pulled ourselves by the limbs of trees up a steep ascent and descended again to the stream. we here saw the ravine was closed by a wall of rock and our only chance was to cross to the west side of the mountain, where the ascent seemed somewhat easier. a couple of mountain maidens whom we fortunately met, carrying home grass for their goats, told us the mountain could be ascended on that side, by one who could climb _well_--laying a strong emphasis on the word. the very doubt implied in this expression was enough to decide us; so we began the work. and work it was, too! the side was very steep, the trees all leaned downwards, and we slipped at every step on the dry leaves and grass. after making a short distance this way with the greatest labor, we came to the track of an avalanche, which had swept away the trees and earth. here the rock had been worn rough by torrents, but by using both hands and feet, we clomb directly up the side of the mountain, sometimes dragging ourselves up by the branches of trees where the rocks were smooth. after half an hour of such work we came above the forests, on the bare side of the mountain. the summit was far above us and so steep that our limbs involuntarily shrunk from the task of climbing. the side ran up at an angle of nearly sixty degrees, and the least slip threw us flat on our faces. we had to use both hand and foot, and were obliged to rest every few minutes to recover breath. crimson-flowered moss and bright blue gentians covered the rocks, and i filled my books with blossoms for friends at home. up and up, for what seemed an age, we clambered. so steep was it, that the least rocky projection hid my friend from sight, as he was coming up below me. i let stones roll sometimes, which went down, down, almost like a cannonball, till i could see them no more. at length we reached the region of dwarf pines, which was even more difficult to pass through. although the mountain was not so steep, this forest, centuries old, reached no higher than our breasts, and the trees leaned downwards, so that we were obliged to take hold of the tops of those above us, and drag ourselves up through the others. here and there lay large patches of snow; we sat down in the glowing june sun, and bathed our hands and faces in it. finally the sky became bluer and broader, the clouds seemed nearer, and a few more steps through the bushes brought us to the summit of the mountain, on the edge of a precipice a thousand feet deep, whose bottom stood in a vast field of snow! we lay down on the heather, exhausted by five hours' incessant toil, and drank in like a refreshing draught, the sublimity of the scene, the green lakes of the salzburg alps lay far below us, and the whole southern horizon was filled with the mighty range of the styrian and noric alps, their summits of never-melting snow mingling and blending with the clouds. on the other side the mountains of salzburg lifted their ridgy backs from the plains of bavaria and the chiem lake lay spread out in the blue distance. a line of mist far to the north betrayed the path of the danube, and beyond it we could barely trace the outline of the bohemian mountains. with a glass the spires of munich, one hundred and twenty miles distant, can be seen. it was a view whose grandeur i can never forget. in that dome of the cloud we seemed to breathe a purer air than that of earth. after an hour or two, we began to think of descending, as the path was yet to be found. the summit, which was a mile or more in length, extended farther westward, and by climbing over the dwarf pines for some time, we saw a little wooden house above us. it stood near the highest part of the peak, and two or three men were engaged in repairing it, as a shelter for travelers. they pointed out the path which went down on the side toward st. gilgen, and we began descending. the mountain on this side is much less steep, but the descent is fatiguing enough. the path led along the side of a glen where mountain goats were grazing, and further down we saw cattle feeding on the little spots of verdure which lay in the forest. my knees became so weak from this continued descent, that they would scarcely support me; but we were three hours, partly walking and partly running down, before we reached the bottom. half an hour's walk around the head of the st. wolfgang see, brought us to the little village of st. gilgen. the valley of st. gilgen lies like a little paradise between the mountains. lovely green fields and woods slope gradually from the mountain behind, to the still greener lake spread out before it, in whose bosom the white alps are mirrored. its picturesque cottages cluster around the neat church with its lofty spire, and the simple inhabitants have countenances as bright and cheerful as the blue sky above them. we breathed an air of poetry. the arcadian simplicity of the people, the pastoral beauty of the fields around and the grandeur of the mountains which shut it out from the world, realized my ideas of a dwelling place, where, with a few kindred spirits, the bliss of eden might almost be restored. we stopped there two or three hours to relieve our hunger and fatigue. my boots had suffered severely in our mountain adventure, and i called at a shoemaker's cottage to get them repaired. i sat down and talked for half an hour with the family. the man and his wife spoke of the delightful scenery around them, and expressed themselves with correctness and even elegance. they were much pleased that i admired their village so greatly, and related every thing which they supposed could interest me. as i rose to go, my head nearly touched the ceiling, which was very low. the man exclaimed: "ach gott! how tall!" i told him the people were all tall in our country; he then asked where i came from, and i had no sooner said america, than he threw up his hands and uttered an ejaculation of the greatest surprise. his wife observed that "it was wonderful how far man was permitted to travel." they wished me a prosperous journey and a safe return home. st. gilgen was also interesting to me from that beautiful chapter in "hyperion"--"footsteps of angels,"--and on passing the church on my way back to the inn, i entered the graveyard mentioned in it. the green turf grows thickly over the rows of mounds, with here and there a rose planted by the hand of affection, and the white crosses were hung with wreaths, some of which had been freshly laid on. behind the church, under the shade of a tree, stood a small chapel,--i opened the unfastened door, and entered. the afternoon sun shone through the side window, and all was still around. a little shrine, adorned with flowers, stood at the other end, and there were two tablets on the wall, to persons who slumbered beneath, i approached these and read on one of them with feelings not easily described: "look not mournfully into the past--it comes not again; wisely improve the present--it is thine; and go forward to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly heart!" this then was the spot where paul flemming came in loneliness and sorrow to muse over what he had lost, and these were the words whose truth and eloquence strengthened and consoled him, "as if the unknown tenant of the grave had opened his lips of dust and spoken those words of consolation his soul needed." i sat down and mused a long time, for there was something in the silent holiness of the spot, that impressed me more than i could well describe. we reached a little village on the fuschel see, the same evening, and set off the next morning for salzburg. the day was hot and we walked slowly, so that it was not till two o'clock that we saw the castellated rocks on the side of the gaissberg, guarding the entrance to the valley of salzburg. a short distance further, the whole glorious panorama was spread out below us. from the height on which we stood, we looked directly on the summit of the capuchin mountain, which hid part of the city from sight; the double peak of the staufen rose opposite, and a heavy storm was raging along the alpine heights around it, while the lovely valley lay in sunshine below, threaded by the bright current of the salza. as we descended and passed around the foot of the hill, the untersberg came in sight, whose broad summits lift themselves seven thousand feet above the plain. the legend says that charlemagne and his warriors sit in its subterraneous caverns in complete armor, and that they will arise and come forth again, when germany recovers her former power and glory. i wish i could convey in words some idea of the elevation of spirit experienced while looking on these eternal mountains. they fill the soul with a sensation of power and grandeur which frees it awhile from the cramps and fetters of common life. it rises and expands to the level of their sublimity, till its thoughts stand solemnly aloft, like their summits, piercing the free heaven. their dazzling and imperishable beauty is to the mind an image of its own enduring existence. when i stand upon some snowy summit--the invisible apex of that mighty pyramid--there seems a majesty in my weak will which might defy the elements. this sense of power, inspired by a silent sympathy with the forms of nature, is beautifully described--as shown in the free, unconscious instincts of childhood--by the poet uhland, in his ballad of the "mountain boy." i have attempted a translation. the mountain boy. a herd-boy on the mountain's brow, i see the castles all below. the sunbeam here is earliest cast and by my side it lingers last-- i am the boy of the mountain! the mother-house of streams is here-- i drink them in their cradles clear; from out the rock they foam below, i spring to catch them as they go! i am the boy of the mountain! to me belongs the mountain's bound, where gathering tempests march around; but though from north and south they shout, above them still my song rings out-- "i am the boy of the mountain!" below me clouds and thunders move; i stand amid the blue above. i shout to them with fearless breast: "go, leave my father's house in rest!" i am the boy of the mountain! and when the loud bell shakes the spires and flame aloft the signal-fires, i go below and join the throng and swing my sword and sing my song: "i am the boy of the mountain!" salzburg lies on both sides of the salza, hemmed in on either hand by precipitous mountains. a large fortress overlooks it on the south, from the summit of a perpendicular rock, against which the houses in that part of the city arc built. the streets are narrow and crooked, but the newer part contains many open squares, adorned with handsome fountains. the variety of costume among the people, is very interesting. the inhabitants of the salt district have a peculiar dress; the women wear round fur caps, with little wings of gauze at the side. i saw other women with headdresses of gold or silver filagree, something in shape like a roman helmet, with a projection at the back of the head, a foot long. the most interesting objects in salzburg to us, were the house of mozart, in which the composer was born, and the monument lately erected to him. the st. peter's church, near by, contains the tomb of haydn, the great composer, and the church of st. sebastian, that of the renowned paracelsus, who was also a native of salzburg. two or three hours sufficed to see every thing of interest in the city. we had intended lo go further through the alps, to the beautiful vales of the tyrol, but our time was getting short, our boots, which are the pedestrian's _sole_ dependence, began to show symptoms of wearing out, and our expenses among the lakes and mountains of upper austria, left us but two florins apiece, so we reluctantly turned our backs upon the snowy hills and set out for munich, ninety miles distant. after passing the night at saalbruck, on the banks of the stream which separates the two kingdoms, we entered bavaria next morning. i could not help feeling glad to leave austria, although within her bounds i had passed scones whose beauty will long haunt me, and met with many honest friendly hearts among her people. we noticed a change as soon as we had crossed the border. the roads were neater and handsomer, and the country people greeted us in going by, with a friendly cheerfulness that made us feel half at home. the houses are built in the picturesque swiss fashion, their balconies often ornamented with curious figures, carved in wood. many of them, where they are situated remote from a church, have a little bell on the roof which they ring for morning and evening prayers; we often heard these simple monitors sounding from the cottages as we passed by. the next night we stopped at the little village of stein, famous in former times for its robber-knight, hans von stein. the ruins of his castle stand on the rock above, and the caverns hewn in the sides of the precipice, where he used to confine his prisoners, are still visible. walking on through a pleasant, well-cultivated country, we came to wasserburg, on the inn. the situation of the city is peculiar. the inn has gradually worn his channel deeper in the sandy soil, so that he now flows at the bottom of a glen, a hundred feet below the plains around. wasserburg lies in a basin, formed by the change of the current, which flows around it like a horseshoe, leaving only a narrow neck of land which connects it with the country above. we left the little village where we were quartered for the night and took a foot path which led across the country to the field of hohenlinden, about six miles distant. the name had been familiar to me from childhood, and my love for campbell, with the recollection of the school-exhibitions where "on linden when the sun was low" had been so often declaimed, induced me to make the excursion to it. we traversed a large forest, belonging to the king of bavaria, and came out on a plain covered with grain fields and bounded on the right by a semi-circle of low hills. over the fields, about two miles distant, a tall, minaret-like spire rose from a small cluster of houses, and this was hohenlinden! to tell the truth, i had been expecting something more. the "hills of blood-stained snow" are very small hills indeed, and the "isar, rolling rapidly," is several miles off; it was the spot, however, and we recited campbell's poem, of course, and brought away a few wild flowers as memorials. there is no monument or any other token of the battle, and the people seem to endeavor to forget the scene of moreau's victory and their defeat. from a hill twelve miles off we had our first view of the spires of munich, looking like distant ships over the sea-like plain. they kept in sight till we arrived at eight o'clock in the evening, after a walk of more than thirty miles. we crossed the rapid isar on three bridges, entered the magnificent isar gate, and were soon comfortably quartered in the heart of munich. entering the city without knowing a single soul within it, we made within a few minutes an agreeable acquaintance. after we passed the isar gate, we began looking for a decent inn, for the day's walk was very fatiguing. presently a young man, who had been watching us for some time, came up and said, if we would allow him, he would conduct us to a good lodging-place. finding we were strangers, he expressed the greatest regret that he had not time to go with us every day around the city. our surprise and delight at the splendor of munich, he said, would more than repay him for the trouble. in his anxiety to show us something, he took us some distance out of the way, (although it was growing dark and we were very tired,) to see the palace and the theatre, with its front of rich frescoes. end of part i. views a-foot; or europe seen with knapsack and staff. by j. bayard taylor. with a preface by n.p. willis. "jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, and merrily hent the stile-a; a merry heart goes all the day, your sad tires in a mile-a." _winter's tale._ in two parts. part ii. chapter xxvi. munich. _june ._--i thought i had seen every thing in vienna that could excite admiration or gratify fancy; here i have my former sensations to live over again, in an augmented degree. it is well i was at first somewhat prepared by our previous travel, otherwise the glare and splendor of wealth and art in this german athens might blind me to the beauties of the cities we shall yet visit. i have been walking in a dream where the fairy tales of boyhood were realized, and the golden and jeweled halls of the eastern genii rose glittering around me--"a vision of the brain no more." all i had conceived of oriental magnificence, all descriptions of the splendor of kingly halls and palaces, fall far short of what i here see. where shall i begin to describe the crowd of splendid edifices that line its streets, or how give an idea of the profusion of paintings and statues--of marble, jasper and gold? art has done every thing for munich. it lies on a large, flat plain, sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and continually exposed to the cold winds from the alps. at the beginning of the present century it was but a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners. since that time its population and limits have been doubled, and magnificent edifices in every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in this respect to any capital in europe. every art that wealth or taste could devise, seems to have been spent in its decoration. broad, spacious streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established, which draw artists from all parts of the world. all this was principally brought about by the taste of the present king, ludwig i., who began twenty or thirty years ago, when he was crown prince, to collect the best german artists around him and form plans for the execution of his grand design. he can boast of having done more for the arts than any other living monarch, and if he had accomplished it all without oppressing his people, he would deserve an immortality of fame. now, if you have nothing else to do, let us take a stroll down the ludwigstrasse. as we pass the theatiner church, with its dome and towers, the broad street opens before us, stretching away to the north, between rows of magnificent buildings. just at this southern end, is the _schlusshalle_, an open temple of white marble terminating the avenue. to the right of us extend the arcades, with the trees of the royal garden peeping above them; on the left is the spacious concert building of the odeon, and the palace of the duke of leuchtenberg, son of eugene beauharnois. passing through a row of palace-like private buildings, we come to the army department, on the right--a neat and tasteful building of white sandstone. beside it stands the library, which possesses the first special claim on our admiration. with its splendid front of five hundred and eighteen feet, the yellowish brown cement with which the body is covered, making an agreeable contrast with the dark red window-arches and cornices, and the statues of homer, hippocrates, thucydides and aristotle guarding the portal, is it not a worthy receptacle for the treasures of ancient and modern lore which its halls contain? nearly opposite stands the institute for the blind, a plain but large building of dark red brick, covered with cement, and further, the ludwig's kirche, or church of st. louis. how lightly the two square towers of gray marble lift their network of sculpture! and what a novel and beautiful effect is produced by uniting the byzantine style of architecture to the form of the latin cross! over the arched portal stand marble statues by schwanthaler, and the roof of brilliant tiles worked into mosaic, looks like a rich turkey carpet covering the whole. we must enter to get an idea of the splendor of this church. instead of the pointed arch which one would expect to see meeting above his head, the lofty pillars on each side bear an unbroken semicircular vault, which is painted a brilliant blue, and spangled with silver stars. these pillars, and the little arches above, which spring from them, are painted in an arabesque style with gold and brilliant colors, and each side-chapel is a perfect casket of richness and elegance. the windows are of silvered glass, through which the light glimmers softly on the splendor within. the whole end of the church behind the high altar, is taken up with cornelius's celebrated fresco painting of the "last judgment,"--the largest painting in the world--and the circular dome in the centre of the cross contains groups of martyrs, prophets, saints and kings, painted in fresco on a ground of gold. the work of cornelius has been greatly praised for sublimity of design and beauty of execution, by many acknowledged judges; i was disappointed in it, but the fault lay most probably in me and not in the painting. the richness and elegance of the church took me all "aback;" it was so entirely different from anything i had seen, that it was difficult to decide whether i was most charmed by its novelty or its beauty. still, as a building designed to excite feelings of worship, it seems to me inappropriate. a vast, dim cathedral would be far preferable; the devout, humble heart cannot feel at home amid such glare and brightness. as we leave the church and walk further on, the street expands suddenly into a broad square. one side is formed by the new university building and the other by the royal seminary, both displaying in their architecture new forms of the graceful byzantine school, which the architects of munich have adapted in a striking manner to so many varied purposes. on each side stands a splendid colossal fountain of bronze, throwing up a great mass of water, which falls in a triple cataract to the marble basin below. a short distance beyond this square the ludwigstrasse terminates. it is said the end will be closed by a magnificent gate, on a style to correspond with the unequalled avenue to which it will give entrance. to one standing at the southern end, it would form a proper termination to the grand vista. before we leave, turn around and glance back, down this street, which extends for half a mile between such buildings as we have just viewed, and tell me if it is not something of which a city and a king may boast, to have created all this within less than twenty years! we went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly belonging to eugene beauharnois, who was brother-in-law to the present king of bavaria, in the palace of his son, the duke of leuchtenberg. the first hall contains works principally by french artists, among which are two by gerard--a beautiful portrait of josephine, and the blind belisarius carrying his dead companion. the boy's head lies on the old man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable features of the unfortunate emperor. in the middle of the room are six pieces of statuary, among which canova's world-renowned group of the graces at once attracts the eye. there is also a kneeling magdalen, lovely in her woe, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of schadow, representing a shepherd boy tenderly binding his sash around a lamb which he has accidentally wounded with his arrow. we have since seen in the st. michael's church, the monument to eugene beauharnois, from the chisel of thorwaldsen. the noble, manly figure of the son of josephine is represented in the roman mantle, with his helmet and sword lying on the ground by him. on one side sits history, writing on a tablet; on the other, stand the two brother-angels, death and immortality. they lean lovingly together, with arms around each other, but the sweet countenance of death has a cast of sorrow, as he stands with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks. immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upwards with a smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. it is a beautiful idea, and thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with feeling. the inside of the square formed by the arcades and the new residence, is filled with noble old trees, which in summer make a leafy roof over the pleasant walks. in the middle, stands a grotto, ornamented with rough pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect hall of neptune. passing through the northern arcade, one comes into the magnificent park, called the english garden, which extends more than four miles along the bank of the isar, several branches of whose milky current wander through it, and form one or two pretty cascades. it is a beautiful alternation of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and garden-like luxuriance of english scenery. winding walks lead along the isar, or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of half a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its further end, comes in sight through the trees. i was better pleased with this park than with the prater in vienna. its paths are always filled with persons enjoying the change from the dusty streets to its quiet and cool retirement. the new residence is not only one of the wonders of munich, but of the world. although commenced in and carried on constantly since that time by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet finished; if art were not inexhaustible it would be difficult to imagine what more could be added. the north side of the max joseph platz is taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine years in building, under the direction of the architect klenze. the exterior is copied after the palazzo pitti, in florence. the building is of light brown sandstone, and combines an elegance and even splendor, with the most chaste and classic style. the northern front, which faces on the royal garden, is now nearly finished. it has the enormous length of eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten ionic columns; instead of supporting a triangular facade, each pillar stands separate and bears a marble statue from the chisel of schwanthaler. the interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the outside. it is open every afternoon in the absence of the king, for the inspection of visitors; fortunately for us, his majesty is at present on a journey through his provinces on the rhine. we went early to the waiting hall, where several travelers were already assembled, and at four o'clock, were admitted into the newer part of the palace, containing the throne hall, ballroom, etc. on entering the first hall, designed for the lackeys and royal servants, we were all obliged to thrust our feet into cloth slippers to walk over the polished mosaic floor. the walls are of scagliola marble and the ceilings ornamented brilliantly in fresco. the second hall, also for servants, gives tokens of increasing splendor in the richer decorations of the walls and the more elaborate mosaic of the floor. we next entered the receiving saloon, in which the court marshal receives the guests. the ceiling is of arabesque sculpture, profusely painted and gilded. passing through a little cabinet, we entered the great dancing saloon. its floor is the richest mosaic of wood of different colors, the sides are of polished scagliola marble, and the ceiling a dazzling mixture of sculpture, painting and gold. at one end is a gallery for the orchestra, supported by six columns of variegated marble, above which are six dancing nymphs, painted so beautifully that they appear like living creatures. every decoration which could be devised has been used to heighten its splendor, and the artists appear to have made free use of the arabian nights in forming the plan. we entered next two smaller rooms containing the portraits of beautiful women, principally from the german nobility. i gave the preference to the daughter of marco bozzaris, now maid of honor to the queen of greece. she had a wild dark eye, a beautiful proud lip, and her rich black hair rolled in glossy waves down her neck from under the red grecian cap stuck jauntily on the side of her head. she wore a scarf and close-fitting vest embroidered with gold, and there was a free, lofty spirit in her countenance worthy the name she bore. these pictures form a gallery of beauty, whose equal cannot easily be found. returning to the dancing hall, we entered the dining saloon, also called the hall of charlemagne. each wall has two magnificent fresco paintings of very large size, representing some event in the life of the great emperor, beginning with his anointing at st. deny's as a boy of twelve years, and ending with his coronation by leo iii. a second dining saloon, the hall of barbarossa, adjoins the first. it has also eight frescoes as the former, representing the principal events in the life of frederic barbarossa. then comes a _third_, called the hapsburg hall, with four grand paintings from the life of rudolph of hapsburg, and a triumphal procession along the frieze, showing the improvement in the arts and sciences which was accomplished under his reign. the drawing, composition and rich tone of coloring of these glorious frescoes, are scarcely excelled by any in existence. finally we entered the hall of the throne. here the encaustic decoration, so plentifully employed in the other rooms, is dropped, and an effect even more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and gold. picture a long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side twelve columns of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand colossal statues of gold. at the other end is the throne of gold and crimson, with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. the twelve statues in the hall are called the "wittlesbach ancestors," and represent renowned members of the house of wittlesbach from which the present family of bavaria is descended. they were cast in bronze by stiglmaier, after the models of schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of gold, so that they resemble solid golden statues. the value of the precious metal on each one is about $ , , as they arc nine feet in height! what would the politicians who made such an outcry about the new papering of the president's house, say to such a palace as this? going back to the starting point, we went to the other wing of the edifice and joined the party who came to visit the apartments of the king. here we were led through two or three rooms, appropriated to the servants, with all the splendor of marble doors, floors of mosaic, and frescoed ceilings. from these we entered the king's dwelling. the entrance halls are decorated with paintings of the argonauts and illustrations of the hymns of hesiod, after drawings by schwanthaler. then came the service hall, containing frescoes illustrating homer, by schnorr, and the throne hall, with schwanthaler's bas-reliefs of the songs of pindar, on a ground of gold. the throne stands under a splendid crimson canopy. the dining room with its floor of polished wood is filled with illustrations of the songs of anacreon. to these follow the dressing room, with twenty-seven illustrations of the comedies of aristophanes, and the sleeping chamber with frescoes after the poems of theocritus, and two beautiful bas-reliefs representing angels bearing children to heaven. it is no wonder the king writes poetry, when he breathes, eats, and even sleeps in an atmosphere of it. we were shown the rooms for the private parties of the court, the school-room, with scenes from the life of the ancient greeks, and then conducted down the marble staircases to the lower story, which is to contain schnorr's magnificent frescoes of the nibelungen lied--the old german iliad. two halls are at present finished; the first has the figure of the author, heinrich von ofterdingen, and those of chriemhilde, brunhilde, siegfried and the other personages of the poem; and the second, called the marriage hall, contains the marriage of chriemhilde and siegfried, and the triumphal entry of siegfried into worms. adjoining the new residence on the east, is the royal chapel, lately finished in the byzantine style, under the direction of klenze. to enter it, is like stepping into a casket of jewels. the sides are formed by a double range of arches, the windows being so far back as to be almost out of sight, so that the eye falls on nothing but painting and gold. the lower row of arches is of alternate green and purple marble, beautifully polished; but the upper, as well as the small chancel behind the high altar, is entirely covered with fresco paintings on a ground of gold! the richness and splendor of the whole church is absolutely incredible. even after one has seen the ludwig's kirche and the residence itself, it excites astonishment. i was surprised, however, to find at this age, a painting on the wall behind the altar, representing the almighty. it seems as if man's presumption has no end. the simple altar of athens, with its inscription "_to the unknown god_," was more truly reverent than this. as i sat down awhile under one of the arches, a poor woman came in, carrying a heavy basket, and going to the steps which led up to the altar, knelt down and prayed, spreading her arms out in the form of a cross. then, after stooping and kissing the first step, she dragged herself with her knees upon it, and commenced praying again with outspread arms. this she continued till she had climbed them all, which occupied some time; then, as if she had fulfilled a vow she turned and departed. she was undoubtedly sincere in her piety, but it made me sad to look upon such deluded superstition. we visited yesterday morning the glyptothek, the finest collection of ancient sculpture except that in the british museum, i have yet seen, and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed, north of the alps. the building which was finished by klenze, in , has an ionic portico of white marble, with a group of allegorical figures, representing sculpture and the kindred arts. on each side of the portico, there are three niches in the front, containing on one side, pericles, phidias and vulcan; on the other, hadrian, prometheus and dædalus. the whole building forms a hollow square, and is lighted entirely from the inner side. there are in all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the art, and arranged according to time, so that, beginning with the clumsy productions of the ancient egyptians, one passes through the different stages of grecian art, afterwards that of rome, and finally ends with the works of our own times--the almost grecian perfection of thorwaldsen and canova. these halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more could be said of them? the floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of green or purple scagliola, and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised ornaments on a ground of gold. no two are alike in color and decoration, and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole, which renders the variety delightful. from the egyptian hall, we enter one containing the oldest remains of grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to _mould_ the marble to their conceptions. then follow the celebrated egina marbles, from the temple of jupiter panhellenius, on the island of egina. they formerly stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the body of laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead patroclus. the parts wanting have been admirably restored by thorwaldsen. they form almost the only existing specimens of the eginetan school. passing through the apollo hall, we enter the large hall of bacchus, in which the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. a satyr, lying asleep on a goat-skin which he has thrown over a rock, is believed to be the work of praxiteles. the relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every limb, is wonderful. the countenance has traits of individuality which led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude country swain. in the hall of niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. mutilated as it is, without head and arms, i never saw a more expressive figure. ilioneus, the son of niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment in which apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. his beautiful young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body. it should be left untouched. no head could be added, which would equal that one pictures to himself, while gazing upon it. the pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures, selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king, which amounts to nine thousand. above the cornice on the southern side, stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters, by schwanthaler. as we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a servant in the bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the giant proportions of the building, that, until i stood beside him and could mark the contrast, i did not notice his enormous frame. i saw then that he must be near eight feet high, and stout in proportion. he reminded me of the great "baver of trient," in vienna. the pinacothek contains the most complete collection of works by old german artists, anywhere to be found. there are in the hall of the spanish masters, half a dozen of murillo's inimitable beggar groups. it was a relief, after looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of the old german school, to view these fresh, natural countenances. one little black-eyed boy has just cut a slice out of a melon and turns with a full mouth to his companion, who is busy eating a bunch of grapes. the simple, contented expression on the faces of the beggars is admirable. i thought i detected in a beautiful child, with dark curly locks, the original of his celebrated infant st. john. i was much interested in two small juvenile works of raphael and his own portrait. the latter was taken most probably after he became known as a painter. the calm, serious smile which we see on his portrait as a boy, had vanished, and the thin features and sunken eye told of intense mental labor. one of the most remarkable buildings now in the course of erection is the basilica, or church of st. bonifacius. it represents another form of the byzantine style, a kind of double edifice, a little like a north river steamboat, with a two story cabin on deck. the inside is not yet finished, although the artists have been at work on it for six years, but we heard many accounts of its splendor, which is said to exceed anything that has been yet done in munich. we visited to-day the atelier of sohwanthaler, which is always open to strangers. the sculptor himself was not there, but five or six of his scholars were at work in the rooms, building up clay statues after his models and working out bas-reliefs in frames. we saw here the original models of the statues on the pinacothek, and the "wittelsbach ancestors" in the throne hall of the palace. i was glad also to find a miniature copy in plaster, of the herrmannsschlacht, or combat of the old german hero, herrmann, with the romans, from the frieze of the walhalla, at ratisbon. it is one of schwanthaler's best works. herrmann, as the middle figure, is represented in fight with the roman general; behind him the warriors are rushing on, and an old bard is striking the chords of his harp to inspire them, while women bind up the wounds of the fallen. the roman soldiers on the other side are about turning in confusion to fly. it is a lofty and appropriate subject for the portico of a building containing the figures of the men who have labored for the glory and elevation of their fatherland. our new-found friend came to visit us last evening and learn our impressions of munich. in the course of conversation we surprised him by revealing the name of our country. his countenance brightened up and he asked us many questions about the state of society in america. in return, he told us something more about himself--his story was simple, hut it interested me. his father was a merchant, who, having been ruined by unlucky transactions, died, leaving a numerous family without the means of support. his children were obliged to commence life alone and unaided, which, in a country where labor is so cheap, is difficult and disheartening. our friend chose the profession of a machinist, which, after encountering great obstacles, he succeeded in learning, and now supports himself as a common laborer. but his position in this respect prevents him from occupying that station in society for which he is intellectually fitted. his own words, uttered with a simple pathos which i can never forget, will best describe how painful this must be to a sensitive spirit. "i tell you thus frankly my feelings," said he, "because i know you will understand me. i could not say this to any of my associates, for they would not comprehend it, and they would say i am proud, because i cannot bring my soul down to their level. i am poor and have but little to subsist upon; but the spirit has needs as well as the body, and i feel it a duty and a desire to satisfy them also. when i am with any of my common fellow-laborers, what do i gain from them? their leisure hours are spent in drinking and idle amusement, and i cannot join them, for i have no sympathy with such things. to mingle with those above me, would be impossible. therefore i am alone--i have no associate!" i have gone into minute, and it may be, tiresome detail, in describing some of the edifices of munich, because it seemed the only way in which i could give an idea of their wonderful beauty. it is true that in copying after the manner of the daguerreotype, there is danger of imitating its _dullness_ also, but i trust to the glitter of gold and rich paintings, for a little brightness in the picture. we leave to-morrow morning, having received the sum written for, which, to our surprise, will be barely sufficient to enable us to reach heidelberg. chapter xxvii. through wurtemberg to heidelberg. we left munich in the morning train for augsburg. between the two cities extends a vast unbroken plain, exceedingly barren and monotonous. here and there is a little scrubby woodland, and sometimes we passed over a muddy stream which came down from the alps. the land is not more than half-cultivated, and the villages are small and poor. we saw many of the peasants at their stations, in their gay sunday dresses; the women wore short gowns with laced boddices, of gay colors, and little caps on the top of their heads, with streamers of ribbons three feet long. after two hours' ride, we saw the tall towers of augsburg, and alighted on the outside of the wall. the deep moat which surrounds the city, is all grown over with velvet turf, the towers and bastions are empty and desolate, and we passed unchallenged under the gloomy archway. immediately on entering the city, signs of its ancient splendor are apparent. the houses are old, many of them with quaint, elaborately carved ornaments, and often covered with fresco paintings. these generally represent some scene from the bible history, encircled with arabesque borders, and pious maxims in illuminated scrolls. we went into the old _rathhaus_, whose golden hall still speaks of the days of augsburg's pride. i saw in the basement a bronze eagle, weighing sixteen tons, with an inscription on the pedestal stating that it was cast in , and formerly stood on the top of an old public building, since torn down. in front of the rathhaus is a fine bronze fountain, with a number of figures of angels and tritons. the same afternoon, we left augsburg for ulm. long, low ranges of hills, running from the danube, stretched far across the country, and between them lay many rich, green valleys. we passed, occasionally, large villages, perhaps as old as the times of the crusaders, and looking quite pastoral and romantic from the outside; but we were always glad when we had gone through them and into the _clean_ country again. the afternoon of the second day we came in sight of the fertile plain of the danube; far, far to the right lay the field of blenheim, where marlborough and the prince eugene conquered the united french and bavarian forces and decided the war of the spanish succession. we determined to reach ulm the same evening, although a heavy storm was raging along the distant hills of wurtemberg. the dark mass of the mighty cathedral rose in the distance through the twilight, a perfect mountain in comparison with the little houses clustered around its base. we reached new ulm, finally, and passed over the heavy wooden bridge into wurtemberg, unchallenged for passport or baggage. i thought i could feel a difference in the atmosphere when i reached the other side--it breathed of the freer spirit that ruled through the land. the danube is here a little muddy stream, hardly as large as my native brandywine, and a traveler who sees it at ulm for the first time would most probably be disappointed. it is not until below vienna, where it receives the drave and save, that it becomes a river of more than ordinary magnitude. we entered ulm, as i have already said. it was after nine o'clock, nearly dark, and beginning to rain; we had walked thirty-three miles, and being of course tired, we entered the first inn we saw. but, to our consternation, it was impossible to get a place--the fair had just commenced, and the inn was full to the roof. we must needs hunt another, and then another, and yet another, with like fate at each. it grew quite dark, the rain increased, and we were unacquainted with the city. i grew desperate, and at last, when we had stopped at the _eighth_ inn in vain, i told the people we _must_ have lodgings, for it was impossible we should walk around in the rain all night. some of the guests interfering in our favor, the hostess finally sent a servant with us to the first hotel in the city. i told him on the way we were americans, strangers in ulm, and not accustomed to sleeping in the streets. "well," said he, "i will go before, and recommend you to the landlord of the golden wheel." i knew not what magic he used, but in half an hour our weary limbs were stretched in delightful repose and we thanked heaven more gratefully than ever before, for the blessing of a good bed. next morning we ran about through the booths of the fair, and gazed up from all sides at the vast cathedral. the style is the simplest and grandest gothic; but the tower, which, to harmonize, with the body of the church, should be feet high, was left unfinished at the height of feet. i could not enough admire the grandeur of proportion in the great building. it seemed singular that the little race of animals who swarmed around its base, should have the power to conceive or execute such a gigantic work. there is an immense fortification now in progress of erection behind ulm. it leans on the side of the hill which rises from the danube, and must be nearly a mile in length. hundreds of laborers are at work, and from the appearance of the foundations, many years will be required to finish it. the lofty mountain-plain which we afterwards passed over, for eight or ten miles, divides the waters of the danube from the rhine. from the heights above ulm, we bade adieu to the far, misty alps, till we shall see them again in switzerland. late in the afternoon, we came to a lovely green valley, sunk as it were in the earth. around us, on all sides, stretched the bare, lofty plains; but the valley lay below, its steep sides covered with the richest forest. at the bottom flowed the fils. our road led directly down the side; the glen spread out broader as we advanced, and smiling villages stood beside the stream. a short distance before reaching esslingen, we came upon the banks of the neckar, whom we hailed as an old acquaintance, although much smaller here in his mountain home than when he sweeps the walls of heidelberg. delightful wurtemberg! shall i ever forget thy lovely green vales, watered by the classic current of the neckar, or thy lofty hills covered with vineyards and waving forests, and crowned with heavy ruins, that tell many a tale of barbarossa and duke ulric and goetz with the iron hand! no--were even the suabian hills less beautiful--were the suabian people less faithful and kind and true, still i would love the land for the great spirits it has produced; still would the birth-place of frederick schiller, of uhland and hauff, be sacred. i do not wonder wurtemberg can boast such glorious poets. its lovely landscapes seem to have been made expressly for the cradle of genius; amid no other scenes could his infant mind catch a more benign inspiration. even the common people are deeply imbued with a poetic feeling. we saw it in their friendly greetings and open, expressive countenances; it is shown in their love for their beautiful homes and the rapture and reverence with which they speak of their country's bards. no river in the world, equal to the neckar in size, flows for its whole course through more delightful scenery, or among kinder and happier people. after leaving esslingen, we followed its banks for some time, at the foot of an amphitheatre of hills, covered to the very summit, as far as the eye could reach, with vineyards. the morning was cloudy, and white mist-wreaths hung along the sides. we took a road that led over the top of a range, and on arriving at the summit, saw all at once the city of stuttgard, lying beneath our feet. it lay in a basin encircled by mountains, with a narrow valley opening to the south-east, and running off between the hills to the neckar. the situation of the city is one of wonderful beauty, and even after seeing salzburg, i could not but be charmed with it. we descended the mountain and entered it. i inquired immediately for the monument of schiller, for there was little else in the city i cared to see. we had become tired of running about cities, hunting this or that old church or palace, which perhaps was nothing when found. stuttgard has neither galleries, ruins, nor splendid buildings, to interest the traveler; but it has thorwaldsen's statue of schiller, calling up at the same time its shame and its glory. for the poet in his youth was obliged to fly from this very same city--from home and friends, to escape the persecution of the government on account of the free sentiments expressed in his early works. we found the statue, without much difficulty. it stands in the schloss platz, at the southern end of the city, in an unfavorable situation, surrounded by dark old buildings. it should rather be placed aloft on a mountain summit, in the pure, free air of heaven, braving the storm and the tempest. the figure is fourteen feet high and stands on a pedestal of bronze, with bas reliefs on the four sides. the head, crowned with a laurel wreath, is inclined as if in deep thought, and all the earnest soul is seen in the countenance. thorwaldsen has copied so truly the expression of poetic reverie, that i waited, half-expecting he would raise his head and look around him. as we passed out the eastern gate, the workmen were busy near the city, making an embankment for the new railroad to heilbroun, and we were obliged to wade through half a mile of mud. finally the road turned to the left over a mountain, and we walked on in the rain, regardless of the touching entreaties of an omnibus-driver, who felt a great concern for our health, especially as he had two empty seats. there is a peculiarly agreeable sensation in walking in a storm, when the winds sweep by and the rain-drops rattle through the trees, and the dark clouds roll past just above one's head. it gives a dash of sublimity to the most common scene. if the rain did not finally soak through the boots, and if one did not lose every romantic feeling in wet garments, i would prefer storm to sunshine, for visiting some kinds of scenery. you remember, we saw the north coast of ireland and the giant's causeway in stormy weather, at the expense of being completely drenched, it is true; but our recollections of that wild day's journey are as vivid as any event of our lives--and the name of the giant's causeway calls up a series of pictures as terribly sublime as any we would wish to behold. the rain at last did come down a little too hard for comfort, and we were quite willing to take shelter when we reached ludwigsburg. this is here called a new city, having been laid out with broad streets and spacious squares, about a century ago, and is now about the size of our five-year old city of milwaukie! it is the chief military station of wurtemberg, and has a splendid castle and gardens, belonging to the king. a few miles to the eastward is the little village where schiller was born. it is said the house where his parents lived is still standing. it was not the weather _alone_, which prevented our making a pilgrimage to it, nor was it _alone_ a peculiar fondness for rain which induced us to persist in walking in the storm. our feeble pockets, if they could have raised an audible jingle, would have told another tale. our scanty allowance was dwindling rapidly away, in spite of a desperate system of economy. we left ulm with a florin and a half apiece--about sixty cents--to walk to heidelberg, a distance of miles. it was the evening of the third day, and this was almost exhausted. as soon therefore as the rain slackened a little, we started again, although the roads were very bad. at betigheim, where we passed the night, the people told us of a much nearer and more beautiful road, passing through the zabergau, a region fumed for its fertility and pastoral beauty. at the inn we were charged higher than usual for a bed, so that we had but thirteen kreutzers to start with in the morning. our fare that day was a little bread and water; we walked steadily on, but owing to the wet roads, made only thirty miles. a more delightful region than the zabergau i have seldom passed through. the fields were full of rich, heavy grain, and the trees had a luxuriance of foliage that reminded me of the vale of the jed, in scotland. without a single hedge or fence, stood the long sweep of hills, covered with waving fields of grain, except where they were steep and rocky, and the vineyard terraces rose one above another. sometimes a fine old forest grew along the summit, like a mane waving back from the curved neck of a steed, and white villages lay coiled in the valleys between. a line of blue mountains always closed the vista, on looking down one of these long valleys; occasionally a ruined castle with donjon tower, was seen on a mountain at the side, making the picture complete. as we lay sometimes on the hillside and looked on one of those sweet vales, we were astonished at its arcadian beauty. the meadows were as smooth as a mirror, and there seemed to be scarcely a grass-blade out of place. the streams wound through ("_snaked_ themselves through," is the german expression,) with a subdued ripple, as if they feared to displace a pebble, and the great ash trees which stood here and there, had lined each of their leaves as carefully with silver and turned them as gracefully to the wind, us if they were making their toilettes for the gala-day of nature. that evening brought us into the dominions of baden, within five hours' walk of heidelberg. at the humblest inn in an humble village, we found a bed which we could barely pay for, leaving a kreutzer or two for breakfast. soon after starting the next morning, the distant kaiserstuhl suddenly emerged from the mist, with the high tower on its summit, where nearly ten months before, we sat and looked at the summits of the vosges in france, with all the excitement one feels on entering a foreign land. _now_, the scenery around that same kaiserstuhl was nearly as familiar to us as that of our own homes. entering the hills again, we knew by the blue mountains of the odenwald, that we were approaching the neckar. at length we reached the last height. the town of neckargemünd lay before us on the steep hillside, and the mountains on either side were scarred with quarries of the rich red sandstone, so much used in building. the blocks are hewn out, high up on the mountain side, and then sent rolling and sliding down to the river, where they are laden in boats and floated down with the current to the distant cities of the rhine. we were rejoiced on turning around the corner of a mountain, to see on the opposite side of the river, the road winding up through the forests, where last fall our heidelberg friends accompanied us, as we set out to walk to frankfort, through the odenwald. many causes combined to render it a glad scene to us. we were going to meet our comrade again, after a separation of months; we were bringing an eventful journey to its close; and finally, we were weak and worn out from fasting and the labor of walking in the rain. a little further we saw kloster neuburg, formerly an old convent, and remembered how we used to look at it every day from the windows of our room on the neckar; but we shouted aloud, when we saw at last the well-known bridge spanning the river, and the glorious old castle lifting its shattered towers from the side of the mountain above us. i always felt a strong attachment to this matchless ruin, and as i beheld it again, with the warm sunshine falling through each broken arch, the wild ivy draping its desolate chambers, it seemed to smile on me like the face of a friend, and i confessed i had seen many a grander scene, but few that would cling to the memory so familiarly. while we were in heidelberg, a student was buried by torch-light. this is done when particular honor is shown to the memory of the departed brother. they assembled at dark in the university square, each with a blazing pine torch three feet long, and formed into a double line. between the files walked at short distances an officer, who, with his sword, broad lace collar, and the black and white plumes in his cap, looked like a cavalier of the olden time. persons with torches walked on each side of the hearse, and the band played a lament so deeply mournful, that the scene, notwithstanding its singularity, was very sad and touching. the thick smoke from the torches filled the air, and a lurid, red light was cast over the hushed crowds in the streets and streamed into the dark alleys. the hauptstrasse was filled with two lines of flame, as the procession passed down it; when they reached the extremity of the city, the hearse went on, attended with torch-bearers, to the cemetery, some distance further, and the students turned back, running and whirling their torches in mingled confusion. the music struck up a merry march, and in the smoke and red glare, they looked like a company of mad demons. the presence of death awed them to silence for awhile, but as soon as it had left them, they turned relieved to revel again and thought no more of the lesson. it gave me a painful feeling to see them rushing so wildly and disorderly back. they assembled again in the square, and tossing their torches up into the air cast them blazing into a pile; while the flame and black smoke rose in a column into the air, they sang in solemn chorus, the song "_gaudeamus igitur_," with which they close all public assemblies. i shall neglect telling how we left heidelberg, and walked along the bergstrasse again, for the sixth time; how we passed the old melibochus and through the quiet city of darmstadt; how we watched the blue summits of the taunus rising higher and higher over the plain, as a new land rises from the sea, and finally, how we reached at last the old watch-tower and looked down on the valley of the main, clothed in the bloom and verdure of summer, with the houses and spires of frankfort in the middle of the well-known panorama. we again took possession of our old rooms, and having to wait for a remittance from america, as well as a more suitable season for visiting italy, we sat down to a month's rest and study. chapter xxviii. freiburg and the black forest. _frankfort, july , ._--it would be ingratitude towards the old city in which i have passed so many pleasant and profitable hours, to leave it, perhaps forever, without a few words of farewell. how often will the old bridge, with its view up the main, over the houses of oberrad to the far mountains of the odenwald, rise freshly and distinctly in memory, when i shall have been long absent from them! how often will i hear in fancy as i now do in reality, the heavy tread of passers-by on the rough pavement below, and the deep bell of the cathedral, chiming the swift hours, with a hollow tone that seems to warn me, rightly to employ them! even this old room, with its bare walls, little table and chairs, which i have thought and studied in so long, that it seems difficult to think and study anywhere else, will crowd out of memory images of many a loftier scene. may i but preserve for the future the hope and trust which have cheered and sustained me here, through the sorrow of absence and the anxiety of uncertain toil! it is growing towards midnight and i think of many a night when i sat here at this hour, answering the spirit-greeting which friends sent me at sunset over the sea. all this has now an end. i must begin a new wandering, and perhaps in ten days more i shall have a better place for thought, among the mountain-chambers of the everlasting alps. i look forward to the journey with romantic, enthusiastic anticipation, for afar in the silvery distance, stand the coliseum and st. peter's, vesuvius and the lovely naples. farewell, friends who have so long given us a home! _aug. ._--the airy, basket-work tower of the freiburg minster rises before me over the black roofs of the houses, and behind stand the gloomy, pine-covered mountains of the black forest. of our walk to heidelberg over the oft-trodden bergstrasse, i shall say nothing, nor how we climbed the kaiserstuhl again, and danced around on the top of the tower for one hour, amid cloud and mist, while there was sunshine below in the valley of the neckar. i left heidelberg yesterday morning in the _stehwagen_ for carlsruhe. the engine whistled, the train started, and although i kept my eyes steadily fixed on the spire of the hauptkirche, three minutes hid it, and all the rest of the city from sight. carlsruhe, the capital of baden, which we reached in an hour and a half, is unanimously pronounced by travelers to be a most dull and tiresome city. from a glance i had through one of the gates, i should think its reputation was not undeserved. even its name, in german, signifies a place of repose. i stopped at kork, on the branch road leading to strasbourg, to meet a german-american about to return to my home in pennsylvania, where he had lived for some time. i inquired according to the direction he had sent me to frankfort, but he was not there; however, an old man, finding who i was, said herr otto had directed him to go with me to hesselhurst, a village four or five miles off, where he would meet me. so we set off immediately over the plain, and reached the village at dusk. at the little inn, were several of the farmers of the neighborhood, who seemed to consider it as something extraordinary to see a real, live, native-born american. they overwhelmed me with questions about the state of our country, its government, etc. the hostess brought me a supper of fried eggs and _wurst_, while they gathered around the table and began a real category in the dialect of the country, which is difficult to understand. i gave them the best information i could about our mode of farming, the different kinds of produce raised, and the prices paid to laborers; one honest old man cried out, on my saying i had worked on a farm, "ah! little brother, give me your hand!" which he shook most heartily. i told them also something about our government, and the militia system, so different from the conscription of europe, when a farmer becoming quite warm in our favor, said to the others with an air of the greatest decision: "one american is better than twenty germans!" what particularly amused me, was, that although i spoke german with them, they seemed to think i did not understand what they said among one another, and therefore commented very freely over my appearance. i suppose they had the idea that we were a rude, savage race, for i overheard one say: "one sees, nevertheless, that he has been educated!" their honest, unsophisticated mode of expression was very interesting to me, and we talked together till a late hour. my friend arrived at three o'clock the next morning, and after two or three hours' talk about _home_, and the friends whom he expected to see so much sooner than i, a young farmer drove me in his wagon to offenburg, a small city at the foot of the black forest, where i took the cars for freiburg. the scenery between the two places is grand. the broad mountains of the black forest rear their fronts on the east, and the blue lines of the french vosges meet the clouds on the west. the night before, in walking over the plain, i saw distinctly the whole of the strasbourg minster, whose spire is the highest in europe, being four hundred and ninety feet, or but twenty-five feet lower than the pyramid of cheops. i visited the minster of freiburg yesterday morning. it is a grand, gloomy old pile, dating from the eleventh century--one of the few gothic churches in germany that have ever been completed. the tower of beautiful fretwork, rises to the height of three hundred and ninety-five feet, and the body of the church including the choir, is of the same length. the interior is solemn and majestic. windows stained in colors that burn, let in a "dim, religious light" which accords very well with the dark old pillars and antique shrines. in two of the chapels there are some fine altar-pieces by holbein and one of his scholars; and a very large crucifix of silver and ebony, which is kept with great care, is said to have been carried with the crusaders to the holy land. this morning was the great market-day, and the peasantry of the black forest came down from the mountains to dispose of their produce. the square around the minster was filled with them, and the singular costume of the women gave the scene quite a strange appearance. many of them wore bright red head-dresses and shawls, others had high-crowned hats of yellow oil-cloth; the young girls wore their hair in long plaits, reaching nearly to their feet. they brought grain, butter and cheese and a great deal of fine fruit to sell--i bought some of the wild, aromatic plums of the country, at the rate of thirty for a cent. the railroad has only been open to freiburg within a few days, and is consequently an object of great curiosity to the peasants, many of whom never saw the like before. they throng around the station at the departure of the train and watch with great interest the operations of getting up the steam and starting. one of the scenes that grated most harshly on my feelings, was seeing yesterday a company of women employed on the unfinished part of the road. they were digging and shoveling away in the rain, nearly up to their knees in mud and clay! i called at the institute for the blind, under the direction of mr. müller. he showed me some beautiful basket and woven work by his pupils; the accuracy and skill with which everything was made astonished me. they read with amazing facility from the raised type, and by means of frames are taught to write with ease and distinctness. in music, that great solace of the blind, they most excelled. they sang with an expression so true and touching, that it was a delight to listen. the system of instruction adopted appears to be most excellent, and gives to the blind nearly every advantage which their more fortunate brethren enjoy. i am indebted to mr. müller, to whom i was introduced by an acquaintance with his friend, dr. rivinus, of west chester, pa., for many kind attentions. he went with us this afternoon to the jägerhaus, on a mountain near, where we had a very fine view of the city and its great black minster, with the plain of the briesgau, broken only by the kaiserstuhl, a long mountain near the rhine, whose golden stream glittered in the distance. on climbing the schlossberg, an eminence near the city, we met the grand duchess stephanie, a natural daughter of napoleon, as i have heard, and now generally believed to be the mother of caspar hauser. through a work lately published, which has since been suppressed, the whole history has come to light. caspar hauser was the lineal descendant of the house of baden, and heir to the throne. the guilt of his imprisonment and murder rests, therefore, upon the present reigning family. a chapel on the schönberg, the mountain opposite, was pointed out as the spot where louis xv., if i mistake not, usually stood while his army besieged freiburg. a german officer having sent a ball to this chapel which struck the wall just above the king's head, the latter sent word that if they did not cease firing he would point his cannons at the minster. the citizens thought it best to spare the monarch and save the cathedral. we attended a meeting of the _walhalla_, or society of the students who visit the freiburg university. they pleased me better than the enthusiastic but somewhat unrestrained burschenschaft of heidelberg. here, they have abolished duelling; the greatest friendship prevails among the students, and they have not that contempt for every thing _philister_, or unconnected with their studies, which prevails in other universities. many respectable citizens attend their meetings; to-night there was a member of the chamber of deputies at carlsruhe present, who delivered two speeches, in which every third word was "freedom!" an address was delivered also by a merchant of the city, in which he made a play upon the word _spear_, which signifies also in a cant sense, _citizen_, find seemed to indicate that both would do their work in the good cause. he was loudly applauded. their song of union was by charles follen, and the students were much pleased when i told them how he was honored and esteemed in america. after two days, delightfully spent, we shouldered our knapsacks and left freiburg. the beautiful valley, at the mouth of which the city lies, runs like an avenue for seven miles directly into the mountains, and presents in its loveliness such a contrast to the horrid defile which follows, that it almost deserves the name which has been given to a little inn at its head--the "kingdom of heaven." the mountains of the black forest enclose it on each side like walls, covered to the summit with luxuriant woods, and in some places with those forests of gloomy pine which give this region its name. after traversing its whole length, just before plunging into the mountain-depths, the traveler rarely meets with a finer picture than that which, on looking back, he sees framed between the hills at the other end. freiburg looks around the foot of one of the heights, with the spire of her cathedral peeping above the top, while the french vosges grew dim in the far perspective. the road now enters a wild, narrow valley, which grows smaller as we proceed. from himmelreich, a large rude inn by the side of the green meadows, we enter the höllenthal--that is, from the "kingdom of heaven" to the "valley of hell!" the latter place better deserves its appellation than the former. the road winds between precipices of black rock, above which the thick foliage shuts out the brightness of day and gives a sombre hue to the scene. a torrent foams down the chasm, and in one place two mighty pillars interpose to prevent all passage. the stream, however, has worn its way through, and the road is hewn in the rock by its side. this cleft is the only entrance to a valley three or four miles long, which lies in the very heart of the mountains. it is inhabited by a few woodmen and their families, and but for the road which passes through, would be as perfect a solitude as the happy valley of rasselas. at the farther end, a winding road called "the ascent," leads up the steep mountain to an elevated region of country, thinly settled and covered with herds of cattle. the cherries which, in the rhine-plain below, had long gone, were just ripe here. the people spoke a most barbarous dialect; they were social and friendly, for everybody greeted us, and sometimes, as we sat on a bank by the roadside, those who passed by would say "rest thee!" or "thrice rest!" passing by the titi lake, a small body of water which was spread out among the hills like a sheet of ink, so deep was its stygian hue, we commenced ascending a mountain. the highest peak of the schwarzwald, the feldberg, rose not far off, and on arriving at the top of this mountain, we saw that a half hour's walk would bring us to its summit. this was too great a temptation for my love of climbing heights; so with a look at the descending sun to calculate how much time we could spare, we set out. there was no path, but we pressed directly up the steep side, through bushes and long grass, and in a short time reached the top, breathless from such exertion in the thin atmosphere. the pine woods shut out the view to the north and east, which is said to be magnificent, as the mountain is about five thousand feet high. the wild, black peaks of the black forest were spread below us, and the sun sank through golden mist towards the alsatian hills. afar to the south, through cloud and storm, we could just trace the white outline of the swiss alps. the wind swept through the pines around, and bent the long yellow grass among which we sat, with a strange, mournful sound, well suiting the gloomy and mysterious region. it soon grew cold, the golden clouds settled down towards us, and we made haste to descend to the village of lenzkirch before dark. next morning we set out early, without waiting to see the trial of archery which was to take place among the mountain youths. their booths and targets, gay with banners, stood on a green meadow beside the town. we walked through the black forest the whole forenoon. it might be owing to the many wild stories whose scenes are laid among these hills, but with me there was a peculiar feeling of solemnity pervading the whole region. the great pine woods are of the very darkest hue of green, and down their hoary, moss-floored aisles, daylight seems never to have shone. the air was pure and clear, and the sunshine bright, but it imparted no gaiety to the scenery: except the little meadows of living emerald which lay occasionally in the lap of a dell, the landscape wore a solemn and serious air. in a storm, it must be sublime. about noon, from the top of the last range of hills, we had a glorious view. the line of the distant alps could be faintly traced high in the clouds, and all the heights between were plainly visible, from the lake of constance to the misty jura, which flanked the vosges of the west. from our lofty station we overlooked half switzerland, and had the air been a little clearer, we could have seen mont blanc and the mountains of savoy. i could not help envying the feelings of the swiss, who, after long absence from their native land, first see the alps from this road. if to the emotions with which i then looked on them were added the passionate love of home and country which a long absence creates, such excess of rapture would be almost too great to be borne. in the afternoon we crossed the border, and took leave of germany with regret, after near a year's residence within its bounds. still it was pleasant to know we were in a republic once more: the first step we took made us aware of the change. there was no policeman to call for our passports or search our baggage. it was just dark when we reached the hill overlooking the rhine, on whose steep banks is perched the antique town of schaffhausen. it is still walled in, with towers at regular intervals; the streets are wide and spacious, and the houses rendered extremely picturesque by the quaint projecting windows. the buildings are nearly all old, as we learned by the dates above the doors. at the inn, i met with one of the free troopers who marched against luzerne. he was full of spirit, and ready to undertake another such journey. indeed it is the universal opinion that the present condition of things cannot last much longer. we took a walk before breakfast to the falls of the rhine, about a mile and a half from schaffhausen. i confess i was somewhat disappointed in them, after the glowing descriptions of travelers. the river at this place is little more than thirty yards wide, and the body of water, although issuing from the lake of constance, is not remarkably strong. for some distance above, the fall of the water is very rapid, and as it finally reaches the spot where, narrowed between rocks, it makes the grand plunge, it has acquired a great velocity. three rocks stand in the middle of the current, which thunders against and around their bases, but cannot shake them down. these and the rocks in the bed of the stream, break the force of the fall, so that it descends to the bottom, about fifty feet below, not in one sheet, but shivered into a hundred leaps of snowy foam. the precipitous shores, and the tasteful little castle which is perched upon the steep just over the boiling spray, add much to its beauty, taken as a picture. as a specimen of the picturesque, the whole scene is perfect. i should think trenton falls, in new york, must excel these in wild, startling effect; but there is such a scarcity of waterfalls in this land, that the germans go into raptures about them, and will hardly believe that niagara itself possesses more sublimity. chapter xxix. people and places in eastern switzerland. we left schaffhausen for zurich, in mist and rain, and walked for some time along the north bank of the rhine. we could have enjoyed the scenery much better, had it not been for the rain, which not only hid the mountains from sight, but kept us constantly half soaked. we crossed the rapid rhine at eglisau, a curious antique village, and then continued our way through the forests of canton zurich, to bülach, with its groves of lindens--"those tall and stately trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves, and rustic benches placed beneath their overhanging eaves." when we left the little village where the rain obliged us to stop for the night, it was clear and delightful. the farmers were out, busy at work, their long, straight scythes glancing through the wet grass, while the thick pines sparkled with thousands of dewy diamonds. the country was so beautiful and cheerful, that we half felt like being in america. the farm-houses were scattered over the country in real american style, and the glorious valley of the limmat, bordered on the west by a range of woody hills, reminded me of some scenes in my native pennsylvania. the houses were neatly and tastefully built, with little gardens around them--and the countenances of the people spoke of intelligence and independence. there was the same air of peace and prosperity which delighted us in the valleys of upper austria, with a look of freedom which those had not. the faces of a people are the best index to their condition. i could read on their brows a lofty self-respect, a consciousness of the liberties they enjoy, which the germans of the laboring class never show. it could not be imagination, for the recent occurrences in switzerland, with the many statements i heard in germany, had prejudiced me somewhat against the land; and these marks of prosperity and freedom were as surprising as they were delightful. as we approached zurich, the noise of employment from mills, furnaces and factories, came to us like familiar sounds, reminding us of the bustle of our home cities. the situation of the city is lovely. it lies at the head of the lake, and on both sides of the little river limmat, whose clear green waters carry the collected meltings of the alps to the rhine. around the lake rise lofty green hills, which, sloping gently back, bear on their sides hundreds of pleasant country-houses and farms, and the snowy alpine range extends along the southern sky. the limmat is spanned by a number of bridges, and its swift waters turn many mills which are built above them. from these bridges one can look out over the blue lake and down the thronged streets of the city on each side, whose bright, cheerful houses remind him of italy. zurich can boast of finer promenades than any other city in switzerland. the old battlements are planted with trees and transformed into pleasant walks, which being elevated above the city, command views of its beautiful environs. a favorite place of resort is the lindenhof, an elevated court-yard, shaded by immense trees. the fountains of water under them are always surrounded by washerwomen, and in the morning groups of merry school children may be seen tumbling over the grass. the teachers take them there in a body for exercise and recreation. the swiss children are beautiful, bright-eyed creatures; there is scarcely one who does not exhibit the dawning of an active, energetic spirit. it may be partly attributed to the fresh, healthy climate of switzerland, but i am partial enough to republics to believe that the influence of the government under which they live, has also its share in producing the effect. there is a handsome promenade on an elevated bastion which overlooks the city and lakes. while enjoying the cool morning breeze and listening to the stir of the streets below us, we were also made aware of the social and friendly politeness of the people. those who passed by, on their walk around the rampart, greeted us, almost with the familiarity of an acquaintance. simple as was the act, we felt grateful, for it had at least the seeming of a friendly interest and a sympathy with the loneliness which the stranger sometimes feels. a school-teacher leading her troop of merry children on their morning walk around the bastion, nodded to us pleasantly and forthwith the whole company of chubby-cheeked rogues, looking up at us with a pleasant archness, lisped a "_guten morgen_" that made the hearts glad within us. i know of nothing that has given me a more sweet and tender delight than the greeting of a little child, who, leaving his noisy playmates, ran across the street to me, and taking my hand, which he could barely clasp in both his soft little ones, looked up in my face with an expression so winning and affectionate, that i loved him at once. the happy, honest farmers, too, spoke to us cheerfully everywhere. we learned a lesson from all this--we felt that not a word of kindness is ever wasted, that a simple friendly glance may cheer the spirit and warm the lonely heart, and that the slightest deed, prompted by generous sympathy, becomes a living joy in the memory of the receiver, which blesses unceasingly him who bestowed it. we left zurich the same afternoon, to walk to stafa, where we were told the poet freiligrath resided. the road led along the bank of the lake, whose shores sloped gently up from the water, covered with gardens and farm-houses, which, with the bolder mountains that rose behind them, made a combination of the lovely and grand, on which the eye rested with rapture and delight. the sweetest cottages were embowered among the orchards, and the whole country bloomed like a garden. the waters of the lake are of a pale, transparent green, and so clear that we could see its bottom of white pebbles, for some distance. here and there floated a quiet boat on its surface. the opposite hills were covered with a soft blue haze, and white villages sat along the shore, "like swans among the reeds." behind, we saw the woody range of the brunig alp. the people bade us a pleasant good evening; there was a universal air of cheerfulness and content on their countenances. towards evening, the clouds which hung in the south the whole day, dispersed a little and we could see the dodiberg and the alps of glarus. as sunset drew on, the broad summits of snow and the clouds which were rolled around them, assumed a soft rosy hue, which increased in brilliancy as the light of day faded. the rough, icy crags and snowy steeps were fused in the warm light and half blended with the bright clouds. this blaze, as it were, of the mountains at sunset, is called the _alp-glow_, and exceeds all one's highest conceptions of alpine grandeur. we watched the fading glory till it quite died away, and the summits wore a livid, ashy hue, like the mountains of a world wherein there was no life. in a few minutes more the dusk of twilight spread over the scene, the boatmen glided home over the still lake and the herdsmen drove their cattle back from pasture on the slopes and meadows. on inquiring for freiligrath at stafa, we found he had removed to rapperschwyl, some distance further. as it was already late, we waited for the steamboat which leaves zurich every evening. it came along about eight o'clock, and a little boat carried us out through rain and darkness to meet it, as it came like a fiery-eyed monster over the water. we stepped on board the "republican," and in half an hour were brought to the wharf at rapperschwyl. there are two small islands in the lake, one of which, with a little chapel rising from among its green trees, is ufnau, the grave of ulrich von hutten, one of the fathers of the german reformation. his fiery poems have been the source from which many a german bard has derived his inspiration, and freiligrath who now lives in sight of his tomb, has published an indignant poem, because an inn with gaming tables has been established in the ruins of the castle near creuznach, where hutten found refuge from his enemies with franz von sickingen, brother-in-law of "goetz with the iron hand." the monks of einsiedeln, to whom ufnau belongs, have carefully obliterated all traces of his grave, so that the exact spot is not known, in order that even a tombstone might be denied him who once strove to overturn their order. it matters little to that bold spirit whose motto was: "_the die is cast--i have dared it!_"--the whole island is his monument, if he need one. i spent the whole of the morning with freiligrath, the poet, who was lately banished from germany on account of the liberal principles his last volume contains. he lives in a pleasant country-house on the meyerberg, an eminence near rapperschwyl, overlooking a glorious prospect. on leaving frankfort, r.s. willis gave me a letter to him, and i was glad to meet with a man personally whom i admired so much through his writings, and whose boldness in speaking out against the tyranny which his country suffers, forms such a noble contrast to the cautious slowness of his countrymen. he received me kindly and conversed much upon american literature. he is a warm admirer of bryant and longfellow, and has translated many of their poems into german. he said he had received a warm invitation from a colony of germans in wisconsin, to join them and enjoy that freedom which his native land denies, but that his circumstances would not allow it at present. he is perhaps thirty-five years of age. his brow is high and noble, and his eyes, which are large and of a clear gray, beam with serious, saddened thought. his long chesnut hair, uniting with a handsome beard and moustache, gives a lion-like dignity to his energetic countenance. his talented wife, ida freiligrath, who shares his literary labors, and an amiable sister, are with him in exile, and he is happier in their faithfulness than when he enjoyed the favors of a corrupt king. we crossed the long bridge from rapperschwyl, and took the road over the mountain opposite, ascending for nearly two hours along the side, with glorious views of the lake of zurich and the mountains which enclose it. the upper and lower ends of the lake were completely hid by the storms, which, to our regret, veiled the alps, but the part below lay spread out dim and grand, like a vast picture. it rained almost constantly, and we were obliged occasionally to take shelter in the pine forests, whenever a heavier cloud passed over. the road was lined with beggars, who dropped on their knees in the rain before us, or placed bars across the way, and then took them down again, for which they demanded money. at length we reached the top of the pass. many pilgrims to einsiedeln had stopped at a little inn there, some of whom came a long distance to pay their vows, especially as the next day was the ascension day of the virgin, whose image there is noted for performing many miracles. passing on, we crossed a wild torrent by an arch called the "devil's bridge." the lofty, elevated plains were covered with scanty patches of grain and potatoes, and the boys tended their goats on the grassy slopes, sometimes trilling or _yodling_ an alpine melody. an hour's walk brought us to einsiedeln, a small town, whose only attraction is the abbey--after loretto, in italy, the most celebrated resort for pilgrims in europe. we entered immediately into the great church. the gorgeous vaulted roof and long aisles were dim with the early evening; hundreds of worshippers sat around the sides, or kneeled in groups on the broad stone pavements, chanting over their paternosters and ave marias in a shrill, monotonous tone, while the holy image near the entrance was surrounded by persons, many of whom came in the hope of being healed of some disorder under which they suffered. i could not distinctly make out the image, for it was placed back within the grating, and a strong crimson lamp behind it was made to throw the light around, in the form of a glory. many of the pilgrims came a long distance. i saw some in the costume of the black forest, and others who appeared to be natives of the italian cantons; and a group of young women wearing conical fur caps, from the forests of bregenz, on the lake of constance. i was astonished at the splendor of this church, situated in a lonely and unproductive alpine valley. the lofty arches of the ceiling, which are covered with superb fresco paintings, rest on enormous pillars of granite, and every image and shrine is richly ornamented with gold. some of the chapels were filled with the remains of martyrs, and these were always surrounded with throngs of believers. the choir was closed by a tall iron grating; a single lamp, which swung from the roof, enabled me to see through the darkness, that though much more rich in ornaments than the body of the church, it was less grand and impressive. the frescoes which cover the ceiling, are said to be the finest paintings of the kind in switzerland. in the morning our starting was delayed by the rain, and we took advantage of it to hear mass in the abbey and enjoy the heavenly music. the latter was of the loftiest kind; there was one voice among the singers i shall not soon forget. it was like the warble of a bird who sings out of very wantonness. on and on it sounded, making its clear, radiant sweetness heard above the chant of the choir and the thunder of the orchestra. such a rich, varied and untiring strain of melody i have rarely listened to. when the service ceased, we took a small road leading to schwytz. we had now fairly entered the alpine region, and our first task was to cross a mountain. this having been done, we kept along the back of the ridge which bounds the lake of zug on the south, terminating in the well known rossberg. the scenery became wilder with every step. the luxuriant fields of herbage on the mountains were spotted with the picturesque _chalets_ of the hunters and alp-herds; cattle and goats were browsing along the declivities, their bells tinkling most musically, and the little streams fell in foam down the steeps. we here began to realize our anticipations of swiss scenery. just on the other side of the range, along which we traveled, lay the little lake of egeri and valley of morgarten, where tell and his followers overcame the army of the german emperor; near the lake of lowertz, we found a chapel by the roadside, built on the spot where the house of werner stauffacher, one of the "three men of grütli," formerly stood. it bears a poetical inscription in old german, and a rude painting of the battle of morgarten. as we wound around the lake of lowertz, we saw the valley lying between the rossberg and the righi, which latter mountain stood full in view. to our regret, and that of all other travelers, the clouds hung low upon it, as they had done for a week at least, and there was no prospect of a change. the rossberg, from which we descended, is about four thousand feet in height; a dark brown stripe from its very summit to the valley below, shows the track of the avalanche which, in , overwhelmed goldau, and laid waste the beautiful vale of lowertz. we could trace the masses of rock and earth as far as the foot of the righi. four hundred and fifty persons perished by this catastrophe, which was so sudden that in five minutes the whole lovely valley was transformed into a desolate wilderness. the shock was so great that the lake of lowertz overflowed its banks, and part of the village of steinen at the upper end was destroyed by the waters. an hour's walk through a blooming alpine vale brought us to the little town of schwytz, the capital of the canton. it stands at the foot of a rock-mountain, in shape not unlike gibraltar, but double its height. the bare and rugged summits seem to hang directly over the town, but the people dwell below without fear, although the warning ruins of goldau are full in sight. a narrow blue line at the end of the valley which stretches westward, marks the lake of the four cantons. down this valley we hurried, that we might not miss the boat which plies daily, from luzerne to fluelen. i regretted not being able to visit luzerne, as i had a letter to the distinguished swiss composer, schnyder von wartensee, who resides there at present. the place is said to present a most desolate appearance, being avoided by travelers, and even by artisans, so that business of all kinds has almost entirely ceased. at the little town of brunnen, on the lake, we awaited the coming of the steamboat. the scenery around it is exceedingly grand. looking down towards luzerne, we could see the dark mass of mount pilatus on one side, and on the other the graceful outline of the righi, still wearing his hood of clouds. we put off in a skiff to meet the boat, with two capuchin friars in long brown mantles and cowls, carrying rosaries at their girdles. nearly opposite brunnen is the meadow of grütli, where the union of the swiss patriots took place, and the bond was sealed that enabled them to cast off their chains. it is a little green slope on the side of the mountain, between the two cantons of uri and unterwalden, surrounded on all sides by precipices. a little crystal spring in the centre is believed by the common people to have gushed up on the spot where the three "linked the hands that made them free." it is also a popular belief that they slumber in a rocky cavern near the spot, and that they will arise and come forth when the liberties of switzerland are in danger. she stands at present greatly in need of a new triad to restore the ancient harmony. we passed this glorious scene, almost the only green spot on the bleak mountain-side, and swept around the base of the axenberg, at whose foot, in a rocky cave, stands the chapel of william tell. this is built on the spot where he leaped from gessler's boat during the storm. it sits at the base of the rock, on the water's edge, and can be seen far over the waves. the alps, whose eternal snows are lifted dazzling to the sky, complete the grandeur of a scene so hallowed by the footsteps of freedom. the grand and lonely solemnity of the landscape impressed me with an awe, like that one feels when standing in a mighty cathedral, when the aisles are dim with twilight. and how full of interest to a citizen of young and free america is a shrine where the votaries of liberty have turned to gather strength and courage, through the storms and convulsions of five hundred years! we stopped at the village of fluelen, at the head of the lake, and walked on to altorf, a distance of half a league. here, in the market-place, is a tower said to be built on the spot where the linden tree stood, under which the child of tell was placed, while, about a hundred yards distant, is a fountain with tell's statue, on the spot from whence he shot the apple. if these localities are correct, he must indeed have been master of the cross-bow. the tower is covered with rude paintings of the principal events in the history of swiss liberty. i viewed these scenes with double interest from having read schiller's "wilhelm tell," one of the most splendid tragedies ever written. the beautiful reply of his boy, when he described to him the condition of the "land where there are no mountains," was sounding in my ears during the whole day's journey: "father, i'd feel oppressed in that broad land, i'd rather dwell beneath the avalanche!" the little village of burglen, whose spire we saw above the forest, in a glen near by, was the birth-place of tell, and the place where his dwelling stood, is now marked by a small chapel. in the schachen, a noisy mountain stream that comes down to join the reuss, he was drowned, when an old man, in attempting to rescue a child who had fallen in--a death worthy of the hero! we bestowed a blessing on his memory in passing, and then followed the banks of the rapid reuss. twilight was gathering in the deep alpine glen, and the mountains on each side, half-seen through the mist, looked like vast, awful phantoms. soon they darkened to black, indistinct masses; all was silent except the deepened roar of the falling floods; dark clouds brooded above us like the outspread wings of night, and we were glad, when the little village of amstegg was reached, and the parlor of the inn opened to us a more cheerful, if not so romantic scene. chapter xxx. passage of the st. gothard and descent into italy. leaving amstegg, i passed the whole day among snowy, sky-piercing alps, torrents, chasms and clouds! the clouds appeared to be breaking up as we set out, and the white top of the reassberg was now and then visible in the sky. just above the village are the remains of zwing uri, the castle begun by the tyrant gessler, for the complete subjugation of the canton. following the reuss up through a narrow valley, we passed the bristenstock, which lifts its jagged crags nine thousand feet in the air, while on the other side stand the snowy summits which lean towards the rhone glacier and st. gothard. from the deep glen where the reuss foamed down towards the lake of the forest cantons, the mountains rose with a majestic sweep so far into the sky that the brain grew almost dizzy in following their outlines. woods, chalets and slopes of herbage covered their bases, where the mountain cattle and goats were browsing, while the herd-boys sang their native melodies or woke the ringing echoes with the loud, sweet sounds of their wooden horns; higher up, the sides were broken into crags and covered with stunted pines; then succeeded a belt of bare rock with a little snow lying in the crevices, and the summits of dazzling white looked out from the clouds nearly three-fourths the height of the zenith. sometimes when the vale was filled with clouds, it was startling to see them parting around a solitary summit, apparently isolated in the air at an immense height, for the mountain to which it belonged was hidden to the very base! the road passed from one side of the valley to the other, crossing the reuss on bridges sometimes ninety feet high. after three or four hours walking, we reached a frightful pass called the schollenen. so narrow is the defile that before reaching it, the road seemed to enter directly into the mountain. precipices a thousand feet high tower above, and the stream roars and boils in the black depth below. the road is a wonder of art; it winds around the edge of horrible chasms or is carried on lofty arches across, with sometimes a hold apparently so frail that one involuntarily shudders. at a place called the devil's bridge, the reuss leaps about seventy feet in three or four cascades, sending up continually a cloud of spray, while a wind created by the fall, blows and whirls around, with a force that nearly lifts one from his feet. wordsworth has described the scene in the following lines: "plunge with the reuss embrowned by terror's breath, where danger roofs the narrow walks of death; by floods that, thundering from their dizzy height, swell more gigantic on the steadfast sight, black, drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din, vibrate, us if a voice complained within, loose hanging rocks, the day's blessed eye that hide, and crosses reared to death on every side!" beyond the devil's bridge, the mountains which nearly touched before, interlock into each other, and a tunnel three hundred and seventy-five feet long leads through the rock into the vale of urseren, surrounded by the upper alps. the little town of andermatt lies in the middle of this valley, which with the peaks around is covered with short, yellowish-brown grass. we met near amstegg a little italian boy walking home, from germany, quite alone and without money, for we saw him give his last kreutzer to a blind beggar along the road. we therefore took him with us, as he was afraid to cross the st. gothard alone. after refreshing ourselves at andermatt, we started, five in number, including a german student, for the st. gothard. behind the village of hospiz, which stands at the bottom of the valley leading to realp and the furca pass, the way commences, winding backwards and forwards, higher and higher, through a valley covered with rocks, with the mighty summits of the alps around, untenanted save by the chamois and mountain eagle. not a tree was to be seen. the sides of the mountains were covered with loose rocks waiting for the next torrent to wash them down, and the tops were robed in eternal snow. a thick cloud rolled down over us as we went on, following the diminishing brooks to their snowy source in the peak of st. gothard. we cut off the bends of the road by footpaths up the rocks, which we ascended in single file, one of the americans _going ahead_ and little pietro with his staff and bundle bringing up the rear. the rarefied air we breathed, seven thousand feet above the sea, was like exhilarating gas. we felt no fatigue, but ran and shouted and threw snowballs, in the middle of august! after three hours' walk we reached the two clear and silent lakes which send their waters to the adriatic and the north sea. here, as we looked down the italian side, the sky became clear; we saw the top of st. gothard many thousand feet above, and stretching to the south, the summits of the mountains which guard the vales of the ticino and the adda. the former monastery has been turned into an inn; there is, however, a kind of church attached, attended by a single monk. it was so cold that although late, we determined to descend to the first village. the italian side is very steep, and the road, called the via trimola, is like a thread dropped down and constantly doubling back upon itself. the deep chasms were filled with snow, although exposed to the full force of the sun, and for a long distance there was scarcely a sign of vegetation. we thought as we went down, that every step was bringing us nearer to a sunnier land--that the glories of italy, which had so long lain in the airy background of the future, would soon spread themselves before us in their real or imagined beauty. reaching at dusk the last height above the vale of the ticino, we saw the little village of airolo with its musical name, lying in a hollow of the mountains. a few minutes of leaping, sliding and rolling, took us down the grassy declivity, and we found we had descended from the top in an hour and a half, although the distance by the road is nine miles! i need not say how glad we were to relieve our trembling knees and exhausted limbs. i have endeavored several times to give some idea of the sublimity of the alps, but words seem almost powerless to measure these mighty mountains. no effort of the imagination could possibly equal their real grandeur. i wish also to describe the _feelings_ inspired by being among them,--feelings which can best be expressed through the warmer medium of poetry. song of the alp. i. i sit aloft on my thunder throne, and my voice of dread the nations own as i speak in storm below! the valleys quake with a breathless fear, when i hurl in wrath my icy spear and shake my locks of snow! when the avalanche forth like a tiger leaps, how the vassal-mountains quiver! and the storm that sweeps through the airy deeps makes the hoary pine-wood shiver! above them all, in a brighter air, i lift my forehead proud and bare, and the lengthened sweep of my forest-robe trails down to the low and captured globe, till its borders touch the dark green wave in whose soundless depths my feet i lave. the winds, unprisoned, around me blow, and terrible tempests whirl the snow; rocks from their caverned beds are torn, and the blasted forest to heaven is borne; high through the din of the stormy band, like misty giants the mountains stand, and their thunder-revel o'er-sounds the woe, that cries from the desolate vales below! i part the clouds with my lifted crown, till the sun-ray slants on the glaciers down, and trembling men, in the valleys pale, rejoice at the gleam of my icy mail! ii. i wear a crown of the sunbeam's gold, with glacier-gems en my forehead old-- a monarch crowned by god! what son of the servile earth may dare such signs of a regal power to wear, while chained to her darkened sod? i know of a nobler and grander lore than time records on his crumbling pages, and the soul of my solitude teaches more than the gathered deeds of perished ages! for i have ruled since time began and wear no fetter made by man. i scorn the coward and craven race who dwell around my mighty base, for they leave the lessons i grandly gave and bend to the yoke of the crouching slave. i shout aloud to the chainless skies; the stream through its falling foam replies, and my voice, like the sound of the surging sea, to the nations thunders: "_i am free!_" i spoke to tell when a tyrant's hand lay heavy and hard on his native land, and the spirit whose glory from mine he won blessed the alpine dwellers with freedom's sun! the student-boy on the gmunden-plain heard my solemn voice, but he fought in vain; i called from the crags of the passeir-glen, when the despot stood in my realm again, and hofer sprang at the proud command and roused the men of the tyrol land! iii. i struggle up to the dim blue heaven, from the world, far down in whose breast are driven the props of my pillared throne; and the rosy fires of morning glow like a glorious thought, on my brow of snow, while the vales are dark and lone! ere twilight summons the first faint star, i seem to the nations who dwell afar like a shadowy cloud, whose every fold the sunset dyes with its purest gold, and the soul mounts up through that gateway fair to try its wings in a loftier air! the finger of god on my brow is pressed-- his spirit beats in my giant breast, and i breathe, as the endless ages roll, his silent words to the eager soul! i prompt the thoughts of the mighty mind, who leaves his century far behind and speaks from the future's sun-lit snow to the present, that sleeps in its gloom below! i stand, unchanged, in creation's youth-- a glorious type of eternal truth, that, free and pure, from its native skies shines through oppression's veil of lies, and lights the world's long-fettered sod with thoughts of freedom and of god! when, at night, i looked out of my chamber-window, the silver moon of italy, (for we fancied that her light was softer and that the skies were already bluer) hung trembling above the fields of snow that stretched in their wintry brilliance along the mountains around. i heard the roar of the ticino and the deepened sound of falling cascades, and thought, if i were to take those waters for my guide, to what glorious places they would lead me! we left airolo early the next morning, to continue our journey down the valley of the ticino. the mists and clouds of switzerland were exchanged for a sky of the purest blue, and we felt, for the first time in ten days, uncomfortably warm. the mountains which flank the alps on this side, are still giants--lofty and bare, and covered with snow in many places. the limit of the german dialect is on the summit of st. gothard, and the peasants saluted us with a "_buon giorno_" as they passed. this, with the clearness of the skies and the warmth of the air, made us feel that italy was growing nearer. the mountains are covered with forests of dark pine, and many beautiful cascades come tumbling over the rocks in their haste to join the ticino. one of these was so strangely beautiful, that i cannot pass it without a particular description. we saw it soon after leaving airolo, on the opposite side of the valley. a stream of considerable size comes down the mountain, leaping from crag to crag till within forty or fifty feet of the bottom, where it is caught in a hollow rock, and flung upwards into the air, forming a beautiful arch as it falls out into the valley. as it is whirled up thus, feathery curls of spray are constantly driven off and seem to wave round it like the fibres on an ostrich plume. the sun shining through, gave it a sparry brilliance which was perfectly magnificent. if i were an artist, i would give much for such a new form of beauty. on our first day's journey we passed through two terrific mountain gorges, almost equalling in grandeur the defile of the "devil's bridge." the ticino, in its course to lago maggiore has to make a descent of nearly three thousand feet, passing through three valleys, which lie like terraces, one below the other. in its course from one to the other, it has to force its way down in twenty cataracts through a cleft in the mountains. the road, constructed with the utmost labor, threads these dark chasms, sometimes carried in a tunnel through the rock, sometimes passing on arches above the boiling flood. the precipices of bare rock rise far above and render the way difficult and dangerous. i here noticed another very beautiful effect of the water, perhaps attributable to some mineral substance it contained. the spray and foam thrown up in the dashing of the vexed current, was of a light, delicate pink, although the stream itself was a soft blue; and the contrast of these two colors was very remarkable. as we kept on, however, there was a very perceptible change in the scenery. the gloomy pines disappeared and the mountains were covered, in their stead, with picturesque chesnut trees, with leaves of a shining green. the grass and vegetation was much more luxuriant than on the other side of the alps, and fields of maize and mulberry orchards covered the valley. we saw the people busy at work reeling silk in the villages. every mile we advanced made a sensible change in the vegetation. the chesnuts were larger, the maize higher, the few straggling grape-vines increased into bowers and vineyards, while the gardens were filled with plum, pear and fig-trees, and the stands of delicious fruit which we saw in the villages, gave us promise of the luxuriance that was to come. the vineyards are much more beautiful than the german fields of stakes. the vines are not trimmed, but grow from year to year over a frame higher than the head, supported through the whole field on stone pillars. they interlace and form a complete leafy screen, while the clusters hang below. the light came dimly through the green, transparent leaves, and nothing was wanting to make them real bowers of arcadia. although we were still in switzerland, the people began to have that lazy, indolent look which characterizes the italians; most of the occupations were carried on in the open air, and brown-robed, sandalled friars were going about from house to house, collecting money and provisions for their support. we passed faidò and giornico, near which last village are the remains of an old castle, supposed to have been built by the ancient gauls, and stopped for the night at cresciano, which being entirely italian, we had an opportunity to put in practice the few words we had picked up from pietro. the little fellow parted from us with regret a few hours before, at biasco, where he had relations. the rustic landlord at cresciano was an honest young fellow, who tried to serve us as well as he could, but we made some ludicrous mistakes through our ignorance of the language. three hours' walk brought us to bellinzona, the capital of the canton. before reaching it, our road joined that of the splügen which comes down through the valley of bernardino. from the bridge where the junction takes place we had a triple view, whose grandeur took me by surprise, even after coming from switzerland. we stood at the union of three valleys--that leading to st. gothard, terminated by the glaciers of the bernese oberland, that running off obliquely to the splügen, and finally the broad vale of the ticino, extending to lago maggiore, whose purple mountains closed the vista. each valley was perhaps two miles broad and from twenty to thirty long, and the mountains that enclosed them from five to seven thousand feet in height, so you may perhaps form some idea what a view down three such avenues in this alpine temple would be. bellinzona is romantically situated, on a slight eminence, with three castles to defend it, with those square turreted towers and battlements, which remind one involuntarily of the days of the goths and vandals. we left bellinzona at noon, and saw, soon after, from an eminence, the blue line of lago maggiore stretched across the bottom of the valley. we saw sunset fade away over the lake, but it was clouded, and did not realize my ideal of such a scene in italy. a band of wild italians paraded up and down the village, drawing one of their number in a hand-cart. they made a great noise with a drum and trumpet, and were received everywhere with shouts of laughter. a great jug of wine was not wanting, and the whole seemed to me a very characteristic scene. we were early awakened at magadino, at the head of lago maggiore, and after swallowing a hasty breakfast, went on board the steamboat "san carlo," for sesto calende. we got under way at six o'clock, and were soon in motion over the crystal mirror. the water is of the most lovely green hue, and so transparent that we seemed to bo floating in mid-air. another heaven arched far below us; other chains of mountains joined their bases to those which surrounded the lake, and the mirrored cascades leaped upward to meet their originals at the surface. it may be because i have seen it more recently, that the water of lago maggiore appears to be the most beautiful in the world. i was delighted with the scotch lakes, and enraptured with the traunsee and "zurich's waters," but this last exceeds them both. i am now incapable of any stronger feeling, until i see the egean from the grecian isles. the morning was cloudy, and the white wreaths hung low on the mountains, whose rocky sides were covered every where with the rank and luxuriant growth of this climate. as we advanced further over this glorious mirror, the houses became more italian-like; the lower stories rested on arched passages, and the windows were open, without glass, while in the gardens stood the solemn, graceful cypress, and vines, heavy with ripening grapes, hung from bough to bough through the mulberry orchards. half-way down, in a broad bay, which receives the waters of a stream that comes down with the simplon, are the celebrated borromean islands. they are four in number, and seem to float like fairy creations on the water, while the lofty hills form a background whose grandeur enhances by contrast their exquisite beauty. there was something in the scene that reminded me of claude melnotte's description of his home, by bulwer, and like the lady of lyons, i answer readily, "i like the picture." on passing by isola madre, we could see the roses in its terraced gardens and the broad-leaved aloes clinging to the rocks. isola bella, the loveliest of them all, as its name denotes, was farther off; it rose like a pyramid from the water, terrace above terrace to the summit, and its gardens of never fading foliage, with the glorious panorama around, might make it a paradise, if life were to be dreamed away. on the northern side of the bay lies a large town (i forget its name,) with a lofty romanesque tower, and noble mountains sweep around as if to shut out the world from such a scene. the sea was perfectly calm, and groves and gardens slept mirrored in the dark green wave, while the alps rose afar through the dim, cloudy air. towards the other end the hills sink lower, and slope off into the plains of lombardy. near arona, on the western side, is a large monastery, overlooking the lower part of the lake. beside it, on a hill, is a colossal statue of san carlo borromeo, who gave his name to the lovely islands above. after a seven hours' passage, we ran into sesto calende, at the foot of the lake. here, passengers and baggage were tumbled promiscuously on shore, the latter gathered into the office to be examined, and the former left at liberty to ramble about an hour until their passports could be signed. we employed the time in trying the flavor of the grapes and peaches of lombardy, and looking at the groups of travelers who had come down from the alps with the annual avalanche at this season. the custom house officers were extremely civil and obliging, as they did not think necessary to examine our knapsacks, and our passports being soon signed, we were at liberty to enter again into the dominions of his majesty of austria. our companion, the german, whose feet could carry him no further, took a seat on the top of a diligence for milan; _we_ left sesto calende on foot, and plunged into the cloud of dust which was whirling towards the capital of northern italy. being now really in the "sunny land," we looked on the scenery with a deep interest. the first thing that struck me was a resemblance to america in the fields of indian corn, and the rank growth of weeds by the roadside. the mulberry trees and hedges, too, looked quite familiar, coming as we did, from fenceless and hedgeless germany. but here the resemblance ceased. the people were coarse, ignorant and savage-looking, the villages remarkable for nothing except the contrast between splendid churches and miserable, dirty houses, while the luxurious palaces and grounds of the rich noblemen formed a still greater contrast to the poverty of the people. i noticed also that if the latter are as lazy as they are said to be, they make their horses work for them, as in a walk of a few hours yesterday after noon, we saw two horses drawing heavy loads, drop down apparently dead, and several others seemed nearly ready to do the same. we spent the night at the little village of casina, about sixteen miles from milan, and here made our first experience in the honesty of italian inns. we had taken the precaution to inquire beforehand the price of a bed; but it seemed unnecessary and unpleasant, as well as evincing a mistrustful spirit, to do the same with every article we asked for, so we concluded to leave it to the host's conscience not to overcharge us. imagine our astonishment, however, when at starting, a bill was presented to us, in which the smallest articles were set down at three or four times their value. we remonstrated, hut to little purpose; the fellow knew scarcely any french, and we as little italian, so rather than lose time or temper, we paid what he demanded and went on, leaving him to laugh at the successful imposition. the experience was of value to us, however, and it may serve as a warning to some future traveler. about noon, the road turned into a broad and beautiful avenue of poplars, down which we saw, at a distance, the triumphal arch terminating the simplon road, which we had followed from sesto calende. beyond it rose the slight and airy pinnacle of the duomo. we passed by the exquisite structure, gave up our passports at the gates, traversed the broad piazza d'armi, and found ourselves at liberty to choose one of the dozen streets that led into the heart of the city. chapter xxxi. milan. _aug. ._--while finding our way at random to the "pension suisse," whither we had been directed by a german gentleman, we were agreeably impressed with the gaiety and bustle of milan. the shops and stores are all open to the street, so that the city resembles a great bazaar. it has an odd look to see blacksmiths, tailors and shoemakers working unconcernedly in the open air, with crowds continually passing before them. the streets are filled with venders of fruit, who call out the names with a long, distressing cry, like that of a person in great agony. organ-grinders parade constantly about and snatches of songs are heard among the gay crowd, on every side. in this lively, noisy italian city, nearly all there is to see may be comprised in four things: the duomo, the triumphal arch over the simplon, la scala and the picture gallery. the first alone is more interesting than many an entire city. we went there yesterday afternoon soon after reaching here. it stands in an irregular open place, closely hemmed in by houses on two sides, so that it can be seen to advantage from only one point. it is a mixture of the gothic and romanesque styles; the body of the structure is entirely covered with statues and richly wrought sculpture, with needle-like spires of white marble rising up from every corner. but of the exquisite, airy look of the whole mass, although so solid and vast, it is impossible to convey an idea. it appears like some fabric of frost-work which winter traces on the window-panes. there is a unity of beauty about the whole, which the eye takes in with a feeling of perfect and satisfied delight. ascending the marble steps which lead to the front, i lifted the folds of the heavy curtain and entered. what a glorious aisle! the mighty pillars support a magnificent arched ceiling, painted to resemble fretwork, and the little light that falls through the small windows above, enters tinged with a dim golden hue. a feeling of solemn awe comes over one as he steps with a hushed tread along the colored marble floor, and measures the massive columns till they blend with the gorgeous arches above. there are four rows of these, nearly fifty in all, and when i state that they are eight feet in diameter, and sixty or seventy in height, some idea may be formed of the grandeur of the building. imagine the girard college, at philadelphia, turned into one great hall, with four rows of pillars, equal in size to those around it, reaching to its roof, and you will have a rough sketch of the interior of the duomo. in the centre of the cross is a light and beautiful dome; he who will stand under this, and look down the broad middle aisle to the entrance, has one of the sublimest vistas to be found in the world. the choir has three enormous windows, covered with dazzling paintings, and the ceiling is of marble and silver. there are gratings under the high altar, by looking into which, i could see a dark, lonely chamber below, where one or two feeble lamps showed a circle of praying-places. it was probably a funeral vault, which persons visited to pray for the repose of their friends' souls. the duomo is not yet entirely finished, the workmen being still employed in various parts, but it is said, that when completed there will be four thousand statues on the different parts of it. the design of the duomo is said to be taken from monte rosa, one of the loftiest peaks of the alps. its hundreds of sculptured pinnacles, rising from every part of the body of the church, certainly bear a striking resemblance to the splintered ice-crags of savoy. thus we see how art, mighty and endless in her forms though she be, is in every thing but the child of nature. her most divine conceptions are but copies of objects which we behold every day. the faultless beauty of the corinthian capital--the springing and intermingling arches of the gothic aisle--the pillared portico or the massive and sky-piercing pyramid--are but attempts at reproducing, by the studied regularity of art, the ever-varied and ever-beautiful forms of mountain, rock and forest. but there is oftentimes a more thrilling sensation of enjoyment produced by the creations of man's hand and intellect than the grander effects of nature, existing constantly before our eyes. it would seem as if man marvelled more at his own work than at the work of the power which created him. the streets of milan abound with priests in their cocked hats and long black robes. they all have the same solemn air, and seem to go about like beings shut out from all communion with pleasure. no sight lately has saddened me so much as to see a bright, beautiful boy, of twelve or thirteen years, in those gloomy garments. poor child! he little knows now what he may have to endure. a lonely, cheerless life, where every affection must be crushed as unholy, and every pleasure denied as a crime! and i knew by his fair brow and tender lip, that he had a warm and loving heart. i could not help regarding this class as victims to a mistaken idea of religious duty, and if i am not mistaken, i read on more than one countenance the traces of passions that burned within. it is mournful to see a people oppressed in the name of religion. the holiest aspirations of man's nature, instead of lifting him up to a nearer view of christian perfection, are changed into clouds and shut out the light of heaven. immense treasures, wrung drop by drop from the credulity of the poor and ignorant, are made use of to pamper the luxury of those who profess to be mediators between man and the deity. the poor wretch may perish of starvation on a floor of precious mosaic, which perhaps his own pittance has helped to form, while ceilings and shrines of inlaid gold mock his dying eye with their useless splendor. such a system of oppression, disguised under the holiest name, can only be sustained by the continuance of ignorance and blind superstition. knowledge--truth--reason--these are the ramparts which liberty throws up to guard her dominions from the usurpations of oppression and wrong. we were last night in la scala. rossini's opera of william tell was advertised, and as we had visited so lately the scene where that glorious historical drama was enacted, we went to see it represented in sound. it is a grand subject, which in the hands of a powerful composer, might be made very effective, but i must confess i was disappointed in the present case. the overture is, however, very beautiful. it begins low and mournful, like the lament of the swiss over their fallen liberties. occasionally a low drum is heard, as if to rouse them to action, and meanwhile the lament swells to a cry of despair. the drums now wake the land; the horn of uri is heard pealing forth its summoning strain, and the echoes seem to come back from the distant alps. the sound then changes for the roar of battle--the clang of trumpets, drums and cymbals. the whole orchestra did their best to represent this combat in music, which after lasting a short time, changed into the loud, victorious march of the conquerors. but the body of the opera, although it had several fine passages, was to me devoid of interest; in fact, unworthy the reputation of rossini. the theatre is perhaps the largest in the world. the singers are all good; in italy it could not be otherwise, where everybody sings. as i write, a party of italians in the house opposite have been amusing themselves with going through the whole opera of "_la fille du regiment_," with the accompaniment of the piano, and they show the greatest readiness and correctness in their performance. they have now become somewhat boisterous, and appear to be improvising. one young gentleman executes trills with amazing skill, and another appears to have taken the part of a despairing lover, but the lady has a very pretty voice, and warbles on and on, like a nightingale. occasionally a group of listeners in the street below clap them applause, for as the windows are always open, the whole neighborhood can enjoy the performance. this forenoon i was in the picture gallery. it occupies a part of the library building, in the palazzo cabrera. it is not large, and many of the pictures are of no value to anybody but antiquarians; still there are some excellent paintings, which render it well worthy a visit. among these, a marriage, by raphael, is still in a very good state of preservation, and there are some fine pictures by paul veronese and the caracci. the most admired painting, is "abraham sending away hagar," by guercino. i never saw a more touching expression of grief than in the face of hagar. her eyes are red with weeping, and as she listens in an agony of tears to the patriarch's command, she still seems doubting the reality of her doom. the countenance of abraham is venerable and calm, and expresses little emotion; but one can read in that of sarah, as she turns away, a feeling of pity for her unfortunate rival. next to the duomo, the most beautiful specimen of architecture in milan is the arch of peace, on the north side of the city, at the commencement of the simplon road. it was the intention of napoleon to carry the road under this arch, across the piazza d'armi, and to cut a way for it directly into the heart of the city, but the fall of his dynasty prevented the execution of this magnificent design, as well as the completion of the arch itself. this has been done by the austrian government, according to the original plan; they have inscribed upon it the name of francis i., and changed the bas-reliefs of lodi and marengo into those of a few fields where their forces had gained the victory. it is even said that in many parts which were already finished, they altered the splendid roman profile of napoleon into the haggard and repulsive features of francis of austria. the bronze statues on the top were made by an artist of bologna, by napoleon's order, and are said to be the finest works of modern times. in the centre is the goddess of peace, in a triumphal car, drawn by six horses, while on the corners four angels, mounted, are starting off to convey the tidings to the four quarters of the globe. the artist has caught the spirit of motion and chained it in these moveless figures. one would hardly feel surprised if the goddess, chariot, horses and all, were to start off and roll away through the air. with the rapidity usual to americans we have already finished seeing milan, and shall start to-morrow morning on a walk to genoa. chapter xxxii. walk from milan to genoa. it was finally decided we should leave milan, so the next morning we arose at five o'clock for the first time since leaving frankfort. the italians had commenced operations at this early hour, but we made our way through the streets without attracting quite so much attention as on our arrival. near the gate on the road to pavia, we passed a long colonnade which was certainly as old as the times of the romans. the pillars of marble were quite brown with age, and bound together with iron to keep them from falling to pieces. it was a striking contrast to see this relic of the past standing in the middle of a crowded thoroughfare and surrounded by all the brilliance and display of modern trade. once fairly out of the city we took the road to pavia, along the banks of the canal, just as the rising sun gilded the marble spire of the duomo. the country was a perfect level, and the canal, which was in many places higher than the land through which it passed, served also as a means of irrigation for the many rice-fields. the sky grew cloudy and dark, and before we reached pavia gathered to a heavy storm. torrents of rain poured down, accompanied with heavy thunder; we crept under an old gateway for shelter, as no house was near. finally, as it cleared away, the square brown towers of the old city rose above the trees, and we entered the gate through a fine shaded avenue. our passports were of course demanded, but we were only detained a minute or two. the only thing of interest is the university, formerly so celebrated; it has at present about eight hundred students. we have reason to remember the city from another circumstance--the singular attention we excited. i doubt if columbus was an object of greater curiosity to the simple natives of the new world, than we three americans were to the good people of pavia. i know not what part of our dress or appearance could have caused it, but we were watched like wild animals. if we happened to pause and look at anything in the street, there was soon a crowd of attentive observers, and as we passed on, every door and window was full of heads. we stopped in the marketplace to purchase some bread and fruit for dinner, which increased, if possible, the sensation. we saw eyes staring and fingers pointing at us from every door and alley. i am generally willing to contribute as much as possible to the amusement or entertainment of others, but such attention was absolutely embarrassing. there was nothing to do but to appear unconscious of it, and we went along with as much nonchalance as if the whole town belonged to us. we crossed the ticino, on whose banks near pavia, was fought the first great battle between hannibal and the romans. on the other side our passports were demanded at the sardinian frontier and our knapsacks searched, which having proved satisfactory, we were allowed to enter the kingdom. late in the afternoon we reached the po, which in winter must be quarter of a mile wide, but the summer heats had dried it up to a small stream, so that the bridge of boats rested nearly its whole length in sand. we sat on the bank in the shade, and looked at the chain of hills which rose in the south, following the course of the po, crowned with castles and villages and shining towers. it was here that i first began to realize italian scenery. although the hills were bare, they lay so warm and glowing in the sunshine, and the deep blue sky spread so calmly above, that it recalled all my dreams of the fair clime we had entered. we stopped for the night at the little village of casteggio, which lies at the foot of the hills, and next morning resumed our pilgrimage. here a new delight awaited us. the sky was of a heavenly blue, without even the shadow of a cloud, and full and fair in the morning sunshine we could see the whole range of the alps, from the blue hills of friuli, which sweep down to venice and the adriatic, to the lofty peaks which stretch away to nice and marseilles! like a summer cloud, except that they were far more dazzling and glorious, lay to the north of us the glaciers and untrodden snow-fields of the bernese oberland; a little to the right we saw the double peak of st. gothard, where six days before we shivered in the region of eternal winter, while far to the north-west rose the giant dome of mount blanc. monte rosa stood near him, not far from the great st. bernard, and further to the south mont cenis guarded the entrance from piedmont into france. i leave you to conceive the majesty of such a scene, and you may perhaps imagine, for i cannot describe the feelings with which i gazed upon it. at tortona, the next post, a great market was being held; the town was filled with country people selling their produce, and with venders of wares of all kinds. fruit was very abundant--grapes, ripe figs, peaches and melons were abundant, and for a trifle one could purchase a sumptuous banquet. on inquiring the road to novi, the people made us understand, after much difficulty, that there was a nearer way across the country, which came into the post-road again, and we concluded to take it. after two or three hours' walking in a burning sun, where our only relief was the sight of the alps and a view of the battle-field of marengo, which lay just on our right, we came to a stand--the road terminated at a large stream, where workmen were busily engaged in making a bridge across. we pulled off our boots and waded through, took a refreshing bath in the clear waters, and walked on through by-lanes. the sides were lined with luxuriant vines, bending under the ripening vintage, and we often cooled our thirst with some of the rich bunches. the large branch of the po we crossed, came down from the mountains, which we were approaching. as we reached the post-road again, they were glowing in the last rays of the sun, and the evening vapors that settled over the plain concealed the distant alps, although the snowy top of the jungfrau and her companions the wetterhorn and schreckhorn, rose above it like the hills of another world. a castle or church of brilliant white marble glittered on the summit of one of the mountains near us, and as the sun went down without a cloud, the distant summits changed in hue to a glowing purple, amounting almost to crimson, which afterwards darkened into a deep violet. the western half of the sky was of a pale orange, and the eastern a dark red, which blended together in the blue of the zenith, that deepened as twilight came on. i know not if it was a fair specimen of an italian sunset, but i must say, without wishing to be partial, that though certainly very soft and beautiful, there is no comparison with the splendor of such a scene in america. the day-sky of italy better deserves its reputation. although no clearer than our own, it is of a far brighter blue, arching above us like a dome of sapphire and seeming to sparkle all over with a kind of crystal transparency. we stopped the second night at arquato, a little village among the mountains, and after having bargained with the merry landlord for our lodgings, in broken italian, took a last look at the plains of piedmont and the swiss alps, in the growing twilight. we gazed out on the darkening scene till the sky was studded with stars, and went to rest with the exciting thought of seeing genoa and the mediterranean on the morrow. next morning we started early, and after walking some distance made our breakfast in a grove of chesnuts, on the cool mountain side, beside a fresh stream of water. the sky shone like a polished gem, and the glossy leaves of the chesnuts gleamed in the morning sun. here and there, on a rocky height, stood the remains of some knightly castle, telling of the goths and normans who descended through these mountain passes to plunder rome. as the sun grew high, the heat and dust became intolerable, and this, in connection with the attention we raised everywhere, made us somewhat tired of foot-traveling in italy. i verily believe the people took us for pilgrims on account of our long white blouses, and had i a scallop shell i would certainly have stuck it into my hat to complete the appearance. we stopped once to ask a priest the road; when he had told us, he shook hands with us and gave us a parting benediction. at the common inns, where we stopped, we always met with civil treatment, though, indeed, as we only slept in them, there was little chance of practising imposition. we bought our simple meals at the baker's and grocer's, and ate them in the shade of the grape-bowers, whose rich clusters added to the repast. in this manner, we enjoyed italy at the expense of a franc, daily. about noon, after winding about through the narrow defiles, the road began ascending. the reflected heat from the hills on each side made it like an oven; there was not a breath of air stirring; but we all felt, although no one said it, that from the summit we could see the mediterranean, and we pushed on as if life or death depended on it. finally, the highest point came in sight--we redoubled our exertions, and a few minutes more brought us to the top, breathless with fatigue and expectation. i glanced down the other side--there lay a real sea of mountains, all around; the farthest peaks rose up afar and dim, crowned with white towers, and between two of them which stood apart like the pillars of a gateway, we saw the broad expanse of water stretching away to the horizon-- to where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shut down!" it would have been a thrilling sight to see any ocean, when one has rambled thousands of miles among the mountains and vales of the inland, but to behold this sea, of all others, was glorious indeed! this sea, whose waves wash the feet of naples, constantinople and alexandria, and break on the hoary shores where troy and tyre and carthage have mouldered away!--whose breast has been furrowed by the keels of a hundred nations through more than forty centuries--from the first rude voyage of jason and his argonauts, to the thunders of navarino that heralded the second birth of greece! you cannot wonder we grew romantic; but short space was left for sentiment in the burning sun, with genoa to be reached before night. the mountain we crossed is called the bochetta, one of the loftiest of the sea-alps (or apennines)--the road winds steeply down towards the sea, following a broad mountain rivulet, now perfectly dried up, as nearly every stream among the mountains is. it was a long way to us; the mountains seemed as if they would never unfold and let us out on the shore, and our weary limbs did penance enough for a multitude of sins. the dusk was beginning to deepen over the bay and the purple hues of sunset were dying away from its amphitheatre of hills, as we came in sight of the gorgeous city. half the population were out to celebrate a festival, and we made our entry in the triumphal procession of some saint. chapter xxxiii. scenes in genoa, leghorn and pisa. have you ever seen some grand painting of a city, rising with its domes and towers and palaces from the edge of a glorious bay, shut in by mountains--the whole scene clad in those deep, delicious, sunny hues which you admire so much in the picture, although they appear unrealized in nature? if so, you can figure to yourself genoa, as she looked to us at sunset, from the battlements west of the city. when we had passed through the gloomy gate of the fortress that guards the western promontory, the whole scene opened at once on us in all its majesty. it looked to me less like a real landscape than a mighty panoramic painting. the battlements where we were standing, and the blue mirror of the mediterranean just below, with a few vessels moored near the shore, made up the foreground; just in front lay the queenly city, stretching out to the eastern point of the bay, like a great meteor---this point, crowned with the towers and dome of a cathedral representing the nucleus, while the tail gradually widened out and was lost among the numberless villas that reached to the top of the mountains behind. a mole runs nearly across the mouth of the harbor, with a tall light-house at its extremity, leaving only a narrow passage for vessels. as we gazed, a purple glow lay on the bosom of the sea, while far beyond the city, the eastern half of the mountain crescent around the gulf was tinted with the loveliest hue of orange. the impressions which one derives from looking on remarkable scenery, depend, for much of their effect, on the time and weather. i have been very fortunate in this respect in two instances, and shall carry with me through life, two glorious pictures of a very different character--the wild sublimity of the brocken in cloud and storm, and the splendor of genoa in an italian sunset. genoa has been called the "city of palaces." and it well deserves the appellation. row above row of magnificent structures rise amid gardens along the side of the hills, and many of the streets, though narrow and crooked, are lined entirely with the splendid dwellings of the genoese nobles. all these speak of the republic in its days of wealth and power, when it could cope successfully with venice, and doria could threaten to bridle the horses of st. mark. at present its condition is far different; although not so fallen as its rival, it is but a shadow of its former self--the life and energy it possessed as a republic, has withered away under the grasp of tyranny. we entered genoa, as i have already said, in a religious procession. on passing the gate we saw from the concourse of people and the many banners hanging from the windows or floating across the streets, that it was the day of a festa. before entering the city we reached the procession itself, which was one of unusual solemnity. as it was impossible in the dense crowd, to pass it, we struggled through till we reached a good point for seeing the whole, and slowly moved on with it through the city. first went a company of boys in white robes; then followed a body of friars, dressed in long black cassocks, and with shaven crowns; then a company of soldiers with a band of music; then a body of nuns, wrapped from head to foot in blue robes, leaving only a small place to see out of--in the dusk they looked very solemn and ghost-like, and their low chant had to me something awful and sepulchral in it; then followed another company of friars, and after that a great number of priests in white and black robes, bearing the statue of the saint, with a pyramid of flowers, crosses and blazing wax tapers, while companies of soldiery, monks and music brought up the rear. armed guards walked at intervals on each side of the procession, to keep the way clear and prevent disturbance; two or three bands played solemn airs, alternating with the deep monotonous chanting of the friars. the whole scene, dimly lighted by the wax tapers, produced in me a feeling nearly akin to fear, as if i were witnessing some ghostly, unearthly spectacle. to rites like these, however, which occur every few weeks, the people must be well accustomed. among the most interesting objects in genoa, is the doria palace, fit in its splendor for a monarch's residence. it stands in the _strada nova_, one of the three principal streets, and i believe is still in the possession of the family. there are many others through the city, scarcely less magnificent, among which that of the durazzo family may be pointed out. the american consulate is in one of these old edifices, with a fine court-yard and ceilings covered with frescoes. mr. moro, the vice consul, did us a great kindness, which i feel bound to acknowledge, although it will require the disclosure of some private, and perhaps uninteresting circumstances. on leaving frankfort, we converted--for the sake of convenience--the greater part of our funds into a draft on a saxon merchant in leghorn, reserving just enough, as we supposed, to take us thither. as in our former case, in germany, the sum was too small, which we found to our dismay on reaching milan. notwithstanding we had traveled the whole ninety miles from that city to genoa for three francs each, in the hope of having enough, left to enable _one_ at least to visit leghorn, the expenses for a passport in genoa (more than twenty francs) prevented this plan. i went therefore to the vice consul to ascertain whether the merchant on whom the draft was drawn, had any correspondents there, who might advance a portion of it. his secretary made many inquiries, but without effect; mr. moro then generously offered to furnish me with means to reach leghorn, whence i could easily remit a sufficient sum to my two comrades. this put an end to our anxiety, (for i must confess we could not help feeling some), and i therefore prepared to leave that evening in the "virgilio." the feelings with which i look on this lovely land, are fast changing. what with the dust and heat, and cheating landlords, and the dull plains of lombardy, my first experience was not very prepossessing. but the joyous and romantic anticipation with which i looked forward to realizing the dream of my earliest boyhood, is now beginning to be surpassed by the exciting reality. every breath i drew in the city of columbus and doria, was deeply tinctured with the magic of history and romance. it was like entering on a new existence, to look on scenes so lovely by nature and so filled with the inspiring memories of old. "italia too, italia! looking on thee, full flashes on the soul the light of ages, since the fierce carthagenian almost won thee, to the last halo of the chiefs and sages who glorify thy consecrated pages! thou wert the throne and grave of empires." the _virgilio_ was advertised to leave at six o'clock, and i accordingly went out to her in a little boat half an hour beforehand; but we were delayed much longer, and i saw sunset again fade over the glorious amphitheatre of palaces and mountains, with the same orange glow--the same purple and crimson flush, deepening into twilight--as before. an old blind man in a skiff, floated around under the bows of the boat on the glassy water, singing to the violin a plaintive air that appeared to be an evening hymn to the virgin. there was something very touching in his venerable countenance, with the sightless eyes turned upward to the sunset heaven whose glory he could never more behold. the lamps were lit on the tower at the end of the mole as we glided out on the open sea; i stood on deck and watched the receding lights of the city, till they and the mountains above them, were blended with the darkened sky. the sea-breeze was fresh and cool, and the stars glittered with a frosty clearness, which would have made the night delicious had not a slight rolling of the waves obliged me to go below. here, besides being half seasick, i was placed at the mercy of many voracious fleas, who obstinately stayed, persisting in keeping me company. this was the first time i had suffered from these cannibals, and such were my torments, i almost wished some blood-thirsty italian would come and put an end to them with his stiletto. the first ray of dawn that stole into the cabin sent me on deck. the hills of tuscany lay in front, sharply outlined on the reddening sky; near us was the steep and rocky isle of gorgona; and far to the south-west, like a low mist along the water, ran the shores of corsica--the birth place of columbus and napoleon![***] as the dawn brightened we saw on the southern horizon a cloud-like island, also imperishably connected with the name of the latter--the prison-kingdom of elba! north of us extended the rugged mountains of carrarra--that renowned range whence has sprung many a form of almost breathing beauty, and where yet slumber, perhaps, in the unhewn marble, the god-like shapes of an age of art, more glorious than any the world has ever yet beheld! [footnote ***: by recent registers found in corsica, it has been determined that this island also gave birth to the discoverer of the new world.] the sun rose from behind the apennines and masts and towers became visible through the golden haze, as we approached the shore. on a flat space between the sea and the hills, not far from the foot of montenero, stands leghorn. the harbor is protected by a mole, leaving a narrow passage, through which we entered, and after waiting two hours for the visit of the health and police officers, we were permitted to go on shore. the first thing that struck me, was the fine broad streets; the second, the motley character of the population. people were hurrying about noisy and bustling--greeks in their red caps and capotes; grave turbaned and bearded turks; dark moors; the corsair-looking natives of tripoli and tunis, and seamen of nearly every nation. at the hotel where i stayed, we had a singular mixture of nations at dinner:--two french, two swiss, one genoese, one roman, one american and one turk--and we were waited on by a tuscan and an arab! we conversed together in four languages, all at once. to the merchant, leghorn is of more importance than to the traveler. its extensive trade, not only in the manufactures of tuscany, but also in the productions of the levant, makes it important to the former, while the latter seeks in vain for fine buildings, galleries of art, or in interesting historical reminiscences. through the kind attention of the saxon consul, to whom i had letters, two or three days went by delightfully. the only place of amusement here in summer is a drive along the sea shore, called the ardenza, which is frequented every evening by all who can raise a vehicle. i visited it twice with a german friend. we met one evening the princess corsini, wife of the governor of leghorn, on horseback--a young, but not pretty woman. the road leads out along the mediterranean, past an old fortress, to a large establishment for the sea bathers, where it ends in a large ring, around which the carriages pass and re-pass, until sunset has gone out over the sea, when they return to the city in a mad gallop, or as fast as the lean horses can draw them. in driving around, we met two or three carriages of turks, in one of which i saw a woman of tunis, with a curious gilded head-dress, eighteen inches in height. i saw one night a turkish funeral. it passed me in one of the outer streets, on its way to the turkish burying ground. those following the coffin, which was covered with a heavy black pall, wore white turbans and long white robes--the mourning color of the turks. torches were borne by attendants, and the whole company passed on at a quick pace. seen thus by night, it had a strange and spectral appearance. there is another spectacle here which was exceedingly revolting to me. the condemned criminals, chained two and two, are kept at work through the city, cleaning the streets. they are dressed in coarse garments of a dirty red color, with the name of the crime for which they were convicted, painted on the back. i shuddered to see so many marked with the words--"_omicidio premeditato_." all day they are thus engaged, exposed to the scorn and contumely of the crowd, and at night dragged away to be incarcerated in damp, unwholesome dungeons, excavated under the public thoroughfares. the employment of criminals in this way is common in italy. two days after crossing st. gothard, we saw a company of abject-looking creatures, eating their dinner by the road-side, near bellinzona. one of them had a small basket of articles of cotton and linen, and as he rose up to offer them to us, i was startled by the clank of fetters. they were all employed to labor on the road. on going down to the wharf in leghorn, in the morning, two or three days ago, i found f---- and b---- just stepping on shore from the steamboat, tired enough of the discomforts of the voyage, yet anxious to set out for florence as soon as possible. after we had shaken off the crowd of porters, pedlars and vetturini, and taken a hasty breakfast at the _cafe americano_, we went to the police office to get our passports, and had the satisfaction of paying two francs for permission to proceed to florence. the weather had changed since the preceding day, and the sirocco-wind which blows over from the coast of africa, filled the streets with clouds of dust, which made walking very unpleasant. the clear blue sky had vanished, and a leaden cloud hung low on the mediterranean, hiding the shores of corsica and the rooky isles of gorgona and capraja. the country between leghorn and pisa, is a flat marsh, intersected in several places by canals to carry off the stagnant water which renders this district so unhealthy. it is said that the entire plain between the mountains of carrarra and the hills back of leghorn has been gradually formed by the deposits of the arno and the receding of the mediterranean, which is so shallow along the whole coast, that large vessels have to anchor several miles out. as we approached pisa over the level marsh, i could see the dome of the cathedral and the leaning tower rising above the gardens and groves which surround it. our baggage underwent another examination at the gate, where we were again assailed by the vetturini, one of whom hung on us like a leech till we reached a hotel, and there was finally no way of shaking him off except by engaging him to take us to florence. the bargain having been concluded, we had still a few hours left and set off to hunt the cathedral. we found it on an open square near the outer wall, and quite remote from the main part of the town. emerging from the narrow and winding street, one takes in et a glance the baptistery, the campo santo, the noble cathedral and the leaning tower--forming altogether a view rarely surpassed in europe for architectural effect. but the square is melancholy and deserted, and rank, untrampled grass fills the crevices of its marble pavement. i was surprised at the beauty of the leaning tower. instead of all old, black, crumbling fabric, as i always supposed, it is a light, airy, elegant structure, of white marble, and its declension, which is interesting as a work of art (or accident,) is at the same time pleasing from its novelty. there have been many conjectures as to the cause of this deviation, which is upwards of fourteen feet from the perpendicular; it is now generally believed that the earth having sunk when the building was half finished, it was continued by the architects in the same angle. the upper gallery, which is smaller than the others, shows a very perceptible inclination back towards the perpendicular, as if in some degree to counterbalance the deviation of the other part. there are eight galleries in all, supported by marble pillars, but the inside of the tower is hollow to the very top. we ascended by the same stairs which were trodden so often by galileo in going up to make his astronomical observations; in climbing spirally around the hollow cylinder in the dark, it was easy to tell on which side of the tower we were, from the proportionate steepness of the staircase. there is a fine view from the top, embracing the whole plain as far as leghorn on one side, with its gardens and grain fields spread out like a vast map. in a valley of the carrarrese mountains to the north, we could see the little town of lucca, much frequented at this season on account of its baths; the blue summits of the appenines shut in the view to the east. in walking through the city i noticed two other towers, which had nearly as great a deviation from the perpendicular. we met a person who had the key of the baptistery, which he opened for us. two ancient columns covered with rich sculpture form the doorway, and the dome is supported by massive pillars of the red marble of elba. the baptismal font is of the purest parian marble. the most remarkable thing was the celebrated musical echo. our cicerone stationed himself at the side of the font and sang a few notes. after a moment's pause they were repeated aloft in the dome, but with a sound of divine sweetness--as clear and pure as the clang of a crystal bell. another pause--and we heard them again, higher, fainter and sweeter, followed by a dying note, as if they were fading far away into heaven. it seemed as if an angel lingered in the temple, echoing with his melodious lips the common harmonies of earth. even thus does the music of good deeds, hardly noted in our grosser atmosphere, awake a divine echo in the far world of spirit. the campo santo, on the north side of the cathedral, was, until lately, the cemetery of the city; the space enclosed within its marble galleries is filled to the depth of eight or ten feet, with earth from the holy land. the vessels which carried the knights of tuscany to palestine were filled at joppa, on returning, with this earth as ballast, and on arriving at pisa it was deposited in the cemetery. it has the peculiar property of decomposing all human bodies, in the space of two days. a colonnade of marble encloses it, with windows of the most exquisite sculpture opening on the inside. they reminded me of the beautiful gothic oriels of melrose. at each end are two fine, green cypresses, which thrive remarkably in the soil of palestine. the dust of a german emperor, among others, rests in this consecrated ground. there are other fine churches in pisa, but the four buildings i have mentioned, are the principal objects of interest. the tower where count ugolino and his sons were starved to death by the citizens of pisa, who locked them up and threw the keys into the arno, has lately been destroyed. an italian gentleman having made a bargain in the meantime with our vetturino, we found every thing ready on returning to the hotel. on the outside of the town we mounted into the vehicle, a rickety-looking concern, and as it commenced raining, i was afraid we would have a bad night of it. after a great deal of bargaining, the vetturino agreed to take us to florence that night for five francs a piece, provided one person would sit on the outside with the driver. i accordingly mounted on front, protected by a blouse and umbrella, for it was beginning to rain dismally. the miserable, bare-boned horses were fastened with rope-traces, and the vetturino having taken the rope-lines in his hand, gave a flourish with his whip; one old horse tumbled nearly to the ground, but he jerked him up again and we rattled off. after riding ten miles in this way, it became so wet and dreary, that i was fain to give the driver two francs extra, for the privilege of an inside seat. our italian companion was agreeable and talkative, but as we were still ignorant of the language, i managed to hold a scanty conversation with him in french. he seemed delighted to learn that we were from america; his polite reserve gave place to a friendly familiarity and he was loud in his praises of the americans. i asked him why it was that he and the italians generally, were so friendly towards us. "i hardly know," he answered; "you are so different from any other nation; and then, too, you have so much sincerity!" the appenines were wreathed and hidden in thick mist, and the prospect over the flat cornfields bordering the road was not particularly interesting. we had made about one-third of the way as night set in, when on ascending a hill soon after dark, f---- happened to look out, and saw one of the axles bent and nearly broken off. we were obliged to get out and walk through the mud to the next village, when after two hours' delay, the vetturino came along with another carriage. of the rest of the way to florence, i cannot say much. cramped up in the narrow vehicle, we jolted along in the dark, rumbling now and then through some silent village, where lamps were burning before the solitary shrines. sometimes a blinding light crossed the road, where we saw the tile-makers sitting in the red glare of their kilns, and often the black boughs of trees were painted momentarily on the cloudy sky. if the jolting carriage had even permitted sleep, the horrid cries of the vetturino, urging on his horses, would have prevented it; and i decided, while trying to relieve my aching limbs, that three days' walking in sun and sand was preferable to one night of such travel. finally about four o'clock in the morning the carriage stopped; my italian friend awoke and demanded the cause. "signor," said the vetturino, "we are in florence!" i blessed the man, and the city too. the good-humored officer looked at our passports and passed our baggage without examination; we gave the gatekeeper a paul and he admitted us. the carriage rolled through the dark, silent streets--passed a public square--came out on the arno--crossed and entered the city again--and finally stopped at a hotel. the master of the "lione bianco" came down in an undress to receive us, and we shut the growing dawn out of our rooms to steal that repose from the day which the night had not given. chapter xxxiv. florence and its galleries. _sept. ._--our situation here is as agreeable as we could well desire. we have three large and handsomely furnished rooms, in the centre of the city, for which we pay signor lazzeri, a wealthy goldsmith, ten scudo per month--a scudo being a trifle more than an american dollar. we live at the _cafès_ and _trattone_ very conveniently for twenty-five cents a day, enjoying moreover, at our dinner in the trattoria del cacciatore, the company of several american artists with whom we have become acquainted. the day after our arrival we met at the table d'hote of the "lione bianco," dr. boardman of new york, through whose assistance we obtained our present lodgings. there are at present ten or twelve american artists in florence, and we promise ourselves much pleasure and profit from their acquaintance. b---- and i are so charmed with the place and the beautiful tuscan dialect, that we shall endeavor to spend three or four months here. f---- returns to germany in two weeks, to attend the winter term of the university at his favorite heidelberg. our first walk in florence was to the royal gallery--we wished to see the "goddess living in stone" without delay. crossing the neighboring _piazza del granduca_, we passed michael angelo's colossal statue of david, and an open gallery containing, besides some antiques, the master-piece of john of bologna. the palace of the _uffizii_, fronting on the arno, extends along both sides of an avenue running back to the palazzo vecchio. we entered the portico which passes around under the great building, and after ascending three or four flights of steps, came into a long hall, filled with paintings and ancient statuary. towards the end of this, a door opened into the tribune--that celebrated room, unsurpassed by any in the world for the number and value of the gems it contains. i pushed aside a crimson curtain and stood in the presence of the venus. it may be considered heresy, but i confess i did not at first go into raptures, nor perceive any traces of superhuman beauty. the predominant feeling, if i may so express it, was satisfaction; the eye dwells on its faultless outline with a gratified sense, that nothing is wanting to render it perfect. it is the ideal of a woman's form--a faultless standard by which all beauty may be measured, but without striking expression, except in the modest and graceful position of the limbs. the face, though regular, is not handsome, and the body appears small, being but five feet in height, which, i think, is a little below the average stature of women. on each side, as if to heighten its elegance by contrast with rude and unrefined nature, are the statues of the wrestlers, and the slave listening to the conspiracy of catiline, called also the whetter. as if to correspond with the value of the works it holds, the tribune is paved with precious marbles and the ceiling studded with polished mother-of-pearl. a dim and subdued light fills the hall, which throws over the mind that half-dreamy tone necessary to the full enjoyment of such objects. on each side of the venus de medici hangs a venus by titian, the size of life, and painted in that rich and gorgeous style of coloring which has been so often and vainly attempted since his time. here are six of raphael's best preserved paintings. i prefer the "st. john in the desert" to any other picture in the tribune. his glorious form, in the fair proportions of ripening boyhood--the grace of his attitude, with the arm lifted eloquently on high--the divine inspiration which illumines his young features--chain the step irresistibly before it. it is one of those triumphs of the pencil which few but raphael have accomplished--the painting of _spirit_ in its loftiest and purest form. near it hangs the fornarina, which he seems to have painted in as deep a love as he entertained for the original. the face is modest and beautiful, and filled with an expression of ardent and tender attachment. i never tire looking upon either of these two. let me not forget, while we are in this peerless hall, to point out guercino's samian sybil. it is a glorious work. with her hands clasped over her volume, she is looking up with a face full of deep and expressive sadness. a picturesque turban is twined around her head, and bands of pearls gleam amidst her rich, dark brown tresses. her face bears the softness of dawning womanhood, and nearly answers my ideal of female beauty. the same artist has another fine picture here--a sleeping endymion. the mantle has fallen from his shoulders, as he reclines asleep, with his head on his hand, and his crook beside him. the silver crescent of dian looks over his shoulder from the sky behind, and no wonder if she should become enamored, for a lovelier shepherd has not been seen since that of king admetus went back to drive his chariot in the heavens. the "drunken bacchus" of michael angelo is greatly admired, and indeed it might pass for a relic of the palmiest times of grecian art. the face, amidst its half-vacant, sensual expression, shows traces of its immortal origin, and there is still an air of dignity preserved in the swagger of his beautiful form. it is, in a word, the ancient idea of _a drunken god_. it may be doubted whether the artist's talents might not have been employed better than in ennobling intoxication. if he had represented bacchus as he really is--degraded even below the level of humanity--it might be more beneficial to the mind, though less beautiful to the eye. however, this is a question on which artists and moralists cannot agree. perhaps, too, the rich blood of the falernian grape produced a more godlike delirium than the vulgar brandy which oversets the moderns! at one end of the gallery is a fine copy in marble of the laocoon, by bandinelli, one of the rivals of michael angelo. when it was finished, the former boasted it was better than the original, to which michael made the apt reply: "it is foolish for those who walk in the footsteps of others, to say they go before them!" let us enter the hall of niobe. one starts back on seeing the many figures in the attitude of flight, for they seem at first about to spring from their pedestals. at the head of the room stands the afflicted mother, bending over the youngest daughter who clings to her knees, with an upturned countenance of deep and imploring agony. in vain! the shafts of apollo fall thick, and she will soon be childless. no wonder the strength of that woe depicted on her countenance should change her into stone. one of her sons--a beautiful, boyish form,--is lying on his back, just expiring, with the chill langour of death creeping over his limbs. we seem to hear the quick whistling of the arrows, and look involuntarily into the air to see the hovering figure of the avenging god. in a chamber near is kept the head of a faun, made by michael angelo, at the age of fourteen, in the garden of lorenzo de medici, from a piece of marble given him by the workmen. the portraits of the painters are more than usually interesting. every countenance is full of character. there is the pale, enthusiastic face of raphael, the stern vigor of titian, the majesty and dignity of leonardo da vinci, and the fresh beauty of angelica kauffmann. i liked best the romantic head of raphael mengs. in one of the rooms there is a portrait of alfieri, with an autograph sonnet of his own on the back of it. the house in which he lived and died, is on the north bank of the arno, near the ponte caraja, and his ashes rest in santa croce. italy still remains the home of art, and it is but just she should keep these treasures, though the age that brought them forth has passed away. they are her only support now; her people are dependent for their subsistence on the glory of the past. the spirits of the old painters, living still on their canvass, earn from year to year the bread of an indigent and oppressed people. this ought to silence those utilitarians at home, who oppose the cultivation of the fine arts, on the ground of their being useless luxuries. let them look to italy, where a picture by raphael or correggio is a rich legacy for a whole city. nothing is useless that gratifies that perception of beauty, which is at once the most delicate and the most intense of our mental sensations, binding us by an unconscious link nearer to nature and to him, whose every thought is born of beauty, truth and love. i envy not the one who looks with a cold and indifferent spirit on these immortal creations of the old masters--these poems written in marble and on the canvass. they who oppose every thing which can refine and spiritualize the nature of man, by binding him down to the cares of the work-day world alone, cheat life of half its glory. the eighth of this month was the anniversary of the birth of the virgin, and the celebration, if such it might be called, commenced the evening before, it is the custom, and heaven only knows how it originated, for the people of the lower class to go through the streets in a company, blowing little penny whistles. we were walking that night in the direction of the duomo, when we met a band of these men, blowing with all their might on the shrill whistles, so that the whole neighborhood resounded with one continual, piercing, ear-splitting shriek. they marched in a kind of quick trot through the streets, followed by a crowd of boys, and varying the noise occasionally by shouts and howls of the most horrible character. they paraded through all the principal streets of the city, which for an hour sent up such an agonizing scream that you might have fancied it an enormous monster, expiring in great torment. the people seemed to take the whole thing as a matter of course, but it was to us a novel manner of ushering in a religious festival. the sky was clear and blue, as it always is in this italian paradise, when we left florence a few days ago for fiesole. in spite of many virtuous efforts to rise early, it was nine o'clock before we left the porta san gallo, with its triumphal arch to the emperor francis, striding the road to bologna. we passed through the public walk at this end of the city, and followed the road to fiesole along the dried-up bed of a mountain torrent. the dwellings of the florentine nobility occupy the whole slope, surrounded with rich and lovely gardens. the mountain and plain are both covered with luxuriant olive orchards, whose foliage of silver gray gives the scene the look of a moonlight landscape. at the base of the mountain of fiesole we passed one of the summer palaces of lorenzo the magnificent, and a little distance beyond, took a foot-path overshadowed by magnificent cypresses, between whose dark trunks we looked down on the lovely val d'arno. but i will reserve all description of the view till we arrive at the summit. the modern village of fiesole occupies the site of an ancient city, generally supposed to be of etrurian origin. just above, on one of the peaks of the mountain, stands the acropolis, formerly used as a fortress, but now untenanted save by a few monks. from the side of its walls, beneath the shade of a few cypresses, there is a magnificent view of the whole of val d'arno, with florence--the gem of italy--in the centre. stand with me a moment on the height, and let us gaze on this grand panorama, around which the apennines stretch with a majestic sweep, wrapped in a robe of purple air, through which shimmer the villas and villages on their sides! the lovely vale lies below us in its garb of olive groves, among which beautiful villas are sprinkled as plentifully as white anemones in the woods of may. florence lies in front of us, the magnificent cupola of the duomo crowning its clustered palaces. we see the airy tower of the palazzo vecchio--the new spire of santa croce--and the long front of the palazzo pitti, with the dark foliage of the boboli gardens behind. beyond, far to the south, are the summits of the mountains near siena. we can trace the sandy bed of the arno down the valley till it disappears at the foot of the lower apennines, which mingle in the distance with the mountains of carrara. galileo was wont to make observations "at evening from the top of fiesole," and the square tower of the old church is still pointed out as the spot. many a night did he ascend to its projecting terrace, and watch the stars as they rolled around through the clearest heaven to which a philosopher ever looked up. we passed through an orchard of fig trees, and vines laden with beautiful purple and golden clusters, and in a few minutes reached the remains of an amphitheatre, in a little nook on the mountain side. this was a work of roman construction, as its form indicates. three or four ranges of seats alone, are laid bare, and these have only been discovered within a few years. a few steps further we came to a sort of cavern, overhung with wild fig-trees. after creeping in at the entrance, we found ourselves in an oval chamber, tall enough to admit of our standing upright, and rudely but very strongly built. this was one of the dens in which the wild beasts were kept; they were fed by a hole in the top, now closed up. this cell communicates with four or five others, by apertures broken in the walls. i stepped into one, and could see in the dim light, that it was exactly similar to the first, and opened into another beyond. further down the mountain we found the ancient wall of the city, without doubt of etrurian origin. it is of immense blocks of stone, and extends more or less dilapidated around the whole brow of the mountain. in one place there stands a solitary gateway, of large stones, which looks as if it might have been one of the first attempts at using the principle of the arch. these ruins are all gray and ivied, and it startles one to think what a history earth has lived through since their foundations were laid! we sat all the afternoon under the cypress trees and looked down on the lovely valley, practising italian sometimes with two young florentines who came up to enjoy the "_bell'aria_" of fiesole. descending as sunset drew on, we reached the porta san gallo, as the people of florence were issuing forth to their evening promenade. one of my first visits was to the church of santa croce. this is one of the oldest in florence, venerated alike by foreigners and citizens, for the illustrious dead whose remains it holds. it is a plain, gloomy pile, the front of which is still unfinished, though at the base, one sees that it was originally designed to be covered with black marble. on entering the door we first saw the tomb of michael angelo. around the marble sarcophagus which contains his ashes are three mourning figures, representing sculpture, painting and architecture, and his bust stands above--a rough, stern countenance, like a man of vast but unrefined mind. further on are the tombs of alfieri and machiavelli and the colossal cenotaph lately erected to dante. opposite reposes galileo. what a world of renown in these few names! it makes one venerate the majesty of his race, to stand beside the dust of such lofty spirits. dante's monument may be said to be only erected to his memory; he sleeps at the place of his exile, "like scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore!" it is the work of ricci, a florentine artist, and has been placed there within a few years. the colossal figure of poetry weeping over the empty urn, might better express the regret of florence in being deprived of his ashes. the figure of dante himself, seated above, is grand and majestic; his head is inclined as if in meditation, and his features bear the expression of sublime thought. were this figure placed there alone, on a simple and massive pedestal, it would be more in keeping with his fame than the lumbering heaviness of the present monument. machiavelli's tomb is adorned with a female figure representing history, bearing his portrait. the inscription, which seems to be somewhat exaggerated, is: _tanto nomini nullum par elogium_. near lies alfieri, the "prince of tragedy," as he is called by the italians. in his life he was fond of wandering among the tombs of santa croce, and it is said that there the first desire and presentiment of his future glory stirred within his breast. now he slumbers among them, not the least honored name of that immortal company. galileo's tomb is adorned with his bust. his face is calm and dignified, and he holds appropriately in his hands, a globe and telescope. aretino, the historian, lies on his tomb with a copy of his works clasped to his breast; above that of lanzi, the historian of painting, there is a beautiful fresco of the angel of fame; and opposite to him is the scholar lamio. the most beautiful monument in the church is that of a polish princess, in the transept. she is lying on the bier, her features settled in the repose of death, and her thin, pale hands clasped across her breast. the countenance wears that half-smile, "so coldly sweet and sadly fair," which so often throws a beauty over the face of the dead, and the light pall reveals the fixed yet graceful outline of the form. in that part of the city, which lies on the south bank of the arno, is the palace of the grand duke, known by the name of the palazzo pitti, from a florentine noble of that name, by whom it was first built. it is a very large, imposing pile, preserving an air of lightness in spite of the rough, heavy stones of which it is built. it is another example of a magnificent failure. the marquis strozzi, having built a palace which was universally admired for its beauty, (which stands yet, a model of chaste and massive elegance,) his rival, the marquis pitti, made the proud boast that he would build a palace, in the court-yard of which could bo placed that of strozzi. these are actually the dimensions of the court-yard; but in building the palace, although he was liberally assisted by the florentine people, he ruined himself, and his magnificent residence passed into other hands, while that of strozzi is inhabited by his descendants to this very day. the gallery of the palazzo pitti is one of the finest in europe. it contains six or seven hundred paintings, selected from the best works of the italian masters. by the praiseworthy liberality of the duke, they are open to the public, six hours every day, and the rooms are thronged with artists of all nations. among titian's works, there is his celebrated "bella," a half-length figure of a young woman. it is a masterpiece of warm and brilliant coloring, without any decided expression. the countenance is that of vague, undefined thought, as of one who knew as yet nothing of the realities of life. in another room is his magdalen, a large, voluptuous form, with her brown hair falling like a veil over her shoulders and breast, but in her upturned countenance one can sooner read a prayer for an absent lover than repentance for sins she has committed. what could excel in beauty the _madonna della sedia_ of raphael? it is another of those works of that divine artist, on which we gaze and gaze with a never-tiring enjoyment of its angelic beauty. to my eye it is faultless; i could not wish a single outline of form, a single shade of color changed. like his unrivalled madonna in the dresden gallery, its beauty is spiritual as well as earthly; and while gazing on the glorious countenance of the jesus-child, i feel an impulse i can scarcely explain--a longing to tear it from the canvas as if it were a breathing form, and clasp it to my heart in a glow of passionate love. what a sublime inspiration raphael must have felt when he painted it! judging from its effect on the beholder, i can conceive of no higher mental excitement than that required to create it. here are also some of the finest and best preserved pictures of salvator rosa, and his portrait--a wild head, full of spirit and genius. besides several landscapes in his savage and stormy style, there are two large sea-views, in which the atmosphere is of a deep and exquisite softness, without impairing the strength and boldness of the composition. "a battle scene," is terrible. hundreds of combatants are met in the shock and struggle of conflict. horses, mailed knights, vassals are mixed together in wild confusion; banners are waving and lances flashing amid the dust and smoke, while the wounded and dying are trodden under foot in darkness and blood. i now first begin to comprehend the power and sublimity of his genius. from the wildness and gloom of his pictures, he might almost be called the byron of painters. there is a small group of the "fates," by michael angelo, which is one of the best of the few pictures which remain of him. as is well known, he disliked the art, saying it was only fit for women. this picture shows, however, how much higher he might have gone, had he been so inclined. the three weird sisters are ghostly and awful--the one who stands behind, holding the distaff, almost frightful. she who stands ready to cut the thread as it is spun out, has a slight trace of pity on her fixed and unearthly lineaments. it is a faithful embodiment of the old greek idea of the fates. i have wondered why some artist has not attempted the subject in a different way. in the northern mythology they are represented as wild maidens, armed with swords and mounted on fiery coursers. why might they not also be pictured as angels, with countenances of a sublime and mysterious beauty--one all radiant with hope and promise of glory, and one with the token of a better future mingled with the sadness with which it severs the links of life? there are many, many other splendid works in this collection, but it is unnecessary to mention them. i have only endeavored, by taking a few of the best known, to give some idea of them as they appear to me. there are hundreds of pictures here, which, though gems in themselves, are by masters who are rarely heard of in america, and it would be of little interest to go through the gallery, describing it in guide-book fashion. indeed, to describe galleries, however rich and renowned they may be, is in general a work of so much difficulty, that i know not whether the writer or the reader is made most tired thereby. this collection possesses also the celebrated statue of venus, by canova. she stands in the centre of a little apartment, filled with the most delicate and graceful works of painting. although undoubtedly a figure of great beauty, it by no means struck me as possessing that exquisite and classic perfection which has been ascribed to it. the venus de medici far surpasses it. the head is larger in proportion to the size of the body, than that of the latter, but has not the same modest, virgin expression. the arm wrapped in the robe which she is pressing to her breast, is finely executed, but the fingers of the other hand are bad--looking, as my friend said, as if the ends were _whittled_ off! the body is, however, of fine proportions, though, taken as a whole, the statue is inferior to many other of canova's works. occupying all the hill back of the pitti palace, are the boboli gardens, three times a week the great resort of the florentines. they are said to be the most beautiful gardens in italy. numberless paths, diverging from a magnificent amphitheatre in the old roman style, opposite the court-yard, lend either in long flights of steps and terraces, or gentle windings among beds sweet with roses, to the summit. long avenues, entirely arched and interwoven with the thick foliage of the laurel, which here grows to a tree, stretch along the slopes or wind in the woods through thickets of the fragrant bay. parterres, rich with flowers and shrubbery, alternate with delightful groves of the italian pine, acacia and laurel-leaved oak, and along the hillside, gleaming among the foliage, are placed statues of marble, some of which are from the chisels of michael angelo and bandinelli. in one part there is a little sheet of water, with an island of orange-trees in the centre, from which a broad avenue of cypresses and statues leads to the very summit of the hill. we often go there to watch the sun set over florence and the vale of the arno. the palace lies directly below, and a clump of pine-trees on the hillside, that stand out in bold relief on the glowing sky, makes the foreground to one of the loveliest pictures this side of the atlantic. i saw one afternoon the grand duke and his family get into their carriage to drive out. one of the little dukes, who seemed a mischievous imp, ran out on a projection of the portico, where considerable persuasion had to be used to induce him to jump into the arms of his royal papa. i turned from these titled infants to watch a group of beautiful american children playing, for my attention was drawn to them by the sound of familiar words, and i learned afterwards they were the children of the sculptor powers. i contrasted involuntarily the destinies of each;--one to the enjoyment and proud energy of freedom, and one to the confining and vitiating atmosphere of a court. the merry voices of the latter, as they played on the grass, came to my ears most gratefully. there is nothing so sweet as to hear one's native tongue in a foreign land from the lips of children! chapter xxxv. a pilgrimage to vallombrosa. a pilgrimage to vallombrosa!--in sooth it has a romantic sound. the phrase calls up images of rosaries, and crosses, and shaven-headed friars. had we lived in the olden days, such things might verily have accompanied our journey to that holy monastery. we might then have gone barefoot, saying prayers as we toiled along the banks of the arno and up the steep appenines, as did benevenuto cellini, before he poured the melted bronze into the mould of his immortal perseus. but we are pilgrims to the shrines of art and genius; the dwelling-places of great minds are our sanctuaries. the mean dwelling, in which a poet has battled down poverty with the ecstacy of his mighty conceptions, and the dungeon in which a persecuted philosopher has languished, are to us sacred; we turn aside from the palaces of kings and the battle-fields of conquerors, to visit them. the famed miracles of san giovanni gualberto added little, in our eyes, to the interest of vallombrosa, but there were reverence and inspiration in the names of dante, milton, and ariosto. we left florence early, taking the way that leads from the porta della croce, up the north bank of the arno. it was a bright morning, but there was a shade of vapor on the hills, which a practised eye might have taken as a prognostic of the rain that too soon came on. fiesole, with its tower and acropolis, stood out brightly from the blue background, and the hill of san miniato lay with its cypress groves in the softest morning light. the _contadini_ were driving into the city in their basket wagons, and there were some fair young faces among them, that made us think italian beauty was not altogether in the imagination. after walking three or four miles, we entered the appenines, keeping along the side of the arno, whose bed is more than half dried up from the long summer heats. the mountain sides were covered with vineyards, glowing with their wealth of white and purple grapes, but the summits were naked and barren. we passed through the little town of ponte sieve, at the entrance of a romantic valley, where our view of the arno was made more interesting by the lofty range of the appenines, amid whose forests we could see the white front of the monastery of vallombrosa. but the clouds sank low and hid it from sight, and the rain came on so hard that we were obliged to take shelter occasionally in the cottages by the wayside. in one of these we made a dinner of the hard, black bread of the country, rendered palatable by the addition of mountain cheese and some chips of an antique bologna sausage. we were much amused in conversing with the simple hosts and their shy, gipsy-like children, one of whom, a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy, bore the name of raphael. we also became acquainted with a shoemaker and his family, who owned a little olive orchard and vineyard, which they said produced enough to support them. wishing to know much a family of six consumed in a year, we inquired the yield of their property. they answered, twenty small barrels of wine, and ten of oil. it was nearly sunset when we reached pellago, and the wet walk and coarse fare we were obliged to take on the road, well qualified us to enjoy the excellent supper the pleasant landlady gave us. this little town is among the appenines, at the foot of the magnificent mountain of vallombrosa. what a blessing it was for milton, that he saw its loveliness before his eyes closed on this beautiful earth, and gained from it another hue in which to dip his pencil, when he painted the bliss of eden! i watched the hills all day as we approached them, and thought how often his eyes had rested on their outlines, and how he had carried their forms in his memory for many a sunless year. the banished dante, too, had trodden them, flying from his ungrateful country; and many another, whose genius has made him a beacon in the dark sea of the world's history. it is one of those places where the enjoyment is all romance, and the blood thrills as we gaze upon it. we started early next morning, crossed the ravine, and took the well-paved way to the monastery along the mountain side. the stones are worn smooth by the sleds in which ladies and provisions are conveyed up, drawn by the beautiful white tuscan oxen. the hills are covered with luxuriant chesnut and oak trees, of those picturesque forms which they only wear in italy: one wild dell in particular is much resorted to by painters for the ready-made foregrounds it supplies. further on, we passed the _paterno_, a rich farm belonging to the monks. the vines which hung from tree to tree, were almost breaking beneath clusters as heavy and rich as those which the children of israel bore on staves from the promised land. of their flavor, we can say, from experience, they were worthy to have grown in paradise. we then entered a deep dell of the mountain, where little shepherd girls were sitting on the rocks tending their sheep and spinning with their fingers from a distaff, in the same manner, doubtless, as the roman shepherdesses two thousand years ago. gnarled, gray olive trees, centuries old, grew upon the bare soil, and a little rill fell in many a tiny cataract down the glen. by a mill, in one of the coolest and wildest nooks i ever saw, two of us acted the part of water-spirits under one of these, to the great astonishment of four peasants, who watched us from a distance. beyond, our road led through forests of chesnut and oak, and a broad view of mountain and vale lay below us. we asked a peasant boy we met, how much land the monks of vallombrosa possessed. "_all that you see_!" was the reply. the dominion of the good fathers reached once even to the gates of florence. at length, about noon, we emerged from the woods into a broad avenue leading across a lawn, at whose extremity stood the massivs buildings of the monastery. on a rock that towered above it, was the _paradisino_, beyond which rose the mountain, covered with forests-- "shade above shade, a woody theatre. of stateliest view"-- as milton describes it. we were met at the entrance by a young monk in cowl and cassock, to whom we applied for permission to stay till the next day, which was immediately given. brother placido (for that was his name) then asked us if we would not have dinner. we replied that our appetites were none the worse for climbing the mountain; and in half an hour sat down to a dinner, the like of which we had not seen for a long time. verily, thought i, it must be a pleasant thing to be a monk, after all!--that is, a monk of vallombrosa. in the afternoon we walked through a grand pine forest to the western brow of the mountain, where a view opened which it would require a wonderful power of the imagination for you to see in fancy, as i did in reality. from the height where we stood, the view was uninterrupted to the mediterranean, a distance of more than seventy miles; a valley watered by a brunch of the arno swept far to the east, to the mountains near the luke of thrasymene; northwestwards the hills of carrara bordered the horizon; the space between these wide points was filled with mountains and valleys, all steeped in that soft blue mist which makes italian landscapes more like heavenly visions than realities. florence was visible afar off, and the current of the arno flashed in the sun. a cool and almost chilling wind blew constantly over the mountain, although the country below basked in summer heat. we lay on the rocks, and let our souls luxuriate in the lovely scene till near sunset. brother placido brought us supper in the evening, with his ever-smiling countenance, and we soon after went to our beds in the neat, plain chambers, to get rid of the unpleasant coldness. next morning it was damp and misty, and thick clouds rolled down the forests towards the convent. i set out for the "little paradise," taking in my way the pretty cascade which falls some fifty feet down the rocks. the building is not now as it was when milton lived here, having been rebuilt within a short time. i found no one there, and satisfied my curiosity by climbing over the wall and looking in at the windows. a little chapel stands in a cleft of the rock below, to mark the miraculous escape of st. john gualberto, founder of the monastery. being one day very closely pursued by the devil, he took shelter under the rock, which immediately became soft and admitted him into it, while the fiend, unable to stop, was precipitated over the steep. all this is related in a latin inscription, and we saw a large hollow in the rock near, which must have been intended for the imprint left by his sacred person. one of the monks told us another legend, concerning a little chapel which stands alone on a wild part of the mountain, above a rough pile of crags, called the "peak of the devil." "in the time of san giovanni gualberto, the holy founder of our order," said he, "there was a young man, of a noble family in florence, who was so moved by the words of the saintly father, that he forsook the world, wherein he had lived with great luxury and dissipation, and became monk. but, after a time, being young and tempted again by the pleasures he had renounced, he put off the sacred garments. the holy san giovanni warned him of the terrible danger in which he stood, and at length the wicked young man returned. it was not a great while, however, before he became dissatisfied, and in spite all holy counsel, did the same thing again. but behold what happened! as he was walking along the peak where the chapel stands, thinking nothing of his great crime, the devil sprang suddenly from behind a rock, and catching the young man in his arms, before he could escape, carried him with a dreadful noise and a great red flame and smoke over the precipice, so that he was never afterwards seen." the church attached to the monastery is small, but very solemn and venerable. i went several times to muse in its still, gloomy aisle, and hear the murmuring chant of the monks, who went through their exercises in some of the chapels. at one time i saw them all, in long black cassocks, march in solemn order to the chapel of st. john gualberto, where they sang a deep chant, which to me had something awful and sepulchral in it. behind the high altar i saw their black, carved chairs of polished oak, with ponderous gilded foliants lying on the rails before them. the attendant opened one of these, that we might see the manuscript notes, three or four centuries old, from which they sung. we were much amused in looking through two or three italian books, which were lying in the traveler's room. one of these which our friend mr. tandy, of kentucky, read, described the miracles of the patron saint with an air of the most ridiculous solemnity. the other was a description of the monastery, its foundation, history, etc. in mentioning its great and far-spread renown, the author stated then even an english poet, by the name of milton, had mentioned it in the following lines, which i copied verbatim from the book: "thick as autumnal scaves that strow she brooks in vallombrosa, whereth etruian jades stigh over orch d'embrover!" in looking over the stranger's book, i found among the names of my countrymen, that of s. v. clevenger, the talented and lamented sculptor who died at sea on his passage home. there were also the names of mrs. shelley and the princess potemkin, and i saw written on the wall, the autograph of jean reboul, the celebrated modern french poet. we were so delighted with the place we would have stayed another day, but for fear of trepassing too much on the lavish and unceasing hospitality of the good fathers. so in the afternoon we shook hands with brother placido, and turned our backs regretfully upon one of the loneliest and loveliest spots of which earth can boast. the sky became gradually clear as we descended, and the mist raised itself from the distant mountains. we ran down through the same chesnut groves, diverging a little to go through the village of tosi, which is very picturesque when seen from a distance, but extremely dirty to one passing through. i stopped in the ravine below to take a sketch of the mill and bridge, and as we sat, the line of golden sunlight rose higher on the mountains above. on walking down the shady side of this glen, we were enraptured with the scenery. a brilliant yet mellow glow lay over the whole opposing height, lighting up the houses of tosi and the white cottages half seen among the olives, while the mountain of vallombrosa stretched far heavenward like a sunny painting, with only a misty wreath floating and waving around its summit. the glossy foliage of the chesnuts was made still brighter by the warm light, and the old olives softened down into a silvery gray, whose contrast gave the landscape a character of the mellowest beauty. as we wound out of the deep glen, the broad valleys and ranges of the appenines lay before us, forests, castles and villages steeped in the soft, vapory blue of the italian atmosphere, and the current of the arno flashing like a golden belt through the middle of the picture. the sun was nearly down, and the mountains just below him were of a deep purple hue, while those that ran out to the eastward wore the most aerial shade of blue. a few scattered clouds, floating above, soon put on the sunset robe of orange and a band of the same soft color encircled the western horizon. it did not reach half way to the zenith, however; the sky above was blue, of such a depth and transparency, that to gaze upward was like looking into eternity. then how softly and soothingly the twilight came on! how deep a hush sank on the chesnut glades, broken only by the song of the cicada, chirping its "good-night carol!" the mountains, too, how majestic they stood in their deep purple outlines! sweet, sweet italy! i can feel now how the soul may cling to thee, since thou canst thus gratify its insatiable thirst for the beautiful. even thy plainest scene is clothed in hues that seem borrowed of heaven! in the twilight, more radiant than light, and the stillness, more eloquent than music, which sink down over the sunny beauty of thy shores, there is a silent, intense poetry that stirs the soul through all its impassioned depths. with warm, blissful tears filling the eyes and a heart overflowing with its own bright fancies, i wander in the solitude and calm of such a time, and love thee as if i were a child of thy soil! chapter xxxvi. walk to siena and pratolino--incidents in florence. _october ._--my cousin, being anxious to visit rome, and reach heidelberg before the commencement of the winter semestre, set out towards the end of september, on foot. we accompanied him as far as siena, forty miles distant. as i shall most probably take another road to the eternal city, the present is a good opportunity to say something of that romantic old town, so famous throughout italy for the honesty of its inhabitants. we dined the first day, seventeen miles from florence, at tavenella, where, for a meagre dinner the hostess had the assurance to ask us seven pauls. we told her we would give but four and a half, and by assuming a decided manner, with a plentiful use of the word "signora" she was persuaded to be fully satisfied with the latter sum. from a height near, we could see the mountains coasting the mediterranean, and shortly after, on descending a long hill, the little town of poggibonsi lay in the warm afternoon light, on an eminence before us. it was soon passed with its dusky towers, then stagia looking desolate in its ruined and ivied walls, and following the advice of a peasant, we stopped for the night at the inn of querciola. as we knew something of italian by this time, we thought it best to inquire the price of lodging, before entering. the _padrone_ asked if we meant to take supper also. we answered in the affirmative; "then," said he, "you will pay half a paul (about five emits) apiece for a bed." we passed under the swinging bunch of boughs, which in italy is the universal sign of an inn for the common people, and entered the bare, smoky room appropriated to travelers. a long table, with well-worn benches, were the only furniture; we threw our knapsacks on one end of it and sat down, amusing ourselves while supper was preparing, in looking at a number of grotesque charcoal drawings on the wall, which the flaring light of our tall iron lamp revealed to us. at length the hostess, a kindly-looking woman, with a white handkerchief folded gracefully around her head, brought us a dish of fried eggs, which, with the coarse black bread of the peasants and a basket full of rich grapes, made us an excellent supper. we slept on mattresses stuffed with corn husks, placed on square iron frames, which are the bedsteads most used in italy. a brightly-painted caricature of some saint or a rough crucifix, trimmed with bay leaves, hung at the head of each bed, and under their devout protection we enjoyed a safe and unbroken slumber. next morning we set out early to complete the remaining ten miles to siena. the only thing of interest on the road, is the ruined wall and battlements of castiglione, circling a high hill and looking as old as the days of etruria. the towers of siena are seen at some distance, but approaching it from this side, the traveler does not perceive its romantic situation until he arrives. it stands on a double hill, which is very steep on some sides; the hollow between the two peaks is occupied by the great public square, ten or fifteen feet lower than the rest of the city. we left our knapsacks at a _cafè_ and sought the celebrated cathedral, which stands in the highest part of the town, forming with its flat dome and lofty marble tower, an apex to the pyramidal mass of buildings. the interior is rich and elegantly perfect. every part is of black and white marble, in what i should call the _striped_ style, which has a singular but agreeable effect. the inside of the dome and the vaulted ceilings of the chapels, are of blue, with golden stars; the pavement in the centre is so precious a work that it is kept covered with boards and only shown once a year. there are some pictures of great value in this cathedral; one of "the descent of the dove," is worthy of the best days of italian art. in an adjoining chamber, with frescoed walls, and a beautiful tesselated pavement, is the library, consisting of a few huge old volumes, which with their brown covers and brazen clasps, look as much like a collection of flat leather trunks as any thing else. in the centre of the room stands the mutilated group of the grecian graces, found in digging the foundation of the cathedral. the figures are still beautiful and graceful, with that exquisite curve of outline which is such a charm in the antique statues. canova has only perfected the idea in his celebrated group, which is nearly a copy of this. we strolled through the square and then accompanied our friend to the roman gate, where we took leave of him for six months at least. he felt lonely at the thought of walking in italy without a companion, but was cheered by the anticipation of soon reaching rome. we watched him awhile, walking rapidly over the hot plain towards radicofani, and then, turning our faces with much pleasure towards florence, we commenced the return walk. i must not forget to mention the delicious grapes which we bought, begged and stole on the way. the whole country is like one vineyard--and the people live, in a great measure, on the fruit, during this part of the year. would you not think it highly romantic and agreeable to sit in the shade of a cypress grove, beside some old weather-beaten statues, looking out over the vales of the appenines, with a pile of white and purple grapes beside you, the like of which can scarcely be had in america for love or money, and which had been given you by a dark-eyed peasant girl? if so, you may envy us, for such was exactly our situation on the morning before reaching florence. being in the duomo, two or three days ago, i met a german traveler, who has walked through italy thus far, and intends continuing his journey to rome and naples. his name is von raumer. he was well acquainted with the present state of america, and i derived much pleasure from his intelligent conversation. we concluded to ascend the cupola in company. two black-robed boys led the way; after climbing an infinite number of steps, we reached the gallery around the foot of the dome. the glorious view of that paradise, the vale of the arno, shut in on all sides by mountains, some bare and desolate, some covered with villas, gardens, and groves, lay in soft, hazy light, with the shadows of a few light clouds moving slowly across it. they next took us to a gallery on the inside of the dome, where we first saw the immensity of its structure. only from a distant view, or in ascending it, can one really measure its grandeur. the frescoes, which from below appear the size of life, are found to be rough and monstrous daubs; each figure being nearly as many fathoms in length as a man is feet. continuing our ascent, we mounted between the inside and outside shells of the dome. it was indeed a bold idea for brunelleschi to raise such a mass in air. the dome of saint peter's, which is scarcely as large, was not made until a century after, and this was, therefore, the first attempt at raising one on so grand a scale. it seems still as solid as if just built. there was a small door in one of the projections of the lantern, which the sacristan told us to enter and ascend still higher. supposing there was a fine view to be gained, two priests, who had just come up, entered it; the german followed, and i after him. after crawling in at the low door, we found ourselves in a hollow pillar, little wider than our bodies. looking up, i saw the german's legs just above my head, while the other two were above him, ascending by means of little iron bars fastened in the marble. the priests were very much amused, and the german said:--"this is the first time i ever learned chimney-sweeping!" we emerged at length into a hollow cone, hot and dark, with a rickety ladder going up somewhere; we could not see where. the old priest, not wishing to trust himself to it, sent his younger brother up, and we shouted after him:--"what kind of a view have you?" he climbed up till the cone got so narrow he could go no further, and answered back in the darkness:--"i see nothing at all!" shortly after he came down, covered with dust and cobwebs, and we all descended the chimney quicker than we went up. the old priest considered it a good joke, and laughed till his fat sides shook. we asked the sacristan why he sent us up, and he answered:--"to see _the construction of the church_!" i attended service in the cathedral one dark, rainy morning, and was never before so deeply impressed with the majesty and grandeur of the mighty edifice. the thick, cloudy atmosphere darkened still more the light which came through the stained windows, and a solemn twilight reigned in the long aisles. the mighty dome sprang far aloft, as if it enclosed a part of heaven, for the light that struggled through the windows around its base, lay in broad bars on the blue, hazy air. i would not have been surprised at seeing a cloud float along within it. the lofty burst of the organ, that seemed like the pantings of a monster, boomed echoing away through dome and nave, with a chiming, metallic vibration, that shook the massive pillars which it would defy an earthquake to rend. all was wrapped in dusky obscurity, except where, in the side-chapels, crowns of tapers were burning around the images. one knows not which most to admire, the genius which could conceive, or the perseverance which could accomplish such a work, on one side of the square, the colossal statue of the architect, glorious old brunelleschi, is most appropriately placed, looking up with pride at his performance. the sunshine and genial airs of italy have gone, leaving instead a cold, gloomy sky and chilling winds. the autumnal season has fairly commenced, and i suppose i must bid adieu to the brightness which made me in love with the land. the change has been no less sudden than unpleasant, and if, as they say, it will continue all winter with little variation, i shall have to seek a clearer climate. in the cold of these european winters, there is, as i observed last year in germany, a dull, damp chill, quite different from the bracing, exhilarating frosts of america. it stagnates the vital principle and leaves the limbs dull and heavy, with a lifeless feeling which can scarcely be overcome by vigorous action. at least, such has been my experience. we lately made an excursion to pratolino, on the appenines, to see the vintage and the celebrated colossus, by john of bologna. leaving florence in the morning, with a cool, fresh wind blowing down from the mountains, we began ascending by the road to bologna. we passed fiesole with its tower and acropolis on the right, ascending slowly, with the bold peak of one of the loftiest appenines on our left. the abundant fruit of the olive was beginning to turn brown, and the grapes were all gathered in from the vineyards, but we learned from a peasant boy that the vintage was not finished at pratolino. we finally arrived at an avenue shaded with sycamores, leading to the royal park. the vintagers were busy in the fields around, unloading the vines of their purple tribute, and many a laugh and jest among the merry peasants enlivened the toil. we assisted them in disposing of some fine clusters, and then sought the "colossus of the appenines." he stands above a little lake, at the head of a long mountain-slope, broken with clumps of magnificent trees. this remarkable figure, the work of john of bologna, impresses one like a relic of the titans. he is represented as half-kneeling, supporting himself with one hand, while the other is pressed upon the head of a dolphin, from which a little stream falls into the lake. the height of the figure when erect, would amount to more than sixty feet! we measured one of the feet, which is a single piece of rock, about eight feet long; from the ground to the top of one knee is nearly twenty feet. the limbs are formed of pieces of stone, joined together, and the body of stone and brick. his rough hair and eyebrows, and the beard, which reached nearly to the ground, are formed of stalactites, taken from caves, and fastened together in a dripping and crusted mass. these hung also from his limbs and body, and gave him the appearance of winter in his mail of icicles. by climbing up the rocks at his back, we entered his body, which contains a small-sized room; it was even possible to ascend through his neck and look out at his ear! the face is in keeping with the figure--stern and grand, and the architect (one can hardly say sculptor) has given to it the majestic air and sublimity of the appenines. but who can build up _an image of the alp_? we visited the factory on the estate, where wine and oil are made. the men had just brought in a cart load of large wooden vessels, filled with grapes, which they were mashing with heavy wooden pestles. when the grapes were pretty well reduced to pulp and juice, they emptied them into an enormous tub, which they told us would be covered air-tight, and left for three or four weeks, after which the wine would be drawn off at the bottom. they showed us also a great stone mill for grinding olives; this estate of the grand duke produces five hundred barrels of wine and a hundred and fifty of oil, every year. the former article is the universal beverage of the laboring classes in italy, or i might say of all classes; it is, however, the pure blood of the grape, and although used in such quantities, one sees little drunkenness--far less than in our own land. tuscany enjoys at present a more liberal government than any other part of italy, and the people are, in many respects, prosperous and happy. the grand duke, although enjoying almost absolute privileges, is disposed to encourage every measure which may promote the welfare of his subjects. the people are, indeed, very heavily taxed, but this is less severely felt by them, than it would be by the inhabitants of colder climes. the soil produces with little labor all that is necessary for their support; though kept constantly in a state of comparative poverty, they appear satisfied with their lot, and rarely look further than the necessities of the present. in love with the delightful climate, they cherish their country, fallen as she is, and are rarely induced to leave her. even the wealthier classes of the italians travel very little; they can learn the manners and habits of foreigners nearly as well in their own country as elsewhere, and they prefer their own hills of olive and vine to the icy grandeur of the alps or the rich and garden-like beauty of england. but, although this sweet climate, with its wealth of sunlight and balmy airs, may enchant the traveler for awhile and make him wish at times that his whole life might be spent amid such scenes, it exercises a most enervating influence on those who are born to its enjoyment. it relaxes mental and physical energy, and disposes body and mind to dreamy inactivity. the italians, as a race, are indolent and effeminate. of the moral dignity of man they have little conception. those classes who are engaged in active occupation seem even destitute of common honesty, practising all kinds of deceits in the most open manner and apparently without the least shame. the state of morals is lower than in any other country of europe; what little virtue exists is found among the peasants. many of the most sacred obligations of society are universally violated, and as a natural consequence, the people are almost entire strangers to that domestic happiness, which constitutes the true enjoyment of life. this dark shadow in the moral atmosphere of italy hangs like a curse on her beautiful soil, weakening the sympathies of citizens of freer lands with her fallen condition. i often feel vividly the sentiment which percival puts into the mouth of a greek in slavery: "the spring may here with autumn twine and both combined may rule the year, and fresh-blown flowers and racy wine in frosted clusters still be near-- dearer the wild and snowy hills where hale and ruddy freedom smiles." no people can ever become truly great or free, who are not virtuous. if the soul aspires for liberty--pure and perfect liberty--it also aspires for everything that is noble in truth, everything that is holy in virtue. it is greatly to be feared that all those nervous and impatient efforts which have been made and are still being made by the italian people to better their condition, will be of little avail, until they set up a better standard of principle and make their private actions more conformable with their ideas of political independence. _oct. ._--i attended to-day the fall races at the _cascine_. this is a dairy farm of the grand duke on the arno, below the city; part of it, shaded with magnificent trees, has been made into a public promenade and drive, which extends for three miles down the river. towards the lower end, on a smooth green lawn, is the race-course. to-day was the last of the season, for which the best trials had been reserved; on passing out the gate at noon, we found a number of carriages and pedestrians going the same way. it was the very perfection of autumn temperature, and i do not remember to have ever seen so blue hills, so green meadows, so fresh air and so bright sunshine combined in one scene before. all that gloom and coldness of which i lately complained has vanished. traveling increases very much one's capacity for admiration. every beautiful scene appears as beautiful as if it had been the first; and although i may have seen a hundred times as lovely a combination of sky and landscape, the pleasure which it awakens is never diminished. this is one of the greatest blessings we enjoy--the freshness and glory which nature wears to our eyes forever. it shows that the soul never grows old--that the eye of age can take in the impression of beauty with the same enthusiastic joy that leaped through the heart of childhood. we found the crowd around the race-course but thin; half the people there, and _all_ the horses, appeared to be english. it was a good place to observe the beauty of florence, which however, may be done in a short time, as there is not much of it. there is beauty in italy, undoubtedly, but it is either among the peasants or the higher class of nobility. i will tell our american women confidentially, for i know they have too much sense to be vain of it, that they surpass the rest of the world as much in beauty as they do in intelligence and virtue. i saw in one of the carriages the wife of alexander dumas, the french author. she is a large, fair complexioned woman, and is now, from what cause i know not, living apart from her husband. the jockeys paced up and down the fields, preparing their beautiful animals for the approaching heat, and as the hour drew nigh the mounted dragoons busied themselves in clearing the space. it was a one-mile course, to the end of the lawn and back. at last the bugle sounded, and off went three steeds like arrows let fly. they passed us, their light limbs bounding over the turf, a beautiful dark-brown taking the lead. we leaned over the railing and watched them eagerly. the bell rang--they reached the other end--we saw them turn and come dashing back, nearer, nearer; the crowd began to shout, and in a few seconds the brown one had won it by four or five lengths. the fortunate horse was led around in triumph, and i saw an english lady, remarkable for her betting propensities, come out from the crowd and kiss it in apparent delight. after an interval, three others took the field--all graceful, spirited creatures. this was a more exciting race than the first; they flew past us nearly abreast, and the crowd looked after them in anxiety. they cleared the course like wild deer, and in a minute or two came back, the racer of an english nobleman a short distance ahead. the jockey threw up his hand in token of triumph as he approached the goal, and the people cheered him. it was a beautiful sight to see those noble animals stretching to the utmost of their speed, as they dashed down the grassy lawn. the lucky one always showed by his proud and erect carriage, his consciousness of success. florence is fast becoming modernized. the introduction of gas, and the construction of the railroad to pisa, which is nearly completed, will make sad havoc with the air of poetry which still lingers in its silent streets. there is scarcely a bridge, a tower, or a street, which is not connected with some stirring association. in the via san felice, raphael used to paint when a boy; near the ponte santa trinita stands michael angelo's house, with his pictures, clothes, and painting implements, just as he left it three centuries ago; on the south side of the arno is the house of galileo, and that of machiavelli stands in an avenue near the ducal palace. while threading my way through some dark, crooked streets in an unfrequented part of the city, i noticed an old, untenanted house, bearing a marble tablet above the door. i drew near and read:--"in this house of the alighieri was born the divine poet!" it was the birth-place of dante! _nov. ._--yesterday morning we were apprised of the safe arrival of a new scion of the royal family in the world by the ringing of the city bells. to-day, to celebrate the event, the shops were closed, and the people made a holiday of it. merry chimes pealed out from every tower, and discharges of cannon thundered up from the fortress. in the evening the dome of the cathedral was illuminated, and the lines of cupola, lantern, and cross were traced in flame on the dark sky, like a crown of burning stars dropped from heaven on the holy pile. i went in and walked down the aisle, listening for awhile to the grand choral, while the clustered tapers under the dome quivered and trembled, as if shaken by the waves of music which burst continually within its lofty concave. a few days ago prince corsini, prime minister of tuscany, died at an advanced age. i saw his body brought in solemn procession by night, with torches and tapers, to the church of santa trinita. soldiers followed with reversed arms and muffled drums, the band playing a funeral march. i forced myself through the crowd into the church, which was hung with black and gold, and listened to the long drawn chanting of the priests around the bier. we lately visited the florentine museum. besides the usual collection of objects of natural history, there is an anatomical cabinet, very celebrated for its preparations in wax. all parts of the human frame are represented so wonderfully exact, that students of medicine pursue their studies here in summer with the same facility as from real "subjects." every bone, muscle, and nerve in the body is perfectly counterfeited, the whole forming a collection as curious as it is useful. one chamber is occupied with representations of the plague of rome, milan, and florence. they are executed with horrible truth to nature, but i regretted afterwards having seen them. there are enough forms of beauty and delight in the world on which to employ the eye, without making it familiar with scenes which can only be remembered with a shudder. we derive much pleasure from the society of the american artists who are now residing in florence. at the houses of powers, and brown, the painter, we spend many delightful evenings in the company of our gifted countrymen. they are drawn together by a kindred, social feeling as well as by their mutual aims, and form among themselves a society so unrestrained, american-like, that the traveler who meets them forgets his absence for a time. these noble representatives of our country, all of whom possess the true, inborn spirit of republicanism, have made the american name known and respected in florence. powers, especially, who is intimate with many of the principal italian families, is universally esteemed. the grand duke has more than once visited his studio and expressed the highest admiration of his talents. chapter xxxvii. american art in florence. i have seen ibrahim pacha, the son of old mehemet ali, driving in his carriage through the streets. he is hero on a visit from lucca, where he has been spending some time on account of his health. he is a man of apparently fifty years of age; his countenance wears a stern and almost savage look, very consistent with the character he bears and the political part he has played. he is rather portly in person, the pale olive of his complexion contrasting strongly with a beard perfectly white. in common with all his attendants, he wears the high red cap, picturesque blue tunic and narrow trowsers of the egyptians. there is scarcely a man of them whose face with its wild, oriental beauty, does not show to advantage among us civilized and prosaic christians. in florence, and indeed through all italy, there is much reason for our country to be proud of the high stand her artists are taking. the sons of our rude western clime, brought up without other resources than their own genius and energy, now fairly rival those, who from their cradle upwards have drawn inspiration and ambition from the glorious masterpieces of the old painters and sculptors. wherever our artists are known, they never fail to create a respect for american talent, and to dissipate the false notions respecting our cultivation and refinement, which prevail in europe. there are now eight or ten of our painters and sculptors in florence, some of whom, i do not hesitate to say, take the very first rank among living artists. i have been highly gratified in visiting the studio of mr. g.l. brown, who, as a landscape painter, is destined to take a stand second to few, since the days of claude lorraine. he is now without a rival in florence, or perhaps in italy, and has youth, genius and a plentiful stock of the true poetic enthusiasm for his art, to work for him far greater triumphs. his italian landscapes have that golden mellowness and transparency of atmosphere which give such a charm to the real scenes, and one would think he used on his pallette, in addition to the more substantial colors, condensed air and sunlight and the liquid crystal of streams. he has wooed nature like a lover, and she has not withheld her sympathy. she has taught him how to raise and curve her trees, load their boughs with foliage, and spread underneath them the broad, cool shadows--to pile up the shattered crag, and steep the long mountain range in the haze of alluring distance. he has now nearly finished, a large painting of "christ preaching in the wilderness," which is of surprising beauty. you look upon one of the fairest scenes of judea. in front, the rude multitude are grouped on one side, in the edge of a magnificent forest; on the other side, towers up a rough wall of rock and foliage that stretches back into the distance, where some grand blue mountains are piled against the sky, and a beautiful stream, winding through the middle of the picture, slides away out of the foreground. just emerging from the shade of one of the cliffs, is the benign figure of the saviour, with the warm light which breaks from behind the trees, falling around him as he advances. there is a smaller picture of the "shipwreck of st. paul," in which he shows equal skill in painting a troubled sea and breaking storm. he is one of the young artists from whom we have most to hope. i have been extremely interested in looking over a great number of sketches made by mr. kellogg, of cincinnati, during a tour through egypt, arabia petræa and palestine. he visited many places out of the general route of travelers, and beside the great number of landscape views, brought away many sketches of the characters and costumes of the orient. from some of these he has commenced paintings, which, as his genius is equal to his practice, will be of no ordinary value. indeed, some of these must give him at once an established reputation in america. in constantinople, where he resided several months, he enjoyed peculiar advantges for the exercise of his art, through the favor and influence of mr. carr, the american, and sir stratford canning, the british minister. i saw a splendid diamond cup, presented to him by riza pacha, the late grand vizier. the sketches he brought from thence and from the valleys of phrygia and the mountain solitudes of old olympus, are of great interest and value. among his later paintings, i might mention an angel, whose countenance beams with a rapt and glorious beauty. a divine light shines through all the features and heightens the glow of adoration to an expression all spiritual and immortal. if mr. kellogg will give us a few more of these heavenly conceptions, we will place him on a pedestal, little lower than that of guido. greenough, who has been sometime in germany, returned lately to florence, where he has a colossal group in progress for the portico of the capitol. i have seen part of it, which is nearly finished in the marble. it shows a backwoodsman just triumphing in the struggle with an indian; another group to be added, will represent the wife and child of the former. the colossal size of the statues gives a grandeur to the action, as if it were a combat of titans; there is a consciousness of power, an expression of lofty disdain in the expansion of the hunter's nostril and the proud curve of his lip, that might become a god. the spirit of action, of breathing, life-like exertion, so much more difficult to infuse into the marble than that of repose, is perfectly attained. i will not enter into a more particular description, as it will probably be sent to the united states in a year or two. it is a magnificent work; the best, unquestionably, that greenough has yet made. the subject, and the grandeur he has given it in the execution, will ensure it a much more favorable reception than a false taste gave to his washington. mr. c.b. ives, a young sculptor from connecticut, has not disappointed the high promise he gave before leaving home. i was struck with some of his busts in philadelphia, particularly those of mrs. sigourney and joseph r. chandler, and it has been no common pleasure to visit his studio here in florence, and look on some of his ideal works. he has lately made two models, which, when finished in marble, will be works of great beauty. they will contribute greatly to his reputation here and in america. one of these represents a child of four or five years of age, holding in his hand a dead bird, on which he is gazing, with childish grief and wonder, that it is so still and drooping. it is a beautiful thought; the boy is leaning forward as he sits, holding the lifeless playmate close in his hands, his sadness touched with a vague expression, as if he could not yet comprehend the idea of death. the other is of equal excellence, in a different style; it is a bust of "jephthah's daughter," when the consciousness of her doom first flashes upon her. the face and bust are beautiful with the bloom of perfect girlhood. a simple robe covers her breast, and her rich hair is gathered up behind, and bound with a slender fillet. her head, of the pure classical mould, is bent forward, as if weighed down by the shock, and there is a heavy drooping in the mouth and eyelids, that denotes a sudden and sickening agony. it is not a violent, passionate grief, but a deep and almost paralyzing emotion--a shock from which the soul will finally rebound, strengthened to make the sacrifice. would it not be better for some scores of our rich merchants to lay out their money on statues and pictures, instead of balls and spendthrift sons? a few such expenditures, properly directed, would do much for the advancement of the fine arts. an occasional golden blessing, bestowed on genius, might be returned on the giver, in the fame he had assisted in creating. there seems, however, to be at present a rapid increase in refined taste, and a better appreciation of artistic talent, in our country. and as an american, nothing has made me feel prouder than this, and the steadily increasing reputation of our artists. of these, no one has done more within the last few years, than powers. with a tireless and persevering energy, such as could have belonged to few but americans, he has already gained a name in his art, that posterity will pronounce in the same breath with phidias, michael angelo and thorwaldsen. i cannot describe the enjoyment i have derived from looking at his matchless works. i should hesitate in giving my own imperfect judgment of their excellence, if i had not found it to coincide with that of many others who are better versed in the rules of art. the sensation which his "greek slave" produced in england, has doubtless ere this been breezed across the atlantic, and i see by the late american papers that they are growing familiar with his fame. when i read a notice seven or eight years ago, of the young sculptor of cincinnati, whose busts exhibited so much evidence of genius, i little dreamed i should meet him in florence, with the experience of years of toil added to his early enthusiasm, and every day increasing his renown. you would like to hear of his statue of eve, which men of taste pronounce one of the finest works of modern times. a more perfect figure never filled my eye. i have seen the masterpieces of thorwaldsen, dannecker and canova, and the venus de medici, but i have seen nothing yet that can exceed the beauty of this glorious statue. so completely did the first view excite my surprise and delight, and thrill every feeling that awakes at the sight of the beautiful, that my mind dwelt intensely on it for days afterwards. this is the eve of scripture--the eve of milton--mother of mankind and fairest of all her race. with the full and majestic beauty of ripened womanhood, she wears the purity of a world as yet unknown to sin. with the hearing of a queen, there is in her countenance the softness and grace of a tender, loving woman; "god-like erect, with native honor clad in naked majesty." she holds the fatal fruit extended in her hand, and her face expresses the struggle between conscience, dread and desire. the serpent, whose coiled length under the leaves and flowers entirely surrounds her, thus forming a beautiful allegorical symbol, is watching her decision from an ivied trunk at her side. her form is said to be fully as perfect as the venus de medici, and from its greater size, has an air of conscious and ennobling dignity. the head is far superior in beauty, and soul speaks from every feature of the countenance. i add a few stanzas which the contemplation of this statue called forth. though unworthy the subject, they may perhaps faintly shadow the _sentiment_ which powers has so eloquently embodied in marble: the "eve" of powers. a faultless being from the marble sprung, she stands in beauty there! as when the grace of eden 'round her clung-- fairest, where all was fair! pure, as when first from god's creating hand she came, on man to shine; so seems she now, in living stone to stand-- a mortal, yet divine! the spark the grecian from olympus caught, left not a loftier trace; the daring of the sculptor's hand has wrought a soul in that sweet face! he won as well the sacred fire from heaven. god-sent, not stolen down, and no promethean doom for him is given, but ages of renown! the soul of beauty breathes around that form a more enchanting spell; there blooms each virgin grace, ere yet the storm on blighted eden fell! the first desire upon her lovely brow, raised by an evil power; doubt, longing, dread, are in her features now-- it is the trial-hour! how every thought that strives within her breast, in that one glance is shown! say, can that heart of marble be at rest, since spirit warms the stone? will not those limbs, of so divine a mould, move, when her thought is o'er-- when she has yielded to the tempter's hold and eden blooms no more? art, like a phoenix, springs from dust again-- she cannot pass away! bound down in gloom, she breaks apart the chain and struggles up today! the flame, first kindled in the ages gone, has never ceased to burn, and _westward_ now, appears the kindling dawn, which marks the day's return! the "greek slave" is now in the possession of mr. grant, of london, and i only saw the clay model. like the eve, it is a form that one's eye tells him is perfect, unsurpassed; but it is the budding loveliness of a girl, instead of the perfected beauty of a woman. in england it has been pronounced superior to canova's works, and indeed _i_ have seen nothing of his, that could be placed beside it. powers has now nearly finished a most exquisite figure of a fisher-boy, standing on the shore, with his net and rudder in one hand, while with the other he holds a shell to his ear and listens if it murmur to him of a gathering storm. his slight, boyish limbs are full of grace and delicacy--you feel that the youthful frame could grow up into nothing less than an apollo. then the head--how beautiful! slightly bent on one side, with the rim of the shell thrust under his locks, lips gently parted, and the face wrought up to the most hushed and breathless expression, he listens whether the sound be deeper than its wont. it makes you hold your breath and listen, to look at it. mrs. jameson somewhere remarks that repose or suspended motion, should be always chosen for a statue that shall present a perfect, unbroken impression to the mind. if this be true, the enjoyment must be much more complete where not only the motion, but almost breath and thought are suspended, and all the faculties wrought into one hushed and intense sensation. in gazing on this exquisite conception, i feel my admiration filled to the utmost, without that painful, aching impression, so often left by beautiful works. it glides into my vision like a form long missed from the gallery of beauty i am forming in my mind, and i gaze on it with an ever new and increasing delight. now i come to the last and fairest of all--the divine proserpine. not the form, for it is but a bust rising from a capital of acanthus leaves, which curve around the breast and arms and turn gracefully outward, but the face, whose modest maiden beauty can find no peer among goddesses or mortals. so looked she on the field of ennæ--that "fairer flower," so soon to be gathered by "gloomy dis." a slender crown of green wheatblades, showing alike her descent from ceres and her virgin years, circles her head. truly, if pygmalion stole his fire to warm such a form as this, jove should have pardoned him. of powers' busts it is unnecessary for me to speak. he has lately finished a very beautiful one of the princess demidoff, daughter of jerome bonaparte. we will soon, i hope, have the "eve" in america. powers has generously refused many advantageous offers for it, that he might finally send it home; and his country, therefore, will possess this statue, his first ideal work. she may well be proud of the genius and native energy of her young artist, and she should repay them by a just and liberal encouragement. chapter xxxviii. an adventure on the great st. bernard--walks around florence. _nov. ._--a few days ago i received a letter from my cousin at heidelberg, describing his solitary walk from genoa over the alps, and through the western part of switzerland. the news of his safe arrival dissipated the anxiety we were beginning to feel, on account of his long silence, while it proved that our fears concerning the danger of such a journey were not altogether groundless. he met with a startling adventure on the great st. bernard, which will be best described by an extract from his own letter: * * * * * "such were my impressions of rome. but leaving the 'eternal city,' i must hasten on to give you a description of an adventure i met with in crossing the alps, omitting for the present an account of the trip from rome to genoa, and my lonely walk through sardinia. when i had crossed the mountain range north of genoa, the plains of piedmont stretched out before me. i could see the snowy sides and summits of the alps more than one hundred miles distant, looking like white, fleecy clouds on a summer day. it was a magnificent prospect, and i wonder not that the heart of the swiss soldier, after years of absence in foreign service, beats with joy when he again looks on his native mountains. "as i approached nearer, the weather changed, and dark, gloomy clouds enveloped them, so that they seemed to present an impassible barrier to the lands beyond them. at ivrea, i entered the interesting valley of aosta. the whole valley, fifty miles in length, is inhabited by miserable looking people, nearly one half of them being afflicted with goitre and cretinism. they looked more idiotic and disgusting than any i have ever seen, and it was really painful to behold such miserable specimens of humanity dwelling amid the grandest scenes of nature. immediately after arriving in the town of aosta, situated at the upper end of the valley, i began, alone, the ascent of the great st. bernard. it was just noon, and the clouds on the mountains indicated rain. the distance from aosta to the monastery or hospice of st. bernard, is about twenty english miles. "at one o'clock it commenced raining vary hard, and to gain shelter i went into a rude hut; but it was filled with so many of those idiotic cretins, lying down on the earthy floor with the dogs and other animals, that i was glad to leave them as soon as the storm had abated in some degree. i walked rapidly for three hours, when i met a traveler and his guide descending the mountain. i asked him in italian the distance to the hospice, and he undertook to answer me in french, but the words did not seem to flow very fluently, so i said quickly, observing then that he was an englishman: 'try some other language, if you please, sir!' he replied instantly in his vernacular: 'you have a d--d long walk before you, and you'll have to hurry to get to the top before night!' thanking him, we shook hands and hurried on, he downward and i upward. about eight miles from the summit, i was directed into the wrong path by an ignorant boy who was tending sheep, and went a mile out of the course, towards mont blanc, before i discovered my mistake. i hurried back into the right path again, and soon overtook another boy ascending the mountain, who asked me if he might accompany me as he was alone, to which i of course answered, yes; but when we began to enter the thick clouds that covered the mountains, he became alarmed, and said he would go no farther. i tried to encourage him by saying we had only five miles more to climb, but, turning quickly, he ran down the path and was soon out of sight. "after a long and most toilsome ascent, spurred on as i was by the storm and the approach of night, i saw at last through the clouds a little house, which i supposed might be a part of the monastery, but it turned out to be only a house of refuge, erected by the monks to take in travelers in extreme cases or extraordinary danger. the man who was staying there, told me the monastery was a mile and a half further, and thinking therefore that i could soon reach it, i started out again, although darkness was approaching. in a short time the storm began in good earnest, and the cold winds blew with the greatest fury. it grew dark very suddenly and i lost sight of the poles which are placed along the path to guide the traveler. i then ran on still higher, hoping to find them again, but without success. the rain and snow fell thick, and although i think i am tolerably courageous, i began to be alarmed, for it was impossible to know in what direction i was going. i could hear the waterfalls dashing and roaring down the mountain hollows on each side of me; in the gloom, the foam and leaping waters resembled streaming fires. i thought of turning back to find the little house of refuge again, but it seemed quite as dangerous and uncertain as to go forward. after the fatigue i had undergone since noon, it would have been dangerous to be obliged to stay, out all night in the driving storm, which was every minute increasing in coldness and intensity. "i stopped and shouted aloud, hoping i might be somewhere near the monastery, but no answer came--no noise except the storm and the roar of the waterfalls. i climbed up the rocks nearly a quarter of a mile higher, and shouted again. i listened with anxiety for two or three minutes, but hearing no response, i concluded to find a shelter for the night under a ledge of rocks. while looking around me, i fancied i heard in the distance a noise like the trampling of hoofs over the rocks, and thinking travelers might be near, i called aloud for the third time. after wailing a moment, a voice came ringing on my ears through the clouds, like one from heaven in response to my own. my heart beat quickly; i hurried in the direction from which the sound came, and to my joy found two men--servants of the monastery--who were driving their mules into shelter. never in my whole life was i more glad to hear the voice of man. these men conducted me to the monastery, one-fourth of a mile higher, built by the side of a lake at the summit of the pass, while on each side, the mountains, forever covered with snow, tower some thousands of feet higher. "two or three of the noble st. bernard dogs barked a welcome as we approached, which brought a young monk to the door. i addressed him in german, but to my surprise he answered in broken english. he took me into a warm room and gave me a suit of clothes, such as are worn by the monks, for my dress, as well as my package of papers, were completely saturated with rain. i sat down to supper in company with till the monks of the hospice, i in my monkish robe looking like one of the holy order. you would have laughed to have seen me in their costume. indeed, i felt almost satisfied to turn monk, as everything seemed so comfortable in the warm supper room, with its blazing wood fire, while outside raged the storm still more violently. but when i thought of their voluntary banishment from the world, up in that high pass of the alps, and that the affection of woman never gladdened their hearts, i was ready to renounce my monkish dress next morning, without reluctance. "in the address book of the monastery, i found longfellow's 'excelsior' written on a piece of paper and signed 'america.' you remember the stanza: at break of clay, as heavenward, the pious monks of st. bernard uttered the oft-repeated prayer, a voice cried through the startled air: excelsior! it seemed to add a tenfold interest to the poem, to read it on old st. bernard. in the morning i visited the house where are kept the bodies of the travelers, who perish in crossing the mountain. it is filled with corpses, ranged in rows, and looking like mummies, for the cold is so intense that they will keep for years without decaying, and are often recognized and removed by their friends. "of my descent to martigny, my walk down the rhone, and along the shores of lake leman, my visit to the prison of chilian and other wanderings across switzerland, my pleasure in seeing the old river rhine again, and my return to heidelberg at night, with the bright moon shining on the neckar and the old ruined castle, i can now say no more, nor is it necessary, for are not all these things 'written in my book of chronicles,' to be seen by you when we meet again in paris? ever yours, frank." _dec. ._--i took a walk lately to the tower of galileo. in company with three friends, i left florence by the _porta romana_, and ascended the _poggie imperiale_. this beautiful avenue, a mile and a quarter in length, leading up a gradual ascent to a villa of the grand duke, is bordered with splendid cypresses and evergreen oaks, and the grass banks are always fresh and green, so that even in winter it calls up a remembrance of summer. in fact, winter does not wear the scowl here that he has at home; he is robed rather in a threadbare garment of autumn, and it is only high up on the mountain tops, out of the reach of his enemy, the sun, that he dares to throw it off, and bluster about with his storms and scatter down his snow-flakes. the roses still bud and bloom in the hedges, the emerald of the meadows is not a whit paler, the sun looks down lovingly as yet, and there are only the white helmets of some of the appenines, with the leafless mulberries and vines, to tell us that we have changed seasons. a quarter of an hour's walk, part of it by a path through an olive orchard, brought us to the top of a hill, which was surmounted by a square, broken, ivied tower, forming part of a storehouse for the produce of the estate. we entered, saluted by a dog, and passing through a court-yard, in which stood two or three carts full of brown olives, found our way to the rickety staircase. i spared my sentiment in going up, thinking the steps might have been renewed since galileo's time, but the glorious landscape which opened around us when we reached the top, time could not change, and i gazed upon it with interest and emotion, as my eye took in those forms which had once been mirrored in the philosopher's. let me endeavor to describe the features of the scene. fancy yourself lifted to the summit of a high hill, whose base slopes down to the valley of the arno, and looking northward. behind you is a confusion of hill and valley, growing gradually dimmer away to the horizon. before and below you is a vale, with florence and her great domes and towers in its lap, and across its breadth of five miles the mountain of fiesole. to the west it stretches away unbroken for twenty miles, covered thickly with white villas--like a meadow of daisies, magnified. a few miles to the east the plain is rounded with mountains, between whose interlocking bases we can see the brown current of the arno. some of their peaks, as well as the mountain of vallombrosa, along the eastern sky, are tipped with snow. imagine the air filled with a thick blue mist, like a semi-transparent veil, which softens every thing into dreamy indistinctness, the sunshine falling slantingly through this in spots, touching the landscape here and there as with a sudden blaze of fire, and you will complete the picture. does it not repay your mental flight across the atlantic. one evening, on coming out of the cafè, the moon was shining so brightly and clearly, that i involuntarily bent my steps towards the river; i walked along the _lung'arno_, enjoying the heavenly moonlight--"the night of cloudless climes and starry skies!" a purer silver light never kissed the brow of endymion. the brown arno took into his breast "the redundant glory," and rolled down his pebbly bed with a more musical ripple; opposite stretched the long mass of buildings--the deep arches that rose from the water were filled with black shadow, and the irregular fronts of the houses touched with a mellow glow. the arches of the upper bridge were in shadow, cutting their dark outline on the silvery sweep of the appenines, far up the stream. a veil of luminous gray covered the hill of san miniato, with its towers and cypress groves, and there was a crystal depth in the atmosphere, as if it shone with its own light. the whole scene affected me as something too glorious to be real--painful from the very intensity of its beauty. three moons ago, at the foot of vallombrosa, i saw the appenines flooded with the same silvery gush, and thought also, then, that i had seen the same moon amid far dearer scenes, but never before the same dreamy and sublime glory showered down from her pale orb. some solitary lights were burning along the river, and occasionally a few italians passed by, wrapped in their mantles. i went home to the piazza del granduca as the light, pouring into the square from behind the old palace, fell over the fountain of neptune and sheathed in silver the back of the colossal god. whoever looks on the valley of the arno from san miniato, and observes the appenine range, of which fiesole is one, bounding it on the north, will immediately notice to the northwest a double peak rising high above all the others. the bare, brown forehead of this, known by the name of _monte morello_, seemed so provokingly to challenge an ascent, that we determined to try it. so we started early, the day before yesterday, from the porta san gallo, with nothing but the frosty grass and fresh air to remind us of the middle of december. leaving the prato road, at the base of the mountain, we passed careggi, a favorite farm of lorenzo the magnificent, and entered a narrow glen where a little brook was brawling down its rocky channel. here and there stood a rustic mill, near which women were busy spreading their washed clothes on the grass. following the footpath, we ascended a long eminence to a chapel where some boys were amusing themselves with a common country game. they have a small wheel, around which they wind a rope, and, running a little distance to increase the velocity, let it off with a sudden jerk. on a level road it can be thrown upwards of a quarter of a mile. from the chapel, a gradual ascent along the ridge of a hill brought us to the foot of the peak, which rose high before us, covered with bare rocks and stunted oaks. the wind blew coldly from a snowy range to the north, as we commenced ascending with a good will. a few shepherds were leading their flocks along the sides, to browse on the grass and withered bushes, and we started up a large hare occasionally from his leafy covert. the ascent was very toilsome; i was obliged to stop frequently on account of the painful throbbing of my heart, which made it difficult to breathe. when the summit was gained, we lay down awhile on the leeward side to recover ourselves. we looked on the great valley of the arno, perhaps twenty-five miles long, and five or six broad, lying like a long elliptical basin sunk among the hills. i can liken it to nothing but a vast sea; for a dense, blue mist covered the level surface, through which the domes of florence rose up like a craggy island, while the thousands of scattered villas resembled ships, with spread sails, afloat on its surface. the sharp, cutting wind soon drove us down, with a few hundred bounds, to the path again. three more hungry mortals did not dine at the _cacciatore_ that day. the chapel of the medici, which we visited, is of wonderful beauty. the walls are entirely encrusted with _pietra dura_ and the most precious kinds of marble. the ceiling is covered with gorgeous frescoes by benevenuto, a modern painter. around the sides, in magnificent sarcophagi of marble and jasper, repose the ashes of a few cosmos and ferdinands. i asked the sacristan for the tomb of lorenzo the magnificent. "oh!" said he, "he lived during the republic--he has no tomb; these are only for dukes!" i could not repress a sigh at the lavish waste of labor and treasure on this one princely chapel. they might have slumbered unnoted, like lorenzo, if they had done as much for their country and italy. _december ._--it is with a heavy heart, that i sit down tonight to make my closing note in this lovely city and in the journal which has recorded my thoughts and impressions since leaving america. i should find it difficult to analyze my emotions, but i know that they oppress me painfully. so much rushes at once over the mind and heart--memories of what has passed through both, since i made the first note in its pages--alternations of hope and anxiety and aspiration, but _never_ despondency--that it resembles in a manner, the closing of a life. i seem almost to have lived through the common term of a life in this short period. much spiritual and mental experience has crowded into a short time the sensations of years. painful though some of it has been, it was still welcome. difficulty and toil give the soul strength to crush, in a loftier region, the passions which draw strength only from the earth. so long as we listen to the purer promptings within us, there is a power invisible, though not unfelt, who protects us--amid the toil and tumult and soiling struggle, there is ever an eye that watches, ever a heart that overflows with infinite and almighty love! let us trust then in that eternal spirit, who pours out on us his warm and boundless blessings, through the channels of so many kindred human hearts! chapter xxxix. winter traveling among the appenines. _valley of the arno, dec ._--it is a glorious morning after our two days' walk, through rain and mud, among these stormy appenines. the range of high peaks, among which is the celebrated monastery of camaldoli, lie just before us, their summits dazzling with the new fallen snow. the clouds are breaking away, and a few rosy flushes announce the approach of the sun. it has rained during the night, and the fields are as green and fresh as on a morning in spring. we left florence on the th, while citizens and strangers were vainly striving to catch a glimpse of the emperor of russia. he is, from some cause, very shy of being seen, in his journeys from place to place, using the greatest art and diligence to prevent the time of his departure and arrival from being known. on taking leave of powers, i found him expecting the autocrat, as he had signified his intention of visiting his studio; it was a cause of patriotic pride to find that crowned heads know and appreciate the genius of our sculptor. the sky did not promise much, as we set out; when we had entered the appenines and taken a last look of the lovely valley behind us, and the great dome of the city where we had spent four delightful months, it began to rain heavily. determined to conquer the weather at the beginning, we kept on, although before many miles were passed, it became too penetrating to be agreeable. the mountains grew nearly black under the shadow of the clouds, and the storms swept drearily down their passes and defiles, till the scenery looked more like the hartz than italy. we were obliged to stop at ponte sieve and dry our saturated garments: when, as the rain slackened somewhat, we rounded the foot of the mountain of vallombrosa, above the swollen and noisy arno, to the little village of cucina. we entered the only inn in the place, followed by a crowd of wondering boys, for two such travelers had probably never been seen there. they made a blazing fire for us in the broad chimney, and after the police of the place satisfied themselves that we were not dangerous characters, they asked many questions about our country. i excited the sympathy of the women greatly in our behalf by telling them we had three thousand miles of sea between us and our homes. they exclaimed in the most sympathising tones: "_poverini!_ so far to go!--three thousand miles of water!" the next morning we followed the right bank of the arno. at incisa, a large town on the river, the narrow pass broadens into a large and fertile plain, bordered on the north by the mountains. the snow storms were sweeping around their summits the whole day, and i thought of the desolate situation of the good monks who had so hospitably entertained us three months before. it was weary traveling; but at levane our fatigues were soon forgotten. two or three peasants were sitting last night beside the blazing fire, and we were amused to hear them talking about us. i overheard one asking another to converse with us awhile. "why should i speak to them?" said he; "they are not of our profession--we are swineherds, and they do not care to talk with us." however, his curiosity prevailed at last, and we had a long conversation together. it seemed difficult for them to comprehend how there could be so much water to cross, without any land, before reaching our country. finding we were going to rome, i overheard one remark we were pilgrims, which seemed to be the general supposition, as there are few foot-travelers in italy. the people said to one another as we passed along the road:--"they are making a journey of penance!" those peasants expressed themselves very well for persons of their station, but they were remarkably ignorant of everything beyond their own olive orchards and vine fields. _perugia, dec. ._--on leaving levane, the morning gave a promise, and the sun winked at us once or twice through the broken clouds, with a watery eye; but our cup was not yet full. after crossing one or two shoulders of the range of hills, we descended to the great upland plain of central italy, watered by the sources of the arno and the tiber. the scenery is of a remarkable character. the hills appear to have been washed and swept by some mighty flood. they are worn into every shape--pyramids, castles, towers--standing desolate and brown, in long ranges, like the ruins of mountains. the plain is scarred with deep gulleys, adding to the look of decay which accords so well with the cyclopean relics of the country. a storm of hail which rolled away before us, disclosed the city of arezzo, on a hill at the other end of the plain, its heavy cathedral crowning the pyramidal mass of buildings. our first care was to find a good trattoria, for hunger spoke louder than sentiment, and then we sought the house where petrarch was born. a young priest showed it to us on the summit of the hill. it has not been changed since he lived in it. on leaving florence, we determined to pursue the same plan as in germany, of stopping at the inns frequented by the common people. they treated us here, as elsewhere, with great kindness and sympathy, and we were freed from the outrageous impositions practised at the greater hotels. they always built a large fire to dry us, after our day's walk in the rain, and placing chairs in the hearth, which was raised several feet above the floor, stationed us there, like the giants gog and magog, while the children, assembled below, gazed up in open-mouthed wonder at our elevated greatness. they even invited us to share their simple meals with them, and it was amusing to hear their goodhearted exclamations of pity at finding we were so far from home. we slept in the great beds (for the most of the italian beds are calculated for a man, wife, and four children!) without fear of being assassinated, and only met with banditti in dreams. this is a very unfavorable time of the year for foot-traveling. we were obliged to wait three or four weeks in florence for a remittance from america, which not only prevented our leaving as soon as was desirable, but, by the additional expense of living, left us much smaller means than we required. however, through the kindness of a generous countryman, who unhesitatingly loaned us a considerable sum, we were enabled to start with thirty dollars each, which, with care and economy, will be quite sufficient to take us to paris, by way of rome and naples, if these storms do not prevent us from walking. greece and the orient, which i so ardently hoped to visit, are now out of the question. we walked till noon to-day, over the val di chiana to camuscia, the last post-station in the tuscan dominions. on a mountain near it is the city of cortona, still enclosed within its cyclopean walls, built long before the foundation of rome. here our patience gave way, melted down by the unremitting rains, and while eating dinner we made a bargain for a vehicle to bring us to this city. we gave a little more than half of what the vetturino demanded, which was still an exorbitant price--two scudi each for a ride of thirty miles. in a short time we were called to take our seats; i beheld with consternation a rickety, uncovered, two-wheeled vehicle, to which a single lean horse was attached. "what!" said i; "is that the carriage you promised?" "you bargained for a _calesino_," said he, "and there it is!" adding, moreover, that there was nothing else in the place. so we clambered up, thrust our feet among the hay, and the machine rolled off with a kind of saw-mill motion, at the rate of five miles an hour. soon after, in ascending the mountain of the spelunca, a sheet of blue water was revealed below us--the lake of thrasymene! from the eminence around which we drove, we looked on the whole of its broad surface and the mountains which encompass it. it is a magnificent sheet of water, in size and shape somewhat like new york bay, but the heights around it are far higher than the hills of jersey or staten island. three beautiful islands lie in it, near the eastern shore. while our _calesino_ was stopped at the papal custom-house, i gazed on the memorable field below us. a crescent plain, between the mountain and the lake, was the arena where two mighty empires met in combat. the place seems marked by nature for the scene of some great event. i experienced a thrilling emotion, such as no battle plain has excited, since, when a schoolboy, i rambled over the field of brandywine. i looked through the long arcades of patriarchal olives, and tried to cover the field with the shadows of the roman and carthaginian myriads. i recalled the shock of meeting legions, the clash of swords and bucklers, and the waving standards amid the dust of battle, while stood on the mountain amphitheatre, trembling and invisible, the protecting deities of rome. "far other scene is thrasymene now!" we rode over the plain, passed through the dark old town of passignano, built on a rocky point by the lake, and dashed along the shore. a dark, stormy sky bent over us, and the roused waves broke in foam on the rocks. the winds whistled among the bare oak boughs, and shook the olives till they twinkled all over. the vetturino whipped our old horse into a gallop, and we were borne on in unison with the scene, which would have answered for one of hoffman's wildest stories. ascending a long hill, we took a last look in the dusk at thrasymene, and continued our journey among the appenines. the vetturino was to have changed horses at magione, thirteen miles from perugia, but there were none to be had, and our poor beast was obliged to perform the whole journey without rest or food. it grew very dark, and a storm, with thunder and lightning, swept among the hills. the clouds were of pitchy darkness, and we could see nothing beyond the road, except the lights of peasant-cottages trembling through the gloom. now and then a flash of lightning revealed the black masses of the mountains, on which the solid sky seemed to rest. the wind and cold rain swept wailing past us, as if an evil spirit were abroad on the darkness. three hours of such nocturnal travel brought us here, wet and chilly, as well as our driver, but i pitied the poor horse more than him. when we looked out the window, on awaking, the clustered house-tops of the city, and the summits of the mountains near were covered with snow. but on walking to the battlements we saw that the valleys below were green and untouched. perugia, for its "pride of place," must endure the storms, while the humbler villages below escape them. as the rain continues, we have taken seats in a country diligence for foligno and shall depart in a few minutes. _dec. ._--we left perugia in a close but covered vehicle, and descending the mountain, crossed the muddy and rapid tiber in the valley below. all day we rode slowly among the hills; where the ascent was steep, two or four large oxen were hitched before the horses. i saw little of the scenery, for our italian companions would not bear the windows open. once, when we stopped, i got out and found we were in the region of snow, at the foot of a stormy peak, which towered sublimely above. at dusk, we entered foligno, and were driven to the "croce bianca"--glad to be thirty miles further on our way to rome. after some discussion with a vetturino, who was to leave next morning, we made a contract with him for the remainder of the journey, for the rain, which fell in torrents, forbade all thought of pedestrianism. at five o'clock we rattled out of the gate, and drove by the waning moon and morning starlight, down the vale of the clitumnus. as the dawn stole on, i watched eagerly the features of the scene. instead of a narrow glen, as my fancy had pictured, we were in a valley, several miles broad, covered with rich orchards and fertile fields. a glorious range of mountains bordered it on the north, looking like alps in their winter garments. a rosy flush stole over the snow, which kindled with the growing morn, till they shone like clouds that float in the sunrise. the clitumnus, beside us, was the purest of streams. the heavy rains which had fallen, had not soiled in the least its limpid crystal. when it grew light enough, i looked at our companions for the three days' journey. the two other inside seats were occupied by a tradesman of trieste, with his wife and child; an old soldier, and a young dragoon going to visit his parents after seven years' absence, occupied the front part. persons traveling together in a carriage are not long in becoming acquainted--close companionship soon breeds familiarity. before night, i had made a fast friend of the young soldier, learned to bear the perverse humor of the child with as much patience as its father, and even drawn looks of grim kindness from the crusty old vetturino. our mid-day resting place was spoleto. as there were two hours given us, we took a ramble through the city, visited the ruins of its roman theatre and saw the gate erected to commemorate the victory gained here over hannibal, which stopped his triumphal march towards rome. a great part of the afternoon was spent in ascending among the defiles of monte somma, the highest pass on the road between ancona and rome. assisted by two yoke of oxen we slowly toiled up through the snow, the mountains on both sides covered with thickets of box and evergreen oaks, among whose leafy screens the banditti hide themselves. it is not considered dangerous at present, but as the dragoons who used to patrol this pass have been sent off to bologna, to keep down the rebellion, the robbers will probably return to their old haunts again. we saw many suspicious looking coverts, where they might have hidden. we slept at terni and did not see the falls--not exactly on wordsworth's principle of leaving yarrow "unvisited," but because under the circumstances, it was impossible. the vetturino did not arrive there till after dark; he was to leave before dawn; the distance was five miles, and the roads very bad. besides, we had seen falls quite as grand, which needed only a byron to make them as renowned--we had been told that those of tivoli, which we shall see, were equally fine. the velino, which we crossed near terni, was not a large stream--in short, we hunted as many reasons as we could find, why the falls need not be seen. leaving terni before day, we drove up the long vale towards narni. the roads were frozen hard; the ascent becoming more difficult, the vetturino was obliged to stop at a farm-house and get another pair of horses, with which, and a handsome young contadino as postillion, we reached narni in a short time. in climbing the hill, we had a view of the whole valley of terni, shut in on all sides by snow-crested appenines, and threaded by the nar, whose waters flow "with many windings, through the vale!" at otricoli, while dinner was preparing, i walked around the crumbling battlements to look down into the valley and trace the far windings of the tiber. in rambling through the crooked streets, we saw everywhere the remains of the splendor which this place boasted in the days of rome. fragments of fluted pillars stood here and there in the streets; large blocks of marble covered with sculpture and inscriptions were built into the houses, defaced statues used as door-ornaments, and the steppingstone to our rude inn, worn every day by the feet of grooms and vetturini, contained some letters of an inscription which may have recorded the glory of on emperor. traveling with a vetturino, is unquestionably the pleasantest way of seeing italy. the easy rate of the journey allows time for becoming well acquainted with the country, and the tourist is freed from the annoyance of quarrelling with cheating landlords. a translation of our written contract, will best explain this mode of traveling: "carriage" for rome. "our contract is, to be conducted to rome for the sum of twenty francs each, say f. and the _buona mano_, if we are well served. we must have from the vetturino, giuseppe nerpiti, supper each night, a free chamber with two beds, and fire, until we shall arrive at rome. "i, geronymo sartarelli, steward of the inn of the white cross, at foligno, in testimony of the above contract." beyond otricoli, we passed through some relics of an age anterior to rome. a few soiled masses of masonry, black with age, stood along the brow of the mountain, on whose extremity were the ruins of a castle of the middle ages. we crossed the tiber on a bridge built by augustus cæsar, and reached borghetto as the sun was gilding with its last rays the ruined citadel above. as the carriage with its four horses was toiling slowly up the hill, we got out and walked before, to gaze on the green meadows of the tiber. on descending from narni, i noticed a high, prominent mountain, whose ridgy back, somewhat like the profile of a face, reminded me of the traunstein, in upper austria. as we approached, its form gradually changed, until it stood on the campagna "like a long-swept wave about to break, that on the curl hangs pausing"-- and by that token of a great bard, i recognized monte soracte. the dragoon took us by the arms, and away we scampered over the campagna, with one of the loveliest sunsets before us, that ever painted itself on my retina. i cannot portray in words the glory that flooded the whole western heaven. it was like a sea of melted ruby, amethyst and topaz--deep, dazzling and of crystal transparency. the color changed in tone every few minutes, till in half an hour it sank away before the twilight to a belt of deep orange along the west. we left civita castellana before daylight. the sky was red with dawn as we approached nepi, and we got out to walk, in the clear, frosty air. a magnificent roman aqueduct, part of it a double row of arches, still supplies the town with water. there is a deep ravine, appearing as if rent in the ground by some convulsion, on the eastern side of the city. a clear stream that steals through the arches of the aqueduct, falls in a cascade of sixty feet down into the chasm, sending up constant wreaths of spray through the evergreen foliage that clothes the rocks. in walking over the desolate campagna, we saw many deep chambers dug in the earth, used by the charcoal burners; the air was filled with sulphureous exhalations, very offensive to the smell, which rose from the ground in many places. miles and miles of the dreary waste, covered only with flocks of grazing sheep, were passed,--and about noon we reached baccano, a small post station, twenty miles from rome. a long hill rose before us, and we sprang out of the carriage and ran ahead, to see rome from its summit. as we approached the top, the campagna spread far before and around us, level and blue as an ocean. i climbed up a high bank by the roadside, and the whole scene came in view. perhaps eighteen miles distant rose the dome of st. peter's, near the horizon--a small spot on the vast plain. beyond it and further east, were the mountains of albano--on our left soracte and the appenines, and a blue line along the west betrayed the mediterranean. there was nothing peculiarly beautiful or sublime in the landscape, but few other scenes on earth combine in one glance such a myriad of mighty associations, or bewilder the mind with such a crowd of confused emotions. as we approached rome, the dragoon, with whom we had been walking all day, became anxious and impatient. he had not heard from his parents for a long time, and knew not if they were living. his desire to be at the end of his journey finally became so great, that he hailed a peasant who was driving by in a light vehicle, left our slow carriage and went out of sight in a gallop. as we descended to the tiber in the dusk of evening, the domes and spires of rome came gradually into view, st. peter's standing like a mountain in the midst of them. crossing the yellow river by the ponte molle, two miles of road, straight as an arrow, lay before us, with the light of the _porta del popolo_ at the end. i felt strangely excited as the old vehicle rumbled through the arch, and we entered a square with fountains and an obelisk of egyptian granite in the centre. delivering up our passports, we waited until the necessary examinations were made, and then went forward. three streets branch out from the square, the middle one of which, leading directly to the capitol, is the corso, the roman broadway. our vetturino chose that to the left, the via della scrofa, leading off towards the bridge of st. angelo. i looked out the windows as we drove along, but saw nothing except butcher-shops, grocer-stores, etc.--horrible objects for a sentimental traveler! being emptied out on the pavement at last, our first care was to find rooms; after searching through many streets, with a coarse old italian who spoke like an angel, we arrived at a square where the music of a fountain was heard through the dusk and an obelisk cut out some of the starlight. at the other end i saw a portico through the darkness, and my heart gave a breathless bound on recognizing the _pantheon_--the matchless temple of ancient rome! and now while i am writing, i hear the gush of the fountain--and if i step to the window, i see the time-worn but still glorious edifice. on returning for our baggage, we met the funeral procession of the princess altieri. priests in white and gold carried flaming torches, and the coffin, covered with a magnificent golden pall, was borne in a splendid hearse, guarded by four priests. as we were settling our account with the vetturino, who demanded much more _buona mano_ than we were willing to give, the young dragoon returned. he was greatly agitated. "i have been at home!" said he, in a voice trembling with emotion. i was about to ask him further concerning his family, but he kissed and embraced us warmly and hurriedly, saying he had only come to say "addio!" and to leave us. i stop writing to ramble through rome. this city of all cities to me--this dream of my boyhood--giant, god-like, fallen rome--is around me, and i revel in a glow of anticipation and exciting thought that seems to change my whole state of being. chapter xl. rome. _dec. ._--one day's walk through rome--how shall i describe it? the capitol, the forum, st. peter's, the coliseum--what few hours' ramble ever took in places so hallowed by poetry, history and art? it was a golden leaf in my calendar of life. in thinking over it now, and drawing out the threads of recollection from the varied woof of thought i have woven to-day, i almost wonder how i dared so much at once; but within reach of them all, how was it possible to wait? let me give a sketch of our day's ramble. hearing that it was better to visit the ruins by evening or moonlight, (alas! there is no moon now) we started out to hunt st. peter's. going in the direction of the corso, we passed the ruined front of the magnificent temple of antoninus, now used as the papal custom house. we turned to the right on entering the corso, expecting to have a view of the city from the hill at its southern end. it is a magnificent street, lined with palaces and splendid edifices of every kind, and always filled with crowds of carriages and people. on leaving it, however, we became bewildered among the narrow streets--passed through a market of vegetables, crowded with beggars and contadini--threaded many by-ways between dark old buildings--saw one or two antique fountains and many modern churches, and finally arrived at a hill. we ascended many steps, and then descending a little towards the other side, saw suddenly below us the _roman forum_! i knew it at once--and those three corinthian columns that stood near us--what could they be but the remains of the temple of jupiter stator? we stood on the capitoline hill; at the foot was the arch of septimus severus, brown with age and shattered; near it stood the majestic front of the temple of fortune, its pillars of polished granite glistening in the sun, as if they had been erected yesterday, while on the left the rank grass was waving from the arches and mighty walls of the palace of the cæsars! in front, ruin upon ruin lined the way for half a mile, where the coliseum towered grandly through the blue morning mist, at the base of the esquiline hill! good heavens, what a scene! grandeur, such as the world never saw, once rose through that blue atmosphere; splendor inconceivable, the spoils of a world, the triumphs of a thousand armies had passed over that earth; minds which for ages moved the ancient world had thought there, and words of power and glory, from the lips of immortal men, had been syllabled on that hallowed air. to call back all this on the very spot, while the wreck of what once was, rose mouldering and desolate around, aroused a sublimity of thought and feeling too powerful for words. returning at hazard through the streets, we came suddenly upon the column of trajan, standing in an excavated square below the level of the city, amid a number of broken granite columns, which formed part of the forum dedicated to him by rome, after the conquest of dacia. the column is one hundred and thirty-two feet high, entirely covered with bas-reliefs representing his victories, winding about it in a spiral line to the top. the number of figures is computed at two thousand five hundred, and they were of such excellence that raphael used many of them for his models. they are now much defaced, and the column is surmounted by a statue of some saint. the inscription on the pedestal has been erased, and the name of sixtus v. substituted. nothing can exceed the ridiculous vanity of the old popes in thus mutilating the finest monuments of ancient art. you cannot look upon any relic of antiquity in rome, but your eyes are assailed by the words "pontifex maximus," in staring modern letters. even the magnificent bronzes of the pantheon were stripped to make the baldachin under the dome of st. peter's. finding our way back again, we took a fresh start, happily in the right direction, and after walking some time, came out on the tiber, at the bridge of st. angelo. the river rolled below in his muddy glory, and in front, on the opposite bank, stood "the pile which hadrian retired on high"--_now_, the castle of st. angelo. knowing that st. peter's was to he seen from this bridge, i looked about in search of it. there was only one dome in sight, large and of beautiful proportions. i said at once, "surely _that_ cannot be st. peter's!" on looking again, however, i saw the top of a massive range of building near it, which corresponded so nearly with the pictures of the vatican, that i was unwillingly forced to believe the mighty dome was really before me. i recognized it as one of those we saw from the capitol, but it appeared so much smaller when viewed from a greater distance, that i was quite deceived. on considering we were still three-fourths of a mile from it, and that we could see its minutest parts distinctly, the illusion was explained. going directly down the _borgo vecchio_, towards it, it seemed a long time before we arrived at the square of st. peter's; when at length we stood in front with the majestic colonnade sweeping around--the fountains on each side sending up their showers of silvery spray--the mighty obelisk of egyptian granite piercing the sky--and beyond, the great front and dome of the cathedral, i confessed my unmingled admiration. it recalled to my mind the grandeur of ancient rome, and mighty as her edifices must have been, i doubt if there were many views more overpowering than this. the façade of st. peter's seemed close to us, but it was a third of a mile distant, and the people ascending the steps dwindled to pigmies. i passed the obelisk, went up the long ascent, crossed the portico, pushed aside the heavy leathern curtain at the entrance, and stood in the great nave. i need not describe my feelings at the sight, but i will tell the dimensions, and you may then fancy what they were. before me was a marble plain six hundred feet long, and under the cross four hundred and seventeen feet wide! one hundred and fifty feet above, sprang a glorious arch, dazzling with inlaid gold, and in the centre of the cross there were four hundred feet of air between me and the top of the dome! the sunbeam, stealing through the lofty window at one end of the transept, made a bar of light on the blue air, hazy with incense, one-tenth of a mile long, before it fell on the mosaics and gilded shrines of the other extremity. the grand cupola alone, including lantern and cross, is two hundred and eighty-five feet high, or sixty feet higher than the bunker hill monument, and the four immense pillars on which it rests are each one hundred and thirty-seven feet in circumference! it seems as if human art had outdone itself in producing this temple--the grandest which the world ever erected for the worship of the living god! the awe felt in looking up at the giant arch of marble and gold, did not humble me; on the contrary, i felt exalted, ennobled--beings in the form i wore planned the glorious edifice, and it seemed that in godlike power perseverance, they were indeed but "a little lower than the angels!" i felt that, if fallen, my race was still mighty and immortal. the vatican is only open twice a week, on days which are not _festas_; most fortunately, to-day happened to be one of these, and we took a _run_ through its endless halls. the extent and magnificence of the gallery of sculpture is perfectly amazing. the halls, which are filled to overflowing with the finest works of ancient art, would, if placed side by side, make a row more than two miles in length! you enter at once into a hall of marble, with a magnificent arched ceiling, a third of a mile long; the sides are covered for a great distance with inscriptions of every kind, divided into compartments according to the era of the empire to which they refer. one which i examined, appeared to be a kind of index of the roads in italy, with the towns on them; and we could decipher on that time-worn block, the very route i had followed from florence hither. then came the statues, and here i am bewildered, how to describe them. hundreds upon hundreds of figures--statues of citizens, generals, emperors and gods--fauns, satyrs and nymphs--children, cupids and tritons--in fact, it seemed inexhaustible. many of them, too, were forms of matchless beauty; there were venuses and nymphs, born of the loftiest dreams of grace; fauns on whose faces shone the very soul of humor, and heroes and divinities with an air of majesty worthy the "land of lost gods and godlike men!" i am lost in astonishment at the perfection of art attained by the greeks and romans. there is scarcely a form of beauty, that has ever met my eye, which is not to be found in this gallery. i should almost despair of such another blaze of glory on the world, were it not my devout belief that what has been done may be done again, and had i not faith that the dawn in which we live will bring another day equally glorious. and why should not america, with the experience and added wisdom which three thousand years have slowly yielded to the old world, joined to the giant energy of her youth and freedom, re-bestow on the world the divine creations of art? let powers answer! but let us step on to the hemicycle of the belvidere, and view some works greater than any we have yet seen, or even imagined. the adjoining gallery is filled with masterpieces of sculpture, but we will keep our eyes unwearied and merely glance along the rows. at length we reach a circular court with a fountain flinging up its waters in the centre. before us is an open cabinet; there is a beautiful, manly form within, but you would not for an instant take it for the apollo. by the gorgon head it holds aloft, we recognize canova's perseus--he has copied the form and attitude of the apollo, but he could not breathe into it the same warming fire. it seemed to me particularly lifeless, and i greatly preferred his boxers, who stand on either side of it. one, who has drawn back in the attitude of striking, looks as if he could fell an ox with a single blow of his powerful arm. the other is a more lithe and agile figure, and there is a quick fire in his countenance which might overbalance the massive strength of his opponent. another cabinet--this is the far-famed antinous. a countenance of perfect grecian beauty, with a form such as we would imagine for one of homer's heroes. his features are in repose, and there is something in their calm, settled expression, strikingly like life. now we look on a scene of the deepest physical agony. mark how every muscle of old laocoon's body is distended to the utmost in the mighty struggle! what intensity of pain in the quivering, distorted, features! every nerve, which despair can call into action, is excited in one giant effort, and a scream of anguish seems just to have quivered on those marble lips. the serpents have rolled their strangling coils around father and sons, but terror has taken away the strength of the latter, and they make but feeble resistance. after looking with indifference on the many casts of this group, i was the more moved by the magnificent original. it deserves all the admiration that has been heaped upon it. i absolutely trembled on approaching the cabinet of the apollo, i had built up in fancy a glorious ideal, drawn from all that bards have sung or artists have rhapsodized about its divine beauty. i feared disappointment--i dreaded to have my ideal displaced and my faith in the power of human genius overthrown by a form less than perfect. however, with a feeling of desperate excitement, i entered and looked upon it. now what shall i say of it? how make you comprehend its immortal beauty? to what shall i liken its glorious perfection of form, or the fire that imbues the cold marble with the soul of a god? not with sculpture, for it stands alone and above all other works of art--nor with men, for it has a majesty more than human. i gazed on it, lost in wonder and joy--joy that i could, at last, take into my mind a faultless ideal of godlike, exalted manhood. the figure appears actually to possess a spirit, and i looked on it, not as on a piece of marble, but a being of loftier mould, and half expected to see him step forward when the arrow had reached its mark. i would give worlds to feel one moment the sculptor's mental triumph when his work was completed; that one exulting thrill must have repaid him for every ill he might have suffered on earth! with what divine inspiration has he wrought its faultless lines! there is a spirit in every limb which mere toil could not have given. it must have been caught in those lofty moments. "when each conception was a heavenly guest--a ray of immortality--and stood star-like, around, until they gathered to a god?" we ran through a series of halls, roofed with golden stars on a deep blue, midnight sky, and filled with porphyry vases, black marble gods, and mummies. some of the statues shone with the matchless polish they had received from a theban artisan before athens was founded, and are, apparently, as fresh and perfect as when looked upon by the vassals of sesostris. notwithstanding their stiff, rough-hewn limbs, there were some figures of great beauty, and they gave me a much higher idea of egyptian sculpture. in an adjoining hall, containing colossal busts of the gods, is a vase forty-one feet in circumference, of one solid block of red porphyry. the "transfiguration" is truly called the first picture in the world. the same glow of inspiration which created the belvidere, must have been required to paint the saviour's aerial form. the three figures hover above the earth in a blaze of glory, seemingly independent of all material laws. the terrified apostles on the mount, and the wondering group below, correspond in the grandeur of their expression to the awe and majesty of the scene. the only blemish in the sublime perfection of the picture is the introduction of the two small figures on the left hand; who, by-the-bye, were cardinals, inserted there by command. some travelers say the color is all lost, but i was agreeably surprised to find it well preserved. it is, undoubtedly, somewhat imperfect in this respect, as raphael died before it was entirely finished; but "take it all in all," you may search the world in vain to find its equal. _january , ._--new year's day in the eternal city! it will be something to say in after years, that i have seen one year open in _rome_--that, while my distant friends were making up for the winter without, with good cheer around the merry board, i have walked in sunshine by the ruins of the coliseum, watched the orange groves gleaming with golden fruitage in the farnese gardens, trodden the daisied meadow around the sepulchre of caius cestius, and mused by the graves of shelley, keats and salvator rosa! the palace of the cassars looked even more mournful in the pale, slant sunshine, and the yellow tiber, as he flowed through the "marble wilderness," seemed sullenly counting up the long centuries during which degenerate slaves have trodden his banks. a leaden-colored haze clothed the seven hills, and heavy silence reigned among the ruins, for all work was prohibited, and the people were gathered in their churches. rome never appeared so desolate and melancholy as to-day. in the morning i climbed the quirinal hill, now called monte cavallo, from the colossal statues of castor and pollux, with their steeds, supposed to be the work of phidias and praxiteles. they stand on each side of an obelisk of egyptian granite, beside which a strong stream of water gushes up into a magnificent bronze basin, found in the old forum. the statues, entirely browned by age, are considered masterpieces of grecian art, and whether or not from the great masters, show in all their proportions, the conceptions of lofty genius. we kept on our way between gardens filled with orange groves, whose glowing fruit reminded me of mignon's beautiful reminiscence--"im dunkeln laub die gold orangen glühn!" rome, although subject to cold winds from the appenines, enjoys so mild a climate that oranges and palm trees grow in the open air, without protection. daisies and violets bloom the whole winter, in the meadows of never-fading green. the basilic of the lateran equals st. peter's in splendor, though its size is much smaller. the walls are covered with gorgeous hangings of velvet embroidered with gold, and before the high altar, which glitters with precious stones, are four pillars of gilt bronze, said to be those which augustus made of the spars of egyptian vessels captured at the battle of actium. we descended the hill to the coliseum, and passing under the arch of constantine, walked along the ancient triumphal way, at the foot of the palatine hill, which is entirely covered with the ruins of the cæsars' palace. a road, rounding its southern base towards the tiber, brought us to the temple of vesta--a beautiful little relic which has been singularly spared by the devastations that have overthrown so many mightier fabrics. it is of circular form, surrounded by nineteen corinthian columns, thirty-six feet in height; a clumsy tiled roof now takes the place of the elegant cornice which once gave the crowning charm to its perfect proportions. close at hand are the remains of the temple of fortuna virilis, of which some ionic pillars alone are left, and the house of cola di rienzi--the last tribune of rome. as we approached the walls, the sepulchre of caius cestius came in sight--a single solid pyramid, one hundred feet in height. the walls are built against it, and the light apex rises far above the massive gate beside it, which was erected by belisarius. but there were other tombs at hand, for which we had more sympathy than that of the forgotten roman, and we turned away to look for the graves of shelley and keats. they lie in the protestant burying ground, on the side of a mound that slopes gently up to the old wall of rome, beside the pyramid of cestius. the meadow around is still verdant and sown thick with daisies, and the soft green of the italian pine mingles with the dark cypress above the slumberers. huge aloes grow in the shade, and the sweet bay and bushes of rosemary make the air fresh and fragrant. there is a solemn, mournful beauty about the place, green and lonely as it is, beside the tottering walls of ancient rome, that takes away the gloomy associations of death, and makes one wish to lie there, too, when his thread shall be spun to the end. we found first the simple head-stone of keats, alone, in the grassy meadow. its inscription states that on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart, at the malice of his enemies, be desired these words to be written on his tombstone: "_here lies one whose name was written in water_." not far from him reposes the son of shelley. shelley himself lies at the top of the shaded slope, in a lonely spot by the wall, surrounded by tall cypresses. a little hedge of rose and bay surrounds his grave, which bears the simple inscription-- "percy bysshe shelley; _cor cordium_." "nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange." glorious, but misguided shelley! he sleeps calmly now in that silent nook, and the air around his grave is filled with sighs from those who mourn that the bright, erratic star should have been blotted out ere it reached the zenith of its mounting fame. i plucked a leaf from the fragrant bay, as a token of his fame, and a sprig of cypress from the bough that bent lowest over his grave; and passing between tombs shaded with blooming roses or covered with unwithered garlands, left the lovely spot. amid the excitement of continually changing scenes, i have forgotten to mention our first visit to the coliseum. the day after our arrival we set out with two english friends, to see it by sunset. passing by the glorious fountain of trevi, we made our way to the forum, and from thence took the road to the coliseum, lined on both sides with the remains of splendid edifices. the grass-grown ruins of the palace of the cæsars stretched along on our right; on our left we passed in succession the granite front of the temple of antoninus and faustina, the three grand arches of the temple of peace and the ruins of the temple of venus and rome. we went under the ruined triumphal arch of titus, with broken friezes representing the taking of jerusalem, and the mighty walls of the coliseum gradually rose before us. they grew in grandeur as we approached them, and when at length we stood in the centre, with the shattered arches and grassy walls rising above and beyond one another, far around us, the red light of sunset giving them a soft and melancholy beauty, i was fain to confess that another form of grandeur had entered my mind, of which i before knew not. a majesty like that of nature clothes this wonderful edifice. walls rise above walls, and arches above arches, from every side of the grand arena, like a sweep of craggy, pinnacled mountains around an oval lake. the two outer circles have almost entirely disappeared, torn away by the rapacious nobles of rome, during the middle ages, to build their palaces. when entire, and filled with its hundred thousand spectators, it must have exceeded any pageant which the world can now produce. no wonder it was said-- "while stands the coliseum, rome shall stand; when falls the coliseum, rome shall fall; and when rome falls, the world!" --a prediction, which time has not verified. the world is now going forward, prouder than ever, and though we thank rome for the legacy she has left us, we would not wish the dust of her ruin to cumber our path. while standing in the arena, impressed with the spirit of the scene around me, which grew more spectral and melancholy as the dusk of evening began to fill up the broken arches, my eye was assailed by the shrines ranged around the space, doubtless to remove the pollution of paganism. in the middle stands also a cross, with an inscription, granting an absolution of forty days to all who kiss it. now, although a simple cross in the centre might be very appropriate, both as a token of the heroic devotion of the martyr telemachus and the triumph of a true religion over the barbarities of the past, this congregation of shrines and bloody pictures mars very much the unity of association so necessary to the perfect enjoyment of any such scene. we saw the flush of sunset fade behind the capitoline hill, and passed homeward by the forum, as its shattered pillars were growing solemn and spectral through the twilight. i intend to visit them often again, and "meditate amongst decay." i begin already to grow attached to their lonely grandeur. a spirit, almost human, speaks from the desolation, and there is something in the voiceless oracles it utters, that strikes an answering chord in my own breast. in the _via de' pontefici_, not far distant from the borghese palace, we saw the mausoleum of augustus. it is a large circular structure somewhat after the plan of that of hadrian, but on a much smaller scale. the interior has been cleared out, seats erected around the walls, and the whole is now a summer theatre, for the amusement of the peasantry and tradesmen. what a commentary on greatness! harlequin playing his pranks in the tomb of an emperor, and the spot which nations approached with reverence, resounding with the mirth of beggars and degraded vassals! i visited lately the studio of a young philadelphian, mr. w. b. chambers, who has been here two or three years. in studying the legacies of art which the old masters left to their country, he has caught some of the genuine poetic inspiration which warmed them. but he is modest as talented, and appears to undervalue his works, so long as they do not reach his own mental ideal. he chooses principally subjects from the italian peasant-life, which abounds with picturesque and classic beauty. his pictures of the shepherd boy of the albruzzi, and the brown maidens of the campagna are fine illustrations of this class, and the fidelity with which he copies nature, is an earnest of his future success. i was in the studio of crawford, the sculptor; he has at present nothing finished in the marble. there were many casts of his former works, which, judging from their appearance in plaster, must be of no common excellence--for the sculptor can only be justly judged _in marble_. i saw some fine bas-reliefs of classical subjects, and an exquisite group of mercury and psyche, but his masterpiece is undoubtedly the orpheus. there is a spirit in this figure which astonished me. the face is full of the inspiration of the poet, softened by the lover's tenderness, and the whole fervor of his soul is expressed in the eagerness with which he gazes forward, on stepping past the sleeping cerberus. crawford is now engaged on the statue of an indian girl, pierced by an arrow, and dying. it is a simple and touching figure, and will, i think, be one of his best works. we are often amused with the groups in the square of the pantheon, which we can see from our chamber-window. shoemakers and tinkers carry on their business along the sunny side, while the venders of oranges and roasted chesnuts form a circle around the egyptian obelisk and fountain. across the end of an opposite street we get a glimpse of the vegetable-market, and now and then the shrill voice of a pedlar makes its nasal solo audible above the confused chorus. as the beggars choose the corso, st. peter's, and the ruins for their principal haunts, we are now spared the hearing of their lamentations. every time we go out we are assailed with them. "_maladetta sia la vostra testa_!"--"curses be upon your head!"--said one whom i passed without notice. the priests are, however, the greatest beggars. in every church are kept offering boxes, for the support of the church or some unknown institution; they even go from house to house, imploring support and assistance in the name of the virgin and all the saints, while their bloated, sensual countenances and capacious frames tell of anything but fasts and privations. once, as i was sitting among the ruins, i was suddenly startled by a loud, rattling sound; turning my head, i saw a figure clothed in white from head to foot, with only two small holes for the eyes. he held in his hand a money-box, on which was a figure of the virgin, which he held close to my lips, that i might kiss it. this i declined doing, but dropped a baiocco into his box, when, making the sign of the cross, he silently disappeared. our present lodging (trattoria del sole) is a good specimen of an italian inn for mechanics and common tradesmen. passing through the front room, which is an eating-place for the common people--with a barrel of wine in the corner, and bladders of lard hanging among orange boughs in the window--we enter a dark court-yard filled with heavy carts, and noisy with the neighing of horses and singing of grooms, for the stables occupy part of the house. an open staircase, running all around this hollow square, leads to the second, third, and fourth stories, on the second story is the dining-room for the better class of travelers, who receive the same provisions as those below for double the price, and the additional privilege of giving the waiter two baiocchi. the sleeping apartments are in the fourth story, and are named according to the fancy of a former landlord, in mottos above each door. thus, on arriving here, the triester, with his wife and child, more fortunate than our first parents, took refuge in "paradise," while we americans were ushered into the "chamber of jove." we have occupied it ever since, and find a paul (ten cents) apiece cheap enough for a good bed and a window opening on the pantheon. next to the coliseum, the baths of caracalla are the grandest remains of rome. the building is a thousand feet square, and its massive walls look as if built by a race of giants. these titan remains are covered with green shrubbery, and long, trailing vines sweep over the cornice, and wave down like tresses from architrave and arch. in some of its grand halls the mosaic pavement is yet entire. the excavations are still carried on; from the number of statues already found, this would seem to have been one of the most gorgeous edifices of the olden time. i have been now several days loitering and sketching among the ruins, and i feel as if i could willingly wander for months beside these mournful relics, and draw inspiration from the lofty yet melancholy lore they teach. there is a spirit haunting them, real and undoubted. every shattered column, every broken arch and mouldering wall, but calls up more vividly to mind the glory that has passed away. each lonely pillar stands as proudly as if it still helped to bear up the front of a glorious temple, and the air seems scarcely to have ceased vibrating with the clarions that heralded a conqueror's triumph. "--the old majestic trees stand ghost-like in the cæsar's home, as if their conscious roots were set in the old graves of giant rome, and drew their sap all kingly yet!" * * * * * "there every mouldering stone beneath is broken from some mighty thought, and sculptures in the dust still breathe the fire with which their lines were wrought, and sunder'd arch and plundered tomb still thunder back the echo--'_rome!_'" in rome there is no need that the imagination be excited to call up thrilling emotion or poetic reverie--they are forced on the mind by the sublime spirit of the scene. the roused bard might here pour forth his thoughts in the wildest climaces, and i could believe he felt it all. this is like the italy of my dreams--that golden realm whose image has been nearly chased away by the earthly reality. i expected to find a land of light and beauty, where every step crushed a flower or displaced a sunbeam--whose very air was poetic inspiration, and whose every scene filled the soul with romantic feelings. nothing is left of my picture but the far-off mountains, robed in the sapphire veil of the ausonian air, and these ruins, amid whose fallen glory sits triumphant the spirit of ancient song. i have seen the flush of morn and eve rest on the coliseum; i have seen the noon-day sky framed in its broken loopholes, like plates of polished sapphire; and last night, as the moon has grown into the zenith, i went to view it with her. around the forum all was silent and spectral--a sentinel challenged us at the arch of titus, under which we passed and along the cæsar's wall, which lay in black shadow. dead stillness brooded around the coliseum; the pale, silvery lustre streamed through its arches, and over the grassy walls, giving them a look of shadowy grandeur which day could not bestow. the scene will remain fresh in my memory forever. chapter xli. tivoli and the roman campagna. _jan. ._--a few days ago we returned from an excursion to tivoli, one of the loveliest spots in italy. we left the eternal city by the gate of san lorenzo, and twenty minutes walk brought us to the bare and bleak campagna, which was spread around us for leagues in every direction. here and there a shepherd-boy in his woolly coat, with his flock of browsing sheep, were the only objects that broke its desert-like monotony. at the fourth mile we crossed the rapid anio, the ancient teverone, formerly the boundary between latium and the sabine dominions, and at the tenth, came upon some fragments of the old tibertine way, formed of large irregular blocks of basaltic lava. a short distance further, we saw across the plain the ruins of the bath of agrippa, built by the side of the tartarean lake. the wind, blowing from it, bore us an overpowering smell of sulphur; the waters of the little river solfatara, which crosses the road, are of a milky blue color, and carry those of the lake into the anio. a fragment of the old bridge over it still remains. finding the water quite warm, we determined to have a bath. so we ran down the plain, which was covered with a thick coat of sulphur, and sounded hollow to our tread, till we reached a convenient place, where we threw off our clothes, and plunged in. the warm wave was delightful to the skin, but extremely offensive to the smell, and when we came out, our mouths and throats were filled with the stifling gas. it was growing dark as we mounted through the narrow streets of tivoli, but we endeavored to gain some sight of the renowned beauties of the spot, before going to rest. from a platform on a brow of the hill, we looked down into the defile, at whose bottom the anio was roaring, and caught a sideward glance of the cascatelles, sending up their spray amid the evergreen bushes that fringe the rocks. above the deep glen that curves into the mountain, stands the beautiful temple of the sybil--a building of the most perfect and graceful proportion. it crests the "rocky brow" like a fairy dwelling, and looks all the lovelier for the wild caverns below. gazing downward from the bridge, one sees the waters of the anio tumbling into the picturesque grotto of the sirens; around a rugged corner, a cloud of white spray whirls up continually, while the boom of a cataract rumbles down the glen. all these we marked in the deepening dusk, and then hunted an albergo. the shrill-voiced hostess gave us a good supper and clean beds; in return we diverted the people very much by the relation of our sulphur bath. we were awakened in the night by the wind shaking the very soul out of our loose casement. i fancied i heard torrents of rain dashing against the panes, and groaned in bitterness of spirit on thinking of a walk back to rome in such weather. when morning came, we found it was only a hurricane of wind which was strong enough to tear off pieces of the old roofs. i saw some capuchins nearly overturned in crossing the square, by the wind seizing their white robes. i had my fingers frozen and my eyes filled with sand, in trying to draw the sybil's temple, and therefore left it to join my companions, who had gone down into the glen to see the great cascade. the anio bursts out of a cavern in the mountain-side, and like a prisoner giddy with recovered liberty, reels over the edge of a precipice more than two hundred feet deep. the bottom is hid in a cloud of boiling spray, that shifts from side to side, and driven by the wind, sweeps whistling down the narrow pass. it stuns the ear with a perpetual boom, giving a dash of grandeur to the enrapturing beauty of the scene. i tried a footpath that appeared to lead down to the cascatelles, but after advancing some distance along the side of an almost perpendicular precipice, i came to a corner that looked so dangerous, especially as the wind was nearly strong enough to carry me off, that it seemed safest to return. we made another vain attempt to get down, by creeping along the bed of a torrent, filled with briars. the cascatelles are formed by that part of the anio, which is used in the iron works, made out of the ruins of mecænas' villa. they gush out from under the ancient arches, and tumble more than a hundred feet down the precipice, their white waters gleaming out from the dark and feathery foliage. not far distant are the remains of the villa of horace. we took the road to frascati, and walked for miles among cane-swamps and over plains covered with sheep. the people we saw, were most degraded and ferocious-looking, and there were many i would not willingly meet alone after nightfall. indeed it is still considered quite unsafe to venture without the walls of rome, after dark. the women, with their yellow complexions, and the bright red blankets they wear folded around the head and shoulders, resemble indian squaws. i lately spent three hours in the museum of the capitol, on the summit of the sacred hill. in the hall of the gladiator i noticed an exquisite statue of diana. there is a pure, virgin grace in the classic outlines of the figure that keeps the eye long upon it. the face is full of cold, majestic dignity, but it is the ideal of a being to be worshipped, rather than loved. the faun of praxiteles, in the same room, is a glorious work; it is the perfect embodiment of that wild, merry race the grecian poets dreamed of. one looks on the gladiator with a hushed breath and an awed spirit. he is dying; the blood flows more slowly from the deep wound in his side; his head is sinking downwards, and the arm that supports his body becomes more and more nerveless. you feel that a dull mist is coming over his vision, and almost wait to see his relaxing limbs sink suddenly on his shield. that the rude, barbarian form has a soul, may be read in his touchingly expressive countenance. it warms the sympathies like reality to look upon it. yet how many romans may have gazed on this work, moved nearly to tears, who have seen hundreds perish in the arena without a pitying emotion! why is it that art has a voice frequently more powerful than nature? how cold it is here! i was forced to run home to-night, nearly at full speed, from the café delle _belle arti_ through the corso and the piazza colonna, to keep warm. the clear, frosty moon threw the shadow of the column of antoninus over me as i passed, and it made me shiver to look at the thin, falling sheet of the fountain. winter is winter everywhere, and even the sun of italy cannot always scorch his icy wings. two days ago we took a ramble outside the walls. passing the coliseum and caracalla's baths, we reached the tomb of scipio, a small sepulchral vault, near the roadside. the ashes of the warrior were scattered to the winds long ago, and his mausoleum is fast falling to decay. the old arch over the appian way is still standing, near the modern _porta san sebastiano_ through which we entered on the far-famed road. here and there it is quite entire, and we walked over the stones once worn by the feet of virgil and horace and cicero. after passing the temple of romulus--a shapeless and ivy-grown ruin--and walking a mile or more beyond the walls, we reached the circus of caracalla, whose long and shattered walls fill the hollow of one of the little dells of the campagna. the original structure must have been of great size and splendor, but those twin vandals--time and avarice--have stripped away everything but the lofty brick masses, whose nakedness the pitying ivy strives to cover. further, on a gentle slope, is the tomb of "the wealthiest roman's wife," familiar to every one through childe harold's musings. it is a round, massive tower, faced with large blocks of marble, and still bearing the name of cecilia metella. one side is much ruined, and the top is overgrown with grass and wild bushes. the wall is about thirty feet thick, so that but a small round space is left in the interior, which is open to the rain and filled will rubbish. the echoes pronounced hollowly after us the name of the dead for whom it was built, but they could tell us nothing of her life's history-- "how lived, how loved, how died she?" i made a hurried drawing of it, and we then turned to the left, across the campagna, to seek the grotto of egeria. before us, across the brown plain, extended the sabine mountains; in the clear air the houses of tivoli, twenty miles distant, were plainly visible. the giant aqueduct stretched in a long line across the campagna to the mountain of albano, its broken and disjointed arches resembling the vertebræ of some mighty monster. with the ruins of temples and tombs strewing the plain for miles around it, it might be called the _spine_ to the skeleton of rome. we passed many ruins, made beautiful by the clinging ivy, and reached a solemn grove of ever-green oak, overlooking a secluded valley. i was soon in the meadow, leaping ditches, rustling through cane-brakes, and climbing up to mossy arches to find out the fountain of numa's nymph; while my companion, who had less taste for the romantic, looked on complacently from the leeward side of the hill. at length we found an arched vault in the hill-side, overhung with wild vines, and shaded in summer by umbrageous trees that grow on the soil above. at the further end a stream of water gushed out from beneath a broken statue, and an aperture in the wall revealed a dark cavern behind. this, then, was "egeria's grot." the ground was trampled by the feet of cattle, and the taste of the water was anything but pleasant. but it was not for numa and his nymph alone, that i sought it so ardently. the sunbeam of another mind lingers on the spot. see how it gilds the ruined and neglected fount! "the mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled with thine elysian water-drops; the face of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, whose wild, green margin, now no more erase art's works; no more its sparkling waters sleep, prisoned in marble; bubbling from the base of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap, the rill runs o'er, and 'round, fern, flowers and ivy creep, fantastically tangled." i tried to creep into the grotto, but it was unpleasantly dark, and no nymph appeared to chase away the shadow with her lustrous eyes. the whole hill is pierced by subterranean chambers and passages. i spent another sunday morning in st. peter's. high mass was being celebrated in one of the side chapels, and a great number of the priesthood were present. the music was simple, solemn, and very impressive, and a fine effect was produced by the combination of the full, sonorous voices of the priests, and the divine sweetness of that band of mutilated unfortunates, who sing here. they sang with a full, clear tone, sweet as the first lispings of a child, but it was painful to hear that melody, purchased at the expense of manhood. near the dome is a bronze statue of st. peter, which seems to have a peculiar atmosphere of sanctity. people say their prayers before it by hundreds, and then kiss its toe, which is nearly worn away by the application of so many thousand lips. i saw a crowd struggle most irreverently to pay their devotion to it. there was a great deal of jostling and confusion; some went so far as to thrust the faces of others against the toe as they were about to kiss it. what is more remarkable, it is an antique statue of jupiter, taken, i believe, from the pantheon. an english artist, showing it to a friend, just arrived in rome, remarked very wittily that it was the statue of _jew-peter_. i went afterwards to the villa borghese, outside the porta del popolo. the gardens occupy thirty or forty acres, and are always thronged in the afternoon with the carriages of the roman and foreign nobility. in summer, it must be a heavenly place; even now, with its musical fountains, long avenues, and grassy slopes, crowned with the fan-like branches of the italian pine, it reminds one of the fairy landscapes of boccaccio. we threaded our way through the press of carriages on the pincian hill, and saw the enormous bulk of st. peter's loom up against the sunset sky. i counted forty domes and spires in that part of rome that lay below us--but on what a marble glory looked that sun eighteen centuries ago! modern rome--it is in comparison, a den of filth, cheats and beggars! yesterday, while taking a random stroll through the city, i visited the church of st. onofrio, where tasso is buried. it is not far from st. peter's, on the summit of a lonely hill. the building was closed, but an old monk admitted us on application. the interior is quite small, but very old, and the floor is covered with the tombs of princes and prelates of a past century. near the end i found a small slab with the inscription: "torquati tassi ossa hic jacent." that was all--but what more was needed? who knows not the name and fame and sufferings of the glorious bard? the pomp of gold and marble are not needed to deck the slumber of genius. on the wall, above, hangs an old and authentic portrait of him, very similar to the engravings in circulation. a crown of laurel encircles the lofty brow, and the eye has that wild, mournful expression, which accords so well with the mysterious tale of his love and madness. owing to the mountain storms, which imposed on us the expense of a carriage-journey to rome, we shall be prevented from going further. one great cause of this is the heavy fee required for passports in italy. in most of the italian cities, the cost of the different visès amounts to $ or $ ; a few such visits as these reduce our funds very materially. the american consul's fee is $ , owing to the illiberal course of our government, in withholding all salary from her consuls in europe. mr. brown, however, in whose family we spent last evening very pleasantly, on our requesting that he would deduct something from the usual fee, kindly declined accepting anything. we felt this kindness the more, as from the character which some of our late consuls bear in italy, we had not anticipated it. we shall remember him with deeper gratitude than many would suppose, who have never known what it was to be a _foreigner_. to-morrow, therefore, we leave rome--here is, at last, the limit of our wanderings. we have spent much toil and privation to reach here, and now, after two weeks' rambling and musing among the mighty relics of past glory, we turn our faces homeward. the thrilling hope i cherished during the whole pilgrimage--to climb parnassus and drink from castaly, under the blue heaven of greece (both far easier than the steep hill and hidden fount of poesy, i worship afar off)--to sigh for fallen art, beneath the broken friezes of the parthenon, and look with a pilgrim's eye on the isles of homer and of sappho--must be given up, unwillingly and sorrowfully though it be. these glorious anticipations--among the brightest that blessed my boyhood--are slowly wrung from me by stern necessity. even naples, the lovely parthenope, where the mantuan bard sleeps on the sunny shore, by the bluest of summer seas, with the disinterred pompeii beyond, and pæstum amid its roses on the lonely calabrian plain--even this, almost within sight of the cross of st. peter's, is barred from me. farewell then, clime of "fame and eld," since it must be! a pilgrim's blessing for the lore ye have taught him! chapter xlii. _palo._--the sea is breaking in long swells below the window, and a glorious planet shines in the place of the sunset that has died away. this is our first resting-place since leaving rome. we have been walking all day over the bare and dreary campagna, and it is a relief to look at last on the broad, blue expanse of the tyrrhene sea. when we emerged from the cool alleys of rome, and began to climb up and down the long, barren swells, the sun beat down on us with an almost summer heat. on crossing a ridge near castel guido, we took our last look of rome, and saw from the other side the sunshine lying like a dazzling belt on the far mediterranean. the country is one of the most wretched that can be imagined. miles and miles of uncultivated land, with scarcely a single habitation, extend on either side of the road, and the few shepherds who watch their flocks in the marshy hollows, look wild and savage enough for any kind of crime. it made me shudder to see every face bearing such a villainous stamp. _civita vecchia, jan. ._--we left palo just after sunrise, and walked in the cool of the morning beside the blue mediterranean. on the right, the low outposts of the appenines rose, bleak and brown, the narrow plain between them and the shore resembling a desert, so destitute was it of the signs of civilized life. a low, white cloud that hung over the sea, afar off, showed us the locality of sardinia, though the land was not visible. the sun shone down warmly, and with the blue sky and bluer sea we could easily have imagined a milder season. the barren scenery took a new interest in my eyes, when i remembered that i was spending amidst it that birth-day which removes me, in the eyes of the world, from dependant youth to responsible manhood. in the afternoon we found a beautiful cove in a curve of the shore, and went to bathe in the cold surf. it was very refreshing, but not quite equal to the sulphur-bath on the road to tivoli. the mountains now ran closer to the sea, and the road was bordered with thickets of myrtle. i stopped often to beat my staff into the bushes, and inhale the fragrance that arose from their crushed leaves. the hills were covered with this poetical shrub, and any acre of the ground would make the fortune of a florist at home. the sun was sinking in a sky of orange and rose, as civita vecchia came in sight on a long headland before us. beyond the sea stretched the dim hills of corsica. we walked nearly an hour in the clear moonlight, by the sounding shore, before the gate of the city was reached. we have found a tolerable inn, and are now enjoying the pleasures of supper and rest. _marseilles, jan. ._--at length we tread the shore of france--of sunny provence--the last unvisited realm we have to roam through before returning home. it is with a feeling of more than common relief that we see around us the lively faces and hear the glib tongues of the french. it is like an earnest that the "roughing" we have undergone among bohemian boors and italian savages is well nigh finished, and that, henceforth, we shall find civilized sympathy and politeness, if nothing more, to make the way smoother. perhaps the three woful days which terminated at half-past two yesterday afternoon, as we passed through the narrow strait into the beautiful harbor which marseilles encloses in her sheltering heart, make it still pleasanter. now, while there is time, i must describe those three days, for who could write on the wet deck of a steamboat, amid all the sights and smells which a sea voyage creates? description does not flourish when the bones are sore with lying on planks, and the body shivering like an aspen leaf with cold. about the old town of civita vecchia there is not much to be said, except that it has the same little harbor which trajan dug for it, and is as dirty and disagreeable as a town can well be. we saw nothing except a little church, and the prison-yard, full of criminals, where the celebrated bandit, gasparoni, has been now confined for eight years. the neapolitan company's boat, _mongibello_, was advertised to leave the th, so, after procuring our passports, we went to the office to take passage. the official, however, refused to give us tickets for the third place, because, forsooth, we were not servants or common laborers! and words were wasted in trying to convince him that it would make no difference. as the second cabin fare was nearly three times as high, and entirely too dear for us, we went to the office of the tuscan company, whose boat was to leave in two days. through the influence of an italian gentleman, secretary to bartolini, the american consul, whom we met, they agreed to take us for forty-five francs, on deck, the price of the neapolitan boat being thirty. rather than stay two days longer in the dull town, we went again to the latter company's office and offered them forty-five francs to go that day in _their_ boat. this removed the former scruples, and tickets were immediately made out. after a plentiful dinner at the albergo, to prepare ourselves for the exposure, we filled our pockets with a supply of bread, cheese, and figs, for the voyage. we then engaged a boatman, who agreed to row us out to the steamer for two pauls, but after he had us on board and an oar's length from the quay, he said two pauls _apiece_ was his bargain. i instantly refused, and, summoning the best italian i could command, explained our agreement; but he still persisted in demanding double price. the dispute soon drew a number of persons to the quay, some of whom, being boatmen, sided with him. finding he had us safe in his boat, his manner was exceedingly calm and polite. he contradicted me with a "pardon, signore!" accompanying the words with a low bow and a graceful lift of his scarlet cap, and replied to my indignant accusations in the softest and most silvery-modulated roman sentences. i found, at last, that if i was in the right, i cut the worse figure of the two, and, therefore, put an end to the dispute by desiring him to row on at his own price. the hour of starting was two, but the boat lay quietly in the harbor till four, when we glided out on the open sea, and went northward, with the blue hills of corsica far on our left. a gorgeous sunset faded away over the water, and the moon rose behind the low mountains of the italian coast. having found a warm and sheltered place near the chimney, i drew my beaver further over my eyes, to keep out the moonlight, and lay down on the deck with my knapsack under my head. it was a hard bed, indeed; and the first time i attempted to rise, i found myself glued to the floor by the pitch which was smeared along the seams of the boards! our fellow-sufferers were a company of swiss soldiers going home after a four years' service under the king of naples, but they took to their situation more easily than we. sleep was next to impossible, so i paced the deck occasionally, looking out on the moonlit sea and the dim shores on either side. a little after midnight we passed between elba and corsica. the dark crags of elba rose on our right, and the bold headlands of napoleon's isle stood opposite, at perhaps twenty miles' distance. there was something dreary and mysterious in the whole scene, viewed at such a time--the grandeur of his career, who was born on one and exiled to the other, gave it a strange and thrilling interest. we made the light-house before the harbor of leghorn at dawn, and by sunrise were anchored within the mole. i sat on the deck the whole day, watching the picturesque vessels that skimmed about with their lateen sails, and wondering how soon the sailors, on the deck of a boston brig anchored near us, would see my distant country. leaving at four o'clock, we dashed away, along the mountain coast of carrara, at a rapid rate. the wind was strong and cold, but i lay down behind the boiler, and though the boards were as hard as ever, slept two or three hours. when i awoke at half-past two in the morning, after a short rest, genoa was close at hand. we glided between the two revolving lights on the mole, into the harbor, with the amphitheatre on which the superb city sits, dark and silent around us. it began raining soon, the engine-fire sank down, and as there was no place of shelter, we were shortly wet to the skin. how long those dreary hours seemed, till the dawn came! all was cold and rainy and dark, and we waited in a kind of torpid misery for daylight. the entire day, i passed sitting in a coil of rope under the stern of the cabin, and even the beauties of the glorious city scarce affected me. we lay opposite the doria palace, and the constellation of villas and towers still glittered along the hills; but who, with his teeth chattering and limbs numb and damp, could feel pleasure in looking on elysium itself? we got under way again at three o'clock. the rain very soon hid the coast from view, and the waves pitched our boat about in a manner not at all pleasant. i soon experienced sea-sickness in all its horrors. we had accidentally made the acquaintance of one of the neapolitan sailors, who had been in america. he was one of those rough, honest natures i like to meet with--their blunt kindness, is better than refined and oily-tongued suavity. as we were standing by the chimney, reflecting dolefully how we should pass the coming night, he came up and said; "i am in trouble about you, poor fellows! i don't think i shall sleep three hours to-night, to think of you. i shall tell all the cabin they shall give you beds, because they shall see you are gentlemen!" whether he did so or the officers were moved by spontaneous commiseration, we knew not, but in half an hour a servant beckoned us into the cabin, and berths were given us. i turned in with a feeling of relief not easily imagined, and forgave the fleas willingly, in the comfort of a shelter from the storm. when i awoke, it was broad day. a fresh breeze was drying the deck, and the sun was half-visible among breaking clouds. we had just passed the isle of the titan, one of the _isles des hyères_, and the bay of toulon opened on our right. it was a rugged, rocky coast, but the hills of sunny provence rose beyond. the sailor came up with a smile of satisfaction on his rough countenance, and said: "you did sleep better, i think; i did tell them all!" coupling his assertion with a round curse on the officers. we ran along, beside the brown, bare crags till nearly noon, when we reached the eastern point of the bay of marseilles. a group of small islands, formed of bare rocks, rising in precipices three or four hundred feet high, guards the point; on turning into the gulf, we saw on the left the rocky islands of pomegues, and if, with the castle crowning the latter, in which mirabeau was confined. the ranges of hills which rose around the great bay, were spotted and sprinkled over with thousands of the country cottages of the marseilles merchants, called _bastides_; the city itself was hidden from view. we saw apparently the whole bay, but there was no crowd of vessels, such as would befit a great sea-port; a few spires peeping over a hill, with some fortifications, were all that was visible. at length we turned suddenly aside and entered a narrow strait, between two forts. immediately a broad harbor opened before us, locked in the very heart of the hills on which the city stands. it was covered with vessels of all nations; on leaving the boat, we rowed past the "aristides," bearing the blue cross of greece, and i searched eagerly and found, among the crowded masts, the starry banner of america. i have rambled through all the principal parts of marseilles, and am very favorably impressed with its appearance. its cleanliness and the air of life and business which marks the streets, are the more pleasant after coming from the dirty and depopulated italian cities. the broad avenues, lined with trees, which traverse its whole length, must be delightful in summer. i am often reminded, by its spacious and crowded thoroughfares, of our american cities. although founded by the phoceans, three thousand years ago, it has scarcely an edifice of greater antiquity than three or four centuries, and the tourist must content himself with wandering through the narrow streets of the old town, observing the provençal costumes, or strolling among turks and moors on the _quai d'orléans_. we have been detained here a day longer than was necessary, owing to some misunderstanding about the passports. this has not been favorable to our reduced circumstances, for we have, now but twenty francs each, left, to take us to paris. our boots, too, after serving us so long, begin to show signs of failing in this hour of adversity. although we are somewhat accustomed to such circumstances, i cannot help shrinking when i think of the solitary napoleon and the five hundred miles to be passed. perhaps, however, the coin will do as much as its great namesake, and achieve for us a marengo in the war with fate. chapter xliii. pilgrimage to vaucluse and journey up the rhone. we left marseilles about nine o'clock, on a dull, rainy morning, for avignon and the rhone, intending to take in our way the glen of vaucluse. the dirty _faubourgs_ stretch out along the road for a great distance, and we trudged through them, past foundries, furnaces and manufactories, considerably disheartened with the prospect. we wound among the bleak stony hills, continually ascending, for nearly three hours. great numbers of cabarets, frequented by the common people, lined the roads, and we met continually trains of heavy laden wagons, drawn by large mules. the country is very wild and barren, and would have been tiresome, except for the pine groves with their beautiful green foliage. we got something to eat with difficulty at an inn, for the people spoke nothing but the provençal dialect, and the place was so cold and cheerless we were glad to go out again into the storm. it mattered little to us, that we heard the language in which the gay troubadours of king rené sung their songs of love. we thought more of our dripping clothes and numb, cold limbs, and would have been glad to hear instead, the strong, hearty german tongue, full of warmth and kindly sympathy for the stranger. the wind swept drearily among the hills; black, gusty clouds covered the sky, and the incessant rain filled the road with muddy pools. we looked at the country chateaux, so comfortable in the midst of their sheltering poplars, with a sigh, and thought of homes afar off, whose doors were never closed to _us_. this was all forgotten, when we reached aix, and the hostess of the café d'afrique filled her little stove with fresh coal, and hung our wet garments around it, while her daughter, a pale-faced, crippled child, smiled kindly on us and tried to talk with us in french. putting on our damp, heavy coats again, b---- and i rambled through the streets, while our frugal supper was preparing. we saw the statue of the _bon roi rené_, who held at aix his court of shepherds and troubadours--the dark cathedral of st. saveur--the ancient walls and battlements, and gazed down the valley at the dark, precipitous mass of mont st. victor, at whose base marius obtained a splendid victory over the barbarians. after leaving next morning, we saw at some distance to the south, the enormous aqueduct now being erected for the canal from the rhone to marseilles. the shallow, elevated valleys we passed in the forenoon's walk were stony and barren, but covered with large orchards of almond trees, the fruit of which forms a considerable article of export. this district borders on the desert of the crau, a vast plain of stones, reaching to the mouth of the rhone and almost entirely uninhabited. we caught occasional glimpses of its sea-like waste, between the summits of the hills. at length, after threading a high ascent, we saw the valley of the durance suddenly below us. the sun, breaking through the clouds, shone on the mountain wall, which stood on the opposite side, touching with his glow the bare and rocky precipices that frowned far above the stream. descending to the valley, we followed its course towards the rhone, with the ruins of feudal bourgs crowning the crags above us. it was dusk, when we reached the village of senas, tired with the day's march. a landlord, standing in his door, on the lookout for customers, invited us to enter, in a manner so polite and pressing, we could not choose but do so. this is a universal custom with the country innkeepers. in a little village which we passed towards evening, there was a tavern, with the sign: "_the mother of soldiers_." a portly woman, whose face beamed with kindness and cheerfulness, stood in the door and invited us to stop there for the night. "no, mother!" i answered; "we must go much further to-day." "go, then," said she, "with good luck, my children! a pleasant journey!" on entering the inn at senas, two or three bronzed soldiers were sitting by the table. my french vocabulary happening to give out in the middle of a consultation about eggs and onion-soup, one of them came to my assistance and addressed me in german. he was from fulda, in hesse cassel, and had served fifteen years in africa. two other young soldiers, from the western border of germany, came during the evening, and one of them being partly intoxicated, created such a tumult, that a quarrel arose, which ended in his being beaten and turned out of the house. we met, every day, large numbers of recruits in companies of one or two hundred, on their way to marseilles to embark for algiers. they were mostly youths, from sixteen to twenty years of age, and seemed little to forebode their probable fate. in looking on their fresh, healthy faces and bounding forms, i saw also a dim and ghastly vision of bones whitening on the desert, of men perishing with heat and fever, or stricken down by the aim of the savage bedouin. leaving next morning at day-break, we walked on before breakfast to orgon, a little village in a corner of the cliffs which border the durance, and crossed the muddy river by a suspension bridge a short distance below, to cavaillon, where the country people were holding a great market. from this place a road led across the meadow-land to l'isle, six miles distant. this little town is so named, because it is situated on an island formed by the crystal sorgues, which flows from the fountains of vaucluse. it is a very picturesque and pretty place. great mill-wheels, turning slowly and constantly, stand at intervals in the stream, whose grassy banks are now as green as in spring-time. we walked along the sorgues, which is quite as beautiful and worthy to be sung as the clitumnus, to the end of the village, to take the road to vaucluse. beside its banks stands a dirty, modern "hotel de petrarque et laure." alas, that the names of the most romantic and impassioned lovers of all history should be desecrated to a sign-post to allure gormandizing tourists! the bare mountain in whose heart lies the poet's solitude, now rose before us, at the foot of the lofty mont ventoux, whose summit of snows extended beyond. we left the river, and walked over a barren plain, across which the wind blew most drearily. the sky was rainy and dark, and completed the desolateness of the scene, which in no wise heightened our anticipations of the renowned glen. at length we rejoined the sorgues and entered a little green valley running up into the mountain. the narrowness of the entrance entirely shut out the wind, and except the rolling of the waters over their pebbly bed, all was still and lonely and beautiful. the sides of the dell were covered with olive trees, and a narrow strip of emerald meadow lay at the bottom. it grew more hidden and sequestered as we approached the little village of vaucluse. here, the mountain towers far above, and precipices of grey rock, many hundred feet high, hang over the narrowing glen. on a crag over the village are the remains of a castle; the slope below this, now rugged and stony, was once graced by the cottage and garden of petrarch. all traces of them have long since vanished, but a simple column, bearing the inscription; "À petrarque," stands beside the sorgues. we ascended into the defile by a path among the rocks, overshadowed by olive and wild fig trees, to the celebrated fountains of vaucluse. the glen seems as if struck into the mountain's depths by one blow of an enchanter's wand; and just at the end, where the rod might have rested in its downward sweep, is the fathomless well whose overbrimming fulness gives birth to the sorgues. we climbed up over the mossy rocks and sat down in the grot, beside the dark, still pool. it was the most absolute solitude. the rocks towered above and over us, to the height of six hundred feet, and the gray walls of the wild glen below shut out all appearance of life. i leaned over the rock and drank of the blue crystal that grew gradually darker towards the centre, till it became a mirror, and gave back a perfect reflection of the crags above it. there was no bubbling--no gushing up from its deep bosom--but the wealth of sparkling waters continually welled over, as from a too-full goblet. it was with actual sorrow that i turned away from the silent spot. i never visited a place to which the fancy clung more suddenly and fondly. there is something holy in its solitude, making one envy petrarch the years of calm and unsullied enjoyment which blessed him there. as some persons, whom we pass as strangers, strike a hidden chord in our spirits, compelling a silent sympathy with them, so some landscapes have a character of beauty which harmonizes thrillingly with the mood in which we look upon them, till we forget admiration in the glow of spontaneous attachment. they seem like abodes of the beautiful, which the soul in its wanderings long ago visited, and now recognizes and loves as the home of a forgotten dream. it was thus i felt by the fountains of vaucluse; sadly and with weary steps i turned away, leaving its loneliness unbroken as before. we returned over the plain in the wind, under the gloomy sky, passed l'isle at dusk, and after walking an hour with a rain following close behind us, stopped at an _auberge_ in le thor, where we rested our tired frames and broke our long day's fasting. we were greeted in the morning with a dismal rain and wet roads, as we began the march. after a time, however, it poured down in such torrents, that we were obliged to take shelter in a _remise_ by the road, side, where a good woman, who addressed us in the unintelligible provençal, kindled up a blazing fire. on climbing a long hill, when the storm had abated, we experienced a delightful surprise. below us lay the broad valley of the rhone, with its meadows looking fresh and spring-like after the rain. the clouds were breaking away; clear blue sky was visible over avignon, and a belt of sunlight lay warmly along the mountains of languedoc. many villages, with their tall, picturesque towers, dotted the landscape, and the groves of green olive enlivened the barrenness of winter. two or three hours' walk over the plain, by a road fringed with willows, brought us to the gates of avignon. we walked around its picturesque turreted wall, and rambled through its narrow streets, washed here and there by streams which turn the old mill-wheels lazily around. we climbed up to the massive palace, which overlooks the city from its craggy seat, attesting the splendor it enjoyed, when for thirty years the papal court was held there, and the gray, weather-beaten, irregular building, resembling a pile of precipitous rocks, echoed with the revels of licentious prelates. we could not enter to learn the terrible secrets of the inquisition, here unveiled, but we looked up at the tower, from which the captive rienzi was liberated at the intercession of petrarch. after leaving avignon, we took the road up the rhone for lyons, turning our backs upon the _rainy_ south. we reached the village of sorgues by dusk, and accepted the invitation of an old dame to lodge at her _inn_, which proved to be a _blacksmith's shop_! it was nevertheless clean and comfortable, and we sat down in one corner, out of the reach of the showers of sparks, which flew hissing from a red-hot horseshoe, that the smith and his apprentice were hammering. a piedmontese pedlar, who carried the "song of the holy st. philomène" to sell among the peasants, came in directly, and bargained for a sleep on some hay, for two sous. for a bed in the loft over the shop, we were charged five sous each, which, with seven sous for supper, made our expenses for the night about eleven cents! our circumstances demanded the greatest economy, and we began to fear whether even this spare allowance would enable us to reach lyons. owing to a day's delay in marseilles, we had left that city with but fifteen francs each; the incessant storms of winter and the worn-out state of our shoes, which were no longer proof against water or mud, prolonged our journey considerably, so that by starting before dawn and walking till dark, we were only able to make thirty miles a day. we could always procure beds for five sous, and as in the country inns one is only charged for what he chooses to order, our frugal suppers cost us but little. we purchased bread and cheese in the villages, and made our breakfasts and dinners on a bank by the roadside, or climbed the rocks and sat down by the source of some trickling rill. this simple fare had an excellent relish, and although we walked in wet clothes from morning till night, often laying down on the damp, cold earth to rest, our health was never affected. it is worth all the toil and privation we have as yet undergone, to gain, from actual experience, the blessed knowledge that man always retains a kindness and brotherly sympathy towards his fellow--that under all the weight of vice and misery which a grinding oppression of soul and body brings on the laborers of earth, there still remain many bright tokens of a better nature. among the starving mountaineers of the hartz--the degraded peasantry of bohemia--the savage _contadini_ of central italy, or the dwellers on the hills of provence and beside the swift rhone, we almost invariably found kind, honest hearts, and an aspiration for something better, betokening the consciousness that such brute-like, obedient existence was not their proper destiny. we found few so hardened as to be insensible to a kind look or a friendly word, and nothing made us forget we were among strangers so much as the many tokens of sympathy which met us when least looked for. a young englishman, who had traveled on foot from geneva to rome, enduring many privations on account of his reduced circumstances, said to me, while speaking on this subject: "a single word of kindness from a stranger would make my heart warm and my spirits cheerful, for days afterwards." there is not so much evil in man as men would have us believe; and it is a happy comfort to know and feel this. leaving our little inn before day break next morning, we crossed the sorgues, grown muddy since its infancy at vaucluse, like many a young soul, whose mountain purity goes out into the soiling world and becomes sullied forever. the road passed over broad, barren ranges of hills, and the landscape was destitute of all interest, till we approached orange. this city is built at the foot of a rocky height, a great square projection of which seemed to stand in its midst. as we approached nearer, however, arches and lines of cornice could be discerned, and we recognized it as the celebrated amphitheatre, one of the grandest roman relics in the south of france. i stood at the foot of this great fabric, and gazed up at it in astonishment. the exterior wall, three hundred and thirty-four feet in length, and rising to the height of one hundred and twenty-one feet, is still in excellent, preservation, and through its rows of solid arches one looks on the broken ranges of seats within. on the crag above, and looking as if about to topple down on it, is a massive fragment of the fortress of the princes of orange, razed by louis xiv. passing through the city, we came to the beautiful roman triumphal arch, which to my eye is a finer structure than that of constantino at rome. it is built of a rich yellow marble and highly ornamented with sculptured trophies. from the barbaric shields and the letters mario, still remaining, it has been supposed to commemorate the victory of marius over the barbarians, near aix. a frieze, running along the top, on each side, shows, although broken and much defaced by the weather, the life and action which once marked the struggling figures. these roman ruins, scattered through provence and languedoc, though inferior in historical interest, equal in architectural beauty the greater part of those in the eternal city itself. the rest of the day the road was monotonous, though varied somewhat by the tall crags of mornas and mont-dragon, towering over the villages of the same name. night came on as the rock of pierrelatte, at whose foot we were to sleep, appeared in the distance, rising like a gibraltar from the plain, and we only reached it in time to escape the rain that came down the valley of the rhone. next day we passed several companies of soldiers on their way to africa. one of them was accompanied by a young girl, apparently the wife of the recruit by whose side she was marching. she wore the tight blue jacket of the troop, and a red skirt, reaching to the knees, over her soldier pantaloons; while her pretty face showed to advantage beneath a small military cap. it was a "fille du regiment" in real life. near montelimart, we lost sight of mont ventoux, whose gleaming white crest had been visible all the way from vaucluse, and passed along the base of a range of hills running near to the river. so went our march, without particular incident, till we bivouacked for the night among a company of soldiers in the little village of loriol. leaving at six o'clock, wakened by the trumpets which called up the soldiery to their day's march, we reached the river drome at dawn, and from the bridge over its rapid current, gazed at the dim, ash-colored masses of the alps of dauphiné, piled along the sky, far up the valley. the coming of morn threw a yellow glow along their snowy sides, and lighted up, here and there, a flashing glacier. the peasantry were already up and at work, and caravans of pack-wagons rumbled along in the morning twilight we trudged on with them, and by breakfast-time had made some distance of the way to valence. the road, which does not approach the rhone, is devoid of interest and tiresome, though under a summer sky, when the bare vine-hills are latticed over with green, and the fruit-trees covered with blossoms and foliage, it might be a scene of great beauty. valence, which we reached towards noon, is a commonplace city on the rhone; and my only reasons for traversing its dirty streets in preference to taking the road, which passes without the walls, were--to get something for dinner, and because it _might_ have been the birth-place of aymer de valence, the valorous crusader, chronicled in "ivanhoe," whose tomb i had seen in westminster abbey. one of the streets which was marked "_rue bayard_," shows that my valiant namesake--the knight without fear and reproach--is still remembered in his native province. the ruins of his chateau are still standing among the alps near grenoble. in the afternoon we crossed the isère, a swift, muddy river, which rises among the alps of dauphiné, we saw their icy range, among which is the desert solitude of the grand chartreuse, far up the valley; but the thick atmosphere hid the mighty mont blanc, whose cloudy outline, eighty miles distant in a "bee line," is visible in fair weather. at tain, we came upon the rhone again, and walked along the base of the hills which contract its current. here, i should call it beautiful. the scenery has a wildness that approaches to that of the rhine. rocky, castellated heights frown over the rushing waters, which have something of the majesty of their "exulting and abounding" rival. winding around the curving hills, the scene is constantly varied, and the little willowed islets clasped in the embrace of the stream, mingle a trait of softened beauty with its sterner character. after passing the night at a village on its banks, we left it again at st. vallier, the next morning. at sunset, the spires of vienne were visible, and the lofty mont pilas, the snows of whose riven summits feed the springs of the loire on its western side, stretched majestically along the opposite bank of the rhone. in a meadow, near vienne, stands a curious roman obelisk, seventy-six feet in height. the base is composed of four pillars, connected by arches, and the whole structure has a barbaric air, compared with the more elegant monuments of orange and nismes. vienne, which is mentioned by several of the roman historians under its present name, was the capital of the allobroges, and i looked upon it with a new and strange interest, on calling to mind my school-boy days, when i had become familiar with that war-like race, in toiling over the pages of cæsar. we walked in the mud and darkness for what seemed a great distance, and finally took shelter in a little inn at the northern end of the city. two belgian soldiers, coming from africa, were already quartered there, and we listened to their tales of the arab and the desert, while supper was preparing. the morning of the th was dull and rainy; the road, very muddy and unpleasant, led over the hills, avoiding the westward curve of the rhone, directly towards lyons. about noon, we came in sight of the broad valley in which the rhone first clasps his burgundian bride--the saone, and a cloud of impenetrable coal-smoke showed us the location of lyons. a nearer approach revealed a large flat dome, and some ranges of tall buildings near the river. we soon entered the suburb of la guillotière, which has sprung up on the eastern bank of the rhone. notwithstanding our clothes were like sponges, our boots entirely worn out, and our bodies somewhat thin with nine days exposure to the wintry storms in walking two hundred and forty miles, we entered lyons with suspense and anxiety. but one franc apiece remained out of the fifteen with which we left marseilles. b---- wrote home some time ago, directing a remittance to be forwarded to a merchant at paris, to whom he had a letter of introduction, and in the hope that this had arrived, he determined to enclose the letter in a note, stating our circumstances, and requesting him to forward a part of the remittance to lyons. we had then to wait at least four days; people are suspicious and mistrustful in cities, and if no relief should come, what was to be done? after wading through the mud of the suburbs, we chose a common-looking inn near the river, as the comfort of our stay depended wholly on the kindness of our hosts, and we hoped to find more sympathy among the laboring classes. we engaged lodgings for four or five days; after dinner the letter was dispatched, and we wandered about through the dark, dirty city until night. our landlord, monsieur ferrand, was a rough, vigorous man, with a gloomy, discontented expression; his words were few and blunt; but a certain restlessness of manner, and a secret flashing of his cold, forbidding eye betrayed to me some strong hidden excitement. madame ferrand was kind and talkative, though passionate; but the appearance of the place gave me an unfavorable impression, which was heightened by the thought that it was now impossible to change our lodgings until relief should arrive. when bed-time came, a ladder was placed against a sort of high platform along one side of the kitchen; we mounted and found a bed, concealed from the view of those below by a dusty muslin curtain. we lay there, between heaven and earth--the dirty earth of the brick floor and the sooty heaven of the ceiling--listening until midnight to the boisterous songs, and loud, angry disputes in the room adjoining. thus ended our first day in lyons. five weary days, each of them containing a month of torturing suspense, have since passed. our lodging-place grew so unpleasant that we preferred wandering all day through the misty, muddy, smoky streets, taking refuge in the covered bazaars when it rained heavily. the gloom of every thing around us, entirely smothered down the lightness of heart which made us laugh over our embarrassments at vienna. when at evening, the dull, leaden hue of the clouds seemed to make the air dark and cold and heavy, we walked beside the swollen and turbid rhone, under an avenue of leafless trees, the damp soil chilling our feet and striking a numbness through our frames, and _then_ i knew what those must feel who have _no_ hope in their destitution, and not a friend in all the great world, who is not wretched as themselves. i prize the lesson, though the price of it is hard. "this morning," i said to b----, "will terminate our suspense." i felt cheerful in spite of myself; and this was like a presentiment of coming good luck. to pass the time till the mail arrived we climbed to the chapel of _fourvières_, whose walls are covered with votive offerings to a miraculous picture of the virgin. but at the precise hour we were at the post office. what an intensity of suspense can be felt in that minute, while the clerk is looking over the letters! and what a lightning-like shock of joy when it _did_ come, and was opened with eager, trembling hands, revealing the relief we had almost despaired of! the city did not seem less gloomy, for that was impossible, but the faces of the crowd which had appeared cold and suspicious, were now kind and cheerful. we came home to our lodgings with changed feelings, and madame ferrand must have seen the joy in our faces, for she greeted us with an unusual smile. we leave to-morrow morning for chalons. i do not feel disposed to describe lyons particularly, although i have become intimately acquainted with every part of it, from _presqu' isle perrache to croix rousse_. i know the contents of every shop in the bazaar, and the passage of the hotel dieu--the title of every volume in the bookstores in the place belcour--and the countenance of every boot-block and apple-woman on the quais on both sides of the river. i have walked up the saone to _pierre seise_--down the rhone to his muddy marriage--climbed the heights of _fourvières_, and promenaded in the _cours napoleon_! why, men have been presented with the freedom of cities, when they have had far less cause for such an honor than this! chapter xliv. traveling in burgundy--the miseries of a country diligence. _paris, feb. , ._--every letter of the date is traced with an emotion of joy, for our dreary journey is over. there was a magic in the name that revived us during a long journey, and now the thought that it is all over--that these walls which enclose us, stand in the heart of the gay city--seems almost too joyful to be true. yesterday i marked with the whitest chalk, on the blackest of all tablets to make the contrast greater, for i got out of the cramped diligence at the barrière de charenton, and saw before me in the morning twilight, the immense groy mass of paris. i forgot my numbed and stiffened frame, and every other of the thousand disagreeable feelings of diligence traveling, in the pleasure which that sight afforded. we arose in the dark at lyons, and after bidding adieu to morose monsieur ferrand, traversed the silent city and found our way in the mist and gloom to the steamboat landing on the saone. the waters were swollen much above their usual level, which was favorable for the boat, as long as there was room enough left to pass under the bridges. after a great deal of bustle we got under way, and were dashing out of lyons, against the swift current, before day-break. we passed _l'isle barbe_, once a favorite residence of charlemagne, and now the haunt of the lyonnaise on summer holidays, and going under the suspension bridges with levelled chimneys, entered the picturesque hills above, which are covered with vineyards nearly to the top; the villages scattered over them have those square, pointed towers, which give such a quaintness to french country scenery. the stream being very high, the meadows on both sides were deeply overflowed. to avoid the strong current in the centre, our boat ran along the banks, pushing aside the alder thickets and poplar shoots; in passing the bridges, the pipes were always brought down flat on the deck. a little after noon, we passed the large town of macon, the birth-place of the poet lamartine. the valley of the saone, no longer enclosed among the hills, spread out to several miles in width. along the west lay in sunshine the vine-mountains of côte d'or, and among the dark clouds in the eastern sky, we could barely distinguish the outline of the jura. the waters were so much swollen as to cover the plain for two or three miles. we seemed to be sailing down a lake, with rows of trees springing up out of the water, and houses and villages lying like islands on its surface. a sunset that promised better weather tinged the broad brown flood, as chalons came in sight, looking like a city built along the shore of a lake. we squeezed through the crowd of porters and diligence men, declining their kind offers, and hunted quarters to suit ourselves. we left chalons on the morning of the st, in high spirits at the thought that there were but little more than two hundred miles between us and paris. in walking over the cold, muddy plain, we passed a family of strolling musicians, who were sitting on a heap of stones by the roadside. an ill-dressed, ill-natured man and woman, each carrying a violin, and a thin, squalid girl, with a tamborine, composed the group. their faces bore that unfeeling stamp, which springs from depravity and degradation. when we had walked somewhat more than a mile, we overtook a little girl, who was crying bitterly. by her features, from which the fresh beauty of childhood had not been worn, and the steel triangle which was tied to her belt, we knew she belonged to the family we had passed. her dress was thin and ragged and a pair of wooden shoes but ill protected her feet from the sharp cold. i stopped and asked her why she cried, but she did not at first answer. however, by questioning, i found her unfeeling parents had sent her on without food; she was sobbing with hunger and cold. our pockets were full of bread and cheese which we had bought for breakfast, and we gave her half a loaf, which stopped her tears at once. she looked up and thanked us, smiling; and sitting down on a bank, began to eat as if half famished. the physiognomy of this region is very singular. it appears as if the country had been originally a vast elevated plain, and some great power had _scooped_ out, as with a hand, deep circular valleys all over its surface. in winding along the high ridges, we often looked down, on either side, into such hollows, several miles in diameter, and sometimes entirely covered with vineyards. at la rochepot, a quaint, antique village, lying in the bottom of one of these dells, we saw the finest ruin of the middle ages that i have met with in france. an american lady had spoken to me of it in rome, and i believe willis mentions it in his "pencillings," but it is not described in the guide books, nor could we learn what feudal lord had ever dwelt in its halls. it covers the summit of a stately rock, at whose foot the village is crouched, and the green ivy climbs up to the very top of its gray towers. as the road makes a wide curve around the side of the hill, we descended to the village by the nearer foot-path, and passed among its low, old houses, with their pointed gables and mossy roofs. the path led close along the foot of the rock, and we climbed up to the ruin, and stood in its grass-grown courtyard. only the outer walls and the round towers at each corner are left remaining; the inner part has been razed to the ground, and where proud barons once marshalled their vassals, the villagers now play their holiday games. on one side, several gothic windows are left standing, perfect, though of simple construction, and in the towers we saw many fire-places and door-ways of richly cut stone, which looked as fresh as if just erected. we passed the night at ivry (not the ivry which gained henri quatre his kingdom) and then continued our march over roads which i can only compare to our country roads in america during the spring thaw. in addition to this, the rain commenced early in the morning and continued all day, so that we were completely wet the whole time. the plains, too high and cold to produce wine, were varied by forests of beech and oak, and the population was thinly scattered over them in small villages. travelers generally complain very much of the monotony of this part of france, and, with such dreary weather, we could not disagree with them. as the day wore on, the rain increased, and the sky put on that dull, gray cast, which denotes a lengthened storm. we were fain to stop at nightfall, but there was no inn near at hand--not even a hovel of a _cabaret_ in which to shelter ourselves, and, on enquiring of the wagoners, we received the comforting assurance that there was yet a league and a half to the nearest stopping place. on, then, we went, with the pitiless storm beating in our faces and on our breasts, till there was not a dry spot left, except what our knapsacks covered. we could not have been more completely saturated if we had been dipped in the yonne. at length, after two hours of slipping and sliding along in the mud and wet and darkness, we reached saulieu, and, by the warm fire, thanked our stars that the day's dismal tramp was over. by good or bad luck (i have not yet decided which) a vehicle was to start the next morning for auxerre, distant sixty miles, and the fare being but five francs, we thought it wisest to take places. it was always with reluctance that we departed from our usual mode of traveling, but, in the present instance, the circumstances absolutely compelled it. next morning, at sunrise, we took our seats in a large, square vehicle on two wheels, calculated for six persons and a driver, with a single horse. but, as he was fat and round as an elephant, and started off at a brisk pace, and we were well protected from the rain, it was not so bad after all, barring the jolts and jarred vertebræ. we drove on, over the same dreary expanse of plain and forest, passing through two or three towns in the course of the day, and by evening had made somewhat more than half our journey. owing to the slowness of our fresh horse, we were jolted about the whole night, and did not arrive at auxerre until six o'clock in the morning. after waiting an hour in a hotel beside the rushing yonne, a lumbering diligence was got ready, and we were given places to paris for seven francs. as the distance is one hundred and ten miles, this would be considered cheap, but i should not want to travel it again and be paid for doing so. twelve persons were packed into a box not large enough for a cow, and no cabinet-maker ever dove-tailed the corners of his bureaus tighter than we did our knees and nether extremities. it is my lot to be blessed with abundance of stature, and none but tall persons can appreciate the misery of sitting for hours with their joints in an immovable vice. the closeness of the atmosphere--for the passengers would not permit the windows to be opened for fear of taking cold--combined with loss of sleep, made me so drowsy that my head was continually falling on my next neighbor, who, being a heavy country lady, thrust it indignantly away. i would then try my best to keep it up awhile, but it would droop gradually, till the crash of a bonnet or a smart bump against some other head would recall me, for a moment, to consciousness. we passed joigny, on the yonne, sens, with its glorious old cathedral, and at dusk reached montercau, on the seine. this was the scene of one of napoleon's best victories, on his return from elba. in driving over the bridge, i looked down on the swift and swollen current, and hoped that its hue might never be darkened again so fearfully as the last sixty years have witnessed. no river in europe has such an association connected with it. we think of the danube, for its majesty, of the rhine, for its wild beauty, but of the seine--for its blood! in coming thus to the last famed stream i shall visit in europe, i might say, with barry cornwall: "we've sailed through banks of green, where the wild waves fret and quiver; and we've down the danube been-- the dark, deep, thundering river! we've thridded the elbe and rhone, the tiber and blood dyed seine, and we've been where the blue garonne goes laughing to meet the main!" all that night did we endure squeezing and suffocation, and no morn was ever more welcome than that which revealed to us paris. with matted hair, wild, glaring eyes, and dusty and dishevelled habiliments, we entered the gay capital, and blessed every stone upon which we placed our feet, in the fulness of our joy. in paying our fare at auxerre, i was obliged to use a draft on the banker, rougemont de lowenberg. the ignorant conductor hesitated to change this, but permitted us to go, on condition of keeping it until we should arrive. therefore, on getting out of the diligence, after forty-eight hours of sleepless and fasting misery, the _facteur_ of the office went with me to get it paid, leaving b---- to wait for us. i knew nothing of paris, and this merciless man kept me for three hours at his heels, following him on all _his_ errands, before he did mine, in that time traversing the whole length of the city, in order to leave a _chèvre-feuille_ at an aristocratic residence in the faubourg st. germain. yet even combined weariness and hunger could not prevent me from looking with vivid interest down a long avenue, at the column of the place vendôme, in passing, and gazing up in wonder at the splendid portico of the madeleine. but of anything else i have a very faint remembrance. "you can eat breakfast, now, i think," said he, when we returned, "we have walked more than four leagues!" i know we will be excused, that, instead of hurrying away to notre dame or the louvre, we sat down quietly to a most complete breakfast. even the most romantic must be forced to confess that admiration does not sit well on an empty stomach. our first walk was to a bath, and then, with complexions several shades lighter, and limbs that felt us if lifted by invisible wings, we hurried away to the post office. i seized the welcome missives from my far home, with a beating heart, and hastening back, read till the words became indistinct in the twilight. chapter xlv. poetical scenes in paris. what a gay little world in miniature this is! i wonder not that the french, with their exuberant gaiety of spirit, should revel in its ceaseless tides of pleasure, as if it were an earthly elysium. i feel already the influence of its cheerful atmosphere, and have rarely threaded the crowds of a stranger city, with so light a heart as i do now daily, on the thronged banks of the seine. and yet it would be difficult to describe wherein consists this agreeable peculiarity. you can find streets as dark and crooked and dirty anywhere in germany, and squares and gardens as gay and sunny beyond the alps, and yet they would affect you far differently. you could not, as here, divest yourself of every particle of sad or serious thought and be content to gaze for hours on the showy scene, without an idea beyond the present moment. it must be that the spirit of the croud is _magnetically_ contagious. the evening of our arrival we walked out past the massive and stately _hotel de ville_, and took a promenade along the quais. the shops facing the river presented a scene of great splendor. several of the quais on the north bank of the seine are occupied almost entirely by jewellers, the windows of whose shops, arranged in a style of the greatest taste, make a dazzling display. rows of gold watches and chains are arranged across the crystal panes, and heaped in pyramids on long glass slabs; cylindrical wheels of wire, hung with jewelled breastpins and earrings, turn slowly around by some invisible agency, displaying row after row of their glittering treasures. from the centre of the pont neuf, we could see for a long distance up and down the river. the different bridges traced on either side a dozen starry lines through the dark air, and a continued blaze lighted the two shores in their whole length, revealing the outline of the isle da la cité. i recognized the palaces of the louvre and the tuileries in the dusky mass beyond. eastward, looming against the dark sky, i could faintly trace the black towers of notre dame, the rushing of the swift waters below mingled with the rattling of a thousand carts and carriages, and the confusion of a thousand voices, till it seemed like some grand nightly festival. i first saw notre dame by moonlight. the shadow of its stupendous front was thrown directly towards me, hiding the innumerable lines of the ornamental sculpture which cover its tall, square towers. i walked forward until the interlacing, moorish arches between them stood full against the moon, and the light, struggling through the quaint openings of the tracery, streamed in silver lines down into the shadow. the square before it was quite deserted, for it stands on a lonely part of the isle de la cité, and it looked thus far more majestic and solemn than in the glaring daylight. the great quadrangle of the tuileries encloses the place du carrousel, in the centre of which stands a triumphal arch, erected by napoleon after his italian victories. standing in the middle of this arch, you look through the open passage in the central building of the palace, into the gardens beyond. further on, in a direct line, the middle avenue of the gardens extends away to the _place de la concorde_, where the obelisk of luxor makes a perpendicular line through your vista; still further goes the broad avenue through the elysian fields, until afar off, the arc de l'etoile, _two miles distant_, closes this view through the palace doorway. let us go through it, and on, to the place de la concorde, reserving the gardens for another time. what is there in europe--nay, in the world,--equal to this? in the centre, the mighty obelisk of red granite pierces the sky,--on either hand showers of silver spray are thrown up from splendid bronze fountains--statues and pillars of gilded bronze sweep in a grand circle around the square, and on each side magnificent vistas lead the eye off, and combine the distant with the near, to complete this unparalleled view! eastward, beyond the tall trees in the garden of the tuileries, rises the long front of the palace, with the tri-color floating above; westward, in front of us, is the forest of the elysian fields, with the arch of triumph nearly a mile and a half distant, looking down from the end of the avenue, at the barriere de neuilly. to the right and left are the marble fronts of the church of the madeleine and the chamber of deputies, the latter on the other side of the seine. thus the groves and gardens of paris--the palace of her kings--the proud monument of her sons' glory--and the masterpieces of modern french architecture are all embraced in this one splendid _coup d'oeil_. following the motley multitude to the bridge, i crossed and made my way to the hotel des invalides. along the esplanade, playful companies of children were running and tumbling in their sports over the green turf, which was as fresh as a meadow; while, not the least interesting feature of the scene, numbers of scarred and disabled veterans, in the livery of the hospital, basked in the sunshine, watching with quiet satisfaction the gambols of the second generation they have seen arise. what tales could they not tell, those wrinkled and feeble old men! what visions of marengo and austerlitz and borodino shift still with a fiery vividness through their fading memories! some may have left a limb on the lybian desert; and the sabre of the cossack may have scarred the brows of others. they witnessed the rising and setting of that great meteor, which intoxicated france with such a blaze of power and glory, and now, when the recollection of that wonderful period seems almost like a stormy dream, they are left to guard the ashes of their ancient general, brought back from his exile to rest in the bosom of his own french people. it was to me a touching and exciting thing, to look on those whose eyes had witnessed the filling up of such a fated leaf in the world's history. entrance is denied to the tomb of napoleon until it is finished, which will not be for three or four yours yet. i went, however, into the "church of the banners"--a large chapel, hung with two or three hundred flags taken by the armies of the empire. the greater part of them were austrian and russian. it appeared to be empty when i entered, but on looking around, i saw an old gray-headed soldier kneeling at one side. his head was bowed over his hands, and he seemed perfectly absorbed in his thoughts. perhaps the very tattered banners which hung down motionless above his head, he might have assisted in conquering. i looked a moment on those eloquent trophies, and then noiselessly withdrew. there is at least one solemn spot near paris; the laughing winds that come up from the merry city sink into sighs under the cypress boughs of pere lachaise. and yet it is not a gloomy place, but full of a serious beauty, fitting for a city of the dead. i shall never forget the sunny afternoon when i first entered its gate and walked slowly up the hill, between rows of tombs, gleaming white amid the heavy foliage, while the green turf around them was just beginning to be starred by the opening daisies, from the little chapel on its summit i looked back at the blue spires of the city, whose roar of life dwindled to a low murmur. countless pyramids, obelisks and urns, rising far and wide above the cedars and cypresses, showed the extent of the splendid necropolis, which is inhabited by pale, shrouded emigrants from its living sister below. the only sad part of the view, was the slope of the hill alloted to the poor, where legions of plain black crosses are drawn up into solid squares on its side and stand alone gloomy--the advanced guard of the army of death! i mused over the tombs of molière and la fontaine; massena, mortier and lefebre; general foy and casimir perier; and finally descended to the shrine where abelard reposes by the side of his heloise. the old sculptured tomb, brought away from the paraclete, still covers their remains, and pious hands (of lovers, perhaps,) keep fresh the wreaths of _immortelles_ above their marble effigies. in the theatre français, i saw rachel, the actress. she appeared in the character of "virginia," in a tragedy of that name, by the poet latour. her appearance as she came upon the stage alone, convinced me she would not belie her renown. she is rather small in stature, with dark, piercing eyes and rich black hair; her lips are full, but delicately formed, and her features have a marked yet flexible outline, which conveys the minutest shades of expression. her voice is clear, deep and thrilling, and like sonic grand strain of music, there is power and meaning in its slightest modulations. her gestures embody the very spirit of the character; she has so perfectly attained that rare harmony of thought, sound and action, or rather, that unity of feeling which renders them harmonious, that her acting seems the unstudied, irrepressible impulse of her soul. with the first sentence she uttered, i forgot rachel. i only saw the innocent roman girl; i awaited in suspense and with a powerful sympathy, the developement of the oft-told tragedy. my blood grew warm with indignation when the words of appius roused her to anger, and i could scarcely keep back my tears, when, with a voice broken by sobs, she bade farewell to the protecting gods of her father's hearth. among the bewildering variety of ancient ornaments and implements in the egyptian gallery of the louvre, i saw an object of startling interest. a fragment of the iliad, written nearly three thousand years ago! one may even dare to conjecture that the torn and half-mouldered slip of papyrus, upon which he gazes, may have been taken down from the lips of the immortal chiun. the eyes look on those faded characters, and across the great gulf of time, the soul leaps into the past, brought into shadowy nearness by a mirage of the mind. there, as in the desert, images start up, vivid, yet of a vague and dreamy beauty. we see the olive groves of greece--white-robed youths and maidens sit in the shade of swaying boughs--and one of them reads aloud, in words that sound like the clashing of shields, the deeds of achilles. as we step out the western portal of the tuileries, a beautiful scene greets us. we look on the palace garden, fragrant with flowers and classic with bronze copies of ancient sculpture. beyond this, broad gravel walks divide the flower-bordered lawns and ranks of marble demigods and heroes look down on the joyous crowd. children troll their hoops along the avenues or skip the rope under the clipped lindens, whose boughs are now tinged a pale yellow by the bursting buds. the swans glide about on a pond in the centre, begging bread of the bystanders, who watch a miniature ship which the soft breeze carries steadily across. paris is unseen, but _heard_, on every side; only the column of luxor and the arc de triomphe rise blue and grand above the top of the forest. what with the sound of voices, the merry laughter of the children and a host of smiling faces, the scene touches a happy chord in one's heart, and he mingles with it, lost in pleasant reverie, till the sounds fade away with the fading light. just below the baths of the louvre, there are several floating barges belonging to the washer-women, anchored at the foot of the great stone staircase leading down to the water. they stand there day after day, beating their clothes upon flat boards and rinsing them in the seine. one day there seemed to have been a wedding or some other cause of rejoicing among them, for a large number of the youngest were talking in great glee on one of the platforms of the staircase, while a handsome, german-looking youth stood near, with a guitar slung around his neck. he struck up a lively air, and the girls fell into a droll sort of a dance. they went at it heavily and roughly enough, but made up in good humor what they lacked in grace; the older members of the craft looked up from their work with satisfaction and many shouts of applause wore sent down to them from the spectators on the quai and the pont neuf. not content with this, they seized on some luckless men who were descending the steps, and clasping them with their powerful right arms, spun them around like so many tops and sent them whizzing off at a tangent. loud bursts of laughter greeted this performance, and the stout river maidens returned to their dance with redoubled spirit. yesterday, the famous procession of the "_boeuf gras_" took place for the second time, with great splendor. the order of march had been duly announced beforehand, and by noon all the streets and squares through which it was to pass, were crowded with waiting spectators. mounted gens d'armes rode constantly to and fro, to direct the passage of vehicles and keep an open thoroughfare. thousands of country peasants poured into the city, the boys of whom were seen in all directions, blowing distressingly through hollow ox-horns. altogether, the spirit of nonsense which animated the crowd, displayed itself very amusingly. a few mounted guards led the procession, followed by a band of music. then appeared roman lictors and officers of sacrifice, leading dagobert, the famous bull of normandy, destined to the honor of being slaughtered as the carnival beef. he trod rather tenderly, finding, no doubt, a difference between the meadows of caen and the pavements of paris, and i thought he would have been willing to forego his gilded horns and flowery crown, to get back there again. his weight was said to be four thousand pounds, and the bills pompously declared that he had no rival in france, except the elephant in the _jardin des plantes_. after him came the farmer by whom he was raised, and m. roland, the butcher of the carnival, followed by a hundred of the same craft, dressed as cavaliers of the different ages of france. they made a very showy appearance, although the faded velvet and soiled tinsel of their mantles were rather too apparent by daylight. after all these had gone by, came an enormous triumphal car, very profusely covered with gilding and ornamental flowers. a fellow with long woollen hair and beard, intended to represent time, acted as driver. in the car, under a gilded canopy, reposed a number of persons, in blue silk smocks and yellow "fleshtights," said to be venus, apollo, the graces, &c. but i endeavored in vain to distinguish one divinity from another. however, three children on the back seat, dressed in the same style, with the addition of long flaxy ringlets, made very passable cupids. this closed the march; which passed onward towards the place de la concorde, accompanied by the sounds of music and the shouts of the mob. the broad, splendid line of boulevards, which describe a semi-circle around the heart of the city, were crowded, and for the whole distance of three miles, it required no slight labor to make one's way. people in masks and fancy costumes were continually passing and re-passing, and i detected in more than one of the carriages, checks rather too fair to suit the slouched hunter's hats which shaded them. it seemed as if all paris was taking a holiday, and resolved to make the most of it. chapter xlvi. a glimpse of normandy. after a residence of five weeks, which, in spite of some few troubles, passed away quickly and delightfully, i turned my back on paris. it was not regret i experienced on taking my seat in the cars for versailles, but that feeling of reluctance with which we leave places whose brightness and gaiety force the mind away from serious toil. steam, however, cuts short all sentiment, and in much less time than it takes to bid farewell to a german, we had whizzed past the place d'europe, through the barrier, and were watching the spires start up from the receding city, on the way to st. cloud. at versailles i spent three hours in a hasty walk through the palace, which allowed but a bare glance at the gorgeous paintings of horace vernet. his "taking of constantine" has the vivid look of reality. the white houses shine in the sun, and from the bleached earth to the blue and dazzling sky, there seems to hang a heavy, scorching atmosphere. the white smoke of the artillery curls almost visibly off the canvass, and the cracked and half-sprung walls look as if about to topple down on the besiegers. one series of halls is devoted to the illustration of the knightly chronicles of france, from the days of charlemagne to those of bayard and gaston de foix. among these pictured legends, i looked with the deepest interest on that of the noble girl of orleans. her countenance--the same in all these pictures and in a beautiful statue of her, which stands in one of the corridors--is said to be copied from an old and well-authenticated portrait. united to the sweetness and purity of peasant beauty, she has the lofty brow and inspired expression of a prophetess. there is a soft light in her full blue eye that does not belong to earth. i wonder not the soldiery deemed her chosen by god to lead them to successful battle; had i lived in those times i could have followed her consecrated banner to the ends of the earth. in the statue, she stands musing, with her head drooping forward, as if the weight of the breastplate oppressed her woman's heart; the melancholy soul which shines through the marble seems to forebode the fearful winding-up of her eventful destiny. the afternoon was somewhat advanced, by the time i had seen the palace and gardens. after a hurried dinner at a restaurant, i shouldered my knapsack and took the road to st. germain. the day was gloomy and cheerless, and i should have felt very lonely but for the thought of soon reaching england. there is no time of the year more melancholy than a cold, cloudy day in march; whatever may be the beauties of pedestrian traveling in fairer seasons, my experience dictates that during winter storms and march glooms, it had better be dispensed with. however, i pushed on to st. germain, threaded its long streets, looked down from the height over its magnificent tract of forest and turned westward down the seine. owing to the scantiness of villages, i was obliged to walk an hour and a half in the wind and darkness, before i reached a solitary inn. as i opened the door and asked for lodging, the landlady inquired if i had the necessary papers. i answered in the affirmative and was admitted. while i was eating supper, they prepared their meal on the other end of the small table and sat down together. they fell into the error, so common to ignorant persons, of thinking a foreigner could not understand them, and began talking quite unconcernedly about me. "why don't he take the railroad?" said the old man: "he must have very little money--it would be bad for us if he had none." "oh!" remarked his son, "if he had none, he would not be sitting there so quiet and unconcerned." i thought there was some knowledge of human nature in this remark. "and besides," added the landlady, "there is no danger for us, for we have his passport." of course i enjoyed this in secret, and mentally pardoned their suspicions, when i reflected that the high roads between paris and london are frequented by many imposters, which makes the people naturally mistrustful. i walked all the next day through a beautiful and richly cultivated country. the early fruit trees were bursting into bloom, and the farmers led out their cattle to pasturage in the fresh meadows. the scenery must be delightful in summer--worthy of all that has been said or sung about lovely normandy. on the morning of the third day, before reaching rouen, i saw at a distance the remains of chateau galliard, the favorite castle of richard coeur de lion. rouen breathes everywhere of the ancient times of normandy. nothing can be more picturesque than its quaint, irregular wooden houses, and the low, mossy mills, spanning the clear streams which rush through its streets. the cathedral, with its four towers, rises from among the clustered cottages like a giant rook, split by the lightning and worn by the rains of centuries is into a thousand fantastic shapes. resuming my walk in the afternoon, i climbed the heights west of the city, and after passing through a suburb four or five miles in length, entered the vale of the cailly. this is one of the sweetest scenes in france. it lies among the woody hills like a paradise, with its velvet meadows and villas and breathing gardens. the grass was starred with daisies and if i took a step into the oak and chesnut woods, i trampled on thousands of anemones and fragrant daffodils. the upland plain, stretching inward from the coast, wears a different character. as i ascended, towards evening, and walked over its monotonous swells, i felt almost homesick beneath its saddening influence. the sun, hazed over with dull clouds, gave out that cold and lifeless light which is more lonely than complete darkness. the wind, sweeping dismally over the fields, sent clouds of blinding dust down the road, and as it passed through the forests, the myriads of fine twigs sent up a sound as deep and grand as the roar of a roused ocean. every chink of the norman cottage where i slept, whistled most drearily, and as i looked out the little window of my room, the trees were swaying in the gloom, and long, black clouds scudded across the sky. though my bed was poor and hard, it was a sublime sound that cradled me into slumber. homer might have used it as the lullaby of jove. my last day on the continent came. i rose early and walked over the hills towards dieppe. the scenery grew more bleak as i approached the sea, but the low and sheltered valleys preserved the pastoral look of the interior. in the afternoon, as i climbed a long, elevated ridge, over which a strong northwester was blowing, i was struck with a beautiful rustic church, in one of the dells below me. while admiring its neat tower i had gained unconsciously the summit of the hill, and on turning suddenly around, lo! there was the glorious old atlantic stretching far before and around me! a shower was sweeping mistily along the horizon and i could trace the white line of the breakers that foamed at the foot of the cliffs. the scene came over me like a vivid electric shock, and i gave an involuntary shout, which might have been heard in all the valleys around. after a year and a half of wandering over the continent, that gray ocean was something to be revered and loved, for it clasped the shores of my native america. i entered dieppe in a heavy shower, and after finding an inn suited to my means and obtaining a _permis d'embarquement_ from the police office, i went out to the battlements and looked again on the sea. the landlord promised to call me in time for the boat, but my anxiety waked me sooner, and mistaking the strokes of the cathedral bell, i shouldered my knapsack and went down to the wharf at one o'clock. no one was stirring on board the boat, and i was obliged to pace the silent, gloomy streets of the town for two hours. i watched the steamer glide out on the rainy channel, and turning into the topmost berth, drew the sliding curtain and strove to keep out cold and sea-sickness. but it was unavailing; a heavy storm of snow and rain rendered our passage so dreary that i did not stir until we were approaching the chain pier of brighton. i looked out on the foggy shores of england with a feeling of relief; my tongue would now be freed from the difficult bondage of foreign languages, and my ears be rejoiced with the music of my own. after two hours' delay at the custom house, i took my seat in an open car for london. the day was dull and cold; the sun resembled a milky blotch in the midst of a leaden sky. i sat and shivered, as we flew onward, amid the rich, cultivated english scenery. at last the fog grew thicker; the road was carried over the tops of houses; the familiar dome of st. paul's stood out above the spires; and i was again in london! chapter xlvii. lockhart, bernard barton and croly--london chimes and greenwich fair. my circumstances, on arriving at london, were again very reduced. a franc and a half constituted the whole of my funds. this, joined to the knowledge of london expenses, rendered instant exertion necessary, to prevent still greater embarrassment. i called on a printer the next morning, hoping to procure work, but found, as i had no documents with me to show i had served a regular apprenticeship, this would be extremely difficult, although workmen were in great demand. mr. putnam, however, on whom i had previously called, gave me employment for a time in his publishing establishment, and thus i was fortunately enabled to await the arrival of a remittance from home. mrs. trollope, whom i met in florence, kindly gave me a letter to murray, the publisher, and i visited him soon after my arrival. in his library i saw the original portraits of byron, moore, campbell and the other authors who were intimate with him and his father. a day or two afterwards i had the good fortune to breakfast with lockhart and bernard barton, at the house of the former. mr. murray, through whom the invitation was given, accompanied me there. as it was late when we arrived at regent's park, we found them waiting, and sat down immediately to breakfast. i was much pleased with lockhart's appearance and manners. he has a noble, manly countenance--in fact, the handsomest english face i ever saw--a quick, dark eye and an ample forehead, shaded by locks which show, as yet, but few threads of gray. there is a peculiar charm in his rich, soft voice; especially when reciting poetry, it has a clear, organ-like vibration, which thrills deliciously on the ear. his daughter, who sat at the head of the table, is a most lovely and amiable girl. bernard burton, who is now quite an old man, is a very lively and sociable friend. his head is gray and almost bald, but there is still plenty of fire in his eyes and life in his limbs. his many kind and amiable qualities endear him to a large circle of literary friends. he still continues writing, and within the last year has brought out a volume of simple, touching "household verses." a picture of cheerful and contented old age has never been more briefly and beautifully drawn, than in the following lines, which he sent me, in answer to my desire to possess one of his poems in his own hand: stanzas. i feel that i am growing old, nor wish to hide that truth; conscious my heart is not more cold than in my by-gone youth. i cannot roam the country round, as i was wont to do; my feet a scantier circle bound, my eyes a narrower view. but on my mental vision rise bright scenes of beauty still: morn's splendor, evening's glowing skies, valley, and grove, and hill. nor can infirmities o'erwhelm the purer pleasures brought from the immortal spirit's realm of feeling and of thought! my heart! let not dismay or doubt in thee an entrance win! thou _hast_ enjoyed thyself _without_-- _now seek thy joy within_! during breakfast he related to us a pleasant anecdote of scott. he once wrote to the poet in behalf of a young lady, who wished to have the description of melrose, in the "lay of the last minstrel," in the poet's own writing. scott sent it, but added these lines to the conclusion: "then go, and muse with deepest awe on what the writer never saw; who would not wander 'neath the moon to see what he could see at noon!" we went afterwards into lockhart's library, which was full of interesting objects. i saw the private diary of scott, kept until within a short time of his death. it was melancholy to trace the gradual failing of all his energies in the very wavering of the autograph. in a large volume of his correspondence, containing letters from campbell, wordsworth, byron, and all the distinguished characters of the age, i saw campbell's "battle of the baltic" in his own hand. i was highly interested and gratified with the whole visit; the more so, as mr. lockhart had invited me voluntarily, without previous acquaintance. i have since heard him spoken of in the highest terms of esteem. i went one sunday to the church of st. stephen, to hear croly, the poet. the service, read by a drowsy clerk, was long and monotonous; i sat in a side-aisle, looking up at the dome, and listening to the rain which dashed in torrents against the windowpanes. at last, a tall, gray-haired man came down the passage. he bowed with a sad smile, so full of benevolence and resignation, that it went into my heart at once, and i gave him an involuntary tribute of sympathy. he has a heavy affliction to bear--the death of his gallant son, one of the officers who were slain in the late battle of ferozeshaw. his whole manner betrays the tokens of subdued but constant grief. his sermon was peculiarly finished and appropriate; the language was clear and forcible, without that splendor of thought and dazzling vividness of imagery which mark "salathiel." yet i could not help noticing that he delighted to dwell on the spiritualities of religion, rather than its outward observances, which he seemed inclined to hurry over as lightly as possible. his mild, gray eye and lofty forehead are more like the benevolent divine than the poet. i thought of salathiel, and looked at the dignified, sorrowful man before me. the picture of the accursed judean vanished, and his own solemn lines rang on my ear: "the mighty grave wraps lord and slave, nor pride, nor poverty dares come within that prison-house, that tomb!" whenever i hear them, or think of them again, i shall see, in memory, croly's calm, pale countenance. "the chimes, the chimes of mother-land, of england, green and old; that out from thane and ivied tower a thousand years have tolled!" i often thought of coxe's beautiful ballad, when, after a day spent in waterloo place, i have listened, on my way homeward, to the chimes of mary-le-bone chapel, sounding sweetly and clearly above all the din of the strand. there is something in their silvery vibration, which is far more expressive than the ordinary tones of a bell. the ear becomes weary of a continued toll--the sound of some bells seems to have nothing more in it than the ordinary clang of metal--but these simple notes, following one another so melodiously, fall on the ear, stunned by the ceaseless roar of carriages or the mingled cries of the mob, as gently and gratefully as drops of dew. whether it be morning, and they ring out louder and deeper through the mist, or midnight, when the vast ocean of being beneath them surges less noisily than its wont, they are alike full of melody and poetry. i have often paused, deep in the night, to hear those clear tones, dropping down from the darkness, thrilling, with their full, tremulous sweetness, the still air of the lighted strand, and winding away through dark, silent lanes and solitary courts, till the ear of the care-worn watcher is scarcely stirred with their dying vibrations. they seemed like those spirit-voices, which, at such times, speak almost audibly to the heart. how delicious it must be, to those who dwell within the limits of their sound, to wake from some happy dream and hear those chimes blending in with their midnight fancies, like the musical echo of the promised bliss. i love these eloquent bells, and i think there must be many, living out a life of misery and suffering, to whom their tones come with an almost human consolation. the natures of the very cockneys, who never go without the horizon of their vibrations, is, to my mind, invested with _one_ hue of poetry! a few days ago, an american friend invited me to accompany him to greenwich fair. we took a penny steamer from hungerford market to london bridge, and jumped into the cars, which go every live minutes. twelve minutes' ride above the chimneys of london and the vegetable-fields of rotherhithe and deptford brought us to greenwich, we followed the stream of people which was flowing from all parts of the city into the park. here began the merriment. we heard on every side the noise of the "scratchers," or, as the venders of these articles denominated them--"the fun of the fair." by this is meant a little notched wheel, with a piece of wood fastened on it, like a miniature watchman's rattle. the "fun" consists in drawing them down the back of any one you pass, when they make a sound precisely like that of ripping cloth. the women take great delight in this, and as it is only deemed politeness to return the compliment, we soon had enough to do. nobody seemed to take the diversion amiss, but it was so irresistibly droll to see a large crowd engaged in this singular amusement, that we both burst into hearty laughter. as we began ascending greenwich hill, we were assailed with another kind of game. the ground was covered with smashed oranges, with which the people above and below were stoutly pelting each other. half a dozen heavy ones whizzed uncomfortably near my head as i went up, and i saw several persons get the full benefit of a shot on their backs and breasts. the young country lads and lasses amused themselves by running at full spend down the steep side of a hill. this was, however, a feat attended with some risk; for i saw one luckless girl describe an arc of a circle, of which her feet was the centre and her body the radius. all was noise and nonsense. they ran to and fro under the long, hoary bough of the venerable oaks that crest the summit, and clattered down the magnificent forest-avenues, whose budding foliage gave them little shelter from the passing april showers. the view from the top is splendid. the stately thames curves through the plain below, which loses itself afar off in the mist; greenwich, with its massive hospital, lies just at one's feet, and in a clear day the domes of london skirt the horizon. the wood of the park is entirely oak--the majestic, dignified, english oak--which covers, in picturesque clumps, the sides and summits of the two billowy hills. it must be a sweet place in summer, when the dark, massive foliage is heavy on every mossy arm, and the smooth and curving sward shines with thousands of field-flowers. owing to the showers, the streets were coated with mud, of a consistence as soft and yielding as the most fleecy persian carpet. near the gate, boys were holding scores of donkeys, which they offered us at threepence for a ride of two miles. we walked down towards the river, and came at last to a group of tumblers, who with muddy hands and feet were throwing somersets in the open street. i recognized them as old acquaintances of the rue st. antoine and the champs elysées; but the little boy who cried before, because he did not want to bend his head and foot into a ring, like a hoop-snake, had learned his part better by this time, so that he went through it all without whimpering and came off with only a fiery red face. the exercises of the young gentlemen were of course very graceful and classic, and the effect of their _poses_ of strength was very much heightened by the muddy foot-marks which they left on each other's orange-colored skins. the avenue of booths was still more diverting. here under sheets of leaky awning, were exposed for sale rows of gilded gingerbread kings and queens, and i cannot remember how many men and women held me fast by the arms, determined to force me into buying a pound of them. we paused at the sign: "signor urbani's grand magical display." the title was attractive, so we paid the penny admission, and walked behind the dark, mysterious curtain. two bare brick walls, three benches and a little boy appeared to us. a sheet hung before us upon which quivered the shadow of some terrible head. at my friend's command, the boy (also a spectator) put out the light, when the awful and grinning face of a black woman became visible. while we were admiring this striking production, thus mysteriously revealed, signor urbani came in, and seeing no hope of any more spectators, went behind the curtain and startled our sensitive nerves with six or seven skeleton and devil apparitions, winding up the wonderful entertainment with the same black head. we signified our entire approbation by due applause and then went out to seek further novelties. the centre of the square was occupied by swings, where some eight or ten boat-loads of persons were flying topsy-turvy into the air, making one giddy to look at them, and constant fearful shrieks arose from the lady swingers, at finding themselves in a horizontal or inverted position, high above the ground. one of the machines was like a great wheel, with four cars attached, which mounted and descended with their motley freight. we got into the boat by way of experiment. the starting motion was pleasant, but very soon it flew with a swiftness and to a height rather alarming. i began to repent having chosen such a mode of amusement, but held on as well as i could, in my uneasy place. presently we mounted till the long beam of our boat was horizontal; at one instant, i saw three young ladies below me, with their heads downward, like a shadow in the water--the next i was turned heels up, looking at thorn as a shadow does at its original. i was fast becoming sea-sick, when, after a few minutes of such giddy soaring, the ropes were slackened and we all got out, looking somewhat pale, and feeling nervous, if nothing else. there were also many great tents, hung with boughs and lighted with innumerable colored lamps, where the people danced their country dances in a choking cloud of dry saw-dust. conjurors and gymnastic performers were showing off on conspicuous platforms, and a continual sound of drums, cymbals and shrill trumpets called the attention of the crowd to some "wonderful exhibition"--some infant phenomenon, giant, or three-headed pig. a great part of the crowd belonged evidently to the very worst part of society, but the watchfulness of the police prevented any open disorder. we came away early and in a quarter of an hour were in busy london, leaving far behind us the revel and debauch, which was prolonged through the whole night. london has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world. during this opening spring weather, no light and scarcely any warmth can penetrate the dull, yellowish-gray mist, which incessantly hangs over the city. sometimes at noon we have for an hour or two a sickly gleam of sunshine, but it is soon swallowed up by the smoke and drizzling fog. the people carry umbrellas at all times, for the rain seems to drop spontaneously out of the very air, without wailing for the usual preparation of a gathering cloud. professor espy's rules would be of little avail here. a few days ago we had a real fog--a specimen of november weather, as the people said. if november wears such a mantle, london, during that sober month, must furnish a good idea of the gloom of hades. the streets wore wrapped in a veil of dense mist, of a dirty yellow color, as if the air had suddenly grown thick and mouldy. the houses on the opposite sides of the street were invisible, and the gas lamps, lighted in the shops, burned with a white and ghastly flame. carriages ran together in the streets, and i was kept constantly on the look-out, lest some one should come suddenly out of the cloud around me, and we should meet with a shock like that of two knights at a tournament. as i stood in the centre of trafalgar square, with every object invisible around me, it reminded me, (hoping the comparison will not be accepted in every particular) of satan resting in the middle of chaos. the weather sometimes continues thus for whole days together. _april ._--an hour and a half of land are still allowed us, and then we shall set foot on the back of the oak-ribbed leviathan, which will be our home until a thousand leagues of blue ocean are crossed. i shall hear the old aldgate clock strike for the last time--i shall take a last walk through the minories and past the tower yard, and as we glide down the thames, st. pauls, half-hidden in mist and coal-smoke, will probably be my last glimpse of london. chapter xlviii. homeward bound----conclusion. we slid out of st. katharine's dock at noon on the appointed day, and with a pair of sooty steamboats hitched to our vessel, moved slowly down the thames in mist and drizzling rain. i stayed on the wet deck all afternoon, that i might more forcibly and joyously feel we were again in motion on the waters and homeward bound! my attention was divided between the dreary views of blackwall, greenwich and woolwich, and the motley throng of passengers who were to form our ocean society. an english family, going out to settle in canada, were gathered together in great distress and anxiety, for the father had gone ashore in london at a late hour, and was left behind. when we anchored for the night at gravesend, their fears were quieted by his arrival in a skiff from the shore, as he had immediately followed us by railroad. my cousin and b---- had hastened on from paris to join me, and a day before the sailing of the "victoria," we took berths in the second cabin, for twelve pounds ten shillings each, which in the london line of packets, includes coarse but substantial fare for the whole voyage. our funds were insufficient to pay even this; but captain morgan, less mistrustful than my norman landlord, generously agreed that the remainder of the fare should be paid in america. b---- and i, with two young englishmen, took possession of a state-room of rough boards, lighted by a bull's-eye, which in stormy weather leaked so much that our trunks swam in water. a narrow mattrass and blanket, with a knapsack for a pillow, formed a passable bed. a long entry between the rooms, lighted by a feeble swinging lamp, was filled with a board table, around which the thirty-two second cabin passengers met to discuss politics and salt pork, favorable winds and hard sea-biscuit. we lay becalmed opposite sheerness the whole of the second day. at dusk a sudden squall came up, which drove us foaming towards the north foreland. when i went on deck in the morning, we had passed dover and brighton, and the isle of wight was rising dim ahead of us. the low english coast on our right was bordered by long reaches of dazzling chalky sand, which glittered along the calm blue water. gliding into the bay of portsmouth, we dropped anchor opposite the romantic town of ryde, built on the sloping shore of the green isle of wight. eight or nine vessels of the experimental squadron were anchored near us, and over the houses of portsmouth, i saw the masts of the victory--the flag-ship in the battle of trafalgar, on board of which nelson was killed. the wind was not strong enough to permit the passage of the needles, so at midnight we succeeded in wearing back again into the channel, around the isle of wight. a head wind forced us to tack away towards the shore of france. we were twice in sight of the rocky coast of brittany, near cherbourg, but the misty promontory of land's end was our last glimpse of the old world. on one of our first days at sea, i caught a curlew, which came flying on weary wings towards us, and alighted on one of the boats. two of his brethren, too much exhausted or too timid to do likewise, dropped flat on the waves and resigned themselves to their fate without a struggle. i slipped up and caught his long, lank legs, while he was resting with flagging wings and half-shut eyes. we fed him, though it was difficult to get anything down his reed-shaped bill; but he took kindly to our force-work, and when we let him loose on the deck, walked about with an air quite tame and familiar. he died, however, two days afterwards. a french pigeon, which was caught in the rigging, lived and throve during the whole of the passage. a few days afterwards, a heavy storm came on, and we were all sleepless and sea-sick, as long as it lasted. thanks, however, to a beautiful law of memory, the recollection of that dismal period soon lost its unpleasantness, while the grand forms of beauty the vexed ocean presented, will remain forever, as distinct and abiding images. i kept on deck as long as i could stand, watching the giant waves over which our vessel took her course. they rolled up towards us, thirty or forty feet in height--dark gray masses, changing to a beautiful vitriol tint, wherever the light struck through their countless and changing crests. it was a glorious thing to see our good ship mount slowly up the side of one of these watery lulls, till her prow was lifted high in air, then, rocking over its brow, plunge with a slight quiver downward, and plough up a briny cataract, as she struck the vale. i never before realized the terrible sublimity of the sea. and yet it was a pride to see how man--strong in his godlike will--could bid defiance to those whelming surges, and bravo their wrath unharmed. we swung up and down on the billows, till we scarcely knew which way to stand. the most grave and sober personages suddenly found themselves reeling in a very undignified manner, and not a few measured their lengths on the slippery decks. boxes and barrels were affected in like manner; everything danced around us. trunks ran out from under the berths; packages leaped down from the shelves; chairs skipped across the rooms, and at table, knives, forks and mugs engaged in a general waltz and _break down_. one incident of this kind was rather laughable. one night, about midnight, the gale, which had been blowing violently, suddenly lulled, "as if," to use a sailor's phrase, "it had been chopped off!" instantly the ship gave a tremendous lurch, which was the signal for a general breaking loose. two or three others followed, so violent, that for a moment i imagined the vessel had been thrown on her beam ends. trunks, crockery and barrels went banging down from one end of the ship to the other. the women in the steerage set up an awful scream, and the german emigrants, thinking we were in terrible danger, commenced praying with might and main. in the passage near our room stood several barrels, filled with broken dishes, which at every lurch went banging from side to side, jarring the board partition and making a horrible din. i shall not soon forget the babel which kept our eyes open that night. the th of may a calm came on. our white wings flapped idly on the mast, and only the top-gallant sails were bent enough occasionally to lug us along at a mile an hour. a barque from ceylon, making the most of the wind, with every rag of canvass set, passed us slowly on the way eastward. the sun went down unclouded, and a glorious starry night brooded over us. its clearness and brightness were to me indications of america. i longed to be on shore. the forests about home were then clothed in the delicate green of their first leaves, and that bland weather embraced the sweet earth like a blessing of heaven. the gentle breath from out the west seemed made for the odor of violets, and as it came to me over the slightly-ruflled deep, i thought how much sweeter it were to feel it, while "wasting in wood-paths the voluptuous hours." soon afterwards a fresh wind sprung up, which increased rapidly, till every sail was bent to the full. our vessel parted the brine with an arrowy glide, the ease and grace of which it is impossible to describe. the breeze held on steadily for two or three days, which brought us to the southern extremity of the banks. here the air felt so sharp and chilling, that i was afraid we might be under the lee of an iceberg, but in the evening the dull gray mass of clouds lifted themselves from the horizon, and the sun set in clear, american beauty away beyond labrador. the next morning we were enveloped in a dense fog, and the wind which bore us onward was of a piercing coldness. a sharp look-out was kept on the bow, but as we could see but a short distance, it might have been dangerous had we met one of the arctic squadron. at noon it cleared away again, and the bank of fog was visible a long time astern, piled along the horizon, reminding me of the alps, as seen from the plains of piedmont. on the st, the fortunate wind which carried us from the banks, failed us about thirty-five miles from sandy hook. we lay in the midst of the mackerel fishery, with small schooners anchored all around us. fog, dense and impenetrable, weighed on the moveless ocean, like an atmosphere of wool. the only incident to break the horrid monotony of the day, was the arrival of a pilot, with one or two newspapers, detailing the account of the mexican war. we heard in the afternoon the booming of the surf along the low beach of long island--hollow and faint, like the murmur of a shell. when the mist lifted a little, we saw the faint line of breakers along the shore. the germans gathered on deck to sing their old, familiar songs, and their voices blended beautifully together in the stillness. next morning at sunrise we saw sandy hook; at nine o'clock we were telegraphed in new york by the station at coney island; at eleven the steamer "hercules" met us outside the hook; and at noon we were gliding up the narrows, with the whole ship's company of four hundred persons on deck, gazing on the beautiful shores of staten island and agreeing almost universally, that it was the most delightful scene they had ever looked upon. and now i close the story of my long wandering, as i began it--with a lay written on the deep. homeward bound. farewell to europe! days have come and gone since misty england set behind the sea. our ship climbs onward o'er the lifted waves, that gather up in ridges, mountain-high, and like a sea-god, conscious in his power, buffets the surges. storm-arousing winds that sweep, unchecked, from frozen labrador, make wintry music through the creaking shrouds. th' horizon's ring, that clasps the dreary view, lays mistily upon the gray atlantic's breast. shut out, at times, by bulk of sparry blue, that, rolling near us, heaves the swaying prow high on its shoulders, to descend again ploughing a thousand cascades, and around spreading the frothy foam. these watery gulfs, with storm, and winds far-sweeping, hem us in, alone upon the waters! days must pass-- many and weary--between sea and sky. our eyes, that long e'en now for the fresh green of sprouting forests, and the far blue stretch of regal mountains piled along the sky, must see, for many an eve, the level sun sheathe, with his latest gold, the heaving brine, by thousand ripples shivered, or night's pomp brooding in silence, ebon and profound, upon the murmuring darkness of the deep, broken by flashings, that the parted wave sends white and star-like throujch its bursting foam. yet not more dear the opening dawn of heaven poured on the earth in an italian may, when souls take wings upon the scented air of starry meadows, and the yearning heart pains with deep sweetness in the balmy time, than these gray morns, and days of misty blue, and surges, never-ceasing;--for our prow points to the sunset like a morning ray, and o'er the waves, and through the sweeping storms, through day and darkness, rushes ever on, westward and westward still! what joy can send the spirit thrilling onward with the wind, in untamed exultation, like the thought that fills the homeward bound? country and home! ah! not the charm of silver-tongued romance, born of the feudal time, nor whatsoe'er of dying glory fills the golden realms of perished song, where heaven-descended art still boasts her later triumphs, can compare with that one thought of liberty inherited-- of free life giv'n by fathers who were free, and to be left to children freer still! that pride and consciousness of manhood, caught from boyish musings on the holy graves of hero-martyrs, and from every form which virgin nature, mighty and unchained, takes in an empire not less proudly so-- inspired in mountain airs, untainted yet by thousand generations' breathing--felt like a near presence in the awful depths of unhewn forests, and upon the steep where giant rivers take their maddening plunge-- has grown impatient of the stifling damps which hover close on europe's shackled soil. content to tread awhile the holy steps of art and genius, sacred through all time, the spirit breathed that dull, oppressive air-- which, freighted with its tyrant-clouds, o'erweighs the upward throb of many a nation's soul-- amid those olden memories, felt the thrall. but kept the birth-right of its freer home, here, on the world's blue highway, comes again the voice of freedom, heard amid the roar of sundered billows, while above the wave rise visions of the forest and the stream. like trailing robes the morning mists uproll, torn by the mountain pines; the flashing rills shout downward through the hollows of the vales; down the great river's bosom shining sails glide with a gradual motion, while from all-- hamlet, and bowered homestead, and proud town-- voices of joy ring up into heaven! yet louder, winds! urge on our keel, ye waves, swift as the spirit's yearnings! we would ride with a loud stormy motion o'er your crests, with tempests shouting like a sudden joy-- interpreting our triumph! 'tis your voice, ye unchained elements, alone can speak the sympathetic feeling of the free-- the arrowy impulse of the homeward bound! * * * * * although the narrative of my journey, "with knapsack and staff," is now strictly finished, a few more words of explanation seem necessary, to describe more fully the method of traveling which we adopted. i add them the more willingly, as it is my belief that many, whose circumstances are similar to mine, desire to undertake the same romantic journey. some matter-of-fact statements may be to them useful as well as interesting. we found the pedestrian style not only by far the best way to become acquainted with the people and sceneryof a country, but the pleasantest mode of traveling. to be sure, the knapsack was, at first, rather heavy, our feet were often sore and our limbs weary, but a few days walking made a great difference, and after we had traveled two weeks, this disappeared altogether. every morning we rose as fresh and strong as if it had been the first day--even after a walk of thirty miles, we felt but little fatigue. we enjoyed slumber in its fullest luxury, and our spirits were always light and joyous. we made it a rule to pay no regard to the weather, unless it was so bad as to render walking unhealthy. often, during the day, we rested for half an hour on the grassy bank, or sometimes, if it was warm weather, lay at full length in the shade with our knapsacks under our heads. this is a pleasure which none but the pedestrian can comprehend. we always accepted a companion, of whatever kind, while walking--from chimney-sweeps to barons. in a strange country one can learn something from every peasant, and we neglected no opportunity, not only to obtain information, but impart it. we found everywhere great curiosity respecting america, and we were always glad to tell them all they wished to know. in germany, we were generally taken for germans from some part of the country where the dialect was a little different, or, if they remarked our foreign peculiarities, they supposed we were either poles, russians, or swiss. the greatest ignorance in relation to america, prevails among the common people. they imagine we are a savage race, without intelligence and almost without law. persons of education, who had some slight knowledge of our history, showed a curiosity to know something of our political condition. they are taught by the german newspapers (which are under a strict censorship in this respect) to look only at the evil in our country, and they almost invariably began by adverting to slavery and repudiation. while we admitted, often with shame and mortification, the existence of things so inconsistent with true republicanism, we endeavored to make them comprehend the advantages enjoyed by the free citizen--the complete equality of birth--which places america, despite her sins, far above any other nation on earth. i could plainly see, by the kindling eye and half-suppressed sigh, that they appreciated a freedom so immeasurably greater than that which they enjoyed. in large cities we always preferred to take the second or third-rate hotels, which are generally visited by merchants and persons who travel on business; for, with the same comforts as the first rank, they are nearly twice as cheap. a traveler, with a guide-book and a good pair of eyes, can also dispense with the services of a _courier_, whose duty it is to conduct strangers about the city, from one lion to another. we chose rather to find out and view the "sights" at our leisure. in small villages, where we were often obliged to stop, we chose the best hotels, which, particularly in northern germany and in italy, are none too good. but if it was a _post_, that is, a town where the post-chaise stops to change horses, we usually avoided the post-hotel, where one must pay high for having curtains before his windows and a more elegant cover on his bed. in the less splendid country inns, we always found neat, comfortable lodging, and a pleasant, friendly reception from the people. they saluted us on entering, with "be you welcome," and on leaving, wished us a pleasant journey and good fortune. the host, when he brought us supper or breakfast, lifted his cap, and wished us a good appetite--and when he lighted us to our chambers, left us with "may you sleep well!" we generally found honest, friendly people; they delighted in telling us about the country around; what ruins there were in the neighborhood--and what strange legends were connected with them. the only part of europe where it is unpleasant to travel in this manner, is bohemia. we could rarely find a comfortable inn; the people all spoke an unknown language, and were not particularly celebrated for their honesty. beside this, travelers rarely go on foot in those regions; we were frequently taken for traveling handworker, and subjected to imposition. with regard to passports, although they were vexatious and often expensive, we found little difficulty when we had acquainted ourselves with the regulations concerning them. in france and germany they are comparatively little trouble; in italy they are the traveler's greatest annoyance. americans are treated with less strictness, in this respect, than citizens of other nations, and, owing to the absence of rank among us, we also enjoy greater advantages of acquaintance and intercourse. the expenses of traveling in england, although much greater than in our own country, may, as we learned by experience, be brought, through economy, within the same compass. indeed, it is my belief, from observation, that, with few exceptions, throughout europe, where a traveler enjoys the same comfort and abundance as in america, he must pay the same prices. the principal difference is, that he only pays for what he gets, so that, if he be content with the necessities of life, without its luxuries, the expense is in proportion. i have given, at times, through the foregoing chapters, the cost of travel and residence in europe, yet a connected estimate will better show the _minimum_ expense of a two years' pilgrimage: voyage to liverpool, in the second cabin . . . . . . . . . . . $ . three weeks' travel in ireland and scotland . . . . . . . . . . a week in london, at three shillings a day . . . . . . . . . . . from london to heidelberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a month at heidelberg, and trip to frankfort . . . . . . . . . . seven months in frankfort, at $ per month . . . . . . . . . . fuel, passports, excursions and other expenses . . . . . . . . . tour through cassel, the hartz, saxony, austria, bavaria, etc. . a month in frankfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . from frankfort through switzerland, and over the alps to milan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . from milan to genoa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . expenses from genoa to florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . four months in florence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . eight day's journey from florence to rome, two weeks in rome, voyage to marseilles and journey to paris . . . . . . . five weeks in paris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . from paris to london . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . six weeks in london, at three shillings a day . . . . . . . . . passage home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ------ $ . the cost for places of amusement, guides' fees, and other small expenses, not included in this list, increase the sum total to $ , for which the tour may be made. now, having, i hope, established this to the reader's satisfaction, i respectfully take leave of him. the end. [illustration: _lilian bell_ duogravure from the painting by oliver dennett grover] abroad with the jimmies by lilian bell, author of "the love affairs of an old maid," "the expatriates," etc. london: ward, lock & co., limited, new york & melbourne. this book is dedicated to _my dear father_, whose high type of patriotism, steadfast loyalty to the government, and devotion to his family have taught me wherein lie the ideals of life. preface if the critical public had cared to snub mr. and mrs. jimmie and bee, i, who am a fighting champion of theirs, would never have run the risk of boring it by a further chronicle of their travels. but from a careful survey of my mail, i may say that the present volume of their doings and undoings is a direct result of the friendships they formed in "as seen by me," and has almost literally been written by request. with which statement, as the flushed and nervous singer, who responds to friendly clappings, comes forward, bows, sings, and retires, so do i, and the curtain falls on the jimmies and bee and me, all kissing our hands to the gallery. contents chapter i. our house-boat at henley ii. paris iii. strasburg and baden-baden iv. stuttgart, nuremberg, and bayreuth v. the passion play vi. munich to the achensee vii. dancing in the austrian tyrol viii. salzburg ix. ischl x. vienna xi. my first interview with tolstoy xii. at one of the tolstoy receptions xiii. shopping experiences chapter i our house-boat at henley it speaks volumes for an amiability i have always claimed for myself through sundry fierce disputes on the subject with my sister, that, even after two years of travel in europe with her and mr. and mrs. jimmie, they should still wish for my company for a journey across france and germany to russia. bee says it speaks volumes for the tempers of the jimmies, but then bee is my sister, or to put it more properly, i am bee's sister, and what woman is a heroine to her own sister? in any event i am not. bee thinks i am a creature of feeble intelligence who must be "managed." bee loves to "manage" people, and i, who love to watch her circuitous, diplomatic, velvety, crooked way to a straight end, allow myself to be so "managed;" and so after safely disposing of billy in the grandmotherly care of mamma for another six months, bee and i gaily took ship and landed safely at the door of the cecil, having been escorted up from southampton by jimmie. while repeated journeys to europe lose the thrill of expectant uncertainty which one's first held, yet there is something very pleasing about "_going back_." and so we were particularly glad again to join forces with our friends the jimmies and travel with them, for they, like bee and me, travel aimlessly and are never hampered with plans. everybody seems to know that we do not mean business, and nobody has ever dared to ask whether our intentions were serious or not. in this frame of mind we floated over to england and had a fortnight of "the season" in london. but this soon palled on us, and we fell into the idle mood of waiting for something to turn up. one sunday morning bee and mrs. jimmie and i were sitting at a little table near the entrance to the cecil hotel, when jimmie came out of a side door and sat down in front of us, leaning his elbows on the table and grinning at us in a suspicious silence. we all waited for him to begin, but he simply sat and smoked and grinned. "well! well!" i said, impatiently, "what now?" you would know that jimmie was an american by the way he smokes. he simply eats up cigars, inhales them, chews them. the end of his cigar blazes like a danger signal and breathes like an engine. he can hold his hands and feet still, but his nervousness crops out in his smoking. finally, exasperated by his continued silence, bee said, severely: "jimmie, have you anything up your sleeve? if so, speak out!" "well!" said jimmie, brushing the cigar ashes off his wife's skirt, "i thought i'd take you all out to henley this morning to look at the house-boat." "house-boat!" shrieked bee and i in a whisper, clutching jimmie by the sleeve and lapel of his coat and giving him an ecstatic shake. "are we going to have a house-boat?" asked bee. "we!" said jimmie. "_i_ am going to have a house-boat, and i am going to take my wife. if you are good perhaps she will ask you out to tea one afternoon." "how many staterooms are there, jimmie? can we invite people to stay with us over night?" demanded bee. "you cannot," said jimmie, firmly. "i said a house-boat, not a house party." "i shall ask the duke," said bee, clearing her throat in a pleased way. "can't i, mrs. jimmie?" "certainly, dear. ask any one you like." "if you do," growled jimmie, who hates the duke because he wears gloves in hot weather, "i'll invite the chambermaid and the head-waiter of this hotel." "we ought to be starting," said mrs. jimmie, pacifically, and we started and went and arrived. as we were driving to the station i noticed all the way along, and i had noticed them ever since we had been in london, large capital h's on a white background, posted on stone walls, street corners, lampposts, and occasionally on the sidewalks. "what are those h's for, jimmie?" i asked. to which he replied with this record-breaking joke: "those are the h's that englishmen have been dropping for generations, and being characteristic of this solid nation, they thus ossified them." i forgave jimmie a good deal for that joke. at the pier at henley a man met us with a little boat and rowed us up the river, past dozens of house-boats moored along the bank. the river had been boomed off for the races, which were to begin the next day, with little openings here and there for small boats to cross and recross between races. private house-boat flags, union jacks, bunting, and plants made all the house-boats gay, except ours, which looked bare and forlorn and guiltless of decoration of any sort. it was fortunately situated within plain view of where the races would finish, and by using glasses we could see the start. several crews were out practising. one shell which flashed past us held a crew in orange and black sweaters. we had previously noticed that there was no american flag on any of the house-boats. orange and black! we nearly stood up in our excitement. "what's your college?" yelled jimmie, hoping they were americans. "princeton!" they yelled back. with that jimmie ripped open a long pole he was carrying, and the stars and stripes floated out over our shell. the princeton crew shipped their oars, snatched off their caps, and responded by giving their college yell, ending with "old glo-ree! old glo-ree!! old glo-ree!!!" yelled three times with all the strength of their deep lungs. that little glimpse of america made bee and me shiver as if with ague, while jimmie's chin quivered and he muttered something about "darned smoke in his eyes." "jimmie," i said, excitedly, "they are rowing toward us to let us speak if we want to." jimmie waved his hand to them and they pulled up alongside. we exchanged enthusiastic "how-do-do's" with them, although we had never seen one of them before. "are you going to row to-morrow?" asked jimmie. "if you are we will decorate the house-boat with orange and black," i said. their faces fell. "we are only the track team," said one. "princeton has no crew, you know." "no crew," i cried. "why not?" "well, we haven't any more water than we need to wash in, and we cannot row on the campus." "too many trees," said another. "no water," i cried, "then won't you ever have a crew?" "not until some one gives us a million dollars to dam up a natural formation that is there and turn the river into it," said one. "i'd give it to you in a minute, if i had it, the way i feel now," said jimmie. "well, don't we send crews over here to row?" asked bee. "cornell sent one, but they were beaten," said the captain with a grin. "but you wouldn't be beaten," said bee, decidedly, with her eye on the captain. "come to dinner, all of you, to-morrow night," i said, genially. mrs. jimmie looked frightened, but bee and jimmie so heartily seconded my generosity with jimmie's boat that she resigned herself. "wear your sweaters," commanded bee. "to dinner?" they said. "certainly!" said bee, decidedly. "that's the only way people will know we are in it. we'll wear shirt-waists to keep you in countenance." they accepted with alacrity and we parted with mutual esteem. "i wonder what their names are," said mrs. jimmie, reproachfully. "and they don't know our boat," i added. "hi, there!" jimmie shouted back, "that's our boat yonder--the _lulu_." and with that they all struck up "lu, lu, how i love my lu," at which bee blushed most unnecessarily, i thought, and murmured: "how well a handsome athlete looks with bare arms." "and bare legs," added jimmie, genially. we found so much to do on the house-boat, and jimmie had brought so much bunting and so many flags, that bee volunteered to go back to the cecil and have our clothes packed up by mrs. jimmie's maid, while we decorated the house-boat. the next morning bright and early we rowed down to the landing for bee. such a change had taken place on the thames in twenty-four hours! there were hundreds upon hundreds of row-boats bearing girls in duck and men in flannels, and a funny sight it was to americans to see fully half of them with the man lying at his ease on cushions at the end of the boat, while the girls did the rowing. english girls are very clever at punting, and look quite pretty standing up balancing in the boats and using the long pole with such skill. it may be sportsmanlike, but it cannot fail to look unchivalrous, especially to the southern-born of americans, to see how willing englishmen are to permit their women to wait upon them even _before_ they are married! american women are not very popular with english women, possibly because we get so many of their englishmen away from them, and we are popular with only certain of englishmen, perhaps the more susceptible, possibly the more broad-minded, but certain it was that as we rowed along we heard whispers from the english boats of "americans" in much the same tone in which we say "niggers." the river was literally alive with these small craft, going up and down, gathering their parties together and paying friendly little visits to the neighbouring house-boats, while gay parasols, striped shirt-waists, white flannels, sailor hats, house-boat flags, and gay coloured boat cushions, made the river flash in the sunshine like an electric lighted rainbow. jimmie had spared no expense in illuminating and decorating the house-boat. he had the american shield in electric lights surmounted by the american eagle holding in his beak a chain of electric bulbs which were festooned on each side down to the end of the boat and running down the poles to the water's edge. a band of red, white, and blue electric lights formed the balustrade of the upper deck, with a row of brilliant scarlet geraniums on the railing. the house-boat next to ours was called "the primrose," and when they saw our american emblem they sent over a polite note asking where we got it, and at once ordered a st. george and the dragon in electric lights, which never came until the friday following, when all the races were over. another house-boat, three boats from ours, was owned by a wealthy brewer and had a pavilion built on the land back of where it was moored and connected by a broad gangplank with the boat. they used this pavilion for dancing and vaudeville, but although it was very nice and we were immensely entertained, still we all decided that it was not much like a house-boat to be so much of the time on land. each morning we would be wakened by the lapping of the water between the boat and the bank, caused by the early swims of the men from the neighbouring boats. the weather was just cool enough and just warm enough to be delightful. they told us that it generally rained during henley week, but some one must have been a mascot, and we, with our usual becoming modesty, announced that it must have been our eagle. the english, however, did not take kindly to that little pleasantry, and only said, "fancy" whenever we got it off. the dining-room was too small to hold such a large dinner as we gave the night we entertained the princeton track team, so we had the table spread on the upper deck in plain view of the craft on the river and our neighbours on each side. jimmie had the piano brought up too, when he heard that two of them belonged to the glee club and could sing. it seemed such a simple thing to us to take up an upright baby grand piano that we never thought we were doing anything out of the common, until we looked down over the railing and saw that no less than fifty boats had ranged themselves in front of our house-boat, with as much curiosity in our proceedings as if we were going to have a trained animal exhibit. there were two english women dining with us, and i privately asked one of them what under the sun was the matter. "oh! it is nothing much," she replied. "we cannot help thinking that you americans are so queer." "queer, or not!" i replied, stoutly, "we have things just as we want them wherever we go. if we wanted to bring the punt up here and put it on the dining-table filled with flowers, jimmie would let us," to which she replied, "fancy!" the table was very pretty that night. we had orange and black satin ribbon down the middle of it and across the sides, finishing in big bows. the centrepiece was made of black-eyed susans. we women wore orange and black wherever we could, and the men wore their sweaters as they had been instructed. the dinner was slow in coming on, so between courses we got up and danced. then the men sang college songs, much to the scandalisation of our english friends on the next boats, who seemed to regard dinner as a sacrament. peters, the butler, would lie in wait for us while we were dancing, to whisper as we careered past him: "miss, the fowl is getting cold," or "miss, the ice cream is getting warm," but he did it once too often, so bee waltzed on his foot. whereat he limped off and we saw no more of him. soon the professional entertainers who ply up and down the river during henley week discovered the "ammurikins," as they called us, and we had our first encounter that night with the thames nigger, a creature painfully unlike that delightful commodity at home. the thames nigger is generally a cockney covered with blackening, which only alters his skin and does not change his accent. to us it sounded deliciously funny to hear this self-styled african call us "leddies," and say "halways" and say "'aven't yer, now?" they sang in a very indifferent manner, but were rather quick in their retorts. our large uninvited, but welcome audience, who had drawn so near that they could not use their oars and only pulled their boats along by the gunwales of the other boats, laughed at these witticisms rather inquiringly. always slightly unconvinced, they seemed to have no inward desire to laugh, but yielded politely to the requirements, owing to the niggers' harlequin costume and blackened face. to the student of human nature there is nothing so exquisitely ridiculous on the face of the globe as the typical british audience, at a show which appeals humourously to the intellect rather than to the eye. for this reason the princetonians were indefatigable in their conversation with the niggers, for the electric lights of the _lulu_ illuminated the faces of our audience, which soon, in addition to the strolling craft of the river, numbered many canoes from the neighbouring house-boats, who were attracted by the gaiety and lights, thus forming a typical river audience, thoroughly mixed, seemingly on pleasure bent, good humoured, well behaved, polite, stolid, british. jimmie is hospitable to the core of his being, and nothing pleased him better than to keep "open house-boat" for the entire floating population of the thames during henley week. every afternoon it was particularly the custom about tea time for boats containing music hall quartettes or a boatload of geisha girls to pull up in front of the house-boat and regale the occupants with the latest music hall songs. in one end of their boat is a little melodion apparently built for river travel, for i never saw one anywhere else. they have in addition velvet collection-boxes on long poles whereby to reach the upper decks of the house-boat for our coins. these things look for all the world like the old-fashioned collection-boxes which the deacons used to pass in church. there was one set of geisha girls who were masked below the eyes, one of whom sang what she fondly imagined was a typical american song calculated to captivate her american audience. she sang through her nose, the better to imitate the nasal voices which to the british mind is the national characteristic of the american, and her song had the refrain beginning "for i am an ammurikin girl," telling how this "ammurikin girl" had come to england to marry a title and had finally secured an earl, and ending with the statement that she had done all this "like the true ammurikin girl." this song, especially the nasal part, was received with such ill-concealed joy by our usual stolid river audience that one afternoon i took it upon myself to avenge our house-boat family for these truly british politenesses. so i went to the railing after our audience had thoroughly collected and said through my nose: "won't you please sing that pretty song of yours about the 'ammurikin girl?' you know we are 'ammurikin girls,' and we do so love the way you take off our 'ammurikin' voices." at the same time i dropped a lot of small silver into their boat without waiting for the collection-box. i was delighted to see that some of it went overboard, for their consternation at that and at my having turned the tables on them put them into such a flutter that they couldn't sing at all, and they pulled away, saying that they would be back in half an hour. our audience, too, suddenly remembered urgent business a mile or two up the river, and scattered as if by magic. jimmie was deeply pleased by this _rencontre_, for the prejudice of the middle-class britons (for the sake of occasionally being moderate, i will say middle class) against all classes of americans is just about as deeply rooted and ineradicable as the prejudice of middle-class americans against everything that flies the union jack. the travelled upper classes are inclined to be more moderate in their prejudice and to see fit either for political or social reasons to affect a friendship. but seriously i myself question if there is a nation more thoroughly foreign to america than the english. this, i take it, is because the middle classes of both countries are not abreast of the times, and take little notice of the trend of events. they are still influenced by the prejudice engendered by the wars of a century ago, which has partly been inherited and partly enhanced by marriages with england's hereditary foes, who take refuge with us in such numbers. however, the people could be influenced through their sympathies, and in the to-be-expected event of the death of england's queen, or a calamity of national importance on our own shores, the sympathy which would be extended from each to each, through the medium of the press, would do more to educate the masses along lines of sympathy between the two great english-speaking nations than any amount of statecraft or diplomacy. the people must be taught by the way of the heart, and touched by their emotions. their brains would follow. as it is, the differences still exist. take, for instance, their language, from which ours has so far departed and become so much more pure english, and has been enriched by so many clean-cut and descriptive adjectives that certain sentences in english and in american will be totally unintelligible to each other. on one occasion, going with a party of eight english people to the races, bee looked out of the car window at the landscape, and said: "how thoroughly finished england is. here we are running through a hill country where they are so complete and so neat in their landscape that they even sod the cuts. it is like going through a terraced garden." it may be that the phrase she used was academic, but i am at least reasonable in thinking that the average american would know what she meant. not one of those eight english people caught even the shadow of her meaning, and when she explained what she meant by "sod your cuts," they said that she meant "turf your cuttings." she replied that "cutting" with us was a greenhouse term and meant a part clipped from a plant or a tree. they said the word "cut" meant a cut of beef or mutton, to which she retorted that we might also use the term "cut" in a butcher shop, but when travelling in a hill country and looking out of the train window it meant the mountain cut. they said they never heard of the word sod, except used as a noun. she replied that she never heard the word "turf" used as a verb. we continued in an amiable wrangle which finally brought out the fact which even the most obstinate of them was obliged to admit, and that is that when traced to its proper root, the americans speak purer english than the english. house-boat hospitality we discovered to be conducted on a very irregular plan, for it appeared that the casual afternoon caller always meant tea and sometimes dinner. this is all very well if the people happen to be agreeable and the food holds out, but even i, the least conservative of the three women, am conservative about invitations to guests, nothing being more offensive to me than to be politely forced into a dinner invitation to people i don't want. another thing, it kept us constantly scurrying for more to eat, as house-boat provisions are all furnished by firms in town, and house-boat owners are expected to let the purveyors know beforehand how many guests to provide for at each meal. i like english people very much, but i cannot help observing that some who are very well born and are supposed to be exceedingly well bred, take advantage of american hospitality in a way in which they would never dream of pursuing with their english hosts. for instance, americans were very free in remaining so dangerously close to the dinner hour that we were pushed into inviting them to remain, but never once did they make it obligatory to invite them to remain over night, while no less than half a dozen times during henley week our english friends said to jimmie: "i say, old man, beastly work getting back to town. can't you put us up for the night?" as this occurred when every stateroom was filled, even bee's sacred duke being among the number of our guests, these self-invited ones remained in every instance when they knew that it would force jimmie to sleep upon a bench in the dining-room and be seriously inconvenienced. toward the end of the week this supreme selfishness which i have noticed so often in otherwise worthy english gentlemen annoyed me to such an extent that with one englishman who had thus insisted upon dispossessing jimmie for the second time i resolved to make a test. so i said to him: "of course it's a little hard on jimmie, your way of turning him out of his stateroom to sleep on the table, so, as turn about is fair play, if you've quite decided to remain over night, my sister and i will let you have our room and we will sleep on the benches in the dining-room. jimmie doesn't get much sleep you know--we keep it up so late, and of course you always wake him up when you turn out for your swim at six o'clock in the morning, so if you will promise not to disturb us until seven, and go out through the kitchen for your swim, you can have our room for to-night." "oh, i say!" he replied, "that's awfully jolly of you. it _is_ a beastly shame to turn the old man out of his bed two nights in one week, but your boat is the only one on the river where a fellow feels at home, you know. besides that, i couldn't get back to town before ten o'clock to-night if i started now, and where would i get my dinner? and if i wait to get my dinner here, i'd either have to sleep at henley or be half the night in getting home. so you see i've got to stay, and thanks awfully for letting me have your room." bee, who was standing near, pushed her veil up and cleared her throat. she looked at me. "did you ever in all your life?" she said. "no, i never did," i said. "i never, never did." "never did what?" said the english gentleman. "i never saw anybody like you in a book or out of it, but i suppose there are ten thousand more just as good-looking as you are; just as tall and well built and selfish." "selfish," he blurted out with a very red face. "what is there selfish about me, i should like to know? you offered me your room, didn't you?" "yes, she offered it," said bee, sitting on a little table and tucking her feet on a chair. "she offered it to you just to see if you'd take it--just to see how far you _would_ go. you haven't known my sister very long, have you? why, she'd no more let you have her room than i would let jimmie turn himself out a second time for you. if you stay to-night _you'll_ be the one to sleep in the dining-room on that narrow bench." "oh, i say," he said, turning still redder, "i can't do that, you know. it would be so very uncomfortable. it is very narrow." "you can lie on your side," said bee. "you aren't too thick through that way, and we three women have decided to allow jimmie to go to bed early to-night. we'll make it as comfortable as we can for you, and you'll get fully three hours' sleep, perhaps four. it is all jimmie would get if he slept there." "why, i don't believe that the old man will let me sleep there. i think he'd rather i had his room. he and his wife were so awfully good to me when i was in america. i stayed two months at their place and they entertained me royally." "where's your wife?" i said, suddenly. "she's in our town house," he answered. "and that's in upper brooke street?" said bee. "and where's your sister, the honourable eleanor?" i said. "what's that got to do with it?" said our friend. "nothing," i said. "i just wondered if you'd noticed that, every single time we have been in london for the past two years, neither your sister nor your wife has ever called on mrs. jimmie; although, as you have just admitted, you stayed two months with them in america. all that you have done in return for the mountain trip that jimmie arranged for you, taking you in a private car to hunt big game, taking you fishing and arranging for you to see everything in america that you wanted, when you know that jimmie isn't rich judged by the largest fortunes in america--all, all i say, that you have done for him in return for everything he did for you was to put him up at your club and take them to the races twice, and even though you saw your wife at a distance you never introduced them, although once you stopped and spoke to her. now, what do you think of yourself?" "i think--i think," he stammered. "no, you don't think," said bee. "you flatter yourself." he stared at us helplessly, but we were enjoying ourselves too maliciously to let up on him. "i never was talked to so in my life," he said. "no, perhaps not," i said, pleasantly. "but it has done you good, hasn't it? confess now, don't you feel a little better?" his face, which was very red at all times, grew a little more claret coloured, and he evidently wanted very much to get angry, but bee and i were so very cheerful, almost affectionate in our manner of mentally skinning him, that he couldn't seem to pull himself together. "he'll never stay after that," said bee, complacently, to me afterward. but he _did_ stay, and although jimmie was furious, he had every intention of letting him have his bedroom again, which bee and i so fiercely resented that we locked jimmie in his stateroom, where, after a few feeble pounds on the door, he resigned himself to his fate and got the only night's sleep that he had in the eight days of henley. whether the honourable edwardes edwardes slept on his side on the bench or on his back on the dinner-table, or stood up all night, we never knew. he was a little cross at breakfast, and complained of feeling "a bit stiff." but nobody petted or sympathised with him or ran for the liniment. so by luncheon time he was drinking jimmie's champagne again with the utmost good humour. one of the most amusing things we did was to go after dinner in little boats and form part of the river audience in front of some other house-boat where something was going on,--crowded in between other boats, having to ship our oars and pull ourselves along by our neighbours' gunwales, getting locked for perhaps half an hour, until suddenly our geisha girls or niggers would start the cry "up river," when away we would all go, entertainers and entertained, pulling up the river to the lights of another house-boat, enjoying the music for a few minutes and then slipping away in the darkness toward the lights of henley village, or perhaps back to the _lulu_. once or twice a boat would capsize, giving the occupants a severe wetting, but as river costumes are always washable and the river is not deep, no harm ever seemed to come of these aquatic diversions. once, however, it was brought near home in this wise. jimmie invited his wife to go canoeing. i went canoeing once on the kennebunk river with an indian to paddle, and after watching the manoeuvres of the paddlers on the thames and the antics of those wretched little boats, i made the solemn promise with myself never to trust any one less skilled than an indian again. but jimmie, while he is not more conceited than most people, is what you might call confident, and he would have been all right in this instance, if he had noticed that a race had just been rowed and that the swell from the racers was just rippling over the boom and creeping gently toward the house-boat. the canoe was still at the house-boat steps. they were both seated comfortably and just about to paddle away when a swell came alongside and tilted the canoe in such a succession of little unexpected rolls that our two friends, in their anxiety to hold on to something which was not there to hold on to, overbalanced, and the canoe shipped enough water to submerge their legs entirely, giving them a nice cold hip bath. mrs. jimmie screamed, and we all rushed down and fished her out of the boat dripping like a mermaid and thoroughly chilled. bee took her in to warm her with a brandy and to hurry her into dry clothes, while i remained to see what i could do for jimmie, who was very wet, very mad, and very uncommunicative. "what a pity," i remarked, pleasantly, "that you are so thin. shall i come down and hold the boat still while you get out? wet flannel has such a clinging effect." jimmie is a good deal of a gentleman, so he made no reply. i was just turning away, resolving in a christian spirit to order him a hot scotch, when i heard a splash and a remark which was full of exclamation points, asterisks, and other things, and looking down i saw the canoe bottom upwards, with jimmie clinging to it indignantly blowing a large quantity of thames water from his mouth in a manner which led me to know that the sooner i got away from there the better it would be for me. i kept out of his way until dinner-time, and only permitted him to suspect that i saw his disappearance by politely ignoring the fact that all his and mrs. jimmie's lingerie, to speak delicately, was floating about, hanging from pegs in unused portions of the house-boat. my silence was so suspicious that finally jimmie could stand it no longer. "did you see me go down?" he demanded. "i did not," i answered him, firmly, whereat he released my elbow and i edged around to the other side of the table. "but i saw you come up," i said, pleasantly, "and i saw what you said." "saw?" said jimmie. "saw what i said?" "certainly! there was enough blue light around your remarks for me to have seen them in the dark." "well, what have you got to say about it?" he said, resigning himself. "only this, and that is that this afternoon's performance in that canoe was the only instance in my life where i thoroughly approved of the workings of providence. ordinarily the good die young and the guilty one escapes." "is that all?" growled jimmie. "yes," i said, hesitatingly, "i think it is. did i mention before that i thought you were thin?" "you certainly did," said jimmie. "your legs," i went on, but just then i was interrupted by the reappearance of a little german musician, who had floated up the river two days before in a white flannel suit without change of linen and who played accompaniments of our singers so well that jimmie permitted him to stay on without either actually inviting him or showing him that his presence was not any particular addition to our enjoyment. jimmie objected violently to some of his sentiments, which the german was tactless enough to keep thrusting in our faces. he was as offensive to our english friends on the subject of england as he was to us concerning america, but one of the englishmen sang and couldn't play a note, so jimmie let the german stay, because miss wemyss wanted him to. although secretly i think jimmie and i hated him, we are sometimes polite enough not to say everything we think, but at any rate there never was a moment when jimmie and i wouldn't leave off attacking each other, hoping for an opportunity for a fight with the german, which thus far he had escaped by the skin of his teeth. "your sister sent me to tell you that there is a house-boat up near the island flying the american flag and we are all going up there to see it. would you like to go?" "thanks so much for your invitation," said jimmie, "but i've got some guests coming in half an hour, so i can't go." "i'll go. just wait until i get my hat." one boat contained bee, mrs. jimmie, and two princeton men, and the other miss wemyss, the german, miss wemyss' fiancé, sir george, and me. side by side the two skiffs pulled up the river to the island, where on a very small house-boat named the _queen_ a large american flag was flying and beneath it were crossed a smaller american flag and the union jack. sir george, who is one of the nicest englishmen we ever met, pulled off his cap and cried out: "all hats off to the stars and stripes!" in an instant every hat was whipped off, ours included, although there was some wrestling with hat-pins before we could get them off. all, did i say? all--all except the german! he folded his arms across his breast and kept his hat on. "didn't you hear sir george?" i said to him. he had a nervous twitching of the eye at all times, and when he was excited the muscles of his face all jerked in unison like saint vitus' dance. at my question every muscle in his face, as the princeton man in bee's boat said, "began working over time." "yes, i heard him. of course i heard him," he said. "then take your hat off!" said miss wemyss. "yes, take your hat off!" came in a roar from all the others, none being louder and more peremptory than the englishman's. "i will not take my hat off to that dirty rag," he said. "it means nothing to me. the flag of any country means nothing to me. i can go into a shop and buy that red, white, and blue! that is only a rag--that flag." sir george leaned over with blazing eyes and took him by the collar. "don't do that, george," said miss wemyss, excitedly. "his linen is not fit to touch." "let's duck him," said the princeton man. but mrs. jimmie interfered, saying in a quiet voice, although her hands were trembling: "don't do anything to him until we take him back to the house-boat. remember he is my guest." at this the german smiled with such insolence and pulled his hat further down on his brow with such a vicious look of satisfaction that i had all i could do to hold myself in. the boats flew back to the house-boat as if on wings. "you see, miss," he leaned forward and said to me in low tones. "you do not like me. you love your flag. ah, ha, i revenge myself." "just wait till i tell jimmie," i said. "ah, ha, he will do nothing! i play for his concert to-night." as the boats pulled up to the steps of the house-boat, jimmie met us with his two friends, who had come during our absence. we had never seen them before. "what do you think, jimmie?" stammered bee, stumbling up the steps in her excitement. "and jimmie, he wouldn't take his hat off to the flag!" "and jimmie, i wish you had been there, you'd have drowned him!" came from all of us at once. "what's that?" cried jimmie in a rage at once, and: "what's that?" came from the men behind him. "wouldn't take off his hat to the flag? who wouldn't?" "that nasty little german!" cried miss wemyss. we were all out of the boats by that time except the unhappy object of our wrath, whose countenance by this time was working into patterns like a kaleidoscope. "mr. jimmie," he said, coming to the end of the boat with every intention of stepping out, "i apologise to you. i am very sorry." "get back in that boat!" thundered jimmie. "but, sir! your concert to-night! i play for you!" "you go to the devil," said jimmie. "you'll not put your foot on board this boat again. off you go! take him down to henley!" he ordered the boatman. "very well! very well!" said the german, "i go, but i do not take my hat off to your flag." "ah! don't you?" cried the princeton man, making a grab for the german's sailor hat with his long arm, just as the boat shot away. he stooped and took it up full of thames water and flung it thus loaded squarely in the little wretch's face, while the man at the oars dexterously tossed it overboard, where it floated bottom upwards in the river, and the boat shot out toward henley with the bareheaded and most excited specimen of the human race it was ever our lot to behold. then jimmie introduced his friends. bee has just looked over this narrative of the pleasantest week we ever spent in england and she says: "you haven't said a word about the races." "so i haven't." but they were there. chapter ii paris "now," said jimmie as our train was pulling into paris, "we are all decided, are we not, that we shall stay in paris only two days?" his eyes met ours with apprehension and a determination that ended in a certain amount of questioning in their glance. "certainly!" we all hastened to assure him. "not over two days." "just long enough," said jimmie, beamingly, "to have one lunch at the café marguery for _sole à la normande_--" "and one afternoon at the louvre to see the venus and the victory--" i pleaded. "and the father tiber--" added jimmie, waxing enthusiastic. "yes, and one dinner at the pavilion d'armenonville to hear the tziganes--" said bee. "and one afternoon on the seine to go to st. cloud to see the brides dance at the pavilion bleu, and a supper afterward in the open to have a _poulet_ and a _pêche flambée_." jimmie by this time was wriggling in ecstasy. "and just time to order two or three gowns apiece and have one look at hats," added mrs. jimmie, complacently. "'two or three gowns apiece and one look at hats,'" cried jimmie. "and how long will that take? we agreed on two days, and you never said a word about clothes. that means a whole week!" "not at all, jimmie," said bee. "it's too late to do anything to-night. to-morrow morning we'll go and look. in the afternoon we'll think it over while we're doing the louvre. it is always cool and quiet there, and looking at statuary always helps me to make up my mind about clothes. the next morning we'll go and order. in the afternoon we'll buy our hats, and with one day more for the first fittings, i believe we might manage and have the things sent after us to baden-baden." "not at all," put in mrs. jimmie. "they will never be satisfactory unless we put our minds on the subject and give them plenty of time. we must stay at least two days more. give us four days, jimmie." i had to laugh at jimmie's rueful face. he was about to remonstrate, but bee switched him off diplomatically by saying, in her most deferential manner: "what hotel have you decided on, jimmie? it's such a comfort to be getting to a paris hotel. what one do you think would be best?" bee's tone was so flattering that jimmie forgot clothes and said: "well, you know at the binda you can get corn on the cob and american griddle cakes--" "oh, but the rooms are so small and dark, and we could go there for luncheon to get those things," said his wife. "do let's go to the hotel vouillemont," i begged. "we won't see any americans there, and it is so lovely and old and french, and so heavenly quiet." "but then there is the new Ã�lysée palace," said bee. "we haven't seen that." "and they say it's finer than the waldorf," said mrs. jimmie. jimmie and i looked at each other in comical despair. "let 'em have their own way, jimmie," i whispered in his ear, "while we're in their country. they know that we are going to make 'em dodge switzerland and go up in the austrian tyrol and perhaps even get them to russia, so we'll be obliged to give them their head part of the way. let's be handsome about it." we went to the Ã�lysée palace, and we spent two weeks in paris. part of this time we were fashionable with mrs. jimmie and bee, and part of the time they were latin quartery with us. we made them go to the concert rouge and to the restaurant foyot, and occasionally even to sit on the sidewalk at one of the little tables at scossa's, where you have _déjeuner au choix_ for one franc fifty, including wine, and which they couldn't help enjoying in spite of pretending to despise it and us, while occasionally we went with them to call on the grand and distinguished personages to whom they had letters. but it remained for the last days of our stay for us to have our experiences. the first came about in this wise. i had brought a letter to max nordau from america, but i heard after i got to paris that he was so fierce a woman hater, that i determined not to present it. i read it over every once in awhile, but failed to screw my courage to the sticking point, until one day i mentioned that i had this letter, and jimmie to my surprise threw up both hands, exclaiming: "a letter to max nordau! why, it is like owning a gold mine! present it by all means, and then tell us what he is like." afraid to present it in person, i sent it by mail, saying that i had heard that he hated women and that i was scared to death of him, but if he had a day in the near future on which he felt less fierce than usual, i would come to see him, and i asked permission to bring a friend. by "friend" i meant jimmie. the most charming note came in answer that a polished man of the world could write--not in the least like the bear i had imagined him to be, but courteous and even merry. in it he said he should feel honoured if i would visit his poor abode, and he seemed to have read my books and knew all about me, so with very mixed feelings jimmie and i called at the hour he named. he lives in one of the regulation apartment houses of paris, of the meaner sort--by no means as fine as those in the american quarter. the most horrible odour of german cookery--cauliflower and boiled cabbage and vinegar and all that--floated out when the door opened. the room--a sort of living-room--into which we were ushered was a mixture of all sorts of furniture, black haircloth, dingy and old, with here and there a good picture or one fine chair, which i imagined had been presented to him. jimmie was much excited at the idea of meeting him. max nordau is one of his idols,--nordau's horrible power of invective fully meeting jimmie's ideas of the way crimes of the bestial sort should be treated. jimmie is often a surprise to me in his beliefs and ideals, but when doctor nordau entered the room i forgot jimmie and everything else in the world except this one man. i can see him now as he stood before me--a thick-set man with a magnificent torso, but with legs which ought to have been longer. for that body he ought to have been six feet tall. when he is seated he appears to be a very large man. you would know that he was a physician from the way he shakes hands--even from the touch of his hand, which seems to be in itself a soothing of pain. he was exquisitely clean. indeed he seemed, after one look into his face, to be one of the cleanest men i ever had seen. and to look into the face of a man in paris and to be able to say that, _means_ something. his eyes were gray blue--very clear in colour. their whites were really white--not bloodshot nor yellow. his skin was the clear, beautiful colour which you sometimes see in a young and handsome jew. there was the same clear red and white. this distinguishing quality of clearness was noticeable too in his lips, for his short white moustache shows them to be full, very red, and with the line where the red joins the white extremely clear cut. his teeth were large, full, even, and white, like those of a primitive man, who tore his rare meat with those same white teeth, and who never heard of a dentist. his hair was short, white, and bristling. he seemed to have some jewish blood in him, but he seemed more than all to be perfectly well, perfectly normal, filled to the brim with abounding life. it was like a draught from the elixir of life to be in his presence. what a man! all at once the whole of "degeneration" was made clear to me. how could any man as sane, as normal, as superbly health-loving and health-bestowing keep from writing such a book! i never met any one who so impressed me with his knowledge. not pedantry, but with the deep-lying fundamental truth that humanity ought to know. his sympathies are so broad, his intuitions so keen, his understanding so subtle. he asked us at once into his study--a small room, lined with books bound in calf. both the chair and his couch had burst out beneath, showing broken springs and general dilapidation. he speaks many languages, and his english is very pure and beautiful. like all great men, his manner was extremely simple. he did not pose. he was interested in me, in my work, in my ambitions, hopes, and aims. he seemed to have no overpoweringly high idea of himself, nor of what he had achieved. he was thoroughly at home in french, german, english, scandinavian, and russian literature. he read them in the originals, and his knowledge of the classics seemed to be equally complete. the well-worn books upon his shelves testified to this. i asked him if he intended to come to america in the near future. to which he replied: "unhappily i cannot tell. i should like to go. i consider america the country of the world at present. whether we admit it or not, all nations are watching you. the rest of the world cannot live without you. russia is the only country in the world which could go to war without your assistance. you must feed europe. your men are the financiers of the world and your women rule and educate and are the saviours of the men. therefore to my mind the greatest factor in the world's civilisation to-day is the great body of the american women. you little know your power. _you_ seem to have got the ear of the american woman, and the only advice i have to give you is to be more bold. don't be afraid of being too pedantic. you are too subtle. you bury your truths sometimes too deeply. the busy are too busy to dig for it, and the stupid do not know it is there." "i think 'degeneration' is the most wonderful book ever written," jimmie broke in at this point as if unable to keep silent any longer. then he looked deeply embarrassed at doctor nordau's hearty laughter. "thank you a thousand times," he said; "such a decided opinion i seldom hear. your great country was the first to appreciate and read it. i have many friends there whom i never saw but who love me and whom i love. they often write to me." "and beg autographs and photographs of you," i said. "oh, yes, but it is very easy to do what they ask. but one curious thing strikes me about america. see, here on my book shelves i have books written explaining the government of all countries in all languages--all countries, that is to say, except america. why has no one ever written such an one about the united states?" jimmie pricked up his ears as this phase of the conversation came home to him. he forgot his awe and said: "what's the matter with bryce?" doctor nordau looked puzzled. he is a practising physician. "'what's the matter with bryce?'" he repeated. jimmie blushed. "haven't you read 'bryce's commonwealth?'" i broke in, to give jimmie time to get on his legs again. "is there a book on american government by an american that i never heard of?" asked nordau of jimmie. "well, bryce is an englishman, but he knows more about america than any american i know," answered jimmie. "i'll send you the book if you would like to read it." doctor nordau thanked him and said he would be delighted to have it. while jimmie was making a note of this, doctor nordau looked quizzically at me and said: "do american publishers rob all foreign authors as i have been robbed, or am i mistaken in thinking that large numbers of 'degeneration' have been sold in america?" alas, wherever i go in europe, i am obliged to hear this denunciation of our publishers! i cannot get beyond the sound of it. to hear foreign authors denounce american publishers by every term of opprobrium which could commonly be applied to barabbas! i was puzzled to know whether they really are the most unscrupulous robbers in creation or if they only have the name of being. "you are not mistaken in thinking that large numbers of 'degeneration' have been sold," i said, "and if your book was properly copyrighted and protected and you did not sign away all your rights to your american publishers for a song, as too many foreign authors do in their scorn of american appreciation of good literature, you should not be obliged to complain, for i distinctly remember that 'degeneration' often led in the lists of best selling books which our booksellers report at the end of each week." "then i will leave you to judge for yourself," said doctor nordau. "the entire amount i have received from my american publishers for 'degeneration' is fifty pounds! that is every sou!" "fifty pounds!" cried jimmie, in consternation. "why that is only two hundred and fifty dollars of our money!" "i leave it to you to judge for yourselves," said doctor nordau again. we said nothing, for as jimmie said after we left, there was really nothing to say. but evidently our consternation touched him, for he broke out into a big german laugh, saying: "don't take it so deeply to heart! you are too sensitive. do you take the criticisms of your books so deeply to heart as you take a criticism of your countrymen? don't do it! remember, there are few critics worth reading." "i never read them while they are fresh," i admitted. "i keep them until their heat has had time to cool. then if they are favourable i say, 'this is just so much extra pleasure that, as it is all over. i had no right to expect.' and if they are unfavourable i think, 'what difference does it make? it was published weeks ago and everybody has forgotten it by this time!'" "you have the right spirit," he said. "where would i be if i had taken to heart the criticisms of the degenerates on 'degeneration?' i sit back and laugh at them for holding a hand mirror up to their faces and unconsciously crying out 'i see a fool!' to understand great truths,--and great truths are seldom popular,--one must bring a willing mind. yet how often it is that the very sick one wishes most to help are the ones who refuse, either from conceit or stupidity, to believe and be healed. remember this: no one can get out of a book more than he brings to it. readers of books seldom realise that by their written or spoken criticisms they are displaying themselves in all their weaknesses, all their vanities, all their strength for their hearers to make use of as they will." "i shouldn't think anything ever would disturb you," said jimmie, regarding doctor nordau's gigantic strength admiringly. doctor nordau laughed. "it is the little things of this life, my friend, which often disturb a mental balance which is always poised to receive great shocks. the gnat-bites and mosquito buzzings are sometimes harder to bear than an operation with a surgeon's knife." i looked triumphantly at jimmie as doctor nordau said that, for jimmie never has got over it that i once dragged the whole party off a train and made them wait until the next one, because the wheels of our railway carriage squeaked. but jimmie's mind is open to persuasion, especially from one whose opinions he admires as he admires max nordau's, for he looked at me with more tolerance, as he said: "it is the nervous organisation, i suppose. she can bear neuralgia for days at a time which would drive me crazy in an hour, but i've seen her burst into tears because a door slammed." "exactly so!" said doctor nordau. "i understand perfectly." "now, i never hear such noises," pursued jimmie. "but i suppose there must be _some_ difference between you both, who can write books, and me, who can't even write a letter without dictating it!" soon after this we came away, jimmie beaming with delight over one idol who had not tumbled from his pedestal at a near view. we were still in the midst of the paris season. it was very gay and bee and mrs. jimmie had made some amiable friends among the very smartest of the parisian smart set. when we went to tea or dinner with these people jimmie and i had to be dragged along like dogs who are muzzled for the first time. every once in awhile _en route_ we would plant our fore feet and try to rub our muzzles off, but the hands which held our chains were gentle but firm, and we always ended by going. on one sunday we were invited to have _déjeuner_ with the countess s., and as it was her last day to receive she had invited us to remain and meet her friends. at the breakfast there were perhaps sixteen of us and the conversation fell upon palmistry. we had just seen cheiro in london, and as he had amiably explained a good many of our lines to us, i was speaking of this when the old duchesse de z. thrust her little wrinkled paw loaded down with jewels across the plate of her neighbour and said: "mademoiselle, can you see anything in the lines of my hand?" i make no pretence of understanding palmistry, but i saw in her hand a queer little mark that cheiro had explained to us from a chart. i took her hand in mine and all the conversation ceased to hear the pearls of wisdom which were about to drop from my lips. the duchesse was very much interested in the occult and known to be given to table tipping and the invocation of spirits. "i see something here," i began, hesitatingly, "which looks to me as if you had once been threatened with a great danger, but had been miraculously preserved," i said. the old woman drew her hand away. "humph," she muttered with her mouth full of homard. "i wondered if you would see that. it was assassination i escaped. it was enough to leave a mark, eh, mademoiselle?" "i should think so," i murmured. the young count de x. on my right said, in a tone which the duchesse might have heard: "when she was a young girl, only nineteen, her husband tied her with ropes to her bed and set fire to the bed curtains. her screams brought the servants and they rescued her." my fork fell with a clatter. "what an awful man!" i gasped. "he was my uncle, mademoiselle!" said the young man, imperturbably, arranging the gardenia in his buttonhole, "but as you say, he was a bad lot." "i beg your pardon!" i exclaimed. "it is nothing," he answered. "it is no secret. everybody knows it." later in the afternoon i took occasion to apologise to the duchesse for having referred to the subject. "why should you be distressed, mademoiselle," said the old woman, peering up into my face from beneath her majenta bonnet with her little watery brown eyes, "such things will go into books and be history a few years hence. we make history, such families as ours," she added, proudly. i turned away rather bewildered and for an hour or two watched bee and mrs. jimmie being presented to those who called to pay their respects to our hostess. they were of all descriptions and fascinating to a degree. finally the duchesse came up to me bringing a lady whom she introduced as the countess y. "she is a compatriot of yours, mademoiselle." it so happened that bee and mrs. jimmie were standing near me and overheard. "ah, you are an american," i said. "well," said the countess, moving her shoulders a little uneasily, "i am an american, but my husband does not like to have me admit it." it was a small thing. she had a right to deny her nationality if she liked, but in some way it shocked the three of us alike and we moved forward as if pulled by one string. "i think we must be going," said bee, haughtily. jimmie's jaw was so set as we left the house of the countess, and bee and mrs. jimmie looked so disturbed that i suggested that we drive down to the louvre and take one last look at our treasures. mine are the venus de milo and the victory, and jimmie's is the colossal statue of the river tiber. jimmie loves that old giant, father tiber, lying there with the horn of plenty and dear little romulus and remus with their foster mother under his right hand. jimmie says the _toes_ of the giant fascinate him. it looked like rain, so we hastily checked our parasols and jimmie's stick and cut down the left corridor to the stairs, and so on down to the chamber where we left jimmie and the tiber to stare each other out of countenance. the rest of us continued our way to the room where the venus stands enthroned in her silent majesty. we sat down to rest and worship, and then coming up the steps again and mounting another flight, we stood looking across the arcade at the brilliant electric poise of the victory, and in taking our last look at her, we did not notice that it had gradually grown very dark. when we came out, rested, uplifted, and calmed as the effect of that glorious venus always is upon our fretted spirits, we discovered that the most terrific rainstorm was in progress it ever was our luck to behold. the water came down in cataracts and blinding sheets of rain. every one except us had been warned by the darkness and had got themselves home. the streets were empty except for the cabs and carriages which skurried by with fares. our frantic signals and jimmie's dashes into the street were of no avail. we would have walked except that bee and i had colds, and big, beautiful mrs. jimmie was subject to croup, which as every one knows is terrible in its attacks upon grown people. poor jimmie ran in every direction in his wild efforts for a carriage, but none was to be had. we waited two hours, then mrs. jimmie saw a black covered wagon approaching and she gathered up her skirts and hailed it. the driver obligingly pulled up at the curb. "you must drive us to our hotel." she said, firmly. "we have waited two hours." "impossible, madame!" said the man. "but you _must_," we all said in chorus. "you shall have much money," said jimmie in his worst french. "all the same it is impossible, monsieur," said the man. he regretted exceedingly his inability to oblige the ladies, but--and he prepared to drive off. "get in, girls," said mrs. jimmie, firmly, pushing us in at the back of the wagon. the man expostulated, not in anger but appealingly. mrs. jimmie would not listen. she said there ought to be more cabs in paris, and that she regretted it as much as he did, but she climbed in as she talked, and gave the address of the hotel. "you shall have three times your fare," she said, calmly, "drive on!" "but what madame demands is impossible," pleaded the poor man. "i am on my way for another body. madame sits in the morgue wagon!" but there he was mistaken, for madame sat nowhere. before he had done speaking madame was flying through the air, alighting on poor jimmie's foot, while bee and i clawed at our dripping skirts in a mad effort to follow suit. the morgue wagon pursued its way down the rue de rivoli, while we risked colds, croup, and everything else in an endeavour to find a "_grand bain_," splashing through puddles but marching steadily on, jimmie in a somewhat strained silence limping uncomplainingly at our side. chapter iii strasburg and baden-baden we are on our way to the passion play, and although each of the four of us is a monument of amiability when taken individually, as a quartet we sometimes clash. at present we are fighting over the route we shall take between paris and oberammergau. bee and mrs. jimmie have replenished their wardrobes in the rue de la paix, and wish to follow the trail of american tourists going to baden-baden, while jimmie and i, having rooted out of a german student in the latin quarter two or three unknown carriage routes through the mountains which lead to unknown spots not double starred, starred, or even mentioned in baedeker, are wondering how the battle between clothes and bohemianism will end. we arrived at strasburg still in an amiable wrangle, but all four agreed on seeing the clock which has made the town famous. our time was so limited that there was not, as is often the case, an opportunity for all four of us to get our own way. anybody who did not know her, would imagine by the quiet way that bee has let the subject of baden-baden alone for the whole day, that she had quite given up going there, but i know bee. she has left jimmie and me to defend the front of the fortress, while she is bringing all her troops up in the rear. bee does not believe in a charge with plenty of shouting and galloping and noise. bee's manoeuvres never raise any dust, but on a flank movement, a midnight sortie or an ambush, bee could outgeneral napoleon and alexander and general grant and every other man who has helped change the maps of the world. only by indication and past sad experience do i know what she is up to. one thing to-day has given me a clue. i have a necktie--the only really saucy thing about the whole of my wardrobe, the only distinguishing smartness to my toilet--upon which bee has fixed her affection, and which she means to get away from me. i don't know how i came to buy it in the first place. however, i sha'n't have it long. bee is bargaining for it--that means that we are going to baden-baden. she is not openly bargaining, for that would let me know how much she wants it, but she has admired it pointedly. she tied my veil on for me this morning, and even as i write, she is sewing a button on my glove. bee in the politest way possible is going to force me to give her that tie. i wish she wouldn't, for i really need it, but i must get all the wear i expect to have out of it in the next two days, for by the end of the week, if these attentions continue, that charvet tie will belong to bee. last night, as soon as we arrived and had our dinner, we went to the orangerie. this great park with myriads of walks is one of the most attractive things about strasburg. a very good band was playing a sousa march as we came in and took our seats at one of the little tables. but just here let me record something which has surprised me all during my travels in europe; and that is the small amount of good music one hears outside of opera. i have always imagined germany to be distinguished equally by her music and her beer. i have not been disappointed in the beer, for it is there by the tub, but as to the music, there is not in my opinion in the whole of germany or austria one such as sousa's, and as to men choruses, not one that i have heard, and i have followed them closely wherever i heard of their existence, is to be compared with any of our college glee clubs. in my opinion the casual open-air music of germany is another of the disappointments of europe--to be set down in the same category with the linden trees of berlin and the trousers of the french army. german music seems to be too universally indulged in to be good. it is performed with more earnestness than skill and the programme is gone through with with more fervour than taste. the musicians of a typical german band dig through the evening's numbers with the same dogged perseverance and perspiration that they would exercise in tunnelling through a mountain. in this connection i am not speaking of any of the trained orchestras, but solely of the band music that one hears all through the rhine land. it is only tradition that germans are the most musical people in the world, for in my opinion the rank and file of germans have no ear for key. that they listen well and perform earnestly is perfectly true. that they respect music and give it proper attention is equally true, but that they know the difference between a number performed with no expression, with one or two instruments or voices, as the case may be, entirely out of pitch, and the same number correctly rendered, is impossible to believe by one who has watched them as carefully as i. sousa once made the statement to the american press that in his opinion the american nation was the most musical nation in the world. he based this astonishing belief, which was violently attacked by the german-american press, upon his observation of his audiences and by the street music, even including whistling and singing. i agree with his opinion with all my heart. in an american audience of the most common sort an instrument off the key or improperly tuned will be sure to be detected. it may be, nay, it probably is true, that the person so detecting the discord will not know where the trouble lies or of what it consists, but his ear, untrained as it is, tells him that something is wrong, and he shows his discomfort and disapproval. i claim that the ordinary american--the common or garden variety of american--has a more correct ear than the common or garden variety of german. i claim that the rank and file in america is for this reason more truly musical than the same class in the german nation, although the german nation has a technical knowledge of music which it will take the americans a thousand years to equal. for this reason an open-air concert in america is so much more enjoyable both from the numbers selected and the spirit of their playing, that the two performances are not to be mentioned in the same day. a criticism which the wayfaring man will whip out to floor me at this point, viz., that nearly all performers in american bands are germans, will not cause me to wink an eyelash, for the effect of american audiences on german performers has raised the standard of their music so that i am informed by germans and austrians that the most annoying, irritating, and insulting factor in their otherwise peaceful lives is the return of a german-american to his native heath. they tell me that his arrogance and conceit are unbearable--that he claims that americans alone know how to make practical use of the technical knowledge of the german--that the teuton gathers the knowledge, the yankee applies it. this goes to prove my point. we americans are a curious people. we get better music under our own vine and fig-tree than they have anywhere else in the world but we don't know it. there is no such band on earth as sousa's, no better orchestra than theodore thomas's or the boston symphony, and we hear the metropolitan and french operas. take also our chamber music and from that come down to our street ballads, and then to the whistling and singing heard in the streets, with no thought of audience or even listeners. i have followed german music closely, and i claim that german musicians, or rather let me say german producers of music, lack ear just about half of the time. their students cannot compare with our college singing, their pedestrian parties, which one meets all through the country, singing, often from notes (and if you take the trouble to inquire, they will frequently tell you with pride that they belong to such and such a singing society) almost drive sensitive ears crazy. but they love it--they adore music, they take such comfort out of it, that one is forced to forgive this lack of ear and this polyglot pitch, or else be considered a churl. the orangerie has, however, a very good average band--for germany. the picture of the great crowd of people gathered at little tables around the band-stand, whole families together; of a tiny boy baby, just able to toddle around, being dragged about by an enormous st. bernard dog, whose chain the baby tugged at most valiantly; the long dim avenues under the trees where an occasional young couple lost themselves from fathers and mothers; the music; the cheerful beer-drinking; the general air of rosy-cheeked contentment has formed in my mind a most agreeable recollection of the orangerie of strasburg. strasburg has, however, much more to boast of than her clock. the city was founded by the romans, and in the middle ages was one of the most powerful of the free cities of the german empire, on the occasions of imperial processions her citizens enjoying the proud distinction of having their banner borne second only to the imperial eagle. then, because of its strategical importance, in a time of peace, louis xiv. of france seized the city of strasburg, and this delicate attention on his part was confirmed by the peace of ryswick in , thereby giving strasburg to france. the french kept it nearly two hundred years, but germany got it back at the peace of frankfort, , and it is now the capital of german alsace and lorraine. i never think of alsace and lorraine that i do not recall the statue in the place de la concorde, with gay coloured wreaths looking more like a festival of joy than mourning,--in fact i never think of paris mourning for anything, from a relative to a dead dog, that i can keep my countenance. on the jour des morts, i once went to the père-lachaise and found in the family lot of a duchesse with a grand name, a stuffed dog of the rare old breed known as mongrel. in america he would have slouched at the heels of a stevedore--or any sort of a man who shuffles in his walk and smokes a short black pipe. but this yellow cur was in a glass case mounted on a marble pedestal, and his yellowness in life was represented by a coat of small yellow beads put on in patches where the hair had disappeared. his yellow glass eyes peered staringly at the passer-by and his tomb was literally heaped with expensive _couronnes_ tied with long streamers of crape, while _couronnes_ on the grass-grown tomb of the defunct husband of the duchesse, buried in the back of the lot behind the dog, were conspicuous by their absence. i wondered if the widow took this ingenious method of publishing to the world that in life her husband had been less to her than her dog. paris crape is this slippery, shiny sort of stuff, like thin haircloth--the kind they used to cover furniture with. it is made up into "costumes" which have such an air of fashion that the deceased relative is instantly forgotten in one's interest in the cut and fit of the gown. a butterfly of a bonnet, a tiny face veil coming just to the tip of the nose, with the long one in the back sweeping almost to the ground, completes a picture of such a jaunty grief, such a saucy sorrow, that one would be quite willing to lose one or two distant relatives in order to be clad in such a manner. the university of strasburg changed its nationality as often as the town, but not at the same time. in one of its german periods goethe graduated there as doctor of laws--which fact ought to be better known. at least _i_ didn't know it. but bee says that doesn't signify, because i know so little. but bee only says that when she has asked me some stupid date that nobody ever knows or ever did know except in a history class. the next day after our evening at the orangerie, at half after eleven, we went to the cathedral to see the clock. it only performs all its functions at noon, and as there is always a crowd of tourists about it, we went early. the most wonderful feature of this clock to jimmie is that it regulates itself and adapts its motions to the revolutions of the seasons, year after year and year after year, as if it had a wonderful living human mind somewhere in its insides. its perpetual calendar, too, is a marvel! how can that insensate clock tell when to put twenty-eight days and when to give thirty-one, when i can't even do it myself without saying: "thirty days hath september, april, june, and november, all the rest have thirty-one, except february alone, which has but twenty-eight in fine till leap-year gives it twenty-nine." and who tells that clock when leap year comes, and when the moon changes, and when it's going to rain, and when hoop-skirts will be worn again? wonderful people, these germans. we were there on monday when the clock struck noon. monday is the day when diana steps out upon the first gallery. each day has its deity--apollo on sunday, diana on monday, etc. on the first gallery an angel strikes the quarters on a bell in his little mechanical hand. then a gentleman who has nothing else to do the whole year round reverses an hour-glass each hour in the twenty-four; so that you can tell the time by counting the grains of sand or by glancing at the face of the clock,--whichever way you have been brought up to tell time. above this there is a skeleton, which strikes the hours, and evidently cheerfully reminds us what our end will be, around which are grouped the quarter-hours, represented by the four figures, boyhood, youth, manhood, and old age. but the two most remarkable things are those which crown the clock. in the highest niche, at noon, the twelve apostles, also representing the hours, come out of a door and march around the figure of the saviour. judas hangs his head, and the eyes of the christ follow him until he disappears. then on the highest pinnacle of all, a cock comes out, preens himself, flaps his wings, and gives such an exultant crow that peter pauses in his walk, then drops his head forward on his breast, and so passes out of sight. when the performance is over, the crowd melts away. some few stay to do the cathedral, but we went to luncheon. at luncheon it was decided to go to baden-baden. jimmie and i compromised on three days of it. there is nothing particularly interesting about the journey thither. when you come to the village of oos, you get off the train and take a little train which is waiting on a siding, and in less than five minutes, before you have time to sit down, in fact, you are at baden, at the entrance of the black forest, and find it beautiful. it was the height of the season and we went to a very smart hotel, where they have very badly dressed people, because nearly everybody there except us had money and titles. now the height of the season at any watering-place depresses me. if i could wear fern seed in my shoes to make me invisible, and sit on the _piazza_ railing in a shirt-waist and a short skirt, i would love it. but both bee and mrs. jimmie, with the light of heaven in their eyes, pulled out and put on their most be-yew-tiful paris clothes, and if i do say it of my sister--well, for modesty's sake, i will only say that mrs. jimmie looked ripping. _i_ was happily travelling with a steamer trunk and a big hat-box, and had hitherto rejoiced that my lack of clothes would prevent my being obliged to dress. i thought perhaps jimmie and i would be allowed to roam about hunting little queer restaurants like old tom's or the cheshire cheese. but when jimmie's boyish face appeared over a white expanse of tucked shirt front, i sank down in a dejected heap. "and thou, brutus?" i said. "couldn't help it," he answered, laconically. "we'd better give in handsomely for three days. it'll pay us in the end. get into your 'glad rags' and be good." "but i didn't bring my 'glad rags,'" i said. just then bee looked around from fastening a lace butterfly in her hair on a jewelled spiral. "i had two extra trays in my trunk and i put a few of your things in. would you like to wear your lace gown? you've never even tried it on." my mouth flew open, contrary to politeness and my excellent bringing-up. jimmie collapsed with a silent grin, while i meekly followed bee into my room. when i saw my new gown all full of rolls of tissue-paper, packed by poor dear bee, i went to my trunk and pulled out my smart charvet tie. i handed it to her in silence. "take it," i said. "i hate to give it up, but you deserve it." bee accepted it gratefully. "it's good of you to give it to me," she said. "you really need it more than i do, only this peculiar shade of blue is so becoming to me. i'll tell you what i'll do though," she added, heroically. "i'll _lend_ it to you whenever you want it." i thanked her, dressed, and then humbly trailed down to dinner in the wake of my gorgeous party. jimmie had engaged a table on the piazza, nearest the street and commanding the best view of all the other diners. i very willingly sat with my back to all the people, with the panorama of the lichtenthaler strasse passing before my eyes, and in quiet moments the sounds of the great military band playing on the promenade in front of the _conversationshaus_ coming to our ears. a great deal of grandeur always makes me homesick. it isn't envy. i don't want to be a princess and have the bother of winding a horn for my outriders when i want to run to the drug-store for postage stamps, but pomp depresses me. everybody was strange, foreign languages were pelting me from the rear, noiseless flunkies were carrying pampered lap-dogs with crests on their nasty little embroidered blankets, fat old women with epilepsy and gouty old men with scrofula, representing the aristocracy at its best, were being half carried to and from tables, and the degeneracy of noble europe was being borne in upon my soul with a sickening force. the purple twilight was turning black on the distant hills, and the silent stars were slowly coming into view. clean, health-giving baden-baden, in the valley of the oos, with its beauty and its pure air, was holding out her arms to all the disease and filth that degenerate riches produce. i wasn't exactly blue, but i was gently melancholy. jimmie was smoking, and bee and mrs. jimmie had their heads together, casting politely furtive glances at a table which held royalty. i certainly _was_ feeling neglected. suddenly a voice in english at my elbow said: "pardon me, madame, but were not you at the grand hotel at rome last winter?" "yes," i said. "i mean no impertinence in addressing you. i am the head waiter there in winter, here in summer. i remembered you at once, and i came to say that if anything goes wrong with any of your distinguished party during your stay, i shall count it a favour if you will permit me to remedy it. the hotel is at your disposal. i will send a private maid to attend you during your stay. i hope you will be happy here, madame." then with a bow he was gone. i was in a state of exhilaration inside which threatened to break through at the sudden attentions of my party. "who's your friend?" said jimmie. "how nice of him!" commented his wife. "servants never remember me, yet i always fee better than you do," complained bee. "console yourself. it is only porters and head waiters who care whether i am happy or not," i said, bitterly. "deary me!" said jimmie, sitting up. "come, let's get out of this. we must walk her over where she'll hear some music and see some pretty lights or she'll drown herself in her bath to-morrow." we went, we promenaded, we showed our clothes, and came home smirking with satisfaction. we had been pointed out everywhere for americans, which spoke volumes for our clothes and the smallness of our feet. during two mortal weeks we stayed at baden-baden, taking the baths, improving our german and driving through the black forest and the oos valley to the green hills beyond. then on one happy day we were all packed to go. we sent our trunks down, saw every drawer emptied, pulled the bed to pieces, looked under it and decided that _this_ time we hadn't left so much as a pin. bee stuck her "_blaue cravatte_," as we now called the necktie, under the bureau mat to put on when we came up, and then we snatched a hasty luncheon. in the meantime we turned our "private maid" and the chambermaid loose to see if we had overlooked anything. when we came up they were still rummaging, but had found nothing. bee hurried to the bureau and looked under the mat. no tie. she asked the two women. they had not seen it. then everybody hunted. jimmie swore we had packed it. but bee's gray eyes turned to green as she watched the flurried movements of the two maids. she walked up to them. "give me that blue necktie," she said, in awful german. at that jimmie, who hates a row when it is not of his own making, interfered and insisted that we must have packed it--he remembered numbers of times when we had made a fuss over nothing--it was of no account anyway, and if we would only come along and not miss the train he would send back to charvet and get bee another "_blaue cravatte_." "for heaven's sake, take that man downstairs," i said to mrs. jimmie, "and let us manage this affair." so poor jimmie was whisked from the scene of action, still protesting and gesticulating, and being soothed but marched steadily onward by his wife. when we came down we were heated but unsuccessful. i insisted upon reporting the affair to my friend the head waiter. he almost went back on his devotion to me in his assurances that those maids were honest. then jimmie had to come up and interfere, and those two men decided that we had packed it. bee was in a cold ladylike fury. we gave all the servants double fees to assure them that meanness had not prompted the search, and got into the carriage. "remember," said bee, "i claim that one of those women has that tie in her pocket now, because all four of us looked every inch of the rooms over together. i advise you to have them searched. on the other hand i will telegraph you from nuremberg if i find it in my trunks." we had half an hour before the train left. bee, who was riding backward, kept looking out down the road whence we had come with a curious expression on her face. jimmie, in spite of warning pressures from his wife's foot, kept sputtering about women's poor memories, etc. bee didn't even seem to hear. presently, in a cloud of dust, up drove one of the men from the hotel, with a little package in his hand. "_blaue cravatte,_" he said, bowing. "where did you find it?" demanded mrs. jimmie. "between the mattress and the springs of the bed. madame must have put it there to press it." jimmie looked sheepish and put us into the train with a red face. bee simply slipped the tie into her satchel and put on her travelling-cap without a word, and began to read. bee never nags or crows. so much for baden-baden. chapter iv stuttgart, nuremberg, and bayreuth we had planned to go to stuttgart next, but as we were nearing the town, bee pushed up her veil and said: "i don't see why we are going to stuttgart. i never heard of it except in connection with men who 'studied' in stuttgart. what's there, jimmie? an academy?" "i should say," said jimmie, waking up. "the academy where schiller studied." "that's very interesting," i broke in, "but it's hardly enough to keep _me_ there very long. are there any queer little places--" "any concert-gardens?" asked bee. "are the hotels good?" asked his wife. "there is one hotel called hotel billfinger, which i'd like to try, because mark twain's guide in 'innocents abroad' was named billfinger. remember?" "he afterwards called him ferguson, which i think is against the name and against the hotel," i said. "why do we stop except to break the journey?" "well, the real reason," said jimmie, with that timid air of his, "is because baedeker says that in the royal library there are , bibles in more than one hundred languages, and i thought if you stayed by them long enough you might get enough religion so that you would be less wearing on my nerves as a travelling companion. it wouldn't take you long to master them. while you are studying, the rest of us will refresh ourselves in the stadt-garten, where bee will find a band, where i shall find a restaurant, and where my wife can ponder over baedeker's choice information of the places where it is not proper to take a lady." nobody pays any attention to jimmie, so we all stared out of the windows to see that the town was beautifully situated, almost upon the neckar, and surrounded by such vine-clad hills and green wooded heights as to make it seem like a painting. but bee was still unconvinced. "it is the capital of nuremberg and used to be the favourite residence of the dukes of nuremberg," said mrs. jimmie, as we drove up to the hotel, not the billfinger, let me remark in passing. we found a band for bee, and in the course of our stay in stuttgart we heard any number of men's choruses, students' singing and the like. there was, too, the museum of art, and a fine one. there was also a lovely view, from the eugen-platz, of the city which lies below it. but after all, the schloss-garten and concerts to the contrary notwithstanding, there is an atmosphere about the law schools, museums, and collections of stuttgart, which led frivolous pleasure-seekers like us to depart on the second day, for nuremberg. jimmie has a curious way of selecting hotels. as the train neared that quaintest of old cities, toward which my heart warms anew as i think of it, he broke the silence as though we had held a long and heated argument on the matter. "you might as well cease this useless discussion. i have decided to go to the wittelsbacher hof, pfannenschmiedsgasse ." "good heavens!" i murmured. "there you go, _arguing!_" cried jimmie. "but can't you see the advantages of all those extra letters on your note-paper when you write home?" "besides, it's a very good hotel, i've been told," said his wife, affably. it _was_ a very good hotel, and there was a lunch-room half-way up the main flight of stairs at the right as you enter, which i remember with peculiar pleasure. travellers like us may well be excused for remembering a first luncheon such as that which we had at the wittelsbacher hof. then we all strolled out in the early summer twilight and took our first look at nuremberg. tell me if you can why we went into such ecstasies over nuremberg and stayed there two weeks, when we could barely persuade ourselves to remain one day in stuttgart. but the picturesqueness of nuremberg is particularly enticing. the streets run "every which way," as the children say, and the architecture is so queer and ancient that the houses look as if they had stepped out of old prints. it was so hot when we arrived that we were on terms of the most distant civility with each other. indeed, it was dangerous to make the simplest observation, for the other three guns were trained upon the inoffensive speaker with such promptness and such an evident desire to fight that for the most part we maintained a dignified but safe silence. mrs. jimmie bearded jimmie in his den long enough to ask him to see about our opera tickets at once. everybody said we could not get any, but trust jimmie! the agent of whom he bought them had embroidered a generous romance of how he had got them of a lady who ordered them the january before, but whose husband having just died, her feelings would not permit her to use them, and so as a great accommodation, etc., etc. everybody knows these stories. suffice it to say that jimmie really had, at the last moment, secured admirable seats near the middle of the house, and everybody said it was a miracle. in looking back over the experiences of that one opera of "parsifal," i cannot deny that there was something of a miracle about it. however, "parsifal" was three days distant, and nuremberg was at hand. i love to think of nuremberg. the recollection of it comes back to me again and again through a gentle haze of happy memories. the narrow streets were lined with houses which leaned toward each other after the gossipy manner of old friends whose confidence in each other is established. the windows jutted queerly, and odd balconies looped themselves on corners where no one expected them. they call these pretty old houses the best examples of domestic architecture, but warn you that the quaint peaked roofs are gothic and the surprises are renaissance--a mixture of which purists do not approve. but i am a pagan. i like mixtures. they give you little flutters of delight in your heart, and one of the most satisfactory of experiences is not to be able to analyse your emotions or to tell why you are pleased, but to feel at liberty to answer art questions with "just because!" so nuremberg. its fortifications are rugged and strong. its towers imposing. it dates back to the huns. frederick barbarossa frequently occupied the castle which frowns down on you from the heights. hans sachs, the poet, sang here. albrecht durer painted here. peter vischer perhaps dreamed out the noble original of my beautiful king arthur here. from the quaint and awkward statues of saints and heroes in church and state, to such delicate examples of sculpture as the figure of the virgin in the hirschelgasse, so delicate and graceful that it was once attributed to an italian master, you realise how early the arts were established here and how sedulously they were pursued. everywhere are works of art, from the cruder decorations over doorways and windows to the paintings of durer in the germanic museum. it is a sad reflection to me that most of durer's work, and all of his masterpieces, are in other cities--munich, berlin, and vienna, and that, as it is in greece, only their fame remains to glorify the city of his birth. his statue, copied from a portrait painted by himself, stands in the albrecht-durer platz, and in his little house are copies of his masterpieces and a collection of typical antique german furniture and utensils. the exquisite art of glass-staining is the suitable occupation of the custodian who shows you about the house. indeed, wood carving, glass staining, engraving of medals and medallions, copying ancient cabinets and quaint furniture are, if not the principal, at least the most interesting occupations pursued in nuremberg to-day. in searching out the little shops i also found that table linen, superbly embroidered and decorated with drawn-work of intricate patterns was here in a bewildering display. dear nuremberg! a stroll through your lovely streets is a feast for the eye and a whip to the imagination that no other city in the german empire can duplicate or approach. you abound in quaint doorways, over which if i step, i find myself transplanted to the scenes of tapestries and old prints, and i can easily imagine myself framed and hanging on the wall quite comfortable and happy. one of these tiny doorways led us, on a bright sunday afternoon, into one of the oddest places we ever saw. it was the bratwurst-glocklein--such a restaurant as doctor johnson would have deserted the cheshire cheese for, and revelled in the change. it appeared to be a thousand years old. perhaps melanchthon expounded the theories of the reformation on the very benches on which we sat. the door-sill was high, and we stepped over it on to a stone floor, the flagging of which was sunken in many places, causing pitfalls to the unwary. the room was small and only half lighted by infinitesimal windows. one end of the room was given up to what appeared to be a charcoal furnace built of bricks, over which in plain view buxom maids, whose red cheeks were purple from the heat, were frying delicious little sausages in strings. we squeezed ourselves into a narrow bench behind one of the tables whose rudeness was picturesque. i have seen schoolboy desks at harrow and eton worn to the smoothness of these tables here and carved as deeply with names. there was not a vestige of a cloth or napkins. the plates and knives and forks were rude enough to bear out the surroundings. in fact, the clumsiness and apparent age of everything almost transported us, in imagination, to the stone age, but the sensation was delightful. one of the maids brought a string of sausages sizzling hot from the pan and deftly snipped off as many as were called for upon each of our plates. we drank our beer from steins so heavy that each one took both hands. a person with a mouth of the rosebud variety would have found it exceedingly difficult to obtain any of the beer, the stein presenting such unassailable fortifications. it was too hot when we were there to appreciate to the full this delicious old spot, but on a winter evening, after the theatre, which closes about ten o'clock, think what a delightful thing it would be, o ye bohemian americans, with fashionable wives who insist upon the waldorf or sherry's after the theatre, to go instead to the bratwurst-glocklein! there you smoke at your ease, put your elbows on the table and dream dreams of your student days when the dinner coat vexed not your peaceful spirit. owing to our late arrival and the enormous crowd of people at bayreuth, we found it expedient to remain in nuremberg and go up to bayreuth for the opera. the day of our performance of "parsifal" was one of the hottest of the year. not even philadelphia can boast of heat more consolidated and unswerving than that of north germany on this particular day. we put on muslin dresses and carried fans and smelling salts, and jimmie had to use force to make us carry wraps for the return. the journey, lovely in itself, was rendered hideous to us by the heat, but when we arrived at bayreuth the babel of english voices was so delightfully homelike, american clothes on american women were so good to see, and bayreuth itself was so picturesque, that we forgot the heat and drove to the opera-house full of delight. i am sorry that it is fashionable to like wagner, for i really should like to explain the feelings of perfect delight which tingled in my blood as i realised that i was in the home of german opera--in the city where the master musician lived and wrote, and where his widow and son still maintain their unswerving faithfulness toward his glorious music. i am a little sensitive, too, about admitting that i like carlyle and browning. i suppose this is because i have belonged to a browning and carlyle club, where i have heard some of the most idiotic women it was ever my privilege to encounter, express glib sentiments concerning these masters, which in me lay too deep for utterance. it is something like the occasional horror which overpowers me when i think that perhaps i am doomed to go to heaven. if certain people here on earth upon whom i have lavished my valuable hatred are going there, heaven is the last place i should want to inhabit. so with wagner. "parsifal!" that sacred opera which has never been performed outside of this little hamlet. i was to see it at last! i was prepared to be delighted with everything, and the childishness of the little maid who took charge of our hats before we went in to the opera charmed me. my hat was heavy and hot, and i particularly disliked it, owing to the weight of the seagull which composed one entire side of it, and always pulled it crooked on my head. the little maid took the hat in both her arms, laid her round red cheek against the soft feathers of the gull, kissed its glass bead eyes, and smilingly said in german: "this is the finest hat that has been left in my charge to-day!" verily, the opera of "parsifal" began auspiciously. quite puffed up with vainglorious pride over the little maiden's admiration of one of my modest possessions, while bee's and mrs. jimmie's ravishing masterpieces had received not even a look, we met jimmie bustling up with programmes and opera-glasses, and went toward the main entrance. we showed our tickets, and were sent to the side door. we went to the side door, and were sent to the back door. at the back door, to our indignation, we were sent up-stairs. in vain jimmie expostulated, and said that these seats were well in the middle of the house on the ground floor. the doorkeepers were inexorable. on the second floor, they sent us to the third, and on the third they would have sent us to the roof if there had been any way of getting up there. as it was, they permitted us to stop at the top gallery, and, to our unmitigated horror, the usher said that our seats were there. jimmie was furious, but i, not knowing how much he had paid for them, endeavoured to soothe him by pointing out that all true musicians sat in the gallery, because music rises and blends in the rising. "we are sure to get the best effect up here, jimmie, and those front rows, especially, if our seats happen to be in the middle, won't be at all bad. don't let's fuss any more about it, but come along like an angel." i will admit, however, that even my ardour was dampened when we discovered that our seats were absolutely in the back and top row, so that we leaned against the wall of the building, and were not even furnished with chairs, but sat on a hard bench without relief of any description. and the price jimmie hurled at us that he had paid for those tickets! i am ashamed to tell it. now jimmie hates german opera in the most picturesque fashion. he hates in every form, colour, and key, and in all my life i was never so sorry for any one as i was for jimmie that day at bayreuth. the heat was stifling, his rage choked him and effectually prevented his going to sleep, as otherwise he might have done in peace and quiet. he sat there in such a steam and fury that it was truly pitiable. he went out once to get a breath of air, and they turned the lights out before he could get back, so that he stumbled over people, and one man kicked him. with that jimmie stepped on the german's other foot, and they swore at each other in two languages and got hissed by the people around them. when he finally got back to us, we found it expedient not to make any remarks at all, and i was glad it was too dark for him to see our faces. yet, in spite of jimmie and the heat and the ache in our backs and the hard unyielding bench, that afternoon at "parsifal" is one of the experiences of a lifetime. people tell us now that we were there on an "off day." by that they mean that no singers with great names took part. how like americans to think of that! germans go to the opera for the music. americans go to hear and see the operatic stars. happily unvexed by my ignorance, i heard a perfect "parsifal" without knowing that, from an american point of view, i ought not to have been so delighted. the orchestra was conducted by siegfried wagner, and madame wagner sat in full view from even our eyrie. and then--the opera! perfection in every detail! i believed then that not even the passion play could hold my spirit, so in leash with its symbolism, its deep devotion, and its enthralling charms. the day on which i saw "parsifal" at bayreuth was a day to be marked with a white stone. chapter v the passion play jimmie came into the sitting-room this morning (for, by travelling with the jimmies, bee and i can be very grand, and share the luxury of a third room with them), but i suspected him from the moment i saw his face. it was too innocent to be natural. "what you got, jimmie?" i said. jimmie's manner of life invites abbreviated conversation. "only the letter from the burgomeister of oberammergau, assigning our lodgings," he replied, carelessly. he yawned and put the letter in his pocket. "oh, jimmie!" we all cried out. "have they--" "have they what?" asked jimmie, opening his eyes. "don't be an idiot," i said, savagely. "you know i have hardly been able to sleep, wondering if we'd have to go to ordinary lodgings or if they would assign us to some of the leading actors in the play. tell us! let me see the letter!" "now wait a minute," said jimmie, and then i knew that he was going to be exasperating. "don't you let him fool you," said bee, who always doubts everybody's good intentions and discounts their bad ones, which worthy plan of life permits her to count up at the end of the year only half as many mental bruises as i, let me pause to remark. "you know that not one in ten thousand has influence enough to obtain lodgings with the chief actors, and who are _we_, i should like to know, except in our own estimation?" "well," said jimmie, meekly, "in the estimation of the burgomeister of oberammergau, my wife is an american princess, travelling incognito as plain mrs. jimmie, to avoid being mobbed by entertainers. he promises in solemn german, which i had franz translate, not to betray her disguise." "that makes a prince of _you_, jimmie," i said, sternly. "a pretty looking prince _you_ are." "not at all," said jimmie modestly. "i felt that i could not do the princely act very long either as to looks or fees, so i said that the princess had made a morganatic marriage, and that i was it." "jimmie!" said his wife, blushing scarlet. "how _could_ you? why, a morganatic marriage isn't respectable. it's left-handed." "my love! you are thinking of a broomstick marriage. trust me. we are still legally married, and if i should try to sneak out of my obligations to you by this performance, i should still be liable in the eyes of the law for your debts. let that console you." "but--" said mrs. jimmie, still blushing, "by this plan they won't let us be together, will they?" "they wouldn't anyway, as i discovered from their first letter. we are all to be lodged separately, and from the tone of that first letter, in which they addressed me as their prince, i hit on the morganatic marriage as more economical in letting him down easy, without telling him i had lied or having to pay for my lie," said jimmie, with timid appeal in his innocent blue eyes. "but where do i come in, jimmie?" i said, impatiently. "you come in with judas iscariot. where you belong!" said jimmie, severely. bee howled. mrs. jimmie looked startled. "nonsense!" i said, indignantly. "that is going a little too far. i won't be put there. i believe you asked 'em on purpose, just so that you could crow over me afterward." "you are getting slightly mixed," said jimmie, politely. "if you mention crowing, 'tis peter you ought to have been lodged with." "what a fool you are, jimmie!" jimmie gave an ecstatic bounce. whenever he has completely exasperated anybody he simply beams with joy. "where have they put me, jimmie?" asked bee. "they have thoughtfully assigned you to thomas,--last name not mentioned,--where you can sit down and hold regular doubting conventions with each other and both have the time of your lives." "i don't believe you!" "look and see, o doubtful--doubting one, i mean!" "my word! he is telling the truth!" cried bee in astonishment. "i tried to get--" began jimmie to his wife, but she stopped him. "don't, dear," she said, gently. "you know i love your jokes, but don't be sacrilegious. leave his name out of this nonsense. i--i couldn't quite bear that." jimmie got up and kissed her. "they have lodged you with the virgin mary, sweetheart, and the two most lovely marys in the world will be in the same house together," he said. mrs. jimmie blushed and smoothed jimmie's riotous hair tenderly. "and have they separated you and me, dear? where have they lodged you?" "i have secured an apartment with mary magdalene--in her house, i mean!" said jimmie, straightening up. bee and i shrieked. jimmie edged toward the door. "jimmie!" said his wife in horror. "_please_ don't--" "don't what?" his wife rose from her chair and turned away. "don't what?" he repeated. "i was only going to say," said mrs. jimmie, "don't make a joke of every--" "well, if you don't want me to go there, i'll trade places with the scribe and put _her_ with the lady who is generally represented reclining on the ground in a blue dress improving her mind by reading. perhaps you would feel more comfortable if i lodged with judas?" "no, indeed! and put _her_ with mary magdalene?" said mrs. jimmie, whose serious turn of mind was as a well-spring in a thirsty land to jimmie. "my dear," he said, impressively, with his hand on the door-knob. "two things seem to have escaped your mind. one is that this is only play-acting, and the other is that mary magdalene, when history let go of her, was a reformed character anyway." the door slammed. we both looked expectantly at mrs. jimmie. her apologies for jimmie's most delicious impertinences are so sincere and her sense of humour so absolutely wanting that we love her almost as dearly as we love jimmie. mrs. jimmie, large, placid, fair and beautiful as a madonna, rose and looked doubtfully at us after jimmie had fled. "you mustn't mind his--what he said or implied," she said, the colour again rising in her creamy cheeks. "jimmie never realises how things will sound, or i think he wouldn't--or i don't know--" she hesitated between her desire to clear jimmie and her absolute truthfulness. she changed the conversation by coming over to me and laying her hand tenderly on my hair. "you are _sure_, dear, that you don't mind lodging with judas iscariot?" bee stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth and politely turned her back. i bit my lip. it hurts her feelings to be laughed at. "not a bit, mrs. jimmie. i shall love it." "because i was going to say that if you did, i would gladly exchange with you, and you could lodge with mary." "mrs. jimmie," i said, "you are an angel. that's what you are." "and now," said bee, cheerfully, who hates sentiment, "let's pack, for we leave at noon." i don't apologise for jimmie's ribald conversation, because many people, until they have seen the passion play, make frivolous remarks, which would be impossible after viewing it, except to the totally insensible or irreligious. jimmie is irreligious, but not insensible. he really had gone to no end of trouble to obtain these lodgings for us, and he had insisted so tenaciously that we must be lodged with the principals that we were obliged to wait for an extra performance, and live in munich meanwhile. we all four made the journey from munich to oberammergau, which lies in so picturesque a spot in the bavarian alps, from very different motives. mrs. jimmie, who is an ardent churchwoman, went in a spirit of deep devotion. bee went because one agent told her that over twelve thousand americans had been booked through their company alone. bee goes to everything that everybody else goes to. jimmie went in exactly the same spirit of boyish, alert curiosity with which, when he is in new york, he goes to each new attraction at weber and field's. as we got off the train the little town looked like an exposition, except that there were no exhibits. english, german, and french spoken constantly, and not infrequently russian, spanish, and italian assailed our ears the whole time we were there. only one thing was characteristic. the native peasants looked different. the picturesque costume of the tyrolese men, consisting of velveteen knee breeches, gay coloured stockings, embroidered white blouse, and short bolero jacket with gold braid or fringe, and the alpine hat, with a pheasant or eagle feather in it, sat jauntily upon most of the young men, whose bold glances and sinewy movements suggested their alert, out-of-door life in their mountain homes. but the oberammergau peasants walked with a slower step. their eyes were meek instead of roving, their smiles tender instead of saucy, and they say it is all the influence of the passion play, which for over three hundred years has dominated their lives. no one who commits a crime, or who lives an impure life, can act in the great drama, nor can any except natives take part. and as the ambition of every man, woman, and child in oberammergau is to form part of this glorious company, the reason for the purity of their aspect is at once to be seen. no murder, robbery, or crime of any description has been committed in oberammergau for three hundred years. the peasants of this little mountain village live their whole lives under the shadow of the cross. nor was it long before our little party came under this strange influence. my own sense of the eternal fitness of things is so highly developed that i was under the tense strain of nervous excitement which always wrecks me after reading a strong novel or witnessing a tragic play. i was afraid to see the passion play for two reasons. one that i could not bear to see the saviour of mankind personified, and the other that i was afraid that the audience would misbehave. if i am going to have my emotions wrenched, i never want any one near me. to my mind the mad king ludwig of bavaria obtained the highest enjoyment possible from having performances of magnificent merit with himself as the sole auditor. this world is so mixed anyway, and audiences at any entertainment so hopelessly beyond my control. nothing, for example, makes me feel so murderous as for an audience to go mad and stamp and kick and howl over a cornet solo with variations, no matter how ribald, and beg for more of it. and they always _do_! the passion play, up to a comparatively few years ago, had comic characters and scenes, as for instance, there was once a scene in hell where the devil, as chief comedian, ripped open the bowels of judas and took therefrom a string of sausages. this vulgar and hideous buffoonery was in the habit of being received with delight by the peasants from neighbouring hamlets, which, up to fifty years ago, formed the principal part of the passion play audiences. and as tradition, the handing down of legends from father to son, forms such a part of the mountaineer's education, i was not surprised to hear a party of tyrolese giggle at moments when the deeper meaning of the play was holding the rest of us in a spell so tense that it hurt. i remember in modjeska's rendition of frou-frou, when frou-frou's lover is breaking her heart, and the strain becomes almost unbearable, modjeska's nervous hands tear her valuable lace handkerchief into bits. it is a piece of inspired acting to make the discriminating weep, but my friend the audience always giggled irresistibly, as if the sound of rending lace, when a woman's agony was the most intense, were a bit of exquisite comedy. i am constrained to believe, however, that in almost entirely remodelling the passion play, the village priest, daisenberger, was not moved by any consideration of what an ignorant audience might do, but rather by the noble, oberammergau spirit of a life of devotion, dedicated to the rewriting, rehearsing, and directing of the performance. the history of this man illustrates what i mean by the oberammergau spirit. in he was a young peasant who saw the possibilities of the passion play. he went to the head of the monastery at ettal, and vowed to consecrate his whole life to this work, if they would make him a priest and permit him to become the spiritual director of the people of the village. but he was obliged to study seven years before they gave him the position. he was seventy years old when he died, having so nobly fulfilled his vow that he is called "the shakespeare of the passion play." for forty-five years he superintended every performance and every public rehearsal, and as these rehearsals take place in some form or other almost every night during the ten years which intervene between one performance and another, something of the depth of his devotion to his beloved task may be gathered. jimmie marvelled that he could leave his money and his valuables around, and his room door unlocked, until they told him that the street door was never locked either. at this information jimmie grew suspicious, and locked his bedroom door, much to the affliction of the gentle family of bertha wolf, who plays mary magdalene. he explained to them that there were plenty of italian, french, and english robbers, even if there were no tyrolese. "and are there no american robbers?" they asked, simply, to which jimmie replied with equal guilelessness that americans in europe had no time to rob other people, they were so busy in being robbed. "people think we are so very rich, you see," he explained, when they gazed at him uncomprehendingly. then he gave the little brown-eyed boy who clings to his mother's skirt in one of the tableaux five pfennigs to see him clap his hands twice and bob his yellow head, which is the way tyrolese children express their thanks. this living in the families of the actors was most interesting, except for the autograph fiends, who simply mobbed the christus, anton lang, and josef maier, the christus of the last three performances, who now takes the part of the speaker of the prologue. those dear people were so obliging that no one was ever refused, consequently thousands of tourists must possess autographs of most of the principals. not one of our party asked an autograph of anybody. i hope they are grateful to us. i should think they would remember us for that alone. mrs. jimmie was not at all disturbed by the somewhat wooden and inadequate acting of anna flunger, who plays mary, and loved, i believe almost worshipped, that young peasant girl, who walked bareheaded and with downcast eyes through the streets, or who waited upon the guests in her father's house with such sweet simplicity. to mrs. jimmie, anna flunger was the real virgin mary, so real, indeed, that i believe that mrs. jimmie could almost have prayed to her. even bee was intensely touched by an act of peter,--for her lodging was changed to the house of thomas and peter rendl after we arrived. the father, thomas rendl, plays st. peter, while his son is again john, the beloved disciple. he played john in , at the age of seventeen, but they say that there is not a line in his beautiful, spiritual face to show the flight of time. his large liquid eyes follow the every movement of the master's on the stage, and their expression is so hauntingly beautiful that even bee admitted its influence. bee said that one evening, as they were sitting around the table, resting for a moment after supper was finished, the village church bell began to ring for the angelus. in an instant the two men and the two women politely made their excuses and rising, stood in the middle of the room facing eastward, crossing their hands upon their breasts in silent prayer. bee said it was most beautiful to see how simply they performed this little act of devotion. i wouldn't let jimmie know of it for the world, but it has been quite a trial to me to live in the house with judas. he plays with such tremendous power--he makes it seem so real, so close, so near. once i asked him if he liked the part, and he broke down and wept. he said he hated it--that he loathed himself for playing it, and that his one ambition was to be allowed to play the christus for just one time before he died, in order to wipe out the disgrace of his part as judas and to cleanse his soul. i cried too, for i knew that his ambition could never be realised. i told him that perhaps they would allow him to act the part at a rehearsal, if he told them of his ambition, and the thought seemed to cheer him. he said he knew the part perfectly, and had often rehearsed it in private to comfort his own soul. such was his sincerity and grief, such his contrition and remorse after a performance, that it would not surprise me some day to know that the part had overpowered him, and that he had actually hanged himself. as to the play itself--i wish i need say nothing about it. my mind, my heart, my soul, have all been wrenched and twisted with such emotion as is not pleasant to feel nor expedient to speak about. it was too real, too heart-rending, too awful. i hate, i abhor myself for feeling things so acutely. i wish i were a skeptic, a scoffer, an atheist. i wish i could put my mind on the mechanism of the play. i wish i could believe that it all took place two thousand years ago. i wish i didn't know that this suffering on the stage was all actual. i wish i thought these people were really tyrolese peasants, wood-carvers and potters, and that all this agony was only a play. i hate the women who are weeping all around me. i hate the men who let the tears run down their cheeks, and whose shoulders heave with their sobs. it is so awful to see a man cry. but no, it is all true. it is taking place now. i am one of the women at the foot of the cross. the anguish, the cries, the sobs are all actual. they pierce my heart. the cross with its piteous burden is outlined against the real sky. the green hill beyond is calvary. doves flutter in and out, and butterflies dart across the shafts of sunlight. the expression of christ's face is one of anguish, forgiveness, and pity unspeakable. then his head drops forward on his breast. it grows dark. the weeping becomes lamentation, and as they approach to thrust the spear into his side, from which i have been told the blood and water really may be seen to pour forth, i turn faint and sick and close my eyes. it has gone too far. i no longer am myself, but a disorganised heap of racked nerves and hysterical weeping, and not even the descent from the cross, the rising from the dead, nor the triumphant ascension can console me nor restore my balance. the passion play but once in a lifetime! chapter vi munich to the achensee if there were a country where the crowned heads of europe in ball costume sat in a magnificent hall, drinking nothing less than champagne, while the court band discoursed bewitching music, and the electric lights flashed on myriads of jewels, bee and mrs. jimmie would declare that sort of bohemia to be quite in their line. and because that kind of refined stupidity would bore jimmie and me to the verge of extinction, and because we really prefer an open-air concert-garden with beer, where the people are likely to be any sort of cattle whom nobody would want to know, yet who are interesting to speculate about, i really believe that bee and mrs. jimmie think we are a little low. however, their impossible tastes being happily for us unattainable, three hours after our arrival in munich found jimmie proudly marching three sailor-hat and shirt-waist women into the lowenbraukeller. it was about four o'clock in the afternoon when we arrived, and we took our seats at a little table in the terraced garden. a rosy-cheeked maid, who evidently had violent objections to soap, brought us our beer, and then we looked around. there was music, not very good, only a few people smoking china pipes and not even drinking beer, a few idly reading the paper, and a general air over everybody of mr. micawber waiting for something to turn up. jimmie glanced around anxiously. the length of our stay depended upon our ability to please mrs. jimmie and bee, who were easily fatigued by the populistic element of society. "nothin' doin'," growled jimmie in my ear. "wake 'em up, can't you? create a riot. let's smash our beer-mugs, and shout 'down with the kaiser!'" "you'd find you would stay longer than you wanted to if you did that," i said. "what do you suppose they are all _waiting_ for?" jimmie called the redolent maiden, and in german which made her quiver put the question. "at five o'clock they will open a fresh hogshead of beer--the lowenbrau," she answered him. "_fresh_ beer?" cried jimmie. "how long has this been opened?" "since three." "great scott!" whispered jimmie. "think of me brought up on a bottle, coming to a land where men will sit for an hour to get beer the first five minutes it is opened." "see, they are opening it now," said the maid. sure enough, every man in the garden slowly rose and ambled leisurely to a horse-trough in the centre of the garden in which lay perhaps a score of mugs in running water. each took a stein or two or three, depending on his party, and formed in line in front of the counter across which the beer was passed. "come, jimmie," i said. "i'm going to get my own stein." "why do they do that?" asked mrs. jimmie, after we had got in line. "it saves the half-cent charged for service," answered the maid. "now isn't she funny!" complained bee of me as i returned beaming with content. "she _likes_ to go and do a queer thing like that instead of sitting still to be waited on, like a lady." "been waited on a million times like a lady," i ventured to respond. "it isn't every day one _can_ get a cool mug and see the beer drawn fresh and foaming like that. i felt like a holbein painting." bee, as at baden-baden, plaintively gave the attendant a double fee to show that meanness had not caused my apparently thrifty act. then for the first time in our lives we found what fresh beer really meant. even bee and mrs. jimmie admitted that it was worth while coming, and let me record in advance that when we got to vienna, and they served us an equally delicious beer in long thin glasses as delicate as an eggshell, bee grew so enthusiastic in the process of beer drinking that jimmie grew absurdly proud of his pupil, and professed to think that she was "coming round after all." but bee declared that it was the thinness of the glasses which attracted her, and insisted that beer out of a german stein was like trying to drink over a stone wall. we went many times after that, generally in the evening, when the concert was held in a hall which must have contained two thousand people, even when all seated at little tables, and where the band would have deafened you if the hall had not been so large. here jimmie and the waitress prevailed upon us to taste the most inhuman dishes with names a yard long, which the maid declared we would find to be "wunderschön." we began in a spirit of adventure, but jimmie's taste in food is so depraved that if he followed the precedent all through his life, lombroso would class him as a degenerate. as it was, he soon had us distanced. but we let him eat pickles and cherries and herring and cream and tripe and garlic and pig's feet all stewed up together, while we listened to the music, and planned what we would bury him in. the pictures in munich we loved. i must say that i enjoy the atmosphere of the munich school better than any other. there is a healthiness about german realism that one is not afraid nor ashamed to admire. french realism is like a suggestive story, expunged of all but the surface fun for girls' hearing. you are afraid of the laugh it raises for fear there is something beneath it all that you don't understand. but the modern munich galleries were not the task that picture galleries often are. they were a sincere delight, and let me pause to say that munich art was one thing that we four were unanimous in praising and enjoying as a happy and united family. it was here that jimmie proceeded to go mad over verboeckhoven's sheep pictures, and mrs. jimmie and bee over the crown jewels in the treasury of the alte residenz. to be sure they _are_ fine. for example, there is the famous "pearl of the palatinate," which is half black, and a glorious blue diamond about twice as fine as the one owned by lord francis hope, which his family went to law to prevent his selling not long ago, and a superb group of st. george and the dragon, the knight being in chased gold, the dragon made entirely of jasper, and the whole thing studded thickly with precious stones of every description. but, except that these things are historic and kept in royal vaults, they are no more wonderful than jewellers' exhibits at the expositions. but if you want to be thoroughly mixed up on the nibelungenlied, after you think you have got those depraved old parties with their iniquitous marriages and loose morals pretty well adjusted by a faithful attendance at walter damrosch's lectures and wagner operas, just go through the königsbau, and let one of those automatic conductors in uniform take you through the schnorr nibelungen frescoes, and from personal experience i will guarantee that, when you have completed the rounds, you won't even know who siegfried is. there is one thing particularly worth mentioning about munich, and that is that also in alte residenz, in the festsaalbau, which faces on the hofgarten, and is yards, not feet, long, are two small card rooms, with what they call a "gallery of beauties." now everybody knows how disappointing professional beauties are. think over the names of actresses heralded as "beauties;" of belles, who have been said to turn men's heads by the score; of venuses, and psyches, and madonnas of the galleries of europe, and tell me your honest opinion. aren't most of them really--well, _trying,_ to say the least? titian's beauties all need an obesity remedy, and jimmie criticises most "beauties" so severely that we have got to searching them out, when we are tired and cross, just to vent our spleen upon. jimmie's favourite story is the old, old one of the old woman who saw a hippopotamus for the first time. she looked at him a moment in silence and then said: "my! ain't he plain!" it is pre-historic, that story, but it has saved our lives many a time in europe. it fits so many cases, and i mention it here just to prove my point. go, then, to the "gallery of beauties" in the palace, and you will find thirty-six portraits by steiler, of thirty-six of the most exquisite women conceivable to the mind of man. some of these are women, like the empress of austria, who were justly famed for a beauty which is not often the gift of royalty. others are women of whom you have never heard, but so lovely that it would be impossible not to remember their loveliness for ever and a day. we all enthusiastically bought photographs of the painting of the empress elizabeth at the age of eighteen, which to my mind is one of the most exquisite faces ever put upon canvas, and then, highly elated with our presentation of munich to mrs. jimmie and bee, we gaily wended our way southward, following the river isar for a time, until we reached innsbruck, on our way to the achensee. at innsbruck we halted for a sentimental reason which i am not ashamed to divulge, as the ridicule of the public would be sweet approval compared to the way jimmie wore himself to a shadow in the violence of his jeers. but the fact is that the king arthur of tennyson has always been one of my heroes, and in the franciscan church or the hofkirche in innsbruck, there were twenty-eight heroic bronze statues, the finest of these being of arthur, könig von england, by the famous peter vischer of nuremberg. so in innsbruck we paused for a few days, finding it delightful beyond our ideas of it, and exquisitely picturesque, situated on both banks of a dear little foaming, yellow river, with foot-bridges upon which you may stand and watch it rage and churn, and around it on all sides rising the mountains of the bavarian alps, which are not so near as to crowd you. mountains smother me as a rule. jimmie obligingly took us at once to the hofkirche, to get to which we passed under the triumphal gate, erected by the citizens on the occasion of the entry of the emperor francis i. and the empress maria theresa, to commemorate the marriage of prince leopold, who afterward became the emperor leopold ii., with the infanta maria ludovica. this magnificent arch is of granite and will last thousands of years. it reminded me of the dewey arch in new york--it was so different. the emperor maximilian i. directed in his will that the hofkirche should be built, and in the centre of the nave he is represented kneeling by a sumptuous bronze statue, surrounded by the statues i had come to see. jimmie declared that the marble sarcophagus upon which the statue of maximilian is placed was "worth the price of admission," but jimmie's opinion is of no value except when he is accidentally right, as in this instance. he studied this and the monument of andreas hofer, whose remains are buried here, under a magnificent sarcophagus of tyrolese marble, leaving us to our bronze statues. i found my king arthur perfectly satisfactory, much to my surprise, for i am always prepared to be disappointed. some of the statues are ridiculous in the extreme, but these monstrosities served the better to emphasise the dignity of king arthur's pose and the nobility of his countenance. just after you leave the hofkirche, you find yourself just opposite to the "golden dachl," which the natives tell you is a roof built of pure gold, but which the skeptical declare to be copper gilded. this roof covers a handsome gothic balcony and blazes as splendidly as if it were gold, as bee and mrs. jimmie preferred to believe. it is said to have cost seventy thousand dollars, and was built by count frederick of tyrol, who was called "the count of the empty pockets," to refute his nickname. while we were taking infinite satisfaction in this little history, we lost jimmie. he emerged presently from a handsome shop near by followed by a man bearing a large box. "what have you been buying, jimmie?" we demanded, suspiciously. "only a replica of maximilian's statue," he answered, blandly. "you mean a 'copy,' my darling," i corrected him, sweetly. now jimmie loves a fight and so do i, so we immediately offered battle to each other, jimmie insisting on his replica, and i declaring that a replica meant that the same artist must have made both the original and the second article, which when made by another craftsman became a "copy." jimmie got red in the face and abusive, while i remained cool and exasperating. i was getting even with jimmie for everything since paris. but conceive, if you can, my utter humiliation when, upon arriving at the hotel, i discovered that the box contained, not maximilian, but my dear king arthur, and that jimmie had bought it for _me!_ i really cried. "jimmie," i said in a meek and lowly voice, "you are an angel--a bright, beautiful, golden angel, and from now on, i'll call this a replica,--when i'm talking to a wayfaring man. and i'll never, never fight with you again!" "then gimme back that bronze man!" declared jimmie. "if you give up the battlefield i'll start home to-morrow!" which shows you where i got encouragement to be "ungentlemanly," as jimmie calls me. innsbruck is the capital of tyrol, and the whole country of tyrol is like a picture-book. its history is so stirring, its country so beautiful, its people are so picturesque. there are any number of dainty little lakes lying in among its mountains, which are accessible to the tourist, and therefore semi-public, by which i mean not as public as the swiss or italian lakes. but up the inn river a few miles, and completely hidden from the tourist, being out of the way and little known to americans, there lies the most lovely lake of all, the achensee, and all around it the tyrolese peasants, as they ought to be allowed to remain, simple, primitive, natural. we wanted to see them dance. so regardless of whether an iron bound itinerary would take us there next, we folded away our maps, put our trust in our little yellow coupon ticket book, and started for the achensee. from the moment we began to see less of tourists and more of the natives, jimmie's and my spirits rose. chiffon and patent leather might belong to bee and mrs. jimmie, but here in the austrian tyrol, jimmie and i were getting our innings. we got off the train at jenbach and left our trunks there. then on the same platform, but behind it, and a few yards beyond the station, there is a curious little hunchbacked engine and an open car. into this car we climbed with our handbags, and beheld on the same seat with mrs. jimmie a beautiful woman in a gown unmistakably from paris, who looked so familiar that we could scarcely keep from staring her out of countenance. finally bee leaned across and whispered: "don't look, but isn't that madame carreño?" without heeding bee's polite warning, i turned and pounced upon my idol. "madame carreño!" "my _dear_ child!" "what in the world are you doing here?" "why i _live_ here! and you? how came _you_ to find your way to this inaccessible spot?" "we are going to the achensee--to the hotel rhiner, to hear fräulein therese--" "you have heard of my little friend therese, and you have come--how many thousand miles?--to hear her sing and play on her zither?" "to do all that, but mostly to see if she will tell me her love story." "how do you know she had one?" inquired madame carreño, quickly. "i heard of it in england. some one who knew the duke told me." "it was a lucky escape for her, and i think she will tell you all about it. you see it happened, ah, so many years ago." to my mind, madame carreño is the most wonderful genius of modern times at the piano. i have heard all the others scores of times, so don't argue with me. you may all worship whom you will, but the whole musical part of my heart is at madame carreño's feet, with a small corner saved for vladimir de pachmann, when he plays chopin. she claims to be an american, but she plays with a heart of a slav, and as one whose untamed spirit can never be held in leash even by her music. her playing is so intoxicating that it goes through my veins like wine. the last time i heard her play was in an enormous hall in the west, when her audience was composed of music lovers of every class and description. just back of me was a woman whose whole soul seemed to respond to carreño's hypnotic genius. carreño had just finished liszt's "rhapsodic hongroise" no. , and had followed it up with a mad tschaikowsky fragment. i was so excited i was on the verge of tears when i heard the woman behind me catch her breath with a sob and exclaim: "my lord! ain't she got _vinegar_!" i repeated this to madame carreño at jenbach, and she seized my hands and shouted with laughter. such a grip as she has! her hands are filled with steel wires instead of muscles, and her arms have the strength of an athlete in training. the car propelled by the hunchbacked engine grated and bumped its way over its cog-wheel road, pushing its delighted quota of passengers higher and higher into the mountains. the inn valley fell away from our view, and wooded slopes, fir-trees, patches of snow on far hillsides, and tiny hamlets took its place. "here and there among these little villages live my summer pupils," said madame carreño. "i have six. one from san francisco, one from australia, one from paris, one from geneva, and two from russia--all young girls, and with _such_ talent! they live all the way from jenbach to the achensee, and come to see me once a week." the train stopped with a final squeal of the chain, and a lurch which loosened our joints. before us spread a sheet of water of such a blueness, such a limpid, clear, deep sapphire blue as i never saw in water before. around it rose the hills of tyrol, guarding it like sentinels. it was the achensee! chapter vii dancing in the austrian tyrol jimmie is such a curious mixture that it is really very much worth while to study his emotions. i think perhaps that even i, who find it so hard to discover either man, woman, child, or dog whom i would designate as "typically american," am forced to admit that jimmie's mental make-up is perfect as a certain type of the american business man, travelling extensively in europe. the real bread of life to jimmie is the new york stock exchange; but being on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he brought his fine steel-wire will to bear upon his recreation with as much nervous force as he ever expended in a deal in third avenue or union pacific. hence he travels nervously yet deliberately, and views europe from the point of view of the american stock market, scoffing at my enthusiasm, ironical of bee's most cherished preferences, patient with his wife's serious love of society, and chivalrously tolerant, as only the american man can be, of the prejudices of his travelling family. i notice that he is taking on a certain amount of true culture. he is broadening. jimmie is beginning to let his emotions out; however, very gradually, with a firm, nervous hand on the throttle-valve, with the sensitive american's fear of ridicule as his steam-gauge. i watched jimmie as he first saw the achensee. the colour came into his face, his eyes brightened, and he clenched his hands--a sure sign of feeling in jimmie. there was a little white steamboat at the pier. the lake spread out before us was of the colour which you see when you look down into the depths of some fine unmounted sapphire at tiffany's. the pebbles on the beach under the water looked as if they were in a basin of blueing. i reached in to take one out, and thoroughly expected to find my hand stained when i withdrew it. around the lake arose little hills of the same beauty and verdure as our berkshires, with the exception that these hills possessed a certain purplish, bluish haze with a gray mist over them, which gave to their colouring the same softness that a woman imparts to her complexion when she wears white chiffon under a black lace veil. i cannot understand what makes the achensee so blue and the königsee so green. chemically analysed, the waters are almost identical, and the verdure surrounding them is very similar, and yet the königsee is as green as the achensee is blue. a little steamer took us around the edge of the lake, where at the first landing-place madame carreño left us. we could only see the roof of her cottage in the grove of trees. there is a new hotel somewhere along the lake; but we left that, with its modern equipments and electric lights, and went where we had been directed--to the hotel rhiner. fräulein therese met us at the landing. alas! she was no longer the beauty of her love story of thirty years before. she was ample. her short hair curled like a boy's, as without a hat she stood under a green umbrella, to welcome her guests. she had large feet, large hips, a large waist, and large lungs; but as she took our hands in the friendliest of greetings, and beamed on us from her full-moon face, we felt how delightful it was to get home once more. the hotel rhiner is severely plain,--almost unfurnished,--and its appointments are primitive in the extreme. there was no carpet upon the floor of our rooms. two little single beds stood side by side. a single candle was supposed to furnish light, and the wash-bowl was about the size of your hand. yet everything was exquisitely clean, and from the windows of our corner room stretched away the blue achensee and the mountains of the tyrol, making a view which made you forget that the sheets were damp, and that the chairs were uncushioned. physically, i am sure that i was never more uncomfortable than i was at the hotel rhiner. the bed squeaked; the mattress, i think, was filled with corn-shucks, the hard part of which had an ungentle way of assailing you when you least expected it. yet, if now were given to me the choice of going back to the Ã�lysée palace in paris, or the hotel rhiner on the achensee, it would not take me two seconds to start for the corn-shucks. a rosy-cheeked, amply proportioned maid, named rosa, dressed in the picturesque costume of the tyrolese peasants, installed us in our rooms and advised us to row upon the lake and see the sunset before supper. tourists from the other hotels were being landed at our pier from tiny boats, to have their supper at the hotel rhiner, for the cooking is famous. jimmie came and pounded on our door, executing a small war-dance in the corridor when we appeared, "we've struck our gait," he said, ecstatically, to me. "virtue is its own reward. this pays us for baden-baden and paris. what do you think? the rhiner family themselves do the cooking. there are the old mother, fräulein therese, three sons, two daughters-in-law, and five grandchildren who run this house. i have ordered the corner table on the veranda for supper--and such a table! and afterward there is going to be a dance in the kitchen. fräulein therese has promised to play for us on her zither, and there is going to be singing. now, come along and let's do the sunset stunt." bee and mrs. jimmie followed us with gentle apprehension, for they are always a little suspicious of anything that jimmie and i particularly like. under a long, sloping roof we found several dozen little row-boats, with the "shipmaster," a peasant whose costume might have come out of a gilbert and sullivan opera. he launched us, however, and the boat shot out into the lake, with jimmie and me at the oars, and then we saw a sight that none of us had ever seen before. the air was wonderfully calm and still. the only ripple on the lake was that which was left by our boat as we rowed out to where there was a break in the hills. on the east and west, there the tallest hills fall away from the achensee and make an undulating line on the horizon. as we reached this break, we stopped rowing, transfixed by the glory of the scene. the sun was just setting, a great molten mass of flame, splashing down in the crimson clouds, which showed in the aperture between the hills. little thin wraiths of mist or haze curled up from this molten mass into the rosy sky above, as if the gods on olympus were mulling claret for a marriage feast. the purple hills curved down on each side in the exact shape of an amethyst punch-bowl, and the radiance of colouring fairly blinded us. on the other hand, the full moon was rising above the eastern hills in a haze of silver, but with a calmness and serene majesty which formed a direct antithesis to the sinking sun she faced. lower and lower sank the king, going down out of sight finally in a blaze of splendour which left the western sky aflame with light. in the east higher and higher rose the queen, rising from her silver mists into the clear pale blue of the sky, and sending her white lances gliding across the blue waters of the achensee, till their tips touched our oars. we watched it, hushed, breathless, awed. i looked at jimmie. "what is it like?" murmured bee. and to my surprise, jimmie answered her from out of the spell this magic scene had caused, saying: "it is like a glimpse of the splendours of the new jerusalem." we had supper that night in the open air of the veranda, where jimmie had engaged the table. hedwig, a waitress, whispered into my ear confidentially that we would find the fish delicious, as they were some of those the priests had not needed. the tyrol, especially in the vicinity of the achensee, is absolutely priest-ridden, every one, from the peasants to the gentry, contributing, and the best in the land going into their larders and their coffers. we were indebted to the overfeeding of these fat priests for a delicacy which was then unknown to me--broiled goose liver with onions. it is a german dish, but a rarity not to be had in even all first-class hotels in germany and austria. when you have it, it is announced to the guests personally, with something the same air as if the proprietor should say: "madame, the emperor and his suite will dine at this hotel to-night, at eight." goose liver may not sound tempting to some, but as i saw it that night, cooked by the old mother of fräulein therese, a luscious white meat delicately browned and smothered in onions as we smother a steak, and so delicate that it melted in the mouth like an aspic jelly, it was one of the most delicious dishes i ever essayed. as we were eating our dessert, a _gemischtes compote_ so rich that it nearly sent us to our eternal rest, fräulein therese came and asked us to have our coffee in the kitchen. a long, low-ceiled room, three steps below the level of the ground, with seats against the wall, and a raised platform on each side, with little tables for coffee, adjoined the hotel. this room at one time perhaps had been a real kitchen, where cooking was done. now it was turned into a place of recreation. around the walls were seated a variegated, almost motley, array of men and women, from the dear old fat mother of fräulein therese and the three boys, the daughters-in-law, the granddaughters, to a picturesque old man, whose coal-black beard fell almost to his waist, our friend the "shipmaster," and the band of four musicians, all dressed in the tyrolese costume, with the exception of the women of the rhiner family. some thirty years ago the father rhiner, now dead and gone, the mother, whose voice is still a wonder, fräulein therese, and the three boys journeyed to london to sing before the queen at her jubilee. this made them famous, and was the beginning of the fräulein's love story, which was told me in london by lady j., a relative of the duke who so nearly wrecked the fräulein's life. by telling the fräulein that i knew lady j., i induced her to repeat the story to me. "it was in st. petersburg that i saw him for the second time. he was then the marquis of b., in the suite of the prince of wales, when he went to pay a visit to the tzar's court. the marquis loved me, as i thought sincerely. i was very young, and i believed him. after he went back to london, he arranged for me to sing in grand opera; they tell me that it was a lie; that i could not have sung in opera; that he only wanted to get me away from my family. they tell me that it was a wise thing, directed by god, that i should drop the letter in which he gave me directions how to meet him, that my sister-in-law should find it, and that my brother should overtake me at the train, and prevent my going. i do not know. i only know that i have always loved him. even after he became the duke of m., and married one of your countrywomen, i still loved him. now he is dead, and i love him still. see, i wear this black ribbon always in his memory. yet they tell me that he lied to me, and that it was for the best. well, we are all in god's hands." and she sighed deeply. she drew her zither toward her, and began to play as i never heard that simple little instrument played before. then one by one they began to sing. it was amazing how little of the freshness of their voices has been lost during all this time. i never heard such singing. a bass voice which would have graced the tzar's choir, came booming from the old man with the black beard, as they yodeled and sang and sang and yodeled again, until their little audience went quite wild with delight. bee and mrs. jimmie were beginning to forgive us. jimmie dashed over to fräulein therese, at bee's request, to ask who the old man was. "it's the cowherd," he announced, with his evil-minded simplicity, and seemed to obtain a huge interior enjoyment from the way bee pushed her chair back out of range, and looked disgusted. presently came rosa, the chambermaid, and hedwig, the waitress, and a dozen young men from the neighbouring hamlet, and began to dance the "schuplattle." i have seen this wonderful dance performed on the stage and in other tyrolese villages, but never have i seen it danced with the abandonment of those young peasants in that little kitchen on the achensee. they were all beautiful dancers. the young "shipmaster" seized our pretty rosa around the waist, and they began to waltz. suddenly, without a moment's warning, they fell apart, with a yell from the boy which curdled the blood in our veins. rosa continued waltzing alone, with her hands on her hips, while her partner did a series of cart-wheels around the room, bringing up just in front of her, and waltzing with her again without either of them losing a step. then he lifted her hands by the finger tips high above her head, and they writhed their bodies in and out under this arch, he occasionally stooping to snatch a kiss, and all the time their feet waltzing in perfect time to the music. suddenly, with another yell, he leaped into the air, and, with rosa waltzing demurely in front of him, began the fantastic part of the schuplattle, which consists, as jimmie says, "of making tambourines all over yourself, spanking yourself on the arms, thighs, legs, and soles of your feet, and the crown of your head, and winding up by boxing your partner's ears or kissing her, just as you feel inclined." i never saw anything like it. i never heard anything like it. it was so exhilarating it aroused even the cowherd's enthusiasm, so that he came and did a turn with fräulein therese. then more of the peasants joined in the schuplattle, and in a moment the kitchen was a mass of flying feet, waving arms, leaping, shouting men and laughing girls, the dance growing wilder and wilder, until, with a final yell that split the ears of the groundlings, the music stopped, and the dancers sank breathless into their seats. the excitement was contagious. one after another got up and danced singly, each attempting to outdo the other. the other guests, who had seen this before, by this time had finished their coffee and left. our little party remained. the fräulein therese came over to our table, saying that the "shipmaster" would like very much to dance with me. i don't blush often, but i actually felt my whole face blaze at the proposition. i protested that i couldn't, and wouldn't; that i should die of fright if he yelled in my ear, and that he would split my sleeves out if he tried "london bridge" with me. she urged, and jimmie urged, and bee and mrs. jimmie joined. so finally i did, the fräulein having warned him that i would simply consent to waltz, with nothing else. they never reverse, the music was fast and furious, and the room was as hot as a desert at midday. after i had gone around that room twice with the "shipmaster," he whirled me to my seat, and for fully five minutes the room, the musicians, and the tables continued the waltz that i had left off. it makes me dizzy to think of it even now. when i got my sight back, i looked apprehensively at bee, to see if i had gone beyond the limit which her own perfectly ladylike manner always sets for me; but to my surprise her foot was tapping the floor, and there was a gleam in her eyes which told the mischievous jimmie that the music was getting into bee's blood. jimmie wrenched my little finger under the table and whispered: "for two cents, bee would do the skirt dance!" "ask her," i whispered back. he jogged her elbow and said: "give 'um the skirt dance, bee. you could knock 'um all silly with the way you dance." bee needed no urging. it was quite evident she had made up her mind to do it before we asked. she arose with a look of determination in her eyes, which would have carried her through a murder. when bee makes up her mind to do a thing, she'll put it through, good or bad, determined and remorseless, from giving a dinner to the poor to robbing a grave, and nobody can stop her, or laugh her out of it any more than you can persuade her to do it, if she doesn't want to. nobody is responsible for bee's acts but herself. therefore, i recall that scene with a peculiar and exquisite joy which the truly good never feel. bee's travelling-skirt was tailor-made, tight at the belt, and of ample fulness around the bottom. she had on a shirt-waist, a linen collar, the charvet tie, a black hat with a few gay coloured flowers on it, and a lace petticoat from the rue de la paix. at the first strains of the skirt dance from the delighted band bee seized her skirts firmly and began the dance which is so familiar to us, but which those tyrolese peasants had never seen before. jimmie says he would rather see bee do the skirt dance than any professional he ever saw on any stage. he says that her kicks are such poems that he forgives her everything when he thinks of them, but when she danced that night, jimmie was so tickled by the excitement and polite interest she created in her primitive audience, that he stretched himself out on the bench in such shrieks of laughter that even bee grinned at him, while i simply passed away. she sat down, flushed, breathless, but triumphant. instantly she was surrounded by every young fellow in the room, imploring her to dance with him, and at once bee became the belle of the ball. and, if you will believe it, when mrs. jimmie and i went outside to get a breath of air, bee, the ladylike; bee, the conservative; haughty, intolerant bee, was dancing with the cowherd! chapter viii salzburg we had our breakfast the next morning on the same piazza where we had dined and where the early morning sun gave an entirely new aspect to the eternal blueness of the achensee. oh, you who have seen only italian lakes, think not that you know blue when you see it, until you have seen the achensee! "if you would only get back into yourself," said jimmie, addressing my absent spirit, "you might help me decide where we shall go next." "i can't leave here," i replied. "i cannot tear myself away from this spot." "it _is_ beautiful," murmured bee, dreamily, but she murmured dreamily not so much because of the beauty of the scene as because eating in the open air that early in the morning always makes her sleepy. "'tis not that," i responded. "'tis because, while some few modest triumphs have come my way, i think i never achieved one which gave me such acute physical satisfaction as i underwent last night at my sister bee's success as a _première danseuse_. shall i ever forget it? shall danger, or sickness, or poverty, or disaster ever blot from my mind that scene? jimmie, never again can she scorn us for our sawdust-ring proclivities, for do you know, _i_ shouldn't be surprised to see her end her days on the trapeze!" but if i fondly hoped to make bee waver in her thorough approval of her own acts, this cheerful exchange of badinage, where the exchange was all on my part, undeceived me, for bee simply looked at me without replying, so jimmie uncoiled himself and handed the map to bee. "jimmie has talked nothing but salt mines for a fortnight," said bee, finally, "yet by coming here we have left salzburg behind us." "let's go back then," he said. "it isn't far, and it's all through a beautiful country." for a wonder, we all agreed to this plan without the usual discussion of individual tastes which usually follows the most tentative suggestion on the part of any one of us who has the temerity to leap into the arena to be worried. the whole rhiner family, including the chambermaid, the shipmaster, and bee's friend the cowherd, were on the little pier, under some pretext or other, to see us off, and not only feeling but knowing that we left real friends behind us, we started on our way to jenbach, down the same little cog-wheel road up which we had climbed, and, as jimmie said: "literally getting back to earth again," for the descent was like being dropped from the clouds. the journey from jenbach to salzburg was indeed marvellously beautiful, but some little time before we arrived jimmie emerged from his guide-book to say, somewhat timidly: "are you tired of lakes?" "tired of lakes? how could we be when we've only seen one this week?" "and that the most exquisite spot we have found this summer!" "certainly we are not tired of the beautiful things!" from this avalanche of replies jimmie gathered an idea of our attitude. "thank you!" he said, politely. "i think i understand. would you consent to turn aside to see the königsee, another small lake which belongs more to the natives than to the tourists?" for reply, we simply rose in concert. mrs. jimmie drew on her gloves and bee pulled down her veil. "when do we get off, jimmie?" "in ten minutes," he said with a delighted grin. and in another ten minutes we were off, and salzburg was removed another twenty-four hours from us. but after the achensee, the königsee was something of an anticlimax, although the natives were perfectly satisfactory, and not an english word was spoken outside of our party. but as jimmie speaks german-american, we got what we wanted in the way of a boat, and found that the königsee is quite as green as the achensee is blue. at least it was the day we were there. the tiny tyrolese lad who went with us as guide, told us that it was sometimes as blue as the sky. but the black shadows cast upon its waters by the steep cliffs which rise sheerly from its sides, give back their darkness to the depths of the lake, and for the scene of a picturesque murder it would be perfect. there is a magnificent echo around certain parts of the königsee, and swans sailing majestically on the breast of the lake remind one of the lohengrin country. we rested that night at a dear little inn and the next morning took up our interrupted journey to salzburg. on the way jimmie talked salt mines to us until, when we arrived at salzburg, we imagined the whole town must be given up to them. but to our surprise, and no less to our delight, we found salzburg not only one of the most picturesque towns we had met with, but interesting and highly satisfactory, while the salt mines are not at salzburg at all, but half a day's drive away. salzburg satisfied the entire emotional gamut of our diversified and centrifugal party. it had mountains for jimmie, the rushing, roaring, picturesque little river salzach for me, the residenz-schloss, where the grand duke of tuscany lives part of his time, for mrs. jimmie and bee, and the glorious views from every direction for all of us. here, also, bee found her restaurants, with bands, situated more delightfully than any we had found before. hills bound the town on two sides--thickly wooded, with ravishing shades of green, to the side of which a schloss, or convent, or perhaps only a terraced restaurant, clings like a swallow's nest. all the bridle-paths, walks, and drives around salzburg lead somewhere. you may be quite certain that no matter what road you follow you will find your diligence rewarded. there is one curious restaurant where we went for our first dinner, because two rival singing societies were to furnish the programme. it is reached by an enormous elevator which takes you up some two hundred feet, where there spreads before you a series of terraces, each with tables and diners, and above all the band-stand. here were the singers singing quite abominably out of key, but with great vigour and earnestness, and always applauded to the echo, but getting quite a little overcome by their exhilaration later in the evening. then there is the fortress protecting the town, the nonnberg, the cloisters in whose church are the oldest in germany, and they won't let you in to see them at any price. this of itself is an attraction, for as a rule there is no spot so sacred, so old, or so queer in all europe that you can't buy admission to it. but when i found the cloisters of the convent church closed to the gaping public, i thanked god and took courage. we found another spot in salzburg where they allow only men to enter, but as we found plenty of those in turkey, we paid no particular attention to the franciscan monastery for barring women, except that we had some curiosity to hear the performance which is given daily on the pansymphonicon, a queer instrument invented by one of the monks. jimmie, of course, came out fairly bursting with unnecessary pride, and to this day pretends that you have lived only half your life if you haven't heard the pansymphonicon. we gave him little satisfaction by asking no questions and yawning or asking what time it was every time he tried to whet our curiosity by vague references and half descriptions of it. jimmie is a frightful liar, and would sacrifice his hope of heaven to torture us successfully for half a day. i don't believe one word of all he has said or hinted or drawn or sung about that thing, and yet, i would give everything i possess, and all bee's good clothes, and all mrs. jimmie's jewels, if i could hear and see the pansymphonicon _just once_! one of the most romantic things we did was to take the little railway leading to the top of the gaisberg, where we spent the night at the little hotel gaisbergspilze, and saw salzburg lying beneath us, twinkling with lights, and making a sight to be remembered for ever. tucked in among the salzburg alps you can see seven little lakes, and the colouring, the dark shadows, and fleecy belts of clouds make it a ravishing view, and full of a tender, poetic melancholy. mr. and mrs. jimmie sat very close together, and renewed the days of their courting, but poor bee and i held each other's hands and felt lonely. the romance of the situation drove me to poetry, and reduced bee to the submission of listening to it--for a short time. trust me! i know how far to trespass on my sister's patience! but when i said, mournfully: "never the time and place and the loved one all together," bee nodded a plaintive acquiescence. in the morning, we _almost_ saw the sun rise, but not quite. aigen, the chateau of prince schwarzenberg, was more cheerful; so was mozart's statue and his _geburthaus_. _i_ didn't know that mozart was born in salzburg, but he was. there is something actually furtive about the way certain facts have a habit of existing and i not learning of them until everybody else has forgotten them. we decided to make the excursion to the salt mine on monday, and on the sunday jimmie arranged for us to visit the imperial chateau of helbrun, built in the seventeenth century, and promising us several new features of amusement and interest not generally to be met with. our hotel being a very smart one, filled with americans, we naturally had on rather good frocks, for it was sunday, and we were to drive instead of taking the train. we had all been to the church in the morning, and felt at liberty to escape from the gossip of the piazzas, and to amuse ourselves in this decorous way. now, jimmie is thoroughly ashamed of himself, and would give anything if i would not tell this, but i have recently suffered an attack of pansymphonicon, and this is my revenge. i noticed something suspicious in jimmie's childlike innocence and elaborate amiability during our drive. if jimmie is business-like and somewhat indifferent, he is behaving himself. if he is officiously attentive to our comfort, and his countenance is frank and open, look out for him. i hate practical jokes, and on that sunday i almost hated jimmie. we drove first into a great yard surrounded by high trees. the horses were immediately taken from our carriage, as if our stay was to be a long one. then we made our way through the gates into what appeared to be a lovely garden or park with gravelled walks, flowering shrubs, and large shade trees. there were any number of pleasure seekers there besides ourselves. father, mother, and six or seven children in one party, with the air of cheerfulness and light-heartedness--an air of those who have no burdens to carry, and no bills to pay, which characterises the continental middle class on its sunday outing. it was impossible to escape them, for their cheerful interest in our clothes, their friendly smiling countenances robbed their attendance of all impertinence. thus, somewhat of their company, although not strictly belonging to it, we went to the steinerne theatre, hewn in the rock, where pastorals and operas were at one time performed under the direction of the prince-bishops. then, in front of the mechanical theatre, there is a flight of great stone steps and balustrades of granite upon which, in company with our german friends, we hung and climbed and stood, while the most ingenious little play was performed by tiny puppets that i ever had the good fortune to behold. over and over again the midgets went through every performance of mechanicism with such precision and accuracy that it took me back to the first mechanical toy i ever possessed. this little mechanical theatre is really a wonder. i have never been sure how seriously to blame jimmie for what followed. at any rate, he knew something of the trick, and i have a distant recollection of the gleam in his eyes when he led his unsuspecting party along the gravel walk to the side of a certain granite building, whose function i have forgotten. i remember standing there and looking up the stone steps at our german friends, when suddenly out from behind the stones of this building, from the cornice, from above and from beneath, shot jets of water, drenching me and all others who were back of me, and sending us forward in a mad rush to gain the top of those stone steps, and so to safety. a stout german frau, weighing something between three and four hundred pounds, trod on the train of my gown, and the gathers gave way at the belt with that horrid ripping noise which every woman has heard at some time of her life. it generally means a man. it makes no difference, however; man or woman, the result is the same. as i could not shake her off, and we were both bound for the same place, she continued walking up my back, and in this manner we gained the top of the steps and the gravelled walk, only to find that thin streams of water from subterranean fountains were shooting up through the gravel, making it useless to try to escape. it was all over in a minute, but in the meantime we were drenched within and without and in such a fury that i for one am not recovered from it. it seems that this is one of the practical jokes of which the german mind is capable. practical jokes seem to me worse than, and on the order of, calamities. unfortunately mrs. jimmie was the wettest of any of us. she had on better clothes than bee or i, and she refused to run, and she got soaking wet. i really pity jimmie as i look back on it. the visit to the salt mine we had planned for the next day. it was necessarily put off. two of us were not on speaking terms with jimmie,--bee and i,--while mrs. jimmie, from driving back to the hotel in her wet clothes, had a slight attack of her strange trouble, croup. poor dear mrs. jimmie! however, jimmie's repentance was so deep and sincere, he was so thoroughly scared by the extent of the calamity, so deeply sorry for our ruined clothes, apart from his anxiety over his wife, that we finally forgave him and took him into our favour again, to escape his remorseful attentions to us. so one day late, but on a better day, we took a fine large carriage, having previously tested the springs, and started for the salt mines. a description of that drive is almost impossible. to be sure, it was hot, dusty, and long. before we got to the first wayside inn we were ravenous, and jimmie's thirst could be indicated only by capital letters. but winding in and out among farmhouses with flower gardens of hollyhocks, poppies, and roses; passing now a wayside shrine with the crucifixion exploited in heroic size; houses and barns and stables all under one roof; and now curiously painted doors peculiar to bavarian houses; the country inns with their wooden benches and deal tables spread under the shade of the trees; parties of pedestrians, members of alpine clubs, taking their vacations by tramping through this wonderful district; the sloping hills over and around which the road winds; the blues and greens and shadows of the more distant mountains, all combine to make this road from salzburg to the salt mines one of the most interesting to be found in all germany. never did small cheese sandwiches and little german sausages taste so delicious as at our first stop on our way to the salt mines. jimmie said never was anything to drink so long in coming. near us sat eight members of a _mannerchor_, whose first act was to unsling a long curved horn capable of holding a gallon. this was filled with beer, and formed a loving-cup. afterward, at the request of the landlord, and evidently to their great gratification, these men regaled us with songs, all sung with exceeding great earnestness, little regard to tune, and great carelessness as to pitch; but, if one may judge from their smiling and streaming countenances, the music had proved perfectly satisfactory to the singers themselves. another drive, and soon we were at the mouth of the salt mine. we had learned previously that the better way would be to go as a private party and pay a small fee, as otherwise we would find ourselves in as great a crowd as on a free day at a museum. if i remember rightly, four o'clock marks the free hour. it had commenced to rain a little,--a fine, thin mountain shower,--but the carriage was closed up, the horses led away to be rested, and we three women pushed our way through the crowd of summer tourists waiting for the free hour to strike in the courtyard, and found ourselves in a room in which women were being arrayed in the salt mine costume. this costume is so absurd that it requires a specific description. two or three motherly-looking german attendants gave us instructions. our costumes consisted of white duck trousers, clean, but still damp from recent washing, a thick leather apron, a short duck blouse, something like those worn by bakers, and a cap. the trousers, being all the same size and same length, came to bee's ankles, were knickerbockers for me and tights for mrs. jimmie. european travel hardens one to many of the hitherto essential delicacies of refinement, which, however, the american instantly resumes upon landing upon the new york pier; it being, i think, simply the instinct of "when in rome do as the romans do," which compels us to pretend that we do not object to things which, nevertheless, are never-ending shocks. i have seldom undergone anything more difficult than the walk in broad daylight, across that courtyard to the mouth of the salt mine. we were borne up by the fact that perhaps one hundred other women were similarly attired, and that both men and women looked upon it as a huge joke and nothing more. one rather incomprehensible thing struck us as we left the attiring-room. this was the use of the leather apron. the attendant switched it around in the back and tied it firmly in place, and when we demanded to know the reason, she said, in german, "it is for the swift descent." jimmie was similarly arrayed when he met us at the door, but he seemed to know no more about it than we did. at the mouth of the salt mine we were met by our conductor, who took us along a dark passage, where all the lights furnished were those from the covered candles fastened to our belts, something on the order of the miner's lamp. further and further into the blackness we went, our shoes grinding into the coarse salt mixed with dirt, and the dampness smelling like the spray from the sea. presently we came to the mouth of something that evidently led down somewhere. blindly following our guide who sat astride of a pole, jimmie planted himself beside him, astride of the guide's back; mrs. jimmie, after having absolutely refused, was finally persuaded to place herself behind jimmie, then came bee, and last of all myself. our german is not fluent, nevertheless we asked many questions of the guide, whose only instructions were to hold on tight. he then asked us if we were ready. "ready for what?" we said. "for the swift descent," he answered. "the descent into what?" said jimmie. but at that, and as if disdaining our ignorance, we suddenly began to shoot downward with fearful rapidity on nothing at all. all at once the high polish on the leather aprons was explained to me. we were not on any toboggan; we formed one ourselves. when we arrived they said we had descended three hundred feet. but we women had done nothing but emit piercing shrieks the entire way, and it might have been three hundred feet or three hundred miles, for all we knew. after our fierce refusal to start and our horrible screams during the descent, jimmie's disgust was something unspeakable when we instantly said we wished we could do it again. our guide, however, being matter of fact, and utterly without imagination, was as indifferent to our appreciation as he had been to our screams. he unmoored a boat, and we were rowed across a subterranean lake which was nothing more or less than liquid salt. we were in an enormous cavern, lighted only by candles here and there on the banks of the lake. the walls glittered fitfully with the crystals of salt, and there was not a sound except the dipping of the oars into the dark water. arriving at the other side, we continued to go down corridor after corridor, sometimes descending, sometimes mounting flights of steps, always seeing nothing but salt--salt--salt. in one place, artificially lighted, there are exhibited all the curious formations of salt, with their beautiful crystals and varied colours. it takes about an hour to explore the mine, and then comes what to us was the pleasantest part of all. there is a tiny narrow gauge road, possibly not over eighteen inches broad, upon which are eight-seated, little open cars. it seems that, in spite of sometimes descending, we had, after all, been ascending most of the time, for these cars descend of their own momentum from the highest point of the salt mine to its mouth. the roar of that little car, the occasional parties of pedestrians we passed, crowded into cavities in the salty walls (for the free hour had struck), who shouted to us a friendly good luck, the salt wind whistling past our ears and blowing out our lanterns, made of that final ride one of the most exhilarating that we ever took. but, of course, from now on in describing rides we must always except "the swift descent." chapter ix ischl we were wondering where we should go next with the delicious idle wonder of those who drop off the train at a moment's notice if a fellow passenger vouchsafes an alluring description of a certain village, or if the approach from the car window attracts. only those who have bound themselves down on a european tour to an itinerary can understand the freedom and delight of idle wanderings such as ours. we never feel compelled to go on even one mile from where we thought for a moment we should like to stop. it was jimmie who made this plan possible, without the friction and unnecessary expense which we should have incurred had we followed this plan, and bought tickets from one city to another, but in fussing around information bureaux and railway stations, jimmie unearthed the information that one can buy circular tickets of a certain route, embodying from one to three months in time, and including all the spice for a picturesque trip of germany and austria, where one would naturally like to travel. by purchasing these little books with the tickets in the form of coupons at the railway station we saved the additional fee which the tourist agent usually exacts, and this frugal act so filled us with joy that our trip proved unusually expensive, for at every stop we indulged in a small extravagance which we felt that we could well afford on account of this accidental saving at the start. we have been so amply repaid at every pause on our journey that it has become a matter of pride with jimmie and me to have no falling off from the standard we had set. therefore jimmie came and sat down by me one morning and said: "ever hear of ischl?" "no," i said, "what is it? but i warn you beforehand that i sha'n't touch it if it's a mixture of sarsaparilla and ginger ale, or lime juice and red ink, or anything like that thing you--" "it isn't a drink," said jimmie, in disgust. "it's a town! if people who read your stuff realised how little you know--" "i am perfectly satisfied," i said, looking at him firmly, "that it isn't twenty minutes since you found what ischl is yourself. you never learned a thing in your life that you didn't bring it to me as though you had known it for ever, whereas your information is always so fresh that it's still bubbling, and if kissingen is a town as well as a drink, why shouldn't ischl be a drink as well as a town?" my triumphant manner was a little annoying that early in the morning, but as jimmie really had something to say, my gauntlet lay where i cast it, unnoticed by the adversary. "now ischl," said jimmie, "is where the austrian emperor has his summer residence. it is tucked up in the hills with drives which you would call 'heavenly.' people from all over austria gather there during the season. there will be royalty for my wife; german officers for bee; heaps of people for you to stare at, and as for me, i don't need any attraction. i can be perfectly happy where there is no strife and where i can enjoy the delight of a small but interesting family party." i smiled at this statement, for when jimmie is not carefully stirring me up for argument or battle, i always feel his pulse to see if he is ill. "it will probably please bee and mrs. jimmie," i said, doubtfully, "and they have been _so_ good to us at the achensee and salzburg, perhaps--" "that's just what i was thinking," said jimmie. "you're a good old sort. you're as square as a man." at this, i positively gurgled with delight, for it is not once in a million--no, not once in ten million years that jimmie says anything decent about me to my face. i sometimes hear rumours of approving remarks that he makes behind my back, but i never have been able to run any of them to earth. "if ischl is a royal country-seat," said jimmie, "i'll bet you a '_blaue cravatte_' for yourself against a '_blaue cravatte_' for myself--both to come from charvet's--that bee will know all about it." "you can't bet with me on that because i know i'd lose. i'll bet that they both know all about it. let's ask them." "ever hear of ischl, bee?" said jimmie, as bee appeared as smartly got up as if she were in new bond street. "did i ever hear of ischl?" repeated bee, in surprise. "why, certainly. ischl is where emperor franz josef has his summer home. he is there now with his entire suite, and next wednesday is his birthday." "say 'geburt-day,' bee," i pleaded. nobody paid any attention. jimmie looked meekly at bee. "have you decided on a hotel there?" he asked, ironically. but bee flinched not. "there are two good ones--the 'kaiserin elisabeth' and the 'goldenes kreuz.' it will probably be very crowded, for they always celebrate the emperor's birthday." jimmie and i looked at each other helplessly. she knew all about ischl, and had intended to steer the whole four of us there, while jimmie and i had just heard of it, and were planning to give her a nice little surprise! jimmie said nothing, but took his hat and went out to telegraph for rooms. "i'm glad i didn't bet with you, jimmie," i whispered as he passed me. it is the merest suspicion of a journey from salzburg to ischl, but it consumes several hours, because every inch of the country on both sides of the car is worth looking at. the little train creeps along now at the foot of a mountain, now at the edge of a lake, and it is such a vision of loveliness that even those unfeeling persons who "don't care for scenery" would be roused from their lethargy by the gentle seductiveness of its beauty. ischl appears when you are least looking for it, tucked in the hollow of a mountain's arm as lovingly as ever a baby was cradled. our rooms at the goldenes kreuz had a wide balcony where our breakfasts were served, and commanded not only a view of the mountains and valleys, and a rushing stream, but afforded us our only meal where we could get plenty of air. our first experience in the general dining-room was a revelation of many things. the room was air-tight. not a window or door was permitted to be opened the smallest crack. the men smoked all through dinner, and quite a number of women smoked from one to a dozen cigarettes held in all manner of curious cigarette-holders, some of which were only a handle with a ring for the cigarette, something like our opera-glass handles, while others were the more familiar mouthpieces. but all were jewelled and handsome, and the women who used them were all elderly. two women smoked strong black cigars, but as the smokers were very smart and went in court society, bee's eyes only grew round and big, and she ventured no word of criticism. but all this smoke and lack of ventilation made the air very thick and hot and unbreathable for us, so that we complained to the proprietor, who sympathised with us so deeply that he nearly wept, but he assured us that austrians were even worse than the french in their fear of a draught, and he declared that while he would very willingly open all the windows, and as far as he was concerned, he himself revelled in fresh air,--nevertheless, if he should follow our advice, his hotel would be emptied the next day of all but our one american party. in vain we reminded him that it was august. not a window nor a door was opened in that dining-room while we were there. but we got along very well, for we are not too strenuous in our demands,--especially when we realise that we cannot get them acceded to,--so in lieu of air we breathed smoke, and in watching the people we soon forgot all about it. air is not essential after all when royalty is present. if not royalty, at least the next thing to it. the gorgeous and glorious officers of his majesty's suite, handsome, distinguished, young, and ever near the throne! bee's eyes were glued to their table. we were afraid the poor dear would never pull through. she scarcely ate any dinner. "bee," i whispered, pulling her dress under the table, "you really must not pay them such marked attention. remember your husband and baby--far away, to be sure, but still _there_!" "what difference does it make, i should like to know," was bee's callous reply. "they can't speak english." now of all the irrelevant retorts! bee had so evidently capitulated to the whole lot that i stole a few furtive glances myself, and while i was rewarded by some brief interest from their table, and i felt sure that they were talking about us, it seemed to me that the interest of _the one_, the tallest, handsomest, and the one most suited for a pedestal in central park, was overlooking both bee's and my undeniable attractions, and was concentrating all his fiery, hawk-like glances upon mrs. jimmie, whose total unconsciousness of her great beauty is one of her supreme charms. she wore a black lace gown that night with sleeves which came not quite to her elbow; no bracelets to mar those perfect arms, but her hands fairly loaded with rings. she never looks at any other man except jimmie, and jimmie thinks that the earth exists simply for her. poor jimmie never can express his emotion in proper words, but i have seen his eyes fill with tears of love and pride as he whispered to me, "isn't she ripping to-night?" she certainly was "ripping" that first night at ischl--far more ripping than any titled dame there, upon whose mature ugliness all her calm attention was bestowed, while i was on the verge of collapse when i saw that bee's love was like to go unrequited, while mrs. jimmie's rings and beauty--i name her attractions in their proper order as far as i was able to gather from the enamoured officer's glances--snatched the prize. the situation as it bade fair to develop was far, far too sacred to permit of ribald speech, so with the greatest difficulty i held my tongue. for my only natural confidant, jimmie, was plainly disqualified in this case. the next morning jimmie wanted us to drive, but i, hoping to give matters an onward fillip, spoke so warmly in favour of a morning stroll in the promenade "to see people" that he gave in, and bee's attentions to me while garbing ourselves were so marked that i almost hoped i had been wrong the night before. but alas for our ignorance of officers' duties! not one of those in his majesty's suite was visible, although all the old ladies were out in force, and some very pretty austrian girls appeared, smartly gowned, and most of them carrying slender little gold or silver mounted sticks. those sticks caught bee's eye at once, and she bought one before the hour was over, much to jimmie's disgust. but his expostulations produced no effect. it seemed queer to me--her sister--that he should waste his breath. but jimmie was obliged to relieve his mind by saying that it looked too pronounced. "it's all right for an austrian," said jimmie, wagging his head. "but everybody knows you are an american, and it doesn't look right." "doesn't it go with my costume, jimmie?" demanded bee. "look me over! doesn't it match?" alas for jimmie! it _did_ match. bee's carrying it simply looked saucy, not loud. i couldn't have carried it--i should have tripped over it, and fallen down. mrs. jimmie would have dropped or broken it. bee and that stick simply fitted each other--there in ischl! nowhere else. at luncheon, just as we were going out, the four officers came in. we passed them in the doorway. bee looked desperate. they lined up to allow us to pass, and for a moment i thought bee was going to snatch one, and make her escape. but she compromised, on seeing them seat themselves at the table we had just left, by sending jimmie back to look for her handkerchief. "if that doesn't fetch an acquaintance," bee's look seemed to say, "with jimmie burrowing around on the floor among their boots and spurs, i shall have but a poor opinion of austrian ingenuity." jimmie was gone half an hour. when he came back, his face was too innocent. he seated himself quietly, and after saying, "it wasn't there, bee," he went on smoking placidly. now, any one who knows anything about anything, cannot fail to admit that my sister ought either to be at the head of tammany hall or the army. she gave one look at jimmie's suspiciously bland countenance, then gathered up her gloves, her veil and stick, and went slowly up-stairs, apparently in a brown study. jimmie is clever, but he is no match for a clever woman. no man _is_, for that matter. the moment she was out of sight, he began to chuckle. "great scott," he whispered, bringing our three heads together by a gesture. "if bee knew that all those officers we just passed went right in, and sat down at the very table we left, so that when she sent me for her handkerchief i had to run bang into them, i wonder if she would have gone up-stairs so calmly!" "why didn't you tell her?" i cried. "i was going to--after i had got her curiosity up a little. they were very polite, and nothing would do but i must sit down, and have a glass of beer with them. i didn't want that, so i took a cigar, and they all nearly fell over themselves to offer me one--from the most beautiful cigar cases you ever saw. that tall chap with the eyes had one of gold, with the tzar's face done in enamel, surmounted by the imperial crown in diamonds, and an inscription on the inside showing that the tzar gave it to him. i took one out of that case for bee's sake. i'll save her the stub!" "did they ask any questions about us?" i said, guilelessly. "yes, heaps. and when i told them how devoted my wife was to the empress elizabeth they offered to make up a party to show us two of the shrines she built near here, and invited us to dine afterward. so i made it for this afternoon at three. don't tell bee. let's surprise her. her eyes will pop clear out of her head when she sees them." within ten minutes i had told bee everything i knew, and had even enlarged upon it a little, and bee, in a holy delight, was preparing to robe herself in costly array. she solemnly promised me to be surprised when she saw them. only two of them could leave--the one, whose name shall be count andreae von engel, and the other, baron oscar von furzmann. they had a four-seated carriage for us, while they accompanied us on horseback. that drive was one of the most romantic episodes which ever came into my prosaic life. to be sure i was not in the romance at all,--neither one of those bottle-green knights had an eye for _me_--but i was there, and i saw and heard and enjoyed it more than anybody. bee, with the craft of a fox, offered to sit riding backward with jimmie, knowing that she must thus perforce be face to face with the horsemen. but in this she was outwitted by a mere man, but a man skilled in intrigue and court diplomacy. although the road was narrow and dangerous, twisting over mountains and beside rushing streams, the one, in order to feast his eyes on mrs. jimmie, permitted his horse to curvet and caracole as if he were in tourney. jimmie, while the count was doing it, managed to whisper to me: "tom sawyer showing off," but _i_ knew that it was for a second purpose which counted for even more than the first. i must admit that this austrian diplomat was very skilful, and managed it in a way to throw the unsuspicious wholly off his guard, for, in order not to make his manoeuvres too marked, he often rode ahead of the carriage, when, by turning in his saddle, he could look back and fling his ardent glances in our direction. they not only overshot me, but glanced as harmlessly off mrs. jimmie's arrow-proof armour of complete unconsciousness as if they had hurtled aimlessly over her handsome head. i was in ecstasies, for bee's wholesome admiration of her stunning officer and his undeniably unusual horsemanship prevented her from being rendered in any way uncomfortable by his action, for truth to tell, bee _was_ a target for the roving glances of baron von furzmann, but he was so hopelessly the wrong man that she not only was unaware of it then but vehemently disclaimed it when i enlightened her later. alas and alack! the wrong man is always the wrong man, and never can take the place of the right man, no matter what his country or speech. it was supremely interesting to talk with men who had known the beautiful empress well; to whom her living beauty was as familiar as her pictured loveliness was to us. we plied them with countless questions as to her wonderful horsemanship, her daily appearance, her dress, her conversation, and her learning. their enthusiastic praise of her was genuine and spontaneous. i was dying to ask minute questions about the crown prince's affair, but just enough sense was left in my make-up to know that i must not. they might whisper their gossip to each other who knew all of the truth anyway, but to strangers their loyalty would compel them to suppress not only what they themselves knew but what we knew to be the truth. both of these officers had known prince rudie well; had hunted with him; travelled with him; served with him; had often been at his hunting-lodge mayerling, where he died, but, when they came to refer to this part of their narrative, they were so visibly embarrassed that we changed the subject to the princess stephanie. here, although they were studiously careful to put nothing into actual words, their manner plainly indicated their contempt and dislike of the heavy belgian princess, who was so poor a helpmeet for the graceful and picturesque figure of the crown prince of austria. "did you know the lady in her majesty's suite who wrote 'the martyrdom of an empress?'" i demanded, boldly. von engel's face flushed darkly. "i do not know. i am not certain," he stammered. "never mind. don't commit yourself. she was exiled, wasn't she, for arranging meetings between prince rudolph and his _belle amie?_ she was a dear thing, whoever she was, for she gave him what was probably the only real happiness he ever knew. and when people love each other well enough to die together, it means more than most men and women can boast." jimmie trod on my foot just here, so i stopped, but, to his and my surprise, mrs. jimmie not only agreed with me, but added: "what a misfortune it is that princes and kings and queens must marry for state reasons, so that love can play no part." i don't know whether von engel had not then put two and two together, so that he knew that mrs. jimmie had her own husband in mind when she made that speech about love or not. i think not, for i happened to be looking at him, and for a moment i thought he was going to spring from his horse right into her lap. to me the two loveliest women rulers of the world, the ones whose histories i most grieve over, and with whose temperaments i am most in sympathy, are the empress eugenie of the french and the empress elizabeth of austria. the empress elizabeth was of such a high-strung, nervous, proud temperament that had there not been madness in her unfortunate family, all her apparently unbalanced acts could be accounted for by her imperious and imperial nature, and the stigma of a mind even partially unbalanced need never have been hers. many a wife in the common walks of life has been driven to more insane acts in the eyes of an unfeeling and critical world than ever the unhappy empress elizabeth committed, and for the same causes. an inhumanly tyrannical mother-in-law, the most vicious of her vicious kind, whose chief delight was to torture the high-strung nature she was too small to comprehend; a husband, encouraged in his not-to-be-borne gallantries by his own mother, this same monstrous mother-in-law of the empress; her children's love aborted by this same fiend in woman form--is it any marvel that the proud empress broke away from her splendid torture and found a sad comfort in travel and study? the wonder of it is that she chose so mild a remedy. she might have murdered her husband's mother, and those who knew would have declared her justified. if she had done so she could scarcely have suffered in her mind more than she did. when i expressed some of these opinions i discovered that both officers looked at me with undisguised sympathy. they themselves dared not put into words such incendiary thoughts, but they welcomed their expression from another. this was not the first time i had worded the inner thoughts of a company who dared not speak out themselves, but, as catspaws are invariably burned, i cannot lay to my soul the flattering unction that i have escaped their common lot. bee says i am generally burned to a cinder. we had just visited the last of the shrines, which were interesting only because erected by the empress, when we were overtaken by a terrific mountain storm which broke over our heads without warning. the rain came down in torrents, but not even the officers got wet, for they instantly produced from some mysterious region rubber capes which completely enveloped their beautiful uniforms. i was not sure, but, in the general confusion of closing the carriage top, i thought i saw count andreae whisper to mrs. jimmie. i am positive i heard von furzmann whisper to bee. so, not to be outdone, i leaned over and whispered to jimmie. i do so hate to be left out of a thing. we had a gay little supper at the kaiserin elisabeth, but i could not see that count andreae "got any forrarder," as jimmie would say, for he literally could not concentrate his attention on mrs. jimmie on account of bee's attentions to him. poor von furzmann had to content himself with jimmie and me. the next day being the emperor's birthday, the whole town was gloriously illuminated, and the splendid old franz josef--splendid in spite of his past irregularities--appeared before his adoring people, with bee the most adoring of all his subjects. there were any number of little parties made up after that, for, of course, we returned the civility of the officers. but after awhile ischl, in spite of the bracing air, and bewitching drives, and occasional glimpses of royalty, and daily meetings with our beloved officers, jimmie and i began to think longingly of green fields and pastures new. it was a little hard on bee, and even on mrs. jimmie, to drag them away from the morning promenade, where they always saw the rank and fashion of austria. i wondered what bee's feelings would be at parting with her loved ones, for most of our conversations lately had tended toward turning our journeyings aside from vienna to go north to the september manoeuvres, in which our friends were to take part. we in turn combated this by begging them to meet us in italy in three months. you should have seen their anguished faces when jimmie and i mentioned three months! a week's separation was more than they could think of without tying crape on their arms. to our amazement they assured us that a leave was out of the question. von engel declared that he had not had a leave of absence for ten years and he doubted if he could obtain one on any excuse short of a death in the family. at last, however, one fine day, with farewell notes and loaded with flowers, and with the prettiest of parting speeches, we tore ourselves away and were off for vienna. as bee leaned back in the railway carriage with one glove missing, i looked to see her very low in her mind, but to my surprise she was smiling slowly. "you don't seem to mind leaving them very much," i observed, curiously. "i haven't left them for long," she replied, drawing her face into complacent lines. "they are both coming to vienna on leave." "on _leave_?" i cried. chapter x vienna if americans continue to flock to europe in such numbers, the whole country will in time be as americanised as the hotels are becoming. vienna, with her beautiful hotel bristol, is such an advance in modern comfort from the best of her accommodations for travellers of a few years ago that she affords an excellent example, although for every steam-heater, modern lift, and american comfort you gain, you lose a quaintness and picturesqueness, the like of which makes europe so worth while. the whole of civilised europe is now engaged in a flurried debate as to the propriety of remodelling its travelled portions for the benefit of ease-loving american millionaires. it was not the season when we arrived in vienna, but we had letters to the old countess von schimpfurmann, who had been lady-in-waiting to the empress elizabeth when she first came to the court of austria, a mere slip of a girl, with that marvellous hair of hers whose length was the wonder of europe, dressed high for the first time, but oftenest flowing silkily to the hem of her skirt. the countess was something of an invalid, and happened to be in town when we arrived. her husband, the old count, had been a very distinguished man in his day, standing high in the emperor's favour, and died full of years and honour, and more appreciated, so rumour had it, by his wife in his death than in his life. we also had letters from a lady whose friendship mrs. jimmie made at ischl, to her daughter-in-law, baroness von schumann, the baron being attached to an austrian commission then in italy; to several officers who were friends of our officers in ischl, and, last but not least, to a little hungarian, to whom i had a letter from america, who was so kind, so attentive, so fatherly to us, that he went by the name of "little papa"--a soubriquet which seemed to give him no end of pleasure. thus well equipped, we prepared to fall in love with vienna, and we found it an easy task, for in spite of it being out of season, we were vastly entertained, and in all likelihood obtained a more intimate knowledge of the inner life of our vienna friends than we could have done if we had arrived in the season of formal and more elaborate entertainment. the opera was there, and, with all due respect to mr. grau, i must admit that we saw the most perfect production of "faust" in vienna than i ever saw on any stage. the carnival was going on, where no viennese lady, so the baroness declared, would _think_ of being seen, because confetti-throwing was only resorted to by the _canaille_ (and officers and husbands of high-born ladies, who went there with their little friends of the ballet and chorus), but where we _did_ go, contrary to all precedent, persuading the baroness to make up a smart party and "go slumming." her husband being in italy, she had no fear of meeting _him_ there, and she took good care to send an invitation to any one who might have been inclined to be critical, to be of the party, which, after one mighty protest as to the propriety of it, they one and all accepted with suspicious alacrity. it was not so very amusing. it consisted of merely walking along a broad avenue lined with booths, and flinging confetti into people's faces. more rude than lively or even amusing, it seemed to me, and my curiosity was so easily satisfied that i was ready to go after a quarter of an hour. but do you think we could persuade the other ladies to give it up? indeed, no! like mischievous children, with americans for an excuse, they remained until the last ones, laughing immoderately when they encountered men they knew. but as these men always claimed that they had heard we were coming, and immediately attached themselves to our party as a sort of sheet armour of protection against possible tales out of school, our supper party afterward was quite large. a carnival like that in america would end in a fight, if not in murder, for the american loses sight of the fact that it is simply rude play, and when he sees a handful of coloured paper flung in his wife's face, it might as well be water or pebbles for the stirring effect it has on his fighting blood. the baroness had such a beautiful evening that she quite sighed when it was over. "don't you ever have this in america?" she asked bee. "no, indeed," said bee. "and if we did, we wouldn't go to it. we reserve such frolics for europe." "exactly as it is with us," declared the baroness; "carl and i always go in paris and nice, but here--well, we had to have you for an excuse. i must thank you for giving us such an amusing evening!" she added, gaily. "after all, it is so much more diverting to catch one's friends in mischief than strangers whom no one cares about!" i suppose, in showing vienna to us, we showed more of vienna to the baroness and her friends than they ever had seen before. we went into all the booths and shows; we were in st. stephen's church at sunset to see the light filter through those marvels of stained-glass windows. instead of stately drives in the prater, we took little excursions into the country and dined at blissful open-air restaurants, with views of the danube and distant vienna, which they never had seen before. they became quite enthusiastic over seeking out new diversions for us, and, through their court influence, i feel sure that few americans could have got a more intimate knowledge of vienna than we. an amusing coincidence happened while we were there, concerning the gown mrs. jimmie was to be painted in. the baroness's brother, count georg brunow, was an authority on dress, and, as he designed all the gowns for his cousin, who was also in the emperor's suite, he begged permission to design mrs. jimmie's. his english was a little queer, so this is what he said after an anxious scrutiny of mrs. jimmie's beauty: "you must have a gown of white--soft white chiffon or mull over a white satin slip. it must be very full and fluffy around the foot, and be looped up on the skirt and around the decollete corsage with festoons of small pink considerations." "considerations?" said mrs. jimmie. "carnations, you mean," said bee. "yes, thank you. my english is so rusty. i mean pink carnations." mrs. jimmie thanked him, and we all discussed it approvingly. still, she told me privately that she would not decide until she got back to paris to her own man, who knew her taste and style. "you know, for a portrait," said count georg, "you do not want anything pronounced. it must be quite simple, so that in fifty years it will still be beautiful." when we got back to paris, we presented ourselves before mrs. jimmie's dressmaker, who has dressed her ever since she was sixteen. she told him to design a gown for a full-length portrait. he looked at her carefully and said, slowly: "i would suggest a gown of soft white over a white satin slip. it should be cut low in the corsage, and have no sleeves. a touch of colour in the shape of loops of small pink roses at the foot, heading a triple flounce of white, and on the shoulders and around the top of the bodice. you know for a portrait, madame, you want no epoch-making effect. it should be quite simple, so that in the years to come it may still please the eye as a work of art and not a creation of the dressmaker's skill." bee and i nearly had to be removed in an ambulance, and even mrs. jimmie looked startled. "order it," i whispered. "plainly, providence has a hand in this design. it might be dangerous to flout such a sign from heaven." all of which goes to prove that the eye of the artist is true the world over. or, at least, that is the deduction i drew. bee is more skeptical. the countess von schimpfurmann lived in a marvellous old house, to which we were invited again and again, her dear old politeness causing her to give three handsome entertainments for us, so that each could be a guest of honour at least once, and be distinguished by a seat on the sofa. the emperor being at ischl, we were permitted all sorts of intimate privileges with the imperial residenz, the court stables and private views not ordinarily shown to travellers, which were more interesting from being personally conducted than by the marvels we saw, for several years of continuous travel rather blunt one's ecstasy and effectively wear out one's adjectives. again, as in munich, we were never tired of the picture-galleries, the whole school of german and austrian art being quite to our taste, while if there exists anywhere else a more wonderful collection of original drawings of such masters as raphael, durer, rubens, and rembrandt which comprise the albertina in the palace of the archduke albert, i do not know of it. the old countess had numerous anecdotes to tell of the beautiful empress, all of which confirmed and strengthened my belief that she was most of all a glorious woman gloriously misunderstood by her nearest and dearest. what other prince or princess of europe in all history turned to so noble a pursuit as culture, learning, and travel to cure a broken heart and a wrecked existence in the majestic manner of this silent, haughty, noble soul? the excesses, dissipation, and intrigue which served to divert other bruised royal hearts were as far beneath this imperial nature as if they did not exist. her life, in its crystal purity and its scorn of intrigue, is unique in royal history. yet she, this blameless princess, this woman of imperial beauty, this noblest of all empresses, was marked to be stricken down by the red hand of anarchy, to whose crime, and poison, and danger we open our national ports with an unwisdom which is criminal stupidity, and of which we shall inevitably reap the benefit. america cannot warm the asp of anarchy in her bosom without expecting it to turn and sting her. the deference paid to royalty is so difficult of comprehension to the republican mind that every time we encountered it it gave us a separate shock of surprise. at least, it gave it to me. i have an idea from the way events finally shaped themselves that bee and mrs. jimmie were a little more alive to its possibilities than i was. the bristol was quite full when we arrived and jimmie could not get communicating rooms, nor very good ones. i did not particularly notice it at the time, but i remembered afterward that bee kept urging him to change them, and jimmie made two or three endeavours, but seemed to obtain no favour at the hands of the proprietor. one morning, however, when jimmie started to leave the sitting-room, he opened the door and closed it again suddenly. we were sitting there waiting for breakfast to be served, and we were all three struck by the expression on his face. "what's the matter, jimmie?" he looked at us queerly. "what have you three been up to?" he asked. "nothing. honestly and truly!" we cried. "what's out in the hall? or are you just pretending?" "the hall is full of menials and officials and gold lace and brass buttons. i hope you haven't done anything to be arrested for!" bee began to look knowing, and just then came a knock at the door. "if you please," said the interpreter, bowing at every other word, "here is one of the emperor's couriers just from ischl, with despatches from the court of his imperial majesty for the ladies if they are ready to receive them. the courier had orders not to disturb their sleep. he waited here in the corridor until he heard voices. will the excellent ladies be pleased to receive them? his orders are to wait for answers." jimmie signified that we would receive them, when forth stepped a man in the imperial liveries and handed him a packet on a silver tray. jimmie had the wit to lay a gold piece on the tray, at which the courier almost knelt to express his thanks. the other attendants drew long envious breaths. the door was shut, and mrs. jimmie and bee opened their letters. both were from count andreae von engel, saying that he and von furzmann, rendered desperate by the near departure of his majesty for the manoeuvres, had resolved to risk dismissal from his suite by absence without leave. the letter said that on that day--the day on which it was written--they had both attended his majesty on a hunt, and as he seldom hunted with the same officers two days in succession, they bade fair not to be on duty after noon the next day. therefore, if we heard nothing to the contrary, they would leave ischl on the one o'clock train in uniform, as if on official business. their servants would board the train at gmund with citizens' clothes, and they would be with us soon after seven that night. they begged leave to dine with us in our private dining-room that evening, and would we be so gracious as to receive them until midnight, when they must take train for ischl, and be on duty in uniform by seven in the morning. i simply shrieked, as i looked at jimmie's perplexed face. "what shall we do?" he said. "we can't have 'em here! we must stop 'em! get a telegraph blank, bee! we haven't any private dining-room, anyhow, and if they got caught we might be dragged into it! well, what is it?" he turned to the door half savagely, and there stood the proprietor, with some ten or twelve servants at his heels. "you were speaking to me the other day about better rooms? will it please you to look at some on the second floor, which have never been occupied since they were done over? there are five rooms _en suite_--just about what your excellency desires." jimmie turned to us with a sickly grin. we all waited for mrs. jimmie to speak. "jimmie, dear," she said at last, "if you don't object, i think it would be very nice to take those rooms, and entertain the gentlemen this evening. of course, they cannot be seen in the public dining-room, and, after all, they _are_ gentlemen and in the emperor's suite, so their attentions to us, while a little more pronounced than we are accustomed to, _are_ an honour." jimmie said nothing, but went to the door and signified that we would look at the rooms. we did look; we took them, and before noon every handsome piece of furniture from all over the house had been placed in our suite; flowers were everywhere, and servants fairly swarmed at our commands. jimmie, in reality, was not at all pleased by any of this, but he has such a blissful sense of humour that he could not help seeing the pitiful front it put upon human nature, both austrian and american. he permitted himself, however, only one remark. this was now done with his wife's sanction, and loyalty to her closed his lips. but he beckoned me over to the window, and, handing me a paper-knife, he turned up the sole of his shoe, saying: "scrape 'em off!" "scrape what off, jimmie?" "the servants! i haven't been able to step to-day without crushing a dozen of 'em!" as i turned away he called out: "there aren't any on the shoes i wore yesterday!" a rumour somewhat near the truth had swept through the hotel, for wherever we appeared we found ourselves the object of the deepest attention, not only by the slavish minions of the hotel from the proprietor down, but from the other guests. it was so pronounced that my feeble spirit quaked, so to borrow some of my sister's soul-sustaining joy, i went into her room and said: "bee, what does all this mean, anyhow? where will it land us?" bee's eyes gleamed. "if you aren't actually blind to opportunity," she said, slowly, "you certainly are hopelessly near-sighted. don't you understand how nobody can do anything or be anybody without royal approval? haven't you seen enough here to-day, to say nothing of the attentions we had from women in ischl, to know what all this counts for?" "yes, i know," i hastened to say. "but what of these men? you know what they will think; they are austrians, russians, and hungarians, remember, not americans!" bee laughed. "a man is a man," she said, sententiously. "don't worry for fear the poor dears' hearts will be broken. now i'll tell you something. mrs. jimmie's sincere indifference and my silent eye-homage have stirred these blasé officers out of their usual calm. there you have the whole thing. von engel thinks mrs. jimmie's indifference is assumed, and both von engel and von furzmann are determined that my silence shall voice itself. i have no doubt that they would like to have me _write_ it, so that they could boast of it afterward to their fellow officers. now, as jimmie would say in his frightful slang, 'i'm going to give them a run for their money.' von engel will probably beseech you to arrange to keep jimmie at your side, so that he can have a few words with mrs. jimmie. von furzmann will plead with you to permit him a word with me. i need hardly tell you that your role to-night is to make yourself as disagreeable as possible to both of them by keeping the conversation general, and by cutting in at any attempt at a _tête-à-tête_." i felt limp and weak. "and all this display, this dinner, this added expense?" "part of the game, my dear!" "and the end of it all? when they come back from the manoeuvres?" "we shall be gone! without a word!" "then this _isn't_ a flirtation?" "only on their parts. they are after our scalps. but we are actuated by the true missionary spirit." we leaned over and shook hands solemnly. i do _love_ bee! that night--shall i ever forget it? those stunning men dashed into our rooms muffled in military cloaks, which they tossed aside with such grace that they nearly secured _my_ scalp, for all they were after bee's and mrs. jimmie's. they were in velveteen hunting costumes; we in the smartest of evening dress. jimmie had given his fancy free rein in ordering the dinner, but, to his amazement and indignation, the little game being played by the rest of us so surprised and baffled our guests that jimmie's delicacies were removed with course after course untasted. the officers searched the brilliant room with their eyes, hoping for a quiet nook, or balcony. there was none, and their disguise effectually prevented them from suggesting to go out. i saw that, finally, they pinned their hopes to me, and the way i clung to jimmie to prevent their speaking to me almost roused his suspicions that i was in love with him. we stuck doggedly to the table, even after dinner was over and the servants dismissed. finally, von furzmann, who spoke english rather well, rose in a determined manner, and quite forgetful of our proximity, said to bee in a loud, distinct tone: "my heart is on fire!" it was too much. jimmie and i led the way in a general shout of laughter, and then, as a happy family party, we adjourned to the single salon, where we grouped ourselves together, and, strive as they might, the officers could not outwit my sister nor upset her plan. toward midnight, when the hour of parting drew near, they grew so desperate i almost feared that they would say something rash. but they were diplomats and game. occasionally a gleam of suspicion would appear on their countenances--it was so very unusual, i imagined, for their plans so persistently to miscarry--but both bee and i have an extremely guiltless and innocent eye, and we used an unwinking gaze of genial friendliness which disarmed them. at last they flung their cloaks around them, as their servants announced their carriage for the third time. "_such_ an evening!" moaned von engel. it might mean anything! bee bit her lip. "i was never more loath to leave. promise that you will be here when we return. it will only be ten days! promise us!" "i hardly think--" began jimmie, but bee trod on his foot. "ouch!" said jimmie, fiercely. "i beg your pardon, jimmie, dear!" murmured bee. "it is possible," said bee to von engel. "we never make plans, you know. we go whenever we are bored, or when we have nothing pleasant to look forward to." "oh, then, pray remain! we shall _fly_ to see you the moment we are free!" "that surely is an inducement," said bee, with a little laugh, which caused von engel to colour. von engel's servant, under pretext of arranging the collar of his master's cloak, here whispered peremptorily to him, and the officer started with a hurried "yes, yes!" to his servant. they bent and kissed our hands, and von furzmann, in the violence of his emotion, flung his arms around jimmie and kissed him on the cheek. then they dashed away down the long corridor, looking back and waving their hands to us. jimmie came into the room with his hand on the spot where von furzmann had kissed him. "well, i'll be damned!" he said. "that was all _your_ fault," he added, looking at bee. "i've always said somebody would steal you, jimmie!" i said. "did you enjoy yourself, dear?" asked mrs. jimmie kindly of bee. bee stood up yawning. "oh, i don't know," she said. "these officers try to be so impressive. they urge you to take a little more pepper in the same tone that they would ask you to elope." jimmie beamed on her. when bee and i were alone, i dropped limply on the bed. bee turned to the light and read a crumpled note which von furzmann had thrust into her hand at parting. she handed it to me: "i shall write every day, and shall count the hours until i see you again!" it read. i could just hear him shouting, "my heart is on fire!" "well, did you enjoy it?" i asked her. "enjoy it? certainly not!" "why, i thought you were having the time of your life!" i cried. she laughed. "oh, yes, in a way it was amusing. but did it ever occur to you that it wasn't very flattering for those two unmarried officers to select the two married women in our party for their attentions when you, being unmarried, were the only legitimate object of their interest?" i said nothing. to tell the truth i had _not_ thought of it. "no, these officers need just a few kinks taken out of their brains concerning women, and i propose to do it. i told jimmie to-day that if he would be handsome about to-night, i would start to-morrow for moscow. mrs. jimmie is perfectly willing, and i know you are dying to get on to tolstoy. i've only stayed over for to-night. i knew this was coming when we were in ischl, and i wanted them to see how lightly we viewed their risking dismissal from his majesty's service for us. we have paid up all our indebtedness to everybody else, so nothing but farewell calls need detain us." "and the officers?" i stammered. "how will they know?" "i'll get jimmie to send them a wire saying we have gone. they won't know where. hurry up and turn out the lights. they hurt my eyes." chapter xi my first interview with tolstoy at the critical point of relating the difficulty attending my first audience with tolstoy, i am constrained to mention a few of the obstacles encountered by a person bearing indifferent letters of introduction, and if by so doing i persuade any man or woman to write one worthy letter introducing one strange man or woman in a foreign country to a foreign host, i shall feel that i have not lived in vain. no one, who has not travelled abroad unknown and depending for all society upon written introductions, can form any idea of the utter inadequacy of the ordinary letter of introduction. when i first announced my intention of several years' travel in europe, i accepted the generously offered letters of friends and acquaintances, and, in some instances, of kind persons who were almost total strangers to me, careless of the wording of these letters and only grateful for the goodness of heart they evinced. in one instance, a man who had lived in berlin sent me a dozen of his visiting-cards, on the reverse side of which were written the names of his german friends and under them the scanty words, "introducing miss so-and-so." he took pains also to call upon me several times, and to ask as a special favour that i would present these letters. forgetful of the fact that his german acquaintances would have no idea who i was, that there was no explanation upon the card, and without thinking that he would not take the trouble to write letters of explanation beforehand, i presented these twelve cards without the least reluctance, simply because i had given my word. out of the twelve, ten returned my calls and we discussed nothing more important than the weather. we knew nothing of each other except our names, and all of these i dare say were mispronounced. two out of the twelve entertained me at dinner, and three years afterward, when i returned to america, i received a letter of the sincerest apology from one, saying that she had learned more of me through the ambassador, and reproaching me for not having volunteered information about myself, which might have led at least to conversation of a more intimate nature. i was armed at that time with many of these visiting-cards of introduction, and after this instance i filed them with great care in the waste-basket. i then examined my other letters. it is idle to describe to those who have never depended upon such documents in foreign countries the inadequacy of half of them. in spite of the kindest intentions, they were really worthless. it was only after i got to poland and russia, where the hospitality springs from the heart, that my introductions began to bear fruit satisfactory to a sensitive mind. it is, therefore, with feelings of the liveliest appreciation that i look back on the letter given me by ambassador white in berlin to count leo tolstoy. a lifetime of diplomacy, added to the sincerest and most generous appreciation of what an ideal hospitality should be, have served to make this representative of the american people perfect in details of kindness, which can only be fully appreciated when one is far from home. nothing short of the completeness and yet brevity of this letter would have served to obtain an audience with that great author, who must needs protect himself from the idle and curious, and the only drawback to my first interview with tolstoy was the fact that i had to part company with this precious letter. it was so kind, so generous, so appreciative, that up to the time i relinquished it, i cured the worst attacks of homesickness simply by reading it over, and from the lowest depths of despair it not only brought me back my self-respect, but so exquisitely tickled my vanity that i was proud of my own acquaintance with myself. my introduction to princess sophy golitzin, in moscow, was of such a sort that we at once received an invitation from her to meet her choicest friends, at her house the next day. when we arrived, we found some thirty or forty charming russians in a long, handsomely furnished salon, all speaking their own language. but upon our approach, every one began speaking english, and so continued during our stay. twice, however, little groups fell into french and german at the advent of one or two persons who spoke no english. russians do not show off at their best in foreign environments. i have met them in germany, france, england, italy, and america, and while their culture is always complete, their distinguishing trait is their hospitality, generous and free beyond any i have ever known, which, of course, is best exploited in their own country and among their own people. at the princess golitzin's, i was told that the countess tolstoy and her daughter had been there earlier in the afternoon, but, owing to the distance at which they lived, they had been obliged to leave early. they, however, left their compliments for all of us, and asked the princess to say that they had remained as long as they had dared, hoping for the pleasure of meeting us. being only a modest american, i confess that i opened my eyes with wonder that a personage of such renown as the countess tolstoy, the wife of the greatest living man of letters, should take the trouble to leave so kind a message for me. when bee and mrs. jimmie heard it, they treated me with almost the same respect as when they discovered that i knew the head waiter at baden-baden. but not quite. as, however, our one ambition in coming to russia had been to see tolstoy himself, we at once began to ask questions of the princess as to how we might best accomplish our object, but to our disappointment her answers were far from encouraging. he was, i was told by everybody, ill, cross as a bear, and in the throes of composition. could there be a worse possible combination for my purpose? so much was said discouraging our project that jimmie was for giving it up, but i think one man never received three such simultaneously contemptuous glances as we three levelled at jimmie for his craven suggestion. so it happened that one sunday morning we took a carriage, and, having invited the consul, who spoke russian, we drove to tolstoy's town house, some little distance out of moscow. we gave the letter and our visiting-cards to the consul, and he explained our wish to see tolstoy to the footman who answered our ring. having evidently received instructions to admit no one, he not only refused us admittance, but declined to take our cards. the consul translated his refusal, and seemed vanquished, but i urged him to make another attempt, and he did so, which was followed by the announcement that the countess was asleep, and the count was out. this being translated to me, i announced, in cheerful english which the footman could not understand, that both of these statements were lies, and for my part i had no doubt that the footman was a direct descendant of beelzebub. "tell him that you know better," i said. "tell him that we know the count is too ill to leave the house, and that the countess could not possibly be asleep at this time of day. tell him if he expects us to believe him, to make up a better one than that." "say something," urged bee. "get us inside the house, if no more." "tell him how far we have come, and how anxious we are to see the count," said mrs. jimmie. "oh, better give it up," said jimmie, "and come on home." the consul obligingly made the desired effort, evidently combining all of our instructions, politely softened by his own judgment. the footman's face betrayed no yielding, and in order the better to refuse to take our cards he put his hands behind him. "you see, it's no use," said the consul. "hadn't we better give it up?" "he won't let you in," said jimmie, "so don't make a fuss." "i shall make no fuss," i said, quietly. "but i'll get in, and i'll see tolstoy, and i'll get all the rest of you in. give me those cards." i took two rubles from my purse, and, taking the cards and letter, i handed them all to the footman, saying in lucid english: "we are coming in, and you are to take these cards to count tolstoy." at the same time, i pointed a decisive forefinger in the direction in which i thought the count was concealed. the obsequious menial took our cards, bowed low, and invited us to enter with true servant's hospitality. in all russian houses, as, doubtless, everybody knows, the first floor is given up to an _antechambre_, where guests remove their wraps and goloshes, and behind this room are the kitchen and servants' quarters. all the living-rooms of the family are generally on the floor above. having once entered this _antechambre_, my bob acres courage began to ooze. "now, i am not going to be rude," i said. "we'll just pretend to be taking off our wraps until we find whether we can be received. i don't mind forcing myself on a servant, but i do object to inconveniencing the master of the house. "you're weakening," said jimmie, derisively. "you're scared!" "i am not," i declared, indignantly. "i am only trying to be polite, and it's a hard pull, i can tell you, when i want anything as much as i want to see tolstoy. if he won't see us after he reads that letter, i can at least go away knowing that i put forth my best efforts to see him, but if i had taken a servant's refusal, i should feel myself a coward." i looked anxiously at my friends for approval. jimmie and the consul looked dubious, but bee and mrs. jimmie patted me on the back and said i had done just right. while we were engaged in this conversation, and while the man was still up-stairs, the door from the kitchen burst open, and in came a handsome young fellow of about eighteen, whistling. now my brother whistles and slams doors just like this young russian. so my understanding of boys made me feel friendly with this one at once. seeing us, he stopped and bowed politely. "good morning," i said, cheerfully. "we are americans, and we have travelled five thousand miles for the purpose of seeing count tolstoy, and when we got here this morning the servant wouldn't even let us in until i made him, and we are waiting to see if the count will receive us." "why, i am just sure papa will see you," said the boy in perfect english. "how disgusting of dmitri. he is a blockhead, that dmitri. i shall tell mamma how he treated you. the idea of leaving you standing down here while he took your cards up." "it is partly our fault," i said, defending dmitri. "we sent him up to ask." "nevertheless, he should have had you wait in the salon. dmitri is a fool." "his manner wasn't very cordial," i admitted, as we followed him up-stairs and into a large well-furnished, but rather plain, room containing no ornaments. "but as i had a letter from the ambassador," i went on, "i felt that i must at least present it." the boy turned back, as he started to leave the room, and said: "oh! from mr. white? your ambassador wrote about you, and also some friends of ours from petersburg. papa has been expecting you this long time. he would have been so annoyed if he had failed to see you. i'll tell him how badly dmitri treated you. what must you think of the russians?" he said all this hurrying to the door to find his father. we sat down and regarded each other in silence. jimmie and the consul looked into their hats with a somewhat sheepish countenance. bee cleared her throat with pleasure, and mrs. jimmie carefully assumed an attitude of unstudied grace, smoothing her silk dress over her knee with her gloved hand, and involuntarily looking at her glove the way we do in america. then the door opened and count tolstoy came in. to begin with, he speaks perfect english, and his cordial welcome, beginning as he entered the door, continued while he traversed the length of the long room, holding out both hands to me, in one of which was my letter from the ambassador. he examined our party with as much curiosity and interest as we studied him. he wore the ordinary peasant's costume. his blue blouse and white under-garment, which showed around the neck, had brown stains on it which might be from either coffee or tobacco. his eyes were set widely apart and were benignant and kind in expression. his brow was benevolent, and counteracted the lower part of his face, which in itself would be pugnacious. his nose was short, broad, and thick. his jaw betrayed the determination of the bulldog. the combination made an exceedingly interesting study. his coarse clothes formed a curious contrast to the elegance of his speech and the grace of his manner. he was simple, unaffected, gentle, and possessed, in common with all his race, the trait upon which i have remarked before, a keen, intelligent interest in america and americans. while he was still welcoming us and apologising for the behaviour of his servant, the countess came in, followed by the young countess, their daughter. the countess tolstoy has one of the sweetest faces i ever saw, and, although she has had thirteen children, she looks as if she were not over forty-three years old. her smooth brown hair had not one silver thread, and its gloss might be envied by many a girl of eighteen. her eyes were brown, alert, and fun-loving, her manner quick, and her speech enthusiastic. her plain silk gown was well made, and its richness was in strange contrast to the peasant's costume of her illustrious husband. the little countess had short red brown hair parted on the side like a boy's and softly waving about her face, red brown eyes, and a skin so delicate that little freckles showed against its clearness. her modest, quiet manner gave her at once an air of breeding. her manner was older and more subdued than that of her mother, from whom the cares and anxieties of her large family and varied interests had evidently rolled softly and easily, leaving no trace behind. all three of them began questioning us about our plans, our homes, our families, wondering at the ease with which we took long journeys, envying our leisure to enjoy ourselves, and constantly interrupting themselves with true expressions of welcome. it is, perhaps, only a fair example of the bountiful hospitality we received all through poland and russia to chronicle here that count tolstoy invited us to his house in the country, whither they expected to go shortly, to remain several months, and, as he afterward explained it, "for as long as you can be happy with us." his book on "what is art?" was then attracting a great deal of attention, but he was deeply engaged in the one which has since appeared, first under the title of "the awakening," and afterward called "resurrection." it is said that he wrote this book twelve years ago, and only rewrote it at the instance of the publishers, but no one who has met tolstoy and become acquainted with him can doubt that he has been collecting material, thinking, planning, and writing on that book for a lifetime. many consider tolstoy a _poseur_, but he sincerely believes in himself. he had only the day before worked all day in the shop of a peasant, making shoes for which he had been paid fifty copecks, and we were told that not infrequently he might be seen working in the forest or field, bending his back to the same burdens as his peasants, sharing their hardships, and receiving no more pay than they. it was a wonderful experience to sit opposite him, to look into his eyes, and to hear him talk. "it is a great country, yours," he said. "to me the most interesting in the world just at present. what are you going to do with your problems? how are you going to deal with anarchy and the indian and negro questions? you have a blessed liberty in your country." "if you will excuse me for saying so, i think we have a very _un_blessed liberty in our country! too much liberty is what has brought about the very conditions of anarchy and the race problem which now threaten us." "do you think the negroes ought not to have been given the franchise?" "that is a difficult question," i said. "let me answer it by giving you another. is it a good thing to turn loose on a young republic a mass of consolidated ignorance, such as the average negro represented at the close of the war, and put votes into their hands with not one restraining influence to counteract it? you continentals can form no idea of the southern negro. the case of your serfs is by no means a parallel. but it is too late now. you cannot take the franchise away from them. they must work out their own salvation." "would you take it away from them, if you could?" asked tolstoy. "most certainly i would," i answered, "although my opinion is of no value, and i am only wasting your time by expressing it. i would take away the franchise from the negroes and from all foreigners until they had lived in our country twenty-one years, as our american men must do, and i would establish a property and educational qualification for every voter. i would not permit a man to vote upon property issues unless he were a property owner." "would you enfranchise the women?" asked the countess. "i would, but under the same conditions." "but would your best element of women exercise the privilege?" asked the little countess. "not all of them at first, and some of them never, i suppose; but when once our country awakens to the meaning of patriotism, and our women understand that they are citizens exactly as the men are citizens, they will do their duty, and do it more conscientiously than the men." "it is a very interesting subject," said the count; "and your suggestions open up many possibilities. women do vote in several of your states, i am told." "how i would love to see a woman who had voted," cried the countess, clasping her hands with all the vivacity of a french woman. "why, i have voted," said bee, laughing. "i voted for president mckinley in the state of colorado, and my sister and mrs. jimmie voted for school trustee in illinois." all three of the tolstoys turned eagerly toward bee. "do tell me about it," said the count. "there is very little to tell. i simply went and stood in line and cast my ballot." "but was there no shooting, no bribery, no excitement?" cried the countess. "do they go dressed as you are now?" "no, i dressed much better. i wore my best paris gown, and drove down in my victoria. while i was in the line half a dozen gentlemen, who attended my receptions, came up and chatted with me, showed me how to fold my ballot, and attended me as if we were at a concert. when i came away, i took a street-car home, and sent my carriage for several ladies who otherwise would not have come." "and you," said the countess, turning to mrs. jimmie. "it was in a barber shop," she said, laughing. "when i went in, the men had their feet on the table, their hats on their heads, and they were all smoking, but at my entrance all these things changed. hats came off, cigars were laid down, and feet disappeared. i was politely treated, and enjoyed it immensely." "how very interesting," said tolstoy. "but are there not societies for and against suffrage? why do your women combine against it?" "because american women have not awakened to the meaning of good citizenship, and they prefer chivalry to justice, regardless of the love of country. i never belonged to any suffrage society, never wrote or spoke or talked about it. i think the responsibility of voting would be heavy and often disagreeable, but, if the women were enfranchised, i would vote from a sense of duty, just as i think many others would; and, as to the good which might accrue, i think you will agree with me that women's standards are higher than men's. there would be far less bribery in politics than there is now." "is there much bribery?" asked tolstoy. "unfortunately, i suppose there is. have you heard how the ex-speaker of the house of representatives, tom reed, defines an honest man in politics? 'an honest man is a man that will stay bought!'" there is no use in denying the truth. tolstoy is always the teacher and the author. i could not imagine him the husband and the father. he seemed in the act of getting copy, and had a way of asking a question, and then scrutinising both the question and the answer as one who had set a mechanical toy in motion by winding it up. tolstoy would make an excellent reporter for an american newspaper. he could obtain an interview with the most reticent politician. but i had a feeling that his methods were as the methods of goethe. his wife evidently does not share his own opinion of himself. she listened with obvious impatience to the conversation, then she drew bee and mrs. jimmie aside, and they were soon in the midst of an animated discussion of the rue de la paix. tolstoy overheard snatches of their talk without a sign of disapproval. i have seen a big newfoundland watch the graceful antics of a kitten with the same air of indifference with which tolstoy regarded his wife's humanity and naturalness. tolstoy takes himself with profound seriousness, but, in spite of his influence on russia and the outside world, the great teacher has been unable to cure his wife's interest in millinery. nordau told me in paris that tolstoy was a combination of genius and insanity. undoubtedly tolstoy is actuated by a genuine desire to free russia, but the idea was unmistakably imbedded in my mind that his christianity was like napoleon's description of a russian. scratch it and you would find tartar fanaticism under it,--the fanaticism of the ascetic who would drive his own flesh and blood into the flames to save the soul of his domestics. this impression grew as i watched the attitude of the countess toward her husband. what must a wife think of such a husband's views of marriage when she is the mother of thirteen of his children? what must she think of insincerity when he refuses to copyright his books because he thinks it wrong to take money for teaching, yet permits _her_ to copyright them and draw the royalties for the support of the family? her opinion of her famous husband lies beneath her manner, covered lightly by a charming and graceful impatience,--the impatience of a spoiled child. when we got into the carriage i said: "well?" "well," said our friend the consul, who had not spoken during the interview, "he is the queerest man i ever met. but how he pumped you!" "we are all 'copy' to him," said jimmie. "he wanted information at first hand." "sometime he may succeed in convincing his daughter," said mrs. jimmie, "but never his wife. she knows him too well." "yet he seemed interested in you and jimmie," said bee, ruefully. then more cheerfully, "but we're asked to come again!" "we are living documents; that's why." "what do you think of him?" said jimmie to me with a grin of comradeship. "i don't know. my impressions have got to settle and be skimmed and drained off before i know." "well, we'll go to their reception anyway," said bee, comfortably, with the air of one who had no problems to wrestle with. "what are you going to wear?" to be sure! that was the main question after all. what were we going to wear? chapter xii at one of the tolstoy receptions when we arrived the next evening, it was to find a curious situation. the countess tolstoy and her daughter and young son, in european costume,--the countess in velvet and lace, and the little countess in a pretty taffeta silk,--were receiving their guests in the main salon, and later served them to a magnificent supper with champagne. the count, we were told, was elsewhere receiving his guests, who would not join us. later he came in, still in his peasant's costume, and refused all refreshment. he was exceedingly civil to all his guests, but signalled out the americans in a manner truly flattering. it was a charming evening, and we met agreeable people, but, although they stayed late, we remained, at tolstoy's request, still later, and when the last guest had departed, we sat down, drawing our chairs quite close together after the manner of a cheerful family party. after inquiring how we had spent our day, and giving us some valuable hints about different points of interest for the morrow, tolstoy plunged at once into the conversation which had been broken off the day before. it was evident that he had been thinking about our country, and was eager for more information. "i became very well acquainted with your ambassador, mr. white, while he was in this country," he began. "i found him a man of wide experience, of great culture, and of much originality in thought. i learned a great deal about america from him. it must be wonderful to live in a country where there is no orthodox church, where one can worship as one pleases, and where every one's vote is counted." jimmie coughed politely, and looked at me. "it encourages individuality," he added. "do you not find your own countrymen more individual than those of any other nation?" he added, addressing jimmie directly for the first time. "i think i do," said jimmie, carefully weighing out his words as if on invisible scales. jimmie is largely imbued with that absurd fear of a man who has written books, which is to me so inexplicable. "your country appeals to russians, strongly," pursued the count, evidently bent upon drawing jimmie out. "i have often wondered why," said jimmie. "it couldn't have been the wheat?" "no, not entirely the wheat, although the news of your generosity spread like wildfire through all classes of society, and served to open the hearts of the peasants toward america as they are opened toward no other country in the world. the word 'amerikanski' is an _open sesame_ all through russia. have you noticed it?" "often," said jimmie. "and often wondered at it. but that wheat was a small enterprise to gain a nation's gratitude. it is the more surprising to us because it was not a national gift, but the result of the generosity and large-mindedness of a handful of men, who pushed it through so quietly and unostentatiously that millions of people in america to this day do not know that it was ever done, but over here we have not met a single russian who has not spoken of it immediately." "the russians are a grateful people," observed mrs. jimmie, "but it seems a little strange to me to discover such ardent gratitude among the nobility for assistance which reached people hundreds of miles away from them, and in whose welfare they could have only a general interest, prompted by humanity." "ah! but madame, russians are more keenly alive to the problem of our serfs than any other. many of our wealthy people are doing all that they can to assist them, and, when a crisis like the famine comes, it is heart-breaking not to be able to relieve their suffering. consequently, the sending of that wheat touched every heart." "then, too, we are not divided,--the north against the south, as you were on your negro question," said the little countess. "the peasant problem stretches from one end of russia to the other." "we are a diffuse people," i said. "perhaps that is the result of our mixed blood and the individuality that you spoke of, but your books are so widely read in america that i believe people in the north are quite as well informed and quite as much interested in the problem of the russian serf as in our own negro problem." bee gave me a look which in sign language meant, "and that isn't saying half as much as it sounds." "undoubtedly there is a strong point of sympathy between our two countries. like you, we have many mixed strains of blood, and, though we are so much older, we have civilised more slowly, so that we are both in youthful stages of progress. your great prairies correspond in a large measure to our steppes. america and russia are the greatest wheat-growing countries in the world. our internal resources are the only ones vast enough to support us without assistance from other countries." "is that true of russia?" jimmie cut in, his commercial instinct getting the better of his awe of tolstoy. "where would you get your coal?" "true," said tolstoy, "we could not do it as completely as you, and your very resources are one reason for our admiration of america." "in case of war, now,--" went on jimmie. he stopped speaking, and looked down in deep embarrassment, remembering tolstoy's hatred of war. "yes," said tolstoy, kindly. "in case the whole civilised world waged war on the united states, i dare say you could still remain a tolerably prosperous people." "at any rate," said jimmie, recovering himself, "it would be a good many years before we would be a hungry nation, and, in the meantime, we could practically starve out the enemy by cutting off their food supply, and disable their fleets and commerce for want of coal, so there is hardly any danger, from the prudent point of view, of the world combining against us." "if the diplomacy at washington continues in its present trend, under your great president mckinley, your country will not allow herself to be dragged into the quarrels of europe. we older nations might well learn a lesson from your present government." "oh!" i cried, "how good of you to say that. it is the first time in all europe that i have heard our government praised for its diplomacy, and coming from you, i am so grateful." jimmie and the consul also beamed at tolstoy's complimentary comment. "now, about your men of letters?" said tolstoy. "it is some time since i have had such direct news from america. what are the great names among you now?" at this juncture countess tolstoy drew nearer to bee and mrs. jimmie, and our groups somewhat separated. "our great names?" i repeated. "either we have no great names now, or we are too close to them to realise how great they are. we seem to be between generations. we have lost our lowell, and longfellow, and poe, and hawthorne, and emerson, and we have no others to take their places." "but a young school will spring up, some of whom may take their places," said tolstoy. "it has already sprung up," i said, "and is well on the way to manhood. one great drawback, however, i find in mentioning the names of all of them to a european, or even to an englishman, is the fact that so many of our characteristic american authors write in a dialect which is all that we americans can do to understand. for instance, take the negro stories, which to me are like my mother tongue, brought up as i was in the south. thousands of northern people who have never been south are unable to read it, and to them it holds no humour and no pathos. to the ordinary englishman, it is like so much greek, and to the continental english-speaking person it is like sanskrit. in the same way the new england stories, which are written in yankee dialect, cannot be understood by people in the south who have never been north. how then can we expect europeans to manage them?" "how extraordinary," said tolstoy. "and both are equally typical, i suppose?" "equally so," i replied. "the reason she understands them both," broke in jimmie, "is because her mother comes from the northernmost part of the northernmost state in the union, and her father from a point almost equally in the south. there is but one state between his birthplace and the gulf of mexico." "about the same distance," said tolstoy, "as if your mother came from petersburg and your father from odessa." "but there are others who write english which is not distorted in its spelling. james lane alien and henry b. fuller are particularly noted for their lucid english and literary style; cable writes creole stories of louisiana; mary hartwell catherwood, stories of french canadians and the early french settlers in america; bret harte, stories of california mining camps; mary hallock foote, civil engineering stories around the rocky mountains; weir mitchell, quaker stories of pennsylvania; and charles egbert craddock lays her plots in the tennessee mountains. of all these authors, each has written at least two books along the lines i have indicated, and i mention them, thinking they would be particularly interesting to you as descriptive of portions of the united states." "all these," said tolstoy, meditatively, "in one country." "not only that," i said, "but no two alike, and most of them as widely different as if one wrote in french and the other in german." "a wonderful country," murmured tolstoy again. "i have often thought of going there, but now i am too old." "there is no one in the world," i answered him, "in the realm of letters or social economics, whom the people of america would rather see than you." he bowed gracefully, and only answered again: "no, i am too old now. i wish i had gone there when i could. but tell me," he added, "have you no authors who write universally?" "universally," i repeated. "that is a large word. yes, we have mark twain. he is our most eminent literary figure at present." "ah! mark twain," repeated tolstoy. "i have heard of him." "have you indeed? i thought no one was known in europe, except fenimore cooper. he is supposed to have written universally of america, because he never wrote anything but indian stories! in france, they know of poe, and like him because they tell me that he was like themselves." "he was insane, was he not?" said tolstoy, innocently. i bit my lip to keep from laughing, for tolstoy had not perpetrated that as a jest. "but many of our most whimsical and most delicious authors could not be appreciated by europe in general, because europeans are all so ignorant of us. there is frank stockton, whose humour continentals would be sure to take seriously, and then thomas nelson page writes most effectively when he uses negro dialect. his story 'marse chan,' which made him famous, i consider the best short story ever written in america. hopkinson smith, too, has written a book which deserves to live for ever, depicting as it does a phase of the reconstruction period, when southern gentlemen of the old school came into contact with the northern business methods. books like these would seem trivial to a european, because they represent but a single step in our curious history." "i understand," said tolstoy, sympathetically. "of course it is difficult for us to realise that america is not one nation, but an amalgamation of all nations. to the casual thinker, america is an off-shoot of england." "perfectly true," said jimmie, "and that barring the fact that we speak a language which is, in some respects, similar to the english, no nations are more foreign to each other than the united states and england. it would be better for the english if they had a few more bryces among them." "if it weren't for the dialects," said tolstoy, "i think more europeans would be interested in american literature." "that is true," i said, "and yet, without dialects, you wouldn't get the united states as it really is. there are heaps and heaps of americans who won't read dialect themselves, but they miss a great deal. take, for instance, james whitcomb riley, a poet who, to my mind, possesses absolute genius,--the genius of the commonplace. his best things are all in dialect, which a great many find difficult, and yet, when he gives public readings from his own poems, he draws audiences which test the capacity of the largest halls. i myself have seen him recalled nineteen times." "america and russia are growing closer together every day," said tolstoy. "every year we use more of your american machinery; your plows, and threshers, and mowing-machines, and all agricultural implements are coming into use here. every year some americans settle in russia from business interests, and we are rapidly becoming dependent on you for our coal. if you had a larger merchant marine, it would benefit our mutual interests wonderfully. is your country as much interested in russia as we are in you?" "equally so," i said. "russian literature is very well understood in america. we read all your books. we know pushkin and tourguenieff. your russian music is played by our orchestras, and your russian painter, verestchagin, exhibited his paintings in all the large cities, and made us familiar with his genius." "all art, all music has a moral effect upon the soul. verestchagin paints war--hideous war! moral questions should be talked about and discussed, and a remedy found for them. in america you will not discuss many questions. even in the translations of my books, parts which seem important to me are left out. why is that? it limits you, does it not?" "i suppose the demand creates the supply," i ventured. "we may be prudish, but as yet the moral questions you speak of have not such a hold on our young republic that they need drastic measures. when we become more civilised, and society more cancerous, doubtless the public mind will permit these questions to be discussed." "the time for repentance is in advance of the crime," said tolstoy. "american prudery is narrowing in its effect on our art," i ventured, timidly. "is that the reason for many of your artists and authors living abroad?" "it may be. we certainly are not encouraged in america to depict life as it is. that is one reason i think why foreign authors sell their books by the thousands in america, and by the hundreds in their own country." "then the taste is there, is it?" asked tolstoy. "the common sense is there," i said, bluntly,--"the common sense to know that our authors are limited to depicting a phase instead of the whole life, and then, if you are going to get the whole life, you must read foreign authors. it's just as if a sculptor should confine himself to shaping fingers, and toes, and noses, and ears because the public refuses to take a finished study." "but why, why is it?" said tolstoy, with a touch of impatience. "if you will read the whole thing when written by foreign authors, why do you not encourage your own?" "i am sure i don't know," i said, "unless it is on the simple principle that many men enjoy the ballet scene in opera, while they would not permit their wives and daughters to take part in it." "america is the protector of the family," said jimmie, regarding me with a hostile eye. tolstoy tactfully changed the subject out of deference to jimmie's displeasure. "do many russians visit america?" asked tolstoy. "oh, yes, quite a number, and they are among our most agreeable visitors. prince serge wolkonsky travelled so much and made so many addresses that he made russia more popular than ever." "do you know how popular you are in america?" said jimmie, blushing at his own temerity. "i know how many of my books are sold there, and i get many kind letters from americans." "isn't he considered the greatest living man of letters in america?" said jimmie, appealingly to me boyishly. "undoubtedly," i replied, smiling, because tolstoy smiled. "whom do you consider the greatest living author?" asked jimmie. "mrs. humphrey ward," said tolstoy, decisively. this was a thunderbolt which stopped the conversation of the other members of the party. "and one of your greatest americans," went on tolstoy, "was henry george." "from a literary point of view, or--" "from the point of view of humanity and of the christian." jimmie and i leaned back involuntarily. judged by these standards, we were none of us either christians or human, in our party at least. the countess tolstoy, who seemed to be in not the slightest awe of her illustrious husband, having become somewhat impatient during this conversation, now turned to me and said: "it has been so interesting to talk with your sister and mrs. jimmie about paris fashions. we see so little here that is not second hand, and your journey is so fascinating. it seems incredible that you can be travelling simply for pleasure and over such a number of countries! where do you go next?" "we have come from everywhere," i said, laughing, "and we are going anywhere." the countess clasped her hands and said: "how i envy you, but doesn't it cost you a great deal of money?" "i suppose it does," i said, regretfully. "i am going to travel as long as my money holds out, but the rest are not so hampered." "alas, if i could only go with you," said the countess, "but we are under such heavy expense now. it used to be easier when we had three or four children nearer of an age who could be educated together. then it cost less. but now this boy, my youngest, necessitates different tutors for everything, and it costs as much to educate this last one of thirteen as it did any four of the others." "but then you educate so thoroughly," i said. "russians always speak five or six, sometimes ten languages, including dialects. with us our wealthy people generally send their children to a good private school and afterward prepare them by tutor for college. then the richest send them for a trip around the world, or perhaps a year abroad, and that ends it. but the ordinary american has only a public school education. americans are not linguists naturally." "ah! but here we are obliged to be linguists, because, if we travel at all, we must speak other languages, and, if we entertain at all, we meet people who cannot speak ours, which is very difficult to learn. but languages are easy." "oh! _are_ they?" said jimmie, involuntarily, and everybody laughed. "jimmie's languages are unique," said bee. "are you going to italy?" said the countess. "yes, we hope to spend next spring in italy, beginning with sicily and working slowly northward." "how delightful! how charming!" cried the countess. "how i wish, how i _wish_ i could go with you." "go with us?" i cried in delight. "could you manage it? we should be so flattered to have your company." "oh, if i could! i shall ask. it will do no harm to ask." we had all stood up to go and had begun to shake hands when she cried across to her husband: "leo, leo, may i go--" then seeing she had not engaged her husband's attention, who was talking to jimmie about single tax, she went over and pulled his sleeve. "leo, may i go with them to italy in the spring? please, dear leo, say yes." he shook his head gravely, and the little countess smiled at her mother's enthusiasm. "it would cost too much," said tolstoy, "besides, i cannot spare you. i need you." "you need me!" cried the countess in gay derision. then pleadingly, "do let me go." "i cannot," said tolstoy, turning to jimmie again. the countess came back to us with a face full of disappointment. "he doesn't need me at all," she whispered. "i'd go anyway if i had the money." as i said before, russia and america are very much alike. as we left the house my mind recurred to max nordau, whose personality and methods i have so imperfectly presented. the contrast to tolstoy would intrude itself. in all the conversations i ever had with max nordau, he spent most of the time in trying to be a help and a benefit to me. the physician in him was always at the front. his aim was healing, and i only regret that their intimate personality prevents me from relating them word for word, as they would interest and benefit others quite as much as they did me. the difference between these two great leaders of thought--these two great reformers, nordau and tolstoy--is the theme of many learned discussions, and admits many different points of view. to me they present this aspect: tolstoy, like goethe, is an interesting combination of genius and hypocrisy. he preaches unselfishness, while himself the embodiment of self. max nordau is his antithesis. nordau gives with generous enthusiasm--of his time, his learning, his genius, most of all, of himself. tolstoy fastens himself upon each newcomer politely, like a courteous leech, sucks him dry, and then writes. max nordau, like shakespeare, absorbs humanity as a whole. tolstoy considers the bible the most dramatic work ever written, and turns this knowledge of the world's demand for religion to theatrical account. tolstoy is outwardly a christian, nordau outwardly a pagan. tolstoy openly acknowledges god, but exemplifies the ideas of man, while max nordau's private life embodies the noble teachings of the christ whom he denies. it was not until months afterward, we were back in london in fact, when jimmie's opinion of tolstoy seemed to have crystallised. he came to me one morning and said: "i've read everything, since we left moscow, that tolstoy has written. now you know i don't pretend to know anything about literary style and all that rot that you're so keen about, but i do know something about human nature, and i do know a grand-stand play when i see one. now tolstoy is a genius, there's no gainsaying that, but it's all covered up and smothered in that religious rubbish that he has caught the ear of the world with. if you want to be admired while you are alive, write a religious novel and let the hoi polloi snivel over you and give you gold dollars while you can enjoy 'em and spend 'em. that's where tolstoy is a fox. so is mrs. humphrey ward. she's a fox, too. they are getting all the fun _now_. but it's all gallery play with both of 'em." i said nothing, and he smoked in silence for a moment. then he added: "but i _say_, what a ripper tolstoy could write if he'd just cut loose from religion for a minute and write a novel that didn't have any damned _purpose_ in it!" verily, jimmie is no fool. chapter xiii shopping experiences in going to europe timid persons often cover their real design by claiming the intention of taking german baths, of "doing" switzerland, or of learning languages. but everybody knows that the real reason why most women go abroad is to shop. what cathedral can bring such a look of rapture to a woman's face as new bond street or what scenery such ecstasy as the rue de la paix? therefore, as i believe my lot in shopping to be the common lot of all, let me tell my tale, so that to all who have suffered the same agonies and delights this may come as a personal reminiscence of their own, while to you who have europe yet to view for that blissful first time, which is the best of all, this is what you will go through. when i first went to europe i had all of the average american woman's timidity about asserting herself in the face of a shopgirl or salesman. many years of shopping in america had thoroughly broken a spirit which was once proud. i therefore suffered unnecessary annoyance during my first shopping in london, because i was overwhelmingly polite and affable to the man behind the counter. i said "please," and "if you don't mind," and "i would like to see," instead of using the martial command of the ordinary englishwoman, who marches up to the show-case in flat-heeled boots and says in a tone of an officer ordering "shoulder arms," "show me your gauze fans!" i used to listen to them standing next me at a counter, momentarily expecting to see them knocked down by the indignant salesman and carried to a hospital in an ambulance. my own tones were so conversational when i said, "will you please show me your black satin ribbon?" that, while i did not say it, my voice implied such questions as "how are your father and mother?" and "i hope the baby is better?" and "doesn't that draught there on your back annoy you?" and "don't you get very tired standing up all day?" it was bee, as usual, who gave me my first lesson in the insolent bearing which alone obtains the best results from the average british shopman. still without having thoroughly asserted myself, not having been to that particular manner born, i went next to paris, where my politeness met with the just reward which virtue is always supposed to get and seldom does. i consider shopping in paris one of the greatest pleasures to be found in this vale of tears. the shops, with the exception of the louvre, the bon marché, and one or two of the large department stores of similar scope, are all small--tiny, in fact, and exploit but one or two things. a little shop for fans will be next to a milliner who makes a specialty of nothing but gauze theatre bonnets. perhaps next will come a linen store, where the windows will have nothing but the most fascinating embroidery, handkerchiefs, and neckware. then comes the man who sells belts of every description, and parasol handles. perhaps your next window will have such a display of diamond necklaces as would justify you in supposing that his stock would make tiffany choke with envy, but if you enter, you will find yourself in an aperture in the wall, holding an iron safe, a two-by-four show-case, and three chairs, and you will find that everything of value he has, except the clothes he wears, are all in his window. as long as these shops are all crowded together and so small, to shop in paris is really much more convenient than in one of our large department stores at home, with the additional delight of having smiling interested service. the proprietor himself enters into your wants, and uses all his quickness and intelligence to supply your demands. he may be, very likely he is, doubling the price on you, because you are an american, but, if your bruised spirit is like mine, you will be perfectly willing to pay a little extra for politeness. it is a truth that i have brought home with me no article from paris which does not carry with it pleasant recollections of the way i bought it. can any woman who has shopped only in america bring forward a similar statement? all this changes, however, when once you get into the clutches of the average french dressmaker. by his side, barabbas would appear a gentleman of exceptional honesty. i have often, in idle moments, imagined myself a cannibal, and, in preparing my daily menu, my first dish would be a fricassee of french dressmakers. perhaps in that i am unjust. in thinking it over, i will amend it by saying a fricassee of _all_ dressmakers. it would be unfair to limit it to the french. there is one thing particularly noticeable about the charm which french shop-windows in one of the smart streets like the rue de la paix exercises upon the american woman, and that is that it very soon wears off, and she sees that most of the things exploited are beyond her means, or are totally unsuited to her needs. i defy any woman to walk down one of these brilliant shop-lined streets of paris for the first time, and not want to buy every individual thing she sees, and she will want to do it a second time and a third time, and, if she goes away from paris and stays two months, the first time she sees these things on her return all the old fascination is there. to overcome it, to stamp it out of the system, she must stay long enough in paris to live it down, for, if she buys rashly while under the influence of this first glamour, she is sure to regret it. dresden and berlin differ materially from paris in this respect. their shop-windows exploit things less expensive, more suitable to your every-day needs, and equally unattainable at home. so that if you have gained some experience by your mistakes in paris, your outlay in these german cities will be much more rational. leather goods in germany are simply distracting. there are shops in dresden where no woman who appreciates bags, satchels, card-cases, photograph-frames, book-covers, and purses could refrain from buying without disastrous results. i remember my first pilgrimage through the streets of dresden. between the porcelains and toilet sets, the madonnas, the belts, and card-cases, i nearly lost my mind. the modest prices of the coveted articles were each time a separate shock of joy. if these sturdy germans had wished to take advantage of my indiscreet expressions of surprise and delight, they might easily have raised their prices without our ever having discovered it. but day after day we returned, not only to find that the prices remained the same, but that, in many instances, if we bought several articles, they voluntarily took off a mark or two on account of the generosity of our purchases. dresden is a city where works of art are most cunningly copied. you can order, if you like, copies of any but the most intricate of the treasures of the green vaults, and you will not be disappointed with the results. you can order copies of any of the most famous pictures in the dresden galleries, and have them executed with like exquisite skill. nor is there any city in all europe where it is so satisfactory to buy a souvenir of a town, which you will not want to throw away when you get home and try to find a place for it. because souvenirs of dresden appeal to your love of art and the highest in your nature. leather you will find elsewhere, but the dresden works of art are peculiarly its own. in austria manners differ considerably both from those of paris and upper germany. i should say they were a cross between the two. we shopped in ischl, which has shops quite out of proportion to its size on account of being the summer home of the emperor, and there we met with a politeness which was delightful. in vienna we had occasion to accompany jimmie and "little papa" on business expeditions which led him into the wholesale district. there it was universal for all the clerks to be seated at their work, particularly in the jeweller's shops. at our entrance, every man and woman there, from the proprietor to the errand boys, rose to their feet, bowed, and said "good day." when we finished our purchases, or even if we only looked and came away without buying, this was all repeated, which sometimes gave me the sensation of having been to a court function. vienna fashions are very elegant. being the seat of the court, there is a great deal of dress. there is wealth, and the shops are magnificent. personally, i much prefer the fashions of vienna to those of paris. prices are perhaps a little more moderate, but the truly paris creation generally has the effect of making one think it would be beautiful on somebody else. i can go to worth, felix, and doucet, and half a dozen others equally as smart, and not see ten models that i would like to own. in vienna there were paris clothes, of course, but the viennese have modified them, producing somewhat the same effect as american influence on paris fashions. to my mind they are more elegant, having more of reserve and dignity in their style, and a distinct morality. paris clothes generally look immoral when you buy them, and feel immoral when you get them on. there is a distinct spiritual atmosphere about clothes. in vienna this was very noticeable. i speak more of clothes in paris and vienna, as there are only four cities in the world where one would naturally buy clothes,--paris, vienna, london, and new york. in other cities you buy other things, articles perhaps distinctive of the country. when you get to st. petersburg, in your shopping experiences, you will find a mixture of teuton and slav which is very perplexing. we were particularly anxious to get some good specimens of russian enamel, which naturally one supposes to be more inexpensive in the country which creates them, but to our distress we discovered avenue de l'opera prices on everything we wished. each time that we went back the price was different. the market seemed to fluctuate. one blue enamelled belt, upon which i had set my heart, varied in price from one to three dollars each time i looked at it. finally, one day i hit upon a plan. i asked my friend, mile, de falk, to follow me into this shop and not speak to me, but to notice the particular belt i held in my hand. i then went out without purchasing, and the next day my friend sent her sister, who speaks nothing but russian and french, to this shop. she purchased the belt for ten dollars less than it had been offered to me. she ordered a different lining made for it, and the shopkeeper said in guileless russian, "how strange it is that ladies all over the world are alike. for a week two american young ladies have been in here looking at this belt, and by a strange coincidence they also wished this same lining." for once i flatter myself that i "did" a russian jew, but his companions in crime have so thoroughly "done" me in other corners of the world that i need not plume myself unnecessarily. he is more than even with me. all through russia we contented ourselves with buying russian engravings, which are among the finest in the world. perhaps some of their charm is in the subject portrayed, which, being unfamiliar, arouses curiosity. russian operas, paintings, theatricals, the national ballet, the interior of churches and mosques are different from those of every other country. there is in the churches such a strange admixture of the spiritual and the theatrical. so that the engravings of these things have for me at least more interest than anything else. occasionally we were betrayed into buying a peasant's costume, an ikon, or an enamel, but in moscow and kief, the only way that we could reproduce to our friends at home the glories and splendours of these two beautiful cities was by photographs, in which the brilliancy of their colours brings back the sensations of delight which we experienced. shopping in constantinople is not shopping as we americans understand it, unless you happen to be an indian trader by profession. i am not. therefore, the system of bargaining, of going away from a bazaar and pretending you never intended buying, never wanted it anyhow, of coming back to sit down and take a cup of coffee, was like acting in private theatricals. by nature i am not a diplomat, but if i had stayed longer in the orient, i think i would have learned to be as tricky as chinese diplomacy. we were given, by several of our turkish friends, two or three rules which should govern conduct when shopping in the orient. one is to look bored; the second, never to show interest in what pleases you; the third, never to let your robber salesman have an idea of what you really intend to buy. this comes hard at first, but after you have once learned it, to go shopping is one of the most exciting experiences that i can remember. i have always thought that burglary must be an exhilarating profession, second only to that of the detective who traps him. in shopping in the orient, the bazaars are dens of thieves, and you, the purchaser, are the detective. we found in constantinople little opportunity to exercise our new-found knowledge, because we were accompanied by our turkish friends, who saw to it that we made no indiscreet purchases. on several occasions they made us send things back because we had been overcharged, and they found us better articles at less price. of course we bought a fez, embroidered capes, bolero jackets, embroidered curtains, and rugs, but we, ourselves, were waiting to get to smyrna for the real purchase of rugs, and it was there that i personally first brought into play the guile that i had learned of the turks. i remember smyrna with particular delight. the quay curves in like a giant horseshoe of white cement. the piers jut out into the sapphire blue of this artificial bay, and are surrounded by myriads of tiny rowing shells, in which you must trust yourself to get to land, as your big ship anchors a mile or more from shore. it was the brightest, most brilliant mediterranean sunshine which irradiated the scene the morning on which we arrived at smyrna. a score of gaily clad boatmen, whose very patches on their trousers were as picturesque as the patches on italian sails, held out their hands to enable us to step from one cockle-shell to another, to reach the pier. in the way the boats touch each other in the harbour at smyrna, i was reminded of the thames in henley week. we climbed through perhaps a dozen of these boats before we landed on the pier, and in three minutes' walk we were in the rug bazaars of smyrna. such treasures as we saw! we were received by the smiling merchants as if we were long-lost daughters suddenly restored, but we practised our newly acquired diplomacy on them to such an extent that their faces soon began to betray the most comic astonishment. these people are like children, and exhibit their emotions in a manner which seems almost infantile to the caucasian. alas, we were not the prey they had hoped for. we sneered at their rugs; we laughed at their embroideries; we turned up our noses at their jewelled weapons; we drank their coffee, and walked out of their shops without buying. they followed us into the street, and there implored us to come back, but we pretended to be returning to our ship. on our way back through this same street, every proprietor was out in front of his shop, holding up some special rug or embroidery which he had hastily dug out of his secret treasures in the vain hope of compelling our respect. some of these were persian silk rugs worth from one to three thousand dollars each. although we would have committed any crime in order to possess these treasures, having got thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, we turned these rugs on their backs and pretended to find flaws in them, jeered at their colouring, and went on our way, followed by a jabbering, excited, perplexed, and nettled horde, who recklessly slaughtered their prices and almost tore up their mud floors in their wild anxiety to prove that they had something--anything--which we would buy. they called upon allah to witness that they never had been treated so in their lives, but would we not stop just once more again to cast our eyes on their unworthy stock? having had all the amusement we wanted, and it being nearly time for luncheon, we went in, and in half an hour we had bought all that we had intended to buy from the first moment our eyes were cast upon them, and at about one-half the price they were offered to us three hours before. now, if that isn't what you call enjoying yourself, i should like to ask what you expect. ephesus, the graves of the seven sleepers, the tomb of st. luke, the ruins of the temple of diana ("great is diana of the ephesians"), the prison of st. paul, are only a part of my vivid experiences in smyrna. in athens we bought nothing modern, but found several antique shops with byzantine treasures, also silver ornaments, ancient curios, more beautiful than anything we found in italy, and ancient sacred brass candlesticks of the greek church, which bore the test of being transplanted to an american setting. in truth, some of my richest experiences have been in exploring with jimmie tiny second-hand shops, pawn-shops, and dark, almost squalid corners, where, amid piles of rubbish, we found some really exquisite treasures. mrs. jimmie and bee would have been afraid they would catch leprosy if they had gone with us on some of our expeditions, but jimmie and i trusted in that providence which always watches over children and fools, and even in england we found bits of old silver, china, and porcelain which amply repaid us for all the risk we ran. we often encountered shopkeepers who spoke a language utterly unknown to us and who understood not one word of english, and with whom we communicated by writing down the figures on paper which we would pay, or showing them the money in our hands. perhaps we were cheated now and then--in fact, in our secret hearts we are guiltily sure of it, but what difference does that make? when you get to cairo, it being the jumping-off place, you naturally expect the most curious admixture of stuffs for sale that your mind can imagine, but, after having passed through the first stages of bewilderment, you soon see that there are only a few things that you really care for. for instance, you can't resist the turquoises. if you go home from egypt without buying any you will be sorry all the rest of your lives. nor ought you to hold yourself back from your natural leaning toward crude ostrich feathers from the ostrich farms, and to bottle up your emotion at seeing uncut amber in pieces the size of a lump of chalk is to render yourself explosive and dangerous to your friends. shirt studs, long chains for your vinaigrette or your fan, cuff buttons, antique belts of curious stones (generally clumsy and unbecoming to the waist, but not to be withstood), carved ostrich eggs, jewelled fly-brushes, carved brass coffee-pots and finger bowls, cigar sets of brilliant but rude enamel, to say nothing of the rugs and embroideries, are some of the things which i defy you to refrain from buying. to be sure, there are thousands of other attractions, which, if you are strong-minded, you can leave alone, but these things i have enumerated you will find that you cannot live without. of course, i mean by this that these things are within reach of your purse, and cheaper than you can get them anywhere else, unless perhaps you go into the adjacent countries from which they come. as you go up the nile, your shopping becomes more primitive. on the mud banks, at the stations at which your boat stops, arabians, nubians, and egyptians sit squatting on the caked mud with their gaudy clothes, brilliant embroideries, and rugs piled around them all within arm's reach. here also you must bring the guile which i have described into play. it may be that at assuan, near the first cataract, i really got into some little danger. i never knew why, but in the bazaars there i developed an awful, insatiable desire to make a complete collection of abyssinian weapons of warfare. for this purpose, one day, i got on my donkey and took with me only a little scotchman, who had presented me with countless bead necklaces and so many baskets all the way up the nile that at night i was obliged to put them overboard in order to get into my stateroom, and who wore, besides his goggles, a green veil over his face. we made our way across the sand, into which our donkeys' feet sank above their fetlocks, to the bazaars of assuan. these bazaars deserve more than a passing mention, as they are unlike any that i ever saw. they are all under one roof on both sides of tiny streets or broad aisles, just as you choose to call them, and through these aisles your donkey is privileged to go, while you sit calmly on his back, bargaining with the cross-legged merchants, who scream at you as you pass, thrusting their wares into your face, and, even if you attempt to pass on, they stop your donkey by pulling his tail. on this particular day i left my donkey at the door and made my way on foot, as i was eager to make my purchases. perhaps i was careless and ought to have taken better care of my scotchman, because he was so little and so far from home, but i regret to say that i lost him soon after i went into the bazaar, and i didn't see him again for three hours. never shall i forget those three hours. in smyrna, turkey, and egypt the bargaining language is about the same. "what you give, lady?" "i won't give anything! i don't want it! what! do you think i would carry that back home?" "but you take hold of him; you feel him silk; i think you want to buy. ver' cheap, only four pound!" "four pounds!" i say in french. "oh, you don't want to sell. you want to keep it. and at such a price you will keep it." "keep it!" in a shrill scream. "not want to sell? me? i _here_ to sell! i sell you everything you see! i sell you the _shop_!" and then more wheedlingly, "you give me forty francs?" "no," in english again. "i'll give you two dollars." "america! liberty!" he cries, having cunningly established my nationality, and flattering my country with oriental guile. "exactly," i say, "liberty for such as you if you go there. none for me. liberty in america is only free to the lower classes. the others are obliged to _buy_ theirs." he shakes his head uncomprehendingly. "how much you give for him? last price now! six dollars!" we haggle over "last prices" for a quarter of an hour more, and after two cups of coffee, amiably taken together, and some general conversation, i buy the thing for three dollars. bee says my tastes are low, but at any rate i can truthfully say that i get on uncommonly well with the common herd. i got about thirty of these jargon-speaking merchants so excited with my spirited method of not buying what they wanted me to that a large englishman and a tall, gaunt australian, thinking there was a fight going on, came to where i sat drinking coffee, and found that the screams, gesticulations, appeals to allah, smiting of foreheads, brandishing of fists, and the general uproar were all caused by a quiet and well-behaved american girl sitting in their midst, while no less than four of them held a fold of her skirt, twitching it now and then to call attention to their particular howl of resentment. they rescued me, loaded my purchases on my donkey boy, and found my donkey for me, beside which, sitting patiently on the ground and humbly waiting my return, i found my little scotchman. with all this cumulative experience, as jimmie says, "of how to misbehave in shops," we got back to london, where i could bring it into play, and in a manner avenge myself for past slights. i was so grateful to jimmie for the king arthur that he gave me at innsbruck that i decided to surprise him by something really handsome on his birthday. when we got to paris, there seemed to be an epidemic of gun-metal ornaments set with tiny pearls, diamonds, or sapphires. of these i noticed that jimmie admired the pearl-studded cigar-cases and match-safes most, but for some reason i waited to make my purchase in london, which was one of the most foolish things i ever have done in all my foolish career, and right here let me say that there is nothing so unsatisfactory as to postpone a purchase, thinking either that you will come back to the same place or that you will see better further along, for in nine cases out of ten you never see it again. when we got to london, bee and i put on our best street clothes and started out to buy jimmie his birthday present. we searched everywhere, but found that all gun-metal articles in london were either plain or studded with diamonds. we couldn't find a pearl. finally in one shop i explained my search to a tall, heavy man, evidently the proprietor, who had small green eyes set quite closely together, a florid complexion, and hay-coloured side-whiskers. his whiskers irritated me quite as much as the fact that he hadn't what i wanted. perhaps my hat vexed him, but at any rate he looked as though he were glad he didn't have the pearls, and he finally permitted his annoyance, or his general british rudeness, to voice itself in this way: "pardon me, madame," he said, "but you will never find cigar-cases of gun-metal studded with pearls, no matter how much you may desire it, for it is not good taste." i was warm, irritated, and my dress was too tight in the belt, so i just leaned my two elbows on that show-case, and i said to him: "do you mean to have the impertinence, my good man, to tell two american ladies that what they are looking for is not in good taste, simply because you are so stupid and insular as not to keep it in stock? do you presume to express your opinion on taste when you are wearing a green satin necktie with a pink shirt? if you had ever been off this little island, and had gone to a land where taste in dress, and particularly in jewels, is understood, you would realise the impertinence of criticising the taste of an american woman, who is trying to find something worth while buying in so hopelessly british a shop as this. now, my good man," i added, taking up my parasol and purse, "i shall not report your rudeness to the proprietor, because doubtless you have a family to support, and i don't wish to make you lose your place, but let this be a warning to you never to be so insolent again," and with that, i simply swept out of his shop. i seldom sweep out. bee says i generally crawl out, but this time i was so inflated with an unholy joy that i recklessly cabled to paris for jimmie's pearls, and to this day i rejoice at the way that man covered his green satin tie with his large hairy red hand, and at the ecstatic smiles on the faces of two clerks standing near, for i _knew_ he was the proprietor when i called him "my good man." if you want to open an account in london, you have to be vouched for by another commercial house. they won't take your personal friends, no matter how wealthy, no matter if they are titled. your bank's opinion of you is no good. neither does it avail you how well and favourably you are known at your hotel for paying your bill promptly. this, and the custom in several large department stores of never returning your money if you take back goods, but making you spend it, not in the store, but in the department in which you have bought, makes shopping for dry goods excessively annoying to americans. i took back two silk blouses out of five that i bought at a large shop in regent street much frequented by americans, which carries on a store near by under the same name, exclusively for mourning goods. to my astonishment, i discovered that i must buy three more blouses, or else lose all the money i paid for them. in my thirst for information, i asked the reason for this. in america, a lady would consider the reason they gave an insult. the shopwoman told me that ladies' maids are so expert at copying that many ladies have six or eight garments sent home, kept a few days, copied by their maids and returned, and that this became so much the custom that they were finally forced to make that obnoxious rule. i have heard complaints made in america by proprietors of large importing houses that women who keep accounts frequently order a handsome gown, wrap, or hat sent home on approval, wear it, and return it the next day. if this is the custom among decent self-respecting american women, who masquerade in society in the guise of women of refinement and culture, no wonder that shopkeepers are obliged to protect themselves. there is nowhere that the saying, "the innocent must suffer with the guilty," obtains with so much force as in shopping, particularly in london. it is a characteristic difference between the clever american and the insular british shopkeeper that in america, when a thing such as i have mentioned is suspected, the saleswoman or a private detective is sent to shadow the suspect, and ascertain if she really wore the garment in question. in such cases, the garment is returned to her with a note, saying that she was seen wearing it, when it is generally paid for without a word. if not, the shop is in danger of losing one otherwise valuable customer, as she is placed on what is known as the "blacklist," which means that a double scrutiny is placed on all her purchases, as she is suspected of trickery. in this same shop in regent street, of which i have been speaking, we submitted to several petty annoyances of this description without complaint, the last and pettiest of which was when mrs. jimmie, being captivated by an exquisite hundred-guinea gown of pale gray, embroidered in pink silk roses, and veiled with black chantilly lace, bought it and ordered it altered to her figure. for this they charged her two pounds ten in addition to that frightful price for about an hour's work about the collar. mrs. jimmie seldom resents anything, and in her gentleness is easily governed, so this time i persuaded her to protest, and dictated a furious letter of remonstrance to the proprietor, citing only this one case of extortion. jimmie sat by, smoking and encouraging me, as i paced up and down the room with my hands behind my back, giving vent to sentences which, when copied down in mrs. jimmie's ladylike handwriting, made jimmie scream with joy. i think mrs. jimmie never had any intention of sending the letter, having written it down as a safety-valve for my rather explosive nature, but jimmie was so carried away by the artistic incongruities of the situation that he whipped a stamp on it and mailed it before his wife could wink. to his delight, mrs. jimmie received, three days later, a letter from the astonished proprietor, which showed in every line of it the jolt that my letter must have been to his stolid british nerveless system. he began by thanking her for having reported the matter to him, apologised humbly, as a british tradesman always does apologise to the bloated power of wealth, and said that her letter had been sent to all the various heads of departments for their perusal. he declared that for five years he had been endeavouring to bring the directors to see that, if they were to possess the coveted american patronage for which they always strove, they must accommodate themselves to certain american prejudices, one of which was the unalterable distaste americans displayed in paying for refitting handsome gowns. he was delighted to say that her letter had been couched in such firm, decisive, and righteously indignant language, such as he himself never would have been capable of commanding, had carried such weight, and had been productive of such definite results with the directors that he was pleased to announce that henceforward a radical change would appear in the government of their house, and that never again would an extra charge be made for refitting any garment costing over ten pounds. he thanked her again for her letter, but could not resist saying at the close that it was the most astonishing letter he had ever received in his life, and he begged to enclose the two pounds ten overcharge. jimmie fairly howled for joy as he read this letter aloud; bee looked very much mortified; mrs. jimmie exceedingly perplexed, as if uncertain what to think, but i confess that all my irritation against british shopkeepers fell away from me as a cast-off garment. i blush to say that i shared jimmie's delight, and when he solemnly made me a present of the two pounds ten i had so heroically earned, i soothed my ladylike sister's refined resentment by inviting all three to have broiled lobster with me at scott's. i imagine, however, that one woman's experience with dressmakers is like all others. i have noticed that to introduce the subject of my personal woes in the matter is to make the conversation general, in fact i might say composite, no matter how formal the gathering of women. like the subject of servants, it is as provocative of conversation as classical music. far be it from me, however, to class all shopping in london under the head of dry goods, or the rage one gets into with every dressmaker. in most of the shops, in fact, i may say, in all of them (for the one unfortunate experience i have related in the jeweller's shop was the only one of the kind i ever had in london), the clerks are universally polite, interested, and obliging, no matter how smart the shop may be. take for instance, jay's, or lewis and allenby's. the instant you stop before the smallest object a saleswoman approaches and says, "good morning." you say, "what a very pretty parasol!" and she replies, "it _is_ pretty, isn't it, modom?" she wears a skin-tight black cashmere gown with a little tail to it. her beautiful broad shoulders, flat back, tiny waist, bun at the back of her head, and the invisible net over the fringe, all proclaim her to be an englishwoman, but her pronunciation of the simplest words, and the way her voice goes up and down two or three times in a single sentence, sometimes twice in a single word, might sometimes lead you to think she spoke a foreign tongue. the english call all our voices monotonous, but it was several weeks after i reached london for the first time before i could catch the significance of a sentence the first time it was pronounced. all over europe our watchword with the russians, turks, egyptians, arabs, french, germans, and italians was always "do you speak english?" and in london it is jimmie's crowning act of revenge to ask the railway guards and cab-drivers the same insulting question. imagine asking london cabbies the question, "do you speak english?" it puts him in a purple rage directly. but shopkeepers all over europe are quick to anticipate all your wants, to suggest tempting things which have not occurred to you to buy, and to offer to have things made, if nothing in stock suits you. i suppose i am naturally slow and stupid. bee says i am, but having been brought up in america, in the south, where nothing is ever made, and where we had to send to new york for everything, and where even new york has to depend on europe for many of its staples, my surprise overpowered me so that it mortified bee, when they offered to have silk stockings made for me in paris. like most americans, i am in the habit of turning away disappointed, and preparing to go without things if i cannot find what i want in the shops, but in london and paris they will offer of their own accord to make for you anything you may describe to them, from a pair of gloves to a pattern of brocade. this is one and perhaps the only glory of being an american in europe, for, as my friend in naples, of the firm of ananias, barabbas, and company, said to me: "behold! you are an american, and by americans do we not live?" proofreaders europe. this file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliotheque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. a tour through some parts of france, switzerland, savoy, germany and belgium, during the summer and autumn of . by the hon. richard boyle bernard, m.p. majora minorane famæ! hor. say are they less or greater than report! london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown. pater noster-row; . * * * * * harvard and farley, skinner street, london * * * * * to his royal highness the prince regent. sir, permit me to offer my most respectful thanks to your royal highness, for the honor you have conferred upon me, by permitting the following pages to be inscribed to your royal highness. i beg at the same time to express my congratulations to your royal highness on the late glorious events, which have distinguished your royal highness's government, which have restored to england the blessings of universal peace, and will render the present æra ever memorable in history. i have the honor to be, with the highest respect, sir, your royal highness's obliged and most obedient servant, r.b. bernard. * * * * * preface. had the following pages required the exertion either of superior judgment, or of abstruse research, the author is not sufficiently vain to have submitted them to the notice of the public. they are therefore not recommended to the perusal of the critical reader; as in fact, they contain merely the hasty observations suggested by the scenes he visited in the course of his tour, together with a few occasional remarks, which he thought might be acceptable to the generality of readers: since notwithstanding the late increase of travellers, the numbers are still very great, who, being prevented by business, or deterred by the inconveniences of travelling, from visiting the continent, might be disposed to pardon some inaccuracies, should they meet with a small portion either of amusement or information. * * * * * contents. chap. i. page introduction--on the opening of the continent--departure from london--arrival in france--different appearance of things-large bonnets--custom house and passports--of travelling in france--french dinners--abbeville--beauvais--vines--chantilly; its ruined appearance--st. denis and its abbey chap. ii. of the approach to paris--general appearance of that city--its bridges--is inferior in comfort to london--settled at an hotel--population of paris--its markets--badly supplied with water--of its various divisions and their inhabitants--palais royal--gamblers--police--english papers--rule to find one's way through paris--the tuilleries--the louvre--plans of improvement chap. iii. visit to the gallery of the louvre and museum--to the luxemburg--to the royal library--to the palais des beaux arts--to the church of notre dame--to the pantheon--protestant church and congregation--of the number of english in paris--column in the place vendôme--gobelin manufactory--post office--botanic garden--lady and her dog--story of dr. moore--of the character of the parisians--their loquacity--of the legislative body--heat of the weather--champs elysées--quarter of st. antoine--of the revolution--of the boulevards--of the restaurateurs--of ladies frequenting coffee-houses, &c. chap. iv. the invalides--elevation of different buildings--buonaparte desirous of eclat--champ de mars--place de grenelle--of the plan of general mallet and his execution--visit to the museum of french monuments--infidelity of its promoters--of colbert--gardens of tivoli--great numbers of military officers in public places--of the capture of paris by the allies--view of paris from montmartre--vanity of the french--their love of novelty--the emperor alexander's entry into paris--of the establishment of m. delacroix--at the tuilleries--of the king--his regard for england--france still unsettled--advice of galba to piso--curious glass stair case--of the french theatres, and their italian opera--number of bureau d'ecrivains. chap. v. visit to the royal palaces--st. cloud--st. cyr--malmaison--versailles--its formality--accuracy of pope's description of the old style of decoration--comparison of windsor and versailles--city of versailles greatly reduced--trianon--sèvres--porcelain manufactory--barrier of passy--of the harvest--castle of vincennes--few private carriages at paris--great numbers of fiacres and cabriolets--attend at the foreign office for passports to leave paris--arrive at fontainebleau--memorable for the abdication of buonaparte--reflections on the captivity and character of the pope--reflections on buonaparte--at montereau; battle near the town--sens--auxerre--description of the french diligence--dinners, &c. chap. vi. at avalon--public promenades--number of beggars--villages and country houses more numerous in vine than in corn countries-farming in this district--land tax and customs of descent--dijon--a large and handsome city--its public buildings--company in the diligence increased by the arrival of two french officers--their political opinions--advantage of the diligence--arrival at dole--battle near auxonne--genlis--poligny--vin d'arbois--woods but without birds--moray--english breakfast--resemblance to north wales--magnificent view of the lake of geneva--excellent roads made by buonaparte--visit to ferney--description of geneva--view from its cathedral--its manufactures--population--territory--determination to visit the alps; and not to go into italy chap. vii. departure for chamouny--bonneville--valley of cluse--cascade d'arpennas--st. martin--extravagant bill--proceed on mules--their astonishing safety--river arve--pont de chèvres--cascade of chede--extravagance of english travellers very prejudicial--lake of chede--servoy and its mines--visited by the empress maria louisa--glaciers des bossons--definition of glacier--of the valley and village of chamouny--guides--politics of the savoyards--state of taxation--ascent of montanvert--magnificent and awful spectacle of the mer de glace--height of various mountains, compared with mont blanc--simile from pope--return to chamouny--larch and fir mixed on these vast mountains--their productions--the valley continually threatened with avalanches chap. viii. leave chamouny--delightful situation of valorsine--festival there--of the savoyard peasants--anecdote from m. de saussure--country difficult to travel through--trient--magnificent view from the fourcle--the french not so much disliked in the valais as their cruelty deserved--castle of la rathia--martigny--unsuccessful attempt of two english gentlemen to ascend mont blanc--less adventurous, we did not ascend mount st. bernard--cascade of the pisse vache--number of idiots and goitrous persons in the valais--opinion of mr. coxe on the subject--opinion of m. de saussure--st. maurice--its strong position--roman bridge and antiquities--passports demanded here--different colour of the rhone here and at geneva. chap. ix. bex--industry of the inhabitants of this country--their cottages and wandering lives--salt springs--aigle--growth of corn--villeneuve--agitated state of the lake--labours of the inhabitants often destroyed by the fall of rocks--chillon--clarens--vevay--magnificent view from its church--of general ludlow--lausanne--its singular situation--its antiquity--its cathedral--view from the church-yard--population and manufactures--french manners prevail here--gibbon--pope felix v. a singular character--reformation--morges--festivity there--rolle--its spa--country seats--delightful scene from the garden of its castle in the evening--nyon--château de pranqui--joseph buonaparte--vines--swiss artillery--copet--anecdote of md^e. de staël--versoi--return to geneva chap. x. on the introduction of history into tours--early government of geneva--reformation--alliance with berne and zurich--a few laws peculiar to geneva--theatre--town hall--permission obtained to reside at geneva--lodging procured in consequence--fortifications of geneva not devoid of utility--views from the ramparts--maintenance of the allied troops very expensive to geneva--regret of the genevese at the destruction of some ancient avenues by them--meet a person who gives a melancholy account of the state of geneva under the french--state of society--fête de navigation--dress, &c.--epigram by a prince of hesse--rousseau--voltaire--raynal--remarks of a savoyard peasant--the college of geneva--the library--of calvin--water works--society of arts--corn magazine--churches, service, &c. at geneva. chap. xi. excursion to the perte du rhone--magnificent spectacle which it affords--rise of the rhone--hop gardens--malt liquor badly made--climate of geneva--of switzerland in general--opinion of haller--soil, grain, and population of switzerland--quantities of cattle--various plants--visit to a watchmaker's warehouse--its elevated situation--great ingenuity, but want of what in england would be thought good taste--circles of genevese--introduced to a french gentleman who bad twice escaped the guillotine--walks and rides--junction of the rhone and arve--coligny--carrouge--st. julian--battle there--inferiority of the austrian troops to the french--french politics--empress maria louisa--lord castlereagh at geneva chap. xii. regret at leaving geneva--lake of joux--coponex--robbers--lassera--curious separation of a rivulet---orbe--face of the country--price of land--yverdun--sea view--spa--school--anecdote of a conductor--game--bridge of serrier--neufchâtel, said to resemble naples--description of its territory--anecdote respecting the religion of landeron--david riri--sketch of the history of neufchâtel--competitors for its sovereignty--lake of bienne--island of st. pierre--singular government of bienne--great change on passing the pont de thiel--charge of rapacity against the swiss--pleasant travelling--extensive view from julemont--agriculture--arberg chap. xiii. morat--famous for kirschwasser--monument commemorating the defeat of the burgundians removed by the french--its inscription--seedorf--view of the island of st. pierre--beauty of the distant view of berne--its interior also handsome--its fortifications--stags and bears kept in the trenches--public library--botanic garden--chemists' and bakers' shops--convicts chained in the streets--beautiful public walks--government of berne--opinion of pope--excursions to hofwyl and hindelbanck--extent of the canton of berne--its population, productions, &c. &c--state of the clergy--departure from berne--village of worb--saw mill--bleach greens--care which the swiss take of their horses--sumiswald--little wooden inn--zell--castle of haptalla--irrigation--beautiful situation of lucerne--its melancholy interior--general pfiffer's model--beautiful lake--mount pilate and rigi--visit two classic spots--and the small canton--gersau--intolerance--lake and canton of zug--swiss honey--magnificent view of zurich, described by zimmerman--considerations on the difference between the swiss cantons, &c chap. xiv. zurich--its interior not answerable to its distant appearance--population, buildings, &c.--dinner at the table d'hote--excursion on the lake--country and villages near zurich--winter there--cascade of lauffen--its magnificent effect--cyder--bad vintage--schaffhausen--its bridge--population--laws--manufactures, &c.--view of mount banken--chapsigre cheese--swiss tea--set out in the diligence with a doctor of leipzig--his uncommon love of smoking--civility, dress, &c. of the germans--deutlingen--pass the danube--taste of the germans for music, preferable to the political arguments of the french--passports--subdivisions of germany--trade--posts well conducted--accident at bahlingen--house of hohenzollern chap. xv. tubingen--its university--different from ours--agree to post to frankfort--of german posting, and dinners--feather-beds--stoves--stutgard--a handsome city--palace, its decorations--industry of the queen--council chamber--royal stables--garrison composed handsome troops--palace at ludwigsburg--waggons and traffic on the road--heilbron--escape from being overturned--sinzheim--cossaok arrives there--heidelberg--its castle--venerable in ruins--the inn--rich country--quantity of potatoes--manheim--regularly built, but much deserted--the palace in decay--walks--darmstadt--unfurnished and ill situated--palace--handsome gardens--frankfort a magnificent city--inns--opulence of its merchants--population--jews--gates and fortifications--cassino--villas--orchards--hochst--inscription-- hochheim--rhiagau wines--mayence--its strength--handsome only at a distance--its bridge--cathedral--population--exportation of corn--large cabbage chap. xvi. embark on the rhine--political rhapsodies of two frenchmen--beautiful scenery--gulph of bingerlock--blighted state of the vines--most distressing to the inhabitants--boppart--'god save the king'--bonfires--size of paris and london--st. goar--coblentz--royal saxon guards--ruins of ehrenbreitstein--andernach--the devil's house--lowdersdorf--linz--bonn--illuminations, balls, &c.--end of the picturesque scenery--boat driven on shore--walk to cologne--a vast and gloomy city--simile of dr. johnson's--few country houses on the rhine--rubens--his excellence as a painter and his great modesty--juliers--aix la chapelle--its antiquity--waters--pleasant situation--population not equal to its estent--burscheid--manufactures of cloth, &c.--cathedral--sunday ill observed--liege--a large and extremely dirty city--booksellers--cutlery--distress of the manufacturers--thieves--bad money--expeditions public carriage--axiom of rousseau--st. tron--chimes--tirlemont, its much reduced manufactures chap. xvii. population of the netherlands--louvain--its public buildings--university--character of the belgians--by some represented as the worst in europe--that statement probably overcharged--extortion--john bull at paris--french kitchens, &c.--breweries--roads--taste in gardening--canals not an agreeable mode of travelling--heavy taxes--unsettled political state--vast numbers of english at brussels--its extent, population and appearance--the park--anecdote of peter the great--town house--churches--collections of paintings--anecdote of bassano--hotels--table d'hote, like the tables at cheltenham--expence of living--houses--jurourin--forest of sogne--house of correction compared with ours--walk round the city--fortified towns--sieges of ostend, valenciennes, troy and azotus--malines--considerations on its decline--its silk--population--buildings--manner of cutting the trees near the roads--antwerp, its importance--docks--river--riches of belgium--buildings at antwerp--accuracy of the flemish painters--appearance of the country--the inns not equally decorated with those in germany--wooden shoes chap. xviii. ghent--its great size--decreased in populalation and consequence--charles v.--d'arteville--canals--trade--buildings-prison--land and water travelling--ostend and bruges--derivation of bourse--noisy and silent travellers--proficiency of foreigners in english--taste in bonnets--sportsmen without game--courtray--dogs drawing--boundary stone of france--custom house--passports, danger of being without--lille--fortified by vauban--population--buildings--theatre--society--oeconomical residence-remarkable view from cassel--berg--fens--canals--dunkirk--first impressions--the origin of its name--buildings and population--flemish language--of the union of belgium with france--political consideration--dunkirk sold by charles ii.--lord clarendon's house so called--its fortifications demolished--gravelines---its strong situation--liberty and equality--cheap travelling--calais the last english possession in france--contrary winds--french officers displeased at the theatre--general jealousy of england--embark on board a french packet--loquacity of the french--arrival in england--its superiority to other countries * * * * * a tour through some parts of france, switzerland, &c. &c. * * * * * chap. i. i had long been desirous of visiting the continent, but the long continuance of the war, and the little prospect which lately appeared of its termination, seemed to afford no chance for the accomplishment of my wish. at a period, however, when that arbitrary power, which had so long held in subjection the other nations of the continent, sought to overthrow the only monarch who dared to oppose it, and to claim for his subjects the natural rights from which they had been excluded by the "_continental system_," it pleased divine providence to destroy the fetters which enslaved the nations of europe, as if to try, whether in the school of adversity, they had learned to merit the blessings of independence. these great and glorious changes, the reality of which it was at first _difficult_ to believe, having opened to the subjects and commerce of britain, countries from which they had been for so many successive years proscribed, it was not long before numbers of british repaired to the continent to indulge that love of roving for which they had been always distinguished (and which a long war had suppressed but not eradicated) and to claim from all true patriots, in the countries they visited, that friendly reception to which the long perseverance and vast sacrifices of england, during a struggle unexampled in history, had so justly entitled the lowest of her subjects. the unsettled state in which most part of the continent necessarily remained for a little time after the entrance of the allies into paris, did not afford the most favourable moment for the journey of one who was not a military traveller; and i did not regret that business prevented my leaving england for a few months after the opening of the continent, as i had the gratification of being a witness, in the british metropolis, to the exultation of all ranks of men; first, at seeing the legitimate monarch of france arrive there in company with our illustrious regent who having long contributed to lessen the afflictions of the exiled _count de lille_, had first the satisfaction (to which he, amongst all the sovereigns of europe, was best entitled, by the great part, which under his government, england had performed for the cause of european liberty) of saluting him as _king of france_, amidst the cheers of applauding thousands; and, secondly, of witnessing the arrival of the magnanimous alexander, of that too long unfortunate monarch, frederick william, of those chiefs, platoff and blucher, whose exploits have ranked them amongst the first of heroes, and, at last, of seeing, in the person of a _wellington_, a british marshal who had successively foiled the most renowned of the generals of buonaparte, and who, like turenne, was accustomed "_to fight without anger, to conquer without ambition, and to triumph without vanity_." about the middle of july i left london and proceeded to dover, a journey which, in the improved state of our roads and of our conveyances, is easily performed in one day; and often as i had before travelled the kent road, yet i could not see without surprise, the astonishing number of public and private carriages with which it abounds, and which must have doubtless much increased within the last few months. i became acquainted on the road with a french abbé, who, accompanied by his sister, was returning home after an absence of twenty-two years, which he had spent mostly in england, but he could by no means express himself intelligibly in english. i therefore addressed him in his own language, which pleased him extremely, and i found him an amusing companion, as well as very grateful for some little services i rendered him in arranging with the coachman respecting his baggage and that of his sister, as they took the whole of their property to france with them, including many household articles which i should not have thought worth the expence of carriage. we supped in the same apartment at dover, but they had brought their provisions with them, which as i afterwards found was sometimes the practice in france, either from motives of comfort or economy. such travellers, however, would not be much wished for at an english inn. next morning my first business was to attend at the custom-house; and the officers, after a diligent search, finding nothing illegal amongst my baggage, permitted me to purchase a sufferance for it to be embarked for france. the rest of the passengers having likewise arranged their affairs and obtained sufferances, we proceeded on board the packet, and found that it was extremely full without this last reinforcement; but i doubt whether the captain way of that opinion. i found the charge for the passage amounted to one guinea, which is the sum paid for the passage between dublin and holyhead, although that is nearly three times the extent of the channel between dover and calais. i was informed that the seeming disproportion in those prices was to be attributed to the heavy _post dues_ at calais, which, for so small a vessel as the packet, amounted to £ or £ , although in the year they did not exceed eighteen shillings. amongst the passengers was a swiss gentleman, who i found passed for a man of _great importance_ amongst the sailors. his carriage perhaps contributed not a little to this, as it had once been the property of the duke of northumberland; and although the arms were defaced, yet the coronet, the garter, and the gilding with which it was still decorated, no doubt contributed to increase the expences of a journey which, from its length, is a heavy tax on the pockets of the generality of travellers, however plain may be their equipage. we were above two hours on board before it was possible to extricate our vessel from the great number of transports (i believe not less than thirty-two) which crowded the harbour, being engaged for some time in bringing home a large portion of our cavalry, who added to the military glory they had acquired in spain and portugal, by their forbearance in tolerating insults to which they were but too often exposed in their passage through france, by a people whose vanity forbids them to admire valour, except in frenchmen, but whose conduct on those occasions served only to increase the obligations which they had in so many instances experienced from the humanity which always attends on british valour. if we had to regret the delay we experienced in getting out to sea, that sentiment soon vanished before the favourable breeze which, in about four hours, brought us to the french coast. as the day was hazy, we had not long to admire the venerable castle of dover, and the cliff which shakspeare has celebrated; and some time elapsed before we could distinguish the shores of france, which differ entirely from those of england, rising gradually from the water's edge, with the single exception of _scales cliff_, which seems to correspond with some of those bulwarks which characterize our coast from dover to portland, where, i think, chalk cliffs are succeeded by masses of rock and grey stone. the tide being out on our arrival before calais, we could not get into the harbour, and with that impatience to leave a ship, which is natural to landsmen, we were glad to accept the offers of some boats which hastened around the packet, to offer their services in landing us; this, however, they did not exactly perform, being too large to get very near the shore, to which we were each of us carried by three frenchmen, one to each leg, and a third behind. this service i had often had performed by one of my fellow-subjects, and it seemed to verify the old saying, that '_one englishman is equal to three frenchmen_.' each monsieur however insisted on a shilling for his services, and the boatmen five shillings from every passenger. but i had travelled enough to know, that extortion on such occasions is so general, as not to be peculiarly the characteristic of the inhabitants of any country, and if ever there is _pleasure in being cheated_, it is surely on such an occasion as that of exchanging the misery of a ship for the comforts of the most indifferent inn. the arrival for the first time in a foreign country, of a person who has never before quitted his own, is an epoch of considerable moment in his life. most things are different from those he has been accustomed to, and the force of first impressions is then stronger than, perhaps, at almost any other period. we are, in general, not much disposed to like any custom, or mode of dress, which is greatly at variance with what we have been long used to, and the enormous height of the bonnets in france produces, in my opinion, an effect far from pleasing; the ladies, by their strange costume, _out-top_ many of the military. i found the town of calais in a state of equal bustle with dover, and from the same cause. it is regularly fortified, and contains many very good houses. the population is estimated at between seven and eight thousand. the market-place forms a spacious square. the town-house and church are handsome buildings, and altogether it must be allowed much to surpass dover as to appearance. the search which ray portmanteau had undergone the day before in england, was here renewed by the officers of the french _douane_, but with no better success on the part of the officers in being able to seize any thing. they were, however, very polite, and their fees only amounted to half a crown. my next care was, to attend at the town-hall, and present my passport to the inspection of the mayor, who indorsed it with his licence for me to proceed to paris. i accordingly determined on setting out without further delay, and joined an acquaintance in hiring a cabriolet for the journey, to obviate the trouble of changing our luggage at every post, and to avoid any delay that might arise from not finding a carriage at every station, which is by no means certain, as in england. we found the _cabriolet_ a very pleasant conveyance, it is nearly as light as a curricle, and has a head and windows, which exclude rain. it is drawn by two or three horses, and proceeds at a tolerably good pace. the postilions are provided with boots of a very inconvenient size, and with whips which they are perpetually cracking, not much to the comfort of the ears of their passengers. those who have never seen any thing but an english stage-coach, cannot but feel some surprise at the different appearance which a french _diligence_ presents. most of them carry nine inside passengers, and three in the cabriolet, and as much luggage behind, and in the imperial, as would load a tolerably large waggon. they are generally drawn by four horses, which present a very different appearance from those under the english carnages, and they are driven by one postilion, who rides the wheel-horse. occasionally, a second postilion and two more leaders are necessary from the weight of the carriage, or the heaviness of the roads. carriages in france, in passing each other, take exactly different sides of the road from what they are obliged to do by our laws of travelling. the country, for many leagues round calais reminded me very strongly of cambridgeshire in its general appearance, being flat, well cultivated, unenclosed, and abounding in wind-mills. about the villages there are some trees and enclosures; but a few more church spires are wanting to complete the resemblance. the distance from calais to paris is about _english miles_, and may generally be considered as a flat country, occasionally diversified by a few hills of no great magnitude. enclosures are rarely seen, but the quantity of corn is quite astonishing. agriculture appeared to me to be in a highly improved state: there are artificial grasses and meliorating crops. the appearance of the villages in general on this road is but little inferior to those in many parts of england. but the peasants, although not for the most part badly off, have no idea of that neatness, and of those domestic comforts which form the great characteristic of the same class of people in england. an english farmer would laugh at the great cocked hat which is usually worn by the french husbandman, and would not be disposed to change his white frock for the blue one used on the continent. some wood is occasionally to be seen; but picardy is not famous either for the quantity or quality of its timber. the general fuel of the lower orders is _turf_, which, however, is not in any great quantity; and in appearance it is inferior to that used by the irish peasants. the roads are in general kept in good repair, and near paris and some other great towns they are paved in the centre. they are flanked in many places by avenues of trees, which are for the most part cut with great formality; but even where left to themselves, they do not add much to the ornament of the country or to the comfort of the traveller, affording but a scanty shade. the whole of this road is without turnpikes; they were, as i understood, abolished about three years ago, and the roads are now managed by the government. the french praise buonaparte extremely for his attention to the state of their _roads_, and it must be owned that in this particular he merits the praise bestowed on him, which cannot be said with truth of many other parts of his conduct which seem to have been also approved of by the french. buonaparte, it is true, made excellent roads, but he made them only for his soldiers, either to awe those who had submitted to his yoke, or to afford a facility of extending still further his conquests. the drivers in france do not tax themselves at every public-house as with us, for porter or spirits, which they do not want; they seldom stop, unless the stage is unusually long, and their horses require a little rest. before we were admitted within the gates of boulogne our passports were demanded, and underwent a strict examination, probably the remains of the etiquette established by buonaparte, this place being chiefly remarkable as the port, from whence he proposed making his threatened descent into england. we observed a vast unfinished fort, which he had ordered to be constructed; it will probably never be completed, but crumble to pieces like the vast and ill-acquired authority of its founder. the town of boulogne is large and well fortified, but the bustle in the port was chiefly occasioned by the embarkation of the english cavalry. we dined at samers, and there had the first specimen of a french dinner (as at calais we had lodged at an hotel, which is kept by an englishman, and where every thing was _à l'angloise_). the _general_ hour for dining is twelve o'clock; many public carriages stop to dine before that hour, however, from twelve to one o'clock, the traveller is sure at every tolerable inn of finding a very abundant and cheap repast. we found the bread excellent, as also a profusion of fruit; the wine of picardy is bad, but good wine may be had from the southern provinces, at a reasonable price. their meats are so much stewed, that their real flavour can hardly be distinguished, but were they dressed by a mode of cookery that did them more justice, i do not apprehend the epicure would have to find fault with their quality. the next place which presented any thing worthy of remark, was abbeville, a large fortified city, which has manufactures of cloth and damask. the church which has suffered much during the anarchy of the revolution, is still a large and handsome edifice. we proceeded to breakfast at boix, where the coffee was excellent, and the milk was served up boiled, as is generally the custom throughout france. we also found good accommodation at beauvais, a large and ancient city, where the architecture of the houses reminded me much of shrewsbury. the streets are narrow and winding. the cathedral is well worthy the attention of the antiquarian, although it has, like many others in france, suffered greatly during the revolution. in the neighbourhood of beauvais are a vast number of vineyards, and the effect produced by them is very striking to those who have never seen a vine but in a stove. but the novelty soon ceases, and a vineyard is then seen with as little astonishment as a field of corn. we were easily persuaded to make a short deviation from the direct road, in order to visit chantilly, the once splendid residence of the princes of condé, but which now affords a melancholy contrast to the scene which it exhibited in more tranquil times. the great château has disappeared; but a small building remains at a distance, which is to be fitted up for the reception of its venerable owner, who is expected in the course of the summer to pay a visit to the inheritance which the late happy revolution has restored to him, after having undergone a sad change in its appearance. the great stables are standing, but only serve to add to the desolation of the scene by their vacancy, and the contrast which they form to the small house which now only remains to the possessor of this great domain.--st. denis, where we soon arrived, is a small town not far distant from paris; it was anciently remarkable for its _abbey_, which contained the magnificent tombs of the kings of france. these were mostly destroyed early in the revolution (but a few still remain, in the museum of monuments at paris, as i afterwards found) when the promoters endeavoured to obliterate all traces of royalty: but when after a long series of convulsions, buonaparte thought his dynasty had been firmly established on the throne of the bourbons, he decreed that this abbey should be restored as the burying place of the monarchs of france; and it is probable that decree will be carried into effect, although not in the sense which its promulgator intended. * * * * * chap. ii. the approach to paris is certainly very striking, but considering the vast extent of the city, its environs do not present an appearance of any thing like that bustle and activity which marks the vicinity of the british metropolis: nor do the villas which are to the north of paris display that aspect of opulence which distinguishes those streets of villas by which london is encompassed. the gate of st. denis, under which we passed, is a fine piece of architecture; it stands at the end of a long and narrow street, which is but ill calculated to impress a stranger with those ideas of the magnificence of paris of which the french are perpetually boasting, although it conducts him nearly to the centre of the city. i afterwards found that this is the most crowded quarter of the city; the houses are from six to eight stories in height, and are almost universally built of stone.--but although it must be admitted that this entrance to paris is one of the least distinguished, yet at the same time it must be observed, that there are but very few streets in that city which have much to boast of in point of appearance; they are mostly narrow, and the height of the houses necessarily makes them gloomy. they are (except in one or two new streets at the extremity of the town) extremely incommodious for pedestrians, there being here no place set apart for them as in london; hence they traverse the streets in perpetual dread of being run over by some of those numerous carriages which are continually passing along with an _impetus_ which raises just apprehensions in the mind of the foot passenger, that he may share the fate of doctor slop, if nothing more serious should befall him; as in avoiding the carriages it is no easy task to keep clear of the _kennel_, which is in the centre of the street; the descent to it is rapid, and it is rarely dry even in the warmest weather. it is when seen from one of the bridges, that paris appears to most advantage, as many of the quays are unquestionably very handsome, and decorated with many elegant edifices. the seine is in no part so much as half the width of the thames, in some places not a fourth part, as it forms two islands, on one of which stands the original city of paris. its waters are united at the _pont neuf_, on which stands the statue of henry iv. looking towards the louvre, which he founded. the view from this bridge is without comparison the most striking in paris, and is perhaps unequalled in any city, for the great number of royal and public edifices which are seen from it; and inconsiderable as is the seine compared with many other rivers, yet nothing has been neglected to render its banks striking to the passenger.--many of the bridges (of which i think there are altogether ) are handsome, particularly those of austerlitz and of jena, constructed by order of buonaparte. there is one bridge, the arches of which are of iron, opposite the gallery of the louvre, which is open only to foot passengers, each person paying two sous for the privilege of being admitted on this promenade, which is often much crowded with company. very soon after my arrival at paris i came to this conclusion, that although paris far exceeds london, dublin, or edinburgh, in the splendour of its public buildings, and often in the handsome appearance of many of its houses, yet those cities are far preferable in point of all essential comforts. and after spending a considerable time in paris, i saw no reason to change the opinion which i had first formed; that opinion however cannot, i should apprehend, be questioned by a frenchman, as it admits fully the magnificence of many parts of his favourite city, and this is sufficient for his vanity. with us cleanliness and comfort are preferred to shew, we find them in most of our own cities, but those who know most of paris will not deny that they are rarely to be met with there. i had been recommended to the hotel de pondicherry, by a gentleman who had for some time lodged there; but i found there were no vacant apartments. after making application in vain at many of the hotels in the rue de richelieu, i at last succeeded in meeting with good accommodation in the hotel des prouvaires, which was in a convenient situation, and had the advantage of having been lately painted. i found the people of the house very civil and attentive, and produced my passport from the secretary of states' office, signed by lord castlereagh, to satisfy them that i was no _avanturier_, a very numerous class here. the expence i found differed but little from, that of most of the hotels in london; but the french hotels are in fact more what we should call lodging-houses, as they do not supply dinners, &c. which must be procured from a restaurateur's, of which there are a vast number; and i have heard it stated, that there are no less than coffee-houses in paris. the population of paris is stated by marchant, in the last edition of his guide to paris at , ; the number of houses is estimated to be , ; this would give an average of nearly twenty persons to each house. this i do not consider as too great a proportion to allow, if we consider the vast number of hotels that can contain at least double that number of persons; and that in many parts of the town each story is occupied (as in edinburgh) by a separate family. the population of paris has undoubtedly decreased since the revolution; dutens, who published his itinerary about thirty years ago, tells us, at that period the inhabitants of paris amounted to , : but even supposing him to have over-rated them, still there remains a great disparity in the two calculations, and it is reasonable to conclude, that the present statement by marchant is accurate, from the facilities which the system of police affords in forming a just calculation on the subject. paris, including all its suburbs, is said to be about eight leagues in circumference, and, except london and constantinople, exceeds all the other cities of europe in extent. the markets of paris are remarkably well supplied with provisions of every description, and at a price which appears moderate to an englishman. i have been told, that fuel is sometimes at a very high price in the winter; but not being there at that season, i cannot speak from my own experience. what i had most reason to complain of during my stay, was scarcity of that great essential to health and cleanliness, _good water_. the city is for the most part supplied with this first of necessaries from the river seine. adjoining to one of the bridges is a vast machine, which raises its waters, which are conducted to all parts of the town, and also supply several public fountains. they have, however, an extremely bad taste from the numerous establishments for washing for all paris, which are established in boats on all parts of the river, which is thus strongly impregnated with soap-suds, and its cathartic qualities have been experienced by many strangers on their first arrival in paris. the french never drink this water without mixing in it a proportion of sugar, and then call it _eau sucré_, which is often called for at the coffee-houses. most houses have reservoirs of sand for filtering the water before it is used for drinking; but those who have been accustomed to the luxury of good water, cannot be soon reconciled to that of the seine. the water of the _ville d'arblay_ is sold in jars in the streets for making tea, and some of the fountains are supplied by springs. i believe the late government had a scheme in contemplation for the construction of an aqueduct, to supply purer water for the parisians than what they now use. many fountains have been established within the last few years, and the site of that once formidable building the _bastile_ is now occupied by one. none of these modern fountains (although many of them display much taste) are, however, by any means to be compared, in point of elegance, to that which stands in the market of innocents, and which was erected in the year . its situation is too confined for so handsome a structure, and i had some difficulty in finding my way to it. it has the following inscription from the pen of m. santeuil, (who has furnished many others, particularly that on the fountain near the luxemburg palace:) fontium nymphis. quos duro cernis simulatos marmore fructus hujus nympha loci credidit esse suos. which may be thus translated, the fruits you see on this cold marble hewn, this fountain's nymph believes to be her own. the guide to paris informs us, that the city is divided into several quarters; that the vicinity of the _palais royal_, of the _thuilleries_, and of the _chaussée d'antin_, are the most fashionable, and of course the most expensive; but that lodgings are to be met with on reasonable terms in parts of the city, which are fully as desirable, particularly in the suburb of st. germain. there are furnished hotels to be met with on a large scale in that quarter, it having been mostly inhabited by foreign princes and ambassadors; and it was also much frequented by english families, as they considered it the most healthy and quiet part of paris. the quarter du marais was principally occupied by lawyers, financiers, annuitants; and, in short, all the jews of the nation lodged there. the quarter of the palais royal is chiefly inhabited by sharpers, cheats, loungers, and idle people of all descriptions. who could think that a space of ground not exceeding acres, contains more heterogeneous materials blended together than are to be found in the acres (the french acre is one and a quarter, english measure) on which the city of paris stands? it is the great mart of pleasure, of curiosity, and of corruption; and if the police wish to apprehend an offender, it is in the palais royal that they are sure to find him. before the period of the revolution there were here but two public gaming houses; but at present the number is really astonishing. the police under buonaparte did not discourage their increase; they argued that these houses were the _rendezvous_ of all sharpers, villains, and conspirators; and that they often saved an ineffectual search for them in other quarters. a government like that of buonaparte did not reflect, that these houses, which thus abounded with desperate characters, did not fail to perpetuate their number by the corruption which they caused in the principles of the rising generation; and many of the best informed frenchmen are well aware that it will be the work of time, to recover their country from the _demoralized_ state in which it was left after the government of buonaparte. on the subject of gaming a french writer has justly observed: "quand il serait vrai que la passion du jeu ne finit pas toujours par le crime, toujours est il constant qu'elle finit par l'infortune et le deshonneur." "granting it to be true, that the love of gaming does not always terminate in crime, yet still it invariably ends in misfortune and dishonour." but is it not rather improbable that those who have so far transgressed as to apprehend the vigilance of the police, should venture into the very places where they must be aware of immediate detection? perhaps the same argument holds in paris as in london, against totally suppressing the haunts of these depredators on society, _that if there were no thieves there would be no thief-takers_; and the police are content to keep within moderate bounds, a set of men who often contribute to their emolument, and whom they fear to exterminate. it must, however, be allowed, that in all large towns, however great may be the vigilance of the police, there still must be abundance of the followers of _macheath_. perhaps paris most abounds in sharpers who cheat with _finesse_, and london in the number of pick-pockets and robbers. the _nightly police_ of paris is admirably conducted; and during my stay there i never experienced the smallest molestation in the streets. the palais royal consists of six squares, the chief of which is large and handsomely built on piazzas. there are rows of trees in the centre, but they by no means contribute to its beauty. the shops under these arcades are many of them the most shewy in paris; and, as the owners pay a heavy rent for them, they take care to enhance the price of their goods, so as not to carry on a losing concern. the number of coffee-houses and restaurateurs for dining, in this square are very numerous, and most of them are by no means moderate in their prices, at least when we compare them with others in a different part of paris, or even near the palais royal; but it is not under these piazzas that economy is to be practised. the _café de foi_ is one of the most celebrated for newspapers and politicians; but one is considered as having seen nothing of the _manners of the place_, if the _café des aveugles_ is not visited. this is situated under the italian coffee-house, and has its name from the large orchestra which performs here continually, being composed wholly of blind persons. i visited this place with a friend for a few moments after its opening, which is never till five o'clock in the afternoon, as its frequenters tolerate only the light of candles. the subterranean situation of this apartment renders it difficult of ventilation; and the noise of the musicians and their audience contending for the supremacy, added to the extraordinary heat of the place and the density of the air, occasioned us to make a speedy retreat to what, after leaving such a place, might be considered as a pure atmosphere. often as the palais royal has been described, and forcibly as the scenes which it exhibits have been depicted, yet i confess i do not think the descriptions i have read of it by any means overcharged; and it may be safely affirmed that there is no place in the world where the scene varies so often in the twenty-four hours as it does here. i was attracted by a notice, that the english newspapers were taken in at the cabinet littéraire of m. rosa; and, having paid my subscription, was conducted into a spacious reading room, exclusively for the english papers. the love of news is at all times natural; but at a distance from home the mind is doubly anxious for the details of what is going on there, and attaches an interest to particulars which, under other circumstances, it would consider as too trivial to be worthy of attention. during my stay on the continent, i felt very forcibly the truth of dr. johnson's observation, "_that it is difficult to conceive how man can exist without a newspaper_." i was, however, for a considerable time, _forced_ to be satisfied with the french papers, the expence of the english being so great, as to cause them to be seldom taken in abroad; and after my departure from paris, i saw no english paper until my arrival at frankfort, an interval of above two months. if the pedestrian is exposed to many inconveniences and dangers in the streets of paris, yet intricate as they often are, he is seldom in danger of going far out of his way, if he attends to the manner in which the names of the streets are coloured, those leading to the river being lettered in black, and those parallel to, or not leading directly to it, in red. the quays form the most prominent feature in paris, and when arrived there, he can experience little difficulty in finding the road he desires. the mode of numbering the houses in paris differs from that used with us, all the odd numbers being on one aide the street, and the even numbers on the other. after having seen the palais royal, my attention was next attracted by the palace of the tuilleries (so called from the circumstance of tiles having been formerly made on the spot where it stands). this is a vast and magnificent building, extending in front next the gardens toises (about feet english measure). the gardens were laid out by _le nôitre_, and exhibit a specimen of the taste of that time, abounding in statues, avenues, and water-works; but it must at the same time be admitted, that the general effect produced is not devoid of magnificence, which is heightened by the communication between these gardens and the champs elysées, which forms a vista of great length, and when illuminated, the _coup d'oeil_ must be really superb. on the side of the gardens next the river, is a terrace considerably elevated, which commands a view well deserving the praise which has been bestowed on it. this was the usual promenade of buonaparte, who caused a subterranean communication to be formed between it and the palace, to avoid passing through those parts of the garden which were open to the public, who, during his promenade, were excluded from the terrace. the parisians did not like this exclusion, and used to say, on seeing his majesty, "_see, the lion is come out of his den_." this terrace was also the constant walk of the ex-empress and her son. i was told, that shortly after buonaparte's installation as emperor, the people, to mark their disapprobation of the dignity which he had assumed, entirely deserted the gardens of this palace, which had always been their favourite walk in the evenings; and that, being hurt at this, the emperor ordered one of his military bands to play here every evening. the scheme succeeded; the attraction being too great for the parisians to resist, and the gardens were more frequented than ever. the other front of the tuilleries looks towards the place du carousel, from which it is separated by a lofty iron balustrade, the top of which is gilt. opposite the centre entrance of the palace stands a magnificent triumphal arch, erected by buonaparte, on the top of which he has placed the four celebrated _bronze horses_, which were removed to paris on the seizure of venice by his army, as they had been formerly transported by conquest from corinth to constantinople, and thence to venice, where they adorned for several centuries the place of st. mark. these horses are conducted by two figures of victory, and peace, executed by m. sencot, which many admire extremely. buonaparte has been no bad _locumtenens_ of this palace for the bourbons, as it bears abundant testimony to the taste with which he caused it to be decorated. he had the entire of the louvre _scratched_, so as to give it quite a new appearance, and his crown and initials are everywhere to be seen. on the grand _façade_ was an inscription, signifying, "_that_ _napoleon the great had completed what henry the fourth had begun_;" but this inscription has disappeared, since the return of the descendants of henry iv. to the palace which that great king had built, and which an usurper endeavoured to persuade posterity he had a share in constructing. it is worthy of remark, that this chef d'oeuvre of architecture, as if has always been considered, was not the work of a professed architect, but of m. perrault, a physician. the word louvre is, by some, derived from the saxon _louvar_, signifying a castle. buonaparte's plans for the further improvement of this palace were on the most extensive scale imaginable, as he intended to remove all the buildings situated between the louvre and the tuilleries; and some idea of the extent of the proposed area may be formed, when it is considered that, in its present state, the place _du carousel_ is sufficiently capacious to admit of , men being drawn up there in battle array. whilst i remained at paris, a considerable number of workmen were engaged in carrying on these improvements, but it is probable, from the exhausted state in which the projector of these undertakings has left the finances of france, that it will be many years before it will be possible to complete them. * * * * * chap. iii. if the stranger at paris is struck by the magnificent appearance which the exterior of the louvre presents, he cannot fail of being delighted with an inspection of the contents of its invaluable museum. this, like nearly all the museums and libraries in paris, is open to _every individual_, except on the days appropriated for study, when only _artists_ are admitted; but even then, a stranger, whose stay is limited, may be admitted on producing his _passport_, a regulation which is highly commendable for its liberality; and at none of these repositories are the attendants permitted to lay any contributions on the visitants. the gallery of the louvre was built by henry iv. to join that palace with the tuilleries, from which it was formerly separated, by the walls which surrounded paris. this vast gallery is _two hundred toises_ in length (not a great deal short of a quarter of an english mile); the collection of works of art here in without any parallel, as in this place are assembled most of the finest paintings and statues in the world, which the most indifferent must survey with admiration. but at the same time, it is impossible not to feel a portion of regret at the causes which have robbed italy of those monuments, which its inhabitants so well knew how to appreciate, and for many of which they entertained a religious veneration, as the ornaments of their churches. the french, as far as i am able to judge, do not (in general) possess any such feeling of sensibility, and merely value these _chefs d'oeuvre_ because their merit is allowed to be _incontestable_, and because their vanity is flattered, in seeing them thus collected by their victories as an additional attraction for strangers to visit their capital. but italy, although thus despoiled of so many of her ornaments, will still have many and great attractions for the man of taste; her buildings exhibit the finest specimens of art that are any where remaining; and those possessed of a classic genius will always behold with delight the scenes celebrated by a horace or a virgil. the paintings in this gallery exceed in number; they are divided into three classes, the first contains the french school, the second the german, and the third the italian. catalogues and descriptions of the paintings may be had at the doors. i often visited this gallery, and always with increased admiration. i shall not attempt to enter into any details as to the respective excellence of the different paintings. volumes have been written on the subject, and my testimony could add nothing to excellence which is acknowledged by all--by those who have not seen, on the reports of those who have visited this splendid assemblage, who, having seen, have not failed to admire, and to give currency to their admiration. the following lines on raphael, will be readily admitted as just by those who have seen some of his sublime pictures: hic ille est raphael, timuit quo sospite vinci, rerum magna parens, et moriente mori. here raphael lies, who could with nature vie, to him she feared to yield, with him to die. although i thought my admiration had been so largely called forth by the pictures i had just visited, as to have been almost exhausted, yet the distinguished excellence of the statues did not fail to rekindle it; and indeed it is impossible it should have been otherwise, when surrounded by such admirable specimens of art.--the number bears its due proportion to that of the pictures, and the same reasons which induced me to say little of them, will prevent my dilating on the excellence of the statues-- et la meilleure chose, on la gâte souvent. pour la vouloir outrer, et pousser trop avant. i must, however, observe, that here are assembled the three finest statues in the world, the _laocoon_, the _venus_ de clomene, from the collection of the medici family, and the _apollo_ belvidere, which was found amongst the ruins of antrum, about the end of the th century; and eveu in imagining the most perfect nature, it is difficult to form an idea of such perfection as is here exhibited; but much as i admired the apollo, i was yet more delighted by contemplating the excellence displayed in the graceful figure of the venus. the gallery of paintings at the palace of the luxemburg (which is now called the palace of the peers of france, as they sit at present in the hall, formerly occupied by buonaparte's conservative senate) although vastly inferior to that at the louvre, both as to the number, and value of the collection it contains; yet it is well worthy the attention of the stranger, and the circumstance of its not being too crowded is favourable to the visitant, whose attention is not so much divided here as by the attractions of the greater collection, where he is often at a loss which way he shall turn. here are statues of bacchus and ariadne. the gallery of rubens contains twenty-one pictures by that great master, representing the history of mary of medicis; it also contains his judgment of paris. the gallery of vernet contains a series of views of the principal sea-ports of france, by that painter, and also poussin's picture of the adoration of the magi. here are also two celebrated pictures by that great modern painter, david--brutus after having condemned his son, and the oath of the horatii, which appeared to me worthy of the favourable report i had before heard of them. this palace has a spacious and handsome garden; the front of queen's college, oxford, is an imitation on a reduced scale of its façade to the street. after the paintings, i next inquired after the libraries which paris contains; these are very numerous, but as i had so much to see, i contented myself with visiting the two principal ones, first, the royal library, rue richelieu. this contains the library of petrarch, which alone would render it an object of curiosity. here are also the globes of the jesuit _coronelli_, which are upwards of thirty-four feet in circumference. the cabinet of antiquities contains the collection of count caylus. the number of printed volumes is stated to amount to , . the manuscripts are not less than , . here is also a vast and very valuable collection of medals, and about engravings. all persons are permitted to read here from ten until two o'clock. the second library which i visited was one which formerly belonged to that celebrated minister, cardinal mazarin, and is now in the palais des beaux arts, on the opposite side of the river from the louvre. this collection consists of , volumes, amongst which are many works of great value. if the traveller sees much to interest him, and much to admire during the course of his tour, it is natural that he should occasionally meet with disappointment; and i must confess that in the metropolitan church of notre dame, i saw little worthy of that praise which is lavished on it by the french; it is only venerable from its antiquity, being one of the most ancient christian churches in europe.--in point of architecture, and the general appearance of the exterior, it yields to any of the cathedrals, and to very many of the parish churches in england. the interior is mean in the extreme (the high altar only excepted;) the body of the church being entirely filled up with the commonest rush bottomed chairs, and not kept in any tolerable order. but the most splendid church in paris is unquestionably that of st. sulpice, which is also one of the most striking buildings in the metropolis, notwithstanding the dissimilitude of the two towers of its grand western front. the pantheon is not very different as to its general appearance from the last mentioned church. this edifice has cost already vast sums, but is not considered as completed. i saw during my stay at paris most of the churches which it contains, and was in general disappointed with their appearance. the church of st. roque is the handsomest after that of st. sulpice. there is a protestant church in the rue st. honoré, called l'oratoire. bossuet said of this congregation, "it is a body where all obey, and where no one commands."--adjoining to this church is a very small chapel, where since the peace the service has been performed according to the form of the church of england. i attended here the sunday after my arrival in paris, and found the congregation consisted of about persons, and at first sight one could not have supposed they were all british subjects, so completely had the ladies adopted the _great hat_, and the other peculiarities of the french _ton_. still one sees in the streets and public places several who do not desire to be thought french subjects, and who persist in wearing the much-abused habits of their own country. there have been many disputes respecting the number of english actually in paris; i have no doubt it has been extremely exaggerated. i saw, at my bankers, messrs. perregeaux & co. a list of all those who had credit with them, which was less considerable by half at least than report had stated. in the place vendôme stands a truly magnificent column (copied from that of trajan at rome) to commemorate the victories of buonaparte, and his army in germany. the execution of the _bas reliefs_ reflects credit on the state of sculpture in france, and cannot fail to claim the approbation of the beholder. on the top of the column stood a colossal statue of buonaparte; this, like the other statues of that modern _sejanus_, has disappeared since the downfall of his empire, and the return of the ancient dynasty has caused to be placed on its summit the white flag, formerly so much venerated by the french. i set out at an early hour to go over the celebrated gobelin manufactory in the rue mouffetard, the proprietor of which is extremely civil to strangers, and permits them to see his premises from ten till one o'clock, and they are well worthy of attention. the name of this manufactory is derived from its founder gille gobelin, originally from rheims, who settled here in .--i was also the same day much pleased with surveying the stereotype press of that famous printer _didot_, whose editions of various authors are in such esteem amongst judges of the art. in the place des victoires, i observed an enormous statue of general dessaix, on the site formerly occupied by one of lewis xiv. (i have been informed, that about two months after my departure from paris, this statue has been removed to a foundery, where by _fusion_, it may perhaps assume the appearance of a bourbon.)--the great bureau of the post, where only foreign letters can be _franked_, that is postpaid by those who send them (without which they are not forwarded) is in the rue j.j. rousseau, whose name was given to this street, from his having for some time occupied an attic story in it. the botanic garden (jardin des plantes) being open to the public only on tuesdays and wednesdays, and its situation being at the farthest extremity of paris from my hotel, i set out as early as possible to view it with the attention it deserved. it is on a very great scale, and contains about plants, arranged according to the scientific method of m. jussieu. the library i did not see, but the museum and the menagerie are on the most extensive scale, and accounts have been published of their curiosities.--being fatigued with _seeing the lions_, i sat down to rest for a short time on a vacant seat in the garden; but presently two elderly ladies came to the same place, and lamented in the _most expressive terms_ the loss of a favourite dog; the lady who had lost it, said it was the _only consolation_ she had, that it was absolutely _necessary to love something_, and that she felt most miserable at her loss. this concern for the loss of a dog appeared to me much more natural, than the delight with which some virtuosos, whom i observed in the museum, contemplated many of the specimens preserved there. the french have a great _latitude of expression_, being naturally an extremely lively people; but certainly not so much so as formerly. i recollect some years ago being much amused by an anecdote, related by the late dr. moore, in his "view of the state of society and manners in france, italy, and germany." the doctor was informed by a french gentleman of his acquaintance, with that vivacity which distinguishes his nation, that he had just then received a final dismissal from a lady, who had for some time appeared to favour his addresses, and that he was absolutely in _despair_. dr. moore, who, from the vivacity of his friend's manners, had no idea that any thing had happened that seriously distressed him, answered, that he thought him the merriest person he had ever seen in such a situation. the other immediately replied, "but you english have such an idea of despair!" the various revolutions of the last twenty-five years have doubtless contributed, in no small degree, to diminish much of that gaiety, which formerly distinguished the french from most other nations, and which formed one of their chief characteristics. under the late government reserve was positively _necessary_, so numerous were the emissaries of the police, and so anxious were they to report the most trifling circumstances to their employer, that they might convince him how very necessary they were to the furtherance of his government. in those unhappy times every man mistrusted his neighbour, fearing he might be concerned in one of the _eighteen police establishments_ supported by the mistrust of the emperor in the affections of his subjects. the _conscription laws_, and the right which buonaparte assumed of _disposing in marriage all ladies_ possessed of a certain income, as a measure of rewarding the services of his officers, and which violated the closest connexions and best interests of society; together with his system of _forced loans_, which entirely destroyed the rights of _private property_, did not leave his subjects many incitements to mirth--although it was dangerous to appear dejected. "the voyage descriptif et philosophique de paris, par l---- p----," contains the following remarks, the truth of which renders them interesting, and i shall therefore translate them, for the information of those who may chance to peruse these pages. the author observes, "an air of inquietude has succeeded that openness and sociability, which so much distinguished the french. their serious air announces that most people are considering the amount of their debts, and are always put to expedients. one guesses, that in a company of thirty at least twenty-four are revolving the means of acquiring wealth; and notwithstanding twenty are without it." i shall quote in conclusion what the same writer says of the parisian, and which strikes me as a correct statement. "the parisian is in general tolerably indifferent as to his political situation; he is never wholly enslaved, never free. he repels cannon by puns, and links together power and despotism by witty epigrams. he quickly forgets the misfortunes of the preceding day; he keeps no diary of grievances, and one might say, he has sufficient confidence in himself not to dread too absolute a despotism. it is to be hoped, that the happy restoration of the bourbons will restore to the parisian his gaiety, and that louis xviii. the legitimate father of the french, will cause all former political convulsions to be forgotten." the parisians are distinguished by their loquacity. having occasion to employ a hair-cutter, i was quite stunned by his volubility of tongue. _king archelaus_ would find it difficult to be suited here; for being asked how he would have his hair cut, he answered--"silently." after many ineffectual attempts, i at last succeeded in satisfying my curiosity by seeing the assembly of the legislative body. the building is one of the greatest ornaments of which paris can boast; it was chiefly the work of buonaparte, who was satisfied to lodge these gentlemen in a palace, provided they did not interfere in the government of their country. i was not gratified in proportion to the trouble i had in getting into the hall, by the short and uninteresting debate which ensued. this house was occupied during the greatest part of my stay in paris in discussing the forms proper to be observed when the king meets the peers and commons. the deputies object, that the king should himself desire the peers to be seated, and that they should only receive that permission through the medium of the chancellor: how the point has been decided, i have not been since informed. the weather was intensely hot during part of my stay at paris, the quicksilver being occasionally at ° réaumur, equal to ° of fahrenheit's scale, and the sky without a cloud, there not being, in general, such a cloud of smoke over paris as generally obscures the atmosphere of london. yet, i believe, the best accounts allow that london is to the full as healthy a city as paris, and if cleanliness is conducive to health the point can admit of little doubt. during part of this oppressive weather, i used generally to resort, about mid-day, to the gallery of the louvre, being anxious to take every opportunity of contemplating its superb collection of the works of art. there, notwithstanding the number of visitors, the marble floors and ventilators rendered the air much more cool than it was out of doors. i generally set out on my rambles through the city at as early an hour as custom would permit, and in the evening, often joined the pedestrians in the gardens of the tuilleries, which were always thronged with company of all descriptions. there are a vast number of chairs under the trees, and their proprietors demand one or two sous for the right of sitting in them. i have been assured that this inconsiderable charge procures a total by no means contemptible. i sometimes extended my walk into the champs elysées, which extend a long way beyond the place de louis xv. its avenues are lighted like the streets of paris, by lanthorns, suspended across them by ropes and pulleys, which give a stronger light than our lamps, but do not seem equally secure. at the end of the centre avenue, which runs in a straight line from the grand entrance to the tuilleries, buonaparte had lately begun a triumphal arch to commemorate the victories of his armies; and still further, exactly opposite the bridge of jena, he caused a vast number of houses to be destroyed, to make way for a projected palace for the king of rome. the foundations only of this edifice had been laid before the overthrow of buonaparte, and this large plot of ground now presents a scene of waste and desolation. the present government, which will not prosecute so expensive and useless an undertaking, will still have to make compensation to the owners of the buildings of which only the ruins remain. the quarter of st. antoine is celebrated in the annals of the revolution; and, indeed, there are but few parts of paris, which do not recall to one's mind some of those scenes so disgraceful to humanity of which it was the great theatre. the place royale in this district is only remarkable, for having been built by henry iv.: it forms a square with a small garden in the centre, but has long ceased to be a fashionable residence. in paris there are no squares similar in plan to those in london, but occasionally one sees places formed by the junction of streets, &c. the town-house is a large, and as i think, a tasteless gothic edifice; and in the place de grève stood that guillotine which deprived such incredible multitudes of their lives. at one period of the revolution every successful faction in turn, endeavoured, as it should seem, to exterminate its enemies, when it succeeded in possessing itself of the supreme power, which then chiefly consisted in the command of this formidable instrument; and these successive tyrants, like _sylla_, were often in doubt _whom they should permit still to remain alive_. i do not know that the invention of the _guillotine_, is to be ascribed to the ingenuity of the french, but they will for ever remain obnoxious to the charge of the most dreadful abuse of it. i have heard it stated that, so late as the reigns of elizabeth, and james the first, an instrument similar to the guillotine, was used for the execution of offenders in the vicinity of hardwicke forest, in yorkshire. the _boulevards_ are now merely very spacious streets, with avenues of trees at the sides, but formerly they were the boundaries of the city. they form a fashionable promenade for the parisians, and abound with horsemen and carriages more than any other quarter of the town. along the boulevard poissonnier are some of the handsomest houses in paris. i dined with a family in one of them which commands a very cheerful scene. there are here, as in the palais royal, a vast number of coffee-houses, billiard-tables, and restaurateurs. the price of a dinner differs little from what is usually paid in london, but bread is about half the price, and there is a great saving in the charge for wine, with this additional advantage, that it is generally of much better quality than can be met with in london for double the price; as the heavy duties on importing french wines necessarily induces their adulteration. a stranger to _french manners_, is surprised at seeing ladies of respectability frequenting coffee-houses and taverns, which they do as matter of course;--so powerful are the habits in which we have been educated. after the boulevards, the rue royale and the rue de rivoli are the handsomest in paris. the last named is far from being completed, and runs in a line, facing the gardens of the tuilleries; in these two streets there is a division to protect foot passengers, but they are not flagged. * * * * * chap. iv. the royal hotel of the invalids, is one of the principal establishments in paris, which claims the attention of the stranger, and i accordingly went to view it with a party of friends. the principal court has just resumed the title of _royal_, but we could easily distinguish that it had been a few months since dignified by that of _imperial_. indeed, all over paris, this change is very perceptible. the last letters are often in the old gilding, and the first part of the style only altered, as the french do not, in general, like to do _more than is necessary_, and but seldom _condemn_ a house, but continue to patch it up in some manner, so as to make it last a little longer, which accounts for the appearance of antiquity which generally distinguishes their towns. but to return to the invalids. the establishment is said to be calculated to accommodate men; but we found upon inquiry, that the number then actually maintained did not exceed . as it was their dinner hour, we went into their refectory; each man has a pint of the _vin ordinaire_, (the general price of which is from ten to twenty sous the bottle;) but i doubt whether it would be received as a substitute for malt liquor either at chelsea or kilmainham. the church of this establishment, is one of the most splendid in the capital. the ex-emperor caused monuments to be erected here to vauban and turenne. the latter, by a special mark of the favour of lewis xiv. had been interred in the royal vault at st. denis; but his remains now rest here; and the monument is worthy of so distinguished a general. that to vauban, on the opposite side, is by no means equally elegant. the elevation of the dome of this church, exceeds that of any other building in paris; and the french boast, that it rises to a greater height than st. paul's cathedral in london; but this i do not think is the case, although the point is of little moment. m. dutens gives us the following scale of the comparative elevation of some of the highest buildings in the world. toisei. the highest pyramid ½ strasburg cathedral to the top of the vane ¾ st. peter's at rome, to the summit of the cross church of the invalids at paris to the vane st. paul's cathedral, london, to the top of the cross the interior of the dome of the invalids is handsomely painted; but the exterior exhibits what i must consider as a very misplaced species of decoration for a place of this nature, being _completely gilt_, pursuant to an order of buonaparte, dated, as i have been informed by good authority, from _moscow_. this decoration has, as can well be supposed, cost vast sums, but it probably obtained for the ex-emperor that _eclat_, by which he constantly sought to please the vanity of the parisians. many of his decrees for the embellishment of their city, being dated from vienna, berlin, and madrid, he sought to astonish the multitude, by attempting to accomplish in a few years, what it would _in general_ require an _age_ to effect. perhaps, calculating on the instability of his power, he hastened the construction of whatever might render it famous. a french writer observes, "il vouloit courir à cheval à la postérité." near the invalids there is a _military school_ for children; and near the _champ de mars_ are two large barracks. indeed, paris abounds with them, as the military power has long been predominant in france. the _champ de mars_ is only celebrated in the history of the revolution; its present appearance is by no means interesting. in this vicinity is the _place de grenelle_, famous for being the spot where military executions used to take place. one of the last victims who perished here, was the unfortunate _general mallet_, who whilst the oppressor of his country was still contemplating the devastation which he had occasioned in russia, sought to deliver france from so galling a yoke; and he is said to have been possessed of many of the qualities necessary for so honourable and arduous an undertaking; but the reign of buonaparte was still to continue for eighteen months longer; and he who had the resolution to attempt, had not the satisfaction of seeing, its subversion. in his way to the place of execution, being assailed by a hired mob with cries of 'vive l'empereur,' "_yes, yes_!" said the general, "_cry "long live the emperor" if you please, but you will only be happy when he is no more_." he would not suffer his eyes to be covered; and displayed in his last moments a fortitude, that will cause his memory to be long revered by the enemies of despotic power. the _museum of french monuments_ is one of the numerous institutions produced by the revolution. this place contains a collection of those _tombs_ which escaped the fury of a _revolution_ that at once proscribed both _royalty_ and _religion_. they were deposited here as models of art, which did honour to the republic, by proving the genius of its statuaries and sculptors, (the works being classed according to the centuries in which they were made;) and as the busts of the most celebrated and declared enemies of christianity, are every-where interspersed, the design seems obviously to have been to inculcate the principles which they inculcated; if, indeed, they acted upon any principle, each fearing to acknowledge the superiority of the other. to _doubt_ was their criterion of wisdom (but although hume said, that even when he doubted, he was in doubt whether he doubted or not, he does not appear to have once doubted that he was wrong in his attacks on religion,) and they only united in ridiculing that _belief in a supreme being_, which has been received, as it were instinctively, by all nations, however savage, and which has been the consolation of the best and wisest of mankind. any believer in religion, or any one who has not by perverted reasoning, brought his mind _really_ to doubt its divine truths, (for men are but too apt to admit even the arguments of absurdity, when they tend to absolve them from duties, which they would avoid,) cannot but experience a sentiment of regret at this violation of the ancient consecrated burial places, (where the contemplation of these emblems of mortality was calculated to inspire a beneficial awe;) and of sorrow, that as religion is by law restored in france, these monuments, many of which have been taken from the royal burying place of st. denis, should not be replaced in the churches from which they were taken in those calamitous times. i here saw the tomb of cardinal richelieu, which was originally in the college of the sorbonne. it is the work of the celebrated _gerardin_, and is a fine piece of sculpture. many of the other monuments are very elegant; but it would be tedious to enter into further details. in walking through the rue colbert, a french gentleman of my acquaintance pointed out to me the house in which _louvois_ had resided, and declared his opinion, that that minister had proved one of the greatest causes of the ruin of france; he followed up his assertion by a declamation of such length, that i shall not attempt to collect his arguments, but leave my readers to come to their own conclusions on the subject. i had intended visiting those vast _catacombs_ which extend under a great part of paris, and which now serve as burial places, but was induced to desist from the undertaking by the advice of a person who had made the experiment, and had suffered much more from the state of the air in those caverns, than he had been gratified by the curiosity of the scene. i was in the evening induced to visit a scene of a very different nature, and accompanied a party to the _gardens of tivoli_, in the rue lazare. this was, before the revolution, the property of m. boutin, formerly treasurer of the marine, who had spared no expense in it's decoration. the extent is about fourteen acres, and it much resembles vauxhall. the vast proportion which the military officers bear in all companies, and in all the public places here, cannot fail to be remarked by a stranger, and proves the success of the ex-emperor, in his endeavours to render the french merely a military people. under the _old regime_, no military uniforms were permitted to be worn in public places; but at present such a regulation would be quite impracticable. at present the military take a great lead in society, which has, perhaps, suffered more than is generally thought by the civil commotions of the state. wishing to be able to form some idea of the military events which led to the capture of paris, i went by the gate of st. martin to the other places which were connected with those memorable operations. it was on the th of march, , that the allied armies, consisting of nearly , men, attacked the heights of bellevue, st. chaumont, and montmartre; the cannonade continued from six in the morning until half past three o'clock in the afternoon, and after a bloody combat in the plains of villette, where they were opposed by , french troops, a suspension of arms was signed a little after five o'clock. the next day about noon, the emperor of russia and king of prussia entered paris by the barrier of villette, at the head of , men. a french writer remarks, that montmartre is rendered famous by the gallant-stand made there by a _small body_ of french troops against the _whole_ of the allied army. the french cannot bring themselves to allow that their nation has the worst in any contest. they are now, however, sensible that they have been defeated, which no doubt conduces greatly to their present ill humour. vanity is their domineering passion, and this buonaparte always contrived to flatter so successfully, by concealing unwelcome truths, and exaggerating success, that he is _still regretted_ by a large number of persons, who hate the present government for the openness of their conduct, as 'after being so long accustomed to the _fabulous histories_ with which they were amused by their late ruler, they have a contempt for that candour which informs them of their _actual_ situation, and which would excite the approbation of a nation possessed of a less degree of vanity. a great love of novelty is also very conspicuous in the french character. i think it was frederic the great, who observed in writing to d'alembert, 'that to please the french, they should have every two years a new king.' from the heights of montmartre, a vast and magnificent panorama is presented to the view. nearly the whole of paris is seen from thence, and a great extent of country terminated by distant mountains. those who wish to have a good general idea of paris, should not fail to ascend this eminence. in point of size, paris does not appear to me to be more than half the extent of london, when seen from hampstead or greenwich. it was from this situation that the emperor alexander first surveyed paris, and he probably was struck with the shewy appearance of the _gilded_ dome of the invalids, but perhaps was uninformed that it was from the _kremlin_, and whilst surrounded by the flames of moscow, that buonaparte, gave orders for the commencement of this new and _extravagant decoration_ to increase the splendour of paris. but the magnanimous perseverance of alexander in the contest, was at last rewarded, and he saw from montmartre that proud city, which had so often exulted at hearing of the capture of the other capitals of europe, lying in his power. without the capture of paris in its turn, the triumph of europe for the injuries which were inflicted in most parts of it, by the french, so long the willing instruments of buonaparte's tyranny, had been incomplete. alexander's entry into paris was haired as a liberation from that despotism, which its inhabitants, had not themselves the energy to shake off, and which they had acquiesced in or abetted for so many successive years. that alexander should have triumphed over buonaparte, was fortunate for the _liberty_ of _france_, but it was also indispensable to the _peace of europe_. the establishment of m. delacroix, rue croix-des petits augustins, to remedy the defect of nature by a gymnastic process, is unique in france. i shall give the prospectus a place here; and feeling my inability to _do it justice_, shall not attempt to translate it. "dans la rue des "vieux augustin" est l'établissement de _m. delacroix_ mécanicien bandagiste gymnastique pour redresser les défauts de la nature, particulièrement chez les femmes. on y remarque _le mât_ qui est une colonne en forme de mât, autour duquel se trouvent des echellons servant à monter pour developer les hanches et la poitrine; _les colonnes_ ou piliers, exercice servant à mettre le corps droit. le _balancier_ sert à redresser la colonne vertébrale ou épine du dos. les _barilles_ pour redresser la tète les épaules et les hanches. le _balançoir_ est pour maintenir la tète et les reins droits quand on est assise. le puits la _balle_ et la _manivelle_ pour donner de la force à une épaule faible. _l'echelle_ pour redresser les épaules. le _cheval_ pour apprendre à y monter, et tenir le corps dans un état naturel. le _jube_ pour redresser la tête et donner des grâces; lès _plombs_ pour apprendre à marcher avec grâce. le _fauteuil_ pour lever un coté de la poitrine qui seroit plus bas que l'autre; le soufflet pour donner un exercise régulier à toutes les parties du corps. ce mécanicien habile fait des mains dont les doigts ont les mouvements naturels; et son éstablissement est l'unique en france." to judge, from this description, it should seem as if those to whom nature has not been propitious, or those who have been deprived by accident of a limb, are culpably negligent if they do not apply at an institution which professes to remedy some of the most desperate calamities incident to human nature. with what probability of success, however, such an application would be attended, it is not possible for me to determine. i copy the prospectus of the professor without being able to judge myself of his proficiency. i accepted one morning a proposal to accompany a gentleman to the tuilleries to see the king go to mass (which he had been prevented by the gout from doing, at least in public for some time); we found a great number of spectators had assembled on the occasion in the hall through which his majesty was to pass, and which was lined with his _corps de garde_. we had a considerable time to wait before he made his appearance, and had ample leisure to survey the portraits of the marshals of france, with which the apartment is decorated, as well as with paintings representing many of buonaparte's victories. his majesty appeared to be in excellent health, and received with much affability several papers which were handed to him, and which he gave to a gentleman in waiting. he was greeted repeatedly by cries of _vive le roi_! and there is no doubt that by far the most respectable portion of the french sincerely wish him prosperity. Ï trust they may prove sufficiently strong to keep under those, who i fear are at least as numerous a class, and who have not learned, by the experience of so many years of confusion, to value the blessings of tranquillity when they have at last obtained it, attended with the advantages of a mild government. i believe it is agreed by all that the king has a good heart. his regard for england, which has done so much for his family, is highly to his honour; and i hear he testifies it upon all occasions. lately, at a consultation of his physicians, one of them having said he feared a long residence in a damp climate, had contributed to increase the attacks of the gout, the king interrupted him by saying, "ah! monsieur p----, ne dites pas du mal d'angleterre." the conduct of his majesty, since his restoration to the crown of his ancestors, proves him not to be deficient in either ability or resolution; and there perhaps never was a period which called for a greater exertion of both than the present. the other day paris was thrown into considerable alarm by the arrival of intelligence from nevers, that the garrison there had declared for buonaparte. in consequence every precaution was resorted to on the part of government, and the guards in paris were doubled; but happily nothing occurred to disturb the public tranquillity. the number of discontented spirits which the revolution has left afloat, and which it would not require any very considerable share of artifice to raise against any government, will require for a long time the exertion of the utmost vigilance on the part of the present administration. louis might have been addressed with propriety, on his arrival in france, in the admonitory words of galba to piso: "imperaturus es hominibus, qui nec totam servitutem pati possunt nec totam libertatem." on my departure from the tuilleries my friend conducted me to a famous glass manufactory, where i saw several mirrors of very large dimensions, and also a _staircase of glass_, which had a splendid effect, and was the first thing of the kind i had ever seen. the balustrades were of glass, supported by steel, and had a particularly handsome appearance. the number of theatres in paris have of late years much increased, and amount at present to eight or ten. the opera italien is justly celebrated as the best in europe; but i received more entertainment at the theatre françois, in witnessing the representation of one of the admirable comedies of molière. the theatre de l'odéon is curious from its construction, but the minor theatres on the boulevards, de gaieté, and des variétiés, are in general the most frequented; and, except on extraordinary occasions, the theatre françois is by no means fully attended. a stranger in paris is surprised at the number of _bureaux d'ecrivains_, or offices for writing, which abound in all parts of the town, where all materials for writing are provided for a few sous, and where persons attend to write letters, in any language, to the dictation of such as are not skilled in the graphic art. * * * * * chap. v. i resolved not to take my departure from paris without visiting some of the numerous royal palaces situated in its vicinity. st. cloud first claimed my attention, both from its proximity to paris, and from its having been for a considerable time the favourite residence of the ex-ruler of france. its situation is certainly one of the most striking near the capital, and the views from it are both diversified and extensive. the improvements made here by buonaparte render it a most agreeable residence, and display an extremely good taste. this palace is at present occupied by the prince of condé. the approach to it from paris is very striking, through avenues of elms, with lamps at regular distances. i also visited marli, which is chiefly remarkable for the machine which raises water from the seine to the height of five hundred feet. st. cyr was the retreat of madame de maintenon, and malmaison was the residence of buonaparte, when first consul; but it is far inferior to st. cloud. the palace of st. germain is in a situation inferior to none i had seen. my expectations had however been particularly raised by the accounts i had heard of versailles, which has at all times been the object of the admiration of the french; and it is certainly better suited to their ideas of grandeur than to ours. this palace is about four leagues distant from paris. the approach to it has nothing of that magnificence that i had been led to expect, and the road is in bad repair. on my arrival, i found it was impossible to gain admittance into the palace, which was undergoing a thorough repair, rendered indispensable by neglect during the last twenty years. the number of workmen employed is stated to amount to two thousand. it is a vast pile of building, and certainly one of the most famous royal residences in europe. a frenchman tells you with exultation of the vast sums which have been expended in its construction, and thinks that a sufficient proof of its magnificence. an englishman, however, will very naturally be out of patience at the praises bestowed on gardens laid out in that taste which has been so long exploded in england, and cannot help exclaiming with the poet-- "lo! what huge heaps of littleness around!" in front of the palace is a vast terrace which you mount with considerable difficulty by innumerable flights of stairs. to occasion an unexpected treat to the admirers of art, by excluding every thing natural, the whole of this elevation is abundantly supplied with ponds and water-works. the grand vista in front of the palace is formed into a canal, and no description can give a more just idea of these boasted gardens than the following lines of pope; the _only_ difference being, that the water-works of versailles are put in motion the first sunday of every month, and remain stagnant the rest of the year. "grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, and half the platform just reflects the other. the suffering eye inverted nature sees, trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; with here a fountain, never to be play'd, and there a summer-house that knows no shade; here amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs, there gladiators fight or die in flow'rs; unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, and swallows roost in nilus' dusty urn." what pleased me most at versailles was the great number of large orange and lemon trees. the forest of versailles is of great extent, and abounds in wood, but there is little of what would be considered in england as _good timber_. windsor and versailles have been often compared, although no two places can possibly differ more completely than they do. to have again recourse to the words of the poet, windsor is a place, "where order in variety we see; and where, tho' all things differ, all agree." and, in my judgment, it is as far superior to versailles as its forests of oak are to the elms which surround that boasted palace. i was permitted to see the royal stables. they are, it is said, sufficiently large to contain horses, but are at present much out of repair. the city of versailles is large and well built, but has a melancholy and deserted appearance, having lost nearly half its population since it has ceased to be a royal residence, and the present number of inhabitants does not exceed , . the grand and petit trianons deserve attention from having been the favourite retreats of the late unfortunate queen of france; but few traces of the taste once displayed in their decoration now remain. they are situated within the limits of the forest of versailles, which is said to be twenty leagues in circuit. at sèvres, which is celebrated for the beauty of its porcelain manufactory, i observed workmen employed in finishing a new and handsome bridge of nine arches over the seine, in place of the old one which is hardly passable. near the barrier of passy is a carpet-manufactory, which was established there by henry the fourth. this barrier is thought to be the most striking entrance to paris. in my excursions in the vicinity of paris, i observed that the harvest was extremely abundant, but the majority of those employed in collecting it were women. i was informed that last year the greatest difficulty was experienced in saving the harvest for want of a sufficient number of hands. i saw, at a distance, the castle of vincennes, where buonaparte (who had caused the removal of every vestige of the bastile) had dungeons constructed many feet under ground, and with walls ten feet thick. this place is distinguished for the atrocious murder of the duke d'enghien. i had occasion to observe, both in the streets of paris and on the roads in its vicinity, that there were but few _private_ carriages to be seen, and those by no means handsome; but the roads are covered with _cabriolets_, of which there are , in paris, besides about , fiacres, or hackney-coaches. the fare for an hour is only thirty sous. as i had by this time pretty well satisfied my curiosity, in visiting the objects in paris that principally arrest the attention of a traveller who has not leisure to dwell longer than is indispensable in one place, i began to be impatient to exchange the continual bustle of that city--its "fumum opes strepitumque," for those romantic and enlivening scenes in which switzerland stands without a rival, and is, as it were, by _acclamation_, allowed to surpass the other countries of europe. i therefore attended at the office for foreign affairs, and obtained the signature of the prince of benevento (for about ten francs) in addition to the signature of our own distinguished minister, lord castlereagh. i was told it was necessary also to have my passport visited by the police before leaving paris; and my landlord offered his services to arrange that affair for me. i however recollected dr. franklin's maxim, "if you would have your business clone, go; if not, send," and went accordingly to the office myself. these affairs being arranged, so as to permit my passing without molestation through the interior of france, i quitted paris without any sensations of regret at leaving a place which, highly as i had been pleased with many of the great objects which it contains, i cannot but consider, when curiosity is once gratified, to be an unpleasant residence. i took the road to fontainbleau, distant about thirty-seven english miles; a place formerly only remarkable for its castle, situated in a forest of about , acres, and often visited by the kings of france, for the amusements of the chace; but which will hold in history a distinguished page, and be visited in future ages as being the scene where it pleased providence to terminate a tyranny unexampled in the history of the world. it is worthy of remark, that in this very castle, in which the venerable head of the romish church was so long and so unjustly detained a captive, his once formidable oppressor was obliged to abdicate that authority which he had so long usurped and abused; and the _ th of april _, will be long hailed over europe as the epoch when liberty, peace and good order were restored to its inhabitants, after the long and stormy reign of oppression, war and anarchy had so long precluded the expected time of which it was impossible entirely to despair--when europe, so long a prey to dissension, should again be united as one common family. these hopes have at last been realized; the evils of the french revolution (more productive of misfortune than the fabled box of pandora) have in a manner been surmounted; and we have only further to wish, that the nations who have restored tranquillity to europe, may continue to act with the moderation for which they have hitherto been distinguished [guess: distinguished]. it was natural, in beholding a place rendered memorable by such great events,--events which are probably destined to fix the fortunes of succeeding centuries, that the mind should dwell with more than common attention on the scene, and give itself up to the reflections it was calculated to produce. my thoughts were principally engaged in considering the very opposite characters of pius vii. and of buonaparte. in the first we see united all that can give dignity to an exalted station, or that is praiseworthy in private life. we see him disposed as much as possible to conciliation, and even persuaded by his cardinals to cross the alps in the most inclement season notwithstanding his advanced age, to crown the _usurper of france_, in the expectation of advancing the interests of religion, by consenting to submit to a power which then appeared but too firmly established. the hopes of the pope were not realized; buonaparte soon forgetting past services, made demands which he well knew could not be complied with, and amongst them that his holiness should declare war against england, and that too without the slightest motive for such a proceeding on his part, as he stated in his manifesto against the outrages of buonaparte, a paper which must affect all who peruse it, and excite their regret that the pope was not in a situation effectually to preserve that independence which did such honour to his heart. the new-made emperor was not, however, to be reasoned with but by _force_; and in about four years after the pope had placed the diadem on his head, he caused him to be removed from his capital as a prisoner, and united the ecclesiastical states to the dominions of france. the spirit of the pope was still unsubdued, and he refused, for himself and his cardinals, all offers of subsistence from the usurper of their possessions. when urged to come to some agreement with buonaparte, he answered that his regret at having accepted the late _concordat_, would be a sufficient security against his being again deceived. and when the cardinals represented the evils which might result from his refusal, he answered, "let me die worthy of the misfortunes i have suffered." on the d of january, , the pope was removed from fontainbleau, as were each of the seventeen cardinals, in custody of a _gend'arme_, and their destination was kept secret. but on the th of april following, the provisional government of france gave orders, that all obstacles to the return of the pope to his states might be removed; and, after five years of confinement and outrage, pius vii. returned to his capital, to receive the reward of that _firmness_ and _moderation_, which, blended so happily in his character, will long render it an object of admiration. i next considered the character of the tyrant, who so long and so successfully triumphed over prostrate europe, england alone preserving unimpaired that liberty, which she was destined to be the means of diffusing to rival nations. it would be absurd to deny buonaparte the praise due to the matchless activity, and consummate skill, with which he conducted the enterprizes suggested by his boundless ambition; and which made him the most formidable enemy with whom england ever had to contend; but his cruelty, his suspicion, and his pride, (which made him equally disregard those laws of honour, and those precepts of morality, respected by the general feelings of mankind), as they excited the indignation of thinking men, prevented any pity at his fall. such a man was destined only to excite astonishment, not admiration; and that astonishment could not fail of being greatly diminished, by his want of extraordinary resources, when placed in a situation, upon the possibility of which he had disdained to calculate. his continued aggressions raised europe against him from without, and he was overthrown, because he had completely disgusted the fickle people, whom he had made the instruments of his ambition. it would surely require the pen of _a tacitus_ to delineate with accuracy the character of such a man, who, to use the words of the lamented moreau, "had covered the french name with such shame and disgrace, that it would be almost a disgrace to bear it; and who had brought upon that unhappy country the curses and hatred of the universe." his ambitious wars are supposed to have occasioned the destruction of nearly _four millions of men_, whom he considered merely as instruments to accomplish his extravagant views; and he is reported to have said repeatedly, that "it signified little whether or not he reigned over the french, provided he reigned over france." he delighted in carnage, and speaks in one of his bulletins of " pieces of cannon dispersing death on all sides," as presenting "a most admirable spectacle." on buonaparte's arrival from egypt, he found things as favourable for his projected usurpation as his most sanguine hopes could have imagined. in the eighteen months which had preceded his arrival, there had arisen no fewer than four constitutions, and the french might well exclaim, "they have made us so many constitutions, that we have now none remaining!" wearied out with the succession of sanguinary factions, each endeavouring to establish itself by proscriptions, banishments, and confiscations, france submitted without opposition to the government of a ruler, who seemed sufficiently strong to keep all minor tyrants in subjection; and, despairing of freedom, sought only an interval of repose. this hope was, however, not destined to be realized, for buonaparte soon pursued all those who presumed to oppose his schemes in the slightest degree with astonishing eagerness, and those who submitted with the most alacrity, were treated only with contempt. he was hardly seated on his throne, before he spoke of making france a camp, and all the french soldiers. a long series of success made him despise those precautions so necessary to insure it, and rendered his catastrophe the more striking. the character given by seneca of the corsicans, has been quoted as applicable to the most famous character that island has ever produced: he says, "the leading characteristics of these islanders are revenge, theft, lying, and impiety." over the downfall of such a man, the civilized world must rejoice; but the contemplation of his character affords a salutary lesson to ambition, which, carried to excess, ruins that greatness it would so madly increase. the last years of his reign were distinguished by the number of plots which were pretended to be discovered, and proved the truth of a remark of mary de medicis, "that a false report believed during three days, tended to secure the crown on the head of an usurper." but neither his guards, nor his police, could insure him a moment of repose. "volvilur ixion, et se sequiturque fugitque." modern history has fully demonstrated a truth, which might have been collected from more ancient records, and of which england affords an illustrious example, that the attachment of a free and enlightened people is the only basis on which thrones can rest with security. having now sufficiently satisfied my curiosity at fontainbleau, i determined on continuing my journey (which i fear my reader may regret i did not do sooner), and i accordingly arrived at noon at montereau, which is an inconsiderable town, but beautifully situated in a fertile plain, at the junction of the rivers seine and yonne. the bridges over those rivers had been partly broken down, to impede the progress of the allied troops in the late memorable campaign. they have been repaired with timber in a temporary manner, but cannot be considered as at all sufficiently secure for the passage of heavy carriages. many of the houses in this town still exhibit abundant marks of bullets, but the country around appears in such a luxuriant state of cultivation, that had i not myself seen the spot where a battle had been fought in the last spring, i could hardly hare persuaded myself it had so lately been the theatre of war. i next reached sens, a large and ancient city, but thinly inhabited, and with little marks of activity, although situated in a country abounding with all the conveniences of life, and possessing a situation on the rivers vanne and yonne, which seems to shame its inhabitants for their neglect of the commercial advantages they afford. the cathedral is a venerable structure, and contains the tomb of the dauphin, father of the present king, who died in .--about sixteen english miles distant is joigny, beautifully situated on the yonne, and surrounded on all skies by vineyards; we now were approaching one of the parts of france most famous for its wines. the road, which is in excellent repair, follows the windings of the river to auxerre, which, although much less than sens, has a more lively appearance, and the inhabitants seem to make more use of the facilities which the river affords of communicating with paris and the rest of the country. the churches here are handsome, the tower of one of them is said to have been built by the _english_. the vineyards in this neighbourhood are numerous, and the wine is much esteemed. i waited here for the arrival of the paris diligence, in which i proposed to proceed to dijon, wishing not to leave france without having made trial of one of their public carriages. the appearance of that which i saw at calais was much against it; the one i met with here proved a very tedious conveyance, not going in general above three or four english miles an hour; which, however is as much as could be expected from a carriage which is scarcely less laden than many of our waggons. it was drawn by five horses, all managed by _one_ postilion, mounted on one of the wheel horses, and furnished with a vast and _unwieldy_ pair of _boots_, cased with iron, and a long whip, which he is perpetually employed in cracking. another important personage is monsieur le _conducteur_, who has the care of the luggage, &c. the french in general adhere to old customs, as well as the postilions to their antiquated boots; their hour of dinner in general being from eleven to twelve o'clock, and seldom so late as one. this in england would be considered only as a _déjeûner à la fourchette_. the hour of supper is from seven to nine, according as the length of the stages may determine. if the _hour_ of a french dinner is singular to an englishman, the order in which it is served up is not less so. the soup (that great essential to a frenchman) is always followed by bouilli, which having contributed to make the soup, is itself very tasteless.--fricassées and poultry succeed; then follow fish and vegetables, and last of all comes the rôti, which, as i before had occasion to observe, is so much done as not to be very palatable. the pastry and desert conclude their dinners, which certainly deserve the praise of being both cheap and abundant. the fruit is astonishingly cheap; i. have seen excellent peaches sell for a sous apiece. a traveller is not, however, in general disposed to criticise these singularities, either in the hour or order of the repast with too much severity, as the remark attributed to alexander the great, has probably been made by many of less celebrity, "that night travelling serves to give a better appetite than all the skill of confectioners." the general price of the table d'hôte in france, including the _vin ordinaire_, is about three francs, which are at the present rate of exchange equal to about a shilling each.--those who call for better wine pay of course extra. the vin ordinaire, or common wine of burgundy, is a pleasant beverage, little stronger than cider, but in many parts of france it is by no means palatable. the cider and beer in france are, with few exceptions, extremely indifferent, and consequently little used. * * * * * chap. vi. my first day's journey in the diligence was short and uninteresting. we arrived to sleep at avalon, a small town partaking, in common with most others in france, of a degree of gloom occasioned by the want of those shops which enliven most of our country towns. here a few articles are placed in a window, to indicate that there is a larger supply to be had within. there are few towns in france which have not a _public place_ or walk, which is generally planted with trees, and kept in good order. whilst supper was preparing, we took a few turns on the promenade of avalon, and found a considerable number of persons assembled there; but were much shocked at the number and miserable appearance of the beggars, who thronged around us. they are much too numerous in all parts of france, and particularly here. at an early hour next morning, we were summoned to resume our places in the diligence; these places are in general numbered, and each person takes his seat in the order in which he has paid his fare, a regulation which prevents any delay, and precludes disputes or ceremony. we continued our journey through the small towns of rouvray and viteaux; the country is diversified with hills, which are not of sufficient magnitude to present any great obstacle to the progress of the traveller. there are vast numbers of vineyards, but there are few trees. in this, as in all other wine countries, villages and country houses are more numerous than in the districts producing only corn, either because the lands which produce vines are more valuable, and consequently are divided amongst a greater number of owners, or that the culture of the vine requires more people than other species of tillage. in one district, where corn was the chief crop, i enquired respecting the usual mode of farming, and found that the land, which was this year under corn, was intended to be sown next year with maize (of which there is a vast quantity) and the year following to lie fallow, after which it will be considered as again fit to produce corn. i found also, that the direct land-tax through france was not less than per cent, exclusive of the other taxes which fall incidentally on landed property. there are also in many provinces _customs_ which regulate the descent of land (often in a manner very different from the disposition which the owner would wish) amongst the relations of the last owner. these customs and the heavy taxes on land may account for the seemingly small price which it in general sells for throughout france. the approach to dijon is striking, and the diligence arrived there sufficiently early to afford us time to survey the city, which is one of the best built and most considerable in france. it was formerly the capital of the province, and the residence of the ancient sovereigns of burgundy, whose tombs are still to be seen at the chartreuse, near the city. it is now the chief place in the department of the côte d'or, and contains a population of about , inhabitants. it is situated between the small rivers ouche and suzon, in a valley, which is one of the most highly cultivated districts in france, and which is worthy of its name of _côte d'or_. the churches here are handsome structures, as is also the palace of the prince of condé, where the parliament used to assemble. the square before it is spacious and well-built, and the corn market is worthy of remark. the university of dijon was formerly one of the most considerable in prance, but my stay was not sufficient, to enable me to enquire with accuracy into its present state. our company next day was augmented by two french officers, who were going to besançon, and who intended proceeding in this carriage as far as dole, where smaller conveyances were to be had for those going to geneva, &c. as the great voiture went on to lyons. these officers did not long continue silent, and politics seemed the subject which occupied the first place in their thoughts. they said that belgium and the rhine were _indispensable_ to france, and were particularly violent against austria, for the part she had taken in the late contest. 'one of them did not affect to conceal his attachment to the ex-emperor; but the other, although he agreed with his companion in wishing, for a renewal of the war, did not seem at all pleased with buouaparte for having said the french nation _wanted character_. they had both been at moscow, and acknowledged that the emperor had committed a capital error in not retreating in time from what he himself acknowledged to be such a frightful climate. if a public carriage has not all the comfort and expedition of a private one, it certainly has this advantage, that one often meets companions from whom may be derived amusement or information; and i think those who travel with a view to either of those objects, would do well occasionally to go in one of those conveyances. in a foreign country, the attention of the traveller is continually attracted by a variety of objects of a novel nature, which can be best explained to him by the inhabitants of the country: besides, it is impossible to have any correct idea of the manners and customs of foreigners, without constantly associating with them, which, in general, english travellers do not much desire. whilst abroad, i would wish to accommodate myself as much as possible, to the habits of the country in which i were to reside, but if i found them irksome, i would certainly hasten my departure. we reached dole about the french hour of dinner: here our company separated, and, accompanied by a friend, i continued my journey to geneva. the road which we took is only practicable during four or five months in the year, on account of the snow which is drifted from the mountains of jura. near auxonne we passed a plain, where a battle had been fought between the french and the allied forces. many houses had been destroyed, but the agriculture of the country did not seem to have suffered by the contest. we passed through the village of genlis, and within sight of the chateau, the property of the lady of that name, well known by her numerous writings and compilations. we arrived late at poligny, a small town, surrounded by lofty mountains. on leaving the place, one hill occupies three hours in ascending; but the road is as good as the uneven surface of the country will permit. the people here begin to have quite a different appearance from the french: wooden shoes are generally worn; and the projecting roofs of the houses shew that the climate is more rainy and severe than in the countries we had passed. in this vicinity are some of the finest forests i had yet seen in france, and the views from the road are occasionally interesting. about two leagues from poligny is _arbois_, famous for its white wine. we had a bottle by way of experiment, and thought it not undeserving of the reputation it had acquired. a frenchman observed, "_le vin nest pas mauvais_," which phrase may be taken for a commendation, as they seldom carry their praise so far as to say a thing is positively good. the country between poligny and moray exhibits a continued succession of fir-trees, unmixed with any thing to give variety to the scene. the woods, however, seemed to afford shelter to but few birds; and in most parts of the continent, even the singing-birds are not spared, but included in the general proscription to gratify the palate of the epicure. we arrived to an _english breakfast_ at moray; they told us its honey was in great repute throughout france, and we thought it deserved more than the ordinary commendation of a frenchman. every thing here was neat and clean, and both the town and appearance of its inhabitants brought _north wales_ strongly to my recollection. this being a frontier place, the french custom-house officers put _seals_ on our portmanteaus, for which favour we paid two francs for each seal; these were cut off with great formality on our arrival at geneva. after having travelled for many hours amongst a succession of gloomy mountains, which afford nothing that can either interest or enliven, i never recollect feeling a greater sensation of delight and astonishment, than when, from the summit of one of the mountains of jura, i first beheld the lake and city of geneva, backed by the mountains of savoy, and by the alps, which, even at this vast distance, made all the other mountains we had passed appear but trivial. it is by contrast that all pleasures are heightened, and even the tour which i afterwards made amongst the alps, did not lessen the force of that impression which the sudden appearance of this magnificent spectacle had left upon my mind. the road down the mountain is an astonishing work, and is part of the grand line of road made by buonaparte, to facilitate the passage of troops into italy over the grand simplon. a fountain near the road has an inscription to napoleon the great; in one part the road winds through an excavation in the rock. one cannot but here exclaim with the poet, what cannot art and industry perform, when science plans the progress of their toil! at fernay we visited the château, so long celebrated as the residence of voltaire. it is now the property and residence of m. de boudet, who, as we were informed, has made great improvements in the place since it has come into his possession. the saloon and bed-chamber of voltaire are, however, preserved in exactly the same state as when he occupied them. there are a few portraits of his friends, and under his bust is this inscription: "son esprit est partout et son coeur est ici." "his genius is every where, but his heart is here." his _cenotaph_, as it is called, has a miserably mean appearance, and bears this inscription: "mes mânes sont consolés puisque mon coeur "est au milieu de vous." "my manes are consoled, since my heart is with you." the formal taste in which the garden is laid out, but ill accords with the stupendous scenery which is seen on all sides. the approach to the château from the road is through a double avenue of trees. near the house stands the parish-church, and also a heliconian fountain in the disguise of a pump, of excellent water, which we tasted, but without experiencing any unusual effects. we had not leisure to prolong our researches, as it was necessary for us to reach geneva before the closing of the gates. if the first and distant appearance of the city of geneva, of its beautiful lake, and of the lofty mountains by which it is surrounded, produces the strongest sensations of delight in the beholder, a nearer approach is not (as is too frequently the case) calculated to do away, or, at least, greatly to diminish the impression made by the distant view. having, after a long descent, at length reached the plain, the traveller cannot fail of being delighted with the richly cultivated scene which surrounds him, with the neatness of the villages, and with the apparent ease of the inhabitants of a country where property seems pretty equally divided, and where he is not shocked (as he is unhappily too generally throughout europe) by the melancholy contrast between the splendour of the opulent, and the extreme misery of the peasantry. here the peasant, as goldsmith observes, sees no contiguous palace rear its head, to shame the meanness of his humble shed; cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes. the situation of geneva is as striking as can be well imagined. it seems to rise out of the transparent waters of its lake. some tourists tell us, that, naples and constantinople excepted, no city in europe can be compared to geneva in point of situation, and those who have ascended the towers of its cathedral, will feel disposed to admit, that the prospect of the lake, the junction of the river rhone with the arve, the number of villas dispersed on all sides, the scene of cultivation which the nearer mountains present, almost to their summits, and the imposing effect produced by the more distant alps, whose bases rest in italy, and whose tops, covered with perpetual snow, seem to unite with the clouds, present a spectacle which it would be indeed difficult to surpass. ----"while admiration, feeding at the eye "and still unsated, dwells upon the scene." cowper. the lake of geneva (which, according to m. de luc, is toises, or english feet above the level of the mediterranean sea) is one of the most considerable in europe, being about eighteen leagues in length, by about three and a half at its greatest width. its waters are at this season about six feet higher than in winter, and are of a beautiful blue colour, derived from the nature of the soil beneath. its depth, near meillerie, is fathoms, that of the baltic, according to dr. goldsmith, being only fathoms. this lake abounds with fish of various kinds. i myself saw a _trout of twenty-three pounds_, and there have occasionally been taken of nearly double that weight. these extraordinarily large fish are often presented by the republic to its allies, and are frequently sent as far as paris or berlin. the rhone issuing, with vast rapidity, from the lake forms an island which is covered with houses, and constitutes the lower part of the city, which rises to the summit of a hill, where stand the cathedral and many elegant private houses. the city is, in general, tolerably well built; but many of the streets have domes, or arcades of wood, which are frequently fifty or sixty feet in height, and which have an inelegant appearance, but are useful in the winter, and under some of them are rows of shops, containing every article of luxury or utility, in equal perfection with those that are to be met with in some of the greatest cities. here is every appearance of the activity produced by the revival of commerce, after the long prohibition it suffered during the period whilst geneva remained united to france. the chief manufacture of geneva is that of clocks and watches; in the period of the prosperity of geneva, this trade was calculated to afford employment to five or six thousand persons, but at present it is much reduced. there are a considerable number of goldsmiths, and the ingenuity of the genevese, produces very curious musical-watches, snuff-boxes, and seals, many of which are sent to paris and london, where they find a ready sale; they are sent likewise to persia and to america, there are considerable manufactures also of calico, muslin, &c. and a good deal of banking business is transacted. perhaps there is no example of a city so _destitute of territory_, which has obtained such commercial celebrity, and the persevering industry of its inhabitants, enabled them to place large sums of money in the funds of other nations, particularly of england. the revenues of the state are much exceeded by those of many individuals; but, during the oppressive government of france, the taxes of geneva were nearly quadrupled. the population of geneva and its territory, having been so differently stated as to leave the truth involved in ranch uncertainty, m. naville, a senator, who possessed every facility for making the necessary enquiries, published a calculation, which assigns to the republic a population of , , of which number , resided in the city. this is a very large number if we consider that the territory of this little state is so limited as, according to m. bourritt's itinerary, to contain only / square leagues; being about , inhabitants to each square league. but, contracted as their territory certainly is, those citizens of geneva, with whom i have conversed, do not seem to wish its extension. they fear the introduction of religious dissensions, as the _savoyards_, (on which side it could be most easily extended) are roman catholics and by no means cordial with their neighbours, the _hugonots_ of geneva, as they call them. nor would the nobility of savoy wish to be the subjects of so popular a government as that of geneva. religious differences have, at all times, been productive of the worst species of civil discord, and the genevese (although they tolerate most fully all religious sects) are undoubtedly stronger at present, with their limited possessions, than they possibly could be with any increase of territory, accompanied by the chance of such unfortunate dissensions. all they seem desirous of, at present, is to see their little state _consolidated_; it being at present intersected by the possessions of france, the canton of vaud, &c. in such a manner as to oblige the genevese to pass over some portion of the territories of those states, in visiting many of their own villages. but more of geneva hereafter, as although i had so recently arrived there, i was soon to quit it for a short time. i found at my hotel a party, consisting of two of my countrymen and a french gentleman, who were waiting for a fourth person to join them, in making an excursion to the celebrated scenes of chamouny and moutanvert. this was an opportunity not to be neglected, particularly as my former companion had determined on going into italy, notwithstanding the very alarming accounts of its disturbed state, given us by some travellers, lately arrived from thence, who had themselves been robbed, and who reported that the banditti, in many of the mountains, amounted to from to men. the unsettled political state of italy too, rendered the present, in my opinion, by no means an auspicious moment, for an excursion of curiosity into that country. to see italy well would occupy a longer portion of time than i had at my disposal, and if once across the alps it would be almost impossible to return without visiting rome. under these circumstances, i resolved to content myself with seeing chamouny, and mt. blanc, and i had every reason to be pleased with my determination, as the party were extremely agreeable, and we had the good fortune of having fine weather for our excursion, an occurrence which is rare amongst such lofty mountains nor were we disposed to complain of the inconvenience of occasional showers, in a country where it is not unusual for the rains to continue without intermission for many days. * * * * * chap. vii. having made the necessary arrangements in the evening, our carriage was in readiness at an early hour next morning. it was something like an english _sociable_, but had a leather cover which could occasionally be drawn over our heads, and of which we more than once experienced the utility, in protecting us from the very sudden and violent showers which we sometimes met with. as soon as the rain was over we drew back the cover, and enjoyed the romantic prospects which surrounded us. from geneva we ascended continually through a wild but not uninteresting country to bonnevilie, a distance of about five leagues; here we breakfasted, and remained two or three hours to allow our horses to repose from the fatigues of the road. this little town has nothing particularly worthy of remark, and its appearance is dull, although it is the chief place of one of the three divisions which are formed of savoy. here is a bridge of stone (which is not usual in this country, where timber abounds, and where many of the rivers are so rapid, as to oblige the inhabitants to remove the bridges, at the commencement of autumn) over the river arve, the course of which we followed for several leagues through the valley of cluse, so called from the little town of that name. this long and narrow district is surrounded by lofty mountains, and the traveller is often at a loss to guess which way he can proceed, until some sudden turning discovers an outlet, barely sufficient to admit the passage of a carriage, and by various windings he arrives in the valley of magi an, which presents a still more interesting variety of objects, amongst others the cascade of nant d'arpennas and many other inferior ones, which tumble from the mountains, and increase the rapidity of the arve. about a league beyond the fall d'arpennas is an excellent view of _mont blanc_, which crowned with all the horrors of a perpetual winter, presents one of the most sublime, and majestic spectacles, which it is possible to conceive. to describe the contrast between its snowy summit, and the cultivated valley beneath, so as to convey any just idea of the scene, to those who have not themselves seen it, would require all the descriptive powers of a _radcliffe_. we arrived to a late dinner at the hotel de mont blanc, at st martin, which is a large single house situated about a quarter of a league from the little town of salenche, of which i do not recollect having heard any thing remarkable, except that the right of burgership may be purchased for forty-five livres. the windows of our hotel commanded a most astonishing extent of mountain scenery diversified by the windings of the arve through a well cultivated valley. the hotel was sufficiently comfortable, but the bill was extravagant beyond any precedent in the annals of extortion. we had occasion to remonstrate with our host on the subject, and our french companion exerted himself so much on the occasion, that at last we succeeded in persuading the landlord to make a considerable reduction in his charges, which were out of all reason, making every allowance that his house was so situated, as not to be accessible during the whole year. we were afterwards told that he would have considered himself amply paid by receiving the half of his first demand, and i found it is often the practice to ask of the english at least double of what is charged to travellers of any other nation. appearances were so much against our landlord, that one might say to him in the words of the epigram, _"if thou art honest thou'rt a wondrous cheat."_ the carriage road ends at salenche; and we, therefore, made the necessary arrangements to proceed on mules, and sent back our carriage to geneva. it was the first time i had travelled in a country only _accessible on foot or by mules_, and i cannot but add my testimony to that of all those who have ever made excursions into these mountains, respecting the very extraordinary and almost incredible safety with which the mule conveys his rider over tracks, which were any one to see suddenly, coming out of a civilized country, he would think it the height of folly to attempt to pass even on foot. there are, however, places where it is expedient to climb for one's self, but as long as one remains on the back of the mule, it is advisable not to attempt to direct his course, but to submit one's reason for the time to the instinct of the animal. our guides assured me that they had never known a single instance of any one's having had reason to regret having placed this confidence in them; and, indeed, it is by having the command of his head that the mule is enabled to carry his rider in safety over passes, which one is often afraid to recall to one's memory. several of the mules in savoy are handsome, but one of our party, who had crossed the fyrenean mountains, thought the spanish mules were much more so; the ordinary price of a mule here, is from fourteen to twenty louis d'ors. the distance between st. martin and chamouny, is little more than six leagues, but from the extreme inequality of the ground and the intricacy of the paths, occupied a very long space of time in passing. we still continued to follow the course of the arve, which, according to the opinions of some writers, is believed to have, at one period, formed a lake between the mountains which encompass this valley; a conjecture which the marshy appearance of the ground seems to render probable. these mountains abound with an animal which is mostly an inhabitant of the alps, the marmot, and there are a vast abundance of wild strawberries. the river is most considerable at this season of the year, being supplied with the meltings of the snow and ice. about two hours after our departure from st. martin we passed over the `_pont des chèvres_, which, from the extreme slightness of its construction, seems hardly secure enough to permit the passage of a goat; and it is rendered more formidable to the nervous traveller by its vast height from the bed of the rocky torrent over which it passes. we went a little way out of the regular track to see the beautiful cascade of chede, which is by m. bourritt ascertained to be sixty-seven feet in height. a number of peasants attended us from a cottage, where we left our mules, and one of them carried a plank to serve as a bridge over a neighbouring stream, and levied toll on us for permission to pass over it. we returned in about a quarter of an hour to the cottage, and paid, as we thought, very liberally for the trouble the peasants had in holding the mules during that short time; but where expectations are unreasonable it is impossible to satisfy them; and that was the case here. one old woman, in particular, exclaimed against us. she said, "_we were english, and ought to give gold._" such is the idea entertained, even in these secluded mountains, of the riches of the english, that a sum, which would be received with thanks from the travellers of almost any other country, would be considered as an object of complaint if given by an englishman; and the thoughtless profusion of some english travellers is a subject of regret to many persons, who, although less opulent, are still desirous of visiting foreign countries, as the inhabitants of the continent, in general, receive from some of our fellow-subjects such an idea of the opulence of their country, that they think it impossible to charge all who come from thence too extravagantly. we next proceeded to the lake of chede, which is not far distant. it was first discovered by m. bourritt, when hunting a wolf amongst these mountains, as he mentions in his itinerary, which contains much useful information, and is a necessary appendage to the traveller in these wild districts. this lake, considering its limited extent, is a handsome object. here is a curious species of moss which gives the banks a singular appearance. we stopped to breakfast, as well as to refresh our mules, at a little cottage-inn near the village of servoy, in the neighbourhood of which are mines of lead and copper, together with many large buildings and furnaces for the preparation of the ore. we here met another party also going to chamouny. they had preferred travelling in little carriages drawn by mules, which they were obliged to quit continually, by the uneven nature of the road; and they did not arrive till some time after us. we here found that one of our party was mounted on the mule which had lately had the honor of carrying the ex-empress maria louisa, who passed this way on her tour to chamouny. she is said to have appeared very thoughtful; but the guides praised both her courage and her beauty. we breakfasted with the other travellers, under the shade of an orchard, near the inn; and the repast was much more luxurious than we could have supposed from the rustic appearance of the place. as soon as the guides informed us that they were ready to attend us, we continued our journey to chamouny, making another little detour to visit the _glacier des bossons_. here we were astonished at the singular appearance which was exhibited by a vast number of _pyramids and towers of ice_, many of them upwards of feet in height, and which remained at this season almost in the centre of a valley richly cultivated and well inhabited. the definition of the word _glacier_ has given rise to several arguments. i shall therefore insert that given by the celebrated m. de saussure, in his tour amongst the alps, of which he was one of the first and most able explorers. he says, "the word _glacier_ designates any one of those cavities, natural or artificial, which preserve the ice, or guard it from the rays of the sun." this glacier is only three quarters of a league from chamouny, or the priory, where we soon arrived. the valley of chamouny is about eighteen english miles long, and hardly one in breadth. it is as varied a scene as can possibly be imagined; and no where can the contrast between nature in its wild and in its cultivated state, make a more forcible impression on the mind. many of the farms here are very neat. they sow the grain in may, and reap in august. we remarked several small chapels and crosses where promises of _indulgence for thirty days_ are held out to those persons who shall repeat there a certain number of prayers. one of these chapels, more spacious than the rest, was constructed by a bishop of sion. the village of chamouny is not large, but contains several extremely good inns, which, since the opening of the continent, have had their full share of english travellers, whose names, in the books of the hotel where we lodged, more than doubled those of all other nations who had visited the various grand scenes with which this country abounds; and the most lucrative employment here is that of a guide. strangers are often much imposed on by them, and should therefore be careful to get recommended to such as will conduct them safely to all that is curious. we met a party who had been deceived by either the ignorance or laziness of their guides; and who, we found, after spending two or three days in exploring this neighbourhood, had seen but a small portion of what is worthy of attention. the air here is of a very wintry temperature. this, however, is not astonishing, when we consider that this place is situated toises, or , feet above the lake of geneva, and , feet above the level of the sea, but , feet below the summit of mont blanc. chamouny is the chief place in the commune to which it gives name, and which is inhabited by a remarkably hardy and intelligent peasantry. i was informed that the austrians obliged this district to furnish cows, a vast quantity of cheese, butter, &c. &c.; but the inhabitants were so much rejoiced at being released from the french yoke, that they did not complain of these exactions. as far as i could judge, the wish of the young men here seems to be, that savoy should form a canton of switzerland; but the old men, who formerly lived under the government of the king of sardinia, wish for the restoration of the order of things to which they were long accustomed; and it seems most probable that the king of sardinia will be restored to that part of this ancient patrimony of his family which has not been ceded to france. the savoyards complain of this division of their country. the part assigned to france is the most valuable district, and forms above a third of the duchy: in it is situated its ancient capital, _chambery_. it is, however, not probable that the wishes of the savoyards will be consulted as to these points, which will be determined by the allied powers on the grounds of _political expediency_. i also made inquiries concerning the state of taxation in savoy, and found, that under france the inhabitants were obliged to pay more than three times the sum which they had paid to sardinia. the imposts were here the same as in the rest of france, no distinction having been made between this mountainous country and the other more productive departments. doors and windows are amongst the articles taxed, and the stamp duties are very heavy. having refreshed ourselves sufficiently to encounter fresh difficulties, we determined to visit _montanvert_, and the _mer de glace_, two of the most distinguished objects of curiosity which this place boasts of. having provided ourselves with guides and mules, we set out accordingly; and, after quickly passing the narrow valley, began to ascend mountains which abound with chamois, and which, by their height and irregularity, seemed to render our arrival on their summit an event not speedily to be expected. we had more reason than ever to be astonished at the extraordinary security with which our mules carried us up such abrupt ascents, which in many places more resembled a flight of steps, hewn roughly in a rock, than a practicable road, and there were in many places hardly any marks to shew which was the preferable way. after a continual ascent of between two and three hours, we were advised to send back our mules to wait our return in the valley, and to continue our way on foot, which we did accordingly, being provided with long sticks, pointed with iron, to assist us in climbing the remainder of the ascent. our arrival on the summit amply repaid us for the toil which it had cost us: the view is not to be described;--before us lay the _mer de glace_ (sea of ice) extending to the length of four leagues, and being about three quarters of a league in width; which is one of the most sublime spectacles in nature.--around us were mountains much more elevated than those which cost us so much trouble in ascending, which consisting of granite, dispersed in the most majestic forms, and being the perpetual abode of frosts, storms, and tempests, leave a most awful impression on the mind. it is impossible to behold these stupendous scenes without, in the language of the psalmist, 'ascribing unto the lord worship and power.' although we had ascended not less than feet, yet, to our astonishment, mont blanc appeared _nearly as elevated_ as when we viewed it from the galley. it is unquestionably the highest mountain in the three old quarters of the world (being exceeded in height only by the andes); and i shall insert here the calculations of its elevation, and of that of some other mountains: english feet. chimboraco, the highest of the cordilleras , mont blanc, above the level of the mediterranean, according to sir g. shuckburgh , ditto, according to m. de luc , / mount caucasus , etna, according to m, de saussure , teneriffe , the highest mountain in scotland is ben-nevis, , feet. in wales, snowdon, , . in england, ingleborough, , feet. in ireland, croagh patrick, , . mont blanc is easily distinguished from amongst the other mountains (of which _mont buet_; of feet in height, approaches the nearest to it) when steen on this side, by the astonishing altitude to which it rises, and by the vast body of snow with which its top and sides are covered to the perpendicular height of above feet, without the intervention of any rock, to take off from that extreme whiteness that gives name to this mountain, uniting in the circular form of its summit all the majesty that can possibly be imagined. we partook of some refreshment in an apartment on the summit of montanvert, which the extreme cold of the atmosphere rendered very acceptable. having enrolled our names in a book kept here for that purpose, which abounds with the praises of all travellers who have viewed these scenes, we descended to the _mer de glace_, which is appropriately so named, from the striking resemblance which its broken masses of ice bear to the waves of the ocean, and the resemblance is still further heightened by the blue appearance which the numerous cavities present to the eye.--we walked a little way on this frozen ocean, the better to contemplate its vast extent, as well as to have it in our power to boast of _having walked on a mass of ice in the month of august_. the depth of the ice is calculated to be from three to _four hundred_ feet, and the solemnity of this scene of desolation is increased by the sound of several torrents tumbling from the surrounding rocks. we again returned to the summit of montanvert, and were again lost in astonishment at the scene; which did not fail to recall to my recollection the beautiful lines of _pope_, in his essay on criticism: so pleas'd at first the tow'ring alps we try, mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky, th' eternal snows appear already past, and the first clouds and mountains seem the last. but, those attain'd, we tremble to survey the growing labours of the lengthen'd way, th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes, hills peep o'er hills, and alps on alps arise. having sufficiently contemplated the view, we began to think of returning to the valley, which presented a most enlivening appearance after the _chaos_ we had left. the descent was much easier than the ascent, and we were not long before we met our mules, and returned to our inn in great prosperity, although we had, most of us, occasional falls during so difficult a progress. we had great reason to be pleased with our expedition, and were most fortunate in the clearness of the day, without which our labour would have been lost. the valley is, of course, much more mild in its atmosphere than the mountain, but the weather was autumnal, and a fire was quite indispensable to our comfort. there are no less than _five glaciers_ in this valley, they are separated from each other by forests and by cultivated lands, and this intermixture presents an appearance which, from its singularity, cannot fail to astonish the beholder. these glaciers all lie at the foot of that vast chain of mountains, which supply the sources of many of the greatest rivers in europe. i observed that the mountains in this vicinity were the first i had seen enlivened by the mixture of the larch with the fir, which produces a very pleasing effect, and continues afterwards to be often seen. the vast quantities of alpine _strawberries_ that every-where abound on these mountains, have a most excellent flavor, and numbers of children employed in gathering them find ready sale among the numerous strangers, attracted by the wonders of the neighbourhood. these alps possess great attractions for the _botanist_, who is surrounded by saxifrage, rhododendrons, and a variety of other plants, which he must highly value, but which i have not sufficient knowledge of the science to distinguish particularly. nor would the _mineralogist_ find fewer attractions in the rocks themselves, than the botanist in the plants which they produce. we did not witness any of those _avalanches_ which are said to fall so frequently from the mountains, and of the dreadful effects of which such interesting statements have been published. the whole of this valley, however, appears to be continually threatened, by the enormous masses which hang over it, and seem to need the application of but a trifling force, to move them from situations, to which they are to all appearance so slightly attached. * * * * * chap. viii. we left chamouny at an early hour to proceed on our way to martigny, from which it is nine leagues distant; but as there is nothing which deserves the name of a road, we continued our journey on mules. the morning was so very hazy, that we were prevented from enjoying the prospect from the col de balme, and we travelled for several hours amongst mountains, at one moment enveloped in the fog, which was sometimes the next instant carried to a considerable distance from us, by one of those sudden currents of air which are so common in these elevated situations. as we approached valorsine, the rain began to fall, but fortunately it was not of long continuance, and afterwards the weather became much clearer. _nothing can surpass_ the romantic situation of this little village, its valley is one of the most secluded we had yet seen amongst the alps. the impression which this scene has left on my mind, can never be effaced; every thing presented an appearance of tranquillity, and of extreme simplicity. it was the feast of the patron saint of the village, and the peasants were in their best dresses. the women were of a better appearance than is usual in savoy; their dress attracted the particular attention of our french companion, who had never before quitted his own country, and who had previously expressed a contempt for savoy, which he now seemed willing to retract; and certainly it would be difficult to see a spot where primitive simplicity was more conspicuous. we determined to refresh ourselves here, and afterwards went through the village to the church, which was decorated with flowers for the festival; and during our walk we were saluted with the utmost civility by the peasants, who surveyed us with a curiosity which proved they had but little intercourse with strangers. a monk saluted me, and said in latin he was rejoiced again to see englishmen. in one of the groups, i observed a fortune-teller, who seemed to have a good deal of custom, but her dialect was one of the most singular i ever heard. the inn where we breakfasted, like most of the houses here, was raised on beams, to allow for the depth of the snow in winter. they are built of timber, and covered with pieces of fir, cut to about the size of tiles. the rooms were very small, and could with difficulty accommodate the unusual number of guests then assembled. civility was more abundant than provisions, but there was more fruit than one could expect to see amongst these mountains. if the peasants of meillerie, which is the part of savoy rousseau took so much pleasure in describing, at all resemble those of valorsine, he cannot there at least be accused of having dealt in fiction. m. de saussure relates an anecdote which serves to give an idea of the savoyards in these situations, so remote from the corruption incident to cities. he says, "i was one day prosecuting my researches amongst the alps, and being without provisions, was induced to take some fruit not far distant from a cottage. i observed a woman coming towards me, as i concluded, to ask payment for the fruit; and i assured her i had no intention of going away without satisfying her. she answered, 'i came out thinking you had lost your way, and that i might be able to set you right. as for the fruit, i will take nothing for it. he who made it, did not intend it for the use of one in particular.'" we had not yet performed above half our journey, and as it was getting late, we were obliged by the representation of our guides to continue on our road, which lay through a romantic district, abounding with streams and falls of water. some of the fir trees on the tête noire opposite to us, are said to be above feet in height. we were after the first league frequently obliged to dismount, having in some places literally to ascend steps cut in the rock, which i think must have not a little puzzled two gentlemen, who set out on _horseback_ about the same time we did from chamouny, but who did not reach martigny for a long time after us, and were greatly tired with the difficulties they had to encounter. the village of trient is in a romantic situation, but has not the same attractions as valorsine. the hill near it is astonishingly difficult of ascent. the guides wished us to let the mules shift for themselves; and we all at last arrived at the summit. an hour afterwards, we reached the mount fourcle, from which is seen a vast extent of country. this view is by some travellers considered as surpassing all others in switzerland, as it embraces the greatest part of the canton of the valais, watered by the rhone; and we could distinctly see its capital city sion, although above eight leagues distant. martigny and st. branchier seemed to lie at our feet; but we had still a long way to descend before we reached them. the city of sion will be long remembered as the scene of one of the most horrible of those outrages which cast such a just odium on the french name. it was given up to the savage fury of an army irritated by the brave but ineffectual resistance, which its inhabitants attempted to oppose against the invaders of their property and liberty. but here, as in too many other instances, numbers occasioned the worse to prevail over the better cause. a person on whose authority i can confide, assured me he was at geneva, when a part of the french army arrived there after this _glorious_ exploit, and that rather than return without plunder, they carried away with them the miserable household furniture of these unfortunate people, which sold at geneva for a sum so trifling as hardly to pay for the expense of conveying them thither. it may seem _incredible_, but it is however _true_, that many of the inhabitants of the valois, _regret the recovery of their independence_, and would wish again to see their country in the possession of the french. they prefer the advantages which buonaparte's military road, and the frequent passage of his troops into italy afforded them of making money, to their present liberty under a government of their own selection. the country, for about a league before the entrance into martigny, becomes much more civilized than that we had just passed. the fields are well cultivated, and are divided by hedges from the road: here are some of the largest walnut trees i have ever seen. on the left we remarked the venerable and extensive remains of la bathia, an ancient castle, formerly inhabited by the bishops of sion. it is boldly situated on a rock, which rises over that impetuous torrent the dreuse, which a little below falls into the rhone. the town of martigny is situated on the rhone, in that delightful plain which we had so much admired from the fourcle, and which did not disappoint the expectations we had formed of it. it is well watered, highly cultivated, and abounds with neat cottages, and seems almost to realize some fancied descriptions of enchanted valleys, being shut out from the surrounding countries by a formidable barrier of snow-clad mountains, and possessing in itself so attractive an aspect. martigny is a well-built town; and some antiquarians insist, that it is the ancient octodurum of the romans. i can give no opinion on a point which has occasioned differences amongst the learned; but the present appearance of the inhabitants was very favourable, it being a holiday here as well as at valorsine, and although their festivity was not altogether marked by the same simplicity, yet it was sufficiently removed from that which prevails in many other countries to interest us by its singularity. we were here amused with an account of two english gentlemen, who attempted to ascend mont blanc, notwithstanding the assurances they received of the impracticability of the attempt under present circumstances, as a chasm had lately been made by the thaw on one side of the mountain; but they were not to be intimidated either by the advice of the inhabitants, or by the accounts of the hardships suffered by m. de saussure, and judging with _hannibal_, "nil actum reputans si quid superesset agendum." "think nothing gained while ought remains." they set out on this difficult enterprise, attended by eighteen guides, but were at length obliged to desist, after running many hazards, and after having expended at least £ . if they failed in accomplishing their undertaking, they had at least the satisfaction of exciting much wonder amongst the surrounding peasants, at the curiosity and rashness of the english. our party were more easily satisfied; and having seen as much as could be accomplished without very great difficulty, we were contented to judge of the rest from the ample descriptions that have been published respecting them. i could have wished, however, that time and the consent of the majority of the party, would have permitted my ascending to the convent on the great st. bernard; but being left in the minority, i did not feel disposed to make the excursion by myself, and i therefore prepared to accompany my friends back to geneva. at martigny, we entered on a part of the grand road of the simplon, and bidding adieu to our mules, and to the mountains over which they had carried us, we proceeded on our journey in a _charaban_ (or light country cart, with seats across it) to bex. i did not observe that extreme indolence in the inhabitants of the lower valais, with which they have been reproached by some travellers. they are no doubt very poor, but their cottages are not devoid of neatness and comfort. our attention was soon attracted by the famous cascade called the _pisse vache_, the beauty of which consists chiefly in its seeming to issue immediately from a cavity in the rock, which is surrounded by thorns and bushes. its perpendicular height cannot be estimated at less than feet, although many make it double that, or even more. the country of the valais is remarkable for the vast numbers of persons it contains, affected with the _goitres_ and also of _idiots_. the neighbouring provinces are also more or less affected with these maladies. many writers have exerted their ingenuity in endeavouring to account for this singularity with greater or less success; but what at geneva is considered as the best treatise on the subject, is that by _coxe_ in his _account of switzerland_. a gentleman there lent me a french edition of this valuable work, from which i extracted the following account of the origin of the _goitres_, (or extraordinary swellings about the glands of the throat,) which in switzerland is considered as very satisfactory. mr. coxe says, "the opinion that water derived from the melting of snow, occasions these excrescences, is entirely destitute of foundation, which one cannot doubt if it is considered how generally such water is used in many parts of switzerland, where the inhabitants are not at all subject to this malady, which is, however, very prevalent in parts where no such water abounds. "these swellings are also frequently seen near naples, in sumatra, &c. where there is little or no snow." mr. c. proceeds to shew that this malady is occasioned by a calcareous matter called in swiss _tuf_; and adds, "this stone resembles very much the incrustations at mallock in derbyshire, which dissolve so completely in the water as not to lessen its transparency; and i think that the particles of this substance so dissolved, resting in the glands of the throat, occasion the goitres, and during the course of my travels in different parts of europe, i have never failed to observe, that where this _tuf_, or calcareous deposit is common, _goitres_ are equally so. i have found an abundance of tuf, and also of goitrous persons in derbyshire, the valois, the valteline, at lucerne, berne, fribourg, in parts of piedmont, in the valleys of savoy, at milan, and at dresden. i also observed that at berne and fribourg, the public fountains are supplied from sources where there is a vast quantity of this calcareous deposit. general pfiffer has informed me, that there is but one spring at lucerne, which is free from tuf, and that those who reside in its vicinity, are much less subject to the goitres than the rest of the inhabitants. a surgeon also, whom i met at the baths of louesch, informed me that he had _frequently_ extracted from different goitres _small pieces of tuf_, which is also found in the stomachs of cows, and the dogs of this country are also subject to this malady. this gentleman added, that, to complete the cure of young persons attacked by this complaint, he either removed them from waters impregnated with tuf, or recommended them to drink only of water that had been purified. the children of goitrous parents are often born with these swellings; but there are also instances of children born with goitres, whose parents are free from them." that celebrated naturalist, m. de saussure, attributes goitres not to the water, but to the heat of the climate, and to the stagnation of the air, and he informs us, he has never seen goitres in any place elevated or , toises above the level of the sea, and that they are most common in valleys where there is not a free circulation of air. "but it may be observed, that in these elevated situations, fountains are too near their sources to dissolve as much calcareous sediment as by the time they reach the plain. some say, that strangers are never attacked by the goitres, but the truth is, they are only less subject to them than natives of the country. in fine, we may observe, that if snow water occasions the goitres wherever they abound, there should also be snow water, which experience proves not to be the fact. if the concentration of heat and stagnation of the air are necessary to their formation, it would follow that they should not abound in those places where the air circulates freely, which is not less contrary to fact than the former supposition. if waters impregnated with tuf, or certain calcareous substances, produce the goitres, it will follow, that in every place where they abound, the inhabitants should drink of waters so impregnated, which seems consonant to the truth of the fact." the same causes which occasion the goitres, have probably a considerable operation in producing the number of idiots, as they are always in most abundance where the goitres prevail. such is the intimate and inexplicable sympathy between the body and the mind. when the goitres become large, they produce a difficulty of breathing, and render the person so affected, extremely indolent and languid. these idiots are treated with great regard by the rest of the inhabitants of the country, who even consider them, in some degree, peculiarly favoured by providence--thinking that they are certain of eternal happiness, as not being capable of forming any criminal intentions. exaggeration is the common fault of travellers, and, to judge from the accounts given by some who have visited this country, a stranger would be led to suppose, that all its population were either idiots, or afflicted with goitres. the fact, however, is, that the inhabitants of the valais are in general a strong and healthy race, but that these two unfortunate maladies are here in greater frequency than in any other country. our next stage, after leaving martigny, was st. maurice, which derives its name from an abbey, founded by sigismund, king of burgundy, about the commencement of the sixth century, in honour of a saint, who is said to have here suffered martyrdom, having refused to abjure christianity at the command of the emperor maximin. its more ancient name is said by antiquarians to have been agaunum. this place is very justly considered as the key of the lower valais, of which it is the chief town. its bridge over the rhone is of one arch, of feet, which is thought to be the work of the romans, and by its boldness, does not seem unworthy of a people whose edifices are so justly distinguished for their elegance and durability. here is also a curious mosaic pavement, and the antiquity of the place is proved incontestably by the many ancient medals and inscriptions which have been found here at different periods. it must, indeed, have been always remarkable as a military position, and it is difficult to imagine one of greater natural strength, or more easily defensible by a small force against superior numbers. the road, which is extremely narrow, passes for a considerable length under a mountain, which is absolutely inaccessible. having passed the bridge, we entered the territories of the ancient canton of berne, but now of vaud (as i think there appears to be but little doubt that it will be speedily acknowledged as such by the swiss diet). here our passports were demanded, but more in compliance with old regulations, than from any mistrust of us; and one of our party having forgotten his passport, the officer was perfectly satisfied with his leaving his name and address. the rhone is here of astonishing rapidity, and its waters have quite a milky hue, from the vast quantities of melted snow with which they are supplied. on quitting the lake at geneva, the river is of a transparent blue colour, which is attributed partly to its having deposited its sediment in the lake, and partly to the nature of the soil over which it there passes. the rest of our stage was through a picturesque country, and the road was excellent. * * * * * chap. ix. we found at bex an excellent inn, which is not undeserving the reputation it has acquired of being the best in switzerland. this little town is situated amongst lofty mountains, which the industry of the peasants have cultivated wherever it was practicable, and they often carry their cattle with great labour to little spots of pasture which would otherwise have been lost, as without assistance, they could not have arrived at them. the cottages on the side of the valais are so placed, as to contribute greatly to enliven the scenery; and they are also remarkable for their singular construction, being mostly built on wooden pillars, several feet above the surface of the ground. many of the inhabitants have two or three houses in different parts of their possessions, which they inhabit according as the season of the year requires their attention to the different places where they are situated. these people are said to be descended from the northern tribes, and certainly resemble them in their wanderings; i have seen a whole hamlet deserted, the season not requiring the residence of the people. in countries which boast a larger portion of civilization, the fashion prevails over the division which the seasons seem to point out. an inhabitant of the valais would no doubt be surprised at the _summer being the season_ in which our fashionables resort to london, from the purer air of the country. the valais abounds with vineyards, but the _wines_ are by no means palatable to persons who have tasted those of more favoured countries. in the vicinity of bex and aigle are the only _salt-springs_ in switzerland. they are of vast extent, and the view of the subterranean galleries, and of tin: reservoirs of brine, is very striking. the town of aigle is principally built of black marble, which is in great abundance in its neighbourhood, and the polishing of which affords employment to a number of persons. i observed more corn in this district than i had before seen in switzerland, but was informed, that it did not grow a sufficient quantity for the consumption of its inhabitants, who are said to exceed , . the church of bex is neat, and has been lately repaired. we next arrived at villeneuve, which is only remarkable as a place of embarkation on the lake of geneva. our plan was to return to geneva by water, but the violence of the wind, which was against us, and which had greatly ruffled the lake, obliged us to continue our journey along its banks. the length of this lake is about or english miles, and its breadth from to . this vast body of water is sometimes so much agitated by sudden storms from the surrounding mountains, as to be covered with waves like the sea. we were highly pleased with the extraordinary scene of cultivation which its banks presented; they are sometimes extremely steep, but are formed by the unceasing industry of the inhabitants into terraces supported by walls, and if their labour in originally making these divisions is calculated to astonish, their perseverance in repairing, and sometimes in rebuilding them, after the torrents have carried them away, is not less worthy of praise. the industry of the inhabitants seems continually threatened by the vast masses of rock which hang over their possessions, and which sometimes cover them with ruin. we saw an enormous mass which had fallen from one of the mountains, and is now in the lake, having been removed thither by the inhabitants after it had for some time completely obstructed the road. we passed near the castle of chillon, which is singularly situated, being built on some rocks in the lake, by which it is completely surrounded. it consists of a number of circular towers, and was formerly used as a state prison. a more secure position, for such an edifice, it is difficult to conceive. before our arrival at vevay, we saw the village of clarens, so much celebrated by rousseau. vevay is a handsome town, with about , inhabitants; and is, after lausanne, the principal place in the canton of vaud. the principal church is situated on an eminence above the town; from its tower i saw a most magnificent prospect, embracing nearly the whole of the lake, (which is here nearly at its greatest breadth) the entrance of the rhone through a romantic valley, and the stupendous scenery of the alps, heightened by the numerous villages on the savoy side the lake. for the union of wild and cultivated scenery this view stands unequalled. no description of mine could do it justice: "car la parole est toujours réprimée quand le sujet surmonte le disant." "when we most strongly would delight express, words often fail in which our thoughts to dress." in this church is the tomb of the celebrated general ludlow, who died here in , aged . his monument, according to custom, only speaks his praise; and makes no mention of his having been a member of that assembly which condemned the ill-fated charles to death. over the door of the house he inhabited, is this motto, '_omne solum forti patria_.' he had resided for some time at lausanne, but fearing the fate of lisle, who was assassinated, he retired to this place. between vevay and lausanne is the vineyard of vaux, which bears a great reputation. we passed through the village of cully and lutri, both situated on the lake, and after mounting a considerable hill arrived at lausanne, which is the capital of the canton of vaud. it stands on three hills, and on the intervening valleys, which being very steep, render its situation more picturesque than convenient. it is situated about feet above the level of the lake, from which it is distant about half a league; the village of ouchy serves as its port, and carries on a good deal of trade. lausanne contains several remains which prove its antiquity, and several roman inscriptions are preserved in the townhouse, which is a handsome building. here are three churches, one on each of the hills. of these the cathedral is well worthy of attention. it is said to have been founded by one of the ancient kings of burgundy, and is certainly superior to any church i had hitherto seen in switzerland. its architecture exhibits various specimens of gothic: there are many windows of painted glass in good preservation, and also several handsome monuments. the choir is handsome, and its pillars are of black marble. its spire rises to a great height, and from the church-yard there is a fine prospect of the lake, and the surrounding country, with which i should have been more delighted, had i not so recently seen the still grander scene which vevay commands. the population of lausanne is computed at , , and they are very industrious; there are manufactories of hats and cottons, and the printing business is carried on to a greater extent than in any other town in switzerland. there are also several jewellers' shops and watchmakers' warehouses. of all the swiss towns this is considered as the most remarkable for the adoption of french fashions, and there is much more dissipation here than at geneva, as it is the constant residence of many wealthy families; but, with few exceptions, the houses are neither large nor well built. near the church is shewn the residence of gibbon, the historian, and his library is now the property of a gentleman of this town, who purchased it in england. lausanne was formerly subject to its bishops, who were princes of the german empire. a council was held here in , when pope _felix v._, to restore peace to the romish church, and extinguish the schisms to which it was then a prey, resigned the tiara and retired to the abbey of ripaille, in savoy, a second time. this prince is distinguished by some of the historians of his century by the title of the solomon of the age. he succeeded to the dukedom of savoy by the name of amadeus vii., and having abdicated that sovereignty, retired to the abbey of ripaille, which he had long admired as a secluded retreat, and to which he was a great benefactor. his restless disposition having induced him to seek the papal dignity, he, soon after obtaining it, became a second time a recluse but did not subject himself to any great _mortification_. this remarkable character died in , æt. , at geneva; he was buried with a bible under his head, with this inscription, the application of which, i do not exactly understand: "la ville de genèva est située au milieu des montagnes; son territoire est sablonneux, très-peu etendu, et les habitans sont curieux de nouveautés." "the city of geneva is situated amongst mountains, its territory is sandy, and of small extent, and its inhabitants are curious concerning novelty." the reformation was established in the pays de vaud, in , after a public controversy had been held between the protestant and romish ecclesiastics. the environs of lausanne present as cheerful and animated a sight as is to be seen in any part of switzerland, and the view from the public walk, in particular, is enlivened by the bays and promontories, which diversify the sides of the lake. our first stage, after leaving lausanne, was _morges_, which is situated on the lake; it consists chiefly of two well built streets, and carries on a good deal of trade, having a secure port with two moles, which, when seen from a distance, have a good effect, being ornamented with turrets. the church is a handsome edifice of grecian architecture, and is calculated to accommodate a congregation much more numerous than the town affords. but, in general, modern churches are not to be reproached for being on too large a scale. the public walk is near the water; it is shaded by lofty rows of glens, and presented, when we saw it, a very lively appearance, as it was under its shade that the town of morges entertained at dinner, two companies of infantry, and their officers, sent from zurich to garrison geneva. no place could be better adapted for the purpose, during so hot a season. the conviviality and good humour which prevailed were unbounded, and the patriotic tendency of the toasts, given by those at the upper table, was proved by the cheers with which they were received by all the others. the road from morges to rolle does not continue along the banks of the lake, which is, however, occasionally seen, and heightens the beauty of the country, by the effect produced by its waters. we passed near the town of aubonne, which is chiefly distinguished by the venerable castle, which formerly protected it from attack, and now adds to the beauty of its appearance. rolle is a charming village: having neither walls, nor gates, it is denied the title of a town, which it certainly merits more than many paltry places, which have no other pretensions to the name, than the circumstance of their being so enclosed. it consists chiefly of one wide and well built street; it is situated on the lake, which is here very wide, and is surrounded by a country inferior to none we had passed. there is but little trade carried on here. its mineral waters are, however, an attraction to strangers, and the society is generally pleasant. many families of distinction reside in this neighbourhood, and their villas are handsome. i was particularly struck with the situation of one, which had been built by a dutch gentleman; it was of an oval form and crowned with a dome. we found its owner had lately returned to holland; his house was shut up, and we could not gratify our curiosity in going over it. after dinner we took a turn on the promenade, which is laid out with great taste. from thence we visited the castle, formerly the residence of the barons of rolle, but now vested in the commune by purchase, and applied to various purposes. one part is reserved for public meetings, another as a poor house, and a third portion accommodates the school of the district. we entered into conversation with a person whom we met at the gate (who proved to be the master of the school); and who, after having taken several pinches of snuff from the box of one of our party, became extremely communicative, and shewed us some of the apartments of the castle, as well as the garden, where is a terrace washed by the lake, which as the sun had long set, and at its waters presented an unruffled surface, was altogether one of the most _tranquillizing_ scenes which i have ever witnessed, and which was heightened by the venerable and mouldering appearance of this part of the castle. we contemplated the scene for some time in silence, and it was not without regret that we left it. we arrived at an early hour next morning at nyon, which is also built on the margin of the lake. it is chiefly remarkable for its porcelain manufactory, and for the handsome appearance of its castle, situated above the town. very near it is the chateau de prangin, which has been purchased within the last few months by _joseph buonaparte_, who proposes to console himself in this retirement for the loss of regal power. his carriage passed us just before we entered nyon; and we were told he was on his way to another house which he has in this neighbourhood, where he mostly resides, to superintend the alteration he is now carrying on at prangin. we went to see the _chateau_, and found a considerable number of men employed about it. it is a large building, with a tower at each angle, and surrounds a paved court. the terrace commands a charming prospect, and no man could desire a more agreeable residence. we entered into conversation with an officer of his titular majesty's household, who said it was very natural we should desire to see one of the members of a family which had of late years acted so distinguished a part in europe. he told us that king joseph was extremely fond of hunting, and intended to enclose a large portion of the land he had purchased with a wall, in order to form a _chasse pour les bêtes sauvages_. this will be a great novelty in this highly improved country, and the wall must cost a vast sum of money. we waited some time, but without success, in the hope of seeing his majesty. he will be probably much happier in this retirement than if the armies of his brother had succeeded in placing him on a throne which he wanted ability to fill with honour to himself, or with advantage to the people over whom buonaparte designed he should act as governor and promulgator of his oppressive system. the spaniards despised _joseph_ extremely, and gave him the appellation of _el rey botelli_, from his love of wine; drunkenness being a vice to which the spaniards are not addicted. the hills which bound the lake near nyon produce excellent wine, when compared with the rest of the _pays de vaud_. the vin de la cote is much esteemed; i cannot, however, with all the partiality i feel for switzerland, contend for the general excellence of its wines; and although it is said, "bacchus amat colles," yet i think the hills of the pays de vaud will hardly contend for this favour with those of the rhingau and of burgundy. between nyon and copet we saw some of the artillery of this canton practising at a mark, and were informed that they exercise here in turns, and that they are great proficients in the art of taking a correct aim. it is doubtless well to be prepared to resist any enemy who may wish to seize and oppress one's country; but i hope switzerland may not soon have to contend with the overwhelming armies of france. copet is a pleasantly situated village. fishing seems to be the chief occupation of its inhabitants. near it is the chateau, formerly the property of m. necker, and now the residence of his daughter, madame de staël, who will probably be as celebrated in future times for her writings, as her father for the administration of the french finances. i was to have accompanied two friends to a fête given here by madame de staël, but unfortunately we did not return in time from our excursion to chamouny; and shortly after madame de staël went to paris. this lady is said to have formerly remarked, that she should probably find it very difficult to be suited with a husband, _as her mother insisted she should marry a man of quality; her father wished for a man of talents, and she to please herself_. the baron de staël holstein was finally accepted, as no doubt uniting all the points required. we soon reached versoi, which belongs to france, and was, during the disturbances which prevailed at geneva in , much encouraged by the then minister, the duke de choiseul, who expected that its advantageous situation, as well as its proximity to geneva, would attract many of its inhabitants to settle there; and that, by their well-known industry, his newly founded town would speedily flourish. the duke was, however, disappointed in the expectations he had formed (as the present situation of versoi affords ample testimony); for it was too much to suppose, that men born under a free government would, on account of trifling internal dissensions, abandon their country, and become the voluntary subjects of a despotic monarchy. _confidence is a plant of slow growth_, and an absolute government is not likely to encourage it. an enlightened monarch may frame an edict equally liberal as that of nantes; but the tyranny or bigotry of a succeeding sovereign may revoke what only proceeded from sentiments to which he is a stranger. the genevese have now nothing to apprehend from versoi as a rival, but are anxious that it should be united to switzerland, the french custom-house there being an obstacle to their trade by land, as they are only separated from the rest of switzerland by this narrow point which projects from the country of gex. gex was at one time subject to savoy, and at another period to geneva. it is six leagues in length, and about three and a half in width. on the road from versoi to geneva we had ourselves reason to perceive the inconveniences of the french custom-house, as it is quite absurd to insist on opening packages which are not destined to remain above ten minutes on the french territory. the country here is finely varied, and the distant view of geneva again drew from us expressions of admiration, after an excursion through a country where the traveller often sees more to delight and to interest him in one day than he sometimes meets with in travelling for a week through other provinces. * * * * * chap. x. having left geneva so soon after my arrival there, i had not of course sufficient time to speak sufficiently of a city so peculiarly interesting on many accounts. the journal of a traveller is not however the place to look for long statements of the revolutions, wars, and sieges of the cities which he visits; but still there are very few tourists who have omitted to swell their pages with details more properly the province of the historian, and, from the unconnected manner in which they are generally introduced, not calculated to give any very accurate idea of the history of the place. i shall not therefore attempt to mention the various revolutions which have at different times disturbed the city of geneva; and shall only remark, that it was formerly annexed to the german empire, and that its bishops, like those of lausanne, having taken advantage of the precarious authority of some of the emperors, succeeded in uniting to the spiritual jurisdiction most of the temporal authority of the state, and lost both together at the introduction of the reformation in . the citizens, to defend themselves from the powerful pretensions of the dukes of savoy, concluded, in , a perpetual alliance with the cantons of zurich and berne (the most powerful of the reformed cantons), by which alliance this republic became a part of the swiss confederacy, and continued so to be until forced to unite itself to france, by the revolutionary government of that country. it has again recovered its independence; and the general wish is that geneva may be declared a canton of switzerland (this has, since i left geneva, actually taken place, and the event was celebrated with the utmost enthusiasm by its inhabitants). their present government is not absolutely arranged, and seems but little varied from that democratic form which anciently prevailed (the merits of which have given rise to much discussion), and by which all power is finally vested in the general or sovereign council, composed of all the citizens of geneva who have attained their majority, there being a few particular exemptions. all citizens are equally eligible to the public employments of the state, of which, however, the emoluments are so scanty, as only to make them objects of honourable ambition. by the laws of geneva, a father can never dispose of more than half his estate, according to his inclination; the other half must be divided equally amongst his children. those citizens who do not discharge the debts of their father after his decease, are excluded from holding any public situations; as also, if they omit to pay debts which they have themselves contracted. there are still subsisting many _sumptuary laws_, which appear useful, to exclude the introduction of too great a degree of luxury, which is generally so fatal to the liberty of a people. there is a theatre at geneva, which i have heard was first projected by m. d'alembert, but the magistrates endeavour to prevent as much as possible the frequency of theatrical entertainments; and, during my stay at geneva (between three and four weeks), i think the theatre was open but twice for plays, and once for a concert. the town-house is a large and ancient building, and devoid of regularity. it is chiefly worthy of mention, from the ascent to the upper apartments, being by an inclined plane, sufficiently spacious to admit a carriage to drive up to them. here are the apartments of the senate, the councils of government, officers of justice, &c. here i left my passports and received, in return, a permission to reside in the city, which must be renewed every fortnight. the passport is returned upon the final departure of its owner. i now found it easy to provide myself with a lodging (as, without the authority of the state, no citizen can receive strangers into his house) on reasonable terms, for three weeks. my apartment commanded a handsome prospect of the lake from one of the windows. i, however, occasionally dined at the hotel where i had first lodged (the balances d'or). i here found sometimes pleasant society at the table d'hote. the hour of dinner was about a quarter past one o'clock, and the table was plentifully supplied, much in the order i before mentioned, in speaking of the french dinners. i observed that excellent vegetable, the potatoe, was here in great estimation, at the tables both of the higher and inferior classes; and, except in italy, i understand its value is duly appreciated in the principal parts of europe. i now proceed, according to my promise, to speak more of geneva, having been for some time domesticated there. the city is regularly fortified; but, according to the modern system of warfare, it would not probably make any efficient resistance; yet although its fortifications may not be sufficient to secure it during a siege, they are not entirely devoid of utility: they would prevent the city's being suddenly occupied by an enemy, and thus afford time for the conclusion of a regular capitulation. situated as the city is, between france and sardinia, and divided from the rest of switzerland, it must be granted, that the government acts wisely in preserving its fortifications. indeed, their utility was fully exemplified during the eventful period of last spring, when the allied troops, after having for some days occupied the city, were suddenly called away, and the inhabitants were menaced by a force of , frenchmen, who demanded admission. this was refused them; and happily, the return of the allied forces in a few days, saved geneva from the melancholy effects which must have ensued from the irruption of the french, who were greatly exasperated that the city did not at first oppose the entrance of the allies. the ramparts form the principal promenade of the genevese; and from some of them (particularly from the place st. antoine, which commands the lake, and is well planted) the views are very striking over a highly cultivated valley, enclosed by some of the most lofty mountains in europe. detachments of the allied forces remained a very considerable time at geneva, and at one period the republic had to defray a daily expence of not less , francs. but what seems to be most regretted by the genevese, is the destruction by those troops, of several avenues of trees, which had for many years lined one of the roads near the city, and formed one of their favourite walks. the austrians, in their impatience to obtain fuel, could not be persuaded to spare them, and the inhabitants now avoid a walk which they once delighted in. i have not, however, heard many complaints at the sums expended for the maintenance of the allied troops, as they have relieved geneva from the yoke of france, under which their trade (which alone had raised their city to such celebrity) was nearly annihilated. i obtained some information on this subject, from a person of whom i inquired my way to the hamlet of the petit sacconnex, near geneva, where is the best view of mont blanc. seeing i was a stranger, he was very civil; but he was delighted when he discovered of what country i was, and spoke of england with enthusiasm, as it was to her perseverance that his country, in common with most of europe, was indebted for the late glorious change in the state of their affairs. he informed me, that before the union of geneva to france, he had been in good business as a watchmaker (the great occupation of the genevese) but, like numberless others, was thrown out of employment. many emigrated, some worked as day labourers, others were forced into the army, and he, being very old, maintained himself with difficulty by setting up a small school. i found my conductor an extremely well informed man, as indeed are most of the tradespeople of geneva. the higher circles are remarkable for that freedom, blended with politeness, which places society on its most natural basis, as i had frequent occasion to remark during my stay at geneva. i must not omit to mention the pleasure i experienced from the _fête de navigation_ (to which i was invited by the kindness of a gentleman, to whom i had been introduced) which is one of the most splendid at geneva; and the scene of the lake, covered with boats of various sizes, filled with elegant females (and i have seen few places that can boast of a greater proportion,) prevented my reflections on the _more distant scene_ which its shores presented, and which, under different circumstances, would not have passed unnoticed. after having spent some time on the water, the company repaired to the hall of navigation, near the village of secheron, where a handsome entertainment was provided. the evening concluded with a brilliant display of fire-works, and the lake was again enlivened by the boats carrying back the company to the city. i observed amongst the company an english admiral, who attended this fête in his uniform. the genevese lamented that so handsome a dress should be disfigured by the _small hat_ he wore, and it was indeed small compared with those of their officers. the peasants here wear larger hats than any i saw in france, probably to shade them from the sun; but in any climate, i do not think an english labourer would feel at his ease with such a vast _edifice_ on his head. the bonnets worn by the inhabitants of parts of savoy and vaud, are not very dissimilar in shape from some i have seen in wales; they are of straw, and are commonly ornamented with black ribbon. i shall here insert an epigram composed in , by a prince of hesse, who, at his departure, presented the city with , crowns. quisquis amat vitam, sobriam, castamque tueri, perpetuò esto illi casta geneva domus: quisquis amat vitani hanc bene vivere, virere et illam, illi iterum fuerit casta geneva domus. illic iuvenies, quidquid, conducit utrique: relligio hic sana est, aura, ager, atque lucus. amongst the various objects which are pointed out as deserving the attention of a stranger, is the house in which the celebrated j.j. rousseau was born, in the year . the circumstance is recorded by an inscription over the door. his father was a watchmaker, and his house was small and obscurely situated. rousseau was perhaps the most eloquent and fascinating of all the sceptical writers of the last century; and probably the only one amongst them who established a _system of his own_, if indeed his eccentricities can be so called. his character exhibited a strange mixture of _pride_, which made him perpetually anxious to be of public notoriety, and of an _unsociable temper_, which often made him retire in disgust with the world, and treat (without any rational cause, that has been assigned) those who were most his friends, as if he considered them to be his bitterest enemies. he was far more jealous of the reputation obtained by his contemporaries, than delighted with the approbation he personally received. considered as a _philosopher_, he was paradoxical; as a _moralist_, dangerous and licentious; as a _parent_, unnaturally abandoning his offspring; as a _friend_, suspicious and ungrateful. as _pride_ was the ruling passion of rousseau, so was _vanity_ beyond dispute the grand characteristic of _voltaire_, (the proximity of fernay may excuse my here comparing him with rousseau,) and this passion induced him to pervert transcendent talents to the most pernicious and fatal purposes. the hostility of voltaire to the _christian dispensation_ has been compared to the enmity rather of a rival than of a philosopher. he is thought to have wished its overthrow, not so much because he entertained any solid objections to its sublime theories, or had real doubts as to the miracles by which it is attested; as because his _vanity_ led him to think, that if he once could persuade men to the abolition of christianity, he might himself become the founder of a new system of _moral indulgence_. the abbé raynal, in ; _already repented_ of the philosophic principles, which he had so sedulously inculcated, and expressed his conviction, that the consequence of the theories then so finely fancied, would be a general pillage, for that their authors wanted experience, to reduce their speculations to a practical system. the abbé was right in _this last_ expectation, and from the french revolution, so destructive in most respects, there has at least resulted this advantage; it has furnished the most satisfactory comment upon the _grand experiment_ of the philosophers, and proved most folly that it is _religion alone_ that possesses authority to silence the clamours of interest, to control the passions, and to fetter the ambition of mankind. the same year ( ) is memorable for the deaths both of voltaire and rousseau; the first is represented as exhibiting on his _death bed_ the most melancholy spectacle of horror and remorse that can be possibly conceived; the latter is thought to have committed _suicide_ at ermenonville, where he found an asylum, after having been banished successively from many states. this opinion is founded chiefly on the authority of madame de staël; it is related, that he rose in the morning in perfect health, and returned after his usual walk; that soon after, he desired his wife to open the window, that he might, as he expressed it, _contemplate nature for the last time_ and that being presently taken ill, he refused to receive any assistance, and died in a few hours. those who have seen both those celebrated characters (who long attracted persons from all parts of europe to this country) have remarked, that _voltaire_ at first sight was acknowledged to be a man of genius; but that _rousseau_ was only suspected of possessing superior abilities. i have perhaps said too much on this subject, into which i have been led insensibly, by reflecting on what i had read of these philosophers, and shall therefore conclude with inserting the remark of a savoyard peasant, who, according to m. lantier, being asked his opinion of them, answered, "_i think that voltaire has done a great deal of mischief in the age in which he lived; and that rousseau will not do less to posterity_." the college of geneva and its library are generally pointed out to strangers as worthy of a visit; for the genevese are no less celebrated for their proficiency in literature, than for their commercial industry. the college consists of nine classes, and owes its foundation to the celebrated calvin, who was born at nyon, where his father was a cooper. he first arrived at geneva in , was exiled in , and recalled finally in ; he became the legislator as well as the religious reformer of the state. he is still the great hero of the genevese, who believe him to be innocent of the _death of michael servet_, which has in the general opinion cast such disgrace on his memory. he did not affect to deny the _great perversity of his temper_, which is indeed exhibited by many of his actions, so forcibly as not to admit of concealment. his writings, in volumes, containing sermons, and his portrait, are preserved in the college, library, which contains about , volumes, besides manuscripts, some of which are of great value. this library was originally founded by bonnival, prior of st. victor, and is open from one till three o'clock every tuesday. two secretaries are then engaged, under the inspection of the librarian, in taking lists of the books which are borrowed or returned. the hydraulic machine on the rhone, which supplies the city with water, although it is less complicated than that at marli, is not less ingenious, and is certainly of greater utility. the wheel is twenty-four feet in diameter, and raises about pints a minute at all seasons (being preserved from the effects of frost) to two reservoirs, one seventy, the other feet above the level of the river. the first supplies the fountains and houses in the lower part of the town, and the second those in the more elevated situations. the water of the rhone, although transparently clear, is hard and unpleasant to drink. in enumerating the public establishments of geneva, i must not omit to mention the society for the advancement of the arts, which was originally projected by m. faizan, an eminent watch-maker; its first meetings were held at m. de saussure's house. this society is now so considerable as to be under the direction of government, and its meetings are held in the town-hall, where subjects connected with agriculture and the useful arts are discussed, and prizes distributed, as well to the school of drawing (which is on a most respectable footing) as to all, who distinguish themselves, either by inventions of utility, or by noble or _humane_ actions. another excellent establishment here, is the chambre des blés, or magazine of corn; this is a large and handsome building, and always contains an ample supply of good wheat. the direction of this establishment is immediately in the government, and its managers are selected from the different councils. the benefits arising from abundant seasons, cover the expences occasioned by years of scarcity. the bakers being obliged to buy here whatever quantity of corn they may require, and at an uniform price it follows that the price of bread always continues the same, and that price is fixed by the grand council. the managers of this store, to prevent the bakers from making bread of an inferior quality, have established a shop in each quarter of the city; and the bakers, to ensure a ready sale, are obliged to make their bread of equal quality with that which could be procured at the shops of the managers of this establishment. the churches of geneva are not distinguished by any architectural beauties, if we except the portico of the _cathedral_, which is constructed of rough marble, said to be copied after that of the rotunda at rome; it is considered equal to that of st. genevieve at paris, but i cannot subscribe to that opinion. the calvinistic tenets (which are those of the state) are most generally adopted at geneva; but the lutherans, the germans of the confession of augsburg, and the roman catholics, have each a church. the ministers are appointed by the government, and care is taken that the roman catholic minister be subject to a swiss bishoprick. in the calvinistic churches, the hours of divine service are nine in the morning and two in the afternoon. the service consists in the reading the commandments, a few prayers, a chapter in the bible, and the sermon; and concludes with a psalm or hymn, accompanied by the organ; the whole service generally occupies an hour. the sunday is principally distinguished by the sermon, the rest of the week being allotted for reading the scriptures.--a stranger is much surprised at seeing _many persons wear their hats during the sermon_, a custom which indicates a want of respect to the place that cannot be excused, however inferior the compositions of a preacher may be to the rest of the service. there is one thing to be noticed here as worthy of imitation: no burials are allowed within the city. at paris also, most of the burial places near the churches have been removed to the catacombs, a change which has tended greatly to purify the air of the city. there is a box at each door of the churches here, and as the congregation retire after divine service, a person is stationed near it, to desire them to _remember the poor_. these collections must be liberal, as few places are so free from beggars as geneva. * * * * * chap. xi. the _perte du rhone_, or the spot where the rhone suddenly sinks into the ground, forms one of the objects usually visited from geneva, and i accepted a proposal to join a party in making an excursion thither. we were careful in providing a carriage, which was so constructed, as to allow us a view on _both sides_, as some only afford a prospect of _half the country_, the passengers all sitting on one side, and the cover being immoveable. we set out at an early hour, and arrived at vanchy about noon, from whence we proceeded on foot to the spot where the vast waters of the rhone, in approaching a ridge of rocks, with inconceivable rapidity, _sink into the earth_. the cavern is covered with foam, from the agitation of so great a body of water being forced into so small an aperture; and the sight is at once magnificent and solemn. the _emersion_ of the rhone is not far distant from the place of its ingulphation, but presents a very different spectacle, as the river ascends so gradually as to be completely smooth, which in attributed to the depth of the caverns from which it issues. it seems probable that these caverns have some undiscovered outlet, as the rhone, after its rise from them, is but inconsiderable, compared with what it is before its disappearance. not far distant is the pont de bellegarde, over the little river valserine, which runs through a deep dell into the rhone. the scene is well deserving of attention. in the vicinity of geneva are several hop gardens, which seem very flourishing; but whether it is that the inhabitants do not understand the art of brewing as well as in england, or that there is any difference in the plant, i do not know; but no one, who has been accustomed to good malt liquor, could be persuaded to relish theirs. the elevation of geneva ( toises above the mediterranean) together with the proximity of the alps, and of the mountains of jura, cause winters to be long, and often severe. the summers are often extremely hot, but the air is refreshed by the gales from the mountains, which sometimes occasion very sudden changes in the atmosphere. the thermometer of _réaumur_ has been known to rise degrees above freezing, but i have never myself observed it above or during my stay. it is said, that very severe cold has brought it to degrees below freezing, and then the lake, and even the rapid current of the rhone, have been frozen. often, during the summer months, the lake is ruffled by the _bise_, or regular north-east wind; but the east and west winds occasion the most destructive tempests. the climate of switzerland is in general much colder than in the countries by which it is surrounded. its numerous lakes, mostly very elevated, add greatly to the freshness of the air, and the frequent rains from the alps bring with them the temperature of those mountains. but, although the climate is so variable, being often changed in a few hours, from the great heat which the reflection of the sun occasions in the valleys, to the cold rains which proceed from the surrounding mountains, yet these sudden transitions do not appear to have an ill effect on the health of the inhabitants. on the contrary, the celebrated physician _haller_ attributes the salubrity of the air of switzerland to the currents from the alps, which preserve it continually pure, and prevent its stagnation in the valleys. the soil of switzerland is, in general, stony and unfertile, but the peasants spare no pains to render it productive. i have had more than once before occasion to express my astonishment at the sight of mountains divided into terraces, and cultivated to their very summits. i have been informed by a gentleman, who has devoted much of his attention to agricultural pursuits, that the general return of grain in switzerland is about five times the quantity sown, and that switzerland does not produce much above a tenth part of the corn necessary for the subsistence of its population, which he calculates at to the square mile, or nearly two millions; but if the parts which it is impossible can ever be cultivated, were left out of the calculation, the average population to the square mile would be of course greatly increased; as the present scheme includes the whole superficies of the country. the proportion which some other countries bear to switzerland, in respect to the population subsisting on each square mile, is as follows, viz. china, the most populous country in the world, of the same extent holland, which has a greater population than any country of its limited extent france, as in united kingdom of great britain and ireland russia in europe iceland i have been assured that in one part of the canton of appenzell, the population amounts to per square mile. it is one of the most secluded parts of switzerland, and is famous for the music called the _ranz des suisses_. the alps greatly increase the surface of switzerland when compared with less mountainous countries, and it therefore can support vast flocks in situations where agriculture would be impracticable. i have been frequently surprised to see cattle in places, whither they must have been carried by the inhabitants. the number of the cattle, in many of the swiss cantons, greatly exceeds that of the inhabitants. _haller_ has observed that switzerland presents, as it were, three distinct regions; that on the tops of _the mountains_ are found the plants indigenous in lapland; _lower down_, are found those of the cape of good hope; and the _valleys_ abound with plants peculiar to switzerland, besides others which are found in the same latitude. i observed in a former chapter, that the great occupation of the inhabitants of geneva consists in the manufacture of watches, clocks, &c. and having a desire to see some specimens of their workmanship, i accompanied a friend, who had purchased a _musical snuff-box_, to the workshop of its fabricator, who although he was of the first celebrity in geneva, had no warehouse in a more accessible situation than his workshop on the fifth story. i afterwards found that most of the watchmakers had their workshops at the tops of the houses, which here, as in edinburgh, are mostly occupied by several families, who have a common stair-case to their apartments. i was much pleased with the display of ingenuity in this warehouse, and found that many of the articles were intended to be sent to paris, to asia, &c. geneva itself could not, of course, supply purchasers for such a profusion of expensive mechanism. the _taste_ of many of the articles, is by no means such as would ensure them a ready sale in london. there are at geneva many pleasant _circles_ or _societies_, who have a common apartment to meet in within the city, where the papers are taken in; and often a garden in the neighbourhood for their recreation. i was introduced to one of these circles, and went to their garden, which was large and well-shaded with walnut trees. about the centre was a large pleasure house, furnished with billiard, chess, and backgammon tables. some of the party were engaged at _bowls_; their game differs from ours in many respects, as here they prefer a gravel walk or uneven surface, and they throw the bowl a considerable height into the air, instead of letting it glide gently along. i became acquainted with a french gentleman, much advanced in years, who had resided here chiefly since the french revolution. he told me his head had been _twice laid on the block for execution_, and that the _whole_ of his family had perished during the troubles in france: he therefore did not wish to return into his country, which would only recall melancholy recollections; but he rejoiced much to see the royal family again seated on the throne. it is to be feared, that there are, in many parts of europe, several individuals in equally unfortunate circumstances, after the dreadful carnage occasioned by the continued succession of wars with which it has been ravaged. i must not take my leave of geneva without mentioning, that there are few places which afford more of the requisites to a pleasant residence. the walks and rides in its vicinity, are very numerous, and abound with interesting prospects. the view of the city from the village of coligny, on the savoy side of the lake, is highly impressive. the junction of the rivers _arve_ and _rhone_ forms another very fine scene. the waters of the rhone are at least three times greater than those of the arve, and are of a transparent blue colour, whilst those of the arve are of a milky hue, something like the appearance of the rhone when it first enters the lake of geneva, where it leaves the tint it acquired from the mountain snows and torrents. the rhone seems for a considerable distance to retire from any amalgamation with the arve, but at length assumes a less transparent aspect. about half a league from geneva is the town of carrouge, which at one period was in some degree its rival in trade, but is at present by no means in a flourishing state. its future destiny remains to be decided along with those of more important states, at the approaching congress of vienna. the general opinion seems to be that the carrougians wish to be reunited to france; but the king of sardinia has invited them to submit to his authority. i walked one morning to st. julian, about two leagues from geneva; it is pleasantly situated in that part of savoy which is ceded to france, and which is in fact the most essential part of the country, as it is said this division materially interrupts the communication between those parts which remain with the king of sardinia. the object in visiting st. julian, was principally to see the plain, where after a sharp contest, the austrians were defeated by little more than half their number of french troops, but having received reinforcements, renewed the action and were victorious. it must be confessed, that the austrian troops are much inferior to the french; and the latter having so frequently defeated them, feel quite indignant against the austrians for the part taken by their government in the invasion of france, and the restoration of the bourbons. most of the french officers i have met with indulge the hope, that some differences at the congress may occasion a fresh war with austria. the french in general join the officers in looking forward to the recovery of what they contend are their natural limits--the rhine and belgium;--and after so many years of war, are dissatisfied at having no conquests to boast of. it cannot be however expected that the great bias given to the french in favour of war, by their late ruler, should speedily subside; but the restless and impatient spirit which at present prevails in france, and which would engage immediately in a fresh war, must be in some degree restrained by the exhausted state of their finances; and as it is, many of the taxes are much complained of. * * * * * chap. xii. i remained at geneva longer than i had at first intended, and at last quitted it with regret. i shall ever recollect the time i spent there with pleasure; but the period allotted for my tour would not permit me to remain any longer stationary; and i therefore set off for the mountains of jura, celebrated for the extensive and varied prospects which they afford of the alps, &c. i was much pleased with the scenery of the little lake and valley of _joux_, shut out by mountains from the rest of the canton of vaud. at coponex i met two gentlemen, who were indebted to their horse for having escaped being robbed the evening before. they were travelling slowly in an open carriage, when suddenly they were ordered to stop by several men of french appearance, who were thought to be disbanded soldiers. this adventure made a great noise in a neighbourhood, where highway robbery is extremely unusual. we breakfasted at a neat inn in the village of lassera, and afterwards went to see the chief curiosity of the place, the separation of a rivulet into two branches, one of which falls into the lake of neufchâtel, and eventually through the rivers aar and rhine into the german ocean; the other runs into the lake of geneva, and by means of the rhone at length reaches the mediterranean. this singularity proves the facility with which the lakes of neufchâtel and geneva might be made to communicate with each other. accordingly, a canal has long since been commenced; but its projectors have made little progress in their undertaking. the little town of orbe, is nearly surrounded by a river of the same name; it bears evident marks of antiquity, and from its position, must have been in former times a place of considerable strength. the ancient kings of burgundy had a residence here. this part of the country is highly varied, and presents a most picturesque appearance. land in the pays de vaud, i found, generally sells for about twenty-five years purchase; and ½ or per cent, is thought sufficient interest for money invested in it. travelling and living are much dearer in this country than in france, as although the inhabitants have few superfluities, yet they have to fetch them from a distance, switzerland not affording a sufficient supply of food for the support of its inhabitants. yverdun was our next stage; it is after lausanne and vevay the most considerable town in the canton. it is situated close to the lake of neufchâtel, and is surrounded by water. it consists of three parallel streets, terminating in a square, in which are the church and townhouse, both neat structures. the population is about . the castle is flanked by numerous turrets, and has a venerable appearance. the promenade presents a sort of _sea view_, as the extremity of the lake (which is about nine leagues in length, by two in breadth) is hid from the eye by the convexity of its waters, and the view is terminated by the sky. at a little distance from the town, is a mineral spring, with a large building containing baths and a pump-room. i found the waters were strongly impregnated with sulphur. here is a celebrated school, containing about boys; the annual expense for each boarder is not less than fifty louis. we proceeded in the diligence to neufchâtel, through the towns of granson, st. aubin, and boudri. the banks of the lake present a continued succession of vineyards, which afford the best red wine in switzerland. the conductor of our voiture amused us a good deal by his eccentricity. he seemed thoroughly happy and contented; and when an old gentleman of the party wished for a bag of crowns that were put into the carriage, to be conveyed to berne, the conductor declared, _he was not like napoleon, and wished for nothing he had not_. we found that the establishment of a game licence had occasioned some discontent in this country. the quantity of game is said to have greatly diminished. one gentleman told me, they sometimes hunted wild boars on the mountains near france. the roads here have been much shortened by a new line of communication which has been lately opened, and the bridge at serrier of a single arch over a deep valley, (which formerly obliged travellers to make a considerable circuit) has a very handsome as well as useful effect. the town of neufchâtel contains between and , inhabitants; it is partly built on a hill, where stand the church and castle, and partly on a plain near the lake, on the borders of which are handsome public walks and further improvements are carrying on. the elegant appearance of many of the private houses proves the wealth of their owners. neufchâtel is without fortifications, but is in general well built; it is said to present a perspective, resembling, in miniature, the distant view of naples. the lake is not deep, but seldom freezes, although it is thirty-one toises more elevated than that of geneva. the principalities of neufchâtel and vallingen are about twelve leagues long, by eight at the broadest part; the soil is far from fertile, but the industry of the inhabitants renders it astonishingly productive. any person having a certificate of his general good conduct may settle here, and enjoy every essential privilege of the native subjects. this is perhaps the only country in europe _exempt from taxes_; for the payment of a few sous annually from every householder cannot be considered as a tax. this circumstance lessens our astonishment at the commercial activity which prevails in this little state, the population of which exceeds , . the villages of chaux de fond and locle, with their districts, contain about inhabitants, and furnish annually , watches in gold and silver, besides clocks. there are also numerous engravers and enamellers. the country is celebrated for its wild beauty; and our excursion, which occupied a day, was pleasant. the protestant is the established religion of the state, with the exception of the little town of landeron, where the roman catholic religion is maintained. it is recorded, that the inhabitants, having assembled to deliberate, which of the two forms of worship should be acknowledged, the numbers were equally divided. it being however discovered, that a shepherd was absent, he was sent for, and having given his vote, that the roman catholic religion should be continued, it was decided accordingly. the town of neufchâtel is much indebted to one of its citizens, david riri, who expended three or four millions of livres in works of public utility. another individual built the town-house, which is a handsome edifice of the corinthian order. the little brook called the serrieres, which does not run above the length of two gun-shots before it falls into the lake, turns a great number of mills of various kinds. having been much struck with the spirit of industry and activity which distinguishes the appearance of this little state, i felt anxious to inquire concerning the government, and a gentleman of this town, to whom i was introduced when at geneva, was kind enough to give me ample information on the subject. as i say but little respecting the history of _large states_, perhaps i may be excused for the following details, which i think possess some interest. the state of neufchâtel is an independent sovereignty, allied with switzerland; which alliance secures its independence, and every prince, on succeeding to the sovereignty, is obliged to ratify it. the actual government is a mixture of aristocracy and democracy. the sovereignty, which is _almost a name_, is inalienable and indivisible, and cannot be sold or given to a younger branch of the reigning family, without the consent of the people--it is hereditary, and a female is capable of inheriting it. the revenues of the sovereign arise from quitrents, fines, tithes, and the exclusive right of trout fishing in the autumn; he can, on no pretext whatever, exact any thing additional from the state, and the total of his revenue does not exceed , francs. the prince has the disposal of all civil and military employments, not reserved particularly for popular election; he is represented by a governor, who presides at the general meetings of the estates of the principality, but has no vote unless the numbers are equally divided. in the event of a _contest_ relative to the succession to the principality, the _estates general_ are alone competent to decide between the different claimants; and the canton of berne has always decided any differences that may have arisen between the prince and the people respecting their particular rights. the last time when the estates were called upon to decide between a number of claimants for the sovereignty, was in , on the death of the duchess of nemours without issue. most of the claimants came in person to neufchâtel, or sent ambassadors to support their pretensions. amongst them were the king of prussia, margrave of baden dourlach, the prince of nassau, the prince of condé, the marquis d'algers, the count of montbeliard, &c. &c. in bestowing the sovereignty on the king of prussia, care was taken that he should confirm all the doubtful privileges of the people; for it is a fundamental maxim of this little state, "_that the sovereignty resides not in the person of the prince, but in the state_". the neufchâtelois are permitted to serve in the armies of _any power, not at war with the prince of neufchâtel, as such_, and accordingly it has happened that they have often fought against the prussians in the wars of frederic the great. by the treaty of tilsit, , this state was severed from prussia, and given by buonaparte to marshal berthier; but the recent events have restored it to the king of prussia, and the inhabitants seem to bear the greatest attachment to his majesty. i saw, in two places, the triumphal arches under which he passed in his late visit to neufchâtel. it appears probable that this will be acknowledged as a canton by the swiss diet, but that the nominal sovereignty of the king of prussia will be preserved. the chief advantage his majesty derives from this country is the supply of a great number of recruits to his army. i saw a body of , soldiers, of excellent appearance, set out on their march for prussia. at the village of _st. blaise_ we observed, under the sign of one of the inns, the sentiment, "_honorez le roi; soignez l'agriculture_" we next proceeded to visit the celebrated lake of bienne, which is about nine english miles by four. the isle of st. pierre, so much praised by rousseau, is situated near the centre of the lake, about a league from cerlier, where we embarked for it. it is about half a league in circumference. the ancient convent is inhabited by a farmer, and the bed of the philosophic rousseau is now at the command of any of his admirers who may wish to repose in it. there is also a large building, which is in summer the scene of much festivity, and which commands an extensive and interesting prospect. one side of this island rises boldly from the lake to a great height; the other is on a level with its waters. it contains many vineyards, and several large chesnut trees. the town of bienne, until its union to france in , presented the singularity of a protestant state being nominally subject to a roman catholic prelate (the bishop of basle). its liberties were guaranteed by the swiss diet, where it sent a representative, a privilege the bishop did not possess. its future government is not yet determined on. the country about nydau more resembles holland and switzerland, being marshy, or drained by canals. many swiss writers are of opinion, that formerly the lakes of neufchâtel, morat and bienne were united; and the appearance of the country renders the supposition not improbable. the pont de thiel divides the territories of rome and neufchâtel; and it is also the limit of the french language, none of the peasants beyond the bridge being able to answer any questions but in german. however, at all the chief inns, in both switzerland and germany, some of the waiters speak french. it is difficult to suppose a more sudden change than presents itself to the traveller on his passing this bridge. the houses, dress, and appearance of the inhabitants, all announce that he is arrived in a country differing entirely from france, savoy, and the pays de vaud. the enormous black crape head-dresses of the women have a most singular effect, as well as their long hair, which reaches halfway down their backs, plaited into several divisions. it is said, that in some districts, the females after marriage, roll it round their heads. the costume of the men much resembles that of our sailors. cotton or woollen caps are more worn than hats, as was the custom in england until about the time of henry the eighth. we sent our baggage by the coach to berne, and walked three leagues to breakfast at anet, in german _eis_, a large village pleasantly situated. we observed that the direction posts had a translation into french of the german names, &c.; a precaution very useful on the frontiers of nations speaking two different languages. we found our inn extremely neat, as indeed the inns generally are throughout switzerland; and that is one great advantage to the traveller which it possesses over france, where it is seldom that good accommodations can be procured at a country inn. if the inns are more expensive than in france, the comfort is greater also. the french talk much of the rapacity of the swiss, and have a common saying-, "_point d'argent point de suisse_"; but it would be unreasonable to expect that the swiss should give their services gratuitously to strangers; and, considering how much their country is frequented by strangers, the guides, servants, &c. &c. cannot be accused of any particularly great extortion. still, those who expect to find switzerland a cheap country will be disappointed, as many of their inns (particularly at zurich) are more expensive than some in england. there can be, however, no country more agreeable to travel in than this, as the scene is continually varying, and presents a succession of lofty mountains, forests, cultivated grounds, lakes, rivers, and cascades, which will fully occupy the attention and excite the admiration of the tourist. the people are extremely civil. and those who understand german have assured me that they are also well informed. although anet is at such a short distance from the frontiers of neufchâtel, we found there were but two persons there who could speak french. one of them was our landlord, who provided us with a guide to conduct us to mount _iulemont, or suslemont_ (which was the object we wished to see particularly, from previous report) as he could speak only german, our intentions were explained to him by the landlord, and we managed, by signs, to understand enough for our purpose. many of the german and english words have a strong resemblance; and a stranger in germany is more likely to be understood by trying english than french, where neither are spoken. we at length arrived on the mountain, and were much pleased with the extensive prospect from it, which resembles a vast chart or map; the country surrounding us for many leagues in all directions, being flat, although the view was terminated by distant mountains. from hence we saw, at the same time, the three lakes of neufchâtel, bienne, and morat, which had a beautiful effect. a traveller should not fail to visit this place. we continued our walk in the afternoon to arberg, three and a half leagues further, through a plain which presented one of the most cheerful and interesting scenes i had seen. it was quite covered with peasants, engaged in ploughing out potatoes, and in gathering the leaves of the tobacco-plant, of which there was a vast quantity. we were constantly occupied in returning their salutations, as they seldom fail to speak to passengers. the country was mostly unenclosed. i here observed the first extensive _beech_ woods i had yet seen on the continent, which are occasionally mixed with fir, the most common timber in switzerland. we arrived, after sunset, at arberg, where we found good accommodations after the fatigues of the day. it takes its name from the river aar, by which it is surrounded. at each end of the town is a wooden bridge covered, to preserve the timber from the weather. the town is a great thoroughfare between berne, neufchâtel, and the pays de vaud; and we observed, in the market-place, several waggons stationed until morning. * * * * * chap. xiii. we proceeded next day to morat. its lake is about two leagues in length by three quarters of a league in breadth, and is said to be the only lake in switzerland where that voracious fish, the _silurus_, is found. there are many vineyards in this vicinity, but the wine is very indifferent. it is, however said to produce the best _kirschrvasser_, or cherry brandy in switzerland. morat is celebrated in history for the memorable victory obtained under its walls, by the swiss, over the formidable army of the last duke of burgundy in . the bones of the burgundians were piled up by way of monument on the field of battle. the triumph of the swiss over their invaders was recorded by many inscriptions, of which the following is admired for its simplicity. d.o.m. caroli incliti et fortissimi burgundiæ ducis exercitus muratum obsidiens, ab helvetiis cæsus, hoc sui monumentum reliquit, . this trophy was destroyed by the french in ; as they, perhaps, feared that this memorial of the success of the swiss, in contending for their liberty, should incite them again to rise against the descendants of those whom they had formerly defeated; and their vanity was probably hurt by the existence of a record, disadvantageous to their countrymen. we dined at the neat little village of seedorf, and proceeded in the evening in an open carriage to berne. part of the road is very hilly, and at one time we had an interesting prospect of the island of _st. pierre_, and the end of the lake of neufchâtel, at about five or six leagues distance. about half a league from berne we passed the _aar_ (which is here a broad and rapid stream) by a long bridge of wood, covered according to the general custom in switzerland. the city of berne presents a _beautiful coup-d'oeil_, and is one of the few places i have seen, where the interior does not greatly diminish the impression, occasioned by the distant prospect. the road was lined by lofty trees, and presented a very cheerful scene. berne is deservedly considered as _one of the handsomest cities in europe_; it stands on a hill surrounded on two sides by the beautiful stream of the aar; it is surrounded by higher grounds richly cultivated, and interspersed with woods, whilst the view is terminated by the snowy summits of the alps. the chief street is half a league in length. the houses, which are in general uniform, are built of free-stone upon piazzas, and have a stately appearance, and there are several towers which add to the general effect. in the middle of the street, runs a rapid stream, and there is sufficient space for two carriages to pass at each side of it. fountains are also placed at regular distances. the piazzas are flagged and kept extremely neat; but, i should think, that in this climate they must make the houses cold in winter. this was the first place since my departure from london, where i found a flagged way for the convenience of pedestrians. berne is not a city of very remote antiquity, having been founded in the year . it is feet above the level of the sea. the fortifications are kept in tolerable order, but from the height of most of the surrounding hills, above the city, cannot be considered as of much utility. in the trenches are kept several very large stags, and also several _bears_; there being an annual rent of livres for their support. this animal is thus favoured, as being the _armorial bearing_ of the city (to which it gives name) and these arms are every where to be seen, there being few barns without them. there are many handsome churches in berne: the tower of the cathedral is very fine, and it contains many windows of stained glass. the public library is well worth visiting; as is also the _botanic_ garden, which is on a most extensive scale; in it is placed the tomb of the celebrated _haller_. i was much struck by the great number of chemists' shops in berne. the bakers' shops also are very numerous, and the bread is inferior to none in europe. a stranger is surprised to see the _convicts chained to the carts_ which are constantly in use to keep the streets clean. i confess the sight displeased me, and this system would not be tolerated in england, where i think there was an attempt to introduce it during the reign of edward the sixth. the objects that most pleased me, at berne, were the _public walks_, which are unequalled by any i have _ever_ seen, in respect to their number, extent, and the neatness with which they are kept. the views from some of these walks are quite magnificent; one, in particular, on an eminence beyond the city, which follows the course of the aar for a long distance, commands a view which can never be forgotten by these who have seen it. the city is a striking object at a distance from the number of its spires; but although, from the spaciousness of its streets, it covers a good deal of ground, yet it is by no means populous, the inhabitants being only , , but there are no mendicants. the public roads, in the canton of berne, are kept in excellent order, and every thing indicates the activity of the administration. the government is an aristocracy, and i was informed the chief power of of the state is vested in about twentyfour of the principal families. there are, doubtless, in general, many strong objections against this form of government, but the comfort, opulence, and appearance of content, which is remarked in the bernese is such, that it is impossible to suppose they are not well governed; the least observant traveller may soon perceive, by the appearance of a people, whether they are subject to a free or to a despotic government. i cannot, however, subscribe to pope's opinion, "that which is best administered is best." the _form_ is still in my judgment the first requisite; nor can i agree that the goodness consists in the mere administration. i visited the agricultural establishment of m. de fellenberg, at hofwyl, two leagues from berne, where may be learnt the principles of rural economy, and where annual fêtes are given for the encouragement of farming; and i also made an excursion to hindelbanck, three leagues distant, where is a much admired monument, erected from a design of m. nahl; it represents his wife, who died in child-bed, breaking; from her tomb with her child in her arms. the canton of berne, before the separation from it of the cantons of vaud and argovia, formed about a third of switzerland; its population is now about , . the country is fruitful, but like the rest of switzerland does not afford a sufficient supply of corn for its inhabitants. its fruit and vegetables are excellent. its mountains feed vast herds of cattle, and there is abundance of game. its exports are principally horses, cottons, watches, and kirschwasser, (or spirit extracted from the cherry) there are manufactories of silks, and woollen stuffs, and its gunpowder is in much estimation throughout europe. the salt comes mostly from france, but does not cost above five sols the pound. groceries are still dear, but are much reduced since the downfall of the continental system. this canton first entered into the swiss confederation, in . i made some enquiries respecting clergy, from a most respectable minister of my acquaintance, who informed me, that the senate appoint to all ecclesiastical benefices--that the clergy are divided into _synods_ which assemble separately every year under the presidency of a _dean_, to examine into the conduct of each pastor, and to deliberate in the presence of the _bailiff of the district_, concerning ecclesiastical affairs. the criminal code is well arranged, and justice is administered with a promptitude that merits the highest praise, since legal delay often proves worse than injustice. i was doubtful in what direction i should next proceed, when i was induced, as the season was advanced, to give up the idea of visiting oberland, and to accompany a gentleman going to lucerne; if the country was less romantic than that which i lost the opportunity of seeing, i was with a companion who would have rendered an excursion in any country entertaining. we left berne in an open carriage, and took the road to worb, where we visited a _sawmill_, and were much pleased with that useful invention. there are near the village several of the most extensive bleach-greens in switzerland. at luzelflüh we passed the river emmen, and soon after stopped some time whilst oar horses rested. i have never been in a country where horses are taken better care of; they are always in excellent condition, and after mounting any considerable hill, the driver does not fail to give them some slices of bread. as we proceeded, we were struck with the profusion of autumnal crocuses, with which the fields were enlivened, and stopped to sleep at the inconsiderable village of sumiswald, where the inn, like the rest of the houses, was entirely built of wood. we were shewn into an apartment where several peasants were at supper, and on the table lay a newspaper, which (although its date was not very recent) seemed to interest them extremely. several more peasants having come in, we were, as strangers, conducted into a more private room, but it was so _small_, as to give us the idea that we were in a _box_. our hostess was not long in preparing supper, and as it was _extremely frugal_, she produced for us a bottle of _neufchâtel wine_, of much better quality than one could have expected to meet with in so retired a situation. we set out at an early hour next morning, and, after passing through a vast forest of fir, arrived to breakfast at zell, in the canton of lucerne, where the number of chapels by the road-side announced that the roman catholic was the established religion. the valley beyond zell is extensive and well watered. the peasants display much ingenuity in _irrigating_ their meadows. the orchards are numerous, and, as well as the meadows, are refreshed by _ductile streams_. in the centre of the valley rises a lofty eminence, on the summit of which are the remains of the castle of hapstalla, which, half concealed by a mass of wood, forms a conspicuous object amidst the cultivation of the surrounding scenery. the small towns of huttweil and willisan present nothing worthy of remark; but sursee is a neat town, and the lake of sempacli adds greatly to the cheerful appearance of the country, which it waters to a considerable extent. the town of sempach is noted in history for the defeat of leopold, duke of austria, in , by the forces of the swiss confederation. the duke, together with his chief nobility, perished in the engagement, which is further memorable by the heroism of _arnold winkdried_. the approach to lucerne along the river reuss is singularly beautiful, the banks are steep and well wooded, and the distant appearance of the city, front the number of its turrets and spires, is highly impressive. its situation is certainly superior to that of any city in switzerland (berne perhaps excepted). the mountains which surround that part of the lake seen from the town, immediately reminded me of the magnificent scenery of killarney. the beauty of its situation, and the imposing aspect which lucerne presents at a distance, renders the gloominess of its interior the more striking; and i do not know, whether coming from berne, where all is activity, gave me the impression, but i think i never was in a more melancholy and deserted town of the same magnitude. the population is only , ; but, to judge from its extent, it might contain at least three times that number. it is difficult to account exactly for the causes of this inactivity, but i should be inclined to think some blame attaches to its government, as here are no traces of that beneficial superintendence which is so perceptible at berne, this city cannot even boast of a public library. there are at lucerne several curious wooden bridges, to join the different parts of the town separated by the river and the lake. they are from to feet in length, and one of them contains a vast number of paintings from scriptural subjects, and also from the swiss history. there are several handsome buildings at lucerne, but many towns that cannot boast of such a number, much exceed it in general appearance. we observed a great quantity of fruit for sale, and good peaches for one sol each. the celebrated plan, or rather, model, of this and the three surrounding cantons, by general pfiffer, is to be seen here on payment of thirty sols; it is well worthy of a visit, and the general is said to have refused _ten thousand pounds_ for it. buonaparte is said to have wished to possess it. the lake of lucerne, called also the lake of the _four cantons_, or the _waldstraller see_, is one of the most picturesque pieces of water in switzerland, and by its numerous windings, as well as by the rivers which fall into it, affords facilities for commerce, which are astonishingly neglected. mont pilate rises majestically from the lake. it is, perhaps, one of the highest mountains in switzerland, if measured from its base, and not from the level of the sea. its elevation from the level of the lake is, according to the measurement of general pfiffer, not less than feet. its name was, it is thought, given it by the romans, from the accumulation of snow upon its summit. mount rigi, so generally visited by travellers, presents another distinguished feature in this romantic country. the ascent to this mountain having been within a few days rendered extremely difficult by a fall of snow, we were advised not to attempt it, and i the more readily acquiesced, having found the ascent to montanvert difficult, although unobstructed with snow. i therefore set out to visit two classic spots in the history of switzerland, which distinguish the banks of this lake; first, the grütli (the runnimede of switzerland), a field now covered with fruit-trees, where the neighbouring cantons on the th of november, , first took the engagement to found the liberty of their country. they carried their plan into execution on the st of january, , by forcing their tyrannical governors to quit a country thenceforward destined to be free. the second place is about a league and a half distant, it is the rock of aschen-berg, feet above the level of the lake (which is here feet deep), on a part of which, called tell platte, that patriot killed the tyrant _gessler_ here is a small chapel. i also visited the little town of _gersau_ (which was, by the french, united to the canton of schweitz), remarkable as being the smallest republic existing in europe, as it contains only _one hundred square toises_, and from to inhabitants, who subsist chiefly by agriculture; there is besides, a small manufacture of cotton. their _metropolis_ is a neat village, where only, perhaps; a pure democracy subsisted without anarchy and dissensions. the canton of schweitz, which, at present, gives name generally to the whole confederation of cantons, is said to have been first inhabited by some persons forced to _quit sweden_ by religious differences. the union of this canton to those of uri and unterwald, first suggested that more extended confederacy, so essential to the existence of these diminutive states. here the roman catholic is the only religion tolerated, but intolerance in switzerland is not peculiar to the roman catholic cantons, as in some, _calvinism_ only is permitted. at brunnen i met some persons going on a _pilgrimage_ to the shrine of notre dame des ermites, at einsiedlen, one of whom was a frenchman, decorated with the _lys_. it would be well for the bourbons if all their subjects were possessed of but a small part of the loyalty which this gentleman expressed for them. brunnen is a large and handsome town, situated on the lake; it was here that the cantons of schweitz, uri, and unterwald, concluded their perpetual alliance. altorf is the capital of the canton of _uri_, it contains many handsome houses, and here is the statue of william tell, in the place where he was condemned to shoot the arrow at his son. the cattle in this canton, as well as in schweitz, are large and handsome. i was told that many of their favourite cows had silver bells fastened round their necks. the horses are also provided with tails of a large size, the noise of which i thought extremely unpleasant, although often obliged to listen to it for many hours together. stantz is the chief town of unterwald, but is only remarkable for its being prettily situated. _in the three original_ cantons, every citizen on attaining the age of sixteen, has the right of suffrage in the general assemblies. on my return to lucerne from this excursion, it appeared more gloomy than ever, and i determined on quitting it next morning for zug. the pope's nuncio resides in this town, as being the capital of the chief roman catholic canton, and i observed sentinels at his door, although there were none at the gates of the city. lucerne was, under the french system, the seat of the general government of switzerland, now removed to zurich. the canton of lucerne is, in general, well cultivated, and contains not less than , inhabitants. between lucerne and zug, i observed a number of peasants practising with the ancient weapons of william tell, which they appeared to use with great dexterity. the badness of the road retarded considerably our arrival at zug (zoug, as it is pronounced and written in german); & small but neat town, and the capital and only town of its canton, which is the least in switzerland, containing only , inhabitants, of whom inhabit the capital. the lake, which washes the town, is about three leagues long by one broad; one side of it presents a few mountains, but the other (nearest the town) is flat, marshy, and uninteresting. between zug and zurich, we passed over the field of battle, where zuingle, the reformer, lost his life; the plain is, i think, called cappel. the road, which is still indifferent, passes through a country which resembles a continued orchard. we passed the river _sill_ by a long covered bridge, and stopped at a neat inn, where we found some honey not inferior to any in france, although here they do not think it necessary (as in poitou) to carry the hives of bees about the country, that by _travelling_ they may collect every sort of perfume which it affords. above the inn is a mountain of vast height, which commands an extensive prospect over the surrounding country. we soon after beheld one of the most magnificent scenes of which switzerland can boast, the view of the lake of zurich, from the hill above the village of horgen. as it was evening when we arrived there, i could judge of the justness of zimmerman's beautiful description of it at that time, which i had often admired at a period when i had but faint expectation of ever seeing the scene itself. before visiting switzerland, i had often felt surprise, on considering the great variety of states which subsist in a country of such comparatively limited extent; but i no longer felt that astonishment, when i saw how completely many of the cantons are divided from each other, by chains of mountains, and how greatly their inhabitants differ in their dress, manners, and religion. in one day, in the cantons of berne, lucerne, and zug, i saw three perfectly distinct modes of dress; and the enormous sleeves and crape head dresses of _berne_, compared with the large flat hats, and short petticoats of lucerne, are as totally different costumes as could be supposed to prevail in two of the most remote countries. the _political_ divisions of switzerland are almost as numerous as its geographical; and there are few countries where more diversities of opinion prevail, respecting the means of securing that liberty which is the boast of its inhabitants. at a distance, zurich seems surrounded by beautiful hills, descending gradually to the river limmat, which, issuing from the lake, divides the city into two unequal parts. these bills are rich in pastures and vineyards, interspersed with neat cottages; the horizon is bounded by the mountains of utliberg, which are connected with the alps; forming, altogether, a very striking and interesting picture. * * * * * chap. xiv. on entering zurich, it is impossible not to feel a sensation of disappointment, as its internal appearance by no means corresponds with the beauty of the distant scene. its streets are narrow and winding, and the houses are mostly of mean architecture, but there are few places where i observed more of the activity of commerce. many of its churches and public buildings are handsome. it boasts a population of , , a number exceeding that of any town in switzerland, geneva excepted. the canton is next in importance to berne, and contains , inhabitants. the reformation was introduced here in , by ulric zuingle, whose death was noticed in the last chapter; he, like _pope julius_, exchanged for a time the mitre for the helmet. the inns at zurich are more expensive than the hotels of paris; they say it is owing to this being the seat of the swiss diet. i had the honour of dining in company with several of the deputies (at the public table at the sword tavern) and they seemed very inquisitive as to the state of affairs in england. our company exceeded thirty, and the dinner was unusually tedious: this seems to have been _expected_, as there were pans of _charcoal_ or _ashes_, placed under the principal dishes, which had a very unpleasant effect. a _band of music_, stationed in an adjoining room, only served to add to the confused noise of the servants, without allowing us to judge of the beauty of the music, or of the merits of the musicians; and i felt no regret when the master of the band at length thought fit that we should purchase an interval of quiet. before i quitted zurich, i was desirous of making an excursion on its lake, and accordingly joined a party in visiting rapperschwill, which is situated in a charming country, but is chiefly remarkable for its bridge, constructed of wood, over that part of the lake which is by a promontory reduced to the width of feet, forming, perhaps, the longest bridge in europe, except that of st. esprit, near nismes, which is feet. the bridge of prague is feet, and that of westminster . soon after my return from this excursion, i set out for schaffhausen; but after we had lost sight of the lake and city of zurich, the country had nothing to interest the traveller. about a league from zurich is the greinfensee, but that piece of water is not interesting, either in point of scenery or extent. the river glatt flows through the plain; it has none of the characteristics of a swiss stream, "_but choked with sedges, works its weary way_." about two leagues further, we passed the river jòss, which, by the beauty of its windings amongst wooded hills (on one of which stands an ancient castle) convinced us that we had not yet altogether bid farewell to the romantic scenery of switzerland. the woods here are very extensive, and almost entirely composed of fir; they produce annually a succession of plants which form an underwood, and greatly contribute to the beauty of the scene, by concealing the naked stems of the older trees. the houses in the villages in the canton of zurich much resemble those in england, being mostly built of plaster, and roofed with tiles. i was pleased with this change, after the heavy wooden houses, and projecting roofs (of nearly three times the height of the building) usually seen in the canton of berne. they do not tend to enliven the country like those of zurich, where the eye notices the contrast between the whitened cottages and green meadows. we spent a day at winterthur, which is a considerable municipal town, rendered lively by trade. the manufactory of oil of vitriol is on a large scale, and is worthy of attention. there are several bleach-greens in the neighbourhood, as well as many vineyards, but of no great celebrity. the public library is extensive, and there is also a considerable collection of medals. we left winterthur on foot, as the bridge over the river thur was under repair, and not passable for a carriage, and as we wished to approach the _fall of the rhine_ by this road. we breakfasted at _adelfaigen_, three leagues distant, and near the town were ferried over the thar. about two hours afterwards, we heard the distant roar of the cataract, and although i had heard so much previously of the grandeur of the scene, yet i was not disappointed with the sight. there are many falls much greater in point of height, and i had seen two previously which exceed the present one in that particular, but then the force of water was there inconsiderable and uncertain: here one of the greatest rivers in europe falls with inconceivable force down a perpendicular height of from sixty to eighty feet. the colour of the rhine is greenish, and the mixture of the water with the foam, has a curious effect. the castle of lauffen hangs over the river, and appears to tremble from the force of the cataract. the surrounding scenery is bold and picturesque, and when viewed from a boat on the river, the effect is very striking. there is a _camera obscura_ placed in an ancient castle, which projects into the fiver, and which we admired extremely. it is supposed that the height of this celebrated cascade is much diminished from what it was formerly, and if we consider the vast force of the torrent which the rock has sustained for ages, it seems but reasonable to conclude, that it must have yielded to such powerful and long continued assaults. we remained a considerable time contemplating this magnificent scene, and then returned through the village of lauffen, and observed that the spire of its _church_ was covered with _painted tiles_, which in this district seem a common species of decoration. we observed the peasants in many places employed in making _cyder_, which they but seldom think of doing except the season has proved unfavourable for the _vines_. i was told that here, as in burgundy, the _last favourable vintage was that of_ , and that consequently the proprietors of the vineyards (of which the cultivation is so expensive) were much distressed. the red stockings of the peasants in this canton have a remarkable appearance, and reminded me of the dress of the theatre. schaffhausen is the capital of the canton of that name, and is built on the right bank of the rhine. its bridge is but lately completed, in the place of the ancient one, constructed by _grubenman_, which was considered as a great architectural curiosity, but was destroyed during one of the campaigns in this country. the town of schaffhausen is well built, and has a handsome appearance. its population is calculated at , and that of the canton at , . the reformed religion was introduced here in . the clergy are paid by the state, but their allowance is far from liberal. _many sumptuary laws_ exist here, and dancing is prohibited by them, except under particular circumstances. i am, however, inclined to question whether these laws are still enforced. in the vicinity of the town are some manufactories of linens, cottons, and silks. the country is well cultivated, and the road between oerlingen and bancken affords an extensive prospect of the swiss mountains, which seem ranged in array to bid a last farewell to the departing traveller, who cannot but feel regret on leaving a country not less distinguished for the magnificence of its scenery, than for the simplicity and good nature of its inhabitants. at schaffhausen i made many inquiries respecting the celebrated _schabecyge_ or _chapsigre_ cheese (made in the canton of glarus) and found that the principal ingredient which gives it so strong a perfume is the _trifolium odoratum_, or _meliot odorant_. the aromatic qualities of this cheese render it very wholesome. the _swiss tea_, composed of _mountain herbs_, is said to be so likewise; it is not, however, very palatable as a beverage, nor should i think it very effectual as a remedy. if it meets in general with no greater approbation than it did in a party where i saw it tried, switzerland cannot expect to carry on any trade in this article, sufficient to prejudice the exclusive commerce which the east india company enjoy with china. there being nothing to detain, me at schaffhausen, i was induced, at the request of a doctor of the university of leipsic, with whom i became acquainted at zurich, to join him in proceeding in the diligence into germany. i found this conveyance, although tedious, yet little if at all inferior to those in france (although i had understood the contrary in that country). the doctor would have been a most agreeable companion, but for his unfortunate love of tobacco; _his pipe_ was hardly well _extinguished_, before he was busy in striking his flint to _rekindle_ it. he seemed much surprised that i did not smoke, and still more so when i told him it was not usual in england to smoke in _company_; for in germany, after dinner and in the evening, when ladies are present, it is usual to smoke a segar. the doctor seemed to meditate a journey into england, but i doubt whether he will find any thing there sufficient to afford him an equivalent for the abandonment of the _six pipes_ which he told me he used alternately at leipsic. the others who composed our party had also their pipes, but were moderate in using them. the germans are an extremely civil people compared with the french; a traveller is better treated among them, without the perpetual _affectation of superiority_; and, in the parts where i have been, he will have no reason to regret the change from a french to a german inn. the general civility i met with in _germany_, and the pains the people often took to make themselves understood, as well as to understand, and supply whatever might be requisite, claims my best acknowledgments. i had occasion to observe the truth of the remark, that there are many words, and expressions, very similar in the english and german languages; they further agree in being the two languages in europe, the most difficult to be learnt by a stranger. the sunday dress of the peasants resembles that worn a century ago in england. woollen caps are little used in germany; and, in suabia, i observed cocked hats were very general. it was late in the day when we left _schaffhausen_. our road lay through a country, where the succession of woods, shewed us, that the _black forest_, although reduced, was not destroyed, and occasionally we had extensive views towards switzerland. we had fallen into that sort of _reverie_ which most travellers experience towards the close of the day, and which generally suspends conversation, the mind finding entertainment in its own illusions, when we were roused by finding ourselves in deutlingen. we here passed the _danube_, which is inconsiderable, when compared with the vast size it afterwards acquires, by the junction of other considerable rivers, in the various countries which it fertilizes by its waters. we reposed here for some hours, and to my astonishment the doctor, laying aside his pipe, entertained us with his performance on a piano forte, which was in the room, and when his tea arrived his place was occupied by another performer. the passion of the germans for _music_ is very strong, and certainly this was a more agreeable mode of passing the evening, than the tiresome recurrence of political discussions, so general in france, and which seldom fail to end in unpleasant altercations. at deutlingen we entered the kingdom of wurtemberg; and our passports, which had been signed previously to our leaving schaffhausen, were here re-examined: at stutgard they were again demanded, and although the royal arms were affixed by the police there, yet at ludwigsburg, we were detained half an hour for further scrutiny, although it is only one stage from stutgard. the grand dukes of baden, and of hesse darmstadt, whose dominions we next entered, were less suspicious and were satisfied at our writing down our names and destination. there are few countries more sub-divided than germany. its ancient constitution was described as, "_confusio divinitùs conservata_," and a _confusion_ it certainly was, for the circle of suabia alone, contained _four ecclesiastical, and thirteen secular principalities: nineteen independent abbies and prelacies, and thirty-one free cities_. this list was, however, greatly reduced during buonaparte's supremacy in germany; he increased the dominions of baden, bavaria, and wurtemberg with the spoils of the ecclesiastical possessions, and of the free cities. he nearly doubled the territory of wurtemberg, and its population was increased from , to , , . the territory of baden is of great length, but narrow; its population is now increased to , . the germans are, in general, extremely anxious for the re-establishment of the _ancient system_; as, notwithstanding its defects, it afforded them an appeal from the tyranny of their numerous sovereigns to the _diet and the emperor_, besides that it _united the germans as one people_. on the dissolution of the old system, the several princes of the "_confederation of the rhine_" became _absolute_ over their own subjects, but _military vassals to buonaparte, who, like cade, was content they should reign, but took care to be viceroy over them_. the _game laws_ are much and justly complained of in germany. in wurtemberg they are particularly oppressive. the farmers, however, seem more opulent than in france. the possessions of many of the nobility are much neglected, as they reside almost entirely at one of the great capitals. suabia is generally unenclosed, and is not often enlivened by country houses, the inhabitants residing together in villages. its trade consists in the sale of its cattle, which are in vast numbers, together with that of its _corn_, wood, and wines, which are occasionally of tolerably good quality. the kingdom of wurtemberg is extremely fruitful, and is well watered by the necker, as well as by several smaller streams. after supplying its own population, which is as numerous as can be found in most parts of europe of the same extent, it exports vast quantities of grain to switzerland. almost the whole kingdom consists of well-wooded mountains, and of cultivated plains; and farming seems to be well understood. the posts are conducted in a much better manner than i had expected. the drivers are all provided with a french horn, and wear the royal livery, yellow and black, with which colours also the direction-posts are painted. the roads are in excellent order, and mile-stones are regularly placed; these roads are vastly superior to those in the states of baden and darmstadt, where there are a number of turnpikes. the traveller cannot fail to perceive that the activity of the government of wurtemberg, much exceeds that of many of the surrounding states. we breakfasted at bahlingen, a handsome and regularly built town. here we witnessed a dreadful accident: the conductor of the diligence, a large and heavy man, whilst arranging some packages, fell from the top of the carriage into the street, and laid open one side of his head, and had he fallen on a pavement it would probably have proved fatal. a surgeon was immediately sent for, who informed us that the wound was not very deep, and that he hoped it would have no serious effects. our next stage was heckingen, in the little state of hohenzollern. the ancient castle of that name is situated on an eminence, and is visible, for many leagues, in all directions. the territories of this state are about fifteen miles by ten, and contain about , inhabitants: but i believe there are two reigning families; those of _hohenzollem heckingen_ and _hohenzollern sigmaringen_. this house is of considerable eminence; the royal family of prussia are descended from a junior branch, which became possessed by purchase of the margraviate of brandenburg, and thus founded a power, which being aggrandized by the policy of succeeding sovereigns, now holds so distinguished a place in the political scale of europe. we soon quitted the territories of the princes of hohenzollern, and again entered wurtemberg, and after passing for several leagues over a highly improved country arrived at tubingen. * * * * * chap. xv. tubingen is a large and ancient town, containing about inhabitants: its situation is low, and it is chiefly worthy of notice, as being one of the most celebrated _universities_ of the south of germany. i was informed by one of its members who travelled in the diligence, that the number of students did not then exceed , but that he had no doubt it would increase as public affairs assumed a more settled appearance. here is little of that academic discipline, which distinguishes our universities. there are no colleges, and the students live in private houses, according to their respective inclinations. there are eight professors, and an attendance on the lectures of such of them as the student may prefer seems to constitute the sum of his academic duty. there is a large botanic garden, which is kept in good order, and contains a long range of green-houses and stoves. i here agreed to accompany a gentleman of my acquaintance, who wished to _travel post_ to frankfort: and had no reason to regret having left the diligence, with the tediousness of which i was heartily tired. we set out accordingly in a sort of cabriolet, resembling a covered curricle, for stutgard. we found much less delay at each post than we were led to expect; and part of the time was employed in greasing and examining the wheels of the carriage before starting: this custom prevents many accidents, for that operation for which no time is specified, is commonly neglected. the price of each station is regulated by government; and the postmasters and drivers are very civil and obliging; but the celerity with which every thing is procured at an english inn, is not to be expected here, as the germans are habitually slow in all their movements. a german dinner is still more tedious than a french one, and it is perhaps yet more foreign to our taste. the custom of sleeping between _feather beds_, as it may be altered by the traveller, if unpleasant to him, cannot be considered as a _grievance_; but all who have been accustomed to the _social and companionable cheerfulness of a fire_, must regret that custom, which here substitutes for it, the _dull and unenlivening heat of a stove_. that fire-place, which is so essential to the comfort of our apartments, is by german taste placed in the passage and shut up, whilst heat is conveyed into their rooms by flues. we arrived at stutgard without the occurrence of any thing worthy of mention, and were much pleased with its general appearance; its streets are spacious, and the houses mostly well built. the city has increased considerably in size, since it has become the constant residence of its sovereign. its population is estimated at , . it is an open place, but although there are no fortifications there are gates, the only use of which are to detain the traveller whilst his passport is under examination. the reformed religion is here established, but the churches have nothing to boast of in appearance. the palace is a handsome building of italian architecture, surrounding three sides of a square. it is built of hewn stone, and over the centre entrance is placed a large _gilt crown_. not far from the modern palace is the ancient _château_, surrounded by a deep ditch, and flanked by gloomy bastions, formerly the requisites to a prince's residence, but incompatible with the luxury sought for in a modern palace. wishing to judge of the taste of a german palace, we procured a _valet de place_ to conduct us over this; we found it fitted up in a manner which corresponded in many points to that usual in great houses in england. the suites of rooms are very numerous, but they are mostly of small dimensions. every apartment is provided with a musical clock. the marbles, carpets, china, and glass lustres, are generally the production of wurtemberg. many of these productions display much taste, and seem to deserve the encouragement they receive. a few of the rooms had fire-places, and almost all of them had to boast of some specimens of the industry and ingenuity of the _queen_, either in painting or embroidery. there is a museum of considerable extent, which opens into the _king's private library_, where the books are all concealed behind large _mirrors_, so that we could not judge of either the value or taste of the selection. in a building near the palace, is the king's public library, but we were told there was nothing in it particularly worthy of notice. there are but very few paintings by the great masters in this palace; but we were particularly struck by a portrait of _frederick_ the great, by a german artist. i have forgotten his name; but this portrait proves his skill. the council chamber is a handsome apartment, and contains two marble figures of _silence_ and _meditation_. the council table is _long and narrow_, which would not meet with _lord bacon's_ approbation, as, if i recollect right, he gives the preference to a _round table_, where all may take a part, instead of a long one, where those at the top chiefly decide. we next visited the royal stables, which contain a vast number of fine horses, the king being very fond of the chase. i was informed, that in his _private stables_ here and at ludwigsburg, there were from to horses, a number which exceeds that of most princes in europe. the garrison of stutgard consists of about men. we saw some of the troops go through their evolutions; and i have seldom seen a finer body of men. the band was remarkably fine. on the parade were two little boys, sons of prince paul, who were decorated with stars. having sufficiently satisfied our curiosity at stutgard, we proceeded to ludwigsburg, one stage distant, where there is a handsome royal palace adorned with extensive gardens, and many enclosures for game, of great extent. the town is not large, but is regularly built; and the houses, as at stutgard and many other places in germany, are remarkable for having a vast number of windows. after some delay about _passports_, we were suffered to proceed, as they sometimes will not give post horses without examining the passports. beyond the town we met several waggons, one of them i remarked was drawn by fourteen horses. there is much more traffic on this road than on any i had yet travelled. we passed through but one great town, heilbron, formerly an imperial free city, but which, together with ulm and many others, was _given_ by buonaparte to the king of wurtemberg. it is a tolerably well built place; and from the number of vessels in the river, i conclude it has a share of trade. the country round it is unenclosed, and for a great distance we saw no pastures, to that they must support their cattle on artificial crops. at furfeld we could procure no accommodation, it being full of company; we were therefore, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, obliged to go on to sinzheim. we parried the rain tolerably well (the carriages are but partly covered) with our umbrellas; and escaped narrowly a more serious disaster, having been nearly overturned by a waggon, which broke one side of our carriage. we found the inn small, but the people particularly obliging. i perceived that they expected some personage of great importance, as the landlady questioned our driver repeatedly whether _der cossack_ had arrived at the last stage. it was not, however, until we had retired to rest, that the expected guest arrived; and if importance is to be measured by noise, his must have been great indeed. our road to heidelberg lay for several miles along the banks of the necker, which are well-wooded, and adorned with several villages, and a large convent. the gate by which we entered heidelberg, is a remarkably fine piece of grecian architecture. the city is large and well built; but there is little appearance of trade or activity amongst its inhabitants. the _castle_ is situated on a steep hill above the town, and its terrace commands a vast prospect over a plain, enlivened by the windings of the river, as well as by the spires of the city. this palace was the residence of the electors palatine, and must have been a fine piece of gothic architecture. it was laid waste, together with the _whole palatinate_, in consequence of those orders which will for ever disgrace the memory of lewis the fourteenth. it is, however, still striking; and although the scene is _silent and desolate_, it is _unquestionably grand_. in a building adjoining the castle, is the famed _tun of heidelberg_, constructed by one of the electors at the suggestion of his buffoon, whose statue is placed near this enormous tun, which can contain , bottles. we were told that _the jester_ (some will not allow him to be called _the fool_) assisted his master in drinking eighteen bottles of the best rhenish wine daily. the table where they sat, near the tun, is still shewn. the country about heidelberg and manheim is from its fertility called the _garden of germany_; but i have seen in germany much finer districts. it is a well cultivated plain, and abounds with vineyards: beyond manheim is a greater extent of ground under potatoes, than i have ever met with before out of ireland. there is but little wood, and the roads run between rows of walnut and cherry trees. manheim is considered as one of the handsomest cities in germany, being built on a regular plan. it consists of twelve streets, intersected at right angles by eight others; but there is in this regularity a _sameness_ which soon tires the eye. the rhine passes close on one side of the city, and the necker washing the other side, soon after falls into the rhine, over which there is a bridge of boats. the palace is in a fine situation, and _next to versailles_, is the largest structure for the residence of a sovereign that i have seen. this city became the residence of the electors palatine, after the destruction of the castle of heidelberg, and the palace was erected in consequence. on the accession of the reigning family to bavaria, munich became their capital, and this palace was neglected. subsequent changes have transferred this country to the grand duke of baden, who continues to reside at carlsruhe. it would now require vast sums to restore this edifice; which will probably be soon as desolate as the castle of heidelberg, with which, however, it could never stand a comparison, either in point of situation or architecture. there are some handsome walks near the palace, which extend along the rhine, where the fortifications have been demolished. there are some spacious squares in the city; that before the town-house is adorned by a handsome _bronze fountain_. the population of the city has been estimated at , ; but it has probably rather diminished of late. several of the tradespeople exhibit the arms of baden over their shops, and boast of supplying their sovereign's family with various articles; but trade has every appearance of being here at a very low ebb. the road for some leagues beyond manheim was by far the worst we had yet passed in germany; but then we had made a _detour_ in visiting manheim, which does not lie on the direct road to frankfort. the next place of any note was darmstadt, the residence of the grand duke of hesse darmstadt: it seems a place of recent origin, where much has been attempted and but little completed. there are several spacious streets marked out, and a few good houses dispersed over a considerable extent of ground, which give it a melancholy appearance. its situation is not well chosen, as it is in a sandy plain, without any river in the vicinity. we visited the old castle or palace, situated in the centre of the town, which seems now used as a barrack. the number of troops seemed very considerable, and they are not inferior to the wurtembergers in appearance. near the old palace are handsome gardens laid out in the english taste, which were much frequented on sunday. the present grand duke inhabits a palace in the suburbs, which has little to boast of. a few hours drive brought us to frankfort. the country for the most part is flat, and abounds with woods, but, except near frankfort, has little to interest the traveller. we found that great commercial city fully answerable to our expectations. every thing announces the opulence of its inhabitants. the streets are spacious, and adorned with houses far surpassing any that either paris or london can boast of. some of the great merchants maybe literally said to inhabit palaces. there are a vast number of inns; some of them are on a great scale, and worthy to be ranked among the best in europe. i observed in the streets here a greater number of _handsome private carriages_ than i had seen in paris. although the _situation_ of frankfort is not remarkable, in a picturesque point of view, when compared with some other cities, yet it is extremely advantageous for its inhabitants, being placed in the centre of the richest country in germany, whilst the mein and rhine afford every facility for commerce. the roads are also in excellent order. that between frankfort and mayence is paved, and is perhaps the most frequented in germany. there are various well-known manufactures, and the shops are supplied with the productions of all countries. i first noticed here the custom of having small mirrors projecting into the streets, that the inhabitants may see, by reflection, what passes in them. the advantages of frankfort for commerce have attracted a vast number of jews, and reconcile them to many regulations, imposed by the magistrates, which otherwise they would not submit to. their numbers are said to exceed , in a total population of nearly , . the fame of frankfort is not, however, merely of a commercial nature. it can boast of having produced many of the most eminent _literary_ characters of germany. all religions are here tolerated; but, under its old constitution, the members of government were lutherans, and calvinists were excluded from any share in the management of affairs. the present magistrates are only provisionally appointed since the late change in its situation. the cathedral is a venerable gothic edifice, as is also the town-house; but frankfort is more remarkable for a general air of magnificence than for the exclusive elegance of any particular buildings. there are seven or eight gates to the city, some of which are handsome, and adorned with statues of many worthies, whose names i could not learn. the busts of alexander and roxana were however too conspicuous to escape notice; but their connexion with frankfort i am not antiquary enough to trace. frankfort cannot be considered as a fortified place. its bastions are planted with shrubs, and form a pleasant walk for the citizens. _hamburg_ has recently afforded a melancholy example of the evil which walls may bring upon a commercial city; and the people of frankfort cannot regret the use to which their bastions are applied. i was, by the favour of a merchant, to whom i had an introduction, admitted as a temporary member of the _casino_, or _public institution_. it is one of the best conducted establishments i have seen. there are not less than _newspapers_, besides other periodical publications; and, after an interval of two months, i was glad again to peruse an english newspaper. the reading-room, like the council-chamber at stutgard, is adorned by a figure of silence, and i think the hint seems well observed. there are, however, several very spacious and elegantly decorated apartments, for conversation, cards, billiards, &c. these rooms are frequented by ladies in the evenings, and then bear some resemblance to a london rout. the _concerts_ at frankfort are remarkably good. there is only one theatre; and, as the performance was in german, i only went once out of curiosity. the number of villas around frankfort are numerous and handsome, and the villages are large, and have every appearance of opulence. here are many fine orchards, and the _cider of afschaffenburg_ can be only distinguished from wine by a connoisseur. at hochst, six miles from frankfort, stands the large edifice noticed by dr. moore, as having been built by a great tobacconist of frankfort, out of spite to the magistrates of that city, with whom he had quarrelled; and he endeavoured to induce merchants to settle here. his plan, however, failed, and this great building is almost uninhabited. this village is at present chiefly remarkable for a manufacture of porcelain of excellent quality. great preparations were making at frankfort to celebrate the anniversary of the glorious battle of leipsig; and i was present at the inspection of about , men, preparatory to the great review on the eighteenth. there were many ladies present, and, although the weather was far from being warm, yet few of them wore bonnets. in general their hair was rolled round their heads. not being able to delay any longer in frankfort, i took the road to _mayence_, and passed through the large village of _hochheim_, which contains families. it was formerly the property of the chapter of mayence, but its future destiny is at present undecided. from this place is derived the english name of _hock_, which is applied to all the wine of the _rhingau_. there are vast numbers of vineyards and fruit-trees around the village; and, from a hill above it, is seen the junction of the mayn with the rhine, in the midst of this rich country. the waters of the mayn are of a dark hue, but do not, however, succeed in obscuring altogether the colour which the rhine brings from switzerland, and which i had so much admired at schaffhausen. from the bridge of boats, which is , feet in length, and which forms the communication between mayence and cassel, one sees the rhine forced by mountains to change its northerly direction, and, after forming some small islands it runs for some distance to the eastward. the mountains, which change the course of this vast river, form the _rhingau_ so celebrated for its wines. that of the village of _rudesheim_ is particularly noted for producing the best wine of the rhingau, and consequently of germany. the french had expended vast sums on the fortifications of _cassel_ and _mayence_, and rendered the latter one of the keys of germany, as well from its strength as from its situation. they had always a great depot here, which considerably benefited the city; the loss of that advantage is much regretted. when seen from the bridge (which is longer than that of westminster) mayence presents a striking appearance on account of its spires, and the vessels that line its quay, which presents a scene of considerable activity. on the customhouse were displayed the flags of austria, prussia, and bavaria; but to which of those powers the city is to be subject is still undetermined. on the river are a great number of corn-mills, necessary where there is so great a garrison. the barracks are handsome, and on a large scale. the general appearance of the interior of mayence is bad. the streets are in general narrow, dirty, and intricate. near the castle are some good houses. the cathedral is one of the largest buildings in _germany_, it has suffered considerably in the late wars, and is now covered with wood. its appearance is not, however, very striking, and it is surrounded with mean houses. i observed that a statue, "_a l'empereur_" is still standing in front of one of the houses in this city. its population is said to be , . the inhabitants, for a considerable distance round mayence, subsist principally by agriculture. they export their grain on the rhine to switzerland. they have abundance of vegetables, and the lower orders live a good deal on cabbage, which is here of a large size. * * * * * chap. xvi. at mayence i embarked on the rhine for cologne (above english miles distant), to see the banks of a river so highly celebrated. our company in the boat was not numerous, and would have been sufficiently agreeable, but for the continual _political rhapsodies_ of two frenchmen, one of whom was an officer, and spoke with confidence of recovering all the conquests of france. these frenchmen, in spite of the remonstrances of the germans present, insisted, like the physicians in molière, _that they best knew what was for their good_, and that they (the germans) mast be again united to france. one of these politicians asked me, if i did not think that talleyrand would demand the left bank of the rhine, as _essential_ to france, at the congress of vienna. i answered, i did not think it was probable he would ask for countries which france had so recently relinquished, nor was it to be expected that the allies would, to oblige him, depart from their principle of restraining france within those boundaries, which had, for centuries, been found as extensive as were consistent with the tranquillity of the rest of europe; and that, for my own part, i could not conceive the acquisition of those provinces to be _essential_ to france, which had never been more prosperous than at a period when she formed no pretensions to so great an aggrandizement. waving any further discussions on a subject which the _vanity_ of these gentlemen would have extended _ad infinitum_, or, at least, longer than i wished, i left them to their own lucubrations, and went on deck to contemplate the grandeur of the scenery which surrounded us, and which was reflected in the transparent waters of the rhine. the river here resembles a succession of lakes, and is surrounded in many places by such lofty mountains, that i was often at a loss to guess on which side we should find an opening to continue our course. the country along the rhine is considered as one of the richest districts in europe; it abounds with considerable towns, and with villages which, in other countries, would be considered as towns. almost every eminence is crowned with an ancient castle, and there is scarcely a reach of the river which does not exhibit some ruin in the boldest situation that can be imagined. the houses too being mostly white, and covered with blue slates, add considerably to the beauty of the scene. the _tour de souris_ is situated on an island near the _gulph of bingerlock_, where the river presents a curious appearance, being extremely agitated by hidden rocks, and the different currents are very violent. we dined at bingen, where the noh falls into the rhine. the mountains of niederwald cast a considerable shade around, and the mixture of woods and vineyards is highly picturesque, but the vines being mostly blighted, had this year the same autumnal tint as the trees. in this country, the vine is _almost the only product_ of the soil, and the inhabitants, who subsist chiefly by it, now behold with regret its withered state, and are melancholy and inactive, instead of being engaged in the pleasing cares of the vintage. this is the _third year_ here, as well as in burgundy and other districts, since there has been a favourable vintage; and it is only by mixing some of the vintage of , with that of the subsequent years, that the inhabitants can dispose of a small portion of this inferior produce. boppart was the former residence of the electors of treves, but the palace is now falling to decay. whilst contemplating this mouldering pile, i was struck with the well-known sounds of our national air, '_god save the king_,' which some of the company below sang in chorus (being probably tired of the politics of the frenchmen, as much as i was), this air being originally german. the evening was fine for the season, and about sun-set, several of the distant hills presented a fine appearance, having bonfires ou their tops, this being the th of october, which will be long celebrated in commemoration of the decisive battle of leipzig. most of the company came on deck to witness the effect of the bonfires. the germans seemed delighted at the sight which the frenchmen surveyed in silence. one of them, however, soon recovering his loquacity, asked me if i had been at _paris_, which he said was the greatest city in the world, and _larger than london_. this i could not assent to, being contrary to fact. yet it would he difficult for _french ingenuity_ to prove what _benefits_ result to a country from an overgrown capital. _superiority_ is, however, all they contend for. we soon saw the singular building (in an island) called the _palatinate_; it is now used as a public granary, and was _illuminated_ in honour of the day, as was also the neat village of st. goar, where we passed the night. _all_ seemed to partake of the festivity, and _i_ could net discern in the inhabitants any symptoms of regret that they were no longer subject to france. having set out at an early hour, we reached coblentz to breakfast. it is a large town, containing , inhabitants, and is advantageously situated at the confluence of the moselle and rhine. it was garrisoned chiefly by the _royal guards of saxony_, who exceeded in appearance any troops i had seen on the continent. some of them are stationed in the ci-devant palace, which is situated close to the river. the lofty mountain opposite the town is covered with the _ruins of ehrenbreitstein_, which was at one time considered as the strongest fortress on the rhine. opposite the town was a bridge of boats, but it was destroyed in the last war, and a flying bridge is substituted pro tempore. the rhine is so rapid near andernach, as never to freeze in the severest winter, and it here proceeds longer in a straight course, than i had yet seen in any part. neuwied, although subject to inundations, is a large well built and commercial town. lower down, on the left bank of the river, i observed an obelisk, which i found, on inquiry, was erected to the french general marsan, who fell during the period of the first invasion of germany by the french republicans. still farther, and close to the river, stands an ancient building, called _the devil's house_, but, from what circumstance, i could not exactly discover. some attribute it to the vast number of windows which it contains. the situation of lowdersdorf is highly picturesque, and the surrounding hills are shaded with woods of great antiquity. we here saw several rafts of timber of large dimensions, proceeding slowly down the stream. at linz, the landsturm were mustered to fire a volley, as the victory of leipzig was celebrated for two or three days in most parts of germany. at bonn, i witnessed further rejoicings, and the illuminations presented a highly pleasing effect when beheld from the river. i was at this place invited to a _ball and supper_, where i remained until a late hour, enjoying the general festivity. bonn is a well built city, containing about , inhabitants, and was formerly the general residence of the electors of cologne. about a league above the city are the seven mountains, and near them is a beautiful island of considerable extent, in which is a large convent. here ends the picturesque scenery of the rhine, which pursues the rest of its course through a flat country, until its waters are dispersed amongst the canals of holland. the river is here of great width, but not so deep as it is higher up. before bonn we saw the remains of two merchant vessels which had been wrecked there a few days before. those who embark on the rhine for pleasure, should here leave their boats, and pursue the rest of their journey by land, as the country ceases to be interesting, and the navigation is often difficult. we set out with a favourable wind; but about a league from _cologne_ our boat was driven on the right bank of the rhine by a violent gale; and as there appeared no immediate prospect of proceeding by water, most of the party determined on walking to the city. we found the flying bridge had been damaged by the late storm, and were therefore obliged, to wait a long time for a boat of sufficient size to pass the river, which was greatly agitated, and which is here of great depth, although much narrower than at _mayence_. few cities present a more imposing appearance than cologne; a vast extent of buildings, a profusion of steeples, and a forest of masts, raise the expectations of the traveller. the deception cannot be more justly or more emphatically described than in the words of dr._johnson:_ "remotely we see nothing but spires of temples, and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the residence of splendour, grandeur, and magnificence; but when we have passed the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke." cologne is one of the largest and most ancient cities in germany; it was founded by _agrippa_, and is above three miles in length; but the population is only between and , , which is very inconsiderable for its great extent. from the number of its churches, which at one time amounted to , it has been called the rome of germany. one of them (the dome), although still unfinished, is one of the grandest efforts of architecture, and excites the admiration of all judges of that art. the port owes its improvement to buonaparte, and the quay is lined with ships of considerable size. the city was anciently imperial, and the elector of cologne could not reside more than three days together in it without permission of the magistrates; but those who have ever seen this gloomy city, will not, i think, consider this restriction as a grievance. i here left the rhine; it is difficult sufficiently to praise the beauties of its banks, which afford also ample scope for the researches of the naturalist. they are not, however, adorned with that number of country-seats which enliven many of our rivers, and a few convents and palaces only are to be seen; although villages and towns are very numerous. i must not omit to mention, that i visited the house in which _rubens_ was born; his name is given to the street, which, like most others at cologne, has little beauty. he had furnished many of the churches of his native city with paintings, but several of them have been removed to paris. he has been called _the ajax of painters_, and his great excellence appears in the grandeur of his _compositions_; the art of colouring was by him carried to the highest pitch. rubens, however great his skill, deserves the praise of _modesty_, as, although he is allowed to have been little inferior to titian in _landscape_, he employed widens and van-uden when landscapes were introduced into his paintings, and snyders for animals, who finished them from his designs. the country around cologne is well cultivated, but is unenclosed up to the walls of the city, and there are none of those elegant villas to be seen which distinguish the neighbourhood of frankfort; but it is impossible for any two places to be more completely the reverse of each other in every respect. my next stage was juliers, the ancient capital of the duchy of the same name; it is a small city, but is well fortified, and its citadel is said to be of uncommon strength. as we approached aix-la-chapelle the roads became very indifferent, the soil being a deep sand; they are, however, in many places paved in the centre. aix-la-chapelle is a large, and, in general, a well-built city. the windows, in most of the houses, are very large, and give it a peculiar appearance. it was called by the romans _aquisgranum_, or _urbs aquensis_. it has for ages been celebrated for its waters, which resemble extremely those of bath; but some of the springs are still hotter. there are five springs which attract every year much company; but the season had ended before my arrival. this city was chosen by _charlemagne_ as the place of his residence, on account of the pleasantness of its situation; and, until its incorporation with france, held the first rank amongst the imperial cities of germany. according to the _golden bull_ the emperors were to be crowned here; but charles v was the last who conformed to that regulation. the ancient walls of aix enclose a vast extent of ground, and afford a pleasant walk; but there is much of the space enclosed in fields and gardens, and the population is not proportioned to the remaining buildings, being no more than , . the surrounding country is highly picturesque and varied, cultivation and woods being interspersed. the woods in this country have been, however, much diminished of late years. but there are, it may be observed, coal mines to supply sufficient fuel for the inhabitants. the town or great village of burscheid adjoins the gates of aix; it is very flourishing. near it is a fine abbey. i was also pleased with the ruins of the castle of frankenberg. here is a manufactory of needles, and about aix are several of cloth. from the tower of sittard is a view of vast extent over the netherlands. the cathedral of aix is a large gothic structure, but many of its decorations are trifling, and inconsistent with the solidity of its massy columns of marble and granite. its doors are of bronze highly wrought, but full of fissures. the streets here are crowded with beggars; and i think i never was in a place where so little respect is paid to the observance of sunday. in most towns on the continent the theatres, &c. are open, but most of the shops are closed during some part of the day; here they were open during the whole day, and seemed equally busy as during the rest of the week. the country between _aix_ and _liege_ produces great quantities of hops (the vine of the north of europe), and the beer here is very good. clermont is a neat village, with several good houses. we passed over some mountains, which seem to be the limit of the german language; the inhabitants of them speak a dialect intelligible neither at liege nor aix. the country near liege is rich, and the city is situated in a beautiful valley on the meuse; it is extremely large, but is ill built, and the streets are more intricate and dirty even than those of cologne. there is a good deal of trade carried on here, and the population is estimated at not less than , . there are a great number of churches, but i was not much struck with any of them; that of the dominicans is said to be copied from st. peter's at rome. there are a great number of booksellers here, and i was told it was a famous place to procure cheap books. the coal here seems of good quality, and the place is surrounded with collieries. the lower orders in this city speak a jargon called _walloon_, which is completely unintelligible to the higher classes. the french customs are generally prevalent here; and it is said, the inhabitants regret their separation from france. there were vast manufactories of cutlery here, but the french, before their departure, destroyed most of the machinery; this, together with the failure of other trades, is said to produce the distress which fills the streets with beggars. the _general appearance_ of the inhabitants of liege is not more prepossessing to a stranger than that of their city. there are said to be a great number of _thieves_, and i saw some surprised whilst cutting the trunks from behind a carriage at the inn-door. the money here is extremely adulterated, and is not taken one stage from the city, a circumstance which frequently is attended with great loss to the traveller, if he has occasion to receive much change. in this neighbourhood are several vineyards, but the climate is too cold to admit of the wine having a good flavour. they here cultivate a species of cabbage, the seed of which produces a thick oil, which is used in dying stuffs, and forms part of the composition of the black soap of this country. i found that the season had long ended at spa; that the roads were bad, and that it was above thirty miles out of my way, and therefore determined on proceeding to brussels in the diligence, to make trial of one of the public carriages of this country, having found the posting good from cologne to liege. i found it extremely spacious, when compared to those in england, and it was lined with faded yellow damask. i had but two companions, who, according to _rousseau's axiom_, would not be entitled to the name of _men_, which, he says, belongs to none under _five feet six inches_. they proved, however, sufficiently agreeable companions, and i found they resided at _louvain_. we proceeded at the rate of rather more than four english miles an hour, which was quicker than i had before travelled in a public carriage on the continent. our first stage presented nothing remarkable; but the next, _st. tron_, was a remarkably neat little town. there is a spacious square, surrounded with good houses, and at one end is the _town-house_; the church is a large building, and its steeple contains a set of musical chimes, to which the people of this country are very partial. we next reached _tirlemont_, formerly one of the most considerable cities of brabant, which is at present by no means of equal importance. the surrounding country is fruitful; many of its villages contain cottages of clay, which i did not expect to see in so opulent a province; they are indeed spacious, and the interior is kept very neat. the general appearance of the people here is much more in their favour than at liege. tirlemont contains manufactures of flannels, stockings, and cloth. the _cotton trade_, formerly the great staple of the netherlands, has of late years been greatly on the decline. * * * * * chap. xvii. although the present population of the netherlands bears no proportion to that which it formerly maintained, yet it is still very considerable, and exceeds that of any country in europe, holland only excepted; being persons to each square mile (see ch. xi. for the population of switzerland, &c.) the decrease in the number of inhabitants in these provinces is chiefly to be attributed to the religious persecutions which compelled thousands of industrious families to emigrate. this depopulation is very perceptible in many of the cities i passed through, which are capable of containing double their present number of inhabitants, and is nowhere more striking than at louvain, where the present population does not exceed , , and where formerly there were manufactories of cloth, which supported , labourers. this city is surrounded with an ancient wall of brick, which, as well as its numerous towers, presents a half mined appearance. many of the public buildings of louvain indicate its former opulence. the town-house is considered as a model of gothic architecture, and the cathedral of st. peter is a stately building. the portal of the _collegium falconis_ presents a specimen of grecian architecture, which is much admired for the simplicity. the _university of louvain_ was formerly of great celebrity, and no person could exercise any public authority in the austrian netherlands, without having graduated here. this regulation, however beneficially intended, only produced the effect of raising extremely the expence of the different diplomas, without being attended with any advantage, except to the funds of the university. in the present unsettled state of the _netherlands_, it cannot be expected that the seats of learning should be as much frequented, as they probably will be when their new sovereign shall have had leisure to turn his attention to the important subject of _public education_; and the wisdom of the regulations he has promulgated, on other matters of general interest (particularly that which enforces the more solemn observation of sunday) leaves little room to doubt that this point will, in its turn, be duly and successfully attended to. those who have resided at louvain have observed, that its inhabitants are in general _more polite_ than in most of the towns in these provinces; but my stay was not sufficiently long to enable me to form any opinion on the subject. the manners of the people do not seem to me very dissimilar from those of the french, but others think they most resemble the dutch. in fact, the _netherlanders_ have no _very peculiar characteristics_, but partake, in many respects, of those which distinguish the various nations from whom they are descended. they have been much and often abused by various writers, who have attributed to them the _faults_ of almost all the nations of europe, without allowing that they possess any of the good qualities by which those faults are palliated in the other nations. those, however, who are of a candid disposition will not feel inclined to assent to the truth of statements so evidently dictated by enmity or spleen. but whilst i would not have the flemish considered as a compound of all that is exceptionable in the human character, i do not consider them as meriting any _particular praise_; nor can i vindicate them from the charge of dishonesty, which has been so often alleged against them. in general on the continent, where _the english_ are the _subjects of extortion_, the fraud is considered as trivial, and the french often boast in conversation how _john bull is pillaged at paris_. but whatever may be the _flemish character_, it is allowed by all that they follow the french customs in their domestic arrangement, but are in general more cleanly. their _kitchens_ are kept very neat, and the cooking apparatus is ranged in order round the stove, which, in many of the kitchens that i saw in the small inns, projects considerably into the room. many of the inhabitants of these provinces (like my two companions in the louvain diligence) are below the middle size; they are extremely intelligent and active, and in general civil to strangers. before i quit louvain, i must not omit to notice that it is famous for its beer, which is certainly the best i have tasted on the continent. the number of breweries is said to exceed twenty, and the consumption is astonishingly great in the neighbourhood, besides a considerable export trade. i continued my journey to brussels along an excellent road, the centre of which was paved, as from the nature of the soil, it would be otherwise impassable in winter. the roads in this country run for many miles together, in a straight line between rows of trees; and i must confess i thought it very uninteresting to travel through. the flatness of its surface, is but rarely interrupted by any eminence, which affords a prospect calculated to make any impression on the mind. there are many neat villages, and occasionally one sees _country seats_ decorated in that formal style of gardening, which was originally introduced from this country into england, but which has there long since yielded to a more natural taste. the farming seems very neatly managed; the numerous canals, although they add nothing to the beauty of the country, are of great utility to the farmer; and travelling is very cheap in the boats, which pass between the chief towns. it would require scenery like that of the rhine, to induce me to adopt this conveyance; but many of these canals pass between banks which exclude all view of the surrounding country. i found the netherlander generally impatient to be relieved from the great military expences, incident to their present situation. there is, i think, little reason to doubt, that when some of the existing taxes can be removed, the _orange family_ will become popular. the stamp duties are very heavy; there are land and house taxes, and a personal tax. it is to be expected, that the people should wish for a diminution of their burdens, but _liege_ is the only place i have visited in the countries lately relinquished by france, where the separation seems to be generally regretted. i found that the prussian government, was by no means popular, on the left bank of the rhine, and that an union with either austria or bavaria, was much wished for in those provinces, whose future destiny remains to be decided at the congress of vienna. having met with but few english travellers since i had quitted switzerland, i was much struck on entering brussels with the _vast numbers_ of my fellow subjects, moving in all directions. the garrison was almost entirely composed of english troops, so that i felt here quite at home. i found that there was an _english theatre_, as well as a french one, and that balls, and entertainments of all descriptions, _à l'anglaise_, were in abundance. indeed the upper part of the city differed little in appearance from an english watering place. brussels is a city of great extent, built partly on the river senne (naturally a very inconsiderable stream, but which, being formed here into a canal, becomes of much advantage), and partly on a hill, commanding an extensive view of the rich and fertile plain by which it is surrounded; much of which resembles a vast kitchen garden. it is, like louvain, surrounded by a ruined wall of brick, as formerly all the towns of flanders were fortified. this was the capital of the austrian netherlands, and lately the chief place of the french department of the dyle: it will, probably, now become, for a part of the year, the residence of its new sovereign, whose sons are at present amongst its inhabitants. the inhabitants of brussels are calculated at , , and its environs give the traveller an idea of its importance, as they have an appearance of much traffic and are decorated with many villas which announce the opulence, but not always the good taste of their owners. the city is, in general, irregularly built, and the lower part does not deserve commendation; but the _place royale_ is fine: the park is surrounded by many handsome public buildings, and by a number of private houses, which would ornament any capital in europe. the park is of considerable extent, and forms an agreeable promenade. its avenues are kept in excellent order; they abound with statues and other formal decorations, which are, however, more admissible in a city promenade than in the retirement of the country. a fountain here was celebrated by _peter the great's_ having fallen into it, as that monarch, like cato, was said, "sæpe mero caluisse virtus." "his virtue oft with wine to warm." the circumstance was recorded by the following inscription: "petrus alexowitz, czar moscoviæ, magnus dux, margini hujus fontis insidiens, illius aquam nobilitavit libato vino hora post meridiam tertia, die aprilis, ." "that renowned general p.a., czar of moscovy, having poured forth ample libations of wine, whilst sitting on the brink of this fountain fell into, and ennobled its waters about three o'clock in the afternoon of the th of april, ." the town-house is one of the most conspicuous of the public buildings at brussels, although it is situated in the lowest part of the town, its steeple rising to the height of feet; it is a very fine piece of gothic architecture. the equestrian statue, noticed by m. dutens, as being placed on the _top of a house_ in the square before the town-house, has disappeared; the horse and his rider having been removed to a more suitable situation. the church of st. gudule presents a venerable and interesting appearance; it contains several fine paintings, and windows of stained glass. there are many ancient tombs of the old dukes of brabant. the church of st. james is also worthy of notice, and its façade of the corinthian order, is an elegant and uniform piece of architecture, which does honour to the taste of the builder. brussels contains many fine collections of paintings, which i have not time to enumerate; but i was much pleased with some pictures of _m. danoots_, to whom i had a letter. they are not very numerous, but are undoubted originals of s. rosa, teniers, rembrandt, myiens, and of j. bassano, who is remarkable for having attained a greater age ( ) than most of the great painters, he has accordingly left behind him a greater number of pictures than almost any other master. he is said to have expressed great regret on his death-bed, that he should be obliged to quit the world at the moment when he had begun to make some little progress in his art. a shorter life than bassano's, is, however, sufficient to establish the reputation of an artist. _raphael_ died in his th year, but public opinion has placed him at the head of his art for _general proficiency_. there are several excellent hotels in brussels which command a view of the park. i was at one of these, the _hotel de bellevue_, and found the hour of the _table d'hote_ had been changed to accommodate the english, to four o'clock, at least two hours later than the usual time; but as the company consisted always entirely of english it was but reasonable they should fix the hour. the dinner here more resembled an _english one_ than any i had hitherto seen on the continent, and reminded me of the public tables at cheltenham. brussels was some months since a very _cheap_ residence, but i have been assured, that the prices of most articles have more than doubled since our troops first arrived here. living at an hotel here is nearly as expensive as in london; but no doubt there is a considerable saving in the expences of a family who are recommended to honest trades-people. there are still a number of good houses to be let, notwithstanding the great influx of english, many of whom have engaged houses for _four or five years_, on terms which seem _very reasonable_ to those accustomed to the _london prices_. the country round brussels presents several excursions which would probably have better answered my expectations had the weather been more favourable. the abbey of _jurourin_, was a country seat of the princes of the austrian family, and was formerly famous for its menagerie. the forest of _sogne_ is of great extent; and its numerous avenues, which now had a sombre appearance, are, no doubt, in summer, much frequented by the inhabitants of brussels. this forest was the property of the emperor of germany, and is said to have produced an annual revenue of one million of florins. the prison, or house of correction, at _vilvorde_, is worthy of attention, from the excellent manner in which it is conducted. those who wish for the introduction of some improvements into our workhouses, might surely derive many useful hints from the manner in which similar establishments are conducted abroad; and although i have never thought much on the subject, yet i did not fail to remark the cleanliness, regularity, and industry, which prevailed here and in another place of the same kind near berne. brussels is seen to great advantage from the ancient ramparts which surround it. i went entirely round the city in about two hours, and afterwards attended divine service, which was performed in english, to a congregation which proved the great number of english now here. there are at present but _few very strongly fortified cities_ in belgium, compared with the vast number which it formerly contained. the period is past, when, after the ablest engineers had exerted their utmost skill in the construction of fortifications around its cities, generals, not less distinguished, contended for the honour of reducing them. amongst numberless other instances, the siege of _ostend_ sufficiently attests how successful the engineers have been in rendering those places strong; and also bears ample testimony to the perseverance of the commanders who at last succeeded in taking them. ambrose spinola entered ostend in , after a siege of above three years, during which the besieged lost , and the besiegers , men. the siege and capture of _valenciennes_ might also be adduced, if testimony were wanting of the zeal and bravery of british armies and commanders. but however justly these sieges are celebrated in _modern times_, the _antiquarian_ who contends for the _supremacy of past ages_ over the present, will not fail to instance the siege of _troy_ and the exploits of achilles and agamemnon, as a more distinguished instance of perseverance than any to be met with in these _degenerate_ _days_, and if he should meet with some _sceptic_ who insists that the heroes of homer owe their existence only to the imagination of the poet, although he can assent to no such hypothesis, yet he will also instance the siege of _azotus_, on the frontiers of egypt, which psammeticus, meditating extensive conquests, and thinking it beneath him to leave so strong a fortress unsubdued, is related to have spent years of his reign in reducing. as i was desirous of visiting antwerp and ghent, and as the period allotted for my tour was drawing to a close (a circumstance which the advanced season of the year gave me but little reason to regret) i left brussels, enveloped in a fog, which might remind the english fashionables of those so prevalent in london during the gloomy season of november, and proceeded to malines, miles distant, formerly one of the greatest cities of belgium, but now like too many other once celebrated places in that country, affording a melancholy contrast to its former splendour, and proving that in the vicissitude of all sublunary affairs, cities, as well as their inhabitants, are subject to decay. non indignemur mortalia corpora solvi cernimus exemplis oppida posse mori. here are several manufactories of excellent lace and many breweries, but the beer is considered as greatly inferior to that of louvain. the houses are spacious, and exhibit singular specimens of ancient taste; the roofs rise to a great height and terminate in a sharp point. their walls are generally of an excessive whiteness. the tower of the cathedral is highly finished, and rises to a vast height. there being little to detain me here, malines being more remarkable for what it once was, than for what it now is, i continued my way to antwerp along an excellent paved road, lined by avenues of trees, which are often so cut (the dutch differing from the minorquins, who never prune a tree, saying, that nature knows best how it should grow) as not to be at all ornamental, and in some places cannot be said to afford either "from storms a shelter, or from heat a shade." in that state, however unnatural, they answer the intention of their planters, by marking the course of the road in the snowy season, without excluding the air from it in the wet weather, prevalent in autumn. antwerp is one of the most celebrated cities of europe, and although its present situation is far from comparable with its former celebrity, yet it has revived greatly of late years; and the events which have restored to these provinces their independence, will, no doubt, fill with the vessels of all trading nations those docks, which were constructed by the french government at such incredible expence, and with far different views than the encouragement of commercial speculations. the canals by which these docks communicate with bruges and ostend, that the navy of napoleon might run no risks by passing on the _high seas_, are vast works, which must have cost enormous sums of money. the scheld is here about half the width of the thames at westminster; but _antwerp_ is above fifty miles from its mouth. its depth is very considerable; and such was at one period the commerce of antwerp, that not less than vessels annually entered its port. the present population of this city is stated at , . there are manufactures of lace, silk, chocolate, and extensive establishments for refining sugar. the export of the productions of the fruitful district which surrounds the city is very considerable. nothing proves more strongly the _riches of these provinces_, than the short period in which they recover the evils of a campaign; and it was their fertility in grain, which principally rendered them of such importance to the french government. during the late scarcity in france, the crops succeeded tolerably well here; and buonaparte obliged the inhabitants of belgium to supply france at a price which he fixed himself, and by which _they lost_ considerably. there are many buildings at antwerp, which are justly admired for their magnificence, particularly the cathedral, which, like many other churches here, was decorated by the pencil of rubens. the tower of the cathedral is a rich specimen of gothic. the general effect of this building is lessened by a number of mean houses which surround it. the church of st. andre contains a monument to the memory of mary queen of scotland. the town-house is a large building; its façade is feet in length, and is composed of all the orders of architecture. many of the streets at antwerp are tolerably well built. i was informed that many individuals have good collections of paintings, by the chief painters which this country has produced. it is impossible to pass through flanders without being struck with the exactness with which its painters have represented the face of their country, and the persons of its inhabitants. antwerp, on the whole, has a tolerably cheerful appearance. the promenade of penipiere is pleasant, and much frequented by the citizens. the country between antwerp and gand, presents, like the rest of flanders, a level surface, highly cultivated, traversed by excellent roads, running in straight lines from one town to another. i must, however, own that i have seldom traversed a more uninteresting country. but as the reign of a prince, which affords the fewest incidents for the commemoration of the historian, is thought to be often the most fortunate for the interests of his subjects, so a country, which is passed over in silence by the tourist, as devoid of those natural beauties, which fix his attention, often contains the most land susceptible of cultivation, which best repays the labours of the husbandman, and is the most valuable to the possessor. many of the flemish inns are very neat; but the traveller who has recently quitted germany, is struck with their inferiority in point of decoration (although, perhaps, in no other respect) to those of that country, which abound with gilding, trophies, and armorial bearings, to invite the stranger, who here has a less shewy intimation of the entertainment he seeks for. the peasants here commonly wear wooden shoes; and they who do not consider how powerful is the force of custom, are surprised how they contrive to walk so well, in such awkward and clumsy machines. * * * * * chap. xviii. gand, or _ghent_, is the capital of flanders, and is one of the greatest cities in europe as to extent; it is seven miles in circumference. it is situated on the scheldt and lys, which are here joined by two smaller rivers, which with numerous canals intersect the city, and form upwards of twenty islands, that are united by above bridges. no position can be conceived more favourable for trade than this. but gand is greatly fallen from the once splendid situation she held amongst the cities of europe, and although superior to either brussels or antwerp in point of appearance, its population is now inferior to those cities, being reduced to , : a very inconsiderable number for a city of such extent. gand is celebrated as the birthplace of the emperor charles the fifth. it exhibited at different periods proofs of his attachment to a place of which he boasted being a citizen, and of the severity with which he punished the revolt of its inhabitants. in more ancient times gand produced another character of political importance, _d'arteville_, a brewer, whose influence in this city (then one of the first in europe) made king edward the third of england solicitous for his friendship; and history informs us, that one of his sons, at the head of , gantois, carried on a war against his sovereign. here was concluded the celebrated treaty in , called the pacification of gand; and it may in future times be famous for the conclusion of a treaty between england and america. charles the fifth comparing the extent of paris with that of this city, is said to have remarked, "_qu'il auroit mis tout paris dans gand_;" and, except paris, and perhaps cologne, it is the largest city i have seen on the continent. many of the canals have some appearance of trade. i observed many very extensive bleach-greens beyond the ancient ditches and works which surround the city. the walls along the canal of _la coussure_ are the most frequented by the inhabitants. the cathedral is a handsome structure, and contains some beautiful carving. the church of st. michael is also a noble and venerable edifice. there are many other handsome churches amongst the number which the city contains, and i do not recollect ever to have been in a place where there are such a number and variety of _chimes_. the town-house is an extremely large and handsome building, in the ancient taste, as indeed are most of those in the netherlands. the city contains many elegant private houses. the streets are remarkably clean and spacious, but the want of an adequate population is very perceptible. here is a good public library, and the botanic garden is considered as the best in the netherlands. the prison built by the empress maria teresa is well worthy of a visit; and the stranger cannot fail of being struck with the extreme activity and industry which prevails within its walls. every thing seems conducted much in the same manner, of which i had occasion to notice the advantages at vilvorde. there is a theatre; but those who have lately arrived from brussels or lisle will not be much struck with the merits of the performers. from gand to ostend and dunkirk there are no public conveyances, except along the canals. this mode of travelling i was not inclined to adopt; and hearing that the road by lisle, although thirty miles longer, passed through a finer country, i determined to proceed that way. i did not hear a favourable account of _ostend_; and, notwithstanding the peace, above a third of the houses were said to be untenanted. bruges has neither river nor fountain, but abundance of stagnant canals and reservoirs. the word _bourse_, as designating the place where merchants assemble to transact business, had its first origin from a house at bruges, then belonging to the family of _van der bourse_, opposite to which the merchants of the city used to meet daily. as the road between ghent and lisle did not claim any minute survey, and as i had been satisfied with the trial i had before made of a diligence in their country, i engaged a place for lille for the next morning. i was awakened, long before daybreak, by the noise of packing in the carriages in the yard, and by the vociferations of several frenchmen in the house, who seemed to exert their lungs more than the occasion required. i was not sorry to see them set off in a different carriage from that in which i was to proceed, as their extreme noise would have been tiresome. i had not to complain that my companions made an unnecessary _depense de parole_. they were, i believe, all flemish. one of them prided himself on being able to speak a little english, which he said he could read perfectly, and pulled from his pocket "the vicar of wakefield," which, he assured me, he admired extremely. i have, on many occasions, in germany, been in company with persons who were more desirous of beginning a conversation in english, than able afterwards to continue it; but in general i have found that the english make less allowance for the want of proficiency of foreigners in their language than foreigners do for our ignorance of theirs. on one occasion, at a _table d'hote_, a person who sat near me pointed out a gentleman at some distance, and observed that it would be impossible to please him more than by giving him an opportunity of speaking english, as he valued himself much on his knowledge of that language. he was not long without finding the opportunity he sought for, but not the approbation which he had probably expected. but to return to the diligence. the rest of the passengers being lethargic after dinner, an elderly lady and i had the conversation to ourselves. she complained frequently of her _poor bonnet_, which, from its _extraordinary elevation_ (having to all appearance antiquity to boast of) was frequently forced in contact with the top of the carriage by the roughness of the pavement. i told her, i had heard that the bonnets at paris had been much reduced in point of height, and that perhaps something between the french and english fashions would in time be generally worn. but although she had to complain of the inconvenience arising from the unnecessarily large dimensions of her headdress, she expressed a hope that no such reduction might take place, as the english bonnets were in her opinion so extremely unbecoming, that she should much regret any bias in the french ladies towards such an innovation. the pavement on which we travelled was rendered very necessary by the weight of the carriages, which would soon make the road impassable. the country resembled the rest of flanders. i observed a greater number of sportsmen than i had yet seen, well provided with dogs, ranging a country which is too thickly inhabited to abound in game; and i have seldom seen a district where there are fewer birds of any kind. courtray is a large and handsome town. here i observed some large dogs employed in drawing small carts, a custom very general in holland. the town-house bears an inscription, indicating that it was erected _by the senate and people of courtray_; a style lately used by all the cities of germany which depended on the empire, however inconsiderable they had become in the course of years. there are many beggars here although the town and neighbourhood exhibits more industry than i had observed since i left antwerp. at courtray and menin the garrisons are english, and a little beyond the last named place we entered france. the _boundary stone_ was pointed out to me as curious, from having escaped unnoticed during the revolutionary times, as it bears the royal arms of france on one side and those of austria on the other, and after a series of eventful years, it serves again to point out the ancient and legitimate limits of france. we were detained above an hour at the custom-house, as the diligence was heavily laden and all merchandise, as well as the baggage of the passengers, was examined with minute attention. the tax was however only on the patience, the purse not being diminished by any claim from the officers, who were extremely civil in assisting to arrange what their search had convinced them not to be illegal. our passports were not demanded until we reached the out-posts of lille, and we were not long detained, as every thing was satisfactory. i was told that a few days before, two english travellers not being provided with sufficient passports, were taken out of the diligence and conveyed under an escort into lille, where they were next day recommended to return to england, and provide themselves with proper passports. lille is the capital of french flanders, and the chief place in the department _du nord_; it is one of the handsomest and best built cities of france, as well as the strongest fortified. the _citadel_ especially, is considered as the _chef d'oeuvre_ of the celebrated _vauban_, this place having been one of the most important fortresses on this side of france; it has again become so, although far removed from that line which an insatiable ambition would have established as the boundary of france; and which included nations not desirous of the union. the population of lille is estimated at , . it contains many manufactories, which a period of tranquillity will probably restore to their ancient prosperity. many of the streets here reminded me of paris. the cathedral is a handsome building, as are also the exchange, the theatre, and the porte royale. the barracks are large and spacious; and there being generally a large garrison, the _theatre_ is well attended and the performers superior to those in most provincial towns. i was told by a gentleman who has resided here for some time, that there are few towns in france which exceed this in point of agreeable society. he had two letters of introduction on his arrival and found no difficulty in enlarging the circle of his acquaintance. he added, that many english had settled here for the sake of economy; and it certainly is cheaper than most of the great towns of belgium. i had much reason to be satisfied that i took this road to calais, instead of going by the canals, as the country was much diversified, and the _view from cassel_ was one of the most striking and extensive that i had ever seen. notwithstanding that the month of november is not calculated for seeing a country to advantage, some of the richest and best cultivated provinces of france and flanders are discovered from this commanding situation. the scene is bounded on one side by the sea and on the other by the mountains of hainault. those who are acquainted with the country assert that from cassel you can see thirty towns or considerable villages, of which seventeen are fortified. cassel itself is by no means remarkable; it was at one time a place of great strength, but its fortifications have gone to decay, although its situation must always render it a strong position. after a considerable descent on leaving cassel, we arrived in the plain, which extends to the coast, with but little variation. it is fertile in corn and produces hops. there are several rich pastures and a tolerable proportion of wood. this day we travelled entirely in the department _du nord_, where the roads are much attended to. i observed a few country houses and a château of general _vandamme_. berg is a considerable town, but badly situated; the country from thence to dunkirk is a flat and marshy plain, resembling those extensive tracts which occupy a large proportion of the counties of cambridge and lincoln. it abounds with canals and drains, which in some places are higher than the fields, but this uninteresting district feeds large herds of cattle, and is in many parts well cultivated. one of the chief canals leading to dunkirk runs parallel with the road for a great distance, its banks are planted with trees, which have a stunted appearance, owing probably to their proximity to the sea. i observed on the canal several boats laden with the produce of the country, as well as the stage boats. dunkirk is well built, and the streets being spacious it makes a favourable impression on the mind of the traveller, who is perhaps more liable to the force of a first impression than most others. some of the churches and public buildings are handsome and the number of inhabitants is estimated at , . its name is said to originate from a church built here by the duns in , and in flemish its name signifies the _church of the duns_. there is much similarity between many words in the english and flemish, but the latter cannot claim the praise of agreeableness. it is endeavoured by a proclamation of the _prince sovereign_ to restore the _flemish language_ in all public acts and pleadings at law, to the exclusion of the french, which during the union of belgium with france, was alone allowed to be used, and pains were taken that in all schools the french language only should be taught. but it is a difficult task, to overcome the partiality of a people for their ancient dialect, and the flemish language is still used by the lower classes even in those parts of flanders which have been united for above a century to france. at this day the difference between the two nations is not altogether done away. the scheme of again uniting belgium and the left bank of the rhine to france, is here perpetually introduced. the french talk of the oppressed state of the belgians, and of the vast number of _ordinary_, _extraordinary_, and _indirect_ imposts to which they are subject, and conclude that they must wish to become again the subjects of france, as if they would by that means escape taxation. that they would rather be subject to the _mild government of louis xviii_. than to the _oppressive tyranny of buonaparte_, i can easily conceive; but is it unnatural that they should be desirous of existing as an independent nation, under a government of their own? yet were it ascertained beyond dispute, that the wishes of the belgians are such as the french represent them, surely the general interests of europe, and the preservation of that balance of power so essential to its permanent tranquillity, would forbid the further extension of france, which might again reassume that preponderance which it has cost the other powers so much to reduce. i am, however, inclined to think, that the wishes of the belgians are not such as they are represented; but the french _knowing a little, presume a good deal, and so jump to a conclusion_. the merchants here seem to expect that their city will obtain the privileges of a _free port_, which have been lately granted to marseilles, but upon what grounds their hopes are founded, i did not distinctly understand. dunkirk was at one period subject to england; being taken in , it continued an english garrison until sold by that needy monarch charles the second, to louis the fourteenth, in . the odium of this transaction was one of the causes of the disgrace of that great statesman, lord clarendon, and a house which he was then building, obtained the popular appellation of _dunkirk house_. in the possession of so enterprising and ambitious a sovereign as louis, dunkirk became so formidable by its fortifications, that the demolition of them was deemed essential to the interests of england, and was accordingly insisted on by the treaty of utrecht, ; but by the treaty of , the article against its being fortified was annulled, and although several works have been constructed since that period, it has by no means re-assumed its former strength. from dunkirk, i proceeded to gravelines, which, although inconsiderable as a town, is strong as a fortress, since the flat country which surrounds it may be laid under water to a great extent on the approach of an enemy. the market-place is spacious, but overgrown with weeds. i observed that it still bears the name of the _place de la liberté_, and a street which communicates with it is designated _rue de l'egalité_. the title of the market-place is more applicable to the present than to the former state of france; that of the street cannot long exist in any country, for the maxim tells us, "_that all men are by nature unequal_," and the attempt to render them equal has been often compared, in point of absurdity, to the labours of _procrustes_. _an equal right to justice_ is all the _equality_ that can subsist in civilized society, consistent with the _liberty_, _property_, and _personal security_, of individuals, which would be perpetually violated by a system, to preserve which, it would be requisite continually to take from the acquisitions of the industrious, to give to the idle and the profligate. it is possible that the experience of the last twenty years may not have produced as full a conviction as might have been expected on the minds of the french; but it cannot be supposed to have been altogether unheeded by them. i found at gravelines a diligence, which i think the cheapest land conveyance i ever met with. it runs from dunkirk to calais (about twenty-five english miles) for three francs. it carries six passengers, and performs the journey in about five or six hours. it is the _spirit of opposition_ which has so advantageously for the public reduced the price, which used to be double, and which will probably, in a little time, rise one franc more. the country between gravelines and calais is as uninteresting as can be conceived. the ground is shewn where edward iii. of england had his camp during the memorable siege of calais. this town continued to be possessed by england until the reign of queen mary, (being the last place in france _proper_ which remained of the numerous territories once possessed by england), and its loss is said to have greatly afflicted her majesty. the fortifications of calais are kept in tolerably good repair. i found that for three days previous to my arrival no vessel had been able to sail, owing to the contrary winds and the violent agitation of the sea. two vessels had been wrecked by these storms, but nearly all the crews were saved. in the evening i visited the theatre, and was sorry to observe, that a sentiment introduced into the performance expressive of satisfaction at the peace between france and england, excited much disapprobation from the officers present. the _jealousy which prevails against the english in france is very striking_, after the cordiality with which they are received in germany. it seems to be the englishman's _purse alone_ that commands a certain interested assiduity, which they take care shall be _amply_ remunerated. the port of calais presented no appearance of activity, the transports which filled it on my first arrival having long disappeared. after being detained one day, i was glad to hear a bustle in the hotel at an early hour next morning, and perceiving that the wind had become more favourable for england, i hastened on board the packet, in which my landlord had engaged me a place; the price i found was now reduced to half a guinea. i had procured the day before a _sufferance_ for the embarkation of myself and baggage. our captain and crew were french, and the vessel was not in the neatest order. two other packets sailed at the same time, but arrived in dover before us. all were full of passengers, owing to the weather having been long unfavourable for sailing. we had on board forty-six passengers, amongst whom were several _frenchmen_, who again gave me occasion to remark the loquacity of their nation; and they only agreed with la fontaine in the former part of the line, where he says, "_il est bon de parler, et meilleur de se taire_;" _'tis good to speak, but better to be silent._ our passage was extremely rough; but after twelve hours sailing, we entered the port of dover, and i felt great pleasure in finding myself again in a country, which had only risen still higher in my estimation, from the comparison i had been enabled to form between it and the other countries i had visited. the end. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. the author's use of accents was retained as printed. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. pencillings by the way: written during some years of residence and travel in europe. by n. parker willis. new york: charles scribner, grand street. mdccclx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by charles scribner, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. preface. a word or two of necessary explanation, dear reader. i had resided on the continent for several years, and had been a year in england, without being suspected, i believe, in the societies in which i lived, of any habit of authorship. no production of mine had ever crossed the water, and my letters to the new-york mirror, were (for this long period, and i presumed would be forever), as far as european readers were concerned, an unimportant and easy secret. within a few months of returning to this country, the quarterly review came out with a severe criticism on the pencillings by the way, published in the new-york mirror. a london publisher immediately procured a broken set of this paper from an american resident there, and called on me with an offer of £ for an immediate edition of what he had--rather less than one half of the letters in this present volume. this chanced on the day before my marriage, and i left immediately for paris--a literary friend most kindly undertaking to look over the proofs, and suppress what might annoy any one then living in london. the book was printed in three volumes, at about $ per copy, and in this expensive shape three editions were sold by the original publisher. after his death a duodecimo edition was put forth, very beautifully illustrated; and this has been followed by a fifth edition lately published, with new embellishments, by mr. virtue. the only american edition (long ago out of print) was a literal copy of this imperfect and curtailed book. in the present complete edition, the letters objected to by the quarterly, are, like the rest, re-published _as originally written_. the offending portions must be at any rate, harmless, after being circulated extensively in this country in the mirror, and prominently quoted from the mirror in the quarterly--and this being true, i have felt that i could gratify the wish to be put _fairly on trial_ for these alleged offences--to have a comparison instituted between my sins, in this respect, and hamilton's, muskau's, von raumer's, marryat's and lockhart's--and so, to put a definite value and meaning upon the constant and vague allusions to these iniquities, with which the critiques of my contemporaries abound. i may state as a fact, that the only instance in which a quotation by me from the conversation of distinguished men gave the least offence in england, was the one remark made by moore the poet at a dinner party, on the subject of o'connell. it would have been harmless, as it was designed to be, but for the unexpected celebrity of my pencillings; yet with all my heart i wished it unwritten. i wish to put on record in this edition (and you need not be at the trouble of perusing them unless you please, dear reader!) an extract or two from the london prefaces to "pencillings," and parts of two articles written apropos of the book's offences. the following is from the preface to the first london edition:-- "the extracts from these letters which have appeared in the public prints, have drawn upon me much severe censure. admitting its justice in part, perhaps i may shield myself from its remaining excess by a slight explanation. during several years' residence in continental and eastern countries, i have had opportunities (as _attaché_ to a foreign legation), of seeing phases of society and manners not usually described in books of travel. having been the editor, before leaving the united states, of a monthly review, i found it both profitable and agreeable, to continue my interest in the periodical in which that review was merged at my departure, by a miscellaneous correspondence. foreign courts, distinguished men, royal entertainments, &c. &c.,--matters which were likely to interest american readers more particularly--have been in turn my themes. the distance of america from these countries, and the ephemeral nature and usual obscurity of periodical correspondence, were a sufficient warrant to my mind, that the descriptions would die where they first saw the light, and fulfil only the trifling destiny for which they were intended. i indulged myself, therefore, in a freedom of detail and topic which is usual only in posthumous memoirs--expecting as soon that they would be read in the countries and by the persons described, as the biographer of byron and sheridan, that these fruitful and unconscious themes would rise from the dead to read their own interesting memoirs! and such a resurrection would hardly be a more disagreeable surprise to that eminent biographer, than was the sudden appearance to me of my own unambitious letters in the quarterly review. "the reader will see (for every letter containing the least personal detail has been most industriously republished in the english papers) that i have in some slight measure corrected these pencillings by the way. they were literally what they were styled--notes written on the road, and despatched without a second perusal; and it would be extraordinary if, between the liberty i felt with my material, and the haste in which i scribbled, some egregious errors in judgment and taste had not crept in unawares. the quarterly has made a long arm over the water to refresh my memory on this point. there _are_ passages i would not re-write, and some remarks on individuals which i would recall at some cost, and would not willingly see repeated in these volumes. having conceded thus much, however, i may express my surprise that this particular sin should have been visited upon _me_, at a distance of three thousand miles, when the reviewer's own literary fame rests on the more aggravated instance of a book of personalities, published under the very noses of the persons described. those of my letters which date from england were written within three or four months of my first arrival in this country. fortunate in my introductions, almost embarrassed with kindness, and, from advantages of comparison, gained by long travel, qualified to appreciate keenly the delights of english society, i was little disposed to find fault. everything pleased me. yet in one instance--one single instance--i indulged myself in stricture upon individual character, and i _repeat it in this work_, sure that there will be but one person in the world of letters who will not read it with approbation--the editor of the _quarterly_ himself. it was expressed at the time with no personal feeling, for i had never seen the individual concerned, and my name had probably never reached his ears. i but repeated what i had said a thousand times, and never without an indignant echo to its truth--an opinion formed from the most dispassionate perusal of his writings--that the editor of that review was the most unprincipled critic of his age. aside from its flagrant literary injustice, we owe to the _quarterly_, it is well known, every spark of ill-feeling that has been kept alive between england and america for the last twenty years. the sneers, the opprobrious epithets of this bravo in literature, have been received in a country where the machinery of reviewing was not understood, as the voice of the english people, and an animosity for which there was no other reason, has been thus periodically fed and exasperated. i conceive it to be my duty as a literary man--i _know_ it is my duty as an american--to lose no opportunity of setting my heel on the head of this reptile of criticism." the following is part of an article, written by myself, on the subject of personalities, for a periodical in new york: "there is no question, i believe, that pictures of living society, where society is in very high perfection, and of living persons, where they are 'persons of mark,' are both interesting to ourselves, and valuable to posterity. what would we not give for a description of a dinner with shakspeare and ben jonson--of a dance with the maids of queen elizabeth--of a chat with milton in a morning call? we should say the man was a churl, who, when he had the power, should have refused to 'leave the world a copy' of such precious hours. posterity will decide who are the great of our time--but they are at least _among_ those i have heard talk, and have described and quoted, and who would read without interest, a hundred years hence, a character of the second virgin queen, caught as it was uttered in a ball-room of her time? or a description of her loveliest maid of honor, by one who had stood opposite her in a dance, and wrote it before he slept? or a conversation with moore or bulwer?--when the queen and her fairest maid, and moore and bulwer have had their splendid funerals, and are dust, like elizabeth and shakspeare? "the harm, if harm there be in such sketches, is in the spirit in which they are done. if they are ill-natured or untrue, or if the author says aught to injure the feelings of those who have admitted him to their confidence or hospitality, he is to blame, and it is easy, since he publishes while his subjects are living, to correct his misrepresentations, and to visit upon him his infidelities of friendship. "but (while i think of it), perhaps some fault-finder will be pleased to tell me, why this is so much deeper a sin in _me_ than in all other travellers. has basil hall any hesitation in describing a dinner party in the united states, and recording the conversation at table? does miss martineau stick at publishing the portrait of a distinguished american, and faithfully recording all he says in a confidential _tête-à-tête_? have captain hamilton and prince pukler, von raumer and captain marryat, any scruples whatever about putting down anything they hear that is worth the trouble, or of describing any scene, private or public, which would tell in their book, or illustrate a national peculiarity? what would their books be without this class of subjects? what would any book of travels be, leaving out everybody the author saw, and all he heard? not that i justify all these authors have done in this way, for i honestly think they have stepped over the line, which i have but trod close upon." surely it is the _abuse_, and not the _use_ of information thus acquired, that makes the offence. the most formal, unqualified, and severe condemnation recorded against my pencillings, however, is that of the renowned editor of the quarterly, and to show the public the immaculate purity of the forge where this long-echoed thunder is manufactured, i will quote a passage or two from a book of the same description, by the editor of the quarterly himself. 'peter's letters to his kinsfolk,' by mr. lockhart, are three volumes exclusively filled with portraits of persons, living at the time it was written in scotland, their conversation with the author, their manners, their private histories, etc., etc. in one of the letters upon the 'society of edinburgh,' is the following delicate passage:-- "'even you, my dear lady johnes, are a perfect history in every branch of knowledge. i remember, only the last time i saw you, you were praising with all your might the legs of col. b----, those flimsy, worthless things that look as if they were bandaged with linen rollers from the heel to the knee. you may say what you will, but i still assert, and i will prove it if you please by pen and pencil, that, with one pair of exceptions, the best legs in cardigan are mrs. p----'s. as for miss j---- d----'s, i think they are frightful.'... "two pages farther on he says:-- "'as for myself, i assure you that ever since i spent a week at lady l----'s and saw those great fat girls of hers, waltzing every night with that odious de b----, i can not endure the very name of the thing.' "i quote from the second edition of these letters, by which it appears that even these are _moderated_ passages. a note to the first of the above quotations runs as follows: "'a great part of this letter is omitted in the second edition in consequence of the displeasure its publication gave to certain ladies in cardiganshire. as for the gentleman who chose to take what i said of him in so much dudgeon, he will observe, that i have allowed what i said to remain _in statu quo_, which i certainly should not have done, had he expressed his resentment in a proper manner.' "so well are these unfortunate persons' names known by those who read the book in england, that in the copy which i have from a circulating library, they are all filled out in pencil. and i would here beg the reader to remark that these are private individuals, compelled by no literary or official distinction to come out from their privacy and figure in print, and in this, if not in the _taste_ and _quality_ of my descriptions, i claim a fairer escutcheon than my self-elected judge--for where is a person's name recorded in my letters who is not either by tenure of public office, or literary, or political distinction, a theme of daily newspaper comment, and of course fair game for the traveller. "i must give one more extract from mr. lockhart's book, an account of a dinner with a private merchant of glasgow. "'i should have told you before, that i had another visiter early in the morning, besides mr. h. this was a mr. p----, a respectable merchant of the place, also an acquaintance of my friend w----. he came before h----, and after professing himself very sorry that his avocations would not permit him to devote his forenoon to my service, he made me promise to dine with him.... my friend soon joined me, and observing from the appearance of my countenance that i was contemplating the scene with some disgust,' (the glasgow exchange) 'my good fellow,' said he, 'you are just like every other well-educated stranger that comes into this town; you can not endure the first sight of us mercantile whelps. do not, however, be alarmed; i will not introduce you to any of these cattle at dinner. no, sir! you must know that there are a few men of refinement and polite information in this city. i have warned two or three of these _raræ aves_, and depend upon it, you shall have a very snug _day's work_.' so saying he took my arm, and observing that five was _just on the chap_, hurried me through several streets and lanes till we arrived in the ----, where his house is situated. his wife was, i perceived, quite the fine lady, and, withal, a little of the blue stocking. hearing that i had just come from edinburgh, she remarked that glasgow would be seen to much more disadvantage after that elegant city. 'indeed,' said she, 'a person of taste, must, of course, find many disagreeables connected with a residence in such a town as this; but mr. p----'s business renders the thing necessary for the present, and one can not make a silk purse of a sow's ear--he, he, he!' another lady of the company, carried this affectation still farther; she pretended to be quite ignorant of glasgow and its inhabitants, although she had lived among them the greater part of her life, and, by the by, seemed no chicken. i was afterward told by my friend mr. h----, that this damsel had in reality sojourned a winter or two in edinburgh, in the capacity of _lick-spittle_ or _toad-eater_ to a lady of quality, to whom she had rendered herself amusing by a malicious tongue; and that during this short absence, she had embraced the opportunity of utterly forgetting everything about the west country. "'the dinner was excellent, although calculated apparently for forty people rather than sixteen, which last number sat down. while the ladies remained in the room, there was such a noise and racket of coarse mirth, ill restrained by a few airs of sickly sentiment on the part of the hostess, that i really could neither attend to the wine nor the dessert; but after a little time a very broad hint from a fat falstaff, near the foot of the table, apparently quite a privileged character, thank heaven! sent the ladies out of the room. the moment after which blessed consummation, the butler and footman entered, as if by instinct, the one with a huge punch bowl, _the other with, &c._'" i do thank heaven that there is no parallel in my own letters to either of these three extracts. it is a thing of course that there is not. they are violations of hospitality, social confidence, and delicacy, of which even my abusers will allow me incapable. yet this man accuses me of all these things, and so runs criticism! and to this i add (to conclude this long preface) some extracts from a careful review of the work in the north american:-- "'pencillings by the way,' is a very spirited book. the letters out of which it is constructed, were written originally for the new-york 'mirror,' and were not intended for distinct publication. from this circumstance, the author indulged in a freedom of personal detail, which we must say is wholly unjustifiable, and we have no wish to defend it. this book does not pretend to contain any profound observations or discussions on national character, political condition, literature, or even art. it would be obviously impossible to carry any one of these topics thoroughly out, without spending vastly more time and labor upon it than a rambling poet is likely to have the inclination to do. in fact, there are very few men, who are qualified, by the nature of their previous studies, to do this with any degree of edification to their readers. but a man of general intellectual culture, especially if he have the poetical imagination superadded, may give us rapid sketches of other countries, which will both entertain and instruct us. now this book is precisely such a one as we have here indicated. the author travelled through europe, mingling largely in society, and visited whatever scenes were interesting to him as an american, a scholar, and a poet. the impressions which these scenes made upon his mind, are described in these volumes; and we must say, we have rarely fallen in with a book of a more sprightly character, a more elegant and graceful style, and full of more lively descriptions. the delineations of manners are executed with great tact; and the shifting pictures of natural scenery pass before us as we read, exciting a never-ceasing interest. as to the personalities which have excited the wrath of british critics, we have, as we said before, no wish to defend them; but a few words upon the tone, temper, and motives, of those gentlemen, in their dealing with our author, will not, perhaps, be considered inappropriate. "it is a notorious fact, that british criticism, for many years past, has been, to a great extent, free from all the restraints of a regard to literary truth. assuming the political creed of an author, it would be a very easy thing to predict the sort of criticism his writings would meet with, in any or all of the leading periodicals of the kingdom. this tendency has been carried so far, that even discussions of points in ancient classical literature have been shaped and colored by it. thus, aristophanes' comedies are turned against modern democracy, and pindar, the theban eagle, has been unceremoniously classed with british tories, by the london quarterly. instead of inquiring 'what is the author's object? how far has he accomplished it? how far is that object worthy of approbation?'--three questions that are essential to all just criticism; the questions put by english reviewers are substantially 'what party does he belong to? is he a whig, tory, radical, or is he an american?' and the sentence in such cases depends on the answer to them. even where british criticism is favorable to an american author, its tone is likely to be haughty and insulting; like the language of a condescending city gentleman toward some country cousin, whom he is kind enough to honor with his patronage. "now, to critics of this sort, mr. willis was a tempting mark. no one can for a moment believe that the london quarterly, frazer's magazine, and captain marryat's monthly, are honest in the language they hold toward mr. willis. motives, wide enough from a love of truth, guided the conduct of these journals. the editor of the london quarterly, it is well known, is the author of 'peter's letters to his kinsfolk,' a work full of personalities, ten times more objectionable than anything to be found in the 'pencillings.' yet this same editor did not blush to write and print a long and most abusive tirade upon the american traveller, for doing what he had himself done to a much greater and more reprehensible extent; and, to cap the climax of inconsistency, republished in his journal the very personalities, names and all, which had so shocked his delicate sensibilities. it is much more likely that a disrespectful notice of the london quarterly and its editor, in these 'pencillings,' was the source from which this bitterness flowed, than that any sense of literary justice dictated the harsh review. another furious attack on mr. willis's book appeared in the monthly journal, under the editorial management of captain marryat, the author of a series of very popular sea novels. whoever was the author of that article, ought to be held disgraced in the opinions of all honorable men. it is the most extraordinary tissue of insolence and coarseness, with one exception, that we have ever seen, in any periodical which pretended to respectability of literary character. it carries its grossness to the intolerable length of attacking the private character of mr. willis, and throwing out foolish sneers about his birth and parentage. it is this article which led to the well-known correspondence, between the american poet and the british captain, ending in a hostile meeting. it is to be regretted that mr. willis should so far forget the principles of his new england education, as to participate in a duel. we regard the practice with horror; we believe it not only wicked, but absurd. we can not possibly see how, mr. willis's tarnished fame could be brightened by the superfluous work of putting an additional quantity of lead into the gallant captain. but there is, perhaps, no disputing about tastes; and, bad as we think the whole affair was, no candid man can read the correspondence without feeling that mr. willis's part of it, is infinitely superior to the captain's, in style, sense, dignity of feeling, and manly honor. "but, to return to the work from which we have been partially drawn aside. its merits in point of style are unquestionable. it is written in a simple, vigorous, and highly descriptive form of english, and rivets the reader's attention throughout. there are passages in it of graphic eloquence, which it would be difficult to surpass from the writings of any other tourist, whatever. the topics our author selects, are, as has been already stated, not those which require long and careful study to appreciate and discuss; they are such as the poetic eye would naturally dwell upon, and a poetic hand rapidly delineate, in a cursory survey of foreign lands. occasionally, we think, mr. willis enters too minutely into the details of the horrible. some of his descriptions of the cholera, and the pictures he gives us of the catacombs of the dead, are ghastly. but the manners of society he draws with admirable tact; and personal peculiarities of distinguished men, he renders with a most life-like vivacity. many of his descriptions of natural scenery are more like pictures, than sketches in words. the description of the bay of naples will occur as a good example. "it would be impossible to point out, with any degree of particularity, the many passages in this book whose beauty deserves attention. but it may be remarked in general, that the greater part of the first volume is not so fresh and various, and animated, as the second. this we suppose arises partly from the fact that france and italy have long been beaten ground. "the last part of the book is a statement of the author's observations upon english life and society; and it is this portion, which the english critics affect to be so deeply offended with. the most objectionable passage in this is the account of a dinner at lady blessington's. unquestionably mr. moore's remarks about mr. o'connell ought not to have been reported, considering the time when, and the place where, they were uttered; though they contain nothing new about the great agitator, the secrets disclosed being well known to some millions of people who interest themselves in british politics, and read the british newspapers. we close our remarks on this work by referring our readers to a capital scene on board a scotch steamboat, and a breakfast at professor wilson's, the famous editor of blackwood, both in the second volume, which we regret our inability to quote." "every impartial reader must confess, that for so young a man, mr. willis has done much to promote the reputation of american literature. his position at present is surrounded with every incentive to a noble ambition. with youth and health to sustain him under labor; with much knowledge of the world acquired by travel and observation, to draw upon; with a mature style, and a hand practised in various forms of composition, mr. willis's genius ought to take a wider and higher range than it has ever done before. we trust we shall meet him again, ere long, in the paths of literature; and we trust that he will take it kindly, if we express the hope, that he will lay aside those tendencies to exaggeration, and to an unhealthy tone of sentiment, which mar the beauty of some of his otherwise most agreeable books." contents. page letter i. getting under way--the gulf stream--aspect of the ocean-- formation of a wave--sea gems--the second mate, letter ii. a dog at sea--dining, with a high sea--sea birds--tandem of whales--speaking a man-of-war--havre, letter iii. havre--french bed-room--the cooking--chance impressions, letter iv. pleasant companion--normandy--rouen--eden of cultivation--st. denis--entrance to paris--lodgings--walk of discovery--palais royal, letter v. gallery of the louvre--greenough--feeling as a foreigner-- solitude in the louvre--louis philippe--the poles--napoleon ii, letter vi. taglioni--french acting--french applause--leontine fay, letter vii. lelewel--pére la chaise--pauvre marie--versailles--the trianons--josephine's boudoir--time and money at paris--wives and fuel--one price shops, letter viii. mr. cooper--mr. greenough--fighting animals--the dog pit-- fighting donkey--sporting englishmen, letter ix. malibran--paris at a late hour--glass gallery--cloud and sunshine--general romarino--parisian students--tumult ended, letter x. french children--royal equipages--french driving--city riding--parisian picturesque--beggar's deception--genteel beggars, letter xi. madame mars--franklin's house--ball for the poor--theatrical splendor--louis philippe--duke of orleans--young queen of portugal--don pedro--close of the ball, letter xii. champs elysées--louis philippe--literary dinner--bowring and others--the poles--dr. howe's mission, letter xiii. club gambling house--frascati's--female gambler, letter xiv. tuileries--men of mark--cooper and morse--contradictions-- dinner hour--how to dine well, letter xv. the emperor--turenne--lady officer--gambling quarrel--curious antagonists--influence of paris, letter xvi. cholera gaieties--cholera patient--morning in paris--cholera hospital--new patient--physician's indifference--punch remedy--dead room--non-contagion, letter xvii. unexpected challenge--court presentation--louis philippe-- royal family at tea--countess guiccioli--mardi gras--bal costumé--public masks--lady cavalier--ball at the palace-- duke of orleans--dr. bowring--celebrated men--glass verandah, letter xviii. cholera--social tea party--recipe for caution--baths and happiness, letter xix. bois de boulogne--guiccioli--sismondi--cooper, letter xx. friend of lady morgan--dr. spurzheim--cast-taking--de potter--david the sculptor, letter xxi. attractions of paris--mr. cooper--mr. rives, letter xxii. chalons--sens--auxerre--st. bris--three views in one-- chalons, letter xxiii. boat on the saone--scenery above lyons--lyons--churches at lyons--monastery, letter xxiv. travelling party--breakfast on the road--localities of antiquity--picturesque chateau--french patois, letter xxv. arles--the cathedral--marseilles--parting with companions-- pass of ollioules--toulon--antibes--coast of mediterranean-- forced to return--lazaretto--absurd hindrances--fear of contagion--sleep out of doors--lazaretto occupations-- delicious sunday--new arrivals--companions--end of quarantine, letter xxvi. nice--funeral of an arch-duchess--nice to genoa--views-- entrance to genoa--genoa, letter xxvii. the venus--the fornarina--a coquette and the arts--a festa--ascension day--the cascine--madame catalani, letter xxviii. titian's bella--the grand-duchess--an improvisatrice--living in florence--lodgings at florence--expense of living, letter xxix. companions--scenery of romagna--wives--bologna, letter xxx. gallery at bologna--a guido--churches--confession--chapel-- festa--agreeable manners, letter xxxi. regatta--venetian sunset--privileged admission--guillotining-- bridge of sighs--san marc--the nobleman beggar, letter xxxii. an evening in venice--the streets of venice--the rialto-- sunset from san marc, letter xxxiii. titian's pictures--last day in venice, letter xxxiv. italian civility--juliet's tomb--the palace of the capuletti--a dinner, letter xxxv. good and ill-breeding--bridal party, letter xxxvi. manner of living--originals of novels--ill, letter xxxvii. the duke of lucca--modena--the palace--bologna--venice again--its splendor, letter xxxviii. armenian island--agreeable monk--insane hospital--insane patients--the lagune--state galley--instruments of torture, letter xxxix. venice at evening--the patriotism of a noble--church of st. antony--petrarch's cottage and tomb--petrarch's room, letter xl. cultivation of the fields--the vintage--malibran in gazza ladra--gallery of the lambaccari, letter xli. sienna--catholic devotion--acquapendente--lake bolsena-- vintage festa--monte cimino--first sight of rome--baccano, letter xlii. st. peter's--the apollo belvidere--raphael's transfiguration--the pantheon--the forum, letter xliii. the falls of tivoli--villa of adrian--a ramble by moonlight-- the cloaca maxima, letter xliv. the last judgment--the music--gregory the sixteenth, letter xlv. byron's statue--the borghese palace--society of rome, letter xlvi. the climate--falls of terni--the clitumnus--a lesson not lost--thrasimene--florence--florentine women--need of an ambassador, letter xlvii. chat in the ante-chamber--love in high life--ball at the palazzo pitti--the grand duke--an italian beauty--an english beauty, letter xlviii. oxen of italy--vallombrosa--a convent dinner--vespers at vallombrosa--the monk's estimate of women--milton's room-- florence, letter xlix. the house of michael angelo--fiesole--san miniato--christmas eve--amusing scenes in church, letter l. penitential processions--the carlist refugees--the miracle of rain--the miraculous picture--giovanni di bologna--andrea del sarto, letter li. the entertainments of florence--a peasant beauty--the morality of society--the italian cavalier--the features of society, letter lii. artists and the french academy--beautiful scenery--sacred woods of bolsena, letter liii. the virtuoso of viterbo--robberies--rome as fancied--rome as found, letter liv. the fountain of egeria--the pontine marshes--mola--the falernian hills--the doctor of st. agatha--the queen of naples, letter lv. st. peter's--the fountains--the obelisk--the forum--its memories--the cenci--claude's pictures--fancies realized--the last of the dorias--a picture by leonardo da vinci--palace of the cesars--an hour on the palatine, letter lvi. roman eyes versus feet--vespers at santa trinita--roman baths--baths of titus--shelley's haunt, letter lvii. the tomb of the scipios--the early christians--the tomb of metella--fountain of egeria--changed aspect of rome, letter lviii. palm sunday--a crowd--the miserere--a judas--the washing of feet--the dinner, letter lix. the protestant cemetery--shelley's grave--beauty of the place--keats--dr. bell, letter lx. audience with the pope--humility and pride in contrast--the miserere at st. peter's--italian moonlight--dancing at the coliseum, letter lxi. easter sunday--the pope's blessing--illumination of st. peter's--florentine sociability--a marriage of convenience, letter lxii. the correggio--austrians in italy--the cathedral at milan-- guercino's hagar--milanese coffee, letter lxiii. still in italy--isola bella--ascent of the simplon--farewell to italy--an american--descent of the simplon, letter lxiv. the cretins--the goitre--first sight of lake leman--mont blanc--june in geneva--the winkelreid, letter lxv. american and genevese steamers--lilies of the valley--a frenchman's apology--genevese women--voltaire's room, letter lxvi. the jura--arrival at morez--lost my temper--national characteristics--politeness versus comfort, letter lxvii. lafayette's funeral--crossing the channel--an english inn-- mail coaches and horses--a gentleman driver--a subject for madame trollope, letter lxviii. first dinner in london--the king's birth-day--a handsome street--introduction to lady blessington--a chat about bulwer--the d'israeli's--contrast of criticism--countess guiccioli--lady blessington--an apology, letter lxix. an evening at lady blessington's--fonblanc--tribute to american authors--a sketch of bulwer--bulwer's conversation--an author his own critic, letter lxx. ascot races--handsome men--the princess victoria--charles lamb--mary lamb--lamb's conversation--the breakfast at fault, letter lxxi. a dinner at lady blessington's--d'israeli, the younger--the author of vathek--mr. beckford's whims--irish patriotism--the effect of eloquence, letter lxxii. the opera house--what books will pay for--english beauty--a belle's criticism on society--celebrities, letter lxxiii. breakfast with proctor--a story of hazlitt--procter as a poet--impressions of the man, letter lxxiv. moore's dread of criticism--moore's love of rank--a generous offer nobly refused--a sacrifice to jupiter--the election of speaker--miss pardoe--prices of books, letter lxxv. dinner at lady blessington's--scott--the italians--scott's mode of living--o'connell--grattan--moore's manner of talking--lady blessington's tact--moore's singing--a curious incident--the maid metamorphosed, pencillings by the way. letter i. at sea.--i have emerged from my berth this morning for the first time since we left the capes. we have been running six or seven days before a strong northwest gale, which, by the scuds in the sky, is not yet blown out, and my head and hand, as you will see by my penmanship, are anything but at rights. if you have ever plunged about in a cold rain-storm at sea for seven successive days, you can imagine how i have amused myself. i wrote to you after my pilgrimage to the tomb of washington. it was almost the only object of natural or historical interest in our own country that i had not visited, and that seen, i made all haste back to embark, in pursuance of my plans of travel, for europe. at philadelphia i found a first-rate merchant-brig, the pacific, on the eve of sailing for havre. she was nearly new, and had a french captain, and no passengers--three very essential circumstances to my taste--and i took a berth in her without hesitation. the next day she fell down the river, and on the succeeding morning i followed her with the captain in the steamboat. some ten or fifteen vessels, bound on different voyages, lay in the roads waiting for the pilot boat; and, as she came down the river, they all weighed anchor together and we got under way. it was a beautiful sight--so many sail in close company under a smart breeze, and i stood on the quarter-deck and watched them in a mood of mingled happiness and sadness till we reached the capes. there was much to elevate and much to depress me. the dream of my lifetime was about to be realized. i was bound to france; and those fair italian cities, with their world of association and interest were within the limit of a voyage; and all that one looks to for happiness in change of scene, and all that i had been passionately wishing and imagining since i could dream a day-dream or read a book, was before me with a visible certainty; but my home was receding rapidly, perhaps for years, and the chances of death and adversity in my absence crowded upon my mind--and i had left friends--(many--many--as dear to me, any one of them, as the whole sum of my coming enjoyment), whom a thousand possible accidents might remove or estrange; and i scarce knew whether i was more happy or sad. we made cape henlopen about sundown, and all shortened sail and came to. the little boat passed from one to another, taking off the pilots, and in a few minutes every sail was spread again, and away they went with a dashing breeze, some on one course some on another, leaving us in less than an hour, apparently alone on the sea. by this time the clouds had grown black, the wind had strengthened into a gale, with fits of rain; and as the order was given to "close-reef the top-sails," i took a last look at cape henlopen, just visible in the far edge of the horizon, and went below. oct. .--it is a day to make one in love with life. the remains of the long storm, before which we have been driven for a week, lie, in white, turreted masses around the horizon, the sky overhead is spotlessly blue, the sun is warm, the wind steady and fresh, but soft as a child's breath, and the sea--i must sketch it to you more elaborately. we are in the gulf stream. the water here as you know, even to the cold banks of newfoundland, is always blood warm, and the temperature of the air mild at all seasons, and, just now, like a south wind on land in june. hundreds of sea birds are sailing around us--the spongy sea-weeds, washed from the west indian rocks, a thousand miles away in the southern latitudes, float by in large masses--the sailors, barefoot and bareheaded, are scattered over the rigging, doing "fair-weather work"--and just in the edge of the horizon, hidden by every swell, stand two vessels with all sail spread, making, with the first fair wind they have had for many days, for america. this is the first day that i have been able to be long enough on deck to study the sea. even were it not, however, there has been a constant and chilly rain which would have prevented me from enjoying its grandeur, so that i am reconciled to my unusually severe sickness. i came on deck this morning and looked around, and for an hour or two i could scarce realize that it was not a dream. much as i had watched the sea from our bold promontory at nahant, and well as i thought i knew its character in storms and calms, the scene which was before me surprized and bewildered me utterly. at the first glance, we were just in the gorge of the sea; and, looking over the leeward quarter, i saw, stretching up from the keel, what i can only describe as a hill of dazzling blue, thirty or forty feet in real altitude, but sloped so far away that the white crest seemed to me a cloud, and the space between a sky of the most wonderful beauty and brightness. a moment more, and the crest burst over with a splendid volume of foam; the sun struck through the thinner part of the swell in a line of vivid emerald, and the whole mass swept under us, the brig rising and riding on the summit with the buoyancy and grace of a bird. the single view of the ocean which i got at that moment, will be impressed upon my mind for ever. nothing that i ever saw on land at all compares with it for splendor. no sunset, no lake scene of hill and water, no fall, not even niagara, no glen or mountain gap ever approached it. the waves had had no time to "knock down," as the sailors phrase it, and it was a storm at sea without the hurricane and rain. i looked off to the horizon, and the long majestic swells were heaving into the sky upon its distant limit, and between it and my eye lay a radius of twelve miles, an immense plain flashing with green and blue and white, and changing place and color so rapidly as to be almost painful to the sight. i stood holding by the tafferel an hour, gazing on it with a childish delight and wonder. the spray had broken over me repeatedly, and, as we shipped half a sea at the scuppers at every roll, i was standing half the time up to the knees in water; but the warm wind on my forehead, after a week's confinement to my berth, and the excessive beauty lavished upon my sight, were so delicious, that i forgot all, and it was only in compliance with the captain's repeated suggestion that i changed my position. i mounted the quarter-deck, and, pulling off my shoes, like a schoolboy, sat over the leeward rails, and, with my feet dipping into the warm sea at every lurch, gazed at the glorious show for hours. i do not hesitate to say that the formation, progress, and final burst of a sea-wave, in a bright sun, are the most gorgeously beautiful sight under heaven. i must describe it like a jeweller to you, or i can never convey my impressions. first of all, a quarter of a mile away to windward, your eye is caught by an uncommonly high wave, rushing right upon your track, and heaping up slowly and constantly as it comes, as if some huge animal were ploughing his path steadily and powerfully beneath the surface. its "ground," as a painter would say, is of a deep indigo, clear and smooth as enamel, its front curved inward, like a shell, and turned over at the summit with a crest of foam, flashing and changing perpetually in the sunshine, like the sudden outburst of a million of "unsunned diamonds;" and, right through its bosom, as the sea falls off, or the angle of refraction changes, there runs a shifting band of the most vivid green, that you would take to have been the cestus of venus, as she rose from the sea, it is so supernaturally translucent and beautiful. as it nears you, it looks in shape like the prow of cleopatra's barge, as they paint it in the old pictures; but its colors, and the grace and majesty of its march, and its murmur (like the low tones of an organ, deep and full, and, to my ear, ten times as articulate and solemn), almost startle you into the belief that it is a sentient being, risen glorious and breathing from the ocean. as it reaches the ship, she rises gradually, for there is apparently an under-wave driven before it, which prepares her for its power; and as it touches the quarter, the whole magnificent wall breaks down beneath you with a deafening surge, and a volume of foam issues from its bosom, green and blue and white, as if it had been a mighty casket in which the whole wealth of the sea, crysoprase, and emerald, and brilliant spars, had been heaped and lavished at a throw. this is the "tenth wave," and, for four or five minutes, the sea will be smooth about you, and the sparkling and dying foam falls into the wake, and may be seen like a white path, stretching away over the swells behind, till you are tired of gazing at it. then comes another from the same direction, and with the same shape and motion, and so on till the sun sets, or your eyes are blinded and your brain giddy with splendor. i am sure this language will seem exaggerated to you, but, upon the faith of a lonely man (the captain has turned in, and it is near midnight and a dead calm), it is a mere skeleton, a goldsmith's inventory, of the reality. i long ago learned that first lesson of a man of the world, "to be astonished at nothing," but the sea has overreached my philosophy--quite. i am changed to a mere child in my wonder. be assured, no view of the ocean from land can give you a shadow of an idea of it. within even the outermost capes, the swell is broken, and the color of the water in soundings is essentially different--more dull and earthy. go to the mineral cabinets of cambridge or new haven, and look at the _fluor spars_, and the _turquoises_, and the clearer specimens of _crysoprase_, and _quartz_, and _diamond_, and imagine them all polished and clear, and flung at your feet by millions in a noonday sun, and it may help your conceptions of the sea after a storm. you may "swim on bladders" at nahant and rockaway till you are gray, and be never the wiser. the "middle watch" is called, and the second mate, a fine rough old sailor, promoted from "the mast," is walking the quarter-deck, stopping his whistle now and then with a gruff "how do you head?" or "keep her up, you lubber," to the man at the helm; the "silver-shell" of a waning moon, is just visible through the dead lights over my shoulder (it has been up two hours, to me, and by the difference of our present merideans, is just rising now over a certain hill, and peeping softly in at an eastern window that i have watched many a time when its panes have been silvered by the same chaste alchymy), and so after a walk on the deck for an hour to look at the stars and watch the phosphorus in the wake, i think of ----, i'll get to mine own uneven pillow, and sleep too. letter ii. at sea, october .--we have had fine weather for progress, so far, running with north and north-westerly winds from eight to ten knots an hour, and making, of course, over two hundred miles a day. the sea is still rough; and though the brig is light laden and rides very buoyantly, these mounting waves break over us now and then with a tremendous surge, keeping the decks constantly wet, and putting me to many an uncomfortable shiver. i have become reconciled, however, to much that i should have anticipated with no little horror. i can lie in my berth forty-eight hours, if the weather is chill or rainy, and amuse myself very well with talking bad french across the cabin to the captain, or laughing at the distresses of my friend and fellow-passenger, turk (a fine setter dog, on his first voyage), or inventing some disguise for the peculiar flavor which that dismal cook gives to all his abominations, or, at worst, i can bury my head in my pillow, and brace from one side to the other against the swell, and enjoy my disturbed thoughts--all without losing my temper, or wishing that i had not undertaken the voyage. poor turk! his philosophy is more severely tried. he has been bred a gentleman, and is amusingly exclusive. no assiduities can win him to take the least notice of the crew, and i soon discovered, that, when the captain and myself were below, he endured many a persecution. in an evil hour, a night or two since, i suffered his earnest appeals for freedom to work upon my feelings, and, releasing him from his chain under the windlass, i gave him the liberty of the cabin. he slept very quietly on the floor till about midnight, when the wind rose and the vessel began to roll very uncomfortably. with the first heavy lurch a couple of chairs went tumbling to leeward, and by the yelp of distress, turk was somewhere in the way. he changed his position, and, with the next roll, the mate's trunk "brought away," and shooting across the cabin, jammed him with such violence against the captain's state-room door, that he sprang howling to the deck, where the first thing that met him was a washing sea, just taken in at midships, that kept him swimming above the hatches for five minutes. half-drowned, and with a gallon of water in his long hair, he took again to the cabin, and making a desperate leap into the steward's berth, crouched down beside the sleeping creole with a long whine of satisfaction. the water soon penetrated however, and with a "_sacré!_" and a blow that he will remember for the remainder of the voyage, the poor dog was again driven from the cabin, and i heard no more of him till morning. his decided preference for me has since touched my vanity, and i have taken him under my more special protection--a circumstance which costs me two quarrels a day at least, with the cook and steward. the only thing which forced a smile upon me during the first week of the passage was the achievement of dinner. in rough weather, it is as much as one person can do to keep his place at the table at all; and to guard the dishes, bottles, and castors, from a general slide in the direction of the lurch, requires a sleight and coolness reserved only for a sailor. "_prenez garde!_" shouts the captain, as the sea strikes, and in the twinkling of an eye, everything is seized and held up to wait for the other lurch in attitudes which it would puzzle the pencil of johnson to exaggerate. with his plate of soup in one hand, and the larboard end of the tureen in the other, the claret bottle between his teeth, and the crook of his elbow caught around the mounting corner of the table, the captain maintains his seat upon the transom, and, with a look of the most grave concern, keeps a wary eye on the shifting level of his vermicelli; the old weather-beaten mate, with the alacrity of a juggler, makes a long leg back to the cabin panels at the same moment, and with his breast against the table, takes his own plate and the castors, and one or two of the smaller dishes under his charge; and the steward, if he can keep his legs, looks out for the vegetables, or if he falls, makes as wide a lap as possible to intercept the volant articles in their descent. "gentlemen that live at home at ease" forget to thank providence for the blessings of a permanent level. oct. .--we are on the grand bank, and surrounded by hundreds of sea-birds. i have been watching them nearly all day. their performances on the wing are certainly the perfection of grace and skill. with the steadiness of an eagle and the nice adroitness of a swallow, they wheel round in their constant circles with an arrowy swiftness, lifting their long tapering pinions scarce perceptibly, and mounting and falling as if by a mere act of volition, without the slightest apparent exertion of power. their chief enjoyment seems to be to scoop through the deep hollows of the sea, and they do it so quickly that your eye can scarce follow them, just disturbing the polish of the smooth crescent, and leaving a fine line of ripple from swell to swell, but never wetting a wing, or dipping their white breasts a feather too deep in the capricious and wind-driven surface. i feel a strange interest in these wild-hearted birds. there is something in this fearless instinct, leading them away from the protecting and pleasant land to make their home on this tossing and desolate element, that moves both my admiration and my pity. i cannot comprehend it. it is unlike the self-caring instincts of the other families of heaven's creatures. if i were half the pythagorean that i used to be, i should believe they were souls in punishment--expiating some lifetime sin in this restless metempsychosis. now and then a land-bird has flown on board, driven to sea probably by the gale; and so fatigued as hardly to be able to rise again upon the wing. yesterday morning a large curlew came struggling down the wind, and seemed to have just sufficient strength to reach the vessel. he attempted to alight on the main yard, but failed and dropped heavily into the long-boat, where he suffered himself to be taken without an attempt to escape. he must have been on the wing two or three days without food, for we were at least two hundred miles from land. his heart was throbbing hard through his ruffled feathers, and he held his head up with difficulty. he was passed aft; but, while i was deliberating on the best means for resuscitating and fitting him to get on the wing again, the captain had taken him from me and handed him over to the cook, who had his head off before i could remember french enough to arrest him. i dreamed all that night of the man "that shot the albatross." the captain relieved my mind, however, by telling me that he had tried repeatedly to preserve them, and that they died invariably in a few hours. the least food, in their exhausted state, swells in their throats and suffocates them. poor curlew! there was a tenderness in one breast for him at least--a feeling i have the melancholy satisfaction to know, fully reciprocated by the bird himself--that seat of his affections having been allotted to me for my breakfast the morning succeeding his demise. oct. .--we have a tandem of whales ahead. they have been playing about the ship an hour, and now are coursing away to the east, one after the other, in gallant style. if we could only get them into traces now, how beautiful it would be to stand in the foretop and drive a degree or two, on a summer sea! it would not be more wonderful, _de novo_, than the discovery of the lightning-rod, or navigation by steam! and by the way, the sight of these huge creatures has made me realize, for the first time, the extent to which the sea has _grown_ upon my mind during the voyage. i have seen one or two whales, exhibited in the docks, and it seemed to me always that they were monsters--out of proportion, entirely, to the range of the ocean. i had been accustomed to look out to the horizon from land (the radius, of course, as great as at sea), and, calculating the probable speed with which they would compass the intervening space, and the disturbance they would make in doing it, it appeared that in any considerable numbers, they would occupy more than their share of notice and sea-room. now--after sailing five days, at two hundred miles a day, and not meeting a single vessel--it seems to me that a troop of a thousand might swim the sea a century and chance to be never crossed, so endlessly does this eternal horizon open and stretch away! oct. .--the day has passed more pleasantly than usual the man at the helm cried "a sail," while we were at breakfast, and we gradually overtook a large ship, standing on the same course, with every sail set. we were passing half a mile to leeward, when she put up her helm and ran down to us, hoisting the english flag. we raised the "star-spangled banner" in answer, and "hove to," and she came dashing along our quarter, heaving most majestically to the sea, till she was near enough to speak us without a trumpet. her fore-deck was covered with sailors dressed all alike and very neatly, and around the gangway stood a large group of officers in uniform, the oldest of whom, a noble-looking man with gray hair, hailed and answered us. several ladies stood back by the cabin door--passengers apparently. she was a man of war, sailing as a king's packet between halifax and falmouth, and had been out from the former port nineteen days. after the usual courtesies had passed, she bore away a little, and then kept on her course again, the two vessels in company at the distance of half a pistol shot. i rarely have seen a more beautiful sight. the fine effect of a ship under sail is entirely lost to one on board, and it is only at sea and under circumstances like these, that it can be observed. the power of the swell, lifting such a huge body as lightly as an egg-shell on its bosom, and tossing it sometimes half out of the water without the slightest apparent effort, is astonishing. i sat on deck watching her with undiminished interest for hours. apart from the spectacle, the feeling of companionship, meeting human beings in the middle of the ocean after so long a deprivation of society (five days without seeing a sail, and nearly three weeks unspoken from land), was delightful. our brig was the faster sailer of the two, but our captain took in some of his canvas for company's sake; and all the afternoon we heard her half-hour bells, and the boatswain's whistle, and the orders of the officers of the deck, and i could distinguish very well, with a glass, the expression of the faces watching our own really beautiful vessel as she skimmed over the water like a bird. we parted at sunset, the man-of-war making northerly for her port, and we stretching south for the coast of france. i watched her till she went over the horizon, and felt as if i had lost friends when the night closed in and we were once more "alone on the wide, wide sea." nov. .--we have just made the port of havre, and the pilot tells us that the packet has been delayed by contrary winds, and sails early to-morrow morning. the town bells are ringing "nine" (as delightful a sound as i ever heard, to my sea-weary ear), and i close in haste, for all is confusion on board. letter iii. havre.--this is one of those places which scribbling travellers hurry through with a crisp mention of their arrival and departure, but, as i have passed a day here upon customhouse compulsion, and passed it pleasantly too, and as i have an evening entirely to myself, and a good fire, why i will order another _pound_ of wood (they sell it like a drug here), and monsieur and mademoiselle somebodies, "violin players right from the hands of paganini, only fifteen years of age, and miracles of music," (so says the placard), may delight other lovers of precocious talent than i. pen, ink, and paper for no. ! if i had not been warned against being astonished, short of paris, i should have thought havre quite an affair. i certainly have seen more that is novel and amusing since morning than i ever saw before in any seven days of my life. not a face, not a building, not a dress, not a child even, not a stone in the street, nor shop, nor woman, nor beast of burden, looks in any comparable degree like its namesake the other side of the water. it was very provoking to eat a salt supper and go to bed in that tiresome berth again last night, with a french hotel in full view, and no permission to send for a fresh biscuit even, or a cup of milk. it was nine o'clock when we reached the pier, and at that late hour there was, of course, no officer to be had for permission to land; and there paced the patrole, with his high black cap and red pompon, up and down the quay, within six feet of our tafferel, and a shot from his arquebuss would have been the consequence of any unlicensed communication with the shore. it was something, however, to sleep without rocking; and, after a fit of musing anticipation, which kept me conscious of the sentinel's measured tread till midnight, the "gentle goddess" sealed up my cares effectually, and i awoke at sunrise--in france! it is a common thing enough to go abroad, and it may seem idle and common-place to be enthusiastic about it; but nothing is common or a trifle, to me, that can send the blood so warm to my heart, and the color to my temples as generously, as did my first conscious thought when i awoke this morning. _in france._ i would not have had it a dream for the price of an empire. early in the morning a woman came clattering into the cabin with wooden shoes, and a _patois_ of mingled french and english--a _blanchisseuse_--spattered to the knees with mud, but with a cap and 'kerchief that would have made the fortune of a new york milliner. _ciel!_ what politeness! and what white teeth and what a knowing row of papillotes, laid in precise parallel, on her clear brunette temples. "_quelle nouvelle!_" said the captain. "_poland est a bas!_" was the answer, with a look of heroic sorrow, that would have become a tragedy queen, mourning for the loss of a throne. the french manner, for once, did not appear exaggerated. it was news to sadden us all. pity! pity! that the broad christian world could look on and see this glorious people trampled to the dust in one of the most noble and desperate struggles for liberty that the earth ever saw! what an opportunity was here lost to france for setting a seal of double truth and splendor on her own newly-achieved triumph over despotism. the washerwoman broke the silence with "_any clothes to wash, monsieur?_" and in the instant return of my thoughts to my own comparatively-pitiful interests, i found the philosophy for all i had condemned in kings--the humiliating and selfish individuality of human nature! and yet i believe with dr. channing on that dogma. at ten o'clock i had performed the traveller's routine--had submitted my trunk and my passport to the three authorities, and had got into (and out of) as many mounting passions at what seemed to me the intolerable impertinencies of searching my linen, and inspecting my person for scars. i had paid the porter three times his due rather than endure his cataract of french expostulation; and with a bunch of keys, and a landlady attached to it, had ascended by a cold, wet, marble staircase, to a parlor and bedroom on the fifth floor: as pretty a place, when you get there, and as difficult to get to as if it were a palace in thin air. it is perfectly french! fine, old, last-century chairs, covered with splendid yellow damask, two sofas of the same, the legs or arms of every one imperfect; a coarse wood dressing-table, covered with fringed drapery and a sort of throne pincushion, with an immense glass leaning over it, gilded probably in the time of henri quatre; artificial flowers all around the room, and prints of atala and _napoleon mourant_ over the walls; windows opening to the floor on hinges, damask and muslin curtains inside, and boxes for flower-pots without; a bell-wire that pulls no bell, a bellows too asthmatic even to wheeze, tongs that refuse to meet, and a carpet as large as a table-cloth in the centre of the floor, may answer for an inventory of the "parlor." the bedchamber, about half as large as the boxes in rattle-row, at saratoga, opens by folding doors, and discloses a bed, that, for tricksy ornament as well as size, might look the bridal couch for a faery queen in a panorama; the same golden-sprig damask looped over it, tent-fashion, with splendid crimson cord, tassels, fringes, etc., and a pillow beneath that i shall be afraid to sleep on, it is so dainty a piece of needle-work. there is a delusion about it, positively. one cannot help imagining, that all this splendor means something, and it would require a worse evil than any of these little deficiencies of _comfort_ to disturb the self-complacent, captain-jackson sort of feeling, with which one throws his cloak on one sofa and his hat on the other, and spreads himself out for a lounge before this mere apology of a french fire. but, for eating and drinking! if they cook better in paris, i shall have my passport altered. the next _prefet_ that signs it shall substitute _gourmand_ for _proprietaire_. i will profess a palate, and live to eat. making every allowance for an appetite newly from sea, my experience hitherto in this department of science is transcended in the degree of a rushlight to arcturus. i strolled about havre from breakfast till dinner, seven or eight hours, following curiosity at random, up one street and down another, with a prying avidity which i fear travel will wear fast away. i must compress my observations into a sentence or two, for my fire is out, and this old castle of a hotel lets in the wind "shrewdly cold," and, besides, the diligence calls for me in a few hours and one must sleep. among my impressions the most vivid are--that, of the twenty thousand inhabitants of havre, by far the greater portion are women and soldiers--that the buildings all look toppling, and insecurely antique and unsightly--that the privates of the regular army are the most stupid, and those of the national guard the most intelligent-looking troops i ever saw--that the streets are filthy beyond endurance, and the shops clean beyond all praise--that the women do all the buying and selling, and cart-driving and sweeping, and even shoe-making, and other sedentary craftswork, and at the same time have (the meanest of them) an air of ambitious elegance and neatness, that sends your hand to your hat involuntarily when you speak to them--that the children speak french, and look like little old men and women, and the horses, (the famed norman breed) are the best of draught animals, and the worst for speed in the world--and that, for extremes ridiculously near, dirt and neatness, politeness and knavery, chivalry and _petitesse_, of bearing and language, the people i have seen to-day _must_ be pre-eminently remarkable, or france, for a laughing philosopher, is a paradise indeed! and now for my pillow, till the diligence calls. good night. letter iv. paris.--it seems to me as if i were going back a month to recall my departure from havre, my memory is so clouded with later incidents. i was awaked on the morning after i had written to you, by a servant, who brought me at the same time a cup of coffee, and at about an hour before daylight we were passing through the huge gates of the town on our way to paris. the whole business of diligence-travelling amused me exceedingly. the construction of this vehicle has often been described; but its separate apartments (at four different prices), its enormous size, its comfort and clumsiness, and, more than all, the driving of its postillions, struck me as equally novel and diverting. this last mentioned performer on the whip and voice (the only two accomplishments he at all cultivates), rides one of the three wheel horses, and drives the four or seven which are in advance, as a grazier in our country drives a herd of cattle, and they travel very much in the same manner. there is leather enough in two of their clumsy harnesses, to say nothing of the postillion's boots, to load a common horse heavily. i never witnessed such a ludicrous absence of contrivance and tact as in the appointments and driving of horses in a diligence. it is so in everything in france, indeed. they do not possess the quality as a nation. the story of the gascoigne, who saw a bridge for the first time, and admired the ingenious economy that placed it across the river, instead of lengthwise, is hardly an exaggeration. at daylight i found myself in the _coupé_ (a single seat for three in the front of the body of the carriage, with windows before and at the sides), with two whiskered and mustached companions, both very polite, and very unintelligible. i soon suspected, by the science with which my neighbor on the left hummed little snatches of popular operas, that he was a professed singer (a conjecture which proved true), and it was equally clear, from the complexion of the portfeuille on the lap of the other, that his vocation was a liberal one--a conjecture which proved true also, as he confessed himself a _diplomat_, when we became better acquainted. for the first hour or more my attention was divided between the dim but beautiful outline of the country by the slowly approaching light of the dawn, and my nervousness at the distressing want of skill in the postillion's driving. the increasing and singular beauty of the country, even under the disadvantage of rain and the late season, soon absorbed all my attention, however, and my involuntary and half-suppressed exclamations of pleasure, so unusual in an englishman (for whom i found i was taken), warmed the diplomatist into conversation, and i passed the three ensuing hours very pleasantly. my companion was on his return from lithuania, having been sent out by the french committee with arms and money for poland. he was, of course, a most interesting fellow-traveller; and, allowing for the difficulty with which i understood the language, in the rapid articulation of an enthusiastic frenchman, i rarely have been better pleased with a chance acquaintance. i found he had been in greece during the revolution, and knew intimately my friend, dr. howe, the best claim he could have on my interest, and, i soon discovered, an answering recommendation of myself to him. the province of normandy is celebrated for its picturesque beauty, but i had no conception before of the _cultivated_ picturesque of an old country. i have been a great scenery-hunter in america, and my eye was new, like its hills and forests. the massive, battlemented buildings of the small villages we passed through, the heavy gateways and winding avenues and antique structure of the distant and half-hidden châteaux, the perfect cultivation, and, to me, singular appearance of a whole landscape without a fence or a stone, the absence of all that we define by _comfort_ and _neatness_, and the presence of all that we have seen in pictures and read of in books, but consider as the representations and descriptions of ages gone by--all seemed to me irresistibly like a dream. i could not rub my hand over my eyes, and realize myself. i could not believe that, within a month's voyage of my home, these spirit-stirring places had stood all my lifetime as they do, and have--for ages--every stone as it was laid in times of worm-eaten history--and looking to my eyes now as they did to the eyes of knights and dames in the days of french chivalry. i looked at the constantly-occurring ruins of the old priories, and the magnificent and still-used churches, and my blood tingled in my veins, as i saw, in the stepping-stones at their doors, cavities that the sandals of monks, and the iron-shod feet of knights in armor a thousand years ago, had trodden and helped to wear, and the stone cross over the threshold, that hundreds of generations had gazed upon and passed under. by a fortunate chance the postillion left the usual route at balbec, and pursued what appeared to be a bye-road through the grain-fields and vineyards for twenty or twenty-five miles. i can only describe it as an uninterrupted green lane, winding almost the whole distance through the bosom of a valley that must be one of the very loveliest in the world. imagine one of such extent, without a fence to break the broad swells of verdure, stretching up from the winding and unenclosed road on either side, to the apparent sky; the houses occurring at distances of miles, and every one with its thatched roof covered all over with bright green moss, and its walls of marl interlaid through all the crevices with clinging vines, the whole structure and its appurtenances faultlessly picturesque, and, when you have conceived a valley that might have contented rasselas, scatter over it here and there groups of men, women, and children, the norman peasantry in their dresses of all colors, as you see them in the prints--and if there is anything that can better please the eye, or make the imagination more willing to fold up its wings and rest, my travels have not crossed it. i have recorded a vow to walk through normandy. as we approached rouen the road ascended gradually, and a sharp turn brought us suddenly to the brow of a steep hill, opposite another of the same height, and with the same abrupt descent, at the distance of a mile across. between, lay rouen. i hardly know how to describe, for american eyes, the peculiar beauty of this view; one of the most exquisite, i am told, in all france. a town at the foot of a hill is common enough in our country, but of the hundreds that answer to this description, i can not name one that would afford a correct comparison. the nice and excessive cultivation of the grounds in so old a country gives the landscape a complexion essentially different from ours. if there were another mount holyoke, for instance, on the other side of the connecticut, the situation of northampton would be very similar to that of rouen; but, instead of the rural village, with its glimpses of white houses seen through rich and luxurious masses of foliage, the mountain sides above broken with rocks, and studded with the gigantic and untouched relics of the native forest, and the fields below waving with heavy crops, irregularly fenced and divided, the whole picture one of an overlavish and half-subdued eden of fertility--instead of this i say--the broad meadows, with the winding seine in their bosom, are as trim as a girl's flower-garden, the grass closely cut, and of a uniform surface of green, the edges of the river set regularly with willows, the little bright islands circled with trees, and smooth as a lawn; and instead of green lanes lined with bushes, single streets running right through the unfenced verdure, from one hill to another, and built up with antique structures of stone--the whole looking, in the _coup d'oeil_ of distance, like some fantastic model of a town, with gothic houses of sand-paper, and meadows of silk velvet. you will find the size, population, etc., of rouen in the guide-books. as my object is to record impressions, not statistics, i leave you to consult those laconic chronicles, or the books of a thousand travellers, for all such information. the maid of orleans was burnt here, as you know, in the fourteenth century. there is a statue erected to her memory, which i did not see, for it rained; and after the usual stop of two hours, as the barometer promised no change in the weather, and as i was anxious to be in paris, i took my place in the night diligence and kept on. i amused myself till dark, watching the streams that poured into the broad mouth of the postillion's boots from every part of his dress, and musing on the fate of the poor maid of orleans; and then, sinking down into the comfortable corner of the _coupé_, i slept almost without interruption till the next morning--the best comment in the world on the only _comfortable_ thing i have yet seen in france, a diligence. it is a pleasant thing in a foreign land to see the familiar face of the sun; and, as he rose over a distant hill on the left, i lifted the window of the _coupé_ to let him in, as i would open the door to a long-missed friend. he soon reached a heavy cloud, however, and my hopes of bright weather, when we should enter the metropolis, departed. it began to rain again; and the postilion, after his blue cotton frock was soaked through, put on his greatcoat over it--an economy which is peculiarly french, and which i observed in every succeeding postilion on the route. the last twenty-five miles to paris are uninteresting to the eye; and with my own pleasant thoughts, tinct as they were with the brightness of immediate anticipation, and an occasional laugh at the grotesque figures and equipages on the road, i made myself passably contented till i entered the suburb of st. denis. it is something to see the outside of a sepulchre for kings, and the old abbey of st. denis needs no association to make a sight of it worth many a mile of weary travel. i could not stop within four miles of paris, however, and i contented myself with running to get a second view of it in the rain while the postilion breathed his horses. the strongest association about it, old and magnificent as it is, is the fact that napoleon repaired it after the revolution; and standing in probably the finest point for its front view, my heart leaped to my throat as i fancied that napoleon, with his mighty thoughts, had stood in that very spot, possibly, and contemplated the glorious old pile before me as the place of his future repose. after four miles more, over a broad straight avenue, paved in the centre and edged with trees, we arrived at the port of st. denis. i was exceedingly struck with the grandeur of the gate as we passed under, and, referring to the guide-book, i find it was a triumphal arch erected to louis xiv., and the one by which the kings of france invariably enter. this also was restored by napoleon, with his infallible taste, without changing its design: and it is singular how everything that great man touched became his own--for, who remembers for whom it was raised while he is told who employed his great intellect in its repairs? i entered paris on sunday at eleven o'clock. i never should have recognized the day. the shops were all open, the artificers all at work, the unintelligible criers vociferating their wares, and the people in their working-day dresses. we wound through street after street, narrow and dark and dirty, and with my mind full of the splendid views of squares, and columns, and bridges, as i had seen them in the prints, i could scarce believe i was in paris. a turn brought us into a large court, that of the messagerie, the place at which all travellers are set down on arrival. here my baggage was once more inspected, and, after a half-hour's delay, i was permitted to get into a _fiacre_, and drive to a hotel. as one is a specimen of all, i may as well describe the _hotel d'etrangers_, rue vivienne, which, by the way, i take the liberty at the same time to recommend to my friends. it is the precise centre for the convenience of sight-seeing, admirably kept, and, being nearly opposite galignani's, that bookstore of europe, is a very pleasant resort for the half hour before dinner, or a rainy day. i went there at the instance of my friend the _diplomat_. the _fiacre_ stopped before an arched passage, and a fellow in livery, who had followed me from the messagerie (probably in the double character of porter and police agent, as my passport was yet to be demanded), took my trunk into a small office on the left, over which was written "_concierge_." this person, who is a kind of respectable doorkeeper, addressed me in broken english, without waiting for the evidence of my tongue, that i was a foreigner, and, after inquiring at what price i would have a room, introduced me to the landlady, who took me across a large court (the houses are built _round_ the yard always in france), to the corresponding story of the house. the room was quite pretty, with its looking-glasses and curtains, but there was no carpet, and the fireplace was ten feet deep. i asked to see another, and another, and another; they were all curtains and looking-glasses, and stone-floors! there is no wearying a french woman, and i pushed my modesty till i found a chamber to my taste--a nutshell, to be sure, but carpeted--and bowing my polite housekeeper out, i rang for breakfast and was at home in paris. there are few things bought with money that are more delightful than a french breakfast. if you take it at your room, it appears in the shape of two small vessels, one of coffee and one of hot milk, two kinds of bread, with a thin, printed slice of butter, and one or two of some thirty dishes from which you choose, the latter flavored exquisitely enough to make one wish to be always at breakfast, but cooked and composed i know not how or of what. the coffee has an aroma peculiarly exquisite, something quite different from any i ever tasted before; and the _petit-pain_, a slender biscuit between bread and cake, is, when crisp and warm, a delightful accompaniment. all this costs about one third as much as the beefsteaks and coffee in america, and at the same time that you are waited upon with a civility that is worth three times the money. it still rained at noon, and, finding that the usual dinner hour was five, i took my umbrella for a walk. in a strange city i prefer always to stroll about at hazard, coming unawares upon what is fine or curious. the hackneyed descriptions in the guidebooks profane the spirit of a place; i never look at them till after i have found the object, and then only for dates. the rue vivienne was crowded with people, as i emerged from the dark archway of the hotel to pursue my wanderings. a walk of this kind, by the way, shows one a great deal of novelty. in france there are no shop-_men_. no matter what is the article of trade--hats, boots, pictures, books, jewellery, anything or everything that gentlemen buy--you are waited upon by girls, always handsome, and always dressed in the height of the mode. they sit on damask-covered settees, behind the counters; and, when you enter, bow and rise to serve you, with a grace and a smile of courtesy that would become a drawing-room. and this is universal. i strolled on until i entered a narrow passage, penetrating a long line of buildings. it was thronged with people, and passing in with the rest, i found myself unexpectedly in a scene that equally surprised and delighted me. it was a spacious square enclosed by one entire building. the area was laid out as a garden, planted with long avenues of trees and beds of flowers, and in the centre a fountain was playing in the shape of a _fleur-de-lis_, with a jet about forty feet in height. a superb colonnade ran round the whole square, making a covered gallery of the lower story, which was occupied by shops of the most splendid appearance, and thronged through its long sheltered _pavès_ by thousands of gay promenaders. it was the far-famed _palais royal_. i remembered the description i had heard of its gambling houses, and facilities for every vice, and looked with a new surprise on its aladdin-like magnificence. the hundreds of beautiful pillars, stretching away from the eye in long and distant perspective, the crowd of citizens, and women, and officers in full uniform, passing and re-passing with french liveliness and politeness, the long windows of plated glass glittering with jewellery, and bright with everything to tempt the fancy, the tall sentinels pacing between the columns, and the fountain turning over its clear waters with a fall audible above the tread and voices of the thousands who walked around it--who could look upon such a scene and believe it what it is, the most corrupt spot, probably, on the face of the civilized world? letter v. the louvre--americans in paris--politics, etc. the salient object in my idea of paris has always been the louvre. i have spent some hours in its vast gallery to-day and i am sure it will retain the same prominence in my recollections. the whole palace is one of the oldest, and said to be one of the finest, in europe; and, if i may judge from its impressiveness, the vast inner court (the _façades_ of which were restored to their original simplicity by napoleon), is a specimen of high architectural perfection. one could hardly pass through it without being better fitted to see the masterpieces of art within; and it requires this, and all the expansiveness of which the mind is capable besides, to walk through the _musée royale_ without the painful sense of a magnificence beyond the grasp of the faculties. i delivered my passport at the door of the palace, and, as is customary, recorded my name, country, and profession in the book, and proceeded to the gallery. the grand double staircase, one part leading to the private apartments of the royal household, is described voluminously in the authorities; and, truly, for one who has been accustomed to convenient dimensions only, its breadth, its lofty ceilings, its pillars and statuary, its mosaic pavements and splendid windows, are enough to unsettle for ever the standards of size and grandeur. the strongest feeling one has, as he stops half way up to look about him, is the ludicrous disproportion between it and the size of the inhabiting animals. i should smile to see any man ascend such a staircase, except, perhaps, napoleon. passing through a kind of entrance-hall, i came to a spacious _salle ronde_, lighted from the ceiling, and hung principally with pictures of a large size, one of the most conspicuous of which, "the wreck," has been copied by an american artist, mr. cooke, and is now exhibiting in new york. it is one of the best of the french school, and very powerfully conceived. i regret, however, that he did not prefer the wonderfully fine piece opposite, which is worth all the pictures ever painted in france, "the marriage supper at cana." the left wing of the table, projected toward the spectator, with seven or eight guests who occupy it, absolutely stands out into the hall. it seems impossible that color and drawing upon a flat surface can so cheat the eye. from the _salle ronde_, on the right opens the grand gallery, which, after the lesson i had just received in perspective, i took, at the first glance, to be a painting. you will realize the facility of the deception when you consider, that, with a breadth of but forty-two feet, this gallery is one thousand three hundred and thirty-two feet (more than a quarter of a mile) in length. the floor is of tesselated woods, polished with wax like a table; and along its glassy surface were scattered perhaps a hundred visiters, gazing at the pictures in varied attitudes, and with sizes reduced in proportion to their distance, the farthest off looking, in the long perspective, like pigmies of the most diminutive description. it is like a matchless painting to the eye, after all. the ceiling is divided by nine or ten arches, standing each on four corinthian columns, projecting into the area; and the natural perspective of these, and the artists scattered from one end to the other, copying silently at their easels, and a soldier at every division, standing upon his guard, quite as silent and motionless, would make it difficult to convince a spectator, who was led blindfold and unprepared to the entrance, that it was not some superb diorama, figures and all. i found our distinguished countryman, morse, copying a beautiful murillo at the end of the gallery. he is also engaged upon a raffaelle for cooper, the novelist. among the french artists, i noticed several soldiers, and some twenty or thirty females, the latter with every mark in their countenances of absorbed and extreme application. there was a striking difference in this respect between them and the artists of the other sex. with the single exception of a lovely girl, drawing from a madonna, by guido, and protected by the presence of an elderly companion, these lady painters were anything but interesting in their appearance. greenough, the sculptor, is in paris, and engaged just now in taking the bust of an italian lady. his reputation is now very enviable; and his passion for his art, together with his untiring industry and his fine natural powers, will work him up to something that will, before long, be an honor to our country. if the wealthy men of taste in america would give greenough liberal orders for his time and talents, and send out augur, of new haven, to italy, they would do more to advance this glorious art in our country, than by expending ten times the sum in any other way. they are both men of rare genius, and both ardent and diligent, and they are both cramped by the universal curse of genius--necessity. the americans in paris are deliberating at present on some means for expressing unitedly to our government their interest in greenough, and their appreciation of his merit of public and private patronage. for the love of true taste, do everything in your power to second such an appeal when it comes. * * * * * it is a queer feeling to find oneself a _foreigner_. one cannot realize, long at a time, how his face or his manners should have become peculiar; and, after looking at a print for five minutes in a shop window, or dipping into an english book, or in any manner throwing off the mental habit of the instant, the curious gaze of the passer by, or the accent of a strange language, strikes one very singularly. paris is full of foreigners of all nations, and of course, physiognomies of all characters may be met everywhere, but, differing as the european nations do decidedly from each other, they differ still more from the american. our countrymen, as a class, are distinguishable wherever they are met; not as americans however, for, of the habits and manners of our country, people know nothing this side the water. but there is something in an american face, of which i never was aware till i met them in europe, that is altogether peculiar. the french take the americans to be english: but an englishman, while he presumes him his countryman, shows a curiosity to know who he is, which is very foreign to his usual indifference. as far as i can analyze it, it is the independent self-possessed bearing of a man unused to look up to any one as his superior in rank, united to the inquisitive, sensitive, communicative expression which is the index to our national character. the first is seldom possessed in england but by a man of decided rank, and the latter is never possessed by an englishman at all. the two are united in no other nation. nothing is easier than to tell the rank of an englishman, and nothing puzzles a european more than to know how to rate the pretensions of an american. * * * * * on my way home from the boulevards this evening, i was fortunate enough to pass through the grand court of the louvre, at the moment when the moon broke through the clouds that have concealed her own light and the sun's ever since i have been in france. i had often stopped, in passing the sentinels at the entrance, to admire the grandeur of the interior to this oldest of the royal palaces; but to-night, my dead halt within the shadow of the arch, as the view broke upon my eye, and my sudden exclamation in english, startled the grenadier, and he had half presented his musket, when i apologized and passed on. it was magically beautiful indeed! and, with the moonlight pouring obliquely into the sombre area, lying full upon the taller of the three _façades_, and drawing its soft line across the rich windows and massive pilasters and arches of the eastern and western, while the remaining front lay in the heavy black shadow of relief, it seemed to me more like an accidental regularity in some rocky glen of america, than a pile of human design and proportion. it is strange how such high walls shut out the world. the court of the louvre is in the very centre of the busiest quarter of paris, thousands of persons passing and repassing constantly at the extremity of the long arched entrances, and yet, standing on the pavement of that lonely court, no living creature in sight but the motionless grenadiers at either gate, the noises without coming to your ear in a subdued murmur, like the wind on the sea, and nothing visible above but the sky, resting like a ceiling on the lofty walls, the impression of utter solitude is irresistible. i passed out by the archway for which napoleon constructed his bronze gates, said to be the most magnificent of modern times, and which are now lying in some obscure corner unused, no succeeding power having had the spirit or the will to complete, even by the slight labor that remained, his imperial design. all over paris you may see similar instances; they meet you at every step: glorious plans defeated; works, that with a mere moiety of what has been already expended in their progress, might be finished with an effect that none but a mind like napoleon's could have originally projected. * * * * * paris, of course, is rife with politics. there is but one opinion on the subject of another pending revolution. the "people's king" is about as unpopular as he need be for the purposes of his enemies; and he has aggravated the feeling against him very unnecessarily by his late project in the tuileries. the whole thing is very characteristic of the french people. he might have deprived them of half their civil rights without immediate resistance; but to cut off a strip of the public garden to make a play ground for his children--to encroach a hundred feet on the pride of paris, the daily promenade of the idlers, who do all the discussion of his measures, it was a little too venturesome. unfortunately, too, the offence is in the very eye of curiosity, and the workmen are surrounded, from morning till night, by thousands of people, of all classes, gesticulating, and looking at the palace windows and winding themselves gradually up to the revolutionary pitch. in the event of an explosion, the liberal party will not want partizans, for france is crowded with refugees from tyranny, of every nation. the poles are flocking hither every day, and the streets are full of their melancholy faces! poor fellows! they suffer dreadfully from want. the public charity for refugees has been wrung dry long ago, and the most heroic hearts of poland, after having lost everything but life, in their unavailing struggle, are starving absolutely in the streets. accident has thrown me into the confidence of a well-known liberal--one of those men of whom the proud may ask assistance without humiliation, and circumstances have thus come to my knowledge, which would move a heart of stone. the fictitious sufferings of "thaddeus of warsaw," are transcended in real-life misery every day, and by natures quite as noble. lafayette, i am credibly assured, has anticipated several years of his income in relieving them; and no possible charity could be so well bestowed as contributions for the poles, starving in these heartless cities. i have just heard that chodsko, a pole, of distinguished talent and learning, who threw his whole fortune and energy into the late attempted revolution, was arrested here last night, with eight others of his countrymen, under suspicion by the government. the late serious insurrection at lyons has alarmed the king, and the police is exceedingly strict. the spanish and italian refugees, who receive pensions from france, have been ordered off to the provincial towns, by the minister of the interior, and there is every indication of extreme and apprehensive caution. the papers, meantime, are raving against the ministry in the most violent terms, and the king is abused without qualification, everywhere. i went, a night or two since, to one of the minor theatres to see the representation of a play, which has been performed for the _hundred and second time_!--"napoleon at schoenbrun and st. helena." my object was to study the feelings of the people toward napoleon ii., as the exile's love for his son is one of the leading features of the piece. it was beautifully played--most beautifully! and i never saw more enthusiasm manifested by an audience. every allusion of napoleon to his child, was received with that undertoned, gutteral acclamation, that expresses such deep feeling in a crowd; and the piece is so written that its natural pathos alone is irresistible. no one could doubt for an instant, it seems to me, that the entrance of young napoleon into france, at any critical moment, would be universally and completely triumphant. the great cry at lyons was "_vive napoleon ii.!_" i have altered my arrangements a little, in consequence of the state of feeling here. my design was to go to italy immediately, but affairs promise such an interesting and early change, that i shall pass the winter in paris. letter vi. taglioni--french stage, etc. i went last night to the french opera, to see the first dancer of the world. the prodigious enthusiasm about her, all over europe, had, of course, raised my expectations to the highest possible pitch. "_have you seen taglioni?_" is the first question addressed to a stranger in paris; and you hear her name constantly over all the hum of the _cafés_ and in the crowded resorts of fashion. the house was overflowed. the king and his numerous family were present; and my companion pointed out to me many of the nobility, whose names and titles have been made familiar to our ears by the innumerable private memoirs and autobiographies of the day. after a little introductory piece, the king arrived, and, as soon as the cheering was over, the curtain drew up for "_le dieu et la bayadere_." this is the piece in which taglioni is most famous. she takes the part of a dancing girl, of whom the bramah and an indian prince are both enamored; the former in the disguise of a man of low rank at the court of the latter, in search of some one whose love for him shall be disinterested. the disguised god succeeds in winning her affection, and, after testing her devotion by submitting for a while to the resentment of his rival, and by a pretended caprice in favor of a singing girl, who accompanies her, he marries her, and then saves her from the flames as she is about to be burned for marrying beneath her _caste_. taglioni's part is all pantomime. she does not speak during the play, but her motion is more than articulate. her first appearance was in a troop of indian dancing girls, who performed before the prince in the public square. at a signal from the vizier a side pavilion opened, and thirty or forty bayaderes glided out together, and commenced an intricate dance. they were received with a tremendous round of applause from the audience; but, with the exception of a little more elegance in the four who led the dance, they were dressed nearly alike; and as i saw no particularly conspicuous figure, i presumed that taglioni had not yet appeared. the splendor of the spectacle bewildered me for the first moment or two, but i presently found my eyes rivetted to a childish creature floating about among the rest, and, taking her for some beautiful young _elève_ making her first essays in the chorus, i interpreted her extraordinary fascination as a triumph of nature over my unsophisticated taste; and wondered to myself whether, after all, i should be half so much captivated with the show of skill i expected presently to witness. _this was taglioni!_ she came forward directly, in a _pas seul_, and i then observed that her dress was distinguished from that of her companions by its extreme modesty both of fashion and ornament, and the unconstrained ease with which it adapted itself to her shape and motion. she looks not more than fifteen. her figure is small, but rounded to the very last degree of perfection; not a muscle swelled beyond the exquisite outline; not an angle, not a fault. her back and neck, those points so rarely beautiful in woman, are faultlessly formed; her feet and hands are in full proportion to her size, and the former play as freely and with as natural a yieldingness in her fairy slippers, as if they were accustomed only to the dainty uses of a drawing-room. her face is most strangely interesting; not quite beautiful, but of that half-appealing, half-retiring sweetness that you sometimes see blended with the secluded reserve and unconscious refinement of a young girl just "out" in a circle of high fashion. in her greatest exertions her features retain the same timid half smile, and she returns to the alternate by-play of her part without the slightest change of color, or the slightest perceptible difference in her breathing, or in the ease of her look and posture. no language can describe her motion. she swims in your eye like a curl of smoke, or a flake of down. her difficulty seems to be to keep to the floor. you have the feeling while you gaze upon her, that, if she were to rise and float away like ariel, you would scarce be surprised. and yet all is done with such a childish unconsciousness of admiration, such a total absence of exertion or fatigue, that the delight with which she fills you is unmingled; and, assured as you are by the perfect purity of every look and attitude, that her hitherto spotless reputation is deserved beyond a breath of suspicion, you leave her with as much respect as admiration; and find with surprise that a dancing girl, who is exposed night after night to the profaning gaze of the world, has crept into one of the most sacred niches of your memory. * * * * * i have attended several of the best theatres in paris, and find one striking trait in all their first actors--_nature_. they do not look like actors, and their playing is not like acting. they are men, generally, of the most earnest, unstudied simplicity of countenance; and when they come upon the stage, it is singularly without affectation, and as the character they represent would appear. unlike most of the actors i have seen, too, they seem altogether unaware of the presence of the audience. nothing disturbs the fixed attention they give to each other in the dialogue, and no private interview between simple and sincere men could be more unconscious and natural. i have formed consequently a high opinion of the french drama, degenerate as it is said to be since the loss of talma; and it is easy to see that the root of its excellence is in the taste and judgment of the people. _they applaud judiciously._ when taglioni danced her wonderful _pas seul_, for instance, the applause was general and sufficient. it was a triumph of art, and she was applauded as an artist. but when, as the neglected bayadere, she stole from the corner of the cottage, and, with her indescribable grace, hovered about the couch of the disguised bramah, watching and fanning him while he slept, she expressed so powerfully, by the saddened tenderness of her manner, the devotion of a love that even neglect could not estrange, that a murmur of delight ran through the whole house; and, when her silent pantomime was interrupted by the waking of the god, there was an overwhelming tumult of acclamation that came from the _hearts_ of the audience, and as such must have been both a lesson, and the highest compliment, to taglioni. an actor's taste is of course very much regulated by that of his audience. he will cultivate that for which he is most praised. we shall never have a high-toned drama in america, while, as at present, applause is won only by physical exertion, and the nice touches of genius and nature pass undetected and unfelt. of the french actresses, i have been most pleased with leontine fay. she is not much talked of here, and perhaps, as a mere artist in her profession, is inferior to those who are more popular; but she has that indescribable something in her face that has interested me through life--that strange talisman which is linked wisely to every heart, confining its interest to some nice difference invisible to other eyes, and, by a happy consequence, undisputed by other admiration. she, too, has that retired sweetness of look that seems to come only from secluded habits, and in the highly-wrought passages of tragedy, when her fine dark eyes are filled with tears, and her tones, which have never the out-of-doors key of the stage, are clouded and imperfect, she seems less an actress than a refined and lovely woman, breaking through the habitual reserve of society in some agonizing crisis of real life. there are prints of leontine fay in the shops, and i have seen them in america, but they resemble her very little. letter vii. joachim lelewel--palais royal--pere la chaise--versailles, etc. i met, at a breakfast party, to-day, joachim lelewel, the celebrated scholar and patriot of poland. having fallen in with a great deal of revolutionary and emigrant society since i have been in paris, i have often heard his name, and looked forward to meeting him with high pleasure and curiosity. his writings are passionately admired by his countrymen. he was the principal of the university, idolized by that effective part of the population, the students of poland; and the fearless and lofty tone of his patriotic principles is said to have given the first and strongest momentum to the ill-fated struggle just over. lelewel impressed me very strongly. unlike most of the poles, who are erect, athletic, and florid, he is thin, bent, and pale; and were it not for the fire and decision of his eye, his uncertain gait and sensitive address would convey an expression almost of timidity. his form, features, and manners, are very like those of percival, the american poet, though their countenances are marked with the respective difference of their habits of mind. lelewel looks like a naturally modest, shrinking man, worked up to the calm resolution of a martyr. the strong stamp of his face is devoted enthusiasm. his eye is excessively bright, but quiet and habitually downcast; his lips are set firmly, but without effort, together; and his voice is almost sepulchral, it is so low and calm. he never breaks through his melancholy, though his refugee countrymen, except when poland is alluded to, have all the vivacity of french manners, and seem easily to forget their misfortunes. he was silent, except when particularly addressed, and had the air of a man who thought himself unobserved, and had shrunk into his own mind. i felt that he was winning upon my heart every moment. i never saw a man in my life whose whole air and character were so free from self-consciousness or pretension--never one who looked to me so capable of the calm, lofty, unconquerable heroism of a martyr. * * * * * "paris is the centre of the world," if centripetal tendency is any proof of it. everything struck off from the other parts of the universe flies straight to the _palais royal_. you may meet in its thronged galleries, in the course of an hour, representatives of every creed, rank, nation, and system, under heaven. hussein pacha and don pedro pace daily the same _pavé_--the one brooding on a kingdom lost, the other on the throne he hopes to win; the polish general and the proscribed spaniard, the exiled italian conspirator, the contemptuous turk, the well-dressed negro from hayti, and the silk-robed persian, revolve by the hour together around the same _jet d'eau_, and costumes of every cut and order, mustaches and beards of every degree of ferocity and oddity, press so fast and thick upon the eye that one forgets to be astonished. there are no such things as "lions" in paris. the extraordinary persons outnumber the ordinary. every other man you meet would keep a small town in a ferment for a month. * * * * * i spent yesterday at _pére la chaise_, and to day at _versailles_. the two places are in opposite environs, and of very opposite characters--one certainly making you in love with life, the other almost as certainly with death. one could wander for ever in the wilderness of art at versailles, and it must be a restless ghost that could not content itself with _pére la chaise_ for its elysium. this beautiful cemetery is built upon the broad ascent of a hill, commanding the whole of paris at a glance. it is a wood of small trees, laid out in alleys, and crowded with tombs and monuments of every possible description. you will scarce get through without being surprised into a tear; but, if affectation and fantasticalness in such a place do not more grieve than amuse you, you will much oftener smile. the whole thing is a melancholy mock of life. its distinctions are all kept up. there are the fashionable avenues, lined with costly chapels and monuments, with the names of the exclusive tenants in golden letters upon the doors, iron railings set forbiddingly about the shrubs, and the blessing-scrap writ ambitiously in latin. the tablets record the long family titles, and the offices and honors, perhaps the numberless virtues of the dead. they read like chapters of heraldry more than like epitaphs. it is a relief to get into the outer alleys, and see how poverty and simple feeling express what should be the same thing. it is usually some brief sentence, common enough, but often exquisitely beautiful in this prettiest of languages, and expressing always the _kind_ of sorrow felt by the mourner. you can tell, for instance, by the sentiment simply, without looking at the record below, whether the deceased was young, or much loved, or mourned by husband, or parent, or brother, or a circle of all. i noticed one, however, the humblest and simplest monument perhaps in the whole cemetery, which left the story beautifully untold; it was a slab of common marl, inscribed "_pauvre marie!_"--nothing more. i have thought of it, and speculated upon it, a great deal since. what was she? and who wrote her epitaph? _why_ was she _pauvre marie_? before almost all the poorer monuments is a minature garden with a low wooden fence, and either the initials of the dead sown in flowers, or rose-trees, carefully cultivated, trained to hang over the stone. i was surprised to find, in a public cemetery, in december, roses in full bloom and valuable exotics at almost every grave. it speaks both for the sentiment and delicate principle of the people. few of the more costly monuments were either interesting or pretty. one struck my fancy--a small open chapel, large enough to contain four chairs, with the slab facing the door, and a crucifix encircled with fresh flowers on a simple shrine above. it is a place where the survivors in a family might come and sit at any time, nowhere more pleasantly. from the chapel i speak of, you may look out and see all paris; and i can imagine how it would lessen the feeling of desertion and forgetfulness that makes the anticipation of death so dreadful, to be certain that your friends would come, as they may here, and talk cheerfully and enjoy themselves near you, so to speak. the cemetery in summer must be one of the sweetest places in the world. * * * * * _versailles_ is a royal summer chateau, about twelve miles from paris, with a demesne of twenty miles in circumference. take that for the scale, and imagine a palace completed in proportion, in all its details of grounds, ornament, and architecture. it cost, says the guide book, two hundred and fifty millions of dollars; and, leaving your fancy to expend that trifle over a residence, which, remember, is but one out of some half dozen, occupied during the year by a single family, i commend the republican moral to your consideration, and proceed with the more particular description of my visit. my friend, dr. howe, was my companion. we drove up the grand avenue on one of the loveliest mornings that ever surprised december with a bright sun and a warm south wind. before us, at the distance of a mile, lay a vast mass of architecture, with the centre, falling back between the two projecting wings, the whole crowning a long and gradual ascent, of which the tri-colored flag waving against the sky from the central turrets was the highest point. as we approached, we noticed an occasional flash in the sun, and a stir of bright colors, through the broad deep court between the wings, which, as we advanced nearer, proved to be a body of about two or three thousand lancers and troops of the line under review. the effect was indescribably fine. the gay uniforms, the hundreds of tall lances, each with its red flag flying in the wind, the imposing crescent of architecture in which the array was embraced, the ringing echo of the grand military music from the towers--and all this intoxication for the positive senses fused with the historical atmosphere of the place, the recollection of the king and queen, whose favorite residence it had been (the unfortunate louis and marie antoinette), or the celebrated women who had lived in their separate palaces within its grounds, of the genius and chivalry of court after court that had made it, in turn, the scene of their brilliant follies, and, over all, napoleon, who _must_ have rode through its gilded gates with the thought of pride that he was its imperial master by the royalty of his great nature alone--it was in truth, enough, the real and the ideal, to dazzle the eyes of a simple republican. after gazing at the fascinating show for an hour, we took a guide and entered the palace. we were walked through suite after suite of cold apartments, desolately splendid with gold and marble, and crowded with costly pictures, till i was sick and weary of magnificence. the guide went before, saying over his rapid rigmarole of names and dates, giving us about three minutes to a room in which there were some twenty pictures, perhaps, of which he presumed he had told us all that was necessary to know. i fell behind, after a while; and, as a considerable english party had overtaken and joined us, i succeeded in keeping one room in the rear, and enjoying the remainder in my own way. the little marble palace, called "_petit trianon_," built for madame pompadour in the garden grounds, is a beautiful affair, full of what somebody calls "affectionate-looking rooms;" and "_grand trianon_," built also on the grounds at the distance of half a mile, for madame maintenon, is a very lovely spot, made more interesting by the preference given to it over all other places by marie antoinette. here she amused herself with her swiss village. the cottages and artificial "mountains" (ten feet high, perhaps) are exceedingly pretty models in miniature, and probably illustrate very fairly the ideas of a palace-bred fancy upon natural scenery. there are glens and grottoes, and rocky beds for brooks that run at will ("_les rivieres à volonté_," the guide called them), and trees set out upon the crags at most uncomfortable angles, and every contrivance to make a lovely lawn as inconveniently like nature as possible. the swiss families, however, must have been very amusing. brought fresh from their wild country, and set down in these pretty mock cottages, with orders to live just as they did in their own mountains, they must have been charmingly puzzled. in the midst of the village stands an exquisite little corinthian temple; and our guide informed us that the cottage which the queen occupied at her swiss tea-parties was furnished at an expense of sixty thousand francs--two not very switzer-like circumstances. it was in the little palace of _trianon_ that napoleon signed his divorce from josephine. the guide showed us the room, and the table on which he wrote. i have seen nothing that brought me so near napoleon. there is no place in france that could have for me a greater interest. it is a little _boudoir_, adjoining the state sleeping-room, simply furnished, and made for familiar retirement, not for show. the single sofa--the small round table--the enclosing, tent-like curtains--the modest, unobtrusive elegance of ornaments, and furniture, give it rather the look of a retreat, fashioned by the tenderness and taste of private life, than any apartment in a royal palace. i felt unwilling to leave it. my thoughts were too busy. what was the strongest motive of that great man in this most affecting and disputed action of his life? after having been thridded through the palaces, we had a few moments left for the grounds. they are magnificent beyond description. we know very little of this thing in america, as an art; but it is one, i have come to think, that, in its requisition of genius, is scarce inferior to architecture. certainly the three palaces of versailles together did not impress me so much as the single view from the upper terrace of the gardens. it stretches clear over the horizon. you stand on a natural eminence that commands the whole country, and the plan seems to you like some work of the titans. the long sweep of the avenue, with a breadth of descent that at the first glance takes away your breath, stretching its two lines of gigantic statues and vases to the water level; the wide, slumbering canal at its foot, carrying on the eye to the horizon, like a river of an even flood lying straight through the bosom of the landscape; the side avenues almost as extensive; the palaces in the distant grounds, and the strange union altogether, to an american, of as much extent as the eye can reach, cultivated equally with the trim elegance of a garden--all these, combining together, form a spectacle which nothing but nature's royalty of genius could design, and (to descend ungracefully from the climax) which only the exactions of an unnatural royalty could pay for. * * * * * i think the most forcible lesson one learns at paris is the value of time and money. i have always been told, erroneously, that it was a place to waste both. you could do so much with another hour, if you had it, and buy so much with another dollar, if you could afford it, that the reflected economy upon what you _can_ command, is inevitable. as to the worth of time, for instance, there are some twelve or fourteen _gratuitous_ lectures every day at the _sorbonne_, the _school of medicine_ and the _college of france_, by men like cuvier, say, spurzheim, and others, each, in his professed pursuit, the most eminent perhaps in the world; and there are the louvre, and the royal library, and the mazarin library, and similar public institutions, all open to gratuitous use, with obsequious attendants, warm rooms, materials for writing, and perfect seclusion; to say nothing of the thousand interesting but less useful resorts with which paris abounds, such as exhibitions of flowers, porcelains, mosaics, and curious handiwork of every description, and (more amusing and time-killing still) the never-ending changes of sights in the public places, from distinguished foreigners down to miracles of educated monkeys. life seems most provokingly short as you look at it. then, for money, you are more puzzled how to spend a poor pitiful franc in paris (it will buy so many things you want) than you would be in america with the outlay of a month's income. be as idle and extravagant as you will, your idle hours look you in the face as they pass, to know whether, in spite of the increase of their value, you really mean to waste them; and the money that slipped through your pocket you know not how at home, sticks embarrassed to your fingers, from the mere multiplicity of demands made for it. there are shops all over paris called the "_vingt-cinq-sous_," where every article is fixed at that price--_twenty five cents_! they contain everything you want, except a wife and fire-wood--the only two things difficult to be got in france. (the latter, with or without a pun, is much the _dearer_ of the two.) i wonder that they are not bought out, and sent over to america on speculation. there is scarce an article in them that would not be held cheap with us at five times its purchase. there are bronze standishes for ink, sand, and wafers, pearl paper-cutters, spice-lamps, decanters, essence-bottles, sets of china, table-bells of all devices, mantel ornaments, vases of artificial flowers, kitchen utensils, dog-collars, canes, guard-chains, chessmen whips, hammers, brushes, and everything that is either convenient or pretty. you might freight a ship with them, and all good and well finished, at twenty-five cents the set or article! you would think the man were joking, to walk through his shop. letter viii. dr. bowring--american artists--brutal amusement, etc. i have met dr. bowring in paris, and called upon him to-day with mr. morse, by appointment. the translator of the "ode to the deity" (from the russian of derzhavin) could not by any accident be an ordinary man, and i anticipated great pleasure in his society. he received us at his lodgings in the _place vendome_. i was every way pleased with him. his knowledge of our country and its literature surprised me, and i could not but be gratified with the unprejudiced and well-informed interest with which he discoursed on our government and institutions. he expressed great pleasure at having seen his ode in one of our schoolbooks (pierpont's reader, i think), and assured us that the promise to himself of a visit to america was one of his brightest anticipations. this is not at all an uncommon feeling, by the way, among the men of talent in paris; and i am pleasingly surprised, everywhere, with the enthusiastic hopes expressed for the success of our experiment in liberal principles. dr. bowring is a slender man, a little above the middle height, with a keen, inquisitive expression of countenance, and a good forehead, from which the hair is combed straight back all round, in the style of the cameronians. his manner is all life, and his motion and gesture nervously sudden and angular. he talks rapidly, but clearly, and uses beautiful language--concise, and full of select expressions and vivid figures. his conversation in this particular was a constant surprise. he gave us a great deal of information, and when we parted, inquired my route of travel, and offered me letters to his friends, with a cordiality very unusual on this side the atlantic. * * * * * it is a cold but common rule with travellers in europe to avoid the society of their own countrymen. in a city like paris, where time and money are both so valuable, every additional acquaintance, pursued either for etiquette or intimacy, is felt, and one very soon learns to prefer his advantage to any tendency of his sympathies. the infractions upon the rule, however, are very delightful, and, at the general _réunion_ at our ambassador's on wednesday evening, or an occasional one at lafayette's, the look of pleasure and relief at beholding familiar faces, and hearing a familiar language once more, is universal. i have enjoyed this morning the double happiness of meeting an american circle, around an american breakfast. mr. cooper had invited us (morse, the artist, dr. howe, a gentleman of the navy, and myself). mr. c. lives with great hospitality, and in all the comfort of american habits; and to find him as he is always found, with his large family about him, is to get quite back to the atmosphere of our country. the two or three hours we passed at his table were, of course, delightful. it should endear mr. cooper to the hearts of his countrymen, that he devotes all his influence, and no inconsiderable portion of his large income, to the encouragement of american artists. it would be natural enough, after being so long abroad, to feel or affect a preference for the works of foreigners; but in this, as in his political opinions, most decidedly, he is eminently patriotic. we feel this in europe, where we discern more clearly by comparison the poverty of our country in the arts, and meet, at the same time, american artists of the first talent, without a single commission from home for original works, copying constantly for support. one of mr. cooper's purchases, the "cherubs," by greenough, has been sent to the united states, and its merit was at once acknowledged. it was done, however (the artist, who is here, informs me), under every disadvantage of feeling and circumstances; and, from what i have seen and am told by others of mr. greenough, it is, i am confident, however beautiful, anything but a fair specimen of his powers. his peculiar taste lies in a bolder range, and he needs only a commission from government to execute a work which will begin the art of sculpture nobly in our country. * * * * * my curiosity led me into a strange scene to-day. i had observed for some time among the placards upon the walls an advertisement of an exhibition of "fighting animals," at the _barriére du combat_. i am disposed to see almost any sight _once_, particularly where it is, like this, a regular establishment, and, of course, an exponent of the popular taste. the place of the "_combats des animaux_," is in one of the most obscure suburbs, outside the walls, and i found it with difficulty. after wandering about in dirty lanes for an hour or two, inquiring for it in vain, the cries of the animals directed me to a walled place, separated from the other houses of the suburb, at the gate of which a man was blowing a trumpet. i purchased a ticket of an old woman who sat shivering in the porter's lodge; and, finding i was an hour too early for the fights, i made interest with a savage-looking fellow, who was carrying in tainted meat, to see the interior of the establishment. i followed him through a side gate, and we passed into a narrow alley, lined with stone kennels, to each of which was confined a powerful dog, with just length of chain enough to prevent him from reaching the tenant of the opposite hole. there were several of these alleys, containing, i should think, two hundred dogs in all. they were of every breed of strength and ferocity, and all of them perfectly frantic with rage or hunger, with the exception of a pair of noble-looking black dogs, who stood calmly at the mouths of their kennels; the rest struggled and howled incessantly, straining every muscle to reach us, and resuming their fierceness toward each other when we had passed by. they all bore, more or less, the marks of severe battles; one or two with their noses split open, and still unhealed; several with their necks bleeding and raw, and galled constantly with the iron collar, and many with broken legs, but all apparently so excited as to be insensible to suffering. after following my guide very unwillingly through the several alleys, deafened with the barking and howling of the savage occupants, i was taken to the department of wild animals. here were all the tenants of the menagerie, kept in dens, opening by iron doors upon the pit in which they fought. like the dogs, they were terribly wounded; one of the bears especially, whose mouth was torn all off from his jaws, leaving his teeth perfectly exposed, and red with the continually exuding blood. in one of the dens lay a beautiful deer, with one of his haunches severely mangled, who, the man told me, had been hunted round the pit by the dogs but a day or two before. he looked up at us, with his large soft eye, as we passed, and, lying on the damp stone floor, with his undressed wounds festering in the chilly atmosphere of mid-winter, he presented a picture of suffering which made me ashamed to the soul of my idle curiosity. the spectators began to collect, and the pit was cleared. two thirds of those in the amphitheatre were englishmen, most of whom were amateurs, who had brought dogs of their own to pit against the regular mastiffs of the establishment. these were despatched first. a strange dog was brought in by the collar, and loosed in the arena, and a trained dog let in upon him. it was a cruel business. the sleek, well-fed, good-natured animal was no match for the exasperated, hungry savage he was compelled to encounter. one minute, in all the joy of a release from his chain, bounding about the pit, and fawning upon his master, and the next attacked by a furious mastiff, who was taught to fasten on him at the first onset in a way that deprived him at once of his strength; it was but a murderous exhibition of cruelty. the combats between two of the trained dogs, however, were more equal. these succeeded to the private contests, and were much more severe and bloody. there was a small terrier among them, who disabled several dogs successively, by catching at their fore-legs, and breaking them instantly with a powerful jerk of his body. i was very much interested in one of the private dogs, a large yellow animal, of a noble expression of countenance, who fought several times very unwillingly, but always gallantly and victoriously. there was a majesty about him, which seemed to awe his antagonists. he was carried off in his master's arms, bleeding and exhausted, after punishing the best dogs of the establishment. the baiting of the wild animals succeeded the canine combats. several dogs (irish, i was told), of a size and ferocity such as i had never before seen, were brought in, and held in the leash opposite the den of the bear whose head was so dreadfully mangled. the door was then opened by the keeper, but poor bruin shrunk from the contest. the dogs became unmanageable at the sight of him, however, and, fastening a chain to his collar, they drew him out by main force, and immediately closed the grating. he fought gallantly, and gave more wounds than he received, for his shaggy coat protected his body effectually. the keepers rushed in and beat off the dogs, when they had nearly finished peeling the remaining flesh from his head; and the poor creature, perfectly blind and mad with pain, was dragged into his den again, to await another day of _amusement_! i will not disgust you with more of these details. they fought several foxes and wolves afterward, and, last of all, one of the small donkeys of the country, a creature not so large as some of the dogs, was led in, and the mastiffs loosed upon her. the pity and indignation i felt at first at the cruelty of baiting so unwarlike an animal, i soon found was quite unnecessary. she was the severest opponent the dogs had yet found. she went round the arena at full gallop, with a dozen savage animals springing at her throat, but she struck right and left with her fore-legs, and at every kick with her heels threw one of them clear across the pit. one or two were left motionless on the field, and others carried off with their ribs kicked in, and their legs broken, while their inglorious antagonist escaped almost unhurt. one of the mastiffs fastened on her ear and threw her down, in the beginning of the chase, but she apparently received no other injury. i had remained till the close of the exhibition with some violence to my feelings, and i was very glad to get away. nothing would tempt me to expose myself to a similar disgust again. how the intelligent and gentlemanly englishmen whom i saw there, and whom i have since met in the most refined society of paris, can make themselves familiar, as they evidently were, with a scene so brutal, i cannot very well conceive. letter ix. malibran--paris at midnight--a mob, etc. our beautiful and favorite malibran is playing in paris this winter. i saw her last night in desdemona. the other theatres are so attractive, between taglioni, robert le diable (the new opera), leontine fay, and the political pieces constantly coming out, that i had not before visited the italian opera. madame malibran is every way changed. she sings, unquestionably, better than when in america. her voice is firmer, and more under control, but it has lost that gushing wildness, that brilliant daringness of execution, that made her singing upon our boards so indescribably exciting and delightful. her person is perhaps still more changed. the round, graceful fulness of her limbs and features has yielded to a half-haggard look of care and exhaustion, and i could not but think that there was more than desdemona's fictitious wretchedness in the expression of her face. still, her forehead and eyes have a beauty that is not readily lost, and she will be a strikingly interesting, and even splendid creature, as long as she can play. her acting was extremely impassioned; and in the more powerful passages of her part, she exceeded everything i had conceived of the capacity of the human voice for pathos and melody. the house was crowded, and the applause was frequent and universal. madame malibran, as you probably know, is divorced from the man whose name she bears, and has married a violinist of the italian orchestra. she is just now in a state of health that will require immediate retirement from the stage, and, indeed, has played already too long. she came forward after the curtain dropped, in answer to the continual demand of the audience, leaning heavily on rubini, and was evidently so exhausted as to be scarcely able to stand. she made a single gesture, and was led off immediately, with her head drooping on her breast, amid the most violent acclamations. she is a perfect passion with the french, and seems to have out-charmed their usual caprice. * * * * * it was a lovely night, and after the opera i walked home. i reside a long distance from the places of public amusement. dr. howe and myself had stopped at a _café_ on the italian boulevards an hour, and it was very late. the streets were nearly deserted--here and there a solitary cabriolet with the driver asleep under his wooden apron, or the motionless figure of a municipal guardsman, dozing upon his horse, with his helmet and brazen armor glistening in the light of the lamps. nothing has impressed me more, by the way, than a body of these men passing me in the night. i have once or twice met the king returning from the theatre with a guard, and i saw them once at midnight on an extraordinary patrol winding through the arch into the place carrousel. their equipments are exceedingly warlike (helmets of brass, and coats of mail), and, with the gleam of the breast-plates through their horsemen's cloaks, the tramp of hoofs echoing through the deserted streets, and the silence and order of their march, it was quite a realization of the descriptions of chivalry. we kept along the boulevards to the rue richelieu. a carriage, with footmen in livery, had just driven up to frascati's, and, as we passed, a young man of uncommon personal beauty jumped out and entered that palace of gamblers. by his dress he was just from a ball, and the necessity of excitement after a scene meant to be so gay, was an obvious if not a fair satire on the happiness of the "gay" circle in which he evidently moved. we turned down the passage panorama, perhaps the most crowded thoroughfare in all paris, and traversed its long gallery without meeting a soul. the widely-celebrated _patisserie_ of felix, the first pastry-cook in the world, was the only shop open from one extremity to the other. the guard, in his gray capote, stood looking in at the window, and the girl, who had served the palates of half the fashion and rank of paris since morning, sat nodding fast asleep behind the counter, paying the usual fatiguing penalty of notoriety. the clock struck two as we passed the _façade_ of the bourse. this beautiful and central square is, night and day, the grand rendezvous of public vice; and late as the hour was, its _pavé_ was still thronged with flaunting and painted women of the lowest description, promenading without cloaks or bonnets, and addressing every passer-by. the palais royal lay in our way, just below the bourse, and we entered its magnificent court with an exclamation of new pleasure. its thousand lamps were all burning brilliantly, the long avenues of trees were enveloped in a golden atmosphere created by the bright radiation of light through the mist, the corinthian pillars and arches retreated on either side from the eye in distinct and yet mellow perspective, the fountain filled the whole palace with its rich murmur, and the broad marble-paved galleries, so thronged by day, were as silent and deserted as if the drowsy _gens d'armes_ standing motionless on their posts were the only living beings that inhabited it. it was a scene really of indescribable impressiveness. no one who has not seen this splendid palace, enclosing with its vast colonnades so much that is magnificent, can have an idea of its effect upon the imagination. i had seen it hitherto only when crowded with the gay and noisy idlers of paris, and the contrast of this with the utter solitude it now presented--not a single footfall to be heard on its floors, yet every lamp burning bright, and the statues and flowers and fountains all illuminated as if for a revel--was one of the most powerful and captivating that i have ever witnessed. we loitered slowly down one of the long galleries, and it seemed to me more like some creation of enchantment than the public haunt it is of pleasure and merchandise. a single figure, wrapped in a cloak, passed hastily by us and entered the door to one of the celebrated "hells," in which the playing scarce commences till this hour--but we met no other human being. we passed on from the grand court to the galerie nemours. this, as you may find in the descriptions, is a vast hall, standing between the east and west courts of the palais royal. it is sometimes called the "glass gallery." the roof is of glass, and the shops, with fronts entirely of windows, are separated only by long mirrors, reaching in the shape of pillars from the roof to the floor. the pavement is tesselated, and at either end stand two columns completing its form, and dividing it from the other galleries into which it opens. the shops are among the costliest in paris; and what with the vast proportions of the hall, its beautiful and glistening material, and the lightness and grace of its architecture, it is, even when deserted, one of the most fairy-like places in this fantastic city. it is the lounging place of military men particularly; and every evening from six to midnight, it is thronged by every class of gayly dressed people, officers off duty, soldiers, polytechnic scholars, ladies, and strangers of every costume and complexion, promenading to and fro in the light of the _cafés_ and the dazzling shops, sheltered completely from the weather, and enjoying, without expense or ceremony, a scene more brilliant than the most splendid ball-room in paris. we lounged up and down the long echoing pavement an hour. it was like some kingly "banquet hall deserted." the lamps burned dazzlingly bright, the mirrors multiplied our figures into shadowy and silent attendants, and our voices echoed from the glittering roof in the utter stillness of the hour, as if we had broken in, thalaba-like, upon some magical palace of silence. it is singular how much the differences of time and weather affect scenery. the first sunshine i saw in paris, unsettled all my previous impressions completely. i had seen every place of interest through the dull heavy atmosphere of a week's rain, and it was in such leaden colors alone that the finer squares and palaces had become familiar to me. the effect of a clear sun upon them was wonderful. the sudden gilding of the dome of the invalides by napoleon must have been something like it. i took advantage of it to see everything over again, and it seemed to me like another city. i never realized so forcibly the beauty of sunshine. architecture, particularly, is nothing without it. everything looks heavy and flat. the tracery of the windows and relievos, meant to be definite and airy, appears clumsy and confused, and the whole building flattens into a solid mass, without design or beauty. * * * * * i have spent the whole day in a paris mob. the arrival of general romarino and some of his companions from warsaw, gave the malcontents a plausible opportunity of expressing their dislike to the measures of government; and, under cover of a public welcome to this distinguished pole, they assembled in immense numbers at the port st. denis, and on the boulevard montmartre. it was very exciting altogether. the cavalry were out, and patroled the streets in companies, charging upon the crowd wherever there was a stand; the troops of the line marched up and down the boulevards, continually dividing the masses of people, and forbidding any one to stand still. the shops were all shut, in anticipation of an affray. the students endeavored to cluster, and resisted, as far as they dared, the orders of the soldiery; and from noon till night there was every prospect of a quarrel. the french are a fine people under excitement. their handsome and ordinarily heartless faces become very expressive under the stronger emotions; and their picturesque dresses and violent gesticulation, set off a popular tumult exceedingly. i have been highly amused all day, and have learned a great deal of what it is very difficult for a foreigner to acquire--the language of french passion. they express themselves very forcibly when angry. the constant irritation kept up by the intrusion of the cavalry upon the sidewalks, and the rough manner of dispersing gentlemen by sabre-blows and kicks with the stirrup, gave me sufficient opportunity of judging. i was astonished, however, that their summary mode of proceeding was borne at all. it is difficult to mix in such a vast body, and not catch its spirit, and i found myself, without knowing why, or rather with a full conviction that the military measures were necessary and right, entering with all my heart into the rebellious movements of the students, and boiling with indignation at every dispersion by force. the students of paris are probably the worst subjects the king has. they are mostly young men of from twenty to twenty-five, full of bodily vigor and enthusiasm, and excitable to the last degree. many of them are germans, and no small proportion americans. they make a good _amalgam_ for a mob, dress being the last consideration, apparently, with a medical or law student in paris. i never saw such a collection of atrocious-looking fellows as are to be met at the lectures. the polytechnic scholars, on the other hand, are the finest-looking body of young men i ever saw. aside from their uniform, which is remarkably neat and beautiful, their figures and faces seem picked for spirit and manliness. they have always a distinguished air in a crowd, and it is easy, after seeing them, to imagine the part they played as leaders in the revolution of the three days. contrary to my expectation, night came on without any serious encounter. one or two individuals attempted to resist the authority of the troops, and were considerably bruised; and one young man, a student, had three of his fingers cut off by the stroke of a dragoon's sabre. several were arrested, but by eight o'clock all was quiet, and the shops on the boulevards once more exposed their tempting goods, and lit up their brilliant mirrors without fear. the people thronged to the theatres to see the political pieces, and evaporate their excitement in cheers at the liberal allusions; and so ends a tumult that threatened danger, but operated, perhaps, as a healthful vent for the accumulating disorders of public opinion. letter x. garden of the tuileries--fashionable drives--french omnibuses--cheap riding--sights--street-beggars--impostors, etc. the garden of the tuileries is an idle man's paradise. magnificent as it is in extent, sculptures, and cultivation, we all know that statues may be too dumb, gravel walks too long and level, and trees and flowers and fountains a little too platonic, with any degree of beauty. but the tuileries are peopled at all hours of sunshine with, to me, the most lovely objects in the world--children. you may stop a minute, perhaps, to look at the thousand gold fishes in the basin under the palace-windows, or follow the swans for a single voyage round the fountain in the broad avenue--but you will sit on your hired chair (at this season) under the shelter of the sunny wall, and gaze at the children chasing about, with their attending swiss maids, till your heart has outwearied your eyes, or the palace-clock strikes five. i have been there repeatedly since i have been in paris, and have seen nothing like the children. they move my heart always, more than anything under heaven; but a french child, with an accent that all your paid masters cannot give, and manners, in the midst of its romping, that mock to the life the air and courtesy for which paris has a name over the world, is enough to make one forget napoleon, though the column of vendome throws its shadow within sound of their voices. imagine sixty-seven acres of beautiful creatures (that is the extent of the garden, and i have not seen such a thing as an _ugly_ french child)--broad avenues stretching away as far as you can see, covered with little foreigners (so they seem to _me_), dressed in gay colors, and laughing and romping and talking french, in all the amusing mixture of baby passions and grown-up manners, and answer me--is it not a sight better worth seeing than all the grand palaces that shut it in? the tuileries are certainly very magnificent, and, to walk across from the seine to the rue rivoli, and look up the endless walks and under the long perfect arches cut through the trees, may give one a very pretty surprise for once--but a winding lane is a better place to enjoy the loveliness of green leaves, and a single new england elm, letting down its slender branches to the ground in the inimitable grace of nature, has, to my eye, more beauty than all the clipped vistas from the king's palace to the _arc de l'etoile_, the _champs elysées_ inclusive. one of the finest things in paris, by the way, is the view from the terrace in front of the palace to this "arch of triumph," commenced by napoleon at the extremity of the "elysian fields," a single avenue of about two miles. the part beyond the gardens is the _fashionable drive_, and, by a saunter on horseback to the _bois de boulogne_, between four and five, on a pleasant day, one may see all the dashing equipages in paris. broadway, however, would eclipse everything here, either for beauty of construction or appointments. our carriages are every way handsomer and better hung, and the horses are harnessed more compactly and gracefully. the lumbering vehicles here make a great show, it is true--for the box, with its heavy hammer-cloth, is level with the top, and the coachman and footmen and outriders are very striking in their bright liveries; but the elegant, convenient, light-running establishments of philadelphia and new york, excel them, out of all comparison, for taste and fitness. the best driving i have seen is by the king's whips, and really it is beautiful to see his retinue on the road, four or five coaches and six, with footmen and outriders in scarlet liveries, and the finest horses possible for speed and action. his majesty generally takes the outer edge of the _champs elysées_, on the bank of the river, and the rapid glimpses of the bright show through the breaks in the wood, are exceedingly picturesque. there is nothing in paris that looks so outlandish to my eye as the common vehicles. i was thinking of it this morning as i stood waiting for the _st. sulpice omnibus_, at the corner of the rue vivienne, the great thoroughfare between the boulevards and the palais royal. there was the hack-cabriolet lumbering by in the fashion of two centuries ago, with a horse and harness that look equally ready to drop in pieces; the hand-cart with a stout dog harnessed under the axle-tree, drawing with twice the strength of his master; the market-waggon, driven always by women, and drawn generally by a horse and mule abreast, the horse of the norman breed, immensely large, and the mule about the size of a well-grown bull-dog; a vehicle of which i have not yet found out the name, a kind of demi-omnibus, with two wheels and a single horse, and carrying nine; and last, but not least amusing, a small close carriage for one person, swung upon two wheels and drawn by a servant, very much used, apparently, by elderly women and invalids, and certainly most admirable conveniences either for the economy or safety of getting about a city. it would be difficult to find an american servant who would draw in harness as they do here; and it is amusing to see a stout, well-dressed fellow, strapped to a carriage, and pulling along the _pavés_, sometimes at a jog-trot, while his master or mistress sits looking unconcernedly out of the window. i am not yet decided whether the french are the best or the worst drivers in the world. if the latter they certainly have most miraculous escapes. a cab-driver never pulls the reins except upon great emergencies, or for a right-about turn, and his horse has a most ludicrous aversion to a straight line. the streets are built inclining toward the centre, with the gutter in the middle, and it is the habit of all cabriolet-horses to run down one side and up the other constantly at such sudden angles that it seems to you they certainly will go through the shop windows. this, of course, is very dangerous to foot-passengers in a city where there are no side-walks; and, as a consequence, the average number of complaints to the police of paris for people killed by careless driving, is about four hundred annually. there are probably twice the number of legs broken. one becomes vexed in riding with these fellows, and i have once or twice undertaken to get into a french passion, and insist upon driving myself. but i have never yet met with an accident. "_gar-r-r-r-e!_" sings out the driver, rolling the word off his tongue like a bullet from a shovel, but never thinking to lift his loose reins from the dasher, while the frightened passenger, without looking round, makes for the first door with an alacrity that shows a habit of expecting very little from the _cocher's_ skill. riding is very cheap in paris, if managed a little. the city is traversed constantly in every direction by omnibuses, and you may go from the tuileries to _père la chaise_, or from st. sulpice to the italian boulevards (the two diagonals), or take the "_tous les boulevards_" and ride quite round the city for six sous the distance. the "_fiacre_" is like our own hacks, except that you pay but "twenty _sous_ the course," and fill the vehicle with your friends if you please; and, more cheap and comfortable still, there is the universal cabriolet, which for "fifteen _sous_ the course," or "twenty the hour," will give you at least three times the value of your money, with the advantage of seeing ahead and talking bad french with the driver. everything in france is either _grotesque_ or _picturesque_. i have been struck with it this morning, while sitting at my window, looking upon the close inner court of the hotel. one would suppose that a _pavé_ between four high walls, would offer very little to seduce the eye from its occupation; but on the contrary, one's whole time may be occupied in watching the various sights presented in constant succession. first comes the itinerant cobbler, with his seat and materials upon his back, and coolly selecting a place against the wall, opens his shop under your window, and drives his trade, most industriously, for half an hour. if you have anything to mend, he is too happy; if not he has not lost his time, for he pays no rent, and is all the while at work. he packs up again, bows to the _concierge_, as politely as his load will permit, and takes his departure, in the hope to find your shoes more worn another day. nothing could be more striking than his whole appearance. he is met in the gate, perhaps, by an old clothes man, who will buy or sell, and compliment you for nothing, cheapening your coat by calling the virgin to witness that your shape is so genteel that it will not fit one man in a thousand; or by a family of singers, with a monkey to keep time; or a regular beggar, who, however, does not dream of asking charity till he has done something to amuse you; after these, perhaps, will follow a succession of objects singularly peculiar to this fantastic metropolis; and if one could separate from the poor creatures the knowledge of the cold and hunger they suffer, wandering about, houseless, in the most inclement weather, it would be easy to imagine it a diverting pantomime, and give them the poor pittance they ask, as the price of an amused hour. an old man has just gone from the court who comes regularly twice a week, with a long beard, perfectly white, and a strange kind of an equipage. it is an organ, set upon a rude carriage, with four small wheels, and drawn by a mule, of the most diminutive size, looking (if it were not for the venerable figure crouched upon the seat) like some roughly-contrived plaything. the whole affair, harness and all, is evidently his own work; and it is affecting to see the difficulty, and withal, the habitual apathy with which the old itinerant fastens his rope-reins beside him, and dismounts to grind his one--solitary--eternal tune, for charity. among the thousands of wretched objects in paris (they make the heart sick with their misery at every turn), there is, here and there, one of an interesting character; and it is pleasant to select them, and make a habit of your trifling gratuity. strolling about, as i do, constantly, and letting everybody and everything amuse me that will, i have made several of these penny-a-day acquaintances, and find them very agreeable breaks to the heartless solitude of a crowd. there is a little fellow who stands by the gate of the tuileries, opening to the place vendome, who, with all the rags and dirt of a street-boy, begs with an air of superiority that is absolutely patronizing. one feels obliged to the little varlet for the privilege of giving to him--his smile and manner are so courtly. his face is beautiful, dirty as it is; his voice is clear, and unaffected, and his thin lips have an expression of high-bred contempt, that amuses me a little, and puzzles me a great deal. i think he must have gentleman's blood in his veins, though he possibly came indirectly by it. there is a little jewess hanging about the louvre, who begs with her dark eyes very eloquently; and in the _rue de la paix_ there may be found at all hours, a melancholy, sick-looking italian boy, with his hand in his bosom, whose native language and picture-like face are a diurnal pleasure to me, cheaply bought with the poor trifle which makes him happy. it is surprising how many devices there are in the streets for attracting attention and pity. there is a woman always to be seen upon the boulevards, playing a solemn tune on a violin, with a child as pallid as ashes, lying, apparently, asleep in her lap. i suspected, after seeing it once or twice, that it was wax, and a day or two since i satisfied myself of the fact, and enraged the mother excessively by touching its cheek. it represents a sick child to the life, and any one less idle and curious would be deceived. i have often seen people give her money with the most unsuspecting look of sympathy, though it would be natural enough to doubt the maternal kindness of keeping a dying child in the open air in mid-winter. then there is a woman without hands, making braid with wonderful adroitness; and a man without legs or arms, singing, with his hat set appealingly on the ground before him; and cripples, exposing their abbreviated limbs, and telling their stories over and over, with or without listeners, from morning till night; and every description of appeal to the most acute sympathies, mingled with all the gayety, show, and fashion, of the most crowded promenade in paris. in the present dreadful distress of trade, there are other still more painful cases of misery. it is not uncommon to be addressed in the street by men of perfectly respectable appearance, whose faces bear every mark of strong mental struggle, and often of famishing necessity, with an appeal for the smallest sum that will buy food. the look of misery is so general, as to mark the whole population. it has struck me most forcibly everywhere, notwithstanding the gayety of the national character, and, i am told by intelligent frenchmen, it is peculiar to the time, and felt and observed by all. such things startle one back to nature sometimes. it is difficult to look away from the face of a starving man, and see the splendid equipages, and the idle waste upon trifles, within his very sight, and reconcile the contrast with any belief of the existence of human pity--still more difficult, perhaps, to admit without reflection, the right of one human being to hold in a shut hand, at will, the very life and breath for which his fellow-creatures are perishing at his door. it is this that is visited back so terribly in the horrors of a revolution. letter xi. foyetiÉr--the thracian gladiator--mademoiselle mars--doctor franklin's residence in paris--annual ball for the poor. i had the pleasure to day of being introduced to the young sculptor foyetiér, the author of the new statue on the terrace of the tuileries. aside from his genius, he is interesting from a circumstance connected with his early history. he was a herd-driver in one of the provinces, and amused himself in his leisure moments with the carving of rude images, which he sold for a sous or two on market-days in the provincial town. the celebrated dr. gall fell in with him accidentally, and felt of his head, _en passant_. the bump was there which contains his present greatness, and the phrenologist took upon himself the risk of his education in the arts. he is now the first sculptor, beyond all competition, in france. his "_spartacus_," the thracian gladiator, is the admiration of paris. it stands in front of the palace, in the most conspicuous part of the regal gardens, and there are hundreds of people about the pedestal at all hours of the day. the gladiator has broken his chain, and stands with his weapon in his hand, every muscle and feature breathing action, his body thrown back, and his right foot planted powerfully for a spring. it is a gallant thing. one's blood stirs to look at it. _foyetiér_ is a young man, i should think about thirty. he is small, very plain in appearance; but he has a rapid, earnest eye, and a mouth of singular suavity of expression. i liked him extremely. his celebrity seems not to have trenched a step on the nature of his character. his genius is everywhere allowed, and he works for the king altogether, his majesty bespeaking everything he attempts, even in the model; but he is, certainly, of all geniuses, one of the most modest. * * * * * the celebrated mars has come out from her retirement once more, and commenced an engagement at the _theatre français_. i went a short time since to see her play in tartuffe. this stage is the home of the true french drama. here talma played when he and mademoiselle mars were the delight of napoleon and of france. i have had few gratifications greater than that of seeing this splendid woman re-appear in the place were she won her brilliant reputation. the play, too, was _moliere's_, and it was here that it was first performed. altogether it was like something plucked back from history; a renewal, as in a magic mirror, of glories gone by. i could scarce believe my eyes when she appeared as the "wife of argon." she looked about twenty-five. her step was light and graceful; her voice was as unlike that of a woman of sixty as could well be imagined; sweet, clear, and under a control which gives her a power of expression i never had conceived before; her mouth had the definite, firm play of youth; her teeth (though the dentist might do that) were white and perfect, and her eyes can have lost none of their fire, i am sure. i never saw so _quiet_ a player. her gestures were just perceptible, no more; and yet they were done so exquisitely at the right moment--so unconsciously, as if she had not meant them, that they were more forcible than even the language itself. she repeatedly drew a low murmur of delight from the whole house with a single play of expression across her face, while the other characters were speaking, or by a slight movement of her fingers, in pantomimic astonishment or vexation. it was really something new to me. i had never before seen a first-rate female player in _comedy_. leontine fay is inimitable in tragedy; but, if there be any comparison between them, it is that this beautiful young creature overpowers the _heart_ with her nature, while mademoiselle mars satisfies the uttermost demand of the _judgment_ with her art. * * * * * i yesterday visited the house occupied by franklin while he was in france. it is one of the most beautiful country residences in the neighborhood of paris, standing on the elevated ground of passy, and overlooking the whole city on one side, and the valley of the seine for a long distance toward versailles on the other. the house is otherwise celebrated. madame de genlis lived there while the present king was her pupil; and louis xv. occupied it six months for the country air, while under the infliction of the gout--its neighborhood to the palace probably rendering it preferable to the more distant _chateaux_ of st. cloud or versailles. its occupants would seem to have been various enough, without the addition of a lieutenant-general of the british army, whose hospitality makes it delightful at present. the lightning-rod, which was raised by franklin, and which was the first conductor used in france, is still standing. the gardens are large, and form a sort of terrace, with the house on the front edge. it must be one of the sweetest places in the world in summer. * * * * * the great annual ball for the poor was given at the _academie royale_, a few nights since. this is attended by the king and royal family, and is ordinarily the most splendid affair of the season. it is managed by twenty or thirty lady-patronesses, who have the control of the tickets; and, though by no means exclusive, it is kept within very respectable limits; and, if one is content to float with the tide, and forego dancing, is an unusually comfortable and well-behaved spectacle. i went with a large party at the early hour of eight. we fell into the train of carriages, advancing slowly between files of dragoons, and stood before the door in our turn in the course of an hour. the staircases were complete orangeries, with immense mirrors at every turn, and soldiers on guard, and servants in livery, from top to bottom. the long saloon, lighted by ten chandeliers, was dressed and hung with wreaths as a receiving-room; and passing on through the spacious lobbies, which were changed into groves of pines and exotics, we entered upon the grand scene. the _coup d'oeil_ would have astonished aladdin. the theatre, which is the largest in paris, and gorgeously built and ornamented, was thrown into one vast ball-room, ascending gradually from the centre to platforms raised at either end, one of which was occupied by the throne and seats for the king's family and suite. the four rows of boxes were crowded with ladies, and the house presented, from the floor to the _paradis_, one glittering and waving wall of dress, jewelry, and feathers. an orchestra of near a hundred musicians occupied the centre of the hall; and on either side of them swept by the long, countless multitudes of people, dressed with a union of taste and show; while, instead of the black coats which darken the complexion of a party in a republican country, every other gentleman was in a gay uniform; and polytechnic scholars, with their scarlet-faced coats, officers of the "national guard" and the "line," gentlemen of the king's household, and foreign ministers, and _attachés_, presented a variety of color and splendor which nothing could exceed. the theatre itself was not altered, except by the platform occupied by the king; it is sufficiently splendid as it stands; but the stage, whose area is much larger than that of the pit, was hung in rich drapery as a vast tent, and garnished to profusion with flags and arms. along the sides, on a level with the lower row of boxes, extended galleries of crimson velvet, festooned with flowers. these were filled with ladies, and completed a circle about the house of beauty and magnificence, of which the king and his dazzling suite formed the _corona_. chandeliers were hung close together from one end of the hall to the other. i commenced counting them once or twice, but some bright face flitting by in the dance interrupted me. an english girl near me counted fifty-five, and i think there must have been more. the blaze of light was almost painful. the air glittered, and the fine grain of the most delicate complexions was distinctly visible. it is impossible to describe the effect of so much light and space and music crowded into one spectacle. the vastness of the hall, so long that the best sight could not distinguish a figure at the opposite extremity, and so high as to absorb and mellow the vibration of a hundred instruments--the gorgeous sweep of splendor from one platform to the other, absolutely drowning the eye in a sea of gay colors, nodding feathers, jewelry, and military equipment--the delicious music, the strange faces, dresses, and tongues, (one-half of the multitude at least being foreigners), the presence of the king, and the gallant show of uniforms in his conspicuous _suite_, combined to make up a scene more than sufficiently astonishing. i felt the whole night the smothering consciousness of senses too narrow--eyes, ears, language, all too limited for the demand made upon them. the king did not arrive till after ten. he entered by a silken curtain in the rear of the platform on which seats were placed for his family. the "_vive le roi_" was not so hearty as to drown the music, but his majesty bowed some twenty times very graciously, and the good-hearted queen curtsied, and kept a smile on her excessively plain face, till i felt the muscles of my own ache for her. king philippe looks anxious. by the remarks of the french people about me when he entered, he has reason for it. i observed that the polytechnic scholars all turned their backs upon him; and one exceedingly handsome, spirited-looking boy, standing just at my side, muttered a "_sacré!_" and bit his lip, with a very revolutionary air, at the continuance of the acclamation. his majesty came down, and walked through the hall about midnight. his eldest son, the duke of orleans, a handsome, unoffending-looking youth of eighteen, followed him, gazing round upon the crowd with his mouth open, and looking very much annoyed at his part of the pageant. the young duke has a good figure, and is certainly a very beautiful dancer. his mouth is loose and weak, and his eyes are as opaque as agates. he wore the uniform of the _garde nationale_, which does not become him. in ordinary gentleman's dress, he is a very authentical copy of a bond-street dandy, and looks as little like a frenchman as most of stultz's subjects. he danced all the evening, and selected, very popularly, decidedly the most vulgar women in the room, looking all the while as one who had been petted by the finest women in france (leontine fay among the number), might be supposed to look, under such an infliction. the king's second son, the duke of nemours, pursued the same policy. he has a brighter face than his brother, with hair almost white, and dances extremely well. the second daughter is also much prettier than the eldest. on the whole, the king's family is a very plain, though a very amiable one, and the people seem attached to them. these general descriptions, are, after all, very vague. here i have written half a sheet with a picture in my mind of which you are getting no semblable idea. language is a mere skeleton of such things. the _academie royale_ should be borne over the water like the chapel of loretto, and set down in broadway with all its lights, music, and people, to give you half a notion of the "_bal en faveur des pauvres_." and so it is with everything except the little histories of one's own personal atmosphere, and that is the reason why egotism should be held virtuous in a traveller, and the reason why one cannot study europe at home. after getting our american party places, i abandoned myself to the strongest current, and went in search of "lions." the first face that arrested my eye was that of the duchess d'istria, a woman celebrated here for her extraordinary personal beauty. directly opposite this lovely dutchess, in the other stage-box, sat donna maria, the young queen of portugal, surrounded by her relatives. the ex-empress, her mother, was on her right, her grandmother on her left, and behind her some half dozen of her portuguese cousins. she is a little girl of twelve or fourteen, with a fat, heavy face, and a remarkably pampered, sleepy look. she was dressed like an old woman, and gaped incessantly the whole evening. the box was a perfect blaze of diamonds. i never before realized the beauty of these splendid stones. the necks, heads, arms, and waists of the ladies royal were all streaming with light. the necklace of the empress mother particularly flashed on the eye in every part of the house. by the unceasing exclamations of the women, it was an unusually brilliant show, even here. the little donna has a fine, well-rounded chin; and when she smiled in return to the king's bow, i thought i could see more than a child's character in the expression of her mouth. i should think a year or two of mental uneasiness might let out a look of intelligence through her heavy features. she is likely to have it, i think, with the doubtful fortunes that seem to beset her. i met don pedro often in society before his departure upon his expedition. he is a short, well-made man, of great personal accomplishment, and a very bad expression, rather aggravated by an unfortunate cutaneous eruption. the first time i saw him, i was induced to ask who he was, from the apparent coldness and dislike with which he was treated by a lady whose beauty had strongly arrested my attention. he sat by her on a sofa in a very crowded party, and seemed to be saying something very earnestly, which made the lady's spanish eyes flash fire, and brought a curl of very positive anger upon a pair of the loveliest lips imaginable. she was a slender, aristocratic-looking creature, and dressed most magnificently. after glancing at them a minute or two, i made up my mind that, from the authenticity of his dress and appointments, he was an englishman, and that she was some french lady of rank whom he was particularly annoying with his addresses. on inquiry, the gentleman proved to be don pedro, and the lady the countess de lourle, _his sister_! i have often met her since, and never without wondering how two of the same family could look so utterly unlike each other. the count de lourle is called the adonis of paris. he is certainly a very splendid fellow, and justifies the romantic admiration of his wife, who married him clandestinely, giving him her left hand in the ceremony, as is the etiquette, they say, when a princess marries below her rank. one can not help looking with great interest on a beautiful creature like this, who has broken away from the imposing fetters of a royal sphere, to follow the dictates of natural feeling. it does not occur so often in europe that one may not sentimentalize about it without the charge of affectation. to return to the ball. the king bowed himself out a little after midnight, and with him departed most of the fat people, and all the little girls. this made room enough to dance, and the french set themselves at it in good earnest. i wandered about for an hour or two; after wearying my imagination quite out in speculating on the characters and rank of people whom i never saw before and shall probably never see again, i mounted to the _paradis_ to take a last look down upon the splendid scene, and made my exit. i should be quite content never to go to such a ball again, though it was by far the most splendid scene of the kind i ever saw. letter xii. place louis xv.--panoramic view of paris--a literary club dinner--the guests--the president--the exiled poles, etc. i have spent the day in a long stroll. the wind blew warm and delicious from the south this morning, and the temptation to abandon lessons and lectures was irresistible. taking the _arc de l'etoile_ as my extreme point i yielded to all the leisurely hinderances of shop-windows, beggars, book-stalls, and views by the way. among the specimen-cards in an engraver's window i was amused at finding, in the latest parisian fashion, "hussein-pacha, _dey d'algiers_." these delightful tuileries! we rambled through them (i had met a friend and countryman, and enticed him into my idle plans for the day), and amused ourselves with the never-failing beauty and grace of the french children for an hour. on the inner terrace we stopped to look at the beautiful hotel of prince polignac, facing the tuileries, on the opposite bank. by the side of this exquisite little model of a palace stands the superb commencement of napoleon's ministerial hotel, breathing of his glorious conception in every line of its ruins. it is astonishing what a godlike impress that man left upon all he touched. every third or fourth child in the gardens was dressed in the full uniform of the national guard--helmet, sword, epaulets, and all. they are ludicrous little caricatures, of course, but it inoculates them with love of the corps, and it would be better if that were synonymous with a love of liberal principals. the _garde nationale_ are supposed to be more than half "carlists" at this moment. we passed out by the guarded gate of the tuileries to the _place louis xv._ this square is a most beautiful spot, as a centre of unequalled views, and yet a piece of earth so foully polluted with human blood probably does not exist on the face of the globe. it divides the tuileries from the _champs elysées_, and ranges of course, in the long broad avenue of two miles, stretching between the king's palace and the _arc de l'etoile_. it is but a list of names to write down the particular objects to be seen in such a view, but it commands, at the extremities of its radii, the most princely edifices, seen hence with the most advantageous foregrounds of space and avenue, and softened by distance into the misty and unbroken surface of engraving. the king's palace is on one hand, napoleon's arch at a distance of nearly two miles on the other, prince talleyrand's regal dwelling behind, with the church of madelaine seen through the _rue royale_, while before you, to the south, lies a picture of profuse splendor: the broad seine, spanned by bridges that are the admiration of europe, and crowded by specimens of architectural magnificence; the chamber of deputies; and the _palais bourbon_, approached by the _pont louis xvi._ with its gigantic statues and simple majesty of structure; and, rising over all, the grand dome of the "_invalides_," which napoleon gilded, to divert the minds of his subjects from his lost battle, and which peter the great admired more than all paris beside. what a spot for a man to stand upon, with but one bosom to feel and one tongue to express his wonder! and yet, of what, that should make a spot of earth sink to perdition, has it not been the theatre? here were beheaded the unfortunate louis xvi.--his wife, marie antoinette--his kinsman, philip duke of orleans, and his sister elizabeth; and here were guillotined the intrepid charlotte corday, the deputy brissot, and twenty of his colleagues, and all the victims of the revolution of , to the amount of two thousand eight hundred; and here robespierre and his cursed crew met at last with their insufficient retribution; and, as if it were destined to be the very blood-spot of the earth, here the fireworks, which were celebrating the marriage of the same louis that was afterward brought hither to the scaffold, exploded, and killed fourteen hundred persons. it has been the scene, also, of several minor tragedies not worth mentioning in such a connexion. were i a bourbon, and as unpopular as king philippe i. at this moment, the view of the place louis xv. from my palace windows would very much disturb the beauty of the perspective. without an _equivoque_, i should look with a very ominous dissatisfaction on the "elysian fields" that lie beyond. we loitered slowly on to the _barrier neuilly_, just outside of which, and right before the city gates, stands the triumphal arch. it has the stamp of napoleon--simple grandeur. the broad avenue from the tuileries swells slowly up to it for two miles, and the view of paris at its foot, even, is superb. we ascended to the unfinished roof, a hundred and thirty-five feet from the ground, and saw the whole of the mighty capital of france at a _coup d'oeil_--churches, palaces, gardens; buildings heaped upon buildings clear over the edge of the horizon, where the spires of the city in which you stand are scarcely visible for the distance. i dined, a short time since, with the editors of the _revue encyclopedique_ at their monthly reunion. this is a sort of club dinner, to which the eminent contributors of the review invite once a month all the strangers of distinction who happen to be in paris. i owed my invitation probably to the circumstance of my living with dr. howe, who is considered the organ of american principles here, and whose force of character has given him a degree of respect and prominence not often attained by foreigners. it was the most remarkable party, by far, that i had ever seen. there were nearly a hundred guests, twenty or thirty of whom were distinguished poles, lately arrived from warsaw. generals romarino and langermann were placed beside the president, and another general, whose name is as difficult to remember as his face is to forget, and who is famous for having been the last on the field, sat next to the head seat. near him were general bernard and dr. bowring, with sir sidney smith (covered with orders, from every quarter of the world), and the president of colombia. after the usual courses of a french dinner, the president, mons. julien, a venerable man with snow-white hair, addressed the company. he expressed his pleasure at the meeting, with the usual courtesies of welcome, and in the fervent manner of the old school of french politeness; and then pausing a little, and lowering his voice, with a very touching cadence, he looked around to the poles, and began to speak of their country. every movement was instantly hushed about the table--the guests leaned forward, some of them half rising in their earnestness to hear; the old man's voice trembled, and sunk lower; the poles dropped their heads upon their bosoms, and the whole company were strongly affected. his manner suddenly changed at this moment, in a degree that would have seemed too dramatic, if the strong excitement had not sustained him. he spoke indignantly of the russian barbarity toward poland--assured the exiles of the strong sympathy felt by the great mass of the french people in their cause, and expressed his confident belief that the struggle was not yet done, and the time was near when, with france at her back, poland would rise and be free. he closed, amid tumultuous acclamation, and all the poles near him kissed the old man, after the french manner, upon both his cheeks. this speech was followed by several others, much to the same effect. dr. bowring replied handsomely, in french, to some compliment paid to his efforts on the "question of reform," in england. _cesar moreau_, the great schemist, and founder of the _academie d'industrie_, said a few very revolutionary things quite emphatically, rolling his fine visionary-looking eyes about as if he saw the "shadows cast before" of coming events; and then rose a speaker, whom i shall never forget. he was a young polish noble, of about nineteen, whose extreme personal beauty and enthusiastic expression of countenance had particularly arrested my attention in the drawing-room, before dinner. his person was slender and graceful--his eye and mouth full of beauty and fire, and his manner had a quiet native superiority, that would have distinguished him anywhere. he had behaved very gallantly in the struggle, and some allusion had been made to him in one of the addresses. he rose modestly, and half unwillingly, and acknowledged the kind wishes for his country in language of great elegance. he then went on to speak of the misfortunes of poland, and soon warmed into eloquence of the most vivid earnestness and power. i never was more moved by a speaker--he seemed perfectly unconscious of everything but the recollections of his subject. his eyes swam with tears and flashed with indignation alternately, and his refined, spirited mouth assumed a play of varied expression, which, could it have been arrested, would have made a sculptor immortal. i can hardly write extravagantly of him, for all present were as much excited as myself. one ceases to wonder at the desperate character of the attempt to redeem the liberty of a land when he sees such specimens of its people. i have seen hundreds of poles, of all classes, in paris, and i have not yet met with a face of even common dulness among them. you have seen by the papers, i presume, that a body of several thousand poles fled from warsaw, after the defeat, and took refuge in the northern forests of prussia. they gave up their arms under an assurance from the king that they should have all the rights of prussian subjects. he found it politic afterward to recall his protection, and ordered them back to poland. they refused to go, and were surrounded by a detachment of his army, and the orders given to fire upon them. the soldiers refused, and the poles, taking advantage of the sympathy of the army, broke through the ranks, and escaped to the forest, where, at the last news, they were armed with clubs, and determined to defend themselves to the last. the consequence of a return to poland would be, of course, an immediate exile to siberia. the polish committee, american and french, with general lafayette at their head, have appropriated a great part of their funds to the relief of this body, and our countryman, dr. howe, has undertaken the dangerous and difficult task of carrying it to them. he left paris for brussels, with letters from the polish generals, and advices from lafayette to all polish committees upon his route, that they should put all their funds into his hands. he is a gallant fellow, and will succeed if any one can; but he certainly runs great hazard. god prosper him! letter xiii. the gambling-houses of paris. i accepted, last night, from a french gentleman of high standing, a polite offer of introduction to one of the exclusive gambling clubs of paris. with the understanding, of course, that it was only as a spectator, my friend, whom i had met at a dinner party, despatched a note from the table, announcing to the temporary master of ceremonies his intention of presenting me. we went at eleven, in full dress. i was surprised at the entrance with the splendor of the establishment--gilt balustrades, marble staircases, crowds of servants in full livery, and all the formal announcement of a court. passing through several ante-chambers, a heavy folding-door was thrown open, and we were received by one of the noblest-looking men i have seen in france--count ----. i was put immediately at my ease by his dignified and kind politeness; and after a little conversation in english, which he spoke fluently, the entrance of some other person left me at liberty to observe at my leisure. everything about me had the impress of the studied taste of high life. the lavish and yet soft disposition of light, the harmony of color in the rich hangings and furniture, the quiet manners and subdued tones of conversation, the respectful deference of the servants, and the simplicity of the slight entertainment, would have convinced me, without my asmodeus, that i was in no every-day atmosphere. conversation proceeded for an hour, while the members came dropping in from their evening engagements, and a little after twelve a glass door was thrown open, and we passed from the reception-room to the spacious suite of apartments intended for play. one or two of the gentlemen entered the side rooms for billiards and cards, but the majority closed about the table of hazard in the central hall. i had never conceived so beautiful an apartment. it can be described in two words--_columns_ and _mirrors_. there was nothing else between the exquisitely-painted ceiling and the floor. the form was circular, and the wall was laid with glass, interrupted only with pairs of corinthian pillars, with their rich capitals reflected and re-reflected innumerably. it seemed like a hall of colonnades of illimitable extent--the multiplication of the mirrors into each other was so endless and illusive. i felt an unconquerable disposition to abandon myself to a waking revery of pleasure; and as soon as the attention of the company was perfectly engrossed by the silent occupation before them, i sank upon a sofa, and gave my senses up for a while to the fascination of the scene. my eye was intoxicated. as far as my sight could penetrate, stretched apparently interminable halls, carpeted with crimson, and studded with graceful columns and groups of courtly figures, forming altogether, with its extent and beauty, and in the subdued and skilfully-managed light, a picture that, if real, would be one of unsurpassable splendor. i quite forgot my curiosity to see the game. i had merely observed, when my companion reminded me of the arrival of my own appointed hour for departure that, whatever was lost or won, the rustling bills were passed from one to the other with a quiet and imperturbable politeness, that betrayed no sign either of chagrin or triumph; though, from the fact that the transfers were in paper only, the stakes must have been anything but trifling. refusing a polite invitation to partake of the supper, always in waiting, we took leave about two hours after midnight. as we drove from the court, my companion suggested to me, that, since we were out at so late an hour, we might as well look in for a moment at the more accessible "hells," and, pulling the _cordon_, he ordered to "_frascati's_." this, you know of course, is the fashionable place of ruin, and here the heroes of all novels, and the rakes of all comedies, mar or make their fortunes. an evening dress, and the look of a gentleman, are the only required passport. a servant in attendance took our hats and canes, and we walked in without ceremony. it was a different scene from the former. four large rooms, plainly but handsomely furnished, opened into each other, three of which were devoted to play, and crowded with players. elegantly-dressed women, some of them with high pretensions to french beauty, sat and stood at the table, watching their own stakes in the rapid games with fixed attention. the majority of the gentlemen were english. the table was very large, marked as usual with the lines and figures of the game, and each person playing had a small rake in his hand, with which he drew toward him his proportion of the winnings. i was disappointed at the first glance in the faces: there was very little of the high-bred courtesy i had seen at the club-house, but there was no very striking exhibition of feeling, and i should think, in any but an extreme case, the whispering silence and general quietness of the room would repress it. after watching the variations of luck awhile, however, i selected one or two pretty desperate losers, and a young frenchman who was a large winner, and confined my observation to them only. among the former was a girl of about eighteen, a mild, quiet-looking creature, with her hair curling long on her neck, and hands childishly small and white, who lost invariably. two piles of five-franc pieces and a small heap of gold lay on the table beside her, and i watched her till she laid the last coin upon the losing color. she bore it very well. by the eagerness with which, at every turn of the last card, she closed her hand upon the rake which she held, it was evident that her hopes were high; but when her last piece was drawn into the bank, she threw up her little fingers with a playful desperation, and commenced conversation even gayly with a gentleman who stood leaning over her chair. the young frenchman continued almost as invariably to win. he was excessively handsome; but there was a cold, profligate, unvarying hardness of expression in his face, that made me dislike him. the spectators drew gradually about his chair; and one or two of the women, who seemed to know him well, selected a color for him occasionally, or borrowed of him and staked for themselves. we left him winning. the other players were mostly english, and very uninteresting in their exhibition of disappointment. my companion told me that there would be more desperate playing toward morning, but i had become disgusted with the cold selfish faces of the scene, and felt no interest sufficient to detain me. letter xiv. the garden of the tuileries--prince moscowa--sons of napoleon-- cooper and morse--sir sidney smith--fashionable women--close of the day--the famous eating-houses--how to dine well in paris, etc. it is march, and the weather has all the characteristics of new-england may. the last two or three days have been deliciously spring-like, clear, sunny, and warm. the gardens of the tuileries are crowded. the chairs beneath the terraces are filled by the old men reading the gazettes, mothers and nurses watching their children at play, and, at every few steps, circles of whole families sitting and sewing, or conversing, as unconcernedly as at home. it strikes a stranger oddly. with the _privacy_ of american feelings, we cannot conceive of these out-of-door french habits. what would a boston or new york mother think of taking chairs for her whole family, grown-up daughters and all, in the mall or upon the battery, and spending the day in the very midst of the gayest promenade of the city? people of all ranks do it here. you will see the powdered, elegant gentleman of the _ancien régime_, handing his wife or daughter to a straw-bottomed chair, with all the air of drawing-room courtesy; and, begging pardon for the liberty, pull his journal from his pocket, and sit down to read beside her; or a tottering old man, leaning upon a stout swiss servant girl, goes bowing and apologizing through the crowd, in search of a pleasant neighbor, or some old compatriot, with whom he may sit and nod away the hours of sunshine. it is a beautiful custom, positively. the gardens are like a constant _féte_. it is a holiday revel, without design or disappointment. it is a masque, where every one plays his character unconsciously, and therefore naturally and well. we get no idea of it at home. we are too industrious a nation to have idlers enough. it would even pain most of the people of our country to see so many thousands of all ages and conditions of life spending day after day in such absolute uselessness. imagine yourself here, on the fashionable terrace, the promenade, two days in the week, of all that is distinguished and gay in paris. it is a short raised walk, just inside the railings, and the only part of all these wide and beautiful gardens where a member of the _beau monde_ is ever to be met. the hour is four, the day friday, the weather heavenly. i have just been long enough in paris to be an excellent walking dictionary, and i will tell you who people are. in the first place, all the well-dressed men you see are english. you will know the french by those flaring coats, laid clear back on their shoulders, and their execrable hats and thin legs. their heads are fresh from the hair-dresser; their hats are _chapeaux de soie_ or imitation beaver; they are delicately rouged, and wear very white gloves; and those who are with ladies, lead, as you observe, a small dog by a string, or carry it in their arms. no french lady walks out without her lap-dog. these slow-paced men you see in brown mustaches and frogged coats are refugee poles. the short, thick, agile-looking man before us is general ----, celebrated for having been the last to surrender on the last field of that brief contest. his handsome face is full of resolution, and unlike the rest of his countrymen, he looks still unsubdued and in good heart. he walks here every day an hour or two, swinging his cane round his forefinger, and thinking, apparently of anything but his defeat. observe these two young men approaching us. the short one on the left, with the stiff hair and red mustache, is _prince moscowa_, the son of marshal ney. he is an object of more than usual interest just now, as the youngest of the new batch of peers. the expression of his countenance is more bold than handsome, and indeed he is anything but a carpet knight; a fact of which he seems, like a man of sense, quite aware. he is to be seen at the parties standing with his arms folded, leaning silently against the wall for hours together. his companion is, i presume to say, quite the handsomest man you ever saw. a little over six feet, perfectly proportioned, dark silken-brown hair, slightly curling about his forehead, a soft curling mustache, and beard just darkening the finest cut mouth in the world, and an olive complexion, of the most golden richness and clearness--mr. ---- is called the handsomest man in europe. what is more remarkable still, he looks like the most modest man in europe, too; though, like most modest _looking_ men, his reputation for constancy in the gallant world is somewhat slender. and here comes a fine-looking man, though of a different order of beauty--a natural son of napoleon. he is about his father's height, and has most of his features, though his person and air must be quite different. you see there napoleon's beautiful mouth and thinly chiselled nose, but i fancy that soft eye is his mother's. he is said to be one of the most fascinating men in france. his mother was the countess waleski, a lady with whom the emperor became acquainted in poland. it is singular that napoleon's talents and love of glory have not descended upon any of the eight or ten sons whose claims to his paternity are admitted. and here come two of our countrymen, who are to be seen constantly together--_cooper_ and _morse_. that is cooper with the blue surtout buttoned up to his throat, and his hat over his eyes. what a contrast between the faces of the two men! morse with his kind, open, gentle countenance, the very picture of goodness and sincerity; and cooper, dark and corsair-looking, with his brows down over his eyes, and his strongly lined mouth fixed in an expression of moodiness and reserve. the two faces, however, are not equally just to their owners--morse is all that he looks to be, but cooper's features do him decided injustice. i take a pride in the reputation which this distinguished countryman of ours has for humanity and generous sympathy. the distress of the refugee liberals from all countries comes home especially to americans, and the untiring liberality of mr. cooper particularly, is a fact of common admission and praise. it is pleasant to be able to say such things. morse is taking a sketch of the gallery of the louvre, and he intends copying some of the best pictures also, to accompany it as an exhibition, when he returns. our artists do our country credit abroad. the feeling of interest in one's country artists and authors becomes very strong in a foreign land. every leaf of laurel awarded to them seems to touch one's own forehead. and, talking of laurels, here comes _sir sidney smith_--the short, fat, old gentleman yonder, with the large aquiline nose and keen eye. he is one of the few men who ever opposed napoleon successfully, and that should distinguish him, even if he had not won by his numerous merits and achievements the gift of almost every order in europe. he is, among other things, of a very mechanical turn, and is quite crazy just now about a six-wheeled coach, which he has lately invented, and of which nobody sees the exact benefit but himself. an invitation to his rooms, to hear his description of the model, is considered the last new bore. and now for ladies. whom do you see that looks distinguished? scarce one whom you would take positively for a lady, i venture to presume. these two, with the velvet pelisses and small satin bonnets, are rather the most genteel-looking people in the garden. i set them down for ladies of rank, in the first walk i ever took here; and two who have just passed us, with the curly lap-dog, i was equally sure were persons of not very dainty morality. it is precisely _au contraire_. the velvet pelisses are gamblers from frascati's, and the two with the lap-dog are the countess n. and her unmarried daughter--two of the most exclusive specimens of parisian society. it is very odd--but if you see a remarkably modest-looking woman in paris, you may be sure, as the periphrasis goes, that "she is no better than she should be." everything gets _travestied_ in this artificial society. the general ambition seems to be, to appear that which one is not. white-haired men cultivate their sparse mustaches, and dark-haired men shave. deformed men are successful in gallantry, where handsome men despair. ugly women dress and dance, while beauties mope and are deserted. modesty looks brazen, and vice looks timid; and so all through the calendar. life in paris is as pretty a series of astonishment, as an _ennuyé_ could desire. but there goes the palace-bell--five o'clock! the sun is just disappearing behind the dome of the "invalides," and the crowd begins to thin. look at the atmosphere of the gardens. how deliciously the twilight mist softens everything. statues, people, trees, and the long perspectives down the alleys, all mellowed into the shadowy indistinctness of fairy-land. the throng is pressing out at the gates, and the guard, with his bayonet presented, forbids all re-entrance, for the gardens are cleared at sundown. the carriages are driving up and dashing away, and if you stand a moment you will see the most vulgar-looking people you have met in your promenade, waited for by _chasseurs_, and departing with indications of rank in their equipages, which nature has very positively denied to their persons. and now all the world dines and dines well. the "_chef_" stands with his gold repeater in his hand, waiting for the moment to decide the fate of the first dish; the _garçons_ at the restaurants have donned their white aprons, and laid the silver forks upon the napkins; the pretty women are seated on their thrones in the saloons, and the interesting hour is here. where shall we dine? we will walk toward the palais royal, and talk of it as we go along. that man would "deserve well of his country" who should write a "paris guide" for the palate. i would do it myself if i could elude the immortality it would occasion me. one is compelled to pioneer his own stomach through the endless _cartes_ of some twelve eating-houses, all famous, before he half knows whether he is dining well or ill. i had eaten for a week at very's, for instance, before i discovered that, since pelham's day, that gentleman's reputation has gone down. he is a subject for history at present. i was misled also by an elderly gentleman at havre, who advised me to eat at _grignon's_, in the _passage vivienne_. not liking my first _coquilles aux huitres_, i made some private inquiries, and found that his _chef_ had deserted him about the time of napoleon's return from elba. a stranger gets misguided in this way. and then, if by accident you hit upon the right house, you may be eating for a month before you find out the peculiar triumphs which have stamped its celebrity. no mortal man can excel in everything, and it is as true of cooking as it is of poetry. the "_rochers de cancale_," is now the first eating-house in paris, yet they only excel in fish. the "_trois fréres provençaux_," have a high reputation, yet their _cotelettes provençales_ are the only dish which you can not get equally well elsewhere. a good practice is to walk about in the palais royal for an hour before dinner, and select a master. you will know a _gourmet_ easily--a man slightly past the prime of life, with a nose just getting its incipient blush, a remarkably loose, voluminous white cravat, and a corpulence more of suspicion than fact. follow him to his restaurant, and give the _garçon_ a private order to serve you with the same dishes as the _bald_ gentleman. (i have observed that dainty livers universally lose their hair early.) i have been in the wake of such a person now for a week or more, and i never lived, comparatively, before. here we are, however, at the "_trois fréres_," and there goes my unconscious model deliberately up stairs. we'll follow him, and double his orders, and if we dine not well, there is no eating in france. letter xv. hopital des invalides--monument of turenne--marshal ney--a polish lady in uniform--females masquerading in men's clothes--duel between the sons of george iv. and of bonaparte--gambling propensities of the french. the weather still holds warm and bright, as it has been all the month, and the scarcely "premature white pantaloons" appeared yesterday in the tuileries. the ladies loosen their "boas;" the silken greyhounds of italy follow their mistresses without shivering; the birds are noisy and gay in the clipped trees--who that had known february in new england would recognize him by such a description? i took an indolent stroll with a friend this morning to the _hopital des invalides_, on the other side of the river. here, not long since, were twenty-five thousand old soldiers. there are but five thousand now remaining, most of them having been dismissed by the bourbons. it is of course one of the most interesting spots in france; and of a pleasant day there is no lounge where a traveller can find so much matter for thought, with so much pleasure to the eye. we crossed over by the _pons louis quinze_, and kept along the bank of the river to the esplanade in front of the hospital. there was never a softer sunshine, or a more deliciously-tempered air; and we found the old veterans out of doors, sitting upon the cannon along the rampart, or halting about, with their wooden legs, under the trees, the pictures of comfort and contentment. the building itself, as you know, is very celebrated for its grandeur. the dome of the _invalides_ rises upon the eye from all parts of paris, a perfect model of proportion and beauty. it was this which bonaparte ordered to be gilded, to divert the people from thinking too much upon his defeat. it is a living monument of the most touching recollections of him now. positively the blood mounts, and the tears spring to the eyes of the spectator, as he stands a moment, and remembers what is around him in that place. to see his maimed followers, creeping along the corridors, clothed and fed by the bounty he left, in a place devoted to his soldiers alone, their old comrades about them, and all glowing with one feeling of devotion to his memory, to speak to them, to hear their stories of--"_l'empereur_" it is better than a thousand histories to make one _feel_ the glory of "the great captain." the interior of the dome is vast, and of a splendid style of architecture, and out from one of its sides extends a superb chapel, hung all round with the tattered flags taken in _his_ victories alone. here the veterans of his army worship, beneath the banners for which they fought. it is hardly appropriate, i should think, to adorn thus the church of a "religion of peace;" but while there, at least, we feel strangely certain, somehow, that it is right and fitting; and when, as we stood deciphering the half-effaced insignia of the different nations, the organ began to peal, there certainly was anything but a jar between this grand music, consecrated as it is by religious associations, and the thrilling and uncontrolled sense in my bosom of napoleon's glory. the anthem seemed to _him_! the majestic sounds were still rolling through the dome when we came to the monument of _turenne_. here is another comment on the character of bonaparte's mind. there was once a long inscription on this monument, describing, in the fulsome style of an epitaph, the deeds and virtues of the distinguished man who is buried beneath. the emperor removed and replaced it by a small slab, graven with the single word turenne. you acknowledge the sublimity of this as you stand before it. everything is in keeping with its grandeur. the lofty proportions and magnificence of the dome, the tangible trophies of glory, and the maimed and venerable figures, kneeling about the altar, of those who helped to win them, are circumstances that make that eloquent word as articulate as if it were spoken in thunder. you feel that napoleon's spirit might walk the place, and read the hearts of those who should visit it, unoffended. we passed on to the library. it is ornamented with the portraits of all the generals of napoleon, save one. _ney's_ is not there. it should, and will be, at some time or other, doubtless; but i wonder that, in a day when such universal justice is done to the memory of this brave man, so obvious and it would seem necessary a reparation should not be demanded. great efforts have been making of late to get his sentence publicly reversed, but, though they deny his widow and children nothing else, this melancholy and unavailing satisfaction is refused them. ney's memory little needs it, it is true. no visiter looks about the gallery at the _invalides_ without commenting feelingly on the omission of his portrait; and probably no one of the scarred veterans who sit there, reading their own deeds in history, looks round on the faces of the old leaders of whom it tells, without remembering and feeling that the brightest name upon the page is wanting. i would rather, if i were his son, have the regret than the justice. we left the hospital, as all must leave it, full of napoleon. france is full of him. the monuments and the hearts of the people, all are alive with his name and glory. disapprove and detract from his reputation as you will (and as powerful minds, with apparent justice, _have_ done), as long as human nature is what it is, as long as power and loftiness of heart hold their present empire over the imagination, napoleon is immortal. * * * * * the promenading world is amused just now with the daily appearance in the tuileries of a polish lady, dressed in the polonaise undress uniform, decorated with the order of distinction given for bravery at warsaw. she is not very beautiful, but she wears the handsome military cap quite gallantly; and her small feet and full chest are truly captivating in boots and a frogged coat. it is an exceedingly spirited, well-charactered face, with a complexion slightly roughened by her new habits. her hair is cut short, and brushed up at the sides, and she certainly handles the little switch she carries with an air which entirely forbids insult. she is ordinarily seen lounging very idly along between two polytechnic boys, who seem to have a great admiration for her. i observe that the polish generals touch their hats very respectfully as she passes, but as yet i have been unable to come at her precise history. by the by, masquerading in men's clothes is not at all uncommon in paris. i have sometimes seen two or three women at a time dining at the restaurants in this way. no notice is taken of it, and the lady is perfectly safe from insult, though every one that passes may penetrate the disguise. it is common at the theatres, and at the public balls still more so. i have noticed repeatedly at the weekly _soirées_ of a lady of high respectability, two sisters in boy's clothes, who play duets upon the piano for the dance. the lady of the house told me they preferred it, to avoid attention, and the awkwardness of position natural to their vocation, in society. the tailors tell me it is quite a branch of trade--making suits for ladies of a similar taste. there is one particularly, in the _rue richelieu_, who is famed for his nice fits to the female figure. it is remarkable, however, that instead of wearing their new honors meekly, there is no such impertinent puppy as a _femme deguisée_. i saw one in a _café_, not long ago, rap the _garçon_ very smartly over the fingers with a rattan, for overrunning her cup; and they are sure to shoulder you off the sidewalk, if you are at all in the way. i have seen several amusing instances of a probable quarrel in the street, ending in a gay bow, and a "_pardon, madame!_" * * * * * there has been a great deal of excitement here for the past two days on the result of a gambling quarrel. an english gentleman, a fine, gay, noble-looking fellow, whom i have often met at parties, and admired for his strikingly winning and elegant manners, lost fifty thousand francs on thursday night at cards. the count st. leon was the winner. it appears that hesse, the englishman, had drank freely before sitting down to play, and the next morning his friend, who had bet upon the game, persuaded him that there had been some unfairness on the part of his opponent. he refused consequently to pay the debt, and charged the frenchman, and another gentleman who backed him, with deception. the result was a couple of challenges, which were both accepted. hesse fought the count on friday, and was dangerously wounded at the first fire. his friend fought on saturday (yesterday), and is reported to be mortally wounded. it is a little remarkable that both the _losers_ are shot, and still more remarkable, that hesse should have been, as he was known to be, a natural son of george the fourth; and count leon, as was equally well known, a natural son of bonaparte! everybody gambles in paris. i had no idea that so desperate a vice could be so universal, and so little deprecated as it is. the gambling-houses are as open and as ordinary a resort as any public promenade, and one may haunt them with as little danger to his reputation. to dine from six to eight, gamble from eight to ten, go to a ball, and return to gamble till morning, is as common a routine for married men and bachelors both, as a system of dress, and as little commented on. i sometimes stroll into the card-room at a party, but i can not get accustomed to the sight of ladies losing or winning money. almost all frenchwomen, who are too old to dance, play at parties; and their daughters and husbands watch the game as unconcernedly as if they were turning over prints. i have seen english ladies play, but with less philosophy. they do not lose their money gayly. it is a great spoiler of beauty, the vexation of a loss. i think i never could respect a woman upon whose face i had remarked the shade i often see at an english card-table. it is certain that vice walks abroad in paris, in many a shape that would seem, to an american eye, to show the fiend too openly. i am not over particular, i think, but i would as soon expose a child to the plague as give either son or daughter a free rein for a year in paris. letter xvi. the cholera--a masque ball--the gay world--mobs--visit to the hotel dieu. you see by the papers, i presume, the official accounts of the cholera in paris. it seems very terrible to you, no doubt, at your distance from the scene, and truly it is terrible enough, if one could realize it, anywhere; but many here do not trouble themselves about it, and you might be in this metropolis a month, and if you observed the people only, and frequented only the places of amusement, and the public promenades, you might never suspect its existence. the weather is june-like, deliciously warm and bright; the trees are just in the tender green of the new buds, and the public gardens are thronged all day with thousands of the gay and idle, sitting under the trees in groups, laughing and amusing themselves, as if there were no plague in the air, though hundreds die every day. the churches are all hung in black; there is a constant succession of funerals; and you cross the biers and hand-barrows of the sick, hurrying to the hospitals at every turn, in every quarter of the city. it is very hard to realize such things, and, it would seem, very hard even to treat them seriously. i was at a masque ball at the _théatre des varietés_, a night or two since, at the celebration of the _mi-careme_, or half-lent. there were some two thousand people, i should think, in fancy dresses, most of them grotesque and satirical, and the ball was kept up till seven in the morning, with all the extravagant gaiety, noise, and fun, with which the french people manage such matters. there was a _cholera-waltz_, and a _cholera-galopade_, and one man, immensely tall, dressed as a personification of the _cholera_ itself, with skeleton armor, bloodshot eyes, and other horrible appurtenances of a walking pestilence. it was the burden of all the jokes, and all the cries of the hawkers, and all the conversation; and yet, probably, nineteen out of twenty of those present lived in the quarters most ravaged by the disease, and many of them had seen it face to face, and knew perfectly its deadly character! as yet, with few exceptions, the higher classes of society have escaped. it seems to depend very much on the manner in which people live, and the poor have been struck in every quarter, often at the very next door to luxury. a friend told me this morning, that the porter of a large and fashionable hotel, in which he lives, had been taken to the hospital; and there have been one or two cases in the airy quarter of st. germain, in the same street with mr. cooper, and nearly opposite. several physicians and medical students have died too, but the majority of these live with the narrowest economy, and in the parts of the city the most liable to impure effluvia. the balls go on still in the gay world; and i presume they _would_ go on if there were only musicians enough left to make an orchestra, or fashionists to compose a quadrille. i was walking home very late from a party the night before last, with a captain in the english army. the gray of the morning was just stealing into the sky; and after a stopping a moment in the _place vendome_, to look at the column, stretching up apparently unto the very stars, we bade good morning, and parted. he had hardly left me, he said, when he heard a frightful scream from one of the houses in the _rue st. honoré_, and thinking there might be some violence going on, he rang at the gate and entered, mounting the first staircase that presented. a woman had just opened a door, and fallen on the broad stair at the top, and was writhing in great agony. the people of the house collected immediately; but the moment my friend pronounced the word cholera, there was a general dispersion, and he was left alone with the patient. he took her in his arms, and carried her to a coach-stand, without assistance, and, driving to the _hotel dieu_, left her with the _soeurs de charité_. she has since died. as if one plague were not enough, the city is still alive in the distant faubourgs with revolts. last night, the _rappel_ was beat all over the town, the national guard called to arms, and marched to the _porte st. denis_, and the different quarters where the mobs were collected. many suppose there is no cholera except such as is produced by poison; and the _hotel dieu_, and the other hospitals, are besieged daily by the infuriated mob, who swear vengeance against the government for all the mortality they witness. * * * * * i have just returned from a visit to the _hotel dieu_--the hospital for the cholera. impelled by a powerful motive, which it is not now necessary to explain, i had previously made several attempts to gain admission in vain; but yesterday i fell in fortunately with an english physician, who told me i could pass with a doctor's diploma, which he offered to borrow for me of some medical friend. he called by appointment at seven this morning, to accompany me on my visit. it was like one of our loveliest mornings in june--an inspiriting, sunny, balmy day, all softness and beauty--and we crossed the tuileries by one of its superb avenues, and kept down the bank of the river to the island. with the errand on which we were bound in our minds, it was impossible not to be struck very forcibly with our own exquisite enjoyment of life. i am sure i never felt my veins fuller of the pleasure of health and motion; and i never saw a day when everything about me seemed better worth living for. the splendid palace of the louvre, with its long _façade_ of nearly half a mile, lay in the mellowest sunshine on our left; the lively river, covered with boats, and spanned with its magnificent and crowded bridges on our right; the view of the island, with its massive old structures below, and the fine gray towers of the church of _notre dame_ rising, dark and gloomy, in the distance, rendered it difficult to realize anything but life and pleasure. that under those very towers, which added so much to the beauty of the scene, there lay a thousand and more of poor wretches dying of a plague, was a thought my mind would not retain a moment. half an hour's walk brought us to the _place notre dame_, on one side of which, next this celebrated church, stands the hospital. my friend entered, leaving me to wait till he had found an acquaintance of whom he could borrow a diploma. a hearse was standing at the door of the church, and i went in for a moment. a few mourners, with the appearance of extreme poverty, were kneeling round a coffin at one of the side altars; and a solitary priest, with an attendant boy, was mumbling the prayers for the dead. as i came out, another hearse drove up, with a rough coffin, scantily covered with a pall, and followed by one poor old man. they hurried in, and i strolled around the square. fifteen or twenty water-carriers were filling their buckets at the fountain opposite, singing and laughing; and at the same moment four different litters crossed toward the hospital, each with its two or three followers, women and children, friends or relatives of the sick, accompanying them to the door, where they parted from them, most probably for ever. the litters were set down a moment before ascending the steps; the crowd pressed around and lifted the coarse curtains; farewells were exchanged, and the sick alone passed in. i did not see any great demonstration of feeling in the particular cases that were before me; but i can conceive, in the almost deadly certainty of this disease, that these hasty partings at the door of the hospital might often be scenes of unsurpassed suffering and distress. i waited, perhaps, ten minutes more. in the whole time that i had been there, twelve litters, bearing the sick, had entered the _hotel dieu_. as i exhibited the borrowed diploma, the thirteenth arrived, and with it a young man, whose violent and uncontrolled grief worked so far on the soldier at the door, that he allowed him to pass. i followed the bearers to the yard, interested exceedingly to observe the first treatment and manner of reception. they wound slowly up the stone staircase to the upper story, and entered the female department--a long low room, containing nearly a hundred beds, placed in alleys scarce two feet from each other. nearly all were occupied, and those which were empty my friend told me were vacated by deaths yesterday. they set down the litter by the side of a narrow cot, with coarse but clean sheets, and a _soeur de charité_, with a white cap, and a cross at her girdle, came and took off the canopy. a young woman, of apparently twenty-five, was beneath, absolutely convulsed with agony. her eyes were started from their sockets, her mouth foamed, and her face was of a frightful, livid purple. i never saw so horrible a sight. she had been taken in perfect health only three hours before, but her features looked to me marked with a year of pain. the first attempt to lift her produced violent vomiting, and i thought she must die instantly. they covered her up in bed, and leaving the man who came with her hanging over her with the moan of one deprived of his senses, they went to receive others, who were entering in the same manner. i inquired of my companion how soon she would be attended to. he said, "possibly in an hour, as the physician was just commencing his rounds." an hour after this i passed the bed of this poor woman, and she had not yet been visited. her husband answered my question with a choking voice and a flood of tears. i passed down the ward, and found nineteen or twenty in the last agonies of death. they lay perfectly still, and seemed benumbed. i felt the limbs of several, and found them quite cold. the stomach only had a little warmth. now and then a half groan escaped those who seemed the strongest; but with the exception of the universally open mouth and upturned ghastly eye, there were no signs of much suffering. i found two who must have been dead half an hour, undiscovered by the attendants. one of them was an old woman, nearly gray, with a very bad expression of face, who was perfectly cold--lips, limbs, body, and all. the other was younger, and looked as if she had died in pain. her eyes appeared as if they had been forced half out of the sockets, and her skin was of the most livid and deathly purple. the woman in the next bed told me she had died since the _soeur de charité_ had been there. it is horrible to think how these poor creatures may suffer in the very midst of the provisions that are made professedly for their relief. i asked why a simple prescription of treatment might not be drawn up the physicians, and administered by the numerous medical students who were in paris, that as few as possible might suffer from delay. "because," said my companion, "the chief physicians must do everything _personally_, to study the complaint." and so, i verily believe, more human lives are sacrificed in waiting for experiments, than ever will be saved by the results. my blood boiled from the beginning to the end of this melancholy visit. i wandered about alone among the beds till my heart was sick, and i could bear it no longer; and then rejoined my friend, who was in the train of one of the physicians, making the rounds. one would think a dying person should be treated with kindness. i never saw a rougher or more heartless manner than that of the celebrated dr. ----, at the bedsides of these poor creatures. a harsh question, a rude pulling open of the mouth, to look at the tongue, a sentence or two of unsuppressed comments to the students on the progress of the disease, and the train passed on. if discouragement and despair are not medicines, i should think the visits of such physicians were of little avail. the wretched sufferers turned away their heads after he had gone, in every instance that i saw, with an expression of visibly increased distress. several of them refused to answer his questions altogether. on reaching the bottom of the _salle st. monique_, one of the male wards, i heard loud voices and laughter. i had noticed much more groaning and complaining in passing among the men, and the horrible discordance struck me as something infernal. it proceeded from one of the sides to which the patients had been removed who were recovering. the most successful treatment has been found to be _punch_, very strong, with but little acid, and being permitted to drink as much as they would, they had become partially intoxicated. it was a fiendish sight, positively. they were sitting up, and reaching from one bed to the other, and with their still pallid faces and blue lips, and the hospital dress of white, they looked like so many carousing corpses. i turned away from them in horror. i was stopped in the door-way by a litter entering with a sick woman. they set her down in the main passage between the beds, and left her a moment to find a place for her. she seemed to have an interval of pain, and rose up on one hand, and looked about her very earnestly. i followed the direction of her eyes, and could easily imagine her sensations. twenty or thirty death-like faces were turned toward her from the different beds, and the groans of the dying and the distressed came from every side. she was without a friend whom she knew, sick of a mortal disease, and abandoned to the mercy of those whose kindness is mercenary and habitual, and of course without sympathy or feeling. was it not enough alone, if she had been far less ill, to imbitter the very fountains of life, and kill her with mere fright and horror? she sank down upon the litter again, and drew her shawl over her head. i had seen enough of suffering, and i left the place. on reaching the lower staircase, my friend proposed to me to look into the _dead-room_. we descended to a large dark apartment below the street-level, lighted by a lamp fixed to the wall. sixty or seventy bodies lay on the floor, some of them quite uncovered, and some wrapped in mats. i could not see distinctly enough by the dim light, to judge of their discoloration. they appeared mostly old and emaciated. i can not describe the sensation of relief with which i breathed the free air once more. i had no fear of the cholera, but the suffering and misery i had seen, oppressed and half smothered me. every one who has walked through an hospital, will remember how natural it is to subdue the breath, and close the nostrils to the smells of medicine and the close air. the fact, too, that the question of contagion is still disputed, though i fully believe the cholera _not_ to be contagious, might have had some effect. my breast heaved, however, as if a weight had risen from my lungs, and i walked home, blessing god for health, with undissembled gratitude. * * * * * p. s.--i began this account of my visit to the _hotel dieu_ yesterday. as i am perfectly well this morning, i think the point of non-contagion, in my own case at least, is clear. i breathed the same air with the dying and the diseased for two hours, and felt of nearly a hundred to be satisfied of the curious phenomena of the vital heat. perhaps an experiment of this sort in a man not professionally a physician, may be considered rash or useless; and i would not willingly be thought to have done it from any puerile curiosity. i have been interested in such subjects always; and i considered the fact that the king's sons had been permitted to visit the hospital, a sufficient assurance that the physicians were seriously convinced there could be no possible danger. if i need an apology, it may be found in this. letter xvii. legion of honor--presentation to the king--the throne of france--the queen and the princesses--countess guiccioli--the late duel--the season of carnival--another fancy ball-- difference between private and public maskers--street masking--ball at the palace--the young duke of orleans-- princess christine--lord harry vane--heir of cardinal richelieu--villiers--bernard, fabvier, cousin, and other distinguished characters--the supper--the glass verandah, etc. as i was getting out of a _fiacre_ this morning on the boulevard, i observed that the driver had the cross of the legion of honor, worn very modestly under his coat. on taking a second look at his face, i was struck with its soldier-like, honest expression; and with the fear that i might imply a doubt by a question, i simply observed, that he probably received it from napoleon. he drew himself up a little as he assented, and with half a smile pulled the coarse cape of his coat across his bosom. it was done evidently with a mixed feeling of pride and a dislike of ostentation, which showed the nurture of napoleon. it is astonishing how superior every being seems to have become that served under him. wherever you find an old soldier of the "emperor," as they delight to call him, you find a noble, brave, unpretending man. on mentioning this circumstance to a friend, he informed me, that it was possibly a man who was well known, from rather a tragical circumstance. he had driven a gentleman to a party one night, who was dissatisfied with him, for some reason or other, and abused him very grossly. the _cocher_ the next morning sent him a challenge; and, as the cross of honor levels all distinctions, he was compelled to fight him, and was shot dead at the first fire. honors of this sort must be a very great incentive. they are worn very proudly in france. you see men of all classes, with the striped riband in their button-hole, marking them as the heroes of the three days of july. the poles and the french and english, who fought well at warsaw, wear also a badge; and it certainly produces a feeling of respect as one passes them in the street. there are several very young men, lads really, who are wandering about paris, with the latter distinction on their breasts, and every indication that it is all they have brought away from their unhappy country. the poles are coming in now from every quarter. i meet occasionally in society the celebrated polish countess, who lost her property and was compelled to flee, for her devotion to the cause. louis philippe has formed a regiment of the refugees, and sent them to algiers. he allows no liberalists to remain in paris, if he can help it. the spaniards and italians, particularly, are ordered off to tours, and other provincial towns, the instant they become pensioners upon the government. i was presented last night, with mr. carr and mr. ritchie, two of our countrymen, to the king. we were very naturally prepared for an embarrassing ceremony--an expectation which was not lessened, in my case, by the necessity of a laced coat, breeches, and sword. we drove into the court of the tuileries, as the palace clock struck nine, in the costume of courtiers of the time of louis the twelfth, very anxious about the tenacity of our knee-buckles, and not at all satisfied as to the justice done to our unaccustomed proportions by the tailor. to say nothing of my looks, i am sure i should have _felt_ much more like a gentleman in my _costume bourgeois_. by the time we had been passed through the hands of all the chamberlains, however, and walked through all the preparatory halls and drawing-rooms, each with its complement of gentlemen in waiting, dressed like ourselves in lace and small-clothes, i became more reconciled to myself, and began to _feel_ that i might possibly have looked out of place in my ordinary dress. the atmosphere of a court is very contagious in this particular. after being sufficiently astonished with long rooms, frescoes, and guardsmen apparently seven or eight feet high, (the tallest men i ever saw, standing with halberds at the doors), we were introduced into the _salle du tróne_--a large hall lined with crimson velvet throughout, with the throne in the centre of one of the sides. some half dozen gentlemen were standing about the fire, conversing very familiarly, among whom was the british ambassador, lord grenville, and the brazilian minister, both of whom i had met before. the king was not there. the swedish minister, a noble-looking man, with snow-white hair, was the only other official person present, each of the ministers having come to present one or two of his countrymen. the king entered in a few moments, in the simple uniform of the line, and joined the group at the fire, with the most familiar and cordial politeness; each minister presenting his countrymen as occasion offered, certainly with far less ceremony than one sees at most dinner-parties in america. after talking a few minutes with lord grenville, inquiring the progress of the cholera, he turned to mr. rives, and we were presented. we stood in a little circle round him, and he conversed with us about america for ten or fifteen minutes. he inquired from what states we came, and said he had been as far west as nashville, tennessee, and had often slept in the woods, quite as soundly as he ever did in more luxurious quarters. he begged pardon of mr. carr, who was from south carolina, for saying that he had found the southern taverns not particularly good. he preferred the north. all this time i was looking out for some accent in the "king's english." he speaks the language with all the careless correctness and fluency of a vernacular tongue. we were all surprised at it. it is _american_ english, however. he has not a particle of the cockney drawl, half irish and half scotch, with which many englishmen speak. he must be the most cosmopolite king that ever reigned. he even said he had been at tangiers, the place of mr. carr's consulate. after some pleasant compliments to our country, he passed to the brazilian minister, who stood on the other side, leaving us delighted with his manner; and, probably, in spite of our independence, much more inclined than before to look indulgently upon his politics. the queen had entered, meantime, with the king's sister, lady adelaide, and one or two of the ladies of honor; and, after saying something courteous to all, in her own language, and assuring _us_ that his majesty was very fond of america, the royal group bowed out, and left us once more to ourselves. we remained a few minutes, and i occupied myself with looking at the gold and crimson throne before me, and recalling to my mind the world of historical circumstances connected with it. you can easily imagine it all. the throne of france is, perhaps, the most interesting one in the world. but, of all its associations, none rushed upon me so forcibly, or retained my imagination so long, as the accidental drama of which it was the scene during the three days of july. it was here that the people brought the polytechnic scholar, mortally wounded in the attack on the palace, to die. he breathed his last on the throne of france, surrounded with his comrades and a crowd of patriots. it is one of the most striking and affecting incidents, i think, in all history. as we passed out i caught a glimpse, through a side door, of the queen and the princesses sitting round a table covered with books, in a small drawing-room, while a servant, in the gaudy livery of the court, was just entering with tea. the careless attitudes of the figures, the mellow light of the shade-lamp, and the happy voices of children coming through the door, reminded me more of home than anything i have seen in france. it is odd, but really the most aching sense of home-sickness i have felt since i left america, was awakened at that moment--in the palace of a king, and at the sight of his queen and daughters! we stopped in the antechamber to have our names recorded in the visiting-book--a ceremony which insures us invitations to all the balls given at court during the winter. the first has already appeared in the shape of a printed note, in which we are informed by the "aide-de-camp of the king and the lady of honor of the queen," that we are invited to a ball at the palace on monday night. to my distress there is a little direction at the bottom, "_les hommes seront en uniforme_," which subjects those of us who are not military, once more to the awkwardness of this ridiculous court dress. i advise all americans coming abroad to get a commission in the militia to travel with. it is of use in more ways than one. * * * * * i met the _countess guiccioli_, walking yesterday in the tuileries. she looks much younger than i anticipated, and is a handsome _blonde_, apparently about thirty. i am told by a gentleman who knows her, that she has become a great flirt, and is quite spoiled by admiration. the celebrity of lord byron's attachment would, certainly, make her a very desirable acquaintance, were she much less pretty than she really is; and i am told her drawing-room is thronged with lovers of all nations, contending for a preference, which, having been once given, as it has, should be buried, i think, for ever. so, indeed, should have been the empress maria louisa's, and that of the widow of bishop heber; and yet the latter has married a greek count, and the former a german baron! * * * * * i find i was incorrect in the statement i gave you of the duel between mr. hesse and count leon. the particulars have come out more fully, and from the curious position of the parties (mr. hesse, as i stated, being the natural son of george the fourth, and count leon of napoleon) are worth recapitulating. count leon had lost several thousand francs to mr. hesse, which he refused to pay, alleging that there had been unfair dealing in the game. the matter was left to arbitration, and mr. hesse fully cleared of the charge. leon still refused to pay, and for fifteen days practised with the pistol from morning till night. at the end of this time he paid the money, and challenged hesse. the latter had lost the use of his right arm in the battle of waterloo, (fighting of course against count leon's father), but accepted his challenge, and fired with his left hand. hesse was shot through the body, and has since died, and count leon was not hurt. the affair has made a great sensation here, for hesse had a young and lovely wife, only seventeen, and was unusually beloved and admired; while his opponent is a notorious gambler, and every way detested. people meet at the gaming-table here, however, as they meet in the street, without question of character. * * * * * carnival is over. yesterday was "_mardi gras_"--the last day of the reign of folly. paris has been like a city of grown-up children for a week. what with masking all night, supping, or breakfasting, (which you please), at sunrise, and going to bed between morning and noon, i feel that i have done my _devoir_ upon the experiment of french manners. it would be tedious, not to say improper, to describe all the absurdities i have seen and mingled in for the last fortnight; but i must try to give you some idea of the meaning the french attach to the season of carnival, and the manner in which it is celebrated. in society it is the time for universal gaiety and freedom. parties, fancy balls, and private masques, are given, and kept up till morning. the etiquette is something more free, and gallantry is indulged and followed with the privileges, almost, of a saturnalia. one of the gayest things i have seen was a fancy ball, given by a man of some fashion, in the beginning of the season. most of the _distingués_ of paris were there; and it was, perhaps, as fair a specimen of the elegant gaiety of the french capital, as occurred during the carnival. the rooms were full by ten. everybody was in costume, and the ladies in dresses of unusual and costly splendor. at a _bal costumé_ there are no masks, of course, and dancing, waltzing, and galopading followed each other in the ordinary succession, but with all the heightened effect and additional spirit of a magnificent spectacle. it was really beautiful. there were officers from all the english regiments, in their fine showy uniforms; and french officers who had brought dresses from their far-off campaigns; turks, egyptians, mussulmans, and algerine rovers--every country that had been touched by french soldiers, represented in its richest costume and by men of the finest appearance. there was a colonel of the english madras cavalry, in the uniform of his corps--one mass of blue and silver, the most splendidly dressed man i ever saw; and another englishman, who is said to be the successor of lord byron in the graces of the gay and lovely countess guiccioli, was dressed as a greek; and between the exquisite taste and richness of his costume, and his really excessive personal beauty, he made no ordinary sensation. the loveliest woman there was a young baroness, whose dancing, figure, and face, so resembled a celebrated philadelphia belle, that i was constantly expecting her musical french voice to break into english. she was dressed as an eastern dancing-girl, and floated about with the lightness and grace of a fairy. her motion intoxicated the eye completely. i have seen her since at the tuileries, where, in a waltz with the handsome duke of orleans, she was the single object of admiration for the whole court. she is a small, lightly-framed creature, with very little feet, and a face of more brilliancy than regular beauty, but all airiness and spirit. a very lovely, indolent-looking english girl, with large sleepy eyes, was dressed as a circassian slave, with chains from her ankles to her waist. she was a beautiful part of the spectacle, but too passive to interest one. there were sylphs and nuns, broom-girls and italian peasants, and a great many in rich polonaise dresses. it was unlike any other fancy ball i ever saw, in the variety and novelty of the characters represented, and the costliness with which they were dressed. you can have no idea of the splendor of a waltz in such a glittering assemblage. it was about time for an early breakfast when the ball was over. the private masks are amusing to those who are intimate with the circle. a stranger, of course, is neither acquainted enough to amuse himself within proper limits, nor incognito enough to play his gallantries at hazard. i never have seen more decidedly _triste_ assemblies than the balls of this kind which i have attended, where the uniform black masks and dominoes gave the party the aspect of a funeral, and the restraint made it quite as melancholy. the public masks are quite another affair. they are given at the principal theatres, and commence at midnight. the pit and stage are thrown into a brilliant hall, with the orchestra in the centre; the music is divine, and the etiquette perfect liberty. there is, of course, a great deal of vulgar company, for every one is admitted who pays the ten francs at the door; but all classes of people mingle in the crowd; and if one is not amused, it is because he will neither listen nor talk. i think it requires one or two masks to get one's eye so much accustomed to the sight, that he is not disgusted with the exteriors of the women. there was something very diabolical to me at first in a dead, black representation of the human face, and the long black domino. persuading one's self that there is beauty under such an outside, is like getting up a passion for a very ugly woman, for the sake of her mind--difficult, rather. i soon became used to it, however, and amused myself infinitely. one is liable to waste his wit, to be sure; for in a crowd so rarely _bien composée_, as they phrase it, the undistinguishing dress gives every one the opportunity of bewildering you; but the feet and manner of walking, and the tone and mode of expression, are indices sufficiently certain to decide, and give interest to a pursuit; and, with tolerable caution, one is paid for his trouble, in nineteen cases out of twenty. at the public masks, the visitors are not all in domino. one half at least are in caricature dresses, men in petticoats, and women in boots and spurs. it is not always easy to detect the sex. an english lady, a carnival-acquaintance of mine, made love successfully, with the aid of a tall figure and great spirit, to a number of her own sex. she wore a half uniform, and was certainly a very elegant fellow. france is so remarkable indeed, for effeminate-looking men and masculine-looking women, that half the population might change costume to apparent advantage. the french are fond of caricaturing english dandies, and they do it with great success. the imitation of bond-street dialect in another language is highly amusing. there were two imitation exquisites at the "_varietés_" one night, who were dressed to perfection, and must have studied the character thoroughly. the whole theatre was in a roar when they entered. malcontents take the opportunity to show up the king and ministers, and these are excellent, too. one gets weary of fun. it is a life which becomes tedious long before carnival is over. it is a relief to sit down once more to books and pen. the three last days are devoted to street-masking. this is the most ridiculous of all. paris pours out its whole population upon the boulevards, and guards are stationed to keep the goers and comers in separate lines, and prevent all collecting of groups on the _pavé_. people in the most grotesque and absurd dress pass on foot, and in loaded carriages, and all is nonsense and obscenity. it is difficult to conceive the motive which can induce grown-up people to go to the expense and trouble of such an exhibition, merely to amuse the world. a description of these follies would be waste of paper. on the last night but one of the carnival, i went to a ball at the palace. we presented our invitations at the door, and mounted through piles of soldiers of the line, crowds of servants in the king's livery, and groves of exotics at the broad landing places, to the reception room. we were ushered into the _salle des marechals_--a large hall, the ceiling of which rises into the dome of the tuileries, ornamented with full-length portraits of the living marshals of france. a gallery of a light airy structure runs round upon the capitals of the pillars, and this, when we entered, and at all the after hours of the ball, was crowded with loungers from the assembly beneath--producing a splendid effect, as their glittering uniforms passed and repassed under the flags and armor with which the ceilings were thickly hung. the royal train entered presently, and the band struck up a superb march. three rows of velvet-covered seats, one above another, went round the hall, leaving a passage behind, and, in front of these, the queen and her family made a circuit of courtesy, followed by the wives of the ambassadors, among whom was our countrywoman, mrs. rives. her majesty went smiling past, stopping here and there to speak to a lady whom she recognized, and the king followed her with his eternal and painfully forced smile, saying something to every second person he encountered. the princesses have good faces, and the second one has an expression of great delicacy and tenderness, but no beauty. as soon as the queen was seated, the band played a quadrille, and the crowd cleared away from the centre for the dance. the duke of orleans selected his partner, a pretty girl, who, i believe was english, and forward went the head couples to the exquisite music of the new opera--robert le diable. i fell into the little _cortége_ standing about the queen, and watched the interesting party dancing the head quadrille for an hour. the duke of orleans, who is nearly twenty, and seems a thoughtless, good-natured, immature young man, moved about very gracefully with his handsome figure, and seemed amused, and quite unconscious of the attention he drew. the princesses were _vis-a-vis_, and the second one, a dark-haired, slender, interesting girl of nineteen, had a polytechnic scholar for her partner. he was a handsome, gallant-looking fellow, who must have distinguished himself to have been invited to court, and i could not but admire the beautiful mixture of respect and self-confidence with which he demanded the hand of the princess from the lady of honor, and conversed with her during the dance. if royalty does not seal up the affections, i could scarce conceive how a being so decidedly of nature's best nobility, handsome, graceful, and confident, could come within the sphere of a sensitive-looking girl, like the princess christine, and not leave more than a transient recollection upon her fancy. the music stopped, and i had been so occupied with my speculations upon the polytechnic boy, that i had scarcely noticed any other person in the dance. he led the princess back to her seat by the _dame d'honneur_, bowing low, colored a little, and mingled with the crowd. a few minutes after, i saw him in the gallery, quite alone, leaning over the railing, and looking down upon the scene below, having apparently abandoned the dance for the evening. from something in his face, and in the manner of resuming his sword, i was certain he had come to the palace with that single object, and would dance no more. i kept him in my eye most of the night, and am very sure he did not. if the little romance i wove out of it was not a true one, it was not because the material was improbable. as i was looking still at the quadrille dancing before the queen, dr. bowring took my arm and proposed a stroll through the other apartments. i found that the immense crowd in the _salle des marechals_ was but about one fifth of the assembly. we passed through hall after hall, with music and dancing in each, all crowded and gay alike, till we came at last to the _salle du tróne_ where the old men were collected at card-tables and in groups for conversation. my distinguished companion was of the greatest use to me here, for he knew everybody, and there was scarce a person in the room who did not strongly excite my curiosity. one half of them at least were maimed; some without arms, and some with wooden legs, and faces scarred and weather-burnt, but all in full uniform, and nearly all with three or four orders of honor on the breast. you would have held your breath to have heard the recapitulation of their names. at one table sat _marshal grouchy_ and _general excelmans_; in a corner stood _marshal soult_, conversing with a knot of peers of france; and in the window nearest the door, _general bernard_, our country's friend and citizen, was earnestly engaged in talking to a group of distinguished-looking men, two of whom, my companion said, were members of the chamber of deputies. we stood a moment, and a circle was immediately formed around dr. bowring, who is a great favorite among the literary and liberal people of france. the celebrated _general fabvier_ came up among others, and _cousin_ the poet. fabvier, as you know, held a chief command in greece, and was elected governor of paris _pro tem._ after the "three days." he is a very remarkable-looking man, with a head almost exactly resembling that of the bust of socrates. the engravings give him a more animated and warlike expression than he wears in private. _cousin_ is a mild, retired-looking man, and was one of the very few persons present not in the court uniform. among so many hundred coats embroidered with gold, his plain black dress looked singularly simple and poet-like. i left the diplomatist-poet conversing with his friends, and went back to the dancing rooms. music and female beauty are more attractive metal than disabled generals playing at cards; and encountering in my way an _attaché_ to the american legation, i inquired about one or two faces that interested me, and collecting information enough to pass through the courtesies of a dance, i found a partner and gave myself up, like the rest, to amusement. supper was served at two, and a more splendid affair could not be conceived. a long and magnificent hall on the other side of the _salle du tróne_ was set with tables, covered with everything that france could afford, in the royal services of gold and silver, and in the greatest profusion. there was room enough for all the immense assemblage, and when the queen was seated with her daughters and ladies of honor, the company sat down and all was as quiet and well regulated as a dinner party of four. after supper the dancing was resumed, and the queen remained till three o'clock. at her departure the band played _cotillons_ or waltzes with figures, in which the duke of orleans displayed the grace for which he is celebrated, and at four, quite exhausted with fatigue and heat, i went with a friend or two into the long glass verandah, built by napoleon as a promenade for the empress maria louisa during her illness, where tea, coffee, and ices were served to those who wished them after supper. it was an interesting place enough, and had my eyes and limbs ached less, i should have liked to walk up and down, and muse a little upon its recollections, but swallowing my tea as hastily as possible, i was but too happy to make my escape and get home to bed. letter xviii. cholera--universal terror--flight of the inhabitants--cases within the walls of the palace--difficulty of escape--deserted streets--cases not reported--dryness of the atmosphere-- preventives recommended--public baths, etc. _cholera! cholera!_ it is now the only topic. there is no other interest--no other dread--no other occupation, for paris. the invitations for parties are _at last_ recalled--the theatres are _at last_ shut or languishing--the fearless are beginning to be afraid--people walk the streets with camphor bags and vinaigrettes at their nostrils--there is a universal terror in all classes, and a general flight of all who can afford to get away. i never saw a people so engrossed with one single and constant thought. the waiter brought my breakfast this morning with a pale face, and an apprehensive question, whether i was quite well. i sent to my boot-maker yesterday, and he was dead. i called on a friend, a hanoverian, one of those broad-chested, florid, immortal-looking men, of whose health for fifty years, violence apart, one is absolutely certain, and he was at death's door with the cholera. poor fellow! he had fought all through the revolution in greece; he had slept in rain and cold, under the open sky, many a night, through a ten years' pursuit of the profession of a soldier of fortune, living one of the most remarkable lives, hitherto, of which i ever heard, and to be taken down here in the midst of ease and pleasure, reduced to a shadow with so vulgar and unwarlike a disease as this, was quite too much for his philosophy. he had been ill three days when i found him. he was emaciated to a skeleton in that short time, weak and helpless, and, though he is not a man to exaggerate suffering, he said he never had conceived such intense agony as he had endured. he assured me, that if he recovered, and should ever be attacked with it again, he would blow out his brains at the first symptom. nothing but his iron constitution protracted the disorder. most people who are attacked die in from three to twenty-four hours. for myself, i have felt and still feel quite safe. my rooms are in the airiest quarter of paris, facing the gardens of the tuileries, with windows overlooking the king's; and, as far as _air_ is concerned, if his majesty considers himself well situated, it would be quite ridiculous in so insignificant a person as myself to be alarmed. with absolute health, confident spirits, and tolerably regular habits, i have usually thought one may defy almost anything but love or a bullet. to-day, however, there have been, they say, two cases _within the palace-walls_, members of the royal household, and casimir perier, who probably lives well and has enough to occupy his mind, is very low with it, and one cannot help feeling that he has no certain exemption, when a disease has touched both above and below him. i went to-day to the messagerie to engage my place for marseilles, on the way to italy, but the seats are all taken, in both mail-post and diligence, for a fortnight to come, and, as there are no _extras_ in france, one must wait his turn. having done my duty to myself by the inquiry, i shall be content to remain quiet. * * * * * i have just returned from a social tea-party at a house of one of the few english families left in paris. it is but a little after ten, and the streets, as i came along, were as deserted and still as if it were a city of the dead. usually, until four or five in the morning, the same streets are thronged with carriages hurrying to and fro, and always till midnight the _trottoirs_ are crowded with promenaders. to-night i scarce met a foot-passenger, and but one solitary cabriolet in a walk of a mile. the contrast was really impressive. the moon was nearly full, and high in the heavens, and the sky absolutely without a trace of a cloud; nothing interrupted the full broad light of the moon, and the empty streets were almost as bright as at noon-day; and, as i crossed the _place vendome_, i could hear, for the first time since i have been in paris, though i have passed it at every hour of the night, the echo of my footsteps reverberated from the walls around. you should have been in these crowded cities of europe to realize the impressive solemnity of such solitude. it is said that fifty thousand people have left paris within the past week. adding this to the thousand a day who are struck with the cholera, and the attendance necessary to the sick, and a thinned population is sufficiently accounted for. there are, however, hundreds ill of this frightful disease, whose cases are not reported. it is only those who are taken to the hospitals, the poor and destitute, who are numbered in the official statements. the physicians are wearied out with their _private_ practice. the medical lectures are suspended, and a regular physician is hardly to be had at all. there is scarce a house in which some one has not been taken. you see biers and litters issuing from almost every gate, and the better ranks are no longer spared. a sister of the premier, m. perier, died yesterday; and it was reported at the _bourse_, that several distinguished persons, who have been ill of it, are also dead. no one feels safe; and the consternation and dread on every countenance you meet, is enough to chill one's very blood. i went out to-day for a little exercise, not feeling very well, and i was glad to get home again. every creature looks stricken with a mortal fear. and this among a french population, the gayest and merriest of people under all depressions ordinarily, is too strong a contrast not to be felt painfully. there is something singular in the air, too; a disagreeable, depressing dryness, which the physicians say must change, or all paris will be struck with the plague. it is clear and cold, but almost suffocating with dryness. it is very consoling in the midst of so much that is depressing, that the preventives recommended against the cholera are so agreeable. "live well," say the doctors, "and bathe often. abstain from excesses, keep a clear head and good spirits, and amuse yourself as much and as rationally as possible." it is a very excellent recipe for happiness, let alone the cholera. there is great room for a nice observance of this system in paris, particularly the eating and bathing. the baths are delightful. you are received in handsome saloons, opening upon a garden in the centre of the building, ornamented with statues and fountains, the journals lying upon the sofas, and everything arranged with quite the luxury of a palace. the bathing-rooms are furnished with taste; the baths are of marble, and covered inside with spotlessly white linen cloths; the water is perfumed, and you may lie and take your coffee, or have your breakfast served upon the mahogany cover which shuts you in--a union of luxuries which is enough to enervate a cynic. when you are ready to come out, a pull of the bell brings a servant, who gives you a _peignoir_--a long linen wrapper, heated in an oven, in the warm folds of which you are enveloped, and in three minutes are quite dry. in this you may sit, at your ease, reading, or musing, or lie upon the sofa without the restraint of a tight dress, till you are ready to depart; and then four or five francs, something less than a dollar, pays for all. letter xix. morning view from the rue rivoli--the bois de boulogne--guiccioli--sismondi the historian, etc. it is now the middle of april, and, sitting at my window on the _rue rivoli_, i look through one of the long, clipped avenues of the tuileries, and see an arch of green leaves, the sun of eight o'clock in the morning just breaking through the thin foliage and dappling the straight, even gravel-walk below, with a look of summer that makes my heart leap. the cholera has put an end to dissipation, and one gets up early, from necessity. it is delicious to step out before breakfast, and cross the street into those lovely gardens, for an hour or two of fresh air and reflection. it is warm enough now to sit on the stone benches about the fountains, by the time the dew is dry; and i know nothing so contemplative as the occupation of watching these royal swans, in the dreamy, almost imperceptible motion with which they glide around the edges of the basins. the gold fish swim up and circle about the breast of the imperial birds with a motion almost as idle; and the old wooden-legged soldier, who has been made warden of the gardens for his service, sits nodding on one of the chairs, or drawing fortifications with his stick in the gravel; and so it happens, that, in the midst of a gay and busy city one may feel always a luxurious solitude; and, be he ever so poor, loiter all day if he will, among scenes which only regal munificence could provide for him. with the _seine_ bounding them on one side, the splendid uniform _façade_ of the _rue rivoli_ on the other, the palace stretching across the southern terrace, and the thick woods of the _champs elysées_ at the opposite gate, where could one go in the world to give his taste or his eye a more costly or delightful satisfaction? the _bois de boulogne_, about which the parisians talk so much, is less to my taste. it is a level wood of small trees, covering a mile or two square, and cut from corner to corner with straight roads for driving. the soil is sandy, and the grass grows only in tufts, the walks are rough, and either muddy or dusty always; and, barring the equipages and the pleasure of a word in passing an acquaintance, i find a drive to this famous wood rather a dull business. i want either one thing or the other--cultivated grounds like the tuileries, or the wild wood. * * * * * i have just left the countess guiccioli, with whom i have been acquainted for some two or three weeks. she is very much frightened at the cholera, and thinks of going to america. the conversation turned principally upon shelley, whom of course she knew intimately; and she gave me one of his letters to herself as an autograph. she says at times he was a little crazy--"_fou_," as she expressed it--but that there never was a nobler or a better man. lord byron, she says, loved him like a brother. she is still in correspondence with shelley's wife, of whom also she speaks with the greatest affection. there were several miniatures of byron hanging up in the room, and i asked her if any of them were perfect in the resemblance. "no," she said, "this was the most like him," taking down an exquisitely-finished miniature by an italian artist, "_mais il etaît beaucoup plus beau--beaucoup! beaucoup!_" she reiterated the word with a very touching tenderness, and continued to look at the picture for some time, either forgetting our presence, or affecting it. she speaks english sweetly, with a soft, slow, honeyed accent, breaking into french when ever she gets too much interested to choose her words. she went on talking in french of the painters who had drawn byron, and said the american, west's was the best likeness. i did not like to tell her that west's picture of herself was excessively flattered. i am sure no one would know her from the engraving of it, at least. her cheek bones are high, her forehead is badly shaped, and, altogether, the _frame_ of her features is decidedly ugly. she dresses in the worst taste, too, and yet, with all this, and poetry and celebrity aside, the countess guiccioli is both a lovely and a fascinating woman, and one whom a man of sentiment would admire, even at this age, very sincerely, but not for beauty. she has white and regular teeth, however, and her hair is incomparably the most beautiful i ever saw. it is of the richest and glossiest gold, silken and luxuriant, and changes, as the light falls upon it, with a mellow softness, than which nothing could be lovelier. it is this and her indescribably winning manner which are lost in a picture, and therefore, it is perhaps fair that she should be otherwise flattered. her drawing-room is one of the most agreeable in paris at present, and is one of the chief _agrémens_ which console me for a detention in an atmosphere so triste as well as dangerous. * * * * * my bed-room window opens upon the court in the interior of the hotel rivoli, in which i lodge. in looking out occasionally upon my very near neighbors opposite, i have frequently observed a gray-headed, scholar-like, fine-looking old man, writing at a window in the story below. one does not trouble himself much about his fellow-lodgers, and i had seen this gentleman at his work at all hours, for a month or more, without curiosity enough to inquire even his name. this morning the servant came in, with a _mon dieu!_ and said _m. sismondi_ was frightened by the cholera, and was leaving his lodgings at that moment. the name startled me, and making some inquiries, i found that my gray-headed neighbor was no other than the celebrated historian of italian literature, and that i had been living under the same roof with him for weeks, and watching him at his classical labors, without being at all aware of the honor of his neighborhood. he is a kind, benevolent-looking man, of about sixty, i should think; and always had a peculiarly affectionate manner to his wife, who, i am told by the valet, is an englishwoman. i regretted exceedingly the opportunity i had lost of knowing him, for there are few writers of whom one retains a more friendly and agreeable remembrance. in a conversation with mr. cooper, the other day he was remarking of how little consequence any one individual found himself in paris, even the most distinguished. we were walking in the tuileries, and the remark was elicited by my pointing out to him one or two celebrated persons, whose names are sufficiently known, but who walk the public promenades, quite unnoticed and unrecognised. he said he did not think there were five people in paris who knew him at sight, though his works were advertised in all the bookstores, and he had lived in paris one or two years, and walked there constantly. this was putting a strong case, for the french idolize cooper; and the peculiarly translateable character of his works makes them read even better in a good translation than in the original. it is so all over the continent, i am told. the germans, italians, and spaniards, prefer cooper to scott; and it is easily accounted for when one remembers how much of the beauty of the waverly novels depends on their exquisite style, and how peculiarly cooper's excellence lies in his accurate, definite, tangible descriptions. there is not a more admired author in europe than cooper, it is very certain; and i am daily asked whether he is in america at present--so little do the people of these crowded cities interest themselves about that which is immediately at their elbows. letter xx. general bertrand--friend of lady morgan--phrenology--dr. spurzheim--his lodgings--process of taking a cast of the head--incarceration of dr. bowring and de potter--david the sculptor--visit of dr. spurzheim to the united states. my room-mate called a day or two since on general bertrand, and yesterday he returned the visit, and spent an hour at our lodgings. he talked of napoleon with difficulty, and became very much affected when my friend made some inquiries about the safety of the body at st. helena. the inquiry was suggested by some notice we had seen in the papers of an attempt to rob the tomb of washington. the general said that the vault was fifteen feet deep, and covered by a slab that could not be moved without machinery. he told us that madame bertrand had many mementoes of the emperor, which she would be happy to show us, and we promised to visit him. at a party, a night or two since, i fell into conversation with an english lady, who had lived several years in dublin, and was an intimate friend of lady morgan. she was an uncommonly fine woman, both in appearance and conversational powers, and told me many anecdotes of the authoress, defending her from all the charges usually made against her, except that of vanity, which she allowed. i received, on the whole, the impression that lady morgan's goodness of heart was more than an offset to her certainly very innocent weaknesses. my companion was much amused at an american's asking after the "fender in kildare street;" though she half withdrew her cordiality when i told her i knew the countryman of mine who wrote the account of lady morgan, of which she complains so bitterly in the "book of the boudoir." it was this lady with whom the fair authoress "dined in the _chaussée d'antin_," so much to her satisfaction. while we were conversing, the lady's husband came up, and finding that i was an american, made some inquiries about the progress of _phrenology_ on the other side of the water. like most enthusiasts in the science, his own head was a remarkably beautiful one; and i soon found that he was the bosom friend of dr. spurzheim, to whom he offered to introduce me. we made an engagement for the next day, and the party separated. my new acquaintance called on me the next morning, according to appointment, and we went together to dr. spurzheim's residence. the passage at the entrance was lined with cases, in which stood plaster casts of the heads of distinguished men, orators, poets, musicians--each class on its particular shelf--making altogether a most ghastly company. the doctor received my companion with great cordiality, addressing him in french, and changing to very good german-english when he made any observation to me. he is a tall, large-boned man, and resembles harding, the american artist, very strikingly. his head is finely marked; his features are bold, with rather a german look; and his voice is particularly winning, and changes its modulations, in argument, from the deep, earnest tone of a man, to an almost child-like softness. the conversation soon turned upon america, and the doctor expressed, in ardent terms, his desire to visit the united states, and said he had thought of accomplishing it the coming summer. he spoke of dr. channing--said he had read all his works with avidity and delight, and considered him one of the clearest and most expansive minds of the age. if dr. channing had not strong developments of the organs of _ideality_ and _benevolence_, he said, he should doubt his theory more than he had ever found reason to. he knew webster and professor silliman by reputation, and seemed to be familiar with our country, as few men in europe are. one naturally, on meeting a distinguished phrenologist, wishes to have his own developments pronounced upon; but i had been warned by my friend that dr. spurzheim refused such examinations as a general principle, not wishing to deceive people, and unwilling to run the risk of offending them. after a half hour's conversation, however, he came across the room, and putting his hands under my thick masses of hair, felt my head closely all over, and mentioned at once a quality, which, right or wrong, has given a tendency to all my pursuits in life. as he knew absolutely nothing of me, and the gentleman who introduced me knew no more, i was a little startled. the doctor then requested me to submit to the operation of having a cast taken of my head, an offer which was too kind and particular to be declined; and, appointing an hour to be at his rooms the following day, we left him. i was there again at twelve, the morning after, and found de potter (the belgian patriot) and dr. bowring, with the phrenologist, waiting to undergo the same operation. the preparations looked very formidable, a frame, of the length of the human body, lay in the middle of the room, with a wooden bowl to receive the head, a mattress, and a long white dress to prevent stain to the clothes. as i was the youngest, i took my turn first. it was very like a preparation for being beheaded. my neck was bared, my hair cut, and the long white dress put on. the back of the head is taken first; and, as i was only immersed up to the ears in the liquid plaster, this was not very alarming. the second part, however, demanded more patience. my head was put once more into the stiffened mould of the first half, and as soon as i could get my features composed i was ordered to shut my eyes; my hair was oiled and laid smooth, and the liquid plaster poured slowly over my mouth, eyes, and forehead, till i was cased completely in a stiffening mask. the material was then poured on thickly, till the mask was two or three inches thick, and the voices of those standing over me were scarcely audible. i breathed pretty freely through the orifices at my nose; but the dangerous experiment of mademoiselle sontag, who was nearly smothered in the same operation, came across my mind rather vividly; and it seemed to me that the doctor handled the plaster quite too ungingerly, when he came to mould about my nostrils. after a half hour's imprisonment, the plaster became sufficiently hardened, and the thread which was laid upon my face was drawn through, dividing the mask into two parts. it was then gradually removed, pulling very tenaciously upon my eyelashes and eyebrows, and leaving all the cavities of my face filled with particles of lime. the process is a tribute to vanity, which one would not be willing to pay very often. i looked on at dr. bowring's incarceration with no great feeling of relief. it is rather worse to see than to experience, i think. the poet is a nervous man; and as long as the muscles of his face were visible, his lips, eyelids, and mouth, were quivering so violently that i scarcely believed it would be possible to get an impression of them. he has a beautiful face for a scholar--clear, well-cut, finished features, expressive of great purity of thought; and a forehead of noble amplitude, white and polished as marble. his hair is black and curling (indicating in most cases, as dr. spurzheim remarked, activity of mind), and forms a classical relief to his handsome temples. altogether, his head would look well in a picture, though his ordinary and ungraceful dress, and quick, bustling manner, rather destroy the effect of it in society. de potter is one of the noblest-looking men i ever saw. he is quite bald, with a broad, ample, majestic head, the very model of dignity and intellect. dr. spurzheim considers his head one of the most extraordinary he has met. _firmness_ is the great development of its organs. his tone and manner are calm and very impressive, and he looks made for great occasions--a man stamped with the superiority which others acknowledge when circumstances demand it. he employs himself in literary pursuits at paris, and has just published a pamphlet on "the manner of conducting a revolution, so that no after-revolution shall be necessary." i have translated the title awkwardly, but that is the subject. i have since heard dr. spurzheim lecture twice, and have been with him to a meeting of the "anthropological society" (of which he is the president and de potter the secretary), where i witnessed the dissection of the human brain. it was a most interesting and satisfactory experiment, as an illustration of phrenology. david the sculptor is a member of the society, and was present. he looks more like a soldier than an artist, however--wearing the cross of the legion of honor, with a military frock coat, and an erect, stern, military carriage. spurzheim lectures in a free, easy, unconstrained style, with occasionally a little humor, and draws his arguments from admitted facts only. nothing could be more reasonable than his premises, and nothing more like an axiom than the results, as far as i have heard him. at any rate, true or false, his theory is one of extreme interest, and no time can be wasted in examining it; for it is the study of man, and therefore the most important of studies. i have had several long conversations with dr. spurzheim about america, and have at last obtained his positive assurance that he would visit it. he gave me permission this morning to say (what i am sure all lovers of knowledge will be pleased to hear) that he should sail for new york in the course of the ensuing summer, and pass a year or more in lecturing and travelling in the united states. he is a man to obtain the immediate confidence and respect of a people like ours, of the highest moral worth, and the most candid and open mind. letter xxi. departure from paris--desultory remarks. i take my departure from paris to-morrow. i have just been making preparations to pack, and it has given me a fit of bad spirits. i have been in france only a few months, but if i had lived my life here, i could not be more at home. in my almost universal acquaintance, i have of course made pleasant friends, and, however time and travel should make us indifferent to such volant attachments, i can not now cast off these threads of intimacy, without pulling a little upon very sincere feelings. i have been burning the mass of papers and cards that have accumulated in my drawers; and the sight of these french invitations, mementoes, as they are, of delightful and fascinating hours, almost staggers my resolution of departure. it has been an intoxicating time to me. aside from lighter attractions, this metropolis collects within itself so much of the distinction and genius of the world; and gifted men in paris, coming here merely for pleasure, are so peculiarly accessible, that one looks upon them as friends to whom he has become attached and accustomed, and leaves the sphere in which he has met them, as if he had been a part of it, and had a right to be regretted. i do not think i shall ever spend so pleasant a winter again. and then my local interest is not a light one. i am a great lover of out-of-doors, and i have ransacked paris thoroughly. i know it all from its broad faubourgs to its obscurest _cul de sac_. i have hunted with antiquaries for coins and old armor; with lovers of adventure for the amusing and odd; with the curious for traces of history; with the romantic for the picturesque. paris is a world for research. it contains more odd places, i believe, more odd people, and every way more material for uncommon amusement, than any other city in the universe. one might live a life of novelty without crossing the barrier. all this insensibly attaches one. my eye wanders at this moment from my paper to these lovely gardens lying beneath my window, and i could not feel more regret if they were mine. just over the long line of low clipped trees, edging the fashionable terrace, i see the windows of the king within half a stone's throw--the windows at which napoleon has stood, and the long line of the monarchs of france, and it has become to me so much a habit of thought, sitting here in the twilight and musing on the thousand, thousand things linked with the spot my eye embraces, that i feel as if i had grown to it--as if paris had become to me, what it is proverbially and naturally enough to a frenchman--"the world." i have other associations which i part from less painfully, because i hope at some future time to renew them--those with my own countrymen. there are few pleasanter circles than that of the americans in paris. lafayette and his numerous family make a part of them. i could not learn to love this good man more, but seeing him often brings one's reverence more within the limits of the affections; and i consider the little of his attention that has fallen to my share the honored part of my life, and the part best worth recording and remembering. he called upon me a day or two ago, to leave with me some copies of a translation of mr. cooper's letter on the finances of our government, to be sent to my friend dr. howe; but, to my regret, i did not see him. he neglects no american, and is ever busied about some project connected with their welfare. may god continue to bless him! and speaking of mr. cooper, no one who loves or owns a pride in his native land, can live abroad without feeling every day what we owe to the patriotism as well as the genius of this gifted man. if there is an individual who loves the soil that gave him birth, and so shows it that we are more respected for it, it is he. mr. cooper's position is a high one; he has great advantages, and he improves them to the uttermost. his benevolence and activity in all enterprises for the relief of suffering, give him influence, and he employs it like a true philanthropist and a real lover of his country. i say this particularly, though it may look like too personal a remark, because americans abroad are _not_ always _national_. i am often mortified by reproaches from foreigners, quoting admissions made by my countrymen, which should be the last on their lips. a very distinguished person told me a day or two since, that "the americans abroad were the worst enemies we had in europe." it is difficult to conceive at home how such a remark stings. proportionately, one takes a true patriot to his heart and i feel it right to say here, that the love of country and active benevolence of mr. cooper distinguish him abroad, even more than his genius. his house is one of the most hospitable and agreeable in paris; and with morse and the circle of artists and men of distinction and worth about him, he is an acquaintance sincerely to regret leaving. from mr. rives, our minister, i have received every possible kindness. he has attached me to his legation, to facilitate my access to other courts and the society of other cities, and to free me from all delays and annoyances at frontiers and custom-houses. it is a particular and valuable kindness, and i feel a pleasure in acknowledging it. then there is dr. bowring, the lover and defender of the united states, who, as the editor of the westminster review, should be well remembered in america, and of him i have seen much, and from him i have received great kindness. altogether, as i said before, paris is a home to me, and i leave it with a heavy heart. i have taken a place on the top of the diligence _for a week_. it is a long while to occupy one seat, but the weather and the season are delicious; and in the covered and roomy cabriolet, with the _conducteur_ for a living reference, and all the appliances for comfort, i expect to live very pleasantly, night and day, till i reach marseilles. _vaucluse_ is on the way, and i shall visit it if i have time and good weather, perhaps. at marseilles i propose to take the steamboat for leghorn, and thence get directly to florence, where i shall remain till i become familiar with the italian, at least. i lay down my pen till all this plan of travel is accomplished, and so, for the present, adieu! letter xxii. chalons, on the saone.--i have broken my route to stop at this pretty town, and take the steamboat which goes down the saone to lyons to-morrow morning. i have travelled two days and nights; but an excellent dinner and a quickened imagination indispose me for sleep, and, for want of better amusement in a strange city at night, i will pass away an hour in transcribing the hurried notes i have made at the stopping places. i chose, by advice, the part of the diligence called the _banquette_--a covered seat over the front of the carriage, commanding all the view, and free from the dust of the lower apartments. the _conducteur_ had the opposite corner, and a very ordinary-looking man sat between us; the seat holding three very comfortably. a lady and two gentlemen occupied the _coupé_; a dragoon and his family, going to join his regiment, filled the _rotonde_; and in the interior was a motley collection, whom i scarce saw after starting; the occupants of the different parts of a diligence having no more association, even in a week's travel, than people living in adjoining houses in the city. we rolled out of paris by the _faubourg st. antoine_, and at the end of the first post passed the first object that interested me--a small brick pavilion, built by henri quatre for the beautiful gabrielle d'estrees. it stands on a dull, level plain, not far from the banks of the river; and nothing but the fact that it was once occupied by the woman who most enslaved the heart of the most chivalrous and fickle of the french monarchs, would call your attention to it for a moment. for the twenty or thirty miles which we travelled by daylight, i saw nothing particularly curious or beautiful. the guide-book is very diffuse upon the chateaux and villages on the road, but i saw nothing except very ordinary country-houses, and the same succession of small and dirty villages, steeped to the very chimneys in poverty. if ever i return to america, i shall make a journey to the west, for the pure refreshment of seeing industry and thrift. i am sick to the heart of pauperism and misery. everything that is near the large towns in france is either splendid or disgusting. there is no medium in condition--nothing that looks like content--none of that class we define in our country as the "respectable." the moon was a little in the wane, but bright, and the night lovely. as we got further into the interior, the towns began to look more picturesque and antique; and, with the softening touch of the moonlight, and the absence of beggars, the old low-browed buildings and half-ruined churches assumed the beauty they wear in description. i slept on the road, but the echo of the wheels in entering a post-town woke me always; and i rarely have felt the picturesque more keenly than, at these sudden wakings from dreams, perhaps, of familiar things, finding myself opposite some shadowy relic of another age; as if it were by magical transportation, from the fireside to some place of which i had heard or read the history. i awoke as we drove into _sens_ at broad daylight. we were just passing a glorious old pile of a cathedral, which i ran back to see while the diligence stopped to change horses. it is of pointed architecture, black with age, and crusted with moss. it was to this town that thomas a becket retired in disgrace at his difference with henry the second. there is a chapel in the cathedral, dedicated to his memory. the french certainly should have the credit of leaving things alone. this old pile stands as if the town in which it is built had been desolate for centuries: not a letter of the old sculptures chiselled out, not a bird unnested, not a filament of the gathering moss pulled away. all looks as if no human hand had been near it--almost as if no human eye had looked upon it. in america they would paint such an old church white or red, shove down the pillars, and put up pews, sell the pictures for fireboards, and cover the tesselated pavement with sand, or a home-made carpet. as we passed under a very ancient gate, crowning the old roman ramparts of the town, a door opened, and a baker, in white cap and apron, thrust out his head to see us pass. his oven was blazing bright, and he had just taken out a batch of hot bread, which was smoking on the table; and what with the chill of the morning air and having fasted for some fourteen hours, i quite envied him his vocation. the diligence, however, pushed on most mercilessly till twelve o'clock, the french never dreaming of eating before their late _dejeuner_--a mid-day meal always. when we did get it, it was a dinner in every respect--meats of all kinds, wine, and dessert, certainly as solid and various as any of the american breakfasts, at which travellers laugh so universally. auxerre is a pretty town, on a swelling bank of the river yonne; and i had admired it as one of the most improved-looking villages of france. it was not till i had breakfasted there, and travelled a league or two towards chalons, that i discovered by the guide book it was the ancient capital of auxerrois, a famous town in the time of julius cæsar, and had the honor of being ravaged "at different times by attila, the saracens, the normans, and the calvinists, vestiges of whose devastations may still be seen." if i had not eaten of a positively modern _paté foie gras_, and an _omelette soufflé_, at a nice little hotel, with a mistress in a cap, and a coquettish french apron, i should forgive myself less easily for not having detected antiquity in the atmosphere. one imagines more readily than he realizes the charm of mere age without beauty. we were now in the province of burgundy, and, to say nothing of the historical recollections, the vineyards were all about us that delighted the palates of the world. one does not dine at the _trois fréres_, in the palais royal, without contracting a tenderness for the very name of burgundy. i regretted that i was not there in the season of the grape. the vines were just budding, and the _paysans_, men and women, were scattered over the vineyards, loosening the earth about the roots, and driving stakes to support the young shoots. at saint bris i found the country so lovely, that i left the diligence at the post-house, and walked on to mount a long succession of hills on foot. the road sides were quite blue with the violets growing thickly among the grass, and the air was filled with perfume. i soon got out of sight of the heavy vehicle, and made use of my leisure to enter the vineyards and talk to the people at their work. i found one old man, with all his family about him; the little ones with long baskets on their backs, bringing manure, and one or two grown-up boys and girls raking up the earth with the unhandy hoe of the country, and setting it firmly around the roots with their wooden shoes. it was a pretty group, and i was very much amused with their simplicity. the old man asked my country, and set down his hoe in astonishment when i told him i was an american. he wondered i was not more burnt, living in such a hot country, and asked me what language we spoke. i could scarce get away from his civilities when i bade him "good day." no politeness could have been more elegant than the manner and expression of this old peasant, and certainly nothing could have appeared sincerer or kinder. i kept on up the hill till i reached a very high point, passing on my way a troop of italians, going to paris with their organs and shows--a set of as ragged specimens of the picturesque as i ever saw in a picture. a lovely scene lay before me when i turned to look back. the valley, on one side of which lies st. bris, is as round as a bowl, with an edge of mountain-tops absolutely even all around the horizon. it slopes down from every side to the centre, as if it had been measured and hollowed by art; and there is not a fence to be seen from one side to the other, and scarcely a tree, but one green and almost unbroken carpet of verdure, swelling up in broad green slopes to the top, and realizing, with a slight difference, the similitude of madame de genlis, of the place of satiety, eternal green meadow and eternal blue sky. st. bris is a little handful of stone buildings around an old church; just such a thing as a painter would throw into a picture--and the different-colored grain, and here and there a ploughed patch of rich yellow earth, and the road crossing the hollow from hill to hill like a white band; and then for the life of the scene, the group of italians, the cumbrous diligence, and the peasants in their broad straw hats, scattered over the fields--it was something quite beyond my usual experience of scenery and accident. i had rarely before found so much in one view to delight me. after looking a while, i mounted again, and stood on the very top of the hill; and, to my surprise, there, on the other side lay just such another valley, with just such a village in its bosom, and the single improvement of a river--the yonne stealing through it, with its riband-like stream; but all the rest of the valley almost exactly as i have described the other. i crossed a vineyard to get a view to the southeast, and _once more_ there lay a deep hollow valley before me, formed like the other two, with its little hamlet and its vineyards and mountains--as if there had been three lakes in the hills, with their edges touching like three bowls, and the terrace on which i stood was the platform between them. it is a most singular formation of country, really, and as beautiful as it is singular. each of these valleys might be ten miles across; and if the dukes of burgundy in feudal times rode ever to st. bris, i can conceive that their dukedom never seemed larger to them than when crossing this triple apex of highland. at saulieu we left the usual route, and crossed over to chagny. between these two places lay a spot, which, out of my own country, i should choose before all others for a retreat from the world. as it was off the route, the guide-book gave me not even the name, and i have discovered nothing but that the little hamlet is called _rochepot_. it is a little nest of wild scenery, a mimic valley shut in by high overhanging crags, with the ruins of a battlemented and noble old castle, standing upon a rock in the centre, with the village of some hundred stone cottages at its very foot. you might stand on the towers of the ruins, and toss a biscuit into almost every chimney in the village. the strong round towers are still perfect, and the turrets and loop-holes and windows are still there; and rank green vines have overrun the whole mass everywhere; and nothing but the prodigious solidity with which it was built could have kept it so long from falling, for it is evidently one of the oldest castles in burgundy. i never before saw anything, even in a picture, which realized perfectly my idea of feudal position. here lived the lord of the domain, a hundred feet in the air in his rocky castle, right over the heads of his retainers, with the power to call in every soul that served him at a minute's warning, and with a single blast of his trumpet. i do not believe a stone has been displaced in the village for a hundred years. the whole thing was redolent of antiquity. we wound out of the place by a sharp narrow pass, and there, within a mile of this old and deserted fortress, lay the broad plains of beaune and chagny--one of the most fertile and luxurious parts of france. i was charmed altogether. how many things i have seen this side the water that i have made an involuntary vow in my heart to visit again, and at more leisure, before i die! from chagny it was but one post to chalons, and here i am in a pretty, busy town, with broad beautiful quays, where i have promenaded till dark, observing this out-of-doors people; and now, having written a long letter for a sleepy man, i will get to bed, and redeem some portion of my two nights' wakefulness. letter xxiii. passage down the saone--an odd acquaintance--lyons--church of notre dame de fourvieres--view from the tower. i looked out of my window the last thing before going to bed at chalons, and the familiar constellation of _ursa major_ never shone brighter, and never made me a more agreeable promise than that of fair weather the following day for my passage down the saone. i was called at four, and it rained in torrents. the steamboat was smaller than the smallest i have seen in our country, and crowded to suffocation with children, women, and lap-dogs. i appropriated my own trunk, and spreading my umbrella, sat down upon it, to endure my disappointment with what philosophy i might. a dirty-looking fellow, who must have slept in his clothes for a month, came up, with a loaf of coarse bread under his arm, and addressed me, to my sufficient astonishment, _in latin_! he wanted to sit under my umbrella. i looked at him a second time, but he had touched my passion. latin is the only thing i have been driven to, in this world, that i ever really loved; and the clear, mellow, unctuous pronunciation of my dirty companion equally astonished and pleased me. i made room for him on my trunk, and, though rusted somewhat since i philosophized over lucretius, we got on very tolerably. he was a german student, travelling to italy, and a fine specimen of the class. a dirtier man i never saw, and hardly a finer or more intellectual face. he knew everything, and served me as a talking guide to the history of all the places on the river. instead of eating all at once, as we do on board the steamboats in america, the french boats have a _restaurant_, from which you order what you please, and at any hour. the cabin was set round with small tables, and the passengers made little parties, and breakfasted and dined at their own time. it is much the better method. i descended to the cabin very hungry about twelve o'clock, and was looking about for a place, when a french gentleman politely rose, and observing that i was alone, (my german friend living on bread and water only,) requested me to join his party at breakfast. two young ladies and a lad of fourteen sat at the table, and addressing them by their familiar names, my polite friend requested them to give me a place; and then told me that they were his daughters and son, and that he was travelling to italy for the health of the younger girl, a pale, slender creature, apparently about eighteen. i was very well pleased with my position, and rarely have passed an hour more agreeably. french girls of the better classes never talk, but the father was very communicative, and a parisian, with the cross of the legion of honor, and we found abundance of matter for conversation. they have stopped at lyons, where i write at present, and i shall probably join their party to marseilles. the clouds broke away after mid-day, and the banks of the river brightened wonderfully with the change. the saone is about the size of the mohawk, but not half so beautiful; at least for the greater part of its course. indeed, you can hardly compare american with european rivers, for the charm is of another description, quite. with us it is nature only, here it is almost all art. our rivers are lovely, because the outline of the shore is graceful, and particularly because the vegetation is luxuriant. the hills are green, the foliage deep and lavish, the rocks grown over with vines or moss, the mountains in the distance covered with pines and other forest-trees; everything is wild, and nothing looks bare or sterile. the rivers of france are crowned on every height with ruins, and in the bosom of every valley lies a cluster of picturesque stone cottages; but the fields are naked, and there are no trees; the mountains are barren and brown, and everything looks as if the dwellings had been deserted by the people, and nature had at the same time gone to decay. i can conceive nothing more melancholy than the views upon the saone, seen, as i saw them, though vegetation is out everywhere, and the banks should be beautiful if ever. as we approached lyons the river narrowed and grew bolder, and the last ten miles were enchanting. naturally the shores at this part of the saone are exceedingly like the highlands of the hudson above west point. abrupt hills rise from the river's edge, and the windings are sharp and constant. but imagine the highlands of the hudson crowned with antique chateaux, and covered to the very top with terraces and summer-houses and hanging-gardens, gravel walks and beds of flowers, instead of wild pines and precipices, and you may get a very correct idea of the saone above lyons. you emerge from one of the dark passes of the river by a sudden turn, and there before you lies this large city, built on both banks, at the foot and on the sides of mountains. the bridges are fine, and the broad, crowded quays, all along the edges of the river, have a beautiful effect. we landed at the stone stairs, and i selected a hotel by chance, where i have found seven americans of my acquaintance. we have been spending the evening at the rooms of a townsman of mine, very pleasantly. * * * * * there is a great deal of magnificence at lyons, in the way of quays, promenades, and buildings; but its excessive filthiness spoils everything. one could scarce admire a venus in such an atmosphere; and you cannot find room to stand in lyons where you have not some nauseating odor. i was glad to escape from the lower streets, and climb up the long staircases to the observatory that overhangs the town. from the base of this elevation the descent of the river is almost a precipice. the houses hang on the side of the steep hill, and their doors enter from the long alleys of stone staircases by which you ascend. on every step, and at almost every foot of the way, stood a beggar. they might have touched hands from the quay to the summit. if they were not such objects of real wretchedness, it would be laughable to hear the church calendar of saints repeated so volubly. the lame hobble after you, the blind stumble in your way, the sick lie and stretch out their hands from the wall, and all begin in the name of the virgin mary, and end with "_mon bon monsieur_," and "_un petit sous_." i confined my charities to a lovely child, that started out from its mother's lap, and ran down to meet us--a dirty and ragged little thing, but with the large dark eyes of the province; and a skin, where one could see it, of the clearest nut-brown teint. her mother had five such, and each of them, to any one who loved children, would have been a treasure of beauty and interest. it was holy-week, and the church of _notre dame de fourvières_, which stands on the summit of the hill, was crowded with people. we went in for a moment, and sat down on a bench to rest. my companion was a swiss captain of artillery, who was a passenger in the boat, a very splendid fellow, with a mustache that he might have tied behind his ears. he had addressed me at the hotel, and proposed that we should visit the curiosities of the town together. he was a model of a manly figure, athletic, and soldier-like, and standing near him was to get the focus of all the dark eyes in the congregation. the new square tower stands at the side of the church, and rises to the height of perhaps sixty feet. the view from it is said to be one of the finest in the world. i have seen more extensive ones, but never one that comprehended more beauty and interest. lyons lies at the foot, with the saone winding through its bosom in abrupt curves; the rhone comes down from the north on the other side of the range of mountains, and meeting the saone in a broad stream below the town, they stretch off to the south, through a diversified landscape; the alps rise from the east like the edges of a thunder-cloud, and the mountains of savoy fill up the interval to the rhone. all about the foot of the monument lie gardens, of exquisite cultivation; and above and below the city the villas of the rich; giving you altogether as delicious a nucleus for a broad circle of scenery as art and nature could create, and one sufficiently in contrast with the barrenness of the rocky circumference to enhance the charm, and content you with your position. half way down the hill lies an old monastery, with a lovely garden walled in from the world; and several of the brotherhood were there, idling up and down the shaded alleys, with their black dresses sweeping the ground, possibly in holy contemplation. the river was covered with boats, the bells were ringing to church, the glorious old cathedral, so famous for its splendor, stood piled up, with its arches and gray towers, in the square below; the day was soft, sunny, and warm, and existence was a blessing. i leaned over the balustrade, i know not how long, looking down upon the scene about me; and i shall ever remember it as one of those few unalloyed moments, when the press of care was taken off my mind, and the chain of circumstances was strong enough to set aside both the past and the future, and leave me to the quiet enjoyment of the present. i have found such hours "few and far between." letter xxiv. departure from lyons--batteaux de poste--river scenery--village of condrieu--vienne--valence--point st. esprit--dauphiny and languedoc--demi-fete day, etc. i found a day and a half quite enough for lyons. the views from the mountain and the river were the only things that pleased me. i made the usual dry visit to the library and the museum, and admired the hotel de ville, and the new theatre, and the front of the _maison de tolosan_, that so struck the fancy of joseph ii., and having "despatched the lions," like a true cockney traveller, i was too happy to escape the offensive smells of the streets, and get to my rooms. one does not enjoy much comfort within doors either. lyons is a great imitation metropolis--a sort of second-hand paris. i am not very difficult to please, but i found the living intolerable. it was an affectation of abstruse cookery throughout. we sat down to what is called the best table in the place, and it was a series of ludicrous travesties, from the soup to the salad. one can eat well in the country, because the dishes are simple, and he gets the natural taste of things; but to come to a table covered with artificial dishes, which he has been accustomed to see in their perfection, and to taste and send away everything in disgust, is a trial of temper which is reserved for the traveller at lyons. the scenery on the river, from lyons to avignon, has great celebrity, and i had determined to take that course to the south. just at this moment, however, the rhone had been pronounced too low, and the steamboats were stopped. i probably made the last passage by steam on the saone, for we ran aground repeatedly, and were compelled to wait till horses could be procured to draw the boat into deep water. it was quite amusing to see with what a regular, business-like air, the postillions fixed their traces to the prow, and whipped into the middle of the river. a small boat was my only resource, and i found a man on the quay who plied the river in what is called _batteaux de poste_, rough shallops with flat bottoms, which are sold for firewood on their arrival, the rapidity of the rhone rendering a return against the current next to impossible. the sight of the frail contrivance in which i was to travel nearly two hundred miles, rather startled me, but the man assured me he had several other passengers, and two ladies among them. i paid the _arrhes_, or earnest money, and was at the river-stairs punctually at four the next morning. to my very sincere pleasure the two ladies were the daughters of my polite friend and fellow passenger from chalons. they were already on board, and the little shallop sat deep in the water with her freight. besides these, there were two young french chasseurs going home on leave of absence, a pretty parisian dress-maker flying from the cholera, a masculine woman, the wife of a dragoon, and my friend the captain. we pushed out into the current, and drifted slowly down under the bridges, without oars the padrone quietly smoking his pipe at the helm. in a few minutes we were below the town, and here commenced again the cultivated and ornamented banks i had so much admired on my approach to lyons from the other side. the thin haze was just stirring from the river's surface, the sunrise flush was on the sky, the air was genial and impregnated with the smell of grass and flowers, and the little changing landscapes, as we followed the stream, broke upon us like a series of exquisite dioramas. the atmosphere was like doughty's pictures, exactly. i wished a thousand times for that delightful artist, that he might see how richly the old _chateaux_ and their picturesque appurtenances filled up the scene. it would have given a new turn to his pencil. we soon arrived at the junction of the rivers, and, as we touched the rapid current of the rhone, the little shallop yielded to its sway, and redoubled its velocity. the sun rose clear, the cultivation grew less and less, the hills began to look distant and barren, and our little party became sociable in proportion. we closed around the invalid, who sat wrapped in a cloak in the stern, leaning on her father's shoulder, and talked of paris and its pleasures--a theme of which the french are never weary. time passed delightfully. without being decidedly pretty, our two parisiennes were quiet-mannered and engaging; and the younger one particularly, whose pale face and deeply-sunken eyes gave her a look of melancholy interest, seemed to have thought much, and to feel, besides, that her uncertain health gave her a privilege of overstepping the rigid reserve of an unmarried girl. she talks freely, and with great delicacy of expression and manner. we ran ashore at the little village of condrieu to breakfast. we were assailed on stepping out of the boat by the _demoiselles_ of two or three rival _auberges_--nice-looking, black-eyed girls, in white aprons, who seized us by the arm, and pulled each to her own door, with torrents of unintelligible _patois_. we left it to the captain, who selected the best-looking leader, and we were soon seated around a table covered with a lavish breakfast; the butter, cheese, and wine excellent, at least. a merrier party, i am sure, never astonished the simple people of condrieu. the pretty dress-maker was full of good-humor and politeness, and delighted at the envy with which the rural belles regarded her knowing parisian cap; the chasseurs sang the popular songs of the army, and joked with the maids of the _auberge_; the captain was inexhaustibly agreeable, and the hour given us by the padrone was soon gone. we embarked with a thousand adieus from the pleased people, and altogether it was more like a scene from wilhelm meister, than a passage from real life. the wind soon rose free and steady from the north-west, and with a spread sail we ran past _vienne_, at ten miles in the hour. this was the metropolis of my old friends, "the allobrogues," in cesar's commentaries. i could not help wondering at the feelings with which i was passing over such classic ground. the little dress-maker was giving us an account of her fright at the cholera, and every one in the boat was in agonies of laughter. i looked at the guide-book to find the name of the place, and the first glance at the word carried me back to my old school-desk at andover, and conjured up for a moment the redolent classic interest with which i read the history of the land i was now hurrying through. that a laugh with a modern _grisette_ should engross me entirely, at the moment i was traversing such a spot, is a possibility the man may realize much more readily than the school-boy. a new roar of merriment from my companions plucked me back effectually from andover to the rhone, and i thought no more of gaul or its great historian. we floated on during the day, passing _chateaux_ and ruins constantly; but finding the country barren and rocky to a dismal degree, i can not well imagine how the rhone has acquired its reputation for beauty. it has been sung by the poets more than any other river in france, and the various epithets that have been applied to it have become so common, that you can not mention it without their rising to your lips; but the saone and the seine are incomparably more lovely, and i am told the valleys of the loire are the most beautiful part of france. from its junction with the saone to the mediterranean, the rhone is one stretch of barrenness. we passed a picturesque chateau, built very widely on a rock washed by the river, called "_la roche de glun_," and twilight soon after fell, closing in our view to all but the river edge. the wind died away, but the stars were bright and the air mild; and, quite fatigued to silence, our little party leaned on the sides of the boat, and waited till the current should float us down to our resting-place for the night. we reached _valence_ at ten, and with a merry dinner and supper in one, which kept us up till after midnight, we got to our coarse but clean beds, and slept soundly. the following forenoon we ran under the _pont st. esprit_, an experiment the guide-book calls very dangerous. the rhone is rapid and noisy here, and we shot under the arches of the fine old structure with great velocity; but the "rapids of the st. lawrence" are passed constantly without apprehension by travellers in america, and those of the rhone are a mere millrace in comparison. we breakfasted just below, at a village where we could scarce understand a syllable, the _patois_ was so decided, and at sunset we were far down between the provinces of _dauphiny_ and _languedoc_, with the villages growing thicker and greener, and a high mountain within ten or fifteen miles, covered with snow nearly to the base. we stopped opposite the old castle of _rocheméuse_ to pay the _droit_. it was a _demi-fete_ day, and the inhabitants of a village back from the river had come out to the green bank in their holyday costume for a revel. the bank swelled up from the stream to a pretty wood, and the green sward between was covered with these gay people, arrested in their amusements by our arrival. we jumped out for a moment, and i walked up the bank and endeavored to make the acquaintance of a strikingly handsome woman about thirty, but the _patois_ was quite too much. after several vain attempts to understand each other, she laughed and turned on her heel, and i followed the call of the padrone to the batteau. for five or six miles below, the river passed through a kind of meadow, and an air more loaded with fragrance i never breathed. the sun was just down, and with the mildness of the air, and quiet glide of the boat on the water, it was quite enchanting. conversation died away, and i went forward and lay down in the bow alone, with a fit of desperate musing. it is as singular as it is certain, that the more one enjoys the loveliness of a foreign land, the more he feels how absolutely his heart is at home in his own country. letter xxv. influence of a boatman--the town of arles--roman ruins--the cathedral--marseilles--the pass of ollioules--the vineyards--toulon--antibes--lazaretto--villa franca, etc. i entered avignon after a delicious hour on the rhone, quite in the mood to do poetical homage to its associations. my dreams of petrarch and vaucluse were interrupted by a scene between my friend the captain, and a stout boatman, who had brought his baggage from the batteau. the result was an appeal to the mayor, who took the captain aside after the matter was argued, and told him in his ear that he must compromise the matter, for he _dared not give a judgment in his favor_! the man had demanded _twelve_ francs where the regulations allowed him but _one_, and palpable as the imposition was, the magistrate refused to interfere. the captain curled his mustache and walked the room in a terrible passion, and the boatman, an herculean fellow, eyed him with a look of assurance which quite astonished me. after the case was settled, i asked an explanation of the mayor. he told me frankly, that the fellow belonged to a powerful class of men of the lowest description, who, having declared first for the present government, were and would be supported by it in almost any question where favor could be shown--that all the other classes of inhabitants were malcontents, and that, between positive strength and royal favor, the boatmen and their party had become too powerful even for the ordinary enforcement of the law. the following day was so sultry and warm, that i gave up all idea of a visit to vaucluse. we spent the morning under the trees which stand before the door of the _café_ in the village square, and at noon we took the steamboat upon the rhone for _arles_. an hour or two brought us to this ancient town, where we were compelled to wait till the next day, the larger boat which goes hence by the mouths of the rhone to marseilles, being out of order. we left our baggage in the boat, and i walked up with the captain to see the town. an officer whom we addressed for information on the quay politely offered to be our guide, and we passed three or four hours rambling about, with great pleasure. our first object was the roman ruins, for which the town is celebrated. we traversed several streets, so narrow, that the old time-worn houses on either side seemed to touch at the top, and in the midst of a desolate and poverty-stricken neighborhood, we came suddenly upon a noble roman amphitheatre of gigantic dimensions, and sufficiently preserved to be a picturesque ruin. it was built on the terrace of a hill, overlooking the rhone. from the towers of the gateway, the view across the river into the lovely province of languedoc, is very extensive. the arena is an excavation of perhaps thirty feet in depth, and the rows of seats, all built of vast blocks of stone, stretch round it in retreating and rising platforms to the surface of the hill. the lower story is surrounded with dens; and the upper terrace is enclosed with a circle of small apartments, like boxes in a theatre, opening by handsome arches upon the scene. it is the ruin of a noble structure, and, even without the help of the imagination, exceedingly impressive. it seems to be at present turned into a play-ground. the dens and cavities were full of black-eyed and happy creatures, hiding and hallooing with all the delightful spirit and gayety of french children. probably it was never appropriated to a better use. we entered the cathedral in returning. it is an antique, and considered a very fine one. the twilight was just falling; and the candles burning upon the altar, had a faint, dull glare, making the dimness of the air more perceptible. i walked up the long aisle to the side chapel, without observing that my companions had left me, and, quite tired with my walk, seated myself against one of the gothic pillars, enjoying the quiet of the place, and the momentary relief from exciting objects. it struck me presently that there was a dead silence in the church, and, as much to hear the sound of english as for any better motive, i approached the priest's missal, which lay open on a stand near me, and commenced translating a familiar psalm aloud. my voice echoed through the building with a fullness which startled me, and looking over my shoulder, i saw that a simple, poor old woman was kneeling in the centre of the church, praying alone. she had looked up at my interruption of the silence of the place, but her beads still slipped slowly through her fingers, and, feeling that i was intruding possibly between a sincere worshipper and her maker, i withdrew to the side aisle, and made my way softly out of the cathedral. arles appears to have modernized less than any town i have seen in france. the streets and the inhabitants look as if they had not changed for a century. the dress of the women is very peculiar; the waist of the gown coming up to a point behind, between the shoulder blades, and consequently very short in front, and the high cap bound to the head with broad velvet ribands, suffering nothing but the jet black curls to escape over the forehead. as a class, they are the handsomest women i have seen. nothing could be prettier than the small-featured lively brunettes we saw sitting on the stone benches at every door. we ran down the next morning, in a few hours to marseilles. it was a cloudy, misty day, and i did not enjoy, as i expected, the first view of the mediterranean from the mouths of the rhone. we put quite out into the swell of the sea, and the passengers were all strewn on the deck in the various gradations of sickness. my friend the captain, and myself, had the only constant stomachs on board. i was very happy to distinguish marseilles through the mist, and as we approached nearer, the rocky harbor and the islands of _chateau d'if_ and _pomègue_, with the fortress at the mouth of the harbor, came out gradually from the mist, and the view opened to a noble amphitheatre of rocky mountains, in whose bosom lies marseilles at the edge of the sea. we ran into the narrow cove which forms the inner harbor, passing an american ship, the "william penn," just arrived from philadelphia, and lying in quarantine. my blood started at the sight of the starred flag; and as we passed closer and i read the name upon her stern, a thousand recollections of that delightful city sprang to my heart, and i leaned over to her from the boat's side, with a feeling of interest and pleasure to which the foreign tongue that called me to bid adieu to newer friends, seemed an unwelcome interruption. i parted from my pleasant parisian friend and his family, however, with real regret. they were polite and refined, and had given me their intimacy voluntarily and without reserve. i shook hands with them on the quay, and wished the pale and quiet invalid better health, with more of feeling than is common with acquaintances of a day. i believe them kind and sincere, and i have not found these qualities growing so thickly in the world that i can thrust aside anything that resembles them, with a willing mistrust. the quay of marseilles is one of the most varied scenes to be met with in europe. vessels of all nations come trading to its port, and nearly every costume in the world may be seen in its busy crowds. i was surprised at the number of greeks. their picturesque dresses and dark fine faces meet you at every step, and it would be difficult, if it were not for the shrinking eye, to believe them capable of an ignoble thought. the mould of the race is one for heroes, but if all that is said of them be true, the blood has become impure. of the two or three hundred i must have seen at marseilles, i scarce remember one whose countenance would not have been thought remarkable. * * * * * i have remained six days in marseilles by the advice of the sardinian consul, who assured me that so long a residence in the south of france, is necessary to escape quarantine for the cholera, at the ports or on the frontiers of italy. i have obtained his certificate to-day, and depart to-morrow for nice. my forced _sejour_ here has been far from an amusing or a willing one. the "_mistral_" has blown chilly and with suffocating dryness, so that i have scarce breathed freely since i entered the town, and the streets, though handsomely laid out and built, are intolerable from the dust. the sun scorches your skin to a blister, and the wind chills your blood to the bone. there are beautiful public walks, which, at the more moist seasons, must be delightful, but at present the leaves on the trees are all white, and you cannot keep your eyes open long enough to see from one end of the promenade to the other. within doors, it is true, i have found everything which could compensate for such evils; and i shall carry away pleasant recollections of the hospitality of the messrs. fitch, and others of my countrymen, living here--gentlemen whose courtesies are well-remembered by every american traveller through the south of france. * * * * * i sank into the corner of the _coupé_ of the diligence for toulon, at nine o'clock in the evening, and awoke with the gray of the dawn at the entrance of the pass of _ollioules_, one of the wildest defiles i ever saw. the gorge is the bed of a winter torrent, and you travel three miles or more between two mountains seemingly cleft asunder, on a road cut out a little above the stream, with naked rock to the height of two or three hundred feet almost perpendicularly above you. nothing could be more bare and desolate than the whole pass, and nothing could be richer or more delightfully cultivated than the low valleys upon which it opens. it is some four or five miles hence to toulon, and we traversed the road by sunrise, the soft, gray light creeping through the olive and orange trees with which the fields are laden, and the peasants just coming out to their early labor. you see no brute animal here except the mule; and every countryman you meet is accompanied by one of these serviceable little creatures, often quite hidden from sight by the enormous load he carries, or pacing patiently along with a master on his back, who is by far the larger of the two. the vineyards begin to look delightfully; for the thick black stump which was visible over the fields i have hitherto passed, is in these warm valleys covered already with masses of luxuriant vine leaves, and the hill sides are lovely with the light and tender verdure. i saw here for the first time, the olive and date trees in perfection. they grow in vast orchards planted regularly, and the olive resembles closely the willow, and reaches about the same height and shape. the leaves are as slender but not quite so long, and the color is more dusky, like the bloom upon a grape. indeed, at a short distance, the whole tree looks like a mass of untouched fruit. i was agreeably disappointed in toulon. it is a rural town with a harbor--not the dirty seaport one naturally expects to find it. the streets are the cleanest i have seen in france, some of them lined with trees, and the fountains all over it freshen the eye delightfully. we had an hour to spare, and with mr. doyle, an irish gentleman, who had been my travelling companion, since i parted with my friend the swiss, i made the circuit of the quays. they were covered with french naval officers and soldiers, promenading and conversing in the lively manner of this gayest of nations. a handsome child, of perhaps six years, was selling roses at one of the corners, and for a _sous_, all she demanded, i bought six of the most superb damask buds just breaking into flower. they were the first i had seen from the open air since i left america, and i have not often purchased so much pleasure with a copper coin. toulon was interesting to me as the place where napoleon's career began. the fortifications are very imposing. we passed out of the town over the draw-bridge, and were again in the midst of a lovely landscape, with an air of bland and exhilarating softness, and everything that could delight the eye. the road runs along the shore of the mediterranean, and the fields are green to the water edge. we arrived at antibes to-day at noon, within fifteen miles of the frontier of sardinia. we have run through most of the south of france, and have found it all like a garden. the thing most like it in our country is the neighborhood of boston, particularly the undulated country about brookline and dorchester. remove all the stone fences from that sweet country, put here and there an old chateau on an eminence, and change the pretty white mock cottages of gentlemen, for the real stone cottages of peasantry, and you have a fair picture of the scenery of this celebrated shore. the mediterranean should be added as a distance, with its exquisite blue, equalled by nothing but an american sky in a july noon--its crowds of sail, of every shape and nation, and the alps in the horizon crested with snow, like clouds half touched by the sun. it is really a delicious climate. out of the scorching sun the air is bracing and cool; and though my ears have been blistered in walking up the hills in a travelling cap, i have scarcely experienced an uncomfortable sensation of heat, and this in my winter dress, with flannels and a surtout, as i have worn them for the six months past in paris. the air could not be tempered more accurately for enjoyment. i regret to go in doors. i regret to sleep it away. * * * * * _antibes_ was fortified by the celebrated _vauban_, and it looks impregnable enough to my unscientific eye. if the portcullises were drawn up, i would not undertake to get into the town with the full consent of the inhabitants. we walked around the ramparts which are washed by the mediterranean, and got an appetite in the sea-breeze, which we would willingly have dispensed with. i dislike to abuse people, but i must say that the _cuisine_ of madame agarra, at the "gold eagle," is rather the worst i have fallen upon in my travels. her price, as is usual in france, was proportionably exorbitant. my irish friend, who is one of the most religious gentlemen of his country i ever met, came as near getting into a passion with his supper and bill, as was possible for a temper so well disciplined. for myself, having acquired only polite french, i can but "look daggers" when i am abused. we depart presently for _nice_, in a ricketty barouche, with post-horses, the _courier_, or post-coach, going no farther. it is a roomy old affair, that has had pretensions to style some time since henri quatre, but the arms on its panels are illegible now, and the ambitious driving-box is occupied by the humble materials to remedy a probable break-down by the way. the postillion is cracking his whip impatiently, my friend has called me twice, and i must put up my pencil. _antibes_ again! we have returned here after an unsuccessful attempt to enter the sardinian dominions. we were on the road by ten in the morning, and drove slowly along the shores of the mediterranean, enjoying to the utmost the heavenly weather and the glorious scenery about us. the driver pointed out to us a few miles from antibes, the very spot on which napoleon landed on his return from elba, and the tree, a fine old olive, under which he slept three hours, before commencing his march. we arrived at the _pont de var_ about one, and crossed the river, but here we were met by a guard of sardinian soldiers, and our passports were demanded. the commissary came from the guard-house with a long pair of tongs, and receiving them open, read them at the longest possible distance. they were then handed back to us in the same manner, and we were told we could not pass. we then handed him our certificates of quarantine at marseilles; but were told it availed nothing, a new order having arrived from turin that very morning, to admit no travellers from infected or suspected places across the frontier. we asked if there were no means by which we could pass; but the commissary only shook his head, ordered us not to dismount on the sardinian side of the river, and shut his door. we turned about and recrossed the bridge in some perplexity. the french commissary at st. laurent, the opposite village, received us with a suppressed smile, and informed us that several parties of travellers, among others an english gentleman and his wife and sister, were at the _auberge_, waiting for an answer from the prefect of nice, having been turned back in the same manner since morning. we drove up, and they advised us to send our passports by the postillion, with a letter to the consuls of our respective nations, requesting information, which we did immediately. nice is three miles from st. laurent, and as we could not expect an answer for several hours, we amused ourselves with a stroll along the banks of the var to the mediterranean. the sardinian side is bold, and wooded to the tops of the hills very richly. we kept along a mile or more through the vineyards, and returned in time to receive a letter from the american consul, confirming the orders of the commissary, but advising us to return to antibes, and sail thence for villa franca, a lazaretto in the neighborhood of nice, whence we could enter italy, after _seven days quarantine_! by this time several travelling-carriages had collected, and all, profiting by our experience, turned back together. we are now at the "gold eagle," deliberating. some have determined to give up their object altogether, but the rest of us sail to-morrow morning in a fishing-boat for the lazaretto. * * * * * lazaretto, villa franca.--there were but eight of the twenty or thirty travellers stopped at the bridge who thought it worth while to persevere. we are all here in this pest-house, and a motley mixture of nations it is. there are two young sicilians returning from college to messina; a belgian lad of seventeen, just started on his travels; two aristocratic young frenchmen, very elegant and very ignorant of the world, running down to italy in their own carriage, to avoid the cholera; a middle-aged surgeon in the british navy, very cool and very gentlemanly; a vulgar marseilles trader, and myself. we were from seven in the morning till two, getting away from antibes. our difficulties during the whole day are such a practical comparison of the freedom of european states and ours, that i may as well detail them. first of all, our passports were to be vised by the police. we were compelled to stand an hour with our hats off, in a close, dirty office, waiting our turn for this favor. the next thing was to get the permission of the prefect of the _marine_ to embark; and this occupied another hour. thence we were taken to the health-office, where a _bill of health_ was made out for eight persons _going to a lazaretto_! the padrone's freight duties were then to be settled, and we went back and forth between the sardinian consul and the french, disputing these for another hour or more. our baggage was piled upon the _charrette_, at last, to be taken to the boat. the quay is outside the gate, and here are stationed the _douanes_, or custom-officers, who ordered our trunks to be taken from the cart, and searched them from top to bottom. after a half hour spent in repacking our effects in the open street, amid a crowd of idle spectators, we were suffered to proceed. almost all these various gentlemen expect a fee, and some demand a heavy one; and all this trouble and expense of time and money to make a voyage of _fifteen miles in a fishing-boat_! we hoisted the fisherman's latteen sail, and put out of the little harbor in very bad temper. the wind was fair, and we ran along the shore for a couple of hours, till we came to nice, where we were to stop for permission to go to the lazaretto. we were hailed, off the mole, with a trumpet, and suffered to pass. doubling a little point, half a mile farther on, we ran into the bay of villa franca, a handful of houses at the base of an amphitheatre of mountains. a little round tower stood in the centre of the harbor, built upon a rock, and connected with the town by a draw-bridge, and we were landed at a staircase outside, by which we mounted to show our papers to the health-officer. the interior was a little circular yard, separated from an office on the town side by an iron grating, and looking out on the sea by two embrasures for cannon. two strips of water and the sky above was our whole prospect for the hour that we waited here. the cause of the delay was presently explained by clouds of smoke issuing from the interior. the tower filled, and a more nauseating odor i never inhaled. we were near suffocating with the intolerable smell, and the quantity of smoke deemed necessary to secure his majesty's officers against contagion. a cautious-looking old gentleman, with gray hair, emerged at last from the smoke, with a long cane-pole in his hand, and, coughing at every syllable, requested us to insert our passports in the split at the extremity, which he thrust through the gate. this being done, we asked him for bread. we had breakfasted at seven, and it was now sundown--near twelve hours fast. several of my companions had been seasick with the swell of the mediterranean, in coming from antibes, and all were faint with hunger and exhaustion. for myself, the villainous smell of our purification had made me sick, and i had no appetite; but the rest ate very voraciously of a loaf of coarse bread, which was extended to us with a tongs and two pieces of paper. after reading our passports, the magistrate informed us that he had no orders to admit us to the lazaretto, and we must lie in our boat till he could send a messenger to nice with our passports and obtain permission. we opened upon him, however, with such a flood of remonstrance, and with such an emphasis from hunger and fatigue, that he consented to admit us temporarily on his own responsibility, and gave the boatmen orders to row back to a long, low stone building, which we had observed at the foot of a precipice at the entrance to the harbor. he was there before us, and as we mounted the stone ladder he pointed through the bars of a large inner gate to a single chamber, separated from the rest of the building, and promising to send us something to eat in the course of the evening, left us to take possession. our position was desolate enough. the building was new, and the plaster still soft and wet. there was not an article of furniture in the chamber, and but a single window; the floor was of brick, and the air as damp within as a cellar. the alternative was to remain out of doors, in the small yard, walled up thirty feet on three sides, and washed by the sea on the other; and here, on a long block of granite, the softest thing i could find, i determined to make an _al fresco_ night of it. bread, cheese, wine, and cold meat, seethed, italian fashion, in nauseous oil, arrived about nine o'clock; and, by the light of a candle standing in a boot, we sat around on the brick floor, and supped very merrily. hunger had brought even our two french exquisites to their fare, and they ate well. the navy surgeon had seen service, and had no qualms; the sicilians were from a german university, and were not delicate; the marseilles trader knew no better; and we should have been less contented with a better meal. it was superfluous to abuse it. a steep precipice hangs immediately over the lazaretto, and the horn of the half moon was just dipping below it, as i stretched myself to sleep. with a folded coat under me, and a carpet-bag for a pillow, i soon fell asleep, and slept soundly till sunrise. my companions had chosen shelter, but all were happy to be early risers. we mounted our wall upon the sea, and promenaded till the sun was broadly up, and the breeze from the mediterranean sharpened our appetites, and then finishing the relics of our supper, we waited with what patience we might the appearance of our breakfast. * * * * * the magistrate arrived at twelve, yesterday, with a commissary from villa franca, who is to be our victualler during the quarantine. he has enlarged our limits, by a stone staircase and an immense chamber, on condition that we pay for an extra guard, in the shape of a sardinian soldier, who is to sleep in our room, and eat at our table. by the way, we _have_ a table, and four rough benches, and these, with three single mattresses, are all the furniture we can procure. we are compelled to sleep _across_ the latter of course, to give every one his share. we have come down very contentedly to our situation, and i have been exceedingly amused at the facility with which eight such different tempers can amalgamate, upon compulsion. our small quarters bring us in contact continually, and we harmonize like schoolboys. at this moment the marseilles trader and the two frenchmen are throwing stones at something that is floating out with the tide; the surgeon has dropped his italian grammar to decide upon which is the best shot; the belgian is fishing off the wall, with a pin hook and a bit of cheese; and the two sicilians are talking _lingua franca_, at the top of their voices, to carolina, the guardian's daughter, who stands coquetting on the pier just outside the limits. i have got out my books and portfolio, and taken possession of the broad stair, depending on the courtesy of my companions to jump over me and my papers when they go up and down. i sit here most of the day laughing at the fun below, and writing or reading alternately. the climate is too delicious for discontent. every breath is a pleasure. the hills of the amphitheatre opposite to us are covered with olive, lemon, and orange trees; and in the evening, from the time the land breeze commences to blow off shore until ten or eleven, the air is impregnated with the delicate perfume of the orange-blossom, than which nothing could be more grateful. nice is called the hospital of europe; and truly, under this divine sky, and with the inspiriting vitality and softness of the air, and all that nature can lavish of luxuriance and variety upon the hills, it is the place, if there is one in the world, where the drooping spirit of the invalid must revive and renew. at this moment the sun has crept from the peak of the highest mountain across the bay, and we shall scent presently the spicy wind from the shore. i close my book to go upon the wall, which i see the surgeon has mounted already with the same object, to catch the first breath that blows seaward. it is sunday, and an italian summer morning. i do not think my eyes ever woke upon so lovely a day. the long, lazy swell comes in from the mediterranean as smooth as glass; the sails of a beautiful yacht, belonging to an english nobleman at nice, and lying becalmed just now in the bay, are hanging motionless about the masts; the sky is without a speck, the air just seems to me to steep every nerve and fibre of the frame with repose and pleasure. now and then in america i have felt a june morning that approached it, but never the degree, the fulness, the sunny softness of this exquisite clime. it tranquilizes the mind as well as the body. you cannot resist feeling contented and genial. we are all out of doors, and my companions have brought down their mattresses, and are lying along the shade of the east wall, talking quietly and pleasantly; the usual sounds of the workmen on the quays of the town are still, our harbor-guard lies asleep in his boat, the yellow flag of the lazaretto clings to the staff, everything about us breathes tranquillity. prisoner as i am, i would not stir willingly to-day. * * * * * we have had two new arrivals this morning--a boat from antibes, with a company of players bound for the theatre at milan; and two french deserters from the regiment at toulon, who escaped in a leaky boat, and have made this voyage along the coast to get into italy. they knew nothing of the quarantine, and were very much surprised at their arrest. they will, probably, be delivered up to the french consul. the new comers are all put together in the large chamber next us, and we have been talking with them through the grate. his majesty of sardinia is not spared in their voluble denunciations. our imprisonment is getting to be a little tedious. we lengthen our breakfasts and dinners, go to sleep early and get up late, but a lazaretto is a dull place after all. we have no books except dictionaries and grammars, and i am on my last sheet of paper. what i shall do, the two remaining days, i cannot divine. our meals were amusing for a while. we have but three knives and four glasses; and the belgian, having cut his plate in two on the first day, has eaten since from the wash-bowl. the salt is in a brown paper, the vinegar in a shell; and the meats, to be kept warm during their passage by water, are brought in the black utensils in which they are cooked. our tablecloth appeared to-day of all the colors of the rainbow. we sat down to breakfast with a general cry of horror. still, with youth and good spirits, we manage to be more contented than one would expect; and our lively discussions of the spot on the quay where the table shall be laid, and the noise of our dinners _en plein air_, would convince the spectator that we were a very merry and sufficiently happy company. i like my companions, on the whole, very much. the surgeon has been in canada and the west of new york, and we have travelled the same routes, and made in several instances, the same acquaintances. he has been in almost every part of the world also, and his descriptions are very graphic and sensible. the belgian talks of his new king leopold, the sicilians of the german universities; and when i have exhausted all they can tell me, i turn to our parisians, whom i find i have met all last winter without noticing them, at the parties; and we discuss the belles, and the different members of the _beau monde_, with all the touching air and tone of exiles from paradise. in a case of desperate ennui, wearied with studying and talking, the sea wall is a delightful lounge, and the blue mediterranean plays the witch to the indolent fancy, and beguiles it well. i have never seen such a beautiful sheet of water. the color is peculiarly rich and clear, like an intensely blue sky, heaving into waves. i do not find the often-repeated description of its loveliness exaggerated. our seven days expire to-morrow, and we are preparing to eat our last dinner in the lazaretto with great glee. a temporary table is already laid upon the quay, and two strips of board raised upon some ingenious contrivance, i can not well say what, and covered with all the private and public napkins that retained any portion of their maiden whiteness. our knives are reduced to two, one having disappeared unaccountably; but the deficiency is partially remedied. the surgeon has "whittled" a pine knot, which floated in upon the tide, into a distant imitation; and one of the company has produced a delicate dagger, that looks very like a keepsake from a lady; and, by the reluctant manner in which it was put to service, the profanation cost his sentiment an effort. its white handle and silver sheath lie across a plate, abridged of its proportions by a very formidable segment. there was no disguising the poverty of the brown paper that contained the salt. it was too necessary to be made an "aside," and lies plump in the middle of the table. i fear there has been more fun in the preparation than we shall feel in eating the dinner when it arrives. the belgian stands on the wall, watching all the boats from town; but they pass off down the harbor, one after another, and we are destined to keep our appetites to a late hour. their detestable cookery needs the "sauce of hunger." the belgian's hat waves in the air, and the commissary's boat must be in sight. as we get off at six o'clock to-morrow morning, my portfolio shuts till i find another resting place, probably genoa. letter xxvi. shore of the mediterranean--nice--funeral services of maria theresa, archduchess of austria--principality of monaco--road to genoa--sardinia--prison of the pope--house of columbus--genoa. the health-magistrate arrived at an early hour, on the morning of our departure from the lazaretto of villa franca. he was accompanied by a physician, who was to direct the fumigation. the iron pot was placed in the centre of the chamber, our clothes were spread out upon the beds, and the windows shut. the _chlorin_ soon filled the room, and its detestable odor became so intolerable that we forced the door, and rushed past the sentinel into the open air, nearly suffocated. this farce over, we were permitted to embark, and, rounding the point, put into nice. the mediterranean curves gracefully into the crescented shore of this lovely bay, and the high hills lean away from the skirts of the town in one unbroken slope of cultivation to the top. large, handsome buildings face you on the long quay, as you approach; and white chimneys, and half-concealed parts of country-houses and suburban villas, appear through the olive and orange trees with which the whole amphitheatre is covered. we landed amid a crowd of half-naked idlers, and were soon at a hotel, where we ordered the best breakfast the town would afford, and sat down once more to clean cloths and unrepulsive food. as we rose from the table, a note, edged with black, and sealed and enveloped with considerable circumstance, was put into my hand by the master of the hotel. it was an invitation from the governor to attend a funeral service, to be performed in the cathedral that day, at ten o'clock, for the "late queen-mother, maria theresa, archduchess of austria." wondering not a little how i came by the honor, i joined the crowd flocking from all parts of the town to see the ceremony. the central door was guarded by a file of sardinian soldiers; and, presenting my invitation to the officer on duty, i was handed over to the master of ceremonies, and shown to an excellent seat in the centre of the church. the windows were darkened, and the candles of the altar not yet lit; and, by the indistinct light that came in through the door, i could distinguish nothing clearly. a little silver bell tinkled presently from one of the side-chapels, and boys dressed in white appeared, with long tapers, and the house was soon splendidly illuminated. i found myself in the midst of a crowd of four or five hundred ladies, all in deep mourning. the church was hung from the floor to the roof in black cloth, ornamented gorgeously with silver; and, under the large dome, which occupied half the ceiling, was raised a pyramidal altar, with tripods supporting chalices for incense at the four corners, a walk round the lower base for the priests, and something in the centre, surrounded with a blaze of light, representing figures weeping over a tomb. the organ commenced pealing, there was a single beat on the drum, and a procession entered. it was composed of the nobility of nice, and the military and civil officers, all in uniform and court dresses. the gold and silver flashing in the light, the tall plumes of the sardinian soldiery below, the solemn music, and the moving of the censers from the four corners of the altar, produced a very impressive effect. as soon as the procession had quite entered, the fire was kindled in the four chalices; and, as the white smoke rolled up to the roof, an anthem commenced with the full power of the organ. the singing was admirable, and there was one female voice in the choir, of singular power and sweetness. the remainder of the service was the usual ceremonies of the catholic church, and i amused myself with observing the people about me. it was little like a scene of mourning. the officers gradually edged in between the seats, and every woman with the least pretension to prettiness was engaged in anything but her prayers for the soul of the late archduchess. some of these, the very young girls, were pretty; and the women, of thirty-five or forty apparently, were fine-looking; but, except a decided air of style and rank, the fairly grown-up belles seemed to me of very small attraction. i saw little else in nice to interest me. i wandered about with my friend the surgeon, laughing at the ridiculous figures and villainous uniforms of the sardinian infantry, and repelling the beggars, who radiated to us from every corner; and, having traversed the terrace of a mile on the tops of the houses next the sea, unravelled all the lanes of the old town, and admired all the splendor of the new, we dined and got early to bed, anxious to sleep once more between sheets, and prepare for an early start on the following morning. * * * * * we were on the road to genoa with the first gray of the dawn: the surgeon, a french officer, and myself, three passengers of a courier barouche. we were climbing up mountains and sliding down with locked wheels for several hours, by a road edging on precipices, and overhung by tremendous rocks, and, descending at last to the sea-level, we entered _mentone_, a town of the little principality of _monaco_. having paid our twenty sous tribute to this prince of a territory not larger than a kentucky farm, we were suffered to cross his borders once more into sardinia, having posted through a whole state in less than half an hour. it is impossible to conceive a route of more grandeur than the famous road along the mediterranean from nice to genoa. it is near a hundred and fifty miles, over the edges of mountains bordering the sea for the whole distance. the road is cut into the sides of the precipice, often hundreds of feet perpendicular above the surf, descending sometimes into the ravines formed by the numerous rivers that cut their way to the sea, and mounting immediately again to the loftiest summits. it is a dizzy business, from beginning to end. there is no parapet, usually, and there are thousands of places where half a "shie" by a timid horse, would drop you at once some hundred fathoms upon rocks wet by the spray of every sea that breaks upon the shore. the loveliest little nests of valleys lie between that can be conceived. you will see a green spot, miles below you in turning the face of a rock; and right in the midst, like a handful of plaster models on a carpet, a cluster of houses, lying quietly in the warm southern exposure, embosomed in everything refreshing to the eye, the mountain sides cultivated in a large circle around, and the ruins of an old castle to a certainty on the eminence above. you descend and descend, and wind into the curves of the shore, losing and regaining sight of it constantly, till, entering a gate on the sea-level, you find yourself in a filthy, narrow, half-whitewashed town, with a population of beggars, priests, and soldiers; not a respectable citizen to be seen from one end to the other, nor a clean woman, nor a decent house. it is so, all through sardinia. the towns from a distance lie in the most exquisitely-chosen spots possible. a river comes down from the hills and washes the wall; the uplands above are always of the very choicest shelter and exposure. you would think man and nature had conspired to complete its convenience and beauty; yet, within, all is misery, dirt, and superstition. every corner has a cross--every bench a priest, idling in the sun--every door a picture of the virgin. you are delighted to emerge once more, and get up a mountain to the fresh air. as we got farther on toward genoa, the valleys became longer by the sea, and the road ran through gardens, down to the very beach, of great richness and beauty. it was new to me to travel for hours among groves of orange and lemon trees, laden with both fruit and flower, the ground beneath covered with the windfalls, like an american apple-orchard. i never saw such a profusion of fruit. the trees were breaking under the rich yellow clusters. among other things, there were hundreds of tall palms, spreading out their broad fans in the sun, apparently perfectly strong and at home under this warm sky. they are cultivated as ornaments for the churches on sacred days. i caught some half dozen views on the way that i shall never get out of my memory. at one place particularly, i think near fenale, we ran round the corner of a precipice by a road cut right into the face of a rock, two hundred feet at least above the sea; and a long view burst upon us at once of a sweet green valley, stretching back into the mountains as far as the eye could go, with three or four small towns, with their white churches, just checkering the broad sweeps of verdure, a rapid river winding through its bosom, and a back ground of the piedmontese alps, with clouds half-way up their sides, and snow glittering in the sun on their summits. language cannot describe these scenes. it is but a repetition of epithets to attempt it. you must come and see them to feel how much one loses to live always at home, and _read_ of such things only. the _courier_ pointed out to us the place in which napoleon imprisoned the pope of rome--a low house, surrounded with a wall close upon the sea--and the house a few miles from genoa, believed to have been that of columbus. * * * * * we entered genoa an hour after sunrise, by a noble gate, placed at the western extremity of the crescented harbor. thence to the centre of the city was one continued succession of sumptuous palaces. we drove rapidly along the smooth, beautifully paved streets, and my astonishment was unbroken till we were set down at the hotel. congratulating ourselves on the hindrances which had conspired to bring us here against our will, we took coffee, and went to bed for a few hours, fatigued with a journey more wearisome to the body than the mind. * * * * * i have spent two days in merely wandering about genoa, looking at the exterior of the city. it is a group of hills, piled with princely palaces. i scarce know how to commence a description of it. if there were but one of these splendid edifices, or if i could isolate a single palace, and describe it to you minutely, it would be easy to convey an impression of the surprise and pleasure of a stranger in genoa. the whole city, to use the expression of a french guide-book, "_respire la magnificence_"--breathes of splendor! the grand street, in which most of the palaces stand, winds around the foot of a high hill; and the gardens and terraces are piled back, with palaces above them; and gardens, and terraces, and palaces still above these; forming, wherever you can catch a vista, the most exquisite rising perspective. on the summit of this hill stands the noble fortress of st. george; and behind it a lovely open garden, just now alive with millions of roses, a fountain playing into a deep oval basin in the centre, and a view beneath and beyond of a broad winding valley, covered with the country villas of the nobility and gentry, and blooming with all the luxuriant vegetation of a southern clime. my window looks out upon the bay, across which i see the palace of _andria doria_, the great winner of the best glory of the genoese; and just under me floats an american flag, at the peak of a baltimore schooner, that sails to-morrow morning for the united states. i must close my letter, to send by her. i shall remain in genoa a week, and will write you of its splendor more minutely. letter xxvii. florence--the gallery--the venus de medicis--the tribune--the fornarina--the cascine--an italian festa--madame catalani. florence.--it is among the pleasantest things in this very pleasant world, to find oneself for the first time in a famous city. we sallied from the hotel this morning an hour after our arrival, and stopped at the first corner to debate where we should go. i could not help smiling at the magnificence of the alternatives. "to the gallery, of course," said i, "to see the venus de medicis." "to santa croce," said one, "to see the tombs of michael angelo, and alfieri, and machiavelli." "to the palazzo pitti," said another, "the grand duke's palace, and the choicest collection of pictures in the world." the embarrassment alone was quite a sensation. the venus carried the day. we crossed the piazza de granduca, and inquired for the gallery. a fine court was shown us, opening out from the square, around the three sides of which stood a fine uniform structure, with a colonnade, the lower story occupied by shops and crowded with people. we mounted a broad staircase, and requested of the soldier at the door to be directed to the presence of the venus, without delay. passing through one of the long wings of the gallery, without even a glance at the statues, pictures, and bronzes that lined the walls, we arrived at the door of a cabinet, and, putting aside the large crimson curtain at the entrance, stood before the enchantress. i must defer a description of her. we spent an hour there, but, except that her divine beauty filled and satisfied my eye, as nothing else ever did, and that the statue is as unlike a thing to the casts one sees of it as one thing could well be unlike another, i made no criticism. there is an atmosphere of fame and circumstantial interest about the venus, which bewilders the fancy almost as much as her loveliness does the eye. she has been gazed upon and admired by troops of pilgrims, each of whom it were worth half a life to have met at her pedestal. the painters, the poets, the talent and beauty, that have come there from every country under the sun, and the single feeling of love and admiration that she has breathed alike into all, consecrate her mere presence as a place for revery and speculation. childe harold has been here, i thought, and shelley and wordsworth and moore; and, farther removed from our sympathies, but interesting still, the poets and sculptors of another age, michael angelo and alfieri, the men of genius of all nations and times; and, to stand in the same spot, and experience the same feeling with them, is an imaginative pleasure, it is true, but as truly a deep and real one. exceeding, as the venus does beyond all competition, every image of loveliness painted or sculptured that one has ever before seen, the fancy leaves the eye gazing upon it, and busies itself irresistibly with its pregnant atmosphere of recollections. at least i found it so, and i must go there again and again, before i can look at the marble separately, and with a merely admiring attention. * * * * * three or four days have stolen away, i scarce know how. i have seen but one or two things, yet have felt so unequal to the description, that but for my promise i should never write a line about them. really, to sit down and gaze into one of titian's faces for an hour, and then to go away and dream of putting into language its color and expression, seems to me little short of superlative madness. i only wonder at the divine faculty of sight. the draught of pleasure seems to me immortal, and the eye the only ganymede that can carry the cup steadily to the mind. how shall i begin to give you an idea of the fornarina? what can i tell you of the st. john in the desert, that can afford you a glimpse, even, of raphael's inspired creations? the _tribune_ is the name of a small octagonal cabinet in the gallery, devoted to the masterpieces of the collection. there are five statues, of which one is the venus de medicis; and a dozen or twenty pictures, of which i have only seen as yet titian's two venuses, and raphael's st. john and fornarina. people walk through the other parts of the gallery, and pause here and there a moment before a painting or a statue; but in the tribune they sit down, and you may wait hours before a chair is vacated, or often before the occupant shows a sign of life. everybody seems entranced there. they get before a picture, and bury their eyes in it, as if it had turned them to stone. after the venus, the fornarina strikes me most forcibly, and i have stood and gazed at it till my limbs were numb with the motionless posture. there is no affectation in this. i saw an english girl yesterday gazing at the st. john. she was a flighty, coquettish-looking creature, and i had felt that the spirit of the place was profaned by the way she sailed into the room. she sat down, with half a glance at the venus, and began to look at this picture. it is a glorious thing, to be sure, a youth of apparently seventeen, with a leopard-skin about his loins, in the very pride of maturing manliness and beauty. the expression of the face is all human, but wrought to the very limit of celestial enthusiasm. the wonderful richness of the coloring, the exquisite ripe fulness of the limbs, the passionate devotion of the kindling features, combine to make it the faultless ideal of a perfect human being in youth. i had quite forgotten the intruder, for an hour. quite a different picture had absorbed all my attention. the entrance of some one disturbed me, and as i looked around i caught a glance of my coquette, sitting with her hands awkwardly clasped over her guide-book, her mouth open, and the lower jaw hanging down with a ludicrous expression of unconsciousness and astonished admiration. she was evidently unaware of everything in the world except the form before her, and a more absorbed and sincere wonder i never witnessed. i have been enjoying all day an italian festa. the florentines have a pleasant custom of celebrating this particular festival, ascension-day, in the open air; breakfasting, dining, and dancing under the superb trees of the cascine. this is, by the way, quite the loveliest public pleasure-ground i ever saw--a wood of three miles in circumference, lying on the banks of the arno, just below the town; not, like most european promenades, a bare field of clay or ground, set out with stunted trees, and cut into rectangular walks, or without a secluded spot or an untrodden blade of grass; but full of sward-paths, green and embowered, the underbrush growing wild and luxuriant between; ivy and vines of all descriptions hanging from the limbs, and winding about every trunk; and here and there a splendid opening of velvet grass for half a mile, with an ornamental temple in the centre, and beautiful contrivances of perspective in every direction. i have been not a little surprised with the enchantment of so public a place. you step into the woods from the very pavement of one of the most populous streets in florence; from dust and noise and a crowd of busy people to scenes where boccacio might have fitly laid his "hundred tales of love." the river skirts the cascine on one side, and the extensive grounds of a young russian nobleman's villa on the other; and here at sunset come all the world to walk and drive, and on festas like this, to encamp, and keep holy-day under the trees. the whole place is more like a half-redeemed wild-wood in america, than a public promenade in europe. it is the custom, i am told, for the grand duke and the nobles of tuscany to join in this festival, and breakfast in the open air with the people. the late death of the young and beautiful grand-duchess has prevented it this year, and the merry-makings are diminished of one half their interest. i should not have imagined it, however, without the information. i took a long stroll among the tents this morning, with two ladies from albany, old friends, whom i have encountered accidentally in florence. the scenes were peculiar and perfectly italian. everything was done fantastically and tastefully. the tables were set about the knolls, the bonnets and shawls hung upon the trees, and the dark-eyed men and girls, with their expressive faces full of enjoyment, leaned around upon the grass, with the children playing among them, in innumerable little parties, dispersed as if it had been managed by a painter. at every few steps a long embowered alley stretched off to the right or left, with strolling groups scattered as far as the eye could see under the trees, the red ribands and bright colored costumes contrasting gayly with the foliage of every tint, from the dusky leaf of the olive to the bright soft green of the acacia. wherever there was a circular opening there were tents just in the edges of the wood, the white festoons of the cloth hung from the limbs, and tables spread under them, with their antique-looking tuscan pitchers wreathed with vines, and tables spread with broad green leaves, making the prettiest cool covering that could be conceived. i have not come up to the reality in this description, and yet, on reading it, it sounds half a fiction. one must be here to feel how little language can convey an idea of this "garden of the world." the evening was the fashionable hour, and, with the addition of mr. greenough, the sculptor, to our party, we drove to the cascine about an hour before sunset to see the equipages, and enjoy the close of the festival. the drives intersect these beautiful grounds irregularly in every direction, and the spectacle was even more brilliant than in the morning. the nobility and the gay world of florence flew past us, in their showy carriages of every description, the distinguished occupants differing in but one respect from well-bred people of other countries--_they looked happy_. if i had been lying on the grass, an italian peasant, with my kinsmen and friends, i should not have felt that among the hundreds who were rolling past me, richer and better born, there was one face that looked on me contemptuously or condescendingly. i was very much struck with the universal air of enjoyment and natural exhilaration. one scarce felt like a stranger in such a happy-looking crowd. near the centre of the grounds is an open space, where it is the custom for people to stop in driving to exchange courtesies with their friends. it is a kind of fashionable open air _soirée_. every evening you may see from fifty to a hundred carriages at a time, moving about in this little square in the midst of the woods, and drawing up side by side, one after another, for conversation. gentlemen come ordinarily on horseback, and pass round from carriage to carriage, with their hats off, talking gayly with the ladies within. there could not be a more brilliant scene, and there never was a more delightful custom. it keeps alive the intercourse in the summer months, when there are no parties, and it gives a stranger an opportunity of seeing the lovely and the distinguished without the difficulty and restraint of an introduction to society. i wish some of these better habits of europe were imitated in our country as readily as worse ones. after threading the embowered roads of the cascine for an hour, and gazing with constant delight at the thousand pictures of beauty and happiness that met us at every turn, we came back and mingled in the gay throng of carriages at the centre. the _valet_ of our lady-friends knew everybody, and, taking a convenient stand, we amused ourselves for an hour, gazing at them as they were named in passing. among others, several of the bonaparte family went by in a splendid barouche; and a heavy carriage, with a showy, tasselled hammer-cloth, and servants in dashy liveries, stopped just at our side, containing madame catalani, the celebrated singer. she has a fine face yet, with large expressive features, and dark, handsome eyes. her daughter was with her, but she has none of her mother's pretensions to good looks. letter xxviii. the pitti palace--titian's bella--an improvisatrice--view from a window--annual expense of residence at florence. i have got into the "back-stairs interest," as the politicians say, and to-day i wound up the staircase of the _pitti palace_, and spent an hour or two in its glorious halls with the younger greenough, without the insufferable and usually inevitable annoyance of a _cicerone_. you will not of course, expect a regular description of such a vast labyrinth of splendor. i could not give it to you even if i had been there the hundred times that i intend to go, if i live long enough in florence. in other galleries you see merely the arts, here you are dazzled with the renewed and costly magnificence of a royal palace. the floors and ceilings and furniture, each particular part of which it must have cost the education of a life to accomplish, bewilder you out of yourself, quite; and, till you can tread on a matchless pavement or imitated mosaic, and lay your hat on a table of inlaid gems, and sit on a sofa wrought with you know not what delicate and curious workmanship, without nervousness or compunction, you are not in a state to appreciate the pictures upon the walls with judgment or pleasure. i saw but one thing well--titian's bella, as the florentines call it. there are two famous venuses by the same master, as you know, in the other gallery, hanging over the venus de medicis--full-length figures reclining upon couches, one of them usually called titian's mistress. the _bella_ in the pitti gallery, is a half-length portrait, dressed to the shoulders, and a different kind of picture altogether. the others are voluptuous, full-grown women. this represents a young girl of perhaps seventeen; and if the frame in which it hangs were a window, and the loveliest creature that ever trod the floors of a palace stood looking out upon you, in the open air, she could not seem more real, or give you a stronger feeling of the presence of exquisite, breathing, human beauty. the face has no particular character. it is the look with which a girl would walk to the casement in a mood of listless happiness, and gaze out, she scarce knew why. you feel that it is the habitual expression. yet, with all its subdued quiet and sweetness, it is a countenance beneath which evidently sleeps warm and measureless passion, capacities for loving and enduring and resenting everything that makes up a character to revere and adore. i do not know how a picture can express so much--but it does express all this, and eloquently too. in a fresco on the ceiling of one of the private chambers, is a portrait of the late lamented grand-duchess. on the mantelpiece in the duke's cabinet also is a beautiful marble bust of her. it is a face and head corresponding perfectly to the character given her by common report, full of nobleness and kindness. the duke, who loved her with a devotion rarely found in marriages of state, is inconsolable since her death, and has shut himself from all society. he hardly slept during her illness, watching by her bedside constantly. she was a religious enthusiast, and her health is said to have been first impaired by too rigid an adherence to the fasts of the church, and self-inflicted penance. the florentines talk of her still, and she appears to have been unusually loved and honored. * * * * * i have just returned from hearing an _improvisatrice_. at a party last night i met an italian gentleman, who talked very enthusiastically of a lady of florence, celebrated for her talent of improvisation. she was to give a private exhibition to her friends the next day at twelve, and he offered politely to introduce me. he called this morning, and we went together. some thirty or forty people were assembled in a handsome room, darkened tastefully by heavy curtains. they were sitting in perfect silence when we entered, all gazing intently on the improvisatrice, a lady of some forty or fifty years, of a fine countenance, and dressed in deep mourning. she rose to receive us; and my friend introducing me, to my infinite dismay, as an _improvisatore americano_, she gave me a seat on the sofa at her right hand, an honor i had not italian enough to decline. i regretted it the less that it gave me an opportunity of observing the effects of the "fine phrensy," a pleasure i should otherwise certainly have lost through the darkness of the room. we were sitting in profound silence, the head of the improvisatrice bent down upon her breast, and her hands clasped over her lap, when she suddenly raised herself, and with both hands extended, commenced in a thrilling voice, "_patria!_" some particular passage of florentine history had been given her by one of the company, and we had interrupted her in the midst of her conception. she went on with astonishing fluency, in smooth harmonious rhyme, without the hesitation of a breath, for half an hour. my knowledge of the language was too imperfect to judge of the finish of the style, but the italians present were quite carried away with their enthusiasm. there was an improvisatore in company, said to be the second in italy; a young man, of perhaps twenty-five, with a face that struck me as the very _beau ideal_ of genius. his large expressive eyes kindled as the poetess went on, and the changes of his countenance soon attracted the attention of the company. she closed and sunk back upon her seat, quite exhausted; and the poet, looking round for sympathy, loaded her with praises in the peculiarly beautiful epithets of the italian language. i regarded her more closely as she sat by me. her profile was beautiful; and her mouth, which at the first glance had exhibited marks of age, was curled by her excitement into a firm, animated curve, which restored twenty years at least by its expression. after a few minutes one of the company went out of the room, and wrote upon a sheet of paper the last words of every line for a sonnet; and a gentleman who had remained within, gave a subject to fill it up. she took the paper, and looking at it a moment or two, repeated the sonnet as fluently as if it had been written out before her. several other subjects were then given her, and she filled the same sonnet with the same terminations. it was wonderful. i could not conceive of such facility. after she had satisfied them with this, she turned to me and said, that in compliment to the american improvisatore she would give an ode upon america. to disclaim the character and the honor would have been both difficult and embarrassing even for one who knew the language better than i, so i bowed and submitted. she began with the discovery of columbus, claimed him as her countryman; and with some poetical fancies about the wild woods and the indians, mingled up montezuma and washington rather promiscuously, and closed with a really beautiful apostrophe to liberty. my acknowledgments were fortunately lost in the general murmur. a tragedy succeeded, in which she sustained four characters. this, by the working of her forehead and the agitation of her breast, gave her more trouble, but her fluency was unimpeded; and when she closed, the company was in raptures. her gestures were more passionate in this performance, but, even with my imperfect knowledge of the language, they always seemed called for and in taste. her friends rose as she sunk back on the sofa, gathered round her, and took her hands, overwhelming her with praises. it was a very exciting scene altogether, and i went away with new ideas of poetical power and enthusiasm. * * * * * one lodges like a prince in florence, and pays like a beggar. for the information of artists and scholars desirous to come abroad, to whom exact knowledge on the subject is important, i will give you the inventory and cost of my whereabout. i sit at this moment in a window of what was formerly the archbishop's palace--a noble old edifice, with vast staircases and resounding arches, and a hall in which you might put a dozen of the modern brick houses of our country. my chamber is as large as a ball-room, on the second story, looking out upon the garden belonging to the house, which extends to the eastern wall of the city. beyond this lies one of the sweetest views in the world--the ascending amphitheatre of hills, in whose lap lies florence, with the tall eminence of _fiesolé_ in the centre, crowned with the monastery in which milton passed six weeks, while gathering scenery for his paradise. i can almost count the panes of glass in the windows of the bard's room; and, between the fine old building and my eye, on the slope of the hill, lie thirty or forty splendid villas, half-buried in trees (madame catalani's among them), piled one above another on the steep ascent, with their columns and porticoes, as if they were mock temples in a vast terraced garden. i do not think there is a window in italy that commands more points of beauty. cole, the american landscape painter, who occupied the room before me, took a sketch from it. for neighbors, the neapolitan ambassador lives on the same floor, the two greenoughs in the ground-rooms below, and the palace of one of the wealthiest nobles of florence overlooks the garden, with a front of eighty-five windows, from which you are at liberty to select any two or three, and imagine the most celebrated beauty of tuscany behind the crimson curtains--the daughter of this same noble bearing that reputation. she was pointed out to me at the opera a night or two since, and i have seen as famous women with less pretensions. for the interior, my furniture is not quite upon the same scale, but i have a clean snow-white bed, a calico-covered sofa, chairs and tables enough, and pictures three deep from the wall to the floor. for all this, and the liberty of the episcopal garden, i pay _three dollars a month_! a dollar more is charged for lamps, boots, and service, and a dark-eyed landlady of thirty-five mends my gloves, and pays me two visits a day--items not mentioned in the bill. then for the feeding, an excellent breakfast of coffee and toast is brought me for six cents; and, without wine, one may dine heartily at a fashionable restaurant for twelve cents, and with wine, quite magnificently for twenty-five. exclusive of postage and pleasures, this is all one is called upon to spend in florence. three hundred dollars a year would fairly and largely cover the expenses of a man living at this rate; and a man who would not be willing to live half as well for the sake of his art, does not deserve to see italy. i have stated these unsentimental particulars, because it is a kind of information i believe much wanted. i should have come to italy years ago if i had known as much, and i am sure there are young men in our country, dreaming of this paradise of art in half despair, who will thank me for it, and take up at once "the pilgrim's sandal-shoon and scollop-shell." letter xxix. excursion to venice--american artists--valley of florence-- mountains of carrara--travelling companions--highland tavern--mist and sunshine--italian valleys--view of the adriatic--border of romagna--subjects for the pencil--highland italians--romantic scenery--a painful occurrence--an italian husband--a dutchman, his wife and children--bologne--the pilgrim--model for a magdalen. i started for venice yesterday, in company with mr. alexander and mr. cranch, two american artists. we had taken the vetturino for bologna, and at daylight we were winding up the side of the amphitheatre of appenines that bends over florence, leaving fiesolé rising sharply on our right. the mist was creeping up the mountain just in advance of us, retreating with a scarcely perceptible motion to the summits, like the lift of a heavy curtain; florence, and its long, heavenly valley, full of white palaces sparkling in the sun, lay below us, more like a vision of a better world than a scene of human passion; away in the horizon the abrupt heads of the mountains of carrara rose into the sky; and with the cool, fresh breeze of the hills, and the excitement of the pleasant excursion before us, we were three of as happy travellers probably as were to be met on any highway in this garden of the world. we had six companions, and a motley crew they were--a little effeminate venetian, probably a tailor, with a large, noble-looking, handsome contadina for a wife; a sputtering dutch merchant, a fine, little, coarse, good-natured fellow, with _his_ wife, and two very small and very disagreeable children; an austrian corporal in full uniform; and a fellow in a straw hat, speaking some unknown language, and a nondescript in every respect. the women and children, and my friends, the artists, were my companions inside, the double dicky in front accommodating the others. conversation commenced with the journey. the dutch spoke their dissonant language to each other, and french to us, the contadina's soft venetian dialect broke in like a flute in a chorus of harsh instruments, and our own hissing english added to a mixture already sufficiently various. we were all day ascending mountains, and slept coolly under three or four blankets at a highland tavern, on a very wild appenine. our supper was gaily eaten, and our mirth served to entertain five or six english families, whose chambers were only separated from the rough raftered dining hall by double curtains. it was pleasant to hear the children and nurses speaking english unseen. the contrast made us realize forcibly the eminently foreign scene about us. the next morning, after travelling two or three hours in a thick, drizzling mist, we descended a sharp hill, and emerged at its foot into a sunshine so sudden and clear, that it seemed almost as if the night had burst into mid-day in a moment. we had come out of a black cloud. the mountain behind us was capped with it to the summit. beneath us lay a map of a hundred valleys, all bathed and glowing in unclouded light, and on the limit of the horizon, far off as the eye could span, lay a long sparkling line of water, like a silver frame around the landscape. it was our first view of the _adriatic_. we looked at it with the singular and indefinable emotion with which one always sees a celebrated _water_ for the first time--a sensation, it seems to me, which is like that of no other addition to our knowledge. the mediterranean at marseilles, the arno at florence, the seine at paris, affected me in the same way. explain it who will, or can! an hour after, we reached the border of _romagna_, the dominions of the pope running up thus far into the appenines. here our trunks were taken off and searched more minutely. the little village was full of the dark-skinned, romantic-looking romagnese, and my two friends, seated on a wall, with a dozen curious gazers about them, sketched the heads looking from the old stone windows, beggars, buildings, and scenery, in a mood of professional contentment. dress apart, these highland italians are like north american indians--the same copper complexions, high cheek bones, thin lips, and dead, black hair. the old women particularly, would pass in any of our towns for full-blooded squaws. the scenery, after this, grew of the kind "which savage rosa dashed"--the only landscape i ever saw _exactly_ of the tints so peculiar to salvator's pictures. our painters were in ecstasies with it, and truly, the dark foliage, and blanched rocks, the wild glens, and wind-distorted trees, gave the country the air of a home for all the tempests and floods of a continent. the kaatskills are tame to it. the forenoon came on, hot and sultry, and our little republic began to display its character. the tailor's wife was taken sick; and fatigue, and heat, and the rough motion of the vetturino in descending the mountains, brought on a degree of suffering which it was painful to witness. she was a woman of really extraordinary beauty, and dignified and modest as few women are in any country. her suppressed groans, her white, tremulous lips, the tears of agony pressing thickly through her shut eyelids, and the clenching of her sculpture-like hands, would have moved anything but an italian husband. the little effeminate villain treated her as if she had been a dog. she bore everything from him till he took her hand, which she raised faintly to intimate that she could not rise when the carriage stopped, and threw it back into her face with a curse. she roused, and looked at him with a natural majesty and calmness that made my blood thrill. "_aspetta?_" was her only answer, as she sunk back and fainted. the dutchman's wife was a plain, honest, affectionate creature, bearing the humors of two heated and ill-tempered children, with a patience we were compelled to admire. her husband smoked and laughed, and talked villainous french and worse italian, but was glad to escape to the cabriolet in the hottest of the day, leaving his wife to her cares. the baby screamed, and the child blubbered and fretted, and for hours the mother was a miracle of kindness. the "drop too much," came in the shape of a new crying fit from both children, and the poor little dutchwoman, quite wearied out, burst into a flood of tears, and hiccupped her complaints in her own language, weeping unrestrainedly for a quarter of an hour. after this she felt better, took a gulp of wine from the black bottle, and settled herself once more quietly and resignedly to her duties. we had certainly opened one or two very fresh veins of human character, when we stopped at the gates. there is but one hotel for american travellers in bologna, of course. those who have read rogers's italy, will remember his mention of "the pilgrim," the house where the poet met lord byron by appointment, and passed the evening with him which he describes so exquisitely. we took leave of our motley friends at the door, and our artists who had greatly admired the lovely venetian, parted from her with the regret of old acquaintances. she certainly was, as they said, a splendid model for a magdalen, "majestical and sad," and, always in attitudes for a picture: sleeping or waking, she afforded a succession of studies of which they took the most enthusiastic advantage. letter xxx. excursion to venice continued--brief description of bologna-- gallery of the fine arts--raphael's st. cecilia--pictures of carracci--domenichinos' madonna del rosario--guido's massacre of the innocents--the cathedral and the duomo--effects of these places of worship, and the ceremonies, upon the mind-- resort of the italian peasantry--open churches-- subterranean-confession chapel--the festa--grand processions-- illuminations--austrian bands of music--deportment of the people to a stranger. another evening is here, and my friends have crept to bed with the exclamation, "how much we may live in a day." bologna is unlike any other city we have ever seen, in a multitude of things. you walk all over it under arcades, sheltered on either side from the sun, the elegance and ornament of the lines of pillars depending on the wealth of the owner of the particular house, but columns and arches, simple or rich, everywhere. imagine porticoes built on the front of every house in philadelphia or new york, so as to cover the sidewalks completely, and, down the long perspective of every street, continued lines of airy corinthian, or simple doric pillars, and you may faintly conceive the impression of the streets of bologna. with lord byron's desire to forget everything english, i do not wonder at his selection of this foreign city for a residence, so emphatically unlike, as it is, to everything else in the world. we inquired out the gallery after breakfast, and spent two or three hours among the celebrated master-pieces of the _carracci_, and the famous painters of the bolognese school. the collection is small, but said to be more choice than any other in italy. there certainly are five or six among its forty or fifty gems, that deserve each a pilgrimage. the pride of the place is the st. cecilia, by raphael. this always beautiful personification of music, a woman of celestial beauty, stands in the midst of a choir who have been interrupted in their anthem by a song, issuing from a vision of angels in a cloud from heaven. they have dropped their instruments, broken, upon the ground, and are listening with rapt attention, all, except the saint, with heads dropped upon their bosoms, overcome with the glory of the revelation. she alone, with her harp hanging loosely from her fingers, gazes up with the most serene and cloudless rapture beaming from her countenance, yet with a look of full and angelic comprehension, and understanding of the melody and its divine meaning. you feel that her beauty is mortal, for it is all woman; but you see that, for the moment, the spirit that breathes through, and mingles with the harmony in the sky, is seraphic and immortal. if there ever was inspiration, out of holy writ, it touched the pencil of raphael. it is tedious to read descriptions of pictures. i liked everything in the gallery. the bolognese style of color suits my eye. it is rich and forcible, without startling or offending. its delicious mellowness of color, and vigor and triumphant power of conception, show two separate triumphs of the art, which in the same hand are delightful. the pictures of ludovico carracci especially fired my admiration. and domenichino, who died of a broken heart at rome, because his productions were neglected, is a painter who always touches me nearly. his _madonna del rosario_ is crowded with beauty. such children i never saw in painting--the very ideals of infantile grace and innocence. it is said of him, that, after painting his admirable frescoes in the church of st. andrew, at rome, which, at the time, were ridiculed unsparingly by the artists, he used to walk in on his return from his studio, and gazing at them with a dejected air, remark to his friend, that he "could not think they were _quite_ so bad--they _might_ have been worse." how true it is, that, "the root of a great name is in the dead body." guido's celebrated picture of the "massacre of the innocents," hangs just opposite the st. cecilia. it is a powerful and painful thing. the marvel of it to me is the simplicity with which its wonderful effects are produced, both of expression and color. the kneeling mother in the foreground, with her dead children before her, is the most intense representation of agony i ever saw. yet the face is calm, her eyes thrown up to heaven, but her lips undistorted, and the muscles of her face, steeped as they are in suffering, still and natural. it is the look of a soul overwhelmed--that has ceased to struggle because it is full. her gaze is on heaven, and in the abandonment of her limbs, and the deep, but calm agony of her countenance, you see that nothing between this and heaven can move her more. one suffers in seeing such pictures. you go away exhausted, and with feelings harassed and excited. as we returned, we passed the gates of the university. on the walls were pasted a sonnet printed with some flourish, in honor of _camillo rosalpina_, the laureate of one of the academical classes. we visited several of the churches in the afternoon. the cathedral and the duomo are glorious places--both. i wish i could convey, to minds accustomed to the diminutive size and proportions of our churches in america, an idea of the enormous and often almost supernatural grandeur of those in italy. aisles in whose distance the figure of a man is almost lost--pillars, whose bases you walk round in wonder, stretching into the lofty vaults of the roof, as if they ended in the sky--arches of gigantic dimensions, mingling and meeting with the fine tracery of a cobweb--altars piled up on every side with gold, and marble, and silver--private chapels ornamented with the wealth of nobles, let into the sides, each large enough for a communion--and through the whole extent of the interior, an unencumbered breadth of floor, with here and there a solitary worshipper on his knees, or prostrated on his face--figures so small in comparison with the immense dome above them, that it seems as if, could distance drown a prayer, they were as much lost as if they prayed under the open sky! without having even a leaning to the catholic faith, i love to haunt their churches, and i am not sure that the religious awe of the sublime ceremonies and places of worship does not steal upon me daily. whenever i am heated, or fatigued, or out of spirits, i go into the first cathedral, and sit down for an hour. they are always dark, and cool, and quiet; and the distant tinkling of the bell from some distant chapel and the grateful odor of the incense, and the low, just audible murmur of prayer, settles on my feelings like a mist, and softens and soothes and refreshes me, as nothing else will. the italian peasantry who come to the cities to sell or bargain, pass their noons in these cool places. you see them on their knees asleep against a pillar, or sitting in a corner, with their heads upon their bosoms; and, if it were as a place of retreat and silence alone, the churches are an inestimable blessing to them. it seems to me, that any sincere christian, of whatever faith, would find a pleasure in going into a sacred place and sitting down in the heat of the day, to be quiet and devotional for an hour. it would promote the objects of any denomination in our country, i should think, if the churches were thus left always open. under the cathedral of bologna is a _subterranean confession-chapel_ --as singular and impressive a device as i ever saw. it is dark like a cellar, the daylight faintly struggling through a painted window above the altar, and the two solitary wax candles giving a most ghastly intensity to the gloom. the floor is paved with tombstones, the inscriptions and death's heads of which you feel under your feet as you walk through. the roof is so vaulted that every tread is reverberated endlessly in hollow tones. all around are the confession-boxes, with the pierced plates, at which the priest within puts his ear, worn with the lips of penitents, and at one of the sides is a deep cave, far within which, as in a tomb, lies a representation on limestone of our saviour, bleeding as he came from the cross, with the apostles, made of the same cadaverous material, hanging over him! we have happened, by a fortunate chance, upon an extraordinary day in bologna--a _festa_, that occurs but once in ten years. we went out as usual after breakfast this morning, and found the city had been decorated over-night in the most splendid and singular manner. the arcades of some four or five streets in the centre of the town were covered with rich crimson damask, the pillars completely bound, and the arches dressed and festooned with a degree of gorgeousness and taste as costly as it was magnificent. the streets themselves were covered with cloths stretched above the second stories of the houses from one side to the other, keeping off the sun entirely, and making in each street one long tent of a mile or more, with two lines of crimson columns at the sides, and festoons of gauze, of different colors, hung from window to window in every direction. it was by far the most splendid scene i ever saw. the people were all there in their gayest dresses, and we probably saw in the course of the day every woman in bologna. my friends, the painters, give it the palm for beauty over all the cities they had seen. there was a grand procession in the morning, and in the afternoon the bands of the austrian army made the round of the decorated streets, playing most delightfully before the principal houses. in the evening there was an illumination, and we wandered up and down till midnight through the fairy scene, almost literally "dazzled and drunk with beauty." the people of bologna have a kind of earnest yet haughty courtesy, very different from that of most of the italians i have seen. they bow to the stranger, as he enters the _café_; and if they rise before him, the men raise their hats and the ladies smile and curtsy as they go out; yet without the least familiarity which could authorize farther approach to acquaintance. we have found the officers, whom we meet at the eating-houses, particularly courteous. there is something delightful in this universal acknowledgment of a stranger's claims on courtesy and kindness. i could well wish it substituted in our country, for the surly and selfish manners of people in public-houses to each other. there is neither loss of dignity nor committal of acquaintance in such attentions; and the manner in which a gentleman steps forward to assist you in any difficulty of explanation in a foreign tongue, or sends the waiter to you if you are neglected, or hands you the newspaper or his snuff-box, or rises to give you room in a crowded place, takes away, from me at least, all that painful sense of solitude and neglect one feels as a stranger in a foreign land. we go to ferrara to-morrow, and thence by the po to venice. my letter must close for the present. letter xxxi. venice--the festa--gondoliers--women--an italian sunset--the landing--prisons of the ducal palace--the cells described by byron--apartment in which prisoners were strangled--dungeons under the canal--secret guillotine--state criminals--bridge of sighs--passage to the inquisition and to death--church of st. marc--a nobleman in poverty, etc., etc. you will excuse me at present from a description of venice. it is a matter not to be hastily undertaken. it has also been already done a thousand times; and i have just seen a beautiful sketch of it in the public prints of the united states. i proceed with my letters. the venetian _festa_ is a gay affair, as you may imagine. if not so beautiful and fanciful as the revels by moonlight, it was more satisfactory, for we could see and be seen, those important circumstances to one's individual share in the amusement. at four o'clock in the afternoon, the links of the long bridge of boats across the giudecca were cut away, and the broad canal left clear for a mile up and down. it was covered in a few minutes with gondolas, and all the gayety and fashion of venice fell into the broad promenade between the city and the festal island. i should think five hundred were quite within the number of gondolas. you can scarcely fancy the novelty and agreeableness of this singular promenade. it was busy work for the eyes to the right and left, with the great proportion of beauty, and the rapid glide of their fairy-like boats. and the _quietness_ of the thing was so delightful--no crowding, no dust, no noise but the dash of oars and the ring of merry voices; and we sat so luxuriously upon our deep cushions the while, threading the busy crowd rapidly and silently, without a jar or touch of anything but the yielding element that sustained us. two boats soon appeared with wreaths upon their prows, and these had won the first and second prizes at the last year's _regatta_. the private gondolas fell away from the middle of the canal, and left them free space for a trial of their speed. they were the most airy things i ever saw afloat, about forty feet long, and as slender and light as they could well be, and hold together. each boat had six oars, and the crews stood with their faces to the beak of their craft; slight, but muscular men, and with a skill and quickness at their oars which i had never conceived. i realized the truth and the force of cooper's inimitable description of the race in the bravo. the whole of his book gives you the very air and spirit of venice, and one thanks him constantly for the lively interest which he has thrown over everything in this bewitching city. the races of the rival boats to-day were not a regular part of the _festa_, and were not regularly contested. the gondoliers were exhibiting themselves merely, and the people soon ceased to be interested in them. we rowed up and down till dark, following here and there the boats whose freights attracted us, and exclaiming every moment at some new glimpse of beauty. there is really a surprising proportion of loveliness in venice. the women are all large, probably from never walking, and other indolent habits consequent upon want of exercise; and an oriental air, sleepy and passionate, is characteristic of the whole race. one feels that he has come among an entirely new class of women, and hence, probably, the far-famed fascination of venice to foreigners. the sunset happened to be one of those so peculiar to italy, and which are richer and more enchanting in venice than in any other part of it, from the character of its scenery. it was a sunset without a cloud; but at the horizon the sky was dyed of a deep orange, which softened away toward the zenith almost imperceptibly, the whole west like a wall of burning gold. the mingled softness and splendor of these skies is indescribable. everything is touched with the same hue. a mild, yellow glow is all over the canals and buildings. the air seems filled with glittering golden dust, and the lines of the architecture, and the outlines of the distant islands, and the whole landscape about you is mellowed and enriched with a new and glorious light. i have seen one or two such sunsets in america; but there the sunsets are bolder and clearer, and with much more sublimity--they have rarely the voluptuous coloring of those in italy. it was delightful to glide along over a sea of light so richly tinted, among those graceful gondolas, with their freights of gayety and beauty. as the glow on the sky began to fade, they all turned their prows toward san marc, and dropping into a slower motion, the whole procession moved on together to the stairs of the piazzetta; and by the time the twilight was perceptible, the _cafés_ were crowded, and the square was like one great _féte_. we passed the evening in wandering up and down, never for an instant feeling like strangers, and excited and amused till long after midnight. after several days' delay, we received an answer this morning from the authorities, with permission to see the bridge of sighs, and the prisons of the ducal palace. we landed at the broad stairs, and passing the desolate court, with its marble pillars and statues green with damp and neglect, ascended the "giant's steps," and found the warder waiting for us, with his enormous keys, at the door of a private passage. at the bottom of a staircase we entered a close gallery, from which the first range of cells opened. the doors were broken down, and the guide holding his torch in them for a moment in passing, showed us the same dismal interior in each--a mere cave, in which you would hardly think it possible to breathe, with a raised platform for a bed, and a small hole in the front wall to admit food and what air could find its way through from the narrow passage. there were eight of these; and descending another flight of damp steps, we came to a second range, differing only from the first in their slimy dampness. these are the cells of which lord byron gives a description in the notes to the fourth canto of childe harold. he has transcribed, if you remember, the inscription from the ceilings and walls of one which was occupied successively by the victims of the inquisition. the letters are cut rudely enough, and must have been done entirely by feeling, as there is no possibility of the penetration of a ray of light. i copied them with some difficulty, forgetting that they were in print, and, comparing them afterward with my copy of childe harold, i found them exactly the same, and i refer you, therefore, to his notes. in a range of cells still below these, and almost suffocating from their closeness, one was shown us in which prisoners were strangled. the rope was passed through an iron grating of four bars, the executioner standing outside the cell. the prisoner within sat upon a stone, with his back to the grating, and the cord was passed round his neck, and drawn till he was choked. the wall of the cell was covered with blood, which had spattered against it with some violence. the guide explained it by saying, that owing to the narrowness of the passage the executioner had no room to draw the cord, and to expedite his business his assistant at the same time plunged a dagger into the neck of the victim. the blood had flowed widely over the wall, and ran to the floor in streams. with the darkness of the place, the difficulty i found in breathing, and the frightful reality of the scenes before me, i never had in my life a comparable sensation of horror. at the end of the passage a door was walled up. it led, in the times of the republic, to dungeons under the canal, in which the prisoner died in eight days from his incarceration, at the farthest, from the noisome dampness and unwholesome vapors of the place. the guide gave us a harrowing description of the swelling of their bodies, and the various agonies of their slow death. i hurried away from the place with a sickness at my heart. in returning by the same way i passed the turning, and stumbled over a raised stone across the passage. it was the groove of a secret guillotine. here many of the state and inquisition victims were put to death in the darkness of a narrow passage, shut out even in their last moment from the light and breath of heaven. the frame of the instrument had been taken away; but the pits in the wall, which had sustained the axe, were still there; and the sink on the other side, where the head fell, to carry off the blood. and these shocking executions took place directly before the cells of the other prisoners, within twenty feet from the farthest. in a cell close to this guillotine had been confined a state criminal for sixteen years. he was released at last by the arrival of the french, and on coming to the light in the square of san marc was struck blind, and died in a few days. in another cell we stopped to look at the attempts of a prisoner upon its walls, interrupted, happily, by his release. he had sawed several inches into the front wall, with some miserable instrument, probably a nail. he had afterward abandoned this, and had, with prodigious strength, taken up a block from the floor; and, the guide assured us, had descended into the cell below. it was curious to look around his pent prison, and see the patient labor of years upon those rough walls, and imagine the workings of the human mind in such a miserable lapse of existence. we ascended to the light again, and the guide led us to a massive door, with two locks, secured by heavy iron bars. it swung open with a scream, and we mounted a winding stair, and "stood in venice on the bridge of sighs." two windows of close grating looked on either side upon the long canal below, and let in the only light to the covered passage. it is a gloomy place within, beautifully as its light arch hangs in the air from without. it was easy to employ the imagination as we stood on the stone where childe harold had stood before us, and conjured up in fancy the despair and agony that must have been pressed into the last glance at light and life that had been sent through those barred windows. across this bridge the condemned were brought to receive their sentence in the chamber of the _ten_, or to be confronted with bloody inquisitors, and then were led back over it to die. the last light that ever gladdened their eyes came through those close bars, and the gay giudecca in the distance, with its lively waters covered with boats, must have made that farewell glance to a venetian bitter indeed. the side next the prison is now massively walled up. we stayed, silently musing at the windows, till the old cicerone ventured to remind us that his time was precious. ordering the gondola round to the stairs of the piazetta, we strolled for the first time into the church of san marc. the four famous bronze horses stood with their dilated nostrils and fine action over the porch, bringing back to us andrea doria, and his threat; and as i remembered the ruined palace of the old admiral at genoa, and glanced at the austrian soldier upon guard, in the very shadow of the winged lion, i could not but feel most impressively the moral of the contrast. the lesson was not attractive enough, however, to keep us in a burning sun, and we put aside the heavy folds of the drapery and entered. how deliciously cool are these churches in italy! we walked slowly up toward the distant altar. an old man rose from the base of one of the pillars, and put out his hand for charity. it is an incident that meets one at every step, and with half a glance at his face i passed on. i was looking at the rich mosaic on the roof, but his features lingered in my mind. they grew upon me still more strongly; and as i became aware of the full expression of misery and pride upon them, i turned about to see what had become of him. my two friends had done each the very same thing, with the same feeling of regret, and were talking of the old man when i came back to them. we went to the door, and looked all about the square, but he was no where to be seen. it is singular that he should have made the same impression upon all of us, of an old venetian nobleman in poverty. slight as my glance was, the noble expression of sadness about his fine white head and strong features, are still indelible in my memory. the prophecy which byron puts into the mouth of the condemned doge, is still true in every particular:-- ----"when the hebrew's in thy palaces, the hun in thy high places, and the greek walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his; when _thy patricians beg their bitter bread_," &c. the church of san marc is rich to excess, and its splendid mosaic pavement is sunk into deep pits with age and the yielding foundations on which its heavy pile is built. its pictures are not so fine as those of the other churches of venice, but its age and historic associations make it by far the most interesting. letter xxxii. venice--scenes by moonlight--the canals--the armenian island--the island of the insane--improvements made by napoleon--shaded walks--pavilion and artificial hill--antidotes to sadness--parties on the canals--narrow streets and small bridges--the rialto--merchants and idlers--shell-work and jewelry--poetry and history--general view of the city--the friuli mountains--the shore of italy--a silent panorama--the adriatic--promenaders and sitters, etc. we stepped into the gondola to-night as the shadows of the moon began to be perceptible, with orders to giuseppe to take us where he would. _abroad in a summer's moonlight in venice_, is a line that might never be written but as the scene of a play. you can not miss pleasure. if it were only the tracking silently and swiftly the bosom of the broader canals lying asleep like streets of molten silver between the marble palaces, or shooting into the dark shadows of the narrower, with the black spirit-like gondolas gliding past, or lying in the shelter of a low and not unoccupied balcony; or did you but loiter on in search of music, lying unperceived beneath the windows of a palace, and listening, half asleep, to the sound of the guitar and the song of the invisible player within; this, with the strange beauty of every building about you, and the loveliness of the magic lights and shadows, were enough to make a night of pleasure, even were no charm of personal adventure to be added to the enumeration. we glided along under the rialto, talking of belvidera, and othello, and shylock, and, entering a cross canal, cut the arched shadow of the bridge of sighs, hanging like a cobweb in the air, and shot in a moment forth to the full, ample, moonlit bosom of the giudecca. this is the canal that makes the harbor and washes the stairs of san marc. the lido lay off at a mile's distance across the water, and, with the moon riding over it, the bay between us as still as the sky above, and brighter, it looked like a long cloud pencilled like a landscape in the heavens. to the right lay the armenian island, which lord byron visited so often, to study with the fathers at the convent; and, a little nearer the island of the insane--spite of its misery, asleep, with a most heavenly calmness on the sea. you remember the touching story of the crazed girl, who was sent here with a broken heart, described as putting her hand through the grating at the dash of every passing gondola, with her unvarying and affecting "_venite per me? venite per me?_" at a corner of the harbor, some three quarters of a mile from san marc, lies an island once occupied by a convent. napoleon rased the buildings, and connecting it with the town by a new, handsome street and a bridge, laid out the ground as a public garden. we debarked at the stairs, and passed an hour in strolling through shaded walks, filled with the gay venetians, who come to enjoy here what they find nowhere else, the smell of grass and green leaves. there is a pavilion upon an artificial hill in the centre, where the best lemonades and ices of venice are to be found; and it was surrounded to-night by merry groups, amusing themselves with all the heart-cheering gayety of this delightful people. the very sight of them is an antidote to sadness. in returning to san marc a large gondola crossed us, filled with ladies and gentlemen, and followed by another with a band of music. this is a common mode of making a party on the canals, and a more agreeable one never was imagined. we ordered the gondolier to follow at a certain distance, and spent an hour or two just keeping within the softened sound of the instruments. how romantic are the veriest, every-day occurrences of this enchanting city. we have strolled to-day through most of the narrow streets between the rialto and the san marc. they are, more properly, alleys. you wind through them at sharp angles, turning constantly, from the interruption of the canals, and crossing the small bridges at every twenty yards. they are dark and cool; and no hoof of any description ever passing through them, the marble flags are always smooth and clean; and with the singular silence, only broken by the shuffling of feet, they are pleasant places to loiter in at noon-day, when the canals are sunny. we spent a half hour on the _rialto_. this is the only bridge across the grand canal, and connects the two main parts of the city. it is, as you see by engravings, a noble span of a single arch, built of pure white marble. you pass it, ascending the arch by a long flight of steps to the apex, and descending again to the opposite side. it is very broad, the centre forming a street, with shops on each side, with alleys outside these, next the parapet, usually occupied by idlers or merchants, probably very much as in the time of shylock. here are exposed the cases of shell-work and jewelry for which venice is famous. the variety and cheapness of these articles are surprising. the rialto has always been to me, as it is probably to most others, quite the core of romantic locality. i stopped on the upper stair of the arch, and passed my hand across my eyes to recall my idea of it, and realize that i was there. one is disappointed, spite of all the common sense in the world, not to meet shylock and antonio and pierre. "shylock and the moor and pierre cannot be swept or worn away," says childe harold; and that, indeed, is the feeling everywhere in these romantic countries. you cannot separate them from the characters with which poetry or history once peopled them. at sunset we mounted into the tower of san marc, to get a general view of the city. the gold-dust atmosphere, so common in italy at this hour, was all over the broad lagunes and the far stretching city; and she lay beneath us, in the midst of a sea of light, an island far out into the ocean, crowned with towers and churches, and heaped up with all the splendors of architecture. the friuli mountains rose in the north with the deep blue dyes of distance, breaking up the else level horizon; the shore of italy lay like a low line-cloud in the west; the spot where the brenta empties into the sea glowing in the blaze of the sunset. about us lay the smaller islands, the suburbs of the sea-city, and all among them, and up and down the giudecca, and away off in the lagunes, were sprinkled the thousand gondolas, meeting and crossing in one continued and silent panorama. the lido, with its long wall hemmed in the bay, and beyond this lay the wide adriatic. the floor of san marc's vast square was beneath, dotted over its many-colored marbles with promenaders, its _cafés_ swarmed by the sitters outside, and its long arcades thronged. one of my pleasantest hours in venice was passed here. letter xxxiii. palaces--palazzo grimani--old statuary--male and female cherubs--the bath of cleopatra--titian's palace--unfinished picture of the great master--his magdalen and bust--his daughter in the arms of a satyr--beautiful female heads--the churches of venice--burial-places of the doges--tomb of canova--departure for verona, etc. we have passed a day in visiting palaces. there are some eight or ten in venice, whose galleries are still splendid. we landed first at the stairs of the _palazzo grimani_, and were received by an old family servant, who sat leaning on his knees, and gazing idly into the canal. the court and staircase were ornamented with statuary, that had not been moved for centuries. in the ante-room was a fresco painting by georgione, in which there were two _female_ cherubs, the first of that sex i ever saw represented. they were beautifully contrasted with the two male cherubs, who completed the picture, and reminded me strongly of greenough's group in sculpture. after examining several rooms, tapestried and furnished in such a style as befitted the palace of a venetian noble, when venice was in her glory, we passed on to the gallery. the best picture in the first room was a large one by cigoli, _the bath of cleopatra_. the four attendants of the fair egyptian are about her, and one is bathing her feet from a rich vase. her figure is rather a voluptuous one, and her head is turned, but without alarm, to antony, who is just putting aside the curtain and entering the room. it is a piece of fine coloring, rather of the titian school, and one of the few good pictures left by the english, who have bought up almost all the private galleries of venice. we stopped next at the stairs of the noble old _barberigo_ palace, in which titian lived and died. we mounted the decaying staircases, imagining the choice spirits of the great painter's time, who had trodden them before us, and (as it was for ages the dwelling of one of the proudest races of venice) the beauty and rank that had swept up and down those worn slabs of marble on nights of revel, in the days when venice was a paradise of splendid pleasure. how thickly come romantic fancies in such a place as this. we passed through halls hung with neglected pictures to an inner room, occupied only with those of titian. here he painted, and here is a picture half finished, as he left it when he died. his famous _magdalen_, hangs on the wall, covered with dirt; and so, indeed, is everything in the palace. the neglect is melancholy. on a marble table stood a plaster bust of titian, moulded by himself in his old age. it is a most noble head, and it is difficult to look at it, and believe he could have painted a picture which hangs just against it--_his own daughter in the arms of a satyr_. there is an engraving from it in one of the souvenirs; but instead of a satyr's head, she holds a casket in her hands, which, though it does not sufficiently account for the delight of her countenance, is an improvement upon the original. here, too, are several slight sketches of female heads, by the same master. oh how beautiful they are! there is one, less than the size of life, which i would rather have than his magdalen. * * * * * i have spent my last day in venice in visiting churches. their splendor makes the eye ache and the imagination weary. you would think the surplus wealth of half the empires of the world would scarce suffice to fill them as they are. i can give you no descriptions. the gorgeous tombs of the doges are interesting, and the plain black monument over marino faliero made me linger. canova's tomb is splendid; and the simple slab under your feet in the church of the frari, where titian lies with his brief epitaph, is affecting--but, though i shall remember all these, the simplest as well as the grandest, a description would be wearisome to all who had not seen them. this evening at sunset i start in the post-boat for the mainland, on my way to the place of juliet's tomb--verona. my friends, the painters, are so attracted with the galleries here that they remain to copy, and i go back alone. take a short letter from me this time, and expect to hear from me by the next earliest opportunity, and more at length. adieu. letter xxxiv. departure from venice--a sunset scene--padua--splendid hotel--manners of the country--vicenza--midnight--lady returning from a party--verona--juliet's tomb--the tomb of the capulets--the tombs of the scaligers--two gentlemen of verona--a walking chronicle--palace of the capulets--only cool place in an italian city--banqueting hall of the capulets--facts and fiction, etc. we pushed from the post-office stairs in a gondola with six oars at sunset. it was melancholy to leave venice. a hasty farewell look, as we sped down the grand canal, at the gorgeous palaces, even less famous than beautiful--a glance at the disappearing rialto, and we shot out into the giudecca in a blaze of sunset glory. oh how magnificently looked venice in that light--rising behind us from the sea--all her superb towers and palaces, turrets and spires, fused into gold; and the waters about her, like a mirror of stained glass, without a ripple! an hour and a half of hard rowing brought us to the nearest land. you should go to venice to know how like a dream a reality may be. you will find it difficult to realize, when you smell once more the fresh earth and grass and flowers, and walk about and see fields and mountains, that this city upon the sea exists out of the imagination. you float to it and about it and from it, in their light craft, so aerially, that it seems a vision. with a drive of two or three hours, half twilight, half moonlight, we entered _padua_. it was too late to see the portrait of petrarch, and i had not time to go to his tomb at arqua, twelve miles distant, so, musing on livy and galileo, to both of whom padua was a home, i inquired for a _café_. a new one had lately been built in the centre of the town, quite the largest and most thronged i ever saw. eight or ten large, high-roofed halls were open, and filled with tables, at which sat more beauty and fashion than i supposed all padua could have mustered. i walked through one after another, without finding a seat, and was about turning to go out, and seek a place of less pretension, when an elderly lady, who sat with a party of seven, eating ices, rose, with italian courtesy, and offered me a chair at their table. i accepted it, and made the acquaintance of eight as agreeable and polished people as it has been my fortune to meet. we parted as if we had known each other as many weeks as minutes. i mention it as an instance of the manners of the country. three hours more, through spicy fields and on a road lined with the country-houses of the venetian nobles, brought us to _vicenza_. it was past midnight, and not a soul stirring in the bright moonlit streets. i remember it as a kind of city of the dead. as we passed out of the opposite gate, we detained for a moment a carriage, with servants in splendid liveries, and a lady inside returning from a party, in full dress. i have rarely seen so beautiful a head. the lamps shone strongly on a broad pearl fillet on her forehead, and lighted up features such as we do not often meet even in italy. a gentleman leaned back in the corner of the carriage, fast asleep--probably her husband! * * * * * i breakfasted at _verona_ at seven. a humpbacked _cicerone_ there took me to "juliet's tomb." a very high wall, green with age, surrounds what was once a cemetery, just outside the city. an old woman answered the bell at the dilapidated gate, and, without saying a word, pointed to an empty granite sarcophagus, raised upon a rude pile of stones. "questa?" asked i, with a doubtful look. "questa," said the old woman. "questa!" said the hunchback. and here, i was to believe, lay the gentle juliet! there was a raised place in the sarcophagus, with a hollowed socket for the head, and it was about the measure for a woman! i ran my fingers through the cavity, and tried to imagine the dark curls that covered the hand of father lawrence as he laid her down in the trance, and fitted her beautiful head softly to the place. but where was "the tomb of the capulets?" the beldame took me through a cabbage-garden, and drove off a donkey who was feeding on an artichoke that grew on the very spot. "ecco!" said she, pointing to one of the slightly sunken spots on the surface. i deferred my belief, and paying an extra paul for the privilege of chipping off a fragment of the stone coffin, followed the cicerone. the _tombs of the scaligers_ were more authentic. they stand in the centre of the town, with a highly ornamental railing about them, and are a perfect mockery of death with their splendor. if the poets and scholars whom these petty princes drew to their court had been buried in these airy tombs beside them, one would look at them with some interest. _now_, one asks, "who were the scaligers, that their bodies should be lifted high in air in the midst of a city, and kept for ages, in marble and precious stones?" with less ostentation, however, it were pleasant to be so disposed of after death, lifted thus into the sun, and in sight of moving and living creatures. i inquired for the old palace of the capulets. the cicerone knew nothing about it, and i dismissed her and went into a _café_. "two gentlemen of verona" sat on different sides; one reading, the other asleep, with his chin on his cane--an old, white-headed man, of about seventy. i sat down near the old gentleman, and by the time i had eaten my ice, he awoke. i addressed him in italian, which i speak indifferently; but, stumbling for a word, he politely helped me out in french, and i went on in that language with my inquiries. he was the very man--a walking chronicle of verona. he took up his hat and cane to conduct me to _casa capuletti_, and on the way told me the true history, as i had heard it before, which differs but little, as you know, from shakspeare's version. the whole story is in the annuals. after a half hour's walk among the handsomer, and more modern parts of the city, we stopped opposite a house of an antique construction, but newly stuccoed and painted. a wheelwright occupied the lower story, and by the sign, the upper part was used as a tavern. "impossible!" said i, as i looked at the fresh front and the staring sign. the old gentleman smiled, and kept his cane pointed at it in silence. "it is well authenticated," said he, after enjoying my astonishment a minute or two, "and the interior still bears marks of a palace." we went in and mounted the dirty staircase to a large hall on the second floor. the frescoes and cornices had not been touched, and i invited my kind old friend to an early dinner on the spot. he accepted, and we went back to the cathedral, and sat an hour in the only cool place in an italian city. the best dinner the house could afford was ready when we returned, and a pleasanter one it has never been my fortune to sit down to; though, for the meats, i have eaten better. that i relished an hour in the very hall where the masque must have been held, to which romeo ventured in the house of his enemy, to see the fair juliet, you may easily believe. the wine was not so bad, either, that my imagination did not warm all fiction into fact; and another time, perhaps, i may describe my old friend and the dinner more particularly. letter xxxv. another short letter--departure from verona--mantua--fleas-- fleas--modena--tassoni's bucket--a man going to execution--the duke of modena--bologna--austrian officers--the appenines-- moonlight on the mountains--english bridal party--picturesque supper, etc. i left verona with the courier at sunset, and was at _mantua_ in a few hours. i went to bed in a dirty hotel, the best in the place, and awoke, bitten at every pore by fleas--the first i have encountered in italy, strange as it may seem, in a country that swarms with them. for the next twenty-four hours i was in such positive pain that my interest in "virgil's birthplace" quite evaporated. i hired a _caleche_, and travelled all night to _modena_. i liked the town as i drove in, and after sleeping an hour or two, i went out in search of "tassoni's bucket" (which rogers says _is not the true one_), and the picture of "_ginevra_." the first thing i met was a man going to execution. he was a tall, exceedingly handsome man; and, i thought, a marked gentleman, even in his fetters. he was one of the body-guard of the duke, and had joined a conspiracy against him, in which he had taken the first step by firing at him from a window as he passed. i saw him guillotined, but i will spare you the description. the duke is the worst tyrant in italy, it is well known, and has been fired at _eighteen times_ in the streets. so said the cicerone, who added, that "the d----l took care of his own." after many fruitless inquiries, i could find nothing of "the picture," and i took my place for bologna in the afternoon. i was at bologna at ten the next morning. as i felt rather indisposed, i retained my seat with the courier for florence; and, hungry with travel and a long fast, went into a _restaurant_, to make the best use of the hour given me for refreshment. a party of austrian officers sat at one end of the only table, breakfasting; and here i experienced the first rudeness i have seen in europe. i mention it to show its rarity, and the manner in which, even among military men, a quarrel is guarded against or prevented. a young man, who seemed the wit of the party, chose to make comments from time to time on the solidity of what he considered my breakfast. these became at last so pointed, that i was compelled to rise and demand an apology. with one voice, all except the offender, immediately sided with me, and insisted on the justice of the demand, with so many apologies of their own, that i regretted noticing the thing at all. the young man rose, after a minute, and offered me his hand in the frankest manner; and then calling for a fresh bottle, they drank wine with me, and i went back to my breakfast. in america, such an incident would have ended, nine times out of ten, in a duel. the two mounted _gens d'armes_, who usually attend the courier at night, joined us as we began to ascend the appenines. we stopped at eleven to sup on the highest mountain between bologna and florence, and i was glad to get to the kitchen fire, the clear moonlight was so cold. chickens were turning on the long spit, and sounds of high merriment came from the rooms above. a _bridal party_ of english had just arrived, and every chamber and article of provision was engaged. they had nothing to give us. a compliment to the hostess and a bribe to the cook had their usual effect, however; and as one of the dragoons had ridden back a mile or two for my travelling cap, which had dropped off while i was asleep, i invited them both, with the courier, to share my bribed supper. the cloth was spread right before the fire, on the same table with all the cook's paraphernalia, and a merry and picturesque supper we had of it. the rough tuscan flasks of wine and etruscan pitchers, the brazen helmets formed on the finest models of the antique, the long mustaches, and dark italian eyes of the men, all in the bright light of a blazing fire, made a picture that salvator rosa would have relished. we had time for a hasty song or two after the dishes were cleared, and then went gayly on our way to florence. excuse the brevity of this epistle, but i must stop here, or lose the opportunity of sending. if my letters do not reach you with the utmost regularity, it is no fault of mine. you can not imagine the difficulty i frequently experience in getting a safe conveyance. letter xxxvi. baths of lucca--saratoga of italy--hill scenery--river lima--fashionable lodgings--the villa--the duke's palace-- mountains--valleys--cottages--peasants--winding-paths-- amusements--private parties--balls--fetes--a casino--originals of scott's diana vernon and the miss pratt of the inheritance--a summer in italy, etc., etc. i spent a week at the baths of lucca, which is about sixty miles north of florence, and the saratoga of italy. none of the cities are habitable in summer, for the heat, and there flocks all the world to bathe and keep cool by day, and dance and intrigue by night, from spring to autumn. it is very like the month of june in our country in many respects, and the differences are not disagreeable. the scenery is the finest of its kind in italy. the whole village is built about a bridge across the river lima, which meets the serchio a half mile below. on both sides of the stream the mountains rise so abruptly, that the houses are erected against them, and from the summits on both sides you look directly down on the street. half-way up one of the hills stands a cluster of houses, overlooking the valley to fine advantage, and these are rather the most fashionable lodgings. round the base of this mountain runs the lima, and on its banks for a mile is laid out a superb road, at the extremity of which is another cluster of buildings, called the villa, composed of the duke's palace and baths, and some fifty lodging-houses. this, like the pavilion at saratoga, is usually occupied by invalids and people of more retired habits. i have found no hill scenery in europe comparable to the baths of lucca. the mountains ascend so sharply and join so closely, that two hours of the sun are lost, morning and evening, and the heat is very little felt. the valley is formed by four or five small mountains, which are clothed from the base to the summit with the finest chestnut woods; and dotted over with the nest-like cottages of the luccese peasants, the smoke from which, morning and evening, breaks through the trees, and steals up to the summits with an effect than which a painter could not conceive anything more beautiful. it is quite a little paradise; and with the drives along the river on each side at the mountain foot, and the trim winding-paths in the hills, there is no lack of opportunity for the freest indulgence of a love of scenery or amusement. instead of living as we do in great hotels, the people at these baths take their own lodgings, three or four families in a house, and meet in their drives and walks, or in small exclusive parties. the duke gives a ball every tuesday, to which all respectable strangers are invited; and while i was there an italian prince, who married into the royal family of spain, gave a grand _fete_ at the theatre. there is usually some party every night, and with the freedom of a watering-place, they are rather the pleasantest i have seen in italy. the duke's chamberlain, an italian cavalier, has the charge of a _casino_, or public hall, which is open day and night for conversation, dancing and play. the italians frequent it very much, and it is free to all well-dressed people; and as there is always a band of music, the english sometimes make up a party and spend the evening there in dancing or promenading. it is maintained at the duke's expense, lights, music, and all, and he finds his equivalent in the profits of the gambling-bank. i scarce know who of the distinguished people i met there would interest you. the village was full of coroneted carriages, whose masters were nobles of every nation, and every reputation. the originals of two well-known characters happened to be there--scott's _diana vernon_, and the _miss pratt_ of the inheritance. the former is a scotch lady, with five or six children; a tall, superb woman still, with the look of a mountain-queen, who rode out every night with two gallant boys mounted on ponies, and dashing after her with the spirit you would bespeak for the sons of die vernon. her husband was the best horseman there, and a "has been" handsome fellow, of about forty-five. an italian abbé came up to her one night, at a small party, and told her he "wondered the king of england did not marry her." "miss pratt" was the companion of an english lady of fortune, who lived on the floor below me. she was still what she used to be, a much-laughed-at but much-sought person, and it was quite requisite to know her. she flew into a passion whenever the book was named. the rest of the world there was very much what it is elsewhere--a medley of agreeable and disagreeable, intelligent and stupid, elegant and awkward. the _women_ were perhaps superior in style and manner to those ordinarily met in such places in america, and the _men_ vastly inferior. it is so wherever i have been on the continent. i remained at the baths a few weeks, recruiting--for the hot weather and travel had, for the first time in my life, worn upon me. they say that a summer in italy is equal to five years elsewhere, in its ravages upon the constitution, and so i found it. letter xxxvii. return to venice--city of lucca--a magnificent wall--a cultivated and lovely country--a comfortable palace--the duke and duchess of lucca--the appenines--mountain scenery-- modena--view of an immense plain--vineyards and fields-- austrian troops--a petty duke and a great tyrant--suspected traitors--ladies under arrest--modenese nobility--splendor and meanness--corregio's bag of copper coin--picture gallery-- chief of the conspirators--oppressive laws--antiquity-- museum--bologna--manuscripts of tasso and ariosto--the po--austrian custom-house--police officers--difficulty on board the steamboat--venice once more, etc. after five or six weeks _sejour_ at the baths of lucca, the only exception to the pleasure of which was an attack of the "country fever," i am again on the road, with a pleasant party, bound for venice; but passing by cities i had not seen, i have been from one place to another for a week, till i find myself to-day in modena--a place i might as well not have seen at all as to have hurried through, as i was compelled to do a month or two since. to go back a little, however, our first stopping-place was the city of lucca, about fifteen miles from the baths; a little, clean, beautiful gem of a town, with a wall three miles round only, and on the top of it a broad carriage road, giving you on every side views of the best cultivated and loveliest country in italy. the traveller finds nothing so rural and quiet, nothing so happy-looking, in the whole land. the radius to the horizon is nowhere more than five or six miles; and the bright green farms and luxuriant vineyards stretch from the foot of the wall to the summits of the lovely mountains which form the theatre around. it is a very ancient town, but the duchy is so rich and flourishing that it bears none of the marks of decay, so common to even more modern towns in italy. here cæsar is said to have stopped to deliberate on passing the rubicon. the palace of the duke is the _prettiest_ i ever saw. there is not a room in it you could not _live_ in--and no feeling is less common than this in visiting palaces. it is furnished with splendor, too--but with such an eye to comfort, such taste and elegance, that you would respect the prince's affections that should order such a one. the duke of lucca, however, is never at home. he is a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, and spends his time and money in travelling, as caprice takes him. he has been now for a year at vienna, where he spends the revenue of these rich plains most lavishly. the duchess, too, travels always, but in a different direction, and the people complain loudly of the desertion. for many years they have now been both absent and parted. the duke is a member of the royal family of spain, and at the death of maria louisa of parma, he becomes duke of parma, and the duchy goes to tuscany. from lucca we crossed the appenines, by a road seldom travelled, performing the hundred miles to modena in three days. we suffered, as all must who leave the high roads in continental countries, more privations than the novelty was worth. the mountain scenery was fine, of course, but i think less so than that on the passes between florence and bologna, the account of which i wrote a few weeks since. we were too happy to get to modena. modena lies in the vast campagna lying between the appenines and the adriatic--an immense plain looking like the sea as far as the eye can stretch from north to south. the view of it from the mountains in descending is magnificent beyond description. the capital of the little duchy lay in the midst of us, like a speck on a green carpet, and smaller towns and rivers varied its else unbroken surface of vineyards and fields. we reached the gates just as a fine sunset was reddening the ramparts and towers, and giving up our passports to the soldier on guard, rattled into the hotel. the town is full of austrian troops, and in our walk to the ducal palace we met scarce any one else. the streets look gloomy and neglected, and the people singularly dispirited and poor. this petty duke of modena is a man of about fifty, and said to be the greatest tyrant, after don miguel, in the world. the prisons are full of suspected traitors; one hundred and thirty of the best families of the duchy are banished for liberal opinions; three hundred and over are now under arrest (among them a considerable number of ladies); and many of the modenese nobility are now serving in the galleys for conspiracy. he has been shot at eighteen times. the last man who attempted it, as i stated in a former letter, was executed the morning i passed through modena on my return from venice. with all this he is a fine soldier, and his capital looks in all respects like a garrison in the first style of discipline. he is just now absent at a chateau three miles in the country. the palace is a union of splendor and meanness within. the endless succession of state apartments are gorgeously draped and ornamented, but the entrance halls and intermediate passages are furnished with an economy you would scarce find exceeded in the "worst inn's worst room." modena is corregio's birthplace, and it was from a duke of modena that he received the bag of copper coin which occasioned his death. it was, i think, the meagre reward of his celebrated "night," and he broke a blood-vessel in carrying it to his house. the duke has sold this picture, as well as every other sufficiently celebrated to bring a princely price. his gallery is a heap of trash, with but here and there a redeeming thing. among others, there is a portrait of a boy, i think by rembrandt, very intellectual and lofty, yet with all the youthfulness of fourteen; and a copy of "giorgione's mistress," the "love in life" of the manfrini palace, so admired by lord byron. there is also a remarkably fine crucifixion, i forget by whom. the front of the palace is renowned for its beauty. in a street near it, we passed a house half battered down by cannon. it was the residence of the chief of a late conspiracy, who was betrayed a few hours before his plot was ripe. he refused to surrender, and, before the ducal troops had mastered his house, the revolt commenced and the duke was driven from modena. he returned in a week or two with some three thousand austrians, and has kept possession by their assistance ever since. while we were waiting dinner at the hotel, i took up a volume of the modenese law, and opened upon a statute forbidding all subjects of the duchy to live out of the duke's territories under pain of the entire confiscation of their property. they are liable to arrest, also, if it is suspected that they are taking measures to remove. the alternatives are oppression here or poverty elsewhere, and the result is that the duke has scarce a noble left in his realm. modena is a place of great antiquity. it was a strong-hold in the time of cæsar, and after his death was occupied by brutus, and besieged by antony. there are no traces left, except some mutilated and uncertain relics in the museum. we drove to bologna the following morning, and i slept once more in rogers's chamber at "the pilgrim." i have described this city, which i passed on my way to venice, so fully before, that i pass it over now with the mere mention. i should not forget, however, my acquaintance with a snuffy little librarian, who showed me the manuscripts of tasso and ariosto, with much amusing importance. we crossed the po to the austrian custom-house. our trunks were turned inside out, our papers and books examined, our passports studied for flaws--as usual. after two hours of vexation, we were permitted to go on board the steamboat, thanking heaven that our troubles were over for a week or two, and giving austria the common benediction she gets from travellers. the ropes were cast off from the pier when a police retainer came running to the boat, and ordered our whole party on shore, bag and baggage. our passports, which had been retained to be sent on to venice by the captain, were irregular. we had not passed by florence, and they had not the signature of the austrian ambassador. we were ordered imperatively back over the po, with a flat assurance, that, without first going to florence, we never could see venice. to the ladies of the party, who had made themselves certain of seeing this romance of cities in twelve hours, it was a sad disappointment, and after seeing them safely seated in the return shallop, i thought i would go and make a desperate appeal to the commissary in person. my nominal commission as _attaché_ to the legation at paris, served me in this case as it had often done before, and making myself and the honor of the american nation responsible for the innocent designs of a party of ladies upon venice, the dirty and surly commissary signed our passports and permitted us to remand our baggage. it was with unmingled pleasure that i saw again the towers and palaces of venice rising from the sea. the splendid approach to the piazzetta; the transfer to the gondola and its soft motion; the swift and still glide beneath the balconies of palaces, with whose history i was familiar; and the renewal of my own first impressions in the surprise and delight of others, made up, altogether, a moment of high happiness. there is nothing like--nothing equal to venice. she is the city of the imagination--the realization of romance--the queen of splendor and softness and luxury. allow all her decay--feel all her degradation--see the "huns in her palaces," and the "greek upon her mart," and, after all, she is alone in the world for beauty, and, spoiled as she has been by successive conquerors, almost for riches too. her churches of marble, with their floors of precious stones, and walls of gold and mosaic; her ducal palace, with its world of art and massy magnificence; her private palaces, with their fronts of inland gems, and balconies and towers of inimitable workmanship and riches; her lovely islands and mirror-like canals--all distinguish her, and will till the sea rolls over her, as one of the wonders of time. letter xxxviii. venice--church of the jesuits--a marble curtain--original of titian's martyrdom of st. lawrence--a summer morning--armenian island--visit to a cloister--a celebrated monk--the poet's study--illuminated copies of the bible--the stranger's book--a clean printing-office--the hospital for the insane--innocent and happy-looking maniacs--the cells for ungovernable lunatics--barbarity of the keeper--miserable provisions-- another glance at the prisons under the ducal palace--the office of executioner--the arsenal--the state gallery--the armor of henry the fourth--a curious key--machines for torture, etc. in a first visit to a great european city it is difficult not to let many things escape notice. among several churches which i did not see when i was here before, is that of the _jesuits_. it is a temple worthy of the celebrity of this splendid order. the proportions are finer than those of most of the venetian churches, and the interior is one tissue of curious marbles and gold. as we entered, we were first struck with the grace and magnificence of a large heavy curtain, hanging over the pulpit, the folds of which, and the figures wrought upon it, struck us as unusually elegant and ingenious. our astonishment was not lessened when we found it was one solid mass of verd-antique marble. its sweep over the side and front of the pulpit is as careless as if it were done by the wind. the whole ceiling of the church is covered with _sequin gold_--the finest that is coined. in one of the side chapels is the famous "martyrdom of st. lawrence," by titian. a fine copy of it (said in the catalogue to be the original) was exhibited in the boston athenæum a year or two since. * * * * * it is sunday, and the morning has been of a heavenly, summer, sunny calmness, such as is seen often in italy, and once in a year, perhaps, in new england. it is a kind of atmosphere, that, to breathe is to be grateful and happy. we have been to the armenian island--a little gem on the bosom of the lagune, a mile from venice, where stands the monastery, to which place lord byron went daily to study and translate with the fathers. there is just room upon it for a church, a convent, and a little garden. it looks afloat on the water. our gondola glided up to the clean stone stairs, and we were received by one of the order, a hale but venerable looking monk, in the armenian dress, the long black cassock and small round cap, his beard long and scattered with gray, and his complexion and eyes of a cheerful, child-like clearness, such as regular and simple habits alone can give. i inquired, as we walked through the cloister, for the father with whom lord byron studied, and of whom the poet speaks so often and so highly in his letters. the monk smiled and bowed modestly, and related a little incident that had happened to him at padua, where he had met two american travellers, who had asked him of himself in the same manner. he had forgotten their names, but from his description i presumed one to have been professor longfellow, of bowdoin university. the stillness and cleanliness about the convent, as we passed through the cloisters and halls, rendered the impression upon a stranger delightful. we passed the small garden, in which grew a stately oleander in full blossom, and thousands of smaller flowers, in neat beds and vases, and after walking through the church, a plain and pretty one, we came to the library, where the monk had studied with the poet. it is a proper place for study--disturbed by nothing but the dash of oars from a passing gondola, or the screams of a sea-bird, and well furnished with books in every language, and very luxurious chairs. the monk showed us an encyclopædia, presented to himself by an english lady of rank, who had visited the convent often. his handsome eyes flashed as he pointed to it on the shelves. we went next into a smaller room, where the more precious manuscripts are deposited, and he showed us curious illuminated copies of the bible, and gave us the stranger's book to inscribe our names. byron had scrawled his there before us, and the empress maria louisa had written hers twice on separate visits. the monk then brought us a volume of prayers, in twenty-five languages, translated by himself. we bought copies, and upon some remark of one of the ladies upon his acquirements, he ran from one language to another, speaking english, french, italian, german, and dutch, with equal facility. his english was quite wonderful; and a lady from rotterdam, who was with us, pronounced his dutch and german excellent. we then bought small histories of the order, written by an english gentleman, who had studied at the island, and passed on to the printing office--the first _clean_ one i ever saw, and quite the best appointed. here the monks print their bibles, and prayer-books in really beautiful armenian type, beside almanacs, and other useful publications for constantinople, and other parts of turkey. the monk wrote his name at our request (pascal aucher) in the blank leaves of our books, and we parted from him at the water-stairs with sincere regret. i recommend this monastery to all travellers to venice. on our return we passed near an island, upon which stands a single building--an insane hospital. i was not very curious to enter it, but the gondolier assured us that it was a common visit for strangers, and we consented to go in. we were received by the keeper, who went through the horrid scene like a regular cicerone, giving us a cold and rapid history of every patient that arrested our attention. the men's apartment was the first, and i should never have supposed them insane. they were all silent, and either read or slept like the inmates of common hospitals. we came to a side door, and as it opened, the confusion of a hundred tongues burst through, and we were introduced into the apartment for women. the noise was deafening. after traversing a short gallery, we entered a large hall, containing perhaps fifty females. there was a simultaneous smoothing back of the hair and prinking of the dress through the room. these the keeper said, were the well-behaved patients, and more innocent and happy-looking people i never saw. if to be happy is to be wise, i should believe with the mad philosopher, that the world and the lunatic should change names. one large, fine-looking woman took upon herself to do the honors of the place, and came forward with a graceful curtesy and a smile of condescension and begged the ladies to take off their bonnets, and offered me a chair. even with her closely-shaven head and coarse flannel dress, she seemed a lady. the keeper did not know her history. her attentions were occasionally interrupted by a stolen glance at the keeper, and a shrinking in of the shoulders, like a child that had been whipped. one handsome and perfectly healthy-looking girl of eighteen, walked up and down the hall, with her arms folded, and a sweet smile on her face, apparently lost in pleasing thought, and taking no notice of us. only one was in bed, and her face might have been a conception of michael angelo for horror. her hair was uncut, and fell over her eyes, her tongue hung from her mouth, her eyes were sunken and restless, and the deadly pallor over features drawn into the intensest look of mental agony, completing a picture that made my heart sick. her bed was clean, and she was as well cared for as she could be, apparently. we mounted a flight of stairs to the cells. here were confined those who were violent and ungovernable. the mingled sounds that came through the gratings as we passed were terrific. laughter of a demoniac wildness, moans, complaints in every language, screams--every sound that could express impatience and fear and suffering saluted our ears. the keeper opened most of the cells and went in, rousing occasionally one that was asleep, and insisting that all should appear at the grate. i remonstrated of course, against such a piece of barbarity, but he said he did it for all strangers, and took no notice of our pity. the cells were small, just large enough for a bed, upon the post of which hung a small coarse cloth bag, containing two or three loaves of the coarsest bread. there was no other furniture. the beds were bags of straw, without sheets or pillows, and each had a coarse piece of matting for a covering. i expressed some horror at the miserable provision made for their comfort, but was told that they broke and injured themselves with any loose furniture, and were so reckless in their habits, that it was impossible to give them any other bedding than straw, which was changed every day. i observed that each patient had a wisp of long straw tied up in a bundle, given them, as the keeper said, to employ their hands and amuse them. the wooden blind before one of the gratings was removed, and a girl flew to it with the ferocity of a tiger, thrust her hands at us through the bars, and threw her bread out into the passage, with a look of violent and uncontrolled anger such as i never saw. she was tall and very fine-looking. in another cell lay a poor creature, with her face dreadfully torn, and her hands tied strongly behind her. she was tossing about restlessly upon her straw, and muttering to herself indistinctly. the man said she tore her face and bosom whenever she could get her hands free, and was his worst patient. in the last cell was a girl of eleven or twelve years, who began to cry piteously the moment the bolt was drawn. she was in bed, and uncovered her head very unwillingly, and evidently expected to be whipped. there was another range of cells above, but we had seen enough, and were glad to get out upon the calm lagune. there could scarcely be a stronger contrast than between those two islands lying side by side--the first the very picture of regularity and happiness, and the last a refuge for distraction and misery. the feeling of gratitude to god for reason after such a scene is irresistible. * * * * * in visiting again the prisons under the ducal palace, several additional circumstances were told us. the condemned were compelled to become executioners. they were led from their cells into the dark passage where stood the secret guillotine, and without warning forced to put to death a fellow-creature either by this instrument, or the more horrible method of strangling against a grate. the guide said that the office of executioner was held in such horror that it was impossible to fill it, and hence this dreadful alternative. when a prisoner was about to be executed, his clothes were sent home to his family with the message, that "the state would care for him." how much more agonizing do these circumstances seem, when we remember that most of the victims were men of rank and education, condemned on suspicion of political crimes, and often with families refined to a most unfortunate capacity for mental torture! one ceases to regret the fall of the venetian republic, when he sees with how much crime and tyranny her splendor was accompanied. * * * * * i saw at the arsenal to-day the model of the "bucentaur," the state galley in which the doge of venice went out annually to marry him to the sea. this poetical relic (which, in childe harold's time, "lay rotting unrestored") was burnt by the french--why, i can not conceive. it was a departure from their usual habit of respect to the curious and beautiful; and if they had been jealous of such a vestige of the grandeur of a conquered people, it might at least have been sent to paris as easily as "saint mark's steeds of brass," and would have been as great a curiosity. i would rather have seen the bucentaur than all their other plunder. the arsenal contains many other treasures. the armor given to the city of venice by henry the fourth is there, and a curious key constructed to shoot poisoned needles, and used by one of the henrys, i have forgotten which, to despatch any one who offended him in his presence. one or two curious machines for torture were shown us--mortars into which the victim was put, with an iron armor which was screwed down upon him till his head was crushed, or confession stopped the torture. letter xxxix. venice--san marc's church--recollections of home--festa at the lido--a poetical scene--an italian sunset--palace of manfrini--pesaro's palace and country residence--church of saint mary of nazareth--padua--the university--statues of distinguished foreigners the public palace--bust of titus livy--bust of petrarch--church of st. antony during mass--the saint's chin and tongue--martyrdom of st. agatha--austrian and german soldiers--traveller's record-book--petrarch's cottage and tomb--italian summer afternoon--the poet's house--a fine view--the room where petrarch died, etc. i was loitering down one of the gloomy aisles of san marc's church, just at twilight this evening, listening to the far-off ave maria in one of the distant chapels, when a boston gentleman, who i did not know was abroad, entered with his family, and passed up to the altar. it is difficult to conceive with what a tide the half-forgotten circumstances of a home, so far away, rush back upon one's heart in a strange land, after a long absence, at the sight of familiar faces. i could realize nothing about me after it--the glittering mosaic of precious stones under my feet, the gold and splendid colors of the roof above me, the echoes of the monotonous chant through the arches--foreign and strange as these circumstances all were. i was irresistibly at home, the familiar pictures of my native place filling my eye, and the recollections of those whom i love and honor there crowding upon my heart with irresistible emotion. the feeling is a painful one, and with the necessity for becoming again a forgetful wanderer, remembering home only as a dream, one shrinks from such things. the reception of a letter, even, destroys a day. * * * * * there has been a grand _festa_ to-day at the _lido_. this, you know, is a long island, forming part of the sea-wall of venice. it is, perhaps, five or six miles long, covered in part with groves of small trees, and a fine green sward; and to the venetians, to whom leaves and grass are holyday novelties, is the scene of their gayest _festas_. they were dancing and dining under the trees; and in front of the fort which crowns the island, the austrian commandant had pitched his tent, and with a band of military music, the officers were waltzing with ladies in a circle of green sward, making altogether a very poetical scene. we passed an hour or two wandering among this gay and unconscious people, and came home by one of the loveliest sunsets that ever melted sea and sky together. venice looked like a vision of a city hanging in mid-air. * * * * * we have been again to that delightful _palace of manfrini_. the "portia swallowing fire," the rembrandt portrait, the far-famed "giorgione, son and wife," and twenty others, which to see is to be charmed, delighted me once more. i believe the surviving manfrini is the only noble left in venice. _pesaro_, who disdained to live in his country after its liberty was gone, died lately in london. his palace here is the finest structure i have seen, and his country-house on the brenta is a paradise. it must have been a strong feeling which exiled him from them for eighteen years. in coming from the manfrini, we stopped at the church of "st. mary of nazareth." this is one of those whose cost might buy a kingdom. its gold and marbles oppress one with their splendor. in the centre of the ceiling is a striking fresco of the bearing of "loretto's chapel through the air;" and in one of the corners a lovely portrait of a boy looking over a balustrade, done by the artist _fourteen years of age_! * * * * * padua.--we have passed two days in this venerable city of learning, including a visit to petrarch's tomb at arqua. the university here is still in its glory, with fifteen hundred students. it has never declined, i believe, since livy's time. the beautiful inner court has two or three galleries, crowded with the arms of the nobles and distinguished individuals who have received its honors. it has been the "cradle of princes" from every part of europe. around one of the squares of the city, stand forty or fifty statues of the great and distinguished foreigners who have received their education here. it happened to be the month of vacation, and we could not see the interior. at a public palace, so renowned for the size and singular architecture of its principal hall, we saw a very antique bust of titus livy--a fine, cleanly-chiselled, scholastic old head, that looked like the spirit of latin embodied. we went thence to the duomo, where they show a beautiful bust of petrarch, who lived at padua some of the latter years of his life. it is a softer and more voluptuous countenance than is given him in the pictures. the church of saint antony here has stood just six hundred years. it occupied a century in building, and is a rich and noble old specimen of the taste of the times, with eight cupolas and towers, twenty-seven chapels inside, four immense organs, and countless statues and pictures. saint antony's body lies in the midst of the principal chapel, which is surrounded with relievos representing his miracles, done in the best manner of the glorious artists of antiquity. we were there during mass, and the people were nearly suffocating themselves in the press to touch the altar and tomb of the saint. this chapel was formerly lit by massive silver lamps, which napoleon took, presenting them with their models in gilt. he also exacted from them three thousand sequins for permission to retain the chin and tongue of st. antony, which works miracles still, and are preserved in a splendid chapel with immense brazen doors. behind the main altar i saw a harrowing picture by tiepoli, of the martyrdom of st. agatha. her breasts are cut off, and lying in a dish. the expression in the face of the dying woman is painfully well done. returning to the inn, we passed a magnificent palace on one of the squares, upon whose marble steps and column-bases, sat hundreds of brutish austrian troops, smoking and laughing at the passers-by. this is a sight you may see now through all italy. the palaces of the proudest nobles are turned into barracks for foreign troops, and there is scarce a noble old church or monastery that is not defiled with their filth. the german soldiers are, without exception, the most stolid and disagreeable looking body of men i ever saw; and they have little to soften the indignant feeling with which one sees them rioting in this lovely and oppressed country. we passed an hour before bedtime in the usual amusement of travellers in a foreign hotel--reading the traveller's record-book. walter scott's name was written there, and hundreds of distinguished names besides. i was pleased to find, on a leaf far back, "edward everett," written in his own round legible hand. there were at least the names of fifty americans within the dates of the year past--such a wandering nation we are. foreigners express their astonishment always at their numbers in these cities. on the afternoon of the next day, we went to arqua, on a pilgrimage to petrarch's cottage and tomb. it was an italian summer afternoon, and the euganean hills were rising green and lovely, with the sun an hour high above them, and the yellow of the early sunset already commencing to glow about the horizon. we left the carriage at the "pellucid lake," and went into the hills a mile, plucking the ripe grapes which hung over the road in profusion. we were soon at the little village and the tomb, which stands just before the church door, "reared in air." the four laurels byron mentions are dead. we passed up the hill to the poet's house, a rural stone cottage, commanding a lovely view of the campagna from the portico. sixteen villages may be counted from the door, and the two large towns of rovigo and ferrara are distinguishable in a clear atmosphere. it was a retreat fit for a poet. we went through the rooms, and saw the poet's cat, stuffed and exhibited behind a wire grating, his chair and desk, his portrait in fresco, and laura's, and the small closet-like room where he died. it was an interesting visit, and we returned by the golden twilight of this heavenly climate, repeating childe harold, and wishing for his pen to describe afresh the scene about us. letter xl. excursion from venice to verona--truth of byron's description of italian scenery--the lombardy peasantry--appearance of the country--manner of cultivating the vine on living trees--the vintage--another visit to juliet's tomb--the opera at verona--the prima donna--roman amphitheatre--bologna again--madame malibran in la gazza ladra--cheap luxuries--the palace of the lambaccari--a magdalen of guido carracci-- charles the second's beauties--valley of the arno--florence once more. our gondola set us on shore at fusina an hour or two before sunset, with a sky (such as we have had for five months) without a cloud, and the same promise of a golden sunset, to which i have now become so accustomed, that rain and a dark heaven would seem to me almost unnatural. it was the hour and the spot at which childe harold must have left venice, and we look at the "blue friuli mountains," the "deep-died brenta," and the "rhoetian hill," and feel the truth of his description as well as its beauty. the two banks of the brenta are studded with the palaces of the venetian nobles for almost twenty miles, and the road runs close to the water on the northern side, following all its graceful windings, and, at every few yards, surprising the traveller with some fresh scene of cultivated beauty, church, palace, or garden, while the gondolas on the stream, and the fair "damas" of italy sitting under the porticoes, enliven and brighten the picture. these people live out of doors, and the road was thronged with the _contadini_; and here and there rolled by a carriage, with servants in livery; or a family of the better class on their evening walk, sauntered along at the italian pace of indolence, and a finer or happier looking race of people would not easily be found. it is difficult to see the athletic frames and dark flashing eyes of the lombardy peasantry, and remember their degraded condition. you cannot believe it will remain so. if they think at all, they must, in time, feel too deeply to endure. the guide-book says, the "traveller wants words to express his sensations at the beauty of the country from padua to verona." its beauty is owing to the perfection of a method of cultivation universal in italy. the fields are divided into handsome squares, by rows of elms or other forest trees, and the vines are trained upon these with all the elegance of holyday festoons, winding about the trunks, and hanging with their heavy clusters from one to the other, the foliage of vine and tree mingled so closely that it appears as if they sprung from the same root. every square is perfectly enclosed with these fantastic walls of vine-leaves and grapes, and the imagination of a poet could conceive nothing more beautiful for a festival of bacchus. the ground between is sown with grass or corn. the vines are luxuriant always, and often send their tendrils into the air higher than the topmost branch of the tree, and this extends the whole distance from padua to verona, with no interruption except the palaces and gardens of the nobles lying between. it was just the season for gathering and pressing the grape, and the romantic vineyards were full of the happy peasants, of all ages, mounting the ladders adventurously for the tall clusters, heaping the baskets and carts, driving in the stately gray oxen with their loads, and talking and singing as merrily as if it were arcadia. oh how beautiful these scenes are in italy. the people are picturesque, the land is like the poetry of nature, the habits are all as they were described centuries ago, and as the still living pictures of the glorious old masters represent them. the most every-day traveller smiles and wonders, as he lets down his carriage windows to look at the vintage. * * * * * we have been three or four days in verona, visiting juliet's tomb, and riding through the lovely environs. the opera here is excellent, and we went last night to see "romeo and juliet" performed in the city renowned by their story. the _prima donna_ was one of those syrens found often in italy--a young singer of great promise, with that daring brilliancy which practice and maturer science discipline, to my taste, too severely. it was like the wild, ungovernable trill of a bird, and my ear is not so nice yet, that i even would not rather feel a roughness in the harmony than lose it. malibran delighted me more in america than in paris. the opera was over at twelve, and, as we emerged from the crowded lobby, the moon full, and as clear and soft as the eye of a child, burst through the arches of the portico. the theatre is opposite the celebrated roman amphitheatre, and the wish to visit it by moonlight was expressed spontaneously by the whole party. the _custode_ was roused, and we entered the vast arena and stood in the midst, with the gigantic ranges of stone seats towering up in a receding circle, as if to the very sky, and the lofty arches and echoing dens lying black and silent in the dead shadows of the moon. a hundred thousand people could sit here; and it was in these arenas, scattered through the roman provinces, that the bloody gladiator fights, and the massacre of christians, and every scene of horror, amused the subjects of the mighty mistress of the world. you would never believe it, if you could have seen how peacefully the moonlight now sleeps on the moss-gathering walls, and with what untrimmed grace the vines and flowers creep and blossom on the rocky crevices of the windows. we arrived at bologna just in time to get to the opera. malibran in _la gazza ladra_ was enough to make one forget more than the fatigue of a day's travel. she sings as well as ever and plays much better, though she had been ill, and looked thin. in the prison scene, she was ghastlier even than the character required. there are few pleasures in europe like such singing as hers, and the italians, in their excellent operas, and the cheap rate at which they can be frequented, have a resource corresponding to everything else in their delightful country. every comfort and luxury is better and cheaper in italy than elsewhere, and it is a pity that he who can get his wine for three cents a bottle, his dinner and his place at the opera for ten, and has lodgings for anything he chooses to pay, can not find leisure, and does not think it worth the trouble, to look about for means to be free. it is vexatious to see nature lavishing such blessings on slaves. the next morning we visited a palace, which, as it is not mentioned in the guide-books of travel, i had not before seen--the _lambaccari_. it was full of glorious pictures, most of them for sale. among others we were captivated with a magdalen of unrivalled sweetness by _guido carracci_. it has been bought since by mr. cabot, of boston, who passed through bologna the day after, and will be sent to america, i am happy to say, immediately. there were also six of "charles the second's beauties,"--portraits of the celebrated women of that gay monarch's court, by sir peter lely--ripe, glowing english women, more voluptuous than chary-looking, but pictures of exquisite workmanship. there were nine or ten apartments to this splendid palace, all crowded with paintings by the first masters, and the surviving lambaccari is said to be selling them one by one for bread. it is really melancholy to go through italy, and see how her people are suffering, and her nobles starving under oppression. we crossed the appenines in two of the finest days that ever shone, and descending through clouds and mist to the tuscan frontier, entered the lovely valley of the arno, sparkling in the sunshine, with all its palaces and spires, as beautiful as ever. i am at florence once more, and parting from the delightful party with whom i have travelled for two months. i start for rome to-morrow, in company with five artists. letter xli. journey to the eternal city--two roads to rome--sienna--the public square--an italian fair--the cathedral--the library--the three grecian graces--dandy officers--public promenade--landscape view--long glen--a waterfall--a cultivated valley--the town of aquapendente--san lorenzo--pliny's floating islands--montefiascone-- viterbo--procession of flower and dancing girls to the vintage--ascent of the montecimino--the road of thieves--lake vico--baccano--mount soracte--dome of st. peter's, etc. i left florence in company with the five artists mentioned in my last letter, one of them an englishman, and the other four pensioners of the royal academy at madrid. the spaniards had but just arrived in italy, and could not speak a syllable of the language. the englishman spoke everything but french, which he avoided learning _from principle_. he "hated a frenchman!" there are two roads to rome. one goes by sienna, and is a day shorter; the other by perugia, the falls of terni, lake thrasymene, and the clitumnus. childe harold took the latter, and his ten or twelve best cantos describe it. i was compelled to go by sienna, and shall return, of course, by the other road. i was at sienna on the following day. as the second capital of tuscany, this should be a place of some interest, but an hour or two is more than enough to see all that is attractive. the public square was a gay scene. it was rather singularly situated, lying fifteen or twenty feet lower than the streets about it. i should think there were several thousand people in its area--all buying or selling, and vociferating, as usual, at the top of their voices. we heard the murmur, like the roar of the sea, in all the distant streets. there are few sights more picturesque than an italian fair, and i strolled about in the crowd for an hour, amused with the fanciful costumes, and endeavoring to make out with the assistance of the eye, what rather distracted my unaccustomed ear--the cries of the various wandering venders of merchandise. the women, who were all from the country, were coarse, and looked well only at a distance. the cathedral is the great sight of sienna. it has a rich exterior, encrusted with curiously wrought marbles, and the front, as far as i can judge, is in beautiful taste. the pavement of the interior is very precious, and covered with a wooden platform, which is removed but once a year. the servitor raised a part of it, to show us the workmanship. it was like a drawing in india ink, quite as fine as if pencilled, and representing, as is customary, some miracle of a saint. a massive iron door, made ingeniously to imitate a rope-netting, opens from the side of the church into the _library_. it contained some twenty volumes in black letter, bound with enormous clasps and placed upon inclined shelves. it would have been a task for a man of moderate strength to lift either of them from the floor. the little sacristan found great difficulty in only opening one to show us the letter. in the centre of the chapel on a high pedestal, stands the original antique group, so often copied, of the three grecian graces. it is shockingly mutilated; but its original beauty is still in a great measure discernable. three naked women are an odd ornament for the private chapel of a cathedral.[ ] one often wonders, however, in italian churches, whether his devotion is most called upon by the arts or the deity. as we were leaving the church, four young officers passed us in gay uniform, their long steel scabbards rattling on the pavement, and their heavy tread disturbing visibly every person present. as i turned to look after them, with some remark on their coxcombry, they dropped on their knees at the bases of the tall pillars about the altar, and burying their faces in their caps, bowed their heads nearly to the floor, in attitudes of the deepest devotion. sincere or not, catholic worshippers of all classes _seem_ absorbed in their religious duties. you can scarce withdraw the attention even of a child in such places. in the six months that i have been in italy, i never saw anything like irreverence within the church walls. the public promenade, on the edge of the hill upon which the town is beautifully situated, commands a noble view of the country about. the peculiar landscape of italy lay before us in all its loveliness--the far-off hills lightly tinted with the divided colors of distance, the atmosphere between absolutely clear and invisible, and villages clustered about, each with its ancient castle on the hill-top above, just as it was settled in feudal times, and as painters and poets would imagine it. you never get a view in this "garden of the world" that would not excuse very extravagant description. sienna is said to be the best place for learning the language. just between florence and rome, it combines the "_lingua toscano_," with the "_bocca romano_"--the roman pronunciation with the florentine purity of language. it looks like a dull place, however, and i was very glad after dinner to resume my passport at the gate and get on. the next morning, after toiling up a considerable ascent, we suddenly rounded the shoulder of a mountain, and found ourselves at the edge of a long glen, walled up at one extremity by a precipice with an old town upon its brow, and a waterfall pouring off at its side, and opening away at the other into a broad, gently-sloped valley, cultivated like a garden as far as the eye could distinguish. i think i have seen an engraving of it in the landscape annual. taken together, it is positively the most beautiful view i ever saw, from the road edge, as you wind up into the town of _acquapendente_. the precipice might be a hundred feet, and from its immediate edge were built up the walls of the houses, so that a child at the window might throw its plaything into the bottom of the ravine. it is scarce a pistol-shot across the glen, and the two hills on either side lean off from the level of the town in one long soft declivity to the valley--the little river which pours off the rock at the very base of the church, fretting and fuming its way between to the meadows--its stony bed quite hidden by the thick vegetation of its banks. the bells were ringing to mass, and the echoes came back to us at long distances with every modulation. the streets, as we entered the town, were full of people hurrying to the churches; the women with their red shawls thrown about their heads, and the men with their immense dingy cloaks flung romantically over their shoulders, with a grace, one and all, that in a parisian dandy, would be attributed to a consummate study of effect. for outline merely, i think there is nothing in costume which can surpass the closely-stockinged leg, heavy cloak, and slouched hat of an italian peasant. it is added to by his indolent, and, consequently, graceful motion and attitudes. johnson, in his book on the climate of italy, says their sloth is induced by _malaria_. you will see a man watching goats or sheep, with his back against a rock, quite motionless for hours together. his dog feels, apparently, the same influence, and lies couched in his long white hair, with his eyes upon the flock, as lifeless, and almost as picturesque, as his master. the town of san lorenzo is a handful of houses on the top of a hill which hangs over lake bolsena. you get the first view of the lake as you go out of the gate toward rome, and descend immediately to its banks. there was a heavy mist upon the water, and we could not see across, but it looked like as quiet and pleasant a shore as might be found in the world--the woods wild, and of uncommonly rich foliage for italy, and the slopes of the hills beautiful. saving the road, and here and there a house with no sign of an inhabitant, there can scarcely be a lonelier wilderness in america. we stopped two hours at an inn on its banks, and whether it was the air, or the influence of the perfect stillness about us, my companions went to sleep, and i could scarce resist my own drowsiness. the mist lifted a little from the lake after dinner, and we saw the two islands said by pliny to have floated, in his time. they look like the tops of green hills rising from the water. it is a beautiful country again as you approach montefiascone. the scenery is finely broken up with glens formed by columns of basalt, giving it a look of great wildness. montefiascone is built on the river of one of these ravines. we stopped here long enough to get a bottle of the wine for which the place is famous, drinking it to the memory of the "german prelate," who, as madame stark relates, "stopped here on his journey to rome, and died of drinking it to excess." it has degenerated, probably, since his time, or we chanced upon a bad bottle. the walls of _viterbo_ are flanked with towers, and have a noble appearance from the hill-side on which the town stands. we arrived too late to see anything of the place. as we were taking coffee at the _café_ the next morning, a half hour before daylight, we heard music in the street, and looking out at the door, we saw a long procession of young girls, dressed with flowers in their hair, and each playing a kind of cymbal, and half dancing as she went along. three or four at the head of the procession sung a kind of verse, and the rest joined in a short merry chorus at intervals. it was more like a train of corybantes than anything i had seen. we inquired the object of it, and were told it was a procession _to the vintage_. they were going out to pluck the last grapes, and it was the custom to make it a festa. it was a striking scene in the otherwise perfect darkness of the streets, the torch-bearers at the sides waving their flambeaux regularly over their heads, and shouting with the rest in chorus. the measure was quick, and the step very fast. they were gone in an instant. the whole thing was poetical, and in keeping, for italy. i have never seen it elsewhere. we left viterbo on a clear, mild autumnal morning; and i think i never felt the excitement of a delightful climate more thrillingly. the road was wild, and with the long ascent of the monte-cimino before us, i left the carriage to its slow pace and went ahead several miles on foot. the first rain of the season had fallen, and the road was moist, and all the spicy herbs of italy perceptible in the air. half way up the mountain, i overtook a fat, bald, middle-aged priest, slowly toiling up on his mule. i was passing him with a "_buon giorno_," when he begged me for my own sake, as well as his, to keep him company. "it was the worst road for thieves," he said, "in all italy," and he pointed at every short distance to little crosses erected at the road-side, to commemorate the finding of murdered men on the spot. after he had told me several stories of the kind, he elevated his tone, and began to talk of other matters. i think i never heard so loud and long a laugh as his. i ventured to express a wonder at his finding himself so happy in a life of celibacy. he looked at me slily a moment or two as if he were hesitating whether to trust me with his opinions on the subject; but he suddenly seemed to remember his caution, and pointing off to the right, showed me a lake brought into view by the last turn of the road. it was _lake vico_. from the midst of it rose a round mountain covered to the top with luxuriant chestnuts--the lake forming a sort of trench about it, with the hill on which we stood rising directly from the other edge. it was one faultless mirror of green leaves. the two hill sides shadowed it completely. all the views from monte-cimino were among the richest in mere nature that i ever saw, and reminded me strongly of the country about the seneca lake of america. i was on the cayuga at about the same season three summers ago, and i could have believed myself back again, it was so like my recollection. we stopped on the fourth night of our journey, seventeen miles from rome, at a place called baccano. a ridge of hills rose just before us, from the top of which we were told, we could see st. peter's. the sun was just dipping under the horizon, and the ascent was three miles. we threw off our cloaks, determining to see rome before we slept, ran unbreathed to the top of the hill, an effort which so nearly exhausted us, that we could scarce stand long enough upon our feet to search over the broad campagna for the dome. the sunset had lingered a great while--as it does in italy. four or five light feathery streaks of cloud glowed with intense crimson in the west, and on the brow of mount soracte, (which i recognised instantly from the graphic simile[ ] of childe harold), and along on all the ridges of mountain in the east, still played a kind of vanishing reflection, half purple, half gray. with a moment's glance around to catch the outline of the landscape, i felt instinctively where rome _should_ stand, and my eye fell at once upon "the mighty dome." jupiter had by this time appeared, and hung right over it, trembling in the sky with its peculiar glory, like a lump of molten spar, and as the color faded from the clouds, and the dark mass of "the eternal city" itself mingled and was lost in the shadows of the campagna, the dome still seemed to catch light, and tower visibly, as if the radiance of the glowing star above fell more directly upon it. we could see it till we could scarcely distinguish each other's features. the dead level of the campagna extended between and beyond for twenty miles, and it looked like a far-off beacon in a dim sea. we sat an hour on the summit of the hill, gazing into the increasing darkness, till our eyes ached. the stars brightened one by one, the mountains grew indistinct, and we rose unwillingly to retrace our steps to baccano. footnotes: [ ] i remember hearing a friend receive a severe reproof from one of the most enlightened men in our country, for offering his daughter an annual, upon the cover of which was an engraving of these same "graces." [ ] ----"a long swept wave about to break, and on the curl hangs pausing." letter xlii. first day in rome--saint peter's--a solitary monk--strange music--michael angelo's masterpiece--the museum--likeness of young augustus--apollo belvidere--the medicean venus--raphael's transfiguration--the pantheon--the burial-place of carracci and raphael--roman forum--temple of fortune--the rostrum--palace of the cesars--the ruins--the coliseum, etc. to be rid of the dust of travel, and abroad in a strange and renowned city, is a sensation of no slight pleasure anywhere. to step into the street under these circumstances and inquire for the _roman forum_, was a sufficient advance upon the ordinary feeling to mark a bright day in one's calendar. i was hurrying up the corso with this object before me a half hour after my arrival in rome, when an old friend arrested my steps, and begging me to reserve the "ruins" for moonlight, took me off to st. peter's. the façade of the church appears alone, as you walk up the street from the castle of st. angelo. it disappointed me. there is no portico, and it looks flat and bare. but approaching nearer, i stood at the base of the obelisk, and with those two magnificent fountains sending their musical waters, as if to the sky, and the two encircling wings of the church embracing the immense area with its triple colonnades, i felt the grandeur of st. peter's. i felt it again in the gigantic and richly-wrought porches, and again with indescribable surprise and admiration at the first step on the pavement of the interior. there was not a figure on its immense floor from the door to the altar, and its far-off roof, its mighty pillars, its gold and marbles in such profusion that the eye shrinks from the examination, made their overpowering impression uninterrupted. you feel that it must be a glorious creature that could build such a temple to his maker. an organ was playing brokenly in one of the distant chapels, and, drawing insensibly to the music, we found the door half open, and a monk alone, running his fingers over the keys, and stopping sometimes as if to muse, till the echo died and the silence seemed to startle him anew. it was strange music; very irregular, but sweet, and in a less excited moment, i could have sat and listened to it till the sun set. i strayed down the aisle, and stood before the "dead christ" of michael angelo. the saviour lies in the arms of mary. the limbs hang lifelessly down, and, exquisitely beautiful as they are, express death with a wonderful power. it is the best work of the artist, i think, and the only one i was ever _moved_ in looking at. the greatest statue and the first picture in the world are under the same roof, and we mounted to the vatican. the museum is a wilderness of statuary. old romans, men and women, stand about you, copied, as you feel when you look on them, from the life; and conceptions of beauty in children, nymphs, and heroes, from minds that conceived beauty in a degree that has never been transcended, confuse and bewilder you with their number and wonderful workmanship. it is like seeing a vision of past ages. it is calling up from athens and old classic rome, all that was distinguished and admired of the most polished ages of the world. on the right of the long gallery, as you enter, stands the bust of the "young augustus"--a kind of beautiful, angelic likeness of napoleon, as napoleon might have been in his youth. it is a boy, but with a serene dignity about the forehead and lips, that makes him visibly a boy-emperor--born for his throne, and conscious of his right to it. there is nothing in marble more perfect, and i never saw anything which made me realize that the romans of history and poetry were _men_--nothing which brought them so familiarly to my mind, as the feeling for beauty shown in this infantine bust. i would rather have it than all the gods and heroes of the vatican. no cast gives you any idea worth having of the apollo belvidere. it is a god-like model of a man. the lightness and the elegance of the limbs; the free, fiery, confident energy of the attitude; the breathing, indignant nostril and lips; the whole statue's mingled and equal grace and power, are, with all its truth to nature, beyond any conception i had formed of manly beauty. it spoils one's eye for common men to look at it. it stands there like a descended angel, with a splendor of form and an air of power, that makes one feel what he should have been, and mortifies him for what he is. most women whom i have met in europe, adore the apollo as far the finest statue in the world, and most _men_ say as much of the medicean venus. but, to my eye, the venus, lovely as she is, compares with the apollo as a mortal with an angel of light. the latter is incomparably the finest statue. if it were only for its face, it would transcend the other infinitely. the beauty of the venus is only in the limbs and body. it is a faultless, and withal, modest representation of the flesh and blood beauty of a woman. the apollo is all this, and has a _soul_. i have seen women that approached the venus in form, and had finer faces--i never saw a man that was a shadow of the apollo in either. it stands as it should, in a room by itself, and is thronged at all hours by female worshippers. they never tire of gazing at it; and i should believe, from the open-mouthed wonder of those whom i met at its pedestal, that the story of the girl who pined and died for love of it, was neither improbable nor singular. raphael's "transfiguration" is agreed to be the finest picture in the world. i had made up my mind to the same opinion from the engravings of it, but was painfully disappointed in the picture. i looked at it from every corner of the room, and asked the _custode_ three times if he was sure this was the original. the color offended my eye, blind as raphael's name should make it, and i left the room with a sigh, and an unsettled faith in my own taste, that made me seriously unhappy. my complacency was restored a few hours after on hearing that the wonder was entirely in the drawing--the colors having quite changed with time. i bought the engraving immediately, which you have seen too often, of course, to need my commentary. the aerial lightness with which he has hung the figures of the saviour and the apostles in the air, is a triumph of the pencil over the laws of nature, that seem to have required the power of the miracle itself. i lost myself in coming home, and following a priest's direction to the corso, came unexpectedly upon the "pantheon," which i recognised at once. this wonder of architecture has no questionable beauty. a dunce would not need to be told that it was perfect. its corinthian columns fall on the eye with that sense of fulness that seems to answer an instinct of beauty in the very organ. one feels a fault or an excellence in architecture long before he can give the feeling a name; and i can see why, by childe harold and others, this heathen temple is called "the pride of rome," though i cannot venture on a description. the faultless interior is now used as a church, and there lie annibal carracci and the divine raphael--two names worthy of the place, and the last, of a shrine in every bosom capable of a conception of beauty. glorious raphael! if there was no other relic in rome, one would willingly become a pilgrim to his ashes. with my countryman and friend, mr. cleveland, i stood in the roman forum by the light of a clear half moon. the soft silver rays poured in through the ruined columns of the temple of fortune and threw our shadows upon the bases of the tall shafts near the capitol, the remains, i believe, of the temple erected by augustus to jupiter tonans. impressive things they are, even without their name, standing tall and alone, with their broken capitals wreathed with ivy, and neither roof nor wall to support them, where they were placed by hands that have mouldered for centuries. it is difficult to rally one's senses in such a place, and be awake coldly to the scene. we stood, as we supposed, in the rostrum. the noble arch, still almost perfect, erected by the senate to septimius severus, stood up clear and lofty beside us, the three matchless and lonely columns of the supposed temple of jupiter stator threw their shadows across the forum below, the great arch, built at the conquest of jerusalem to titus, was visible in the distance, and above them all, on the gentle ascent of the palatine, stood the ruined palace of the cesars, the sharp edges of the demolished walls breaking up through vines and ivy, and the mellow moon of italy softening rock and foliage into one silver-edged mass of shadow. it seems as if the very genius of the picturesque had arranged these immortal ruins. if the heaps of fresh excavation were but overgrown with grass, no poet nor painter could better image out the rome of his dream. it surpasses fancy. we walked on, over fragments of marble columns turned up from the mould, and leaving the majestic arches of the temple of peace on our left, passed under the arch of titus (so dreaded by the jews), to the coliseum. this too is magnificently ruined--broken in every part, and yet showing still the brave skeleton of what it was--its gigantic and triple walls, half encircling the silent area, and its rocky seats lifting one above the other amid weeds and ivy, and darkening the dens beneath, whence issued the gladiators, beasts, and christian martyrs, to be sacrificed for the amusement of rome. a sentinel paced at the gigantic archway, a capuchin monk, whose duty is to attend the small chapels built around the arena, walked up and down in his russet cowl and sandals, the moon broke through the clefts in the wall, and the whole place was buried in the silence of a wilderness. i have given you the features of the scene--i leave you to people it with your own thoughts. i dare not trust mine to a colder medium than poetry. letter xliii. tivoli--ruins of the baths of diocletian--falls of tivoli--cascatelli--subject of one of cole's landscapes--ruins of the village of mecÆnas--ruined villa of adrian--the forum--temple of vesta--the cloaca maxima--the river juturna, etc. i have spent a day at tivoli with messrs. auchmuty and bissell, of our navy, and one or two others, forming quite an american party. we passed the ruins of the baths of diocletian, with a heavy cloud over our heads; but we were scarce through the gate, when the sun broke through, the rain swept off over soracte, and the sky was clear till sunset. i have seen many finer falls than tivoli; that is, more water, and falling farther; but i do not think there is so pretty a place in the world. a very dirty village, a dirtier hotel, and a cicerone all rags and ruffianism, are somewhat dampers to anticipation. we passed through a broken gate, and with a step, were in a glen of fairy-land; the lightest and loveliest of antique temples on a crag above, a snowy waterfall of some hundred and fifty feet below, grottoes mossed to the mouth at the river's outlet, and all up and down the cleft valley vines twisted in the crevices of rock, and shrubbery hanging on every ledge, with a felicity of taste or nature, or both, that is uncommon even in italy. the fall itself comes rushing down through a grotto to the face of the precipice, over which it leaps, and looks like a subterranean river just coming to light. its bed is rough above, and it bursts forth from its cavern in dazzling foam, and falls in one sparry sheet to the gulf. the falls of montmorenci are not unlike it. we descended to the bottom, and from the little terrace, wet by the spray, and dark with overhanging rocks, looked up the "cavern of neptune," a deep passage, through which the divided river rushes to meet the fall in the gulf. then remounting to the top, we took mules to make the three miles' circuit of the glen, and see what are called the _cascatelli_. no fairy-work could exceed the beauty of the little antique sybil's temple perched on the top of the crag above the fall. as we rode round the other edge of the glen, it stood opposite us in all the beauty of its light and airy architecture; a thing that might be borne, "like loretto's chapel, through the air," and seem no miracle. a mile farther on i began to recognize the features of the scene, at a most lovely point of view. it was the subject of one of cole's landscapes, which i had seen in florence; and i need not say to any one who knows the works of this admirable artist, that it was done with truth and taste.[ ] the little town of tivoli hangs on a jutting lap of a mountain, on the side of the ravine opposite to your point of view. from beneath its walls, as if its foundations were laid upon a river's fountains, bursts foaming water in some thirty different falls; and it seems to you as if the long declivities were that moment for the first time overflowed, for the currents go dashing under trees, and overleaping vines and shrubs, appearing and disappearing continually, till they all meet in the quiet bed of the river below. "_it was made by bernini_," said the guide, as we stood gazing at it; and, odd as this information sounded, while wondering at a spectacle worthy of the happiest accident of nature, it will explain the phenomena of the place to you--the artist having turned a mountain river from its course, and leading it under the town of tivoli, threw it over the sides of the precipitous hill upon which it stands. one of the streams appears from beneath the ruins of the "villa of mecænas," which topples over a precipice just below the town, looking over the campagna toward rome--a situation worthy of the patron of the poets. we rode through the immense subterranean arches, which formed its court, in ascending the mountain again to the town. near tivoli is the ruined villa of adrian, where was found the venus de medicis, and some other of the wonders of antique art. the sun had set, however, and the long campagna of twenty miles lay between us and rome. we were compelled to leave it unseen. we entered the gates at nine o'clock, _unrobbed_--rather an unusual good fortune, we were told, for travellers after dark on that lonely waste. perhaps our number deprived us of the romance. i left a crowded ball-room at midnight, wearied with a day at tivoli, and oppressed with an atmosphere breathed by two hundred, dancing and card-playing, romans and foreigners; and with a step from the portico of the noble palace of our host, came into a broad beam of moonlight, that with the stillness and coolness of the night refreshed me at once, and banished all disposition for sleep. a friend was with me, and i proposed a ramble among the ruins. the sentinel challenged us as we entered the forum. the frequent robberies of romantic strangers in this lonely place have made a guard necessary, and they are now stationed from the arch of severus to the coliseum. we passed an hour rambling among the ruins of the temples. not a footstep was to be heard, nor a sound even from the near city; and the tall columns, with their broken friezes and capitals, and the grand imperishable arches, stood up in the bright light of the moon, looking indeed like monuments of rome. i am told they are less majestic by daylight. the rubbish and fresh earth injure the effect. but i have as yet seen them in the garb of moonlight only, and i shall carry this impression away. it is to me, now, all that my fancy hoped to find it--its temples and columns just enough in ruin to be affecting and beautiful. we went thence to the temple of vesta. it is shut up in the modern streets, ten or fifteen minutes walk from the forum. the picture of this perfect temple, and the beautiful purpose of its consecration, have been always prominent in my imaginary rome. it is worthy of its association--an exquisite round temple, with its simple circle of columns from the base to the roof, a faultless thing in proportion, and as light and floating to the eye as if the wind might lift it. it was no common place to stand beside, and recall the poetical truth and fiction of which it has been the scene--the vestal lamp cherished or neglected by its high-born votaries, their honors if pure, and their dreadful death if faithless. it needed not the heavenly moonlight that broke across its columns to make it a very shrine of fancy. my companion proposed a visit next to the cloaca maxima. a _common sewer_, after the temple of vesta, sounds like an abrupt transition; but the arches beneath which we descended were touched by moonlight, and the vines and ivy crossed our path, and instead of a drain of filth, which the fame of its imperial builder would scarce have sweetened, a rapid stream leaped to the right, and disappeared again beneath the solid masonry, more like a wild brook plunging into a grotto than the thing one expects to find it. the clear little river _juturna_ (on the banks of which castor and pollux watered their foaming horses, when bringing the news of victory to rome), dashes now through the cloaca maxima; and a fresher or purer spot, or waters with a more musical murmur, it has not been my fortune to see. we stopped over a broken column for a drink, and went home, refreshed, to bed. footnote: [ ] on my way to rome (near radicofani, i think), we passed an old man, whose picturesque figure, enveloped in his brown cloak and slouched hat, arrested the attention of all my companions. i had seen him before. from a five minutes' sketch in passing, mr. cole had made one of the most spirited heads i ever saw, admirably like, and worthy of caravaggio for force and expression. letter xliv. mass in the sistine chapel--the cardinals--the "last judgment"--the pope of rome--the "adam and eve" chanting of the priests--festa at the church of san carlos--gregory the sixteenth, his equipage, train, etc. all the world goes to hear "mass in the sistine chapel," and all travellers describe it. it occurs infrequently and is performed by the pope. we were there to-day at ten, crowding at the door with hundreds of foreigners, mostly english, elbowed alternately by priests and ladies, and kept in order by the swiss guards in their harlequin dresses and long pikes. we were admitted after an hour's pushing, and the guard retreated to the grated door, through which no woman is permitted to pass. their gay bonnets and feathers clustered behind the gilded bars, and we could admire them for once without the qualifying reflection that they were between us and the show. an hour more was occupied in the entrance, one by one, of some forty cardinals with their rustling silk trains supported by boys in purple. they passed the gate, their train bearers lifted their cassocks and helped them to kneel, a moment's prayer was mumbled, and they took their seats with the same servile assistance. their attendants placed themselves at their feet, and, taking the prayer-books, the only use of which appeared to be to display their jewelled fingers, they looked over them at the faces behind the grating, and waited for his holiness. the intervals of this memory, gave us time to study the famous _frescoes_ for which the sistine chapel is renowned. the subject is the "last judgment." the saviour sits in the midst, pronouncing the sentence, the wicked plunging from his presence on the left hand, and the righteous ascending with the assistance of angels on the right. the artist had, of course, infinite scope for expression, and the fame of the fresco (which occupies the whole of the wall behind the altar) would seem to argue his success. the light is miserable, however, and incense or lamp-smoke, has obscured the colors, and one looks at it now with little pleasure. as well as i could see, the figure of the saviour was more that of a tiler throwing down slates from the top of a house in some fear of falling, than the judge of the world upon his throne. some of the other parts are better, and one or two naked females figures might once have been beautiful, but one of the succeeding popes ordered them dressed, and they now flaunt at the judgment-seat in colored silks, obscuring both saints and sinners with their finery. there are some redeeming frescoes, also by michael angelo, on the ceiling, among them "adam and eve," exquisitely done. the pope entered by a door at the side of the altar. with him came a host of dignitaries and church servants, and, as he tottered round in front of the altar, to kneel, his cap was taken off and put on, his flowing robes lifted and spread, and he was treated in all respects, as if he were the deity himself. in fact, the whole service was the worship, not of god, but of the pope. the cardinals came up, one by one, with their heads bowed, and knelt reverently to kiss his hand and the hem of his white satin dress; his throne was higher than the altar, and ten times as gorgeous; the incense was flung toward him, and his motions from one side of the chapel to the other, were attended with more ceremony and devotion than all the rest of the service together. the chanting commenced with his entrance, and this should have been to god alone, for it was like music from heaven. the choir was composed of priests, who sang from massive volumes bound in golden clasps, in a small side gallery. one stood by the book, turning the leaves as the chant proceeded, and keeping the measure, and the others clustered around with their hands clasped, their heads thrown back, and their eyes closed or fixed upon the turning leaves in such grouping and attitude as you see in pictures of angels singing in the clouds. i have heard wonderful music since i have been on the continent, and have received new ideas of the compass of the human voice, and its capacities for pathos and sweetness. but, after all the wonders of the opera, as it is learned to sing before kings and courts, the chanting of these priests transcended every conception in my mind of music. it was the human voice, cleared of all earthliness, and gushing through its organs with uncontrollable feeling and nature. the burden of the various parts returned continually upon one or two simple notes, the deepest and sweetest in the octave for melody, and occasionally a single voice outran the choir in a passionate repetition of the air, which seemed less like musical contrivance, than an abandonment of soul and voice to a preternatural impulse of devotion. one writes nonsense in describing such things, but there is no other way of conveying an idea of them. the subject is beyond the wildest superlatives. to-day we have again seen the pope. it was a festa, and the church of san carlos was the scene of the ceremonies. his holiness came in the state-coach with six long-tailed black horses, and all his cardinals in their red and gold carriages in his train. the gaudy procession swept up to the steps, and the father of the church was taken upon the shoulders of his bearers in a chair of gold and crimson, and solemnly borne up the aisle, and deposited within the railings of the altar, where homage was done to him by the cardinals as before, and the half-supernatural music of his choir awaited his motions. the church was half filled with soldiers armed to the teeth, and drawn up on either side, and his body-guard of roman nobles, stood even within the railing of the altar, capped and motionless, conveying, as everything else does, the irresistible impression that it was the worship of the pope, not of god. gregory the sixteenth, is a small old man, with a large heavy nose, eyes buried in sluggish wrinkles, and a flushed, apoplectic complexion. he sits, or is borne about with his eyes shut, looking quite asleep, even his limbs hanging lifelessly. the gorgeous and heavy papal costumes only render him more insignificant, and when he is borne about, buried in his deep chair, or lost in the corner of his huge black and gold pagoda of a carriage, it is difficult to look at him without a smile. among his cardinals, however, there are magnificent heads, boldly marked, noble and scholarlike, and i may say, perhaps, that there is no one of them, who had not nature's mark upon him of superiority. they are a dignified and impressive body of men, and their servile homage to the pope, seems unnatural and disgusting. letter xlv. rome--a morning in the studio of thorwaldsen--colossal statue of the saviour--statue of byron--gibson's rooms--cupid and psyche--hylas with the river nymphs--palazzo spada--statue of pompey--borghese palace--portrait of cesar borgia--dossi's psyche--sacred and profane love--room devoted to venuses--the society of rome, etc. i have spent a morning in the studio of _thorwaldsen_. he is probably the greatest sculptor now living. a colossal statue of christ, thought by many to be his masterpiece, is the prominent object as you enter. it is a noble conception--the mild majesty of a saviour expressed in a face of the most dignified human beauty. perhaps his full-length statue of byron is inferior to some of his other works, but it interested me, and i spent most of my time in looking at it. it was taken from life; and my friend, mr. auchmuty, who was with me, and who had seen byron frequently on board one of our ships-of-war at leghorn, thought it the only faithful likeness he had ever seen. the poet is dressed oddly enough, in a morning frock coat, cravat, pantaloons, and shoes; and, unpromising as these materials would seem, the statue is classic and elegant to a very high degree. his coat is held by the two centre buttons in front (a more exquisite cut never came from the hands of a london tailor), swelled out a little above and below by the fleshy roundness of his figure; his cravat is tied loosely, leaving his throat bare (which, by the way, both in the statue and the original, was very beautifully chiselled); and he sits upon a fragment of a column, with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. a man reading a pleasant poem among the ruins of rome, and looking up to reflect upon a fine passage before marking it, would assume the attitude and expression exactly. the face has half a smile upon it, and, differing from the apollo faces usually drawn for byron, is finer, and more expressive of his character than any i ever met with. thorwaldsen is a dane, and is beloved by every one for his simplicity and modesty. i did not see him. we were afterward at _gibson's_ rooms. this gentleman is an english artist, apparently about thirty, and full of genius. he has taken some portraits which are esteemed admirable; but his principal labor has been thrown upon the most beautiful fables of antiquity. his various groups and bas-reliefs of cupid and psyche are worthy of the beauty of the story. his _chef d'oeuvre_, i think, is a group of three figures, representing the boy, "hylas with the river nymphs." he stands between them with the pitcher in his hand, startled with their touch, and listening to their persuasions. the smaller of the two female figures is an almost matchless conception of loveliness. gibson went round with us kindly, and i was delighted with his modesty of manner, and the apparently completely poetical character of his mind. he has a noble head, a lofty forehead well marked, and a mouth of finely mingled strength and mildness. we devoted this morning to _palaces_. at the _palazzo spada_ we saw the statue of pompey, at the base of which cesar fell. antiquaries dispute its authenticity, but the evidence is quite strong enough for a poetical belief; and if it were not, one's time is not lost, for the statue is a majestic thing, and well worth the long walk necessary to see it. the mutilated arm, and the hole in the wall behind, remind one of the ludicrous fantasy of the french, who carried it to the forum to enact "brutus" at its base. the _borghese palace_ is rich in pictures. the portrait of _cesar borgia_, by titian, is one of the most striking. it represents that accomplished villain with rather slight features, and, barring a look of cool determination about his well-formed lips, with rather a prepossessing countenance. one detects in it the capabilities of such a character as his, after the original is mentioned; but otherwise he might pass for a handsome gallant, of no more dangerous trait than a fiery temper. just beyond it is a very strong contrast in a figure of _psyche_, by dossi, of ferrara. she is coming on tiptoe, with the lamp, to see her lover. the cupid asleep is not so well done; but for an image of a real woman, unexaggerated and lovely, i have seen nothing which pleases me better than this psyche. opposite it hangs a very celebrated titian, representing "sacred and profane love." two female figures are sitting by a well--one quite nude, with her hair about her shoulders, and the other dressed, and coiffed _a la mode_, but looking less modest to my eye than her undraped sister. it is little wonder, however, that a man who could paint his own daughter in the embraces of a satyr (a revolting picture, which i saw in the barberigo palace at venice) should fail in drawing the face of virtue. the coloring of the picture is exquisite, but the design is certainly a failure. the last room in the palace is devoted to venuses--all very naked and very bad. there might be forty, i think, and not a limb among them that one's eye would rest upon with the least pleasure for a single moment. the society of rome is of course changing continually. at this particular season, strangers from every part of the continent are beginning to arrive, and it promises to be pleasant. i have been at most of the parties during the fortnight that i have been here, but find them thronged with priests, and with only the resident society which is dull. cards and conversation with people one never saw before, and will certainly never see again, are heavy pastimes. i start for florence to-morrow, and shall return to rome for holy week, and the spring months. letter xlvi. italian and american skies--falls of terni--the clitumnus--the temple--effects of an earthquake at foligno--lake thrasimene--journey from rome--florence--florentine scenery--prince poniatowski--jerome bonaparte and family--want of a minister in italy. i left rome by the magnificent "porta del popolo," as the flush of a pearly and spotless italian sunrise deepened over soracte. they are so splendid without clouds--these skies of italy! so deep to the eye, so radiantly clear! _clouds_ make the glory of an american sky. the "indian summer" sunsets excepted, our sun goes down in new england, with the extravagance of a theatrical scene. the clouds are massed and heavy, like piles of gold and fire, and day after day, if you observe them, you are literally astonished with the brilliant phenomena of the west. here, for seven months, we have had no rain. the sun has risen faultlessly clear, with the same gray, and silver, and rose tints succeeding each other as regularly as the colors in a turning prism, and it has set as constantly in orange, gold, and purple, with scarce the variation of a painter's pallet, from one day to another. it is really most delightful to live under such heavens as these; to be depressed never by a gloomy sky, nor ill from a chance exposure to a chill wind, nor out of humor because the rain or damp keeps you a prisoner at home. you feel the delicious climate in a thousand ways. it is a positive blessing, and were worth more than a fortune, if it were bought and sold. i would rather be poor in italy, than rich in any other country in the world. we ascended the mountain that shuts in the campagna on the north, and turned, while the horses breathed, to take a last look at rome. my two friends, the lieutenants, and myself, occupied the interior of the vetturino, in company with a young roman woman, who was making her first journey from home. she was going to see her husband. i pointed out of the window to the distant dome of st. peter's, rising above the thin smoke hung over the city, and she looked at it with the tears streaming from her large black eyes in torrents. she might have cried because she was going to her husband, but i could not divest myself of the fact that she was a roman, and leaving a home that _could_ be very romantically wept for. she was a fine specimen of this finest of the races of woman--amply proportioned without grossness, and with that certain presence or dignity that rises above manners and rank, common to them all. we saw beautiful scenery at narni. the town stands on the edge of a precipice, and the valley, a hundred feet or two below, is coursed by a wild stream, that goes foaming along its bed in a long line of froth for miles away. we dined here, and drove afterward to terni, where the voiturier stopped for the night, to give us an opportunity to see the _falls_. we drove to the mountain base, three miles, in an old post barouche, and made the ascent on foot. a line of precipices extends along from the summit, and from the third or fourth of these leaps the velino, clear into the valley. we saw it in front as we went on, and then followed the road round, till we reached the bed of the river behind. the fountain of egeria is not more secludedly beautiful than its current above the fall. trees overhang and meet, and flowers spring in wonderful variety on its banks, and the ripple against the roots is heard amid the roar of the cataract, like a sweet, clear voice in a chorus. it is a place in which you half expect to startle a fawn, it looks so unvisited and wild. we wound out through the shrubbery, and gained a projecting point, from which we could see the sheet of the cascade. it is "horribly beautiful" to be sure. childe harold's description of it is as true as a drawing. i should think the quantity of water at niagara would make five hundred such falls as those of terni, without exaggeration. it is a "hell of waters," however, notwithstanding, and leaps over with a current all turned into foam by the roughness of its bed above--a circumstance that gives the sheet more richness of surface. two or three lovely little streams steal off on either side of the fall, as if they shrunk from the leap, and drop down, from rock to rock, till they are lost in the rising mist. the sun set over the little town of terni, while we stood silently looking down into the gulf, and the wet spray reminded us that the most romantic people may take cold. we descended to our carriage; and in an hour were sitting around the blazing fire at the post-house, with a motley group of germans, swiss, french, and italians--a mixture of company universal in the public room of an italian albergo, at night. the coming and going vetturini stop at the same houses throughout, and the concourse is always amusing. we sat till the fire burned low, and then wishing our chance friends a happy night, had the "priests"[ ] taken from our beds, and were soon lost to everything but sleep. terni was the italian tempe, and its beautiful scenery was shown to cicero, whose excursion hither is recorded. it is part of a long, deep valley, between abrupt ranges of mountains, and abounds in loveliness. we went to spoleto, the next morning, to breakfast. it is a very old town, oddly built, and one of its gates still remains, at which hannibal was repulsed after his victory at thrasimene. it bears his name in time-worn letters. at the distance of one post from spoleto we came to the _clitumnus_, a small stream, still, deep, and glassy--the clearest water i ever saw. it looks almost like air. on its bank, facing away from the road, stands the temple, "of small and delicate proportions," mentioned so exquisitely by childe harold. the temple of the clitumnus might stand in a drawing-room. the stream is a mere brook, and this little marble gem, whose richly fretted columns were raised to its honor with a feeling of beauty that makes one thrill, seems exactly of relative proportions. it is a thing of pure poetry; and to find an antiquity of such perfect preservation, with the small clear stream running still at the base of its _façade_, just as it did when cicero and his contemporaries passed it on their visits to a country called after the loveliest vale of greece for its beauty, was a gratification of the highest demand of taste. childe harold's lesson, "pass not unblest the genius of the place" was scarce necessary.[ ] we slept at _foligno_. for many miles we had observed that the houses were propped in every direction, many of them in ruins apparently recent, and small wooden sheds erected in the midst of the squares, or beside the roads, and crowded with the poor. the next morning we arrived at st. angelo, and found its gigantic cathedral a heap of ruins. its painted chapels, to the number of fifteen or sixteen, were half standing in the shattered walls, the altars all exposed, and the interior of the dome one mass of stone and rubbish. it was the first time i had seen the effects of an _earthquake_. for eight or ten miles further, we found every house cracked and deserted, and the people living like the settlers in a new country, half in the open air. the beggars were innumerable. we stopped the next night on the shores of lake thrasimene. for once in my life, i felt that the time spent at school on the "dull drilled lesson," had not been wasted. i was on the battle ground of hannibal--the "_locus aptus insidiis_" where the consul flaminius was snared and beaten by the wily carthaginian on his march to rome. i longed for my old copy of livy "much thumbed," that i might sit on the hill and compare the image in my mind, made by his pithy and sententious description, with the reality. the battle ground, the scene of the principal slaughter, was beyond the _albergo_, and the increasing darkness compelled us to defer a visit to it till the next morning. meantime the lake was beautiful. we were on the eastern side, and the deep-red sky of a departed sunset over the other shore, was reflected glowingly on the water. all around was dark, but the light in the sky and lake seemed to have forgotten to follow. it is a phenomenon peculiar to italy. the heavens seem "dyed" and steeped in the glory of the sunset. we drank our host's best bottle of wine, the grape plucked from the battle ground; and if it was not better for the roman blood that had manured its ancestor, it was better for some other reason. early the next morning we were on our way, and wound down into the narrow pass between the lake and the hill, as the sun rose. we crossed the _sanguinetto_, a little stream which took its name from the battle. the principal slaughter was just on its banks, and the hills are so steep above it, that everybody who fell near must have rolled into its bed. it crawls on very quietly across the road, its clear stream scarce interrupted by the wheels of the vetturino, which in crossing it, passes from the roman states into tuscany. i ran a little up the stream, knelt and drank at a small gurgling fall. the blood of the old flaminian cohort spoiled very delicious water, when it mingled with that brook. we were six days and a half accomplishing the hundred and eighty miles from rome to florence--slow travelling--but not too slow in italy, where every stone has its story, and every ascent of a hill its twenty matchless pictures, sprinkled with ruins, as a painter's eye could not imagine them. we looked down on the eden-like valley of the arno at sunrise, and again my heart leaped to see the tall dome of florence, and the hills all about the queenly city, sparkling with palaces and bright in a sun that shines nowhere so kindly. if there is a spot in the world that could wean one from his native home, it is florence! "florence the fair," they call her! i have passed four of the seven months i have been in italy, here--and i think i shall pass here as great a proportion of the rest of my life. there is nothing that can contribute to comfort and pleasure, that is not within the reach of the smallest means in florence. i never saw a place where wealth made less distinction. the choicest galleries of art in the world, are open to all comers. the palace of the monarch may be entered and visited, and enjoyed by all. the ducal gardens of the boboli, rich in everything that can refine nature, and commanding views that no land can equal, cooled by fountains, haunted in every grove by statuary, are the property of the stranger and the citizen alike. museums, laboratories, libraries, grounds, palaces, are all free as utopia. you may take any pleasure that others can command, and have any means of instruction, as free as the common air. where else would one live so pleasantly--so profitably--so wisely. the society of florence is of a very fascinating description. the florentine nobles have a _casino_, or club-house, to which most of the respectable strangers are invited, and balls are given there once a week, frequently by the duke and his court, and the best society of the place. i attended one on my first arrival from rome, at which i saw a proportion of beauty which astonished me. the female descendants of the great names in italian history, seem to me to have almost without exception the mark of noble beauty by nature. the loveliest woman in florence is a _medici_. the two daughters of _capponi_, the patriot and the descendant of patriots, are of the finest order of beauty. i could instance many others, the mention of whose names, when i have first seen them, has made my blood start. i think if italy is ever to be redeemed, she must owe it to her daughters. the men, the brothers of these women, with very rare exceptions, look like the slaves they are, from one end of italy to the other. one of the most hospitable houses here, is that of prince poniatowski, the brother of the hero of poland. he has a large family, and his _soirées_ are thronged with all that is fair and distinguished. he is a venerable, grayheaded old man, of perhaps seventy, very fond of speaking english, of which rare acquisition abroad he seems a little vain. he gave me the heartiest welcome as an american, and said he loved the nation. i had the honor of dining, a day or two since, with the ex-king of westphalia, jerome bonaparte. he lives here with the title of prince montfort, conferred on him by his father-in-law, the king of wurtemburg. americans are well received at this house also; and his queen, as the prince still calls her, can never say enough in praise of the family of mr. h., our former secretary of legation at paris. it is a constantly recurring theme, and ends always with "_j'aime beaucoup les americains_." the prince resembles his brother, but has a milder face, and his mouth is less firm and less beautiful than napoleon's. his second son is most remarkably like the emperor. he is about ten years of age; but except his youth, you can detect no difference between his head and the busts of his uncle. he has a daughter of about twelve, and an elder son at the university of sienna. his family is large as his queen still keeps up her state, with the ladies of honor and suite. he never goes out, but his house is open every night, and the best society of florence may be met there almost at the _prima sera_, or early part of the evening. the grand duke is about to be married, and the court is to be unusually gay in the carnival. our countryman, mr. thorn, was presented some time since, and i am to have that honor in two or three days. by the way, we feel exceedingly in italy the want of a _minister_. there is no accredited agent of our government in tuscany, and there are rarely less than three hundred americans within its dominions. fortunately the marquis corsi, the grand chamberlain of the duke, offers to act in the capacity of an ambassador, and neglects nothing for our advantage in such matters, but he never fails to express his regret that we should not have some _chargé d'affaires_ at his court. we have officers in many parts of the world where they are much less needed. footnotes: [ ] the name of a wooden frame by which a pot of coals is hung between the sheets of a bed in italy. [ ] as if everything should be poetical on the shores of the clitumnus, the beggars ran after us in quartettes, singing a chaunt, and sustaining the four parts as they ran. every child sings well in italy; and i have heard worse music in a church anthem, than was made by these half-clothed and homeless wretches, running at full speed by the carriage-wheels. i have never met the same thing elsewhere. letter xlvii. florence--grand duke of tuscany--the grand chamberlain--prince de ligne--the austrian ambassador--the marquis torrigiani--leopold of tuscany--views of the val d'arno--splendid ball--trees of candles--the duke and duchess--highborn italian and english beauties, etc., etc. i was presented to the grand duke of tuscany yesterday morning, at a private audience. as we have no minister at this court, i drove alone to the ducal palace, and, passing through the body-guard of young nobles, was met at the door of the ante-chamber by the marquis corsi, the grand chamberlain. around a blazing fire, in this room, stood five or six persons, in splendid uniforms, to whom i was introduced on entering. one was the prince de ligne--traveling at present in italy, and waiting to be presented by the austrian ambassador--a young and remarkably handsome man of twenty-five. he showed a knowledge of america, in the course of a half hour's conversation, which rather surprised me, inquiring particularly about the residences and condition of the united states' ministers whom he had met at the various courts of europe. the austrian ambassador, an old, wily-looking man, covered with orders, joined in the conversation and asked after our former minister at paris, mr. brown, remarking that he had done the united states great credit, during his embassy. he had known mr. gallatin also, and spoke highly of him. mr. van buren's election to the vice-presidency, after his recall, seemed greatly to surprise him. the prince was summoned to the presence of the duke, and i remained some fifteen minutes in conversation with a venerable and noble-looking man, the marquis torrigiani, one of the chamberlains. his eldest son has lately gone upon his travels in the united states, in company with mr. thorn, an american gentleman living in florence. he seemed to think the voyage a great undertaking. torrigiani is one of the oldest of the florentine nobles, and his family is in high esteem. as the austrian minister came out, the grand chamberlain came for me, and i entered the presence of the duke. he was standing quite alone in a small, plain room, dressed in a simple white uniform, with a star upon his breast--a slender, pale, scholar-like looking young man, of perhaps thirty years. he received me with a pleasant smile, and crossing his hands behind him, came close to me, and commenced questioning me about america. the departure of young torrigiani for the united states pleased him, and he said he should like to go himself--"but," said he, "a voyage of three thousand miles and back--_comment faire!_" and he threw out his hands with a look of mock despair that was very expressive. he assured me he felt great pleasure at mr. thorn's having taken up his residence in florence. he had sent for his whole family a few days before, and promised them every attention to their comfort during the absence of mr. thorn. he said young torrigiani was _bien instruit_, and would travel to advantage, without doubt. at every pause of his inquiries, he looked me full in the eyes, and seemed anxious to yield me the _parole_ and listen. he bowed with a smile, after i had been with him perhaps half an hour, and i took my leave with all the impressions of his character which common report had given me, quite confirmed. he is said to be the best monarch in europe, and it is written most expressively in his mild, amiable features. the duke is very unwilling to marry again, although the crown passes from his family if he die without a male heir. he has two daughters, lovely children, between five and seven, whose mother died not quite a year since. she was unusually beloved, both by her husband and his subjects, and is still talked of by the people, and never without the deepest regret. she was very religious, and is said to have died of a cold taken in doing a severe penance. the duke watched with her day and night, till she died; and i was told by the old chamberlain, that he cannot yet speak of her without tears. with the new year, the grand duke of tuscany threw off his mourning. not from his countenance, for the sadness of that is habitual; but his equipages have laid off their black trappings, his grooms and outriders are in drab and gold, and, more important to us strangers in his capital, the ducal palace is aired with a weekly reception and ball, as splendid and hospitable as money and taste can make them. leopold of tuscany is said to be the richest individual in europe. the palazzo pitti, in which he lives, seems to confirm it. the exterior is marked with the character of the times in which it was built, and might be that of a fortress--its long, dark front of roughly-hewn stone, with its two slight, out-curving wings, bearing a look of more strength than beauty. the interior is incalculably rich. the suite of halls on the front side is the home of the choicest and most extensive gallery of pictures in the world. the tables of inlaid gems and mosaic, the walls encrusted with relievos, the curious floors, the drapery--all satiate the eye with sumptuousness. it is built against a hill, and i was surprised, on the night of the ball, to find myself alighting from the carriage upon the same floor to which i had mounted from the front by tediously long staircases. the duke thus rides in his carriage to his upper story--an advantage which saves him no little fatigue and exposure. the gardens of the boboli, which cover the hill behind, rise far above the turrets of the palace, and command glorious views of the val d'arno. the reception hour at the ball was from eight to nine. we were received at the steps on the garden side of the palace, by a crowd of servants, in livery, under the orders of a fat major-domo, and passing through a long gallery, lined with exotics and grenadiers, we arrived at the anteroom, where the duke's body-guard of nobles were drawn up in attendance. the band was playing delightfully in the saloon beyond. i had arrived late, having been presented a few days before, and desirous of avoiding the stiffness of the first hour of presentation. the rooms were in a blaze of light from eight _trees_ of candles, cypress-shaped, and reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and the company entirely assembled, crowded them with a dazzling show of jewels, flowers, feathers, and uniforms. the duke and the grand duchess (the widow of the late duke) stood in the centre of the room, and in the pauses of conversation, the different ambassadors presented their countrymen. his highness was dressed in a suit of plain black, probably the worst made clothes in florence. with his pale, timid face, his bent shoulders, an inexpressibly ill-tied cravat, and rank, untrimmed whiskers, he was the most uncourtly person present. his extreme popularity as a monarch is certainly very independent of his personal address. his mother-in-law is about his own age, with marked features, full of talent, a pale, high forehead, and the bearing altogether of a queen. she wore a small diadem of the purest diamonds, and with her height and her flashing jewels, she was conspicuous from every part of the room. she is a high catholic, and is said to be bending all her powers upon the re-establishment of the jesuits in florence. as soon as the presentations were over, the grand duke led out the wife of the english ambassador, and opened the ball with a waltz. he then danced a quadrille with the wife of the french ambassador, and for his next partner selected an _american lady_--the daughter of colonel t----, of new york. the supper rooms were opened early, and among the delicacies of a table loaded with everything rare and luxurious, were a brace or two of pheasants from the duke's estates in germany. duly flavored with _truffes_, and accompanied with rhine wines, which deserved the conspicuous place given them upon the royal table--and in this letter. i hardly dare speak of the degree of _beauty_ in the assembly; it is so difficult to compare a new impression with an old one, and the thing itself is so indefinite. but there were two persons present whose extreme loveliness, as it is not disputed even by admiring envy, may be worth describing, for the sake of the comparison. the princess s---- may be twenty-four years of age. she is of the middle height, with the slight stoop in her shoulders, which is rather a grace than a fault. her bust is exquisitely turned, her neck slender but full, her arms, hands, and feet, those of a psyche. her face is the abstraction of highborn italian beauty--calm, almost to indifference, of an indescribably _glowing paleness_--a complexion that would be alabaster if it were not for the richness of the blood beneath, betrayed in lips whose depth of color and fineness of curve seem only too curiously beautiful to be the work of nature. her eyes are dark and large, and must have had an indolent expression in her childhood, but are now the very seat and soul of feeling. a constant trace of pain mars the beauty of her forehead. she dresses her hair with a kind of characteristic departure from the mode, parting its glossy flakes on her brow with nymph-like simplicity, a peculiarity which one regrets not to see in the too parisian dress of her person. in her manner she is strikingly elegant, but without being absent, she seems to give an unconscious attention to what is about her, and to be gracious and winning without knowing or intending it, merely because she could not listen or speak otherwise. her voice is sweet, and, in her own italian, mellow and soft to a degree inconceivable by those who have not heard this delicious language spoken in its native land. with all these advantages, and a look of pride that nothing could insult, there is an expression in her beautiful face that reminds you of her sex and its temptations, and prepares you fully for the history which you may hear from the first woman that stands at your elbow. the other is that english girl of seventeen, shrinking timidly from the crowd, and leaning with her hands clasped over her father's arm, apparently listening only to the waltz, and unconscious that every eye is fixed upon her in admiration. she has lived all her life in italy, but has been bred by an english mother, in a retired villa of the val d'arno--her character and feelings are those of her race, and nothing of italy about her, but the glow of its sunny clime in the else spotless snow of her complexion, and an enthusiasm in her downcast eye that you may account for as you will--it is not english! her form has just ripened into womanhood. the bust still wants fullness, and the step confidence. her forehead is rather too intellectual to be maidenly; but the droop of her singularly long eye-lashes over eyes that elude the most guarded glance of your own, and the modest expression of her lips closed but not pressed together, redeem her from any look of conscious superiority, and convince you that she only seeks to be unobserved. a single ringlet of golden brown hair falls nearly to her shoulder, catching the light upon its glossy curves with an effect that would enchant a painter. lilies of the valley, the first of the season, are in her bosom and her hair, and she might be the personification of the flower for delicacy and beauty. you are only disappointed in talking with her. she expresses herself with a nerve and self-command, which, from a slight glance, you did not anticipate. she shrinks from the general eye, but in conversation she is the high-minded woman more than the timid child for which her manner seems to mark her. in either light, she is the very presence of purity. she stands by the side of her not less beautiful rival, like a madonna by a magdalen--both seem not at home in the world, but only one could have dropped from heaven. letter xlviii. vallombrosa--italian oxen--convent--service in the chapel--house occupied by milton. i left florence for vallombrosa at daylight on a warm summer's morning, in company with four ladies. we drove along the northern bank of the arno for four or five miles, passing several beautiful villas, belonging to the florentine nobles; and, crossing the river by a picturesque bridge, took the road to the village of pelago, which lies at the foot of the mountain, and is the farthest point to which a carriage can mount. it is about fourteen miles from florence, and the ascent thence to the convent is nearly three. we alighted in the centre of the village, in the midst of a ragged troop of women and children, among whom were two idiot beggars; and, while the preparations were making for our ascent, we took chairs in the open square around a basket of cherries, and made a delicious luncheon of fruit and bread, very much to the astonishment of some two hundred spectators. our conveyances appeared in the course of half an hour, consisting of two large baskets, each drawn by a pair of oxen and containing two persons, and a small sardinian pony. the ladies seated themselves with some hesitation in their singular sledges; i mounted the pony, and we made a dusty exit from pelago, attended to the gate by our gaping friends, who bowed, and wished us the _bon viaggio_ with more gratitude than three tuscan _crazie_ would buy, i am sure, in any other part of the world. the gray oxen of italy are quite a different race from ours, much lighter and quicker, and in a small vehicle they will trot off five or six miles in the hour as freely as a horse. they are exceedingly beautiful. the hide is very fine, of a soft squirrel gray, and as sleek and polished often as that of a well-groomed courser. with their large, bright, intelligent eyes, high-lifted heads, and open nostrils, they are among the finest-looking animals in the world in motion. we soon came to the steep path, and the facility with which our singular equipages mounted was surprising. i followed, as well as i could, on my diminutive pony, my feet touching the ground, and my balance constantly endangered by the contact of stumps and stones--the hard-mouthed little creature taking his own way, in spite of every effort of mine to the contrary. we stopped to breathe in a deep, cool glen, which lay across our path, the descent into which was very difficult. the road through the bottom of it ran just above the bank of a brook, into which poured a pretty fall of eight or ten feet, and with the spray-wet grass beneath, and the full-leaved chestnuts above, it was as delicious a spot for a rest in a summer noontide as i ever saw. the ladies took out their pencils and sketched it, making a group themselves the while, which added all the picture wanted. the path wound continually about in the deep woods, with which the mountain is covered, and occasionally from an opening we obtained a view back upon the valley of the arno, which was exceedingly fine. we came in sight of the convent in about two hours, emerging from the shade of the thick chestnuts into a cultivated lawn, fenced and mown with the nicety of the grass-plot before a cottage, and entering upon a smooth, well-swept pavement, approached the gate of the venerable-looking pile, as anxious for the refreshment of its far-famed hospitality as ever pilgrims were. an old cheerful-looking monk came out to meet us, and shaking hands with the ladies very cordially, assisted in extracting them from their cramped conveyances. he then led the way to a small stone cottage, a little removed from the convent, quoting gravely by the way the law of the order against the entrance of females over the monastic threshold. we were ushered into a small, neat parlor, with two bedrooms communicating, and two of the servants of the monastery followed, with water and snow-white napkins, the _padre degli forestieri_, as they called the old monk, who received us, talking most volubly all the while. the cook appeared presently with a low reverence, and asked what we would like for dinner. he ran over the contents of the larder before we had time to answer his question, enumerating half a dozen kinds of game, and a variety altogether that rather surprised our ideas of monastical severity. his own rosy gills bore testimony that it was not the kitchen of dennis bulgruddery. while dinner was preparing, father gasparo proposed a walk. an avenue of the most majestic trees opened immediately away from the little lawn before the cottage door. we followed it perhaps half a mile round the mountain, threading a thick pine forest, till we emerged on the edge of a shelf of greensward, running just under the summit of the hill. from this spot the view was limited only by the power of the eye. the silver line of the mediterranean off leghorn is seen hence on a clear day, between which and the mountain lie sixty or seventy miles, wound into the loveliest undulations by the course of the arno. the vale of this beautiful river, in which florence stands, was just distinguishable as a mere dell in the prospect. it was one of the sultriest days of august, but the air was vividly fresh, and the sun, with all the strength of the climate of italy, was unoppressive. we seated ourselves on the small fine grass of the hillside, and with the good old monk narrating passages of his life, enjoyed the glorious scene till the cook's messenger summoned us back to dinner. we were waited upon at table by two young servitors of the convent, with shaven crowns and long black cassocks, under the direction of father gasparo, who sat at a little distance, entertaining us with his inexhaustible stories till the bell rung for the convent supper. the dinner would have graced the table of an emperor. soup, beef, cutlets, ducks, woodcocks, followed each other, cooked in the most approved manner, with all the accompaniments established by taste and usage; and better wine, white and red, never was pressed from the tuscan grape. the dessert was various and plentiful; and while we were sitting, after the good father's departure, wondering at the luxuries we had found on a mountain-top, strong coffee and _liqueurs_ were set before us, both of the finest flavor. i was to sleep myself in the convent. father gasparo joined us upon the wooden bench in the avenue, where we were enjoying a brilliant sunset, and informed me that the gates shut at eight. the vesper-bell soon rung, echoing round from the rocks, and i bade my four companions good night, and followed the monk to the cloisters. as we entered the postern, he asked me whether i would go directly to the cell, or attend first the service in the chapel, assisting my decision at the same time by gently slipping his arm through mine and drawing me toward the cloth door, from which a strong peal of the organ was issuing. we lifted the suspended curtain, and entered a chapel so dimly lit, that i could only judge of its extent from the reverberations of the music. the lamps were all in the choir, behind the altar, and the shuffling footsteps of the gathering monks approached it from every quarter. father gasparo led me to the base of a pillar, and telling me to kneel, left me and entered the choir, where he was lost in the depth of one of the old richly-carved seats for a few minutes, appearing again with thirty or forty others, who rose and joined in the chorus of the chant, making the hollow roof ring with the deep unmingled base of their voices. i stood till i was chilled, listening to the service, and looking at the long line of monks rising and sitting, with their monotonous changes of books and positions, and not knowing which way to go for warmth or retirement. i wandered up and down the dim church during the remaining hour, an unwilling, but not altogether an unamused spectator of the scene. the performers of the service, with the exception of father gasparo, were young men from sixteen to twenty; but during my slow turns to and fro on the pavement of the church, fifteen or twenty old monks entered, and, with a bend of the knee before the altar went off into the obscure corners, and knelt motionless at prayer, for almost an hour. i could just distinguish the dark outline of their figures when my eye became accustomed to the imperfect light, and i never saw a finer spectacle of religious devotion. the convent clock struck ten, and shutting up their "clasped missals," the young monks took their cloaks about them, bent their knees in passing the altar, and disappeared by different doors. father gasparo was the last to depart, and our footsteps echoed as we passed through the long cloisters to the cell appropriated for me. we opened one of some twenty small doors, and i was agreeably surprised to find a supper of cold game upon the table, with a bottle of wine, and two plates--the monk intending to give me his company at supper. the cell was hung round with bad engravings of the virgin, the death of martyrs, crosses, &c., and a small oaken desk stood against the wall beneath a large crucifix, with a prayer-book upon it. the bed was high, ample, and spotlessly white, and relieved the otherwise comfortless look of a stone floor and white-washed walls. i felt the change from summer heat to the keen mountain air, and as i shivered and buttoned my coat, my gay guest threw over me his heavy black cowl of cloth--a dress that, with its closeness and numerous folds, would keep one warm in siberia. adding to it his little black scull-cap, he told me, with a hearty laugh, that but for a certain absence of sanctity in the expression of my face, and the uncanonical length of my hair, i looked the monk complete. we had a merry supper. the wine was of a choicer vintage than that we had drank at dinner, and the father answered, upon my discovery of its merits, that he _never wasted it upon women_. in the course of the conversation, i found out that my entertainer was a kind of butler, or head-servitor of the convent, and that the great body of the monks were of noble lineage. the feeling of pride still remains among them from the days when the certosa of vallombrosa was a residence for princes, before its splendid pictures were pillaged by a foreign army, its wealth scattered, and its numbers diminished. "in those days," said the monk, "we received nothing for our hospitality but the pleasure it gave us"--relieving my mind, by the remark, of what i looked forward to at parting as a delicate point. my host left me at midnight, and i went to bed, and slept under a thick covering in an italian august. "the blanched linen, white and lavendered," seemed to have a peculiar charm, for though i had promised to meet my excluded companions at sunrise, on the top of the mountain, i slept soundly till nine, and was obliged to breakfast alone in the refectory of the convent. we were to dine at three, and start for florence at four the next day, and we spent our morning in traversing the mountain paths, and getting views on every side. fifty or a hundred feet above the convent, perched on a rock like an eyry, stands a small building in which milton is supposed to have lived, during his six weeks sojourn at the convent. it is now fitted up as a nest of small chapels--every one of its six or eight little chambers having an altar. the ladies were not permitted to enter it. i selected the room i presumed the poet must have chosen--the only one commanding the immense view to the west, and, looking from the window, could easily feel the truth of his simile, "thick as leaves in vallombrosa." it is a mountain of foliage. another sumptuous dinner was served, father gasparo sitting by, even more voluble than before, the baskets and the pony were brought to the door, and we bade farewell to the old monk with more regret than a day's acquaintance often produces. we reached our carriage in an hour, and were in florence at eight--having passed, by unanimous opinion, the two brightest days in our calendar of travel. letter xlix. house of michael angelo--the ancient church of san miniato--madame catalani--walter savage landor--midnight mass, etc. i went with a party this morning to visit _the house of michael angelo_. it stands as he lived in it, in the via ghibellini, and is still in possession of his descendants. it is a neat building of three stories, divided on the second floor into three rooms, shown as those occupied by the painter, sculptor, and poet. the first is panelled and painted by his scholars after his death--each picture representing some incident of his life. there are ten or twelve of these, and several of them are highly beautiful. one near the window represents him in his old age on a visit to "lorenzo the magnificent," who commands him to sit in his presence. the duke is standing before his chair, and the figure of the old man is finely expressive. the next room appears to have been his parlor, and the furniture is exactly as it stood when he died. in one corner is placed a bust of him in his youth, with his face perfect; and opposite, another, taken from a cast after his nose was broken by a fellow painter in the church of the carmine. there are also one or two portraits of him, and the resemblance through them all, shows that the likeness we have of him in the engravings are uncommonly correct. in the inner room, which was his studio, they show his pallet, brushes, pots, maul-sticks, slippers, and easel--all standing carelessly in the little closets around, as if he had left them but yesterday. the walls are painted in fresco, by angelo himself, and represent groups of all the distinguished philosophers, poets and statesmen of his time. among them are the heads of petrarch, dante, galileo, and lorenzo de medici. it is a noble gallery! perhaps a hundred heads in all. the descendant of buonarotti is now an old man, and fortunately rich enough to preserve the house of his great ancestor as an object of curiosity. he has a son, i believe studying the arts at rome. * * * * * on a beautiful hill which ascends directly from one of the southern gates of florence, stands a church built so long ago as at the close of the first century. the gate, church, and hill, are all called san miniato, after a saint buried under the church pavement. a large, and at present flourishing convent, hangs on the side of the hill below, and around the church stand the walls of a strong fortress, built by michael angelo. a half mile or more south, across a valley, an old tower rises against the sky, which was erected for the observations of galileo. a mile to the left, on the same ridge, an old villa is to be seen in which boccaccio wrote most of his "hundred tales of love." the arno comes down from vallombrosa, and passing through florence at the foot of san miniato, is seen for three miles further on its way to pisa; the hill, tower, and convent of fiesole, where milton studied and catiline encamped with his conspirators, rise from the opposite bank of the river; and right below, as if you could leap into the lantern of the dome, nestles the lovely city of florence, in the lap of the very brightest vale that ever mountain sheltered or river ran through. such are the temptations to a _walk in italy_, and add to it the charms of the climate, and you may understand one of a hundred reasons why it is the land of poetry and romance, and why it so easily becomes the land of a stranger's affection. the villas which sparkle all over the hills which lean unto florence, are occupied mainly by foreigners living here for health or luxury, and most of them are known and visited by the floating society of the place. among them are madame catalani, the celebrated singer, who occupies a beautiful palace on the ascent of fiesole, and walter savage landor, the author of the "imaginary conversations," as refined a scholar perhaps as is now living, who is her near neighbor. a pleasant family of my acquaintance lives just back of the fortress of san miniato, and in walking out to them with a friend yesterday, i visited the church again, and remarked more particularly the features of the scene i have described. the church of san miniato was built by henry i. of germany, and cunegonde his wife. the front is pretty--a kind of mixture of greek and arabic architecture, crusted with marble. the interior is in the style of the primitive churches, the altar standing in what was called the _presbytery_, a high platform occupying a third of the nave, with two splendid flights of stairs of the purest white marble. the most curious part of it is the rotunda in the rear, which is lit by five windows of transparent oriental alabaster, each eight or nine feet high and three broad, in single slabs. the sun shone full on one of them while we were there, and the effect was inconceivably rich. it was like a sheet of half molten gold and silver. the transparency of course was irregular, but in the yellow spots of the stone the light came through like the effect of deeply stained glass. a partly subterranean chapel, six or eight feet lower than the pavement of the church, extends under the presbytery. it is a labyrinth of marble columns which support the platform above, no two of which are alike. the ancient cathedral of modena is the only church i have seen in italy built in the same manner. * * * * * the _midnight mass_ on "christmas eve," is abused in all catholic countries, i believe, as a kind of saturnalia of gallantry. i joined a party of young men who were leaving a ball for the church of the annunciata, the fashionable rendezvous, and we were set down at the portico when the mass was about half over. the entrances of the open vestibule were thronged to suffocation. people of all ages and conditions were crowding in and out, and the sound of the distant chant at the altar came to our ears as we entered, mingled with every tone of address and reply from the crowd about us. the body of the church was quite obscured with the smoke of the incense. we edged our way on through the press, carried about in the open area of the church by every tide that rushed in from the various doors, till we stopped in a thick eddy in the centre, almost unable to stir a limb. i could see the altar very clearly from this point, and i contented myself with merely observing what was about me, leaving my motions to the impulse of the crowd. it was a curiously mingled scene. the ceremonies of the altar were going on in all their mysterious splendor. the waving of censers, the kneeling and rising of the gorgeously clad priests, accompanied simultaneously by the pealing of solemn music from the different organs--the countless lights burning upon the altar, and, ranged within the paling, a semicircle of the duke's grenadiers, standing motionless, with their arms presented, while the sentinel paced to and fro, and all kneeling, and grounding arms at the tinkle of the slight bell--were the materials for the back-ground of the picture. in the immense area of the church stood perhaps, four thousand people, one third of whom, doubtless, came to worship. those who did and those who did not, dropped alike upon the marble pavement at the sound of the bell; and then, as i was heretic enough to stand, i had full opportunity for observing both devotion and intrigue. the latter was amusingly managed. almost all the pretty and young women were accompanied by an ostensible duenna, and the methods of eluding their vigilance in communication were various. i had detected under a _blond_ wig, in entering, the young ambassador of a foreign court, who being _cavaliere servente_ to one of the most beautiful women in florence, certainly had no right to the amusement of the hour. we had been carried up the church in the same tide, and when the whole crowd were prostrate, i found him just beyond me, slipping a card into the shoe of an uncommonly pretty girl kneeling before him. she was attended by both father and mother apparently, but as she gave no sign of surprise, except stealing an almost imperceptible glance behind her, i presumed she was not offended. i passed an hour, perhaps, in amused observation of similar matters, most of which could not be well described on paper. it is enough to say, that i do not think more dissolute circumstances accompanied the worship of venus in the most defiled of heathen temples. letter l. florence--visit to the church of san gaetano--penitential processions--the refugee carlists--the miracle of rain--church of the annunciata--tomb of giovanni di bologna--masterpiece of andrea del sarto, etc., etc. i heard the best passage of the opera of "romeo and juliet" delightfully played in the church of _san gaetano_ this morning. i was coming from the _café_, where i had been breakfasting, when the sound of the organ drew me in. the communion was administering at one of the side chapels, the showy sunday mass was going on at the great altar, and the numerous confession boxes were full of penitents, _all female_, as usual. as i took a seat near the communicants, the sacred wafer was dipped into the cup and put into the mouth of a young woman kneeling before the railing. she rose soon after, and i was not lightly surprised to find it was a certain errand-girl of a bachelor's washerwoman, as unfit a person for the holy sacrament as wears a petticoat in florence. i was drawn by the agreeable odor of the incense to the paling of the high altar. the censers were flung by unseen hands from the doors of the sacristy at the sides, and an unseen chorus of boys in the choir behind, broke in occasionally with the high-keyed chant that echoes with its wild melody from every arch and corner of these immense churches. it seems running upon the highest note that the ear can bear, and yet nothing could be more musical. a man knelt on the pavement near me, with two coarse baskets beside him, and the traces of long and dirty travel from his heels to his hips. he had stopped in to the mass, probably, on his way to market. there can be no greater contrast than that seen in catholic churches, between the splendor of architecture, renowned pictures, statues and ornaments of silver and gold, and the crowd of tattered, famished, misery-marked worshippers that throng them. i wonder it never occurs to them, that the costly pavement upon which they kneel might feed and clothe them.[ ] penitential processions are to be met all over florence to-day, on account of the uncommon degree of sickness. one of them passed under my window just now. they are composed of people of all classes, upon whom it is inflicted as a penance by the priests. a white robe covers them entirely, even the face, and, with their eyes glaring through the two holes made for that purpose, they look like processions of shrouded corpses. eight of the first carry burning candles of six feet in length, and a company in the rear have the church books, from which they chant, the whole procession joining in a melancholy chorus of three notes. it rains hard to-day, and their white dresses cling to them with a ludicrously ungraceful effect. florence is an unhealthful climate in the winter. the tramontane winds come down from the appenines so sharply, that delicate constitutions, particularly those liable to pulmonary complaints, suffer invariably. there has been a dismal mortality among the italians. the marquis corsi, who presented me at court a week ago (the last day he was out, and the last duty he performed), lies in state, at this moment, in the church of santa trinita, and another of the duke's counsellors of state died a few days before. his prime minister, fossombroni, is dangerously ill also, and all of the same complaint, the _mal di petto_, as it is called, or disease of the lungs. corsi is a great loss to americans. he was the grand chamberlain of court, wealthy and hospitable, and took particular pride in fulfilling the functions of an american ambassador. he was a courtier of the old school, accomplished, elegant, and possessed of universal information. * * * * * the _refugee carlists_ are celebrating to-day, in the church of santa maria novella, the anniversary of the death of _louis xvi_. the bishop of strasbourg is here, and is performing high mass for the soul of the "_martyr_," as they term him. italy is full of the more aristocratic families of france, and it has become _mauvais ton_ in society to advocate the present government of france, or even its principles. they detest louis philippe with the virulence of a deadly private enmity, and declare universally, that they will exile themselves till they can return to overthrow him. among the refugees are great numbers of young men, who are sent away from home with a chivalrous devotion to the cause of the duchess of berri, which they avow so constantly in the circles of italian society, that she seems the exclusive heroine of the day. there was nothing seen of the french exquisites in florence for a week after she was taken. they were in mourning for the misfortune of their mistress. * * * * * all florence is ringing with _the miracle_. the city fountains have for some days been dry, and the whole country was suffering for rain. _the day before the moon changed_, the procession began, and the day after, when the sky was full of clouds, the holy picture in the church of the annunciata, "painted by st. luke himself," was solemnly uncovered. the result was the present miracle of _rain_, and the priests are preaching upon it from every pulpit. the _padrone_ of my lodgings came in this morning, and told me the circumstances with the most serious astonishment. i joined the crowd this morning, who are still thronging up the _via de servi_ to the church of the annunciata at all hours of the day. the square in front of the church was like a fair--every nook occupied with the little booths of the sellers of rosaries, saints books, and pictures. we were assailed by a troop of pedlars at the door, holding leaden medals and crucifixes, and crying, at the top of their voices, for _fidele christiani_ to spend a crazie for the love of god. after crowding up the long cloister with a hundred or two of wretches, steaming from the rain, and fresh from every filthy occupation in the city, we were pushed under the suspended leather door, and reached the nave of the church. in the slow progress we made toward the altar, i had full opportunity to study the fretted-gold ceiling above me, the masterly pictures in the side chapels, the statuary, carving, and general architecture. description can give you no idea of the waste of splendor in these places. i stood at last within sight of the miraculous picture. it is painted in fresco, above an altar surrounded with a paling of bronze and marble projecting into the body of the church. eight or ten massive silver lamps, each one presented by some _trade_ in florence, hung from the roof of the chapel, burning with a dusky glare in the daylight. a grenadier, with cap and musket, stood on each side of the bronze gate, repressing the eager rush of the crowd. within, at the side of the altar, stood the officiating priest, a man with a look of intellect and nobleness on his fine features and lofty forehead, that seemed irreconcilable with the folly he was performing. the devotees came in, one by one, as they were admitted by the sentinel, knelt, offered their rosary to the priest, who touched it to the frame of the picture with one hand, and received their money with the other, and then crossing themselves, and pressing the beads to their bosom, passed out at the small door leading into the cloisters. as the only chance of seeing the picture, i bought a rosary for two crazie (about three cents), and pressed into the throng. in a half hour it came to my turn to pass the guard. the priest took my silver paul, and while he touched the beads to the picture, i had a moment to look at it nearly. i could see nothing but a confused mass of black paint, with an indistinct outline of the head of the madonna in the centre. the large spiked rays of glory standing out from every side were all i could see in the imperfect light. the richness of the chapel itself, however, was better worth the trouble to see. it is quite encrusted with silver. silver _bassi relievi_, two silver candelabra, six feet in height, two very large silver statues of angels, a _ciborio_ (enclosing a most exquisite head of our saviour, by _andrea del sarto_), a massive silver cornice sustaining a heavily folded silver curtain, and silver lilies and lamps in any quantity all around. i wonder, after the plundering of the church of san antonio, at padua, that these useless riches escaped napoleon. how some of the priests, who are really learned and clever men, can lend themselves to such barefaced imposture as this miracle, it is difficult to conceive. the picture has been kept as a doer of these miracles, perhaps for a century. it is never uncovered in vain. supernatural results are certain to follow, and it is done as often as they dare to make a fresh draught on the credulity and money of the people. the story is as follows: "a certain bartolomeo, while painting a fresco of the annunciation, being at a loss how to make the countenance of the madonna properly seraphic, fell asleep while pondering over his work; and, on waking, found it executed in a style he was unable to equal." i can only say that st. luke, or the angel, or whoever did it, was a very indifferent draughtsman. it is ill drawn, and whatever the colors might have been upon the pallet of the sleepy painter, they were not made immortal by angelic use. it is a mass of confused black. i was glad to get away from the crowd and their mummery, and pay a new tribute of reverence at the tomb of _giovanni di bologna_. he is buried behind the grand altar, in a chapel ornamented at his own expense, and with his own inimitable works. six bas-reliefs in bronze, than which life itself is not more natural, represent different passages of our saviour's history. they were done for the grand duke, who, at the death of the artist, liberally gave them to ornament his tomb. after the authors of the venus and the apollo belvidere, john of bologna is, in my judgment, the greatest of sculptors. his _mounting mercury_, in the florence gallery, might have been a theft from heaven for its divine beauty. in passing out by the cloisters of the adjoining convent, i stopped a moment to see the fresco of the _madonna del sacco_, said to have been the masterpiece of _andrea del sarto_. michael angelo and raphael are said to have "gazed at it unceasingly." it is much defaced, and preserves only its graceful drawing. the countenance of mary has the _beau reste_ of singular loveliness. the models of this delightful artist (who, by the way, is buried in the vestibule of this same church), must have been the most beautiful in the world. all his pictures move the heart. footnote: [ ] the tuscans, who are the best governed people in italy, pay _twenty per cent._ of their property in taxes--paying the whole value of their estates, of course, in five years. the extortions of the priests, added to this, are sufficiently burdensome. letter li. florentine peculiarities--society--balls--ducal entertainments--privilege of strangers--families of high rank--the exclusives--soirees--parties of a rich banker--peasant beauty--visiters of a baroness--awkward deportment of a prince--a contented married lady--husbands, cavaliers, and wives--personal manners--habits of society, etc. i am about starting on my second visit to rome, after having passed nearly three months in florence. as i have seen most of the society of this gayest and fairest of the italian cities, it may not be uninteresting to depart a little from the traveller's routine by sketching a feature or two. florence is a resort for strangers from every part of the world. the gay society is a mixture of all nations, of whom one third may be florentine, one third english, and the remaining part equally divided between russians, germans, french, poles, and americans. the english entertain a great deal, and give most of the balls and dinner parties. the florentines seldom trouble themselves to give parties, but are always at home for visits in the _prima sera_ (from seven till nine), and in their box at the opera. they go, without scruple, to all the strangers' balls, considering courtesy repaid, perhaps, by the weekly reception of the grand duke, and a weekly ball at the club-house of young italian noblemen. the ducal entertainments occur every tuesday, and are the most splendid of course. the foreign ministers present all of their countrymen who have been presented at their own courts, and the company is necessarily more select than elsewhere. the florentines who go to court are about seven hundred, of whom half are invited on each week--strangers, when once presented, having the double privilege of coming uninvited to all. there are several italian families, of the highest rank, who are seen only here; but, with the single exception of one unmarried girl, of uncommon beauty, who bears a name celebrated in italian history, they are no loss to general society. among the foreigners of rank, are three or four german princes, who play high and waltz well, and are remarkable for nothing else; half a dozen star-wearing dukes, counts, and marquises, of all nations and in any quantity, and a few english noblemen and noble ladies--only the latter nation showing their blood at all in their features and bearing. the most exclusive society is that of the prince montfort (jerome bonaparte), whose splendid palace is shut entirely against the english, and difficult of access to all. he makes a single exception in favor of a descendant of the talbots, a lady whose beauty might be an apology for a much graver departure from rule. he has given two grand entertainments since the carnival commenced, to which nothing was wanting but people to enjoy them. the immense rooms were flooded with light, the music was the best florence could give, the supper might have supped an army--stars and red ribands entered with every fresh comer, but it looked like a "banquet hall deserted." some thirty ladies, and as many men, were all that florence contained worthy of the society of the ex-king. a kinder man in his manners, however, or apparently a more affectionate husband and father, i never saw. he opened the dance by waltzing with the young princess, his daughter, a lovely girl of fourteen, of whom he seems fond to excess, and he was quite the gayest person in the company till the ball was over. the ex-queen, who is a miracle of size, sat on a divan, with her ladies of honor about her, following her husband with her eyes, and enjoying his gayety with the most childish good humor. the saturday evening _soirées_, at prince poniatowski's (a brother of the hero), are perhaps as agreeable as any in florence. he has several grown-up sons and daughters married, and, with a very sumptuous palace and great liberality of style, he has made his parties more than usually valued. his eldest daughter is the leader of the fashion, and his second is the "cynosure of all eyes." the old prince is a tall, bent, venerable man, with snow-white hair, and very peculiarly marked features. he is fond of speaking english, and professes a great affection for america. then there are the _soirées_ of the rich banker, fenzi, which, as they are subservient to business, assemble all ranks on the common pretensions of interest. at the last, i saw, among other curiosities, a young girl of eighteen from one of the more common families of florence--a fine specimen of the peasant beauty of italy. her heavily moulded figure, hands, and feet, were quite forgiven when you looked at her dark, deep, indolent eye, and glowing skin, and strongly-lined mouth and forehead. the society was evidently new to her, but she had a manner quite beyond being astonished. it was the kind of _animal dignity_ so universal in the lower classes of this country. a german baroness of high rank receives on the mondays, and here one sees foreign society in its highest coloring. the prettiest woman that frequents her parties, is a genoese marchioness, who has _left her husband_ to live with a lucchese count, who has _left his wife_. he is a very accomplished man, with the look of mephistopheles in the "devil's walk," and she is certainly a most fascinating woman. she is received in most of the good society of florence--a severe, though a very just comment on its character. a prince, the brother of the king of ----, divided the attention of the company with her last monday. he is a tall, military-looking man, with very bad manners, ill at ease, and impudent at the same time. he entered with his suite in the middle of a song. the singer stopped, the company rose, the prince swept about, bowing like a dancing-master, and, after the sensation had subsided, the ladies were taken up and presented to him, one by one. he asked them all the same question, stayed through two songs, which he spoiled by talking loudly all the while, and then bowed himself out in the same awkward style, leaving everybody more happy for his departure. one gains little by his opportunities of meeting italian ladies in society. the _cavaliere servente_ flourishes still as in the days of beppo, and it is to him only that the lady condescends to _talk_. there is a delicate, refined-looking, little marchioness here, who is remarkable as being the only known italian lady without a cavalier. they tell you, with an amused smile, "that she is content with her husband." it really seems to be a business of real love between the lady of italy and her cavalier. naturally enough too--for her parents marry her without consulting her at all, and she selects a friend afterward, as ladies in other countries select a lover who is to end in a husband. the married couple are never seen together by any accident, and the lady and her cavalier never apart. the latter is always invited with her as a matter of course, and the husband, if there is room, or if he is not forgotten. she is insulted if asked without a cavalier, but is quite indifferent whether her husband goes with her or not. these are points _really settled_ in the policy of society, and the rights of the cavalier are specified in the marriage contracts. i had thought, until i came to italy, that such things were either a romance, or customs of an age gone by. i like very much the personal manners of the italians. they are mild and courteous to the farthest extent of looks and words. they do not entertain, it is true, but their great dim rooms are free to you whenever you can find them at home, and you are at liberty to join the gossiping circle around the lady of the house, or sit at the table and read, or be silent unquestioned. you are _let alone_, if you seem to choose it, and it is neither commented on, nor thought uncivil, and this i take to be a grand excellence in manners. the society is dissolute, i think, almost without an exception. the english fall into its habits, with the difference that they do not conceal it so well, and have the appearance of knowing its wrong--which the italians have not. the latter are very much shocked at the want of propriety in the management of the english. to suffer the particulars of an intrigue to get about is a worse sin, in their eyes, than any violation of the commandments. it is scarce possible for an american to conceive the universal corruption of a society like this of florence, though, if he were not told of it he would think it all that was delicate and attractive. there are external features in which the society of our own country is far less scrupulous and proper. letter lii. sienna--poggiobonsi--bonconvento--encouragement of french artists by their government--acquapendente--poor beggar, the original of a sketch by cole--bolsena--volscenium--scenery-- curious state of the chestnut woods. sienna.--a day and a half on my second journey to rome. with a party of four nations inside, and two strangers, probably frenchmen, in the cabriolet, we have jogged on at some three miles in the hour, enjoying the lovely scenery of these lower appenines at our leisure. we slept last night at poggiobonsi, a little village on a hill-side, and arrived at sienna for our mid-day rest. i pencil this note after an hour's ramble over the city, visiting once more the cathedral, with its encrusted marbles and naked graces, and the shell-shaped square in the centre of the city, at the rim of which the eight principal streets terminate. there is a fountain in the midst, surrounded with _bassi relievi_ much disfigured. it was mentioned by dante. the streets were deserted, it being sunday, and all the people at the corso, to see the racing of horses without riders. bonconvento.--we sit, with the remains of a traveller's supper on the table--six very social companions. our cabriolet friends are two french artists, on their way to study at rome. they are both pensioners of the government, each having gained the annual prize at the academy in his separate branch of art, which entitles him to five years' support in italy. they are full of enthusiasm, and converse with all the amusing vivacity of their nation. the academy of france send out in this manner five young men annually, who have gained the prizes for painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and engraving. this is the place where henry the seventh of germany was poisoned by a monk, on his way to rome. the drug was given to him in the communion cup. the "ave marie" was ringing when we drove into town, and i left the carriage and followed the crowd, in the hope of finding an old church where the crime might have been committed. but the priest was mumbling the service in a new chapel, which no romance that i could summon would picture as the scene of a tragedy. * * * * * acquapendente.--while the dirty customhouse officer is deciphering our passports, in a hole a dog would live in unwillingly, i take out my pencil to mark once more the pleasure i have received from the exquisite scenery of this place. the wild rocks enclosing the little narrow valley below, the waterfalls, the town on its airy perch above, the just starting vegetation of spring, the roads lined with snowdrops, crocuses and violets, have renewed, in a tenfold degree, the delight with which i saw this romantic spot on my former journey to rome. we crossed the mountain of radicofani yesterday, in so thick a mist that i could not even distinguish the ruin of the old castle, towering into the clouds above. the wild, half-naked people thronged about us as before, and i gave another paul to the old beggar with whom i became acquainted by mr. cole's graphic sketch. the winter had, apparently, gone hard with him. he was scarce able to come to the carriage window, and coughed so hollowly that i thought he had nearly begged his last pittance. bolsena.--we walked in advance of the vetturino along the borders of this lovely and beautiful lake till we are tired. our artists have taken off their coats with the heat, and sit, a quarter of a mile further on, pointing in every direction at these unparalleled views. the water is as still as a mirror, with a soft mist on its face, and the water-fowl in thousands are diving and floating within gunshot of us. an afternoon in june could not be more summer-like, and this, to a lover of soft climate, is no trifling pleasure. a mile behind us lies the town, the seat of ancient _volscinium_, the capital of the volscians. the country about is one quarry of ruins, mouldering away in the moss. nobody can live in health in the neighborhood, and the poor pale wretches who call it a home are in melancholy contrast to the smiling paradise about them. before us, in the bosom of the lake, lie two green islands, those which pliny records to have floated in his time and one of which, _martana_, a small conical isle, was the scene of the murder of the queen of the goths, by her cousin theodatus. she was taken there and strangled. it is difficult to imagine, with such a sea of sunshine around and over it, that it was ever anything but a spot of delight. the whole neighborhood is covered with rotten trunks of trees--a thing which at first surprised me in a country where wood is so economised. it is accounted for in the french guide-book of one of our party by the fact, that the chestnut woods of bolsena are considered sacred by the people, from their antiquity, and are never cut. the trees have ripened and fallen and rotted thus for centuries--one cause, perhaps, of the deadly change in the air. the vetturino comes lumbering up, and i must pocket my pencil and remount. letter liii. montefiascone--anecdote of the wine--viterbo--mount cimino--tradition--view of st. peter's--entrance into rome--a stranger's impressions of the city. montefiascone.--we have stopped for the night at the hotel of this place, so renowned for its wine--the remnant of a bottle of which stands, at this moment, twinkling between me and my french companions. the ladies of our party have gone to bed, and left us in the room where sat _jean defoucris_, the merry german monk, who died of excess in drinking the same liquor that flashes through this straw-covered flask. the story is told more fully in the french guide-books. a prelate of augsbourg, on a pilgrimage to rome, sent forward his servant with orders to mark every tavern where the wine was good with the word _est_, in large letters of chalk. on arriving at this hotel, the monk saw the signal thrice written over the door--_est! est! est!_ he put up his mule, and drank of montefiascone till he died. his servant wrote his epitaph, which is still seen in the church of st. florian:-- "propter minium est, est, dominus meus mortuus est!" "_est, est, est!_" is the motto upon the sign of the hotel to this day. * * * * * in wandering about viterbo in search of amusement, while the horses were baiting, i stumbled upon the shop of an antiquary. after looking over his medals, etruscan vases, cameos, &c., a very interesting collection, i inquired into the state of trade for such things in viterbo. he was a cadaverous, melancholy looking old man, with his pockets worn quite out with the habit of thrusting his hands into them, and about his mouth and eye there was the proper virtuoso expression of inquisitiveness and discrimination. he kept also a small _café_ adjoining his shop, into which we passed, as he shrugged his shoulders at my question. i had wondered to find a vender of costly curiosities in a town of such poverty, and i was not surprised at the sad fortunes which had followed upon his enterprise. they were a base herd, he said, of the people, utterly ignorant of the value of the precious objects he had for sale and he had been compelled to open a _café_, and degrade himself by waiting on them for a contemptible _crazie_ worth of coffee, while his lovely antiquities lay unappreciated within. the old gentleman was eloquent upon his misfortunes. he had not been long in trade, and had collected his museum originally for his own amusement. he was an odd specimen, in a small way, of a man who was quite above his sphere, and suffered for his superiority. i bought a pretty _intaglio_, and bade him farewell, after an hour's acquaintance, with quite the feeling of a friend. * * * * * mount cimino rose before us soon after leaving viterbo, and we walked up most of the long and gentle ascent, inhaling the odor of the spicy plants for which it is famous, and looking out sharply for the brigands with which it is always infested. english carriages are constantly robbed on this part of the route of late. the robbers are met usually in parties of ten and twelve, and, a week before we passed, lady berwick (the widow of an english nobleman, and a sister of the famous harriet wilson) was stopped and plundered in broad mid-day. the excessive distress among the peasantry of these misgoverned states accounts for these things, and one only wonders why there is not even more robbing among such a starving population. this mountain, by the way, and the pretty lake below it, are spoken of in the Æneid: "_cimini cum monte locum_," etc. there is an ancient tradition, that in the crescent-shaped valley which the lake fills, there was formerly a city, which was overwhelmed by the rise of the water, and certain authors state that when the lake is clear, the ruins are still to be seen at the bottom. * * * * * the sun rose upon us as we reached the mountain above baccano, on the sixth day of our journey, and, by its clear golden flood, we saw the dome of st. peter's, at a distance of sixteen miles, towering amid the campagna in all its majestic beauty. we descended into the vast plain, and traversed its gentle undulations for two or three hours. with the forenoon well advanced, we turned into the valley of the tiber, and saw the home of raphael, a noble chateau on the side of a hill, near the river, and, in the little plain between, the first peach-trees we had seen, in full blossom. the tomb of nero is on one side of the road, before crossing the tiber, and on the other a newly painted and staring _restaurant_, where the modern roman cockneys drive for punch and ices. the bridge of pontemolle, by which we passed into the immediate suburb of rome, was the ancient _pons Æmilius_, and here cicero arrested the conspirators on their way to join catiline in his camp. it was on the same bridge, too, that constantine saw his famous vision, and gained his victory over the tyrant maxentius. two miles over the _via flaminia_, between garden walls that were ornamented with sculpture and inscription in the time of augustus, brought us to the _porta del popolo_. the square within this noble gate is modern, but very imposing. two streets diverge before you, as far away as you can see into the heart of the city, a magnificent fountain sends up its waters in the centre, the façades of two handsome churches face you as you enter, and on the right and left are gardens and palaces of princely splendor. gay and sumptuous equipages cross it in every direction, driving out to the villa borghese, and up to the pincian mount, the splendid troops of the pope are on guard, and the busy and stirring population of modern rome swell out to its limit like the ebb and flow of the sea. all this disappoints while it impresses the stranger. he has come to rome--but it was _old_ rome that he had pictured to his fancy. the forum, the ruins of her temples, the palaces of her emperors, the homes of her orators, poets, and patriots, the majestic relics of the once mistress of the world, are the features in his anticipation. but he enters by a modern gate to a modern square, and pays his modern coin to a whiskered officer of customs; and in the place of a venerable belisarius begging an obolus in classic latin, he is beset by a troop of lusty and filthy lazzaroni entreating for a _baioch_ in the name of the madonna, and in effeminate italian. he drives down the corso, and reads nothing but french signs, and sees all the familiar wares of his own country exposed for sale, and every other person on the _pave_ is an englishman, with a narrow-rimmed hat and whalebone stick, and with an hour at the dogama, where his baggage is turned inside out by a snuffy old man who speaks french, and a reception at a hotel where the porter addresses him in his own language, whatever it may be; he goes to bed under parisian curtains, and tries to dream of the rome he could not realize while awake. letter liv. appian way--tomb of cecilia metella--albano--tomb of the curiatii--aricia--temple of diana--fountain of egeria--lake of nemi--velletri--pontine marshes--convent--canal--terracina-- san felice--fondi--story of julia gonzaga--cicero's garden and tomb--mola--minturna--ruins of an amphitheatre and temple-- falernian mount and wine--the doctor of st. agatha--capua-- entrance into naples--the queen. with the intention of returning to rome for the ceremonies of the holy week, i have merely passed through on my way to naples. we left it the morning after our arrival, going by the "appian way" to mount albano, which borders the campagna on the south, at a distance of fifteen miles. this celebrated road is lined with the ruined tombs of the romans. off at the right, some four or five miles from the city, rises the fortress-like _tomb of cecilia metella_, so exquisitely mused upon by childe harold. this, says sismondi, with the tombs of adrian and augustus, became fortresses of banditti, in the thirteenth century, and were taken by brancallone, the bolognese governor of rome, who hanged the marauders from the walls. it looks little like "a woman's grave." we changed horses at the pretty village of albano, and, on leaving it, passed an ancient mausoleum, believed to be the tomb of the curiatii who fought the horatii on this spot. it is a large structure, and had originally four pyramids on the corners, two of which only remain. a mile from albano lies aricia, in a country of the loveliest rural beauty. here was the famous temple of diana, and here were the lake and grove sacred to the "virgin huntress," and consecrated as her home by peculiar worship. the fountain of egeria is here, where numa communed with the nymph, and the lake of nemi, on the borders of which the temple stood, and which was called _diana's mirror_ (_speculum dianæ_), is at this day, perhaps, one of the sweetest gems of natural scenery in the world. we slept at velletri, a pretty town of some twelve thousand inhabitants, which stands on a hill-side, leaning down to the pontine marshes. it was one of the grand days of carnival, and the streets were full of masks, walking up and down in their ridiculous dresses, and committing every sort of foolery. the next morning, by daylight, we were upon the pontine marshes, the long thirty miles level of which we passed in an unbroken trot, one part of a day's journey of seventy-five miles, done by the _same horses_, at the rate of six miles in the hour! they are small, compact animals, and look in good condition, though they do as much habitually. at a distance of fifteen miles from velletri, we passed a convent, which is built opposite the spot where st. paul was met by his friends, on his journey from the seaside to rome. the canal upon which horace embarked on his celebrated journey to brundusium, runs parallel with the road for its whole distance. this marshy desert is inhabited by a race of as wretched beings, perhaps, as are to be found upon the face of the earth. the pestiferous miasma of the pools is certain destruction to health, and the few who are needed at the distant post-houses, crawl out to the road-side like so many victims from a pest-house, stooping with weakness, hollow-eyed, and apparently insensible to everything. the feathered race seems exempt from its influence, and the quantities of game of every known description are incredible. the ground was alive with wild geese, turkeys, pigeons, plover, ducks, and numerous birds we did not know, as far as the eye could distinguish. the travelling books caution against sleeping in the carriage while passing these marshes, but we found it next to impossible to resist the heavy drowsiness of the air. at terracina the marshes end, and the long avenue of elms terminates at the foot of a romantic precipice, which is washed by the mediterranean. the town is most picturesquely built between the rocky wall and the sea. we dined with the hollow murmur of the surf in our ears, and then, presenting our passports, entered the kingdom of naples. this terracina, by the way, was the ancient _anxur_, which horace describes in his line-- "impositum late saxis candentibus anxur." for twenty or thirty miles before arriving at terracina, we had seen before us the headland of circoeum, lying like a mountain island off the shore. it is usually called san felice, from the small town seated upon it. this was the ancient abode of the "daughter of the sun," and here were imprisoned, according to homer, the champions of ulysses, after their metamorphoses. from terracina to fondi, we followed the old appian way, a road hedged with flowering myrtles and orange trees laden with fruit. fondi itself is dirtier than imagination could picture it, and the scowling men in the streets look like myrmidons of fra diavolo, their celebrated countryman. this town, however, was the scene of the romantic story of the beautiful julia gonzaga, and was destroyed by the corsair barbarossa, who had intended to present the rarest beauty of italy to the sultan. it was to the rocky mountains above the town that she escaped in her night-dress, and lay concealed till the pirate's departure. in leaving fondi, we passed the ruined walls of a garden said to have belonged to cicero, whose tomb is only three leagues distant. night came on before we reached the tomb, and we were compelled to promise ourselves a pilgrimage to it on our return. we slept at mola, and here cicero was assassinated. the ruins of his country-house are still here. the town lies in the lap of a graceful bay, and in all italy, it is said, there is no spot more favored by nature. the mountains shelter it from the winds of the north; the soil produces, spontaneously, the orange, the myrtle, the olive, delicious grapes, jasmine, and many odoriferous herbs. this and its neighborhood was called, by the great orator and statesman who selected it for his retreat, "the most beautiful patrimony of the romans." the mediterranean spreads out from its bosom, the lovely islands near naples bound its view, vesuvius sends up its smoke and fire in the south, and back from its hills stretches a country fertile and beautiful as a paradise. this is a place of great resort for the english and other travellers in the summer. the old palaces are turned into hotels, and we entered our inn through an avenue of shrubs that must have been planted and trimmed for a century. * * * * * we left mola before dawn and crossed the small river garigliano as the sun rose. a short distance from the southern bank, we found ourselves in the midst of ruins, the golden beams of the sun pouring upon us through the arches of some once magnificent structure, whose area is now crossed by the road. this was the ancient minturna, and the ruins are those of an amphitheatre, and a temple of venus. some say that it was in the marshes about the now waste city, that the soldier sent by sylla to kill marius, found the old hero, and, struck with his noble mien, fell with respect at his feet. the road soon enters a chain of hills, and the scenery becomes enchanting. at the left of the first ascent lies the falernian mount, whose wines are immortalized by horace. it is a beautiful hill, which throws round its shoulder to the south, and is covered with vineyards. i dismounted and walked on while the horses breathed at the post-house of st. agatha, and was overtaken by a good-natured-looking man, mounted on a mule, of whom i made some inquiry respecting the modern falernian. he said it was still the best wine of the neighborhood, but was far below its ancient reputation, because never kept long enough to ripen. it is at its prime from the fifteenth to the twentieth year, and is usually drank the first or second. my new acquaintance, i soon found, was the physician of the two or three small villages nested about among the hills and a man of some pretensions to learning. i was delighted with his frank good-humor, and a certain spice of drollery in his description of his patients. the peasants at work in the fields saluted him from any distance as he passed; and the pretty contadini going to st. agatha with their baskets on their heads, smiled as he nodded, calling them all by name, and i was rather amused than offended with the inquisitiveness he manifested about my age, family, pursuits, and even morals. his mule stopped of its own will, at the door of the apothecary of the small village on the summit of the hill, and as the carriage came in sight the doctor invited me, seizing my hand with a look of friendly sincerity, to stop at st. agatha on my return, to shoot, and drink falernian with him for a month. the apothecary stopped the vetturino at the door; and, to the astonishment of my companions within, the doctor seized me in his arms and kissed me on both sides of my face with a volume of blessings and compliments, which i had no breath in my surprise to return. i have made many friends on the road in this country of quick feelings, but the doctor of st. agatha had a readiness of sympathy which threw all my former experience into the shade. we dined at capua, the city whose luxuries enervated hannibal and his soldiers--the "_dives, amorosa, felix_" capua. it is in melancholy contrast with the description now--its streets filthy, and its people looking the antipodes of luxury. the climate should be the same, as we dined with open doors, and with the branch of an orange tree heavy with fruit hanging in at the window, in a month that with us is one of the wintriest. from capua to naples, the distance is but fifteen miles, over a flat, uninteresting country. we entered "this third city in the world" in the middle of the afternoon, and were immediately surrounded with beggars of every conceivable degree of misery. we sat an hour at the gate while our passports were recorded, and the vetturino examined, and then passing up a noble street, entered a dense crowd, through which was creeping slowly a double line of carriages. the mounted dragoons compelled our postillion to fall into the line, and we were two hours following in a fashionable corso with our mud-spattered vehicle and tired horses, surrounded by all that was brilliant and gay in naples. it was the last day of carnival. everybody was abroad, and we were forced, however unwillingly to see all the rank and beauty of the city. the carriages in this fine climate are all open, and the ladies were in full dress. as we entered the toledo, the cavalcade came to a halt, and with hats off and handkerchiefs flying in every direction about them, the young new-married queen of naples rode up the middle of the street preceded and followed by outriders in the gayest livery. she has been married about a month, is but seventeen, and is acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. the description i had heard of her, though very extravagant, had hardly done her justice. she is a little above the middle height, with a fine lift to her head and neck, and a countenance only less modest and maidenly than noble. letter lv. rome--front of st. peter's--equipages of the cardinals-- beggars--body of the church--tomb of st. peter--the tiber--fortress-tomb of adrian--jews' quarter--forum barberini palace--portrait of beatrice cenci--her melancholy history--picture of the fornarina--likeness of giorgione's mistress--joseph and potiphar's wife--the palaces doria and sciarra--portrait of olivia waldachini--of "a celebrated widow"--of semiramis--claude's landscapes--brill's-- brughel's--notti's "woman catching fleas"--da vinci's queen giovanna--portrait of a female doria--prince doria--palace sciarra--brill and both's landscapes--claude's--picture of noah intoxicated--romana's fornarina--da vinci's two pictures. drawn in twenty different directions on starting from my lodgings this morning, i found myself, undecided where to pass my day, in front of st. peter's. some gorgeous ceremony was just over, and the sumptuous equipages of the cardinals, blazing in the sun with their mountings of gold and silver, were driving up and dashing away from the end of the long colonnades, producing any effect upon the mind rather than a devout one. i stood admiring their fiery horses and gay liveries, till the last rattled from the square, and then mounted to the deserted church. its vast vestibule was filled with beggars, diseased in every conceivable manner, halting, groping, and crawling about in search of strangers of whom to implore charity--a contrast to the splendid pavement beneath and the gold and marble above and around, which would reconcile one to see the "mighty dome" melted into alms, and his holiness reduced to a plain chapel and a rusty cassock. lifting the curtain i stood in the body of the church. there were perhaps twenty persons, at different distances, on its immense floor, the farthest off (_six hundred and fourteen feet from me!_) looking like a pigmy in the far perspective. st. peter's is less like a church than a collection of large churches enclosed under a gigantic roof. the chapels at the sides are larger than most houses of public worship in our country, and of these there may be eight or ten, not included in the effect of the vast interior. one is lost in it. it is a city of columns and sculpture and mosaic. its walls are encrusted with precious stones and masterly workmanship to the very top, and its wealth may be conceived when you remember that, standing in the centre and raising your eyes aloft, there are _four hundred and forty feet_ between you and the roof of the dome--the height, almost of a mountain. i walked up toward the tomb of st. peter, passing in my way a solitary worshipper here and there, upon his knees, and arrested constantly by the exquisite beauty of the statuary with which the columns are carved. accustomed as we are in america, to churches filled with pews, it is hardly possible to imagine the noble effect of a vast mosaic floor, unencumbered even with a chair, and only broken by a few prostrate figures, just specking its wide area. all catholic churches are without fixed seats, and st. peter's seems scarce measurable to the eye, it is so far and clear, from one extremity to the other. i passed the hundred lamps burning over the tomb of st. peter, the lovely female statue (covered with a bronze drapery, because its exquisite beauty was thought dangerous to the morality of the young priests), reclining upon the tomb of paul iii., the ethereal figures of canova's geniuses weeping at the door of the tomb of the stuarts (where sleeps the pretender charles edward), the thousand thousand rich and beautiful monuments of art and taste crowding every corner of this wondrous church--i passed them, i say, with the same lost and unexamining, unparticularizing feeling which i cannot overcome in this place--a mind borne quite off its feet and confused and overwhelmed with the tide of astonishment--the one grand impression of the whole. i dare say, a little more familiarity with st. peter's will do away the feeling, but i left the church, after two hours loitering in its aisles, despairing, and scarce wishing to examine or make a note. those beautiful fountains, moistening the air over the whole area of the column encircled front!--and that tall egyptian pyramid, sending up its slender and perfect spire between! one lingers about, and turns again and again to gaze around him, as he leaves st. peter's, in wonder and admiration. i crossed the tiber, at the fortress-tomb of adrian, and thridding the long streets at the western end of rome, passed through the jews' quarter, and entered the forum. the sun lay warm among the ruins of the great temples and columns of ancient rome, and, seating myself on a fragment of an antique frieze, near the noble arch of septimius severus, i gazed on the scene, for the first time, by daylight. i had been in rome, on my first visit, during the full moon, and my impressions of the forum with this romantic enhancement were vivid in my memory. one would think it enough to be upon the spot at any time, with light to see it, but what with modern excavations, fresh banks of earth, carts, boys playing at marbles, and wooden sentry-boxes, and what with the parisian promenade, made by the french through the centre, the imagination is too disturbed and hindered in daylight. the moon gives it all one covering of gray and silver. the old columns stand up in all their solitary majesty, wrecks of beauty and taste; silence leaves the fancy to find a voice for itself; and from the palaces of the cesars to the prisons of the capitol, the whole train of emperors, senators, conspirators, and citizens, are summoned with but half a thought and the magic glass is filled with moving and re-animated rome. there, beneath those walls, on the right, in the mamertine prisons, perished jugurtha (and there, too, were imprisoned st. paul and st. peter), and opposite, upon the palatine-hill, lived the mighty masters of rome, in the "palaces of the cesars," and beneath the majestic arch beyond, were led, as a seal of their slavery, the captives from jerusalem, and in these temples, whose ruins cast their shadows at my feet, walked and discoursed cicero and the philosophers, brutus and the patriots, catiline and the conspirators, augustus and the scholars and poets, and the great stranger in rome, st. paul, gazing at the false altars, and burning in his heart to reveal to them the "unknown god." what men have crossed the shadows of these very columns! and what thoughts, that have moved the world, have been born beneath them! the barberini palace contains three or four masterpieces of painting. the most celebrated is the portrait of beatrice cenci, by guido. the melancholy and strange history of this beautiful girl has been told in a variety of ways, and is probably familiar to every reader. guido saw her on her way to execution, and has painted her as she was dressed, in the gray habit and head-dress made by her own hands, and finished but an hour before she put it on. there are engravings and copies of the picture all over the world, but none that i have seen give any idea of the excessive gentleness and serenity of the countenance. the eyes retain traces of weeping, but the child-like mouth, the soft, girlish lines of features that look as if they never had worn more than the one expression of youthfulness and affection, are all in repose, and the head is turned over the shoulder with as simple a sweetness as if she had but looked back to say a good-night before going to her chamber to sleep. she little looks like what she was--one of the firmest and boldest spirits whose history is recorded. after murdering her father for his fiendish attempts upon her virtue, she endured every torture rather than disgrace her family by confession, and was only moved from her constancy, at last, by the agonies of her younger brother on the rack. who would read capabilities like these, in these heavenly and child-like features? i have tried to purchase the life of the cenci, in vain. a bookseller told me to-day, that it was a forbidden book, on account of its reflections upon the pope. immense interest was made for the poor girl, but, it is said, the papal treasury ran low, and if she was pardoned, the large possessions of the cenci family could not have been confiscated. the gallery contains also, a delicious picture of the fornarina by raphael himself, and a portrait of giorgione's mistress, as a carthaginian slave, the same head multiplied so often in his and titian's pictures. the original of the admirable picture of joseph and the wife of potiphar, is also here. a copy of it is in the gallery of florence. i have passed a day between the two palaces doria and sciarra, nearly opposite each other in the corso at rome. the first is an immense gallery of perhaps a thousand pictures, distributed through seven large halls, and four galleries encircling the court. in the first four rooms i found nothing that struck me particularly. in the fifth was a portrait, by an unknown artist, of olivia waldachini, the favorite and sister-in-law of pope innocent x., a handsome woman, with that round fulness in the throat and neck, which (whether it existed in the originals, or is a part of a painter's ideal of a woman of pleasure), is universal in portraits of that character. in the same room was a portrait of a "celebrated widow," by vandyck,[ ] a had-been beautiful woman, in a staid cap (the hands wonderfully painted), and a large and rich picture of semiramis, by one of the carraccis. in the galleries hung the landscapes by claude, famous through the world. it is like roving through a paradise, to sit and look at them. his broad green lawns, his half-hidden temples, his life-like luxuriant trees, his fountains, his sunny streams--all flush into the eye like the bright opening of a utopia, or some dream over a description from boccaccio. it is what italy might be in a golden age--her ruins rebuilt into the transparent air, her woods unprofaned, her people pastoral and refined, and every valley a landscape of arcadia. i can conceive no higher pleasure for the imagination than to see a claude in travelling through italy. it is finding a home for one's more visionary fancies--those children of moonshine that one begets in a colder clime, but scarce dares acknowledge till he has seen them under a more congenial sky. more plainly, one does not know whether his abstract imaginations of pastoral life and scenery are not ridiculous and unreal, till he has seen one of these landscapes, and felt _steeped_, if i may use such a word, in the very loveliness which inspired the pencil of the painter. there he finds the pastures, the groves, the fairy structures, the clear waters, the straying groups, the whole delicious scenery, as bright as in his dreams, and he feels as if he should bless the artist for the liberty to acknowledge freely to himself the possibility of so beautiful a world. we went on through the long galleries, going back again and again to see the claudes. in the third division of the gallery were one or two small and bright landscapes, by brill, that would have enchanted us if seen elsewhere; and four strange pictures, by breughel, representing the four elements, by a kind of half-poetical, half-supernatural landscapes, one of which had a very lovely view of a distant village. then there was the famous picture of the "woman catching fleas" by gherardodelle notti, a perfect piece of life. she stands close to a lamp, with a vessel of hot water before her, and is just closing her thumb and finger over a flea, which she has detected on the bosom of her dress. some eight or ten are boiling already in the water, and the expression upon the girl's face is that of the most grave and unconscious interest in her employment. next to this amusing picture hangs a portrait of queen giovanna, of naples, by leonardo da vinci, a copy of which i had seen, much prized, in the possession of the archbishop of torento. it scarce looks like the talented and ambitious queen she was, but it does full justice to her passion for amorous intrigue--a face full of the woman. the last picture we came to, was one not even mentioned in the catalogue, an old portrait of one of the females of the doria family. it was a girl of eighteen, with a kind of face that in life must have been extremely fascinating. while we were looking at it, we heard a kind of gibbering laugh from the outer apartment, and an old man in a cardinal's dress, dwarfish in size, and with deformed and almost useless legs, came shuffling into the gallery, supported by two priests. his features were imbecility itself, rendered almost horrible by the contrast of the cardinal's red cap. the _custode_ took off his hat and bowed low, and the old man gave us a half-bow and a long laugh in passing, and disappeared at the end of the gallery. this was the prince doria, the owner of the palace, and a cardinal of rome! the sole remaining representative of one of the most powerful and ambitious families of italy! there could not be a more affecting type of the great "mistress of the world" herself. her very children have dwindled into idiots. we crossed the corso to the _palace sciarra_. the collection here is small, but choice. half a dozen small but exquisite landscapes, by brill and both, grace the second room. here are also three small claudes, very, very beautiful. in the next room is a finely-colored but most indecent picture of noah intoxicated, by andrea sacchi, and a portrait by giulio romano, of raphael's celebrated fornarina, to whose lovely face one becomes so accustomed in italy, that it seems like that of an acquaintance. in the last room are two of the most celebrated pictures in rome. the first is by leonardo da vinci, and represents vanity and modesty, by two females standing together in conversation--one a handsome, gay, volatile looking creature, covered with ornaments, and listening unwillingly to what seems a lecture from the other, upon her foibles. the face of the other is a heavenly conception of woman--earnest, delicate, and lovely--the idea one forms to himself, before intercourse with the world, gives him a distaste for its purity. the moral lesson of the picture is more forcible than language. the painter deserved to have died, as he did, in the arms of an emperor. the other picture represents two gamblers cheating a youth, a very striking picture of nature. it is common from the engravings. on the opposite side of the room, is a very expressive picture, by schidone. on the ruins of an old tomb stands a skull, beneath which is written--"_i, too, was of arcadia_;" and, at a little distance, gazing at it in attitudes of earnest reflection, stand two shepherds, struck simultaneously with the moral. it is a poetical thought, and wrought out with great truth and skill. * * * * * our eyes aching and our attention exhausted with pictures, we drove from the sciarra to the ruined palaces of the cesars. here, on an eminence above the tiber, with the forum beneath us on one side, the coliseum on the other, and all the towers and spires of modern and catholic rome arising on her many hills beyond, we seated ourselves on fragments of marble, half buried in the grass, and mused away the hours till sunset. on this spot romulus founded rome. the princely augustus, in the last days of her glory, laid here the foundations of his imperial palace, which, continued by caligula and tiberius, and completed by domitian, covered the hill, like a small city. it was a labyrinth of temples, baths, pavilions, fountains, and gardens, with a large theatre at the western extremity; and adjoining the temple of apollo, was a library filled with the best authors, and ornamented with a colossal bronze statue of apollo, "of excellent etruscan workmanship." "statues of the fifty daughters of danaus siuramdert surrounded the portico" (of this same temple), "and opposite them were equestrian statues of their husbands." about a hundred years ago, accident discovered, in the gardens buried in rubbish, a magnificent hall, two hundred feet in length and one hundred and thirty-two in breadth, supposed to have been built by domitian. it was richly ornamented with statues, and columns of precious marbles, and near it were baths in excellent preservation. "but," says stark, "immense and superb as was this first-built palace of the cesars, nero, whose extravagance and passion for architecture knew no limits, thought it much too small for him, and extended its edifices and gardens from the palatine to the esquiline. after the destruction of the whole, by fire, sixty-five years after christ, he added to it his celebrated 'golden house,' which extended from one extremity to the other of the coelian hill."[ ] the ancient walls, which made the whole of the mount palatine a fortress, still hold together its earth and its ruins. it is a broad tabular eminence, worn into footpaths which wind at every moment around broken shafts of marble, fragments of statuary, or broken and ivy-covered fountains. part of it is cultivated as a vineyard, by the degenerate modern romans, and the baths, into which the water still pours from aqueducts encrusted with aged stalactites are public washing-places for the contadini, eight or ten of whom were splashing away in their red jackets, with gold bodkins in their hair, while we were moralizing on their worthier progenitors of eighteen centuries ago. it is a beautiful spot of itself, and with the delicious soft sunshine of an italian spring, the tall green grass beneath our feet, and an air as soft as june just stirring the myrtles and jasmines, growing wild wherever the ruins gave them place, our enjoyment of the overpowering associations of the spot was ample and untroubled. i could wish every refined spirit in the world had shared our pleasant hour upon the palatine. footnotes: [ ] so called in the catalogue. the custode, however, told us it was a portrait of the wife of vandyck, painted as an old woman to mortify her excessive vanity, when she was but twenty-three. he kept the picture until she was older, and, at the time of his death, it had become a flattering likeness, and was carefully treasured by the widow. [ ] the following description is given of this splendid palace, by suetonius. "to give an idea of the extent and beauty of this edifice, it is sufficient to mention, that in its vestibule was placed his colossal statue, one hundred and twenty feet in height. it had a triple portico, supported by a thousand columns, with a lake like a little sea, surrounded by buildings which resembled cities. it contained pasture-grounds and groves in which were all descriptions of animals, wild and tame. its interior shone with gold, gems, and mother-of-pearl. in the vaulted roofs of the eating-rooms were machines of ivory, which turned round and scattered perfumes upon the guests. the principal banqueting room was a rotunda, so constructed that it turned round night and day, in imitation of the motion of the earth." when nero took possession of this fairy palace, his only observation was--"now i shall begin to live like a man." letter lvi. annual dowries to twelve girls--vespers in the convent of santa trinita--ruins of roman baths--a magnificent modern church within two ancient halls--gardens of mecÆnas--tower whence nero saw rome on fire--houses of horace and virgil--baths of titus and caracalla. the yearly ceremony of giving dowries to twelve girls, was performed by the pope, this morning, in the church built over the ancient temple of minerva. his holiness arrived, in state, from the vatican, at ten, followed by his red troop of cardinals, and preceded by a clerical courier, on a palfrey, and the body-guard of nobles. he blessed the crowd, right and left, with his three fingers (precisely as a parisian dandy salutes his friend across the street), and, descending from his carriage (which is like a good-sized glass boudoir upon wheels), he was received in the papal sedan, and carried into the church by his swiss bearers. my legation button carried me through the guard, and i found an excellent place under a cardinal's wing, in the penetralia within the railing of the altar. mass commenced presently, with a chant from the celebrated choir of st. peter's. room was then made through the crowd, the cardinals put on their red caps, and the small procession of twelve young girls entered from a side chapel, bearing each a taper in her hand, and robed to the eyes in white, with a chaplet of flowers round the forehead. i could form no judgment of anything but their eyes and feet. a roman eye could not be otherwise than fine, and a roman woman's foot could scarce be other than ugly, and, consequently, there was but one satin slipper in the group that a man might not have worn, and every eye i could see from my position, might have graced an improvisatrice. they stopped in front of the throne, and, giving their long tapers to the servitors, mounted in couples, hand in hand, and kissed the foot of his holiness, who, at the same time, leaned over and blessed them, and then turning about, walked off again behind the altar in the same order in which they had entered. the choir now struck up their half-unearthly chant (a music so strangely shrill and clear, that i scarce know whether the sensation is pleasure or pain), the pope was led from his throne to his sedan, and his mitre changed for a richly jewelled crown, the bearers lifted their burden, the guard presented arms, the cardinals summoned their officious servants to unrobe, and the crowd poured out as it came. this ceremony, i found upon inquiry, is performed every year, _on the day of the annunciation_--just nine months before christmas, and is intended to commemorate the incarnation of our saviour. * * * * * as i was returning from a twilight stroll upon the pincian hill this evening, the bells of the convent of santa trinita rung to vespers. i had heard of the singing of the nuns in the service at the convent chapel, but the misbehavior of a party of english had excluded foreigners, of late, and it was thought impossible to get admittance. i mounted the steps, however, and rung at the door. it was opened by a pale nun, of thirty, who hesitated a moment, and let me pass. in a small, plain chapel within, the service of the altar was just commencing, and, before i reached a seat, a low plaintive chant commenced, in female voices from the choir. it went on with occasional interruptions from the prayers, for perhaps an hour. i can not describe the excessive mournfulness of the music. one or two familiar hymns occurred in the course of it, like airs in a recitative, the same sung in our churches, but the effect was totally different. the neat, white caps of the nuns were just visible over the railing before the organ, and, as i looked up at them and listened to their melancholy notes, they seemed, to me, mourning over their exclusion from the world. the small white cloud from the censer mounted to the ceiling, and creeping away through the arches, hung over the organ till it was lost to the eye in the dimness of the twilight. it was easy, under the influence of their delightful music, to imagine within it the wings of that tranquilizing resignation, one would think so necessary to keep down the heart in these lonely cloisters. * * * * * the most considerable ruins of ancient rome are those of the _baths_. the emperors titus, caracalla, nero, and agrippa, constructed these immense places of luxury, and the remains of them are among the most interesting and beautiful relics to be found in the world. it is possible that my readers have as imperfect an idea of the extent of a roman bath as i have had, and i may as well quote from the information given by writers on antiquities. "they were open every day, to both sexes. in each of the great baths, there were sixteen hundred seats of marble, for the convenience of the bathers, and three thousand two hundred persons could bathe at the same time. there were splendid porticoes in front for promenade, arcades with shops, in which was found every kind of luxury for the bath, and halls for corporeal exercises, and for the discussion of philosophy; and here the poets read their productions and rhetoricians harangued, and sculptors and painters exhibited their works to the public. the baths were distributed into grand halls, with ceilings enormously high and painted with admirable frescoes, supported on columns of the rarest marble, and the basins were of oriental alabaster, porphyry, and jasper. there were in the centre vast reservoirs, for the swimmers, and crowds of slaves to attend gratuitously upon all who should come." the baths of diocletian (which i visited to-day), covered an enormous space. they occupied seven years in building, and were the work of _forty thousand christian slaves, two thirds of whom died of fatigue and misery_! mounting one of the seven hills of rome, we come to some half-ruined arches, of enormous size, extending a long distance, in the sides of which were built two modern churches. one was the work of michael angelo, and one of his happiest efforts. he has turned two of the ancient halls into a magnificent church, in the shape of a greek cross, leaving in their places eight gigantic columns of granite. after st. peter's it is the most imposing church in rome. we drove thence to the baths of titus, passing the site of the ancient gardens of mecænas, in which still stands the tower from which nero beheld the conflagration of rome. the houses of horace and virgil communicated with this garden, but they are now undistinguishable. we turned up from the coliseum to the left, and entered a gate leading to the baths of titus. five or six immense arches presented their front to us, in a state of picturesque ruin. we took a guide, and a long pole, with a lamp at the extremity, and descended to the subterranean halls, to see the still inimitable frescoes upon the ceilings. passing through vast apartments, to the ruined walls of which still clung, here and there, pieces of the finely-colored stucco of the ancients, we entered a suite of long galleries, some forty feet high, the arched roofs of which were painted with the most exquisite art, in a kind of fanciful border-work, enclosing figures and landscapes, in as bright colors as if done yesterday. farther on was the niche in which was found the famous group of laocoon, in a room belonging to a subterranean palace of the emperor, communicating with the baths. the belvedere meleager was also found here. the imagination loses itself in attempting to conceive the splendor of these under-ground palaces, blazing with artificial light, ornamented with works of art, never equalled, and furnished with all the luxury which an emperor of rome, in the days when the wealth of the world flowed into her treasury, could command for his pleasure. how short life must have seemed to them, and what a tenfold curse became death and the common ills of existence, interrupting or taking away pleasures so varied and inexhaustible. these baths were built in the last great days of rome, and one reads the last stages of national corruption and, perhaps, the secret of her fall, in the character of these ornamented walls. they breathe the very spirit of voluptuousness. naked female figures fill every plafond, and fauns and satyrs, with the most licentious passions in their faces, support the festoons and hold together the intricate ornament of the frescoes. the statues, the pictures, the object of the place itself, inspired the wish for indulgence, and the history of the private lives of the emperors and wealthier romans shows the effect in its deepest colors. we went on to the baths of caracalla, the largest ruins of rome. they are just below the palaces of the cesars, and ten minutes' walk from the coliseum. it is one labyrinth of gigantic arches and ruined halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it can fasten its root, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as imagination could create. this was the favorite haunt of shelley, and here he wrote his fine tragedy of prometheus. he could not have selected a more fitting spot for solitary thought. a herd of goats were climbing over one of the walls, and the idle boy who tended them lay asleep in the sun, and every footstep echoed loud through the place. we passed two or three hours rambling about, and regained the populous streets of rome in the last light of the sunset. letter lvii. summer weather in march--baths of caracalla--beginning of the appian way--tomb of the scipios--catacombs--church of san sebastiano--young capuchin friar--tombs of the early christian martyrs--chamber where the apostles worshipped--tomb of cecilia metella--the campagna--circus of caracalla or romulus--temple dedicated to ridicule--keats's grave--fountain of egeria--the wood where numa met the nymph--holy week. the last days of march have come, clothed in sunshine and summer. the grass is tall in the campagna, the fruit-trees are in blossom, the roses and myrtles are in full flower, the shrubs are in full leaf, the whole country about breathes of june. we left rome this morning on an excursion to the "fountain of egeria." a more heavenly day never broke. the gigantic baths of caracalla turned us aside once more, and we stopped for an hour in the shade of their romantic arches, admiring the works, while we execrated the character of their ferocious builder. this is the beginning of the ancient appian way, and, a little farther on, sunk in the side of a hill near the road, is the beautiful doric tomb of the scipios. we alighted at the antique gate, a kind of portico, with seats of stone beneath, and reading the inscription, "_sepulchro degli scipioni_" mounted by ruined steps to the tomb. a boy came out from the house, in the vineyard above, with candles, to show us the interior, but, having no curiosity to see the damp cave from which the sarcophagi have been removed (to the museum), we sat down upon a bank of grass opposite the chaste façade, and recalled to memory the early-learnt history of the family once entombed within. the edifice (for it is more like a temple to a river-nymph or a dryad than a tomb) was built by an ancestor of the great scipio africanus, and here was deposited the noble dust of his children. one feels, in these places, as if the improvisatore's inspiration was about him--the fancy draws, in such vivid colors, the scenes that have passed where he is standing. the bringing of the dead body of the conqueror of africa from rome, the passing of the funeral train beneath the portico, the noble mourners, the crowd of people, the eulogy of perhaps some poet or orator, whose name has descended to us--the air seems to speak, and the gray stones of the monument against which the mourners of the scipios have leaned, seem to have had life and thought, like the ashes they have sheltered. we drove on to the _catacombs_. here, the legend says, st. sebastian was martyred and the modern church of st. sebastiano stands over the spot. we entered the church, where we found a very handsome young capuchin friar, with his brown cowl and the white cord about his waist, who offered to conduct us to the catacombs. he took three wax-lights from the sacristy, and we entered a side door, behind the tomb of the saint, and commenced a descent of a long flight of stone steps. we reached the bottom and found ourselves upon damp ground, following a narrow passage, so low that i was compelled constantly to stoop, in the sides of which were numerous small niches of the size of a human body. these were the tombs of the early christian martyrs. we saw near a hundred of them. they were brought from rome, the scene of their sufferings, and buried in these secret catacombs by the small church of, perhaps, the immediate converts of st. paul and the apostles. what food for thought is here, for one who finds more interest in the humble traces of the personal followers of christ, who knew his face and had heard his voice, to all the splendid ruins of the works of the persecuting emperors of his time! most of the bones have been taken from their places, and are preserved at the museum, or enclosed in the rich sarcophagi raised to the memory of the martyrs in the catholic churches. of those that are left we saw one. the niche was closed by a thin slab of marble, through a crack of which the monk put his slender candle. we saw the skeleton as it had fallen from the flesh in decay, untouched, perhaps, since the time of christ. we crossed through several cross-passages, and came to a small chamber, excavated simply in the earth, with an earthern altar, and an antique marble cross above. this was the scene of the forbidden worship of the early christians, and before this very cross, which was, perhaps, then newly selected as the emblem of their faith, met the few dismayed followers of christ, hidden from their persecutors, while they breathed their forbidden prayers to their lately crucified master. we reascended to the light of day by the rough stone steps, worn deep by the feet of those who, for ages, for so many different reasons, have passed up and down; and, taking leave of our capuchin conductor, drove on to the next object upon the road--the _tomb of cecilia metella_. it stands upon a slight elevation, in the appian way, a "stern round tower," with the ivy dropping over its turrets and waving from the embrasures, looking more like a castle than a tomb. here was buried "the wealthiest roman's wife," or, according to corinne, his unmarried daughter. it was turned into a fortress by the marauding nobles of the thirteenth century, who sallied from this and the tomb of adrian, plundering the ill-defended subjects of pope innocent iv. till they were taken and hanged from the walls by brancaleone, the roman senator. it is built with prodigious strength. we stooped in passing under the low archway, and emerged into the round chamber within, a lofty room, open to the sky, in the circular wall of which there is a niche for a single body. nothing could exceed the delicacy and fancy with which childe harold muses on this spot. the lofty turrets command a wide view of the campagna, the long aqueducts stretching past at a short distance, and forming a chain of noble arches from rome to the mountains of albano. cole's picture of the roman campagna, as seen from one of these elevations, is, i think, one of the finest landscapes ever painted. just below the tomb of metella, in a flat valley, lie the extensive ruins of what is called the "circus of caracalla" by some, and the "circus of romulus" by others--a scarcely distinguishable heap of walls and marble, half buried in the earth and moss; and not far off stands a beautiful ruin of a small temple dedicated (as some say) to _ridicule_. one smiles to look at it. if the embodying of that which is powerful, however, should make a deity, the dedication of a temple to _ridicule_ is far from amiss. in our age particularly, one would think, the lamp should be relit, and the reviewers should repair the temple. poor keats sleeps in his grave scarce a mile from the spot, a human victim sacrificed, not long ago, upon its highest altar. in the same valley almost hidden with the luxuriant ivy waving before the entrance, flows the lovely _fountain of egeria_, trickling as clear and musical into its pebbly bed as when visited by the enamored successor of romulus twenty-five centuries ago! the hill above leans upon the single arch of the small temple which embosoms it, and the green soft meadow spreads away from the floor, with the brightest verdure conceivable. we wound around by a half-worn path in descending the hill, and, putting aside the long branches of ivy, entered an antique chamber, sprinkled with quivering spots of sunshine, at the extremity of which, upon a kind of altar, lay the broken and defaced statue of the nymph. the fountain poured from beneath in two streams as clear as crystal. in the sides of the temple were six empty niches, through one of which stole, from a cleft in the wall, a little stream, which wandered from its way. flowers, pale with growing in the shade, sprang from the edges of the rivulet as it found its way out, the small creepers, dripping with moisture, hung out from between the diamond-shaped stones of the roof, the air was refreshingly cool, and the leafy door at the entrance, seen against the sky, looked of a transparent green, as vivid as emerald. no fancy could create a sweeter spot. the fountain and the inspiration it breathed into childe harold are worthy of each other. just above the fountain, on the crest of a hill, stands a thick grove, supposed to occupy the place of the consecrated wood, in which numa met the nymph. it is dark with shadow, and full of birds, and might afford a fitting retreat for meditation to another king and lawgiver. the fields about it are so thickly studded with flowers, that you cannot step without crushing them, and the whole neighborhood seems a favorite of nature. the rich banker, torlonia, has bought this and several other classic spots about rome--possessions for which he is more to be envied than for his purchased dukedom. all the travelling world assembles at rome for the ceremonies of the holy week. naples, florence, and pisa, send their hundreds of annual visitors, and the hotels and palaces are crowded with strangers of every nation and rank. it would be difficult to imagine a gayer or busier place than this usually sombre city has become within a few days. letter lviii. palm sunday--sistine chapel--entrance of the pope--the choir--the pope on his throne--presenting the palms--procession--bishop england's lecture--holy tuesday--the miserere--accidents in the crowd--tenebrÆ--the emblematic candles--holy thursday--frescoes of michael angelo--"creation of eve"--"lot intoxicated"--delphic sybil--pope washing pilgrims' feet--striking resemblance of one to judas--pope and cardinals waiting upon pilgrims at dinner. palm sunday opens the ceremonies. we drove to the vatican this morning, at nine, and, after waiting a half hour in the crush, kept back, at the point of the spear, by the pope's swiss guard, i succeeded in getting an entrance into the sistine chapel. leaving the ladies of the party behind the grate, i passed two more guards, and obtained a seat among the cowled and bearded dignitaries of the church and state within, where i could observe the ceremony with ease. the pope entered, borne in his gilded chair by twelve men, and, at the same moment, the chanting from the sistine choir commenced with one long, piercing note, by a single voice, producing the most impressive effect. he mounted his throne as high as the altar opposite him, and the cardinals went through their obeisances, one by one, their trains supported by their servants, who knelt on the lower steps behind them. the palms stood in a tall heap beside the altar. they were beautifully woven in wands of perhaps six feet in length, with a cross at the top. the cardinal nearest the papal chair mounted first, and a palm was handed him. he laid it across the knees of the pope, and, as his holiness signed the cross upon it, he stooped, and kissed the embroidered cross upon his foot, then kissed the palm, and taking it in his two hands, descended with it to his seat. the other forty or fifty cardinals did the same, until each was provided with a palm. some twenty other persons, monks of apparent clerical rank of every order, military men, and members of the catholic embassies, followed and took palms. a procession was then formed, the cardinals going first with their palms held before them, and the pope following, in his chair, with a small frame of palmwork in his hands, in which was woven the initial of the virgin. they passed out of the sistine chapel, the choir chanting most delightfully, and, having made a tour around the vestibule, returned in the same order. the ceremony is intended to represent the entrance of the saviour into jerusalem. bishop england, of charleston, south carolina, delivered a lecture at the house of the english cardinal weld, a day or two ago, explanatory of the ceremonies of the holy week. it was principally an apology for them. he confessed that, to the educated, they appeared empty, and even absurd rites, but they were intended not for the refined, but the vulgar, whom it was necessary to instruct and impress through their outward senses. as nearly all these rites, however, take place in the sistine chapel, which no person is permitted to enter who is not furnished with a ticket, and in full dress, his argument rather fell to the ground. with all the vast crowd of strangers in rome, i went to the sistine chapel on _holy tuesday_, to hear the far-famed _miserere_. it is sung several times during the holy week, by the pope's choir, and has been described by travellers, of all nations, in the most rapturous terms. the vestibule was a scene of shocking confusion, for an hour, a constant struggle going on between the crowd and the swiss guard, amounting occasionally to a fight, in which ladies fainted, children screamed, men swore, and, unless by force of contrast, the minds of the audience seemed likely to be little in tune for the music. the chamberlains at last arrived, and two thousand people attempted to get into a small chapel which scarce holds four hundred. coat-skirts, torn cassocks, hats, gloves, and fragments of ladies' dresses, were thrown up by the suffocating throng, and, in the midst of a confusion beyond description, the mournful notes of the _tenebræ_ (or lamentations of jeremiah) poured in full volume from the choir. thirteen candles burned in a small pyramid within the paling of the altar, and twelve of these, representing the apostles, were extinguished, one by one (to signify their desertion at the cross), during the singing of the _tenebræ_. the last, which was left burning, represented the mother of christ. as the last before this was extinguished, the music ceased. the crowd had, by this time, become quiet. the twilight had deepened through the dimly-lit chapel, and the one solitary lamp looked lost at the distance of the altar. suddenly the _miserére_ commenced with one high prolonged note, that sounded like a wail; another joined it, and another and another, and all the different parts came in, with a gradual swell of plaintive and most thrilling harmony, to the full power of the choir. it continued for perhaps half an hour. the music was simple, running upon a few notes, like a dirge, but there were voices in the choir that seemed of a really supernatural sweetness. no instrument could be so clear. the crowd, even in their uncomfortable positions, were breathless with attention, and the effect was universal. it is really extraordinary music, and if but half the rites of the catholic church had its power over the mind, a visit to rome would have quite another influence. the candles were lit, and the motley troop of cardinals and red-legged servitors passed out. the harlequin-looking swiss guard stood to their tall halberds, the chamberlains and mace-bearers, in their cassock and frills, took care that the males and females should not mix until they reached the door, the pope disappeared in the sacristy, and the gay world, kept an hour beyond their time, went home to cold dinners. * * * * * the ceremonies of _holy thursday_ commenced with the mass in the sistine chapel. tired of seeing genuflections, and listening to a mumbling of which i could not catch a syllable, i took advantage of my privileged seat, in the ambassador's box, to lean back and study the celebrated frescoes of michael angelo upon the ceiling. a little drapery would do no harm to any of them. they illustrate, mainly, passages of scripture history, but the "creation of eve," in the centre, is an astonishingly fine representation of a naked man and woman, as large as life; and "lot intoxicated and exposed before his two daughters," is about as immodest a picture, from its admirable expression as well as its nudity, as could easily be drawn. in one corner there is a most beautiful draped figure of the _delphic sybil_--and i think this bit of heathenism is almost the only very decent part of the pope's most consecrated chapel. after the mass, the host was carried, with a showy procession, to be deposited among the thousand lamps in the capella paolina, and, as soon as it had passed, there was a general rush for the room in which the pope was to _wash the feet of the pilgrims_. thirteen men, dressed in white, with sandals open at the top, and caps of paper covered with white linen, sat on a high bench, just under a beautiful copy of the last supper of da vinci, in gobelin tapestry. it was a small chapel, communicating with the pope's private apartments. eleven of the pilgrims were as vulgar and brutal-looking men as could have been found in the world; but of the two in the centre, one was the personification of wild fanaticism. he was pale, emaciated, and abstracted. his hair and beard were neglected, and of a singular blackness. his lips were firmly set in an expression of severity. his brows were gathered gloomily over his eyes, and his glances, occasionally sent among the crowd, were as glaring and flashing as a tiger's. with all this, his countenance was lofty, and if i had seen the face on canvas, as a portrait of a martyr, i should have thought it finely expressive of courage and devotion. the man on his left wept, or pretended to weep, continually; but every person in the room was struck with his extraordinary resemblance to _judas_, as he is drawn in the famous picture of the last supper. it was the same marked face, the same treacherous, ruffian look, the same style of hair and beard, to a wonder. it is possible that he might have been chosen on purpose, the twelve pilgrims being intended to represent the twelve apostles of whom judas was one--but if accidental, it was the most remarkable coincidence that ever came under my notice. he looked the hypocrite and traitor complete, and his resemblance to the judas in the picture directly over his head, would have struck a child. the pope soon entered from his apartments, in a purple stole, with a cape of dark crimson satin, and the mitre of silver-cloth, and, casting the incense into the golden censer, the white smoke was flung from side to side before him, till the delightful odor filled the room. a short service was then chanted, and the choir sang a hymn. his holiness was then unrobed, and a fine napkin, trimmed with lace, was tied about him by the servitors, and with a deacon before him, bearing a splendid pitcher and basin, and a procession behind him, with large bunches of flowers, he crossed to the pilgrims' bench. a priest, in a snow-white tunic, raised and bared the foot of the first. the pope knelt, took water in his hand, and slightly rubbed the instep, and then drying it well with a napkin, he kissed it. the assistant-deacon gave a large bunch of flowers and a napkin to the pilgrim, as the pope left him, and another person in rich garments, followed, with pieces of money presented in a wrapper of white paper. the same ceremony took place with each--one foot only being honored with a lavation. when his holiness arrived at the "judas," there was a general stir, and every one was on tip-toe to watch his countenance. he took his handkerchief from his eyes, and looked at the pope very earnestly, and when the ceremony was finished, he seized the sacred hand, and, imprinting a kiss upon it, flung himself back, and buried his face again in his handkerchief, quite overwhelmed with his feelings. the other pilgrims took it very coolly, comparatively, and one of them seemed rather amused than edified. the pope returned to his throne, and water was poured over his hands. a cardinal gave him a napkin, his splendid cape was put again over his shoulders, and, with a paternoster the ceremony was over. half an hour after, with much crowding and several losses of foothold and temper, i had secured a place in the hall where the apostles, as the pilgrims are called after the washing, were to dine, waited on by the pope and cardinals. with their gloomy faces and ghastly white caps and white dresses, they looked more like criminals waiting for execution, than guests at a feast. they stood while the pope went round with a gold pitcher and basin, to wash their hands, and then seating themselves, his holiness, with a good-natured smile, gave each a dish of soup, and said something in his ear, which had the effect of putting him at his ease. the table was magnificently set out with the plate and provisions of a prince's table, and spite of the thousands of eyes gazing on them, the pilgrims were soon deep in the delicacies of every dish, even the lachrymose judas himself, eating most voraciously. we left them at their dessert. letter lix. sepulchre of caius cestius--protestant burying ground--graves of keats and shelley--shelley's lament over keats--graves of two americans--beauty of the burial place--monuments over two interesting young females--inscription on keats' monument--the style of keats' poems--grave of dr. bell--residence and literary undertakings of his widow. a beautiful pyramid, a hundred and thirteen feet high, built into the ancient wall of rome, is the proud _sepulchre of caius cestius_. it is the most imperishable of the antiquities, standing as perfect after eighteen hundred years as if it were built but yesterday. just beyond it, on the declivity of a hill, over the ridge of which the wall passes, crowning it with two mouldering towers, lies the _protestant burying-ground_. it looks toward rome, which appears in the distance, between mount aventine and a small hill called mont testaccio, and leaning to the southeast, the sun lies warm and soft upon its banks, and the grass and wild flowers are there the earliest and tallest of the campagna. i have been here to-day, to see the graves of _keats_ and _shelley_. with a cloudless sky and the most delicious air ever breathed, we sat down upon the marble slab laid over the ashes of poor shelley, and read his own lament over keats, who sleeps just below, at the foot of the hill. the cemetery is rudely formed into three terraces, with walks between, and shelley's grave and one other, without a name, occupy a small nook above, made by the projections of a mouldering wall-tower, and crowded with ivy and shrubs, and a peculiarly fragrant yellow flower, which perfumes the air around for several feet. the avenue by which you ascend from the gate is lined with high bushes of the marsh-rose in the most luxuriant bloom, and all over the cemetery the grass is thickly mingled with flowers of every die. in his preface to his lament over keats, shelley says, "he was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the protestants, under the pyramid which is the tomb of cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient rome." it is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. "_it might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place._" if shelley had chosen his own grave at the time, he would have selected the very spot where he has since been laid--the most sequestered and flowery nook of the place he describes so feelingly. in the last verses of the elegy, he speaks of it again with the same feeling of its beauty:-- "the spirit of the spot shall lead thy footsteps to a slope of green access, where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, a light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. "and gray walls moulder round, on which dull time feeds like slow fire upon a hoary brand: and one keen pyramid, with wedge sublime, pavilioning the dust of him who planned this refuge for his memory, doth stand like flame transformed to marble; and _beneath a field is spread, on which a newer band have pitched, in heaven's smile, their camp of death_, welcoming him we lose, with scarce extinguished breath. "here pause: these graves are all _too young as yet to have outgrown the sorrow which consigned its charge to each_." shelley has left no poet behind, who could write so touchingly of his burial-place in turn. he was, indeed, as they have graven on his tombstone, "_cor cordium_"--the heart of hearts. dreadfully mistaken as he was in his principles, he was no less the soul of genius than the model of a true heart and of pure intentions. let who will cast reproach upon his memory, i believe, for one, that his errors were of the kind most venial in the eye of heaven, and i read, almost like a prophesy, the last lines of his elegy on one he believed had gone before him to a happier world: "burning through the inmost veil of heaven, the soul of adonais, like a star, beacons from the abode where the eternal are." on the second terrace of the declivity, are ten or twelve graves, two of which bear the names of americans who have died in rome. a portrait carved in bas-relief, upon one of the slabs, told me, without the inscription, that one whom i had known was buried beneath.[ ] the slightly rising mound was covered with small violets, half hidden by the grass. it takes away from the pain with which one stands over the grave of an acquaintance or a friend, to see the sun lying so warm upon it, and the flowers springing so profusely and cheerfully. nature seems to have cared for those who have died so far from home, binding the earth gently over them with grass, and decking it with the most delicate flowers. a little to the left, on the same bank, is the new-made grave of a very young man, mr. elliot. he came abroad for health, and died at rome, scarce two months since. without being disgusted with life, one feels, in a place like this, a certain reconciliation, if i may so express it, with the thought of a burial--an almost willingness, if his bed could be laid amid such loveliness, to be brought and left here to his repose. purely imaginary as any difference in this circumstance is, it must, at least, always affect the sick powerfully; and with the common practice of sending the dying to italy, as a last hope, i consider the exquisite beauty of this place of burial, as more than a common accident of happiness. farther on, upon the same terrace, are two monuments that interested me. one marks the grave of a young english girl,[ ] the pride of a noble family, and, as a sculptor told me, who had often seen and admired her, a model of high-born beauty. she was riding with a party on the banks of the tiber, when her horse became unmanageable, and backed into the river. she sank instantly, and was swept so rapidly away by the current, that her body was not found for many months. her tombstone is adorned with a bas-relief, representing an angel receiving her from the waves. the other is the grave of a young lady of twenty, who was at the baths of lucca, last summer, in pursuit of health. she died at the first approach of winter. i had the melancholy pleasure of knowing her slightly, and we used to meet her in the winding path upon the bank of the romantic river lima, at evening, borne in a sedan, with her mother and sister walking at her side, the fairest victim consumption ever seized. she had all the peculiar beauty of the disease, the transparent complexion, and the unnaturally bright eye, added to features cast in the clearest and softest mould of female loveliness. she excited general interest even among the gay and dissipated crowd of a watering place; and if her sedan was missed in the evening promenade, the inquiry for her was anxious and universal. she is buried in a place that seems made for such as herself. we descended to the lower enclosure at the foot of the slight declivity. the first grave here is that of _keats_. the inscription on his monument runs thus: "_this grave contains all that was mortal of a young english poet, who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraved on his tomb_: here lies one whose name was written in water." he died at rome in . every reader knows his history and the cause of his death. shelley says, in the preface to his elegy, "the savage criticism on his poems, which appeared in the quarterly review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in a rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgments, from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted." keats was, no doubt, a poet of very uncommon promise. he had all the wealth of genius within him, but he had not learned, before he was killed by criticism, the received, and, therefore, the best manner of producing it for the eye of the world. had he lived longer, the strength and richness which break continually through the affected style of endymion and lamia and his other poems, must have formed themselves into some noble monuments of his powers. as it is, there is not a poet living who could surpass the material of his "endymion"--a poem, with all its faults, far more full of beauties. but this is not the place for criticism. he is buried fitly for a poet, and sleeps beyond criticism now. peace to his ashes! close to the grave of keats is that of dr. bell, the author of "observations on italy." this estimable man, whose comments on the fine arts are, perhaps, as judicious and high-toned as any ever written, has left behind him, in naples (where he practised his profession for some years), a host of friends, who remember and speak of him as few are remembered and spoken of in this changing and crowded portion of the world. his widow, who edited his works so ably and judiciously, lives still at naples, and is preparing just now a new edition of his book on italy. having known her, and having heard from her own lips many particulars of his life, i felt an additional interest in visiting his grave. both his monument and keats's are almost buried in the tall flowering clover of this beautiful place. footnotes: [ ] mr. john hone, of new york. [ ] an interesting account of this ill-fated young lady, who was on the eve of marriage, has appeared in the mirror. letter lx. presentation at the papal court--pilgrims going to vespers--performance of the miserere--tarpeian rock--the forum--palace of the cesars--coliseum. i have been presented to the pope this morning, in company with several americans--mr. and mrs. gray, of boston, mr. atherton and daughters, and mr. walsh of philadelphia, and mr. mayer of baltimore. with the latter gentleman, i arrived rather late, and found that the rest of the party had been already received, and that his holiness was giving audience, at the moment, to some russian ladies of rank. bishop england, of charleston, however, was good enough to send in once more, and, in the course of a few minutes, the chamberlain in waiting announced to us that _il padre santo_ would receive us. the ante-room was a picturesque and rather peculiar scene. clusters of priests, of different rank, were scattered about in the corners, dressed in a variety of splendid costumes, white, crimson, and ermine, one or two monks, with their picturesque beards and flowing dresses of gray or brown, were standing near one of the doors, in their habitually humble attitudes; two gentlemen mace-bearers guarded the door of the entrance to the pope's presence, their silver batons under their arms, and their open breasted cassocks covered with fine lace; the deep bend of the window was occupied by the american party of ladies, in the required black veils; and around the outer door stood the helmeted guard, a dozen stout men-at-arms, forming a forcible contrast to the mild faces and priestly company within. the mace-bearers lifted the curtain, and the pope stood before us, in a small plain room. the irish priest who accompanied us prostrated himself on the floor, and kissed the embroidered slipper, and bishop england hastily knelt and kissed his hand, turning to present us as he rose. his holiness smiled, and stepped forward, with a gesture of his hand, as if to prevent our kneeling, and, as the bishop mentioned our names, he looked at us and nodded smilingly, but without speaking to us. whether he presumed we did not speak the language, or whether he thought us too young to answer for ourselves, he confined his inquiries about us entirely to the good bishop, leaving me, as i wished, at leisure to study his features and manner. it was easy to conceive that the father of the catholic church stood before me, but i could scarcely realize that it was a sovereign of europe, and the temporal monarch of millions. he was dressed in a long vesture of snow-white flannel, buttoned together in front, with a large crimson velvet cape over his shoulders, and band and tassels of silver cloth hanging from beneath. a small white scull-cap covered the crown of his head, and his hair, slightly grizzled, fell straight toward a low forehead, expressive of good-nature merely. a large emerald on his finger, and slippers wrought in gold, with a cross on the instep, completed his dress. his face is heavily moulded, but unmarked, and expressive mainly of sloth and kindness; his nose is uncommonly large, rather pendant than prominent, and an incipient double chin, slightly hanging cheeks, and eyes, over which the lids drop, as if in sleep, at the end of every sentence, confirm the general impression of his presence--that of an indolent and good old man. his inquiries were principally of the catholic church in baltimore (mentioned by the bishop as the city of mr. mayer's residence), of its processions, its degree of state, and whether it was recognised by the government. at the first pause in the conversation, his holiness smiled and bowed, the irish priest prostrated himself again, and kissed his foot, and, with a blessing from the father of the church, we retired. on the evening of holy thursday, as i was on my way to st. peter's to hear the _miserere_ once more, i overtook the procession of pilgrims going up to vespers. the men went first in couples, following a cross, and escorted by gentlemen penitents covered conveniently with sackcloth, their eyes peeping through two holes, and their well-polished boots beneath, being the only indications by which their penance could be betrayed to the world. the pilgrims themselves, perhaps a hundred in all, were the dirtiest collection of beggars imaginable, distinguished from the lazars in the street, only by a long staff with a faded bunch of flowers attached to it, and an oil-cloth cape stitched over with scallop-shells. behind came the female pilgrims, and these were led by the first ladies of rank in rome. it was really curious to see the mixture of humility and pride. there were, perhaps, fifty ladies of all ages, from sixteen to fifty, walking each between two filthy old women who supported themselves by her arms, while near them, on either side of the procession, followed their splendid equipages, with numerous servants, in livery, on foot, as if to contradict to the world their temporary degradation. the lady penitents, unlike the gentlemen, walked in their ordinary dress. i had several acquaintances among them; and it was inconceivable, to me, how the gay, thoughtless, fashionable creatures i had met in the most luxurious drawing-rooms of rome, could be prevailed upon to become a part in such a ridiculous parade of humility. the chief penitent, who carried a large, heavy crucifix at the head of the procession, was the princess ----, at whose weekly soirees and balls assemble all that is gay and pleasure-loving in rome. her two nieces, elegant girls of eighteen or twenty, walked at her side, carrying lighted candles, of four or five feet in length, in broad day-light, through the streets! the procession crept slowly up to the church, and i left them kneeling at the tomb of st. peter, and went to the side chapel, to listen to the _miserere_. the choir here is said to be inferior to that in the sistine chapel, but the circumstances more than make up for the difference, which, after all, it takes a nice ear to detect. i could not but congratulate myself, as i sat down upon the base of a pillar, in the vast aisle, without the chapel where the choir were chanting, with the twilight gathering in the lofty arches, and the candles of the various processions creeping to the consecrated sepulchre from the distant parts of the church. it was so different in that crowded and suffocating chapel of the vatican, where, fine as was the music, i vowed positively never to subject myself to such annoyance again. it had become almost dark, when the last candle but one was extinguished in the symbolical pyramid, and the first almost painful note of the _miserere_ wailed out into the vast church of st. peter. for the next half hour, the kneeling listeners, around the door of the chapel, seemed spell-bound in their motionless attitudes. the darkness thickened, the hundred lamps at the far-off sepulchre of the saint, looked like a galaxy of twinkling points of fire, almost lost in the distance; and from the now perfectly obscured choir, poured, in ever-varying volume, the dirge-like music, in notes inconceivably plaintive and affecting. the power, the mingled mournfulness and sweetness, the impassioned fulness, at one moment, and the lost, shrieking wildness of one solitary voice, at another, carry away the soul like a whirlwind. i have never been so moved by anything. it is not in the scope of language to convey an idea to another of the effect of the _miserere_. it was not till several minutes after the music had ceased, that the dark figures rose up from the floor about me. as we approached the door of the church, the full moon, about three hours risen, poured broadly under the arch of the portico, inundating the whole front of the lofty dome with a flood of light, such as falls only on italy. there seemed to be no atmosphere between. daylight is scarce more intense. the immense square, with its slender obelisk and embracing crescents of colonnade, lay spread out as definitely to the eye as at noon, and the two famous fountains shot up their clear waters to the sky, the moonlight streamed through the spray, and every drop as visible and bright as a diamond. i got out of the press of carriages, and took a by-street along the tiber, to the coliseum. passing the jews' quarter, which shuts at dark by heavy gates, i found myself near the tarpeian rock, and entered the forum, behind the ruins of the temple of fortune. i walked toward the palace of the cesars, stopping to gaze on the columns, whose shadows have fallen on the same spot, where i now saw them, for sixteen or seventeen centuries. it checks the blood at one's heart, to stand on the spot and remember it. there was not the sound of a footstep through the whole wilderness of the forum. i traversed it to the arch of titus in a silence, which, with the majestic ruins around, seemed almost supernatural--the mind was left so absolutely to the powerful associations of the place. ten minutes more brought me to the coliseum. its gigantic walls, arches on arches, almost to the very clouds, lay half in shadow, half in light, the ivy hung trembling in the night air, from between the cracks of the ruin, and it looked like some mighty wreck in a desert. i entered, and a hundred voices announced to me the presence of half the fashion of rome. i had forgotten that it was _the mode_ "to go to the coliseum by moonlight." here they were dancing and laughing about the arena where thousands of christians had been torn by wild beasts, for the amusement of the emperors of rome; where gladiators had fought and died; where the sands beneath their feet were more eloquent of blood than any other spot on the face of the earth--and one sweet voice proposed a dance, and another wished she could have music and supper, and the solemn old arches re-echoed with shouts and laughter. the travestie of the thing was amusing. i mingled in the crowd, and found acquaintances of every nation, and an hour i had devoted to romantic solitude and thought passed away, perhaps, quite as agreeably, in the nonsense of the most thoughtless triflers in society. letter lxi. vigils over the host--ceremonies of easter sunday--the procession--high mass--the pope blessing the people--curious illumination--return to florence--rural festa--hospitality of the florentines--expected marriage of the grand duke. rome, .--this is friday of the holy week. the host, which was deposited yesterday amid its thousand lamps in the paoline chapel, was taken from its place this morning, in solemn procession, and carried back to the sistine, after lying in the consecrated place twenty-four hours. vigils were kept over it all night. the paoline chapel has no windows, and the lights are so disposed as to multiply its receding arches till the eye is lost in them. the altar on which the host lay was piled up to the roof in a pyramid of light, and with the prostrate figures constantly covering the floor, and the motionless soldier in antique armor at the entrance, it was like some scene of wild romance. the ceremonies of easter sunday were performed where all others should have been--in the body of st. peter's. two lines of soldiers, forming an aisle up the centre, stretched from the square without the portico to the sacred sepulchre. two temporary platforms for the various diplomatic corps and other privileged persons occupied the sides, and the remainder of the church was filled by thousands of strangers, roman peasantry, and contadini (in picturesque red boddices, and with golden bodkins through their hair), from all the neighboring towns. a loud blast of trumpets, followed by military music, announced the coming of the procession. the two long lines of soldiers presented arms, and the esquires of the pope entered first, in red robes, followed by the long train of proctors, chamberlains, mitre-bearers, and incense-bearers, the men-at-arms, escorting the procession on either side. just before the cardinals, came a cross-bearer, supported on either side by men in showy surplices carrying lights, and then came the long and brilliant line of white-headed cardinals, in scarlet and ermine. the military dignitaries of the monarch preceded the pope, a splendid mass of uniforms, and his holiness then appeared, supported, in his great gold and velvet chair, upon the shoulders of twelve men, clothed in red damask, with a canopy over his head, sustained by eight gentlemen, in short, violet-colored silk mantles. six of the swiss guard (representing the six catholic canons) walked near the pope, with drawn swords on their shoulders, and after his chair followed a troop of civil officers, whose appointments i did not think it worth while to enquire. the procession stopped when the pope was opposite the "chapel of the holy sacrament," and his holiness descended. the tiara was lifted from his head by a cardinal, and he knelt upon a cushion of velvet and gold to adore the "sacred host," which was exposed upon the altar. after a few minutes he returned to his chair, his tiara was again set on his head, and the music rang out anew, while the procession swept on to the sepulchre. the spectacle was all splendor. the clear space through the vast area of the church, lined with glittering soldiery, the dazzling gold and crimson of the coming procession, the high papal chair, with the immense fan-banners of peacock's feathers, held aloft, the almost immeasurable dome and mighty pillars, above and around, and the multitudes of silent people, produced a scene which, connected with the idea of religious worship, and added to by the swell of a hundred instruments of music, quite dazzled and overpowered me. the high mass (performed but three times a year) proceeded. at the latter part of it, the pope mounted to the altar, and, after various ceremonies, elevated the sacred host. at the instant that the small white wafer was seen between the golden candlesticks, the two immense lines of soldiers dropped upon their knees, and all the people prostrated themselves at the same instant. this fine scene over, we hurried to the square in front of the church, to secure places for a still finer one--that of the pope blessing the people. several thousand troops, cavalry and footmen, were drawn up between the steps and the obelisk, in the centre of the piazza, and the immense area embraced by the two circling colonnades was crowded by, perhaps, a hundred thousand people, with eyes directed to one single point. the variety of bright costumes, the gay liveries of the ambassadors' and cardinals' carriages, the vast body of soldiery, and the magnificent frame of columns and fountains in which this gorgeous picture was contained, formed the grandest scene conceivable. in a few minutes the pope appeared in the balcony, over the great door of st. peter's. every hat in the vast multitude was lifted and every knee bowed in an instant. _half a nation prostrate together, and one gray old man lifting up his hands to heaven and blessing them!_ the cannon of the castle of st. angelo thundered, the innumerable bells of rome pealed forth simultaneously, the troops fell into line and motion, and the children of the two hundred and fifty-seventh successor of st. peter departed _blessed_. in the evening all the world assembled to see the illumination, which it is useless to attempt to describe. the night was cloudy and black, and every line in the architecture of the largest building in the world was defined in light, even to the cross, which, as i have said before, is at the height of a mountain from the base. for about an hour it was a delicate but vast structure of shining lines, like a drawing of a glorious temple on the clouds. at eight, as the clock struck, flakes of fire burst from every point, and the whole building seemed started into flame. it was done by a simultaneous kindling of torches in a thousand points, a man stationed at each. the glare seemed to exceed that of noonday. no description can give an idea of it. i am not sure that i have not been a little tedious in describing the ceremonies of the holy week. forsyth says in his bilious book, that he "never could read, and certainly never could write, a description of them." they have struck me, however, as particularly unlike anything ever seen in our own country, and i have endeavored to draw them slightly and with as little particularity as possible. i trust that some of the readers of the mirror may find them entertaining and novel. * * * * * florence, .--i found myself at six this morning, where i had found myself at the same hour a year before--in the midst of the rural festa in the cascine of florence. the duke, to-day, breakfasts at his farm. the people of florence, high and low, come out, and spread their repasts upon the fine sward of the openings in the wood, the roads are watered, and the royal equipages dash backward and forward, while the ladies hang their shawls in the trees, and children and lovers stroll away into the shade, and all looks like a scene from boccaccio. i thought it a picturesque and beautiful sight last year, and so described it. but i was a stranger then, newly arrived in florence, and felt desolate amid the happiness of so many. a few months among so frank and warm-hearted a people as the tuscans, however, makes one at home. the tradesman and his wife, familiar with your face, and happy to be seen in their holyday dresses, give you the "_buon giorno_" as you pass, and a cup of red wine or a seat at the cloth on the grass is at your service in almost any group in the _prato_. i am sure i should not find so many acquaintances in the town in which i have passed my life. a little beyond the crowd, lies a broad open glade of the greenest grass, in the very centre of the woods of the farm. a broad fringe of shade is flung by the trees along the eastern side, and at their roots cluster the different parties of the nobles and the ambassadors. their gayly-dressed _chasseurs_ are in waiting, the silver plate quivers and glances, as the chance rays of the sun break through the leaves over head, and at a little distance, in the road, stand their showy equipages in a long line from the great oak to the farmhouse. in the evening, there was an illumination of the green alleys and the little square in front of the house, and a band of music for the people. within, the halls were thrown open for a ball. it was given by the grand duke to the duchess of litchtenberg, the widow of eugene beauharnois. the company assembled at eight, and the presentations (two lovely countrywomen of our own among them), were over at nine. the dancing then commenced, and we drove home, through the fading lights still burning in the trees, an hour or two past midnight. the grand duke is about to be married to one of the princesses of naples, and great preparations are making for the event. he looks little like a bridegroom, with his sad face, and unshorn beard and hair. it is, probably, not a marriage of inclination, for the fat princess expecting him, is every way inferior to the incomparable woman he has lost, and he passed half the last week in a lonely visit to the chamber in which she died, in his palace at pisa. letter lxii. bologna--malibran--parma--nightingales of lombardy--placenza--austrian soldiers--the simplon--milan--resemblance to paris--the cathedral--guercino's hagar--milanese coffee. milan.--my fifth journey over the apennines--dull of course. on the second evening we were at bologna. the long colonnades pleased me less than before, with their crowds of foreign officers and ill-dressed inhabitants, and a placard for the opera, announcing malibran's last night, relieved us of the prospect of a long evening of weariness. the divine music of _la norma_ and a crowded and brilliant audience, enthusiastic in their applause, seemed to inspire this still incomparable creature even beyond her wont. she sang with a fulness, an abandonment, a passionate energy and sweetness that seemed to come from a soul rapt and possessed beyond control, with the melody it had undertaken. they were never done calling her on the stage after the curtain had fallen. after six re-appearances, she came out once more to the footlights, and murmuring something inaudible from her lips that showed strong agitation, she pressed her hands together, bowed till her long hair, falling over her shoulders, nearly touched her feet, and retired in tears. she is the siren of europe for me! i was happy to have no more to do with the duke of modena, than to eat a dinner in his capital. we did "not forget the picture," but my inquiries for it were as fruitless as before. i wonder whether the author of the pleasures of memory has the pleasure of remembering having seen the picture himself! "tassoni's bucket which is not the true one," is still shown in the tower, and the keeper will kiss the cross upon his fingers, that samuel rogers has written a false line. at parma we ate parmesan and saw _the_ correggio. the angel who holds the book up to the infant saviour, the female laying her cheek to his feet, the countenance of the holy child himself, are creations that seem apart from all else in the schools of painting. they are like a group, not from life, but from heaven. they are superhuman, and, unlike other pictures of beauty which stir the heart as if they resembled something one had loved or might have loved, these mount into the fancy like things transcending sympathy, and only within reach of an intellectual and elevated wonder. this is the picture that sir thomas lawrence returned six times in one day to see. it is the only thing i saw to admire in the duchy of maria louisa. an austrian regiment marched into the town as we left it, and an italian at the gate told us that the duchess had disbanded her last troops of the country, and supplied their place with these yellow and black croats and illyrians. italy is austria now to the foot of the apennines--if not to the top of radicofani. lombardy is full of nightingales. they sing by day, however (as not specified in poetry). they are up quite as early as the lark, and the green hedges are alive with their gurgling and changeful music till twilight. nothing can exceed the fertility of these endless plains. they are four or five hundred miles of uninterrupted garden. the same eternal level road, the same rows of elms and poplars on either side, the same long, slimy canals, the same square, vine-laced, perfectly green pastures and cornfields, the same shaped houses, the same-voiced beggars with the same sing-song whine, and the same villanous austrians poring over your passports and asking to be paid for it, from the alps to the apennines. it is wearisome, spite of green leaves and nightingales. a bare rock or a good brigand-looking mountain would so refresh the eye! at placenza, one of those admirable german bands was playing in the public square, while a small corps of picked men were manoeuvred. even an italian, i should think, though he knew and felt it was the music of his oppressors, might have been pleased to listen. and pleased they seemed to be--for there were hundreds of dark-haired and well-made men, with faces and forms for heroes, standing and keeping time with the well-played instruments, as peacefully as if there were no such thing as liberty, and no meaning in the foreign uniforms crowding them from their own pavement. and there were the women of placenza, nodding from the balconies to the white mustaches and padded coats strutting below, and you would never dream italy thought herself wronged, watching the exchange of courtesies between her dark-eyed daughters and these fair-haired coxcombs. we crossed the po, and entered austria's _nominal_ dominions. they rummaged our baggage as if they smelt republicanism somewhere, and after showing a strong disposition to retain a volume of very bad poetry as suspicious, and detaining us two long hours, they had the modesty to ask to be paid for letting us off lightly. when we declined it, the _chef_ threatened us a precious searching "_the next time_." how willingly i would submit to the annoyance to have that _next time_ assured to me! every step i take toward the bounds of italy, pulls so upon my heart! as most travellers come into italy over the simplon, milan makes generally the first enthusiastic chapter in their books. i have reversed the order myself, and have a better right to praise it from comparison. for exterior, there is certainly no city in italy comparable to it. the streets are broad and noble, the buildings magnificent, the pavement quite the best in europe, and the milanese (all of whom i presume i have seen, for it is sunday, and the streets swarm with them), are better dressed, and look "better to do in the world" than the tuscans, who are gayer and more italian, and the romans, who are graver and vastly handsomer. milan is quite like paris. the showy and mirror-lined _cafés_, the elegant shops, the variety of strange people and costumes, and a new gallery lately opened in imitation of the glass-roofed _passages_ of the french capital, make one almost feel that the next turn will bring him upon the boulevards. the famous cathedral, nearly completed by napoleon, is a sort of aladdin creation, quite too delicate and beautiful for the open air. the filmly traceries of gothic fretwork, the needle-like minarets, the hundreds of beautiful statues with which it is studded, the intricate, graceful, and bewildering architecture of every window and turret, and the frost-like frailness and delicacy of the whole mass, make an effect altogether upon the eye that must stand high on the list of new sensations. it is a vast structure withal, but a middling easterly breeze, one would think in looking at it, would lift it from its base and bear it over the atlantic like the meshes of a cobweb. neither interior nor exterior impresses you with the feeling of awe common to other large churches. the sun struggles through the immense windows of painted glass, staining every pillar and carved cornice with the richest hues, and wherever the eye wanders it grows giddy with the wilderness of architecture. the people on their knees are like paintings in the strong artificial light, the checkered pavement seems trembling with a quivering radiance, the altar is far and indistinct, and the lamps burning over the tomb of saint carlo, shine out from the centre like gems glistening in the midst of some enchanted hall. this reads very like rhapsody, but it is the way the place impressed me. it is like a great dream. its excessive beauty scarce seems constant while the eye rests upon it. the _brera_ is a noble palace, occupied by the public galleries of statuary and painting. i felt on leaving florence that i could give pictures a very long holyday. to live on them, as one does in italy, is like dining from morn till night. the famous guercino, is at milan, however, the "hagar," which byron talks of so enthusiastically, and i once more surrendered myself to a cicerone. the picture catches your eye on your first entrance. there is that harmony and effect in the color that mark a masterpiece, even in a passing glance. abraham stands in the centre of the group, a fine, prophet-like, "green old man," with a mild decision in his eye, from which there is evidently no appeal. sarah has turned her back, and you can just read in the half-profile glance of her face, that there is a little pity mingled in her hard-hearted approval of her rival's banishment. but hagar--who can describe the world of meaning in her face? the closed lips have in them a calm incredulousness, contradicted with wonderful nature in the flushed and troubled forehead, and the eyes red with long weeping. the gourd of water is hung over her shoulder, her hand is turning her sorrowful boy from the door, and she has looked back once more, with a large tear coursing down her cheek, to read in the face of her master if she is indeed driven forth for ever. it is the instant before pride and despair close over her heart. you see in the picture that the next moment is the crisis of her life. her gaze is straining upon the old man's lips, and you wait breathlessly to see her draw up her bending form, and depart in proud sorrow for the wilderness. it is a piece of powerful and passionate poetry. it affects you like nothing but a reality. the eyes get warm, and the heart beats quick, and as you walk away you feel as if a load of oppressive sympathy was lifting from your heart. i have seen little else in milan, except austrian soldiers, of whom there are fifteen thousand in this single capital! the government has issued an order to officers not on duty, to appear in citizen's dress, it is supposed, to diminish the appearance of so much military preparation. for the rest, they make a kind of coffee here, by boiling it with cream, which is better than anything of the kind either in paris or constantinople; and the milanese are, for slaves, the most civil people i have seen, after the florentines. there is little english society here; i know not why, except that the italians are rich enough to be exclusive and make their houses difficult of access to strangers. letter lxiii. a melancholy procession--lago maggiore--isola bella--the simplon--meeting a fellow-countryman--the valley of the rhone. in going out of the gates of milan, we met a cart full of peasants, tied together and guarded by _gens d'armes_, the fifth sight of the kind that has crossed us since we passed the austrian border. the poor fellows looked very innocent and very sorry. the extent of their offences probably might be the want of a passport, and a desire to step over the limits of his majesty's possessions. a train of beautiful horses, led by soldiers along the ramparts, the property of the austrian officers, were in melancholy contrast to their sad faces. the clear snowy alps soon came in sight, and their cold beauty refreshed us in the midst of a heat that prostrated every nerve in the system. it is only the first of may, and they are mowing the grass everywhere on the road, the trees are in their fullest leaf, the frogs and nightingales singing each other down, and the grasshopper would be a burden. toward night we crossed the sardinian frontier, and in an hour were set down at an auberge on the bank of lake maggiore, in the little town of arona. the mountains on the other side of the broad and mirror-like water, are speckled with ruined castles, here and there a boat is leaving its long line of ripples behind in its course, the cattle are loitering home, the peasants sit on the benches before their doors, and all the lovely circumstances of a rural summer's sunset are about us, in one of the very loveliest spots in nature. a very old florence friend is my companion, and what with mutual reminiscences of sunny tuscany, and the deepest love in common for the sky over our heads, and the green land around us, we are noting down "red days" in our calendar of travel. we walked from arona by sunrise, four or five miles along the borders of lake maggiore. the kind-hearted peasants on their way to the market raised their hats to us in passing, and i was happy that the greeting was still "_buon giorno_." those dark-lined mountains before us were to separate me too soon from the mellow accents in which it was spoken. as yet, however, it was all italian--the ultra-marine sky, the clear, half-purpled hills, the inspiring air--we felt in every pulse that it was still italy. we were at baveno at an early hour, and took a boat for _isola bella_. it looks like a gentleman's villa afloat. a boy would throw a stone entirely over it in any direction. it strikes you like a kind of toy as you look at it from a distance, and getting nearer, the illusion scarcely dissipates--for, from the water's edge, the orange-laden terraces are piled one above another like a pyramidal fruit-basket, the villa itself peers above like a sugar castle, and it scarce seems real enough to land upon. we pulled round to the northern side, and disembarked at a broad stone staircase, where a cicerone, with a look of suppressed wisdom, common to his vocation, met us with the offer of his services. the entrance-hall was hung with old armor, and a magnificent suite of apartments above, opening on all sides upon the lake, was lined thickly with pictures, none of them remarkable except one or two landscapes by the savage tempesta. travellers going the other way would probably admire the collection more than we. we were glad to be handed over by our pragmatical custode to a pretty contadina, who announced herself as the gardener's daughter, and gave us each a bunch of roses. it was a proper commencement to an acquaintance upon isola bella. she led the way to the water's edge, where, in the foundations of the palace, a suite of eight or ten spacious rooms is constructed _a la grotte_--with a pavement laid of small stones of different colors, walls and roof of fantastically set shells and pebbles, and statues that seem to have reason in their nudity. the only light came in at the long doors opening down to the lake, and the deep leather sofas, and dark cool atmosphere, with the light break of the waves outside, and the long views away toward isola madra, and the far-off opposite shore, composed altogether a most seductive spot for an indolent humor and a summer's day. i shall keep it as a cool recollection till sultry summers trouble me no more. but the garden was the prettiest place. the lake is lovely enough any way; but to look at it through perspectives of orange alleys, and have the blue mountains broken by stray branches of tulip-trees, clumps of crimson rhododendron, and clusters of citron, yellower than gold; to sit on a garden-seat in the shade of a thousand roses, with sweet-scented shrubs and verbenums, and a mixture of novel and delicious perfumes embalming the air about you, and gaze up at snowy alps and sharp precipices, and down upon a broad smooth mirror in which the islands lie like clouds, and over which the boats are silently creeping with their white sails, like birds asleep in the sky--why (not to disparage nature), it seems to my poor judgment, that these artificial appliances are an improvement even to lago maggiore. on one side, without the villa walls, are two or three small houses, one of which is occupied as a hotel; and here, if i had a friend with matrimony in his eye, would i strongly recommend lodgings for the honeymoon. a prettier cage for a pair of billing doves no poet would conceive you. we got on to domo d'ossola to sleep, saying many an oft-said thing about the entrance to the valleys of the alps. they seem common when spoken of, these romantic places, but they are not the less new in the glow of a first impression. we were a little in start of the sun this morning, and commenced the ascent of the simplon by a gray summer's dawn, before which the last bright star had not yet faded. from domo d'ossola we rose directly into the mountains, and soon wound into the wildest glens by a road which was flung along precipices and over chasms and waterfalls like a waving riband. the horses went on at a round trot, and so skilfully are the difficulties of the ascent surmounted, that we could not believe we had passed the spot that from below hung above us so appallingly. the route follows the foaming river vedro, which frets and plunges along at its side or beneath its hanging bridges, with the impetuosity of a mountain torrent, where the stream is swollen at every short distance with pretty waterfalls, messengers from the melting snows on the summits. there was one, a water-_slide_ rather than a fall, which i stopped long to admire. it came from near the peak of the mountain, leaping at first from a green clump of firs, and descending a smooth inclined plane, of perhaps two hundred feet. the effect was like drapery of the most delicate lace, dropping into festoons from the hand. the slight waves overtook each other and mingled and separated, always preserving their elliptical and foaming curves, till, in a smooth scoop near the bottom, they gathered into a snowy mass, and leaped into the vedro in the shape of a twisted shell. if wishing could have witched it into mr. cole's sketch-book, he would have a new variety of water for his next composition. after seven hours' driving, which scarce seemed ascending but for the snow and ice and the clear air it brought us into, we stopped to breakfast at the village of simplon, "three thousand, two hundred and sixteen feet above the sea level." here we first realized that we had left italy. the landlady spoke french and the postillions german! my sentiment has grown threadbare with travel, but i don't mind confessing that the circumstance gave me an unpleasant thickness in the throat. i threw open the southern window, and looked back toward the marshes of lombardy, and if i did not say the poetical thing, it was because "it is the silent grief that cuts the heart-strings." in sober sadness, one may well regret any country where his life has been filled fuller than elsewhere of sunshine and gladness; and such, by a thousand enchantments, has italy been to me. its climate is life in my nostrils, its hills and valleys are the poetry of such things, and its marbles, pictures, and palaces, beset the soul like the very necessities of existence. you can exist elsewhere, but oh! you _live_ in italy! i was sitting by my english companion on a sledge in front of the hotel, enjoying the sunshine, when the diligence drove up, and six or eight young men alighted. one of them, walking up and down the road to get the cramp of a confined seat out of his legs, addressed a remark to us in english. we had neither of us seen him before, but we exclaimed simultaneously, as he turned away, "that's an american." "how did you know he was not an englishman?" i asked. "because," said my friend, "he spoke to us without an introduction and without a reason, as englishmen are not in the habit of doing, and because he ended his sentence with 'sir,' as no englishman does except he is talking to an inferior, or wishes to insult you. and how did you know it?" asked he. "partly by instinct," i answered, "but more, because though a traveller, he wears a new hat that cost him ten dollars, and a new cloak that cost him fifty, (a peculiarly american extravagance,) because he made no inclination of his body either in addressing or leaving us, though his intention was to be civil, and because he used fine dictionary words to express a common idea, which, by the way, too, betrays his southern breeding. and if you want other evidence, he has just asked the gentleman near him to ask the conducteur something about his breakfast, and an american is the only man in the world who ventures to come abroad without at least french enough to keep himself from starving." it may appear ill-natured to write down such criticisms on one's own countryman; but the national peculiarities by which we are distinguished from foreigners, seemed so well defined in this instance, that i thought it worth mentioning. we found afterward that our conjecture was right. his name and country were on the brass plate of his portmanteau in most legible letters, and i recognized it directly as the address of an amiable and excellent man, of whom i had once or twice heard in italy, though i had never before happened to meet him. three of the faults oftenest charged upon our countrymen, are _over-fine clothes_, _over fine-words_, and _over-fine_, or _over-free manners_! from simplon we drove two or three miles between heaps of snow, lying in some places from ten to six feet deep. seven hours before, we had ridden through fields of grain almost ready for the harvest. after passing one or two galleries built over the road to protect it from the avalanches where it ran beneath the loftier precipices, we got out of the snow, and saw brig, the small town at the foot of the simplon, on the other side, lying almost directly beneath us. it looked as if one might toss his cap down into its pretty gardens. yet we were four or five hours in reaching it, by a road that seemed in most parts scarcely to descend at all. the views down the valley of the rhone, which opened continually before us, were of exquisite beauty, the river itself, which is here near its source, looked like a meadow rivulet in its silver windings, and the gigantic helvetian alps which rose in their snow on the other side of the valley, were glittering in the slant rays of a declining sun, and of a grandeur of size and outline which diminished, even more than distance, the river and the clusters of villages at their feet. letter lxiv. switzerland--la valais--the cretins and the goitres--a frenchman's opinion of niagara--lake leman--castle of chillon--rocks of meillerie--republican air--mont blanc--geneva--the steamer--parting sorrow. we have been two days and a half loitering down through the swiss canton of valais, and admiring every hour the magnificence of these snow-capped and green-footed alps. the little chalets seem just lodged by accident on the crags, or stuck against slopes so steep, that the mowers of the mountain-grass are literally let down by ropes to their dizzy occupation. the goats alone seem to have an exemption from all ordinary laws of gravitation, feeding against cliffs which it makes one giddy to look on only; and the short-waisted girls dropping a courtesy and blushing as they pass the stranger, emerge from the little mountain-paths, and stop by the first spring, to put on their shoes and arrange their ribands coquetishly, before entering the village. the two dreadful curses of these valleys meet one at every step--the _cretins_, or natural fools, of which there is at least one in every family; and the _goitre_ or swelled throat, to which there is hardly an exception among the women. it really makes travelling in switzerland a melancholy business, with all its beauty; at every turn in the road, a gibbering and moaning idiot, and in every group of females, a disgusting array of excrescences too common even to be concealed. really, to see girls that else were beautiful, arrayed in all their holyday finery, but with a defect that makes them monsters to the unaccustomed eye, their throats swollen to the size of their heads, seems to me one of the most curious and pitiable things i have met in my wanderings. many attempts have been made to account for the growth of the _goitre_, but it is yet unexplained. the men are not so subject to it as the women, though among them, even, it is frightfully common. but how account for the continual production by ordinary parents of this brute race of _cretins_? they all look alike, dwarfish, large-mouthed, grinning, and of hideous features and expression. it is said that the children of strangers, born in the valley, are very likely to be idiots, resembling the cretin exactly. it seems a supernatural curse upon the land. the valaisians, however, consider it a blessing to have one in the family. the dress of the women of la valais is excessively unbecoming, and a pretty face is rare. their manners are kind and polite, and at the little _auberges_, where we have stopped on the road, there has been a cleanliness and a generosity in the supply of the table, which prove virtues among them, not found in italy. at turtmann, we made a little excursion into the mountains to see a cascade. it falls about a hundred feet, and has just now more water than usual from the melting of the snows. it is a pretty fall. a frenchman writes in the book of the hotel, that he has seen niagara and trenton falls, in america, and that they do not compare with the cascade of turtmann! from martigny the scenery began to grow richer, and after passing the celebrated fall of the pissevache (which springs from the top of a high alp almost into the road, and is really a splendid cascade), we approached lake leman in a gorgeous sunset. we rose a slight hill, and over the broad sheet of water on the opposite shore, reflected with all its towers in a mirror of gold, lay the _castle of chillon_. a bold green mountain, rose steeply behind, the sparkling village of vevey lay farther down on the water's edge; and away toward the sinking sun, stretched the long chain of the jura, teinted with all the hues of a dolphin. never was such a lake of beauty--or it never sat so pointedly for its picture. mountains and water, chateaux and shallops, vineyards and verdure, could do no more. we left the carriage and walked three or four miles along the southern bank, under the "rocks of meillerie," and the spirit of st. preux's julie, if she haunt the scene where she caught her death, of a sunset in may, is the most enviable of ghosts. i do not wonder at the prating in albums of lake leman. for me, it is (after val d'arno from fiesoli) the _ne plus ultra_ of a scenery paradise. we are stopping for the night at st. gingoulf, on a swelling bank of the lake, and we have been lying under the trees in front of the hotel till the last perceptible teint is gone from the sky over jura. two pedestrian gentlemen, with knapsacks and dogs, have just arrived, and a whole family of french people, including parrots and monkeys, came in before us, and are deafening the house with their chattering. a cup of coffee, and then good night! my companion, who has travelled all over europe on foot, confirms my opinion that there is no drive on the continent, equal to the forty miles between the rocks of meillerie and geneva, on the southern bank of the leman. the lake is not often much broader than the hudson, the shores are the noble mountains sung so gloriously by childe harold; vevey, lausanne, copet, and a string of smaller villages, all famous in poetry and story, fringe the opposite water's edge with cottages and villages, while you wind for ever along a green lane following the bend of the shore, the road as level as your hall pavement, and green hills massed up with trees and verdure, overshadowing you continually. the world has a great many sweet spots in it, and i have found many a one which would make fitting scenery for the brightest act of life's changeful drama--but here is one, where it seems to me as difficult not to feel genial and kindly, as for taglioni to keep from floating away like a smoke-curl when she is dancing in la bayadere. we passed a bridge and drew in a long breath to try the difference in the air--we were in the _republic_ of geneva. it smelt very much as it did in the dominions of his majesty of sardinia--sweet-briar, hawthorn, violets and all. i used to think when i first came from america, that the flowers (republicans by nature as well as birds) were less fragrant under a monarchy. mont blanc loomed up very white in the south, but like other distinguished persons of whom we form an opinion from the description of poets, the "monarch of mountains" did not seem to me so _very_ superior to his fellows. after a look or two at him as we approached geneva, i ceased straining my head out of the cabriolet, and devoted my eyes to things more within the scale of my affections--the scores of lovely villas sprinkling the hills and valleys by which we approached the city. sweet--sweet places they are to be sure! and then the month is may, and the straw-bonneted and white-aproned girls, ladies and peasants alike, were all out at their porches and balconies, lover-like couples were sauntering down the park-lanes, _one_ servant passed us with a tri-cornered blue billet-doux between his thumb and finger, the nightingales were singing their very hearts away to the new-blown roses, and a sense of summer and seventeen, days of sunshine and sonnet-making, came over me irresistibly. i should like to see june out in geneva. the little steamer that makes the tour of lake leman, began to "phiz" by sunrise directly under the windows of our hotel. we were soon on the pier, where our entrance into the boat was obstructed by a weeping cluster of girls, embracing and parting very unwillingly with a young lady of some eighteen years, who was lovely enough to have been wept for by as many grown-up gentlemen. her own tears were under better government, though her sealed lips showed that she dared not trust herself with her voice. after another and another lingering kiss, the boatman expressed some impatience, and she tore herself from their arms and stepped into the waiting batteau. we were soon along side the steamer, and sooner under way, and then, having given one wave of her handkerchief to the pretty and sad group on the shore, our fair fellow-passenger gave way to her feelings, and sinking upon a seat, burst into a passionate flood of tears. there was no obtruding on such sorrow, and the next hour or two were employed by my imagination in filling up the little drama, of which we had seen but the touching conclusion. i was pleased to find the boat (a new one) called the "winkelreid," in compliment to the vessel which makes the same voyage in cooper's "headsman of berne." the day altogether had begun like a chapter in a romance. "lake leman wooed us with its crystal face," but there was the filmiest conceivable veil of mist over its unruffled mirror, and the green uplands that rose from its edge had a softness like dreamland upon their verdure. i know not whether the tearful girl whose head was drooping over the railing felt the sympathy, but i could not help thanking nature for her, in my heart, the whole scene was so of the complexion of her own feelings. i could have "thrown my ring into the sea," like policrates samius, "to have cause for sadness too." the "winkelreid" has (for a republican steamer), rather the aristocratical arrangement of making those who walk _aft_ the funnel pay twice as much as those who choose to promenade _forward_--for no earthly reason that i can divine, other than that those who pay dearest have the full benefit of the oily gases from the machinery, while the humbler passenger breathes the air of heaven before it has passed through that improving medium. our youthful niobe, two french ladies not particularly pretty, an englishman with a fishing-rod and gun, and a coxcomb of a swiss artist to whom i had taken a special aversion at rome, from a criticism i overheard upon my favorite picture in the colonna, my friends and myself, were the exclusive inhalers of the oleaginous atmosphere of the stern. a crowd of the ark's own miscellaneousness thronged the forecastle--and so you have the programme of a day on lake leman. letter lxv. lake leman--american appearance of the genevese--steamboat of the rhone--gibbon and rousseau--adventure of the lilies--genevese jewellers--residence of voltaire--byron's night-cap--voltaire's walking-stick and stockings. the water of lake leman looks very like other water, though byron and shelley were nearly drowned in it; and copet, a little village on the helvetian side, where we left three women and took up one man (the village ought to be very much obliged to us), is no paradise, though madame de stael made it her residence. there _are_ paradises, however, with very short distances between, all the way down the northern shore; and angels in them, if women are angels--a specimen or two of the sex being visible with the aid of the spyglass, in nearly every balcony and belvidere, looking upon the water. the taste in country-houses seems to be here very much the same as in new england, and quite unlike the half-palace, half-castle style common in italy and france. indeed the dress, physiognomy, and manners of old geneva might make an american genevese fancy himself at home on the leman. there is that subdued decency, that grave respectableness, that black-coated, straight-haired, saint-like kind of look which is universal in the small towns of our country, and which is as unlike france and italy, as a playhouse is unlike a methodist chapel. you would know the people of geneva were calvinists, whisking through the town merely in a diligence. i lost sight of the town of morges, eating a tête-à-tête breakfast with my friend in the cabin. switzerland is the only place out of america where one gets cream for his coffee. i cry, morges mercy on that plea. we were at lausanne at eleven, having steamed forty miles in five hours. this is not quite up to the thirty-milers on the hudson, of which i see accounts in the papers, but we had the advantage of not being blown up, either going or coming, and of looking for a continuous minute on a given spot in the scenery. then we had an iron railing between us and that portion of the passengers who prefer garlic to lavender-water, and we achieved our breakfast without losing our tempers or complexions, in a scramble. the question of superiority between swiss and american steamers, therefore, depends very much on the value you set on life, temper, and time. for me, as my time is not measured in "diamond sparks," and as my life and temper are the only gifts with which fortune has blessed me, i prefer the swiss. gibbon lived at lausanne, and wrote here the last chapter of his history of rome--a circumstance which he records with affection. it is a spot of no ordinary beauty, and the public promenade, where we sat and looked over to vevey and chillon, and the rocks of meillerie, and talked of rousseau, and agreed that it was a scene, "_faite pour une julie, pour une claire, et pour un saint preux_," is one of the places, where, if i were to "play statue," i should like to grow to my seat, and compromise, merely, for eyesight. we have one thing against lausanne, however,--it is up hill and a mile from the water; and if gibbon walked often from ouchet at noon, and "larded the way" as freely as we, i make myself certain he was not the fat man his biographers have drawn him. there were some other circumstances at lausanne which interested _us_--but which criticism has decided can not be obtruded upon the public. we looked about for "julie" and "clare," spite of rousseau's "_ne les y cherchez pas_," and gave a blind beggar a sous (all he asked) for a handful of lilies-of-the-valley, pitying him ten times more than if he had lost his eyes out of switzerland. to be blind on lake leman! blind within sight of mont blanc! we turned back to drop another sous into his hat, as we reflected upon it. the return steamer from vevey (i was sorry not to go to vevey for rousseau's sake, and as much for cooper's), took us up on its way to geneva, and we had the advantage of seeing the same scenery in a different light. trees, houses, and mountains, are so much finer seen _against_ the sun, with the deep shadows toward you! sitting by the stern, was a fat and fair frenchwoman, who, like me, had bought lilies, and about as many. with a very natural facility of dramatic position, i imagined it had established a kind of sympathy between us, and proposed to myself, somewhere in the fair hours, to make it serve as an introduction. she went into the cabin after a while, to lunch on cutlets and beer, and returned to the deck without her lilies. mine lay beside me, within reach of her four fingers; and, as i was making up my mind to offer to replace her loss, she coolly took them up, and without even a french monosyllable, commenced throwing them overboard, stem by stem. it was very clear she had mistaken them for her own. as the last one flew over the tafferel, the gentleman who paid for _la biere et les cottelettes_, husband or lover, came up with a smile and a flourish, and reminded her that she had left her bouquet between the mustard and the beer bottle. _sequiter_, a scene. the lady apologized, and i disclaimed; and the more i insisted on the delight she had given me by throwing my pretty lilies into lake leman, the more she made herself unhappy, and insisted on my being inconsolable. one should come abroad to know how much may be said upon throwing overboard a bunch of lilies! the clouds gathered, and we had some hopes of a storm, but the "darkened jura" was merely dim, and the "live thunder" waited for another childe harold. we were at geneva at seven, and had the whole population to witness our debarkation. the pier where we landed, and the new bridge across the outlet of the rhone, are the evening promenade. the far-famed jewellers of geneva are rather an aristocratic class of merchants. they are to be sought in chambers, and their treasures are produced box by box, from locked drawers, and bought, if at all, without the pleasure of "beating down." they are, withal, a gentlemanly class of men; and, of the principal one, as many stories are told as of beau brummel. he has made a fortune by his shop, and has the manners of a man who can afford to buy the jewels out of a king's crown. we were sitting at the _table d'hote_, with about forty people, on the first day of our arrival, when the servant brought us each a gilt-edged note, sealed with an elegant device; invitations, we presumed, to a ball, at least. mr. so-and-so (i forget the name), begged pardon for the liberty he had taken, and requested us to call at his shop in the rue de rhone, and look at his varied assortment of bijouterie. a card was enclosed, and the letter in courtly english. we went, of course; as who would not? the cost to him was a sheet of paper, and the trouble of sending to the hotel for a list of the new arrivals. i recommend the system to all callow yankees, commencing a "pushing business." geneva is full of foreigners in the summer, and it has quite the complexion of an agreeable place. the environs are, of course, unequalled, and the town itself is a stirring and gay capital, full of brilliant shops, handsome streets and promenades, where everything is to be met but pretty women. female beauty would come to a good market anywhere in switzerland. we have seen but one pretty girl (our niobe of the steamer), since we lost sight of lombardy. they dress well here, and seem modest, and have withal an air of style; but of some five hundred ladies, whom i may have seen in the valley of the rhone and about this neighborhood, it would puzzle a modern appelles to compose an endurable venus. i understand a fair countryman of ours is about taking up her residence in geneva; and if lake leman does not "woo her," and the "live thunder" leap down from jura, the jewellers, at least, will crown her queen of the canton, and give her the tiara at cost. i hope "maria wilhelmina amelia skeggs" will forgive me for having gone to _ferney_ in an _omnibus_! voltaire lived just under the jura, on a hill-side, overlooking geneva and the lake, with a landscape before him in the foreground, that a painter could not improve, and mont blanc and its neighbor mountains, the breaks to his horizon. at six miles off, geneva looks very beautifully, astride the exit of the rhone from the lake; and the lake itself looks more like a broad river, with its edges of verdure and its outer-frame of mountains. we walked up an avenue to a large old villa, embosomed in trees, where an old gardener appeared, to show us the grounds. we said the proper thing under the tree planted by the philosopher, fell in love with the view from twenty points, met an english lady in one of the arbors, the wife of a french nobleman to whom the house belongs, and were bowed into the hall by the old man and handed over to his daughter to be shown the curiosities of the interior. these were voltaire's rooms, just as he left them. the ridiculous picture of his own apotheosis, painted under his own direction, and representing him offering his henriade to apollo, with all the authors of his time dying of envy at his feet, occupies the most conspicuous place over his chamber-door. within was his bed, the curtains nibbled quite bare by relic-gathering travellers; a portrait of the empress catharine, embroidered by her own hand, and presented to voltaire; his own portrait and frederick the great's, and many of the philosophers', including franklin. a little monument stands opposite the fireplace, with the inscription, "_mon esprit est partout, et mon coeur est ici_." it is a snug little dormitory, opening with one window to the west; and, to those who admire the character of the once illustrious occupant, a place for very tangible musing. they showed us afterward his walking-stick, a pair of silk-stockings he had half worn, and a night-cap. the last article is getting quite fashionable as a relic of genius. they show byron's at venice. letter lxvi. practical bathos of celebrated places--travelling companions at the simplon--custom-house comforts--trials of temper--conquered at last!--different aspects of france, italy, and switzerland--force of politeness. whether it was that i had offended the genius of the spot, by coming in an omnibus, or from a desire i never can resist in such places, to travesty and ridicule the mock solemnities with which they are exhibited, certain it is that i left ferney, without having encountered, even in the shape of a more serious thought, the spirit of voltaire. one reads the third canto of childe harold in his library, and feels as if "lausanne and ferney" _should_ be very interesting places to the traveller, and yet when he is shown gibbon's bower by a fellow scratching his head and hitching up his trousers the while, and the nightcap that enclosed the busy brain from which sprang the fifty brilliant _tomes_ on his shelves, by a country-girl, who hurries through her drilled description, with her eye on the silver _douceur_ in his fingers, he is very likely to rub his hand over his eyes, and disclaim, quite honestly, all pretensions to enthusiasm. and yet, i dare say, i shall have a great deal of pleasure in remembering that i _have been_ at ferney. as an english traveller would say, "i have _done_ voltaire!" quite of the opinion that it was not doing justice to geneva to have made but a three days' stay in it, regretting not having seen sismondi and simond, and a whole coterie of scholars and authors, whose home it is, and with a mind quite made up to return to switzerland, when my _beaux jours_ of love, money, and leisure, shall have arrived, i crossed the rhone at sunrise, and turned my face toward paris. the simplon is much safer travelling than the pass of the jura. we were all day getting up the mountains by roads that would make me anxious, if there were a neck in the carriage i would rather should not be broken. my company, fortunately, consisted of three scotch spinsters, who would try any precipice of the jura, i think, if there were a lover at the bottom. if the horses had backed in the wrong place, it would have been to all three, i am sure, a deliverance from a world in whose volume of happiness, "their leaf by some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced." as to my own neck and my friend's, there is a special providence for bachelors, even if they were of importance enough to merit a care. spinsters and bachelors, we all arrived safely at rousses, the entrance to france, and here, if i were to write before repeating the alphabet, you would see what a pen could do in a passion. the carriage was stopped by three custom-house officers, and taken under a shed, where the doors were closed behind it. we were then required to dismount and give our honors that we had nothing new in the way of clothes; no "jewelry; no unused manufactures of wool, thread, or lace; no silk of floss silk; no polished metals, plated or varnished; no toys, (except a heart each); nor leather, glass, or crystal manufactures." so far, i kept my temper. our trunks, carpet-bags, hat-boxes, dressing-cases, and _portfeuilles_, were then dismounted and critically examined--every dress and article unfolded; shirts, cravats, unmentionables and all, and searched thoroughly by two ruffians, whose fingers were no improvement upon the labors of the washerwoman. in an hour's time or so we were allowed to commence repacking. still, i kept my temper. we were then requested to walk into a private room, while the ladies, for the same purpose, were taken, by a woman, into another. here we were requested to unbutton our coats, and, begging pardon for the liberty, these courteous gentlemen thrust their hands into our pockets, felt in our bosoms, pantaloons, and shoes, examined our hats, and even eyed our "pet curls" very earnestly, in the expectation of finding us crammed with geneva jewelry. still, i kept my temper. our trunks were then put upon the carriage, and a sealed string put upon them, which we were not to cut till we arrived in paris. (nine days!) they then demanded to be paid for the sealing, and the fellows who had unladen the carriage were to be paid for their labor. this done, we were permitted to drive on. still, i kept my temper! we arrived, in the evening, at morez, in a heavy rain. we were sitting around a comfortable fire, and the soup and fish were just brought upon the table. a soldier entered and requested us to walk to the police-office. "but it rains hard, and our dinner is just ready." the man in the mustache was inexorable. the commissary closed his office at eight, and we must go instantly to certify to our passports, and get new ones for the interior. cloaks and umbrellas were brought, and, _bon gre_, _mal gre_, we walked half a mile in the mud and rain to a dirty commissary, who kept us waiting in the dark fifteen minutes, and then, making out a description of the person of each, demanded half a dollar for the new passport, and permitted us to wade back to our dinner. this had occupied an hour, and no improvement to soup or fish. still, i kept my temper--rather! the next morning, while we were forgetting the annoyances of the previous night, and admiring the new-pranked livery of may by a glorious sunshine, a civil _arretez vous_ brought up the carriage to the door of _another custom-house_! the order was to dismount, and down came once more carpet-bags, hat-boxes, and dressing-cases, and a couple of hours were lost again in a fruitless search for contraband articles. when it was all through, and the officers and men _paid_ as before, we were permitted to proceed with the gracious assurance that we should not be troubled again till we got to paris! i bade the commissary good morning, felicitated him on the liberal institutions of his country and his zeal in the exercise of his own agreeable vocation, and--i am free to confess--lost my temper! job and xantippe's husband! could i help it! i confess i expected better things of _france_. in italy, where you come to a new dukedom every half-day, you do not much mind opening your trunks, for they are petty princes and need the pitiful revenue of contraband articles and the officer's fee. yet even they leave the person of the traveller sacred; and where in the world, except in france, is a party, travelling evidently for pleasure, subjected _twice at the same border_ to the degrading indignity of a search! ye "hunters of kentucky"--thank heaven that you can go into tennessee without having your "plunder" overhauled and your pockets searched by successive parties of scoundrels, whom you are to pay "by order of the government," for their trouble! * * * * * the simplon, which you pass in a day, divides two nations, each other's physical and moral antipodes. the handsome, picturesque, lazy, unprincipled italian, is left in the morning in his own dirty and exorbitant inn; and, on the evening of the same day, having crossed but a chain of mountains, you find yourself in a clean auberge, nestled in the bosom of a swiss valley, another language spoken around you, and in the midst of a people, who seem to require the virtues they possess to compensate them for more than their share of uncomeliness. you travel a day or two down the valley of the rhone, and when you are become reconciled to _cretins_ and _goitres_, and ill-dressed and worse formed men and women, you pass in another single day the chain of the jura, and find yourself in france--a country as different from both switzerland and italy, as they are from each other. how is it that these diminutive cantons preserve so completely their nationality? it seems a problem to the traveller who passes from one to the other without leaving his carriage. one is compelled to like france in spite of himself. you are no sooner over the jura than you are enslaved, past all possible ill-humor, by the universal politeness. you stop for the night at a place, which, as my friend remarked, resembles an inn only in its _in_-attention, and after a bad supper, worse beds, and every kind of annoyance, down comes my lady-hostess in the morning to receive her coin, and if you can fly into a passion with _such_ a cap, and _such_ a smile, and _such_ a "_bon jour_," you are of less penetrable stuff than man is commonly made of. i loved italy, but detested the italians. i detest france, but i can not help liking the french. "politeness is among the virtues," says the philosopher. rather, it takes the place of them all. what can you believe ill of a people whose slightest look toward you is made up of grace and kindness. we are dawdling along thirty miles a day through burgundy, sick to death of the bare vine-stakes, and longing to see a festooned vineyard of lombardy. france is such an ugly country! the diligences lumber by, noisy and ludicrous; the cow-tenders wear cocked hats; the beggars are in the true french extreme, theatrical in all their misery; the climate is rainy and cold, and as unlike that of italy as if a thousand leagues separated them, and the roads are long, straight, dirty, and uneven. there is neither pleasure nor comfort, neither scenery nor antiquities, nor accommodations for the weary--nothing but _politeness_. and it is odd how it reconciles you to it all. letter lxvii. paris and london--reasons for liking paris--joyousness of its citizens--lafayette's funeral--royal respect and gratitude--england--dover--english neatness and comfort, as displayed in the hotels, waiters, fires, bell-ropes, landscapes, window-curtains, tea-kettles, stage-coaches, horses, and everything else--specimen of english reserve--the gentleman driver of fashion--a case for mrs. trollope. it is pleasant to get back to paris. one meets everybody there one ever saw; and operas and coffee, taglioni and leontine fay, the belles and the boulevards, the shops, spectacles, life, lions, and lures to every species of pleasure, rather give you the impression that, outside the barriers of paris, time is wasted in travel. what pleasant idlers they look! the very shopkeepers seem standing behind their counters for amusement. the soubrette who sells you a cigar, or ties a crape on your arm (it was for poor old lafayette), is coiffed as for a ball; the _frotteur_ who takes the dust from your boots, sings his lovesong as he brushes away, the old man has his bouquet in his bosom, and the beggar looks up at the new statue of napoleon in the place vendome--everybody has some touch of fancy, some trace of a heart on the look-out, at least, for pleasure. i was at lafayette's funeral. they buried the old patriot like a criminal. fixed bayonets before and behind his hearse, his own national guard disarmed, and troops enough to beleaguer a city, were the honors paid by the "citizen king" to the man who had made him! the indignation, the scorn, the bitterness, expressed on every side among the people, and the ill-smothered cries of disgust as the two _empty_ royal carriages went by, in the funeral train, seemed to me strong enough to indicate a settled and universal hostility to the government. i met dr. bowring on the boulevard after the funeral was over. i had not seen him for two years, but he could talk of nothing but the great event of the day--"you have come in time," he said, "to see how they carried the old general to his grave! what would they say to this in america? well--let them go on! we shall see what will come of it? they have buried liberty and lafayette together--our last hope in europe is quite dead with him!" * * * * * after three delightful days in paris we took the northern diligence; and, on the second evening, having passed hastily through montreuil, abbeville, boulogne, and voted the road the dullest couple of hundred miles we had seen in our travels, we were set down in calais. a stroll through some very indifferent streets, a farewell visit to the last french _café_, we were likely to see for a long time, and some unsatisfactory inquiries about beau brummel, who is said to live here still, filled up till bedtime our last day on the continent. the celebrated countess of jersey was on board the steamer, and some forty or fifty plebeian stomachs shared with her fashionable ladyship and ourselves the horrors of a passage across the channel. it is rather the most disagreeable sea i ever traversed, though i _have_ seen "the euxine," "the roughest sea the traveller e'er ----s," etc., according to don juan. i was lying on my back in a berth when the steamer reached her moorings at dover, and had neither eyes nor disposition to indulge in the proper sentiment on approaching the "white cliffs" of my fatherland. i crawled on deck, and was met by a wind as cold as december, and a crowd of rosy english faces on the pier, wrapped in cloaks and shawls, and indulging curiosity evidently at the expense of a shiver. it was the first of june! my companion led the way to a hotel, and we were introduced by _english_ waiters (i had not seen such a thing in three years, and it was quite like being waited on by gentlemen), to two blazing coal fires in the "coffee room" of the "ship." oh what a comfortable place it appeared! a rich turkey carpet snugly fitted, nice-rubbed mahogany tables, the morning papers from london, bellropes that _would_ ring the bell, doors that _would_ shut, a landlady that spoke english, and was kind and civil; and, though there were eight or ten people in the room, no noise above the rustle of a newspaper, and positively, rich red damask curtains, neither second-hand nor shabby, to the windows! a greater contrast than this to the things that answer to them on the continent, could scarcely be imagined. _malgré_ all my observations on the english, whom i have found elsewhere the most open-hearted and social people in the world, they are said by themselves and others to be just the contrary; and, presuming they were different in england, i had made up my mind to seal my lips in all public places, and be conscious of nobody's existence but my own. there were several elderly persons dining at the different tables; and one party, of a father and son, waited on by their own servants in livery. candles were brought in, the different cloths were removed; and, as my companion had gone to bed, i took up a newspaper to keep me company over my wine. in the course of an hour, some remark had been addressed to me, provocative of conversation, by almost every individual in the room! the subjects of discussion soon became general, and i have seldom passed a more social and agreeable evening. and so much for the first specimen of english reserve! the fires were burning brilliantly, and the coffee-room was in the nicest order when we descended to our breakfast at six the next morning. the tea-kettle sung on the hearth, the toast was hot, and done to a turn, and the waiter was neither sleepy nor uncivil--all, again, very unlike a morning at a hotel in _la belle_ france. the coach rattled up to the door punctually at the hour; and, while they were putting on my way-worn baggage, i stood looking in admiration at the carriage and horses. they were four beautiful bays, in small, neat harness of glazed leather, brass-mounted, their coats shining like a racer's, their small, blood-looking heads curbed up to stand exactly together, and their hoofs blacked and brushed with the polish of a gentleman's boots. the coach was gaudily painted, the only thing out of taste about it; but it was admirably built, the wheel-horses were quite under the coachman's box, and the whole affair, though it would carry twelve or fourteen people, covered less ground than a french one-horse cabriolet. it was altogether quite a study. we mounted to the top of the coach; "all right," said the ostler, and away shot the four fine creatures, turning their small ears, and stepping together with the ease of a cat, at ten miles in the hour. the driver was dressed like a broadway idler, and sat in his place, and held his "ribands" and his tandemwhip with a confident air of superiority, as if he were quite convinced that he and his team were beyond criticism--and so they were! i could not but smile at contrasting his silence and the speed and ease with which we went along, with the clumsy, cumbrous diligence or vetturino, and the crying, whipping, cursing and ill-appointed postillions of france and italy. it seems odd, in a two hours' passage, to pass over such strong lines of national difference--so near, and not even a shading of one into the other. england is described always very justly, and always in the same words: "it is all one garden." there is not a cottage between dover and london (seventy miles), where a poet might not be happy to live. i saw a hundred little spots i coveted with quite a heart-ache. there was no poverty on the road. everybody seemed employed, and everybody well-made and healthy. the relief from the deformity and disease of the wayside beggars of the continent was very striking. we were at canterbury before i had time to get accustomed to my seat. the horses had been changed twice; the coach, it seemed to me, hardly stopping while it was done; way-passengers were taken up and put down, with their baggage, without a word, and in half a minute; money was tossed to the keeper of the turnpike gate as we dashed through; the wheels went over the smooth road without noise, and with scarce a sense of motion--it was the perfection of travel. the new driver from canterbury rather astonished me. he drove into london every day, and was more of a "_swell_." he owned the first team himself, four blood horses of great beauty, and it was a sight to see him drive them! his language was free from all slang, and very gentlemanlike and well chosen, and he discussed everything. he found out that i was an american, and said we did not think enough of the memory of washington. leaving his bones in the miserable brick tomb, of which he had descriptions, was not, in his opinion, worthy of a country like mine. he went on to criticise julia grisi (the new singer just then setting london on fire), hummed airs from "_il pirati_," to show her manner; sang an english song like braham; gave a decayed count, who sat on the box, some very sensible advice about the management of a wild son; drew a comparison between french and italian women (he had travelled); told us who the old count was in very tolerable french, and preferred edmund kean and fanny kemble to all actors in the world. his taste and his philosophy, like his driving, were quite unexceptionable. he was, withal, very handsome, and had the easy and respectful manners of a well-bred person. it seemed very odd to give him a shilling at the end of the journey. at chatham we took up a very elegantly dressed young man, who had come down on a fishing excursion. he was in the army, and an irishman. we had not been half an hour on the seat together, before he had discovered, by so many plain questions, that i was an american, a stranger in england, and an acquaintance of a whole regiment of his friends in malta and corfu. if this had been a yankee, thought i, what a chapter it would have made for basil hall or madame trollope! with all his inquisitiveness i liked my companion, and half accepted his offer to drive me down to epsom the next day to the races. i know no american who would have beaten _that_ on a stage-coach acquaintance. letter lxviii. first view of london--the king's birthday--procession of mail coaches--regent street--lady blessington--the original pelham--bulwer, the novelist--john galt--d'israeli, the author of vivian grey--recollections of byron--influence of american opinions on english literature. london.--from the top of shooter's hill we got our first view of london--an indistinct, architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon, and half enveloped in a dim and lurid smoke. "that is st. paul's!--there is westminster abbey!--there is the tower of london!" what directions were these to follow for the first time with the eye! from blackheath (seven or eight miles from the centre of london), the beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued mass of buildings. the houses were amazingly small, a kind of thing that would do for an object in an imitation perspective park, but the soul of neatness pervaded them. trelises were nailed between the little windows, roses quite overshadowed the low doors, a painted fence enclosed the hand's breadth of grass-plot, and very, oh, _very_ sweet faces bent over lapfuls of work beneath the snowy and looped-up curtains. it was all home-like and amiable. there was an _affectionateness_ in the mere outside of every one of them. after crossing waterloo bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. the brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air of every passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying vehicles of every description, passing with the most dangerous speed--accustomed as i am to large cities, it quite made me dizzy. we got into a "jarvey" at the coach-office, and in half an hour i was in comfortable quarters, with windows looking down st. james street, and the most agreeable leaf of my life to turn over. "great emotions interfere little with the mechanical operations of life," however, and i dressed and dined, though it was my first hour in london. i was sitting in the little parlor alone over a fried sole and a mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded state of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side of the table for a clergyman. i have a kindly preference for the cloth, and made not the slightest objection. enter a fat man, with top-boots and a hunting-whip, rosy as bacchus, and excessively out of breath with mounting one flight of stairs. beefsteak and potatoes, a pot of porter, and a bottle of sherry followed close on his heels. with a single apology for the intrusion, the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate and drank for a while in true english silence. "from oxford, sir, i presume," he said at last, pushing back his plate, with an air of satisfaction. "no, i had never the pleasure of seeing oxford." "r--e--ally! may i take a glass of wine with you, sir?" we got on swimmingly. he would not believe i had never been in england till the day before, but his cordiality was no colder for that. we exchanged port and sherry, and a most amicable understanding found its way down with the wine. our table was near the window, and a great crowd began to collect at the corner of st. james' street. it was the king's birth-day, and the people were thronging to see the nobility come in state from the royal _levee_. the show was less splendid than the same thing in rome or vienna, but it excited far more of my admiration. gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness and perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses were incomparably finer. my friend pointed out to me the different liveries as they turned the corner into piccadilly, the duke of wellington's among others. i looked hard to see his grace; but the two pale and beautiful faces on the back seat, carried nothing like the military nose on the handles of the umbrellas. the annual procession of mail-coaches followed, and it was hardly less brilliant. the drivers and guard in their bright red and gold uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the neat harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse was calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether one of the most interesting spectacles i have ever seen. my friend, the clergyman, with whom i had walked out to see them pass, criticised the different teams _con amore_, but in language which i did not always understand. i asked him once for an explanation; but he looked rather grave, and said something about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my ignorance of london was a mere quiz. we walked down piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all comparison, the most handsome street i ever saw. the toledo of naples, the corso of rome, the kohl-market of vienna, the rue de la paix and boulevards of paris, have each impressed me strongly with their magnificence, but they are really nothing to regent-street. i had merely time to get a glance at it before dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the elegance and variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale and material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops, it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with anything between new york and constantinople--broadway and the hippodrome included. it is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their shops on his majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on our return were in a blaze of light. the crowd was immense. none but the lower order seemed abroad, and i cannot describe to you the effect on my feelings on hearing my language spoken by every man, woman, and child, about me. it seemed a completely foreign country in every other respect, different from what i had imagined, different from my own and all that i had seen; and, coming to it last, it seemed to me the farthest off and strangest country of all--and yet the little sweep who went laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that i had heard attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that i had grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost useless to myself. still, it did not make me feel at home. everything else about me was too new. it was like some mysterious change in my own ears--a sudden power of comprehension, such as a man might feel who was cured suddenly of deafness. you can scarcely enter into my feelings till you have had the changes of french, italian, german, greek, turkish, illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung upon your hearing almost exclusively, as i have for years. i wandered about as if i were exercising some supernatural faculty in a dream. a friend in italy had kindly given me a letter to lady blessington, and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, i called on the second day after my arrival in london. it was "deep i' the afternoon," but i had not yet learned the full meaning of "town hours." "her ladyship had not come down to breakfast." i gave the letter and my address to the powdered footman, and had scarce reached home when a note arrived inviting me to call the same evening at ten. in a long library lined alternately with splendidly bound books and mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the room, opening upon hyde park, i found lady blessington alone. the picture to my eye as the door opened was a very lovely one. a woman of remarkable beauty half buried in a fauteuil of yellow satin, reading by a magnificent lamp, suspended from the centre of the arched ceiling; sofas, couches, ottomans, and busts, arranged in rather a crowded sumptuousness through the room; enamel tables, covered with expensive and elegant trifles in every corner, and a delicate white hand relieved on the back of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the blaze of its diamond rings. as the servant mentioned my name, she rose and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, count d'orsay, the well-known pelham of london, and certainly the most splendid specimen of a man, and a well-dressed one that i had ever seen. tea was brought in immediately, and conversation went swimmingly on. her ladyship's inquiries were principally about america, of which, from long absence, i knew very little. she was extremely curious to know the degrees of reputation the present popular authors of england enjoy among us, particularly bulwer, galt, and d'israeli (the author of vivian grey.) "if you will come to-morrow night," she said, "you will see bulwer. i am delighted that he is popular in america. he is envied and abused by all the literary men of london, for nothing, i believe, except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and they fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride (some people call it puppyism), which is only the armor of a sensitive mind, afraid of a wound. he is to his friends, the most frank and gay creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those who he thinks understand and value him. he has a brother henry, who is as clever as himself in a different vein, and is just now publishing a book on the present state of france. bulwer's wife, you know, is one of the most beautiful women in london, and his house is the resort of both fashion and talent. he is just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of which is the last days of pompeii. the hero is a roman dandy, who wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him and develops a character of the noblest capabilities. is galt much liked?" i answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. his life of byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, for one, i never could forgive, and his books were clever, but vulgar. he was evidently not a gentleman in his mind. this was the opinion i had formed in america, and i had never heard another. "i am sorry for it," said lady b., "for he is the dearest and best old man in the world. i know him well. he is just on the verge of the grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you had known how shockingly byron treated him, you would only wonder at his sparing his memory so much." "_nil mortuis nisi bonum_," i thought would have been a better course. if he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have written since he was dead. "perhaps--perhaps. but galt has been all his life miserably poor, and lived by his books. that must be his apology. do you know the d'israeli's in america?" i assured her ladyship that the "curiosities of literature," by the father, and "vivian grey and contarini fleming," by the son, were universally known. "i am pleased at that, too, for i like them both. d'israeli the elder, came here with his son the other night. it would have delighted you to see the old man's pride in him. he is very fond of him, and as he was going away, he patted him on the head, and said to me, "take care of him, lady blessington, for my sake. he is a clever lad, but he wants ballast. i am glad he has the honor to know you, for you will check him sometimes when i am away!" d'israeli, the elder, lives in the country, about twenty miles from town, and seldom comes up to london. he is a very plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the reverse. d'israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of vivian grey crowded with talent, but very _soignè_ of his curls, and a bit of a coxcomb. there is no reserve about him, however, and he is the only _joyous_ dandy i ever saw." i asked if the account i had seen in some american paper of a literary celebration at canandaigua, and the engraving of her ladyship's name with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz. "oh, by no means. i was equally flattered and amused by the whole affair. i have a great idea of taking a trip to america to see it. then the letter, commencing 'most charming countess--for charming you must be since you have written the conversations of lord byron'--oh, it was quite delightful. i have shown it to everybody. by the way, i receive a great many letters from america, from people i never heard of, written in the most extraordinary style of compliment, apparently in perfectly good faith. i hardly know what to make of them." i accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers of cultivated people live in our country, who having neither intrigue, nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their minds as in england, depend entirely upon books, and consider an author who has given them pleasure as a friend. america, i said, has probably more literary enthusiasts than any country in the world; and there are thousands of romantic minds in the interior of new england, who know perfectly every writer this side the water, and hold them all in affectionate veneration, scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated european. if it were not for such readers, literature would be the most thankless of vocations. i, for one, would never write another line. "and do you think these are the people who write to me? if i could think so, i should be exceedingly happy. people in england are refined down to such heartlessness--criticism, private and public, is so interested and so cold, that it is really delightful to know there is a more generous tribunal. indeed, i think all our authors now are beginning to write for america. we think already a great deal of your praise or censure." i asked if her ladyship had known many americans. "not in london, but a great many abroad. i was with lord blessington in his yacht at naples, when the american fleet was lying there, eight or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board your ships. i knew commodore creighton and captain deacon extremely well, and liked them particularly. they were with us, either on board the yacht or the frigate every evening, and i remember very well the band playing always, "god save the king," as we went up the side. count d'orsay here, who spoke very little english at that time, had a great passion for yankee doodle, and it was always played at his request." the count, who still speaks the language with a very slight accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of uncommon tact and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the officers, whom i have not the pleasure of knowing. he seemed to remember his visits to the frigate with great pleasure. the conversation, after running upon a variety of topics, which i could not with propriety put into a letter for the public eye, turned very naturally upon byron. i had frequently seen the countess guiccioli on the continent, and i asked lady blessington if she knew her. "no. we were at pisa when they were living together, but, though lord blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, byron would never permit it. 'she has a red head of her own,' said he, 'and don't like to show it.' byron treated the poor creature dreadfully ill. she feared more than she loved him." she had told me the same thing herself in italy. it would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record of a conversation of some hours. i have only noted one or two topics which i thought most likely to interest an american reader. during all this long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in finishing for memory, a portrait of the celebrated and beautiful woman before me. the portrait of lady blessington in the book of beauty is not unlike her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. a picture by sir thomas lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the age of eighteen, which is more like her, and as captivating a representation of a just matured woman, full of loveliness and love, the kind of creature with whose divine sweetness the gazer's heart aches, as ever was drawn in the painter's most inspired hour. the original is now (she confessed it very frankly) forty. she looks something on the sunny side of thirty. her person is full, but preserves all the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is not crowded in a satin slipper, for which a cinderella might long be looked for in vain, and her complexion (an unusually fair skin, with very dark hair and eyebrows), is of even a girlish delicacy and freshness. her dress of blue satin (if i am describing her like a milliner, it is because i have here and there a reader of the mirror in my eye who will be amused by it), was cut low and folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply on her forehead with a rich _ferroniere_ of turquoise, enveloped in clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault. her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humor. add to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have the most prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating women i have ever seen. remembering her talents and her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives from the world of fashion and genius, it would be difficult to reconcile her lot to the "doctrine of compensation." there is one remark i may as well make here, with regard to the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from england will of course be filled. it is quite a different thing from publishing such letters in london. america is much farther off from england than england from america. you in new york read the periodicals of this country, and know everything that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound of bow-bell. the english, however, just know of our existence, and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in politics, they are comparatively well informed. our periodical literature is never even heard of. of course there can be no offence to the individuals themselves in anything which a visitor could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners of distinguished people to the american public. i mention it lest, at first thought, i might seem to have abused the hospitality or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given me claims for civility. letter lxix. the literati of london. spent my first day in london in wandering about the finest part of the west end. it is nonsense to compare it to any other city in the world. from the horse-guards to the regent's park alone, there is more magnificence in architecture than in the whole of any other metropolis in europe, and i have seen the most and the best of them. yet this, though a walk of more than two miles, is but a small part even of the fashionable extremity of london. i am not easily tired in a city; but i walked till i could scarce lift my feet from the ground, and still the parks and noble streets extended before and around me as far as the eye could reach, and strange as they were in reality, the names were as familiar to me as if my childhood had been passed among them. "bond street," "grosvenor square," "hyde park," look new to my eye, but they sound very familiar to my ear. the equipages of london are much talked of, but they exceed even description. nothing can be more perfect, or apparently more simple than the gentleman's carriage that passes you in the street. of a modest color, but the finest material, the crest just visible on the panels, the balance of the body upon its springs, true and easy, the hammercloth and liveries of the neatest and most harmonious colors, the harness slight and elegant, and the horses "the only splendid thing" in the establishment--is a description that answers the most of them. perhaps the most perfect thing in the world, however, is a st. james's-street stanhope or cabriolet, with its dandy owner on the whip-seat, and the "tiger" beside him. the attitudes of both the gentleman and the "gentleman's gentleman" are studied to a point, but nothing could be more knowing or exquisite than either. the whole affair, from the angle of the bell-crowned hat (the prevailing fashion on the steps of crockford's at present), to the blood legs of the thorough-bred creature in harness, is absolutely faultless. i have seen many subjects for study in my first day's stroll, but i leave the men and women and some other less important features of london for maturer observation. in the evening i kept my appointment with lady blessington. she had deserted her exquisite library for the drawing-room, and sat, in fuller dress, with six or seven gentlemen about her. i was presented immediately to all, and when the conversation was resumed, i took the opportunity to remark the distinguished coterie with which she was surrounded. nearest me sat _smith_, the author of "rejected addresses"--a hale, handsome man, apparently fifty, with white hair, and a very nobly-formed head and physiognomy. his eye alone, small and with lids contracted into an habitual look of drollery, betrayed the bent of his genius. he held a cripple's crutch in his hand, and though otherwise rather particularly well dressed, wore a pair of large india rubber shoes--the penalty he was paying, doubtless, for the many good dinners he had eaten. he played rather an _aside_ in the conversation, whipping in with a quiz or a witticism whenever he could get an opportunity, but more a listener than a talker. on the opposite side of lady b. stood henry bulwer, the brother of the novelist, very earnestly engaged in a discussion of some speech of o'connell's. he is said by many to be as talented as his brother, and has lately published a book on the present state of france. he is a small man, very slight and gentleman-like, a little pitted with the small-pox, and of very winning and persuasive manners. i liked him at the first glance. his opponent in the argument was fonblanc, the famous editor of the examiner, said to be the best political writer of his day. i never saw a much worse face--sallow, seamed and hollow, his teeth irregular, his skin livid, his straight black hair uncombed and straggling over his forehead--he looked as if he might be the gentleman whose "coat was red, and whose breeches were blue." a hollow, croaking voice, and a small, fiery black eye, with a smile like a skeleton's, certainly did not improve his physiognomy. he sat upon his chair very awkwardly, and was very ill-dressed, but every word he uttered, showed him to be a man of claims very superior to exterior attractions. the soft musical voice, and elegant manner of the one, and the satirical, sneering tone and angular gestures of the other, were in very strong contrast. a german prince, with a star on his breast, trying with all his might, but, from his embarrassed look, quite unsuccessfully, to comprehend the drift of the argument, the duke de richelieu, whom i had seen at the court of france, the inheritor of nothing but the name of his great ancestor, a dandy and a fool, making no attempt to listen, a famous traveller just returned from constantinople; and the splendid person of count d'orsay in a careless attitude upon the ottoman, completed the _cordon_. i fell into conversation after a while with smith, who, supposing i might not have heard the names of the others, in the hurry of an introduction, kindly took the trouble to play the dictionary, and added a graphic character of each as he named him. among other things he talked a great deal of america, and asked me if i knew our distinguished countryman, washington irving. i had never been so fortunate as to meet him. "you have lost a great deal," he said, "for never was so delightful a fellow. i was once taken down with him into the country by a merchant, to dinner. our friend stopped his carriage at the gate of his park, and asked us if we would walk through his grounds to the house. irving refused and held me down by the coat, so that we drove on to the house together, leaving our host to follow on foot. 'i make it a principle,' said irving, 'never to walk with a man through his own grounds. i have no idea of praising a thing whether i like it or not. you and i will do them to-morrow morning by ourselves.'" the rest of the company had turned their attention to smith as he began his story, and there was a universal inquiry after mr. irving. indeed the first question on the lips of every one to whom i am introduced as an american, are of him and cooper. the latter seems to me to be admired as much here as abroad, in spite of a common impression that he dislikes the nation. no man's works could have higher praise in the general conversation that followed, though several instances were mentioned of his having shown an unconquerable aversion to the english when in england. lady blessington mentioned mr. bryant, and i was pleased at the immediate tribute paid to his delightful poetry by the talented circle around her. toward twelve o'clock, "mr. lytton bulwer" was announced, and enter the author of pelham. i had made up my mind how he _should_ look, and between prints and descriptions thought i could scarcely be mistaken in my idea of his person. no two things could be more unlike, however, than the ideal mr. bulwer in my mind and the real mr. bulwer who followed the announcement. _imprimis_, the gentleman who entered was not handsome. i beg pardon of the boarding-schools--but he really _was not_. the engraving of him published some time ago in america is as much like any other man living, and gives you no idea of his head whatever. he is short, very much bent in the back, slightly knock-kneed, and, if my opinion in such matters goes for anything, as ill-dressed a man for a gentleman, as you will find in london. his figure is slight and very badly put together, and the only commendable point in his person, as far as i could see, was the smallest foot i ever saw a man stand upon. _au reste_, i liked his manners extremely. he ran up to lady blessington, with the joyous heartiness of a boy let out of school; and the "how d'ye, bulwer!" went round, as he shook hands with everybody, in the style of welcome usually given to "the best fellow in the world." as i had brought a letter of introduction to him from a friend in italy, lady blessington introduced me particularly, and we had a long conversation about naples and its pleasant society. bulwer's head is phrenologically a fine one. his forehead retreats very much, but is very broad and well marked, and the whole air is that of decided mental superiority. his nose is aquiline, and far too large for proportion, though he conceals its extreme prominence by an immense pair of red whiskers, which entirely conceal the lower part of his face in profile. his complexion is fair, his hair profuse, curly, and of a light auburn, his eye not remarkable, and his mouth contradictory, i should think, of all talent. a more good-natured, habitually-smiling, nerveless expression could hardly be imagined. perhaps my impression is an imperfect one, as he was in the highest spirits, and was not serious the whole evening for a minute--but it is strictly and faithfully _my impression_. i can imagine no style of conversation calculated to be more agreeable than bulwer's. gay, quick, various, half-satirical, and always fresh and different from everybody else, he seemed to talk because he could not help it, and infected everybody with his spirits. i can not give even the substance of it in a letter, for it was in a great measure local or personal. a great deal of fun was made of a proposal by lady blessington to take bulwer to america and show him at so much a head. she asked me whether i thought it would be a good speculation. i took upon myself to assure her ladyship, that, provided she played _showman_ the "concern," as they would phrase it in america, would be certainly a profitable one. bulwer said he would rather go in disguise and hear them abuse his books. it would be pleasant, he thought, to hear the opinions of people who judged him neither as a member of parliament nor a dandy--simply a book-maker. smith asked him if he kept an amanuensis. "no," he said, "i scribble it all out myself, and send it to the press in a most ungentlemanlike hand, half print and half hieroglyphic, with all its imperfections on its head, and correct in the proof--very much to the dissatisfaction of the publisher, who sends me in a bill of sixteen pounds six shillings and fourpence for extra corrections. then i am free to confess i don't know grammar. lady blessington, do you know grammar? i detest grammar. there never was such a thing heard of before lindley murray. i wonder what they did for grammar before his day! oh, the delicious blunders one sees when they are irretrievable! and the best of it is, the critics never get hold of them. thank heaven for second editions, that one may scratch out his blots, and go down clean and gentleman-like to posterity!" smith asked him if he had ever reviewed one of his own books. "no--but i _could_! and then how i should like to recriminate and defend myself indignantly! i think i could be preciously severe. depend upon it nobody knows a book's defects half so well as its author. i have a great idea of criticising my works for my posthumous memoirs. shall i, smith? shall i, lady blessington?" bulwer's voice, like his brother's, is exceedingly lover-like and sweet. his playful tones are quite delicious, and his clear laugh is the soul of sincere and careless merriment. it is quite impossible to convey in a letter scrawled literally, between the end of a late visit and a tempting pillow, the evanescent and pure spirit of a conversation of wits. i must confine myself, of course, in such sketches, to the mere sentiment of things that concern general literature and ourselves. "the rejected addresses" got upon his crutches about three o'clock in the morning, and i made my exit with the rest, thanking heaven, that, though in a strange country, my mother tongue was the language of its men of genius. letter lxx. london--visit to a race-course--gipsies--the princess victoria--splendid appearance of the english nobility--a breakfast with elia and bridget elia--mystification--charles lamb's opinion of american authors. i have just returned from _ascot races_. ascot heath, on which the course is laid out, is a high platform of land, beautifully situated on a hill above windsor castle, about twenty-five miles from london. i went down with a party of gentlemen in the morning and returned at evening, doing the distance, with relays of horses in something less than three hours. this, one would think, is very fair speed, but we were passed continually by the "bloods" of the road, in comparison with whom we seemed getting on rather at a snail's pace. the scenery on the way was truly english--one series of finished landscapes, of every variety of combination. lawns, fancy-cottages, manor-houses, groves, roses and flower-gardens make up england. it surfeits the eye at last. you could not drop a poet out of the clouds upon any part of it i have seen, where, within five minutes' walk, he would not find himself in paradise. we flew past virginia water and through the sun-flecked shades of windsor park, with the speed of the wind. on reaching the heath, we dashed out of the road, and cutting through fern and brier, our experienced whip put his wheels on the rim of the course, as near the stands as some thousands of carriages arrived before us would permit, and then, cautioning us to take the bearings of our position, lest we should lose him after the race, he took off his horses, and left us to choose our own places. a thousand red and yellow flags were flying from as many snowy tents in the midst of the green heath; ballad-singers and bands of music were amusing their little audiences in every direction; splendid markees covering gambling-tables, surrounded the winning-post; groups of country people were busy in every bush, eating and singing, and the great stands were piled with row upon row of human heads waiting anxiously for the exhilarating contest. soon after we arrived, the king and royal family drove up the course with twenty carriages, and scores of postillions and outriders in red and gold, flying over the turf as majesty flies in no other country; and, immediately after, the bell rang to clear the course for the race. _such_ horses! the earth seemed to fling them off as they touched it. the lean jockeys, in their party-colored caps and jackets, rode the fine-limbed, slender creatures up and down together, and then returning to the starting-post, off they shot like so many arrows from the bow. _whiz!_ you could tell neither color nor shape as they passed across the eye. their swiftness was incredible. a horse of lord chesterfield's was rather the favorite; and for the sake of his great-grandfather, i had backed him with my small wager, "glaucus is losing," said some one on the top of a carriage above me, but round they swept again, and i could just see that one glorious creature was doubling the leaps of every other horse, and in a moment glaucus and lord chesterfield had won. the course between the races is a promenade of some thousands of the best-dressed people in england. i thought i had never seen so many handsome men and women, but particularly _men_. the nobility of this country, unlike every other, is by far the manliest and finest looking class of its population. the _contadini_ of rome, the _lazzaroni_ of naples, the _paysans_ of france, are incomparably more handsome than their superiors in rank, but it is strikingly different here. a set of more elegant and well-proportioned men than those pointed out to me by my friends as the noblemen on the course, i never saw, except only in greece. the albanians are seraphs to look at. excitement is hungry, and, after the first race, our party produced their baskets and bottles, and spreading out the cold pie and champaign upon the grass, between the wheels of the carriages, we drank lord chesterfield's health and ate for our own, in an _al fresco_ style worthy of italy. two veritable bohemians, brown, black-eyed gipsies, the models of those i had seen in their wicker tents in asia, profited by the liberality of the hour, and came in for an upper crust to a pigeon pie, that, to tell the truth, they seemed to appreciate. race followed race, but i am not a contributor to the sporting magazine, and could not give you their merits in comprehensible terms if i were. in one of the intervals, i walked under the king's stand, and saw her majesty, the queen, and the young princess victoria, very distinctly. they were listening to a ballad-singer, and leaning over the front of the box with an amused attention, quite as sincere, apparently, as any beggar's in the ring. the queen is the plainest woman in her dominions, beyond a doubt. the princess is much better-looking than the pictures of her in the shops, and, for the heir to such a crown as that of england, quite unnecessarily pretty and interesting. she will be sold, poor thing--bartered away by those great dealers in royal hearts, whose grand calculations will not be much consolation to her, if she happens to have a taste of her own. * * * * * [the following sketch was written a short time previous to the death of charles lamb.] invited to breakfast with a gentleman in the temple to meet charles lamb and his sister--"elia and bridget elia." i never in my life had an invitation more to my taste. the essays of elia are certainly the most charming things in the world, and it has been for the last ten years, my highest compliment to the literary taste of a friend to present him with a copy. who has not smiled over the humorous description of mrs. battle? who that has read elia would not give more to see him than all the other authors of his time put together? our host was rather a character. i had brought a letter of introduction to him from walter savage landor, the author of imaginary conversations, living at florence, with a request that he would put me in the way of seeing one or two men about whom i had a curiosity, lamb more particularly. i could not have been recommended to a better person. mr. r. is a gentleman who, everybody says, _should have been_ an author, but who never wrote a book. he is a profound german scholar, has travelled much, is the intimate friend of southey, coleridge, and lamb, has breakfasted with goëthe, travelled with wordsworth through france and italy, and spends part of every summer with him, and knows everything and everybody that is distinguished--in short, is, in his bachelor's chambers in the temple, the friendly nucleus of a great part of the talent of england. i arrived a half hour before lamb, and had time to learn some of his peculiarities. he lives a little out of london, and is very much of an invalid. some family circumstances have tended to depress him very much of late years, and unless excited by convivial intercourse, he scarce shows a trace of what he was. he was very much pleased with the american reprint of his elia, though it contains several things which are not his--written so in his style, however, that it is scarce a wonder the editor should mistake them. if i remember right, they were "valentine's day," the "nuns of caverswell," and "twelfth night." he is excessively given to mystifying his friends, and is never so delighted as when he has persuaded some one into the belief of one of his grave inventions. his amusing biographical sketch of liston was in this vein, and there was no doubt in anybody's mind that it was authentic, and written in perfectly good faith. liston was highly enraged with it, and lamb was delighted in proportion. there was a rap at the door at last, and enter a gentleman in black small-clothes and gaiters, short and very slight in his person, his head set on his shoulders with a thoughtful, forward bent, his hair just sprinkled with gray, a beautiful, deep-set eye, aquiline nose, and a very indescribable mouth. whether it expressed most humor or feeling, good nature or a kind of whimsical peevishness, or twenty other things which passed over it by turns, i can not in the least be certain. his sister, whose literary reputation is associated very closely with her brother's, and who, as the original of "bridget elia," is a kind of object for literary affection, came in after him. she is a small, bent figure, evidently a victim to illness, and hears with difficulty. her face has been, i should think, a fine and handsome one, and her bright gray eye is still full of intelligence and fire. they both seemed quite at home in our friend's chambers, and as there was to be no one else, we immediately drew round the breakfast table. i had set a large arm chair for miss lamb. "don't take it, mary," said lamb, pulling it away from her very gravely, "it appears as if you were going to have a tooth drawn." the conversation was very local. our host and his guest had not met for some weeks, and they had a great deal to say of their mutual friends. perhaps in this way, however, i saw more of the author, for his manner of speaking of them and the quaint humor with which he complained of one, and spoke well of another was so in the vein of his inimitable writings, that i could have fancied myself listening to an audible composition of a new elia. nothing could be more delightful than the kindness and affection between the brother and the sister, though lamb was continually taking advantage of her deafness to mystify her with the most singular gravity upon every topic that was started. "poor mary!" said he, "she hears all of an epigram but the point." "what are you saying of me, charles?" she asked. "mr. willis," said he, raising his voice, "admires _your confessions of a drunkard_ very much, and i was saying that it was no merit of yours, that you understood the subject." we had been speaking of this admirable essay (which is his own), half an hour before. the conversation turned upon literature after a while, and our host, the templar, could not express himself strongly enough in admiration of webster's speeches, which he said were exciting the greatest attention among the politicians and lawyers of england. lamb said, "i don't know much of american authors. mary, there, devours cooper's novels with a ravenous appetite, with which i have no sympathy. the only american book i ever read twice, was the 'journal of edward woolman,' a quaker preacher and tailor, whose character is one of the finest i ever met with. he tells a story or two about negro slaves that brought the tears into my eyes. i can read no prose now, though hazlitt sometimes, to be sure--but then hazlitt is worth all modern prose writers put together." mr. r. spoke of buying a book of lamb's, a few days before, and i mentioned my having bought a copy of elia the last day i was in america, to send as a parting gift to one of the most lovely and talented women in our country. "what did you give for it?" said lamb. "about seven and sixpence." "permit me to pay you that," said he, and with the utmost earnestness he counted out the money upon the table. "i never yet wrote anything that would sell," he continued. "i am the publisher's ruin. my last poem won't sell a copy. have you seen it, mr. willis?" i had not. "it's only eighteen pence, and i'll give you sixpence toward it;" and he described to me where i should find it sticking up in a shop-window in the strand. lamb ate nothing, and complained in a querulous tone of the veal pie. there was a kind of potted fish (of which i forget the name at this moment), which he had expected our friend would procure for him. he inquired whether there was not a morsel left perhaps in the bottom of the last pot. mr. r. was not sure. "send and see," said lamb, "and if the pot has been cleaned, bring me the cover. i think the sight of it would do me good." the cover was brought, upon which there was a picture of the fish. lamb kissed it with a reproachful look at his friend, and then left the table and began to wander round the room with a broken, uncertain step, as if he almost forgot to put one leg before the other. his sister rose after a while, and commenced walking up and down, very much in the same manner, on the opposite side of the table, and in the course of half an hour they took their leave. to any one who loves the writings of charles lamb with but half my own enthusiasm, even these little particulars of an hour passed in his company, will have an interest. to him who does not, they will seem dull and idle. wreck as he certainly is, and must be, however, of what he was, i would rather have seen him for that single hour, than the hundred and one sights of london put together. letter lxxi. dinner at lady blessington's--bulwer, d'israeli, procter, fonblanc, etc.--eccentricities of beckford, author of vathek--d'israeli's extraordinary talent at description. dined at lady blessington's, in company with several authors, three or four noblemen, and a clever exquisite or two. the authors were bulwer, the novelist, and his brother, the statist; procter (better known as barry cornwall), d'israeli, the author of vivian grey; and fonblanc, of the examiner. the principal nobleman was lord durham, and the principal exquisite (though the word scarce applies to the magnificent scale on which nature has made him, and on which he makes himself), was count d'orsay. there were plates for twelve. i had never seen procter, and, with my passionate love for his poetry, he was the person at table of the most interest to me. he came late, and as twilight was just darkening the drawing-room, i could only see that a small man followed the announcement, with a remarkably timid manner, and a very white forehead. d'israeli had arrived before me, and sat in the deep window, looking out upon hyde park, with the last rays of daylight reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of a splendidly embroidered waistcoat. patent leather pumps, a white stick, with a black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chains about his neck and pockets, served to make him, even in the dim light, rather a conspicuous object. bulwer was very badly dressed, as usual, and wore a flashy waistcoat of the same description as d'israeli's. count d'orsay was very splendid, but very undefinable. he seemed showily dressed till you looked to particulars, and then it seemed only a simple thing, well fitted to a very magnificent person. lord albert conyngham was a dandy of common materials; and my lord durham, though he looked a young man, if he passed for a lord at all in america, would pass for a very ill-dressed one. for lady blessington, she is one of the most handsome, and, quite the best-dressed woman in london; and, without farther description, i trust the readers of the mirror will have little difficulty in imagining a scene that, taking a wild american into the account, was made up of rather various material. the blaze of lamps on the dinner table was very favorable to my curiosity, and as procter and d'israeli sat directly opposite me, i studied their faces to advantage. barry cornwall's forehead and eye are all that would strike you in his features. his brows are heavy; and his eye, deeply sunk, has a quick, restless fire, that would have arrested my attention, i think, had i not known he was a poet. his voice has the huskiness and elevation of a man more accustomed to think than converse, and it was never heard except to give a brief and very condensed opinion, or an illustration, admirably to the point, of the subject under discussion. he evidently felt that he was only an observer in the party. d'israeli has one of the most remarkable faces i ever saw. he is lividly pale, and but for the energy of his action and the strength of his lungs, would seem a victim to consumption. his eye is black as erebus, and has the most mocking and lying-in-wait sort of expression conceivable. his mouth is alive with a kind of working and impatient nervousness, and when he has burst forth, as he does constantly, with a particularly successful cataract of expression, it assumes a curl of triumphant scorn that would be worthy of a mephistopheles. his hair is as extraordinary as his taste in waistcoats. a thick heavy mass of jet black ringlets falls over his left cheek almost to his collarless stock, while on the right temple it is parted and put away with the smooth carefulness of a girl's, and shines most unctiously, "with thy incomparable oil, macassar!" the anxieties of the first course, as usual, kept every mouth occupied for a while, and then the dandies led off with a discussion of count d'orsay's rifle match (he is the best rifle-shot in england), and various matters as uninteresting to transatlantic readers. the new poem, philip van artevald's, came up after a while, and was very much over-praised (_me judice_). bulwer said, that as the author was the principle writer for the quarterly review, it was a pity it was first praised in that periodical, and praised so unqualifiedly. procter said nothing about it, and i respected his silence; for, as a poet, he must have felt the poverty of the poem, and was probably unwilling to attack a new aspirant in his laurels. the next book discussed was beckford's italy, or rather the next author, for the _writer_ of vathek is more original, and more talked of than his books, and just now occupies much of the attention of london. mr. beckford has been all his life enormously rich, has luxuriated in every country with the fancy of a poet, and the refined splendor of a sybarite, was the admiration of lord byron, who visited him at cintra, was the owner of fonthill, and, _plus fort encore_, his is one of the oldest families in england. what could such a man attempt that would not be considered extraordinary! d'israeli was the only one at table who knew him, and the style in which he gave a sketch of his habits and manners, was worthy of himself. i might as well attempt to gather up the foam of the sea, as to convey an idea of the extraordinary language in which he clothed his description. there were, at least, five words in every sentence that must have been very much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others apparently, could so well have conveyed his idea. he talked like a race-horse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in action, and the utmost energy of expression flung out in every burst. it is a great pity he is not in parliament.[ ] the particulars he gave of beckford, though stripped of his gorgeous digressions and parentheses, may be interesting. he lives now at bath, where he has built a house on two sides of the street, connected by a covered bridge _a la ponte de sospiri_, at venice. his servants live on one side, and he and his sole companion on the other. this companion is a hideous dwarf, who imagines himself, or is, a spanish duke; and mr. beckford for many years has supported him in a style befitting his rank, treats him with all the deference due to his title, and has, in general, no other society (i should not wonder, myself, if it turned out to be a woman); neither of them is often seen, and when in london, mr. beckford is only to be approached through his man of business. if you call, he is not at home. if you would leave a card or address him a note, his servant has strict orders not to take in anything of the kind. at bath, he has built a high tower, which is a great mystery to the inhabitants. around the interior, to the very top, it is lined with books, approachable with a light spiral staircase; and in the pavement below, the owner has constructed a double crypt for his own body, and that of his dwarf companion, intending, with a desire for human neighborhood which has not appeared in his life, to leave the library to the city, that all who enjoy it shall pass over the bodies below. mr. beckford thinks very highly of his own books, and talks of his early production (vathek), in terms of unbounded admiration. he speaks slightingly of byron, and of his praise, and affects to despise utterly the popular taste. it appeared altogether, from d'israeli's account, that he is a splendid egotist, determined to free life as much as possible from its usual fetters, and to enjoy it to the highest degree of which his genius, backed by an immense fortune, is capable. he is reputed, however, to be excessively liberal, and to exercise his ingenuity to contrive secret charities in his neighborhood. victor hugo and his extraordinary novels came next under discussion; and d'israeli, who was fired with his own eloquence, started off, _apropos des bottes_, with a long story of an empalement he had seen in upper egypt. it was as good, and perhaps as authentic, as the description of the chow-chow-tow in vivian grey. he had arrived at cairo on the third day after the man was transfixed by two stakes from hip to shoulder, and he was still alive! the circumstantiality of the account was equally horrible and amusing. then followed the sufferer's history, with a score of murders and barbarities, heaped together like martin's feast of belshazzer, with a mixture of horror and splendor, that was unparalleled in my experience of improvisation. no mystic priest of the corybantes could have worked himself up into a finer phrensy of language. count d'orsay kept up, through the whole of the conversation and narration, a running fire of witty parentheses, half french and half english; and with champaign in all the pauses, the hours flew on very dashingly. lady blessington left us toward midnight, and then the conversation took a rather political turn, and something was said of o'connell. d'israeli's lips were playing upon the edge of a champaign glass, which he had just drained, and off he shot again with a description of an interview he had had with the agitator the day before, ending in a story of an irish dragoon who was killed in the peninsula. his name was sarsfield. his arm was shot off, and he was bleeding to death. when told that he could not live, he called for a large silver goblet, out of which he usually drank his claret. he held it to the gushing artery and filled it to the brim with blood, looked at it a moment, turned it out slowly upon the ground, muttering to himself, "if that had been shed for old ireland!" and expired. you can have no idea how thrillingly this little story was told. fonblanc, however, who is a cold political satirist, could see nothing in a man's "decanting his claret," that was in the least sublime, and so vivian grey got into a passion, and for a while was silent. bulwer asked me if there was any distinguished literary american in town. i said, mr. slidell one of our best writers, was here. "because," said he, "i received, a week or more ago, a letter of introduction by some one from washington irving. it lay on the table, when a lady came in to call on my wife, who seized upon it as an autograph, and immediately left town, leaving me with neither name nor address." there was a general laugh and a cry of "pelham! pelham!" as he finished his story. nobody chose to believe it. "i think the name _was_ slidell," said bulwer. "slidell!" said d'israeli, "i owe him two-pence, by jove!" and he went on in his dashing way to narrate that he had sat next mr. slidell at a bull-fight in seville, that he wanted to buy a fan to keep off the flies, and having nothing but doubloons in his pocket, mr. s. had lent him a small spanish coin to that value, which he owed him to this day. there was another general laugh, and it was agreed that on the whole the americans were "_done_." apropos to this, d'israeli gave us a description in a gorgeous, burlesque, galloping style, of a spanish bull-fight; and when we were nearly dead with laughing at it, some one made a move, and we went up to lady blessington in the drawing-room. lord durham requested her ladyship to introduce him, particularly, to d'israeli (the effect of his eloquence). i sat down in the corner with sir martin shee, the president of the royal academy, and had a long talk about allston and harding and cole, whose pictures he knew; and "somewhere in the small hours," we took our leave, and procter left me at my door in cavendish street weary, but in a better humor with the world than usual. footnote: [ ] i have been told that he stood once for a london borough. a coarse fellow came up at the hustings, and said to him, "i should like to know on what ground you stand here, sir?" "on my head, sir!" answered d'israeli. the populace had not read vivian grey, however, and he lost his election. letter lxxii. the italian opera--mademoiselle grisi--a glance at lord brougham--mrs. norton and lord sefton--rand, the american portrait painter--an evening party at bulwer's--palmy state of literature in modern days--fashionable neglect of females-- personages present--shiel the orator, the prince of moscowa, mrs. leicester stanhope, the celebrated beauty, etc., etc. went to the opera to hear julia grisi. i stood out the first act in the pit, and saw instances of rudeness in "fop's-alley," which i had never seen approached in three years on the continent. the high price of tickets, one would think, and the necessity of appearing in full dress, would keep the opera clear of low-bred people; but the conduct to which i refer seemed to excite no surprise and passed off without notice, though, in america, there would have been ample matter for at least, four duels. grisi is young, very pretty, and an admirable actress--three great advantages to a singer. her voice is under absolute command, and she manages it beautifully, but it wants the infusion of malibran. you merely feel that grisi is an accomplished artist, while malibran melts all your criticism into love and admiration. i am easily moved by music, but i came away without much enthusiasm for the present passion of london. the opera-house is very different from those on the continent. the stage only is lighted abroad, the single lustre from the ceiling just throwing that _clair obscure_ over the boxes, so favorable to italian complexions and morals. here, the dress circles are lighted with bright chandeliers, and the whole house sits in such a blaze of light as leaves no approach even, to a lady, unseen. the consequence is that people here dress much more, and the opera, if less interesting to the _habitué_, is a gayer thing to the many. i went up to lady blessington's box for a moment, and found strangways, the traveller, and several other distinguished men with her. her ladyship pointed out to me lord brougham, flirting desperately with a pretty woman on the opposite side of the house, his mouth going with the convulsive twitch which so disfigures him, and his most unsightly of pug-noses in the strongest relief against the red lining behind. there never was a plainer man. the honorable mrs. norton, sheridan's daughter, and poetess, sat nearer to us, looking like a queen, certainly one of the most beautiful women i ever looked upon; and the gastronomic and humpbacked lord sefton, said to be the best judge of cookery in the world, sat in the "dandy's omnibus," a large box on a level with the stage, leaning forward with his chin on his knuckles, and waiting with evident impatience for the appearance of fanny elssler in the _ballet_. beauty and all, the english opera-house surpasses anything i have seen in the way of a spectacle. an evening party at bulwer's. not yet perfectly initiated in london hours, i arrived, not far from eleven, and found mrs. bulwer alone in her illuminated rooms, whiling away an expectant hour in playing with a king charles spaniel, that seemed by his fondness and delight to appreciate the excessive loveliness of his mistress. as far off as america, i may express, even in print, an admiration which is no heresy in london. the author of pelham is a younger son and depends on his writings for a livelihood, and truly, measuring works of fancy by what they will bring, (not an unfair standard perhaps), a glance around his luxurious and elegant rooms is worth reams of puff in the quarterlies. he lives in the heart of the fashionable quarter of london, where rents are ruinously extravagant, entertains a great deal, and is expensive in all his habits, and for this pay messrs. clifford, pelham, and aram--(it would seem), most excellent good bankers. as i looked at the beautiful woman seated on the costly ottoman before me, waiting to receive the rank and fashion of london, i thought that old close-fisted literature never had better reason for his partial largess. i half forgave the miser for starving a wilderness of poets. one of the first persons who came was lord byron's sister, a thin, plain, middle-aged woman, of a very serious countenance, and with very cordial and pleasing manners. the rooms soon filled, and two professed singers went industriously to work in their vocation at the piano; but, except one pale man, with staring hair, whom i took to be a poet, nobody pretended to listen. every second woman has some strong claim to beauty in england, and the proportion of those who just miss it, by a hair's breadth as it were--who seem really to have been meant for beauties by nature, but by a slip in the moulding or pencilling are imperfect copies of the design--is really extraordinary. one after another entered, as i stood near the door with my old friend dr. bowring for a nomenclator, and the word "lovely" or "charming," had not passed my lips before some change in the attitude, or unguarded animation had exposed the flaw, and the hasty homage (for homage it is, and an idolatrous one, that we pay to the beauty of woman), was coldly and unsparingly retracted. from a goddess upon earth to a slighted and unattractive trap for matrimony is a long step, but taken on so slight a defect sometimes, as, were they marble, a sculptor would etch away with his nail. i was surprised (and i have been struck with the same thing at several parties i have attended in london), at the neglect with which the female part of the assemblage is treated. no young man ever seems to dream of speaking to a lady, except to ask her to dance. there they sit with their mamas, their hands hung over each other before them in the received attitude; and if there happens to be no dancing (as at bulwer's), looking at a print, or eating an ice, is for them the most enlivening circumstance of the evening. as well as i recollect, it is better managed in america, and certainly society is quite another thing in france and italy. late in the evening a charming girl, who is the reigning belle of naples, came in with her mother from the opera, and i made the remark to her. "i detest england for that very reason," she said frankly. "it is the fashion in london for the young men to prefer everything to the society of women. they have their clubs, their horses, their rowing matches, their hunting and betting, and everything else is a _bore_! how different are the same men at naples! they can never get enough of one there! we are surrounded and run after, "'our poodle dog is quite adored, our sayings are extremely quoted,' "and really, one feels that one _is_ a belle." she mentioned several of the beaux of last winter who had returned to england. "here i have been in london a month, and these very men that were dying for me, at my side every day on the _strada nuova_, and all but fighting to dance three times with me of an evening, have only left their cards! not because they care less about me, but because it is 'not the fashion'--it would be talked of at the club, it is 'knowing' to let us alone." there were only three men in the party, which was a very crowded one, who could come under the head of _beaux_. of the remaining part, there was much that was distinguished, both for rank and talent. sheil, the irish orator, a small, dark, deceitful, but talented-looking man, with a very disagreeable squeaking voice, stood in a corner, very earnestly engaged in conversation with the aristocratic old earl of clarendon. the contrast between the styles of the two men, the courtly and mild elegance of one, and the uneasy and half-bred, but shrewd earnestness of the other, was quite a study. fonblanc of the examiner, with his pale and dislocated-looking face, stood in the door-way between the two rooms, making the amiable with a ghastly smile to lady stepney. the 'bilious lord durham,' as the papers call him, with his brutus head, and grave, severe countenance, high-bred in his appearance, despite the worst possible coat and trowsers, stood at the pedestal of a beautiful statue, talking politics with bowring; and near them, leaned over a chair the prince moscowa, the son of marshal ney, a plain, but determined-looking young man, with his coat buttoned up to his throat, unconscious of everything but the presence of the honorable mrs. leicester stanhope, a very lovely woman, who was enlightening him in the prettiest english french, upon some point of national differences. her husband, famous as lord byron's companion in greece, and a great liberal in england, was introduced to me soon after by bulwer; and we discussed the bank and the president, with a little assistance from bowring, who joined us with a paean for the old general and his measures, till it was far into the morning. letter lxxiii. breakfast with barry cornwall--luxury of the followers of the modern muse--beauty of the dramatic sketches gains proctor a wife--hazlitt's extraordinary taste for the picturesque in women--coleridge's opinion of cornwall. breakfasted with mr. procter (known better as barry cornwall). i gave a partial description of this most delightful of poets in a former letter. in the dazzling circle of rank and talent with which he was surrounded at lady blessington's, however, it was difficult to see so shrinkingly modest a man to advantage, and with the exception of the keen gray eye, living with thought and feeling, i should hardly have recognised him, at home, for the same person. mr. procter is a barrister; and his "whereabout" is more like that of a lord chancellor than a poet proper. with the address he had given me at parting, i drove to a large house in bedford square; and, not accustomed to find the children of the muses waited on by servants in livery, i made up my mind as i walked up the broad staircase, that i was blundering upon some mr. procter of the exchange, whose respect for his poetical namesake, i hoped would smooth my apology for the intrusion. buried in a deep morocco chair, in a large library, notwithstanding, i found the poet himself--choice old pictures, filling every nook between the book-shelves, tables covered with novels and annuals, rolls of prints, busts and drawings in all corners; and, more important for the nonce, a breakfast table at the poet's elbow, spicily set forth, not with flowers or ambrosia, the canonical food of rhymers, but with cold ham and ducks, hot rolls and butter, coffee-pot and tea-urn--as sensible a breakfast, in short, as the most unpoetical of men could desire. procter is indebted to his poetry for a very charming wife, the daughter of basil montague, well known as a collector of choice literature, and the friend and patron of literary men. the exquisite beauty of the dramatic sketches interested this lovely woman in his favor before she knew him, and, far from worldly-wise as an attachment so grounded would seem, i never saw two people with a more habitual air of happiness. i thought of his touching song, "how many summers, love, hast thou been mine?" and looked at them with an inexpressible feeling of envy. a beautiful girl, of eight or nine years, the "golden-tressed adelaide," delicate, gentle and pensive, as if she was born on the lip of castaly, and knew she was a poet's child, completed the picture of happiness. the conversation ran upon various authors, whom procter had known intimately--hazlitt, charles lamb, keats, shelley, and others, and of all he gave me interesting particulars, which i could not well repeat in a public letter. the account of hazlitt's death-bed, which appeared in one of the magazines, he said was wholly untrue. this extraordinary writer was the most reckless of men in money matters, but he had a host of admiring friends who knew his character, and were always ready to assist him. he was a great admirer of the picturesque in women. he was one evening at the theatre with procter, and pointed out to him an amazonian female, strangely dressed in black velvet and lace, but with no beauty that would please an ordinary eye. "look at her!" said hazlitt, "isn't she fine!--isn't she magnificent? did you ever see anything more titianesque?"[ ] after breakfast, procter took me into a small closet adjoining his library, in which he usually writes. there was just room enough in it for a desk and two chairs, and around were piled in true poetical confusion, his favorite books, miniature likenesses of authors, manuscripts, and all the interesting lumber of a true poet's corner. from a drawer, very much thrust out of the way, he drew a volume of his own, into which he proceeded to write my name--a collection of songs, published since i have been in europe, which i had never seen. i seized upon a worn copy of the dramatic sketches, which i found crossed and interlined in every direction. "don't look at them," said procter, "they are wretched things, which should never have been printed, or at least with a world of correction. you see how i have mended them; and, some day, perhaps, i will publish a corrected edition, since i can not get them back." he took the book from my hand, and opened to "the broken heart," certainly the most highly-finished and exquisite piece of pathos in the language, and read it to me with his alterations. it was to "gild refined gold, and paint the lily." i would recommend to the lovers of barry cornwall, to keep their original copy, beautifully as he has polished his lines anew. on a blank leaf of the same copy of the dramatic sketches, i found some indistinct writing in pencil, "oh! don't read that," said procter, "the book was given me some years ago, by a friend at whose house coleridge had been staying, for the sake of the criticisms that great man did me the honor to write at the end." i insisted on reading them, however, and his wife calling him out presently, i succeeded in copying them in his absence. he seemed a little annoyed, but on my promising to make no use of them in england, he allowed me to retain them. they are as follows: "barry cornwall is a poet, _me saltem judice_, and in that sense of the word, in which i apply it to charles lamb and w. wordsworth. there are poems of great merit, the authors of which, i should not yet feel impelled so to designate. "the faults of these poems are no less things of hope than the beauties. both are just what they ought to be: i. e. _now_. "if b. c. be faithful to his genius, it in due time will warn him that as poetry is the identity of all other knowledge, so a poet can not be a great poet, but as being likewise and inclusively an historian and a naturalist in the light as well as the life of philosophy. all other men's worlds are his chaos. "hints--not to permit delicacy and exquisiteness to seduce into effeminacy. "not to permit beauties by repetition to become mannerism. "to be jealous of fragmentary composition as epicurism of genius--apple-pie made all of quinces. "item. that dramatic poetry must be poetry hid in thought and passion, not thought or passion hid in the dregs of poetry. "lastly, to be economic and withholding in similes, figures, etc. they will all find their place sooner or later, each in the luminary of a sphere of its own. there can be no galaxy in poetry, because it is language, _ergo_, successive, _ergo_ every the smallest star must be seen singly. "there are not five metrists in the kingdom whose works are known by me, to whom i could have held myself allowed to speak so plainly; but b. c. is a man of genius, and it depends on himself (_competence protecting him from gnawing and distracting cares_), to become a rightful poet--i. e. a great man. "oh, for such a man; worldly prudence is transfigured into the high spiritual duty. how generous is self-interest in him, whose true self is all that is good and hopeful in all ages as far as the language of spenser, shakspeare, and milton, is the mother tongue. "a map of the road to paradise, drawn in purgatory on the confines of hell, by s. t. c. july , ." i took my leave of this true poet after half a day passed in his company, with the impression that he makes upon every one--of a man whose sincerity and kind-heartedness were the most prominent traits in his character. simple in his language and feelings, a fond father, an affectionate husband, businessman of the closest habits of industry--one reads his strange imaginations, and passionate, high-wrought, and even sublimated poetry, and is in doubt at which most to wonder--the man as he is, or the poet as we know him in his books. footnote: [ ] the following story has been told me by another gentleman. hazlitt was married to an amiable woman, and divorced after a few years, at his own request. he left london, and returned with another wife. the first thing he did, was to send to his first wife to borrow five pounds! she had not so much in the world, but she sent to a friend (the gentleman who told me the story), borrowed it, and sent it to him! it seems to me there is a whole drama in this single fact. letter lxxiv. an evening at lady blessington's--anecdotes of moore, the poet--taylor, the platonist--politics--election of speaker--prices of books. i am obliged to "gazette" lady blessington rather more than i should wish, and more than may seem delicate to those, who do not know the central position she occupies in the circle of talent in london. her soirées and dinner-parties, however, are literally the single and only assemblages of men of genius, without reference to party--the only attempt at a republic of letters in the world of this great, envious, and gifted metropolis. the pictures of literary life, in which my countrymen would be most interested, therefore, are found within a very small compass, presuming them to prefer the brighter side of an eminent character, and presuming them (_is_ it a presumption?), not to possess that appetite for degrading the author to the man, by an anatomy of his secret personal failings, which is lamentably common in england. having premised thus much, i go on with my letter. i drove to lady blessington's an evening or two since, with the usual certainty of finding her at home, as there was no opera, and the equal certainty of finding a circle of agreeable and eminent men about her. she met me with the information that moore was in town, and an invitation to dine with her whenever she should be able to prevail upon "the little bacchus" to give her a day. d'israeli, the younger, was there, and dr. beattie, the king's physician (and author, unacknowledged, of "the heliotrope"), and one or two fashionable young noblemen. moore was naturally the first topic. he had appeared at the opera the night before, after a year's ruralizing at "sloperton cottage," as fresh and young and witty as he ever was known in his youth--(for moore must be sixty at least). lady b. said the only difference she could see in his appearance, was the loss of his curls, which once justified singularly his title of bacchus, flowing about his head in thin, glossy, elastic tendrils, unlike any other hair she had ever seen, and comparable to nothing but the rings of the vine. he is now quite bald, and the change is very striking. d'israeli regretted that he should have been met, exactly on his return to london, with the savage but clever article in fraser's magazine on his plagiarisms. "give yourself no trouble about that," said lady b., "for you may be sure he will never see it. moore guards against the sight and knowledge of criticism as people take precautions against the plague. he reads few periodicals, and but one newspaper. if a letter comes to him from a suspicious quarter, he burns it unopened. if a friend mentions a criticism to him at the club, he never forgives him; and, so well is this understood among his friends, that he might live in london a year, and all the magazines might dissect him, and he would probably never hear of it. in the country he lives on the estate of lord lansdowne, his patron and best friend, with half a dozen other noblemen within a dinner-drive, and he passes his life in this exclusive circle, like a bee in amber, perfectly preserved from everything that could blow rudely upon him. he takes the world _en philosophe_, and is determined to descend to his grave perfectly ignorant, if such things as critics exist." somebody said this was weak, and d'israeli thought it was wise, and made a splendid defence of his opinion, as usual, and i agreed with d'israeli. moore deserves a medal, as the happiest author of his day, to possess the power. a remark was made, in rather a satirical tone, upon moore's worldliness and passion for rank. "he was sure," it was said, "to have four or five invitations to dine on the same day, and he tormented himself with the idea that he had not accepted perhaps the most exclusive. he would get off from an engagement with a countess to dine with a marchioness, and from a marchioness to accept the later invitation of a duchess; and as he cared little for the society of men, and would sing and be delightful only for the applause of women, it mattered little whether one circle was more talented than another. beauty was one of his passions, but rank and fashion were all the rest." this rather left-handed portrait was confessed by all to be just, lady b. herself making no comment upon it. she gave, as an offset, however, some particulars of moore's difficulties from his west indian appointment, which left a balance to his credit. "moore went to jamaica with a profitable appointment. the climate disagreed with him, and he returned home, leaving the business in the hands of a confidential clerk, who embezzled eight thousand pounds in the course of a few months and absconded. moore's politics had made him obnoxious to the government, and he was called to account with unusual severity; while theodore hook, who had been recalled at this very time from some foreign appointment, for a deficit of twenty thousand pounds in his accounts, was never molested, being of the ruling party, moore's misfortune awakened a great sympathy among his friends. lord lansdowne was the first to offer his aid. he wrote to moore, that for many years he had been in the habit of laying aside from his income eight thousand pounds, for the encouragement of the arts and literature, and that he should feel that it was well disposed of for that year, if moore would accept it, to free him from his difficulties. it was offered in the most delicate and noble manner, but moore declined it. the members of "white's" (mostly noblemen) called a meeting, and (not knowing the amount of the deficit) subscribed in one morning twenty-five thousand pounds and wrote to the poet, that they would cover the sum, whatever it might be. this was declined. longman and murray then offered to pay it, and wait for their remuneration from his works. he declined even this, and went to passy with his family, where he economized and worked hard till it was cancelled." this was certainly a story most creditable to the poet, and it was told with an eloquent enthusiasm, that did the heart of the beautiful narrator infinite credit. i have given only the skeleton of it. lady blessington went on to mention another circumstance, very honorable to moore, of which i had never before heard. "at one time two different counties of ireland had sent committees to him, to offer him a seat in parliament; and as he depended on his writings for a subsistence, offering him at the same time twelve hundred pounds a year, while he continued to represent them. moore was deeply touched with it, and said no circumstance of his life had ever gratified him so much. he admitted, that the honor they proposed him had been his most cherished ambition, but the necessity of receiving a pecuniary support at the same time, was an insuperable obstacle. he could never enter parliament with his hands tied, and his opinions and speech fettered, as they would be irresistibly in such circumstances." this does not sound like "jump-up-and-kiss-me tom moore," as the irish ladies call him; but her ladyship vouched for the truth of it. it was worthy of an old roman. by what transition i know not, the conversation turned on platonism, and d'israeli, (who seemed to have remembered the shelf on which vivian grey was to find "the latter platonists" in his father's library) "flared up," as a dandy would say, immediately. his wild, black eyes glistened, and his nervous lips quivered and poured out eloquence; and a german professor, who had entered late, and the russian chargé d'affaires who had entered later, and a whole ottoman-full of noble exquisites, listened with wonder. he gave us an account of taylor, almost the last of the celebrated platonists, who worshipped jupiter, in a back parlor in london a few years ago, with undoubted sincerity. he had an altar and a brazen figure of the thunderer, and performed his devotions as regularly as the most pious _sacerdos_ of the ancients. in his old age he was turned out of the lodgings he had occupied for a great number of years, and went to a friend in much distress to complain of the injustice. he had "only attempted to worship his gods, according to the dictates of his conscience." "did you pay your bills?" asked the friend. "certainly." "then what is the reason?" "his landlady had taken offence at his _sacrificing a bull to jupiter in his back parlor_!" the story sounded very vivian-greyish, and everybody laughed at it as a very good invention; but d'israeli quoted his father as his authority, and it may appear in the curiosities of literature--where, however, it will never be so well told, as by the extraordinary creature from whom we had heard it. * * * * * _february d, ._--the excitement in london about the choice of a speaker is something startling. it took place yesterday, and the party are thunderstruck at the non-election of sir manners sutton. this is a terrible blow upon them, for it was a defeat at the outset; and if they failed in a question where they had the immense personal popularity of the late speaker to assist them, what will they do on general questions? the house of commons was surrounded all day with an excited mob. lady ---- told me last night that she drove down toward evening, to ascertain the result (sir c. m. sutton is her brother-in-law), and the crowd surrounded her carriage, recognizing her as the sister of the tory speaker, and threatened to tear the coronet from the panels. "we'll soon put an end to your coronets," said a rapscallion in the mob. the tories were so confident of success that sir robert peel gave out cards a week ago, for a soirée to meet speaker sutton, on the night of the election. there is a general report in town that the whigs will impeach the duke of wellington! this looks like a revolution, does it not? it is very certain that the duke and sir robert peel have advised the king to dissolve parliament again, if there is any difficulty in getting on with the government. the duke was dining with lord aberdeen the other day, when some one at table ventured to wonder, at his accepting a subordinate office in the cabinet he had himself formed. "if i could serve his majesty better," said the patrician soldier, "i would ride as king's messenger to-morrow!" he certainly is a remarkable old fellow. perhaps, however, literary news would interest you more. bulwer is publishing in a volume, his papers from the new monthly. i met him an hour ago in regent-street, looking what is called in london, "_uncommon seedy_!" he is either the worst or the best dressed man in london, according to the time of day or night you see him. d'israeli, the author of vivian grey, drives about in an open carriage, with lady s----, looking more melancholy than usual. the absent baronet, whose place he fills, is about bringing an action against him, which will finish his career, unless he can coin the damages in his brain. mrs. hemans is dying of consumption in ireland. i have been passing a week at a country house, where miss jane porter, miss pardoe, and count krazinsky (author of the court of sigismund), are domiciliated for the present. miss porter is one of her own heroines, grown old--a still handsome and noble wreck of beauty. miss pardoe is nineteen, fair-haired, sentimental, and has the smallest feet and is the best waltzer i ever saw, but she is not otherwise pretty. the polish count is writing the life of his grandmother, whom i should think he strongly resembled in person. he is an excellent fellow, for all that. i dined last week with joanna baillie, at hampstead--the most charming old lady i ever saw. to-day i dine with longman to meet tom moore, who is living _incog._ near this nestor of publishers at hampstead. moore is fagging hard on his history of ireland. i shall give you the particulars of all these things in my letters hereafter. poor elia--my old favorite--is dead. i consider it one of the most fortunate things that ever happened to me, to have seen him. i think i sent you in one of my letters an account of my breakfasting in company with charles lamb and his sister ("bridget elia") at the temple. the exquisite papers on his life and letters in the athenæum, are by barry cornwall. lady blessington's new book makes a great noise. living as she does, twelve hours out of the twenty-four, in the midst of the most brilliant and mind-exhausting circle in london, i only wonder how she found the time. yet it was written in six weeks. her novels sell for a hundred pounds more than any other author's except bulwer. do you know the _real_ prices of books? bulwer gets _fifteen_ hundred pounds--lady b. _four_ hundred, honorable mrs. norton _two_ hundred and fifty, lady charlotte bury _two_ hundred, grattan _three_ hundred and most others below this. d'israeli can not sell a book _at all_, i hear. is not that odd? i would give more for one of his novels, than for forty of the common _saleable_ things about town. the authoress of the powerful book called two old men's tales, is an old unitarian lady, a mrs. marsh. she declares she will never write another book. the other was a glorious one, though! letter lxxv. london--the poet moore--last days of sir walter scott--moore's opinion of o'connell--anacreon at the piano--death of byron--a suppressed anecdote. i called on moore with a letter of introduction, and met him at the door of his lodgings. i knew him instantly from the pictures i had seen of him, but was surprised at the diminutiveness of his person. he is much below the middle size, and with his white hat and long chocolate frock-coat, was far from prepossessing in his appearance. with this material disadvantage, however, his address is gentleman-like to a very marked degree, and, i should think no one could see moore without conceiving a strong liking for him. as i was to meet him at dinner, i did not detain him. in the moment's conversation that passed, he inquired very particularly after washington irving, expressing for him the warmest friendship, and asked what cooper was doing. i was at lady blessington's at eight. moore had not arrived, but the other persons of the party--a russian count, who spoke all the languages of europe as well as his own; a roman banker, whose dynasty is more powerful than the pope's; a clever english nobleman, and the "observed of all observers," count d'orsay, stood in the window upon the park, killing, as they might, the melancholy twilight half hour preceding dinner. "mr. moore!" cried the footman at the bottom of the staircase, "mr. moore!" cried the footman at the top. and with his glass at his eye, stumbling over an ottoman between his near-sightedness and the darkness of the room, enter the poet. half a glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet. sliding his little feet up to lady blessington (of whom he was a lover when she was sixteen, and to whom some of the sweetest of his songs were written), he made his compliments, with a gayety and an ease combined with a kind of worshipping deference, that was worthy of a prime-minister at the court of love. with the gentlemen, all of whom he knew, he had the frank merry manner of a confident favorite, and he was greeted like one. he went from one to the other, straining back his head to look up at them (for, singularly enough, every gentleman in the room was six feet high and upward), and to every one he said something which, from any one else, would have seemed peculiarly felicitous, but which fell from his lips, as if his breath was not more spontaneous. dinner was announced, the russian handed down "milady," and i found myself seated opposite moore, with a blaze of light on his bacchus head, and the mirrors, with which the superb octagonal room is pannelled, reflecting every motion. to see him only at table, you would think him not a small man. his principal length is in his body, and his head and shoulders are those of a much larger person. consequently he _sits tall_, and with the peculiar erectness of head and neck, his diminutiveness disappears. the soup vanished in the busy silence that beseems it, and as the courses commenced their procession, lady blessington led the conversation with the brilliancy and ease, for which she is remarkable over all the women of her time. she had received from sir william gell, at naples, the manuscript of a volume upon the last days of sir walter scott. it was a melancholy chronicle of imbecility, and the book was suppressed, but there were two or three circumstances narrated in its pages which were interesting. soon after his arrival at naples, sir walter went with his physician and one or two friends to the great museum. it happened that on the same day a large collection of students and italian literati were assembled, in one of the rooms, to discuss some newly-discovered manuscripts. it was soon known that the "wizard of the north" was there, and a deputation was sent immediately, to request him to honor them by presiding at their session. at this time scott was a wreck, with a memory that retained nothing for a moment, and limbs almost as helpless as an infant's. he was dragging about among the relics of pompeii, taking no interest in anything he saw, when their request was made known to him through his physician. "no, no," said he, "i know nothing of their lingo. tell them i am not well enough to come." he loitered on, and in about half an hour after, he turned to dr. h. and said, "who was that you said wanted to see me?" the doctor explained. "i'll go," said he, "they shall see me if they wish it;" and, against the advice of his friends, who feared it would be too much for his strength, he mounted the staircase, and made his appearance at the door. a burst of enthusiastic cheers welcomed him on the threshold, and forming in two lines, many of them on their knees, they seized his hands as he passed, kissed them, thanked him in their passionate language for the delight with which he had filled the world, and placed him in the chair with the most fervent expressions of gratitude for his condescension. the discussion went on, but not understanding a syllable of the language, scott was soon wearied, and his friends observed it, pleaded the state of his health as an apology, and he rose to take his leave. these enthusiastic children of the south crowded once more around him, and with exclamations of affection and even tears, kissed his hands once more, assisting his tottering steps, and sent after him a confused murmur of blessings as the door closed on his retiring form. it is described by the writer as the most affecting scene he had ever witnessed. some other remarks were made upon scott, but the _parole_ was soon yielded to moore, who gave us an account of a visit he made to abbotsford when its illustrious owner was in his pride and prime. "scott," he said, "was the most manly and natural character in the world. you felt when with him, that he was the soul of truth and heartiness. his hospitality was as simple and open as the day, and he lived freely himself, and expected his guests to do so. i remember him giving us whiskey at dinner, and lady scott met my look of surprise with the assurance that sir walter seldom dined without it. he never ate or drank to excess, but he had no system, his constitution was herculean, and he denied himself nothing. i went once from a dinner party with sir thomas lawrence to meet scott at lockhart's. we had hardly entered the room when we were set down to a hot supper of roast chickens, salmon, punch, etc., etc., and sir walter ate immensely of everything. what a contrast between this and the last time i saw him in london! he had come down to embark for italy--broken quite down in mind and body. he gave mrs. moore a book, and i asked him if he would make it more valuable by writing in it. he thought i meant that he should write some verses, and said, 'oh i never write poetry now.' i asked him to write only his own name and hers, and he attempted it, but it was quite illegible." some one remarked that scott's life of napoleon was a failure. "i think little of it," said moore; "but after all, it was an embarrassing task, and scott did what a wise man would do--made as much of his subject as was politic and necessary, and no more." "it will not live," said some one else; "as much because it is a bad book, as because it is the life of an individual." "but _what_ an individual!" moore replied. "voltaire's life of charles the twelfth was the life of an individual, yet that will live and be read as long as there is a book in the world, and what was he to napoleon?" o'connell was mentioned. "he is a powerful creature," said moore, "but his eloquence has done great harm both to england and ireland. there is nothing so powerful as oratory. the faculty of '_thinking on his legs_,' is a tremendous engine in the hands of any man. there is an undue admiration for this faculty, and a sway permitted to it, which was always more dangerous to a country than anything else. lord althorp is a wonderful instance of what a man may do _without_ talking. there is a general confidence in him--a universal belief in his honesty, which serves him instead. peel is a fine speaker, but, admirable as he had been as an oppositionist, he failed, when he came to lead the house. o'connell would be irresistible were it not for the two blots on his character--the contributions in ireland for his support, and his refusal to give satisfaction to the man he is still coward enough to attack. they may say what they will of duelling, it is the great preserver of the decencies of society. the old school, which made a man responsible for his words, was the better. i must confess i think so. then, in o'connell's case, he had not made his vow against duelling when peel challenged him. he accepted the challenge, and peel went to dover on his way to france, where they were to meet; and o'connell pleaded his wife's illness, and delayed till the law interfered. some other irish patriot, about the same time, refused a challenge on account of the illness of his daughter, and one of the dublin wits made a good epigram on the two:-- "'some men, with a horror of slaughter, improve on the scripture command, and 'honor their'----wife and daughter-- that their days may be long in the land.' "the great period of ireland's glory was between ' and ' , and it was a time when a man almost lived with a pistol in his hand. grattan's dying advice to his son, was, 'be always ready with the pistol!' he, himself never hesitated a moment. at one time, there was a kind of conspiracy to fight him out of the world. on some famous question, corrie was employed purposely to bully him, and made a personal attack of the grossest virulence. grattan was so ill, at the time, as to be supported into the house between two friends. he rose to reply; and first, without alluding to corrie at all, clearly and entirely overturned every argument he had advanced, that bore upon the question. he then paused a moment, and stretching out his arm, as if he would reach across the house, said, 'for the assertions the gentleman has been pleased to make with regard to myself, my answer _here_, is _they are false_! elsewhere, it would be--_a blow!_ they met, and grattan shot him through the arm. corrie proposed another shot, but grattan said, 'no! let the curs fight it out!' and they were friends ever after. i like the old story of the irishman, who was challenged by some desperate blackguard. 'fight _him_!' said he, 'i would sooner go to my grave without a fight! talking of grattan, is it not wonderful that, with all the agitation in ireland, we have had no such men since his time? look at the irish newspapers. the whole country in convulsions--people's lives, fortunes, and religion, at stake, and not a gleam of talent from one year's end to the other. it is natural for sparks to be struck out in a time of violence, like this--but ireland, for all that is worth living for, _is dead_! you can scarcely reckon shiel of the calibre of her spirits of old, and o'connell, with all his faults, stands 'alone in his glory.'" the conversation i have thus run together is a mere skeleton, of course. nothing but a short-hand report could retain the delicacy and elegance of moore's language, and memory itself cannot embody again the kind of frost-work of imagery, which was formed and melted on his lips. his voice is soft or firm as the subject requires, but perhaps the word _gentlemanly_ describes it better than any other. it is upon a natural key, but, if i may so phrase it, it is _fused_ with a high-bred affectation, expressing deference and courtesy, at the same time, that its pauses are constructed peculiarly to catch the ear. it would be difficult not to attend to him while he is talking, though the subject were but the shape of a wine-glass. moore's head is distinctly before me while i write, but i shall find it difficult to describe. his hair, which curled once all over it in long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in the world, and which probably suggested his _sobriquet_ of "bacchus," is diminished now to a few curls sprinkled with gray, and scattered in a single ring above his ears. his forehead is wrinkled, with the exception of a most prominent development of the organ of gayety, which, singularly enough, shines with the lustre and smooth polish of a pearl, and is surrounded by a semicircle of lines drawn close about it, like entrenchments against time. his eyes still sparkle like a champaign bubble, though the invader has drawn his pencillings about the corners; and there is a kind of wintry red, of the tinge of an october leaf, that seems enamelled on his cheek, the eloquent record of the claret his wit has brightened. his mouth is the most characteristic feature of all. the lips are delicately cut, slight and changeable as an aspen; but there is a set-up look about the lower lip, a determination of the muscle to a particular expression, and you fancy that you can almost see wit astride upon it. it is written legibly with the imprint of habitual success. it is arch, confident, and half diffident, as if he were disguising his pleasure at applause, while another bright gleam of fancy was breaking on him. the slightly-tossed nose confirms the fun of the expression, and altogether it is a face that sparkles, beams, radiates,--everything but _feels_. fascinating beyond all men as he is, moore looks like a worldling. this description may be supposed to have occupied the hour after lady blessington retired from the table; for, with her, vanished moore's excitement, and everybody else seemed to feel, that light had gone out of the room. her excessive beauty is less an inspiration than the wondrous talent with which she draws from every person around her his peculiar excellence. talking better than anybody else, and narrating, particularly, with a graphic power that i never saw excelled, this distinguished woman seems striving only to make others unfold themselves; and never had diffidence a more apprehensive and encouraging listener. but this is a subject with which i should never be done. we went up to coffee, and moore brightened again over his _chasse-café_, and went glittering on with criticisms on grisi, the delicious songstress now ravishing the world, whom he placed above all but pasta; and whom he thought, with the exception that her legs were too short, an incomparable creature. this introduced music very naturally, and with a great deal of difficulty he was taken to the piano. my letter is getting long, and i have no time to describe his singing. it is well known, however, that its effect is only equalled by the beauty of his own words; and, for one, i could have taken him into my heart with my delight. he makes no attempt at music. it is a kind of admirable recitative, in which every shade of thought is syllabled and dwelt upon, and the sentiment of the song goes through your blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your tears, if you have soul or sense in you. i have heard of women's fainting at a song of moore's; and if the burden of it answered by chance, to a secret in the bosom of the listener, i should think, from its comparative effect upon so old a stager as myself, that the heart would break with it. we all sat around the piano, and after two or three songs of lady blessington's choice, he rambled over the keys awhile, and sang "when first i met thee," with a pathos that beggars description. when the last word had faltered out, he rose and took lady blessington's hand, said good-night, and was gone before a word was uttered. for a full minute after he had closed the door, no one spoke. i could have wished, for myself, to drop silently asleep where i sat, with the tears in my eyes and the softness upon my heart. "here's a health to thee, tom moore!" * * * * * i was in company the other evening where westmacott, the sculptor, was telling a story of himself and leigh hunt. they were together one day at fiesole, when a butterfly, of an uncommon sable color, alighted on westmacott's forehead, and remained there several minutes. hunt immediately cried out, "the spirit of some dear friend is departed," and as they entered the gate of florence on their return, some one met them and informed them of the death of byron, the news of which had at that moment arrived. * * * * * i have just time before the packet sails to send you an anecdote, that is _bought out_ of the london papers. a nobleman, living near belgrave square, received a visit a day or two ago from a police officer, who stated to him, that he had a man-servant in his house, who had escaped from botany bay. his lordship was somewhat surprised, but called up the male part of his household, at the officer's request, and passed them in review. the culprit was not among them. the officer then requested to see the _female_ part of the establishment; and, to the inexpressible astonishment of the whole household, he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the _lady's confidential maid_, and informed her she was his prisoner. a change of dress was immediately sent for, and miladi's dressing-maid was re-metamorphosed into an effeminate-looking fellow, and marched off to a new trial. it is a most extraordinary thing, that he had lived unsuspected in the family for nine months, performing all the functions of a confidential abigail, and very much in favor with his unsuspecting mistress, who is rather a serious person, and would as soon have thought of turning out to be a man herself. it is said, that the husband once made a remark upon the huskiness of the maid's voice, but no other comment was ever made, reflecting in the least upon her qualities as a member of the _beau sexe_. the story is quite authentic, but hushed up out of regard to the lady. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. letters of felix mendelssohn bartholdy from italy and switzerland. translated by lady wallace. with a biographical notice by julie de marguerittes. [illustration: logo] boston: oliver ditson & co., washington street. new york: c. h. ditson & co. felix mendelssohn bartholdy. felix mendelssohn bartholdy was born at hamburg, on the third of february, . the name to which he was destined to add such lustre, was already high in the annals of fame. moses mendelssohn, his grandfather, a great jewish philosopher, one of the most remarkable men of his time, was the author of profound metaphysical works, written both in german and hebrew. to this great power of intellect, moses mendelssohn added a purity and dignity of character worthy of the old stoics. the epigraph on the bust of this ancestor of the composer, shows the esteem in which he was held by his contemporaries: "faithful to the religion of his fathers, as wise as socrates, like socrates teaching the immortality of the soul, and like socrates leaving a name that is immortal." one of moses mendelssohn's daughters married frederick schlegel, and swerving from the religion in which both had been brought up, both became roman catholics. joseph mendelssohn, the eldest son of this great old man, was also distinguished for his literary taste, and has left two excellent works of very different characters, one on dante, the other on the system of a paper currency. in conjunction with his brother, abraham, he founded the banking-house of mendelssohn & company at berlin, still flourishing under the management of the sons of the original founders, the brothers and cousins of felix, the subject of this memoir. george mendelssohn the son of joseph, was also a distinguished political writer and professor in the university at bonn. with such an array of intellectual ancestry, the mendelssohn of our day came into the world at hamburg, on the third of february, . he was named felix, and a more appropriate name could not have been found for him, for in character, circumstance and endowment, he was supremely happy. goethe, speaking of him, said "the boy was born on a lucky day." his first piece of good fortune, was in having not only an excellent virtuous woman for his mother, but a woman who, besides these qualities, possessed extraordinary intellect and had received an education that fitted her to be the mother of children endowed as hers were. she professed the lutheran creed, in which her children were brought up. being of a distinguished commercial family and an heiress, her husband added her name of bartholdy to his own. mme. mendelssohn bartholdy's other children were, fanny her first-born, whose life is entirely interwoven with that of her brother felix, and paul and rebecca, born some years later. when yet a boy, felix removed with his parents to berlin, probably at the time of the formation of the banking house. the prussian capital has often claimed the honor of being his birthplace, but that distinction really belongs to hamburg. his extraordinary musical talent was not long in developing itself. his sister fanny, his "soul's friend" and constant companion, almost as richly endowed as himself, aroused his emulation, and they studied music together first as an art, and then as a science, to be the foundation of future works of inspiration and genius. zelter, severe and classic, profoundly scientific, inexorable for all that was not true science, became the teacher of these two gifted children in composition and in counterpoint. for piano-forte playing, berger was the professor, though some years later moscheles added the benefit of his counsels, and felix was fond of calling himself the pupil of moscheles, with whom in after life he contracted a close friendship. zelter was exceedingly proud of his pupil, soon discovering that instead of an industrious and intelligent child, one of the greatest musical geniuses ever known was dawning on the world. when he was but fifteen, zelter took the young musician to weimar, and secured for him the acquaintance and good will of goethe, which as long as goethe lived, seemed to be the necessary consecration of all talent in germany. by this time not only was he an admirable performer on the piano, possessed of a talent for improvisation and a memory so wonderful, that not only could he play almost all bach, händel, haydn, mozart and beethoven by heart, but he could also without hesitation accompany a whole opera from memory, provided he had but seen the score once. the overture to midsummer night's dream, so popular now in every country, was composed before he was seventeen, and was played for the first time as a duet on the piano by his sister fanny and himself on the th november, . this is indeed the inspiration of youth with its brilliancy, its buoyancy, its triumphant joy, full of the poetry of a young heart, full of the imagination of a mind untainted by the world. it was not till some years after, that mendelssohn completed the music to shakspeare's great play. in , felix left the university of berlin with great honors. he was a profound classical scholar, and has left as a specimen of his knowledge, a correct, graceful and elegant translation of terence's comedy of andria, a work greatly approved of by goethe. he excelled in gymnastics, was an elegant rider, and like lord byron, a bold and accomplished swimmer. the year he left the university, he went to england, where henrietta sonntag was in the height of her fame. he played in several concerts where she sang, as well as with moscheles, his old friend and teacher, now established in london. on his return to germany in , he visited goethe at weimar, and there planned his journey to italy, a country which all men of genius yearn after, as the promised land of inspiration. when in rome, felix mendelssohn began the grand cantata of the walpurgis night, to goethe's words, at which he worked for some years. on his return from his travels, mendelssohn, who had now all the assurance and self-possession of an artist, was appointed chapel-master at düsseldorf, a position which gave him the direction of the grand musical festivals held at that time in this city and in aix-la-chapelle. it was during his residence in düsseldorf, that he composed his oratorio of st. paul, and also, the first set of his "songs without words" for the piano, where the music, by its varied expression and its intensity, alone told the story of the poet. these compositions were a novelty for piano-forte players, and inaugurated a new style, full of interest, gradually setting aside the variations and sonatas which had become so meaningless and tedious. the oratorio of st. paul was not given until , when it was produced at düsseldorf, under his own special superintendence. mendelssohn composed very rapidly, but he was cautious in giving his works to the public, until they thoroughly satisfied his judgment, the most critical to which they could be submitted. in the latter part of , having gone to frankfort, to direct a concert of the ceciliaverein, he became acquainted with cecilia jeanrenaud, a beautiful and accomplished girl, the second daughter of a clergyman of the reformed church, and in the spring of she became his wife. the marriage had been delayed some months by mendelssohn's ill health; he had begun to feel the first symptoms of the nervous disease, affecting the brain, from which he was destined henceforth to suffer, and of which, finally, he was fated to die. after his marriage he undertook the direction of the leipzig concerts. all over germany, mendelssohn was in requisition; his immense genius as a composer, his great skill as a conductor, his gentle, fascinating manners, gave him extraordinary popularity. it was england, however, after all, who appreciated him most. sacred music seems to appeal especially to the english taste. haydn, händel, beethoven have all found more patronage and appreciation in england than in their own country. so it was with mendelssohn; the greatest musical triumph ever achieved, was the performance of the oratorio of elijah, given at birmingham, the work on which mendelssohn's fame will rest. he was nine years in composing this oratorio; and notwithstanding the most flattering ovation, mendelssohn's serene temperament was not moved to vanity or conceit. in the very moment of his success, he sat down modestly to correct many things that had not satisfied him. the trio for three female voices (without accompaniment) one of the most beautiful pieces in the oratorio, was added by the composer after the public had declared itself satisfied with the work as it originally stood. elijah was produced in , but mendelssohn had been several times to england before this, playing at the ancient and philharmonic concerts; at that time, the resort of the élite in london. it was during one of these visits in , that prince albert, who as a german and a musician, had sought his acquaintance, introduced him to queen victoria. the visit was entirely devoid of formality, for without any previous announcement, the prince conducted mendelssohn from his private apartments, to the queen's study, where they found her surrounded by papers, and just terminating her morning's work. the queen receiving him most graciously, apologized to the composer for the untidiness of the room, beginning herself to put it in order and laughingly accepting his assistance. after some agreeable conversation mendelssohn sat down to the piano and played whatever the queen asked of him. when at length he rose, prince albert asked the queen to sing, and gracefully choosing one of mendelssohn's own compositions, she complied with the request. mendelssohn of course applauded, but the queen laughingly told him, that she had been too frightened to sing well. "ask lablache," (lablache was her singing master) added the queen, "he will tell you that i can sing better than i have done to-day." prince albert and the queen were ever warm patrons and friends of mendelssohn. during all this time so brilliantly filled up, mendelssohn's health was continually and gradually declining. his nervous susceptibility was such that he was often obliged to abstain from playing for weeks together, his gentle and affectionate wife watching him and keeping him as much as possible from composition. this was a very difficult task, for mendelssohn was a great worker. even when travelling, he would take out pen and ink from his pocket and compose at one corner of the table, whilst the dinner was getting ready. little was mendelssohn prepared, either mentally or physically at this time, to bear the one great sorrow that overwhelmed this happy life, on which the sun of prosperity had ever shone. his sister fanny, to whom many of his letters were written, and who had been the companion of his studies, possessing the same tastes and a great deal of the same genius; his sister fanny, who was the nearest and dearest affection of his life, was suddenly taken from him. she had married and was living in frankfort, where she was the ornament of society, in this enlightened and art-loving city, when in the midst of a rehearsal of faust, a symphony of her own composition, she was struck with apoplexy and fell back dead in her chair. there is no doubt that this shock considerably increased the disease from which mendelssohn was suffering, and though he used to rally and even appear resigned, this sorrow, until the day of his death, lay heavy at his heart. again he tried to find health and peace in travel; he went to switzerland with his wife, who strove to keep him from all occupation and labor, but he would gently urge her to let him work. "the time is not far off, when i shall rest; i must make the most of the time given me." "i know not how short a time it may be," would he say to her. on his return from switzerland and baden-baden, he went to berlin; and once more all that remained of this tenderly attached family, were united for a short time. at length he returned to his home in leipzig, serene as ever, but worn to a shadow by the acute and continued pains in the head for which he could obtain no relief. on the th of october, he went to the house of a friend, one of the artists of the leipzig concerts, and entreated her to sing for him a song he had that night composed. by a strange coincidence, this song began with these words, "vanished has the light of day." it was mendelssohn's last composition, the last music he heard on earth, for whilst the lady was singing it, he was seized with vertigo and was carried insensible back to his house. he recovered, however, comparatively from this attack, but a second stroke of apoplexy placed his life in extreme peril, and a third, on the rd of november, made him utterly unconscious. towards nine o'clock on the evening of the th, ( ,) he breathed his last, going to his everlasting rest as easily and as calmly as a tired child sinks to sleep. he was in the thirty-ninth year of his age. mendelssohn's death was looked upon, throughout germany, as a public calamity. the funeral ceremonies at leipzig were of a most imposing character, and all the way from leipzig to berlin, where the corpse was taken, to be buried in the family vault, the most touching honors greeted it. nearly all the crowned heads of europe wrote letters of condolence to his widow. mendelssohn as a musician is profoundly original. in his oratorios "paul" and "elijah" he has swerved from the conventional religious style; eschewing all fugues, his oratorios are full of power, and contain great dramatic effects--at once grand and solemn. his other music is remarkable for the sweetness of its melodies--its earnest simplicity. his instrumentality is scientific without being pedantic or heavy, and utterly devoid of antiquated formalism; though pathetic often, there is always a vigor and life in all his inspirations; the low mournful wail that runs through all chopin's works, arising from a morbid condition of health and heart, is never felt in mendelssohn. there is none of the bitterness, the long suffering that artists' lives entail and that artists infuse into their works, for mendelssohn was a happy man from first to last. mendelssohn the happy, "the boy born on a lucky day," has left a life-record that amid the gloomy heart-rending and often degrading histories of artists, shines with a chaste and holy life. nature, the world and circumstance had done every thing for him. to the great and all-sufficient gift of his musical genius he added many others,--he had the eye of a painter, the heart of a poet, his intellect was of the highest order; he was tall, handsome, graceful, his social position one of the finest in berlin, rich, and surrounded by the tenderest family affections. with all these advantages, with all the success that attended him, with all the flattery lavished on him, mendelssohn was never vain or proud, and throughout his life was utterly free from envy. his fine, fearless, childlike spirit, led him through the world, unconscious of evil, undaunted by it. with all the temptations that must have assailed the young, handsome, rich man, there is not one moment of his life over which his friends would wish to draw a veil. on such a life as that of felix mendelssohn, it is good for every one to look, for once, genius is not set forth as a dazzling screen to hide and to excuse disorder and crime, but genius, that one great gift from heaven, was employed as heaven would have directed it, each action, each succeeding year of his life, bringing forth in various but harmonious ways, that extraordinary moral and intellectual worth, that rare beauty of character that endeared him to all who knew him, ensured him the unvarying love of kindred and friends, and the admiration of the whole world. preface. last year a paragraph was inserted in the newspapers, requesting any one who possessed letters from felix mendelssohn bartholdy to send them to professor droysen, or to myself, with the view of completing a selection from his correspondence which we contemplated publishing. our design in this was twofold. in the first place, we wished to offer to the public in mendelssohn's own words, which always so truly and faithfully mirrored his thoughts, the most genuine impression of his character; and secondly, we thought that the biographical elements contained in such a correspondence, might be of infinite use in the compilation of a memoir--which we reserve for a future day--and serve as its precursor and basis. there are difficulties, however, opposed to the immediate fulfilment of our original purpose to its full extent; and at present it is impossible to decide when these can be removed. i have, therefore, formed the resolution to carry out my plan in the meantime within more circumscribed limits, but which leaves me unfettered. on mendelssohn's return from his first visit to england, in the year , he came to berlin for a short time to attend a family festivity, and thence in proceeded to italy, returning through switzerland to france, and in the beginning of visiting england for the second time. this period, which to a certain degree forms a separate section of his life, and which, through the vivid impressions it made, assuredly exercised an important influence on mendelssohn's development (we may mention that he was only one-and-twenty at the commencement of his journey), supplies us with a number of letters addressed to his parents, and to his sisters, fanny and rebecca, as well as to myself. i have also added some communications of the same date, to various friends, partly entire and partly in extracts, and now present them to the public in their original integrity. those who were personally acquainted with mendelssohn, and who wish once more to realize him as he was when in life,--and those also who would be glad to acquire a more definite idea of his individuality than can be found in the general inferences deduced from his musical creations,--will not lay down these letters dissatisfied. along with this particular source of interest they offer a more universal one, as they prove how admirably mendelssohn's superior nature, and perceptions of art, mutually pervaded and regulated each other. with this view, it appeared to me a duty to give to the public these letters, stored up in the peaceful home for which they were originally destined and exclusively intended, and thus to make them accessible to a more extended circle. they begin by a visit to goethe. may his words then accompany these letters, as an appropriate convoy:-- "be sure the works of mighty men, the good, the faithful, the sublime, stored in the gallery of time, repose awhile--to wake again."[ ] paul mendelssohn bartholdy. berlin, _march_, . [ ] "was in der zeiten bildersaal jemals ist trefflich gewesen, das wird immer einer einmal wieder auffrischen und lesen." letters. weimar, may st, . never, in the whole course of my travels, do i remember a more glorious and inspiriting day for a journey than yesterday. at an early hour in the morning the sky was grey and cloudy, but the sun presently burst forth; the air was cool and fresh, and being ascension sunday the people were all dressed in their best. in one village i saw them crowding into church as i passed, in another coming away from divine service, and, last of all, playing at bowls. the gardens were bright with tulips, and i drove quickly past, eagerly looking at everything. at weissenfels they gave me a little basket carriage, and at naumburg an open droschky. my effects, including my hat and cloak, were piled upon it behind. i bought a few bunches of lilies-of-the-valley, and thus i travelled on through the country, as if on a pleasure excursion. some collegians came up to me beyond naumburg, and envied me. we then drove past president g----, seated in a small carriage, which evidently had some difficulty in containing him, and his daughters or _wives_; in short, the two ladies with him, who appeared equally envious of my position. we actually _trotted_ up the kösen hill, for the horses scarcely drew bridle, and overtook several heavily-laden carriages, the drivers of which no doubt also envied me, for i was really to be envied. the scenery had a charming air of spring--so cheerful and gay, and blooming. the sun sank solemnly behind the hills, and presently we came up with the russian minister and his suite, in two heavy carriages, each with four horses, in true ponderous official array; and my light droschky darted past him like a hare. in the evening i got a pair of restive horses, so that i had my little annoyance also, (according to my theory, enhancing pleasure,) and not a single bar did i compose all day, but enjoyed complete idleness. it was a delicious day, and one i shall not soon forget. i close this description with the remark, that the children in eckartsberge dance merry rounds hand-in-hand, just as ours do at home, and that the appearance of a stranger did not in the least disturb them, in spite of his distinguished air; i should have liked to join in their game. may th. i wrote this before going to see goethe, early in the forenoon, after a walk in the park; but i could not find a moment to finish my letter till now. i shall probably remain here for a couple of days, which is no sacrifice, for i never saw the old gentleman so cheerful and amiable as on this occasion, or so talkative and communicative. my especial reason however for staying two days longer, is a very agreeable one, and makes me almost vain, or i ought rather to say proud, and i do not intend to keep it secret from you,--goethe, you must know, sent me a letter yesterday addressed to an artist here, a painter, which i am to deliver myself; and ottilie confided to me that it contains a commission to take my portrait, as goethe wishes to place it in a collection of likenesses he has recently commenced of his friends. this circumstance gratified me exceedingly; as however i have not yet seen the complaisant artist who is to accomplish this, nor has he seen me, it is probable that i shall have to remain here until the day after to-morrow. i don't in the least regret this, for, as i have told you, i live a most agreeable life here, and thoroughly enjoy the society of the old poet. i have dined with him every day, and am invited again to-day. this evening there is to be a party at his house, where i am to play. it is quite delightful to hear him conversing on every subject, and seeking information on all points. i must however tell you everything regularly and in order, so that you may know each separate detail. early in the day i went to see ottilie, who, though still delicate, and often complaining, i thought more cheerful than formerly, and quite as kind and amiable as ever towards myself. we have been constantly together since then, and it has been a source of much pleasure to me to know her more intimately. ulrike is more agreeable and charming than formerly; a certain earnestness pervades her whole nature, and she has now a degree of repose, and a depth of feeling, that render her one of the most attractive creatures i have ever met. the two boys, walter and wolf, are lively, studious, cordial lads, and to hear them talking about "grandpapa's faust," is most pleasant. but to return to my narrative. i sent zelter's letter at once to goethe, who immediately invited me to dinner. i thought him very little changed in appearance, but at first rather silent and apathetic; i think he wished to see how i demeaned myself. i was vexed, and thought that possibly he was always now in this mood. happily the conversation turned on the _frauen-vereine_ in weimar, and on the 'chaos,' a humorous paper circulated among themselves by the ladies here, i having soared so high as to be a contributor to this undertaking. all at once the old man became quite gay, laughing at the two ladies about their charities and intellectualism, and their subscriptions and hospital work, which he seems cordially to detest. he called on me to aid him in his onslaught, and as i did not require to be asked twice, he speedily became just what he used to be, and at last more kind and confidential than i had ever seen him. the assault soon became general. the 'robber bride' of ries, he said contained all that an artist in these days required to live happily,--a robber and a bride; then he attacked the young people of the present day for their universal tendency to languor and melancholy, and related the story of a young lady to whom he had once paid court, and who also felt some interest in him; a discussion on the exhibitions followed, and a fancy bazaar for the poor, where the ladies of weimar were the shopwomen, and where he declared it was impossible to purchase anything because the young people made a private agreement among themselves, and hid the different articles till the proper purchasers appeared. after dinner he all at once began--"gute kinder--hübsche kinder--muss immer lustig sein--tolles volk," etc., his eyes looking like those of a drowsy old lion. then he begged me to play to him, and said it seemed strange that he had heard no music for so long; that he supposed we had made great progress, but he knew nothing of it. he wished me to tell him a great deal on the subject, saying "do let us have a little rational conversation together;" and turning to ottilie, he said, "no doubt you have already made your own wise arrangements, but they must yield to my express orders, which are, that you must make tea here this evening, that we may be all together again." when in return she asked him if it would not make him too late, as riemer was coming to work with him, he replied, "as you gave your children a holiday from their latin to-day, that they might hear felix play, i think you might also give me one day of relaxation from _my_ work." he invited me to return to dinner, and i played a great deal to him in the evening. my three welsh pieces, dedicated to three english sisters, have great success here;[ ] and i am trying to rub up my english. as i had begged goethe to address me as _thou_, he desired ottilie to say to me on the following day, in that case i must remain longer than the two days i had fixed, otherwise he could not regain the more familiar habit i wished. he repeated this to me himself, saying that he did not think i should lose much by staying a little longer, and invited me always to dine with him when i had no other engagement. i have consequently been with him every day, and yesterday i told him a great deal about scotland, and hengstenberg, and spontini, and hegel's 'Æsthetics.'[ ] he sent me to tiefurth with the ladies, but prohibited my driving to berka, because a very pretty girl lived there, and he did not wish to plunge me into misery. [ ] three pieces for the piano, composed in for the album of three young english ladies; subsequently published as opus . [ ] felix mendelssohn attended the berlin university as a matriculated student for more than a year; a vast number of sheets written by him at this period, during the lectures, are still extant. i thought to myself, this was indeed the goethe of whom people will one day say, that he was not one single individual, but consisted of several little _goethiden_. i am to play over to him to-day various pieces of bach, haydn, and mozart, and thus lead him on, as he said, to the present day. i should indeed have been very foolish to have regretted my delay; besides, i am a conscientious traveller, and have seen the library, and 'iphigenia in aulis.' hummel has struck out all the octaves, etc. felix. weimar, may th, . i have just received your welcome letter, written on ascension day. i cannot help myself, but must still write to you from this place. i will soon send you, dear fanny, a copy of my symphony; i am having it written out here, and mean to forward it to leipzig (where perhaps it will be performed), with strict orders to deliver it into your own hands, as soon as possible. try to collect opinions as to the title i ought to select; reformation symphony, confession symphony, symphony for a church festival, juvenile symphony, or whatever you like. write to me on this subject, and instead of a number of stupid suggestions, send me one clever one; still, i should rather like to hear some of the nonsensical ones sure to be devised on the occasion. yesterday evening i was at a party at goethe's, and played alone the whole evening,--the concert-stück, the invitation à la valse, and weber's polonaise in c, my three welsh pieces, and my scotch sonata. it was over by ten o'clock, but i of course stayed till twelve o'clock, when we had all sorts of fun, dancing and singing; so you see i lead a most jovial life here. the old gentleman goes to his room regularly at nine o'clock, and as soon as he is gone, we begin our frolics, and never separate before midnight. to-morrow my portrait is to be finished; a large black-crayon sketch, and very like; but i look rather sulky. goethe is so friendly and kind to me, that i don't know how to thank him sufficiently, or what to do to deserve it. in the forenoon he likes me to play to him the compositions of the various great masters, in chronological order, for an hour, and also tell him the progress they have made, while he sits in a dark corner, like a _jupiter tonans_, his old eyes flashing on me. he did not wish to hear anything of beethoven's, but i told him that i could not let him off, and played the first part of the symphony in c minor. it seemed to have a singular effect on him; at first he said, "this causes no emotion, nothing but astonishment: it is _grandios_." he continued grumbling in this way, and after a long pause he began again,--"it is very grand, very wild; it makes one fear that the house is about to fall down; and what must it be when played by a number of men together!" during dinner, in the midst of another subject, he alluded to it again. you know that i dine with him every day, when he questions me very minutely, and is always so gay and communicative after dinner, that we generally remain together alone for an hour while he speaks on uninterruptedly. i have no greater pleasure than when he brings out engravings, and explains them to me, or gives his opinion of ernani, or lamartine's elegies, or the theatre, or pretty girls. he has several times lately invited people, which he rarely does now, so that most of the guests had not seen him for a long time. i then play a great deal, and he compliments me before all these people, and "_ganz stupend_" is his favourite expression. to-day he has invited a number of weimar beauties on my account, because he thinks that i ought to enjoy the society of young people. if i go up to him on such occasions, he says, "my young friend, you must join the ladies, and make yourself agreeable to them." i am not however devoid of tact, so i contrived to have him asked yesterday whether i did not come too often; but he growled out to ottilie, who put the question to him, that "he must now begin to speak to me in good earnest, for i had such clear ideas, that he hoped to _learn much from me_." i became twice as tall in my own estimation, when ottilie repeated this to me. he said so to me himself yesterday; and when he declared that there were many subjects he had at heart that i must explain to him, i _said_, "oh, certainly!" but i _thought_, "this is an honour i can never forget,"--often it is the very reverse. felix. munich, june th, . it is a long time since i have written to you, and i fear you may have been anxious on my account. you must not be angry with me, for it was really no fault of mine, and i have been not a little annoyed about it. i expedited my journey as well as i could, inquiring everywhere about diligences, and invariably receiving false information. i travelled through one night on purpose to enable me to write to you by this day's post, of which i was told at nürnberg; and when at last i arrive, i find that no post leaves here to-day: it is enough to drive one wild, and i feel out of all patience with germany and her petty principalities, her different kinds of money, her diligences, which require an hour and a quarter for a german mile, and her thuringian forests, where there is incessant rain and wind,--nay, even with her 'fidelio' this very evening, for, though dead beat, i must do my duty by going to see it, when i would far rather go to bed. pray do not be angry with me, or scold me for my delay in writing; i do assure you that this very night while i was travelling, i thought i saw peeping through the clouds the shadow of your threatening finger; but i shall now proceed to explain why i could not write sooner. some days after my last letter from weimar, i wished, as i told you, to set off for this place, and said so during dinner to goethe, who made no reply. after dinner however he withdrew with ottilie into the recess of a window, and said, "you must persuade him to remain." she endeavoured to prevail on me to do so, and walked up and down in the garden with me. i wished however to show that i was a man of determination, so i remained steady to my resolve. then came the old gentleman himself, and said he saw no use in my being in such a hurry; that he had still a great deal to tell me, and i had still a great deal to play to him; and what i had told him as to the object of my journey, was really all nonsense,--weimar was my present object,--and he could not see that i was likely to find in _tables-d'hôte_ elsewhere, what i could not obtain here: i would see plenty of hotels in my travels. he talked on in this style, which touched my heart, especially as ottilie and ulrike added their persuasions, assuring me that the old gentleman much more often insisted on people going away, than on their remaining; and as no one can be so sure of enjoying a number of happy days, that he can afford to throw away those that cannot fail to be pleasant, and as they promised to go with me to jena, i resolved _not_ to be a man of determination, and agreed to stay. seldom in the course of my life have i so little regretted any resolution as on this occasion, for the following day was by far the most delightful that i ever passed in goethe's house. after an early drive, i found old goethe very cheerful; he began to converse on various subjects, passing from the 'muette de portici' to walter scott, and thence to the beauties in weimar; to the 'students,' and the 'robbers,' and so on to schiller; then he spoke on uninterruptedly for more than an hour, with the utmost animation, about schiller's life and writings, and his position in weimar. he proceeded to speak of the late grand-duke, and of the year , which he designated as the intellectual spring of germany, declaring that no man living could describe it so well as he could; indeed, it had been his intention to have devoted the second volume of his life to this subject; but what with botany, and meteorology, and other stuff of the same kind, for which no one cared a straw, he had not yet been able to fulfil his purpose. he proceeded to relate various anecdotes of the time when he was director of the theatre, and when i wished to thank him, he said, "it is mere chance, it all comes to light incidentally,--called forth by your welcome presence." these words sounded marvellously pleasant to me; in short, it was one of those conversations that a man can never forget so long as he lives. next day he made me a present of a sheet of the manuscript of 'faust,' and at the bottom of the page he wrote, "to my dear young friend f. m. b., mighty, yet delicate master of the piano--a friendly souvenir of happy may days in . j. w. von goethe." he also gave me three letters of introduction to take with me. if that relentless 'fidelio' did not begin at so early an hour. i could tell you much more, but as it is, i have only time to detail my farewell interview with the old gentleman. at the very beginning of my visit to weimar, i spoke of a print taken from adrian von ostade, of a peasant family praying, which nine years ago made a deep impression on me. when i went at an early hour to take leave of goethe, i found him seated beside a large portfolio, and he said, "so you are actually going away? i must try to keep all right till you return; but at all events we won't part now without some pious feelings, so let us once more look at the praying family together." he told me that i must sometimes write to him--(courage! courage! i mean to do so from this very place), and then he embraced me, and we drove off to jena, where the frommans received me with much kindness, and where the same evening i took leave of ottilie and ulrike, and came on here. _nine o'clock._--'fidelio' is over; and while waiting for supper i add a few words. schechner is very much gone off; the quality of her voice has become husky; she repeatedly sang flat, yet there were moments when her expression was so touching, that i wept in my own fashion; all the others were bad, and there was also much to censure in the performance. still, there is great talent in the orchestra, and the style in which they played the overture was very good. certainly our germany is a strange land; producing great people, but not appreciating them; possessing many fine singers and intellectual artists, but none sufficiently modest and subordinate to render their parts faithfully, and without false pretension. marzeline introduces all sorts of flourishes into her part; jaquino is a blockhead; the minister a simpleton: and when a german like beethoven writes an opera, then comes a german like stuntz or poissl (or whoever it may have been) and strikes out the ritournelle, and similar unnecessary passages; another german adds a trombone part to his symphonies; a third declares that beethoven is overloaded: and thus is a great man sacrificed. farewell! be happy and merry; and may all my heartfelt wishes for you be fulfilled. felix. to fanny hensel. munich, june th, . my dearest sister, i received your letter of the th this morning; i see from it that you are not yet quite well. i wish i were with you, and could see you, and talk to you; but this is impossible, so i have written a song for you expressive of my wishes and thoughts. you were in my mind when i composed it, and i was in a tender mood. there is indeed nothing very new in it. you know me well, and what i am; in no respect am i changed, so you may smile at this and rejoice. i could say and wish many other things for you, but none better; and this letter too shall contain nothing else. you know that i am always your own; and may it please god to bestow on you all that i hope and pray. [music] [music] [music] linz, august th, . dearest mother, "how a travelling musician bore his bad luck in salzburg." a fragment from the unwritten journal of count f. m. b. (continuation.) after i had finished my last letter to you, a regular day of misfortunes commenced for me. i took up my pencil, and so entirely destroyed two of my pet sketches, taken in the bavarian mountains, that i was obliged to tear them from my book, and to throw them out of the window. this provoked me exceedingly; so to divert my mind, i went to the capuchin hill: of course i contrived to lose my way, and at the very moment, when i at last found myself on the summit, it began to rain so furiously that i was forced to run down again with all speed under the shelter of an umbrella. well! i resolved at all events to have a look at the monastery at the foot of the hill, so i rang the bell, when i suddenly recollected that i had not sufficient money to give the monk who was to show the building, and as this is a kind of thing that they take highly amiss, i hurried away without waiting till the porter appeared. i then closed my packet of letters for leipzig, and took it myself to the post, but there i was told, that it must first be examined at the custom-house; so thither i went. they kept me waiting a whole hour, till they composed a certificate of three lines, and behaved so saucily that i was forced to quarrel with them. hang salzburg! thought i; so i ordered horses for ischl, where i hoped to escape from all my bad luck. no horses were to be had without a permission from the police. i went to the police office. "no permission can be granted till you bring your passport." why pursue the subject? after innumerable delays, and running about hither and thither, the wished-for post-carriage arrived. my dinner was over, my luggage ready, and i thought that at last all was in good train: my bill and the servants fees were paid. just as i reached the door, i saw two handsome open carriages approaching at a foot's pace, and the people of the inn hurrying to receive the travellers, who were following on foot. i however paid no attention to the new arrivals, but jumped into my carriage. i observed, that at the same moment, one of the travelling carriages drew up close to mine, and that a lady was seated in it,--but what a lady! that you may not instantly jump to the conclusion that i had suddenly fallen in love, which would have been the crowning point of my unlucky day, i must tell you that she was an elderly lady; but she looked very amiable and benevolent; she wore a black dress, and a massive gold chain, and smiled good-humouredly when she paid the postilion his fare. heaven knows why i continued to arrange my luggage instead of driving off. i did look across continually at the other carriage, and though the lady was an entire stranger to me i felt a strong inclination to address her. it might be mere imagination on my part, but i do think that she too looked at the dusty traveller in his student's cap. at length she got out of the carriage, and stood close to the door of my vehicle, leaning her hand on it, and i required all my knowledge of the common proprieties of travelling, not to get out myself and say to her, "dear lady, what may your name be?" routine however conquered, and i called out with an air of dignity, "postilion! go on!" on which the lady quickly withdrew her hand, and we set off. i felt in no very pleasant humour, and while thinking over the events of the day, i fell asleep. a carriage with two gentlemen passing us, woke me up, and the following dialogue ensued between the postilion and myself. _i._ these gentlemen are coming from ischl, so i shall probably find no horses there. _he._ oh! the two carriages that stopped at the inn were also from ischl; still there is no doubt you will get horses. _i._ are you sure they came from ischl? _he._ quite sure: they go there every year, and were here last summer also; i drove them. it is a baroness from vienna, (heavens! thought i,) and she is dreadfully rich, and has such handsome daughters. when they went to berchtesgaden to visit the mines, i drove them, and very nice they looked in their miner's dresses: they have a grand estate, and yet they speak to us quite familiarly. halt! cried i; what name?--don't know.--pereira?[ ]--not sure.--drive back,--said i in a resolute tone.--if i do, we shall not reach ischl to-night, and we have got over the worst hill; you can learn the name at the next stage.--i hesitated, and we drove on. they did not know the name at the next stage, nor at the following one either. at length, at the end of seven long wearisome hours, we arrived, and before i left the carriage, i said, who were the party who drove to salzburg this morning in two carriages? and received the quiet reply,--baroness pereira; she proceeds to gastein early to-morrow morning, but returns four or five days hence. now i had arrived at a certainty, and i also spoke to her driver, who said that none of the family were here. the two gentlemen i met in a carriage on the road, were sons of the baroness (the very two i had never seen). in addition to all this, i remembered a wretched portrait that i had once got a glimpse of at our aunt h----'s, and the lady in the black dress was baroness pereira! heaven knows when i may have another opportunity of seeing her! i do not think that she ever could have made a more pleasing impression on me, and i shall not assuredly soon forget her attractive appearance, and her kind expression of countenance. [ ] a relation of the family. nothing is more unsatisfactory than a presentiment; we all experience them, but we never discover till too late, that they really were presentiments. i would have returned then and there, and travelled through the night, but i reflected that i should only overtake her at the very moment of her departure, or that possibly she might have left salzburg before my arrival, and that i should thus frustrate all the plan of my journey to vienna. at one moment i thought of going to gastein, but i could not help feeling that salzburg had treated me very badly, so i once more said adieu, and went to bed very crest-fallen. next morning i desired that her empty house should be pointed out to me, and made a sketch of it for you, dear mother. my bad luck, however, was still growling in the distance, for i could find no favourable spot to take my sketch from. besides, they charged me more than a ducat at the inn for one night's entertainment, etc., etc. i gave utterance to various anathemas, both in english and german, and drove away, laying aside among the things of the past, ischl, salzburg, baroness pereira, and the traunsee; and so i came on here, where i have taken a day's rest. to-morrow i intend to pursue my journey, and (d. v.) to sleep in vienna the day after. i will write to you further from thence. thus ended my day of misfortunes; "truth, and _no_ poetry," not even the leaning the hand against the door of my carriage is invention; all is a portrait taken from life. the most incomprehensible thing is that i should have totally overlooked flora, who it seems was also there, for the old lady in a tartan cloak, who went into the inn, was frau von w----, and the old gentleman with green spectacles who followed her, could not well have been flora? in short, when things once take a wrong turn, they will have their course. i can write no more to-day, for my disappointment is still too recent; in my next letter i will describe the salzkammergut, and all the beauties of my journey yesterday. how right devrient was to advise me to take this route! the traunstein also, and the traun falls, are wonderfully fine; and after all, the world is a very pleasant world, and it is fortunate for me that you are in it, and that i shall find letters from you the day after to-morrow, and possibly much that is agreeable besides. dear fanny, i mean now to compose my _non nobis_, and the symphony in a minor. dear rebecca, if you could hear me singing "im warmen thal" in a spasmodic fashion, you would think it rather deplorable; you could sing it better. oh, paul! can you declare that you understand the schein gulden, w. w. gulden, heavy gulden, light gulden, conventions gulden, and the devil and his grandmother's gulden? i don't, one bit. i wish therefore that you were with me, but for many reasons besides this one. farewell! presburg, september th, . dear brother, peals of bells, drums and music, carriages on carriages, people hurrying in all directions, everywhere gay crowds, such is the general aspect around me, for to-morrow is to be the coronation of the king, which the whole city has been expecting since yesterday, and are now imploring that the sky may clear up, and wake bright and cheerful, for the grand ceremony which ought to have taken place yesterday was obliged to be deferred on account of the torrents of rain. this afternoon the sky is blue and beautiful, and the moon is now shining down tranquilly on the tumult of the city. to-morrow at a very early hour the crown prince is to take his oaths (as king of hungary) in the large market-place; he is then to go to church in grand procession, attended by a whole array of bishops and nobles of the realm, and afterwards rides up the königsberg, which lies opposite my windows, in order to wave his sword towards the banks of the danube and the four quarters of the globe, in token that he takes possession of his new realm. this excursion has made me acquainted with a new country; for hungary with her magnates, her high dignitaries, her oriental luxury, and also her barbarism, is to be seen here, and the streets offer a spectacle which is to me both novel and striking. we really seem here to approach closer to the east; the miserably obtuse peasants or serfs; the troops of gipsies; the equipages and retainers of the nobles overloaded with gold and gems, (for the grandees themselves are only visible through the closed windows of their carriages); then the singularly bold national physiognomy, the yellow hue, the long moustaches, the soft foreign idiom--all this makes the most motley impression in the world. early yesterday i went alone through the streets. first came a long array of jovial officers, on spirited little horses; behind them a crew of gipsies, making music; succeeded by vienna fashionables, with eye-glasses and kid gloves, conversing with a capuchin monk; then a couple of uncivilized peasants in long white coats, their hats pressed down on their foreheads, and their straight black hair cut even all round, (they have reddish-brown complexions, a languid gait, and an indescribable expression of savage stupidity and indifference); then came a couple of sharp, acute-looking students of theology, in their long blue coats, walking arm-in-arm; hungarian proprietors in their dark blue national costume; court servants; and numbers of carriages every moment arriving, covered with mud. i followed the crowd as they slowly moved on up the hill, and so at last i arrived at the dilapidated castle, which commands an extensive view of the whole city and the danube. people were looking down on all sides from the ancient white walls, and from the towers and balconies; in every corner boys were scribbling their names on the walls for the benefit of posterity; in a small chamber (perhaps once on a time a chapel, or a sleeping-apartment) an ox was in the act of being roasted whole, and as it turned on the spit, the people shouted with delight; a succession of cannons bristled before the castle, destined to bellow forth their appropriate thunders at the coronation. below, on the danube, which runs very rapidly here, darting with the speed of an arrow through the pontoon bridge, lay a new steamer, that had just arrived, laden with strangers; then the extensive view of the flat but wooded country, and meadows overflowed by the danube; of the embankments and streets swarming with human beings, and mountains clothed with hungarian vines--all this was not a little strange and foreign. then the pleasant contrast of living in the same house with the best and most friendly people in the world, and finding novelty doubly interesting in their society. these were really among the happy days, dear brother, that a kind providence so often and so richly bestows on me. september th, one o'clock. the king is crowned--the ceremony was wonderfully fine. how can i even try to describe it to you? an hour hence we will all drive back to vienna, and thence i pursue my journey. there is a tremendous uproar under my windows, and the burgher-guards are flocking together, but only for the purpose of shouting "_vivat!_" i pushed my way through the crowd, while our ladies saw everything from the windows, and never can i forget the effect of all this brilliant and almost fabulous magnificence. in the great square of the hospitallers the people were closely packed together, for there the oaths were to be taken on a platform hung with cloth; and afterwards the people were to be allowed the privilege of tearing down the cloth for their own use; close by was a fountain spouting red and white hungarian wine. the grenadiers could not keep back the people; one unlucky hackney coach that stopped for a moment was instantly covered with men, who clambered on the spokes of the wheels, and on the roof, and on the box, swarming on it like ants, so that the coachman, unable to drive on without becoming a murderer, was forced to wait quietly where he was. when the procession arrived, which was received bare-headed, i had the utmost difficulty in taking off my hat, and holding it above my head; an old hungarian, however, behind me, whose view it intercepted, quickly devised a remedy, for without ceremony he made a snatch at my unlucky hat, and in an instant flattened it to the size of a cap; then they yelled as if they had all been spitted, and fought for the cloth; in short they were a mob; but my magyars! the fellows look as if they were born noblemen, and privileged to live at ease, looking very melancholy, but riding like the devil. when the procession descended the hill, first came the court servants, covered with embroidery, the trumpeters and kettle drums, the heralds and all that class, and then suddenly galloped along the street a mad count, _en pleine carrière_, his horse plunging and capering, and the caparisons edged with gold; the count himself a mass of diamonds, rare herons' plumes, and velvet embroidery (though he had not yet assumed his state uniform, being bound to ride so madly--count sandor is the name of this furious cavalier.) he had an ivory sceptre in his hand with which he urged on his horse, causing it each time to rear, and to make a tremendous bound forward. when his wild career was over, a procession of about sixty more magnates arrived, all in the same fantastic splendour, with handsome coloured turbans, twisted moustaches, and dark eyes. one rode a white horse covered with a gold net; another a dark grey, the bridle and housings studded with diamonds; then came a black charger with purple cloth caparisons. one magnate was attired from head to foot in sky blue, thickly embroidered with gold, a white turban, and a long white dolman; another in cloth of gold, with a purple dolman; each one more rich and gaudy than the other, and all riding so boldly and fearlessly, and with such defiant gallantry, that it was quite a pleasure to look at them. at length came the hungarian guards, with esterhazy at their head, dazzling in gems and pearl embroidery. how can i describe the scene? you ought to have seen the procession deploy and halt in the spacious square, and all the jewels and bright colours, and the lofty golden mitres of the bishops, and the crucifixes glittering in the brilliant sunshine like a thousand stars! well, to-morrow, god willing, i proceed on my journey. now, dear brother, you have a letter, so pray write soon, and let me hear how you are getting on. so you have had an _émeute_ in berlin? and that, too, an _émeute_ of tailors' apprentices? what did it all mean? once more i send you my farewell from germany, my dear parents, and brother and sisters. i am leaving hungary for italy, and thence i hope to write to you more frequently and more at leisure. be of good cheer, dear paul, and go forwards in a confident spirit; rejoice with those that rejoice, and do not forget the brother who is wandering about the world. yours, felix. venice, october th, . italy at last! and what i have all my life considered as the greatest possible felicity, is now begun, and i am basking in it. the day has been so fruitful in enjoyment, that i must, now that it is evening, endeavour to collect my thoughts a little to write to you, my dear parents, and to thank you for having bestowed such happiness on me. you also, my dear brother and sisters, are often in my thoughts. how much i wish for you, paul, to be with me here, once more to enjoy your delight in our rapid travels by sea and by land; and i should like to prove to you, hensel, that the "assumption of the blessed virgin" is the most divine work ever produced by the hands of man. you are not here, however, so i am obliged to give vent to my enthusiasm in bad italian to the _laquais de place_, who stands still and listens. i shall however become quite confused, if things are to go on as they have done on this first day, when every hour brought with it so much never to be forgotten, that i do not know where to find sufficient grasp of intellect to comprehend it all properly. i saw the "assumption," then a whole gallery of paintings in the manfrini palace; then a church festival in the church where hangs titian's st. peter; afterwards st. mark's, and in the afternoon i had a row on the adriatic, and visited the public gardens, where the people lie on the grass and eat. i then returned to the piazza of st. mark, where in the twilight there is always an immense crowd and crush of people; and all this i was obliged to see to-day, because there is so much that is novel and interesting to be seen to-morrow. but i must now relate methodically how i came hither by water, (for, as telemachus says, to do so by land would be no easy matter,) and so i begin my history at gratz, which is certainly the most tiresome hole in the world, and where you yawn all day; and why should i have stayed a single day longer, on account of a (he) relation? how can a traveller with any experience possibly accept of a brother, who is also an ensign, in the place of a charming mother and sister? in short, the man did not know what to do with me, for which i forgive him freely, and shall not defame him to his mother, when i perform my promise and write to her; but he took me to the theatre to see the "rehbock," the most wretched, silly, objectionable piece that the late kotzebue ever wrote; and moreover he declared it to be very good and very amusing, and this is not to be forgiven, for this _rehbock_ has such a _haut goût_ or _fumet_, that it could not even please a cat: but at all events i have left gratz, for here i am in venice. my old vetturino woke me up at four o'clock in the dark, and the horse crawled off with us both. i thought of you, dear father, at least a hundred times during our journey of two days. you would certainly have gone wild with impatience, and possibly assaulted the coachman also, for at every little declivity, he got slowly off the box, deliberately put on the drag, and crept up the smallest hill at a snail's pace; then he thought fit to walk beside his horses for a time, to stretch his legs: every possible conveyance passed us on the road, even when drawn by dogs or donkeys, and when at last, at a steep hill, the fellow put on two oxen as leaders, whose pace exactly corresponded with that of his horse, i had the greatest difficulty in not belabouring him, indeed i did so more than once; but he then gravely assured me that we were going at a capital pace, and i had no means of proving the contrary. moreover he always passed the night in the most detestable pot-houses, starting again at four o'clock in the morning, so on arriving at klagenfurt i was fairly worn out; but when in answer to my question as to the time the venetian diligence set out, i received the answer,--in an hour hence,--i seemed to revive. i was promised a place, and i also got a good supper. the diligence, indeed, did not arrive for two hours after its time, having been detained by deep snow on the sömmering, but still it came at last. three italians were inside, and chattered so that i could scarcely get to sleep, but my snoring fairly silenced them after a time. at last morning broke, and as we drove into resciutta, the driver said, that on the other side of the bridge there, no one understood a word of german. i therefore took leave of my mother tongue for a long time to come, and we drove over the bridge. the style of the houses immediately beyond was entirely different. the flat roofs with their convex tiles, the deep windows, the high white walls, and lofty square towers, all betokened another land. the pale olive faces of the men, the innumerable beggars who besieged the carriage, the various small chapels, brightly and carefully painted on every side with flowers, the nuns, monks, and so forth, were all symptomatic of italy. the monotonous character of the whole scenery however, and of the road we were travelling, passing through bare white rocks, along the banks of a river with a rough rocky bed, in summer creeping along in the form of a tiny brook, certainly does not seem characteristic of italy. "i purposely made this passage rather meagre, in order that the _subject_ might be more distinctly heard," says abt vogler; and i almost think that providence has done pretty much the same here, for when we had passed ospedaletto the _subject_ did come out well, and a fine sight it was. i had imagined that the first impression of italy would be like that of a sudden explosion, violent and startling; i have not hitherto found this to be the case. the effect produced on me has been rather that of a genial warmth, mildness and cheerfulness, and an indescribable sensation of pervading content and satisfaction. after passing ospedaletto we entered a plain, leaving the blue mountains behind us; the sun shone bright and warm through the foliage of the vines; the road winding through orchards, in which the trees were connected by trailing boughs. i felt as if i were at home again, and knew every object, and was once more about to take possession of it all. the carriage too seemed to _fly_ over the smooth road, and towards evening we arrived at udine, where we passed the night, when for the first time i ordered my supper in italian, my tongue skating as if on slippery ice, first gliding into english, and then stumbling afresh. moreover next morning i was famously cheated, but i did not in the least care, and on we went. it happened to be sunday, and on every side people were coming along, in bright southern costumes, and flowers; the women with roses in their hair. light single-horse carriages drove past, and men were riding to church on donkeys; at the inns, groups of idlers were to be seen in the most picturesque, indolent attitudes: among others, one man placed his arm quietly round his wife's waist, and swung round with her and then they went on their way; this sounds trivial enough, and yet it had a pretty effect. venetian villas now were occasionally visible from the road, and by degrees became more frequent, till at length our way led past houses, trees, and gardens like a park. the whole country had a gay festive air, as if a prince were expected to make his grand entry, and the vine-branches with their rich purple grapes hanging in festoons from the trees, made the most lovely of all festive wreaths. the inhabitants were all gaily dressed and adorned, and a few scattered cypresses only enhanced the general effect. in treviso there was an illumination, paper lanterns suspended in every part of the great square, and a large gaudy transparency in the centre. some most lovely girls were walking about, in their long white veils and scarlet petticoats. it was quite dark when we arrived at mestre last night, when we got into a boat, and in a dead calm, gently rowed across to venice. on our passage thither, where nothing but water is to be seen, and distant lights, we saw a small rock which stands in the midst of the sea; on this a lamp was burning; all the sailors took off their hats as we passed, and one of them said, this was the "madonna of tempests," which are often most dangerous and violent here. we then glided quietly into the great city, under innumerable bridges, without sound of post-horns, or rattling of wheels, or toll-keepers; the passage now became more thronged, and numbers of ships were lying near; past the theatre, where gondolas in long rows lie waiting for their masters, just as our own carriages do at home, then into the great canal, past the church of st. mark, the lions, the palace of the doges, and the bridge of sighs. the obscurity of night only enhanced my delight on hearing the familiar names, and seeing the dark outlines. and so i am actually in venice! well, to-day i have seen the finest pictures in the world, and have at last personally made the acquaintance of a very admirable man, whom hitherto i only knew by name--i allude to a certain signor giorgione, an inimitable artist--and also to pordenone, who paints the most noble portraits, both of himself and many of his simple scholars, in such a devout, faithful, and pious spirit, that you seem to converse with him, and to feel an affection for him. who would not have been confused by all this? but if i am to speak of titian, i must do so in a more reverent mood. till now, i never knew that he was the felicitous artist i have this day seen him to be. that he thoroughly enjoyed life, in all its beauty and fulness, the picture in paris proves; but he has fathomed the depths of human sorrow, as well as the joys of heaven. his glorious "entombment," and also the "assumption," fully evince this. how mary floats on the cloud, while a waving movement seems to pervade the whole picture; how you see at a glance her very breathing, her awe, and piety, and in short a thousand feelings,--all words seem poor and commonplace in comparison! the three angels too, on the right of the picture, are of the highest order of beauty,--pure, serene loveliness, so unconscious, so bright and so seraphic. but no more of this! or i must perforce become poetical, or indeed am so already, and this does not at all suit me; but i shall certainly see it every day. i must however say a few words about the "entombment," as you have the engraving. look at it, and think of me. this picture represents the conclusion of a great tragedy: so still, so grand, and so acutely painful. magdalene is supporting mary, fearing that she will die of anguish; she endeavours to lead her away, but looks round herself once more, evidently wishing to imprint this spectacle indelibly on her heart, thinking that it is for the last time; it surpasses everything; and then the sorrowing john, who sympathizes and suffers with mary; and joseph, who absorbed in his piety, and occupied with the tomb, directs and conducts the whole; and christ himself, lying there so tranquil, having endured to the end: then the blaze of brilliant colour, and the gloomy mottled sky! it is a composition that speaks to my heart and fills me with enthusiasm, and will never leave my memory. i believe few things i have yet to see in italy will affect me so deeply; but you know that i am devoid of all prejudices, and i give you a fresh proof of this by telling you that the "martyrdom of st. peter," from which i expected the most, pleased me the least of the three; it did not strike me as being a complete whole; the landscape, which is very fine, seemed to me to predominate too much. then i was dissatisfied with the disposition in the picture of _two_ victims and only _one_ murderer; (for the small figure inthe distant background does not remedy this). i could not bring myself to consider it a martyrdom. but probably i am in error, and i intend to study it more carefully to-morrow; my contemplation of it, besides, was disturbed by some one strumming most sacrilegiously on the organ, and these sacred forms were forced to listen to such miserable opera _finales_! but this matters not: where such pictures are, i require no organist. i play the organ in my thoughts for myself, and feel as little irritated by such trash as i should be by an ignorant rabble. titian, however, was a man well adapted to improve others; so i shall try to profit by him, and to rejoice that i am in italy. at this moment the gondoliers are shouting to each other, and the lights are reflected in the depths of the waters; one is playing a guitar, and singing to it. it is a charming night. farewell! and think of me in every happy hour as i do of you. felix. to professor zelter.[ ] venice, october th, . dear professor, i have entered italy at last, and i intend this letter to be the commencement of a regular series of reports, which i purpose transmitting to you, of all that appears to me particularly worthy of notice. though i only now for the first time write to you, i must beg you to impute the blame to the state of constant excitement in which i lived, both in munich and in vienna. it was needless for me to describe to you the parties in munich, which i attended every evening, and where i played the piano more unremittingly than i ever did in my life before; one _soirée_ succeeding another so closely, that i really had not a moment to collect my thoughts. moreover, it would not have particularly interested you, for after all, "good society which does not offer materials for the smallest epigram," is equally vapid in a letter. i hope that you have not taken amiss my long silence, and that i may expect a few lines from you, even if they contain nothing save that you are well and cheerful. [ ] mendelssohn's instructor in the theory of music. the aspect of the world at this moment is very bleak and stormy, and much that was once thought durable and unchangeable, has been swept away in the course of a couple of days. it is then doubly welcome to hear well-known voices, to convince us that there are certain things which cannot be annihilated or demolished, but remain firm and steadfast. you must know that i am at this moment very uneasy at not having received any news from home for some weeks past. i found no letters from my family, either at trieste or here, so a few lines from you, written in your old fashion, would both cheer and gratify me, especially as it would prove that you think of me with the same kindness that you have always done from my childhood to the present time. my family have no doubt told you of the exhilarating impression made on me by the first sight of the plains of italy. i hurry from one enjoyment to another hour by hour, and constantly see something novel and fresh; but immediately on my arrival i discovered some masterpieces of art, which i study with deep attention, and contemplate daily for a couple of hours at least. these are three pictures by titian. the "presentation of mary as a child in the temple;" the "assumption of the virgin;" and the "entombment of christ." there is also a portrait by giorgione, representing a girl with a cithern in her hand, plunged in thought, and looking forth from the picture in serious meditation (she is apparently about to begin a song, and you feel as if you must do the same): besides many others. to see these alone would be worth a journey to venice; for the fruitfulness, genius, and devotion of the great men who painted these pictures, seem to emanate from them afresh as often as you gaze at their works, and i do not much regret that i have scarcely heard any music here; for i suppose i must not venture to include the music of the angels, in the "assumption," encircling mary with joyous shouts of welcome; one gaily beating the tambourine, a couple of others blowing away on strange crooked flutes, while another charming group are singing--or the music floating in the thoughts of the cithern player. i have only once heard anything on the organ, and miserable it was. i was gazing at titian's "martyrdom of st. peter" in the franciscan church. divine service was going on, and nothing inspires me with more solemn awe than when on the very spot for which they were originally created and painted, those ancient pictures in all their grandeur, gradually steal forth out of the darkness in which the long lapse of time has veiled them. as i was earnestly contemplating the enchanting evening landscape with its trees, and angels among the boughs, the organ commenced. the first sound was quite in harmony with my feelings; but the second, third, and in fact all the rest, quickly roused me from my reveries, and sent me straight home, for the man was playing in church and during divine service, and in the presence of respectable people, thus: [music] with the "martyrdom of st. peter" actually close beside him! i was therefore in no great hurry to make the acquaintance of the organist. there is no regular opera here at this moment, and the gondoliers no longer sing, tasso's stanzas; moreover, what i have hitherto seen of modern venetian art, consists of poems framed and glazed on the subject of titian's pictures, or rinaldo and armida, by a new venetian painter, or a st. cecilia by a ditto, besides various specimens of architecture in no style at all; as all these are totally insignificant, i cling to the ancient masters, and study how they worked. often, after doing so, i feel a musical inspiration, and since i came here i have been busily engaged in composition. before i left vienna, a friend of mine made me a present of luther's hymns, and on reading them over i was again so much struck by their power, that i intend to compose music for several next winter. i have nearly completed here the choral "aus tiefer noth," for four voices _a capella_; and the christmas hymn, "vom himmel hoch," is already in my head. i wish also to set the following hymns to music: "ach gott, vom himmel sieh darein," "wir glauben all' an einen gott," "verleih uns frieden," "mitten wir im leben sind," and finally "ein' feste burg." the latter, however, it is my intention to compose for a choir and orchestra. pray write to me about this project of mine, and say whether you approve of my retaining the ancient melodies in them all, but not adhering to them too strictly: for instance, if i were to take the first verse of "vom himmel hoch" as a separate grand chorus. besides this, i am hard at work at an orchestral overture, and if an opportunity for an opera offered it would be most welcome. i finished two pieces of sacred music in vienna--a choral in three movements for chorus and orchestra ("o! haupt voll blut und wunden") and an ave maria for a choir of eight voices, _a capella_. the people i associated with there were so dissipated and frivolous, that i became quite spiritually-minded, and conducted myself like a divine among them. moreover, not one of the best pianoforte players there, male or female, ever played a note of beethoven, and when i hinted that he and mozart were not to be despised, they said, "so you are an admirer of classical music?"--"yes," said i. to-morrow i intend to go to bologna to have a glance at the st. cecilia, and then proceed by florence to rome, where i hope (d. v.) to arrive eight or ten days hence. i will then write to you more satisfactorily. i only wished to make a beginning to-day, and to beg you not to forget me, and kindly to accept my heartfelt wishes for your health and happiness. your faithful felix. florence, october rd, . here am i in florence, the air warm and the sky bright; everything is beautiful and glorious, "wo blieb die erde," as goethe says. i have now received your letter of the rd, by which i see that you are all well, that my anxiety was needless, that you are all going on as usual, and thinking of me; so i feel happy again, and can now see everything, and enjoy everything, and am able to write to you; in short, my mind is at rest on the main point. i made my journey here amid a thousand doubts and fears, quite uncertain whether to go direct to rome, because i did not expect any letters at florence. fortunately, however, i decided on coming here, and now it is of no consequence how the misunderstanding arose, that caused me to wait for letters in venice, while you had written to florence; all i can promise is to endeavour in future to be less over-anxious. my driver pointed out a spot between the hills, on which lay a blue mist, and said "_ecco firenze!_" i eagerly looked towards the place, and saw the round dome looming out of the mist before me, and the spacious wide valley in which the city is situated. my love of travel revived when at last florence appeared. i looked at some willow-trees (as i thought) beside the road, when the driver said, "buon olio," and then i saw that they were hanging full of olives. my driver, as a genus, is undoubtedly a most villanous knave, thief, and impostor; he has cheated me and half-starved me, and yet i think him almost amiable from his enthusiastic animal nature. about an hour before we arrived in florence he said that the beautiful scenery was now about to commence; and true it is that the fair land of italy does first begin then. there are villas on every height, and decorated old walls, with sloping terraces of roses and aloes, flowers and grapes and olive leaves, the sharp points of cypresses, and the flat tops of pines, all sharply defined against the sky; then handsome square faces, busy life on the roads on every side, and at a distance in the valley, the blue city. so i drove confidently into florence in my little open carriage, and though i looked shabby and dusty, like one coming from the apennines, i cared little for that. i passed recklessly through all the smart equipages from which the most refined english ladies looked at me; while i thought it may one day actually come to pass that you who are now looking down on the _roturier_, may shake hands with him, the only difference being a little clean linen and so forth. by the time that we came to the _battisterio_, i no longer felt diffident, but gave orders to drive to the post, and then i was really happy, for i received three letters,--yours of the nd and the rd, and my father's also. i was now quite delighted, and as we drove along beside the arno, to schneider's celebrated hotel, the world seemed once more a very pleasant world. october th. the apennines are really not so beautiful as i had imagined; for the name always suggested to me richly wooded, picturesque hills, covered with vegetation, whereas they are merely a long chain of melancholy bleak hills; and the little verdure there is, not gratifying to the eye. there are no dwellings to be seen, no merry brooks or rills; only an occasional stream, its broad bed dried up, or a little water-channel. add to this the shameful roguery of the inhabitants: really, at last, i became quite confused and perplexed, by their incessant cheating, and could scarcely discover for what object they were lying. i therefore, once for all, invariably protested against every demand they made, and declared that i would not pay at all if they asked more than i chose to give; so in this way i managed very tolerably. last night i was again in grand quarters: i had made an agreement with the vetturino for board and lodging, and all i required. the natural consequence was, that the fellow took me to the most detestable little inns, and actually starved me. so late yesterday we arrived at a solitary pothouse, the filth of which no pen can describe. the stair was strewed with heaps of dead leaves and firewood; moreover the cold was intense, and they invited me to warm myself in the kitchen, which i agreed to do. a bench was placed for me beside the fire; a whole troop of peasants were standing about, also warming themselves. i looked quite regal from my bench on the hearth among this rough set of fellows, who, in their broad-leaved hats, lit up by the fire, and babbling in their incomprehensible dialect, looked vastly suspicious characters. i made them prepare my soup under my own eyes, giving moreover good advice on the subject; but, after all, it was not eatable. i entered into conversation with my subjects from my throne on the hearth, and they pointed out to me a little hill in the distance incessantly vomiting forth flames, which had a singular effect in the dark ("raticosa" is the name of the hill), and then i was conducted to my bed-room. the landlord took hold of the sackcloth sheets, and said, "very fine linen!" but i slept as sound as a bear, and before falling asleep i said to myself, now you are in the apennines: and next morning, after getting no breakfast, my vetturino civilly asked me how i liked my night's entertainment. the fellow talked a great deal of nonsense about politics, and the present state of france, abused his horse in german for being born in switzerland, and spoke french to the beggars who swarmed round the cabriolet, while i corrected many a fault in his pronunciation. october th. i now intend to go once more to the tribune, to be inspired with feelings of reverence. there is a particular place where i like to sit, as the little venus de' medici is directly opposite, and above, that of titian, and by turning rather to the left, i have a view of the madonna del cardello, a favourite picture of mine, and which invariably reminds me of _la belle jardinière_, and seems to me a kindred creation; and also the fornarina, which made no great impression on me from the first, for i know the engraving, which is very faithful, and the face has, i think, a most disagreeable and even ordinary expression. in gazing thus, however, at the two venuses, their loveliness inspires a feeling of piety; it is as if the two spirits who could produce such creations, were flying through the hall and grasping you as they passed. titian must have been a marvellous man, and enjoyed his life in his works; still the fair medici is not to be slighted, and then the divine niobe with all her children: while we gaze at her, we can find no words. i have not yet been to the pitti palace, which possesses the saint ezekiel, and the madonna della sedia, of raphael. i saw the gardens of the palace yesterday in sunshine; they are superb, and the thick solid stems of the myrtles and laurels, and the innumerable cypresses, made a strange exotic impression on me; but when i declare that i consider beeches, limes, oaks, and firs, ten times more beautiful and picturesque, i think i hear hensel exclaim, "oh, the northern bear!" october th. after the soft rain of yesterday, the air is so mild and genial, that i am at this moment seated at the open window writing to you; and indeed it is pleasant enough to see the people going about the streets, offering the prettiest baskets of flowers, fresh violets, roses, and pinks. two days ago, being satiated with all pictures, statues, vases, and museums, i resolved to take a long walk till sunset; so after buying a bunch of narcissuses and heliotropes, i went up the hill through the vineyards. it was one of the most delightful walks i ever remember; every one must feel revived and refreshed at the sight of nature in such a garb as this, and a thousand happy thoughts passed through my mind. first of all, i went to a villa called bello sguardo, whence the whole of florence and its spacious valley are to be seen, and i thoroughly enjoyed the view of the superb city and its massive towers and palaces. but most of all i admired the countless villas, covering every hill and every acclivity as far as the eye can reach, as if the city extended beyond the mountains into the far distance. and when i took up a telescope and looked down on the valley through the blue mists, every portion of it seemed thickly dotted with bright objects and white villas, while such a large circle of dwellings inspired me with a feeling of home and comfort. i proceeded far over the hills to the highest point i could see, on which stood an ancient tower, and when i reached it i found all the people throughout the building busily engaged in making wine, drying grapes, and repairing casks. it proved to be galileo's tower, from which he used to make his discoveries and observations; from here also there was a very extensive view, and the girl who took me to the roof of the tower related a number of stories in her peculiar dialect, which i scarcely understood at all; but she afterwards presented me with some of her sweet dried grapes, which i ate with great gusto. and so i went on to another tower i saw at a distance, but could not manage to find my way; and examining my map as i went along, i stumbled on a traveller busily searching his map also; the only difference between us being, that he was an old frenchman with green spectacles, who addressed me thus, "È questo s. miniato al monte, signor?" with admirable decision i replied, "sì, signor;" and it turned out that i was right. a. f---- immediately recurred to my memory, as she had advised me to see this monastery, which is indeed wonderfully fine. when i tell you i went from there to the boboli gardens, where i saw the sun set, and at night enjoyed the brightest moonlight, you may imagine how much i was invigorated by my ramble. i will write to you about the pictures here some other time, for to-day it is too late, as i have still to take leave of the pitti palace and the great gallery, and to gaze once more at my venus, who is not indeed mentioned before ladies, but whose beauty is truly divine. the courier goes at five o'clock, and god willing, i shall be in rome the day after to-morrow. from thence you shall hear again. felix. rome, november nd, . ... i refrain from writing longer in this melancholy strain; for just as your letter, after a lapse of fourteen days, has saddened me, my answer will have the same effect on you fourteen days hence. you would write to me in the same style, and so it might go on for ever. as four weeks must pass before i can receive any answer, i feel that i ought to restrict myself to relating events past and present, and not dwell much on the particular frame of my mind at the moment, which is indeed usually sufficiently manifest in the narrative given, and the various occurrences described. i have scarcely yet arrived at the conviction that i am now actually in rome; and when yesterday, just as day was breaking, i drove across a bridge with statues, under a deep blue sky, and in dazzling white moonlight, and the courier said, "ponte molle," it all seemed to me like a dream, and at the same moment i saw before me my sick-bed in london a year ago, and my rough scotch journey, and munich, and vienna, and the pines on these hills. the journey from florence to rome has very few attractions. siena, which is, i understand worth seeing, we passed through during the night. it was unpleasant to see a regular government courier compelled to take a military escort, which was doubled at night; still it must be absolutely necessary, as he is obliged to pay for it. in these days this ought not to be the case. in the meantime everything progresses, and there are moments when the bound forwards is actually visible. i was still in florence, waiting for the departure of the post, reading a french newspaper, when at the very moment the bell sounded, i read among the advertisements, "vie de siebenkäs, par jean paul." many reflections occurred to me as to so many men of renown gradually vanishing from our sight, and our great geniuses having such homage paid to them after their death, and yet during their _life_, lafontaine's novels and french vaudevilles alone make any impression on their fellow-countrymen; while _we_ only strive to appreciate the very refuse of the french, and neglect beaumarchais and rousseau. however, it matters little after all. the first thing connected with music that i met with here, was the "tod jesu," by graun, which an abbate here, fortunato santini, has translated faithfully and admirably into italian. it appears that the music of this heretic has been sent along with the translation to naples, where it is to be produced this winter at a great festival, and i hear that the musical world there are quite enchanted with it, and are studying the work with infinite love and enthusiasm. i understand that the abbate has been long impatiently expecting me, because he hopes to obtain considerable information from me about german music, and thinks i may also have the score of bach's "passion." thus music progresses onwards, as sure to pierce through as the sun; if mists still prevail, it is merely a sign that the spring-time has not yet come, but come again it must and will! farewell! and from my heart i say,--may a merciful providence preserve you all in health and happiness! felix. rome, november th, . i must now write to you of my first week in rome; how i have arranged my time, how i look forward to the winter, and what impression the glorious objects by which i am surrounded have made on me; but this is no easy task. i feel as if i were entirely changed since i came here. formerly when i wished to check my haste and impatience to press forward, and to continue my journey more rapidly, i attributed this eagerness merely to the force of habit, but i am now fully persuaded that it arose entirely from my anxiety to reach this goal. now that i have at last attained it my mood is so tranquil and joyous, and yet so earnest, that i shall not attempt to describe it to you. what it is that thus works on me i cannot exactly define; for the awe-inspiring coliseum, and the brilliant vatican, and the genial air of spring, all contribute to make me feel thus, and so do the kindly people, my comfortable apartments, and everything else. at all events i am different from what i was. i am better in health and happier than i have been for a long time, and take delight in my work, and feel such an inclination for it, that i expect to accomplish much more than i anticipated; indeed, i have already done a good deal. if it pleases providence to grant me a continuation of this happy mood, i look forward to the most delightful and productive winter. picture to yourself a small house, with two windows in front, in the piazza di spagna, no. which all day long enjoys the warm sun, and an apartment on the first floor, where there is a good viennese grand piano: on the table are some portraits of palestrina, allegri, etc., along with the scores of their works, and a latin psalm-book, from which i am to compose the _non nobis_;--such is my present abode. the capitol was too far away, besides i had a great dread of the cold air, which here i have no cause to guard against; for when i look out of my window in the morning across the square, i see every object sharply defined in the sunshine against the blue sky. my landlord was formerly a captain in the french army, and his daughter has the most splendid contralto voice i ever heard. above me lives a prussian captain, with whom i talk politics,--in short, the situation is excellent. when i come into the room early in the morning, and see the sun shining so brightly on the breakfast-table (you see i am marred as a poet), i feel so cheerful and comfortable, for it is now far on in the autumn, and who in our country at this season looks for warmth, or a bright sky, or grapes and flowers? after breakfast i begin my work, and play, and sing, and compose till near noon. then rome in all her vast dimensions lies before me like an interesting problem to enjoy; but i go deliberately to work, daily selecting some different object appertaining to history. one day i visit the ruins of the ancient city; another i go to the borghese gallery, or to the capitol, or st. peter's, or the vatican. each day is thus made memorable, and as i take my time, each object becomes firmly and indelibly impressed on me. when i am occupied in the forenoon i am willing to leave off, and should like to continue my writing, but i say to myself that i must see the vatican, and when i am actually there, i equally dislike leaving it; thus each of my occupations causes me the most genuine pleasure, and one enjoyment follows another. just as venice, with her past, reminded me of a vast monument: her crumbling modern palaces, and the perpetual remembrance of former splendour, causing sad and discordant sensations; so does the past of rome suggest the impersonation of history; her monuments elevate the soul, inspiring solemn yet serene feelings, and it is a thought fraught with exultation that man is capable of producing creations, which, after the lapse of a thousand years, still renovate and animate others. when i have fairly imprinted an object like this on my mind, and each day a fresh one, twilight has usually arrived and the day is over. i then visit my friends and acquaintances, when we mutually communicate what each has done, which means _enjoyed_ here, and are reciprocally pleased. i have been most evenings at bendemann's and hübner's, where german artists usually assemble, and i sometimes go to schadow's. the abbate santini is a valuable acquaintance for me, as he has a very complete library of ancient italian music, and he kindly gives or lends me anything i like, for no one can be more obliging. at night he makes either ahlborn or me accompany him home, as an abbate being seen alone at night in the streets would bring him into evil repute. that such youngsters as ahlborn and i should act as duennas to a priest of sixty is diverting enough. the duchess of ---- gave me a list of old music which she was anxious to procure copies of if possible. santini's collection contains all this, and i am much obliged to him for having furnished me with copies, for i am now looking through them all, and becoming acquainted with them. i beg you will send me for him, as a token of my gratitude, the six cantatas of sebastian bach, published by marx at simrock's, or some of his pieces for the organ. i should however prefer the cantatas: he already has the "magnificat" and the motets, and others. he has translated the "singet dem herrn ein neues lied," and intends it to be executed at naples, for which he deserves a reward. i am writing to zelter all particulars about the papal singers, whom i have heard three times,--in the quirinal, in the monte cavallo, and once in san carlo. i look forward with delight to seeing bunsen, we shall have much to discuss together, and i have likewise an idea that he has got some work for me; if i can conscientiously undertake it, i will do so gladly, and render it all the justice in my power. among my home pleasures i include that of reading for the first time goethe's journey to italy; and i must avow that it is a source of great satisfaction to me to find that he arrived in rome the very same day that i did; that he also went first to the quirinal, and heard a requiem there; that he was seized with the same fit of impatience in florence and bologna; and felt the same tranquil, or as he calls it, solid spirit here: indeed, everything that he describes, i exactly experience myself, so i am pleased. he speaks in detail of a large picture of titian's in the vatican, and declares that its meaning is not to be devised; only a number of figures standing beautifully grouped together. i fancy, however, that i have discovered a very deep sense in it, and i believe that whoever finds the most beauties in titian, is sure to be most in the right, for he was a glorious man. though he has not had the opportunity of displaying and diffusing his genius here, as raphael has done in the vatican, still i can never forget his three pictures in venice, and to these i may add the one in the vatican, which i saw for the first time this morning. if any one could come into the world with full consciousness, every object around would smile on him with the same vivid life and animation, that these pictures do on us. "the school of athens," and the "disputa," and the "peter," stand before us precisely as they were created; and then the entrance through splendid open arches, whence you can see the piazza of st. peter's, and rome, and the blue alban hills; and above our heads figures from the old testament, and a thousand bright little angels, and arabesques of fruit, and garlands of flowers; and then on to the gallery! you may well be proud, dear hensel, for your copy of the "transfiguration" is superb! the pleasing emotion which seizes me, when i see for the first time some immortal work, and the pervading idea and chief impression it inspires, i did not experience on this occasion from the original, but from _your_ copy. the first effect of this picture to-day, was precisely the same that yours had previously made on me; and it was not till after considerable research and contemplation that i succeeded in finding out anything new to me. on the other hand, the madonna di foligno dawned on me in the whole splendour of her loveliness. i have passed a happy morning in the midst of all these glorious works; as yet i have not visited the statues, but have reserved my first impression of them for another day. november th, morning. thus every morning brings me fresh anticipations, and every day fulfils them. the sun is again shining on my breakfast-table and i am now going to my daily work. i will send you, dear fanny, by the first opportunity, what i composed in vienna, and anything else that may be finished, and my sketch-book to rebecca; but i am far from being pleased with it this time, so i intend to study attentively the sketches of the landscape painters here, in order to acquire if possible a new manner. i tried to produce one of my own, but it would not do! to-day i am going to the lateran, and the ruins of ancient rome; and in the evening to a kind english family, whose acquaintance i made here. pray send me a good many letters of introduction. i am exceedingly anxious to know numbers of people, especially italians. so i live on happily, and think of you in every pleasant moment. may you also be happy, and rejoice with me at the prospect which lies before me here! felix m. b. rome, november th, . dear fanny, no post left this the day before yesterday, and i could not talk to you, so when i remembered that my letter must necessarily remain two days before it left rome, i felt it impossible to write; but i thought of you times without number, and wished you every happiness, and congratulated myself that you were born a certain number of years ago. it is, indeed, cheering to think what charming, rational beings, are to be found in the world; and you are certainly one of these. continue cheerful, bright, and well, and make no great change in yourself. i don't think you require to be much better; may good fortune ever abide with you! and now i think these are all my birthday good wishes; for really it is not fair to expect that a man of my _calibre_ should wish you also a fresh stock of musical ideas; besides you are very unreasonable in complaining of any deficiency in that respect. _per bacco!_ if you had the inclination, you certainly have sufficient genius to compose, and if you have no desire to do so, why grumble so much? if i had a baby to nurse, i certainly should not write any scores, and as i have to compose _non nobis_, i cannot unluckily carry my nephew about in my arms. but to speak seriously, your child is scarcely six months old yet, and you can think of anything but sebastian?[ ] (not bach!) be thankful that you have him. music only retreats when there is no longer a place for her, and i am not surprised that you are not an unnatural mother. however, you have my best wishes on your birthday, for all that your heart desires; so i may as well wish you half-a-dozen melodies into the bargain; not that this will be of much use. [ ] the name of the child. in rome here, we celebrated the th of november by the sky shining, in blue and festive array, and breathing on us warm genial air. so i went on pleasantly towards the capitol and into church, where i heard a miserable sermon from ----, who is no doubt a very good man, but to my mind has a most morose style of preaching; and any one who could irritate me on _such_ a day, in the capitol, and in church, must have an especial talent for so doing. i afterwards went to call on bunsen, who had just arrived. he and his wife received me most kindly, and we conversed on much that was interesting, including politics and regrets for your absence. _apropos_, my favourite work that i am now studying is goethe's 'lili's park,' especially three portions: "kehr' ich mich um, und brumm:" then, "eh la menotte;" and best of all, "die ganze luft ist warm, ist blüthevoll," where decidedly clarionets must be introduced. i mean to make it the subject of a scherzo for a symphony. yesterday, at dinner at bunsen's, we had among others a german musician. oh, heavens! i wish i were a frenchman! the man said to me, "music must be _handled_ every day." "why?" replied i, which rather embarrassed him. he also spoke of earnest purpose; and said that spohr had no earnest purpose, but that he had distinctly discerned gleams of an earnest purpose in my _tu es petrus_. the fellow, however, has a small property at frascati, and is about to _lay down_ the profession of music. we have not got so far as that yet! after dinner came catel, eggers, senf, wolf, then a painter, and then two more, and others. i played the piano, and they asked for pieces by sebastian bach, so i played numbers of his compositions, which were much admired. i also explained clearly to them the mode in which the "passion" is executed; for they seemed scarcely to believe it. bunsen possesses it, arranged for the piano; he showed it to the papal singers, and they said before witnesses, that such music could not possibly be executed by human voices. i think the contrary. it seems, however, that trautwein is about to publish the score of the passion of st. john. i suppose i must order a set of studs for paris, _à la back_. to-day bunsen is to take me to baini's, whom he has not seen for a year as he never goes out except to hear confessions. i am glad to know him, and shall endeavour to improve my intimacy with him, for he can solve many an enigma for me. old santini continues as kind as ever. when we are together in society, if i praise any particular piece or am not acquainted with it, next morning he is sure to knock gently at my door, and to bring me the piece in question carefully wrapped up in a blue pocket-handkerchief; i, in return, accompany him home every evening; and we have a great regard for each other. he also brought me his _te deum_, written in eight parts, requesting me to correct some of the modulations, as g major predominates too much; so i mean to try if i cannot introduce some a minor or e minor. i am now very anxious to become acquainted with a good many italians. i visit at the house of a certain maestro di san giovanni laterano, whose daughters are musical, but not pretty, so this does not count for much. if therefore you can send me letters, pray do so. i work in the morning; at noon i see and admire, and thus the day glides away till sunset: but i should like in the evening to associate with the roman world. my kind english friends have arrived from venice; lord harrowby and his family are to pass the winter here. schadow, bendeman, bunsen, tippelskirch, all receive every evening; in short i have no lack of acquaintances, but i should like to know some italians also. the present, dear fanny, that i have prepared for your birthday, is a psalm, for chorus and orchestra, _non nobis, domine_. you know the melody well; there is an air in it which has a good ending, and the last chorus will i hope please you. i hear that next week i shall have an opportunity of sending it to you, along with a quantity of new music. i intend now to finish my overture, and then (d.v.) to proceed with my symphony. a pianoforte concerto, too, that i wish to write for paris, begins to float in my head. if providence kindly bestows on me success and bright days, i hope we shall enjoy them together. farewell! may you be happy! felix. rome, november nd, . my dear brother and sisters, you know how much i dislike, at a distance of two hundred miles, and fourteen days' journey from you, to offer good advice. i mean to do so, however, for once. let me tell you therefore of a mistake in your conduct, and in truth the same that i once made myself. i do assure you that never in my life have i known my father write in so irritable a strain as since i came to rome, and so i wish to ask you if you cannot devise some domestic recipe to cheer him a little? i mean by forbearance and yielding to his wishes, and in this manner, by allowing my father's view of any subject to predominate over your own; then, not to speak at all on topics that irritate him; and instead of saying shameful, say unpleasant; or instead of superb, very fair. this method has often a wonderfully good effect; and i put it, with all submission to yourselves, whether it might not be equally successful in this case? for, with the exception of the great events of the world, ill-humour often seems to me to proceed from the same cause that my father's did when i chose to pursue my own path in my musical studies. he was then in a constant state of irritation, incessantly abusing beethoven and all visionaries; and this often vexed me very much, and made me sometimes very unamiable. at that very time something new came out, which put my father out of sorts, and made him i believe not a little uneasy. so long therefore as i persisted in extolling and exalting my beethoven, the evil became daily worse; and one day, if i remember rightly, i was even sent out of the room. at last, however, it occurred to me that i might speak a great deal of truth, and yet avoid the particular truth obnoxious to my father; so the aspect of affairs speedily began to improve, and soon all went well. perhaps you may have in some degree forgotten that you ought now and then to be forbearing, and not aggressive. my father considers himself both much older and more irritable than, thank god, he really is; but it is our duty always to submit our opinion to his, even if the truth be as much on our side, as it often is on his, when opposed to us. strive, then, to praise what he likes, and do not attack what is implanted in his heart, more especially ancient established ideas. do not commend what is new till it has made some progress in the world, and acquired a name, for till then it is a mere matter of taste. try to draw my father into your circle, and be playful and kind to him. in short, try to smooth and to equalize things; and remember that i, who am now an experienced man of the world, never yet knew any family, taking into due consideration all defects and failings, who have hitherto lived so happily together as ours. do not send me any answer to this, for you will not receive it for a month, and by that time no doubt some fresh topic will have arisen; besides, if i have spoken nonsense, i do not wish to be scolded by you; and if i have spoken properly, i hope you will follow my good advice. november rd. just as i was going to set to work at the "hebrides," arrived herr b----, a musical professor from magdeburg. he played me over a whole book of songs, and an ave maria, and begged to have the benefit of my opinion. i seemed in the position of a juvenile nestor, and made him some insipid speeches, but this caused me the loss of a morning in rome, which is a pity. the choral, "mitten wir im leben sind," is finished, and is certainly one of the best sacred pieces that i have yet composed. after i have completed the hebrides, i think of arranging händel's solomon for future performance, with proper curtailments, etc. i then purpose writing the christmas music of "vom himmel hoch," and the symphony in a minor; perhaps also some pieces for the piano, and a concerto, etc., just as they come into my head. i own i do sadly miss some friend to whom i could communicate my new works, and who could examine the score along with me, and play a bass or a flute; whereas now when a piece is finished i must lay it aside in my desk without its giving pleasure to any one. london spoiled me in this respect. i can never again expect to meet all together such friends as i had there. here i can only say the half of what i think, and leave the best half unspoken; whereas there it was not necessary to say more than the half, because the other half was a mere matter of course, and already understood. still, this is a most delightful place. we young people went lately to albano, and set off in the most lovely weather. the road to frascati passed under the great aqueduct, its dark brown outlines standing out sharply defined against the clear blue sky; thence we proceeded to the monastery at grotta ferrata, where there are some beautiful frescoes by domenichino; then to marino, very picturesquely situated on a hill, and proceeding along the margin of the lake we reached castel gandolfo. the scenery, like my first impression of italy, is by no means so striking or so wonderfully beautiful as is generally supposed, but most pleasing and gratifying to the eye, and the outlines undulating and picturesque, forming a perfect whole, with its _entourage_ and distribution of light. here i must deliver a eulogy on monks; they finish a picture at once, giving it tone and colour, with their wide loose gowns, their pious meditative, gait, and their dark aspect. a beautiful shady avenue of evergreen oaks runs along the lake from castel gandolfo to albano, where monks of every order are swarming, animating the scenery and yet marking its solitude. near the city a couple of begging monks were walking together; further on, a whole troop of young jesuits; then we saw an elegant young priest in a thicket reading; beyond this two more were standing in the wood with their guns, watching for birds. then we came to a monastery, encircled by a number of small chapels. at last all was solitude; but at that moment appeared a dirty, stupid-looking capuchin, laden with huge nosegays, which he placed before the various shrines, kneeling down in front of them before proceeding to decorate them. as we passed on, we met two old prelates engaged in eager conversation. the bell for vespers was ringing in the monastery of albano, and even on the summit of the highest hill stands a passionist convent, where they are only permitted to speak for a single hour daily, and occupy themselves solely in reading the history of the passion of christ. in albano, among girls with pitchers on their heads, vendors of flowers and vegetables, and all the crowd and tumult, we saw a coal-black dumb monk, returning to monte cavo, who formed a singular contrast to the rest of the scene. they seem to have taken entire possession of all this splendid country, and form a strange melancholy ground-tone for all that is lively, gay, and free, and the ever-living cheerfulness bestowed by nature. it is as if men, on that very account, required a counterpoise. this is not however my case, and i need no contrast to enable me to enjoy what i see. i am often with bunsen, and as he likes to turn the conversation on the subject of his liturgy and its musical portions, which i consider very deficient, i am perfectly plain-spoken, and give him a straight-forward opinion; and i believe this is the only way to establish a mutual understanding. we have had several long, serious discussions, and i hope we shall eventually know each other better. yesterday palestrina's music was performed at bunsen's house (as on every monday), and then for the first time i played before the roman musicians _in corpore_. i am quite aware of the necessity in every foreign city of playing so as to make myself understood by the audience. this makes me usually feel rather embarrassed, and such was the case with me yesterday. after the papal singers finished palestrina's music, it was my turn to play something. a brilliant piece would have been unsuitable, and there had been more than enough of serious music; i therefore begged astolfi, the director, to give me a theme, so he lightly touched the notes with one finger thus:-- [music] smiling as he did so. the black-frocked abbati pressed round me and seemed highly delighted. i observed this, and it inspirited me so much that towards the end i succeeded famously; they clapped their hands like mad, and bunsen declared that i had astounded the clergy; in short, the affair went off well. there is no encouraging prospect of any public performance here, so society is the only resource, which is fishing in troubled waters. yours, felix. rome, november th, . to come home from bunsen's by moonlight, with your letter in my pocket, and then to read it through leisurely at night,--this is a degree of pleasure i wish many may enjoy. in all probability i shall stay here the whole winter, and not go to naples till april. it is so delightful to look round on every side, and to appreciate it all properly. there is much that must be thought over, in order to receive a due impression from it. i have also within myself so much work requiring both quiet and industry, that i feel anything like haste would be utter destruction; and though i adhere faithfully to my system, to receive each day only one fresh image into my mind, still i am sometimes compelled even then to give myself a day of rest, that i may not become confused. i write you a short letter to-day, because i must for the present adhere to my work; and yet i cannot refrain from culling all the beauty that lies at my feet. the weather, too, is _brutto_ and cold, so that i am not in a very communicative mood. the pope is dying, or possibly dead by this time. "we shall soon get a new one," say the italians, coolly. his death will not affect the carnival, nor the church festivals, with their pomps and processions, and fine music; and as there will be in addition to these, solemn requiems, and the lying-in-state at st. peter's, they care little about it, provided it does not occur in february. i am delighted to hear that mantius sings my songs, and likes them. give him my kind regards, and ask him why he does not perform his promise, and write to me. i have written to him repeatedly in the shape of music. in the "ave maria," and in the choral "aus tiefer noth," some passages are composed expressly for him, and he will sing them charmingly. in the "ave," which is a salutation, a tenor solo takes the lead of the choir (i thought of a disciple all the time). as the piece is in a major, and goes rather high at the words _benedicta tu_, he must prepare his high a; it will vibrate well. ask him to sing you a song i sent to devrient from venice, "von schlechtem lebenswandel." it is expressive of mingled joy and despair; no doubt he will sing it well. show it to no one, but confine it solely to forty eyes. ritz[ ] too never writes, and yet i am constantly longing for his violin and his depth of feeling when he plays, which all recurs to my mind when i see his welcome writing. i am now working daily at the "hebrides," and will send it to ritz as soon as it is finished. it is quite a piece to suit him--so very singular. [ ] the violin player, edward ritz, an intimate friend of mendelssohn's. next time i write i will tell you more of myself. i work hard, and lead a pleasant, happy life; my mirror is stuck full of italian, german, and english visiting-cards, and i spend every evening with one of my acquaintances. there is a truly babylonian confusion of tongues in my head, for english, italian, german and french are all mixed up together in it. two days ago i again extemporized before the papal singers. the fellows had contrived to get hold of the most strange, quaint theme for me, wishing to put my powers to the test. they call me, however, _l'insuperabile professorone_, and are particularly kind and friendly. i much wished to have described to you the sunday music in the sistina, a _soirée_ at torlonia's, the vatican, st. onofrio, guido's aurora, and other small matters, but i reserve them for my next letter. the post is about to set off, and this letter with it. my good wishes are always with you, to-day and ever. yours, felix. rome, december th, . i cannot even to-day manage to write to you as fully as i wish. heaven knows how time flies here! i was introduced this week to several agreeable english families, and so i have the prospect of many pleasant evenings this winter. i am much with bunsen. i intend also to cultivate baini. i think he conceives me to be only a _brutissimo tedesco_, so that i have a famous opportunity of becoming well acquainted with him. his compositions are certainly of no great value, and the same may be said of the whole music here. the wish is not wanting, but the means do not exist. the orchestra is below contempt. mdlle. carl,[ ] (who is engaged as _prima donna assoluta_ for the season, at both the principal theatres here,) is now arrived, and begins to make _la pluie et le beau temps_. the papal singers even are becoming old; they are almost all unmusical, and do not execute even the most established pieces in tune. the whole choir consists of thirty-two singers, but that number are rarely together. concerts are given by the so-called philharmonic society, but only with the piano. there is no orchestra, and when recently they wished to perform haydn's "creation," the instrumentalists declared it was impossible to play it. the sounds they bring out of their wind instruments, are such as in germany we have no conception of. [ ] formerly a singer in the royal theatre at berlin. the pope is dead, and the conclave assembles on the th. a great part of the winter will be occupied with the ceremonies of his funeral, and the enthronement of the new pope. all music therefore and large parties must be at an end, so i very much doubt whether i shall be able to undertake any public performance during my stay here; but i do not regret this, for there are so many varied objects to enjoy inwardly, that my dwelling on these and meditating on them is no disadvantage. the performance of graun's "passion" in naples, and more especially the translation of sebastian bach's, prove that the good cause is sure eventually to make its way, though it will neither kindle enthusiasm, nor will it be appreciated. it is no worse however with regard to music--in fact, rather better--than with their estimate of every other branch of the fine arts; for when some of raphael's loggie are with inconceivable recklessness and disgraceful barbarism actually defaced, to give place to inscriptions in pencil; when the lower parts of the arabesques are totally destroyed, because italians with knives, and heaven knows what else besides, inscribe their insignificant names there; when one person painted in large letters under the apollo belvedere, 'christ;' when an altar has been erected in front of michael angelo's "last judgment," so large that it hides the centre of the picture, thus destroying the whole effect; when cattle are driven through the splendid saloons of the villa madama, the walls of which are painted by giulio romano, and fodder is stored in them, simply from indifference towards the beautiful,--all this is certainly much worse than a bad orchestra, and painters must be even more distressed by such things than i am by their miserable music. the fact is, that the people are mentally enervated and apathetic. they have a religion, but they do not believe in it; they have a pope and a government, but they turn them into ridicule; they can recall a brilliant and heroic past, but they do not value it. it is thus no marvel that they do not delight in art, for they are indifferent to all that is earnest. it is really quite revolting to see their unconcern about the death of the pope, and their unseemly merriment during the ceremonies. i myself saw the corpse lying in state, and the priests standing round incessantly whispering and laughing; and at this moment, when masses are being said for his soul, they are in the very same church hammering away at the scaffolding of the catafalque, so that the strokes of the hammers and the noise of the workpeople entirely prevent any one hearing the religious services. as soon as the cardinals assemble in conclave, satires appear against them, where, for instance, they parody the litanies, and instead of praying to be delivered from each particular sin, they name the bad qualities of each well-known cardinal; or, again, they perform an entire opera, where all the characters are cardinals, one being the _primo amoroso_, another the _tiranno assoluto_, a third, stage candle-snuffer, etc. this could not be the case where the people took any pleasure in art. formerly it was no better, but they had faith then; and it is this which makes the difference. nature, however, and the genial december atmosphere, and the outlines of the alban hills, stretching as far as the sea, all remain unchanged. there they can scribble no names, or compose no inscriptions. these every one can still individually enjoy in all their freshness, and to these i cling. i feel much the want of a _friend_ here, to whom i could freely unbosom myself; who could read my music as i write it, thus making it doubly precious in my eyes; in whose society i could feel an interest, and enjoy repose; and honestly learn from him, (it would not require a very wise man for this purpose.) but just as trees are not ordained to grow up into the sky, so probably such a man is not likely to be found here; and the good fortune i have hitherto so richly enjoyed elsewhere, is not to fall to my share at present; so i must hum over my melodies to myself, and i dare say i shall do well enough. felix. rome, december th, . dear father, it is a year this very day since we kept your birthday at hensel's, and now let me give you some account of rome, as i did at that time of london. i intend to finish my overture to the "einsame insel"[ ] as a present to you, and if i write under it the th december, when i take up the sheets i shall feel as if i were about to place them in your hands. you would probably say that you could not read them, but still i should have offered you the best it was in my power to give; and though i desire to do this every day, still there is a peculiar feeling connected with a birthday. would i were with you! i need not offer you my good wishes, for you know them all already, and the deep interest i, and all of us, take in your happiness and welfare, and that we cannot wish any good for you, that is not reflected doubly on ourselves. to-day is a holiday. i rejoice in thinking how cheerful you are at home; and when i repeat to you how happily i live here, i feel as if this were also a felicitation. a period like this, when serious thought and enjoyment are combined, is indeed most cheering and invigorating. every time i enter my room i rejoice that i am not obliged to pursue my journey on the following day, and that i may quietly postpone many things till the morrow--that i am in rome! hitherto much that passed through my brain was swept away by fresh ideas, each new impression chasing away the previous one, while here, on the contrary, they are all in turn properly developed. i never remember having worked with so much zeal, and if i am to complete all that i have projected, i must be very industrious during the winter. i am indeed deprived of the great delight of showing my finished compositions to one who could take pleasure in them, and enter into them along with me; but this impels me to return to my labours, which please me most when i am fairly in the midst of them. and now this must be combined with the various solemnities, and festivals of every kind, which are to supplant my work for a few days; and as i have resolved to see and to enjoy all i possibly can, i do not allow my occupation to prevent this, and shall then return with fresh zeal to my composition. [ ] afterwards published under the name of "overture to the hebrides." this is indeed a delightful existence! my health is as good as possible, though the hot wind, called here the _sirocco_, rather attacks my nerves, and i find i must beware of playing the piano much, or at night; besides it is easy for me to refrain from doing so for a few days, as for some weeks past i have been playing almost every evening. bunsen, who often warns me against playing if i find it prejudicial, gave a large party yesterday, where nevertheless i was obliged to play; but it was a pleasure to me, for i had the opportunity of making so many agreeable acquaintances. thorwaldsen, in particular, expressed himself in so gratifying a manner with regard to me, that i felt quite proud, for i honor him as one of the greatest of men, and always have revered him. he looks like a lion, and the very sight of his face is invigorating. you feel at once that he must be a noble artist; his eyes look so clear, as if with him every object must assume a definite form and image. moreover he is very gentle, and kind, and mild, because his nature is so superior; and yet he seems to be able to enjoy every trifle. it is a real source of pleasure to see a great man, and to know that the creator of works that will endure for ever stands before you in person; a living being with all his attributes, and individuality, and genius, and yet a man like others. december th, morning. now your actual birthday is arrived! a few lines of music suggested themselves to me on the occasion, and though they may not be worth much, the congratulations i have been in the habit of offering, were of quite as little value. fanny may add the second part. i have only written what occurred to my mind as i entered the room, the sun shining, on your birthday:-- [music] [music] [music] bunsen has just been here, and begs me to send you his best regards and congratulations. he is all kindness and courtesy towards me, and as you wish to know, i think i may say that we suit each other remarkably well. the few words you wrote about p---- recalled him to my memory in all his offensiveness. the abbate santini ought to be an obscure man compared with him, for he never attempts to magnify his own importance by impertinence or self-sufficiency. p---- is one of those collectors who make learning and libraries distasteful to others by their narrow-mindedness, whereas santini is a genuine collector, in the best sense of the word, caring little whether his collection be of much value in a pecuniary point of view. he therefore gives everything away indiscriminately, and is only anxious to procure something new, for his chief object is the diffusion and universal knowledge of ancient music. i have not seen him lately, as every morning now he figures, _ex officio_, in his violet gown at st. peter's; but if he has made use of some ancient text, he will say so without scruple, as he has no wish to be thought the first discoverer. he is, in fact, a man of limited capacity; and this i consider great praise in a certain sense, for though he is neither a musical nor any other luminary, and even bears some resemblance to lessing's inquisitive friar, still he knows how to confine himself within his own sphere. music itself does not interest him much, if he can only have it on his shelves; and he is, and esteems himself to be, simply a quiet, zealous collector. i must admit that he is fatiguing, and not altogether free from irritability; still i love any one who adopts and perseveres in some particular pursuit, prosecuting it to the best of his ability, and endeavouring to perfect it for the benefit of mankind, and i think every one ought to esteem him just the same, whether he chance to be tiresome or agreeable. i wish you would read this aloud to p----. it always makes me furious when men who have no pursuit, presume to criticize those who wish to effect something, even on a small scale; so on this very account i took the liberty of rebuking lately a certain musician in society here. he began to speak of mozart, and as bunsen and his sister love palestrina, he tried to flatter their tastes by asking me, for instance, what i thought of the worthy mozart, and all his sins. i however replied, that so far as i was concerned, i should feel only too happy to renounce all _my_ virtues in exchange for mozart's sins: but that of course i could not venture to pronounce on the extent of _his_ virtues. the people all laughed, and were highly amused. how strange it is that such persons should feel no awe of so great a name! it is some consolation, however, that it is the same in every sphere of art, as the painters here are quite as bad. they are most formidable to look at, sitting in their _café greco_. i scarcely ever go there, for i dislike both them and their favourite places of resort. it is a small dark room, about eight feet square, where on one side you may smoke, but not on the other; so they sit round on benches, with their broad-leaved hats on their heads, and their huge mastiffs beside them; their cheeks and throats, and the whole of their faces covered with hair, puffing forth clouds of smoke (only on one side of the room), and saying rude things to each other, while the mastiffs swarm with vermin. a neckcloth or a coat would be quite innovations. any portion of the face visible through the beard, is hid by spectacles; so they drink coffee, and speak of titian and pordenone, just as if they were sitting beside them, and also wore beards and wide-awakes! moreover, they paint such sickly madonnas and feeble saints, and such milk-sop heroes, that i feel the strongest inclination to knock them down. these infernal critics do not even shrink from discussing titian's picture in the vatican, about which you asked me; they say that it has neither subject nor meaning; yet it never seems to occur to them, that a master who had so long studied a picture with due love and reverence, must have had quite as deep an insight into the subject as they are likely to have, even with their coloured spectacles. and if in the course of my life i accomplish nothing but this, i am at all events determined to say the most harsh and cutting things to those who show no reverence towards their masters, and then i shall at least have performed one good work. but there they stand, and see all the splendour of those creations, so far transcending their own conceptions, and yet dare to criticize them. in this picture there are three stages, or whatever they are called the same as in the "transfiguration." below, saints and martyrs are represented in suffering and abasement; on every face is depicted sadness, nay almost impatience; one figure in rich episcopal robes looks upwards, with the most eager and agonized longing, as if weeping, but he cannot see all that is floating above his head, but which _we_ see, standing in front of the picture. above, mary and her child are in a cloud, radiant with joy, and surrounded by angels, who have woven many garlands; the holy child holds one of these, and seems as if about to crown the saints beneath, but his mother withholds his hand for the moment. the contrast between the pain and suffering below, whence st. sebastian looks forth out of the picture with such gloom and almost apathy, and the lofty unalloyed exultation in the clouds above, where crowns and palms are already awaiting him, is truly admirable. high above the group of mary, hovers the holy spirit, from whom emanates a bright streaming light, thus forming the apex of the whole composition. i have just remembered that goethe, at the beginning of his first visit to rome, describes and admires this picture; but i no longer have the book to enable me to read it over, and to compare my description with his. he speaks of it in considerable detail. it was at that time in the quirinal, and subsequently transferred to the vatican; whether it was painted on a given subject, as some allege, or not, is of no moment. titian has imbued it with his genius and his poetical feeling, and has thus made it his own. i like schadow much, and am often with him; on every occasion, and especially in his own department, he is mild and clear-judging, doing justice with due modesty to all that is truly great; he recently said that titian had never painted an indifferent or an uninteresting picture, and i believe he is right; for life and enthusiasm and the soundest vigour are displayed in all his productions, and where these are, it is good to be also. there is one singular and fortunate peculiarity here: though all the objects have been, a thousand times over, described, discussed, copied, and criticized, in praise or blame, by the greatest masters, and the most insignificant scholars, cleverly or stupidly, still they never fail to make a fresh and sublime impression on all, affecting each person according to his own individuality. here we can take refuge from man in all that surrounds us; in berlin it is often exactly the reverse. i have this moment received your letter of the th, and am pleased to find that i have already answered many of the questions it contains. there is no hurry about the letters i asked for, as i have now made almost more acquaintances than i wish; besides, late hours, and playing so much, do not suit me in rome, so i can await the arrival of these letters very patiently: it was not so at the time i urged you to send them. i cannot however understand what you mean by your allusion to _coteries_ which i ought to have outgrown, for i know that i, and all of us, invariably dreaded and detested what is usually so called,--that is, a frivolous, exclusive circle of society, clinging to empty outward forms. among persons, however, who daily meet, while their mutual objects of interest remain the same, who have no sympathy with public life (and this is certainly the case in berlin, with the exception of the theatre), it is not unnatural that they should form for themselves a gay, cheerful, and original mode of treating passing events, and that this should give rise to a peculiar, and perhaps monotonous style of conversation; but this by no means constitutes a _coterie_. i feel convinced that i shall never belong to one, whether i am in rome or wittenberg. i am glad that the last words i was writing when your letter arrived, chanced to be that in berlin you must take refuge in society from all that surrounds you; thus proving that i had no spirit of _coterie_, which invariably estranges men from each other. i should deeply regret your observing anything of the kind in me or in any of us, except indeed for the moment. forgive me, my dear father, for defending myself so warmly, but this word is most repugnant to my feelings, and you say in your letters that i am always to speak out what i think in a straightforward manner, so pray do not take this amiss. i was in st. peter's to-day, where the grand solemnities called the absolutions have begun for the pope, and which last till tuesday, when the cardinals assemble in conclave. the building surpasses all powers of description. it appears to me like some great work of nature, a forest, a mass of rocks, or something similar; for i never can realize the idea that it is the work of man. you strive to distinguish the ceiling as little as the canopy of heaven. you lose your way in st. peter's, you take a walk in it, and ramble till you are quite tired; when divine service is performed and chanted there, you are not aware of it till you come quite close. the angels in the baptistery are monstrous giants; the doves, colossal birds of prey; you lose all idea of measurement with the eye, or proportion; and yet who does not feel his heart expand, when standing under the dome, and gazing up at it? at present a monstrous catafalque has been erected in the nave in this shape.[ ] the coffin is placed in the centre under the pillars; the thing is totally devoid of taste, and yet it has a wondrous effect. the upper circle is thickly studded with lights, so are all the ornaments; the lower circle is lighted in the same way, and over the coffin hangs a burning lamp, and innumerable lights are blazing under the statues. the whole structure is more than a hundred feet high, and stands exactly opposite the entrance. the guards of honour, and the swiss, march about in the quadrangle; in every corner sits a cardinal in deep mourning, attended by his servants, who hold large burning torches, and then the singing commences with responses, in the simple and monotonous tone you no doubt remember. it is the only occasion when there is any singing in the middle of the church, and the effect is wonderful. those who place themselves among the singers (as i do) and watch them, are forcibly impressed by the scene: for they all stand round a colossal book from which they sing, and this book is in turn lit up by a colossal torch that burns before it; while the choir are eagerly pressing forward in their vestments, in order to see and to sing properly: and baini with his monk's face, marking time with his hand, and occasionally joining in the chant with a stentorian voice. to watch all these different italian faces, was most interesting; one enjoyment quickly succeeds another here, and it is the same in their churches, especially in st. peter's, where by moving a few steps the whole scene is changed. i went to the very furthest end, whence there was indeed a wonderful _coup d'oeil_. through the spiral columns of the high altar, which is confessedly as high as the palace in berlin, far beyond the space of the cupola, the whole mass of the catafalque was seen in diminished perspective, with its rows of lights, and numbers of small human beings crowding round it. when the music commences, the sounds do not reach the other end for a long time, but echo and float in the vast space, so that the most singular and vague harmonies are borne towards you. if you change your position, and place yourself right in front of the catafalque, beyond the blaze of light and the brilliant pageantry, you have the dusky cupola replete with blue vapour; all this is quite indescribable. such is rome! [ ] a little sketch of the catafalque was enclosed in the letter. this has become a long letter, so i must conclude; it will reach you on christmas-day. may you all enjoy it happily! i send each of you presents, which are to be dispatched two days hence, and will arrive in time for the anniversary of your silver wedding-day. many glad festivals are thus crowded together, and i scarcely know whether to imagine myself with you to-day, and to wish you, dear father, all possible happiness, or to arrive with my letter at christmas, and not to be allowed by my mother to pass through the room with the christmas-tree. i am afraid i must be contented with thinking of you.--farewell all! may you be happy! felix. i have just received your letter, which brings me the intelligence of goethe's illness. what i personally feel at this news i cannot express. this whole evening his words, "i must try to keep all right till your return," have sounded continually in my ears, to the exclusion of every other thought: when he is gone, germany will assume a very different aspect for artists. i have never thought of germany without feeling heartfelt joy and pride that goethe lived there; and the rising generation seem for the most part so weakly and feeble, that it makes my heart sink within me. he is the last; and with him closes a happy prosperous period for us! this year ends in solemn sadness. rome, december th, . in my former letter i told you of the more serious aspect of roman life; but as i wish to describe to you how i live, i must now tell you of the gayeties that have prevailed during this week. to-day we have the most genial sunshine, a blue sky, and a transparent atmosphere, and on such days i have my own mode of passing my time. i work hard till eleven o'clock, and from that hour till dark, i do nothing but breathe the air. for the first time, for some days past, we yesterday had fine weather. after therefore working for a time in the morning at "solomon," i went to the monte pincio, where i rambled about the whole day. the effect of this exhilarating air is quite magical; and when i arose to-day, and again saw bright sunshine, i exulted in the thoughts of the entire idleness i was again about to indulge in. the whole world is on foot, revelling in a december spring. every moment you meet some acquaintance, with whom you lounge about for a time, then leave him, and once more enjoy your solitary revery. there are swarms of handsome faces to be seen. as the sun declines, the appearance of the whole landscape, and every hue, undergo a change. when the ave maria sounds, it is time to go to the church of trinità de' monti, where french nuns sing; and it is charming to hear them. i declare to heaven that i am become quite tolerant, and listen to bad music with edification; but what can i do? the composition is positively ridiculous; the organ playing even more absurd. but it is twilight, and the whole of the small bright church is filled with persons kneeling, lit up by the sinking sun each time that the door is opened; both the singing nuns have the sweetest voices in the world, quite tender and touching, more especially when one of them sings the responses in her melodious voice, which we are accustomed to hear chanted by priests in a loud, harsh, monotonous tone. the impression is very singular; moreover, it is well known that no one is permitted to see the fair singers,--so this caused me to form a strange resolution. i have composed something to suit their voices, which i observed very minutely, and i mean to send it to them,--there are several modes to which i can have recourse to accomplish this. that they will sing it, i feel quite assured; and it will be pleasant for me to hear my chant performed by persons whom i never saw, especially as they must in turn sing it to the _barbaro tedesco_, whom they also never beheld. i am charmed with this idea. the text is in latin,--a prayer to mary. does not this notion please you?[ ] [ ] this piece appeared afterwards as opus . after church i walk again on the hill until it is quite dark, when madame vernet and her daughter, and pretty madame v---- (for whose acquaintance i have to thank roesel), are much admired by us germans, and we form groups round them, or follow, or walk beside them. the background is formed by haggard painters with terrific beards; they smoke tobacco on the monte pincio, whistle to their huge dogs, and enjoy the sunset in their own way. as i am in a frivolous mood to-day, i must relate to you, dear sisters, every particular of a ball i lately attended, and where i danced with a degree of zeal i never did before. i had spoken a few fair words to the _maître de danse_ (who stands in the middle here, and regulates everything), consequently he allowed the galop to continue for more than half an hour, so i was in my element, and pleasantly conscious that i was dancing in the palazzo albani, in rome, and also with the prettiest girl in it, according to the verdict of the competent judges (thorwaldsen, vernet, etc.) the way in which i became acquainted with her is also an anecdote of rome. i was at torlonia's first ball, though not dancing, as i knew none of the ladies present, but merely looking at the people. suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder, saying, "so you also are admiring the english beauty; i am quite dazzled." it was thorwaldsen himself standing at the door, lost in admiration; scarcely had he said this, when we heard a torrent of words behind us,--"mais où est-elle donc, cette petite anglaise? ma femme m'a envoyé pour la regarder. per bacco!" it was quite clear that this little thin frenchman, with stiff, grey hair, and the ribbon of the legion of honour, must be horace vernet. he now discussed the youthful beauty with thorwaldsen, in the most earnest and scientific manner; and it was quite a pleasure to me to see these two old masters admiring the young girl together, while she was dancing away, quite unconcerned. they were then presented to her parents, but i felt very insignificant, as i could not join in the conversation. a few days afterwards, however, i was with some acquaintances whom i knew through the attwoods, at venice, they having invited me for the purpose of presenting me to some of their friends; and these friends turned out to be the very persons i have been speaking of; so your son and brother was highly delighted. my pianoforte playing is a source of great gratification to me here. you know how thorwaldsen loves music, and i sometimes play to him in the morning while he is at work. he has an excellent instrument in his studio, and when i look at the old gentleman and see him kneading his brown clay, and delicately fining off an arm, or a fold of drapery,--in short, when he is creating what we must all admire when completed, as an enduring work,--then i do indeed rejoice that i have the means of bestowing any enjoyment on him. nevertheless, i have not fallen into arrear with my own tasks. the "hebrides" is completed at last, and a strange production it is. the chant for the nuns is in my head; and i think of composing luther's choral for christmas, but on this occasion i must do so quite alone; and it will be a more serious affair this time, and so will the anniversary of your silver wedding-day, when i intend to have a great many lights, and to sing my "liederspiel," and to have a peep at my english _bâton_. after the new year, i intend to resume instrumental music, and to write several things for the piano, and probably a symphony of some kind, for two have been haunting my brain. i have lately frequented a most delightful spot,--the tomb of cecilia metella. the sabine hills had a sprinkling of snow, but it was glorious sunshine; the alban hills were like a dream or a vision. there is no such thing as distance in italy, for all the houses on the hills can be counted, with their roofs and windows. i have thus inhaled this air to satiety; and to-morrow in all probability, more serious occupations will be resumed, for the sky is cloudy, and it is raining hard, but what a spring this will be! december st. this is the shortest day, and very gloomy, as might have been anticipated; so to-day nothing can be thought of but fugues, chorals, balls, etc. but i must say a few words about guido's "aurora," which i often visit; it is a picture the very type of haste and impetus; for surely no man ever imagined such hurry and tumult, such sounding and clashing. painters maintain that it is lighted from two sides,--they have my full permission to light _theirs_ from three if it will improve them,--but the difference lies elsewhere. i really cannot compose a tolerable song here, for who is there to sing it to me? but i am writing a grand fugue, "wir glauben all," and sing it to myself in such a fashion that my friend the captain rushes downstairs in alarm, puts in his head, and asks what i want. i answer--a counter theme. but how much i do really want; and yet how much i have got! thus life passes onwards. felix. rome, december th, . rome in wet weather is the most odious, uncomfortable place imaginable. for some days past we have had incessant storms and cold, and streams of water from the sky; and i can scarcely comprehend how, only one week ago, i could write you a letter full of rambles and orange-trees and all that is beautiful: in such weather as this everything becomes ugly. still, i must write to you about it, otherwise my previous letter would not have the advantage of contrast, and of that there is no lack. if in germany we can form no conception of the bright winter days here, quite as little can we realize a really wet winter day in rome; everything is arranged for fine weather, so the bad is borne like a public calamity, and in the hope of better times. there is no shelter anywhere; in my room, which is usually so comfortable, the water pours in through the windows, which will not shut fast; the wind whistles through the doors, which will not close; the stone floor chills you in spite of double mattings, and the smoke from the chimney is driven into the room, because the fire will not burn; foreigners shiver and freeze here like tailors. all this is, however, actual luxury when compared with the streets; and when i am obliged to go out, i consider it a positive misfortune. rome, as every one knows, is built on seven large hills; but there are a number of smaller ones besides, and all the streets are sloping, so the water pours down them, and rushes towards you; nowhere is there a raised footpath, or a _trottoir_; at the stair of the piazza di spagna, there is a flood like the great water-works in wilhelms-höhe; the tiber has overflowed its banks, and inundated the adjacent streets: this, then, is the water from below. from above come violent showers of rain, but that is the least part. the houses have no water-spouts, and the long roofs slant precipitously, but, being of different lengths, this causes an incessant violent inundation on both sides of the street, so that go where you will, close to the houses, or in the middle of the streets, beside a barber's shop or a palace, you are sure to be deluged, and, quite unawares, you find yourself standing under a tremendous shower-bath, the water pelting on your umbrella, while a stream is running before you that you cannot jump over, so you are obliged to return the way you came: this is the water overhead. then the carriages drive as rapidly as possible, and close to the houses, so that you must retreat into the doorways till they are past; they not only splash men and houses, but each other, so that when two meet, one must drive into the gutter, which, being a rapid current, the consequences are lamentable. lately i saw an abbate hurrying along, whose umbrella chancing to knock off the broad-brimmed hat of a peasant, it fell with the crown exposed to one of these deluges, and when the man went to pick it up, it was quite filled with water. "scusi," said the abbate. "padronè," replied the peasant. the hackney coaches moreover only ply till five o'clock, so if you go to a party at night, it costs you a scudo. _fiat justitia et pereat mundus_--rome in rainy weather is vastly disagreeable. i see by a letter of devrient's, that one i wrote to him from venice, and which i took to the post myself on the th of october, had not reached him on the th of november. it would appear also, that another which i sent the same day to munich had not arrived; both these letters contained music, and this accounts for the loss. at that very time in venice they carried off all my manuscripts to the custom-house, after visiting my effects at night, shortly before the departure of the post, and i only received them again here, after much worry and writing backwards and forwards. every one assured me that the cause of this was a secret correspondence being suspected in cipher in the manuscript music. i could scarcely credit such intolerable stupidity; but as my two letters from venice containing music have not arrived, and these only, the thing is clear enough. i intend to complain of this to the austrian ambassador here, but it will do no good, and the letters are lost, which i much regret. farewell! felix. rome, january th, . for a week past we have had the most lovely spring weather. young girls are carrying about nosegays of violets and anemones, which they gather early in the morning at the villa pamfili. the streets and squares swarm with gaily attired pedestrians; the ave maria has already been advanced twenty minutes, but what is become of the winter? some little time ago it indeed reminded me of my work, to which i now mean to apply steadily, for i own that during the gay social life of the previous weeks, i had rather neglected it. i have nearly completed the arrangement of "solomon," and also my christmas anthem, which consists of five numbers; the two symphonies also begin to assume a more definite form, and i particularly wish to finish them here. probably i shall be able to accomplish this during lent, when parties cease (especially balls) and spring begins, and then i shall have both time and inclination to compose, in which case i hope to have a good store of new works. any performance of them here is quite out of the question. the orchestras are worse than any one could believe; both musicians, and a right feeling for music, are wanting. the two or three violin performers play just as they choose, and join in when they please; the wind instruments are tuned either too high or too low; and they execute flourishes like those we are accustomed to hear in farm-yards, but hardly so good; in short the whole forms a dutch concert, and this applies even to compositions with which they are familiar. the question is, whether all this could be radically reformed by introducing other people into the orchestra, by teaching the musicians time, and by instructing them in first principles. i think in that case the people would no doubt take pleasure in it; so long, however, as this is not done, no improvement can be hoped for, and every one seems so indifferent on the subject, that there is not the slightest prospect of such a thing. i heard a solo on the flute, where the flute was more than a quarter of a tone too high; it set my teeth on edge, but no one remarked it, and when at the end a shake came, they applauded mechanically. if it were even a shade better with regard to singing! the great singers have left the country. lablache, david, lalande, pisaroni, etc., sing in paris, and the minor ones who remain, copy their inspired moments, which they caricature in the most insupportable manner. we in germany may perhaps wish to accomplish something false or impossible, but it is, and always will be, quite _dissimilar_; and just as a _cicisbeo_ will for ever be odious and repulsive to my feelings, so is it also with italian music. i may be too obtuse to comprehend either; but i shall never feel otherwise; and recently, at the philharmonic, after the music of pacini and bellini, when the cavaliere ricci begged me to accompany him in "non più andrai," the very first notes were so utterly different and so infinitely remote from all the previous music, that the matter was clear to me then, and never will it be equalized, so long as there is such a blue sky, and such a charming winter as the present. in the same way the swiss can paint no beautiful scenery, precisely because they have it the whole day before their eyes. "les allemands traitent la musique comme une affaire d'état," says spontini, and i accept the axiom. i lately heard some musicians here talking of their composers, and i listened in silence. one quoted ----, but the others interrupted him, saying he could not be considered an italian, for the german school still clung to him, and he had never been able to get rid of it; consequently he had never been at home in italy: we germans say precisely the reverse of him, and it must be not a little trying to find yourself so _entre deux_, and without any fatherland. so far as i am concerned i stick to my own colours, which are quite honourable enough for me. last night a theatre that torlonia has undertaken and organized, was opened with a new opera of pacini's. the crowd was great, and every box filled with handsome, well-dressed people; young torlonia appeared in a stage-box with his mother, the old duchess, and they were immensely applauded. the audience called out _bravo, torlonia, grazie, grazie!_ opposite to him was jerome, with his suite, and covered with orders: in the next box countess samoilow, etc. over the orchestra is a picture of time pointing to the dial of the clock, which revolves slowly, and is enough to make any one melancholy. pacini then appeared at the piano, and was kindly welcomed. he had prepared no overture, so the opera began with a chorus, accompanied by strokes on an anvil tuned in the proper key. the corsair came forward, sang his _aria_, and was applauded, on which the corsair above, and the maestro below, bowed (this pirate is a contralto, and sung by mademoiselle mariani); a variety of airs followed, and the piece became very tiresome. this seemed to be also the opinion of the public, for when pacini's grand _finale_ began, the whole pit stood up, talking to each other as loud as they could, laughing and turning their backs on the stage. madame samoilow fainted in her box, and was carried out. pacini glided away from the piano, and at the end of the act, the curtain fell in the midst of a great tumult. then came the grand ballet of _barbe bleue_, followed by the last act of the opera. as the audience were now in a mood for it, they hissed the whole ballet from the very beginning, and accompanied the second act also with hooting and laughter. at the close torlonia was called for, but he would not appear. this is the matter-of-fact narrative of a first performance at the opening of a theatre in rome. i had anticipated much amusement, so i came away considerably out of humour; still, if the music had made _furore_, i should have been very indignant, for it is so wretched that it really is beneath all criticism. but that they should turn their backs on their favourite pacini, whom they wished to crown in the capitol, parody his melodies, and sing them in a ludicrous style, this does, i confess, provoke me not a little, and is likewise a proof of how low such a musician stands in the public opinion. another time they will carry him home on their shoulders; but this is no compensation. they would not act thus in france with regard to boieldieu; independent of all love of art, a sense of propriety would prevent their doing so: but enough of this subject, for it is too vexatious. why should italy still insist on being the land of art, while it is in reality the land of nature, thus delighting every heart! i have already described to you my walks to the monte pincio. i continue them daily. i went lately with the vollards to ponte nomentano, a solitary dilapidated bridge in the spacious green campagna. many ruins from the days of ancient rome, and many watch-towers from the middle ages, are scattered over this long succession of meadows; chains of hills rise towards the horizon, now partially covered with snow, and fantastically varied in form and colour by the shadows of the clouds. and there is also the enchanting, vapoury vision of the alban hills, which change their hues like a chameleon, as you gaze at them,--where you can see for miles little white chapels glittering on the dark ground of the hills, as far as the passionist convent on the summit, and whence you can trace the road winding through thickets, and the hills sloping downwards to the lake of albano, while a hermitage peeps through the trees. the distance is equal to that from berlin to potsdam, say i as a good berliner; but that it is a lovely vision, i say in earnest. no lack of music _there_; it echoes and vibrates _there_ on every side; not in the vapid, tasteless theatres. so we rambled about, chasing each other in the campagna, and jumping over the fences, and when the sun went down we drove home, feeling so weary, and yet so self-satisfied and pleased, as if we had done great things; and so we have, if we _rightly appreciated_ it all. i have now applied myself again to drawing, and have latterly put in some tints, as i should be glad to be able to recall some of these bright hues, and practice quickens the perceptions. i must now tell you, dear mother, of a great, very great pleasure i recently enjoyed, because you will rejoice with me. two days ago i was for the first time in a small circle with horace vernet, and played there. he had previously told me that his most favourite and esteemed music was "don juan," especially the duet and the commendatore at the end; and as i highly approved of such sentiments on his part, the result was, that while playing a prelude to weber's _concert-stück_, i imperceptibly glided further into extemporizing--thought i would please him by taking these themes, and so i worked them up fancifully for some time. this caused him a degree of delight far beyond what i ever knew my music produce in any one, and we became at once more intimate. afterwards he suddenly came up to me, and whispered that we must make an exchange, for that he also was an improvisatore; and when i was naturally curious to know what he meant, he said it was his secret. he is however like a little child, and could not conceal it for more than a quarter of an hour, when he came in again, and taking me into the next room, he asked me if i had any time to spare, as he had stretched and prepared a canvas, and proposed painting my portrait on it, which i was to keep in memory of this day, or roll it up and send it to you, or take it with me, just as i chose. he said he should have no easy task with his improvisation, but at all events he would attempt it. i was only too glad to give my consent, and cannot tell you how much i was enchanted with the delight and enthusiasm he evidently felt in my playing. it was in every respect a happy evening; as i ascended the hill with him, all was so still and peaceful, and only one window lit up in the large dark villa.[ ] fragments of music floated on the air, and its echoes in the dark night, mingled with the murmuring of fountains, were sweeter than i can describe. two young students were drilling in the anteroom, while the third acted the part of lieutenant, and commanded in good form. in another room my friend montfort, who gained the prize for music in the conservatorium, was seated at a piano, and others were standing round, singing a chorus; but it went very badly. they urged another young man to join them, and when he said that he did not know how to sing, his friend rejoined, "qu'est-ce que ça fait? c'est toujours une voix de plus!" i helped them as i best could, and we were well amused. afterwards we danced, and i wish you could have seen louisa vernet dancing the saltarella with her father. when at length she was forced to stop for a few moments, and snatched up a tambourine, playing with the utmost spirit, and relieving us, who could really scarcely any longer move our hands, i wished i had been a painter, for what a superb picture she would have made! her mother is the kindest creature in the world, and the grandfather, charles vernet (who paints such splendid horses), danced a quadrille the same evening with so much ease, making so many _entrechats_, and varying his steps so gracefully, that it is a sad pity he should actually be seventy-two years of age. every day he rides, and tires out two horses, paints and draws a little, and spends the evening in society. [ ] vernet lived in the villa medici. in my next letter i must tell you of my acquaintance with robert, who has just finished an admirable picture, "the harvest," and also describe my recent visits with bunsen to the studios of cornelius, koch, overbeck, etc. my time is fully occupied, for there is plenty to do and to see; unluckily i cannot make time elastic, however much i may strive to extend it. i have as yet said nothing of raphael's portrait as a child, and titian's "nymphs bathing," who in a piquant enough fashion are designated "sacred and profane love," one being in full gala costume, while the other is devoid of all drapery,[ ] or of my exquisite "madonna di foligno," or of francesco francia, the most guileless and devout painter in the world; or of poor guido reni, whom the bearded painters of the present day treat with such contempt, and yet he painted a certain aurora, and many other splendid objects besides; but what avails description? it is well for me that i can revel in the sight of them. when we meet, i may perhaps be able to give you a better idea of them. your felix. [ ] this picture is in the borghese gallery. rome, february st, . i intended not to write to you till my birthday, but possibly two days hence i may not be in a writing mood, and must drive all fancies away by hard work. it does not seem probable that the papal military band will surprise me in the morning,[ ] and as i have told all my acquaintances that i was born on the th, i think the day will glide quietly by; i prefer this to a trivial half-and-half celebration. i will place your portrait before me in the morning, and feel happy in looking at it and in thinking of you. i shall then play over my military overture, and select my favourite dish for dinner, from the _carte_ at the _lepre_. it is not unprofitable to be obliged to do all this for one's self, both on birthdays and other days. i feel isolated enough, and am rather partial to the other extreme. at night the torlonias are so obliging as to give a ball to eight hundred persons; on wednesday, the day before, and on friday, the day after my birthday, i am invited to the house of some english friends. during the previous week, i have been busily engaged in sight-seeing, and revisited many well-known objects;--thus i was in the vatican, the farnesina, corsini, the villa lante, borghese, etc. two days ago i saw the frescoes for the first time in bartholdy's house;[ ] inasmuch as the english ladies who reside there, and who have transformed the painted saloon into a sleeping apartment, with a four-post bed, would never hitherto permit me to enter it. so this was my first visit to my uncle's house, where at last i saw his pictures, and the view of the city. it was a noble, regal idea to have these frescoes; and the execution of such a sublime thought, in spite of every kind of impediment and annoyance, simply in order that the design should be carried out, seems to me very charming. [ ] on the rd of february, , the bands of some regiments in berlin gave mendelssohn a serenade in honour of his birthday. [ ] the prussian consul-general bartholdy, who died in rome, and was an uncle of felix mendelssohn's. but to turn to an entirely different subject. in many circles here, it is the fashion to consider piety and dulness synonymous, and yet they are very different; our german clergyman here is not behindhand in this respect. there are men in rome with an amount of fanaticism credible in the sixteenth century, but quite monstrous in the present day; they all wish to make converts, abusing each other in a christian manner, and each ridiculing the belief of his neighbour, till it is quite too sad to hear them. as if to have simplicity, and to be simple, were the same thing! unfortunately i must here retract my favourite axiom, that _goodwill_ can effect all things, _ability_ must accompany it; but i am soaring too high, and my father will lecture me. i wish this letter were better, but we have snow on the ground; the roofs in the piazza di spagna are quite white, and heavy clouds of snow are gathering; nothing can be more odious to us southerners, and we are freezing. the monte pincio is a mass of ice. your northern lights have their revenge on us. who can write or think with any degree of warmth? i was so pleased at the idea of being a whole winter without snow, but now i must give up that notion. the italians say that spring breezes will come in a few days; then gay life, and gay letters, will be resumed. farewell! may you enjoy every good, and think of me. felix. rome, february th, . the pope is elected: the pope is crowned. he performed mass in st. peter's on sunday, and conferred his benediction; in the evening the dome was illuminated, succeeded by the girandola; the carnival began on saturday, and pursues its headlong course in the most motley forms. the city has been illuminated each evening. last night there was a ball at the french embassy; to-day the spanish ambassador gives a grand entertainment. next door to me they sell _confetti_, and how they do shout! and now i might as well stop, for why attempt to describe what is, in fact, indescribable? you ought to make hensel tell you of these splendid _fêtes_, which in pomp, brilliancy, and animation, surpass all the imagination can conceive, for my sober pen is not equal to the task. what a different aspect everything has assumed during the last eight days, for now the mildest and most genial sun is shining, and we remain in the balcony enjoying the air till after sunset. oh, that i could enclose for you, in this letter, only one quarter of an hour of all this pleasure, or tell you how life actually flies in rome, every minute bringing its own memorable delights! it is not difficult to give _fêtes_ here; if the simple architectural outlines are lighted up, the dome of st. peter's blazes forth in the dark purple atmosphere, calmly shining. if there are fireworks, they brighten the gloomy solid walls of the castle of st. angelo, and fall into the tiber; when they commence their fantastic _fêtes_ in february, the most lustrous sun shines down on them and beautifies them. it is a wondrous land. but i must not forget to tell you that i spent my birthday very differently from what i expected. i must however be brief, for an hour hence i go to join the carnival in the corso. my birthday had three celebrations--the eve, the birthday itself, and the day after. on the nd of february, santini was sitting in my room in the morning, and in answer to my impatient questions about the conclave, he replied with a diplomatic air, that there was little chance of a pope being elected before easter. herr brisbane also called, and told me that after leaving berlin, he had been in constantinople, and smyrna, etc., and inquired after all his acquaintances in berlin, when suddenly the report of a cannon was heard, and then another, and the people rushed across the piazza di spagna, shouting with all their might. we three started off, heaven knows how, and ran breathlessly to the quirinal, where the man was just retreating, who had shouted through a broken window--"annuncio vobis gaudium magnum; habemus papam r. e. dominum capellari, qui nomen assumsit gregorius xvi." all the cardinals now crowded into the balcony, to breathe fresh air, and laughed, and talked together it was the first time they had been in the open air for fifty days, and yet they looked so gay, their red caps shining brightly in the sun; the whole piazza was filled with people, who clambered on the obelisk, and on the horses of phidias, and the statues projected far above in the air. carriage after carriage drove up, amid jostling and shouting. then the new pope appeared, and before him was borne the golden cross, and he blessed the crowd for the first time, while the people at the same moment prayed, and cried "hurrah!" all the bells in rome were ringing, and there was firing of cannons, and flourishes of trumpets, and military music. this was the _eve_ of my birthday. next morning i followed the crowd down the long street to the piazza of st. peter's, which looked finer than i had ever seen it, lit up brightly by the sun, and swarming with carriages; the cardinals in their red coaches, driving in state to the sacristy, with servants in embroidered liveries, and people innumerable, of every nation, rank, and condition; and high above them the dome and the church seeming to float in blue vapour, for there was considerable mist in the morning air. and i thought that capellari would probably appropriate all this to himself when he saw it; but i knew better. it was all to celebrate my birthday; and the election of the pope, and the homage, a mere spectacle in honour of me; but it was well and naturally performed; and so long as i live. i shall never forget it. the church of st. peter's was crowded to the door. the pope was borne in on his throne, and fans of peacocks' feathers carried before him, and then set down on the high altar, when the papal singers intoned, "_tu es sacerdos magnus_." i only heard two or three chords, but it required no more; the sound was enough. then one cardinal succeeded another, kissing the pope's foot and his hands, when he in turn embraced them. after surveying all this for a time, standing closely pressed by a crowd, and unable to move, to look suddenly aloft to the dome, as far as the lantern, inspires a singular sensation. i was with diodati, among a throng of capuchins; these saintly men are far from being devotional on an occasion of this kind, and by no means cleanly. but i must hasten on; the carnival is beginning, and i must not lose any portion of it. at night, (in honour of my birthday,) barrels of pitch were burned in all the streets, and the propaganda illuminated. the people thought this was owing to its being the former residence of the pope, but _i_ knew it was because i lived exactly opposite, and i had only to lean out of my window to enjoy it all. then came torlonia's ball, and in every corner were seen glimpses of red caps above, and red stockings below. the following day they worked very hard at scaffoldings, platforms, and stages for the carnival; edicts were posted up about horse-racing, and specimens of masks were displayed at the windows, and (in celebration of the day following my birthday) the illumination of the dome, and the girandola were fixed for sunday. on saturday all the world went to the capitol, to witness the form of the jews' supplications to be suffered to remain in the sacred city for another year; a request which is refused at the foot of the hill, but after repeated entreaties, granted on the summit, and the ghetto is assigned to them. it was a tiresome affair; we waited two hours, and after all, understood the oration of the jews as little as the answer of the christians. i came down again in very bad humour, and thought that the carnival had commenced rather unpropitiously. so i arrived in the corso and was driving along, thinking no evil, when i was suddenly assailed by a shower of sugar comfits. i looked up; they had been flung by some young ladies whom i had seen occasionally at balls, but scarcely knew, and when in my embarrassment i took off my hat to bow to them, the pelting began in right earnest. their carriage drove on, and in the next was miss t----, a delicate young englishwoman. i tried to bow to her, but she pelted me too, so i became quite desperate, and clutching the _confetti_, i flung them back bravely; there were swarms of my acquaintances, and my blue coat was soon as white as that of a miller. the b----s were standing on a balcony, flinging _confetti_ like hail at my head; and thus pelting and pelted, amid a thousand jests and jeers, and the most extravagant masks, the day ended with races. the following day there was no carnival, but as a compensation, the pope conferred his benediction from the loggia, in the piazza of st. peter's; he was consecrated as bishop in the church, and at night the dome was lighted up. the sudden, nay _instantaneous_ change the illumination of the building effects, you must ask hensel to paint or to describe, whichever he prefers. nothing can be more startling than the sudden and surprising vision, of so many hundred human beings, previously invisible, now revealed as it were in the air, working and moving about--and the glorious girandola,--but who can conceive it! now the gaieties recommence. farewell! in my next letter i mean to continue my description. yesterday, at the carnival, flowers and _bonbons_ were indiscriminately thrown, and a mask gave me a bouquet, which i have dried, and mean to bring home for you. all idea of occupation is out of the question at present; i have only composed one little song; but when lent comes, i intend to be more industrious. who can at such a moment think either of writing or music? i must go out, so farewell, dear ones. felix. rome, february nd, . a thousand thanks for your letter of the th, which i received yesterday, on my return from tivoli. i cannot tell you, dear fanny, how much i am delighted with your plan about the sunday music. this idea of yours is most brilliant, and i do entreat of you, for heaven's sake, not to let it die away again; on the contrary, pray give your travelling brother a commission to write something new for you. he will gladly do so, for he is quite charmed with you, and with your project. you must let me know what voices you have, and also take counsel with your subjects as to what they like best (for the people, o fanny, have rights). i think it would be a good plan to place before them something easy, interesting and pleasing,--for instance, the litany of sebastian bach. but to speak seriously, i recommend the "shepherd of israel," or the "dixit dominus," of hændel. do you mean to play something during the intervals to these people? i think this would not be unprofitable to either party, for they must have time to take breath, and you must study the piano, and thus it would become a vocal and instrumental concert. i wish so much that i could be one of the audience, and compliment you afterwards. be discreet and indulgent, and avoid fatiguing either yourself or the voices of your singers. do not be irritable when things go badly; say very little on the subject to any one. lastly, above all, endeavour to prevent the choir feeling any tedium, for this is the principal point. one of my pieces certainly owes its birth to this sunday music. when you wrote to me about it lately, i reflected whether there was anything i could send you, thus reviving an old favourite scheme of mine, which has however now assumed such vast proportions, that i cannot let you have any part of it by e----, but you shall have it at some future time. listen and wonder! since i left vienna i have partly composed goethe's first "walpurgis night," but have not yet had courage to write it down. the composition has now assumed a form, and become a grand cantata, with full orchestra, and may turn out well. at the opening there are songs of spring, etc., and plenty of others of the same kind. afterwards, when the watchmen with their "gabeln, und zacken, und eulen," make a great noise, the fairy frolics begin, and you know that i have a particular foible for them; the sacrificial druids then appear, with their trombones in c major, when the watchmen come in again in alarm, and here i mean to introduce a light mysterious tripping chorus; and lastly to conclude with a grand sacrificial hymn. do you not think that this might develop into a new style of cantata? i have an instrumental introduction, as a matter of course, and the effect of the whole is very spirited. i hope it will soon be finished. i have once more begun to compose with fresh vigour, and the italian symphony makes rapid progress; it will be the most sportive piece i have yet composed, especially the last movement. i have not yet decided on the _adagio_, and think i shall reserve it for naples. "verleih uns frieden" is completed, and "wir glauben all" will also be ready in a few days. the scotch symphony alone is not yet quite to my liking; if any brilliant idea occurs to me, i will seize it at once, quickly write it down, and finish it at last. felix. rome, march st, . while i write this date, i shrink from the thought of how time flies. before this month is at an end the holy week begins, and when it is over, my stay in rome will be drawing to a close. i now try to reflect whether i have made the best use of my time, and on every side i perceive a deficiency. if i could only compass one of my two symphonies! i must and will reserve the italian one till i have seen naples, which must play a part in it, but the other also seems to elude my grasp; the more i try to seize it and the nearer the end of this delightful quiet roman period approaches, the more am i perplexed, and the less do i seem to succeed. i feel as if it will be long indeed before i can write again as freely as here, and so i am eager to finish what i have to do, but i make no progress. the "walpurgis night" alone gets on quickly, and i hope it will soon be accomplished. besides, i cannot resist every day sketching, that i may carry away with me reminiscences of my favourite haunts. there is still much that i wish to see, so i perfectly well know that this month will suddenly come to an end, and much remain undone; and indeed it is quite too beautiful here. rome is considerably changed, and neither so gay nor so cheerful as formerly.[ ] almost all my acquaintances are gone; the promenades and streets are deserted, the galleries closed, and it is impossible to gain admittance into them. all news from without almost entirely fails us, (for we saw the details about bologna first in the 'allgemeine zeitung' yesterday;) people seldom or never congregate together; in fact, everything has subsided into entire rest; but then the weather is lovely, and no one can deprive us of this warm, balmy atmosphere. those who are most to be pitied in the present state of affairs are the vernet ladies, who are unpleasantly situated here. the hatred of the entire roman populace is, strangely enough, directed against the french pensionaries, believing that their influence alone could easily effect a revolution. threatening anonymous letters have been repeatedly sent to vernet; indeed he one day found an armed transteverin stationed in front of the windows of his studio, who however took to flight when vernet fetched his gun: and as the ladies are now entirely alone, and isolated in the villa, their family are naturally very uneasy. still all continues quiet and serene within the city, and i am quite convinced it will remain so. [ ] some disturbances had in the meantime broken out in the ecclesiastical states, at bologna. the german painters are really more contemptible than i can tell you. not only have they cut off their whiskers and moustaches, and their long hair and beards, openly declaring that as soon as all danger is at an end they will let them grow again, but these tall stalwart fellows go home as soon as it is dark, lock themselves in, and discuss their fears together. they call horace vernet a braggart, and yet he is very different from these miserable creatures, whose conduct makes me cordially despise them. latterly i occasionally visited some of the modern studios. thorwaldsen has just finished a statue in clay of lord byron. he is seated amidst ancient ruins, his feet resting on the capital of a column, while he is gazing into the distance, evidently about to write something on the tablets he holds in his hand. he is represented not in roman costume, but in a simple modern dress, and i think it looks well, and does not destroy the general effect. the statue has the natural air and easy pose so remarkable in all this sculptor's works, and yet the poet looks sufficiently gloomy and elegiac, though not affected. i must some day write you a whole letter about the 'triumph of alexander,' for never did any piece of sculpture make such an impression on me; i go there every week, and stand gazing at that alone, and enter babylon along with the conqueror. i lately called on a----; he has brought with him some admirable pencil sketches from naples and sicily, so i should be glad to take some hints from him, but i fear that he is a considerable exaggerator, and does not sketch faithfully. his landscape of the colosseum, at h. b., is a beautiful romance; for i cannot say that in the original i ever perceived woods of large cypresses and orange-trees, or fountains or thickets in the centre, extending to the ruins. moreover, _his_ moustaches have also disappeared. i have something amusing to tell you in conclusion. i wish, o my fanny, that as a contrast to your sunday harmony you had heard the music we perpetrated last sunday evening. we wished to sing the psalms of marcello, being lent, and the best dilettanti consequently assembled. a papal singer was in the middle, a _maestro_ at the piano, and we sang. when a soprano solo came, all the ladies pressed forward, each insisting on singing it, so it was executed as a _tutti_. the tenor by my side never alighted on the right note, and rambled about in the most insecure regions. when i chimed in as second tenor, he dropped into my part, and when i tried to assist him, he seemed to think that was my original part, and kept steadily to his own. the papal singer at one instant sang in the soprano falsetto, and presently took the first bass; soon after he quaked out the _alt_, and when all that was of no avail, he smiled sorrowfully across at me, and we nodded mysteriously to each other. the _maestro_, in striving to set us all right, repeatedly lost his own place, being a bar behind, or one in advance, and thus we sang with the most complete anarchy, just as we thought fit. suddenly came a very solemn solo passage for the bass, which _all_ attacked valiantly, but at the second bar broke into a chorus of loud laughter, in which we unanimously joined, so the affair ended in high good-humour. the people who had come as audience talked at the pitch of their voices, and then went out and dispersed. eynard came in and listened to our music for a time, then made a horrid grimace, and was seen no more. farewell! health and happiness attend you all! felix. rome, march th, . the letters of introduction that r---- sent me, have been of no use to me here. l---- likewise, to whom i was presented by bunsen, has not taken the smallest notice of me, and tries to look the other way when we meet. i rather suspect the man is an aristocrat. albani admitted me, so i had the honour of conversing for half an hour with a cardinal. after reading the introductory letter, he asked me if i was a pensioner of the king of hanover. "no," said i. he supposed that i must have seen st. peter's? "yes," said i. as i knew meyerbeer, he assured me that he could not endure his music; it was too scientific for him; indeed, everything he wrote was so learned, and so devoid of melody, that you at once saw that he was a german, and the germans, _mon ami_, have not the most remote conception of what melody is! "no," said i. "in _my_ scores," continued he, "all sing; not only the voices sing, but also the first violin sings, and the second violin also, and the oboe sings, and so it goes on, even to the horns, and last of all the double-bass sings too." i was naturally desirous, in all humility, to see some of his music; he was modest, however, and would show me nothing, but he said that wishing to make my stay in rome a agreeable as possible, he hoped i would pay a visit to his villa, and i might take as many of my friends with me as i chose. it was near such and such a place. i thanked him very much, and subsequently boasted considerably of this gracious permission; but presently discovered that this villa is open to the public, and any one can go there who chooses. since that time i have heard no more of him, and as this and some other instances have inspired me with respect, mingled with aversion, towards the highest roman circles, i resolved not to deliver the letter to gabrielli, and was satisfied by having the whole bonaparte family pointed out to me on the promenade, where i met them daily. i think mizkiewicz very tiresome. he possesses that kind of indifference which bores both himself and others, though the ladies persist in designating it melancholy and lassitude; but this makes it no better in my eyes. if he looks at st. peter's, he deplores the times of the hierarchy; if the sky is blue and beautiful, he wishes it were dull and gloomy; if it is gloomy, he is freezing; if he sees the colosseum, he wishes he had lived at that period. i wonder what sort of a figure he would have made in the days of titus! you inquire about horace vernet, and this is, indeed, a pleasant theme. i believe i may say that i have learned something from him, and every one may do the same. he produces with incredible facility and freshness. when a form meets his eye which touches his feelings, he instantly adopts it, and while others are deliberating whether it can be called beautiful, and praising or censuring, he has long completed his work, entirely deranging our æsthetical standard. though this facility cannot be acquired, still its principle is admirable, and the serenity which springs from it, and the energy it calls forth in working, nothing else can replace. among the alleys of evergreen trees, where at this season of blossoms the fragrance is so charming, in the midst of the shrubberies and gardens of the villa medicis, stands a small house, in which as you approach you invariably hear a tumult,--shouting and wrangling, or a piece executed on a trumpet, or the barking of dogs; this is vernet's _atelier_. the most picturesque disorder everywhere prevails; guns, a hunting-horn, a monkey, palettes, a couple of dead hares or rabbits; the walls covered with pictures, finished and unfinished. "the investiture of the national cockade" (an eccentric picture which does not please me), portraits recently begun of thorwaldsen, eynard, latour-maubourg, some horses, a sketch of judith, and studies for it; the portrait of the pope, a couple of moorish heads, bagpipers, papal soldiers, my unworthy self, cain and abel, and last of all a drawing of the interior of the place itself, all hang up in his studio. lately his hands were quite full, owing to the number of portraits bespoken from him; but in the street, he saw one of the campagna peasants, who are armed and mounted by government, and ride about rome. the singular costume caught the artist's eye, and next day he began a picture representing a similar peasant, sitting on his horse in bad weather in the campagna, and seizing his gun in order to take aim at some one with it; in the distance are visible a small troop of soldiers, and the desolate plain. the minute details of the weapon, where the peasant peeps through the soldier's uniform, the wretched horse and its shabby trappings, the discomfort prevalent throughout, and the italian phlegm in the bearded fellow, make a charming little picture; and no one can help envying him, who sees the real delight with which his brush traverses the stretched canvas, at one moment putting in a little rivulet, and a couple of soldiers, and a button on the saddle; then lining the soldier's great-coat with green. numbers of people come to look on: during my first sitting twenty persons, at least, arrived one after the other. countess e---- asked him to allow her to be present when he was at work; but when he darted on it as a hungry man does on food, her amazement was great. the whole family are, as i told you, good people, and when old charles talks about his father joseph, you must feel respect for them, and i maintain that they are noble. good-bye, for it is late, and i must send my letter to the post. felix. rome, march th, . in the midst of the holy week. to-morrow for the first time i am to hear the miserere, and while you last sunday performed "the passion," the cardinals and all the priesthood here received twisted palms and olive-branches. the stabat mater of palestrina was sung, and there was a grand procession. my work has got on badly during the last few days. spring is in all her bloom; a genial blue sky without, such as we at most only dream of, and a journey to naples in my every thought; so even a quiet time to write is not to be found. c----, who is usually a cool fellow, has written me such a glowing letter from naples! the most prosaic men become poetical when they speak of it. the finest season of the year in italy, is from the th of april to the th of may. who can wonder that i find it impossible to return to my misty scotch mood? i have therefore laid aside the scotch symphony for the present, but hope to write out the "walpurgis night" here. i shall manage to do so if i work hard to-day and to-morrow, and if we have bad weather, for really a fine day is too great a temptation. as soon as an impediment occurs, i hope to find some resource in the open air, so i go out and think of anything and everything but my composition, and do nothing but lounge about, and when the church bells begin to ring, it is the ave maria already. all i want now is a short overture. if i can accomplish this, the thing is complete, and i can write it out in a couple of days. then i have done with music, and leaving all music-paper here, i shall go off to naples, where, please god, i mean to do nothing. two french friends of mine have tempted me to _flâner_ with them a good deal of late. when they are together, it is either a perpetual tragedy, or comedy,--as you will. y---- distorts everything, without a spark of talent, always groping in the dark, but esteeming himself the creator of a new world; writing moreover the most frightful things, and yet dreaming and thinking of nothing but beethoven, schiller, and goethe; a victim at the same time to the most boundless vanity, and looking down condescendingly on mozart and haydn, so that all his enthusiasm seems to me very doubtful. z---- has been toiling for three months at a little rondo on a portuguese theme; he arranges neatly and brilliantly, and according to rule, and he now intends to set about composing six waltzes, and is in a state of perfect ecstasy if i will only play him over a number of vienna waltzes. he has a high esteem for beethoven, but also for rossini and for bellini, and no doubt for auber,--in short, for everybody. then my turn comes to be praised, who would be only too glad to murder y----, till he chances to eulogize gluck, when i can quite agree with him. i like nevertheless to walk about with these two, for they are the only musicians here, and both very pleasant, amiable persons. all this forms an amusing contrast. you say, dear mother, that y---- must have a fixed aim in his art; but this is far from being my opinion. i believe he wishes to be married, and is in fact worse than the other, because he is by far the most affected of the two. i really cannot stand his obtrusive enthusiasm, and the gloomy despondency he assumes before ladies,--this stereotyped genius in black and white; and if he were not a frenchman, (and it is always pleasant to associate with them, as they have invariably something interesting to say,) it would be beyond endurance. a week hence, i shall probably write you my last letter from rome, and then you shall hear of me from naples. it is still quite uncertain whether i go to sicily or not; i almost think not, as in any event i must have recourse to a steamboat, and it is not yet settled that one is to go. in haste, yours, felix. rome, april th, . the holy week is over, and my passport to naples prepared. my room begins to look empty, and my winter in rome is now among my reminiscences of the past. i intend to leave this in a few days, and my next letter (d. v.) shall be from naples. interesting and amusing as the winter in rome has been, it has closed with a truly memorable week; for what i have seen and heard far surpassed my expectations, and being the conclusion, i will endeavour in this, my last letter from rome, to give you a full description of it all. people have often both zealously praised and censured the ceremonies of the holy week, and have yet omitted, as is often the case, the chief point, namely its perfection as a complete whole. my father may probably remember the description of mdlle. de r----, who after all only did what most people do, who write or talk about music and art, when in a hoarse and prosaic voice she attempted at dinner to give us some idea of the fine clear papal choir. many others have given the mere music, and been dissatisfied, because external adjuncts are required to produce the full effect. those persons may be in the right; still so long as these indispensable externals are there, and especially in such entire perfection, so long will it impress others; and just as i feel convinced that place, time, order, the vast crowd of human beings awaiting in the most profound silence the moment for the music to begin, contribute largely to the effect, so do i contemn the idea of deliberately separating what ought in fact to be indivisible, and this for the purpose of exhibiting a certain portion, which may thus be depreciated. that man must be despicable indeed, on whom the devotion and reverence of a vast assemblage did not make a corresponding impression of devotion and reverence, even if they were worshipping the golden calf; let him alone destroy this, who can replace it by something better. whether one person repeats it from another, whether it comes up to its great reputation, or is merely the effect of the imagination, is quite the same thing. it suffices that we have a perfect totality, which has exercised the most powerful influence for centuries past, and still exercises it, and therefore i reverence it, as i do every species of real perfection. i leave it to theologians to pronounce on its religious influence, for the various opinions on that point are of no great value. there is more to be considered than the mere ceremonies: for me it is sufficient, as i already said, that in any sphere the object should be fully carried out, so far as ability will permit, with fidelity and conscientiousness, to call forth my respect and sympathy. thus you must not expect from me a formal critique on the singing, as to whether they intoned correctly or incorrectly, in tune or out of tune, or whether the compositions are fine. i would rather strive to show you, that as a whole the affair cannot fail to make a solemn impression, and that everything contributes to this result, and as last week i enjoyed music, forms, and ceremonies, without severing them, revelling in the perfect whole, so i do not intend to separate them in this letter. the technical part, to which i naturally paid particular attention, i mean to detail more minutely to zelter. the first ceremony was on palm sunday, when the concourse of people was so great, that i could not make my way through the crowd to my usual place on what is called the prelates' bench, but was forced to remain among the guard of honour, where indeed i had a very good view of the solemnities, but could not follow the singing properly, as they pronounced the words very indistinctly, and on that day i had no book. the result was that on this first day, the various antiphons, gospels, and psalms, and the mode of chanting, instead of reading, which is employed here in its primitive form, made the most confused and singular impression on me. i had no clear conception what rule they followed with regard to the various cadences. i took considerable pains gradually to discover their method, and succeeded so well, that at the end of the holy week i could have sung with them. i thus also escaped the extreme weariness, so universally complained of during the endless psalms before the miserere; for i quickly detected any variety in the monotony, and when perfectly assured of any particular cadence, i instantly wrote it down; so i made out by degrees (which indeed i deserved) the melodies of eight psalms. i also noted down the antiphons, etc., and was thus incessantly occupied and interested. the first sunday, however, as i already told you, i could not make it all out satisfactorily: i only knew that the choir sang "hosanna in excelsis," and intoned various hymns, while twisted palms were offered to the pope, which he distributed among the cardinals. these palms are long branches decorated with buttons, crosses, and crowns, all entirely made of dried palm-leaves, which makes them look like gold. the cardinals, who are seated in the chapel in the form of a quadrangle, with the abbati at their feet, now advance each in turn to receive their palms, with which they return to their places; then come the bishops, monks, abbati, and all the other orders of the priesthood; the papal singers, the knights, and others, who receive olive-branches entwined with palm-leaves. this makes a long procession, during which the choir continues to sing unremittingly. the abbati hold the long palms of their cardinals like the lances of sentinels, slanting them on the ground before them, and at this moment there is a brilliancy of colour in the chapel that i never before saw at any ceremony. there were the cardinals in their gold embroidered robes and red caps, and the violet abbati in front of them, with golden palms in their hands, and further in advance, the gaudy servants of the pope, the greek priests, the patriarchs in the most gorgeous attire; the capuchins with long white beards, and all the other religious orders; then again the swiss, in their popinjay uniforms, all carrying green olive-branches, while singing is going on the whole time; though certainly it is scarcely possible to distinguish what is being sung, yet the mere sound is sufficient to delight the ear. the pope's throne is then carried in, on which he is elevated in all processions, and where i saw pius viii. enthroned on the day of my arrival (_vide_ the 'heliodorus' of raphael, where he is portrayed). the cardinals, two and two, with their palms, head the procession, and the folding doors of the chapel being thrown open, it slowly defiles through them. the singing, which has hitherto incessantly prevailed, like an element, becomes fainter and fainter, for the singers also walk in the procession, and at length are only indistinctly heard, the sound dying away in the distance. then a choir in the chapel bursts forth with a query, to which the distant one breathes a faint response; and so it goes on for a time, till the procession again draws near, and the choirs reunite. let them sing how or what they please, this cannot fail to produce a fine effect; and though it is quite true that nothing can be more monotonous, and even devoid of form, than the hymns _all' unisono_, being without any proper connection, and sung _fortissimo_ throughout, still i appeal to the impression that as a _whole_ it must make on every one. after the procession returns, the gospel is chanted in the most singular tone, and is succeeded by the mass. i must not omit here to make mention of my favourite moment; i mean the credo. the priest takes his place for the first time in the centre, before the altar, and after a short pause, intones in his hoarse old voice the credo of sebastian bach. when he has finished, the priests stand up, the cardinals leave their seats, and advance into the middle of the chapel, where they form a circle, all repeating the continuation in a loud voice, "patrem omnipotentem," etc. the choir then chimes in, singing the same words. when i for the first time heard my well-known [music: cre-do in u-num de-um] and all the grave monks round me began to recite in loud and eager tones, i felt quite excited, for this is the moment i still like the best of all. after the ceremony, santini made me a present of his olive-branch, which i carried in my hand the whole day when i was walking about, for the weather was beautiful. the stabat mater which succeeds the credo, made much less effect; they sang it incorrectly and out of tune, and likewise curtailed it considerably. the 'sing akademie' executes it infinitely better. there is nothing on monday or tuesday; but on wednesday, at half-past four, the nocturns begin. the psalms are sung in alternate verses by two choirs, though invariably by one class of voices, basses or tenors. for an hour and a half, therefore, nothing but the most monotonous music is heard; the psalms are only once interrupted by the lamentations, and this is the first moment when, after a long time, a complete chord is given. this chord is very softly intoned, and the whole piece sung _pianissimo_, while the psalms are shouted out as much as possible, and always upon one note, and the words uttered with the utmost rapidity, a cadence occurring at the end of each verse, which defines the different characteristics of the various melodies. it is not therefore surprising that the mere soft sound (in g major) of the first lamentation, should produce so touching an effect. once more the single tone recommences; a wax light is extinguished at the end of each psalm, so that in the course of an hour and a half the fifteen lights round the altar are all out; six large-sized candles still burn in the vestibule. the whole strength of the choir, with alti and soprani, etc., intone _fortissimo_ and _unisono_, a new melody, the "canticum zachariæ," in d minor, singing it slowly and solemnly in the deepening gloom; the last remaining lights are then extinguished. the pope leaves his throne, and falls on his knees before the altar, while all around do the same, repeating a paternoster _sub silentio_; that is, a pause ensues, during which you know that each catholic present says the lord's prayer, and immediately afterwards the miserere begins _pianissimo_ thus:-- [music: mi-se-re-re me-i] this is to me the most sublime moment of the whole. you can easily picture to yourself what follows, but not this commencement. the continuation, which is the miserere of allegri, is a simple sequence of chords, grounded either on tradition, or what appears to me much more probable, merely embellishments, introduced by some clever _maestro_ for the fine voices at his disposal, and especially for a very high soprano. these _embellimenti_ always recur on the same chords, and as they are cleverly constructed, and beautifully adapted for the voice, it is invariably pleasing to hear them repeated. i could not discover anything unearthly or mysterious in the music; indeed, i am perfectly contented that its beauty should be earthly and comprehensible. i refer you, dearest fanny, to my letter to zelter. on the first day they sang baini's miserere. on thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, the solemnities recommenced, and lasted till one o'clock. there was high mass, and afterwards a procession. the pope conferred his benediction from the loggia of the quirinal, and washed the feet of thirteen priests, who are supposed to represent the pilgrims, and were seated in a row, wearing white gowns and white caps, and who afterwards dine. the crowd of english ladies was extraordinary, and the whole affair repugnant to my feelings. the psalms began again in the afternoon, and lasted on this occasion till half past seven. some portions of the miserere were taken from baini, but the greater part were allegri's. it was almost dark in the chapel when the miserere commenced. i clambered up a tall ladder standing there by chance, and so i had the whole chapel crowded with people, and the kneeling pope and his cardinals, and the music, beneath me. it had a splendid effect. on friday forenoon the chapel was stripped of every decoration, and the pope and cardinals in mourning. the history of the passion, according to st. john, the music by vittoria, was sung; then the improperia of palestrina, during which the pope and all the others, taking off their shoes, advance to the cross and adore it. in the evening baini's miserere was given, which they sang infinitely the best. early on saturday, in the baptistery of the lateran, heathens, jews, and mahomedans were baptized, all represented by a little child, who screeched the whole time, and subsequently some young priests received consecration for the first time. on sunday the pope himself performed high mass in the quirinal, and subsequently pronounced his benediction on the people, and then all was over. it is now saturday, the th of april, and to-morrow at an early hour i get into a carriage and set off for naples, where a new style of beauty awaits me. you will perceive by the end of this letter that i write in haste. this is my last day, and a great deal yet to be done. i do not therefore finish my letter to zelter, but will send it from naples. i wish my description to be correct, and my approaching journey distracts my attention sadly. thus i am off to naples; the weather is clearing up, and the sun shining, which it has not done for some days past. my passport is prepared, the carriage ordered, and i am looking forward to the months of spring. adieu! felix. naples, april th, . dear rebecca, this must stand in lieu of a birthday letter: may it wear a holiday aspect for you! it arrives late in the day, but with equally sincere good wishes. your birthday itself i passed in a singular but delightful manner, though i could not write, having neither pens nor ink; in fact, i was in the very middle of the pontine marshes. may the ensuing year bring you every happiness, and may we meet somewhere! if you were thinking of me on that day, our thoughts must have met either on the brenner or at inspruck; for i was constantly thinking of you. even without looking at the date of this letter, you will at once perceive by its tone that i am in naples. i have not yet been able to compass one serious quiet reflection, there is everywhere such jovial life here, inviting you to do nothing, and to think of nothing, and even the example of so many thousand people has an irresistible influence. i do not indeed intend that this should continue, but i see plainly that it must go on for the first few days. i stand for hours on my balcony, gazing at vesuvius and the bay. but i must now endeavour to resume my old descriptive style, or my materials will accumulate so much that i shall become confused, and i fear you may not be able to follow me properly. so much that is novel crowds on me, that a journal would be requisite to detail to you my life and my state of excitement. so i begin by acknowledging that i deeply regretted leaving rome. my life there was so quiet, and yet so full of interest, having made many kind and friendly acquaintances, with whom i had become so domesticated, that the last days of my stay, with all their discomforts and perpetual running about, seemed doubly odious. the last evening i went to vernet's to thank him for my portrait, which is now finished, and to take leave of him. we had some music, talked politics, and played chess, and then i went down the monte pincio to my own house, packed up my things, and the next morning drove off with my travelling companions. as i gazed out of the cabriolet at the scenery, i could dream to my heart's desire. when we arrived at our night quarters, we all went out walking. the two days glided past more like a pleasure excursion than a journey. the road from rome to naples is indeed the most luxuriant that i know, and the whole mode of travelling most agreeable. you fly through the plain; for a very slight gratuity the postilions gallop their horses like mad, which is very advisable in the marshes. if you wish to contemplate the scenery, you have only to abstain from offering any gratuity, and you are soon driven slowly enough. the road from albano, by ariccia and genzano, as far as velletri, runs between hills, and is shaded by trees of every kind; uphill and downhill, through avenues of elms, past monasteries and shrines. on one side is the campagna, with its heather, and its bright hues; beyond comes the sea, glittering charmingly in the sunshine, and above, the clearest sky; for since sunday morning the weather has been glorious. well! we drove into velletri, our night quarters, where a great church festival was going on. handsome women with primitive faces were pacing the alleys in groups, and men were standing together wrapped in cloaks, in the street. the church was decorated with garlands of green leaves, and as we drove past it we heard the sounds of a double bass and some violins; fireworks were prepared in the square; the sun went down clear and serene, and the pontine marshes, with their thousand colours, and the rocks rearing their heads one by one against the horizon, indicated the course we were to pursue on the following day. after supper i resolved to go out again for a short time, and discovered a kind of illumination; the streets were swarming with people, and when i at last came to the spot where the church stood, i saw, on turning the corner, that the whole street had burning torches on each side, and in the middle the people were walking up and down, crowding together, and pleased to see each other so distinctly at night. i cannot tell you what a pretty sight it was. the concourse was greatest before the church; i pressed forward into it along with the rest. the little building was filled with people kneeling, adoring the host, which was exposed; no one spoke a word, nor was there any music. this stillness, the lighted church, and the many kneeling women with white handkerchiefs on their heads, and white gowns, had a striking effect. when i left the church a shrewd, handsome italian boy explained the whole festival, assuring me that it would have been far finer had it not been for the recent disturbances, for they had been the cause of depriving the people of the horseraces, and barrels of pitch, etc., and on this account it was unlucky that the austrians had not come sooner. the following morning, at six o'clock, we pursued our way through the pontine marshes. it is a species of bergstrasse. you drive through a straight avenue of trees along a plain. on one side of the avenue is a continued chain of hills, on the other the marshes. they are, however, covered with innumerable flowers, which smell very sweet; but in the long-run this becomes very stupefying, and i distinctly felt the oppression of the atmosphere, in spite of the fine weather. a canal runs along beside the _chaussée_, constructed by the orders of pius vi. to form a conduit for the marshes, where we saw a number of buffaloes wallowing, their heads emerging out of the water, and apparently enjoying themselves. the straight, level road has a singular appearance. you see the chain of hills at the end of the avenue when you come to the first station, and again at the second and third, the only difference being that as you advance so many miles nearer, the hills loom gradually larger. terracina, which is situated exactly at the end of this avenue, is invisible till you come quite close to it. on making a sudden turn to the left, round the corner of a rock, the whole expanse of the sea lies before you. citron-gardens, and palms, and a variety of plants of southern growth, clothe the declivity in front of the town; towers appearing above the thickets, and the harbour projecting into the sea. to me, the finest object in nature is, and always will be, the ocean. i love it almost more than the sky. nothing in naples made a more enchanting impression on my mind than the sea, and i always feel happy when i see before me the spacious surface of waters. the south, properly speaking, begins at terracina. this is another land, and every plant and every bush reminds you of it. above all, the two mighty ridges of hills delighted me, between which the road runs; they were totally devoid of bushes or trees, but clothed entirely with masses of golden wall-flowers, so that they had a bright yellow hue, and the fragrance was almost too strong. there is a great want of grass and large trees. the old robbers' nests of fondi and itri looked very piratical and gloomy. the houses are built against the walls of the rocks, and there are likewise some large towers of the date of the middle ages. many sentinels and posts were stationed on the tops of the hills; but we made out our journey without any adventure. we remained all night in mola di gaeta; there we saw the renowned balcony whence you look over orange and citron groves to the blue sea, with vesuvius and the islands in the far distance. this was on the th of april. as i had been celebrating your birthday all day long in my own thoughts, i could not in the evening resist informing my companions that it was your birthday; so your health was drunk again and again. an old englishman, who was of the party, wished me a "happy return to my sister." i emptied the glass to your health, and thought of you. remain unchanged till we meet again. with such thoughts in my head, i went in the evening to the citron-garden, close to the sea-shore, and listened to the waves rolling in from afar, and breaking on the shore, and sometimes gently rippling and splashing. it was indeed a heavenly night. among a thousand other thoughts, grillparzer's poem recurred to my memory, which it is almost impossible to set to music; for which reason, i suppose, fanny has composed a charming melody on it; but i do not jest when i say that i sang the song over repeatedly to myself, for i was standing on the very spot he describes. the sea had subsided, and was now calm, and at rest; this was the first song. the second followed next day, for the sea was like a meadow or pure ether as you gazed at it, and pretty women nodded their heads, and so did olives and cypresses; but they were all equally brown, so i remained in a poetic mood. what is it that shines through the leaves, and glitters like gold? only cartridges and sabres; for the king had been reviewing some troops in sant' agata, and soldiers defiled on both sides of the path, who had the more merit in my eyes because they resembled the prussians, and for a long time past i have seen only papal soldiers. some carried dark-lanterns on their muskets, as they had been marching all night. the whole effect was bold and gay. we now came to a short rocky pass, from which you descend into the valley of campana, the most enchanting spot i have ever seen; it is like a boundless garden, covered entirely with plants and vegetation as far as the eye can reach. on one side are the blue outlines of the sea, on the other an undulating range of hills above which snowy peaks project; and at a great distance vesuvius and the islands, bathed in blue vapours, start up on the level surface; large avenues of trees intersect the vast space, and a verdant growth forces its way from under every stone. everywhere you see grotesque aloes and cactuses, and the fragrance and vegetation are quite unparalleled. the pleasure we enjoy in england through men, we here enjoy through nature; and as there is no corner there, however small, of which some one has not taken possession in order to cultivate and adorn it, so here there is no spot which nature has not appropriated, bringing forth on it flowers and herbs, and all that is beautiful. the campana valley is fruitfulness itself. on the whole of the vast immeasurable surface bounded in the far distance by blue hills and a blue sea, nothing but green meets the eye. at last you come to capua. i cannot blame hannibal for remaining too long there. from capua to naples the road runs uninterruptedly between trees, with hanging vines, till at the end of the avenue, vesuvius, and the sea, with capri, and a mass of houses, lie before you. i am living here in st. lucia as if in heaven; for in the first place i see before me vesuvius, and the hills as far as castellamare, and the bay, and in the second place, i am living up three stories high. unfortunately that traitor vesuvius does not smoke at all, and looks precisely like any other fine mountain; but at night the people float in lighted boats on the bay, to catch sword-fish. this has a pretty enough effect. farewell! felix. naples, april th, . we are so accustomed to find that everything turns out quite differently from what we expected and calculated, that you will feel no surprise when instead of a letter like a journal, you receive a very short one, merely saying that i am quite well, and little else. as for the scenery, i cannot describe it, and if you have no conception of what it really is, after all that has been said and written on the subject, there is little chance of my enlightening you; for what makes it so indescribably beautiful, is precisely that it is not of a nature to admit of description. any other detail i could send you would be about my life here; but it is so simple, that a very few words suffice to depict it. i do not wish to make any acquaintances, for i am resolved not to remain here longer than a few weeks. i intend to make various excursions to see the country, and all i desire here, is to become thoroughly intimate with nature: so i go to bed at nine o'clock, and rise at five, to refresh myself by gazing from my balcony at vesuvius, the sea, and the coast of sorrento, in the bright morning light. i have also taken very long solitary rambles, discovering beautiful views for myself, and i have infinite satisfaction in finding that what i consider the loveliest spot of all is almost entirely unknown to the neapolitans. during these excursions i sought out some house on a height, to which i scrambled up; or else merely followed any path i fancied, allowing myself to be surprised by night and moonshine, and making acquaintance with vine-dressers, in order to learn my way back; arriving at last at home about nine o'clock, very tired, through the villa reale. the view from this villa, of the sea and the enchanting capri by moonlight, is truly charming, and so is the almost overpowering fragrance of the acacias in full bloom, and the fruit-trees scattered all over with rose-coloured blossoms, looking like trees with pink foliage,--all this is indeed quite indescribable. as i live chiefly with and in nature, i can write less than usual; perhaps we may talk it over when we meet, and the sketches in our sitting-room at home will furnish materials and reminiscences for conversation. one thing i must not however omit, dear fanny, which is, that i quite approve of your taste when i recall what you told me years ago that your favorite spot was the island of nisida. perhaps you may have forgotten this, but i have not. it looks as if it were made expressly for pleasure-grounds. on emerging from the thicket of bagnuolo, nisida has quite a startling effect, rising out of the sea, so near, so large and so green; while the other islands, procida, ischia, and capri, stand afar off, and indistinct in their blue tints. after the murder of cæsar, brutus took refuge in this island, and cicero visited him there; the sea lay between them then, and the rocks, covered with vegetation, bent over the sea, just as they do now. _these_ are the antiquities that interest me, and are infinitely more suggestive than crumbling mason-work. there is a degree of innate superstition and dishonesty among the people here that is totally inconceivable, and this has often even marred my pleasure in nature; for the swiss, of whom my father complained so much, are positively guileless, primitive beings, compared with the neapolitans. my landlord invariably gives me too little change for a piastre, and when i tell him of it, he coolly fetches the remainder. the only acquaintances i intend to make here are musical ones, that i may leave nothing incomplete,--for instance fodor, who does not sing in public, donizetti, coccia, etc. i now conclude by a few words to you, dear father. you write to me that you disapprove of my going to sicily; i have consequently given up this plan, though i cannot deny that i do so with great reluctance, for it was really more than a mere _whim_ on my part. there is no danger to be apprehended, and, as if on purpose to vex me, a steamer leaves this city on the th of may, which is to make the entire tour; and a good many germans, and probably the minister here, are to take advantage of it. i should have liked to see a mountain vomiting forth flames, as vesuvius has been hitherto so unkind as not even to smoke. your instructions however have till now so entirely coincided with my own inclinations, that i cannot allow the first opportunity i have of showing my obedience to your wishes (even when opposed to my own), to pass without complying with them, so i have effaced sicily from my travelling route. perhaps we may meet sooner in consequence of this; and now farewell, for i am going to walk to capo di monte. felix. naples, april th, . it is now nearly a fortnight since i have heard from you. i do earnestly hope that nothing unpleasant has occurred, and every day i expect the post will bring me tidings of you all. my letters from naples are of little value, for i am too deeply absorbed here to be able easily to extricate myself, and to write descriptive letters. besides, when we had bad weather lately, i took advantage of it to resume my labours, and zealously applied myself to my "walpurgis night," which daily increases in interest for me, so i employ every spare moment in completing it. i hope to finish it in a few days, and i think it will turn out well. if i continue in my present mood, i shall finish my italian symphony also in italy, in which case i shall have a famous store to bring home with me, the fruits of this winter. moreover every day i have something new to see. i generally make my excursions with the schadows. yesterday we went to pompeii. it looks as if it had been burnt down, or like a recently deserted city. as both of these always seem to me deeply affecting, the impression made on me was the most melancholy that i have yet experienced in italy. it is as if the inhabitants had just gone out, and yet almost every object tells of another religion and another life; in short, of seventeen hundred years ago; and the french and english ladies scramble about as gaily as possible, and sketch it all. it is the old tragedy of the past and the present, a problem i never can solve. lively naples is indeed a pleasant contrast; but it is painful to see the crowd of wretched beggars who waylay you in every street and path, swarming round the carriage the instant it stops. the old white-haired men particularly distress me, and such a mass of misery exceeds all belief. if you are walking on the sea-shore, and gazing at the islands, and then chance to look round at the land, you find yourself the centre of a group of cripples, who make a trade of their infirmities; or you discover (which lately happened to me) that you are surrounded by thirty or forty children, all whining out their favourite phrase, "muoio di fame," and rattling their jaws to show that they have nothing to eat. all this forms a most repulsive contrast; and yet to me it is still more repugnant that you must entirely renounce the great pleasure of seeing happy faces; for even when you have given the richest gratuities to guards, waiters, or workpeople, in short, to whom you will, the invariable rejoinder is, "nienti di più?" in which case you may be very sure that you have given too much. if it is the proper sum, they give it back with the greatest apparent indignation, and then return and beg to have it again. these are trifles, certainly, but they show the lamentable condition of the people. i have even gone so far as to feel provoked with the perpetual smiling aspect of nature, when in the most retired spots troops of beggars everywhere assailed me, some even persisting in following me a long way. it is only when i am quietly seated in my own room, gazing down on the bay, and on vesuvius, that being totally alone with them i feel really cheerful and happy. to-day we are to ascend the hill to visit the camaldoli monastery, and to-morrow, if the weather permits, we proceed to procida and ischia. i go this evening to madame fodor's with donizetti, benedict, etc. she is very kind and amiable towards me, and her singing has given me great pleasure, for she has wonderful facility, and executes her _fiorituri_ with so much taste, that it is easy to see how many things sonntag acquired from her, especially the _mezza voce_, which fodor, whose voice is no longer full and fresh, most prudently and judiciously introduces into many passages. as she is not singing at the theatre, i am most fortunate in having made her acquaintance personally. the theatre is now closed for some weeks, because the blood of st. januarius is shortly to liquefy. what i heard at the opera previously did not repay the trouble of going. the orchestra, like that in rome, was worse than in any part of germany, and not even one tolerable female singer. tamburini alone, with his vigorous bass voice, imparted some life to the whole. those who wish to hear italian operas, must now-a-days go to paris or london. heaven grant that this may not eventually be the case with german music also! i must however return to my "witches," so you must forgive my not writing any more to-day. this whole letter seems to hover in uncertainty, or rather i do so in my "walpurgis night," whether i am to introduce the big drum or not. "zacken, gabeln, und wilde klapperstöcke," seem to force me to the big drum, but moderation dissuades me. i certainly am the only person who ever composed for the scene on the brocken without employing a piccolo-flute, but i can't help regretting the big drum, and before i can receive fanny's advice, the "walpurgis night" will be finished and packed up. i shall then set off again on my travels, and heaven knows what i may have in my head by that time. i feel convinced that fanny would say _yes_; still, i feel very doubtful; at all events a vast noise is indispensable. oh, rebecca! can you not procure the words of some songs, and send them to me? i feel quite in the humour for them, and you must require something new to sing. if you can furnish me with some pretty verses, old or new, gay or grave, i will compose something in a style to suit your voice. i am at your service for any compact of this kind. pray do send me wherewithal to work at, during my journey, in the inns. now, farewell to you all! may you be as happy as i ever wish you to be, and think of me! felix. naples, may th, . on saturday, the th of may, at two o'clock, i told my driver to turn the carriage. we were opposite the temple of ceres at pæstum, the most southern point of my journey. the carriage consequently turned towards the north, and from that moment, as i journey onwards, i am every hour drawing nearer to you. it is about a year now since i travelled with my father to dessau and leipzig; the time in fact exactly corresponds, for it was about the half-year. i have made good use of the past year. i have acquired considerable experience and many new impressions. both in rome and here i have been very busy, but no change has occurred in my outward circumstances; and till the beginning of the new year, in fact so long as i am in italy, it will probably be the same. this period has not however been less valuable to me than some when outwardly, and in the opinion of others, i have appeared to make greater progress; for there must always be a close connection between the two. if i have gathered experience, it cannot fail to influence me outwardly, and i shall allow no opportunity to escape to show that it has done so. possibly some such may occur before the end of my journey, so i may for the present continue to enjoy nature, and the blue sky, during the months that still remain for me in italy, without thinking of anything else; for _there_ alone lies true art, now in italy,--_there_ and in her monuments; and there it will ever remain; and there we shall ever find it, for our instruction and delight, so long as vesuvius stands, and so long as the balmy air, and the sea, and the trees do not pass away. in spite of all this, i am enough of a musician to own that i do heartily long once more to hear an orchestra or a full chorus where there is at least some sound, for here there is nothing of the sort. this is _our_ peculiar province, and to be so long deprived of such an element, leaves a sad void. the orchestra and chorus here are like those in our second-rate provincial towns, only more harsh and incorrect. the first violinist, all through the opera, beats the four quarters of each bar on a tin candle-stick, which is often more distinctly heard than the voices (it sounds somewhat like obbligati castanets, only louder); and yet in spite of this the voices are never together. every little instrumental solo is adorned with old-fashioned flourishes, and a bad tone pervades the whole performance, which is totally devoid of genius, fire, or spirit. the singers are the worst italian ones i ever heard anywhere (except, indeed, in italy), and those who wish to have a true idea of italian singing must go to paris or to london. even the dresden company, whom i heard last year in leipzig, are superior to any here. this is but natural, for in the boundless misery that prevails in naples, where can the bases of a theatre be found, which of course requires considerable capital? the days when every italian was a born musician, if indeed they ever existed, are long gone by. they treat music like any other fashionable article, with total indifference; in fact, they scarcely pay it the homage of outward respect, so it is not to be wondered at that every single person of talent should, as regularly as they appear, transfer themselves to foreign countries, where they are better appreciated, their position better defined, and where they find opportunities of hearing and learning something profitable and inspiriting. the only really good singer here is tamburini; he has, however, long since been heard in vienna and paris, and i believe in london also; so now, when he begins to discover that his voice is on the decline, he comes back to italy. i cannot admit either that the italians alone understand the art of singing; for there is no music, however florid. i have ever heard executed by italians, that sonntag cannot accomplish, and in even greater perfection. she certainly, as she acknowledges, learned much from fodor; but why should not another german in turn learn the same from sonntag? and malibran is a spaniard. italy can no longer claim the glorious appellation of "the land of music;" in truth, she has already lost it, and possibly she may yet do so even in the opinion of the world, though this is problematical. i was lately in company with some professional musicians, who were speaking of a new opera by a neapolitan, coccia; and one of them asked if it was clever. "probably it is," said another, "for coccia was long in england, where he studied, and some of his compositions are much liked there." this struck me as very remarkable, for in england they would have spoken exactly in the same way of italy; but _quo me rapis_? i say nothing to you, dear sisters, in this letter, but in the course of a few days i mean to send you a little pamphlet dedicated to you. do not be alarmed, it is not poetry; the thing is simply entitled "journal of an excursion to the islands, in may." felix. naples, may th, . my dear sisters, as my journal is become too stupid and uninteresting to send you, i must at least supply you with an _abrégé_ of my history. you must know, then, that on friday, the th of may, we breakfasted _in corpore_ at naples, on fruit, etc.; this _in corpore_ includes the travelling party to ischia, consisting of ed. bendemann, t. hildebrand, carl sohn, and felix mendelssohn bartholdy. my knapsack was not very heavy, for it contained scarcely anything but goethe's poems, and three shirts; so we packed ourselves into a hired carriage, and drove through the grotto of posilippo to pozzuoli. the road runs along by the sea, and nothing can be more lovely; so it is all the more painful to witness the horrible collection of cripples, blind men, beggars, and galley slaves, in short, the poor wretches of every description who there await you, amid the holiday aspect of nature. i seated myself quietly on the mole and sketched, while the others plodded and toiled through the temple of serapis, the theatres, the hot springs, and extinct volcanoes, which i had already seen to satiety on three different occasions. then, like youthful patriarchs or nomads, we collected all our goods and chattels, cloaks, knapsacks, books and portfolios on donkeys, and placing ourselves also on them, we made the tour of the bay of baiæ, as far as the lake of avernus, where you are obliged to buy fish for dinner; we crossed the hill to cumæ (_vide_ goethe's 'wanderer') and descended on baiæ, where we ate and rested. we then looked at more ruined temples, ancient baths, and other things of the kind, and thus evening had arrived before we crossed the bay. at half-past nine we arrived at the little town of ischia, where we found every corner of the only inn fully occupied, so we resolved to go on to don tommaso's; a journey of two hours nominally, but which we performed in an hour and a quarter. the evening was deliciously cool, and innumerable glow-worms, who allowed us to catch them, were scattered on the vine-branches, and fig-trees, and shrubs. when we at last arrived, somewhat fatigued, at don tommaso's house, about eleven o'clock, we found all the people still up, clean rooms, fresh fruits, and a friendly deacon to wait on us, so we remained comfortably seated opposite a heap of cherries till midnight. the next morning the weather was bad, and the rain incessant, so we could not ascend the epomeo, and as we seemed little disposed to converse (we did not get on in this respect, heaven knows why!) the affair would have become rather a bore, if don tommaso had not possessed the prettiest poultry-yard and farm in europe. right in front of the door stands a large leafy orange-tree covered with ripe fruit, and from under its branches a stair leads to the dwelling. each of the white stone steps is decorated with a large vase of flowers, these steps leading to a spacious open hall, whence through an archway you look down on the whole farm-yard, with its orange-trees, stairs, thatched roofs, wine casks and pitchers, donkeys and peacocks. that a foreground may not be wanting, an indian fig-tree stands under the walled arch, so luxuriant that it is fastened to the wall with ropes. the background is formed by vineyards with summer-houses, and the adjacent heights of the monte epomeo. being protected from the rain by the archway, the party seated themselves there under shelter, and sketched the various objects in the farm the best way they could, the whole livelong day. i was on no ceremony, and sketched along with them, and i think i in some degree profited by so doing. at night we had a terrific storm, and as i was lying in bed, i remarked that the thunder growled tremendously on monte epomeo, and the echoes continued to vibrate like those on the lake of lucerne, but even for a greater length of time. next morning, sunday, the weather was again fine. we went to foria, and saw the people going to the cathedral in their holiday costumes. the women wore their well-known head-dress of folds of white muslin placed flat on the head; the men were standing in the square before the church, in their bright red caps, gossiping about politics, and we gradually wound our way through these festal villages up the hill. it is a huge rugged volcano, full of fissures, ravines, cavities, and steep precipices. the cavities being used for wine cellars, they are filled with large casks. every declivity is clothed with vines and fig-trees, or mulberry-trees. corn grows on the sides of the steep rocks, and yields more than one crop every year. the ravines are covered with ivy, and innumerable bright-coloured flowers and herbs, and wherever there is a vacant space, young chestnut-trees shoot up, furnishing the most delightful shade. the last village, fontana, lies in the midst of verdure and vegetation. as we climbed higher, the sky became overcast and gloomy, and by the time we reached the most elevated peaks of the rocks, a thick fog had come on. the vapours flitted about, and although the rugged outlines of the rocks, and the telegraph, and the cross, stood forth strangely in the clouds, still we could not see even the smallest portion of the view. soon afterwards rain commenced, and as it was impossible to remain, and wait as you do on the righi, we were obliged to take leave of epomeo without having made his acquaintance. we ran down in the rain, one rushing after the other, and i do believe that we were scarcely an hour in returning. next day we went to capri. this place has something eastern in its aspect, with the glowing heat reflected from its rocky white walls, its palm-trees, and the rounded domes of the churches that look like mosques. the sirocco was burning, and rendered me quite unfit to enjoy anything; for really climbing up five hundred and thirty-seven steps to anacapri in this frightful heat, and then coming down again, is toil only fit for a horse. true, the sea is wondrously lovely, looking down on it from the summit of the bleak rock, and through the singular fissures of the jagged peaks, so strangely formed. but above all, i must tell you of the blue grotto, for it is not known to every one, as you can only enter it either in very calm weather, or by swimming. the rocks there project precipitously into the sea, and are probably as steep under the water as above it. a huge cavity has been hollowed out by nature, but in such a manner, that round the whole circumference of the grotto, the rocks rest on the sea in all their breadth, or rather are sunk precipitously into it, and ascend thence to the vault of the cavern. the sea fills the whole space of the grotto, the entrance to which lies under the water, only a very small portion of the opening projecting above the water, and through this narrow space you can only pass in a small boat, in which you must lie flat. when you are once in, the whole extent of the huge cave and its vault is revealed, and you can row about in it with perfect ease, as if under a dome. the light of the sun also pierces through the opening into the grotto underneath the sea, but broken and dimmed by the green sea water, and thence it is that such magical visions arise. the whole of the rocks are sky-blue and green in the twilight, resembling the hue of moonshine, yet every nook, and every depth, is distinctly visible. the water is thoroughly lighted up and brilliantly illuminated by the light of the sun, so that the dark skiff glides over a bright shining surface. the colour is the most dazzling blue i ever saw, without shadow or cloud, like a pane of opal glass; and as the sun shines down, you can plainly discern all that is going on under the water, while the whole depths of the sea with its living creatures are disclosed. you can see the coral insects and polypuses clinging to the rocks, and far below, fishes of different species meeting and swimming past each other. the rocks become deeper in colour as they go lower into the water, and are quite black at the end of the grotto, where they are closely crowded together, and still further under them, you can see crabs, fishes, and reptiles in the clear waters. every stroke too of the oars echoes strangely under the vault, and as you row round the wall, new objects come to light. i do wish you could see it, for the effect is singularly magical. on turning towards the opening by which you entered, the daylight seen through it seems bright orange, and by moving even a few paces you are entirely isolated under the rock in the sea, with its own peculiar sunlight: it is as if you were actually living under the water for a time. we then proceeded to procida, where the women adopt the greek dress, but do not look at all prettier from doing so. curious faces were peeping from every window. a couple of jesuits, in black gowns and with gloomy countenances, were seated in a gay arbour of vines, evidently enjoying themselves, and made a good picture. then we crossed the sea to pozzuoli, and through the grotto of posilippo again home. i cannot write to paul about his change of residence, and his entrance into the great, wide world of london, because he mentions casually, that he will probably leave for london in the course of three weeks, so my letter could not possibly reach him in berlin; a week hence i shall take my chance, and address to my brother in london. that smoky place is fated to be now and ever my favourite residence; my heart glows when i even think of it, and i paint to myself my return there, passing through paris, and finding paul independent, alone, and another man, in the dear old haunts; when he will present me to his new friends, and i will present him to my old ones, and we shall live and dwell together: so even at this moment i am all impatience soon to go there. i see by some newspapers my friends have sent me, that my name is not forgotten, and so i hope when i return to london, to be able to work steadily, which i was previously unable to do, being forced to go to italy. if they make any difficulty in munich about my opera, or if i cannot get a _libretto_ that i like, i intend in that case to compose an opera for london. i know that i could receive a commission to do so, as soon as i chose. i am also bringing some new pieces with me for the philharmonic, and so i shall have made good use of my time. as my evenings here are at my own disposal, i read a little french and english. the "barricades" and "les États de blois" particularly interest me, as while i read them i realize with horror a period which we have often heard extolled as a vigorous epoch, too soon passed away. though these books seem to me to have many faults, yet the delineation of the two opposite leaders is but too correct; both were weak, irresolute, miserable hypocrites, and i thank god that the so highly-prized middle ages are gone never to return. say nothing of this to any disciple of hegel's, but it is so nevertheless; and the more i read and think on the subject, the more i feel this to be true. sterne has become a great favourite of mine. i remembered that goethe once spoke to me of the 'sentimental journey,' and said that it was impossible for any one better to paint what a froward and perverse thing is the human heart. i chanced to meet with the book, and thought i should like to read it. it pleases me very much. i think it very subtle, and beautifully conceived and expressed. there are very few german books to be had here. i am therefore restricted to goethe's poems, and assuredly these are suggestive enough, and always new. i feel especial interest in those poems which he evidently composed in or near naples, such as alexis and dora; for i daily see from my window how this wonderful work was created. indeed, which is often the case with master-pieces, i often suddenly and involuntarily think, that the very same ideas might have occurred to myself on a similar occasion, and as if goethe had only by some chance been the first to express them. with regard to the poem, "gott segne dich, junge frau," i maintain that i have discovered its locality and dined with the woman herself; but of course she is now grown old, and the boy she was then nursing is become a stalwart vine-dresser. her house lies between pozzuoli and baiæ, "eines tempels trümmern," and is fully three miles from cumæ. you may imagine therefore with what new light and truth these poems dawn on me, and the different feeling with which i now regard and study them. i say nothing of mignon's song at present, but it is singular that goethe and thorwaldsen are still living, that beethoven only died a few years ago, and yet h---- declares that german art is as dead as a rat. _quod non._ so much the worse for him if he really feels thus; but when i reflect for a time on his conclusions, they appear to me very shallow. _apropos_, schadow, who returns to düsseldorf in the course of a few days, has promised to extract, if possible, some new songs for me from immermann, which rejoices me much. that man is a true poet, which is proved by his letters, and everything that he has written. count platen is a little, shrivelled, wheezing old man, with gold spectacles, yet not more than five-and-thirty! he quite startled me. the greeks look very different! he abuses the germans terribly, forgetting however that he does so in german. but farewell for to-day. felix. rome, june th, . my dear parents, it is indeed high time that i should write to you a rational, methodical letter, for i fear that none of those from naples were worth much. it really seemed as if the atmosphere there deterred every one from serious reflection, at least i very seldom succeeded in collecting my thoughts or ideas; and now i have been scarcely more than a few hours here, when i once more resume that roman tranquillity, and grave serenity, which i alluded to in my former letters from this place. i cannot express how infinitely better i love rome than naples. people allege that rome is monotonous, of one uniform hue, melancholy, and solitary. it is certainly true that naples is more like a great european city, more lively and varied, and more cosmopolitan; but i may say to you confidentially, that i begin gradually to feel the most decided hatred of all that is cosmopolitan;--i dislike it, just as i dislike _many-sidedness_, which, moreover, i rather think i do not much believe in. anything that aspires to be distinguished, or beautiful, or really great, must be _one-sided_; but then this _one side_ must be brought to a state of the most consummate perfection, and no man can deny that such is the case at rome. naples seems to me too small to be called properly a great city; all the life and bustle are confined to two large thoroughfares--the toledo, and the coast from the harbour to the chiaja. naples does not realize to my mind the idea of a centre for a great nation, which london offers in such perfection; chiefly indeed because it is deficient in a people: for the fishermen and lazzaroni i cannot designate as a people, they are more like savages, and their centre is not naples, but the sea. the middle classes, by which i mean those who pursue various trades, and the working citizens who form the basis of other great towns, are quite subordinate; indeed, i may almost say that such a class is not to be found there. it was this that often made me feel out of humour during my stay in naples, much as i loved and enjoyed the scenery; but as a dissatisfied feeling constantly recurred, i think i at last discovered the cause to lie within myself. i cannot say that i was precisely unwell during the incessant sirocco, but it was more disagreeable than an indisposition which passes away in a few days. i felt languid, disinclined for all that was serious,--in fact, lazy. i lounged about the streets all day with a morose face, and would have preferred lying on the ground, without the trouble of thinking, or wishing, or doing anything; then it suddenly occurred to me, that the principal classes in naples live in reality precisely in the same manner; that consequently the source of my depression did not spring from myself, as i had feared, but from the whole combination of air, climate, etc. the atmosphere is suitable for grandees who rise late, never require to go out on foot, never think (for this is heating), sleep away a couple of hours on a sofa in the afternoon, then eat ice, and drive to the theatre at night, where again they do not find anything to think about, but simply make and receive visits. on the other hand, the climate is equally suitable for a fellow in a shirt, with naked legs and arms, who also has no occasion to move about--begging for a few _grani_ when he has literally nothing left to live on--taking his afternoon's siesta stretched on the ground, or on the quay, or on the stone pavement (the pedestrians step over him, or shove him aside if he lies right in the middle). he fetches his _frutti di mare_ himself out of the sea, sleeps wherever he may chance to find himself at night; in short, he employs every moment in doing exactly what he likes best, just as an animal does. these are the two principal classes of naples. by far the largest portion of the population of the toledo there, consists of gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen, or husbands and wives driving together in handsome equipages, or of those olive _sans-culottes_ who sometimes carry about fish for sale, brawling in the most stentorian way, or bearing burdens when they have no longer any money left. i believe there are few indeed who have any settled occupation, or follow up any pursuit with zeal and perseverance, or who like work for the sake of working. goethe says that the misfortune of the north is, that people there always wish to be doing something, and striving after some end; and he goes on to say, that an italian was right, who advised him not to think so much, for it would only give him a headache. i suspect however that he was merely jesting; at all events, he did not act in this manner himself, but, on the contrary, like a genuine northman. if however he means that the difference of character is produced by nature, and subservient to her influence, then there is no doubt that he is quite in the right. i can perfectly conceive that it must be so, and why wolves howl; still it is not necessary to howl along with them. the proverb should be exactly reversed. those who, owing to their position, are obliged to work, and must consequently both think and bestir themselves, treat the matter as a necessary evil, which brings them in money, and when they actually have it, they too live like the great, or the naked, gentlemen. thus there is no shop where you are not cheated. natives of naples, who have been customers for many years, are obliged to bargain, and to be as much on their guard as foreigners; and one of my acquaintances, who had dealt at the same shop for fifteen years, told me that during the whole of that period there had been invariably the same battle about a few scudi, and that nothing could prevent it. thence it is that there is so little industry or competition, and that donizetti finishes an opera in ten days; to be sure, it is sometimes hissed, but that does not matter, for it is paid for all the same, and he can then go about amusing himself. if at last however his reputation becomes endangered, he will in that case be forced really to work, which he would find by no means agreeable. this is why he sometimes writes an opera in three weeks, bestowing considerable pains on a couple of airs in it, so that they may please the public, and then he can afford once more to divert himself, and once more to write trash. their painters, in the same way, paint the most incredibly bad pictures, far inferior even to their music. their architects also erect buildings in the worst taste; among others, an imitation, on a small scale, of st. peter's, in the chinese style. but what does it matter? the pictures are bright in colour, the music makes plenty of noise, the buildings give plenty of shade, and the neapolitan grandees ask no more. my physical mood was similar to theirs, everything inspiring me with a wish to be idle, and to lounge about, and sleep; yet i was constantly saying to myself that this was wrong; and striving to occupy myself, and to work, which i could not accomplish. hence arose the querulous tone of some of the letters i wrote to you, and i could only escape from such a mood by rambling over the hills, where nature is so divine, making every man feel grateful and cheerful. i did not neglect the musicians, and we had a great deal of music, but i cared little in reality for their flattering encomiums. fodor is hitherto the only genuine artist, male or female, that i have seen in italy; elsewhere i should probably have found a great many faults with her singing, but i overlooked them all, because when she sings it is real music, and after such a long privation, that was most acceptable. now however i am once more in old rome, where life is very different. there are processions daily, for last week was the corpus domini; and just as i left the city during the celebration of the week following the holy week, i now return after the corpus christi to find them engaged in the same way. it made a singular impression on me to see that the streets had in the interim assumed such an aspect of summer: on all sides booths with lemons and iced water, the people in light dresses, the windows open, and the _jalousies_ closed. you sit at the doors of coffee-houses, and eat _gelato_ in quantities; the corso swarms with equipages, for people no longer walk much, and though in reality i miss no dear friends or relatives, yet i felt quite moved when i once more saw the piazza di spagna, and the familiar names written up on the corners of the streets. i shall stay here for about a week, and then proceed northwards. the infiorata is on thursday, but it is not yet quite certain that it will take place, because they have some apprehensions of a revolution; but i hope i shall witness this ceremony. i mean to take advantage of this opportunity to see the hills once more, and then to set off for the north. wish me a good journey, for i am on the eve of departure. it is a year this very day since i arrived in munich, heard 'fidelio,' and wrote to you. we have not met since then; but, please god, we shall see each other again before another year. felix. rome, june , . dear professor, it was my intention some time ago to have written you a description of the music during the holy week, but my journey to naples intervened, and during my stay there, i was so constantly occupied in wandering among the mountains, and in gazing at the sea, that i had not a moment's leisure to write; hence arose the delay for which i now beg to apologize. since then i have not heard a single note worth remembering; in naples the music is most inferior. during the last two months, therefore, i have no musical reminiscences to send you, save those of the holy week, which however made so indelible an impression on my mind, that they will be always fresh in my memory. i already described to my parents the effect of the whole ceremonies, and they probably sent you the letter. it was fortunate that i resolved to listen to the various offices with earnest and close attention, and still more so, that from the very first moment i felt sensations of reverence and piety. i consider such a mood indispensable for the reception of new ideas, and no portion of the general effect escaped me, although i took care to watch each separate detail. the ceremonies commenced on wednesday, at half past four o'clock, with the antiphon "zelus domus tuæ." a little book containing the offices for the holy week explains the sense of the various solemnities. "each nocturn contains three psalms, signifying that christ died for all, and also symbolical of the three laws, the natural, the written, and the evangelical. the 'domine labia mea' and the 'deus in adjutorium' were not sung on this occasion, when the death of our saviour and master is deplored, as slain by the hands of wicked godless men. the fifteen lights represent the twelve apostles and the three marys." (in this manner the book contains much curious information on this subject, so i mean to bring it with me for you.) the psalms are chanted _fortissimo_ by all the male voices of two choirs. each verse is divided into two parts, like a question and answer, or rather, classified into a and b; the first chorus sings a, and the second replies with b. all the words, with the exception of the last, are sung with extreme rapidity on one note, but on the last they make a short "melisma," which is different in the first and second verse. the whole psalm, with all its verses, is sung on this melody, or _tono_ as they call it, and i wrote down seven of these _toni_, which were employed during the three days. you cannot conceive how tiresome and monotonous the effect is, and how harshly and mechanically they chant through the psalms. the first _tonus_ which they sang was-- [music: in-fi-xus sum in li-mo pro-fun-di, et non est sub-stan-tia] thus the whole forty-two verses of the psalm are sung in precisely the same manner; one half of the verse ending in g, a, g, the other in g, e, g. they sing with the accent of a number of men quarrelling violently, and it sounds as if they were shouting out furiously one against another. the closing words of each psalm are chanted more slowly and impressively, a long "triad" being substituted for the "melisma," sung _piano_. for instance, this is the first:-- [music: qui di-li-gunt no-men e-jus ha-bi-ta-bunt in e-a.] an antiphon, and sometimes more than one, serves as an introduction to each psalm. these are generally sung by two counter-tenor voices, in _canto fermo_, in harsh, hard tones; the first half of each verse in the same style, and the second responded to by the chorus of male voices that i already described. i have kept the several antiphons that i wrote down, that you may compare them with the book. on the afternoon of wednesday, the th, th, and th psalms were sung. (by the bye, this division of the verses of the psalms sung in turns by each chorus, is one of the innovations that bunsen has introduced into the evangelical church here; he also ushers in each choral by an antiphon, composed by georg, a musician who resides here, in the style of _canti fermi_, first sung by a few voices, succeeded by a choral, such as "ein' feste burg ist unser gott.") after the th psalm comes a paternoster _sub silentio_--that is, all present stand up, and a short silent inward prayer ensues, and a pause. then commences the first lamentation of jeremiah, sung in a low subdued tone, in the key of g major, a solemn and fine composition of palestrina's. the solos are chanted entirely by high tenor voices, swelling and subsiding alternately, in the most delicate gradations, sometimes floating almost inaudibly, and gently blending the various harmonies; being sung without any bass voices, and immediately succeeding the previous harsh intonation of the psalms, the effect is truly heavenly. it is rather unfortunate however that those very parts which ought to be sung with the deepest emotion and reverence, being evidently those composed with peculiar fervour, should chance to be merely the titles of the chapter or verse, _aleph_, _beth_, _gimel_, etc., and that the beautiful commencement, which sounds as if it came direct from heaven, should be precisely on these words, "incipit lamentatio jeremiæ prophetæ lectio i." this must be not a little repulsive to every protestant heart, and if there be any design to introduce a similar mode of chanting into our churches, it appears to me that this will always be a stumbling-block; for any one who sings "chapter first" cannot possibly feel any pious emotions, however beautiful the music may be, let him strive as he will. my little book indeed says, "vedendo profetizzato il crocifiggimento con gran pietà, si cantano eziandio molto lamentevolmente _aleph_, e le altre simili parole, che sono le lettere dell' alfabeto ebreo, perchè erano in costume di porsi in ogni canzone in luogo di lamento, come è questa. ciascuna lettera ha in se, tutto it sentimento di quel versetto che la segue, ed è come un argomento di esso;" but this explanation is not worth much. after this the st, nd, and rd psalms are sung in the same manner, with their antiphons. these are apportioned to the various voices. the soprano begins, "in monte oliveti," on which the bass voices chime in _forte_, "oravit ad patrem: pater," etc. then follow the lessons, from the treatise of saint augustine on the psalms. the strange mode in which these are chanted appeared to me very extraordinary when i heard them for the first time on palm sunday, without knowing what it meant. a solitary voice is heard reciting on one note, not as in the psalms, but very slowly and impressively, making the tone ring out clearly. there are different cadences employed for the different punctuation of the words, to represent a comma, interrogation, and full stop. perhaps you are already acquainted with these: to me they were a novelty, and appeared very singular. the first, for example, was chanted by a powerful bass voice in g. if a comma occurs, he sings so, on the last word:-- [music] an interrogation thus:-- [music] a full stop:-- [music] for example:-- [music: con-jun-ga-mus o-ra-ti-o-nem.] i cannot describe to you how strange the falling cadence from a to c sounds; especially when the bass is followed by a soprano, who begins on d, and makes the same falling cadence from e to g; then an alto does the same in his key; for they sang three different lessons alternately with the _canto fermo_. i send you a specimen of the mode in which they render the _canto fermo_, regardless both of the words and the sense. the phrase "better he had never been born" was thus sung:-- [music: me-li-us il-li e-rat si na-tus non fu-is-set] quite _fortissimo_ and monotonously. then came the psalms , , and , followed by three lessons, succeeded by the miserere, sung in the same style as the preceding psalms, in the following _tonus_:-- [music: et se-cun-dum mul-ti-tu-di-nem mi-se-ra-tio-rum tua--rum de-le i-ni-qui-ta-tem me-am.] it will be long before you can improve on this. then followed psalms , , and ; "canticum moysi" in its own tone. psalms , , and came next, and then antiphons. during this time the lights on the altar are all extinguished, save one which is placed behind the altar. six wax candles still continue to burn high above the entrance, the rest of the space is already dim, and now the whole chorus _unisono_ intone with the full strength of their voices the "canticum zachariæ," during which the last remaining lights are extinguished. the mighty swelling chorus in the gloom, and the solemn vibration of so many voices, have a wonderfully fine effect. the melody (in d minor) is also very beautiful. at the close all is profound darkness. an antiphon begins on the sentence, "now he that betrayed him gave them a sign," and continues to the words "that same is he, hold him fast." then all present fall on their knees, and one solitary voice softly sings, "christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem;" on the second day is added, "mortem autem crucis;" and on good friday, "propter quod et deus exaltavit illum, et dedit illi nomen, quod est super omne nomen." a pause ensues, during which each person repeats the paternoster to himself. during this silent prayer, a death-like silence prevails in the whole church; presently the miserere commences, with a chord softly breathed by the voices, and gradually branching off into two choirs. this beginning, and its first harmonious vibration, certainly made the deepest impression on me. for an hour and a half previously, one voice alone had been heard chanting almost without any variety; after the pause came an admirably constructed chord, which has the finest possible effect, causing every one to feel in their hearts the power of music; it is this indeed that is so striking. the best voices are reserved for the miserere, which is sung with the greatest variety of effect, the voices swelling and dying away, from the softest _piano_ to the full strength of the choir. no wonder that it should excite deep emotion in every heart. moreover they do not neglect the power of contrast; verse after verse being chanted by all the male voices in unison, _forte_, and harshly. at the beginning of the subsequent verses, the lovely, rich, soft sounds of voices steal on the ear, lasting only for a short space, and succeeded by a chorus of male voices. during the verses sung in monotone, every one knows how beautifully the softer choir are about to uplift their voices; soon they are again heard, again to die away too quickly, and before the thoughts can be collected, the service is over. on the first day, when the miserere of baini was given in the key of b minor, they sang thus:--"miserere mei deus" to "misericordiam tuam" from the music, with solo voices, two choirs using the whole strength of voices at their command; then all the bass singers commenced _tutti forte_ by f sharp, chanting on that note "et secundum multitudinem" to "iniquitatem meam," which is immediately succeeded by a soft chord in b minor, and so on, to the last verse of all, which they sing with their entire strength; a second short silent prayer ensues, when all the cardinals scrape their feet noisily on the pavement, which betokens the close of the ceremony. my little book says, "this noise is symbolical of the tumult made by the hebrews in seizing christ." it may be so, but it sounded exactly like the commotion in the pit of a theatre, when the beginning of a play is delayed, or when it is finally condemned. the single taper still burning, is then brought from behind the altar, and all silently disperse by its solitary light. on leaving the chapel, i must not omit to mention the striking effect of the blazing chandelier lighting up the great vestibule, when the cardinals and their attendant priests traverse the illuminated quirinal through ranks of swiss guards. the miserere sung on the first day was baini's, a composition entirely devoid of life or power, like all his works; still it had chords and music, and so it made a certain impression. on the second day they gave some pieces by allegri and bai. on good friday all the music was bai's. as allegri composed only one verse, on which the rest are chanted, i heard the three compositions which they gave on that day. it is however quite immaterial which they sing, for the _embellimenti_ are pretty much the same in all three. each chord has its _embellimento_, thus very little of the original composition is to be discovered. how these _embellimenti_ have crept in they will not say. it is maintained that they are traditional; but this i entirely disbelieve. in the first place no musical tradition is to be relied on; besides, how is it possible to carry down a five-part movement to the present time, from mere hearsay? it does not sound like it. it is evident that they have been more recently added; and it appears to me that the director, having had good high voices at his command, and wishing to employ them during the holy week, wrote down for their use ornamental phrases, founded on the simple unadorned chords, to enable them to give full scope and effect to their voices. they certainly are not of ancient date, but are composed with infinite talent and taste, and their effect is admirable; one in particular is often repeated, and makes so deep an impression, that when it begins, an evident excitement pervades all present; indeed, in any discussion as to the mode of executing this music, and when people say that the voices do not seem like the voices of men, but those of angels from on high, and that these sounds can never he heard elsewhere, it is this particular _embellimento_ to which they invariably allude. for example, in the miserere, whether that of bai or allegri (for they have recourse to the same _embellimenti_ in both) these are the consecutive chords:-- [music] instead of this, they sing it so:-- [music] [music] the soprano intones the high c in a pure soft voice, allowing it to vibrate for a time, and slowly gliding down, while the alto holds the c steadily, so that at first i was under the delusion that the high c was still held by the soprano; the skill, too, with which the harmony is gradually developed is truly admirable. the other _embellimenti_ are adapted in the same way to the consecutive chords: but the first one is by far the most beautiful. i can give no opinion as to the particular mode of executing the music; but what i once read, that some particular acoustic contrivance caused the continued vibration of the sounds, is an entire fable, quite as much so as the assertion that they sing from tradition, and without any fixed time, one voice simply following the other; for i saw plainly enough the shadow of baini's long arm moving up and down; indeed, he sometimes struck his music-desk quite audibly. there is no lack of mystery too, on the part of the singers and others: for example, they never say beforehand what particular miserere they intend to sing, but that it will be decided at the moment, etc., etc. the key in which they sing, depends on the purity of the voices. the first day it was in b minor, the second and third in e minor, but each time they finished almost in b flat minor. the chief soprano, mariano, came from the mountains to rome expressly to sing on this occasion, and it is to him i owe hearing the _embellimenti_ with their highest notes. however careful and attentive the singers may be, still the negligence and bad habits of the whole previous year have their revenge, consequently the most fearful dissonance sometimes occurs. i must not forget to tell you that on the thursday, when the miserere was about to begin, i clambered up a ladder leaning against the wall, and was thus placed close to the roof of the chapel, so that i had the music, the priests, and the people far beneath me in gloom and shadow. seated thus alone without the vicinity of any obtrusive stranger, the impression made on me was very profound. but to proceed: you must have had more than enough of misereres in these pages, and i intend to bring you more particular details, both verbal and written. on thursday, at half-past ten o'clock, high mass was celebrated. they sang an eight-part composition of fazzini's, in no way remarkable. i reserve for you some _canti fermi_ and antiphons, which i wrote down at the time, and my little book describes the order of the various services and the meaning of the different ceremonies. at the "gloria in excelsis" all the bells in rome peal forth, and are not rung again till after good friday. the hours are marked in the churches by wooden clappers. the words of the "gloria," the signal for all the strange tumult of bells, were chanted from the altar by old cardinal pacca, in a feeble trembling voice; this being succeeded by the choirs and all the bells, had a striking effect. after the "credo" they sang the "fratres ego enim" of palestrina, but in the most unfinished and careless manner. the washing of the pilgrims' feet followed, and a procession in which all the singers join; baini beating time from a large book carried before him, making signs first to one, and then to another, while the singers pressed forward to look at the music, counting the time as they walked, and then chiming in,--the pope being borne aloft in his state chair. all this i have already described to my parents. in the evening there were psalms, lamentations, lessons, and the miserere again, scarcely differing from those of the previous day. one lesson was chanted by a soprano solo on a peculiar melody, that i mean to bring home with me. it is an adagio, in long-drawn notes, and lasts a quarter of an hour at least. there is no pause in the music, and the melody lies very high, and yet it was executed with the most pure, clear, and even intonation. the singer did not drop his tone so much as a single comma, the very last notes swelling and dying away as even and full as at the beginning; it was, indeed, a masterly performance. i was struck with the meaning they attach to the word _appoggiatura_. if the melody goes from c to d, or from c to e, they sing thus:-- [music] or [music] or [music] and this they call an _appoggiatura_. whatever they may choose to designate it, the effect is most disagreeable, and it must require long habit not to be discomposed by this strange practice, which reminds me very much of our old women at home in church; moreover the effect is the same. i saw in my book that the "tenebræ" was to be sung, and thinking that it would interest you to know how it is given in the papal chapel, i was on the watch with a sharp-pointed pencil when it commenced, and send you herewith the principal parts. it was sung very quick, and _forte_ throughout, without exception. the beginning was:-- [music: te-ne-bræ fac----tæ sunt dum cru-ci-fi-xis--sent je--sum ju-dæ-i. etc.] then [music: de-us me--us, ut quid me de-re-li--qui-sti? ex-cla--mans je-sus vo--ce mag-na a-it: pa-ter, in ma- nus tu-as com-men-do spi-ri-tum me----um. etc.] i cannot help it, but i own it does irritate me to hear such holy and touching words sung to such dull, drawling music. they say it is _canto fermo_, gregorian, etc.; no matter. if at that period there was neither the feeling nor the capability to write in a different style, at all events we have now the power to do so, and certainly this mechanical monotony is not to be found in the scriptural words; they are all truth and freshness, and moreover expressed in the most simple and natural manner. why then make them sound like a mere formula? and, in truth, such singing as this is nothing more! the word "pater" with a little flourish, the "meum" with a little shake, the "ut quid me"--can this be called sacred music? there is certainly no false expression in it, because there is _none_ of any kind; but does not this very fact prove the desecration of the words? a hundred times during the ceremony i was driven wild by such things as these; and then came people in a state of ecstasy, saying how splendid it had all been. this sounded to me like a bad joke, and yet they were quite in earnest! at mass early on friday morning, the chapel is stripped of all its decorations, the altar uncovered, and the pope and cardinals in mourning. the "passion," from st. john, was sung, composed by vittoria, but the words of the people in the chorus alone are his, the rest are chanted according to an established formula: but more of this hereafter. the whole appeared to me too trivial and monotonous, i was quite out of humour, and, in fact, dissatisfied with the affair altogether. one of the two following modes ought to be adopted. the "passion" ought either to be recited quietly by the priest, as st. john relates it, in which case there is no occasion for the chorus to sing "crucifige eum," nor for the alto to represent pilate--or else the scene should be so thoroughly realized, that it ought to make me feel as if i were actually present, and saw it all myself. in that event, pilate ought to sing just as he would have spoken, the chorus shout out "crucifige" in a tone anything but sacred; and then, through the impress of entire truth, and the dignity of the object represented, the singing would become sacred church music. i require no under-current of thought when i hear music, which is not to me "a mere medium to elevate the mind to piety," as they say here, but a distinct language speaking plainly to me; for though the sense is _expressed_ by the words, it is equally contained in the music. this is the case with the "passion" of sebastian bach; but as they sing it here, it is very imperfect, being neither a simple narrative, nor yet a grand solemn dramatic truth. the chorus sings "barabbam" to the same sacred chords as "et in terra pax." pilate speaks exactly in the same manner as the evangelist. the voice that represents our blessed saviour commences always _piano_, in order to have one definite distinction, but when the chorus breaks loose, shouting out their sacred chords, it seems entirely devoid of meaning. pray forgive these strictures. i now proceed to simple narration again. the evangelist is a tenor, and the mode of chanting, the same as that of the lessons, with a peculiar falling cadence at the comma, interrogation, and full stop. the evangelist intones on d, and sings thus at a full stop:-- [music] at a comma:-- [music] and at the conclusion, when another personage enters, so:-- [music] christ is represented by a bass, and commences always thus:-- [music: e----go] i could not catch the formula, though i noted down several parts, which i can show you when i return: among others, the words spoken on the cross. all the other personages,--pilate, peter, the maid, and the high priest,--are altos, and sing this melody only:-- [music] the chorus sings the words of the people from their places above, while everything else is sung from the altar. i must really mark down here as a curiosity the "crucifige," just as i noted it at the time:-- [music: tol-le! tol-le! cru-ci-fi- ge e-um.] the "barabbam" too is most singular;--very tame jews indeed! but my letter is already too long, so i shall discuss the subject no further. prayers are then offered up for all nations and institutions, each separately designated. when the prayer for the jews is uttered, no one kneels, as they do at all the others, nor is amen said. they pray _pro perfidis judæis_, and the author of my book discovers an explanation of this also. then follows the adoration of the cross; a small crucifix is placed in the centre of the chapel, and all approach barefooted (without shoes), fall down before it and kiss it; during this time the "improperia" are sung. i have only once heard this composition, but it seems to me to be one of palestrina's finest works, and they sing it with remarkable enthusiasm. there is surprising delicacy and harmony in its execution by the choir; they are careful to place every passage in its proper light, and to render it sufficiently prominent without making it too conspicuous--one chord blending softly with the other. moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and dignified, and the most profound silence reigns in the chapel. they sing the oft-recurring greek "holy" in the most admirable manner, each time with the sane smoothness and expression. you will be not a little surprised, however, when you see it written down, for they sing as follows:-- [music: a-gi-os o the---os] [music: sanc-tus de-us.] such passages as that at the commencement, where all the voices sing the very same embellishment, repeatedly occur, and the ear becomes accustomed to them. the effect of the whole is undoubtedly superb. i only wish you could hear the tenors in the first chorus, and the mode in which they take the high a on the word "theos;" the note is so long-drawn and ringing, though softly breathed, that it sounds most touching. this is repeated again and again till all in the chapel have performed the adoration of the cross; but as on this occasion the crowd was not very great, i unluckily had not the opportunity of hearing it as often as i could have wished. i quite understand why the "improperias" produced the strongest effect on goethe, for they are nearly the most faultless of all, as both music and ceremonies, and everything connected with them, are in the most entire harmony. a procession follows to fetch the host, which had been exposed and adored on the previous evening in another chapel of the quirinal, lighted up by many hundred wax-lights. the morning service closed at half-past one with a hymn in _canto fermo_. at half-past three in the afternoon the first nocturn began, with the psalms, lessons, etc. i corrected what i had written down, heard the miserere of baini, and about seven o'clock followed the cardinals home through the illuminated vestibule--so all was now seen, and all was now over. i was anxious, dear professor, to describe the holy week to you minutely, as they were memorable days to me, every hour bringing with it something interesting and long anticipated. i also particularly rejoiced in feeling that, in spite of the excitement and the numerous discussions in praise or blame, the solemnities made as vivid an impression on me, as if i had been quite free from all previous prejudice or prepossession. i thus saw the truth confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere the most foreign to us, leaves its own stamp on the mind. may you read this long letter with even half the pleasure i feel in recalling the period of the holy week at rome. yours faithfully, felix mendelssohn bartholdy. florence, june th, . dear sisters, on such a day as this my paternal home and those i love are much in my thoughts; my feelings on this point are rather singular. if i feel at any time unwell, or fatigued, or out of humour, i have no particular longing for my own home or for my family; but when brighter days ensue, when every hour makes an indelible impression, and every moment brings with it glad and pleasant sensations then i ardently wish that i were with you, or you with me; and no minute passes without my thinking of one or other of you, to whom i have something particular to say. i have to-day passed the whole forenoon, from ten till three, in the gallery; it was glorious! besides all the beautiful work i saw, from which so much fresh benefit is always to be derived, i wandered about among the pictures, feeling so much sympathy, and such kindly emotions in gazing at them. i now first thoroughly realized the great charm of a large collection of the highest works of art. you pass from one to the other, sitting and dreaming for an hour before some picture, and then on to the next. yesterday was a holiday here, so to-day the palazzo degli uffizi was crowded with people who had come into the city to see the races, and to visit the far-famed gallery; chiefly peasants, male and female, in their country costumes. all the apartments were thrown open, and as i was about to contemplate them for the last time. i contrived to slip quietly through the crowd, and to remain quite solitary, for i knew that i had not one acquaintance among them. the busts of the various princes who founded and enriched this collection, are placed near the entrance, at the top of the staircase. i suppose i must have been peculiarly susceptible to-day, for the faces of the medici interested me exceedingly; they looked so noble and refined, so proud and so dignified. i stood looking at them for a long time, and imprinted on my memory those countenances of world-wide renown. i then went to the tribune. this room is so delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, and yet it contains a world of art. i again sought out my favourite armchair, which stands under the statue of the "slave whetting his knife" (_l'arrotino_), and taking possession of it, i enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for here, at one glance, i had the "madonna del cardellino," "pope julius ii.," a female portrait by raphael, and above it a lovely holy family, by perugino; and so close to me that i could have touched the statue with my hand, the venus de' medici; beyond, that of titian; on the other side, the "apollino" and the "wrestlers" (_lottatori_); in front of the raphael, the merry greek dancing faun, who seems to feel an uncouth delight in discordant music, for the fellow has just struck two cymbals together, and is listening to the sound, while treading with his foot on a kind of pan's pipes, as an accompaniment: what a clown he is! the space between is occupied by other pictures of raphael's, a portrait by titian, a domenichino, etc., and all these within the circumference of a small semicircle, no larger than one of your own rooms. this is a spot where a man feels his own insignificance, and may well learn to be humble. i occasionally walked through the other rooms, where a large picture by leonardo da vinci, only commenced and sketched in, with all its wild dashes and strokes, is very suggestive. i was especially struck with the genius of the monk fra bartolommeo, who must have been a man of the most devout, tender, and earnest spirit. there is a small picture of his here, which i discovered for myself. it is about the size of this sheet of paper, in two divisions, and represents the "adoration" and the "presentation in the temple." the figures are about two-thirds of a finger-length in size, but finished in the most exquisite and consummate manner, with the most brilliant colouring, the brightest decorations, and in the most genial sunshine. you can see in the picture itself, that the pious _maestro_ has taken delight in painting it, and in finishing the most minute details; probably with the view of giving it away, to gratify some friend. we feel as if the painter belonged to it, and still ought to be sitting before his work, or had only this moment left it. i felt the same with regard to many pictures to-day, especially that of the "madonna del cardellino," which raphael painted as a wedding-gift, and a surprise for his friend. i could not help meditating on all these great men, so long passed away from earth, though their whole inner soul is still displayed in such lustre to us, and to all the world. while reflecting on these things, i came by chance into the room containing the portraits of great painters. i formerly merely regarded them in the light of valuable curiosities, for there are more than three hundred portraits, chiefly painted by the masters themselves, so that you see at the same moment the man and his work; but to-day a fresh idea dawned on me with regard to them,--that each painter resembles his own productions, and that each while painting his own likeness, has been careful to represent himself just as he really was. in this way you become personally acquainted with all these great men, and thus a new light is shed on many things. i will discuss this point more minutely with you when we meet; but i must not omit to say, that the portrait of raphael is almost the most touching likeness i have yet seen of him. in the centre of a large rich screen, entirely covered with portraits, hangs a small solitary picture, without any particular designation, but the eye is instantly arrested by it; this is raphael--youthful, very pale and delicate, and with such onward aspirations, such longing and wistfulness in the mouth and eyes, that it is as if you could see into his very soul. that he cannot succeed in expressing all that he sees and feels, and is thus impelled to go forward, and that he must die an early death,--all this is written on his mournful, suffering, yet fervid countenance, and when looking at his dark eyes, which glance at you out of the very depths of his soul, and at the pained and contracted mouth, you cannot resist a feeling of awe. how i wish you could see the portrait that hangs above it; that of michael angelo, an ugly, muscular, savage, rugged fellow, in all the vigour of life, looking gruff and morose; and on the other side a wise, grave man, with the aspect of a lion, leonardo da vinci; but you cannot see this portrait, and i will not describe it in writing, but tell you of it when we meet. believe me, however, it is truly glorious. then i passed on to the niobe, which of all statues makes the greatest impression on me; and back again to my painters, and to the tribune, and through the corridors, where the roman emperors, with their dignified yet knavish physiognomies, stare you in the face; and last of all i took a final leave of the medici family. it was indeed a morning never to be forgotten. june th. do not suppose however that i mean to assert that all days are spent thus. you must battle your way through the present living mob, before you can arrive at the nobility, long since dead, and those who have not a strong arm are sure to come badly off in the conflict. such a journey as mine from rome to perugia, and on here, is no joke. jean paul says that the presence of a person who openly hates you is most painful and oppressive. such a being is the roman _vetturino_: he grants you no sleep; exposes you to hunger and thirst; at night, when he is bound to provide you with your _pranzo_, he contrives that you shall not arrive till midnight, when every one is of course asleep, and you are only too thankful to get a bed. in the morning he sets off before four o'clock, and rests his horses at noon for five hours, but invariably in some solitary little wayside inn, where nothing is to be had. each day he makes out about six german miles, and drives _piano_, while the sun burns _fortissimo_. i was very badly off owing to all this, for my fellow-travellers were far from being congenial; three jesuits inside, and in the cabriolet, where i particularly desired to sit, a most disagreeable venetian lady. if i wished to escape from her, i was obliged to go inside, and listen to the praises of charles x., and to hear that ariosto ought to have been burnt as a corrupt writer, subversive of all morality. it was still worse outside, and we never seemed to get on. the first day, after a journey of four hours, the axletree broke, and we were obliged to remain for nine hours in the same house in the campagna where we chanced to be, and at last to stay all night. if there was a church on the road that we had an opportunity of visiting, the most beautiful and devotional creations of perugino, or giotto, or cimabue, enchanted our eyes; and so we passed from irritation to delight, and then to irritation again. this was a wretched state to be in. i was not in the least amused by it all; and if nature had not bestowed on us bright moonshine at the lake of thrasymene, and if the scenery had not been so wonderfully fine, and if in every town we had not seen a superb church, and if we had not passed through a large city each day as we journeyed on, and if--but you see i am not easily satisfied. the route however was beautiful, and i must now describe my arrival in florence, which also includes my whole italian life of the previous days. at incisa, half a day's journey from florence, my _vetturino_ became so intolerable from his insolence and abuse, that i found it necessary to take out my luggage, and to tell him to drive to the devil,--which he accordingly did, rather against his will. it was midsummer's day, and a celebrated fête was to take place in florence the same evening, which i would on no account whatever have missed. this is just the kind of thing that the italians take advantage of, so the landlady at incisa offered me a carriage at four times the proper fare. when i refused to take it, she said i might try to procure another; and so i accordingly did, but found that no carriages for hire were to be had, only post-horses. i went to the post, and was there told, to my disgust, that they were at my landlady's, and that she had wished to make me pay an exorbitant price for them. i went back and demanded horses. she said, if i did not choose to pay what she asked, i should have none. i desired to see the regulations, which they are all obliged to have. she said there was no occasion to show them, and turned her back on me. the use of physical strength, which plays a great part here, was resorted to by me on this occasion, for i seized her and pushed her back into a room (for we were standing in the passage) and then hurried down the street to the podestà. it turned out however that there was no such person in the town, but that he lived four miles off. the affair became every instant more disagreeable, the crowd of boys at my heels increasing at every step. fortunately a decent-looking man came up, to whom the mob seemed to show some respect; so i accosted him, and explained all that had occurred. he sympathized with me, and took me to a vine-dresser's who had a little carriage for hire. the whole crowd now congregated before his door, many pressing forward into the house after me, and shouting that i was mad; but the carriage drove up, and i threw a few scudi to an old beggar, on which they all called out that i was a _bravo signore_, and wished me _buon viaggio_. the moderate price the man demanded more fully showed me the abominable overcharge of the landlady. the carriage was easy, and the horses went on at a good pace, and so we travelled across the hills to florence. in the course of half an hour we overtook my lazy vetturino. i put up my umbrella to defend me from the sun, and i scarcely ever travelled so pleasantly and so comfortably as during those few hours, having left all annoyances behind me, and before me the prospect of the beautiful fête. very soon the duomo, and the hundreds of villas scattered through the valleys, were visible. once more we passed by decorated terraces, and the tops of trees seen over them; the arno valley looking lovelier than ever. and so i arrived here in good spirits and dined; and even while doing so i heard a tumult, and looking out of the window i saw crowds, both young and old, all hurrying in their holiday costumes across the bridges. i followed them to the corso, and then to the races; afterwards to the illuminated pergola, and last of all to a masked ball in the goldoni theatre. at one o'clock in the morning i went towards home, thinking that the whole affair was over; but the arno was still covered with gondolas, illuminated by coloured lamps, and crossing each other in every direction. under the bridge a large ship was passing, hung with green lanterns; the water shone brightly as it rippled along, while a still brighter moon looked down on the whole scene. i recalled to myself the various occurrences of the day, and the thoughts that had chased each other through my mind, and resolved to write them all to you. it is in fact a reminiscence for myself, for it may not be so suggestive to you, but it will one day be of service to me, enabling me to recall various scenes connected with fair italy. extract from a letter to frau von pereira, in vienna. genoa, july, . at first i resolved not to answer your letter until i had fulfilled your injunctions, and composed "napoleon's midnight review;" and now i have to ask your forgiveness for not having done so, but there is a peculiarity in this matter. i take music in a very serious light, and i consider it quite inadmissible to compose anything that i do not thoroughly feel. it is just as if i were to utter a falsehood; for notes have as distinct a meaning as words, perhaps even a more definite sense. now it appears to me almost impossible to compose for a descriptive poem. the mass of compositions of this nature do not militate against this opinion, but rather prove its truth; for i am not acquainted with one single work of the kind that has been successful. you are placed between a dramatic conception or a mere narrative; the one, in the "erl könig," causes the willows to rustle, the child to shriek, and the horse to gallop. the other imagines a ballad singer, calmly narrating the horrible tale, as you would a ghost story, and this is the most accurate view of the two; reichardt almost invariably adopted this reading, but it does not suit me; the music stands in my way. i feel in a far more spectral spirit when i read such a poem quietly to myself, and imagine the rest, than when it is depicted, or related to me. it does not answer to look on "napoleon's midnight review" as a narrative, inasmuch as no particular person speaks, and the poem is not written in the style of a ballad. it seems to me more like a clever conception than a poem; it strikes me that the poet himself placed no great faith in his misty forms. i could indeed have composed music for it in the same descriptive style, as neukomm and fischhof, in vienna. i might have introduced a very novel rolling of drums in the bass, and blasts of trumpets in the treble, and have brought in all sorts of hobgoblins. but i love my serious elements of sound too well to do anything of the sort; for this kind of thing always appears to me a joke; somewhat like the painting's in juvenile spelling-books, where the roofs are coloured bright red, to make the children aware they are intended for roofs; and i should have been most reluctant to write out and send you anything incomplete, or that did not entirely please myself, because i always wish you to have the best i can accomplish. felix. milan, july th, . this letter will probably be the last (d.v.) that i shall write to you from an italian city; i may possibly send you another from the borromean islands, which i intend to visit in a few days, but do not rely on this. my week here has been one of the most agreeable and amusing that i have passed in italy; and how this could be the case in milan, hitherto utterly unknown to me, i shall now proceed to relate. in the first place, i immediately secured a small piano, and attacked with _rabbia_ that endless "walpurgis night," to finish the thing at last; and to-morrow morning it will be completed, except the overture; for as yet i have not quite made up my mind whether it shall be a grand symphony, or a short introduction breathing of spring. i should like to take the opinion of some adept on this point. i must say the conclusion has turned out better than i myself expected. the hobgoblins and the bearded druid, with the trombones sounding behind him, diverted me immensely, and so i passed two forenoons very happily. 'tasso' also contributed to my pleasure, which i have now for the first time been able to read with facility; it is a splendid poem. i was glad to be already well acquainted with goethe's 'tasso;' being constantly reminded of it by the principal passages of the italian poet, whose verse, like that of goethe, is so dreamy, harmonious, and tender, its sweet melody delighting the ear. your favourite passage, dear father, "era la notte allor," struck me as very beautiful, but the stanzas that i admire most, are those descriptive of clorinda's death; they are so wonderfully imaginative, and fine. the close however does not quite please me. tancred's 'lamentations' are, i think, more charmingly composed than true to nature; they contain too many clever ideas and antitheses; and even the words of the hermit, which soothe him, sound more like a censure on the hermit himself. i should infallibly have killed him on the spot, if he had talked to me in such a strain. recently i was reading the episode of 'armida' in a carriage, surrounded by a company of italian actors, who were incessantly singing rossini's "ma trema, trema," when suddenly there recurred to my thoughts gluck's "vous m'allez quitter," and rinaldo's falling asleep, and the voyage in the air--and i felt in a most melting mood. this is genuine music; thus have men felt, and thus have men spoken, and such strains can never die. i do cordially hate the present licentious style. do not take it amiss; your motto is, without hatred, no love,--and i did feel so moved when i thought of gluck, and his grand embodiments. every evening i was in society, owing to a mad prank, which however proved very successful. i think i have invented this kind of eccentric proceeding, and may take out a patent for it, as i have already made my most agreeable acquaintances _ex abrupto_, without letters or introductions of any kind. i asked by chance on my arrival at milan the name of the commandant, and the _laquais de place_ named general ertmann. i instantly thought of beethoven's sonata in a major, and its dedication; and as i had heard all that was good of madame ertmann, from those who knew her; that she was so kind, and had bestowed such loving care on beethoven, and played herself so beautifully, i, next morning, at a suitable hour for a visit, put on a black coat, desired that the government-house should be pointed out to me, and occupied myself on the way thither by composing some pretty speeches for the general's lady, and went on boldly. i cannot however deny that i felt rather dismayed when i was told that the general lived in the first story, facing the street; and when i was fairly in the splendid vaulted hall, i was seized with a sudden panic, and would fain have turned back: but i could not help thinking that it was vastly provincial on my part to take fright at a vaulted hall, so i went straight up to a group of soldiers standing near, and asked an old man in a short nankeen jacket, if general ertmann lived there, intending then to send in my name to the lady. unluckily the man replied, "i am general ertmann: what is your pleasure?" this was unpleasant, as i was forced to have recourse to the speech i had prepared. the general, however, did not seem particularly edified by my statement, and wished to know whom he had the honour of addressing. this also was far from agreeable, but fortunately he was acquainted with my name, and became very polite: his wife, he said was not at home, but i should find her at two o'clock, or any hour after that which might suit me. i was glad that all had gone off so well, and in the meantime went to the brera, where i passed the time in studying the 'sposalizio' of raphael, and at two o'clock i presented myself to freifrau dorothea von ertmann. she received me with much courtesy, and was most obliging, playing me beethoven's sonata in c sharp minor, and the one in d minor. the old general, who now appeared in his handsome grey uniform, covered with orders, was quite enchanted, and had tears of delight in his eyes, because it was so long since he had heard his wife play; he said there was not a person in milan who cared to hear what i had heard. she mentioned the trio in b major, but said she could not remember it. i played it, and sang the other parts: this enchanted the old couple, and so their acquaintance was soon made. since then their kindness to me is so great that it quite overwhelms me. the old general shows me all the remarkable objects in milan; in the afternoon his lady takes me in her carriage to drive on the corso, and at night we have music till one o'clock in the morning. yesterday at an early hour they drove with me in the environs; at noon i dined with them, and in the evening there was a party. they are the most agreeable and cultivated couple you can imagine, and both as much in love with each other as if they were a newly wedded pair,--and yet they have been married for four-and-thirty years. yesterday he spoke of his profession, of military life, of personal courage, and similar subjects, with a degree of lucidity, and liberality of feeling, that i scarcely ever met with, except in my father. the general has been now an officer for six-and-forty years, and you should really see him galloping beside his wife's carriage in the park,--the old gentleman looking so dignified and animated! she plays beethoven's works admirably, though it is so long since she studied them; she sometimes rather exaggerates the expression, dwelling too long on one passage, and then hurrying the next; but there are many parts that she plays splendidly, and i think i have learned something from her. when sometimes she can bring no more tone out of the instrument, and begins to sing in a voice that emanates from the very depths of her soul, she reminds me of you, dear fanny, though you are infinitely her superior. when i was approaching the end of the adagio in the b major trio, she exclaimed, "the amount of expression here is beyond any one's playing;" and it is quite true of this passage. the following day, when i went there again to play her the symphony in c minor, she insisted on my taking off my coat, as the day was so hot. in the intervals of our music she related the most interesting anecdotes of beethoven, and that when she was playing to him in the evening he not unfrequently used the snuffers as a tooth-pick! she told me that when she lost her last child, beethoven at first shrank from coming to her house; but at length he invited her to visit him, and when she arrived, she found him seated at the piano, and simply saying, "let us speak to each other by music," he played on for more than an hour, and, as she expressed it, "he said much to me, and at last gave me consolation." in short i am now in the most genial mood, and quite at my ease, having no occasion to resort to any disguise, or to be silent, for we understand each other admirably on all points. she played the kreutzer sonata yesterday with violin accompaniment, and when the violin-player (an austrian cavalry officer) made a long flourish, _à la_ paganini, at the beginning of the adagio, the old general made such a desperate grimace, that i nearly fell off my chair from laughing. i called on teschner, as you, dear mother, desired me to do so; such a musician however is as depressing as a thick fog. madame ertmann has more soul in her little finger than that fellow has in his whole body, with his formidable moustaches, behind which he seems to lie in ambush. there is no public music in milan; they still speak with enthusiasm of last winter, when pasta and rubini sang here, but say that they were miserably supported, and the orchestra and choruses bad. i however heard pasta six years ago in paris, and i can do the same every year, with the addition of a good orchestra and a good chorus, and many other advantages; so it is evident that if i wish to hear italian music, i must go to paris or to england. the germans however take it amiss when you say this, and persist _par force_ in singing, playing, and acquiring new ideas here, declaring this is the land of inspiration; while i maintain that inspiration is peculiar to no country, but floats about in the air. two days ago i was in the morning theatre here, and was amused. there you can see more of the life of the people than in any other part of italy. it is a large theatre with boxes, the pit filled with wooden benches, on which you can find places if you come early; the stage is like every other stage, but there is no roof either over the pit or boxes, so that the bright sun shines into the theatre and into the eyes of the actors. moreover, the piece they gave was in the milanese dialect. you feel as if you were secretly watching all these complicated and diverting situations, and might take part in them if necessary, and thus the most familiar comic dilemmas become novel and interesting; and the public seem to feel the most lively interest in them. and now, good night. i wished to talk to you a little before going to bed, and so it has become a letter. felix. extracts from two letters to edward devrient. milan, july th, . you reproach me with being two-and-twenty without having yet acquired fame. to this i can only reply, had it been the will of providence that i should be renowned at the age of two-and-twenty, i no doubt should have been so. i cannot help it, for i no more write to gain a name, than to obtain a kapellmeister's place. it would be a good thing if i could secure both. but so long as i do not actually starve, so long is it my duty to write only as i feel, and according to what is in my heart, and to leave the results to _him_ who disposes of other and greater matters. every day, however, i am more sincerely anxious to write exactly as i feel, and to have even less regard than ever to external views; and when i have composed a piece just as it sprang from my heart, then i have done my duty towards it; and whether it brings hereafter fame, honour, decorations, or snuff-boxes, etc., is a matter of indifference to me. if you mean, however, that i have neglected, or delayed perfecting myself, or my compositions, then i beg you will distinctly and clearly say in what respect and wherein i have done so. this would be indeed a serious reproach. you wish me to write operas, and think i am unwise not to have done so long ago. i answer, place a right libretto in my hand, and in two months the work shall be completed, for every day i feel more eager to write an opera. i think that it may become something fresh and spirited, if i begin it now; but i have got no words yet, and i assuredly never will write music for any poetry that does not inspire me with enthusiasm. if you know a man capable of writing the libretto of an opera, for heaven's sake tell me his name, that is all i want. but till i have the words, you would not wish me to be idle--even if it were possible for me to be so? i have recently written a good deal of sacred music; that is quite as much a necessity to me, as the impulse that often induces people to study some particular book, the bible, or others, as the only reading they care for at the time. if it bears any resemblance to sebastian bach, it is again no fault of mine, for i wrote it just according to the mood i was in; and if the words inspired me with a mood akin to that of old bach, i shall value it all the more, for i am sure you do not think that i would merely copy his form, without the substance; if it were so, i should feel such disgust and such a void, that i could never again finish a composition. since then i have written a grand piece of music which will probably impress the public at large--the first "walpurgis night" of goethe. i began it simply because it pleased me, and inspired me with fervour, and never thought that it was to be performed; but now that it lies finished before me, i see that it is quite suitable for a great _concertstück_, and you must sing the bearded pagan priest at my first subscription concert in berlin. i wrote it expressly to suit your voice; and as i have hitherto found that the pieces i have composed with least reference to the public are precisely those which gave them the greatest satisfaction, so no doubt it will be on this occasion also. i only mention this to prove to you that i do not neglect _the practical_. to be sure this is invariably an after-thought, for who the deuce could write music, the most unpractical thing in the world--the very reason why i love it so dearly--and yet think all the time of the practical! it is just as if a lover were to bring a declaration of love to his mistress in rhyme and verse, and recite it to her. i am now going to munich, where they have offered me an opera, to see if i can find a man there who is a poet, for i will only have a man who has a certain portion of fire and genius. i do not expect a giant, and if i fail in meeting with a poet there, i shall probably make immermann's acquaintance for this express purpose, and if he is not the man either, i shall try for him in london. i always fancy that the right man has not yet appeared; but what can i do to find him out? he certainly does not live in the reichmann hotel, nor next door; so where does he live? pray write to me on this subject; although i firmly believe that a kind providence, who sends us all things in due time when we stand in need of them, will supply this also if necessary; still we must do our duty, and look round us--and i do wish the libretto were found. in the meantime i write as good music as i can, and hope to make progress, and we already agreed, when discussing this affair in my room, that, as i said before, i am not responsible for the rest. but enough now of this dry tone. i really have become once more almost morose and impatient, and yet i had so firmly resolved never again to be so! lucerne, august th, . i quite feel that any opera i were to write now, would not be nearly so good as any second one i might compose afterwards; and that i must first enter on the new path i propose to myself, and pursue it for some little time, in order to discover whither it will lead, and how far it will go, whereas in instrumental music i already begin to know exactly what i really intend. having worked so much in this sphere, i feel much more clear and tranquil with regard to it--in short, it urges me onwards. besides, i have been made very humble lately, by a chance occurrence that still dwells on my mind. in the valley of engelberg i found schiller's "wilhelm tell," and on reading it over again, i was anew enchanted and fascinated by such a glorious work of art, and by all the passion, fire, and fervour it displays. an expression of goethe's suddenly recurred to my mind. in the course of a long conversation about schiller, he said that schiller had been able to _supply_ two great tragedies every year, besides other poems. this business-like term _supply_, struck me as the more remarkable on reading this fresh, vigorous work; and such energy seemed to me so wonderfully grand, that i felt as if in the course of my life i had never yet produced anything of importance; all my works seem so isolated. i feel as if i too must one day _supply_ something. pray do not think this presumptuous; but rather believe that i only say so because i know what _ought_ to be, and what _is not_. where i am to find the opportunity, or even a glimpse of one, is hitherto to me quite a mystery. if however it be my mission, i firmly believe that the opportunity will be granted, and if i do not profit by it another will; but in that case i cannot divine why i feel such an impulse to press onwards. if you could succeed in not thinking about singers, decorations, and situations, but feel solely absorbed in representing men, nature, and life, i am convinced that you would yourself write the best libretto of any one living; for a person who is so familiar with the stage as you are, could not possibly write anything undramatic, and i really do not know what you could wish to change in your poetry. if there be an innate feeling for nature and melody, the verses cannot fail to be musical, even though they sound rather lame in the libretto; but so far as i am concerned, you may write prose if you like, i will compose music for it. but when one form is to be moulded into another, when the verses are to be made musically, but not _felt_ musically, when fine words are to replace outwardly what is utterly deficient in fine feeling inwardly--there you are right--this is a dilemma from which no man can extricate himself; for as surely as pure metre, happy thoughts, and classical language do not suffice to make a good poem, unless a certain flash of poetical inspiration pervades the whole, so an opera can only become thoroughly musical, and accordingly thoroughly dramatic, by a vivid feeling of life in all the characters. there is a passage on this subject in beaumarchais, who is censured because he makes his personages utter too few fine thoughts, and has put too few poetical phrases into their mouths. he answers, that this is not his fault. he must confess that during the whole time he was writing the piece, he was engaged in the most lively conversation with his _dramatis personæ_: that while seated at his writing table he was exclaming: "figaro, prends garde, le comte sait tout!--ah! comtesse, quelle imprudence!--vite, sauve-toi, petit page;" and then he wrote down their answers, whatever they chanced to be,--nothing more. this strikes me as being both true and charming. the sketch of the opera introducing an italian carnival, and the close in switzerland, i already knew, but was not aware that it was yours. be so good however as to describe switzerland with great vigour, and immense spirit. if you are to depict an effeminate switzerland, with _jodeln_ and languishing, such as i saw here in the theatre last night in the 'swiss family,' when the very mountains and alpine horns became sentimental, i shall lose all patience, and criticize you severely in spener's paper. i beg you will make it full of animation, and write to me again on the subject. isola bella, july th, . you no doubt imagine that you inhale the fragrance of orange-flowers, see blue sky, and a bright sun, and a clear lake, when you merely read the date of this letter. not at all! the weather is atrocious, rain pouring down, and claps of thunder heard at intervals;--the hills look frightfully bleak, as if the world were enshrouded in clouds; the lake is grey, and the sky sombre. i can smell no orange-flowers, and this island might quite as appropriately be called "isola brutta!" and this has gone on for three days! my unfortunate cloak! i am confessedly the "spirit of negation" (i refer to my mother), and as it is at present the fashion with every one not to consider the borromean islands "by any means so beautiful," and somewhat formal; and as the weather seems resolved to disgust me with this spot,--from a spirit of opposition i maintain that it is perfectly lovely. the approach to these islands, where you see crowded together green terraces with quaint statues, and many old-fashioned decorations, along with verdant foliage, and every species of southern vegetation, has a peculiar charm for me, and yet something affecting and solemn too. for what i last year saw in all the luxuriance and exuberance of wild nature, and to which my eye had become so accustomed, i find now cultivated by art, and about to pass away from me for ever. there are citron-hedges and orange-bushes; and sharp-pointed aloes shoot up from the walls--it is just as if, at the end of a piece, the beginning were to be repeated; and this, as you know, i particularly like. in the steamboat was the first peasant girl i have seen here in swiss costume; the people speak a bad half-french italian. this is my last letter from italy, but believe me the italian lakes are not the least interesting objects in this country; _anzi_,--i never saw any more beautiful. people tried to persuade me that the gigantic forms of the swiss alps that have haunted me from my childhood[ ] had been exaggerated by my imagination, and that after all a snowy mountain was not in reality so grand as i thought. i almost dreaded being undeceived, but at first sight of the foreground of the alps from the lake of como, veiled in clouds, with here and there a surface of bright snow, sharp black points rearing their heads, and sinking precipitously into the lake, the hills first scattered over with trees and villages, and covered with moss, and then bleak and desolate, and on every side deep ravines filled with snow,--i felt just as i formerly did, and saw that i had exaggerated nothing. [ ] the whole family had been in switzerland in the year . in the alps all is more free, more sharply defined; more uncivilized, if you will: yet i always feel there both healthier and happier. i have just returned from the gardens of the palace, which i visited in the midst of the rain. i wished to imitate albano,[ ] and sent for a barber to open a vein: he however misunderstood my purpose, and shaved me instead,--a very pardonable mistake. gondolas are landing on every part of the island, for to-day is the fête following the great festival of yesterday, in honour of which the p. p. borromeo sent for singers and musicians from milan, to sing and play to the islanders. the gardener asked me if i knew what a wind instrument was. i said with a clear conscience that i did; and he replied that i ought to try to imagine the effect of thirty such instruments, and violins and basses, all played at once; but indeed i could not possibly imagine it, for it must be heard to be believed. the sounds (continued he) seemed to come from heaven, and all this was produced by _philharmony_. what he meant by this term i know not; but the music had evidently made more impression on him, than the best orchestra often does on musical connoisseurs. at this moment some one has just begun to play the organ in the church for divine service, in the following strain:-- [music] full organ in the bass, bourdon , and reed stops, have a very fine effect. the fellow has come all the way from milan, too, expressly to make this disturbance in the church. i must go there for a little, so farewell for a few moments. i intend to remain here for the night, instead of crossing the lake again, for i am so much pleased with this little island. i certainly cannot say that i have slept soundly for the last two nights; one night owing to the innumerable claps of thunder, the next owing to the innumerable fleas; and, in all probability, i have to-night the prospect of both combined. but as the following morning i shall be speaking french, and have left italy, and crossed the simplon, i mean to ramble about all this day and to-morrow in true italian fashion. [ ] in the 'titan' of jean paul. i must now relate to you historically how i happened to come here. at the very last moment of my stay in milan, the ertmanns came to my room to bid me farewell, and we took leave of each other more cordially than i have done of any one for many a long day. i promised to send you many kind wishes from them, though they are unacquainted with you, and i also agreed to write to them occasionally. another valued acquaintance i made there, is herr mozart, who holds an office in milan; but he is a musician, heart and soul. he is said to bear the strongest resemblance to his father, especially in disposition; for the very same phrases that affect the feelings in his father's letters, from their candour and simplicity, constantly recur in the conversation of the son, whom no one can fail to love from the moment he is known. for instance, i consider it a very charming trait in him, that he is as jealous of the fame and name of his father, as if he were an incipient young musician; and one evening, at the ertmanns', when a great many of beethoven's works had been played, the baroness asked me in a whisper to play something of mozart's, otherwise his son would be quite mortified; so when i played the overture to "don juan," he began to thaw, and begged me to play also the overture to the "flauto magico" of his "_vatter_," and seemed to feel truly filial delight in hearing it: it is impossible not to like him. he gave me letters to some friends near the lake of como, which procured me for once a glimpse of italian provincial life, and i amused myself famously there for a few days with the doctor, the apothecary, the judge, and other people of the locality. there were very lively discussions on the subject of sand, and many expressed great admiration of him; this appeared strange to me, as the occurrence is of such distant date that no one any longer argues on the subject. they also spoke of shakspeare's plays, which are now being translated into italian. the doctor said that the tragedies were good, but that there were some plays about witches that were too stupid and childish: one, in particular, "il sonno d' una notte di mezza state." in it the stale device occurred of a piece being rehearsed in the play, and it was full of anachronisms and childish ideas; on which they all chimed in that it was very silly and advised me not to read it.[ ] i remained meekly silent, and attempted no defence! i bathed frequently in the lake, and sketched, and yesterday rowed on the lake of lugano, which frowned sternly on us with its cascades and dark canopy of clouds; then across the hills to luvino, and to-day i came here by steam. [ ] the overture to the "midsummer night's dream" was composed by mendelssohn as early as the year . _evening._--i have this moment returned from the isola madre, and most splendid it is; spacious, and full of terraces, citron-hedges, and evergreen shrubs. the weather has at last become less inclement; thus the large white house on the island, with its ruins and terraces, looked very pretty. it is indeed a unique land, and i only wish i could bring with me to berlin a portion of the same balmy air that i inhaled when in the boat to-day. you have nothing like it, and i would rather you enjoyed it, than all the people who imbibe it here. a fiercely moustachioed german was with me in the boat, who examined all the beautiful scenery as if he were about to purchase it and thought it too dear. presently i heard a trait quite in the style of jean paul. when we were walking on the island, surrounded by verdure, an italian, who was of the party, observed that this was a spot well adapted for lovers to ramble in, and to enjoy the charms of nature. "ah! yes!" said i, in a languishing tone. "it was on this account," continued he, "that i separated from my wife ten years ago; i established her at venice in a small tobacconist's shop, and now i live as i please. you must one day do the same." the old boatman told us that he had rowed general bonaparte on this lake, and related various anecdotes of him and murat. he said murat was a most extraordinary man; all the time that he was rowing him on the lake, he never ceased singing to himself for a single moment, and once when setting off on a journey he gave him his spirit-flask, and said he would buy another for himself in milan. i cannot tell why these little traits, especially the singing, seemed to realize the man in my mind more than many a book of history. the "walpurgis nacht" is finished and revised, and the overture will soon be equally far advanced. the only person who has heard it as yet, is mozart, and he was so delighted with it that the well-known composition caused me fresh pleasure; he insisted on my publishing it immediately. pray forgive this letter, written in true student phraseology. you no doubt perceive from its style that i have not worn a neckcloth for a week past; but i wished you to know how gay and happy i have been during the days spent among the mountains, and with what pleasure i look forward to those that yet await me. yours, felix. a l'union-prieuré de chamounix, end of july, . my dear parents, i cannot refrain from writing to you from time to time, to thank you for my wondrously beautiful journey; and if i ever did so before, i must do so again now, for more delightful days than those on my journey hither, and during my stay here, i never experienced. fortunately you already know this valley, so there is no occasion for me to describe it to you; indeed, how could i possibly have done so? but this i may say, that nowhere has nature in all her glory met my eyes in such brightness as here, both when i saw it with you for the first time and now; and as every one who sees it, ought to thank god for having given him faculties to comprehend, and to appreciate such grandeur, so i must also thank you for having supplied me with the means of enjoying such a pleasure. i had been told that i exaggerated the forms of the mountains in my imagination; but yesterday, at the hour of sunset, i was pacing up and down in front of the house, and each time that i turned my back on the mountains, i endeavoured vividly to represent to myself these gigantic masses, and each time when i again faced them, they far exceeded my previous conceptions. like the morning that we drove away from this when the sun was rising[ ] (no doubt you remember it) the hills have been clear and lovely ever since i arrived. the snow pure, and sharply defined, and apparently near in the dark blue atmosphere; the glaciers thundering unremittingly, as the ice is melting; when clouds gather, they lie lightly on the base of the mountains, the summits of which stand forth clear above. would that we could see them together! i have passed this whole day here quietly, and entirely alone. i wished to sketch the outlines of the mountains, so i went out and found an admirable point of view, but when i opened my book, the paper seemed so very small that i hesitated about attempting it. i have indeed succeeded in giving the outlines what is called _correctly_,--but every stroke looks so formal, when compared with the grace and freedom which everywhere here pervade nature. and then the splendour of colour! in short, this is the most brilliant point of my travels; and the whole of my excursion on foot, so solitary, independent, and enjoyable, is something new to me, and a hitherto unknown pleasure. [ ] in the year . i must however relate how i came here, otherwise my letter at last will contain nothing but exclamations. as i previously wrote to you, i had the most odious weather on the lago maggiore, and the islands. it continued so incessantly stormy, cold, and wet, that the same evening i took my place in the diligence in rather a sulky humour, and we drove on towards the simplon. scarcely had we been journeying for half an hour, when the moon came out, the clouds dispersed, and next morning the weather was most bright and beautiful. i felt almost ashamed of this undeserved good fortune, and i could now thoroughly enjoy the glorious scenery; the road winding first through high green valleys, then through rocky ravines and meadows, and at last past glaciers and snowy mountains. i had with me a little french book on the subject of the simplon road, which both pleased and affected me; for the subject was napoleon's correspondence with the _directoire_ about the projected work, and the first report of the general who crossed the mountain. with what spirit and vigour these letters are written! and yet a little swagger too, but with such a glow of enthusiasm that it quite touched me, as i was driven along this capital level road by an austrian postilion. i compared the fire and poetry displayed in every description contained in these letters (i mean those of the subaltern general) with the eloquence of the present day, which leaves you so terribly cold and is so odiously prosaic in all its philanthropic views, and so lame--where there is plenty of _fanfaronnade_, but no genuine youth--and i could not but feel that a great epoch has passed away for ever. i was unable to divest myself of the idea that napoleon never saw this work--one of his favourite conceptions--for he never crossed the simplon when the road was finished, and was thus deprived of this great gratification. high up, in the simplon village, all is bleak, and i actually shivered from cold for the first time during the last year and a half. a neat civil frenchwoman keeps the inn on the summit, and it would not be easy to describe the sensation of satisfaction caused by its thrifty cleanliness, which is nowhere to be found in italy. we then descended into the valais, as far as brieg, where i stayed all night, overjoyed to find myself once more among honest, natural people, who could speak german, and who plundered me into the bargain in the most infamous manner. the following day i drove through the valais--an enchanting journey: the road all along, like those you have seen in switzerland, ran between two lofty ranges of mountains, their snowy peaks starting up at intervals, and through avenues of green, leafy walnut-trees, standing in front of pretty brown houses,--below, the wild grey rhone,--past lenk, and every quarter of an hour a village with a little church. from martigny i travelled for the first time in my life literally on foot, and as i found the guides too dear i went on quite alone, and started with my cloak and knapsack on my shoulders. about a couple of hours later i met a stout peasant lad, who became my guide, and also carried my knapsack; and so we went on past forclas to trient, a little dairy village, where i breakfasted on milk and honey, and thence to the col de balme. the whole valley of chamouni, and mont blanc, with all its precipitous glaciers, lay before me bathed in sunshine. a party of gentlemen and ladies (one of the latter very pretty and young) came from the opposite side on mules, with a number of guides; scarcely had we all assembled under one roof, when subtle vapours began to rise, shrouding first the mountain and then the valley, and at last thickly covering every object, so that soon nothing was to be seen. the ladies were afraid of going out into the fog, just as if they were not already in the midst of it; at last they set off, and from the window i watched the singular spectacle of the caravan leaving the house, all laughing, and talking loudly in french and english and _patois_. the voices presently became indistinct; then the figures likewise; and last of all i saw the pretty girl in her wide scotch cloak; then only glimpses of grey shadows at intervals, and they all disappeared. a few minutes later i ran down the opposite side of the mountain with my guide; we soon emerged once more into sunshine, and entered the green valley of chamouni with its glaciers; and at length arrived here at the union. i have just returned from a ramble to montanvert, the mer de glace, and to the source of the arveiron. you know this splendid scenery, and so you will forgive me, if, instead of going to geneva to-morrow, i first make the tour of mont blanc, that i may become acquainted with this personage from the southern side also, which is i hear the most striking. farewell, dear parents! may we have a happy meeting!--yours, felix. charney, august th, . my dear sisters, you have, i know, read ritter's "afrika" from beginning to end, but still i do not think you know where charney is situated, so fetch out keller's old travelling map, that you may be able to accompany me on my wanderings. trace with your finger a line from vevay to clarens, and thence to the dent de jaman; this line represents a footpath; and where your finger has been my legs also went this morning--for it is now only half-past seven, and i am still fasting. i mean to breakfast here, and am writing to you in a neat wooden room, waiting till the milk is made warm for me; without, i have a view of the bright blue lake; and so i now begin my journal, and mean to continue it as i best can during my pedestrian tour. _after breakfast._--heavens! here is a pretty business. my landlady has just told me with a long face, that there is not a creature in the village to show me the way across the dent, or to carry my knapsack, except a young girl; the men being all at work. i usually set off every morning very early and quite alone, with my bundle on my shoulders, because i find the guides from the inns both too expensive and too tiresome; a couple of hours later i hire the first honest-looking lad i see, and so i travel famously on foot. i need not say how enchanting the lake and the road hither were; you must recall for yourself all the beauties you once enjoyed there. the footpath is in continued shade, under walnut-trees and up hill,--past villas and castles,--along the lake which glitters through the foliage; villages everywhere, and brooks and streams rushing along from every nook, in every village; then the neat tidy houses,--it is all quite too charming, and you feel so fresh and so free. here comes the girl with her steeple hat. i can tell you she is vastly pretty into the bargain, and her name is pauline; she has just packed my things into her wicker basket. adieu! evening, château d'oex, candle-light. i have had the most delightful journey. what would i not give to procure you such a day! but then you must first become two youths and be able to climb actively, and drink milk when the opportunity offered, and treat with contempt the intense heat, the many rocks in the way, the innumerable holes in the path, and the still larger holes in your boots, and i fear you are rather too dainty for this; but it was most lovely! i shall never forget my journey with pauline; she is one of the nicest girls i ever met, so pretty and healthy-looking, and naturally intelligent; she told me anecdotes about her village, and i in return told her about italy; but i know who was the most amused. the previous sunday, all the young people of _distinction_ in her village had gone to a place far across the mountain, to dance there in the afternoon. they set off shortly after midnight, arrived while it was still dark, lighted a large fire and made coffee. towards morning the men had running and wrestling matches before the ladies, (we passed a broken hedge testifying to the truth of this;) then they danced, and were at home again by sunday evening, and early on monday morning they all resumed their labours in the vineyards. by heavens, i felt a strong inclination to become a vaudois peasant, while i was listening to pauline, when from above she pointed out to me the villages where they dance when the cherries are ripe, and others where they dance when the cows go to pasture in the meadows and give milk. to-morrow they are to dance in st. gingolph; they row across the lake, and any one who can play, takes his instrument with him; but pauline is not to be of the party, because her mother will not allow it, from dread of the wide lake, and many other girls also do not go for the same reason, as they all cling together. she then asked my leave to say good-day to a cousin of hers, and ran down to a neat cottage in the meadow; soon the two girls came out together and sat on a bench and chattered; on the col de jaman above, i saw her relations busily mowing, and herding the cows. what cries and shouts ensued! then those above began to _jodel_, on which they all laughed. i did not understand one syllable of their _patois_, except the beginning, which was, adieu pierrot! all these sounds were taken up by a merry mad echo, that shouted and laughed and _jodelled_ too. towards noon we arrived at allière. when i had rested for a time, i once more shouldered my knapsack, for a fat old man provoked me by offering to carry it for me; then pauline and i shook hands, and we took leave of each other. i descended into the meadows, and if you do not care about pauline, or if i have bored you with her, it is not my fault, but that of the mode in which i have described her; nothing could be more pleasant in reality, and so was my further journey. i came to a cherry-orchard, where the people were gathering the fruit, so i lay down on the grass and ate cherries for a time along with them. i took my mid-day rest at latine, in a clean wooden house. the carpenter who built it gave me his company to some roast lamb, and pointed out to me with pride every table, and press, and chair. at length i arrived here, at night, through dazzling green meadows, interspersed with houses, surrounded by fir-trees and rivulets: the church here stands on a velvet green eminence; more houses in the distance, and still further away, huts and rocks; and in a ravine, patches of snow still lying on the plain. it is one of those idyllic spots such as we have seen together in wattwyl, but the village smaller and the mountains more green and lofty. i must conclude however to-day by a high eulogy on the canton de vaud. of all the countries i know this is the most beautiful, and it is the spot where i should most like to live when i become really old. the people are so contented, and look so well, and the country also. coming from italy it is quite touching to see the honesty that still exists in the world,--happy faces, a total absence of beggars, or saucy officials: in short, there is the most complete contrast between the two nations. i thank god for having created so much that is beautiful; and may it be his gracious will to permit us all, whether in berlin, england, or in the château d'oex, to enjoy a happy evening and a tranquil night! boltigen, august th, evening. the lightning and thunder are terrific outside, and torrents of rain besides; in the mountains you first learn respect for weather. i have not gone further, for it would have been such a pity to traverse the lovely simmen valley under an umbrella. it was grey morning, but delightfully cool for walking in the forenoon. the valley at saanen, and the whole road, is incredibly fresh and gay. i am never weary of looking at the verdure. i do believe that if during a long life i were always gazing at undulating verdant meadows, dotted over with reddish-brown houses, i should always experience the same pleasure in looking at them. the road winds the whole way through meadows of this kind, and past running streams. at noon i dined at zweisimmen, in one of those enormous bernese houses, where everything glitters with neatness and cleanliness, and where even the smallest detail is carefully attended to. i there dispatched my knapsack by the diligence to interlaken, and am now about to walk as a regular pedestrian through the country; a shirt in my pocket, a brush and comb, and my sketch-book, this is all i require; but i am very tired. may the weather be fine to-morrow! wimmis, the th. a pretty affair! the weather is three times as bad as ever. i must give up my plan of going to interlaken to-day, as there is no possibility of getting on. for the last few hours the water has been pouring straight down, as if the clouds above had been fairly squeezed out; the roads are as soft as feather-beds; only occasional shreds of the mountains are to be seen, and even these but rarely. i almost thought sometimes that i was in the margravate of brandenburg, and the simmen valley looked perfectly flat. i was obliged to button my waistcoat tight over my sketch-book, for very soon my umbrella was of no use whatever, and so i arrived here to dinner about one o'clock. i had my breakfast in the following place. [_vide_ page .] weissenburg, august th. i sketched this on the spot with a pen, so do not laugh at the bold stream. i passed the night very uncomfortably at boltigen. there was no room in the inn, owing to a fair, so i was obliged to lodge in an adjacent house, where there were swarms of vermin quite as bad as in italy, a creaking house clock, striking hoarsely every hour, and a baby that screeched the whole night. i really could not help for a time noticing the child's cries, for it screamed in every possible key, expressive of every possible emotion; first angry, then furious, then whining, and when it could screech no longer, it grunted in a deep bass. let no one tell me that we must wish to return to the days of our childhood, because children are so happy. i am convinced that such a little mortal as this, flies into a rage just as we do, and has also his sleepless nights, and his passions, and so forth. [illustration] this philosophical view occurred to me this morning, while i was sketching weissenburg, and so i wished to communicate it to you on the spot; but i took up the 'constitutionnel,' in which i read that casimir périer wishes to resign, and many other things that furnish matter for reflection; among others a most remarkable article on the cholera, which i should like to transcribe, for it is so extraordinary. the existence of this disease is totally and absolutely denied; only one person had it in dantzic,--a jew,--and he got well. then followed a number of "hegelisms" in french, and the election of the deputies--oh world!--as soon as i had finished reading the paper, i was obliged to set off again in the rain through the meadows. no such enchanting country as this is to be seen, even in a dream; in the worst weather, the little churches, and the numerous houses, and shrubs, and rills are still truly lovely. the verdure to-day was quite in its element. dinner has been long over, and it is still pouring. i intend to go no further than spiez this evening. i regret much that i can neither see this place, which seems beautifully situated, nor spiez, which i know from rösel's sketches. this is, in fact, the climax of the whole simmen valley, and thence the old song says:-- [music: hin-term nie-sen, vorn am nie-sen, sind die be-sten al-pen im sie-be-thal, sie-be-thal, sie-be-thal, sie-be-thal, sie-be-thal.] i sang this the whole day while walking along. the siebethal, however, showed no gratitude for the compliment, and the rain continued unremittingly. wyler, evening. they could not take me in at spiez, for there is no inn there where you can lodge, so i was obliged to return here. i very much admired the situation of spiez; it is built on a rock, which projects into the lake, with numbers of turrets, and gables, and peaks. there i saw a manor-house, with an orangery; a sulky-looking nobleman with two sporting dogs at his heels; a little church, and terraces with bright flowers. it was all very lovely. to-morrow i shall see it from the other side, if the weather permits. to-day it has rained for three hours consecutively, and i was well soaked on the way here. the mountain streams are superb in such weather, for they leap and rage furiously. i crossed one of these demons, the kander, which seemed to have taken leave of its senses, leaping and blustering, and foaming; the water looked quite brown, and scattered its yellow spray in all directions. a black peak of the mountains was here and there visible through the rain-laden clouds, which hung deeper into the valley than i ever before saw them. yet the day was most enjoyable. wyler, the th, morning. to-day the weather is worse than ever. it has rained the whole night through, and this morning too it is pouring. i have however intimated that i shall not set out in such weather, and if it continues i shall write to you again to-night from wyler. in the meantime i have an opportunity of making acquaintance with my swiss host. they are very primitive. i could not get on my shoes, because they had shrunk, owing to the rain. the landlady asked if i wished to have a shoe-horn; and as i said i did, she brought me a tablespoon; but it answered the purpose. and moreover they are eager politicians. over my bed hangs a horrible distorted face, under which is written. "brinz baniadofsgi." if he had not a kind of polish costume, it would be difficult to discover whether it is intended for a man or a woman, for neither the portrait itself nor the inscription throw much light on the subject. evening, at untersee. all jesting is turned into sad earnest, which in these days may easily be the case. the storm has raged furiously, and caused great damage and devastation; the people here say that they remember no more violent storm and rain for many years; and the hurricane rushes on with such incredible rapidity. this morning early the weather was merely wet and disagreeable, and yet this afternoon all the bridges are swept away, and every passage blocked up for the moment. there has been a landslip at the lake of brienz, and everything is in an uproar. i have just heard here that war has been proclaimed in europe; so the world certainly bears a wild, bleak aspect at this time, and i ought to feel thankful, that at all events for the present i have a warm room here, and a comfortable roof over my head. the rain ceased for a time early this morning, and i thought that the clouds were fairly exhausted; so i left wyler, but soon found that the roads were sadly cut up; but worse was to come; the rain began again gently, but came down so violently about nine o'clock, and in such sudden squalls, that it was evident something strange was brewing. i crept into a half built hut, where a great mass of fodder was lying, and nestled comfortably among the fragrant hay. a soldier of the canton, who was on his way to thun, also crept in from the other side, and in the course of an hour, as the weather did not improve, we went on our different paths. i was obliged to take shelter again under a roof at leisengen, and waited there a long time; but as my luggage was at interlaken, a distance of only two hours from thence, i thought that i would set the weather at defiance; so about one o'clock i set out for interlaken. there was literally nothing to be seen but the grey surface of the lake,--no mountains, and seldom even the outlines of the opposite shore. the little springs, which as you may remember often run along by the footpaths, had swollen into streams, through which i was obliged to wade; and where the road was hilly, the waters accumulated in the hollows and formed a pool, so i was forced to jump over dripping hedges, into marshy meadows; the small blocks of wood--by means of which brooks are crossed here--lay deep under the water; at one moment i found myself between two of these brooks, which had run into each other, and for a considerable time i was obliged to walk against the current, above my ankles in water. all the streams are black, or chocolate-brown, looking like earth flowing along. torrents poured down from above; the wind shook down the water from the dripping walnut-trees; the waterfalls which tumble into the lake thundered frightfully from both shores. you could trace the course of the brown muddy streaks, rushing along through the pure waters of the lake, which, in the midst of all this uproar, remained perfectly tranquil, its surface scarcely ruffled, quietly receiving all the blustering streams that poured into its bosom. a man now came up, who had taken off his shoes and stockings, and turned up his trowsers. this made me feel rather nervous. presently i met two women, who said that i could not go through the village, for all the bridges were gone. i asked how far it was to interlaken. "a good hour," they said. i could not make up my mind to turn back, so i went on towards the village, where the people shouted to me from the windows, that i could come no further, because the waters were rushing down so impetuously from the mountains; and certainly there was a fine commotion in the middle of the village. the muddy stream had swept everything along with it, eddying round the houses, and running along the meadows and footpaths, and finally thundering down into the lake. luckily there was a little boat there, in which i was ferried across to neuhaus, though this expedition in an open boat, in torrents of rain, was far from pleasant. my condition, when i arrived at neuhaus, was miserable enough; i looked as if i wore long black boots over my light-coloured trowsers, my shoes and stockings quite up to my knees, dark brown; then came the original white, then a soaked blue paletôt; even my sketch-book, that i had buttoned under my waistcoat, was wet through. i arrived in this plight at interlaken, where i was very ill received, for the people there either could not or would not find room for me, and so i was forced to return to untersee, where i am famously lodged, and most comfortable. singularly enough, i had been all along anticipating with such pleasure revisiting the inn at interlaken, of which i had so many reminiscences, and i drove up in my little neuhaus carriage to the nuss-baum platz, and saw the well-known glass gallery; the pretty landlady, too, came to the door, but somewhat aged and altered. neither the dreadful storms, nor the various discomforts i had endured, annoyed me half so much as not being able to remain at interlaken, consequently for the first time since i left vevay i was out of humour for half an hour, and obliged to [music] sing beethoven's adagio in a flat major, three or four times over, before i could recover my equanimity. i learned here, for the first time, the damage the storm had already done, and may yet do, for the rain is still incessant. _half-past nine o'clock at night._--the bridge at zweilütschenen is carried away; the _vetturini_ from brienz, and grindelwald, will not encounter the risk of driving home, from the fear of some rock falling on their heads. the water here has risen to within a foot and a half of the aar bridge; the gloom of the sky i cannot describe. i mean to wait here patiently; besides, i do not require the aid of localities, to enable me to summon up my reminiscences. they have given me a room where there is a piano; it indeed bears the date of the year , and somewhat resembles in tone the little old "silbermann" in my room at home, so i took a fancy to it at the very first chord i struck, and it also recalls you to my mind. this piano has outlived many things, and probably never dreamt that i was likely to compose by its aid, as i was not born till , now fully two-and-twenty years ago; in the meantime, the piano, though seven-and-thirty years old, has plenty of good material in it yet. i have some new "lieder" in hand, dear sisters. you have not seen my favourite one in e major "auf der reise,"--it is very sentimental. i am now composing one which will not, i fear, be very good; but it will, at all events, please us three, for it is at least well intended. the words are goethe's, but i don't say what they are; it is very daring in me to compose for this poetry, and the words are by no means suitable for music, but i thought them so divinely beautiful, that i could not resist singing them to myself. enough for to-day; so good night, dear ones. august th. the weather this morning is clear and bright, and the storm has passed away; would that all storms ended as quickly, and were as soon allayed! i have passed a glorious day, sketching, composing, and inhaling fresh air. in the afternoon i went on horseback to interlaken, for no man can go there on foot at this moment. the whole road is flooded, so that even on horseback i got very wet. in this place, too, every street is inundated and impassable. how beautiful interlaken is! how humble and insignificant we feel when we see how splendid the good lord has made this world; and nowhere can you see it in greater magnificence than here. i sketched for my father one of the walnut-trees he so much admires, and for the same reason i mean to send him a faithful drawing of one of the bernese houses. various parties of ladies and gentlemen, and children, drove past and stared at me; i thought to myself that they were now enjoying the same luxury i formerly did, and would fain have called out to them not to forget this! towards evening, the snowy mountains were glowing in the clearest outlines and in the loveliest hues. when i came back. i asked for some music paper, and they referred me to their pastor, and he to the forest-ranger, whose daughter gave me two pretty neat sheets. the "lied" which i alluded to yesterday is now finished; i cannot help after all telling you what it is--but you must not laugh at me--it is actually,--but don't think i am seized with hydrophobia--a sonnet, "die liebende schreibt."[ ] i am afraid its merit is not great; i think it was more inwardly felt than outwardly well expressed; still there are some good passages in it, and to-morrow i am going to set to music a little poem of uhland's; a couple of pieces for the piano are also in progress. i can unfortunately form no judgment of my new compositions; i cannot tell whether they are good or bad; and this arises from the circumstance that all the people to whom i have played anything for the last twelve months, forthwith glibly declared it to be wonderfully beautiful, and that will never do. i really wish that some one would let me have a little rational blame once more, or what would be still more agreeable, a little _rational_ praise, and then i should find it less indispensable to act the censor towards myself, and to be so distrustful of my own powers. nevertheless, i must go on writing in the meantime. [ ] in the "liederheft," opus of his posthumous works. when i was at the forest-ranger's, i heard that the whole country was devastated, and the most sad intelligence comes from all sides. all the bridges in the hasli valley are entirely swept away, and also many houses and cottages. a man came here to-day from lauterbrunnen, and he was up to his shoulders in water; the high road is ruined, and what sounded most dismal of all to me, a quantity of furniture and household things were seen floating down the kander, coming no one knows whence. happily the waters are beginning to subside, but the damage they have done cannot so easily be repaired. my travelling plans have also been considerably disturbed by these inundations, for, if there be any risk, i shall certainly not go into the mountains. the th. so i now close the first part of my journal, and send it off to you. to-morrow i shall begin a new one, for i intend then to go to lauterbrunnen. the road is practicable for pedestrians, and not an idea of any danger; travellers from thence have come here to-day, but for carriages, the road will not be passable during the remainder of the year. i purpose, therefore, proceeding across the lesser scheideck to grindelwald, and by the great scheideck to meiringen; by furka and grimsel to altorf, and so on to lucerne; storms, rain, and everything else permitting,--which means, if god will. this morning early, i was on the harder, and saw the mountains in the utmost splendour. i never remember the jungfrau so clear and so glowing as both yesterday evening and at early dawn to-day. i rode back to interlaken, where i finished my sketch of the walnut-tree. after that i composed for a time, and wrote three waltzes for the forest-ranger's daughter on the remaining music-paper she had given me, politely presenting them to her myself. i have just returned from a watery expedition to an inundated reading-room, as i wished to see how the poles are getting on--unluckily there is no reference to them in the papers. i must now occupy myself till the evening in packing, but i am most reluctant to leave this room, where i am so comfortable, and shall sadly miss my little piano. i intend to sketch the view from this window with my pen on the back of my letter, and also to write out my second "lied," and then untersee will soon also belong to my reminiscences. "ach! wie schnell!" i quote myself, which is not over-modest, but these lines recur to me but too often when the days are shortening, the leaves of the travelling map turned over, and first weimar, then munich, and lastly vienna, are all things of the past year. well! here you have my window! [_vide_ page .] _an hour later._--my plans are altered, and i stay here till the day after to-morrow. the people say that by that time the roads will be considerably better, and there is plenty here both to see and to sketch. the aar has not risen to such a height for seventy years. to-day people were stationed on the bridge, with poles and hooks, watching to catch any fragments of the broken-down bridges. it did look so strange to see a black object come swimming along in the distance from the hills, which was at last recognized to be a piece of balustrade, or a cross-beam, or something of the sort, when all the people made a rush at it, and tried to fish it up with their hooks, and at length succeeded in dragging the monster out of the water. but enough of water,--that is, of my journal. it is now evening, and dark. i am writing by candle-light, and should he so glad if i could knock at your door, and take my seat beside you at the round table. it is the old story over again. wherever it is bright and cheerful, and i am well and happy, i most keenly feel your absence, and most long to be with you again. who knows, however, whether we may not come here together in future years, and then think of this day, as we now do of former ones? but as none can tell whether this may ever come to pass, i shall meditate no longer on the subject, but write out my "lied," take another peep of the mountains, wish you all happiness and good fortune, and thus close my journal. [illustration] lauterbrunnen, august th, . i have just returned from an expedition on foot to the schmadri bach, and the breithorn. all that you can by possibility conceive as to the grandeur and imposing forms of the mountains here, must fall far short of the reality of nature. that goethe could write nothing in switzerland but a few weak poems, and still weaker letters, is to me as incomprehensible as many other things in this world. the road here is again in a lamentable state; where, six days ago, there was the most beautiful highway, there is now only a desolate mass of rocks; numbers of huge blocks lying about, and heaps of rubbish and sand. no trace whatever of human hands to be seen. the waters, indeed, have entirely subsided, but they are still in a troubled state, for from time to time you can hear the stones tossed about, and the waterfalls also in the midst of their white foam, roll down black stones into the valley. my guide pointed out to me a pretty new house, standing in the midst of a wild turbulent stream; he said that it belonged to his brother-in-law and formerly stood in a beautiful meadow, which had been very profitable; the man was obliged to leave the house during the night; the meadow has disappeared for ever, and masses of pebbles and stones have usurped its place. "he never was rich, but now he is poor," said he, in concluding his sad story. the strangest thing is, that in the very centre of this frightful devastation,--the lütschine having overflowed the whole extent of the valley--among the marshy meadows, and masses of rocks, where there is no longer even a trace of a road, stands a _char-à-banc_--and is likely to stand for some time to come. it chanced that the people in it wished to drive through at the very time of the hurricane; then came the inundation, so they were forced to leave the carriage and everything else to fate, thus the _char-à-banc_ is still standing waiting there. it was a very frightful sight when we reached the spot, where the whole valley, with its roads and embankments, is a perfect rocky sea; and my guide, who went first, kept whispering to himself, "'sisch furchtbar!" the torrent had carried into the middle of the stream some large trunks of trees, which are standing aloft; for at the same moment some huge fragments of rocks having been flung against them, the bare trees were closely wedged in betwixt them, and they now stand nearly perpendicular in the bed of the river. i should never come to an end were i to try to tell you all the various forms of havoc which i saw between this place and untersee. still the beauty of the valley made a stronger impression on me than i can describe. it is much to be regretted, that when you were in this country, you went no further than staubbach; for it is from there that the valley of lauterbrunnen really begins. the schwarzer mönch, and all the other snowy mountains in the background, become more mighty and grand, and on every side bright foaming cascades tumble into the valley. you gradually approach the mountains covered with snow, and the glaciers in the background, through pine woods, and oaks, and maple-trees. the moist meadows, too, were covered with a profusion of brilliant flowers--snakewort, the wild scabious, campanulas, and many others. the lütschine had accumulated masses of stones at the sides, having swept along fragments of rocks, as my guide said, "bigger than a stove," then the carved brown wooden houses, and the hedges; it is all beautiful beyond measure! unfortunately we could not get to the schmadri bach, as bridges, paths, and fords, were all gone; but it was a walk i can never forget. i also tried to sketch the mönch; but what can you hope to do with a small pencil? hegel indeed says, "that every single human thought is more sublime than the whole of nature;" but in this place i consider that too presumptuous; the axiom sounds indeed very fine, but is a confounded paradox nevertheless. i am quite contented, in the meantime, to adhere to nature, which is the safest of the two. you know the situation of the inn here, and if you cannot recall it, refer to my former swiss drawing book, where you will find it sketched, badly enough, and where i put in a footpath in front, from imagination, which made me laugh heartily to-day, when i thought of it. i am at this moment looking out of the same window, and gazing at the dark mountains, for it is late in the evening, that is, a quarter to eight o'clock, and i have an idea, which is "more sublime than the whole of nature"--i mean to go to bed; so good night, dear ones. the th, ten o'clock in the forenoon. from the dairy hut on the wengern alp, in heavenly weather, i send you my greetings. grindelwald, evening. i could not write more to you early this morning; i was most reluctant to leave the jungfrau. what a day this has been for me! ever since we were here together i have wished to see the lesser scheideck once more. so i woke early to-day, with some misgivings, for so much might intervene--bad weather, clouds, rain, fogs--but none of these occurred. it was a day as if made on purpose for me to cross the wengern alp. the sky was flecked with white clouds, floating far above the highest snowy peaks; no mists below on any of the mountains, and all their pinnacles glittering brightly in the morning air; every undulation, and the face of every hill, clear and distinct. why should i even attempt to portray it? you have already seen the wengern alp, but at that time we had bad weather, whereas to-day the whole mountain range was in holiday attire. nothing was wanting; from thundering avalanches, to its being sunday, and people dressed in their best going to church, just as it was then. the hills had only dwelt in my memory as gigantic peaks, for their great altitude had entirely absorbed me. to-day i was struck with amazement at the immense extent of their base, their solid, spacious masses, and the connection of all these huge piles, which seem to lean towards each other, and to reach out their hands to one another. in addition to this you must imagine every glacier, and snowy plateau, and point of rock, dazzlingly lighted up and glittering. then the far summits of distant mountain ranges stretching hither, as if surveying the others. i do believe that such are the thoughts of the almighty. those who do not yet know him, may here see him, and the nature he created, visibly displayed. then the fresh, bracing air, which refreshes you when weary, and cools you when it is warm,--and so many springs! i must at some future time write you a separate treatise on springs, but i have not time for it to-day, as i have something particular to tell you. now you will say, i suppose, he came down the mountain again, and is going to inform us once more how beautiful switzerland is. not at all. when i arrived at the herdsman's hut, i was told that in a meadow far up the alps, there was to be a great fête this very day, and i saw people at intervals climbing the mountain. i was not at all fatigued; an alpine fête is not to be seen every day; the weather said, _yes_; the guide was willing. "let us go to intramen," said i. the old herdsman went first, so we were obliged to climb very vigorously; for intramen is more than a thousand feet higher than the lesser scheideck. the herdsman was a ruthless fellow, for he ran on before us like a cat; he soon took pity on my guide, and relieved him of my cloak and knapsack, but even with them he continued to push forward so eagerly that we really could not keep up with him. the path was frightfully steep; he extolled it, however, saying that there was a much nearer, but much steeper track: he was about sixty years of age, and when my youthful guide and i with difficulty surmounted a hill, we invariably saw him descending the next one. we walked on for two hours in the most fatiguing path i ever encountered; first a steep ascent, then down again into a hollow, over heaps of crumbling stones, and brooks and ditches, across two meadows covered with snow, in the most profound solitude, without a footpath, or the most remote trace of the hand of man; occasionally we could still hear the avalanches from the jungfrau; otherwise all was still, and not a tree to be seen. when this silence and solitude had continued for some time, and we had clambered to the top of a grassy acclivity, we suddenly came in sight of a vast number of people standing in a circle, laughing, speaking, and shouting. they were all in gay dresses, and had flowers in their hats; there were a great many girls, some tables with casks of wine, and all around deep solemn silence, and tremendous mountains. it was singular that while i was in the act of climbing, i thought of nothing but rocks and stones, and the snow and the track; but the moment i saw human beings, all the rest was forgotten, and i only thought of men, and their sports, and the merry fête. it was really a fine sight. the scene was in a spacious green meadow far above the clouds; opposite were the snowy mountains in all their prodigious altitude, more especially the dome of the great eiger, the schreckhorn, and the wetterhörner, and all the others as far as the blümli's alp; the lauterbrunnen valley lay far beneath us in the misty depths, quite small, as well as our road of yesterday, with all the little cataracts like threads, the houses like dots, and the trees like grass. far in the background the lake of thun occasionally glanced out of the mist. the crowd now began wrestling, and singing, and drinking, and laughing; all healthy, strong men. i was much amused by the wrestling, which i had never before seen. the girls served the men with _kirschwasser_ and _schnapps_; the flasks passed from hand to hand, and i drank with them, and gave three little children some cakes, which made them quite happy; a very tipsy old peasant sang me some songs; then they all sang; then the guide favoured us with a modern song; and then little boys fought. _everything_ pleased me on the alps, and i remained lying there till towards evening, and made myself quite at home. we descended rapidly into the meadows below, and soon descried the familiar inn, and its windows glittering in the evening sun; a fresh breeze from the glaciers began to blow; this soon cooled us. it is now getting late, and from time to time avalanches are heard,--so thus has my sunday been spent.--a fête-day indeed! on the faulhorn, august th. i am shivering with cold! outside thick snow is falling, and the wind raging and blustering. we are eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and a long tract of snow to traverse, but here i am! nothing can be seen; all day the weather has been dreadful. when i remember how fine it was yesterday, while i earnestly wish that it may be as fine to-morrow, it reminds me of life, for we are always hovering between the past and the future. our excursion of yesterday seems as far past and remote, as if i knew it only from old memories, and had scarcely been present myself; for to-day when during five mortal hours we were struggling on, against rain and fog, sticking in the mud, and seeing nothing round us but grey vapours, i could scarcely realize that it ever was or ever will be again fine weather, or that i ever lay idly stretched on this wet marshy grass. besides, everything here wears such a wintry aspect; heated stoves, thick snow, cloaks, freezing, shivering people. i am at this moment in the highest inn in europe; and just as in st. peter's, you look down on every church, and on the simplon, upon every road, so from hence i look down on all other inns; but not _morally_, for this is little more than a few wooden planks. never mind. i am now going to bed, and i will no longer watch my own breath. good night! "tom's a cold." hospital, august th. i have not been able to open my journal for two or three days, as when night came i had no longer time for anything, but to dry myself and my clothes at the fire, to warm myself, to sigh over the weather, like the stove behind which i took refuge, and to sleep a good deal; besides, i did not wish to try your patience, by my everlasting repetitions of how deep i had sunk in the mud, and how incessantly it rained, and so forth. during the last few days in reality i went through the most beautiful country, and yet saw nothing but thick fogs, and water in the sky, and from the sky, and on the earth. i passed places that i had long wished to visit, without being able to enjoy them; what also damped my writing mood, was being obliged to battle with the weather, and if it continues the same, i shall only write occasionally, for really i should have nothing to say, but "a grey sky--rain and fog." i have been on the faulhorn, the great scheideck, on grimsel spital, and to-day i crossed grimsel and furka, and the principal objects i have seen were the points of my shabby umbrella, and i had not even a glimpse of the huge mountains. at one moment, to-day, the finsteraarhorn came to light, but it looked as savage as if it wished to devour us; and yet if we were a single half-hour without rain, it was truly beautiful. a journey on foot through this country, even in the most unfavourable weather, is the most enchanting thing you can possibly imagine; if the sky were bright, i think the excess of pleasure would be quite overpowering; i must not therefore complain too much of the weather, for i have had my full share of enjoyment. during the last few days i felt like tantalus. when i was on the scheideck, a glimpse of the lower part of the wetterhorn was sometimes visible through the clouds, and it seemed beyond measure magnificent and sublime; but i only saw the base. on the faulhorn, i could not distinguish objects fifty paces off, although i stayed there till ten o'clock in the morning. we went down to the scheideck in a heavy snow-storm, by a very wet and difficult path, which the incessant rain had made worse than usual. we arrived at grimsel spital in rain and storm. to-day i wished to have ascended the sidelhorn, but was obliged to give it up on account of the fog. the mayenwand was shrouded in grey clouds, and we had only a single peep of the finsteraarhorn, when we were on the furka. we also arrived here in a torrent of rain and water everywhere, but all this does not signify. my guide is a capital fellow: if it rains, he sings and _jodels_; if it is fine, so much the better; and though i failed in seeing some of the finest objects, still i saw a great deal that was interesting. on this occasion i have formed a particular friendship for the glaciers; they are indeed, the most marvellous monsters in the world. how strangely they are all tumbled about; here, a row of jagged points, there, toppling crags, and above, towers and bastions, while on every side, crevices and ravines are visible, all of the most wondrous pure ice, that rejects all soil of earth, casting up again on the surface the stones, sand, and gravel, flung down by the mountains. then the superb colouring, when the sun shines on them, and their mysterious advance--they sometimes move on a foot and a half in a single day, so that the people in the village are in the greatest anxiety and alarm, when the glacier arrives so quietly, and yet with such irresistible force, for it shivers rocks and stones when they lie in the way--then the ominous crashing and thundering, and the rushing of so many springs near and round. they are splendid miracles. i was in the rosenlaui glacier, which forms a kind of cave, that you can creep through; it looks as if built of emeralds, only more transparent. above, around, on all sides, you can see rivulets running between the clear ice. in the centre of this narrow passage, the ice has left a large round window, through which you look down on the valley, and issue forth again under an arch of ice, and high above, black peaks rear their heads, from which masses of ice roll down in the boldest undulations. the glacier of the rhone is the most imposing that i have seen, and the sun burst forth on it as we passed early this morning. this is a suggestive sight, and you get a casual glimpse of the rocky peak of a mountain, a plateau covered with snow, cataracts, and bridges spanning them, and masses of crumbling stones and rocks; in short, even if you see little in switzerland, it is at all events more than is to be seen in any other country. i have been drawing very busily, and think i have made some progress. i even tried to sketch the jungfrau; it will at least serve as a reminiscence, and i can enjoy the thought that these strokes were actually made on the spot itself. i see people rushing through switzerland, and declaring that they find nothing to admire there, or anywhere else (except themselves); not the least affected nor roused, remaining cold and prosaic, even in presence of the mountains; when i meet such people i should like to give them a good drubbing. two englishmen and an english lady are at this moment sitting beside me near the stove; they are as wooden as sticks. we have been travelling the same road for a couple of days, and i declare the people have never uttered a syllable except of abuse, that there were no fireplaces either on the grimsel, or here; but that there are _mountains_ here, is a fact to which they never allude; their whole journey is occupied in scolding their guide, who laughs at them, in quarrelling with the innkeepers, and in yawning in each others' faces. they think everything commonplace, because they are themselves commonplace, therefore they are not happier in switzerland than they would be in bernau. i maintain that happiness is relative; another would thank god that he could see all this, and so i will be that other! fluelen, august th. a day made for a journey; fine, and enjoyable, and bracing. when we wished to start this morning at six o'clock, there was such a storm of sleet and snow that we were obliged to wait till nine o'clock, when the sun came forth, the clouds dispersed, and we had delightful bright weather as far as this place; but now sombre clouds, heavy with rain, have collected over the lake, so that no doubt to-morrow the old troubles will break loose again. but how glorious this day has been, so clear and sunny--we had the most charming journey! you know the st. gothard road in all its beauty; you lose much by coming down from above, instead of ascending from this point, for the grand surprise of the urner loch is entirely lost, and the new road which has been made, with all the grandeur, as well as convenience, of the simplon, impairs the effect of the devil's bridge: inasmuch as close beside it a new arch, much bolder and larger, has been constructed, which makes the old bridge look quite insignificant, but the ancient crumbling walls look much more romantic and picturesque. though the view of andermatt is thus lost, and the new devil's bridge far from being poetical, still you go merrily downhill all day, on a delightfully smooth road, flying rapidly past the various localities, and instead of being sprinkled by the foam of the waterfall on the old bridge as formerly, and endangered by the wind, you now pass along far above the stream, between two ranges of solid parapets. we came past göschenen and wasen and presently appeared the huge firs and beech-trees close to amsteg; then the charming valley of altorf, with its cottages, meadows, and woods, its rocks and snowy mountains. we rested at altorf in a capuchin convent, situated on a height; and finally, here i am on the banks of the vierwaldstadt lake. to-morrow i purpose crossing the lake to lucerne, where i hope to find letters from you. i shall then also get rid of a party of young people from berlin, who have been pursuing almost the same route with me, meeting me at every turn, and boring me terribly; the patriotism of a lieutenant, a dyer, and a young carpenter,--all three bent on destroying france,--was peculiarly distasteful to me. sarnen, the th. i crossed the vierwaldstadt lake early this morning, in a continued pour of rain, and found your welcome letter of the th in lucerne. as it contained nothing but good tidings, i immediately arranged a tour of three days to unterwalden and the brünig. i intend to call again at lucerne for your next letter, and then i am off to the west, and out of switzerland. i shall take leave of it with deep regret. the country is beautiful beyond all conception; and though the weather is again odious,--rain and storms the whole day, and all through the night,--yet the tellen platte, the grütli, brunnen and schwytz, and the dazzling green of the meadows this evening in unterwalden, are too lovely ever to be forgotten. the hue of this green is most unique, refreshing the eye and the whole being. i shall certainly attend to your kind precautionary injunctions, dear mother, but you need be under no apprehensions about me. i am by no means careless with regard to my health, and have not, for a long time, felt so well as during my pedestrian excursions in switzerland. if eating, and drinking, and sleeping, and music in one's head, can make a man healthy, then, god be praised, i may well call myself so; for my guide and i vie with each other in eating and drinking, and not less so unluckily in singing. in sleeping alone i surpass him; and though i sometimes disturb him by my trumpet or oboe tones, he in turn cuts short my morning sleep. please god, therefore, we shall have a happy meeting. before that time arrives, however, many a page of my journal must yet travel to you; but even this interval will quickly pass, just as everything quickly passes, except indeed what is best of all!--so let us be true and loving to each other. felix. engelberg, august rd, . my heart is so full that i must tell you about it. in this enchanting valley i have just taken up schiller's "wilhelm tell," and read half of the first scene; there is surely no genius like that of germany! heaven knows why it is so, but i do think that no other nation could fully comprehend such an opening scene, far less be able to compose it. this is what i call a poem, and a beginning; first the pure, clear verse, in which the lake, smooth as a mirror, and all else, is so vividly described, and then the slow commonplace swiss talk, and baumgarten coming in,--it is quite glorious! how fresh, how powerful, how exciting! we have no such work as this in music, and yet even that sphere ought one day to produce something equally perfect. it is so admirable in him too, to have created an entire switzerland for himself, inasmuch as he never saw it, and yet all is so faithful and so strikingly truthful; the people and life, the scenery and nature. i was delighted when the old innkeeper here, in a solitary mountain village, brought me from the monastery the book with the well-known characters and old familiar names; but the opening again quite surpassed all my expectations. it is now more than four years since i read it. i mean presently to go over to the monastery, to work off my excitement on the organ. afternoon. do not be astonished at my enthusiasm, but read the scene through again yourself, and then you will find my excitement quite natural. such passages as those where all the shepherds and hunters shout "save him! save him!" in the close at the grütli, when the sun is about to rise, could indeed only have occurred to a german, and above all to schiller; and the whole piece is crowded with similar passages. let me refer to that particular one at the end of the second scene, where tell comes with the rescued baumgarten to stauffacher, and the agitating conference closes in such tranquillity and peace: this, along with the beauty of the thought, is so thoroughly swiss. then the beginning of the grütli--the symphony which the orchestra ought to play at the end i composed in my mind to-day, because i could do nothing satisfactory on the little organ: altogether a variety of plans and ideas occurred to me. there is a vast deal to do in this world, and i mean to be industrious. the expression that goethe made use of to me, that schiller could have _supplied_ two great tragedies every year, with its business-like tone, always inspired me with particular respect: but not till this morning did the full force of its signification become clear to me, and it has made me feel that i must set to work in earnest. even the mistakes are captivating, and there is something grand in them; and though certainly bertha, rudenz, and old attinghausen, seem to me great blemishes, still schiller's idea is evident, and he was in a manner forced to do as he has done; and it is consolatory to find that even so great a man could for once commit such an egregious mistake. i have passed a most enjoyable morning, and i feel in the kind of mood which makes you long to recall such a man to life, in order to thank him, and inspiring an earnest desire, one day, to compose a work which shall impress others with similar feelings. probably you do not understand what induced me to take up my quarters here in engelberg. it happened thus:--i have not had a single day's rest since i left untersee, and therefore wished to remain for a day at meiringen, but was tempted by the lovely weather in the morning, to come on here. the usual rain and wind assailed me on the mountains, and so i arrived very tired. this is the nicest inn imaginable,--clean, tidy, very small and rustic,--an old white-haired innkeeper; a wooden house, situated in a meadow, a little apart from the road; and the people so kind and cordial, that i feel quite at home. i think this kind of domestic comfort is only to be found among those who speak the german tongue; at all events, i never met with it anywhere else; and though other nations may not feel the want of it, or scarcely care about it, still _i_ am a native of hamburg, and so it makes me feel happy and at home. it is not therefore strange that i decided on taking my day's rest here with these worthy old people. my room has windows on every side, commanding a view of the valley: the room is prettily panelled with wood; some coloured texts and a crucifix are hanging on the walls; there is a solid green stove, and a bench encircling it, and two lofty bedsteads. when i am lying in bed i have the following view:-- [illustration] i have failed again in my buildings, and in the hills too, but i hope to make a better sketch of it for you in my book, if the weather is tolerable to-morrow. i shall always consider this valley to be one of the loveliest in all switzerland. i have not yet seen the gigantic mountains by which it is encompassed, as they have been all day shrouded in mist; but the beautiful meadows, the numerous brooks, the houses, and the foot of the hills, so far as i could see them, are exquisitely lovely. the green of the unterwalden is more brilliant than in any other canton, and it is celebrated for its meadows even among the swiss. the previous journey too from sarnen was enchanting, and never did i see larger or finer trees, or a more fruitful country. moreover the road is attended with as few difficulties as if you were traversing a large garden; the declivities are clothed with tall slender beeches; the stones overgrown by moss and herbs; then there are springs, brooks, small lakes, and houses: on one side is a view of the unterwalden and its green plains; and shortly after a view of the whole vale of hasli, the snowy mountains, and cataracts leaping down from rocky precipices; the road too is shaded the whole way by enormous trees. yesterday, early, as i told you, i was tempted by the bright sun to cross the genthel valley to ascend the joch, but on the summit the most dreadful weather set in; we were obliged to make our way through the snow, and this was sometimes anything but pleasant. we speedily, however, emerged out of the sleet and snow, and an enchanting moment ensued, when the clouds broke, while we were still standing in them; and far beneath us, we saw through the mists as through a black veil, the green valley of engelberg. we soon made our way down, and heard the silvery bell of the monastery ring out the ave maria. we next saw the white building on the meadow, and arrived here after an expedition of nine hours. i need not say how acceptable at such a time is a comfortable inn, and how good the rice and milk seems, and how long you sleep next morning. to-day we have had very disagreeable weather, so they brought me "wilhelm tell" from the library of the monastery, and the rest you know. i was much struck by schiller having so completely failed in portraying rudenz, for the whole character is feeble, and without sufficient motive, and it seems as if he had resolved purposely to represent him throughout, in the worst possible light. his words, in the scene with the apple, might tend to redeem him, but being preceded by that with bertha, they make no impression. when he joins the swiss, after the death of attinghausen, it might be supposed that he is changed, but he instantly proclaims that his bertha is carried off, so again he has as little merit as ever. it occurred to me that if he had uttered the very same manly words against gessler, without the explanation with bertha having previously taken place, and if such a result had arisen out of this in the following act, the character would have been much better, and the explanatory scene not so merely theatrical as it now is. this is certainly very like the egg and the hen, but i should like to hear your opinion on the subject. i dare not speak to one of our learned men on such matters; these gentlemen are a vast deal too wise! if however i chance some of these days to meet one of those youthful modern poets, who look down on schiller, and only partly approve of him; so much the worse for him, for i must infallibly crush him to death. now, good night; i must rise very early to-morrow; it is to be a grand fête to-day in the monastery, and a solemn religious service, and i am to play the organ for them. the monks were listening this morning while i was extemporizing a little, and were so pleased, that they invited me to play the people in and out at their festival to-morrow. the father organist has also given me the subject on which i am to extemporize; it is better than any that would have occurred to an organist in italy. [music] i shall see to-morrow what i can make of this. i played a couple of new pieces of mine on the organ this afternoon in the church, and they sounded rather well. when i came past the monastery the same evening, the church was closed, and scarcely were the doors shut, when the monks began to sing nocturns fervently, in the dark church; they intoned the deep b, which vibrated splendidly, and could be heard far down the valley. august th. this has been another splendid day--the weather bright and enjoyable, and the bluest sky that i have seen since i left chamouni; it was a holiday in the village, and in all the mountains. after long-continued fogs, and every variety of bad weather, once more to see from the window in the morning the clear range of mountains and their pinnacles, is indeed a grand spectacle. they are acknowledged to be finest after rain, and to-day they looked as fresh as if newly created. this valley is not surpassed by any in switzerland. if i ever return here this shall be my head-quarters, for it is even more lovely, and more spacious and unconfined than chamouni, and more free than interlaken. the spann-örter are incredibly grand peaks, and the round titlis heavily laden with snow, the foot of which lies in the meadows, and the effect of the urner rocks in the distance, are also well worth seeing: it is now full moon, and the valley is clothed in beauty. this whole day i have done nothing but sketch, and play the organ: in the morning i performed my duties as organist--it was a grand affair. the organ stands close to the high altar, next to the stalls for the "patres;"--so i took my place in the midst of the monks, a very saul among the prophets. an impatient benedictine at my side played the double bass, and others the violins; one of their dignitaries was first violin. the _pater præceptor_ stood in front of me, sang a solo, and conducted with a long stick, as thick as my arm. the _élèves_ in the monastery formed the choir, in their black cowls; an old decayed rustic played on an old decayed oboe, and at a little distance two more were puffing away composedly at two huge trumpets with green tassels; and yet with all this the affair was gratifying. it was impossible not to like the people, for they had plenty of zeal, and all worked away as well as they could. a mass, by emmerich, was given, and every note of it betrayed its "powder and pigtail." i played thorough-bass faithfully from my ciphered part, adding wind instruments from time to time, when i was weary; made the responses, extemporized on the appointed theme, and at the end, by desire of the prelate, played a march, in spite of my repugnance to do this on the organ, and was then honourably dismissed. this afternoon i played again alone to the monks, who gave me the finest subjects in the world--the "credo" among others--a _fantasia_ on the latter was very successful; it is the only one that in my life i ever wished i could have written down, but now i can only remember its general purport, and must ask permission to send fanny, in this letter, a passage that i do not wish to forget. by degrees various counter subjects were introduced in opposition to the _canto fermo_; first dotted notes, then triplets, at last rapid semiquavers, through which the "credo" was to work its way; quite at the close, the semiquavers became very wild, and arpeggios followed on the whole organ in g minor. i proceeded to take up the theme on the pedal in long notes (during the continued arpeggios), so that it ended with a. on the a, i made a pedal point in arpeggios, and then it suddenly occurred to me to play the arpeggios with the left hand alone, so that the right hand could introduce the "credo" again in the treble with a, thus:-- [music] etc. this was followed by a stop on the last note, and a pause, and then it concluded. i wish you had heard it, for i am sure you would have been pleased. it was time for the monks to go to _complines_, and we took leave of each other cordially. they wished to give me letters of introduction for some other places in unterwalden, but i declined this, as i intend to go to lucerne early to-morrow, and after that i expect not to be more than five or six days longer in switzerland.--your felix. to wilhelm taubert. lucerne, august th, . i wish to offer you my thanks, but i really do not know where to begin first; whether for the pleasure your songs caused me in milan, or for your kind letter which i received yesterday; both however are closely connected, and so i think we have already made acquaintance. it is quite as fitting that we should be presented to each other through the medium of music-paper, as by a third person in society; indeed i think that in the former case you feel even more intimate and confidential. moreover, persons who introduce any one often pronounce the name so indistinctly, that you seldom know who is standing before you; and they never say one word as to whether the man is gay and good-humoured, or melancholy and gloomy. so we are infinitely better off. your songs have pronounced your name clearly and plainly; they also disclose what you think and what you are; that you love music, and wish to make progress; so thus perhaps i know you better than if we had frequently met. what a source of pleasure it is, and how cheering, to know there is another musician in the world who has the same purposes and aspirations, and who follows the same path as yourself; perhaps you cannot feel this so strongly as i do at this moment, who have just come from a country where music no longer exists among the people. i never before could have believed this of any nation, and least of all of italy, with such rich and luxuriant nature, and such glorious, inspiriting antecedents. but alas! the occurrences i latterly witnessed there, fully proved to me that even more than harmony is dead in that land; it would indeed be marvellous if any music could exist where there is no solid principle. at last i was really bewildered, and thought that i must have become a hypochondriac, for all the buffoonery i saw was most distasteful to me, and yet a vast number of serious people and sedate citizens entered into it. when they played me anything of their own, and afterwards praised and extolled my pieces, i cannot tell you how repugnant it was to me; i felt disposed to become a hermit, with beard and cowl, and the whole world was at a discount with me. in italy you first learn to value a true musician; that is, one whose thoughts are absorbed in _music_, and not in money, or decorations, or ladies, or fame; it is doubly delightful when you find that, without your being aware of it, your own ideas exist and are developed elsewhere; your songs therefore gave me especial pleasure, because i could gather from them that you must be a genuine musician, and so let us mutually stretch out our hands across the mountains. i beg that you will also look on me in the light of a friend, and not write so formally as to my "counsel" and "teaching." this portion of your letter makes me feel almost nervous, and i scarcely know what to say; the most agreeable part however is your promise to send me something to munich, and to write to me again. i will then tell you frankly and freely my honest opinion, and you shall do the same with regard to my new compositions, and thus i think we shall give each other good counsel. i am very eager to see those recent works of yours that you have promised me, for i do not doubt that i shall receive much gratification from them, and many things which are only foreshadowed in the former songs, will probably in these become manifest and distinct. i shall therefore say nothing to-day of the impression your songs have made on me, because possibly any suggestion or question may be already answered in what you are about to send me. i earnestly entreat of you to write to me fully, and in detail, about yourself, in order that we may become better acquainted. i can then write to you what i purpose and what i think, and thus we shall continue in close connection. let me know what you have recently composed and are now composing; your mode of life in berlin, and your plans for the future; in short all that concerns your musical life, which will be of the greatest interest to me. probably this will be obvious in the music you have so kindly promised me, but fortunately both may be combined. have you hitherto composed nothing on a greater scale; some wild symphony, or opera, or something of the kind? i, for my part, feel at this moment the most invincible desire to write an opera, and yet i have scarcely leisure even to commence any work, however small. i do believe that if the libretto were to be given to me to-day, the opera would be written by to-morrow, so strong is my impulse towards it. formerly the bare idea of a symphony was so exciting, that i could think of nothing else when one was in my head; the sound of instruments has such a solemn and glorious effect; and yet for some time past i have laid aside a symphony that i had commenced, in order to compose on a cantata of goethe's merely because it included, besides the orchestra, voices and a chorus. i intend now, indeed, to complete the symphony, but there is nothing i so strongly covet as a regular opera. where the libretto is to come from i know less than ever since last night, when for the first time for more than a year i saw a german æsthetic paper. the german parnassus seems in as disorganized a condition as european politics. god help us! i was obliged to digest the supercilious menzel, who presumed modestly to depreciate goethe,--and the supercilious grabbe, who modestly depreciates shakspeare,--and the philosophers who proclaim schiller to be rather trivial! is this new, arrogant, overbearing spirit, this perverse cynicism, as odious to you as it is to me? and are you of the same opinion with myself, that the first and most indispensable quality of any artist is to feel respect for great men, and to bow down in spirit before them; to recognize their merits, and not to endeavour to extinguish their great flame, in order that his own feeble rushlight may burn a little brighter? if a person be incapable of feeling true greatness, i should like to know how he intends to make _me_ feel it? and as all these people, with their airs of contempt, only at last succeed in producing imitations of this or that particular form, without any presentiment of free, fresh, creative power, unfettered by individual opinion, or æsthetics or criticism, or the whole world besides; as this is the case, do they not deserve to be abused? and i do abuse them. pray do not take this amiss; perhaps i have gone too far. but, it was long since i had read anything of the kind, and it vexes me to see that such folly still goes on, and that the philosopher who maintains that art is dead, still persists in declaring that it is so; as if art could in reality ever die. these are truly strange, wild, and troubled times; and let those who feel that art is no more, allow it for heaven's sake to rest in peace; but however roughly the storm may rage without, it cannot so quickly succeed in sweeping away the dwelling; and he who works on quietly within, fixing his thoughts on his own capabilities and purposes, and not on those of others, will see the hurricane blow over, and afterwards find it difficult to realize that it ever was so violent as it appeared at the time. i have resolved to act thus so long as i can, and to pursue my path steadily, for at all events no one will deny that music still exists, and that is the chief thing. how cheering it is to meet with a person who has chosen the same object and the same means as yourself! and i would fain tell you how gratifying each new corroboration of this is to me, but i scarcely know how to do so. you must imagine it for yourself, and your own thoughts must supply any deficiencies; so farewell! pray let me hear from you soon, and frequently. i beg to send my kindest wishes to our dear friend berger;[ ] i have been long intending to write to him, but have never yet accomplished it. i shall certainly however do so one of these days. forgive this long, dry letter, next time it shall be more interesting, and now once more farewell.--yours, felix mendelssohn bartholdy. [ ] ludwig berger, mendelssohn's instructor on the piano. righi culm, august th, . i am on the righi! i need say no more, for you know this mountain. what can be more grand or superb? i left lucerne early this morning. all the mountains were obscured, and the weather-wise prophesied bad weather. as however i have always found that the very opposite of what the wise people say invariably occurs! i tried to make out signs for myself, though hitherto, in spite of their aid, i have found my predictions quite as false as those of the others; but this morning i really thought the weather very tolerable; still, as i did not wish to begin my ascent while all was still shrouded in vapour (for the faulhorn had taught me caution), i spent the whole morning in sauntering round the foot of the righi, gazing eagerly upwards, to see if the mists were likely to clear off. at last, about twelve o'clock, at küssnacht, i stood on the cross path leading towards the righi to the right, and immensee to the left; and making up my mind not to see the righi on this occasion, i took a tender farewell of it, and went through the hohle gasse to the lake of zug, along a charming path, past the water, to arth; but could not resist frequently glancing at the summit of the righi culm, to see if it was becoming clearer; and while i was dining at arth it did clear up. the wind was very favourable, the clouds lifted on every side; so i made up my mind to begin the ascent. there was no time to lose, however, if i wished to witness the sunset; so i went along at a steady mountain pace, and in the course of two hours and three-quarters i reached the culm, and the well-known house. i then became aware that there were about forty men standing on the top, uplifting their hands in admiration, and making signs in a state of the greatest excitement. i ran up, and a new and wondrous sight it was. all the valleys were filled with fogs and clouds, and above them the lofty, snowy crests of the mountains and the glaciers and black rocks stood out bright and clear. the mists swept onwards, veiling a portion of the scenery; then came forth the bernese alps, the jungfrau, the mönch, and the finsteraarhorn; then titlis, and the unterwalden mountains. at last the whole range was distinctly visible; the clouds in the valleys now also began to roll away, disclosing the lakes of lucerne and zug, and towards the hour of sunset, only thin streaks of bright vapour still floated on the landscape. coming from the alp, and then looking towards the righi, it was as if the overture and other portions were repeated at the end of an opera. all the spots whence you have seen such sublime scenery, the wengern alp, the wetter hörner, the valley of engelberg, here meet the eye once more in close vicinity, and you can take leave of them all. i had imagined that it was only at first, when still ignorant of the glaciers, that so great an impression was made, from the influence of surprise, but i think the effect at the last is even more striking than ever. schwytz, august st. yesterday and to-day i gratefully recalled the happy auspices under which i first made acquaintance with this part of the world. the remembrance of your profound admiration of these wonders, elevating you above every-day life, has contributed not a little to awaken and to quicken my own perception of them. i often to-day recurred to your delight, and the deep impression it made on me at the time. so the righi is evidently disposed to be gracious to our family, and in consequence of this kindly feeling towards us, conferred on me to-day a sunrise quite as brilliant and splendid as when you were here. the waning moon, the lively alpine horn, the long-protracted rosy dawn which first stole over the cold. shadowy, snowy mountains, the white clouds on the lake of zug, the clear, sharp peaks bending towards each other in all directions, the light which gradually crept on the heights, the restless, shivering people, wrapped in coverlets, the monks from maria zum schnee, nothing was wanting. i could not tear myself away from this spectacle, and remained on the summit for six consecutive hours, gazing at the mountains. i thought that when next i saw them there might be many changes, so i wished to imprint the sight indelibly on my memory. people came and went, and talked of these anxious, troubled times, of politics, and of the grand mountain range before us. thus the morning passed away, and at last, at half-past ten o'clock, i was obliged to go; indeed it was high time, as i wished to get to einsiedel the same day, by hacken. on my way, however, in the steep path leading to lowerz, my trusty old umbrella, which also served me as a mountain staff, broke to pieces; this detained me, so that i preferred remaining here, and to-morrow i hope to be quite fresh for a start. wallenstadt, september nd. (year of rains and storms.) motto of the copper-smith--"if you can't sing a new song, then begin the old one afresh." here am i again in the midst of fogs and clouds, unable to go either backwards or forwards, and if fortune specially favours us, we may have a slight inundation into the bargain. when i crossed the lake, the boatmen prophesied very fine weather, consequently the rain began half an hour later, and is not likely soon to cease, for there are piles of heavy, gloomy clouds, such as you can only see on the mountains. if it were twice as bad three days hence, i should not care, but it would be grievous indeed if switzerland were to take leave of me with so ill-omened an aspect. i have this moment returned from the church, where i have been playing the organ for three hours, far into the twilight: an old man, a cripple, blew the bellows for me, and except him, there was not a single soul in the church. the only stops i found available, were a very weak croaking flute, and a quavering deep pedal diapason, of sixteen feet. i contrived to extemporize with these materials, and at last subsided into a choral melody in e minor, without being able to remember what it was. i could not get rid of it, when all at once it occurred to me that it was a litany, the music of which was in my head because the words were in my heart, so then i had a wide field, and plenty of food for extemporizing. at length the consumptive deep bass resounded quite alone in e minor, thus:-- [music] etc. and then came in its turn the flute, high up in the treble, with the choral in the same key, and so the sounds of the organ gradually died away, and i was obliged to stop, from the church being so dark. in the meantime there was a terrible hurricane of wind and rain outside, and not a trace of the grand lofty rocky precipices; the most dreary weather! and then i read some dreary newspapers, and everything wore a grey hue. tell me, fanny, do you know auber's "parisienne?" i consider it the very worst thing he has ever produced, perhaps because the subject was really sublime, and for other reasons also. auber alone could have been guilty of composing for a great nation, in the most violent state of excitement, a cold, insignificant piece, quite commonplace, and trivial. the _refrain_ revolts me every time i think of it,--it is as if children were playing with a drum, and singing to it--only more objectionable. the words also are worthless; little antitheses and points are quite out of place here. then the emptiness of the music! a march for acrobats, and at the end a mere miserable imitation of the "marseillaise." such music is not what this epoch demands. woe to us _if_ it be indeed what suits this epoch,--if a mere copy of the marseillaise hymn be all that is required. what in the latter is full of fire, and spirit, and impetus, is in the former ostentatious, cold, calculated, and artificial. the "marseillaise" is as superior to the "parisienne" as everything produced by genuine enthusiasm must be, to what is made for a purpose, even if it be with a view to promote enthusiasm; it will never reach the heart, because it does not come from the heart. by the way, i never saw such a striking identity between a poet and a musician, as between auber and clauren. auber faithfully renders note for note, what the other writes word for word--braggadocio, degrading sensuality, pedantry, epicurism, and parodies of foreign nationality. but why should clauren be effaced from the literature of the day? is it prejudicial to any one that he should remain where he is? and do you read what is really good with less interest? any young poet must indeed be degenerate, if he does not cordially hate and despise such trash; but it is only too true that the people like him; so it is all very well, it is only the people's own loss. write me your opinion of the "parisienne." i sometimes sing it to myself for fun, as i go along; it makes a man walk like a chorister in a procession. sargans, september rd, noon. wretched weather! it has rained all night, and all the morning too, and the cold as severe as in winter; deep snow is lying on the adjacent hills. there has been again a tremendous inundation in appenzell, which has done the greatest damage, and destroyed all the roads. at the lake of zurich, there are numbers of pilgrimages, and processions, on account of the weather. i was obliged to drive here this morning, as all the footpaths were covered with mud and water. i shall remain till to-morrow, when the diligence passes through at an early hour, and i intend to go with it up the valley of the rhine, as far as altstetten. to-morrow i shall probably have reached, or crossed, the boundaries of switzerland, for my pleasure excursion is now over. autumn is arrived, and i have no right to complain if i pass a few tiresome days, after so many enchanting ones, that i can never forget. on the contrary, i think i almost like it; there is always enough to be done, even in sargans, (a wretched hole,) and in a regular deluge, like that of to-day--for happily an organ is always to be found in this country; they are certainly small, and the lower octave, both in the key-board and the pedal, imperfect, or as i call it, crippled; but still they are organs, and that is enough for me. i have been playing all this morning, and really begun to practise, for it is a shame that i cannot play sebastian bach's principal works. i intend, if i can manage it, to practise for an hour every day in munich, as after a couple of hours' work to-day, i certainly made considerable progress with my feet (_nota bene_, sitting). ritz once told me that schneider, in dresden, played him the d major fugue, in the "wohl-temperirten clavier," on the organ, supplying the bass with the pedal. [music] this had hitherto appeared to me so fabulous, that i could never properly comprehend it. it recurred to me this morning when i was playing the organ, so i instantly attempted it, and i at least see that it is far from being impossible, and that i shall accomplish it. the subject went pretty well, so i practised passages from the d major fugue, for the organ, from the f major toccata, and the g minor fugue, all of which i knew by heart. if i find a tolerable organ in munich, and not an imperfect one, i will certainly conquer these, and feel childish delight at the idea of playing such pieces on the organ. the f major toccata, with the modulation at the close, sounded as if the church were about to tumble down; what a giant that cantor was! besides organ-playing, i have a good many sketches to finish, in my new drawing book, (one was entirely filled in engelberg) and then i must eat like six hundred wrestlers. after dinner i practise the organ again, and thus a rainy day passes at sargans. it seems prettily situated, with a castle on the hill, but i cannot go a step beyond the door. _evening._--yesterday at this time, i still projected a pedestrian tour, and wished at all events to go through the whole of the appenzell. it was a strange feeling when i learned that all mountain excursions were probably at an end for this year: the heights are covered with deep snow, for just as it has rained here, in the valley, for thirty-six hours, it has snowed incessantly on the hills above. the flocks have been obliged to come down into the valley from the alps, where they ought to have remained for a whole month yet, so that all idea of any footpaths is out of the question. yesterday i was still on the hills, but now they will be inaccessible for six months to come. my pedestrian excursions are over; wondrously beautiful they were, and i shall never forget them. i mean to work hard at music, and high time that i should. i played on the organ till twilight, and was trampling energetically on the pedal, when we suddenly became aware that the deep c sharp in the great diapason, went buzzing softly on without ceasing; all our pressing, and shaking, and thumping on the keys, was of no avail, so we were obliged to climb into the organ among the big pipes. the c sharp continued gently humming,--the fault lay in the bellows; the organist was in the greatest perplexity, because to-morrow is a fête day; at last i stuffed my handkerchief into the pipe, and there was no more buzzing, but no more c sharp either. i played this passage incessantly, all the same:-- [music] and it did very well. i am now going to finish my sketch of the glacier of the rhone, and then the day will be at my own disposal; which means that i am going to sleep. i will write to you on the next page to-morrow evening wherever i am, for to-day i have no idea where i shall be. good night! eight is striking in f minor, and it is raining and blowing in f sharp minor or g sharp minor; in short, in every possible sharp key. [music] st. gall, the th. motto--"vous pensez que je suis l'abbé de st. gall" (citoyen).[ ] i do feel so comfortable here, after braving such storms and tempests. during the four hours when i was crossing the mountains from altstetten to this place, i was engaged in a regular battle with the elements; when i tell you that i never experienced anything like the storm, nor even imagined anything approaching to it, this does not say much; but the oldest people in the canton declare the same: a large manufactory has been demolished, and several persons killed. to-morrow, in my last letter from switzerland, i will tell you of my being again obliged to travel on foot, and arriving here, after crossing by appenzell, which looked like egypt after the seven plagues. the bell is now ringing for dinner, and i mean to feast like an abbot. [ ] mendelssohn jokingly alludes to a poem of _bürger_,--der abt von st. gallen. lindau, september th. opposite me lies switzerland, with her dark blue mountains, pedestrian journeys, storms, and glorious heights and valleys. here ends the greatest part of my journey, and my journal also. at noon to-day, i crossed the wild grey rhine in a ferry-boat, above rheineck, and now here i am, already in bavaria. i have of course entirely given up my projected excursion on foot, through the bavarian mountains; for it would be folly to attempt anything of the kind this year. for the last four days it has rained more or less with incessant vehemence; it seemed as if providence were wroth. i passed to-day through extensive orchards, which were not under water, but fairly submerged by mud and clay; everything looks deplorable and depressing; you must therefore forgive the doleful style of this last sheet. i never in any landscape saw a more dreary sight than the sward of the green hills, covered with deep snow; while below, the fruit-trees, with their ripe fruit, were standing reflected in the water. the scanty covering of muddy snow, which lay on the fir-woods and meadows, looked the personification of all that was dismal. a sargans burgher told me that in this little town had been entirely burnt down, and recently with difficulty rebuilt; that they depend chiefly on the produce of their vineyards, which have been this year destroyed by hail-storms, and the alps also were now no longer available; this gives rise to serious reflections, and to anxious thoughts with regard to this year. it is singular enough that if i am obliged to go on foot in such weather, and fairly exposed to it, i am not in the least annoyed; on the contrary, i rather rejoice in setting it at defiance. when i arrived by the diligence yesterday at altstetten, in freezing cold, like a day in december, i found that there was no carriage road to tourgen, to which place i had unluckily sent on my cloak and knapsack on the last fine day. i was obliged to have them the same evening, for the cold was intense, so i did not hesitate long, but set off once more for the last time to cross the mountains, and arrived in the canton of appenzell. the state of the woods, and hills, and meadows, and little bridges, baffles all description; being sunday, and divine service going on, i failed in procuring a guide; not a living soul met me the whole way, for all the people had crept into their houses, so i toiled on quite alone towards tourgen. to pass through a wood in such weather, and along such paths, inspires a wonderful sense of independence. moreover i am now quite perfect in the swiss _jodeln_ and crowing, so i shouted lustily, and _jodelled_ several airs at the pitch of my voice, and arrived in tourgen in capital spirits. the people in the inn there were rude and saucy, so i politely said, "you be hanged! i shall go on;" and taking out my map, i found that st. gall was the nearest convenient place, and in fact the only practicable route. i could not succeed in persuading any one to go with me in such horrible weather, so i resolved to carry my own things, abusing all swiss cordiality. shortly afterwards, however, came the reverse of the medal, which not unfrequently occurs. i went to the peasant who had brought my luggage here, and found him in his pretty newly-built wooden house, and i had thus an opportunity of seeing a veritable and genuine swiss interior, just as we imagine it to be. he and his whole family were sitting round a table, the house clean and warm, and the stove burning. the old man rose and gave me his hand, and insisted on my taking a seat; he then sent through the whole place to try to get me a carriage, or a man to carry my things, but as no one would either drive or walk, he at last sent his own son with me. he only asked two _batzen_ for carrying my knapsack for two hours. a very pretty fair daughter was sitting at the table sewing, the mother reading a thick book, and the old man himself studying the newspapers; it was a charming picture. when at last i set off, the weather seemed to say, "if you defy me i can defy you also," for the storm broke loose with redoubled violence, and an invisible hand appeared to seize my umbrella at intervals, shaking it and crumpling it together, and my fingers were so benumbed that i could scarcely hold it fast; the paths were so desperately slippery that my guide fell sprawling full length before me in the mud; but what cared we? we _jodelled_ and reviled the weather to our hearts' content, and at last we passed the nunnery, which we greeted by a serenade, and soon after reached st. gall. our journey was happily over, and yesterday i drove here, and at night met with a wonderful organ, on which i could play "schmücke dich, o liebe seele!" to my heart's content. to-day i proceed to memmingen, to-morrow to augsburg; the day after, god willing, to munich; and thus, i may now say, i _have been_ in switzerland. perhaps i have rather bored you by all the trivial occurrences i have detailed. these are gloomy times, but we need not be so; and when i sent you my journal, it was chiefly to show you that i thought of you whenever i was pleased and happy, and was with you in spirit. the shabby, dripping pedestrian bids you farewell, and a town gentleman, with visiting-cards, fine linen, and a black coat, will write to you next time. farewell. felix. burgher letter from munich. munich, october th, . it is a delightful feeling to wake in the morning and to know that you are to score a grand allegro with all sorts of instruments, and various oboes and trumpets, while bright weather holds out the hope of a cheering long walk in the afternoon. i have enjoyed these pleasures for a whole week past, so the favourable impression that munich made on me during my first visit, is now very much enhanced. i scarcely know any place where i feel so comfortable and domesticated as here. it is indeed very delightful to be surrounded by cheerful faces, and your own to be so also, and to know every man you meet in the streets. i am now preparing for my concert, so my hands are pretty full; my acquaintances every instant interrupting me in my work, the lovely weather tempting me to go out, and the copyists, in turn, forcing me to stay at home; all this constitutes the most agreeable and exciting life. i was obliged to put off my concert, on account of the october festival, which begins next sunday, and lasts all the week. every evening there is to be a performance at the theatre, and a ball, so all idea of an orchestra or a concert-room is out of the question. on monday evening, however, the th, at half-past six, think of me,--for then we dash off with thirty violins, and two sets of wind instruments. the first part begins with the symphony in c minor, the second with the "midsummer night's dream." the first part closes with my new concerto in g minor, and at the end of the second i have unwillingly agreed to extemporize. believe me, i do so very reluctantly, but the people insist upon it. bärmann has decided on playing again; breiting, mlle. vial, loehle, bayer, and pellegrini are the singers who are to execute a piece together. the locality is the large odeon hall, and the performance for the benefit of the poor in munich. the magistrates invite the orchestra, and the burgomasters the singers. every morning i am engaged in writing, correcting, and scoring till one o'clock, when i go to scheidel's coffee-house in the kaufinger gasse, where i know each face by heart, and find the same people every day in the same position; two playing chess, three looking on, five reading the newspapers, six eating their dinner, and i am the seventh. after dinner bärmann usually comes to fetch me, and we make arrangements about the concert, or after a walk we have cheese and beer, and then i return home and set to work again. this time i have declined all invitations for the evening; but there are so many agreeable houses, to which i can go uninvited, that a light is seldom to be seen in my room on the parterre till after eight o'clock. you must know that i lodge on a level with the street, in a room which was once a shop, so that if i unbar the shutters of my glass door, one step brings me into the middle of the street, and any one passing along, can put his head in at the window, and say good morning. next to me a greek lodges, who is learning the piano, and he is truly odious; but to make up for that, my landlord's daughter, who wears a round silver cap and is very slender, looks all the prettier. i have music in my rooms at four o'clock in the afternoon, three times every week: bärmann, breiting, staudacher, young poissl, and others, come regularly, and we have a musical picnic. in this way i become acquainted with operas, which, most unpardonably, i have not yet either heard or seen; such as lodoiska, faniska, medea; also the preciosa, abu hassan, etc. the theatre lends us the scores. last wednesday we had capital fun; several wagers had been lost, and it was agreed that we should enjoy the fruits of them all together; and after various suggestions, we at last decided on having a musical soirée in my room, and to invite all the dignitaries; so a list was made out of about thirty persons; several also came uninvited, who were presented to us by mutual friends. there was a sad want of space; at first we proposed placing several people on my bed, but it was surprising the number of patient sheep who managed to cram into my small room. the whole affair was most lively and successful. e---- was present, as dulcet as ever, languishing in all the glory of poetical enthusiasm, and grey stockings; in short, tiresome beyond all description. first i played my old quartett in b minor; then breiting sang "adelaide;" herr s---- played variations on the violin (doing himself no credit); bärmann performed beethoven's first quartett (in f major), which he had arranged for two clarionets, corno di bassetto, and bassoon; an air from "euryanthe" followed, which was furiously encored, and as a finale i extemporized--tried hard to get off--but they made such a tremendous uproar that _nolens_ i was forced to comply, though i had nothing in my head, but wine-glasses, benches, cold roast meat, and ham. the cornelius ladies were next-door with my landlord and his family, to listen to me; the schauroths were making a visit on the first story for the same purpose, and even in the hall, and in the street, people were standing; in addition to all this, the heat of the crowded room, the deafening noise, the gay audience; and when at last the time for eating and drinking arrived, the uproar was at its height; we fraternized glass in hand, and gave toasts; the more formal guests with their grave faces, sat in the midst of the jovial throng, apparently quite contented, and we did not separate till half-past one in the morning. the following evening formed a striking contrast. i was summoned to play before the queen, and the court; there all was proper and polite, and polished, and every time you moved your elbow, you pushed against an excellency; the most smooth and complimentary phrases circulated in the room, and i, the _roturier_, stood in the midst of them, with my citizen heart, and my aching head! i managed however to get on pretty well, and at the end, i was commanded to extemporize on royal themes, which i did, and was mightily commended; what pleased me most was, that when i had finished my extempore playing, the queen said to me, that it was strange the power i possessed of carrying away my audience, for that during such music, no one could think of anything else; on which i begged to apologize for carrying away her majesty, etc. this, you see, is the mode in which i pass my time in munich. i forgot, however, to say, that every day at twelve o'clock, i give little mademoiselle l---- an hour's instruction in double counterpoint, and four-part composition, etc., which makes me realize more than ever the stupidity and confusion of most masters and books on this subject; for nothing can be more clear than the whole thing when properly explained. she is one of the sweetest creatures i ever saw, imagine a small, delicate-looking, pale girl, with noble but not pretty features, so singular and interesting, that it is difficult to turn your eyes from her; while all her gestures and every word are full of genius. she has the gift of composing songs, and singing them in a way i never heard before, causing me the most unalloyed musical delight i ever experienced. when she is seated at the piano, and begins one of the songs, the sounds are quite unique; the music floats strangely to and fro, and every note expresses the most profound and refined feeling. when she sings the first note in her tender tones, every one present subsides into a quiet and thoughtful mood, and each, in his own way, is deeply affected. if you could but hear her voice! so innocent, so unconsciously lovely, emanating from her inmost soul, and yet so tranquil! last year the genius was all there; she had written no song that did not contain some bright flash of talent, and then m----and i sounded forth her praises to the musical world; still no one seemed to place much faith in us; but since that time, she has made the most remarkable progress. those who are not affected by her present singing, can have no feeling at all; but unluckily it is now the fashion to beg the young girl to sing her songs, and then the lights are removed from the piano, in order that the society may enjoy the plaintive strains. this forms an unpleasant contrast, and repeatedly when i was to have played something after her, i was quite unable, and declined doing so. it is probable that she may one day be spoiled by all this praise, because she has no one to comprehend or to guide her; and, strangely enough, she is as yet entirely devoid of all musical cultivation; she knows very little, and can scarcely distinguish good music from bad; in fact, except her own pieces, she thinks all else that she hears wonderfully fine. if she were at length to become satisfied as it were with herself, it would be all over with her. i have, for my part, done what i could, and implored her parents and herself in the most urgent manner, to avoid society, and not to allow such divine genius to be wasted. heaven grant that i may be successful! i may, perhaps, dear sisters, soon send you some of her songs that she has copied out for me, in token of her gratitude for my teaching her what she already knows from nature; and because i have really led her to good and solid music. i also play on the organ every day for an hour, but unfortunately i cannot practise properly, as the pedal is short of five upper notes, so that i cannot play any of sebastian bach's passages on it; but the stops are wonderfully beautiful, by the aid of which you can vary chorals; so i dwell with delight on the celestial, liquid tone of the instrument. moreover, fanny, i have here discovered the particular stops which ought to be used in sebastian bach's "schmücke dich, o liebe seele." they seem actually made for this melody, and sound so touching, that a tremor invariably seizes me, when i begin to play it. for the flowing parts i have a flute stop of eight feet, and also a very soft one of four feet, which continually floats above the choral. you have heard this effect in berlin; but there is a keyboard for the choral with nothing but reed stops, so i employ a mellow oboe and a soft clarion (four feet) and a viola; these give the choral in subdued and touching tones, like distant human voices, singing from the depths of the heart. sunday, monday, and tuesday, by the time you will have received this letter, i shall be on the "theresien wiese," with eighty thousand other people; so think of me there, and farewell. felix. munich, october th, . dear father, pray forgive me for not having written to you for so long. the last few days previous to my concert, were passed in such bustle and confusion, that i really had not a moment's leisure; besides i preferred writing to you after my concert was over, that i might tell you all about it, hence the long interval between this and my former letter. i write to you in particular to-day, because it is so long since i have had a single line from you; i do beg you will soon write to me, if only to say that you are well, and to send me your kind wishes. you know this always makes me glad and happy; therefore excuse my addressing this letter, with all the little details of my concert, to you. my mother, and sisters, were desirous to hear them, but i was anxious to say how eagerly i hope for a few lines from you. pray let me have them. it is a long time since you wrote to me! my concert took place yesterday, and was much more brilliant and successful than i expected. the affair went off well, and with much spirit. the orchestra played admirably, and the receipts for the benefit of the poor will be large. a few days after my former letter, i attended a general rehearsal, where the whole band were assembled, and in addition to the official invitation the orchestra had received, i was obliged to invite them verbally in a polite speech, in the theatre. this, to me, was the most trying part of the whole concert; still i did not object to it, for i really wished to know the sensations of a man who gives a concert, and this ceremony forms part of it. i stationed myself therefore at the prompter's box, and addressed the performers very courteously, who took off their hats, and when my speech was finished, there was a general murmur of assent. on the following day there were upwards of seventy signatures to the circular. immediately afterwards, i had the pleasure of finding that the chorus singers had sent one of their leaders to me, to ask if i had not composed some chorus that i should like to be sung, in which case, they would all be happy to sing it _gratis_. although i had decided not to give more than three pieces of my composition, still the offer was very gratifying, and the hearty sympathy especially delighted me, for even the regimental musicians whom i had to engage for the english horns and trumpets, positively refused to accept a single kreuzer, and we had above eighty performers in the orchestra. then came all the tiresome minor arrangements about advertisements, tickets, preliminary rehearsals, etc., and in addition to all this, it was the week of the october festival. in munich the days and hours always glide past so very rapidly, that when they are gone, it really seems as if they had never been, and this is more peculiarly the case during this october festival. every afternoon about three o'clock you repair to the spacious, green "theresien wiese," which is swarming with people, and it is impossible to get away till the evening, for every one finds acquaintances without end, and something to talk about, or to look at; a fat ox, target-shooting, a race, or pretty girls in gold and silver caps, etc. any affair you are engaged in, can be concluded there, for the whole town is congregated on the meadow, and not till the mists begin to rise, does the crowd disperse, and return towards the "frauen thürme." the people are in constant motion, running about in all directions, while the snowy mountains in the distance look clear and tranquil, each day giving promise of a bright morrow, and fulfilling that promise; and, what after all is the chief thing, none but careless happy faces to be seen, with the occasional exception perhaps of a few deputies, drinking coffee in the open air, and discussing the lamentable condition of the people,--while the people themselves are standing round them looking as happy as possible. on the first day the king distributes the prizes himself, taking off his hat to each winner of a prize, and giving his hand to the peasants, or laying hold of their arms and shaking them; now i think this all very proper, as here externally at least society appears more blended, but whether it sinks deep into the heart, we can discuss together at some future time. i adhere to my first opinion; at all events it is so far well, that the absurd restraints of etiquette should not be too strictly observed outwardly, and so it is always something gained. my first rehearsal took place early on saturday. we had about thirty-two violins, six double-basses, and double sets of wind instruments, etc.: but, heaven knows why, the rehearsal went badly; i was forced to rehearse my symphony in c minor alone for two hours. my concerto did not go at all satisfactorily. we had only time to play over the "midsummer night's dream" once, and even then so hurriedly, that i wished to withdraw it from the bills; but bärmann would not hear of this, and assured me that they would do it better next time. i therefore was forced to wait in considerable anxiety for the next rehearsal: in the meantime there was happily a great ball on sunday evening, which was very enjoyable, so i recovered my spirits, and arrived next morning at the general rehearsal in high good humour, and with perfect confidence. i started off at once with the overture; we played it over again and again, till at last it went well, and we did the same with my concerto, so that the whole rehearsal was quite satisfactory. on my way to the concert at night, when i heard the rattling of the carriages, i began to feel real pleasure in the whole affair. the court arrived at half-past six. i took up my little english _bâton_, and conducted my symphony. the orchestra played magnificently, and with a degree of fire and enthusiasm that i never heard equalled under my direction; they all crashed in at the _forte_, and the _scherzo_ was most light and delicate; it seemed to please the audience exceedingly, and the king was always the first to applaud. then my fat friend, breiting, sang the air in a flat major from "euryanthe," and the public shouted "da capo!" and were in good humour, and showed good taste. breiting was delighted, so he sang with spirit, and quite beautifully. then came my concerto; i was received with long and loud applause; the orchestra accompanied me well, and the composition had also its merits, and gave much satisfaction to the audience; they wished to recall me, in order to give me another round of applause, according to the prevailing fashion here, but i was modest, and would not appear. between the parts the king got hold of me, and praised me highly, asking all sorts of questions, and whether i was related to the bartholdy in rome, to whose house he was in the habit of going, because it was the cradle of modern art, etc.[ ] [ ] _vide_ the letter from rome of the st of february, . the second part commenced with the "midsummer night's dream," which went admirably, and excited a great sensation; then bärmann played, and after that we had the finale in a major from lodoiska. i however did not hear either of these, as i was resting and cooling in the anteroom. when i appeared to extemporize, i was again enthusiastically received. the king had given me the theme of "non più andrai," on which i was to _improviser_. my former opinion is now fully confirmed, that it is an absurdity to extemporize in public. i have seldom felt so like a fool as when i took my place at the piano, to present to the public the fruits of my inspiration; but the audience were quite contented, and there was no end of their applause. they called me forward again, and the queen said all that was courteous; but i was annoyed, for i was far from being satisfied with myself, and i am resolved never again to extemporize in public,--it is both an abuse and an absurdity. so this is an account of my concert of the th, which is now among the things of the past. there were eleven hundred people present, so the poor may well be satisfied: but enough of all this. farewell! may every happiness attend you all! felix. paris, december th, . dear father, receive my hearty thanks for your letter of the th. though i do not quite apprehend your meaning on some points, and also may differ from you, still i have no doubt that this will come all right when we talk things over together, especially if you permit me, as you have always hitherto done, to express my opinion in a straight-forward manner. i allude chiefly to your suggestion, that i should procure a libretto for an opera from some french poet, and then have it translated, and compose the music for the munich stage.[ ] [ ] felix mendelssohn, during his stay in munich, received a commission from the director of the theatre, to write an opera for munich. above all, i must tell you how sincerely i regret that you have only now made known to me your views on this subject. i went to düsseldorf, as you know, expressly to consult with immermann on the point. i found him ready, and willing; he accepted the proposal, promising to send me the poem by the end of may at the latest, so i do not myself see how it is possible for me now to draw back; indeed i do not wish it, as i place entire confidence in him. i do not in the least understand what you allude to in your last letter, about immermann, and his incapacity to write an opera. although i by no means agree with you in this opinion, still it would have been my duty to have settled nothing without your express sanction, and i could have arranged the affair by letter from here, i believed however that i was acting quite to your satisfaction when i made him my offer. in addition to this, some new poems that he read to me, convinced me more than ever that he was a true poet, and supposing that i had an equal choice in merit, i would always decide rather in favour of a german than a french libretto; and lastly, he has fixed on a subject which has been long in my thoughts, and which, if i am not mistaken, my mother wished to see made into an opera,--i mean shakspeare's "tempest". i was therefore particularly pleased with this, so i shall doubly regret if you do not approve of what i have done. in any event, however, i entreat that you will neither be displeased with me, nor distrustful with regard to the work, nor cease to take any interest in it. from what i know of immermann, i feel assured i may expect a first-rate libretto. what i alluded to about his solitary life, merely referred to his inward feelings and perceptions; for in other respects he is well acquainted with what is passing in the world. he knows what people like, and what to give them; but above all he is a genuine artist, which is the chief thing; but i am sure i need not say that i will not compose music for any words i do not consider really good, or which do not inspire me, and for this purpose it is essential that i should have your approval. i intend to reflect deeply on the poem before i begin the music. the dramatic interest or (in the best sense) the theatrical portion, i shall of course immediately communicate to you, and in short look on the affair in the serious light it deserves. the first step however is taken, and i cannot tell you how deeply i should regret your not being pleased. there is however one thing which consoles me, and it is that if i were to rely on my own judgment, i would again act precisely as i have now done, though i have had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with a great deal of french poetry, and seeing it in the most favourable light. pray pardon me for saying exactly what i think. to compose for the translation of a french libretto, seems to me for various reasons impracticable, and i have an idea that you are in favour of it more on account of the _success_ which it is likely to enjoy than for its own _intrinsic merit_. moreover i well remember how much you disliked the subject of the "muette de portici," a _muette_ too who had gone astray, and of "wilhelm tell," which the author seems almost purposely to have rendered tedious. the success however these enjoy all over germany does not assuredly depend on the work itself being either good or dramatic, for "tell" is neither, but on their coming from paris, and having pleased there. certainly there is _one_ sure road to fame in germany,--that by paris and london; still it is not the only one; this is proved not only by all weber's works, but also by those of spohr, whose "faust" is here considered classical music, and which is to be given at the great opera-house in london next season. besides, i could not possibly take that course, as my great opera has been bespoken for munich, and i have accepted the commission. i am resolved therefore to make the attempt in germany, and to remain and work there so long as i can continue to do so, and yet maintain myself, for this i consider my first duty. if i find that i cannot do this, then i must leave it for london or paris, where it is easier to get on. i see indeed where i should be better remunerated and more honoured, and live more gaily, and at my ease, than in germany, where a man must press forward, and toil, and take no rest,--still, if i can succeed there, i prefer the latter. none of the new libretti here, would in my opinion be attended with any success whatever, if brought out for the first time on a german stage. one of the distinctive characteristics of them all, is precisely of a nature that i should resolutely oppose, although the taste of the present day may demand it, and i quite admit that it may in general be more prudent to go with the current than to struggle against it. i allude to that of immorality. in "robert le diable" the nuns come one after the other to allure the hero of the piece, till at last the abbess succeeds in doing so: the same hero is conveyed by magic into the apartment of her whom he loves, and casts her from him in an attitude which the public here applauds, and probably all germany will do the same; she then implores his mercy in a grand aria. in another opera a young girl divests herself of her garments, and sings a song to the effect that next day at this time she will be married; all this produces effect, but i have no music for such things. i consider it ignoble, so if the present epoch exacts this style, and considers it indispensable, then i will write oratorios. another strong reason why it would prove impracticable is that no french poet would undertake to furnish me with a poem. indeed, it is no easy matter to procure one from them for this stage, for all the best authors are overwhelmed with commissions. at the same time i think it quite possible that i might succeed in getting one; still it never would occur to any of them to write a libretto for a _german_ theatre. in the first place it would be much more feasible to give the opera here, and infinitely more rational too; in the second place, they would decline writing for any other stage than the french; in fact they could not realize any other. above all it would be impossible to procure for them a sum equivalent to what they receive here from the theatres, and what they draw as their share from the _part d'auteur_. i know you will forgive me for having told you my opinion without reserve. you always allowed me to do so in conversation, so i hope you will not put a wrong construction on what i have written, and i beg you will amend my views by communicating your own.--your felix. paris, december th, . dear rebecca, i went yesterday to the chambre des députés, and i must now tell you about it; but what do you care about the chambre des députés? it is a political song, and you would rather hear whether i have composed any love songs, or bridal songs, or wedding songs; but it is a sad pity, that no songs but political ones are composed here. i believe i never in my life passed three such unmusical weeks as these. i feel as if i never could again think of composing; this all arises from the "juste milieu;" but it is still worse to be with musicians, for they do not _wrangle_ about politics, but _lament_ over them. one has lost his place, another his title, a third his money, and they say this all proceeds from the "milieu." yesterday i saw the "milieu," in a light grey coat, and with a noble air, in the first place on the ministerial bench. he was sharply attacked by m. mauguin, who has a very long nose. of course you don't care for all this; but what of that? i must have a chat with you. in italy i was lazy, in switzerland a wild student, in munich a consumer of cheese and beer, and so in paris i must talk politics. i intended to have composed various symphonies, and to have written some songs for certain ladies in frankfort, düsseldorf, and berlin; but as yet not a chance of it. paris obtrudes herself, and as above all things i must now see paris, so i am busily engaged in seeing it, and am dumb. moreover i am freezing with cold--another drawback. i cannot contrive to make my room warm, and i am not to get another and warmer apartment, till new year's day. in a dark little hole on the ground floor, overlooking a small damp garden, where my feet are like ice, how can i possibly write music? it is bitterly cold, and an italian like myself is peculiarly susceptible. at this moment a man outside my window is singing a political song to a guitar. i live a reckless life--out morning, noon, and night: to-day at baillot's; to-morrow i go to some friends of the bigots; the next day, valentin; monday, fould; tuesday, hiller; wednesday, gérard; and the previous week it was just the same. in the forenoon i rush off to the louvre, and gaze at the raphaels, and my favourite titian; a person might well wish for a dozen more eyes to look at such a picture. yesterday i was in the chamber of peers, who were engaged in pronouncing judgment on their own hereditary rights, and i saw m. pasquier's wig. the day before i paid two musical visits, to the grumbling cherubini, and the kind herz. there is a large sign-board before the house: "manufacture de pianos, par henri herz, marchand de modes et de nouveautés." i thought this formed one, not observing that it was a notice of two different firms, so i went in below, and found myself surrounded by gauze, and lace, and trimmings: so, rather abashed, i asked where the pianos were. a number of herz's fair scholars with industrious faces, were waiting upstairs. i sat down by the fire and read your interesting account of our dear father's birthday, and so forth. herz presently arrived, and gave audience to his pupils. we were very loving, recalled old times, and besprinkled each other mutually with great praise. on his pianos is inscribed: "médaille d'or. exposition de ." this was very imposing. from thence i went to erard's, where i tried over his instruments, and remarked written on them in large letters: "médaille d'or. exposition de ." my respect seemed to diminish. when i went home i opened my own instrument by pleyel, and to be sure there also i saw in large letters: "médaille d'or. exposition de ." the matter is like the title of "hofrath," but it is characteristic. it is alleged that the chambers are about to discuss the following proposition: "tous les français du sexe masculin ont dès leur naissance le droit de porter l'ordre de la légion d'honneur," and the permission to appear without the order, can only be obtained by special services. you really scarcely see a man in the street without a bit of coloured ribbon, so it is no longer a distinction. _apropos_, shall i be lithographed full length? answer what you will, i don't intend to do it. one afternoon in berlin, when i was standing _unter den linden_ before schenk's shop looking at h----'s and w----'s lithographs, i made a solemn vow to myself, unheard by man, that i would never allow myself to be hung up till i became a great man. the temptation in munich was strong; there they wished to drape me with a carbonaro cloak, a stormy sky in the background, and my fac-simile underneath, but i happily got off by adhering to my principles. here again i am rather tempted, for the likenesses are very striking, but i keep my vow; and if, after all, i never do become a great man, though posterity will be deprived of a portrait, it will have an absurdity the less. it is now the th, and we had a very pleasant evening at baillot's yesterday. he plays beautifully, and had collected a very musical society of attentive ladies and enthusiastic gentlemen, and i have seldom been so well amused in any circle, or enjoyed such honours. it was the greatest possible delight to me to hear my quartett in e flat major (dedicated to b. p.) performed in paris by baillot's quartett, and they executed it with fire and spirit. they commenced with a quintett by bocherini, an old-fashioned _perruque_, but a very amiable old gentleman underneath it. the company then asked for a sonata of bach's; we selected the one in a major; old familiar tones dawned once more on me, of the time when baillot played it with madame bigot.[ ] we urged each other on, the affair became animated, and so thoroughly amused both us and our audience, that we immediately commenced the one in e major, and next time we mean to introduce the four others. [ ] the lady who instructed mendelssohn in the piano in paris, when the family resided there for a time in . then my turn came to play a solo. i was in the vein to extemporize successfully, and felt that i did so. the guests being now in a graver mood, i took three themes from the previous sonatas, and worked them up to my heart's content; it seemed to give immense pleasure to those present, for they shouted and applauded like mad. then baillot gave my quartett; his manner towards me has something very kind, and i was doubly pleased, as he is rather cold at first and seldom makes advances to any one. he appears a good deal depressed by the loss of his situation. i saw a number of old well-known faces, and they asked after you all, and recalled many anecdotes of that former period. when i was passing through louvain two years ago with my "liederspiel" in my head, and my injured knee,[ ] i seized the brass handle of a pump to prevent myself from falling; and when i returned this year in the same miserable diligence, driven by a postilion exactly similar, with a big queue, the "liederspiel," my knee, and italy, were all things of the past; and yet the handle of the pump was still hanging there, as clean and brightly rubbed up as ever, having survived , and all the revolutionary storms, and remaining quite unchanged. this is sentimental; my father must not read it, for it is the old story of the past and the present, which we discussed so eagerly one fine evening, and which recurs to me among the crowd here at every step. i thought of it at the madeleine, and when i went to aunt j----'s, and at the hôtel des princes, and at the gallery, which my father showed me fifteen years ago, and when i saw the coloured signs, which at that time impressed me exceedingly, and are now grown brown and shabby. [ ] mendelssohn had been thrown out of a cabriolet in london in , and his knee seriously injured. moreover this is christmas eve; but i feel little interest in it, or in new year's night either. please god, another year may wear a very different aspect, and i will not then go to the theatre on christmas eve, as i am about to do to-night, to hear lablache and rossini for the first time. how little i care about it! i should much prefer _polichinelles_ and apples to-day, and i think it very doubtful whether the orchestra will play as pretty a symphony as my "kinder-sinfonie."[ ] i must be satisfied with it however. i am now modulating into the minor key, a fault with which the "École allemande" are often reproached, and as i profess not to belong to the latter, the french say i am _cosmopolite_. heaven defend me from being anything of the kind! [ ] a "kinder-sinfonie," composed by mendelssohn in the year , for a christmas family fête. and now good-bye; a thousand compliments from bertin de vaux, girod de l'ain, dupont de l'eure, tracy, sacy, passy and other kind friends. i had intended to have told you in this letter how salverte attacked the ministers, and how during this time a little _émeute_ took place on the pont neuf; how i sat in the chambers along with franck, in the midst of st. simoniens; how witty dupin was; but no more at present. may you all be well and happy this evening, and thinking of me! felix. paris, december th, . dear madam fanny, for three months past i have been thinking of writing you a musical letter, but my procrastination has its revenge, for though i have been a fortnight here, i don't know whether i shall still be able to do so. i have appeared in every possible mood here; in that of an inquiring, admiring traveller; a coxcomb; a frenchman, and yesterday actually as a peer of france; but not yet as a musician. indeed there is little likelihood of the latter, for the aspect of music here is miserable enough. the concerts in the conservatoire, which were my great object, probably will not take place at all, because the commission of the ministry wished to give a commission to the commission of the society, to deprive a commission of professors of their share of the profits; on which the commission of the conservatoire replied to the commission of the ministry, that they might go and be hanged (suspended), and then they would not consent to it. the newspapers make some very severe comments on this, but you need not read them, as these papers are prohibited in berlin; but you don't lose much by this. the opéra comique is bankrupt, and so it has had _relâche_ since i came; at the grand opéra, they only give little operas, which amuse me, though they neither provoke nor excite me. "armida" was the last great opera, but they gave it in three acts, and this was two years ago. choron's "institut" is closed, the "chapelle royale" is gone out like a light; not a single mass is to be heard on sundays in all paris, unless accompanied by serpents. malibran is to appear here next week for the last time. so much the better, say you: retire within yourself, and write music for "ach gott vom himmel," or a symphony, or the new violin quartett which you mentioned in your letter to me of the th, or any other serious composition; but this is even more impossible, for what is going on here is most deeply interesting, and entices you out, suggesting matter for thought and memory and absorbing every moment of time. accordingly i was yesterday in the chambre des pairs, and counted along with them the votes, destined to abolish a very ancient privilege; immediately afterwards i hurried off to the théâtre français, where mars was to appear for the first time for a year past; (she is fascinating beyond conception; a voice that we shall never hear equalled, causing you to weep, and yet to feel pleasure in doing so). to-day i must see taglioni again, who along with mars constitutes two graces (if i find a third in my travels, i mean to marry her), and afterwards i mean to go to gérard's classical _salon_. i lately went to hear lablache and rubini, after hearing odillon barrot quarrel with the ministry. having seen the pictures in the louvre in the morning, i went to baillot's; so what chance is there of living in retirement? the outer world is too tempting. there are moments, however, when my thoughts turn inwards--such as on that memorable evening, when lablache sang so beautifully, or on christmas-day, when there were no bells and no festivities, or when paul's letter came from london, inviting me to visit him next spring; the said spring to be passed in england. then i feel that all that now interests me is merely superficial: that i am neither a politician, nor a dancer, nor an actor, nor a _bel esprit_, but a _musician_--so i take courage, and am now writing a professional letter to my dear sister. my conscience smote me, especially when i read about your new music that you so carefully conducted on my father's birthday, and i reproached myself for not having said a single word to you about your previous composition; but i cannot let you off that, my colleague! what the deuce made you think of setting your g horns so high? did you ever hear a g horn take the high g without a squeak? i only put this to yourself! and at the end of this introduction, when wind instruments come in, does not the following note [music] stare you in the face, and do not these deep oboes growl away all pastoral feeling, and all bloom? do you not know that you ought to take out a license to sanction your writing the low b for oboes, and that it is only permitted on particular occasions, such as witches, or some great grief? has not the composer evidently, in the a major air, overloaded the voice by too many other parts, so that the delicate intention, and the lovely melody of this otherwise charming piece, with all its beauties, is quite obscured and eclipsed? to speak seriously, however, this aria is very beautiful, and particularly fascinating. but i have a remark to make about your two choruses, which indeed applies rather to the text than to you. these two choruses are not sufficiently original. this sounds absurd; but my opinion is that it is the fault of the words, that express nothing original; one single expression might have improved the whole, but as they now stand, they would be equally suitable for church music, a cantata, an offertorium, etc. where, however, they are not of such universal application, as for example, the lament at the end, they seem to be sentimental and not natural. the words of the last chorus are too material ("mit dem kraftlosen mund, und der sich regenden zunge"). at the beginning of the aria alone, are the words vigorous and spirited, and from them emanated the whole of your lovely piece of music. the choruses are of course fine, for they are written by you; but in the first place, it seems to me that they might be by any other good master, and secondly, as if they were not _necessarily_ what they are, indeed as if they might have been _differently_ composed. this arises from the poetry not imposing any particular music. i know that the latter is often the case with my own compositions; but though i am fully aware of the beam in my own eyes, i would fain extract the mote from yours, to relieve you at once from its pressure. my _résumé_ therefore is, that i would advise you to be more cautious in the choice of your words, because, after all, it is not everything in the bible, even if it suits the theme, that is suggestive of _music_; but you have probably obviated these objections of mine in your new cantata, before being aware of them, in which case, i might as well have said nothing. so much the better if it be so, and then you can prosecute me for defamation! so far as your music and composition are concerned, they quite suit my taste; the young lady's cloven foot nowhere peeps forth, and if i knew any _kapellmeister_ capable of writing such music, i would give him a place at my court. fortunately i know no such person, and there is no occasion to place you at my right hand at court, as you are there already.[ ] [ ] a play upon fanny hensel's house, in a court--no. , leipziger strasse. when do you mean to send me something new to cheer me? pray do so soon! as far as regards myself, shortly after my arrival here, i had one of those attacks of musical spleen, when all music, and more especially one's own, becomes actually hateful. i felt thoroughly unmusical, and did nothing but eat and sleep, and that revived me. f----, to whom i complained of my state, instantly constructed a musical theory on the subject, proving that it could not be otherwise; i however think exactly the reverse; but though we are so entirely dissimilar, and have as many differences as a bushman and caffre, still we like each other exceedingly. with l----, too, i get on famously. he is very pleasing, and the most _dilettante_ of all the _dilettanti_ i ever met. he knows everything by heart, and plays wrong basses to them all; he is only deficient in arrogance, for with all his undeniable talent, he is very modest and retiring. i am much with him, because he is a benevolent, kind-hearted man; we should thoroughly agree on all points, if he would not consider me a _doctrinaire_, and persist in talking politics (a subject that i wish to avoid for at least a hundred and twenty reasons; and chiefly because i don't in the least understand it); besides, he delights in hitting at germany, and in depreciating london in favour of paris. both these things are prejudicial to my _constitution_, and whoever assails that, i must defend it and dispute with him. i was yesterday studying your new music, and enjoying it, when kalkbrenner came in, and played various new compositions. the man is become quite romantic, purloins themes, ideas, and similar trifles, from hiller, writes pieces in f sharp minor, practises every day for several hours, and is as he always was, a knowing fellow. every time i see him, he inquires after "my charming sister, whom he likes so much, and who has such a fine talent for playing and composing." my invariable reply is, that she has not given up music, that she is very industrious, and that i love her very much; which is all true. and now farewell, dear sister. may you be well and happy, and may we meet at the new year. felix. to carl immermann in dÜsseldorf. paris, january th, . you permitted me to give you occasional tidings of myself, and since i came here, i have daily intended to do so; the excitement here is however so great, that till to-day i have never been able to write. when i contrast this constant whirl and commotion, and the thousand distractions among a foreign people, with your house in the garden, and your warm winter room, your wish to exchange with me and to come here in my place, often recurs to me, and i almost wish i had taken you at your word. you must indeed in that case have remained all the same in your winter room, so that i might come out to you through the snow, take my usual place in the corner, and listen to the "schwanritter;" for there is more life in it than in all the tumult here. in a word, i rejoice at the prospect of my return to germany; everything there is indeed on a small scale, and homely, if you will, but _men_ live there; men who know what art really is, who do not admire, nor praise, in fact who do not _criticize_, but _create_. you do not admit this, but it is only because you are yourself among the number. i beg you will not however think that i am like one of those german youths with long hair, lounging about listlessly, and pronouncing the french superficial, and paris frivolous. i only say all this because i now thoroughly enjoy and admire paris, and am becoming better acquainted with it, and especially as i am writing to you in düsseldorf. i have, on the contrary, cast myself headlong into the vortex, and do nothing the whole day but see new objects, the chambers of peers and deputies, pictures and theatres, dio- neo- cosmo- and panoramas, constant parties, etc. moreover, the musicians here are as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, all hating each other; so each must be individually visited, and wary diplomacy is advisable, for they are all gossips, and what one says to another, the whole corps know next morning. the days have thus flown past hitherto as if only half as long as they were in reality, and as yet i have not been able to compose a single bar; in a few days, however, this exotic life will cease. my head is now dizzy from all i have seen and wondered at; but i then intend to collect my thoughts, and set to work, when i shall feel once more happy and domesticated. my chief pleasure is going to the little theatres in the evening, because there french life and the french people are truly mirrored; the "gymnase dramatique" is my particular favourite, where nothing is given but small _vaudevilles_. the extreme bitterness and deep animosity which pervade all these little comedies, are most remarkable, and although partially cloaked by the prettiest phrases, and the most lively acting, become only the more conspicuous. politics everywhere play the chief part, which might have sufficed to make me dislike these theatres, for we have enough of them _elsewhere_; but the politics of the "gymnase" are of a light and ironical description,--referring to the occurrences of the day, and to the newspapers, in order to excite laughter and applause, and at last you can't help laughing and applauding with the rest. politics and sensuality are the two grand points of interest, round which everything circles; and in the many pieces i have seen, an attack on the ministry, and a scene of seduction, were never absent. the whole style of the _vaudeville_, introducing certain conventional music at the end of the scene in every piece, when the actors partly sing and partly declaim some couplets with a witty point, is thoroughly french; we could never learn this, nor in fact wish to do so, for this mode of connecting the wit of the day with an established _refrain_, does not exist in our conversation, nor in our ideas. i cannot imagine anything more striking and effective, nor yet more prosaic. a great sensation has been recently caused here, by a new piece at the gymnase, "le luthier de lisbonne," which forms the delight of the public. a stranger is announced in the play-bills; scarcely does he appear when all the audience begin to laugh and to applaud, and you learn that the actor is a close imitation of don miguel, in gestures, manner, and costume; he proceeds to announce that he is a king, and the fortune of the piece is made. the more stupid, uncivilized, and uncouth, the unknown appears, the greater is the enjoyment of the public, who allow none of his gestures or speeches to pass unobserved. he takes refuge from a riot in the house of this instrument maker, who is the most devoted of all royalists, but unluckily the husband of a very pretty woman. one of don miguel's favourites has forced her to grant him a rendezvous for the ensuing night, and he begs the king--who arrives at this moment--to give him his aid, by causing the husband to be beheaded. don miguel replies, "très volontiers," and while the luthier recognizes him, and falls at his feet, beside himself from joy, don miguel signs his death-warrant, but also that of his favourite, whom he means to replace with the pretty woman. at each enormity that he commits, we laugh and applaud, and are immensely delighted with this stupid stage don miguel. so ends the first act. in the second, it is supposed to be midnight; the pretty wife alone and agitated. don miguel jumps in at the window, and does all in his power to gain her favour, making her dance and sing to him, but she cannot endure him, and falls at his feet, imploring him to spare her; on which he seizes her, and drags her repeatedly round the stage, and if she did not make a snatch at a knife, and then a sudden knocking ensue, she might have been in a bad plight; at the close, the worthy luthier rescues the king from the hands of the french soldiery, who are just arrived, and of whose valour, and love of liberty, he has a great horror. so the piece ends happily. a little comedy followed, where the wife betrays her husband, and has a lover; and another, where the man is faithless to his wife, and is maintained by his mistress; this is succeeded by a satire on the new constructions in the tuileries, and on the ministry, and so it goes on. i cannot say how it may be at the french opera, for it is bankrupt, so there has been no acting there since i came. in the académie royale, however, meyerbeer's "robert le diable" is played every night with great success; the house is always crowded, and the music has given general satisfaction. there is an expenditure of all possible means of producing stage effect, that i never saw equalled on any stage. all who can sing, dance, or act in paris, sing, dance, and act on this occasion. the _sujet_ is romantic; that is, the devil appears in the piece--(this is quite sufficient romance and imagination for the parisians). it is however very bad; and were it not for two brilliant scenes of seduction it would produce no effect whatever. the devil is a poor devil, and appears in armour, for the purpose of leading astray his son robert, a norman knight, who loves a sicilian princess. he succeeds in inducing him to stake his money and all his personal property (that is, his sword) at dice, and then makes him commit sacrilege, giving him a magic branch, which enables him to penetrate into the princess's apartment, and renders him irresistible. the son does all this with apparent willingness; but when at the end he is to assign himself to his father, who declares that he loves him, and cannot live without him, the devil, or rather the poet scribe, introduces a peasant girl, who has in her possession the will of robert's deceased mother, and reads him the document, which makes him doubt the story he has been told; so the devil is obliged to sink down through a trap-door at midnight, with his purpose unfulfilled, on which robert marries the princess, and the peasant girl, it seems, is intended to represent the principle of good. the devil is called bertram. i cannot imagine how any music could be composed on such a cold, formal _extravaganza_ as this, and so the opera does not satisfy me. it is throughout frigid and heartless; and where this is the case it produces no effect on me. the people extol the music, but where warmth and truth are wanting, i have no test to apply. michael beer set off to-day for havre. it seems he intends to compose poetry there; and i now remember that when i met you one day at schadow's, and maintained that he was no poet, your rejoinder was, "that is a matter of taste." i seldom see heine, because he is entirely absorbed in liberal ideas and in politics. he has recently published sixty "frühlings lieder." very few of them seem to me either genuine or truthful, but these few are indeed inimitable. have you read them? they appeared in the second volume of the "reisebilder." börne intends to publish some new volumes of letters: he and i are full of enthusiasm for malibran and taglioni; all these gentlemen are abusing and reviling germany and all that is german, and yet they cannot speak even tolerable french; i think this rather provoking. pray excuse my having sent you so much gossip, and for writing to you on such a disreputable margin of paper; but it is long since we met; and as for a time i could see you every day, it has become quite a necessity to write to you; so you must not take it amiss. you once promised to send me a few lines in reply: i don't know whether i may venture to remind you of this, but i should really be glad to hear how you pass your time, and what novelty a certain cupboard in the corner contains; how you get on with "merlin," and my "schwanritter," the sound of which still vibrates in my ears like sweet music; and also whether you sometimes think of me, and of next may, and "the tempest." it is certainly expecting a good deal to ask you for an early reply to my letter, but i fear that you had enough of the first, and would rather not receive a second; therefore i take courage, and beg for an answer to this one. but i need not have asked this, for you usually guess my wishes before i can utter them; and if you are as kindly disposed towards me now as you were then, you will fulfil this desire of mine as you did all the others.--yours, felix mendelssohn bartholdy. paris, january th, . i now first begin to feel at home here, and really to know paris; it is indeed the most singular and amusing place imaginable; but for one who is no politician, it does not possess so much interest. so i have become a _doctrinaire_. i read my newspaper every morning, form my own opinion about peace and war, and, only among friends, confess that i know nothing of the matter. this is however not the case with f----, who is completely absorbed in the vortex of dilettantism and dogmatism, and really believes himself quite adapted to be a minister. it is a sad pity, for nothing good will ever come of it. he has sufficient sense to be always occupied, but not enough to conduct any affair. he is a _dilettante_ on all points, and has a clever knack of criticizing others, but he produces nothing. we continue on the same intimate terms, meeting every day, and liking each other's society, but inwardly we remain strangers. i suspect that he writes for the public papers; he is very much with heine, and chatters abuse against germany like a magpie; all this i much dislike, and as i really have a sincere regard for him, it worries me. i suppose i must try to become accustomed to it, but it is really too sad to know where a person is deficient, and yet to be unable to remedy their defects. moreover he grows visibly older; so this irregular, unoccupied life is the less suitable for him. a---- has left his parents' house, and gone to the rue monsigny,[ ] where body and soul are equally engrossed. i have in my possession an appeal to mankind from p---- in which he makes his confession of faith, and invites every one to surrender a share of his property, however small, to the st. simoniens; calling on all artists to devote their genius in future to this religion; to compose better music than rossini or beethoven; to build temples of peace, and to paint like raphael or david. i have twenty copies of this pamphlet, which p---- desired me, dear father, to send to you. i rest satisfied by sending you _one_, which you will find quite enough, and even that one, by some private hand of course. [ ] at that time the residence of the st. simoniens. it is a bad sign of the state of the public mind here, that such a monstrous doctrine, in such detestable prose, should ever have existed, or impressed others; for it appears that the students of the polytechnic school take considerable interest in it. it is difficult to say how far it may be carried, when there is temptation offered on every side, promising honour to one, fame to another; to me, an admiring public, and to the poor, money; while by their cold estimate of talent, they check all effort, and all progress. and then their ideas as to universal brotherhood, their disbelief in hell, and the devil, and eternal perdition, and of the annihilation of all egotism,--ideas, which in our country spring from nature, and prevail in every part of christendom, and without which i should not wish to live, but which they however regard as a new invention and discovery, constantly repeating that they mean to transform the world, and to render mankind happy. a---- coolly tells me that he does not require to improve himself, but others only; because he is not at all imperfect, but on the contrary, perfect. they not only praise and compliment each other, but all those whom they wish to gain over; extolling any talent or capability you may possess, and lamenting that such great powers should be lost, by adhering to the old-fashioned notions of duty, vocation, and action, as they were formerly interpreted. when i listen to all this, it does seem to me a melancholy mystification. i attended a meeting last sunday, where all the fathers sat in a circle: then came the principal father and demanded their reports, praising and blaming them, addressing the assembly, and issuing his commands; to me it was quite awful! a---- has completely renounced his parents, and lives with the fathers, his disciples, and is endeavouring to procure a loan for their benefit; but enough of this subject! a pole gives a concert next week, where i am to play in a composition for six performers, along with kalkbrenner, hiller, and co.; do not be surprised therefore if you see my name mutilated, as in the "messager" lately, when the death of professor flegel (hegel) was announced from berlin, and all the papers copied it. i have set to work again, and live most agreeably. i have not yet been able to write to you about the theatres, although they occupy me very much. how plain are the symptoms of bitterness and excitement even in the most insignificant farce; how invariably everything bears a reference to politics; how completely what is called the romantic school has infected all the parisians, for they think of nothing on the stage now but the plague, the gallows, the devil, etc., one striving to outstrip the other in horrors, and in liberalism; in the midst of these _misères_ and fooleries, how charming is a talent like that of léontine fay, who is the perfection of grace and fascination, and remains unsullied by the absurdities she is compelled to utter and to act. how strange all these contrasts are! but this i reserve for future discussion. felix. paris, january st, . in every letter of yours i receive a little hit, because my answers are not very punctual, and so i reply without delay to your questions, dear fanny, with regard to the new works that i am about to publish. it occurred to me that the octett and the quintett might make a very good appearance among my works, being in fact better than many compositions that already figure there. as the publication of these pieces costs me nothing, but, on the contrary, i derive profit from them, and not wishing to confuse their chronological order, my idea is to publish the following pieces at easter:--quintett and octett (the latter also arranged as a duet), "midsummer night's dream," seven songs without words, six songs with words; on my return to germany, six pieces of sacred music, and finally, if i can get any one to print it, and to pay for it, the symphony in d minor. as soon as i have performed "meeresstille" at my concert in berlin, it will also appear. i cannot however bring out "the hebrides" here, because, as i wrote to you at the time, i do not consider it finished; the middle movement forte in d major is very stupid, and the whole modulations savour more of counterpoint, than of train oil and seagulls and salt fish--and it ought to be exactly the reverse. i like the piece too well to allow it to be performed in an imperfect state, and i hope soon to be able to work at it, and to have it ready for england, and the michaelmas fair at leipzig. you inquire also why i do not compose the italian symphony in a major. because i am composing the saxon overture in a minor, which is to precede the "walpurgis night," that the work may be played with all due honour at the said berlin concert, and elsewhere. you wish me to remove to the marais, and to write the whole day. my dear child, that would never do; i have, at the most, only the prospect of three months to see paris, so i must throw myself into the stream; indeed, this is why i came; everything here is too bright, and too attractive to be neglected; it rounds off my pleasant travelling reminiscences, and forms a fine colossal key-stone, and so i consider that to see paris is at this moment my chief vocation. the publishers too are standing on each side of me like veritable satans, demanding music for the piano, and offering to pay for it. by heavens! i don't know whether i shall be able to withstand this, or write some kind of trio; for i hope you believe me to be superior to the temptation of a _pot-pourri_; but i should like to compose a couple of good trios. on thursday the first rehearsal of my overture takes place, which is to be performed in the second concert at the "conservatoire." in the third my symphony in d minor is to follow. habeneck talks of seven or eight rehearsals, which will be very welcome to me. moreover i am also to play something at erard's concert; so i shall play my munich concerto, but i must first practise it well. then, a note is lying beside me, "le président du conseil, ministre de l'intérieur, et madame casimir périer prient," etc., on monday evening to a ball; this evening there is to be music at habeneck's; to-morrow at schlesinger's; tuesday, the first public _soirée_ at baillot's; on wednesday, hiller plays his concerto in the hôtel de ville, and this always lasts till past midnight. let those who like it, lead a solitary life! these are all things that cannot be refused. so when am i to compose? in the forenoon? yesterday, first hiller came, then kalkbrenner, then habeneck. the day before that, came baillot, eichthal, and rodrigues. perhaps very early in the morning? well, i do compose then--so you are confuted! p---- was with me yesterday, talking st. simonienism, and either from a conviction of my stupidity, or my shrewdness, he made me disclosures which shocked me so much, that i resolved never again to go either to him or to his confederates. early this morning hiller rushed in, and told me he had just witnessed the arrest of the st. simoniens. he wished to hear their orations; but the fathers did not come. all of a sudden soldiers made their way in, and requested those present to disperse as quickly as possible, inasmuch as m. enfantin and the others had been arrested in the rue monsigny. a party of national guards are placed in the street, and other soldiers marched up there; everything is sealed up, and now the _procès_ will begin. my b minor quartett, which is lying in the rue monsigny, is also sealed up. the adagio alone is in the style of the "juste milieu," all the other parts _mouvement_. i suppose i shall eventually be obliged to play it before a jury. i was lately standing beside the abbé bardin at a large party, listening to the performance of my quartett in a minor. at the last movement my neighbour pulled my coat, and said: "il a cela dans une de ses sinfonies." "qui?" said i, rather embarrassed. "beethoven, l'auteur de ce quatuor," said he, with a consequential air. this was a very doubtful compliment! but is it not famous that my quartett should be played in the classes of the conservatoire, and that the pupils there are practising off their fingers to play "ist es wahr?" i have just come from st. sulpice, where the organist showed off his organ to me; it sounded like a full chorus of old women's voices; but they maintain that it is the finest organ in europe if it were only put into proper order, which would cost thirty thousand francs. the effect of the _canto fermo_, accompanied by a serpent, those who have not heard it could scarcely conceive, and clumsy bells are ringing all the time. the post is going, so i must conclude my gossip, or i might go on in this manner till the day after to-morrow. i have not yet told you that bach's "passion" is announced for performance in london, at easter, in the italian opera house.--yours, felix. paris, february th, . you will, i am sure, excuse my writing you only a few words to-day: it was but yesterday that i heard of my irreparable loss.[ ] many hopes, and a pleasant bright period of my life have departed with him, and i never again can feel so happy. i must now set about forming new plans, and building fresh castles in the air; the former ones are irrevocably gone, for he was interwoven with them all. i shall never be able to think of my boyish days, nor of the ensuing ones, without connecting him with them, and i had hoped, till now, that it might be the same for the future. i must endeavour to inure myself to this, but i can recall no one thing without being reminded of him; i shall never hear music, or write it, without thinking of him; all this makes the rending asunder of such a tie doubly distressing. the former epoch has now wholly passed away, but not only do i lose that, but also the man i so sincerely loved. if i never had any especial reason for loving him, or if i no longer had such reasons, i must have loved him all the same, even without a reason. he loved me too, and the knowledge that there was such a man in the world--one on whom you could repose, and who lived to love you, and whose wishes and aims were identical with your own--this is all over: it is the most severe blow i have ever received, and never can i forget him. [ ] the death of his friend edward ritz, the violin player. this was the celebration of my birthday. when i was listening to baillot on tuesday, and said to hiller that i only knew one man who could play the music i loved for me, l---- was standing beside me, and knew what had happened, but did not give me the letter. he was not aware indeed that yesterday was my birthday, but he broke it to me by degrees yesterday morning, and then i recalled previous anniversaries, and took a review of the past, as every one should on his birthday; i remembered how invariably on this day he arrived with some special gift which he had long thought of, and which was always as pleasing and agreeable and welcome as himself. the day was a melancholy one to me: i could neither do anything, nor think of anything, but the one subject. to-day i have compelled myself to work, and succeeded. my overture in a minor is finished. i think of writing some pieces here, which will be well remunerated. i beg you will tell me every particular about him, and every detail, no matter how trifling; it will be a comfort to me to hear of him once more. the octett parts, so neatly copied by him, are lying before me at this moment, and remind me of him. i hope shortly to recover my usual equanimity, and to be able to write to you in better spirits and more at length. a new chapter in my life has begun, but as yet it has no title. your felix. paris, february th, . i am now leading a quiet, pleasant life here; neither my present frame of mind, nor the pleasures of society, tempt me to enter into gaiety. here, and indeed everywhere else, society is uninteresting, and not improving, and owing to the late hours, monopolizing a great deal of time. i do not refuse, however, when there is to be good music. i will write all particulars to zelter of the first concert in the conservatoire. the performers there play quite admirably, and in so finished a style, that it is indeed a pleasure to hear them; they delight in it themselves, and each takes the greatest possible trouble; the leader is an energetic, experienced musician, so they cannot fail to go well together. to-morrow my a minor quartett is to be performed in public. cherubini says of beethoven's later music, "Ça me fait éternuer," and so i think it probable that the whole public will sneeze to-morrow. the performers are baillot, sauzay, urhan, and norblin--the best here. my overture in a minor is completed; it represents bad weather. a few days ago i finished an introduction, where it thaws, and spring arrives; i have counted the sheets of the "walpurgis night," revised the seven numbers a little, and then boldly written underneath--milan, july; paris, february. i think it will please you. i must now write an adagio for my quintett without delay; the performers are calling loudly for one, and they are right. i do wish you could hear a rehearsal of my "midsummer night's dream" at the conservatoire, where they play it most beautifully. it is not yet certain whether it will be ready by next sunday; there are to be two more rehearsals before then, but as yet it has only been twice played over. i think however that it will do, and i would rather it was given on sunday than at the third concert, because i am to play on behalf of the poor on the th (something of weber's), and on the th at erard's concert (my munich concerto), and at other places, and i should like my composition to appear first at the "conservatoire." i am also to play there, and the members are anxious that i should give them a sonata of beethoven's; it may seem bold, but i prefer his concerto in g major, which is quite unknown here. i look forward with the utmost delight to the symphony in d minor, which is to be rehearsed next week; i certainly never dreamt that i should hear it in paris for the first time. i often visit the theatre, where i see a great display of wit and talent, but a degree of immorality that almost exceeds belief. it is supposed that no lady can go to the "gymnase"--still they do go. depict me to yourself as reading "notre dame," dining with one or other of my acquaintances every day, and taking advantage of the lovely bright spring weather after three o'clock, to take a walk, and to pay a few visits, and to look at the gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen in the splendid gardens of the tuileries--then you will have my day in paris. adieu. felix. paris, february st, . almost every letter that i receive from you now announces some sad loss. yesterday i got the one in which you tell me about poor u----, whom i shall no longer find with you; so this is not a time for idle talk; i feel that i must work, and strive to make progress. i have composed a grand adagio as an intermezzo for the quintett. it is called "nachruf," and it occurred to me, as i had to compose something for baillot, who plays so beautifully, and is so kindly disposed towards me, and who wishes to perform it in public; and yet he is only a recent acquaintance. two days ago my overture to the "midsummer night's dream" was given for the first time at a concert in the conservatoire. it caused me great pleasure, for it went admirably, and seemed also to please the audience. it is to be repeated at one of the ensuing concerts, and my symphony, which has been rather delayed on this account, is to be rehearsed on friday or saturday. in the fourth or fifth concert, i am to play beethoven's concerto in g major. the musicians are all amazement at the honours conferred on me by the conservatoire. they played my a minor quartett wonderfully last tuesday, with such fire and precision, that it was delightful to listen to them, and as i can never again hear ritz, i shall probably never hear it better given. it appeared to make a great impression on the audience, and at the scherzo they were quite uproarious. it is now high time, dear father, to write you a few words with regard to my travelling plans, and on this occasion in a more serious strain than usual, for many reasons. i must first, in taking a general view of the past, refer to what you designed to be the chief object of my journey; desiring me strictly to adhere to it. i was closely to examine the various countries, and to fix on the one where i wished to live and to work; i was further to make known my name and capabilities, in order that the people, among whom i resolved to settle, should receive me well, and not be wholly ignorant of my career; and, finally, i was to take advantage of my own good fortune, and your kindness, to press forward in my subsequent efforts. it is a happy feeling to be able to say, that i believe this has been the case. always excepting those mistakes which are not discovered till too late, i think i have fulfilled the appointed object. people now know that i exist, and that i have a purpose, and any talent that i display, they are ready to approve and to accept. they have _made advances_ to me here, and _proposed_ to take my music, which they seldom do; as all the others, even onslow, have been obliged to _offer_ their compositions. the london philharmonic have requested me to perform something new of my own there on the th of march. i also got the commission from munich without taking any step whatever to obtain it, and indeed not till _after_ my concert. it is my intention to give a concert here (if possible) and certainly in london in april, if the cholera does not prevent my going there; and this on my own account, in order to make money; i hope, therefore, i may say that i have also fulfilled this part of your wish--that i should make myself known to the public before returning to you. your injunction, too, to make choice of the country that i preferred to live in, i have equally performed, at least in a general point of view. that country is germany. this is a point on which i have now quite made up my mind. i cannot yet, however, decide on the particular city, for the most important of all, which for various reasons has so many attractions for me. i have not yet thought of in this light--i allude to berlin. on my return, therefore, i must ascertain whether i can remain and establish myself there, according to my views and wishes, after having seen and enjoyed other places. this is also why i do not endeavour to get the commission for an opera here. if i compose really good music, which in these days is indispensable, it will both be understood and valued in germany. (this has been the case with all the good operas there.) if i compose indifferent music, it will be quickly forgotten in germany, but here it would be often performed and extolled, and sent to germany, and given there on the authority of paris, as we daily see. but i do not choose this; and if i am not capable of composing good music, i have no wish to be praised for it. so i shall first try germany; and if things go so badly that i can no longer live there, i can then have recourse to some foreign country. besides, few german theatres are so bad or in so dilapidated a condition as the opéra comique here. one bankruptcy succeeds another. when cherubini is asked why he does not allow his operas to be given there, he replies, "je ne sais pas donner des opéras, sans choeur, sans orchestre, sans chanteurs, et sans décorations." the grand opéra has bespoken operas for years to come, so there is no chance of anything being accepted by it for the next three or four years. in the meantime therefore i intend to return to you to write my "tempest," and to see how it succeeds. the plan, therefore, dear father, that i wish to lay before you is this--to remain here till the end of march, or the beginning of april, (the invitation to the philharmonic for the th of march, i have of course declined, or rather postponed,) then to go to london for a couple of months. if the rhenish musical festival takes place, to which i am summoned, i shall go to düsseldorf; and if not, return direct to you by the shortest road, and be by your side in the garden soon after whitsunday. farewell! felix. paris, march th, . dear mother, [music] this is the th of march, . may every happiness and good attend you on this day. you prefer _receiving_ my letter on your birthday, to its being written on the day itself; but forgive me for saying that i cannot reconcile myself to this. my father said that no one could tell what might occur subsequently, therefore the letter ought to arrive on the anniversary of the day; but then i have this feeling in _double_ measure, as i neither in that case know what is to occur to _you_ on that day, nor to _myself_; but if your birthday be actually arrived, then i almost feel as if i were beside you, though you cannot hear my congratulations; but i can then send them to you, without any other solicitude than that of absence. this too will soon be over, please god. may he preserve you, and all at home, happily to me! i have now begun to throw myself in right earnest into a musical life, and as i know this must be satisfactory to you, i will write some details; for a letter and a sketch-book that i wished to send you some days ago by mortier's aide-de-camp, are still waiting, like all paris, for the departure of the marshal, which does not however take place. if the letter and the book do eventually reach you through this man, pray give a kind reception to the whole consignment, but especially to the man (count perthuis), for he is one of the most friendly and amiable persons i ever met with. i had told you in that letter, that i am to play beethoven's concerto in g major two days hence, in the conservatoire, and that the whole court are to be present for the first time at the concert. k---- is ready to poison me from envy; he at first tried by a thousand intrigues to prevent my playing altogether, and when he heard that the queen was actually coming, the did everything in his power to get me out of the way. happily all the other members of the conservatoire, the all-powerful habeneck in particular, are my faithful allies, and so he signally failed. he is the only musician here who acts unkindly and hypocritically towards me; and though i never placed much confidence in him, still it is always a very painful sensation to know that you are in the society of a person who hates you, but is careful not to show it. the th. i could not finish this letter, because during the last few days the incessant music i told you of, has been so overwhelming, that i really scarcely knew which way to turn. a mere catalogue therefore of all i have done, and have still to do, must suffice for to-day, and at the same time plead my excuse. i have just come back from a rehearsal at the conservatoire. we rehearsed steadily; twice yesterday, and to-day almost everything repeated, but now all goes swimmingly. if the audience to-morrow are only half as enchanted as the orchestra to-day, we shall do well; for they shouted loudly for the adagio _da capo_, and habeneck made them a little speech, to point out to them that at the close there was a solo bar, which they must be so good as to wait for. you would be gratified to see all the little kindnesses and courtesies the latter shows me. at the end of each movement of the symphony, he asks me if there is anything i do not approve of, so i have been able for the first time, to introduce into the french orchestra some favourite _nuances_ of my own. after the rehearsal baillot played my octett in his class, and if any man in the world can play it, he is the man. his performance was finer than i ever heard it, and so was that of urhan, norblin, and the others, who all attacked the piece with the most ardent energy and spirit. besides all this, i must finish the arrangement of the overture and the octett, and revise the quintett, as simrock has bought it. i must write out "lieder," and enjoy the author's delight of working up my b minor quartett, for it is to be brought out here by two different publishers, who have requested me to make some alterations before it is published. finally, i have _soirées_ every evening. to-night bohrer's; to-morrow a fête, with all the violin _gamins_ of the conservatoire; next day, rothschild; tuesday, the société des beaux-arts; wednesday my octett at the abbé bardin's; thursday my octett at madame kiéné's; friday, a concert at Érard's; sunday, a concert at léo's; and lastly, on monday--laugh if you choose--my octett is to be performed in a church, at a funeral mass in commemoration of beethoven. this is the strangest thing the world ever yet saw, but i could not refuse, and i in some degree enjoy the thoughts of being present, when low mass is read during the scherzo. i can scarcely imagine anything more absurd than a priest at the altar and my scherzo going on. it is like travelling _incognito_. last of all baillot gives a grand concert on the th of april, and so i have promised him to remain here till then, and to play a concerto of mozart's for him, and some other piece. on the th i take my place in the diligence, and set off to london, but before doing so i shall have heard my symphony in the conservatoire, and sold various pieces, and shall leave this, rejoicing in the friendly reception i have met with from the musicians here.--farewell! felix. paris, march st, . pray forgive my long silence, but i had nothing cheering to communicate, and am always very unwilling to write gloomy letters. indeed, this being the case, i had better still have remained silent, for i am in anything but a gay mood. but now that we have the spectre here,[ ] i mean to write to you regularly, that you may know that i am well, and pursuing my work. [ ] the cholera. the sad news of goethe's loss makes me feel poor indeed! what a blow to the country! it is another of those mournful events connected with my stay here, which will always recur to my mind at the very name of paris; and not all the kindness i have received, nor the tumult and excitement, nor the life and gaiety here, can ever efface this impression. may it please god to preserve me from still worse tidings, and grant us all a happy meeting; this is the chief thing! various circumstances have induced me to delay my departure from here for at least a fortnight,--that is, till the middle of april; and the idea of my concert has begun to revive in my mind; i mean to accomplish it too, if the cholera does not deter people from musical, or any other kind of réunions. we shall know this in the course of a week, and in any case i must remain here till then. i believe however that everything will go on in the usual regular course, and "figaro" prove to be in the right, who wrote an article called "enfoncé le choléra," in which he says that paris is the grave of all reputations, for no one there ever admired anything; yawning at paganini (he does not seem to please much this time), and not even looking round in the street at an emperor or a dey; so possibly this malady might also lose its formidable reputation there. count perthuis has no doubt told you of my playing at the conservatoire. the french say that it was _un beau succès_, and the audience were pleased. the queen, too, sent me all sorts of fine compliments on the subject. on saturday i am again to play twice in public. my octett, in church on monday last, exceeded in absurdity anything the world ever saw or heard of. while the priest was officiating at the altar during the scherzo, it really sounded like "fliegenschnauz und mückennas, verfluchte dilettanten." the people however considered it very fine sacred music. i am indeed delighted, dear father, that my quartett in b minor pleases you; it is a favourite of mine, and i like to play it, although the adagio is much too cloying; still, the scherzo that follows has all the more effect. i can see that you seem rather inclined to deride my a minor quartett, when you say that there is a piece of instrumental music which has made you rack your brains to discover the composer's thoughts; when, in fact, he probably had no thoughts at all. i must defend the work, for i love it; but it certainly depends very much on the way in which it is executed, and one single musician who could perform it with zeal and sympathy, as taubert did, would make a vast difference.--your felix. extract from a letter from london. london, april th, . i wish i could only describe how happy i feel to be here once more; how much i like everything, and how gratified i am by the kindness of old friends; but as it is all going on at this moment, i must be brief for to-day. i have also a number of people to seek out whom i have not yet seen, whilst i have been living with klingemann, rosen, and moscheles, in as close intimacy as if we had never been parted. they form the nucleus of my present sojourn; we see each other every day; it is such a pleasure to me to be once more with good, earnest men, and true friends, with whom i do not require to be on my guard, nor to study them either. moscheles and his wife show me a degree of touching kindness, which i value the more as my regard for them increases; and then the feeling of restored health, as if i lived afresh, and had come anew into this world--all these are combined.[ ] [ ] felix mendelssohn had an attack of cholera during the last weeks of his stay in paris. may th. i cannot describe to you the happiness of these first weeks here. as from time to time every evil seems to accumulate, as it did during my winter in paris, where i lost some of my most beloved friends, and never felt at home, and at last became very ill; so the reverse sometimes occurs, and thus it is in this charming country, where i am once more amongst friends, and am well, and among well-wishers, and enjoy in the fullest measure the sensation of returning health. moreover it is warm, the lilacs are in bloom, and music is going on: only imagine how pleasant all this is! i must really describe one happy morning last week: of all the flattering demonstrations i have hitherto received, it is the one which has most touched and affected me, and perhaps the only one which i shall always recall with fresh pleasure. there was a rehearsal last saturday at the philharmonic, where however nothing of mine was given, my overture not being yet written out. after "beethoven's pastoral symphony," during which i was in a box, i wished to go into the room to talk to some old friends; scarcely, however, had i gone down below, when one of the orchestra called out, "there is mendelssohn!" on which they all began shouting, and clapping their hands to such a degree, that for a time i really did not know what to do; and when this was over, another called out "welcome to him!" on which the same uproar recommenced, and i was obliged to cross the room, and to clamber into the orchestra and return thanks. never can i forget it, for it was more precious to me than any distinction, as it showed me that the _musicians_ loved me, and rejoiced at my coming, and i cannot tell you what a glad feeling this was. may th. dear father, i have received your letter of the th; god grant that zelter may by this time be safe, and out of danger! you say indeed that he already is so, but i shall anxiously expect your next letter, to see the news of his recovery confirmed. i have dreaded this ever since goethe's death, but when it actually occurs, it is a very different thing. may heaven avert it! pray tell me also what your mean by saying "there is no doubt that zelter both wishes, and requires, to have you with him, because, at all events for the present, it is quite impossible for him to carry on the academy, whence it is evident that if you do not undertake it, another must." has zelter expressed this wish to you, or do you only imagine that he entertains it? if the former were the case, i would instantly, on receiving your reply, write to zelter, and offer him every service in my power, of every kind, and try to relieve him from all his labours, for as long a period as he desired; and this it certainly would be my duty to do. i intended to have written to lichtenstein before my return about the proposal formerly made to me,[ ] but of course i have given up all thoughts of doing so at present; for on no account would i assume that zelter could not resume his duties, and even in that event, i could not reconcile myself to discuss the matter with any one but himself; every other mode of proceeding i should consider unfair towards him. if however he requires my services, i am ready, and shall rejoice if i can be of any use to him, but still more so, if he does not want me, and is entirely recovered. i beg you will write me a few words on this subject. [ ] in reference to a situation in the singacademie. i must now inform you of my plans and engagements till i leave this. yesterday i finished the "rondeau brillant," and i am to play it this day week at mori's evening concert. the day after i rehearse my munich concerto at the philharmonic, and play it on monday the th at their concert; on the st of june moscheles' concert, where, with him, i play a concerto of mozart's for two pianos, and conduct my two overtures, "the hebrides" and "the midsummer night's dream." finally, the last philharmonic is on the th, where i am to conduct some piece. i must finish the arrangement for cramer, and some "lieder" for the piano, also some songs with english words, besides some german ones for myself, for after all it is spring, and the lilacs are in bloom. last monday "the hebrides" was given for the first time in the philharmonic; it went admirably, and sounded very quaint among a variety of rossini pieces. the audience received both me and my work with extreme kindness. this evening is mr. vaughan's concert; but i am sure you must be quite sick of hearing of so many concerts, so i conclude. norwood, surrey, may th. these are hard times, and many are laid low![ ] may it please god to preserve you all to me, and to grant us a joyful meeting! you will receive this letter from the same villa whence i wrote to you three years ago last november, just before my return. [ ] he had received the news of zelter's death. i have now come out here for a few days to rest, and to collect my thoughts, just as i did at that time, on account of my health. all is unchanged here; my room is precisely the same; even the music in the old cupboard stands exactly in the same spot; the people are quite as considerate, and quiet, and attentive as formerly, and the three years have passed over both them and their house, as peacefully as if half the world had not been uprooted during that period. it is pleasant to see; the only difference is, that we have now gay spring, and apple-blossoms, and lilacs, and all kinds of flowers, whereas at that time we had autumn, with its fogs and blazing fires; but how much is now gone for ever, that we then still had; this gives much food for thought. just as at that time i wrote to you saying little, save "farewell till we meet;" so must it be to-day also. it will indeed be a graver meeting, and i bring no "liederspiel" with me composed in this room, as the former one was, but god grant i may only find you all well. you write, dear fanny, that i ought especially to hasten my return, in order if possible to secure the situation in the academy; but this i do not choose to do. i shall return as soon as i can, because my father writes that he wishes me to do so; i therefore intend to set off in about a fortnight, but solely for _that_ reason; the other motive would rather tend to detain me here, indeed, if any motive could do so; for i will in no manner solicit the situation. when i reminded my father formerly of the proposal of the director, the reason which he then advanced against it, seemed to me perfectly just; he said that he regarded this place rather as a sinecure for more advanced years, "when the academy might be resorted to as a harbour of refuge." for the next few years i aspire as little to _this_ as to any other situation; my purpose is to live by the fruits of my labours, just as i do here, and my resolve is to be independent. considering the peculiar position of the academy, the small salary they give, and the great influence they might exercise, the place of director seems to me only an honourable post, which i have no desire to _sue_ for. if they were to offer it to me, i would accept it, because i promised formerly to do so; but only for a settled time and on certain conditions; and if they do not intend to offer it, then my presence can be of no possible use. i do not certainly require to convince them of my capability for the office, and i neither will, nor can, intrigue. besides, for the reasons i mentioned in a previous letter, i cannot leave england till after the th, and the affair will no doubt be decided before that time. i beg that no step of any kind may be taken on my behalf, except _that_ which my father mentioned concerning my immediate return; but nothing in the smallest degree approaching to solicitation; and when they do make their choice, i only hope that they may find a man who will perform his duties with as much zeal as old zelter. i received the intelligence in the morning just as i was going to write to him; then came a rehearsal of my new piece for the piano, with its wild gaiety, and when the musicians were applauding and complimenting me, i could not help feeling strongly, that i was indeed in a foreign land. i then came here, where i found both men and places unchanged; but hauser unexpectedly arrived, and we fell into each other's arms, and recalled the happy days we had enjoyed together in south germany the previous autumn, and all that has passed away for ever, during the last six months. your mournful news was always present to me in its sad reality--so this is the manner in which i have spent the last few days here. forgive me for not being able to write properly to-day. i go to town this evening to play, and also to-morrow, sunday, and monday. i have now a favour to ask of you, dear father, in reference to the cantatas of sebastian bach, which zelter possessed. if you can possibly prevent their being disposed of before my return, pray do so, for i am most anxious at any price to see the entire collection before it is dispersed. i might have told you of many agreeable things that have occurred to me during the last few weeks, for every day brings me fresh proofs that the people like me, and are glad to associate with me; which is gratifying, and makes my life here easy and pleasant; but to-day i really cannot. perhaps in my next letter my spirits may be sufficiently restored, to return to my usual narrative style. many remembrances from the moscheles; they are excellent people, and after so long an interval, it is most cheering once more to meet an artist, who is not a victim to envy, jealousy, or miserable egotism. he makes continued and steady progress in his art. the warm sun is shining out-of-doors, so i shall now go down into the garden, to perform some gymnastics there, and to smell the lilacs; this will show you that i am well. london, june st. on the day that i received the news of zelter's death, i thought that i should have had a serious illness, and indeed during the whole of the ensuing week i could not shake off this feeling. my manifold engagements however have now diverted my thoughts, and brought me to myself, or rather out of myself. i am well again, and very busy. first of all i must thank you, dear father, for your kind letter. it is in a great measure already answered by my previous one, but i will now repeat why i decline sending any application to the committee. in the first place, i quite agree with your former opinion, that this situation in the academy is not desirable at the outset of my career; indeed i could only accept it for a certain time, and under particular conditions, and even then, solely to perform my previous promise. if i solicit it, i am bound to accept the place, as they choose to give it, and to comply with their conditions as to salary, duties, etc., though i do not as yet even know what these are. in the second place, the reason they gave you why i should write, seems to me neither a true nor a straightforward one. they say they wish to be certain i will accept of it, and that on this account i must enroll myself among the candidates; but they _offered_ it to me three years ago, and lichtenstein said they did so to ascertain if i would take it, and begged me to give a distinct answer on this point; at that time i said _yes_, that i was willing to carry it on, along with rungenhagen. i am not sure that i should think the same now; but as i said so then, i can no longer draw back, and must keep my word. it is not necessary to repeat my assent, for as i once gave it, so it must remain; still less can i do so when i should have to _offer_ myself to them for the post they once _offered to me_. if they were disposed to adhere to their former offer, they would not require me to take a step which they took themselves three years ago; on the contrary, they would remember the assent i then gave, for they must know that i am incapable of breaking such a promise. a confirmation of my former promise is therefore quite unnecessary, and if they intend to appoint another to the situation, my letter would not prevent their doing so. i must further refer to my letter from paris, in which i told you that i wished to return to berlin in the spring, as it was the only city in germany with which i was still unacquainted. this is my well-weighed purpose; i do not know how i shall get on in berlin, or whether i shall be able to remain there,--that is, whether i shall be able to enjoy the same facilities for work, and progress, that are offered to me in other places. the only house that i know in berlin is our own, and i feel certain i shall be quite happy there; but i must also be in a position to be actively employed, and this i shall discover when i return. i hope that all will come to pass as i wish, for of course the spot where _you_ live must be always dearest to me; but till i know this to a certainty i do not wish to fetter myself by any situation. i conclude, because i have a vast deal to do to enable me to set off after the next philharmonic. i must publish several pieces before i go; i receive numbers of commissions on all sides, and some so gratifying that i exceedingly regret not being able to set to work at once. among others, i this morning got a note from a publisher, who wishes me to give him the score of two grand pieces of sacred music, for morning and evening service; you may imagine how much i am pleased with this proposal, and immediately on my arrival in the leipziger strasse i intend to begin them. "the hebrides" i mean to reserve for a time for myself, before arranging it as a duet; but my new rondo is in hand, and i must finish those everlasting "lieder" for the piano, as well as various other arrangements, and probably the concerto. i played it last monday in the philharmonic, and i think i never in my life had such success. the audience were crazy with delight, and declared it was my best work. i am now going to moscheles' concert, to conduct there, and to play mozart's concerto, in which i have inserted two long cadences for each of us. felix. the end transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and black letter text is denoted by =equals signs=. over the ocean; or, sights and scenes in foreign lands. by curtis guild, editor of the boston commercial bulletin. boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: lee, shepard and dillingham. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by lee and shepard, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. cambridge: printed by welch, bigelow, & co. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry, no. spring lane. preface. the following pages are the record of the fruition of years of desire and anticipation; probably the same that fills the hearts of many who will read them--a tour in europe. the habits of observation, acquired by many years' constant occupation as a journalist, were found by the author to have become almost second nature, even when the duties of that profession were thrown aside for simple gratification and enjoyment; consequently, during a journey of nearly seven months, which was enjoyed with all the zest of a first tour, the matter which composes this volume was prepared. its original form was in a series of sketches in the columns of the boston commercial bulletin. in these the writer attempted to give as vivid and exact an idea of the sights and scenes which he witnessed as could be conveyed to those who had never visited europe. whether describing westminster abbey, or york minster, stratford-on-avon, or the streets of london; the wonders of the louvre, or the gayeties and glitter of paris; the grandeur of the alpine passes; the quaintness of old continental cities; experiences of post travelling; the romantic beauties of the italian lakes; the underground wonders of adelsberg, or the aqueous highways of venice,--the author aimed to give many minute particulars, which foreign letter-writers deem of too little importance to mention, but which, nevertheless, are of great interest to the reader. that the effort was, in some measure, successful, has been evinced by a demand for the sketches in permanent form, sufficient to warrant the publication of this volume. in so presenting them, it is with the belief that it may be pleasant to those who have visited the same scenes to revisit them in fancy with the writer, and with a hope that the volume may, in some degree, serve as a guide to those who intend to go "over the ocean," as well as an agreeable entertainment to the stay-at-homes. c. g. contents. page chapter i. going abroad.--what it costs.--hints to tourists.--life on board ship.--land ho!--examining luggage.--the emerald isle.--blarney castle.--dublin.--dublin castle.--st. patrick's cathedral.--cheap john's paradise.--phoenix park.--across the irish sea.--railroad travelling in england.--guard _vs._ conductor.--word to the wise.-- railroad stations.--an old english city.--chester cathedral.--the city walls. - chapter ii. chester to liverpool.--an english breakfast.--a trial of patience.--liverpool docks.--st. george's hall.--poverty and suffering.--the lake district.--home of the poets.-- keswick.--an english church.--the druids' temple.-- brougham hall.--a roadside inn. - chapter iii. edinburgh.--historic streets.--edinburgh castle.--bonnie dundee.--rooms of historic story.--the scottish regalia. --curiosities of the old city.--holyrood palace.--relics of the past.--holyrood abbey.--antiquarian museum.--scott and scotland.--hawthornden.--roslin chapel.--melrose abbey.--the abbey hotel.--abbotsford.--stirling castle.-- the tournament field.--field of bannockburn.--lady of the lake scenes.--scotch lakes and hills. - chapter iv. glasgow cathedral.--vestiges of vandalism.--bible stories in colored glass.--the actor's epitaph.--tam o'shanter's ride.--burns's cottage.--kirk alloway.--a reminder from the witches.--bonnie doon.--newcastle-on-tyne.--york.-- beauties of york minster.--old saxon relics.--sheffield.-- the cutlery works.--english mechanics.--english ale.-- chatsworth.--interior of the palace.--sculpture gallery.-- landscape effects.--grand conservatory.--haddon hall. - chapter v. kenilworth.--stratford on avon.--interesting mementos.-- stratford church.--shakespeare's safeguard.--warwick castle.--dungeon and hall.--warder's horn and warwick vase.--leicester's hospital.--beauchamp chapel.--mugby junction.--oxford.--the mitre tavern.--bodleian library. --literary treasures.--curiosities and rarities.--story of an old portrait.--queen bess on matrimony.--addison's walk.--boating on the isis.--martyr's memorial. - chapter vi. london.--feeing servants.--railway porters.--london hotels.--sights in london streets.--cabs and cab-drivers. --london shops.--hints to buyers.--a london banking-house. --routine _vs._ courtesy.--westminster abbey.--tombs of kings and warriors.--poets' corner.--tributes to genius. --penny steamboat trip.--kew gardens.--the star and garter. - chapter vii. the original wax works.--london theatres.--full dress at the opera.--play bills.--a palace for the people.--parks of london.--zoölogical gardens.--the tower of london.--the silver key.--site of the scaffold.--knights in armor.-- regalia of england.--st. paul's.--the whispering gallery. --up into the ball.--down into the crypt.--gog and magog. --bank of england.--hampton court palace.--the gardens and people.--windsor castle.--windsor parks.--london newspapers.--the times.--the british museum.-- bibliographical curiosities.--egyptian galleries.--a wealth of antiquities.--original magna charta.--priceless manuscripts. - chapter viii. from london to paris.--grand hotels.--the arch of triumph. --paris by gaslight.--site of the guillotine.-- improvements in paris.--the bastille.--the old guard.--the louvre.--gallery of masterpieces.--relics of napoleon i. --palais royal.--jewelry.--french funeral.--père la chaise. --millions in marble.--tomb of bonaparte.--versailles.-- halls of the crusades.--gallery of the empire.--gallery of battles.--theatre in the palace.--fountains at versailles. --notre dame.--sainte chapelle.--the madeleine.--the pantheon.--les champs elysées.--cafés chantants.--the jardin mabille.--the luxembourg.--palace of st. cloud.-- shops in paris.--bargains. - chapter ix. good by to paris.--church of st. gudule.--field of waterloo.--brussels lace.--antwerp.--the cathedral spire. --dusseldorf.--cologne cathedral.--riches of the church. --up the rhine.--bridge of boats.--coblentz and ehrenbreitstein.--stolzenfels.--legendary castles.--bingen on the rhine.--roman remains.--mayence.--wiesbaden.-- gambling halls.--frankfort-on-the-main.--heidelberg castle. --the great tun.--the king's seat.--baden-baden.--sabbath amusement.--satan's snare baited.--among the gamblers.-- scene at the table.--strasburg cathedral.--strasburg clock.--clock at basle.--swiss railways.--travelling in switzerland.--zurich and its scenery. - chapter x. the righi.--guides and alpenstocks.--climbing the alps.-- night on the mountain top.--the yodlyn.--lucerne.-- wonderful organ playing.--a sail on lake lucerne.--scene of tell's archery.--the st. gothard pass.--the devil's bridge.--the brunig pass.--a valley of beauty.--interlaken. --staubbach waterfall.--glaciers and avalanches.--an illuminated waterfall.--berne.--the freiburg organ.--lake leman.--the prison of chillon.--geneva.--swiss washerwomen. --glaciers by moonlight.--sunrise on mont blanc.--valley of chamouny.--view from flegère.--climbing again.--crossing the sea of ice.--the mauvais pass.--under a glacier.--the tête noir pass.--italian post drivers.--the rhone valley. --simplon pass.--gorge of gondo.--fressinone waterfall.-- domo d'ossola.--an italian inn.--lake maggiore.--milan cathedral.--a wonderful statue.--death and dross.--the la scala theatre.--lake como.--italian monks.--madesimo waterfall. - chapter xi. the splügen pass.--the via main.--tamina gorge.--falls of schaffhausen.--munich.--galleries of paintings.--grecian sculpture restored.--a bronze giant.--hall of the colossi. --the palace.--basilica of st. boniface.--salzburg.-- aquarial wonders.--visiting lilliput.--vienna.--judging by appearances.--royal regalia.--cabinet of minerals.--the ambras museum. - chapter xii. superb mausoleum.--the strauss band.--summer palace.-- imperial gallery.--vienna leather work.--shops and prices. --the cave of adelsberg.--underground wonders.--nature's imitation of art. - chapter xiii. venice.--gondolas and gondoliers.--shylock.--the rialto.-- the giant's staircase.--the lion's mouth.--terrible dungeons.--square of st. mark.--the bronze horses.--church of st. mark.--titian's monument.--canova's monument.-- cathedrals and pictures.--florence.--art in the streets.-- the uffizi gallery.--old masters in battalions.--hall of niobe.--cabinet of gems.--michael angelo's house.--the duomo.--the campanile.--church of santa croce.--michael angelo's statuary.--florentine mosaics.--medicean chapel. --pitti palace.--halls of the gods.--the cascine.--powers, the sculptor. - chapter xiv. tower of pisa.--the duomo.--galileo's lamp.--the baptistery.--campo santo.--over the apennines.--genoa.-- streets of genoa.--pallavicini gardens.--water jokes.-- turin to susa.--mt. cenis pass.--paris again.--down in the sewers. - chapter xv. sic transit.--english rudeness.--wonders of london.-- looking towards home.--last purchases.--english conservatism.--reunion of tourists.--all aboard.--home again. - over the ocean. chapter i. do you remember, dear reader, when you were a youngster, and studied a geography with pictures in it, or a "first" or "second" book of history, and wondered, as you looked upon the wood-cuts in them, if you should ever see st. paul's cathedral, or westminster abbey, or london bridge, or go to the tower of london, and into the very room in which the poor little princes were smothered by the order of their cruel uncle richard, by the two rude fellows in a sort of undress armor suit, as depicted in the child's history of england, or should ever see the paris you had heard your elders talk so much of, or those curious old rhine castles, of which we read so many startling legends of robber knights, and fair ladies, and tournaments, and gnomes, and enchanters? what a realm of enchantment to us, story-book readers, was beyond the great blue ocean! and how we resolved, when we grew to be a man, we would travel all over the world, and see every thing, and buy ever so many curious things in the countries where they grew or were made. even that compound which produced "the finest jet black ever beheld," was to us invested with a sort of poetic interest in boyhood's day, for the very stone jug that we held in our hand had come from london,--" high holborn,"--and there was the picture of the palatial-looking factory on the pink label. london! there was something sonorous in the sound, and something solid in the very appearance of the word when written. when we were a man, didn't we mean to go to london! years added to youth dissipated many of these air-built castles, and other barriers besides the watery plain intervene between the goal of one's wishes, and europe looks further away than ever. "going to europe! everybody goes to europe nowadays," says a friend. true, and in these days of steam it is not so much of an event as formerly; indeed, one would judge so from many of his countrymen that he meets abroad, who make him blush to think how they misrepresent americans. the great expositions at london and paris drew from our shores every american who could by any manner of means or excuse leave business, and obtain funds sufficient to get over and back, if only for a six weeks' visit. the exposition brought out to paris and to europe, among the swarm of americans who went over, many such, and some who had scarcely visited beyond the confines of their native cities before crossing the atlantic. these people, by their utter inexperience as travellers, and by their application of the precept inculcated in their minds that money would answer for brains, was a substitute for experience, and the only passport that would be required anywhere and for anything, became a source of mortification to their countrymen, easy game for swindling landlords and sharp shop-keepers, and rendered all the great routes of travel more beset with extortions and annoyances than ever before. but about "going to europe." when one decides to start on a pleasure trip to that country for the first time, how many very simple things he wishes to know, that correspondents and people who write for the papers have never said anything about. after having once or twice gone over in a steamship, it never seems to occur to these writers that anybody else will want to become acquainted with the little minutiæ of information respecting life on board ship during the trip, and which most people do not like to say they know nothing about; and novices, therefore, have to clumsily learn by experience, and sometimes at four times the usual cost. speaking of cost, let me say that this is a matter upon which hardly any two tourists will agree. how much does it cost to go to europe? of course the cost is varied by the style of living and the thoroughness with which one sees sights; by thoroughness i mean, besides expenditure of time, the use of extra shillings "_pour boires_," and the skilful dispensation of extra funds, which will gain admission to many a forbidden shrine, insure many an unexpected comfort, and shorten many a weary journey. there is one popular error which one quickly becomes disabused of, and that is, that everything abroad is dirt cheap, and it costs a mere song to live. good articles always bring good prices. many may be cheaper than at home, it is true, but they are by no means thrown away, and good living in paris cannot be had, as some suppose, for three francs a day. if one is going abroad for pleasure, and has a taste for travelling, let him first decide what countries he wishes to visit, the routes and time he will take, and then from experienced tourists ascertain about what it would cost; after having learned this, add twenty per cent. to that amount, and he will be safe. safe in the knowledge that you have enough; safe in being able to make many little purchases that you will never dream of till you reach regent street, the boulevards, the "piazza san marco," the florence mosaic stores, or the naples coral shops. safe in making little side excursions to noted places that you will find on your route, and safe from the annoying reflection that you might have done so much better, and seen so much more, if you had not limited the expenditure to that very amount which your friend said would take you through. these remarks of course apply only to those who feel that they can afford but a fixed sum for the journey, and who ought always to wait till they can allow a little margin to the fixed sum, the more completely to enjoy the trip. i have seen americans in french restaurants actually calculating up the price of a dinner, and figuring out the price of exchange, to see if they should order a franc's worth more or less. we may judge how much such men's enjoyment is abridged. on the other hand, the class that i refer to, who imagine that money will pass for everything, increase the cost of travel to all, by their paying without abatement the demands of landlords and shopkeepers. the latter class, on the continent, are so accustomed, as a matter of course, to being "beaten down" in the price, that it has now come to be a saying among them, that he who pays what is at first demanded must be a fool or an american. in paris, during the exposition, green englishmen and freshly-arrived americans were swindled without mercy. the jewelry shops of the rue de la paix, the grand hotel, the shops of the palais royal, and the very boulevard cafés fleeced men unmercifully. the entrance of an american into a french store was always the occasion of adding from twenty to twenty-five per cent. to the regular price of the goods. it was a rich harvest to the cringing crew, who, with smirks, shrugs, bows, and _pardonnez moi's_ in the oiliest tones, swindled and cheated without mercy, and then, over their half franc's worth of black coffee at the restaurant, or glass of absinthe, compared notes with each other, and boasted, not how much trade they had secured or business they had done, but how much beyond the legitimate price they had got from the foreign purchaser, whom they laughed at. all the guide-books and many tourists exclaim against baggage, and urge the travelling with a single small trunk, or, as they call it in england, portmanteau. this is very well for a bachelor, travelling entirely alone, and who expects to go into no company, and will save much time and expense at railway stations; but there is some comfort in having wardrobe enough and some space for small purchases, even if a little extra has to be paid. it is the price of convenience in one respect, although the continual weighing of and charging for baggage is annoying to an american, who is unused to that sort of thing; and one very curious circumstance is discovered in this weighing, no two scales on the continent give the same weight of the same luggage. passage tickets from america to europe it is, of course, always best to secure some time in advance, and a previous visit to the steamer may aid the fresh tourist in getting a state-room near the centre of the ship, near the cabin stairs, and one having a dead-light, all of which are desirable things. have some old clothes to wear on the voyage; remember it is cold at sea even in summer; and carry, besides your overcoat and warm under-clothing, some shawls and railway rugs, the latter to lie round on deck with when you are seasick. there is no cure for seasickness; keep on deck, and take as much exercise as possible; hot drinks, and a hot water bottle at the feet are reliefs. people's appetites come to them, after seasickness, for the most unaccountable things, and as soon as the patient 'hankers' for anything, by all means let him get it, if it is to be had on board; for it is a sure sign of returning vigor, and in nine cases out of ten, is the very thing that will bring the sufferer relief. i have known a delicate young lady, who had been unable to eat anything but gruel for three days, suddenly have an intense longing for corned beef and cabbage, and, after eating heartily of it, attend her meals regularly the remainder of the voyage. some make no effort to get well from port to port, and live in their state-rooms on the various little messes they imagine may relieve them, and which are promptly brought either by the stewardess or bedroom steward of the section of state-rooms they occupy. the tickets on the cunard line express, or did express, that the amount received includes "stewards' fees;" but any one who wants to be well served on the trip will find that a sovereign to the table steward, and one to the bedroom steward,--the first paid the last day before reaching port, and the second by instalments of half to commence with, and half just before leaving,--will have a marvellously good effect, and that it is, in fact, an expected fee. if it is your first voyage, and you expect to be sick, speak to the state-room steward, who has charge of the room you occupy, or the stewardess, if you have a lady with you; tell him you shall probably need his attention, and he must look out for you; hand him half a sovereign and your card, with the number of your room, and you will have occasion to experience most satisfactorily the value of british gold before the voyage is over. if a _desirable_ seat at the table is required in the dining-saloon--that is, an outside or end seat, where one can get out and in easily,--or at the table at which the captain sometimes presides, a similar interview with the saloon steward, a day or two before sailing, may accomplish it. besides these stewards, there are others, who are known as deck stewards, who wait upon seasick passengers, who lie about the decks in various nooks, in pleasant weather, and who have their meals brought to them by these attentive fellows from the cabin table. it is one phase of seasickness that some of the sufferers get well enough to lie languidly about in the fresh, bracing air, and can eat certain viands they may fancy for the nonce, but upon entering the enclosed saloon, are at once, from the confined air or the more perceptible motion of the ship, afflicted with a most irrepressible and disagreeable nausea. well, the ticket for liverpool is bought, your letter of credit prepared, and you are all ready for your first trip across the water. people that you know, who have been often, ask, in a _nonchalant_ style, what "boat" you are going "over" in; you thought it was a steamer, and the easy style with which they talk of running over for a few weeks, or should have gone this month, if they hadn't been so busy, or they shall probably see you in vienna, or rome, or st. petersburg, causes you to think that this, to you, tremendous undertaking of a first voyage over the atlantic is to be but an insignificant excursion, after all, and that the entire romance of the affair and the realizing of your imagination is to be dissolved like one of youth's castles in the air. so it seems as you ride down to the steamer, get on board, pushing amid the crowds of passengers and leave-taking friends; and not until a last, and perhaps, tearful leave-taking, and when the vessel fairly swings out into the stream, and you respond to the fluttering signal of dear ones on shore, till rapid receding renders face and form indistinguishable, do you realize that you are fairly launched on the great ocean, and friends and home are left behind, as they never have been before. one's first experience upon the great, awful ocean is never to be forgotten. my esteem for that great navigator, christopher columbus, has risen one hundred per cent. since i have crossed it, to think of the amount of courage, strength of mind, and faith it must have required to sustain him in his venturesome voyage in the frail and imperfect crafts which those of his day must have been. two days out, and the great broad sweep of the atlantic makes its influence felt upon all who are in any degree susceptible. to the landsman, the steamship seems to have a regular gigantic see-saw motion, very much like that of the toy ships that used to rise and fall on mimic waves, moved by clock-work, on clocks that used to be displayed in the store windows of jewellers and fancy dealers. now the bows rise with a grand sweep,--now they sink again as the vessel plunges into an advancing wave,--up and down, up and down, and forging ahead to the never-ceasing, tremulous jar of the machinery. in the calmest weather there is always one vast swell, and when wind or storm prevails, it is both grand and terrible. the great, vast ocean is something so much beyond anything i ever imagined,--the same vast expanse of dark-blue rolling waves as far as the eye can reach,--day after day, day after day,--the great ship a mere speck, an atom in the vast circle of water,--water everywhere. the very wind sounds differently than on land; a cheerful breeze is like the breath of a giant, and a playful wave will send a dozen hogsheads of water over the lofty bulwarks. but in a stiff breeze, when a great wave strikes like an iron avalanche against the ship, she seems to pause and shudder, as it were, beneath the blow; then, gathering strength from the unceasing throb of the mighty power within, urges her way bravely on, while far as the eye can reach, as the ship sinks in the watery valleys, you see the great black tossing waves, all crested with spray and foam, like a huge squadron of white-plumed giant cavalry. the spray sometimes flies high over the smoke-stack, and a dash of saline drops, coming fiercely into the face, feels like a handful of pebbles. a look around on the vast expanse, and the ship which at the pier seemed so huge, so strong, so unyielding, becomes an atom in comparison,--is tossed, like a mere feather, upon old ocean's bosom; and one realizes how little is between him and eternity. there seem to be no places that to my mind bring man so sensibly into the presence of almighty god as in the midst of the ocean during a storm, or amid the grand and lofty peaks of the alps; all other feelings are swallowed up in the mute acknowledgment of god's majesty and man's insignificance. if ever twelve days seem long to a man, it is during his first voyage across the atlantic; and the real beauty of green grass is best appreciated by seeing it on the shores of queenstown as the steamer sails into cork harbor. land again! how well we all are! a sea voyage,--it is nothing. every one who is going ashore here is in the bustle of preparation. we agree to meet a and party in london; we will call on b in paris,--yes, we shall come across c in switzerland. how glib we are talking of the old country! for here it is,--no three thousand miles of ocean to cross now. a clear, bright sunday morning, and we are going ashore in the little tug which we can see fuming down the harbor to meet us. we part with companions with a feeling of regret. seated on the deck of the little tug, the steamer again looms up, huge and gigantic, and we wonder that the ocean could have so tossed her about. but the bell rings, the ropes are cast off, the tug steams away, our late companions give us three parting cheers, and we respond as the distance rapidly widens between us. custom-house officials examine your luggage on the tug. american tourists have but very little trouble, and the investigation is slight; cigars and fire-arms not forming a prominent feature in your luggage, but little, if any, inconvenience may be anticipated. this ordeal of the custom-house constitutes one of the most terrible bugbears of the inexperienced traveller. it is the common opinion that an inspection of your baggage means a general and reckless overhauling of the personal property in your trunks--a disclosure of the secrets of the toilet, perhaps of the meagreness of your wardrobe, and a laying of profane hands on things held especially sacred. ladies naturally dread this experience, and gentlemen, too, who have been foolish enough to stow away some little articles that custom-house regulations have placed under the ban. but the examination is really a very trifling affair; it is conducted courteously and rapidly, and the traveller laughs to himself about his unfounded apprehensions. the tug is at the wharf; the very earth has a pleasant smell; let us get on _terra firma_. now, then, a landsman finds out, after his first voyage, what "sea legs" on and sea legs off, that he has read of so much in books, mean. he cannot get used to the steadiness of the ground, or rather, get at once rid of the unsteadiness of the ship. i found myself reeling from side to side on the sidewalk, and on entering the queen's hotel, holding on to a desk with one hand, to steady myself, while i wrote with the other. the rolling motion of the ship, to which you have become accustomed, is once more perceptible; and i knew one friend, who did not have a sick day on board ship, who was taken landsick two hours after stepping on shore, and had as thorough a casting up of accounts for an hour as any of us experienced on the steamer at sea. the cunard steamers generally arrive at, or used to arrive at, queenstown on sunday mornings, and all who land are eager to get breakfast ashore. we tried the queen's hotel, where we got a very fair breakfast, and were charged six or eight shillings for the privilege of the ladies sitting in a room till the meal was ready for us--the first, and i think the only, positive swindle i experienced in ireland. after breakfast the first ride on an english (or rather irish) railway train took us to cork. the road was through a lovely country, and, although it was the first of may, green with verdure as with us in june--no harsh new england east winds; and one can easily see in this country how may-day came to be celebrated with may-queens, dances, and may-poles. to us, just landed from the close steamer, how grateful was the fragrance of the fresh earth, the newly-blossomed trees, and the hedges all alive with twittering sparrows! the country roads were smooth, hard, and clear as a ball-room floor; the greensward, fresh and bright, rolled up in luxuriant waves to the very foot of the great brown-trunked trees; chapel bells were tolling, and we saw the irish peasantry trudging along to church, for all the world as though they had just stepped out of the pictures in the story-books. there were the women with blue-gray cloaks, with hoods at the back, and broad white caps, men in short corduroys, brogues, bobtail coats, caubeens and shillalah; then there was an occasional little tip-cart of the costermonger and his wife, drawn by a donkey; the jaunting-car, with half a dozen merry occupants, all forming the moving figures in the rich landscape of living green in herbage, and the soft brown of the half moss-covered stone walls, or the corrugated stems of the great trees. we were on shore again; once more upon a footing that did not slide from beneath the very step, and the never-ending broad expanse of heaving blue was exchanged for the more grateful scene of pleasant fields and waving trees; the sufferings of a first voyage had already begun to live in remembrance only as a hideous nightmare. a good hotel at cork is the imperial hotel; the attendance prompt, the chamber linen fresh and clean, the viands well prepared. the scenery around cork is very beautiful, especially on the eastern side, on what is known as the upper and lower glanmere roads, which command fine views. the principal promenade is a fine raised avenue, or walk, over a mile in length, extending through the meadows midway between two branches of the river lee, and shaded by a double row of lofty and flourishing elms. our first walk in ireland was from the imperial hotel to the mardyke. fifteen minutes brought us to the river lee; and now, with the city proper behind us, did we enjoy the lovely scene spread out to view. in the month of may one realizes why ireland is called the emerald isle--such lovely green turf, thick, luxurious, and velvety to the tread, and so lively a green; fancy new england grass varnished and polished, and you have it. the shade trees were all in full leaf, the fruit trees in full flower; sheep and lambs gamboling upon the greensward, birds piping in the hedges, and _such_ hedges, and laburnums, and clambering ivy, and hawthorn, the air perfumed with blossoms, the blue sky in the background pierced by the turrets of an old edifice surrounded by tall trees, round which wheeled circles of cawing rooks; the little cottages we passed, half shrouded in beautiful clambering irish ivy, that was peopled by the nests of the brisk little sparrows, filling the air with their twitterings; the soft spring breeze, and the beautiful reach of landscape--all seemed a realization of some of those scenes that poets write of, and which we sometimes fancy owe their existence to the luxuriance of imagination. returning, we passed through another portion of the city, which gave us a somewhat different view; it was nearly a mile of irish cabins. of course one prominent feature was dirt, and we witnessed pat in all his national glory. a newly-arrived american cannot help noticing the deference paid to caste and position; we, who treat irish servants and laborers so well as we do, are surprised to see how much better _they_ treat their employers in ireland, and how little kind treatment the working class receive from those immediately above them. the civil and deferential pat who steps aside for a well-dressed couple to pass, and touches his hat, in cork, is vastly different from the independent, voting pat that elbows you off the sidewalk, or puffs his fragrant pipe into your very face in america. in ireland he accepts a shilling with gratitude, and invocation of blessings on the donor; in america he condescends to receive two dollars a day! a fellow-passenger remarked that in the old country they were a race of touch-hats, in the new one of go to ----. i found them here obliging and civil, ready to earn an honest penny, and grateful for it, and much more inclined to "blarney" a little extra from the traveller than to swindle it out of him. i made an arrangement with a lively driver to take us to the celebrated blarney castle in a jaunting-car--a delightful vehicle to ride in of a pleasant spring day, as it was on that of our excursion. the cars for these rides are hung on springs, are nicely cushioned, and the four passengers sit back to back, facing to the side; and there being no cover or top to the vehicle, there is every opportunity of seeing the passing landscape. no american who has been interested in the beautiful descriptions of english and irish scenery by the british poets can realize their truthfulness until he looks upon it, the characteristics of the scenery, and the very climate, are so different from our own. the ride to blarney castle is a delightfully romantic one, of about six miles; the road, which is smooth, hard, and kept in excellent order, winds upon a side hill of the river lee, which you see continually flashing in and out in its course through the valley below; every inch of ground appears to be beautifully cultivated. the road is lined with old brown stone walls, clad with ivy of every variety--dark-green, polished leaf, irish ivy, small leaf, heart leaf, broad leaf, and lance leaf, such as we see cultivated in pots and green-houses at home, was here flourishing in wild luxuriance. the climate here is so moist that every rock and stone fence is clad with some kind of verdure; the whole seems to satisfy the eye. the old trees are circled round and round in the ivy clasp; the hedges are in their light-green livery of spring; there are long reaches of pretty rustic lanes, with fresh green turf underneath grand old trees, and there are whole banks of violets and primroses--yes, whole banks of such pretty, yellow primroses as we preserve singly in pots at home. there are grand entrances to avenues leading up to stately estates, pretty ivy-clad cottages, peasants' miserable, thatched cabins, great sweeps of green meadow, and the fields and woods are perfectly musical with singing birds, so unlike america: there are linnets, that pipe beautifully; finches, thrushes, and others, that fill the air with their warblings; skylarks, that rise in regular circles high into the air, singing beautifully, till lost to vision; rooks, that caw solemnly, and gather in conclaves on trees and roofs. nature seems trying to cover the poverty and squalor that disfigures the land with a mantle of her own luxuriance and beauty. blarney castle is a good specimen of an old ruin of that description for the newly-arrived tourist to visit, as it will come up to his expectation in many respects, in appearance, as to what he imagined a ruined castle to be, from books and pictures. it is a fine old building, clad inside and out with ivy, situated near a river of the same name, and on a high limestone rock; it was built in the year . in the reign of elizabeth it was the strongest fortress in munster, and at different periods has withstood regular sieges; it was demolished, all but the central tower, in the year . the celebrated blarney stone is about two feet below the summit of the tower, and held in its place by iron stanchions; and as one is obliged to lie at full length, and stretch over the verge of the parapet, having a friend to hold upon your lower limbs, for fear an accidental slip or giddiness may send you a hundred feet below, it may be imagined that the act of kissing the blarney stone is not without its perils. however, that duty performed, and a charming view enjoyed of the rich undulating country from the summit, and inspection made of some of the odd little turret chambers of the tower, and loopholes for archery, we descended, gratified the old woman who acts as key-bearer by crossing her palm with silver, strolled amid the beautiful groves of blarney for a brief period, and finally rattled off again in our jaunting-cars over the romantic road. the shelborne house, dublin, is a hotel after the american style, a good fifth avenue sort of affair, clean, and well kept, and opposite a beautiful park (stephens green). americans will find this to be a house that will suit their tastes and desires as well, if not better, than any other in dublin. sackville street, in dublin, is said to be one of the finest streets in europe. i cannot agree with the guide-books in this opinion, although, standing on carlisle bridge, and looking down this broad avenue, with the nelson monument, one hundred and ten feet in height, in the centre, and its stately stores on each side, it certainly has a very fine appearance. here i first visited shops on the other side of the water, and the very first thing that strikes an american is the promptness with which he is served, the civility with which he is treated, the immense assortment and variety of goods, and the effort of the salesmen to do everything to accommodate the purchaser. they seem to say, by their actions, "we are put here to attend to buyers' wants; to serve them, to wait upon them, to make the goods and the establishment attractive; to sell goods, and we want to sell goods." on the other hand, in our own country the style and manner of the clerks is too often that of "i'm just as good, and a little better, than you--buy, if you want, or leave--we don't care whether we sell or not--it's a condescension to inform you of our prices; don't expect any attention." the variety of goods in the foreign shops is marvellous to an american; one pattern or color not suiting, dozens of others are shown, or anything will be made at a few hours' notice. here in dublin are the great irish poplin manufactures; and in these days of high prices, hardly any american lady leaves dublin without a dress pattern, at least, of this elegant material, which can be obtained in the original packages of the "original jacobs" of the trade, richard atkinson, in college green, whose front store is a gallery of medals and appointments, as poplin manufacturer to members of royal families for years and years. the ladies of my party were crazy with delight over the exquisite hues, the splendid quality, the low prices--forgetting, dear creatures, the difference of exchange, and the then existing premium on gold, and sixty per cent. duty that had to be added to the rate before the goods were paid for in america. notwithstanding the stock, the hue to match the pattern a lady had in her pocket was not to be had. "we can make you a dress, if you can wait, madam," said the polite shopman, "of exactly the same color as your sample." "how long will it take to make it?" "we can deliver it to you in eight or ten days." "o, i shall be in london then," said the lady. "that makes no difference, madam. we will deliver it to you anywhere in london, carriage free." and so, indeed, it was delivered. the order was left, sent to the factory by the shopman, and at the appointed time delivered in london, the lady paying on delivery the same rate as charged for similar quality of goods at the store in dublin, and having the enviable satisfaction of showing the double poplin that was "made expressly to her order"--one dress pattern--"in dublin." i mention this transaction to show what pains are taken to suit the purchaser, and how any one can get what he wants abroad, if he has the means to pay. this is owing chiefly to the different way of doing business, and also to the sharper competition in the old countries. for instance, the pacific mills, of lawrence, mass., would never think of opening a retail store for the sale of their goods on washington street, boston; and if an english lady failed to find a piece of goods of the color that suited her, of manufacturing sixteen or eighteen yards to her order, and then sending it, free of express charge, to new york. the quantity and variety of goods on hand are overwhelming; the prices, in comparison with ours, so very low that i wanted to buy a ship-load. whole stores are devoted to specialities--the beautiful irish linen in every variety, irish bog-wood carving in every conceivable form, bracelets, rings, figures, necklaces, breast-pins, &c. i visited one large establishment, where every species of dry goods, fancy goods, haberdashery, and, i think, everything except eatables, were sold. three hundred and fifty salesmen were employed, the proprietors boarding and lodging a large number of them on the premises. the shops in dublin are very fine, the prices lower than in london, and the attendance excellent. "but dublin--are you going to describe dublin?" not much, dear reader. describing cities would only be copying the guide-book, or doing what every newspaper correspondent thinks it necessary to do. now, if i can think of a few unconsidered trifles, which correspondents do not write about, but which tourists, on their first visit, always wish information about, i shall think it doing a service to present them in these sketches. the nelson monument, a doric column of one hundred and ten feet high, upon which is a statue eleven feet high of the hero of the nile, always attracts the attention of visitors. the great bridges over the liffey, and the quays, are splendid pieces of workmanship, and worth inspection, and of course you will go to see dublin castle. this castle was originally built by order of king john, about the year . but little of it remains now, however, except what is known as the wardrobe tower, all the present structure having been built since the seventeenth century. passing in through the great castle court-yard, a ring at a side door brought a courteous english housekeeper, who showed us through the state apartments. among the most noteworthy of these was the presence-chamber, in which is a richly-carved and ornamental throne, frescoed ceilings, richly-upholstered furniture, &c., the whole most strikingly reminding one of those scenes at the theatre, where the "duke and attendants," or the "king and courtiers," come on. it is here the lord lieutenant holds his receptions, and where individuals are "presented" to him as the representative of royalty. the great ball-room is magnificent. it is eighty-two feet long, and forty-one wide, and thirty-eight in height, the ceiling being decorated with beautiful paintings. one represents george iii., supported by liberty and justice, another the conversion of the irish by st. patrick, and the third, a very spirited one, henry ii. receiving the submission of the native irish chiefs. henry ii. held his first court in dublin in . the chapel royal, immediately adjoining, is a fine gothic edifice, with a most beautiful interior, the ceiling elegantly carved, and a beautiful stained-glass window, with a representation of christ before pilate, figures of the evangelists, &c. here, carved and displayed, are the coats-of-arms of the different lord lieutenants from the year to the present time. the throne of the lord lieutenant in one gallery, and that for the archbishop opposite, are conspicuous. this edifice was completed in , and cost forty-two thousand pounds. it was the first church of england interior i had seen over the ocean, and its richness and beauty were impressive at the time, but were almost bleached from memory by the grander temples visited a few weeks after. the polite housekeeper, whom, in my inexperience, i felt almost ashamed to hand a shilling to, took it, nevertheless, very gratefully, and in a manner that proved that her pride was not at all wounded by the action. in obedience to the advice of an emeralder, that we must not "lave dublin widout seein' st. patrick's church," we walked down to that celebrated cathedral. the square which surrounds it is as much a curiosity in its way as the cathedral itself. the whole neighborhood seemed to consist of the dirtiest, quaintest tumble-down old houses in dublin, and swarmed with women and children. hundreds of these houses seemed to be devoted to the sale of old junk, sixth-hand clothing, and fourth-hand articles of every description one could name or think of--old tin pots and kettles, old rope, blacking-jugs, old bottles, old boots, shoes, and clothing in every style of dilapidation--till you could scarcely say where the article ended being sold as a coat, and became rags--iron hoops, old furniture, nails, old hats, bonnets, cracked and half-broken crockery. it verily seemed as if this place was the rag fair and ash-heap of the whole civilized world. the contents of six american ash-barrels would have given any one of these cheap john stores a stock that would have dazzled the neighborhood with its magnificence. you could go shopping here with two-pence. costermongers' carts, with their donkeys attached, stood at the curbstones, ragged and half-starved children played in the gutters, great coarse women stood lazily talking with each other, or were crouched over a heap of merchandise, smoking short pipes, and waiting or chaffering with purchasers. little filthy shops on every hand dealt out ireland's curse at two-pence a dram, and "gin," "choice spirits sold here," "whiskey," "spirits," were signs that greeted the eye on their doorposts. the spring breeze was tainted with foul odors, and there was a busy clatter of tongues from the seething and crowded mass of humanity that surged round in every direction. upon the farther corner of the third side of the square, where the neighborhood was somewhat better, we discovered the residence of the sexton who had charge of the church--a strong orangeman, bitterly opposed to the romish church, and with a strong liking for america, increased by the fact of having a brother in the american union army, who rose from sergeant to colonel in one of the western regiments. "think o' that, sir! ye might be as brave as julyus sayzer in the english army, and sorra a rise would ye get, except ye'd be sated on a powdher magazine whin it exploded." the legend is, that this church was originally built by st. patrick, and the sexton took me into a little old crypt at the end of one of the aisles of the nave--all that remains of that portion of the church, which it is averred was built a. d. . this crypt was floored with curious old tiles, over a thousand years old, put down and the fragments matched together with great labor and expense, and the flooring worth more money than a covering of an "aven layer o' guineas" upon it. the old stone font, a. d. , the old carved chest for vestments, and the curious stone coffins, relics of the old church, were interesting. among the monuments in the church, archbishop whately's magnificently-carved marble sarcophagus, surmounted by his full-length effigy, was particularly noticeable; swift's monument, stella's tablet, and the economical tablet put up in memory of duke schomberg by swift. here in st. patrick's cathedral are displayed the stalls, arms, and banners of the knights of st. patrick, the army "memorials" of the india and china british regiments, with the flags they carried from to in their campaigns. upon the wall was suspended the cannon shot that killed schomberg at the memorable battle of the boyne in , and the spurs that he wore at the time. schomberg's remains are interred at westminster abbey. my first ride in an old country park was in the phoenix park, dublin a--beautiful pleasure-ground of over eighteen hundred acres in extent. i imagined how laughable it must have seemed to the prince of wales, when, at the review he attended on boston common, he politely assented to the remark of a militia officer, that "this great area" (the common parade ground) "was well adapted for displays of large bodies of troops," as i sat looking at the parade ground of _this_ park, a clear, unbroken greensward of six times the size. think of riding over drives or malls fifty feet wide, and from three to five miles in length, lined with gas-lights to illuminate it at night, herds of hundreds of deer sporting on the open sward, or under the great, sturdy trees, which are grouped in twos, threes, or clusters, for landscape effect, and the turf beneath them thick, green, and luxuriant; and then, again, there are rustic, country-like roads, shady dells, and rustic paths in the beautiful park; a great monument erected to wellington by his countrymen at a cost of one hundred thousand pounds, will attract attention, and so will the numerous fashionable turnouts that roll over the well-kept roads every pleasant spring afternoon. from dublin to kingston is a pleasant little ride by rail. kingston is on st. george's channel, or the lower part of the irish sea, and directly opposite holyhead, wales. at kingston we took steamer for the passage across. the steamers of this line carry the royal mail, are built for strength and speed, and are splendid boats, of immense power, said to be the strongest and swiftest in great britain, and run at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. fortunately, the passage was comparatively a smooth one, and we disembarked in good condition upon the opposite shore, where we took train for chester. an english railway carriage--its form is familiar to all from frequent description; but think of the annoyance of having to look after your luggage, to see it safely bestowed on the top of the car, or in a luggage van, and to be obliged to look out that it is not removed by mistake at any of the great stations you do not stop at, or that it _is_ removed when you _do_ stop. a few words on railway travelling in england: it differs from ours essentially. first, the cars on english roads are not so convenient, comfortable, or even so private as the american car. in the english first-class carriage, four persons must sit facing four persons; consequently four must perforce ride backwards, and the four are placed so as to stare directly at their opposite neighbors,--sometimes unpleasant, if all are not acquainted, especially at lunch time, &c. then, in the english carriage, four persons only of the eight can get a fair view of the scenery, and two of these are riding backwards. these four "govern" the windows, and lower or close at their pleasure. i have been nearly smothered, as well as thoroughly chilled, by happening to have people of adverse temperaments get the window seats, till i learned how to travel by rail in england, of which, hints anon. there are no means of heating the english railway carriage, and they are not tightly joined, especially the second-class ones. hence the "railway rugs," &c., one hears so much about. but then, it must be confessed, the danger of the american stove renders it a rather unpopular affair. the second-class car is a plain, substantial carriage, and the larger portion of the passengers travel in it. the first-class car is more luxurious, upholstered more plentifully, supplied with racks for light baggage, and curtains at the windows. the english have not even reached the improvement of the sliding blind, which we have in america, so useful in excluding the sun's rays and admitting the air, the substitute being a flapping silk curtain. the second-class car has no curtain or shade to the window whatever. the absence of the signal rope is noticeable, and no man nowadays will remain in an english railway carriage, if one or two other men come in that he does not know. is it not singular that so simple an arrangement as the signal rope to the engine driver should not have been applied, after all the murders, and assaults, and casualties, that have occurred on english railway trains, and proved its necessity? not at all. it is an american invention--a novelty. an englishman does not believe in novelties, in innovations, or in american inventions. after he has tried every other thing he can think of as a substitute, and finds he can get nothing so simple and effectual, he will adopt it; and then it will be claimed as an english invention--invented by an englishman; just as they claim the invention of the revolver, steamboat, and i don't know but the sewing-machine. the english locomotives have no protection upon them for the engine-driver and fireman. these men are exposed, without shelter, and must have a rough time of it in bad weather. the "guard," who occupies the place of the american conductor, but by no means fills it, is always recognizable by his uniform; and at the stations, the numerous porters which it is necessary for the company to employ to handle baggage, owing to the absence of the check system, are also in uniform. these men are invariably civil, ready to serve, and understand their position and duties thoroughly. on some of the english railroads that i travelled over, it seemed as though the only duty the company thought they had to perform, was to simply carry you over their road; and the ignorance of some of the under employés was positively amazing. seated in the carriage, you might ride twenty miles past the station at which you wished to stop without knowing it, if you chanced to be on the off side. there was no conductor to pass and repass _through_ the train, to look out that you debarked at the proper station; no list of towns on the back of your railroad check; no shout of "passengers for chester! chester!" when the train stopped; and the guard knew nothing of any other train except his own, or any other distance over the road, or of how to connect with any other train. the passenger is left to himself, and is never told by the guard to "change cars here for ----." that, you have to know yourself, and look out and have the railway porter get your luggage (not _baggage_) off, or it will carried on, as they have no check system--another american affair, which it won't do to adopt too readily. luggage is weighed, and, beyond a certain amount, charged for; but any portmanteau one can get under the seat is free; and it is astonishing what big valises some men carry. and in the absence of the check system, this is, of course, the safest way. comparatively little luggage is lost or stolen. one reason why it is not stolen is, that there is a law here which _punishes_ thieves, and does not allow them liberty for a stipulated sum, known as _bail_ in america. the price in the first-class carriage, on the fast or express trains, is about a third higher than the second. a third class is still cheaper. the parliamentary or slow trains have cheaper rates than the express. the division of "classes" is, in many respects, an excellent arrangement. it affords to him who desires better accommodations, and has the means to pay for them, the opportunity of enjoying them; and it does not force the poor man, the laborer or emigrant, to ride in a richly upholstered carriage, where he feels he is out of place, when he would prefer to save his money, and have less gilding and upholstery. one very soon finds, in england, the deference paid to class and to wealth, and nowhere sooner than on the railway train. it is presumed, on the expensive routes, that those riding in first-class carriages are "first-class" people, and the guard's manner to the passengers in the different carriages is an index of english education in this matter. as he appears at the window of the first-class carriage, he politely touches his hat:-- "all are for london in this compartment? thank you." to the second-class: "tickets, please." to the third-class: "now, then, tickets. look alive here, will you?" the first-class passenger finds that his wants are better attended to, his questions answered deferentially; he is allowed to take almost any amount of small luggage into the car with him, much of which would be excluded from the second-class, if an attempt were made to carry it in. and o, the potency of the english shilling! each car seats eight; but we will suppose that there are a party of four travelling together, and desire no more passengers in the compartments. call the guard to the window, put your hand in your pocket, looking him in the eye significantly. he will carelessly drop his own hand within the window opening inside the car. you drop a shilling in the hand. "this car is occupied." "quite so, sir." touching his hat, he locks the car door, and when other people come trying the door, he is conveniently out of the way, or informs the applicant, "third carriage forward for london, sir," and by a dozen ingenious subterfuges keeps you free from strangers, so much that you betray yourself to him as an american by giving him another shilling at your journey's end; and, although smoking "is strictly forbidden in first-class carriages," a party of three or four smokers, by the judicious use of a couple of shillings, may have one all to themselves for that purpose. the railway stations in england are very fine, and much superior to those in america, although we are improving ours, especially in the great cities. in the great english cities and towns, the stations are vast iron, glass-roofed structures, kept in excellent order. the waiting-rooms are divided into first, second, and third class, and the door opening upon the platform is not opened until a certain time before the train starts. porters in uniform take the luggage to the train, and the "guard" who acts as conductor knows nothing about any railway train connections or line beyond his own. the passenger is supposed to know all that sort of thing, and he who "wants to know, you know," is at once recognized as an american. the country stations are beautiful little rustic affairs, with gardens of roses and sweetbrier, honeysuckles and flowering shrubs about them. some have the name of the station sown in dwarf flowers upon the bank outside, presenting a very pretty appearance in spring and summer, and contrasting very agreeably with the rude shanties we find in america, with their tobacco-stained floors within, and bare expanse of yellow sand outside. we rattled through wales in an express train, a romantic view of wild welsh mountains on one side, and the beating and heaving ocean dashing up on the other, sometimes almost to the very railway track. we ran through great tunnels, miles in length, whirled at the rate of fifty miles an hour through the great slate-quarrying district and bangor, past the magnificent suspension bridge over menai straits, by the romantic old castle of conway, with its shattered battlements and turrets looking down at the sea, which dashes up its foam-crested waves ceaselessly at its rocky base, the old red sandstone walls worn and corroded with time; on, past thatched huts, rustic cottages, and green landscape, till the panting train halted at the great modern railway station in that oldest of english cities, chester. this station is one of the longest in england, being ten hundred and fifty feet long, and having wings, a kind of projecting arcades, with iron roofs, to shelter vehicles waiting for trains. from this magnificent modern-built station a cab carried us, in a few minutes, on our route to the hotel (grosvenor house), into an old street that looked as though we had got into a set scene at the theatre, representing a street in windsor for falstaff and the merry wives to appear in; houses built in , or years before, the street or sidewalks passing right under some of them; quaint old oddities of architecture, with curious inscriptions in abbreviated old english on their carved cross-beams, and their gables sticking out in every direction; curious little windows with diamond-shaped panes set in lead; and houses looking as though the hand of time had squeezed them together, or extracted the juice from them like sucked oranges, and left only the dried rind, half shrunken from its original shape, remaining. the great curiosity, however, in chester, is the chester cathedral, and the old walls that encompass the city. i never realized the force of the expression "the corroding tooth of time" till i saw this magnificent old cathedral: portions of it which were once sharply sculptured in various designs are now worn almost smooth by age, the old red sandstone looking as though time had sand-papered it with gritty hail and honeycombed its stones with melting rains; but the whole was surrounded with a mellow, softened beauty of groined arches, beautiful curves, dreamy old cloisters, and quaint carving, that invested even the ruined portion with a hallowed beauty. the stained-glass windows, both old and modern, are glorious colored wonders; the chapel where the services are now held is the same where, a thousand years ago, dreamy old monks told their beads; and there are their stalls or seats, so contrived as to afford but partial rest, so that if the sitter slumbered they fell forward with his weight, and threw him to the floor. the antique wood carving upon the seats and pews here, now blackened and hardened almost to ebony in appearance, is very fine, excellently executed, and well preserved. high above ran around the nuns' walk, with occasional openings, whence the meek-eyed sisterhood could hear service below without being seen themselves as they came from their quiet cloisters near at hand, a quadrangle of one hundred and ten feet square, in which were four covered walks looking upon the enclosed garden, now a neglected greensward, where several forgotten old abbots slumber peacefully beneath great stone slabs with obliterated inscriptions. the curious grope into some of the old cells, and most of us go down under the building in the crypt, where the massive gothic pillars, that support the pile, still in perfect preservation, bring vividly to mind those canvas representations of prison scenes one sees upon the stage. inside the cathedral were numerous very old monuments and mementos of the past; among others an immense tapestry wrought by nuns hundreds of years ago, and representing elymas struck with blindness. the enormous size of these cathedrals strikes the "fresh" american tourist with wonder. fancy churches five times as large as ours, and the height inside from sixty to one hundred feet from the stone floor to the arched ceiling, lighted with glorious great windows of stained glass, upon which the stories of the bible are told in colored pictures, and south, east, west, transepts, nave, and choir, crowded with relics of the past, that you have read of in the story-books of youth, and again upon the pages of history in maturer years; artistic sculptures, old monuments, statues, carvings, and curious remains. in the chapter-house connected with the cathedral, we were shown the colors carried by the cheshire regiment on the field of waterloo; and it was interesting for me to grasp with my sacrilegious american hand one of the colors borne by a british regiment in america during the war of the revolution. we also visited the ecclesiastical court-room in which the bishop of chester, in , tried a protestant minister, george marsh, and sentenced him to be burned for heresy. the seats of the judges and chair of the accused are still preserved and shown to the visitor, who generally desires to sit in the martyr's seat, and finds it, even for a few minutes, an uncomfortable one. the chester cathedral is said to have been founded in the year , and was used as a place of safety against the danes in . it was well kept, and ruled by abbots, and its history well preserved from the time of king william rufus, who was killed in new forest, , down to . the old walls of chester are the great attraction of the city; in fact, chester is the only city in great britain that has preserved its old walls entire: they enclose the city proper, and are about two miles in circumference, affording a delightful promenade and prospect of the surrounding country. the walls are squarely built of a soft red freestone, something like that used for our "brown stone front" houses, though apparently not so hard a material, and vary from twelve to forty feet in height. a fresh tourist from a new country like our own begins to feel he is communing with the past, as he walks over these old walls, erected a. d. , and finds their chronology to read thus:-- a. d. --walls built by romans. --marius, king of the britons, extended the walls. --the britons defeated under the walls. --the walls rebuilt by daughter of alfred the great. --an assessment for repairing the walls. --henry of lancaster mustered his troops under these walls. --the parliamentary forces made a breach in these walls. so that it will be seen they have looked down upon some of the most eventful scenes of history; and as we strolled along, thinking what a feeble obstacle they would prove against the formidable engines of modern warfare, we came to a tower called the phoenix tower; and an inscription upon it informs the visitor that upon this tower king charles i. stood in , and witnessed the defeat of his army on rowton moor, four miles off, then a barren field, but now a smiling plain of fields and cottages, looking very unlike a barren moor, or the scene of a sanguinary combat. in this old tower a curious, antiquary sort of old fellow keeps a motley collection of curiosities, among which were havelock's spurs, buckles of queen mary's time, bean from tree planted by washington (!), and a great, staring, size-of-life wood-cut of abraham lincoln, besides coins, relics, &c., that were labelled to interest, but whose genuineness might not stand the test of too close an investigation. chapter ii. it is a comparatively short ride from chester to liverpool, and of course we went to the adelphi hotel, so frequently heard mentioned our side of the water; and if ever an american desires a specimen of the tenacity with which the english cling to old fashions, their lack of what we style enterprise, let him examine this comfortable, curious, well kept, inconvenient old house, or rather collection of old residences rolled into a hotel, and reminding him of some of the old-fashioned hotels of thirty years ago at the lower part of the city of new york. upon the first day of my arrival i was inexperienced enough to come down with my wife to the "ladies' coffee-room" as it is called, before ordering breakfast. let it be kept in mind that english hotels generally have no public dining and tea rooms, as in america, where a gentleman with ladies can take their meals; that solemn performance is done by englishmen in the strictest privacy, except they are travelling alone, when they take their solitary table in "the coffee-room," and look glum and repellent upon the scene around at intervals of the different courses of their well-served solitary dinner. public dining-rooms, however, are gradually coming into vogue at english hotels, and at the star and garter, richmond, i dined in one nearly as large as that of the st. nicholas, fifth avenue, or parker house, crammed with chattering guests and busy waiters; but that was of a pleasant sunday, in the height of the season, and the price i found, on settling the bill, fully up to the american standard. but at the adelphi i came down in the innocence of my heart, expecting to order a breakfast, and have it served with the american promptitude. alas! i had something to learn of the english manner of doing things. here was the adelphi always full to overflowing with new arrivals _from_ america and new arrivals _for_ america, and here was its ladies' coffee-room, a small square parlor with five small tables, capable of accommodating, with close packing, fifteen people, and the whole room served by one waiter. the room was full on my arrival; but fortunately, while i was hesitating what course to pursue, a lady and gentleman who had just finished breakfast arose, and we sat down at the table they had vacated. in the course of ten minutes the waiter cleared the table and spread a fresh cloth. "'ave you hordered breakfast, sir?" "no! bring me mutton chops, coffee, and boiled eggs, and hot biscuit, for two." "beg pardon, sir; chops, heggs, coffee--a--biscuits, aren't any _biscuits_, sir; send out and get some, sir." biscuits. i reflected; these benighted britons don't understand what an american hot biscuit is. "no biscuits! well, muffins, then." "muffins, sir; yes, sir;" and he hastened away. we waited five, ten, fifteen minutes; no breakfast. one party at another table, who were waiting when we came in, were served with their breakfast; in five minutes more a fresh plate of muffins to another party; five more, and the waiter came to our table, put on two silver forks, a salt-cellar, and castor, and smoothed out some invisible wrinkles in the table linen, and went away; five minutes more, and he was hustling among some knives at a sideboard. "waiter!" "yes, sir." "are you going to bring my breakfast?" "yes, sir; d'reckly, sir; chops most ready, sir." chops, always call 'em chops; never call for a _mutton_ chop in england; the word is superfluous, and stamps you as an untravelled, inexperienced yankee at once. five minutes more, and he appeared, bearing a tray with the breakfast, just thirty-five minutes after the order had been given for it. how long would a hotel in america be patronized that made its guest wait one half that time for four times as elaborate a repast? i soon learned how to manage this matter better, especially as there are no printed bills of fare, and the list comprises a very few standard dishes. my plan was, on first rising in the morning, to write my order for breakfast on a scrap of paper, ring for the chambermaid, hand it to her with instructions to have that breakfast ready in the ladies' coffee-room directly. the english "directly" signifies the "right away" of america, or, more correctly, immediately. in half an hour afterwards, when we descended, the waiter, whose memory had been strengthened by the judicious investment of a shilling, had the cloth laid, and met us with, "breakfast d'reckly, sir; number ; yes, sir." the breakfast, when it _did_ come, was perfect; the coffee or tea excellent, pure and unadulterated; the chops,--not those american affairs with one bite of meat the size of half a dollar, tough and ill cooked, but large as the palm of one's hand,--cooked as they can only be cooked in england; the muffins hot and smoking; the eggs fresh and excellent; so that the old-fashioned framed engravings, mahogany furniture, cramped quarters, and style of the past were forgotten in the appeal to that god of the englishman, the stomach. all the viands at the adelphi were of the best description, and admirably cooked, but the bill of fare was limited to very few articles. a sight of one of the printed bills of our great american hotels would have driven the waiter crazy, while the utter disregard of time, or rather of the value of time, in an english hotel, is the first thing that strikes a newly-arrived american and stirs up his irritability. eating, with a briton, is a very serious and solemn thing, and the dinner one of the most important social ceremonies in the kingdom. you cannot, if you will, in england, precipitate yourself into dyspepsia with the ease that it is possible to do it in america. first, because people will not be hurried into eating at railroad speed, and next, because there is better cooking of standard dishes and fewer knickknacks at the hotel tables than in america. that inevitable pork fat that flavors everything after one gets west of buffalo, and a little off the line of travel that leads you through the great hotels in the great cities in america,--that saleratus bread, hayey tea, clammy pie-crust, and great whity-gray, soury baker's bread,--that we, who have travelled at home, are so familiar with, give place in england to articles prepared in a very different style. i have often thought, when travelling at the west, that it was a sin for people in the midst of such luxurious plenty to abuse it so abominably in preparing it for the table. with all the prejudices of a raw tourist upon his first visit, i must acknowledge that during two months' constant travel in england and scotland, i never sat down to a single ill-cooked or badly-served meal; and i have tested humble roadside inns in the country, as well as the more pretentious hotels of the great cities. the bread of all kinds is close-grained, sweet, well baked, and toothsome; the chops served sometimes on napkins in hot dishes; muffins hot, with fresh, sweet butter; butter served in thin pats, ornamented with parsley; broiled chicken garnished with thin slices of delicately broiled ham, so thin and free from grease as not to make a spot upon the pure damask table linen; the dropped eggs upon crisp toast, are a triumph of gastronomic art, and i need say no word in praise of english roast beef. but there is one dish which can be had in perfection only in america, and that is an american beefsteak. it is almost impossible to get a decent beefsteak in england, out of the city of london, and there only at a few well-known restaurants celebrated for that specialty. they would think it almost sacrilege to cut beef into what is known in america as sirloin or tenderloin steaks; and, with the few exceptions above named, the art of broiling a steak in the american style, and serving it with the thin, dry-fried potatoes, is unknown. but a truce to the department of _cuisine_. the one thing we all have most heard of in liverpool is its great docks, which are the grand and characteristic feature, indicating forcibly its great commercial activity and enterprise by their magnitude, solidity, and extent. these immense receptacles of merchandise extend for six miles along the river, and have an enclosure of two hundred and fifty-four acres, a quay space of over eighteen miles; then upon the other side of the river are the birkenhead docks, enclosing one hundred and sixty-seven acres, and having a quay space of over nine miles,--thus giving to liverpool four hundred and twenty-one acres of enclosed docks, and twenty-seven miles of quay space. the enormous heaps of every species of merchandise seen at these places, great ships from every part of the world, the perfect forest of masts, immense storehouses, cargoes that in the general mass seem but mounds of tea-chests, hillocks of coffee-bags, heaps of grain, piles of lumber, or fragments of machinery in these great areas, but which in reality would provision an army, build a navy, and outfit a manufacturing city, give one the impression that liverpool is the _entrepôt_ of the world, and some idea of the enormous commerce of great britain. each dock has a chief, or master, who directs the position of all ships, and superintends the flood-gates at the docking and undocking of vessels; and strict regulations are enforced for the prevention of fire and the preservation of property. the sea walls in front of some of these docks are magnificent specimens of masonry, and each dock is designated by a name; our american ships, i believe, favor that known as waterloo dock. all the docks are surrounded by huge bonding warehouses and merchandise sheds. the free museum, which we visited in liverpool, contains the largest and finest collection of ornithological specimens in the world. it was indeed superb, and i never saw such splendid taxidermical skill as was displayed in the mounting and arranging of this vast collection of thousands and thousands of birds, of every species (it seemed), from every country in the known world. for instance, there was every species of eagle known to exist,--gray, white, bald, harpy, &c.,--poised, at rest, in flight, and in various positions, as in life; every species of owl,--the gigantic, judge-like fellow, horned, snowy, gray, black, white, and dwarf; every falcon,--a magnificent set of specimens of this kind, as there was also of the crow family, which were represented not only by elegant black specimens, but by light-blue, and even white ones; every species of sea bird, from the gigantic albatross to the mother cary's chicken; rare and curious birds; great cassowaries; the biggest ostrich i ever saw,--he could have carried a full-grown african upon his back with ease; great emus; a skeleton of the now extinct dodo; a collection of every species of pheasant, including specimens of the himmalayan pheasant, the most gorgeous bird in the whole collection, whose plumage actually glistened and sparkled with glorious tints, like tinsel or precious stones--a gorgeous combination of colors. over _one hundred different varieties_ of humming-birds were displayed, and the same of parrots, who were in green, blue, yellow, white, pink, and every uniform of feather that could be imagined; magnificent lyre-birds, with tall, erected tail, in exact form of apollo's fabled lyre. great condors from south america; a brilliant array of every species of birds of paradise; a whole army of toucans; a brilliant array of flamingoes and all the vulture tribe; in fact, every kind of a bird you had ever heard, seen pictures or read of, and very many you never had heard of, were presented in this most wonderful collection; and one pleasing feature besides the astonishing life-like positions they were placed in, was the admirable neatness and order of the whole; not a stain marred the clear plate glass of the great cases, not a speck of dust could be seen in or about them; and upon the pedestal of each specimen was pasted a label, in good plain english characters, giving the english name of it, the country it came from, and, in many instances, its habits, &c., so much better than the presumption acted upon in some museums, that all the visitors are scientific latin scholars. besides this collection in the museum, was one of minerals and corals, and another of preserved specimens of natural history. in this last we saw the entire skeleton of a large humpback whale, an entire skeleton of the gigantic irish elk (species extinct) discovered in an irish bog, a two-horned rhinoceros's head as big as a common hogshead, an enormous and splendidly-mounted specimen of the gorilla, larger than any, i think, that du chaillu exhibited in america, and a vast number of other interesting curiosities i have not space to enumerate, the whole of which was open free to the public, for pleasure or scientific study. st. george's hall, liverpool, occupies a commanding position, and presents a fine architectural appearance; the eastern side of it is four hundred and twenty feet long, and has fifteen elegant corinthian columns, each forty-five feet in height. within the portico are some fine specimens of sculpture; the great saloon is one hundred and sixty-seven feet long by seventy-seven feet high, and, it may be interesting to bostonians to know, contains the great organ of liverpool, which is _not so fine_ a one as the boston one. the hall is used for public meetings, musical festivals, &c.,--very much for the same purposes as boston music hall. in the immediate vicinity of st. george's hall are the famous liverpool lions, colossal stone monsters, the equestrian statue of prince albert, and other objects of interest. it was in liverpool that i first saw that evidence of real, terribly suffering poverty that we read so much of as prevailing in the streets of some of the great cities of england. i don't know but as squalid misery might be found in new york city; but there need be but very little of suffering by any one in america who has health and strength sufficient to do a day's work. in liverpool i saw groups of poor creatures in the street, with starvation written in their countenances; and one evening, having occasion to go to the telegraph office from the hotel, i found that the streets absolutely swarmed with women, who were actually annoying to the stranger by their persistent importunities. upon one occasion, being awakened by the sound of voices at one o'clock at night, i looked across the square from my window, and there, opposite an illuminated gin-shop, stood a group of three poor children, droning through a song, in hopes of extracting a penny or two from those in or about it; the oldest of the three could not have been a dozen years old, and the youngest a little ragged girl of six. there are people that one meets here whose appearance is an anguish to the aching heart. we saw a poor woman, in a sleazy calico dress, with a colorless, wan face, walking wearily up an ascent in one of the streets, one afternoon, looking as if hope were dead within her heart; and thinking it a case of need, my friend thrust a half crown into her hand, saying, "here! i think you need that." the poor creature looked at him for a moment, and, without saying a word, burst into a flood of tears. my experience with a little youngster of six, whose whole clothing was a sort of tow shirt, and who persistently begged for a penny, which i at last gave him, was somewhat different, for he dashed off with a shout, and, as i paused on the corner of the street, an army of young ragamuffins seemed to start out from every nook and cranny, with outstretched arms and rags fluttering in the breeze, and shrill cries of "gi' me one, gi' me a penny," so that i was glad to take refuge in the cab i had signalled. from liverpool, instead of starting directly for london, i concluded to go to scotland, passing through the lake district _en route_. if the reader will look at a good map of england and scotland, and find solway firth, which is on the west coast, and then look at the country immediately south of it, occupying a portion of the counties of cumberland, westmoreland, and lancaster, he will see that it is full of lakes and mountains, and will find, on visiting it, that its picturesque attractions are unequalled in any other part of england. additional interest is imparted to the lake district from its being the haunt and home of many of england's most celebrated modern poets; and inspired, doubtless, by its lovely views and quiet beauty of landscape, from here have emanated some of their best compositions. we left the main road in our journey westward at a place called oxenholme, and there took a 'bus, which carried us down to lake windermere. this lake is a beautiful, irregular sheet of water, eleven miles in length and about a mile wide, and numerous little islands add to its picturesque appearance, the scenery being soft and graceful; the gentle slopes and eminences that surround it, and the numerous country-seats and cottages peeping from the wooded slopes, combining to render it one of those pictures of quiet beauty that english poets delight to sing of. the hotel that we rested at was perched upon a commanding eminence, from which a delightful view of the lake and surrounding scenery was obtained. the pretty village of bowness, near by, attracted my attention, this being my first experience in an english country village; and its appearance was in many respects novel, and unlike what i had expected. first, i was struck at the entire absence of wooden houses; wood is scarce here; the houses are all built of stone, about the color of our stone walls in the country towns of new england, the stones about two feet square, and irregular in shape. a little rustic porch of wood, with the bark on, is sometimes built before the door, and this is overrun with ivy, or some climbing and flowering plant. some of the more pretentious houses had stone porches; but all round and about them was twined the beautiful ivy, honeysuckle, or other plants, from in and out of which hopped and twittered the sparrows. the village streets were quite narrow, and some as crooked as the letter s, but all scrupulously clean. there were no great brush heaps, chips, dirt-piles, or worn-out tin ware about any of these charming little cottages or their vicinity; the appearance is as if the place had just been thoroughly swept up and put in holiday trim. one reason for this is, i suppose, that everything here is utilized that a penny can be realized upon, and what we make a litter with about an american house of the kind, is here either sold, or turned to account in some other way; but certainly this air of extreme neatness, which i noticed in many english villages, must, in a degree, account for some of their tourists' disgust in america. i have not seen a man spit on the floor here since i set foot in england, and the floors even of the village ale-houses are a striking contrast to those of our new england country taverns: spitting appears to be an american national habit. after a quiet rest at this charming spot, we chartered a "dog cart," and started on a ride of twenty-three miles, for keswick; and of the charming drives i have had, this surpasses all. the road ran along lake windermere to ambleside, grassmere to rydal lake and rydal mount, nab-scar up dunmail rise, in sight of helvellyn, and past thirlemere. the views were beautiful--high hills, with little green-shored lakes set in among them, like flashing brilliants; pretty little english villages, like those already described; country-seats; little rustic arched stone bridges, with dark, cool trout-streams running beneath them; grand country-seats, with their imposing entrances and porters' lodges; old ivy-clad churches, and here and there a tall grove of trees, with the rooks cawing in their branches. the bridges, walls, cottages, and churches, with their dark stone-work relieved by clustering ivy, had a softened and pleasing appearance to the eye, while the fields and meadows were a vivid green, and swarming with sheep and young lambs frisking about them, or on the lawns and hill-sides. the road continually gave us long reaches of these views, such as i had never seen before, except in paintings, or in the better class of english illustrated books. we passed dove's nest, where mrs. hemans lived for a year; saw miss martineau's pleasant and picturesque residence, wordsworth's house at rydal mount, and went to the little cottage on the borders of grassmere lake, where he dwelt when young, and wrote much of his best poetry; then to the humble cottage, not far from the lake shore, where de quincey lived. we drove to the churchyard in the little village of grassmere, to visit wordsworth's grave,--a charming spot,--the little church situated near a swift little stream, spanned by arched stone bridges, and surrounded by scenery of rustic beauty. the grave of the poet is marked by a plain stone, upon which are inscribed his own and his wife's name; and not far from it is the grave of hartley coleridge. the secluded and beautiful spot seemed a fitting resting-place for the poet; the gentle babble of the little stream, the peaceful rustle of the grass in the churchyard, and the modest little daisies that bloomed upon the graves, all seemed to lend a tranquil and dreamy calm to the place, that made it appear as if hallowed to the poet's repose. keswick, our next halting-place, is situated in a delightful vale, between derwentwater, or keswick lake, and bassenthailewater, and surrounded by an amphitheatre of hills. the elegant keswick hotel is situated in a charming position, just out of the town, and in the centre of the great circle of hills--one of the finest and best-kept houses of the kind in all england. from its great coffee-room, or, as we should call it, dining-room, which runs nearly half the length of one side of the house, and the promenade, or balustrade, which extends the whole length, is a most charming view, and the grounds of the house, which are quite extensive, are laid out quite handsomely. first came an elegant, close-shaven lawn, running one hundred feet from the hotel walk; then a green terrace, descended by ornamental stone steps; then a broad gravel walk, or mall, running round the estate; and from this another broad, green lawn, sloping gently down to the little greta river, a stream of about twenty feet in width at this point, spanned, here and there, with arched stone bridges, and dashing off into several noisy little waterfalls. from this little park of the hotel there is a pretty view of the village of keswick, with its dark stone-work houses, and english church tower, rising above. beyond, on every side in the huge circle, rise the lofty hill-tops, and here and there elegant country-seats and villas sit enthroned, midway as it were in the mountain's lap, and some high up towards the breezy peaks. the verdant sides of the hill are pencilled off, as it were, with hedges, marking the division lines of property, and a winding road occasionally throws its brown tracks out amid the green. the keswick hotel is built of lighter colored stone than is generally used for houses there, and is finished off in such an expensive and ornamental style as to look quite like an english hall or country-seat. it is owned, i think, by the railroad company whose road passes here. the station is directly adjoining the house, and is reached by a glass-roofed walk, thirty or forty feet long. and here let me remark, that the excellent system, good management, and entire absence of noise, shrieking, puffing, blowing, whistling, and all sorts of disturbance that render a location near a railroad station in america so objectionable, were most striking. i never should have taken note of any arrival or departure of trains from any noise of them; for, save the distant whistle as they approached, there was nothing to indicate their presence. the house is kept admirably. such neatness, such thoroughness, and such courteous attention, and such an incomparable _cuisine_ are, after one gets accustomed to english deliberation, most gratifying to the tourist. there can be but few better places for the american traveller to see and enjoy english country life, and beautiful english scenery, than keswick, and at this beautiful house, in the month of may. we rambled round through the quaint village of keswick, and of a sunday morning took our way over two little stone bridges, on through a deep, shady english lane, with the trees arching overhead, and the hedges green at its side, to crossthwaite church, built several hundred years ago, and with its rustic churchyard, beautiful and green, containing the graves of the poet southey and his wife. i sat upon an old slab in the churchyard, and watched the pretty, rustic picture, as the bells sweetly chimed, and the villagers came to church; some up the green lane by twos and threes, others across the fields and over stiles, threading their way among the churchyard mounds to the rural church. wordsworth describes in one of his poems the english rural church so perfectly that i cannot forbear making the extract, it was so appropriate to this, which stood amid "the vales and hills whose beauties hither drew the poet's steps." in fact, wordsworth's description might well be taken as a correct one of almost any one of the picturesque english country churches that the tourist sees here in the rural districts. "not framed to nice proportions was the pile, but large and massy, for duration built; with pillars crowded, and the roof upheld by naked rafters, intricately crossed, like leafless underboughs in some thick grove, all withered by the depth of shade above. admonitory texts inscribed the walls, each in its ornamental scroll enclosed; each also crowned with winged heads--a pair of rudely painted cherubim. the floor of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, was occupied by oaken benches ranged in seemly rows; the chancel only showed some inoffensive marks of earthly state and vain distinction. a capacious pew of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined; and marble monuments were here displayed upon the walls; and on the floor beneath sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven, and foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small and shining effigies of brass inlaid." the marks of earthly state and vain distinction in the church were two old stone effigies of lord derwentwater and his wife, died in , with a very legible inscription in brass setting forth that fact, and a white marble effigy and monument to southey. in the churchyard is a plain black slate tombstone over the poet's grave, on which is inscribed, "here lies the body of robert southey, ll. d., poet laureate. born august , ; died march , . for forty years resident in this parish. also, of edith, his wife, born may , ; died november , ." returning home, we passed "greta hall," the poet's residence, situated in keswick, a plain mansion, upon a slight elevation just back from the street, commanding a good view of the surrounding scenery, and with a pleasant, grassy slope in front, and beautiful shrubbery round and about its well-kept grounds. another pleasant walk was one taken up a winding road on the hill-side, to a spot containing some of the druidical remains found in different parts of england. this is known here as the druids' temple, and consists of a great circle of upright stones, six or eight feet in height, and set up at regular intervals, with two or three placed together at one side of the circle, as if for a gigantic altar. the spot for this temple was admirably chosen by the ancient priests of the oak and mistletoe for their mysterious rites, being upon a sort of natural platform, or hill shaped like a truncated cone, while all round rises a natural circle of lesser hills. from keswick to penrith is a pleasant ride by rail. near the station in penrith are the ruins of an old castle, for a long time the residence of the duke of gloster, afterwards richard iii. from this spot we started on a pleasant walk for brougham hall, the seat of lord brougham, about two and a half miles distant, passing on the way a curious formation in a field, denominated king arthur's round table. it very much resembles places in waste land in america, where a travelling circus has left its ring-mark, that becomes overgrown with turf, only the circle was much larger. this field and formation were carefully preserved by the owner, it being, as we were informed, one of those places where the knights of king arthur's time used to exercise themselves in the practice of horsemanship and feats of arms. perhaps it was. brougham hall is situated upon a hill not far from the ruins of brougham castle, and is an old and picturesque building, commanding, from its elevated position, extensive views of the surrounding country. the place was invested with a peculiar interest, as being the residence of one of england's greatest orators and statesmen. his voice, since our visit to his beautiful home, however, has been hushed forever, and he has laid him down to sleep with the humblest. owing to its situation and prospects, the english guide-books style this castle the "windsor of the north." the grounds are beautifully laid out--a broad lawn, bounded by a grove of old trees, with the rooks cawing and circling about them; the great paved court-yard of the castle, upon which the stables and servants' rooms looked out; a tower on the stables, with clock and bell. from this, a gothic arched gateway opened into another square and more pretentious court-yard, upon which the inner windows of his lordship's family looked. on one side of this court-yard, the castle wall was completely covered with a thick, heavy mass of beautiful ivy, the window spaces and turrets all being cut out in shape, giving it a novel and picturesque appearance. in the centre of this court-yard was a pretty grass plat. the other front of the castle looked out upon the estate, and the view from the windows upon this side was lovely. the fine lawn and trimly laid out grounds, the gradually sloping landscapes stretching down to the little river eamont, winding on its tortuous way, and spanned, as usual, by the pretty arched bridges, and the hills of ullswater for a background, made a charming prospect. there were so many novel and interesting things to see in the different apartments of the castle, that description will in some degree appear but tame. we first went into the armor-room, used on great occasions as a dining-hall. the apartment was not very large, but the walls and niches were filled with rare and curious arms and armor of various periods, and that had been used by historic personages. here we were shown the skull of one of lord brougham's ancestors, carefully preserved under a glass case--a knight templar, who fought in the first crusade; this skull was taken, together with a spur, from his coffin a few years ago, when the tomb was opened, where he was found lying with crossed feet, as a good knight templar should lie. at one end of this hall was a little raised gallery about five feet from the floor, separated from the room by a high gothic screen, through which a view of the whole could be obtained. this platform led to an elegant little octagon chamber, a few steps higher up, occupied by lord brougham's son as a sort of lounging and writing room. in this apartment were a few choice and beautiful pictures; one of dogs fighting, presented to lord brougham by louis napoleon, some original titians, vandykes, tintorettos, hogarth, &c. we next visited the drawing-room, which was hung all over with beautiful gobelin tapestry, wrought to represent the four quarters of the globe in productions, fruit, flowers, vegetation, and inhabitants--a royal gift and an elegant sight. here were also displayed a fine sevres dessert service, the gift of louis philippe, the great purses of state presented to lord brougham when he was chancellor, as a sort of badge or insignia of office. these were rigged on fire-frame screens, and were heavily gold-embroidered affairs, twenty-four inches square or more, and worth over three hundred pounds each. here also was a glass case filled with gifts made to lord brougham by different distinguished personages, such as gold snuff-boxes from different cities, watches, a miniature, taken from life, of the great napoleon, presented by joseph bonaparte, &c. the library, which was well stocked with choice books, was another elegant room, most artistically arranged. here portraits of great writers, by great artists, occupied conspicuous positions; and among other noteworthy pictures in this room was one of hogarth, painted by himself, a portrait of voltaire and others. the ceilings of these apartments were laid out in squares or diamond indentation, elegantly frescoed, or carved from the solid oak, the color formed to harmonize with the furniture and upholstery. the ceiling of the drawing-room was occupied by the different quarterings of the coat of arms of the brougham family, in carved work of gold and colors, one to each panel, very elaborately finished. when we were escorted to the sleeping apartments, new surprises awaited us. here was one complete suite of rooms,--chambers, dressing-room, closet, &c.,--all built and furnished in the early norman style; the old, carved, black, norman bedstead, hundreds of years old; gilt leather tapestry on the walls, decorated with norman figures of knights, horses and spearmen; huge norman-looking chairs; great brass-bound oaken chests, black with age and polished by the hand of time; rude tables; chests of drawers; the doors and windows with semicircular arched head-pieces, the former of massive black oak, with huge brass chevron-shaped hinges, quaint door-handles, and bolts of the period represented, and the various ornaments of zigzag, billet, nail-head, &c., of norman architecture appearing in every direction. something of the same style is seen in some of our episcopal churches in america, but it is more modernized. here the norman rooms were norman in all details, the dark, old wood was polished smooth as steel, the brass work upon the doors and old chests gleamed like beaten gold, and the whole picture of quaint, old tracery of arches and narrow windows, tapestry, carving, and massive furniture, conveyed an impression of wealth, solidity, and substantial beauty. from the norman rooms we passed into the norman gallery, a corridor of about fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, upon the sides of which are painted a complete copy of the wonderous bayeaux tapestry, wrought by matilda, queen of william i., and representing the conquest of england--the only perfect copy said to have been made. the different sleeping apartments were each furnished in different styles; in one was an elegantly carved bedstead, of antique design, which cost four hundred guineas, and was a present to lord brougham. lord brougham's own study, and his favorite resort for reading, writing, and thinking, was one of the plainest, most unpretending rooms in the whole building; the furniture of the commonest kind, the pictures old impressions of hogarth's, marriage a la mode, and the industrious and idle apprentice, in cheap frames, and that familiar to americans, of humboldt in his study. two battered hats, hung upon a wooden hat-tree in the corner,--hats that punch has made almost historical, and certainly easily recognizable wherever seen,--completed the picture of the simple apartment where one of the greatest statesmen of the present generation was wont to muse upon the affairs of one of the mightiest nations of the world, at whose helm his was the guiding hand. returning on our way to the railway station, we lunched in the tap-room of a little wayside inn, "the white hart," just one of those places that we americans read of in english novels, and which are so unlike anything we have at home, that we sometimes wonder if the description of them is not also a part of the writer's creation. but here was one just as if it had stepped out of an english story book; the little room for guests had a clean tile floor ornamented with alternate red and white chalk stripes, a fireplace of immense height and width, round which the village gossips probably sipped their ale o' winter nights, the wooden chairs and benches and the wooden table in the centre of the room, spotlessly clean and white from repeated scrubbings; half a dozen long clay tobacco pipes were in a tray on the table for smokers, clustering vines and snowy curtains shaded the windows, and there was an air of quiet comfort and somnolency about the place quite attractive to one who was fatigued with a long and dusty walk. the landlady entered with snowy apron, broad, clean cap, and of a figure suggestive of the nutritious quality of english ale or good living, and, like the mrs. fezziwig of dickens,-- "one vast, substantial smile." "what will you please to horder, sir?" "can we have some ale and crackers?" "hale, sir? yes, sir. bread and cheese, sir?" (_interrogatively_). "yes; bread and cheese." "two mugs and bread and cheese, mary," said the landlady, as she bustled out through the passage to a little wicket enclosure, behind which we caught through the opening door the flash of tankards in gleaming rows, and in a moment more "mary" tripped in with two beer mugs, shining like silver, and the snowy foam rising high and bubbling in creamy luxuriance over their brims upon the little tray that bore them. good english home-brewed is said to be better than that served in america; perhaps it may be that we "'aven't got the 'ops" to make as good as they brew in england, or it may be that tasting it while the spring breeze is blowing the perfume from the hedgerows and meadows in at the windows of little road-side inns, which command a pretty rustic view of gentle slope, green valley, and cool shade trees, has something to do with one's judgment of it. the attack upon the ale of old england and the loaf of sweet, close-grained bread and cheese, involved the enormous outlay of ten pence, to which we added two more for mary, an even shilling, for which she dropped a grateful courtesy, and we strolled on through the antiquated little town of penrith, visiting the churchyard and seeing the giant's grave, a space of eight feet between a gigantic head and foot stone, each covered with nearly obliterated runic inscriptions. chapter iii. from penrith we were whirled away over the rails to edinburgh. edinburgh is certainly a wonder--a wonder of historic interest, a wonder of curious old buildings, and a wonder of magnificent new ones. here we were in the very place that walter scott has made us long and long to see, and were to visit the scenes that were sung in his matchless minstrelsy, and painted in his graphic romances. here was the city where knox, the reformer, preached, and mary, queen of scots, held her brief and stormy reign. here we were to see holyrood, edinburgh castle, and a hundred scenes identified with scottish history, the very names of which served to help the melodious flow of the rhythm of scott's entrancing poems. with what wondrous charms does the poet and novelist invest historic scenes! how memory carried us back to the days when the tales of a grandfather held us chained to their pages, as with a spell! how the waverley novels' scenes came thronging into imagination's eye, like the half-forgotten scenes of happy youth, when we read of the bold scottish champions, the fierce highlanders, and the silken courtiers, the knights, battles, spearmen, castles, hunts, feasts, and pageants, so vividly described by the wizard of the north! here we are at a hotel on princes street, right opposite the scott monument, a graceful structure of gothic arches and pinnacles, and enshrining a figure of sir walter and his favorite dog. the view, seen from princes street, reminds one very much of the pictures of athens restored, with its beautiful public buildings of grecian architecture. between princes street, which is in the new, and the old city is a deep ravine or valley, as it were, now occupied by the tracks of the railroad, and spanned by great stone-arched bridges. an immense embankment, called the mound, also connects the old and new city, its slopes descending east and west into beautiful gardens towards the road-bed. upon the mound are the royal institution, gallery of fine arts, the former a sort of pantheon-looking building, and both with plenty of space around them, so that they look as if placed there expressly to be seen and admired. princes street, which is one of the finest in great britain, runs east and west. it is entirely open upon the south side, and separated only by a railing from the lovely gardens that run down into the hollow i have mentioned, between the old and new town. looking across the hollow, we see the old city, where the historic steeples of st. giles and others mingle among the lofty houses in the extended panoramic view, the eastern end of which is completed by the almost impregnable old castle, rich in historic interest, which lifts its battlements from its rocky seat two hundred feet above the surrounding country, and is a grand and picturesque object. the city, both old and new, appears to be built of stone resembling our darkest granite. the old town is built upon a ridge, gradually ascending towards the castle, and is a curious old place, with its lofty eight and ten-story houses, its narrow lanes, called "wynds," or "closes," and swarming population. the "closes" are curious affairs, being sort of narrow enclosures, running up in between lofty buildings, with only one place of ingress and egress, that could, in old times, be closed by a portcullis, the remains of some of them being still in existence, and were built as defences against incursions of the highlanders. here in the old town are many streets, the names of which will be recognized by all familiar with scott--the high street, grass market, cow gate, and canon gate. we went, one afternoon, and stood in the grass market, amid a seething mass of humanity that fills it. lofty old houses rise high about on all sides, every one with a history, and some of them two or three hundred years old--houses the windows of which were oft packed with eager faces to see the criminal executions here. some of these houses, scott says in his heart of mid-lothian, were formerly the property of the knights templars and knights of st. john, and still exhibit, on their points and gables, the cross of those orders in iron--houses that looked down on the furious mob that hung captain porteous upon the dyer's pole, over the very spot where we stood. then, walking down towards the other extremity, we entered the canon gate, extending down the hill towards holyrood palace--canon gate, which was the residence of the wealthy canons of the church when holyrood was an abbey, and after the reformation the abode of the scottish aristocracy. at one end of the old city stands holyrood, at the other the castle rock rears its rugged height. the new city is beautifully laid out in broad streets and squares, which are adorned with imposing buildings, monuments, and bronze statues of celebrated men; but i am not to give a guide-book description of edinburgh, although there is so much that interests in its streets and buildings that one is almost tempted to do so. the very first visit one desires to make is to the lofty old castle that overlooks the city. it is situated on an elevated basaltic rock, and is separated from the town by an esplanade about three hundred feet wide, and three hundred and fifty long. the castle is said to have been founded in the year , and contains many curious relics of antiquity, and is fraught with historic interest, having been the scene of so many crimes, romantic adventures, captivities, and sieges, within the past three or four hundred years--scenes that have been the most vivid in the pages of history, and formed an almost inexhaustible theme for the most graphic pictures of the novelist. among the most notable captures will be recollected that of the earl of randolph, nephew to robert bruce. and also, when in the possession of the english king edward i., thirty brave fellows, guided by a young man called william frank, who had often climbed up and down the castle rock to visit his sweetheart, ventured one night, in their heavy iron armor, with their swords and axes, to scale the most precipitous side overhanging the west princes street gardens, and, succeeding, quickly overcame the garrison. in , when the castle was again held by the english, sir william douglas and sir simon fraser took it by stratagem and surprise in broad daylight, having sent in a cart loaded with wine, which was dexterously overturned in the gateway, so that the gate could not be closed when the scottish soldiers rushed forward to the attack. the broad esplanade before the castle affords a fine view, and is used as a place for drilling the troops, the castle having accommodations for two thousand men. we passed across this, and by the statue of the duke of york, son of george iii., and uncle of queen victoria, and the monumental cross, erected in memory of the officers of the highland regiment who fell in the years and , in the indian rebellion war. on over the moat and drawbridge, and through the old portcullis gate, over which was the old prison in which the earl of argyle, and numerous adherents of the stuarts, were confined previous to their execution, and after passing beneath this, were fairly within the castle. one point of interest was the old sally-port, up which dundee climbed to have a conference with the duke of gordon, when on his way to raise the highland clans in favor of king james ii., while the convention were assembled in the parliament house, and were proceeding to settle the crown upon william and mary. dundee, accompanied by only thirty picked men, rode swiftly along a street in the old city, nearly parallel to the present line of princes street, while the drums in the town were beating to arms to pursue him; and leaving his men in a by-place, clambered up the steep rock at this point, and urged the duke to accompany him, but without effect. scott's song of "bonnie dundee" tells us,-- "dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, the bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat; but the provost, deuce man! said, 'just e'en let him be, for the town is well rid of that de'il o' dundee.'" dundee rode off towards stirling, with the threat that,-- "if there's lords in the southland, there's chiefs in the north; there are wild dunnie vassals, three thousand times three, will cry, 'hey for the bonnets of bonnie dundee!'" from what is known as the bomb battery an excellent view of edinburgh is obtained. here is a curious piece of early artillery, of huge size, designated mons meg, made at mons in brittany, in , of thick iron bars hooped together, and twenty inches diameter at the bore. near this is the chapel of queen margaret, a little norman building eight hundred years old, used by margaret, queen of malcolm iii., daughter of edward the outlaw, and granddaughter of edmund ironside, who, it will be remembered, disputed the crown of england for so many years with canute. one of the most interesting, as well as one of the oldest rooms, was a little irregular-shaped apartment, known as queen mary's room, being the room in which james vi. was born, in . the original ceiling remains, with the initials j. r. and m. r., surmounted by a crown, and wrought into the panels. from the window of this little room, it is said, the infant king was let down to the street, two hundred and fifty feet below, by means of a rope and basket, and carried off secretly to stirling castle, to be baptized in the roman catholic faith. when james made his first visit to scotland, in , after his accession to the english throne, he caused the royal arms to be elaborately painted on the wall, and underneath his mother's prayer, which still remains in quaint old english letters, somewhat difficult to decipher:-- "lord jesu chryst that crownit was with thornse preserve the birth quhais badyie heir is borne. and send hir sonne successive to reigne stille lang in this realme, if that it be thy will. als grant o lord quhat ever of hir proseed be to thy glorie, honer and prais sobied." the view from the windows, here at the east and south sides of the old castle, is varied and romantic. the curious old houses in the grass market, far down below; the quaint, blackened old streets of the old city; the magnificent towers of herriot's hospital against the blue sky; and stretching beyond the city, the fine landscape, with the familiar borough moor, where the scottish hosts were wont to muster by clans and chieftains,--form a scene of picturesque beauty not soon forgotten. the armory of the castle contains many interesting weapons of ancient warfare. among the most notable was a coat of mail worn by one of the douglases in cromwell's time; rob roy's dagger; some beautiful steel pistols, used by some of the highland followers of prince charles stuart at the battle of culloden; and cuirasses worn by the french cuirassiers at waterloo. the crown room contains the regalia of scotland, and the celebrated crown of robert bruce. the regalia of scotland consist of a crown, sceptre, and sword of state, the latter a most beautiful piece of workmanship, the scabbard elegantly ornamented with chased and wrought work, representing oak leaves and acorns, and which was a present from pope julius ii. to james iv. particular interest attaches to these regalia, from the fact of their discovery through scott's exertions, in , after a disappearance of about one hundred and eleven years. the crown is the diadem that pressed the valiant brow of robert the bruce, and the devoted head of mary, and was placed upon the infant brow of her son. charles ii. was the last monarch who wore this regal emblem, which is connected with so many stirring events in scottish history. from edinburgh castle, a gradually descending walk, through some of the most interesting portions of the old city, will take the visitor to holyrood palace and abbey,--quite a distance, but which should be walked rather than rode, if the tourist is a pedestrian of moderate powers, as it is thronged with so many points of historic interest, to which i can only make a passing allusion. the high street, as it is called, is one of the principal through which we pass, and in old times was considered very fine; but its glory departed with the building of the new portion of the city, and the curious old "closes," in the streets diverging from it, are the habitations of the lowest class of the population. bow street, which, if i remember rightly, runs into grass market from high street, was formerly known as west bow, from an arch or bow in the city wall. we passed down this quaint old street, which used to be the principal avenue by which carriages reached the upper part of the city. it was a curve of lofty houses, filthy kennels, and noisy children, spirit-shops, groceries, and garbage; yet up this street had ridden, in old times, anne of denmark, james i., charles i., oliver cromwell, charles ii., and james ii. it was down this street that the earl of argyle and marquis of montrose were dragged, in the hangman's cart, to execution in the grass market, which is situated at its foot, and to which i have previously alluded. porteous was also dragged down through this street to execution, by the rioters who took him from his jailers. in the old city we visited a court called dunbar's close, where, after the victory of dunbar, some of cromwell's soldiers were quartered. here remains a carved inscription, said to bear the oldest date in the city. it reads as follows: =y faith in christ. onlie savit, mdclii.= st. giles church, in high street, is a notable building, and was, in popish times, the cathedral of the city, named after st. giles, edinburgh's patron saint. i will not tire the reader with a visit to its interior; but it was here that took place that incident, which every school-boy recollects, of jenny geddes throwing her stool at the head of the officiating clergyman, upon his attempt to read the liturgy as prescribed by archbishop laud, and which it was proposed to introduce into scotland. the "solemn league and covenant" was sworn to and signed in this church, in . just within the railings surrounding the old church stands the shaft of the old cross of edinburgh; and the site of the tollbooth, which figures in scott's novels, is marked, near by, by the figure of a heart in the pavement--"the heart of mid-lothian." numerous other points of historic interest might be enumerated, did space permit. we must, as we pass rapidly on, not forget to take a view of the quaint old rookery-looking mansion of john knox, the reformer, with a steep flight of steps, leading up to a door high above the sidewalk, and the inscription upon it, which i could not read, but which i was informed was =lufe god above all, and your neighbour as yourself=, and the massive-looking old canon gate tollbooth, erected in the reign of james vi. on we go through the canon gate, till we emerge in the open space in front of that ancient dwelling-place of scottish royalty, holyrood palace. holyrood palace is interesting from the numerous important events in scottish history that have transpired within its walls. it is a great quadrangular building, with a court-yard ninety-four feet square. its front is flanked with double castellated towers, the tops peaked, and looking something like the lid of an old-fashioned coffee-pot, or an inverted tin tunnel, with the pipe cut off. the embellishments in front of the entrance to the palace and the beautiful fountain were completed under the direction, and at the expense, of the late prince albert. the palace is said to have been founded by james iv., quite early in the year , and it was his chief residence up to the time of his death, at flodden, in . some of the events that give it its historic celebrity are those that transpired during the life of mary, queen of scots, who made it her ordinary residence after her return to her native country, in . it was here that mary was married to darnley, and we were shown the piece of stone flagging upon which they knelt during the ceremony, and which we profaned with our own knees, with true tourist fervor; here that rizzio, or, as they spell it in scotland, riccio, was murdered in her very presence; here that she married bothwell, endured those fiery discussions with the scotch reformers, and wept at the rude and coarse upbraidings of john knox; here that james vi. brought his queen, anne of denmark, in , and had her crowned in the chapel; here, also, was charles i. crowned, and here, after the battle of dunbar, in , did cromwell quarter a part of his forces. in modern times, george iv. visited the palace in , granting, after his departure, over twenty thousand pounds for repairs and improvements; and in , queen victoria, prince albert, and the royal children made a visit there, and since that time she stops annually on her way to and from her highland residence at the castle of balmoral, for a brief period here at old holyrood. to those familiar at all, from reading history or the romances and poems, with those events in which this old pile occupies a prominent position, it of course possesses a great interest. in the broad, open space before the palace, the elaborate fountain, with its floriated pinnacles, figures, &c., will attract attention, although it ill accords with the old buildings. the most interesting apartments in the palace are those of mary, queen of scots. passing in at the entrance gate, and buying tickets at a little office very much like a theatrical ticket office, we visited the more ancient part of the palace, and entered first lord darnley's rooms. these were hung with fine specimens of ancient tapestry, upon which cupids are represented plucking fruit, and throwing it down to others; oak trees and leaves, cupids plucking grapes, &c. another scene was a lake and castle, with fruit trees and cupids; also figures of nude youngsters, turning somersaults and performing different antics. another room contains two pieces of tapestry, telling the story of the flaming cross that appeared to constantine the great, the motto, _in hoc signo vinces_, embroidered on the corner of the hangings; darnley's elegant armor, &c. other fine pieces of tapestry are in darnley's bed-room and dressing-room. portraits of scottish kings also adorn the walls. we were then shown queen mary's private staircase, that by which darnley admitted the conspirators up from a little turret room to assassinate rizzio. mary's audience chamber is a room about twenty feet square, the ceiling divided into panelled compartments, adorned with initials and armorial bearings, and the walls hung with tapestry, upon which were wrought various scenes, now sadly faded by the withering breath of time. these tapestry hangings the curious traveller soon becomes accustomed to, and the more, i think, one sees of them, the more he admires them--the scenes of ancient mythology or allegorical design so beautifully wrought as to rival even oil paintings in beauty of color and design, and exciting a wonder at the skill and labor that were expended in producing with many colored threads these wondrous loom mosaics. in the audience chamber stands the bed of charles i., and upon this couch prince charles, the unfortunate descendant of the former occupant, slept in september, , and the duke of cumberland, his conqueror, rested upon the same couch. cumberland, yes, we recollect him; he figured in lochiel's warning, campbell's beautiful poem-- "proud cumberland prances, insulting the slain." some rich old chairs of the same period, and other furniture, are also in this room, which was the scene of mary's altercation with knox. looking upon the antique bed, one can see how, despite care, the hand of time leaves its indelible impress upon all that is of man's creation. you can scarcely imagine how time affects an old state bed. no matter what be the care or exclusion from sunlight, the breath of time leaves its mark; the canopy and hangings gradually fade and deaden, the very life seems to be extracted, and they look like an old piece of husk or dried toast, light, porous, and moulding; the wood-work, however, grows dark, and apparently as solid as iron; the quaint carving stands out in jetty polish, rich and luxuriant--a study and a wonder of curious and fantastic art and sculpture in wood. queen mary's room is hung with a beautiful piece of tapestry, representing the fall of phaeton; half hidden by this tapestry is the door opening upon the secret stair by which rizzio's murderers entered; upon the wall hang portraits of mary at the age of eighteen, portraits of queen elizabeth and king henry viii., presented her by elizabeth; here also was furniture used by the queen, and the baby linen basket sent her by elizabeth. from here we enter that oft-described apartment so celebrated in scottish history--the queen's supper room, where rizzio was murdered. its small size generally excites astonishment. here, into this little room, which half a dozen persons would fill, rushed the armed conspirators, overturning the table and dragging their shrieking victim from the very feet of the queen, as he clung to her dress for protection, stabbing him as they went beneath her very eyes, forcing him out into the audience chamber, and left him with over fifty ghastly wounds, from which his life ebbed in a crimson torrent, leaving its ineffaceable stain, the indelible mark upon the oaken floor, not more indelible than the blackened stain which rests upon the names of the perpetrators of this brutal murder. adown the little staircase which the conspirators passed, we go through a low door into the court-yard. over the top of this little door, a few years ago, in a crevice of the masonry, an antique dagger-blade was discovered by some workmen; and as the murderers escaped through this door, it was surmised that this was one of the very daggers used in the assassination. but we leave the place behind, and enter the romantic ruins of the old abbey. how interesting are these picturesque ruined remains of the former glory and power of the church of rome in england! their magnificent proportions, beauty of architecture, and exquisite decoration bespeak the wealth of the church and the wondrous taste of those who reared these piles, which, in their very ruin, command our admiration. the abbey is immediately adjoining the palace,--its front a beautiful style of early english architecture, and the noble, high-arched door, with cluster pillars, elaborately sculptured with fret-work figures of angels, flowers, vines, &c.,--one of those specimens of stone carving that excite wonder at the amount of patient work, labor, and skill that must have been required in their production. the abbey was founded in , and the fragment which remains formed the nave of the ancient building. here are the graves of david ii., james ii., darnley, and that of the ill-starred rizzio, and other eminent personages, some of whom, judging from the ornaments upon the marble slabs of their graves, were good freemasons and knights templars,--the perfect ashler, setting maul, and square upon the former, and the rude-cut figures of reclining knights, with crossed feet and upraised hands, upon others, indicating the fact. but the gairish sun shines boldly down into the very centre of what was once the dim-lighted, solemn old abbey, with its cool, quiet cloisters, that scarce echoed to the monk's sandalled footstep, and the gracefully-pointed arches, supported by clusters of stone pillars, throw their quaint shadows on the greensward, now, where was once the chapel's stone pavement; the great arched window through which the light once fell in shattered rainbows to the floor, stands now, slender and weird-like, with its tracery against the heaven, like a skeleton of the past; and the half-obliterated or undecipherable vain-glorious inscriptions upon the slabs, here and there, are all that remain of this monument of man's power and pride--a monument beautiful in its very ruins, and romantic from the halo of associations of the dim past that surround it. the new city, to which i have referred, is a creation of the last hundred years, the plans of it being published in . the two great streets are george street and princes street, the former filled with fine stores, and adorned with statues of william pitt, george iv., and many public buildings and beautiful squares. here, in edinburgh, we began to hear the "burr" of the scotch tongue. many of the salesmen in the stores where tourists go to buy scotch linen or scotch pebble jewelry, the scotch plaids which were temptingly displayed, or the warm under-clothing which new englanders appreciate, seemed to have their tongues roughened, as it were, to a sort of pleasant whir-r in speaking the english language. up from one end of princes street rises calton hill, with its unfinished national monument, designed to represent the classical parthenon at athens; and in one respect it does, being a sort of ruin, or, i may say, a fragment of ruin, consisting of a dozen splendid doric columns,--for the monument which was to commemorate the scotchmen who fell at waterloo was never finished. here also is a round monument to nelson, and a dome, supported by pillars, a monument to professor dugald stewart; while a monument to burns is seen upon the regent's road, close at hand. the view of the long vista of princes street from calton hill, in which the eye can take in at one sweep the scott monument, the splendid classical-looking structures of the royal institution and national gallery, the great castle on its rocky perch, and then turning about on the other side and viewing the square, solid old palace of holyrood, with the fragment of ruined abbey attached, and rising high above them the eminence known as arthur's seat, and the winding cliffs of salisbury crags, forms a panoramic scene of rare beauty and interest. speaking of interest, i cannot leave edinburgh without referring to the interesting collection of curious relics at the antiquarian museum. think of standing in john knox's pulpit, and thumping, with your curious, wonder-seeking hand, the same desk that had held his bible, or been smitten by his indignant palm, as he denounced the church of rome, nearly three hundred years ago; of looking upon the very stool that jenny geddes launched at the head of the dean of st. giles, when he undertook to introduce the liturgy into scotland, in ; and seeing one of the very banners of the covenanters that had been borne amid the smoke and fire of their battles; nay, there, in a glass case, we saw the old scotch covenant itself, with the signatures of montrose, lothian, and their associates. here also were gustavus adolphus's spurs, robert burns's pistols, the very glass that prince charlie drank from before the disastrous battle of culloden; the original draft of inquiry into the massacre of glencoe, dated , original autographic letters from charles vi., prince charles edward stuart, cromwell, and mary, queen of scots. this was reading scottish history from the original documents. here was the flag of scotland that flouted the breeze at the battle of dunbar, in , the pikes of charles ii.'s pikemen, and the old scottish six-ell spears; nails from the coffin and a portion of the very shroud of robert bruce, the blue ribbon of prince charlie, worn as knight of the garter, in , and the very ring given to him by flora macdonald at parting. among the horrors of the collection is "the maiden," a rude guillotine of two upright posts, between which a loaded axe blade was hoisted by a cord, and let fall upon the devoted neck beneath. by this very instrument fell the regent morton, in , sir john gordon, in , the earl of argyle, in , and many others--a bloody catalogue. the collection of ancient implements, coins, seals, medallions, weapons, &c., was interesting as well as valuable and extensive, comprising many that have been exhumed from ancient ruins, and antique relics, more or less connected with the history of the country. the free national gallery contains a noble collection of elegant pictures by eminent artists of old and modern times, and a fine statue of burns. the ride up salisbury crags to the eminence known as arthur's seat, which rises behind holyrood eight hundred feet high, is one of the great attractions to the tourist; the drive to it by the fine carriage road, known as "queen's drive," is delightful, and the view of the city and surrounding country from the elevated road very picturesque. there is a romantic little path here, on salisbury crags, running by the ruins of st. anthony's chapel, that walter scott used to walk when working out the plot of some of his novels, and the now broad road was then but a winding path up the crags; the chapel, it will be remembered, figures in the heart of mid-lothian. the elegant monument, nearly in front of the royal hotel, in the princes street gardens, erected in memory of walter scott, and known as the scott monument, is familiar to most american readers, from engravings. it is a splendid gothic tower, and said to be "a recollection of the architectural beauties of melrose abbey." i cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of scott, what the present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions, and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening scottish national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low. thousands and thousands of the scotch people are to-day indebted to the labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their daily bread. i have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, i might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. year after year the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits. the poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums, ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are something marvellous. fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the meccas of travellers from all nations. as an illustration of the latter fact, i met a man upon the battlements of edinburgh castle, from cape town, africa, whose parents were scotch, but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had read scott's waverley novels and scott's poems till the one wish of his heart was to see old scotland and those scenes with which the wizard of the north had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of eight years, he "ran about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine." he was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed for,--looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and i was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted" it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor. it is a pleasant seven mile ride from edinburgh out to rosslyn castle, and the way to go is to take hawthornden, as most tourists do, _en route_. this place--a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion--is perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the river esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged. one can well imagine that drummond, the scottish poet and historian, the friend of shakespeare, ben jonson, and drayton, drew inspiration from this charming retreat. jonson is said to have walked all the way from london to make a visit here. under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. one of these rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. here, the guide told us, robert bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and i was prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider anecdote of the story-books. we got no such information, but were shown a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the scottish king, which i took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after i had laid down this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it. it may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also the correctness of the story that bruce ever hid there, are questioned. one of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the rock, and this is styled bruce's library. passing out into the grounds of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley, and along by the side of the esk river, which babbled over its rocky bed at our feet. if this esk is the same one that young lochinvar swam, he did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two miles at its side, i saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very dangerous depth or current. our romantic walk brought us to the ruins of rosslyn castle, but little of which remains, except a triple tier of vaults and some masses of masonry, its position being on a sort of peninsular rock, overhanging the picturesque glen of the esk we had just traversed; and the massive stone bridge which spans the ravine forms the only connection between the opposite bank and the castle. rosslyn chapel, or roslin,--for they spell it both ways here,--was founded by william, the third earl of orkney, in , who had conferred on him by james ii. the office of grand master of the scottish freemasons, which continued hereditary in the family of his descendants till , when it was resigned into the hands of the scottish lodges. the chapel is one of the most elaborately decorated specimens of architecture in the kingdom, and, besides its celebrity in history, and the interest that scott has invested it with, is a building of peculiar interest to members of the fraternity of freemasons. it is impossible to designate the architecture by any familiar term; it is distinguished, however, by its pointed gothic arches and a profusion of ornament, the interior being a wonder of decoration in stone carving, particularly the pillars, which are pointed out to the visitor as its chief wonders, and some of which bear the mark master mason's "mark." the interior of the chapel is divided into a centre and two side aisles, and the two rows of clustered pillars which support the roof are only eight feet in height. the capitals of these pillars are decorated with the most beautifully chiselled foliage, running vines, and ornaments, and on the friezes masonic brethren are represented feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick, &c.; there are also a number of allegorical figures, representing the seven deadly sins. but the marvel of the whole is the apprentices' pillar, which, according to the familiar legend, was left unfinished by the master mason, while he went to rome to study designs to enable him to perfect it in a suitable manner. during his absence, an "entered apprentice," fired with ambition, completed it after designs of his own, which so enraged the master on his return, that, in a fit of rage, he killed him with a blow on the head with a setting-maul. the pillar is a clustered column, surrounded by an exquisitely-wrought wreath of flowers, running from base to capital, the very poetry of carving. above this pillar is the following inscription:-- =forte est vinum, fortior est rex, fortiores sunt mulieres; super omnia vincit veritas.= which is, "wine is strong, the king is stronger, women are strongest; above all things, truth conquers." we stood upon the ponderous slab that was the door to the vault beneath, in which slumber the barons of roslin, all of whom, till the time of james vi., were buried uncoffined, but in complete armor--helm, corselet, and gauntlets. scott's familiar lines came to mind,-- "where roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply." it seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. the present earl, therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "james alexander, third earl, died th june, ." bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame also to the interest with which walter scott has invested it--one which he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own abbotsford. i refer to melrose abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving scotland without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new version of an oft-told story; but now that i have seen it, i am never tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty. melrose is thirty-five miles from edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us secure them, for a drive to melrose abbey, abbotsford, or dryburg abbey, and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card which was thrust into my hand, and which i give for the benefit of other tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "abbey hotel," herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little railroad station. "the abbey hotel, abbey gate, melrose. "this hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' parties coming to the hotel, therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is the only house which commands the views of melrose abbey. "an extensive addition having been lately built to this establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms, it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in melrose. "one-horse carriage to abbotsford and back s. d. " " to dryburg and back s. d. "these charges include everything." upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this "most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we were informed, was kept by archibald hamilton, who also kept various "horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and british spirits for sale." a rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the "establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. the abbey hotel was a comfortable english inn, and we found, on arriving at it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by--too close, it seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins, is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture. melrose was built in , destroyed by the english in , and rebuilt with two thousand pounds sterling, given by robert bruce, in --a sum of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. so much for its history. but let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have, time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the walls of art galleries at home. "the darkened roof rose high aloof, on pillars lofty, light, and small; the key-stone that locked each ribbed aisle was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille. the corbels were carved grotesque and grim, and the pillars with clustered shafts so trim, with base and with capital flourished around, seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound." as we came into the midst of this glorious old structure, we actually stood silent for some time, so filled were we with admiration at its wondrous beauty. to be sure, the blue arch of the heavens is now its only roof, and from the shattered walls rooks or jackdaws fly noisily overhead; but, then, the majestic sweep of the great gothic arches, that vista of beauty, a great gothic aisle still standing, fifty feet long, and sixty feet from floor to key-stone, the superb columns, and the innumerable elegant carvings on every side, the graves of monarch, knight, and wizard, marked with their quaint, antique inscriptions at your feet, and "the cloister galleries small, which at mid height thread the chancel wall," all form a scene of most charming and beautiful effects. and we stood there, with the blue sky looking in through the shattered arches, the noisy rooks flying hither and thither on their morning calls, the turf, soft, green, and springy, sprinkled here and there with wild flowers, in the centre of the ruin, while festoons of ivy waved in the breeze, like tapestry hung about the shattered windows and crumbling columns. here was the place, and the day was one of those quiet, dreamy spring days, on which tourists could sit "them down on a marble stone," and read bold deloraine's visit to the wizard's grave, as described by scott in the lay of the last minstrel. and here is his grave, an unpoetical-looking place enough now, and perhaps less wonderful since branksome's knight wrenched it open, and took away the magic volume from michael scott's dead clasp. here is the spot where robert bruce's heart was buried; here the grave of the earl of douglas, "the dark knight of liddesdale," and of douglass, the hero of chevy chase; while quaint and latin inscriptions on the walls and the time-worn slabs record the resting-place of once proud, but now extinct families and forgotten heroes, all now one common dust. we must not forget the great windows of the abbey, more especially the east window. i write it in large letters, for it is an architectural poem, and it will live in my memory as a joy forever, it is such a thing of beauty. the lightness of its proportions and beauty of its tracery at once impress the beholder; and all around the sides and above it are quaint and wonderfully-executed sculptures in the stone-work--statues, chain and crown; figures on carved pedestals, beneath canopies of wrought stone, while wreaths and sculptured flowers are artistically wrought in various directions. the exterior of the abbey presents remarkable symmetry, and a profusion of embellishment in sculptured stone-work, and is built in the usual form of such structures--a latin cross. the nave, in its present ruined condition, is two hundred and fifty-eight feet long, by seventy-nine in breadth. the transept is one hundred and thirty feet long, and forty-four in breadth, which will give some idea of the size of these splendid old edifices of the romish church. the ornamental carving, with which the whole edifice is so profusely decorated, would afford study for a month, and consists, besides delicately-chiselled flowers and plants, of grotesque and curious figures of monks, saints, nuns, demons, &c. among other sculptures is that of a man seated cross-legged, upholding a pedestal on his shoulders, his features expressing pain at the heavy weight; a group of musicians playing on various instruments and performing different antics; a man with his head in his hand; monks with rosaries, cooks with knife and ladle, grinning heads, and women with faces veiled and busts displayed; effigies of the apostles, rosettes, ribbed work, bouquets of flowers, scallop shells, oak leaves, acorns, lilies and plants; in fact, the faithfulness with which well-known plants have been represented by the sculptor has long been the subject of comment of the historian and antiquarian; and "in this abbey," says an historian, "there are the finest lessons and the greatest variety of gothic ornaments that the island affords, take all the religious structures together." what must it have been when nave, and transept, and aisle were perfect, when the great windows were perfect glories of colored glass, the carvings fresh from the sculptor's chisel, and the chant of a hundred monks floated through the lofty arches! in those times when these holy men gave their hearts and hands to the extending and embellishing of those temples erected to the great architect of the universe, by that wonderful order of men, the freemasons, and did it with an enthusiasm and taste which proved that they deemed a love of the beautiful not incompatible with the love of religion! it was then that religious fervor expressed itself in grand creations, and all the arts of the age were controlled and made to contribute to the one great art of the age, architecture, as evinced in these wondrous works of their hands that they have left behind--models of artistic skill and beauty unexcelled as yet by those who have come after them. melrose abbey is a place that i would have enjoyed spending a week at instead of a single day, which was all too short for proper study and examination of the curious specimens of the sculptors' and builders' arts one encounters in every part of the ruins; but we must up and away. a carriage to abbotsford and back was chartered, and we were soon rattling over the pleasant road on our way to the home of sir walter scott, about three miles distant. it is in some respects a curious structure, half country-seat, half castle, "a romance of stone and lime," as its owner used to call it. we did not catch sight of its castellated turrets, till, driving down a slight declivity from the main road, we were at the very gates; entering these, a beautiful walk of a hundred and fifty feet, along one aisle of the court-yard, and commanding a fine view of a portion of the grounds, the garden front, led us to the house itself. at different points about the grounds and house are various stone antiquities, and curiosities gathered from old buildings, which one must have a guide-book to explain. melrose abbey and the old city of edinburgh appear to have been laid under contribution for these mementos--the door of the old tollbooth from the latter, and a stone fountain, upon which stood the old cross of edinburgh, being conspicuous objects. abbotsford is a lovely place, and seems to be situated in a sort of depression among the hills, and by them, in some degree, sheltered from any sweeping winds. besides being of interest as the residence of scott, it is a perfect museum of curiosities and relics identified with scottish history. the entrance hall is richly panelled in oak taken from the palace of dunfermline, and the roof with the same. all along the cornice of the roof of this hall are the coats of arms of the different clans of the border, painted in colors, on small armorial shields, an inscription stating,-- "=these be the coat armoires of the clanns and chief men of name, wha keepit the marchys of scotland in the auld tyme for the kynge. trewe men were they in their defence. god them defendyt.=" here are also three or four complete suits of tilting armor, set up and looking as though still occupied by the stern warriors who once owned them: one grasps a huge two-handed sword, captured at the battle of bosworth field; another a broad claymore taken from the dead grasp of a highlander, who fell with "his back to the field and his feet to the foe," on the disastrous field of culloden; the breastplates and trappings of two of napoleon's celebrated french cuirassiers, whose resistless charge trampled down whole battalions, but who were swept from their saddles by hundreds, as these two were by the leaden hail of the english infantry squares at waterloo. here also were stout old lochaber axes, english steel maces, battle-axes, and other weapons, many with histories, and from the bloody fields whose horrors are a prominent feature on the pages of history. but the most interesting rooms of all, to me, were the study and library of sir walter; and among the most interesting relics were the plain, unpretending suit of clothes last worn by him, his walking-sticks, his shoes, and his pipes; and in his study the writing-table at which he wrote, and the great leather-covered chair in which he sat. the library is quite a large apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length, handsomely decorated, and with its deep, broad windows looking out upon the river tweed. it is completely lined with books from floor to ceiling--in all, some twenty thousand. here are also many curiosities; among others, the silver urn presented by lord byron, which rests on a stand of porphyry; marie antoinette's clock; very curious and richly carved ebony arm-chairs, presented by george iv.; a glass case contained rob roy mcgregor's purse, a piece of robert bruce's coffin, a purse wrought by joanna baillie, a small case by miss martineau, two gold bees, each as big as a hen's egg, taken from napoleon's carriage, a portfolio that once belonged to napoleon, miniature portrait of prince charlie, ("wha'll be king but charlie?"), snuff-box of george iv., the seal of mary, queen of scots, a little box from miss edgeworth, and other relics and momentos. in the armory, among other curiosities, we saw the musket of that redoubtable outlaw rob roy, claverhouse's pistol, a sword that was given to the marquis of montrose by charles i., james vi.'s hunting flask, pair of pistols found in napoleon's carriage at the battle of waterloo, the armor of one of the old scottish kings, general monk's pistols, keys of the old tollbooth, &c. among the more striking pictures upon the walls of the different rooms were the portrait of the head of mary, queen of scots, upon a charger, said to have been taken a few hours after her execution, the sad, pale features of which haunted my imagination for many an hour afterwards. then there were the stern, heavily-moulded features of cromwell, charles xii., the lion of sweden, and claverhouse, charles ii., and a long-bearded old ancestor of sir walter's, who allowed his beard to grow after the execution of charles i.; and a collection of original etchings by turner and other artists, the designs for the "provincial antiquities of scotland." but from all these we sauntered back reverentially to the little study, with its deep arm-chair, and its table and books of reference, and its subdued light from the single window; for here was the great author's work-room. a garrulous guide and three or four curious friends allow a dreamer, however, no time for thought and reflection while there is sight-seeing to be done; so we were escorted over a portion of the prettily laid-out grounds, and then took our leave, and our carriage, and soon left abbotsford behind us. edinburgh, melrose, and abbotsford seen, we must next have a look at stirling castle. so, after a ride of thirty-six miles from edinburgh, we are eating the well-cooked mutton chops that they serve at the golden lion, in stirling, and, after being duly fortified with good cheer, wend our way up through the steep streets to the castle on its rocky perch. this strong old castle, standing directly upon the brow of a precipitous rock, overlooks one of the most extended and beautiful landscapes in the kingdom--the beautiful vale of menteith, the highland mountains in the distance, ben lomond, benvenue, ben lodi, and several other "bens;" the river forth, winding its devious course through the fertile valley, the brown road, far below at our feet, running along to the faintly-marked ruins of cambuskenneth abbey, and the little villages and arched bridges, form a charming view. the eye here takes in also, in this magnificent prospect, no less than twelve of scotland's battle-fields, including one of wallace's fierce contests, and bannockburn, where bruce gained the independence of scotland in . james ii. and james v. were born in stirling; and i looked at the little narrow road which goes down behind the castle with some interest, when i was told it furnished king james v. the fictitious name, "ballangeich," he was in the habit of assuming when he went among his subjects in disguise. theatre-goers will remember the play of the "gude man of ballangeich," and the "king of the commons," and that he was the king who was hero in those plays, and also the "james fitz-james" of scott's lady of the lake. and, speaking of the lady of the lake, the beautiful view from the battlements of stirling castle, three hundred feet above the valley, recalled roderic dhu's reply to james:-- "saxon, from yonder mountain high, i marked thee send delighted eye far to the south and east, where lay, extended in succession gay, deep waving fields and pastures green, with gentle slopes and groves between; those fertile fields, that softened vale, were once the birthright of the gael." the outer gates of the castle are said to have been built by the old romans, and were strong enough for ancient batteries, but not for modern artillery. the marks of the cannon shot fired by general monk when he attacked the castle, directing the whole fire of his artillery at one point till he battered down a portion of the wall, and the breach through which william wallace entered, are points of interest. so was the dark, secure, stone cell into which we peeped, where rob roy is said to have been confined. the outer works of the castle were erected in queen anne's time, and that known as the palace, built by james v. the little room known as the douglass room, with its adjoining closet, is one of the "lions" of the castle, for it was here that the earl of douglass--the "black douglass"--met king james ii. under promise of safe conduct; and after a fierce discussion, in which the king vainly tried to induce him to abandon a compact he had made with other chiefs, he stabbed the earl, in a fit of passion. the nobles attendant on the king, concealed in the little antechamber, rushed in and completed the murder, throwing the body from the window--which is pointed out to us--into the garden beneath. not far from the castle is the "lady's rock," a small hill from which the ladies of the scottish court, and other favored ones, could look down upon the tournament field, a hundred feet below. and as we sat there, and looked upon the form of the lists, still visible upon the turf below, marked by the green ridges, it was easy to imagine what an animated and beautiful scene it must have presented when filled with knights and squires, steeds and men; for it was here that james was forced to award douglass the prize, as the victor in the feats of strength at the scottish sports. "the gray-haired sires, who know the past, to strangers point the douglass cast, and moralize on the decay of scottish strength in modern day." this beautiful vale has witnessed many a joust and tournament. this vale at our feet, this "lady's rock," and the lady's seat, which makes for us a sort of rocky throne, as we sit here and muse on scotland's history and scotland's poet, are the very ones he speaks of as "the vale with loud applauses rang, the lady's rock sent back the clang." near the lady's rock is a modern cemetery, beautifully laid out, and containing statues of knox and henderson, and other handsome monuments. the old churchyard of grayfriars contains many curious monuments, and here, on an old sun-dial, i found this inscription:-- "i mark time; dost thou? i am a shadow; so art thou." it was in grayfriars that james vi. was crowned, and knox preached the coronation sermon. no tourist will think of leaving stirling without taking a ride to the field of bannockburn, a short distance. the scene of a battle which occurred more than five hundred and fifty years ago cannot be expected to preserve many features of its former character; the only one which is of particular interest is the "bore stone," a fragment of rock with a small cavity, in which the scottish standard is said to have been raised; it is clamped all over with iron bars, to prevent relic-hunters from carrying what remains of it away. the story of the battle is one of the most familiar ones in scottish history to both young and old readers, and your guide will indicate to you points where the scotch and english forces were disposed, where the concealed pits were placed into which plunged so many of the english cavalry, the point where bruce stood to watch the battle, nay, the very place where "the monarch rode along the van, the foe's approaching force to scan," when sir henry boune, thinking, as the bruce was mounted on a slight palfrey, far in advance of his own line, to ride him down with his heavy war horse, set his lance in rest, and dashed out from the english lines with that intent. "he spurred his steed, he couched his lance, and darted on the bruce at once," thinking to distinguish himself and have his name in history. he did so, but not in the manner, probably, he had anticipated; for "while on the king, like flash of flame, spurred to full speed, the war horse came! but swerving from the knight's career, just as they met, bruce shunned the spear. * * * * * high in his stirrups stood the king, and gave his battle-axe the swing; such strength upon the blow was put, the helmet cracked like hazel-nut;" and so began the battle of bannockburn, which ended in the defeat of one hundred thousand english by thirty thousand scots, raising bruce from a hunted rebel to the rank of an independent sovereign. it was the most important battle the scots ever won, and the most severe defeat the english ever experienced in scotland. another pleasant little excursion was a walk to cambuskenneth abbey, crossing the river forth by an old ferry, where we had to hail the ferry-man from the other side. we did not have to say,-- "boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry,"-- for the old fellow came over, rowed three of us across, and demanded _three half-pence_ for the service; so we were liberal, and gave him double fare. the only part of the abbey remaining is a gothic tower, and a few remnants of walls, and the foundation lines of nave and transept, which are visible. a few years ago, when some excavations were being made here, the site of the high altar was found, and beneath it the supposed coffin and skeleton of james iii. they were re-interred, and a handsome square sarcophagus marks the spot, bearing an inscription, which tells the visitor that queen victoria erected it in , in memory of her ancestors. while at stirling we had the opportunity of seeing a real highland regiment, who were quartered there, in their picturesque, unmilitary dress,--kilt, bare legs, plaid stockings, crown of feathers, &c.,--a most uncomfortable and inconvenient dress for service in the field, i should imagine. i also had an opportunity of hearing native scotch songs, sung by a scotch minstrel, as i never heard them sung before. it was a still, quiet moonlight night, in one of the streets, and the wandering minstrel accompanied himself on a violin. i never heard ballad-singing better or more effectively rendered. the singer's voice was a pure, flexible tenor, and as he sung, "flow gently, sweet afton," there was hardly a finger moved in the crowd that stood about him; but when he gave a pathetic scotch ballad, in which the tear was in his voice, he brought it into the eye of more than one of his auditors; and the hearty manner in which many a poor, ragged fellow crowded up to give him a ha'penny at the close, showed how deeply they were touched, and how grateful they felt towards one who could interpret their national melodies so well. from stirling we will make a detour through that charming scenery of scotland which scott so frequently mentions in his lady of the lake, especially in the ride of fitz-james after the stag, which at eve had "drunk his fill," "where danced the moon on monan's rill." but first an unromantic railroad ride of sixteen miles must be taken; and not unromantic, either, for there are many pleasant spots and points of historic interest on the route,--the bridge of allan, a pleasant village, which is a popular watering-place not far from stirling, being one;--through donne, "the bannered towers of donne," and on by the rippling stream of the river forth. "they bathe their coursers' sweltering sides, dark forth, within thy sluggish tides." and we might go on with half the poem in the same manner, such is the charm which scott's poetry has lent to this part of the country. at the rugged-looking little stone-built town of callander we left the train, and climbed into a sort of open wagon stagecoach, similar to those sometimes used at the white mountains, which held sixteen of us, and had a spanking team driven by an expert english "whip;" and we were whirled away, for a ride of twenty miles or more, through the lake country and "the trossachs" to loch katrine. the word "trossachs," i was told by a communicative scotchman, signified "bristles," and the name was suggested by the species of coarse furze which abounds in the passes of this rough and hilly country. the wild mountain scenery reminded me often of our own white mountains; and the reaches of view, though giving pretty landscape scenes, showed a country rather sterile for the husbandman--better to shoot over than plough over. at last we reached a little sort of hollow in the hills, where lake vennachar narrows down to the river teith, and came to where the stream swept round a little grassy point of land; and here our coach stopped a moment for us to look,-- "for this is coilantogle ford,"-- which, it will be recollected, was "far past clan alpine's outmost guard," and the scene of the combat between fitz-james and roderic dhu. "and there," said an old scotchman, pointing to the little grassy peninsula, "is the very place where the fight took place"--a borrowed stretch of the imagination, inasmuch as the poet himself imagined the combat. but we whirled away past vennachar, mounted a little eminence, from whence we had a grand panoramic view of hills, lake, road, and river, with benvenue rising in the background; and as we rattled down the hill the road swept round with a curve near to a little village that i recognized at once from the pictures in illustrated editions of scott's poems--duncraggan's huts, one of the points at which the bearer of the fiery cross paused on his journey to raise the clans. "speed, malise, speed! the lake is past, duncraggan's huts appear at last." and passing this, we soon rolled over a little single-arched bridge--the bridge of turk. "and when the brigg of turk was won, the headmost horseman rode alone." on over the brigg of turk, past loch achray, and we come to the trossachs hotel, commanding a good view of the black-looking "loch," and the rocky peak of ben a'an. between this point and loch katrine, a mile, are the "trossachs." all the drives and scenery in the immediate vicinity are delightful; and the hotel, which is a fine castellated building, must be a most pleasant place for summer resort. embarking upon a little steamer named rob roy, on loch katrine, we sail close by ellen's isle, and sweep out into the middle of the lake--a lovely sheet of water, and reminding the american tourist of lake george. a delightful sail on this lake carried us to stronachlachar. there we disembark, and take carriage again through the valley to loch lomond, passing on the road the hut in which helen mcgregor, rob roy's wife, was born, and also a fort built to check the incursions of the mcgregors, and at one time commanded by general wolfe--the same who afterwards fell at the capture of quebec. then, descending to inversnaid, we came to loch lomond, with the dark mountains looking down upon its waters. that there is some wind among these scotch hills we had ample opportunity of ascertaining; for so furiously did the gusts pour down upon the lake, that they lashed it into foam-capped waves, and sent the sheets of spray so liberally over the boat as to make us glad to contemplate this pride of the scottish lakes, its hills, and thirsty islands from the cabin windows. disembarking once more at balloch, situated at the southern extremity of the lake, the train was in waiting which took us to glasgow, passing dumbarton on our route, and giving us a fine view of dumbarton castle, situated upon the two high peaks of dumbarton rock, five hundred and sixty feet high, and noted as being the place of confinement of william wallace. the highest peak of the rock is called wallace's seat, from this circumstance. chapter iv. glasgow cathedral, situated on the highest ground in the metropolis of scotland, looks over the spires, domes, and crowded masonry of a city of half a million inhabitants. a view from its tower, over two hundred feet in height, takes in the valley of the river clyde, with woods, and hedges, and pleasant meadows, and the river itself rolling on its way towards the ocean. the renfrewshire hills, the neighboring town of paisley, dumbarton rock, and the argyleshire mountains, and a ruin or two, with the waving ivy, green upon the shattered walls, complete the distant picture; while spread beneath, at our very feet, is the busy city itself, with its factories, its furnaces, and great masses of high-storied houses, and stretching along by the water side the great quay wall of fifteen thousand feet in length, with vessels ranged two or three abreast before it. this fine old cathedral is an elegant gothic structure, and was built in . it is remarkable from being one of the few churches in scotland that have been preserved in a comparatively perfect state, and its annals for the past seven hundred years have been well preserved and authenticated; but with these i must have but little to do, for once immersed in the curious records of these old ecclesiastical edifices, so celebrated in history, and so wondrous in architectural beauty, and we shall get on all too slowly among the sights and scenes in foreign lands. the grand entrance to the glasgow cathedral is at the great doorway at one end of the nave, and we enter a huge church, three hundred and nineteen feet long by about sixty wide, divided by a splendid screen, or rood loft, as it is called, separating the nave from the choir, that most sacred part of the roman catholic edifices, where the principal altars were erected, and high mass was performed. the carving and ancient decoration here are in a fine state of preservation, and the majestic columns which support the main arches, with their beautifully-cut foliaged capitals of various designs, are an architectural triumph. the crypts beneath this cathedral are in an excellent state of preservation, and at one time were used for purposes of worship. in catholic times these old crypts were used for the purposes of sepulture for prelates and high dignitaries of the church; but nearly all traces of the monuments of these worthies were swept away in the blind fury which characterized the reformation in its destruction of "monuments of idolatry;" and so zealous, or, we may now say, fanatical, were the reformers, that they swept to swift destruction some of the finest architectural structures in the land, and monuments erected to men who had been of benefit to their race and generation, in one general ruin. the tourist, as he notes the mutilation of the finest works of architectural skill, and the almost total destruction of exquisite sculpture and historical monuments, which he constantly encounters in these ecclesiastical buildings, finds himself giving utterance to expressions anything but flattering to the perpetrators of this vandalism. an effigy of a bishop, with head struck off and otherwise mutilated, is now about all of note that remains of the monuments here in the crypt. it is supposed to be the effigy of jocline, the founder of this part of the cathedral, which is about one hundred and thirty feet in length, and sixty-five wide, with five rows of columns of every possible form, from simple shaft to those of elaborate design, supporting the structure above. the crypts are, it is said, the finest in the kingdom. but the great wonder of glasgow cathedral is its stained-glass windows, which are marvels of modern work, for they were commenced in , and completed in , and are some of the finest specimens of painted-glass work that the royal establishment of glass painting, in munich, has ever produced. these windows are over eighty in number; but forty-four of them are _great_ windows, twenty-five or thirty feet high, and each one giving a bible story in pictures. the subjects begin with the expulsion from paradise, and continue on in regular order of bible chronology. besides these are coats of arms of the different donors of windows, in a circle of colored glass at the base, as each was given by some noted person or family, and serves as a memento of relatives and friends who are interred in the cathedral or its necropolis. besides the leading events of biblical history, from the old testament portrayed, such as noah's sacrifice, abraham offering isaac, the offer of marriage to rebekah, the blessing of jacob, the finding of moses, &c., there are figures of the apostles, the prophets, illustrations of the parables of our saviour, and other subjects from the holy scriptures, all beautifully executed after designs by eminent artists. but space will not permit further description of this magnificent building. scott says this is "the only metropolitan church, except the cathedral kirkwall, in the orkneys, that remained uninjured at the reformation." it owes its preservation from destruction somewhat to the fact that james rabat, who was dean of guild when its demolition was clamored for, was a good mason, and saved this work of the masters' art by suffering the "idolatrous statues" of saints to be destroyed on condition of safety to the building. at the rear of the cathedral rises the necropolis, a bold, semicircular eminence, some three hundred feet in height, and formed in regular terraces, which are divided into walks, and crowded with elegant and costly modern monuments; too crowded, in fact, and reminding one more of a sculpture gallery than a cemetery. among the most conspicuous of these monuments was a fine corinthian shaft and statue to john knox, and on the shaft was inscribed,-- "when laid in the ground, the regent said, 'there lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with dag and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'" a magnificent square sarcophagus, erected to james sheridan knowles, bore his name. "died november, ." a fine monument to john dick, professor of theology and minister of grayfriars church, edinburgh; another to william mcgarvin, author of the "protestant." one erected to a favorite scotch comedian attracted my attention from the appropriateness of its design and epitaph. the designs were elegantly-cut figures of comedy and tragedy, in marble, a medallion head in bass-relief, probably a likeness of the deceased, and the mask, bowl, and other well-known emblems of the histrionic art. the epitaph was as follows:-- "fallen is the curtain; the last scene is o'er, the favorite actor treads life's stage no more. oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew, and laughing eyes confessed his humor true. here fond affection rears this sculptured stone, for virtues not enacted, but his own-- a constancy unshaken unto death, a truth unswerving, and a christian's faith. who knew him best have cause to mourn him most; o, weep the man more than the actor lost. unnumbered parts he played, yet to the end his best were those of husband, father, friend." the deceased's name was john henry alexander, who died december , . from glasgow we took rail to ayr, on a pilgrimage to burns's birthplace, and, at five o'clock of a pleasant afternoon, arrived at that little scotch town, and as we rode through the streets, passed by the very tavern where "tam o'shanter" held his revel with "souter johnny"--a clean little squat stone house, indicated by a big sign-board, on which is a pictorial representation of tam and his crony sitting together, and enjoying a "wee drapit" of something from handled mugs, which they are holding out to each other, and, judging from the size of the mugs, not a "wee drapit" either; for the old scotsmen who frequent these taverns will carry off, without winking, a load beneath their jackets that would floor a stout man of ordinary capacity. a queer old town is ayr, and at the hotel above mentioned the curious tourist may not only sit in the chairs of tam and johnny, but in that burns himself has pressed; and if he gets the jolly fat old landlord in good humor,--as he is sure to get when americans order some of his best "mountain dew,"--and engages him in conversation, he may have an opportunity to drink it from the very wooden cup, now hooped with silver, from which the poet himself indulged in potations, and drained inspiration. as we ride over the road from the town of ayr-- "auld ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses for honest men and bonnie lasses"-- to burns's birthplace, and alloway kirk, we find ourselves upon the same course traversed by tam o'shanter on his memorable ride, and passing many of those objects which, for their fearful associations, gave additional terror to the journey, and kept him "glowering round wi' prudent cares, lest bogles catch him unawares." a pleasant ride we had of it, recalling the verses, as each point mentioned in the ballad, which is such a combination of the ludicrous and awful, came into view and was pointed out to us. "the ford whare in the snaw the chapman smoored, and past the birks and meikle stane, whare drunken charlie brake neck-bane; and thro' the whins, and by the cairn, whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; and near the thorn aboon the well, whare mungo's mither hanged hersel." but let us stop at the poet's cottage--the little one-story "clay-biggin" it originally was, when, in , robert burns was born there, consisting only of a kitchen and sitting-room; these still remain, and in a little recess in the former is a sort of bunk, or bed, where the poet first saw light; that is, what little of it stole in at the deep-set window of this little den; additional rooms have been built on to the cottage, including a large one for society meetings and anniversary dinners; the little squat thatched cot is the mecca of thousands of travellers from all parts of the world, as the visitors' book reveals. an old scotch woman, who was busy with her week's ironing, her work, for a few moments, to show us the rooms and sell a stereoscopic view, and then returned to her flat-irons. an old fellow, named "miller" goudie, and his wife, used to occupy the cot. he now rests in alloway churchyard, and, as his epitaph says,-- "for forty years it was his lot to show the poet's humble cot; and, sometimes laughin', sometimes sobbin', told his last interview with robin: a quiet, civil, blithesome body, without a foe, was miller goudie." a framed autograph letter of burns, and a picture of him at a masonic assembly, adorn the walls of the large room, and are about all of interest in it. a short distance beyond the cottage, and we come to "alloway's auld haunted kirk,"--a little bit of a scotch church, with only the walls standing, and familiar to us from the many pictures we had seen of it. here it was that tam saw the witches dance; and there must have been the very window, just high enough for him to have looked in from horseback: just off from the road is the kirk, and near enough for tam to hive seen the light through the chinks, and bear the sound of mirth and dancing. of course i marched straight up to the little window towards the road, and peeped in at the very place where tam had viewed the wondrous sight; but such narrow and circumscribed limits for a witches' dance! why, nannie's leap and fling could not have been much in such a wee bit of a chapel, and i expressed that opinion audibly, with a derisive laugh at scotch witches, when, as if to punish scepticism, the bit of stone which i had propped up against the wall to give me additional height, slipped from beneath my feet, bringing my chin in sharp contact with the window-sill, and giving me such a shock altogether, that i wondered if the witches were not still keeping guard over the old place, for it looks weird enough, with its gray, roofless walls, the dark ivy about them flapping in the breeze, and the interior choked with weeds and rubbish. in the little burial-ground of the kirk is the grave of the poet's father, marked by a plain tombstone, and bearing an epitaph written by burns. leaving the kirk, a few hundred yards' walk brings us to "the banks and braes o' bonnie doon," and the "auld brigg" spanning it, over which tam o'shanter's mare maggie, clattered just in time to save him from the witch's vengeance, losing her tail in the struggle on the "keystane." the keystone was pointed out to us by a little scotch lassie, as we stood on the bridge, admiring the swift stream, as it whirled under the arches, and the old scotch guide told us "tam had eight mair miles to gang ere he stopit at his own door-stane." near this bridge is the burns monument, a sort of circular structure, about sixty feet high, of grecian architecture. in a circular apartment within the monument is a glass case, containing several relics, the most interesting of which is the bible given by burns to his highland mary. it is bound in two volumes, and on the fly-leaf of the first is inscribed the following text, in the poet's handwriting: "and ye shall not swear by my name falsely; i am the lord." (levit. xix. .) and on the leaf of the second, "thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the lord thine oaths." (matt. v. .) in both volumes the poet has inscribed his autograph, and in one of them there rests a little tress of highland mary's hair. the grounds--about an acre in extent around the monument--are prettily laid out, and in a little building, at one extremity, are the original, far-famed figures of tam o'shanter and souter johnny, chiselled out of solid freestone by the self-taught sculptor thom; and marvellously well-executed figures they are, down to the minutest details of hose and bonnet, as they sit with their mugs of good cheer, jollily pledging each other. this group, and that of tam riding over the bridge, with the witch just catching at maggie's tail, are both familiar to almost every american family, and owe their familiarity, in more than one instance, to the representations of them upon the cheap little pitchers of wedgwood ware, which are so extensively used as syrup pitchers wherever buckwheat cakes are eaten. the ride back to ayr, by a different route, carries us past some pleasant country-seats, the low bridge of doon, and a lovely landscape all about us. but we visited the classic doon, with its banks and braes so "fresh and fair," as most of our countrymen do--did it in a day, dreamed and imagined for an hour in the little old churchyard of kirk alloway, leaned over the auld brig, and looked down into the running waters, and wondered how often the poet had gazed at it from the same place, or sauntered on that romantic little pathway by its bank, where we plucked daisies, and pressed them between the leaves of a pocket edition of his poems, as mementos of our visit. we did not omit a visit to the "twa brigs" that span the ayr. the auld brig,-- "where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,"-- was erected in the fourteenth century, and was formerly steep and narrow, but has been widened and improved within the past fifteen years. the new one, which is about two hundred yards from it, was built in , and from it a good view of the river and the old bridge is obtained. a ride round the town shows us but little of special interest to write of; a fine statue of william wallace, cut by thom, in front of a gothic building, known as wallace tower, being the most striking object that met our view. from ayr to carlisle, where we saw the castle which bruce failed to take in , which surrendered to prince charles stuart in , and which was the scene of such barbarities on the conquered on its being retaken by the duke of cumberland. the old castle, or that portion of it that remains, with its lofty, massive tower and wall, makes an imposing appearance, and is something like the pictures of castles in the story-books. in one portion of it are the rooms occupied by mary, queen of scots, on her flight to england, after the battle of langside. the old red freestone cathedral, built in the time of the saxons, where sleeps dr. paley, once archdeacon, and where is a monument erected to his memory, claimed a modicum of our time, after which we passed through newcastle-on-tyne, celebrated, as all know in these modern days, as a port of shipment for coal, and busy with its glass-houses, potteries, iron and steel factories, and machine shops, and owing its name to the fact that robert, son of william the conqueror, built a new castle here after his return from a military expedition. the old donjon keep and tower still stand, massive and blackened, not with the smoke of battle, but of modern industry, which rises, in murky volumes, from many chimneys. on we speed, leaving newcastle, its dingy buildings and murky cloud, behind, and whirl over the railroad, till we reach the beautiful vale that holds the "metropolis of the north of england," as the guide-books style it,--the ancient city of york,--with its roman walls, and its magnificent minster; a city, which, a. d. , was one of the greatest of the roman stations in england, and had a regular government, an imperial palace, and a tribunal within its walls. york, which carries us back to school-boy days, when we studied of the wars of the roses, and the houses of york and lancaster--york, whose modern namesake, more than seventeen hundred years its junior, in the new world, has seventeen times its population. york--yes, in york one feels that he is in old england indeed. here are the old walls, still strong and massy, that have echoed to the tramp of the roman legions, that looked down on adrian and constantine the great, that have successively been manned by britons, picts, danes, and saxons, the latter under the command of hengist, mentioned in the story-legends that tell of the pair of warlike saxon brothers, hengist and horsa, the latter, whose name in my youthful days always seemed to have some mysterious connection with the great white-horse banner of the saxon warriors, that was wont to float from the masts of their war ships. it was in york that the first christmas was ever kept in england. this was done by king arthur and his nobility when he began to rebuild the churches, in the year , that the saxons had destroyed. york was once a place where many jews dwelt. we all remember isaac of york, in the story of ivanhoe; and the great massacre of this people there in , when over two thousand fell victims to popular fury. but i am not going to give a chronological history of this interesting city, for there is scarcely an american reader of english history but will recall a score of noteworthy events that have occurred within its ancient walls. the great and crowning wonder here to the tourist is, of course, the cathedral, or the minster, as it is called. this magnificent and stupendous pile, which occupied nearly two hundred years in erection, and has stood for three hundred years since its completion, is, without doubt, one of the most magnificent gothic structures in the world, and excels in beauty and magnificence most ecclesiastical buildings of the middle ages. after a walk through a quaint old quarter of the city, and a stroll on the parapets of the great wall, through some of the gates, with the round, solid watch-towers above them, pierced with arrow-slits for crossbowmen, or having, high above, little turrets for sentinels, i was in the mood for the sight of the grand old cathedral, but not at all prepared for the superb and elegant proportions of the pile which suddenly appeared to view, as i turned a corner of a street. the length of this majestic pile is five hundred and twenty-four feet, and its breadth two hundred and twenty-two, and the height of its two square and massive towers one hundred and ninety-six feet. i got a west view of the building first, which is what i should suppose was properly its front, consisting of the two tall square towers, with the main entrance between them, surmounted by a great gothic window, exhibiting a magnificent specimen of the leafy and fairy-like tracery of the fourteenth century. tall, pointed arches are above it, and the two towers are also adorned with windows, and elaborate ornamentation. to the rear of them, at the end of the nave and between the two transepts, rises the central tower two hundred and thirteen feet. there is a fine open space in front of this glorious west front, and no lover of architecture can come upon it for the first time without standing entranced at the wondrous beauty of the building in proportion, decoration, and design. churches occupied the site of york cathedral centuries before it. one was built here by king edwin, in ; another in , which stood till ; but the present building was founded in , and completed in the year . the expectations created by an external view of its architectural grandeur and rich embellishments are surpassed upon an examination of the interior, a particular description of which would require almost a volume to give space to. we can only, therefore, take a glance at it. first, there is the great east window, which, for magnitude and beauty of coloring, is unequalled in the world. only think of a great arch _seventy-five feet high_, and over thirty feet broad, a glory of stained glass! the upper part is a piece of admirable tracery, and below it are over a hundred compartments, occupied with scriptural representations--saints, priests, angels, &c. each pane of glass is a yard square, and the figures two feet three inches in length. right across this great window runs what i supposed to be a strong iron rod, or wire, but which turned out to be a stone gallery, or piazza, a bridge big enough for a person to cross upon, and from which the view that is had of the whole interior of this great minster--a vista of gothic arches and clustered columns of more than five hundred feet in length, terminated by the great west window, with its gorgeous display of colored glass--is grand beyond description. the great west window contains pictured representations of the eight earliest archbishops of york, and eight saints, and other figures. it was put up in , and is remarkable for its richness of coloring. besides the great east and west windows, there are sixteen in the nave and fifteen in the side aisles. in the south transept, which is the oldest part of the building, high up above the entrance, in the point of the arch, is the great "marigold window," formed of two concentric circles of small arches in the form of a wheel, the lights of which give it the appearance of the flower from which it is named, the diameter of this great stone and glass marigold being over thirty feet. then, in the north transept, opposite, is another window of exquisite coloring--those warm, deep, mellow hues of the old artisans in colored glass, which the most cunning of their modern successors seek in vain to rival. it appears, as it were, a vast embroidery frame in five sections, each section a different pattern of those elaborate traceries and exquisite hues of needle-work with which noble ladies whiled away their time in castle-bower, while their knights fought the infidel in distant clime. this noble window is known as the "five sisters," from the fact that the pattern is said to have been wrought from designs in needle-work of five maiden sisters of york. the story of these sisters is told by dickens in the sixth chapter of nicholas nickleby. this magnificent window is fifty-seven feet in height, and it was put in in the year . the other windows i cannot spare space to refer to; suffice it to say the windows of this cathedral present a gorgeous display of ancient stained glass not to be met with in any similar building in the world. in fact, the minster exhibits more windows than solid fabric to exterior view, imparting a marvellous degree of lightness to the huge structure, while inside the vastness of the space gives the spectator opportunity to stand at a proper distance, and look up at them as they are stretched before the view like great paintings, framed in exquisite tracery of stone-work, with the best possible effect of light. the glass of these windows, i was informed by the verger who acted as our guide, was taken out and hidden during the iconoclastic excitement of cromwell's time, and they are now the only ones that have preserved the ancient glass intact in the kingdom. the most valuable are protected by a strong shield of extra plate glass outside. from the painted glories of the windows the visitor's eye sweeps over the vast expanse of clustered pillars, lofty gothic arches, and splendid vistas of gothic columns on every side. in the great western aisle, or nave, a perspective view of full three hundred feet of columns and arches is had; and standing upon the pavement, you look to the grand arched roof, which is clear ninety-nine feet above, and the eye is fairly dazed with the immensity of space. the screen, as it is called, which separates the nave from the choir, rises just high enough to form a support for the organ, without concealing from view the grand arches and columns of the choir, which stretch far away, another vista of two hundred and sixty-four feet, before the bewildered view of the visitor, who finds himself almost awe-struck in the very vastness and sublimity of this grand architectural creation. the screen is a most elaborate and superb piece of sculpture, and is ornamented with the statues of the english kings, from the time of william the conqueror to henry vi., fifteen in number. the great choir, with its exuberant display of carving, richly-ornamented stalls, altar, and side aisles, screened with carved oak, is another wonder. here i had the pleasure of listening to the choral service, performed by the full choir of men and boys attached to the cathedral; and i stood out among the monuments of old archbishops and warriors of five hundred years agone, and heard that sweet chant float upon the swelling peals of the organ, away up amid the lofty groined arches of the grand old minster, till its dying echoes were lost amid the mysterious tracery above, or the grand, full chorus of powerful voices made the lofty roof to ring again, as it were, with heavenly melody. there was every appeal to the ear, the eye, the imagination; and i may say it seemed the very poetry of religion, and poetry of a sublime order, too. an attempt even at a description of the different monuments of the now almost forgotten, and many entirely forgotten, dignitaries and benefactors of the church that are found all along the great side aisles, would be a useless task. some are magnificent structures of marble, with elegantly-sculptured effigies of bishops in their ecclesiastical robes. others once were magnificent in sculptured stone and brass, but have been defaced by time and vandalism, and, in their shattered ruin, tell the story of man's last vanity, or are a most striking illustration of what a perishable shadow is human greatness. the chapter-house attached to york minster is said to be the most perfect specimen of gothic architecture in the world, and is certainly one of the most magnificent interiors of the kind i ever gazed upon. the records of the church give no information as to whom this superb edifice was erected by, or at what period, and the subject is one of dispute among the antiquaries, who suppose it must have been built either in the year or . it is a perfect octagon, of sixty-three feet in diameter, and the height from the centre to the middle knot of the roof sixty-seven feet, without the interruption of a single pillar,--being wholly dependent on a single key-pin, geometrically placed in the centre. seven squares of the octagon have each a window of stained glass, with the armorial bearings of benefactors of the church, the eighth octagon being the entrance; below the windows are the seats, or stalls, for the canons and dignitaries of the church, when they assemble here for installations and other purposes. the columns around the side of this room are carved, in the most profuse manner, with the most singular figures, such as an ugly old friar embracing a young girl, to the infinite delight of a group of nuns, grotesque figures of men and animals, monks playing all sorts of pranks, grinning faces, &c. the whole formation of this exquisitely-constructed building shows a thorough geometric knowledge in the builders, and the entrance to it is by a vestibule, in the form of a mason's square. in the vestries we had an opportunity of seeing many and well-authenticated historical curiosities. the most ancient of these is the famous horn of ulphus, the great saxon drinking horn, from which ulphus was wont to drink, and by which the church still holds valuable estates near york. with this great ivory horn, filled with wine, the old chieftain knelt before the high altar, and, solemnly quaffing a deep draught, bestowed upon the church by the act all his lands, tenements, &c., giving to the holy fathers the horn as their title deed, which they have preserved ever since; and their successors permit sacrilegious yankees, like myself, to press their lips to its brim, while examining the old relic. a more modern drinking-cup is the ancient wooden bowl, which was presented by archbishop scrope--who was beheaded in the year --to the society of cordwainers in , and by them given to the church in . this more sensible drinking-cup has silver legs and a silver rim, and not only is it well adapted for a jorum of punch, but the good archbishop made it worth while to drink from it, according to the ancient inscription upon it, in old english characters, which reads,-- =richarde arch beschope scroope grant unto all tho that drinkis of this cope ilti days to pardon.= besides this, we had the pleasure of grasping the solid silver crosier, given by queen catharine, widow of king charles ii. to her confessor, a staff of weight and value, seven feet in length, elegantly wrought in appropriate designs. we were also shown the official rings found in the forgotten tombs of archbishops, in repairing the church pavement, bearing their dates of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. the antique chair in which the saxon kings were crowned is here--a relic older than the cathedral itself; and as "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," uncomfortable must have been the seat of him that wore it also, if my few minutes' experience between its great arms is worth anything; but, still, it was something to have sat in the very chair in which the bloody richard iii. had been crowned,--for both he and james i. were crowned in this chair,--thinking at the time, while i mentally execrated the crooked tyrant's memory, of the words shakespeare put into his mouth:-- "is the chair empty? is the sword unswayed? is the king dead? the empire unpossessed? what heir of york is there alive but we? and who is england's king but great york's heir?" here we were shown an old bible, presented by king charles ii., the old communion plate, which is five hundred years old, the old vestment chest, of carved oak, of the time of edward iii., with the legend of st. george and the dragon represented upon it, a bible of , presented by james i., and other interesting antiquities. i concluded my visit to this glorious old minster by ascending the central or lantern tower, as it is called, which rises to a height of two hundred and thirteen feet from the pavement, and from which i had a magnificent view of the city of york and the surrounding country. although forbearing an attempt to enter upon any detailed descriptions of numerous beautiful monuments in the cathedral, i cannot omit referring to the many modern memorials of british officers and soldiers who have perished in different parts of the world, fighting the battles of their sovereign. here is one to six hundred officers and privates of the nineteenth regiment of foot, who fell in russia, in - ; another to three hundred officers and privates of the fifty-first, who fell at burmah, in - ; a monument to three hundred and seventy-three of the eighty-fourth, who perished during the mutiny and rebellion in india in , ' and ' ; a memorial slab to six hundred officers and men of the thirty-third west york, or wellington's own, who lost their lives in the russian campaign of - ; a beautiful, elaborate monument to colonel moore and those of the inniskillen dragoons, who perished with him in a transport vessel at sea, &c. there is not a church or cathedral, not in ruins, that the tourist visits in great britain, but that he reads the bloody catalogue of victims of england's glory recorded on mural tablets or costly monuments, a glory that seems built upon hecatombs of lives, showing that the very empire itself is held together by the cement of human blood,--blood, too, of the dearest and the bravest,--for i have read upon costly monuments, reared by titled parents, of noble young soldiers, of twenty-two and twenty years, and even younger, who have fallen "victims to chinese treachery," "perished in a typhoon in the indian ocean," "been massacred in india," "lost at sea," "killed in the crimea." they have fallen upon the burning sands of india, amid the snows of russia, or in the depths of savage forests, or sunk beneath the pitiless wave, in upholding the blood-red banner of that nation. this fearful record that one encounters upon every side is a terrible and bloody reckoning of the cost of the great nation's glory and power. from the glories of york minster, from the pleasant and dreamy walks on delightful spring days, upon its old walls, and beneath its antique gateways, its ruined cloisters of st. leonard's, founded by athelstane the saxon, and the stately ruins of st. mary's abbey, with the old norman arch and shattered walls, we will glance at an english city under a cloud, or, i might almost say, under a pall, for the great black banner that hangs over sheffield is almost dark enough for one, and in that respect reminds us of our own pittsburg, with the everlasting coal smoke permeating and penetrating everywhere and everything. the streets of sheffield have the usual grimy, smoky appearance of a manufacturing place, and, apart from the steel and cutlery works, there is but little of interest here. one cannot help observing, however, the more abject squalor and misery which appear in some of the poorer neighborhoods, than is ever seen in similar towns or cities in america. the spirit shops, with their bold signs of different kinds of liquors, and the gin saloons, with their great painted casks reared on high behind the counter, at which women serve out the blue ruin, are visible explanations of the cause of no small portion of the misery. i found the cutlery works that i visited conducted far differently than we manage such things in america, where the whole work would be carried on in one great factory, and from year to year improvements made in machinery, interior arrangements, &c.; but here the effort seems to be, on the part of the workmen, to resist every advance or improvement possible. we visited the great show-rooms of rogers & sons, where specimens of every description of knives, razors, scissors, cork-screws, boot-hooks, &c., that they manufacture, were exhibited, a very museum of steel work; and a young salesman was detailed to answer the questions and show the same, including the celebrated many-bladed knife, which has one blade added for every year. a visit to joseph elliot & son's razor works revealed to us the manner in which many of the manufacturers carry on their business. we found the workmen not all together in one factory, but in different buildings. in one was where the first rough process of forging was performed; from thence, perhaps across a street, the blades received further touches from other workmen, and so on, till, when ready for grinding and polishing, they were carried to the grinding and polishing works, some distance off, and finally returned to a building near the warerooms, to be joined to the handles, after which they were papered and packed, immediately adjoining the warerooms proper, where sales were made and goods delivered. i was surprised, in visiting the forges where the elastic metal was beat into graceful blades, to find them little dingy nooks and corners in a series of old rookeries of buildings, often badly lighted, cramped and inconvenient, and difficult of access. no american workmen would work in such a place; but in watching the progress of the work, we saw instances of the skill and thoroughness of british mechanics, who have devoted their life to one particular branch of manufacture--the precision of stroke in forging, the rapidity with which it was done, to say nothing of the reliability, which is one characteristic of english work. in that country, where the ranks of every department of labor are so crowded, there seems to be an ambition as to who shall do the best work, who shall be he that turns out the most skilfully wrought article; and of course the incentive to this ambition is a permanent situation, and a workman whom the master will be the last to part with in dull times. then, again, in the battle for life, for absolute bread and butter, people are only too glad to make a sacrifice to learn a trade that will provide it. no boy can set up as a journeyman here after a couple of years' experience, as they do in america. there are no such bunglers in every department of mechanical work as in our country. to do journeyman's work and earn journeyman's pay, a man must have served a regular apprenticeship, and have learned his business; and he has to pay his master for giving him the opportunity, and teaching him a trade, by which he can work and receive a journeyman's pay--which is right and proper. the compensation may be in the advantage the master gets from good work at a low figure in the last years of the apprenticeship, or in some kinds of business in a stipulated sum of money paid to him. yet in england he gets some return, instead of having his workman, as is generally the case in america, as soon as he ceases to spoil material and becomes of some value, desert him _sans cérémonie_. the difficulty, in america, lies in the enormous demand for mechanical labor, so large that many are willing and obliged to receive inferior work or none at all, in the haste that all have to be rich, the boy to have journeyman's wages, the journeyman to be foreman, and foreman to be contractor and manager, and the abundant opportunity for them all to be so with the very smallest qualifications for the positions. it is the thorough workmanship of many varieties of british goods that makes them so much superior to those of american manufacture; and we may talk in this country as much as we please about its being snobbish to prefer foreign to american manufactured goods, yet just as long as the american article is inferior in quality, durability, and finish to the foreign article, just so long will people of means and education purchase it. i believe in encouraging american manufactures to their fullest extent; but let american manufacturers, when they _are_ encouraged by protection or whatever means, prove by their products that they are deserving it, as it is gratifying to know that many of them have; and in this very article of steel, the great pittsburg steel workers, such as park bros. & co., hussey, wells, & co., anderson, cook, & co., and others in that city and philadelphia, whose names do not now occur to me, have actually, in some departments of their business, beaten the british manufacturers in excellence and finish, proving that it can be done in america. when visiting the great iron works, forges, and factories in pittsburg, i have frequently encountered, in the different departments, skilled workmen from birmingham, sheffield, and other english manufacturing towns, who, of course, were doing much better than at home, and whose thorough knowledge of their trade never failed to be the burden of the managers' commendation. a razor is beaten out into shape, ground, tempered, polished, and finished much more speedily than i imagined; and as an illustration of the cheapness at which one can be produced, very good ones are made by rogers & sons for six shillings a dozen, or sixpence each. this can be done because they are made by apprentices, whose wages are comparatively trifling. a very large number of these razors go to the united states. rogers' knives and razors of the finer descriptions generally command a slight advance over those of other manufacturers, although there are some here even in sheffield whose work is equally good in every respect. the messrs. elliot's razors are celebrated for their excellence both in england and this country. in visiting their works i was received by one of the partners, a man who owns his elegant country-house, and enjoys a handsome income, but who was in his great wareroom, with his workman's apron on--a badge which he seemed to wear as a matter of course, and in no way affecting his position; and i then remembered one american gentleman, who, after rising to affluence, was never too proud to wear his apron if he thought that part of his dress necessary about his business, and he a man we all remember _sans reproche_--the late jonas chickering, the great piano manufacturer of boston. at needham brothers' cutlery works we saw table knives beaten out of the rough steel with an astonishing rapidity, passed from man to man, till the black, shapeless lump was placed in my hand a trenchant blade, fit for service at the festive board. both here and at elliot & sons' razor works we saw invoices of handsome cutlery in process of manufacture for the american market. the grinders and polishers here receive the highest wages, on account of the unhealthy nature of the employment, which has frequently been described, the fine particles of steel affecting the lungs so that the grinders are said to be short-lived men, and their motto "a short life and a merry one," as i was informed; the "merry" part consisting of getting uproariously drunk between saturday night and tuesday morning. these grinders are also exceedingly jealous of apprentices, and i shrewdly suspect in some degree magnify the dangers of their calling, in order that their numbers may be kept as few, and wages as high, as possible. a vast deal of ale is drank in sheffield, as may well be imagined; and the great arched vaults which form the support to a bridge, or causeway, out from the railway station to the streets of the city, are filled with hundreds on hundreds of barrels of this popular english beverage. and in truth, to enjoy good ale, and get good ale, one must go to england for it; the butler on the stage who said, "they 'ave no good hale in hamerica, because they ain't got the opps," spoke comparatively, no doubt; but at the little english inns, upon benches beneath the branches of a great tree, or in cleanly sanded little public-house parlors at the windows, looking out upon charming english landscapes, the frothing tankards are especially inviting and comforting to those using them; while, per contra, the foul, stale effluvia from the sloppy dens in this city, which were thronged when the men were off work, the bluff, bloated, and sodden appearance of ardent lovers of the ale of england, were evidence that its use might be abused, as well as that of more potent fluids. there is comparatively little of historical interest in sheffield to attract the attention of the tourist. there was an old castle erected there at an early period, and, at a place called sheffield manor-house, mary, queen of scots, passed over thirty years of her imprisonment; but the chief interest of the place is, of course, its cutlery manufactories, and its reputation for good knives dates back to the thirteenth century, when it was noted as the place where a kind of knife known as "whittles" were made. the presence of iron ore, coal, and also the excellent water power near the city, make it a very advantageous place for such work. the great grinding works in the city, where the largest proportion of that work is done, are driven by steam power. besides cutlery in all its branches, sheffield turns out plated goods, britannia ware, brass work, buttons, &c., in large quantities. leaving the smoke, hum, clatter, and dingy atmosphere of a great english manufacturing city, we took rail, and sped on till we reached matlock-bath. here debarking, we took an open carriage for edensor, a little village belonging to the duke of devonshire, and situated upon a portion of his magnificent estate, the finest estate of any nobleman in england. and some idea of its extent may be gathered from the fact that its pleasure park contains two thousand acres. our ride to this estate, known as chatsworth, was another one of those enjoyable experiences of charming english scenery, over a pleasant drive of ten miles, till we entered upon the duke's estates, and drove across one corner, for a mile or more, to a pretty little road-side inn, where we were welcomed by a white-aproned landlord, landlady, and waiter, just such as are described by the novel writers, and people to whom the hurried, bustling, imperious manner of go-ahead americans seems most extraordinary and surprising. the duke of devonshire's landed property is just such a one as an american should visit to realize the impressions he has received of a nobleman's estate from english stories, novels, and dramatic representations. here great reaches of beautiful greensward swept away as far as the eye could reach, with groups of magnificent oaks in the landscape view, and troops of deer bounding off in the distance. down the slope, here and there, came the ploughman, homeward plodding his weary way, in almost the same costume that westall has drawn him in his exquisite little vignette, in the chiswick edition of gray's poems. there, in "the open," upon the close-cut turf, as we approached the village, was a party of english boys, playing the english game of cricket. here, in a sheltered nook beneath two tall trees, nestled the cottage--the pretty english cottage of one of the duke's gamekeepers. the garden was gay with many-colored flowers, three chubby children were rolling over each other on the grass, and a little brook wimpled on its course down towards groups of clustering alders, quarter of a mile away. farther on, we meet the gamekeeper himself, with his double-barrelled gun and game-pouch, and followed by two splendid pointers. there were hill and dale, river and lake, oaks and forest, wooded hills and rough rocks, grand old trees,-- "the brave old oak, that stands in his pride and majesty when a hundred years have flown," and upon an eminence, overlooking the whole, stands the palace of the duke, the whole front, of twelve or thirteen hundred feet, having a grand italian flower garden, with its urns, vases, and statues in full view over the dwarf balustrades that protect it; the beautiful grecian architecture of the building, the statues, fountains, forest, stream, and slope, all so charmingly combined by both nature and art into a lovely landscape picture, as to seem almost like a scene from fairy land. but here we are at edensor, the little village owned by the duke, and in which he is finishing a new church for his tenantry, a very handsome edifice, at a cost of nearly fifteen thousand pounds. this edensor is one of the most beautiful little villages in england. its houses are all built in elizabethan, swiss, and quaint styles of architecture, and looking, for all the world, like a clean little engraving from an illustrated book. i hardly know where to commence any attempt at description of this magnificent estate; but some idea may be had of its extent from the fact that the park is over nine miles in circumference, that the kitchen gardens and green-houses cover twenty acres, and that there are thirty green-houses, from fifty to seventy-five feet long; that, standing upon a hill-top, commanding a circuit view of twelve miles, i could see nothing but what this man owned, or was his estate. through the great park, as we walked, magnificent pheasants, secure in their protection by the game laws upon this vast estate, hardly waddled out of our path. the troops of deer galloped within fifty paces of us, sleek cattle grazed upon the verdant slope, and every portion of the land showed evidence of careful attention from skilful hands. we reached a bridge which spanned the little river,--a fine, massive stone structure, built from a design by michael angelo,--and crossing it, wound our way up to the grand entrance, with its great gates of wrought and gilt iron. one of those well-got-up, full-fed, liveried individuals, whom punch denominates flunkies, carried my card in, for permission to view the premises, which is readily accorded, the steward of the establishment sending a servant to act as guide. passing through a broad court-yard, we enter the grand entrance-hall--a noble room some sixty or seventy feet in length, its lofty wall adorned with elegant frescoes, representing scenes from the life of cæsar, including his celebrated passing of the rubicon, and his death at the senate house, &c. passing up a superb, grand staircase, rich with statues of heathen deities and elegantly-wrought columns, we went on to the state apartments of the house. the ceilings of these magnificent rooms are adorned with splendid pictures, among which are the judgment of paris, phaeton in the chariot of the sun, aurora, and other mythological subjects, while the rooms themselves, opening one out of the other, are each rich in works of vertu and art, and form a vista of beauty and wonder. recollect, all these rooms were different, each furnished in the most perfect taste, each rich in rare and curious productions of art, ancient and modern, for which all countries, even egypt and turkey, had been ransacked. the presents of kings and princes, and the purchases of the richest dukes for three generations, contributed to adorn the apartments of this superb palace. not among the least wonderful works of art is some of the splendid wood-carving of gibbon upon the walls--of game, flowers, and fruit, so exquisitely executed that the careless heap of grouse, snipe, or partridges look as though a light breeze would stir their very feathers--flowers that seem as if they would drop from the walls, and a game-bag at which i had to take a close look to see if it were really a creation of the carver's art. upon the walls of all the rooms are suspended beautiful pictures by the great artists. here, in one room, we found our old, familiar friend, bolton abbey in the olden time, the original painting by landseer, and a magnificent picture it is. in another room was one of holbein's portraits of henry viii., and we were shown also the rosary of this king, who was _married so numerously_, an elegant and elaborately-carved piece of work. in another apartment was a huge table of malachite,--a single magnificent slab of about eight feet long by four in width,--a clock of gold and malachite, presented to the duke by the emperor nicholas, worth a thousand guineas, a broad table of one single sheet of translucent spar. in the state bedroom was the bed in which george ii. died. here also were the chairs and foot-stools that were used by george iii. and his queen at their coronation; and in another room the two chairs in which william iv. and queen adelaide sat when they were crowned, and looking in their elaborate and florid decoration of gold and color precisely like the chairs placed upon the stage at the theatre for the mimic monarchs of dramatic representations. in fact, all the pomp, costume, and paraphernalia of royalty, so strikingly reminds an american of theatric display, that the only difference seems that the one is shown by a manager, and the other by a king. then there were numerous magnificent cabinets, ancient and modern, inlaid with elegant mosaic work, and on their shelves rested that rich, curious, and antique old china of every design, for which the wealthy were wont to pay such fabulous prices. some was of exquisite beauty and elegant design; others, to my unpractised eye, would have suffered in comparison with our present kitchen delf. elegant tapestries, cabinet paintings, beautifully-modelled furniture, met the eye at every turn; rare bronze busts and statues appropriately placed; the floors one sheet of polished oak, so exactly were they matched; and the grand entrance doors of each one of the long range of beautiful rooms being placed exactly opposite the other, give a vista of five hundred and sixty feet in length. then there was the great library, which is a superb room over a hundred feet long, with great columns from floor to ceiling, and a light gallery running around it. opening out of it are an ante-library and cabinet library--perfect gems of rooms, rich in medallions, pictures by landseer, &c., and, of course, each room containing a wealth of literature on the book-shelves in the spanish mahogany alcoves. in fact, the rooms in this edifice realize one's idea of a nobleman's palace, and the visitor sees that they contain all that unbounded wealth can purchase, and taste and art produce. i must not forget, in one of these apartments, a whole set of exquisite little filigree, silver toys, made for one of the duke's daughters, embracing a complete outfit for a baby-house, and including piano, chairs, carriage, &c., all beautifully wrought, elaborate specimens of workmanship, artistically made, but, of course, useless for service. in one of the great galleries we were shown a magnificent collection of artistic wealth in the form of nearly a thousand original drawings--first rough sketches of the old masters, some of their masterpieces which adorn the great galleries of europe, and are celebrated all over the world. only think of looking upon the _original designs_, the rough crayon, pencil, or chalk sketches made by rubens, salvator rosa, claude lorraine, raphael, titian, correggio, michael angelo, nicolas poussin, hogarth, and other great artists, of some of their most celebrated works, and these sketches bearing the autographic signatures of the painters! this grand collection of artistic wealth is all arrayed and classified into flemish, venetian, spanish, french, and italian schools, &c., and the value in an artistic point of view is almost as inconceivable as the interest to a lover of art is indescribable. the tourist can only feel, as he is compelled to hurry through such treasures of art, that the brief time he has to devote to them is but little better than an aggravation. an elegant private chapel, rich in sculpture, painting, and carving, affords opportunity for the master of this magnificent estate to worship god in a luxurious manner. scenes from the life of the saviour, from the pencils of great artists, adorn the walls--verrio's incredulity of thomas; an altar-piece by cibber, made of derbyshire spar and marble, with figures of faith and hope, and the wondrous wood carving of gibbon, are among the treasures of this exquisite temple to the most high. next we visit the sculpture gallery, in which are collected the choicest works of art in chatsworth: the statues, busts, vases, and bronzes that we have passed in niches, upon cabinets, on great marble staircases, and at various other points in the mansion, would in themselves have formed a wondrous collection; but here is the sculpture gallery proper, a lofty hall over one hundred feet in length, lighted from the top, and the light is managed so as to display to the best advantage the treasures of art here collected. i can only mention a few of the most striking which i jotted down in my note-book, and which will indicate the value of the collection: discobulus, by kessels; upon the panels of the pedestal, on which this statue is placed, are inlaid slabs of elegant swedish porphyry, and a fine mosaic taken from herculaneum; a colossal marble bust of bonaparte, by canova; gott's venus; two colossal lions (after canova), cut in carrara marble, one by rinaldi and the other by benaglia--they are beautifully finished, and the weight of the group is eight tons; bust of edward everett, by powers; the venus genetrix of thorwaldsen; five elegantly finished small columns from constantinople, surmounted by corinthian capitals cut in rome, and crowned with vases and balls, all of beautiful workmanship; a statue of hebe, by canova; a colossal group of mars and cupid, by gibson; cupid enclosing in his hands the butterfly; an image of psyche, the grecian emblem of the soul, an exquisite piece of sculpture, by finelli; a bass-relief of three sleeping cupids, also most life-like in execution; tadolini's ganymede and eagle; bartolini's bacchante with tamborine; a superb vase and pedestal, presented by the emperor of russia; venus wounded by treading on a rose, and cupid extracting the thorn; endymion sleeping with his dog watching, by canova; achilles wounded; venus filatrice, as it is called, a beautiful spinning girl, one of the most beautiful works in the gallery--the pedestal on which this figure stands is a fragment from trajan's forum; petrarch's laura, by canova, &c. from the few that i have mentioned, the wealth of this collection may be imagined. in the centre of the room stands the gigantic mecklenburg vase, twenty feet in circumference, sculptured out of a single block of granite, resting on a pedestal of the same material, and inside the vase a serpent coiled in form of a figure eight, wrought from black marble. i have given but a mere glance at the inside of this elegant palace: in passing through the different grand apartments, the visitor, if he will step from time to time into the deep windows and look upon the scene without, will see how art has managed that the very landscape views shall have additional charm and beauty to the eye. one window commands a close-shaven green lawn over a hundred feet wide and five hundred long, as regular and clean as a sheet of green velvet, its extreme edge rich in a border of many-colored flowers; another shows a slope crossed with walks, and enlivened with vases and sparkling fountains; another, the natural landscape, with river and bridge, and the background of noble oak trees; a fourth shows a series of terraces rising one above the other for hundreds of feet, rich in flowering shrubs and plants, and descending the centre from the very summit, a great flight of stone steps, thirty feet in width, down which dashes a broad, thin sheet of water like a great web of silver in the sunshine, reflecting the marble statues at its margin, till it reaches the very verge of the broad gravel walk of the pleasure-grounds, as if to dash in torrents over it, when it disappears, as by magic, into the very earth, being conveyed away by a subterranean passage to the river. after walking about the enclosed gardens immediately around the palace, which are laid out in italian style, with vases, statues, and fountains, reminding one strikingly of views upon theatrical act-drops on an extended scale, we came to several acres of ground, which appeared to have been left in a natural state; huge crags, abrupt cliffs with dripping waterfall falling over the edge into a silent, black tarn at its base, curious caverns, huge boulders thrown together as by some convulsion, and odd plants growing among them. in and about romantic views, our winding path carried us until we were stopped by a huge boulder of rock that had tumbled down, apparently from a neighboring crag, directly upon the pathway. we were about to turn back to make a _détour_, as clambering over the obstacle was out of the question, when our guide solved the difficulty by pressing against the intruding mass of rock, which, to our surprise, yielding, swung to one side, leaving passage for us to pass. it was artificially poised upon a pivot for this purpose. then it was that we learned that the whole of this apparently natural scenery was in reality the work of art; the rocky crags, waterfall and tarn, romantic and tangled shrubbery, rustic nooks, odd caverns, and mossy cliffs, nay, even old uprooted tree, and the one that, with dead foliage, stripped limbs, that stood out in bold relief against the sky, were all artistically placed,--in fact the whole built and arranged for effect; and on knowing this, it seemed to be a series of natural models set for landscape painters to get bits of effect from. among the curiosities in this natural artificial region was a wonderful tree, a sort of stiff-looking willow, but which our conductor changed by touching a secret spring into a _veritable_ weeping willow, for fine streams of water started from every leaf, twig, and shoot of its copper branches--a most novel and curious style of fountain. but we must pass on to the great conservatory, another surprise in this realm of wonders. only think of a conservatory covering more than an acre of ground, with an arched roof of glass seventy feet high, and a great drive-way large enough for a carriage and four horses to be driven right through from one end to the other, a distance of two hundred and seventy-six feet, as queen victoria's was, on her visit to the estate. before the erection of the crystal palace at sydenham, this conservatory was the most magnificent building of the kind in england, and was designed and built by paxton, the duke's gardener, afterwards the architect of the crystal palace. here one might well fancy himself, from the surroundings, transferred by fortunatus's wishing cap into the tropics. great palm trees lifted their broad, leafy crowns fifty feet above our heads; slender bamboos rose like stacks of lances; immense cactuses, ten feet high, bristled like fragments of a warrior's armor; the air was fragrant with the smell of orange trees; big lemons plumped down on the rank turf from the dark, glossy foliage of the trees that bore them; opening ovoids displayed stringy mace holding aromatic nutmegs; wondrous vegetation, like crooked serpents, wound off on the damp soil; great pitcher-plants, huge broad leaves of curious colors, looking as if cut from different varieties of velvet, and other fantastic wonders of the tropics, greeted us at every turn. here was the curious sago palm; there rose with its clusters of fruit the date palm; again, great clusters of rich bananas drooped pendent from their support; singular shrubs, curious grasses, wonderful leaves huge in size and singular in shape, and wondrous trees _as large as life_, rose on every side, so that one might readily imagine himself in an east indian jungle or a brazilian forest,-- "and every air was heavy with the sighs of orange groves,"-- or the strong, spicy perfume of strange trees and plants unknown in this cold climate. over seventy thousand square feet of glass are between the iron ribs of the great roof of this conservatory, and within its ample space the soil and temperature are carefully arranged to suit the nature and characters of the different plants it contains, while neither expense nor pains are spared to obtain and cultivate these vegetable curiosities in their native luxuriance and beauty. i will not attempt a particular description of the other green-houses. there are thirty in all, and each devoted to different kinds of fruits or flowers--a study for the horticulturist or botanist. one was devoted entirely to medicinal plants, another to rare and curious flowering plants, gay in all the hues of the rainbow, and rich with perfume; a victoria regia house, just completed, of octagon form, and erected expressly for the growth of this curious product of south american waters; magnificent graperies, four or five in all, and seven hundred feet long, with the green, white, and purple clusters depending in every direction and in various stages of growth, from blossom to perfection; pineries containing whole regiments of the fruit, ranged in regular ranks, with their martial blades erect above their green and yellow coats of mail. peach-houses, with the pink blossoms just bursting into beauty, were succeeded by the fruit, first like vegetable grape-shot, and further on in great, luscious, velvet-coated spheroids at maturity, as it drops from the branches into netting spread to catch it. in the peach-houses is one tree, fifteen feet high, and its branches extending on the walls a distance of over fifty feet, producing, some years, over a thousand peaches. then there are strawberry-houses, apricot, vegetable, and even a house for mushrooms, besides the extensive kitchen gardens, in which every variety of ordinary vegetable is grown; all of these nurseries, gardens, hot-houses, and conservatories are well cared for, and kept in excellent order. the great conservatory is said to have cost one hundred thousand pounds; it is heated by steam and hot water, and there are over six miles of piping in the building. the duke's table, whether he be here or at london, is supplied daily with rare fruits and the other products of these _hot-beds of luxury_. but the reader will tire of reading, as does the visitor of viewing, the endless evidences of the apparently boundless wealth that almost staggers the conception of the american tourist fresh from home, with _his_ ideas of what constitutes wealth and power in a republican country. after having visited, as we have, one of the most magnificent modern palaces of one of the most princely of modern england's noblemen, it was a pleasant transition to ride over to one of the most perfect remnants of the habitations of her feudal nobility, haddon hall, situated in derbyshire, a few miles from chatsworth. this fine old castellated building is one from which can be formed a correct idea of those old strongholds of the feudal lords of the middle ages; indeed, it is a remnant of one of those very strongholds, a crumbling picture of the past, rich in its fine old coloring of chivalry and romance, conjuring up many poetic fancies, and putting to flight others, by the practical realities that it presents in the shape of what would be now positive discomfort in our domestic life, but which, in those rude days, was magnificence. haddon hall is in fact a very fine example of an old baronial hall in ye times of old, and portions of the interior appear as though it had been preserved in the exact condition it was left by its knightly occupants three hundred years ago. the embattled turrets of haddon, rising above the trees, as it stood on its rocky platform, overlooking the little river wye and the surrounding country, seemed only to be wanting the knightly banner fluttering above them, and we almost expected to see the flash of a spear-head in the sunlight, or the glitter of a steel helmet from the ancient but well-preserved walls. we climbed up the steep ascent to the great arched entrance, surmounted with the arms, in rude sculpture, of the vernon family, who held the property for three centuries and a half; and beneath that arch, where warlike helmets, haughty brows, and beauteous ladies, the noblest and bravest blood of england have passed, passed we. no warder's horn summons the man-at-arms to the battlements above; no drawbridge falls, with ringing clang, over the castle moat, or pointed portcullis slowly raises its iron fangs to admit us; but for hundreds of years have hundreds of feet pressed that threshold of stone--the feet of those of our own time, and of those who slumbered in the dust hundreds of years ere we trod the earth; and we mark, as we pass through the little door, cut through one of the broad leaves of the great gates, that in the stony threshold is the deep impression of a human foot, worn by the innumerable steppings that have been made upon the same spot by mailed heels, ladies' slippers, pilgrims' sandals, troopers' boots, or the leather and steel-clad feet of our own time. passed the portal, and we were in the grand, open court-yard, with its quaint ornaments of stone carving, its stone pavement, and entrances to various parts of the building. there is a picture, entitled "coming of age in the olden time," which is familiar to many of my readers, and which is still common in many of our print-stores; an engraving issued by one of the scotch art unions, i believe, which was brought forcibly to my mind, as i stood in this old court-yard of haddon hall, there were so many general features that were similar, and it required no great stretch of the imagination for me to place the young nobleman upon the very flight of steps he occupies in the picture, and to group the other figures in the parts of the space before me, which seemed the very one they had formerly occupied; but my dreams and imaginings were interrupted by a request to come and see what remained of the realities of the place. first, there was the great kitchen, all of stone, its fireplace big enough to roast an ox; a huge rude table or dresser; the great trough, or sink, into which fresh water was conducted: and an adjoining room, with its huge chopping-block still remaining, was evidently the larder, and doubtless many a rich haunch of venison, or juicy baron of beef, has been trimmed into shape here. another great vaulted room, down a flight of steps, was the beer cellar; and a good supply of stout ale was kept there, as is evinced by the low platform of stone-work all around, and the stone drain to carry off the drippings. then there is the bake-house, with its moulding-stone and ovens, the store-rooms for corn, malt, &c., all indicating that the men of ye olden times liked good, generous living. the great hall, as it is called, where the lord of the castle feasted with his guests, still remains, with its rough roof and rafters of oak, its minstrel gallery, ornamented with stags' antlers; and there, raised above the stone floor a foot or so, yet remains the dais, upon which rested the table at which sat the nobler guests; and here is the very table itself, three long, blackened oak planks, supported by rude x legs--the table that has borne the boars' heads, the barons of beef, gilded peacocks, haunches of venison, flagons of ale, and stoups of wine. let us stand at its head, and look down the old baronial hall: it was once noisy with mirth and revelry, music and song: the fires from the huge fireplaces flashed on armor and weapons, faces and forms that have all long since crumbled into dust; and here is only left a cheerless, barn-like old room, thirty-five feet long and twenty-five wide, with time-blackened rafters, and a retainers' room, or servants' hall, looking into it. up a massive staircase of huge blocks of stone, and we are in another apartment, a room called the dining-room, used for that purpose by more modern occupants of the hall; and here we find portraits of henry vii. and his queen, and also of the king's jester, will somers. over the fireplace are the royal arms, and beneath them, in old english character, the motto,-- =drede god, and honor the king.= up stairs, six semicircular steps of solid oak, and we are in the long gallery, or ball-room, one hundred and ten feet long and eighteen wide, with immense bay-windows, commanding beautiful views, the sides of the room wainscoted in oak, and decorated with carvings of the boar's head and peacock, the crests of the vernon and manners families; carvings of roses and thistles also adorn the walls of this apartment, which was said to have been built in queen elizabeth's time, and there is a curious story told of the oaken floor, which is, that the boards were all cut from _one_ tree that grew in the garden, and that the roots furnished the great semicircular steps that lead up to the room. the compartments of the bay-windows are adorned with armorial bearings of different owners of the place, and from them are obtained some of those ravishing landscape views for which england is so famous--silvery stream, spanned by rustic bridges, as it meandered off towards green meadows; the old park, with splendid group of oaks; the distant village, with its ancient church; and all those picturesque objects that contribute to make the picture perfect. we now wend our way through other rooms, with the old gobelin tapestry upon the walls, with the pictured story of moses still distinct upon its wondrous folds, and into rooms comparatively modern, that have been restored, kept, and used within the past century. here is one with furniture of green and damask, chairs and state bed, and hung with gobelin tapestry, with esop's fables wrought upon it. here, again, the rude carving, massive oak-work, and ill-constructed joining, tell the olden time. but we must not leave haddon hall without passing through the ante-room, as it is called, and out into the garden on dorothy vernon's walk. on our way thither the guide lifts up occasionally the arras, or tapestry, and shows us those concealed doors and passages of which we have read so often in the books; and now that i think of it, it was here at haddon hall that many of the wild and romantic ideas were obtained by mrs. radcliff for that celebrated old-fashioned romance, "the mysteries of udolpho." the "garden of haddon," writes s. c. hall, "has been, time out of mind, a treasure store of the english landscape painter, and one of the most favorite 'bits' being 'dorothy vernon's walk,' and the door out of which tradition describes her as escaping to meet her lover, sir john manners, with whom she eloped." haddon, by this marriage, became the property of the noble house of rutland, who made it their residence till the commencement of the present century, when they removed to the more splendid castle of belvoir; but to the duke of rutland the tourist and those who venerate antiquity, owe much for keeping this fine old place from "improvements," and so much of it in its original and ancient form. that the landscape painters had made good and frequent use of the garden of haddon i ascertained the moment i entered it. dorothy's walk, a fine terrace, shaded by limes and sycamores, leads to picturesque flights of marble steps, which i recognized as old friends that had figured in many a "flat" of theatrical scenery, upon many an act-drop, or been still more skilfully borrowed from, in effect, by the stage-carpenter and machinist in a set scene. plucking a little bunch of wild-flowers from dorothy's walk, and a sprig of ivy from the steps down which she hurried in the darkness, while her friends were revelling in another part of the hall, we bade farewell to old haddon, with its quaint halls, its court-yards, and its terraced garden, amid whose venerable trees "the air seems hallowed by the breath of other times." chapter v. kenilworth castle will in many respects disappoint the visitor, for its chief attraction is the interest with which walter scott has invested it in his vivid description of the earl of leicester's magnificent pageant on the occasion of the reception of his royal mistress, queen elizabeth. and the host of visitors who make the pilgrimage to this place, so hallowed by historical associations, may be classed as pilgrims doing homage to the genius of scott. i find, on looking up kenilworth's history, that it was here that "old john of gaunt, time-honored lancaster," dwelt; here also his son bolingbroke, afterwards henry iv., and prince hal, when he was a jovial, roistering sack-drinker; here henry vi. retired during the jack cade rebellion; richard iii. has held high revel in the great hall; henry vii. and bluff hal viii. have feasted there with their nobles; but, after all, the visitor goes to see the scene where, on the th of july, , was such a magnificent fête as that described by the novelist. we walked through the village and on towards the castle, through the charming english scenery i have described so often, the gardens gay with roses and the banks of the roadside rich with wild flowers, a fair blue sky above, and the birds joyous in the hedges and woods. this was the avenue that led towards the gallery tower, through which rode elizabeth with a cavalcade illuminated by two hundred wax torches of dudley's retainers, the blaze of which flashed upon her sparkling jewels as she rode in stately style upon her milk-white charger--the avenue now a little rustic road, with a wealth of daisies on its banks; proudly rode leicester at her side, who, scott says, "glittered, like a golden image, with jewels and cloth of gold." on we go to where the long bridge extended from the gallery tower to mortimer's tower, which the story tells us was light as day with the torches. a mass of crumbling ruins is all that remains of the two towers now; and after passing by the end of a great open space, known as the tilt yard, we come in sight of the principal ruins of the castle. we go through a little gateway,--leicester's gateway; r. d. is carved on the porch above it,--and we are in the midst of the picturesque and crumbling walls, half shrouded in their green, graceful mantle of ivy. here we find cæsar's tower, the great hall, leicester's buildings, the strong tower, which is the mervyn's tower of the story, the one into which the unfortunate amy robsart was conveyed while waiting for a visit from leicester during the festivities of the royal visit. the great hall was a room of magnificent dimensions, nearly one hundred feet long by fifty broad, and, as one may judge from its ruins, beautiful in design. one oriel of the many arched windows is a beautiful bit of picturesque ruin, and through it a most superb landscape view is commanded. you are shown "the pleasance," the place in the little garden near the castle which was the scene of queen elizabeth's encounter with amy robsart, and which still is called by the same name. the part of the castle built by the earl of leicester in , known as leicester's buildings, are crumbling to decay, and is far less durable than some of the other massive towers. the outer walls of kenilworth castle encompassed an area of seven acres; but walls and tower, great hall and oriel, are now but masses of ruined masonry, half shrouded in a screen of ivy, and giving but a feeble idea of what the castle was in its days of pride, when graced by queen elizabeth and her court, and made such a scene of splendor and regal magnificence as to excite even the admiration of the sovereign herself. time has marked the proud castle with its ineffable signet, and notwithstanding the aid of imagination, kenilworth seems but a mere ghost of the past. from kenilworth castle we took train for stratford-on-avon,--the place which no american would think of leaving england without visiting,--a quiet little english town, but whose inns have yearly visitors from half the nations of the civilized world, pilgrims to this shrine of genius, the birthplace of him who wrote "not for a day, but all time." a quaint, old-fashioned place is stratford, with here and there a house that might have been in existence during the poet's time; indeed, many were, for i halted opposite the grammar school, which was founded by henry iv., and in which will shakespeare studied and was birched; the boys were out to play in the little square close, or court-yard, and as i entered through the squat, low doorway, which, like many of these old buildings in england, seems compressed or shrunk with age, i was surrounded by the whole troup of successors of shakespeare, the gates closed, and my deliverance only purchased by payment of sixpence. that antique relic of the past, the poet's birthplace, which we at once recognize from the numerous pictures we have seen of it, i stood before with a feeling akin to that of veneration--something like that which must fill the mind of a pilgrim who has travelled a weary journey to visit the shrine of some celebrated saint. it is an odd, and old-fashioned mass of wood and plaster. the very means that have been taken to preserve it seem almost a sacrilege, the fresh paint upon the wood-work outside, that shone in the spring sunlight, the new braces, plaster and repairs here and there, give the old building the air of an old man, an octogenarian, say, who had discarded his old-time rags and tatters for a suit of new cloth cut in old style; but something must, of course, be done to preserve the structure from crumbling into the dust beneath the inexorable hand of time, albeit it was of substantial oak, filled in with plaster, but has undergone many "improvements" since the poet's time. the first room we visit in the house is the kitchen with its wide chimney, the kitchen in which john shakespeare and his son will so often sat, where he watched the blazing logs, and listened to strange legends of village gossips, or stories of old crones, or narratives of field and flood, and fed his young imagination to the full with that food which gave such lusty life to it in after years. here was a big arm-chair--shakespeare's chair, of course, as there was in , when our countryman washington irving visited the place; but inasmuch as the _real_ chair was purchased by the princess czartoryska in , one cannot with a knowledge of this fact feel very enthusiastic over this. from the kitchen we ascend into the room in which the poet was born--a low, rude apartment, with huge beams and plastered walls, and those walls one mosaic mass of pencilled autographs and inscriptions of visitors to this shrine of genius. one might spend hours in deciphering names, inscriptions, rhymes, aphorisms, &c., that are thickly written upon every square inch of space, in every style of chirography and in every language: even the panes of glass in the windows have not escaped, but are scratched all over with autographs by the diamond rings of visitors; and among these signatures i saw that of walter scott. at the side of the fireplace in this room is the well-known actor's pillar, a jamb of the fireplace thickly covered with the autographs of actors who have visited here; among the names i noticed the signatures of charles kean, edmund kean, and g. v. brooke. visitors are not permitted now to write upon any portion of the building, and are always closely accompanied by a guide, in order that no portion of it may be cut and carried away by relic-hunters. the visitors' book which is kept here is a literary as well as an autographic curiosity; it was a matter of regret to me that i had only time to run over a few of the pages of its different volumes filled with the writing of all classes, from prince to peasant, and in every language and character, even those of turkish, hebrew, and chinese. the following, i think, was from the pen of prince lucien:-- "the eye of genius glistens to admire how memory hails the soul of shakespeare's lyre. one tear i'll shed to form a crystal shrine for all that's grand, immortal, and divine." and the following were furnished me as productions, the first of washington irving, and the second of hackett, the well-known comedian, and best living representative of falstaff:-- "of mighty shakespeare's birth the room we see; the where he died in vain to find we try; useless the search, for all immortal he, and those who are immortal never die." "shakespeare, thy name revered is no less by us who often _reckon_, sometimes _guess_. though england claims the glory of thy birth, none more appreciate thy page's worth, none more admire thy scenes well acted o'er, than we of states unborn in ancient lore." the room in which the poet was born remains very nearly in its original state, and, save a table, an ancient chair or two, and a bust of shakespeare, is without furniture; but another upper room is devoted to the exhibition of a variety of interesting relics and mementos. not the least interesting of these was the rude school desk, at which master will conned his lessons at the grammar school. a sadly-battered affair it was, with the little lid in the middle raised by rude leather hinges, and the whole of it hacked and cut in true school-boy style. be it shakespeare's desk or not, we were happy in the belief that it was, and sat down at it, thinking of the time when the young varlet crept "like a snail unwillingly to school," and longed for a release from its imprisonment, to bathe in the cool avon's rippling waters, or start off on a distant ramble with his schoolmates to sir thomas lucy's oak groves and green meadows. next we came to the old sign of "the falcon," which swung over the hostelrie of that name at bedford, seven miles from stratford, where shakespeare and his associates drank too deeply, as the story goes, which washington irving reproduces in his charming sketch of stratford-on-avon in the sketch book. here is shakespeare's jug, from which david garrick sipped wine at the shakespeare jubilee, held in ; an ancient chair from the falcon inn, called shakespeare's chair, and said to have been the one in which he sat when he held his club meetings there; shakespeare's gold signet-ring, with the initials w. s., enclosed in a true-lover's knot. among the interesting documents were a letter from richard quyney to shakespeare, asking for a loan of thirty pounds, which is said to be the only letter addressed to shakespeare known to exist; a "conveyance," dated october , , from "john shackspere and mary his wyeffe" (shakespeare's parents) "to robt. webbe, of their moitye of messuages or tenements in snitterfield;" an original grant of four yard lands, in stratford fields, of william and john combe to shakespeare, in ; a deed with the autograph of gilbert shakespeare, brother of the poet, ; a declaration in an action in court of shakespeare _v._ philip rogers, to recover a bill for malt sold by shakespeare, . then there were numerous engravings and etchings of various old objects of interest in and about stratford, various portraits of the poet, eighteen sketches, illustrating the songs and ballads of shakespeare, done by the members of the etching club, and presented by them to this collection. among the portraits is one copied in crayon from the chandos portrait, said to have been painted when shakespeare was about forty-three, and one of the best portraits extant--an autographic document, bearing the signature of sir thomas lucy, the original justice shallow, owner of the neighboring estate of charlecote, upon which shakespeare was arrested for deer-stealing. these, and other curious relics connected with the history of the poet, were to us possessed of so much interest that we quite wore out the patience of the good dame who acted as custodian, and she was relieved by her daughter, who was put in smiling good humor by our purchase of stereoscopic views at a shilling each, which can be had in london at sixpence, and chatted away merrily till we bade farewell to the poet's birthplace, and started off adown the pleasant village street for the little church upon the banks of the river avon, which is his last resting-place. however sentimental, poetical, or imaginative one may be, there comes a time when the cravings of appetite assert themselves; and vulgar and inappropriate as it was, we found ourselves exceedingly hungry here in stratford, and we went into a neat bijou of a pastry cook's--we should call it a confectioner's shop in america, save that there was nothing but cakes, pies, bread, and pastry for sale. the little shop was a model of neatness and compactness. half a dozen persons would have crowded the space outside the counter, which was loaded with fresh, lightly-risen sponge cakes, rice cakes, puffs, delicious flaky pastry, fruit tarts, the preserves in them clear as amber, fresh, white, close-grained english bread, and heaps of those appetizing productions of pure, unadulterated pastry, that the english pastry baker knows so well how to prepare. the bright young english girl, in red cheeks, modest dress, and white apron, who served us, was, to use an english expression, a very nice young person, and, in answer to our queries and praises of her wares, told us that herself and her mother did the fancy baking of pies and cakes, a man baker whom they employed doing the bread and heavy work. the gentry, the country round, were supplied from their shop. how long had they been there? she and mother had always been there. the shop had been in the family over _seventy years_. "just like the english," said one of the party, aside. "it's not at all astonishing they make such good things, having had seventy years' practice." and this little incident is an apt illustration of how a business is kept in one family, and in one place, generation after generation, in england; so different from our country, where the sons of the poor cobbler or humble artisan of yesterday may be the proud aristocrat of to-day. there is nothing remarkable about the pleasant church of stratford, which contains the poet's grave. it is situated near the banks of the avon, and the old sexton escorted us through an avenue of trees to its great gothic door, which he unlocked, and we were soon before the familiar monument, which is in a niche in the chancel. it is the well-known, half-length figure, above which is his coat of arms, surmounted by a skull, and upon either side figures of cupid, one holding an inverted torch, and the other a skull and a spade. beneath the cushion, upon which the poet is represented as writing, is this inscription:-- "jvdicio pylivm genio socratem arte maronem terra tegit popvlvs moeret olympvs habet. "stay, passenger; who goest thou by so fast? read, if thou canst, whom envious death has plast within this monument: shakespeare, with whome qvicke natvre died; whose name doth deck ys tombe far more than cost; sith all yt he hath writt leaves living art but page to serve his witt. "obiit ano doi, . Ætatis , die ap." this half-length figure, we are told, was originally painted after nature, the eyes being hazel, and the hair and beard auburn, the dress a scarlet doublet, slashed on the breast, over which was a loose, sleeveless black gown; but in it was painted all over white. in front of the altar-rails, upon the second step leading to the altar, are the gravestones (marble slabs) of the shakespeare family, among them a slab marking the resting-place of his wife, anne (anne hathaway); and the inscription tells us that "here lyeth interred the body of anne, wife of william shakspeare, who depted this life the th day of avg: , being of the age of years." another slab marks the grave of thomas nash, who married the only daughter of the poet's daughter susanna, one that of her father, dr. john hall, and another that of susanna herself; the slab bearing the poet's celebrated epitaph is, of course, that which most holds the attention of the visitor, and as he reads the inscription which has proved such a safeguard to the remains of its author, he cannot help feeling something of awe the epitaph is so threatening, so almost like a malediction. "good friend, for jesus' sake forbeare to digg the dust encloased heare: bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones, and cursed be he yt moves my bones." and it is doubtless the unwillingness to brave shakespeare's curse that has prevented the removal of the poet's remains to westminster abbey, and the fear of it that will make the little church, in the pleasant little town of stratford, his last resting-place. i could not help noticing, while standing beside the slab that marked the poet's grave, how _that_ particular slab had been respected by the thousands of feet that had made their pilgrimage to the place; for while the neighboring slabs and pavement were worn from the friction of many feet, this was comparatively fresh and rough as when first laid down, no one caring to trample upon the grave of shakespeare, especially after having read the poet's invocation,-- "bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones;" and so with uncovered head and reverential air he passes around it and not over it, although no rail or guard bars his steps,--that one line of magic power a more effectual bar than human hand could now place there. the little shops in the quaint little streets of stratford, all make the most of that which has made their town famous; and busts of shakespeare, pictures, carvings, guide-books, engravings, and all sorts of mementos to attract the attention of visitors, are displayed in their windows. a china ware store had shakespeare plates and dishes, with pictorial representations of the poet's birthplace, stratford church, &c., upon them, so that those inclined could have shakespeare plates from sixpence to three shillings each, illustrating their visit here. how often i had read of the old feudal barons of warwick, and their warlike deeds, which occupy so conspicuous a place in england's history! there were the old saxon earls, and, most famous of all, the celebrated guy, that every school-boy has read of, who was a redoubtable warrior in the time of alfred the great, and doubtless has in history grown in height as his deeds have in wonder, for he is stated to have been a saxon giant nine feet high, killed a saracen giant in single combat, slain a wild boar, a green dragon, and an enormous dun cow, although why killing a cow was any evidence of a warrior's prowess i am unable to state. but we saw at the porter's lodge, at the castle, as all tourists do (and i write it as all tourists do), a big rib of something,--it would answer for a whale or elephant,--which we were told was the rib of the cow aforesaid; also some of the bones of the boar; but when i asked the old dame, who showed the relics, if any of the scales of the dragon, or if any of his teeth, had been preserved, she said,-- "the dragon story mightn't be true; but 'ere we 'ave the cow's ribs and the boar's bones, and there's no disputin' them, you see." so we didn't dispute them, nor the great tilting-pole, breastplate, and fragments of armor said to have belonged to guy, or the huge porridge-pot made of bronze or bell-metal, which holds ever so many gallons, and which modern earls of warwick sometimes use on great occasions to brew an immense jorum of punch in. guy's sword, which i took an experimental swing of, required an exercise of some strength, and both hands, to make it describe a circle above my head, and must have been a trenchant blade in the hands of one able to wield it effectively. old guy was by no means the only staunch warrior of the earls of warwick. there was one who died in the holy land in ; another, who stood by king john in all his wars with the barons; another, who was captured in his castle; another, guy de beauchamp, who fought for the king bravely in the battle of falkirk; and another, who, under the black prince, led the van of the english army at cressy, and fought bravely at poietiers, till his galled hand refused to grasp his battle-axe, and who went over to france and saved a suffering english army at calais in , and many others, who have left the impress of their deeds upon the pages of history. the old town of warwick dates its foundation about a. d. , and its castle in . staying at the little old-fashioned english inn, the warwick arms, two of us had to dine in solemn state alone in a private room, the modern style of a table d'hote not being introduced in that establishment, which, although well ordered, scrupulously neat and comfortable, nevertheless, in furniture and general appearance, reminded one of the style of thirty years ago. of course the lion of warwick is the castle, and to that old stronghold we wend our way. the entrance is through a large gateway, and we pass up through a roadway or approach to the castle, which is cut through the solid rock for a hundred yards or more, and emerging into the open space, come suddenly in view of the walls and magnificent round cylindrical towers. first there is guy's tower, with its walls ten feet thick, its base thirty feet in diameter, and rising to a height of one hundred and twenty-eight feet; cæsar's tower, built in the time of the norman conquest, eight hundred years old, still strong and in good preservation, and between these two the strong castle walls, of the same description that appear in all pictures of old castles, with the spaces for bowmen and other defenders; towers, arched gateways, portcullis, double walls, and disused moat attest the former strength of this noted fortification. as the visitor passes through the gate of the great walls, and gets, as it were, into the interior of the enclosure, with the embattled walls, the turrets and towers on every side of him, he sees that the castle is a tremendous one, and its occupant, when it was in its prime, might have exclaimed with better reason than macbeth, "our castle's strength will laugh a siege to scorn." the scene from the interior is at once grand and romantic, the velvet turf and fine old trees in the spacious area of the court-yard harmonize well with the time-browned, ivy-clad towers and battlements, and a ramble upon the broad walk that leads around the latter is fraught with interest. we stood in the little sheltered nooks, from which the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers discharged their weapons; we looked down into the grass-grown moat, climbed to the top of guy's tower, and saw the charming landscape; went below cæsar's tower into the dismal dungeons where prisoners were confined and restrained by an inner grating from even reaching the small loophole that gave them their scanty supply of light and air; and here we saw where some poor fellow had laboriously cut in the rock, as near the light as he could, the record of his weary confinement of years, with a motto attached, in quaint style of spelling; and finally, after visiting grounds, towers, and walls, went into the great castle proper, now kept in repair, elegantly furnished and rich in pictures, statues, arms, tapestry, and antiquities. the first apartment we entered was the entrance, or great hall, which was hung with elegant armor of all ages, of rare and curious patterns: the walls of this noble hall, which is sixty-two feet by forty, are wainscoted with fine old oak, embrowned with age, and in the gothic roofing are carved the bear and ragged staff of robert dudley's crest; also, the coronet and shields of the successive earls from the year . among the curiosities here were numerous specimens of old-fashioned fire-arms, and one curious old-fashioned revolving pistol, made two hundred years before colt's pistols were invented, and which i was assured the american repeatedly visited before he perfected the weapon that bears his name. the same story, however, was afterwards told me about an old revolver in the tower of london, and i think also in another place in england, and the exhibitors seemed to think colonel colt had only copied an old english affair that they had thrown aside: however, this did not ruffle my national pride to any great degree, inasmuch as i ascertained that about all leading american inventions of any importance are regarded by these complacent britons as having had their origin in their "tight little island." there were the english steel cross-bows, which must have projected their bolts with tremendous forces; splendid andrea ferrara rapiers, weapons three hundred years old, and older, of exquisite temper and the most beautiful and intricate workmanship, inlaid with gold and silver, and the hilt and scabbards of elegant steel filigree work. among the curious relics was cromwell's helmet, the armor worn by the marquis montrose when he led the rebellion, prince rupert's armor, a gun from the battle-field of marston moor, a quilted armor jacket of king john's soldiers; magnificent antlered stags' heads are also suspended from the walls, while from the centre of the hall one can see at a single glance through the whole of the grand suite of apartments, a straight line of three hundred and thirty feet. from the great gothic windows you look down below, one hundred and twenty feet distant, to the river avon, and over an unrivalled picturesque landscape view--another evidence that those old castle-builders had an eye to the beautiful as well as the substantial. looking from this great hall to the end of a passage, we saw vandyke's celebrated picture of charles i. on horseback, with baton in hand, one end resting upon his thigh. i had seen copies of it a score of times, but the life-like appearance of the original made me inclined to believe in the truth of the story that sir joshua reynolds once offered five hundred guineas for it. vandyke appears to have been a favorite with the earl, as there are many of his pictures in the ravishing collection that adorns the apartments of the castle. the apartments of the castle are all furnished in exquisite taste, some with rich antique furniture, harmonizing with the rare antiques, vases, cabinets, bronzes, and china that is scattered through them in rich profusion, and to attempt to give a detailed description would require the space of a volume. the paintings, however, cannot fail to attract the attention, although the time allowed to look at them is little short of aggravation. there is a dutch burgomaster, by rembrandt; the wife of snyder, by vandyke, a beautiful painting; spinola, by rubens; the family of charles i., by vandyke; circe, by guido; a lady, by sir peter lely; a girl blowing bubbles, by murillo; a magnificently executed full-length picture of ignatius loyola, founder of the jesuits, originally painted by rubens for the jesuits' college of antwerp, and so striking as to exact exclamations of admiration even from those inexperienced in art. one lovely little room, called the boudoir, is perfectly studded with rare works of art--henry viii. by hans holbein, barbara villiers by lely, boar hunt by rubens, a saint by andrea del sarto, road scene by teniers, landscape by salvator rosa. just see what a feast for the lover of art even these comparatively few works of the great masters afford; and the walls of the rooms were crowded with them, the above being only a few selected at random, as an indication of the priceless value of the collection. in the red drawing-room we saw a grand venetian mirror in its curious and rich old frame, a rare cabinet of tortoise shell and ivory, buhl tables of great richness, and a beautiful table that once belonged to marie antoinette, besides ancient bronzes, etruscan vases, &c. in the cedar drawing-room stood hiram powers's bust of proserpina, and superb tables bearing rare vases and specimens of wonderful enamelled work, and a species of singular china and glass ware, in which raised metal figures appeared upon the surface, made by floating the copper and other metal upon glass--now a lost art. an elegant dish of this description was shown to us, said to be worth over a thousand pounds--a costly piece of plate, indeed. we now come to the gilt drawing-room, so called because the walls and ceiling are divided off into panels, richly gilt. the walls of this room are glorious with the works of great artists--vandyke, murillo, rubens, sir peter lely. rich furniture, and a wonderful venetian table, known as the "grimani table," of elegant mosaic work, also adorn the apartment. in an old-fashioned square room, known as the state bedroom, is the bed and furniture of crimson velvet that formerly belonged to queen anne. here are the table that she used, and her huge old travelling trunks, adorned with brass-headed nails, with which her initials are wrought upon the lid, while above the great mantel is a full-length portrait of anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar of the order of the garter, painted by sir godfrey kneller. the great dining-hall, besides some fine pictures and ancient roman busts, contains a remarkable piece of modern workmanship, which is known as the "kenilworth buffet," and which we should denominate a large sideboard. it is an elaborate and magnificent specimen of wood-carving, and was manufactured by cookes & son, of warwick, and exhibited in the great exhibition of . the wood from which it was wrought was an oak tree which grew on the kenilworth estate, and which, from its great age, is supposed to have been standing when queen elizabeth made her celebrated visit to the castle. carvings upon it represent the entry of queen elizabeth, surrounded by her train, elizabeth's meeting with amy robsart in the grotto, the interview between the queen and leicester, and other scenes from scott's novel of kenilworth; also carved figures of the great men of the time--sidney, raleigh, shakespeare, and drake, and the arms of the leicester family, and the crest, now getting familiar, of the bear and ragged staff, with other details, such as water-flowers, dolphins, &c. this sideboard was presented by the town and county of warwick to the present earl on his wedding day. but we must not linger too long in these interesting halls of the old feudal barons, or before their rich treasures of art. time is not even given one to sit, and study, and drink in, as it were, the wondrous beauty and exquisite finish of the artistic gems on their walls; so we take a parting glance at tenier's guard-room, the duchess of parma by paul veronese, murillo's court jester, a splendidly-executed picture of leicester by sir anthony moore, the card-players by teniers, the flight into egypt by rubens, a magnificent marble bust, by chantrey, of edward the black prince, in which the nobleness and generosity of that brave warrior were represented so strikingly as to make you almost raise your hat to it in passing. before leaving we were shown the old "warder's horn," with the bronze chain by which it was in old times suspended at the outer gate of the castle; and as i grasped it, and essayed in vain to extract a note beyond an exhausted sort of groan from its bronze mouth, i remembered the many stories in which a warder's horn figures, in poem, romance, history, and fable. i think even jack the giant killer blew one at the castle gate of one of his huge adversaries. an inscription on the warwick horn gives the date of . leaving the apartments of the castle, and passing through a portcullis in one of the walls, and over a bridge thrown across the moat, we proceeded to the green-house, rich in rare flowers and plants, and in the centre of which stands the far-famed warwick vase. the shape of this vase is familiar to all from the innumerable copies of it that have been made. it is of pure white marble, executed after pure grecian design, and is one of the finest specimens of ancient sculpture in existence. while looking upon its exquisite proportions and beautiful design, we can hardly realize that, compared with it in years, old warwick castle itself is a modern structure. the description of it states the well-known fact that it was found at the bottom of a lake near tivoli, by sir william hamilton, then ambassador at the court of naples, from whom it was obtained by the earl of warwick. its shape is circular, and its capacity one hundred and thirty-six gallons. its two large handles are formed of interwoven vine-branches, from which the tendrils, leaves, and clustering grapes spread around the upper margin. the middle of the body is enfolded by a panther skin, with head and claws elegantly cut and finished. above are the heads of satyrs, bound with wreaths of ivy, the vine-clad spear of bacchus, and the well-known crooked staff of the augurs. leaving the depository of the vase, we sauntered out beneath the shade of the great trees, and looked across the velvet lawn to the gentle avon flowing in the distance, and went on till we gained a charming view of the river front of the castle, with its towers and old mill, the ruined arches of an old bridge, and an english church tower rising in the distance, forming one of those pictures which must be such excellent capital for the landscape painter. on the banks of the avon, and in the park of the castle, we were shown some of the dark old cedars of lebanon, brought home, or grown from those brought home, from the holy land by the warwick and his retainers who wielded their swords there against the infidel. some of the quiet old streets of warwick seemed, from their deserted appearance, to be almost uninhabited, were it not for here and there a little shop, and the general tidy, swept-up appearance of everything. a somnolent, quaint, aristocratic old air seemed to hang over them, and i seemed transported to some of those quiet old streets at the north end, in boston, or salem of thirty years ago, which were then untouched by the advance of trade, and sacred to old residents, old families, whose stone door-stoops were spotlessly clean, whose brass door-knobs and name-plates shone like polished gold, and whose neat muslin curtains at the little front windows were fresh, airy, and white as the down of a thistle. i stopped at a little shop in warwick to make a purchase, and the swing of the door agitated a bell that was attached to it, and brought out, from a little sombre back parlor, the old lady, in a clean white cap, who waited upon occasional customers that straggled in as i did. how staid, and quaint, and curious these stand-still old english towns, clinging to their customs half a century old, seem to us restless, uneasy, and progressive yankees! our next ramble was down one of these quiet old streets to the ancient hospital, founded by robert dudley, earl of leicester, in , for a "master and twelve brethren," the brethren to be either deserving retainers of the earl's family, or those who had been wounded under the conduct of leicester or his heirs. these "brethren" are now appointed from warwick and gloucester, and have an allowance of eighty pounds, besides the privilege of the house. the edifice is a truly interesting building, and is one of the very few that escaped a general conflagration of the town of warwick in , and is at this time one of the most perfect specimens of the half-timber edifices which exist in the country. quaint and curious it looks indeed, massive in structure, brown with age, a wealth of useless lumber about it, high-pointed overhanging gables, rough carvings along the first story, a broad, low archway of an entrance, the oak trimmings hardened like iron, and above the porch the crest of the bear and ragged staff, the initials r. l., and the date . and only to think of the changes that three hundred years have wrought in the style of architecture, as well as comfort and convenience in dwelling-houses, or in structures like this! we were almost inclined to laugh at the variegated carving of the timber-work upon the front of this odd relic of the past, as suggestive of a sign of an american barber's shop, but which, in its day, was doubtless considered elegant and artistic. it stands a trifle raised above the street, upon a sort of platform, and the sidewalk of the street itself here passes under the remains of an old tower, built in the time of richard ii., and said to have been on the line of walls of defence of the city. the hinges, on which the great gate of this part of the fortification were hung, are still visible, and pointed out to visitors. let us enter leicester's magnificent hospital, an ostentatious charity in ; but how squat, odd, and old-fashioned did the low-ceiled little rooms look now! how odd the passages were formed! what quaint, curious old windows! how rich the old wood-work looked, saturated with the breath of time! and here was the great kitchen, with its big fireplace--the kitchen where a mug of beer a day, i think, is served, and where the "brethren" are allowed to smoke their long, clay pipes; a row of their beer tankards (what a national beverage beer is in england!) glittered on the dresser. here also hung the uniform which the "brethren" are obliged by statute always to wear when they go out, which consists of a handsome blue broadcloth gown, with a silver badge of a bear and ragged staff suspended on the left sleeve behind. these badges, now in use, are the identical ones that were worn by the first brethren appointed by lord leicester, and the names of the original wearers, and the date, , are engraved on the back of each; one only of these badges was ever lost, and that about twenty-five years ago, when it cost five guineas to replace it. in what was once the great hall is a tablet, stating that king james i. was once sumptuously entertained there by sir fulke greville, and no doubt had his inordinate vanity flattered, as his courtiers were wont to do, and his gluttonous appetite satisfied. sitting in the very chair he occupied when there, i did not feel that it was much honor to occupy the seat of such a learned simpleton as elizabeth's successor proved to be. very interesting relics were the two little ancient pieces of embroidery preserved here, which were wrought by the fair fingers of the ill-fated amy robsart, wife of leicester; one a fragment of satin, with the everlasting bear and staff wrought upon it, and the other a sort of sampler, the only authentic relic of anything belonging to this unhappy lady known to exist. at the rear of the hospital is a fine old kitchen garden, in which the brethren each have a little portion set apart to cultivate themselves, and where they can also enjoy a quiet smoke and a fine view at the same time; and this hospital is the most enduring monument that leicester has left behind him: his once magnificent abode at kenilworth is but a heap of ruins, and the proud estate, a property of over twenty miles in circumference, wrested from him by the government of his time, never descended to his family. mentioning monuments to leicester, however, reminds us of the pretentious one erected to him in the chapel of st. mary's church, which we visited, in warwick, known as the beauchamp chapel, and which all residents of these parts denominate the "beechum" chapel--named from the first earl of warwick of the norman line, the founder (beauchamp). the chapel is an elegant structure, the interior being fifty-eight feet long, twenty-five wide, and thirty-two high. over the doorway, on entering, we see the arms of beauchamp, supported on each side by sculptures of the bear, ragged staff, oak leaves, &c. the fine old time-blackened seats of oak are richly and elaborately carved, and above, in the groined roof, are carved shields, bearing the quarterings of the earls of warwick; but the great object of interest is the tomb of the great earl of warwick, which this splendid chapel was built to enshrine. it is a large, square, marble structure, situated in the centre of the building, elegantly and elaborately carved with ornamental work, and containing, in niches, fourteen figures of lords and ladies, designed to represent relatives of the deceased, while running around the edge, cut into brass, is the inscription, in old english characters. upon the top of this tomb lies a full-length bronze or brass effigy of the great earl, sheathed in full suit of armor,--breastplate, cuishes, greaves, &c.,--complete in all its details, and finished even to the straps and fastenings; the figure is not attached, but laid upon the monument, and its back is finished as perfectly as the front in all its equipments and correctness of detail. the head, which is uncovered, rests upon the helmet, and the feet of the great metal figure upon a bear and a griffin. above this recumbent figure is a sort of rail-work of curved strips and thick transverse rods of brass, over which, in old times, hung a pall, or curtain, to shield this wondrous effigy from the dust; and a marvel of artistic work it is, one of the finest works of the kind of the middle ages in existence, for the earl died in ; and another curious relic must be the original agreement or contract for its construction, which, i was told, is still in existence. robert dudley, queen elizabeth's leicester, has an elaborately-executed monument in the chapel, consisting of a sort of altar-tomb, beneath a canopy supported by corinthian pillars. upon the tomb are recumbent effigies of leicester and his countess lettice, while an inscription sets forth the many titles of the deceased, and concludes that, "his most sorrowful wife, lætitia, through a sense of _conjugal love and fidelity_, hath put up this monument _to the best and dearest of husbands_." i have heard of the expression "lying like a tombstone," before i ever saw robert dudley's monument; but it seemed now that i must be before the very one from whence the adage was derived, unless all of that which is received by the present generation as the authentic history of this man and the age in which he lived be thrown aside as a worthless fable. indeed, there were those of the generation fifty years ago who felt an equal contempt at this endeavor to send a lie down to posterity, for in an odd old, well-thumbed volume of a history of the town of warwick, published in , which i found lying in one of the window-seats of the warwick arms, where i seated myself to wait for dinner on my return, i found this passage, which is historical truth and justice concentrated into such a small compass, that i transferred it at once into my note-book. having referred to the earl of leicester's (robert dudley's) monument, the writer goes on as follows:-- "under the arch of this grand monument is placed a latin inscription, which proclaims the honors bestowed with profusion, but without discernment, upon the royal favorite, who owed his future solely to his personal attractions, for of moral worth or intellectual ability he had none. respecting his two great military employments, here so powerfully set forth, prudence might have recommended silence, since on one occasion he acquired no glory, as he had no opportunity, and on the other the opportunity he had he lost, and returned home covered with deep and deserved disgrace. that he should be celebrated, even on a tomb, for conjugal affection and fidelity, must be thought still more remarkable by those who recollect that, according to every appearance of probability, he poisoned his first wife, disowned his second, dishonored his third before he married her, and, in order to marry her, murdered her former husband. to all this it may be added, that his only surviving son, an infant, was a natural child, by lady sheffield. if his widowed countess did really mourn, as she here affects, it is believed that into no other eye but hers, and perhaps that of his infatuated queen, did a single tear stray, when, september , , he ended a life, of which the external splendor, and even the affected piety and ostentatious charity, were but vain endeavors to conceal or soften the black enormity of its guilt and shame." in the chapel are monuments to others of the warwicks, including one to leicester's infant son, who is said to have been poisoned by his nurse at three years of age, and who is called, on his tomb, "the noble impe robert of dudley," and another to ambrose dudley, earl of warwick, brother to leicester, and honorably distinguished, as a man, for his virtues, as the other for his crimes. we go from warwick to oxford by rail; but i must not omit to mention that in one of our excursions not far from warwick, as the train stopped at rugby junction, the "mugby junction" that dickens has described, we visited the refreshment-room, and got some _very good_ sandwiches, and were very well served by the young ladies at the counter; indeed, dickens's sketch has been almost as good an advertisement for the "mugby sandwiches" as byron's line, "thine incomparable oil, macassar," was for rowland's ruby compound; and the young ladies have come to recognize americans by their invariably purchasing sandwiches, and their inquiry, "where is the boy?" from warwick, on our way to oxford, we passed near edgehill, the scene of the first battle of charles i. against his parliament, and halted a brief period at banbury, where an accommodating english gentleman sought out and sent us one of the venders of the noted "banbury cakes," and who informed us that the banbury people actually put up, a few years ago, a cross, that is now standing there, from the fact that so many travellers stopped in the town to see the banbury cross mentioned in the rhyme of their childhood,-- "ride a cock horse to banbury cross to see an old woman get on a white horse,"-- who, before it _was_ erected, went away disappointed at not seeing what they had set down in their minds was the leading feature of the town, thinking that they had, in some way or other, been imposed upon by not finding any one in the place who knew of it, or cared to show it to them. but we will leave the old town of warwick behind us, for a place still more interesting to the american tourist--a city which contains one of the oldest and most celebrated universities in europe; a city where alfred the great once lived; which was stormed by william the conqueror; where richard the lion-hearted was born; and where, in the reign of bloody mary, latimer, ridley, and cranmer were burned at the stake; through whose streets the victorious parliamentary army marched, with drums beating and colors flying, after the battle of naseby--oxford. oxford, that hughes's tom brown at oxford has made the youngsters of the present day long to see; oxford, that figures in so many of the english novels; oxford, where verdant green, in the novel, had so many funny experiences; oxford, where the "great tom"--a bell spoken of in story-books and nursery rhymes--is; and a thousand other things that have made these celebrated old cities a sort of dreamland to us in america, who have longed to see the curious relics of the past with which they are crammed, and walk amid those scenes, the very descriptions of which fill one's mind with longings or pleasant anticipations as we hang over the printed pages that describe them. we rode in our cab to the old mitre tavern, and a very old-fashioned place it is. indeed, to the tourist, one of the lions of the place will be the "mitre." the first thing noticeable upon entering the low-linteled front entrance of this first-class oxford hotel was a framework of meat-hooks overhead, along one side of the ceiling of the whole entrance corridor; and upon these were suspended mutton, beef, game, poultry, &c.; in fact, a choice display of the larder of the establishment. i suppose this is the english "bill of fare," for they have no way here of letting guests know what they can have served at the table, other than through the servant who waits upon you; and his assortment, one often finds, dwindles down to the everlasting "chops," "'am and heggs," or "roast beef," "mutton," and perhaps "fowls." the cooking at the mitre is unexceptionable, as, indeed, it is generally in all inns throughout england. the quality of the meats, the bread, the ale, the wines, in fact everything designed for the palate at this house is of the purest and best quality, and such as any gastronomist will, after testing them, cherish with fond recollections; but the other accommodations are of the most old-fashioned style. the hotel seems to be a collection of old dwellings, with entrances cut through the walls, judging from the quaint, crooked, dark passages, some scarcely wide enough for two persons to pass each other in, and the little low-ceiled rooms, with odd, old-fashioned furniture, such as we used to see in our grandfathers' houses forty years ago--solid mahogany four-post bedsteads, with chintz spreads and curtains; old black mahogany brass-trimmed bureaus; wash-stands, with a big hole cut to receive the huge crockery wash-bowl, which held a gallon; feather beds, and old claw-footed chairs. this is the solid, old-fashioned comfort (?) an englishman likes. furthermore, you have no gas fixtures in your room. gas in one's sleeping-room is said by hotel-keepers in england to be unhealthy, possibly because it might prevent a regulation in the charge for light which the use of candles affords. upon my ringing the bell, and asking the chambermaid who responded--waiters and bell-boys never "answer a bell" here--for a lighter and more airy room than the little, square, one-windowed, low-ceiled apartment which was assigned me, i was informed that the said one-windowed box was the same that lord sophted "halways 'ad when he was down to hoxford." notwithstanding this astounding information, to the surprise of the servant, i insisted upon a different room, and was assigned another apartment, which varied from the first by having two windows instead of one. the fact that sir somebody something, or lord nozoo, has occupied a room, or praised a brand of wine, or the way a mutton chop was cooked, seems to be in england the credit mark that is expected to pass it, without question, upon every untitled individual who shall thereafter presume to call for it; and the look of unmitigated astonishment which the servant will bestow upon an "hamerican" who dares to assert that any thing of the kind was not so good as he was accustomed to, and he must have better, is positively amusing. americans are, however, beginning to be understood in this respect by english hotel-keepers, and are generally put in the best apartments--and charged the best prices. it would be an absurdity, in the limits permissible in a series of sketches like these, to attempt a detailed description of oxford and its colleges; for there are more than a score of colleges, besides the churches, halls, libraries, divinity schools, museums, and other buildings connected with the university. there are some rusty old fellows, who hang round the hotels, and act as guides to visitors, showing them over a route that takes in all the principal colleges, and the way to the libraries, museums, &c. one of these walking encyclopedists of the city, as he proved to be, became our guide, and we were soon in the midst of those fine old monuments of the reverence for learning of past ages. only think of visiting a college founded by king alfred, or another whose curious carvings and architecture are of the twelfth century, or another founded by edward ii. in , or going into the old quadrangle of all souls college, through the tower gateway built a. d. , or the magnificent pile of buildings founded by cardinal wolsey, the design, massive structure, and ornamentation of which were grand for his time, and give one some indication of the ideas of that ambitious prelate. the college buildings are in various styles of architecture, from the twelfth century down to the present time, most of them being built in form of a hollow square, the centre of the square being a large, pleasant grass plot, or quadrangle, upon which the students' windows opened. entrance to these interiors or quadrangles is obtained through a gothic or arched gateway, guarded by a porter in charge. the windows of the students' rooms were gay with many-colored flowers, musical with singing birds hung up in cages, while the interior of some that we glanced into differed but very little from those of harvard university, each being fitted or decorated to suit the taste of the occupant. in some of the old colleges, the rooms themselves were quaint and oddly-shaped as friars' cells; others large, luxurious, and airy. nearly all were entered through a vestibule, and had an outer door of oak, or one painted in imitation of oak; and when this door is closed, the occupant is said to be "sporting his oak" which signifies that he is studying, busily engaged, and not at home to any one. there were certain quarters also more aristocratic than others, where young lordlings--who were distinguished by the gold in their hatbands from the untitled students--most did congregate. the streets and shops of oxford indicated the composition of its population. you meet collegians in gowns and trencher caps, snuffy old professors, with their silk gowns flying out behind in the wind, young men in couples, young men in stunning outfits, others in natty costumes, others artistically got up, tradesmen's boys carrying bundles of merchandise, and washer or char women, in every direction in the vicinity of the colleges. splendid displays are made in the windows of tailors' and furnishing goods stores--boating uniforms, different articles of dress worn as badges, stunning neck-ties, splendidly got up dress boots, hats, gloves, museums of canes, sporting whips, cricket bats, and thousands of attractive novelties to induce students to invest loose cash, or do something more common, "run up a bill;" and if these bills are sometimes not paid till years afterwards, the prices charged for this species of credit are such as prove remunerative to the tradesmen, who lose much less than might be supposed, as men generally make it a matter of principle to pay their college debts. the largest and most magnificent of the quadrangles is that of christ church college. it is two hundred and sixty-four feet by two hundred and sixty-one, and formed part of the original design of wolsey, who founded this college. this noble quadrangle is entered through a great gate, known as tom gate, from the tower above it, which contains the great bell of that name, the great tom of oxford, which weighs seventeen thousand pounds. i ascended the tower to see this big tocsin, which was exhibited to me with much pride by the porter, as being double the weight of the great bell in st. paul's, in london, and upon our descending, was shown the rope by which it was rung, being assured that, notwithstanding the immense weight of metal, it was so hung that a very moderate pull would sound it. curiosity tempted me, when the porter's back was turned, to give a smart tug at the rope, which swung invitingly towards my hand; and the pull elicited a great boom of bell metal above that sounded like a musical artillery discharge, and did not tend to render the custodian desirous of prolonging my visit at that part of the college. the dining-hall of christ church college is a notable apartment, and one that all tourists visit; it is a noble hall, one hundred and thirteen feet by forty, and fifty feet in height. the roof is most beautifully carved oak, with armorial bearings, and decorations of henry viii. and cardinal wolsey, and was executed in . upon the walls hangs the splendid collection of original portraits, which is one of its most interesting features, many of them being works of great artists, and representations of those eminent in the history of the university. here hangs holbein's original portrait of king henry viii.,--from which all the representations of the bluff polygamist that we are accustomed to see are taken,--queen elizabeth's portrait, that of cardinal wolsey, bishop fell, marquis wellesley, john locke, and over a hundred others of "old swells, bishops, and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in some way," as tom brown says. indeed, many of the most prominent men of english history have studied at oxford--sir walter raleigh, the black prince, hampden, butler, addison, wycliffe, archbishop laud, and statesmen, generals, judges, and authors without number. long tables and benches are ranged each side of the room; upon a dais at its head, beneath the great bow window, and harry viii.'s picture, is a sort of privileged table, at which certain officers and more noble students dine on the fat of the land. next comes the table of the "gentleman commoners," a trifle less luxuriously supplied, and at the foot of the hall "the commoners," whose pewter mugs and the marked difference in the style of their table furniture indicate the distinctions of title, wealth, and poor gentlemen. after a peep at the big kitchen of this college, which has been but slightly altered since the building was erected, and which itself was the first one built by wolsey in his college, we turned our steps to that grand collection of literary wealth--the bodleian library. the literary wealth of this library, in one sense, is almost incalculable. i was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of dr. hachman, a graduate of the university and one of the librarians, and through his courtesy enabled to see many of the rare treasures of this priceless collection, that would otherwise have escaped our notice. here we looked upon the first latin bible ever printed, the first book printed in the english language, by caxton, at bruges, in , and the first english bible, printed by miles coverdale. here was the very book that pope gregory sent to augustin when he went to convert the britons, and which may have been the same little volume that he held in his hand when he pleaded the faith of the redeemer to the saxon king ethelbert, whom he converted from his idolatrous belief twelve hundred years ago. i looked with something like veneration upon a little shelf containing about twenty-five volumes of first editions of books from the presses of caxton, guttenberg, and faust, whose money value is said to be twenty-five thousand pounds; but bibliomaniacs will well understand that no money value can be given to such treasures. we were shown a curious old bible,--a "breeches" bible, as it is called,--which has a story to it, which is this. about one hundred years ago this copy was purchased for the library at a comparatively low price, because the last ten or fifteen pages were missing. the volume was bound, however, and placed on the shelf; seventy-five years afterwards the purchasing agent of the library bought, in rome, a quantity of old books, the property of a monk; they were sent to england, and at the bottom of an old box, from among stray pamphlets and rubbish, out dropped a bunch of leaves, which proved, on examination and comparison, to be the very pages missing from the volume. they are placed, not bound in, at the close of the book, so that the visitor sees that they were, beyond a doubt, the actual portion of it that was missing. ranged upon another shelf was a set of first editions of the old classics. in one room, in alcoves, all classified, were rich treasures of literature in sanscrit, hebrew, coptic, and even chinese and persian, some of the latter brilliant in illumination. here was tippoo saib's koran, with its curious characters, and the book of enoch, brought from abyssinia by bruce, the african explorer; and my kind cicerone handed me another volume, whose odd characters i took to be arabic or coptic, but which was a book picked up at the capture of sebastopol, in the redan, by an english soldier, and which proved, on examination, to be the pickwick papers in the russian language. besides these, there were specimens of all the varieties of illuminated books made by the monks between the years and , and magnificent book-makers they were, too. this collection is perfect and elegant, and the specimens of the rarest and most beautiful description, before which, in beauty or execution, the most costly and elaborate illustrated books of our day sink into insignificance. this may seem difficult to believe; but these rare old volumes, with every letter done by hand, their pages of beautifully prepared parchment, as thin as letter paper,--the colors, gold emblazonry, and all the different hues as bright as if laid on but a year--are a monument of artistic skill, labor, and patience, as well as an evidence of the excellence and durability of the material used by the old cloistered churchmen who expended their lives over these elaborate productions. the illuminated books of hours, and a psalter in purple vellum, a. d. , are the richest and most elegant specimens of book-work i ever looked upon. the execution, when the rude mode and great labor with which it was performed are taken into consideration, seems little short of miraculous. these specimens of illuminated books are successively classified, down to those of our own time. then there were books that had belonged to kings, queens, and illustrious or noted characters in english history. here was a book of the proverbs, done on vellum, for queen elizabeth, by hand, the letters but a trifle larger than those of these types, each proverb in a different style of letter, and in a different handwriting. near by lay a volume presented by queen bess to her loving brother, with an inscription to that effect in the "virgin queen's" own handwriting. then we examined the book of latin exercises, written by queen elizabeth at school; and it was curious to examine this neatly-written manuscript of school-girl's latin, penned so carefully by the same fingers that afterwards signed the death-warrants of mary, queen of scots, the duke of norfolk, and her own favorite, essex. next came a copy of bacon's essays, presented by bacon himself to the duke of buckingham, and elegantly bound in green velvet and gold, with the donor's miniature portrait set on the cover; then a copy of the first book printed in the english language, and a copy of pliny's natural history, translated by landino in , mary de medicis' prayer-book, a royal autograph-book of visitors to the university, ending with the signatures of the present prince of wales and princess alexandra. there was also a wealth of manuscript documents, a host of curious old relics of antiquity i have forgotten, and others that time only allowed a glance at, such as the autographic letters of pope, milton, addison, and archbishop laud, queen henrietta's love letters to charles i. before marriage, and monmouth's declaration, written in the tower the morning of his execution, july , . among the bequests left to this splendid library was one of thirty-six thousand pounds, for the purchasing of the most costly illustrated books that could be had; and the collection of these magnificent tomes in their rich binding was of itself a wonder: there were hosts of octavo, royal octavo, elephant folio, imperials, &c.; there were audubon's birds, and boydell's shakespeare, and hundreds of huge books of that size, many being rare proof copies. then we came to a large apartment which represented the light literature of the collection. for a space of two hundred years the library had not any collection of what might properly be termed light reading. this gap was filled by a bequest of one of the best, if not the very best, collections of that species of literature in the kingdom, which commences with first editions of cock robin and dame trott and her cat, and ends with rare and costly editions of shakespeare's works. weeks and months might be spent in this magnificent library (which numbers about two hundred and fifty thousand volumes, besides its store of curious historical manuscripts) without one's having time to inspect one half its wealth; and this is not the only grand library in oxford, either. there are the library of merton college, the most genuine ancient library in the kingdom; the celebrated radcliffe library, founded in by dr. radcliffe, physician to william iii., and mary, and queen anne, at an expense of forty thousand pounds, and which is sometimes known as the physic library;--in this is a reading-room, where all new publications are received and classified for the use of students; the library of wadham college, the library of queen's college, that of all souls college, and that of exeter college, in a new and elegant gothic building, erected in , all affording a mine of wealth, in every department of art, science, and belles-lettres. a mine of literature, indeed; and the liberality of some of the bequests to that grand university indicates the enormous wealth of the donors, while a visit even to portions of these superb collections will dwarf one's ideas of what they have previously considered as treasures of literature or grand collections in america. in one of the rooms i felt almost as if looking at an old acquaintance, as i was shown the very lantern which guy fawkes had in his hand when seized, which was carefully preserved under a glass case, and was like the one in the picture-books, where that worthy is represented as being seized by the man in the high-peaked hat, who is descending the cellar stairs. another relic is the pair of gold-embroidered gauntlet gloves worn by queen elizabeth when she visited the university, which are also carefully kept in like manner. in the picture gallery attached to the library are some fine paintings, and among those that attracted my attention were two portraits of mary queen of scots, looking quite unlike. their history is to the effect that the college had purchased what was supposed to be a fine old original portrait of the ill-fated queen, and as such it hung in its gallery for a number of years, till at length a celebrated painter, after repeated and close examinations, declared to the astonished dons that doubtless the picture was an original, and perhaps one of mary, but that it had been re-costumed, and the head-dress altered, and various additions made, that detracted from its merit as a portrait. the painter further promised to make a correct copy of the portrait as it was, then to skilfully erase from the original, without injury, the disfiguring additions that had been made, leaving it as when first painted. this was a bold proposition, and a bold undertaking; but the artist was one of eminence, and the college government, after due deliberation, decided to let him make the trial. he did so, and was perfectly successful, as the two pictures prove. the original, divested of the foreign frippery that had been added in the way of costume and head drapery, now presents a sweet, sad, pensive face, far more beautiful, and in features resembling those of the painting of the decapitated head of the queen at abbotsford. here also hung a representation of sir philip sidney, burned in wood with a hot poker, done by an artist many years ago--a style of warm drawing that has since been successfully done by the late ball hughes, the celebrated sculptor in boston, united states. passing on beneath the gaunt, ascetic countenance of duns scotus, which looks down from a frame, beneath which an inscription tells us that he translated the whole bible without food or drink, and died in , we come to many curious relics in the museum. among others was a complete set of carved wooden fruit trenchers, or plates, that once belonged to queen elizabeth. each one was differently ornamented, and each bore upon it, in quaint old english characters, a verse of poetry, and most of these verses had in them, some way or other, a slur at the marriage state. the little plates were said to be quite favorite articles with her single-blessed majesty. so, with some labor and study, i transcribed a few of the verses for american eyes, and here they are:-- "if thou be young, then marry not yet; if thou be old, thou hast more wit; for young men's wives will not be taught, and old men's wives are good for nought." how many "old men" will believe the last line of this pandering lie to the ruddy-headed queen? but here are others:-- "if that a bachelor thou be, keep thee so still; be ruled by me; least that repentance, come too late, reward thee with a broken pate." "a wife that marryeth husbands three was never wedded thereto by me; i would my wife would rather die, than for my death to weep or cry." * * * * * "thou art the happiest man alive, for every thing doth make thee thrive; yet may thy thrift thy master be; therefore take thrift and all for me." * * * * * "thou goest after dead men's shoes, but barefoot thou art like to go. content thyself, and do not muse, for fortune saith it must be so." emerging all unwillingly from the charms of the library, museum, and the interesting interiors of these beautiful old buildings, we stroll out to that delightful place of oaks, and elms, and pleasant streams, christ church meadows, walk beneath the broad, overarching canopy of elms, joining together like the roof of a cathedral, that shades the famous "broad walk;" we saunter into "addison's walk," a little quiet avenue among the trees, running down towards the river isis, and leaving magdalen college,--which was addison's college,--and its pretty, rural park, we come to the beautiful arched bridge which spans the river isis, and, crossing it, have a superbly picturesque view of oxford, with the graceful, antique, and curious spires rising above the city, the swelling dome of the radcliffe library, and the great tower of christ church. here, at this part of the "meadows," is the place where cricket and other athletic games are played. throngs and groups of promenaders are in every direction, of a pleasant afternoon, and groups are seated upon the benches, around the trunks of the elms, from which they gaze upon the merry throng, or at the boats on the isis. this river, which is a racing and practice course of the oxonians, appears so absurdly narrow and small to an american who has seen harvard students battling the waves of the boisterous charles, as nearly to excite ridicule and laughter. we should almost denominate it a large brook in america. for most of its length it was not more than sixteen or eighteen feet in width. the isis is a branch of the river cherwell, which is a branch of the thames, and has this advantage--the rowers can never suffer much from rough weather. down near its mouth, where it widens towards the cherwell, are the barges of the different boat clubs or universities. they are enormous affairs, elegantly ornamented and fitted up, and remind one of the great state barges seen in the pictures of venice, where the doge is marrying the adriatic. their interiors are elegantly upholstered, and contain cabins or saloons for the reception of friends, for lounging, or for lunch parties. farther up the river, and we see the various college boats practising their crews for forthcoming trials of skill. these boats are of every variety of size, shape, and fashion--two-oared, six-oared, eight-oared, single wherries shooting here and there; long craft, like a line upon the water, with a crew of eight athletes, their heads bound in handkerchiefs, stripped to the waist, and with round, hardened, muscular arms, bending to their oars with a long, almost noiseless sweep, and the exact regularity of a chronometer balance. the banks were alive with the friends of the different crews, students and trainers, who ran along, keeping up with them, prompting and instructing them how to pull, and perfecting them in their practice. every now and then, one of these college boats, with its uniformed crew, would shoot past, and its group of attendant runners upon the dike, with their watchful eyes marking every unskilful movement. "easy there, five." "pull steady, three." "straighten your back more, two." "shoulders back there, four; do you call that pulling? mind your practice. steady, now--one, two, three; count, and keep time." "well done, four; a good pull and a strong pull." "i'm watching you, six; no gammon. pull, boys, pull," &c. the multitude of boats, with their crews, the gayly decorated barges, the merry crowds upon the pleasure-grounds, the arched bridge, and the picturesque background of graceful domes and spires, combined to form a scene which will not soon fade from memory. how many advantages does the oxford student enjoy, besides the admirable opportunities for study, and for storing the mind, from the treasure-houses that are ready at his hand, with riches that cannot be stolen; the delicious and romantic walks, rural parks, and grounds about here; the opportunities for boating, which may be extended to the river cherwell, where the greater width affords better opportunities for racing--attrition with the best mettle of the nation; instruction from the best scholars; and a dwelling-place every corner of which is rich in historic memories! we walk to the place in front of baliol college, where cranmer, ridley, and latimer were burned at the stake. the spot is marked by a small stone cross in the pavement; and a short distance from here, in an open square, stands an elaborately decorated gothic monument, surmounted by a cross, and bearing beneath its arches the statues of the bishops, erected about twenty years ago, and is denominated the martyrs' memorial. but adieu to oxford; students, libraries, colleges, and historical relics left behind, we are whirling over the railroad on our way up to london. always say _up_ to london, in england. going to london is always going up, no matter what point of the compass you start from. no true englishman ever talks of going to the great city in any way except going "up" to it. chapter vi. the train glides into the great glass-roofed station; we are in london. a uniformed porter claps his hand on the door of every first-class carriage, and runs by its side till the train stops. the railway porters in attendance at each railroad station wear the uniform of the company, and are therefore readily recognized. they assist to load and unload the luggage, and in the absence of the check and other systems which prevail in america, quite a large force is required in the great stations in london to attend to the luggage. the tourist is informed in the stations of some companies, by conspicuous sign-boards that "the servants of this company are strictly forbidden to receive any fees from travellers, and any one of them detected in doing so will be instantly discharged." this, however, does not prevent travellers from slyly thrusting gratuities upon them; and the english system of bribery is so thoroughly ingrained into every department of service, that it is a pretty difficult question to manage. the porters and railway officials are always courteous and efficient; they know their place, their business, and accept their position; there is none of the fallen-monarch style of service such as we receive in america, nor the official making you wait upon him, instead of his waiting upon you. men in england who accept the position of servants expect to do the duty of servants; in america the "baggage master" is often a lordly, independent individual, who condescends to hold that position till appointed superintendent. i would by no means condemn the american ambition to gain by meritorious effort the positions that are open to all ranks, and that may be gained by the exercise of talent and ability, even if the possessor have not wealth; but it is always pleasant to have any species of service, that one contracts for, well done, and in england the crowded state of all branches of employment and trade makes it worth workmen's while to bring forward efficiency and thorough knowledge of their trade as a leading recommendation. but the sixpence and the shilling in england are keys that will remove obstacles that the traveller never dreams of. let the raw american, however, gradually and cautiously learn their use, under the tutelage of an expert if possible; otherwise he will be giving shillings where only sixpences are expected, and sixpences where threepences are abundant compensation. what american would think of offering twenty-five cents to the sergeant at arms of the boston state house for showing him the legislative hall, or twelve or fifteen cents to a railroad conductor for obtaining a seat for him? both individuals would consider themselves insulted; but in england the offering is gratefully received. indeed, at certain castles and noted show-places in great britain, the imposing appearance of an official in uniform, or the gentlemanly full dress of a butler or upper servant, until i became acquainted with the customs of the country, sometimes made me doubt whether it would not be resented if i should offer him half a sovereign, till i saw some englishmen give him a shilling or half crown, which was very gratefully received. but to our arrival. first class passengers generally want cabs, if they are not londoners with their own carriages in waiting, and the railway porters know it. first and second class passengers are more likely to disburse shillings and sixpences than third, and so the porter makes haste to whisk open the door of your compartment in the first class, and, as he touches his hat, says, "luggage, sir?" "yes; a black trunk on top, and this portmanteau." _valise_ is a word they don't understand the meaning of in england. the cabman whom the porter has signalled in obedience to your demand, has driven up as near the train as he is permitted to come. he is engaged. the wink, or nod, or upraised finger from the porter, whom he knows, has told him that. you jump out, in the throng of hundreds of passengers, into the brilliantly lighted station, stiff with long riding, confused with the rush, bustle, noise, and lights; but the porter, into whose hand, as it rested on the car-door, you slyly slipped a sixpence or shilling, attends to your case instanter. he does not lose sight of you or your luggage, nor suffer you to be hustled a moment; he shoulders your luggage, escorts you to the cab, mayhap assisted by another; pushes people out of the way, hoists the luggage with a jerk to the roof of the cab, sings out, "langham's, bill," to the driver, and you are off. the cab-driver, who has an understanding with the porter, when he returns to the station "divys" with him on the shilling. all this may be wrong, but is one of the customs of the country. to be sure, the london railway porters will be polite, call a cab for you, and pack you into it, without any fee whatever; but you will, if you have not learned how to "tip," wonder how it was that so many persons seem to get off in cabs so much quicker than you, and why, in the miscellaneous mass of baggage that the porters are unloading from the top of the carriage, jack tells bob to "pass down the white portmanter" first, when your black one is much handier to get at. but away we rattle through the streets of london, on, on. how odd it seemed to see such names as strand, cheapside, holborn, hatton garden, flash out occasionally upon a corner near a gas-light! what a never-ending stream of vehicles! what singularly london names there were over the shop doors! what english-looking announcements on the dead walls and places where bills were posted! london--well, at night, seen from a cab window, it was not unlike many parts of new york, only it seemed like two or three new yorks rolled into one. on we went miles through crowded streets, regent street, oxford street, and at last, at the west end, pulled up at the langham hotel, a house that nearly all freshly-arrived americans, especially during the season of the french exposition, when so many went over, generally went to first on arrival in london, and generally very soon changed their quarters. it was then but recently built. it is a magnificent edifice in the fashionable part of london, and was understood to be conducted on the american plan, but proved to be like a northern man with southern principles, with few of the good and all of the bad characteristics of both. america is the paradise of hotels--that is, the large cities of america; but in london, the newly-arrived american will first be vexed at the utter incapability of the people to keep a hotel, and next amused at the persistent clinging to old customs, and the absurd attempts made, by those who carry them on, to do so. the american hotel clerk, who can answer fifty questions in a breath, who can tell you what the bill of performance is at all the theatres, at what hour the trains over the different roads start, what is the best brand of wine, what to do, where to go, how much everything costs, recollects your name, is a gentleman in dress and address, and whom you mutually respect as a man of quick preception, prompt decision, and tenacious memory, is an official unknown in london. you are met in that city by the head porter, who answers questions about trains (by aid of bradshaw's guide), will receive parcels for you, call a cab, or see that your luggage is sent up or down; but as for city sights, where to go, what to see, when the opera or theatre begins, how to get to richmond hill, or kew gardens, or windsor castle, he is profoundly ignorant. in a small enclosure called a bar is a woman who books your name, keeps an account of everything you have, making a charge of each item separately, down to a cigar, necessitating an enormous amount of book-keeping. in this bar are others who draw ale, or extract spirits from casks ranged in the enclosure, as they may be ordered by guests in their own room or the "coffee-room," into carefully-marked measures, so as to be sure that no one gets beyond his sixpence worth of whiskey, or gin, or brandy; but there is one thing certain: the guests, as a general thing, get a far better quality of liquor than we in america, where it is next to an impossibility to get even a good article of that great american, national drink, whiskey, pure and unadulterated. these bar-maids can give you no information except about the price of rooms, meals, and refreshments. next comes the head waiter, who, with the porter, appears to "run" the hotel. this worthy must be feed to insure attention. if you are a single man, you can dine well enough in the coffee-room, if you order your dinner at a certain time in advance. however, the great london hotels are slowly becoming americanized in some departments: one improvement is that of having what is called a "ladies' coffee-room," i. e., a public dining-room, and a _table d'hote_, and not compelling a gentleman and wife to dine in solemn state in a private room, under the inspection of a waiter. between stated hours, anything in the magnificent bills of fare, for the three meals, is ready on demand at an american hotel; for instance, the guest may sit down to breakfast at any time between six and eleven; to dinner at one, three, and five; to tea at six to eight, and supper ten to twelve; and anything he orders will be served instanter: the meals at those times are always ready. in london, _nothing is ever ready_, and everything must be ordered in advance. it is a matter of positive wonderment to me that the swarms of englishmen, whom one meets in the well-kept hotels of berne, lucerne, wiesbaden, baden baden, &c., can, after enjoying their comforts and conveniences, endure the clumsy manner of hotel-keeping, and the discomforts of the london hotels, or that the landlords of the latter can persist in hanging back so obstinately from adopting the latest improvements. the new and large hotels, however, are a great improvement on the old style, and the best thing for a fresh american tourist to do, before going to london, is to get some fellow-countryman, who has had experience in the hotels and lodgings of that metropolis, to "post him up" as to which will the best suit his taste and desires. my first night in london, spent at the langham, which is at the west end, or fashionable quarter, was anything but a quiet one; the hotel being, as it were, right in the track between various resorts of the aristocracy and their residences, and the time the height of the season. there was one unceasing roar of private carriages and cabs from ten p. m. till three a. m., which banished sleep from my eyelids, and made me long for the quiet of the well-kept little english and scotch country inns that i had previously been enjoying. accommodations were sought and found in a less fashionable, but far more central part of the city, where more comfort, attention, and convenience were obtained at a less rate than at this english hotel on the american plan; and it was not long ere i found that my own experience at langham's was that of numerous other americans, and that the pleasantest way to live in london is "in apartments" if one stays there any length of time--that is, furnished lodgings. the english themselves, when visiting london, stay with a friend if possible, always avoiding a hotel; and it is probably the adherence to this old custom, by the better classes, that causes the indifference to the quality of what is furnished for public accommodation in their own capital. i thought my experiences in new york streets had prepared me for london; but on emerging into the london streets for the first time i found my mistake. i was fairly stunned and bewildered by the tremendous rush of humanity that poured down through oxford street, through holborn, on to the city, or otherwise down towards white chapel, lombard street, the bank, and the exchange. great omnibuses, drawn by three horses abreast, thundered over the pavement; four-wheel cabs, or "four-wheelers," a sort of compressed american carriages, looking as though resuscitated from the last stages of dissolution, rattled here and there; the hansom cabs, those most convenient of all carriages, dashed in and out, hither and thither, in the crowd of vehicles; great brewery drays, with horses like elephants, plodded along with their loads; the sidewalks swarmed with a moving mass of humanity, and many were the novelties that met my curious eye. the stiff, square costume of the british merchant; little boys of ten, with beaver hats like men; lord dundrearys with eye-glasses such as i had never seen before, except upon the stage at the theatre; ticket porters with their brass labels about their necks; policemen in their uniform; officers and soldiers in theirs; all sorts of costermongers with everything conceivable to sell, and all sorts of curious vehicles, some with wood enough in them for three of a similar kind in america. the drivers of the london omnibuses feel the dignity of their position,--_they do_. it is the _conductor_ who solicits passengers, takes the pay, and regulates the whole business of the establishment. the driver, or rather the "coachman," drives; he wears a neat top-coat, a beaver hat, and a pair of driving gloves; he drives with an air. you can attract his attention from the sidewalk, and he will "pull up," but he does it with a sort of calm condescension; the conductor or cad, on the other hand, is ever on the alert; his eyes are in every direction; he signals a passenger in the crowd invisible to all but him; he continually shouts the destination of his vehicle, but sometimes in a patois unintelligible except to the native londoner. as for instance, i was once standing in holborn, waiting for a 'bus for the bank; one passed, which from its inscription i did not recognize, the conductor ejaculating, as he looked on every side, "abink-wychiple, binkwychiple," when suddenly he detected us in the throng, and marked us as strangers looking for a 'bus; in a twinkling he was down from his perch, and upon the sidewalk. "_binkwychiple?_" "i want to go to the bank," said i. "all right, sir; 'ere you are." he gave a shrill whistle, which caused the driver who was sixty feet away, to stop, hurried us both into the vehicle, slammed to the door, and, taking off his hat with mock politeness to a rival 'bus that had nearly overtaken his, said, "can't vait for you, sir: drive on, bob;" and on we went to our destination. another 'bus conductor puzzled me by shouting "_simmery-ex, simmery-ex, simmery-ex_," until the expression was translated into "st. mary's axe," the locality alluded to. these conductors are generally sharp, quick-witted, and adepts at "chaff" and blackguardism, and it is good advice to the uninitiated to beware "chaffing" them, as in nine cases out of ten the cad gets the best of it. the hansom cabs are the best and most convenient vehicles that can possibly be used for short excursions about the city. a shilling will carry you a smart fifteen minutes' ride, the legal price being sixpence a mile, but nobody ever expects to give a cabman any less than a shilling for ever so short a ride. eighteen pence is readily accepted for a three mile trip, and it costs no more for two persons than one. there being nothing between the passenger and the horse but the dasher, as the driver is perched up behind, an unobstructed view is had as you whirl rapidly through the crowded streets; and the cheapness of the conveyance, added to its adaptability for the purpose that it is used, makes an american acknowledge that in this matter the english are far in advance of us, and also to wonder why these convenient vehicles have not displaced the great, cumbersome, two-horse carriages which even a single individual is compelled to take in an american city if he is in a hurry to go to the railway station or to execute a commission, and which cost nearly as much for a trip of a mile as would engage a hansom in london for half a day. there has been much said in the london papers about the impositions of the cab-drivers; but i must do them the justice to say i saw little or none of it: making myself acquainted with the legal rate, i found it generally accepted without hesitation. if i was in doubt about the distance, instead of adopting the english plan of keeping the extra sixpence, i gave it, and so cheaply saved disputes. coming out from the theatres, you find privileged porters, who have the right of calling cabs for those who want them, besides numerous unprivileged ones; boys, who will dart out to where the cabs are,--they are not allowed to stand in front of the theatre,--and fetch you one in an instant. the driver never leaves his seat, but your messenger opens the cab, and shuts you in, shouts your direction to the driver, and touches his cap, grateful for the penny or two pence that you reward him with. what a never-ending source of amusement the london streets are to the newly-arrived american--their very names historical. here we are in regent street, where you can buy everything; the four quarters of the world seem to have been laid under contribution to supply it: here are magnificent jewelry stores, all ablaze with rich and artistically-set gems and jewels; here a huge magazine of nothing but india shawls and scarfs--an excellent place to buy a camel's hair shawl. ladies, save your money till you go to london, for that pride of woman's heart comes into england duty free, and from fifty to four hundred dollars may be saved, according to the grade purchased, on the price charged in america. in this india store one could buy from scarfs at five shillings to shawls at four hundred guineas. then there were the splendid dry goods stores, the windows most magnificently dressed; shoe stores, with those peculiarly english "built,"--that is the only word that will express it, so fashioned by rule into structures of leather were they,--english built shoes of all sizes in the window, and shoes that will outwear three pairs of yankee-made affairs, unless one goes to some of the very choice establishments, or to foreigners at home, who, knowing how rare faithful work and good material are in their business, charge a tremendous premium for both articles. i think for service, ease to the foot, and real economy, there is no boot or shoe like those by the skilled london makers; the price charged is only about twenty-five per cent. less than in america; but an article of solid, substantial, honest british workmanship is furnished, and any one who has ever bought any portion of his wardrobe of an english maker, knows the satisfaction experienced in wearing articles made upon honor; the quality, stitches, and workmanship can be depended upon. but what is in other shops? o, everything; elegant displays of gentlemen's furnishing goods, of shirts, under-clothing, socks and gloves, of a variety, fineness, and beauty i had never seen before; gloves, fans, fancy goods, china ware; toy shops, shops of english games, cricket furniture, bats, balls, &c.; elegant wine and preserve magazines--where were conserves, preserves, condiments, pickles, cheeses, dried fruits, dried meats, and appetizing delicacies from every part of the globe, enough to drive an epicure crazy. at these great establishments are put up the "hampers" that go to supply parties who go to the races or picnics. you order a five-shilling or five-pound hamper, and are supplied accordingly--meat-pies, cold tongues, fowls, game, wines, ales, pickles. there are english pickles, dutch saur krout, french _pâte de foie gras_, finnian haddock, german sausages, italian macaroni, american buffalo tongues, and swiss cheeses, in _stacks_. that is what astonishes the american--the enormous stock in these retail establishments, and the immense variety of styles of each article; but it should be remembered that this is the market of the world, and the competition here is sharp. go into a store for a pair of gloves, even, mention the size you desire, and the salesman will show you every variety in kid, french dogskin, cloth, and leather; for soiree, promenade, driving, travelling, and every species of use, and different styles and kinds for each use. the salesmen understand their business, which is _to sell goods_; they are polite, they suggest wants, they humor your merest whim in hue, pattern, style, or fancy; they make no rude endeavor to force goods upon you, but are determined you shall have just what you want; wait upon you with assiduous politeness, and seem to have been taught their occupation. one misses that sort of independent nonchalance with which an american retail salesman throws out one article at a time, talking politics or of the weather to you, while you yourself turn over the goods, place them, and adjust them for the effect of light or shade, as he indolently looks on, or persistently battles in argument with you, that what he has shown you is what you ought to have, instead of what you demand and want; also that american style of indifference, or independence, as to whether you purchase or not, and the making of you--as you ascertain after shopping in london--do half the salesman's work. the london shopman understands that deference is the best card in the pack, and plays it skilfully. he attends to you assiduously; he is untiring to suit your taste. if he sells you a ribbon, the chances are that you find, before leaving, you have purchased gloves, fan, and kerchief besides, and it is not until you finally take your departure that he ventures to remark that "it is a very fine day." many of the london first-class establishments, such as tailors, furnishing-goods dealers, umbrella stores, shoemakers, cheesemongers, or fancy-grocery stores, have two stores, one in regent street, the fashionable quarter, and one in the city, say down towards the bank, in threadneedle street, poultry, cheapside, &c. the "city" or down-town store of the same firm, it is well known to londoners, will sell the same goods and same articles at least five per cent. cheaper than the up-town regent or oxford street one will. besides serviceable boots and shoes, gentlemen's wearing apparel, and under-clothing, buy your umbrellas in england. they make this article splendidly, doubtless from its being an article of such prime necessity. the english umbrella is made light, shapely, and strong, of the best materials,--if you get them of a dealer of reputation, sangster's, for instance,--they will keep their shape until completely worn out. while in london, purchase whatever trunks, portmanteaus, or valises you may need for your continental tour. london is the paradise of this species of merchandise, and in paris you will learn too late that trunk-making is not a frenchman's art, though if you reach vienna, the headquarters of the elegant russia leather work, you will find articles there in the travelling-bag line, at very moderate prices, that will enable you to make the most distinguished carpet-bagger in your own country die of envy. it is said that london is headquarters for gentlemen's clothing, and paris for ladies'. london sets the fashion for gentlemen in dress, and paris that for the gentler sex, although in the article of men's hats, gloves, and dress boots, i believe the frenchman has "the inside of the track." a french boot is made for grace and beauty, an english one for service and comfort. an english hat, like an english dog-cart, has too much "timber" in it, and a french glove is unapproachable. many americans leave their measure, and now order their clothes of poole & co., sackville street, or creed & co., conduit street, bond street, both crack west end tailors. others order of some of the city tailors down town, who, doubtless, suit them equally well, and use just as good materials, having the custom of some of the old particular london merchants, who like to step into a solid, old-fashioned, down-in-the-city store, where their predecessors traded,--like sam hodgkinson's, in threadneedle street, opposite merchant tailors' hall,--and buy at an old established stand, a place that has the aroma of age about it. the older a business stand, the more value it seems to possess in customers' eyes; and there is something in it. for a store that has built up a reputation, and been known as a good boot, tailor's, or hat store, with that stamp of indorsement, "established in ," or eighteen hundred and something, more than forty years ago, is about as good an indorsement as "bootmaker to the duke of cambridge," or lord stuckup, and a reputation which the occupant of said establishment does not trifle with, but labors to preserve and increase, as a part of his capital and stock in trade. your english tailor of reputation is rather more careful than the american one. he makes an appointment, and tries the garment on you after it is cut out, comes to your hotel, if you are a stranger and cannot come to him, to do so, and his two workmen who wait upon you, measure, snip, mould, and adapt their work, appear to take as much pride in their occupation as a sculptor or artist. indeed, they consider themselves "artists" in their line; for creed & co's card, which lies before me as i write, announces "h. creed & co." to be "artistes in draping the real figure," and gives the cash-on-delivery purchaser ten per cent. advantage over the credit customer. furs are another article that can be bought very cheap in london. but i must not devote too much space to shopping; suffice it to say that the windows of the great magazines of merchandise in oxford and regent streets form in themselves a perfect museum of the products of the world,--and i have spent hours in gazing in at them,--for the art of window-dressing is one which is well understood by their proprietors. a volume might be written--in fact, volumes have been written--about london streets, and the sights seen in them. it seemed so odd to be standing opposite old temple bar, on the strand, to see really those names we had so often read of, to wonder how long the spirit of american improvement would suffer such a barrier as that bar to interrupt the tremendous rush of travel that jams, and crowds, and surges through and around it. here is prout's tooth-brush store close at hand. everybody knows that prout's brushes are celebrated. we step in to price some. "one shilling each, sir." you select twelve, give him a sovereign. he takes out ten shillings. "the price, sir, at wholesale." the reputation of that place would suffer, in the proprietor's opinion, if he had allowed a stranger to have gone, even if satisfied, away, and that stranger had afterwards ascertained that the price per dozen was less, and that any one could purchase less than he. so much for the honor of "old-established" places. we go up through chancery lane,--how often we have read of it, and what lots of barristers' chambers and legal stationers there are,--out into "high holborn," holborn hill, or "eye obun," as the londoners call it. what a rush of 'buses, and drays, and cabs, and hansoms, and everything! but let us go. where is it one goes first on arrival in london? if he is an american, the first place he goes to is his banker, to get that most necessary to keep him going. so hither let us wend our way. if there is any one thing needed in england besides hotels on the american plan, it is an american banking-house of capital and reputation in the city of london; a house that understands the wants and feelings of americans, and that will cater to them; a house that will not hold them off at arm's length, as it were; one that is not of such huge wealth as to treat american customers with surly british routine and red tape; a house _that wants american business_, and that will do it at the lowest rate of percentage. in fact, some of the partners, at least, should be americans in heart and feeling, and not anglicized americans. the great banking-house of baring brothers & co., whose correspondents and connections are in every part of the world,--whose superscriptions i used to direct in a big, round hand, upon thin envelopes, when i was a boy in a merchant's counting-room, and whose name is as familiar in business mouths as household words,--it would be supposed would be found occupying a structure for their banking-house like some of the palatial edifices on broadway, or the solid granite buildings of state street, where you may imagine that you could find out about everything you wished to know about london; what the sights were to see; which was the best hotel for americans; what you ought to pay for things; how to get to windsor castle, or the tower, &c. of course they would have american papers, know the news from america; and you, a young tourist, not knowing lombard street from pall mall, would, on presentation of your letter of credit, be greeted by some member of the firm, and asked how you did, what sort of a passage you had over, could they do anything for you, all in american style of doing things; but, bless your raw, inexperienced, unsophisticated soul, you have yet to learn the solid, british, square-cut, high shirt-collar style of doing "business." i have roared with laughter at the discomfiture of many a young american tourist who expected something of the cordial style and the great facilities such as the young american houses of bowles & co. or drexel & co. afford, of these great london bankers. the latter are civil enough, but, as previously mentioned, they do "_business_," and on the rigid english plan; they will cash your check less commission, answer a question, or send a ticket-porter to show you the way out into lombard street, or, perhaps, if you send your card in to the managing partner's room, he will admit you, and will pause, pen in hand, from his writing, to bid you good morning, and wait to know what you have to say; that is, if you have no other introduction to him or his house than a thousand or two pounds to your credit in their hands, which you intend drawing out on your letter of credit. don't imagine such a bagatelle as that thousand or two, my raw tourist, is going to thaw british ice; it is but a drop in their ocean of capital, and they allow you four per cent. interest; and though they may contrive to make six or seven on it, all they have to do with you is to honor your drafts less commission to the amount of your letters. messrs. baring brothers & co.'s banking house we finally ascertain is at no. --, bishop gate (within). arrived at no. --, bishop gate, you find that _within_ is in through a passage to the rear of the building; and so we go in. there is no evidence of a "palatial" character in the ordinary contracted and commonplace looking counting-room, an area enclosed by desks facing outward, and utterly devoid of all those elegant conveniences one sees in the splendid counting-rooms on wall and state streets,--foolish frippery, may be,--but the desks look crowded and inconvenient, the area for customers mean and contracted, for a house of such wealth, and we wondered at first if we had not made some mistake. here we were, in a plain and very ordinary counting-room, like that of a new england country bank, surrounded on three sides by desks facing towards us, behind high and transparent screens, and six or eight clerks at them, writing in huge ledgers. after standing some minutes in uncertainty we made for the nearest clerk at one of the apertures in the semicircle of desks. "is this the messrs. barings' counting-house?" "yes, sir." "i wish to draw some money." "bill, sir, or letter of credit?" "letter of credit." "opposite desk;" and he pointed with his quill pen to the other side. i accordingly crossed over, and commenced a fresh dialogue with another clerk. "i desire to draw some money on this letter of credit" (handing it). "yes, sir" (taking it; looks at the letter, reads it carefully, then looks at me searchingly). "are you the mr. ----, mentioned here?" "i am, sir" (decidedly). "how much money do you want?" "twenty-five pounds." clerk goes to a big ledger, turns it over till he finds a certain page, looks at the page, compares it with the letter, turns to another clerk, who is writing with his back to him, hands him letter, says something in a low tone to him. second clerk takes letter, and goes into an inner apartment, and the first commences waiting on a new comer, and i commence waiting developments. in about five minutes clerk number two returned with something for me to sign, which i did, and he left again. after waiting, perhaps, five minutes more, i ventured to inquire if my letter of credit was ready. clerk number one said it would be here "d'rectly;" and so it was, for clerk number two returned with it in its envelope, and in his hand a check, which he handed me, saying, "eighty lombard street." "sir?" " lombard street" (pointing to check). "o, i am to get the money at lombard street--am i?" "yes; better hurry. it's near bank closing." "but where is lombard street?" (aghast at my ignorance.) "cross d'rectly you go out, turn first to left, then take ---- street on right, and it's first street on lef." it might have been an accommodation to have paid me the money there, instead of sending me over to lombard street; but that would probably have been out of routine, and consequently un-english. i started for the door, but when nearly out, remembered that i had not inquired for letters and papers from home, that i had given instructions should be sent there to await my arrival from scotland and the north, and accordingly i returned, and inquired of clerk number two,-- "any letters for me?" "ah! i beg yer pardon." "any letters for me?" "you 'av your letter in your 'and, sir." "no; i mean any letters from home--from america--to my address?" "the other side sir" (pointing across the area). i repaired to the "other side," gave my address, and had the satisfaction of receiving several epistles from loved ones at home, which the clerk checked off his memoranda as delivered, and i sallied out my first day in london, to turn to the left and right, and find lombard street. three pence and a ticket porter enabled me to do this speedily, and thus ended our first experience at baring brothers & co.'s. there may, perhaps, be nothing to complain of in all this as a business transaction, but that it was regularly performed; but after one has experienced the courtesies of bankers on the continent, he begins to ask himself the question, if the barings ought not, taking into consideration the amount of money they have made and are making out of their american business and the american people, to show a little less parsimony and more liberality and courtesy to them, and provide some convenience and accommodation for that class of customers, and make some effort to put the raw tourist, whose one or two thousand pounds they have condescended to receive, at his ease when he visits their establishment. all this may have been changed since i was in london ( ); but the style of transactions like this i have described was then a general topic of conversation among americans, and seemed to have been similar in each one's experience. in paris how different was the reception! upon presenting your letter, a member of the american banking-house, a junior partner, probably, steps forward, greets you cordially, makes pleasant inquiries with regard to your passage over, invites you to register your name and address, ushers you into a large room where the leading american journals are on file, and there are conveniences for letter writing, conversation, &c. he invites you to make this your headquarters; can he do anything for you? you want some money--the cashier of the house cashes your draft at once, and you are not sent out into the street to hunt up an unknown banking-house. he can answer you almost any question about paris or its sights, and procure you cards of permission to such places of note as it is necessary to send to government officials for, tell you where to board or lodge, and execute any commission for you. the newly-arrived american feels "at home" with such a greeting as this at once, and if his letter draws on baring's agent in paris, is prone to withdraw funds, and redeposit with his new-found friends. of course the houses of this character, that tourists do business with in paris, were peculiar to that city, and may be classed as banking and commission houses, and the "commission" part of the business has come into existence within a few years, and was of some importance during the year of the exposition. that part of the business would not be desirable to a great london banking-house, nor is there the field for it, as in paris; but there is room for an improvement in conveniences, accommodation, cordiality, courtesy, &c., towards american customers, especially tourists, who naturally, on first arrival, turn to their banker for information respecting usages, customs, &c., and for other intelligence which might be afforded with comparatively little trouble. but to the sights of london. the streets themselves, as i have said, are among the sights to be seen in this great metropolis of the civilized world. there is pall mall, or "pell mell," as the londoners call it, with its splendid clubhouses, the "travellers," "reform," "army and navy," "athenæum," "guards," "oxford," and numerous others i cannot now recall; regent street, to which i have referred, with its splendid stores; oxford street, a street of miles in length, and containing stores of equal splendor with its more aristocratic rival; holborn, which is a continuation of oxford, and carries you down to "the city;" fleet street and the strand, with their newspaper offices, and bustle, and turmoil, houses, churches, great buildings, and small shops. not far from here are charing cross hotel and the railroad station, a splendid modern building; or you may go over into whitehall, pass by the horse guards' barracks,--in front of which two mounted troopers sit as sentinels,--and push on, till rising to view stands that one building so fraught with historic interest as to be worth a journey across the ocean to see--the last resting-place of kings, queens, princes, poets, warriors, artists, sculptors, and divines, the great pantheon of england's glory--westminster abbey. its time-browned old walls have looked down upon the regal coronation, the earthly glory, of the monarch, and received within their cold embrace his powerless ashes, and bear upon their enduring sides man's last vanity--his epitaph. "think how many royal bones sleep within these heaps of stones! here they lie--had realms and lands, who now want strength to lift their hands, where, from their pulpit, sealed with dust, they preach, 'in greatness is no trust.' here's an acre, sown, indeed, with the richest royal seed that the earth did e'er suck in since the first man died for sin." i stood before this magnificent gothic pile, which was brown with the breath of a many centuries, with that feeling of quiet satisfaction and enjoyment that one experiences in the fruition of the hopes of years. there were the two great square towers, with the huge gothic window between, and the gothic door below. how i was carried back to the picture-books, and the wood-cuts, and youth's histories, that, many a time and oft, i had hung over when a boy, and dreamed and fancied how it really looked; and here it was--a more than realization of the air-castle of boyhood. the dimensions of the abbey are, length, about four hundred feet, breadth at the transept, two hundred and three feet; the length of the nave, one hundred and sixteen feet, breadth, thirty-eight feet; the choir, one hundred and fifty-six feet by thirty-one. to the dimensions of the abbey should be added that of henry vii.'s chapel, which is built on to it, of one hundred and fifteen feet long by eighty wide, its nave being one hundred and four feet long and thirty-six wide. the form of the abbey is the usual long cross, and it has three entrances. besides the nave, choir, and transepts, there are nine chapels dedicated to different saints, and an area of cloisters. the best external view of the building is obtained in front of the western entrance, where the visitor has full view of the two great square towers, which rise to the height of two hundred and twenty-five feet. but let us enter. out from an unusually bright day for london, we stepped in beneath the lofty arches, lighted by great windows of stained glass, glowing far above in colored sermons and religious stories; and from this point--the western entrance--a superb view may be had of the interior. stretching far before us is the magnificent colonnade of pillars, a perfect arcade of columns, terminating with the chapel of edward the confessor, at the eastern extremity, and the whole interior so admirably lighted that every object is well brought out, and clearly visible. in whichever direction the footsteps may incline, one is brought before the last mementos of the choicest dust of england. here they lie--sovereigns, poets, warriors, divines, authors, heroes, and philosophers; wise and pure-minded men, vulgar and sensual tyrants; those who in the fullness of years have calmly passed away, "rich in that hope that triumphs over pain," and those whom the dagger of the assassin, the axe of the executioner, and the bullet of the battle-field cut down in their prime. sovereign, priest, soldier, and citizen slumber side by side, laid low by the great leveller, death. the oldest of the chapels is that of st. edward the confessor. it contains, besides the monument to its founder, those of many other monarchs. here stands the tomb of henry iii., a great altar-like structure of porphyry, upon which lies the king's effigy in brass. he was buried with great pomp by the knights templars, of which order his father was a distinguished member. next comes the plain marble tomb of that bold crusader, edward i., with the despoiled one of henry v. here also is the tomb of eleanor, queen to edward i., who, it will be remembered, sucked the poison from her husband's wound in palestine; and here the black marble tomb of queen philippa, wife to edward iii., who quelled the scottish insurrection during her husband's absence. this tomb was once ornamented with the brass statues of thirty kings and princes, but is now despoiled. upon the great gray marble tomb of edward iii., who died in , rests his effigy, with the shield and sword carried before him in france--a big, two-handled affair, seven feet long, and weighing eighteen pounds. the most elegant and extensive chapel in the abbey is that of henry vii. its lofty, arched, gothic ceiling is most exquisitely carved. there are flowers, bosses, roses, pendants, panels, and armorial bearings without number, a bewildering mass of exquisite tracery and ornamentation in stone, above and on every side. in the nave of this chapel the knights of the order of the bath are installed, and here are their stalls, or seats, elegantly carved and shaded with gothic canopies, while above are their coats of arms, heraldic devices, and banners. but the great object of interest in this magnificent, brass-gated chapel is the elaborate and elegant tomb of its founder, henry vii., and his queen, elizabeth, the last of the house of york who wore the english crown. the tomb is elegantly carved and ornamented, and bears the effigies of the royal pair resting upon a slab of black marble. it is surrounded by a most elaborate screen, or fence, of curiously-wrought brass-work. in another part of this chapel is a beautiful tomb, erected to mary, queen of scots, surmounted by an alabaster effigy of the unfortunate queen; and farther on another, also erected by king james i. to queen elizabeth, bearing the recumbent effigy of that sovereign, supported by four lions. queen mary ("bloody mary"), who burned about seventy persons a year at the stake during four years of her reign, rests here in the same vault. not far from this monument i found the sarcophagus marking the resting-place of the bones discovered in the tower, supposed to be those of the little princes murdered by richard iii. the nine chapels of the abbey are crowded with the tombs and monuments of kings and others of royal birth down to the time of george ii., when windsor castle was made the repository of the royal remains. besides monuments to those of noble birth, i noticed those of men who have, by great deeds and gifts of great inventions to mankind, achieved names that will outlive many of royal blood, in some of these chapels. in the chapel of st. paul there is a colossal figure of james watt, who so developed the wonderful power of steam; one of thomas telford, in the chapel of st. john, who died in , who, by his extraordinary talents and self-education, raised himself from the position of orphan son of a shepherd to one of the most eminent engineers of his age; also the tablet to sir humphrey davy. in the same chapel is a full-length statue of mrs. siddons, the tragic actress. besides these, there were in this chapel two wonderfully executed monumental groups, that attracted my attention. one represented a tomb, from the half-opened marble doors of which a figure of death has just issued, and is in the very act of casting his dart at a lady who is sinking affrighted into the arms of her husband, who is rising startled from his seat upon the top of the tomb. the life-like attitude and expression of affright of these two figures are wonderful, while the figure of death, with the shroud half falling off, revealing the fleshless ribs, skull, and bones of the full-length skeleton, is something a little short of terrible in its marvellous execution. the other group was a monument to sir francis vere, who was a great soldier in elizabeth's time, and died in . it is a tablet supported upon the shoulders of four knights, of life size, kneeling. upon the tablet lie the different parts of a complete suit of armor, and underneath, upon a sort of alabaster quilt, rests the effigy of sir francis. the kneeling figures of the knights are represented as dressed in armor suits, which are faithfully and elaborately carved by the sculptor. while walking among the numerous and pretentious monuments of kings and princes, we were informed by the guide, who with bunch of keys opened the various chapels to our explorations, that many a royal personage, whose name helped to fill out the pages of england's history, slumbered almost beneath our very feet, without a stone to mark their resting-place. among these was the grave of the merry monarch, charles ii.; and the fact that not one of the vast swarm of sycophantic friends that lived upon him, and basked in the sunshine of his prodigality, had thought enough of him to rear a tribute to his memory, was something of an illustration of the hollowness and heartlessness of that class of favorites and friends. although i made two or three visits to the abbey, the time allowed in these chapels by the guides was altogether too short to study the elaborate and splendid works of sculpture, the curious inscriptions, and, in fact, to almost re-read a portion of england's past history in these monuments, that brought us so completely into the presence, as it were, of those kings and princes whom we are accustomed to look at through the dim distance of the past. we have only taken a hasty glance at the chapels, and some of the most noteworthy monuments they contain. these are but appendages, as it were, to the great body of the abbey. there are still the south transept, the nave, north transept, ambulatory, choir, and cloisters to visit, all crowded with elegant groups of sculpture and bass-reliefs, to the memory of those whose names are as familiar to us as household words, and whose deeds are england's history. almost the first portion of the abbey inquired for by americans is the "poet's corner," which is situated in the south transept; and here we find the brightest names in english literature recorded, not only those of poets, but of other writers, though, among the former, one looks in vain for some memorial of one of england's greatest poets, byron, for this tribute was refused to him in westminster abbey by his countrymen, and its absence is a bitter evidence of their ingratitude. here we stand, surrounded by names that historians delight to chronicle, poets to sing, and sculptors to carve. here looks out the medallion portrait of ben jonson, poet laureate, died , with the well-known inscription beneath,-- "o rare ben jonson." there stands the bust of butler, author of hudibras, crowned with laurel, beneath which is an inscription which states that-- "lest he who (when alive) was destitute of all things should (when dead) want likewise a monument, john barber, citizen of london, hath taken sure by placing this stone over him. ." all honor to john barber. he has done what many a king's worldly friends have failed to do for the monarch they flattered and cajoled in the sunshine of his prosperity, and in so doing preserved his own name to posterity. a tablet marks the resting-place of spenser, author of "the faerie queen," and near at hand is a bust of milton. the marble figure of a lyric muse holds a medallion of the poet gray, who died in . the handsome monument of matthew prior, the poet and diplomatist, is a bust, resting upon a sarcophagus guarded by two full-length marble statues of thalia and history, above which is a cornice, surmounted by cherubs, the inscription written by himself, as follows:-- "nobles and heralds, by your leave, here lies what once was matthew prior, the son of adam and of eve-- can bourbon or nassau claim higher?" not far from this monument i found one of a youth crowning a bust, beneath which were theatrical emblems, the inscription stating it was to barton booth, an actor and poet, who died in , and was the original cato in addison's tragedy of that name. the tomb of geoffrey chaucer--the father of english poetry, as he is called--is an ancient, altar-like structure, with a carved gothic canopy above it. the inscription tells us,-- "of english bards who sung the sweetest strains, old geoffrey chaucer now this tomb contains; for his death's date, if, reader, thou shouldst call, look but beneath, and it will tell thee all." " october, ." john dryden's bust, erected by sheffield, duke of buckingham, in , bears upon its pedestal the following lines, by pope:-- "this sheffield raised; the sacred dust below was dryden once--the rest who does not know?" thomas campbell, the poet, has a fine full-length statue to his memory, representing him, book and pencil in hand, with the lyre at his feet; and near by is the bust of southey, poet laureate, who died in . the well-known statue of shakespeare, representing the immortal bard leaning upon a pile of books resting on a pedestal, and supporting a scroll, upon which are inscribed lines from his play of "the tempest," will, of course, claim our attention. upon the base of the pillar on which the statue leans are the sculptured heads of henry v., richard ii., and queen elizabeth. thomson, author of the seasons, has a monument representing him in a sitting position, upon the pedestal of which representations of the seasons are carved. gay's is a cupid, unveiling a medallion of the poet, and, one of his couplets:-- "life is a jest, and all things show it; i thought so once, but now i know it." on a pedestal, around which are grouped the nine muses, stands the statue of addison, and a tablet near by bears the familiar profile likeness of oliver goldsmith, who died in . there is a large marble monument to george frederick handel, which represents the great musician standing, with an organ behind him, and an angel playing upon a harp above it, while at his feet are grouped musical instruments and drapery. another very elaborate marble group is that to the memory of david garrick, which represents a life-size figure of the great actor, standing, and throwing aside with each hand a curtain. at the base of the pedestal upon which the statue rests are seated life-size figures of tragedy and comedy. the names of other actors and dramatists also appear upon tablets in the pavement: beaumont, upon a slab before dryden's monument, richard brinsley sheridan, cumberland, &c.; and one of the recent additions in the poet's corner was a marble bust of thackeray. in the nave i viewed with some interest a fine bust of isaac watts, d. d., whose hymns are so familiar, and among the earliest impressed upon the infant mind. here in the nave area host of monuments, tablets, and bass-reliefs to naval and military heroes, scholars, and professors; one, to dr. andrew bell, represents him in his arm-chair (bass-relief), surrounded by his pupils; another, to a president of the royal society, represents him surrounded by books and manuscripts, globes, scientific instruments, &c. general george wade has a great trophy of arms raised upon a sarcophagus, which a figure of time is represented as advancing to destroy, but whom fame prevents. in the wall, in bass-relief, we found a group representing the flag of truce conveyed to general washington, asking the life of major andré. this group is cut upon a sarcophagus, over which britannia is represented weeping, and is the monument to that young officer, who was executed as a spy in the war of the american revolution. another monument, which attracts the attention of americans, is that erected to a colonel roger townsend, who was killed by a cannon ball while reconnoitring the french lines at ticonderoga, in ; it is a pyramid of red and white marble, against which are the figures of two american indians in war costume, supporting a sarcophagus, on which is a fine bass-relief, representing the death on the battle-field. there are other modern monuments of very elaborate and curious designs, which are of immense detail for such work, and must have involved a vast deal of labor and expense; as, for instance, that to general hargrave, governor of gibraltar, died in , which is designed to represent the discomfiture of death by time, and the resurrection of the just on the day of judgment. the figure of the general is represented as starting, reanimated, from the tomb, and behind him a pyramid is tumbling into ruins, while time has seized death, and is hurling him to the earth, after breaking his fatal dart. another is that to admiral richard tyrrell, in which the rocks are represented as being rent asunder, and the sea giving up its dead; upon one side is the admiral's ship, upon which a figure stands pointing upwards to the admiral, who is seen ascending amid the marble clouds. in the nave is also a half-length figure of congreve, the dramatist, with dramatic emblems; and next it is the grave of mrs. oldfield, the actress, who, the guide tells us, was "buried in a fine brussels lace head-dress, a holland shift with a tucker and double ruffles of the same lace, a pair of new kid gloves, and her body wrapped up in a winding sheet." at one end of the nave is a fine group erected by government, in , at a cost of six thousand three hundred pounds, to william pitt, died . it represents the great orator, at full length, in the act of addressing the house, while history, represented by a full-length figure seated at the base of the pedestal, is recording his words, and anarchy, a full-length figure of a naked man, sits bound with chains. a monument erected by government to william pitt, the earl of chatham, who died , stands in a recess, and is much more elaborate. it represents him standing in the act of speaking; and below, grouped round a sarcophagus, are five life-size figures--prudence, fortitude, neptune, peace, and britannia. this great group cost six thousand pounds sterling. but i find, on consulting the notes made of my visits to these interesting mausoleums of the great, that writing out fully a rehearsal of the memoranda would extend beyond the limits designed in these sketches. there were the monuments to fox, the statesman, with peace and the african kneeling at his feet; to sir isaac newton, the great philosopher and mathematician; william wilberforce, the eminent abolitionist; warren hastings; a fine statue of george canning, erected by his friends and countrymen--one of england's greatest orators, of whom byron wrote,-- "who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit,"-- a full-length statue of sir robert peel, erected by government at a cost of five thousand pounds; and others, an idea of which may be gathered from the somewhat cursory description of those already mentioned. well, we have seen westminster abbey. where to go next? there is so much to see in london, and time is so short, weeks, months, might be spent here in hunting up the various interesting sights that we have stowed away in the storehouse of memory, for the time that we should need them. first, there are the scenes of the solid, square, historical facts, which, with care and labor, were taken in like heavy merchandise in school-boy days. the very points, localities, churches, prisons, and buildings where the events of history, that figure in our school-books, took place; where we may look upon the very finger-marks, as it were, that the great, the good, the wicked, and the tyrannical have left behind them. then there are the scenes that poets and novelists have thrown a halo of romance around, and those whose common every-day expressions are as familiar in america as in england. what young american, who has longed to visit london, and who, on his first morning there, as he prepares himself with all the luxurious feeling of one about to realize years of anticipation, but that runs over in his mind all that he has, time and again, read of in this great city, in history, story, and in fable, and the memory of the inward wish, or resolve, that he has often made to some day see them all? now, which way to turn? here they all are--westminster abbey, british museum, st. paul's, old london bridge, hyde park, bank of england, zoölogical gardens, the tower, the theatres, buckingham palace, river thames, and he has two or three weeks before going to the continent. a great many things may be seen in three weeks. that is very true in the manner that many of our countrymen, who look merely at the face of countries, and bring home their empty words, see them; but the tourist on his first visit abroad, before he has half a dozen weeks of experience, begins to ascertain what a tremendous labor constant sight-seeing is. in london i have met american friends, who had the keenest desire to visit some of the streets described in dickens's works, and one who told me that he had just found, after a difficult search, goswell street, and had walked down that thoroughfare till he found a house with a placard in the window of "apartments furnished for a single gentleman. inquire within!" and feeling pretty sure that mrs. bardell lived there, he had the pickwickian romance all taken out of him by a sort of sally-brass-looking personage, who responded to his inquiries, and confessed to the name of finch, a sort of chaff-finch he thought, from the sharp and acrid style of her treating his investigations. i confess, myself, to a brief halt at the pimlico station, and a glance about to see what the expression, "everything in pimlico order," meant, and came to the conclusion that it was because there were whole streets of houses there so painfully regular and so exactly like each other, as to excite my wonder how a man ever learned to recognize his own dwelling from his neighbors'. but it is a sunday morning in london, and we will make an excursion up the river thames on a penny steamboat. these little steam omnibuses are a great convenience, and are often so covered with passengers as to look like a floating mass of humanity; the price is about a penny a mile, and a ride up to kew gardens, about seven miles from where i took the boat, cost me sixpence. the boats dart about on the river with great skill and speed, and make and leave landings almost as quickly as an omnibus would stop to take up passengers. americans cannot fail to notice that these boats have not yet adopted the signal bell to the engineer; but that party has orders passed him from the captain, by word of mouth through a boy stationed at the gangway, and the shout of; "ease-ar"! "start-ar"! "back-ar"! "slow-ar"! "go on," regulates the boat's movements, gives employment to one more hand, and enables englishmen to hold on to an old notion. the sail up the thames upon one of these little river steamers, of a fine day, is a very pleasant excursion. a good view of the houses of parliament and all the great london bridges is had, the little steamer passing directly under the arches of the latter; but at some of them, whose arches were evidently constructed before steam passages of this kind were dreamed of, the arches were so low that the smoke-pipe, constructed with a hinge for that purpose, was lowered backwards flat to the deck, and after passing the arch, at once resumed its upright position. landing not far from kew green, we pursued our way along a road evidently used by the common classes, who came out here for sunday excursions, for it was past a series of little back gardens of houses, apparently of mechanics, who turned an honest penny by fitting up these little plots into cheap tea gardens, by making arbors of hop vines or cheap running plants, beneath which tables were spread, and signs, in various styles of orthography, informed the pedestrian that hot tea and tea cakes were always ready, or that boiling water could be had by those wishing to make their own tea, and that excursion parties could "take tea in the arbor" at a very moderate sum. kew gardens contain nearly three hundred and fifty acres, and are open to the public every afternoon, sunday _not_ excepted. upon the latter day, which was when i visited them, there are--if the weather is pleasant--from ten to twelve thousand people, chiefly of the lower orders, present; but the very best of order prevailed, and all seemed to be enjoying themselves very much. beside the tea gardens, on the road of approach, just outside the gardens, there were every species of hucksters' refreshments--all kinds of buns, cakes, fruits, &c., in little booths and stands of those who vended them, for the refreshment of little family parties, or individuals who had come from london here to pass the day. hot waffles were baked and sold at two pence each, as fast as the vender could turn his hand to it; an uncertain sort of coffee at two pence a cup, and tea ditto, were served out by a vender from a portable urn kept hot by a spirit lamp beneath it; and servant girls out for a holiday, workmen with their wives and children, shop-boys and shop-men, and throngs of work people, were streaming on in through the ornamented gates, beyond which boundary no costermonger is allowed to vend his wares, and within the precincts of the gardens no eating and throwing of fragments of fruit or food permitted. the gardens are beautifully laid out in pleasure-grounds, broad walks, groves, flower gardens, greensward, &c.--a pleasing combination of the natural and artificial; the public may walk where they wish; they may saunter here and there; they may lie down or walk on the greensward, only they must not pluck the flowers or break the trees and plants; the garden is a perfect wealth of floral treasures. seventy-five of its three hundred and fifty acres are devoted to the botanic gardens, with different hot-houses for rare and tropical plants, all open to the public. here are the great palm house, with its palm trees, screw pines, bananas, bamboos, sugar-canes, fig trees, and other vegetable wonders; the victoria regia house, with that huge-leafed production spread out upon its waters, with specimens of lotus, lilies, papyrus, and other plants of that nature; the tropical hot-house, full of elegant flowery tropical plants; a fern house, containing an immense variety of ferns, and a building in which an extensive and curious collection of the cactus family are displayed. these hot-houses and nurseries are all kept in perfect order, heated with steam, and the plants in them properly arranged and classified. the great parterre of flowers presents a brilliant sight, showing all the rich and gorgeous hues, so skilfully arranged as to look in the distance like a silken robe of many colors spread upon the earth. these winding walks, ornamental buildings, ferneries, azalea, camellia, rhododendron, and heath "houses" afford every opportunity for the botanist to study the habits of plants, the lover of flowers to feast on their beauty, and the poor man and his family an agreeable, pleasant, and rational enjoyment. then there is a museum of all the different kinds of wood known in the world, and the forms into which it is or can be wrought. here is rose-wood in the rough and polish; great rough pieces of mahogany in a log, and wrought into a piece of elegant carving; willow, in its long, slender wands, and twisted into elegant baskets; a great chunk of iron-wood in the rough, or shaped with the rude implement and patient industry of the savage into an elaborately-wrought war-club or paddle; tough lance-wood, and its carriage work beside it; maple and its pretty panels; ash; pine of every kind, and then numerous wonderful woods i had never heard of, from distant lands, some brilliant in hue and elegant in grain, others curious in form, of wondrous weight or astonishing lightness; ebony and cork-wood; bamboo, sandal-wood, camphor, cedar and cocoa-wood; stunted sticks from arctic shores, solid timber from the temperate, and the curious fibrous stems of the tropics. it was really astonishing to see what an extensive, curious, and interesting collection this museum of the different woods of the world formed. a short, brisk ride, of little more than a couple of miles, brought us to the celebrated star and garter hotel,[a] at richmond hill, where one of the most beautiful english landscapes in the vicinity of london can be obtained. the hotel, which was situated upon a high terrace, commanded an extensive view of the thames far below it, in its devious windings through a wooded country of hill and dale, with windsor castle in the distance. this house, so famed in novels and plays, is the resort of the aristocracy; its terraced gardens are elegant, and richmond park, in the immediate vicinity, with its two thousand acres, is crowded every afternoon during the season with their equipages--equipages, however, which do not begin to compare in grace and elegance with those of central park, new york. [a] since the author's visit the "star and garter" has been destroyed by fire. there can be no pleasanter place to sit and dine of an afternoon in may than the dining-room of the star and garter, with its broad windows thrown open upon the beautiful gardens, with their terraces and gravelled walks running down towards the river, and rich in flowers, vases, and ornamental balustrades, with gay and fashionable promenaders passing to and fro, enjoying the scene. for more than a hundred feet below flashes the river, meandering on its crooked course, with pleasure-boats, great and small, sporting upon it; and, perched upon hill-sides and in pleasant nooks, here and there, are the beautiful villas of the aristocracy and wealthy people. the dinner was good, and served with true english disregard of time, requiring about two hours or less to accomplish it; but the attendance was excellent, and the price of the entertainment could be only rivalled in america by one person--delmonico. but then one _must_ dine at the star and garter in order to answer affirmatively the question of every englishman who learns that you have been to richmond hill, and who is as much gratified to hear the _cuisine_ and excellent wines of this hotel extolled by the visitor, as the splendid panoramic view from its windows, or the wild and natural beauties of the magnificent great park in the immediate neighborhood. chapter vii. if there is any one exhibition that seems to possess interest to the inhabitants of the rural districts of both america and england, it is "wax works." mrs. jarley understood the taste of the english public in this direction, if we are to believe her celebrated chronicler. artemus ward commenced his career with his celebrated collection of "wax figgers;" and one of the sights of london, at the present day,--and a sight, let me assure the reader, that is well worth the seeing,--is madame tussaud's "exhibition of distinguished characters." let not the unsophisticated reader suppose that this is a collection of frightful caricatures, similar to those he has seen at travelling exhibitions or cheap shows, where one sees the same figure that has done duty as semmes, the pirate, transformed, by change of costume, into the duke of wellington, or jefferson davis, or that it is one of those sets of figures with expressionless-looking faces, and great, staring glass eyes, dressed in cast-off theatrical wardrobes, or garments suggestive of an old-clothes shop. nothing of the sort. madame tussaud's exhibition was first opened in the palais royal, paris, in , and in london , and is the oldest exhibition of the kind known; and although the celebrated madame is dead, her sons still keep up the exhibition, improving upon it each season, and display an imposing list of noble patrons upon their catalogue, among whom figure the names of prince albert, louis xviii., the late duke of wellington, &c. the price of admission is a shilling; an additional sixpence is charged to visit the chamber of horrors; and a catalogue costs the visitor another sixpence, so that it is a two-shilling affair, but richly worth it. the exhibition consists of a series of rooms, in which the figures, three hundred in number, are classified and arranged. the first i sauntered into was designated the hall of kings, and contained fifty figures of kings and queens, from william the conqueror to victoria; they were all richly clad in appropriate costumes, some armed with mail and weapons, and with faces, limbs, and attitudes so artistically and strikingly natural, as to startle one by their marvellous semblance of reality; then the costumes, ornaments, and arms are exact copies of those worn at the different periods, and the catalogue asserts that the faces are carefully modelled from the best portraits and historical authorities. here are william the conqueror and his queen matilda; here is william rufus, with his red locks and covetous brow; here stands richard i. (coeur de lion), his tall figure enclosed in shirt of chain-mail; and there sits king john, with dark frown and clinched hand, as if cursing the fate that compelled him to yield to the revolting barons, and sign magna charta; edward iii. and his queen, philippa, the latter wearing a girdle of the order of knighthood; and near at hand, edward's noble, valiant son, the black prince--a magnificent figure, looking every inch a warrior, and noble gentleman. the artist had succeeded in face, costume, and attitude in representing in this work one of the most grand and chivalric-looking figures i ever looked upon, and which caused me, again and again, to turn and gaze at what appeared such an embodiment of nobleness and bravery as one might read of in poetry and romance, but never see in living person. among others of great merit was the figure of edward iv. in his coronation robes, who was considered the handsomest man of his time; and richard iii. in a splendid suit of armor of the period, and the face copied from an original portrait owned by the duke of norfolk; henry vii. in the same splendid costume in which he figures on his monument in westminster abbey; and then bluff old henry viii., habited in a full suit of armor, as worn by him on the field of the cloth of gold. queen mary (bloody mary) in her rich costume; then comes queen elizabeth, dressed exactly as she is in holbein's well-known picture at hampton court palace; charles i. in the splendid suit of chevalier armor of his time; and oliver cromwell in his russet boots, leather surcoat, steel gorget and breastplate, broad hat, and coarse, square features; george iii. in the robes of the order of st. patrick; his majesty george iv. in that stunning costume of silk stockings, breeches, &c., and the robes of the order of the garter over it, in which he figures in the picture that we are all so familiar with. then we have victoria and her whole family, a formidable group in point of numbers, very well executed figures, and clad in rich and fashionably-made costumes, some of which are veritable court dresses, which have been purchased after being cast aside by the wearers. certainly the outfit of these figures must be a heavy expense, as is evident to the most casual observer. so much for the hall of english sovereigns. the other statues embrace representations of other monarchs and celebrated personages. nicholas i. of russia's tall figure looms up in his uniform of russian guards; napoleon iii., marshal st. arnaud, and general canrobert in their dresses of french generals; abdul medjid in full turkish costume, and the empress eugenie in a splendid court dress. a very fine figure of charlemagne in full armor, equipped for battle, which was manufactured for the great exhibition of , is a splendid specimen of figure-work and modern armor manufacture. then we came to a fine figure of wolsey in his cardinal's dress. mrs. siddons in the character of queen katherine, macready as coriolanus, and charles kean as macbeth, are evidence that the theatrical profession is remembered, while knox, calvin, and wesley indicate attention to the clergy. the few american figures were for the most part cheaper affairs than the rest of the collection, and might be suspected, some of them, of being old ones altered to suit the times. for instance, that of general mcclellan, president lincoln and his assassin, _george_ wilkes booth, as the catalogue has it, would hardly pass for likenesses. there is a very natural, life-like-looking figure of madame tussaud herself, a little old lady in a large old-fashioned bonnet, looking at a couch upon which reposes a splendid figure of a sleeping beauty, so arranged with clock-work that the bosom rises and falls in regular pulsations, as if breathing and asleep. madame tussaud died in , at the age of ninety years. a very clever deception is that of an old gentleman, seated in the middle of a bench, holding a programme in his hand, and apparently studying a large group of figures. by an ingenious operation of machinery, he is made to occasionally raise his head from the paper he is so carefully perusing, and regard the group in the most natural manner possible, and afterwards resume his study. this figure is repeatedly taken by strangers to be a living person, and questions or observations are frequently addressed to it. one of my own party politely solicited the loan of the old gentleman's programme a moment, and only discovered from the wooden character of the shoulder he laid his hand on, why he was not answered. ere long he had the satisfaction of witnessing another person ask the quiet old gentleman to "move along a bit," and repeat the request till the smothered laughter of the spectators revealed the deception. perhaps the most interesting part of madame tussaud's exhibition was the napoleon rooms, containing an extensive collection of relics of napoleon the great. these relics are unquestionably authentic, and, of course, from their character, of great value. there is the camp bedstead upon which the great warrior rested during seven years of his weary exile at st. helena, with the very mattresses and pillows upon which he died, and, in a glass case near by, the counterpane used upon the bed, and stained with his blood. this last, a relic, indeed, which the possessors might, as mark antony suggested of napkins dipped in dead cæsar's wounds, "dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, unto their issue." this bed was purchased of prince lucien, napoleon's brother, for four hundred and fifty pounds. then, as if in mockery of human greatness, there was hung close by this death-bed the coronation robe of napoleon, sold at the restoration of louis xviii., from the cathedral of notre dame; also the robe of the empress josephine, sold at the same time. here, upon the bed, is a wax figure of the great emperor, partially enveloped in a cloak, the identical one he wore at the battle of marengo, and which served as a pall when he was conveyed to the grave in his rocky prison. in the room adjoining, the principal object of interest was the military carriage of the emperor, the same one in which he made the campaign of russia, and which was captured by the prussians on the evening of the battle of waterloo. here also is the carriage used by him during his exile at st. helena. near by is the sword worn during the campaign in egypt, his gold repeating watch, cameo ring, tooth-brushes, coffee-pot, camp knife, fork, and spoon, gold snuff-box, &c. but the most actual relic, perhaps, is a portion of the real corporeal napoleon himself, being nothing more nor less than one of his teeth, which was drawn by dr. o'meara. these relics are of a description to gratify the taste of the most inveterate relic-hunter. i give a few more that are pencilled in my note-book as attracting my own attention; the atlas that bonaparte used many years, and on which are the plans of several battles sketched by his own hand,--a most suggestive relic this of the anxious hours spent in poring over it by the great captain, who marked out on this little volume those plans which crumbled kingdoms and dissolved dynasties; simple sketches to look upon, but which were once fraught with the fate of nations,--his dessert services, locks of his hair, camp service, shirts, under-waistcoats, and linen handkerchiefs, pieces of furniture, &c. besides this large collection of relics of the great emperor, there are a number of other interesting historical relics of undoubted authenticity, such as the ribbon of lord nelson, a lock of wellington's hair, george iv.'s handkerchief, the shirt of henry iv. of france, the very one worn by him when assassinated by ravaillac, and stained with the blood which followed the murderous knife, lord nelson's coat, the shoe of pius vi., a ribbon of the legion of honor worn by louis philippe, coat and waistcoat of the duke of wellington, and, in a glass case, the three great state robes of george iv. these are of purple and crimson velvet, lined with ermine, and richly embroidered, the "three together containing five hundred and sixty-seven feet of velvet and embroidery,"--so the catalogue tells you,--"and costing eighteen thousand pounds." the last department of this exhibition is one the name of which is quite familiar, and often quoted by american readers, viz., the chamber of horrors. the collection here is of figures of noted murderers and criminals, said to be portraits of the originals, and various models and relics. perhaps the most interesting of the latter to the spectator is the original knife of the guillotine, used during the reign of terror in paris. this axe, the catalogue tells us, was bought by madame tussaud of sanson, grandson of the original executioner; and the now harmless-looking iron blade, that the spectator may lay his hands upon, is the terrible instrument that decapitated over twenty thousand human victims. it has reeked with the blood of the good, the great, and the tyrannical--the proudest blood of france and the basest. the visitor may well be excused a shudder as his hand touches the cold steel that has been bathed in the blood of the unfortunate louis xvi., marie antoinette, the tyrant robespierre, and the thousands of unhappy victims that yielded up their lives beneath its fatal stroke. i confess that this chamber of horrors is unpleasantly interesting even to the sight-seer. i felt uncomfortable the brief time i spent there, breathed freer as i emerged from it, and felt as if escaping pursuit from some of its ruffianly inmates as i dashed away through the throng of vehicles in a hansom cab to my hotel. theatre-going in london is an expensive amusement. in the theatres--that is, the good and respectable ones--there is no chance for people of moderate means, except the undesirable places that cannot be filled in any other way than by selling the admission at a rate within their reach. there is no theatre in london in size, appointments, and conveniences equal in all respects to the great ones in some of our large cities, and nothing that can compare with booth's, of new york, or the globe, of boston. it is impossible to get such an entertainment as you may have in america at booth's, wallack's, or the globe at anything like the price. for instance, at drury lane theatre the prices are, stalls, one dollar and seventy-five cents, gold; dress circle, one dollar and twenty-eight cents; second ditto, one dollar; pit, fifty cents; gallery, twenty-five cents. it should be understood that "stalls" take in the whole of the desirable part of the parquet, and that some half dozen rows of extreme back seats, in the draught of the doors, and almost beyond hearing and sight of the stage, are denominated "the pit;" and in some theatres it is a "pit" indeed. the auditoriums of their theatres are in no way so clean, well kept, or bright looking as those of leading american theatres in new york and boston. even at the old dirty princess's theatre, where i saw shakespeare's antony and cleopatra very handsomely put upon the stage, and miss glyn as cleopatra, the orchestra stalls cost one dollar and fifty cents, gold, and the pit, which was way back under the boxes, was vocal between the acts with venders of oranges, nuts, and ginger beer. the lyceum theatre, where i saw fechter play, was a neat and well-ordered establishment, and stalls, one dollar and sixty cents; upper circle, one dollar; pit, fifty cents. i give the prices in american money, gold, that they may be compared with our own. there is not a theatre in london where a performance, and accommodation to the auditor equal to that at the boston museum, can be had for three times the price of admission to that establishment. the prices above given being about the average at the leading theatres, what does the reader expect he will have to pay for the opera? let us see. at her majesty's theatre, where i had the pleasure of listening to nilsson in traviata and titiens, in oberon, fidelio, &c., my play-bill informs me the prices are, pit stalls, fifteen shillings (about three dollars and forty cents in gold), boxes, two dollars and a half, and gallery, sixty cents. the pit, at this theatre, consists of four or five rows of narrow boards, at the extreme rear of the parquet, purposely made as narrow, uncomfortable, and inconvenient as can be, so that it is almost impossible to sit through a performance on them; yet, during the one act that i occupied a seat there, it was nearly filled with very respectable people, in full dress, no one being admitted who is not so costumed. i presume that the labor expended to render these seats disagreeable, is to force the public into the higher-priced ones, which are easy, comfortable, and even luxurious, and where one may be pretty sure that he is in the best society. an american lady, who goes to the theatre or opera in london, must remember that she will not be permitted to enter the stalls or boxes with a bonnet on, no matter how infinitesimal, elegant, or expensive it may be. full dress means, no bonnet for ladies, and dress coats, dark vests and pantaloons for gentlemen. a lady seen passing in with bonnet on is expected to leave it at the cloak-room, to be redeemed by payment of sixpence on coming out; and no amount of argument will admit an independent american voter, who comes in a frock coat and drab pantaloons. i saw an ingenious american once, who overcame the frock coat difficulty by stepping outside, and getting his companion to pin up the skirts of that offending garment at each side, so that it made an extemporaneous "claw hammer" that passed without question. bills of the play are not furnished by the theatre to its patrons. you buy a big one for a penny of a boy outside the theatre, as you arrive at the door, that will soil your kid gloves with printer's ink; or a small one, for two or three pence, of the usher inside, who shows you a seat, and "expects something," as everybody does, in england. at the opera your bill will cost you sixpence, for it is expected that "the nobs" who go there never carry anything so base as copper in their pouches. indeed, i noticed that one of the aforesaid ushers, to whom i handed a shilling, stepped briskly away, and omitted to return me any change. i learned better than to hand ushers shillings, and expect change, after a few nights' experience, and had threepences ready, after the english style. we need not go through a description of the theatres of london. there are as many varieties, and more, than in new york; and you may go from the grand opera, which is the best of that kind of entertainment, to the alhambra, a grand variety affair, but most completely got up in all departments, or the cheaper theatres, where the blood-and-thunder drama is produced for a shilling or sixpence a ticket. the appearance of the dress circle boxes at the opera is magnificent. the ladies fairly blaze with diamonds and jewels, while silks, luxurious laces, splendid fans, scarfs, shawls, and superb costumes, make a brilliant picture that it is interesting to look upon. the extreme _décolleté_ style of dress, however, was most remarkable. i have seen nothing to compare with it, even at the jardin mabille, or at the cafés chantants, in paris, where the performers are wont to make so much display of their charms. upon the stage, such undressing of the neck and bust would excite severe criticism, but in the fashionable boxes of the opera, it passes unchallenged. the liberal encouragement which the opera receives in england enables the management to produce it in far more complete and perfect style than it is usually seen in america. indeed, some of the wretched, slipshod performances that have been given under the name of grand opera in america, would be hissed from the stage in london, paris, or italy. in operatic performances in america, we have the parts of two or three principals well done, but all else slipshod and imperfect, and the effect of the opera itself too frequently marred by the outrageous cuttings, transpositions, and alterations made by managers to adapt it to their resources. the production of the opera in london is made with an orchestra of nearly a hundred performers, a well-trained chorus of sixty voices, dresses of great elegance, and correct and appropriate costume and style, even to the humblest performer. the opera, in all its details, is well performed, and the music correctly given; the scenery and scenic effects excellent, the auxiliaries abundant, so that a stage army looks something like an army, and not a corporal's guard; a village festival something like that rustic celebration, and not like the caperings of a few hibernians, who have plundered a pawnbroker's shop, and are dancing in the stolen clothes. apropos of amusements, a very pleasant excursion is it by rail to the sydenham crystal palace, where great cheap concerts are given, and one of those places in england where the people can get so much amusement, entertainment, and recreation for so little money. a ticket, including admission to the palace and grounds, and passage to and from london on the railroad, is sold at a very low sum, the entertainment being generally on saturdays, which, with many, is a half holiday. two of the london railways unite in a large, handsome station at sydenham, from which one may walk under a broad, covered passage directly into the palace, this covered way being a colonnade seven hundred and twenty feet long, seventeen feet wide, and twenty feet high, reaching one of the great wings of the palace. and this magnificent structure, its splendid grounds and endless museum of novelties, is a monument of english public spirit and liberality; for it was planned, erected, and the whole enterprise carried out by a number of gentlemen, who believed that a permanent edifice, like the one which held the great exhibition in hyde park in , would be of great benefit in furthering the education of the people, and affording sensible and innocent recreation at the cheapest possible rate. and right nobly have they performed their work in the production of this magnificent structure, which fairly staggers the american visitor by its beauty, as well as its vastness, and its wondrous grace and lightness. it is a great monument of graceful curves and flashing glass, situated upon the summit of a gradual slope, with superb broad terraces, adorned with statues, grand flights of steps descending to elegantly laid out grounds, with shrubs, flowers, trees, fountains, ponds, rustic arbors, and beautiful walks; and these front terraces and grounds commanding one of those splendid landscape pictures for which england is so celebrated. there is no better way of giving the reader an idea of the size of this magnificent structure, than by means of a few figures. the palace was completed in by a joint-stock company of gentlemen. it occupies, with its gardens and grounds, about three hundred acres, and cost, when completed, with its gardens, nearly two million pounds sterling. think of the public being able to visit this splendid place for one shilling! the length of the main building of the palace is over sixteen hundred feet; the width throughout the nave, three hundred and twelve feet, which, at the grand centre, is increased to three hundred and eighty-four feet; in addition to which are two great wings, of five hundred and seventy-four feet each; the height, from floor to ceiling, one hundred and ten feet; twenty-five acres of glass, weighing five hundred tons, were used in the building, and nine thousand six hundred and forty-one tons of iron. graceful galleries run around the sides, and grand mammoth concerts and other entertainments are given in the central transept, the arch of which rises in a graceful span to the height of one hundred and seventy-five feet: the whole of one end of this transept is occupied by seats, rising one above the other, for the accommodation of four thousand performers, who performed at the great handel festival. a great organ, built expressly for the place, occupies a position at the rear of these orchestra seats. i was present at a grand musical performance in this transept, and, from an elevated seat in the orchestra, had a superb view of the whole audience below, which occupied chairs placed in the transept; these chairs which now faced the organ and orchestra, when turned directly about, would face the stage of a theatre, upon which other performances were given. the view of the crowd, from the elevated position i occupied, gave it the appearance of a huge variegated flower-bed, and its size may be realized when the reader is informed that there were _eight thousand_ people present; besides these, there were between three and four thousand more in different parts of the building and grounds. i obtained these figures from the official authorities, who informed me that on greater occasions, when the performance is more attractive, or upon whole holidays, the number is very much larger. the nave is divided into sections, or courts; such as the sheffield court, manufacturing court, glass and china court, stationary court, egyptian court, italian court, renaissance court, &c. these courts are filled with the products of the industry or art of the periods for which they are named. thus, in the english mediæval court are splendid reproductions of mediæval architecture, such as the elegant doorway of rochester cathedral, doorway of worcester cathedral, the splendid easter sepulchre from hawton church, the monument of humphrey do bohun from hereford cathedral, with the effigy of the knight in complete armor, and various architectural specimens from the ancient churches and magnificent cathedrals of england, all exact counterfeit presentments, executed in a sort of composition in imitation of the original. the renaissance court contains elegant reproductions of celebrated specimens of architecture of that period, elaborate and profuse in decoration. then we have the elizabethan, italian, and greek courts, each a complete museum in itself of reproductions of architecture, and celebrated monuments of their periods. the sheffield, manufacturers, glass and china courts, &c., contain splendid exhibitions of specimens of the leading manufacturers, of those species of goods, of some of the best products of their factories. stalls are prepared for the sales of the lighter articles, and attendants are present at the different show-cases, or departments to make explanations, or take orders from visitors who may be inclined. the display of english manufactures was a very good one, and the opportunity afforded them to display and advertise them, well improved by exhibitors. the interior of the palace contains also a great variety of statues, casts, models, artistic groups, and other works of art. the visitor need not leave for refreshments, as large and well-served restaurants for ladies and gentlemen are at either end of the building, beneath its roof. leaving the building for the grounds, we first step out upon a great terrace, fifteen hundred and seventy-six feet in length and fifty feet wide. upon its parapet are twenty-six allegorical marble statues; and from this superb promenade the spectator has a fine view of the charming landscape, backed by blue hills in the distance, and the beautiful grounds, directly beneath the terrace, which are reached by a broad flight of steps, ninety-six feet wide, and are picturesquely laid out. a broad walk, nearly one hundred feet wide, six or eight fountains throwing up their sparkling streams, artificial lakes, beds of gay-colored flowers, curious ornamental temples and structures, tend to make the whole novel and attractive. after a stroll in this garden, visitors may saunter off to the other adjacent grounds at pleasure. leaving the gardens directly in front of the palace for the extensive pleasure-grounds connected with it, we passed through a beautiful shaded lane, and came first to the archery grounds, where groups were trying their skill in that old english pastime. not far from here, a broad, level place, with close-cut, hard-rolled turf was kept for the cricketing grounds, where groups of players were scattered here and there, enjoying that game. near by are rifle and pistol shooting galleries. in another portion of the grounds is an angling and boating lake, a maze, american swings, merry go-arounds, and other amusements for the people, the performances of those engaged in these games affording entertainment to hundreds of lookers-on. a whole day may be very pleasantly and profitably spent at the sydenham palace, the attractions of which we have given but the merest sketch of; and that they are appreciated by the people is evidenced by the fact that the number of visitors are over a million and a half per annum. the railroad companies evidently make a good thing of it, and by means of very cheap excursion tickets, especially on holidays, induce immense numbers to come out from the city. this crystal palace is the same one which stood in hyde park; only when it rose again at sydenham, it was with many alterations and improvements. it was a sad sight to see, when we were there, large portions of the northern end, including that known as the tropical end,--the assyrian and byzantine courts,--in ruins from the effects of the fire a few years ago; yet that destroyed seems small in comparison with the immense area still left. the parks of london have been described so very often that we must pass them with brief allusion. their vast extent is what first strikes the american visitor with astonishment, especially those who have moulded their ideas after boston common, or even central park of new york. hyde park, in london, contains three hundred and ninety acres; and we took a lounge in rotten row at the fashionable hour, between five and six in the afternoon, when the drive was crowded with stylish equipages; some with coroneted panels and liveried footmen, just such as we see in pictures. then there were numerous equestrians, among whom were gentlemen mounted upon magnificent blood horses, followed at a respectful distance by their mounted grooms, and gracefully tipping their hats to the fair occupants of the carriages. mounted policemen, along the whole length of the drive, prevented any carriage from getting out of line or creating confusion; and really the display of splendid equipages, fine horses, and beautiful women, in hyde park, of an afternoon, during the season, is one of the sights of london that no stranger should miss. every boy in america, who is old enough to read a story-book, has heard of the zoölogical gardens at regent's park, london; and it is one of the sights that the visitor, no matter how short his visit, classes among those he must see. this collection of natural history specimens was first opened to the public as long ago as ; it is one in which the londoners take great pride, and the zoölogical society expend large sums of money in procuring rare and good living specimens. improvements are also made every year in the grounds, and the exhibition is now a most superb and interesting one, and conducted in the most liberal manner. visitors are admitted on mondays at sixpence each; on other days the price of admission is a shilling. here one has an opportunity of seeing birds and animals with sufficient space to move about and stretch their limbs in, instead of the cruelly cramped quarters in which we have been accustomed to view them confined in travelling menageries, so cruelly small as to call for action of the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, to interfere in behalf of the poor brutes, who often have only space to stand up in, and none to move about in, although their nature be one requiring exercise; and they therefore become poor, spiritless specimens, dying by slow torture of close confinement. here, however, the visitor finds different specimens of eagles, vultures, and other huge birds, each in great cages twenty feet high, and nearly as many square; owls, hawks, and other birds of prey, with cages big enough to fly about in; ibis, elegant flamingoes, pelicans, and water birds, in large enclosures, with ponds for them to enjoy their favorite pursuits. for some of the smaller birds aviaries were arranged, the size of a large room, part of it out in the open air, with shrubs and trees, and the other half beneath shelter--a necessity for some species of tropical birds. one, therefore, might look upon the flashing plumage and curious shapes of tropical birds flitting among the trees, and see all colors and every variety at the different aviaries. i saw the sea birds in a place which, by artificial means, was made to represent the sea-shore; there were rocks, marine plants, sea shells, sand, and salt water; and ducks, sandpipers, and gulls dove, ran and flew about very much as if they were at home. passing into a house devoted exclusively to parrots, we were almost deafened by the shrieking, cat-calls, whistling, and screaming of two or three hundred of every hue, size, kind, and variety of these birds; there were gorgeous fellows with crimson coronets, and tails a yard in length,--blue, green, yellow, crimson, variegated, black, white, in fact every known color: the din was terrific, and the shouting of all sorts of parrot expressions very funny. the collection of birds is very large, from the little wren to great stalking ostriches, vultures, and bald eagles, and only lacked the great condor of south america. the animals were well cared for. here were a pair of huge rhinoceroses enjoying themselves in a large, muddy pond in the midst of their enclosure, a stable afforded them dry in-door quarters when they chose to go in, and a passage through these stables enabled visitors always to see the animals when they were in-doors. two huge hippopotami were also similarly provided for. next came several elephants, great and small, with outer enclosures, where they received donations of buns and fruit, and stables for private life; also a splendid specimen of the giraffe, &c. there was a vast collection of different specimens of deer, from the huge antlered elk to the graceful little gazelle, the size of an english terrier. then we came to the bear-pits. here sauntered a great polar bear in a large enclosure, in which a tank of water was provided for his bearship to disport himself; a long row of great roomy cages of lions, tigers, leopards, and panthers, with their supple limbs, sleek hides, and wicked eyes; a splendid collection of the wolf, fox, and raccoon tribe; specimens of different varieties of sheep; the alpaca, zebras, camels, elands, and bison; enclosed ponds, with magnificent specimens of water fowl from all parts of the world; then there was the beaver pond, with his wood, and his dam, and hut; the seal tank and otter pond, with their occupants not always in view, but watched for by a curious crowd; and, near by, a house full of specimens of armadillos, and other small and curious animals. the reptile house, with its collection of different specimens of snakes, from the huge boa constrictor to the small, wicked-looking viper, was not a pleasant sight to look upon; but one of the most popular departments of the whole exhibition was the monkey house, a building with ample space for displaying all the different specimens of this mischievous little caricature of man. in the centre of the room was a very large cage, fitted up with rings, ladders, trapezes, bars, &c., like a gymnasium, and in this the antics of a score of natural acrobats kept the spectators, who are always numerous in this apartment, in a continued roar of laughter. not the least amusing performance here was that of a huge old monkey, the chief of the cage by common consent, who, after looking sleepily for some half hour at the performances of his lesser brethren from the door of his hut in a lofty corner, suddenly descended, and, as if to show what he could do, immediately went through the whole performances seriatim. he swung by the rings, leaped from trapeze to trapeze, swung from ladder to bar, leaped from shelf to shelf, sent small monkeys flying and screaming in every direction, and then, amid a general chattering and grinning, retired to his perch, and, drawing a piece of old blanket about his shoulders, looked calmly down upon the scene below, like a rheumatic old man at the antics of a party of boys. the young visitors at the zoölogical gardens have opportunity afforded them to ride the elephants and camels, and a band plays in the gardens on saturdays. members of the society have access to a library, picture gallery, and enjoy various other advantages in assistance of the study and investigation of natural history. the tower of london! how the scenes of england's history rise before the imagination, in which this old fortress, palace and prison by turns, has figured! it is a structure of which every part seems replete with story, and every step the visitor makes brings him to some point that has an interest attached to it from its connection with the history of the past. the tower has witnessed some of the proudest pageants of england's glory, and some of the blackest deeds of her tyranny and shame. the names of fair women, brave men, soldiers, sages, monarchs, and nobles,-- "fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,"-- are twined within its chronicles, and its hard, pitiless stones have frozen hope into despair in some of the noblest hearts that ever beat on english soil. here lady jane grey fell beneath the headsman's axe; clarence was drowned in the butt of malmsey; anne boleyn was imprisoned, and later her proud daughter, princess, afterwards queen, elizabeth, passed a prisoner through the water-gate; buckingham, stafford, william wallace, essex, elizabeth's favorite, lord bacon, cranmer, latimer, and ridley heard its gates clang behind them; king henry vi. and the princes were murdered here by richard iii.'s orders. but why continue the catalogue of names, of deeds, and of scenes that come thronging into one's mind as we approach this ancient pile, that is invested with more historic interest than any other european palace or prison? its foundation dates back to the time of cæsar, and one of the towers is called cæsar's tower to this day, though the buildings, as they now stand, were commenced in the time of william the conqueror. shakespeare has made this grim fortress so prominent a picture in his plays, that, with the same fancy that one looks for shylock to-day upon the crowded rialto, does the visitor, on approaching the tower, shudder as if he were to encounter the crooked form of gloucester, or hear, in the dark passages, the mournful wail of the spirits of the two innocent princes, torn from their mother's arms, and dying by his cruel mandate. we sought the tower on foot, but soon becoming entangled in a maze of crooked, narrow, and dirty streets, which doubtless might be very interesting to the antiquarian, but rather disagreeable to the stranger, we were glad to hail a cab, and be driven down to it. here we found that the tower of london was a great fortress, with over thirteen acres enclosed within its outer wall and the principal citadel, or white tower, as it is called, with its one round and three square steeples, the most prominent one in view on approaching, and in appearance that which many of us are familiar with from engravings. there are no less than thirteen towers in the enclosure, viz.: the bloody tower, the bell tower, beauchamp tower, devereux tower, flint tower, bowyer tower, brick tower, jewel tower, constable tower, salt tower, record tower, and broad arrow tower. we come to the entrance gate, where visitors are received, and wait in a little office until twelve are assembled, or a warder will take charge of a party every half hour to go the rounds. the site of this building was where the lions were formerly kept. the warders, in their costume of yeomen of the guard of henry viii.'s time, are among the curiosities of the place. their uniform, consisting of a low-crowned velvet hat, surrounded by a sort of garland, a broad ruff about the neck, and dark-blue frock, or tunic, with the crown, rose, shamrock, and thistle on the breast, and other embroidery upon the skirts, flaps, and belts, with trunks gathered at the knee with a gay-colored rosette, tight silk stockings and rosetted shoes, looked oddly enough, and as if some company of supernumeraries, engaged for a grand theatrical spectacle, had come out in open daylight. these warders are principally old soldiers, who receive the position as a reward for bravery or faithful service. the tower is open to visitors from ten to four; the fee of admission sixpence, and sixpence more is charged for admission to the depository of the crown jewels; conspicuous placards inform the visitor that the warders have no right to demand or receive any further fee from visitors; but who has ever travelled in england, and gone sight-seeing there, but knows this to be, if he is posted, an invitation to try the power of an extra shilling when occasion occurs, and which he generally finds purchases a desirable addition to his comfort and enjoyment? however, on we go, having purchased tickets and guide-books, following the warder, who repeats the set description, that he has recited so often, in a tedious, monotonous tone, from which he is only driven by the curious questions of eager yankees, often far out of his depth in the way of knowledge of what certain rooms, towers, gates, and passages are noted for. we hurried on over the moat bridge, and halted to look at traitor's gate; and i even descended to stand upon the landing-steps where so many illustrious prisoners had stepped from the barge on their way to the prisons. sidney, russell, cranmer, and more had landed here, and anne boleyn's dainty feet, and elizabeth's high-heeled slippers pressed its damp stones. on we pass by the different towers, the warder desirous of our seeing what appears to him (an old soldier) the lion of the place--the armory of modern weapons, which we are straightway shown. thousands and thousands of weapons--pistols, swords, cutlasses, and bayonets--are kept here, the small arms being arranged most ingeniously into a number of astonishing figures. here were the prince of wales's triple feather in glittering bayonets, a great sunburst made wholly of ramrods, a huge crown of swords, and stars, and maltese crosses of pistols and bayonets; the serried rows of muskets, rifles, and small arms in the great hall would have equipped an army of a hundred thousand. but we at last got into the beauchamp, or "beechum" tower, as our guide called it; and here we began to visit the prisons of the unhappy captives that have fretted their proud spirits in this gloomy fortress. upon the walls of the guarded rooms they occupied they have left inscriptions and sculpture wrought with rude instruments and infinite toil, during the tedious hours of their imprisonment. here is an elaborate carving, by dudley, earl of warwick, brother to the lord dudley who married lady jane grey. it is a shield, bearing the lion, bear, and ragged staff, and surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves, roses, and acorns, all cut in the stone, and underneath an inscription, in old english letters, stating that his four brothers were imprisoned here. in another room is the word jane cut, which is said to refer to lady jane grey, and to have been cut by her husband. marmaduke neville has cut his name in the pitiless stone, and a cross, bleeding heart, skeleton, and the word peverel, wrought under it, tell us that one of the peverels of devonshire has been confined here: over the fireplace the guide points us to the autograph of philip howard, earl of arundel, who was beheaded in for aspiring to the hand of mary, queen of scots. arthur poole, who conspired to place mary on the english throne, left an inscription "i.h.s. a passage perillus makethe a port pleasant." . a. poole. numerous other similar mementos are shown, cut in the walls of the apartments of this tower, the work of the prisoners who formerly occupied them, and the names thus left are often those who figure in english history. in the white tower we were shown a room, ten by eight, receiving light only from the entrance, which, it is stated, was one of the rooms occupied by sir walter raleigh, and that in it he wrote his history of the world. right in front of this, in the centre of the room, stands the beheading block that has been used on tower hill, and the executioner's axe beside it, which, in elizabeth's reign, severed essex's head from his body. the block bears the marks of service in the shape of more than one dint from the weapon of death. some idea of the strength of this tower, and its security as a prison, may be had from the walls, which are from twelve to fourteen feet in thickness. in this white tower is the great council chamber of the early english kings, and here, beneath the great, massive-timbered roof, we stand where king richard ii. resigned his crown to bolingbroke, in . we pass on to the brick tower, another prison, where raleigh was once confined--raleigh, the friend of bacon and shakespeare, who here spent the last ten days of his life, and many a weary year before. but we found there was one tower, among others, that was not visited by the guide with our party; it was the one of all others we wished to see--the bloody tower. "we are not hallowed to show that," said our guide, in response to our solicitations. "is it not possible?" said i, in a low tone, putting one hand into my pocket, jingling some loose silver, and looking the burly warder in the eye, as i fell back a little from the rest of the party. "hi couldn't say really, but (_sotto voce_, as a shilling dropped into his palm, that was conveniently open behind him) hif you'll lag be'ind the party when they go out, i'll see what can be done." we took occasion to follow the warder's hint, and after he had conducted the others to the gate, he returned, and took us to the room over the entrance-gate in which the princes were lodged, and where, by their uncle's order, they were smothered. this little room--about twelve feet square--has an inner window, through which, it is said, tyrell, the crook-back tyrant's instrument, looked, after the murder had been done by his hired ruffians, to be sure that his master's fell purpose was complete. this room, small as it was, had a pleasant outlook, commanding views of the interior of the tower wards and gardens--in fact, it used to be called garden tower--and the thames river. the stairs leading from this part of the tower to the gateway were shown us, and the place, not far from their foot, where the supposed remains of these unfortunate princes were afterwards discovered, and removed and interred at westminster abbey. after seeing various dismal vaults and cells, which our guide, desirous of showing his appreciation of our bounty, conducted us to beneath the towers, holding his candle to show the carving made by wretched prisoners by the dim light that struggled in when they were confined there, he took us to one, his description of which rather shook our faith in his veracity. it was a small, arched cell, about ten feet high, and not more than four feet deep, without grating, window, or aperture, except a door. "this," said he, swinging open the huge iron-strapped and bolted door, "this was guy fawkes's dungeon; he was confined here three days, with no more light and h'air than he could get through the key-'ole." "but," said i, "no man could live in that cell _half_ a day; he would die for lack of air." "but," said our cicerone, depreciatingly, "your _h_onor doesn't consider the size of the key-'ole." no, but we did the size of the story, and felt convinced that we were getting a full shilling's worth extra. but if there were any doubt about the guy fawkes cell, there was none about many other points of historical interest, which, after learning the names of a few of the principal ones, could be easily located by those familiar with the history of the tower, and even by those of us who only carried some of the leading events of england's history in mind. one of these points was a little enclosed square, in front of st. peter's chapel, in the open space formed by that edifice on one side, beauchamp tower on the other, and the white tower on the third, in the place known as tower green. this little square, of scarce a dozen feet, railed with iron to guard the bright greensward from profane tread, is the spot on which stood the scaffold, where, on the th of may, , anne boleyn bent her fair head to the block; the fall of which beneath one blow of the executioner's sword, was announced by the discharge of a gun from the tower ramparts, so that her husband, that savage and brutal british king, who was hunting in epping forest, might be apprised that she had yielded up her life; and history tells us that this royal brute of the sixteenth century returned that very evening gayly from the chase, and on the following morning married jane seymour. here, also, upon the earth enclosed in the little square round which we were standing, poured forth the precious blood of bloody mary's victim, lady jane grey; here is where, after saying to the executioner, "i pray you despatch me quickly," she knelt down, groped for the fatal block, bent her innocent neck, and passed, with holy words upon her lips, into that land where opposing creeds shall not harass, nor royal ambition persecute. here also was that murder (it could not be called execution) done by order of henry viii. on the countess of salisbury, a woman, seventy years of age, condemned to death without any form of trial whatever; who, conscious of her innocence, refused to place her head upon the block. "so traitors used to do, and i am no traitor," said the brave old countess, as she struggled fiercely with her murderers, till, weak and bleeding from the soldiers' pikes, she was dragged to the block by her gray hair, held down till the executioner performed his office, and the head of the last of the plantagenets, the daughter of the murdered clarence, fell; and another was added to the list of enormities committed by the bloated and sensual despot who wielded the sceptre of england. the soil within this little enclosure is rich with the blood of the innocent victims of royal tyranny; and it was not astonishing that we lingered here beyond the patience of our guide. the collection of ancient armor and arms at the tower is one of great interest, especially that known as the horse armory, which contains, besides a large and curious collection of portions of armor and weapons, a great number of equestrian figures, fully armed and equipped in suits of armor of various periods between edward i., , and the death of james i., . this building is over one hundred and fifty feet long, by about thirty-five wide, and is occupied by a double row of these figures, whose martial and life-like appearance almost startles the visitor as he steps in amid this warlike array of mailed knights, all in the different attitudes of the tilting-ground or battle-field, silent and immovable as if they had suddenly been checked in mid career by a touch from the wand of some powerful enchanter. here, in flexible chain-mail hood, shirt, and spurs, stands the effigy of edward i. ( ), the king in the act of drawing his sword; and clad in this armor were the knights who were borne to the earth on the fields of dunbar and bannockburn. next rides at full tilt, with lance in rest, and horse's head defended by spiked chanfron, and saddle decorated with the king's badges, edward iv., ; then we have the armor worn in the wars of the roses, and at bosworth field; here a suit worn by a swordsman in henry vii.'s time, about ; next, a powerful charger, upon the full leap, bears the burly figure of henry viii., in a splendid suit of tilting armor, inlaid with gold: this suit is one which is known to have belonged to the tyrant; a sword is at the side of the figure, and the right hand grasps an iron mace. a splendid suit of armor is that of a knight of edward vi.'s time ( ), covered all with beautiful arabesque work, inlaid with gold, and a specimen of workmanship which, it seemed to me, any of our most skilful jewellers of the present day might be proud of. then we have the very suit of armor that was worn by robert dudley, earl of leicester, which is profusely decorated with that oft-mentioned badge of the dudleys, the bear and ragged staff that they appeared to be so fond of cutting, carving, stamping, and engraving upon everything of theirs, movable and immovable. his initials, r. d., are also engraved on the knee-guards. the mounted figure of robert devereux, earl of essex, , in his splendid suit of gilt armor; effigy of henry, prince of wales, riding, rapier in hand, in the armor made for him in the year --a splendid suit, engraved and adorned with representations of battle scenes; the armor made for king charles i. when a youth; james ii., , in his own armor. besides these were numerous other figures, clad in suits of various periods. one very curious was a suit wrought in henry viii.'s time, which was composed entirely of movable splints, and almost as flexible as an overcoat; a figure clad in splendid plated armor, time of henry vii., with ancient sword in hand, battle-axe at the saddle-bow, and the horse protected by armor in front--the whole figure a perfect realization of the poet's and artist's idea of a brave knight sheathed in gleaming steel. the curious old implements of war, from age to age, illustrate the progress that was made in means for destroying human life; and the period of the invention of gunpowder is marked by the change which takes place in the character of the weapons. here we were shown the english "bill," which the sturdy soldiers used with such effect when they got within striking distance of the enemy; a ball armed with protruding iron spikes, and hitched by a chain to a long pole, and used flail-like, denominated the "morning star," we should think would have created as much damage among friends as foes on the battle-field; then there was a curious contrivance, called the catch-pole--a sort of iron fork, with springs, for pulling a man off his horse by the head; battle-axes, halberds, english pikes, partisans, cross-bows, with their iron bolts, long bows, a series of helmets from down to --a very curious collection. then we have the collection of early fire-arms, petronel, match-lock, wheel-lock, and, among others, a veritable revolver pistol of henry viii.'s time--an ancient, rude-looking affair, and from which, we were told by the guide, "colonel colt, of the american army," borrowed his idea. "so you see, sir, the _h_american revolver is nothink new--_h_only a _h_old _h_english _h_idea, _h_arfter _h_all." this prodigious broadside of h's was unanswerable. so we said nothing, and shall look for the english model from which the american sewing-machine was invented. of course, there is no one who will think of visiting the tower without seeing the regalia of england, which are kept here in their own especial stronghold, entitled the jewel tower. it is astonishing to see the awe and wonder with which some of the common people look upon these glittering emblems of royalty, which they seem to regard with a veneration little short of the sovereign. the royal crown is a cap of rich purple velvet, enclosed in hoops of silver, and surmounted by a ball and cross of splendid diamonds. the prince of wales's crown is a simple pure gold crown, without jewels. the queen's diadem, as it is called, is an elegant affair, rich in huge diamonds and pearls. this crown was made for the consort of james ii. st. edwards crown, shaped like the regular english crown,--with which we are all familiar, from seeing it represented in the arms of england, and upon british coin,--is of gold, and magnificent with diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones. here we also have sight of the other paraphernalia of royalty, which, to american visitors, looks somewhat theatrical and absurd, and continually suggest the thought of what empty pageants are the parade and mummeries of kings and princes. here is the royal sceptre, a rod formed of gold, and richly adorned with jewels, surmounted by a cross, which is placed in the right hand of the sovereign at coronations; and the rod of equity, another sceptre, ornamented with diamonds, and surmounted with a dove with outstretched wings, which is placed in the left hand; a queen's sceptre, richly ornamented with jewels; the ivory sceptre of james ii.'s queen; and the elegantly-wrought golden one made for mary, queen of william iii.; swords of justice and mercy, coronation bracelets, spurs, anointing vessels, baptismal font, spoons, salt-cellars, dishes, and numerous other--coronation tools, i must call them, reminding one, as they lay there spread out to view in their iron cage, of one of those displays of bridal presents at an american wedding, where the guest wonders at the ingenuity of the silversmith in producing so many articles for which, until he sees them, and is told what they are designed for, he could not imagine a used could be found. from the blaze of diamonds and precious stones, and the yellow glitter of beaten gold, we turned away to once more walk through the historic old fortress, and examine the record that is left behind of the part it has played of palace, fortress, and prison. the tourist gets but a confused idea of the tower in one visit, hurried along as he is by the warder, who repeats his monotonous, set descriptions, with additions and emendations of his own, and if he be not "i' the vein," omitting, i fancy, some portion of the regular round, to save himself trouble, especially if an extra _douceur_ has not been dropped into his itching palm. then there are walks, passages, windows, and apartments, all celebrated in one way or another, which are passed by without notice, from the fact that a full description would occupy far too much time, but which, if you should happen to have an old londoner, with a liking for antiquity, with you, to point them out, and have read up pretty well the history of the tower, you find are material enhancing the pleasure of the visit. i suppose st. paul's church, in london, may be called the twin sight to the tower; and so we will visit that noted old monument of sir christopher wren's architectural skill next. in looking at london _en masse_, from any point,--that is, as much of it as one can see at once,--the great dome of st. paul's stands out a most prominent landmark, its huge globe rising to the height of three hundred and sixty feet. we used to read an imprint, in our young days, stamped upon a toy-book, containing wonderful colored pictures, which communicated the fact that it was sold by blank & blank, stationers, st. paul's churchyard, london, and wondered why bookstores were kept in burial-grounds in london. we found, on coming to london, that st. paul's stood in the midst of a cemetery, and that the street or square around and facing it--probably once a part of the old cemetery--is called st. paul's churchyard; a locality, we take occasion to mention, that is noted for its excellent shops for cheap dry goods and haberdashery, or such goods as ladies in america buy at thread stores, and which can generally be bought here a trifle cheaper than at other localities in london. st. paul's churchyard is also noted for several excellent lunch or refreshment rooms for ladies and gentlemen, similar, in some respects, to american confectionery shops, except that at these, which are designated "pastry-cooks," cakes, cold meats, tarts, sherry wine, and ale may be had; and i can bear witness, from personal experience, that the quality of the refreshment, and the prices charged at the well-kept pastry-cooks' shops of st. paul's churchyard, are such as will satisfy the most exacting taste. the present st. paul's, which was completed in , can hardly be called _old_ st. paul's. the first one built on this site was that in , by ethelbert, king of kent, which was burned, as was also its successor, which received large estates from the conqueror. but the old st. paul's we read so much about in novel and story, was the great cathedral immediately preceding this one, which was six hundred and ninety feet long, one hundred and thirty broad, was built in the form of a cross, and sent a spire up five hundred and twenty feet into the air, and a tower two hundred and sixty feet; which contained seventy-six chapels, and maintained two hundred priests; from which the pomp and ceremony of the romish church vanished before the advance of the reformation; which was desecrated by the soldiery in civil war, and finally went down into a heap of smouldering ruins in , after an existence of two hundred and twenty years. that was the old st. paul's of ancient story, and of w. harrison ainsworth's interesting historical novel, which closes with an imaginative description of its final destruction by the great fire of london. sir christopher wren, the architect, and grand old free and accepted mason, built the present st. paul's, laying the corner-stone in , and the cap-stone in the lantern in --a thirty-five years' piece of work by one architect, and most ably and faithfully was it done. appropriate, indeed, therefore, is the epitaph that is inscribed on the plain, broad slab that marks his last resting-place in the crypt on the spot where the high altar of the old cathedral once stood. beneath this slab, we are told, rests the builder; but "if ye seek his monument, look around you." the corner-stone of st. paul's was laid with masonic ceremonies, and the trowel and mallet used on the occasion are still reserved by the lodge whose members at that time officiated. it is impossible to get a complete general view of the whole of st. paul's at once, it is so hemmed in here in the oldest and most crowded part of london. here, all around us were streets whose very names had the ring of old english history. watling street, a narrow lane, but old as anglo-saxon times; newgate, where the old walls of london stood, is near at hand, and cannon street, which runs into st. paul's churchyard, contains the old london stone, once called the central point of the city, from which distances were measured; ludgate hill, little narrow paternoster row, cheapside, and old bailey are close by, and a few steps will take you into fleet street, st. martins le grand, or bow lane. you feel that here, in whatever direction you turn, you are in old london indeed, near one of the solid, old, historical, and curious parts of it, that figure in the novels and histories, and with which you mentally shake hands as with an old acquaintance whom you have long known by correspondence, but now meet face to face for the first time. st. paul's is built of what is called portland stone; originally, i should suppose, rather light colored, but now grimed with the universal blacking of london smoke. the best view of the exterior is from ludgate hill, a street approaching its western front, from which a view of the steps leading to the grand entrance and the statues in front of it is obtained. one does not realize the huge proportions of this great church till he walks about it. its entire length, from east to west, is five hundred feet; the breadth at the great western entrance, above referred to, is one hundred and eighty feet, and at the transept two hundred and fifty feet. the entire circumference of the church, as i was told by the loquacious guide who accompanied me, was two thousand two hundred and ninety-five feet, and it covers two acres of ground. these figures will afford the reader opportunity for comparison, and give some idea of its immensity. the height of the cross on the dome is three hundred and sixty feet from the street, and the diameter of the great dome itself is one hundred and eighty feet. there is ever so much that is curious and interesting to see in st. paul's, and, like many other celebrated places, the visitor ascertains that it cannot be seen in the one, hurried, tourist visit that is generally given to them, especially if one wishes to give an intelligible description to friends, or convey his idea to those who have not had the opportunity of visiting it. for my own part, it was a second visit to these old churches i used most to enjoy, when, with local guide-book and pencil in hand, after perhaps refreshing memory by a peep the night before into english history, i took a two or three hours' quiet saunter among the aisles, the old crypts, or beneath the lofty, quiet old arches, or among the monuments, when i could have time to read the whole inscription, and pause, and think, and dream over the lives and career of those who slept beneath "the storied urn and animated bust." there are over fifty splendid monuments, chiefly to english naval and military heroes, in st. paul's, many of them most elaborate, elegant, and costly groups of marble statuary; but i left those for the last, and set about seeing other sights within the old pile, and so first started for the whispering gallery. this is reached by a flight of two hundred and sixty steps from the transept, and about half way up to it we were shown the library belonging to the church, containing many rare and curious works, among them the first book of common prayer ever printed, and a set of old monastic manuscripts, said to have been preserved from the archives of the old st. paul's, when it was a roman cathedral. the floor of this library is pointed out as a curiosity, being composed of a mosaic of small pieces of oak wood. next the visitor is shown the geometrical stairs, a flight of ninety steps, so ingeniously constructed that they all hang together without any visible means of support except the bottom step. up we go, upward and onward, stopping to see the big bell,--eleven thousand four hundred and seventy-four pounds,--which is never tolled except for a death in the royal family. the hour indicated by the big clock is struck on it by a hammer moved by clock-work; but the big clapper used in tolling weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. the clock of st. paul's seems a gigantic timepiece indeed, when you get up to it; its faces are fifty-seven feet in circumference, and the minute-hand a huge bar of steel, weighing seventy-five pounds, and nearly ten feet in length; the hour or _little_ hand is another bar of about six feet long, weighing forty-four pounds. the figures on the dial are two feet three inches long, and the big pendulum, that sets the machinery of this great time-keeper in motion, is sixteen feet long, with a weight of one hundred and eight pounds at the end of it. the whispering gallery is a gallery with a light ornamental iron railing, running entirely round the inside of the base of the cupola, a distance of one hundred and forty yards; and whispered conversation can be carried on with persons seated at the extreme opposite side of the space; the clapping of the hands gives out almost as sharp a report as the discharge of a rifle. this whispering gallery is a fine place to get a good view of the great paintings in the compartments of the dome, which represent leading events in the life of st. paul. it was at the painting of these pictures that the occurrence took place, so familiar as a story, where the artist, gradually retiring a few steps backward to mark the effect of his work, and having unconsciously reached the edge of the scaffolding, would, by another step, have been precipitated to the pavement, hundreds of feet below, when a friend, seeing his peril, with great presence of mind, seized a brush and daubed some fresh paint upon the picture; the artist rushed forward to prevent the act, and saved his life. from this gallery we looked far down below to the tessellated pavement of black and white, the centre beneath the dome forming a complete mariner's compass, showing the thirty-two points. above this are two more galleries around the dome,--the stone gallery and golden gallery,--from which a fine view of london, its bridges and the thames, can be had, if the day be clear. above we come to the great stone lantern, as it is called, which crowns the cathedral, and bears up its huge ball and cross. through the floor, in the centre of this lantern, a hole about the size of a large dinner-plate is cut, and as i stood there and looked straight down to the floor, over three hundred feet below, i will confess to a slight feeling of contraction in the soles of the feet, and after a glance or two at the people below, dwarfed by distance, i hastily retired with the suspicion of, what if the plank flooring about that aperture should be weak! next comes an ascent into the ball. a series of huge iron bars uphold the ball and cross; the spaces between them are open to the weather, but so narrow, that the climber, who makes his way by aid of steps notched into one of the bars, as he braces his body against the others, could not possibly get more than an arm out; so the ascent of ten feet or so is unattended with danger, and we found ourselves standing within this great globe, which from the streets below appears about the size of a large foot-ball, but which is of sufficient capacity to contain ten men. it was a novel experience to stand in that huge metallic sphere, which was strengthened by great straps of iron almost as big as railroad rails, and hear the wind, which was blowing freshly at the time, sound like a steamship's paddle-wheels above our head. thirty feet above the globe rises the cross, which is fifteen feet high, and which the guide affirmed he really believed american visitors would climb and sit astride of, if there were any way of getting at it. having taken the reader to the highest accessible point, we will now descend to the lowest--the huge crypt, in which rest the last mortal remains of england's greatest naval and greatest military heroes,--nelson and wellington,--heroes whose pictures you see from one end of the island to the other, in every conceivable style--their portraits, naval and battle scenes in which they figured, busts, monuments, statues, engravings, and bronzes. no picture gallery seems complete without the death scene of nelson upon his ship in the hour of victory; and one sees it so frequently, that he almost yields to the belief that the subject is as favorite a one with british artists, as certain scriptural ones used to be with the old italian painters. the crypt contains the immense pillars, forty feet square, which support the floor above, and in that part of it directly beneath the dome is the splendid black marble sarcophagus of lord nelson, surmounted by the cushion and coronet. this sarcophagus was originally prepared by cardinal wolsey for his own interment at windsor, but now covers the remains of the naval hero, and bears upon its side the simple inscription "horatio, viscount nelson." in another portion of the crypt is the large porphyry sarcophagus of the duke of wellington, the enclosure about it lighted with gas from granite candelabra, while all about in other parts of the crypt, beneath the feet of the visitor, are memorial slabs, that tell him that the ashes of some of england's most noted painters and architects rest below. here lies sir christopher wren, who built st. paul's, and who lived to the good old age of ninety-one. here sleeps sir joshua reynolds, sir thomas lawrence, and benjamin west, painters; here robert mylne, who built blackfriars' bridge, and john rennie, who built southwark and waterloo bridges, besides many others of more or less note. in another part of the crypt is preserved the great funeral car, with all its trappings and decorations, which was used upon the occasion of the funeral ceremonies of the duke of wellington, and which the guide shows with great _empressement_, expecting an extra sixpence in addition to the three shillings and two pence you have already expended for tickets to different parts of the building. the expenses of the whole sight are as follows: whispering and other two galleries, sixpence; to the hall, one shilling and sixpence; library, geometrical staircase, and clock, eight-pence; crypts, sixpence. total, three shillings and two-pence. and now, having seen all else, we take a saunter through the body of the church, and a glance at the monuments erected to the memory of those who have added to england's glory upon the sea and the field of battle. one of the first monumental marble groups that the visitor observes on entering is that of sir william ponsonby, whose horse fell under him in the battle of waterloo, leaving him to the lances of the french cuirassiers. it represents ponsonby as a half-clad figure, slipping from his horse, that has fallen to its knees, and holding up his hand, as he dies, to receive a wreath from a rather stiff-looking marble angel, that has opportunely descended at that moment. the statue of dr. samuel johnson, represented with a scroll in his hand, and in the attitude of deep thought, stands upon a pedestal bearing a long latin inscription. the monument by flaxman to lord nelson is quite an elaborate one. it represents him in his naval full dress, and a cloak falling from his shoulders, standing upon a pedestal, leaning upon an anchor and coil of rope. upon the side of the pedestal are cut allegorical representations of the north sea, the german ocean, the nile, and the mediterranean, and the words copenhagen--nile--trafalgar. at one side of the pedestal crouches a huge marble lion. at the other stands britannia, with two young sailors, pointing out the hero to them for their imitation. the statue of john howard, the philanthropist, represents him in roman costume, trampling upon some fetters, a key in his right hand, and a scroll in his left. a bass-relief on the pedestal represents the benevolent man entering a prison, and bringing food and clothing to prisoners. a very beautiful inscription tells of his many virtues, his modesty and worth; of his having received the thanks of both houses of british and irish parliaments for his services rendered to his country and mankind, and that his modesty alone defeated various efforts which were made during his life to erect this statue. there is a fine statue of bishop heber, who, half a century ago (may , ), wrote the beautiful missionary hymn, "from greenland's icy mountains," which has since then been translated into foreign tongues at every missionary station, and sung all over the world. the statue, executed by chantrey, represents the bishop kneeling, with his hand resting upon the holy bible. there are two monuments that will attract the attention of americans, from the fact of their being in memory of generals who gained their laurels in military operations in this country. the first is that of general robert ross, who, in , "executed an enterprise against washington, the capital of the united states of america, with complete success." valor is represented as placing an american flag upon the general's tomb, over which britannia is weeping,--maybe at the vandalism of the "enterprise." the other monument represents generals pakenham and gibbs, in full uniform, who, as the inscription informs us, "fell gloriously, on the th of january, , while leading the troops to an attack of the enemy's works in front of new orleans." lord collingwood, who was vice-admiral, and commanded the larboard division at the battle of trafalgar, has a splendid monument, upon which a man-of-war is represented bringing home his remains, attended by fame and other allegorical figures. that eminent surgeon, sir astley cooper, who died in , has a fine monument, erected by his contemporaries and pupils. a splendid marble group, representing a war-horse bounding over a fallen soldier, while his rider is falling from the saddle into the arms of a highlander, is erected to the memory of sir ralph abercromby, who fell in egypt in . a marble figure of a sphinx reposes each side of the monument. the statue of sir joshua reynolds is by flaxman, and represents him clad in the robes of a doctor of law, with a volume in one hand, and the other resting upon a medallion of michael angelo. the inscription, in latin, describes him as "prince of the painters of his age." numerous other groups of statuary from the monuments of naval and military heroes represent them surrounded by allegorical figures of history, fame, valor, &c., and inscriptions set forth their deeds of bravery, and their services to the nation for whom they poured out their blood and yielded up their lives. monuments to those whose names are well known in this country will also attract the attention of american visitors, such as that to henry hallam, the historian of the middle ages; turner, the celebrated painter; napier, the historian of the peninular war; sir henry lawrence, who died defending lucknow, in ; and sir john moore, who fell at corunna, and was buried at midnight on the ramparts, as described in the well-known ode commencing,-- "not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried." thus it is in the sculptured marble you may in westminster abbey, st. paul's, and the old cathedrals of the country, read england's history again, and seem to approach nearer, and have a more realizing sense of her great men and their deeds, than from the pages of the printed volume. in the rush of sight-seeing we had nigh forgotten guildhall, the home of gog and magog, and the city hall of london. and, in truth, it is really not much of a sight to see, in comparison with the many others that claim the visitor's attention; but we drifted down to the end of king street one day, which carried us straight into the entrance of guildhall, at the end of the street. the great entrance hall is quite imposing, being about one hundred and fifty feet long, fifty wide, and fifty high, lighted with windows of painted glass, while at one end, in a sort of raised gallery, stand the big wooden figures of the city giants, gog and magog. around this great hall are several monuments and groups; among them, those to the earl of chatham, wellington, and nelson, and statues of edward vi., queen elizabeth, and charles i. the hall is used for elections, city meetings, and banquets--those noted feasts at which turtle soup is supposed to be so prominent a feature in the bill of fare. there are in london quite a number of the buildings or halls of the guilds or trade associations of old times--nearly fifty, i believe. many of the trades have ceased to exist--their very names almost obsolete. for instance, the association of loriners, united girdlers, and the bowyers. the members of some of these old corporations or guilds are by no means all artisans, and about all they have to do is to manage the charities and trust funds that have descended to them. they meet but once or twice a year, and then in the old hall, furbished up for the occasion. the very best of good eating and drinking is provided, and perhaps, on certain anniversaries, the curious records and annals of the old society are produced, and, perchance, some old anniversary ceremony gone through with. some of the societies have rare and curious relics, which are brought out on these occasions. for instance, the fish-mongers have the dagger with which wat tyler was stabbed by one of its members; the armorers and braziers some fine old silver work; and the barber surgeons a fine, large picture, by holbein, representing henry viii. presenting the charter to their company. in goldsmiths' hall we saw a splendid specimen of the goldsmiths' work, in the shape of a gold chandelier, weighing over one thousand ounces. this hall was rebuilt in , although the goldsmiths owned the site in . by an act of parliament, all articles of gold or silver must be assayed or stamped by this company before being sold. in threadneedle street, appropriately placed, we saw merchant tailors' hall, built about ; and in the old hall of this company james i., and his son prince henry, once dined with the company, when verses composed especially for the occasion by ben jonson were recited. here, in threadneedle street, is the bank of england, sometimes called the "old lady of threadneedle street," which is also one of the sights of the metropolis, and covers a quadrangular space of nearly four acres. armed with a letter of introduction from one of the directors, or, more fortunate, in company with one of them, if you chance to enjoy the acquaintance of any of those worthies, you can make the tour of this wonderful establishment, finishing with the treasure vault, where you have the tantalizing privilege of holding a million or two dollars' worth of english bank notes in your hand, and "hefting" ingots of gold and bricks of silver. then there are twenty-four directors to this bank, and about a thousand persons employed in it: clerks commence at the age of seventeen, receiving fifty pounds per annum for their service, and the salary of a chief of department is twelve hundred pounds. some old, gray-headed men that we saw, who had grown round-shouldered over their ledgers, we were informed had been in the employ of the bank for over forty years. the operation of collecting the specie for a bank note, which i tested, is one requiring considerable red tape and circumlocution. you go from clerk to clerk, registering your address and date of presentation of notes and their number, till finally you reach the individual who is weighing and shovelling out sovereigns, who passes out the specie for the paper. these notes, after being once presented, are never re-issued, but kept on hand, first having the signatures torn off, for seven years, and then burned. we visited the storehouse of these "relics of departed worth," in the bank, where millions of tatterdemalions were heaped up, awaiting their fiery doom. that royal gift of cardinal wolsey to henry viii.--hampton court palace--is not only noted for its associations of bluff king hal and the ambitious cardinal, but as being the residence of several of the most celebrated of the british sovereigns. the estate went into the clutches of henry in . it is about twelve miles from hyde park, in london, and the palace covers about eight acres of ground. it was here that edward vi. was born, and his mother, jane seymour, died a few days after; and it was here that catharine howard first appeared as henry viii.'s queen, in ; and in this palace the licentious brute married his sixth wife, catherine parr; here edward vi. lived a portion of his short reign, queen mary spent her honeymoon, and queen elizabeth visited. charles ii. was here during the plague in london; and oliver cromwell saw one daughter married and another die beneath its roof; charles ii. and james ii., william iii. and george ii., have all lived and held court in this famous old place, which figures so frequently in the pages of english history; and so short a distance is it from london, and so cheap are the excursion trains, that, on a pleasant day a mechanic, his wife, and child may go out, visit the magnificent old palace, all its rooms, see all its paintings, its superb acres of lawn, forests, garden, fountains, court-yards, and walks for two shillings (the railroad fare to go and return for the three). all at hampton court is open free to the public; they may even walk, run, and roll over on the grass, if they like, if not rude or misbehaved. many spend a whole holiday in the palace and its delightful grounds, and on the pleasant sunday afternoon i visited them, there were, at least, ten thousand persons present; yet, so vast is the estate, that, with the exception of the passage through the different rooms, which are noted as picture galleries, there was no feeling as of a crowd of visitors. the guides, who went through the different apartments, explaining their history, and pointing out the celebrated and beautiful paintings, asked for no fee or reward, although many a visitor drops a few pence into their not unwilling hands. entering the palace, we went by way of the king's grand staircase, as it is called, the walls and ceilings covered with elegant allegorical frescoes, and representations of heathen deities--pan, ceres, jupiter, juno; time surrounded by the signs of the zodiac, and cupids with flowers; fame blowing her trumpet, and peace bearing the palm branch; bacchus with his grapes, and diana seated upon the half moon; hercules with his lion skin and club, and ganymede, on the eagle, presenting the cup to jove. from this grand entrance, with necks aching from the upward gaze, we came to the guard-room, a spacious hall, some sixty feet in length, with muskets, halberds, spears, and daggers disposed upon the walls, forming various fantastic figures. from thence the visitor passes into the first of the series of state apartments, which is entitled the king's presence chamber, and, after looking up at the old chandelier, made in the reign of queen anne, suspended from the ceiling, the guide begins to point out and mention a few of the leading pictures in each room. as there are eighteen or twenty of these rooms, and over a thousand pictures suspended upon the walls, to say nothing of the florid and elaborate decorations of the ceilings by verio, the number is far too great to be inspected satisfactorily at a single visit; and upon many scarce more than a passing glance can be bestowed as you pass along with the group of sight-seers. i jotted in my note-book several of those before which i halted longest, such as charles i. by vandyke, ignatius loyola by titian, and the portraits of beauties of charles ii.'s gay court, which are one of the great attractions of the collection. these portraits were painted by sir peter lely, and some of them very beautifully executed: here are the princess mary, as diana; anne hyde, duchess of york; the duchess of richmond, whom charles wanted to marry, and, if she looked like her portrait, we applaud his taste in female beauty; the sprightly, laughing face of nell gwynne; lady middleton, another beauty, but a frail one; and the countess of ossory, a virtuous one amid the vice and licentiousness of the "merry monarch's" reign. in the queen's gallery, which is about one hundred and seventy-five feet in length, there is a very interesting collection; and here the guide had some indulgence, and allowed us to tarry a little. great tapestry hangings, with scenes from the life of alexander the great, beautifully executed, were suspended on the walls; here hung raphael's portrait, painted by himself; here henry vii.'s children, by mabeuse; and here old holbein (to whose brush we owe all the pictorial representations we have of henry viii.) especially flourishes; for his portraits of henry when young, of erasmus, will somers, the king's jester, francis i. of france, and others that i do not remember, hang here; there is a beautiful st. catherine, by correggio; a jewish rabbi, by rembrandt; boar's head, by snyders; fruit, by cuyp; a boy and fruit, by murillo; besides scores of others by great artists. what a collection to be allowed thirty-five minutes to look at! it was little less than an aggravation. next came the queen's drawing-room, which contains many pictures from the pencil of benjamin west; among them, that with which every one of us, who has studied an american geography or child's book of history, is so familiar--the death of general wolfe at the storming of quebec. from out the windows of this room is another of those superb english landscape views of which i have so often spoken, that we get from the castles and palaces of the country. a magnificent avenue of lime trees, nearly a mile in length, stretches out to view, and an artificial river, or canal, of the same length, shines between the greensward of the park, while an old english church tower, at the extreme background, fills out the charming picture of nature. in the queen's audience chamber we have old holbein's works again. the curious old pictures from his brush here are, henry viii. embarking at dover; the battle of spurs; meeting of henry viii. and the emperor maximilian, and meeting of henry viii. and francis i. on the field of the cloth of gold. this last picture has a story, which is to the effect that in cromwell's time the parliament proposed to sell it to the king of france. the earl of pembroke, however, determined that such a treasure of art and historical memento should not leave england, and thereupon carefully and secretly cut off the head of henry the eighth from the canvas, so that the french king's agent, discovering the mutilation, refused to take the painting. when charles the second came to the throne, after the restoration, pembroke returned the head, which had been carefully preserved, and it was very skilfully replaced; so skilfully, that it was only by getting a view by a side light that we could discover that it had been disturbed. in the private dining-room, as it is called, are shown three of the great couches of royalty, the state beds of william iii. and his queen mary, and that of george ii., and but few pictures of note; so we go on through other "halls," "writing closets," "audience chambers," &c., till we reach a fine, lofty gallery, built by sir christopher wren; here we have more portraits by holbein, one by abert dürer, one of queen elizabeth, in her vast and enormously built up and gaudy costume, landscape by rubens, battle piece by wouvermans, inside a farm house by teniers, and some two or three hundred others. after this pictorial surfeit we passed into the magnificent great gothic hall, designed by wolsey, and finished by henry viii., when anne boleyn was queen. this hall is pure gothic, one hundred and six feet long, forty wide, and sixty high, the roof very elaborately carved oak, decorated, with great taste and splendor, with arms and badges of king henry. it is somewhat singular that at this very place, which was the scene of wolsey's magnificence and henry's lordly splendor, there should have been acted, by king george i.'s command, in , shakespeare's play of "henry viii., or the fall of wolsey." the walls of this hall are hung with splendid arras tapestry, representing the history of abraham; around the hall hung portraits of henry viii., wolsey, jane seymour, and queen elizabeth; and at intervals are deers' heads, carved from wood, above which are banners and trophies. the notable feature of the hall, however, is its stained-glass windows, thirteen in number, besides the great one and the beautiful oriel window, splendid in its proportions, fine gothic canopy, and rich in beautiful colored glass, bearing armorial devices of the king and jane seymour. the great window is divided off into fourteen compartments, one of which has a half-length portrait of king henry, and the others are filled with armorial crests and devices. six of the other windows bear the armorial pedigrees of the six wives of the king, and the others various heraldic designs. the architecture and decorations of this noble hall are very well managed, and the subdued and colored light, falling upon the rich carving and gothic tracery, produces an imposing and strikingly beautiful effect. after an inside view of the palace and its picture-galleries, the stroll through the great park is none the less delightful. this park, or rather the gardens, as they are called, are elegantly laid out with beds of brilliant-colored flowers, broad gravel walks, beautiful closely-clipped lawns, and groups of splendid oaks and elms; and, although the grounds are almost a dead level, with but little inequality, still they are so beautifully arranged as to present a charming and romantic appearance. here crowds of people walked beneath the great trees in the broad shaded avenues, sat on the velvety turf at the foot of great oaks, or paused and admired the huge plats of flowers, of brilliant hues and delicious fragrance, arranged by the gardener's skill in beautiful combinations, or strolled into the conservatory to see the orange trees, or into the vinery to see that celebrated grape vine, which is said to be the largest in europe; and a royal monster it is, indeed, stretching out its arms over one hundred and thirty feet, and having a stem that, at three feet from the ground, measures over thirty inches in circumference. it was planted in . its fruit is the richest black hamburg variety, and from two thousand to two thousand five hundred bunches of the luscious spheroids are its annual yield. not among the least of the attractions of the gardens is a maze, skilfully constructed of hedges about seven feet in height, and the walks to the centre, or from the centre to the outside, so skilfully contrived in labyrinthine passages of puzzling intricacy as to render it a matter of no ordinary difficulty to extricate one's self. a guide, however, stands upon an elevated platform outside, and assists those by his instructions who are unable to do so, and give up the trial. the shouts of laughter of those who were entangled in the deceitful avenues told of their enjoyment of the ingenious puzzle. near the maze is one of the large gates of the palace gardens, opening exactly opposite to bushy park; and here we passed out into a great avenue, a mile in length, of horse-chestnut trees, the air redolent with their red and white blossoms. in this park the parties who come from london to visit hampton court picnic, as no eatables or picknicking is permitted in the gardens of the latter. hawkers and pedlers of eatables and drinkables, of all kinds and at all prices, were in every direction; groups under the trees were chatting, lunching, and lounging, and enjoying themselves. the finest residence of english royalty, at the present time, is windsor castle; and a pleasant railway ride of twenty miles or so from london brought us in sight of the splendid great round tower, which is so notable a feature of the place. it crowns the apex of a hill, and is a conspicuous landmark. edward iii. was born here; cromwell and charles ii. have lived here; and a statue of the latter is conspicuous in the great quadrangle of the castle, which you enter after mounting the hill. the towers around the walls bear such names as edward iii. tower, lancaster tower, brunswick tower, victoria tower, &c.; but the noblest of all is the great keep, or round tower, which rises to the height of one hundred and twenty-five feet above the pavement of the quadrangle; and up to the summit of this i toiled, to be repaid by the charming english landscape view spread out on every side. twelve counties were within the range of vision; the square turrets of old english churches, arched-stone bridges, the beautiful park and grounds beneath, with cricketers at play, and the beautiful sheet of water ("virginia water"), like a looking-glass beneath the sun, and the thames winding away in the distance like a silver ribbon on the green landscape, which was dotted with villages, elegant country seats and castle-like dwellings of the aristocracy, formed a picture that it was a luxury to look upon. visitors are conducted through the state apartments, which contain many fine pictures, some magnificent tapestry, and which, of course, are furnished in regal style. the gobelin tapestry, and a magnificent malachite vase,--the latter a gift to the queen from nicholas, emperor of russia,--were in the presence chamber. the waterloo chamber contained many fine portraits of waterloo heroes by sir thomas lawrence, and the vandyke room was hung only with pictures painted by that artist. it will be recollected that edward iii. instituted the order of the garter at windsor, in , and in st. george's hall, or the state dining-room, as it is called, is where the queen confers the order. at the upper end of this hall, which is two hundred feet in length, is the throne upon its raised dais. upon one side of the apartment are hung the portraits of england's sovereigns, while upon the other are the coats of arms of the original knights of the garter, elegantly emblazoned with their names and titles, and those of their successors. the ceiling is also elegantly ornamented. the most attractive apartment is the long gallery, about fifteen feet wide and four hundred and fifty long, which is rich in bronzes, busts, and pictures, although we looked with some interest at a shattered section of the mast of lord nelson's flag-ship, the victory, which bears the mark of the enemy's cannon-shot, and is surmounted by a bust of nelson, in a room called the guard chamber; and in the same room is a shield, inlaid with gold and silver-work, presented by francis i. to henry viii. at their celebrated meeting on the field of the cloth of gold. next after the state apartments st. george's chapel engaged our attention. this chapel was begun by edward iv. in , and not completed till early in the sixteenth century. the architectural beauty of the interior is indescribable. the richly-ornamented roof and the great east window are most exquisitely done, and it is a wonder that tourists, authors, and the guide-books do not say more than they do about it. knights of the garter are installed here. their banners and escutcheons hang above their carved oaken stalls. a wrought steel screen, by that cunning artificer in iron, quintin matsys, stands above the last resting-place of edward iv. here, below the marble pavement, rests the gigantic frame of henry viii.; here slumber charles i. and henry vi, george iii., iv., and william iv. the monument to the princess charlotte is a magnificent group, representing her upon a couch as if just expired, and a sheet thrown over the body, while her maids by its side, with mantles thrown over their heads, are bowed down with grief. above, the spirit is represented as an angel soaring towards heaven--a figure exquisitely cut, and so gracefully poised that the spectator half expects to see it rise, float away into the air, and soar out of sight. the effect is much heightened by the admirable manner in which it has been managed to have the light fall upon this beautiful sculpture. there is a home park to windsor castle; and how large, think you, american reader, is this home park for british royalty? why, _only_ five hundred acres! this is connected with windsor great park by the long walk, a splendid avenue lined with elms, which avenue is continued on for three miles. the great park has one thousand eight hundred acres within its area. here was windsor forest, herne's oak, where herne the hunter was said to dash forth upon his steed, and where old falstaff,-- "a windsor stag, and the fattest, i think, i' the forest,"-- made his assignation with the merry wives of windsor. old windsor itself is some little distance away, nestled down on the banks of the river thames; and though we saw some ancient houses and an inn or two, there were none that, in our brief sojourn, we could conjure by imagination into such a one as fat jack and his friends, bardolph and pistol, swilled sack in, nor anything that looked like the garter inn, or mistress quickly. one inn rejoices in the name of star and garter, but the briskness and modern style of it savored not of jack falstaff's time. we closed our visit to windsor with an inspection of the royal stables, or queen's mews, as they call them here. these stables were very well arranged and kept, and contain nearly a hundred horses when all are in. many were away with the family, who were absent at the time of our visit; but there were the horses for park drives, the horses for road drives, &c., while there were also a dozen or more very handsome barouches, pony and basket carriages, and seven handsome carriages for the queen and suite to go to and from railway stations, clarences, and various other vehicles, among them a large open-sided affair, with a white tent-like roof, a present from louis philippe. considering that this is only one of the queen's mews, it seemed as if this part of her "establishment" was regal indeed. after patting the fat old white pony, which her majesty always uses in her morning drives in the park when at windsor, we presented our cicerone with an english shilling, which, notwithstanding he wore the queen's livery, he did not scorn to receive, and, taking a glance at the interior of the riding school, which is a handsomely-arranged room about two hundred feet long, where scions of royalty may be taught to "witch the world with noble horsemanship," we bade adieu to windsor. if there is any one thing aggravating to the american tourist, on his first trip to england, it is the supreme indifference of the english press to american affairs. accustomed to the liberal enterprise of the press of his own country, which, with a prodigality of expenditure, stops at nothing when news is to be had, and which every morning actually gives him news from all parts of the world, in addition to copious extracts from foreign and domestic papers, he is struck with astonishment at the comparative lack of enterprise shown by the london papers. the london times, which for the past half century it has been the custom for american papers to gratuitously advertise in paragraphs about its wonderful system and enterprise, can no more compare with the new york tribune and new york herald in lateness of news, amount of news by telegraph, and correspondence, than a stage coach with a locomotive. marked features in the times are the finished style of its editorials and correspondence, and its parliamentary reports, although the latter, i hardly think, are much better made up than the american congressional reports in our own papers. but where the inferiority of the english, and the superiority of the american papers is most conspicuous, is in the matter of telegraphic despatches, the american papers using the telegraph without stint, and the english very sparingly. the new york tribune will generally give its readers, every morning, from five to eight times as much by home lines of wire as the london times. to be sure we have a much larger extent of territory, at home, that the wires go over; but then the american papers generally give more telegraphic news from the continent of europe even, than the london papers. the american, on his first visit to england, calls for the times at his breakfast table, and if he is lucky enough to get one, turns eagerly to the telegraphic column to see what may be the latest news from america. he finds a despatch of from six to twelve lines, in which the quotations of the price of united states stocks, new york central, erie, illinois central, and some other railroad shares, are given, and, perhaps, a line or two saying that honorable thaddeus stevens, member of congress, died this morning, or the president has appointed george s. boutwell secretary of the treasury department. a hundred other matters, which affect british and american commerce, are not reported; intelligence interesting to americans, or any one who has _ever been_ to america, is not alluded to; extracts from american papers seldom given, and, when given, only such as will give a prejudiced impression. accounts of the commercial, agricultural, and material progress of the country seem to be carefully and jealously excluded from their columns, and after a month's reading of english newspapers, your wonder that the english people are so ignorant of america will give place to astonishment that they should have any correct impression of it whatever. take, for example, the well-known speech of senator sumner upon the alabama claims, which, day after day, the papers of london thundered, roared, and howled over, wrote against and commented on, and not one of them printed in its columns until an american publishing house, in london, in answer to the call for it, issued it in a pamphlet. every american knows that had a speech of equal importance, relating to this country, been made in england, it would have been telegraphed to and have appeared in our journals, _entire_, within twenty-four hours after it had been made. then, again, the enterprise of our own press is shown in its giving extracts, pro and con, of the opinions of the british press, so that the american reader feels that he is "posted," and may judge for himself; whereas, in the english papers, he gets only one side of the question, and a meagre allowance at that. murders, railroad accidents, steamboat explosions, riots, and suicides are the favorite extracts from the american press made by the london papers. the progress of great railroads, increase of great cities in size, and the progress of this country in industry, science, art, and manufactures, are only occasionally alluded to. my national pride being touched at these omissions, i inquired the reason of them of a good-natured englishman of my acquaintance one day. "well, the fact is, yah see, we don't care much about americar h'yar, yah know--yah know--'cept when there's some deuced row, yah know, and then the times tells us all about it, yah know." and it is even so; the national pride is so intense, that the englishman, as a general thing, seems to care very little for anything that is not english; his estimate of anything as good or bad is based upon its approach to or retreat from the british standard of excellence; his national vanity leads him to care very little about the progress or decline of any other country, so long as it does not immediately affect his own "tight little island." many have, apparently, pictured in their minds a map of the world like that of the chinese topographer, which gave their own country four fifths of the space, carefully drawn, leaving the remainder a blank, as occupied by outside barbarians. "but why," asked i of my good-natured friend, "does the times give two columns of bets and horse-race matter, and only a dozen lines about the great pacific railroad?" "yaas, ah! the darby, yah know,--british national sport--every englishman knows about the darby--couldn't make up a book without the times, yah know. the darby's right h'yar, and yah pacific railway's three thousand miles off, yah know." it is to be acknowledged there was a certain degree of force in this reasoning, but our american newspaper readers, who, from appearances, number as five to one compared with englishmen, have been educated up to such a point of news-getting, that such an argument would fail to satisfy them. to hear some englishmen talk, you would think the times had been their swaddling-clothes in infancy, was their book of laws in manhood, and would be their winding-sheet at death. and yet the times, despite its great influence, is far exceeded in circulation by other papers in london--the london telegraph, for instance, which, to an american, will seem in its general characteristics and enterprise the most like an american paper. it takes more pains to make itself a sheet for popular reading. its editorials are not so heavy, either in subject or matter, as the times, but more off-hand and easier digested. it seems to be _the_ paper of the middling classes. in nearly every railroad station i stopped at in england a handsomely-painted sign-board, sometimes three and sometimes six feet square, informed me that the london telegraph had the largest circulation in the world; and immediately under it we were informed, upon another sign of the same size, but another color, that the evening standard was the largest paper in the world. besides these announcements on signs, we found them on posters of the same size all over london, wherever bills were posted, and also posted in other english cities--a style of advertising rather expensive, but hardly so efficacious as the columns of the newspaper. one is struck by the difference between the american and english as a newspaper-reading people. in america, newspapers are seen everywhere; boys hawk them at every corner; they are sold at news-stands in the entrance hall of every hotel; newsmen pass through the cars with armfuls, at intervals, on every railroad line; half a dozen are taken in every hair-dresser's shop for the use of customers; and the great hotels have a reading-room with files from all the leading cities, so that a daily newspaper may be had in america, and is at hand at any and all times when the reader may wish it; but here in london i found it comparatively a matter of difficulty always to obtain a daily paper. the hotel where i lodged, which had some thirty or forty guests, "took in" _one_ london daily times, a manchester paper, and one other weekly. of course the first person who got the times never resigned it until he had read it through, and exhausted the patience of anybody else who undertook to wait for it. there was no news-stand near, nor in the hotel--"the porter could horder me a times of the newsman, reg'lar, when he came round, if i wished it, as would be ready at breakfast." some of my english friends smiled, almost incredulously, at my assertion that our american business men very generally subscribed for from three to five daily papers, besides weeklies, and wondered "why they wanted to read the news over so many times," and were also astonished to know that american coachmen read newspapers while waiting for a fare, a porter while waiting for a job, or a handcart-man at his cart-stand, that they were always a prime necessity to passengers in cars and omnibuses, and were studied, conned, and perused at almost every interval of business, and occupied no small portion of the leisure hours of all classes of american citizens. the railroad stations in london are provided with good news-stands, where the traveller may always obtain the daily and weekly papers, and also a good supply of excellent light literature. my foreign experience, thus far, however, has strengthened my conviction that america is the land of newspapers. trying to give the british museum a thorough examination is somewhat of a formidable undertaking; for it requires several visits to get even a superficial view of its valuable contents. the space of seven acres of ground is occupied by the buildings, which cost over a million pounds sterling, while the curiosities, relics, antiquities, and library cannot be estimated in a money value. as an indication, however, of the value, i may enumerate some of its purchases of collections, &c.: the charles townley collection of roman sculpture, purchased by government in for twenty thousand pounds, including discobolus, noble busts of homer, pericles, sophocles, &c.; the elgin marbles, purchased of lord elgin for thirty-five thousand pounds; the phygalian marbles, which cost nineteen thousand pounds; portland vase, eighteen hundred guineas; prints, in the collection of prints and engravings, costing from two hundred to five hundred guineas each. the enormous library has swallowed up vast private collections, besides the valuable ones that have been given to it, among them that of sir thomas grenville, which cost fifty-four thousand pounds; george iii.'s library, which was given to the government, and cost one hundred and thirty thousand pounds--an exceedingly rich and rare collection; the valuable collection of manuscripts--the cottonian harleian, cost ten thousand pounds; lansdowne, five thousand pounds; burney, thirteen thousand pounds, &c. these are only a few of the prices of leading collections that i find set down in the different hand-books of the museum; but, as is well known, there are other articles of antiquity, historical relics, bibliographical curiosities, &c., for which perfectly fabulous prices have been paid, especially for any well-authenticated relics or manuscripts relating to the early history of the country. sometimes articles of this description find their way into a public auction sale, and there is a struggle between some wealthy virtuoso and the museum agent for its possession. but he must be a bold buyer, with a deep purse, to contend successfully against the british museum, when it is decided that any article offered for sale ought to be added to its collection. the museum is divided into eleven different departments, viz.: printed books and manuscripts, oriental antiquities, greek and roman antiquities, british mediæval antiquities, coins and medals, botany, prints and drawings, zoölogy, palæontology, and mineralogy. the library is that portion of the museum most read about by strangers, and the least seen by visitors, as they are only admitted into a very few of the rooms in which this enormous collection is contained. there are now seven hundred thousand volumes, and the number increases at the rate of about twenty thousand a year; and among some of the curiosities and literary treasures in this department, i will mention a few, which will give a faint indication of its incalculable value. there are seventeen hundred different editions of the bible, some very rare and curious; an arabic edition of the koran, written in gold, eight hundred and sixty years ago; a collection of block books, printed from carved blocks of wood on one side of the leaf only, which was a style of bookmaking immediately preceding the art of printing. we were shown specimens of the earliest productions of the printing press, some of which, for clearness and beauty of execution, are most remarkable. the mazarine bible, , is very fine. then we saw a copy of cicero, printed by fust and schoeffer, in . the first edition of the first latin classic printed, and one of the two books in which greek type was used;--the press work of this was excellent. a psalter, in latin, in , by fust and schoeffer, on vellum, and the first book printed in colors, the typography clear, and beautifully executed. the first edition of reynard the fox, printed . a splendid copy of livy, printed on vellum, in , for pope alexander vi., and the only copy on vellum known to exist;--this volume cost nine hundred pounds in . the first edition of the first book printed in greek characters, being a greek grammar, printed in milan, in . the first book in which catch-words were used. the first book in which the attempt was made to produce cheap books by compressing the matter, and reducing the size of the page, was a little copy of virgil, issued in venice in ; and the present price would be far from cheap. the first book printed in france, the first in vienna, &c. "the game and playe of chess," printed by caxton, in westminster abbey, in , and which was the first edition of the first book printed in england. then there was the first edition of old chaucer's canterbury tales, printed in , by caxton. cauntyrburye was the way they spelled it in his time. Æsop's fables, with curious old wood-cuts, printed by caxton, in . the first printed document relative to america, columbus's letter, written eight months after his discovery, and printed in rome in . the first edition of paradise lost, and of robinson crusoe. and our eyes were made to ache by trying to read a "microscopic" edition of horace, printed in the smallest type ever produced, and undecipherable except with a magnifying glass. besides these, and hundreds of other old books, enough to drive a bibliomaniac out of his remaining senses, were specimens of fine and sumptuous printing, some of which, in the fifteenth century, on vellum, were a little short of marvellous in execution, and unsurpassed by anything i ever saw in modern printing. an allegorical poem, in german, printed on the occasion of the marriage of maximilian i., at nuremberg, in , was a perfect wonder of typographic art and beauty, and challenges the attention of every one, more especially those versed in typography, as a marvel of the art. i have not space for enumeration of any of the wondrous specimens of beautiful illuminated works, printed on vellum and parchment, in colors undimmed by hundreds of years, and which the printer of to-day labors in vain to surpass. the purple and gold, the rich crimson and emerald green, that absolutely flash out on the pages of those exquisite volumes known as books of hours, printed in , , and thereabouts, are the most prodigal luxury of the art i ever laid my eyes upon; and the patience, labor, time, and care required to bring out lines, spaces, and letters to such perfection must have been very great, to say nothing of the quality of ink that has held its brilliancy for more than three centuries and a half. next we have books tracing the rise and progress of illustration, and then a collection of books with autographs. in these last are some autographs worth having, as, for instance, the autograph of martin luther, in the first volume of a copy of the german bible, which bible was afterwards in the possession of melanchthon, who wrote a long note on the fly-leaf of the second volume, signing it with his autograph; an autograph of charles i. in a volume of almanacs for the year ; an autograph of milton on a copy of aratus's phænomena; that of lord bacon on a copy of fulgentius; autograph of katherine parr, last wife of henry viii., in a french volume; and that of ben jonson in a presentation copy of his volpone. the library has an extensive collection of newspapers, the oldest being a venetian gazette, bearing the date of . the great reading-room of the library, where free admission to read is granted to any person over eighteen years of age who can procure a recommendation from a person of respectability, is a magnificent apartment. it is a great circular space, containing forty-eight thousand superficial feet, covered by a dome one hundred and forty feet in diameter, and one hundred and six feet high. this room is open from nine a. m. to five or six p. m., and is always well lighted and warmed, and contains thirty-seven reading tables, with two or three exclusively for ladies. the floor is covered with a material which deadens the sound of footsteps, and no loud talking is permitted; so that every opportunity is afforded for quiet study. quite a number were busily engaged, some with a large heap of volumes about them, evidently looking up authorities; others slowly and patiently transcribing or translating from some ancient black-letter volume before them; and still others quietly and comfortably enjoying the last new novel. there is space afforded for three hundred readers, and in the centre of the room, on shelves, are catalogues of the books and manuscripts contained in the library. close at hand, running round the apartment, are shelves containing books of reference, or "lifts of the lazy," such as dictionaries, encyclopædias, &c., which readers are allowed to take from the shelves themselves. these form of themselves a library of twenty thousand volumes. for other books the reader fills out a card, and hands it to one of the attendants, who sends for it by others, who fetch it from its near or distant shelf. the catalogue of the library is not finished, and there is a saying that the man is not living who will see it finished, the regular additions and occasional bequests serving to keep it in a perpetually unfinished condition. the most noted of the bequests are those presented by right hon. thomas grenville and george iii. the former donor, whose gift was twenty thousand two hundred and forty volumes, worth over fifty thousand pounds, bequeathed his library to the nation as an act of justice, saying in his will that the greater part of it had been purchased from the profits of a sinecure office, and he acknowledged the obligation to the public by giving it to the museum for public use. the library of george iii. contained eighty thousand volumes, and is kept in a gallery built expressly to hold it. the egyptian galleries contain an endless collection of antiquities from that ancient land. from memphis there are old monuments, fragments of statues, slabs with innumerable hieroglyphics, while old thebes, the capital of ancient egypt, seems to have been ransacked to have furnished slabs, stones, carvings, fragments of monuments, hieroglyphical inscriptions, and sarcophagi. in these galleries we saw the granite statue of rameses ii., the colossal granite head and shoulders from the memnonium at thebes; the head of a colossal ram from an avenue of them which leads up to the gateway of one of the great palaces at karnak; here were two granite lions from nubia; a colossal head brought from karnak by belzoni; and heaps of carved plunder stolen from old egypt by british travellers and the british government; mummies, articles taken from mummy pits, ornaments, vases, egyptian papyri, monuments cut by chisels two thousand years before christ; implements the very use of which can now only be surmised; carvings of scenes in domestic life that are guessed at, and of battles, feasts, sieges, and triumphs, of which no other record exists--a wonder to the curious, and a not yet solved problem to the scholar. the assyrian galleries, with their wealth of antiquities from ancient nineveh, brought principally by mr. layard, are very interesting. here we may study the bass-relief from sennacherib's palace, and the hieroglyphics on a monument to sardanapalus, and bass-reliefs of the battles and sieges of his reign; the best specimens of assyrian sculpture, glass, ivory, and bronze ornaments, mosaics, seals, obelisks, and statues, the dates of which are from seven to eight hundred years before the christian era. think of being shown a fragment of an inscription relating to nebuchadnezzar, and another of darius i., a bass-relief of sardanapalus the great, the writing implements of the ancient egyptians, the harps, flutes, and cymbals, and the very dolls with which their children played three thousand years ago! the lover of roman and grecian antiquities may enjoy himself to his heart's content in the roman and grecian galleries, where ancient sculptures by artists whose names have perished, though their works still challenge admiration, will attract the attention. in these galleries the gods and goddesses of mythology are liberally represented--the townley venus, discobolus (quoit-thrower), elegant bust of apollo, heads and busts of noble greeks and romans, and the celebrated marble bust, clytie; that exquisitely-cut head rising above the bust, which springs from a half-unfolded flower. the elgin marbles are in two rooms, known as the elgin rooms. these marble sculptures were obtained by the earl of elgin, in , while he was the british ambassador at constantinople, the sultan granting him a firman to remove from athens whatever monuments he might wish. he accordingly stripped from the parthenon huge slabs of bass-reliefs, marble figures, and ornamental portions of that noble building. whatever may be said of this desecration of the athenian temple, it is altogether probable that these world-renowned sculptures and most splendid specimens of grecian art are better preserved here, and of more service to the world, than they would have been if suffered to remain in the ruin of the temple. the beauty of these sculptures, notwithstanding the dilapidated and shattered condition of some of them, shows in what perfection the art flourished when they were executed, and the figures are models yet unsurpassed among artists of our own time. besides these galleries, there is also a gallery of anglo-roman antiquities, found in britain, another of british antiquities anterior to the romans, embracing such remains as have been found of the period previous to the roman conquest, known as the stone and bronze period among the antiquaries; also a collection of anglo-saxon antiquities, including saxon swords, spear-heads, bronze ornaments, coins, &c.; then comes a mediæval collection, a vast array of enamelled work, vases, jewelry, armor, mosaic work, seals, earthen ware, and weapons of the middle ages; two great vase rooms, filled with grecian, italian, roman, and other antique vases, found principally in tombs and ancient monuments, from the rudest to the most graceful of forms; the bronze room, where we revelled amid ancient greek, roman, and etruscan bronzes, and found that the bacchus, mercury, and jupiter, and the lions, dolphins, satyrs, and vases of antiquity, are still the most beautiful and graceful works of art extant, and that a large portion of those of our own time are but reproductions of these great originals of a former age. if the visitor have a zoölogical taste, the four great galleries of zoölogical specimens--beasts, birds, reptiles, and fishes--will engage his attention, in which all sorts and every kind of stuffed specimens are displayed; and in another gallery a splendid collection of fossils may be inspected, where are the remains of the gigantic iguanodon and megalosaurus, skeleton portions of an enormous bird, ten feet high, from new zealand,--the unpronounceable latin name of which i forgot to note down,--a splendid entire skeleton of the great irish deer, fossil fish, imprints of bird tracks found in rocks, of skeletons of antediluvian animals, plants, and shells, and huge skeletons of the megatherium and mastodon, skeletons and fragments of gigantic reindeer, elk, oxen, ibex, turtles, and huge lizards and crocodiles now extinct. there are also halls and departments for botany and mineralogy, coin and medal room, which, besides its splendid numismatical collection, contains the celebrated portland vase, and some curious historical relics. apropos of historical relics; in a room not far from the entrance hall there are some most interesting historical and literary curiosities, over and about which i loitered with unabated interest, for here i looked upon the original deed of a house in blackfriars, dated march , , and signed william shakespeare. here we saw the original magna charta, the very piece of parchment that had been thumbed by the rebellious barons, and to which king john affixed his unwilling signature at runnymede, june , . this piece of discolored parchment, with the quaint, regular, clerkly old english handwriting, and the fragment of the tyrant's great seal hanging to it, is the instrument that we have read so much of, as the chief foundation of the constitutional liberties of the people of england, first executed over six centuries and a half ago, and confirmed since then by no less than thirty-eight solemn ratifications. it is certainly one of the most interesting english documents in existence, and we looked upon it with feelings something akin to veneration. displayed in glass cases, we read the original draft of the will of mary, queen of scots, in her own handwriting, the original manuscript of kenilworth in walter scott's handwriting, the original manuscript of pope's translation of the iliad, a tragedy in the handwriting of tasso, the original manuscript of macaulay's england, sterne's sentimental journey in the author's handwriting, nelson's own pen sketch of the battle of the nile, milton's original agreement for the sale of paradise lost, which was completed april , , the author being then fifty-eight years of age. the terms of the sale, which was made to samuel symons, a bookseller, was five pounds down, with a promise of five pounds more when thirteen hundred copies of the first edition should have been sold, another five pounds more when thirteen hundred copies of the second edition should be sold, and so on for successive editions. it was not, however, till , the year of his death, that the second edition was published; and in december, , milton's widow sold all her interest in the work for eight pounds, paid by symons. we saw here the little prayer book used by lady jane grey on the scaffold, with her name, jane dudley, in her own handwriting on the fly-leaf; autographic letters from british sovereigns, including those of richard iii., henry iv., prince hal, edward the black prince, henry viii., and queen elizabeth, bloody mary, charles ii., mary, queen of scots, and oliver cromwell. nor were these all. here were hogarth's receipted bills for some of his pictures, the original bull of pope leo x., conferring on henry viii. the title of defender of the faith (and a precious bull he made of it), autographic letters of peter the great, martin luther, erasmus, calvin, sir thomas more, cardinal wolsey, archbishop cranmer, john knox, robert, earl of essex, dudley, earl of leicester, francis bacon, sir isaac newton; then a batch of literary names, letters from addison, dryden, spenser, moliere, corneille; papers signed by george washington, benjamin franklin, horatio nelson, napoleon bonaparte, francis i., philip ii., gustavus adolphus, charles xii. of sweden, and so many fresh and interesting surprises greeted me that i verily believe that at last i should have copied down in the little note-book, from which i am writing out these memoranda, a despatch from julius cæsar, announcing that he yesterday passed the river rubicon, or his "_veni, vidi, vici_," with the feeling that it was quite correct that such a document should be there. chapter viii. from london to paris. one of the thoughts that comes uppermost in the mind while one is making preparations for the journey is the passage of the channel, about which so much has been said and written--a passage in which old neptune, though he may have exempted the traveller on other occasions, hardly ever fails to exact his tribute. he who can pass the channel in rough weather without a qualm, may henceforth consider himself proof against any attack of the sea god upon his digestion. a first-class through ticket from london to paris costs nearly fifteen dollars in gold; but many cheapen the fare by taking first-class boat and second-class railroad tickets. the railroad ride to dover is about seventy miles, and the close of it carries us through a tunnel that pierces the celebrated shakespeare's cliff; and finally we are landed on the pier near the little steamer that is to take us over. after a good long stare at the high, chalky cliffs of old albion, we disposed ourselves upon deck, comfortable as possible, and by rare good fortune had a smooth passage; for of the entire number of passengers, not a single one suffered from seasickness during the transit; so that the huge piles of wash-bowls were not even brought into requisition, and the stewards and boat boys grumbled at the luck that deprived them of so many sixpences and shillings. "'tisn't horfen the chan'l runs as smooth as this," said an old weather-beaten sort of sea chambermaid, who stood guard over the bowls. "she's flat as dover pier to-day; but," added he with a grin, "when yer make hanythink like a smooth parsidge over, yer sure to ketch a horful 'eave comin' back." and he was right. there is one comfortable anticipation, however; and that is, that the sea trip occupies only an hour and a quarter. arrived at the great railroad station at calais, we had our first experience of a french railway buffet, or restaurant, for dinner was ready and the tables spread, the passengers having ample time afforded them before the train started. the neatness of the table linen, the excellence of the french bread, the bottles of claret, _vin ordinaire_, set at intervals along the table, the promptness and rapidity of the service, fine flavor of the soup, and good cooking of the viands, were noticeable features. the waiters spoke both french and english; they dashed about with yankee celerity; and gay, and jolly, and right hearty were the passengers after their comfortable transit. now, in getting positions in the cars come trials of indifferent as well as outrageously bad attempts at the french language, which the french guards, probably from long experience, contrive in some way to understand, and not laugh at. arrived at paris after a journey of eleven hours from london, we have even time, though fatigued, to admire the admirable system that prevails at the railroad station, by which all confusion is prevented in obtaining luggage or carriages, and we are soon whirling over the asphalte, floor-like pavements to the hotel de l'athenée. here i had my first experience of the humbug of french politeness; for, on descending from the carriage, after my luggage had been deposited at the very office of the hotel, the servants, whose duty it was to come forward and take it, stood back, and laughed to see the puzzle of a foreigner at the demand for _pour boire_, which, in his inexperience, he did not understand, and, when the driver was finally sent away with thrice his demand, suffered luggage, lady and gentleman, to find their own way to the little cuddy of a _bureau_, office of the hotel, and were with difficulty made to understand, by a proficient in their own tongue, that rooms for the party were engaged there. this house and the grand hotel, which, i believe, are "run" by the credit mobilier company, are perfect extortion mills in the matter of charges, especially to americans, whom the parisians make a rule always to charge very much more than any one else. during the exposition year, the grand hotel extortions were but little short of barefaced swindles upon american guests; and to this day there is no way one can quicker arouse the ire of certain american citizens than to refer to their experiences in that great caravanserai for the fleecing of foreign visitors. the _cuisine_ of these great hotels is unexceptionable, the rooms, which are either very grand or very small, well furnished, although comfort is too often sacrificed to display; but the attendance or attention, unless the servants are heavily feed, is nothing to speak of, while the charges during the travelling season are a third beyond those of other equally good, though not "grand" establishments. the magnificent new opera house, near these hotels, is a huge building, rich on the exterior with splendid statues, marbles, medallions, carving, and gilding, upon an island as it were, with the great, broad avenues on every side of it; and as i sit at table in the _salle à manger_ looking out at it, i am suddenly conscious that the english tongue appears to be predominant about me; and so indeed it is, as a large portion of the guests at these two hotels are americans or english, which accounts in a measure for the high prices and bad service, the french considering americans and english who travel to be moving money-bags, from which it is their duty to extract as much as possible by every means in their power. the court-yard of the grand hotel, around which, in the evening, gentlemen sit to sip a cup of coffee and puff a cigar, is such a rendezvous for americans, that during the exposition it was proposed by some to post up the inscription, "french spoken here," for fear of mistakes. the modes of living, besides that at hotels, have been frequently described, and in taking apartments, one must be very explicit with the landlord; indeed, it will be well to take a written memorandum from him, else, on the presentation of his first bill, one may ascertain the true value of a frenchman's word, or rather how valueless he considers a verbal agreement. we had the fortune, however, in hiring apartments, to deal with a frenchman who understood how to bargain with foreigners, and had learned that there was something to be gained by dealing fairly, and having the reputation of being honest. this man did a good business by taking new houses immediately after they were finished, hiring furniture, and letting apartments to foreigners. from him we learned that french people never like to live in an entirely new house, one that has been dwelt in by others for a year having the preference; perhaps this pre-occupation is supposed to take the chill off the premises; so our landlord made a good thing of it in taking these houses at a low rent of the owners for one year, and getting a reputation for fair prices, fair dealing, and an accommodating spirit: those who hired of him were so prompt to commend him as an exception among the crowd of grasping, cringing rascals in his business, that his houses in the pleasant quarter, near the arc d'etoile were constantly occupied by americans and english. in paris do as the parisians do; and really it is difficult to do otherwise in the matter of meals. breakfast here is taken at twelve o'clock, the day being commenced with a cup of coffee and a french roll, so that between twelve and one business appears at its height in the _cafés_, and almost suspended everywhere else. to gastronomic yankees, accustomed to begin the day with a good "square" meal, the french _déjeûner_ is hardly sufficient to support the three hours' sight-seeing our countrymen calculate upon doing between that time and the real _déjeûner à la fourchette_. the sights and scenes of paris have been so thoroughly described within the past three years, in every style and every vein, by the army of correspondents who have visited the gay capital, that beyond personal experiences it seems now as though but little else could possibly be written. i therefore look at my closely-written note-book, the heap of little memoranda, and the well-pencilled fly-leaves of my guide-books, of facts, impressions, and experiences, with some feelings of doubt as to how much of this already, perhaps, too familiar matter shall be inflicted upon the intelligent reader; and yet, before i visited paris, every letter of the descriptive tourist kind was of interest, and since then they are doubly so. before visiting europe, such letters were instruction for what i was to one day experience; and many a bit of useful information, read in the desultory letter of some newspaper correspondent which had been nearly forgotten, has come to mind in some foreign capital, and been of essential service, while, as before remarked in these pages, much of the important minutiæ of travel i have been surprised has not been alluded to. that surprise in a measure vanishes, when any one with a keen love of travel finds how much occupies his attention amid such an avalanche of the enjoyable things that he has read, studied, and dreamed of, as are encountered in the great european capitals. in paris my first experience at living was in lodgings in a fine new house on avenue friedland, third flight (_au troisième_). the apartments consisted of a _salon_, which served as parlor, breakfast and reception room, a sleeping-room, and a dressing-room with water fixtures and pegs for clothing. the grand arc d'etoile was in full view, and but a few rods from my lodgings, and consequently the very first sight that i "did." this magnificent monument of the first napoleon is almost as conspicuous a landmark in paris as is the state house in boston, and seems to form the terminus of many of the broad streets that radiate from it, and upon approaching the city from certain points overtops all else around. the arch is situated in a large, circular street, called the place d'etoile, which is filled with elegant houses, with gardens in front, and is one of the most fashionable quarters of paris: from this place radiate, as from a great star, or like the sticks of a lady's fan, twelve of the most magnificent avenues of the city, and from the top of the arch itself the spectator can look straight down these broad streets for miles. it is quite recently that several of them have been straightened and widened, under the direction of baron haussmann; and one cannot but see what a commanding position a battery of artillery would occupy stationed in this place d'etoile, and sweeping down twelve great avenues to the very centre of the city. the length, breadth, straightness, regularity, and beauty of these avenues strike the american visitor with astonishment. fancy a street twice as wide as broadway or washington street, with a sidewalk as wide as some of our ordinary streets, and shaded by a double line of trees, the street itself paved or laid in concrete or smooth hard asphalte; the houses tall, elegant, and of uniform style; brilliant, with elegant stores, cafés with their crowds at the tables set in front of them; the gay, merry throngs; little one-horse barouches, the french _voitures_, as they are called, flying here and there, and the more stylish turn-outs of the aristocracy,--and you have some idea of the great avenues leading up to the arc d'etoile. after passing this grand arch, you enter upon the magnificent avenue de l'impératrice, three hundred feet wide, which leads to the splendid bois de boulogne, an avenue that is crowded with the rush of elegant equipages, among which were to be seen those of foreign ambassadors, rich residents, english and other foreign noblemen, french ballet-dancers, and the demi-monde, every pleasant afternoon. this great arch of triumph overwhelms one with its grandeur and vastness upon near approach; it lifts its square altar over one hundred and fifty feet from the ground; its width is one hundred and thirty-seven feet, and it is sixty-eight feet in thickness. the grand central arch is a great curve, ninety feet high and forty-five wide, and a transverse arch--that is, one going through it from one end to the other--is fifty-seven feet high and twenty-five wide. the arch fronts the magnificent champs elysées, adown which broad vista the visitor looks till he sees it expand into the grand place de la concorde, with its fountains and column of luxor, beyond which rise the tuileries. the outside of this arch has superb groups, representing warlike scenes, allegorical figures, &c., by some of the most celebrated french and italian artists. some of the great figures of victory, history, fame, &c., are from eighteen to twenty feet in height. inside the arch, upon its walls, are cut in the solid stone the names of nearly a hundred victories, and also the names of french generals whose bravery won so much renown for the french nation, so much glory for their great corsican captain, and which are names that are identified with his and _la grande armée_. this superb monument was commenced, in , by napoleon, but not completed till ; and some idea may be obtained of the work and skill expended upon it from its cost, which was ten million four hundred and thirty-three thousand francs, or over _two millions of dollars_ in gold. two of the groups of bass-reliefs upon it cost nearly thirty thousand dollars. ascent to the top is obtained by broad staircases, up a flight of two hundred and seventy-two steps, and the visitor may look down the avenue de la grande armée, avenue d'eylau, or over the beautiful avenue de l'impératrice, or champs elysées, far as his eye can reach, and still farther by the aid of the telescopes and spy-glasses kept by the custodians on the summit. descending from the arch, we will take a stroll down the avenue des champs elysées--the broad, beautiful avenue which appears to be the favorite promenade of parisians. upon either side of this avenue are open grounds, and groves of trees, in and amid which is every species of cheap amusement for the people--open booths in which are little games of chance for cheap prizes of glass ware and toys, merry-go-rounds, punch and judy shows, elegant cafés with their throngs of patrons sitting in front and watching the passers by, or the gay equipages on their way to the bois de boulogne. in one of these groves, at the side of the champs elysées, is the circus of the empress, where feats of horsemanship are performed, and in another a fine military band plays every afternoon; the old palais de l'industrie fronts upon this avenue, and the celebrated jardin mabille is but a few steps from it; but this should be seen by gas-light; so, indeed, should the whole avenue, which by night, in the summer, presents a most fairy-like scene. then the groves are illuminated by thousands of colored lights; cafés chantants are seen with gayly-dressed singers, sitting in ornamented kiosks, which are illuminated by jets of gas in every conceivable form; here, at a corner, a huge lyre of fire blazes, and beneath it shines, in burning letters, the name of a celebrated café, or theatre; the little booths and penny shows are all gayly illuminated; gas gleams and flashes in all sorts of fantastic forms from before and within the café; and, looking far up the avenue, to where the great arch rears its dark form, you see thousands of colored lights flitting too and fro, hither and thither, in every direction, like a troup of elves on a midnight gambol; these are the lights upon the cabs and voitures, which are obliged by law to have them, and those of different quarters of the city are distinguished the one from the other by different colors. the cheapness and convenience of these little one-horse open barouches of paris make us long for the time when they and the english hansom cab shall displace the great, cumbersome carriage we now use in america. one of these little fiacres, which you can hail at any time, and almost anywhere in the streets of paris, carries you anywhere you may choose, to go in the city from one point to another, for a franc and a half fare, and a _pour boire_ of about three or four cents to the driver; or, if taken by the hour, you can glide over the asphalte floor-like streets at the rate of two francs an hour. the police regulations respecting fares are very strict and rigidly enforced, as, in fact, are all police regulations, which are most excellent; and the order, system, and regularity which characterize all arrangements at places of public resort and throughout the city, give the stranger a feeling of perfect safety and confidence--confidence that he is under the protection and eye of a power and a law, one which is prompt and efficient in its action, and in no way to be trifled with. the fiacre drivers all have their printed _carte_ of the tariff, upon which is their number, which they hand to customers upon entering the vehicle; these can be used in case of imposition or dispute, which, however, very seldom occurs; rewards are given to drivers for honesty in restoring articles left in vehicles, and the property thus restored to owners by the police in the course of a year is very large, sometimes reaching sixty or seventy thousand dollars. straight down the broad champs elysées, till we came into that magnificent and most beautiful of all squares in paris, the place de la concorde. here, in this great open square, which the guide-books describe as four hundred paces in length, and the same in width, several other superb views of the grand avenues and splendid public buildings are obtained. standing in the centre, i looked back, up the broad champs elysées, more than a mile in length, the whole course slightly rising in grade, till the view terminated with the triumphal arch. looking upon one side, we saw the old palace of the bourbons, now the palace of the corps législatif. fronting upon one side of the place are two magnificent edifices, used as government offices, and up through the rue royale that divides them, the vista is terminated by the magnificent front of the madeleine. here, in the centre of the square, we stood opposite the celebrated obelisk of luxor, that expensive gift of the pacha of egypt to louis philippe, and which, from the numerous bronze models of it sold in the fancy goods stores in america, is getting to be almost as familiar as bunker hill monument. indeed, a salesman in tiffany and company's room of bronzes, in broadway, new york, once told me that, notwithstanding the hieroglyphics upon the bronze representations of this obelisk that they sell, he had more than once had people, who looked as though they ought to have known better, cry out, "o, here's bunker hill monument; and it looks just like it, too." the luxor obelisk was a heavy, as well as an expensive present, for it weighed five hundred thousand pounds, and it cost the french government more than forty thousand dollars to get it in place upon its pedestal; but now that it is here, it makes a fine appearance, and, as far as proportions and looks go, appears to be very appropriately placed in the centre of this magnificent square, its monolith of red granite rising one hundred feet; though, as we lean over the rail that surrounds it, the thought suggests itself, that this old chronicle of the deeds of sesostris the great, who reigned more than a thousand years before paris had an existence, and whose hundred-gated city is now a heap of ruins, was really as out of place here, in the great square of the gayest of modern capitals, as a funeral monument in a crowded street, or an elegy among the pages of a novel. around the square, at intervals, are eight huge marble statues, seated upon pedestals, which represent eight of the great cities of france, such as marseilles, rouen, lyons, bordeaux, &c. each figure is said to face in the direction in which the city or town it is called for lies from paris. the great bronze fountains that stand in the centre of the square have round basins, fifty feet in diameter, above which rise others of lesser sizes. tritons and water nymphs about the lower basin hold dolphins, which spout streams of water into the upper ones, and at the base sit ponderous granite figures, which the parisians say do well to sit down, for, if they stood up, they would soon be fatigued by their own weight. but the great fountain here in the place de la concorde marks an historic spot. it is no more nor less than the site of that horrid instrument, the guillotine, during the french revolution; and it was here, in this great square, now filled with bright and happy crowds, gazing at the flashing waters of the fountains, the statues, and obelisk, or rambling amid the pretty walks, lined with many-hued flowers, in the gardens of the tuilleries near by,--it was here, round and about, that the fierce crowd surged during some of the bloodiest scenes in french history. near where rises the bronze fountain, the horrid scaffold once stood; here, where the crystal streams rush and foam, shine and sparkle in the sunbeams, once poured out the richest and basest blood of france, in torrents almost rivalling those that now dash into the great basin that covers the spot they crimsoned; here the head of louis xvi. fell from his shoulders; here charlotte corday met death unterrified; here twenty-two girondists poured out their life-blood; here poor marie antoinette bent her neck to the cruel knife, and the father of louis philippe met his death; here the victims of the fell tyrant robespierre fell by hundreds. at length danton himself, and his party, were swept before the descending axe; and finally the bloody robespierre and his fierce associates met a just retribution beneath the sweep of the insatiate blade, sixty or seventy falling beneath it in a day. great heavens! would they never tire of blood, or was the clang of the guillotine music to their ears, that for more than two years they kept the horrid machine in motion, till twenty-eight hundred victims fell beneath its stroke! well said chateaubriand, in opposing the erection of a fountain upon the very site of the scaffold, that all the water in the world would not be sufficient to efface the bloody stains with which the place was sullied. it thus fell out that it was agreed, that any monument placed in this memorable square should be one which should bear no allusion to political events, and the gift of mehemet ali afforded opportunity to place one. so here the laudatory inscription to a warlike egyptian of three thousand years ago and more is placed, to change the current of men's thoughts, who may stand here and think of the surging crowd of fierce _sans-culottes_, and still fiercer women, who once thronged this place, and who were treated to their fill of what their brutal natures demanded--blood, blood! but are these the people that would do such horrid deeds--these men we see around us, with varnished boots, immaculate linen, and irreproachable costume? these ladies, gentle creatures, with faultless costume, ravishing boots, dainty toilets, and the very butterflies of fashion? if you would like something approaching a realization of your imagination, wait till you get into the latin quarter, or in some of the old parts of paris, where narrow lanes have not yet been made into broad avenues; where low-browed, blue-bloused workmen are playing dominoes in cheap wine-shops; and coarse women, with big, bare, red arms, and handkerchief-swathed heads, stand in the doorways and bandy obscene jests at the passers by; where foul odors assail the olfactories; where you meet the _sergent-de-ville_ frequently; and where, despite of what you have heard of the great improvements made in paris, you see just such places as the _tapis franc_, described in eugene sue's mysteries of paris, and in which, despite the excellence of the parisian police, you had rather not trust yourself after dark without a guard; and you will meet to-day those whom it would seemingly take but little to transform into the fierce mob of . the gigantic improvements made in paris during the reign of louis napoleon are apparent even to the newly-arrived tourist, and are unequalled by any city in the world. broad, elegant avenues have been cut through densely-populated and filthy districts; great squares, monuments, opera-houses, theatres, and public buildings of unexampled splendor have arisen on every side; palaces and monuments have been repaired and restored, the great quadrangle of the louvre and tuilleries completed. turn which way one will, he sees the evidences of this remarkable man's ability--excellent police arrangements, drainage, public works, liberality to foreigners, &c. what little opportunity i had of judging the french people almost leads me to believe that no government could be invented under the sun that would satisfy them for any length of time, and that they would attempt revolutions merely for a new sensation. from this square it is but a few steps to the garden of the tuilleries. the portion of the garden that is immediately contiguous to the palace is not open to the public, but separated from it by a sort of trench and an iron railing. the public portion of the garden is beautifully laid out with _parterres_ of flowers, fountains, bronze and marble statues, &c. while promenading its walks, our attention was attracted to a man who seemed upon the best of terms with the birds that flew from the trees and bushes, and perched upon his head, hands, and arms, ate bird-seed off his hat and shoulders, and even plucked it from between his lips. he was evidently either some "master of the birds to the emperor," or a favored bird-charmer, as he appeared to be familiarly acquainted with the feathered warblers, and also the police, who sauntered by without interfering with him. the exciting scenes of french history, that are familiar to every school-boy's memory, render paris, to say nothing of its other attractions, one of those points fraught with historical associations that the student longs to visit. to stand upon the very spot where the most memorable events of french history took place, beneath the shadow of some of the self-same buildings and monuments that have looked down upon them, and to picture in one's mind how those scenes of the past must have appeared, is pleasant experience to those of an imaginative turn. here we stand in the place de la bastille, the very site of the famous french prison; the horrors of its dungeons and the cruelties of its jailers have chilled the blood of youth and roused the indignation of maturer years; but here it was rent asunder and the inmost secrets exposed by the furious mob, in the great revolution of , and not a vestige of the terrible prison now remains. in the broad, open square rises a tall monument of one hundred and fifty feet, from the summit of which a figure of liberty, with a torch in one hand and broken chain in another, is poised upon one foot, as if about to take flight. the stones of the cruel dungeons of the bastille now form the pont de la concorde, trampled under foot, as they should be, by the throngs that daily pass and repass that splendid bridge. the last historical and revolutionary act in this square was the burning of louis philippe's throne there in . passing through the rue de la paix, celebrated for its handsome jewelry and gentlemen's furnishing goods stores, and as a street where you may be sure of paying the highest price asked in paris for any thing you wish to purchase, we came out into the place vendôme, in the middle of which stands the historic column we have so often read of, surmounted by the bronze statue of the great napoleon, who erected this splendid and appropriate trophy of his victories. one hundred and thirty-five feet high, and twelve in diameter, is this well-known column, and the bronze bass-reliefs, which commence at the base and circle round the shaft to its top, are cast from twelve hundred pieces of russian and austrian cannon, which the great corsican captured in his campaign of , which ended with the tremendous battle of austerlitz. the bass-reliefs on the pedestal are huge groups of weapons, warlike emblems, &c., and four huge bronze eagles, weighing five hundred pounds each, holding wreaths, are perched at the four corners of the pedestal. the iron railing around this monument is thickly hung with wreaths of _immortelles_; these are placed here by the surviving soldiers of the grand army of napoleon i., and are renewed once a year upon some celebrated anniversary, when the spectacle of this handful of trembling veterans of the first empire, showing their devotion to the memory of their great chieftain, is a most touching one, while the deference and honor shown to these shattered relics of france's warlike host, whose deeds have won it an imperishable name in military glory, must be gratifying to their pride. i saw an old shrunken veteran with a wooden leg hobbling along with a stick, who wore an old-fashioned uniform, upon which glittered the medals and decorations of the first empire, to whom sentinels at public stations, as he passed, presented arms with a clang and clatter that seemed to send the faint sparks of dying fire up into his eyes, with a momentary martial gleam beneath his shaggy white eyebrows, as he raised his shrunken hand in acknowledgment to his old fashioned _képi_, while the military salutes, and even deferential raising of hats, of young officers, his superiors in rank, that he passed, were returned with a smile beneath his snowy mustache that bespoke what an incense to his pride as a soldier of the grand army were all such tokens. but it was a still more interesting sight to see, at the court-yard of the hotel des invalides, at about noon, on the occasion of some daily military routine, some thirty or forty of these old soldiers in various uniforms, wearing side arms only, some hobbling upon one leg, others coming feebly but determinedly into line as they ever did on the great battle-fields of the empire, and stand in dress parade while the band played its martial strains, and their own flags surmounted by the french eagles waved before them, and a splendid battalion of french troops (some of their sons and grandsons, perhaps), officers and men, presented arms to them as they saluted the flags they had won renown under half a century before, and then slowly, and with an effort at military precision that was almost comical, filed back to their quarters. we used to read in rogers's poem of ginevra that, "if ever you should come to modena, (where, among other relics, you may see tassoni's bucket; but 'tis not the true one;") so, also, if ever you should go to paris, you will be shown at one end of the louvre a large window, from which you will be told charles ix. fired upon the flying huguenots as they ran from the ferocious mob that pursued them with bloody weapons and cries of "kill, kill!" on the night of st. bartholomew, ; but this window is "not the true one," for it was not built till long after the year of the massacre; but the old church of st. germain l'auxerrois, near by, from the belfry of which first issued the fatal signal of that terrible night, is still standing, and the parisians in that vicinity find it easy to detect strangers and foreigners, from their pausing and looking up at this church with an expression of interest. the louvre! every letter-writer goes into ecstasies over it, is struck with wonder at its vastness, and luxuriates in the inspection of its priceless treasures. the completion of the connection of the louvre with the tuilleries, made by louis napoleon, gives a grand enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by the magnificent buildings of this great gallery of fine arts and the royal palaces. at one end, dividing the court-yard of the louvre from that of the tuileries, rises the triumphal arc du carrousel, erected by napoleon in , surmounted with its car of victory and bronze horses; and here the memory of the army of the first empire is perpetuated by statues of cuirassiers, infantry and artillerymen, in the uniform of their different corps, and the fashion in vogue at that time, while bass-reliefs represent various battle scenes in which they figured. it was in this open space, now the most magnificent court in europe, that the guillotine was first set up, before it was removed to the square which is now the place de la concorde. an iron fence runs across the court-yard at this point, making a division of the space, as it is from an entrance in the palace, fronting this arch, that the emperor, empress, and imperial family generally make their entrance and exit. the architectural appearance and ornaments of these elegant buildings combine to form a splendid interior, as it were, of this vast enclosed square; the buildings, fronted with corinthian columns, elegant and elaborate sculptures, and statues, form a space something like a vast parallelogram, their uniformity being interrupted by magnificent and lofty pavilions, as they are called. when we say the boston city hall is somewhat of a poor copy of one of these pavilions, it may give the reader an idea of what they are. their fronts are adorned with great groups of statuary, wreaths, decorations, and allegorical figures, beautifully cut, and through their vast gateways ingress is had from the street. all along the front of the buildings, upon this interior space, are statues of distinguished men of france. i counted over eighty of them. among them were those of colbert, mazarin, racine, voltaire, vauban, buffon, richelieu, montaigne, &c. the completion of the connection of the two palaces by louis napoleon has rendered this court-yard indescribably grand and elegant, while its vastness strikes the beholder with astonishment. the space that is now enclosed and covered by the old and new louvre and tuileries is about sixty acres. an idea of the large amount of money that has been lavished upon these elegant piles may be obtained from the fact that the cost of the sculptures on the new part of the building is nearly half a million dollars; but then, perhaps, as an american remarked, it ought to be a handsome place, since they have been over three hundred years building it. some of the finest portions of the architectural designs of the façade of the louvre were completed by napoleon i. from the designs of perrault, a physician, and the author of fully as enduring monuments of genius--those charming fairy tales of cinderella, bluebeard, and the sleeping beauty. perhaps the ornamental columns and beautiful decorations were something of a realization of his ideas of palaces of the fairies and genii, in his charming stories. the work of improvement upon the buildings and court-yard of the louvre is still going on, and the present emperor will leave here, as well as in many other parts of paris, the impress of his power, as used for beautifying the french capital, and raising enduring monuments of the encouragement of improvements, progress, and the arts, during his reign. we have been in and through the louvre, not in one visit, but again and again, over acres of flooring, past miles of pictures,--a plethora of luxurious art,--days of wonder, and hours of sight-seeing. how many originals we have gazed upon that we have seen copies of in every style! how many pictures of great artists that we have read of, and how many curious and wonderful historical relics and antiquities! what an opportunity for the student and the artist, what a source of amusement and entertainment, what a privilege, in these old countries, is the free admission to these costly and well-stocked galleries of art--here, where we may see hundreds of celebrated pictures and statues, any two of which would "pay handsomely," placed on exhibition in one of our great american cities; here, where there are seven miles of pictures, and their catalogue makes a thick book of over seven hundred pages; here, where, if you were to start and walk constantly, without stopping an instant to rest, it would require three hours to pass through the different apartments; here, where, perhaps, the american tourist or newspaper correspondent sharpens his pencil and takes a fresh note-book, with the feeling that it is a prolific field, but is overwhelmed with an ocean of art, and consoles himself with the thought that the louvre has been so often described, written about, and commented on, that the subject is worn threadbare; and that the public has had enough of rhapsodies and descriptions of it. and he is more than half right. the louvre alone is a great exposition, that would suffice to attract thousands of foreigners to paris. the number of visitors is immense. galignani says that the produce of the sale of catalogues amounts to forty thousand dollars a year, and more than twenty thousand dollars per annum are taken for depositing canes and umbrellas at the door, the charge for which service is only two or three sous. it is best to avoid, if possible, the taking of canes, parasols, and umbrellas with you, as it may chance that you will desire to make exit at some point distant from that of entrance, and save the trouble of returning for the _impedimenta_. i commenced with a determination, like many others, to see the louvre thoroughly and systematically, and therefore began with the basement story, entering the museum of assyrian antiquities, thence into egyptian halls of curiosities, where the visitor gets view of a large and interesting collection from the cities of nineveh, thebes, &c., the results of the researches and discoveries of french _savants_ and travellers in the east--vases, mummies, fragments of sculptured stones and figures, manuscripts, besides articles of domestic use among the ancient egyptians. here were the mirrors that theban dames arranged their dark tresses at, and the combs, needle and toilet cases that they used; musical instruments, games, and weights and measures; articles of ornament, and of the household, that have been exhumed from the monuments of ancient cities--a rare and curious collection; then come the algerian museum, the renaissance sculpture gallery, with beautiful groups of bronze and marble statuary, dating from the commencement of the sixteenth century, among which is the celebrated one of diana with the stag, the likeness being that of diane de poitiers, mistress of henry ii.; then come the five different halls of modern sculptures, where we saw canova's cupid and psyche, julien's ganymede and eagle, bartolini's colossal bust of bonaparte, and groups representing cupid cutting his bow from hercules' club, perseus releasing andromeda, and many others. next we reach the museum of antique marbles, a grand gallery, divided off into half partitions, and rich in superb ancient statuary. one of the halls of this gallery is noted as being that in which henry iv. was married; and here, too, was his body brought after his assassination by ravaillac; but the visitor's thoughts of historical associations are banished by the beautiful works of art that meet him on every hand. here is centaur overcome by bacchus, the borghese vase, the stooping venus, pan, the three graces, hercules and telephus, mars, cupid proving his bow, dancing faun, a magnificent figure of melpomene, twelve feet high, with the drapery falling so naturally about as almost to cheat belief that it was the work of the sculptor's chisel; another magnificent colossal figure of minerva, about ten feet high, armed with helmet and shield; the borghese gladiator, a splendid figure; wounded amazon, satyr and faun, diana and the deer, wounded gladiator, bass-relief of triumphal procession of bacchus and ariadne, &c. i am aware that this enumeration will seem something like a reproduction of a catalogue to some readers, though it is but the pencilled memoranda of a very few of the notable pieces in this magnificent collection, before which i was enabled to halt anything like long enough to examine strictly and admire; for the days seemed all short, our few weeks in paris too brief, and this grand collection, with other sight-seeing, a formidable undertaking, as we now began to contemplate it, when i found myself still upon this basement floor of the louvre after nearly a day's time, and the thought that if my resolution to see the whole, systematically and thoroughly, were faithfully carried out, almost a season in paris would be required, and but little time left for anything else. i have seen copies, and busts, and engravings of the venus of milo a hundred times, but never was attracted by it enough to go into raptures over its beauty, being, perhaps, unable to view it with an artistic eye; but as i chanced to approach the great original here from a very favorable point of view, as it stood upon its pedestal, with the mellow light of the afternoon falling upon the beautiful head and shoulders, the effect upon me was surprising to myself. i thought i never before had gazed upon more exquisitely moulded features. the features seemed really those of a goddess, and admiration divided itself in the beauty of the production and the genius of an artist that could conceive and execute it. i am not ashamed to say, that during the hour i spent in the room in which this beautiful work of art is placed, i came to a better understanding concerning some of the enthusiasm respecting art manifested by certain friends, which i had hitherto regarded as commonplace expressions, or was at loss to understand the real feeling that prompted their fervor. if the visitor is amazed at the fine collection of sculpture and statuary, what are his feelings at beholding the grand and almost endless halls of paintings as he ascends to the floors above! here, grand galleries, spacious and well lighted, stretch out seemingly as far as the eye can reach, while halls and ante-rooms, here and there passages, and vestibules, and rooms, are crammed with the very wealth of art; here the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the great artists of europe, known all over the world by copies and engravings, are collected; and the pleasure of looking upon these great originals is a gratification not easy to be described. the lover of art, as he passes from point to point, from one great work to another, to each fresh surprise that awaits him, feels like shaking hands mentally with himself in congratulation at the enjoyment experienced in seeing so much of real and genuine art collected together, and under such favorable circumstances. the paintings in the galleries are all arranged according to different schools of art. thus the spanish, dutch, and german schools are arrayed in one gallery, the italian in another, the modern french school in another; and these are further arranged in subdivisions, so that the student and art lover may study, inspect, or copy, in any department of art that he may desire. what a host of masterpieces in the great gallery! and here were artists, male and female, copying them. some, with little easel and chair, were merely sketching a single head from a group in some grand tableau. others, with huge framework, and mounted up many feet from the floor, were making full copies of some great painting. students were sketching in crayon, upon crayon paper, portions of designs from some favorite artist. ladies were making cabinet copies of paintings, and others copying celebrated heads upon tablets of the size of miniatures; and one artist i observed putting a copy of a group upon a handsome vase that was before him. nearly every one of the most noted paintings by great masters had two or three artists near it, making copies. the grand gallery, as it is called, is a quarter of a mile long, and over forty feet wide, and with its elegantly ornamented ceilings, its magnificent collection of nearly two thousand splendid paintings, including some of the finest masterpieces in the world, and superb vista, presents a _coup d'oeil_ that can hardly fail to excite enthusiasm even from those who are not professed admirers of pictures. think of the luxury of seeing the original works of raphael, rembrandt, titian, rubens, claude lorraine, holbein, paul veronese, guido, quintin matsys, murillo, teniers, ostade, wouverman, vandyke, david, andrea del sarto, vernet, leonardo da vinci, poussin, albert dürer, &c., besides those of other celebrated artists, all in one gallery! and it is not a meagre representation of them either, for the louvre is rich in works from each of these great artists. there was paul veronese's great picture of the repast in the house of simon the pharisee, thirty-one feet long and fifteen high, and his marriage at cana, a magnificent tableau, thirty-two feet long and twenty-one high, the figures splendid portraits of celebrated persons; titian's entombment of christ; raphael's beautiful picture of the virgin and child; murillo's conception of the virgin, which cost twenty-four thousand six hundred pounds; landscape by claude lorraine; a whole gallery of rubens, and another of joseph vernet's seaports; then there is the museum of design, of fourteen rooms full of designs, over thirty thousand in number, of the great masters in all schools of art. here one may look on the original sketches, in pencil and india ink, of rembrandt, holbein, dürer, poussin, and other great artists. it would be but a sort of guide-book review to enumerate the different halls and their wonders, such as one that is devoted entirely to antique terra cottas, another to jewelry and ornaments of the mediæval and renaissance period, another to specimens of venetian glass ware, of exquisite designs and workmanship, another to bronzes, &c. the museum of sovereigns was interesting in historical relics; for it was something, remember, to have looked upon the sceptre, sword, and spars of charlemagne, the arm-chair of king dagobert, the alcove in the room where henry iv. ("king henry of navarre") used to sleep; marie antoinette's shoe, her cabinet and casket; henry ii.'s armor, and the very helmet through which the lance of montgomeri went that killed him in the tournament in ; charles ix.'s helmet and shield, the coronation robes of charles x., and a host of other relics that have figured in french history. one room is devoted to relics of napoleon i., and is called the hall of the emperor. here you may look upon the very uniform that he wore on the bloody field of marengo, a locket containing his hair, the flag of the old guard, that he kissed when he bade adieu at fontainebleau, the veritable gray overcoat which he wore, and the historical cocked hat which distinguished him, the cockade worn when he landed from elba, the great coronation robes worn when he was crowned emperor, his sword, riding whip, and saddle, the pocket-handkerchief used by him on his death-bed, articles of clothing, &c. the cases containing these articles were thronged, and the curious french crowd looked upon them with a sort of veneration, and occasional exclamations of wonderment or sympathy, as some descriptive inscription was read and explained to an unlettered visitor by his more fortunate companion. but suffice it to say that the louvre, with its superb collections, and its almost endless "salles de --" everything, is overwhelming in the impression it gives as a wealth of art. it is impossible to convey a correct idea of it to the lover of art, or even the longing lover of travel who has europe in prospect. in the words of the modern advertisers, it must be seen to be appreciated, and will require a great many visits to see enough of it to properly appreciate it. right opposite the louvre, across a square, is the palais royal, attractive to all americans and english from the restaurants, and jewelry, and bijouterie shops, which are on the ground floor, and form the continuous arcade or four sides of the square of the garden which they enclose. this garden is about a thousand feet long and four hundred wide, with trees, flowers, and fountain, and a band plays in the afternoon to the entertainment of the crowd of loungers who have dined at the trois frères, vefour, or rotonde, lounge in chairs, and sip _café noir_, or absinthe, if frenchmen, or smoke cigars and drink wine, if americans. the restaurants here and in the vicinity are excellent; but one wants a thorough experience, or an expert to teach him how to dine at a french restaurant; otherwise he may pay twice as much as he need to have done, and then not get what he desired. fresh arrivals, english and americans, are rich game for the restaurants. they know not all the dodges by which the frenchman gets four or five excellent courses for almost half what it costs the uninitiated, such as ordering a four-franc dinner, with a privilege of ordering so many dishes of meat, so many of vegetables, or one of meat for two of the latter, or the ordering of one "portion" for two persons, &c. and i do not know as my countrymen would always practise them if they did; for being accustomed at home to order more than they want at a restaurant, and to make the restaurant-keeper a free gift of what they do not use, they are rather apt, in paris, to "darn the expense," and order what suits their palates, without investigating the cost till they call for the garçon with "_l'addition_." the jewelry shops in the arcade around the palais royal garden are of two kinds--those for the sale of real jewelry and rich fancy goods, and those selling the imitation. these latter are compelled by law to keep a sign conspicuously displayed, announcing the fact that their wares are imitation, and any one found selling imitation for real is, i understand, severely punished. the imitation jewelry stores are very attractive, and it is really quite remarkable to what perfection the art is carried. imitation of diamonds, made from polished rock-crystal, which will retain their brilliancy for some months, mock coral, painted sets, imitation gold bracelets, chains, necklaces, sleeve-buttons, and earrings, of every conceivable design, very prettily made. the designs of this cheap jewelry are fully equal to that of the more costly kind, and it is retailed here in large quantities at a far more reasonable price, in proportion to its cost, than is the attleboro' jewelry in our own country. the arcade used to be thronged with americans, who purchased generally from a handful to a half peck each of the attractive and pretty articles which are so liberally displayed here. the french shopkeepers are quick to detect a stranger or foreigner, and very many of them regulate their prices accordingly; so that one soon ascertains that it is not labor in vain to urge a reduction in price, even in establishments where huge placards of "prix fixé" inform you that they have a fixed price for their goods, which may mean, however, that it is "fixed" according to the customer and his anxiety to purchase. i myself had an experience in the purchase of a pair of ornaments. inquiring the price, i was informed, "eight francs." "ah, indeed! that is more than i care to pay." "for what price does monsieur expect to obtain such beautiful articles?" "six francs." "c'est impossible!" (_shrugging his shoulders and elevating his eyebrows_); "ici le prix est fixé;" but monsieur should have them for seven francs, as they had been taken from the show-case. monsieur was indifferent; he "remercier'd" the shopkeeper; he did not care to pay but six francs, and walked towards the door; but the salesman followed him, and, as he reached the threshold, presented monsieur the articles in question, neatly enveloped in one of his tissue-paper shop-bills. it was positively too cheap, but "pour obliger monsieur," he would give him this "bon marché" for the six francs. we paid the six francs accordingly; but our satisfaction respecting the "bon marché" was somewhat dampened at seeing the very self-same description of articles we had just purchased at six francs a pair displayed in a window, scarcely half a dozen stores distant, ticketed, in plain figures, three francs a pair. passing along through one of the busiest streets of paris one day, we observed the entrance or passage from the street to the lower story of one of the houses hung with black and decorated with funeral trappings; in fact, the interior arranged as a sort of little apartment, in the midst of which, exposed to full view to all passers by, stood a coffin, surrounded by candles, with crucifix at its head, and all the usual sombre emblems of mourning; pedestrians, as they passed, respectfully uncovered, and such exposition, we were told, is one of the customs in france when death occurs in a family. funerals often take place at night, although we have met the funeral train during the day, when all who meet it, or whom it passes, remove their hats--a mark of respect which it is pleasant to observe, and which the newly-arrived tourist makes haste to record as one of the evidences of french breeding and politeness. when i was a boy, and studied first books of history and geography, there was in one of them a picture in which a frenchman was represented as taking off his hat and making a ceremonious bow to a lady; underneath, as part of the pleasing fable in which the youth were then, and may be, in many cases, to this day are instructed, was printed that the french were the most polite people in the world. if courtly speech, factitious conventionalities, and certain external forms constitute politeness, then the french _are_ the most polite people; but if politeness embraces in its true definition, as i hold that it does, spontaneous unselfishness, refined generosity, carrying kindliness into common acts, unselfishness into daily life, and a willingness to make some self-sacrifice for others, making itself felt more than seen--then there never was a more monstrous humbug than french "politeness." it is nothing more than a certain set of hypocritical forms, the thin, deceptive varnish which is substituted for the clear, solid crystal of hearty honesty. the frenchman will raise his hat at a funeral, will "mille pardons, monsieur," if he accidentally jostles your elbow, bow gracefully to the _dame du comptoir_ as he leaves a restaurant; do these and a thousand graceful and pretty things that tend to exhibit himself, and, that cost nothing; but how seldom does he perform an act that calls for the slightest self-sacrifice! he never surrenders a good place that he holds for an inferior one to a lady, an aged person, or a stranger; but he will, if possible, by some petty trick at an exhibition, a review, or public display, endeavor to obtain it from them for himself. the excess of civility shown by the cringing and bowing shopman, with vertebræ as supple as if oiled or supplied with patent hinges in the middle, he expects to put into the price of the goods when he cheats you in your purchases. attendance in sickness, and service at your hotel, are measured by the francs' worth, till at last, understanding the hollowness of french politeness, its hypocrisy and artificial nature, you long for less ceremony and more heart, and feel that there is much of the former, and little, if any, of the latter, in the frenchman's code. speaking of funerals naturally inclined us to turn our steps towards the celebrated cemetery of père lachaise, which has suggested many of the rural cemeteries in our own country that in natural attractions now so far surpass it; but père lachaise cemetery, which was formerly an old jesuit stronghold, was first laid out in , and now it is the largest burial-ground of paris. it contains over twenty thousand tombs, besides innumerable graves, and occupies two hundred and twelve acres of undulating ground. some of the older parts of it present a rusty and ill-kept appearance. before reaching the entrance gate, we had indications of its proximity from the long street through which we passed being almost entirely filled on both sides with the workshops of marble and stone cutters, and funeral wreath manufacturers. monuments of every conceivable design, size, and expense were displayed, from the elegant and elaborate group of statuary to the simple slab or the little one-franc plaster _agnus dei_, to mark the grave of the poor man's infant. there were quantities of shops for the sale of wreaths of _immortelles_, bouquets, and other decorations for graves, and scores of men and girls at work fashioning them into various designs, with mottoes varied for all degrees of grief, and for every relation. these are the touching ones: "to my dear mother," "my dear father," "my sweet infant," "to my dear sister;" and the friendly ones, "to my uncle," "my aunt," "my friend;" or the sentimental ones, "mon cher felix," "ma chère marie," "alphonsine," "pierre," &c.; besides bouquets of natural flowers, and vases for their reception, of every style, and graduated for every degree of grief and the limit of every purse; and you are beset by children offering pretty little bunches of violets or bouquets and wreaths of natural flowers. arrived at the gate, we were furnished with a guide, whom it is quite necessary to have, to save time in traversing the cemetery, and direct one to the monuments that one most wants to see of celebrated persons. our guide was a retired old soldier, slightly lame, and still preserving a sort of military gait, as he stumped along in front of us; but the combined perfume of the pipe he had learned to smoke while campaigning, and the garlic he loved to eat at home, caused him to be a companion that one would prefer occupying the windward side of. the older part of the cemetery of père lachaise is very much crowded; the tombs or vaults in some avenues stand as close together, comparatively, as the doors of blocks of houses in a city thoroughfare. many of these vaults, facing the avenues, have open fronts, guarded only by a light, iron latticed gate, through which the visitor may look into a little square chapel, reached by a descent of three or four steps; in this little chapel-vault stands a little altar, or shelf, on which is placed cross, wreaths, and vase or vases of flowers, this being the place of offering or prayer for the relatives, the interment being made below the slab in the floor or side. these vault chapels are more or less pretentious, according to the wealth of the proprietors, some being fifteen or twenty feet square, with marble sides, flooring, and sculpture, beautiful altar, candles, vases, and handsome _prie dieu_, while the names cut into the carved panels indicated what members of the family have been placed behind them in the narrow chamber for their last sleep. garlands, wreaths, and mementos are in every direction--within, about, and upon the graves and tombs; and in one department, where children were buried, upon the little graves, beneath small glass cases, rested some of the little toys--the dolls, and wooden soldiers, and little rattles--that had belonged to them when living. we found, as we advanced, how much a guide was needed, for we should never have been able to have threaded unaided the labyrinths or the winding cypress-shaded paths of this crowded city of the dead. there were, we were informed, over eighteen thousand different monuments in the cemetery, ranging from the simple cross or slab to the costly mausoleum, such as is raised over the countess demidoff,--the most expensive and elaborate monument in the grounds,--which is reached by elegant flights of steps, and consists of a broad platform, supported by ten splendid white marble doric columns, upon which rests a sarcophagus, bearing a sculptured cushion, with the arms and cornet of the deceased resting thereon. this monument stands upon the brow of a hill, and occupies one of the most conspicuous positions in the cemetery. but let us follow our guide, taking a glance at a few of the notable features of the place; for that is all one can do in a single visit and in the three hours' stroll which we make through the most attractive parts. you can hardly walk a dozen steps without encountering tombs bearing names familiar and celebrated in military, scientific, religious, or literary history; and the opportunity one has to study the taste in monuments, obelisks, urns, mausoleums, pyramids, and sarcophagi, may be inferred from the fact, that upon these tributes to departed worth, and mementos of loved ones, no less than five millions sterling, or about twenty-five million dollars in gold, have been expended since the cemetery was first opened. the paths and walks of the old portion of père lachaise are rough, and in sad contrast with the newer part, and suffer much in comparison with the broad, spacious, well-rolled avenues of our own mount auburn and forest hills, or the natural and artificial beauties of greenwood cemetery. we first took a glance at the jewish division of the grounds, which is separated from the rest by a wall, where the monument of rachel, the celebrated actress, was pointed out to us, and also those bearing the name of rothschild and fould. we then walked to that most interesting monument, generally the first one of any note visited by tourists, an actual evidence and memento of the truth of that sad and romantic history which is embalmed in the memory of youth, the monument of abélard and héloise. this is a little open gothic chapel, in which is the sarcophagus of abélard, and upon it rests his effigy, and by his side that of héloise. the monument is built from the ruins of paraclete abbey, of which héloise was abbess, and its sculptured figures and decorations are very beautiful, although suffering from decay and neglect. a bunch or two of fresh violets and forget-me-nots, which we saw lying upon the breast of the recumbent figure, showed that sentimental visitors still paid tribute to this shrine of disappointed love. as we advanced farther into the grounds, monuments bearing well-known names, distinguished in science, literature, and art, met the eye on every side. here is that of arago, the astronomer; talma, the great actor of napoleon's time; bernardin de st. pierre, the author of paul and virginia; david, the celebrated painter; pradier, the great sculptor; chopin, the musician; scribe, the dramatist; racine, the poet; laplace, the astronomer; and lafitte, the banker. then we come to the names of some of those military chiefs that surrounded the great soldier of the first empire, and helped him to write the name of france in imperishable records upon the pages of history. here rests marshal kellermann; here rises a granite pyramid to marshal davoust, who won his laurels at eylau, friedland, and auerstadt, the great cavalry action of eckmuhl, and, except ney, who was the most prominent in the tremendous battle of borodino, and the disastrous retreat from russia; here suchet, who commenced his career with napoleon at the siege of toulon, sleeps beneath a white marble sarcophagus; macdonald and lefebvre are here; and a pyramid of white marble, bearing a bass-relief portrait, rises to the memory of general masséna, "a very obstinate man" and "the favorite child of victory"--him whom napoleon once told, "you yourself are equivalent to six thousand men." passing monument after monument, bearing names the birthplaces of whose titles were victorious battle-fields, we were guided by our conductor to a little square plat of ground enclosed by a light railing; it was gay with many-hued flowers in full bloom, filling the air with their fragrance. the old guide stopped, and reverently taking off his cap, turned to us, saying,-- "_hommage, monsieur, à le plus brave des braves--à maréchal ney._" i involuntarily followed his example. "but where," asked i, looking about on every side, "where is his monument?" "his monument, monsieur," said the old fellow, drawing himself up as erect as possible, and dramatically placing his hand upon his left breast,--"his monument is the memory of his brave deeds, which will live forever in the hearts of the french people." such a reply, coming from such a speaker, astonished me; and i almost expected to see the staff change to a musket, the tattered cap into a high grenadier "bearskin," and the old blouse into the faced uniform of the _garde impériale_; there was such a flavor of napoleon bonaparteism in the response, that that of the garlic was for the moment forgotten, and we considered the reply increased the value of the speaker's services to the extent of another franc. i stood, afterwards, opposite the spot where marshal ney, "the rear guard of the grand army" in the retreat from russia, the last man who left russian territory, "the bravest of the brave," was shot according to decree on the th of december, . it is a short distance form the south entrance of the gardens of the palais du luxembourg, and is marked by a bronze statue of the great marshal, who is represented in the attitude of leading his troops, sword in hand, as he did at the head of the old guard, after four horses had been shot under him, in the last charge on the disastrous field of waterloo. a marble pedestal is nearly covered with an enumeration of the battles in which he distinguished himself he was indeed the "hero of a hundred battles." passing through another path, we came to the monument of lafontaine, surmounted by a life-size figure of a fox, sculptured from black marble, the sides of the monument showing bronze bass-reliefs of the fable of the fox and stork, and wolf and lamb. béranger, the poet, sleeps in the same tomb with manuel, a french orator; and just before leaving the cemetery our guide pointed out to us a little cross over the grave of judith frère, who figures in the poet's songs as lisette. "but first lisette should here before me stand, so blithe, so lovely, in her fresh-trimmed bonnet; see, at the narrow window, how her hand pins up her shawl, in place of curtain on it." but we might go on with a whole catalogue of noted monuments seen in this city of the dead, during our three hours' tour of it--an excursion which, notwithstanding its interest, was quite fatiguing. the magnificent tomb of napoleon i., at the church of the invalides, contains the mortal remains of the great corsican, placed here with much ceremony, carrying out the desire expressed in his will that his ashes might rest upon the banks of the seine, in the midst of the french people that he had loved so much. through the great cupola of the church the light is admitted by means of colored glass, and so managed that it shall fall upon the high altar, the crypt, and sarcophagus with striking effect. the high altar is at the top of ten steps of pure white marble, and is of black marble; great twisted columns of black and white marble support a canopy of white and gold, beneath which is a figure of the saviour on the cross, upon which the sunlight, falling through yellow glass, lights up the golden rays that are represented as springing from the back of the crucifix into a blaze of glory, and flashes and sparkles upon the gilded canopy and decorations, is if glorifying the sacred emblems. directly in the centre, and beneath the dome of the church, is a great circular opening thirty-six feet in diameter and twenty feet in depth; this is the crypt, and surrounded by a marble rail. looking down, you gaze upon the sarcophagus, a huge block of red granite or porphyry, weighing one hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds, most beautifully polished, brought from finland at a cost of thirty thousand dollars, covering another huge block twelve feet long by six in width, which in turn rests upon a splendid block of green granite, the whole forming a monument about fourteen feet high. the pavement of this circular crypt is a huge crown of laurels in green marble in a tessellated floor of white and black marble; within the laurels are inscribed marengo, austerlitz, jena, rivoli, wagram, and other great victories, the whole pavement being a most exquisite piece of mosaic work; around the circle stand twelve colossal statues, facing the tomb, representing victories. we descended to this crypt by passing to the rear, and beneath the high altar, where we found the entrance guarded by two huge caryatides bearing imperial emblems; passing the sarcophagus, we come to a chapel where is the sword of austerlitz, groups of flags captured by the french in battle, and other mementos of the emperor. the elegant finish of the marble-work in the interior of the church of the invalides strikes one with astonishment; its joining is so perfect as to be more like cabinet-making than masonry; the light is so managed as to fall into the crypt through a bluish-purple glass, and striking upon the polished marble, as one looks down from above, gives the crypt the appearance of being filled with a delicate violet halo--a novel and indescribable effect. the marble of the monument, the sculpture, and decorations of the crypt, chapel, &c., cost one million eight hundred thousand dollars in gold--a costly mausoleum. the interior of the invalides is circular, with arms of a cross extended north, south, east, and west. the great dome is a splendid piece of architecture, the summit of which is over three hundred feet from the pavement; and high up in the cupola we see a splendid picture representing our saviour surrounded by saints and angels, which must be colossal in size to appear as they do of life-size from below. in chapels, in the angles formed by the cross, are other splendid monuments to distinguished personages. in the chapel of st. augustin is the tomb of napoleon's eldest brother, joseph, king of spain, a huge sarcophagus of black marble; and not far from this is that of vauban, the greatest of military engineers, also a sarcophagus of black marble, upon which rests an effigy of vauban; surrounded by emblems, with two allegorical statues beside him. the monument of king jerome is in the chapel dedicated to st. jerome, and is a huge sort of black marble casket on gilt claw-feet, upon the top of which stands his statue. a monument to marshal turenne represents him dying in the arms of some allegorical genius, with an eagle at his feet. each of the chapels is dedicated to some saint, and richly decorated by frescoes representing scenes in his life; but chapels, monuments, and all, are, although splendid, of course insignificant compared with that of the emperor, resting beneath the grand dome in the halo of colored light, before the grand altar, and around which the twelve colossi, with grasped swords and victorious wreaths, seem to be keeping solemn watch and ward over the now silent dust of him "whose greatness was no guard to bar heaven's shaft." one can easily imagine that louis xiv. nearly bankrupted the french nation in his magnificent expenditures on the palace and parks of versailles, everything about them is upon such a prodigal and princely style. the vast halls of paintings, magnificent chapels, theatres, great gardens, statuary, hot-houses, parks, fountains, and artificial basins, the water to supply which was brought about four miles, the _little_ park of twelve miles in extent, and great park of _forty_. when the visitor looks about him, he is amazed at the prodigal display of wealth on every side. he ceases to wonder that over two hundred millions of dollars have been expended upon this great permanent french exposition and historical museum of the french nation. passing through the town, we entered the place d'armes, approaching the palace. this is a great open space eight hundred feet broad, from which we enter the grand court, or cour d'honneur, a space about four hundred feet wide, leading up to the palace buildings, which are various, irregular, and splendid piles, ornamented with pavilions, plain, or decorated with corinthian columns, and statues. in the centre of the upper part of this great court stands a colossal equestrian statue of louis xiv., and upon either side, as the visitor walks up, he observes fine marble statues of distinguished frenchmen, such as colbert, jourdan, masséna, conde, richelieu, bayard, &c. entering the palace, which appears from this court a confused mass of buildings, one is overwhelmed with its vastness and magnificence. some idea of the former may be obtained by passing through, and taking a survey of the western, or garden front, which is one continuous pile of building a quarter of a mile in extent, elegantly adorned with richly-cut columns, statues, and porticos, and, when viewed from the park, with the broad, very broad flights of marble steps leading to it, adorned with vases, countless statues, ornamental balustrades, &c., strikingly reminding one of the pictorial representations he has seen of solomon's temple, or perhaps more strikingly realizing what he may have pictured in his imagination to have been the real appearance of that wonderful edifice. the collection of pictures and statuary in the historical museum is so overwhelming, and the series of rooms apparently so interminable, that a single visit is inadequate to do more than give the visitor a sort of confused general idea of the whole. guides, if desired, were furnished, who, at a charge of a franc an hour, will accompany a small party of visitors, and greatly facilitate their progress in making the best use of time, and in seeking out the most celebrated objects of interest. attendants in livery were stationed at different points through the buildings, to direct visitors and indicate the route. here, in the great historical museum, are eleven spacious rooms, elegantly decorated, and containing pictures on historical subjects from the time of king clovis to louis xvi. here is charlemagne dictating his code of laws, henry iv. entering paris, the siege of lille, coronation of louis xiv., and many other immense tableaux filled with figures, and of great detail. there are the halls of the crusades, five magnificent rooms in gothic style, and forming a gallery of paintings illustrating those periods of history, and, of course, such events as french crusaders were most prominent in. the walls and ceilings are ornamented with armorial bearings and devices of french crusaders; and in the wall of one of the rooms are the gates of the hospital of the order of the knights of st. john of jerusalem, given to prince de joinville, by sultan mahmoud, in . the great pictures of the desperate battles of the mail-clad warriors of the cross and the saracens are given with graphic fidelity, the figures in the huge tableaux nearly or quite the size of life, and the hand-to-hand encounter of sword, cimeter, battle-axe, and mace, or the desperate struggles in the "imminent deadly breach," the fierce escalade, the terrific charge, or the desperate assault, represented with a force, vigor, and expression that almost make one's blood tingle to look upon them. here was a magnificent picture representing a procession of crusaders round jerusalem, another, by delacroix, representing the taking of constantinople, larivière's raising the siege of malta, and raising the siege of rhodes, the battle of ascalon, taking of jerusalem, taking of antioch, battle of acre; also the portraits of jaques molay, hugh de payens, de la valette, and other grand commanders of the order. another series of elegant halls, seven in number, had some magnificent colossal pictures of modern battles, such as the battle of alma, storming of the mamelon, the return of the army to paris in , and horace vernet's celebrated picture of the surprise of abdel-kader's encampment, a most spirited specimen of figure-painting. then came a spirited picture of the storming of the malakoff, storming of sebastopol, battles of magenta, &c., and several fine battle-pieces by horace vernet. then there are rooms with scenes in the campaign in morocco, whole galleries of statues, galleries of french admirals and generals, series after series of six, eight, or ten great apartments, each a gallery of itself. the "grand apartments," as they are called, occupy the whole of the central portion of the palace, facing the gardens, and appear more like the creation of a magician, or of the genii of aladdin's lamp, than the work of human hands. each hall is given a name, and distinguished by the superb frescos upon its ceiling, delineating scenes in which the deity for which it is called figures. the great saloon of hercules has scenes illustrating the deeds of hercules, delineated upon its broad expanse of ceiling, sixty feet square; the hall of abundance is illustrated with allegorical figures, and the saloon of venus is rich with cupids, roses, and the goddess of love; then there are saloons of mars, of mercury, of apollo, of the states general, all richly and most gorgeously decorated; but the grandest of all is the grand gallery of louis xiv., the most magnificent hall in the world, and one which extracts enthusiasm even from the most taciturn. this superb gallery connects with the saloon of war and saloon of peace, and forms with them one grand continuous apartment. it is sometimes called the gallery of mirrors, from the great mirrors that line the wall upon one side. fancy a superb hall, two hundred and thirty feet long, thirty-five wide, and forty-five high, with huge arched windows on one side, and magnificent mirrors on the other, with corinthian columns of red marble at the sides, and the great arched ceiling, the whole length elegantly painted with allegorical representations and tableaux of the battles of france; statues, carvings, ornaments, furniture, and decorations appropriate filling out the picture, the perspective view superb, and the whole effect grand and imposing! it was here that queen victoria was received on her visit to paris in . here, where, after the london times and british press had failed to write down the "prisoner of ham," "the nephew of his uncle," "the ex-policeman," after punch had ridiculed in every possible pictorial burlesque and slander him whom that print represented as a mere aspirant for the boots and cocked hat of his uncle,--it was here, beneath the blaze of countless candles, to the music of his imperial band, and in presence of the most celebrated personages of the french nation, that england's queen danced with--yes, actually waltzed with--this nephew of his uncle. opening out of these grand state apartments are various others, which, although beautiful in decoration, are dwarfed by the splendor of the great salons, though some are noted for historical events, such as louis xiv.'s private cabinet, in which are his table and arm-chair; the room in which louis xv. died. we look upon superb vases, wonderful mechanical clocks, staircases that are wonders of architecture, and _chefs d'oeuvre_ of execution in carving, graceful curve, and splendid sweep, till finally i find myself, note-book in hand, in a splendid room, gazing upward at a ceiling upon which is a magnificent picture, representing jupiter, and some other gods and allegorical figures. it is a work of rare art. i refer to my guide, and find we are gazing up at a picture by paul veronese, representing jupiter punishing crime, brought from the hall of the council of ten, in venice, by napoleon i., and that we are standing in the bed-chamber of louis xiv., and before the very couch, rich in decoration, and railed off from approach of the common herd, upon which he--though he may have been mighty and to be feared, may have reigned as a monarch and lived as a conqueror--yet, at last, died but as a man. "dost thou lie so low? are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils shrunk to this little measure?" the great gallery of the empire consists of fourteen large rooms, and in these are three hundred huge pictures of the battles and noted events that transpired during the time of napoleon i., from to --a complete illustration of the life and times of the great emperor. the views of the battles are very spirited and interesting, and, with those in the gallery of battles, will be familiar to many from the copies that have been made of them, and the numerous occasions they have done duty in illustrated books. the napoleon gallery a volume of illustrations published by bohn, of london, gives engravings of nearly all these beautiful tableaux. here was the battle of marengo, passage of the alps, horace vernet's battle of wagram, and battle of friedland, and his picture of napoleon addressing the guards before the battle of jena, gerard's battle of austerlitz, battle of rivoli,--one vivid pictorial scene succeeding another,--eckmuhl, ratisbon, essling, rivoli, &c. this gallery of battles is also a notable hall, being nearly four hundred feet long, forty-two feet wide, and forty feet in height. the roof is vaulted, and lighted by skylights, which give a good light to the pictures, and the whole effect of the splendid gallery, which is richly decorated, set forth by ornamental columns, with busts of distinguished generals interspersed at intervals, is very fine. in niches near the windows there is a sort of roll of honor--lists of names of generals and admirals who have fallen in battle, inscribed upon tablets of black marble. i must not forget the hall of the coronation, which contains david's great painting of the coronation of napoleon, for which the artist received the sum of one hundred thousand francs. in this hall is also the distribution of the eagles to the legions, by the same artist, and the battle of aboukir. behind the gallery of battles extends another gallery, entirely devoted to statues and busts of distinguished personages, from the year to . this gallery is over three hundred feet in length. but even to attempt anything like a description of the numerous galleries, halls, and apartments in this vast structure, would be futile in the space that can be allowed in a tourist's sketches, and those that we omit are nearly as extensive as those already mentioned. there is a gallery of the admirals of france--fourteen rooms full of their portraits; a gallery of the kings of france--seventy-one portraits--down to louis philippe; gallery of louis xiii.; hall of the imperial family, with portraits of the bonaparte family; gallery of marine paintings; a gallery of water colors, by french staff officers, of scenes in campaigns from to ; marie antoinette's private apartments, in which some of the furniture used by her still remains; the cabinets of porcelains; cabinets of medals; saloon of clocks; great library; hall of the king's body guards, &c. the celebrated hall known as oeil de boeuf, from its great oval window at one end, i viewed with some interest, as the hall where so many courtiers had fussed, and fumed, and waited the king's coming--regular french lobbyists of old times; and many a shrewd and deep-laid political scheme was concocted here. it is a superb saloon, and was louis xvi.'s and marie antoinette's public dining-hall. all these "galleries," it should be borne in mind, are really galleries worthy the name--vast in extent, elegant in decoration, and rich in pictures, busts, and statues. then the splendid staircases by which some of them are reached are wonders of art. the great staircase of the princes is a beautiful piece of work, with pillars, sculptured ceiling, bass-reliefs, &c., and adorned with marble statues of bonaparte, louis xiv., and other great men. so also are the marble staircase, and the splendid staircase of the ambassadors. i only mention these, each in themselves a sight to be seen, to give the reader some idea of the vastness of this palace, and the wealth of art it contains. think of the luxuriousness of the monarch who provides himself with a fine opera-house or theatre, which he may visit at pleasure, without leaving his palace! yet here it is, a handsome theatre, with a stage seventy-five feet deep and sixty wide, a height of fifty feet, with its auditorium, seventy feet from curtain to boxes, and sixty feet wide. it is elegantly decorated with ionic columns, crimson and gold. there are three rows of boxes, with ornamental balustrades, a profusion of mirrors and chandeliers, and the ceiling elegantly ornamented. the royal box occupies the centre of the middle row of boxes, and is richly decorated. on the occasion of the visit of queen victoria to louis napoleon, this theatre was used as the supper-room, the pit being boarded over, and four hundred illustrious guests sat down to a splendid banquet. not only have the means of amusement been thus provided, but we find in this wonderful palace the royal chapel for royal worship of him before whom all monarchs are as dust in the balance--a beautiful interior, one hundred and fourteen feet long by sixty wide, with nave, aisles, side galleries, and corinthian columns, and its elegant ceiling, which is eighty-six feet from the richly-inlaid mosaic pavement, covered with handsome paintings of sacred subjects by great artists. the high altar is magnificent, the organ one of the finest in france, and the side aisles contain seven elegant chapels, dedicated to as many saints, their altars rich in beautiful marbles, sculptures, bass-reliefs, and pictures--among the latter, a last supper, by paul veronese, the whole forming a superb chapel, glowing with beauty and art. in this chapel louis xvi. and marie antoinette were married in . verily one gets a surfeit of splendor in passing through this vast historic pile of buildings. the limbs are weary, while the eyes ache from the gazing at pictures, statues, perspectives, and frescos, and it is a relief to go forth into the grand park and gardens, where fresh wonders await the visitor. descending from the broad and spacious terrace, adorned by statues and vases, by flights of marble steps, the spectator is bewildered by the number and beauty of the fountains, statues, &c., that he encounters on every side; but the very terrace itself is a wonder. here are great bronze statues of apollo, bacchus, and other heathen gods. two broad squares of water, surrounded by twenty-four splendid groups, in bronze, of nymphs and children, are in the midst of vast grass plots and walks, and among the statues we notice one of napoleon i. from this broad terrace you descend to the gardens below, and other parts of the ground, by magnificent flights of broad steps. in the orangery or hot-house, orange trees, pomegranates, and a variety of curious plants are kept, many of which are transplanted about the grounds during the summer season. one old veteran of an orange tree, hooped with iron to preserve it, is shown, which is said to be over four hundred and thirty years old. the guide-books say it was planted by the wife of charles iii., king of navarre, in . many other old trees of a hundred years of age are in the gardens. one great feature of the gardens at versailles is the beautiful fountains. the principal one is that known as the basin of neptune, which is a huge basin, surrounded by colossal figures of neptune, amphitrite, nymphs, tritons, and sea-monsters, that spout _jets-d'eau_ into it. the basin of latona is a beautiful affair, consisting of five circular basins, rising one above another, surmounted by a group of latona, apollo, and diana. all around the basins, upon slabs of marble, are huge frogs and tortoises, representing the metamorphosed peasants of libya, who are supplying the goddess with water in liberal streams, which they spout in arching jets towards her. then there is the great basin of apollo, with the god driving a chariot, surrounded by sea-gods and monsters, who are all doing spouting duty; the basin of spring and summer; basin of the dragon, where a huge lead representation of that monster is solemnly spouting in great streams from his mouth when the water is turned on. the baths of apollo is a grotto, in which the god is represented served by nymphs--seven graceful figures; while near him are the horses of the sun, being watered by tritons, all superbly executed in marble. sheets and jets of water issue from every direction in this beautiful grotto, and form a lake at the foot of the rocks. this grotto is a very elaborate piece of work, and is said to have cost a million and a half of francs. besides these beautiful and elaborate fountains are many others of lesser note, but still of beautiful design, at different points in the gardens and park. parterres of beautiful flowers charm the eye, the elegant groves tempt the pedestrian, and greensward, of thick and velvety texture and emerald hue, stretches itself out like an artificial carpet. here is one that stretches the whole length between two of the great fountains, latona and apollo, and called the green carpet--one sheet of vivid green, set out with statues and marble vases along the walks that pass beside it; another beautiful one, of circular form, is called the round green. here are beautiful gravel walks, artificial groves with charming alleys, thickets, green banks, and, in fact, a wealth of landscape gardening, in which art is often made to so closely imitate nature, that it is difficult to determine where the one ceases and the other begins. a visit to the great and little trianon is generally the wind-up of the visit to the parks of versailles: the former, it will be recollected, was the villa built in the park by louis xiv. for madame de maintenon. it contains many elegant apartments. among those which most attracted our attention was the hall of malachite, and the palace gallery, the latter a hall one hundred and sixty feet long, ornamented with portraits, costly mosaic tables, and bronzes. notwithstanding the eye has been sated with luxury in the palace, the visitor cannot but see that wealth has been poured out with a lavish hand on this villa; its beautiful saloons,--saloon of music, saloon of the queen, saloon of mirrors,--its chapel and gardens, are all those befitting a royal palace; for such indeed it was to louis xiv., xv., and xvi., and even napoleon, who, at different times, made it their residence. the little trianon, built by louis xv. for madame du barry, is a small, two-story villa, with a handsome garden attached, at which i only took a hasty glance, and concluded by omitting to inspect the museum of state carriages,--where, i was told, bonaparte's, charles x.'s, and others were kept,--the sedan chair of marie antoinette, and various curious harnesses. i was assured by another tourist, who learned a few days after that i had not seen it, that it was the finest thing in the whole palace. i have frequently found this to be the judgment of many travellers, of objects or points _they_ have "done," which you have missed or omitted, and so i endured the loss of this sight with resignation. but we find that an attempt to give anything like a full description of all we saw in paris,--even those leading "lions" that all tourists describe,--would make us tarry in that gay capital too long for the patience of our readers who have followed us "over the ocean" thus far. the lover of travel, of variety, of architecture, of fashion, frivolity, or excitement may enjoy himself in paris to the extent of his desire. there is plenty to occupy the attention of all who wish to enjoy themselves, in a rational and profitable manner, in the mere seeing of sights that every one ought to see. there is the grand old cathedral of notre dame, famed in history and story, which has experienced rough usage at the hands of the fierce french mobs of different revolutions, who respect not historical relics, works of art, or even the sepulchres of the dead. the exterior of this magnificent great gothic structure was familiar to me from the many engravings i had seen of it, with its two great square towers of over two hundred feet in height, with the huge rose window between them of thirty-six feet in diameter, and the three beautiful gothic doors of entrance, rich in ornamentation, carvings, and statues of saints. the interior has that grand and impressive appearance that attaches to all these superb creations of the old cathedral builders. the vaulted arches, rising one above another, over a hundred feet in height, present a fine appearance, and a vista of gothic columns stretches along its length, of three hundred and ninety feet; at the transept the width is one hundred and forty-four feet. the three great rose windows, which will not fail to challenge admiration, are wonders in their way, and, with their beautiful stained glass, are coeval with the foundation of the cathedral. we ascended the tower, and enjoyed the magnificent view of paris from its summit, and, more particularly, the course of the river seine and the splendid bridges that span it. up here we saw the huge bells, and walked round amid them, recalling scenes in victor hugo's novel of the hunchback of notre dame; these were the huge tocsins that quasimodo swung, and far down below was the square in which la esmeralda spread her little carpet, and summoned the crowd, with tambourine, to witness her dancing goat; farther away, to the right, was the street that captain porteous rode from at the head of his troop; here, upon the roof, sheeted with lead, must have been the place that the mishapen dwarf built the fire that turned the dull metal into a molten stream that poured destruction upon the heads of the mob that were battering the portals below. with what an interest do the poet and novelist clothe these old monuments of the past! intertwining them with the garlands of their imagination, they contend with history in investing them with attractions to the tourist. high up here, at the edge of the ramparts, are figures of demons, carved in stone, looking over the edge, which appear quite "little devils" from the pavement, but which are, in reality, of colossal size. the pure air of the heavens, as we walked around here near the clouds, was of a sudden charged with garlic, which nauseous perfume we discovered, on investigation, arose from the hut of a custodian and his wife, who dwelt up here, hundreds of feet above the city, like birds in an eyrie, and defiled the air with their presence. one of the most gorgeous church interiors of paris is that of sainte chapelle; this building, although not very large, is a perfect gem of gothic architecture, and most beautifully and perfectly finished in every part; it is one hundred and twenty feet long, forty wide, and has a spire of one hundred and forty feet in height. every square inch of the interior is exquisitely painted and gilded in diamonds, lozenges, and fleurs-de-lis; and stars spangle the arched roof, which is as blue as the heavens. the windows are filled with exquisite stained glass of the year --glass which escaped the ruin of the revolutions; and the great rose window can only be likened to a magnificent flower of more than earthly beauty, as the light streams through its glorious coloring, where it rests above a beautiful gothic balustrade. leaving the sainte chapelle, we passed a few rods distant, after turning a corner, the two old coffee-pot-looking towers of the bloody conciergerie, where poor marie antoinette languished for seventy-six days, before she was led forth to execution; here also was where ravaillac, robespierre, and charlotte corday were imprisoned; and the very bloody record-book of the names of those who were ordered to be despatched during the revolution, kept by the human butchers who directed affairs, is still preserved, and shown to the visitor. that magnificent grecian-looking temple, the madeleine, is one of the first public buildings the tourist recognizes in paris. as many americans are apt to estimate the value of things by the money they cost, it may be of interest to state that this edifice cost two million six hundred thousand dollars. it is really a magnificent structure, with its thirty corinthian columns, fifteen on each side, and its noble front, with ornamental pediment, its great bronze entrance, doors thirty-two feet high, reached by the broad flight of marble steps extending across the whole length of the end of the building, the dimensions of which are three hundred and twenty-eight feet in length by one hundred and thirty-eight in breadth. the beautiful corinthian columns, which, counting those at the ends, are fifty-two in number, are each fifty feet in height. the broad, open square about the madeleine affords an excellent opportunity of viewing the exterior; and one needs to make two or three detours about the building to obtain a correct idea of its magnitude and beauty. the interior is one spacious hall, the floors and walls all solid marble, beautifully decorated, and lighted from the top by domes; all along the sides are chapels, dedicated to different saints, and decorated with elegant statues and paintings; the high altar is rich in elegant sculpture, the principal group representing, in marble, mary magdalene borne into paradise by angels--exquisitely done. the whole effect of this beautiful interior, with its lofty ornamented domes and corinthian pillars, the beautiful statuary and bass-reliefs, frescoing, and walls incrusted with rich marbles, is grand beyond description. the church of st. genevieve, better known as the pantheon, is another magnificent structure: three hundred and fifty feet long and two hundred and sixty wide is this beautiful building, and three rows of elegant corinthian columns support its portico. we gazed up at the beautiful pediment, over this portico, which is over one hundred and twenty feet long and twenty-two feet high, and contains a splendid group of statuary in relief, the central figure of which is fifteen feet in height; but above the whole building rises the majestic dome, two hundred and sixty-four feet. inside we ascended into this grand and superb cupola, and, after making a portion of the ascent, paused in a circular gallery to have a view of the great painting which adorns the dome, representing st. genevieve receiving homage from king clovis. after going as far above as possible, we descended with a party to the vaults below, where we were shown the place, in which the bodies of mirabeau and marat were deposited, and the tombs of voltaire and rousseau, which, however, do not contain the remains of the two philosophers. we were then escorted by the guide, by the dim light of his lantern, to a certain gloomy part of the vaults, where there was a most remarkable echo; a clap of the hand reverberated almost like a peal of thunder, and a laugh sounded so like the exultation of some gigantic demon who had entrapped his victims here in his own terrible caverns, as to make us quite ready to follow the guide through the winding passages back to the upper regions, and welcome the light of day. an american thinks his visit to paris scarcely completed unless he has visited the jardin mabille. it has the reputation of being a very wicked place, which, in some degree, accounts for tourists, whose dread of appearances at home restrains them from going to naughty places, having an intense desire to visit it; and it is amusing to see some of these very proper persons, who would be shocked at the idea of going inside a theatre at home for fear of contamination, who are enjoying the spectacle presented here like forbidden fruit, quite confused at meeting among the throng their friends from america who are in paris, as is frequently the case. sometimes the confusion is mutual, and then explanations of both parties exhibit a degree of equivocation that would rival a japanese diplomat. those, however, who expect to see any outrageous display of vice or immodesty will be disappointed: the garden is under the strict surveillance of the police, and there is a far more immodest display by the ladies in the boxes of the opera at the grand opera in london, than by the frail sisterhood at the jardin. during the travelling season one meets plenty of tourists, english and american, at mabille, and hears the english tongue spoken in the garden on every side of him. stroll up the beautiful champs elysées of a summer's evening; all along, on either side, the groves, gardens, and grounds are brilliant with gas-jets, colored lights, and chinese lanterns, brilliant _cafés_, with chairs and tables in front, where you may sit and enjoy a cup of coffee and a cigar, or a glass of wine, while you view the never-ending succession of passers by. just off amid the trees are little extemporized theatres, where the never-tiring comedy of punch and judy is performed to admiring crowds, at two sous a head; little booths, with a gambling game, which, translated into english, is "the d--among the tailors," afford an opportunity of indulging in a game of chance for a few sous, which game consists in setting a brass top spinning in among a curious arrangement of brass fixed and movable upright pins upon a board; the number of pins knocked over, and little brass arches passed under, by the top, determines the amount of the prize won by the player, which can be selected from the knickknacks in the booth ticketed with prize cards. a friend of mine, a very proper young gentleman, was so attracted by the gyrations of the brass top spinning on these tables one evening, that he insisted upon stopping and trying his hand at the game: he did so, and so expertly that he bore off a pair of cheap vases, a china dog, and a paper weight; his triumph was somewhat dampened, however, at being reminded by a lady friend, whom he met with his hands filled with his treasures, that he had been gambling on sunday evening. it is not at all surprising, however, from the sights and scenes, that one should forget the character of the day, there is so little to remind him of it in paris. besides these booths are those for the sale of a variety of fanciful articles, illuminated penny peep shows; and off at side streets you are directed, by letters in gas jets, to the cafés chantants--enclosed gardens with an illuminated pavilion at one end of them, its whole side open, exposing a stage, upon which sit the singers, handsomely dressed, who are to appear in the programme. the stage is beautifully illuminated with gas and very handsomely decorated, generally representing the interior of a beautiful drawing room; the audience sit at tables in the garden immediately before the stage, which, from its raised position, affords a good view to all; there is no charge for admission, but each visitor orders something to the value of from half a franc to a franc and a half of the waiters, who are pretty sharp to see that everybody _does_ order something. the trees are hung with colored lights, a good orchestra plays the accompaniment for the singers, besides waltzes, quadrilles, and galops, and the frenchman sits and sips his claret or coffee, and smokes his cigar beneath the trees, and has an evening, to him, of infinite enjoyment. i saw, among the brilliant group that formed the corps of performers, seated upon the illuminated stage at one of these cafés chantants, a plump negro girl, whose low-necked and short-sleeved dress revealed the sable hue of her skin in striking contrast to her white and gold costume. she was evidently a dusky "star." but we will continue our walk up the beautiful elysian fields; the great, broad carriage-way is thronged with voitures, with their different colored lights flitting hither and thither like elves on a revel: as seen in the distance up the illuminated course they sparkled like a spangled pathway, clear away up to the huge dusky arc d'etoile, which in the distance rises "like an exhalation." the little bowers, nooks, chairs, and booths are all crowded; music reaches us from the cafés chantants, and peals of laughter at the performances in the raree-shows; finally, reaching the rond point, a sort of circular opening with six pretty fountains,--and turning a little to the left upon the avenue montaigne, the brilliant gas jets of the jardin mabille are in view--admission three francs for gentlemen, ladies free. the garden is prettily laid out with winding paths, flower-beds, fountains, cosy arbors, where refreshments may be ordered, and a tête-à-tête enjoyed, the trees hung with colored lights, artificial perspectives made by bits of painted scenery placed at the end of pretty walks, &c. in the centre is a brilliantly lighted stand, which is occupied by a fine orchestra, and upon the smooth flooring about it, within sound of the music, the dancers. the frequenters of mabille are of the upper and middle class among the males, the females are generally lorettes, and the spectators largely composed of americans and english. the leader of the orchestra displays a large card bearing the name of each piece the orchestra will perform, as "galop," "valse," "quadrille," &c., before it commences, and it is the dance which is one of the great features of the place; but this, which, a few years ago, used to be so novel, has been so robbed of its "naughtiness" by the outrageous displays of the ballet, and the indecencies of "white fawn" and "black crook" dramas have left the jardin mabille so far in the background that even american ladies now venture there as spectators. the fact that the women at mabille are lorettes, and that in dancing they frequently kick their feet to the height of their partners' heads, appears to be the leading attractive feature of the place. the style of dancing is a curiosity, however; a quadrille of these women and their partners is a specimen of the saltatory art worth seeing. there is no slow, measured sliding and dawdling through the figure, as in our cotillons at home; the dancers dance all over--feet, arms, muscles, head, body, and legs; each quadrille, in which there are dancers of noted skill and agility, is surrounded by a circle of admiring spectators. the men, as they forward and back, and _chassé_, bend and writhe like eels, now stooping nearly to the floor, then rising with a bound into the air like a rubber ball: forward to partners, a fellow leans forward his head, and feigns to kiss the advancing siren, who, with a sudden movement, brings her foot up in the position just occupied by his face, which is skilfully dodged by the fellow leaping backwards, agile as an ape; the men toss their arms, throw out their feet, describe arcs, circles, and sometimes a spry fellow turns a summersault in the dance. the girls gather up their long skirts to the knee with their hand, and are scarcely less active than their partners; they bound forward, now and then kicking their boots, with white lacings, high into the air, sometimes performing the well-known trick of kicking off the hat of a gaping englishman or american, who may be watching the dance. the waltz, polka, and galop are performed with a frantic fervor that makes even the spectator's head swim, and at its close the dancers repair to the tables to cool off with iced drinks, or a stroll in the garden walks. the proprietors of the jardin mabille, closerie des lilas, and similar places, generally have some few female dancers of more than usual gymnastic skill, and with some personal attraction, whom they employ as regular habitues of the gardens as attractions for strangers, more particularly green young englishmen and americans. this place, however, is perfectly safe, being under strict surveillance of the police, and there is very rarely the least disturbance or rudeness; the police see that the gardens are cleared, and the gas extinguished, at midnight. two nights in the week at the jardin mabille are fête nights, when a grand display of fireworks is added to the other attractions of the place. the closerie des lilas is a garden not so extensive as mabille, frequented principally by students and their mistresses--admission one franc, ladies free. here the dancing is a little more demonstrative, and the dresses are cut rather lower in the neck; yet the costume and display of the person are modest in comparison with that in the spectacular pieces upon the stage. the students go in for a jolly time, and have it, if dancing with all their might, waltzing like whirling dervishes, and undulating through the can-can with abandon indescribable, constitute it. of course we did not omit the palace of the luxembourg, with its superb gallery of modern paintings, among which we noticed delacroix' pictures of dante and virgil, and massacre of scio; oxen ploughing by rosa bonheur, and hay harvest by the same artist; horace vernet's meeting of raphael and michael angelo, and müller's calling the roll of victims to be guillotined, during the reign of terror. in this palace is also the hall of the senate, semicircular, about one hundred feet in diameter, elegantly decorated with statues, busts, and pictures, and the vaulted ceiling adorned with allegorical frescoes. here is also the salle du trône, or throne room, a magnificent saloon, elegantly frescoed, ornamented, and gilded. the throne itself is a large chair, elegantly upholstered, with the napoleonic n displayed upon it, upon a raised dais, above which was a splendid canopy supported by caryatides. the walls of the saloon were adorned with elegant pictures, representing napoleon at the invalides, napoleon i. elected emperor, and napoleon i. receiving the flags taken at austerlitz. other paintings, representing scenes in the emperor's life, are in a small apartment adjoining, called the emperor's cabinet. we then visited here the chamber of marie de medicis, which contains the arm-chair used at the coronation of napoleon i., and paintings by rubens. the latter were taken down, with some of the beautiful panelling, which is rich in exquisite scroll-work, and concealed during the revolution of , and replaced again in . the garden of plants, at paris, is another of those very enjoyable places in europe, in which the visitor luxuriates in gratifying his taste for botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and natural science. here in this beautiful garden are spacious hot-houses and green-houses, with every variety of rare plants, a botanical garden, galleries of botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and a great amphitheatre and laboratories for lectures, which are free to all who desire to attend, given by scientific and skilled lecturers, from april to october. the amphitheatre for lectures will hold twelve hundred persons; and among the lectures on the list, which is posted up at its entrance, and also at the entrance of the gardens, were the subjects of chemistry, geology, anatomy, physiology, botany, and zoölogy. many scientific men of celebrity received their education here, and the different museums are rich in rare specimens of their departments. the zoölogical museum has a fine collection of stuffed specimens of natural history, zoöphites, birds, butterflies, large mammiferous animals, &c. the geological museum is admirably arranged--curious specimens from all parts of the world--from mountains, waterfalls, volcanoes, mines, coral-reefs, and meteors, i. e., specimens from the earth below and the heavens above. the botanical department, besides its botanical specimens, has a museum of woods similar to that at kew gardens. a cabinet of anatomy contains a collection of skeletons of animals, &c. the zoölogical garden is the most interesting and most frequented part of the grounds. the lions, tigers, bears, elephants, hyenas, and other beasts have spacious enclosures, as in the zoölogical gardens at london, though not so well arranged, nor is the collection so extensive. the palais des singes (palace of monkeys), a circular building provided for these agile acrobats, is a most attractive resort, and always thronged with spectators. parterres of flowers, handsome shade trees, shrubs, and curious plants adorn the grounds and border the winding walks and paths; and the visitor cannot help being impressed that almost everything connected with natural science is represented here in this grand garden and museum--plants, animals, fossils, minerals, curious collections, and library. a single visit scarcely suffices to view the menagerie, and many days would be required to examine the whole collection in different departments. st. cloud! even those who travel with a _valet de place_, and cannot understand a word of french, seem to learn the pronunciation of this name, and to air their "_song klew_" with much satisfaction. through the splendid apartments of this palace--since our visit, alas! destroyed by the invading prussians--we strolled of a sunday afternoon. there was the saloon of mars, saloon of diana, rich in magnificent frescoing, representing the gods and goddesses of heathen mythology upon the lofty ceilings; the gallery of apollo, a vast and magnificently-decorated apartment, ceiling painted by mignard, with scenes in the life of apollo, walls beautifully gilt and frescoed, hung with rare paintings, furnished with cabinets of elegant sèvres porcelain, rich and curious furniture, and costly bronzes. it was here, in this apartment, that prince napoleon, son of jerome, was baptized by pope pius vii., in , and here the marriage of napoleon i. and maria louisa was celebrated in . then we go on through the usual routine of grand apartments--saloons of minerva, mercury, aurora, venus, &c.--rich in magnificent paintings, wondrous tapestry, elegant carving, and splendid decorations. here are a suit of rooms that have been occupied by marie antoinette, the empress josephine, marie louise, louis philippe, and also by louis napoleon. historical memories come thickly into the mind on visiting these places, and throw an additional charm about them. st. cloud often figures in the history of the great napoleon. that great soldier and his guard, cromwell-like, dispersed the council of five hundred that held their sessions here in , and was soon after made first consul. farther back in history, here the monk assassinated henry iii., and it was here louis xiv. and louis xvi. often sojourned. the cascade at st. cloud is the object that figures most frequently in illustrated books and pictures, and the leading attraction inquired for. it is in the grand park, and consists of a series of vast steps, at the top of which are huge fountains, which send the water down in great sheets, forming a succession of waterfalls, the sides of the steps ornamented with innumerable vases and shell-work. the water, after passing these steps, reaches a great semicircular basin, surrounded by _jets d'eau_, and from thence falls over other grand steps into a grand canal, two hundred and sixty feet long and ninety wide; dolphins spouting into it, fountains running over from vases, and spouting upright from the basin itself, and one huge waterspout near by sending up its aqueous shaft one hundred and forty feet into the air, the whole forming a sparkling spectacle in the sunlight of a summer afternoon. every alternate sunday in summer is a fête day here; and on one of these occasions we saw fountains playing, merry-go-round horses, with children upon the horses, ten-pin alleys, in which the prizes were dolls, china ware, and macaroon cakes. here was a figure of an open-mouthed giant, into which the visitor was invited to pitch three wooden balls for two sous; prizes, three ginger-snaps in case of success. the d--l among the tailors was in brisk operation; a loud-voiced frenchman invited spectators to throw leathern balls at some grotesque dolls that he had in a row astride of a cord, a sou only for three shots; and prizes for knocking off the dolls, which were dressed to represent obnoxious personages, and duly labelled, were paid in pretty artificial flowers made of paper. fortune-wheels could be whirled at half a franc a turn, the gifts on which that halted beneath the rod of the figure of the enchanter that stood above them belonged to the whirler. i heard a vigorous crowing, succeeded by a fellow shouting, "_coq de village, un sou! coq de village, un sou, messieurs!_" he had a huge basket filled with little shells, which were so prepared that, when blown upon, they gave a clever imitation of chanticleer. fandangos carried their laughing groups up into the air and down again; inclined planes, with self-running cars, gave curious rides; and in one part of the grounds were shown booths of the old english fair kind. before one, on a platform, a clown danced, and invited the public to enter, to the music of bass drum and horn; ponies, monkeys, trained dogs, and other performers were paraded, as an indication of what might be seen within; pictorial representations of giants, fat women, and dwarfs were in front of others; a sword-swallower took a mouthful or two by way of illustrating the appetite he would display for three sous; and a red-hot iron taster, in suit of dirty red and white muslin, and gold spangles, passed a heated bar dangerously near his tongue, intimating that those who desired could, by the investment of a few coppers, have the rare privilege of witnessing his repast of red-hot iron. these, and scores of other cheap amusements, invited the attention of the thousands that thronged the park on that pleasant sunday afternoon; and among all the throng, which was composed principally of the common people, we saw not a single case of intoxication, and the trim-dressed officers of police, in dress coats, cocked hats, and swords, who sauntered here and there, had little to do, except, when a throng at some point became too dense, to open a passage, or cause some of the loungers to move on a little. the traveller who visits the splendid retail establishments in the rue de la paix or on the boulevards, unattended, and purchases what suits his fancy, paying the price that the very supple and cringing salesmen choose to charge, or even goes into those magasins in which a conspicuously-displayed sign announces the _prix fixé_, will, after a little experience, become perfectly amazed at the elasticity of french conscience, not to say the skill and brazen effrontery of french swindling. in four fifths of these great retail stores, the discovery that the purchaser is an american or an englishman, and a stranger, is a signal for increasing the regular price of every article he desires to purchase; if he betrays his ignorance of the usual rate, palming off an inferior quality of goods, and obtaining an advantage in every possible way, besides the legitimate profit. it never seems to enter the heads of these smirking, supple-backed swindlers, that a reputation for honesty and fair dealing is worth anything at all to their establishments. possibly they argue that, as paris is headquarters for shopping, buyers will come, willy-nilly; or it may be that deception is so much a part of the frenchman's nature, that it is a moral impossibility for him to get along without a certain amount of it. the _prix fixé_, put up to indicate that the establishment has a fixed price, from which there is no abatement, after the style of the "one price" stores in america, very often has but little significance. a friend with whom i was shopping upon one occasion told the shop-keeper, whom he had offered fifteen or twenty per cent. less than his charge, and who pointed, with an expressive shrug, to the placard, that he was perfectly aware the price was fixed, as it generally was "fixed" all over paris for every new customer. monsieur was so _charmé_ with his repartee, that he obtained the article at the price he offered. one frequently sees costly articles, or some that have been very slightly worn, displayed in a shop window, ticketed at a low price, and marked _l'occasion_, to signify that it is not a part of the regular stock, but has been left there for sale--is an "opportunity;" or intimating, perhaps, that it is sold by some needy party, who is anxious to raise the ready cash. some of these opportunities are bargains, but the buyer must be on his guard that the "occasion" is not one that has been specially prepared to entrap the purchaser into taking a damaged article of high cost at a price beyond its real value. although the french shop-keeper may use every artifice to make the buyer pay an exorbitant rate for his goods, the law is very stringent in certain branches of trade, and prevents one species of barefaced cheating that is continually practised in new york, and has been for years, with no indications that it will ever be abolished. in paris--at least on the boulevards and great retail marts--there are no mock auction shops, gift enterprise swindlers, bogus ticket agencies, or similar traps for the unwary, which disgrace new york. government makes quick work of any abuse of this kind, and the police abolish it and the proprietor so completely, that few dare try the experiment. neither dare dealers in galvanized watches or imitation jewelry sell it for gold. they are compelled to display the word "imitation" conspicuously upon their shop front and window; and really imitation jewelry is such an important article of trade, that as much skill is exhausted upon it as in the real article, and dealers vie with each other in producing splendid imitations, some of which are so good that a purchaser may, while the article is worn in its "newest gloss," make a display for ten francs that in the real article would cost as many hundreds. neither are dealers allowed to sell berries by the "box," or peaches by the "crate;" nor are there any of the opportunities of america in making the "box" or the "crate" smaller, without deduction of price. many kinds of fruit are sold by weight, and there appears to be a rigid inspection, that poor and damaged articles shall not be palmed off upon purchasers. when the government steps in to the regulation of trade, it does it so business-like, so thoroughly, promptly, and effectually, and places such an impassable bar to imposture, that an american, even of the most spread-eagle description, cannot help acknowledging that there are some advantages in imperial rule, after all. he certainly feels a decided degree of confidence that the law will be enforced upon a ruffian or a pickpocket, that should be detected in any attempt to interfere with him, which he never can feel in the city of new york, and that the french police are always on hand, know and perform their duty without solicitation; are efficient officers of the law, and not political roughs, rewarded with places, to be paid for with votes. there are many french articles that have a large sale in america, and which the traveller promises himself he will lay in a supply of, on visiting paris, which he is quite surprised to find, on inquiry, are hardly ever called for by parisians. thus certain brands of kid gloves, and varieties of perfumery, that are very popular in america, can scarcely be found at the shops on the boulevards. the best gloves, and those most celebrated in paris, which are really marvels of excellence in workmanship, are of a brand that cannot be found in the american shops, their high price affording too little margin for profit; but scarce an american who visits paris but supplies himself from the now well-known magasin in rue richelieu. a friend, who thought to purchase at headquarters, sought in vain in paris for the thick, yellow, and handsomely-stitched gloves he had seen in regent street, london, known as french dog-skin. nothing of the kind could be found. they were made exclusively for the english market. but it really seems as if almost everything ever heard or thought of could be bought in the french capital, and made in any style, prepared in any form, and furnished with marvellous speed. there is one characteristic of the european shopmen, which i have before referred to, which is in agreeable contrast with many american dealers; and that is, their willingness to make or alter an article to the purchaser's taste; to sell you what you want, and not dispute, and try to force an article upon you which they argue you ought to have, instead of the one you call for. if a lady liked the sleeves of one cloak, and the body of another, she is informed that the change of sleeves shall instantly be made from one to the other. does a gentleman order a pair of boots with twisted toes, the boot-maker only says, "_certainement, monsieur_," and takes his measure. the glover will give you any hue, in or out of the fashion, stitched with any colored silk, and gratify any erratic taste, without question, at twenty-four hours' notice. the ribbon-seller will show you an innumerable variety of gradations of the same hue, will match anything, and shows a skill in endeavoring to suit you exactly. in fact, we presume that the foreign shopman accepts the situation, and is striving to be more a shopman than ever, instead of--as is too often the case in our own country--acting as though he merely held the position _pro tempore_, and was conferring an honor upon the purchaser by serving him. purchases may be made down to infinitesimal quantities, especially of articles of daily consumption; and where so many are making a grand display upon a small capital, as in paris, it is necessary that every convenience should be afforded; and it is. living in apartments, one may obtain everything from the magasins within a stone's throw. he may order turkey and truffles, and a grand dinner, with entrées, which will be furnished him at his lodgings, at any hour, from the neighboring restaurant, with dishes, table furniture, and servant; or he may order the leg of a fowl, one pickle, and two sous' worth of salt and pepper. he can call in a porter, with a back-load of wood for a fire, or buy three or four sous' worth of fagots. but your true frenchman, of limited means, utilizes everything. he argues, and very correctly, that all he pays for belongs to him. so at the café you will see him carefully wrap the two or three lumps of sugar that remain, of those furnished him for his coffee, in a paper, and carry them away. they save the expense of the article for the morning cup at his lodgings. so if a cake or two, or biscuit, remain, he appropriates them as his right; and i have even seen one who went so far as to pocket two or three little wax matches that were brought to him with a cigar. much has been said of how cheaply one can live in paris. this would apply, with equal truthfulness, to many of our own cities, if people would live in the same way, and practise the same economy. this, however, is repugnant to the american, and, in some respects, mistaken idea of liberality. the absolute, unnecessary waste in an american gentleman's kitchen would support two french families comfortably. in some it already supports three or four irish ones. there are three ways of going shopping in paris. the first is to start out by yourself, and seek out stores which may have the goods that you desire to purchase; the second, to avail yourself of the services of a _valet de place_, or courier; and the third, to employ the services of one of your banker's clerks, who is an expert, or those of a commission merchant. we have experimented in all three methods. in the first, you are sure to pay the extreme retail price. in the second, you are very likely to do the same, the only difference being that the courier gets a handsome _douceur_ from the shop-keeper for introducing you, or, in other words, shares with him the extra amount of which you have been plundered. the latter method is by far the best and most satisfactory to strangers unfamiliar with paris and french customs. stereoscopic views of paris, which we were charged one franc apiece for on the boulevards, were purchased of the manufacturer in his garret at three francs a dozen. spectacles which cost five dollars a pair in boston, and eight francs on the boulevards, we bought for three francs a pair of the wholesale dealer. gloves are sold at all sorts of prices, and are of all sorts of qualities, and the makers will make to measure any pattern or style to suit any sort of fancy. jewelry we were taken to see in the quarter where it was made--up stairs, in back rooms, often in the same building where the artisan lived, where, there being no plate glass, grand store, and heavy expenses to pay, certain small articles of _bijouterie_ could be purchased at a very low figure; rich jewelry, diamonds, and precious stones were sold in quiet, massive rooms, up stairs, in buildings approached through a court-yard. for diamonds, you may be taken up stairs to a small, carefully guarded inner room, dimly lighted, in which a black-velvet-covered table or counter, and two or three leather-covered chairs, give a decidedly funereal aspect to the place. an old, bent man, whose hooked nose and glittering eyes betoken him a hebrew, waits upon your conductor, whom he greets as an old acquaintance. he adjusts the window shade so that the light falls directly upon the black counter (which is strikingly suggestive of being prepared to receive a coffin), or else pulls down the window-shade, and turns up the gas-light directly above the black pedestal, and then, from some inner safe or strong box, produces little packages of tissue paper, from which he displays the flashing gems upon the black velvet, shrewdly watching the effect, and the purchaser's skill and judgment, and keeping back the most desirable stones until the last. ladies' ready-made clothing may be bought in paris as readily as gentlemen's can be in new york or boston--garments of great elegance, and of the most fashionable make and trimming, such as full dress for evening party or ball, dress for promenade, morning dress, and cloaks of the latest mode. these are made, apparently, with all the care of "custom made" garments, certainly of just as rich silk, satin, and velvet, and a corps of workwomen appears to be always in attendance, to immediately adapt a dress or garment to the purchaser by alteration, to make it a perfect fit. in one of these large establishments for the sale of ladies' clothing were numerous small private drawing-rooms, each of which was occupied by different lady purchasers, who were making their selections of dresses, mantles, or cloaks, which were being exhibited to them in almost endless variety. the saleswomen were aided by young women, evidently selected for their height and good figures, whose duty it was to continually whip on a dress or mantle, and promenade back and forth before the purchasers. by these shrewd manoeuvres, many a fat dowager or dumpy woman of wealth was induced to purchase an elegant garment, which, upon the lithe, undulating figure of a girl of twenty was a thing of grace and beauty, thinking it would have the same effect upon herself. these model artists were adepts in the art of dress, and knew how to manage a dress trail in the most _distingué_ style, wore a mantelet with a grace, and threw a glance over the shoulder of a new velvet cloak or mantle with an archness and _naiveté_ that straightway invested it with a charm that could never have been given to it had it been displayed upon a "dummy." as an illustration of the value of a reliable _commissionaire's_ services at this first-class establishment, it is only necessary to state, that on our second visit, which was in his company, we found that a difference of eighty to a hundred francs was made in our favor, on a six hundred franc costume, upon what was charged when we came as strangers, and alone. there are some magnificent india shawl stores in paris, carried on by companies of great wealth, who have their agents and operatives constantly employed in india, and whose splendid warehouses are filled with a wealth of those draperies that all women covet. in a room of one of these great shawl warehouses we saw retail dealers selecting and purchasing their supplies. salesmen were supplied by assistants with different styles from the shelves, which were displayed before the buyer upon a lay figure; and upon his displeasure or decision, it was immediately cast aside upon the floor, to be refolded and replaced by other assistants; which was so much more labor, however, than unfolding, that the floor was heaped with the rich merchandise. this so excited an american visitor, that she could not help exclaiming, "only think of it! must it not be nice to stand knee-deep in cashmere shawls?" many purchasers, who seek low prices and fair dealings, visit the establishment known as the "_bon marché_," rather out of the fashionable quarter of the city, and "the other side of the seine." the proprietor of this place buys in big lots, and sells on the quick-sales-and-small-profits principle; and his immense warehouse, which is filled with every species of dry goods, haberdashery, ribbons, clothing, gloves, gents' furnishing goods, and almost everything except groceries and medicines, is crammed with purchasers every day, whose _voitures_ line the streets in the immediate vicinity. at this place bargains are often obtained in articles of ladies' dress, which may be a month past the season, and which are closed out at a low figure, to make room for the latest style; and american ladies, who sometimes purchase in this manner, rejoice, on arrival in their own country, with that joy which woman only knows when she finds she has about the first article out of a new fashion, and that, too, bought at a bargain. it is a good plan for american tourists, who have any amount of purchases to make, to take a carriage by the hour, and the banker's clerk or commission merchant whom they engage to accompany them, and make a day of it. it will be found an economy of time, and to involve far less vexation and fatigue, than to attempt walking, or trusting to luck to find the articles desired. an american, on his first visit to paris, finds so many things to attract and amuse him, and withal meets so many of his countrymen, all bent upon having a good time there, that he generally overstays the time he has allotted himself in the gay capital. once there, in its whirl of pleasure and never-ending kaleidoscopic changes of attractions, amusements, and enjoyment, time flits by rapidly; and when the day of departure comes, many a thoughtless tourist feels that he has not half seen paris. chapter ix. good-by to paris, for we are on the road to brussels, in a night express train, swiftly passing through douai and valenciennes, harassed, bothered, and pestered at quievran, on the frontier, where our baggage was critically inspected. through valenciennes, which is suggestive of lace--so is brussels--yes, we are getting into the lace country. but don't imagine, my inexperienced traveller, that the names of these cities are pronounced, or even spelled, in our country (as they ought to be) as they are by the natives. in bruxelles we recognized brussels easily enough; but who would ever have understood malines to be what we denominate mechlin, or have known when he reached aix la chapelle by the german conductor's bellowing out, "aachen"? and i could well excuse an american friend, some days after, when we reached antwerp, who, on being told he was at anvers, said, "confound your anvers. this must be the wrong train. i started for antwerp." why should not the names of foreign cities be spelled and pronounced, in english, as near like their real designation as possible? there appears to be no rule. some are, some are not. cöln is not a great change from cologne, but who would recognize münchen for munich, or wien for vienna? we rattled through the streets of brussels at early morning, and, passing the great market square, saw a curious sight in the side streets contiguous, in the numerous dog-teams that the country people bring their produce to market with. old dog tray is pretty thoroughly utilized here; for while the market square was a babel of voices, from bare-headed and quaint-headdressed women, and curious jacketed and breeched peasants, arranging their greens, fruit, and vegetables, and clamoring with early purchasers, their teams, which filled the side streets, were taking a rest after their early journey from the country. there were stout mastiffs in little carts, harnessed complete, like horses, except blinders; some rough fellows, of the "big yellow-dog" breed, tandem; poor little curs, two abreast; small dogs, big dogs, smart dogs, and cur dogs, each attached to a miniature cart that would hold from two pecks to three bushels, according to the strength of the team; and they were standing, sitting, and lying in all the varieties of dog attitude--certainly a most comical sight. some time afterwards, while travelling in the country, i met a fellow riding in one of these little wagons, drawn by two large dogs at quite a tolerable trot (dog trot), although they are generally used only to draw light burdens, to save the peasants' shoulders the load. from our windows at the hotel de l'europe we look out upon the place royale, in which stands the handsome equestrian statue, in bronze, of that stout crusader, godfrey de bouillon, who, with the banner of the cross in one hand, and falchion aloft in the other, is, as he might have rode at the siege of jerusalem, or at the battle of ascalon, a spirited and martial figure, and familiar enough to us, from its reproduction in little, for mantel clocks. we visited the celebrated hotel de ville, a magnificent old gothic edifice, all points and sculptures, and its central tower shooting up three hundred and sixty-four feet in height. in front of it are two finely executed statues of counts egmont and horn, the duke of alva's victims, who perished here. a short distance from here is a little statue known as the manikin, a curious fountain which every one goes to see on account of the natural way it plays, and which on some fête days sends forth red wine, which the common people flock in crowds to bear away, with much merriment at the source of supply. besides a museum of paintings in brussels, which contained several fine pictures by rubens, we visited a gallery of somewhat remarkable and original pictures at the residence of an artist (now deceased) named wiertz. the subjects chosen were singular, and so was the original manner in which they were treated. one represented napoleon in hell, surrounded by tormenting demons, with flitting visions of the horrors of war and carnage, and its victims upbraiding him; another, a huge picture of a struggle of giants--giving the best idea of giants possible, it seemed to me, outside of the children's story-books. another picture was so contrived that the spectator peeped through a half-open door, and was startled at beholding what he supposed to be a woman with but a single garment, gathered shrinkingly around her, and gazing at him from an opposite door, which she appeared to have just shrunk behind to avoid his intrusion--a most marvellous cheat. an apparently rough sketch of a huge frog, viewed through an aperture, became the portrait of a french general. the pictures of two beautiful girls opening a rude window, and presenting a flower, were so arranged that, whatever position the spectator took, they were still facing him, and holding out their floral offerings. an aperture, like that of a cosmorama, invited you to look through, when, lo! a group, clothed in arctic costume, and one more grotesque than the rest arrests you; it is like a living face; the eyes wink; it moves! you start back, and find that by some clever arrangement of a looking-glass, you yourself have been supplying the face of the figure. a little table, standing in the way, bears upon it an easel, some brushes, a red herring, and other incongruous things, which you suppose some careless visitors to have left, till you discover it is another of the artist's wonderful deceptions. i say wonderful, because his forte seems to have been some of the most astonishing practical jokes with brush and color that can possibly be imagined. some would absolutely cheat the spectator, although prepared for surprises, and excite as much laughter as a well-told story; and others would have an opposite effect, and make his very hair almost stand erect with terror. one of the latter was that which represented a maniac mother, in a half-darkened room, cutting up one of her children with a butcher knife, and putting the remains into a pot boiling upon the fire. the spectator, who is held to this dreadful scene by a sort of terrible fascination, discovers that the wild woman thinks herself secure from observation, from the appearance of the apartment, the windows and even key-hole of which she has carefully covered, and that he himself is getting a view from an unobserved crevice. although the subject is anything but a pleasant one, yet the rapid beating of the heart, the pallid countenance, and involuntary shudder with which the spectator withdraws from the terrible spectacle, is a tribute to the artist's marvellous skill. brussels is divided into two parts, the upper and lower city: the latter is crowded, and inhabited principally by the poorer and laboring classes, and contains many of the quaint old-fashioned dutch-looking buildings of three centuries ago; the upper part of the city, the abode of the richer classes, contains fine, large, open squares and streets, palace gardens, &c. in one of the latter we attended a very fine instrumental concert, given by the orchestra of the grand opera--admission ten cents! and we found that we were now getting towards the country where good music was a drug, and we could get our fill at a very reasonable price, with the most agreeable surroundings. the most interesting church in brussels is the splendid cathedral of st. gudule, founded in , the principal wonders of which are its magnificently-painted windows,--one an elaborate affair, representing the last judgment, the other various miracles and saints,--and the pulpit, which is a wondrous work of the carver's art. upon it is a group representing the expulsion of adam and eve from the garden of eden; the pulpit itself is upheld by the tree of knowledge, and high above it stands the virgin mary, holding the infant jesus, who is striking at the serpent's head with the cross. the tracery of the foliage, the carving of the figures, and ornamental work are beautifully chiselled, and very effectively managed. having sent a trunk on before me to brussels, i had an experience of the apparently utter disregard of time among belgian custom-house officials; and, indeed, of that slow, methodical, won't-be-hurried, handed-down-from-our-ancestors way of transacting business, that drives an american almost to the verge of distraction. my experience was as follows: first, application was made and description given; next, i was sent to officer number two, who copied it all into a big book, kept me ten minutes, and charged me eight cents; then i was sent to another clerk, who made out a fresh paper, kept the first, and consumed ten or fifteen minutes more; then i was sent back, up stairs, to an official, for his signature--eight cents more--cheap autographs; then to another, who commenced to interrogate me as to name, where i was staying, my nationality, &c.; when, in the very midst of his interrogations, the hour of twelve struck, and he pushed back the paper, with "_après déjeûner, monsieur_," shut his window-sash with a bang, and the whole custom-house was closed for one hour, in the very middle of the day, for the officials to go to lunch, or "_déjeûner à la fourchette_." misery loves company. an irate englishman, whose progress was as suddenly checked as mine had been, paced up and down the corridor, swearing, in good round terms, that a man should have to wait a good hour for a change of linen, so that a parcel of cursed dutchmen could fill themselves with beer and sausage. but remedy there was none till the lunch hour was passed, when the offices were reopened, and the wheels of business once more began their slow revolutions, and our luggage was, with many formalities, withdrawn from government custody. "when you are on the continent don't quote byron," said a friend at parting, who had been 'over the ground;' "that is, if possible to refrain;" and, indeed, as all young ladies and gentlemen at some period of their lives have read the poet's magnificent romaunt of childe harold, the qualification which closed the injunction was significant. can anybody that has any spark of imagination or romance in his composition refrain, as scene after scene, which the poet's glorious numbers have made familiar in his mind, presents itself in reality to his sight? we visit brussels chiefly to see the field of waterloo; and as we stand in the great square of belgium's capital, we remember "the sound of revelry by night," and wonder how the streets looked when "then and there was hurrying to and fro," and we pictured to ourselves, as the moon poured down her silver light as we stood there, and flashed her beams upon the windows in the great gothic structures, the sudden alarm when "bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men," and how "the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car, went pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war;" and it all came back to me how i had sing-songed through extracts from byron in my school readers when a boy, spouted the words of the battle of waterloo at school exhibitions, and sometimes wondered if i should ever visit that field where bonaparte made his last grand struggle for the empire. yes, we should feel now the words of the poet as we approached it--"stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust." and so i stood musing, and repeating the poet's lines, _sotto voce_, when an individual approached, and, touching his hat, interrupted my musings. "waterloo to-morrow, sir?" "sir?" "would you like to visit waterloo to-morrow, sir? coach leaves at nine in the morning--english coach and six--spanking team--six horses." we looked at this individual with some surprise, which he dissipated as follows:-- "beg pardon, sir--agent of the english coach company--always wait upon strangers, sir." we took outside tickets for the field of waterloo on the english coach. the next morning dawned brightly, and at the appointed time a splendid english mail coach, with a spanking team of six grays,--just such a one as we have seen in english pictures, with a driver handling the whip and ribbons in the most approved style,--dashed into the place royale, and, halting before a hotel at one end, the guard played "the campbells are comin'" upon a bugle, with a gusto that brought all the new arrivals to the windows; three or four ladies and gentlemen mounted to the coach-roof; the driver cracked his whip, and whirled his team up to our hotel, while the uniformed guard played "the bowld soger boy" under the very nose of old godfrey de bouillon; and we clambered up to the outside seats, of which there were twelve, to the inspiring notes of the bugle, which made the quiet old square echo with its martial strains. away we rolled, the bugle playing its merriest of strains; but when just clear of the city, our gay performer descended, packed his instrument into a green baize bag, deserted, and trudged back, leaving us only the music of the rattling hoofs and wheels, and the more agreeable strains of laughter of half a dozen lively english and american ladies. the field of waterloo is about twelve miles from brussels; the ride, of a pleasant day, behind a good team, a delightful one: we pass through the wood of soignies, over a broad, smooth road, in excellent order, shaded by tall trees on either side--this was byron's ardennes. "ardennes waves above them her green leaves." we soon reached the field, which has been so often described by historians, novelists, and letter-writers, that we will spare the reader the infliction. we are met by guides who speak french, german, and english, who have bullets, buttons, and other relics said to have been picked up on the field, but which a waggish englishman informed us were manufactured at a factory near by to supply the demand. the guides, old and young, adapt their sympathies to those of customers; thus, if they be english, it is,-- "here is where the brave wellington stood; there is where _we_ beat back the old guard." or, if they be french or americans,-- "there is where the great napoleon directed the battle. the imperial guard beat all before them to this point," &c. the field is an open, undulating plain, intersected by two or three broad roads; monuments rise here and there, and conspicuous on the field, marking the thickest of the fight rises the huge pyramidal earth-mound with the belgian lion upon its summit. we stroll from point to point noted in the terrible struggle. here is one that every one pauses at longest; it is a long, low ridge, where the guards lay that rose at wellington's command, and poured their terrible tempest of lead into the bosoms of the old guard. we walk over the track of that devoted band of brave men, who marched over it with their whole front ranks melting before the terrific fire of the english artillery like frost-work before the sun, grimly closing up and marching sternly on, receiving the fire of a battery in their bosoms, and then marching right on over gunners, guns, and all, like a prairie fire sweeping all before it--ney, the bravest of the brave, four horses shot under him, his coat pierced with balls, on foot at their head, waving his sword on high, and encouraging them on, till they reach this spot, where the last terrible tempest beats them back, annihilated. here, where so many went down in death,-- "rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent,"-- now waved the tall yellow grain, and the red poppies that bloomed among it reminded us of the crimson tide that must have reddened the turf when it shook beneath the thunder of that terrible charge. let us pause at another noted spot; it is where the english squares stood with such firmness that french artillery, lancers, and even the cuirassiers, who threw themselves forward like an iron avalanche, failed to break them. we come to the chateau of hougoumont, which sustained such a succession of desperate attacks. the battle began with the struggle for its possession, which only ended on the utter defeat of the french. the grounds of hougoumont are partially surrounded by brick walls, which were loopholed for musketry. this place, at the time of the battle, was a gentleman's country-seat, with farm, out-buildings, walled garden, private chapel, &c., and the shattered ruins, which to this day remain, are the most interesting relics of the battle; the wall still presents its loopholes; it is battered as with a tempest of musket balls. the french charged up to the very muzzles of the guns, and endeavored to wrest them from the hands of those who pushed them forth. four companies of english held this place for seven hours against an assaulting army, and bullets were exhausted in vain against its wall-front, before which fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour. there are breaches in the wall, cannon-shot fractures in the barn and gate; the little chapel is scarred with bullets, fire, and axes, and a fragment of brick buildings looks like part of a battered fort. victor hugo's "les misérables" gives a most vivid and truthful description of this little portion of the battle-field, and of the desperate struggle and frightful scenes enacted there, serving the visitor far better than any of the guide-books. passing from here, we go out into the orchard--scene of another deadly and dreadful contest. we are shown where various distinguished officers fell; we walk over the spots that napoleon and wellington occupied during the battle; we go to the summit of the great mound upon which stands the belgian lion, and from it are pointed out the distant wood from which wellington saw the welcome and fresh columns of blucher emerge; we pluck a little flower in hongoumont's garden, and a full and nearly ripened blade of grain from the spot where the imperial guard were hurled back by their english adversaries, pay our guide three francs each, and once more are bowling along back to brussels. near the field is a sort of museum of relics kept by a niece of sergeant major cotton, who was in the battle, which contains many interesting and well-attested relics found upon the field years ago. there are rusty swords, that flashed in the june sunset of that terrible day, bayonets, uniform jackets and hats, buttons, cannon shot, and other field spoil, and withal books and photographs, which latter articles the voluble old lady in charge was anxious to dispose of. just off the field,--at the village of waterloo, i think,--we halt at the house in which wellington wrote his despatch announcing the victory. here is preserved, under a glass case, the pencil with which he wrote that document. the boot of the marquis of anglesea, who suffered amputation of his leg here, is also preserved in like manner; and in the garden is a little monument erected over his grace's limb, which is said to be buried there. did we buy lace in brussels? yes. and the great lace establishments there? well, there are few, if any, large lace shops for the sale of the article. those are all in paris, which is the great market for it. then, it will be remembered that "brussels lace" is not a very rare kind, and also that lace is an article of merchandise that is not bulky, and occupies but very little space. in many of the old cities on the continent, shopkeepers do not believe in vast, splendid, and elegantly-decorated stores, as we do in america, especially those who have a reputation in specialties which causes purchasers to seek them out. some of the most celebrated lace manufacturers in brussels occupied buildings looking, for all the world, like a good old-fashioned philadelphia mansion, with its broad steps and substantial front door, the latter having a large silver plate with the owner's name inscribed thereon. a good specimen of these was that of julie everaert and sisters, on the rue royale, where, after ringing the front door bell, we were ushered by the servant into a sort of half front parlor, half shop, and two of the sisters, two stout, elderly flemish ladies, in black silk dresses and lace caps, appeared to serve us. so polite, so quiet, well-dressed and lady-like, so like the mild-voiced, well-bred ladies of the old school, that are now only occasionally met in america, at the _soirée_ and in the drawing-room, and who seem always to be surrounded by a sort of halo of old-time ceremony and politeness, and to command a deference and courtesy by their very presence that we instinctively acknowledge--so like, that we began to fear we had made some mistake, until the elder and stouter of the two, after the usual salutations, inquired in french if "madame and monsieur would do them the honor to look at laces." madame and monsieur were agreeable, and chairs were accordingly placed before a table, which was covered by a sort of black velvet comforter, or stuffed table-cloth, and behind which stood a tall fire-proof safe, which, being opened by the servant, displayed numerous drawers and compartments like to that of a jeweller. the lace dealer commenced an exhibition of the treasures of the iron casket, displaying them upon the black velvet with the skill of an expert, her quiet little servant removing such as were least favorable in our eyes, when the table became crowded, and she went on, as each specimen was displayed, something as follows:-- "_vingt francs, monsieur_" (a neat little collar). "_cinquante francs, plus jolie_" (i expressed admiration audibly). "_cent francs, madame_," said the frau julie, abandoning at once the addressing of her conversation to an individual who could be struck with the beauty of a fifty franc strip of lace. "_cent cinquante francs, madame, très recherché._" "_deux cent francs. superbe, madame._" "_quatre cent francs. magnifique._" "eighty dollars for that mess of spider's web!" exclaimed monsieur, in english, to his companion. "eighty dollars! the price _is_ magnifique." "he is varee sheep for sush _dentelles_," says the old lady, in a quiet tone, much to monsieur's confusion at her understanding the english tongue; and the exhibition went on. how much we sacrificed at that black velvet altar i do not care to mention; but, at any rate, we found on reaching america that the prices paid, compared with those asked at home, _were_ "varee sheep for sush _dentelles_." antwerp! we must make a brief pause at this old commercial city on the scheldt; and as we ride through its streets, we see the quaint, solid, substantial buildings of olden times, their curious architecture giving a sort of dutch artistic air to the scene, and reminding one of old paintings and theatrical scenery. one evidence of the commercial importance of antwerp is seen in its splendid docks; these comprise the two docks built by bonaparte when he made the port one of his naval arsenals, which are splendid specimens of masonry, the walls being five feet in thickness; then the belgian government have recently completed three new docks, which, in connection with the old ones, embrace an area of over fifty acres of water. we visited several of the dock-yards here, and were astonished at the vast heaps of merchandise they contained. still further improvements that are being made seem to completely refute the assertion that all the commercial enterprise of antwerp has departed. here, for instance, were two new docks in progress for timber and petroleum exclusively, which enclose seventeen acres of water, and here we saw literally enough of splendid timber for a navy. i was actually staggered by the heaps of every kind of timber, from all parts of the world, that was piled up here, while the american petroleum was heaped up and stored in warehouses the size of a cathedral, suggesting the idea of a tremendous illumination should fire by any means get at it, which, however, is guarded against very strictly by dock-guards and police. then there are three new and spacious dry docks, one of which is the largest in europe, being nearly five hundred feet long, and capable of holding two ships at a time of one thousand tons register each. the splendid facilities for ships of every description, and for the landing and storage of merchandise, are such as cannot fail to excite admiration from every american merchant, and make him sigh for the time when we may have similar accommodations in the great seaports in this country. there were huge warehouses, formed by two blocks _vis-à-vis_, with a glass roof covering the intermediate space, and a double rail track running through it, affording opportunity of loading, unloading, and sorting merchandise in all weathers, while the depth of the "lazy old scheldt," directly opposite the city, is sufficient for a ship drawing thirty-two feet of water to ride safely at anchor. the magnificent cathedral spire in antwerp is familiar to almost everybody who looks into the windows of the print shops; and we climbed far up into it, to its great colony of bells, that make the very tower reel with their chimes. here, leaving the ladies, our motto was, excelsior; and we still went onward and upward, till, amid the wrought stone that seems the lace-work of the spire, we appeared to be almost swinging in the air, far above the earth, as in a gigantic net, and, although safely enclosed, yet the apertures and open-work were so frequent that our enthusiasm was not very expressive, however deeply it might have been felt at the splendid view, though our grasp at the balusters and stone-work was of the most tenacious character; and, in truth, the climbing of a spire of about four hundred feet high is an undertaking easier read about than practised. inside the cathedral we saw rubens's fine pictures of the elevation and the descent from the cross, in which the figures are given with such wonderful and faithful accuracy as to make the spectator sigh with pity at the painful spectacle. the interior of this splendid cathedral is grand and imposing; but i have already, in these pages, employed so many adjectives in admiration of these grand old buildings, that i fear repetition in the attempt to give anything more than the dimensions which indicate its vast extent, which are five hundred feet long and two hundred and fifty wide. in front of this cathedral is an iron canopy, or specimen of iron railing-work, as we should call it; but it is of _wrought_ iron, and by the hammer and skilful hand of quentin matsys. in the church of st. jacques, with its splendid interior, rich in beautiful carved marble and balustrades, we stood at the tomb of rubens, who is buried here, and saw many more of his pictures among them his holy family. the house where he died is in a street named after him, and a statue of the artist graces the place verte. antwerp rejoices in good musical entertainments. the most prominent and aristocratic of the musical societies is that known as the "royal society of harmony of antwerp," who own a beautiful garden, or park, at which their out-of-door concerts are given during the summer season. none but members of the society are admitted to these entertainments, except visiting friends from other cities, and then only by approval of the committee of managers. the garden is quite extensive, and is beautifully laid out with walks beneath shady groves, rustic bridges over ponds and streams, gorgeous plats, and parterres of flowers. in the centre of the grounds rises an ornamental covered stand for the orchestra; and round about, beneath the shade trees, sit such of the visitors who are not strolling about, eating ices, drinking light wine or beer, and indulging in pipes and cigars. a handsome pavilion affords accommodation in case of bad weather, and the expenses are defrayed by assessments upon the members of the society. after seeing the london zoölogical garden, others seem very much like it; and that in antwerp is nearest the london one, in the excellence of its arrangement and management, of any i have since visited. the collection is quite large, and very interesting. the cabs and hackney coaches in this old city are the most atrocious old wrecks we have ever seen, the horses apparently on their last legs, and the drivers a seedy-looking set of fellows, most of whom understand neither english, french, nor german, only flemish; so that when a stranger calls a "vigilante," which is the title of these turnouts, it is well to have the assistance of a native, else the attempted excursion may end in an inextricable snarl of signs, phrases, and gesticulations, "full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing" to either party. i believe if an individual, who does not understand german or flemish, can make the journey from antwerp to dusseldorf alone, he may be considered competent to travel all over europe without a courier or interpreter. the conductors or guards of the train appeared to understand nothing but german and flemish. the changes of cars were numerous and puzzling, and our "_change-t-on de voiture ici?_" and "_ou est le convoi pour dusseldorf?_" were aired and exercised on a portion of the route to little purpose. nevertheless, we did manage to blunder through safely and correctly, by dint of showing tickets, and being directed by signs and motions, and pushed by good-natured, stupid (?) officials from one train to another; for we changed cars at aerschot, then at hasselt, then again at maestricht, where we were compelled to leave the train, and have all small parcels examined by the custom-house officials; then at aix la chapelle, or aachen, as the dutchmen call it, we had to submit to an examination of trunks, all passing in at one door of a large room and out at another, in an entirely opposite direction, and apparently directly away from the train we had just left, to continue our journey. i never shall forget the jargon of dutch, french, and english, the confusion of wardrobes of different nationalities that were rudely exposed by the officers, the anathematizing of obstinate straps that would not come unbuckled, the turning out of pockets to search for missing keys, and the hasty cramming back of the contents of trunks,--for the train was a few minutes late,--that imprinted the custom-house station of aix la chapelle like a disagreeable nightmare on my memory. at last we reached ober cassel, where we debarked, took seats in a drosky, as they call cabs here, the driver of which hailed us in french, which really sounded almost natural after the amount of guttural german we had experienced. over the pontoon bridge that spans the rhine, we rode towards dusseldorf, whose lighted windows were reflected upon the dark, flowing stream; and we were soon within the hospitable and comfortable hotel, denominated the breidenbacher hof, where the servants spoke french and english, and we forgot the perplexities of the day in an excellent and well-served supper. dusseldorf is one of those quiet, sleepy sort of towns where there is little or no excitement beyond music in the hofgarten, or the prussian soldiers who parade the streets; it is the quiet and pleasant home of many accomplished artists, whose paintings and whose school of art are familiar to many in america, and it is often visited by american tourists for the purpose of purchasing pictures from the easels of its artists; indeed, the guide-books dignify it with the title of the "cradle of rhenish art." americans visiting dusseldorf find an efficient and able cicerone in henry lewis, esq., the american consul, who, from his long residence there, and being himself a dusseldorf artist, and withal a member of their associations, and having an intimate acquaintance with artists and artist life, is a gentleman eminently qualified to aid our countrymen in their purchases of pictures, which is done with a disinterestedness and courtesy that have won for him the warmest regards of americans who have visited the place. to be sure, some americans, with very queer ideas of propriety in pictures, visit dusseldorf, as they do other places in europe, sometimes mortifying their countrymen by their absurd extravagances of conduct. at one of the artists' exhibitions a fine picture was pointed out to me, representing a cavalier who had just returned from the chase, and was seated in an old mediæval hall. at one side, in the painting, was a representation of a fine, wide, high, old, ornamented chimneypiece. this picture attracted the attention of an american, well-known in his native country as a proprietor of patent medicines. he saw nothing in the rich costume and coloring of the cavalier's dress, the fine interior of the old mediæval mansion; but he noticed that the mantel of the antique fireplace was empty. lucky circumstance! he proposed to purchase the picture of the artist on condition of an alteration, or rather addition, being made, which was the painting in of a bottle of the purchaser's celebrated syrup, with its label distinctly visible, to be represented occupying one end of the mantel, and boxes of pills and ointment (labels visible) occupying the other end. to his credit be it known, the artist absolutely refused to commit such an outrage, notwithstanding double price was offered him for "the job;" and the glories of blank's pills continue to be painted in printer's ink, and not the artist's colors. through the kind courtesy of mr. lewis, we were enabled to visit the studios of nearly all the leading artists of dusseldorf. we saw the fine swiss scenery of lindler, the life-like, quaint old burghers and dutch figures of stammel, the heavy dutch horses and the quiet, natural, rural, and roadside scenes of hahn, and the sharp, bold style of figure-painting of stever, rich in color and striking in expression--an artist whose pictures, in the exhibition, always have a group of spectators about them; and then we saw lewis's own clever landscapes and swiss mountain scenes, and finally went off to the dusseldorf gallery, where we saw a host of original sketches and drawings by the most celebrated artists of all schools. one thing newly-arrived americans quickly learn here, as well as in rome and florence; and that is, that good pictures command good prices: they may be obtained at a lower figure than at home, yet they are by no means sacrificed for a song. the facilities of travel are now so great, and americans and english with money to spend do so pervade the continent, that the opportunities of obtaining really meritorious works of art at a very low price in europe are decreasing every day. the prussian soldiery are seen everywhere in dusseldorf; they are a fine, intellectual-looking set of men, not very tall, but splendidly drilled. a regiment that i have seen pass, with its magnificent military band at its head, was so exact in the perpendicular of the muskets carried by the men, that i verily believe a plank might have been laid upon the points of the upright bayonets, and it would have been found a true level. the band in the hofgarten plays the strauss waltzes deliciously. the shady walks, the flower-beds, the pretty vases and fountains, are enchantingly soothing and romantic on a summer's evening, under the influence of music, rhine wine or lager. but we must bid adieu to old dusseldorf, which we learn, with some surprise, as we turn our back upon it for the city of perfumes (cologne), to be a town of fifty thousand inhabitants--a fact one would never dream of, from its lack of that bustling spirit that characterizes an american town or city of that population. now for the "castle-crowned rhine." we leave dusseldorf behind, and as the steamboat journey from here is a somewhat dull and uninteresting one, there being no features of natural beauty on the river between the two points, we rattle down by cologne and minden railway in about an hour and a half, and quarter at the fine hotel du nord, at cologne, near the railway bridge, which is all of a bustle on account of the arrival of the king of sweden and suite; and some of the blue-eyed, golden-haired blondes of that "suite" we had the pleasure of meeting occasionally, as we passed in or out, would have been "all the rage" in america, could they have been transplanted to that country. cologne, the oldest town on the rhine, is built with long, winding, semicircular, narrow streets, along the river. it is now the capital of rhenish prussia, and appears to be a strongly fortified place, being surrounded by strong, high walls. a bridge of boats and a stone bridge span the rhine from cologne to a little town called deutz, opposite, and the city seems to have considerable business activity. before one ever sees the city, his impressions are, that its chief article of commerce and manufacture is cologne water; and that impression is strengthened on arrival, for about every other store, especially those in the square about the cathedral, claims to be "_the_ original jean antoine marie farina." the competition in this matter is ridiculous, and even laughable; and the farinas are so numerous, and opinion is so divided respecting the original, that it is said if you purchase of either one you will wish you had bought of another. the cathedral at cologne, grand and majestic in its proportions, rich in ornament, and considered among lovers of architecture a masterpiece among existing gothic buildings, was commenced in , and, though more than six centuries have passed, is still unfinished, and the name of the architect who planned the original designs of the structure unknown to the world. the sight of this great cathedral, that has been in process of construction for so many centuries, sometimes nearly abandoned to ruin, and then again carried forward by builders with new zeal, till at last the original designs were forgotten, and men proceeded to work on at an apparently endless task,--the style of work here and there marking the age in which it was wrought,--was strikingly suggestive of the vanity of human aspirations. it also brought to mind that almost forgotten old german legend respecting a compact between the original architect of this cathedral, i think, and his satanic majesty, in which the former some way outwitted the latter, who, in revenge, caused him to be killed by a fall from the tower bearing the well-known derrick so familiar in all the pictures on the cologne-bottle labels. his sulphuric highness, in the story, also vowed that the edifice should never be completed, and that the architect's name should be forgotten by men. the fiendish promise appears to have been faithfully kept, although, on the other hand, it is averred by some american travellers that the building is kept unfinished to extract contributions from the faithful to complete it, and thereby furnish builders, workmen, and contractors with work; indeed, a new york man was struck with the bright idea that it would be to get the prussian government to undertake it, and let the job out to contractors, and he knew that the builders of the new city hall in new york would undertake it, and spend time and money enough over it, and in a manner that would astonish the old church builders of europe. the cathedral stands on a slight elevation, some fifty or sixty feet above the rhine, upon a portion of the old roman camp-ground, where the soldiers of agrippina, the mother of nero, rested after war's alarms, and watched the flow of the winding river at their feet. countless sums of money have been lavished upon the building, and centuries of labor. guilty monarchs, and men whose hearts have reeked with sin, have bestowed wealth upon it, in the hope to buy absolution for their crimes with the same dross that had purchased so many of the world's coveted pleasures. in , forty-eight thousand pounds were expended on it, and between and over three hundred thousand pounds were laid out. the great southern portal, which is two hundred and twenty feet high, cost alone one hundred and five thousand pounds. some idea of the vastness of the cathedral may be had from the figures representing its dimensions. the interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one hundred and forty broad; the transept two hundred and thirty-four feet long, and the choir one hundred and forty feet in height. the part which is appropriated for divine service occupies an area of seventy thousand square feet. we strolled round this stupendous old building, and after shaking off the guides and _valets de place_, who proffered their services, the agents of cologne-water houses in the vicinity, and the venders of books, stereoscopic views and pictures of it, and even a monkish old fellow who came out of one of the side doors, and rattled a money-box for subscriptions for the workmen, proceeded to have a look at it in our own way. there stood out the old derrick, or crane, an iron arm fifty feet long, that has projected from one of the towers, which is one hundred and ninety feet high, for four hundred years, probably in waiting to assist in completing the remaining two hundred and eighty-six feet, the projected height being four hundred and seventy-six. the gothic arches, canopies, buttresses, and tracery, with statues of the apostles and saints, are bewildering in detail and number. in one ornamental arch is a relief containing no less than seventy different figures, and another has fifty-eight small canopies wrought in it. in fact, the building seems to be a monument of stone-cutters' skill, as well as an exemplification of the detail of gothic architecture; and you may mark that which is crumbling to decay beneath the unsparing tooth of time, and on the same edifice that which, sharp and fresh, but yesterday left the sculptor's chisel; and so the work goes on. the central tower and iron framework of the roof of the body of the church and transept were only completed in , and the interior of the church since , that is, if the interior can be said ever to be completed, with workmen continually _finishing_ it. to get inside we find that a series of tickets must be purchased of the custodian who guards the entrance at the transept. these paid for, we proceeded, under the pilotage of a good-natured, though not over-clean churchman, to the various points of interest in the vast interior. we had the same beautiful view of gothic arches and cluster pillars that form so grand a perspective in these cathedrals. we counted fifty-six pillars in all. those of the nave were one hundred and six feet in height, and of the side aisles forty-five. the seven chapels are rich in pictures, decorated altars, and relics. the most celebrated is that known as the chapel of the three magi, in which was a gorgeous crystal casket, protected by a cover richly ornamented and set with precious stones. when this was reverently removed, we beheld the tops of three human skulls, circled with golden crowns, which our conductor gravely informed us were the skulls of caspar, melchoir, and balthazar, the three magi, or wise men of the east, who figured at the adoration of our saviour. one can hardly repress a smile at such assertions, made in the nineteenth century, by a man who has had the advantages of education, as our priestly guide evidently had; but the serious manner in which he imparted his information, and to our doubting comments pointed to the names set in rubies, and assured us that the relics were presented in the twelfth century by the emperor frederic barbarossa, and that he had not time now to question historical facts, disposed of the subject in our case. so, at the church of st. ursula here, where the bones of _eleven thousand virgins_ (!), who were murdered in cologne on their return from a pilgrimage to rome, are shown. the unbelieving thomases of the protestant faith try the patience of the pious custodian sadly by their irreverent questions and disrespectful remarks. in the great sacristy and treasury of the cathedral we saw a rich collection of magnificent vestments for priests, bishops, and other church officials, costly gold and silver chalices, cruets, fonts, goblets, church vessels, &c. among these were several splendid "monstrances" or a sort of framework, in which the consecrated wafer, or host, is held up to view before the congregation in roman catholic churches. one of these was of silver, weighing eight pounds and a half, adorned with rubies and diamonds, with a superb diamond cross hanging from it, and around it a collar of turquoises, amethysts, and sapphires; there was another of solid silver, much heavier, the gift of pope pius ix., and still a third, which far outshone all the rest in magnificence. this last was a foot and a half in height, was of solid gold, and weighed ten pounds and two ounces; it was studded with large jewels, and the gold beautifully enamelled. the cylindrical space for enclosing the host measured four and a half inches in diameter, and is cut out of a piece of mountain crystal. the value of this monstrance is immense, and it is only used on great holidays, and carried in procession but once a year--corpus christi, the next thursday after trinity sunday. the cabinets in this treasury were rich indeed with material wealth of the cathedral; and our priestly guide took a pride in displaying it, furnishing me many facts for my note-book not down in the guide-books, and anxious that we should have a correct idea of the wealth of the church. two splendid silver censers, weighing nine pounds each, were shown us; next came a great crucifix of polished ebony and silver, a gold and enamelled flower set with precious stones, an enamelled painting of the crucifixion surrounded by diamonds, rubies, and pearls, a cross and ring worn by the archbishop at every pontifical service, magnificent ornaments set with diamonds and pearls, and valued at twenty-five hundred pounds sterling; then there were splendid reliquaries, richly set with jewels, some said to contain portions of the true cross; splendid crosiers, one of ivory and crystal, of ancient workmanship; crosses, silver busts, carved ivory figures, and the splendid silver shrine of st. engelbert, weighing one hundred and forty-nine pounds, and adorned with bass-reliefs and numerous small statuettes--a most valuable piece of plate, and curious work of art, made in the year . from this rich storehouse of gold, silver, and jewels we passed out once more into the body of the cathedral, where ragged women or poverty-stricken men, with hunger in their cheeks, knelt on the pavement to tell a string of beads, or mutter a prayer or two, and then rise and follow us into the street to beg a few groschen, or, as we passed, to be solicited by an individual, who had charge of a rattling money-box, for a contribution towards the completion of the church. nearly two hundred workmen are at work upon the cologne cathedral, renewing that which has crumbled from decay and time, and completing that which is still unfinished. a good idea of its magnitude can be obtained by a tour of the galleries. access is had to these by a flight of steps in one of the great pillars. one hundred and one steps--i counted them as we went up--carry the visitor to a gallery which extends across the transept. up thirty-six steps more, and you reach another gallery running around the whole building, in a tour of which you may study the details of the architecture, and also have a fine view of the town, and a beautiful one of the rhine, and the lovely surrounding landscape. there is a gallery corresponding to this on the interior of the building, which affords the visitor an equally good opportunity to observe the interior decorations and architectural features. you mount ninety-eight steps more, and reach a third gallery, which runs around the entire roof of the cathedral, a distance of sixteen hundred feet. here the panorama is more extended and beautiful. you see the river winding on its course far in the distance. below are the semicircular streets, the bridges of stone and of boats, the numerous little water craft dotting the stream, and on every side the lovely landscape, fresh and verdant in the summer sunlight. above us, on the roof, or ridge-pole, runs an ornamental gilt crest, looking like spikes from below, but really a string of gilt spires, nearly five feet in height, while the great cross above is twenty-seven feet high, and weighs thirteen hundred and eighty-eight pounds. from this gallery we passed in through a little door under the roofing, and above the vaulted arches of the interior, to an opening which was surrounded by a railing. through this opening the spectator has an opportunity of looking to the interior beneath him, and has a view directly downwards to the pavement, one hundred and fifty feet below. the middle steeple is yet to be ascended. this is strongly built of iron, and ninety-four steps more carry us up to the highest point of ascent--three hundred and twenty-nine steps in all. the star which surmounts the steeple above us is three hundred and fifty feet from the pavement. a glance below at the cathedral shows the form of its ground plan, and the landscape view extends as far as the eye can reach. cologne is not an over-clean city, and we were not sorry to embark on the _dampschift_, as they call the little rhine steamboat, for our trip to mayence. these little steamers, with their awning-shaded decks, upon which you may sit and dine, or enjoy the pure light wines of the country,--which never taste so well anywhere else,--and view the romantic and beautiful scenery upon the banks of this historic river as you glide along, afford a most delightful mode of transit, and one which we most thoroughly enjoyed, the weather being charming, and the boat we were upon an excellent one, and not crowded with passengers. the great cathedral of cologne, a conspicuous landmark, and the high arches of the railroad bridge, gradually disappear as we steam away up the river, looking on either side at the pleasant views, till the steeple and residences of bonn greet us, after a two hours' sail. here we make a landing, near the grand hotel royal, a beautiful hotel, and charmingly situated. facing the river, its two wings extend from the main body of the house, enclosing a spacious garden, which stretches down to the river banks, and is tastefully laid out with winding walks, rustic arbors, and flower-beds. from its garden and windows you may gaze upon the charming panorama of the river, with the peaks of the seven mountains rising in the distance, and the castle of godesburg on its lofty peak, near the river. but our little steamer fumes and fusses at its landing-place, eager to depart; so we step on board, and it steams once more out against the curling current between the hills of rhineland. the scenery now becomes more varied and interesting; pleasant little roads wind off in the distance amid the hills; a chapel is perched here and there, and ever and anon we meet some big, flat-bottomed boat floating idly down the stream, loaded with produce, with a heavy, loose-jacketed, broad-leaf-hatted german lounging in the stern, smoking a painted or ornamented pipe, and you think of the pictures you have so often stared at in the windows of the print shops. we begin to note the vineyards on the sloping banks, the vines on sticks four or five feet high, and sometimes in what appears to be unpromising looking ground. we pass various little towns with unpronounceable names, such as niederdollendorf, for instance. we make occasional landings, and take on board women with queer head-dresses, and coarse, black, short dresses, stout shoes, and worsted stockings, and men with many-buttoned jackets, holiday velvet vests, painted porcelain pipes, and heavy, hob-nailed shoes; children in short, blue, coarse jean, and wooden shoes, all of whom occupy a position on the lower forward deck, among the light freight--chiefly provisions and household movables--that the steamer carries. the shores begin to show a background of hills; the seven mountains are in view, and drachenfels (dragon's rock), with its castle perched eight hundred and fifty-five feet above the river, on its vine-clad height, realizes one's ideas of those ancient castles where the old robber chieftains of the middle ages established themselves, and from these strongholds issued on their freebooting expeditions, or watched the river for passing crafts, from which to exact tribute. the scenery about here is lovely; the little villages on the banks, the vine-clad hills, little gothic churches, the winding river, and the highlands swelling blue in the distance, all fill out a charming picture. still we glide along, and the arched ruin of rolandseck, on its hill three hundred and forty feet above the river, appears in view. a single arch of the castle alone remains darkly printed against the sky, and, like all rhine castles, it has its romantic story, which you read from your guide-book as you glide along the river, or hear told by some dreamy tourist, who has the romance in him, which the sight of these crumbling old relics of the past excites. and he tells you how roland, a brave crusader of charlemagne's army, left his lady love near this place, when he answered the summons of the monarch to the holy land; how the lady, after his prolonged absence, heard that he was dead, and betook herself to a convent on the picturesque little island of nonnenworth; how the bold crusader, who had not been killed, hastened back on the wings of love, eager to claim his bride after his long absence, and found her in the relentless clutch of a convent; how, in despair, he built this castle, which commanded a view of the cloisters, where he could hear the sound of the convent bell, and occasionally catch a glimpse of a fair form that he knew full well, passing to her devotions; how, at last, she came no more, but the tolling bell and nuns' procession told him that she whom he loved was dead; and how, from that moment, the knight spoke no more, but died heart-broken, his last gaze turned towards the convent where his love had died; and all that remains of the knightly lover's castle is the solitary wall that lifts its ruined arch distinct against the dark-blue sky. we pass the little island of nonnenworth; and the nunnery is still upon it, founded far back in the eleventh century, but rebuilt in the fifteenth, and suppressed by napoleon in , and now a sort of school under the management of franciscan nuns. the view about here, looking down the river, is romantic and beautiful. on one side, on the more level country, lie several small villages; then, down along the banks of the river, rise the rugged cliffs, the ruined castles of rolandseck and drachenfels crowning two jutting points of the hills, and in the distance, mellowed by the haze, the peaks of the hills known as the seven mountains, and löwenberg peak, crowned with a crumbling ruin, rise to view, which, with the little island and its convent for a foreground, form a charming picture. we sail along, and make another landing for passengers at remagen. opposite remagen we see a huge cliff, which rises nearly six hundred and fifty feet above the river, and is profitable, as well as picturesque, for it is a stone quarry, the product of which can be placed directly into the river craft at its base. the rhine now describes a long curve, as we approach nieder-breisig. a little village called duttenberg is wedged in between the hills, on a little river that empties into the rhine, and, as we pass it, the tall, round, stone towers of arenfels come in view. then we reach nieder-breisig, and opposite is rheineck, with its modern-built tower crowning the height. then we come to the two hammersteins, with their vineyards and castle, and then the picturesque old town of andernach heaves in sight, with its tall watch-tower overlooking the river. then come kaltenengens and others, which i at last became tired of noting down, and enjoyed the afternoon sunset that was softening the vine-clad slopes, and lighting up the arches and windows of each ruined castle, chapel, or watch-tower that was sure to crown every conspicuous eminence, until, at last, our little steamer rounded in at the pier at coblentz, with its fine hotels strung along near the river bank, and the gibraltar of the rhine, the grim old castle of ehrenbreitstein, looking down on us from its rocky eminence on the opposite shore. coblentz, the guide-books tell us, is a famous stopping-place for tourists on the rhine, between cologne and mayence, being equi-distant from both. it is certainly a capital half-way resting-place, and, however pleasing the steamboat trip may have been, the traveller can but enjoy the change to one of the clean, well-kept hotels at this beautiful situation. the hotel agents were at the pier,--spoke english and french fluently,--and we were soon installed into the pleasantest of rooms, commanding a view of the river, whose swiftly-flowing current rolls not fifty paces distant. a bridge of boats spans it, and high above the river bank rises the old castle, upon the battlements of which i can see the glitter of the sentinels' bayonets in the summer sunset. the bridge of boats, and the passengers who cross it, are a never-ceasing source of entertainment to us; soldiers and elegantly-dressed officers from the castle; country girls, with curious head-dresses; and now and then a holiday-rigged peasant; costermongers' carts and dog-teams--one, consisting of three big dogs abreast, came over at full gallop, the driver, a boy, cracking his whip, and the whole team barking furiously. we saw a whole regiment of prussian infantry, armed with the prussian needle-gun, march over from the castle--a fine body of men, and headed by a band of forty pieces, playing in a style that would make the military enthusiasm, if the listener possessed any, tingle to the very soles of his feet. when steamboats or other craft desire to pass this floating bridge, a section is detached,--a sort of floating "draw,"--and suffered to swing out with the stream; the steamer passes the gap; after which the detached section is pulled back to position again. right at this charming bend of the river, on one side of the town, flows the moselle, as we call it, but mözle, as you learn to pronounce it in europe--the blue moselle. "on the banks of the blue moselle," ran the old song; and as picturesque and poetical a river as can be imagined is the moselle, with its arched bridge spanning it, and its sparkling stream winding through a lovely landscape; but the portion of coblentz that borders on its bank is poor and dirty, and in striking contrast with the elegant buildings and bright appearance of the rhine front of the town: the "blue" of the moselle refuses to mix with the more turbid glacier-tinted rhine, and for a long distance down the stream this blue makes itself visible and distinct from the rhine water, till gradually absorbed by it. we are now beginning to come to those charming hotels on the great lines of continental travel routes, which in germany and switzerland are not the least attractive features of the tour. here at coblentz i enjoy excellent accommodations, room fresh and fragrant, with clean linen, spotless curtains, and not a speck of dust visible, my windows commanding the charming rhine panorama, waiters speaking french, german, and english, a well-served _table d'hote_, and all for less than half the price charged in america. the wine-drinkers here, from america, are in ecstasies, for we appear to be at headquarters for the light rhine wines of the country; two francs buy a bottle costing one dollar and twenty-five cents at home, and five francs such as cannot be got in america for three dollars. the sparkling moselle and celebrated johannisberger are to be had here in perfection, and the newly-arrived american is not long in ascertaining what a different thing the same brand of wine is in this country from what it is at home. "ah, if we had wine like this at home, how i should like to have it oftener!" have i heard frequently said by travellers. it is too true that it is extremely difficult to get pure (imported) wines and liquors, pay what price one may in america; and perhaps one reason why the light wines of germany are so agreeable to the tourist's palate, is in the surroundings and the time they are taken, such as on the deck of a rhine steamer, at the top of a steep crag, in a picturesque old castle, in a german garden, where a capital orchestra makes the very atmosphere luxuriant with strauss waltzes and gungl galops, or at the gay _table d'hote_ with pleasure-seeking tourists, who, like himself, are only studying how to enjoy themselves, recounting past pleasure jaunts, or planning new ones. however, be this as it may, it is, i believe, acknowledged that the only place to get the rhine wines is in rhineland; and the difference between them and the compounds furnished in america is obvious to the dullest taste. the purest and most reliable wines now in our own country are the california and other native wines, although they are not so fashionable as the doctored foreign, and imitation of foreign that are palmed off as genuine. as i looked from my windows over the river and up at the fortress of ehrenbreitstein, seated on its rocky perch three hundred and seventy-seven feet above the river, and the eye caught the occasional glitter of a weapon, or the ear the faint rattle of a drum, or the sound of the bugle call, softened by the distance, i found myself repeating fragments of byron's childe harold. "here ehrenbreitstein with her shattered wall, black with the miner's blast upon her height, yet shows of what she was when shell and ball rebounding lightly on her strength did light." "a tower of victory" it is indeed, for it has only twice been taken by an enemy during the best part of a thousand years--once by stratagem, and once being reduced by famine. we crossed the bridge of boats, which is fourteen hundred and ten feet long, got tickets of admission to the fortress in the little town of ehrenbreitstein the other side, mounted with labor up the steep ascent, and as we came within view of these tremendous works, upon which money and engineering skill seem to have been expended without stint, we did not wonder at their impregnability, or that they excite so much admiration among the military engineers of the world. from the ramparts we enjoyed a magnificent view of the whole river and the country between andernach and stolzenfels. below us was triangular-shaped coblentz, and its row of handsome buildings facing the river rhine, the bridge of boats and never-ending moving diorama sort of scene, while at the right of the town glided the blue moselle, its azure waters moving unmixed as they flowed along with the rhine, and the railroad bridge spanning the stream with its graceful arches; beyond that the fortifications of fort franz, commanding the river and vicinity; and far off to the right of that a fertile plain towards andernach, the scene of cæsar's first passage of the rhine, b. c. , and of the sieges of the thirty years war, in to , and the bloody campaigns of louis xiv. farther to our left, and near the junction of the two rivers, we observed the church of st. castor, built in ; and it was in a small square near this church, in one of our walks about the town, that we came to a little monument, raised by a french official at the commencement of the campaign against russia, bearing this inscription:-- "made memorable by the campaign against the russians, under the prefecturate of jules doazan, ." when the russian general entered the town, he added these words, which still remain:-- "seen and approved by the russian commander of the city of coblentz, january , ." a delightful afternoon ride, in an open carriage, along the river bank for three or four miles, brought us to the foot of the ascent leading to the castle of stolzenfels, which looks down upon the river from a rocky eminence about four hundred feet above it. refusing the proffers of donkeys or _chaise à porter_ for the ladies, we determined to make the ascent on foot, and very soon found that the "guides," donkeys, and portable chairs were "a weak invention of the enemy," for the road, although winding, was broad, easy, and delightfully shady and romantic. we passed an old roman mile-stone on the road, and after crossing a drawbridge, reached the royal castle. this most beautifully restored relic of the middle ages was, in , a ruin of a castle of five hundred years before; in it was partially restored, and since then has been completely rebuilt and beautified at a cost of fifty-three thousand pounds sterling. everything is in good proportion, stolzenfels being somewhat of a miniature castle, its _great_ banquet hall scarcely double the size of a good-sized drawing-room; but its whole interior and exterior are a model of exquisite taste. it has its little castle court-yard, its beautifully contrived platform overlooking the rhine, its watch-towers and its turrets, all undersized, but in exact proportions. through the tower windows, which are wreathed with ivy; from the windows of little boudoirs of rooms, which were cabinets of rare china and exquisite cabinet paintings; from embrasures in galleries and halls which had exquisite statuettes, instead of large size statues; from little gothic windows in the chapel; and, in fact, from every conceivable and most unexpected point was the visitor encountering different lovely framed views, as it were, of the natural scenery of the country. these outlooks were so skilfully contrived as each to give a different view, and as at this point of the rhine is the narrowest and most romantic part of the valley, the views are of the most enchanting description. looking out of an ivy-wreathed window of stolzenfels, the spectator would see, framed, as it were, in stone-work and green leaves, a picture of the river, with its boats and bridges: through another, or an embrasure, a square-framed picture of an elevation on the opposite bank, crowned by a pilgrims' chapel, while from the watch-tower you look down upon the lovely valley of the river lahn, which near this point flows into the rhine; and from another turret we look back upon the massy walls of ehrenbreitstein, coblentz, with the apex of its triangle pointing out into the stream, and behind its base the strong walls of fort constantine, marked out like stone lines on the greensward. the apartments in this castle are exquisitely furnished, and the furniture, tapestry, pictures, and statues adapted to harmonize with their size, which is fairy-like in comparison with castles generally. in one hall were a series of beautiful frescoes of chivalric scenes--godfrey de bouillon at the holy sepulchre; john of bohemia at the battle of cressy; rudolph of hapsburg judging knightly robbers, &c. there was a beautiful little chapel with elegant frescoes. in the armory were specimens of light and curious armor, among which were swords of napoleon, blucher, and murat, specimens of exquisite toledo blades, arabesque ornamented daggers, exquisitely wrought and flexible chain-mail shirts, and other curiosities of defensive armor. in the different rooms through which we were conducted, among other works of the old masters, were cabinet pictures by holbein, titian, van dyck, albert dürer, rembrandt, &c. the charming views of the surrounding scenery without, and the exquisite taste displayed on the interior of this royal castle, made us regret to leave its little leaf-clad turrets, fairy-like watch-towers, romantic terraces, and picturesque battlements; and we believed the custodian when he averred that queen victoria was charmed with the place when she visited it a few years since, for it was fit to charm even a queen with its beauty. once more we are steaming up the river, and stolzenfels is left behind us, and the towers of lahneck come in sight, a feudal castle restored by a wealthy englishman, and which occupies a crag above the river lahn; we pass little white villages nestled at the foot of the hills, and looking far inland, see the slopes bristling with vineyards; we are in the land of the vine. next comes another great castle, marksburg, frowning from its rocky height four hundred and eighty feet above the stream, and we lazily inspect it by the aid of a double field-glass, as we lie at full length on a settee, beneath the steamer's awning, and, on inquiry, find that after being an old feudal castle, and bearing its weight of half a thousand years bravely, it has been degraded into a states prison! the little town near the river, an old watch-tower, a road winding off amid the hills for a foreground, and this old castle high above as the background, forms so charming a picture, that one wishes it might, by some magic process, be transferred to canvas, that he could carry it away, and show it to others as it appeared to him. farther on we pass the little castle of liebeneck; then comes boppard, where, in feudal times, once existed an establishment of the knights templars. next we sweep round a great angle or elbow of the river, and there come in sight of a little village, with a gothic church of the fifteenth century, behind and high above it, the two castles known as "the brothers," connected with each other by a narrow natural bridge of rock. these two castles have a legend, as in fact nearly all the rhine castles have, and half the charm of one's trip consists in having them told to you at the right time, or recalling the half-forgotten story of boyhood piecemeal with some _compagnon de voyage_. the story of these castles is familiar, and is of two brothers loving the same lady, of faithlessness, of jealousy; and finally the lady in the case, with the delightfully german romantic name of hildegarde, retires to the convent at the foot of the hill--that is the way they always do in these rhine legends; it brings the convent into the story, and, perhaps, excites a desire on the part of the tourist to see the cell occupied by the fair penitent, without suspecting that the exhibition may prove something more of a sell than he bargained for. well, the lady retired, the two brothers were reconciled, and lived ever after in one castle, instead of two. more quaint little villages, other ruined castles! thurnberg, the "mouse" tower, looms up, with its square, shattered walls, and round tower, rising from their midst against the sky as we sweep by it; and st. goar, a conspicuous-looking town, comes in view, with the huge ruins of rheinfels, three hundred and seventy feet above it, the most magnificent ruin on the river, a second ehrenbreitstein in strength, and which has laughed one siege of fifteen months to scorn in the thirteenth century, and in was again defended successfully against an army of twenty-four thousand men, but blown up by the french revolutionary army of . it is now simply a picturesque ruin on its rocky eminence, with the railway track creeping around its base; below the track, nearer the river, winds the carriage-road to the town. the mouse, or maus tower, which we passed before reaching rheinfels, was so called by the envious counts of katzenelnbogen (there's a name to write), who named their own castle, near here, the cat (katz); but the story goes that the mouse and its stout old warrior were more than a match for the cat; in fact, he was so feared in his day that the proverb was reversed, and when the mouse was away the cat would play. now we reach the precipitous rocks known as the "lurlei" crags, towering four hundred and twenty feet above the river, which flows swiftly down their base; and here was where lurlei, the siren, sat and chanted her songs, which lured fishermen, knights, and sailors to their destruction in the rapids that whirled beneath her lofty and romantic seat. as we passed we heard no siren's song, but our ears were saluted with the shrill whistle of that practical chanter of the advance of civilization, the locomotive, that rushed through a tunnel, piercing the very base of the magic rock, and whirling out of sight with a shriek that made the hills echo like the scream of a demon, leaving an angry puff of smoke issuing from the rocky orifice, as if the fiend had vanished from the surface to the centre. now we pass oberwesel, with its romantic ravines, picturesque vineyards, and old ruins of castle schönburg; farther on, on the opposite bank, the grand old castle of gutenfels stands guard over the town beneath it; then comes that little hexagonal castle, or stone fortification, on an island, looking as though anchored in mid stream, known as the pfalz; it was erected in the thirteenth century, as a toll-house for exacting tribute, and has served, if not as a prison, as a place of royal confinement--tradition being that the countesses palatine remained here during their accouchements. we wind round a point, and the castle of stahleck, once the principal residence of the counts palatine, makes its appearance; then come the ruins of fürstenburg, once the stronghold of an old robber, who was bold enough to fire into the emperor's boat that refused to pay toll as it passed; the stream now narrows perceptibly, and a little slender tower, perched like a sentinel on watch on its walls, at a narrow ravine, attracts attention; it is sooneck, and was a robbers' stronghold in the eleventh century. now we sweep round another bend in the river, and come in sight of the lofty pinnacles, turrets, and towers of the beautiful castle of rheinstein, two hundred and fifty feet above the river, completely restored, the banner floating in the breeze from its topmost tower, and a basket suspended upon an iron crane from one of the towers towards the river; the whole shows the tourist just how these old strongholds used to look during the middle ages, and a party of ladies, far up in a little ivy-clad bower, at an angle of the castle terrace, exchanged greetings with us in handkerchief wavings as we passed. now we come to ehrenfels, and the vineyards where the rüdesheimer grapes are raised; these vineyards are arrayed in terraces, one above the other, and the banks all along on the side of the hill, upheld by arches of masonry, and brick and stone supports, put up apparently to keep the earth in place, and afford more space for the vines from which the celebrated vintage is obtained. at this point, on a rock, in mid stream, stands the well-known mouse tower, celebrated in southey's legend as the retreat of bishop hatto, who sought to escape the rats by fleeing to it; but his enemies swam the stream, entered the stronghold, and "whetted their teeth against the stones, and then they picked the bishop's bones." bingen would never have attracted so much attention from americans and englishmen if the hon. mrs. norton, i think it was, had not written her beautiful poem of the dying soldier, who was a native of the place, and whose last words to the comrade who knelt by his side on the field of battle, were his memories of "sweet bingen, dear bingen on the rhine," and sent messages home to his friends who lived at "bingen on the rhine." for no other reason than because they had read this poem and wished to see bingen, that had been so charmingly written about, did a party of americans land here; and in truth the little town was prettily situated, with a little river at one side of it, the nahe, flowing into the rhine, spanned by an old arched bridge, while its slender spires and white houses look forth upon the swift-flowing river, divided by the little island bearing the mouse tower, and upon the steep slopes of vineyards on the other side of the rhine, backed by the old castle of ehrenfels. after leaving bingen we come to the square-looking old castle of bromserburg, its shattered turrets green with vines and weeds, and farther on, other old ruins, "whose names i noted not," except one little church, that stood out like a white toy, away up on a sharp point of the hills; and then i was sorry i attempted to note it, for the prussian, who spoke english, was compelled to write the name for me, it being an absolute impossibility for me to do so correctly, according to the pronunciation of the country; so i will leave rochuscapelle, and the bright-looking little villages that we pass, for the old castle, johannisberg, which greets our view on its vine-clad eminence, three hundred and forty feet above the river. the vineyards which circle round and about the great hill surmounted by this castle are said to cover forty acres of ground, and it is here that the celebrated _jo-hannis-bagger_--as they pronounce it--wine is made. this johannisberg vineyard is situated in the district, about fifteen miles in length, celebrated as producing the finest wines of the rhine. there are rudesheim, hosheim, hattenheim, the steinberger, graffenberg, and many other "heims" and "bergs," whose mellowness and flavor, which is more or less injured by travel, may be enjoyed here by wine-drinkers, in their perfection, at a comparatively moderate cost. now we pass two or three islands, with unpronounceable names, more white-walled towns, backed by castle ruins, or handsome country residences and well-kept vineyards, with their serried rows of vines rising terrace above terrace on the hill-sides. here come the ancient, quaint little village of niederwalluf, known in record as far back as the year , schierstein embosomed in trees, and biebrich with its ducal palace, splendid garden, and park; we glide between two islands, and come in sight of the triple line of fortifications and cathedral steeples of mayence. mayence, which claims to be the place where the emperor constantine saw his vision of the cross, which is the strongest fortress in the german confederation, which was founded b. c. by the romans, and where they show you the remains of a roman acqueduct, a roman burial-ground, and the site of the roman camp, and, in the walls of the citadel, a monument erected by two of the roman legions in honor of their commander-in-chief, drusus, more than eighteen hundred years ago, an aged-looking, gray, circular tower, forty feet in height,--mayence, with its bridge of boats, two thousand two hundred and twenty feet in length, and mayence, which is the end of our journey up the rhine. we expected, from travellers' stories, to have been disappointed with the rhine, and were--favorably disappointed. the succession of natural beauties of its scenery, the historic interest attached to almost every foot of the course between cologne and mayence, the novelty to american eyes of the romantic ruins that crown the picturesque heights, the smiling vineyards, quaint little towns, odd churches, prim watch-towers, gothic cathedrals, white-walled cities, and boat-bridges, of course lend a charm to this beautiful river, and, notwithstanding my national pride, i cannot agree with some of my countrymen, who assert that the hudson river is as rich in picturesque scenery as the rhine, "leaving the castles out." the river scenery in america, that in character most resembles that of the rhine, is the upper mississippi, between prairie du chien and st. paul, and there some of the remarkable natural formations of the limestone bluffs supply the place of the rhine castles; but where that river widens out into lake pepin, the comparison, of course, ceases. the rhine is a river of romance. a sail up the rhine is something to be enjoyed by a student, a tourist who has "read up," a lover of travel who has longed to wander amid the scenes he has pored over on the pages of books, gazed at in pictures and engravings, and wondered if the reality could possibly be equal to the counterfeit presentment; and to such it will be as it was to us,-- "a thing of beauty, _and_ a joy forever." we rambled around mayence, visited its filthy market-place, and its old cathedral, founded in the tenth century, which has felt the stern vicissitudes of war quite severely, serving at different periods as a garrison for troops, a hay and provision magazine, &c. in the interior are quite a number of monuments of german electors, with tongue-puzzling names, and a tablet to the memory of one of charlemagne's wives; and in the chapter-house is a beautiful sculpture by schwanthaler, representing a female figure decorating a sarcophagus with a wreath; a monument, erected by the ladies of mayence in , in memory of a certain holy minstrel, who sang of piety and woman's virtue some time in the early part of the fourteenth century. not far from the cathedral is guttenberg square, where we saw thorwaldsen's statue of guttenberg, representing him as an old man, with the long, flowing, philosopher-looking gown, or robe, full beard, and skull-cap, with some of his precious volumes under his arm, and upon the pedestal of the monument were bass-reliefs representing scenes in his life. a bronze statue of schiller adorns another square here. after mayence, we found ourselves taking a two hours' ride to wiesbaden, one of the oldest watering-places in germany, and for gambling second only to baden-baden. here we found fine rooms at the hotel victoria, and the polite landlord, herr holzapfel, with a desire to facilitate the enjoyment of the tourist, very graciously presented me with a handsome little local guide-book, bearing the astounding title, "_fremdenfuhrer fur wiesbaden und seine umgebung_," and its imprint informed me, "_im auftrage des verfchönerungsvereins herausgegeven._" fancy an individual, unacquainted with the german tongue, with this lucid little guide, printed in small german text, to aid him in seeing the sights! however, i thanked the landlord, and pocketed the guide-book as one of the curiosities of the place. our first walk was to the chief attraction here to all visitors, the great gaming-house known as the cursaal,--which is suggestive of the more appropriate title curse-all,--where the spacious and elegant gaming-saloons, that have been described so often, were open for play from eleven a. m. to eleven p. m., and which, during the season, are thronged with players at the roulette and _rouge-et-noir_ tables. the central figure of attraction to strangers, when we were there, was the old duchess of homburg, who was each day wheeled in a chair to the table by her servant, and gambled away furiously, not scrupling a malediction when she lost heavily, or caring to conceal the eager gratification that played upon her wrinkled features, or made the gold rattle in her trembling and eager clutch, when she won. this gaming-hall is furnished with elegant dining, ball, and reading-rooms, and adjoining the building is an extensive and elegantly laid out park and pleasure-ground, where a fine band play during the afternoon, and throngs frequent its delightful alleys, walks, and arbors. all these are free to the visitor; and sometimes, in the evening, the band plays in the ball-room, and gayly-dressed crowds are whirling about in german waltzes and galops, and couples, for a rest now and then, will stroll into the adjacent lofty saloons of play, the silence of which is in striking contrast with the ball-room clatter without. here the only loud words spoken are those of the managers of the table, which, at regular intervals, rise above the subdued hum and the musical rattle of gold and silver, or its clink against the croupier's rake, as they sweep in the stakes from every part of the table to the insatiate maw of the bank, with the familiar and oft-repeated formula of,-- "_faites votre jeu, messieurs._" "_le jeu, est-il fait?_" "_rien ne va plus._" (make your game, gentlemen. is the game made? nothing more goes). or, at the roulette table, audible announcement of the numbers, and color which wins, determined by the ball in the revolving wheel. leaving wiesbaden, its gamesters, and its mineral spring, the water of which tasted very much like a warm decoction of salt and water, we sped on to frankfort-on-the-main. here we rode through beautiful streets, upon each side of which were broad double houses, surrounded by elegant gardens. here is the monument of guttenberg, consisting of the three figures of guttenberg, fust and schöffer, beneath which, on the ornamental work, are likenesses of celebrated printers, and grouped around the monument are figures of theology, poetry, history, and industry. here we saw the house in which goethe was born, and rode down through the _judengasse_, or jews street. the quarter inhabited by the jews is a curious old place, some parts too narrow to permit two vehicles passing each other; the unpainted, high, quaint, and solid old wooden houses, totally black with age, stores in the lower stories for the sale of second-hand clothes, and every species of cheap and second-hand merchandise; on all sides were troops and troops of children, with sparkling black eyes, and the unmistakable jewish nose. the houses had antique carved wood door-posts to deep, dark entries, in which were deeply-worn stairs, that lead away up to the overhanging stories above; and in the entry of one of the blackest and most aged of these old structures yawned a huge trap-door, occupying more than half the space from the threshold to the stair. peeping down the aperture, left where the half leaf had been raised by its old-fashioned iron ring, i could see nothing but blackness, and imagine how some wealthy hebrew might have made this the drawbridge to his citadel, so that the robber, who gained access beyond the bolts and chains that guarded the portal, would, with a step, be precipitated into the depths below. an iron ring, a trap-door, and old house in the jews' quarter--what an amount of capital or material for a sensational story-writer in a cheap publication! here, in the jews' quarter, we were shown the house in which rothschild was born,--rochid they call the name here,--and just as we were emerging from the narrow, gloomy, and dirty passages of this quarter, my eye caught a familiar object in the little grated window of a sort of shop or office. i looked a second time, and there, the central figure amid a straggling display of bank notes of different nationalities, was a five-hundred dollar united states five-twenty bond, a part of the stock in trade of a jew exchange and money broker, who, notwithstanding the unpretending appearance of his shop, which looked like a prison cell with the outside shutter down from the grated window, would probably have been able to furnish a purchaser ten times the amount on demand if he required it. in striking contrast to the judengasse is the ziel, the finest street in frankfort, filled with elegant shops and houses. the jews in frankfort were so tyrannically treated, that they founded the jews street themselves in , and lived exclusively in that quarter of the city till the year , and in olden times, on sundays and holidays, the entrances to this quarter were closed with gates and bars, and any jew who ventured into any other part of the city incurred a heavy penalty. now, midway between judengasse and the ziel rise the business offices of the rothschilds, that opulent family to whom even the proudest in their hours of need would fain doff their caps for favors; and hard by the progress of toleration is marked by a fine new synagogue, built in the oriental style in . we rode to the hessian monument, as it is called, near one of the city gates; it consists of huge masses of rock heaped together, upon which stands a pillar bearing a sword, helmet, and ram's head, and on the sides are bronze tablets with the names of the hessians who fell on that spot in . the latin inscription informs the reader that the monument was erected by frederick william, king of prussia, who was an admiring witness of their bravery. when we rattled over the pavements of the city of heidelberg, on our way to the prince charles hotel, i looked on all sides for groups and bands of the celebrated students who figure so prominently in novels and stories, and half expected to meet a string of six, arm in arm, walking in the middle of the streets, smoking big meerschaums, and wearing queer-cut clothes and ornamental caps, or singing uproarious college songs. or i might encounter several devil-may-care fellows, each bearing a scar upon some part of his face, the result of one of those noted heidelberg duels the story-writers tell of. but either the story-tellers had romanced most magnificently, or we had arrived at a time of day--which we afterwards found to be the case--when the students were engaged in their favorite pastime of swilling lager beer, in the dense atmosphere of tobacco smoke, from scores of pipes, in their favorite coffee-house; for we only met a snuffy old professor in a black velvet skull-cap and big round spectacles, and an occasional very proper-looking young man, save one whose scarlet embroidered cap gave him the appearance of a member of an american base-ball club. some forward americans had gone before us, and secured the remaining rooms in the prince charles, which were next the roof; so we were driven to the adler (eagle), on the same square, an enclosure known as the cornmarkt, where we were admirably served. our apartments looked out upon the curious old square with its fountain in the middle, to and from which women went and came all day long, and bore off water in jars, pails, and tubs, some poising a heavy wash-tub full upon their heads, and walking off with a steady gait under the burden. overlooking the little square, rose the famous heidelberg castle, three hundred feet above us; and we could see a steep foot-path leading to it, known as the burgweg (castle-way), which commenced on the side of the square opposite our hotel. heidelberg is charmingly situated on the river neckar, is rich in historical associations, and, as all readers are aware, is attractive to the tourist chiefly from its university, and its castle, which is one of the last creations of the old castle-builders, and seems in its style to be something between a stronghold and a chateau, a palace and a fortification. it certainly is a most imposing and magnificent ruin, with its lofty turrets, great round towers, terraces, arched gateways, and still splendid court-yards and grounds; the splendor of the building and beauty of its situation induce one enthusiastic guide-book to style it "the alhambra of the germans." a good, comfortable night's rest at the eagle hotel prepared us for the ascent next morning by the steep pathway and steps that led up to it from the corn market; up we go, and after an ascent of about fifteen minutes, we pass through a massive arch-way, known as frederic iv.'s building, and stand in the great court-yard of the castle. the portion of the buildings fronting on this grand enclosure are elegantly carved and decorated with arcades and life-size sculptures; here is one known as rudolf's building, the oldest part of the castle, a gothic structure, then rupprecht's building, founded in the year , by rupprecht iii., with beautiful gothic windows, over which are the architect's arms, three small shields upon an escutcheon. this carving is taken by many to be some sort of a masonic mark, but is nothing of the kind, but according to a little local guide, a coat of arms common to all german artists; and an interesting legend as to its origin is told, which is to the effect that one day the emperor charles v. visited holbein, the artist, and found him busy painting at the top of a high scaffolding; the emperor signed to the artist not to disturb himself, and at the same time motioned to one of his suite to steady the tottering ladder; the young noble, however, thinking it beneath his dignity to render such menial service to an artist, pretended not to understand the emperor, who thereupon advanced and steadied it himself, and commanded that from that time the german artists should be reckoned among the nobility of the empire, and their coat of arms should be such as holbein decided upon. the artist then made choice of three small uniform silver shields on a blue field. then we have other beautiful buildings fronting on the great court-yard, and named after their builders, who at different periods made their contributions of architectural ornament to this romantic old pile. one of the most gorgeous is that known as otto heinrich's building, finished in , restored twice,--the last time in , and finally destroyed in ,--but the splendid front remains standing, and even now, in its partially ruined condition, excites admiration, with its splendid façade, rich to prodigality with statues, carvings, and decorations. ludwig's building is another, into which we can go and see the great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and great hearth in the middle, where, on festal occasions, whole oxen were roasted. near here is the castle well, fifty-four feet deep, with four pillars taken from charlemagne's palace, to support its canopy, the pillars being those sent to charlemagne by rome for his royal edifice. then comes frederick's building, founded by frederick iv. in , rich in statues and sculpture, and under it a chapel, over the portal of which is inscribed, in latin, the words of the psalmist,-- "this is the gate of the lord; the righteous shall enter into it." but we are bewildered with the different façades, towers, fronts, and buildings that succeed each other in this, what we now find to be a sort of agglomeration of castles, and so pass out to the great stone terrace or platform that looks down upon the town and the valley below. these old castle-builders did have an eye for the beautiful; and a grand point for observation is this great terrace. only fancy a broad stone platform, seventy or eighty feet long by thirty feet wide, midway up the front wall of an elegant castle, rich in architectural beauty, the terrace itself with heavy cut stone rails, vases, seats, and ornamental stone bowers at the corners, while spread out far below and before the spectator lies one of the loveliest landscape views that can be imagined. we can look right into the streets of the town directly below us; beyond is the winding river neckar, with its beautiful arched bridge, and beyond that a vine-clad height known as the holy mountain; on one side is the lovely valley of the neckar, romantically and luxuriously beautiful as it stretches away in the distance. the town of heidelberg itself is squeezed in between the castle hill and the river neckar, which widens out below the town, and finally unites with the rhine, which we see in the distance, and beyond it blue mountains, binding in the distant horizon, frame in the charming picture. i cannot, of course, describe, in the limits of a sketch, the massiveness, vast extent, and splendor of this castle, the production of three centuries,--commenced when the crusades were at their height, and not finished till long after cannon were in use; so that we mark the progress and changes of architecture in each century, and cannot but feel that, in some respects, the builders of old times were in advance of those of the present day. one might stay here weeks, and enjoy the romantic scenery of the vicinity and the never-ending new discoveries which he makes in this picturesque old ruin. in the french captured the place and undertook to blow up the principal round tower; it was so solidly and compactly built, however, that the enormous mass of powder they placed under it, instead of lifting the great cylinder into the air to fall back a heap of ruins, only broke off a third part of it, which toppled over entire in one solid chunk, and it lies as it fell, broken off from the main body as if by the stroke of a gigantic mallet, and exposes the wall of close-knit masonry _twenty feet in thickness_. we wander through halls, court-yards, vaulted passages, deep dungeons, and lofty banquet halls, into round and square towers; cross a regular broad old drawbridge wide enough for a troop of mail-clad knights to ride out from the great arched entrance, which stands in good preservation, with its turrets and posts for warders and guards, and there is the huge, deep castle moat and all, just as we have read about them, or seen them illustrated in poetic fictions. we pass out upon a sort of long spur or outwork from the castle--a kind of outer battery, which is styled the great terrace, and was built in --a charming promenade, upon which is a mall, shaded by trees, and from which we get another picturesque view of the scene below, and of the castle itself. but we must not leave heidelberg castle without seeing the great tun; and so we pay our kreutzers to the little maid who acts as guide, and descend below, to the cellars of the famous wine-bibbers of old. we came to a cellar in which there was a big barrel indeed, as it held two hundred hogsheads of wine; but this not coming up to the expectations of some of the party, there were expressions of dissatisfaction, until our guide informed us that this was only the front cellar, where they used to keep twelve _little_ barrels of this size, and pointed out the raised platforms upon which they used to stand; but the _great_ barrel was in the back cellar. so we followed in, and found a big barrel indeed, large as a two-story house, thirty-two feet long and twenty-six feet high. it holds eight hundred hogsheads of the vinous fluid, and its contents fill two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles. the diameter of the heads of this big barrel is twenty-two feet, and the circumference of the centre two hundred and thirty-one feet. the bung-hole of this great cask, however, seems more out of proportion than an elephant's eye, for it measured scarcely four inches in diameter. steps lead around the tun, and up to its top, upon which is laid a platform, on which a cotillon has been danced by enthusiastic visitors. remember, this is down cellar. if they keep barrels of this kind _down cellar_, the reader may imagine the size of the house above, and, perhaps, the drinking capacities of those who used to inhabit it. a beautiful carriage road, passing the ruined walls, and leaving them below, leads up to a pretty _chalet_, three hundred feet above the castle; and here, one day, we halted on the rocky platform, and gladdened the heart of the landlord by an order for lunch for the party, which was spread for us in the garden, from which we could look down into the ruins of the old castle, upon the town below, and the winding river. we were not permitted to enjoy our _al fresco_ repast, for a thunder storm came rolling up the valley, and we were hustled in doors, where, however, we found the host was prepared for such emergencies, as our viands were spread out in an apartment with a glass side, looking towards the valley, so that we sat there, and watched the great gusts sweep up the river, and the rain come swirling down in sheets of rattling drops, amid the peals of thunder that echoed and reverberated between the hills, and finally swept past with the shower, angrily muttering in the distance, as though the spirits of the hartz mountains and black forest were retiring before the fairies of the valley, who went sweeping after them in great clouds of shining mist, overarched by a gorgeous rainbow. we enjoyed the prospect from this place, which was the site of the ancient castle, traces of which still remain, and then took carriage for the königsstuhl, or king's seat, a round tower far above us. a ride of about an hour through the dripping woods, with the vegetation bright and fresh from the recent shower, brought us to this elevation, which is eight hundred and fifty feet higher than the castle, and seventeen hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea. upon the summit of the king's seat, a round stone tower, ninety feet in height, is erected, which we ascended, and were rewarded with a still more extensive view than any we had previously had of the surrounding country. in one direction is the dark and sombre foliage of the black forest; in another, the picturesque mountains and valleys of the odenwald; in another, we look down upon the old castle and town far beneath, and see the river rhine winding away off through the landscape, like a crinkled ribbon of steel; there are the hartz mountains, of which we have read so many old german legends, in which wehr wolves, and mysterious huntsmen, who wound magic horns, figured. far in the distance, beyond the dark-green forests, we descry, with our field-glass, the cathedral spire of strasburg. turn whichever way we may, the view is superb, and the hill is indeed a kingly seat, for it commands as magnificent a prospect as king could wish to look upon. heidelberg is a paradise of pipes--so i thought till i reached vienna; but meerschaums of splendid carving and quality are sold here at prices so low, in comparison with what they cost in america, that the temptation to smokers to lay in a stock is almost irresistible. malacca joint canes, with elegantly carved pure ivory handles, are another article that is marvellously cheap here, twenty francs (four dollars, gold) purchasing the best and most elaborate patterns, the grips or handles of which were wrought into figures of fruit, flowers, wreaths, and heads of birds and animals. the shop windows held many pictures of students' clubs,--some clubs famed for the number of glasses of beer their members could guzzle, he being elected president who could hold the most of that liquid--in fact, who made the biggest beer barrel of himself. in other windows were displayed huge horns, with a silver cup, and a tall mug, of huge capacity, said to represent the draught of the presidents of two rival clubs,--supposed to be what they could swill at a single pull. the beer halls frequented by the students are similar to the great lager beer saloons in this country; and, in the evening, the tables are thronged with students, talking, discussing questions, playing dominoes, smoking, and drinking. there is a tremendous clatter of voices, and the smoke is so thick--well, none but germans and spaniards could live in such a dense cloud. the university of heidelberg, which is the oldest in germany, i think was founded in . the university buildings--which are very old, some of them erected in --are plain and unpretending in their appearance. the great library here contains over two hundred thousand volumes, and many curious manuscripts, which we did not inspect, as they are of interest chiefly to scientific scholars, and only accessible between the hours of ten and twelve in the forenoon. there is but little in the town of heidelberg itself to interest the tourist. the great attraction is the noble old castle, and the romantic highlands about it. a three hours' ride from heidelberg, and we are at baden-baden, that gayest of the gay watering-places on the continent. we are driven to our hotel, the hotel de l'europe, a most charming house, large, clean, and splendidly kept by hosts who thoroughly know their business, and entirely free from any of the extortions, swindles, and sharp practices which disgrace our saratoga and newport hotels. indeed, everything in the hotels in baden-baden is so comfortable to the tourist, so pleasant, and even luxurious, and at such comparatively moderate cost, that one is half inclined to think the proprietors of them may be interested in the gambling bank, and have an object in making their houses too agreeable to leave with a short visit. there are three proprietors to this hotel; and always one, and generally two, are in constant attendance in the lower halls and at the table d'hote, to attend personally to their guests, to answer all questions, and, in fact, to serve them in every way possible, which, it is but justice to say, is done in the most unexceptionable manner. the hotel de l'europe is wide, deep, and cool; the broad staircase in the centre is ornamented with pretty flowers in pots, and running and trailing plants twining about the balusters, all the way up to the second story. directly beneath my window is a beautiful strip of flower-garden, and the fresh air comes in at the casement laden with the odors of roses, carnation pinks, honeysuckles, and a score of other beautiful flowers, which are blooming in profusion. beyond this little garden, say twenty or thirty feet from the hotel, runs the little river oos, over a smooth-paved, artificial bed of stone--a swift, clear, sparkling little stream, of scarce three feet deep, and its width of not more than a score, spanned by little rustic bridges, connecting the grounds of the different hotels that are strung along its banks with the opposite shore, which is the broad, high road, along which the numerous gay equipages which frequent watering-places are continually passing. beyond the road, beneath shady trees, is the trink halle, or, as the english have dubbed the place, the pump-room, probably because there is no pump there, except the natural one of the springs, whose mineral waters are conducted into ornamental fountains, which the drinkers and bathers visit at seven a. m., to the inspiriting and lively music of an excellent band. this pump-room is a long, one-story building, two hundred and seventy feet long and thirty-six wide, the façade resting on sixteen corinthian pillars. beneath the façade, and upon large panels of the building behind the colonnade of pillars, are fourteen great frescoes, executed by an artist named götzenbreger, and representing pictorially some of those wild legends and weird stories of magic and enchantment for which germany is so noted. baden, be it remembered, lies at the entrance of the celebrated black forest, popularly inhabited by various powerful enchanters, gnomes, dwarfs, and sprites. these great pictures were all handsomely executed, but the weather, to which they are partially exposed, is rapidly fading away their rich tints. there was one, representing a beautiful, light-haired, blue-eyed german girl, with but a light drapery flowing around her shapely limbs as she walked down to a mountain stream with her arm on the neck of a snow-white stag: an entranced huntsman knelt upon the opposite bank, gazing at this lovely vision; and while he gazed, one busy gnome was twisting a tough bramble about his ankle, another huge-headed fellow was reaching out from beneath a rock, and severing his bow-string, while a third, a sturdy, belted and hooded dwarf, was robbing his quiver of its arrows: all around, the rocks looked out in curious, wild, and grotesque faces; they leered from the crags, grinned from pebbles in the water, or frowned awfully from the great crags above the hunter, who, dazzled by the enchantress, sees nothing of this frightful scene, which is like the figures of a troubled dream--thoroughly phantasmagoric and german. another picture shows a brave knight just on the point of espousing a weird lady before an abbot, the satanic glare of whose eyes betrays his infernal origin; cock-crow has evidently prevented these nuptials, as at one side chanticleer is represented vigorously sounding his clarion, and in the foreground lies another figure of the same knight in a deep sleep. other scenes represent encounters of shepherds with beautiful water-sprites or undines of the mountain lakes and rivers, knights at enchanted castles, and sprites in ruined churches, each one being the pictorial representation of some well-known legend of the vicinity. we arrived at baden on saturday, after dark, and i was roused sunday morning to look out upon the scene i have described, by the music of a magnificent band, which commenced with the grand hymn of old hundred; then a piece from handel; next came the grand wedding march of mendelssohn; and we looked from our windows to see throngs of people promenading up and down the piazza in front of the trink halle, to the inspiriting harmony, or coming in every direction from the different hotels and _pensions_, or boarding-houses, for their morning drink of spring-water. gradually the music assumed a livelier character, till it wound up with sprightly quadrilles and a lively polka, played with a spirit that would almost have set an anchorite in a dancing fever. a fit illustration was this of the regard for the sabbath in this headquarters of the enemy of man, where, at noon, the great doors of the gambling-house swung open, and the _rouge-et-noir_ and roulette tables were at once thronged with players, without intermission, till midnight. this great gaming-house, which has been so often described, is styled the conversation-haus, and is beautifully fitted up with drawing-rooms, lofty and elegant ball-room, with each end opening out into magnificent gardens, that are rich in parterres of flowers, shady alleys, beautiful trees, fountains, and statues. during the afternoon and evening these gardens are thronged, the magnificent band plays the choicest of music, elegantly-dressed people saunter amid the trees and flowers, or sit at little tables and sip light wines, eat ices, and chat; you hear german, french, english, and italian amid the clatter of voices in any momentary lull of the music; you may order your ice-cream in any of these languages, and a waiter is at hand to understand and serve you; you may spend the whole day in this beautiful spot, enjoy music that you gladly pay a concert price at home to hear, without a penny expense, or even the remotest hint for remuneration from any servant, except it be for the refreshments you order--for the proprietor of the gaming establishment gladly defrays all the expenses, for the privilege he enjoys exclusively, and he pays besides the sum of sixty thousand dollars per annum; so we enjoy it somewhat freely, although we cannot help reflecting, however, that those who really bear the expense are the victims insnared in the glittering and alluring net which they themselves help to weave. from the flutter of passing butterflies of fashion, the clatter of tongues, the moving throng, and rich strains of music, we pass through the noiselessly swinging doors that admit us to the almost hushed inner court of the votaries of chance. here, as at wiesbaden, the only voices above a subdued tone are those of the dealers, with their regular formula of expression, while ever and anon, following the rattle of the roulette wheel, comes the clink of the gold and silver which the presiding high priests of mammon rake into the clutches of the bank. people of every grade, nation, and profession jostle each other at these tables. here all meet on a common level, and rank is not recognized. the only rank here is the guinea-stamp, and that, if the possessor conduct himself in an orderly manner, insures prince and peasant an equal chance at the tables. the language used is french. i have seen beautiful young ladies, scarce turned nineteen, seated here next their young husbands, with whom they were making their bridal tour, jostled by the elegant parisian member of the demi-monde, whose noble "friend" hands her a thousand francs to enjoy herself with for a while; young students, trembling, eager old men; raw americans, taking a "flyer;" and sometimes astonishing the group by the magnitude of their bets; old women, russian counts, who commence by getting several notes changed into a big pile of gold, which steadily diminishes beneath the assaults they make on the bank, with as little effect as raw infantry charging against a fortified breastwork; nay, i even saw the sallow countenance of a turk, looking on from beneath his fez cap, while its owner fumbled uneasily at his girdle till he had detached his purse, and gratified his curiosity by losing a few gold pieces; professional gamblers, sharpers, women of uncertain character; old, young, and middle-aged, all sacrificing at the same shrine. "but some win?" yes, and the very ones whose success is least expected. old habitués will study the combination of figures for weeks, and keep a record of the numbers, and the order in which they turn up, and then, having, by mathematical certainty, made sure of lucky numbers, stake--and lose. the croupiers go on regularly, mechanically, and, unmoved by success or loss, or whatever takes place about them, they rake in heavy stakes, and pay out huge losses, without moving a muscle of their countenances, or betraying the least emotion, raking in a huge stake while i was watching the game that made even the old habitués glare at the player, without even so much as a glance at him, and paying out a big loss with only the simple dialogue,-- "_billets du banque?_" "_non._" and a dozen rouleaux of twenty-franc pieces were pushed over to the winner. i saw one of these unexpected winners, in the person of a young heidelberg student, who commenced with a couple of napoleons (forty francs). he won; doubled his stake, won again; doubled, and won again; then he took up the pile of gold, and placed two double napoleons (eighty francs) on a single number; it came up, and the bank paid him the amount won, which was fifteen or twenty times the amount of his stake; he put this whole heap on _rouge_ (red), and the ball fell in rouge, and he won, and the amount was doubled; he moved the increased heap to _noir_ (black), and won again! he pulled the heap of loose gold, rouleaux, and notes towards him; players looked up, an obsequious servant brought a chair for him to sit down, and two or three friends gathered at his back; he crammed gold and notes--all but five twenty-franc pieces--promiscuously into his pantaloons pocket, bet those five on the red, won; moved the ten to the black, won again; the twenty to another figure, and won thrice his stake. by this time other players began to follow him in their bets; he put forty francs on a single number, and half a dozen players crowded their bets on to the same. it lost. nothing daunted, they followed him, and rained down their napoleons upon the black; this time they were rewarded; black won. the student pocketed his heap of gold again, all except five pieces, and then with that capital bet again; lost three of the five; tried a single number with one napoleon, lost, of course; put the other on the black, won again; balanced the two pieces on his fingers for a moment, while half a dozen players were watching him, and then put one on the black again, which in an instant was almost obscured by the thick plating of metal that followed the lead of his stake from other players. "_rouge, dix-huit._" down came the croupier's rake, and away rattled the glittering heap towards the banker, while the student smilingly balanced his remaining napoleon in a sort of uncertain manner on his forefinger, then turned and whispered a word to his friends, rose and tossed the twenty francs magnificently to the servant who had handed him a chair, and who was still behind him, and then, with bulging pockets, walked away. baden is beautifully situated, and its scenery and surroundings charming. a broad, well-kept, and shady avenue commences opposite our hotel, and affords a splendid drive of over two miles, and, like the drive at newport, is frequented by gay equipages during the fashionable season. then there are the old and new castles above the town, reached by winding and romantic roads, and from the summit of the former a fine view of the valley of the rhine, and the beautiful valley of baden, with its great hotels, elegant grounds, and pretty villas. the bazaar, a sort of open-air fair of booths, in a pleasant grove, not far from the grounds of the conversation-haus, is another novelty, and an attractive one to foreigners; for here is a collection of all those miscellaneous trinkets that tourists load themselves down with, such as carved wood of switzerland, garnets from prague, worsted work from berlin, shaded photographs from munich, all sorts and kinds of sleeve-buttons, breast-pins, shawl-pins, ivory carvings, ribbons, crystals from the alps, leather work from vienna, and a thousand and one curious and pretty articles to tempt the taste of purchasers. we left the beautiful hotel de l'europe, with its pleasant rooms, elegant _table d'hote_, and prompt attention, with regret, for two reasons: one, that it was so agreeable a place of rest; and the other, that the price, at this most expensive of the hotels, with all its privileges, was less than two dollars per diem. up and away, for we must see the grand old cathedral of strasburg--a two hours' journey; and here we are, at the magnificent portal of this edifice, founded by old king clovis, in . the carvings above the portal are magnificent. here are equestrian statues of clovis, dagobert, and other old worthies, elegantly wrought, amid a wealth of rich tracery and carving; but as the spectator looks up, up, up, at the magnificent cathedral tower and spire, soaring away into the air till it seems to have a needle-like sharpness, he gets almost dizzy with gazing; and, upon being informed that the ascent of this highest spire in the world is not unattended with danger, of coarse all americans are seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend it; and so were we. so we took a look at the splendid front, with the two great square towers, something after the style of those of york minster or westminster abbey, with a huge rose window between them; the elegant gothic architecture of arches, pillars, and points; the grand, arched portal, crowded, every inch of it, with carving and statues; and finally, up again at the light steeple, which, from one of the square towers, rose into the air with such grace and boldness. we enter direct from the street, pay the custodian at the foot of a flight of stairs of easy ascent, and, ladies and all, begin the climb-up. we go till we have trodden over three hundred and thirty stairs, and find ourselves two hundred and thirty feet above the street, upon a place called the platform. here are several rooms, and a custodian lives up here, who acts as a watchman for fires, has general charge of the place, keeps a visitors' register, and sells stereoscopic views. the panoramic view from here is superb, and this point, which is about two thirds of the way up, is as high as ladies generally ascend; for the remainder of the ascent, which is by circular staircases on four sides of the tower, requires some nerve and steadiness of head, the masonry being of open-work, with the apertures nearly large enough for the body to pass through, while the staircases, which are winding and narrow, are likely to provoke an attack of giddiness. i could compare the ascent to nothing but an ant climbing a corkscrew. every turn brought us to these great wrought openings, which, from the ground, appeared like delicate lacework, and which seemed to give one the feeling, as he went round and round, as if he were swinging and swaying in the network between heaven and earth; and the wind, which pipes, whistles, rushes, roars, and sighs, in every variety of tone, and apparently from every point of the compass, owing to the innumerable and different-shaped openings, adds to this illusion. breathless, we reach a circular gallery running round outside, and at the top of the square part of the steeple, and pause, clinging to the stone-work of the balustrade to look at the fine view, which takes in baden, the black forest, the rhine, and the chain of the jura, in the distance. still higher! here we are at the base of a pyramid of light, ornamental turrets, which gradually converge towards a point, and support the "lantern" above us. the winding staircases in these turrets were also narrow, and through open stone-work, as before, till you reach the lantern, an enclosed observatory. higher up is the "crown" which, as the steps leading to it are outside, and with no other protection than the wall to which they were fastened, we did not care to attempt. the total height of this lofty spire is four hundred and sixty-eight feet. the descent through the open-work spire to the platform where the ladies were left was far more trying to the nerves than the ascent. in ascending, one is continually looking up, and the open spaces in the stone-work have the appearance of passages through which you are to pass, but continually avoid by the winding of the staircase; but in descending, the gaze being directed downward, you have the vast height continually before the view; the huge apertures, which appear at your very feet at every turn, seem like yawning crevasses, through which to shoot your body into the blue distance, or on to the gothic points and pinnacles that are far, far below. i clung to the rope and iron hand-rails convulsively, and am not ashamed to mention that, more than once, as i came to the more elaborate open-work of this stone filigree, which seemed to dangle between heaven and earth, i closed my eyes, and followed the rail, feeling the way downwards. the descent was made almost in silence, and there was a sigh of relief when the platform was reached, and we joined the ladies again. the open-work that one encounters in the turrets during the ascent of the spire, although scarcely large enough to admit the passage of a man's body, is so frequent, and so directly on the staircases, which are winding and narrow, as to give the semblance of great danger and insecurity, though comparatively very little exists. the only thing to be feared is giddiness, which might render it difficult for the adventurer to go up or down, after reaching a certain point; and it is, therefore, not advisable for those liable to be affected in that manner to attempt the ascent above the gallery, which really adds very little to the view. viewed architecturally, strasburg cathedral seems to bring together all the styles or orders of architecture of the middle ages, from the simplicity of the byzantine to the gothic, with its arches and excess of superfluous ornament. the façade of the church, and especially the portal, is so elaborately ornamented with carved work as to convey the impression of chasing, instead of sculpture. the figures in bass-relief and carving represent scenes in the life of the saviour, the saints, and the apostles, besides statues of kings and warriors. a view of the interior is grand and impressive. fourteen great cluster pillars uphold the lofty gothic arched roof, over a hundred feet above the pavement. midway, and above arches that unite the pillars, is a beautiful gothic gallery on both sides, and many of the great stained-glass windows, representing scriptural subjects, are of wondrous beauty. in the nave is a beautiful pulpit, built in , and covered with little statues, delicately carved, and not far from it the organ, up midway between the floor and arched ceiling. the perspective view in these old cathedrals is grand, and figures hardly give one an idea of their vastness. this cathedral is five hundred and twenty-five feet long, one hundred and ninety-five feet in width, and is one of the finest of those wonderful monuments of religious art that rose during the middle ages. the great astronomical clock here is a curious and wonderful piece of mechanism. fancy a structure twenty-five or thirty feet in height, and twelve or fifteen broad at the base, having on either side two others nearly of equal height, one being the masonic flight of winding stairs, surmounted by five small emblematical corinthian pillars, and the other a gothic pillar, its panellings enriched with figures. placed directly in front of the base of the clock is a celestial globe, which, by means of the clock-work, shows the precession of the equinoxes, solar and lunar equations for calculating geocentric ascension and declination of the sun and moon at true times and places. then in the base itself is an orrery after the copernican system, by which the mean tropical revolution of each of the planets, visible to the naked eye, is shown. then comes an ecclesiastical calender, a sort of perpetual almanac, indicating holy, feast, and fast days; above, and about ten feet from the floor, and just beneath the clock-dial, is an opening with a platform in front, upon which come forth figures representing each day of the week, as apollo on tuesday, diana on monday, &c. thus a figure in a chariot representing the day appeared at the entrance in the morning, it had reached the centre in full view by noon, and drove gradually out of sight at the close of day. on either side of the clock-dial sat two cupids, the size of a three-years-old child, one holding a bell and hammer, with which it strikes the hours and quarters, and the other an hour-glass, which it reverses each hour. above is another dial, with the signs of the zodiac; above that a figure of the moon, showing its different phases, also put in motion by the clock-work; and, still above this, two sets of automaton figures, which appear only at twelve o'clock, at which time there is always a crowd gathered to witness their performance. we viewed this wondrous piece of mechanism for an hour, and witnessed the following movements: at quarter past eleven the cupid near the dial struck one; then from one of the upper compartments ran forth the figure of a little child with a wand, and as he passed he struck one on a bell, and ran away (childhood, the first quarter). round whirl the wheels of time, and the second quarter chimes; but this time it is youth that passes, and taps the bell with his shepherd's staff twined with flowers. again, we reach the third quarter, and manhood strides forth, the mailed warrior, and smites the sonorous bell, ere he leaves the scene, three sounding blows with his trenchant weapon--the third quarter. once more, the hands tremble on the point of noon; the fourth quarter is here, and old age, a feeble, bent figure, hobbles out, pauses wearily at the bell, raises a crutch, and taps four strokes, and totters away out of sight--"last scene of all," when, as a finale, the skeleton figure of death, before whom all the four have passed, slowly raises his baton, which the spectator now discovers to be a human bone, and solemnly strikes the hour of twelve upon the bell. while he is engaged in this act, a set of figures above him, representing the twelve apostles, pass in procession before the saviour, who blesses each as they pause before him in turn, and chanticleer, the size of life, perched upon the pinnacle of one of the side structures, lifts up his voice in three rousing crows, with outstretched neck and flapping wings, while the cupid on one side of the dial reverses the hour-glass for the sand to flow back, and the other also strikes the hour with his bell and hammer. not far from this clock, in a sort of niched window, there is a sculptured figure, said to be that of the architect of this cathedral, represented as looking towards the entrance of the transept, and in such position as to attract attention and provoke inquiry--a cunning device for perpetuating one's memory as long as the figure shall last. before leaving this fine cathedral we are reminded of the ancient order of masons by an enclosure opening out of one of the chapels, which is the area of the workhouse of the stone-cutters of the edifice. these master masons down to this day form a particular and exclusive society, which originated in the days of the great master mason and architect of this cathedral, erwin of steinbach, who rebuilt the nave in , commenced the façade of the church, designed its towers, and superintended the work and the carrying out of the grand designs in its construction through various vicissitudes till his death in . the masons of this cathedral were distinct from other operative masons, did not admit all who presented themselves, and had secret signs, known only to each other. from the lodge of this cathedral emanated several others in germany, and a general meeting of the masters was held at ratisbon in , at which they were united under one government or jurisdiction, and the grand masters chosen on that occasion were the architects of the cathedral at strasburg, in which city the grand lodge was then established. the emperor maximilian i. confirmed the establishment of this body october , , and it remained here till the early part of the eighteenth century, when it was removed to mayence. with this bit of masonic history we will bid adieu to strasburg cathedral. the church of st. thomas looks inferior after it, though its magnificent monument to marshal saxe is one of the sights of the city. as we ride through the streets we see long-legged storks soaring far overhead, and perched on a tall old chimney-stack, behold the brushwood nest of one of these long-billed residents. we view the bronze statue of guttenberg, who made his first experiments in the newly-discovered art preservative of arts in this city in , and four hundred years afterwards he is remembered in this bronze memorial. i don't know what it was in particular that made me wish to see basle, except it was, that when a youngster, i read of a curious old clock which the inhabitants on one side of the river put up to mock those on the other, which, the story said, it did by sticking out its tongue and rolling its eyes at every motion of the pendulum; so, when domiciled at the hotel of the three kings in that ancient town, i looked out on the swift-flowing rhine, and as i gazed at the splendid bridge, nearly a thousand feet long, wondered if that was the one over which the wondrous head had ogled and mocked. fancy my disappointment at being shown at the collection of antiquities a wooden face scarcely twice the size of life, which is said to be the veritable lollenkonig, or lolling king, that used to go through this performance in the clock tower on the bank of the river till . here, in this collection, which is in a hall or vestry attached to the cathedral, we saw many curiosities; among them the arm-chair of erasmus; for it was here in basle that erasmus, it will be recollected, waged bitter war with the church of rome; here also was preserved all that remains of the celebrated frescoes, the dance of death, painted in the fifteenth century, and ascribed to holbein. the cathedral, a solid old gothic structure, has some finely ornamented ancient arched portals, and its two towers are each two hundred feet in height. going through some of the quaint, old-fashioned streets of basle, we were struck with the quiet, antique, theatrical-canvas-look which they had. here was an old circular stone fountain, at which horses could drink and the people fill their jars; the pavement was irregular, and the houses were of odd architecture, which we in america, who have not been abroad, are more than half inclined to think exist only in the imagination of artists, or are the fancy of scene-painters. i came upon one of these very scenes which i have before referred to, in this old city, and stood alone a quarter of an hour looking at the curious street that lay silent in the sunshine, with scarce a feature of it changed since the days of the reformation, when basle held so important a position in the history of switzerland, and "erasmus laid the egg that luther hatched;" and had a group of cavaliers in doublet and hose, or a soldier with iron cap and partisan, sauntered through the street, they would all have been so much in keeping with the scene as to have scarcely excited a second glance at them. in the evening we attended one of those cheap musical entertainments which are so enjoyable here in the summer season of the year. it was given in a large building, one side of which opened on the river bank; and while thirty pieces of music played grand compositions, sprightly waltzes, or inspiriting marches, we sat at the little tables, with hundreds of other listeners, who sipped light wines or beer, enjoyed the evening air, and looked out upon the dark cathedral towers, the lights of the town reflected in the swift stream of the rhine, watched the small boats continually passing and re-passing, marked "the light drip of the suspended oar," coming pleasantly to the ear, as they paused to listen to the melody, while now and then the tall, dark form of some great dutch lugger-looking craft of a rhine boat moved past, like a huge spectre out of the darkness--a dreamy sort of scene, the realization of old dutch paintings, half darkened with age, that i have often gazed at when a boy. and all this fine music and pleasant lounge for half a franc (eleven cents). "wines extra?" yes. we called for a half flask, prime quality; price, a franc and a half more; total, forty-four cents. but then we were luxurious; for beer that was "_magnifique_" could be had in a "_gros pot_" for three cents. we rode from basle to zurich in a luxurious, easy, comfortable drawing-room car, which a party of us--six american tourists--had all to ourselves, and whirled through long tunnels, and amid lovely scenery, in striking contrast to our hot, uncomfortable railroad ride from strasburg to basle. the swiss railway carriages are on the american plan, and the line of the road itself kept in exquisite order. the houses of the switchmen were pretty little rustic buildings, covered with running flowering vines, plats of flowers before them, and not a bit of rubbish or a speck of dirt to be seen about them. the little country stations are neatly kept, and have flower gardens around them; and, as we passed one crossing where two roads met, a diamond-shaped plat, about twenty feet space, enclosed by the crossing of three tracks, was brilliant with its array of red, blue, and yellow flowers. at the stations and stopping-places there seemed to be special pains taken to keep the rude, unsightly objects, that are seen at stations in america lying about uncared for, out of sight. here, and in germany, we notice the red poppy scattered in and growing among the wheat, which one would suppose must injure the grain; but the people say not, though it imparts, i think, a slightly perceptible bitter taste to the bread. we seem now to have got thoroughly into a land where they know how to treat travellers, that is, properly appreciate the value of tourist patronage, and treat them accordingly; and well they may, for a large portion of the swiss people make their living for the year off summer tourists. notwithstanding this, and notwithstanding the english grumblers who scold at these better hotels, better railway accommodations, and better attention than they can get anywhere else,--notwithstanding the shoddy americans, whose absurd parade, lavish expenditure of money, ignorance, and boorish manners make them a source of mortification to educated men, and have served, in france and italy during the past few years, almost to double certain travelling expenses,--notwithstanding this, the traveller will be more honorably dealt with, and less liable to be cheated, in switzerland than elsewhere in europe. efforts are made to induce travellers to come often, and stay long. roads, passes, and noted points are made as accessible as possible, and kept in good order during the season. no impositions are allowed by guides, post-drivers, &c., and the hotel-keepers strive in every way to make their houses as attractive as possible in every respect to the guest, who enjoys the real luxury of an elegant hotel, in an attractive or celebrated resort, at a reasonable price, and does not suffer to that extent the same irritation that he experiences in england or america at such places--of knowing he is being deliberately swindled in every possible manner. here we are in zurich,--"by the margin of zurich's fair waters,"--at the hotel baur au lac, fronting lake zurich--a large and beautiful hotel, with an extensive garden, with flowers, shrubs, and pretty walks in front of it. our windows command a full view of the beautiful lake, with its sides enlivened with chalets, villages, vineyards, and a highly-cultivated country, while in the background rise the snow peaks of the alps, glittering in the morning sunlight, or rosy in its parting rays. there was the great reiseltstock, looming up over eighty-six hundred feet, the kammtistock, very nearly ten thousand feet, between which and the scheerhorn is imbedded a great glacier, the bristenstock, and other "stocks" and "horns" that i have not noted down, and therefore forgotten, save that even in the distance they looked magnificently grand, and like great altars with their snowy coverings lifted up to heaven. the scenery of mountain, lake, and valley, seen from the promenades in zurich, like grand pictures framed in the rim of the horizon, and presenting charming aspects, varied by the setting sun, give the tourist a foretaste of the picturesque beauty of the country he is now just entering. lake zurich, or the zuricher see, as they call it, looked so pretty and romantic that we determined to embark on one of the little steamboats, and sail up and down it, to know and enjoy it better. so, after enjoying the creature comforts of the fine hotel, and fortified with a good night's rest, we embarked in the morning. this lake is twenty-five miles long, and, at its broadest part, two and a half miles wide. as we sailed along, we noted the beautiful slopes of the hills, which are finely cultivated at the base, close down to the little villages on the shore. above are vineyards and orchards, and still farther up, the dark-green forests clothe the hills, which lift their frontlets twenty-five hundred feet above the clear mirror that reflects them on its surface. we passed numerous picturesque little villages, making landings on alternate shores as we proceeded. here was thalwyl, charmingly situated, horgen, with its hotel and charming garden upon the lake front, the picturesque little wooded peninsula of au, and a pretty little village of mannedorf, behind which rises a romantic height, called some sort of a "stiel" or "horn." and so we glided along, sometimes stopping at little villages that seemed, as we approached them, children's toys upon a green carpet, this effect heightened by the huge mountains, which rose grand and sublime in the distance; but they had all that novelty so charming to the tourist--their odd-shaped little churches, and curious and quaint houses nestling in romantic nooks, and the occasional odd dress worn by peasants who had come down from the interior, and the customs which to us seemed so old-fashioned. we found our steamer was a mail-boat, and at one station, instead of the usual official in waiting, the sole occupant of the little pier was a huge newfoundland dog, who seized the little mail-pouch, holding perhaps a couple of quarts, that was tossed ashore, and galloped off with it at full speed for the village, half a mile distant, to the infinite amusement of the spectators. he was the regular mail-carrier, performing the service twice a day of bringing down the mail-pouch, which he deposited on the pier on the arrival of the boat, and carrying back the one which was left by it. we went on shore at a town bearing the delightfully-euphonious name of rapperschwyl--a picturesque old place, with an old castle and church, and wooded heights, which command fine views. at this point a fine bridge, forty-five hundred feet long, and supported by one hundred and eighty oaken pillars, crosses the lake. so we strolled over it, and through the town, which contains about two thousand inhabitants, looked at the old church and castle, and then reëmbarked on the return steamer, once more to admire the beauty of the scenery of the lake shores in this romantic region, and birthplace of switzerland's freedom. chapter x. now let us tighten our girdles for our first experience in swiss mountain-climbing, for we start for righi at nine a. m., on the summit of which we propose to see the sun set, and watch his rising on the morrow. out of the handsome railway station we ride in an elegant and comfortable car, and in two hours are at the steamboat landing at lake zug, one of the most picturesque sheets of water in switzerland--an azure pond nine miles in length; and, as we float upon its blue bosom, we see the object of our excursion, righi-kulm, which towers full forty-two hundred feet above the lake. the "righi" consists of a group of mountains lying between the three swiss lakes of zug, lucerne, and lowerz, and "righi-kulm" is the righi summit, or highest peak--fifty-five hundred and forty feet above the level of the sea. we disembark at arth, get a bad dinner, or lunch, of tough chicken, poor soup, and bad claret, and start away for the foot of the mountain in an open carriage, with our saddle horses, mules, and guides rattling along behind us, for the ascent. half an hour brings us to goldau. goldau! and as i stood on the high road, and looked over into what was once the little valley where stood the village, and marked the track of the tremendous avalanche of a thousand feet broad and a hundred feet thick, which started three thousand feet above, from the mountain, on its resistless career of destruction, my memory went back to days in the public schools of boston, where, from that best of compilations as a school reader, john pierpont's american first class book, we used to read the "lament of a swiss minstrel over the ruins of goldau," commencing,-- "o switzerland, my country, 'tis to thee i strike my harp in agony,--" and in which the author describes the catastrophe, more graphically than grammatically, perhaps, as follows:-- "an everlasting hill was torn from its primeval base, and borne, in gold and crimson vapors dressed, to where a people are at rest. slowly it came in its mountain wrath, and the forests vanished before its path, and the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled, and the living were buried, while over their head they heard the full march of their foe as he sped, and the valley of life was the tomb of the dead." but this avalanche occurred over half a century ago, and may be it is too old-fashioned to recall its story, though it will long live in historic record as destroying four villages, and overwhelming five hundred of their inhabitants. the sole trace of it now is the track of the avalanche on the side of the mountain, and some few huge bowlders piled together here and there in the valley, which have not been covered by the hand of time with vegetation. and here our party descended from the carriage, and mounted their horses preparatory to the ascent. a young physician and the author concluded that their first experience in alpine travel should be pedestrian; we therefore started up our mules, riderless, after the rest of the party, and, like all fresh tourists, stepped into a house here at the foot of the mountain to purchase our first alpenstocks. these, as everyone knows, are stout staffs, about six feet in length, with an iron spike at one end and a hook of chamois horn at the other--the latter ornament being generally an imitation, made of the head ornament of the common goat, blackened and polished. nevertheless, the alpenstocks are of great assistance; indeed, the tourist who makes any attempts at pedestrianism among the alpine passes will find them almost an absolute necessity. away went the string of mules and guides with our merry party on their winding way. the swiss guides are excellent, and in many parts of the country they seem to be formed into associations, and under the best of regulations to prevent any imposition upon travellers, or the employment of unskilled guides. as an illustration of the excellence of their regulations, we copy a few of those of the righi guides:-- "the horses must be sound and strong, the gear in good order. the chief of guides, who holds office under the superintendence of the burgomaster, is responsible for the observance of the regulations; and he shall maintain order among the guides, render assistance to travellers, and inform against any infraction of the rules. guides are forbidden to importune travellers. civility and sobriety are strictly enjoined, and guides are personally responsible for luggage intrusted to them. guides are forbidden to ask for gratuities in excess of the regular tariff. the chief of guides has sole right to offer horses to tourists, without, however, dictating their choice," &c. having procured our alpenstocks, we follow on over the broad, pleasant road of the first part of the ascent, through the woods, hearing the voices of our fellow-tourists, and now and then catching a glimpse of them, as they zigzag across the hill-side, and beat gradually up its steep height; we begin to come to the little mountain waterfalls, foaming and tumbling over the rocks on their way to feed the lake below; pass through scenery of the character not unlike the commencement of the ascent of mount washington, in new hampshire, until finally we reach a halting-place--"righi inn." bread, cheese--pah! the very smell of it caused all to beat a retreat; and the inevitable swiss honey, and good french wine, were offered here. causing a removal of the cheese, we refreshed ourselves with the bread, wine, and honey, and, with renewed vigor, pushed on. now the path is more open, we pass little crosses, or praying-places, and can see them at intervals up the mountain; they mark the halting-places of pilgrims to a little chapel above us, known as the chapel of "our lady of the snow;" and their frequency does not argue so much in favor of the endurance of the pilgrims' powers of wind and muscle as it does of their devotion. this little chapel is inhabited by capuchin monks, was built in , and pilgrimages are generally made to it and mass celebrated once a year. after about two hours' climbing we find ourselves at a place called oberes dächli, and half way up the ascent; now we leave the woods below, and begin to have a view of huge peaks rising all about us; as we mount still higher, the air grows pure, bracing, and invigorating. pedestrians think climbing the alps is pastime, songs are sung with a will, and american songs, especially the choruses, make the guides stare with astonishment. hurrah! here is righi staffel, four thousand nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, and a good hour's pull from our last halt; and now our guides lead us out to a sort of bend in the pathway, and we begin to see what we have climbed to enjoy. from this bend, which overhangs, and seems to form, as it were, a sort of proscenium box of the scene, we look down on the grand view below us--lake lucerne, arth, the road we have passed, the mountains swelling blue in the distance. what beautiful views we have had as we ascended! an attempt at description would be but a series of rhapsodies. let any one who has seen the view from the catskill mountains imagine the scene filled in with eight swiss lakes shining in the sunlight, dozens of swiss villages in the valleys, chapels on the mountain-sides, ribbons of rivers sparkling in the distance, the melodious tinkle of cow-bells from the many herds on the mountain-sides below, coming up like the faint notes of a musical box, and the whole framed by a lofty chain of mountain peaks, that seem to rim in the picture in a vast oval. the view changed twenty times in the ascent, and a faint idea may be had of its grandeur and beauty. "but wait till you reach the kulm, if you want to see a view," says one, pointing to the tip-top hotel of the mountain, on its great platform above us. "will monsieur ride now?" "pshaw! no." the rest of the distance is so short--just up there--that monsieur, though breathless and fatigued, will do no such thing, and so sits down on a broad, flat stone, to look at the view and recover wind for the last _brief_ "spurt," as he thinks; and the guide, with a smile, starts on. we have learned a lesson of the deceptive appearance of distance in the mountains, for what appeared at most a ten minutes' journey, was a good half hour's vigorous climb before the hotel of righi-kulm was gained; and we stood breathless and exhausted in the portico, mentally vowing never to attempt mountain climbing on foot when horses could be had--a vow with which, perhaps, the last portion of the journey over a path made slippery by a shower, making the pedestrian's ascent resemble that of the arithmetical frog in the well, whose retrogression amounted to two thirds of his progression, had something to do--and a vow which, it is unnecessary to say, was not rigidly adhered to. but righi-kulm was gained. here we were, at a large, well-kept hotel. the rattle of the french, german, italian, and english tongues tells us that switzerland has attractions for all nations, and the fame of her natural scenery attracts all to worship at its shrine. a brief rest, after our nearly four hours' journey, and we are called out, one and all, to see the sun set. forth we went, and mounted on a high, broad platform, a great, flat, table-like cliff, which, when contemplating the scene below, i could liken only to a titanic sacrificial altar, erected to the most high, it jutted out so towards heaven, with all the world below it. but were we to be disappointed in the sunset? look! huge clouds are rising; one already veils the sun, its edges crimsoned, and its centre translucent. a moment more and the cloudy veil is torn aside as by the hand of a genie, and as the red rays of the great orb of day blaze into our faces like a huge conflagration, a universal burst of admiration follows at one of the grandest and most magnificent views the eye of man can look upon. the sudden effect of the sunburst revealed a spectacle that was like a vision of the promised land. we realized now how "distance lends enchantment to the view." that blue atmosphere of distance, that seems to paint everything with its softening finish, is exquisite here. lake lucerne was at our very feet, and looked as though we might toss a pebble into it; eight other lakes, calm and still, and looking like polished blue steel plates resting in the landscape, flashed in the sunbeams, the little water-craft like motes upon their surface; silver ribbons of rivers glittered on the bosom of the mountains like necklaces, while villages appeared like pearls scattered on the dark-green carpet below, and we looked right through a great rainbow, "the half of the signet ring of the almighty," at one, and the landscape about it--a singular and beautiful effect. villages, lakes, landscapes were seen, as it were, through a river of light in a great panorama of hundreds of miles in extent, forming a view the grandeur and splendor of which it is impossible to describe. but while we are looking at this wondrous picture, the sun sinks lower, and we raise our gaze to the grand chain of mountains, whose edges are now fringed with fire, or their snow peaks glowing in rose tints, sending back reflections from their blue glaciers, or sparkling in the latent rays. there rises the great chain of bernese alps. there _are_ mountains--eight, ten, twelve thousand feet into the air. how sharply they are printed against the sky! and how they roll away off towards the horizon in a great billowy swell, till lost in the far distance, the white-topped peak of one tall sentinel just visible, touched by the arrowy beam of the sun that glances from his icy helmet! look which way you may, and a new scene of surpassing beauty chains the attention. here rises rugged old pilatus, almost from the bosom of lake lucerne; beyond lucerne, the whole canton is spread out to view, with a little river crinkling through it, like a strip of silver bullion thread; away off, at one side, the top of the cathedral of zurich catches the eye; down at our very feet, on the lake, is a little speck--tell's chapel; right around us rise the righi group of mountains, green to their summits, and in contrast to the perpetual snow mantles of the distant bernese. but the sun, which has been like a huge glittering and red, flashing shield, is now only showing a flaming edge of fire behind the apparently tallest peak, making it look like the flame bursting from a volcano; the landscape is deepening in huge shadows, which we can see are cast by the mountains, half obscuring it from view; the blaze is fainter--it is extinguished; a few moments of red, fiery glow where it sank, and anon a great, rushing group of clouds, and the blackness of night closes in, and the fierce rush of the alpine wind is upon us. we turned and groped our way back to the house, whose brightly-lighted windows spoke of comfort within; and round the board at the meal, which served alike for dinner and supper, we exhausted the vocabulary of terms of admiration over the grand spectacle we had just witnessed, which seemed worth a journey across the atlantic to see. at the supper table, we fraternize with other americans from different parts of our country; and even the reserved and reticent englishman finds it pleasant to converse, or address a few words to those he has not been introduced to, it is "so pleasant to talk one's own language, you know." out in a little sanded sitting-room, where cigars and warming fluids were enjoyed before retiring, the attention of us americans was attracted to an old and familiar friend, whose unlooked-for presence in this quarter was no less surprising than it was gratifying to our national pride. it was nothing more nor less than a print of trumbull's well-known picture of the battle of bunker hill, suspended over the mantelpiece. there were general warren, falling into the arms of the shirt-sleeved soldier, and the british captain, pushing aside the bayonets that were thrust at his prostrate figure. there was pitcairn, falling backwards from the redoubt, shot dead in the moment of victory by the colored soldier in the foreground. and there was old putnam, waving his sword over his head at the advancing grenadiers--the very same old picture that every one of us had seen in our histories and geographies in school-boy days. "the thing was neither rich nor rare, but how the devil it got there," away up at the top of one of the alps, was the wonder. however, it is not to be wondered at that, after its discovery, the toast of america and switzerland was drank, with all the honors. now that the night had come down, we could hear the mountain wind roaring around the house, as if it were clamoring for admittance; but the great dining-hall was full of light and cheerfulness; tourists of different nationalities recounted their adventures in little groups, and the swiss carved work, which was brought out and spread upon the tables for sale, found many purchasers among those who desired to preserve a memento of their visit to the top of mount rhigi. we were warned to retire early, as all would be roused at four a. m., next morning, to witness a sunrise, which we were assured was infinitely more grand than sunset. it was easier for me to get to bed than to sleep. the fatigue of the climb, the bracing effect of the atmosphere, the remembrance of the superb panorama, and, besides this, the rush, roar, and whistle of the mountain breeze which rattled at the casement, all served to banish sleep from my eyes till the time arrived when the horn should have sounded for sunrise; but it did not, because of the thick clouds, as i heard from the few restless ones who clattered through the corridors; and so, relieved of the expectancy of the call, i sank into slumber, broken only by morning's light, although thick clouds veiled the god of day from view. there appeared no prospect of clear weather; and so, after a late breakfast, our horses were ordered, and we began the descent, which, for the first half hour, was damp and cheerless enough, and made the coats and water-proofs we had been thoughtful enough to bring comfortable accessories. but, as we were slowly winding down the mountain, the clouds began to break; the wind had changed; gap after gap was rent in the vapor, which was rolled off at one side in great heaps; the bright blue sky looked through the rifts, and the landscape began to come out in great patches below; away went the clouds; what had seemed a great, dull curtain was broken up into sheets of billowy mist and huge patches of vapor, slowly rolling away in the distance, or heaping up in silvery banks; and below once more came out the blue, quiet lakes, the white villages, and the lovely landscape, while above, even above the clouds themselves, would start great peaks, round which they clung like fleecy garlands. the rain-drops sparkled on the grass and bushes as i sat on a projecting cliff gazing at the scene, and the train of my companions wound out of sight, their voices growing fainter and fainter, till lost in the distance, and all was silent. there was no song of bird, or chirp of insect--a mountain solitude of stillness unbroken, when just below me came up that peculiar and melodious cry of the alpine shepherd, "ye-o-eo-o-leo-leo-leo-ye-ho-le-o," echoing and winding among the mountains, clear and bell-like, as it floated away. the yodlyn! and this was the first time i had ever heard it in switzerland. but listen! above where i stand comes a reply, clear and musical, mellowed by distance, the curious falsetto, the "yo-e-ho-o-leo," is returned, and scarcely ceases ere taken up, away across the valley, by an answering voice, so faint in the distance that it quavers like a flute on the ear. and so the herdsmen in these solitudes call and answer one another during their journeyings, or their lonely hours in the mountains. now we wind down, through trees, herbage, and wild flowers. here is an ocean of white and buff garden heliotropes, monkshood, handsome lilac candytuft, and a flower in abundance which very much resembles the mexican ageratum. now we come to a broad sort of open field, and a _chalet_, where we halted, and rested upon rustic seats at the door, while the horses were baited. while we sat here, the officious host branded our alpine stocks with the names of goldau and righi, showing that we had passed those points. at this place, the open field was rich in sweet red-clover, and pretty little flowers, like dwarfed sweet-peas. as we rode on, the air was melodious with the tinkling of the bells of the mountain herds, and the woods and fields rich in wild white roses and numerous other flowers. at length we reached kusnacht, on lake lucerne; and, embarking on a little steamboat, we glided along past the beautiful slopes of the righi range, having a fine view of the frowning peak of pilatus, and some towering snow-clads in the distance. finally we rounded a point, and there lay lucerne, in a sort of natural amphitheatre, fronting on the blue lake, and between the righi and pilatus on either side. upon the whole length of the long quay is a broad avenue of shady chestnut trees; then, strung along behind it, are the great hotels; and in the background, running over on the heights above the town, are the walls and watch-towers, the whole forming a most charming and picturesque scene. the steamer glides up to the stone pier almost opposite to the great hotel, where our rooms had been engaged and luggage forwarded, and in a few minutes more the officious porters have us domiciled in fine apartments in the "schweizerhoff," where we proceed to remove the stains of travel and mountain climbing, enjoy the luxury of a good bath, and in other ways prepare for the _table d'hote_. the schweizerhoff is a splendid hotel, and, with its dependencies, accommodates some three hundred or more guests. it is admirably kept, the rooms clean, well furnished, and airy, and the front commanding a superb view of the lake, mount pilatus, righi, and a whole range of alps, green hill-sides, rocky crags, or great snow-clads, running up five, six, seven, and eight thousand feet high. a picture it seemed we could never tire gazing at, as we sat at our windows looking at them, and the blue lake, with its steamboats coming and going, row-boats and pleasure sail-boats gliding hither and thither. in this house is a reading-room for ladies and gentlemen, with english, french, german, and italian newspapers, books and magazines, a billiard-room, pretty garden, and great dining-room, with conservatory at one end of it, filled with plants and birds. a fountain in the room spouts and flashes merrily during the dinner hour, and a band of music plays. there are waiters and porters who speak french, german, italian, and english, and hearing the latter spoken on every side so frequently, seeing so many americans, and the ladies going through with the usual display of dress and flirtations as at home, it was difficult to imagine that we were not at some saratoga, or newport, and that a few hours by rail would not bear us to boston or new york. the sights in lucerne are few and easily seen, the principal attraction being the loveliness of the situation. the river reuss emerges from the lake at this point, and rushes off at a tremendous rate, and two of the curious old wooden bridges that span it are features of the place; they are roofed over and partially enclosed. in the inner triangular compartments of the roof of the longest are a series of over a hundred pictures, illustrating scenes in the lives of saints and in the history of switzerland; in the other the dance of death is quaintly and rudely depicted; picturesque old places these bridges, cool and shady for a summer afternoon's stroll. the great attraction in the old cathedral in lucerne is the fine organ, which all visitors go to hear played; and we strolled in on a quiet summer's evening, after dinner, to listen to it. the slanting beams of the sun gleamed through the stained-glass windows, and lighted up some of the old carved wood reliefs of the stalls in the church, as we took our seats, with some fifty or sixty other tourists, here and there in the body of the house; and soon the music began. first there were two or three hymns, whose pure, simple melody was given with a grace and delicacy that seemed to carry their sacred sentiment to the very heart; from these the performer burst into one of the grandest performances of mendelssohn's wedding march i ever listened to. there was the full band, with hautboy, flute, clarinet, and trumpet accompaniment, introducing perfect solo obligatos, and closing with the full, grand sweep of melody, in which, amid the blending of all in one grand harmonious whole, the strains of each were distinguishable, perfect, pure, and faultless. the liquid ripple of the flute, the blare of the trumpet, and the mellow murmur of the clarinet, till the march arose in one grand volume of harmony that made the vaulted arches of the old cathedral ring again, and it seemed as if every nook and corner was filled with exultant melody. it was a glorious performance, and i felt like leaping to my feet, swinging my hat, and shouting, bravo! when it was finished. but, if this was glorious, the last piece, which represented a thunder storm amid the alps, was little short of marvellous, and may be regarded as a masterpiece of organ-playing. it commenced with a beautiful pastoral introduction; this was succeeded by the muttering of distant thunder, the fitful gusts of a gradually rising tempest, the sharp _shirr_ of the wind, and the very rattling and trickling of the rain drops; mountain streams could be heard, rushing, swollen into torrents; the mutter of the tempest increased to a gradual and rising roar of wind; a resistless rush of rain was heard, that made the spectator look anxiously towards church windows, and feel nervous that he had no umbrella. finally the tremendous tempest of the alps seemed to shake the great cathedral, the winds howled and shrieked, the rain beat, rushed, and came down in torrents; the roar of the swollen mountain streams was heard between the terrific peals of thunder that reverberated among the mountains, awaking a hundred echoes, and one of those sharp, terrible rattles, that betokens the falling bolt, made more than one lady sit closer to her protector, with an involuntary shudder. but anon the thunder peals grew less and less frequent, and rolled slowly and grandly off among the mountains, with heavy reverberations, between which the rush of the mountain streams and the rattle of the brooks were heard, till finally the peals of heaven's artillery died away entirely, the streams rushed less fiercely, and the brooks purled over the pebbles. then, amid the subsiding of the tempest, the notes of a little organ, which had been heard only at intervals during the war of elements, became more clear and distinct: now, as the thunder ceased and the rush of rain was over, you heard it as in some distant convent or chapel among the mountains, and there arose a chant so sweet, so clear, so heavenly as to seem hardly of this earth--a chant of nuns before their altar; anon it increased in volume as tenor, alto, and even the full bass of monkish chant joined, and the whole choir burst into a glorious hymn of praise. the audience were breathless as they listened to the chant of this invisible choir, whose voices they could distinguish in sweet accord as they arose and blended into a great anthem, and then gradually faded in the distance, as though the meek sisterhood were gliding away amid their cloisters, and the voices of the procession of hooded monks ceased one after the other, as they sought the quiet of their cells. the chant dropped away, voice by voice, into silence; all ceased but the little chapel organ accompaniment, which lingered and quavered, till, like a last trembling seraph breath, it faded away in the still twilight, and--the performance was over. there was full a moment's spell-bound hush among the listeners after its conclusion, and then followed one universal burst of admiration and applause in half a dozen different languages. some of the ladies of our party, not dreaming of the wonders of the vox humana stop, desired to see the choir that sang so sweetly; and to gratify them we ascended to the organ gallery, where, to their surprise, we met the sole performer on the wonderful instrument to which they had listened, in the person of an old german, with scattered gray hairs peeping out beneath his velvet skull-cap, wearing black knee-breeches and silk stockings, and shoes with broad buckles--a perfect old virtuoso in appearance, and a genuine musical enthusiast, trembling with pleasure at our praise, and his eyes glistening with tears at our admiration of his marvellous skill. the lion of lucerne is, in fact, literally the lion; that is, the celebrated lion sculptured out of the natural rock by the celebrated danish sculptor thorwaldsen, in memory of the swiss guard that were massacred in defence of the tuileries in . the figure is in a beautiful grotto, a sheet of water, which is fed by springs that trickle out from the stone that it is carved from, separating it from the spectator. the reclining figure of this dying lion, so familiar to all from pictorial representations, is twenty-eight feet in length, and, as it lies transfixed with the broken lance, and in the agonies of death, sheltering the french shield and _fleur de lis_ with its great paws, forms a most appropriate monument, and one not easily forgotten. lake lucerne, the lake of the four cantons, is the most beautiful in switzerland, and the grandeur and beauty of the scenery on every side are heightened by the historical associations connected with the country bordering on its waters; for these cantons are the birthplace of switzerland's freedom, and the scenes of the struggles of william tell and his brave associates. it was a beautiful summer's morning when we embarked on board one of the little steamers that leave lucerne four or five times a day, and steamed out from the pier, leaving the long string of hotels, the range of hills above them, with the curious walls and watch-towers, behind us, and grim old mount pilatus with his necklace of clouds standing guard over the whole. we again pass the green slopes of the righi, and in the distance the great alpine peaks begin to appear, printed against the sky. soon we come to burgenstock, a great forest-clad hill that rises abruptly from the very lake to the height of over three thousand four hundred feet; we pass beautiful slopes rimmed with a background of lofty mountain peaks; here is the picturesque little village of waggis, from which many make the ascent of the righi; next we pass a beautiful little crescent-shaped village, and then come in sight two great barren, rocky-looking peaks named mythen, nearly six thousand feet high; and the boat rounds up to the pier of brunnen, a lovely situation, where many tourists disembark and others come on board. shortly after leaving here, we pass a perpendicular rock, nearly a hundred feet high, on which is inscribed, in huge gilt letters, an inscription signifying it is to "frederick schiller, the bard of tell." just beyond this a passenger directs our view to a green field, and a few scattered chalets. that is rutli, what little we can see of it, and where the founders of swiss liberty met, and bound themselves by oath to free the land from the invader. the steamer glides close to the shore, and gives us an opportunity of seeing tell's chapel, situated upon a rock on the shore, and marking the place where tell sprang out of gessler's boat, as is told in the stories of the swiss hero. leaving this behind, we soon come in sight of fluelen, our point of destination, situated in the midst of a surrounding of grand alpine scenery. between two great peaks, in full view, we can see a glacier, with its white snow and blue ice, and a great peak, with castle-shaped summit, looms up seventy-five hundred feet, while behind fluelen rise two other peaks nearly ten thousand feet. we are circled by great alps, with their snowy crowns and glaciers gleaming in the sunlight. landing at fluelen, we engaged for our party of five a private open carriage, for the journey through st. gothard pass, instead of taking the great cumbrous ark of a diligence that was in waiting. by this means we secured a vehicle very much like an open barouche, roomy, comfortable, and specially designed for the journey, with privilege, of course, of stopping when and where we liked, driving fast or slow; in fact, travelling at our own convenience. this is by far the pleasantest way of travelling the mountain passes accessible to carriages, and where a party can be made up of four or five, the expense per head is but a small advance on that charged in the diligence, a dusty, dirty, crowded vehicle, with but few positions commanding the view, which is what the tourist comes to see. crack, crack, crack! went the driver's whip, like a succession of pistol-shots, as we rattled out of fluelen, and, after a pleasant ride of half an hour, rolled into the romantic little village of altorf, embosomed in a lovely valley, with the huge mountains rising all about it. altorf! william tell! "men of altorf!" yes; this was the place embalmed in school-boy memories with all that was bold, heroic, brave, and romantic. here was where william tell defied gessler, dashed down his cap from the pole, and appealed to the men of altorf. pleasant little swiss town. we ride through a narrow street, which widens out into a sort of market-place, at one end of which stands a huge plaster statue of the swiss liberator, which is said to occupy the very spot that he stood upon when he performed his wondrous feat of archery, and one hundred and fifty paces distant a fountain marks the spot where his son albert stood awaiting the arrow from his father's bow, though some of the swiss insist that albert's position was thirty paces farther, where a tower now stands, upon which some half-obliterated frescoes, representing scenes in tell's life, are painted. we descended from our carriage, walked over the space of the arrow flight, and called to each other from the opposite points; pictured to ourselves the crowd of villagers, the fierce soldiery that pressed them back, the anxiety of the father, the twang of the bow, distinctly heard in the awe-struck hush of the assemblage as the arrow sped on its flight, and then the shout that went up as the apple was cleft, and the boy, unhurt, ran to his father's arms. away we sped from the town of altorf, passed a little castle on a height, said to be that of gessler, and soon emerged on the broad, hard, floor-like road of the st. gothard pass; and what pen can describe the grandeur and beauty of this most magnificent of all alpine passes! one may read descriptions, see engravings, paintings, photographs, or panoramas, and yet get no idea of the grandeur of the spectacle. there were huge walls of splintered crags, so high that they seemed to be rocky curtains hung down out of the blue heavens. these _were_ mountains, such as i imagined mountains were when a child. we had to look straight up into the sky to see them. great rocky walls rose almost from the road-side sheer up thousands and thousands of feet. a whole range of peaks is printed against the sky directly before us, half of them glittering with snow and ice. on we rolled over the smooth road, and emerged into a vast oval amphitheatre, as it were, the road passing through the centre, the green slopes the sides, and the huge peaks surrounding the outer barriers that enclosed it. we all stood up in our carriage, with exclamations of admiration at the magnificent scene that suddenly burst upon us. just below the broad road we were upon rushed the river reuss, a foaming torrent. beyond it, on the opposite side, all the rest of the distance, the whole beautiful valley, and along the green slope of the opposite mountain, for three or four miles, were swiss chalets, flocks feeding, men and women at work, streams turning water-wheels, romantic waterfalls spattering down in large and small ravines. we could see them starting from their source miles away up among the blue glaciers, where, beneath the sun's beams, they fluttered like little threads of silver, and farther down came into view in great brooks of feathery foam, till they rushed into the river that owed its life to their contributions. the distance is so enormous, the scenery so grand, that it is beyond description. i was like gulliver among the brobdingnagians, and feared i never should get my head down to a level with ordinary mortals again. i discovered, too, how deceptive the distance was among these huge peaks. in attempting to toss a pebble into the stream that flowed apparently thirty or forty feet below the road, and, as i thought, about twenty feet from it, it fell far short. another and another effort failed to reach it; for it rolled over three hundred feet below, and more than two hundred and fifty from us. every variety of mountain peak rose before us against the dark-blue afternoon sky. there were peaks that ran away up into heaven, glittering with snow; old gray crags, splintered, as it were, with thunder-bolts; huge square, throne-like walls, the very throne of jupiter; mountains that were like great brown castles; and peaks that the blue atmosphere of distance painted with a hundred softened and varied hues. the reader may fancy himself viewing this scene, if possible, which we saw as we rode over this smooth, well-kept road--at our right a ridge of mountain wall, at our left the great ravine, with the white-foamed torrent rushing over its rocky bed, every mile or so spanned by arched stone bridges. on the other side of the stream were the pretty rural picture of farms, chalets, gardens, herds, and flocks. every inch of ground that was available was cultivated, and the cultivation runs up the mountain side as far as vegetation can exist. all around the air was filled with the rattle of running water. rushing torrents leaped from great ravines, little ribbons tumbled down in silver sheets, brooks clattered and flashed as they wound in and out of view on their way to the valley, cascades vaulted over sharp crags, and the sides of this vast amphitheatre were glistening with silvery veins. i counted over twenty waterfalls within one sweep of the eye. we were surprised into admiration at the state of the road. it is a magnificent specimen of engineering, and, although it is a steady ascent, it is rendered easy and comparatively imperceptible by numerous curves. there are forty-six great curves, or zigzags, in the ascent. the road itself is nearly twenty feet wide, kept in admirable order, free as a floor from the least obstruction, and protected on the side towards the precipice by strong stone posts planted at regular intervals. there are many streets in boston more difficult of ascent and more dangerous of descent than the road of the st. gothard pass. the magnificent roads in the mountain passes, the fine hotels, the regulations respecting guides, and the care and attention bestowed upon travellers in switzerland, are all for a purpose; for the swiss, as i have remarked, live on the travel of foreigners, and are wise enough to know that the more easy and pleasant they make travelling to tourists, the more of them will come, and the more money will be spent. the roads are almost as great a wonder as the scenery. sometimes, when a spur of the mountain juts out, a tunnel, or gallery, is cut right through it; and really there is comparatively but very little danger in traversing the swiss passes, except to those venturesome spirits who persist in attempting to scale almost inaccessible peaks, or ascending mont blanc, mont rosa, or the dangerous matterhorn. as we rode on and on, and up and up, we came to a wild scene that seemed a very chaos--the commencement of creation. we found ourselves in the midst of great black and iron-rust colored crags, five or six thousand feet high, jagged, splintered, and shattered into every variety of shape. the torrent fairly roared hundreds of feet below. i had left the carriage, and was walking some hundreds of yards in advance alone as i entered this tremendous pass. the road hugged the great black rocky wall of the mountain that rose so high as almost to shut out the light. on the opposite side were mountains of solid black rock, not a spear of grass, not a speck of verdure, from base to summit. the great rushing mountain torrent tore, rushed, and leaped madly over the huge boulders that had rolled into its jagged bed, and its fall was all that broke the awful stillness and the gloomy grandeur of the place; for the whole scene, which the eye took in for miles, was lofty masses of everlasting granite, hurled together and cleft asunder as by supernatural means. i could think of nothing like it but gustave doré's pictures in dante's inferno; and this terrific pass was a good representation of the approach to hell itself. it is astonishing to notice how the scene hushes the visitor into an awe-struck silence; for it seems as if in these wild and awful heights, as on mid-ocean, man stands more immediately in the presence of the almighty. the scene culminates at the bridge itself,--appropriately named the devil's bridge,--where is a tremendously rapid waterfall pouring down, and where the eye takes in the whole of the black ravine, with the road like a white snake clinging to the precipitous mountain wall. thirty or forty feet below, also spanning the torrent, are the remains of the old bridge upon which the battle was fought between the french and austrians--a terrible place, indeed, for a death struggle. the new bridge, over which we crossed, is a splendid structure of granite, and has a single arch of twenty-five feet. through the mighty ravines we wound upward and onward, on through a great tunnel, fifteen feet high and sixteen feet wide, cut through the solid rock a distance of over two hundred feet, soon after emerging from which we came to a verdant, broad, level pasture, here up among the mountains, a valley surrounded by lofty snow-clads. this is the valley of uri, and its pleasant verdure, watered by the river which flows through it, is an agreeable contrast to the savage and gloomy grandeur of the scenery we had left behind us. there are only about four months of summer here, and the inhabitants subsist by their herds, and by conveying travellers' baggage and merchandise over to st. gothard pass. we next came to the little village of andermatt, and just beyond it, at nightfall, reached hospenthal, fatigued and glad to reach the meyerhof hotel, just outside the village. the house, which had accommodations for seventy or eighty guests, was crowded with tourists, among whom was a liberal representation of americans and englishmen. in the morning, after discussing a hearty breakfast, we started on our return, having a fine view of the glacier of st. anna, rising high above the mountain ridges, and glittering in the morning sunshine. we drove back through the same pass, and halted on the devil's bridge to watch the waterfall of the reuss, that leaps and foams down its descent here of a hundred feet, as it passes beneath the bridge, and, looking up, saw the spray of the descending torrent made into beautiful rainbows by the morning sunbeams. there were the terrible masses of rock, the huge, splintered peaks, and tremendous ravines; but the grand effect of ascending in the twilight of afternoon, which is the time chosen, if possible, by tourists, is lost, to a great extent, in the early part of the day. once more, adieu to lucerne; and this time we start from the door of the schweizerhoff in private conveyance for interlaken, _via_ the brunig pass. we rode along for miles over a smooth, level road, on the very banks of the lake of the four cantons, the scenery being a succession of charming pictures of lake and mountain. our road led us through several swiss villages, generally closely built, with narrow and irregular streets, and very dirty. the swiss peasants that we meet are browned and bent with hard toil. men and women toil alike, in the fields and by the roadside. all are trained to burden-bearing, which is by means of a long basket made to fit the back and shoulders, the top higher than the head. the women over thirty years of age are coarse and masculine, their faces and hands browned, seamed, and wrinkled with toil. they clamber about in the mountain passes, and gather grass for their herds, carrying the burdens in their baskets, or the manure which may be found on the road during the travelling season, or break stones for mending the roads. the brunig road was another one of those wonderful specimens of engineering, with not a loose pebble upon its floor-like surface, the scenery romantic and beautiful, but not of so grand a description as the st. gothard. we wind through the woods, have occasional glimpses of the valley below, until finally, at the summit of the pass, the magnificent scenery of the meiringen valley bursts upon the view. this is, as it were, a level, beautiful country, deep between two great ranges of mountains, and you stand upon one and look down upon it, and across to the other. this smiling valley was like a framed picture in the sunshine; the silver river aare wound through it, white villages were nestled here and there, orchards bloomed, and fields were verdant, sheltered by the high crags from the north wind, and brown roads wound in and out among finely cultivated farms. directly opposite us, away over the other side of the valley, rose up the sheer, rocky sides of the mountain wall, out of which waterfalls were spurting and cascades dashing in every direction, to feed the stream below. there were the beautiful falls of the reichenbach, rushing over the cliff, and dropping hundreds and hundreds of feet down to the valley. the different waterfalls that we could see at the opposite side of the valley seemed like white, waving wreaths hung upon the mountain-sides. to the rear of these, overtopping all at intervals, lofty snow-clads lifted their white crowns into the sunshine. the view of this lovely valley, with its green pastures, meandering rivers, and picturesque waterfalls; its verdant carpet, dotted with villages, and the whole fringed with a belt of firs and dark green foliage, as we looked down into it from our lofty platform, reminded me of the story of the genius who stamped his foot on the mountain, which was cleft open, and showed in its depths to an astonished peasant the lovely country of the elves and fairies, in contrast with the desolation of the rocky crags and mountains that rose about him. down we ride, amid beautiful mountain scenery on every side, and finally through the town of brienz, where the beautiful wood carving is wrought. we have a good view of the faulhorn in the distance, pass through two or three little swiss villages, and finally drive into a beautiful green valley, with quite a new england appearance to the _pensions_, or boarding-houses, which passed, we come to a string of splendid hotels upon one side of the broad road, the other side being open, and affording an unobstructed view of the jungfrau and its snowy crown. fatigued with a ten-hours' ride, and sight-seeing, we drive up to the door of the magnificent hotel victoria. price of the carriage hire, extra horses, driver's fee, horse baiting, and all, for the whole day's journey, fifty francs,--ten dollars, or two dollars apiece,--and a very reasonable price it was considered for private conveyance, _première classe_, at the height of the travelling season. the hotels at interlaken are fine establishments, and well kept. the victoria, where we were domiciled, has fine grounds in front, and commands a view of the jungfrau glacier. it contains two hundred and forty rooms, and has reading-rooms, parlors, and music-rooms equal to the hotels at our fashionable watering-places. prices high--about two dollars per day, each person. there are numerous other smaller hotels, where the living is equally good, and the prices are less; and still others, known as _pensions_, where visitors stay for a few weeks or the season, which are very comfortable, and at which prices are half the rate above mentioned. interlaken is beautifully and romantically situated, and is a popular resort for tourists in switzerland, as a place from which many interesting excursions may be made. we chose ours to be up over the wengernalp to grindenwald, sending our carriage around from lauterbrunnen to grindenwald, to meet us as we came down by the bridle-path to that place. the ride to lauterbrunnen was the same succession of beautiful alpine scenery that i have so often described--lofty mountains, cascades, waterfalls, green slopes, distant snow-clads, dark pines, blue distance, swiss _chalets_, and picturesque landscape. beggars now begin to be a serious nuisance, especially when your carriage stops at different points for you to enjoy the view. then boys and girls come with milk, plums, apricots, cheap wood carvings, and curious pebbles, to sell, till one gets perfectly nervous at their approach, especially after the halt, the lame, and the blind have besought you; and one fellow capped the climax, as we were enjoying a beautiful view, by gracefully swaying a toy flexible snake into our carriage, to our most intense disgust and indignation. as you progress, women waylay the carriage at the top of a small ascent, which it must approach slowly, and bawl swiss songs, ending with an outstretched palm, as you reach them. boys and men, at certain points in the passes, sound alpine horns,--a wide-mouthed instrument of wood, six feet in length,--which gives out a sonorous but mellow sound, peculiarly musical in the alpine echoes. the blowers expect that a few sous will be tossed to them, and children chase you with bunches of mountain flowers to sell. how people manage to exist far up in some of these wild mountain defiles is a wonder; and it seems as though it must be a struggle for some of them to keep soul and body together: they save every bit of herbage, scrape up manure from the roads, cultivate all they can in the short summers, keep goats and cows, and live on travellers. the catholic priests have penetrated every pass and defile in the country, and at their little chapels in the alps and by the roadsides are rude and fearfully rough-looking representations of our saviour on the cross, and of various saints undergoing all sorts of tortures. now and then we meet a party of peasants on foot, men and women travelling over the mountain pass from one canton to another, the leader holding a rosary, and all repeating a prayer together, invoking protection from dangers on the road. the priests, with their long black robes and huge hats, you meet all over europe. we had one--a jolly fellow he was, too--in the same compartment of a railway carriage on one of the swiss roads, who laughed, joked, had a pleasant chat with the ladies, asking all sorts of questions about america, and at parting, bade us adieu with an air. as we approached lauterbrunnen, we rode through the romantic valley of the river lutschine, which rushes and boils over the rocks at such a rate that the cloudy glacier water has exactly the appearance of soap-suds. here, on this river's banks, rests the picturesque little village of lauterbrunnen, which name, we were told, signified springs. the little waterfalls and cascades can be seen flashing out in every direction from the lofty mountains that surround it; but chief among them is the superb and graceful staubbach, that tumbles down from a lofty cliff _nine hundred and twenty-five feet_ in height. the best view of this beautiful fall is at a point nearly half a mile distant, as the water, which is not of great volume, becomes converted into a shower of mist before reaching the ground, after its lofty leap; but at this point, where we had the best view of it, it was like a wreath of snowy foam, broadening at the base into a million of beautiful scintillations in the sunlight, and the effect of the wind was to sway it hither and thither like a huge strip of snowy lace that had been hung down over the green side of the mountain. now we take horses, after leaving the road that runs through lauterbrunnen. every half hour reveals to us new wonders of alpine scenery and beauty; we reach the little village of wengen, and see great peaks rising all around us; upward and onward, and from our mountain path we can look back and down in the valley of lauterbrunnen, that we have left far, far below; we see the staubbach fall dwarfed to a little glittering line, and, above it its other waterfall, of several hundred feet, which was not visible from the valley. but still upward and onward we go, and now come to a long ridge, upon which the bridle-path runs, as it were on the back-bone of the mountain. here we have a view as grand, as alpine, as swiss, as one has ever read about or imagined. right across the ravine, which appeared like a deep crevasse, scarcely half a mile wide, was a huge blue wall of ice, seamed with great chasms, rent into great fissures, cold, still, awful, and terrible, with its background of lofty mountains covered with eternal snow. now we had a view of the jungfrau in all its majesty, as its snow crest sparkled in the sunshine, twelve thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven feet in height. there were the silverhorn and the schneerhorn, springing their lofty peaks out of a vast expanse of snow and ice; a whole chain of gigantic cliffs, so lofty in height that you seem to look up into the very heavens at their peaks of dazzling whiteness; the shreckhorn, twelve thousand two hundred feet high; the black monk, a dark mass of rocks, twelve thousand feet, in striking contrast with the snowy mantles that clothe the other mountains. great glaciers, miles in extent, put a chill into the air that makes you shudder. the gap that i thought half a mile wide is a space nearly six times that distance across; we feel dwarfed amid the immensity and stupendous grandeur of the scene, and, as we unconsciously become silent, are struck with the unbroken, awful stillness of the alps. we are above the murmur of brooks and the rush of waterfalls; no bird or insect chirrups here; there is not even a bush for the wind to sigh through. now and then a deep, sonorous murmur, as of the sigh of some laboring gnome in the mountain, or the twang of a gigantic harp-string, breaks the silence for a moment, and then dies away. it is a distant avalanche. we listen. it is gone! and all is still, awful, sublime. we rode on; the view took in a whole chain of lofty mountains: now we pass great walls of crag, three or four thousand feet high, now looked across the ravine at the great glaciers, commencing with layers of snow and ice, and running out till they became a huge sheet of blue ice, the color deepening till it was blue as vitriol; but we were doomed to pay one of the penalties of sight-seeing in the alps, for swiftly came a thick cloud, shutting out the whole view, and out of it came a heavy shower, drenching all thoroughly. a quarter of an hour of this, and the cloud had passed on, and we had nearly reached the little hotel bellevue, our point of destination, and come in sight of a verdant hill-side, a vast green, sheltered slope, in striking contrast to the ice and snow of the other part of the pass. our guides made us first halt, and look at the herd of cattle that were feeding upon it, and then pause, and listen to the tinkle of their bells,--more than three hundred in number,--that sounded like a vast music-box in the alpine stillness. then we looked away across the valley, and saw the little village of mürren, the highest village in switzerland, five thousand and eighteen feet, on a mountain-side; and finally we reached the hotel on the highest point of the little scheideck, six thousand two hundred and eighty-four feet (righi is five thousand five hundred and forty-one feet), and as we approached across the little plat of level ground in front of it, found we had arrived at a "reapers' festival;" and there was quite a gathering of peasants, who assemble here on the first sunday in august, dressed in the grindenwald costume, for dancing, wrestling, and other festivities. they had been driven in-doors by the rain; the entry of the little hotel was crowded; and however romantic and picturesque the swiss mountaineer may look in his national costume in the picture-books, or poetical he and the swiss maiden may be in songs and ballads, there is an odor of garlic and tobacco about them at close quarters that seriously affects poetic sentimentality. as the rain had ceased, the peasants once more betook themselves to dancing to the music of a cracked clarinet and a melodeon; and another group got up an extemporaneous fight, two of them tumbling down a dozen or fifteen feet into a gully without injury, while we put the house under contribution for wood for a fire in the best room, and were soon drying our clothes by a blaze of claret-wine boxes. a capital mountain dinner, in which tea, honey, sweet bread, butter, and chamois chops figured, was so much better and cheaper than the soggy doughnuts, indigestible pie, sour bread, and cold beans that used to be set before the traveller at the tip top house, mount washington, new hampshire, for the tip top price of _one dollar_ a head, that we could not help drawing the comparison. a rest and an enjoyment of the grand view of mountain chain, snowy peaks, and vast glaciers that surround us, and we start for the descent to grindenwald. grand views we had of the wetterhorn, the faulhorn, and the upper and lower glaciers of grindenwald. we pass where avalanches have torn down the mountain-side, and thrown huge boulders about like pebbles, then over patches of open field, where stunted herbage grows, and alpine roses redden the ground with their blossoms; then we come to woods, pastures, and peasants, and reach grindenwald just before nightfall, to find our carriage waiting to take us back to interlaken, which we reached after an absence of about eleven hours. interlaken is a grand depository and mart of the swiss carved wood work, alpine crystals, &c.; and grand stores of this merchandise, after the fashion of the "indian stores" at niagara falls, attract the tourist. some of this carving is very beautifully and artistically done, and some of it is cheap and not worth the trouble of taking away; but it is positively amusing to see how some american travellers will load themselves down with this trash because it _is_ cheap. some of the smoke crystals and rock crystals, fashioned into sleeve-buttons and watch-seals, were both handsome and low priced. i strolled into the little shop of an honest old hebrew from prague, who had a cheaply-painted little sign, in english, that he sold "garnets, real stones," and found that he did not, or had not learned to charge extravagant prices; he spoke english, and was teaching it to his little daughter, from a primer, when we entered, for "english and americans buy garnet, and must be talk wis." the old fellow's garnets were excellent and cheap, and i soon had sleeve-buttons, and scarf-pin, large pin, and small pin, studs, and the garnet in forms enough to render me ruddy for the next ten years, and was preparing to take my departure, when leaning too heavily upon the little show-case, my elbow went through it with a crash. here was a chance for damage! to be sure the pane of glass was little larger than a sheet of foolscap; but we must pay what the proprietor charged; and was he not a jew? well, this jew thought two francs would amply reimburse him; but monsieur had been so kind, be could only charge him one. after being deceived in the rue de la paix, cheated on the boulevards, swindled barefacedly in the grand hotel, and humbugged outrageously in the palais royal, i rather relished being "jewed" in this manner; none the less agreeable and satisfactory from its being so un-christian-like a transaction. accordingly i hailed two other americans from the street, men who "bought everything everywhere," one of whom had got one of his trunks so mixed up, and tightly packed with shirts, curiosities, gloves, carved wood-work, stockings, photographs, crystals, boots, guide-books, under clothing, fans, and stereoscopic views, that he denominated it the chinese puzzle, gave up trying to find his articles of wearing apparel in it, and sent it back to paris. i hailed these two as they were passing, commended the merchandise and "much kindness in the jew," and the old fellow, in less than half an hour, felt that he had brought his glittering gems from prague to some purpose, as many of his best jewels changed places with the gold napoleons of the americans. the little hotel at giessbach was full when we arrived, although we had telegraphed a day in advance for rooms; and a polite porter met us at the pier, as the boat drew up, with regrets, and commended the "bear," which was situated in the village of brienz, opposite, where we could sup, lodge, and breakfast, and row over to see the giessbach falls. there was no resource but to go to the bear, and we went; and after a bad supper, a boat's crew of two men and a woman rowed us back across the lake to giessbach to see the lime light illumination of the falls. from the landing to the terrace commanding the falls is a good twenty minutes' climb; but in the darkness, preceded by a couple of guides bearing lanterns, there is not much opportunity for a critical examination of the surrounding scenery: however, we determined to revisit it by daylight, and all agreed that the idea of exhibiting a waterfall on a dark night, by means of an illumination, at a franc a head, was an idea worthy a barnum, or at least the inventive qualities of an american. we reached the terrace, and there waited in the blackness of night with an expectant group. we could hear the torrent dashing and tumbling down opposite to where we stood, and high above among the cliffs, but our vision failed to penetrate half a dozen yards into the cimmerian gloom. suddenly a little rocket shot out from below us; another, above, with momentary flash revealed a tumbling cascade and the dark green foliage, and then all again was blackness. in a moment or two, however, a bright glare shot out from below, another above it, another and another flashed up, and then from out the blackness, like an illuminated picture, we saw the beautiful fall, a series of seven cascades, leaping and tumbling down amid the verdant foliage, every twig of which stood out in the powerful light, while through the romantic and picturesque ravine poured a mass of foam of molten silver, beneath the colored light, rich, gleaming and dazzling. but while we gazed, the hue changed, and purple equal to tyrian dye for robe of roman emperor tumbled over purple rocks, and dashed up violet spray into the air. once more, and the rocks were ingots, the stream was pactolus itself, the bark on trees at the brink were as if midas himself had smote them, and the branches bore gold leaf above the yellow current. but it changed again, and a torrent red as ruby gushed over the rocks, the ravine was lighted with a red glare as of a conflagration, and as we gazed on those spurting, tumbling crimson torrents there was something horribly suggestive in the sight. "blood, blood! iago." but we did not see it long in that light, for the herbage, trees, and foliage were next clothed in an emerald hue, till the ravine looked like a peep into aladdin's cavern, and the torrent was of that deep green tinge which marks that great bend of the falling water when it pours with such majestic sweep over the crag near table rock, at niagara. the green faded gradually, the torrent leaped a few moments in paler light, cascade after cascade disappeared; we were again in darkness, and the exhibition was over. preceded by our lantern-bearers, we gained the boat, and our crew started out into the blackness of the lake for the opposite shore, and for one of the dozen groups of lights that marked the landings. we were compelled to bear with the "bear" for one night, but cannot commend it as the "great bear" or a planet of much brilliancy; so we bore away from it early in the morning for the opposite shores, again to see the falls by daylight, ere the steamer started on the return trip to interlaken. the ascent is a series of curves up a delightful, romantic pathway, and when part way up crosses a bridge commanding a view of a portion of the falls; but from the charming terrace near the hotel, the sight of the series of six or seven successive leaps or continuous cascades of the water as it rushes down an impetuous foaming torrent from a height of three to four hundred feet in the mountain wall is magnificent. we sat beneath the trees and enjoyed the sight till the last moment, and saw, by turning towards the lake, that the steamer had left the opposite shore, then reluctantly tore ourselves away from the charming scene, and descended to the pier. a pleasant sail back to interlaken, an omnibus ride over to a steamboat landing, and we were once more embarked on another swiss lake,--lake thun,--a beautiful sheet of water ten miles long, a portion of its banks covered with vineyards, and the view of alps on alps, in every direction in the distance, most magnificent; there were our old acquaintances, the jungfrau, monk, eiger, and wetterhorn, also the faulhorn, and dozens of others, with their pure frosted summits and blue glaciers all around us as we paddled over the little blue lake, till reaching the town of thun, we stepped into the railway carriage of the central swiss railway, and in an hour were at berne, at the fine hotel known as the bernerhoff, which commands a view of the whole line of snow-clad bernese alps in one continuous chain in the distance, looking like gigantic ramparts thrown up by titans. this city is on the river _aare_, or, rather, on the high bank above it; for the river is more than a hundred feet below, and that portion of the city towards its bank seems placed, as it were, on a grand terrace for a lookout to the distant mountains. if the tourist has not previously learned that the bear is the heraldic emblem of berne, he will learn that fact before he has been in the city a quarter of an hour. two granite bears guard the city gates; a shield in the corn exchange is upheld by a pair of them, in wood; fountains have their effigy carved upon the top; and in the cathedral square, keeping guard of a large bronze statue of a mounted knight in full armor, rudolf von erlach, are four huge fellows, the size of life, in bronze, at the four corners of the pedestal. then the city government keep a bears' den at the public expense--a huge circular pit, in which three or four living specimens of their tutelar deity solemnly promenade or climb a pole for buns and biscuits from visitors. wood-carving can be bought at berne of very pretty and artistic execution, and the wood-carvers have exhausted their ingenuity in producing groups of bears, engaged in all sorts of occupations. i had no idea what a comical figure this clumsy beast makes when put in such positions. we have stopped at many a shop window and laughed heartily at the comical groups. here were a party of bears playing at ten-pins: a solemn old bruin is adding up the score; another, with one foot advanced and the ball poised, is about to make a ten strike, and a bear with body half bent forward watches the effect of the roll. another group represented a couple at the billiard table, with one, a rakish-looking cub, making a scientific stroke, and his companion, another young "buster," with arm akimbo and cigar in mouth, watching them. there was a group of bear students, all drunk, arm in arm; two old bears meeting and shaking hands on 'change; whole schools studying, with a master putting the rod upon a refractory bear; and a full orchestra of bears playing on every variety of musical instrument; in fact, bears doing almost everything one had seen men do, and presenting a most irresistibly comic appearance. these figures were all carved from wood, and were from a couple of inches to six inches in height. scarce any tourist leaves without a bear memento. the great music-box and carved wood-work stores here are museums in their way. of course the more elaborate and best wrought specimens of wood-carving command high prices, but nothing like the extortions of the fancy goods stores in america. berne is a grand place to buy music-boxes in carved wood-work, and cuckoo clocks; some of these contrivances are very ingenious. we visited one great "_magasin_" near the hotel, where they had photograph albums, with carved wood covers, that played three tunes when you opened them; cigar buffets that performed a polka when you turned out the weed to your guests; work-boxes that went off into quadrilles when you lifted the lid, and tables that performed grand marches when you twisted their drawer-knobs. every once in a while the cuckoos darted out of one or two of the threescore clocks, of which no two were set alike, bobbed their heads, cuckooed, and went back again with a snap; and there was one clock fashioned like a swiss _chalet_, from the door of which at the hour a figure of a little fellow, six inches in height, emerged, and, raising a horn to his mouth, played an air of a minute's duration, and retired. fatigued, i sank into a chair whose arms were spread invitingly, when i was startled by that well-known air, the sailor's hornpipe, going off as if somebody had put a band of music into my coat-tail pocket. springing to my feet, the music stopped; but as i sat down, away it went again right underneath me. it was a musical chair, and i _sat_ it playing. we strolled through the curious old streets with the sidewalks under the arcades of the buildings, saw the curious old clock-tower, where, a few minutes before the hour, an automaton cock crows, and then it is struck by a comical figure with a bell and a hammer, while a troop of automaton bears appear, and march around on a wooden platform. an old fellow with an hour-glass turns it over, and the cock concludes the performance by again flapping his wings and crowing. one of the most delightful places of promenade in the city is the cathedral terrace, a broad, shady walk, three or four hundred feet long and two hundred or more wide. it is one hundred feet above the river, and about ninety above the city street at the base. this terrace commands a fine view of the whole range of distant mountains, and is a favorite resort on summer evenings, where one may enjoy an ice-cream, cigar, cup of coffee, or light wine, and long after the twilight has deepened in the valley, watch the rosy hue that varies its tints upon the shining mountain peaks in the distance. at the old cathedral we heard a finer and larger organ than that at lucerne, but an inferior performer, which made even the beautiful harmony that pealed beneath the gothic arches seem tame in comparison. from berne by rail, a ride of an hour and a half brought us to freiburg, where we tarried a few hours to see its great suspension bridges, and hear its great organ. the hotel at which we stopped commanded a fine view of both the bridges, black threads spanning a deep ravine. freiburg is upon a steep rocky hill-side, at the base of which winds the river, and extending over the chasm, to the opposite bank, are the graceful and wondrous bridges. the first we crossed was nine hundred and eighty-five feet long, and one hundred and seventy-five feet above the river beneath, and is suspended by four chains of about twelve hundred feet in length. the ends of this great bridge are secured by one hundred and twenty huge anchors, fastened to granite blocks sunk deep into the earth. after crossing, we took a pleasant walk upon the lofty bank opposite, from which we had a good view of the town, with the river sarine winding close about it. we passed on to some distance above, where the other bridge, known as the bridge of gotteron, spanned a romantic rocky ravine; and from the centre of this structure we looked down two hundred and eighty-five feet, into the very streets of a little village directly under us, jammed in between the cliffs. this bridge is seven hundred feet long. the great organ in freiburg is said to be one of the finest in europe, and a little guide-book says it has sixty-seven stops and seven thousand eight hundred pipes, some of them thirty-two feet in length. we heard almost the same programme performed as at lucerne, and had, therefore, opportunity of comparison. the instrument was not managed with the consummate skill of that at lucerne, and the vox humana stop was vastly inferior; but in the storm piece the performer, in addition to the music of the convent organ, faintly heard amid the war of elements, also introduced the pealing of the convent bell, a wonderfully correct imitation; and in the wedding march the blast of the trumpet was blown with a vigor and naturalness not exceeded even by human lips. from freiburg we sped on to lausanne, and, without stopping in the town, rode down to the little port of the place, ouchy, on the very bank of the very blue and beautiful lake leman, and stopped at the hotel beau rivage. this hotel is another one of those handsome and well-kept hotels, which, from their comfort, elegant surroundings, and many conveniences, add so much to the tourist's enjoyment. this house is three hundred feet long and five stories high, fronts upon the lake, and has a beautifully laid out garden and park of nearly two acres in front and about it. my fine double room looks out upon the blue lake, with its plying steamboats and its superb background of distant mountains. at the little piers in front of the hotel grounds are row and sail boats for the use of visitors; and some of the former are plying hither and thither, with merry parties of ladies and gentlemen beneath their gay striped awnings. flowers of every hue bloom in the gardens. a band of eight or ten pieces performs on the promenade balcony in front of the house every evening from six to ten o'clock. there are reading-rooms, parlors, and saloons. the table is excellent, and attention perfect. prices--for one of the best rooms looking out on the lake, for two persons, eight francs; breakfast, three francs each; dinner, four francs each; service, one franc each; total, for two persons, twenty-one francs, or four dollars and twenty-five cents, gold, per day; and these are the high prices at the height of the season for the best rooms. reasonable enough here, but which they are fast learning to charge at inferior inns, in other parts of the country, on account of the prodigality of "shoddy" americans. the view of lake geneva, or lake leman, as it is called, is beautiful from ouchy. the panorama of mountains upon the opposite shore extends as far as the eye can reach, and in the sunset they assume a variety of beautiful hues--red, blue, violet, and rose-color. we have been particularly fortunate in arriving here while the moon is near its full; and the effect of the silver rays on the lake, mountains, and surrounding scenery is beautiful beyond description. up in lausanne we have visited the old cathedral, which is built upon a high terrace, and reached by a dirty, irregular flight of plank steps, about one hundred and seventy-five in number; at any rate, enough to render the climber glad to reach the top of them. from the cathedral terrace we have a view of the tortuous streets of the town, with its picturesque, irregular piles of buildings, a beautiful view of the blue lake, and the battlements of the distant peaks of savoy. the cathedral, which is now a protestant church, is very fine, with its cluster columns supporting the graceful vaulted roof over sixty feet above. it is three hundred and thirty-three feet long and one hundred and forty-three feet in width; and at one end, near where the high altar once stood, we were shown deep marks worn into the stone floor, which the guide averred were worn by the mailed knees of thousands of crusaders, who knelt there, one after the other, as they received the priestly blessing as their army passed through here on its way to do battle with the saracen, and recover the holy sepulchre. from the beau rivage hotel we took steamer, and sailed along the shore, passing vevay, with its handsome hotels, the romantic village of clarens, and finally landing at villeneuve, rode up to the beautifully situated hotel byron. this hotel, although small compared with the others, was admirably kept, and is in one of the most romantic and lovely positions that can be imagined. it is placed upon a broad terrace, a little above the shore, and, being at the very end of the lake, commands an extensive view of both sides, with all lovely and romantic scenery. there, as we sat beneath the trees, we looked upon the scene, which is just as byron wrote about it, and as true to the description as if written yesterday. the "clear placid leman" is as blue as if colored with indigo. there was jura; there were "the mountains, with their thousand years of snow;" the wide, long lake below; there, at our left, went the swift rhone, who "cleaves his way between heights which appear as lovers who have parted in hate." at a little distance we could see "clarens, sweet clarens, birthplace of deep love;" and there, directly before us, was the "small green isle" that the prisoner of chillon saw from his dungeon window; and only a quarter of a mile away is the castle of chillon itself. down the dusty road we started to visit this celebrated place, which almost every visitor who has read the poem feels that he is acquainted with. the castle, which is small, is on a point of land that juts out into the lake, and its whole appearance realizes an imagination of a gloomy old feudal castle, or prison. it was formerly surrounded by the waters of the lake, and is still connected on one side with the land by a drawbridge, and the lake washes up to its very base, seven hundred feet deep, on the other. something of the romance of the place is taken away by the railway track, within a few rods of the drawbridge, and the shrieking locomotive rushes past the very point where once stood the castle outworks. the massive, irregular walls of this old castle have five or six towers, with the loopholes and battlements of old times. we crossed the bridge, passed into the old rooms--the hall of knights, and the chamber of question, where the rack and other instruments of torture were used upon the victims of jealous tyrants. here we grasped a now useless fragment of old shattered machinery, which had once been bathed with the sweat of agony, as the victim's limbs stretched and cracked beneath the terrible force of the executioner. here was the huge stone that was fastened to the sufferer's feet when he was hoisted by the wrists to the iron staple above. this was the square chamber in the solid masonry, where the victim's groans were unheard by those without, now transformed into a peaceful storehouse for an old wagon or two, with the sun streaming in at a square opening in the thick wall. but a few steps from here, and we come to the _oubliette_, the staircase down which the victim made three or four steps, and then went plunging a hundred feet or more into the yawning chasm of blackness upon the jagged rocks, or into the deep waters of the lake below. but what we all came to see were the dungeons beneath the castle, the scene of byron's story. these dungeons are several cells, of different sizes, dug out of the rock upon which the massive arches of the castle seem to rest. the two largest of them are beneath the dining and justice halls. from the latter we were shown a narrow staircase, descending into a little narrow recess, where victims were brought down, and strangled with a rope thrown across an oak beam, which still remains, blackened with age. near it was another narrow, gloomy cell, said to be that in which the prisoner passed the night previous to execution, and near by the place where thousands of jews were beheaded in the thirteenth century, on accusation of poisoning the wells, and causing the plague. the gloomy place fairly reeked with horror; its stones seemed cemented with blood, and the very sighing of the summer breeze without was suggestive of the groans of the sufferers who had been tortured and murdered within this terrible prison. next we came to the dungeon where "there are seven pillars of gothic mould," and there _are_ the pillars to which the prisoners were chained, and there is the stone floor, worn by the pacing of the prisoner, as his footsteps, again and again as the weary years went by, described the circuit of his chain. bonivard's pillar, to which he was chained for six weary years, hearing no sound but the plashing of the waters of the lake without, or the clanking of his own chain, is thickly covered with autographs, carved and cut into it. conspicuous among them is that of byron, which looks so fresh and new as to excite suspicion that it has been occasionally deepened, "old mortality" like, in order that the record may not be lost. here we were, then, "in chillon's dungeons, deep and old." now every word of byron's poem, that we had read and heard recited at school, and which made such an impression on our mind when a boy, came back to us. which was the pillar the younger brother was chained to? there was "the crevice in the wall," where the slanting sunbeam came in. here was the very iron ring at the base of the huge pillar; there were the barred windows--narrow slits, through which the setting sun streamed, and to which the prisoner climbed to look upon the scene without,-- "to bend once more upon the mountains high the quiet of a loving eye." i stood, and mused, and dreamed, as my companions passed on, and suddenly started to find myself alone in that terrible place, and, with a shudder, i hurried after the voices, leaving the gloomy dungeon behind me; after which the white-curtained, quiet room of the hotel byron seemed a very palace, and the beautiful view of lovely lake and lofty mountain a picture that lent additional charm to liberty and freedom. is it to be wondered at that so many people quote byron at this place? for it is his poetry that has given such a peculiar and nameless charm to it, that if one has a spark of poetic fire in his composition, and sits out amid the flowers and trees, of a pleasant afternoon, looking at the blue lake, the distant, white-walled town, the little isle, with its three trees, that the prisoner saw from his dungeon, and even sees the eagle riding on the blast, up towards the great jura range,--jura, that answered,-- "through her misty shroud, back to the joyous alps, that call on her aloud,"-- and follows up his thought by reading part of the third canto of childe harold, in which lake leman and a thunder storm in the alps are described, he feels very much like repeating it aloud. not having childe harold to read, i found relief in quoting those passages that everybody knows, and doing the following bit of inspiration upon the spot:-- dreams of my youth, my boyhood's castles fair, that seemed, in later years, but made of air, are these the scenes that now my soul entrance, scenes hallowed in dim history and romance? this dark old castle, with its wave-washed wall, its ancient drawbridge, and its feudal hall, its dreary dungeon, where the sweet sun's ray scarce tells the tenant that without 'tis day; these seven grim pillars of the gothic mould, where weary years the chainéd captive told, waited, and wept, and prayed for freedom sweet, paced round the dungeon pillar, till his feet wore in the floor of rock this time-enduring mark of cruelty of men, in ages past and dark. glorious childe harold! how, in boyhood's age, longing i traced that wondrous pilgrimage. thine imperishable verse invests these mountains grand with new glories. can it be that here i stand and gaze, as thou, upon the self-same things? the glassy lake, "the eagle on the blast," who slowly wings his flight to the gray peaks that lift their crests on high, in everlasting grandeur to the sky? there rise the mountain peaks, here shines the lake; familiar scenes the beauteous picture make. the "white-walled, distant town," glassed in the tide, and on its breast the whiter sails still ride, as when thine eye swept o'er the lovely view; thy glorious fancies and imagination grew t' immortal verse, and with a nameless charm embalmed the scene for ages yet to come. others shall, deep in chillon's dungeon drear, muse round th' historic pillars, for 'twas here, if we accept th' entrancing fable of thy lay, the brothers pined, and wasted life away. the guide clanks here the rusted iron ring-- we shudder; "iron is a cankering thing." through the rent walls a silver sunbeam flashes; faint is the sound of waves that 'gainst them dashes; there is the window where, with azure wing, the bright bird perched the prisoner heard sing; here, 'neath our very feet, perhaps, the place the boy, "his mother's image in fair face," was laid. 'tis but a fable; yet we love to trace these pictures, hallowed in our youthful dreams, and think thy lay all truthful as it seems. we leave villeneuve, and the pleasant hotel byron, with regret, and "once more on the deck i stand, of my own swift-gliding craft;" or, in other words, we are again on board one of the pretty little lake steamers, paddling through the blue waters of lake geneva. back we went, past vevay and ouchy, with their elegant hotels and gardens; past clarens, and amid scenes of exquisite and picturesque beauty, for five or six hours, till we reach geneva, at the other extreme of this lovely sheet of water, about fifty-five miles from villeneuve. there is nothing very striking in this city to the tourist,--none of those curious old walls, towers, cathedrals, or quaint and antique-looking streets that he finds in so many of the other old european cities. there is a long and splendid row of fine buildings upon the quay on the river bank, elegant jewelry stores and hotels, a few other good streets, and the usual amount of narrow alleys and dirty lanes. the pleasantest part of the city seen during our brief stay was the fine quays, and the town at that part of the lake where it began to narrow into a river, with the splendid bridge spanning it, and a little island at about the middle of the bridge, or rather just at one side of it, and connecting with it by a pretty suspension bridge. this little island is rousseau's island, has his bronze statue, and pleasant shade trees upon it, a charming little promenade and seats, and is an agreeable resort, besides being an admirable point to view the blue lake, the river rhone emerging from it with arrowy swiftness, and the snowy mont blanc chain of mountains in the distance. from the windows of our room in hotel ecu de genève, we look down upon the swiftly-flowing blue tide of the river, upon which, nearly all day, black and white swans float, breasting against the current, and apparently keeping just about in the same place, arching their necks gracefully, and now and then going over to their home on a little isle just above rousseau's, or coming on shore here and there--popular pets, and well cared for. the display of jewelry, particularly watches and chains, in the splendid shops along the grand quay, is very fine. geneva is headquarters for watches and chains, and nearly all americans who mean to buy those articles abroad do so at geneva, for two reasons; first, because a very good article can be bought there much cheaper than at home; and next, because they are always assured of the quality of the gold. none is sold at any of the shops in geneva under eighteen carats in fineness. very handsome enamelled jewelry, of the best workmanship, is also sold in geneva. indeed, the quality of the material and the excellence of the workmanship of the geneva jewelry are obvious even to the uninitiated. in paris more elaborate designs and a greater variety can be found, but the prices are from fifteen to twenty per cent. higher. i had always supposed, from a boy, that geneva was overflowing with musical box manufacturers, from the fact that all i used to see in the stores at home were stamped with the name of that city. judge of my surprise in finding scarcely any exhibited in the shop windows here. at the hotel a fine large one played in the lower hall, with drum accompaniment, and finding from the dealer's cards beside it that it was intended as a sample of his wares, we went to his factory across the river, where the riddle was explained in the fact that the retail shopkeepers demanded so large a commission for selling, that the music-box makers had refused to send any more to them for sale. this may be a good move for their jobbing trade, but death to the retail trade with foreigners. berne is the place for music-boxes. returning across the long bridge to our hotel, we saw a specimen of swiss clothes washing, and which in a measure may constitute some of the reasons why some of the inhabitants of this part of the world change their linen so seldom. beneath a long wooden shed, with its side open to the swift-flowing stream, were a row of stout-armed, red-cheeked women bending over a long wash-board, which extended into the stream before them. seizing a shirt, they first gave it a swash into the stream; next it was thoroughly daubed with soap, and received other vigorous swashes into the water, and was then drawn forth dripping, moulded into a moist mass, and beaten with a short wooden bludgeon with a will; then come two or three more swashes and a thrashing by the stalwart washerwoman of the garment down upon the hard board before her with a vigor that makes the buttons spatter out into the stream like a charge of bird shot. after witnessing this, i accounted for the recent transformation of a new linen garment by one washing into a mass of rags and button splinters. this style of washing may be avoided to some extent by particular direction, but the gloss or glazing which the american laundries put upon shirt fronts seems to be unknown on the continent. the sun beat down fiercely as we started out of geneva,--one of the hottest places in switzerland i really believe,--and for fifteen miles or so its rays poured down pitilessly upon the unshaded road. grateful indeed was a verdant little valley, bounded by lofty mountains, and the cliff road shaded with woods, that we next reached, and rattled through a place called cluses; and going over a bridge spanning the river arve, we entered a great rocky gorge, and again began to feel the cold breath of the mountains, and come in sight of grand alpine ranges, snowy peaks, and rushing waterfalls. finally we reach sallanches. here we have a fine view of the white and dazzling peaks of mont blanc towering into the blue sky, apparently within two or three miles from where we stand, but which our driver tells us are nearly fifteen miles away. again we are in the midst of the magnificent scenery of the great mountain passes, verdant and beautiful slopes, gray splintered peaks, huge mountain walls, wild picturesque crags, waterfalls dashing down the mountain sides far and near, the whole air musical with their rush; and the breath of the alps was pure, fresh, and invigorating as cordial to the lungs. we that a few hours ago were limp, wilted, and moist specimens of humanity, were now bright, cheery, and animated; we quoted poetry, laughed, sang, and exhausted our terms of admiration at the great rocky peaks that seemed almost lost in the heavens, or the fir-clad mountain side that jutted its dark fringe sharply against the afternoon sky. beyond, as ever, rose the pure frosted peaks, and as they glowed and sparkled, and finally grew rose-colored and pink in the sunset, it became almost like a dream of enchantment, that darkness gradually blotted out from view. we had started from geneva with coat and vest thrown aside for a linen duster; we descended into the valley of chamouny with coat and vest replaced, and covered with a substantial surtout. as we came down to the village, the driver pointed out to us what looked like a great blue steel shield, thousands of feet up in the heavens, hanging sharply out from the dome of impenetrable blackness above, and shining in a mysterious light. it was the first beams of the rising moon, as yet invisible, striking upon the clear, blue ice of a great glacier far above us. it gradually came more distinctly into view, flashing out in cold, icy splendor, as the moon began to frost the opposite mountain, from behind which it seemed to climb into the heavens with a fringe of pale silver. we had expressed disappointment at not being able to enter chamouny by daylight, but found some compensation in the novel scene of moonlight upon these vast fields of ice, with their sharp points rising up like the marshalled spears of an army of titans, glittering in the moonlight, or stretching away in other directions in great sheets of blue ice, or ghostly snow shrouds in the dark distance. we reached the hotel royal at nine and a half p. m., thoroughly tired with our eleven hours' ride. fatigued with travel, i certainly felt no inclination to rise early the next morning; and so, when a sonorous cow-bell passed, slowly sounding beneath our window at about four and a half a. m., i mentally anathematized the wearer, and composed myself for a renewal of sleep. scarce comfortably settled ere another cow-bell, with a more spiteful clang, was heard approaching; clank, clink, clank, clink, like the chain about a walking ghost, it neared the window at the foot of my couch, passed, and faded off into the distance. that's gone; but what is this distant tinkle? can it be there is sleighing here, and this is a party returning home? tinkle, jinkle, tinkle, tinkle--there they come! "away to the window i flew like a flash, tore open"--the curtain, looked out through the sash,-- "when what to my wondering eyes should appear but" a procession of goats being driven to pasture by a girl in the gray light of the morning! with an ejaculation more fervid than elegant, the couch was sought again; but it was of no avail; a new campanologian company was heard approaching with differently toned instruments of torture; this was in turn succeeded by another, till it seemed as if every note in the bell-ringing gamut had been sounded, and every contrivance, from a church to a tea bell, had been rung. after half an hour of this torture, flesh and blood could endure it no longer, and i went once more to the window, to find that beneath it ran the path by which the goats and cattle of the whole district were driven to pasture, and, casting my eyes upwards, saw the gorgeous spectacle of sunrise on mont blanc, whose glistening peaks were in full view. half an hour's admiration of this spectacle was enough for one not clad for the occasion, and having made the discovery that the cows and goats were all driven to pasture before half past six a. m., we took our revenge in two hours of tired nature's sweet restorer after that time, before discussing breakfast and topographically examining chamouny. chamouny appears to be a village of eight or ten hotels, a church or two, and a collection of peasants' huts and poor swiss houses, surrounded on all sides by the grandest and most sublime scenery ever looked upon. it seems to be a grand central point in switzerland for the tourists of all nations. the great hotels are full, their _table d'hotes_ are noisy with the clatter of tongues of half a dozen nationalities, and gay with the fashions of paris. the principal portion of the inhabitants are either employés of the hotels; or guides, and these chamouny guides are the best, most honest, and most reliable of their craft in europe. they are formed into a regular association, and bound by very strict rules, such as not being permitted to guide until of a certain age, not to take the lead till after a certain amount of experience; and absolute honesty and temperance being requisite for the service. indeed, i find that some consider honesty a characteristic of the swiss in this region; for upon my remonstrating with a fellow-tourist, an old traveller, for leaving his watch and chain exposed upon his dressing-table during his absence from his room at the hotel, he replied there was no danger, as the attendants in the wing of the house he occupied were all swiss, and no english, french, or americans ever came there. to be a guide upon the excursions from chamouny requires a man of very steady habits, and of unquestionable skill and endurance; and all of these men that we saw appeared so. they are very jealous also of their reputation, and never allow it to be injured by incompetency, dishonesty, or any species of imposition upon travellers. here we are in the midst of alps, a whole panorama of them in full view on every side. the river arve, a dark-colored stream fresh from the glaciers, roars and rushes through the valley into which chamouny seems sunk. above us are great mountains with snowy peaks; great mountains with dark-green pines at their base, and splintered, gray, needle-like points; glittering glaciers, like frozen rivers, can be seen coming down through great ravines; waterfalls are on the mountain-sides; and towering up like a gigantic dome, the vastness and awful sublimity of which is indescribable, is mont blanc, which the lover of grand mountain scenery will pause and gaze at, again and again, in silent awe and admiration. but whither shall we go? there are dozens of excursions that may be made. looking across a level pasture of the valley from our window, we see a waterfall leaping down the mountain. an easy path to it is visible, and we make a little excursion, in the forenoon, to the falls of blatière, just to get used to climbing; for at two p. m. mules were at the door, with trusty guides at their heads, and away we started for the ascent of the flegère, a height on the spur of one of the mountains, commanding a fine view of the mer de glace and glacier des bois, which are directly opposite. the ascent of this occupied some three hours, and the path reminds one very much of the ascent of mount washington, new hampshire, although the distant scenery is of course incomparably more grand. we went through woods, and over rocks, across stony slopes, and up zigzags, until finally we reached the cross of flegère, the point of view. from this perch we looked right over across on to the mer de glace, where it gushed out like a great frozen torrent around the montanvert, and the glacier des bois, another silent ice torrent, that flowed out of it. at our right, far down, five thousand feet below, rested chamouny, with the cloudy arve running beside it. away off to the left were a number of needle-like peaks, with vast snow-fields between them; and nearly in front of us, a little to the left, rose the sharp, jagged points about the aiguille verte, and a right lofty needle it was, its point piercing the air to the height of twelve thousand five hundred feet; and then there were the red needles, and the middle needles, and, in fact, a whole chain of peaks of the range--the best view we have had yet, including, of course, the grand old snowy sovereign, mont blanc, at the right, overtopping all the rest. an hour was spent gazing upon this magnificent scene; after which we began the descent, which was made in about an hour and a quarter, bringing us to the hotel door at seven p. m. our leading guide we discovered to be an experienced one, of many years' service, who had guided louis napoleon, on his visit here in , soon after savoy was annexed to france--a service of which he was quite proud, as the emperor held his hand during his excursion to the centre of the mer de glace (always necessary for safety); he was also interested in the american war of the rebellion, and, like all the swiss who know enough to read, was strong on the union side of the question. being an old soldier, the song of "tramp, tramp, the boys are marching," had especial charms for him, and he called for a repetition of the "glory, glory, hallelujah" chorus, till he had mastered the words himself, from a young union officer of our party. of course we were glad to engage our cheerful _vieux moustache_ for our excursion on the morrow to the montanvert and mer de glace. in the evening we were called out to see the lights of a party at the grand mulets, where they had halted for the night, preparatory to completing the ascent of mont blanc. the sight of the little twinkling flame, away up in the darkness, i confess, awakened no desire in my mind to make the ascent; and i fully agree with one of the guide-books, which says it cannot conceive why people will undergo the trial and fatigue of the ascent, when they can risk their lives in a balloon for one half of the expense. next morning we started with guides, and on muleback, for the montanvert, directly opposite the flegère, the scene of our ascent the day before, twenty minutes' ride across the meadow, and by the river side; and then we began to ascend the mountain, through romantic pine woods, and by a zigzag pathway upon the brow of the mountain, crossing, occasionally, the deep channel of an avalanche, or an earth-slide, and getting occasional glimpses of the valley below or the mountain opposite, till, after a three hours' climb, we stand upon a rugged crag, overlooking the tremendous and awful sea of ice, and the huge mountains that enclose it. this great petrified or frozen stream, between its precipitous banks, seemed more like a mass of dirty snow or dingy plaster than ice. looking far up into the gorge between the mountains, we could see where the ice and snow looked purer and more glistening than that directly beneath us. indeed, we began to imagine that the terrors of the passage, told by travellers and letter-writers, were pure fables; and, to some extent, they are; and a marked instance of magnifying the dangers is shown in the account of miss frederika bremer's experience, quoted in harper's guide-book, which, to any one of ordinary nerves, who has recently made the passage, appears to be a most ridiculous piece of affectation. we descended the rocky sides of the cliff, seamed and creased by the ice-flood, and stood upon the great glacier. at first, near the shore, it seemed like a mixture of dirty snow and ice, such as is frozen in a country road after a thaw, and its surface but slightly irregular, and but little trouble to be anticipated in crossing; but as we advanced far into its centre, we began to realize more forcibly the appropriateness of the title given to this great ice-field. on every side of us were frozen billows, sharp, upheaved points, great spires of ice, congealed waves, as if a mighty torrent were tumbling down this great ravine, and had been suddenly arrested by the wand of the ice-king in mid career. we came to crevasses,--broad splits,--revealing the clear, clean, blue ice, as we looked hundreds of feet down into them. we crossed and passed some of them on narrow ice-bridges, not more than two or three feet wide, where notched steps were cut for us by the forward guide's hatchet, and we held the firm grasp of one before and one behind, to guard against a slip, which might have been fatal. we passed little pools, which were melted into the bosom of this silent field, and now and then a huge piece of rock in the midst of a pellucid pool, which had been borne along upon the surface of this slow-moving stream since it fell from the mountain-side, and gradually sank by its weight, and the action of the sun. midway, we were bidden to halt and look away up the ravine, and see the frozen stream that was coming tumbling down towards us. there was genuine ice enough now--waves, mounds, peaks, hillocks, great blue sheets, and foaming masses. it sparkled like silver beneath the sunbeams between the dark framework of the two mountains on either side. we stopped talking. not a sound was heard. the stillness was as profound as the hush preceding a thunder storm; and, as we listened, the crash of a great boulder that had become loosed by the slow-moving torrent, falling into a crevasse from its brink, echoed for a moment in the solitude, and all was still again. the sure-footed guides, with their iron-spiked shoes, led us on. the ladies were a trifle nervous as we passed one or two of the narrower ice-bridges; but on the route we crossed there were not above three or four such, and the whole passage was made in less than an hour. arrived at the other side, we clambered up the cliff, and began our descent. i should have remarked, that we sent back the mules from montanvert, to meet us upon our descent on the other side of the mer de glace, on foot, by the way of the mauvais pas, a tiresome, but most interesting tramp of three or four miles, over rugged rocks and rough pathways, but such a one as gives real zest to alpine journeys, from its exciting scenes. we now entered upon the celebrated mauvais pas. i had read so much, from youth upwards, about the dangers of this pass, that i began to wonder if we had done right in bringing ladies, and how we should get around that sharp projection of the cliff; where a traveller is said to be obliged to hold on to the face of the rock, and stretch his leg around the projecting cliff, and feel for a foothold, the guides guarding him from a slip out into empty space, by standing, one on each side of the projection, and forming an outside hand-rail, by holding each end of an alpenstock. was not this the pass where the swiss hunter met the chamois, and, finding that neither could turn backward, had lain down and let the herd jump over him? but how these travellers' tales and sublime exaggerations vanish as one approaches them! the mauvais pas may have been _très mauvais_ many years ago; but either its dangers have been greatly exaggerated, or the hand of improvement has rendered it _pas mauvais_ at present. it is a series of steps, hewn for some distance along the rocky side of the mountain. these steps are about three feet in width from the face of the cliff, into which a strong iron rail is fastened, by which the traveller may hold on, the whole distance. the outer edge is unprotected, and, at some points, it must be confessed, it is an ugly look to glance down the tremendous heights to the jagged rocks below, that form the shores of the icy sea; but in some of the more dangerous places, modern improvement has provided an additional safeguard in an outer rail, so that the danger is but trifling to persons of ordinary nerve. finally, we reach the end of this narrow pathway, and find ourselves at a small house on a jutting precipice, called the _chapeau_; and here we pause and breathe a while, buy beer, swiss bread and honey, curious alpine crystals, &c., and enjoy another one of those wondrous alpine views which, once seen, live in memory forever as a scene of sublime beauty and grandeur. they call all the mountain peaks needles here. there were the aiguilles de charmoz, ten thousand two hundred feet high, and ever so many other "_aiguilles_," whose names i have not noted. as we looked down here upon the glacier, it seemed to be more broken and upheaved; it rose into huge, sharp, icicle-pointed waves, rent in every direction by large cracks and fissures; the great pointed pinnacles and upheavals assumed as curious appearances as the frost-work upon a window; there were a procession of monks, the pinnacles of a gothic cathedral, and the ruins of a temple. it is here that the mer de glace begins to debouche into the glacier des bois, which, in turn, runs down into the chamouny valley, and from which runs the arveiron; in fact, the end of this glacier is the river's source. down we go through the woods, and finally strike upon a rocky, rugged path, on through a mass of miles of pulverized rock, fragments of boulders, stone chips, and the rocky debris of ages, which has been brought down by the tremendous grinding of the slow-moving glaciers, till we reach a valley covered with the moraine in front of the great ice arches of the glacier des bois, out of which rushes the river. of course here was a wooden hut, with swiss crystals, carved work, and a fee of a franc, if we would like to go under the glacier. there had been a winding cavern hewed into this great ice wall, and planks laid along into it for two hundred feet or more, and, with umbrellas to protect us, the author and two other gentlemen started for this ice grotto, about a hundred rods distant. arrived near its mouth, we beheld, on one side, the river, rushing out from under a great natural ice arch, fifty feet in height, the glacier here appearing to be about one hundred feet in height; the stream came out with a force and vigor, gained, doubtless, from running a long distance beneath the ice before it came out into the daylight. the ice grotto, which has been hollowed out for visitors, is eight or ten feet high, and the guide, who goes on before, lights it up with numerous candles, placed at intervals, causing the clear, deep-blue ice to resemble walls of polished steel; but the thought suggested by one visitor when we had reached the farthermost extremity, "what if the arches overhead should give way beneath the pressure?" did not incline us to protract our stay in its chilly recesses; so, returning to the chalet, where our mules were waiting, that had been sent round and down from the montanvert, we completed the day's laborious excursion by an hour's ride back to the hotel at chamouny. now good by to chamouny, and away to the tête noir pass, on our way to martigny. starting at eight o'clock a. m., a vehicle carried us to argentière, about two hours' ride, where mules were found in waiting, by the aid of which the rest of the journey, occupying the remainder of the day, was made, though why the road of this pass is not laid out like others, as a carriage road, i am at a loss to comprehend, unless it be that the fees for mules and guides are too profitable a source of income to be easily relinquished. indeed, a large portion of the pass, in its present condition, could be traversed safely by a one-horse vehicle--some improvement over the tedious muleback ride of a whole day's duration. the road is romantic, pleasant, and picturesque, with deep gorges, dark pine-clad mountains, crags, and waterfalls. invigorated by the fresh mountain air, we left our mules to follow in the train with the guides and ladies, and, alpenstock in hand, trudged forward on foot, keeping in advance by short cuts, and having an infinitely better opportunity, under the guidance of a tourist who had been over the route, of enjoying the scenery. we passed two or three waterfalls, walked over a spot noted as being swept by avalanches in the early spring, where was a cross in memory of a young count and two guides who fell beneath one: the guides say, when the avalanche is heard approaching, it is already too late to think of escaping, so swift is its career, and nothing but the hand of providence will save the traveller from destruction. our path carried us through a wild, stony ravine, with great mountains on either side, and the inevitable river in the centre, rushing and foaming over the rocks. then we went up and over a beautiful mountain path, commanding fine views of the distant mountains, with deep gorges below, then wound round the base of the tête noir mountain and through the woods, and a tunnel, pierced through a rocky spur of the mountain, that jutted out upon the pass. we saw away across, from one point on our journey, the wild-looking road that was the route to the pass of the great st. bernard, and at another, looked far down into the valley, where we could see the river trient rushing and tumbling on its course. we soon came to a point, before commencing our descent, which commanded a view of the rhone valley as far as sion, spread out, seemingly, as flat as a carpet, with the river meandering through its entire length, the white chalets and brown roads looking rather hot in the blaze of the afternoon sunlight. the view of this valley--what little we saw of it--is far better at this distance than when one reaches its tumble-down towns and poor inhabitants. we went down a pleasant descent, past orchards and farm-houses, till we reached martigny, where we had supper, and were nearly devoured by mosquitos, so that at nine p. m. we were glad to take the railway train. how odd it seemed to be rattling over a railroad, in a comfortable railway carriage, after our mountain experiences! the train, at quarter past ten o'clock, landed us at sion, where we took up our quarters at the hotel de la poste, an italian inn, with an obsequious little french landlord, who was continually bowing, and rubbing his hands, as if washing them with invisible soap, and saying, "_oui, monsieur_," to every question that was asked him, and withal looking so like the old french teacher of my boyhood's days, that it seemed as though it must be the old fellow, who had stopped growing old, and been transported here by some mysterious means. the fifteen-mile mountain tramp i had made, and the day's journey, as a whole, caused the not very comfortable beds of the hotel to seem luxurious couches soon after arrival, and we therefore deferred interviews with italian drivers, a crowd of whom were in attendance from stressa, via the simplon road, and who were anxious to open negotiations, till the next morning, notwithstanding their assertions that they might be engaged and gone when we should come down to breakfast, and that we should, therefore, lose the magnificent opportunities they were offering. we were fortunate in having the company of a gentleman who had frequently been over this route, and fully understood the _modus operandi_ of making contracts with italian post drivers, as will be seen. it seems that there are often drivers here at sion who have driven parties from stressa (via the simplon) who desire to get a freight back, and with whom the tourist, if he understands matters, can make a very reasonable contract, as they prefer to take a party back at a low rate, rather than to wait long at an expense, or return with empty vehicles. if there be more than one (as in our case) of these waiting post drivers, there is likely to be a competition among them, which of course results to the tourist's advantage. therefore, after breakfast, instead of "having been engaged and gone," we found two or three anxious drivers, who jabbered with all their might about the merits of their respective vehicles and themselves, and were anxious to be engaged. the price mentioned as _bon marché_ at first was four hundred francs for our whole party of seven for the three days' journey over the simplon pass to lake maggiore; and really, i thought it was, and had i been the negotiator for the party, should have closed; but not so he who acted for us--acted in more senses than one; for when this price was named, he gave the true french deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, filled his pipe, and sat down on the hotel portico to smoke. ere long he was waited upon by driver number two, who represented that three hundred and fifty francs would induce _him_ to take the party, "if monsieur would start _to-day_." smoker only elevated his eyebrows, and thought if he "waited a few days there would be more carriages here." in fifteen minutes the price was down to three hundred francs--no anxiety on the part of monsieur to close. a smart young driver, whose team had been "eating their heads off" for three days, proposed two hundred and twenty francs, and to pay all expenses, except our own hotel bills; and monsieur concluded to accept him, putting the agreement, to prevent mistakes, in writing, which is necessary with the italian drivers. the contract was duly signed. "when would monsieur's party be ready?" "in fifteen minutes;" and the calm, indifferent smoker, to the driver's surprise, became a lithe, elastic american, driving half a dozen servants nearly crazy by hurrying them down with the luggage, mustering the whole party with explanations of the necessity of starting at once, and helping the landlord's major-domo make out the bills, without giving any opportunity of getting in extras that we didn't have. he shouted in italian at the driver, who, with the stable-helpers, was putting in the horses, jabbered in french with the hotel servants, and in half an hour we were seated in the vehicle, with the luggage strapped on behind, and the old landlord and the waiters and porters bowing at the door, as we started, amid a volley of whip smacks, sounding like the firing of a bunch of chinese crackers. these post drivers are marvellously skilful at whip-snapping. they can almost crack out a tune with their whips, and they make a noise consistent with their ideas of the importance of their freight, or perhaps as a signal to the landlords that especial attention is required, as distinguished foreigners are coming; for, as they approached hotels, or drove into their court-yards, it was always with eight or a dozen pistol-like cracks in succession that brought out a bowing landlord and string of servants, who formed a double line from the carriage to the door, welcoming the tourist in with great deference and politeness. on the road the whip-cracks admonish all peasants, donkey-carts, and market-wagons to sheer off, and allow monsieur's carriage to pass; and, as he enters a little village, the fusillade from his lash brings half the population to the doors and windows. our first day's journey, after leaving sion, was through the rhone valley--rather a hot ride, and tame and uninteresting after the grand views we had been enjoying. we passed sierre on a hill-side, rattled over a bridge across the rhone, having a view of pleasantly-wooded hills near at hand, and the great mountains in the background; then passed two or three other villages, and finally halted at a place called tourtemagne for dinner. after this we pushed on, went past visp, and in the afternoon trotted into brieg, where, with a view to a good night's rest before the morrow's journey, we stopped for the night. after tea we had a magnificent view of sunset upon the lofty snow-clads above us, which fairly glowed in a halo of rose-pink--a beautiful and indescribable effect. far away up on one of the mountain sides we were pointed to the road over which we were to journey on the morrow. after an early breakfast we started off with the usual fusillade of whip-cracks, and were soon upon the famous simplon road. this magnificent road is one of the wonders of the old world. its cost must have been enormous, and the cost of keeping it in such splendid condition very large, owing to the injury it must inevitably sustain from storms and avalanches during the winter season. the cost of the road is said to have averaged over three thousand pounds sterling per mile. the splendid engineering excites admiration from even the inexperienced in those matters. you go sometimes right up the very face of a steep mountain, that would seem to have originally been almost inaccessible, by means of a series of zigzags. then again the road winds round a huge mountain wall, thousands of feet high on one side, with a yawning ravine thousands of feet deep on the other. long tunnels pierce through the very heart of mountains. bridges span dizzy heights and mad torrents. great galleries, or shelters, protect some parts of the road, which are suspended midway up the mountain, from the avalanches which ever and anon thunder down from above. at one place, where a great a roaring cataract comes down, the road is conducted safely under the sheet, which scatters but a few drops of spray upon it, except the covered portion, as it leaps clear over the passage, and plunges into the deep abyss below, a mass of thundering foam. this part of the road, we were told, although it was a section not six hundred feet long, was one of the most difficult to construct, and required the labor of a hundred men for over a year and a half before it could be completed, it being necessary in some places to suspend the workmen by ropes from above, until a platform and a footing could be built. and, indeed, standing there with the torrent roaring above, and leaping clear over our heads away down into that rocky gorge, the clean, broad road the only foothold about there, we could only wonder at human skill, perseverance, and ingenuity in overcoming natural obstacles. from the great glaciers far above the kaltwasser come several other rushing cascades, one of which, as you approach, seems as if it would drop directly upon the road itself, but hits just short of it, and plunges directly under, so that you can stand on the arched bridge, and look right at it, as it comes leaping fiercely to wards you. murray gives the bridges, great and small, on this wonderful road between brieg and sesto as "six hundred and eleven, in addition to the far more vast and costly constructions, such as terraces of massive masonry, miles in length, ten galleries, either cut out of the living rock or built of solid stone, twenty houses of refuge to shelter travellers, and lodge the laborers constantly employed in taking care of the road. its breadth is throughout at least twenty-five feet, in some places thirty feet, and the average slope nowhere exceeds six inches in six feet and a half." after emerging from the kaltwasser glacier gallery, we had a superb view of the rhone valley, with brieg, which we had left in the morning, directly beneath us, while away across the valley, distinctly visible in the clear atmosphere, rose the bernese alps, with the breithorn, and aletshorn, and the great aletsch glacier distinctly visible. at the highest point of the pass is the hospice, over six thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea; and here we halted for a lunch, and then trudged on in advance, leaving the carriage and ladies to overtake us--enjoying the wild scenery of distant snow-capped mountains, great glaciers, with cascades pouring from their ruffled edges to the green valleys that were far below. soon after passing the little village of simplon, we came to the never-to-be-forgotten ravine of gondo, one of the wildest, grandest, and most magnificent gorges in the whole alps. the ravine, as you proceed, grows narrower and narrower, with its huge, lofty walls of rock rising on either side. the furious river diveria rushes through it like a regiment of white-plumed cavalry at full gallop, and its thundering roar is not unlike the tremendous rush of their thousand hoof-beats, as it goes up between these massy barriers. the gorge narrows till there is nought but road and river, with the black crags jutting out over the pathway, and we come to a huge black mass that seems a barrier directly across it; but through this the determined engineers have bored a great gallery, and we ride through a tunnel of six hundred and eighty-three feet in length, to emerge upon a new surprise, and a scene which called forth a shout of admiration from every one of us. as we emerged from this dark, rocky grotto, we beheld the towering masses of rock on either side, like great walls of granite upholding, the blue masonry of heaven, that seemed bent like a vaulted arch above; and from one side, right at our very path, coming from far above with a roar like thunder, leaped a mass of foam, like a huge cascade of snowy ostrich plumes--the fressinone waterfall, which tossed its fine, scintillating spray upon the slender bridge that spanned the gorge, while the roaring cataract itself passed beneath, striking sixty or eighty feet below upon the black rocks. it is a magnificent cascade, and prepared us for the grandeur of the great gorge of gondo, with its huge walls of rock rising two thousand feet high, which seemed, when we were hemmed in to their prison walls of black granite, as though there was no possible way out, except upwards to the strip of sky that roofed the narrow ravine. other cascades and waterfalls we saw, but none like the magnificent fressinone, with the graceful and apparently slender-arched bridge, that almost trembled beneath its rush as we stood upon it--the huge rocky walls towering to heaven, the black entrance to the tunnel just beyond, looking, in the midst of this wild scene of terrific grandeur, like the cavern of some powerful enchanter--the wild, deep gorge, with the foaming waters swiftly gliding away in masses of tumbling foam far below, and all the surroundings so grand and picturesque as to make it no wonder that it is a favorite study for artists, as one of the most spirited of alpine pictures. we passed the granite pillar that marked the boundary line, and were in italy; and soon after at the mountain custom-house and inn, where we were to dine. the officials are very polite, make scarce any examination whatever of the luggage of tourists; and our trunks remained undisturbed on the travelling carriage while we dined. now we begin to ride towards the valley, and soon begin to have italian views of sunny landscape and trellised vines. we reach the town of domo d' ossola, and our driver proclaims his coming by a _feu de joie_ with the whip. the town looks like a collection of worn-out scenery thrown together promiscuously from an old theatre. old shattered arches cross the street; half-ruined houses of solid masonry have the graceful pillars of their lower stories broken and cracked, and ornamented with strings of onions and bunches of garlic, sold in the shops within; old churches, with a gothic arch here and there, are turned into a warehouse or a stable; tough old mahogany-colored women are seen squatting before baskets of peaches, grapes, and figs in the streets; dark-skinned, black-eyed girls, with the flat italian head-dresses seen in pictures; men, dirty and lazy-looking, with huge black whiskers, dark, greasy complexions, in red and blue flannel shirts, and their coats thrown over their shoulders without putting their arms in the sleeves, the coats looking as though they had done many years duty in cleaning oiled machinery; curious houses with overhanging upper stories; striped awnings project outside of upper windows; a garlicky, greasy, italian smell pervades the narrower streets, from which we were glad to emerge into the more open square, upon which our hotel--quite a spacious affair--was located. our carriage rattled beneath the arched entrance, and into the paved court-yard, where were three or four other similar equipages, and two great lumbering diligences, while the rattling peal of whip-crack detonations must have made the landlord think that a grand duke and suite, at least, were arriving; for he tumbled out, with half a dozen waiters, porters, and helpers, in a twinkling, and we were soon bestowed in cool and lofty rooms, with many bows and flourishes. this old hotel was a curiosity, many of its rooms opening upon the wooden gallery that ran all around and above the large paved court-yard, into which diligences arrived, stopped for the night, or took up their loads and departed, and post carriages came with their freights to and from the simplon. it always had a group or two of drivers harnessing up, or wrangling over something or other, or travellers, stowing themselves away in the diligence; horses stamping, and jingling their bells and harnesses; tourists, hunting up luggage; or couriers, arranging matters for the travelling parties they were cheating. the fatigue of a day's mountain ride, and continued sight-seeing, however, made us sleep soundly, despite any of these noises. of all fatigues, the tourist ere long discovers the fatigue of a constant succession of sight-seeing to be the most exhausting; so that he soon comes to regard a tolerably good bed and clean room as among the most agreeable experiences of his journey. in the morning we were escorted to the carriage with many bows by the young italian landlord, and his wife, who, with one of those splendid oval faces, beautiful hair descending in graceful curve to and away from her rich, pure brunette complexion, her wonderful great lustrous eyes, a head such as one seldom sees, except in a painting or upon a cameo, made every englishman or american, when he first saw her, start with surprise, utter something to his neighbor, and always look at her a second time, evidently to the landlord's gratification, for he did not seem to have a particle of the traditional italian jealousy about him--perhaps he had been married too long. the landlord and his wife said something very pretty by way of a farewell, no doubt, for there were "_grazias_," "_buonos_," "_addios_," and some other words, which i remember having heard sung by singers at the opera, in his speech, to which our driver responded with a royal salute of whip-cracks, and we dashed out of the court-yard once more on our journey. our road now lay through the italian valley, and we pass vogogna, ornavasso, and other towns, and things begin to wear a decidedly italian aspect--the grape trellises, with their clustering fruit; half-ruined dwellings, with stucco work peeling off them; the general greasy, lazy, half-brigandish look of the men; and the partiality for high colors in dress on the part of the peasant women. fresh from the invigorating air of the alpine passes, we felt the full force of the italian sun. although late in august, the weather is not hotter, apparently, than in boston; but when the sun gets fairly at you in italy, it seems to shine clear through, and come out on the other side. fifteen minutes in its blaze, without the protection of one of the yellow, green-lined umbrellas, will almost wilt the vigor out of anybody but a native. it goes through the frame like a boston east wind. with this sun shining from a blue, cloudless, italian sky, it may well be imagined how grateful was a beautiful portion of the country, where there were shady olive groves, chestnut and fig trees, and how luscious were our first grapes and fruit purchased of the peasant women at the roadside. we passed, as we approached lake maggiore, a fine granite quarry, which seemed to have been laid under contribution to furnish posts for the telegraphic line. think of that luxury, granite telegraph posts, fifteen feet high, of clear, handsome stone. we rode past them for miles and miles, and soon came in sight of the far-famed maggiore. it was beautiful as a picture; and as our carriage drove along its shore, the cool afternoon breeze came fresh and grateful to us, after our heated experiences. across one corner of the lake in a ferry-boat, a short drive farther by the lake shore, and we whirled up to the splendid hotel des iles borromées directly fronting the lake, with its beautiful flower-garden, with walks and fountains. we found the interior of this hotel delightfully cool and clean, the staircases and floors of stone, and the bedsteads of iron--advantages of construction in italy the utility of which the traveller soon learns to appreciate. the lake is as charming as poets have sung and travellers told, with its beautiful island and lovely blue waters. the isola bella, directly opposite my windows, with its splendid terraces, one above the other, rising a hundred feet above the lake, and rich with its graceful cypresses, lemon trees, magnolias, orange trees, with golden fruit, and sparkling fountains, statues, and pillars, peeping through the luxurious foliage, is charming to look upon. but when--my _siesta_ over, and as the sun was low in the west, with a cool air coming from the water, and the little pleasure-boats, with their striped awnings, were gliding hither and thither--i saw come down the road for his evening walk a brown-robed, barefooted, rope-girdled, shaven friar, and, from the opposite direction, a little dark-skinned italian lad, with pointed hat, decorated with gay ribbons, rough leggings bound to his knee, and a mandolin in his hand, it seemed, in the soft, dreamy, hazy atmosphere, that i was looking upon an old oil painting. the effect was heightened when the boy struck his instrument, and began to sing--and beautifully he did sing, too. i have heard worse singing by some whose names were in large letters on the opera bills. the friar halted, and leaned on a gray rock at the road-side to listen, while he toyed absently with his rosary. two or three peasant girls, in their bright costumes, and one with an earthen jar on her head, paused in a group, and a barelegged boatman, in a red cap, rested two tall oars upon the ground, the whole forming so picturesque a group as to look as if posed for a picture. how pleasant is an evening sail on this lovely lake! how romantic are isola bella and its sister islands! how like a soft, dreamy picture is the whole scene! and how all the surroundings seemed exactly fitted to harmonize with it!--a purely italian scene, the picturesque beauty of which will long linger in the memory. we had a delightful sail from stressa, along the shores of maggiore to sesto calende, heard the sweet sound of convent bells come musically across its glassy tide, passed arona, behind which we could see the colossal bronze statue of san carlo borromeo, sixty-six feet high, placed upon a pedestal forty feet in height, looking like an immense giant, with its hand stretched out towards the lake from the hill on which it stands. from sesto calende the railway train conveyed us to milan, where we were landed in a magnificent railway station, the waiting rooms large and lofty, the ceilings elegantly frescoed, and the walls painted with beautifully executed allegorical pictures and italian landscapes, giving one the idea that he had arrived in a country where artistic painting was a drug in the market, so lavishly was it used in this manner in the railway stations. our rooms at the hotel cavour look out on a handsome square and the public gardens. in the square stands a statue of cavour, upon a pedestal placed at the top of a set of granite steps. upon these steps, seated in the most natural position, is a bronze figure of the genius of fame or history (a female figure) represented in the act of inscribing cavour's name with her pen upon the bronze pedestal. and so natural is this representation, that strangers who see the group in the evening for the first time, often fancy that some unauthorized person has got into the enclosure, and is defacing the statue. the first sight to be seen in milan is the cathedral; and before this magnificent architectural wonder, all cathedrals i have yet looked upon seem to sink into insignificance. a forest of white marble pinnacles, a wilderness of elegant statues, an interminable maze, and never-ending mass of bewildering tracery, greets the beholder, who finds himself gaping at it in astonishment, and wondering where he will begin to look it over, or if it will be possible for him to see it all. the innumerable graceful pinnacles, surmounted by statues, the immense amount of luxurious carving prodigally displayed on every part of the exterior, strike the visitor with amazement. its architecture is gothic, and the form that of a latin cross; and to give an idea of its size, i copy the following authentic figures of its dimensions: "the extreme length is four hundred and eighty-six feet, and the breadth two hundred and fifty-two feet; the length of the transept two hundred and eighty-eight feet, and the height inside, from pavement to roof, one hundred and fifty-three feet; height from pavement to top of the spire, three hundred and fifty-five feet." after taking a walk around the exterior of this wonderful structure, and gazing upon the architectural beauties of the great white marble mountain, we prepared to ascend to the roof before visiting the interior. this ascent is made by a broad white marble staircase of one hundred and fifty-eight steps, the end of which being reached, the visitor finds himself amid an endless variety of beautiful pinnacles, flying buttresses, statues, carvings, and tracery. here are regular walks laid out, terminating in or passing handsome squares, in the centre of which are life-size statues by canova, michael angelo, and other great sculptors. you come to points commanding extensive views of the elegant flying buttresses, which are beautifully wrought, and present a vista of hundreds of feet of white marble tracery as elegant, elaborate, and bewildering as the tree frost-work of a new england winter. here is a place called the "garden," where you are surrounded by pinnacles, richly ornamented gothic arches, flying buttresses, with representations of leaves, flowers, pomegranate heads, tracery, statuary, and ornaments in such prodigality as to fairly excite exclamation at the profuseness displayed. in every angle of the building the eye meets new and surprising beauties, magnificent galleries, graceful arcs, and carved parapets, pointed, needle-like pinnacles, gothic arches, and clustered pillars. we come to where the carvers and stone-cutters are at work. they have a regular stone-cutters' yard up here on the roof, with sheds for the workmen and stone-carvers, and their progress is marked on the building by the fresher hue of the work. these old cathedrals are never finished; their original plans are lost, and there always seems to be some great portion of the work that is yet to be carried out. we should have got lost in the maze of streets, squares, and passages upon the roof, without a guide. a total ascent of five hundred and twelve steps carries the visitor to the platform of the great cupola, from which a fine view of the city is obtained, the plains surrounding it bounded by the girdle of distant, snow-capped mountains. directly beneath can be seen the cruciform shape of the great cathedral; and looking down, we find that one hundred and thirty-six spires and pinnacles rise from the roof, and that clustered on and about them is a population of over _thirty-five hundred_ statues. nearly a hundred are said to be added each year by the workmen. amid this bewildering scene of architectural wonders, it is not surprising that two hours passed ere we thought of descending; and even then we left no small portion of this aerial garden, this marble forest of enchantment, with but the briefest glance. but if the roof was so beautiful, what must be the appearance of the interior of this great temple? it was grand beyond description; the great nave over four hundred feet in length, the four aisles with their vistas of nearly the same length of clustered pillars--four complete ranges of them, fifty-two in all--supporting the magnificent vaulted arch one hundred and fifty feet above our heads. the vastness of the space as you stand in it beside one of the great gothic pillars, the base of which, even, towers up nearly as high as your head--the very vastness of the interior causes you to feel like a fly under the dome of st. paul's. an idea of the size of this cathedral may be had from the fact, that while workmen with ladder, hammer, and tools were putting up a painting upon the walls at one end of the church, the priests were conducting a service with sixty or seventy worshippers at the other, undisturbed by the noise of hammer or metal tool, the blows of which, even if listened for, could scarce be heard beyond a faint click. a good opera-glass is a necessity in these great cathedrals, a good guide-book is another; and i find the glass swung by its strap beneath one arm, and the tourist's satchel beneath the other, positive conveniences abroad, however snobbish they may appear at home. there are five great doorways to the church, and the visitor's attention is always called by the guide to the two gigantic pillars near the largest door. these are single columns of polished red granite, thirty-five feet high and four feet in diameter at the base; they support a sort of balcony, upon which stand the colossal figures of two saints. all along the sides of the cathedral are chapels, elegant marble altars and altar tombs, interspersed with statues and pictures. the capitals of many of the great columns have finely carved statues grouped about them; some have eight, and others more. the ceiling of the vaulted roof, which, from the pavement, appears to be sculptured stone-work, is only a clever imitation in painting; but the floor of the cathedral is laid out in mosaic of different colored marbles. with what delight we wandered about this glorious interior! there was the great window, with its colored glass, representing the virgin mary's assumption, executed by bertini. here were the monument raised by pius iv. to his brothers, cut from fine carrara marble, except the statues, after michael angelo's designs; the pulpits, that are partly of bronze work, and elegantly ornamented with bass-reliefs which encircle two of the great pillars, and are themselves held up by huge caryatides; numerous monuments, among them the bright-red marble tomb of ottone visconti, who left his property to the knights of st. john, who erected this monument; the beautiful carved stalls of the choir, the high altar and magnificent gothic windows behind it. in the south transept is the celebrated statue of st. bartholomew, who was flayed alive, and who is represented as having undergone that operation and taking a walk, with his own skin thrown carelessly over one arm, after the manner of an overcoat which the weather has rendered oppressive to the wearer. but this statue can hardly fail to chain the spectator some moments to the spot, on account of the hideous accuracy with which every artery, muscle, and tendon appear to be represented. i had never thought before how a man might look when stripped of that excellent fitting garment, the _cutis vera_; but this statue gave me as correct an idea of it as i ever wish to obtain. it is said to have been executed by the great sculptor phidias, and to be wonderfully correct in anatomical detail. the latter fact can hardly be doubted by any who look upon the marvellous skill which appears to have been exhausted upon every part of it. shocking as it appeared, i found myself drawn, again and again, to look upon it; such is its effect as a wondrous work of art. now the guide leads to a crypt below the pavement. we are to visit the chapel where rests the good st. charles borromeo, who died nearly three centuries ago. we go down nine or ten steps, pass through a passage lined with the richest marbles, a portal adorned with splendid columns, with their capitals and bases richly gilt, and stand in the sepulchral chapel of the saint. it is a small octagonal apartment, lighted by an opening from above, which is surrounded by a rail, so that the faithful may look down upon the sarcophagus below. the walls of this apartment are formed of eight massive silver bass-reliefs, representing remarkable events in the saint's life. then in the angles are eight caryatides of massive silver, representing his virtues. the sarcophagus, which rests upon the altar, is a large bronze box mounted with silver. a douceur of five francs to the attendant priest, and he reverently crosses himself, and, bending at a crank, causes the bronze covers of the shrine to fold away, revealing to our view the dead body of the saint, in a splendid transparent coffin of pure rock crystal, bound with silver, and ornamented also with small silver statues, bearing the cipher of the royal donor, philip iv. of spain. there lay the good bishop, who had preached humility all his life, arrayed in his episcopal garb, which was one blaze of precious stones. diamonds of the purest water flashed back their colored light to the glare of the altar candles; rubies, like drops of blood, glowed in fiery splendor, and emeralds shone green as sea-waves in the sunlight. the saint held in his left hand a golden pastoral staff, fairly crusted with precious stones. a splendid cross of emeralds and diamonds is suspended above him within the shrine; it is the gift of maria theresa, and about the head is a magnificent golden crown, rich with the workmanship of that wonderful artificer, benvenuto cellini, the gift of the elector of bavaria. but there, amid all these flashing jewels, that which the rich habiliments failed to conceal, was the grinning skull, covered with the shrivelled skin black with age, the sunken eye-sockets, and all bearing the dread signet-stamp of death; making it seem a hideous mockery to trick out these crumbling remains with senseless trappings, now so useless to the once mortal habitation of an immortal soul. we leave the saint to sleep in his costly mausoleum, his narrow, eight-sided chamber, and its riches, representing one hundred and sixty thousand pounds sterling, and follow our guide to view more of the wealth of the church. here we are in the sacristy, and the custodian shows us two huge statues of st. charles and st. ambrose of solid silver, and their sacerdotal robes thickly studded with jewels; magnificent silver busts, life-size, of other bishops; elegant gold candelabra; goblets and altar furniture of rare and exquisite workmanship; silver lamps, censers, chalices, &c., of those rare, delicate, and beautiful old patterns that were a charm to look upon; missals studded with precious stones; rich embroideries, rare altar-pieces, and one solid ornamental piece of silver-work, weighing over one hundred pounds. all these riches locked up, useless here, save as a sight to the wonder-seeking tourist; while poor, ragged worshippers of the church of rome are prostrating themselves without, before the great altar, from which they rise and waylay him as he passes out, to beseech him--the heretic--for a few coppers, for the love of god, to keep them from starvation. i can well imagine what rich plunder old cromwell's bluff round-heads must have found in the roman catholic cathedrals of england, although i have more than once mentally anathematized their vandalism, which was shown in defacing and destroying some of the most beautiful specimens of art of the middle ages. the old church of st. ambrosio is an interesting edifice to visit, with its curious relics, tombs, altars, and inscriptions. the principal altar here is remarkable for its richness; its sides are completely enclosed in a strong iron-bound and padlocked sheathing, which, however, the silver key unlocked, and we found the front to be sheathed in solid gold, elegantly enamelled and ornamented, the back and sides being of solid silver; all about the border, corners, and edges were set every species of precious stones, cameos, and rich jewels. the rubies, amethysts, topazes, &c., were in the rough, uncut; but the goldsmith's work, carving and chasing, was elaborate, and the dirty friar who exhibited the sight, with small candles, about the size of pen-holders, stuck between his fingers, took much pride in pointing out the beauties of the work, and holding his little candles so that their light might be the more effectual to display them. the back was all covered with representations of the principal events in the life of st. ambrose, separated from each other by enamelled borders. we next went to the refectory of the church of santa maria delle grazie, and saw leonardo da vinci's celebrated painting of the last supper, the picture that we are all familiar with from childhood, from having seen it in bibles, story-books, and engravings. in fact, it is _the_ picture of the last supper always referred to when the representation is spoken of. i could not go into raptures over this half-defaced fresco, which has had a door cut through one portion of it, has sustained the damage incidental to the refectory, being used as a cavalry stable, and has twice been nearly all painted over by bad artists since the great painter left it; and he, in his preparation of the wall for the painting, used a process which proved a failure, causing it to fade and flake off. although this is the great original, from which so many copies are taken,--and it is something to have seen the original,--we think we have seen more than one copy far more striking, and more beautiful in its finish. a ramble through victor emmanuel's palace gave us an opportunity of seeing some fine pictures, the great state ball-room, elegantly-frescoed ceilings, and the rich furniture and tapestry, that one ere long begins to find are in some degree, when no historical association is connected with them, so much alike in all palaces. the celebrated la scala theatre was closed for the season during our visit to milan; but the custodians have an eye to business. they keep the lower row of gas-lights burning, turned low, and for a consideration turn on the gas, and light up the vast interior sufficiently for visitors to get something of an idea of it. notwithstanding its vast size, the excellence of its internal arrangements for seeing and hearing is remarkable. standing upon the stage, we delivered a shakespearian extract to an extremely select but discriminating audience, whose applause was liberally, and, need we add, deservedly bestowed. i know not how it may be when the house is filled with an audience, but it appeared to us that its acoustic properties were remarkable, for a "stage whisper" could be distinctly heard at the extreme rear of the centre of the first row of boxes, while the echo of the voice seemed to return to the speaker on the stage, as from a sounding-board above his head, with marvellous distinctness. this house will hold an audience of thirty-six hundred persons. the distance from the centre box to the curtain is ninety-six feet; width of the stage, fifty-four feet; and depth of the stage behind the curtain, one hundred and fifty feet--room enough for the most ambitious scenic display. the form of the house is the usual semicircle, there being forty-one boxes in each row. many of those in the first row have small withdrawing-rooms. one--the duke somebody's--has a supper room, in which his highness and friends partake of a _petit souper_ between the acts, there being cooking conveniences for the preparation of the same below. the brevity of our visit to milan causes the day that was devoted to the wonderful library, the biblioteca ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts, rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of paintings, where the works of guido, paul veronese, raphael, da vinci, and rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we had even attempted these two interesting galleries--places which, to any one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less than an aggravation to be hurried through. by rail from milan we came to a place about a mile from como, where omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy italian town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival, and which we were right glad to have paddle out into the lake from the vile odors that surrounded us. but once out upon the blue waters, and free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! the dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating shore, with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. as we sailed along, beautiful villas were seen on the shore, their fronts with marble pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with huge carved balusters, ran down to the very water's edge, where awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting--just such scenes as you see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality. at a point where lake como divides into two arms, one extending to como and the other to lecco, we passed bellaggio, one of the most beautiful spots ever seen. it is on a high promontory at this point, commanding extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. the promontory is covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people. there is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely lake, with the beautiful villas upon its shores, the vine-clad hills, with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious, dreamy atmosphere. a charming lake is como, but with many objects, "'tis distance lends enchantment to the view." a boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused for its arrival. its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of massaniello-looking fellow, who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. soon after we saw the holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was next to godliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy, and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water, while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in circumference about his person--an odor of sanctity requiring the possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it. i once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious blending of the mediæval and modern together in his costume and occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that i could not resist a laugh, much to his amazement. but fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in engravings, and whom you naturally associate with gothic cathedrals, cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some ecclesiastical occupation--fancy seeing a monk in this well-known costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with great nonchalance as he watched the train! we landed at colico, at the end of the lake--a filthy place, where dirt was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. we attempted a meal at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appetites, the dirt and odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful attempt. a diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to chiavenna at eight o'clock p.m. here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head waiter spoke english, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms for the night. chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of milan scattered about it. one old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel. we now prepared for a journey from here over another alpine pass, the splügen. this pass was constructed by the austrians, in , in order to preserve for themselves a good passage over to lombardy. we engaged our post carriage as usual, with a fair _written_ contract with the driver,--necessary when agreeing with an italian, to prevent _mistakes_,--and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards, mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way upwards. passing the custom-house in the little village of campo dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are again upon the beautifully engineered road of an alpine pass, and at one point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees, although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy and apparently slight. as we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful madesimo waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down from far above us to the valley below. each turn gave us a different view. it was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we finally passed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career. leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock directly overhanging the ravine,--a portion of the rock over which the stream falls,--where, leaning over the iron railing,--grasped, we confess, with a firm clutch,--we looked down to the frothy foam of the waterfall, seven hundred feet below. it was a fine point of view--an exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place, and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and measure with the eye the great distance of its leap. after leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous, portion of the pass. this is the cardinell gorge. not only are the zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect travellers and the road itself. the galleries are wonderful pieces of workmanship. one of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. they are lighted by openings at the sides. we have fine views of the lofty mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches; and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. we stand fifty-eight hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. the air is cold, and overcoats are comfortable. on we go, and at length shiver in the glacier's breath at the boundary line between switzerland and italy--the summit of the pass six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the sea. chapter xi. once more we are in sight of the familiar snow-clads and ice-fields; the glaciers are in sight in every direction; there are the mountain peaks, the names all terminating with "horn." our old friend, the schneehorn, shoots his peak ten thousand feet into the air, and the surettahorn lifts its mass of ice nine thousand three hundred feet high into the clear sunlight, and we are again amid the grand alpine scenery i have so often described. now we begin our descent, zigzag, as usual, through wild mountain scenery, till at last we whirl through a long gallery, and, with a salute of whip-snappings, enter the village of splügen; through this, and out again into another grand alpine landscape, taking in a view of the peaks of the zapporthorn and einshorn, each over nine thousand feet high, and away off in the distance, the chalets of a swiss village, perched in among the mountains. down we go, at full trot, through the beautiful roffla ravine, picturesque in the twilight, with its rocky walls, and its rattling cascades of the river rhine dashing over the rocky bed. there is one place where there is barely room for the rhine and the road to pass through the rocky gateway of the pass. the scenery is wild, but at the same time there were trees, with luxuriant foliage, that were pleasant to the eye; beautiful larches, black spruces, and other trees of that kind, softened the rough aspect of the mountains. we were not sorry to draw rein at dusk at the village of andeer, where we had only a tolerable lodging, and a very bad breakfast; after which we were once more on the road, and soon reached the valley of six streams, which glide down the mountains, on either side, to the green valley below, with its pretty farm-houses and green pastures. soon after leaving this, we enter upon the celebrated via mala. this narrow pass seems like a great cleft, cut by a giant's knife, into a huge loaf; the pathway through it, until , was only four feet wide. the carriage-road and the river now seem as if squeezed into the gap, that might at any moment snap together and crush them. huge perpendicular rocky walls rise to the height of fifteen hundred feet on either side; the river rhine runs through the gorge three hundred feet below the road, which crosses and recrosses it three or four times by means of bridges; the great walls of rock, in some places, seem almost to meet above, and shut out the full light of day, the space is so narrow; for the river forces its way through a cleft, only fifteen feet wide between the rock, and at one place there is a gallery, two hundred feet long, cut through the solid rock. although the river is three hundred feet below the road, yet the cleft between the mountain is so narrow that spring freshets will raise it a hundred feet or more. a woman, who, at the highest bridge, drops stones down to the tide below, for tourists to count ten before they strike the water, points out a mark upon one of the bridges, noting a remarkable rise of the river in , when it came up nearly two hundred and fifty feet, to the arch of this bridge, and then solicits a few sous for her services. this wild, dark, and gloomy gorge, with its huge overhanging curtains of solid rock, the pathway clinging to its sides, the roaring torrent under foot, arched bridges crossing its chasms, and tunnels piercing its granite barricades, is literally a pathway wrenched through the mountain's everlasting wall. it cannot fail to make a profound impression by its gloomy grandeur and wild beauty, especially at one point, where the eye can sweep away through the gorge, as if looking through a vast rocky tube, and rest upon green, sunny slopes, and pleasant, smiling scenery beyond. we reach the pleasant village of thusis, where the river nolla flows into the rhine; and there is, from the bridge that spans it, a beautiful view of the valley in a ring of mountains and an old castle, the oldest in switzerland, perched on a crag, high above the river. here, at the hotel adler, rest and an excellent lunch were both obtained, after which the whip cracked good by, and we rattled on, through villages, and now and then over arched bridges, and past picturesque water-wheels, or little roman catholic churches, till at last we come to one great bridge of a single arch, crossing the rhine near reicehnau--a bridge eighty feet above the river, and two hundred and thirty-seven feet long. we pass the pretty village of ems, and next reach coire, where our carriage journey ends, the driver is paid, and we enjoy the novelty of half an hour's ride by rail to ragatz. here, while enjoying a rest at sunset, we had from the hotel balcony a glorious view of a long line of mountains, and a huge, flat wall of rock, upon which the setting sun strikes after streaming between two great mountains, and makes it look like a huge sheet of light bronze--one of those novel had indescribable effects that you see only in the alps. the great wonder here, and, in fact, one of the greatest wonders of switzerland, is the tamina gorge and pfaffers baths, which next morning we rode to see. a drive of two miles, through a wild, romantic gorge,--the road, a part of the distance, hewn out of the solid ledge, and the river tearing along over its jagged bed of rocks below,--brought us to the hotel of the bath establishment (or, rather, it is the hotel and bath establishment combined), excellently kept and managed, and planted here between two great walls of rock on either side, six hundred feet high. the water is conveyed down to it from the hot springs in the gorge, about a quarter of a mile above, in pipes. leaving the hotel, we ascend on foot up through this wonderful crack in the mountains. it is a cleft, ranging in width from twenty to forty feet, the pathway a plank walk, five feet wide, affixed by staples to one side of the solid rock. these walls of rock rise to the height of four or five hundred feet above the path, and, at some points, actually meet together overhead, while the narrow strip, or aperture, for most of the way, lets in light only sufficient to render visible a huge, black, awful chasm, the sides shiny, and dripping with moisture, and a torrent roaring, fifty feet beneath our path, waking a hundred strange echoes. this wild and wondrous passage is "into the bowels of the land" a distance of eighteen hundred and twenty feet; and sometimes the passage brings us to where the action of the waters has hollowed out a huge, rocky dome, and the foaming river whirls round in a great, black pool, as if gathering strength for a fresh rush from its rocky prison. as we gradually approach the upper end of this wild gorge, and leave these weird chambers behind, we come to a point where clouds of steam are issuing from a cavern--a cave within a cavern--apparently the very pit of acheron itself. into this steaming grotto we penetrate. it is a vaulted cave, ninety feet in length; a great natural steam-bath. our visages were damp with perspiration, which started from every pore, as we stood at the brink of the hot spring, which was clear as crystal, scentless, and at a temperature of one hundred degrees fahrenheit. one does not wish to remain in this cavern any length of time, unless fully prepared for a vapor bath; consequently, we were soon outside, in the outer cavern or gorge again. the pipes conveying the waters from the springs to the bath-house and hotel run along the side of the rocky wall, next the plank pathway. we retrace our steps back through this wondrous gorge, with its tall, rocky walls hundreds of feet above our heads, and its foaming torrent leaping beneath us; pass again beneath the granite dome, pass little weird grottos, and, through the narrow cleft; look away up to the strip of sky, shining like a band of blue satin ribbon over the gap, and finally emerge once more upon the open road, where our carriage is waiting. we returned over the romantic road that brought us to this great wonder of the alpine region. from ragatz we took train _en route_ for schaffhausen, via sargans and wallenstadt, passing the beautiful serenbach waterfall, and along the shore of the lake of wallenstadt, or wallenstadt see,--as they call it here,--and which we had flitting and momentary glances of, through the openings at the sides of the nine tunnels which the railroad train thundered through. but the landscape views all along this portion of the route of lake, mountains, waterfalls, valleys, and villages, formed one continuous charming picture. our hotel,--the schweizerhof,--at the falls of schaffhausen, is admirably situated for a view of these falls, which, however, will disappoint the american who has seen niagara, and hears it stated (which i think is incorrect) that these are the finest falls in europe. the actual fall of water is not above sixty feet, and appears at first to be even less than this, and it looks more like a series of huge rapids than a waterfall; indeed, reminding one of the rapids above niagara, though the descent is, of course, more abrupt. right in the centre of the falls, dividing them into three parts, are two small but high islands of crag, accessible only by boats, and said to be very safely and easily reached by the boatmen in attendance at the shore, who were ready to take us to the middle island and to the old chateau on the opposite side, which is the best point of view, for the usual fee. we entered the boat, which was soon in the midst of the stream, and began a series of regular approaches to the rock, propelled by the muscular arms of the boatmen; but in the midst of these boiling surges, lashing about us in every direction, and spattering us with their angry spray, as the rowers took advantage of certain eddies and currents, the appearance of the surroundings was decidedly dangerous, and it was with a long-drawn breath of relief that we heard the keel of the boat grate on the pebbles at the little landing at the foot of the central island. this was a tall mass of rock, and we climbed from point to point, by a not very difficult ascent, till we reached the summit, some fifty feet above the boiling flood--a very favorable point of view, from whence the clouds of silvery spray and the war of waters could be seen, and also a very fine view of the rapids and river above, which is about three hundred and fifty feet wide at this point. one of these rocks has a complete natural arch, ten or fifteen feet high, worn through it by the furious waters which leap, lash, and tumble about at the base of our rocky citadel. descending, we took to the boat again, and started for the opposite landing. taking advantage of the current, the boatmen pushed out into the swiftest part of it, and were swept with frightful velocity, in half a dozen seconds of time, over a space which, to accomplish on our approach, required nearly fifteen minutes. a few dexterous whirls, some steady pulling, and we were landed at the foot of the ascent to the castle of laufen, picturesquely situated on a wooded height above us, and a fine point of view. we ascended the path, and enjoyed the prospect from the balcony of the castle, and then looked at it through the stained glass windows of a summer-house on the grounds, and finally descended to a wooden gallery which is built out directly over the foaming abyss, and so near the rushing water that you may plunge your hand into the seething mass of waves. india-rubber overcoats are a necessity for this excursion, which are provided by the owners of the place, and included in the fee of admission. the sensation of being in the midst of a great waterfall, and yet safe, is about as correct a one, i should judge, as can be had, when you stand at the end of this protecting gallery in the shower of spray, the great body of water rushing towards the point as if to overwhelm you, while you now and then receive a liberal dash of a huge wave, and the thunder of the waters and rush of the torrent drown all other sounds, and render conversation impracticable. we enjoyed this defying of the torrent, the foam, rush and war of the waters, and the brilliant little rainbows which the sunlight formed in the clouds of spray, and then descended to the landing, to be rowed back to the opposite shore. this boat-passage to the central rock is said to be perfectly safe, but it certainly has not that appearance, and it is one that a person at all inclined to be timid would not care to repeat. it has just that hint of the dangerous which gives the excursion a zest which a little peril seldom fails to produce. timid though you may be, you cannot help feeling exhilarated by the roaring of the waters and the quick dash of the spray all around you; and the exultant emotion which you experience when you jump on shore, and witness, from a safe stand-point, the "perils you have passed," fully compensates for the moment of suspense, when it seemed as though one misstroke of the boatmen would have dashed you into eternity. we left schaffhausen at nine a. m. for munich, had two hours and a half on lake constance, passed augsburg, and at half past nine reached munich. "wave, munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry"-- munich, with its magnificent art collections, its picture and sculpture galleries, its thousand artists; munich, with its bronze statues, the home of schwanthaler, the city of broad streets, the capital of bavaria, and the city that makes the best beer in all europe. the great hotel, "the four seasons," was filled with guests, but good rooms were obtained at the baierischer hof, on the promenaden platz; and our comfortable quarters were welcome indeed, after eleven hours' rapid journeying. the last portion of the way approaching munich was dull enough, as it was over a broad, flat plain, with scarcely any trees, and the signs of life were confined to an occasional lonely shepherd, with his dog, guarding a flock. in fact, munich is built in the middle of a great plain, which is flat and uninteresting, and the city itself is not considered healthy for americans or english to reside in any length of time. it is, however, one of the european cities that have grown in size very rapidly the last thirty years, and the newer parts, built out into the plain, away from the old city, waiting for the gap between to fill up, remind the american traveller of cities in his native land. the first sights of all others in munich to which the tourist turns his attention, are the art collections. the glyptothek is the gallery of sculpture, and the pinacothek the picture gallery; and the admission to these superb and priceless collections is free to all. the buildings stand opposite to each other; and, as we find how much this city owes to old king louis for its position as a seat of the fine arts; how many beautiful buildings, statues, galleries, public edifices, and streets, were built by his order; and, still further, that the expenses of the glyptothek and other collections were paid for from his own privy purse,--we feel inclined to look with a lenient eye upon the old monarch's regard for pretty women, and the lola montez scandal. the pinacothek is a magnificent building, shaped like the letter i, and is divided off into nine splendid halls, devoted to different schools of art. opening off or out of these halls are twenty-three smaller rooms, or cabinets, for the smaller pictures of each school. thus there are three great halls devoted to the italian school of art, two to the dutch school, two to the german, one to the french and spanish, and a great central hall to rubens. in these great halls the larger pictures are hung, and the light, which comes from the roof, is well and artistically managed for displaying their beauties. in the cabinets are the ordinary sized and smaller paintings. but what a wealth of art! there are nearly fifteen hundred elegant paintings, hundreds of them by some of the most celebrated artists that ever lived, and nearly all of them works that you want time to study and admire. the american who has been shown an occasional old dingy head or blackened landscape, half obliterated by age, in his own country, and told it is a rare treasure,--one of the old masters,--and who, as many do, comes to the conclusion that the old masters did not put what he should call finish into their works, will have all impressions of that nature removed by his visit to this priceless collection. here he will see pictures that startle even the casual observer by their wondrous faithfulness to nature; pictures upon which the hand of the artist is visible in the minutest detail, the coloring and finish of which betray the most laborious application, and which excite from him who may have been silent over expressions of admiration at pictures at home which were not his ideals of excellence,--silent, perhaps, from fearing that he might be incorrect in judgment,--the honest assertion, that here is his ideal of the artistic, and convince him that a picture cleanly finished in all its details, fresh in color, sharp, distinct, and well defined, can be artistic; and that even the best of the old masters, if their works can be taken as an indication, thought so, too. there is a good deal of humbug in the popular admiration of muddy, indistinct old daubs, half defaced by age; and the visitor here, in inspecting some of these wondrous creations, where the artist, in groups of angels and cherubs, puts exquisite features to faces the size of one's thumb nail, and grace into those ten times that size in the same work, ascertains that a picture, to be really beautiful, must be completely and artistically finished. it would be useless, in these limits, to attempt a detailed description of this world-renowned collection, to which two or three visits are but an aggravation to the lover of art. tourists generally "do" it in one hasty visit, like many other sights, simply to say they have been there. my note-book and catalogues are crammed with sentences of admiration and marginal notes; but a few extracts will give the reader who has not been abroad an idea of the interest of this gallery. first, there were two great halls and six or eight ante-rooms devoted to the german school of art. here we saw numerous pictures by albert dürer--a knight in armor, st. peter and st. john, the birth of christ, &c.; a number by holbein, the elder and younger; wohlgemuth, some strikingly effective pictures from the life of christ; quentin matsys' well-known picture of the misers; mabeuse's noble picture of the archangel michael; dietrich's splendid sea scenes; van eyck's adoration of the magi, annunciation, and presentation in the temple--pictures of wonderful execution, the faces finished exquisitely, and the minutest details executed in a manner to command admiration; albert dürer's mater dolorosa; the head of an old woman and man, the most wonderful pictures of the kind i ever saw, painted by balthasar denner, and every wrinkle, hair, speck, pore of the skin, depicted with such wonderful and microscopic exactness as to render it an impossibility to tell it from a living person at three feet distance. the third and fifth halls are filled with paintings of the dutch school by the pupils of rubens and other artists, and the nine cabinets, or smaller halls opening out of them, with pictures by various flemish and dutch masters. here were teniers' elegantly finished and admirable pictures of boors smoking, boors at cards; ostade's boors quarrelling and boors merry-making; gerard dow's mountebank at the fair, wouvermans' stag hunt, vandyke's susanna and the elders, rembrandt's magnificent descent from the cross, &c., besides many other rembrandts, teniers, ostades, and van der werfs, any one of which was a study, a plethora, a wilderness of beauty. the fourth apartment, or central hall, is devoted entirely to the works of rubens, and contains nearly a hundred of the great master's pictures. there was his christ on the cross, a most terribly real picture, that made one almost shudder to look upon; the fall of the angels, a remarkable and wondrous work of art; the massacre of the innocents, the sabine women, the last judgment, triumph of religion, rubens and his wife in a garden, the lion hunt, &c. but just think of one room in a gallery with a hundred of rubens's best works surrounding you; it is useless to attempt description. the ante-room, containing the best pictures, to my mind, was that filled with van der werf's paintings, which were marvellously clear and sharp in their execution, and finished with exquisite skill. here were the magdalen in a grotto, rest on the flight into egypt, ecce homo--all pictures of superb coloring never seen in any modern work of art; abraham sending forth hagar and ishmael; portrait of the wife of the elector john william; these two paintings were finished equal to engravings. in jesus disputing with the doctors in the temple, the faces of the disputants are wondrous studies, exhibiting various emotions, and the figure of christ, a beautiful boy, has the look of heaven in every lineament of his face. many other perfectly finished pictures that hold one entranced with their wondrous beauty are in this room. now we come to the sixth hall, containing the spanish and french schools; and here are those pictures of murillo's with which we are all so familiar from engravings, viz., the beggar boys eating melons and grapes, boys playing dice, beggar boys, &c.; nicolas poussin's pictures, &c. the seventh and eighth great halls contain other paintings of the same schools of art; among them carlo dolce, tintoretto, domenichino, and correggio. so also does the ninth apartment, formerly the private cabinet of the king, in which there are beautiful works from the pencil of leonardo da vinci, andrea del sarto, giorgione, and raphael. we come from this gallery of art literally surfeited, fatigued with long gazing, walking, pausing, looking, wondering, and admiring, and realize over again what an exhausting work is continuous sight-seeing. besides the art collections which have already been described, we visited the new pinacothek, containing ten halls and fourteen cabinets for the exhibition of modern paintings, among which we saw kaulbach's destruction of jerusalem, a magnificent picture, familiar from the print that has been made of it; wilkie's capital painting of the reading of the will; the deluge, by charles schorn, a dusseldorf artist; peasant's wedding, an excellent picture by maurice muller; frederic bischof's first snow; battle of custozza, by adam; two boys buying their first cigars, by h. rhomberg, a munich artist, &c. there were nearly three hundred pictures in this collection, which was first opened to the public in . the glyptothek, or hall of sculpture, is another priceless collection of art. the exterior is handsomely adorned with statues, and the interior, which consists of twelve halls, and each devoted to different branches of art, is admirably planned and appropriately decorated. in the hall known as the Æginetan, which is devoted to marbles discovered in the island of Ægina, we saw a splendid group of marble figures, fourteen in number, which have been set up exactly in the position they formerly occupied on the grecian temple they adorned, being carefully put together, and such parts as were broken carefully restored by thorwaldsen, giving one some idea of the beauty of the sculpture of the ancient greeks, and showing the actual figures in all their spirited grace and action, which has never been excelled by modern sculptors. there were hercules and telamon fighting the trojans, and the struggle of the greeks and trojans over the body of patroclus, as described by homer, the warriors with helmet, shield, and javelin, in the most spirited attitudes--specimens of the wondrous skill of the ancient sculptors, and the reality of those outline engravings, by flaxman and others, of statues and sculpture, which adorn the illustrated books of greek and roman history. in the hall of apollo, among many other fine works, were a superb bacchus, found at athens, with a crown of vine leaves most exquisitely cut, a beautiful ceres, and a grand and majestic statue of minerva. the hall of bacchus, however, contains the gem of the whole collection, and, in fact, the most wonderful and life-like statue i ever looked upon--the celebrated barberini faun, a colossal figure of a satyr, half sitting, half reclining, as if in a deep sleep after a carouse. the attitude is so perfect, the appearance of relaxation of the muscles and limbs so thoroughly true to nature, and the very atmosphere of complete languor and repose so pervades the countenance and whole body of the figure, that the spectator almost forgets it is but senseless stone before him in half expectancy of the breast heaving to the breathings of the sleeper, which seems all that is lacking to make it a living reality; and yet this wondrous work is from an unknown hand. the catalogues and guide-books claim it is from the chisel of praxiteles; but that is only surmise. on account of its excellence they doubtless think it ought to be; but it was dug out of the ditch of the castle of st. angelo, where it was supposed to have been hurled from the walls in the year . in this hall is also a magnificently executed figure of silenus, bacchus and panther. in the hall of heroes are some splendid figures; jason binding on his sandal; nero as a gladiator, a fine head, with the brow and curls of a hercules; the victorious gladiator, alexander the great, &c. in the hall of modern sculpture were canova's beautiful figures of paris and venus; adonis, by thorwaldsen; love and the muse, by eberhardt; and others, giving the visitor an opportunity of comparing ancient with modern art. the great bronze statue of bavaria, just outside the city, is a huge figure of sixty feet in height, standing upon a pedestal thirty feet high. it represents a female with a sword in her right hand, while the left raises on high the wreath of victory. at her side sits the lion of bavaria. by the staircase inside we ascended to the head of the bronze giant, which we found would comfortably accommodate eight or nine persons; and from a window in its curling locks we had a fine view of munich and the surrounding country. this great statue was modelled by schwanthaler, and cast by f. miller at the royal foundery of munich, where so many bronze figures for this country have been cast; and having for that reason a desire to see it, we drove thither. on sending our cards in, with a message that we were a party of americans, we were immediately waited upon by the superintendent, who, with the greatest courtesy, showed us over the entire establishment, where were bronze giants in every process of manufacture, from the mass of liquid metal to the shapely figure under the artistic files of the finishers. we were shown here the hall of the colossi, in which were the plaster models of all the works that have been executed at the foundery. here, among others, we saw the cast of the statue of henry clay, made for new orleans, those of beethoven for boston music hall, and horace mann for boston state house grounds, colonel benton for st. louis, and the figures of jefferson, mason, henry, nelson, lewis, and marshall, which adorn the washington monument at richmond, va.; also the model of the triumphal car, drawn by lions, which adorns the arch at one end of the fine street (ludwigstrasse) named after king louis. the lions were giants ten feet high, and a cast of the hand of the great figure of bavaria was six or seven feet long and two feet thick, suggesting that a box on the ear from such a palm would undoubtedly be a "stunner." from here we naturally went to the studio of the great sculptor schwanthaler, where we were courteously received by his son, and were interested in the processes of sculpture, which we saw in all its phases under the workmen's hands. many of the streets of munich are broad and beautiful, and the squares adorned with statues. a bronze obelisk in the karolinenplatz, nearly a hundred feet high, formed from captured cannon, is erected in memory of the bavarians who fell in the army of bonaparte during the russian campaign; and statues of king louis and schiller are in the odeon platz; while in another square is another statue, formed from captured cannon, of maximilian i., surrounded by four other statues of distinguished bavarians. the new palace which we visited was rich in elegant pictures, beautiful frescoes, and works of art. in one series of rooms were great paintings illustrating the history of bavaria. some of the rooms containing them bore the names of hall of marriage, hall of treachery, hall of revenge, &c., the scenes in these apartments being those historical events in which these characteristics were prominent. schwanthaler and kaulbach's pencils have contributed liberally to the decoration of many of the rooms, particularly the throne room, which contains the illustrations of a german poem, painted by kaulbach, and another room with thirty or forty illustrations of goethe's works, by the same artist. the hall of frederick barbarossa contains fine large paintings of scenes in his life, including his battle and victory in the third crusade. then we have the hall of charlemagne, with great pictures of his battle scenes, and the hall of beauties, which contains a series of portraits of beautiful women of bavaria, painted by order of the late king, without regard to rank or station; so that here the peasant girl jostles the banker's daughter, and the duchess finds herself face to face with the child of a cobbler--the stamp of beauty being the signet that admitted each to this collection, which, in truth, does honor to the king's judgment. the great throne room is a magnificent apartment, one hundred and eight feet long and seventy-five wide. at the upper end of the throne, and on either side between the tall marble corinthian pillars with gold capitals, stand twelve colossal statues in gilt bronze. the statues, which are ten feet high, were designed by schwanthaler, and represent the different princes of the house of bavaria, beginning with otho, , and ending with charles xii., . the figures are very finely executed, and in the costumes and weapons show the progress of civilization. this room is, in truth, a royal one, and is as fit to hold a royal reception in as one could wish. in fact, as we look round through munich, capital of the little kingdom of bavaria, with its less than five million souls, we get the impression that it has art, wealth, galleries, libraries, &c., enough for the capital of an empire of five times its size. munich makes beer that is celebrated for its quality, and the quantity drank here is something fabulous. i am confident it is a necessity at all the gardens where the musical performances are given; and apropos, the superb music which one may listen to here for a mere trifle is astonishing. i visited one of these gardens, where gung'l's band of about forty performers played a splendid programme--twelve compositions of strauss, wagner, beethoven, mendelssohn, and gung'l. but those strauss and gung'l waltzes and galops--they were given with a precision and spirit that were positively electrical. one could almost hear the dancers' feet slip to the luxurious murmuring of the waltz, or catch the gusts of air that whirled from the rush of the rattling galop. admission to this concert was eight cents, and order what you choose--a glass of beer for four or five cents, or a bottle of wine at from twenty cents to two dollars. one of the monuments which old king louis, or ludwig, as they call him here, leaves behind him is the basilica of st. boniface, built to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the king's marriage--the finest church in munich, and built in imitation of a roman basilica of the sixth century. the interior presents a superb sight, the roof being supported by sixty-four splendid columns of gray marble, making a nave and four aisles. the view through the length of these aisles, amid the forest of pillars for a distance of two hundred and eighty-five feet, and up to the roof, which is eighty feet from the pavement, and represents the firmament studded with golden stars, is inexpressibly beautiful. the magnificent frescoes on the walls, perfections in the art, by henry hess and his students, and the splendid pictures illustrating the progress of christianity in germany, and scenes in the life of st. boniface, heighten the effect. the church was finished in , and has all the beauty and freshness of modern workmanship upon an ancient model. it is certainly one of the most elegant and artistical of ecclesiastical interiors. the sarcophagus of king louis and of his queen, therese, is in this church, and beneath it a crypt for the interment of the benedictine monks, who are in some way or other attached to the church. in the great cathedral--a huge brick building three hundred and twenty feet in length, with its windows sixty-seven feet high, filled with the rich stained glass of the fifteenth century--we saw the monument of the emperor louis, erected in , upheld upon the shoulders of four stalwart knights, armed _cap-à-pie_, in bronze, the size of life. the public library of munich is another storehouse of treasures. it is a huge three-story building, with a superb staircase and magnificent architectural interior, and contains eight hundred and fifty thousand books, and twenty-two thousand manuscripts, besides coins and literary curiosities of priceless value, such as block-books, printed anterior to , manuscripts of the new testament, in the seventh and eighth centuries, the code of laws given by alaric to the west goths in , luther's bible, containing his own and melanchthon's portraits, and other rarities of like interest. this library is the second largest in existence, being exceeded in extent only by that of paris. but the reader will tire of munich and its art treasures, if we do not; so we will bid them a reluctant adieu, and take train for salzburg. this was an eight hours' ride, and of no particular note, except that at every crossing on the railroad, and at intervals on the line, we saw switch-tenders, or station-masters, who were in the red uniform of the railroad company, and stood upright in military position, with hand raised to the cap in salute, as the train whizzed past them. arrived at salzburg, we went to the fine hotel de l'europe, where, among other excellences of the austrian cuisine, we had austrian bread, the best in the world, such as, once tasted, makes the eater ever long for it, and establish it in his mind as the standard by which the quality of all others is regulated. the city is on the river salza, and in quite a picturesque situation, at the foot of the great alpine heights, with a semicircle of mountains about it. the plain, or valley, about the city is rich in beautiful gardens, orchards, groves, and country houses, the dark-wooded heights and slopes of the mountains forming the framework of the picture, and in the centre salzburg castle perched upon its high rock, reminding one very much, from its appearance and position, of edinburgh castle. we have driven round the dull old town, seen the house where mozart was born, and his statue by schwanthaler in one of the squares, and bought elegantly-painted china covers for the tops of beer mugs--drinkers at the bier halles having their special mugs, and recognizing them by the design upon the cover. some of the beer flagons and tankards exposed for sale here were very beautiful and elaborate, and got up with much artistic taste. one of the most delightful rides we ever took was over the romantic road from salzburg out to the chateau of hellbrunn, for the whole distance of nearly three miles was one continuous arch of splendid elms, shading the broad, smooth, level road. the view of the town, and the old castle in the centre, with the background of grand alpine walls, which we had constantly before us, and from many different points of observation, was very picturesque and beautiful. the gardens of the chateau are celebrated for containing the most wonderful and curious of water-works. the grounds are beautifully laid out, and at every turn we met new surprises. there was, of course, every variety of ordinary fountain, dolphins and nymphs spouting, &c., and besides these many curious contrivances for the fluid. there were two beautiful pictures painted on copper, before which was apparently a sheet of glass; but it was only a broad, thin, falling, transparent, aqueous curtain. a beautiful bouquet of flowers was enclosed in a complete hemisphere of falling water, as pure and unbroken as a glass globe, with scarcely a perceptible motion in its swift current. two turtles, directly opposite each other, five feet apart, seemed to hold a glass cord, the size of a man's finger between them, in their mouths. touching the transparent cord with a cane, we interrupted a swift stream, and the liquid spattered in every direction. the cane was withdrawn, the stream immediately reunited, and the turtles again held their apparently motionless crystal cord as before. we came to automaton old men grinding their scythes at a grindstone, millers at work at their mill, all running by water power; entered a wondrous grotto, where neptune in his car drawn by sea-horses swam around, the horses and dolphins spouting liquid streams from their mouths, and birds piping their liquid notes from the wall, all moved by water power. in another beautiful grotto a whirling fountain lifted a handsome golden crown eight feet into the air, and kept it suspended amid a shower of sparkling drops. taking a position at the rear of a dark cavern, and looking out towards the little arched entrance, the water was let on in fine mist, and the arched doorway was as rich as the gates of paradise in wreathed rainbows. two huge stags guarded another cavern, streams issuing from their mouths and every point of their huge antlers. hunters were on galloping steeds, and blew torrents from their horns, or were enveloped in the floods that spouted from their spear-heads. luxurious seats invited the tired pedestrian to repose, when, on seating himself, he was ringed in with a circle of miniature water-spouts, rendering dry egress apparently impossible. finally we came to a place where two huge doors were thrown open, displaying a space about twelve feet high and eight or ten wide, in which was the complete representation in miniature of the square in a city. there were cathedral, palace, dwelling-house, and artisans' shops, all faithfully represented; and in the streets, the shops and the houses which were open to view, were over one hundred automaton figures of men, women, and children, all moved by water power, and giving life to the scene before you. there were masons hoisting stone and building a house, coopers and tinkers clattering away in their shops, butchers killing and cutting up, cobblers pegging away in their little stalls, wood-sawyers, blacksmiths beating with a regular clink-clank-clink upon their anvils, artisans in their shops; also all the usual street scenes of a city. here was a man with a dancing bear, surrounded by a curious crowd; there a shrewish old woman shaking her head, gesticulating, and scolding at her tipsy husband; children playing in the street; ladies, looking from windows of houses, returned the courtly salutes of gallants who passed by in the streets with graceful bow or wave of the hand; loaded teams passed by; people went in and out of houses; turks, priests, jews, and courtiers passed along in the most natural manner, and finally came a whole regiment of soldiers, marching across the square; at last, the notes of the organ were heard in the cathedral, and into its broad portal filed priests and people, and the scene closed. the size of these automatons was from six to eight inches; they were very well executed; and the whole scene, with the cathedral, square, streets, and throng of moving figures, seemed a sort of realization of gulliver's experiences in lilliput. this place is the property of the king, and no fee is charged for viewing it and its many wonders; nevertheless, the custodian, who had so kindly and faithfully exhibited them to our party, was extremely gratified at the magnificent fee of thirty cents, and took leave of us with a profusion of bows and polite expressions. our visit to the old castle was also an interesting one. from its battlements we looked directly down upon the town, and, afar off, on a beautiful landscape of fields, winding river, and distant mountain. within the walls we saw the grand apartments of the old bishops, and the remains of the torture chamber, fragments of the rack, and other hellish inventions of cruel ingenuity which they used to apply to their victims. following the advice of a friend, we telegraphed on in advance to the hotel archduke charles, at vienna, that we were coming, and to secure rooms. an eight hours' ride by rail brought us to the capital of the austrian dominions, and i had scarce stepped from the railway carriage ere a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking individual, in dress coat, dark pants and vest, gloves, spotless shirt-front, and immaculate neck-tie, called me by name, and in perfectly correct english inquired if the luggage of the party was upon the train, and was to be taken to the hotel. i looked at him inquiringly, and assented. "i am attached to the hotel, sir, and have received your despatch (exhibiting it). if you will please to step into this carriage we have in waiting for you, after pointing out your trunks, i will follow you with them." we were amazed, and began to wonder whether or not the fellow might not be a clever english impostor, who had obtained our telegraphic despatch with a view of getting our luggage into his hands, and running away with it. our doubts were, however, soon settled by a young prussian lady of the party, who conversed with him in his native tongue, and found that he was a sort of chief clerk, or managing man, for the proprietors of the hotel, and was equally at home in the german, french, or english languages. we therefore committed our _impedimenta_ to his charge, were escorted by him to the carriage, when, as he helped us in, tumbled and travel-stained as we were, and passed in the travelling-pouches and shawls, and stood in his spotless linen and polished boots, raising his french hat, as if he had just stepped from a ball-room or the opera,--i could not help feeling a little awkward at presuming to permit so gentlemanly-appearing a personage to perform a menial act; but our reflections were cut short by his rapid directions to the driver in his own tongue. the coach-door was clapped to, and we were soon whirling through the brilliantly-lighted streets on our way to the hotel. vienna appears to be a city that is having immense additions made to it; in fact, to have recently taken a fresh start in new and spacious squares, wide streets, and new buildings. the different portions of it are known as the old and new cities. the new city streets are open, wide, and airy, with broad and handsome sidewalks; the streets of the old are narrow and crooked, with no sidewalk or curbstone. our hotel--the archduke charles--is situated on a street scarcely wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and the noise (for it is always crowded) that comes up between the tall buildings is almost unbearable in warm weather, when open casements are a necessity. talk of the crooked streets of boston! why, some of the corkscrew passages of the old city of vienna will wind up an expert bostonian into a most inexplicable tangle. the large, new streets, however, will, in time, rival the boulevards in beauty and attractiveness. great blocks of buildings are built on the parisian model, elegant restaurants and stores, with plate glass windows, rich displays of goods, and a profusion of gas-jets, give quite a paris air to the scene; in fact, the improvements in the way of new buildings and new streets, not only here but in munich and other cities, seem to be after the paris, or haussman model. the tourist can hardly help thinking that louis napoleon made his influence to be felt in more ways than one, and has taught the monarchs of some of these sleepy old empires a good lesson in widening, enlarging, and beautifying their capitals, making them attractive to visit and pleasant to live in, and to realize that it is money in their purses, or those of their subjects,--which is much the same,--to render their cities inviting to the hosts of travellers who traverse the continent, and to induce them to remain and spend money, or come again and spend more. to _bona fide_ tourists there are now very few restrictions. custom-house examinations are a mere form; passports, except in the intolerant roman states, are never called for, and admissions to galleries, palaces, or collections, which require tickets from government officials, are granted to foreigners without restraint. one of our first sight-seeing excursions took us to the imperial library--a magnificent collection of books and manuscripts, commenced in the thirteenth century, and which now contains nearly three hundred thousand books, and over sixteen thousand manuscripts, including many rare literary curiosities, among which we saw charlemagne's psalm book; a roll of hieroglyphics on skin, sent by cortes from mexico to the king of spain; tasso's own manuscript of jerusalem delivered; the latin bible of , on parchment; elegant illuminated manuscripts and parchment volumes, whose exquisite penmanship and still brilliant colors make it hard to believe that the hands that laboriously fashioned them, in shady cloister and convent cell, have crumbled into undistinguishable dust hundreds of years ago. one of the most magnificent collections of royal jewelry we have ever looked upon we saw at the imperial treasury, or jewel house. here were necklaces of diamonds as big as filberts, and of a brilliancy that others pale before; a bow-knot as large as a half sheet of commercial note-paper, that blazed like fire with clear, pure diamonds; great crowns; conquerors' wreaths in emeralds and diamonds; royal orders and decorations; magnificent chains and collars belonging to the dresses of various orders worn by the emperor. but it was not only the sparkling collection of gems of purest ray serene that attracted our attention--the curious historic relics that are preserved here are of great value and interest. think of standing and looking upon the coronation robe, crown, and sceptre of the stout old charlemagne himself; the great diamond worn by charles the bold; the robes and crown worn by napoleon at his coronation at milan; an elegant crucifix, with the wondrous carving and chasing of that renowned artificer, benvenuto cellini; a collection of curious watches of olden times, the "nuremburg eggs" that we have so often read of. besides the huge falchion of charlemagne, we were shown the sword of maximilian i., that of francis i. of france, the scimeter that was once wielded by tamerlane, and the celebrated iron crown of lombardy. i cannot begin to enumerate the stories of relics connected with the history of austria; the wealth of cut and uncut jewels which we were hurried through by the thick-headed, stupid guide, who recited a description he had learned by rote in the most monotonous manner; who was utterly unable to answer the simplest question, and only went from one object to another that was in his programme of performance, commencing with his everlasting "_dies is der_," and going on with a monotonous enumeration of facts, running his words and sentences together, like a state official repeating a formula. i ought not to omit mentioning that they have several sacred relics here, some of which cannot fail to excite a smile, and others such as tourists always expect to find in every collection. among the first is what is said to be part of the table-cloth used at the last supper! the visitor is not expected to inquire if table-cloths were used in those days, or he might be answered, "of course they were; else how came this piece here?" the piece of the true cross is here, of course, for no well-regulated collection of relics or cathedral is complete without it; while the tooth of st. john the baptist and leg bone of st. anne may cause some unbelieving thomases to wonder how long these mortuary relics can be kept preserved from the crumbling touch of time. i had no idea what an intensely curious exhibition a cabinet of minerals could be, till i stood within the great building containing the collection here, which is in a series of apartments in all as long as quincy market, in boston, and most admirably arranged and classified. it seemed as if the whole world had been ransacked for specimens in every nook and corner, from the frozen regions of the poles to the coral caves of the tropics; from the surface to the centre; and that geology might be studied here by illustration, and metallurgy and mineralogy thoroughly learned from specimens, so numerous are they, and so perfectly are the different varieties and branches arranged. here are marbles from every part of the world, even greenland; copper from the slave-worked mines of siberia, and the prolific pits of the lake superior country, in fragments, dust, ingots, and masses; coal bearing the familiar names of our american mines, those of the great english pits, and specimens from china, japan, bohemia, and new zealand; gold in all its curious shapes, as found in rock that showed not its glitter, and in the smooth nuggets from california and australia; the less precious, but not less useful iron, from every part of the globe; diamonds from brazil; agates; malachite from the ural mountains; crystals from the alps; amethysts, rubies, and uncut gems, plucked from streams or rocky prisons; silver ore from the mines of potosi; solid lead from great britain, spain, and america; tin, cinnabar, platina--till it seemed that every known metal, ore, rock, mineral, or gem, from every quarter of the world, had its representative specimen in this priceless collection. among the remarkable curiosities of the museum were the largest opal in the world,--as large as a man's fist, and weighing seventeen ounces,--too big for the breastpin of the most ambitious american expressman or negro minstrel; a great rock crystal, as big as a man's leg; a great bed or mass of crystals, four and a half feet in diameter; elegant specimens of uncut gems and diamond crystals; a large collection of aerolites, or meteoric stones, which have fallen in various parts of the world. among the most curious of these is one mass looking like melted rock, weighing over five hundred pounds. then there are curious fossil remains, bird tracks, and ferns, in stone, and various other interesting illustrations of geology. a very costly wonder is a beautiful bouquet of flowers, made entirely of precious stones, for the empress maria theresa,--the colors of leaves, buds, and petals all being preserved by different-colored gems,--a sparkling but scentless nosegay. this superb collection is one of the wonders of vienna, and must afford an admirable opportunity to students and others engaged in the study of mineralogy, &c., numbers of whom we saw in different departments, as we passed through, making notes and examinations. a museum where one having any taste for antiquities may positively luxuriate, is the ambras museum of ancient arms and armor, a real, authenticated historical collection,--armor that had actually been worn and fought in by men whose names figure in history hundreds of years ago. how the antiquary will thank the old archduke ferdinand, who made this collection in , expressly for the purpose of interesting future ages, and left his own autographic manuscripts (still preserved), authenticating them beyond a doubt. three large rooms of six in the museum are devoted to the collection of arms and armor. here were the helmet of francis i., of france, that may have been worn in his battle with his warlike opponent, the german emperor, charles v., or at his meeting with henry viii. on the field of the cloth of gold; the complete armor, for man and horse, of the emperor maximilian; the armor of charles v.; that of philip ii.,--armor that he may have ridden in, side by side with his english wife, bloody mary; the dinted armor of that fierce warrior, don john of austria, that may have shielded its owner in many a deadly encounter; a magnificent steel suit, fluted with gold, belonging to the archbishop of salzburg; the handsomely-wrought steel armor of maurice, elector of saxony; a whole room full of armor suits and weapons used at tournaments during the middle ages; the elegant suit of alexander farnese, of parma, made in , of great beauty of workmanship, and which would put our artificers of the present day to their best skill to rival. here are the battle-axe of montezuma, emperor of mexico; the horse-tail standards captured from the turks, and elegant swords and weapons of italian warriors, rich in ornament and chasing. of these interesting memorials of ancient chivalry, there are nearly one hundred and fifty suits of armor, weapons, &c.--historical mementos of the manners of the middle ages. chapter xii. on our first sunday in vienna we attended service at the church of st. augustine, the chief features of the service being the splendid robes of the priests, and the magnificent music--the instrumental portion, in addition to the organ, being the full orchestra from the opera-house, led by its leader, baton in hand, and giving some of the compositions of the great composers in a style that made the lofty arches of the old church to seem filled with heavenly melody. in this church is canova's superb monument to the archduchess christiana, a marble pyramid thirty feet high, upon a broad marble pedestal, with two wide steps. in the centre of this pyramid, designed to represent the tomb, is a door, and grouped upon the steps, on their way towards it, are several life-sized allegorical figures, most exquisitely wrought. a female figure, in flowing drapery, bearing a flower-wreathed urn, with a child walking on either side of her, followed by another figure, benevolence, supporting by the arm old age, a bent, decrepit, tottering old man leaning upon a staff, are the figures on one side; while upon the other reposes a lion, with an angel seated by his side, and half reclining upon his rugged mane. the white, flowing drapery of these figures is so beautifully wrought as to fairly rival reality, and the figure of old age, with tottering limbs, weary face, and relaxed muscles, a perfect masterpiece of art. the angel, reclining upon the lion, is a figure of exquisite beauty, while the grouping of the whole, and the natural positions of the figures, render the composition both apt and beautiful. at the capuchin church we went down into the vault of the imperial family, under the guidance of a sandalled friar, torch in hand. here rest the mortal remains of royalty, in seventy great metallic coffins or sarcophagi,--the oldest that of ferdinand, , and the most splendid being that of joseph i., which has over two thousand pounds of silver about it, wrought into armorial bearings, crowns, death's heads, wreaths of flowers, and other designs. the rest are chiefly wrought from zinc into the forms of mortuary caskets, with appropriate designs. while the group of visitors were tediously following the monotonous description of the friar, i unconsciously seated myself upon the end of one of these ornamented chests of human ashes, from which, when discovered, i was requested to rise by an indignant wave of the hand, and a look upon the friar's face that savored strongly of indignation, as he approached the spot with the party, and commenced his description. then it was i discovered that i had been making my seat of the funeral casket of the duke of reichstadt, son of the great napoleon; and near by we saw that of the emperor francis, his grandfather. from this gloomy chamber of dead royalty, we were glad once more to emerge to the busy street and to close the day's sight-seeing by a visit to a musical festival given in an immense garden just outside the city, called, i think, the new world garden. the occasion being the virgin's birthday, there was an extra attraction; first there was the splendid strauss band, about seventy pieces, led by strauss himself; then two large military bands, and these played alternately, and _such_ music! the strauss waltzes and dance music were given with a "voluptuous swell," precision, and beauty that were enchanting to listen to. they were liquid billows of harmony, and as inspiriting to the feet of the dancers as a draught of nitrous oxide to the imagination. the voluptuous waltz ceased, the military band would then burst forth with grand march or quickstep that would make one's very pulses thrill, and when this closed, the other band gave an overture or grand musical composition, which concluded, the lively dance music of strauss again burst forth with its exhilarating strains. there were three or four thousand persons present strolling through the pleasant walks and shady alleys, or sitting at the tables near the music pavilions eating ices, drinking light wines or beer, chatting, and listening to the music. the price of admission to the regular concerts of the strauss band here is about eighteen cents! but to this entertainment, which was an extra occasion, or a sort of a fête day, the enormous fee of nearly thirty cents was demanded! the excellence of the music as well as the cheapness of the entertainment, was marvellous to us americans. it is a pleasant excursion to the schönbrunn, or summer palace, and the gardens connected with it, about three miles from vienna. these gardens on fine sunday afternoons are thronged with people from the city, strolling through their shady alleys and beautiful walks. the shrubbery and landscape gardening here are great curiosities; long, straight avenues are laid out, with the trees on each side trimmed like hedges to the height of thirty or forty feet, presenting a perspective of an avenue as smooth and unbroken as if sliced out of a solid mass of green, with a keen blade; then the masses of foliage are trimmed into niches for marble statues, graceful curves, and columns, and curious walks. the flower-gardens of the palace were beautiful, and the hot-houses rich in great palms and other tropical wonders; there were quite a number, some dozen or more, of these conservatories, each devoted to different varieties of plants, a description of which would be wearisome. as some of the royal family were at the palace we could not visit the interior, but passing through the gardens, we ascended to the _gloriette_, a sort of open temple with a colonnade of pillars, situated upon rising ground, and commanding a fine view of vienna and the surrounding country, including the battle-fields of aspern and wagram. the imperial picture gallery of vienna is a collection of paintings worth a journey over the ocean to see--rich in the masterpieces of the old masters, and containing in all about two thousand pictures, which are arranged in different apartments according to the school of art to which they belong. here, again, we were bewildered with a wealth of beauty: here one begins to realize what wonders the painter's brush is capable of; what laborious finishers the old masters were; how very little advance, if any at all, has been made in the art; what skill must have been used in the manufacture and laying on of colors which, after the lapse of two or three hundred years, are as fresh, bright and effective as if but yesterday applied to the canvas. it would be like enumeration by catalogue to give the list of pictures that we have pencilled notes of admiration against; but only think of seeing elegant pictures from the pencils of paul veronese, titian, raphael, guido, correggio, murillo, rembrandt, cuyp, poussin, vandyke, rubens, teniers, albert dürer, van eyck, andrea del sarto, gerard dow, and schneyders! why, after going through this gallery, having seen that at munich, it seemed as if we had seen the originals of half of all the engravings and copies of great works that we have ever looked upon; and as in other galleries, we found the longest time we could possibly give to it allowed us only a glance, comparatively speaking, at its treasures. there was titian's ecce homo, a masterpiece of artistic skill that one wanted hours to study; the entombment, and his beautiful figure of danaë; correggio's elegant picture of christ and the woman of samaria; guido's holy family--a room entirely filled with the works of that industrious artist, rubens, among which was his assumption of the virgin, loyola casting out evil spirits, and xavier healing the sick. teniers also had a room, among which his peasants' marriage, and village fête, were conspicuous; albert dürer's martyrdom of ten thousand christians--a wonderful work, in which every form of torture and death seemed to have been represented; a student for the torture chamber of the holy inquisition might have obtained new ideas by studying it; dürer's magnificent picture of the holy trinity, surrounded by a crowd of saints, cherubs, and angels--a representation in which perfect finish in all the details of features and heavenly beauty was marvellously executed; paul veronese's holy family, and two splendid battle-pieces by salvator rosa. in the modern gallery there were also many wonderfully beautiful works of art--a fearfully real picture of the massacre of the innocents, by charles arrienti; a wonderfully funny one of mischief-makers in an artist's studio, by joseph danhauser--a picture that will make one laugh aloud; a fine picture, of the adieu of a soldier of the austrian _landwehr_ to his wife and children--figures all of life-size, painted by pierre krafft; a sortie of a garrison against turkish assailants--a great painting crowded with figures in the most spirited action, and all beautifully finished by the same artist.; shnorr's mephistophiles appearing to faust--an elegant and effective composition; grand canal of venice, by schoefft--a lovely scene. and so it continued--great battle-pieces with life-like warriors, with weapons and mail strikingly like reality; lovely landscapes that filled one with admiration to gaze upon; religious subjects, on which the loftiest art and the sublimest conceptions were exhausted; wonderful trickery of art in some compositions; quiet beauty in others, that drew the beholder, again and again, back to gaze upon them, till, with aching limbs and fatigued vertebræ, we closed our first visit to this glorious collection, with the thought of how discouraging is the effort to attempt, in a day or two, that over which weeks, and even months, might be used with pleasure and intellectual profit. tourists, who are always buying something in every european capital they visit, find the beautiful fancy goods shops and vienna goods potent attractions. it is in this city that all the beautiful leather-work, known as russia leather, is manufactured, its deep-red stain and peculiar perfume as fascinating as the many-colored hues and glossy surface of fresh kid gloves, or the fragrance of the leaves of a new volume, to the purchaser. travelling satchels of this material, which at home are an extravagant luxury, are here obtainable at less than half the american price. then the leather is wrought in a hundred fanciful ways: it appears in trunks; portfolios soft, elegant, and portable; pocket-books smooth and elastic; work-boxes, hat-boxes, covered smelling-bottles, flasks, and canes; in watch-chains or portable inkstands, whip-stocks, boots and shoes, elegantly mounted horse harnesses; and, in fact, in about every way it can be used to court the eye and be of service. the meerschaum pipe stores of vienna must make a smoker half crazy with delight; and indeed, to those who do not use the weed, their windows are among the most attractive upon the great streets, from the ingenuity and skill displayed in the innumerable forms into which pipe bowls are carved. the most artistic skill and elaborate workmanship appear to have been expended upon these pipes, and the great pipe stores vie with each other in displaying in their windows specimens of delicate carvings and curious designs, beautiful amber mouth-pieces, tobacco-boxes, pouches, and the smoker's paraphernalia. an american rarely leaves vienna without some of its meerschaums in his baggage. gentlemen's clothing, excellently made to order, can be bought here at astonishingly low prices, and the ladies find fans, fancy goods, and laces to be not so dear as in paris. the prices at the leading hotels are rather high, but the cuisine is unexceptionable, and vienna bread the best in the world. once eaten, the traveller will establish it as his standard of excellence. it is snowy white, without flake, fine-grained, has a light, brown, crisp crust, no particle of flavor of yeast, gas, or acidity, but a fragrance of purity and sweetness, and the dyspeptic may devour the delicious, round breakfast rolls, almost in any quantity, with impunity. most americans are astonished to find what a luxurious repast can be made from mere bread and butter in vienna. vienna appears more like london and paris than other european capitals. its brilliant cafés, shops, and the elegant new boulevards, recently completed, give it quite the air of paris; and so also do the numerous amusements, out-of-door concerts, and musical entertainments, together with the general pleasure-seeking character of the people. among the fine promenades just out of the city is one known as the prater, near the river danube, a favorite resort of fashion and aristocracy, where we saw a brilliant display of elegant carriages and gayly-dressed occupants; equestrians, out to display their elegant horses, and their own horsemanship; austrian officers, in their rich uniforms, and pedestrians, out for an afternoon lounge and enjoyment of the gay scene. we stopped _en route_ to venice, by rail, at adelsberg, about fifty miles from trieste, and which we were told by certain americans to be sure and visit, as its grotto, the cave of adelsberg, was one of the wonders of europe; and, for once, we found the assertion to be correct, for, after a visit to it, we classed in our mind as among the wonders we had seen, thus: the alps, milan cathedral, and the grotto of adelsberg. it is an odd experience to arrive in a foreign country at a railroad station at nine o'clock at night, and yourself and companion the only persons who leave the train, finding, on looking about you, after it has whizzed away into the darkness, that the five or six officials in attendance cannot understand a word of english, and that their language is equally unintelligible to you. however, travel sharpens one's wits, and by sign language, and the pronouncing of the name of the hotel mentioned in our guide-book, "_ungarish krone_," we managed to make the somewhat stolid officials understand that we wished to go to that place. but now a new difficulty seemed to arise, and an animated palaver took place, with the accompaniment of various shrugs, gesticulations, and contortions of visage, which really seemed to portend something serious, but which turned out to be that, as we had arrived on a train that very seldom set down any passengers there, there was no means of conveyance to the hotel, and we must walk. a guide, with a hand wagon bearing our luggage, accordingly started, and we trudged after him in the darkness. no, not darkness; for during our detention the moon had risen, and our journey to the old-fashioned, quaint-looking village, and through the court-yard of the hungarian crown hotel, was less disagreeable than it might have been. arrived at the hotel, a new difficulty arose. the landlord spoke only italian and a patois of german, which was dutch to us, and was vexed at being disturbed from a grand exhibition, which was in progress in his dining-room, of feats of jugglery, and elocutionary exercises by two itinerant performers. gratifying was it to have a young italian girl at this adelsberg hostelry come out from the crowd,--not one of whom seemed to speak english or french,--speak perfect english to us, and translate our wants to the landlord. and gratifying was it to our national pride to see what alacrity the announcement that we were americans put into his step, and the speed of his preparations; for in less than half an hour we had been provided with an excellent apartment, and were sitting at a little supper table at one end of the _salle à manger_, enjoying tea, chops, and other creature comforts. at the same time, a magician was performing in the room to an audience of fifty or sixty, whose costume, conversation, and manners were to us the most interesting part of it. we also found ourselves to be somewhat of a curiosity to the auditors, while the young italian who could converse with us in our own tongue, having formerly been lady's maid in an english family, found herself quite distinguished, on account of her accomplishment, among her friends, who crowded around her, and, as we afterwards learned, plied her with innumerable questions about the americans and their distant country. being the only foreigners in the place desirous of visiting the cave the next morning, we were obliged to pay the same expense that would have been required of a party of a dozen. the cave is the property of the government, and there is a regular tariff of charges, according to the grade of illumination,--that is, the number of candles used in displaying the halls and grottos; for a goodly quantity are required to even partially display its wonders. the grand illumination, "utterly regardless," we declared against; so also did we the cheap third and fourth rate, but decided upon the second, involving an expense of about twelve dollars and a half, and six guides. our former experiences in caves, mines, ruins, and grottos have always necessitated a change of costume, a donning of rubber coats, overalls, old hats, or overshoes. consequently we were a little incredulous at the assertion that, with the exception of tolerably stout shoes, nothing more than an ordinary costume was necessary. we entered this wonderful cavern directly from the road, walking into it as into an arched excavation in a hill-side. four of our six guides had preceded us, and kept about a quarter of an hour in advance, with their satchels of candles and torches, to illuminate the great halls and chambers on our approach; while the other two, one of whom, to our joy, spoke french, accompanied us with torches, to guide us, and point out the curiosities and wonders of the place. the cavern is miles in extent. and let not the reader imagine any damp, dirty hole in the earth, with muddy soil and dripping roof, or a squeezing through of narrow, dangerous passages, clambering over obstacles, or anything of the kind; for, with the exception of the damp sand of a shallow stream, for twenty yards near the very entrance, the walking was as dry and free from absolute discomforts as a city street. three hours' walk through the bowels of the earth revealed to us that there were as wondrous beauties below as above the earth; for we passed through great natural gothic passages, almost as natural as if shaped by the builder's hands, forests and clusters of columns glittering with fantastic ornament. we emerged into a great dome-like apartment, big enough to set boston state house down in its centre, and leave room to spare. this our guides had illumined with the candles placed in every direction, and the effect upon the glittering stalactites and stalagmites, frosted as they were with flashing crystals, was as if we stood in a vast hall of diamonds, sparkling around in every direction. on we went, amid pillars, arches, and spires. here was a great dome, one hundred and sixty-five feet high, the guides told us, spangled, as far up as we could see, with a perfect blaze of sparkling particles, reflecting back the light of the numerous candles, like a roof crusted with gems. another great hall was shaped like a huge theatre. right through the centre, where should be the parquet, rushed a swift, silent, black river--the poick; a natural stone bridge formed the orchestra; beyond it, a great platform of rock, the stage; two semicircular ledges of rock opposite were the two rows of dress circle and boxes; only this great theatre was double, yes, treble the size of a real one. our guides had placed a double row of lights over the orchestral bridge, which were reflected on the black stream beneath. another row represented the stage lights. two more rows ran round stone balconies where we stood, while the illusion is heightened by an extemporized chandelier, made from hogshead hoops, filled with rows of candles, and swung out by means of a wooden crane into the centre. the effect was magnificent and indescribable. another great hall was designated "mount calvary," and was a succession of gradual ascents, past stalactite columns, by a winding pathway, to a summit where were three formations of the rock, which, by an effort of the imagination, might represent the group at our saviour's crucifixion. this magnificent hall, like the others, blazed with sparkling particles, was rich in white, marble-like columns, clustered pillars, wondrous arches, and semi-transparent sheets of cream-colored rock. another hall, when lighted, seemed a realization of those "fairy grottos," "abode of elves," or "home of the sea-nymphs," which we see represented upon the stage of the theatre; for it was a wilderness of fret-work, pretty arches, open, lace-work sort of rock screens, slender spires, alabaster-like pillars, and all glittering and flashing with the alum-like, crystal-sparkling particles of the formation which is found in these caverns. passing from hall to hall, we encounter numerous curious and astonishingly natural formations. there were statues, petrified waterfalls, a torrent in full career turned into alabaster; towers, one the leaning tower of pisa, fifteen feet high, a very good representation; columns as transparent as an alabaster vase; ruined castles, thirty feet high, with battlements and turrets; a splendid pulpit, grand throne, a butcher's shop with joints hanging from its beams; and a prison with its grated window, all in white stone. here we came to great white curtains of rock, a dozen yards high and half that width, no thicker than the hand, which when struck with a wooden mallet bounded like a cathedral bell; then we came to a place like the sea-beach, where it seemed as if the slow in-coming waves, as they washed upon the sands, had felt the stony touch that had transformed all--for there were the little rippling waves in solid alabaster, caught in their retreat, with all the little eddies and foam-whirls as they were sliding back to the surf that sent them in, and held solid and immovable. upon one huge crag of rock sat quite a shapely eagle, and from another drooped a huge flag in snowy folds, and beneath it, rising as if to grasp it, reached up a titanic hand; then came a tall palm tree, next a broom of stone big enough for a giant; a lion's head looking over a jutting crag, and yew trees by the path side, besides many other objects, some most wonderfully natural in appearance, and others requiring the exercise of a lively imagination to see the representation. the last grand apartment in this wonderful cave was the state ball-room, a beautiful circular-formed apartment, with its centre clear and unobstructed, affording ample space for dancers, who use it once a year, on whit-sunday, when a grand ball, with full orchestra, is given there. this apartment contains a natural formation for the orchestra, an elegant rocky seat as a throne, and tiers of seats, rows of sparkling columns about its sides, and elegant rocky fret-work far above. the effect of the illumination here, as in other apartments, was dazzlingly beautiful. after our three hours' walk, which was through a succession of natural wonders, we emerged again into daylight from this aladdin cavern. the whole of the journey was, with the exception of a dozen yards, over walks as dry as a floor, and through passages twenty feet and more wide, and from twenty to two hundred and more feet in height. this subterranean wonder, we were informed, and we also saw by the traveller's register, but comparatively few americans see; but it is a sight that none should miss. it may be "done" by stopping over half a day on the railroad between vienna and venice, or can be reached by riding out from trieste by rail, a distance of fifty miles. chapter xiii. we found ourselves early in the morning, after an all-night ride, running over a flat, marshy, sea-shore-looking country, approaching venice. venice! there was something magical in the sound of that name, as conjuring up memories of school-boy dreams and youthful imagination, equal in effect to the sonorous boom of the word london, that fills the fancy like the tone of a great cathedral bell, when we felt we were actually to set foot in that great city, which historian, poet, and novelist had made us hunger to see for so many years. venice, the scene of so much of byron's poetry; venice, that rogers sang of; venice, with its doges, its council of ten, its terrible dungeons; venice, the merchant of venice--we should see the very bridge that old shylock met antonio upon; venice, with its great state barges and the doge marrying the adriatic; venice, with its canals, having those water parties in gondolas that we see in engravings representing ladies and gentlemen in silk and velvet attire, with fruit, wine, and musical instruments before them, and broad, embroidered table clothing dragging from the boatside into the water. the venice of shakespeare and byron, and rogers and cooper,-- "beautiful venice, the bride of the sea." we rolled in on our train over the great railroad bridge, of two miles in length, which spans the lagoon, and enters venice on the island of st. lucia. this bridge is fourteen feet wide, and upheld by two hundred and twenty-two arches, and its foundation is, of course, built upon piles driven into the muddy bed of the lagoon. we halt in a great railway station, a conductor pokes his head into the railway carriage, and ejaculates, "_ven-neat-sear_," and we are at venice. following the advice of an old tourist, we had telegraphed to the hotel danieli that we were coming, and to have a conveyance ready at the station. we were, therefore, prepared, by our former experience in vienna, for the gentlemanly personage who addressed us in english, on alighting, to the effect that he had a gondola in waiting to convey us to the hotel. our luggage was soon obtained, and safely stowed in the bottom of the long, black craft, with its two oarsmen, one at each end; and in another moment, propelled by their measured and powerful strokes, we were gliding over the great canals of venice, and having our first ride in a gondola. the novel sight of tall marble buildings, rising directly from out the water; the numerous gondolas gliding hither and thither; the great reaches of canals, or alleys of water, stretching up between marble buildings; the light iron lattice-work bridges; painted gondola posts; the slowly crumbling and time-defaced fronts of many an ancient palace; the stalwart gondoliers, and their warning shouts at the canal corners,--were all novelties on this our first gondola ride, till we arrived at the hotel, once the palace of the danieli family, and which we found fronted on the grand canal, and but a short distance from the square and church of st. mark, doge's palace, &c. every traveller and letter-writer tells about the gondolas and the gondoliers, and some sentimental scribblers do draw the long-bow terribly about them. the long, low water craft, with their easy, comfortable, morroco cushions, upon which you might sit or recline at full length, and be either hidden or exposed to view, as suits the taste, with their gentle, almost imperceptible motion, i found to be the most luxurious and lazy mode of travel i ever experienced. but let not the reader understand that the canals, these water alleys that slash the city in every direction, are its only highways; one may walk all over venice on foot, although, of course, in passing from certain points to others, he may have to go a more roundabout way in order to cross the bridges than he would have to take in the gondola. the tall, graceful gondoliers are quite a study, and the marvellous skill with which they manage their long crafts a wonder. the scientific whirl of an oar-blade, a mere twist of the hand, or a sort of geometric figure cut in the water, will wind their narrow craft in and out a crowd of others, or avoid collisions that seem inevitable. the shout of warning of the gondolier as he approaches a corner, or to others approaching, is musically italian, and much of the charm undoubtedly comes from the athletic forms, the dark italian faces, deep black eyes, and graceful movements of the rowers, and the swift passage of their mysterious craft past tall palaces, flights of marble steps sloping down to the shining waters, and graceful bridges. yet one wants to be on the larger or broadest canals to get up anything like poetic fervor in venice, and then in sunlight, or, as was my good fortune, beneath the gorgeous gilding of the full moon. when your gondola takes you on a business trip, and you turn off from any of the great canals upon a narrow one for a short cut, in fact, leave the main street for a back or side one, you become aware that there is something besides poetry in the canals of venice. the water, which was bright and shining in the sunlight, becomes, when shut up between tall buildings, like a great puddle in a cellar, or the dark pool in an abandoned mine; foul greenness and slime stick to the walls of old buildings and decaying palaces, fragments of seaweed and other debris float here and there, the perfume is not of "araby the blest," and the general watery flavor of everything causes one to appreciate the western american's criticism as to what sort of a place he found venice, who replied, "damp, sir; very damp." dreamily floating upon the grand canal, however, beneath the full moon of autumn, with the ducal palace and its pointed arches and columns, making a beautiful picture of light and shade; the tall pillars, bearing st. theodore and the winged lion, shooting up to the deep-blue sky, their summits tipped with silver in the beam; the tall obelisk of the campanile rising in the background like a sentinel; the canal between the palace and the prison, like a stream of light, revealing the well-known bridge of sighs, spanning the gap; and withal the canal itself, a sheet of molten silver, which, disturbed by the gondolier's oar-blade, flashes like a shattered mirror,--and you realize something of what the poet has sung and the novelist written. then comes the tinkle of a guitar faintly across the water; long, dark gondolas glide silently past your own like magical monsters, guided by dark genii, whose scarcely perceptible motion of a dark wand in the silver sea sends them on with hardly a ripple; the very shout of these fellows heard coming across the water at night has a melody in it, and the tremulous light from tall marble palaces reflected upon the water, with the flitting hither and thither of gondolier lanterns seen upon some of the narrower ebon currents, scarce reached by the moon between the lofty buildings, make the whole scene seem like a fairy panorama, that will vanish entirely before the light of day. the grand canal, the main artery of the city, which varies from one hundred to about two hundred feet wide, seems to wind round through the city, past all the most noted churches and palaces. over one hundred and fifty other aqueous highways lead out and in to it, and more than three hundred bridges cross them, linking the seventy-two islands of venice together like the octagon braces of a spider's web. the flood of memories of what one has read of the ancient glories of venice, queen of the adriatic, its great commercial power, its government and doges, its magnificent palaces, its proud nobles, its wealth, luxury, and art, and, above all, the investment of every monument and palace with historic interest and poetic charm, is apt to cause the tourist to expend his epistolary labor in recalling and rehearsing historic facts and figures relating to the wonderful city of the sea; for, in these modern days, one can hardly realize, looking at her now, that, in the early part of the fifteenth century, her merchants had ten millions of golden ducats in circulation; that three thousand war ships and forty-five galleys, besides over three thousand merchant ships, flew her proud flag; that fifty-two thousand sailors, over a hundred great naval captains, a thousand nobles, besides judges, lawyers, merchants, and artisans were hers. "once she did hold the gorgeous east in fee, and was the safeguard of the west," but now is but an exhibition of the traces of ancient grandeur, power, and magnificence combined with the too evident indications of modern poverty and decay. the doge's palace, piazetta, ducal palace, and the two tall pillars bearing the winged lion and the statue of st. theodore, seen from the water, are such familiar objects from the numerous paintings,--no art collection is complete without one or two,--engravings, and scenic representations, that they seem to be old acquaintances, and at first to lack the charm of novelty. around the base of the two pillars, when the shade of the buildings falls that way, lay lazzaroni at full length on the flat pavement, while at the edge of the broad platform of stone, that ran out to the water of the canal, were moored groups of gondolas, the gondoliers on the alert for strangers who might wish to visit the lido, dogana del mare, or rialto. rialto! yes; that is the first place we will visit. "many a time and oft upon the rialto." "hey, there, gondolier! _ponte di rialto._" the gondolier certainly understood english, for he said something about "_see_, signore," and prepared the cushions of his gondola for us, upon which we straightway reclined, and in a few moments' time were corkscrewing our way through a crowd of market-boats, gondolas, and 'long-shore-men's craft, near the landing at one end of the celebrated merchants' exchange of shylock's time. after various remarkable curves, twists, and wonderful windings among the water craft, enlivened with shouts, exclamations, a sparkling of black eyes, and play of swarthy features on the part of the gondoliers, we were brought to the dirty landing, and ascended from it, and stood upon the bridge--the rialto. much of the poetry of the rialto bridge is destroyed by some of the guide-books, which state that the _land_ on the left of the canal passing up was called the rialto, and was considered the city, and distinguished as such from the _state_ of venice; and upon this rialto, _not_ the bridge, were the custom-house, various warehouses, and other establishments connected with trade and commerce; that the real "on 'change," where antonio and shylock met, was in the square opposite the church of san jacope, which, in olden time, was crowded with merchants, who there transacted their business of weight and consequence. however, when i was a boy, i always, in my mind, made the rendezvous of the merchant and the jew on the bridge; but it must have been sadly changed since the time shakespeare wrote of, unless shylock came to buy some old clothes, and antonio to obtain grapes, figs, or onions for dinner. this we thought while standing on the bridge. the view of it from the water, where its single arch of ninety-one feet span, twenty-five feet from the current, lifts up the six arches on each side, rising to the open or central arcade at the top, with the rail and swelled balusters at their base, is so familiar, that, as we looked at it from the gondola, it seemed as if some old scene at the theatre had just been slid together at the sound of the prompter's whistle, or that we were looking at an old engraving through a magnifying-glass. the romantic imagination of him who fancies that he shall pace over this old structure, and muse on shylock, antonio, and othello undisturbed upon its broad platform, is dispelled when he finds that its seventy-two feet of breadth is divided into three or four passages or streets, and two rows of shops, devoted to the sale of every conceivable thing in the way of provisions, fruit, vegetables, macaroni, clothing, cheap ornaments, beads, dry goods, and china, absolutely crowded with hucksters of every description, giving an amusing panorama of the venetian retail business in its various departments. hard by our hotel was the doge's palace, another familiar edifice; and, as we stood within its great court-yard, we could realize something of the luxury and art of venice in former days. the marble front of the palace, looking into this enclosure, was a wilderness of elegant carving, armorial bearings, statues, wreaths, elaborate cornices, elegant columns, wrought balustrades, graceful arches, and beautiful bass-reliefs. here, in the centre of the marble pavement, are the great bronze openings of cisterns, nearly breast high, richly wrought, and five or six feet in diameter. standing upon this pavement, we look up at the celebrated giant's staircase--a superb ascent, and architecturally simple and grand. at its top stand two colossal statues of mars and neptune on either side; and it was here, upon this upper step between the two colossi, that the doges were crowned; and here byron locates the last scene of marino faliero, where, when the citizens rush in, "the gory head rolls down the giant's stairs." the panelling of this grand staircase is of the most elegantly wrought and polished marble, of various hues, artistically arranged. everywhere the prodigality of rich and costly marbles in panellings, pillars, arcades, arches, colonnades, and luxurious decoration is lavished with an unsparing hand. opposite the giant's stairs are elegant statues of adam and eve, while others of great venetians, or allegorical subjects, appear in various niches. we stood in the hall of the great council, a splendid apartment of over one hundred and seventy-five feet long and eighty-five in width, the walls covered with magnificent paintings--tintoretto's huge picture of paradise, eighty-four feet wide and thirty-four high; the discovery of pope alexander, painted by the sons of paul veronese; a splendid battle-piece, representing a contest between the turks and venetians and crusaders; the return of a doge after a victory over the genoese; paul veronese's allegorical picture of venice, and many pictures illustrating the history of venice, among them one of a great naval battle, full of figures, and quite a spirited composition; others portrayed various scenes illustrating the doges' reception of the pope, and the performance of various acts acknowledging his power. all around the upper part of the walls ran the noted series of portraits, seventy-two in number, of the doges of venice, and, of course, our eyes first sought that of marino faliero, or, rather, the place where it should have been. directly opposite the throne--probably that other doges might take warning--hung the frame, like the others, but in place of the aged face and whitening hairs, crowned with the doge's cap, was the black curtain, on which was painted,-- "_hic est locus marini faletro decapiti pro criminibus._" this inscription does more to perpetuate the doge's name to posterity than his portrait, or anything else, even had byron never written his tragedy. here, among these portraits, are those whose names are famed in venetian history. francisco foscari, who reigned for over thirty-five years; "blind old dandolo," who, when elected doge, in , was eighty-five years of age, and led the attack on constantinople in person at ninety-seven. foscari's tragic story is told by byron; and there are others whose deeds, and almost very names, are forgotten. history tells us that of the first fifty doges, five abdicated, five were banished with their eyes put out, five were massacred, nine deposed, and two fell in battle long before the reign of marino faliero, who was beheaded. andrea dondolo died of vexation. foscari, after his long and glorious term of service to his country, was rewarded by that circle of demons, the council of ten, by fiendishly torturing his son, in the vain hope of extorting a confession, failing in which they deposed the father, who, when the great bell of st. mark sounded, announcing the election of his successor, fell dead from a rupture of a blood-vessel. an historical apartment is this hall of the great council, with the painted battles of the once proud republic lining the walls, and the faces of its seventy-two doges looking silently down upon these mimic scenes of their glory and triumph. here, upon the very platform where i stood, was once the doge's throne. here he spoke to the council; so would i. "most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors;" and othello's address never had more quiet listeners than the seventy-two red-robed, bell-capped old nobles in the picture frames as my voice echoed in this grand old hall, where theirs had, nearly five centuries ago, been listened to upon affairs of state with rapt attention. a wealth of art in the collection of splendid creations of great artists pervades this ancient home of the doges, which greet the visitor at every turn as he goes from room to room; collections of bronzes, curious carvings, and rich ornamental work are profuse, and in one apartment is an exceedingly curious collection of ancient maps, made in the sixteenth century, and a rare and interesting collection of manuscripts, autographic letters, &c. but, after having stood upon the doges' throne in the council hall, and stepped out on the balcony where the doges were wont to show themselves to the people below, we must see the "lion's mouth." upon inquiry, we found we had passed it; and no wonder, for not far from the staircase was pointed out to us a narrow slit in the wall, very much like that at a country post-office for the reception of letters, through which the secret denunciations were slipped for the inspection of the terrible council of ten. "but where is the lion's mouth?" "here is where it _was_," said the guide: and he further told us that government was having a bronze head made to supply the place of the old one, that was long since removed--for travellers would not be satisfied, unless they saw here the real bronze head of a lion, with a fierce mouth, emblematical of the cruel grip of the terrible inquisitorial council, that denunciations which sent a man to the tortures of the rack and the block itself could ever have been thrust through so contemptible a slit in the wall. next we sat down in the hall of the council of ten itself--a room with its ceiling richly ornamented with paintings by paul veronese, and beautiful paintings by other artists upon its walls. then we visited the doges' audience chamber, rich in pictures by paul veronese; but the best picture we saw here, from this artist's pencil, was the rape of europa, in which the soft beauty and rich coloring of the landscape contended with the loveliness of the female figure in exciting the spectator's admiration. this picture is in an ante-room, said to have once been a guard-room, upon the walls of which are also four of tintoretto's best pictures--venus crowning ariadne, mercury and the graces, vulcan at his forge, and pallas and mars. but it is useless to _enumerate_ paintings in these grand old palaces, as such enumeration becomes but little better than a catalogue. as we have said before, these glorious creations of the great artists waken enthusiasm in the dullest breast. we have nothing at home with which to compare them; they are sights and wonders in foreign lands that are a large portion of the charm of foreign travel. to the lover of, or enthusiast in art, they are a luxurious feast and a joy forever; and the ordinary sight-seer soon ceases, after travelling abroad, to regard what he has before deemed undue praise or admiration of the old masters, as affectation on the part of many of those who utter it. we stand "in venice, on the bridge of sighs," and wonder if any modern tourist ever does so without repeating byron's couplet; slowly we pass over it, glance out at the window at the water flashing beneath, think how many sad hearts have crossed this little span, and follow our guide down into the prison vaults below, down through intricate passages, terrible dungeons in the solid masonry, and dimly lighted from the loopholes of the passage. "but will signore go down and see the others?" "others! great heavens! can it be that there are any worse than these?" the guide answers with a significant shrug, and we follow him to a still lower depth. here, down below the level of the surface of the canal, are a tier of holes in the solid masonry--one can hardly call these relics of tyranny anything else. a narrow gallery leads past them, from one end of which the only light and air obtained by the inmates were received. these dungeons are about twelve feet long by six in width, and seven feet high, and were formerly lined with wood, with a little wooden platform raised a foot from the floor, upon which the prisoner rested on his straw. we went into one of these hideous dungeons, where some of the wood-work still remained, upon which, by the aid of a candle, we saw some half-obliterated cuttings and inscriptions in italian, said to be the mementos of unhappy prisoners who had pined in these terrible places. it makes one almost shudder to stand, even now, in one of these fearful prisons, although their grated doors were long since wrenched from their hinges by the french; but the light of day cannot even now reach them, respiration is difficult, and the visitor feels, while standing in them, a nameless horror, or a sensation akin to dread, lest some forgotten door should clap to and fasten him down forever: so we hurry forth, glad to see once more the blue sky above, and chase dull fancies from the brain by an invigorating draught of heaven's pure air. across the broad pave, in front of the doge's palace, and we come to the two granite pillars, each hewn from a single block, one bearing st. theodore, and the other the winged lion, which, upon their pedestals, must be over sixty feet in height; they form a sort of state entrance, or indicators, as it were, to the grand square of st. mark. the end colonnade of the ducal palace, towards these towers, at the landing, or mole, ranged along the edge of the canal, forms part of the piazetta, continuation, or grand state opening of the square out to the water side. we pass between these columns and over the place that has been so often reddened by blood at public executions, and glance up before entering the square, at the elegant architecture of the palace on our left. first, a row of corinthian pillars upholds a richly-ornamented frieze, and within the pillars gothic arches form the covered passage for pedestrians; above, the gothic pillars are repeated, the bend of the inner arches having elegantly sculptured marble figures, in half-reclining positions, and carved heads over the key-stones; above this second tier comes an elegant frieze, ornamented with cupids holding beautifully-sculptured hanging garlands, and sheltered by an elaborate projecting cornice; above this, the marble carved rail and balusters, with each post surmounted with a full-length marble statue. this elegant and elaborate workmanship, these two grand columns, and the series of arches of the doge's palace, the canal between the palace and the prison, and the bridge of sighs, were the first objects that greeted my sight going out from the hotel in the morning; like the gondolas and canals, they seemed of the venice we read about, as they do even now, as we look at them in one of the photographic mementos of our visit. the great square of st. mark, or "_pe-at-zir san marko_," as tourists learn to call it, after they have been there, is five hundred and eighty feet long by about two hundred and seventy wide. it is an elegant enclosure, paved with broad, flat slabs, and surrounded by elegant buildings, the lower stories all around, except beneath one or two public buildings, are arcades, in which are shops, restaurants, and money changers' offices. at one end of the square, right across the whole space of it, rises the church of st. mark, with its arched entrances, florid decorations, bronze horses, and mosque-like cupolas: upon one side extends the ducal palace, the lower story on the square utilized into cafés and shops; upon the other side are the mint and library, and also the great clock tower, with a huge sun-dial, in blue and gold, upon its square side; above it, in a sheltered niche, is the virgin and child; above this, a huge winged lion upon a cornice; and standing high upon the top of the tower, in the open air, is a great bell, beside which stand two huge bronze moors, armed with hammers, with which they strike the hours on the bell. looking towards the church of st. mark, we see the lofty campanile lifting its huge pyramidal top three hundred and twenty feet above the pavement. here, in this great square, of a cool evening and moonlight night, played a fine band of music, while the public distributed itself about at tables, which were set far out upon the pave, and ordered refreshing ice-creams, delicate cakes, and light wines, from the café waiters, which they enjoyed while listening to the music. ladies and gentlemen sauntered up and down; lazzaroni stretched themselves at full length in shadowy nooks; pedlers of curiosities, selecting foreigners with unnerring instinct, sought to dispose of their wares at six times their value, reminding one very forcibly of their image-selling brethren in america. a fellow, with a handful of tooth-picks carved out of bone into the shape of a gondola, sauntered up. "signore inglese" (exhibiting his wares), "you buy him? "no, no" (shaking my head); "don't want it." who ever heard of a man's picking his teeth after eating ice-cream? but the peripatetic dealer was not to be repulsed at the first charge. "signore, buy; varee sheep." "how much?" unlucky words. he scented a trade at once. his black eyes sparkled, and his white teeth glittered in the moonlight. the rogue understood a little english, too. "one lira, one franc, sare; magnifique." "one franc! quarter of a dollar for a contemptible little tooth-pick! get out." "varee fine, sare; gondola, sare; tree for two lira" (holding up his fingers, and laying the merchandise on the table before me). "no, no; too dear." "vat you give me for him?" at this moment the café waiter brought me a few copper coins in change, and was profoundly grateful for two of them. i chinked the others in my hand absently. "give you four sous." "ah, no, signore" (with a deprecatory shrug); "take for half lira--ten sous." "no; don't want it. four sous." he gathered up his tooth-picks, replaced them in his little tray, walked away half a dozen steps--then returned. "signore sall have him for four sous." he pocketed the coins and passed away, and i became possessed of a venetian memento which i afterwards found could be bought in any of the shops for half what i paid for it. nevertheless, it was a cheap lesson in the italian retail trade, which i afterwards profited by. the reader will recollect that the promenading, and the lounge at the tables in the square, is undisturbed by horses and vehicles. there are no horses in venice. if one by chance should be brought there, he would be exhibited as a show. the shops around the square are frequented by travellers for the purchase of venetian jewelry, glass beads, and glass ware. little silver gondolas, scarf-pins, with the winged lion in gold, and mosaics, inlaid with figures of beetles, are much bought by tourists. so are the little mother-of-pearl-looking shells, strung together in necklaces and bracelets, and hawked round by the pedlers. but let no one who visits venice leave without buying some of carlo ponti's photographs, the best and cheapest in the world, unless he has changed since we were in his shop, st. mark's square. these photographic views were of rare beauty, and of all the interesting views in venice, public buildings, exteriors and interiors; also all the great paintings, besides views of buildings and paintings in the great galleries of other cities. these beautiful large-sized views, which bring back what they so faithfully represent vividly to mind, we purchased at from thirty to seventy-five cents each. in new york and boston the price was from three to five dollars each. we have sauntered all around the great square of st. mark, have waited till the hour of two was struck, and seen the cloud of pigeons that come, with their rush of wings like a shower, down to the pavement at one end of the square, to be fed with their daily ration of corn by the government, punctually at the stroke; we have stood before the three huge pedestals of bronze, which are a dozen or twenty feet high, and look like elegantly-wrought gigantic candlesticks, the candles being the tall masts that rise therefrom, from the peaks of which, in the days of venetian glory, floated the silken gonfalons emblematical of the three dominions under the republic--venice, cyprus, and the morea. these beautifully-wrought pedestals exhibit in bass-relief figures of tritons, ships, and sea-nymphs at their base, with a circle of the everlasting winged lions further up towards the centre, and above them ornamental leaves and flowers enclosing the medallion portrait of one of the doges. we entered the campanile, or bell-tower, after admiring the statues about the base, with some doubts about undertaking its ascent, fearing such a getting up stairs as its lofty altitude would call for. to our surprise, however, we found that there were no stairs whatever, the ascent being made by a brick-paved walk, laid in a series of zigzags, each a gradual ascent from the other. so up we went, the whole three hundred and twenty feet,--a long walk,--to the great pyramid above, and enjoyed a superb view of venice, and the gulf of venice, from the top. but the lion of venice (not the winged one) is the grand old church of st. mark, with its five great arched doorways, surrounded by magnificent frescoes, its elegant columns, and bronze horses, of historic fame, looking out into the square. this church is said to be a mixture of grecian and roman architecture, but its domes give it a suggestion of saracenic style. the three huge masts, with their bronze pedestals, stand directly in front of it, and the pavement of the square before the church is fancifully laid out. one great beauty about the entrances is the double row of numerous little columns of various kinds of marble, beautifully wrought. i counted of these fifty-two in the lower tier. they are supported by the same number above, and in the arches of the five doorways are great mosaics, in bright colors, representing the last judgment, the entombment of st. mark, &c. above these, over the huge arches of the doors, except the central one, are other rich mosaics, representing the descent from the cross, the ascension, &c. a marble gallery and railing run above the great arches of the doorways; and over the central one, in front of a huge arched window of many-hued glass, stand the four bronze horses of which so much has been written. they are said to have been brought to rome by augustus after his victory over antony, to have adorned a triumphal arch there, and been successively removed by nero the fiddler, domitian the fly-catcher, and trajan, forum and wall-builder, to arches of their own. the emperor constantine then carried them to his new capital, constantinople, which, hundreds of years after, fell into the hands of the turks, but which, in turn, was taken by the crusaders in the fourth crusade, in , whence they were wrenched from where they stood by knightly plunderers, and brought to venice, to be again pulled down by the great modern crusader, napoleon. france, after having them trotting forth from the top of the arc du carrousel for eighteen years, had to trot them back to venice. so that these horses in their day, which is a space of fifteen hundred years, have travelled about the world to some extent. these bronze steeds weigh nearly two thousand pounds each. above the upper mosaics, the horses, and upper arches, the fringe or decoration of the arches is crammed and crowded with fret-work, statuary, and ornament. six open-work, ornamental steeples enclose colossal statues of saints, a fringe and fret-work of angels, palm-branches, saints, and scroll-work run all along the top of the arches; upon the points of four stand four other saintly statues; on the point over the great arch is the statue of st. mark; under him is his winged lion, with his paw upon the book, and in every conceivable nook and corner a statue, mosaic, or carving, making this great temple one of florid display, while it is rich with the plundered spoils of the crusaders, wrenched from mosques of the moslem, and from constantine's capital, when it fell into their hands. everywhere in this church the visitor sees evidence of this plunder of the east, or, as the old crusaders might have said, "reclamation from the moslems." one of the great bronze doors leading into the spacious vestibule is said to have been one brought from the mosque of st. sophia in ; and the vaulted roof of this vestibule is filled with beautiful mosaic representations of scripture subjects, while around its walls are elegant columns of rare marbles, brought from the east. the huge portals of entrance are of bronze, and besides the one mentioned above is the elegant central one, of a sort of moorish workmanship, with its panels inlaid with figures and carvings in silver. amid these artistical and historical curiosities, we are pointed to an inlaid red and white place in the pavement, at the principal entrance, marking the spot where pope alexander iii. and frederick barbarossa, the bold, red-bearded emperor of germany, who did so much to raise the secular power of his kingdom in opposition to arrogated papal supremacy, met and were reconciled. in other words, here is where, in , frederick rather "knocked under" to the pope. passing in at the portal, the spectator is amazed at the vast mass of elegant columns of marble, porphyry, verd antique, agate, and other elegant stone, superb mosaics, gilding and ornament in profusion that meet his view on every side. this church was, in fact, a sort of treasure-house to the venetians. every ship that went out from the republic when it was building was enjoined to bring back material for it; the doges lavished their wealth upon it, and great artists left their work upon its walls, while the wealth which rich sinners paid in, in offerings, in the hope of purchasing with money immunity from divine wrath for their cruelties and crime, was expended on it with unsparing hand. it is like many other old cathedrals in other countries--a monument of the nation of the past, and not of the present. so st. mark's is a symbol of old venice as it was, and of which we read in history and romance; and as we stand upon its pavement, uneven in marble billows, we look for solemn, long-bearded doges, priests in their vestments, with swinging censers, moving amid the pillars; or a group of crusaders around the octagon pulpit, with a maltese cross in its panel, instead of a few modern dressed tourists in the midst of its dim-lighted splendor. the church is built in the form of a greek cross, with a great dome over the centre, and also one over each arm of the cross. the walls and columns of the interior are of marbles of the richest and most elegant description; there are said to be five hundred of the columns, and the various portions of the interior, with its different style of architecture, grecian, gothic, and saracenic, would take a volume to describe. in fact the visitor hardly knows where to begin first to examine this incongruous mass of architectural defects, historic interests, splendor, and collection of rare works of art badly displayed. the interior of this wonderful old church can no more be described in a tourist's sketch, than it can be seen in a single visit. there is the very porphyry basin which holds the holy water set on a pedestal that was once a greek altar, upon which the achaians sacrificed to their gods. there is the superb marble colonnade separating the nave from the choir, supported by columns of black and white porphyry, and upholding fourteen elegant marble statues, seven on each side, with a huge cross bearing the figure of the saviour, in solid silver, in the centre. there is a magnificent high altar; with its four richly-wrought columns, elegant bronze statues, its costly mosaics, its pictures in gems and enamel of scenes in the life of st. mark, its rich bass-relief and gorgeous canopy. the canopy of another altar is supported by four fluted spiral pillars brought from the temple of jerusalem, two of them of translucent alabaster. the sacristy, with its roof covered with rich mosaics; the curious tessellated floor, and the wonderfully decorated roof above; the different chapels and altars, each one of which is a specimen of the art of a different time, are seen here. there were the splendid tomb of cardinal zeno, built in ; bronze doors made in venice in the year ; the marble columns taken from constantinople in ; the bronze statue of st. john, by segala in ; the altar table made from a slab of stone brought from tyre in ; monument of the last doge buried in st. mark in ; the figure of christ, in silver, ; greek, byzantine, and gothic specimens of art. the church is a study of marbles, pillars, and colonnades; every part of it seems to have a history, and the eye becomes wearied with an endless succession of different objects, and the mind confused in endeavoring to grasp and retain distinct impressions of various portions, which it only preserves, at last, as one general picture. in venice the tourist cannot but be struck, as elsewhere in italy, with the splendor of the churches, the wealth of gold, silver, and bullion locked up idle, dormant, and useless, contrasted with the abundance of the beggars that in grisly crowds beset the very doors of these splendid temples. cathedrals, whose wealth would build a hundred such religious edifices as we erect in america, and which contribute nothing to the expense of the state, maintain little more than a corporal's guard of bedizened priests, while hundreds of gaunt, famine-stricken wretches are perishing at their very threshold for the necessaries of life. it seemed wicked to look upon great solid silver busts of forgotten archbishops, gem-crusted crosiers and mitres that make their public appearance but once in a year in a church ceremonial; altars with borders of solid gold and flashing jewels, hidden from public view, and unveiled only on the occasion of church festivals, or for the tourist's shilling, while the poor, ignorant followers of the church vainly plead in misery at its portals. the wealth that has been lavished here on the churches seems to have been poured out with as free a hand as if the coffers of the church were exhaustless. in the chiesa de gesuiti, or church of the jesuits, the luxurious magnificence of the interior is almost indescribable. the walls of this edifice are completely sheathed in carved marble, polished to the highest degree, and inlaid with other colored marbles in flowers and running vines. up, around, and near the pulpit are heavy, massive, and rich hangings, apparently of white and blue brocatelle, graceful, rich, and luxurious; but you find it to be solid inlaid marble, fashioned by the cunning of the artificer into the semblance of drapery. there it is with fringe and fold, tassel and variegated pattern, wrought with costly and laborious toil from the solid stone. great twisted columns of verd antique uphold the altar, and a costly mosaic pavement covers the space before it; the altar itself is rich with many-colored marbles, agate, and jasper, and all around the church the sculptors have wrought out the marble into a counterfeit resemblance of rich draperies--a wondrous work of art. in this magnificent temple, in front of the great altar, is a slab marking the last resting-place of the last doge of venice, manini--the latin inscription telling that "the ashes of manini are transmitted to eternity." the church of santa maria de frari, built nearly six hundred years ago, is another edifice rich in artistic works and monuments. here is a mausoleum erected to the doge pesaro, who died in , and of which all tourists speak; and well they may. it is a great marble temple, eighty feet high, its lower story of a sort of moorish architecture, open; and in the centre sits a statue of the departed doge upon a sarcophagus upheld by dragons, while two obliging bronze skeletons hold in their bony hands scrolls for the purpose of revealing the virtues of the great departed to posterity. but this is not all of this remarkable monument. at the four corners of the pillars, upholding the temple, stand four huge nubians carved in marble; their tunics are of white marble, their legs and faces black, and seen through rents in their white marble garments appears the black as of their skins--a novel effect of sculpture, most certainly. the beautiful monument to titian, completed in , is another of the artistic wonders of this church. upon a marble platform of three steps rises, first, a great marble base or pedestal about thirty feet long, at each end of which are seated two allegorical figures of men, with tablets upon which they have written inscriptions. one of the figures is of a man in the full vigor of life, and the other of extreme old age; between these two rises another huge pedestal or ornamental marble cornice, ten feet high, bearing upon its face two angels in bass-reliefs, supporting a wreath enclosing the names of titian, and king ferdinand, who completed the monument; upon this second pedestal four richly-decorated corinthian columns support a lofty corinthian canopy, looking, in fact, like the grand arched entrance to a temple, the centre being the widest, highest, and composed of an arch. seated in the centre is a grand statue of the great artist, with the figure of an angel at his side; between, and at the sides of the tall columns supporting the canopy above, are colossal marble statues of four female allegorical figures, and on the background, behind these groups, upon the walls of this marble temple as it were, are sculptured elegant bass-reliefs of the painter's greatest works, the assumption, martyrdom of st. lawrence, and peter martyr; upon the wings of the great arch, above the column supports, are other beautiful bass-reliefs, and surmounting the whole, the winged lion, in sculptured marble. the whole structure is very beautiful in its workmanship and elaborate in detail, the eight colossal statues finely done, the marble drapery strikingly natural. even a picture of this elegant monument is something to study and admire, and to be able to stand before the structure itself is more than doubly gratifying. the same may be remarked also of the monument of canova, directly opposite, the design of which is almost the same as that of archduchess christiana at vienna. it is a huge pyramid of white marble, and at the right, passing towards its open door, is a procession of life-size figures in marble, representing, i suppose, art, religion, genius, &c. the first, a figure completely shrouded in its white marble drapery, is bearing a funeral urn; next comes a youthful figure ascending the steps, bearing a torch; next to this comes a male and female, walking together in an attitude of grief; bearing a festoon of flowers, and following them two boys with torches. at the left of the open door of the monument rests the winged lion in a crouching attitude, with paws crossed upon a book, and below him a colossal figure of an angel, seated upon loose, flowing drapery thrown upon the marble steps, and leaning, with half-bowed head, upon his extinguished torch. this last figure is most naturally and effectively posed, and, with one of its feet hanging carelessly down from the lower step over the pedestal, and the drapery fluttering beneath it, has an exceedingly natural air, and the figure is beautiful and graceful as one might suppose an angelic visitant would be. there are many other monuments rich in historic interest in this fine old church. there is that of francesco foscari, whose name has been rendered immortal by byron; and opposite it the tomb of another doge--a colossal structure, forty feet high and twenty-seven feet wide, decorated with a profusion of sculpture, including nineteen full-length figures; the monument of simeone dandolo, who was one of the judges of marino faliero; the elegant monument in rich marble of jacopo pesaro, who died in , and near it a picture over the pesaro altar, the property of the pesaro family, representing the virgin and child, seated within a magnificent temple, with st. peter, st. francis, and other saints standing near, while numerous members of the pesaro family were kneeling at different points. it was a grand and elegant painting, said to be one of titian's best works. the little chapels opening out of the church were rich in beautiful pictures, monuments, and sculpture--votive offerings, or to perpetuate the memory of members of some of the great, but now extinct or almost forgotten, venetian families. those who have a desire to view the tombs and monuments of the old doges will find many of them in the church of santi giovannio e paolo, including the splendid one of andrea vendramin, who died in . this great church is three hundred and thirty-one feet long, one hundred and forty-two feet wide in the transepts, and one hundred and twenty-three feet high. here, on entering at the left, we saw the space that was occupied on the wall by titian's masterpiece, peter martyr, recently destroyed by fire. owing to some repairs that were to be made in this part of the church, this priceless painting was removed to one of the side chapels for greater safety, which soon after took fire, and was totally destroyed, with all its rich decorations and pictures, the titian among the rest. the santa maria della salute, an elegant church, with its great dome supported inside by eight pillars, between which open seven chapels, is beautifully decorated; and here we saw tintoretto's picture of the marriage at cana, titian's descent of the holy spirit, and the elegantly-sculptured high altar. we become wearied with paintings at the churches, and saints, martyrs, and madonnas are at last so monotonous that one ought to take a vacation between a visit to the churches and the academy of fine arts, in which i cannot begin to enumerate the beautiful paintings. titian's assumption of the virgin is one glorious work, however--rich in color and elegant in execution; tintoretto's adam and eve, another; the fisherman presenting the ring to the doge, very fine; and the great picture, by paul veronese, of our saviour in the house of levi, an immense painting covering one entire end of a hall,--i should think thirty feet or more long by twenty in height,--a very animated composition; titian's st. john in the desert, and tintoretto's crucifixion, with the three marys, besides an indefinite number of saints, martyrs undergoing tortures, madonnas, holy families, virgins, &c., in various styles of art are here. all the guide-books tell us that florence is the fairest city of the earth, that it is florence the beautiful; so old genoa is called genoa superba; and, in fact, local pride gives many of these old cities grandiloquent or flattering titles, the present significance of which the tourist fails to see. florence owes its reputation for beauty more to its beautiful surroundings and its charming environs than to any beauties of its own, being in the centre of a sort of pretty valley, as it were, with gentle elevations surrounding it, and the picturesque peaks of the apennines rising in the distance. from the hill of fiesole the visitor gets a most charming view of hill, valley, mountain, and plain, and of the city beneath, with the arno twisting its silver thread through it. the country all around is picturesque in the extreme, with exquisite bits of landscape taking in vineyards and country houses, villages and church spires, gently sloping hill-sides, and distant mountain peaks assuming many strange hues in the sunlight. but the streets of the city itself are generally narrow, and with but little architectural display. the great palaces look like fortresses, and built, as perhaps they were, for the strongholds of royalty. our first walk carried us to the piazza del gran' duca, and here rose the huge square, massive-looking building, the palazzo vecchio, with great, projecting battlements, and the tall, mediæval-looking watch-tower rising up at one corner, so familiar from the many pictures that have been drawn of it. right about in this vicinity are many superb works of art in the open air--an equestrian statue of cosmo i., the fountain of neptune, with the god in his car drawn by sea-horses, with nymphs, sea-gods, and tritons sporting about the margin of the basin; and on one side of the door of the palace stands a colossal group of hercules slaying cacus, while on the other is a statue of david by michael angelo. this reminds me that we hear this great artist's name at every turn in florence, see his portrait in every picture store, and prints of his works in the window of every print shop; for are we not in florence, the birthplace of angelo--not only of angelo, but of dante, petrarch, galileo, boccaccio, leonardo da vinci, the artist, and benvenuto cellini, the wondrous worker in metals? but i am forgetting the beautiful works of art that stand all about one here in the open street, which i stood gazing at in silent admiration. in a sort of grand arcade, or "loggia," as it is called, which looks like a house with the two lower stories taken out, and formed into three great arched porticos, is a broad stone platform, gained by an ascent of half a dozen broad steps, and in it some fine statuary. one of the most prominent is a fine colossal bronze, one of perseus with the head of medusa; a grand figure executed by cellini, representing the helmeted figure standing with one foot upon the fallen monster, while with one hand he holds aloft the decapitated head, and the other grasps his sword. the pedestal of this statue is elegantly ornamented. in each of its four sunken panels are small figures of mythological deities. next comes a marble group of a helmeted warrior bearing away a female figure in his arms, entitled the rape of the sabines, hercules slaying a centaur, judith slaying holofernes, and the dying ajax, supported by a greek warrior. there are also six colossal female statues, and a couple of grandly-sculptured lions. we were full tilt on the way to visit the uffizi gallery when these groups arrested us, and were a new sensation--sculpture after so much painting, and a good preparation for what we were to see in that celebrated gallery. at our first visit here, impatient, we pressed on to the room known as the tribune, which contains some of the greatest works of art in the world. those that every looker-in at a city shop window has seen copies of are here in the original. the room is lighted from the top; but it does not appear the most favorable place for an exhibition of these great works. first greeting the visitor as he enters the door is the celebrated venus de' medici, one of the most graceful and elegant statues in the world, the pure, modest beauty of which is wonderful. the easy grace of attitude, the modest beauty of the face, and perfect symmetry of the whole figure are faultless. its height, five feet two inches, was less than i supposed it would be, and the hands, which are a modern restoration, are bad, as all writers agree. the apollino, another beautiful figure, shows the numerous seams in it, where it was joined together, after having been broken by a large picture which fell upon it a few years since. and the dancing fawn is one of those indescribably natural-looking and faultless pieces of antique sculpture that makes one wonder if we really do have any great sculptors in these modern days; for the position, and every feature, limb, and muscle are so faithfully rendered as to make the marble seem so endowed with life that it would scarce astonish the spectator if it continued its agile motions, and assumed a dozen other attitudes upon the pedestal. then comes the group of the wrestlers, admirably executed, and technically and anatomically correct in its sculptured delineation of straining sinews and swelling muscles. the spectator is more than astonished at the wonderful art displayed in the well-known figure of the slave overhearing conspirators while sharpening a knife. it may strike many, as it did ourselves, as the best subject possible for the sculptor's chisel--this listening figure pausing at his work, as if just stricken into stone, his attention suddenly arrested while at his occupation, the intent, eager, listening look, the natural attitude of the figure, the earnestness in the face, and the parted lips--all make you think that there is only one thing more the artist could have done with his marvellous touch, and that was, to have imparted to the figure life and speech, for it seems as near a living thing as statue can be. we linger long in the tribune, loath to leave these superb creations, that reveal new beauties the longer we gaze upon them. on the walls of this room hang works from the pencils of titian, michael angelo, andrea del sarto, correggio, guido, and vandyke. you are surrounded by priceless gems of art, the choicest works of the whole uffizi collection. there was titian's venus, a marvellously beautiful figure, upon the canvas; del sarto's madonna and child, a grand and beautiful painting of most exquisite coloring; albert dürer's adoration of the magi, the heads of the figures magnificent studies, and grand in their execution; paul veronese's holy family; raphael's st. john preaching in the desert; and guido's virgin, besides many others. and then we wandered, hour after hour, all through this wonderful gallery, said to be the richest and most varied in the world, though less extensive than the louvre or vatican--twenty-five rooms, besides corridors, vestibules, &c., crammed with works of art. murray says that the original collections of the medici family were dispersed at various periods. the collections of lorenzo the magnificent were sold in , and their palace plundered in ; but casimo i. recovered much of what had belonged to his ancestors, and his successors rendered this collection of art what it now is--the most interesting in europe. busts of this medici family are placed in the vestibule approaching the gallery. here also are bronze statues of mars and silenus, and an infant bacchus; and as you get into the vestibule great bronze wolf-dogs guard the door, and huge statues of the roman emperors look down upon you. it would be useless to attempt a description of the collection, which is divided into selections of different schools of art in different rooms. the corridors are occupied both as sculpture and picture galleries. the paintings in them are historical series of the tuscan school, and the statuary a splendid series of busts of the roman emperors, statue of a gladiator, apollo, urania, cupid, bacchante, &c.; michael angelo's bass-reliefs, and his statues of the drunken bacchus and faun; also his wounded adonis and donatellos, david as the conqueror of goliah. then we have a room filled with curious roman sarcophagi, with curious sculptured bass-reliefs, representing their chariot races, gods, and sea-nymphs. there is a room full of pictures of the french school of art, two of the german and dutch schools, another of the dutch and flemish schools, with pictures of van ostade and gerard dow, and two rooms with magnificent pictures of the venetian school, such as paul veronese's picture of esther before ahasuerus,--only think what a grand picture this makes, with its crowd of figures, full of life and spirit,--giorgione's judgment of solomon, and tintoretto's christ entering jerusalem. then come two other intensely interesting rooms--autograph portraits of painters, many of them painted by themselves. there are guido and vandyke, rembrandt, titian, tintoretto, da vinci, and michael angelo, and the portrait of raphael, which has been so frequently copied and engraved in pictures, that we recognize it instantly, as the eye wanders over the crowded walls. there is so much in this uffizi gallery to satisfy every variety of artistic taste! just think, for instance, of the pleasure of looking through a whole room full of the original drawings of the old masters, with their autographs attached! here were parts of michael angelo's architectural plans, his rough sketches in red chalk or charcoal; titian's drawings--rude outlines, from his portfolio, that on the canvas grew to voluptuous beauty; also, those of rubens, albert dürer, tintoretto, del sarto, and a host of others; and these that we see hung upon the walls are only a mere selection of specimens from the wealth of this great collection of original sketches, which contains nearly twenty-eight thousand in all. but paintings and sculpture are not the only wonders of the uffizi gallery. coming out of the gallery of original drawings, we find a room of medals and coins, containing a set of nearly nine thousand imperial medals, a set of coins of the mediæval and modern italian states, and a set of gold florins from as far back as the year . we could not but notice that more than one custodian or official regarded us with a curious eye as we wandered from room to room, and halted, catalogue in hand, pencilling down, all over its pages, the notes from which these pages are written, as if wondering whether we were noting down anything that was illegal or not, so suspicious do they appear, in these foreign countries, of anybody who appears to be taking notes or drawings. we loitered all among this surfeit of artistic beauty, through the whole of that portion of the day it was open, only to find, at last, that we had not seen half of it. so we returned to the charge again, note-book in hand, for another day's enjoyment. on our second visit we stumbled, first on the etruscan collection--two rooms full of etruscan vases and sepulchral urns, of ancient make, and very beautifully decorated with antique paintings, such as battles of the centaurs, grecian warriors and combats, all very interesting, as giving, in many instances, the costumes and manners of the ancient greeks, painted at the time of their existence. there was also a very extensive collection of ancient black vases, found in etruria, and in the necropolis of sarteano, the graceful and elegant shapes of which form the copies of many of our richest and most beautiful vases of modern manufacture. the celebrated medicean vase, or hadrian vase, which was found in hadrian's villa, near tivoli, of course claimed our attention, and also a curious collection of urns, in which the ancients used to enclose the ashes of their dead. "niobe dissolved in tears." how much we have read and studied about niobe, and how writers delight to quote her name, especially whenever tears are spoken of! i remember getting a thwack at school for pronouncing the name of the tearful mother, _nigh-oab_, soon after another youngster had been corrected for the same blunder. the story of niobe and her children was often taken as a subject by the ancient artists, and the most celebrated of the ancient representations was that which filled the temple of apollo sosianus, at rome, and was found in that city in , and now preserved here in a room very properly devoted to it, called the hall of niobe. the group consists of the mother, who holds one of the children upon her lap, while thirteen statues of other sons and daughters are grouped about in various attitudes. it is useless to attempt to convey the impression made by such masterly specimens of ancient art--figures which may have been shaped by the chisel of praxiteles, certainly by some sculptor who wrought as though he felt he was portraying a domestic tragedy he had been an eye-witness of, and not a mythological legend. the deep, touching grief of the mother, the admirably natural figure of one of the dying sons, that almost causes the spectator to rush to his aid,--in fact, the whole story is told in marble, and with wonderful effect, making a powerful impression upon the beholder. turning from this great work of the ancient sculptor's art, our eyes fall upon the original, of which we have often seen copies, snyder's painting of the boar hunt; then the spirited picture of henry iv. at the battle of ivry,--king henry of navarre, whom all the school-boys will recollect, from the poem which is so popular with them for declamation:-- "the king has come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed, and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest." another spirited and beautiful figure painting was the entrance of henry iv. into paris after the battle of ivry. among other riches of this great collection is a cabinet of gems, where were a wonderful casket of rock crystal, with seventeen compartments, in which were elaborately wrought figures representing events of the passion; an elegant vase of sardonyx, on which lorenzo de' medici's name was engraved; another cut out of a solid block of lapis lazuli, &c. then came a great cabinet of ancient bronzes; and it is curious to see how these specimens of antique grecian art--figures, vases, and bass-reliefs--form models for the most graceful, popular, and beautiful specimens of artistic work and ornament at the present day. in this collection, besides the bronze figures of jupiters, venuses, and other deities, and various beautiful bass-reliefs, discovered in ruined cities, we found a most interesting collection of ancient grecian and roman arms and helmets, candelabra, household utensils, &c. here were spear-heads of roman legions, that marched hundreds of years before christ, the weights and measures of artisans, the helmet of the warrior, the bronze brooch of the greek maiden, and the bronze greaves of the etruscan soldier. the hall of modern bronzes gave us figures by artists of modern times, such as ghiberti's sacrifice of abraham, giovanni of bologna's mercury, a bust of cosimo i. by benvenuto cellini, an angel by donatello, &c. and all this grand collection, this wealth of art, where student may study, the dreamer may dream, sight-seer may drink his fill, the artist educate his taste, and the lover of the beautiful feast to his heart's content, is free to all who desire to look upon it. it is hard, indeed, to tear one's self away from the treasures that are heaped up here; but there are other sights to be seen, and more galleries, and churches, and palaces to be looked at. an interesting visit was that made by us to michael angelos's house, or the palazzo buonarroti, as it is called. it belongs to the city, having been bequeathed, with its contents, by the great artist's last male relative at his death, and contains many interesting relics, much of the contents and furniture being kept in the original position. here we passed through the rooms, which open one out of the other, and have their walls adorned with choice pictures by great painters. one room has a series of paintings representing the principal events in his life, and another is hung with pictures relative to members of the buonarroti family; for, be it known to many who suppose that michael angelo is the entire name of the artist, that it was michael angelo buonarroti. he had intended before his death, which occurred in rome, in the ninetieth year of his age, to have sent all his personal property to florence, where a house was to have been purchased to receive it; but this was not done; so at his death the florentine ambassador at rome, acting under instructions, took possession of and forwarded the mementos which we looked upon, and which are now deposited in this "palace" of the family, which was not, as many travellers understand, the last residence he occupied previous to his death. that event took place in rome, on the th of february, ; and on the th of march following his body was returned to his native city of florence, after thirty years of voluntary exile, and entombed in the church of santa croce. around one of the rooms in this interesting mansion hung drawings and sketches by the great artist's own hand, and in another were various models in plaster, wax, and terra cotta, of portions of his great works; also of his own make, such as a model in wax of his statue of david, a bass-relief of the descent from the cross, &c.; then we were shown, in a little boudoir, a collection of his plans and drawings, including his pencil sketch of the' last judgment, painted for the sistine chapel; also several interesting manuscripts, and other autographic memorials, and the little oil-cups, flasks, and other utensils that he used in work upon painting. in a little side-room, scarcely larger than a closet, we were shown a table at which he was said to write, and from one of the drawers were taken the slippers which he used to wear, and which we were reverently permitted to handle; nor was this all; his two walking-sticks, with crutched handles, and the sword worn at his side on great occasions, and other interesting personal relics, were exhibited. this room is designated, by the guide, "michael angelo's study," though when he studied there the guide was unable to communicate; still we had seen enough personal mementos of the great artist to render our visit interesting enough not to cavil at trifles; and there being no question of the authenticity of the relics, we allowed the guide to communicate harmless little fictions regarding the house unquestioned. first of all the churches in florence we visit the magnificent duomo, or cathedral, santa maria del fiore, the magnificent swelling dome of which is a prominent and imposing object in all the views of the city seen from the surrounding heights. notwithstanding the numerous grand architectural wonders i had looked upon, each new one, even after six months of sight-seeing, excites admiration and interest. these vast piles of architectural beauty, the wealth of artistic execution in their sculpture, grand conception, skill in grouping pillars and arches, taste in decoration, and withal the overwhelming vastness and grandeur of these great monuments of the old cathedral-builders, can but have an effect even upon the most ordinary perception. this great cathedral was commenced in , and was one hundred and sixty years in building, employing, during that time, many of the most celebrated of architects in its construction, and serving as a model, or rather giving angelo his ideas, for the model of st. peter's at rome. the cathedral appears built of marble, and as you enter from the bright glare of an italian sun into its cool interior, and upon the tessellated pavement of rich marbles, seems dark and sombre. this is accounted for, in some degree, by the small size of the windows, and the deep color of the rich stained glass with which they are filled; this glass is said to have been made in , and is superb, both in color and designs. the first view we had down the four great arches of the nave was grand, and the distance seemed more than it really is; but then fancy the size of a cathedral the height of whose nave is over one hundred and fifty feet. this great duomo is five hundred feet long, the top of its cross, three hundred and eighty-seven feet from the ground, and its transepts are three hundred and six feet in length; the height even of the _little_ side-aisles is nearly a hundred feet. above all looms the great cupola, about one hundred and forty feet in diameter, and one hundred and thirty-three feet high, which is extremely grand and beautiful. its interior is painted in fresco, with figures of angels, saints, paradise and purgatory. the grand altar is directly under this great dome, and behind it is an unfinished group, representing the entombment by michael angelo. around the sides of the church were tombs and monuments, which our guide would gladly have explained to us _seriatim_; but to make them interesting required a more intimate knowledge of italian history than we are willing to claim; but we did stop opposite the bust of giotto, whose skill was called into operation in building a large portion of the cathedral; the tomb of antonio d' orso, a bishop, who, when the city was besieged, called around him officers of the church, and, in full armor, manned the walls against the enemy; and the picture of dante, upon one of the walls, in red robe, with laurel crown on his head and book in hand, familiar from the engraving we have so often seen of it. a climb up, to view the marvellous beauty of the great dome, gave us not only a good idea of its vastness,--it being the largest cupola in the world,--but also a superb view out towards fiesole. the campanile, or bell tower, situated quite near the cathedral, is an elegant structure of grecian architecture square in form, with beautiful gothic windows, and is built of light-colored marble, and adorned with rich sculptured work and decoration; four hundred and fourteen steps carry you to the summit, the height being two hundred and seventy-five feet. we took another view here of the country, also at the symmetrical dome of the cathedral close at hand, inspected the six huge bells that are swung up here, and descended to view the two statues of the artists of the cathedral, which are placed in the square. that of one of them has a plan of the cupola upon his lap, from which he is looking up at the cathedral itself as completed. the superb baptistery of st. giovanni, of whose bronze doors we had heard so much, was close at hand, and next claimed our attention. it is built of black and white marble, and the chief beauty inside, which is a regular octagon, is the splendid corinthian columns and the beautiful mosaics in the cupola. the floor is paved with black and white marble, in most curious, complicated, and elegant designs. but the great attraction of the building is its splendid bronze doors. michael angelo's speech about them is inserted in every guide-book, and repeated by every cicerone who shows them. he said they were worthy of being the gates of paradise; and as no tourist's description would be complete without the expression, i have here introduced it. they are, indeed, wonderful and elaborate works of art. one contains groups of figures, wrought out of the bronze, representing scenes in the life of st. john in the upper compartments, and allegorical figures of the virtues in the lower. this is the gate completed in , and the florentines do not seem to take great care of its beauty, for the figures were sadly filled up with dust and dirt, and needed a most thorough cleansing when we saw them. the other two are filled with scenes from the scriptures, such as the creation of man, noah after the deluge, queen of sheba visiting solomon, esau selling his birthright, &c. the execution of all these figures is marvellous; and we are told these portals, which are not, as may be supposed, of large size, were the result of forty years of patient labor on the part of the artist (ghiberti) employed upon them. the work seems such as would be more in place, however, upon a casket or smaller surface than the doors of a church, being too elaborate for such a position, and spread over too much surface to receive the careful examination which their merit requires. the most noted church in florence is that of the santa croce, founded in , and celebrated as being the burial-place of many great italians--angelo, galileo, machiavelli, and others. but whoever expects that the cathedral mausoleum of these illustrious ashes is one of architectural grandeur will be somewhat disappointed, as he comes to a huge, ungainly brick structure, which seems utterly unworthy to enclose the illustrious dead that have been interred within its walls. the interior, lighted by stained glass windows, contains many interesting monuments--angelo's, with his bust and allegorical statues of painting, sculpture, and architecture; a huge monument to dante, with the genius of poetry deploring his death; that to machiavelli with an allegorical figure of history; a monument to alfieri, executed by canova. there are monuments to various great scholars, naturalists, and historians--galileo; lami, a florentine historian; targioni, a great chemist; an elegant one to leonardi bruni, a great scholar, who died in ; michele, a great botanist; nobili, a philosopher, &c. at one end of this church, which is four hundred and sixty feet long and one hundred and thirty-four wide, is a series of chapels, rich in frescoes, paintings, and other works of art, among which we find the usual scriptural paintings, such as assumption of the virgin; coronation of the virgin; madonna and child; also fine frescoes by giotto. the nicolini chapel is elegantly decorated with marbles, and contains fine statuary, including noble figures of moses and aaron, and various allegorical figures; and so we wander from one chapel to another, gazing at frescoes and paintings, bass-reliefs, monuments, and ornamental carvings, till sated with art and fatigued with gazing. the church of san lorenzo we must visit, to view: the wonders it contains in monuments from angelo's chisel. in the new sacristy of this church, which is a monumental chapel designed by michael angelo, are his two great marble monuments, one to lorenzo, father of catherine de' medici, and the other to giuliano de' medici. each of these monuments is a casket or sarcophagus supported by two colossal reclining figures on each side, and surmounted above by colossal statues of the deceased in armor, seated, with a background of pillars, cornice, and elegant architectural design. the two colossal reclining figures on lorenzo's tomb are called "day" and "night," and those on giuliano's "morning" and "evening." all of these four figures were of wonderful power, and make a strong impression on the spectator; but there are two more. upon the top of giuliano's tomb sits his statue, that of a roman general partly clad in armor, with a truncheon lying across his lap, and his head turned on one side, as if thoughtfully gazing at something in the distance. on lorenzo's sits a figure we recognize instantly as one we have seen a hundred times in bronze, in shop windows, and upon marble clock tops; but did we ever recognize in the base copies the marvellous beauty and the grandeur of expression seen in the original? a man in full armor, seated, absorbed in thought, his face resting upon his hand, and that face beneath his over-shadowing helm, so full of deep, quiet, meditative thought, that you involuntarily wait for a play of the features to reveal the deep, calm workings of the great mind behind it. the whole attitude of the figure is unstudied, graceful, and natural--the most natural attitude of a great warrior absorbed in profound meditation. it was hard to tear yourself away from quiet, wondrous admiration of this superb statue. the first thing one inquires for on shopping excursions in florence is the florentine mosaics, those ingenious specimens of painting in colored stone, in breast-pins, bracelets, or sleeve buttons. as all know, these mosaic pictures are made by joining together small pieces of stone of the natural color into figures of flowers, fruits, animals, and birds, the stone being first sawed by fine saws into very thin veneers, and the design fitted upon a background of polished slate. these differ from the roman mosaic, inasmuch as the color of the latter is artificial; the workmanship of the florentine is also more elegant. tourists are apt here, as elsewhere on the continent, to be imposed upon by venders of cheap and spurious imitations of originals, and will find that the really beautiful and artistic ones, although surprisingly cheap in comparison with the prices charged in america, cost a tolerably good sum, for the manufacture of them is tedious, requiring much care and patience. besides, there were so many american tourists, before the present war, constantly passing through florence, as to make a constant good, fair retail demand for them. cheap ones could be purchased from two to ten francs each, of course unmounted, while the price of the more beautiful ranged from fifteen to sixty francs. we purchased an elegant one for a lady's pin at forty-five, which, as usual, was marked fifty, and which a native might possibly have bought for forty. the difference in the price of italian and american labor was discovered in the price charged by a boston jeweller in setting up this bauble in the plainest possible style, which nearly trebled its price. after having visited the mosaic shops, the tourist is, in a measure, prepared for the elaborate specimens of the art which are exhibited in the construction of the medicean chapel, which is attached to the church of san lorenzo, and which is the most extravagant and costly interior of its kind that can possibly be imagined. it is a huge octagonal room, surmounted by a beautiful cupola elegantly painted in fresco; the scenes are of various scriptural subjects, such as adam and eve, the crucifixion, resurrection, last judgment, &c. the lofty sides of this chapel or costly mausoleum, to the grand ducal family, are completely sheathed in the richest marbles, elegantly polished jasper and chalcedony, glittering agate of different colors, malachite, and lapis lazuli. all around, rising tier above tier, are sarcophagi and cenotaphs of the medici, wrought from the richest and costliest stone, polished to a mirror-like surface, and decorated with unparalleled richness. at different points in the walls were the armorial bearings of different families, the shields, the richest and most beautiful florentine mosaic work imaginable, even carnelian and coral being employed in some of the coats to give the proper shadings to the elegant emblematical designs. the sarcophagi are inscribed each with the name of the illustrious personage whose ashes they represent the casket of, the remains of the different grand dukes being deposited in a crypt below this chapel. a representation of a large cushion, upon which rests the ducal crown, all carved from colored stone, is a most wonderful work of art, and the beautiful tomb of cosimo ii., by john of bologna, rich and elegant. this wondrous funeral chamber, in costly marble, sparkling with precious stones and elegant decorations, is said to have cost over seventeen millions of dollars, and, as a distinguished writer remarks, "recalls our youthful visions of aladdin's palace." he who takes pleasure in visiting old churches and cathedrals may keep tolerably busy for many days, even weeks, in florence; as for ourselves, we found the plethora of scriptural pictures, architectural effects, and wondrous carvings, memorial cenotaphs, and historical relics was beginning to work confusion in our mind, and destroy the pleasant effect of those already viewed; it was, therefore, not without reluctance that we gave up our design of seeing _all_ the churches in florence; indeed, we cannot undertake, in the space of these pages, to attempt description of all that we did see in this city, so crammed with objects of interest to the lover of art or enthusiastic tourist. the old church and convent of san marco, with its pictures by fra angelico, and its convent, into which no female tourist is admitted; santa maria novella, full of pictures and frescoes; santo spirito and others, will give the traveller all he wants of the wonders of florence's religious edifices, and he may also find, as we did, that there is apparently more thoroughly honest support, or we may say blind attachment, to the romish church by its adherents in the city of new york, than in this roman catholic italian city. the better portion of the common people have lost respect for the idle priests by whom they have been surrounded, and several with whom we conversed did not hesitate to express their hopes in favor of garibaldi, and that be might ere long "drive out the pope from rome, who ought to wield no temporal power." the carriage-driver, who drove us about to various sacred edifices, and who spoke french tolerably, bent his knee reverently when passing the high altar, but, on finding the portals of one church closed, left, with not very pious ejaculations, to find the attendant priest to admit us, vowing that they did more eating than kneeling, more drinking than praying, and were of more injury than service to italy. rather strong expressions these appeared to us from an italian romanist, in one of the strongholds of the church; but judging from recent accounts from rome, some of this pious individual's wishes respecting the head of the church appear likely to be gratified. the surfeit of art in florence fairly confounds the american tourist who has any taste that way, and who has resolved to give, in his fashion of reckoning, the liberal time of eight or ten days to seeing the city and its treasures. the splendid pitti palace contains a better collection of paintings, as a whole, than the uffizi gallery. they are also well arranged; and o, boon to sight-seers! chairs and sofas are placed in various places, where one may rest the tired limbs and aching vertebræ. besides vestibules, corridors, &c., there are fifteen grand halls, named from the heathen deities, and each elegantly decorated in great frescoes on the ceiling, illustrative of the deity for which it is named. thus the hall of mars has its ceiling decorated with battle scenes, and allegorical figures of war, peace, and victory. the hall of jupiter has a grand painting of hercules presenting some other individual to the thunderer, and the hall of the iliad has scenes from the homeric poem. here, in the hall of venus, we saw great views of coast scenery from salvator rosa's pencil, titian's marriage of st. catherine, and splendid landscapes from the industrious brush of rubens. in the hall of apollo are a splendid bacchus by guido, a virgin and child by murillo, portraits by raphael and rembrandt. in the hall of mars are andrea del sarto's joseph and his brethren, two pictures of great beauty--guido's rebekah at the well, a st. peter, also by guido; and here also is another one of those celebrated pictures, known the world over from the engravings of it that are distributed by thousands throughout christendom--the madonna del seggiola, or sitting madonna, the mother seated with the infant saviour in her arms, and infant st. john at her side. the rare beauty of these little infantile forms, and sweet, holy, motherly expression of the mother's face, the lovely tenderness of the attitude, and withal, the wondrous expression of beauty upon the children's faces, one can only see in the painting, for no idea of its artistic power can be had from any engraving i ever saw. in the hall of jupiter the three fates by michael angelo, a picture of great power, at once arrests the attention, and a grand and beautiful figure of st. mark, by fra bartolomeo, is a creation one can almost bow in reverence to. then there is a portrait of a lady with a book, painted by leonardo da vinci, which excites admiration by its exquisite coloring and lovely beauty. in this room is a large picture of an animated and somewhat singular scene by rubens, which is described in the catalogues as nymphs assailed by satyrs, in which the latter are behaving in a manner so disagreeable that you long to get at the lecherous rascals with a bayonet or a cowhide. the hall of saturn contains some of raphael's finest productions. prominent among them is the madonna del baldachino, in which she is represented enthroned, seated at the summit of a flight of steps at the end of a temple, and beneath a canopy which is being drawn aside by two angels. four church dignitaries in their robes stand at the foot of the throne, near which are two angels. the picture is of interest apart from its beauty, as being one of the earlier works of the great artist. among his other pictures in this hall are the portrait of pope julius ii., a superb piece of coloring, his portrait of a cardinal, and the vision of ezekiel. another fine picture of the virgin enthroned is in the hall of the iliad, painted by fra bartolomeo. here also are two pictures of the assumption by del sarto, a full-length portrait of philip ii. of spain by titian, carlo dolce's st. john the evangelist and st. martha, a noble figure of a warrior by salvator rosa, a holy family by rubens, and susanna and the elders, a fine composition, by guercino. next comes the hall of jupiter, and in this the pictures of the rarest merit are fra bartolomeo's holy family, raphael's lovely painting of the madonna and child, and carlo dolce's painting of st. andrew. the hall of ulysses is rich in pictures from the pencils of carlo dolce, salvator rosa, andrea del sarto, rubens, titian, and tintoretto. the hall of prometheus, besides holy families, virgins, and saints by the great masters, shows us magnificent tables of florentine mosaic of immense value, and the cabinets and corridor adjoining have a large collection of choice articles of _vertu_, cabinet paintings, and a grand colossal bust of the first napoleon by canova. then there is the hall of justice, with its complement of paintings, including sir peter lely's portrait of oliver cromwell; the hall of flora, containing the statue of canova's venus--an exquisite piece of sculpture, grace and beauty in every line of its form. other halls and cabinets, which i will not tire the reader's patience by enumerating, but each of which was rich with gems of art, the choicest of the great masters. not only were the walls, which were hung with these treasures, of interest, but the frescoes on the ceilings of the grand apartments, which were superbly executed. the gods and goddesses of heathen mythology, and allegorical figures, crowded the space above--an army of wondrous giants, attracting the visitor's gaze upwards till both neck and spine are weary. the costly mosaic tables are wrought with figures of birds, fruit, and flowers, and their value is measured by tens of thousands of dollars. then we have bronzes and statuary, elegant miniatures, sèvres vases, carvings, and articles of _vertu_, making the whole of this beautiful palace one treasure-house of art. attached to the palace are the beautiful boboli gardens, with their picturesque walks and arbors, elegant statues, plashing fountains, and grand groups of statuary, wonderful plants, beautiful vistas of embowered walks, and magnificent terraces and vases, which will tempt one for hours with their picturesque beauty. determined to feast our fill of fine art, we also visited the academy of fine arts--an interesting collection of beautiful pictures, ancient and modern, forming in itself one of the great attractions of florence, to say nothing of the interesting antiquities of the egyptian museum, the literary curiosities of the laurentian library, or the wonders of the great museum of natural history. of course we wandered through the streets of florence, visited doney's celebrated café in a broad street, which at five in the afternoon is nearly shielded from the sun by the shade from the tall buildings; and then it is that the young men, the young bloods of the city, begin to come down to the cafés for their daily lounge, and ladies and gentlemen to eat the luxurious ices and delicious confectionery, and watch the strollers. out-of-door life becomes quite brisk at from five to six, and everybody seems riding and walking, and they keep up the latter, as we found, till a late hour of the night; for the windows of the room of our hotel, looking upon one of the great streets, gave us the full benefit of that unceasing clatter of feet, that lasts in these places till long after the noise of vehicles has ceased, and the campanile bells begin to chime the first hours of morning. we found the cascine a delightful resort of a pleasant september afternoon. this is a beautifully laid out park along the banks of the river arno, where a pleasant ramble may be had beneath the deep shade of forest trees and on velvety-green turf. but the chief attraction in the afternoon is the drive along its great carriage roads, to view the numerous equipages of every nationality and description that frequent them. it is really an interesting study to view the solid old establishments of english residents, with driver and footmen, the young english bloods driving those heavily-timbered vehicles of theirs, which they seem to have invented for the purpose of taking their valets out to ride, and showing the neatness of their livery, the length of their whips, and the points of the horse attached to the clumsy gundalow. then there were beautiful coroneted barouches, of great taste and elegance, officers in rich uniforms on horseback, and crowds of pedestrians--an ever-shifting, ever-changing scene. to get views of enchanting beauty, pictures in italian sunshine, ride up the hill, and past the beautiful private residences, till you reach fiesole fortress, a thousand feet above florence, where you may look down upon its roofs and spires, the surrounding country, the luxuriant gardens of the private villas upon the hill-side, the winding arno, and the peaks of the apennines in the distance. the grounds of private residences and villas just out of florence were invisible from the road, by reason of the high walls which surround them; and it is only after we really leave the city behind that we get fair eye-sweep of these delightful places, which add so much to the attractiveness of the outskirts. we chanced to be in florence in the grape season, and the heaps of this luxurious fruit that were piled up in the market-places were pleasant to look upon--muscats, sweetwaters, black hamburgs--great, luscious bunches! half a dozen cents would buy a lapful of them. then there were peaches, piles of figs and pomegranates, and other fruits. the italian flower girls, whom we have read of so often, and seen so romantically represented in pictures, are, in reality, bold, hard-featured women, with nothing picturesque or pretty about them, persistent in their importunities, and often with gaunt want written in their features. they are most numerous on the cascine, when the band plays, offering their bouquets at the carriage windows and to passers by. but we must leave florence and its attractions, not, however, without a kind hand-grasp with hiram powers, the american sculptor, who, although he has lived in italy thirty years, is as loyal and true an american as one new come to florence. his beautiful statues of california, faith, hope, charity, the greek slave, &c., in various stages of work, from the rough ashler to the perfectly developed figure, and all the departments of the sculptor's work-shop, were shown to us by the great artist in working cap and apron, for he delights to meet his fellow-countrymen, though i fear they must make sad inroads upon his time during the travelling season; this, however, may be compensated for, in a degree, by orders received for copies of his works from visitors. the beautiful busts of the faith, hope, and charity figures are popular with those who wish to preserve a specimen of the great sculptor's work, and can afford one hundred guineas to gratify their taste in that direction. chapter xiv. one of the earliest pictures of scenes in foreign lands that i remember to have looked upon, was the leaning tower at pisa; this and the renowned porcelain tower at pekin always came in for a good share of wonder and speculation; the latter, when a boy, i firmly believed to be built of precisely similar material as that of the tea set of a certain aunt in the country, which she only paraded on state occasions, and which being thin, delicate, and translucent, no piece was intrusted to my juvenile fingers, which were only permitted to embrace a china mug that appeared amazingly cheap in comparison. that old picture, in the geography of the leaning tower, which awakened a desire to see it never to be extinguished, is like dozens of other similar wood-cuts, which make an indelible impression upon the mind of youth, and you feel, when gazing upon the reality for the first time, like greeting an old acquaintance; or rather the impression is like the first personal introduction to a correspondent whom you have known many years only by letter. though the general form and appearance of the leaning tower of pisa were familiar in my mind, i was not prepared for the surprisingly graceful beauty of the structure, which is of white marble; and though it was built nearly seven hundred years ago, it is remarkably clear and fresh-looking. the very decided lean is at once observable on approaching it; indeed, you experience something of an uncomfortable sensation on being at the side where it appears to be ready to fall. its beauty consists in its being a perfect cylinder of fifty-three feet in diameter, and one hundred and seventy-nine feet high; this great cylinder being formed of eight regular tiers of columns, supporting graceful arches, one above the other, and forming as many open marble galleries running round the tower, the whole surmounted with a graceful open-arched tower or belfry, giving it the appearance of a tall marble column sculptured into circles of open arches and pillars. we started for the summit, an easy ascent of two hundred and ninety-five steps, occasionally going out upon the outside galleries, which project some seven or eight feet on each story, till we reach the belfry, where seven bells are hung, the largest weighing nearly twelve thousand pounds; this tower, as is well-known, being the companile, or bell-tower, of the cathedral close at hand. a few moments among the bells, and we climb above them to the summit of the tower, where the iron rail that protects the edge is grasped nervously as we approach and look over the leaning side, where, without its aid, the feeling is, that one would positively slip off from the slant; indeed, a glance downward and at the tower itself, from this point, produces a terrific sensation,--that it is slowly moving from the perpendicular on its course to the earth below. it is, therefore, quite natural that most tourists should take their views of the surrounding country from the top of the leaning tower, as we did, from its upper side. the view from the summit is very fine, taking in the city of pisa directly beneath, the surrounding country, distant mountains, and hill-sides, with beautiful villas and vineyards. far off in the distance, in one direction, we saw the blue waters of the mediterranean, twelve miles and more away, heaving in the sunshine, with the white sails of ships gliding upon its bosom, and the city of leghorn at its shore, with the masts of the vessels in port, and its light-house, all distinctly visible. after a thorough enjoyment of the scene, we descended to view the cathedral, campo santo, and baptistery. here, in one grand square, within a stone's throw of each other, are the four wonders of pisa; the great duomo, or cathedral, the baptistery, the campo santo, and the leaning tower--standing in a magnificent group by themselves in the open space, rendering all else near them shrunken, petty, and insignificant by their beauty and superb finish. these glorious structures seem like the newly-created wonders of some magical workman, who has placed them here together in the quiet old city for the tourists of all nations to come and gaze upon, admire, wonder, and depart. the cathedral is an elegant specimen of beautiful architecture in marble. like all buildings of the kind, it is built in the form of a latin cross, and is three hundred and eleven feet long in the nave and two hundred and thirty-eight in the transepts. the height of the building is one hundred and twelve feet, and above its first story rises a series of pillars supporting arches, the last two of a series of four, when the façade is viewed from the square, making the building to look like a square structure lifting a grecian temple into the air upon its lofty walls, or like an end view of that ideal picture that used to be delineated as solomon's temple in the old family bibles. the great dome rises from the centre, surrounded by a ring of eighty-eight pillars supporting an elegant ring of pointed work above them, and surmounted by a cupola. inside the scene is elegant; the great centre nave, over forty feet wide, with twenty-four corinthian columns of red granite, twelve on a side, and each one a single block of stone, twenty-five feet high, on a great pedestal over six feet high, and above these another series of columns, smaller and more numerous, forming the upper cloister corridor, or "nuns walk," as they call it in the old english cathedrals, all lifting the grand roof ninety feet above the pavement. in the centre, on four great arches, rises the grand dome, richly decorated; on either side are the aisles, their roof supported by fifty corinthian columns, while above, the roof gleams with mosaics set in golden ground-work. on every side are interesting works of art which will attract the attention; elegant paintings, among them those of andrea del sarto; the high altar, a rich structure in costly-wrought marble, the flowers, running vines, and chiselled cherubs beautiful to look upon; the rich carved wood-work of the stalls, in the choir; the stained-glass windows; the rich frescoes of the cupola; elegant monuments, statues, and beautiful chapels, with their rich altars and paintings, all contribute to render the interior elegant and attractive. at one end of the nave, as we were passing out, we were shown the great bronze chandelier, suspended from the roof by a cable nearly eighty feet long, the regular swaying of which is said to have suggested the theory of the pendulum to galileo. "what!" said i to the guide, "is this the very lamp?" "the very same, monsieur." "but it appears too huge, too heavy to swing." "ah, monsieur, it moves quite easily." but i was an unbelieving thomas; so, lingering behind the group, when the guide's back was turned, i reached up, and with my umbrella gave the lower part of the great bronze a strong push. down came a shower of dust from the creases of the great cable; the huge lamp began a grand, majestic swing, and i was ready to exclaim, in the words of the great mathematician himself, "yet it moves;" and it did "move quite easily," continued its oscillations, back and forth, to such an extent that i thought it safe to move myself at once from beneath the huge pendule, which i did forthwith, quite satisfied that it swung for galileo, and might come down for myself. this duomo was completed in the year , and the baptistery, which we next visited, was founded in , as an inscription upon it informed us. it seems that a cathedral in those early days, notwithstanding its vast size, generally had a superb tower erected for its bells,--a structure by itself,--and another of grand proportions for the baptism and christening of children. the baptistery here at pisa is a perfectly round building, of marble, looking like a great cathedral dome set upon the ground; but it is a dome one hundred and seventy-nine feet high and one hundred feet diameter inside the walls, which are nearly nine feet thick. the exterior above the first story is surrounded by rings of elegant pillars and pointed pediments. the whole of the interior seems sheathed with polished marble, so exquisitely matched and joined as to appear almost seamless. you stand, as it were, in a huge dome, hollowed out of marble. a grand circular font, fourteen feet in diameter, stands in the centre. we saw here the magnificently carved pulpit, executed by nicolo pisano, in . it is hexagon in form, supported by seven pillars, which, in turn, are supported by sculptured figures of lions, griffins, &c. but it is the sculptures in bass-relief upon its sides that are most wonderful, from their elaborate detail, which must have cost an age of patience and labor in their execution. they represent the nativity, adoration of the magi, crucifixion, last judgment, &c. the echoes in this circular baptistery are something quite remarkable. the guide, a fellow with a musical tenor voice, sang a note or two, and it came back to us "a whole gamut filled with heavenly notes." another sang a bar, primo basso, and the polished walls returned it, like the mellowed peals of a full-voiced organ. this magical music was as charming as novel, and an extemporaneous concert was enjoyed here before leaving. we next go over to the campo santo, or holy field, which renowned cemetery is enclosed by cloisters opening into the holy ground, the fronts of these cloisters facing the open space of the interior being arched and roofed over, forming a covered promenade in the form of a parallelogram, the whole enclosure being four hundred and fifteen feet long and one hundred and thirty-seven wide. the centre, within the cloister enclosure, was open overhead. the earth here, it will be remembered, every handful of it for i do not know how many feet deep, came from mount calvary, being brought by a prelate whom that fierce and powerful saracen, saladin, expelled from his dominions about the year , and who, compelled to eat dirt, revenged himself by carrying off fifty or sixty ship-loads of it. it was deposited here, made holy ground, and duly consecrated; and to make the burial lots go off more lively, probably, the story was given out--which is still told--that the earth had the property of reducing dead bodies to dust in twenty-four hours. of course, the rush to get in--or rather, of friends to get their deceased relatives in--was great. only great people could come down with their dust, and very seldom is it that any interments are made here now. one would naturally suppose that a burial-ground of these dimensions would become a little crowded in six hundred and seventy years, unless population was sparse, and some restrictions were made. the covered arcade, or arched cloisters, which extend around the sides forty-six feet high, and thirty-four feet wide contain many interesting monuments. among them we noticed count cavour's, and one to madame catalani, the singer, and a monument to the countess beatrice. the walls of the cloisters are celebrated for their frescoes, many of which are fine specimens of the art, but all more or less injured by the action of dampness or the air. the subjects are from scripture, or monkish legends. the most noted and striking is the triumph of death, in which the grisly king of terrors is allegorically brought before the spectator in a most striking manner, in various ways, such as the exhibition of three coffins, and their ghastly tenant, as a warning to three kings; death swooping down, scythe in hand, upon a party of youths and maidens; kings, warriors, and prelates yielding to the fell destroyer, and angels and demons bearing their souls off in different directions. reaching spezzia at nine p. m., after a day's sight-seeing in pisa, gave us little time to do else than to obtain much-needed refreshment, look at a beautiful moonlight view of the harbor, and engage a private travelling carriage for our journey over the apennines next morning. at six o'clock we started, and as we gradually left the city behind, on our rising road, had a fine sunrise view of its beautiful harbor, with english, french, and american vessels at anchor, with their national flags flying. the scenery among these mountains differs from that of switzerland. the mountains themselves seem of a golden bronze color in the sunlight, from the color of the earth, which seems to be a sort of spanish brown. and again, there are long ranges and graceful peaks, the sides of which are clad in light verdure, but no trees, which appear to be of a delicate pea-green, shaded with rich red, brown, and bronze, from the color of the rock and earth. there were great ranges of mountains, stretching off in the distance, like fading sunset clouds, transformed into mountains--a most beautiful effect. up we went, by the zigzags of the mountain road, surrounded by superb scenery of hill, and crag, and distant range, till finally we came in sight of the great mediterranean, thousands of feet below us, flecked with the white sails of ships and boats in every direction. far on the extreme edge of its blue plain crept a steamer, leaving a long trail of smoke behind, like a dark serpent. then every few miles, turns in the road would bring us in view of little seaports beneath, with their half-circle harbors, light-houses, and white walls standing, out conspicuously on the deep blue of the sea, while the feluccas and great lateen sails, gliding into their ports, reminded one strikingly of panoramic views and paintings, or of those brilliant blue and white pictures of mediterranean seaports which we sometimes see suspended in merchants' counting-rooms in america. the ride was interesting, charming, and exhilarating; for, far off upon one side of us stretched the magnificent, ever-changing mountain scenery, and at the other, far down below, was the beautiful sea view, with numerous ports, clusters of shipping, and pretty indentations, while the road itself was smooth, hard, and in good condition, and our carriage rattled over it at the full trot, to the occasional music of the whip-cracks of the driver. we lunched, as we descended, at a wretched little italian port, and walked down to the sea-side, while our food was in course of preparation, to pick up pebbles and get a near view of the mediterranean, which, until this day, i had never looked upon except on the maps in the school geographies. continuing our journey, we passed hundreds--i may almost say, thousands--of a species of cactus along by the road-side, ranging in size from that of a soup plate to great pointed blades eight feet in height. upon one side of the road, a complete fence or barrier of these plants was made, of nearly a mile in length; and a very effective guard it was, with its tough, broad leaves ranged close together, with their aggressive and thorny blades. but however pleasant post-riding on the continent, over one of the mountain roads may be, twelve or fifteen hours of it a day become fatiguing, and we were not sorry when our carriage rolled into the streets of genoa at nine p. m., and, after twisting round through a dozen or more crooked streets, landed us at the hotel feder. "la superba," and "city of palaces," are the ostentatious titles that the genoese have applied to this place; but one hardly gets an idea of anything very "superb" down in the old part of the city, where the hotels are situated, for here the streets are narrow--narrow as lanes, in fact, and not over-clean. the hotel croce di malta is one directly fronting the shipping and harbor, and from its great massive turrets we get a fine view of the latter. this hotel, a huge, castle-like building, was, in fact, a stronghold of the knights of malta, and from its battlements they looked forth watchfully upon the sea. upon this front street, like those fronting the wharves in our great cities, seem to be the most vehicles. but as we recede into the narrower streets of the old town, vehicles are few in number, and pedestrians, loungers, and lazzaroni abundant. our hotel is a stately building, on an alley that widens into a square, from which runs a narrow street lined with jewelry and fancy goods stores, in which the elegant silver filigree work, which is a specialty of genoa, is displayed. this filigree is composed of fine wires of silver, elegantly wrought and twisted into the shape of wreaths, flowers, butterflies, and various artistic and fanciful figures, and is all sold by weight. although originally of pure white, delicate, frosty-looking silver, it is also often electro-plated with gold. let not the unsophisticated reader imagine, either, when we speak of a fancy goods or jewelry store in the old city of genoa, a spacious, well-lighted establishment, with great plate-glass windows, and a forty or a one hundred feet frontage. imagine, rather, a little, one-windowed, narrow, deep, dark store, in a crowded street, the whole frontage of the store door and window not exceeding fifteen or eighteen feet, and you have it. the buildings on these little, narrow streets, though, are of the most massive character, seemingly built, as in warm countries, of solid masonry, to keep out the heat, and are, many of them, of great height, while the narrow streets are most effectually shaded by them from the sun. there are but very few vehicles that pass beneath our windows, or into the square; but the patter of feet, and the clatter of voices in the evening, are great. genoa must look beautifully from the sea, as it is built upon a height rising gradually some five hundred feet out from the shore; and, as we get out from the tortuous and narrow lanes of the old city, the squares and streets assume a less antique and cramped appearance. there are three great streets, the principal of which is the strada nuova, which is filled with lofty and elegant buildings, streets of palaces, many of them with unpretending exteriors, but with rich linings. one contains the most extensive collection of engravings in italy--nearly sixty thousand; another is rich in paintings; a third in autograph letters, and relics of the great navigator, christopher columbus, who, your guide will be sure to inform you, "deescoovare amereeke." in one of the squares we saw the elegant marble monument erected to him--a circular shaft, bearing his full-length statue resting his hand upon a kneeling figure, while about the base of the column were four other allegorical statues, and beautiful bass-reliefs upon the four panels. the visitor may have his feast of relics in the cathedral and the church of st. ambrogio, if he desires; but, after getting round upon the "grand tour" as far as this, he will probably find that he has seen fragments enough of the true cross to have made half a dozen of them, nails enough to have filled a keg, and bones enough of certain named saints to have set up two or three entire skeletons of the same individual. one of the most delightful places to visit in the vicinity of genoa is the pallavicini gardens, a few miles out. these gardens, though not remarkably extensive, are laid out in the most ingenious, beautiful, and expensive manner. arriving at the villa, you ascend a flight of stairs in the house, and step out upon a broad and magnificent terrace of white marble, from which there is one of the most charming views imaginable of genoa below, the blue sea beyond, and, far in the distance the peaks of corsican mountains. directly below this terrace are others, decorated with vases and broad flights of white marble steps and balusters, and upon these terraces are grand parterres of flowers, and tall orange and lemon trees growing, elegant camellias of every hue, roses, great rhododendrons, and beautiful azaleas. walking through an avenue of flowers and shrubbery from here, you come to an exquisite little grecian temple in white marble, beautifully frescoed. then you pass through another walk, arranged in italian style, with beautiful vases and rare shrubs. another turning, and you come to a pretty rustic cottage with all the surroundings so contrived as to make a charming natural picture. you ascend a height, and encounter a picturesque ruined tower (artificial), and from the height enjoy charming views in every direction. you descend the hill, and come to a miniature cavern of stalactites, through which the guide conducts you. it is filled with natural wonders--crystallizations and beautiful petrifactions, brought at immense expense from every part of italy, and so arranged as to make an apparently natural formation--a natural grotto, gorgeous in the extreme. in the dark recesses of this cavern you reach a river, an ornamental boat approaches, and you are rowed silently through great arches of gloomy caverns, winding hither and thither, apparently into the innermost bowels of the earth, until you begin to fear the guide may have lost his way, when suddenly the boat shoots forth upon the bosom of a charming little lake, surrounded by objects of interest and beauty on every side. the first object that attracts the attention is an artificial island in the centre of the lake, upon which is a beautifully-sculptured, miniature temple of diana, containing a statue of the goddess. then you come to several small islands, connected by means of chinese bridges, with all the surroundings chinese. a chinese pagoda, with its gay sides and bell-tipped peaks, rises near at hand. chinese lanterns are suspended, and a bamboo and tiled chinese house, seen through oriental shrubbery, transports you in imagination, without much effort, to the land of the celestials. at other points in these wonderful gardens are similar artificial effects. one portion is planned to represent egyptian ruins. a needle-like obelisk, covered with hieroglyphics, rises upon a sandy shore, and shattered columns, friezes, and sculptures are strewn on the ground. some rest in the water, and the lotus flower near by, with a solemn, ibis-looking bird or two standing about, completes the illusion. there were little wildernesses of charming walks amid beautiful, ornamental gardening, where the senses were charmed with flowers of every hue and perfume, where aromatic and curious shrubs challenged the attention, and made the air as fragrant as a land breeze off the spice islands. then there was one feature which our guide seemed to think _the_ one of the whole, and that was the ingenious tricks and deceptions which had been arranged with water. i may as well observe that this guide, like many of his race in italy, was an inordinate lover of garlic. that dreadful odor enveloped him like a halo, and when he opened his mouth to speak, there was a perceptible widening of our circle of listeners to get beyond the range; but it was impossible unless the wind were in your favor, for the fellow fairly reeked with the effluvia from every pore of his greasy, oily, italian hide, and poisoned the atmosphere in his vicinity. each of our party of four took his turn in occupying the position next to the guide in his detour of the gardens. no one of us could have endured it the whole distance. the water surprises consist of a series of ingenious tricks for drenching and showering visitors--considered a capital joke, no doubt, in italy; but ladies who can have a delicate silk dress watered with a watering-pot _à discretion_, without the surprise, and gentlemen who are not partial to having two or three pints of water squirted into their faces and upon their shirt-bosoms, do not appreciate the joke. one of these consists of a door placed just ajar, at a passage leading into an attractive little nook. the exploring tourist, in endeavoring to open it farther, by the motion he communicates to the door, receives a stream full in the face. a chinese bridge is so constructed that the visitor, on reaching its centre, finds himself surrounded by fine streams of water all playing towards him, from which it is impossible to escape unless by rushing through the _jets d'eau_. upon one of the little chinese islands an ornamental swing invites the visitor, who no sooner is enjoying the motion than a fine spray greets him in the face; and another stream is so contrived as continually to strike the bottom of the open-work seat as he glides to and fro. we only experienced one of these surprises, and the volley of the denunciation that the guide received from the linguist of our party in his own tongue, coupled with various powerful english expletives from the others, the import of which was unmistakable, evidently convinced him that it would not be to his advantage to play his tricks upon that party of travellers; and he did not. however, the gardens are the most beautiful and attractive imaginable. no amount of money has been spared in their care, or the decorations we have mentioned, all of which are of the most costly and expensive character--an evidence to what an extent artistic taste may be carried with unlimited means behind it. having "done" what was possible of genoa in the brief time allowed, we took train for turin, _en route_ for paris, the railway carrying us through magnificent mountain scenery, great tunnels, and fine specimens of railway engineering, through the city of alessandria, and past its frowning citadel, through the city of asti, surrounded by picturesque hills, upon which probably the vines grow that produce the wine "asti," which figures on the hotel bills of fare, and which is warmly commended by landlords and sometimes travellers; but my own experience convinces me there should have been an "n" pre-fixed, to have given the proper name to that which i tasted of the brand. on we go, through smiling vineyards and grain-fields, and by and by catch a distant view of our old acquaintances, the snowy-peaked alps, against the horizon. we reached turin at eight o'clock in the evening, and were driven, through the bright gas-lighted streets from the station at a spanking pace, to the hotel de l'europe, situated in a grand square opposite the king's palace, and kept in a style befitting its position. i do not think, in the whole of our tour, we found a hotel its equal, certainly not its superior, in admirable _cuisine_, prompt attendance, reasonable prices, and comfortable appointments. although arriving at eight p. m., and but four in party, a dinner, in regular courses, was served for us, with luxuries and a style that i have seldom seen equalled. the comforts and enjoyments of this admirable establishment caused us to regret to leave it, as we were compelled to early next morning, without seeing the city, except such portion of it as we rode through on our way to the station of the railway by which we were to reach susa, from whence we were to cross mount cenis by carriage. this carriage trip over the mountain we arranged for at the hotel in turin, with joseph borgo, the somewhat celebrated proprietor, who stipulated to have a first-class carriage for four persons, to convey us over the mountain to san michel, to provide four horses, change a certain number of times, and occupy certain hours in the transit--all of which was duly filled out in writing, and for which we paid two hundred and fifty-five francs (fifty-one dollars), which included all expenses except our own personal hotel bills. the carriage was promised to meet us at the station in susa. a railway ride of thirty-three miles brought us to susa; and there, with the driver harnessing up four splendid dapple grays, stood an establishment in which one would not have been ashamed to have made his appearance on the drive at central park, new york,--bright, new, and modern built, and very like a modern american barouche, save that the seat usually occupied by the driver was a trifle higher, shielded by a chaise-top, and reserved for two outside passengers, the driver's seat being below it, nearer the horses. we were wondering as to the whereabouts of our own carriage, and what grand duke was to take this handsome equipage, while the common people were entering diligences and the usual dust-covered, creaking, and rickety coaches one becomes so accustomed to in italy, when we observed our own luggage being carefully bestowed upon the rack behind, and we were approached by borgo's agent, who inquired if we had a "billet" for the "voiture;" and upon producing our lithographed and signed ticket, the carriage was brought up to where our group of a lady and three gentlemen stood, with the usual italian whip-cracking. the agent threw open the door with a flourish, and, "_entrez_, monsieur; we _is_ ready." two seated themselves upon the box-seat, two upon the back seat of the open barouche; the door was closed with a bang, the polite agent raised his hat. "_bon voyage_"; and the driver, firing a volley of whip-cracks, the four grays started off with a clatter of silver-mounted harness, on a smart trot, as we rode away in the best appointed equipage it had been our fortune to enjoy in our whole european tour. this fact contributed to mitigate the conviction that fifty-one dollars in gold was a pretty high price, as it was, for a fourteen hour's ride, compared with that paid for carriages in other parts of italy for similar journeys. borgo, however, had a monopoly of the best carriages, and was always sure of english tourists, who would take none other, and really performs his service thoroughly and well, without any attendant vexations, delays, humbugs, or swindles--a great consideration to the tourist. the mont cenis pass, it will be remembered, was built by order of napoleon i., by engineer fabbroni, and the culminating point of it reaches an elevation of sixty-seven hundred and seventy-five feet above the level of the sea. the original cost of the road was three hundred thousand pounds, although a large additional amount has since been expended upon it. it is the safest and most frequented route between france and italy, and it was by this road the french troops entered italy in . the beautiful mountain views of this grand ride, if described, would be to the reader almost a repetition of others given in these pages. the great sweeps of scenery from the zigzags of the road, the old hospice of the monks that we halt at, the boundary line between france and italy, all claim attention as we roll along upon our journey, and feel in the atmosphere that we are leaving italy's penetrating heat, and, let us hope, also its flies and filthiness, behind us. italy was left behind; houses of refuge on the mountain road had been passed, grand scenery viewed, great curves and wondrous windings been marvelled at, and our aching bones confessed that even in the best-appointed vehicles, fatigue is not a stranger; so we were not sorry at night to reach the dirty little hotel de la poste, in the muddy little village of san michel, in french dominions--savoy. next forenoon we bade adieu to post travelling, taking train at two p. m. for macon, on the saone river, about forty miles north of the city of lyons, where we saw a pretty quay along the river, and a bridge over it, and learned that the city was chiefly dependent on its wine trade for business. the same chain of hills that protect the vineyards of that noted wine-growing department of france known as côte d'or, extends through the department of saone et loire, of which macon is the capital; but from some causes the wines are not so fine as those of that celebrated district: however, macon wines, which are set down on most of the hotel bills of fare in europe and our own country, are served here in their original purity and excellence, which cannot always be said of them in america. coming here, we passed lake bourget, which lamartine mentions in his poetry as "_the_ lake;" it looked very grandly under the influence of a violent september gale, which was raising its waves like a miniature ocean, at culoz, where we dined. passing the night at macon, we left next day for paris, reaching the city at seven o'clock p. m. here once more we experienced some of the excellent arrangements characterizing great cities in foreign countries. not a passenger was permitted to enter that portion of the great station till the baggage was all unloaded and sorted, which was done with marvellous celerity and skill, each foreign party's pieces being selected by some clews they had, and piled together. this being done, we were permitted to enter; and a customs officer, as we designated our trunks, inquired if they contained eau de cologne, fire-arms, and various other things, in a sort of formula that he repeated. we had nothing "to declare" for paris, as we assured this functionary our luggage was packed for america; in fact, some of it was a sort of heterogeneous puzzle of shirts, swiss carved work, coats, stockings, stereoscopic views, boots, genoese jewelry, handkerchiefs, vienna leather, guide-books, and photographs, such as all tourists become acquainted with, more, or less, upon their first experience on the "grand tour." with a polite wave of the hand, the officer summoned another, who also spoke english, and whose duty it was to despatch foreigners to their several destinations in the city: this person, in his turn, after learning the quarter of the city we wished to reach, calling two railway porters, transferred our luggage to a carriage in waiting, told the driver in french where to carry us, and ourselves in english what we were to pay for the service, and, bowing politely, turned on his heel, and we were once more rattling over the smooth asphalt pave of paris, the streets and cafés of which were ablaze with gas, the windows gay with brilliant display of goods, and the broad boulevards thronged with crowds of pedestrians. having experienced the swindles and inconveniences of the grand hotel and hotel de l'athenée, we were more than grateful to find an excellent american boarding-house upon the boulevard haussman, fronting the rue trouchet, commanding an extended view of the boulevard and the madeleine, and kept by miss emily herring, a new york lady, where excellent accommodations, prompt service, and good _cuisine_ were had, and no vexatious swindling "extras" or "bougies" put in the bill, french fashion, which is so exasperating to the english and american tourists. having sight-seen paris so much at a former visit, one might imagine but little remained to be done; but such is not the case in this great capital, though now, with our faces set, as it were, homewards, there was but little time remaining for that purpose. a visit to the sewers was an excursion that we desired to make, especially with the remembrance of jean valjean's experiences, in victor hugo's story, les misérables, fresh in mind. having obtained a permit from the proper authorities, we found, on arriving at the point designated, that we were one of a party of a dozen ladies and gentlemen. we looked somewhat askant at the silk and muslin dresses of the former, as being hardly the costume one would select for going down into a drain with, and wondered whether the olfactories of the wearers would be proof against what might assail them during their visit. but our doubts, as will be seen, were soon removed on this point. descending through a large iron trap-door in the sidewalk, near the church of the madeleine, by a stone staircase, we found ourselves in a handsome, vaulted, stone tunnel, twenty feet high, with granite sidewalks on each side, between which, in a space perhaps ten feet wide and five deep, ran the sewage. by some admirable system of ventilation, these sewers are kept so clean and sweet that no more offence is done to the olfactories than in a wash-room. overhead run great iron pipes, by which the city is supplied with pure water; also telegraph wires, enclosed in lead pipes, by which communication is had with the police and official stations in different parts of the city. but we were to make a trip through the sewers. two or three open cars, with cushioned seats, holding twelve persons, and lighted by a brilliant carcel lamp in front, were in readiness, and into these the ladies and gentlemen of the party were bestowed. the car runs on a track placed on the edge of the flowing sewage, and is propelled by men who run on a narrow stone pathway, and push it. away we went, through the great arched tunnel, now and then hearing the faint rumble of vehicles sound above, as we pass beneath some great thoroughfare. we know exactly what quarter of the city we are beneath by the little blue china signs, bearing the names of the streets, which are posted at intervals along the walls, and every now and then pass intersecting sewers discharging their floods into the main artery. we ride smoothly along for a mile or two, are switched off into side passages, back into the main one, ride perhaps a mile or so more, then come to a stop, and ascend into a square of the city far distant from where we started, convinced that this is the most admirable system of sewage that could possibly be devised, and that for sanitary purposes nothing could be better. not only, let it be borne in mind, is the sewage carried off beneath the ground, but even the very sewers themselves kept so clean and neat, and withal so perfectly ventilated, that ladies and gentlemen may pass through them without soiling their clothing or offence to the senses. we were told that, when completed, there would be nearly four hundred miles of these sewers, and that not only could they be made use of for conveying the waste drainage of the city away, but could be used for the purpose of underground communication of troops from one point of the city to another, in case of revolutionary riots, when passage above ground might be disputed for four times the number. chapter xv. and now we were once more to cross that narrow strip of troubled water which separates gallic shores from _perfide albion_, and whose horrors doubtless have much to do with the dread that so many travelled englishmen have of crossing the atlantic. but as has often been remarked, one may cross the atlantic with scarce a qualm, and yet be utterly prostrated, for the time being, on the vile little tubs of passenger boats in crossing the english channel--a trip which the tourist inwardly, with what inwards are left of him, thanks providence is made in less than two hours. the good fortune of a comparatively smooth sea, quiet, bright day, and passage made without a single case of seasickness, which was vouchsafed us when coming over, did not attend us on our return trip, which was made from boulogne to folkestone. on arrival at the french pier, a good stiff breeze in our faces, and ominous white caps to the waves outside, indicated to us what we were to expect. we sought the captain, an englishman. "was there no other accommodation than the deck," with its suggestive pile of wash-bowls? the close little cabin was already fully occupied. "no, sir; better keep on deck--shall be over in little more than an hour." we remembered the captain's nationality, and the weakness of his countrymen, and determined to make the usual trial. "captain, isn't there a private state-room? (looking him fixedly in the eye, and jingling some coin musically in one of my pockets). "there isn't a nook in the ship (?), sir, that isn't chock up, full, but my own state-room, and i sometimes--if a suvren's to be made--don't mind--" a gold coin bearing the effigy of napoleon was in his hand before he could speak another word. "this way, sir. you and madam will find a couple of nice bunks there; it'll be a head wind and rough passage; keep on your back, sir, and you're all right. tom, mind yer eye, and look out for the lady 'n' gen'leman." the captain's comfortable state-room was worth the "tip," for in three minutes after leaving the pier a dozen were sick, and in a quarter of an hour so were seven eighths of all on board; and here we had the satisfaction of being wretched in private, and served by tom, a brisk boy, with an eye to a shilling in prospective, instead of grovelling in abject misery on deck, in company with fifty or sixty other pitiable objects, and served by two gruff old he chambermaids, who perambulated back and forth with mops, swabs, and wash-bowls. arrived at folkestone, which is a place of fashionable resort, we found, on stepping ashore, drawn up in two parallel lines extending front the landing stage up for twenty rods or more towards the train that was in waiting, a large deputation of fashionably-dressed men and women, besides curious idlers in waiting to inspect and stare at the victims of neptune's punishment. there stood these english people, who, probably, passed in their circles among their countrymen for ladies and gentlemen, sticklers for laws of etiquette and politeness, no doubt,--in two long parallel lines, like a regiment on dress parade; and between these lines the passengers, all bedraggled, pale, and limey with seasickness, and hampered with the paraphernalia of travel, were obliged to pass, subjected to the stare of vapid swells with straw-colored side whiskers and eye-glasses, and young women with sea-side hats and parasols, who looked each passer by up and down and all over with the critical eye of a recruiting officer, making those of their own sex more mortified at their dishabille, and the other indignant at this insulting stare. but the familiar sound of the english tongue on every side was music to our ears; the railway porters and guards of the train in waiting all spoke english when they asked us where we wished to go. about seventy miles' railroad ride and we were at london; and notwithstanding the advantages of comparison we had enjoyed in the seeing of paris, vienna, and other european capitals, we could not help feeling again, as on our first visit, impressed with the vastness of this great city. mile after mile of street after street, and still we went past miles of stores and miles of houses, streets of shops, streets of dwellings, squares; a cross street, and presto! out again into another apparently endless street of great retail stores, with gayly-dressed shop windows, and crowds of vehicles and pedestrians; through another street, past a grand park, with its green grass and broad acres, and stately dwellings about it; on amid the never-ending roar, and clatter, and hum, and rush of cabs, great omnibuses, drays, wagons, gay equipages, and nobby dog carts--a never-ending, never-ceasing, constantly changing, moving panorama of novel sights and scenes. london. it _is_, indeed, a great capital; only think of a city covering an area of one hundred and twenty-five square miles, and containing three millions of inhabitants; where more than eighteen hundred children are born every week, and over twelve hundred deaths per week are recorded. london, which was a british settlement before the romans came to england; which was burned and ravaged by the danish robbers of , and a city which king alfred rebuilt and canute lived in; london, a great city of over one hundred and forty thousand inhabitants in queen elizabeth's time; london, that figures in shakespeare, and byron, and dickens, and that we have read of in romances and novels, and studied about in histories and geographies, from childhood up. there is enough for the sight-seer, the student, the antiquarian, or the tourist to enjoy in this wondrous old city if he stays in it a year. i have really been amused to hear some of our american tourists, who visit europe for the usual tour, reply, on being asked if they had seen london, "o, yes, we saw everything; staid there a whole week." this is about the amount of time bestowed on the rare old city by the many fashionable american tourists, who are in haste to get into the glare and glitter of paris, and who manage by brisk labor to skim over the principal sights, such as racing through westminster abbey, running about st. paul's, giving a few hours to the british museum, skurrying through the tower and the houses of parliament, and devoting a few evening hours to madame tussaud's and some of the theatres. then there are those who go over and make no stop at london at first, reserving it to visit on their homeward trip from the continent, and find all too late that they have used up too much time in other places, and have not reserved a tithe of what they ought, to see it, ere they must prepare for the homeward-bound steamer. a great deal, i grant, may be seen of london in a fortnight's time, if the tourist works industriously, and buckles to the task early and late; but the real lover of travel will six weeks to be none too long, and may find abundance of that which is novel, interesting, and instructive fully to occupy his attention that length of time. i cannot but think that early spring--say the last of april and first of may--is the very best time to visit england; the season seems a month in advance of ours in new england, and the tourist sees how much more sensible "crowning a may queen," "going a maying," and dancing round a may-pole, are there the first of may, where the flowers are springing and the air is balmy, than in our new england, where chilly east winds seem like the parting breath of winter, and only snowdrops and crocuses dare to put forth an appearance on the south, sunny sides of banks or protecting walls. after shopping abroad, the good, square, solid honesty of the london shopmen is more fully appreciated, and especially do americans see here that there is an effort by the tradesman who has gained any celebrity for a specialty--the tailor, boot maker, the umbrella maker, or even a mutton pie vender, to keep his articles up to the original standard, that they may be always reliable, and become a proverb among purchasers. this is in contrast with many of our american dealers, who, after "getting a run" on goods, endeavor to realize a larger and more immediate profit by adroitly lowering the standard of quality, or by skilful adulteration. but we must pack our trunks for the homeward voyage. a very large portion of this preparation i had done in paris by a professional packer, styled an _emballeur_, an individual so skilled in folding ladies' voluminous dresses and gentlemen's coats, that they come forth without a wrinkle, and who stows away in one of your trunks almost double the amount that you think it could possibly be made to contain--a service, the expense of which is trifling, but which saves the tourist a vast amount of-time, as well as vexatious and tedious labor. more than six months of "living in a trunk," and a constant succession of novelty, and continuous travel from one point to another, living at hotels, "grand" good, indifferent, and bad, naturally incline one to long for rest and quiet; and, passionately fond of travel as one may be, there are but few i have ever encountered, who devoted half a year constantly and faithfully to it, but were willing to acknowledge sight-seeing to be some of the hardest labor they ever performed. there is one thing that also tends to give the student or lover of travel something of an unsatisfied feeling, as his journey draws near its close, especially if he has been limited as to time; and that is, the thought of how much there is in europe to study and to see, and how little, comparatively, he has accomplished. yet, even with this feeling, the author could not help hugging to his heart the real, solid enjoyment that had been experienced in visiting those scenes hallowed in dreams of youthful imagination, in realizing the hopes--and anticipations of years, and also the thought of what a pleasure the memory of these sights and scenes in foreign lands would be, in years to come, as they were recalled to mind. "but the ship it is ready, and the wind it is fair," and o, how far our home does seem from us over the ocean, now that we have had practical experience upon its broad billows. but this thought is lost in the anticipation of meeting friends and loved ones whom we have not looked upon for six long months, and a return to familiar scenes of home, for which the heart yearns, notwithstanding the attractions by which we may be surrounded. a last shopping in london for english umbrellas, ladies' water-proofs, french dog-skin gloves (made in england), english walking shoes, cartwright & warner's under clothing, sole leather trunks, furs, which you can buy so very much cheaper than in america; books, such as you think you can get through the custom-house; a few comforts for the voyage, which former experience has taught you that you will require, and you are ready. down to the office of the cunard steamers, in london, we went, to learn at what hour the ship would leave liverpool, and other particulars. this office we found to be in one of those buildings which your genuine londoner so delights in for a place of business. the greater the magnitude of a merchant's or banker's business, and the wealthier he is, the more dingy, contracted, dark, and inconvenient he seems to like to have his counting-house or business quarters. there is nothing the old-fashioned london millionnaire seems to have such a horror of, as a bright, fresh office, with plate glass, oak or marble counters, plenty of light, broad mahogany desks, and spacious counting-house. he seems to delight in a dingy old building, down in the depths of the city, with walls thick enough for a fortification; built, perhaps, in queen elizabeth's time, and so smoke-begrimed that you can't tell the original color of the stones. a narrow, squat doorway, over which an almost obliterated sign-board bears the name of the firm,--the original members of which have been dead a century, and not one of the present members bears it,--is an indication of the englishman's substantial character, and how averse he is to change,--knowing that with his countrymen, the knowledge that the firm of "fogy brothers" has been known all over the world for a century as responsible merchants, is capital in itself, and one worth having. in america, from the nature of things and our manner of doing business, we are apt to infer, and often correctly, such a concern is "slow," infected with "dry rot," does not "keep up with the times," or is "rusting out," while the younger blood of wider wake & co., with their vigor and progressive spirit, so infects all about them with their enterprise as to command success, and even attract from the older concern a portion of that which cannot brook the tedious circumlocution of those who are tardy in availing themselves of the real improvements of the age. i have been into the counting-rooms of men worth millions, in london, which, in convenience and appliances for clerical labor, were not equal to those of a boston retail coal-seller, or haberdasher, and others whose warehouses would give the uninitiated american an impression that they were old junk stores, instead of the headquarters of a firm whose name was known, and whose bills were honored, in almost every capital in europe. a mousing visit among some of these old places in the city is very interesting, and has been made more so by some of the inimitable descriptions of dickens. in fact, on my return to london, i could not help longing for an opportunity to spend some weeks here, and, in company with some old resident, to explore the curious old nooks and corners of the city, which contain so much that is noted in history, exhibit so many different phases of life, and hold so much that, described, would be as novel to half of london itself, as photographs of the depths of an african forest. the steamship office was down in an old building which had once been a dwelling-house, and there was the old front door, small old baluster and stair rail, and rooms almost the same as they had been left years ago, when a family dwelt there. your londoner always uses these old places just as long as he can possibly make them pay without putting a shilling's worth of expense upon them. so we stumbled up the dark staircase, and tumbled into the low-studded room that might once have been the family parlor, where the requisite information was obtained of the clerks in attendance. when about to return home by steamer, telegraph to the adelphi, or the hotel you intend to stop at in liverpool, the day before you take passage in advance, or you may not have a desirable room for your last night's sleep on shore, for these liverpool hotels are all full, at the arrival and departure of the steamers, of passengers who are arriving and departing. coming down into the coffee-room of the hotel for his last english breakfast, the tourist will doubtless meet, as we did, numerous americans who have been rambling over the continent for months, and are now, like himself, homeward bound. "hallo, binks!--is that you? how are you? why, we saw your name on the register atop of mount righi six months ago. thought you'd gone home." "no, _sir_! been everywhere, seen everything. by the by, speaking of seeing names, we travelled right after you in italy, got to danielli's, in venice, day after you left, found your name in florence, bought some filigree stuff at same shop you did in genoa." up comes another to exchange greetings, whom you met in strasburg cathedral, and who has been to rome, as you see by his scarf-pin, and introduces his wife, who has been in vienna, as you observe by her russia leather travelling-bag. they have also been to florence, as you see by the daughter's mosaics. in fact, after an experience in shopping on the continent, you can tell by the costumes, ornaments, or travelling paraphernalia of many of the homeward-bound yankees, almost to a certainty, the leading cities which they have visited during their tour abroad. they all seem to have seen the same sights in the same cities, and talk as glibly about crossing over rue rivoli, and going up rue scribe, or "when we were riding out in the _bwar_ one afternoon," as if they were as familiar with paris all their lives as they are with wall street, fifth avenue, beacon street, chester park, or chestnut street. amusing also to the old traveller must be the ease with which some, who have had but a three months' "scoot" over the continent, speak of "running down to rome," or "stopping at berlin a day or two," or "the day we went over the alps," "pretty place is lucerne. we staid there all day." we could but think ourselves, however, that one needs six months' travel in europe in order to learn _how_ to see it, and to prepare for a second visit. we must be at the "landing stage" at the dock at twelve o'clock; so the placard posted in the hotel informs us. and on arrival there with our pile of luggage, we find a fussy little pancks of a steam-tug waiting to take the mails and luggage aboard, and another to take the passengers themselves. here, on the pier, are the usual scenes of parting and leave-taking, and some few privileged ones go out on the tug, to the steamer, which lies in the stream half a mile away, emitting volumes of black smoke, and gathering strength for her journey. forests of masts are at the docks, one or two huge vessels of war out in the stream, some great, dismantled hulks on an opposite shore, and a fresh sea breeze coming in, curls the dark-blue waves over with a white fringe, making the whole scene appear very like dozens of "marine views" that we have seen in art galleries. stepping on board, we are at once in the midst of a tremendous crowd of luggage and passengers, ship's crew, stewards, and officers, mixed up in every direction. we have the number of our state-room, and get the steward and porter of the section in which it is situated pointed out to us by an obliging officer. both of these individuals seem in too great a hurry to stop and hear us as we commence a request; but we have profited by experience. my hand is already in my pocket, a few hurried words, the quiet passage of her majesty's portrait in silver into the palm of the listener, and in five minutes the luggage for our state-room is there, and the porter touches his hat, and asks if there is "anythink else, sir," while the steward comes soon after to tell me to "call for george whenever we want anything." such is the mysterious power of her majesty's coin on her subjects. the reader need not have rehearsed again to him the experiences of the passage over, which differs but little from those already described in these pages, except that it was rougher, and, as the sailors say, "all up hill," while from america to england it is down, and that we counted the completion of each day's journey as so much nearer home. but when old boston's spires came in sight, and the swelling dome of the state house rose to view, it seemed that we had looked upon no sight or scene in foreign lands, and visited no place over the ocean that was a more pleasant picture to look upon--its attraction in our eyes heightened, no doubt, by that charm that invests one's native land and childhood's home. * * * * * transcriber's note: hyphenation, punctuation, and spelling standardized when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise unchanged. when in doubt, end-of-line hyphens have been retained. simple typographical errors remedied, but no changes made to quoted inscriptions. page , first full paragraph: the "o" in "rochid" has a bar over it. [illustration: "at night we descended into the depths of the steamer to worship with the steerage passengers." page ] an american girl abroad. by adeline trafton. _illustrated_ _by miss l. b. humphrey._ boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: lee, shepard and dillingham. entered, according to the act of congress, in the year , by lee and shepard, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry, no. spring lane. i dedicate this record of pleasant days to my father, rev. mark trafton. books for "our girls." the girlhood series. by popular authors. * * * * * an american girl abroad. by adeline f. trafton. mo, cloth, illustrated. $ . . one of the most bright, chatty, wide-awake books of travel ever written. it abounds in information, is as pleasant reading as a story book, and full of the wit and sparkle of "an american girl" let loose from school and ready for a frolic. only girls. by virginia f. townsend, author of "that queer girl," &c., &c. mo, cloth, illustrated. $ . . "it is a thrilling story, written in a fascinating style, and the plot is adroitly handled." it might be placed in any sabbath school library, so pure is it in tone, and yet it is so free from the mawkishness and silliness that mar the class of books usually found there, that the veteran novel reader is apt to finish it at a sitting. the doctor's daughter. by sophie may, author of "our helen," "the asbury twins," &c. mo, cloth, illustrated. $ . . "a delightful book, original and enjoyable," says the _brownville echo_. "a fascinating story, unfolding, with artistic touch, the young life of one of our impulsive, sharp-witted, transparent and pure-minded girls of the nineteenth century," says _the contributor_, boston. sally williams. =the mountain girl.= by mrs. edna d. cheney, author of "patience," "social games," "the child of the tide," &c. mo, cloth, illustrated. $ . . pure, strong, healthy, just what might be expected from the pen of so gifted a writer as mrs. cheney. a very interesting picture of life among the new hampshire hills, enlivened by the tangle of a story of the ups and downs of every-day life in this out-of-the-way locality. the characters introduced are quaintly original, and the adventures are narrated with remarkable skill. lottie eames. =or, do your best and leave the rest.= by a popular author. mo, illus. $ . . "a wholesome story of home life, full of lessons of self-sacrifice, but always bright and attractive in its varied incidents." rhoda thornton's girlhood. by mrs. mary e. pratt. mo, cloth, illustrated. $ . . a hearty and healthy story, dealing with young folks and home scenes, with sleighing, fishing and other frolics to make things lively. _the above six volumes are furnished in a handsome box, for $ . , or sold separately by all booksellers, or sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price by_ lee and shepard, publishers, boston. list of illustrations. page i. "at night we descended into the depths of the steamer to worship with the steerage passengers." frontispiece. ii. "a dozen umbrellas were tipped up; the rain fell fast upon a dozen upturned, expectant faces." iii. "at the word of command they struck the most extraordinary attitudes." iv. "frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing whatever for the sun, moon, or stars, we stood like a company of bedlamites, ankle deep in the wet grass upon the summit." v. "evidently the little old woman is going a journey." vi. "together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances." contents. chapter i. aboard the steamer. we two alone.--"good by."--"are you the captain of this ship?"--wretchedness.--the jolly englishman and the yankee.--a sail!--the cattle-man.--the jersey-man whose bark was on the sea.--church services under difficulties.--the sweet young english face.--down into the depths to worship.--"beware! i stand by the parson."--singing to the fishes.--green erin.--one long cheer.--farewell, ireland. chapter ii. first days in england. up the harbor of liverpool.--we all emerge as butterflies.--the mersey tender.--lot's wife.--"any tobacco?"--"names, please."--st. george's hall.--the fashionable promenade.--the coffee-room.--the military man who showed the purple tide of war in his face.--the railway carriage.--the young man with hair all aflame.--english villages.--london.--no place for us.--the h. house.--the babes in the wood.--the party from the country.--we are taken in charge by the good man.--the golden cross.--solitary confinement.--mrs. b.'s at last. chapter iii. excursions from london. strange ways.--"the bears that went over to charlestown."--the delights of a runaway without its dangers.--flower show at the crystal palace.--whit-monday at hampton court.--a queen baby.--"but the carpets?"--poor nell gwynne.--vandyck faces.--royal beds.--lunch at the king's arms.--o music, how many murders have been committed in thy name!--queen victoria's home at windsor.--a new "house that jack built."--the round tower.--stoke pogis.--frogmore.--the knights of the garter.--the queen's gallery.--the queen's plate.--the royal mews.--the wicker baby-wagons.--the state equipages. chapter iv. sight-seeing in london. the tower.--the tall yankee of inquiring mind.--our guide in gorgeous array.--war trophies.--knights in armor.--a professional joke.--the crown jewels.--the room where the little princes were smothered.--the "traitor's gate."--the houses of parliament.--what a throne is like.--the "woolsack."--the peeping gallery for ladies.--westminster hall and the law courts.--the three drowsy old women.--the great panjandrum himself.--johnson and the pump.--st. paul's.--wellington's funeral car.--the whispering gallery.--the bell. chapter v. away to paris. the wedding party.--the canals.--new haven.--around the tea-table.--separating the sheep from the goats.--"will it be a rough passage?"--gymnastic feats of the little steamer.--o, what were officers to us?--"who ever invented earrings?"--dieppe.-- fish-wives.--train for paris.--fellow-passengers.-- rouen.--babel.--deliverance. chapter vi. the paris of . the devil.--cathedrals and churches.--the louvre.--modern french art.--the beauvais clock, with its droll, little puppets.--virtue in a red gown.--the luxembourg palace.--the yawning statue of marshal ney.--gay life by gas-light.--the imperial circus.--the opera.--how the emperor and empress rode through the streets after the riots.--the beautiful spanish woman whose face was her fortune.--napoleon's tomb. chapter vii. sights in the beautiful city. the gobelin tapestry.--how and where it is made.--père la-chaise.--poor rachel!--the baby establishment.--"now i lay me."--the little mother.--the old woman who lived in a shoe.--the american chapel.--beautiful women and children.--the last conference meeting.--"i'm a proof-reader, i am." chapter viii. show places in the suburbs of paris. the river omnibuses.--sèvres and its porcelain.--st. cloud as it was.--the crooked little town.-- versailles.--eugenie's "spare bedroom."--the queen who played she was a farmer's wife.--seven miles of paintings.--the portraits of the presidents. chapter ix. a visit to brussels. to brussels.--the old and new city.--the paradise and purgatory of dogs.--the hôtel de ville and grand place.--st. gudule.--the picture galleries.--wiertz and his odd paintings.--brussels lace and an hour with the lace-makers.--how the girls found charlotte brontë's school.--the scene of "villette." chapter x. waterloo and through belgium. to waterloo.--beggars and guides.--the mound.--chateau hougomont.--victor hugo's "sunken road."--antwerp.--a visit to the cathedral.--a drive about the city.--an excursion to ghent.--the funeral services in the cathedral.--"poisoned? ah, poor man!"--the watch-tower.--the friday-market square.--the nunnery.--longfellow's pilgrims to "the belfry of bruges." chapter xi. a trip through holland. up the meuse to rotterdam.--dutch sights and ways.--the pretty milk-carriers.--the tea-gardens.--preparations for the sabbath.--an english chapel.--"the lord's barn."--from rotterdam to the hague.--the queen's "house in the wood."--pictures in private drawing-rooms.--the bazaar.--an evening in a dutch tea-garden.--amsterdam to a stranger.--the "sights."--the jews' quarter.--the family whose home was upon the canals.--out of the city.--the pilgrims. chapter xii. the rhine and rhenish prussia. first glimpse of the rhine.--cologne and the cathedral.--"shosef in ter red coat."--st. ursula and the eleven thousand virgins.--up the rhine to bonn.--the german students.--rolandseck.--a search for a resting-place.--our dutch friend and his malays.--the story of hildegund.--a quiet sabbath.-- our dutch friend's reply.--coblentz.--the bridge of boats.--ehrenbreitstein, over the river.--a scorching day upon the rhine.--romance under difficulties.-- mayence.--frankfort.--heidelberg.--the ruined castle.--baden-baden.--a glimpse at the gambling.--the new and the old "schloss."--the black forest.-- strasbourg.--the mountains. chapter xiii. days in switzerland. the lake of lucerne.--days of rest in the city.--an excursion up the righi.--the crowd at the summit.-- dinner at midnight.--rising before "the early worm."--the "sun-rise" according to murray.--animated scarecrows.--off for a tour through switzerland.--the lake for the last time.--grütlii.--william tell's chapel.--fluellen.--altorf.--swiss haymakers.--an hour at amsteg.--the rocks close in.--the devil's bridge.-- the dangerous road.--"a carriage has gone over the precipice!"--andermatt.--desolate rocks.--exquisite wild flowers.--the summit of the furka.--a descent to the rhone glacier.--into the ice.--swiss villages.-- brieg.--the convent inn.--the bare little chapel on the hill.--to martigny. chapter xiv. among the everlasting hills. the quaint inn.--the falls of the sallenches, and the gorge de trient.--shopping in a swiss village.--a mule ride to chamouni.--peculiarities of the animals.--entrance to the village.--egyptian mummies lifted from the mules.--rainy days.--chamois.--the mer de glace.--"look out of your window."--mont blanc.--sallenches.--a diligence ride to geneva.--our little old woman.--the clownish peasant.--the fork in the road.--"adieu." chapter xv. last days in switzerland. geneva.--calvin and jewelry.--up lake leman.--ouchy and lausanne.--"sweet clarens."--chillon.--freyburg.-- sight-seers.--the last judgment.--berne and its bears.--the town like a story.--the lake of thun.-- interlaken.--over the wengern alp.--the falls of giessbach.--the brunig pass.--lucerne again. chapter xvi. back to paris alone. coming home.--the breaking up of the party.--we start for paris alone.--basle, and a search for a hotel.-- the twilight ride.--the shopkeeper whose wits had gone "a wool-gathering."--"two tickets for paris."-- what can be the matter now?--michel angelo's moses.-- paris at midnight.--the kind _commissionaire_.--the good french gentleman and his fussy little wife.--a search for miss h.'s.--"come up, come up."--"can women travel through europe alone?" a word about a woman's outfit. an american girl abroad. chapter i. aboard the steamer. we two alone.--"good by."--"are you the captain of this ship?"--wretchedness.--the jolly englishman and the yankee.--a sail!--the cattle-man.--the jersey-man whose bark was on the sea.--church services under difficulties.--the sweet young english face.--down into the depths to worship.--"beware! i stand by the parson."--singing to the fishes.--green erin.--one long cheer.--farewell ireland. we were going to europe, mrs. k. and i--alone, with the exception of the ship's company--unprotected, save by him who watches over the least of his creatures. we packed our one trunk, upon which both name and nationality were conspicuously blazoned, with the necessaries, not luxuries, of a woman's toilet, and made our simple preparations for departure without a shadow of anxiety. "they who know nothing, fear nothing," said the paterfamilias, but added his consent and blessing. the rain poured in torrents as we drove down to the wharf. but floods could not have dampened our enthusiasm. a wild irishman, with a suggestion of spirituous things in his air and general appearance, received us at the foot of the plank, one end of which touched earth, the other that unexplored region, the steamer. we followed the direction of his dirty finger, and there fell from our eyes, as it were, scales. in our ignorance, we had expected to find vast space, elegant surroundings, glass, glare, and glitter. we peered into the contracted quarters of the ladies' cabin. one side was filled with boxes and bundles; the other, with the prostrate form of an old lady, her head enveloped in a mammoth ruffle. we explored the saloon. the purser, with a wen and a gilt-banded cap on his head, was flying about like one distracted. an old gentleman similarly attired, with the exception of the wen,--the surgeon as we afterwards learned,--read a large book complacently in one corner, murmuring gently to himself. his upper teeth lacked fixity, so to speak; and as they fell with every word, he had the appearance of gnashing them continually at the invisible author. there was a hurrying to and fro of round, fresh-faced stewards in short jackets, a pushing and pulling of trunks and boxes, the sudden appearance and disappearance of nondescript individuals in slouched hats and water-proofs, the stirring about of heavy feet upon the deck above, the rattling of chains, the 'yo-ing' of hoarse voices, as the sailors pulled at the ropes, and, with it all, that sickening odor of oil, of dead dinners--of everything, so indescribable, so never-to-be-forgotten. somewhat saddened, and considerably enlightened upon the subject of ocean steamers, we sought our state-room. it boasted two berths (the upper conveniently gained by mounting the stationary wash-stand), and a velvet-covered sofa beneath the large, square window, which last we learned, months later, when reduced to a port-hole for light and air, to appreciate. a rack and half a dozen hooks against the wall completed its furniture. the time of departure arrived. we said the two little words that bring so many tears and heartaches, and ran up on the deck with the rain in our faces, and something that was not all rain in our eyes, for one last look at our friends; but they were hidden from sight. there comes to me a dim recollection of attempting to mount to an inaccessible place: of clinging to wet ropes with the intention of seeing the last of the land; of thinking it, after a time, a senseless proceeding, and of resigning ourselves finally to our berths and inevitable circumstances. eight bells and the dinner bell; some one darkened our doorway. "what's this? don't give it up so. d'ye hear the dinner bell?" "are--are you the captain of this ship?" gasped mrs. k., feebly, from the sofa. "to be sure, madam. don't give it up so." mrs. k. groaned. there came to me one last gleam of hope. what if it were possible to brave it out! in a moment my feet were on the floor, but whether my name were mcgregor, or not, i could not tell. i made an abortive attempt after the pretty hood, prepared with such pleasant anticipations, and had a dim consciousness that somebody's hands tied it about my head. then we started. we climbed heights, we descended depths indescribable, in that short walk to the saloon, and there was a queer feeling of having a windmill, instead of a head, upon my shoulders. a number of sympathizing faces were nodding in the most remarkable manner, as we reached the door, and the tables performed antic evolutions. "take me back!" and the berth and the little round stewardess received me. there followed a night of misery. one can form no idea, save from experience, of the horrors of the first night upon an ocean steamer. there are the whir, and buzz, and jar, and rattle, and bang of the screw and engine; the pitching and rolling of the ship, with the sensation of standing upright for a moment, and then of being made to rest comfortably upon the top of your head; the sense of undergoing internal somersaults, to say nothing of describing every known curve externally. you study physiology involuntarily, and doubt if your heart, your lungs, or indeed any of your internal organs, are firmly attached, after all; if you shall not lose them at the next lurch of the ship. your head is burning with fever, your hands and feet like ice, and you feel dimly, but wretchedly, that this is but the beginning of sorrows; that there are a dozen more days to come. you are conscious of a vague wonder (as the night lengthens out interminably) what eternity _can_ be, since time is so long. the bells strike the half hours, tormenting you with calculations which amount to nothing. everything within the room, as well as without, swings, and rolls, and rattles. you are confident your bottles in the rack will go next, and don't much care if they do, though you lie and dread the crash. you are tormented with thirst, and the ice-water is in that same rack, just beyond your reach. the candle in its silver case, hinged against the wall, swings back and forth with dizzy motion, throwing moving distorted shadows over everything, and making the night like a sickly day. you long for darkness, and, when at last the light grows dim, until only a red spark remains and the smoke that adds its mite to your misery, long for its return. at regular intervals you hear the tramp, tramp, overhead, of the relieving watch; and, in the midst of fitful slumbers, the hoarse voices of the sailors, as the wind freshens and they hoist the sails, wake you from frightful dreams. at the first gray dawn of light come the swash of water and the trickling down of the stream against your window, with the sound of the holy-stones pushed back and forth upon the deck. and with the light--o, blessed light!--came to us a dawn of better things. there followed days when we lay contented upon the narrow sofa, or within the contracted berths, but when to lift our heads was woe. a kind of negative blessedness--absence from misery. we felt as if we had lost our heart, our conscience, and almost our immortal soul, to quote mark twain. there remained to us only those principles and prejudices most firmly rooted and grounded. even our personal vanity left us at last, and nothing could be more forsaken and appropriate than the plain green gown with its one row of military buttons, attired in which, day after day, i idly watched the faces that passed our door. "that's like you americans," said our handsome young irish doctor, pointing to these same buttons. "you can't leave your country without taking the spread-eagle with you!" our officers, with this one exception, were english. our captain, a living representative of the traditional english sailor. not young, save in heart; simple, unaffected, and frank in manner, but with a natural dignity that prevented undue familiarity, he sang about the ship from morning till night, with a voice that could carry no air correctly, but with an enjoyment delightful to witness--always a song suggested by existing circumstances, but with "cheer, boys, cheer; my mother's sold her mangle," when everything else failed. he was forward among the men on the deck with an eye to the wind, down below bringing fruit and comfort to the sick in the steerage, dealing out apples and oranges to the children, with an encouraging word and the first line of a song for everybody. the life of the ship was an englishman, with the fresh complexion almost invariably seen upon englishmen, and forty years upon a head that looked twenty-five. he was going home after a short tour through the united states, with his mind as full of prejudices as his memorandum-book was of notes. he chanced, oddly enough, to room with the genuine yankee of the company--a long, lean, good-natured individual from one of the eastern states, "close on ter varmont," who had a way of rolling his eyes fearfully, especially when he glared at his food. he represented a mowing machine company, and we called him "the mowing machine man." he accosted us one day, sidling up to our door, with, "how d'ye do to-day?" "better, thank you," i replied from the sofa. "that's real nice. tell ye what, we'll be glad to see the ladies out. how's yer mar?" nodding towards the berth from which twinkled mrs. k.'s eyes. i laughed, and explained that our relations were of affection rather than consanguinity. his interest increased when he found we were travelling alone. he gave us his london address, evidently considering us in the light of daniels about to enter the lions' den. "ef ye have any trouble," said he, as he wrote down the street and number, "there's one yankee'll stand up for ye." he amused the englishman by calling out, "hullo. d'ye feel _good_ this morning?" "no," would be the reply, with a burst of laughter; "i feel awful wicked; think i'll go right out and kill somebody." there was a shout one morning, "a sail! see the stars and stripes!" i had not raised my head for days, but staggered across the floor at that, and clinging to the frame, thrust my head out of the window. yes, there was a ship close by, with the stars and stripes floating from the mast-head, i found, when the roll of the steamer carried my window to its level. "seems good ter see the old rag!" i looked up to find the mowing machine man gazing upon it with eyes all afloat. "i'd been a thinking," said he, "all them fellers have got somebody waiting for 'em over there,"--our passengers were mostly english,--"but there wasn't nobody a waiting for me. tell ye what,"--and he shook out the folds of a red and yellow handkerchief,--"it does my heart good ter see the old flag." there was a bond of sympathy between us from that moment. we had another and less agreeable specimen of this free people--a tall, tough western cattle dealer, who quarrelled if he could find an antagonist, swore occasionally, drank liquor, and chewed tobacco perpetually, wore his trousers tucked into his long boots, his hands tucked into his pockets, and, to crown these attributes, believed in andrew johnson!--a middle-aged man, with soft, curling brown hair above a face that could be cruelly cold and hard. his hair should have been wire; his blue eyes were steel. but hard as was his face, it softened and smoothed itself a little at sight of the sick women. he paused beside us one day with a rough attempt to interest and amuse by displaying a knife case containing a dozen different articles. "this is ter take a stun out of a hoss's huf, and this, d'ye see, is a tooth-pick;" putting it to immediate use by way of explanation. at the table he talked long and loud upon the rinderpest, and other kindred and appetizing topics. "i've been a butcher myself," he would say. "i've cut up hundreds o' critters. what part of an ox, now, d'ye think that was taken from?" pointing to the joint before him, and addressing a refined, delicate-faced old gentleman across the table, who only stared in silent horror. but even the "cattle man" was less marked in his peculiarities than the "jersey man," a melancholy-eyed, curly-wigged individual from the jersey shore, who wore his slouched hat upon one side of his head, and looked as though he were doing the rakish lover in some fifth-rate theatre; who was "in the musical line myself; smith and jones's organs, you know; that's me;" and who, being neither smith nor jones, we naturally concluded must be the organ. he recited poetry in a loud tone at daybreak, and discussed politics for hours together, arguing in the most satisfactory manner with the principles, and standing most willingly upon the platform, of everybody. he assumed a patronizing air towards the mowing machine man. "well, you _are_ a green yankee," he would say; "lucky for you that you fell in with me;" to which the latter only chuckled, "that's so." he had much to tell of himself, of his grandmother, and of his friends generally, who came to see him off; "felt awfully, too," which we could hardly credit; rolled out snatches of sentimental songs, iterating and reiterating that his bark was on the sea,--and a most disagreeable one we found it; wished we had a piano on board, to which we murmured, "the lord forbid;" and hoped we should soon be well enough to join him in the "white squall." he was constantly reminding us that we were a very happy family party, so "congenial," and evidently agreed with the mowing machine man, who said, "they're the best set of fellows i ever see. they'll tell ye anything." we numbered a clergyman among us, of course. "always a head wind when there's a parson aboard," say the sailors. so this poor dyspeptic little man bore the blame of our constant adverse winds. nothing more bigoted, more fanatical than his religious belief could be imagined. you read the terrors of the lord in his eye; and yet he won respect, and something more, by his consistency and zeal. earnestness will tell. "the parson will have great influence over the cattle man," the captain said, sabbath morning, as we were walking the deck. "the cattle man?" "yes, the parson will get a good hold of him." just then, as if to prove the old proverb true, that his satanic majesty is always in the immediate neighborhood when his character is under discussion, the cattle man and jersey came up the companion-way. "if you please, captain," said the former, "we are a committee to ask if the parson may preach to the steerage people to-night." "certainly," was the reply; "i will attend myself." they thanked him, and went below, leaving me utterly amazed. they were the last men upon the ship whom one would have selected as a committee upon spiritual things! the church service for the cabin passengers was held in the saloon. a velvet cushion upon one end of the long table constituted the pulpit, before which the minister stood, holding fast to the rack on either side, and bracing himself against the captain's chair in the rear. even then he made, involuntarily, more bows than any ritualist, and the scripture, "what went ye out for to see? a reed shaken by the wind?" would present itself. the sailors in their neat dress filed in and ranged themselves in one corner. the stewards gathered about the door, one, with face like an owl, most conspicuous. the passengers filled their usual seats, and a delegation from the steerage crept shyly into the unoccupied space--women with shawls over their heads and babies in their arms, shock-headed men and toddling children, but all with an evident attempt at appropriate dress and manner. among them was one sweet young english face beneath an old crape bonnet. a pair of shapely hands, which the shabby black gloves could not disguise, held fast a little child. widowhood and want in the old world; what was waiting her in the new? the captain read the service, and all the people responded. the women's eyes grew wet at the sound of the familiar words. the little english widow bent her face over the head of the child in her lap, and something glistened in its hair. our sympathies grew wide, and we joined in the prayer for the queen, that she might have victory over her enemies, and even murmured a response to the petition for albert edward and the nobility, dimly conscious that they needed prayers. the good captain added a petition for the president of the united states, to which the mowing machine man and i said, "amen." then the minister, having poised himself carefully, read a discourse, sulphurous but sincere; the mowing machine man thrusting his elbow into my side in a most startling manner at every particularly blue point. we were evidently in sympathy; but i could have dispensed with the expression of it. we closed with the doxology, standing upon our feet and swaying back and forth as though it had been a shaker chant, led by an improvised choir and the jersey man. at night we descended into the depths of the steamer to worship with the steerage passengers. it was like one of rembrandt's pictures--the darkness, the wild, strangely-attired people, the weird light from the lanterns piercing the gloom, and bringing out group after group with fearful distinctness; the pale, earnest face of the preacher, made almost unearthly by the glare of the yellow light--a face with its thin-drawn lips, its eyes like coals of fire such as the flames of martyrdom lit once, i imagine. close beside him stood the cattle man, towering like saul above the people, and with an air that plainly said, "beware--i stand by the parson." "there is a land of pure delight," repeated the minister; and in a moment the words rolled out of the cattle man's mouth while he beckoned with his long arm for the people to rise. throwing back his head, he sang with an unction indescribable, verse after verse, caught doubtless at some western camp-meeting, where he had tormented the saints. one after another took up the strain. clear and strong came the tones from every dark corner, until, like one mighty voice, while the steamer rolled and the waves dashed against its sides, rose the words "not jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, shall fright us from that shore." a great stillness fell upon the people as the minister gave out his text, and began his discourse. he had lacked freedom in the saloon, but here he forgot everything save the words given him; hard words they seemed to me, containing little of the love of god. i glanced at the mowing machine man, who had made a seat of half a barrel under the stairs. he winked in a fearful manner, as though he would say, "just see how he's a goin' on!" but the people received it gladly. one after another of the sailors crept down the stairs and stood in the shadow. i watched them curiously. it may be that this stern, hard doctrine suited these stern, hard men. it made me shudder. but the record of all these days would have no end. how can i tell of the long, happy hours, when more than strength, when perfect exhilaration, came to us; when existence alone was a delight? to sit upon the low wheel-house, with wraps and ribbons and hair flying in the wind, while we sang,-- "o, a life on the ocean wave!" to admiring fishes; to watch the long, lazy swell of the sea, or the spray breaking from the tops of the white caps into tiny rainbows; to walk the rolling deck for hours with never a shadow of weariness; to cling to the flag-staff when the stern of the ship rose in the air then dropped like a heavy stone into the sea, sending the spray far over and above us; to count the stars at night, watching the other gleaming phosphorescent stars that seemed to have fallen from heaven upon the long wake of the steamer,--all this was a delight unspeakable. one morning, when the land seemed a forgotten dream, we awoke to find green erin close beside us. all the day before the sea-gulls had been hovering over us--beautiful creatures, gray above and white beneath, clouds with a silver lining. tiny land birds, too, flew about us, resting wearily upon the rigging. the sea all at once became like glass. it seemed like the book of revelation when the sun shone on it,--the sea of glass mingled with fire. for a time the land was but a line of rock, with martello towers perched upon the points. on the right, fastnet rock rose out of the sea, crowned with a light-house; then the gray barren shore of cape clear island, and soon the sharp-pointed stag rocks. it is a treacherous coast. "i've been here many a night," said the captain, as he gave us his glass, "when i never expected to see morning." and all the while he was speaking, the sea smiled and smiled, as though it could never be cruel. we drew nearer and nearer, until we could see the green fields bounded by stone walls, the white, winding roads, and little villages nestling among the hills. towards noon the lovely harbor of queenstown opened before us, surrounded and almost shut in by rocky islands. through the glass we could see the city, with its feet in the bay. we were no longer alone. the horizon was dotted with sails. sometimes a steamer crossed our wake, or a ship bore down upon us. we hoisted our signals. we dipped our flag. the sailors were busy painting the boats, and polishing the brass till it shone again. now the tender steams out from queenstown. the steerage passengers in unwonted finery, tall hats and unearthly bonnets, and one in a black silk gown, are running about forward, shaking hands, gathering up boxes and bundles, and pressing towards the side which the tender has reached. there are the shouting of orders, the throwing of a rope, and in a moment they are crowding the plank. one long cheer, echoed from the stern of our steamer, and they are off. all day we walked the deck; even the sick crawled up at last to see the panorama. we still lingered when night fell, and we had turned away from the land to strike across the channel, and the picture rests with me now; the purple sky with one long stretch of purple, hazy cloud, behind which the sun went down; the long, low line of purple rock, our last glimpse of ireland, and the shining, purple sea, with not a ripple upon its surface. chapter ii. first days in england. up the harbor of liverpool.--we all emerge as butterflies.--the mersey tender.--lot's wife.--"any tobacco?"--"names, please."--st. george's hall.--the fashionable promenade.--the coffee-room.--the military man who showed the purple tide of war in his face.--the railway carriage.--the young man with hair all aflame.--english villages.--london.--no place for us.--the h. house.--the babes in the wood.--the party from the country.--we are taken in charge by the good man.--the golden cross.--solitary confinement.--mrs. b.'s at last. we steamed up the harbor of liverpool the next morning. new brighton, with its green terraces, its chinese-pagoda villas, spread out upon one side, upon the other that solid wall of docks, the barricade that breaks the constant charges of the sea, with the masts of ships from every land for an abattis. the wraps and shapeless garments worn so long were laid aside; the pretty hood which had, like charity, covered so many sins of omission, hidden, itself, at last, the soft wool stiffened with the sea spray, the bright colors dimmed by smoke, and soot, and burning sun. we crept shyly upon the deck in our unaccustomed finery, as though called at a moment's notice to play another woman's part, half-learned. not in us alone was the transformation. the girl in blue had blossomed into a bell--a blue bell. the cattle man, his hands released at last from the thraldom of his pockets, stalked about, funereal, in wrinkled black. a solferino neck-tie and tall hat of a pie-adamite formation transmogrified our mowing machine friend. nondescripts, that had lain about the deck wrapped in cocoons of rugs and shawls, emerged suddenly--butterflies! a painful courtesy seized us all. we had doffed the old familiar intercourse with our sea-garments. we gathered in knots, or stood apart singly, mindful at last of our dignity. the mersey tender (a tender mercy to some) puffed out to meet us, and we descended the plank as those who turn away from home, leaving much of our thoughts, and something of our hearts, within the ship. it had been such a place of rest, of blessed idleness! only when our feet touched the wharf did we take up the burden of life again. there were the meeting of friends, in which we had no part; the maelstrom of horses, and carts, and struggling humanity, in which we found a most unwilling place; and then we followed fast in the footsteps of the mowing machine man, who in his turn followed a hair-covered trunk upon the shoulders of a stout porter, our destination the custom-house shed close by. for a moment, as we were tossed hither and thither by the swaying mass, our desires followed our thoughts to a certain sheltered nook, upon a still, white deck, with the sunbeams slanting down through the furled sails above, with the lazy, lapping sea below, and only our own idle thoughts for company. then we remembered lot's wife. there was a little meek-faced custom-house officer in waiting, with a voice so out of proportion to his size, that he seemed to have hired it for the occasion, or come into it with his uniform by virtue of his office. "any tobacco?" he asked, severely, as we lifted the lid of our one trunk. we gave a virtuous and indignant negative. that was all. we might go our several ways now unmolested. one fervent expression of good wishes among our little company, while we make for a moment a network of clasped hands, and then we pass out of the great gates into our new world, and into the clutches of the waiting cabmen. by what stroke of good fortune we and our belongings were consigned to one and the same cab, in the confusion and terror of the moment, we did not know at the time. it was clearly through the intervention of a kind fellow-passenger, who, seeing that amazement enveloped us like a garment, kindly took us in charge. the dazed, as well as the lame and lazy, are cared for, it seems. by what stroke of good fortune we ever reached our destination, we knew still less. our cab was a triumph of impossibilities, uncertainties, and discomfort. our attenuated beast, like an animated hoop skirt, whose bones were only prevented, by the encasing skin, from flying off as we turned the corners, experienced hardly less difficulty in drawing his breath than in drawing his load. we descended at the entrance to the hotel as those who have escaped from imminent peril. we mounted the steps--two lone, but by no means lorn, damsels, two anxious, but by no means aimless females, knowing little of the world, less of travelling, and nothing whatever of foreign ways. our very air, as we entered the door, was an apology for the intrusion. "names, please," said the smiling man in waiting, opening what appeared to be the book of fate. we added ours to the long list of pilgrims and strangers who had sojourned here, dotting our i's and crossing our t's in the most elegant manner imaginable. if any one has a doubt as to our early advantages, let him examine the record of the washington hotel, liverpool. the heading, "remarks," upon the page, puzzled us. were they to be of a sacred or profane nature? of an autobiographical character? were they to refer to the dear land we had just left? through some political throes she had just brought forth a ruler. should we add to the u. s. against our names, "as well as could be expected"? we hesitated,--and wrote nothing. up the wide stairs, past the transparency of washington--in the bluest of blue coats, the yellowest of top boots, and an air of making the best of an unsought and rather ridiculous position--we followed the doily upon the head of the pretty chambermaid to our wide, comfortable room, with its formidable, high-curtained beds. the satchels and parcels innumerable were propped carefully into rectitude upon the dressing table, under the impression that the ship would give a lurch; and then, gazing out through the great plate glass windows upon the busy square below, we endeavored to compose our perturbed minds and gather our scattered wits. it is not beautiful, this great city of liverpool, creeping up from the sea. it has little to interest a stranger aside from its magnificent docks and warehouses. there are mammoth truck horses from suffolk, with feet like cart wheels; there is st. george's hall, the pride of the people, standing in the busy square of the same name, with a statue of the saint himself--a terror to all dragons--just before it. it is gray, many columned, wide stepped, vast in its proportions. do you care for its measurement? having seen that, you are ready to depart; and, indeed, there is nothing to detain one here beyond a day of rest, a moment to regain composure after the tossing of the sea. there are some substantial dwellings,--for commerce has its kings,--and some fine shops,--for commerce also has its queens,--and one fine drive, of which we learned too late. the air of endurance, which pervades the whole city, as it does all cities in the old world, impresses one greatly, as though they were built for eternity, not time; the founders having forgotten that here we are to have no continuing city. in the new world, man tears down and builds up. every generation moulds and fashions its towns and cities after its own desires, or to suit its own means. man is master. in the old world, one generation after another surges in and out of these grim, gray walls, leaving not so much as the mark the waves leave upon the rocks. unchanged, unchanging, they stand age after age, time only softening the hard outlines, deepening the shadows it has cast upon them, and so bringing them into a likeness of each other that they seem to have been the design of one mind, the work of one pair of hands, and hardly of mortal mind or hands at that. they seem to say to man, "we have stood here ages before you were born. we shall stand here ages after you are forgotten." they must be filled with echoes, with ghosts, and haunting memories. bold street, a tolerably narrow and winding way, in which many are found to walk,--contrary to all precedent,--boasts the finest shops. here the lancashire witches, as the beauties of the county are called, walk, and talk, and buy gewgaws of an afternoon. it was something strange to us to see long silken skirts entirely destitute of crinoline, ruffle, or flounce, trailed here through mud and mire, or raised displaying low congress gaiters, destitute of heels. for ourselves, if we had been the king of the cannibal islands, we could hardly have attracted more attention than we did in our plain, short travelling suits and high-heeled boots. it grew embarrassing, especially when our expression of unqualified benevolence drew after us a train of beggars. they crossed the street to meet us. they emerged from every side street and alley, thrusting dirty hands into our faces, and repeating twice-told tales in our ears, until we were thankful when oblivion and the shadow of the hotel fell upon us. we dined in the coffee-room,--that comfortable and often delightfully cosy apartment fitted with little tables, and with its corner devoted to books, to papers and conversation,--that combination of dining, tea and reading-room unknown to an american hotel,--sacred to the sterner sex from all time, and only opened to us within a few years,--the gates being forced then, i imagine, by american women, who will not consent to hide their light under a bushel, or keep to some faraway corner, unseeing and unseen. english women, as a rule, take their meals in their own private parlors. perhaps because english men generally desire the flowers intrusted to their fostering care to blush unseen. it may be better for the gardeners; it may be better for the flowers--i cannot tell; but we dined in the coffee-room, as americans usually do. one of the _clergymen_, who attend at such places, received our order. it was not so very formidable an affair, after all, this going down by ourselves; or would not have been, if the big-eyed waiter, who watched our every movement, would have left us, and the military man at the next table, who showed "the purple tide of war," or something else, in his face, and blew his nose like a trombone, ceased to stare. as it was, we aired our most elegant table manners. we turned in our elbows and turned out our toes,--so to speak,--and ate our mutton with a grace that destroyed all appetite. we tried to appear as though we had frequently dined in the presence of a whole battalion of soldiery, under the scrutiny of innumerable waiters,--and failed, i am sure. "with verdure clad" was written upon every line of our faces. the occasion of this cross fire we do not know to this day. was it unbounded admiration? was it spoons? having brushed off the spray of the sea, having balanced ourselves upon the solid earth, having seen st. george's hall, there was nothing to detain us longer, and the next morning we were on our way to london. we had scrutinized our bill,--which might have been reckoned in pounds, ounces, and penny-weights, for aught we knew to the contrary,--and informed the big-eyed waiter that it was correct. we had also offered him imploringly our largest piece of silver, which he condescended to accept; and having been presented with a ticket and a handful of silver and copper by the porter who accompanied us to the station across the way, in return for two or three gold pieces, we shook off the dust of liverpool from our feet, turned our eyes from the splendors of st. george's hall, and set our faces steadfastly towards our destination. there was a kind of luxury, notwithstanding our prejudices, in this english railway carriage, with its cushions all about us, even beneath our elbows; a restfulness unknown in past experience of travel, in the ability to turn our eyes away from the flying landscape without, to the peaceful quiet, never intruded upon, within. we did not miss the woman who will insist upon closing the window behind you, or opening it, as the case may be. not one regret had we for the "b-o-s-t-o-n papers!" nor for the last periodical or novel. the latest fashion gazette was not thrown into our lap only to be snatched away, as we became interested in a plan for rejuvenating our wardrobe; nor were we assailed by venders of pop corn, apples, or gift packages of candy. even the blind man, with his offering of execrable poetry, was unknown, and the conductor examined our tickets from outside the window. settling back among our cushions, while we mentally enumerated these blessings of omission, there came a thought of the perils incurred by solitary females locked into these same comfortable carriages with madmen. if the danger had been so great for one solitary female, what must it be for two, we thought with horror. we gave a quick glance at our fellow-passenger, a young man with hair all aflame. certainly his eyes did roll at that moment, but it was only in search of a newsboy; and when he exclaimed, like any american gentleman, "hang the boy!" we became perfectly reassured. he proved a most agreeable travelling companion. we exchanged questions and opinions upon every subject of mutual interest, from the geological formation of the earth to the alabama claims. i can hardly tell which astonished us most, his profound erudition or our own. now, i have not the least idea as to whether lord john russell sailed the alabama, or the alabama sailed of itself, spontaneously; but, whichever way it was, i am convinced it was a most iniquitous proceeding, and so thought it safe to take high moral ground, and assure him that as a nation we could not allow it to go unpunished. you have no idea what an assistance it is, when one is somewhat ignorant and a good deal at a loss for arguments, to take high moral ground. when we were weary of discussion, when knowledge palled upon our taste, we pulled aside the little blue curtain, and gave ourselves up to gazing upon the picture from the window. i doubt if any part of england is looked upon with more curious eyes than that lying between liverpool and london. it is to so many americans the first glimpse of strange lands. spread out in almost imperceptible furrows were the velvet turfed meadows, the unclipped hedges a mass of tangled greenness between. for miles and miles they stretched away, with seldom a road, never a solitary house. the banks on either side were tufted with broom and yellow with gorse; the hill-sides in the distance, white with chalk, or black with the heather that would blossom into purple beauty with the summer. we rushed beneath arches festooned, as for a gala-day, with hanging vines. tiny gardens bloomed beside the track at every station, and all along the walls, the arched bridges, and every bit of stone upon the wayside, was a mass of clinging, glistening ivy. not the half-dead, straggling thing we tend and shield so carefully at home, with here and there a leaf put forth for very shame. these, bright, clear-cut, deep-tinted, crowded and overlapped each other, and ran riot over the land, transforming the dingy, mildewy cottages, bits of imperishable ugliness, into things of beauty, if not eternal joys. not in the least picturesque or pleasing to the eye were these english villages; straggling rows of dull red brick houses set amidst the fields--dirty city children upon a picnic--with a foot square garden before each door, cared for possibly, possibly neglected. a row of flower-pots upon the stone ledge of every little window, a row of chimney-pots upon the slate roof of every dwelling. sometimes a narrow road twisted and writhed itself from one to another, edged by high brick walls, hidden beneath a weight of ivy; sometimes romantic lanes, shaded by old elms, and green beyond all telling. the towns were much the same,--outgrown villages. and the glimpse we caught, as we flew by, so far above the roofs often that we could almost peep down upon the hearths through the chimney tops, was by no means inviting. dusk fell upon us with the smoke, and mist, and drizzling rain of london, bringing no anxiety; for was there not, through the thoughtfulness of friends, a place prepared for us? our pleasant acquaintance of the golden locks forsook his own boxes, and bundles, and innumerable belongings to look for our baggage, and saw us safely consigned to one of the dingy cabs in waiting. i trust the people of our own country repay to wanderers there something of the kindness which american women, travelling alone, receive at the hands of strangers abroad. it was neither the first nor the last courtesy proffered most respectfully, and received in the spirit in which it was offered. there is a deal of nonsense in the touch-me-not air with which many go out to see the world, as there is a deal of folly in the opposite extreme. but these acquaintances of a day, the opportunity of coming face to face with the people in whose country you chance to be, of hearing and answering their strange questions in regard to our government, our manners and customs, as well as in displaying our own ignorance in regard to their institutions, in giving information and assistance when it is in our power, and in gratefully receiving the same from others,--all this constitutes one of the greatest pleasures of journeying. our peace of mind received a rude shock, when, after rattling over the pavings around the little park in queen's square, and pulling the bell at mr. b.'s boarding-house, we found that we were indeed expected, but indefinitely, and no place awaited us. we had forgotten to telegraph. it was may, the london season, and the hotels full. "x. told us you were coming," said the most lady-like landlady, leading us into the drawing-room from the dank darkness of the street. there was a glow of red-hot coals in the grate, a suggestion of warmth and comfort in the bright colors and cosy appointments of the room--but no place for us. "i'm very sorry; if you had telegraphed--but we can take you by monday certainly," she said. i counted my fingers. two days. ah! but we might perish in the streets before that. everything began to grow dark and doleful in contemplation. some one entered the room. the landlady turned to him: "o, here is the good man to whose care you were consigned by x." we gave a sigh of relief, as we greeted the good man, for all our courage, like the immortal bob acres's, had been oozing from our finger ends. and if we possess one gift above another, it is an ability to be taken care of. "do you know x.?" asked another gentleman, glancing up from his writing at the long, red-covered table. "we travelled with him," nodding towards his daughter, whose feet touched the fender, "through italy, last winter." "indeed--" "i'll just send out to a hotel near by," interrupted kind mrs. b., "and see if you can be accommodated a day or two." how very bright the room became! the world was not hollow, after all, nor our dolls stuffed with sawdust. even the cabman's rattle at the knocker, and demand of an extra sixpence for waiting, could not disturb our serenity. the messenger returned. yes; we could be taken in (?) at the h. house; and accepting mrs. b.'s invitation to return and spend the evening, we mounted to our places in the little cab, as though it had been a triumphal car, and were whizzed around the corner at an alarming pace by the impatient cabman. i should be sorry to prejudice any one against the h. house--which i might perhaps say is not the h. house at all; i hardly like to compare it to a whited sepulchre, though that simile did occur to my mind. very fair in its exterior it was, with much plate glass, and ground glass, and gilding of letters, and shining of brass. it had been two dwelling-houses; it was now one select family hotel. but the two dwelling-houses had never been completely merged into one; never married, but joined, like the siamese twins. there was a confusing double stairway; having ascended the right one, you were morally certain to descend the wrong. there was a confusing double hall, with doors in every direction opening everywhere but upon the way you desired to go. we mounted to the top of the house, followed by two porters with our luggage, one chambermaid with the key, another to ask if we would dine, and two more bearing large tin cans of hot water. we grew confused, and gasped, "we--we believe we don't care for any more at present, thank you," and so dismissed them all. the furniture was so out of proportion to the room that i think it must have been introduced in an infant state, and grown to its present proportions there. the one window was so high that we were obliged to jump up to look out over the mirror upon the bureau--a gymnastic feat we did not care to repeat. the bed curtains were gray; indeed there was a gray chill through the whole place. we sat down to hold a council of war. we resolved ourselves into a committee of ways and means, our feet upon the cans of hot water. "pleasant," i said, as a leading remark, my heart beginning to warm under the influence of the hot water. "pleasant?" repeated mrs. k.; "it's enough to make one homesick. we can't stay here." "but," i interposed, "suppose we leave here, and can't get in anywhere else?" a vision of the babes in the wood rose before me. there was a rap at the door; the fourth chambermaid, to announce dinner. we finished our consultation hurriedly, and descended to the parlor, where we were to dine. it was a small room, already occupied by a large table and a party from the country; an old lady to play propriety, a middle-aged person of severe countenance to act it, and a pair of incipient and insipid lovers. he was a spectacled prig in a white necktie, a clergyman, i suppose, though he looked amazingly like a waiter, and she a little round combination of dimples and giggle. _he._ "have you been out for a walk this morning?" _she._ "no; te-he-he-he." _he._ "you ought to, you know." _she._ "te-he-he-he--yes." _he._ "you should always exercise before dinner." _she._ "te-he-he-he." here the words gave out entirely, and, it being remarkably droll, all joined in the chorus. "we must go somewhere else, if possible," we explained to mrs. b., when, a little later, we found our way to her door. "at least we shall be better contented if we make the attempt." the good man offered his protection; we found a cab, and proceeded to explore the city, asking admittance in vain at one hotel after another, until at last the golden cross upon the strand, more charitable than its neighbor, or less full, opened its doors, and the good landlady, of unbounded proportions, made us both welcome and comfortable. quite palatial did our neat bed-room, draped in white, appear. we were the proud possessors, also, of a parlor, with a round mirror over the mantel, a round table in the centre, a sofa, of which pharaoh's heart is no comparison as regards hardness, a row of stiff, proper arm-chairs, and any amount of ornamentation in the way of works of art upon the walls, and shining snuffers and candlesticks upon the mantel. our bargain completed, there remained nothing to be done but to remove our baggage from the other house, which i am sure we could never have attempted alone. think of walking in and addressing the landlady, while the chambermaids and waiters peeped from behind the doors, with, "we don't like your house, madam. your rooms are tucked up, your beds uninviting, your chambermaids frowsy, your waiters stupid, and your little parlor an abomination." how could we have done it? the good man volunteered. "but do you not mind?" "not in the least." is it not wonderful? how can we believe in the equality of the sexes? in less than an hour we were temporarily settled in our new quarters, our rescued trunks consigned to the little bed-room, our heart-felt gratitude in the possession of the good man. we took our meals now in our own parlor, trying the solitary confinement system of the english during our two days' stay. it seemed a month. not a sign of life was there, save the landlady's pleasant face behind the bar and the waiter who answered our bell, with the exception of a pair of mammoth shoes before the next door, mornings, and the bearded face of a man that startled us, once, upon the stairs. and yet the house was full. it was a relief when our two days of banishment mere over, when in mrs. b.'s pretty drawing-room, and around her table, we could again meet friends, and realize that we were still in the world. chapter iii. excursions from london. strange ways.--"the bears that went over to charlestown."--the delights of a runaway without its dangers.--flower show at the crystal palace.--whit-monday at hampton court.--a queen baby.--"but the carpets?"--poor nell gwynne.--vandyck faces.--royal beds.--lunch at the king's arms.--o music, how many murders have been committed in thy name!--queen victoria's home at windsor.--a new "house that jack built."--the round tower.--stoke pogis.--frogmore.--the knights of the garter.--the queen's gallery.--the queen's plate.--the royal mews.--the wicker baby-wagons.--the state equipages. we bought an umbrella,--every one buys an umbrella who goes to london,--and this, in its alpaca glory, became our constant companion. we purchased a guide-book to complete our equipments; but so disreputable, so yellow-covered, was its outward appearance, so suggestive of everything but facts, that we consigned it to oblivion, and put ourselves under the guidance of our boston friends, the good man and his family. for two busy weeks we rattled over the flat pavings of the city in the low, one-horse cabs. we climbed towers, we descended into crypts, we examined tombstones, we gazed upon mummies. everything was new, strange, and wonderful, even to the little boys in the street, who, as well as the omnibus drivers, were decked out in tall silk hats--a piece of absurdity in one case, and extravagance in the other, to our minds. the one-horse carriages rolled about upon two wheels; the occupants, like cross children, facing in every direction but the one they were going, and everybody, contrary to all our preconceived ideas of law and order, turned to the left, instead of to the right,--to say nothing of other strange and perplexing ways that came under our observation. we had come abroad upon the same errand as the bears who "went over to charlestown to see what they could see," and so stared into every window, into every passing face, as though we were seeking the lost. we became known as the women who wanted a cab; our appearance within the iron posts that guard the entrance to queen's square from southampton row being the signal for a perfect babel of unintelligible shouts and gesticulations down the long line of waiting vehicles, with the charging down upon us of the first half dozen in a highly dangerous manner. wisdom is sometimes the growth of days; and we soon learned to dart out in an unexpected moment, utterly deaf and blind to everything and everybody but the first man and the first horse, and thus to go off in triumph. but if our exit was triumphant, what was our entry to the square, when weary, faint with seeing, hearing, and trying in vain to fix everything seen and heard in our minds, we returned in a hansom! english ladies do not much affect this mode of conveyance, but american women abroad have, or take, a wide margin in matters of mere conventionality,--and so ride in hansom cabs at will. they are grown-up baby perambulators upon two wheels; the driver sitting up behind, where the handle would be, and drawing the reins of interminable length over the top of the vehicle. picture it in your mind, and then wonder, as i did, what power of attraction keeps the horse upon the ground; what prevents his flying into the air when the driver settles down into his seat. a pair of low, folding doors take the place of a lap robe; you dash through the street at an alarming rate without any visible guide, experiencing all the delights of a runaway without any of its dangers. flower show at the crystal palace. a ride by rail of half an hour takes one to sydenham. it is a charming walk from the station through the tastefully arranged grounds, with their shrubberies, roseries, and fountains, along the pebble-strewn paths, crowded this day with visitors. the palace itself is so like its familiar pictures as to need no description. much of the grandeur of its vast proportions within is lost by its divisions and subdivisions. there are courts representing the various nations of the earth,--america, as usual, felicitously and truthfully shown up by a pair of scantily attired savages under a palm tree; there are the courts of the alhambra, of nineveh, and of pompeii; there are fountains, and statues, and bazaars innumerable, where one may purchase almost anything as a souvenir; there are cafés where one may refresh the body, and an immense concert hall where one may delight the soul,--and how much more i cannot tell, for the crowd was almost beyond belief, and a much more interesting study than egyptian remains, or even the exquisite mass of perfumed bloom, that made the air like summer, and the whole place a garden. they were of the english middle class, the upper middle class, bordering upon the nobility,--these rotund, fine-looking gentlemen in white vests and irreproachable broadcloth, these stout, red-faced, richly-attired ladies, with their soft-eyed, angular daughters following in their train, or clinging to their arms. we listened for an hour to the queen's own band in scarlet and gold, and then came back to town, meeting train after train filled to overflowing with expensively arrayed humanity in white kids, going out for the evening. a day at hampton court. it was whit-monday,--the workingman's holiday,--a day of sun and shower; but we took our turn upon the outside of the private omnibus chartered for the occasion, unmindful of the drops; our propelling power, six gray horses. by virtue of this private establishment we were free to pass through hyde park,--that breathing-place of aristocracy, where no public vehicle, no servant without livery, is tolerated. it was early, and only the countless hoof-prints upon rotten row suggested the crowd of wealth and fashion that would throng here later in the day. one solitary equestrian there was; perched upon a guarded saddle, held in her place by some concealed band, serenely content, rode a queen baby in long, white robes. a groom led the little pony. she looked at us in grave wonder as we dashed by,--born to the purple! i cannot begin to describe to you the rising up of london for this day of pleasure; the decking of itself out in holiday attire; the garnishing of itself with paper flowers; the smooth, hard roads leading into the country, all alive; the drinking, noisy crowd about the door of every pot-house along the way. it was a delightful drive of a dozen or more miles, through the most charming suburbs imaginable,--past lawns, and gardens, and green old trees shading miniature parks; past "detached" villas that had blossomed into windows; indeed, the plate glass upon houses of most modest pretension was almost reckless extravagance in our eyes, forgetting, as we did, the slight duty to be paid here upon what is, with us, an expensive luxury. no wonder the english are a healthful people,--the sun shines upon them. i like their manner of house-building, of home-making. they set up first a great bay-window, with a room behind it, which is of secondary importance, with wide steps leading up to a door at the side. they fill this window with the rarest, rosiest, most rollicksome flowers. then, if there remain time, and space, and means, other rooms are added, the bay-windows increasing in direct proportion; while shades, drawn shades, are a thing unknown. "but the carpets?" they are so foolish as to value health above carpets. it was high noon when we rolled up the wide avenue of bushey park, with its double border of gigantic chestnuts and limes, through richmond park, with its vast sweep of greensward flecked with the sunbeams, dripping like the rain through the royal oaks, past richmond terrace, with its fine residences looking out upon the thames, the translucent stream, pure and beautiful here, before going down to the city to be defiled--like many a life. we dismounted at the gates to the palace, in the rambling old village that clings to its skirts, and joined the crowd passing through its wide portals. it is an old palace thrown aside, given over to poor relatives, by royalty,--as we throw aside an old gown; a vast pile of dingy, red brick that has straggled over acres of hampton parish, and is kept within bounds by a high wall of the same ugly material. it has pushed itself up into towers and turrets, with pinnacles and spires rising from its battlemented walls. it has thrust itself out into oriel and queer little latticed windows that peep into the gardens and overhang the three quadrangles, and is with its vast gardens and park, with its wide canal and avenues of green old trees, the most delightfully ugly, old place imaginable. here kings and queens have lived and loved, suffered and died, from cardinal wolsey's time down to the days of queen anne. it is now one of england's show places; one portion of its vast extent, with the grounds, being thrown open to the public, the remainder given to decayed nobility, or wandering, homeless representatives of royalty,--a kind of royal almshouse, in fact. a curtained window, the flutter of a white hand, were to us the only signs of inhabitation. through thirty or more narrow, dark, bare rooms,--bare but for the pictures that crowded the walls,--we wandered. there were two or three halls of stately proportions finely decorated with frescoes by verrio, and one or two royal stairways, up and down which slippered feet have passed, silken skirts trailed, and heavy hearts been carried, in days gone by. the pictures are mostly portraits of brave men and lovely women, of kings and queens and royal favorites,--poor nell gwynne among them, who began life by selling oranges in a theatre, and ended it by selling virtue in a palace. the vandyck faces are wonderfully beautiful. they gaze upon you through a mist, a golden haze,--like that which hangs over the hills in the indian summer,--from out deep, spiritual eyes; a dream of fair women they are. there were one or two royal beds, where uneasy have lain the heads that wore a crown, and half a dozen chairs worked in tapestry by royal fingers,--whether preserved for their questionable beauty, or because of the rarity of royal industry, i do not know. we wandered through the shrubberies, paid a penny to see the largest grape vine in the world,--and wished we had given it to the heathen, so like its less distinguished sisters did the vine appear,--and at last lunched at the king's arms, a queer little inn just outside the gates, edging our way with some difficulty through the noisy, guzzling crowd around the door--the crowd that, having reached the acme of the day's felicity, was fast degenerating into a quarrel. in the long, bare room at the head of the narrow, winding stairs, we found comparative quiet. the tables were covered with joints of beef, with loaves of bread, pitchers of ale, and the ubiquitous cheese. a red-faced young man in tight new clothes--like a strait-jacket--occupied one end of our table with his blushing sweetheart. a band of wandering harpers harped upon their harps to the crowd of wrangling men and blowsy women in the open court below; strangely out of tune were the harps, out of time the measure, according well with the spirit of the hour. a loud-voiced girl decked out in tawdry finery, with face like solid brass, sang "annie laurie" in hard, metallic tones,--o music, how many murders have been committed in thy name!--then passed a cup for pennies, with many a jest and rude, bold laugh. we were glad when the day was done,--glad when we had turned away from it all. queen victoria's home at windsor. the castle itself is a huge, battlemented structure of gray stone,--a fortress as well as a palace,--with a home park of five hundred acres, the private grounds of mrs. guelph, and, beyond that, a grand park of eighteen hundred acres. but do not imagine that she lives here with only her children and servants about her,--this kindly german widow, whose throne was once in the hearts of her people. royalty is a complicated affair,--a wheel within a wheel,--and reminds us of nothing so much as "the house that jack built." this is the castle of windsor. this is the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the soldiers, tried and sworn, that guard the crown from the unicorn, that stand by the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the "military knights" forlorn, founded by edward before you were born, that outrank the soldiers, tried and sworn, that guard the crown from the unicorn, that stand by the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. these are the knights that the garter have worn, with armorial banners tattered and torn, that look down on the military knights forlorn, founded by edward before you were born, that outrank the soldiers, tried and sworn, that guard the crown from the unicorn, that stand by the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. this is the dean, all shaven and shorn, with the canons and clerks that doze in the morn, that install the knights that the garter have worn, with armorial banners tattered and torn, that look down on the military knights forlorn, founded by edward before you were born, that outrank the soldiers, tried and sworn, that guard the crown from the unicorn, that stand by the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies that 'tend on the queen that lives in the castle of windsor. and so on. the train within the castle walls that follows the queen is endless. we passed through the great, grand, state apartments, refurnished at the time of the marriage of the prince of wales, for the use of the danish family. we mounted to the battlements of the round tower by the hundred steps, the grim cannon gazing down upon us from the top. half a dozen visitors were already there, gathered as closely as possible about the angular guide, listening to his geography lesson, and looking off upon the wonderful panorama of park, and wood, and winding river. away to the right rose the spire of stoke pogis church, where the curfew still "tolls the knell of parting day." to the left, in the great park below, lay frogmore, where sleeps prince albert the good. eton college, too, peeped out from among the trees, its gardens touching the thames, and in the distance,--beyond the sleeping villages tucked in among the trees,--the shadowy blue hills held up the sky. st. george's chapel is in the quadrangle below. it is the chapel of the knights of the garter. and now, when you read of the chapels, or churches, or cathedrals in the old world,--and they are all in a sense alike,--pray don't imagine a new england meeting-house with a double row of stiff pews and a choir in the gallery singing "antioch"! the body of the chapel was a great, bare space, with tablets and elaborate monuments against the walls. opening from this were alcoves,--also called chapels,--each one containing the tombs and monuments of some family. as many of the inscriptions are dated centuries back, you can imagine they are often quaintly expressed. one old knight, who died in catholic times, desired an open breviary to remain always in the niche before his tomb, that passers might read to their comfort, and say for him an orison. of course this would never do in the days when the chapel fell into protestant hands. a bible was substituted, chained into its place; but the old inscription, cut deep in the stone, still remains, beginning "who leyde thys book here?" with a startling appropriateness of which the author never dreamed. over another of these chapels is rudely cut an ox, an n, and a bow,--the owner having, in an antic manner, hardly befitting the place, thus written his name--oxenbow. you enter the choir, where the installations take place, by steps, passing under the organ. in the chancel is a fine memorial window to prince albert. on either side are the stalls or seats for the knights, with the armorial banner of each hanging over his place. projecting over the chancel, upon one side, is what appears to be a bay-window. this is the queen's gallery, a little room with blue silk hangings,--for blue is the color worn by knights of the garter,--where she sits during the service. through these curtains she looked down upon the marriage of the prince of wales. think of being thus put away from everybody, as though one were plague-stricken. a private station awaits her when she steps from the train at the castle gates. a private room is attached to the green-houses, to the riding-school in the park, and even to the private chapel. a private photograph-room, for the taking of the royal pictures, adjoins her apartments. it must be a fine thing to be a queen,--and so tiresome! even the gold spoon in one's mouth could not offset the weariness of it all, and of gold spoons she has an unbounded supply; from ten to fifteen millions of dollars worth of gold plate for her majesty's table being guarded within the castle! think of it, little women who set up house-keeping with half a dozen silver teaspoons and a salt-spoon! we waited before a great gate until the striking of some forgotten hour, to visit the royal mews. you may walk through all these stables in slippers and in your daintiest gown, without fear. a stiff young man in black--a cross between an undertaker and an incipient clergyman in manner--acted as guide. other parties, led by other stiff young men, followed or crossed our path. there were stalls and stalls, upon either side, in room after room,--for one could not think of calling them stables,--filled by sleek bays for carriage or saddle. and the ponies!--the dear little shaggy browns, with sweeping tails, and wonderful eyes peeping out from beneath moppy manes, the milk-white, tiny steeds, with hair like softest silk,--they won our hearts. curled up on the back of one, fast asleep, lay a maltese kitten; the "royal mew" some one called it. the carriages were all plain and dark, for the ordinary use of the court. in one corner a prim row of little yellow, wicker, baby-wagons attracted our attention, like those used by the poorest mother in the land. in these the royal babies have taken their first airings. the state equipages we saw another day at buckingham palace,--the cream-colored horses, the carriages and harnesses all crimson and gold. there they stand, weeks and months together, waiting for an occasion. the effect upon a fine day, under favoring auspices,--the sun shining, the bands playing, the crowd of gazers, the prancing horses, the gilded chariots,--must almost equal the triumphal entry of a first class circus into a new england town! chapter iv. sight-seeing in london. the tower.--the tall yankee of inquiring mind.--our guide in gorgeous array.--war trophies.--knights in armor.--a professional joke.--the crown jewels.--the house where the little princes were smothered.--the "traitor's gate."--the houses of parliament.--what a throne is like.--the "woolsack."--the peeping gallery for ladies.--westminster hall and the law courts.--the three drowsy old women.--the great panjandrum himself.--johnson and the pump.--st. paul's.--wellington's funeral car.--the whispering gallery.--the bell. the tower. it is not a tower at all, as we reckon towers, you must know, but a walled town upon the banks of the thames, in the very heart of london. hundreds of years ago, when what is now this great city was only moor and marsh, the romans built here--a castle, perhaps. only a bit of crumbling wall, of mouldering pavement, remain to tell the story. when the normans came in to possess the land, william the conqueror erected upon this spot a square fortress, with towers rising from its four corners. every succeeding monarch added a castle, a tower, a moat, to strengthen its strength and extend its limits, until, in time, it covered twelve acres of land, as it does to this day. here the kings and queens of england lived in comfortless state, until the time of queen elizabeth, having need to be hedged about with something more than royalty to insure safety. times have changed; swords have been beaten into ploughshares; and where the moat once encircled the tower wall, flowers blossom now. the dungeons that for centuries held prisoners of state do not confine any one to-day; and the strongholds that guarded the person of england's sovereign keep in safety now the jewels and the crown. there are round towers, and square towers, and, for anything i know, three-cornered towers, each with its own history of horrors. there are windows from which people were thrown, bridges over which they were dragged, and dark holes in which they were incarcerated. [illustration: "a dozen umbrellas were tipped up; the rain fell fast upon a dozen upturned, expectant faces." page .] to appreciate all this, you should see it--as we did one chilly may morning. we huddled about the stove in the waiting-room upon the site of the old royal menagerie, our companions a round man, with a limp gingham cravat and shabby coat, a little old woman in a poke bonnet, and half a dozen or more schoolboys from the country. a tall yankee of inquiring mind joined us as we sallied from the door, led by a guide gorgeous in ruff and buckles, cotton velvet and gilt lace, and with all these glories surmounted by a black hat, that swelled out at the top in a wonderful manner. down the narrow street within the gates, over the slippery cobble-stones, under considerable mental excitement, and our alpaca umbrella, we followed our guide to an archway, before which he paused, and struck an attitude. the long yankee darted forward. "stand back, my friends, stand back," said the guide. "you will please form a circle." immediately a dozen umbrellas surrounded him. he pointed to a narrow window over our heads; a dozen umbrellas were tipped up; the rain fell fast upon a dozen upturned, expectant faces. "in that room, sir ----" (i could not catch the name) "spent the night before his execution, in solemn meditation and prayer." there was a circular groan of sympathy and approval from a dozen lips, the re-cant of a dozen dripping umbrellas, and we pattered on to the next point of interest, following our leader through pools of blood, figuratively speaking,--literally, through pools of water,--our eyes distended, our cheeks pale with horror. ah, what treasures of credulity we must have been to the guides in those days! time brought unbelief and hardness of heart. we mounted stairs narrow and dark; we descended stairs dark and narrow; we entered chambers gloomy and grim. the half i could not tell--of the rooms filled with war trophies--scalps in the belt of the nation--from the spanish armada down to the sepoy rebellion; the long hall, with its double row of lumbering old warriors encased in steel, as though they had stepped into a steel tower and walked off, tower and all, some fine morning; the armory, with its stacked arms for thirty thousand men. "we may have occasion to use them," said the guide, facetiously, making some reference to the speech of mr. sumner, just then acting the part of a stick to stir up the british lion. the yankee chuckled complacently, and we, too, refused to quake. there was a room filled with instruments of torture, diabolical inventions, recalling the days of the inquisition. the yankee expressed a desire to "see how some o' them things worked." opening from this was an unlighted apartment, with walls of stone, a dungeon indeed, in which we were made to believe that sir walter raleigh spent twelve years of his life. no shadow of doubt would have fallen upon our unquestioning minds, had we been told that he amused himself during this time by standing upon his head. "walk in, walk in," said the smiling guide, as we peered into its darkness. we obeyed. "now," said he, "that you may appreciate his situation, i will step out and close the door." the little old woman screamed; the yankee made one stride to the opening; the guide laughed. it was only a professional joke; there was no door. we saw the bare prison-room, with its rough fireplace, the slits between the stones of the wall to admit light and air, and the initials of lady jane grey, with a host more of forgotten names, upon the walls. just outside, within the quadrangle, where the grass grew green beneath the summer rain, she was beheaded,--poor little innocent,--who had no desire to be a queen! in another tower close by, guarded by iron bars, were the royal jewels and the crown, for which all this blood was shed--pretty baubles of gold and precious stones, but hardly worth so many lives. you remember the story of the princes smothered in the tower by command of their cruel uncle? there was the narrow passage in the wall where the murderers came at night; the worn step by which they entered the great, bare room where the little victims slept; the winding stairs down which the bodies were thrown. beneath the great stone at the foot they were secretly buried. then the stairway was walled up, lest the stones should cry out; and no one knew the story of the burial until long, long afterwards--only a few years since--when the walled-up stairway was discovered, the stones at the foot displaced, and a heap of dust, of little crumbling bones, revealed it. a rosy-faced, motherly woman, the wife of a soldier quartered in the barracks here, answered the rap of the guide upon the nail-studded door opening from one of the courts, and told us the old story. "the bed of the princes stood just there," she said, pointing to one corner, where, by a curious coincidence, a little bed was standing now. she answered the question in our eyes with, "my boys sleep there." "but do you not fear that the murderers will come back some night by this same winding way, and smother them?" how she laughed! and, indeed, what had ghosts to do with such a cheery body! down through the "traitors' gate," with its spiked portcullis, we could see the steps leading to the water. through this gate prisoners were brought from trial at westminster. it is said that the princess elizabeth was dragged up here when she refused to come of her own will, knowing too well that they who entered here left hope behind. a little later, with music and the waving of banners, and amid the shouts of the people, she rode out of the great gates into the city, the queen of england. the houses of parliament. though they have stood barely thirty years, already the soft gray limestone begins to crumble away,--the elements, with a sense of the fitness of things, striving to act the part of time, and bring them into a likeness of the adjoining abbey. there is an exquisite beauty in the thousand gilded points and pinnacles that pierce the fog, or shine softly through the mist that veils the city. ethereal, shadowy, unreal they are, like the spires of a celestial city, or the far away towers and turrets we see sometimes at sunset in the western sky. here, you know, are the chambers of the houses of lords and commons, with the attendant lobbies, libraries, committee-rooms, &c., and a withdrawing-room for the use of the queen when she is graciously pleased to open parliament in person. the speaker of the house of commons, as well as some other officials, reside here--a novel idea to us, who could hardly imagine the speaker of our house of representatives taking up his abode in the capitol! parliament was not in session, and we walked through the various rooms at will, even to the robing-room of the noble lords, where the peg upon which lord stanley hangs his hat was pointed out; and very like other pegs it was. at one end of the chamber of the house of lords is the throne. it is a simple affair enough--a gilded arm-chair on a little platform reached by two or three steps, and with crimson hangings. extending down on either side are the crimson-cushioned seats without desks. in the centre is a large square ottoman,--the woolsack,--which might, with equal appropriateness, be called almost anything else. above, a narrow gallery offers a lounging-place to the sons and friends of the peers; and at one end, above the throne, is a high loft, a kind of uplifted amen corner, for strangers, with a space where women may sit and look down through a screen of lattice-work upon the proceedings below. it seems a remnant of eastern customs, strangely out of place in this western world, and akin to the shrouding of ourselves in veils, like our oriental sisters. or can it be that the noble lords are more keenly sensitive to the distracting influence of bright eyes than other men? westminster hall and the law courts. adjoining the houses of parliament is this vast old hall. for almost five hundred years has it stood, its curiously carved roof unsupported by column or pillar. here royal banquets, as well as parliaments, have been held, and more than one court of justice. here was the great trial of warren hastings. it was empty now of everything but echoes and the long line of statuary on either side, except the lawyers in their long, black gowns, who hastened up and down its length, or darted in and out the three baize doors upon one side, opening into the courts of chancery, common pleas, and the exchequer. our national curiosity was aroused, and we mounted the steps to the second, which had won our sympathies from its democratic name. there were high, straight-backed pews of familiar appearance, rising one above the other, into the last of which we climbed, a certain sunday solemnity stealing over us, a certain awkward consciousness that we were the observed of all observers, since we were the only spectators--a delusion of our vanity, however. in the high gallery before us, in complacent comfort, sat three fat, drowsy old women (?) in white, curling wigs, and voluminous gowns, asking all manner of distracting questions, and requiring to be told over and over again,--after the manner of drowsy old women,--to the utter confusion of a poor witness in the front pew, who clung to the rail and swayed about hopelessly, while he tried to tell his story, as if by this rotary motion he could churn his ideas into form. not only did he lose the thread of his discourse,--he became hopelessly entangled in it. scratch, scratch, scratch, went the pens all around him. every word, as it fell from his lips, was pounced upon by the begowned, bewigged, bewildering judges, was twisted and turned by the lawyers, was tossed back and forth throughout the court-room, until there arose a question in our minds, as to who was telling the story. all the while the lawyers were glaring upon him as though he was perjuring himself with every word--as who would not be, under the circumstances? and such lawyers! they dotted the pews all around us. the long, black gowns were not so bad; they hid a deal of awkwardness, i doubt not. but the wigs! the queer little curly things, perched upon every head, and worn with such a perverse delight in misfits! the small men being invariably hidden beneath the big wigs, and the large men strutting about like the great panjandrum himself with the little round button at the top! the appearance of one, whose head, through some uncommon development, rose to a ridge-pole behind, was surprising, to say the least. it was not alone that his wig was too small, that a fringe of straight, black hair fell below its entire white circumference; it was not alone that it was parted upon the wrong side, or that, being mansard in form, and his head hip-roofed, it could never, by any process, have been shaped thereto; but i doubt if the wearing of it upside down, added to all these little drawbacks, could conduce to the beauty or dignity of any man. unmindful of this reversed order of nature, its happy possessor skipped about the court-room, nodding to his brethren with a blithesome air, to the imminent peril of his top-knot, which sustained about the same relation to his head as the sword to that of damocles. he speered down upon the poor witness. he pretended to make notes of dreadful import with a screaming quill, and, in fact, comported himself with an airy unconsciousness delightful to see. in regard to the proceedings of the court, i only know that the point under discussion concerned one johnson, and a pump; and mr. pickwick's judge sat upon the bench. whether he was originally round, red-faced, with gooseberry eyes, i do not remember; but all these pleasing characteristics he possessed at this present time, as well as a pudgy forefinger, with which to point his remarks. "you say," he repeated, with a solemnity of which my pen is incapable, and impressing every word upon the poor man in the front pew with this same forefinger, "that--bunsen--went--to--the--pump?" "johnson, my lord," the witness ventured to correct him, in a low tone. "it makes no difference," responded the judge, irate, "whether it is bunsen or jillson. the question is, did--jillson--go--to--the--pump?" whom the gods destroy they first deprive of their five senses. four, at least, of the poor man's had departed some time since. the fifth followed. "johnson went, my lord," he replied, doggedly. having found one point upon which his mind was clear, he clung to it with the tenacity of despair. "johnson! who's _johnson_?" gasped the bewildered judge, over whose face a net of perplexed lines spread itself upon the introduction of this new character. in the confusion of denials and explanations that followed, we descended from our perch, and stole away; nor are we at all sure, to this day, as to whether johnson did or did not really go to the pump. st. paul's. imagine our surprise, one day, when admiring a pretty ribbon upon a friend, to be told that it came from st. paul's churchyard. hardly the place for ribbons, one would think; but the narrow street which encircles the cathedral in the form of a bow and its string goes by this name, and contains, besides the bookstores and publishing houses, some fine "silk mercers'" establishments. the gray surface of the grand edifice is streaked with black, as though time had beaten it with stripes, and a pall of smoke and dust covers the statues in the court before it. consecrated ground this is, indeed. from the earliest times of the christian religion, through all the bigotry and fanaticism of the ages that followed, down to the present time, the word of god has been proclaimed here--in weakness often, in bitterness many times that belied the spirit of its message; by a priesthood more corrupt than the people; by noble men, beyond the age in which they lived, and whom the flames of martyrdom could not appall. under diocletian the first church was destroyed. it was rebuilt, and destroyed again by the saxons. twice has it been levelled to the ground by fire. but neither sword nor flame could subdue it, and firm as a rock it stands to-day, as it has stood for nearly two hundred years, and as it seems likely to stand for ages to come. the sacred stillness that invests the place was rudely broken, the morning of our visit, by the blows from the hammers of the workmen, resounding through the dome like a discharge of artillery. a great stage, and seats in the form of an amphitheatre, were being erected in the nave for a children's festival, which prevented our doing more than glance down its length. we read some of the inscriptions upon the monuments, that one, so often quoted, of sir christopher wren, among them--"do you seek his monument? look around you;" glanced into the choir, with its gothic stalls, where the service is performed, and then descended into the crypt beneath all this, that labyrinth of damp darkness where so many lie entombed. here is the funeral car of wellington, with candles burning around it, cast from the conquering cannon which thundered victory to a nation, but sorrow and death to many a home. shrouded with velvet it is, as are the horses, in imitation of those which bore him to his rest. all around were marble effigies, blackened, broken, as they survived the burning of the late cathedral, at the time of the great fire. tombstones formed the pavement. "whose can this be?" i said, trying to follow with the point of my umbrella the half-worn inscription beneath my feet. it was that of sir joshua reynolds. strange enough it seemed to us, coming from a country so new as to have been by no means prolific in great men, to find them here lying about under our feet. having explored the crypt, we prepared to mount the endless winding stairs, whose final termination is the ball under the cross that surmounts the whole. our ambition aimed only at the bell beneath the ball. we paid an occasional sixpence for the privilege of peeping into the library,--a most tidy and put-to-rights room, with a floor of wood patchwork,--and for the right to look down upon the geometrical staircase which winds around and clings to the wall upon one side, but is without any visible support upon the other. the "whispering gallery" was reached after a time. it is the encircling cornice within the dome, surrounded by a railing, and forming a narrow gallery. "i will remain here," said the guide, "while you pass around until you are exactly opposite; wait there until i whisper." had we possessed the spirit of casabianca, we should at this moment be sitting upon that narrow bench against the wall, with our feet upon the gas-pipes. we waited and listened, and listened and waited; but the sound of the blows from the hammers below reverberated like thunder around us. we could not have heard the crack of doom. becoming conscious, after a time, that our guide had disappeared, we came out and continued our ascent. mrs. k.'s curiosity, if not satisfied, was at least quenched, and she refused to go farther. my aspirations still pointed upward. there was another sixpence, another dizzy mount of dark, twisting stairs, with strength, ambition, and even curiosity gradually left behind, and with only one blind instinct remaining--to go on. there was a long, dingy passage, through which ghostly forms were flitting; there were more stairs, with twists and turns, forgotten now with other torments; there was the mounting of half a dozen rickety wooden steps at last, for no object but to descend shakily upon the other side, and then we found ourselves in a little dark corner, peering over a dingy rail, with a great, dusky object filling all the space below. and that was the bell! "well, and what of it?" i don't know; but we saw it! chapter v. away to paris. the wedding party.--the canals.--new haven.--around the tea-table.--separating the sheep from the goats.--"will it be a rough passage?"--gymnastic feats of the little steamer.--o, what were officers to us?--"who ever invented earrings!"--dieppe.--fish-wives.--train for paris.--fellow-passengers.--rouen.--babel.--deliverance. it was the last week in may, and by no means the "merry, merry month of may" had we found it. not only was the sky weighed down with clouds, but they dripped upon the earth continually, the sun showing his ghastly, white, half-drowned face for a moment only to be swept from sight again by the cloud waves. a friend was going to paris. would we shake the drops from our garments, close our umbrellas, and go with him? we not only would, we did. we gathered a lunch, packed our trunk, said our adieus, and drove down to the station in the usual pouring rain, the tearful accompaniment to all our movements. but one party besides our own awaited the train upon the platform--a young man with the insignia of bliss in the gloves of startling whiteness upon his hands, and a middle-aged woman of seraphic expression of countenance, clad in robes of spotless white, her feet encased in capacious white slippers. in this airy costume, one hand grasping a huge bouquet devoid of color, the other the arm of her companion, she paced back and forth, to the great amusement of the laughing porters, casting upon us less fortunate ones, who shivered meekly in our wraps, glances of triumphant pity indescribable. "weddin' party, zur," explained the guard, touching his cap to our friend. "jus' come down in fly." they looked to us a good deal more as if they were just going up in a "fly." the train shrieked into the station, and we were soon rushing over the road to new haven, from which, in an evil moment, we had planned to cross the channel. there was little new or strange in the picture seen from our window. the cottages were now of a dull, clay color, instead of the dingy red we had observed before, as though they had been erected in sudden need, without waiting for the burning of the bricks. there were brick-yards all along the way, answering a vexed question in my mind as to where all the bricks came from which were used so entirely in town and village here, in the absence of the wood so plentiful with us. the canals added much to the beauty of the landscape, winding through the meadows as if they were going to no particular place, and were in no haste to reach their destination. they turned aside for a clump of willows or a mound of daisy-crowned earth; they went quite out of their way to peep into the back doors of a village, and, in fact, strolled along in a lazy, serpentine manner that would have crazed the proprietor of a yankee canal boat. it was five o'clock when we reached new haven, having dropped our fellow-passengers along the way, the blissful couple among them. through some error in calculation we had taken an earlier train than we need have, and found hours of doleful leisure awaiting us in this sleepy little town, lying upon an arm of the sea. its outer appearance was not inviting. here were the first and last houses of wood we saw in england,--high, ugly things, that might have been built of old boats or drift wood, with an economy that precluded all thought of grace in architecture. the train, in a gracious spirit of accommodation, instead of plunging into the sea, as it might have done, paused before the door of a hotel upon the wharf. there, in a little parlor, we improvised a home for a time. our friend went off to explore the town. we took possession of the faded red arm-chairs by the wide windows. down below, beyond the wet platform, rose the well-colored meerschaum of the little french steamer, whose long-boats hung just above the edge of the wharf. through the closed window stole the breath of the salt sea, that, only a hand-breadth here, widened out below into boundlessness, bringing visions of the ocean and a thrill of remembered delight. the rain had ceased. the breeze rolled the clouds into snow-balls, pure white against the blue of the sky. over the narrow stream came the twitter of birds, hidden in the hawthorn hedge all abloom. everything smiled, and beamed, and glistened without, though far out to sea the white caps crowned the dancing waves. when night fell, and the lights glimmered all through the town, we drew the heavy curtains, lighted the candles in the shining candlesticks, whose light cast a delusive glow over the dingy dustiness of the room, bringing out cheerfully the little round tea-table in the centre, with its bright silver and steaming urn, over which we lingered a long hour, measuring and weighing our comfort, telling tales, seeing visions, and dreaming dreams of home. the clock struck nine as we crossed the plank to the alexandra, trying in vain to find in its toy appointments some likeness to our ocean steamer of delightful memory. the train whizzed in from london, bringing our fellow-voyagers. the sheep were separated from the goats by the officer at the foot of the plank, who asked each one descending, "first or second cabin?"--sending one to the right, the other to the left. the wind swept in from the sea raw and cold. the foot-square deck was cheerless and wet. even a diagonal promenade proved short and unsatisfactory, and in despair we descended the slippery, perpendicular stairs between boxes and bales, and down still another flight, to the cabin. a narrow, cushioned seat clung to its four sides, divided into lengths for berths. "will it be a rough night?" we carelessly asked the young stewardess. "o, no!" was the stereotyped reply, though all the while the wicked waves were dancing beneath the white caps just outside. we divested ourselves of hats, and wraps, and useless ornaments, reserving only that of a meek and quiet spirit, which, under a nameless fear, grew every moment meeker and more quiet. we undid the interminable buttons of our american boots, and prepared for a comfortable rest, with an ignorance that at the time approximated bliss. there was leisure for the working out of elaborate schemes. something possessed the tide. whether it was high or low, narrow or wide, i do not know; but there at the wharf we were to await the working of its own will, regardless of time. accordingly we selected our places with a deliberation that bore no proportion to the time we were to fill them, advising with the stewardess, who had settled herself comfortably to sleep. we tried our heads to england and our feet to the foe, and then reversed the order, finally compromising by taking a position across the channel. but the loading of the steamer overhead, with the chattering of our fellow-passengers below,--two english girls, a pretty brunette and her sister,--banished sleep. at three o'clock our voyage began--the succession of quivering leaps, plunges, and somersaults which miraculously landed us upon the french coast. i can think of no words to describe it. the first night upon the ocean was paradise and the perfection of peace in comparison. to this day the thought of the swashing water, beaten white against the port-hole before my eyes, is sickening. a calm--to me, of utter prostration--fell upon us long after the day dawned, only to be broken by the stewardess, when sleep had brought partial forgetfulness, with, "it's nine o'clock; we're at dieppe, and the officers want to come in here." we tried to raise our heads. officers! what officers? had we crossed the styx? were they of light or darkness? we sank back. o, what were officers to us! "but you must get up!"--and she began an awkward attempt at the buttons of those horrible boots. that recalled to life. american boots are of this world, and we made a feeble attempt to don some of its vanities. o, how senseless did the cuffs appear that went on upside down!--the collar which was fastened under one ear!--the ribbons that were consigned to our pockets! making blind stabs at our ears, "good heavens!" we ejaculated, "who ever invented earrings? relics of barbarism!" we made hasty thrusts at the hair-pins, standing out from our heads in every direction like enraged porcupine quills; being pulled, and twisted, and scolded by the stewardess all the while; hearing the thump, thump, upon our door as one pair of knuckles after another awoke the echoes, as one strange voice after another shouted, "why don't those ladies come out?" o the trembling fingers that refused to hold the pins!--the trembling feet that staggered up the ladder-like stairs as we were thrust out of the cabin--out of the cruel little steamer to take refuge in one of the waiting cabs! o the blessedness of our thick veils and charitable wraps! i recall, as though it were a dream, the narrow, roughly-paved street of dieppe; a latticed window filled with flowers, and a dark-eyed maiden peeping through the leaves; the fish-wives in short petticoats and with high white caps, clattering over the stones in their wooden _sabots_, wheeling barrows of fish to the market near the station, where they bartered, and bargained, and gossiped. evidently it is a woman's right in normandy to work--to grow as withered, and hard, and old before the time as she chooses, or as she has need; for to put away year after year, as do these poor women, every grace and charm of womanhood, cannot be of choice. at the long table in the refreshment-room of the station we drank the tasteless tea, and ate a slice from the roll four feet in length. the english-speaking girl who attended us found a place--rough enough, to be sure--where in the few moments of waiting we could complete our hasty toilets. beside us at the table, our fellow-voyagers, were two professors from a connecticut college of familiar name, whom we had met in london. they joined us in the comfortable railway carriage, and added not a little to the pleasant chat that shortened the long day and the weary journey to paris. our number--for the compartment held eight--was completed by a young american gentleman, and a frenchman of evil countenance, who drank wine and made love to his pretty lizette in an unblushing manner, strange, and by no means pleasing, to us, demonstrating the annoyance, if nothing worse, to which one is often subjected in these compartment cars. it needed but one glance from the window to convince us that we were no longer in england. to be sure, the sky is blue, the grass green, in all lands; but in place of the level sweep of meadow through which we had passed across the channel, the land swelled here into hills on every side. long rows of stiff poplars divided the fields, or stretched away in straight avenues as far as the eye could reach. the english remember the beauty of a curved line; the french, with a painful rectitude, describe only right angles. scarlet poppies blushed among the purple, yellow, and white wild flowers along the way. the plastered cottages with their high, thatched roofs, the tortuous river seine with its green islands, as we neared paris, the neat little stations along the way--like gingerbread houses--made for us a new and charming panorama. hanging over a gate at one of these stations was an old man, white-haired, blind; his guide, an old woman, who waited, with a kind of wondering awe stealing over her withered face, while he played some simple air upon a little pipe--thus asking alms. so simple was the air, the very shadow of a melody, that the scene might have been amusing, had it not been so pitiful. at noon we lunched in the comfortless waiting-room at rouen, while the professors made a hasty visit to the cathedral during our stay of half an hour. we still suffered from the tossing of the sea, and cathedrals possessed no charms in our eyes. it was almost night when we reached paris, and joined the hurrying crowd descending from the train. it was a descent into pandemonium. there was a confusion of unintelligible sounds in our ears like the roll of a watchman's rattle, bringing no suggestion of meaning. the calmness of despair fell upon our crushed spirits, with a sense of powerlessness such as we never experienced before or since. a dim recollection of school-days--of ollendorff--rose above the chaos in our minds. "has the physician of the shoemaker the canary of the carpenter?" we repeated mechanically; and with that our minds became a blank. deliverance awaited us; and when, just outside the closed gates, first in the expectant crowd, we espied the face of a friend, peace enveloped us like a garment. our troubles were over. chapter vi. the paris of . the devil.--cathedrals and churches.--the louvre.--modern french art.--the beauvais clock, with its droll little puppets.--virtue in a red gown.--the luxembourg palace.--the yawning statue of marshal ney.--gay life by gas-light.--the imperial circus.--the opera.--how the emperor and empress rode through the streets after the riots.--the beautiful spanish woman whose face was her fortune.--napoleon's tomb. it may be the city of destruction, the very gateway to depths unknown; but with its fair, white dwellings, its fair, white streets, that gleamed almost like gold beneath a summer sun, it seemed much more a city celestial. it may be, as some affirm, that the devil here walks abroad at midday; but we saw neither the print of his hoofs upon the asphaltum, nor the shadow of his horns upon the cream-like caen stone. we walked, and rode, and dwelt a time within its limits; and but for a certain reckless gayety that gave to the sabbath an air of vanity fair, but for the mallet of the workman that disturbed our sunday worship, we should never have known that we were not in the most christian of all christian cities. it is by no means imperative to do in rome as the romans do, and one need not in paris drink absinthe or visit the jardin mabille. our first expedition was to the banker's and to the shops, and having replenished our purse and wardrobe, we were prepared to besiege the city. there was a day or two of rest in the gilded chairs, cushioned with blue satin, of our pretty _salon_, whence we peeped down upon the street below between the yellow satin curtains that draped its wide french window; or rolled our eyes meditatively to the delicately tinted ceiling, with its rose-colored clouds skimmed by tiny, impossible birds; or made abortive attempts to penetrate the secrets of the buhl cabinets, and to guess at the time from the pretty clocks of disordered organism; or admired ourselves in the mirrors which gazed at each other from morning till night, for our apartments in the little hotel friedland we found most charming. you will hardly care for a description of the dozen, more or less, churches, old, new, and restored, with which we began and ended our sight-seeing in paris, where we looked upon sculptured saints without number, and studied ecclesiastical architecture to more than our hearts' content. there was st. germain l'auxerrois, the wicked old bell of which tolled the signal for the massacre of st. bartholomew. we stood with the _bonnes_ and babies under the trees of the square before it, gazing up at the belfry with most severe countenances,--and learned, afterwards, that the bell had been long since removed! there was the madeleine of more recent date, built in the form of a greek temple, and interesting just now for having been the church of father hyacinthe, to which we could for a time find no entrance. we shook the iron gate; we inquired in excellent english of a french shopkeeper, and found at last an open gateway, a little unlocked door, beyond which we spent a time of search and inquiry in darkness, and among wood, and shavings, and broken chairs, and holy dust-pans, before passing around and entering the great bronze doors. there were the pantheon and st. sulpice, grand and beautiful, erected piously from the proceeds of lotteries. there was st. etienne du mont, and within one of its chapels the gilded tomb of the patron saint of paris--st. genevieve. who she was, or what she did to gain this rather unenviable position, i failed to learn. her name seems to have outlived her deeds. whether she was beautiful and beloved, and put away earthly vanities for a holy life, or old and ugly, and bore her lot with a patience that won saintship, i do not know. i can only tell that tapers burn always upon her tomb, and if you buy one it will burn a prayer for you. so we were told. there is one old church, st. germain des prés, most beautifully colored within. its pictures seem to have melted upon the walls. but admired above all is the sainte chapelle, in the palais de justice, a chapel fitted up by the fanatical st. louis, when this palace of justice, which holds now the courts of law, was a royal residence. of course all its brightness was dimmed long ago. its glories became dust, like its founder. but it has recently been restored, and is a marvel of gilt, well-blended colors, and stained glass. a graceful spire surmounts it, but the old, cone-capped towers, rising from another part of the same building, possessed far greater interest in our eyes; for here was the conciergerie, where were confined marie antoinette and so many more victims of the reign of terror. on the "isle of the city," in the seine, where, under the roman rule, a few mud huts constituted paris, stands the church of notre dame, which was three hundred years in building. with its spire and two square towers, it may be seen from almost any part of the city. i wish you might look upon the relics and the vestments which the priests wear upon occasions of ceremony, hidden within this church, and displayed upon the payment of an extra fee. i did not wonder that the sisters of charity, who went into the little room with us, gazed aghast upon the gold and silver, and precious stones. every one visits the galleries of the louvre, of course. a little, worn shoe, belonging once to marie antoinette, and the old gray coat of the first emperor, were to us the most interesting objects among the relics. from out the sea of pictures rise murillo's madonna, the lovely face with a soul behind it, shining through, and the burial of the heroine of chateaubriand. do you know it? the fair form, the sweeping hair of attila, and the dark lover with despair in his face? as for the rubens gallery,--his fat, red, undraped women here among the clouds, surrounded by puffy little cherubs, had for us no charms. rubens in antwerp was a revelation. we wandered through room after room, lighted from above, crowded with paintings. to live for a time among them would be a delight; to glance at them for a moment was tantalization. all around were the easels of the artists who come here to sketch--sharp-featured, heavy-browed men, with unkempt hair and flowing beards, and in shabby coats, stood before them, pallet and brushes in hand; and women by the score,--some of them young and pleasing, with duennas patiently waiting near by; but more often they were neither young nor beautiful, and with an evident renunciation of pomps and vanities. we glanced at their copies curiously. sometimes they seemed the original in miniature, and sometimes,--ah well, we all fail. we looked in upon the annual exhibition of pictures at the palais de l'industrie one day, and were particularly impressed with the _nudité_ of the modern school of french art. pink-tinted flesh may be very beautiful, but there must be something higher! we saw there, too, another day, the clock on exhibition for a time before being consigned to its destined place at beauvais. it was even more wonderful than the one so famous at strasbourg. this was of the size of an ordinary church organ, and of similar shape; a mass of gilt and chocolate-colored wood; a mass of dials, great and small--of time tables, and, indeed, of tables for computing everything earthly and heavenly, with dials to show the time in fifty different places, and everything else that could, by any possible connection with time, be supposed to belong to a clock. upon the top, christ, seated in an arm-chair, was represented as judging the world, his feet upon the clouds; on either side kneeling female figures adored him. just below, a pair of scales bided their time. on every peak stood little images, while fifty puppets peeped out of fifty windows. just below the image of the saviour, a figure emerged through an open door at the striking of every quarter of an hour,--coming out with a slide and occasional jerk by no means graceful. we had an opportunity of observing all this in the three quarters of an hour of waiting. we viewed the clock upon every side, being especially interested in a picture at one point representing a rocky coast, a light-house, and a long stretch of waves upon which labored two ships attached in some way to the works within. they pitched back and forth without making any progress whatever, in a way very suggestive to us, who had lately suffered from a similar motion. a dozen priests seated themselves with us upon the bench before the clock as the hand approached the hour. they wore the long black robes and odd little skull-caps, that fit so like a plaster, and which are, i am sure, kept in place by some law of attraction unknown to us. one, of a different order, or higher grade, in a shorter robe and with very thin legs, encased in black stockings that added to their shadowy appearance, shuffled up to his place just in time to throw back his head and open his mouth as the clock struck, and the last judgment began. the cock upon the front gave a preliminary and weak flap of his wings, and emitted three feeble, squeaky crows, that must, i am sure, have convulsed the very puppets. certainly they all disappeared from the windows, and something jumped into their places intended to represent flames, but which looked so much like reversed tin petticoats, that we supposed for a moment they were all standing on their heads. all the figures upon the peaks turned their backs upon us. the image of christ began to wave its hands. the kneeling women swayed back and forth, clasping their own. two angels raised to their lips long, gilt trumpets, as if to blow a blast; then dropped them; then raised them a second time, and even made a third abortive attempt. from one of the open doors virtue was jerked out to be judged, virtue in a red gown. the scales began to dance up and down. an angel appeared playing a guitar, and virtue went triumphantly off to the right, to slow and appropriate music, an invisible organ playing meanwhile. then vice appeared. i confess he excited my instant and profound pity. such a poor, naked, wretched-looking object as he was! with his hands to his face, as though he were heartily ashamed to come out in such a plight. i venture to say, if he had been decked out like virtue, he might have stolen off to the right, and nobody been the wiser. good clothes do a great deal in paris. as it was, the scales danced up and down a moment, and then the devil appeared with a sharp stick, and drove him around the corner to the left, with very distant and feeble thunder for an accompaniment. that ended the show. all the little puppets jumped back into all the little windows, and we came away. speaking of picture galleries, we spent a pleasant hour in the gallery of the luxembourg--a collection of paintings made up from the works of living artists, and of those who have been less than a year deceased. it is sufficiently small to be enjoyable. there is something positively oppressive in the vastness of many of these galleries. you feel utterly unequal to them; as though the finite were about to attempt the comprehension of the infinite. one picture here, by ary scheffer, was exhibited in america, a few years since. it is the head and bust of a dead youth in armor--a youth with a girlish face. there are others by henri scheffer, paulin guerin, and a host more i will not name. one, a scene in the conciergerie, "reading the list of the condemned to the prisoners," by müller, haunted me long after the doors had swung together behind us. the palace of the luxembourg, small, remarkable for the beauty of its architecture and charming garden, built for that graceless regent, marie de medici, is now the residence of the president of the senate; and indeed the senate itself meets here. we were shown through the rooms open to the public, the private apartments of marie de medici among them, in one of which was a bust of the regent. the garden, like all gardens, is filled with trees and shrubs, flowers and fountains, but yet with a certain charm of its own. the festooning of vines from point to point was a novelty to us, as was the design of one of the fountains. approaching it from the rear, we thought it a tomb,--perhaps the tomb of marshal ney, we said, whose statue we were seeking. it proved to be an artificial grotto, and within it, sprinkled with the spray of the fountain, embowered in a mass of glistening, green ivy, reclined a pair of pretty, marble lovers; peering in upon them from above, scowled a dreadful ogre--a horrible giant. the whole effect, coming upon it unexpectedly, was startling. we had a tiresome search for this same statue of marshal ney. we chased every marble nymph in the garden, and walked and walked, over burning pebbles and under a scorching sun, until we almost wished he had never been shot. at last, away beyond the garden, out upon a long avenue, longer and hotter if possible than the garden paths, we found it,--erected upon the very spot where he was executed. he stands with arm outstretched, and mouth opened wide, as though he were yawning with the wearisomeness of it all. it is a pity that he should give way to his feelings so soon, since he must stand there for hundreds of years to come. the guide-books say he is represented in the act of encouraging his men. they must have been easily encouraged. of the out-door gay life by gas-light, we saw less than we had hoped to see in the french capital. the season was unusually cold and wet, and most of the time it would have required the spirit of a martyr to sip coffee upon the sidewalk. one garden concert we did attend, and found it very bright and fairy-like, and all the other adjectives used in this connection. we sat wrapped in shawls, our feet upon the rounds of the chair before us, and shivered a little, and enjoyed a great deal. we went one night--in most orthodox company--to the cirque de l'impératrice, a royal amphitheatre with handsome horses, pretty equestriennes, and a child balanced and tossed about on horseback, showing a frightened, painful smile, which made of the man who held her a herod in our eyes. a girl very rich in paint and powder, but somewhat destitute in other particulars, skipped and danced upon a slack rope in a most joyous and airy manner. when we came out, a haggard woman, with an old, worn face, was crouching in a little weary heap by the door that led into the stables, wrapped in an old cloak; and that was our dancing girl! we went to the opera, too; it was les huguenots. to this day i cannot tell who were the singers. i never knew, or thought, or cared. and the bare shoulders flashing with jewels in the boxes around us, the _claqueurs_ in the centre, hired to applaud, clapping their hands with the regularity of clock-work, the empty imperial box, were nothing to the sight of paris portrayed within itself. you know the familiar opera; do think how strange it was to see it in paris; to look upon the stage and behold the seine and the towers of notre dame; the excited populace rising up to slay and to be slain, with all the while this same fickle french people serenely smiling, and chatting, and looking upon it--the people who were even then ready at a word to reënact the same scenes for a different cause. just outside, only a day or two before, something of the same spirit, portrayed here for our amusement, had broken out again in the election riots. and we remembered that, as we drove around the corner to the opera house, mounted soldiers stood upon either side, while every other man upon the street was the eye, and ear, and arm of the emperor, who knew that the very ground beneath his fair, white city tottered and reeled. we saw the emperor and empress one day, after having looked for them long and in vain upon the champs elysées, and in the bois de boulogne where gay paris disports itself. it was the morning after the riot, when they drove unattended, you will remember, through the streets where the rioters had gathered. we were in one of the shops upon the rue de rivoli. just across the way rose the tuileries from the sidewalk. a crowd began to collect about the open archway through the palace, which affords entrance and egress to the great square around which the palace is built. "what is it?" we asked of the voluble frenchman who was gradually persuading us that brass was gold. "l'empereur," he replied; which sent us to the sidewalk, and put from our minds all thoughts of oxidized silver and copper-colored gold. just within the arch paced a lackey in livery of scarlet and gold, wearing a powdered wig and general air of importance. on either side, the sentries froze into position. the _gendarmes_ shouted and gesticulated, clearing the streets. a mounted attendant emerged from the archway; there followed four bay horses attached to a plain, dark, open carriage; upon the front seat were two gentlemen, upon the back, a gentleman with a lady by his side. his hair was iron gray, almost silvery. he turned his face from us as he raised his hat gravely to the crowd, displaying a very perceptible bald spot upon the back of his head as he was whizzed around the corner and down the street. and that was napoleon iii. we saw no american lady in paris dressed so simply as the empress. something of black lace draped her shoulders; a white straw bonnet, trimmed with black, with a few pink roses resting upon her hair, crowned her head. she bowed low to the right and left, with a peculiar, graceful motion, and a smile upon the face a little worn and pale, a little faded,--but yet the face we all know so well. beautiful spanish woman, whose face was your fortune, though you smiled that day upon the people, your cheeks were pale, your eyes were full of tears. there is nothing more wonderful in paris than the tomb prepared to receive the remains of the first napoleon, in the chapel of the hôtel des invalides; fitting, it would seem to be, that he should rest here among his old soldiers. we left the carriage at the gateway, and crossed the open court, mounted the wide steps, followed the half dozen other parties through the open doors, and this was what we saw. at the farther end of the great chapel or church, an altar, approached by wide, marble steps; gilt and candles embellished it, and a large, gilt cross upon it bore an image of the crucified lord. all this was not unlike what we had seen many times. but four immense twisted columns rose from its four corners--columns of egyptian marble, writhing like spotted serpents. they supported a canopy of gold, and the play of lights upon this, through the stained windows above and on either side, was indescribable. as we entered the door, darkness enveloped it, save where an invisible sun seemed to touch the roof of gold and rest lightly upon the pillars; an invisible sun, indeed, for, without, the sky was heavy with clouds. as we advanced, this unearthly light touched new points--the gilded candlesticks, the dying saviour, but above all the writhings of these monster serpents, until the whole seemed a thing of life, a something which grew and expanded every moment, and was almost fearful to look upon. filling the centre of the chapel was a circular marble wall breast-high. do you remember, in going to the old senate chamber at washington, after passing through the rotunda, the great marble well-curb down which you could look into the room below? this was like that, only more vast. over it leaned a hundred people, at least, gazing down upon what? a circular, roofless room, a crypt to hold a tomb; each pillar around its circumference was the colossal figure of a woman; between these hung the tattered tri-colors borne in many a fierce conflict, beneath the burning suns of egypt and over the dreary snows of russia, with seventy colors captured from the enemies of france. a wreath of laurel in the mosaic floor surrounded the names austerlitz, marengo, friedland, jena, wagram, moscow, and pyramids, and in the centre rose the sarcophagus of finland granite, prepared to hold the body of him whose ambition knew no bounds. the letter n upon one polished side was the only inscription it bore. he who wrote his name in blood needed no epitaph. the entrance to this crypt is through bronze doors, behind the altar, and gained by passing under it. on either side stood a colossal figure in bronze; kings they seemed to be, giant kings, in long black robes and with crowns of black upon their heads. one held, upon the black cushion in his hands, a crown of gold and a golden sword; the other, a globe crowned with a cross and a golden sceptre. they were so grand, and dark, and still, they gazed upon us so fixedly from out their great, grave eyes, that i felt a chill in all my bones. they guard his tomb. they hold his sword and sceptre while he sleeps. i almost expected the great doors to swing open at the touch of his hand, and to see him come forth. over these doors were his own words: "i desire that my ashes may repose upon the banks of the seine, in the midst of the french people i have loved so well." on either side, as we came out, we read upon the tombs the names of bertrand and duroc,--faithful in death! we wondered idly whose remains were guarded in the simple tomb near the door. it was surrounded by an iron railing, and bore no inscription. who can it be, we said, that is nameless here among the brave? little did we imagine at the time that here rested the body of the great napoleon, as it was brought from st. helena; but his spirit seemed to pervade the very atmosphere, and we came out into the gloom of the day as though we had, indeed, come from the presence of the dead. chapter vii. sights in the beautiful city. the gobelin tapestry.--how and where it is made.--père la-chaise.--poor rachel!--the baby establishment.--"now i lay me."--the little mother.--the old woman who lived in a shoe.--the american chapel.--beautiful women and children.--the last conference-meeting.--"i'm a proof-reader, i am." by no means least among the places of interest in paris is the manufactory of the gobelin tapestry which serves to adorn the walls of the palace _salons_. o, these long, tiresome _salons_, which must be visited, though your head is ready to burst with seeing, your feet to drop off with sliding and slipping over the polished floors. the wicked _stand_ upon slippery places, and nothing so convinced us of the demoralizing effect of foreign travel as our growing ability to do the same. when you have seen one or two, you have seen all. there may be degrees in gorgeous splendor, but we were filled with all the appropriate and now-forgotten emotions at sight of the first, and one cannot be more than full. many of the old palace apartments are dull and dingy beyond belief, by no means the marble halls of our dreams; but of the others let me say something once for all. under your feet is the treacherous, bare floor of dark wood, laid in diamonds, squares, &c.; over your head, exquisite frescoes of gods and goddesses, and all manner of unearthly and impossible beings enveloped in clouds by the bale,--usually an apotheosis of some king or queen, or both, and, as a rule, of the most wicked known at that time. the medici were especially glorified and raised above the flesh,--and they had need to be. on every side pictures in gobelin tapestry, framed into the walls, often so large as to cover the entire space from corner to corner, from cornice to within a few feet of the floor, and in this latter space doors, formed of a panel sometimes, for the entrance and egress of servants. imagine, with all this, the gilt, and stucco, and wood-carving; the flowers, and arabesques, and entwined initials; the massive chandeliers, with glittering pendants; the mantels of rare marbles, of porphyry, and malachite; the cabinets, and tables, and escritoires of marqueterie and mosaic; the gilded chairs, stiff and stark, richly covered; the bronzes, vases, and curious clocks: and over all the air of having never been used from all time, and of continuing to be a bare show to all eternity,--and you have a faint conception of the _salons_ of half the palaces. as for the tapestry, pray don't confound it with the worsted dogs and rebekahs-at-the-well with which we sometimes adorn (?) our homes, since one would never in any way suggest the other. in these every delicate line is faithfully reproduced, and the effect exactly that of an oil painting. after long years the colors fade; and we were startled sometimes, in the old palaces, to come upon one of these gray shadows of pictures, out from which, perhaps, a pair of wonderful eyes alone would seem to shine. in old times the rough walls of the grim prison palaces were hung with tapestry wrought by the fair fingers of court ladies, the designs of tournament and battle being rudely sketched by gay gallants. many a bright dream was worked into the canvas, i doubt not, never found upon the pattern; many a sweet word said over the task that beguiled the dull hours, and kept from mischief idle hands. but in the reign of louis xiv. the art of weaving tapestry was brought from flanders, and a manufactory established on the outskirts of paris which still remains. to visit it a pass is required. accordingly we addressed a note of solicitation to some high official, and in due time came a permit for madame k. and family; and an ill-assorted family we must have appeared to the official at the gate. there were the rooms, hung with specimens of the tapestry, for which we did not care, and then the six devoted to the weaving; long, low, and narrow they were, with hand-looms ranged down one side. through the threads of the warp we could see the weavers sitting behind their work, each with his box of worsteds and pattern beside him. the colors were wound upon quills, numbers of which hung, each by its thread, from the half-completed work. taking one of these in one hand, the workman dexterously separated the threads of the warp with the other, and passed the quill through, pressing down the one stitch thus formed with its pointed end. you can imagine how slow this work must be. how tiresome a task it is to delight the eyes of princes! the making of carpets, which has been recently added, is equally tiresome. this, too, is hand work, they being woven in some way over a round stick, and then cut and trimmed with a pair of shears. to make one requires from five to ten years, and their cost is from six to twenty thousand dollars. about six hundred weavers are said to be here, though we saw but a small proportion of that number. they receive only from three to five hundred dollars a year, with a pension of about half as much if they are disabled. from the gobelins we drove across the seine again, and out to père la-chaise, where stood once the house of the confessor of louis xiv., from whom the cemetery takes its name, the jesuit priest through whose influence the edict of nantes was revoked. a kind of ghastly imitation of life it all seemed--the narrow houses on either side of the paved streets, that were not houses at all, hung with dead flowers and corpse-like wreaths, stained an unnatural hue. we peered through the bars of the locked gate opening into the jews' quarter, trying to distinguish the tomb where lie the ashes of a life that blazed, and burned itself out. poor rachel! through the solemn streets, among the quiet dwellings of the noiseless city, whence comes no sound of joy or grief, where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, we walked a while, then plucked a leaf or two, and came away. one day, when the sun lay hot upon the white streets of the beautiful city, we searched among the shops of the crooked faubourg st. honoré for a number forgotten now, and the créche, where the working mothers may leave their children during the day. in another and more quiet street we found it. we pulled the bell before a massive gateway; the wide doors opened upon a smiling portress, who led the way across the paved court to the house, where she pointed up some stairs, and left us to mount and turn until it was no longer possible, until a confusion of doors barred our way, when we rapped upon one. another was opened, and we found ourselves among the babies. there were, perhaps, twenty in all, the larger children being in the school-room below; but even twenty toddling, rolling babies, looking so very like the same image done in putty over and over again, appears an alarming and unlimited number when taken in a body. they rolled beneath our feet, they clung to our skirts, they peeped out, finger in mouth, from behind the doors, they kicked pink toes up from the swinging cradles, and in fact, like the clansmen of rhoderic dhu, appeared in a most startling manner from the most unexpected places. plump little things they were, encased in shells of blue-checked aprons, from the outer one of which they were surreptitiously slipped upon our entrance to disclose a fresher one beneath. how long this process could have continued with a similar happy result, we did not inquire. every head was tied up in a tight little night-cap, giving them the appearance of so many little bag puddings. every face was a marvel of health and contentment, with one kicking, screaming exception upon the floor. "eengleesh," explained the sister of charity who seemed to have them in charge, giving a sweeping wipe to the eyes, nose, and mouth, gradually liquidizing, of this one, and trying in vain to pacify a nature that seemed peaceless. who was its mother, or how the little stranger chanced to be here, we did not learn. on either side of the long, narrow room hung the white-curtained cradles, each with its pretty, pink quilt. at one end was an altar, most modest in its appointments, consisting of hardly more than a crucifix and a vase of flowers upon the mantel. as we entered the room, the sister stood before it with a circle of white caps and blue checked aprons around her, a circle of little clasped hands, of upturned eyes and lisping lips, repeating what might have been, "now i lay me," for anything we knew. our entrance brought wandering eyes and thoughts. at the opposite end of the room, a wide, long window swung open, revealing a pleasant garden down below, all green and blossoming, with an image of the virgin half hid among the vines. cool, and fresh, and green it seemed after the glare of the hot streets, a pleasant picture for the baby eyes. out from this window the little feet could trot upon the guarded roof of a piazza. a little chair, a broken doll, and limbless horse here were familiar objects to the eyes of the mothers in our party, and when two children seized upon one block with a determination which threatened a breach of the peace, we were convinced that even baby nature was the same the world over. supper time came, and the children were gathered together in a small room, before the drollest little table imaginable--a kind of elongated doughnut, raised a foot from the floor, with a circular seat around it. all the little outer shells of blue check were slipped on, all the little fat bodies lifted over and set into their places, to roll off, or about, at will. a grace was said, to us, i think, since all the little eyes turned towards us, and a plate of oatmeal porridge put before each one. some ate with a relish, and a painful search over the face with a spoon for the open, waiting mouth; some leaned back to stare at the company; and others persisted in dipping into the dish of their next neighbor. one little thing, hardly more than a year old, drew down the corners of her mouth in a portentous manner, when the motherly one beside her, of the advanced age of three years, perhaps, rapped on the table with her spoon, and patted the doleful little face, smiling all the while, until she actually drew out smiles in return. the dear little mother! an attendant with a homely face, creased into all manner of good-natured lines, resolved herself into the old woman who lived in a shoe, holding two babies and the porridge dish in her lap, balancing one upon the end of the low bench beside her, while two or three more stood at her knee, clinging to her apron. it was like a nest of open-mouthed birdlings. blessings on the babies, and those, whether of our faith or not, who teach and care for them, we thought, as we came away. "inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me," said the master. although i said nothing of our church-going in london, i cannot pass over our american chapel in paris, with its carved, umbrella-like canopy, shading the good dr. r., who did so much socially, as well as spiritually, for americans there. here came many whose names are well known; among them our minister to france, an elderly gentleman of unpretending dress and manner, with a kindly, care-worn face. and here gathered also a company of beautiful women and children, proving the truth of all that has been said of our countrywomen. a blending of all types were they, as our people are a blending of all nationalities, each more lovely than the other, and all making up a picture well worth seeing. i wish i might say as much for the opposite sex. one gentleman, who wore a red rose always in his button-hole, and turned his back upon the minister to stare at the women, had a handsome though _blasé_ face, and more than one head above the pews would have been marked anywhere; but the women and children bore away the palm. the delicate, sensitive faces which characterize american women, whether the effect of climate, manner of life, or of the nerves for which we are so celebrated, are found nowhere else, i am sure. besides the sabbath services a weekly prayer-meeting was held here. they were singing some sweet familiar hymn as we entered one evening and took our place among the pilgrims and strangers like ourselves. it was the last gathering for the winter. some were off for home, some for a summer of travel; only a few, with the pastor, were to remain. one followed another in words of retrospection, and regret at parting, until a pall settled over the little company--until even we, who had never been there before, wiped our eyes because of the general dolefulness. a hush and universal mistiness pervaded the air of the dimly-lighted house; the assembly seemed about to pass out of existence, niobe-like. then up rose dr. r., the pastor. i wondered what he could say to add to the gloom; something like this, perhaps: "dear people, everybody is off; let us shut up the church, lock the door, and throw away the key. receive the benediction." but no; i wish you might feel the thrill that went through the little company as his words fell from his lips. i wish i dared attempt to repeat them. "and now to you who go," he said, at last, "who take with you something of our hearts, be sure our prayers will follow you. keep us in memory; but, above all, keep in memory your church vows. make yourselves known as christians among christians. and when you have reached home--the home to which our thoughts have so often turned together--let this be a lesson. when summer comes and you leave the city for the country, for the mountains, for the sea-side, take your religion with you. search out some struggling little church with a discouraged pastor,--you'll not look far or long to find such a one,--and work for that, as you have worked for us. and one thing more; send your friends who are coming abroad to us. send us the christians, for we need them, and by all means send us those who are not christians; they may need us; and the lord bless you, and keep you in all your goings, and give you peace." then the people gathered in knots for last words--for hand-clasps and good-byes. now a spirit of peace and good will having fallen upon us with the pastor's benediction, we gazed wistfully upon the strangers in the hope of finding one familiar face; but there was none; so we came sorrowfully down the aisle. the door was almost reached when a sharp, twanging voice behind us began, "i'm sent out by x. & y., book publishers." "o," said i to the friend at my side, "i believe i will speak to that man. i know mr. x., and i do so want to speak to somebody." how he accomplished the introduction i cannot tell, but in a moment my hand was grasped by that of a stout little man, with bushy hair and twinkling eyes. "know mr. x.? mr. q. x.?" he began. to tell the truth i had not that honor, my acquaintance having been with his brother; but there was no time to explain, and retreat was equally impossible; so i replied that my father knew him well; then thinking that something more was necessary to explain the sudden and intense interest manifested in his behalf, added, desperately, "indeed, intimately." to this he paid no manner of attention,--i doubt if he heard it,--but rattled on: "fine man, mr. x., mr. q. x. know mr. y.? fine man, mr. y.; been abroad a year; i'm goin' out to meet him, i am. he's in switzerland, mr. y. is; been abroad a year. i'm a proof-reader, i am. i s'pose you know what a proof-reader is." "yes," i succeeded in inserting while he took breath, remembering some amateur attempts of my own in that direction. he began anew: "i'm sent out by x. & y.; expect to find mr. y. in switzerland; fine man--" will he never stop, i thought, beginning a backward retreat from the pew down the aisle, with all the while ringing in my ears, "i'm a proof-reader, i am," &c. "don't laugh, pray don't," i said to the friends waiting at the door. "it's dreadful--is it not?" what became of him we never knew, but in all probability the sexton removed him--still vocal--to the sidewalk that night; where, since we do not know for how long a time he was wound up, he may be iterating and reiterating to this day the interesting fact of his occupation, with the eulogy upon messrs. x. & y. chapter viii. show places in the suburbs of paris. the river omnibuses.--sèvres and its porcelain.--st. cloud as it was.--the crooked little town.--versailles.--eugenie's "spare bedroom."--the queen who played she was a farmer's wife.--seven miles of paintings.--the portraits of the presidents. there are four ways of going to st. cloud, from paris, says the guide-book; we chose the fifth, and took one of the little steamboats--the river omnibuses--that follow the course of the seine, stopping at the piers along the city, which occur almost as often as the street crossings. very insignificant little steamers they are, made up of puff, and snort, and smoke, a miniature deck, and a man with a big bell. up the river we steamed through a mist that hid everything but the green banks, the pretty villas whose lawns drabbled their skirts in the river, and after a time the islands that seemed to have dropped cool, wet, and green into the middle of the stream. we plunged beneath the dark arches of the stone bridges--the pont d'alma not to be forgotten, with its colossal sentinels on either side of the middle arch, calm, white, and still, leaning upon their muskets, their feet almost dipping into the water, their great, stony eyes gazing away down the river. what is it they seem to see beyond the bend? what is it they watch and wait for, gun in hand? we pulled our wraps about us, found a sheltered place, and went on far beyond our destination, through the gray vapor that gathered sometimes into great, plashing drops to fall upon the deck, or, hovering in mid-air, wiped out the distance from the landscape as effectually as the sweep of a painter's brush, while it softened and spiritualized everything near, from the sharply outlined eaves, and gables, and narrow windows of the village struggling up from the water, to the shadowy span of the bridges that seemed to rest upon air. then down with the rain and the current we swept again, to land at the forsaken pier of sèvres, from which we made our way over the pavings, so inviting in these french towns for missile or barricade, to the porcelain factory. no fear of missing it, since it is the one object of interest to strangers in the town; and whatever question we asked, the reply would have been the pointing of the finger in that one direction. once there, we clattered and slipped over the tiled floor after a polite attendant, through its many show-rooms, and among its wilderness of pottery, ancient and modern. the manufactory was established by--i'm sure i don't know whom--in seventeen hundred and--something, at vincennes, quite the other side of paris; but a few years later, in the reign of louis xv., was transferred to sèvres, and put under the direction of government. it is almost impossible to gain permission to visit the workshops, but a permit to pass through the show-rooms can easily be obtained. there were queer old-fashioned attempts at glazed ware here, some of them adorned with pictures like those we used to see in our grandmothers' china closets, of puffy little pink gentlemen and ladies ambling over a pink foreground; a pink mountain, of pyramidal form, rising from the wide-rimmed hat of the roseate gentlemen; a pink lake standing on end at the feet of the lady, and a little pink house, upon which they might both have sat comfortably, with a few clouds of jeweller's cotton completing the picture. a striking contrast were these to the marvels of frailty and grace of later times. the rooms were hung with paintings upon porcelain, the burial of attila, which we had seen at the louvre, among them. every conceivable model of vase, pitcher, and jar was here--quaint, beautiful conceptions of form adorned by the hand of skilful artists, from mammoth vases, whirling upon stationary pedestals, to the most delicate cup that ever touched red lips. at noon we strolled over to st. cloud, a pleasant walk of a mile, beginning with a shaded avenue, rough as a country road; then on, down a street leading to the gates of the park of st. cloud--a street so vain of its destination that it was actually lifted up above the gardens on either side. from the wide gates we passed into a labyrinth of shaded, clean-swept ways, and followed one to the avenue of the fountains, where we sat upon the edge of a stone basin to await the opening of the palace. for do not imagine, dear reader, that you can run in and out of palaces without ceremony and at all hours of the day. there is an appointed time; there is the gathering outside of the curious; there is the coming of a man with rattling, ringing keys; there is the throwing open of wide gates and massive doors, and then--and not until then--the entering in. as for the fountains, next to those at versailles they have been widely celebrated; but as they only played upon sundays and fête days, we did not see them. their sunday gowns of mist and flowing water were laid aside, and naked and bare enough they were this day. the wide basins, the lions and dolphins, were here, with the marble nymphs, and fauns and satyrs, that make a shower-bath spectacle of themselves upon gala days. when the hour refused to strike, and we grew hungry,--as one will among the rarest and most wonderful things,--we left the park, to find the crooked little town that sits in the dust always at the feet of palaces. its narrow streets ran close up to the gates, and would have run in had they not been shut. here in the low, smoke-stained room of an inn that was only a wine-shop, we spent the time of waiting,--our elbows upon the round, dark table, which, with the dirt and wooden chairs, made up its only furnishing,--sipping the sour wine, cutting slices from the long, melancholy stick of bread, all dust and ashes, and nibbling the cheese that might have vied with samson for strength. the diamond-paned window was flung wide open, for the air seemed soiled and stained, like the floor. just across the narrow, empty street, an old house elbowed our inn. the eaves of its thatched roof were tufted with moss, out from which rose a mass of delicate pink blossoms--pretty innocents, fairly blushing for shame of their surroundings. through the long passage-way came the sound of high-pitched voices--of a strange jargon from the room opening upon the street, where a heavy-eyed maid, behind a pewter bar, served the blue-bloused workmen gathered about the little tables. the white palace of st. cloud, with its corinthian columns, stood daintily back from its gates and the low-bred town; but its long wings had run down, like curious children, to peep out through the bars; so, you will see, it formed three sides of a square. it had lately been refurnished for the prince imperial. the grand _salons_ need not be described; one is especially noted as having been the place where a baby was once baptized, who is now ex-emperor of france. in the same room the civil contract of marriage between napoleon i. and marie louise was celebrated. a few elegant but less spacious rooms were interesting from having been the private apartments of the poor queens and empresses who have shared the throne of france. gorgeous they were in tapestry and gilding, filled with a gaping crowd of visitors, and echoing to the voice of a voluble guide. royal fingers may have touched the pretty trinkets lying about; royal forms reclined upon the soft couches; royal aching hearts beat to the tick of the curious gilt clock, that bore as many faces as a woman, some one wickedly said; but it was impossible to realize it, or to believe that high heels, and panniers, and jaunty hats upon sweet-faced, shrill-voiced american girls had not ruled and reigned here always, as they did this day. versailles lies out beyond st. cloud, but we gave to it another day. we were a merry party, led by dr. r., who left the train at the station, and filled the omnibus for the palace. there was an air of having seen better days about the city, which was at one time the second of importance in france; it fed and fattened upon the court, and when at last the court went away not to return, it came to grief. the most vivid recollection i have of the great court-yard, around which extend three sides of the palace, is of its round paving-stones--that seemed to have risen up preparatory to crying out--and the grove of weather-stained statues upon high pedestals,--generals, cardinals, and statesmen who hated and connived against each other in life, doomed now in stone to stare each other out of countenance. i am sure we detected a wry face here and there, to say nothing of clinched fists. it is a gloomy old court-yard at best. the front of the main building is all that remains of the old hunting-seat of louis xiii., which his son would not suffer to be destroyed. it is of dingy, mildewed brick, that can never in any possible light appear palatial; and so blackened and purple-stained are the statues before it that they might have been just brought from the morgue. the whole palace is only a show place now--a museum of painting and statuary. as for the celebrated gardens, we walked for hours, and still they stretched away on every side. we explored paths wide and narrow, crooked and straight, and saw clipped trees by the mile, with grottoes and the skeletons of the fountains that, like naughty children, play o' sundays, and all the wonderful trees, shrubs, and flowers brought from the ends of the earth, and ate honey gingerbread (flavored with extract of turpentine) before an open booth, and were ready to faint with weariness; and when at last a broad avenue opened before us with the trianons, which must be seen, at the farther end, we would not have taken the whole place as a gift. it must have been at this point that we fortified ourselves with the gingerbread. the grand trianon alone were we permitted to enter. it is in the form of an italian villa, with a ground floor only, and long windows opening upon delightful gardens. like versailles, it is now a mere show, although a suit of apartments was fitted up here some time since, in anticipation of a neighborly visit from queen victoria to eugenie, making of the little palace a kind of guest chamber, a spare bedroom. as we followed a winding path through the park, we came suddenly upon an open glade, surrounded and shaded by forest trees. over the tiny lake, in the centre, swans were sailing. half hidden among the wide-spread, sweeping branches of the trees were the scattered farm-houses of a deserted village--only half a dozen in all, of rude, half swiss architecture, made to imitate age and decay, quaintly picturesque. here marie antoinette and her court played at poverty. do you remember how, when she grew weary of solemn state, she came here with a few favored ones to forget her crown, and dream she was a farmer's wife? the dairy was empty, the marble slab bare upon which she made butter for her guests. just beyond was the mill, but the wheel was still. it was a pleasant dream--a dream of arcadia. ah, but there was a fearful awakening! "the poorest peasant in the land," said the queen, "has one little spot which she can call her own; the queen of france asks no more." so she shut the gates upon the people who had claimed and held the right, from all time, to wander at will through the gardens of their kings. then they hated her, whom they had greeted with shouts of welcome when she came a bride from over the border. "the austrian! the austrian!" they hissed through the closed gates. and one day they dragged her out from a bare cell in the conciergerie,--no make-believe of rough walls, of coarse fare there,--they bound the slender hands behind her, they thrust into a prison cart the form that had been used to rest upon down and silken cushions, and bore her over the rough stones to the scaffold. ah, it makes one shudder! to see the two hundred rooms of the palace of versailles requires a day, at least; but we, fearful that this might be our last opportunity, determined to spend the remaining hour or two and our last atom of strength in the attempt. a wandering cabman pounced upon us as we came down the avenue from the trianons, and bore us back to the palace, where we toiled up and down the grand stairway, and peeped into the chapel that had echoed to the mockery of worship in the time of the king who built all this--the king who loved everybody's wife but his own--so faithlessly! there was a dizzy hurrying through corridors lined with statuary, through one _salon_ after another hung with horace vernet's paintings describing the glories of france--the crowning of its kings, the reception of its ambassadors, the signing of its treaties, the winning of its battles; but was all this bloodshed, and all this agony depicted upon canvas, for the glory of france? there were immense galleries, where, on every side, from cornice to floor, one was conscious of nothing but smoke and cannon, wounds and gore, and rolling eyes. we walked over the prescribed three miles and a half of floors slippery as ice, and gazed upon the seven miles of pictures, with a feeling less of pleasure or gratified curiosity than of satisfaction at having _done_ versailles. room after room was devoted to portraits, full lengths and half lengths, side faces and full fronts; faces to be remembered, if one had not been in such mortal haste, and faces that would never have been missed from the ermined robes. in a quiet corner we were startled to find some of our good presidents staring down upon us from the wall. a mutual surprise it seemed to be. but if we americans must be awkward and clownish to the last degree, half civilized, and but one remove from barbarism, don't let us put the acme of all this upon canvas, and hang it in the palace of kings. here was president grant represented in the saloon of a steamboat,--america to the last,--one leg crossed, one heel upon the opposite knee, and his head about to sink into his coat collar in an agony of terror at finding himself among quality. his attitude might have been considered graceful and dignified in a bar-room, or even in the saloon of a mississippi steamer; but it utterly failed in both particulars in the palace of versailles, among courtly men and high-bred women. chapter ix. a visit to brussels. to brussels.--the old and new city.--the paradise and purgatory of dogs.--the hôtel de ville and grand place.--st. gudule.--the picture galleries.--wiertz and his odd paintings.--brussels lace and an hour with the lace-makers. how the girls found charlotte brontë's school.--the scene of "villette." there were one or two more excursions from paris, and then, when we had grasped the fat hand of monsieur, our landlord, and kissed the dark cheeks of madame, his wife, and submitted to the same from mademoiselle, their daughter, with light hearts, serene consciences, and the ---- family we started for brussels. it is a six hours' ride by rail. almost as soon as the line between france and belgium is passed, the low hills drop away, the thatch-roofed cottages give place to those of whitewashed brick, with bright, red-tiled roofs. all along the way were the straight poplars overrun with ivy, and the land was cared for, coaxed, and fairly driven to the highest point of cultivation. women were at work in the fields, and more than one maud müller leaned upon her rake to gaze after us. soon, when there were only level fields beneath a level sky, the windmills began to appear in the distance, slowly swinging the ghostly arms that became long, narrow sails as we neared them. at two o'clock we reached brussels, after being nearly resolved into our original element--dust. nothing but a sand-hill ever equalled the appearance we presented when we stepped from the train; nor did we need anything so much as to be thrown over a line and beaten like a carpet when we finally gained our hotel. the old city of brussels is crooked, and dull, and picturesque; but joined to it--like an old man with a gay young wife--is the beautiful paris-like upper town, with its houses covered with white stucco, and a little mirror outside of every window, placed at an angle of forty-five degrees, so that madame, sitting within, can see all that passes upon the street, herself unseen. here in the new town are the palaces, the finest churches, the hotels, and marie therese's park, where young and old walk, and chat, and make eyes at each other summer evenings. scores of strings, with a poodle at one extremity and a woman at the other, may here be seen, with little rugs laid upon the ground for the pink-eyed puff-balls to rest upon. truly brussels is the paradise and purgatory of dogs. anywhere upon the streets you may see great, hungry-eyed animals dragging little carts pushed by women; and it is difficult to determine which is the most forlorn--the dog, the cart, or the woman. we never understood before what it was to "work like a dog." at one extremity of the park was the white, new senate-house; opposite, the gray, barrack-like palace of the king; upon the third side, among others, our hotel. here we were happy in finding another family of friends. with them we strolled down into the old town, after dinner, taking to the middle of the street, in continental fashion, as naturally as ducks to water; crossing back and forth to stare up at a church or into a shop window,--straggling along one after another in a way that would have been marked at home, but was evidently neither new nor strange here, where the native population attended to their own affairs with a zeal worthy of reward, and other parties of sight-seers were plying their vocation with a perseverance that would have won eminence in any other profession. through crooked by-ways we wandered to the grand place of the old city--a paved square shut in by high spanish-gabled houses ornamented with the designs of the various guilds. from the windows of one hung the red, yellow, and black belgian flag. there was no rattle of carts, no clatter of hoofs. down upon the dark paving-stones a crowd of women, old and young, with handkerchiefs crossed over their bosoms, were holding a flower-market. just behind them rose the grim statues of the two counts, egmont and van horn,--who lost their heads while striving to gain their cause against spanish tyranny and the spanish inquisition,--and the old royal palace, blackened and battered by time and the hand of forgotten sculptors, until it seemed like the mummy of a palace, half eaten away. just before them was the hôtel de ville, with its beautiful tower of gray stone, its roof a mass of dormer windows. it comes to me like a picture now--the gathering shadows of a summer night, the time-worn houses, lovely in decay, the tawdry flag, and the heads of the old women nodding over their flowers. brussels has a grand church dedicated to saints michael and gudule. if i could only give to you, who have not seen them, some idea of the vastness and beauty of these cathedrals! but descriptions are tiresome, and dimensions nobody reads. if i could only tell you how far extending they are, both upon earth and towards heaven--how they seem not so much to have been built stone upon stone, as to have stood from the foundation of the world, solitary, alone, until, after long ages, some strolling town came to wonder, and worship, and sit at their feet in awe! we crept in through the narrow door that shut behind us with a dull echo. a chill like that of a tomb pervaded the air, though a summer sun beat down upon the stones outside. a forest of clustered columns rose all around us. far above our heads was a gray sky, the groined arches where little birds flew about. stained windows gleamed down the vast length, broken by the divisions and subdivisions,--one, far above the grand entrance, like the wheel of a chariot of fire. all along the walls, over the altar, and filling the chapel niches, were pictures of saints, and martyrs, and blessed virgins, that seemed in the dim distance like dots upon the wall. muffled voices broke upon the stillness. far up the nave a little company of worshippers knelt before the altar--workingmen who had thrown down mallet and chisel for a moment, to creep within the shadows of the sanctuary; market-women, a stray water-cress still clinging to the folds of their gowns; children dropping upon the rush kneeling-chairs, to mutter a prayer god grant they feel, with ever and anon, above the murmur of the prayer, above the drone of white-robed priests, the low, full chant from hidden singers, echoing through the arches and among the pillars, following us down the aisles to where we read upon the monuments the deeds of some old knight of heathen times, whose image has survived his dust--whose works have followed him. after leaving the church we wandered among and through the picture galleries in the old palaces of the city,--galleries of modern belgian art, with one exception, where were numberless flat old flemish pictures, and dead christs, livid, ghastly, horrible to look upon. the best of flemish art is not in brussels. among the galleries of modern paintings, that of the odd artist, recently deceased, wiertz, certainly deserves mention. it contains materials for a fortune to an enterprising yankee. the subjects of the pictures are allegorical, parabolical, and diabolical, the scenes being laid in heaven, hell, and mid-air. in one, napoleon i. is represented surrounded by the flames of hell, folding his arms in the napoleonic attitude, while his soldiers crowd around him to hold up maimed limbs and ghastly wounds with a denunciatory and angry air. widows and orphans thrust themselves before his face with anathematizing countenances. in fact, the situation is decidedly unpleasant for the hero, and one longs for a bucket of cold water. many of the pictures were behind screens, and to be seen through peep-holes--one of them a ghastly thing, of coffins broken open and their risen occupants emerging in shrouds. upon the walls around the room were painted half-open doors and windows with pretty girls peeping out; close down to the floor, a dog kennel, from which its savage occupant was ready to spring; just above him, from a latticed window, an old _concierge_ leaned out to ask our business. even in the pictures hanging upon the walls was something of this trickery. in one the foot and hand of a giant were painted out upon the frame, so that he seemed to be just stepping out from his place; and i am half inclined to think that many of the people walking about the room were originally framed upon the walls. brussels is always associated in one's mind with its laces. we visited one of the manufactories. a dozen or twenty women were busy in a sunny, cheerful room, working out the pretty leaves and flowers, with needle and thread, for the _point_ lace, or twisting the bobbins among the innumerable pins in the cushion before them to follow the pattern for the _point appliqué_. when completed, you know, the delicate designs are sewed upon gossamer lace. upon a long, crimson-covered table in the room above were spread out, in tempting array, the results of this tiresome labor--coiffures that would almost resign one to a bald spot, handkerchiefs insnaring as cobwebs, _barbes_ that fairly pierced our hearts, and shawls for which there are no words. i confess that these soft, delicate things have for women a wonderful charm--that as we turned over and over in our hands the frail, yellow-white cobwebs, some of us more than half forgot the tenth commandment. _table-d'hôte_ over, one evening, "where shall we go? what can we do?" queried one of the four girls in our party, two of whom had but just now escaped from the thraldom of a french _pensionnat_. "it would be so delightful if we could walk out for once by ourselves. if there were only something to see--somewhere to go." "girls!" exclaimed axelle, suddenly, "was not the scene of _villette_ laid in brussels? is not charlotte brontë's boarding-school here? i am sure it is. suppose we seek it out--we four girls alone." "but how, and where?" and "wouldn't that be fine?" chorused the others. there was a hasty search through guide-books; but alas! not a clew could we find, not a peg upon which to hang the suspicions that were almost certainties. "i am sure it was here," persisted axelle. "i wish we had a _villette_." "we could get one at an english library," suggested another. "if there is any english library here," added a third, doubtfully. evidently that must be our first point of departure. we could ask for information there. accordingly we planned our crusade, as girls do,--the elders smiling unbelief, as elders will,--and sallied out at last into the summer sunshine, very brave in our hopes, very glad in our unwonted liberty. a _commissionaire_ gave us the address of the bookstore we sought as we were leaving the hotel. "there are no obstacles in the path of the determined," we said, stepping out upon the rue royale. across the way was the grand park, a maze of winding avenues, shaded by lofty trees, with nymphs, and fauns, and satyrs hiding among the shrubbery, and with all the tortuous paths made into mosaic pavement by the shimmering sunlight. but to axelle _villette_ was more real than that june day. "do you remember," she said, "how lucy snow reached the city alone and at night?--how a young english stranger conducted her across the park, she following in his footsteps through the darkness, and hearing only the tramp, tramp, before her, and the drip of the rain as it fell from the soaked leaves? this must be the park." when we had passed beyond its limits, we espied a little square, only a kind of alcove in the street, in the centre of which was the statue of some military hero. behind it a quadruple flight of broad stone steps led down into a lower and more quiet street. facing us, as we looked down, was a white stuccoed house, with a glimpse of a garden at one side. "see!" exclaimed axelle, joyfully; "i believe this is the very place. don't you remember when they had come out from the park, and lucy's guide left her to find an inn near by, she ran,--being frightened,--and losing her way, came at last to a flight of steps like these, which she descended, and found, instead of the inn, the _pensionnat_ of madame beck?" only the superior discretion and worldly wisdom of the others prevented axelle from following in lucy snow's footsteps, and settling the question of identity then and there. as it was, we went on to the library, a stuffy little place, with a withered old man for sole attendant, who, seated before a table in the back shop, was poring over an old book. we darted in, making a bewildering flutter of wings, and pecked him with a dozen questions at once, oddly inflected: "_was_ the scene of _villette_ laid in brussels?" and "_is_ the school really here?" and "you _don't_ say so!" though we had insisted upon it from the first, and he had just replied in the affirmative; lastly, "o, _do_ tell us how we may find it." "you must go so-and-so," he said at length, when we paused. "yes," we replied in chorus; "we have just come from there." "and," he went on, "you will see the statue of general beliard." we nudged each other significantly. "go down the steps in the rear, and the house facing you--" "we knew it. we felt it," we cried, triumphantly; and his directions ended there. we neither heeded nor interpreted the expression of expectation that stole over his face. we poured out only a stream of thanks which should have moistened the parched sands of his soul, and then hastened to retrace our steps. we found the statue again. we descended into the narrow, noiseless street, and stood,--an awe-struck group,--before the great square house, upon the door-plate of which we read,-- "pensionnat de demoiselles. hÉger--parent." "now," said axelle, when we had drawn in with a deep breath, the satisfaction and content which shone out again from our glad eyes, "we will ring the bell." "you will not think of it," gasped the choir of startled girls. "to be sure; what have we come for?" was her reply. "we will only ask permission to see the garden, and as the portress will doubtless speak nothing but french, some one of you, fresh from school, must act as mouthpiece." they stared at axelle, at each other, and at the steps leading into the upper town, as though they meditated flight. "i cannot," and "_i_ cannot," said each one of the shrinking group. axelle laid her hand upon the bell, and gave one long, strong pull. "now," she said, quietly, "some one of you must speak. you are ladies: you will not run away." and they accepted the situation. we were shown into a small _salon_, where presently there entered to us a brisk, sharp-featured little french woman,--a teacher in the establishment,--who smiled a courteous welcome from out her black eyes as we apologized for the intrusion, and made known our wishes. "we are a party of american girls," we said, "who, having learned to know and love charlotte brontë through her books, desire to see the garden of which she wrote in _villette_." "o, certainly, certainly," was the gracious response. "americans often come to visit the school and the garden." "then this _is_ the school where she was for so long a time?" we burst out simultaneously, forgetting our little prepared speeches. "yes, _mesdemoiselles_; i also was a pupil at that time," was the reply. we viewed the dark little woman with sudden awe. "but tell us," we said, crowding around her, "was she like--like--" we could think of no comparison that would do justice to the subject. the reply was a shrug of the shoulders, and, "she was just a quiet little thing, in no way remarkable. i am sure," she added, "we did not think her a genius; and indeed, though i have read her books, i can see nothing in them to admire or praise so highly!" "but they are _so_ wonderful!" ventured one of our number, gushingly. "they are very untrue," she replied, while something like a spark shot from the dark eyes. o, shades of departed story-tellers, is it thus ye are to be judged? "madame héger," she went on, "who still has charge of the school, is a most excellent lady, and not at all the person described as 'madame beck.'" "and m. paul emmanuel,--lucy snow's teacher-lover,"--we ventured to suggest with some timidity. "is madame héger's husband, and was at that time," she replied, with a little angry toss of the head. after this terrible revelation there was nothing more to be said. she led the way through a narrow passage, and opening a door at the end, we stepped into the garden. we had passed the class-rooms on our right--where, "on the last row, in the quietest corner," charlotte and emily used to sit. we could almost see the pale faces, the shy figures bending over the desk in the gathering dusk. the garden is less spacious than it was in charlotte's time, new class-rooms having been added, which cut off something from its length. but the whole place was strangely familiar and pleasant to our eyes. shut in by surrounding houses, more than one window overlooks its narrow space. down its length upon one side extends the shaded walk, the "_allée défendue_," which charlotte paced alone so many weary hours, when emily had returned to england. parallel to this is the row of giant pear trees,--huge, misshapen, gnarled,--that bore no fruit to us but associations vivid as memories. from behind these, in the summer twilight, the ghost of _villette_ was wont to steal, and buried at the foot of "methuselah," the oldest, we knew poor lucy's love-letters were hidden to-day. a seat here and there, a few scattered shrubs, evergreen, laurel, and yew, scant blossoms, paths damp, green-crusted--that was all. not a cheerful place at its brightest; not a sunny spot associated in one's mind with summer and girlish voices. it was very still that day; the pupils were off for the long vacation, and yet how full the place was to us! the very leaves overhead, the stones in the walls around us, whispered a story, as we walked to and fro where little feet, that tired even then of life's rough way, had gone long years before. "may we take one leaf--only one?" we asked, as we turned away. "as many as you please;" and the little french woman grasped at the leaves growing thick and dark above her head. we plucked them with our own hands, tenderly, almost reverently; then, with many thanks, and our adieus, we came away. "we have found it!" we exclaimed, when we had returned to the hotel and our friends. they only smiled their unbelief. "do you not know--can you not see--o, do you not feel?" we cried, displaying our glistening trophies, "that these could have grown nowhere but upon the pear trees in the old garden where charlotte brontë used to walk and dream?" and our words carried conviction to their hearts. chapter x. waterloo and through belgium. to waterloo.--beggars and guides.--the mound.--chateau hougomont.--victor hugo's "sunken road."--antwerp.--a visit to the cathedral.--a drive about the city.--an excursion to ghent.--the funeral services in the cathedral.--"poisoned? ah, poor man!"--the watch-tower.--the friday-market square.--the nunnery.--longfellow's pilgrims to "the belfry of bruges." we could not leave the city without driving out to the battle-field of waterloo. it is about a dozen miles to the mound, and you may take the public coach if you choose--it runs daily. our party being large, we preferred to engage a carriage. we left the house after breakfast, and passed through the wide, delightful avenues of the forêt de soignes,--the bois de boulogne of brussels,--then across the peaceful country which seemed never to have known anything so disturbing as war. beyond the park lies the village which gave its name to the battle-field though the thickest of the fight was not there. in an old brick church, surmounted by a dome, lie intombed many minor heroes of the conflict. but heroes soon pall upon the taste, and nothing less than wellington or napoleon himself could have awakened a spark of interest in us by this time. then, too, the vivid present blinded us to the past. the air was sweet with summer scents. mowers were busy in the hayfields. a swarm of little barefooted beggars importuned us, turning dizzy somersaults until we could see only a maze of flying, dusty feet on either side. one troop, satisfied or despairing, gave way to another, and the guides were almost as annoying as the beggars. they walk for miles out of their villages to forestall each other, and meet the carriages that are sure to come from brussels on pleasant days. they drive sharp bargains. as you near the centre of interest, competition is greater, and their demands proportionately less. we refused the extortionate overtures of two or three, and finally picked up a shrewd-faced young fellow in a blue blouse, who hung upon the step of the carriage, or ran beside it for the last mile or two of the distance. the village of mont st. jean follows that of waterloo. it is only a scant collection of whitewashed farm buildings of brick. we rolled through it without stopping, and out again between the quiet, smiling fields, our minds utterly refusing to grasp the idea that they had swarmed once with an army; that in this little village we had just left--dull, half asleep in the sunshine--dreadful slaughter had held high carnival one july day, not many years before. even when the guide, clinging to the door of the carriage, rattled over the story of the struggle in a _patois_ all his own, hardly a shadow of the scene was presented to us. as our horses slackened their pace, he stepped down from his perch to gather a nosegay of the flowers by the road-side, making no pause in his mechanical narrative--of how the anglo-belgian army were gathered upon this road and the fields back to the wood, on the last day of the fight; how many of the officers had been called at a moment's notice from the gayeties at brussels, and more than one was found dead upon the field the next day, under the soaking rain, dressed as for a ball. he pushed back his visorless cap, uttering an exclamation over the heat, and adding, in the same breath, that just here, about mont st. jean, the battle waged fiercely in the afternoon, when ney, with his brave cuirassiers, tried in vain to carry the position; and all the time, the summer sounds of twittering birds and hum of locusts were in our ears; the barefooted children still turned upon their axles beside the carriage wheels as we rolled along, and that other day seemed so far away, that we could neither bring it near nor realize it. one grim reminder of the past rose in the distance, and, as we drew near, swelled and grew before our eyes. it was the huge mound of earth raised two hundred feet, to commemorate the victory of the allies. hills were cut down, the very face of nature changed for miles around, to rear this monument to pride and vain-glory. upon its summit crouches the belgian lion. we turn from the paved road, when we have reached what seems to be a mass of unsightly ruins, with only a tumbling outbuilding left here and there. the whole is enclosed by a wall, which skirts also an orchard, neglected, grown to weeds. the carriage stops before the great gates. it is very cool and quiet in the shaded angle of the battered wall as we step down. it has been broken and chipped as if by pick-axes. ah! the shot struck hardest here. the top of the low wall is irregular; the bricks have been knocked out; the dust has sifted down; the mosses have gathered, and a fringe of grass follows all its length. even sweet wild flowers blossom where the muskets rested in those dreadful days. at intervals, half way up its height, a brick is missing. accident? ah, no; hastily constructed loopholes, through which the english fired at first, before the horrible time when they beat each other down with the butts of their guns while they fought hand to hand here, like wild beasts. we enter the court-yard. only a roughly plastered room or two remain, where the greed that gloats even over the field of blood offers _souvenirs_ of the place importunately. in the centre of this court-yard may still be seen the well that was filled with corpses. it must have given out blood for many a day. upon one side are the remains of the building used for a hospital in the beginning of the fight, but where the wounded and dying perished in torment, when the french succeeded in firing the chateau; for this is _hougomont_. we came out at the gateway where we had entered; crossed the slope under the shadow of the branches from the apple trees, and followed the road winding through wheat-fields to the mound. breast-high on either side rose the nodding crests; and among them wild flowers, purple, scarlet, and blue, fairly dazzled our eyes, as they waved with the golden grain in the sunshine. "o, smiling harvest-fields," we said, "you have been sown with heroes; you have been enriched with blood!" it was a long, dizzy climb up the face of the mound to the narrow foothold beside the platform where rests that grim, gigantic lion. once there, we held to every possible support in the hurricane of wind that seized us, while the guide gave a name to each historic farm and village spread out before our eyes. only a couple of miles cover all the battle-field--the smallest where grand armies ever met; but the slaughter was the more terrible. connected with an inn at the foot of the mound is a museum of curiosities. here are queer old helmets worn by the cuirassiers, hacked and rust-stained; broken swords, and old-fashioned muskets; buttons, and bullets even--everything that could be garnered after such a sowing of the earth. in unquestioning faith we bought buttons stained with mildew, and bearing upon them, in raised letters, the number of a regiment. alas! reason told us, later, that the buttons disposed of annually here would supply an ordinary army. and rumor added, that they are buried now in quantities, to be exhumed as often as the supply fails. i remembered victor hugo to have said in _les misérables_ something in regard to a sunken road here, which proved a pitfall to the french, and helped, in his judgment, to turn the fortunes of the day. but we had seen no sunken road. i mentioned it to the guide, who said that victor hugo spent a fortnight examining the ground before writing that description of the battle. "he lodged at our house," he added. "my father was his guide. what he wrote was all quite true. there is now no road such as he described; that was all changed when the earth was scraped together to form the mound." we lunched at the inn, surrounded by mementos and trophies, and served by an elderly woman, whose father had been a sergeant in the belgian army, then late in the afternoon drove back to town. the pleasant days at brussels soon slipped by, and then we were off to antwerp--only an hour's ride. i will tell you nothing about the former wealth and commercial activity of the city--that in the sixteenth century it was the wealthiest city in europe, &c, &c. for all these interesting particulars, see murray's handbook of northern germany. as soon as we had secured rooms at the hotel, dropped our satchels and umbrellas, we followed the chimes to the cathedral. the houses of the people have crept close to it, until many of them, old and gray, have fairly grown to it, like barnacles to a ship; or it seemed as though they had built their nests, like the rooks, under the moss-grown eaves. the interior of the cathedral was singularly grand and open. as we threw our shawls about us--a precaution never omitted--an old man shuffled out from a dark corner to show the church, take our _francs_, and pull aside the curtains from before the principal pictures, if so dignified a name as curtain can be applied to the dusty, brown cambric that obstructed our vision. rubens's finest pictures are here, and indeed the city abounds in all that is best of flemish art,--most justly, since it was the birthplace of its master. rubens in the flesh we had seen at the louvre; the spiritual manifestation was reserved for antwerp; and to recall the city is to recall a series of visions of which one may not speak lightly. across, from the cathedral, upon a wide wooden bench in the market-place we sat a moment to consider our ways--the signal for the immediate swooping down upon us of guides and carriages, and the result of which was, our departure in a couple of dingy open vehicles to finish the city. we crawled about the town like a diminutive funeral procession, dismounting at the church of st. jacques to see the pictures, with which it is filled. in one of the chapels was a young american artist, copying rubens's picture of "a holy family"--the one in which his two wives and others of his family enact the part of mary, martha, st. jerome, &c. behind the high altar is the tomb of rubens, with an inscription of sufficient length to extinguish an ordinary man. there was a museum, too, in the city, rich in the works of rubens and vandyck, and the fine park in the new part of the town, as well as the massive docks built by the first napoleon, were yet to be seen. the older members of the party were in the first carriage, and received any amount of valuable information, which was transmitted to us who followed in a succession of shouts sounding as much like "fire!" as anything else, with all manner of beckoning, and pointing, and wild throwing up of arms, that undoubtedly gave vent to their feelings, but brought only confusion and distraction to our minds. not to be outdone, our driver began a series of utterly unintelligible explanations, the only part of which we understood in the least was, when pointing to the docks, he ejaculated, "napoleon!" at that we nodded our heads frantically, which only encouraged him to go on. pausing before a low, black house, exactly like all the others, he pointed to it with his whip. it said "hydraulics" upon a rickety sign over the door. there were old casks, and anchors, and ropes, and rotting wood all around, for it was down upon the wharves. we tried to look enlightened, gratified even, and succeeded so well that he entered upon an elaborate dissertation in an unknown tongue. what do you suppose it was all about? can it be that he was explaining the principles of hydraulics? we made, one clay, an excursion from antwerp to ghent and bruges. we left the train at ghent to walk up through the narrow streets, that have no sidewalks, to the cathedral. there was a funeral within. the driver of the hearse profusely decorated with inverted feather dusters, was comfortably smoking his pipe outside. a little hunchbacked guide, with great, glassy eyes, and teeth like yellow fangs, led us up the aisle to the screen beside the high altar, where we looked between the tombs and the monuments, upon the long procession of men circling around the coffin in the choir, each with a lighted candle in hand. as there were only about a dozen candles in all, and each must hold one while he passed the coffin, it was a piece of dexterity, at least, to manage them, which so engrossed our attention, that we caught but an occasional sentence from our guide's whispered story of the seventh bishop of ghent, who donated the pulpit to the cathedral, and around whose marble feet we were trying to peep; of the ninth, who was poisoned as he went upon some mission ("poisoned? ah, poor man!" we ejaculated, absently, our eyes anxiously fixed upon one man to whom had been given no candle as yet); of the tall brass candlesticks, supposed to have been brought from england in the time of cromwell, and a host more of fragmentary information, forgotten now. the whole interior of the church is rich in decoration, black and white marble predominating, with pictures of the early flemish school filling every available space. once out of the church, we climbed into an ark of a carriage, and drove about the city, our little guide standing beside the driver, back to the horses most of the time, to pour out a torrent of history and romance. a most edifying spectacle it would have been anywhere else. do read henry taylor's "philip von artevelde" before going to ghent: the mingled romance and history throw a charm about the place and people which bare history can never give. veritable yankees these old flemish weavers seem to have been, with a touch of the irish in their composition--always up in arms for their rights, and striking out wherever they saw a head. there is a new part to the city, with a grand opera-house, shaded promenades and palatial dwellings, but one cares only for the narrow, dingy streets, and the old market squares, in which every stone could tell a story. we saw the tall, brick watch-tower, where still hangs the bell that tolled,-- "i am roland, i am roland! there is victory in the land," and the old hôtel de ville, of conglomerate architecture, one side of which, in the loveliest flamboyant gothic imaginable, seems crumbling away from its very richness. in the friday-market square--it chancing to be friday--was a score of bustling busybodies, swarming like bees. here, in the old, quarrelsome times, battles were fought between the different guilds. i say battles, because at one time fifteen hundred were slain in this very square. such a peaceful old square as it seemed to be the day of our visit! the old gray houses, that have echoed to the sound of strife, fairly smiling in the sunshine, and the market women kneeling upon the stones which have run with blood. at one corner rose a tower, and half way up its height may still be seen the iron rod, over which was hung imperfect linen, to shame the weaver who had dared to offer it in the market. there is a great nunnery here in ghent--a town of itself, surrounded by a moat and a wall, where are six hundred or more sisters, from families high and low, who tend the sick, weave lace, and mortify the flesh in black robes and white veils. when they become weary of it, they may return to the world, the flesh, and--their homes: no vows bind them. we drove along the streets past the cell-like houses where they dwell. over the door of each was the name of her patron saint. it seemed a quiet retreat, a noiseless city, notwithstanding the six hundred women! but by far the most interesting sight, because the most ancient in the quaint old city, was the archway and turret of the old royal castle, erected a thousand years ago; only this gateway remains. here john o' gaunt was born. built all round, and joined to it, are houses of more recent date, themselves old and tottering, and the arch beneath which kings and queens rode once, is now the entrance to a cotton factory. we had only a few hours at bruges--the city once more powerful than antwerp even, but where not a house has been raised for a hundred years, and where nearly a third of its inhabitants are paupers. but decay and dilapidation are strong elements of the picturesque, and nothing seen that day was more charming than a piece of wall, still standing, belonging to the old charles v.'s palace--honey-combed, black, of florid gothic architecture, rising from the quiet waters of the canal. at one end it threw an arch over the street, with a latticed window above it, beneath which we passed, after crossing the bridge. more than one picture of bruges rests within my memory--its canals spanned by the picturesque bridges, and overhung with willows that dipped their long branches into the water, and the quaint old houses with many-stepped gables, rising sheer from the stream. but with all its past grandeur, the old city is best known to us americans through the chimes from its belfry tower, and we were some of longfellow's pilgrims. we drove into the great paved place under the shadow of the belfry tower when its shadows were growing long, and watched the stragglers across the square--women in queer black-hooded cloaks; chubby little blue-eyed maidens with school-books in hand; a party of tourists; and last, but by no means least, the ubiquitous american girl, with an immense bow on the back of her dress, and her eye fixed steadily upon the milliner's shop just visible around the corner. almost three hundred feet the dingy brick tower rose above us, with low wings on either side, where were once the halls of some guilds, in the days when the tower was a lookout to warn of coming foes,--when the square was planned for defence. in a little court-yard, gained by passing under its arch, we watched and listened, until at last the sweet tinkle of the silver-toned bells broke the hush of waiting--so far away, so heavenly, we held our breath, lest we should lose the sound that fell "like the psalms from some old cloister when the nuns sing in the choir, and the great bell tolled among them like the chanting of a friar." we came back to antwerp that night, tired, but triumphant, feeling as though we had read a page from an old book, or sung a strain from an old song. chapter xi. a trip through holland. up the meuse to rotterdam.--dutch sights and ways.--the pretty milk-carriers.--the tea-gardens.--preparations for the sabbath.--an english chapel.--"the lord's barn."--from rotterdam to the hague.--the queen's "house in the wood."--pictures in private drawing-rooms.--the bazaar.--an evening in a dutch tea-garden.--amsterdam to a stranger.--the "sights."--the jews' quarter.--the family whose home was upon the canals.--out of the city.--the pilgrims. at nine o'clock, the next morning, we left antwerp for rotterdam. two hours by rail brought us to a place with an unpronounceable name, ending in "djk," where we were to take a steamer. how delightful, after the dust and heat of the railway carriage, were the two hours that followed! the day was charming, the passengers numerous, but scattered about the clean, white deck, picturesquely, upon the little camp stools, drinking brandy and water as a preventive to what seemed impossible, eating fruit, reading, chatting, or pleased, like ourselves, with the panorama before their eyes. in and out of the intricate passages to the sea we steamed, the land and water all around us level as a floor; the only sign of life the slow-revolving arms of the windmills, near and far, with here and there a solitary mansion shut in by tall trees; or, as we wound in and out among the islands fringed with green rushes, and waving grasses that fairly came out into the water to meet us, and sailed up the meuse, the odd dutch villages that had turned their backs to the river, though their feet were still in the water over which hung rude wooden balconies, or still ruder bay-windows, filled with pots of flowers. this monotonous stretch of sea and land might grow tiresome after a while, but there was something peculiarly restful in that sail up the wide mouth of the river, beckoned on by the solemn arms of the windmills. when we reached rotterdam, how strange it was to find, instead of a row of houses across from our hotel, a wharf and a row of ships! such a great, comfortable room as awaited us! with deep, wide arm-chairs, a heavy round table suggesting endless teas, and toast unlimited, and everything else after the same hearty, substantial manner. there was no paper upon the walls, but, in its place, paintings upon canvas. delilah sat over the mantel, with the head of the sleeping samson in her lap, and rebekah and the thirsty camels were behind our bed curtains. from the wide windows we watched the loading and unloading of the ships, while the song of the sailors came in on the evening breeze, and with it, we half-fancied, the odor of sandal-wood and spices from the east indiamen anchored across the way. our hotel was upon the boompjes, the quay that borders the river; but through nearly all the streets flow the canals, deep enough to float large ships. you can appreciate the advantage of sailing a ship to the very door of one's warehouse, as you might drive a cart up to unload; and you can imagine, perhaps, the peculiar appearance of the city, with its mingled masts and chimneys, its irregular, but by no means picturesque, houses, and the inhabitants equally at home upon water or land. among the women of the lower classes may still be seen some national peculiarities in dress, shown principally in the startling ornaments--twisted gold wire horns, and balls, and rings of mammoth size thrust out from their caps just above their ears. whether their bare red arms would come under the head of dress, might be questioned; but a national peculiarity they certainly were, and unlike anything ever seen before in the way of human flesh. was that painfully deep magenta hue nature or art? we could never tell. there were some very pretty faces among the girls carrying milk about the city in bright brass cans, or in pails suspended from a yoke over their shoulders--faces of one type, round, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, with the mouth called rosebud by poets, and bewitching little brown noses of an upward tendency. as they all wore clean purple calico gowns, and had each a small white cap on their heads, the resemblance among them was rather striking. these caps left the whole top of the head exposed to the sun. only an iron-clad, fire-proof brain could endure it, i am sure. not a beggar did we see anywhere in holland. the people seemed thoroughly industrious and thrifty. a gentleman connected with the civil service there--an agreeable, cultivated man, who had been half over the world, written a book or two, and parted his hair in the middle--gave the people credit for all these, with many more good qualities, and added, "they are the simplest minded people in the world. why, would you believe it, one of the canal bridges was run into and broken down, the other day,--a fortnight ago,--and it has been town talk ever since. no two men meet upon the street without, 'have you heard about the bridge?'" and sure enough, when we reached the scene of the accident, in our after-dinner walk through the city, quite a crowd was collected to watch the passage of a temporary ferry-boat, the simplest contrivance imaginable, only an old barge pulled back and forth by ropes. still later we found the entrance to a narrow street choked with people, though nothing more unusual seemed to be taking place than the bringing out of a table and a few chairs. upon the outskirts of the city are pleasant tea-gardens, often attached to club-rooms, where concerts are held sunday evenings, attended by the upper classes. we walked through one, over the pebbled paths, and among the deserted tables, and then returned to see more of the town. it was saturday night. all the little girls upon the street had their locks twisted up in papers so tight and fast that they could shut neither eyes nor mouth, but seemed to be in a continual state of wonderment. all their mothers were down upon their hands and knees, scrubbing the doorsteps and sidewalk, in preparation for the sabbath. the streets were dirty and uninviting with a few exceptions, yet hardly more so than could be expected, when you remember that nearly the whole city is a line of wharves; but we felt no disposition to walk through it in our slippers, as the guide book in praising its cleanliness, says you may. what an advantage it would be to the world if the compilers of guide-books would only visit the places they describe so graphically! we spent a quiet sabbath here--the fourth of july--with not so much as a torpedo to disturb its serenity or mark the day, attending church at the english chapel, and joining in the responses led by a clear soprano voice behind us, which we had some desire to locate; but when we turned, at the conclusion of the service, there was only a row of horrible chignons to be seen, to none of which, i am sure, the voice belonged. there is nothing to be seen in rotterdam but its shipping. one great, bare church we did visit--"the lord's barn;" for these cathedrals, stripped of altar, and image, and stained glass, and boarded into stiff pews, without the least regard to the eternal fitness of things, are ugly enough. there is somewhere here a collection of ary scheffer's works,--in the city i mean,--but we did not see it. it is less than an hour's ride by rail from rotterdam to the hague, with the same delightfully monotonous scenery all along the way--meadows smooth and green, and fields white for the harvest, separated by the almost invisible canals. no wonder the spaniards held the low countries with a grasp of iron--the whole land is a garden. the hague, being the residence of the court, is much after the pattern of all continental capitals, with wide, white streets, white stuccoed houses of regular and beautiful appearance, and fine, large parks and pleasure-grounds filled with deer, and shaded by grand old elms as large as those in our own land, but lacking the long, sweeping branches. a mile from the city is "the house in the wood," the private residence of the queen of the netherlands. the wood is heavy and of funereal air, but the little palace is quite charming within, though upon the exterior only a plain brick country-house. the rooms are small, and hung with rice-paper, or embroidered white satin, with which also much of the furniture is covered. the bare floors are of polished wood, with a square of carpet in the centre, the border of which was worked by hand. "please step over it," said the neat little old woman who was showing us through, which we accordingly did. there was a home-like air, very unpalatial, about it all,--as though the lady of the house might have been entertaining callers, or having a dress-maker in the next room. delicate trinkets were scattered about--pretty, rare things worth a fortune, with any amount of old dutch china in the cosy dining-room. in one of the rooms hung the portrait of a handsome young man,--just as there hang portraits of handsome young men in our houses. this was the eldest son of the queen,--heir to the throne,--who, rumor says, is still engaged in that agricultural pursuit so fascinating to young men--the sowing of wild oats. in the next room was a portrait of queen sophie herself--a delicate, queenly face--a face of character. the walls of the ball-room are entirely covered with paintings upon wood by rubens and his pupils. "speak low, if you please," said our little old woman; "the queen is in the next room, and she has a bad headache to-day." i am sure she had a dress-maker! as we stooped to examine a rug worked by the royal fingers, an attendant passed, bearing upon a silver salver the remains of her majesty's lunch. from the palace we drove back to town to visit two private collections of paintings. it seemed odd, if not impertinent, to walk through the drawing-rooms of strangers, criticise their pictures, and fee their servants. upon the table, in one, were thrown down carelessly the bonnet and gloves of the lady of the house. i was tempted to carry them off. only a vigorous early training, and the thought of a long line of pious ancestors, prevented. here were pictures from most of the earlier and some of the later dutch artists--paul potter's animals, jan steen's pots and pans, vandervelde's quays and luggers, and green, foaming seas, and even a touch or two from the brush of the master of dutch art. we stopped on our way back to the hotel, at a bazaar,--a place of beguilement, with long rooms full of everything beautiful in art, everything tempting to the eye,--and after dinner went out to one of the adjacent tea-gardens. it was filled with family parties drinking tea around little tables. the music was fine, though unexpected at times, as, for instance, when a trumpet blew a startling blast, and a little man in its range sprang from his seat as though blown out of his place. it was amusing and interesting to watch the stream of promenaders circling around the musicians' stand--broad, heavily-built men, long of body, short of limbs; women "square-rigged," of easy, good-natured countenance. i doubt if there was a nerve in the whole assembly. at noon the next day, we took the train for amsterdam--another two hours' ride. the land began to undulate as we went towards the sea, with the shifting hillocks of sand raised by wind and wave. we passed leyden, famous for its resistance to the spaniards, as well as for having been the birthplace of rembrandt and a score of lesser lights, and haarlem, known for its great organ, and still the sand-hills rose one above the other, until they shut out everything beyond. it was only when we made a sharp turn, and struck out in a straight line for the city, that the zuyder zee opened before us, the curving line of land along its edge alive with windmills. we counted a hundred and twenty in sight at one time, and still did not exhaust them; so many skipped and whirled about, and refused to be counted. it hardly seems possible that the city of amsterdam is built upon piles driven into the sand and mud. certainly, when you have been jolted and shaken until your teeth chatter, for a long mile, in one of the hotel omnibuses from the station through the narrow streets and over the rough pavements, you will think there must be a tolerably firm foundation. such a peaceful, sleepy, free-from-danger air, these slimy canals give to the cities! you forget that just beyond the dikes the mighty, restless sea lurks, and watches day and night for a chance to rush in and claim its own. the canals run in a succession of curves, one within the other, all through the city. upon the quays are the dwellings and warehouses. in the narrow streets, crossing them by means of endless bridges, are the shops and dwellings of the lower classes. looking down a street, no two houses present an unbroken line. they have all settled in their places until they nod, and leer, and wink at each other, in a decidedly sociable, intoxicated manner. the whole city, to a stranger, is a curious sight--the arched bridges over the interminable canals; the clumsy boats (for the canals are too shallow to admit anything but coasters and river boats); the antic and antiquated houses with high gables, rising in steps, to the street; the women of the lower classes, with yokes over their shoulders, and long-eared white caps on their heads, surmounted by naked straw bonnets of obsolete fashion and coal-scuttle shape, and out and from which, on either side, protruded all the wonderful tinkling ornaments of which the prophet speaks; the long quays and streets utterly bare of trees; the iron rods thrust out from the houses half way up their height, upon which all manner of garments, freshly washed, hang over the street to dry. down in an open place stands the dark, square palace, grand and grim, where hortense played queen a little time while louis bonaparte was king of holland. near the palace is a national monument, for the dutch, too, remember their brave. there are old and new churches also to be seen, but churches bare of everything which clothes cathedrals with beauty, having been stripped in the time of the reformation. i suppose one should rejoice; but we did miss the high altar, the old carved saints, and the pictures in the chapels. some of the finest paintings of the dutch school are in the national museum here; _genre_ pictures, many, if not most of them, but pleasant to look at, if not of the highest art; and we visited another collection of the same, left by a m. van der hoop. there are several other private collections thrown open to the public. but after all, the most charming picture was the jews' quarter of the city. i know it was horribly filthy, and so crowded that we could hardly make our way; i know it was filled with squalor and rags, and great dark eyes, and breathed an odor by no means of sanctity. the dusky, luminous-eyed people seemed to move, and breathe, and hold a constant bazaar in the lane-like streets filled with everything known and unknown in merchandise, or leaning out from the windows of the tottering houses, their arms crossed over the sill, to dream away a lifetime. still there was a fascination about it all, a suggestion of vagabondism, of ishmaelitish wanderings, of having "here no continuing city," that touched the heart of a certain methodist minister's daughter in our party. sometimes the houses rise directly from the water, as did our hotel, the entrance being gained from another street in front. our room was like a town hall, with mediæval bed furniture and sofa, high chest of drawers, and great round table that might have come in with the dutch when they took holland. the deep windows looked down upon a canal. across from them, anchored to the quay as if for a lifetime, was one of the river boats. early in the morning the wife of the skipper--a square woman, brown-faced, with faded, braided hair--ran out bareheaded into the town, coming back with her arms mysteriously full. down into the cabin she disappeared, from whence directly came a sound of sputtering and frying, with a most savory odor. up she would come again--frying pan in hand to corroborate her statement--to call her husband to breakfast. he was never ready to respond, never, though he was doing nothing to support his energetic family at the time, but coiling and uncoiling old ropes, or rubbing at invisible spots with a handful of rope-yarn. i know he only delayed to add to his own dignity and the importance of his final advent. breakfast over, there followed such a commotion in the little world as i cannot describe--a shaking out of garments, a scraping out of plates, and throwing into the canal the refuse of the feast, a flying up with pots and pans for no object whatever but to clatter down again with the same, and all in the face and eyes of the town, with nevertheless the most absorbed and unconscious air imaginable. when it was over, somewhat what red in the face, but serene, the wife would appear upon the deck, to sit in the shadow of a sail and mend her husband's stockings, or put on a needed patch. we left the boat still fast to the quay; but i know that some day, when it was filled with scented oils, and rouge, and borax, and all the other things exported from the manufactories here, our skipper and his wife went sailing out of the canals and along the edge of the sea or up the rhine, the stockings all mended, and the good woman not above giving a strong pull at the ropes. to drive about the streets of amsterdam is slow torture, so rough are the pavings, so springless the carriages; but to roll along the smooth, wide roads in the suburbs is delightful. upon one side is a canal, stagnant, lifeless, with a green weed growing upon its still surface, which often for a long distance entirely hides the water; beyond the canal are pleasant little gardens and a row of low, comfortable-looking wooden houses with green doors. before each door is a narrow bridge--a neatly-painted plank with hand-rails--thrown over the canal, to be swung around or raised like a drawbridge at night, making every man's house a moated castle. we passed a fine zoölogical garden here upon the outskirts of the city, a garden of animals that ranks next to the famous one in london; but had no time to visit it, nor did we see any of the charitable institutions in which amsterdam excels. "you know the pilgrim fathers?" said emmie--whose family had preceded us by a day or two--the night after our arrival. "o, yes; had not our whole lives been straightened out after their maxims?" "well, we've found the house where it is said they held meetings before they embarked for america. wouldn't you like to see it?" of course we would; in fact, it would be showing no more than proper respect to our forefathers. so six of us--women and girls--put ourselves under her guidance. we found a narrow, dirty street, the dwellers in which stared after us curiously. between two old houses was an opening, hardly wide enough to be called an alley, hardly narrow enough to be looked upon as a gutter. into this we crowded. "there; this is the house," said emmie, laying her slight fingers upon the old stone wall before us. it was quite bare, and devoid of ornament or entrance, being evidently the back or side of a house. down from the peak of the gable looked a solitary window. a rude balcony, holding a few plants, was below it, with freshly-washed clothes hanging from its rail. we rolled our eyes, experienced a shiver that may have been caused by awe or the damp chill of the spot, and came out to find the narrow street half filled with staring men and women crowding about the point of our disappearance, while from the upper end of the street, and even around the corner, others hastened to join the whispering, wondering crowd. how could we explain? it was utterly impossible; so we came quickly and quietly away; but whether this house had ever been a church, whether the pilgrim fathers ever saw it, or indeed whether there ever were any pilgrim fathers, are questions i cannot undertake to answer. chapter xii. the rhine and rhenish prussia. first glimpse of the rhine.--cologne and the cathedral.--"shosef in ter red coat."--st. ursula and the eleven thousand virgins.--up the rhine to bonn.--the german students.--rolandseck.--a search for a resting-place.--our dutch friend and his malays.--the story of hildegund.--a quiet sabbath.--our dutch friend's reply.--coblentz.--the bridge of boats.--ehrenbreitstein, over the river.--a scorching day upon the rhine.--romance under difficulties.--mayence.--frankfort.--heidelberg.--the ruined castle.--baden-baden.--a glimpse at the gambling.--the new, and the old "schloss."--the black forest.--strasbourg.--the mountains. we had made a sweep through belgium and holland, intending to return by way of the rhine and switzerland. accordingly, in leaving amsterdam, we struck across the country to arnhem, where we found a pleasant hotel near the station, outside of the town. here we spent the night in order to break the monotony of the ride to cologne. after climbing stairs to gain our room, wide, but so perpendicular that we were really afraid to descend by them, we had, from a rickety, upper piazza, our first glimpse of the rhine, winding through flat, green meadows, with hardly more than a suggestion of hills in the distance. there is nothing of interest to detain one at arnhem. the guide-book informed us that it was the scene of sir philip sidney's death; but no one in the hotel seemed ever to have heard of that gentle knight--_sans peur et sans reproche_. we reached cologne at noon the next day. the road makes a _détour_ through the plain, so that, for some time before gaining it, we could see the city nestling under the wings of the great cathedral. how can i tell you anything about it? if i say that it is five times the length of any church you know, and that the towers, when completed, are to be the same height as the length, will my words bring to you any conception of its size? if i say that it was partially built a couple of centuries before the discovery of america; that it was worked upon for three hundred years, and then suffered to remain untouched until recently; that the architect who planned it has been forgotten for centuries, so that the idea embodied in its form is like some beautiful old tradition, whose origin is unknown,--will this give you any idea of its age? the new part, seen from our hotel, was so white and beautiful, that, when we had passed around to the farther side, it was like waking from a sleep of a thousand years. the blackened, broken gothic front told its own story of age and decay. ah, the interminable dusky length of its interior, when we had crept within the doors! it was a very world in itself, full of voices, and echoes, and shadows of its own. we followed the guide over the rough stone floor, giving no heed to the tiresome details that fell in broken words and monotonous tones from his lips. i recall nothing now but the fact (!) that behind the choir lie buried, in all their magnificence, the three wise men of the east. as we came down one of the shadowy aisles, we paused before a fine, old, stained window. our guide immediately became prolix again. "dis," he said, pointing to one of the figures upon the glass, "is shosef, in ter red coat; and dis is shon ter baptised; and dis, ter holy ghos' in ter form off a duff." when the old woman at the door offered pictures of the cathedral, he assured us that they were quite correct, having been taken "from _nature_, _outzide_ and _inzide_." you must see the old roman remains of towers and crumbling walls, sniff the vile odors of the streets, which have become proverbial, and be sprinkled with cologne--then your duty to the city is done. but almost everybody visits the church of st. ursula, which is lined with the skulls of that unfortunate young woman and her eleven thousand virgin followers. the story is, that she was an english princess, who lived--nobody knows at what remote period of antiquity. for some reason equally obscure, she started with her lover and eleven thousand maidens to make a pilgrimage to rome. fancy this lover undertaking a continental tour with eleven thousand and one young women under his care! even modern travel presents no analogy to the case. "and they staid over night at my aunt's," droned the sleepy guide, who was telling the story. the girls looked at each other. "good gracious! what unbounded hospitality!" whispered one. "at his _aunt's_!" exclaimed a second, somewhat puzzled by the anachronism. "don't interrupt," said a third interested listener; "he means _mayence_;" and he proceeded with the narrative. they accomplished their pilgrimage in safety; but, upon their return, were "fetched up py ter parparians," as the guide expressed it, which means, in english, that they were murdered, here at cologne. if you doubt the story, behold the skulls! we turned suddenly upon the guide. "do _you_ believe this?" "i mus; sinz i tells it to you," was his enigmatical reply, dropping his eyes. the scenery along the rhine from cologne, for twenty miles, is uninteresting; just now, too, the weather was uncomfortably hot, and we were glad to leave the steamer for a few hours at bonn. upon the balcony of a hotel, looking out upon the river, we found a score of young men in bright-colored caps--students from the university here. when dinner was announced, they crowded in and filled the table, at which the ladies of our party were the only ones present. such a noisy, loud-talking set as they were! when each one had dined, he coolly leaned back in his chair, and lighted his pipe! before we had finished our almonds and raisins the room was quite beclouded. then they adjourned with pipe and wine-glass to the balcony again, where we left them when we went out to see the town. the university was formerly a palace, the guide-book had told us; but all our childish conceptions of palaces had been rudely destroyed before now, so that we were not surprised to find it without any especial beauty of architecture--only a pile of brown stone, three quarters of a mile long. i think we had left all the students drinking wine upon the balcony, for we saw none here,--though we went through the library, museum, and various halls,--except one party outside, who stared unblushingly at the girls remaining in the carriage. somewhere in the town we found a lovely old minster, through the aisles of which we wandered for a while, happy in having no guide and knowing nothing whatever about it. outside, in a little park, was a statue of beethoven, and in a quiet street near the water the musical girls of our party found the house where he was born. in the cool of the day we took another steamer, and went on towards the beckoning hills, at nightfall reaching rolandseck. there was no town in sight, only a pier and three quiet hotels upon the bank, with a narrow road between their gardens and the water. we chose the one farthest away, and were rowed down to it, dabbling our hands in the water, and saying over and over again, "it is the _rhine_!" but the hotel was full; so we filled our arms with luggage, and walked back, up the dusty road to the second. a complacent waiter stood in the doorway, with nothing of that hungry, eager air about him which betokens an empty house; cool, comfortable-looking tourists, in enviable, fresh toilets, stared at us from the windows; a pretty german girl upon the balcony overhead was sketching the river and the seven mountains just below, uttering little womanly exclamations at times, ending in "_ach_" and "_ich_." after some delay, four single rooms were offered us; our party numbered twelve; we left a portion of our company here; the others went on--to the pier where we had landed, in fact, and with all meekness and humility sued for accommodations of the little hotel here, which we had at first looked upon with disdain. fortunately, we were not refused. when we came down the next morning, the sole occupant of the piazza opening upon the garden--where our breakfast was spread--was a stout, red-faced gentleman of general sleek appearance, who smiled a courteous "good morning." he proved to be a dutchman from rotterdam, who had in charge a couple of malay youths sent to holland to be educated--bright-faced boys, with straight, blue-black hair, olive complexions, and eyes like velvet. they were below us, walking in the garden now. "we have but just come from holland," we said, after some conversation; and, with a desire to be sociable, added that it was a very charming, garden-like _little_ (!) country. (o dreadful american spirit!) he smiled, showing his gums above his short teeth, and with a kind of enraged humility replied,-- "it is nothing." "it is indeed wonderful," we went on, trying to improve upon our former attempt, and quoting a sentiment from the guide-book, "how your people have rescued the land from the clutch of the sea!" but his only reply was the same smile, and the "yes?" so fatal to sentiment. "we visited your queen's 'house in the wood,'" we ventured, presently. "is it true that the domestic relations of the royal family are so unhappy?" "o, the king and the queen are most happy," he replied. "you may always be sure that when _he_ is in town _she_ will be in the country." this was a phase of domestic bliss so new to us that we were fain to consider it for a moment. various other attempts we made at gaining information, with equally questionable success. our dutch acquaintance, though disposed to conversation, avoided the topic of his own country. still he sought our society persistently, asking at dinner that his plate might be laid at the same table. our vanity was considerably flattered, until he chanced to remark that he embraced every opportunity of conversing with english and american travellers, _it did so improve his english_. from that time we found him tiresome. think of being used as an exercise-book! it is here at rolandseck that the romance of the rhine, as well as its world-renowned scenery, commences. across the river is the drachenfels--the crag upon which the remains of a castle may still be seen, where, "in the most ancient time," dwelt hildegund, a maiden beautiful as those of all stories, and beloved by roland, a nephew of charlemagne. when he went away to the wars, she waited and watched at home--as other maidens have done; but alas! instead of her lover, came after a time only the news of his death. then hildegund laid aside her gay attire and happy heart, with her hopes, and leaving her father's castle, came down to bury her young life in the nunnery upon the island at its foot. but the rumor was false; and in time roland returned, only to find himself too late, for hildegund was bound by vows which could not be broken. then, upon the rock called now rolandseck, the unhappy lover built a castle opposite the drachenfels and overlooking the island of nonnenworth. here he could watch the nuns as they walked in the convent garden, and perhaps among them distinguish the form of hildegund. on our way down from the arch, which, with a few crumbling stones is all that remains now of roland's castle, we passed through one of the vineyards for which the banks of this river are so noted. do you imagine them to be picturesque? they are almost ugly. the vines are planted in regular order and pruned closely. they are not suffered to grow above three feet in height, and each one is fastened to a stout stake until the wood itself becomes self-supporting. we spent a quiet sabbath at rolandseck. there was no church, no church service at either of the hotels. we rested and wrote letters, sitting in the grape arbors of the garden; only a low hedge and narrow, grass-grown road between us and the river. down below, the rocks and the island shut out the world; across, the hills rose to the sky, their slopes covered with yellow grain, or dotted with red-roofed farm-houses, while tiny villages had curled up and gone to sleep at their feet. it was impossible to write. the breeze that rippled the yellow water blew away our paper and our thoughts; and when the steamer, puffing, and evidently breathless from stemming the current, touched at the little pier, we left everything and ran out to see the passengers disembark. a band played at the railroad station just above our hotel, and the park attached to it swarmed with excursionists during the afternoon. at dusk, when they had all gone, we wandered up the magnificent road which follows the course of the river; built originally by the romans, and said to extend for a long distance--five hundred miles or more--into germany, returning with our hands full of wild flowers. when we went on board the steamer, monday morning, we were closely followed by our dutch friend and his malays. they strolled off by themselves, as they seemed always to do; he joined our group under the awning spread over the deck. an english tourist seized upon him immediately, and when he had disclosed his nationality, proceeded with a glance towards us, to quiz him upon dutch ways. "now, really," said the tourist, tilting back against the rail in his camp chair, "how dreadful it must be to live in a country where there are no mountains! nothing but a stretch of flat land, you know. i fancy it would be unendurable." "yes?" was the dutchman's sole response. "you still keep up your peculiar customs, i observe from murray," the englishman went on, loftily. "your women carry the same old foot-stoves to church, i fancy. they hang up, you know, in every house." "ah!" and the dutchman only smiled that same incomprehensible smile that had so puzzled us. "and you smoke constantly," continued the inquisitor, growing dogmatic; "a pipe is seldom out of your mouths. really, you are a nation of perpetual smokers." "yes," assented the dutchman; "but then--" and here his eyes, and indeed his whole round, rosy face twinkled with irresistible humor, "_you know we have no mountains_." a shout went up from the listeners, and our english acquaintance became at once intensely interested in the scenery. [illustration: "at the word of command they struck the most extraordinary attitudes." page .] the sail of half an hour to coblentz was a continual delight. the rocky mountains rose abruptly from the water, terraced to their peaks with vineyards, or stood back to give place to modest towns and villages that dipped their skirts in the stream. at their wharves we touched for a moment, to make an exchange of passengers or baggage. often from the lesser villages a boat shot out, the oars held by a brown-armed maiden, who boarded us to take, perhaps, a single box or bale, or, it might be, some bearded tourist with sketch-book under his arm. the passengers walked the deck, or gathered in groups to eat ices and drink the wines made from the grapes grown in these vineyards, with the pictured maps of the river spread out upon their laps, and the ubiquitous murray in their hands. as we neared coblentz the villages increased as the hills vanished. each had its point of interest, or monkish legend--the palace of a duke, a bit of crumbling roman wall rising from the water--something to invest it with a charm. one--neuwied--is noted for holding harmoniously within its limits, jews, moravians, anabaptists, and catholics. the millennium will doubtless begin at neuwied. at coblentz we remained a day, in order to visit the fortress of ehrenbreitstein. from our windows at the hotel we could look directly across to this grim giant of rock, as well as down upon the bridge of boats which crosses the rhine here. it was endless amusement to watch the approach of the steamers, when, as if impelled by invisible boatmen, a part of the bridge would swing slowly round to make an opening, while the crowd of soldiers, market-women, and towns-people, waiting impatiently, furnished a constant and interesting study. an hour or two after noon we too crossed the bridge in an open carriage, nearly overcome by the stifling heat, and after passing through the village of ehrenbreitstein, ascended the winding road--a steep ascent, leading under great arches of solid masonry, through massive gateways, and shut in by the rock which forms the fortress. at various points, guards of prussian soldiers, as immovable as the stone under their feet, were stationed. suddenly in the gloomy silence, as we toiled slowly up, echoed a sharp tramp, tramp, and a line of soldiers filed by in grim silence, each one with a couple of loaves of bread slung by a cord over his shoulder. in a moment another line followed with a quantity of iron bedsteads, each borne solemnly upon the shoulders of four men. the guards accompanying them were armed, and wore queer, shining helmets. still another company came swinging down to meet us, with fixed, imperturbable countenances, each bearing a towel in one hand, with military precision. they were on their way to the bathing-house upon the bridge. scattered about upon the broad esplanade at the summit, or rather arranged in lines upon the breezy, grass-grown space, were squads of recruits being drilled. at the word of command they struck the most extraordinary attitudes. taking a tremendous stride, they endeavored to poise themselves on one foot, while they threw the other leg straight out behind into the air. being of all sizes, forms, and degrees of grace in movement, the effect, to say the least, was surprising; especially as the most intense silence and seriousness prevailed. a second stride and fling followed, then a third, when a pert young officer, of the bantam species, seized a gun, and strutting to the front, proceeded to illustrate the idea more perfectly. at this point our gravity gave way. a young sergeant, with a stupid but good-natured face, attached himself to us in the capacity of guide. he could speak nothing but german, of which not one of us understood a word. we followed him from point to point, politely attending to all his elaborate explanations, and were surprised to find how many ideas we had finally gained by means of the patient and painful pantomimic accompaniment to his words. the view from the summit is wonderfully extensive. all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them seemed spread out at our feet; and our fat little guide grew fairly red in the face in his efforts to make us comprehend the names of the various points of interest. when we returned to the carriage the animated jumping-jacks were still engaged in their remarkable evolutions; and as we came down we had a last glimpse of our dutch friend and his malays, who were making the ascent on foot. the next day, though passed upon the beautiful river, was a day of torment. the stream narrowed; the frowning rocks closed in upon us, shutting out every breath of air; the sun beat down upon the water and the low awning over our heads with fiery fury; in a moment of idiocy we answered the call to _table d'hôte_, which was served upon deck with a refinement of imbecility just as the climax of the striking scenery approached. for one mortal hour we were wedged in at that table, peering between heads and under the awning which cut off every peak, making frantic attempts to turn in our places, as parties across the table exclaimed over the scenery behind us, and consoling ourselves with reading up the legends in the guide-book held open by the rim of our soup-plates,--of the seven sisters, for instance, who were turned into seven stones which stand in the stream to this day, because they refused to smile upon their lovers (fortunately for navigation, maidens in these days are less obdurate); of the bishop who shut his starving peasants into his barn and set fire to it, though his granaries were full, and who, in poetic justice, was afterwards devoured by rats; of the lurlei siren, who lured men to destruction, and became historical from the individuality of the case; of various maidens bereft of lovers by cruel fathers, and of various lovers bereft of maidens by cruel fate, &c., while storied ruins crowned the crags on every hand, always half hidden under a weight of ivy, and often indistinguishable from the rock on which they seemed to have grown. at bingen, which is not especially "fair" from the river, the precipices drop away, the stream spreads out in nearly twice its former width, and is dotted with islands. at mayence you may leave the steamer; the beauties of the rhine are passed. from mayence we made an excursion to wiesbaden; then on to frankfort-on-the-maine, to rest only a few hours, _doing_ the city hastily and imperfectly; and finally reached heidelberg at night, in time for _table d'hôte_. a talkative young irishman sat beside us at the table, who spoke five or six languages "with different degrees of badness," he informed us; had travelled half the world over, but held in reserve the pleasure of visiting america. "i have a friend there," he added, "though he is in _south_ america." "ah?" "yes; at _mobile_," he replied. "he held some office under government for a number of years, but during your recent war--for some reason which i do not understand--he seems to have lost it." it did not seem so inexplicable to us. our conception of heidelberg had been most imperfect. we knew simply that it held a university and a ruin. the former did not especially attract us, and we were sated with ruins. so, when we took possession of our lovely room,--a charming _salon_, converted temporarily into a bedroom,--it was with a kind of listless indifference that we stepped out upon the balcony before the window. and, behold! down below, an old, paved square, walled in by delightfully dingy old houses; a stone fountain; a string of waiting landaus (for landau itself is near by), with scarlet linings to their tops--giving a bit of color to the picture; a party of german students crossing the square, wearing the caps of different colors to betoken different societies or clubs, and almost every one with a scarred cheek or suggestive patch upon his nose; and, lastly, on the right hand, and so precipitous as almost to overhang the square, a hill crowned with the castle, grand, though in ruins, which nature vainly tries to conceal. there are ruins, and ruins. except the alhambra, in spain, none in the world equal these. what this castle must have been in the days of its glory, when it was the residence of a court, we could only faintly imagine. it is of red sandstone, and was a succession of palaces, built to enclose a square, or great court-yard, each of entirely different architecture and design, the _façade_ of one being covered with statues, another having pointed gables, &c.; all having been erected at periods fifty or a hundred years remote from each other. at each corner were watch-towers to apprise of coming foes. you may still ascend the winding stairs of one, though the steps have been hollowed into bowls by dripping rain and mounting feet. between these towers, upon one side, and on the verge of the hill, still remains the grand stone terrace,--where a hundred couples might promenade in solitude on moonlight evenings,--with summer-houses at each end; and beautiful gardens are still connected with the ruins. for all these palaces are in ruins. a few habitable rooms only remain among them all. several sieges, and partial demolition at times, the castle suffered, and at last, a hundred years ago, lightning completed the work, since which time no efforts at restoration have been made. the whole is overgrown with ivy, and embowered in shrubbery. great trees spread their branches in the midst of the walls that still remain standing, and crumbling earth and drifting dust have filled many parts, even up to the broken window ledges of the second story. across the broad stone steps leading to one of these palaces, tangled vines disputed right of way, and a neglected cherry-tree had scattered with wanton hand its over-ripe fruitage. thrust through a casement was an ivy that might have vied with many of the trees around in the size of its trunk, and no artistic hand could have trailed its creepers with the grace nature alone had displayed. there was a grand banqueting-hall, with the blue heavens for a ceiling overhead. there was a drawing-room, the floor long since crumbled away, and only the broken walls remaining. standing upon the loose earth, you may see the blackened fireplace far above your head, before which fair faces grew rosy centuries ago, and where white hands were outspread that have been dust and mould for ages. there was-- but words cannot describe it, though i should speak of the winding ways like a labyrinth beneath it all; of the queer paved court-yard, from whence the knights sallied out in the olden time; of the great tower, split in twain by an explosion during the last siege; of the wine-cellars and the "great tun," upon which the servants of the castle danced when the vintage was gathered. in all attempts at word-painting there remains something that defies description, that will not be portrayed by language. and, alas! in that the charm lies. we turned away from it with regret. one might linger here for days; but we had little time for dreaming. the road from heidelberg to baden-baden led through a charming country: indeed, we ceased to exclaim after a time over the cultivation of the land. so far as we saw it, the whole of europe was a market-garden, with prize meadows interspersed. not a foot of neglected or carelessly-tilled ground did we see anywhere. we chanced to spend the sabbath in this most un-sabbath-like city of baden-baden. but so far as we knew to the contrary, it might have been a puritan village. there was a little english chapel out in the fields beyond the city, where morning service was held, and our windows, overlooking a quiet square, told nothing of the gayeties of the town. it is an interesting old city in itself, built upon a side hill, full of unexpected stone steps leading from one street to another, and by and crooked ways, that were my especial delight. it being just now "the season," the town was full of visitors. the hot springs are of course the nominal attraction; the shops, parks, and new parts of the city, fine; but, after all, the interest centres at the kursaal, or conversation-haus. it is a great white structure, with a colonnade where it fronts an open square, and contains reading-rooms, _cafés_, a grand ball-room, and the gambling _salons_. government has at length interfered, and these last, hired by companies paying a certain sum for the privilege of beguiling and beggaring visitors, were to be closed now in two years, i think, or less. in front of the kursaal a band plays every afternoon; the colonnade and square are thronged with people promenading or occupying the chairs placed there, eating ices, drinking wine, and enjoying the fine music, but all perfectly quiet in manner and plain of dress. no one was gaudily or even strikingly attired. the hanoverian women were the most marked for their queer head-dresses, consisting of an enormous bow and ends of wide, black ribbon perched upon their crowns, and giving their heads a peculiar, bat-like appearance. and in this connection i might say that national peculiarities in dress are seldom met with in the ordinary course of continental travel. they still exist to some extent among the lower classes, and are often assumed and perpetuated to attract the attention of travellers; but ordinarily you will find people whom you meet anywhere and everywhere to be costumed much alike. paris fashions, with modifications (and in america with _intensifications_), have prevailed universally, until there are few outward dissimilarities to be observed among the people of different nationalities. nothing strikes the attention of the traveller more than this universal homogeneousness; and not in dress alone. in bruges, under the shadow of the belfry tower, little girls trot off to school in water-proofs, just as they do at home with us; and at the entrance to stirling castle, we passed a sturdy little boy with his hands in his pockets, whistling, "not for jo," exactly like other sturdy little boys we know at home. but to return to baden-baden. we almost fancied a sulphurous odor hung about the gambling _salons_. not a footfall echoed upon the softly-carpeted floors as we entered. the most breathless silence hung over everything. in the centre, a crowd, three in depth at least, surrounded and hid the table covered with green cloth, before which sat the _croupier_, with a kind of little rake in his hand. in our eyes he was the incarnation of evil, though to unprejudiced vision he would appear simply a well-dressed--not flashily-arrayed--gentleman, of a rather intellectual countenance, who might have passed upon the street as a lawyer in good practice, or possibly a doctor somewhat overworked. one after another of the bystanders covered the figures stamped upon the table with gold or silver. the ball in the centre, spinning in its circle, fell into a pocket with a "click." the _croupier_ called the winning number i think (though confessing that the game is a hidden mystery). that quick, sharp utterance was the only sound breaking the silence. at the same time, with wonderful dexterity, he raked the money into a pile, and pushed it towards the winner, or, more frequently, added it to the pile before himself. i looked in vain for any exhibition of excitement or anxiety among the players sitting or standing around the table. all were serious, silent; some few absorbed. both sexes were equally represented, and old as well as young. beside us was standing a woman with a worn, though still fine face, unobtrusive in dress and manner; a traveller and spectator, i judged, like ourselves. it was something of a surprise, not to say a shock, to see her suddenly stretch out her hand, and lay down a handful of gold pieces, selecting the numbers with an air that proved her to be no novice. "click," fell the ball. the _croupier_, with a sweep of the rake, gathered up her napoleons. the bank had won. again she laid down her gold, placing each piece with thoughtful deliberation. again they were swept away; and even the third time. she made no exclamation. she did not so much as raise her eyes from the table as she prepared to make a fourth attempt. there was no change in her face, except a certain fixedness which came over it, and a faint tinge of color rising in her cheeks. we breathed more freely when we had gained the open air. i am sure there was an odor of sulphur about the place. the scenery around baden-baden is striking and wild. gloomy valleys abound, and dark forests cover many of the hills. we took a kind of wagonet one morning, and climbed the mountain behind the city, passing what is known as the "new schloss," or castle, before leaving its limits. it is anything but _new_, however, having been erected some four or five hundred years. its horrible dungeons, where all manner of torments were inflicted, and tortures suffered by the unfortunate wretches incarcerated here, attract scores of visitors. we went on, by the zigzag road up the mountain, to the old schloss upon its summit. this was the residence of the reigning family of baden before the erection of the new schloss. hardly anything remains of it now but the walls of a square tower, from the battlements of which, by mounting to an encircling gallery, you may obtain a view well worth the effort. as far as the eye can see in one direction, extends the black forest--the very name of which brings to mind elfish legends innumerable. but, though our way led along its edge, so that we were shut in by the chill and gloom of the evergreens which give it its name, we saw neither elves nor gnomes, nor the traditional "wood-cutter, named hans, who lived upon the borders of the black forest," about whom we used to read when we were children. from baden-baden we took the railroad, following the course of the rhine to strasbourg, spending only a night here, in order to visit the beautiful cathedral; then on to lucerne, waiting an hour or two to break the long day's ride, at basle. here the mountains began to grow before our eyes. we shot through tunnel after tunnel, cut in the solid rock, and suddenly sweeping around a curve, the everlasting hills wrapped in perpetual snows, greeted our astonished sight. we had reached the mecca of our hopes at last. chapter xiii. days in switzerland. the lake of lucerne.--days of rest in the city.--an excursion up the righi.--the crowd at the summit.--dinner at midnight.--rising before "the early worm."--the "sun-rise" according to murray.--animated scarecrows.--off for a tour through switzerland.--the lake for the last time.--grütlii.--william tell's chapel.--fluellen.--altorf.--swiss haymakers.--an hour at amsteg.--the rocks close in.--the devil's bridge.--the dangerous road.--"a carriage has gone over the precipice!"--andermatt.--desolate rocks.--exquisite wild flowers.--the summit of the furka.--a descent to the rhone glacier.--into the ice.--swiss villages.--brieg.--the convent inn.--the bare little chapel on the hill.--to martigny. when we forget the scene before our dazzled eyes as we stepped out upon the balcony of the hotel bellevue at lucerne, earth will have passed away. there lay the fair lake, the emerald hills rising from its blue depths on every side, save where the queer old town sweeps around its curve, or beyond pilatus, where the chain is broken, and a strip of level land lies along the water's edge, sprinkled with red-roofed farm-houses set in the midst of grain-fields, and with rows of tall, straight poplars extending to the water. this sight of peaceful homes among the heavenly hills is like a vision of earth in mid-heaven. beyond, above, overlapping each other, rise these delectable hills. no earthly air envelops them. no earthly feet tread their fair summits. upon the highest, among the eternal snows, rest the clouds. truly, the heavens declare the glory of god; but switzerland showeth his handiwork! beautiful was the lake in the hazy morning light, when the hills cast purple and green shadows over its bosom, when the breeze rippled its surface, and the path in the wake of the little steamer widened into an endless way; beautiful in the glare of the noonday sun, when a veil of mist half hid the far-off mountains, and the water gleamed like molten gold; but most beautiful of all when the mountains wrapped themselves in the shadows of night, and stole away into the darkness, while upon their white, still faces shone the rays of the setting sun. then grim pilatus stepped forth; the moon, like a burnished globe, hung over the water, across which the little steamer ploughed silver furrows, or tiny boats, impelled by flashing oars, shot over the still surface, now near, now far away; but dim, unreal, always. it was a place of rest to us--this city of lucerne; the "house beautiful," where we tarried for a time before setting out again upon our pilgrimage. we wandered about the narrow streets, visited the dingy shops full of wood carvings or ornaments cut in the many-hued crystals; strayed over the low hills behind the town, through fields set with painted shrines; paused before thorwaldsen's dying lion, cut in the living rock--the grandest monument that heroes ever won; and once, in the stillness of a summer morning, sat in the cathedral and heard the angels sing, when the old organist laid his hands upon the keys. sabbath mornings we sang the old versified psalms, and listened to the exposition of a rigid faith from the lips of a scotch presbyterian minister, in an old roman catholic church--the walls hung with pictured saints and martyrs, the high altar only partially concealed, and a company of women kneeling by the door to tell their beads. not only rest, but christian charity, had we found here. almost every one who spends any time at lucerne ascends the righi to see the sun rise. accordingly, five of our number prepared to follow the universal custom. in one of the little shops of the town we found some light, straw hats, with wide rims, for which we gave the extravagant price of three cents apiece, trimming them afterwards to suit individual taste, with ribbons, soft white lawn, and even mountain ferns and grasses. we slung our wraps over our shoulders by a strap,--a most uncomfortable arrangement by the way,--discarded crinoline, brought into use the shabbiest gowns in our possession, packed hand-satchels with whatever was necessary for a night upon the mountain, and then declared ourselves ready for any disclosures of the future or the righi. a little steamer bore us from lucerne to weggis--a half hour's sail. we found weggis to be only an insignificant village, almost pushed into the lake by the crowding mountain, and seeming to contain nothing but guides and shabby horses. as we left the steamer, the open space between the pier and the hotel facing it was crowded with tourists, waiting for or bargaining with the guides for these sorry-looking beasts. no matter of what age, sex, or condition in life you may be, if you visit switzerland, you will make, at least one, equestrian attempt; but in truth, there is nothing to fear for even the most inexperienced, as a guide usually leads each horse. the saddles for the use of ladies are provided with a rail upon one side, and the nature of the paths are such, that it would be impossible to go beyond a walk. the only danger is from over-fatigue in descending the rocky, slippery way, often like flights of stairs; then, exhausted from trying to hold back in the saddle, dizzy from gazing into frightful depths, one might easily become unseated. when our guides were secured, one dejected beast after another was led to the wooden steps, always provided for mounting and dismounting; we climbed to our several elevations with some inward quaking, fell into line,--for single file is the invariable rule,--and passed out of the village by immediately beginning the ascent, describing, in our saddles every known curve and angle, as the path became more and more rough and precipitous. for guides we had a man with a rakish air, and--we judged from his gait--a wooden leg, who tragically wrung the perspiration from his red flannel shirt at intervals; a boy, with one of those open countenances only saved from complete lateral division by the merciful interposition of the ears, and a wizen-faced old man of so feeble an appearance as to excite my constant sympathy, since his place chanced to be by my side. he assured me continually that he was not tired, though before half of the three hours of the ascent had passed, his pale face belied his words. he was quite ready to converse, but i could with difficulty understand his english. we had paused at a wayside shed to rest the horses, and offer some refreshment to the guides, when i addressed him with,-- "what is that you are drinking? is it goat's milk?" "noo, leddy," was his reply. "it is coo's;" at the same time, and with the utmost simplicity and good will, offering me the glass from which he had been drinking, that i might taste and judge for myself. it is nearly nine miles to the summit, or righi-kulm. the bridle-path is rocky, rough, and steep, with a grassy slope upon either side, sprinkled at this season with dandelions, blue-bells, and odd yellow butter-cups. often this slope changed to a precipice, still smiling with flowers. upon every level spot orchards of pear trees and apricots had been planted, while evergreens and shrubs innumerable clung to the mountain sides, or sprang from among the rocks. tossed about wherever they could find a resting-place, were great boulders of pudding-stone, overhanging the path, rising in our way, or rolling in broken masses under the horses' feet. sometimes, perched upon a natural terrace, was a _châlet_, sheltered from sweep of wind or avalanche by overhanging rocks half covered with ivy and dainty clematis. occasionally a beggar barred the way with outstretched hand, or offered for sale some worthless trinket, as an excuse for asking alms. we hugged the rocks upon one side, as other lines of tourists wound down to meet us, upon horseback or afoot with alpenstocks to aid their steps. peasants, laden like beasts of burden, passed as we paused to rest, with trunks, provisions, and even the red tiles for the new hotel above, strapped upon their backs, or resting there on wooden frames. they came and went; but ever present were the wonderful glimpses of earth, and sky, and shimmering lake far down below. at the half-way house we turn to climb a gentle slope upon the mountain face. on either side the land spreads out smooth and green. it had been hot below. the air strikes us here with an icy chill. a party of young englishmen in knickerbockers, with blue veils tied about their hats, lean over the railing of the piazza, and scan us as we pass. a spaniard, with his dark-faced wife, step out of the path--all manner of oily words dropping from their lips. we reach the righi-staffel. suddenly, upon one side, the land falls away. among the reverberating hills echoes the _jödel_, and from a terrace far below, where a herd of dun cows are feeding, rises the tinkle of sweet-toned bells. from every path--and there are many now--winds a slow procession. the grassy slopes are all alive with people; the hotel piazza, as we pass, is crowded with travellers. still they pour in from every side. still the mountain-peak rises above us as we go on joining other trains, and leading others in turn. we pass through a rough gateway, ascend the broken rocks that rise like steps, follow again the narrow path, and reach at last the hotel, just before which rises the kulm. talk of the solitude of nature! it is not found among these mountain peaks, grand though they are. we dismounted in the midst of a noisy crowd. exclamations in seemingly every known tongue echoed about us, as one party after another arrived to swell the confusion. the hill before us swarmed with tourists, who had come, like ourselves, to see the sun rise. the hotel, and even the adjoining house into which the former overflows, were more than full. since we had taken the precaution to telegraph,--for telegraphic communication is held with most of these mountain resorts,--some show of civility awaited us. a single room was given to the four ladies of our party, where, a few hours later, we disposed ourselves as best we could. it was only a rough place, with bare plastered walls, and unpainted wooden floor; but we were not disposed to be fastidious. dropping our satchels, we hastened up the hill before the house. it fell in a precipice upon the other side--to what frightful depth i know not. down below, the hills spread out like level land, with lakes where every valley should be, and villages, like white dots only, upon the universal green, among which the river reuss wound like a silver thread. but above and over all, against the sky, rose the mountains--the bernese alps, like alabaster walls, the gates of which, flung back, would open heavenward. we wandered over the hillocks, which make up the summit, until the sun was gone. gradually the darkness gathered--a thickening of the shadows until they seemed almost tangible. there was no flame of gold and crimson where the sun had disappeared; there were no clouds to reflect the warm yellow light that hung about the west. but when the night wrapped us in, the little lakes down below gleamed out like stars. the crowd that pushed and fairly wedged itself into the _salle à manger_, when dinner was announced at eight o'clock, was quite beyond belief or computation. everybody was tired, hungry, and impatient, after the ride to the summit. for once, silver was at a discount. one of the waiters was finally bribed to give us a private room, and slyly edged our party into a pantry, where he brought us, at immense intervals, a spoonful of soup and a hot plate apiece, after which, his resources utterly failing, he acknowledged that he could do no more. the second _table d'hôte_ was served between the hours of ten and eleven at night, and consisted of numerous courses, with a similarity of flavor, suggesting one universal saucepan. it was midnight when we finally gained our rooms, and threw ourselves upon the uncomfortable beds. the linen was wet, rather than damp. the only covering consisted of a single blanket, and the _duvet_ or down pillow, always found upon the foot of continental beds. we imagined that the sun would appear with the very earliest known worm, and at least an hour before the most ambitious lark, and dared not close our eyes, lest they should not open in time to greet him. at last, however, sleep overpowered our fears. katie's voice roused us. "it is three o'clock," she said, "and growing light, and i believe people are hurrying up the hill." profane persons should avoid the righi; it is a place of terrible temptation. "good heavens!" we responded, "what kind of a sun can it be to rise at such an hour?" [illustration: "frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing whatever for the sun, moon, or stars, we stood like a company of bedlamites, ankle deep in the wet grass upon the summit." page .] our room was upon the ground floor. we pushed open the shutters and peered out, facing an untimely gabriel, just raising to his lips an alpine horn some six feet in length. evidently the hour had arrived. we thrust our feet into our boots, tied our hats under our chins, and ran out to join a most ridiculous collection of animated scarecrows like ourselves. frowsy, sleepy, cross, and caring nothing whatever for the sun, moon, or stars, we stood like a company of bedlamites, ankle deep in the wet grass upon the summit. no sun of irreproachable moral character and well-regulated habits would appear at such an hour, we knew. the light strengthened with our impatience. every half-closed eye was fixed upon that corner of the heavens from which the sun would sally forth. the golden gates had opened. a red banner floated out. tiny clouds on either side awaited his coming, dressed in crimson and yellow livery. every one of us stood upon tiptoe--the heels of our unbuttoned boots thereupon dropping down. one collarless tourist, in whose outward adorning suspenders played a conspicuous part, gravely opened his guide-book, found the place with some difficulty, and buried his head in the pages, to assure himself that everything was proceeding according to murray. suddenly the white faces of the distant mountains grew purple with a rage which we all shared; the flaming banner streamed out across the east, and the king of day, with most majestic step, but frightfully swollen, tell-tale countenance, rose in the heavens. i am sure he had been out all night. the light grew clearer now. the mountains rose reluctantly, and shook off their wrappings of mist. the little clouds doffed their crimson finery. the man held together by the marvellous complication of shoulder-straps, closed his guide-book with an air of entire satisfaction. evidently the programme, as laid down by murray, had been accurately carried out. everybody exclaimed, "wonderful!" in his or her native tongue. all the knickerbockers, and woollen shirts, and lank water-proofs, without any back hair to speak of, trotted off down the hill to be metamorphosed into human beings, and prepare for breakfast, even to the individual who had been stalking about in a white bed blanket, with a striped border--though printed notices in every room expressly forbade the using of bed blankets as morning wraps. when breakfast was over, there was nothing to do but to make the descent to weggis, and return to lucerne. after a time, when weariness could no longer be made an excuse for lingering, we prepared for a tour through switzerland. engaging carriages to meet us at fluellen, we embarked for the last time upon the beautiful lake, winding in and out its intricate ways, shut in by the towering cliffs that closed before us, only to re-open, revealing new charms as we rounded some promontory, and the lake widened again. upon the bays thus formed, villages lean against the mountain-side. where the rocks fall abruptly to the water, an occasional _châlet_ is perched upon some natural terrace, in the midst of an orchard or scanty garden. as we touched at these lake villages, brown-faced girls, in scant blue petticoats and black bodices, and with faded hair braided in their necks, offered us fruits--apricots and cherries--in pretty, rustic baskets. one of these green spots, high among the rocks, forms a sloping meadow, touching the water at last. it is an oasis in the surrounding desert of barren rock. do you know why the grass is greener here than elsewhere? why the sun bestows its kisses more warmly? why the foliage upon the scattered walnut and chestnut trees is thicker, darker, than upon those on other mountain-sides? it is because this is grütlii--the birthplace of swiss liberty. here, more than five hundred years ago, the three confederates met at night to plan the throwing off of the austrian yoke. not far from grütlii, resting apparently upon the water, at the base of one of these cliffs, is what appears at first sight to be a pretty green and white summer-house, open towards the lake. it is tell's chapel, built upon a shelf of rock, and only approachable from the water. here--so the story runs--william tell sprang ashore, and escaped the tyrant gessler. we sweep around this promontory and gain the last bay where lies fluellen--a ragged village, swarming with tourists, vetturinos, and diligences. among the carriages we find our own. it is a roomy landau, luxuriously lined with scarlet velvet, drawn by three horses which wear tinkling bells, and is capable of carrying six passengers. the top is thrown back, but a kind of calash-shade screens from the sun the occupants of what we should call the driver's seat. our driver's place is a narrow board behind the horses. one crack of a long whip, and we are off at a rattling pace over the hard road, smooth as a floor. for the first day we are to follow the pass of st. gothard--that well-travelled highway which leads through mountain defiles into italy. we dashed by altorf, where the family of queen victoria's husband originated, passing the open square in which william tell shot the apple from the head of his son. an old man is watering a horse at the basin of the stone fountain which marks the spot where the father stood. all this valley is sacred to the memory of william tell. in a village near by he was born; in the mountain stream, just beyond, he is said to have lost his life in the attempt to save a drowning child. after altorf, the road winds among the meadows, though the mountains rise on every side, with _châlets_ perched upon points which seem inaccessible, so steep are their sides. it is haying time, and men and women are at work in the fields and upon the mountain-sides, carefully securing every blade of grass. once, when we had begun to wind up the mountains, where a grass-grown precipice fell almost sheer to the valley below, a girl clung to its side, and pulled with one hand the grass from between the rocks, thrusting it into a bag that hung about her neck. she paused to gaze after us as we dashed by, a kind of dull awe that never rose to envy lighting her face for an instant. o, the hungry, pitiful faces of these dwellers upon the heights! the pinched, starved faces of the little ones especially, who forgot to smile--how they haunted us! at noon we sweep up to the post-house at amsteg, with a jingle of bells, a crack of the whip, and an annunciatory shout from the driver. there is no village that we can see. the piazza of the post-house is filled with travellers, lunching before a long table; half a dozen waiting carriages stand in the open space before it; as many hostlers, with knit caps upon their heads, from which hang long, bright-colored tassels, are busy among the horses. at a short distance the reuss river rushes past the house; upon its bank is a little shop, with its store of swiss curiosities and trinkets. a couple of girls fill a tray with the dainty wares, and cross the space to tempt us. one has a scarlet handkerchief knotted under her handsome, dark face. she turns her brown cheek to her shoulder, tossing a word back as the young hostlers contrive to stand in her way. one by one the carriages take up their loads and go on. we soon follow and overtake them, winding slowly up among the rocks, which seem ready to fall upon us. we form a long train, a strange procession, bound by no tie but that of common humanity. the meadows and soft, green mountain-slopes are left behind as we ascend, crossing from one side to the other by arched bridges thrown over the chasm, at the foot of which foams the torrent. higher and higher rise the rent rocks--bare, black walls, seamed, and scarred, and riven, their summits reaching to the sky. they close about us, shutting out everything of earth and heaven, save a narrow strip of blue far above all. even the sweet light of day departs, and a gloom and darkness as of a brooding tempest falls upon us as the way narrows. suddenly a mad, foaming torrent, with angry roar, leaps from the rocks above, to toss, and writhe, and moan upon the rocks below the arch upon which we stand. the water rushes over them, and dashes against them. it swirls, and pants, and foams, while high above it all we stand, our faces wet with the spray, our ears deafened by the terrible roar. truly, this _is_ "the devil's bridge." think of armies meeting here, as they did in the old napoleonic wars, contending for the passage of the bridge below. think of the shrieks of the wounded and dying, mingling with the raging of the waters. think of the white foam surging red among the rocks; of the angry torrent beating out the ebbing life of those who checked its flow. think of the meeting of hosts in mortal conflict where no eye but god's could witness it, upon which not even bird or startled beast looked down. it was like a dreadful dream from which we passed--as through deep sleep--by a way cut in the solid rock out into god's world again. still, from one side of the road rose the rocks that began to show signs of scanty vegetation now; from the other fell the precipice to the torrent. we had left the carriages at the bridge, and singly or in companies toiled up the road that doubled back upon itself continually. often we climbed from one of these windings to the next above, by paths among the rocks, leaving the carriages to make the turn and follow more slowly. often our way was the bed of a last year's torrent, or our feet touched the borders of the stream, as we pulled ourselves up by the shrubs that grew among the rocks. the ice-chill in the air brought strength for the time, and perfect exhilaration. it seemed as if we could go on forever, scaling these mountain heights. at last the carriages overtake us, and we reluctantly resume our places. the road is built out upon the mountain-side. it offers no protection against the fall of the precipice. it narrows here. we look down, and say, "how dreadful a careless driver might make this place!" and, shuddering, draw back. suddenly the train pauses, and down the long hill runs a shout, "a carriage has gone over." we spring out, and run to the front. "is any one killed?" "no; thank god, no one is harmed." we gather upon the edge of the precipice. upon the rocks below lies the body of a horse--dead, with his fore feet raised, as though pawing the air; and mingling with the white waters, and tossed about in the raging stream, are the shattered remains of a carriage and its contents. it seems that two young men from canton zurich essayed to make a tour of the mountains with their own horse and carriage--a foolhardy experiment, since none but tried horses, used to these passes, are considered safe here. all went well, however, until they reached this point, where a torrent falls down the mountain-side to the road, under which it passes with a fearful noise. it might, indeed, startle the strongest nerves. the horse, young and high-spirited, shied to the edge of the precipice, then reared high in the air. they saw that he must go over when his fore feet came down, and springing out, barely escaped a similar fate. we all passed the spot with some trepidation, the most of us preferring to walk; but our horses, accustomed to the road, were utterly unmoved by the swooping torrent. at night we reached andermatt--only an untidy little village, lying in one of these upper valleys, bustling and all alive around the door of its one inn; but how green and beautiful were the mountains, shutting us in all around, after the desolation through which much of our way had led! upon the side of the nearest was a triangular patch of wood-land,--firs and spruces,--said to divide and break the force of the avalanches that sweep down here in the spring. it can be nothing but a story of what had been true formerly, when the wood was more extensive. down these mountains, as night closed in, straggled a herd of goats to the milking, tinkling countless little bells, while the roar of the reuss, which we had followed until it was now hardly more than a mountain brook, mingled with our dreams as it ran noisily through the village. on we went the next morning, wrapping ourselves warmly, for the air was chill as november, though at lucerne, only twenty-four hours before, we had suffered a torrid heat. just beyond andermatt, at hospenthal, we left the st. gothard, to follow the furka pass. all around was barren desolation, as we went on, still ascending, leaving every sign of human life behind. rocky and black the mountains rose, bearing only lichens and ferns. occasional patches of snow appeared, lying in the beds of the last year's torrents, or scattered along beside the road. but here, where nature had bestowed little to soften and beautify, she had spread upon the barren land, and tucked in among the rocks, a covering of exquisitely delicate flowers. you cannot realize, until you have seen them, the variety, beauty, and profusion of the alpine flowers. looking back in memory upon the bare rocks, doomed to stand here through all time in solitude and in the midst of desolation, as though in expiation of some sin, it is pleasant to remember that at their feet and in their clefts these little flowers nestle and bloom. we gathered nosegays and made snowballs, and at noon gained the summit of the furka, and rested an hour or two at the inn--the only sign of house or hut we had seen since morning. the rough _salons_, the passage, the doorway, even the space outside, were alive with tourists. it is a continual jar upon one's sense of the fitness of things, something to which you never become thoroughly accustomed, until all freshness of sight-seeing is passed--this coming suddenly upon the world in the midst of the unutterable solitude of nature; this plunging into a crowd dressed in the latest style, and discussing universal frivolities where the very rocks and hills seem to stand in silent adoration. but after the first moment you, too, form one of the frivolous throng, the sight and sound of which shock the sensibilities of the next comer. from the inn a tongue of land, green and dotted with flowers, falls into the valley below. on either side rises a mountain, scarred by the torrents dried away now, and stained this day with the last year's snow, while beyond--ever beyond, like some heavenly heights we vainly strove to gain--rose the bernese alps. from the summit of the furka we descended to the rhone glacier by one of the zigzag mountain roads. looking down over the edge, we could see below, the ways we were yet to follow on the mountain face before accomplishing the descent. the horses dashed down at a flying pace. the inclination of the road was not sufficient to alarm; but the turns are always so frightfully abrupt as to make it seem as though the leader must dash off. but no; he invariably swung around just upon the outer edge, held, it seemed sometimes, by the traces, and with a crack of the driver's whip was off again before our fears, if we had any, could find words. one of these abrupt turns fairly hangs over the glacier, where the icy river has fallen into broken masses from a higher point, before spreading out in the narrow valley just here where it ends. only a short distance from the foot of the glacier is the inn, with its scattered out-buildings, where we were to spend the night. the sheer descent from the summit of the furka is only about half a mile; but though our horses had galloped the whole distance, and the inn was in sight all the time, we were three hours reaching it; so many turns did the road make upon the face of the mountain. it was a gloomy valley, shut in by mountains, and surrounded by lesser hills all soaked and dripping with icy streams that chilled the air. we gained the foot of the glacier from the inn by a rough path over and among the rocks, and stones, and heaps of gravel it had brought down and deposited here. from beneath the solid mass of ice flowed a hundred shallow streams, which, uniting, form the beginning of the river rhone. we penetrated for a short distance the gallery cut into the glacier, surrounded and shut down upon by the walls and ceiling, of a deep blue color, and were preceded by an old man, who awoke the echoes by uttering a series of broken cries. what with the echoes and horrible chill, the place seemed most unearthly, and we were glad to retreat. the roar of torrents, and hardly less thunderous noise of departing diligences, awakened us the next morning. we were soon off upon the road, skirting the mountains, rolling through the pleasant valleys, and passing village after village now. they seemed silent and deserted, their occupants perhaps busy in the fields, or serving at the inns, or among the mountains as guides. one was a mass of ruins, thrown down in the bed of a torrent, among which a few dull-faced peasants were at work, with a hopeless, aimless air, that promised little. a mountain stream, swollen to a flood by melting snows, had swept it away in a night. at noon we lunched at viesch--a slipshod, unwashed village, by the side of the young rhone, which so far, in its dirty, chalk-white color, was not unlike the white-headed children that played upon its banks. some of the party left the horses to their noon rest, and strayed out upon the road beyond the village. on its outskirts was a fine new church, of stone. if only something of its beauty could but come into the every-day lives of the poor people here! we sat down upon the steps to wait. across the road was an orchard, roughly fenced in; beside it one of the picturesque swiss peasant houses--all steps, and queer old galleries, from which a little tow-headed girl stared out at us in open-eyed wonder, as we blew the down from the dried dandelions we had pulled along the way, and questioned if, in our far-off homes, our mothers wanted us! it seemed as though we could descend no farther; and yet, after sweeping through a valley, a sudden turn would disclose another, far below, to which this was as a mountain. so down we sped the whole day long; once by a frightfully-narrow zigzag road, the worst by far of any we had seen; passing still through the villages so charming in the distance, but dirty, and full of odors by no means pleasing, as we drew near. at night we rattled into the paved square before the inn at brieg, just as the first drops of a coming shower wet its stones. this was evidently something more than a village. the houses were plastered, instead of being of wood with a rich, burnt-sienna color, like those we had seen along the road through the day. they were thickly clustered together, and from their midst rose the four turrets of a chateau. our inn was a delightfully-dingy old place. it had been an ursuline convent, and abounded in queer, dark passages, rough stone stairways, and old wooden galleries overlooking the square. one of our rooms had been a part of the convent chapel, and was still lighted by a window just beneath the groined roof. here we braided our hair, and knotted our ribbons, and dreamed, in the twilight that followed the rain, of the hopeless ones who had sought comfort in other days within these walls, and fell asleep at last, knowing full well that the fringe of many an old prayer was still caught and held in the arches high over our heads. we walked up through the town the next morning, to the beginning of the simplon pass. somewhere in the narrow streets we passed the old chateau, and pressed our faces against the bars of a gate, in order to gain some idea as to the domestic economy of the family which had bestowed upon brieg its air of importance. but the chateau had degenerated into a brewery, and the court-yard was filled with old carts, clumsy and broken. farther up the hill the door of a little chapel stood invitingly open, waiting for stray worshippers, or a chance-burdened heart (for even so far away as brieg, hearts do grow heavy, i doubt not). something in its narrow, whitewashed poverty touched our sympathies. it is rare indeed in these countries to find a chapel without at least some votive offering to make it beautiful in the eyes of the simple people: here was only a crucifix, and we pleased ourselves with the fancy that when the ships come in that we sent out as children--laden with hopes that were to be bartered for treasures--we would return, and hang the walls with pictures, and make the whole place wonderful in the eyes that had seen only its bareness. the shower the night before had laid the dust, and the drive that morning was most enjoyable. following the course of the noisy rhone, we reached sierre at noon, where we left the carriages with regret, and took the railway train to martigny. chapter xiv. among the everlasting hills. the quaint inn.--the falls of the sallenches, and the gorge de trient.--shopping in a swiss village.--a mule ride to chamouni.--peculiarities of the animals.--entrance to the village.--egyptian mummies lifted from the mules.--rainy days.--chamois.--the mer de glace.--"look out of your window."--mont blanc.--sallenches.--a diligence ride to geneva.--our little old woman.--the clownish peasant.--the fork in the road.--"adieu." our hotel here at martigny, was even more suggestive of romance than the one at brieg. it had been a monastery, and was an old, yellow-washed structure facing the street, with a rambling garden surrounded by high walls, clinging to it in the rear. low, dark rooms, with bare, unpainted floors, like the waves of the sea in smoothness, were given to some of our party, while mrs. k. and i were consigned again, with singular appropriateness, to what had been the chapel. its windows overlooked the straggling, half-dead trees, and bare, hard-baked earth of the open space before the door, which was always being crossed by strings of mules ornamented with bright saddle-cloths, and still further with the ubiquitous tourist arrayed in every known costume of the period. village girls, too, passed under the trees, knitting as they went, and horrible creatures afflicted with the _goître_--that curse of this region--which we met at every turn now. to gain the long, low refectory where we dined, or to pass from one room to another, necessitated crossing the brick-paved cloisters, upon which all the doors of the second story opened. here a row of columns encircled a narrow, inner court-yard--so narrow as to be nothing more than a slit in the walls, yet wide enough to allow the shimmering sunlight to drop down upon the vines twined around the columns, and light the whole dingy interior into a weird, strange beauty. we rode out to the falls of the sallenches,--one of the mist veils left hanging from many of these swiss mountains by the water-sprites,--and penetrated the gorge de trient upon the shaky gallery that follows its windings; wandered about and beyond the town; stole into an old church, and brought away the memory of a lovely virgin face; and haunted the dingy shops in the vain hope of making a few necessary purchases. these shops were not unlike our new england country stores in their combined odors and confused incapabilities. behind the counters, or more likely sitting in the doorway with the inevitable blue knitting in hand, were old women, of hard, baked-apple faces, whose ideas of the luxuries of a woman's wardrobe were so far below what we considered its necessaries, that we parted in mutual surprise, to say the least, and without gain on either side. sabbath morning, english church service was held in the parlor of one of the hotels; after which a clergyman in gown and bands discoursed from the text, "and there shall be no more sea,"--a peculiarly comforting hope to some of us. monday morning, we mounted the horses and mules waiting in dejected impatience before the door, and started upon the long ride of twenty-two miles to chamouni by the tête noir pass. a wide, pleasant avenue, shaded by walnut trees, led out of the town; after which we began to ascend the gently-sloping mountain-sides, passing occasional villages, and besieged by beggars and venders of fruit, as usual. indeed, these beggars are so constant in their attendance and importunity that one forgets to mention them, unless recalling flies and similar swarming annoyances. the scenery, as we went on, was often grand, always interesting; the sky overcast, but at times the clouds, drifting apart, disclosed peaks or "needles" so far above the mountains about us as to seem a revelation of heaven. the path was treacherous and rough--skirting precipices, descending in rocky steps or slippery mire, and crossing mountain streams by narrow, insecure bridges. single file is the invariable rule in all these mountain excursions, and after a time the isolations of this mode of travelling adds to its wearisomeness. solitude is delightful; but as some one has said, "how pleasant it is to have a friend near by to whom you may remark, 'how delightful is solitude!'" as you follow the windings of the narrow, steep path, you have a choice between addressing the back of the one who precedes you, and throwing a remark over your shoulder to those who come after. involuntarily you fall to studying the curves of the former, and are utterly indifferent to the fact that the latter are probably meditating upon the intricacies of your back hair. mule-riding is conducive to grace of neither soul nor body; still you know you are not making such a spectacle of yourself as did the woman just passed--who twisted about in the saddle as though worked along by rotary motion. perhaps not. as you leave the villages to plunge into the woods, the flies swarm like beggars; and it is only when the guides have cut boughs from the trees, which you wave before you, wickedly suggesting palm branches, that you can proceed with tolerable comfort, and without the fear of an unexpected toss in the air, as one kick after another runs down the line. each horse or mule has his own slight peculiarities of habit and disposition. i recall one whose inordinate curiosity led him to walk always upon the verge of the precipices, so that the rider's feet overhung the frightful depths. murray says it is best to allow these animals to choose their own paths. but to hang suspended between heaven and earth at the mercy of a strap and a mule, will shake one's faith, even in murray. my horse this day was possessed of the dreamy, melancholy nature of a poet, with the attendant lack of ambition. every time we wound funereally through a village, he would walk deliberately to the mounting-steps, and wait most suggestively. indeed, an air of abstraction characterized all his movements; even when, as we approached these villages, raising his head, he would seem to sniff the odors of araby the blest; which was a mistake, a delusion of his fancy shared by none of the others of the party. that he was without pride i must confess. no stable did we pass so poor, none so mean, that he was ashamed to pause and offer to enter with meek obdurateness. poetic as was his temperament, his appetites were developed in a remarkable degree. once upon a narrow bridge we met two walking haystacks, out from which peered great, blue eyes. if the size of his mouth had corresponded at all to his desires, they would have vanished from sight in a twinkling; as it was, they barely escaped. whether or not insatiable thirst is an attribute of a poet, i do not know; but each stream which crossed the path,--and the whole country seemed liquidizing,--each drinking-trough beside the way,--and to my excited imagination they seemed to form an unbroken line,--was an irresistible temptation. it was only by shouting, "yeep! yeep!" in staccato chorus, and vigorously applying the palm branches, thus engaging his attention and diverting his thoughts into less watery channels, that we succeeded in making any progress whatever. under this disciplinary process his nature was at last so far subdued that he would have passed the ocean itself without a sigh, i am sure. there was a rest of an hour at the tête noir inn at noon, shut in by the firs, and rocks, and mountains, then we went on to argentière, where we gladly exchanged the horses and mules for some low, open carts with a couple of villagers in blue blouses for drivers. in these we accomplished the remaining three or four miles, and made a triumphal entry into chamouni. it was late in the afternoon when we crawled up the narrow, thronged street to the hôtel royal, from which the english, french, and american flags were flying. the clouds had dropped lower and lower, until a fine mist was beginning to deepen into rain, and the guides and tourists detained in the village fairly jostled each other at the intersection of the two principal streets, which seemed to form the village exchange. the mire of the streets was thickly stamped with hoof-prints and the marks from the nails that stud the shoe-soles of the mountain climbers. line after line of doleful looking objects, which might prove egyptian mummies when unwrapped, were being lifted from still more sorry looking beasts before the door of the hotel, and assaying to mount the steps, with a stiffness and angularity of movement in which we all sympathized. indeed, after dinner, when a bright fire was lighted in the long _salon_ where the various parties gathered to read, write, look over stereoscopic views, or chat among themselves, it was amusing, as well as pitiable to observe the abortive attempts at ease and flexibility as these individuals crossed the polished floor, to hear the groans smothered to sighs as they resumed their seats. "mules!" whispered the girls, nudging each other, and mindful of the delight which misery is said to find in company. all the next day the rain dripped down upon the village from the heavy clouds that hid the mountains. everybody improved the opportunity to write letters, or yawned over the books scattered about the _salon_. among them was a well-thumbed copy of "artemus ward, his book." at the foot of each page the local allusions of the jokes were explained, i remember. out in the street, umbrellas were dodging about from one shop to another. these rainy days, though a loss to the guides, are harvest times for the shopkeepers. photographs and stereoscopic views of the mountains, the glaciers, and daring climbers hanging on by their eyelids, abound here, with any amount of wood and chamois (?) horn carving and crystal ornaments. speaking of chamois-horn, if you expect to see in switzerland--as you do in geographies--chamois perched upon every crag, preparatory to bounding from peak to peak, you will be grievously disappointed. not a chamois will greet your eyes. we passed--i have forgotten where--a pen in which, by paying a certain sum, we might look upon a veritable live chamois; but we had no desire to see the incarnation of liberty thus degraded. we waited two days for the uplifting of the clouds, making, in the mean time, an excursion up the montanvert to overlook the mer de glace--which is not a sea, but a river of ice, like all the glaciers that have worked themselves down into these valleys. we retired one night with the cloud curtains spread low over our heads; the next morning a voice from outside of our door called, "look out of your window." we sprang up, seized the cord of the shutters, and behold! a new heaven and new earth! every vestige of cloud was gone. the mountains were bathed in sunlight, vivid green were the peaks before us, which had never met our gaze until now, while behind the nearest, against the deep blue of the summer sky, rose the three vast white steps which lead heavenward, the highest of which men call mont blanc. all that morning, as we descended from the valley of chamouni to sallenches, we turned continually to look back; and still, white and beautiful, but growing less in the distance, rose the triple domes. we had taken a carriage to sallenches: here we find places in the open diligence for geneva. we pause in the first village through which we pass, where a knot of people gathers about a round little old woman. she wears a wide-rimmed hat over her neat frilled cap, and carries another upon her arm. her waist is dimly defined by the strings of a voluminous apron, and her mind entirely distracted by the cares attendant upon the disposal of a cotton bag, a wicker basket, an old umbrella, and a box, which half a dozen men seize upon with clumsy hands, in good-natured officiousness, and thrust into the baggage compartment, while the women and children press about her, kissing the rough, ruddy cheeks, and uttering what we are sure must be blessings--odds and ends of which float up to us. evidently the little, old woman is going a journey. aided by a dozen rough, helpful hands, she climbs the ladder to her place beside us, with a deprecatory though cheerful "_bon jour_" to us all, subsiding into a corner, where she is immediately submerged as her belongings are showered down upon her; last of all a crumpled letter is tossed into her lap. the driver mounts to his place; she leans over; a perfect gust of blessings, and kisses, and adieus follow us, as with a crack of the whip the horses spring away, and we leave the village far behind. suddenly--for we have turned away our faces--the little old woman's hand is plunged into the cotton bag under our feet. we venture to look around. the tears have gone; her face beams like the sun, as she brings out of the depths a couple of eggs. another dive, and she emerges with a piece of bread. a pinch of salt is added from the basket, and her breakfast is complete. she hospitably offers a share to each of us. we decline; and as a shadow dims the brightness of her face, katie adds quickly,-- "we have had two breakfasts already." the little old woman rolls her round, blue eyes to heaven, with a pious ejaculation. such lavish extravagance is beyond her comprehension. "that is like you rich people," she says. "we are only too happy if the good god sends us _one_." and she relapses into a wondering silence. "does madame travel far?" we venture presently. "ah, yes." and she shakes her head slowly. words cannot express the distance, it is so great. "but she has been this way before?" we go on. "no, never before." and again the round, blue eyes seek heaven, and again a deep sigh follows the words. she has finished her lunch, and, diving under our feet, emerges after a time with a box, which, opened, discloses a small store of peppermints. this she offers with some hesitation, and we each hasten to accept one, her countenance beaming more and more as they disappear. "given to hospitality," the little old woman has been, we know. when the box is with difficulty replaced, the string of the bag drawn, the basket arranged to her satisfaction, the umbrella placed at a pleasing angle, she balances herself upon the edge of the seat, and glances fearfully from side to side as we swing along the smooth road. once, when the wheel passes over a stone, she seems to murmur a prayer. "madame is not afraid?" we say. "o, very much. these diligences are most dangerous." and now she is glancing over her shoulder at a rocky wall of mountains which follows the road at a distance. "they might fall." and she shudders with the thought. we assure her that it is impossible; but she has heard of a rock falling upon a diligence, and thinks it was upon this road. and all the horror of the fearful catastrophe is depicted upon her face. gradually we learn that the little old woman has never travelled in a diligence before; that she has never before made any journey, in fact. for forty years she has kept the house of the _curé_ in her native village. now, she tells us with a sigh, and uplifted eyes, he has "become dead," and she is obliged to seek a home elsewhere among strangers. here she turns away her eyes, which grow dim as her smile, and for a moment forgets her fears. we are approaching a village. she hastily searches her basket and brings out the crumpled letter which had been thrown into her lap. as we dart through the narrow street and across an open square, she leans out, utters a word in a sharp, excited tone, and, to our surprise, throws the letter far out into the dust of the street. an idle lounger in the square starts at her voice, runs heavily across the street, and picks it up. she sinks back, all cheerful smiles again. she has chanced upon the very man to whom the letter was addressed. the dust rolls up from the great wheels. she exchanges the hat upon her head for the one over her arm, covering the former carefully with a corner of her apron. this, she tells us, as she arranges the second upon her head, she was accustomed to wear when she picked vegetables of a morning in the garden of the good _curé_. and the sighs return with the recollection of her master. the day wears on with heat and sifting dust. by and by, at another village, a filthy, dull-faced peasant clambers up the ladder and stumbles into a vacant place. we shrink away from him in disgust. our little old woman only furtively draws aside her neat petticoats. soon she engages him in conversation. we see her lean far forward with intense, questioning gaze upon the distance where he points with dirt-begrimed finger. then with a sigh which seems to come from the baggage compartment beneath us, so very deep and long-drawn it is, she turns to us. she, too, points to a range of hills, very dark and gloomy now, for they are covered with woods, and the shadow of a cloud lies upon them. "it is there, beyond the mountains, i am going;" and the shadow of the cloud has fallen upon her face. all the sunshine has faded out of it. then, with something warmer, brighter than any sunshine gleaming in her eyes, she adds, "but the good god takes care of us wherever we go." we have reached a fork in the road. there is no village, no house even, in sight. why, then, do we pause? the ladder is raised. [illustration: "evidently the little old woman is going a journey." page .] "it must be for me!" gasps the little old woman, casting one bewildered glance over to where the shadows are creeping, and then calmly gathering together her possessions. we grasp the hands she extends, we pour out confused, unintelligible blessings. is it the dust which blinds our eyes? even the clownish peasant stumbles down the ladder, and lifts out her box. the driver remounts. the whip cracks. we lean far out. we wave our hands. again the dust fills our eyes so that our sight for a moment is dim, as we dash away, leaving her sitting there alone upon her box, where the two roads meet. but beyond the hills where the shadows rested, we know that the sun still shines for our little old woman whose master "became dead." chapter xv. last days in switzerland. geneva.--calvin and jewelry.--up lake leman.--ouchy and lausanne.--"sweet clarens."--chillon.--freyburg.--sight-seers.--the last judgment.--berne and its bears.--the town like a story.--the lake of thun.--interlaken.--over the wengern alp.--the falls of giessbach.--the brunig pass.--lucerne again. we dashed up to the hotel upon one of the fine quays at geneva, and descended from the open diligence with all the appearance of travellers who had crossed a sandy desert. there is an air of experienced travel which only dust can impart. the most charming sight in the city, to us, was our own names upon the waiting letters here. in truth, there are no sights in geneva. tourists visit the city because they have been or are going elsewhere, beyond. if they pause, it is to rest or buy the jewelry so far-famed. to be sure the view from almost any window opening upon the blue rhone is pleasing, crossed by various bridges as it is, one of which touches rousseau's island. but our heads by this time were as full of views as that of a boston woman. calvinists and arminians alike visit the cathedral, and sit for a moment in the old reformer's chair, or at least look upon the canopy of carved wood from beneath which he used to preach. there are few monuments here. the interior is bare, and boarded into the stiff pews, which belong by right and the fitness of things, not to these grand, gothic cathedrals, but to the puritan meeting-houses, where we gather less to breathe a prayer than to sit solemnly apart and listen to a denunciation of each other's sins. it is a little remarkable that the city where calvin made and enforced such rigid laws against luxury and the vanities of the world should, in these latter days, be noted for the manufacture of jewelry. but so it is; and to walk the streets and gaze in at the shop windows would turn the head of any but the strongest-minded woman. two or three addresses had been given us of manufactories where we could be served at more reasonable rates than at the grand shops. we climbed flight after flight of dingy stone stairs, in dingier buildings, to reach them, and found ourselves at last in little dark rooms, almost filled by a counter, a desk, and a safe or two. certainly no one would think of looking for beautiful things here! but we had become tolerably accustomed to such places in paris, and were not at all surprised when one shallow drawer after another was produced from behind the counter, and a blaze of gems and bewildering show of delicately executed gold work met our eyes. if you care for a _souvenir_ only, there are pretty little finger-rings encircled by blue forget-me-nots in enamel, which are a specialty of geneva. but if you possess the means and disposition, you may gratify the most extravagant desires, and rival solomon in magnificence. twice a day steamers leave geneva to ascend the lake. it was a bright, summer afternoon when we embarked from the pier beyond our hotel, and steamed away past the villages that lie along its edge. among them is coppet, the home of madame de staël, the towers of which rise up behind the town. the deck of the steamer was alive with tourists. one party, from meeting at every turn, rests even yet in memory; the ladies stout, red-faced, and showily dressed, with immense "charms" pendent from their _chatelaines_--shovels, tongs, and pokers, _life-size_--the result of a sojourn at geneva, doubtless. for some time after leaving the city, we could look back upon mont blanc, white and beautiful, rising above the dark mountains, and lying close against the sky blue as the waters of the lake. the likeness of a recumbent figure of napoleon--the head and shoulders alone,--in the garb of a grenadier was startling, haunting us even after it had changed again to a snow-white mountain. as though the hero slept, like those in german legends, until his country called him to awake and lead its hosts to battle. at ouchy we leave the steamer, where the gardens of the grand hotel beaurivage come down to meet us. how delightful are these swiss hotels! with their pleasant gardens, many balconies, wide windows, and the flying flags outside; and within, scrupulous neatness, and even elegant appointments. the rooms vary in size rather than in degree of comfort, there being none of the sudden leaps or plunges between luxury and utter discomfort, found in so many hotels--elsewhere. the floors are bare, the strips of wood forming squares or diamonds, waxed, and highly polished. a rug here and there invites bare feet. a couple of neatly-spread beds stand foot to foot upon one side of the room, sometimes with silk or lace coverlets, but with always the _duvet_, or large down pillow, at the foot. there is no stint of toilet arrangements. a lounge and easy-chairs tempt to idleness and repose; and a round table, of generous proportions, awaits the chocolate, rolls, fresh butter, and amber honey, when the last curl is in order, the last ribbon knotted, and you have rung for your breakfast. of course the rooms vary in degree of ornamentation. the walls are often beautifully tinted or frescoed, and the furniture elegant; but the neatness and comfort among these summer hotels are almost universal. sometimes, in one corner, or built into the wall, stands the high, white porcelain stove, so like a stray monument that has forgotten its inscription, and is sacred to many memories; and the long, plate-glass windows, swinging back, open often upon a balcony and a charming view. no wonder that half the hotels in switzerland are named _bellevue_. an omnibus bears you from ouchy, which is simply the port of lausanne, back into the city, past pretty country residences, walled in, over the gates of which the owners have placed suggestive names: "my rest;" "heart's desire;" "good luck;" "beautiful situation;" anything which fancy or individual taste may dictate. of lausanne i recall little but an endless mounting and descending of stairs. the city is built upon a hill, intersected by ravines, which accounts for this peculiar method of gaining many streets from others above and below. we made but a hurried visit. it was market day, and ugly women, old and young, were sitting upon the sidewalks in the narrow streets, knitting, with the yarn held over the fore-finger of the left hand, and selling fruits and vegetables between times. in the honey market the air fairly buzzed and swarmed; yet still these women knit, and gossiped, and bargained complacently, unmindful of the bees in their bonnets. from ouchy we made an excursion to the head of the lake. it is a short voyage of two hours to villeneuve, the last town. clouds hid the distant mountains; but those lesser and nearer, upon our right, as we went on, were bare, and broken, and rocky, contrasting strangely with the gently swelling slopes upon the other side, covered with vineyards, and with quiet little villages at their feet. each of these villages has its romantic association; or, failing in that, a grand hotel to attract summer visitors. vevay boasts the largest hotel, but nothing more. just beyond vevay is "clarens, sweet clarens," the willows of which dip into the lake. here, if rousseau and byron are to be believed, love was born; possibly in some one of the mean little houses which border the narrow streets. soon after leaving clarens, the gray, stained tower of chillon rises from the water, near enough to the shore to be reached by a bridge. with the "little isle" and its three tall trees marked by the prisoner as he paced his lonely cell, ends the romance of the lake. poets have sung its beauties, but lucerne had stolen away our hearts, and we gazed upon the rocks, and vineyards, and villages, with cold, critical eyes. it was only later, when the summer twilight fell as we lingered upon the balcony before our windows at ouchy that we acknowledged its charm. the witching sound of music came up from the garden below. upon the silver lake before us, the lateen sails, like the white wings of great sea-birds, gleamed out from the darkness; the tiny wavelets rippled and plashed softly against the breakwater; and where the clouds had parted overhead, a horned moon hung low in the sky, while the mountains resolved themselves into shadows or other waiting clouds. there was a little church between ouchy and lausanne, gained by crossing the fields, where we remembered the sabbath day, and joined in the church service led by an english clergyman. these sabbaths are like green spots now in memory,--restful, cool, refreshing, and pleasant to recall,--when the world, and all haste and perplexity of strange sights, and sounds, and ways, were rolled off like a heavy burden, while we gathered, a little company of strangers in a strange land, yet of one family, to unite in the familiar prayers, and hymns, and grand old chants. monday morning the "american cars" bore us away from lausanne to freyburg. but such a caricature are they upon our railway carriages, that we were inclined to resent the appellation. low, bare, box-like, with only three or four seats upon each side, they hardly suggested the original. we had chosen the route through freyburg that we might visit the suspension bridge, and hear the celebrated organ. the city clings to the sides of a ravine after the perverse manner of cities, instead of spreading itself out comfortably upon level land. so steep is the declivity that the roofs of some of the houses form the pavement for the street above. at the foot of the ravine flows a river crossed by bridges, and the towns-people have for centuries descended from the summit on one side to climb to that upon the other, until some humane individual planned and perfected this suspension bridge,--the longest in the world save one,--which is thrown across the chasm. in order to test its strength, when completed, the inhabitants of the city, or a portion of them, gathered in a mass, with artillery and horses, _and stood upon it_! then they marched over it, preceded by a band of music, with all the dignitaries of the town at the head of the column. since it did not bend or break beneath their weight, it is deemed entirely safe. through the most closely-built portion of the city runs the old city wall, with its high, cone-capped watch-towers, and the narrow, crooked, and often steep streets are very quaint. the sense of satisfaction which returns with the memory of these streets is perhaps partly due to the fact, that the girls of the party surveyed them from above great squares of gingerbread bought at a _pâtisserie_ near the station, and ate as they strolled through the town over the pavings of these crooked ways. the bread of dependence is said to be exceedingly bitter; but the gingerbread of freyburg is uncommonly sweet, in memory. when the suspension bridge has been crossed and commented upon, every one strikes a bee-line to the cathedral, which rises conspicuously above its surroundings. it would be very amusing to watch the professional sight-seers at all these places, if one did not belong to the fraternity, which makes of it quite another affair. there is no air of pleasuring about them; no placid expression of content and sweet-to-do-nothing. they seldom are found meandering along the tortuous streets, the milk of human kindness moistening every feature, beams of satisfaction irradiating every countenance. they never spend long hours wandering among the cloisters of old cathedrals, or dream away days by storied shrines, as friends at home, who read of these places, fondly imagine. by no means. the sight-seer is a man of business. he has undertaken a certain amount of work, to be done in a given time. he will do or die. and since it is a serious matter, involving doubt, he wears an appropriately solemn and preoccupied expression of countenance. he darts from point to point. he climbs stairs as though impatient fame waited for him at the top. his emotions of wonder, admiration, or delight, must bestir themselves. he drives to the first point of interest, strikes a bee-line to the second, cuts every corner between that and the third, and then, consulting his watch, desires to know if there is anything more, and experiences his only moment of satisfaction when the reply is in the negative. and the most remarkable part of all is, that he goes abroad to enjoy himself. but even if one is less ambitious, if you are so fortunate as to be naturally indolent, and to delight to dwell in the shadow of dreams, you will shake off dull sloth here. you live and move in a bustling crowd. every storied spot is thronged with visitors. far from musing by yourself, you can at best but follow in the wake of the crowd, with the drone of an endless story from the lips of a stupid guide in your ears, bringing only confusion and weariness. a notice upon the door of the cathedral informed us that the organ would not be played until evening. we held a council of war, and decided to go on. just over our heads, as we stood before the entrance, was a representation of the last judgment, cut in the stone, in which the good, very scantily attired, and of most self-satisfied countenances, trotted off after st. peter, who carried the father of all keys, to the door of a castle representing heaven, while the poor wicked were borne away in a swiss basket, strapped upon the back of a pig-headed devil, to a great pot over a blazing fire, which a little imp was vigorously blowing up with a pair of bellows. the wicked seeming to outnumber the good (this was designed many centuries ago), and the pot not being large enough to hold them all, the surplus were thrust into the jaws of a patient crocodile near by. seated in an arm-chair, above all this, the devil looked down with an expression of entire satisfaction. the interior of the cathedral was in no way remarkable. in the choir (which you know, perhaps, is not a place where girls stand in their best bonnets to sing on sundays, but the corner of these great cathedrals in which the church service is held) were some fine stained glass windows; but even here, horrible monkeys and hideous animal figures, life-size, were cut from the wood, and made to stand or crouch above the stalls where the priests sit. those old ecclesiastic artists must have believed in a personal devil, who assumed many forms. a threatened shower hastened our steps to the station some time before the arrival of the train, which seemed to come and go without regard to the hour appointed. while waiting, we read the advertisements framed and hanging upon the walls, of hotels, shops, &c. one of the latter, in a triumph of english, ran,-- wood carwings; choose as nowhere else. we reached berne before night, and drove to the hotel ----. if it could by some happy chance have been turned inside out, how comfortable we might have been! the exterior was most inviting. a german waiter of irish face, who had a polyglot manner of speech, difficult to be understood, showed us to our rooms; and the _table d'hôte_, to which we descended an hour later, was made up of an uncommon array of prim-visaged individuals. dickens's mr. chadband, in a very stiff, white neckcloth, was my _vis-à-vis_. i looked every moment for his lips to open, and--"wherefore air we gathered here, my friends?" to issue forth. the guide-book had informed us that the greatest attraction of berne to strangers was the fine view of the bernese alps to be gained from here; but a curtain of cloud hung before them during all our stay. still we were interested in the queer old city, with the second story of the houses, through many of the streets, projecting over the sidewalk, forming gloomy arcades, and bright red cushions in the window seats, where pretty girls sat and sewed, and watched the passers down below. i remember it rained, and there was a market held out in the square before the hotel windows in the early morning, where the umbrellas made every old woman to dwell in her own tent for the time. when it was over, and the rain had ceased to fall, we waited in front of the old clock-tower before driving out through the pleasant suburbs, with market women, baskets on their arms, stray children, idle loungers, and alert tourists, for the feeble puppet-show heralded by the asthmatic crow of a rheumatic cock. of course it was a procession of bears. everything in berne is, or has to do with, a bear, since the city was founded upon the spot where somebody killed a bear. bears surmount most of the stone fountains in the streets; they ornament the monuments erected to heroes. cut from wood, they are offered for sale as _souvenirs_; stuffed, they are exhibited at the zoölogical gardens; and, to crown all, government supports in luxury a whole family of bruins. we left the carriage upon the nydeck bridge, to look down into the immense circular basin where they are kept. it must be a dull life, even for a bear. they are ugly creatures, with reddish fur, and spend their time climbing a leafless semblance of a tree, with no object but to descend again, or in sitting up to beg for biscuits of visitors. so universal has the custom of begging become in switzerland, that even the bears take to it quite naturally. the mountains obstinately refusing to appear, we left berne for thun, passing through a lovely country. only occasionally did a road appear; then it would seem to extend for long miles, bordered by immense, close-planted trees. neither fences nor hedges were there to divide the fields; but patches of grain were thrown down anywhere and at any angle. potatoes were sown like grass instead of being planted in hills, and were devoured this year by rot--the worst feature in the landscape. all through the early summer we had seen hemp growing everywhere. now it was cut, and lying outspread upon the ground in odd regularity, an occasional head only being left to run to seed. there was nothing to visit in thun. but the whole town is like a story. not an elegant, high-toned story, to be sure, though a picturesque old castle and church lifted themselves aristocratically above the more humble town. the streets are narrow, and as picturesque as they are dirty, with a sidewalk sometimes above the first, low, projecting story of the houses. it is a mile from the town to the lake of the same name. close by the steamer landing, where we were to embark for newhaus, is the hotel bellevue. within the garden enclosure were several little _châlets_; one to serve as reading-room, another as _salle à manger_, while a third, beyond the pond, where swan were sailing, displayed swiss wares for sale. here we lunched and rested for an hour, before going up the lake. it is a voyage of an hour and a half to its head, past beautiful villas upon one side, and precipitous rocks upon the other. once landed at newhaus,--where there was not a _new house_ that we could see, but only a scanty collection of little huts,--we searched about, with the mud ankle deep, among the crowd of waiting vehicles, for the omnibus which was to bear us the two miles and a half to interlaken and the hotel jung frau. if you recall your geography lessons, you will perhaps know that the two lakes, thun and brienz, are separated by a strip of land, upon which is this village of interlaken. it is hardly more than one long street, with green fields and a row of trees upon one side, and a line of houses standing back upon the other. in full view from the windows of these summer hotels, when the sky is clear, rises the jung frau, between two great mountain peaks. this is the only _sight_ in interlaken, and yet the town throngs with visitors. it must be intolerably hot here at times, lying low among the mountains as does this valley. in the fields, behind the grand hotels, is a long, low kursaal, a rustic affair, with a wide piazza. you may lunch, and read the newspapers; but government has prohibited the gambling. there are delightful excursions to be made from here, which accounts, perhaps, for the crowded hotels. and there are several fine shops, where you may buy all or any of the curiosities for which the country is well known. a rainy day crowded these shops and the hotel parlors, and made a busy scene the length of the street, which is very like a country road. but the second morning after our arrival, we rose early, to prepare for an excursion over the wengern alp. the jung frau, hidden the day before, appeared in full view with the rolling away of the clouds, and we desired to approach nearer to the shy maiden. all the listlessness of the day before was past. as we stepped out of the little _châlet_, in the hotel garden, where--the hotel being full--we had slept in a room only vacated for the night, with a pair of immense red slippers behind the door, and madame's gowns hanging from pegs on the wall, everybody was astir. more than one party was sipping their scalding coffee as we entered the hotel breakfast-room, while, under the great trees outside, guides and saddled horses waited impatiently. when we had tied on our wide-rimmed hats, and gathered our shawls, we found a roomy carriage, an open landau, waiting for us at the side-door of the hotel. we drove quickly out of the town, followed by and following other carriages, until we formed a long procession by the time we had reached the valley of lauterbrunnen and began the ascent. it is a deep, dark valley, shut in by innumerable overhanging rocks, from which thread-like waterfalls hang suspended in air, or are lost in spray. hardly does the sun seem to penetrate its depth, and an indescribable gloom, as well as chill, pervades the place. from a few scattered cottages women and children emerged to follow the carriages, begging mutely or offering fruits, while at one point a man awaited our approach to awake the echoes with an alpine horn. after an hour we reach lauterbrunnen, and leave the carriage at the door of an inn, where a crowd bargains and waits for guides and horses. we swell the number. when we are served, we mount to our places, and file out of the straggling village, turning before we reach the staubach falls--a stream of silvery spray that never touches earth, but swings and waves in mid-air. the ascent grows more and more steep. the recent rain has added to the icy streams, which filter constantly from snows above, and the horses sink in the mire, or slide and slip in a way by no means reassuring. often the path is mounted by steps of slippery logs; when added to this is a precipice upon one side, we hold our breath--and pass in safety. we commend each other as we perform feats of valor and intrepidity which would make our fortune in the ring, we fancy. the guides, insolent and careless, stroll on in advance, leaving the most timid to their own devices. presently, as we enter a perfect slough of despond, we see a man before us scraping the mire with a hoe vigorously, as we come in sight. "you should give this poor man something," says one of the guides. "he keeps the road in order." i wish you might have seen the _orderly_ road! suddenly we gain a point where the land spreads out into green knolls before us and on either side--a strip of almost level verdure, with, on one hand, peak on peak, rising till they touch heaven; upon the other, the jung frau, draped in snow. it seems so near, so very near,--though the land drops between us and it into a deep ravine, and the snow-clad peaks and needles are a mile away,--i almost thought i might guide my horse to the verge of the chasm, and reaching out, gather the snow in my hand. across the summit, the clouds, white as itself, drifted constantly, hiding it completely at times. it had been a tiresome climb of two hours and a half, and we were glad to rest an hour before descending. as we turned the corner of the jung frau inn, having dismounted from our horses, we were met by our ubiquitous, stout friends of lake leman memory, to whom, i presume, we seemed equally omnipresent. _table d'hôte_ was served here, one party following another, until the long table was full. occasionally the noise of an avalanche, like the sound of distant thunder, aroused and startled us, and caused us to vacate every seat. but though the mountain appeared to be so near, these avalanches, which sweep with tremendous force, carrying tons of ice and snow, seen from this distance, seemed like nothing more than tiny mountain streams let loose. from the inn, we mounted and went on half a mile, before reaching the summit and beginning the uncomfortable descent. we thought every bad place must be the worst, as the horses slid down the slippery stones, or descended the log steps with a peculiar jerky motion, suggesting imminent and unpleasant possibilities. but, after fording torrents swollen by the rain, crossing narrow, treacherous bridges, sliding down inclined planes, and whole flights of stairs, the guides informed us that we should reach a _dangerous place_ presently! when, finally, we came to it, we were quite willing to dismount, and make our way down over the rocks for a mile, trusting to our own feet, and beset continually by women and children, who appeared most unexpectedly at every turn, to thrust little baskets of fruit or flowers into our hands. the very youngest child toddled after us with a withered field-flower, if nothing more. so early do they begin to learn the trade of a lifetime. we entered grindelwald late in the afternoon. the shadows of night, which fall earlier in these valleys than elsewhere, were already gathering. the few, scattered cottages, walled in by the everlasting hills, with the snow-covered wetterhorn in full view, and the glacier behind it, wore a cheerless and gloomy air in the quick-coming twilight. train after train of tourists, upon horses and mules, or dragging weary feet, descended from among the mountains, to find carriages here and hasten away. only these arrivals and departures gave a momentary life to the spot. what must it be when the summer sun and the last visitor have left it? we, too, sought out our waiting carriage, and rolled away in the summer twilight, down the beautiful road, wide and smooth enough to lead to more dreadful places than the pleasant valley of interlaken, where, for a day at least, was our home. the next afternoon, instead of spending the sabbath here, we decided to go on to giessbach, on the lake of brienz, to visit the celebrated falls. we had rested comfortably in the hope of a quiet day in the little _châlet_, where more permanent arrangements had been made for our disposal. but the enterprising member of the party, to whom we owed not a little, in a happy moment of leisure, gave herself to the study of the guide-book, the result of which was--giessbach. we gathered our personal effects together, under the pressure of great excitement and limited time, reached the little steamer, fairly breathless, and then sat and waited half an hour for it to move. it was not, however, a tedious time; for there occurred an incident which engaged our attention. "what do you suppose they're going to do with that calf?" asked the boy of the party, who, like all boys, was of an inquiring turn of mind. "they've got him into the water, and are poking him with sticks." upon this we all became immensely interested. a calf had fallen into the water, between the pier and the steamer; but the fruitless efforts made by everybody, interested or disinterested, were to rescue, not drown, the creature, as a bystander would have inferred. suddenly, as his own struggles carried him away from the wharf and he was about to sink, a white, delicate hand, bound with rings, and an arm daintily draped, were thrust out from one of the cabin windows, seized upon the head disappearing in a final _bob_, and held on until assistance came, when the poor animal, half dead with fright, was drawn from the water. at last the steamer moved away from the wharf, and in an hour or less the little pier at giessbach received us. there is a tiny valley, one hotel, and a series of pretty cascades here. but all these are reached by a smooth road, winding back upon itself continually, and so steep that carriages do not ascend it. you must walk, or rather climb it, for twenty minutes, or accept the disagreeable alternative of being carried up by two men in a chair, resting on poles. the day was warm; our arms were weighed down with satchels, &c.; but we pressed on, while, commenting upon our personal peculiarities in dress, gait, and general air, as they looked down upon us from the height we almost despaired of gaining, were the complacent, comfortable souls, who always reach these desirable places the day before any one else, and, in the freshest possible toilets, sit, like mordecai, in the gates. it may have been droll to them; it was a most serious matter to us. it was saturday afternoon, and each one felt and acted upon the realized necessity of outstripping his neighbor, in order to secure rooms. finally the gentlemen hastened on, our ambition failing with our strength, and we were happy in finding comfortable quarters awaiting us when we had gained the hotel at last. it was the most delightful little nook imaginable when we were rested and refreshed. until then it possessed no charms in our eyes. it is a little valley, high above the lake, towards which it opens, but shut in on three sides by precipitous hills. down the face of one the cascades fall. back against another the hotel is built, facing the lake; its _dépendance_, and the inevitable shops for the sale of swiss wood-carving and crystals, being ranged along the third side. the whole place is not larger than a flower-garden of moderate size. we were served at our meals by pretty, red-cheeked girls, in charming swiss costumes; and when we had been out after dark to see the falls illuminated in different colors, while the rustic bridges, which span the cascades at various heights, were crossed by these picturesque figures, i felt as if we were all part of a travelling show, for whom this dear little level spot was the stage, and that a vast audience waited outside, where the walls of hills opened upon the lake, for the curtain to fall. it was like the happy valley of rasselas, which we left with regret when the peaceful sabbath was over. across the lake, at brienz, monday morning, a carriage waited to bear us on, over the brunig pass, into the clouds and out again; then down, down, past village, and lake, and towering hills, resting again at sarnen, then on to lucerne, into which we swept, with tinkling bells and cracking whip, to find the city gay with streaming flags and flowery arches, erected for some singing _fête_, but which to us were all signs of a happy welcoming. chapter xvi. back to paris alone. coming home.--the breaking up of the party.--we start for paris alone.--basle, and a search for a hotel.--the twilight ride.--the shopkeeper whose wits had gone "a wool-gathering."--"two tickets for paris."--what can be the matter now?--'michel angelo's moses.--paris at midnight.--the kind _commissionaire_.--the good french gentleman, and his fussy little wife.--a search for miss h.'s.--"come up, come up."--"can women travel through europe alone?"--a word about a woman's outfit. to dash through the town, along the quay where we had walked so many times beneath the trees or leaning over the low parapet fed the fishes, past the two-spired cathedral, the cloisters of which had become so familiar, to mount the hill and draw up before the door of the bellevue again, welcomed by the innkeeper, and greeted with outstretched hands by "charles," who had served our chocolate, while familiar faces met us at every window or upon the stairs, to pull up the shutters, throw wide open the windows, and drink in the glorious beauty of the scene before our eyes--all this was delightful, but fleeting, like all earthly joys, and mixed with pain; for here we were to say "good by." our pleasant party was to break up. the friends in whose care we had been so long, were off for germany, and mrs. k. and i must turn our faces towards home. we were to renew our early and brief experience in travelling alone. it had been as limited as our french, which consisted principally of "_est-ce que vous avez?_" followed by a pantomimic display that would have done credit to a professional, and "_quel est le prix?_" succeeded by the blankest amazement, since we could seldom, if ever, understand a reply. "are you afraid?" queried our friends. "no; o, no." the state of our minds transcended fear. it was a hot day when we took our last view of the lake, as we rode down the hill from the hotel, past the cathedral, past the shaded promenade upon the quay, to the station; but we heeded neither the heat nor the landscape when we were once in the train and on the way. our hearts were heavy with grief at parting from friends, our spirits weighed down by nameless fears. it was a wicked world, we suddenly remembered. wolves in sheep's clothing doubtless awaited us at every turn. roaring lions guarded every station. we clutched our travelling-bags, umbrellas, and wraps, with a grasp only attained by grim fate or lone women. gradually, however, as the uneventful hours wore away, we forgot that in eternal vigilance lay our safety, and relaxed our hold. we had left lucerne at noon; at five o'clock we reached basle. here we were to spend the night at the hotel _les trois rois_. every step of the way to paris had been made plain to us by our kind friends. "let me see; the hotel is close by the station?" queried mrs. k., when we had left our trunks, as our friends had advised, and followed the crowd to the sidewalk. "yes," i replied with assurance, "close by, they said; i am sure." accordingly we turned away from the long line of hotel omnibuses backed up against the curb-stone, to the fine hotels on each side of the straight avenue, extending as far as the eye could see. alas! among their blazing names was no "_trois rois_." we read them over and over again. we even tried to pronounce them. not a king was there, to say nothing of _three_. in a kind of bewilderment we strayed down the avenue. might not some one of the fair dwellings gleaming out from the shrubbery prove the house we sought? there was a rattle and clatter behind us; a passing omnibus. another, and still another followed. serene faces beamed out upon our perplexity. a cloud of dust enveloped us as the last rolled cheerfully by, upon the end of which we read, with staring eyes, "_les trois rois_." "ah!" gasped mrs. k. "sure enough," i replied. "why, suppose we take it?" said she, slowly. "suppose we do," i assented, with equal deliberation. but by this time the little red omnibus was a speck in the distance. "at least we can follow it." and we quickened our steps, when, with almost human perversity, it turned a distant corner, and vanished from sight. fixing our eyes steadily upon the point of disappearance, we hastened on, and on, and on! i have a faint recollection of green trees, of stately houses, of an immense fountain swaying its white arms in the distance--mirage-like, for we never approached it; of the sun pouring its fierce rays upon us as we toiled on, with our wraps and satchels turning to lead in our arms. we reached the corner at last. there was no omnibus; no hotel in sight; only the meeting of half a dozen narrow, crooked streets, crowded with carriages, and alive with humanity. all settled purpose left us then; our wits, never very firmly attached, followed. we became completely demoralized. "suppose you inquire," suggested mrs. k., after a period of inaction, during which we were pushed, and jostled, and trampled under foot by the crowd. if i possessed one capability above another, it was that of asking questions, especially in a strange language. upon this corner where we were standing, rose an imposing building, in the open doorway of which stood a portly gentleman, with a countenance like the setting sun, in glow and warmth. a heavy mane flowed over his shoulders. evidently this was the first of the roaring lions! taking our lives in our hands, we approached him. "do you speak english?" i ventured. "_nein_," was his reply, with a shrug of the leonine shoulders. i drew a long breath and began again. "_parlez-vous français?_" his reply to this was as singular as unprecedented. he turned his back and disappeared up the wide stairs in the rear. "this _may_ be foreign politeness," i was beginning, doubtfully, when he reappeared, accompanied by an intensified counterpart of himself. the setting sun in the face of this man gave promise of a scorching day. "_parlez-vous français, monsieur?_" i began again, when we had bowed and "_bon-jour_"-ed for some time. "_oui, oui, mademoiselle._" here was an unexpected dilemma. a terrible pause ensued. then, with an effort which in some minds would have produced a poem at least, i attempted to make known the object of our quest. i cannot begin to tell of the facial contortions which accompanied this sentence, nor of the ineffable peace which followed its conclusion. it made no manner of difference that his reply was a jargon of unintelligible sounds. virtue is its own reward. one sentence alone i caught, as the indistinguishable tones flew by. we were to take the first street, and then turn to the right. "what did he say?" asked mrs. k., when we had _merci_-d ourselves out of their radiant presences. i explained the direction we were to follow. "horrible countenance he had," she remarked, as we pursued our way. "o, dreadful," i assented. "nobody knows where he may send us," she continued. sure enough! in our alarm we stopped short in the street, and stared at each other with horrified countenances. "i have heard--" i began. "yes; and so have i," she went on, shaking her head, and expressing by that gesture most fearful possibilities. a bright thought seized me. "he told us to turn to the _right_; we will turn to the _left_!" and with that happy, womanly instinct, said to transcend all judgment, _we did_. strange as it may appear, though we went on for a long half hour, no "_trois rois_" gladdened our eyes. suddenly mrs. k. struck an attitude. "a fine appearance we shall present," said she; "two lone women, dusty and heated, our arms full of baggage, straggling up to a hotel two mortal hours after the arrival of the train. we'll take a carriage." to me this inglorious advent was so distant in prospect that it held no terrors, nothing of mortification even. "_les trois rois_" had become a myth, an idea towards which we vainly struggled. "if it were only across the street," she went on, rising to the occasion and warming with the subject, "we would go in a carriage." one approached at that moment. we motioned to it _à la mandarin_, with our heads, our hands and arms being full. the driver raised his whip and pointed solemnly into the distance. we turned to gaze, seeing nothing but the heavens in that direction. when we looked back, he was gone. we should not like to affirm--we hardly dare suggest--we are sure of nothing but that he vanished from before our eyes. a second appeared in the distance. we began in time. we pawed the air wildly with our umbrellas. the very satchels and wraps upon our arms nodded and beckoned. in serene unconsciousness the driver held to his course. "well!" i exclaimed, indignantly. "i should think so," added mrs. k., with emphasis. "is there anything peculiar, anything unusual in our personal appearance?" i asked, glancing down upon our dusty appointments. as we concentrated our energies and belongings for one final effort, a benignant countenance smiled out upon us from above a _cipher_. we were storming a private carriage! the third attempt was more successful. the driver paused. we requested him, in english, to take us to "the three kings." he only stared and shook his head. we tried him with "_les trois rois_." he seemed still more mystified. "what can be done with people who do not understand their own language!" i exclaimed in despair. we tried it again with our purest parisian accent. an inkling of our meaning pierced his dull understanding. he rolled heavily down from his seat, and opened the door with the usual "_oui, oui_." we entered and were driven away. "do you think he understood you?" queried mrs. k. "no-o." "well, where do you suppose he will take us?" "i don't know, and i don't much care," i responded, in desperation. we settled back upon the cushions. the peace that follows resignation possessed our souls. o, the luxury of that jolting, rattling ride, as we wound in and out among the tortuous streets! a full half hour passed before the dusky old hotel darkened above us, surmounted by "the three kings" arrayed in eastern magnificence, and wearing gilded crowns upon their heads. fate had been propitious. this was our destination, without doubt, though we had made a grand mistake as to its location. we descended at the entrance with the air, i trust, of being equal to the occasion. we calmly surveyed the assembled porters, who hastened to seize our satchels and wraps. we demanded a room, and inquired the hour of _table d'hôte_, as though we had done the same thing a thousand times before. mrs. k. was right; there was a moral support in that blessed carriage. _table d'hôte_ over, we strayed into a pretty _salon_ opening from the _salle à manger_. both were crowded--over doors and windows, and within cabinets filling every niche and corner--with quaint specimens of pottery--pitchers, vases, and jars, ancient enough in appearance to have graced the domestic establishment of the original "three kings." the glass doors thrown back enticed us upon a long, low balcony, almost swept by the rushing river below--the beautiful rhine hastening on to its hills and vineyards. we leaned over, smitten with sudden homesickness, and sent a message back to rolandseck of happy memory. with the faint shadows of coming twilight we wandered out into the square before the hotel. a line of _voitures_ extended down one side, every one of which was quickened into life at our approach. we paused, with foot upon the step of the first, for the _carte_ always proffered, upon which is the number of the driver and the established rate of fares. he only touched his shiny hat and prepared to gather up his reins. "o, dear!" we said; "this will never do; we must not go." and we stepped down. the porters upon the hotel steps began to cast inquiring glances. one or two stray passers added their mite of curiosity, when the knight-errant, who always breaks a lance for distressed womanhood, appeared upon the scene. we recognized him at once, though his armor was only a suit of gray tweed, and he wore a fashionable round-topped hat for a casque. almost before we knew it, we were seated in the carriage, the _carte_ in our hands, and were slowly crawling out of the square--for a subdued snail-pace is the highest point of speed attained by these public vehicles. the memory of basle is as shadowy, dim, delightful, as was that twilight ride. where we were going, we neither knew nor cared; nor, later, where we had been. we wound in and out the close streets of the old part of the city, full of a busy life so far removed from our own, that it seemed a show, a picture; below the surface we could not penetrate. we rolled along wide avenues where the houses on either side were white as the dust under the wheels. once in a quiet square, we paused before an old _hôtel de ville_, frescoed in warm, rich colors. again upon the outskirts of the city, before a monument; but whether it had been erected to hero or saint i cannot now recall. and somewhere, when the dusk was deepening, we found an old church, gray as the shadows enveloping it, with a horseman, spear in hand, cut in _bas relief_ upon one side. what dragon he made tilt against in the darkness we never knew. even our driver seemed to warm beneath the influences which subdued and dissipated our cares. he nodded gently and complacently to acquaintances, eliciting greetings in return, in which we, in a measure, shared. he hummed a guttural, though cheerful song, which found an echo in our hearts. he stood up in his place to point the way to misguided strangers, in whose perplexities we could so well sympathize. and once, having laid down the reins, and paused in our slow advance, he held a long and seemingly enjoyable conversation with a passing friend. to all this we made no manner of objection, rather we entered into the spirit of the hour, and were filled with a complacency which was hastily banished upon our return to the hotel, where, as we put into the hand of our benevolent driver his due, and the generous _pour boire_ which gave always such a twinge to our temperance principles, he demanded more. "he claims," said the porter, who was assisting our descent, "that he has been driving with the carriage lamps lighted. there is an extra charge for that." "but he left his seat to light them this moment, just before we turned into the square," we replied, indignantly. the porter shrugged his shoulders. that is the end of an argument. there is never anything more to be said. we submitted at once, though our faith in benevolent humanity went to the winds. somewhat dispirited, we climbed the stairs to our room. "one day more," we said, "and our troubles will be at an end." but, alas! one day was as a thousand years! it was to be an all-day's ride to paris, from nine o'clock in the morning until half past nine or ten at night. so, while waiting for breakfast, we hastened out into the town, in search of a bookstore, and something to while away the dull hours before us. a young man, of preternaturally serious countenance, was removing the shutters as we entered a musty little shop. we turned over the tauchnitz's editions of english novels until we had made a choice, the value of our purchases amounting to four or five francs, and gave him a napoleon. with profuse apologies he left us to get it changed. returning presently, he threw the silver into a drawer, and handed the books to us, with a "_merci_." "yes," we said; "but--" arithmetic had never been my strength; still something was clearly wrong here. "the change," said mrs. k. "he has given us no change." sure enough; but still he continued to bow and thank us, evidently expecting us to go. we tried to explain; eliciting only one of the blank stares that usually followed our attempts at explanation. "the man must be an idiot," mrs. k. said, gravely. "he certainly has an imbecile expression of countenance," i assented. he stood still, bowing at intervals, while we calmly weighed and balanced his wits before his eyes. we tried signs; having through much practice developed a system to which the deaf and dumb alphabet is as nothing. we attempted to convince him that a part of the money was ours. he smiled, and assured us, in a similar way, that the books belonged to us, the money to him. there was so much justice in this, that we should doubtless have assented, had not his own wits finally asserted themselves. blushing like a bashful boy, he suddenly exclaimed, counted out the change, and poured it into our hands with so many apologies, that we were glad to retreat. it was a discouraging beginning for the new day. still we would not despair. we had assured our anxious friends that we were quite able to take care of ourselves. we would triumphantly prove our own words. breakfast over, and our bill settled without mishap or misunderstanding, we started for the station in the hotel omnibus, in company with a stout, genial frenchman, who spoke a little english, and his fussy little wife. when we entered the station, the line formed before the ticket-window was already formidable. it lacked fifteen minutes of the hour when the train would start, and our baggage was--where? we seized a _commissionaire_, slipped a piece of money into his hand in a very bungling, shamefaced way, and, presto! in a moment our trunks appeared among the other baggage, though we had looked in vain for them before. then, with a sensation of self-consciousness approaching guilt, i stepped to the foot of the line before the ticket-window. "two tickets for paris," i gasped, finding myself, after a time, brought face to face with the sharp-eyed official. "what is the price?" but before i could utter the words, the reply rattled through my head like a discharge of grape-shot. every finger resolved itself into ten, as i essayed to open my purse and count out the gold pieces. what should i do! i had not enough into ten francs; it might as well have been ten thousand! mrs. k. was waiting at a little distance; but the place once lost in the line could not be regained, and there was our baggage yet to be weighed, and the hands of the clock frightfully near the hour of departure. there was an impatient stamping of feet behind me, as i stood for a moment dizzy, bewildered, with an angry buzz of voices ringing with the din and roar in my ears. then i rushed down the room to mrs. k., and explained as hastily as possible. she filled my purse, and i flew back to find the line pushed forward and my place gone. one glance at the hands of the clock, at the discouraging line of ticket-seekers yet to be served,--how could i go to the foot again! then i walked straight to the window with the courage of despair. a low growl ran down the line, the _gendarme_ on guard stepped forward, expostulating excitedly; but, blessings on the man at the head of the line, who pushed the others back, and gave me a place, and even upon the grim official behind the window, who smiled encouragement, and gave me the tickets, while the _gendarme_ stormed. i stepped out again, conscious only of the wish--strong as a prayer--that we were safe again in lucerne, or--some other place of peaceful rest. wedged in among the crowd, we saw one trunk after another weighed and removed, while ours remained untouched. i pulled the sleeve of a porter. my hand held my purse. the suggestion was enough. in a moment our trunks were weighed, and the little paper ticket corresponding to our "check" safe in our possession. i turned, conscientiously, to reward the porter; but we were jostled by a score of elbows, each encased in the sleeve of a blue blouse. which was the one i sought? i could not tell. each answered my glance of puzzled inquiry with one of expectation. diving to the depths of my purse, i found it to contain one solitary centime--nothing more. i slipped it into the hand nearest, and from the start of surprise and delight was immediately convinced that it was the wrong man. however, it did not matter. there was no time to explain. the doors opening upon the platform, which remain locked until the last moment, were thrown open, and we hurried away, found places upon the train, and sank back upon the cushions exhausted, but happy. for ten hours at least, nothing could happen to us. the guard passed the window, examining the tickets, and slamming the doors, making our safety doubly sure. a moment more, and with a noiseless motion we were off. hardly had the train started before it stopped again. one after another our companions left us--for we were not alone in the compartment. "strange," we said, yet too thoroughly exhausted to be curious. it was still more strange when, after a short time, they each and all returned. they began to whisper among themselves, pointing to us. "what _can_ be the matter _now_?" we queried, suddenly mindful that life is a warfare, and roused to interest. our fellow-travellers proceeded to enlighten us in chorus, and in the confusion of the outburst, we caught--by inspiration--at their meaning. we had crossed the frontier into france, and the baggage was examined here. we hastened out and into the station. all the trunks but our own had been checked. with his hand upon one of these, an official demanded the key, upon our appearance. remembering an episode in its packing, we demurred, and proffered the key of another. already vexed by the delay, his suspicions were roused now. he demanded the key of the first, which we gave up with wicked delight. the by-standers drew near. indeed, a crowd was the embarrassing accompaniment to all our unfortunate experiences. the official turned the key with the air of doing his duty if he perished in the attempt, when the lid flew open, and a hoop-skirt, compressed to the final degree, sprang up into his startled face, like a jack-in-the-box. the spectators laughed--french though they were--as, very red in the face, he vainly tried to replace it, entirely forgetting to search for contraband articles. no other incident disturbed the quiet of that long day's ride to paris. at some queer little station we descended to lunch, and returned to our places, laden, like the spies of eschol, with luscious grapes. our fellow-travellers dropped out along the way, only, however, to be replaced by others. we had not succeeded in securing places in the compartment reserved for ladies alone; but the french gentlemen who were our companions proved most courteous in their polite indifference to our movements. an old gentleman among these, elicited our outspoken admiration for his grand head. we were secure in our native language, we knew. "lovely face!" we exclaimed, unblushingly. "what a head for a sculptor! quite like michel angelo's moses, i declare." before the day was over, "michel angelo's moses" addressed us in excellent english. when the darkness gathered, when the night settled down, something of its gloom oppressed us. once safely housed in paris, we should be at rest; but there were still difficulties to be overcome. our friends had telegraphed to miss h. that we should arrive by this train; but the number of her house we did not know, nor did they. we were only sure that her apartments were over the _magasin au printemps_. still that was tolerably exact; we would not be uneasy. at ten o'clock at night we stepped down from the train into a confusion of tongues and elbows which i cannot describe, and followed the crowd into the baggage-room. i say _followed_--we were literally lifted from our feet and borne along. there was no baggage in sight. we waited until an hour seemed to have passed, and still no trunks appeared. "suppose we leave them, and send a porter from the house in the morning to find them;" and acting upon this, we struggled out of the station into the great paved square at one side. the night was dark; but the gas-lights dimly lighted up a line of carriages at the farther side, towards which we hastened, and had seated ourselves in one, when a _commissionaire_ came running across the square, and putting his head in at the carriage window, asked if we had any baggage. "yes," we replied; but the rattling words that followed brought only confusion to us. our minds, already overtaxed, gave way at once. it is pleasant to recall the patience and good-nature of that official. it is pleasant, when old things have so entirely passed away, to remember the paris of as, at least, a city into which women might come at midnight, alone, unprotected, and be not only free from insult and imposition, but actually cared for, and sent to their rightful destination, in spite of their own ignorance and incompetence. "stay here," said our friend in uniform; and he disappeared, to return in a moment with the stout french gentleman who had been our companion in the hotel omnibus at basle. we met with mutual surprise, and pleasure on our side at least. "_do_ any one look for your baggage?" he asked. "no," we replied. "we thought we might leave it." "you must go," he said. the _commissionaire_ took possession of our check and the driver's _carte_, and i followed the two back to the station, leaving mrs. k. to guard our satchels, &c., in the carriage. "wait one leetle moment," said the kind french gentleman; "i bring madame." and in a moment he dragged the fussy little woman from the crowd, handing her over with the triumphant air of having now settled all difficulties. "madame speak ze eengleesh fine," he said. looking down from an immeasurable height, the little madam condescended to remark that their servant was looking for their baggage. "ah!" i responded. "then we are not permitted to leave our trunks." "i am sure i don't know," she replied, looking so greatly bored, not to say exhausted, that i did not think it best to press the matter. "our servant is attending to it," she repeated. her husband's face fairly glowed with satisfaction while this side conversation was being carried on. evidently he believed the whole french baggage system to have been elucidated for my benefit. i thanked him heartily, as we exchanged cordial adieus. even the fussy little woman gathered, for the moment, sufficient life to attempt to bow; which, alas! never got beyond a stare. the _commissionaire_ seized upon a blue-bloused porter, and gave me to him with the check, the _carte_, and a few sharply-spoken directions. clinging to that blue sleeve, i was borne through the swaying, surging mass of humanity, into the baggage-room--how, i never knew. our trunks were identified, lifted, not thrown, by my porter upon a hand-truck, which dragged for itself and us an opening in the crowd. once out upon the platform, the porter pushed doggedly on into the darkness, though i had left mrs. k. and the carriage in the square at one side. i expostulated. he held persistently to his course. i gave one thought to poor mrs. k., resigned to what fate i knew not, and then, woman-like, followed my trunks. it was all explained, when, dimly outlined in the darkness before the station, we espied a sea of shiny hats and shadowy cabs; and when, after long shouting of the number of our own, by the porter and everybody else, it finally crawled up to the steps where we were standing, mrs. k.'s anxious face looking out of the window. "i began to think you were lost," she said. "you can fancy my feelings when the driver gathered up the reins and drove out of that square." we made a thank-offering upon the palm of every grimy hand, suddenly outstretched; then the driver paused, whip in the air, for the address of our destination. "_magasin au printemps_, boulevard haussman." he stared, as everybody had, and did, along the way. if they only wouldn't! we repeated it. he conferred, in a low tone, with the man on the next box, who got down from his place, and came around to our window to look at us. one or two lounging porters joined him. the _magasin au printemps_ is a large dry and fancy goods establishment, which had been closed, of course, for hours, since it was now nearly midnight. it was as though we had reached new york late at night, and insisted upon being driven to _stewart's_. the little crowd stared at us solemnly, in a kind of pitiful curiosity, i fancied. i think, by this time, our countenances may have expressed incipient idiocy. we attempted to explain that miss h.'s apartments were over the _magasin_, and the driver mounted to his seat, though, i am obliged to confess, with an ominous shake of his head. as we rolled out into the wide boulevards our spirits rose. the sidewalks were crowded with promenaders, the streets with carriages. the light of a glorious day seemed to have burst upon our dazzled eyes. paris, gay, beautiful paris, which never sleeps, was out, disporting herself. "we will not be anxious," we said; nor were we in the least. "even if we cannot find miss h.'s, some hotel will take us in. or, failing in that, we can drive about until morning." a thought of our respective and respectable families did cross our minds with this lawless suggestion. in happy unconsciousness, they believed us still safe with our friends. we crawled up the boulevard haussman. there were the closed doors and shutters of the _magasin au printemps_. two or three other doors met our gaze. the driver paused before one. we descended, and pulled the bell. you must know there are no doorsteps, in paris, leading to front doors, as with us. the first floor is, almost without exception, given up to shops; and dwellings, unless pretentious enough to be houses enclosing a court-yard and entered from the street by passing through great gates, are simply apartments in the two, three, and four stories above these shops. some invisible mechanism swung back the great double doors as we pulled the bell, disclosing a pretty, paved court-yard, with a fountain in the centre, surrounded by pots of flowers. a glass door at one side, revealed wide marble stairs, down which a charming little portress was tripping. "is this miss h.'s?" we asked in english. she only shook her head. we paraded our french. she seemed lost in thought for a moment, then, with a "_oui, oui_," ran past us to the carriage, and gave some directions to the driver, emphasizing her words with a pair of plump little hands. then, with a "_bon nuit_," she disappeared, and the great doors closed again. evidently we were being taken care of, we thought, as we settled back again in the carriage. we stopped before another door, already open, and disclosing a flight of wide, stone stairs, ascending almost from the sidewalk. immediately upon pulling the bell--as though the wire had been attached to it--a long, loose-jointed, grotesque, yet horrible figure appeared at the head of the stairs, half-stooping to bring himself within the range of my vision, swinging his arms like a dutch windmill, and grinning in a way which seemed to open his whole head. [illustration: "together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances." page .] "is--is this miss h.'s?" i ventured from the sidewalk. he only beckoned still more wildly for me to ascend. i drew back. good heavens! what was the matter with him? and still, while i stared fascinated, yet horror-stricken, he continued, without intermission, these speechless contortions and evolutions. although he uttered not a sound, he seemed to say with every cracking joint, "come up, come up," while he scooped the air with his bony hands. i remembered that it was midnight; that we were alone, and in wicked paris; that we had been religiously brought up; that mrs. k.'s husband was the superintendent of a large and flourishing sunday school; that my father was a minister of the gospel. i planted my feet firmly upon the sidewalk. i folded my arms rigidly. i shook my head virtuously. come up? chains should not drag me. then i turned to the carriage. "mrs. k., do come and see this man." she came. together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances. "dreadful!" said i, remembering the sunday school. "awful!" said she, recalling the pious ancestors. and again we shook our heads at his blandishments to the point of dislocation. the driver, who had been all this time tipped back against a tree, began to show symptoms of impatience. something must be done. "suppose you ask for some one who can speak english," suggested mrs. k. "sure enough." and i did. with one last, terrible grimace the ogre's heels disappeared up the second flight of stairs. there came down in a moment a thoroughly respectable appearing porter, who informed us, in english, that we were expected, our telegram having been received; though, through the ambiguity of its address, it had been sent first to a house below. the people there had promised to forward us, however, in case we followed the telegram. this accounted for the movements of the little portress. the _ogre_ proved to be a most good-natured _concierge_, who had been instructed to keep the door open in anticipation of our arrival. so our fears had been but feathers, after all, blown away by a breath; our troubles only a dream, to be laughed over in the awakening. * * * * * here the story of our journeying may end. the remaining distance, through the kindness of friends, new and old, was accomplished without difficulty or annoyance. we reached our own homes in due time, and like the princess in the fairy tales, "lived happily forever afterwards." a few practical words suggest themselves here which would pass unnoticed in a preface--where, perhaps, they belong. first, in regard to the question often asked, "can women travel alone through europe?" recalling our own experience,--too brief to serve as a criterion,--i should still say, "_yes_." we met, frequently, parties of ladies who had made the whole grand tour alone. in switzerland we found english women, constantly, without escort. the care of choosing routes, of looking after baggage and buying tickets, of managing the sometimes complicated affairs attendant upon sight-seeing, with the vexations and impositions met with and suffered on every hand, no woman would voluntarily accept without great compensation, i am sure. but if she prefers even these cares to seeing nothing of the world, they can be borne, and the annoyances, to a great extent overcome, through patience and growing experience. then, if you start alone, or without being consigned to friends upon the other side,--which no _young_ woman would think of doing,--you are almost sure to join, at different times, other parties, whose way is your own; and far preferable this is to making up a large company before leaving home--the members of which usually disagree before reaching the continent, and often part in mutual disgust. "there is nothing like travelling to bring out a person's real nature," say some. but this is untrue. travelling develops, rather than reveals, i think, and under conditions favorable only to the worse side of one's nature. you are bewildered by the multitude of strange sights and ways; the very foundation of usages is broken up; you are putting forth physical exertions that would seem superhuman at home, and are mentally racked until utterly exhausted,--for there is nothing so exhausting as continued sight-seeing,--and at this point people say they begin "to find each other out." an occasional period of rest--not staying within doors to study up the guide-books, but entire cessation from seeing, hearing, or doing--and a scrap from the mantle of charity, will save many a threatened friendship at these times. we learned to know our strength--how weak it was; and to await in some delightful spot, chosen for the purpose, returning energy, courage, and _interest_; for even that would be banished at times by utter weariness and exhaustion. in former times, americans fitted themselves out for europe as though bound to a desert island. wider intelligence and experience have opened their eyes and reformed their judgment; still, a word upon this subject will not be unwelcome, i am sure, to girls especially, who contemplate a trip over the ocean. in the first place, your steamer outfit is a distinct affair. you are allowed to take any baggage you wish for into your state-room; but, if wise, you will not fill the narrow space, nor encumber yourself with anything larger than a lady's _hat box_, which may offer a tolerable seat to the stewardess, or visitors of condolence, in case seasickness confines you to berth or sofa. even preferable to this is a flat, english portmanteau, which can be slipped under the lower berth. if you sail for liverpool, you can leave this at your hotel there in charge of the head waiter until you return, and thus avoid the expense and care of useless baggage. its contents your own good sense will in a measure suggest. let me add--a double gown or woollen wrapper, in which you may sleep, flannels (even though you cross the ocean in summer), merino stockings, warm gloves or mittens, as pretty a hood as you please, only be sure that it covers the back of your head, since you will ignore all cunning craft of hair dressing, for a few days at least, and even after you are well enough to appear at the table, perhaps. bear in mind that the northern atlantic is a cold place, and horribly open to the wind _at all seasons of the year_; that you will live on the deck when not in your berth or at your meals, and that the deck of an ocean steamer partakes of the nature of a whirlwind. fur is by no means out of place, and skirts should be sufficiently heavy to defy the gales, which convert everything into a sail. take as many wraps as you choose--and then you will wish you had one more. a large shawl, or, better, a carriage-robe, is indispensable, as you will very likely lie rolled up like a cocoon much of the time. a low sea-chair, or common camp-chair, is useful to older people; but almost any girl will prefer a seat upon the deck itself; there are comfortable crannies into which no chair can be wedged. by all means avoid elaborate fastenings to garments. a multiplicity of unmanageable "hooks and eyes" is untold torment at sea; and let these garments be few, but warm. you will appreciate the wisdom of this suggestion, when you have accomplished the herculean task of making your first state-room toilet. if you are really going abroad for a season of _travel_, take almost nothing. you can never know what you will need until the necessity arises. if you anticipate, you misjudge. your american outfit will render you an oddity in england. but do not change there, or you will be still more singular in paris. it is as well to start with but one dress besides the one you wear on the steamer--anything you chance to have; a black alpaca, or half-worn black silk, is very serviceable. when you reach paris, circumstances and the season will govern your purchases; and this same dress will be almost a necessity for constant railway journeys, rainy-day sight-seeing, and mule-riding in switzerland. a little care and brushing, fresh linen, and a pretty french tie, will make it presentable--if not more--at any hotel dinner table. a warm shawl or wrap of some kind you will need for evenings,--even though you travel in summer,--for visiting the cathedrals, which are chill as a tomb; and for weeks together among the mountains you will never throw it aside. but if you can take but one, _don't_ provide yourself with a _water-proof_. they are too undeniably ugly, and not sufficiently warm for constant wear. if it rains slightly, the umbrella, which you will buy from force of necessity and example in england, will protect you; if in torrents, you will ride. indeed, you will always ride, time is so precious, cab-hire so cheap, and distances so great in most foreign cities. lastly, let me beg of you to provide yourself with an abundant supply of patience and good-nature. without these, no outfit is complete. try to laugh at annoyances. smile, at least. and do not anticipate difficulties. above all, enjoy yourself, and then everybody you meet will enjoy you. and so good by, and "god bless us every one." lee and shepard's handbooks. "just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined." =lessons on manners.= for home and school use. a manual by edith e. wiggin. cloth, cents; school edition, boards, cents net. this little book is being rapidly introduced into schools as a text-book. shows why the winds blow. =whirlwinds, cyclones, and tornadoes.= by prof. w. m. davis of harvard university. illustrated. cents. the cyclones of our great west, the whirlwinds of the desert, every thing in the shape of storms, scientifically and popularly treated. "this volume is sublime poetry" =the stars and the earth;= or, thoughts upon space, time, and eternity. with an introduction by thomas hill, d.d., ll.d., late president of harvard university. cloth. cents. "it cannot but be valuable to the student of science as well as to the professors of religion, and tends to bring them closer together, and reconcile them."--_potter's monthly._ know what you are drinking. =handbook of water analysis.= by dr. george l. austin. cloth. cents. "it condenses into fifty pages what one would have to wander through a small chemical library to find. we commend the book as worthy of a wide circulation."--_independent._ every lady her own florist. =the parlor gardener.= a treatise on the house-culture of ornamental plants. translated from the french, and adapted to american use. by cornelia j. randolph. with eleven illustrative cuts. cents. it contains minute directions for the "mantel-piece garden," the "_étagère_-garden," the "flower-stand garden," the "portable green-house," the "house-aquarium," the garden upon the balcony, the terrace, and the double window, besides describing many curious and interesting experiments in grafting. "hello, central!" =the telephone.= an account of the phenomena of electricity, magnetism, and sound, as involved in its action, with directions for making a speaking-telephone. by professor a. e. dolbear of tufts college. mo. illustrated. price cents. "an interesting little book upon this most fascinating subject, which is treated in a very clear and methodical way. first we have a thorough review of the discoveries in electricity, then of magnetism, then of those in the study of sound,--pitch, velocity, timbre, tone, resonance, sympathetic vibrations, etc. from these the telephone is reached, and by them in a measure explained."--_hartford courant._ a practical proof-reader's advice. =handbook of punctuation=, and other typographical matters. for the use of printers, authors, teachers, and scholars. by marshall t. bigelow, corrector at the university press, cambridge, mass. mo. cloth. cts. "it is intended for the use of authors and teachers; while business men who have occasion to print circulars, advertisements, etc., can hardly afford to be without a copy of it for reference."--_schenectady daily union._ "a useful little manual." =handbook of light gymnastics.= by lucy b. hunt, instructor in gymnastics at smith (female) college, northampton, mass. cents. "it is designed as a guide to teachers of girls; but it will be found of use, also, to such as wish to practise the exercises at home."--_new-york world._ look out for squalls. =practical boat-sailing.= by douglas frazar. classic size. $ . . with numerous diagrams and illustrations. "its directions are so plain, that, with the aid of the accompanying pictorial illustrations and diagrams given in the book, it does seem as if 'anybody,' after reading it, could safely handle a sailboat in a squall."--_times, hartford._ "a helpful little book."--_springfield republican._ =handbook of wood-engraving.= with practical instructions in the art for persons wishing to learn without an instructor. by william a. emerson, wood-engraver. new edition. illustrated. $ . . "a valuable handbook, explanatory of an art which is gradually attracting the attention of amateurs more and more, and which affords, not only a pleasing pastime, but an excellent means of procuring a livelihood."--_cleveland sun._ "a literary tidbit." =short studies of american authors.= by thomas wentworth higginson. cents. "these 'studies' are rather those of the characters themselves than of their works, and, written in mr. higginson's best analytical style, fill up a leisure hour charmingly."--_toledo journal._ "no little book is capable of doing better service." =handbook of elocution simplified.= by walter k. fobes, with an introduction by george m. baker. cloth. cents. "this valuable little book occupies a place heretofore left vacant, as a digest of elocution that is both practical and methodical, and low in price."--_new-york tribune._ short-hand without a master. =handbook of universal phonography;= or, short-hand by the "allen method." a self-instructor, whereby more speed than long-hand writing is gained at the first lesson, and additional speed at each subsequent lesson. by g. g. allen, principal of the allen stenographic institute, boston. cents. "by this method one can, in an hour a day for two or three months, become so expert as to report a lecture _verbatim_." the study of geography made practical. =handbook of the earth.= natural methods in geography. by louisa parsons hopkins, teacher of normal methods in the swain free school, new bedford. cents. the work is designed for the use of teachers and normal-school classes as a review and generalization of geographical facts, and for general readers as a guide to right methods of study and instruction. daily food for the mind. =pronouncing handbook= of , words often mispronounced, and of words as to which a choice of pronunciation is allowed. by richard soule and loomis j. campbell. cts. "this book can be carried in a gentleman's vest-pocket, or tucked in a lady's belt, and we wish several hundred thousand copies might thus be disposed of, with a view to daily consultation."--_congregationalist._ about , synonymous words. =handbook of english synonyms=, with an appendix showing the correct use of prepositions, also a collection of foreign phrases. by loomis j. campbell. cloth. cents. "clearly printed, well arranged, adapted to help any one who writes much to enrich his vocabulary, vary his expressions, and secure accuracy in conveying his thoughts."--_boston journal._ "a book of incalculable value." =handbook of conversation.= its faults and its graces. compiled by andrew p. peabody, d.d., ll.d. comprising: . dr. peabody's lecture. . mr. trench's lecture. . mr. perry gwynn's "a word to the wise; or, hints on the current improprieties of expression in writing and speaking." . mistakes and improprieties in speaking and writing corrected. cloth. cents. "it is worth owning, and ought to be studied by many who heedlessly misuse their mother tongue."--_boston beacon._ "we commend it highly."--_chicago herald._ =hints and helps= for those who write, print, or read. by benjamin drew, proof-reader. cents. "the information is imparted in a very lively and remembering way."--_boston commonwealth._ are you interested in bugs? =insects;= how to catch and how to prepare them for the cabinet. comprising a manual of instruction for the field naturalist. by walter p. manton. illustrated. cloth, cents. "nothing essential is omitted: every boy who has any taste for natural history should have this neat little volume. the many 'agassiz clubs' which have sprung up amid the youth of the country, should add it to their libraries."--_chicago advance._ "of inestimable value to young botanists."--_rural new-yorker._ =field botany.= a handbook for the collector. containing instructions for gathering and preserving plants, and the formation of a herbarium. also complete instructions in leaf photography, plant printing, and the skeletonizing of leaves. by walter p. manton. illustrated. cents. "a most valuable companion. the amount of information conveyed in the small compass is surprising."--_demorest's monthly._ "every naturalist ought to have a copy for immediate use." =taxidermy without a teacher.= comprising a complete manual of instruction for preparing and preserving birds, animals, and fishes; with a chapter on hunting and hygiene; together with instructions for preserving eggs and making skeletons, and a number of valuable recipes. by _walter p. manton_. illustrated. cents. "we would be glad if all teachers would take this little book, study it faithfully, become interested themselves, and interest their pupils in this wonderful art."--_practical teacher._ how to enlarge the ant to the size of an elephant. =beginnings with the microscope.= a working handbook, containing simple instructions in the art and method of using the microscope and preparing objects for examination. by walter p. manton, m.d. small to. cloth, cents. uniform with the author's "handbooks of natural history," and equally valuable. parlez vous francais? =broken english.= a frenchman's struggles with the english language. by professor e. c. dubois, author of "the french teacher." cloth, cents; cheap edition, paper, cents. the professor's famous lecture, delivered all over the country. amusing as a narrative, instructive as a handbook of french conversation. an emergency handbook. =what is to be done.= a handbook for the nursery, with useful hints for children and adults. by robert b. dixon, m.d. small to. cloth, cents. dr. dixon has produced a work that will be gladly welcomed by parents. his "remedies" are indorsed by many prominent medical men. _sold by all booksellers, or sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ =lee & shepard, publishers, boston.= trophies of travel. =drifting round the world;= a boy's adventures by sea and land. by capt. charles w. hall, author of "adrift in the ice-fields," "the great bonanza," etc. with numerous full-page and letter-press illustrations. royal vo. handsome cover. $ . . cloth. gilt. $ . . "out of the beaten track" in its course of travel, record of adventures, and descriptions of life in greenland, labrador, ireland, scotland, england, france, holland, russia, asia, siberia, and alaska. its hero is young, bold, and adventurous; and the book is in every way interesting and attractive. edward greÉy's japanese series. =young americans in japan;= or, the adventures of the jewett family and their friend oto nambo. with full-page and letter-press illustrations. royal vo, x ½ inches. handsomely illuminated cover. $ . . cloth, black and gold, $ . . this story, though essentially a work of fiction, is filled with interesting and truthful descriptions of the curious ways of living of the good people of the land of the rising sun. =the wonderful city of tokio;= or, the further adventures of the jewett family and their friend oto nambo. with illustrations. royal vo, x ½ inches. with cover in gold and colors, designed by the author. $ . . cloth, black and gold, $ . . "a book full of delightful information. the author has the happy gift of permitting the reader to view things as he saw them. the illustrations are mostly drawn by a japanese artist, and are very unique."--_chicago herald._ =the bear worshippers of yezo and the island of karafuto;= being the further adventures of the jewett family and their friend oto nambo. illustrations. boards. $ . . cloth, $ . . graphic pen and pencil pictures of the remarkable bearded people who live in the north of japan. the illustrations are by native japanese artists, and give queer pictures of a queer people, who have been seldom visited. harry w. french's books. =our boys in india.= the wanderings of two young americans in hindustan, with their exciting adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. with illustrations. royal vo, x ½ inches. bound in emblematic covers of oriental design, $ . . cloth, black and gold, $ . . while it has all the exciting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid in its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the hindu. the illustrations are many and excellent. =our boys in china.= the adventures of two young americans, wrecked in the china sea on their return from india, with their strange wanderings through the chinese empire. illustrations. boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold. $ . . cloth, $ . . this gives the further adventures of "our boys" of india fame in the land of teas and queues. _sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ lee & shepard, publishers, boston. harry w. french's books. =the only one.= a novel. mo. cloth. $ . . "the only one" is a powerful story, dealing with the lights and shadows of life in america, naples, and persia. written in a dashing style, sometimes deeply tragic, at others humorous in the extreme, it presents pictures of human life that attract and interest by their naturalness and vividness. =castle foam;= or, the pauper prince. a story of real life, true love, and intrigue in the brilliant capital of prussia. mo. $ . . "a novel of remarkable power, and strangely unlike any yet written by an american. there is something in the beauty and intensity of expression that reminds one of bulwer in his best days."--_cincinnati commercial._ =nuna, the bramin girl.= mo. cloth. $ . . "this book is beautifully written, and abounds in novel and dramatic incidents."--_st. louis globe democrat._ =ego=, the life struggles of lawrence edwards. mo. cloth. $ . . "both an interesting and an exciting work, written with freedom, effectiveness, and power."--_philadelphia item._ =gems of genius.= to. illuminated covers. gilt. $ . . "fifty full-page illustrations, selected from the art-works of as many foreign painters, with text descriptive of each, from the pen of one of our native ruskins."--_new-york mail._ art and artists. a history of the birth of art in america, with biographical studies of many prominent american artists, and nearly one hundred illus. from their studios. cloth. gilt. $ . . "a work that will grow in value every year, showing the most patient research and elaboration, skilfully executed, and admirably worked up. an honor to the author, an honor to the publishers, an honor to the country."--_new-york evening post._ =our boys in india.= the wanderings of two young americans in hindustan, with their exciting adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. with illustrations. royal octavo, x ½ inches. bound in emblematical covers of oriental design, $ . . cloth, black and gold, $ . . a new edition of the most popular of books of travel for young folks, issued last season. while it has all the exciting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid in its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the hindu. the illustrations are many and excellent. =our boys in china.= the adventures of two young americans, wrecked in the china sea on their return from india, with their strange wanderings through the chinese empire. illustrations. boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold, $ . . cloth, $ . . after successfully starting the young heroes of his previous book, "our boys in india," on their homeward trip, the popular lecturer, extensive traveller, and remarkable story-teller, has them wrecked in the china sea, saved, and transported across china: giving him an opportunity to spread for young folks an appetizing feast of good things. _sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ =lee & shepard, publishers, boston.= miss virginia f. townsend's books. uniform edition. cloth. $ . each. but a philistine. "another novel by the author of 'a woman's word' and 'lenox dare,' will be warmly welcomed by hosts of readers of miss townsend's stories. there is nothing of the 'sensational,' or so-called realistic, school in her writings. on the contrary, they are noted for their healthy moral tone and pure sentiment, and yet are not wanting in striking situations and dramatic incidents."--_chicago journal._ lenox dare. "her stories, always sunny and healthful, touch the springs of social life, and make the reader better acquainted with this great human organization of which we all form a part, and tend to bring him into more intimate sympathy with what is most pure and noble in our nature. among the best of her productions we place the volume here under notice. in temper and tone the volume is calculated to exert a healthful and elevating influence."--_new-england methodist._ daryll gap; or, whether it paid. a story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil. "miss townsend is a very entertaining writer, and, while she entertains, at the same time instructs. her plots are well arranged, and her characters are clearly and strongly drawn. the present volume will not detract from the reputation she has heretofore enjoyed."--_pittsburg recorder._ a woman's word, and how she kept it. "the celebrity of virginia f. townsend as an authoress, her brilliant descriptive powers, and pure, vigorous imagination, will insure a hearty welcome for the above-entitled volume in the writer's happiest vein. every woman will understand the self-sacrifice of genevieve weir, and will entertain only scorn for the miserable man who imbittered her life to hide his own wrong-doing."--_fashion quarterly._ that queer girl. "a fresh, wholesome book about good men and good women, bright and cheery in style, and pure in morals. just the book to take a young girl's fancy, and help her to grow up, like madeline and argia, into the sweetness of real girlhood; there being more of that same sweetness under the fuss and feathers of the present day than a casual observer might suppose."--_people's monthly._ only girls. "this volume shows how two persons, 'only girls,' saved two men from crime, even from ruin of body and soul; and all this came about in their lives without their purpose or knowledge at the time, and not at all as they or anybody else would have planned it; but it comes about well and naturally enough. the story is ingenious and graphic, and kept the writer of this notice up far into the small hours of yesterday morning."--_washington chronicle._ _sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid on receipt of price._ =lee & shepard, publishers, boston.= lee and shepard's dollar novels. =john thorn's folks.= by angeline teal. cloth. $ . . =barbara thayer.= by miss annie jenness. cloth. $ . . popular edition. paper. cents. =the only one.= a novel by harry w. french, author of "castle foam," "nuna, the bramin girl," "our boys in china," "our boys in india," etc. mo. cloth. $ . . this work was published as a serial in "the boston globe," and made a sensation. it will have a large sale in its new dress. =lord of himself.= a novel by francis h. underwood, author of "handbook of english literature," etc. a new edition. mo. cloth. $ . . "this novel is one that has come into american literature to stay."--_boston post._ "spirited, fresh, clean-cut, and deeply thoughtful."--_boston gazette._ =dora darling:= the daughter of the regiment. by j. g. austin. mo. cloth, $l. . a thrilling story of the great rebellion. =outpost.= by j. g. austin. mo. cloth. $ . . a sequel to "dora darling," but each story complete in itself. =numa roumestan.= by alphonse daudet. translated from the french by virginia champlin. with ten illustrations. cloth. $ . . the latest work of fiction from the pen of alphonse daudet, and derives its main interest from the generally accepted belief that the hero of the novel is really gambetta, the french statesman. =kings in exile.= by alphonse daudet. a new edition. mo. cloth. $ . . =like a gentleman.= by mrs. mary a. denison. a temperance novel, by a well-known author. cloth. $ . . mrs. denison is well known as the author of "that husband of mine," a summer book which exceeded in sale any thing published in america. this book is in a more thoughtful vein, but is very entertaining. the style is bright and witty. =his triumph.= by the author of "that husband of mine," "like a gentleman," etc. cloth. $ . . =a tight squeeze.= the adventures of a gentleman, who, on a wager of ten thousand dollars, undertook to go from new york to new orleans in three weeks, without money or the assistance of friends. cloth, $ . . paper, cents. =puddleford papers;= or, humors of the west. by h. r. riley. illustrated. a new edition. $ . . "this is a rich book. any one who wants a genuine, hearty laugh, should purchase this volume."--_columbus gazette._ =the fortunate island=, and other stories. by max adeler. illustrated. cloth. $ . . "max adeler is a fellow of infinite humor."--_albany evening journal._ "extravagant, of course, are these stories, but entertaining and amusing, and instructive too."--margery deane, _newport news._ _sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ lee & shepard, publishers, boston. young folks' heroes of history. by george makepeace towle. handsomely illustrated. price per vol., $ . . sets in neat boxes. vasco da gama: his voyages and adventures. "da gama's history is full of striking adventures, thrilling incidents, and perilous situations; and mr. towle, while not sacrificing historical accuracy, has so skilfully used his materials, that we have a charmingly romantic tale."--_rural new-yorker._ pizarro: his adventures and conquests. "no hero of romance possesses greater power to charm the youthful reader than the conqueror of peru. not even king arthur, or thaddeus of warsaw, has the power to captivate the imagination of the growing boy. mr. towle has handled his subject in a glowing but truthful manner; and we venture the assertion, that, were our children led to read such books as this, the taste for unwholesome, exciting, wrong-teaching boys' books--dime novels in books' clothing--would be greatly diminished, to the great gain of mental force and moral purpose in the rising generation."--_chicago alliance._ magellan; or, the first voyage round the world. "what more of romantic and spirited adventures any bright boy could want than is to be found in this series of historical biography, it is difficult to imagine. this volume is written in a most sprightly manner; and the life of its hero, fernan magellan, with its rapid stride from the softness of a petted youth to the sturdy courage and persevering fortitude of manhood, makes a tale of marvellous fascination."--_christian union._ marco polo: his travels and adventures. "the story of the adventurous venetian, who six hundred years ago penetrated into india and cathay and thibet and abyssinia, is pleasantly and clearly told; and nothing better can be put into the hands of the school boy or girl than this series of the records of noted travellers. the heroism displayed by these men was certainly as great as that ever shown by conquering warrior; and it was exercised in a far nobler cause,--the cause of knowledge and discovery, which has made the nineteenth century what it is."--_graphic._ ralegh: his exploits and voyages. "this belongs to the 'young folks' heroes of history' series, and deals with a greater and more interesting man than any of its predecessors. with all the black spots on his fame, there are few more brilliant and striking figures in english history than the soldier, sailor, courtier, author, and explorer, sir walter ralegh. even at this distance of time, more than two hundred and fifty years after his head fell on the scaffold, we cannot read his story without emotion. it is graphically written, and is pleasant reading, not only for young folks, but for old folks with young hearts."--_woman's journal._ drake: the sea-lion of devon. drake was the foremost sea-captain of his age, the first english admiral to send a ship completely round the world, the hero of the magnificent victory which the english won over the invincible armada. his career was stirring, bold, and adventurous, from early youth to old age. _sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._ =lee & shepard, publishers boston.= * * * * * transcriber's notes: varied hyphenation was retained. boldface type is depicted by = and italic by _. obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , repeated word "a" removed from text (blossomed into a bell) page , "iniquitious" changed to "iniquitous" (most iniquitous proceeding) page , "beginnnig" changed to "beginning" (my heart beginning) page , "heartly" changed to "heartily" (were heartily ashamed) page , "sevres" changed to "sèvres" (pier of sèvres) page , "sevres" changed to "sèvres" (transferred to sèvres) page , "hotel" changed to "hôtel" (and the old hôtel de ville) page , "beautifull" changed to "beautiful" (head, past beautiful) page , "momentry" changed to "momentary" (a momentary life) transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. from the lakes of killarney to the golden horn. by henry m. field, d.d. fourteenth edition. new york: charles scribner's sons, . copyright, , by scribner, armstrong & co. trow's printing and bookbinding company, _ - east th street_, new york. when a man's house is "left unto him desolate" by the loss of one who filled it with sunshine--when there is no light in the window and no fire on the hearth--it is a natural impulse to leave his darkened home, and become a wanderer on the face of the earth. such was the beginning of the journey recorded here. thus driven from his home, the writer crossed the seas, and passed from land to land, going on and on, till he had compassed the round globe. the story of all this is much too long to be comprised in one volume. the present, therefore, does not pass beyond europe, but stops on the shores of the bosphorus, in sight of asia. another will take us to the nile and the ganges, to egypt and india, to burmah and java, to china and japan. * * * * * it should be added, to explain an occasional personal allusion, that the writer was accompanied by his niece (who had lived so long in his family as to be like his own child), whose gentle presence cheered his lonely hours, and cast a soft and quiet light amid the shadows. contents. chapter i. page the melancholy sea chapter ii. ireland--its beauty and its sadness chapter iii. scotland and the scotch chapter iv. moody and sankey in london chapter v. two sides of london.--is modern civilization a failure? chapter vi. the resurrection of france chapter vii. the french national assembly chapter viii the lights and shadows of paris chapter ix. going on a pilgrimage chapter x. under the shadow of mont blanc chapter xi. switzerland chapter xii. on the rhine chapter xiii. belgium and holland chapter xiv. the new germany and its capital chapter xv. austria--old and new chapter xvi. a midsummer night's dream.--outdoor life of the german people chapter xvii. the passion play and the school of the cross chapter xviii. the tyrol and lake como chapter xix. the city in the sea chapter xx. milan and genoa.--a ride over the corniche road chapter xxi. in the vale of the arno chapter xxii. old rome and new rome.--ruins and resurrection chapter xxiii. the prisoner of the vatican chapter xxiv. pictures and palaces chapter xxv. naples--pompeii and pæstum chapter xxvi. the ascent of vesuvius chapter xxvii. greece and its young king chapter xxviii. constantinople chapter xxix. the sultan abdul aziz chapter xxx. the eastern question.--the exodus of the turks chapter xxxi. the sultan is deposed, and commits suicide.--the war in servia.--massacres in bulgaria.--how will it all end? from the lakes of killarney to the golden horn. chapter i. the melancholy sea. queenstown, ireland, monday, may , . we landed this morning at two o'clock, by the light of the moon, which was just past the full, and which showed distinctly the beautiful harbor, surrounded by hills and forts, and filled with ships at anchor, through which the tender that brought us off from the steamer glided silently to the town, which lay in death-like stillness before us. eight days and six hours took us from shore to shore! eight days we were out of sight of land. water, water everywhere! ocean to the right of us, ocean to the left of us, ocean in front of us, and ocean behind us, with two or three miles of ocean under us. but our good ship, the city of berlin (which seemed proud of bearing the name of the capital of the new german empire), bore us over the sea like a conqueror. she is said to be the largest ship in the world, next to the great eastern, being feet long, and carrying , tons. this was her first voyage, and much interest was felt as to how she "behaved." she carried herself proudly from the start. on saturday, the th, seven steamships, bound for europe, left new york at about the same time. those of the national and the anchor lines moved off quietly; then the celtic, of the white star line, so famous for its speed, shot down the bay; and the french steamer, the amerique, swept by, firing her guns, as if boasting of what she would do. but the berlin answered not a word. since a fatal accident, by which a poor fellow was blown to pieces by a premature explosion, the inman line has dropped the foolish custom of firing a salute every time a ship leaves or touches the dock. so her guns were silent; she made no reply to her noisy french neighbor. but at length her huge bulk swung slowly into the stream, and her engines began to move. she had not gone half-way down the bay before she left all her rivals behind, the frenchman still firing his guns; even the celtic, though pressing steam, was soon "nowhere." we did not see the german ship, which sailed at a different hour; nor the cunarder, the algeria (in which were our friends, prof. r. d. hitchcock and his family), as she left an hour before us; but as she has not yet been signalled at queenstown, she must be some distance behind;[ ] so that the berlin may fairly claim the honors of this ocean race. but in crossing the sea speed is secondary to safety and to comfort; and in these things i can say truly that i never was on board a more magnificent ship (excepting always the great eastern, in which i crossed in ). she was never going at full speed, but took it easily, as it was her first voyage, and the captain was anxious to get his new machinery into smooth working order. the great size of the ship conduces much to comfort. she is more steady, she does not pitch and roll, like the lighter boats that we saw tossing around us, while she was moving majestically through the waves. the saloon, instead of being at the stern, according to the old method of construction, is placed more amidships (after the excellent model first introduced by the white star line), and covers the whole width of the steamer, which gives light on both sides. there are four bath-rooms, with marble baths, supplied with salt water, so that one may have the luxury of sea-bathing without going to rockaway or coney island. in crossing the gulf stream the water is warm enough; but if elsewhere it is too chill, the turn of a cock lets the steam into the bath, which quickly raises it to any degree of temperature. the ventilation is excellent, so that even when the port-holes are shut on account of the high sea, the air never becomes impure. the state-rooms are furnished with electric bells, one touch on which brings a steward in an instant. thus provided for, one may escape, as far as possible, the discomforts of the sea, and enjoy in some degree the comforts and even the luxuries of civilization. captain kennedy, who is the commodore of the fleet, and so always commands the newest and best ship of the line, is an admirable seaman, with a quick eye for everything, always on deck at critical moments, watching with unsleeping vigilance over the safety of all on board. the order and discipline of the ship is perfect. there is no noise or confusion. all moves on quietly. not a sound is heard, save the occasional cry of the men stretching the sails, and the steady throb, day and night, of the engine, which keeps this huge mass moving on her ocean track. but what a vast machine is such a ship, and how complicated the construction which makes possible such a triumph over the sea. come up on the upper deck, and look down through this iron grating. you can see to a depth of fifty or sixty feet. it is like looking down into a miner's shaft. and what makes it the more fearful, is that the bottom of the ship is a mass of fire. thirty-six furnaces are in full blast to heat the steam, and at night, as the red-hot coals that are raked out of the furnaces like melted lava, flash in the faces of the brawny and sweltering men, one might fancy himself looking into some vulcan's cave, or subterranean region, glowing with an infernal heat. thus one of these great ocean steamships is literally a sea monster, that feeds on fire; and descending into its bowels is (to use the energetic language of scripture in speaking of jonah in the whale) like going down into the "belly of hell." all this suggests danger from fire as well as from the sea, and yet, so perfect are the precautions taken, that these glowing furnaces really guard against danger, as they shorten the time of exposure by insuring quadruple speed in crossing the deep. and yet i can never banish the sense of a danger that is always near from the two destroying elements of fire and water, flood and flame. the very precautions against danger show that it is ever present to the mind of the prudent navigator. those ten life-boats hung above the deck, with pulleys ready to swing them over the ship's side at a moment's notice, and the axe ready to cut away the ropes, and even casks of water filled to quench the burning thirst of a shipwrecked crew that may be cast helpless on the waves, suggest unpleasant possibilities, in view of recent disasters; and one night i went to my berth feeling not quite so easy as in my bed at home, as we were near the banks of newfoundland, and a dense fog hung over the sea, through which the ship went, making fourteen miles an hour, its fog-whistles screaming all night long. this was very well as a warning to other ships to keep out of the way, but would not receive much attention from the icebergs that were floating about, which are very abundant in the atlantic this summer. we saw one the next day, a huge fellow that might have proved an ugly acquaintance, as one crash on his frozen head would have sent us all to the bottom. but at such times unusual precautions are taken. there are signs in the sudden chilliness of the air of the near approach of an iceberg, which would lead the ship to back out at once from the hug of such a polar bear. in a few hours the fog was all gone; and the next night, as we sat on deck, the full moon rose out of the waves. instantly the hum of voices ceased; conversation was hushed; and all grew silent before the awful beauty of the scene. such an hour suggests not merely poetical but spiritual thoughts--thoughts of the dead as well as thoughts of god. it recalled a passage in david copperfield, where little david, after the death of his mother, sits at a window and looks out upon the sea, and sees a shining path over the waters, and thinks he sees his mother coming to him upon it from heaven. may it not be that on such a radiant pathway from the skies we sometimes see the angels of god ascending and descending? but with all these moonlight nights, and sun-risings and sun-settings, the sea had little attraction for me, and its general impression was one of profound melancholy. perhaps my own mood of mind had something to do with it; but as i sat upon deck and looked out upon the "gray and melancholy waste," or lay in my berth and heard the waves rushing past, i had a feeling more dreary than in the most desolate wilderness. that sound haunted me; it was the last i heard at night, and the first in the morning; it mingled with my dreams. i tried to analyze the feeling. was it my own mental depression that hung like a cloud over the waters; or was it something in the aspect of nature itself? perhaps both. i was indeed floating amid shadows. but i found no sympathy in the sea. on the land nature soothed and comforted me; she spoke in gentle tones, as if she had a heart of tenderness, a motherly sympathy with the sorrow of her children. there was something in the deep silence of the woods that seemed to say, peace, be still! the brooks murmured softly as they flowed between their mossy banks, as if they would not disturb our musings, but "glide into them, and steal away their sharpness ere we were aware." the robins sang in notes not too gay, but that spoke of returning spring after a long dark winter; and the soft airs that touched the feverish brow seemed to lift gently the grief that rested there, and carry it away on the evening wind. but in the ocean, there was no touch of human feeling, no sympathy with human woe. all was cold and pitiless. even on the sea beach "the cruel, crawling foam" comes creeping up to the feet of the child skipping along the sands, as if to snatch him away, while out on the deep the rolling waves "mock the cry of some strong swimmer in his agony." bishop butler finds in many of the forces of nature proofs of god's moral government over the world, and even suggestions of mercy. but none of these does he find in the sea. that speaks only of wrath and terror. its power is to destroy. it is a treacherous element. smooth and smiling it may be, even when it lures us to destruction. we are sailing over it in perfect security, but let there be a fire or a collision, and it would swallow us up in an instant, as it has swallowed a thousand wrecks before. knowing no mercy, cruel as the grave, it sacrifices without pity youth and age, gray hairs and childish innocence and tender womanhood--all alike are engulfed in the devouring sea. there is not a single tear in the thousand leagues of ocean, nor a sigh in the winds that sweep over it, for all the hearts it breaks or the lives it destroys. the sea, therefore, is not a symbol of divine mercy. it is the very emblem of tremendous and remorseless power. indeed, if nature had no other face but this, we could hardly believe in god, or at least, with gentle attributes; we could only stand on the shore of existence, and shake with terror at the presence of a being of infinite power, but cold and pitiless as the waves that roll from the arctic pole. our saviour walked on the waves, but left thereon no impress of his blessed feet; nor can we find there a trace of the love of god as it shines in the face of jesus christ. but we must not yield to musings that grow darker with the gathering night. let us go down into the ship, where the lamps are lighted, and there is a sound of voices, to make us forget our loneliness in the midst of the sea. the cabin always presented an animated scene. we had nearly two hundred passengers, who were seated about on the sofas, reading, or playing games, or engaged in conversation. the company was a very pleasant one. at the captain's table, where we sat, was mr. mathew, the late english minister to brazil, a very intelligent and agreeable gentleman, who had been for seven years at the court of dom pedro, whom he described as one of the most enlightened monarchs of his time, "half a century in advance of his people," doing everything that was possible to introduce a better industry and all improvements in the arts from europe and america. the great matter of political interest now in brazil is the controversy with the bishops, where, as in germany, it is a stubborn fight between the state and the ecclesiastical power. two of the bishops are now in prison for having excommunicated by wholesale all the freemasons of the country, without asking the consent of the government to the issue of such a sweeping decree. they are confined in two fortresses on the opposite side of the harbor of rio janeiro, where they take their martyrdom very comfortably, their sentence to "hard labor" amounting to having a french cook, and all the luxuries of life, so that they can have a good time, while they fulminate their censures, "nursing their wrath to keep it warm." at the same table were several young englishmen, who were not at all like the imaginary briton abroad, cold and distant and reserved, but very agreeable, and doing everything to make our voyage pleasant. we remember them with a feeling of real friendship. near us also sat a young new york publisher, mr. mead, with his wife, to whom we were drawn by a sort of elective affinity, and shall be glad to meet them again on the other side of the ocean. among our passengers was grace greenwood, who added much to the general enjoyment by entertaining us in the evening with her dramatic recitations from bret harte's california sketches, while her young daughter, who has a very sweet voice, sang charmingly. like all ships' companies, ours were bent on amusing themselves, although it was sometimes a pursuit of pleasure under difficulties; as one evening, when a young gentleman and lady sang "what are the wild waves saying?" each clinging to a post for support, while the performer at the piano had to fall on his knees to keep from being drifted away from his instrument! but grace greenwood is not a mere entertainer of audiences with her voice, or of the public with her pen. she is not only a very clever writer, but has as much wisdom as wit in her woman's brain. in our conversations she did not discover any extreme opinions, such as are held by some brilliant female writers, but seemed to have a mind well balanced, with a great deal of good common sense as well as womanly feeling, and a brave heart to help her struggling sisters in america, and all over the world. one meets some familiar faces on these steamer decks, and here almost the first man that i ran against was a clergyman whom i knew twenty-five years ago in connecticut, rev. james t. hyde. he is now a professor in the congregational theological seminary at chicago, and is going abroad for the first time. what a world of good it does these studious men, these preachers and scholars, to be thus "transported!" but here is a scholar and a professor who is not a stranger in europe, but to the manner born, our own beloved dr. schaff, whose passage i had taken with mine (knowing that he had to go abroad this summer), and thus beguiled him into our company. we shared the same state-room, and never do i desire a more delightful travelling companion on land or sea. those who know him do not need to be told that he is not only one of our first scholars, but one of the most genial of men. while full of learning, he never oppresses you with oracular wisdom; but is just as ready for a pleasant story as for a grave literary or theological discussion. i think we hardly realize yet what a service he has rendered to our country in establishing a sort of literary and intellectual free trade between the educated and religious mind of america and of great britain and germany. to him more than to any other man is due the great success of the evangelical alliance. he is now going abroad on a mission of not less importance--the revision of our present version of the english bible: a work which has enlisted for some years the combined labors of a great number of the most eminent scholars in england and america. finally, as a practical homily and piece of advice to all who are going abroad, let me say, if you would have the fullest enjoyment, _take a young person with you_--if possible, one who is untravelled, so that you can see the world again with fresh eyes. i came away in the deepest depression. nothing has comforted me so much as a light figure always at my side. poor child! the watching, and care, and sorrow that she has had for these many months, had driven the roses from her cheeks; but now they are coming back again. she has never been abroad before. to her literally "all things are new." the sun rises daily on a new world. she enters into everything with the utmost zest. she was a very good sailor, and enjoyed the voyage, and made friends with everybody. really it brought a thrill of pleasure for the first time into my poor heart to see her delight. she will be the best of companions in all my wanderings. in such good company, we have passed over the great and wide sea, and now set foot upon the land, thanking him who has led us safely through the mighty waters. yesterday morning, after the english service had been read in the saloon, dr. schaff gave out the hymn, nearer, my god, to thee, and my heart responded fervently to the prayer, that all the experiences of this mortal state, on the sea and on the land--the storms of the ocean and the storms of life--may serve this one supreme object of existence, to bring us nearer to god. footnote: [ ] she came in fifteen hours after us, and the celtic twenty. the german ship reached southampton two days later. chapter ii. ireland--its beauty and its sadness. the lakes of killarney, may th. there is never but one _first_ impression; all else is _second_ in time and in degree. it is twenty-eight years since i first saw the shores of england and of ireland, and then they were to me like some celestial country. it was then, as now, in the blessed spring-time--in the merry month of may: the corn was springing fresh and green, the lark sang loud and high; and the banks of the mersey, as i sailed up to liverpool, were like the golden shores of paradise. now i am somewhat of a traveller, and should take these things more quietly, were it not for a pair of young eyes beside me, through which i see things anew, and taste again the sweetness of that earlier time. if we had landed in the moon, my companion could not have been at first more bewildered and delighted with what she saw; everything was so queer and quaint, so old and strange--in a word, so unlike all she had ever seen before. the streets were different, being very narrow, and winding up hill and down dale; the houses were different, standing close up to the street, without the relief of grass, or lawn, or even of stately ascending steps in front; the thatched cottages and the flowering hedge-rows--all were new. to heighten the impression of what was so fresh to the eye, the country was in its most beautiful season. we left new york still looking cold and cheerless from the backward spring; here the spring had burst into its full glory. the ivy mantled every old tower and ruin with the richest green, the hawthorn was in blossom, making the hedge-rows, as we whirled along the roads, a mass of white and green, filling the eye with its beauty and the air with its fragrance. thus there was an intoxication of the senses, as well as of the imagination; and if the girls (for two others, under the charge of prof. hyde, had joined our party) had leaped from the carriage, and commenced a romp or a dance on the greensward, we could hardly have been surprised, as an expression of their childish joy, and their first greeting as they touched the soil, not of merry england, but of the emerald isle. but if this set them off into such ecstasies, what shall be said of their first sight of a ruin? of course it was blarney castle, which is near cork, and famous for its blarney stone. a lordly castle, indeed, it must have been in the days of its pride, as it still towers up a hundred feet and more, and its walls are eight or ten feet thick: so that it would have lasted for ages, if cromwell had not knocked some ugly holes through it a little more than two hundred years ago. but still the tower is beautiful, being covered to the very top with masses of ivy, which in england is the great beautifier of whatever is old, clinging to the mouldering wall, covering up the huge rents and gaps made by cannon balls, and making the most unsightly ruins lovely in their decay. we all climbed to the top, where hangs in air, fastened by iron clamps in its place, the famous blarney stone, which is said to impart to whoever kisses it the gift of eloquence, which will make one successful in love and in life. as it was, only one pressed forward to snatch this prize which it held out to our embrace. dr. schaff even "poked" the stone disdainfully with his staff, perhaps thinking it would become like aaron's rod that budded. the lack of enthusiasm, however, may have been owing to the fact that the stone hangs at a dizzy height, and is therefore somewhat difficult of approach; for on descending within the castle, where is another blarney stone lying on the ground, and within easy reach, i can testify that several of the party gave it a hearty smack, not to catch any mysterious virtue from the stone, but the flavor of thousands of fair lips that had kissed it before. before leaving this old castle, as we shall have many more to see hereafter, let me say a word about castles in general. they are well enough _as ruins_, and certainly, as they are scattered about ireland and england, they add much to the picturesqueness of the landscapes, and will always possess a romantic interest. but viewed in the sober light of history, they are monuments of an age of barbarism, when the country was divided among a hundred chiefs, each of whom had his stronghold, out of which he could sally to attack his less powerful neighbor. everything in the construction--the huge walls, with narrow slits for windows through which the archers could pour arrows, or in later times the musketeers could shower balls, on their enemies; the deep moat surrounding it; the drawbridge and portcullis--all speak of a time of universal insecurity, when danger was abroad, and every man had to be armed against his fellow. as a place of habitation, such a fortress was not much better than a prison. the chieftain shut himself in behind massive walls, under huge arches, where the sun could never penetrate, where all was dark and gloomy as a sepulchre. i know a cottage in new england, on the crest of one of the berkshire hills, open on every side to light and air, kissed by the rising and the setting sun, in which there is a hundred times more of real _comfort_ than could have been in one of these old castles, where a haughty baron passed his existence in gloomy grandeur, buried in sepulchral gloom. and to what darker purposes were these castles sometimes applied! let one go down into the passages underneath, and see the dungeons underground, dark, damp, and cold as the grave, in which prisoners and captives were buried alive. one cannot grope his way into these foul subterranean dungeons without feeling that these old castles are the monuments of savage tyrants; that if these walls could speak, they would tell many a tale, not of knightly chivalry, but of barbarous cruelty, that would curdle the blood with horror. these things take away somewhat of the charm which walter scott has thrown about these old "gallant knights," who were often no better than robber chiefs; and i am glad that cromwell with his cannon battered their strongholds about their ears. let these relics remain covered with ivy, and picturesque as ruins, but let it never be forgotten that they are the fallen monuments of an age of barbarism, of terror, and of cruelty. there is one other feature of this country that cannot be omitted from a survey of ireland--it is _the beggars_, who are sure to give an american a warm welcome. they greet him with whines and grimaces and pitiful beseechings, to which he cannot harden his heart. my first salutation at queenstown on monday morning, on coming out in front of the hotel to take a view of the beautiful bay, was from an old woman in rags, who certainly looked what she described herself to be, "a poor crathur, that had nobody to care for her," and who besought me, "for the love of god, to give her at least the price of a cup of tea!" of course i did, when she gave me an irish blessing: "may the gates o paradise open to ye, and to all them that loves ye!" this vision of paradise seems to be a favorite one with the irish beggar, and is sometimes coupled with extraordinary images, as when one blesses her benefactor in this overflowing style: "may every hair on your head be a candle to light you to paradise!" this quick wit of the irish serves them better than their poverty in appealing for charity; and i must confess that i have violated all the rules laid down by charitable societies, "not to give to beggars," for i have filled my pockets with pennies, and given to hordes of ragamuffins, as well as to old women, to hear their answers, which, though largely infused with irish blarney, have a flavor of native wit. who could resist such a blessing as this: "may ye ride in a fine carriage, and the mud of your wheels splash the face of your inimies," then with a quick turn, "though i know ye haven't any!" yesterday we made an excursion through the gap of dunloe, a famous gorge in the mountains around killarney, and were set upon by the whole fraternity--ragtag and bobtail. at the foot of the pass we left our jaunting car to walk over the mountain, c---- alone being mounted on a pony. i walked by her side, while our two theological professors strode ahead. the women were after them in full cry, each with a bowl of goat's milk and a bottle of "mountain dew" (irish whiskey), to work upon their generous feelings. but they produced no impression; the professors were absorbed in theology or something else, and setting their faces with all the sternness of calvinism against this vile beggary, they kept moving up the mountain path. at length the beggars gave them up in despair, and returned to try their mild solicitations upon me. an old siren, coming up in a tender and confiding way, whispered to me, "you're the best looking of the lot; and it is a nice lady ye have; and a fine couple ye make." that was enough; she got her money. i felt a little elated with the distinguished and superior air which even beggars had discovered in my aspect and bearing, till on returning to the hotel, one of our professors coolly informed me that the same old witch had previously told him that "he was the darling of the party!" after that, who will ever believe a beggar's compliment again? but we must not let the beggars on the way either amuse or provoke us, so as to divert our attention from the natural grandeur and beauty around us. the region of the lakes of killarney is at once the most wild and the most beautiful portion of ireland. these lakes are set as in a bowl, in the hollow of rugged mountains, which are not like the green mountains, or the catskills, wooded to the top, but bald and black, their heads being swept by perpetual storms from the atlantic, that keep them always bleak and bare. yet in the heart of these barren mountains, in the very centre of all this savage desolation, lie these lovely sheets of water. no wonder that they are sought by tourists from america, and from all parts of the world. nor are their shores without verdure and beauty. though the mountain sides are bare rock, like the peaks of volcanoes, yet the lower hills and meadows bordering on the lakes are in a high state of cultivation. but these oases of fertility are not for the people; they all belong to great estates--chiefly to the earl of kenmare and a mr. herbert, who is a member of parliament. these estates are enclosed with high walls, as if to keep them not only from the intrusion of the people, but even from being seen by them. the great rule of english exclusiveness here obtains, as in the construction of the old feudal castles, the object in both cases being the same, to keep the owners in, and to shut everybody else out. hence the contrast between what is within and what is without these enclosures. within all is greenness and fertility; without all is want and misery. it will not do to impute the latter entirely to the natural shiftlessness of the irish people, as if they would rather beg than work. they have very little motive to work. they cannot own a foot of the soil. the earl of kenmare may have thousands of acres for his game, but not a foot will he sell to an irish laborer, however worthy or industrious. hence the inevitable tendency of things is to impoverish more and more the wretched peasantry. how long would even the farmers of new england retain their sturdy independence, if all the land of a county were in a single estate, and they could not by any possibility get an acre of ground? they would soon lose their self-respect, as they sank from the condition of owners to tenants. the more i see of different countries, the more i am convinced that the first condition of a robust and manly race is that they should have within their reach some means, either by culture of the soil or by some other kind of industry, of securing for themselves an honest and decent support. it is impossible to keep up self-respect when there is no means of livelihood. hence the feeling of sadness that mingles with all this beauty around me; that it is a country where all is for the few, and nothing for the many; where the poor starve, while a few nobles and rich landlords can spend their substance in riotous living. kingsley, in one of his novels, puts into the mouth of an english sailor these lines, which always seemed to me to have a singular pathos: "oh! england is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high; but england is a cruel place for such poor folks as i." that is the woe of ireland--a woe inwrought with its very institutions, and which it would seem only some social convulsion could remove. sooner or later it must come; we hope by peaceful methods and gentle influences. we shall not live to see the time, but we trust another generation may, when the visitor to killarney shall not have his delight in the works of god spoiled by sight of the wretchedness of man; when instead of troops of urchins in rags, with bare feet, running for miles to catch the pennies thrown from jaunting cars, we shall see happy, rosy-cheeked children issuing from school-houses, and see the white spires of pretty churches gleaming in the valleys and on the hills. that will be the "sunburst" indeed for poor old ireland, when the glory of the lord is thus seen upon her waters and her mountains. chapter iii. scotland and the scotch. edinburgh, june d. in making the tour of great britain, there is an advantage in taking ireland first, scotland next, and england last,--since in this way one is always going from the less to the more interesting. to the young american traveller "fresh and green," with enthusiasm unexpended, it seems on landing in ireland as if there never was such a bit of green earth, and indeed it is a very interesting country. but many as are its attractions, scotland has far more, in that it is the home of a much greater people, and is invested with far richer historical and poetical associations; it has been the scene of great historical events; it is the land of wallace and bruce, of reformers and martyrs, of john knox and the covenanters, and of great preachers down to the days of chalmers and guthrie; and it has been immortalized by the genius of poets and novelists, who have given a fresh interest to the simple manners of the people, as well as to their lakes and mountains. and after all, it is this _human_ interest which is the great interest of any country--not its hills and valleys, its lakes and rivers _alone_, but these features of natural beauty and sublimity, illumined and glorified by the presence of man, by the record of what he has suffered and what he has achieved, of his love and courage, his daring and devotion; and nowhere are these more identified with the country itself than here, nowhere do they more speak from the very rocks and hills and glens. scotland, though a great country, is not a very large one, and such are now the facilities of travel that one can go very quickly to almost any point. a few hours will take you into the heart of the highlands. we made in one day the excursion to stirling, and to loch lomond and loch katrine, and felt at every step how much the beauties of nature are heightened by associations with romance or history. from stirling castle one looks down upon a dozen battle-fields. he is in sight of bannockburn, where bruce drove back the english invader, and of other fields associated with wallace, the hero of scotland, as william tell is of switzerland. once among the lakes he surrenders himself to his imagination, excited by romance. the poetry of scott gives to the wild glens and moors a greater charm than the bloom of the heather. the lovely lake catches, more beautiful than the rays of sunset, "a light that never was on sea or shore, the inspiration and the poet's dream." loch katrine is a very pretty sheet of water, lying as it does at the foot of rugged mountains, yet it is not more beautiful than hundreds of small lakes among our northern hills, but it derives a poetic charm from being the scene of "the lady of the lake." a little rocky islet is pointed out as ellen's isle. an open field by the roadside, which would attract no attention, immediately becomes an object of romantic interest when the coachman tells us it was the scene of the combat between fitz james and roderick dhu. the rough country over which we are riding just now is no wilder than many of the roads among the white mountains--but it is the country of rob roy! i have climbed through many a rocky mountain gorge as wild as the trossachs, but they had not walter scott to people them with his marvellous creations. a student of the religious part of scottish history will find another interest here, as he remembers how, in the days of persecution, the old covenanters sought refuge in these glens, and here found shelter from those pursuing rough-riders, claverhouse's dragoons. thus it is the history of scotland, and the genius of her writers, that give such interest to her country and her people; and as i stood at the grave of john wilson (christopher north), i blessed the hand that had depicted so tenderly the "lights and shadows of scottish life," presenting such varied scenes in the cottage and the manse, in the glen and on the moor, but everywhere illustrating the patient trust and courage of this wonderful people. it is a fit winding-up to the tour of scotland, that commonly the traveller's last visit, as he comes down to england, is to abbotsford, the home of walter scott; to melrose abbey, which a few lines of his poetry have invested with an interest greater than that of other similar ruins; and to dryburgh abbey, where he sleeps. edinburgh is the most picturesque city in europe, as it is cleft in twain by a deep gorge or ravine, on either side of which the two divisions of the city, the old town and the new town, stand facing each other. from the royal hotel, where we are, in princes street, just opposite the beautiful monument to walter scott, we look across this gorge to long ranges of buildings in the old town, some of which are ten stories high; and to the castle, lifted in air four hundred feet by a cliff that rears its rocky front from the valley below, its top girt round with walls, and frowning with batteries. what associations cluster about those heights! for hundreds of years, even before the date of authentic history, that has been a military stronghold. it has been besieged again and again. cromwell tried to take it, but its battlements of rock proved inaccessible even to his ironsides. there, in a little room hardly bigger than a closet, mary queen of scots gave birth to a prince, who when but eight days old was let down in a basket from the cliff, that the life so precious to two kingdoms as that of the sovereign in whom scotland and england were to be united, might not perish by murderous hands. and there is st. giles' cathedral, where john knox thundered, and where james vi. (the infant that was born in the castle) when chosen to be james i. of england, took leave of his scottish subjects. at the other end of edinburgh is holyrood castle, whose chief interest is from its association with the mother of james, the beautiful but ill-fated mary. how all that history, stranger and sadder than any romance, comes back again, as we stand on the very spot where she stood when she was married; and pass through the rooms in which she lived, and see the very bed on which she slept, unconscious of the doom that was before her, and trace all the surroundings of her most romantic and yet most tragic history. such are some of the associations which gather around edinburgh! i find here my friend mr. william nelson (of the famous publishing house of nelson and sons), whose hospitality i enjoyed for a week in the summer of ; and he, with his usual courtesy, gave up a whole day to show us edinburgh, taking us to all the beautiful points of view and places of historical interest--to the castle and holyrood, and the queen's drive, around arthur's seat and salisbury crags. mr. nelson's house is a little out of the city, under the shadow of arthur's seat, near a modest manse, which has been visited by hundreds of american ministers, as it was the home of the late dr. guthrie. his brother, mr. thomas nelson, has lately erected one of the most beautiful private houses i have seen in scotland, or anywhere else. i doubt if there is a finer one in edinburgh; and what gives it a special interest to an american, is that it was built wholly out of the rise of american securities. during our civil war, when most people in england thought the great republic was gone, he had faith, and invested thousands of pounds in our government bonds, the rise in which has paid entirely for this quite baronial mansion, so that he has some reason to call it his american house. so many in great britain have _lost_ by american securities, that it was pleasant to know of one who had reaped the reward of his faith in the strength of our government and the integrity of our people. when we reached edinburgh both general assemblies were just closing their annual meetings. i had met in glasgow, on sunday, at the barony church (where he is successor to dr. norman macleod), john marshall lang, d.d., who visited america as a delegate to our general assembly, and left a most favorable impression in our country; who told me that their assembly--that of the national church--would close the next day, and advised me to hasten to edinburgh before its separation. so we came on with him on monday, and looked in twice at the proceedings, but had not courage to stay to witness the end, which was not reached till four o'clock the next morning! but by the courtesy of dr. lang, i received an invitation from the excellent moderator, dr. sellars, (who had been in america, and had the most friendly feeling for our countrymen,) to a kind of state dinner, which it is an honored custom of this old church to give at the close of the assembly. the moderator is allowed two hundred pounds _to entertain_. he gives a public breakfast every morning during the session, and winds up with this grand feast. if the morning repasts were on such a generous scale as that which we saw, the £ could go but a little way. there were about eighty guests, including the most eminent of the clergy, principals and professors of colleges, dignitaries of the city of edinburgh, judges and law officers of the crown, etc. i sat next to dr. lang, who pointed out to me the more notable guests, and gave me much information between the courses; and dr. schaff sat next to professor milligan. as became an established church, there were toasts to the queen, the prince of wales, and her majesty's ministers. altogether it was a very distinguished gathering, which i greatly enjoyed. i am glad that we in america are beginning to cultivate relations with the national church of scotland. as to the question of church and state, of course our sympathies are more with the free church, but that should not prevent a friendly intercourse with so large a body, to which we are drawn by the ties of a common faith and order. delegates from the national church of scotland will always be welcome in our assemblies, especially when they are such men as dr. lang and professor milligan; and our representatives are sure of a hearty reception here. dr. adams and dr. shaw, two or three years since, electrified their assembly, and they do not cease to speak of it. certainly we cannot but be greatly benefited by cultivating the most cordial relations with a body which contains so large an array of men distinguished for learning, eloquence, and piety. in the free church things are done with less of form and state than in the national church, but there is intense life and rigor. i looked in upon their assembly, but found it occupied, like the other, chiefly with those routine matters which are hastened through at the close of a session. but i heard from members that the year has been one of great prosperity. the labors of the american revivalists, moody and sankey, have been well received, and the impression of all with whom i conversed was that they had done great good. in financial matters i was told that there had been such an outpouring of liberality as had never been known in scotland before. the success of the sustentation fund is something marvellous, and must delight the heart of that noble son of scotland, dr. mccosh. i am disappointed to find that the cause of union has not made more progress. there is indeed a prospect of the "reformed" church being absorbed into the free church, thus putting an end to an old secession. but it is a small body of only some eighty churches, while the negotiations with the far larger body of united presbyterians, after being carried on for many years, are finally suspended, and may not be resumed. as to the national church, it clings to its connection with the state as fondly as ever, and the free church, having grown strong without its aid, now disdains its alliance. on both sides the attitude is one of respectful but pretty decided aversion. so far from drawing nearer to each other, they appear to recede farther apart. it was thought that some advance had been made on the part of the old kirk, in the act of parliament abolishing patronage, but the free church seemed to regard this as a temptation of the adversary to allure them from the stand which they had taken more than thirty years ago, and which they had maintained in a long and severe, but glorious, struggle. they will not listen to the voice of the charmer, no, not for an hour. this attitude of the free church toward the national church, coupled with the fact that its negotiations with the united presbyterians have fallen through, does not give us much hope of a general union among the presbyterians of scotland, at least in our day. in fact there is something in the scotch nature which seems to forbid such coalescence. _it does not fuse well._ it is too hard and "gritty" to melt in every crucible. for this reason they cannot well unite with any body. their very nature is centrifugal rather than centripetal. they love to argue, and the more they argue the more positive they become. the conviction that they are right, is absolute on both sides. whatever other christian grace they lack, they have at least attained to a full assurance of faith. no one can help admiring their rugged honesty and their strong convictions, upheld with unflinching courage. they become heroes in the day of battle, and martyrs in the day of persecution; but as for mutual concession, and mutual forgiveness, that, i fear, is not in them. it is painful to see this alienation between two bodies, for both of which we cannot but feel the greatest respect. it does not become us americans to offer any counsel to those who are older and wiser than we; yet if we might send a single message across the sea, it should be to say that we have learned by all our conflicts and struggles to cherish two things--which are our watchwords in church and state--_liberty_ and _union_. we prize our liberty. with a great price we have obtained this freedom, and no man shall take it from us. but yet we have also learned how precious a thing is brotherly love and concord. sweet is the communion of saints. this is the last blessing which we desire for scotland, that has so many virtues that we cannot but wish that she might abound in this grace also. even with this imperfection, we love her country and her people. whoever has had access to scottish homes, must have been struck with their beautiful domestic character, with the attachment in families, with the tenderness of parents, and the affectionate obedience of children. a country in which the scenes of "the cotter's saturday night" are repeated in thousands of homes, we cannot help loving as well as admiring. wherefore do i say from my heart, a thousand blessings on dear old scotland! peace be within her walls, and prosperity within her palaces! chapter iv. moody and sankey in london. london, june th. to an american, visiting london just now, the object of most interest is the meetings of his countrymen, moody and sankey. he has heard so much of them, that he is curious to see with his own eyes just what they are. one thing is undeniable--that they have created a prodigious sensation. london is a very big place to make a stir in. a pebble makes a ripple in a placid lake, while a rock falling from the side of a mountain disappears in an instant in the ocean. london is an ocean. yet here these meetings have been thronged as much as in other cities of great britain, and that not by the common people alone (although they have heard gladly), but by representatives of all classes. for several weeks they were held in the haymarket theatre, right in the centre of fashionable london, and in the very place devoted to its amusements; yet it was crowded to suffocation, and not only by dissenters, but by members of the established church, among whom were such men as dean stanley, and mr. gladstone, and lord-chancellor cairns. the duchess of sutherland was a frequent attendant. all this indicates, if only a sensation, at least a sensation of quite extraordinary character. no doubt the multitude was drawn together in part by curiosity. the novelty was an attraction; and, like the old athenians, they ran together into the market-place to hear some new thing. this alone would have drawn them once or twice, but the excitement did not subside. if some fell off, others rushed in, so that the place was crowded to the last. those meetings closed just before we reached london, to be opened in another quarter of the great city. last sunday we went to hear mr. spurgeon, and he announced that on thursday (to-day) messrs. moody and sankey would commence a new series of meetings for the especial benefit of the south of london. a large structure had been erected for the purpose. he warmly endorsed the movement, and spoke in high praise of the men, especially for the modesty and tact and the practical judgment they showed along with their zeal; and urged all, instead of standing aloof and criticizing, to join heartily in the effort which he believed would result in great good. in a conversation afterward in his study, mr. spurgeon said to me that moody was the most simple-minded of men; that he told him on coming here, "i am the most over-estimated and over-praised man in the world." this low esteem of himself, and readiness to take any place, so that he may do his master's work, ought to disarm the disposition to judge him according to the rules of rigid literary, or rhetorical, or even theological, criticism. this new tabernacle which has been built for mr. moody is set up at camberwell green, on the south side of the thames, not very far from mr. spurgeon's church. it is a huge structure, standing in a large enclosure, which is entered by gates. the service was to begin at three o'clock. it was necessary to have tickets for admission, which i obtained from the hon. arthur kinnaird, a member of parliament, who is about as well known in london as lord shaftesbury for his activity in all good works. he advised me to go early to anticipate the crowd. we started from piccadilly at half-past one, and drove quietly over westminster bridge, thinking we should be in ample time. but as we approached camberwell green it was evident that there was a tide setting toward the place of meeting, which swelled till the crowd became a rush. there were half a dozen entrances. we asked for the one to the platform, and were directed some distance around. arrived at the gates we found them shut and barred, and guarded by policemen, who said they had received orders to admit no more, as the place was already more than full, although the pressure outside was increasing every instant. we might have been turned back from the very doors of the sanctuary, if mr. kinnaird had not given me, besides the tickets, a letter to mr. hodder, who was the chief man in charge, directing him to take us in and give us seats on the platform. this i passed through the gates to the policeman, who sent it on to some of the managers within, and word came back that the bearers of the letter should be admitted. but this was easier said than done. how to admit us two without admitting others was a difficult matter; indeed, it was an impossibility. the policemen tried to open the gates a little way, so as to permit us to pass in; but as soon as the gates were ajar, the guardians themselves were swept away. in vain they tried to stem the torrent. the crowd rushed past them, (and would have rushed over them, if they had stood in the way,) and surged up to the building. here again the crush was terrific. had we foreseen it, we should not have attempted the passage; but once in the stream, it was easier to go forward than to go back. there was no help for it but to wait till the tide floated us in; and so, after some minutes we were landed at last in one of the galleries, from which we could take in a view of the scene. it was indeed a wonderful spectacle. the building is somewhat like barnum's hippodrome, though not so large, and of better shape for speaking and hearing, being not so oblong, but more square, with deep galleries, and will hold, i should say, at a rough estimate, six or eight thousand people. the front of the galleries was covered with texts in large letters, such as "god is love"; "jesus only"; "looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith"; "come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest." at each corner was a room marked "for inquirers." as we had entered by mistake the wrong door, instead of finding ourselves on the platform beside mr. moody, we had been borne by the crowd to the gallery at the other end of the building; but this had one advantage, that of enabling us to test the power of the voices of the speakers to reach such large audiences. while the immense assemblage were getting settled in their places, several hymns were sung, which quietly and gently prepared them for the services that were to follow. at length mr. moody appeared. the moment he rose, there was a movement of applause, which he instantly checked with a wave of his hand, and at once proceeded to business, turning the minds of the audience to something besides himself, by asking them to rise and sing the stirring hymn, "ring the bells of heaven! there is joy to-day!" the whole assembly rose, and caught up the words with such energy that the rafters rang with the mighty volume of sound. a venerable minister, with white locks, then rose, and clinging to the railing for support, and raising his voice, offered a brief but fervent prayer. mr. moody's part in this opening service, it had been announced beforehand, would be merely to _preside_, while others spoke; and he did little more than to introduce them. he read, however, a few verses from the parable of the talents, and urged on every one the duty to use whatever gift he had, be it great or small, and not bury his talent in a napkin. his voice was clear and strong, and where i sat i heard distinctly. what he said was good, though in no wise remarkable. mr. sankey touched us much more as he followed with an appropriate hymn: "nothing but leaves!" as soon as i caught his first notes, i felt that there was _one_ cause of the success of these meetings. his voice is very powerful, and every word was given with such distinctness that it reached every ear in the building. all listened with breathless interest as he sang: "nothing but leaves! the spirit grieves over a wasted life; o'er sins indulged while conscience slept, o'er vows and promises unkept, and reaps from years of strife-- nothing but leaves! nothing but leaves!" rev. mr. aitken, of liverpool, then made an address of perhaps half an hour, following up the thought of mr. moody on the duty of all to join in the effort they were about to undertake. his address, without being eloquent, was earnest and practical, to which mr. sankey gave a thrilling application in another of his hymns, in which the closing line of every verse was, "here am i; send me, send me!" mr. spurgeon was reserved for the closing address, and spoke, as he always does, very forcibly. i noticed, as i had before, one great element of his power, viz., his illustrations, which are most apt. for example, he was urging ministers and christians of all denominations to join in this movement, and wished to show the folly of a contentious spirit among them. to expose its absurdity, he said: "a few years ago i was in rome, and there i saw in the vatican a statue of two wrestlers, in the attitude of men trying to throw each other. i went back two years after, and they were in the same struggle, and i suppose are at it still!" everybody saw the application. such a constrained posture might do in a marble statue, but could anything be more ridiculous than for living men thus to stand always facing each other in an attitude of hostility and defiance? "and there too," he proceeded, "was another statue of a boy pulling a thorn out of his foot. i went to rome again, and there he was still, with the same bended form, and the same look of pain, struggling to be free. i suppose he is there still, and will be to all eternity!" what an apt image of the self-inflicted torture of some who, writhing under real or imagined injury, hug their grievance and their pain, instead of at once tearing it away, and standing erect as men in the full liberty wherewith christ makes his people free. again, he was illustrating the folly of some ministers in giving so much time and thought to refuting infidel objections, by which they often made their people's minds familiar with what they would never have heard of, and filled them with doubt and perplexity. he said the process reminded him of what was done at a grotto near naples, which is filled with carbonic acid gas so strong that life cannot exist in it, to illustrate which the vile people of the cave seize a wretched dog, and throw him in, and in a few minutes the poor animal is nearly dead. then they deluge him with cold water to bring him round. just about as wise are those ministers who, having to preach the gospel of christ, think they must first drop their hearers into a pit filled with the asphyxiating gas of a false philosophy, to show how they can apply their hydropathy in recovering them afterwards. better let them keep above ground, and breathe all the time the pure, blessed air of heaven. illustrations like these told upon the audience, because they were so apt, and so informed with common sense. mr. spurgeon has an utter contempt for scientific charlatans and literary dilettanti, and all that class of men who have no higher business in life than to carp and criticise. he would judge everything by its practical results. if sneering infidels ask, what good religion does? he points to those it has saved, to the men it has reformed, whom it has lifted up from degradation and death; and exclaims with his tremendous voice, "there they are! standing on the shore, saved from shipwreck and ruin!" that result is the sufficient answer to all cavil and objection. "and now," continued mr. spurgeon, applying what he had said, "here are these two brethren who have come to us from over the sea, whom god has blessed wherever they have labored in scotland, in ireland, and in england. it may be said they are no wiser or better than our own preachers or laymen. perhaps not. but somehow, whether by some novelty of method, or some special tact, they have caught the popular ear, and that of itself is a great point gained--they have got a hold on the public mind." again he resorted to illustration to make his point. "some years ago," he said, "i was crossing the maritime alps. we were going up a pretty heavy grade, and the engine, though a powerful one, labored hard to drag us up the steep ascent, till at length it came to a dead stop. i got out to see what was the matter, for i didn't like the look of things, and there we were stuck fast in a snow-drift! the engine was working as hard as ever, and the wheels continued to revolve; but the rails were icy, and the wheels could not take hold--they could not get any _grip_--and so the train was unable to move. so it is with some men, and some ministers. they are splendid engines, and they have steam enough. the wheels revolve all right, only they don't get any _grip_ on the rails, and so the train doesn't move. now our american friends have somehow got this grip on the public mind; when they speak or sing, the people hear. without debating _why_ this is, or _how_ it is, let us thank god for it, and try to help them in the use of the power which god has given them." after this stirring address of mr. spurgeon, mr. moody announced the arrangements for the meetings, which would be continued in that place for thirty days; and with another rousing hymn the meeting closed. this, it is given out, is to be the last month of moody and sankey in england, and of course they hope it will be the crown of all their labors. after the service was ended, and the audience had partly dispersed, we made our way around to the other end of the building, and had a good shake of the hand with mr. moody, with whom i had spent several days at mr. henry bewley's, in dublin, in , and then travelled with him to london, little dreaming that he would ever excite such a commotion in this great babylon, or have such a thronging multitude to hear him as i have seen to-day. and now, what of it all? it would be presumption to give an opinion on a single service, and that where the principal actor in these scenes was almost silent. certainly there are some drawbacks. for my part, i had rather worship in less of a crowd. if there is anything which i shrink from, it is getting into a crush from which there is no escape, and being obliged to struggle for life. sometimes, indeed, it may be a duty, but it is not an agreeable one. paul fought with beasts at ephesus, but i don't think he liked it; and it seems to me a pretty near approach to being thrown to the lions, to be caught in a rushing, roaring london crowd. and still i must not do it injustice. it was not a mob, but only a very eager and excited concourse of people; who, when once settled in the building, were attentive and devout. perhaps the assembly to-day was more so than usual, as the invitation for this opening service had been "to christians," and probably the bulk of those present were members of neighboring churches. they were, for the most part, very plain people, but none the worse for that, and they joined in the service with evident interest, singing heartily the hymns, and turning over their bibles to follow the references to passages of scripture. their simple sincerity and earnestness were very touching. as to mr. moody, in the few remarks he made i saw no sign of eloquence, not a single brilliant flash, such as would have lighted up a five minutes' talk of our friend talmage; but there was the impressiveness of a man who was too much in earnest to care for flowers of rhetoric; whose heart was in his work, and who, intent on that alone, spoke with the utmost simplicity and plainness. i hear it frequently said that his power is not in any extraordinary gift of speech, but _in organizing christian work_. one would suppose that this long-continued labor would break him down, but on the contrary, he seems to thrive upon it, and has grown stout and burly as any englishman, and seems ready for many more campaigns. as to the result of his labors, instead of volunteering an opinion on such slight observation, it is much more to the purpose to give the judgment of others who have had full opportunity to see his methods, and to observe the fruits. i have conversed with men of standing and influence in dublin, belfast, glasgow, and edinburgh--men not at all likely to be carried away by any sudden fanaticism. all speak well of him, and believe that he has done good in their respective cities. this certainly is very high testimony, and for the present is the best we can have. they say that he shows great _tact_ in keeping clear of difficulties, not allying himself with sects or parties, and awakening no prejudices, so that baptists, like mr. spurgeon, and methodists and independents and presbyterians, all work together. in scotland, men of the free church and of the national church joined in the meetings, and one cannot but hope that the tendency of this general religious movement will be to incline the hearts of those noble, but now divided brethren, more and more towards each other. what will be the effect in london, it is too soon to say. it seems almost impossible to make any impression on a city which is a world in itself. london has nearly four millions of inhabitants--more than the six states of new england put together! it is the monstrous growth of our modern civilization. with its enormous size, it contains more wealth than any city in the world, _and more poverty_--more luxury on the one hand, and more misery on the other. to those who have explored the low life of london, the revelations are terrific. the wretchedness, the filth, the squalor, the physical pollution and moral degradation in which vast numbers live, is absolutely appalling. and can such a seething mass of humanity be reached by any christian influences? that is the problem to be solved. it is a gigantic undertaking. whatever can make any impression upon it, deserves the support of all good men. i hope fervently that the present movement may leave a moral result that shall remain after the actors in it have passed away. chapter v. two sides of london.--is modern civilization a failure? june th. it is now "the height of the season" in london. parliament is in session, and "everybody" is in town. except the queen, who is in the highlands, almost all the royal family are here; and (except occasional absences on the continent, or as ministers at foreign courts, or as governors of india, of canada, of australia, and other british colonies) probably almost the whole nobility of the united kingdom are at this moment in london. of course foreigners flock here in great numbers. so crowded is every hotel, that it is difficult to find lodgings. we have found very central quarters in dover street, near piccadilly, close by the clubs and the parks, and the great west end, the fashionable quarter of london. of course the display from the assemblage of so much rank and wealth, and the concourse of such a multitude from all parts of the united kingdom, and indeed from all parts of the earth, is magnificent. we go often to hyde park corner, to see the turnout in the afternoon. in rotten row (strange name for the most fashionable riding ground in europe) is the array of those on horseback; while the drive adjoining is appropriated to carriages. the mounted cavalcade makes a gallant sight. what splendid horses, and how well these english ladies ride! here come the equipages of the prince of wales and the duke of edinburgh, with their fair brides from northern capitals, followed by an endless roll of carriages of dukes and marquises and earls, and lords and ladies of high degree. it seems as if all the glory of the world were here. in strange contrast with this pomp and show, whom should we meet, as we were riding in the park on saturday, but moody (whom john wanamaker, of philadelphia, was taking out for an airing to prepare him for the fatigues of the morrow), who doubtless looked upon all this as a vanity fair, much greater than that which bunyan has described! but not to regard it in a severe spirit of censure, it is a sight such as brings before us, in one moving panorama, the rank and beauty, the wealth and power, of the british empire, represented in these lords of the realm. such a sight cannot be seen anywhere else in europe, not in the champs elysées or the bois de boulogne of paris, nor the prater at vienna. take another scene. let us start after ten o'clock and ride down into "the city,"--a title which, as used here, belongs only to the old part of london, beyond temple bar, which is now given up wholly to business, and where "nobody that is anybody" lives. here are the bank of england, the royal exchange, and the great commercial houses, that have their connections in all parts of the earth. the concentration of wealth is enormous, represented by hundreds and thousands of millions sterling. one might almost say that half the national debts of the world are owned here. there is not a power on the globe that is seeking a loan, that does not come to london. france, germany, russia, turkey, all have recourse to its bankers to provide the material of war, or means for the construction of the great works and monuments of peace. our american railways have been built largely with english money. alas, that so many have proved unfortunate investments! it is probably quite within bounds to say that the accumulation of wealth at this centre is greater than ever was piled up before on the globe, even in the days of the persian or babylonian empires; or when the kings of egypt built the pyramids; or when rome sat on the seven hills, and subject provinces sent tribute from all parts of the earth; or in that mogul empire, whose monuments at delhi and agra are still the wonder of india. can it be that a city so vast, so populous, so rich, has a canker at its root? do not judge hastily, but see for yourself. leave hyde park corner, and its procession of nobles and princes; leave "the city," with its banks and counting-houses, and plunge into another quarter of london. one need not go far away, for the hiding-places of poverty and wretchedness are often under the very shadow of the palaces of the rich. come, then, and grope through these narrow streets. you turn aside to avoid the ragged, wretched creatures that crouch along your path. but come on, and if you fear to go farther, take a policeman with you. wind your way into narrow passages, into dark, foul alleys, up-stairs, story after story, each worse than the last. summon up courage to enter the rooms. you are staggered by the foul smell that issues as you open the doors. but do not go back; wait till your eye is a little accustomed to the darkness, and you can see more clearly. here is a room hardly big enough for a single bed, yet containing six, eight, ten, or a dozen persons, all living in a common herd, cooking and eating such wretched food as they have, and sleeping on the floor together. what can be expected of human beings, crowded in such miserable habitations, living in filth and squalor, and often pinched with hunger? not only is refinement impossible, but comfort, or even decency. what manly courage would not give way, sapped by the deadly poison of such an air? who wonders that so many rush to the gin-shop to snatch a moment of excitement or forgetfulness? what feminine delicacy could stand the foul and loathsome contact of such brutal degradation? yet this is the way in which tens, and perhaps hundreds of thousands of the population of london live. but it is at night that these low quarters are most fearful. then the population turns into the streets, which are brilliantly lighted up by the flaring gas-jets. then the gin-shops are in their glory, crowded by the lowest and most wretched specimens of humanity--men and women in rags--old, gray-headed men and haggard women, and young girls,--and even children, learning to be imps of wickedness almost as soon as they are born. after a few hours of this excitement they reel home to their miserable dens. and then each wretched room becomes more hideous than before,--for drinking begets quarrelling; and, cursing and swearing and fighting, the wretched creatures at last sink exhausted on the floor, to forget their misery in a few hours of troubled sleep. such is a true, but most inadequate, picture of one side of london. who that sees it, or even reads of it, can wonder that so many of these "victims of civilization," finding human hearts harder than the stones of the street, seek refuge in suicide? i never cross london bridge without recalling hood's "bridge of sighs," and stopping to lean over the parapet, thinking of the tragedies which those "dark arches" have witnessed, as poor, miserable creatures, mad with suffering, have rushed here and thrown themselves over into "the black-flowing river"[ ] beneath, eager to escape "anywhere, anywhere, out of the world!" such is the dreadful cancer which is eating at the heart of london--poverty and misery, ending in vice and crime, in despair and death. it is a fearful spectacle. but is there any help for it? can anything be done to relieve this gigantic human misery? or is the case desperate, beyond all hope or remedy? of course there are many schemes of reformation and cure. some think it must come by political instrumentality, by changes in the laws; others have no hope but in a social regeneration, or reconstruction of society, others still rely only on moral and religious influences. there has arisen in europe, within the last generation, a multitude of philosophers who have dreamed that it was possible so to reorganize or reconstruct society, to adjust the relations of labor and capital, as to extinguish poverty; so that there shall be no more poor, no more want. sickness there may be, disease, accident, and pain, but the amount of suffering will be reduced to a minimum; so that at least there shall be no unnecessary pain, none which it is possible for human skill or science to relieve. elaborate works have been written, in which the machinery is carefully adjusted, and the wheels so oiled that there is no jar or friction. these schemes are very beautiful; alas! that they should be mere creations of the fancy. the apparatus is too complicated and too delicate, and generally breaks to pieces in the very setting up. the fault of all these social philosophies is that they ignore the natural selfishness of man, his pride, avarice, and ambition. every man wants the first place in the scale of eminence. if men were morally right--if they had christian humility or self-abnegation, and each were willing to take the lowest place--then indeed might these things be. but until then, we fear that all such schemes will be splendid failures. in france, where they have been most carefully elaborated, and in some instances tried, they have always resulted disastrously, sometimes ending in horrible scenes of blood, as in the reign of terror in the first revolution, and recently in the massacres of the commune. no government on earth can reconstruct society, so as to prevent all poverty and suffering. still the state can do much by removing obstacles out of the way. it need not be itself the agent of oppression, and of inflicting needless suffering. this has been the vice of many governments--that they have kept down the poor by laying on them burdens too heavy to bear, and so crushing the life out of their exhausted frames. in england the state can remove disabilities from the working man; it can take away the exclusive privileges of rank and title, and place all classes on the same level before the law. thus it can clear the field before every man, and give him a chance to rise, _if he has it in him_--if he has talent, energy, and perseverance. then the government can in many ways _encourage_ the poorer classes, and so gradually lift them up. in great cities the drainage of unhealthy streets, of foul quarters, may remove the seeds of pestilence. something in this way has been done already, and the death rates show a corresponding diminution of mortality. so by stringent laws in regard to proper ventilation, forbidding the crowding together in unhealthy tenements, and promoting the erection of model lodging-houses, it may encourage that cleanliness and decency which is the first step towards civilization. then by a system of common schools, that shall be universal and _compulsory_, and be rigidly enforced, as it is in germany, the state may educate in some degree, at least in the rudiments of knowledge, the children of the nation, and thus do something towards lifting up, slowly but steadily, that vast substratum of population which lies at the base of every european society. but the question of moral influence remains. is it possible to reach this vast and degraded population with any christian influences, or are they in a state of hopeless degradation? here we meet at the first step in england a church, of grand proportions, established for ages, inheriting vast endowments, wealth, privilege, and titles, with all the means of exerting the utmost influence on the national mind. for this what has it to show? it has great cathedrals, with bishops, and deans, and canons; a whole retinue of beneficed clergy, men who read or "intone" the prayers; with such hosts of men and boys to chant the services, as, if mustered together, would make a small army. the machinery is ample, but the result, we fear, not at all corresponding. but lest i be misunderstood, let me say here that i have no prejudice against the church of england. i cannot join with the english dissenters in their cry against it, nor with some of my american brethren, who look upon it as almost an apostate church, an obstacle to the progress of christianity, rather than a wall set around it to be its bulwark and defence. with a very different feeling do i regard that ancient church, that has so long had its throne in the british islands. i am not an englishman, nor an episcopalian, yet no loyal son of the church of england could look up to it with more tender reverence than i. i honor it for all that it has been in the past, for all that it is at this hour. the oldest of the protestant churches of england, it has the dignity of history to make it venerable. and not only is it one of the oldest churches in the world, but one of the purest, which could not be struck from existence without a shock to all christendom. its faith is the faith of the reformation, the faith of the early ages of christianity. whatever "corruptions" may have gathered upon it, like moss upon the old cathedral walls, yet in the apostles' creed, and other symbols of faith, it has held the primitive belief with beautiful simplicity, divested of all "philosophy," and held it not only with singular purity, but with steadfastness from generation to generation. what a power is in a creed and a service which thus links us with the past! as we listen to the te deum or the litany, we are carried back not only to the middle ages, but to the days of persecution, when "the noble army of martyrs" was not a name; when the church worshipped in crypts and catacombs. perhaps we of other communions do not consider enough the influence of a church which has a long history, and whose very service seems to unite the living and the dead--the worship on earth with the worship in heaven. for my part, i am very sensitive to these influences, and never do i hear a choir "chanting the liturgies of remote generations" that it does not bring me nearer to the first worshippers, and to him whom they worshipped. nor can i overlook, among the influences of the church of england, that even of its architecture, in which its history, as well as its worship, is enshrined. its cathedrals are filled with monuments and tombs, which recall great names and sacred memories. is it mere imagination, that when i enter one of these old piles and sit in some quiet alcove, the place is filled to my ear with airy tongues, voices of the dead, that come from the tablets around and from the tombs beneath; that whisper along the aisles, and rise and float away in the arches above, bearing the soul to heaven--spirits with which my own poor heart, as i sit and pray, seems in peaceful and blessed communion? is it an idle fancy that soaring above us there is a multitude of the heavenly host singing now, as once over the plains of bethlehem, "glory to god in the highest, peace on earth, good will towards men!" here is the soul bowed down in the presence of its maker. it feels "lowly as a worm." what thoughts of death arise amid so many memorials of the dead! what sober views of the true end of a life so swiftly passing away! how many better thoughts are inspired by the meditations of this holy place! how many prayers, uttered in silence, are wafted to the hearer of prayer! how many offences are forgiven here in the presence of "the great forgiver of the world"! how many go forth from this ancient portal, resolved, with god's help, to live better lives! it is idle to deny that the place itself is favorable to meditation and to prayer. it makes a solemn stillness in the midst of a great city, as if we were in the solitude of a mountain or a desert. the pillared arches are like the arches of a sacred grove. let those who will cast away such aids to devotion, and say they can worship god anywhere--in any place. i am not so insensible to these surroundings, but find in them much to lift up my heart and to help my poor prayers. with these internal elements of power, and with its age and history, and the influence of custom and tradition, the church of england has held the nation for hundreds of years to an outward respect for christianity, even if not always to a living faith. while germany has fallen away to rationalism and indifference, and france to mocking and scornful infidelity, in england christianity is a national institution, as fast anchored as the island itself. the church of england is the strongest bulwark against the infidelity of the continent. it is associated in the national mind with all that is sacred and venerable in the past. in its creed and its worship it presents the christian religion in a way to command the respect of the educated classes; it is seated in the universities, and is thus associated with science and learning. as it is the national church, it has the support of all the rank of the kingdom, and arrays on its side the strongest social influences. thus it sets even fashion on the side of religion. this may not be the most dignified influence to control the faith of a country, but it is one that has great power, and it is certainly better to have it on the side of religion than against it. we must take the world as it is, and men as they are. they are led by example, and especially by the examples of the great; of those whose rank makes them foremost in the public eye, and gives them a natural influence over their countrymen. as for those who think that the gospel is preached nowhere in england but in the chapels of dissenters, and that there is little "spirituality" except among english independents or scotch presbyterians, we can but pity their ignorance. it is not necessary to point to the saintly examples of men like jeremy taylor and archbishop leighton; but in the english homes of to-day are thousands of men and women who furnish illustrations, as beautiful as any that can be found on earth, of a religion without cant or affectation, yet simple and sincere, and showing itself at once in private devotion, in domestic piety, and in a life full of all goodness and charity. it must be confessed that its ministers are not always worthy of the church itself. i am repelled and disgusted at the arrogance of some who think that it is the _only_ true church, and that they alone are the lord's anointed. if so, the grace is indeed in earthen vessels, and those of wretched clay. the affectation and pretension of some of the more youthful clergy are such as to provoke a smile. but such paltry creatures are too insignificant to be worth a moment's serious thought. the same spiritual conceit exists in every church. we should not like to be held responsible for all the narrowness of presbyterians, whom we are sometimes obliged to regard, as cromwell did, as "the lord's foolish people." these small english curates and rectors we should regard no more than the spiders that weave their web in some dimly-lighted arch, or the traditional "church mice" that nibble their crumbs in the cathedral tower, or the crickets or lizards that creep over the old tombs in the neighboring churchyard. but if there is much narrowness in the church of england, there is much nobleness also; much true christian liberality and hearty sympathy with all good men and good movements, not only in england but throughout the world. dean stanley (whom i love and honor as the manliest man in the church of england) is but the representative and leader of hundreds who, if they have not his genius, have at least much of his generous and intrepid spirit, that despises sacerdotal cant, and claims kindred with the good of all countries and ages, with the noble spirits, the brave and true, of all mankind. such men are sufficient to redeem the great church to which they belong from the reproach of narrowness. such is the position of the church of england, whose history is a part of that of the realm; and which stands to-day buttressed by rank, and learning, and social position, and a thousand associations which have clustered around it in the course of centuries, to make it sacred and venerable and dear to the nation's heart. if all this were levelled with the ground, in vain would all the efforts of dissenters, however earnest and eloquent--if they could muster a hundred spurgeons--avail to restore the national respect for religion. looking at all these possibilities, i am by no means so certain as some appear to be, that the overthrow of the establishment would be a gain to the cause of christianity in england. some in their zeal for a pure democracy both in church and state--for independency and voluntaryism in the former, and republicanism in the latter--regard every establishment as an enemy alike to a pure gospel and to religious liberty. the dissenters, naturally incensed at the inequality and injustice of their position before the law (and perhaps with a touch of envy of those more favored than they are) have their grievance against the church of england, simply because it is _established_, to the exclusion of themselves. but from all such rivalries and contentions we, as americans, are far removed, and can judge impartially. we look upon the established church as one of the historical institutions of england, which no thoughtful person could wish to see destroyed, any more than to see an overthrow of the monarchy, until he were quite sure that something better would come in its place. it is not a little thing that it has gathered around it such a wealth of associations, and with them such a power over the nation in which it stands; and it would be a rash hand that should apply the torch, or fire the mine, that should bring it down. but the influence of the church of england is mainly in the higher ranks of society. below these there are large social strata--deep, broad, thick, and black as seams of coal in a mountain--that are not even touched by all these influences. we like to stray into the old cathedrals at evening, and hear the choir chanting vespers; or to wander about them at night, and see the moonlight falling on the ancient towers. but nations are not saved by moonlight and music. the moonbeams that rest on the dome of st. paul's, or on the bosom of the thames, as it flows under the arches of london bridge, covering it with silver, do not cleanse the black waters, or restore to life the corpses of the wretched suicides that go floating downward to the sea. _so far as they are concerned_, the church of england, and indeed we may say the christianity of england, is a wretched failure. some other and more powerful illustration is needed to turn the heart of england; something which shall not only cause the sign of the cross to be held up in st. paul's and westminster abbey, but which shall carry the gospel of human brotherhood to all the villages and hamlets of england; to the poorest cottage in the highlands; that shall descend with the miner into the pit underground; that shall abide with every laborer in the land, and go forth with the sailor on the sea. how inadequately the church of england answers to this need of a popular educator and reformer, may be illustrated by one or two of her most notable churches and preachers. on sunday last we attended two of the most famous places of worship in london--the temple church and westminster abbey. the former belongs to an ancient guild of lawyers, attached to what are known as the middle and the inner temple, a corporation dating back hundreds of years, which has large grounds running down to the thames, and great piles of buildings divided off into courts, and full of lawyers' offices. standing among these is a church celebrated for its beauty, which once belonged to the knights templars, some of whose bronze figures in armor, lying on their tombs, show by their crossed limbs how they went to palestine to fight for the holy sepulchre. as it is a church which belongs to a private corporation, no one can obtain admission to the pews without an order from "a bencher," which was sent to us as a personal courtesy. the church has the air of being very aristocratic and exclusive; and those whose enjoyment of a religious service depends on "worshipping god in good company," may feel at ease while sitting in these high-backed pews, from which the public are excluded. the church is noted for its music, which amateurs pronounce exquisite. as i am not educated in these things, i do not know the precise beauty and force of all the quips and quavers of this most artistic performance. the service was given at full length, in which the lord's prayer was repeated _five times_. with all the singing and "intoning," and down-sitting and uprising, and the bowing of necks and bending of knees, the service occupied an hour and a half before the rector, rev. dr. vaughan, ascended the pulpit. he is a brother-in-law of dean stanley, and a man much respected in the church. his text was, "he took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses," from which he preached a sermon appropriate to the day, which was "hospital sunday," a day observed throughout london by collections in aid of the hospitals. it was simple and practical, and gave one the impression of a truly good man, such as there are thousands in the church of england. but what effect had such a service--or a hundred such--on the poor population of london? about as much as the exquisite music itself has on the rise and fall of the tide in the thames, which flows by; or as the moonlight has on vegetation. i know not what mission agencies these old churches may employ elsewhere to labor among the poor, but so far as any immediate influence is concerned, outside of a very small circle, it is infinitesimal. in the evening we went to westminster abbey to hear the choral service, which is rendered by a very large choir of men and boys, with wonderful effect. simply for the music one could not have a more exquisite sensation of enjoyment. how the voices rang amid the arches of the old cathedral. at this evening service it had been announced that "the lord archbishop of york" was to preach, and we were curious to see what wisdom and eloquence could come out of the mouth of a man who held the second place in the established church of england. "his grace" is a large, portly man, of good presence and sonorous voice. his text was "behold, i stand at the door and knock." he began with an allusion to holman hunt's famous picture of christ standing at the door, which he described in some detail; the door itself overgrown with vines, and its hinges rusted, so long had it been unopened; and then the patient man of sorrows, with bended head and heavy heart, knocking and waiting to come in. from this he went into a discussion of modern civilization, considering whether men are really better (though they may be better _off_) now than in the days of our fathers; the conclusion from all which was, that external improvements, however much they add to the physical comfort and well-being of man, do not change his character, and that for his inward peace, the only way is to open the door to let the blessed master in. it seemed to me rather a roundabout way to come at his point; but still as the aim was practical, and the spirit earnest and devout, one could not but feel that the impression was good. as to ability, i failed to see in it anything so marked as should entitle the preacher to the exalted dignity he holds; but i do not wish to criticize, but only to consider whether a church thus organized and appointed can have the influence over the people of england we might expect from a great national establishment. perhaps it has, but i fail to see it. it seems to skim, and that very lightly, over the top, the thin surface of society, and not to _touch_ the masses beneath. the influence of the establishment is supplemented by the dissenting churches, which are numerous and active, and in their spheres doing great good. then, too, there are innumerable separate agencies, working in ways manifold and diverse. i have been much interested in the details, as given me by mrs. ranyard, of her bible women, who have grown, in the course of twenty years, from half a dozen to over two hundred, and who, working noiselessly, in quiet, womanly ways, do much to penetrate the darkest lanes of london, and to lead their poor sisters into ways of industry, contentment, and peace. but after all is said and done, the great mass of poverty and wretchedness remains. we lift the cover, and look down into unfathomable abysses beneath, into a world where all seems evil--a hell of furious passions and vices and crimes. such is the picture which is presented to me as i walk the streets of london, and which will not down, even when i go to the bank of england, and see the treasures piled up there, or to hyde park, and see the dashing equipages, the splendid horses and their riders, and all the display of the rank and beauty of england. what will the end be? will things go on from bad to worse, to end at last in some grand social or political convulsion--some cataclysm like the french revolution? this is the question which now occupies thousands of minds in great britain. of course similar questions engage attention in other countries. in all great cities there is a poor population, which is the standing trouble and perplexity of social and political reformers. we have a great deal of poverty in new york, although it is chiefly imported from abroad. but in london the evil is immensely greater, because the city is four times larger; and the crowding together of four millions of people, brings wealth and poverty into such close contact that the contrasts are more marked. other evils and dangers england has which are peculiar to an old country; they are the growth of centuries, and cannot be shaken off, or cast out, without great tearing and rending of the body politic. all this awakens anxious thought, and sometimes dark foreboding. many, no doubt, of the upper classes are quite content to have their full share of the good things of this life, and enjoy while they may, saying, "after us the deluge!" but they are not all given over to selfishness. tens of thousands of the best men on this earth, having the clearest heads and noblest hearts, are in england, and they are just as thoughtful and anxious to do what is best for the masses around them, as any men can be. the only question is, what _can_ be done? and here we confess our philosophy is wholly at fault. it is easy to judge harshly of others, but not so easy to stand in their places and do better. for my part, i am most anxious that the experiment of christian civilization in england should not fail; for on it, i believe, the welfare of the whole world greatly depends. but is it strange that good men should be appalled and stand aghast at what they see here in london, and that they should sometimes be in despair of modern civilization and modern christianity? what can i think, as a foreigner, when a man like george macdonald, a true-hearted scotchman, who has lived many years in london, tells me that things may come right (so he hopes) _in a thousand years_--that is, in some future too remote for the vision of man to explore. hearing such sad confessions, i no longer wonder that so many in england, who are sensitive to all this misery, and yet believers in a higher power, have turned to the doctrine of the personal reign of christ on earth as the only refuge against despair, believing that the world will be restored to its allegiance to god, and men to universal brotherhood, only with the coming of the prince of peace. footnote: [ ] "the bleak wind of march made her tremble and shiver, but not the dark arch, nor the black flowing river. mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be hurled anywhere, anywhere, out of the world" chapter vi. the resurrection of france. paris, june th. coming from london to paris, one is struck with the contrast--london is so vast and interminable, _and dark_,--a "boundless contiguity of shade,"--while paris is all brightness and sunshine. the difference in the appearance of the two capitals is due partly to the climate, and partly to the materials of which they are built--london showing miles on miles of dingy brick, with an atmosphere so charged with smoke and vapors that it blackens even the whitest marble; while paris is built of a light, cream-colored stone, that is found here in abundance, which is soft and easily worked, but hardens by exposure to the air, and that preserves its whiteness under this clearer sky and warmer sun. then the taste of the french makes every shop window bright with color; and there is something in the natural gayety of the people which is infectious, and which quickly communicates itself to a stranger. many a foreigner, on first landing in england, has walked the streets of london with gloomy thoughts of suicide, who once in paris feels as if transported to paradise. perhaps if he had stayed a little longer in england he would have thought better of the country and people. but it is impossible for a stranger at first to feel _at home_ in london, any more than if he were sent adrift all alone in the middle of the atlantic ocean. the english are reserved and cautious in their social relations, which may be very proper in regard to those of whom they know nothing. but once well introduced, the stranger is taken into their intimacy, and finds no spot on earth more warm than the interior of an english home. but in paris everybody seems to greet him at once without an introduction; he speaks to a frenchman on the street (if it be only to inquire his way), and instead of a gruff answer, meets with a polite reply. "it amounts to nothing," some may say. it costs indeed but a moment of time, but even that, many in england, and i am sorry to say in america also, are too impatient and too self-absorbed to give. in the shops everybody is so polite that one spends his money with pleasure, since he gets not only the matter of his purchase, but what he values still more, a smile and a pleasant word. it may be said that these are little things, but in their influence upon one's temper and spirits they are _not_ trifles, any more than sunshine is a trifle, or pure air; and in these minor moralities of life the french are an example to us and to all the world. but it is not only for their easy manners and social virtues that i am attracted to the french. they have many noble qualities, such as courage and self-devotion, instances of which are conspicuous in their national history; and are not less capable of christian devotion, innumerable examples of which may be found in both the catholic and the protestant churches. many of our american clergymen, who have travelled abroad, will agree with me, that more beautiful examples of piety they have never seen than among the protestants of france. i should be ungrateful indeed if i did not love the french, since to one of that nation i owe the chief happiness of my earthly existence. of course the great marvel of paris, and of france, is its _resurrection_--the manner in which it has recovered from the war. in riding about these streets, so full of life and gayety, and seeing on every side the signs of prosperity, i cannot realize that it is a city which, since i was here in --nay, within less time, has endured all the horrors of war; which has been _twice_ besieged, has been encompassed with a mighty army, and heard the sound of cannon day and night, its people hiding in cellars from the bombs bursting in the streets. yet it is not five years since louis napoleon was still emperor, reigning undisturbed in the palace of the tuileries, across the street from the hôtel du louvre, where i now write. it was on the th of july, , that war was declared against prussia in the midst of the greatest enthusiasm. the army was wild with excitement, expecting to march almost unopposed to berlin. sad dream of victory, soon to be rudely dispelled! a few weeks saw the most astounding series of defeats, and on the th of september the emperor himself surrendered at sedan, at the head of a hundred thousand men, and the empire, which he had been constructing with such infinite labor and care for twenty years, fell to the ground. but even then the trials of france were not ended. she was to have sorrow upon sorrow. next came the surrender of metz, with another great army, and then the crowning disaster of the long siege of paris, lasting over four months, and ending also in the same inglorious way. jena was avenged, when the prussian cavalry rode through the arch of triumph down the champs elysées. it was a bitter humiliation for france, but she had to drink the cup to the very dregs, when forced to sign a treaty of peace, ceding two of her most beautiful provinces, alsace and lorraine, and paying an indemnity of one thousand millions of dollars for the expenses of the war! nor was this all. as if the seven vials of wrath were to be poured out on her devoted head, scarcely was the foreign war ended, before civil war began, and for months the commune held paris under its feet. then the city had to undergo a second siege, and to be bombarded once more, not by germans, but by frenchmen, until its proud historical monuments were destroyed by its own people. the column of the place vendôme, erected to commemorate the victories of napoleon, out of cannon taken in his great battles, was levelled to the ground; and the palace of the tuileries and the hôtel de ville were burnt by these desperate revolutionists, who at last, to complete the catalogue of their crimes, butchered the hostages in cold blood! this was the end of the war, and such the state of paris in may, , scarcely four years ago. in the eyes of other nations, this was not only disaster, but absolute ruin. it seemed as if the country could not recover in one generation, and that for the next thirty years, so far as any political power or influence was concerned, france might be considered as blotted from the map of europe. but four years have passed, and what do we see? the last foreign soldier has disappeared from the soil of france, the enormous indemnity is paid, and the country is apparently as rich and prosperous, and paris as bright and gay, as ever. this seems a miracle, but the age of miracles is past, and such great results do not come without cause. the french are a very rich people--not by the accumulation of a few colossal fortunes, but by the almost infinite number of small ones. they are at once the most industrious and the most economical people in the world. they will live on almost nothing. even the chinese hardly keep soul and body together on less than these french _ouvriers_ whom we see going about in their blouses, and who form the laboring population of paris. so all the petty farmers in the provinces save something, and have a little against a rainy day; and when the time comes that the government wants a loan, out from old stockings, and from chimney corners, come the hoarded napoleons, which, flowing together like thousands of little rivulets, make the mighty stream of national wealth. but for a nation to pay its debts, especially when they have grown to be so great, it is necessary not only to have money, but to know how to use it. and here the interests of france have been managed with consummate ability. in spite of the constant drain caused by the heavy payment of the war indemnity to germany, the finances of the country have not been much disturbed, and to-day the bills of the bank of france are at par. i feel ashamed for my country when the cable reports to us from america, that our national currency is so depreciated that to purchase gold in new york one must pay a premium of seventeen per cent.! i wish some of our political financiers would come to paris for a few months, to take lessons from the far more successful financiers of france. what delights me especially in this great achievement is that it has all been done under the republic! it has not required a monarchy to maintain public order, and to give that security which is necessary to restore the full confidence of the commercial world. it is only by a succession of events so singular as to seem indeed providential, that france has been saved from being given over once more into the hands of the old dynasty. from this it has been preserved by the rivalship of different parties; so that the republic has been saved by the blunders of its enemies. the lord has confounded them, and the very devices intended for its destruction--such as putting marshal macmahon in power for seven years--have had the effect to prevent a restoration. thus the republic has had a longer life, and has established its title to the confidence of the nation. no doubt if the legitimists and the orleanists and imperialists could all _unite_, they might have a sovereign to-morrow; but each party prefers a republic to any sovereign _except its own_, and is willing that it should stand for a few years, in the hope that some turn of events will then give the succession to them. so, amid all this division of parties, the republic "still lives," and gains strength from year to year. the country is prosperous under it; order is perfectly maintained; and order _with liberty_: why should it not remain the permanent government of france? if only the country could be _contented_, and willing to let well enough alone, it might enjoy many long years of prosperity. but unfortunately there is a cloud in the sky. the last war has left the seeds of another war. its disastrous issue was so unexpected and so galling to the most proud and sensitive people in europe, that they will never rest satisfied till its terrible humiliation is redressed. the resentment might not be so bitter but for the taking of its two provinces. the defeats in the field of battle might be borne as the fate of war (for the french have an ingenious way, whenever they lose a battle, of making out that they were not _defeated_, but _betrayed_); even the payment of the enormous indemnity they might turn into an occasion of boasting, as they now do, as a proof of the vast resources of the country; but the loss of alsace and lorraine is a standing monument of their disgrace. they cannot wipe it off from the map of europe. there it is, with the hated german flag flying from the fortress of metz and the cathedral of strasburg. this is a humiliation to which they will never submit contentedly, and herein lies the probability--nay almost the certainty--of coming war. i have not met a frenchman of any position, or any political views, republican or monarchical, bonapartist or legitimist, catholic or protestant, whose blood did not boil at the mention of alsace and lorraine, and who did not look forward to a fresh conflict with germany as inevitable. when i hear a protestant pastor say, "i will give all my sons to fight for alsace and lorraine," i cannot but think the prospects of the peace society not very encouraging in europe. in the exhibition of the doré gallery, in london, there is a very striking picture by that great artist (who is himself an alsatian, and yet an intense frenchman), intended to represent alsace. it is a figure of a young woman, tall and beautiful, with eyes downcast, yet with pride and dignity in her sadness, as the french flag, which she holds, droops to her feet. beside her is a mother sitting in a chair nursing a child. the two figures tell the story in an instant. that mother is nursing her child to avenge the wrongs of his country. it is sad indeed to see a child thus born to a destiny of war and blood; to see the shadow of carnage and destruction hovering over his very cradle. yet such is the prospect now, which fills every christian heart with sadness. thus will the next generation pay in blood and tears, for the follies and the crimes of this. chapter vii. the french national assembly. we have been to versailles. of course our first visit was to the great palace built by louis xiv., which is over a quarter of a mile long, and which stands, like some of the remains of antiquity, as a monument of royal pride and ambition. it was built, as the kings of egypt built the pyramids, to tell to after ages of the greatness of his kingdom and the splendor of his reign. a gallant sight it must have been when this vast pile, with its endless suites of apartments, was filled with the most brilliant court in europe; when statesmen and courtiers and warriors, "fair women and brave men," crowded the immense saloons, and these terraces and gardens. it was a display of royal magnificence such as the world has seldom seen. the cost is estimated at not less than two hundred millions of dollars--a sum which considering the greater value of money two centuries ago, was equal to five times that amount at the present day, or a thousand millions, as much as the whole indemnity paid to germany. it was a costly legacy to his successors--costly in treasure and costly in blood. the building of versailles, with the ruinous and inglorious wars of louis xiv., drained the resources of france for a generation, and by the burdens they imposed on the people, prepared the way for the revolution. i could not but recall this with a bitter feeling as i stood in the gilded chamber where the great king slept, and saw the very bed on which he died. that was the end of all his glory, but not the end of the evil that he wrought: "the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones." the extravagance of this monarch was paid for by the blood of his descendants. if he had not lifted his head so high, the head of louis xvi. might not have fallen on the scaffold. it is good for france that she has no longer any use for such gigantic follies; and that the day is past when a whole nation can be sacrificed to the vanity and selfishness of one man. in this case the very magnitude of the structure defeated its object, for it was so great that no government since the revolution has known what to do with it. it required such an enormous expenditure to keep it up, that the prudent old king louis philippe _could not afford to live in it_, and at last turned it into a kind of museum or historical gallery, filled with pictures of french battles, and dedicated in pompous phrase, to all the glories of france. but it was not to see the palace of louis xiv. that i had most interest in revisiting versailles, but to see the national assembly sitting in it, which is at present the ruling power in france. if louis xiv. ever revisits the scene of his former magnificence, he must shake his kingly head at the strange events which it has witnessed. how he must have shuddered to see his royal house invaded by a mob, as it was in the time of the first revolution; to see the faithful swiss guards butchered in his very palace, and the queen, marie antoinette, escaping with her life; to see the grounds sacred to majesty trampled by the "fierce democracie" of france; and then by the iron heel of the corsican usurper; and by the feet of the allied armies under wellington. his soul may have had peace for a time when, under louis philippe and louis napoleon, versailles was comparatively silent and deserted. but what would he have said at seeing, only four winters ago, the emperor of germany and his army encamped here and beleaguering the capital? yet perhaps even that would not so have offended his royal dignity as to see a national assembly sitting in a part of this very palace in the name of a french republic! strange overturning indeed; but if strange, still true. they have a proverb in france that "it is always the improbable which happens," and so indeed it seems to be in french history; it is full of surprises, but few greater than that which now appears. france has drifted into a republic, when both statesmen and people meant not so. it was not the first choice of the nation. whatever may have been true of the populace of paris, the immense majority of the french people were sincerely attached to monarchy in some form, whether under a king or an emperor; and yet the country has neither, so that, as has been wittily said, france has been "a republic without republicans." but for all that the republic is _here_, and here it is likely to remain. when the present assembly first met, a little more than four years since, it was at bordeaux--for to that corner of france was the government driven; and when the treaty was signed, and it came north, it met at versailles rather than at paris, as a matter of necessity. paris was in a state of insurrection. it was in the hands of the commune, and could only be taken after a second siege, and many bloody combats around the walls and in the streets. this, and the experience so frequent in french history of a government being overthrown by the mob of paris invading the legislative halls, decided the national assembly to remain at versailles, even after the rebellion was subdued; and so there it is to this day, even though the greater part of the deputies go out from paris twelve miles every morning, and return every night; and in the programme which has been drawn up for the definite establishment of the republic, it is made an article of the constitution that the national assembly shall always meet at versailles. the place of meeting is the former theatre of the palace, which answers the purpose very well--the space below, in what was _the pit_, sufficing for the deputies, while the galleries are reserved for spectators. we found the approaches crowded with persons seeking admission, which can only be by ticket. but we had no difficulty. among the deputies is the well-known protestant pastor of paris, edouard de pressensé, who was chosen to the assembly in the stormy scenes of , and who has shown himself as eloquent in the tribune as in the pulpit. i sent him my card, and he came out immediately with two tickets in his hand, and directed one of the attendants to show us into the best seats in the house, who, thus instructed, conducted us to the diplomatic box (which, from its position in the centre of the first balcony, must have been once the royal box), from which we looked down upon the heads of the national assembly of france. and what a spectacle it was! the assembly consists of over seven hundred men, who may be considered as fair representatives of what is most eminent in france. of course, as in all such bodies, there are many elected from the provinces on account of some local influence, as landed proprietors, or as sons of noble families, who count only by their votes. but with these are many who have "come to the front" in this great national crisis, by the natural ascendancy which great ability always gives, and who by their talents have justly acquired a commanding influence in the country. the president of the assembly is the duke d'audiffret pasquier, whose elevated seat is at the other end of the hall. in front of him is "the tribune," from which the speakers address the assembly: it not being the custom here, as in our congress or in the english parliament, for a member to speak from his place in the house. this french custom has been criticized in england, as betraying this talkative people into more words, for a frenchman does not wish to "mount the tribune" for nothing, and once there the temptation is very strong to make "a speech." but we did not find that the speeches were much longer than in the house of commons, though they were certainly more violent. looking down upon the assembly, we see how it is divided between the two great parties--the royalists and the republicans. those sitting on the benches to the right of the president comprise the former of every shade--legitimists, orleanists, and imperialists, while those on the left are the republicans. besides these two grand divisions of the right and the left there are minor divisions, such as the right centre and the left centre, the former wishing a constitutional monarchy, and the latter a conservative republic. looking over this sea of heads, one sees some that bear great names. one indeed, and that the greatest, is not here, and is the more conspicuous by his absence. m. thiers, to whom france owes more than to any other living man, since he retired from the presidency, driven thereto by the factious opposition of some of the deputies, and perhaps now still more since the death of his life-long friend, de remusat, has withdrawn pretty much from public life, and devotes himself to literary pursuits. but other notable men are here. that giant with a shaggy mane, walking up the aisle, is jules favre--a man who has been distinguished in paris for a generation, both for his eloquence at the bar, and for his inflexible republicanism, which was never shaken, even in the corrupting times of the empire, and who in the dark days of , when the empire fell, was called by acclamation to become a member of the provisional government. he is the man who, when bismarck first talked of peace on the terms of a cession of territory, proudly answered to what he thought the insulting proposal, "not a foot of our soil, not a stone of our fortresses!" but who, some months after, had to sign with his own hand, but with a bitter heart, a treaty ceding alsace and lorraine, and agreeing to pay an indemnity of one thousand millions of dollars! ah well! he made mistakes, as everybody does, but we can still admire his lion heart, even though we admit that his oratorical fervor was greater than his political sagacity. and yonder, on the left, is another shaggy head, which has appeared in the history of france, and may appear again. that is leon gambetta! who, shut up in paris by the siege, and impatient for activity, escaped in a balloon, and sailing high over the camps of the german army, alighted near amiens, and was made minister of war, and began with his fiery eloquence, like another peter the hermit, to arouse the population of the provinces to a holy crusade for the extermination of the invader. this desperate energy seemed at first as if it might turn the fortunes of the war. thousands of volunteers rushed forward to fill the ranks of the independent corps known as the _franc-tireurs_. but though he rallied such numbers, he could not improvise an army; these recruits, though personally brave enough--for frenchmen are never wanting in courage--had not the discipline which inspires confidence and wins victory. as soon as these raw levies were hurled against the german veterans, they were dashed to pieces like waves against a rock. the attempt was so daring and patriotic that it deserved success; but it was too late. gambetta's work, however, is not ended in france. since the war he has surprised both his friends and his enemies by taking a very conciliatory course. he does not flaunt the red flag in the eyes of the nation. so cautious and prudent is he that some of the extreme radicals, like louis blanc, oppose him earnestly, as seeking to found a government which is republican only in name. but he judges more wisely that the only republic which france, with its monarchical traditions, will accept, is a conservative one, which shall not frighten capital by its wild theories of a division of property, but which, while it secures liberty, secures order also. in urging this policy, he has exercised a restraining influence over the more violent members of his own party, and thus done much toward conciliating opposition and rendering possible a french republic. on the same side of the house, yet nearer the middle, thus occupying a position in the left centre, is another man, of whom much is hoped at this time, m. laboulaye, a scholar and author, who by his prudence and moderation has won the confidence of the assembly and the country. he is one of the wise and safe men, to whom france looks in this crisis of her political history. but let us suspend our observation of members to listen to the discussions. as we entered, the assembly appeared to be in confusion. the talking in all parts of the house was incessant, and could not be repressed. the officers shouted "silence!" which had the effect to produce quiet _for about one minute_, when the buzz of voices rose as loud as ever. the french are irrepressible. and this general talking was not the result of indifference: on the contrary, the more the assembly became interested, the more tumultuous it grew. yet there was no question of importance before it, but simply one about the tariff on railways! but a frenchman will get excited on anything, and in a few minutes the assembly became as much agitated as if it were discussing some vital question of peace or war, of a monarchy or a republic. speaker after speaker rushed to the tribune, and with loud voices and excited looks demanded to be heard. the whole assembly took part in the debate--those who agreed with each speaker cheering him on, while those who opposed answered with loud cries of dissent. no college chapel, filled with a thousand students, was ever a scene of more wild uproar. the president tried to control them, but in vain. in vain he struck his gavel, and rang his bell, and at length in despair arose and stood with folded arms, waiting for the storm to subside. but he might as well have appealed to a hurricane. the storm had to blow itself out. after awhile the assembly itself grew impatient of further debate, and shouted "_aux voix! aux voix!_" and the question was taken; but how anybody could deliberate or vote in such a roaring tempest, i could not conceive. this disposed of, a deputy presented some personal matter involving the right of a member to his seat, for whom he demanded _justice_, accusing some committee or other of having suppressed evidence in his favor. then the tumult rose again. his charge provoked instant and bitter replies. members left their seats, and crowded around the tribune as if they would have assailed the obnoxious speaker with violence. from one quarter came cries, "_c'est vrai; c'est vrai!_" (it is true; it is true), while in another quarter a deputy sprang to his feet and rushed forward with angry gesture, shouting, "you are not an honest man!" so the tumult "loud and louder grew." it seemed a perfect bedlam. i confess the impression was not pleasant, and i could not but ask myself, _is this the way in which a great nation is to be governed, or free institutions are to be constituted?_ it was such a contrast to the dignified demeanor of the parliament of england, or the congress of the united states. we have sometimes exciting scenes in our house of representatives, when members forget themselves; but anything like this i think could not be witnessed in any other great national assembly, unless it were in the spanish cortes. i did not wonder that sober and thoughtful men in france doubt the possibility of popular institutions, when they see a deliberative body, managing grave affairs of state, so little capable of self-control. and yet we must not make out things worse than they are, or attach too much importance to these lively demonstrations. some who look on philosophically, would say that this mere talk amounts to nothing; that every question of real importance is deliberated upon and really decided in private, in the councils of the different parties, before it is brought into the arena of public debate; and that this discussion is merely a safety-valve for the irrepressible frenchman, a way of letting off steam, a process which involves no danger, although accompanied with a frightful hissing and roaring. this is a kindly as well as a philosophical way of putting the matter, and perhaps is a just one. some, too, will add that there is another special cause for excitement, viz., that this legislative body is at this moment _in the article of death_, and that these scenes are but the throes and pangs of dissolution. this national assembly has been in existence now more than four years, and it is time for it to die. indeed it has had no right to live so long. it was elected for a specific purpose at the close of the war--to make peace with the germans, and that duty discharged, its functions were ended, and it had no legal right to live another day, or to perform another act of sovereignty. but necessity knows no law. at that moment france was without a head. the emperor was gone, the old senate was gone, the legislative body was gone, and the country was actually without a government, and so, as a matter of self-preservation, the national assembly held on. it elected m. thiers president of the state, and he performed his duties with such consummate ability that france had never been so well governed before. then in an evil hour, finding that he was an obstacle to the plans of the legitimists to restore the monarchy, they combined to force him to resign, and put marshal macmahon in his place, a man who may be a good soldier (although he never did anything very great, and blundered fearfully in the german war, having his whole army captured at sedan), but who never pretended to be a statesman. he was selected as a convenient tool in the hands of the intriguers. but even in him they find they have more than they bargained for; for in a moment of confidence they voted him the executive power for seven years, and now he will not give up, even to make way for a legitimate sovereign, for the comte de chambord, or for the son of his late emperor, napoleon iii. all this time the assembly has been acting without any legal authority; but as power is sweet, it held on, and is holding on still. but now, as order is fully restored, all excuse is taken away for surviving longer. the only thing it has to do is to die gracefully, that is, to dissolve, and leave it to the country to elect a new assembly which, being fresh from the people, shall more truly represent the will of the nation. and yet these men are very reluctant to go, knowing as many of them do, that they will not return. hence the great question now is that of _dissolution_--"to be or not to be"; and it is not strange that many postpone as long as they can "the inevitable hour." it is for this reason, it is said, because of its relation to the question of its own existence, that the assembly wrangles over unimportant matters, hoping by such discussions to cause delay, and so to throw over the elections till another year. but as time and tide wait for no man, so death comes on with stealthy step, and this national assembly must soon go the way of all the earth. what will come after it? another assembly--so it seems now--more republican still. that is the fear of the monarchists. but the cause of the republic has gained greatly in these four years, as it is seen to be not incompatible with order. it is no longer the red republic, which inspired such terror; it is not communism, nor socialism, nor war against property. _it is combined order and liberty._ as this conviction penetrates the mass of the people, they are converted to the new political faith, and so the republic begins to settle itself on sure foundations. it is all the more likely to be permanent, because it was not adopted in a burst of popular enthusiasm, but _very slowly_, and from necessity. it is accepted because no other government is possible in france, at least for any length of time. if the comte de chambord were proclaimed king to-morrow, he might reign for a few years--_till the next revolution_. it is this conviction which has brought many conservative men to the side of the republic. m. thiers, the most sagacious of french statesmen, has always been in favor of monarchy. he was the minister of louis philippe, and one of his sayings used to be quoted: "a constitutional monarchy is the best of republics." perhaps he would still prefer a government like that of england. but he sees that to be impossible in france, and, like a wise man that he is, he takes the next best thing--which is a conservative republic, based on a written constitution, like that of the united states, and girt round by every check on the exercise of power--a government in which there is the greatest possible degree of personal freedom consistent with public order. to this, as the final result of all her revolutions, france seems to be steadily gravitating now, as her settled form of government. that this last experiment of political regeneration may be successful, must be the hope of all friends of liberty, not only in america, but all over the world. chapter viii. the lights and shadows of paris. i have written of the startling contrasts of london; what shall i say of those of paris? it is the gayest city in the world, yet the one in which there are more suicides than in any other. it is the city of pleasure, yet where pleasure often turns to pain, and the dance of dissipation, whirling faster and faster, becomes the dance of death. it is a city which seems devoted to amusement, to which the rich and the idle flock from all countries to spend life in an endless round of enjoyment; with which some of our countrymen have become so infatuated that their real feeling is pretty well expressed in the familiar saying--half witty and half wicked--that "all good americans go to paris _when they die_." certainly many of them do not dream of any higher paradise. and yet it is a city in which there are many sad and mournful scenes, and in which he who observes closely, who looks a little under the surface, will often walk the streets in profound melancholy. in short, it is a city of such infinite variety, so many-colored, that the laughing and the weeping philosopher may find abundant material for his peculiar vein. eugene sue, in his "mysteries of paris," has made us familiar with certain tragic aspects of parisian life hidden from the common eye. with all its gayety, there is a great deal of concealed misery which keeps certain quarters in a chronic state of discontent, which often breaks out in bloody insurrections; so that the city which boasts that it is "the centre of civilization," is at the same time the focus of revolution, of most of the plots and conspiracies which trouble the peace of europe. as the capital of a great nation, the centre of its intellectual, its literary, and its artistic life, it has a peculiar fascination for those who delight in the most elevated social intercourse. its salons are the most brilliant in the world, so that we can understand the feeling of madame de staël, the woman of society, who considered her banishment from paris by the first napoleon as the greatest punishment, and who "would rather see the stones of the rue du bac than all the mountains of switzerland"; and yet this very brilliancy sometimes wearies to satiety, so that we can understand equally the feeling of poor, morbid jean jacques rousseau, who more than a hundred years ago turned his back upon it with disgust, saying, "farewell, paris! city of noise, and dust, and strife! he who values peace of mind can never be far enough from thee!" if we are quite just, we shall not go to either of these extremes. we shall see the good and the evil, and frankly acknowledge both. paris is generally supposed to be a sinner above all other cities; to have a kind of bad eminence for its immorality. it is thought to be a centre of vice and demoralization, and some innocent young preachers who have never crossed the sea, would no doubt feel justified in denouncing it as the wickedest city in the world. as to the extent to which immorality of any kind prevails, i have no means of judging, except such as every stranger has; but certainly as to intemperance, there is nothing here to compare with that in london, or glasgow, or edinburgh; and as to the other form of vice we can only judge by its public display, and there is nothing half so gross, which so outrages all decency, as that which shocks and disgusts every foreigner in the streets of london. no doubt here, as in every great capital which draws to itself the life of a whole nation, there is a concentration of the bad as well as the good elements of society, and we must expect to find much that is depraved and vicious; but that in these respects paris is worse than london, or berlin, or vienna, or even new york, i see no reason to believe. without taking, therefore, a lofty attitude of denunciation on the one hand, or going into sudden raptures on the other, there are certain aspects of paris which lie on the surface, and which any one may observe without claiming to be either wiser or better than his neighbors. i have tried to see the city both in its brighter lights and its darker shadows. i have lived in paris, first and last, a good deal. i was here six months in - , and saw the revolution which overthrew louis philippe, and have been here often since. i confess i am fond of it, and always return with pleasure. that which strikes the stranger at once is its bright, sunny aspect; there is something inspiring in the very look of the people; one feels a change in the very air. since we came here now, we have been riding about from morning to night. our favorite drive is along the boulevards just at evening, when the lamps are lighted, and all paris seems to be sitting out of doors. the work of the day is over, and the people have nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. by hundreds and thousands they are sitting on the wide pavements, sipping their coffee, and talking with indescribable animation. then we extend our ride to the champs elysées, where the broad avenue is one blaze of light, and places of amusement are open on every side, from which comes the sound of music. it is all a fairy scene, such as one reads of in the arabian nights. thousands are sitting under the trees, enjoying the cool evening air, or coming in from a ride to the bois de boulogne. but it may be thought that these are the pleasures of the rich. on the contrary, they are the pleasures of all classes; and that is the charming thing about it. that which pleases me most in paris is the _general_ cheerfulness. i do not observe such wide extremes of condition as in london, such painful contrasts between the rich and the poor. indeed, i do not find here such abject poverty, nor see such dark, sullen, scowling faces, which indicate such brutal degradation, as i saw in the low quarters of london. here everybody seems to be, at least in a small way, comfortable and contented. i have spoken once before of the industry of the people (no city in the world is such a hive of busy bees) and of their economy, which shows itself even in their pleasures, of which they are fond, but which they get _very cheap_. no people will get so much out of so little. what an english workman would spend in a single drunken debauch, a frenchman will spread over a week, and get a little enjoyment out of it every day. it delights me to see how they take their pleasures. everybody seems to be happy in his own way, and not to be envious of his neighbor. if a man cannot ride with two horses, he will go with one, and even if that one be a sorry hack, with ribs sticking out of his sides, and that seems just ready for the crows, no matter, he will pile his wife and children into the little, low carriage, and off they go, not at great speed, to be sure, but as gay and merry as if they were the emperor and his court, with outriders going before, and a body of cavalry clattering at their heels. when i have seen a whole family at versailles or st. cloud dining on five francs (oh no, that is too magnificent; they carry their dinner with them, and it probably does not cost them two francs), i admire the simple tastes which are so easily satisfied, and the miracle-working art which extracts honey from every daisy by the roadside. such simple and universal enjoyment would not be possible, but for one trait which is peculiar to the french--an entire absence of _mauvaise honte_, or false shame; the foolish pride, which is so common in england and america, of wishing to be thought as rich or as great as others. in london no one would dare, even if he were allowed, to show himself in hyde park in such unpretentious turnouts as those in which half paris will go to the bois de boulogne. but here everybody jogs along at his own gait, not troubling himself about his neighbor. "live and let live" seems to be, if not the law of the country, at least the universal habit of the people. whatever other faults the french have, i believe they are freer than most nations from "envy, malice, and all uncharitableness." with this there is a feeling of self-respect, even among the common people, that is very pleasing. if you speak to a french servant, or to a workman in a blouse, he does not sink into the earth as if he were an inferior being, or take a tone of servility, but answers politely, yet self-respectingly, as one conscious that he too is a man. the most painful thing that i found in england was the way in which the distinctions of rank, which seem to be as rigid as the castes of india, have eaten into the manhood and self-respect of our great anglo-saxon race. but here "a man's a man," and especially if he is a frenchman, he is as good as anybody. from this absence of false pride and false shame comes the readiness of the people to talk about their private affairs. how quickly they take you into their confidence, and tell you all their little personal histories! the other day we went to the salpêtrière, the great hospital for aged women, which mrs. field describes in her "home sketches in france," where are five thousand poor creatures cared for by the charity of paris. hundreds of these were seated under the trees, or walking about the grounds. as i went to find one of the officials, i left c---- standing under an arch. seeing her there, one of the old women, with that politeness which is instinctive with the french, invited her into her little room. when i came back, i found they had struck up a friendship. the good mother--poor, dear, old soul!--had told all her little story: who she was, and how she came there, and how she lived. she made her own soup, she said, and had put up some pretty muslin curtains, and had a tiny bit of a stove, and so got along very nicely. this communicativeness is not confined to the inmates of hospitals. it is a national trait, which makes us love a people that give us their confidence so freely. i might add many other amiable traits, which give a great charm to the social life of the french, and fill their homes with brightness and sunshine. but of course there is another side to the picture. there is lightning in the beautiful cloud, and sometimes the thunder breaks fearfully over this devoted city. i do not refer to great public calamities, such as war and siege, bringing "battle, and murder, and sudden death," but to those daily tragedies, which are enacted in a great city, which the world never hears of, where men and women drop out of existence, as one "sinks into the waves with bubbling groan," and disappear from view, and the ocean rolls over them, burying the story of their unhappy lives and their wretched end. something of this darker shading to bright and gay paris, one may discover who is curious in such matters. there is a kind of fascination which sometimes lures me to search out that which is sombre and tragic in human life and in history. so i have been to the prison de la roquette, over which is an inscription which might be written over the gates of hell: depÔt des condamnÉs. here the condemned are placed before they are led to death, and in the open space in front take place all the executions in paris. look you at those five stones deep set in the pavement, on which are planted the posts of the guillotine! over that in the centre hangs the fatal knife, which descends on the neck of the victim, whose head rolls into the basket below. but prisons are not peculiar to paris, and probably quite as many executions have been witnessed in front of newgate, in london. but that which gives a peculiar and sadder interest to this spot, is that here took place one of the most terrible tragedies even in french history--the massacre of the hostages in the days of the commune. in that prison yard the venerable archbishop of paris was shot, with others who bore honored names. no greater atrocity was enacted even in the reign of terror. there fiends in human shape, with hearts as hard as the stones of the street, butchered old age. in another quarter of paris, on the heights of montmartre, the enraged populace shot down two brave generals--lecompte and clement-thomas. i put my hand into the very holes made in the wall of a house by the murderous balls. such cowardly assassinations, occurring more than once in french history, reveal a trait of character not quite so amiable as some that i have noticed. they show that the polite and polished frenchman may be so aroused as to be turned into a wild beast, and give a color of reason to the savage remark of voltaire--himself one of the race--that "a frenchman was half monkey and half tiger." i will present but one other dark picture. i went one day, to the horror of my companion, to visit the morgue, the receptacle of all the suicides in paris, where their bodies are exposed that they may be recognized by friends. of course some are brought here who die suddenly in the streets, and whose names are unknown. but the number of suicides is fearfully great. bodies are constantly fished out of the seine, of those who throw themselves from the numerous bridges. others climb to the top of the column in the place vendôme, or of that on the place of the bastille, or to the towers of nôtre dame, and throw themselves over the parapet, and their mangled bodies are picked up on the pavement below. others find the fumes of charcoal an easier way to fall into "an eternal sleep." but thus, by one means or other, by pistol or by poison, by the tower or the river, almost every day has its victim. i think the exact statistics show more than one suicide a day throughout the year. when i was at the morgue there were two bodies stretched out stark and cold--a man and a woman, _both young_. i looked at them with very sad reflections. if those poor lips could but speak, what tragedies they might tell! who knows what hard battle of life they had to fight--what struggles wrung that manly breast, or what sorrow broke that woman's heart? who was she? "had she a father? had she a mother? had she a sister? had she a brother? or one dearer still than all other?" perhaps she had led a life of shame, but all trace of passion was gone now: "death had left on her only the beautiful." and as i marked the rich tresses which hung down over her shoulders, i thought jesus would not have disdained her if she had come to him as a penitent magdalen, and with that flowing hair had wiped his sacred feet. i do not draw these sad pictures to point a moral against the french, as if they were sinners above all others, but i think this great number of suicides may be ascribed, in part at least, to the mercurial and excitable character of the people. they are easily elated and easily depressed; now rising to the height of joyous excitement, and now sinking to the depths of despair. and when these darker moods come on, what so natural as that those who have not a strong religious feeling to restrain them, or to give them patience to bear their trials, should seek a quick relief in that calm rest which no rude waking shall ever disturb? if they had that faith in god, and a life to come, which is the only true consolation in all time of our trouble, in all time of our adversity, they would not so often rush to the grave, thinking to bury their sorrows in the silence of the tomb. thus musing on the lights and shadows of paris, i turn away half in admiration and half in pity, but all in love. with all its shadows, it is a wonderful city, by far the greatest, except london, in the modern world, and the french are a wonderful people; and while i am not blind to their weaknesses, their vanity, their childish passion for military glory, yet "with all their faults i love them still." and i have written thus, not only from a feeling of love for paris from personal associations, but from a sense of _justice_, believing that the harsh judgment often pronounced upon it is hasty and mistaken. all such sweeping declarations are sure to be wrong. no doubt the elements of good and evil are mingled here in large proportions, and act with great intensity, and sometimes with terrific results. but frenchmen are not worse than other men, nor paris worse than other cities. if it has some dark spots, it has many bright ones, in its ancient seats of learning and its noble institutions of charity. taking them all together, they form a basis for a very kindly judgment. and i believe that he who from his throne in heaven looks down upon all the dwellers upon earth, seeing that in the judgment of truth and of history this city is not utterly condemned, would say "neither do i condemn thee: go and sin no more." chapter ix. going on a pilgrimage. geneva, july th. we have been on a pilgrimage. in coming to france, i had a great desire to visit one of those shrines which have become of late objects of such enthusiastic devotion, and attracted pilgrims from all parts of europe, and even from america. in a former chapter i spoke of the resurrection of france, referring to its material prosperity as restored since the war. there has been also a revival of religious fervor--call it superstition or fanaticism--which is quite remarkable. those who have kept watch of events in the religious as well as in the political world, have observed a sudden access of zeal throughout catholic christendom. whatever the cause, whether the "persecution," real or imaginary, of the holy father, or the heavy blows which the church has received from the iron hand of germany in its wars with austria and france--the fact is evident that there has been a great increase of activity among the more devout catholics--which shows itself in a spirit of propagandism, in "missions," which are a kind of revivals, and in pilgrimages to places which are regarded as having a peculiar sanctity. these pilgrimages are so utterly foreign to our american ideas, they appear so childish and ridiculous, that it seems impossible to speak of them with gravity. and yet there has been at least one of these pious expeditions from the united states (of which there was a long account in the new york papers), in which the pilgrims walked in procession down broadway, and embarked with the blessing of our new american cardinal. from england they have been quite frequent. large numbers, among whom we recognize the names of several well known catholic noblemen, assemble in london, and receive the blessing of cardinal manning, and then leave to make devout pilgrimages to the "holy places" (which are no longer only in palestine, but for greater convenience have been brought nearer, and are now to be found in france), generally ending with a pilgrimage to rome, to cast themselves at the feet of the holy father, who gives them his blessing, while he bewails the condition of europe, and anathematizes those who "oppress" the church--thus blessing and cursing at the same time. if my object in writing were to cast ridicule on the whole affair, there is something very tempting in the easy and luxurious way in which these modern pilgrimages are performed. of old, when a pilgrim set out for the holy land, it was with nothing but a staff in his hand, and sandals on his feet, and thus he travelled hundreds of leagues, over mountain and moor, through strange countries, begging his way from door to door, reaching his object at last perhaps only to die. even the pilgrimage to mecca has something imposing to the imagination, as a long procession of camels files out of the streets of cairo, and takes the way of the desert. but these more fashionable pilgrims travel by steam, in first-class railway carriages, with cook's excursion tickets, and are duly lodged and cared for, from the moment they set out till they are safely returned to england. one of cook's agents in paris told me he had thus conveyed a party of two thousand. it must be confessed, this is devotion made easy, in accordance with the spirit of the modern time, which is not exactly a spirit of self-sacrifice, but "likes all things comfortable"--even religion. but my object was not to ridicule, but to observe. if i did not go as a pilgrim, on the one hand, neither was it merely as a travelling correspondent, aiming only at a sensational description. if i did not go in a spirit of faith, it was at least in a spirit of candor, to observe and report things exactly as i saw them. but how was i to reach one of these holy shrines? they are a long way off. the grotto of lourdes, where the holy virgin is said to have appeared to a girl of the country, is in the pyrenees; while paray-le-monial is nearly three hundred miles southeast from paris. however, it is not very far aside from the route to switzerland, and so we took it on our way to geneva, resting over a day at macon for the purpose. it was a bright summer morning when we started from macon, and wound our way among the vine-clad hills of the ancient province of burgundy. it is a picturesque country. old chateaux hang upon the sides, or crown the summits of the hills, while quaint little villages nestle at their foot. in yonder village was born the poet and statesman, lamartine. we can see in passing the chateau where he lived, and here, "after life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." all these sunny slopes are covered with vineyards, which are now smiling in their summer dress. i do not wonder that pilgrims, as they enter this "hill-country," are often reminded of palestine. three hours brought us to paray-le-monial, a little town of three or four thousand inhabitants--just like hundreds of others in france, with nothing to attract attention, except the marvellous tradition which has given it a sudden and universal celebrity, and which causes devout catholics to approach it with a feeling of reverence. the story of the place is this: in the little town is a convent, which has been standing for generations. here, _two hundred years ago_, lived a nun, whose name was marguerite marie alacoque, who was eminent for her piety, who spent a great part of her life in prayer, and whose devotion was at length rewarded by the personal appearance of our lord, who opened to her his bosom, and showed her his heart burning with love for men, and bade her devote herself to the worship of that "sacred heart"! these visitations were very frequent. some of them were in the chapel, and some in the garden attached to the convent. the latter is not open to visitors, the pope having issued an order that the privacy of the _religieuses_ should be respected. but a church near by overlooks it, and whoever will take the fatigue to climb to the top, may look down into the forbidden place. as we were determined to see everything, we mounted all the winding stone steps in the tower, from which the keeper pointed out to us the very spot where our saviour appeared to the bienheureuse, as he called her. in a clump of small trees are two statues, one of the lord himself, and the other of the nun on her knees, as she instantly sank to the ground when she recognized before her the majesty of her blessed lord. there is another place in the garden where also she beheld the same heavenly vision. sometimes the "seigneur" appeared to her unattended; at others he was accompanied by angels and seraphim. it is a little remarkable that this wonderful fact of the personal appearance of christ, though it occurred, according to the tradition, _two hundred years ago_, did not attract more attention; that it was neglected even by catholic historians, until twelve years since--in --when (as a part of a general movement "all along the line" to revive the decaying faith of france) the marvellous story of this long neglected saint was revived, and brought to the notice and adoration of the religious world. but let not cold criticism come in to mar the full enjoyment of what we have come so far to see. the principal visitations were not in the garden but in the chapel of the convent, which on that account bears the name of the chapel of the visitation. here is the tomb which contains the body of the sainted nun, an image of whom in wax lies above it under a glass case, dressed in the robe of her order, with a crown on her head, to bring before the imagination of the faithful the presence of her at whose shrine they worship. the chapel is separated from the convent by a large grating, behind which the nuns can be hidden and yet hear the service, and chant their offices. there it was, so it is said, behind that grate, while in an ecstasy of prayer, that our saviour first appeared to the gaze of the enraptured nun. the grate is now literally covered with golden hearts, the offerings of the faithful. similar gifts hang over the altar, while gilded banners and other votive offerings cover the walls. as we entered the chapel, it was evident that we were in what was to many a holy place. at the moment there was no service going on, but some were engaged in silent meditation and prayer. we seemed to be the only persons present from curiosity. all around us were absorbed in devotion. we sat a long time in silence, musing on the strange scene, unwilling to disturb even by a whisper the stillness of the place, or the thoughts of those who had come to worship. at three o'clock the nuns began to sing their offices. but they did not show themselves. there are other sisters, who have the care of the chapel, and who come in to trim the candles before the shrine, but the nuns proper live a life of entire seclusion, never being seen by any one. only their voices are heard. nothing could be more plaintive than their low chanting, as it issued from behind the bars of their prison house, and seemed to come from a distance. there, hidden from the eyes of all, sat that invisible choir, and sang strains as soft as those which floated over the shepherds of bethlehem. as an accompaniment to the scene in the chapel, nothing could be more effective; it was well fitted to touch the imagination, as also when the priest intoned the service in the dim light of this little church, with its censers swinging with incense, and its ever-burning lamps. the walls of the chapel are covered with banners, some from other countries, but most from france, and here it is easy to see how the patriotic feeling mingles with the religious. here and there may be seen the image of the sacred heart with a purely religious inscription, such as _voici le coeur qui a tant aimé les hommes_ (here is the heart which has so loved men); but much more often it is, coeur de jesus, sauvez la france! this idea in some form constantly reappears, and one cannot help thinking that this sudden outburst of religious zeal has been greatly intensified by the disasters of the german war; that for the first time french armies beaten in the field, have resorted to prayer; that they fly to the holy virgin, and to the sacred heart of jesus to implore the protection which their own arms could not give. hung in conspicuous places on columns beside the chancel are banners of alsace and lorraine, _covered with crape_, the former with a cross in the centre, encircled with the words first written in the sky before the adoring eyes of constantine: in hoc signo vinces; while for lorraine stands only the single name of metz, invested with such sad associations, with the inscription, sacrÉ coeur de jesus, sauvez la france! there is no doubt that these pilgrimages have been encouraged by french politicians, as a means of reviving and inflaming the enthusiasm of the people, not only for the old catholic faith, but for the old catholic monarchy. of the tens of thousands who flock to these shrines, there are few who are not strong legitimists. on the walls of the chapel the most glittering banner is that of henri de bourbon, which is the name by which the comte de chambord chooses to be known as the representative of the old royal race. not to be outdone in pious zeal, marshal macmahon, who is a devout catholic--and his wife still more so--has also sent a banner to paray-le-monial, but it is not displayed with the same ostentation. the legitimists have no wish to keep his name too much before the french people. he is well enough as a temporary head of the state till the rightful sovereign comes, but when henri de bourbon appears, they want no "marshal-president" to stand in his way as he ascends the throne of his ancestors. thus excited by a strange mixture of religious zeal and political enthusiasm, france pours its multitudes annually to these shrines of lourdes and paray-le-monial. we were too late for the rush this year--the season was just over; for there is a season for going on pilgrimages as for going to watering-places, and june is the month in which they come in the greatest numbers. there have been as many as twenty thousand in one day. on the th of june--which was a special occasion--the crowd was so great that mass was begun at two o'clock in the morning, and repeated without ceasing till noon, the worshippers retiring at the end of every half hour, that a new throng might take their places. thus successive pilgrims press forward to the holy shrine, and go away with an elated, almost ecstatic feeling, that they have left their sins and their sorrows at the tomb of the now sainted and glorified nun. what shall we say to this? that it is all nonsense--folly, born of fanaticism and superstition? medical men will have an easy way of disposing of this nun and her visions, by saying that she was simply a crazy woman; that nothing is more common than these fancies of a distempered imagination; that such cases may be found in every lunatic asylum; that hysterical women often think that they have seen the saviour, &c. such is a very natural explanation of this singular phenomenon. there is no reason to suppose that this nun was a designing woman, that she intended to deceive. people who have visions are the sincerest of human beings. they have unbounded faith in themselves, and think it strange that an unbelieving world does not give the same credit to their revelations. from all that i have read of this marie alacoque, i am quite ready to believe that she was indeed a very devout woman, who, buried in that living tomb, a convent, praying and fasting, worked herself into such a fever of excitement, that she thought the saviour came down into the garden, and into the chapel; that she saw his form and heard his voice. to her it was all a living reality. but that her simple statement, supported by no other evidence, should be gravely accepted in this nineteenth century by men who are supposed to be still in the possession of sober reason, is one of the strange things which it would be impossible to believe, were it not that i have seen it with my own eyes, and which is one more proof that wonders will never cease. but sincerity of faith always commands a certain respect, even when coupled with ignorance and superstition. if this shows an extreme of credulity absolutely pitiful, yet we must consider it not as _we_ look at it, but as these devout pilgrims regard it. to them this spot is one of the holy places of the world, for here they believe the incarnate divinity descended to the earth; they believe that this garden has been touched by his blessed feet; and that this little chapel, so honored in the past, is still filled with the presence of him who once was here, but is now ascended up far above all heavens. and hence this paray-le-monial in their minds is invested with the same sacred associations with which we regard nazareth and bethlehem. but with every disposition to look upon these manifestations in the most indulgent light, it is impossible not to feel that there is something very french in this way of attempting to revive the faith of a great nation. among this people everything seems to have a touch of the theatrical--even in their religion there is frequency more of show than of conviction. thus this new worship is not addressed to the name of our saviour, but to his "sacred heart"! there is something in that image which seems to take captive the french imagination. the very words have a rich and mellow sound. and so the attempt which was begun in an obscure village of burgundy, is now proclaimed in paris and throughout the kingdom, to dedicate france to the sacred heart of jesus. this peculiar form of worship is the new religious fashion. a few weeks since an imposing service attracted the attention of paris. a procession of bishops and priests, followed by great numbers of the faithful, wound through the streets, up to the heights of montmartre, there to lay, with solemn ceremonies, the corner-stone of a new church dedicated to the sacred heart. we drove to the spot, which is the highest in the whole circle of paris, and which overlooks it almost as edinburgh castle overlooks that city. there one looks down on the habitations of two millions of people. a church erected on that height, with its golden cross lifted into mid-heaven, would seem like a banner in the sky, to hold up before this unbelieving people an everlasting sign of the faith. but though the romish church should consecrate ever so many shrines; though it build churches and cathedrals, and rear its flaming crosses on every hill and mountain from the alps to the pyrenees; it is not thus that religion is to be enthroned in the hearts of a nation. the fact is not to be disguised that france has fallen away from the faith. it looks on at all these attempts with indifference, or with an amused curiosity. if popular writers notice them at all, it is to make them an object of ridicule. at one of the paris theatres an actor appears dressed as a brahmin, and offers to swear "by the sacred heart of _a cow_" (that being a sacred animal in india). the hit is caught at once by the audience, who answer it with applause. it is thus that the populace of paris sneer at the new superstition. would to god that france might be speedily recovered to a true christian faith; but it is not to be by any such fantastic tricks or theatrical devices, by shows or processions, by gilded crosses or waving banners, or by going on pilgrimages as in the days of the crusades. even the catholic church has more efficient instruments at command. the sisters of charity in hospitals are far more effective missionaries than nuns behind the bars of a convent, singing hymns to the virgin, or lamps burning before the shrine of a saint dead hundreds of years ago. if france is ever to be brought back to the faith, it must be by arguments addressed to the understanding, which shall meet the objections of modern science and philosophy; and, above all, by living examples of its power. if religion is to conquer the modern world; if it is even to keep its present hold among the nations, it must be brought into contact with the minds and hearts of the people as never before; it must grapple with the problems of modern society, with poverty and misery in all its forms. especially in the great capitals of europe it has its hardest field, and there it must go into all the narrow lanes and miserable dwellings, it must minister to the sick, and clothe the naked and feed the hungry. france will never be converted merely by dramatic exhibitions, that touch the imagination. it must be by something that can touch the conscience and the heart. thus only can the heart of france ever be won to "the sacred heart of jesus." chapter x. under the shadow of mont blanc. the vale of chamouni, july th. i did not mean to write anything about switzerland, because it is such trodden ground. almost everybody that has been in europe has been here, and even to those who have not, repeated descriptions have made it familiar. and yet when once among these mountains, the impression comes back fresh and strong as ever, and while the spell is on the traveller, he cannot but wish to impart a little of his enjoyment to friends at home. we are in the vale of chamouni, under the shadow of mont blanc. in this valley, shut in by the encircling mountains, one cannot escape from that "awful form" any more than from the presence of god. it is everywhere day and night. we throw open our windows, and it is standing right before us. even at night the moonlight is glistening on its eternal snows. thus it forces itself upon us, and must receive respectful homage. we left geneva on one of the most beautiful mornings of the year. there has been great lamentation throughout switzerland this summer, on account of the frequent rains, which have enveloped the mountains in a continual mist. but we have been favored in this respect, both at geneva and at chamouni. to set out on a mountain excursion on such a morning, and ride on the top of a diligence, is enough to stir the blood of the most languid tourist. a french diligence is a monstrous affair--a kind of noah's ark on wheels--that carries a multitude of living creatures. we had twenty-four persons (three times as many as noah had in the ark) mounted on this huge vehicle, to which were harnessed six horses, three abreast. we had the front seat on the top. in such grandeur we rolled out of geneva, feeling at every step the exhilaration of the mountain air, and the bright summer morning. the postilion was in his glory. how he cracked his whip as we rattled through the little swiss villages, making the people run to get out of his way, and stare in wonder at the tremendous momentum of his imperial equipage. to us, who sat sublime "above the noise and dust of this dim spot called earth," there was something at once exciting and ludicrous in the commotion we made. but there were other occasions for satisfaction. the day was divine. the country around geneva rises from the lake, and spreads out in wide, rolling distances, bordered on every side by the great mountains. the air was full of the smell of new-mown hay, while over all hung the bending sky, full of sunshine. thus with every sense keen with delight, we sat on high and took in the full glory of the scene, as we swept on towards the alps. as we advance the mountains close in around us, till we cannot see where we are to find a passage through them. for the last half of the way the construction of the road has been a difficult task of engineering; for miles it has to be built up against the mountain; at other places a passage is cut in the side of the cliff, or a tunnel made through the rock. yet difficult as it was, the work has been thoroughly done. it was completed by napoleon iii., after savoy was annexed to france, and is worthy to compare with the road which the first napoleon built over the simplon. over such a highway we rolled on steadily to the end of our journey. and now we are in the vale of chamouni, in the very heart of the alps, under the shadow of the greatest of them all: "mont blanc is the monarch of mountains they crowned him long ago on a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, with a diadem of snow." once in the valley, we can hardly turn aside our eyes from that overpowering object. we keep looking up at that mighty dome, which seems to touch the sky. fortunately for us, there was no cloud about the throne. like other monarchs, he is somewhat fitful and capricious, often hiding his royal head from the sight of his worshippers. many persons come to chamouni, and do not see mont blanc at all. sometimes they wait for days for an audience of his majesty, without success. but he favored us at once with the sight of his imperial countenance. glorious was it to behold him as he shone in the last rays of the setting sun. and when evening drew on, the moon hung above that lofty summit, as if unwilling to leave. as she declined towards the west, she did not disappear at once; but as the mountains themselves sank away from the height of mont blanc, the moon seemed to glide slowly down the descending slope, setting and reappearing, and touching the whole with her silver radiance. but sunset and moonlight were both less impressive than sunrise. remembering coleridge's "hymn to mont blanc," which is supposed to be written "before sunrise in the vale of chamouni," we were up in the morning to catch the earliest dawn. it was long in coming. at first a few faint streaks of light shot up the eastern sky; then a rosy tinge flushed the head of mont blanc; then other snowy summits caught the golden glow; till a hundred splintered peaks, that formed a part of the mighty range, reflected the light of coming day, and at last the full orb himself rose above the tops of the mountains, and shone down into the valley. of course all visitors to chamouni have to climb some of the lower mountains to see the glaciers, and get a general view of the chain of mont blanc. my companion was ambitious to do something more than this. she is a very good walker and climber, and had taken many long tramps among our berkshire hills, and to her mont blanc did not seem much more than monument mountain. in truth, the eye is deceived in judging of these tremendous heights, and cannot take in at first the real elevation. but when they are accurately measured, mont blanc is found to be about twenty times as high as the cliff which overlooks our housatonic valley! but a young enthusiast feels equal to anything, and she seemed really quite disappointed that she could not at least go as far as the grands mulets (where, with a telescope, we can just see a little cabin on the rocks), which is the limit of the first day's journey for adventurous tourists, most of whom do not get any further. a party that went up yesterday, intending to reach the top of mont blanc, had to turn back. a recent fall of snow had buried the mountain, so that they sank deep at every step; and finding it dangerous to proceed, they prudently abandoned the attempt. the ascent of mont blanc, at all times difficult, is often a dangerous undertaking. many adventurous travellers have lost their lives in the attempt. an avalanche may bury a whole party in a moment; or if lashed to the guides by a rope, one slipping may drag the whole down into one of the enormous crevasses, where now many bodies lie unburied, yet preserved from decay in the eternal ice. only five years ago, in september, , a party of eleven--three tourists (of whom two were americans), with eight guides and porters--were all lost. they had succeeded in reaching the summit of the mountain, when a snow-storm came on, and it was impossible for them to descend. the body of one of them, dr. bean, of baltimore, was recovered, and is buried in the little graveyard here. with such warnings, a sober old uncle might be excused for restraining a young lady's impetuosity. if we could be here a month, and "go into training," by long walks and climbs every day, i do believe we should gradually work our courage up to the sticking-point, and at last climb to the top, and plant a very modest american flag on the hoary head of mont blanc. but for the present we must be content with a less ambitious performance, and make only the customary ascent of the montanvert, and cross the mer de glace. we left at eight o'clock yesterday morning. our friends in new york would hardly have recognized me in my travelling dress of scotch gray, with a slouched straw hat on my head, and an alpenstock in my hand. the hat was very useful, if not ornamental. i bought it for one franc, and it answered as well as if it had cost a guinea. to be sure, as it had a broad brim, it had a slight tendency to take wings and fly away, and light in some mountain torrent, from which it was speared out with the alpenstock, and restored to its place of honor; but it did excellent service in protecting my eyes from the blinding reflection of the snow. c---- was mounted on a mule, which she had at first refused, preferring her own agile feet; but i insisted on it, as a very useful beast to fall back upon in case the fatigue was too great. thus accoutred, our little cavalcade, with our guide leading the way, filed out of chamouni. if any of my readers laugh at our droll appearance, they are quite welcome--for we laughed at ourselves. comfort is worth more than dignity in such a case; and if anybody is abashed at the ludicrous figure he cuts, he may console himself by reflecting that he is in good company. i saw in paris the famous picture by david of napoleon crossing the alps, which represents him mounted on a gallant charger, his military cloak flying in the air, while he points his soldiers upward to the heights they are to scale. this is very fine to look at; but the historical fact is said to be that napoleon rode over the alps on a mule, and if he encountered rains and storms, he was no doubt as bedraggled as any alpine tourist. but that did not prevent his gaining the battle of marengo. but all thoughts of our appearance vanish when once we begin to climb the mountain side. for two hours we kept winding in a zigzag path through the perpetual pine forest. at every turn in the road, or opening in the trees, we stopped to look at the valley below, where the objects grew smaller, as we receded further from them. is it not so in life? as some one has said, "everything will look small enough if we only get high enough." all rude noises died away in the distance, till there rose into the upper air only the sound of the streams that were rushing through the valley below. at a chalet half way up the mountain a living chamois was kept for show. it was very young, and was suckled by a goat. it was touching to see how the little creature pined for freedom, and leaped against the sides of his pen. child of the mountain, he seemed entitled to liberty, and i longed to break open his cage and set the little prisoner free, and see him bound away upon the mountain side. climbing, still climbing, another hour brings us to the top of the montanvert, where we look down upon the mer de glace. here all the party quit their mules, which are sent to another point, to meet us as we come down from the mountain--and taking our alpenstocks in hand (which are long staffs, with a spike at the end to stick in the ice, to keep ourselves from slipping), we descend to the mer de glace, an enormous glacier formed by the masses of snow and ice which collect during the long winters, filling up the whole space between two mountains. it was in studying the glaciers of switzerland for a course of years, that agassiz formed his glacial theory; and in seeing here how the steady pressure of such enormous masses of ice, weighing millions of tons, have carried down huge boulders of granite, which lie strewn all along its track, one can judge how the same causes, operating at a remote period, and on a vast scale, may have changed the whole surface of the globe. but we must not stop to philosophize, for we are now just at the edge of the glacier, and need our wits about us, and eyes too, to keep a sharp lookout for dangerous places, and steady feet, and hands keeping a tight hold of our trusty alpenstocks. the mer de glace is just what its name implies--a sea of ice--and looks as if, when some wild torrent came tumbling through the awful pass, it had been suddenly stopped by the hand of the almighty, and frozen as it stood. and so it stands, its waves dashed up on high, and its chasms yawning below. it is said to reach up into the mountains for miles. we can see how it goes up to the top of the gorge and disappears on the other side; but those who wish to explore its whole extent, may walk over it or beside it all day. though dangerous in some places, yet where tourists cross, they can pick their way with a little care. the more timid ones cling closely to the guide, holding him fast by the hand. one lady of our party, who had four bearers to carry her in a sedan chair, found her head swim as she crossed. but c----, who had been gathering flowers all the way up the mountain, made them into a bouquet, which she fastened to one end of her alpenstock, and striking the other firmly in the ice, moved on with as free a step as if she were walking along some breezy path among our berkshire hills. but the most difficult part of the course is not in crossing the mer de glace, but in coming down on the other side. it is not always _facilis descensus_; it is sometimes _difficilis descensus_. there is one part of the course called the _mauvais pas_, which winds along the edge of the cliff, and would hardly be passable but for an iron rod fastened in the side of the rock, to which one clings for support, and looking away from the precipice on the other side, makes the passage in safety. and now we come to the chapeau, a little chalet perched on a shelf of rock, from which one can look down thousands of feet into the vale of chamouni. as we pass along by the side of the glacier, we see nearer the end some frightful crevasses, which the boldest guide would not dare to cross. the ice is constantly wearing away; indeed so great is the discharge of water from the melting of the ice and the snow, that a rapid river is all the time rushing out of it. the arveiron takes its rise in the mer de glace, while the arve rises in another glacier higher up the valley. as coleridge says, in his hymn to mont blanc, the arve and arveiron at thy base rave ceaselessly; the sound of the streams, mingling with the waterfalls on the sides of the mountains, filling the air with a perpetual sound like the roaring of the sea. coleridge speaks also of mont blanc as rising from a "silent sea of pines." nothing can be more accurate than this picture of the universal forest, which overflows all the valleys, and reaches up the mountains, to the edge of eternal snows. at such heights the pines are the only trees that live, and there they stand through all the storms of winter. looking around on this landscape, made up of forest and snow, alternately dark and bright, it seems as if mont blanc were the great white throne of the almighty, and as if these mighty forests that stand quivering on the mountain side, were the myriads of mankind gathered into this valley of judgment, and here standing rank on rank, waiting to hear their doom. but yet the impression is not one wholly of terror, or even of unmixed awe. there is beauty as well as wildness in the scene. nothing can exceed the quiet and seclusion of these mountain paths, and there is something very sweet to the ear in "the murmuring pines and the hemlocks," which fill "the forest primeval" with their gentle sound. and when at evening one hears the tinkling cow-bells, as the herds return from the mountain pastures, there is a pastoral simplicity in the scene which is very touching, and we could understand how the swiss air of the _ranz des vaches_ (or the returning of the cows) should awaken such a feeling of homesickness in the soldier far from his native mountains, that bands have been prohibited from playing it in swiss regiments enlisted in foreign armies. when we came down from the mer de glace, it was not yet three o'clock, and before us on the opposite side of the valley rose another mountain, which we might ascend before night if we had strength left. we felt a little remorse at giving the guide another half-day's work; but he, foreseeing extra pay, said cheerfully that _he_ could stand it; the mule said nothing, but pricked up his long ears as if he was thinking very hard, and if the miracle of balaam could have been repeated, i think the poor dumb beast would have had a pretty decided opinion. but it being left to us, we declared for a fresh ascent, and once more set our faces skyward, and went climbing upward for two hours more. we were well paid for the fatigue. the flégère, facing mont blanc, commands a full view of the whole range, and as the clouds drifted off, we saw distinctly every peak. thus elated and jubilant we set out to return. until now, we had kept along with the mule, alternating a ride and walk, as boys are accustomed to "ride and tie"; but now our eagerness could not be restrained, and we gave the reins to the guide to lead the patient creature down into the valley, while we, with unfettered limbs, strode joyous down the mountain side. it was seven o'clock when we reached our hotel. we had been steadily in motion--except a short rest for lunch at the chapeau on the mountain--for eleven hours. here ends the journey of the day, but not the moral of it. i hope it is not merely a professional habit that leads me to wind up everything with an application; but i cannot look upon a grand scene of nature without gliding insensibly into religious reflections. nature leads me directly to nature's god. the late prof. albert hopkins, of williams college, of blessed memory, a man of science and yet of most devout spirit, who was as fond of the hills as a born mountaineer, and who loved nothing so much as to lead his alpine club over the mountains around williamstown--was accustomed, when he had conducted them to some high, commanding prospect, to ask whether the sight of such great scenes _made them feel great or small_? i can answer for myself that the impression is a mixed one; that it both lifts me up and casts me down. certainly the sight of such sublimity elevates the soul with a sense of the power and majesty of the creator. while climbing to-day, i have often repeated to myself that old, majestic hymn: i sing the mighty power of god, that made the mountains rise; and another: 'tis by thy strength the mountains stand, god of eternal power, the sea grows calm at thy command, and tempests cease to roar. but in another view the sight of these great objects of nature is depressing. it makes one feel his own littleness and insignificance. i look up at mont blanc with a telescope, and can just see a party climbing near the grands mulets. how like creeping insects they look; and how like insects they _are_ in the duration of their existence, compared with the everlasting forms of nature. the flying clouds that cast their shadows on the head of mont blanc are not more fleeting. they pass like a bird and are gone, while the mountains stand fast forever, and with their eternity seem to mock the fugitive existence of man upon the earth. i confess the impression is very depressing. these terrible mountains crush me with their awful weight. they make me feel that i am but an atom in the universe; a moth whose ceasing to exist would be no more than the blowing out of a candle. and i am not surprised that men who live among the mountains, are sometimes so overwhelmed with the greatness of nature, that they are ready to acquiesce in their own annihilation, or absorption in the universal being. talking with father hyacinthe the other evening (as we sat on the terrace of the hotel beau rivage at geneva, overlooking the lake), he spoke of the alarming spread of unbelief in europe, and quoted a distinguished professor of zurich, of whom he spoke with great respect, as a man of learning and of excellent character, who had frankly confessed to him that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul; and when father hyacinthe replied in amazement, "if i believed thus i would go and throw myself into the lake of zurich," the professor answered with the utmost seriousness, "that is not a just religious feeling; if you believe in god as an infinite creator you ought to be _willing_ to cease to exist, feeling that god is the only being who is worthy to live eternally." marvellous as this may seem, yet something of this feeling comes to thoughtful and serious minds from the long and steadfast contemplation of nature. one is so little in the presence of the works of god, that he feels that he is absolutely _nothing_; and it seems of small moment whether he should exist hereafter or not; and he could _almost_ be willing that his life should expire, like a lamp that has burned itself out; that he should indeed cease to exist, with all things that live; that god might be god alone. if shut up in these mountains, as in a prison from which i could not escape, i could easily sink into this gloom and despondency. pascal has tried to break the force of this overwhelming impression of the awfulness of nature in one of his most striking thoughts, when, speaking of the greatness and the littleness of man, he says: "it is not necessary for the whole universe to arm itself to destroy him: a drop of water, a breath of air, is sufficient to kill him. and yet even in death man is greater than the universe, for _he knows that he is dying_, while the universe knows not anything." this is finely expressed, but it does not lighten the depth of our despair. for that we must turn to one greater than pascal, who has said, "not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your father; be of good cheer therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows." nature is great, but god is greater. in riding through the alps--especially through deep passes, where walls of rock on either hand almost touch the sky--it seems as if the whole world were a realm of death, and this the universal tomb. but even here i see erected on almost every hilltop a cross (for the savoyards are a very religious people), and this sign of our salvation, standing on every high place, amid the lightning and storm, and amid the winter snows, seems to be a protest against that law of death which reigns on every side. great indeed is the realm of death, but greater still is the realm of life; and though god only hath immortality, and is indeed "the only being worthy to live forever," yet joined to him, we shall have a part in his own eternity, and shall live when even the everlasting mountains, and the great globe itself, shall have passed away. chapter xi. switzerland. lucerne, july d. to know switzerland well, one should spend weeks and months among its lakes and mountains. he should not merely pay a formal visit to nature, but take up his abode with her. one can never "exhaust" such a country. professor tyndall has been for years in the habit of spending his summer vacation here, and always finds new mountains to climb, and new passes to explore. but this would hardly suit americans, who are in the habit of "rushing things," and who wish in a first visit to europe, to get at least a general impression of the continent. but even a few days in switzerland are not lost. in that time one may see sights that will be fixed in his brain while life lasts, and receive impressions that will never depart from him. we left the vale of chamouni with the feeling of sadness with which one always comes down from the mount, where he has had an immortal vision. slowly we rode up the valley, often turning to take a last lingering look at the white head of mont blanc, and then, like pilgrim, we "went on our way and saw him no more." but we did not come out of chamouni as we went into it, on the top of a diligence, with six horses, "rolling forward with impetuous speed" over a magnificent highway. we had now nothing before us but a common mountain-road, and our chariot was only a rude wagon, made with low wheels to go up and down steep ascents. it was only for us two, which suited us the better, as we had nature all to ourselves, and could indulge our pleasure and our admiration, without restraint. thus mounted, we went creeping up the pass of the tête noire. nature is a wise economist, and, after showing the traveller mont blanc, lets him down gradually. if we had not come from those more awful heights and abysses, we should consider this day's ride unsurpassed in savage grandeur. great mountains tower up on either hand, their lower sides dark with pines, and their crests capped with snow. here by the roadside a cross marks the spot where an avalanche, falling from yonder peak, buried two travellers. at some seasons of the year the road is almost impassable. all along are heaps of stones to mark its track where the winter drifts are piled so high in these gorges that all trace of a path is lost. even now in mid-summer the pass is wild enough to satisfy the most romantic tastes. the day was in harmony with the scene. our fine weather was all gone. clouds darkened the sky, and angry gusts of wind and rain swept in our faces. but what could check one's spirits let loose in such a scene? often we got out and walked, to work off our excitement, stopping at every turn in the road that opened some new view, or sheltering ourselves under a rock from the rain, and listening with delight to hear the pines murmur and the torrents roar. the ride over the tête noire takes a whole day. the road zigzags in every direction, winding here and there to get a foothold--now hugging the side of the mountain, creeping along the edge of a precipice, where it makes one dizzy to look down; now rounding a point which seems to hang over some awful depth, or seeking a safer path by a tunnel through the rocks. up and down, hither and thither we go, but still everywhere encompassed with mountains, till at last one long climb--a hard pull for the horses--brings us to a height from which we descry in the distance the roofs and spires of a town, and begin to descend. but we are still more than an hour winding our way through the gentle slopes and among the swiss chalets, till we rattle through the stony streets of martigny, a place of some importance, from being at the foot of the alps, and the point from which to make the ascent of the great saint bernard. it was by this route that napoleon in led his daring soldiers over the alps; the long lines of infantry and artillery passed up this valley, and climbed yonder mountain side, a hundred men being harnessed to a single cannon, and dragging it upward by sheer strength of muscle. of all the host that made that stupendous march, perhaps not one survives; but the mountains are still here, as the proof and the monument of their great achievement. and the same hospice, where the monks gave bread and wine to the passing soldiers, is on the summit still, and the good monks with their faithful dogs, watch to rescue lost travellers. attached to it is a monastery here in martigny, to which the old monks, when worn out with years of exposure and hardship in living above the clouds, can retire to die in peace. at martigny we take our leave of mountain roads and mountain transport, as we here touch a railroad, and are once more within the limits of civilization. we step from our little wagon (which we do not despise, since it has carried us safely over an alpine pass) into a luxurious railway carriage, and reclining at our ease, are whirled swiftly down the valley of the rhone to the lake of geneva. of course all romantic tourists stop at villeneuve, to visit the castle of chillon, which byron has made so famous. i had been under its arches and in its vaulted chambers years ago, and was surprised at the fresh interest which i had in revisiting the spot. it is at once "a palace and a prison." we went down into the dungeon in which bonnivard was confined, and saw the pillar to which he was chained for so many years that his feet wore holes in the stone floor. the pillar is now covered with names of pilgrims that have visited his prison as "a holy place." we were shown, also, the chamber of question, (adjoining what was called, as if in mockery, the hall of justice!) where prisoners were put to the torture, with the post still standing to which they were bound, with the marks upon it of the hot irons which were applied to their writhing limbs. under this is the dungeon where the condemned passed their last night before execution, chained to a sloping rock, above which, dimly seen in the gloom, is the cross-beam to which they were hung, and near the floor is an opening in the wall, through which their bodies were cast into the lake. in another part of the castle is shown the _oubliette_--a pit or well, into which the victim was thrown, and fell into some unknown depth, and was seen no more. such are some of the remains of an age of "chivalry." one cannot look at these instruments of torture without a shudder at "man's inhumanity to man," and rejoicing that such things are past, since in no country of europe--not even in spain, the land of the inquisition--could such barbarities be permitted now. surely civilization has made some progress since those ages of cruelty and blood. leaving these gloomy dungeons, we come up into air and sunshine, and skim along the lake of geneva by the railway, which, lying "between sea and shore," presents a succession of charming views. on one side all the slopes are covered with vines, which are placed on this southern exposure to ripen in the sun; on the other is the lake, with the mountains beyond. at lausanne i had hoped to meet an old friend, prof. j. f. astié, once pastor of the french church in new york, and now professor in the theological seminary here, but he was taking his vacation in the country. we drove, however, to his house, which is on high ground, in the rear of the town, and commands a lovely view of the lake, with the mountains in the distance as a background for the picture. when i was in switzerland twenty seven years ago, such a thing as a railroad was unknown. now they are everywhere, and though it may seem very prosaic to travel among the mountains by steam, still it is a great convenience, in getting from one point to another. of course, when it comes to climbing the alps, one must take to mules or to his feet. the railroad from lausanne to berne, after reaching the heights around the former city, lingers long, as if reluctant to quit the enchanting scenery around the lake, but at length plunging through a tunnel, it leaves all that glory behind, to turn to other landscapes in the heart of switzerland. for a few leagues, the country, though not mountainous, is undulating, and richly cultivated. at fribourg the two suspension bridges are the things to _see_, and the great organ the thing to _hear_, which being done, one may pass on to berne, the capital of switzerland, a compact and prosperous town of some , inhabitants. the environs are very beautiful, comprising several parks and long avenues of trees. but what one may see _in_ berne, is nothing to what one may see _from_ it, which is the whole chain of the bernese oberland. we were favored with only a momentary sight, but even that we shall never forget. as we were riding out of the town, the sun, which was setting, burst through the clouds, and lighted up a long range of snowy peaks. this was the alpine afterglow. it was like a vision of the heavenly battlements, with all their pinnacles and towers shining resplendent in the light of setting day. we gazed in silent awe till the dazzling radiance crept to the last mountain top, and faded into night. a few miles from berne, we crossed the lake of thun, a sheet of water, which, like loch lomond and other scotch lakes, derives its chief beauty from reflecting in its placid bosom the forms of giant mountains. between thun and brienz lies the little village fitly called from its position interlachen (between the lakes). this is the heart of the bernese oberland. the weather on saturday permitted no excursions. but we were content to remain indoors after so much climbing, and here we passed a quiet and most restful sunday. there is but one building for religious services--an old schloss, but it receives into its hospitable walls three companies of worshippers. in one part is a chapel fitted up for the catholics; in another the church of england gathers a large number of those travellers from britain, who to their honor carry their religious observances with them. besides these i found in the same building a smaller room, where the scotch presbyterians meet for worship, and where a minister of the free church was holding forth with all that _ingenium perfervidum scotorum_ for which his countrymen are celebrated. it was a great pleasure and comfort to meet with this little congregation, and to listen to songs and prayers which brought back so many tender memories of home. while enjoying this rest, we had mourned the absence of the sun. interlachen lies in the very lap of the mountains. but though so near, our eyes were holden that we could not see them, and we thought we should have to leave without even a sight of the jungfrau. but monday morning, as we rose early to depart, the clouds were gone--and there it stood revealed to us in all its splendor, a pyramid of snow, only a little less lofty than mont blanc himself. having this glorious vision vouchsafed to us, we departed in peace. sailing over the lake of brienz, as we had over that of thun, we came again to a mountain pass, which had to be crossed by diligence; and here, as before, mounted in the front seat beside the postilion, we feasted our eyes on all the glory of alpine scenery. for nearly two hours we were ascending at the side of the vale of meyringen, from which, as we climbed higher and higher, we looked down to a greater depth, and often at a turn of the road could see back to the lake of brienz, which lay far behind us, and thus in one view took in all the beauties of lake and valley and mountain. while slowly moving upward, boys ran along by the diligence, singing snatches from the _ranz des vaches_, the wild airs of these mountain regions. if it was so exciting to go up, it was hardly less so to come down. the road is not like that over the tête noire, but is smooth and even like that from geneva to chamouni, and we were able to trot rapidly down the slope, and as the road turns here and there to get an easy grade, we had a hundred lovely views down the valley which was opening before us. thus we came to the lake of the four cantons, over which a steamer brought us to lucerne. my friend dr. holland has spoken of the place where i now write as "the spot on earth which seemed to him nearest to heaven," and surely there are few where one feels so much like saying, "this is my rest, and here will i dwell." the great mountains shut out the world with all its noises, and the lake, so peaceful itself, invites to repose. there are two ways to enjoy a beautiful sheet of water--one from its shores, and the other from its surface. we have tried both. the first evening we took a boat and spent a couple of hours on the lake. how it recalled the moonlight evenings at venice, when we floated in our gondola! indeed the boatmen here are not unlike the gondoliers. they have the same way of standing, instead of sitting, in the boat and pushing, instead of pulling, the oars. they manage their little crafts with great skill, and cause them to glide very swiftly through the water. we took a row of several miles to call on a friend, who was at a villa on the lake. she had left for zurich, but the villa was occupied. a day or two before it had been taken by a lady, who, though she came with a retinue large enough to fill all the rooms, wished to be _incognita_. she proved to be the queen of saxony, who, like all the rest of the world, was glad to have a little retirement, and to escape from the stiffness of court life in her palace at dresden, to enjoy herself on these quiet shores. while we were in the grounds, she came out, and walked under the trees, in most simple dress: a woman whom it was pleasant to look upon, a fair-haired daughter of the north, (she is a swedish princess,) who won the hearts of the saxon people by her care for the wounded in the franco-german war. she shows her good sense and quiet tastes to seek seclusion and repose in such a spot as this, (instead of going off to fashionable watering-places,) where she can sit quietly by these tranquil waters, under the shadow of these great mountains. all travellers who go to lucerne must make an excursion to the righi, a mountain a few miles from the town, which is exalted above other mountains of switzerland, not because it is higher--for, in fact, it is much lower than many of them--but that it stands alone, apart from a chain, and so commands a view on all sides--a view of vast extent and of infinite variety. i had been on the righi-culm before, but the impression had somewhat faded, and i was glad to go again, when all my enthusiasm was renewed. the mountain is easier of access now. then i walked up, as most tourists did; now there is a railroad to the very top, which of itself is worth a visit, as a remarkable piece of engineering, mounting a very steep grade--in many places _one foot in every four_! this is a terrible climb, and is only overcome by peculiar machinery. the engine is behind, and pushes the car up the ascent. of course if any accident were to happen by which the train were to break loose, it would descend with tremendous velocity. but this is guarded against by a central rail, into which a wheel fits with cogs; so that, in case of any accident to the engine, by shutting down the brakes, the whole could be held fast, as in a vice, and be immovable. the convenience of the road is certainly very great, but the sensation is peculiar--of being literally "boosted" up into the clouds. but once there, we are sensible that we are raised into a higher region; we breathe a purer air. the eye ranges over the fairest portion of switzerland. seen from such a height, the country seems almost a plain; and yet viewed more closely, we see hills and valleys, diversified with meadows and forests. we can count a dozen lakes. on the horizon stretches the great chain of the alps, covered with snow, and when the sun breaks through the clouds, it gleams with unearthly brightness. but it is impossible to describe all that is comprised in that one grand panorama. surely, i thought, these must be the delectable mountains from which bunyan's pilgrim caught a sight of the celestial city; and it seemed as if, in the natural order of things, when one is travelling over the earth, he ought to come here _last_ (as moses went up into mount nebo to catch a glimpse of the promised land, _and die_), so that from this most elevated point of his pilgrimage he might step into heaven. but at last we had to come down from the mount, and quieted our excited imaginations by a sail up the lake. fluellen, at the end of the lake, was associated in my mind with a sad memory, and as soon as we reached it, i went to the principal hotel, and asked if an american gentleman had not died there two years since? they answered yes, and took me at once to the very room where judge chapman, the chief justice of massachusetts, breathed his last. he was a good man, and as true a friend as we ever had. the night before he sailed we spent with him at the fifth avenue hotel. he came abroad for his health, but did not live to return; and a few months after our parting, it was our sad privilege to follow him to the grave in springfield, where all the judges of the supreme court of massachusetts, and great numbers of the bar, stood around his bier. if lucerne presents such beautiful scenes in nature, it has also one work of art, which impresses me as much as anything of the kind in europe. i refer to the lion of thorwaldsen, intended to commemorate the courage and fidelity of the swiss regiment who were the guards of the king louis xvi., and who, in attempting to defend him, were massacred in paris on the fatal th of august, . never was a great act of courage more simply, yet more grandly illustrated. the size is colossal, the work being cut in the side of a rock. the lion is twenty-eight feet long. nothing can be more majestic than his attitude. the noble beast is dying, he has exhausted his strength in battle, but even as he sinks in death, he stretches out one huge paw over the shield which bears on it the lilies of france, the emblem of that royal power which he has vainly endeavored to protect. there is something almost human in the face, in the deep-set eyes, and the drooping mouth. it is not only the death agony, but the greater agony of defeat, which is expressed in every line of that leonine countenance. nothing in ancient sculpture, not even the dying gladiator, gives more of mournful dignity in death. i could hardly tear myself away from it, and when we turned to leave, kept looking back at it. it shows the wonderful genius of thorwaldsen. when one compares it with the lions around the monument of nelson in trafalgar square in london, one sees the difference between a work of genius, and that of mere imitation. sir edwin landseer, though a great painter of animals, was not so eminent as a sculptor; and was at work for years on his model, and finally copied, it is said, as nearly as he could, an old lion in the zoological gardens; and then had the four cast from one mould, so that all are just alike. how differently would thorwaldsen have executed such a work! with such attractions of art and nature, lucerne seems indeed one of the most beautiful spots on the face of the earth. sometimes a peculiar state of the atmosphere, or sunset or moonlight, gives peculiar effects to scenes so wonderful. last night, as we were sitting in front of the hotel, our attention was attracted by what seemed a conflagration lighting up the horizon. wider and wider it spread, and higher and higher it rose on the evening sky. all were eager as to the cause of this illumination, when the mystery was explained by the full moon rising above the horizon, and casting a flood of light over lake and mountain. who could but feel that god was near at such an hour, in such a blending of the earth and sky? chapter xii. on the rhine. cologne, july th. he that goeth up into a high mountain, must needs come down. we have been these many days among the alps, passing from chamouni to the bernese oberland, and now we must descend into the plains. the change is a pleasant one after so much excitement and fatigue. one cannot bear too much exaltation. after having dwelt awhile among the sublimities of nature, it is a relief to come down to her more common and familiar aspects; the sunshine is doubly grateful after the gloom of alpine passes; meadows and groves are more pleasant to the eye than snow-clad peaks; and more sweet to the ear than the roar of mountain torrents, is the murmur of softly-flowing streams. from lucerne, our way lies over that undulating country which we had surveyed the day before from the summit of the righi, winding around the lake of zug, and ending at the lake of zurich. the position of zurich is very much like that of lucerne, at the end of a lake, and surrounded by hills. a ride around the town shows many beautiful points of view, on one of which stands the university, which has an european reputation. zurich has long been a literary centre of some importance, not only for switzerland, but for germany, as it is on the border of both. the university gathers students from different countries, even from russia. we ended the day with a sail on the water, which at evening is alive with boats, glancing here and there in the twilight. then rows of lamps are lighted all along the shore, which are reflected in the water; the summer gardens are thronged, and bands fill the air with music. the gayety of such a scene i enjoy most from a little distance; but there are few more exquisite pleasures than to lie motionless, floating, and listening to music that comes stealing over the water. then the boatman dipped his oar gently, as if fearing to break the charm, and rowed us back to our hotel; but the music continued to a late hour, and lulled us to sleep. from zurich, a morning ride brought us to schaffhausen, where we stopped a few hours to see the falls of the rhine, which are set down in the guide-books as "the most considerable waterfall in europe." of course it is a very small affair compared with niagara. and yet i do not like to hear americans speak of it, as they are apt to do, with contempt. a little good sense would teach us to enjoy whatever is set before us in nature, without boastful comparisons with something in our own country. it is certainly very beautiful. from schaffhausen a new railway has recently been opened through the black forest--a region which may well attract the readers of romance, since it has been the scene of many of the legends which abound in german literature, and may be said to be haunted with the heroes of fiction, as scott has peopled the glens of scotland. in the forest itself there is nothing imposing. it is spread over a large tract of country, like the woods of northern new york. the most remarkable thing in it now is the railroad itself, which is indeed a wonderful piece of engineering. it was constructed by the same engineer who pierced the alps by a tunnel under the mont cenis, nearly eight miles long, through which now pours the great volume of travel from france to italy. here he had a different, but perhaps not less difficult, task. the formation of the country offers great obstacles to the passage of a railroad. if it were only one high mountain, it could be tunnelled, but instead of a single chain which has to be crossed, the forest is broken up into innumerable hills, detached from each other, and offering few points of contact as a natural bridge for a road to pass over. the object, of course, is to make the ascents and descents without too abrupt a grade, but for this it is necessary to wind about in the most extraordinary manner. the road turns and twists in endless convolutions. often we could see it at three different points at the same time, above us and below us, winding hither and thither in a perfect labyrinth; so that it was impossible to tell which way we were going. we counted thirty-seven tunnels within a very short distance. it required little imagination to consider our engine, that went whirling about at such a rate, puffing and screaming with excitement, as a wild beast caught in the mountains, and rushing in every direction, and even thrusting his head into the earth, to escape his pursuers. at length the haunted fugitive plunges through the side of a mountain, and escapes down the valley. and now we are in a land of streams, where mighty rivers begin their courses. see you that little brook by the roadside, which any barefooted boy would wade across, and an athletic leaper would almost clear at a single bound? that is the beginning of the longest river in europe, which, rising here among the hills of the black forest, takes its way south and east till it sweeps with majestic flow past the austrian capital, as "the dark-rolling danube," and bears the commerce of an empire to the black sea. our fellow-travellers now begin to diverge to the watering places along the rhine--to baden and homburg and ems--where so much of the fashion of the continent gathers every summer. but we had another place in view which had more interest to me, though a sad and mournful one--strasburg, the capital of ill-fated alsace--which, since i saw it before, had sustained one of the most terrible sieges in history. we crossed the rhine from kehl, where the germans planted their batteries, and were soon passing through the walls and moats which girdle the ancient town, and made it one of the most strongly fortified places in europe, and were supposed to render it a gibraltar, that could not be taken. but no walls can stand before modern artillery. the germans planted their guns at two and three miles distance, and threw their shells into the heart of the city. one cannot enter the gates without perceiving on every side the traces of that terrible bombardment. for weeks, day and night, a rain of fire poured on the devoted town. shells were continually bursting in the streets; the darkness of midnight was lighted up with the flames of burning dwellings. the people fled to their cellars, and to every underground place, for safety. but it was like fleeing at the last judgment to dens and caves, and calling on rocks to cover them from the inevitable destruction. at length, after a prolonged and heroic resistance, when all means of defence were gone, and the city must have been utterly destroyed, it surrendered. and now what do we see? of course, the traces of the siege have been removed, so far as possible. but still, after five years, there are large public buildings of which only blackened walls remain. others show huge gaps and rents made by the shot of the besiegers, and, worst of all, everywhere are the hated german soldiers in the streets. _strasburg is a conquered city._ it has been torn from france and transferred to germany, without the consent of its own people; and though the conquerors try to make things pleasant, and to soften as much as may be the bitterness of subjugation, they cannot succeed in doing the impossible. the people feel that they have been conquered, and the iron has entered into their souls. one can see it in a silent, sullen look, which is not natural to frenchmen. this is the more strange, because a large part of the population of alsace are germans by race and language. in the markets, among the men and women who bring their produce for sale, i heard little else than the guttural sounds so familiar on the other side of the rhine. but no matter for this; for two hundred years the country has belonged to france, and the people are french in their traditions--they are proud of the french glory; and if it were left to them, they would vote to-morrow, by an overwhelming majority, to be re-annexed to france. meanwhile the german government is using every effort to "make over" the people from frenchmen into germans. it has introduced the german language into the schools. _it has even renamed the streets._ it looked strange indeed to see on all the corners german names in place of the old familiar french ones. this is oppression carried to absurdity. if the new rulers had chosen to translate the french names into german, for the convenience of the new military occupants, that might have been well, and the two might have stood side by side. but no; the old names are _taken down_, and _rue_ is turned into _strasse_ on every street corner in strasburg. was ever anything more ridiculous? they might as well compel the people to change _their_ names. the consequence of all this petty and constant oppression is that great numbers emigrate. and even those who remain do not take to their new masters. the elements do not mix. the french do not become germans. a country is not so easily denationalized. the conquerors occupy the town, but in their social relations they are alone. we were told that if a german officer entered a public café or restaurant, the french instantly arose and left. it is the same thing which i saw at venice and at milan in the days of the old austrian occupation. that was a most unnatural possession by an alien race, which had to be driven out with battle and slaughter before things could come into their natural and rightful relations. and so i fear it will have to be here. this annexation of alsace to germany may seem to some a wonderful stroke of political sagacity, or a military necessity, the gaining of a great strategic point, but to our poor american judgment it seems both a blunder and a crime, that will yet have to be atoned for with blood. it is a perpetual humiliation and irritation to france; a constant defiance to another and far more terrible war. the ancient cathedral suffered greatly during the bombardment. it is said the germans tried to spare it, and aimed their guns away from it; but as it was the most prominent object in the town, towering up far above everything else, it could not but be hit many times. cannon balls struck its majestic spire, the loftiest in the world; arches and pinnacles were broken; numbers of shells crashed through the roof, and burst on the marble floor. many of the windows, with their old stained glass, which no modern art can equal, were fatally shattered. it is a wonder that the whole edifice was not destroyed. but its foundations were very solid, and it stood the shock. since the siege, of course, everything has been done to cover up the rents and gaps, and to restore it to its former beauty. and what a beauty it has, with outlines so simple and majestic. how enormous are the columns along the nave, which support the roof, and yet how they seem to _spring_ towards heaven, soaring upwards like overarching elms, till the eye aches to look up to the vaulted roof, that seems only like a lower sky. except one other cathedral--that of cologne (under the very shadow of which i am now writing)--it is the grandest specimen of gothic architecture which the middle ages have left to us. there is one other feature of strasburg that has been unaffected by political changes. one set of inhabitants have not emigrated, but remain in spite of the german occupation--_the storks_. was anything ever so queer as to see these long-legged, long-necked birds, sitting so tranquilly on the roofs of the houses, flapping their lazy wings over the dwellings of a populous city, and actually building their nests on the tops of the chimneys? anything so different from the ordinary habits of birds, i had never seen before, and would hardly have believed it now if i had not seen it. it makes one feel as if everything was turned upside down, and the very course of nature reversed, in this strange country. another sign that we are getting out of our latitude, and coming farther north, is the change of language. we found that even in switzerland. around the lake of geneva, french is universally spoken; but at berne everybody addressed us in german. in the swiss parliament speeches are made in three languages--german, french, and italian--since all are spoken in some of the cantons. as we did not understand german, though familiar with french, we had many ludicrous adventures with coachmen and railway employés, which, though sometimes vexatious, gave us a good deal of merriment. of course there was nothing to do but to take it good-naturedly. generally when the adventure was over, we had a hearty laugh at our own expense, though inwardly thinking this was a heathen country, since they did not know the language of canaan, which, of course, is french or english. in short, we have become fully satisfied that english was the language spoken by adam and eve in paradise, and which ought to be spoken by all their descendants. but no harsh and guttural sounds, and no gloomy political events, can destroy the pleasure of a journey along the rhine. the next day we resumed our course through the grand duchy of baden. at one of the stations a gentleman looking out of a carriage window called me by name, and introduced himself as dr. evans, of paris--a countryman of ours, well known to all who have visited the french capital, where he has lived for a quarter of a century, and made for himself a most honorable position in his profession, in both the american and foreign community. i had known him when he first came to paris, just after the revolution of . he was then a young man, in the beginning of his successful career. he has been yet more honorably distinguished as the gallant american who saved the empress in . the story is too well known to be repeated at length. the substance may be given in a few sentences. when the news of the surrender at sedan of the emperor and his whole army reached paris, it caused a sudden revolution--the empire was declared to have fallen, and the excited populace were ready to burst into the palace, and the empress might have been sacrificed to their fury. she fled through the louvre, and calling a cab in the street, drove to the house of dr. evans, whom she had long known. here she was concealed for the night, and the next day he took her in his own carriage, hiding her from observation, and travelling rapidly, but in a way to attract no attention, to the sea-coast, and did not leave her till he had seen her safe in england. connected with this escape were many thrilling details, which cannot be repeated here. i am very proud that she owed her safety to one of my countrymen. it was pleasant to be remembered by him after so many years. we got into the same carriage, and talked of the past, till we separated at carlsruhe, from which he was going to kissingen, while we went to stuttgart, to visit an american family who came to europe under my care in the great eastern in , and have continued to reside abroad ever since for the education of their children. for such a purpose, stuttgart is admirably fitted. though the capital of the kingdom of würtemberg, it is a very quiet city. young people in search of gayety might think it dull, but that is its recommendation for those who seek profit rather than amusement. the schools are said to be excellent; and for persons who wish to spend a few years abroad, pursuing their studies, it would be hard to find a better place. to make this visit we were obliged to travel by night to get back to the rhine. we left stuttgart at midnight. night riding on european railways, where there are no sleeping-cars, is not very agreeable. however, in the first class carriages one can make a sort of half couch by pulling out the cushioned seats, and thus bestowed we managed to pass the night, which was not very long, as daybreak comes early in this latitude, and at this season of the year. but fatigues vanish when at mayence we go on board the steamer, and are at last afloat on the rhine--"the exulting and abounding river." we forget the discomforts of the way as we drop down this enchanted stream, past all the ruined castles, "famed in story," which hang on the crests of the hills. every picturesque ruin has its legend, which clings to it like vines to the mouldering wall. all day long we are floating in the past, and in a romantic past. tourists sit on deck, with their guide-books in hand, marking every old wall covered with ivy, and every crumbling tower, connected with some tradition of the middle ages. even prosaic individuals go about repeating poetry. the best of guide-books is childe harold. byron has seized the spirit of the scene in a few picturesque and animated stanzas, which bring the whole panorama before us. how musical are the lines beginning, the castled crag of drachenfels, frowns o'er the wide and winding rhine, whose breast of waters broadly swells between the banks which bear the vine, and hills all rich with blossomed trees, and fields which promise corn and wine, and scattered cities crowning these, whose far white walls along them shine. thus floating onward as in a dream, we reached cologne at five o'clock saturday afternoon, and found at the hôtel du nord a very spacious and attractive hostelry, which made us well content to stay quietly for two or three days. cologne has got an ill name from coleridge's ill-favored compliment, which implied that its streets had not always the fragrance of that cologne water which it exports to all countries. but i think he has done it injustice for the sake of a witty epigram. if he has not, the place has much improved since his day, and if not yet quite a flower garden, is at least as clean and decent as most of the continental cities. it has received a great impulse from the extension of railroads, of which it is a centre, being in the direct line of travel from england to the rhine and switzerland, and to the german watering-places, and indeed to every part of central europe. hence it has grown rapidly, and become a large and prosperous city. but to the traveller in search of sights, every object in cologne "hides its diminished head" in presence of one, the cathedral, the most magnificent gothic structure ever reared by human hands. begun six hundred years ago, it is not finished yet. for four hundred years the work was suspended, and the huge crane that stood on one of its towers, as it hung in air, was a sad token of the great, but unfinished design. but lately the german government, with that vigor which characterizes everything in the new empire, has undertaken its completion. already it has expended two millions of dollars upon it, and holds out a hope that it may be finished during this generation. to convey any idea of this marvellous structure by a description, is impossible. it is a forest in stone. looking through its long nave and aisles, one is more reminded of the avenues of new haven elms, than of any work of man. we ascended by the stone steps to the roof, at least to the first roof, and then began to get some idea of the vastness of the whole. passing into the interior at this height, we made the circuit of the gallery, from which men looked very small who were walking about on the pavement of the cathedral. the sacristan who had conducted us thus far, told us we had now ascended one hundred steps, and that, if we chose to mount a hundred more, we could get to the main roof--the highest present accessible point--for the towers are not yet finished, which are further to be surmounted by lofty spires. when complete, the crosses which they lift into the air will be more than five hundred feet above the earth! the cathedral boasts great treasures and holy relics--such as the bones of the magi, the three kings of the east, who came to see the saviour at his birth, which, whoso can believe, is welcome to his faith. but the one thing which all _must_ believe, since it stands before their eyes, is the magnificence of this temple of the almighty. i am surprised to see the numbers of people who attend the services, and with an appearance of devotion, joining in the singing with heart and voice. the cathedral is our constant resort, as it is close to our hotel, and we can go in at all hours, morning, noon, and night. there we love to sit especially at twilight, when the priests are chanting vespers, and listen to their songs, and think of the absent and the dead. we may wander far, and see many lofty structures reared to the most high, but nowhere do we expect to bow our heads in a nobler temple, till we join with the worshippers before the throne. chapter xiii. belgium and holland. amsterdam, july th. if any of my readers should follow our route upon the map, he will see that we take a somewhat zigzag course, flying off here and there to see whatever most attracts attention. the facilities of travel in europe are so great, that one can at any time be transported in a few hours into a new country. the junior partner in this travelling company of two has lately been reading motley's histories, and been filled with enthusiasm for the netherlands, which fought so bravely against spain, and nothing would do but to turn aside to see these low countries. so, instead of going east from cologne into the heart of germany, we turned west to make a short detour into belgium and holland. and indeed these countries deserve a visit, as they are quite unique in appearance and in character, and furnish a study by themselves. they lie in a corner of the continent, looking out upon the north sea, and seem to form a kind of eddy, unaffected by the great current of the political life of europe. they do not belong to the number of the great powers, and do not have to pay for "glory" by large standing armies and perpetual wars. belgium--which we first enter in coming from the rhine--is one of the smaller kingdoms still left on the map of europe not yet swallowed up by the great devourers of nations; and which, if it has less glory, has more liberty and more real happiness than some of its more powerful neighbors. if it has not the form of a republic, yet it has all the liberty which any reasonable man could desire. its standing army is small--but forty or fifty thousand men; though in case of war, it could put a hundred thousand under arms. but this would be a mere mouthful for some of the great german armies. its security, therefore, lies not in its ability to resist attack, but in the fact that from its very smallness it does not excite the envy or the fear or the covetousness of its neighbors, and that, between them all, it is very convenient to have this strip of neutral territory. during the late war between france and germany it prospered greatly; the danger to business enterprises elsewhere led many to look upon this little country, as in the days of the flood people might have looked upon some point of land that had not yet been reached by the waters that covered the earth, to which they could flee for safety. hence the disasters of others gave a great impulse to its commercial affairs. antwerp, where we ended our first day's journey, is a city that has had a great history; that three hundred years ago was one of the first commercial cities of europe, the venice of the north, and received in its waters ships from all parts of the earth. it has had recently a partial revival of its former commercial greatness. the forest of masts now lying in the scheldt tells of its renewed prosperity. but strangers do not go to antwerp to see fleets of ships, such as they might see at london or liverpool, but to see that which is old and historic. antwerp has one of the notable cathedrals of the continent, which impresses travellers most if they come directly from america. but coming from cologne, it suffers by comparison, as it has nothing of the architectural magnificence, the heaven-soaring columns and arches, of the great minster of cologne. and then its condition is dilapidated and positively shabby. it is not finished, and there is no attempt to finish it. one of the towers is complete, but the other is only half way up, where it has been capped over, and so remained for centuries, and perhaps will remain forever. and its surroundings are of the meanest description. instead of standing in an open square, with ample space around it to show its full proportions, it is hedged in by shops, which are backed up against its very walls. thus the architectural effect is half destroyed. it is a shame that it should be left in such a state--that, while prussia, a protestant country, is spending millions to restore the cathedral of cologne, belgium, a catholic country, and a rich one too (with no war on hand to drain its resources), should not devote a little of its wealth to keeping in proper order and respect this venerable monument of the past. and yet not all the littleness of its present surroundings can wholly rob the old cathedral of its majesty. there it stands, as it has stood from generation to generation, and out from all this meanness and dirt it lifts its head towards heaven. though only one tower is finished, that is very lofty (as any one will find who climbs the hundreds of stone steps to the top, from which the eye ranges over almost the whole of belgium, a vast plain, dotted with cities and villages), and being wrought in open arches, it has the appearance of fretted work, so that napoleon said "it looked as if made of mechlin lace." and there, high in the air, hangs a chime of bells, that every quarter of an hour rings out some soft aërial melody. it has a strange effect, in walking across the place st. antoine, to hear this delicious _rain_ dropping down as it were out of the clouds. we almost wonder that the market people can go about their business, while there is such heavenly music in the upper air. but the glory of the cathedral of antwerp is within--not in the church itself, but in the great paintings which it enshrines. the interior is cold and naked, owing to the entire absence of color to give it warmth. the walls are glaring white. we even saw them _whitewashing_ the columns and arches. could any means be found more effectual for belittling the impression of one of the great churches of the middle ages? if taste were the only thing to be considered in this world, i could wish belgium might be annexed, for awhile at least, to germany, that that government might take this venerable cathedral in hand, and, by clearing away the rubbish around it, and proper toning of the walls within, restore it to its former majesty and beauty. but no surroundings, however poor and cold, can destroy the immortal paintings with which it is illumined and glorified. until i saw these, i could not feel much enthusiasm for the works of rubens, although those who worship the old masters would consider it rank heresy to say so. many of his pictures seem to me artistic monstrosities, they are on such a colossal scale. the men are all giants, and the women all amazons, and even his holy children, his seraphs and cupids, are fat dutch babies. it seems as if his object, in every painting of the human figure, were to display his knowledge of anatomy; and the bodies are often twisted and contorted as if to show the enormous development of muscle in the giant limbs. this is very well if one is painting a hercules or a gladiator. but to paint common men and women in this colossal style is not pleasing. the series of pictures in the louvre, in which marie de medicis is introduced in all sorts of dramatic attitudes, never stirred my admiration, as i have said more than once, when standing before those huge canvases, although one for whose opinions in such matters i had infinite respect, used to reply archly, that i "could hardly claim to be an authority in painting." i admit it; but that is my opinion nevertheless, which i adhere to with all the proverbial tenacity of the "free and independent american citizen." but ah, i do repent me now, as i come into the presence of paintings whose treatment, like their subject, is divine. there are two such in the cathedral of antwerp--the elevation of the cross, and the descent from the cross. the latter is generally regarded as the masterpiece of rubens; but they are worthy of each other. in the elevation of the cross our saviour has been nailed to the fatal tree, which the roman soldiers are raising to plant it in the earth. the form is that of a living man. the hands and feet are streaming with blood, and the body droops as it hangs with all its weight on the nails. but the look is one of life, and not of death. the countenance has an expression of suffering, yet not of mere physical pain; the agony is more than human; as the eyes are turned upward, there is more than mortal majesty in the look--there is divinity as well as humanity--it is the dying god. long we sat before this picture, to take in the wondrous scene which it presents. he must be wanting in artistic taste, or religious feeling, who can look upon it without the deepest emotion. in the descent from the cross the struggle is over: there is death in every feature, in the face, pale and bloodless, in the limbs that hang motionless, in the whole body as it sinks into the arms of the faithful attendants. if rubens had never painted but these two pictures, he would deserve to be ranked as one of the world's great masters. i am content to look on these, and let more enthusiastic worshippers admire the rest. leaving the tall spire of antwerp in the distance, the swift fire-horse skims like a swallow over the plains of belgium, and soon we are in holland. one disadvantage of these small states (to compensate for the positive good of independence, and of greater commercial freedom) is, that every time we cross a frontier we have to undergo a new inspection by the custom-house authorities. to be sure, it does not amount to much. the train is detained half an hour, the trunks are all taken into a large room, and placed on counters; the passengers come along with the keys in their hands, and open them; the officials give an inquiring look, sometimes turn over one or two layers of clothing, and see that it is all right; the trunks are locked up, the porters replace them in the baggage-car, and the train starts on again. we are amused at the farce, the only annoyance of which is the delay. within two days after we left cologne, we had crossed two frontiers, and had our baggage examined twice: first, in going into belgium, and, second, in coming into holland; we had heard three languages--nay, four--german on the rhine; then french at antwerp (how good it seemed to hear the familiar accents once more!); and the flemish, which is a dialect unlike either; and now we have this horrible dutch (which is "neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring," but a sort of jaw-breaking gutturals, that seem not to be spoken with lips or tongue, but to be coughed up from some unfathomable depth in the dutch breast); and we have had three kinds of money--marks and francs, and florins or guilders--submitting to a shave every time we change from one into the other. such are the petty vexations of travel. but never mind, let us take them good-naturedly, leaping over them gayly, as we do over this dike--and here we are in holland. switzerland and holland! was there ever a greater contrast than between the two countries? what a change for us in these three weeks, to be up in the clouds, and now down, actually _below_ the level of the sea; for holland is properly, and in its normal state, _under water_, only the water is drained off, and is kept off by constant watchfulness. the whole land has been obtained by robbery--robbery from the ocean, which is its rightful possessor, and is kept out of his dominions by a system of earthworks, such as never were drawn around any fortification. holland may be described in one word as an enormous dutch platter, flat and even hollow in the middle, and turned up at the edges. standing in the centre, you can see the _rim_ in the long lines of circumvallation which meet the eye as it sweeps round the horizon. this immense _platitude_ is intersected by innumerable canals, which cross and recross it in every direction; and as if to drive away the evil spirits from the country, enormous windmills, like huge birds, keep a constant flapping in the air. to relieve the dull monotony, these plains are covered with cattle, which with their masses of black and white and red on the green pastures, give a pretty bit of color to the landscape. the raising of cattle is one of the chief industries of holland. they are exported in great numbers from rotterdam to london, so that "the roast beef of old england" is often dutch beef, after all. with her plains thus bedecked with countless herds, all sleek and well fed, the whole land has an aspect of comfort and abundance; it looks to be, as it is, a land of peace and plenty, of fat cattle and fat men. as moreover it has not much to do in the way of making war, except on the other side of the globe, it has no need of a large standing army; and the military element is not so unpleasantly conspicuous as in france and germany. rotterdam is a place of great commercial importance. it has a large trade with the dutch possessions in the east indies, and with other parts of the world. but as it has less of historical interest, we pass it by, to spend a day at the hague, which is the residence of the court, and of course the seat of rank and fashion in the little kingdom. it is a pretty place, with open squares and parks, long avenues of stately trees, and many beautiful residences. we received a good impression of it in these respects on the evening of our arrival, as we took a carriage and drove to scheveningen, two or three miles distant on the sea-shore, which is the great resort of dutch fashion. it was long branch over again. there were the same hotels, with long wide piazzas looking out upon the sea; a beautiful beach sloping down to the water, covered with bathing-houses, and a hundred merry groups scattered here and there; young people engaged in mild flirtations, which were quite harmless, since old dowagers sat looking on with watchful eyes. altogether it was a very pretty scene, such as it does one good to see, as it shows that all life and happiness are not gone out of this weary world. as we drove back to the hague, we met the royal carriage with the queen, who was taking her evening drive--a lady with a good motherly face, who is greatly esteemed, not only in holland, but in england, for her intelligence and her many virtues. she is a woman of literary tastes, and is fond of literary society. i infer that she is a friend of our countryman, mr. motley, who has done so much to illustrate the history of holland, from seeing his portrait the next day at her palace in the wood--which was the more remarkable as hanging on the wall of one of the principal apartments _alone_, no other portrait being beside it, and few indeed anywhere, except of members of the royal family. this "wood," where this summer palace stands, is one of the features of the hague. it is called the queen's wood, and is quite worthy of its royal name, being a forest chiefly of beech-trees, through which long avenues open a retreat into the densest silence and shade. it is a great resort for the people of the hague, and thither we drove after we came in from scheveningen. an open space was brilliantly lighted up, and the military band was playing, and a crowd of people were sitting in the open air, or under the trees, sipping their coffee or ices, and listening to the music, which rang through the forest aisles. it would be difficult to find, in a place of the size of the hague, a more brilliant company. but it was not fashion that we were looking for, but historical places and associations. so the next morning we took a carriage and a guide and drove out to delft, to see the spot where william the silent, the great prince of orange, on whose life it seemed the fate of the netherlands hung, was assassinated; and the church where he was buried, and where, after three hundred years, his spirit still rules from its urn. returning to the city, we sought out--as more interesting than royal palaces or the picture gallery, though we did justice to both--the houses of the great commoners, john and cornelius de witt, who, after lives of extraordinary devotion to the public good, were torn to pieces by an infuriated populace; and of barneveld, who, after saving holland by his wisdom and virtue, was executed on some technical and frivolous charge. we saw the very spot where he died, and the window out of which maurice (the son of the great william) looked on at this judicial murder--the only stain on his long possession of the chief executive power. leaving the hague with its tragic and its heroic memories, we take our last view of holland in amsterdam. was there ever such a queer old place? it is like the earth of old--"standing out of the water and in the water." it is intersected with canals, which are filled with boats, loading and unloading. the whole city is built on piles, which sometimes sink into the mud, causing the superincumbent structures to incline forward like the leaning tower of pisa. in fact, the houses appear to be drunk, and not to be able to stand on their pins. they lean towards each other across the narrow streets, till they almost touch, and indeed seem like old topers, that cannot stand up straight, but can only just hold on by the lamp-post, and are nodding to each other over the way. i should think that in some places a long dutchman's pipe could be held out of one window, and be smoked by a man on the other side of the street. but in spite of all that, in these old tumble-down houses, under these red-tiled roofs, there dwells a brave, honest, free people; a people that are slaves to no master; that fear god, and know no other fear; and that have earned their right to a place in this world by hard blows on the field of battle, and on every field of human industry--on land and on sea--and that are to-day one of the freest and happiest people on the round earth. how we wished last evening that we had some of our american friends with us, as we rode about this old city--along by the canals, over the bridges, down to the harbor, and then for miles along the great embankment that keeps out the sea. there are the ships coming and going to all parts of the earth--the constant and manifold proofs that holland is still a great commercial country. and to-day we wished for those friends again, as we rode to broek, the quaintest and queerest little old place that ever was seen--that looks like a baby-house made of dutch tiles. it is said to be the cleanest place in the world, in which respect it is like those shaker houses, where every tin pan is scoured daily, and every floor is as white as broom and mop can make it. we rode back past miles of fertile meadows, all wrung from the sea, where cattle were cropping the rich grass on what was once the bottom of the deep; and thus on every hand were the signs of dutch thrift and abundance. and so we take our leave of holland with a most friendly feeling. we are glad to have seen a country where there is so much liberty, so much independence, and such universal industry and comfort. to be sure, an american would find life here rather _slow_; it would seem to him as if he were being drawn in a low and heavy boat with one horse through a stagnant canal; but _they_ don't feel so, and so they are happy. blessings on their honest hearts! blessings on the stout old country, on the lusty burghers, and buxom women, with faces round as the harvest moon! now that we are going away, the whole land seems to relax into a broad smile; the very cattle look happy, as they recline in the fat meadows and chew the cud of measureless content; the storks seem sorry to have us go, and sail around on lazy wing, as if to give us a parting salutation; and even the windmills begin to creak on their hinges, and with their long arms wave us a kind farewell. chapter xiv. the new germany and its capital. berlin, august th. the greatest political event of the last ten years in europe--perhaps the greatest since the battle of waterloo--is the sudden rise and rapid development of the german empire. when napoleon was overthrown in , and the allies marched to paris, the sovereignty of europe, and the peace of the world, was supposed to be entrusted to the five great powers, and of these five the least in importance was prussia. both russia and austria considered themselves giants beside her; england had furnished the conqueror of waterloo, and the troops which bore the brunt of that terrible day, and the money that had carried on a twenty years' war against napoleon; and even france, terribly exhausted as she was, drained of her best blood, yet, as she had stood so long against all europe combined, might have considered herself still a match for any one of her enemies _alone_, and certainly for the weakest of them all, prussia. yet to-day this, which was the weakest of kingdoms, has grown to be the greatest power in europe--a power which has crushed austria, which has crushed france, which russia treats with infinite respect, and which would despise the interference of england in continental affairs. this acquisition of power, though recent in its manifestation, has been of slow growth. the greatness of prussia may be said to have been born of its very humiliation. it was after its utter overthrow at the battle of jena, in , when napoleon marched to berlin, levied enormous subsidies, and appropriated such portions of the kingdom as he pleased, that the rulers of prussia saw that the reconstruction of their state must begin from the very bottom, and went to work to educate the people and reorganize the army. the result of this severe discipline and long military training was seen when, sixty years after jena, prussia in a six weeks' campaign laid austria at her feet, and was only kept from taking vienna by the immediate conclusion of peace. four years later came the french war, when king william avenged the insults to his royal mother by napoleon the first--whose brutality, it is said, broke the proud spirit of the beautiful queen louise, and sent her to an early grave--in the terrible humiliation he administered to napoleon the third. but such triumphs were not wrought by military organization alone, but by other means for developing the life and vigor of the german race, especially by a system of universal education, which is the admiration of the world. the germans conquered the french, not merely because they were better soldiers, but because they were more intelligent men, who knew how to read and write, and who could act more efficiently because they acted intelligently. with her common schools and her perfect military organization, prussia has combined great political sagacity, by which the fortunes of other states have been united with her own. such stupendous achievements as were seen in the french war, were not wrought by prussia alone, but by all germany. it was in foresight and anticipation of just such a contingency that bismarck had long before entered into an alliance with the lesser german states, by which, in the event of war, they were all to act together; and thus, when the prussian army entered the field, it was supported by powerful allies from saxony and würtemberg and bavaria. and so when the war was over, out of the old confederation arose an empire, and the king of prussia was invited to take upon himself the more august title of emperor of germany--a title which recalls the line of the cæsars; and thus has risen up, in the very heart of the continent--like an island thrown up by a volcano in the midst of the sea--a power which is to-day the most formidable in europe. as protestants, we cannot but feel a degree of satisfaction that this controlling power should be centred in a protestant state, rather than in france or austria; although i should be sorry to think that our protestant principles oblige us to approve every high-handed measure undertaken against the catholics. we in america believe in perfect liberty in religious matters, and are scrupulous to give to others the same freedom that we demand for ourselves. of course the relations of things are somewhat changed in a country where the church is allied with the state, and the ministers of religion are supported by the government. but, without entering into the question which so agitates germany at the present moment, our natural sympathies, both as protestants and as americans, must always be on the side of the fullest religious liberty. besides the church question there are other grave problems raised by the present state of germany:--such as, whether the empire is likely to endure, or to be broken to pieces by the jealousy of the smaller states of the preponderance of prussia? and whether peace will continue, or there will be a general war? but these are rather large questions to be dispatched in a few pages. they are questions that will _keep_, and may be discussed a year hence as well as to-day, _and better_--since we may then regard them by the light of accomplished _events_; whereas now we should have to indulge too much in _prophecies_. i prefer therefore, instead of undertaking to give lessons of political wisdom, to entertain my readers with a brief description of berlin. this can never be the most beautiful of european cities, even if it should come in time to be the largest, for its situation is very unfavorable; it lies too low. it seems strange that this spot should ever have been chosen for the site of a great city. it has no advantages of position whatever, except that it is on the little river spree. but having chosen this flat _prairie_, they have made the most of it. it has been laid out in large spaces, with long, wide streets. at first, it must have been, like washington, a city of magnificent distances, but in the course of a hundred years these distances have been filled up with buildings, many of them of fine architecture, so that gradually the city has taken on a stately appearance. since i was here in , it has enlarged on every side; new streets and squares have added to the size and the magnificence of the capital; and the military element is more conspicuous than ever; "the man on horseback" is seen everywhere. nor is this strange, for in that time the country has had two great wars, and the german armies, returning triumphant from hard campaigns, have filed in endless procession, with banners torn with shot and shell, through the unter den linden, past the statue of the great frederick, out of the brandenburg gate to the thiergarten, where now a lofty column (like that in the place vendôme at paris), surmounted by a flaming statue of victory, commemorates the triumph of the german arms. of course we did our duty heroically in the way of seeing sights--such as the king's castle and the museum. but i confess i felt more interest in seeing the great university, which has been the home of so many eminent scholars, and is the chief seat of learning on the continent, than in seeing the palace; and in riding by the plain house in a quiet street, where bismarck lives, than in seeing all the mansions of the royal princes, with soldiers keeping guard before the gates. the most interesting place in the neighborhood of berlin, of course, is potsdam, with its historical associations, especially with its memories of frederick the great. the day we spent there was full of interest. an hour was given to the new palace--that is, one that _was_ new a hundred years ago, but which at present is kept more for show than for use, though one wing is occupied by the crown prince. externally it has no architectural beauty whatever, nothing to render it imposing but _size_; but the interior shows many stately apartments. one of these, called the grotto, is quite unique, the walls being crusted with shells and all manner of stones, so that, entering here, one might feel that he had found some cave of the ocean, dripping with coolness, and, when lighted up, reflecting from all its precious stones a thousand splendors. it was here that the emperor entertained the king of sweden at a royal banquet a few weeks ago. but palaces are pretty much all the same; we wander through endless apartments, rich with gilding and ornament, till we are weary of all this grandeur, and are glad when we light on some quiet nook, like the modest little palace--if palace it may be called--charlottenhof, where alexander von humboldt lived and wrote his works. i found more interest in seeing the desk on which he wrote his kosmos, and the narrow bed on which the great man slept (he did not need much of a bed, since he slept only four hours), than in all the grand state apartments of ordinary kings. but frederick the great was not an ordinary king, and the palace in which _he_ lived is invested with the interest of an extraordinary personality. walking a mile through a park of noble trees, we come to _sans souci_ (a pretty name, _without care_). this is much smaller than the new palace, but it is more home-like--it was built by frederick the great for his own residence, and here he spent the last years of his life. every room is connected with him. in this he gave audience to foreign ministers; at this desk he wrote. this is the room occupied by voltaire, whom frederick, worshipping his genius, had invited to potsdam, but who soon got tired of his royal patron (as the other perhaps got tired of _him_), and ended the romantic friendship by running away. and here is the room in which the great king breathed his last. he died sitting in his chair, which still bears the stains of his blood, for his physicians had bled him. at that moment, they tell us, a little mantel clock, which frederick always wound up with his own hand, stopped, and there it stands now, with its fingers pointing to the very hour and minute when he died. that was ninety years ago, and yet almost every day of every year since strangers have entered that room, to see where this king, this leader of armies, met a greater conqueror than he, and bowed his royal head to the inevitable destroyer. but that was not the last king who died in this palace. when we were here in , the present emperor was not on the throne, but his elder brother, whose private apartments we then saw; and now we were shown them again, with only this added: "in this room the old king died; in that very bed he breathed his last." all remains just as he left it; his military cap, with his gloves folded beside it; and here is a cast of his face taken after his death. so do they preserve his memory, while the living form returns no more. from the palace of the late king we drove to that of the present emperor. babelsberg is still more interesting than sans souci, as it is associated with living personages, who occupy the most exalted stations. it is the home of the emperor himself when at potsdam. it is not so large as the new palace, but, like sans souci, seems designed more for comfort than for grandeur. it was built by king william himself, according to his own taste, and has in it all the appointments of an elegant home. the site is beautiful. it stands on elevated ground (it seems a commanding eminence compared with the flat country around berlin), and looks out on a prospect in which a noble park, and green slopes, descending to lovely bits of water, unite to form what may be called an english landscape--like that from richmond on the hill, or some scene in the lake district of england. the house is worthy of such surroundings. we were fortunate in being there when the family were absent. the empress was expected home in a day or two; they were preparing the rooms for her return; and the emperor was to follow the next week, when of course the house would be closed to visitors. but now we were admitted, and shown through, not only the state apartments, but the private rooms. such an inspection of the _home_ of a royal family gives one some idea of their domestic life; we seem to see the interior of the household. in this case the impression was most charming. while there was very little that was for show, there was everything that was tasteful and refined and elegant. it was pleasant to hear the attendant who showed us the rooms speak in terms of such admiration, and even affection, of the emperor, as "a very kind man." one who is thus beloved by his dependents, by every member of his household, cannot but have some excellent traits of character. we were shown the drawing-room and the library, and the private study of the emperor, the chair in which he sits, the desk at which he writes, and the table around which he gathers his ministers--bismarck and moltke, etc. we were shown also what a new england housekeeper would call the "living rooms," where he dined and where he slept. the ladies of our party declared that the bed did not answer at all to their ideas of royal luxury, or even comfort, the sturdy old emperor having only a single mattress under him, and that a pretty hard one. perhaps however he despises luxury, and prefers to harden himself, like napoleon, or the emperor nicholas, who slept on a camp bedstead. he is certainly very plain in his habits and simple in his tastes. descending the staircase, the attendant took from a corner and put in our hand the emperor's cane. it was a rough stick, such as any dandy in new york would have despised, but the old man had cut it himself many years ago, and now he always has it in his hand when he walks abroad. and there through the window we look down into the poultry yard, where the empress, we were told, feeds her chickens with her own hand every morning. i was glad to hear this of the grand old lady. it shows a kind heart, and how, after all, for the greatest as well as the humblest of mankind, the simplest pleasures are the sweetest. i dare say she takes more pleasure in feeding her chickens than in presiding at the tedious court ceremonies. such little touches give a most pleasant impression of the simple home-life of the royal house of prussia. our last visit was to the tomb of frederick the great, who is buried in the garrison church. there is nothing about it imposing to the imagination, as in the tomb of napoleon at paris. it is only a little vault, which a woman opens with a key, and lights a tallow candle, and you lay your hand on the metallic coffin of the great king. there he lies--that fiery spirit that made war for the love of war, that attacked austria, and seized silesia, more for the sake of the excitement of the thing, and, as he confessed, "to make people talk about him," than because he had the slightest pretence to that austrian province; who, though he wanted to be a soldier, yet in his first battle ran away as fast as his horse could carry him, and hid himself in a barn; but who afterwards recovered control of himself, and became the greatest captain of his time. he it was who carried through the seven years' war, not only against austria, but against europe, and who held silesia against them all. "the continent in arms," says macaulay, "could not tear it from that iron grasp." but now the warrior is at rest; that figure, long so well known, no more rides at the head of armies. in this bronze coffin lies all that remains of frederick the great: "he sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle, no sound shall awake him to glory again." speaking of tombs--as of late my thoughts "have had much discourse with death"--the most beautiful which i have ever seen anywhere is that of queen louise, the mother of the present emperor, in the mausoleum at charlottenburg. the statue of the queen is by the famous german sculptor, rauch. when i first saw it years ago, it left such an impression that i could not leave berlin without seeing it again and we drove out of the city several miles for the purpose. it is in the grounds attached to one of the royal palaces but we did not care to see any more palaces, if only we could look again on that pure white marble form. at the end of a long avenue of trees is the mausoleum--a small building devoted only to royal sepulture--and there, in a subdued light, stretched upon her tomb, lies the beautiful queen. her personal loveliness is a matter of tradition; it is preserved in innumerable portraits, which show that she was one of the most beautiful women of her time. that beauty is preserved in the reclining statue. the head rests on a marble pillow, and is turned a little to one side, so as to show the perfect symmetry of the grecian outlines. it is a sweet, sad face (for she had sorrows that broke her queenly heart); but now her trials are ended, and how calmly and peacefully she sleeps! the form is drooping, as if she slumbered on her bed; she seems almost to breathe; hush, the marble lips are going to speak! was there ever such an expression of perfect repose? it makes one "half in love with blissful death." it brought freshly to mind the lines of shelley in queen mab: how wonderful is death! death and his brother sleep! one, pale as yonder waning moon, with lips of lurid blue; the other, rosy as the morn when throned on ocean's wave, it blushes o'er the world: yet both so passing wonderful! by the side of the statue of the queen reposes, on another tomb, that of her husband--a noble figure in his military cloak, with his hands folded on his breast. the king survived the queen thirty years. she died in her youth, in ; he lived till ; but his heart was in her tomb, and it is fitting that now they sleep together. on the principle of rhetoric, that a description should end with that which leaves the deepest impression, i end my letter here, with the softened light of that mausoleum falling on that breathing marble; for in all my memories of berlin, no one thing--neither palace, nor museum, nor the statue of frederick the great, nor the column of victory--has left in me so deep a feeling as the silent form of that beautiful queen. queen louise is a marked figure in german history, being invested with touching interest by her beauty and her sorrow, and early death. i like to think of such a woman as the mother of a royal race, now actors on the stage. it cannot but be that the memory of her beauty, associated with her patriotism, her courage, and her devotion, should long remain an inheritance of that royal line, and their most precious inspiration. may the young princes, growing up to be future kings and emperors, as they gather round her tomb, tenderly cherish her memory and imitate her virtues! chapter xv. austria--old and new. vienna, august th. we are taking such a wide sweep through central europe, travelling from city to city, and country to country, that my materials accumulate much faster than i can use them. there are three cities which i should be glad to describe in detail--hamburg, dresden, and prague. hamburg, to which we came from amsterdam, perhaps appears more beautiful from the contrast, and remains in our memory as the fairest city of the north. dresden, the capital of saxony, is also a beautiful city, and attracts a great number of english and american residents by its excellent opportunities of education, and from its treasures of art, in which it is richer than any other city in germany. our stay there was made most pleasant by an american family whom we had known on the other side of the atlantic, who gave us a cordial welcome, and under whose roof we felt how sweet is the atmosphere of an american home. the same friends, when we left, accompanied us on our way into the saxon switzerland, conducting us to the height of the bastei, a huge cliff, which from the very top of a mountain overhangs the elbe, which winds its silver current through the valley below, while on the other side of the river the fortress-crowned rock of konigstein lifts up its head, like edinburgh castle, to keep ward and watch over the beautiful kingdom of saxony. and there is dear old prague, rusty and musty, that in some quarters has such a tumble down air that it seems as if it were to be given up to jews, who were going to convert it into a huge rag fair for the sale of old clothes, and yet that in other quarters has new streets and new squares, and looks as if it had caught a little of the spirit of the modern time. but the interest of prague to a stranger must be chiefly historical--for what it has been rather than for what it is. these associations are so many and so rich, that to one familiar with them, the old churches and bridges, and towers and castles, are full of stirring memories. as we rode across the bridge, from which st. john of nepomuc was thrown into the river, five hundred years ago, because he would not betray to a wicked king the secret which the queen had confided to him in the confessional, up to the cathedral where a gorgeous shrine of silver keeps his dust, and perpetuates his memory, the lines of longfellow were continually running in my mind: i have read in some old marvellous tale, some legend strange and vague, that a midnight host of spectres pale beleaguered the walls of prague. beside the moldau's rushing stream, with the wan moon overhead, there stood, as in an awful dream, the army of the dead. it needs but little imagination on the spot to call up indeed an "army of the dead." standing on this old bridge, one could almost hear, above the rushing moldau, the drums of zisca calling the hussites to arms on the neighboring heights, a battle sound answered in a later century by the cannon of frederick the great. above us is the vast pile of the hradschin, the abode of departed royalties, where but a few weeks ago poor old ferdinand, the ex-emperor of austria, breathed his last. he was almost an imbecile, who sat for many years on the throne as a mere figurehead of the state, and who was perfectly harmless, since he had little more to do with the government than if he had been a log of wood; but who, when the great events of threatened the overthrow of the empire, was hurried out of the way to make room for younger blood, and his nephew, francis joseph, came to the throne. he lived to be eighty-two years old, yet so utterly insignificant was he that almost the only thing he ever said that people remember, was a remark that at one time made the laugh of vienna. once in a country place he tasted of some dumplings, a wretched compound of garlic and all sorts of vile stuff, but which pleased the royal taste, and which on his return to vienna he ordered for the royal table, greatly to the disgust of his attendants, to whom he replied, "i am kaiser, and i will have my dumplings!" this got out, and caused infinite merriment. poor old man! i hope he had his dumplings to the last. he was a weak, simple creature; but he is gone, and has been buried with royal honors, and sleeps with the imperial house of austria in the crypt of the church of the capuchins in vienna. but all these memories of prague, personal or historical, recent or remote, i must leave, to come at once to the austrian capital, one of the most interesting cities of europe. vienna is a far more picturesque city than berlin. it is many times older. it was a great city in the middle ages, when berlin had no existence. the cathedral of st. stephen was erected hundreds of years before the elector of brandenburg chose the site of a town on the spree, or peter the great began to build st. petersburg on the banks of the neva. vienna has played a great part in european history. it long stood as a barrier against moslem invasion. less than two hundred years ago it was besieged by the turks, and nothing but its heroic resistance, aided by the poles, under john sobieski, prevented the irruption of asiatic barbarians into central europe. from the tower of st. stephen's anxious watchers have often marked the tide of battle, as it ebbed and flowed around the ancient capital, from the time when the plain of the marchfeld was covered with the tents of the moslems, to that when the armies of napoleon, matched against those of austria, fought the terrible battles of aspern, essling, and wagram. but if vienna is an old city, it is also a new one. in revisiting germany, i am constantly struck with the contrast between what i see now, and what i saw in . then vienna was a pleasant, old-fashioned city, not too large for comfort, strongly fortified, like most of the cities of the middle ages, with high walls and a deep moat encompassing it on all sides. now all has disappeared--the moat has been filled up, and the walls have been razed to the ground, and where they stood is a circle of broad streets called the ring-strasse, like the boulevards of paris. the city thus let loose has burst out on all sides, and great avenues and squares, and parks and gardens, have sprung into existence on every hand. the result is a far more magnificent capital than the vienna which i knew seventeen years ago. nor are the changes less in the country than in the capital. there have been wars and revolutions, which have shaken the empire so that its very existence was in danger, but out of which it has come stronger than ever. austria is the most remarkable example in europe of _the good effects of a thorough beating_. twice, since i was here before, she has had a terrible humiliation--in and in --at solferino and at sadowa. in austria was slowly recovering from the terrible shock of ten years before, the revolutionary year of . in ' was the war in hungary, when kossuth with his fiery eloquence roused the magyars to arms, and they fought with such vigor and success, that they threatened to march on vienna, and the independence of hungary might have been secured but for the intervention of russia. gorgei surrendered to a russian army. then came a series of bloody executions. the hungarian leaders who fell into the hands of the austrians, found no pity. the illustrious count louis batthyani was sent to the scaffold. kossuth escaped only by fleeing into turkey. gen. bem turned mussulman, saying that "his only religion was love of liberty and hatred of tyranny," and served as a pacha at the head of a turkish army. it is a curious illustration of the change that a few years have wrought, that count andrassy, who was concerned with batthyani in the same rebellion, and was also sentenced to death, but escaped, is now the prime minister of austria. but then vengeance ruled the hour. the bravest hungarian generals were shot--chiefly, it was said at the time, by the imperious will of the archduchess sophia, the mother of francis joseph. there is no hatred like a woman's, and she could not forego the savage delight of revenge on those who had dared to attack the power of austria. proud daughter of the cæsars! she was yet to taste the bitterness of a like cruelty, when her own son, maximilian, bared his breast to a file of mexican soldiers, and found no mercy. i thought of this to-day, as i saw in the burial-place of the imperial family, near the coffin of that haughty and unforgiving woman, the coffin of her son, whose poor body lies there pierced with a dozen balls. but for the time austria was victorious, and in the flush of the reaction which was felt throughout europe, began to revive the old imperial absolutism, the stern repression of liberty of speech and of the press, the system of passports and of spies, of jealous watchfulness by the police, and of full submission to the church of rome. such was the state of things in ; and such it might have remained if the possessors of power had not been rudely awakened from their dreams. how well i remember the sense of triumph and power of that year. the empire of austria had been fully restored, including not only its present territory, but the fairest portion of italy--lombardy and venice. to complete the joy of the imperial house, an heir had just been born to the throne. i was present in the cathedral of milan when a solemn te deum was performed in thanksgiving for that crowning gift. maximilian was then viceroy in lombardy. i see him now as, with his young bride carlotta, he walked slowly up that majestic aisle, surrounded by a brilliant staff of officers, to give thanks to almighty god for an event which seemed to promise the continuance of the royal house of austria, and of its imperial power to future generations. alas for human foresight! in less than one year the armies of france had crossed the alps, a great battle had been fought at solferino, and lombardy was forever lost to austria, and a te deum was performed in the cathedral of milan for a very different occasion, but with still more enthusiastic rejoicing. but that was not the end of bitterness. austria was not yet sufficiently humiliated. she still clung to her old arbitrary system, and was to be thoroughly converted only by another administration of discipline. she had still another lesson to learn, and that was to come from another source, a power still nearer home. though driven out of a part of italy, austria was still the great power in germany. she was the most important member of the germanic confederation, as she had a vote in the diet at frankfort proportioned to her population, although two-thirds of her people were not germans. the hungarians and the bohemians are of other races, and speak other languages. but by the dexterous use of this power, with the alliance of bavaria and other smaller states, austria was able always to control the policy and wield the influence of germany. prussia was continually outvoted, and her political influence reduced to nothing--a state of things which became the more unendurable the more she grew in strength, and became conscious of her power. at length her statesmen saw that the only hope of prussia to gain her rightful place and power in the councils of europe, was _to drive austria out of germany_--to compel her to withdraw entirely from the confederation. it was a bold design. of course it meant war; but for this prussia had been long preparing. suddenly, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the war of . scarcely was it announced before a mighty army marched into bohemia, and the battle of sadowa, the greatest in europe since waterloo, ended the campaign. in six weeks all was over. the proud house of austria was humbled in the dust. her great army, that was to capture berlin, was crushed in one terrible day, and the prussians were on the march for vienna, when their further advance was stopped by the conclusion of peace. this was a fearful overthrow for austria. but good comes out of evil. it was the day of deliverance for hungary and for italy. man's extremity is god's opportunity, and the king's extremity is liberty's opportunity. up to this hour francis joseph had obstinately refused to grant to hungary that separate government to which she had a right by the ancient constitution of the kingdom, but which she had till then vainly demanded. but at length the eyes of the young emperor were opened, and on the evening of that day which saw the annihilation of his military power, it is said, he sent for deak, the leader of the hungarians, and asked "if he should _then_ concede all that they had asked, if they would rally to his support so as to save him?" "sire," said the stern hungarian leader, "_it is too late_!" nothing remained for the proud hapsburg but to throw himself on the mercy of the conqueror, and obtain such terms as he could. venice was signed away at a stroke. in his despair he telegraphed to paris, giving that beautiful province to napoleon, to secure the support of france in his extremity, who immediately turned it over to victor emmanuel, thus completing the unity of italy. the results in germany were not less important. as the fruit of this short, but decisive campaign, austria, besides paying a large indemnity for the expenses of the war, finally withdrew wholly from the german confederation, leaving prussia master of the field, which proceeded at once to form a new confederation with itself at the head. after such repeated overthrows and humiliations, one would suppose that austria was utterly ruined, and that the proud young emperor would die of shame. but, "sweet are the uses of adversity." humiliation is sometimes good for nations as for individuals, and never was it more so than now. the impartial historian will record that these defeats were austria's salvation. the loss of italy, however mortifying to her pride, was only taking away a source of constant trouble and discontent, and leaving to the rest of the empire a much more perfect unity than it had before. so with the independence of hungary; while it was an apparent loss, it was a real gain. the magyars at last obtained what they had so long been seeking--a separate administration, and francis joseph, emperor of austria, was crowned at pesth, king of hungary. by this act of wise conciliation five millions of the bravest people in europe were converted from disaffected, if not disloyal, subjects, into contented and warmly attached supporters of the house of austria, the most devoted as they are the most warlike defenders of the throne and the empire. another result of this war was the emancipation of the emperor himself from the pope. till then, austria had been one of the most extreme catholic powers in europe. not spain itself had been a more servile adherent of rome. the concordat gave all ecclesiastical appointments to the pope. but the thunder of the guns of sadowa destroyed a great many illusions--among them that of a ghostly power at rome, which had to be conciliated as the price of temporal prosperity as well as of eternal salvation. this illusion is now gone; the concordat has been repealed, and austria has a voice in the appointment of her own bishops. the late prime minister, count beust, was a protestant. in her treatment of different religious faiths, austria is so liberal as to give great sorrow to the holy father, who regards it as almost a kingdom that has apostatized from the faith. the same liberality exists in other things. there is none of the petty tyranny which in former days vexed the souls of foreigners, by its strict surveillance and espionage. now no man in a cocked hat demands your passport as you enter the city, nor asks how long you intend to stay; no agent of the police hangs about your table at a public café to overhear your private conversation, and learn if you are a political emissary, a conspirator in disguise; no officer in the street taps you on your shoulder to warn you not to speak so loud, or to be more careful of what you say. you are as free to come and go as in america, while the restrictions of the custom house are far less annoying and vexatious than in the united states. all this is the blessed fruit of austria's humiliation. it should be said to the praise of the emperor, that he has taken his discipline exceedingly well. he has not pouted or sulked, like an angry schoolboy, or refused to have anything to do with the powers which have inflicted upon him such grievous humiliations. he has the good sense to recognize the political necessities of states as superior to the feelings of individuals. kings, like other men, must bow to the inevitable. accordingly he makes the best of the case. he did not refuse to meet napoleon after the battle of solferino, but held an interview of some hours at villafranca, in which, without long preliminaries, they agreed on an immediate peace. he afterwards visited his brother emperor in paris at the time of the great exposition in . within the last year he has paid a visit to victor emmanuel at venice, and been received with the utmost enthusiasm by the italian people. they can afford to welcome him now that he is no longer their master. since they have not to see in him a despotic ruler, they hail him as the nation's guest, and as he sails up the grand canal, receive him with loud cheers and waving of banners. and he has received more than once the visits of the emperor william, who came to vienna at the time of the exposition two years since, and who has met him at a watering-place this summer, of which the papers gave full accounts, dwelling on their hearty cordiality, as shown in their repeated hand-shakings and embracings. it may be said that these are little things, but they are not little things, for such personal courtesies have a great deal to do with the peace of nations. in another respect, the discipline of adversity has been most useful to austria. by hard blows it has knocked the military spirit out of her, and led her to "turn her thoughts on peace." of course the military element is still very strong. vienna is full of soldiers. every morning we hear the drum beat under our windows, and files of soldiers go marching through the streets. huge barracks are in every part of the city, and a general parade would show a force of many thousands of men. the standing army of austria is one of the largest in europe. but in spite of all this parade and show, the military _spirit_ is much less rampant than before. nobody wants to go to war with any of the great powers. they have had enough of war for the present. austria has learned that there is another kind of greatness for nations than that gained in fighting battles, viz., cultivating the arts of peace. hence it is that within the last nine years, while there have been no victories abroad, there have been great victories at home. there has been an enormous development of the internal resources of the country. railroads have been extended all over the empire; commerce has been quickened to a new life. great steamers passing up and down the danube, exchange the products of the east and the west, of europe and asia. enterprises of all kinds have been encouraged. the result was shown in the exposition of two years ago, when there was collected in this city such a display of the products of all lands, as the world had never seen. those who had been at all the great exhibitions said that it far surpassed those of london and paris. all the luxurious fabrics of the east, and all the most delicate and the most costly products of the west, the fruit of manifold inventions and discoveries--with all that had been achieved in the useful arts, the arts whose success constitutes civilization--were there spread before the dazzled eye. such a victory of peace could not have been achieved without the previous lesson of defeat in war. still further learning wisdom from her conquerors, austria has entered upon a general system of education, modelled upon that of prussia, which in the course of another generation will transform the heterogeneous populations spread over the vast provinces, extending from italy and germany to turkey, which make up the thirty-four millions of the austrian empire. thus in many ways austria has abandoned her traditional conservative policy, and entered on the road of progress. she may now be fairly reckoned among the liberal nations of europe. the roman catholic religion is still the recognized religion of the state, but the pope has lost that control which he had a few years ago; vienna is much more independent of rome, and protestants have quite as much liberty of _opinion_, and i think more liberty of _worship_, than in republican france. of course there is still much in the order of things which is not according to our american ideas. austria is an ancient monarchy, and all civil and even social relations are framed on the monarchical system. everything revolves around the emperor, as the centre of the whole. we visit palace after palace, and are told that all are for the emperor. even his stables are one of the sights of vienna, where hundreds of blooded horses are for the use of the imperial household. there are carriages, too many to be counted, covered with gold, for four, six, or eight horses. one of these is two hundred years old, with panels decorated with paintings by rubens. it seems, indeed, as if in these old monarchies the sovereign applied to himself, with an arrogance approaching to blasphemy, the language which belongs to god alone--that "of him, and through him, and to him, are all things." personally i can well believe that the emperor is a very amiable as well as highly intelligent man, and that he seeks the good of his people. he has been trained in the school of adversity, and has learned that empires may not last forever and that dynasties may be overthrown. history is full of warnings against royal pride and ambition. who can stand by the coffin of poor maria louisa, as it lies in the crypt of the church of the capuchins, without thinking of the strange fate of that descendant of maria theresa, married to the great napoleon? in the royal treasury here, they show the cradle, wrought in the rarest woods, inlaid with pearl and gold, and lined with silk, that was made for the infant son of napoleon, the little king of rome. what dreams of ambition hovered about that royal cradle! how strange seemed the contrast when we visited the palace at schonbrunn, and entered the room which napoleon occupied when he besieged vienna, and saw the very bed in which he slept, and were told that in that same bed the young napoleon afterwards breathed his last! so perished the dream of ambition. the young child for whom napoleon had divorced josephine and married maria louisa, who was to perpetuate the proud imperial line, died far from france, while his father had already ended his days on the rock of st. helena! but personally no one can help a kindly feeling towards the emperor, and towards the young empress also, as he hears of her virtues and her charities. nor can one help liking the viennese and the austrians. they are very courteous and very polite--rather more so, if the truth must be told, than their german neighbors. perhaps great prosperity has been bad for the prussians, as adversity has been good for the austrians. at any rate the former have the reputation in europe of being somewhat brusque in their manners. perhaps they also need a lesson in humiliation, which may come in due time. but the austrians are proverbially a polite people. they are more like the french. they are gay and fond of pleasure, but they have that instinctive courtesy, which gives such a charm to social intercourse. and so we go away from vienna with a kindly feeling for the dear old city--only hoping it may not be spoiled by too many improvements--and with best wishes for both kaiser and people. they have had a hard time, but it has done them good. by such harsh instruments, by a discipline very bitter indeed, but necessary, has the life of this old empire been renewed. thus aroused from its lethargy, it has shaken off the past, and entered on a course of peaceful progress with the foremost nations of europe. those who talk of the "effete despotisms" of the old world, would be amazed at the signs of vitality in this old but _not_ decaying empire. austria is to-day one of the most prosperous countries in europe. there is fresh blood at her heart, and fresh life coursing through her aged limbs. and though no man or kingdom can be said to be master of the future, it has as fair a chance of long existence as any other power on the continent. the form of government may be changed; there may be internal revolutions; bohemia may obtain a separate government like hungary; but whatever may come, there will always be a great and powerful state in eastern europe, on the waters of the danube. we observed to-day that they were repairing st stephen's, and were glad to think that that old cathedral, which has stood for so many ages, and whose stone pavement has been worn by the feet of many generations, may stand for a thousand years to come. may that tower, which has looked down on so many battle-fields, as the tide of war has ebbed and flowed around the walls of vienna, hereafter behold from its height no more scenes of carnage like that of wagram, but only see gathered around its base one of the most beautiful of european capitals--the heart of a great and prosperous empire. chapter xvi. a midsummer night's dream.--out-door life of the german people. vienna, august th. no description of germany--no picture of german life and manners--can be complete which does not give some account of the out-door recreations of the people; for this is a large part of their existence; it is a feature of their national character, and an important element in their national life. to know a people well, one must see them not only in business, but in their lighter hours. one may travel through germany from the baltic to the adriatic, and see all the palaces and museums and picture galleries, and yet be wholly ignorant of the people. but if he has the good fortune to know a single german family of the better class, into which he may be received, not as a stranger, but as a guest and a friend--where he can see the interior of a german _home_, and mark the strong affection of parents and children, of brothers and sisters--he will get a better idea of the real character of the people, than by months of living in hotels. next to the sacred interior of the home, the _public garden_ is the place where the german appears with least formality and disguise, and in his natural character. since i came to europe, i have been in no mood to seek amusement. indeed if i had followed my own impulse, it would have been to shun every public resort, to live a very solitary life, going only to the most retired places, and seeking only absolute seclusion and repose. but that is not good for us in moments of sorrow. the mind is apt to become morbid and gloomy. this is not the lesson which those who have gone before would have us learn. on the contrary, they desire to have us happy, and bid us with their dying breath seek new activity, new scenes, and new mental occupation, to bind us to life. besides, i have had not only myself to consider, but a young life beside me. in addition to that, we have now a third member of our party. at hamburg we were joined by my nephew, a lieutenant in the navy, who is attached to the flagship franklin, now cruising in the baltic, and who obtained leave of absence for a month to join his sister, and is travelling with us in germany. he is a fine young officer full of life, and enters into everything with the greatest zest. so, beguiled by these two young spirits, i have been led to see more than i otherwise should of the open-air life and recreations of these simple-hearted germans; and i will briefly describe what i have seen, as the basis of one or two reflections. to begin with hamburg. this is one of the most beautiful cities in germany. one part is indeed old and dingy, in which the narrow streets are overhung with houses of a former century, now gone to decay. but as we go back from the river, we mount higher, and come into an entirely different town, with wide streets, lined with large and imposing buildings. this part of the city was swept by a great fire a few years ago, and has been very handsomely rebuilt. but the peculiar beauty of hamburg is formed by a small stream, the alster, which runs through the city, and empties into the elbe, and which is dammed up so as to form what is called by courtesy a lake, and what is certainly a very pretty sheet of water. around this are grouped the largest hotels, and some of the finest buildings of the city, and this is the centre of its joyous life, especially at the close of the day. when evening comes on, all hamburg flocks to the "alster-dam." our hotel was on this lake, and from our windows we had every evening the most animated scene. the water was covered with boats, among which the swans glided about without fear. the quays were lighted up brilliantly, and the cafés swarmed with people, all enjoying the cool evening air. both sexes and all ages were abroad to share in the general gayety of the hour. some rigid moralists might look upon this with stern eyes, as if it were a scene of sinful enjoyment, as if men had no right thus to be happy in this wicked world. but i confess i looked upon it with very different feelings. the enjoyment was of the most simple and innocent kind. families were all together, father and mother, brothers and sisters, while little children ran about at play. i have rarely looked on a prettier scene, and although i had no part nor lot in it, although i was a stranger there, and walked among these crowds alone, still it did my heart good to see that there was so much happiness in this sad and weary world. from hamburg we came to berlin, where the same features were reproduced on a larger scale. as we drove through the streets at ten o'clock at night we passed a large public garden, brilliantly lighted up, and thronged with people, from which came the sound of music, and were told that it was one of the most fashionable resorts of the capital; and so the next evening--after a day at potsdam, where we were wearied with sight-seeing--we took our rest here. imagine a vast enclosure lighted up with hundreds of gas-jets, and thronged with thousands of people, with _three_ bands of music to relieve each other. there were hundreds of little tables, each with its group around it, all chatting with the utmost animation. the next day we drove to charlottenburg, to visit the old palaces and the exquisite mausoleum of the beautiful queen louise, and on our return stopped to take our dinner at the flora--an enclosure of several acres, laid out like a botanical garden. a large conservatory, called the palm garden, keeps under cover such rare plants and trees as would not grow in the cold climate; and here one is in a tropical scene. this answers the purpose of a winter garden, as great banks of flowers and of rare plants are in full bloom all the winter long; and here the rank and fashion of berlin can gather in winter, and with the air filled with the perfume of flowers, forget the scene without--the naked trees and bitter winds and drifting snows--while listening to musical concerts given in an immense hall, capable of holding several thousand people. these are the festivities of winter. but now, as it is midsummer, the people prefer to be out of doors; and here, seated among the rest, we take our dinner, entertained (as sovereigns are wont to entertain their royal guests at state dinners) with a band of music in the intervals of the feast, which gives a new zest, a touch of oriental luxury, to our very simple repast. at dresden we were at the hôtel bellevue, which is close to the elbe, and there was a public garden on the bank of the river, right under our windows. every evening we sat on the terrace attached to the hotel, and heard the music, and watched the pleasure boats darting up and down the river. but of all the cities of germany, the one where this out-door life is carried to the greatest perfection, is here in vienna. we arrived when the weather was very hot. for the first time this summer in europe we were really oppressed with the heat. the sun blazed fiercely, and as we drove about the city seeing sights, we felt that we were martyrs suffering in a good cause. we were told that the heat was very unusual. the only relief and restoration after such days was an evening ride. so as the sun was setting we took a carriage and made the circuit of the ring-strasse, the boulevards laid out on the site of the old walls, ending with the prater, that immense park, where two years ago the great exposition was held, and where the buildings still stand. this is the place of concourse of the viennese on gala days, when the emperor turns out, and all the austrian and hungarian nobility, with their splendid equipages (the hungarians have an oriental fondness for gilded trappings), making a sight which is said to be more dazzling than can be seen even in the hyde park of london, or the bois de boulogne at paris. just now, of course, all this fashionable element has fled the city, and is enjoying life at the german watering places. but as there are still left seven or eight hundred thousand people, they must find some way to bear the heats of summer; and so they flock to the prater. the trees are all ablaze with light; half a dozen bands of music are in full blast, and "all the world is gay." it is truly "a midsummer night's dream." i was especially attracted to a concert garden where the band, a very large one, was composed of women. to be sure there were half a dozen men sprinkled among the performers, but they seemed to have subordinate parts--only blowing away at the wind instruments--while all the stringed instruments were played by delicate female hands. it was quite pretty to see how deftly they held the violins, and what sweet music they wrung from the strings. two or three young maidens stood beside the bass-viols, which were taller than themselves, and a trim figure, that might have been that of a french _vivandière_, beat the drum. the conductor was of course a woman, and marshalled her forces with wonderful spirit. i don't know whether the music was very fine or not (for i am not a judge in such matters), but i applauded vigorously, because i liked the independence of the thing, and have some admiration, if not sympathy, for the spirit of those heroic reformers, who wish to "put down these men." but the chief musical glory of vienna is the volksgarten, where strauss's famous band plays, and there we spent our last night in vienna. it is an enclosure near the palace, and the grounds belong to the emperor, who gives the use of them (so we were told) to the son of his old nurse, who devotes them to the purpose of a public garden, and to musical concerts. besides strauss's band, there was a military band, which played alternately. as we entered it was executing an air which my companions recognized as from "william tell," and they pointed out to me the beautiful passages--those which imitated the alpine horns, etc. then strauss came to the front--not johann (who has become so famous that the emperor has appropriated him to himself, so that he can now play only for the royal family and their guests), but his brother, edward. he is a little man, whose body seems to be set on springs, and to be put in motion by music. while leading the orchestra, of some forty performers, he was as one inspired--he fairly danced with excitement; it seemed as if he hardly touched the earth, but floated in air, his body swaying hither and thither to the sound of music. when he had finished, the military band responded, and so it continued the whole evening. the garden was illuminated not only with gas lamps, but with other lights not set down in the programme. the day had been terribly hot, and as we drove to the garden, dark masses of cloud were gathering, and soon the rain began to come down in earnest. the people who were sitting under the trees took refuge in the shelter of the large hall; and there, while incessant flashes of lightning lighted up the garden without, the martial airs of the military band were answered by the roll of the thunder. this was an unexpected accompaniment to the music, but it was very grateful, as it at once cleared and cooled the air, and gave promise of a pleasant day for travelling on the morrow. i might describe many similar scenes, though less brilliant, in every german city, but these are enough to give a picture of the open-air life and recreations of the german people. and now for the moral of the tale. what is the influence of this kind of life--is it good or bad? what lesson does it teach to us americans? does it furnish an example to imitate, or a warning to avoid? perhaps something of both. certainly it is a good thing that it leads the people to spend some hours of every day in the open air. during hours of business they are in their offices or their shops, and they need a change; and _anything_ which tempts them out of doors is a physical benefit; it quiets their nerves, and cools their blood, and prepares them for refreshing sleep. so far it is good. every open space in the midst of a great population is so much breathing space; the parks of a city are rightly called its _lungs_; and it is a good thing if once a day all classes, rich and poor, young and old, can get a long draught of fresh, pure air, as if they were in the country. next to the pleasure of sitting in the open air, the attraction of these places is the _music_. the germans are a music-loving people. luther was an enthusiast for music, and called any man a _fool_, a dull, heavy dolt, whose blood was not stirred by martial airs or softer melodies. in this he is a good type of the german people. this taste is at once cultivated and gratified by what they hear at these public resorts. i cannot speak with authority on such matters, but my companions identified almost every air that was played as from some celebrated piece of music, the work of some great master, all of whom are familiar in germany from mozart to mendelssohn. the constant repetition of such music by competent and trained bands, cannot but have a great effect upon the musical education of the people. and this delightful recreation is furnished very _cheaply_. in new york to hear nilsson, opera-goers pay three or four dollars. but here admission to the volksgarten, the most fashionable resort in vienna, is but a florin (about fifty cents); to the flora, in berlin, it was but a mark, which is of the value of an english shilling, or a quarter of a dollar; while many of the public gardens are _free_, the only compensation being what is paid for refreshments. one other feature of this open-air life and recreation has been very delightful to me--its domestic character. it is not a solitary, selfish kind of pleasure, as when men go off by themselves to drink or gamble, or indulge in any kind of dissipation. when men go to these public gardens, on the contrary, _they take their wives and their sisters with them_. often we see a whole family, down to the children, grouped around one of these tables. they sit there as they would around their own tea-table at home. the family life is not broken by this taking of their pleasure in public. on the contrary, it is rather strengthened; all the family ties are made the closer by sharing their enjoyments together. and these pleasures are not only _domestic_, but _democratic_. they are not for the rich only, but for all classes. even the poor can afford the few pence necessary for such an evening, and find in listening to such music in the open air the cheapest, as well as the simplest and purest enjoyment. the _drawbacks_ to these public gardens are two--the smoking and the beer-drinking. there are hundreds of tables, each with a group around it, all drinking beer, and the men all smoking. these features i dislike as much as anybody. i never smoked a cigar in my life, and do not doubt that it would make me deadly sick. mr. spurgeon may say that he "smokes a cigar to the glory of god"; that as it quiets his nerves and gives him a sound night's sleep, it is a means of grace to him. all i can say is, that it is not a means of grace to _me_, and that as i have been frequently annoyed and almost suffocated by it, i am afraid it has provoked feelings anything but christian. as for the drinking, there is one universal beverage--_beer_. this is a thin, watery fluid, such as one might make by putting a spoonful of bitter herbs in a teapot and boiling them. to me it seemed like cold water spoiled. yet others argue that it is cold water improved. on this question i have had many discussions since i came to germany. the people take to beer as a thing of course, as if it were the beverage that nature had provided to assuage their thirst, and when they talk to you in a friendly way, will caution you especially to beware of drinking the water of the country! why they should think this dangerous, i cannot understand, for surely they do not drink enough of it to do them any harm. of course, in passing from country to country, one needs to use prudence in drinking the water, as in other changes of diet, but the danger from that source is greatly exaggerated. certainly i have drunk of water freely everywhere in europe, without any injury. yet an american physician, who certainly has no national prejudice in favor of beer, gravely argues with me that it is the most simple, refreshing, and healthful beverage, and points to the physique of the germans in proof that it does them no injury. perhaps used in moderation, it may not. but certainly no argument will convince me that drinking it in such quantities as some do--eight, ten, or a dozen quart mugs a day!--is not injurious. when a man thus _swills_ beer--there is no other word to express it--he seems to me like a pig at the trough. but of course i do not mean that the greater number of germans drink it in any such quantities, or to a degree that would be considered excessive, if it is to be drunk _at all_. i was at first shocked to see men and women with these foaming goblets before them, but i observed that, instead of drinking them off at a draught as those who take stronger drinks are wont to do, they let them stand, occasionally taking a sip, a single glass often lasting the whole evening. indeed it seemed as if many ordered a glass of beer on entering a public garden, rather as a matter of custom, and as a way of paying for the music. for this they gave a few kreutzers (equal to a few pence), and for such a trifle had the freedom of the garden, and the privilege of listening to excellent music. but if we cannot enter into any eulogium of german beer at least it has this _negative_ virtue: it does not make people drunk. it is not like the heavy ales or porters of england. this is a fact of immense consequence, that the universal beverage of forty millions of people is not intoxicating. of course i do not mean to say that it is impossible for one to have his head swim by taking it in some enormous quantity. i only give my own observation, which is that i have seen thousands taking their beer, and never saw one in any degree affected by it. i give, therefore, the evidence of my senses, when i say that this beer does not make men drunk, it does not steal away their brains, or deprive them of reason. no reader of any intelligence can be so silly as to interpret this simple statement of a fact as arguing for the introduction of beer gardens in america. they are coming quite fast enough. [if i were to have a beer garden, it should be _without the beer_.] but as between the two, i do say that the beer gardens of germany are a thousand times better than the gin shops of london, or even the elegant "sample rooms" of new york. in the latter men drink chiefly fiery wines, or whiskey, or brandy, or rum; they drink what makes them beasts--what sends them reeling through the streets, to carry terror to their miserable homes; while in germany men drink what may be very bitter and bad-tasting stuff, but what does not make one a maniac or a brute. no man goes home from a beer garden to beat his wife and children, because he has been made a madman by intoxication. on the contrary, he has had his wife and children with him; they have all had a breath of fresh air, and enjoyed a good time together. such are the simple pleasures of this simple german people--a people that love their homes, their wives and children, and whatever they enjoy wish to enjoy it together. now may we not learn something from the habits of a foreign people, as to how to provide cheap and innocent recreations for our own? is there not some way of getting the good without the evil, of having this open-air life without any evil accompaniments? the question is one of recreation, _not of amusements_, which is another thing, to be considered by itself. in these public gardens there are no games of any kind--not so much as a punch and judy, or a hand-organ with a monkey--nothing but sitting in the open air, enjoying conversation, and listening to music. this question of popular recreations, or to put it more broadly, _how a people shall spend their leisure hours_--hours when they are not at work nor asleep--is a very serious question, and one closely connected with public morals. in the life of every man in america, even of the hard-worked laborer, there are several hours in the day when he is not bending to his task, and when he is not taking his meals. the work of the day is over, he has had his supper, but it is not time to go to bed. from seven to nine o'clock he has a couple of hours of leisure. what shall he do with them? it may be said he ought to spend them in reading. no doubt this would be very useful, but perhaps the poor man is too jaded to fix his mind on a book. what he needs is diversion, recreation, something that occupies the mind without fatiguing it; and what so charming as to sit out of doors in the summer time, in the cool of the evening, and listen to music, not being fixed to silence as in a concert room, but free to move about, and talk with his neighbors? if there could be in every large town such a retreat under the shade of the trees, where tired workmen could come, and bring their wives and children with them, it would do a great deal to keep them out of drinking saloons and other places of evil resort. for want of something of this kind the young men in our cities and in our country villages seek recreation where they can find it. in cities, young men of the better class resort to clubs. this club life has eaten into the domestic life of our american families. the husband, the son and brother, are never at home. would it not be better if they could have some simple recreation which the whole family could enjoy together? in country villages young men meet at the tavern, or in the street, for want of a little company. i have seen them, by twenty or thirty, sitting on a fence in a row, like barnyard fowls, where, it is to be feared, their conversation is not of the most refined character. how much better for these young fellows to be _somewhere_ where they could be with their mothers and sisters, and all have a good time together! if they must have something in the way of refreshment (although i do not see the need of anything; "have they not their houses to eat and drink in?"), let it be of the simplest kind--something very _cheap_, for they have no money to waste--and something which shall at least do them no injury--ices and lemonade, with plenty of what is better than either for a hot summer evening, pure, delicious cold water. i have great confidence in the power of _music_, especially in that which is popular and universal. expensive concerts, with celebrated singers, are the pleasure of the rich. but a village glee-club or singing-school calls out home talent, and no concert is so like a country fête as that in which the young folks do their own singing. with these pictures of german life and manners, and the reflections they suggest, i leave this subject of popular recreations to those who are older and wiser than i. i know that the subject is a very delicate one to touch. it is easy to go too far, and to have one's arguments perverted to abuse. and yet, in spite of all this, i stand up for recreation as a necessity of life. _recreation is not dissipation._ calvin pitching quoits may not seem to us quite as venerable a figure as calvin writing his institutes, or preaching in the cathedral of geneva; and yet he was doing what was just and necessary. the mind must unbend, and the body too. i believe hundreds of lives are lost every year in america for want of this timely rest and recreation. some traveller has said that america is the country in which there is less suffering, and less enjoyment, than in any other country in the world. i am afraid there is some truth in this. certainly we have not cultivated the art of enjoying ourselves. we are too busy. we are all the time toiling to accumulate, and give ourselves little time to enjoy. and when we do undertake it, it is a very solemn business with us. nothing is more dreary than the efforts of some of our good people to enjoy themselves. they do not know how, and make an awkward shift of it. they put it off to a future year, when their work shall be all done, and they will go to europe, and do up their travelling as a big job. thus their very pleasures are forced, artificial, and expensive. and little pleasure they get after all! many of these people we have met wandering about europe, forlorn and wretched creatures, exiles from their own country, yet not at home in any other. they have not learned the art, which the germans might teach them, of simple pleasures, and of _enjoying a little every day_. this american habit of work without rest, is a wretched economy of life, which can be justified neither by reason nor religion. there is no piety in such self-sacrifice as this, since it is for no good object, but only from a selfish and miserly greed for gain. men were not made to be mere drudges or slaves. hard work, _duly intermixed with rest and recreation_, is the best experience for every one of us, and the true means by which we can best fulfil our duty to god and to man. religion has received a great injury when it has been identified with asceticism and gloom. if there is any class of men who are my special aversion, it is those moping, melancholy owls, who sit on the tree of life, and frown on every innocent human joy. sorrow i can understand (for i have tasted of its bitter cup), and grief of every kind, penitence for wrong, and deep religious emotion; but what i cannot understand, nor sympathize with, is that sour, sullen, morose temper, which looks sternly even on the sports of children, and would hush their prattle and glee. such a system of repression is false in philosophy, and false in morals. it is bad intellectually. never was a truer saying than that in the old lines: all work and no play makes jack a dull boy. and it is equally bad for the moral nature. fathers and mothers, you must make your children happy, if you would make them good. you must surround them with an atmosphere of affection and enjoyment, if you would teach them to love you, and to love god. it is when held close in their mothers' arms, with tender eyes bent over them, that children first get some faint idea of that infinite love, of which maternal fondness is but the faint reflection. how wisely has cowper, that delicate and tender moralist, expressed the proper wish of children: with books, or work, or healthful play, may my first years be passed, that i may give for every day a good account at last. such a happy childhood is the best nursery for a brave and noble manhood. i write on this subject very seriously, for i know of few things more closely connected with public morals. i do not argue in favor of recreation because seeking any indulgence for myself. i have been as a stranger in all these scenes, and never felt soberer or sadder in my life than when listening for hours to music. but what concerns one only, matters little; but what concerns the public good, matters a great deal. and i give my opinion, as the result of much observation, that any recreation which promotes innocent enjoyment, which is physically healthy and morally pure, which keeps families together, and thus unites them by the tie of common pleasures (a tie only less strong than that of common sorrow), is a social influence that is friendly to virtue, and to all which we most love and cherish, and on the whole one of the cleanest and wholesomest things in this wicked world. often in my dreams i think of that better time which is coming, when even pleasure shall be sanctified; when no human joy shall be cursed by being mixed with sin and followed by remorse; when all our happiness shall be pure and innocent, such as god can smile upon, and such as leaves no sting behind. that will be a happy world, indeed, when mutual love shall bless all human intercourse: then shall wars and tumults cease, then be banished grief and pain; righteousness, and joy, and peace, undisturbed, shall ever reign. chapter xvii. the passion play and the school of the cross. ober-ammergau, bavaria, aug. d. my readers probably did not expect to hear from me in this lonely and remote part of the world. perhaps some of them never heard of such a place as ober-ammergau, and do not know what should give it a special interest above hundreds of other places. let me explain. ober-ammergau is a small village in the bavarian alps, where for the last two hundred years has been performed, at regular intervals, the passion play--that is, a dramatic representation, in which are enacted before us the principal events, and particularly the closing scenes, in the life of our lord. the idea of such a thing, when first suggested to a protestant mind, is not only strange, but repulsive in the highest degree. it seems like holding up the agonies of our saviour to public exhibition, dragging on the stage that which should remain an object of secret and devout meditation. when i first heard of it--which was some years ago, in america--i was shocked at what seemed the gross impiety of the thing; and yet, to my astonishment, several of the most eminent ministers of the city of new york, both episcopal and presbyterian, who had witnessed it, told me that it was performed in the most religious spirit, and had produced on them an impression of deep solemnity. such representations were very common in the middle ages; i believe they continued longest in spain, but gradually they died out, till now this is the only spot in europe where the custom is still observed. it has thus been perpetuated in fulfilment of a vow made two centuries ago; and here it may be continued for centuries to come. a performance so extraordinary, naturally excites great curiosity. as it is given only once in ten years, the interest is not dulled by too frequent repetition; and whoever is on the continent in the year of its observance, must needs turn aside to see this great sight. at such times this little mountain village is thronged with visitors, not only from bavaria and other catholic countries, but from england and america. this is not the year for its performance. it was given in , and being interrupted by the franco-german war, was resumed and completed in . the next regular year will be . but this year, which is midway between the two decennial years, has had a special interest from a present of the king of bavaria, who, wishing to mark his sense of the extraordinary devotion of this little spot in his dominions, has made it a present of a gigantic cross, or rather three crosses, to form a "calvary," which is to be erected on a hill overlooking the town. in honor of this royal gift, it was decided to have this year a special representation, not of the full passion play, but of a series of tableaux and acts, representing what is called the school of the cross--that is, such scenes from the old and new testaments as converge upon that emblem of christ's death and of man's salvation. this is not in any strict sense a play, though intended to represent the greatest of all tragedies, but a series of tableaux vivants, in some cases (only in those from the old testament) the statuesque representation being aided by words from the bible in the mouths of the actors in the scene. the announcement of this new sacred drama (if such it must be called) reached us in vienna, and drew us to this mountain village; and in selecting such subjects as seem most likely to interest my readers, i pass by two of the most attractive places in southern germany--salzburg which is said to be "the most beautiful spot in europe," where we spent three days; and munich, with its art galleries, where we spent four--to describe this very unique exhibition, so unlike anything to be seen in any other part of the world. we left munich by rail, and, after an hour's ride, varied our journey by a sail across a lake, and then took to a diligence, to convey us into the heart of the mountains. among our companions were several catholic priests, who were making a pilgrimage to ober-ammergau as a sacred place. the sun had set before we reached our destination. as we approached the hamlet, we found wreaths and banners hung on poles along the road--the signs of the fête on the morrow. as the resources of the little place were very limited, the visitors, as they arrived, had to be quartered among the people of the village. we had taken tickets at munich which secured us at least a roof over our heads, and were assigned to the house of one of the better class of peasants, where the good man and good wife received us very kindly, and gave us such accommodations as their small quarters allowed, showing us to our rooms up a little stair which was like a ladder, and shutting us in by a trap-door. it gave us a strange feeling of distance and loneliness, to find ourselves sleeping in such a "loft," under the roof of a peasant among the mountains of bavaria. the morning broke fair and bright, and soon the whole village was astir. peasants dressed in their gayest clothes came flocking in from all the countryside. at nine o'clock three cannon shots announced the commencement of the fête. the place of the performance was on rising ground, a little out of the village, where a large barn-like structure had been recently erected, which might hold a thousand people. formerly when the passion play was performed, it was given in the open air, no building being sufficient to contain the crowds which thronged to the unaccustomed spectacle. this rude structure is arranged like a theatre, with a stage for the actors, and the rest of the house divided off into seats, the best of which are generally occupied by strangers while the peasant population crowd the galleries. we had front seats, which were only separated from the stage by the orchestra, which deserves a word of praise, since the music was both _composed_ and performed wholly by such musical talent as the little village itself could provide. at length the music ceased, and the _choir_, which was composed of thirteen persons in two divisions, entered from opposite sides of the stage, and "formed in line" in front of the curtain. the choir takes a leading part in this extraordinary performance--the same, indeed, that the chorus does in the old greek tragedy, preceding each act or tableau with a recitation or a hymn, designed as a prelude to introduce what is to follow, and then at the close of the act concluding with what preachers would call an "improvement" or "application." in this opening chant the chorus introduced the mighty story of man's redemption, as milton began his paradise lost, by speaking of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe. it was a sort of recitative or plaintive melody, fit keynote of the sad scenes that were to follow. the voices ceased, and the curtain rose. the first biblical characters who appeared on the stage were cain and abel, who were dressed in skins after the primitive fashion of our race. abel, who was of light complexion and hair, was clad in the whitest and softest sheep's wool; while cain, who was dark-featured, and of a sinister and angry countenance, was covered with a flaming leopard's skin, as best betokened the ferocity of his character. in the background rose the incense of abel's offering. cain was disturbed and angry; he spoke to his brother in a harsh voice. abel replied in the gentlest accents, trying to soften his brother's heart and turn away his wrath. father adam, too, appears on the scene, using his parental authority to reconcile his children; and eve comes in, and lays her light hand on the arm of her infuriated son, and tries to soothe him to a gentler mood. even the angel of the lord steps forth from among the trees of the garden, to warn the guilty man of the evil of unbridled rage, and to urge him to timely repentance, that his offering may be accepted. these united persuasions for the moment seem to be successful, and there is an apparent reconciliation between the brothers; cain falls on abel's neck, and embraces him. yet even while using the language of affection, he has a club in his hand, which he holds behind him. but the fatal deed is not done upon the stage; for throughout the play there is an effort to keep out of sight any repulsive act. so they retire from the scene. but presently nature itself announces that some deed of violence and blood is being done; the lightnings flash and thunders roll; and adam reappears, bearing abel in his aged arms, and our first parents together indulge in loud lamentations over the body of their murdered son. this story of cain and abel occupied several short acts, in which the curtain rose and fell several times, and at the end of each the chorus came upon the stage to give the moral of the scene. in the dialogues the speakers follow closely the old testament. if occasional sentences are thrown in to give a little more fulness of detail, at least there is no departure from the general outline of the sacred narrative. it is the story of the first crime, the first shedding of human blood, told in a dramatic form, by the personages themselves appearing on the stage. these scenes from the old testament were mingled with scenes from the new, the aim being to use one to illustrate the other--the antitype following the type in close succession. thus the _pendant_ of the former scenes (to adopt a word much used by artists when one picture is hung on a wall over against another) was now given in the corresponding crime which darkens the pages of the new testament history--the betrayal of christ. but there was this difference between the scenes from the old testament and those from the new: in the latter _there was no dialogue whatever, and no action_, as if it was all too sacred for words--nothing but the tableau, the figures standing in one attitude, fixed and motionless. first there was the scene of christ driving the money-changers from the temple. here a large number of figures--i should think twenty or thirty--appeared upon the stage, and held their places with unchanging look. not one moved; they scarcely breathed; but all stood fixed as marble. all the historic characters were present--the priests in their robes (the costumes evidently having been studied with great care), and the pharisees glaring with rage upon our lord, as with holy indignation he spurns the profane intruders from the sacred precincts. then there is the scene of judas betraying christ. we see him leading the way to the spot where our saviour kneels in prayer; the crowd follow with lanterns; there are the roman soldiers, and in the background are the priests, the instigators of this greatest of crimes. in another scene judas appears again overwhelmed with remorse, casting down his ill-gotten money before the priests, who look on scornfully, as if bidding him keep the price of blood, and take its terrible consequences. as might be supposed, the part of judas is one not to be particularly desired, and we cannot look at a countenance showing a mixture of hatred and greed, without a strong repugnance. there was a story that the man who acted judas in the passion play in had been killed in the french war, but this we find to be an error. it was a very natural invention of some one who thought that a man capable of such a crime ought to be killed. but the old judas is still living, and, off from the stage, is said to be one of the most worthy men of the village. having thus had set before us the most sticking illustrations of human guilt, in the first crime that ever stained the earth with blood, and in the greatest of all crimes, which caused the death of christ, we have next presented the method of man's redemption. the chorus again enters upon the stage, and recites the story of the fall, how man sinned, and was to be recovered by the sacrifice of one who was to be an atonement for a ruined world. again the curtain rises, and we have before us the high priest melchisedec, in whose smoking altar we see illustrated the idea of sacrifice. the same idea takes a more terrible form in the sacrifice of isaac. we see the struggles of his father abraham, who is bowed with sorrow, and the heart-broken looks of sarah, his wife. the latter part, as it happened, was taken by a person of a very sweet face, the effect of which was heightened by being overcast with sadness, and also by the oriental costume, which, covering a part of the face, left the dark eyes which peered out from under the long eyelashes, to be turned on the beholders. everything in the appearance of abraham, his bending form and flowing beard, answered to the idea of the venerable patriarch. the _couleur locale_ was preserved even in the attendants, who looked as if they were arabian servants who had just dismounted from camels at the door of the tent. isaac appears, an innocent and confiding boy, with no presumption of the dark and terrible fate that is impending over him. and when the gentle sarah appears, tenderly solicitous for the safety of her child, the coldest spectator could hardly be unmoved by a scene pictured with such touching fidelity. it is with a feeling of relief that, as this fearful tragedy approaches its consummation, we hear the voice of the angel, and behold that the lord has himself provided a sacrifice. but all these scenes of darkness and sorrow, of guilt and sacrifice, are now to find their culmination and their explanation in the death of our lord, to which all ancient types converge, and on which all ancient symbols cast their faint and flickering, but not uncertain, light. as the scenes approach this grand climax, they grow in pathos and solemnity. each is more tender and more effective than the last. one of the most touching, as might be supposed, is that of the last supper, in which we recognize every one of the disciples, so closely has the grouping been studied from the painting of leonardo da vinci and other old masters with whom this was a favorite subject. there are peter and john and the rest, all turning with an eager, anxious look towards their master, and all with an indescribable sadness on their faces. again the scene changes, and we see our lord in the garden of gethsemane. there are the three disciples slumbering, overcome with weariness and sorrow; and there on the sacred mount at midnight "the suffering saviour prays alone." again the curtain falls, and the chorus, in tones still more plaintive and mournful, announce that the end is near. the curtain rises, and we behold the crucifixion. here there are thirty or forty persons introduced. in the foreground are three or four figures "casting lots," careless of the awful scene that is going on above them. the roman soldier is looking upward with his spear. the three marys are at the feet of their lord; _mary magdalen nearest of all, with her arms clasped around the cross_; mary, the mother of christ, looking up with weeping eyes; and a little farther mary, the wife of cleophas. the two thieves are hanging, with their arms thrown over the cross-tree, as they are represented in many of the paintings of the crucifixion. but we scarcely notice them, as all eyes are fixed on the central figure. the man who takes the part of the christus in this divine tragedy, has made a study of it for years, and must have trained himself to great physical endurance for a scene which must tax his strength to the utmost. his arms are extended, his hands and feet seem to be pierced with the nails, and flowing with blood. even without actual wounds the attitude itself must be extremely painful. how he could support the weight of his body in such a posture was a wonder to all. it was said that he rested one foot on something projecting from the cross, but even then it seemed incredible that he could sustain such a position for more than a single instant. yet in the performance of the passion play it is said that he remains thus suspended twenty minutes, and is then taken down, almost in a fainting condition. some may ask, how did the sight affect me? twenty-four hours before i could not have believed that i could look upon it without a feeling of horror, but so skilfully had the points of the sacred drama been rendered thus far, that my feelings had been wound up to the highest pitch, and when the curtain rose on that last tremendous scene, i was quite overcome, the tears burst from my eyes, i felt as never before, under any sermon that i ever heard preached, how solemn and how awful was the tragedy of the death of the son of god. so excited were we, and to appearance all in the building, that it was a relief when the curtain fell. as if to give a further relief to the over-wrought feelings of the audience, occasioned by this mournful sight, the next scene was of a different character. it was not the resurrection, though it might have been intended to symbolize it, as in it the actor appears as if he had been brought back from the dead. it is the story of joseph, which is introduced to illustrate the method of divine providence, by which is brought "light out of darkness." we see the aged form of jacob, bowed with grief at the loss of his son. then comes the marvellous succession of events by which the darkness is turned to light. bewildered at the news of his son being in egypt, at first he cannot believe the good tidings, till at length convinced, he rises up saying "joseph my son, is yet alive; i will go and see him before i die." then follows the return to egypt, and the meeting with him who was dead and is alive again, when the old man falls upon his neck, and joseph's children (two curly-headed little fellows whom we had the privilege of kissing before the day was over) were brought to his knees to receive his blessing. this was a domestic rather than a tragic scene, and such is the natural pathos of the story, that it touched every heart. the last scene of all was the ascension, which was less impressive than some that had gone before, as it could of course only be imperfectly represented. the saviour appears standing on the mount, with outstretched hands, in the midst of his disciples, but there the scene ends, as it could go no further; there could be no descending cloud to receive him out of their sight. with this last act the curtain fell. the whole representation had occupied three hours. now as to the general impression of this extraordinary scene: as a piece of _acting_ it was simply wonderful. the parts were filled admirably. the characters were perfectly kept. even the costumes were as faithfully reproduced as in any of those historical dramas which are now and then put upon the stage, such as tragedies founded on events in ancient greek or roman history, where the greatest pains are taken to render every detail with scrupulous fidelity. this is very extraordinary, especially when it is considered that this is all done by a company of bavarian peasants, such as might be found in any alpine village. the explanation is, that this representation is _the great work of their lives_. they have their trades, like other poor people, and work hard for a living. but their great interest, that which gives a touch of poetry to their humble existence, and raises them above the level of other peasants, is the representation of this passion play. this has come down to them from their fathers. it has been acted among them for two hundred years. there are traditions handed down from one generation to another of the way in which this or that part should be performed. in the long intervals of ten years between one representation and another, they practice constantly upon their several parts, so that at the last they attain a wonderful degree of perfection. as to the _propriety_ of the thing: to our cold protestant ideas it seems simply monstrous, a horrid travesty of the most sacred scenes in the word of god. so i confess it would appear to me if done by others. _anywhere else_ what i have witnessed would appear to me almost like blasphemy; it would be _merely acting_, and that of the worst kind, in which men assume the most sacred characters, even that of our blessed lord himself. but this impression is very much changed when we consider that here all this is done in a spirit of devotion. these bavarian peasants are a very religious people (some would prefer to call it superstition), but whatever it be, it is _universal_. pictures of saints and angels, or of christ and the virgin mary, are seen in every house; crosses and images, and shrines are all along the roads. call it superstition if you will, but at least the feeling of religion, the feeling of a divine power, is present in every heart; they refer everything to supernatural agencies; they hear the voice of god in the thunder that smites the crest of the hills, or the storm that sweeps through their valleys. and so when they come to the performance of this passion play, it is not as unbelievers, whose offering would be an offence, "not being mixed with faith in them that did it." they believe, and therefore they speak, and therefore they act. and so they go through their parts in the most devout spirit. whenever the passion play is to be performed, all who are to take part in it _first go to the communion_; and thus with hearts penitent and subdued, they come to assume these sacred characters, and speak these holy words. and so, while the attempt to transport the passion play anywhere else would be very repulsive, it may be left where it is, in this lonely valley of the bavarian mountains, an unique and extraordinary relic of the religious customs of the middle ages. but while one such representation is quite enough, and we are well content that it should stand alone, and there should be not another, yet he must be a dull observer who does not derive from it some useful hints both as to the power of the simplest religious truth, and the way of presenting it. preachers are not actors, and when some sensational preachers try to introduce into the pulpit the arts which they have learned from the stage, they commonly make lamentable failures. to say that a preacher is theatrical, is to stamp him as a kind of clerical mountebank. and yet there is a use of the dramatic element which is not forced nor artificial, which on the contrary is the most simple and natural way of speaking. the dramatic element is in human nature. children use gestures in talking, and vary their tones of voice. they never stand stiff as a post, as some preachers do. the most popular speakers are dramatic in their style. cough, the temperance lecturer, who has probably addressed more and larger audiences in america and great britain than any other man living, is a consummate actor. his art of mimicry, his power of imitating the expression of countenance and tones of voice, is wonderful. and our eloquent friend talmage, in brooklyn, owes much of his power to the freedom with which he walks up and down his platform, which is a kind of stage, and throws in incidents to illustrate his theme, often acting, as well as relating them, with great effect. but not only is the dramatic element in human nature, it is in the bible, which runs over with it. the bible is not merely a volume of ethics. it is full of narrative, of history and biography, and of dialogue. many of the teachings of our saviour are in the form of conversations, of which it is quite impossible to give the full meaning and spirit, without changes of manner and inflections of voice. take such an exquisite portion of the old testament as the story of ruth, or that of joseph and his brethren. what an outrage upon the sacred word to read such sweet and tender passages in a dull and monotonous voice, as if one had not a particle of feeling of their beauty. one might ask such a reader "understandest thou what thou readest?" and if he is too dull to learn otherwise, these simple bavarian peasants might teach him to throw into his reading from the pulpit a little of the pathos and tenderness which they give to the conversations of joseph with his father jacob. of course, in introducing the dramatic element into the pulpit, it is to be done with a close self-restraint, and with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. but so used, it may subserve the highest ends of preaching. of this a very illustrious example is furnished in the annals of the american pulpit, in the blind preacher of virginia, the impression of whose eloquence is preserved by the pen of william wirt. when that venerable old man, lifting his sightless eyeballs to heaven, described the last sufferings of our lord, it was with a manner adapted to the recital, as if he had been a spectator of the mournful scene, and with such pathos in his tones as melted the whole assembly into tears, and the excitement seemed almost beyond control; and the stranger held his breath in fear and wonder how they were ever to be let down from that exaltation of feeling. but the blind man held them as a master. he paused and lifted his hands to heaven, and after a moment of silence, repeated only the memorable exclamation of rousseau: "socrates died like a philosopher, but jesus christ like a god!" in this marvellous eloquence the preacher used the dramatic element as truly as any actor in the passion play, the object in both cases being the same, to bring most vividly before the mind the life and death of the son of god. and is not that the great object, and the great subject, of all our preaching? the chief lesson which i have learned to-day, concerns not the _manner_, but the _substance_, of what we preach. this passion play teaches most impressively, that the one thing which most interests all, high and low, rich and poor, is the simple story of jesus christ, and that the power of the pulpit depends on the vividness with which christ and his cross are brought, if not before the _eyes_, at least before the _minds_ and hearts of men. it is not eloquent essays on the beauty of virtue, or learned discussions on the relations of science and religion, that will ever touch the heart of the world, but the old, old story of that divine life, told with the utmost simplicity and tenderness. i think it lawful to use any object which can bring me nearer to him. that which has been conceived in superstition may minister to a devout spirit. and so i never see one of these crosses by the roadside without its turning my thoughts to him who was lifted up upon it, and in my secret heart i whisper, "o christ, redeemer of the world, be near me now!" some, i know, will think this a weak sentimentalism, or even a sinful tolerance of superstition. but with all proper respect for their prejudices, i must hail my saviour wherever i can find him, whether in the city or the forest, or on the mountain. what a consolation there is in carrying that blessed image with us, wherever we go! how it stills our beating hearts, and dries our tears, to think of him who has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! often do i repeat to myself those sweet lines of george herbert: christ leads us through no darker rooms than he went through before; whoso into god's kingdom comes must enter by this door. i do not like to speak of my own feelings; for they are too private and sacred, and i shrink from any expression of them. but all this summer, while wandering in so many beautiful scenes, among lakes and mountains, i have felt the strongest religious craving. i have been looking for something which i did not find either in the populous city, or in the solitary place where no man was. something had vanished from the earth, the absence of which could only be supplied by an invisible presence and spiritual grace. amid great scenes of nature one is very lonely; and especially if there be a hidden weight that hangs heavy on the heart, he feels the need of a presence of which "the deep saith, it is not in me," and nature saith, "it is not in me." what is this but the human soul groping after god, if haply it may find him? the psalmist has expressed it in one word, when he says, "my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living god." how often has that cry been wrung from my heart in lonely and desolate hours, when standing on the deck of a ship, or on the peak of a mountain! and wherever i see any sign of religion, i am comforted; and so as i look around, and see upon all these hills the sign of the cross, i think of him who died for me, and the cry which has so often been lifted up in distant lands, goes up here from the heart of the bavarian alps: "o lamb of god, that takest away the sin of the world, grant me thy peace!" chapter xviii. the tyrol and lake como. cadenabbia, lake como, august th. the rev. dr. bellows of new york is to blame--or "to praise"--for our last week's wanderings; for he it was who advised me by no means to leave out the tyrol in our european tour--and if he could have seen all the delight of these few days, i think he would willingly take the responsibility. the tyrol is less visited than switzerland; it is not so overrun with tourists (and this is a recommendation); but it is hardly less worthy of a visit. to be sure, the mountains are not quite so high as mont blanc and the matterhorn (there are not so many snow-clad peaks and glaciers), but they are high enough; there are many that pierce the clouds, and the roads wind amid perpetual wildness, yet not without beauty also, for at the foot of these savage mountains lie the loveliest green valleys, which are inhabited by a simple, brave people, who have often defended their alpine passes with such valor as has made them as full of historical interest as they are of natural grandeur. innsbruck is the capital of the tyrol, and the usual starting point for a tour--but as at ober-ammergau we were to the west, we found a nearer point of departure at partenkirchen, a small town lying in the lap of the mountains, from which a journey through lermos, nassereit, imst, landeck and mals, leads one through the heart of the tyrol, ending with the stelvio pass, the highest over the alps. it is a long day's ride to landeck, but we ordered a carriage with a pair of stout horses, and went to our rest full of expectation of what we should see on the morrow. but the night was not promising; the rain fell in torrents, and the morning was dark and lowering; but "he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," so with faith we set out, and our faith was rewarded, for soon the clouds broke away, and though they lingered in scattered masses, sufficient to shade us from the oppressive heat of the sun, they did not obscure the sight of the mountains and the valleys. the rains had laid the dust and cooled the air, and all day long we were floating through a succession of the most varied scenes, in which there was a mingled wildness and beauty that would have delighted our landscape artists. the villages are less picturesque than the country. they are generally built very compact, apparently as a security against the winter, when storms rage through these valleys, and there is a feeling of safety in being thus "huddled" together. the houses are of stone, with arched passage-ways for the horses to be driven into a central yard. they look very solid, but they are not tasteful. there are not good accommodations for travellers. there are as yet none of those magnificent hotels which the flood of english tourists has caused to be built at every noted point in switzerland; in the tyrol one has to depend on the inns of the country, and these, with a few exceptions, are poor. looking through the one long, narrow street of a tyrolean village, one sees little that is attractive, but much to the contrary. great heaps of manure lie exposed by the roadside, and often not only before the barns, but before the houses. these seem to be regarded as the agricultural riches of the cultivators of the soil, and are displayed with as much pride as a shepherd would take in showing his flocks and herds. these features of a hamlet in the tyrol a traveller regards with disgust, and we used often to think of the contrast presented to one of our new england villages, the paradise of neatness and comfort. such things seem to show an utter absence of taste; and yet this people are very fond of flowers. almost every house has a little patch of ground for their cultivation, and the contrast is most strange between the filth on one side and the beauty and bloom on the other. another feature which strikes one, is the universal reverence and devotion. the tyrolese, like the peasants of bavaria, are a very religious people. one can hardly travel a mile without coming to a cross or a shrine by the wayside, with an image of christ and the virgin. often on the highest points of the mountains, where only the shepherd builds his hut, that he may watch his flocks in the summer as they feed on those elevated pastures, may be seen a little chapel, whose white spire, gleaming in the sunset, seems as strange and lonely as would a rude chapel built by a company of miners on some solitary peak of the rocky mountains. these summer pastures are a feature of the tyrol. high up on the sides of the mountains one may descry here and there, amid the masses of rock, or the pine forest, a little oasis of green (called an _alp_), where a few rods of more level ground permit of cultivation. it would seem as if these heights were almost inaccessible, as if only the chamois could clamber up such rocks, or find a footing where only stunted pines can grow. yet so industrious are these simple tyroleans, and so hard-pressing is the necessity which compels them to use every foot of the soil, that they follow in the path of the chamois, and turn even the tops of the mountains into greenness, and plant their little patches almost on the edge of the snows. wherever the grass can grow, the cattle and goats find sustenance on the scanty herbage. to these mountain pastures they are driven, so soon as the snows have melted off from the heights, and the tender grass begins to appear, and there they are kept till the return of cold compels them to descend. we used often to look through our spyglass at the little clusters of huts on the very tops of the mountains, where the shepherds, by coming together, try to lighten a little the loneliness of their lot, banished for the time from all other human habitations. but what a solitary existence--the only sound that greets their ears the tinkling of the cow-bells, or the winding of the shepherd's horn, or the chime of some chapel bell, which, perched on a neighboring height, sends its sweet tones across the valley. amid such scenes, we rode through a dozen villages, past hills crowned with old castles, and often looked down from the mountain sides into deep hollows glistening with lakes. as we came into the valley of the inn, we remembered that this was all historic ground. the bridges over which we passed have often been the scene of bloody conflicts, and in these narrow gorges the tyrolese have rolled down rocks and trees on the heads of their invaders. we slept that night at landeck, in a very decent, comfortable inn, kept by a good motherly hostess. the next morning we exchanged our private carriage for the _stellwaggen_, a small diligence which runs to mals. our journey was now made still more pleasant by falling in with a party of three clergymen of the church of england--all rectors of important churches in or near london, who had been, like ourselves, to ober-ammergau, and were returning through the tyrol. they had been also to the old catholic conference at bonn, where they met our friend dr. schaff. they had much to say of the addresses of dr. döllinger, and of the old catholic movement, of which they had not very high expectations, although they thought its influence, as far as it went, was good. we travelled together for three days. i found them (as i have always found clergymen of the church of england) men of culture and education, as well as gentlemen in their manners. they proved most agreeable travelling companions, and their pleasant conversation, as we rode together, or walked up the steep ascents of the mountains, gave an additional enjoyment to this most delightful journey. this second day's ride led us over the finstermünz pass in which all the features of tyrolean scenery of the day before were repeated with increasing grandeur. for many miles the line of the tyrol is close to that of switzerland; across a deep gorge, through which flows a rapid river, lies the engadine, which of late years has been a favorite resort of swiss tourists, and where our friend prof. hitchcock with his family has been spending the summer at st. moritz. towards the close of the day we descried in the distance a range of snowy summits, and were told that this was the chain that we were to cross on the morrow. but all the experiences of those two days--in which we thought our superlatives were exhausted--were surpassed on the third as we crossed the pass of the stelvio. this is the highest pass in europe, and on this day it seemed as if we were scaling heaven itself. having a party of five, we procured a diligence to ourselves. we set out from mals at six o'clock in the morning, and crossing the rushing, foaming adige, began the ascent. soon the mountains close in upon us, the pass grows narrower and steeper; the horses have to pull harder; we get out and walk, partly to relieve the hard-breathing animals, but more to see at every turn the savage wildness of the scenery. how the road turns and twists in every way to get a foothold, doubling on itself a hundred times in its ascent of a few miles. and look, how the grandeur grows as we mount into this higher air! the snow-peaks are all around us, and the snow melting in the fiery sun, feeds many streams which pour down the rocky sides of the mountains to unite in the valley below, and which filled the solitudes with a perpetual roar. after such steady climbing for seven hours, at one o'clock we reached a resting place for dinner (where we halted an hour), a shelf between the mountains, from which, as we were now above the line of trees, and no forests intercepted the view, we could see our way to the very summit. the road winds in a succession of zigzags up the side of the mountain. the distance in an air line is not perhaps more than two miles, though it is six and a half by the road, and it took us just two hours to reach the top. at length at four o'clock we reached the point, over nine thousand feet above the level of the sea, where a stone monument marks at once the summit of the pass and the dividing line between the tyrol and lombardy. all leaped from the carriage in delight, to look around on the wilderness of mountains. to the left was the great range of the ortler alps, with the ortler spitze rising like a white dome above them all. at last we were among the snows. we were above the line of vegetation, where not a tree grows, nor a blade of grass--where all is barrenness and desolation. the stelvio is utterly impassable the greater part of the year. in a few weeks more the snows will fall. by the end of september it is considered unsafe, and the passage is attempted at one's peril, as the traveller may be caught in a storm, and lost on the mountain. perhaps some of my readers will ask, what we often asked, what is the use of building a road amid these frightful solitudes, when it cannot be travelled the greater part of the year? what is the use of carrying a highway up into the clouds? why build such a jacob's ladder into heaven itself, since after all this is not the way to get to heaven? it must have cost millions. but there is no population along the road to justify the expense. it could not be built for a few poor mountaineers. and yet it is constructed as solidly as if it were the appian way leading out of rome. it is an immense work of engineering. for leagues upon leagues it has to be supported by solid stone-work to prevent its being washed away by torrents. the answer is easy. it is a military road, built, if not for purposes of conquest, yet to hold one insecure dominion. twenty years ago the upper part of italy was a dependency of austria, but an insecure one, always in a chronic state of discontent, always on the verge of rebellion. this road was built to enable the government at vienna to move troops swiftly through the tyrol over this pass, and pour them down upon the plains of lombardy. hannibal and cæsar had crossed the alps, but the achievement was the most daring in the annals of ancient warfare. napoleon passed the great st. bernard, but he felt the need of an easier passage for his troops, and constructed the simplon, not from a benevolent wish to benefit mankind, but simply to render more secure his hold upon italy, as he showed by asking the engineers who came to report upon the progress of the work, "when will the road be ready to pass over the cannon?" such was the design of austria in building the road over the stelvio. but man proposes and god disposes. it was built with the resources of an empire, and now that it is finished, lombardy, by a succession of events not anticipated in the royal councils, falls to reunited italy, and this road, the highest in europe, remains, not a channel of conquest, but a highway of civilization. but here we are on the top of the pass, from which we can look into three countries--an empire, a kingdom, and a republic. austria is behind us, and italy is before us, and switzerland, throned on the alps, stands close beside us. after resting awhile, and feasting our eyes on the glorious sight, we prepare to descend. we are not out of the tyrol, even when we have crossed the frontier, for there is an italian as well as an austrian tyrol, which has the same features, and may be said to extend to lake como. the descent from the stelvio is quite as wonderful as the ascent. perhaps the impression is even greater, as the descent is more rapid, and one realizes more the awful height and depth, as he is whirled down the pass by a hundred zigzag turns, over bridges and through galleries of rock, till at last, at the close of a long summer's day, he reaches the baths of bormio, and plunging into one of the baths, for which the place is so famous, washes away the dust of the journey, and rests after the fatigue of a day never to be forgotten, in which he made the pass of the stelvio. for one fond of mountain climbing, who wished to make foot excursions among the alps, there are not many better points than this of the baths of bormio. it is under the shadow of the great mountains, yet is itself only about four thousand feet high, so that it is easily accessible from below, yet it is nearly half-way up to the heights above. but we were on our way to italy, and the next day continued our course down the valley of the adda. hour after hour we kept going down, down, till it seemed as if we must at last reach the very bottom of the mountains, where their granite foundations are embedded in the solid mass of the planet. but this descent gave us a succession of scenes of indescribable beauty. slowly the valley widened before us. the mountains wore a rugged aspect. instead of sterile masses of rock, mantled with snows, and piercing the clouds, they began to be covered with pines, which, like moss upon rocks, softened and beautified their rugged breasts. as we advanced still farther, the slopes were covered with vineyards; we were entering the land of the olive and the vine; terrace on terrace rose on the mountain side; every shelf of rock, or foot of ground, where a vine could grow, was covered. the rocky soil yields the most delicious grapes. women brought us great clusters; a franc purchased enough for our whole party. the industry of the people seemed more like the habits of birds building their nests on every point of vantage, or of bees constructing their precious combs in the trunks of old trees or in the clefts of the rocks, than the industry of human creatures, which requires some little "verge and scope" for its manifestations. and now along the banks of the adda are little plots of level ground, which admit of other cultivation. olives trees are mingled with the vines. there are orchards too, which remind us of new england. great numbers of mulberry trees are grown along the road, for the raising of silk is one of the industries of lombardy, and there are thousands of willows by the water-courses, from which they are cutting the lithe and supple branches, to be woven into baskets. it is the glad summer time, and the land is rejoicing with the joy of harvest. "the valleys are covered over with corn; they shout for joy; they also sing." it was a warm afternoon, and the people were gathering in the hay; and a pretty sight it was to see men and women in the fields raking the rows, and very sweet to inhale the smell of the new-mown hay, as we whirled along the road. these are pretty features of an italian landscape; i wish that the impression was not marred by some which are less pleasant. but the comfort of the people does not seem to correspond to their industry. there is no economy in their labor, everything is done in the old-fashioned way, and in the most wasteful methods. i did not see a mowing or a reaping machine in the tyrol, either on this or the other side of the mountains. they use wooden ploughs, drawn by cows as often as by oxen, and so little management have they, that one person is employed, generally a woman, to lead the miserable team, or rather pull them along. i have seen a whole family attached to a pair of sorry cattle--the man holding the plough, the woman pulling the rope ahead, and a poor little chap, who did his best, whipping behind. the crops are gathered in the same slipshod way. the hay is all carried in baskets on the backs of women. it was a pitiful sight to see them groaning under their loads, often stopping by the roadside to rest. i longed to see one of our berkshire farmers enter the hay-field with a pair of lusty oxen and a huge cart, which would transport at a single load a weight, such as would break the backs of all the women in an italian village. of course women subjected to this kind of work, are soon bent out of all appearance of beauty; and when to this is added the goitre, which prevails to a shocking extent in these mountain valleys, they are often but wretched hags in appearance. and yet the italians have a "gift of beauty," if it were only not marred by such untoward circumstances. many a bright, spanish-looking face looked out of windows, and peered from under the arches, as we rattled through the villages; and the children were almost always pretty, even though in rags. with their dark brown faces, curly hair, and large, beautiful eyes, they might have been the models of murillo's beggars. we dined at tirano, in a hotel which once had been a monastery, and whose spacious rooms--very comfortable "cells" indeed--and ample cellars for their wines, and large open court, surrounded with covered arches, where the good fathers could rest in the heat of the day, showed that these old monks, though so intent on the joys of the next world, were not wholly indifferent to the "creature comforts" of this. night brought us to sondrio, where in a spacious and comfortable inn, which we remember with much satisfaction after our long rides, we slept the sleep of innocence and peace. and now we are fairly entered into italy. the mountains are behind us, and the lakes are before us. friday brought us to lake como, and we found the relief of exchanging our ride in a diligence along a hot and dusty road for a sail over this most enchanting of italian, perhaps i might say of european, lakes; for after seeing many in different countries, it seems to me that this is "better than all the waters" of scotland or switzerland. it is a daughter of the alps, lying at their feet, fed by their snows, and reflecting their giant forms in its placid bosom. and here on its shores we have pitched our tent to rest for ten days. for three months we have been travelling almost without stopping, sometimes, to avoid the heat, riding all night--as from amsterdam to hamburg, and from prague to vienna. the last week, though very delightful, has been one of great fatigue, as for four days in succession we rode twelve or thirteen hours a day in a carriage or diligence. after being thus jolted and knocked about, we are quite willing to rest. nature is very well, but it is a pleasant change once in a while to return to civilization; to have the luxury of a bath, and to sleep quietly in our beds, like christians, instead of racing up and down in the earth, as if haunted by an evil spirit. and so we have decided to "come apart and rest awhile," before starting on another campaign. we are in the loveliest spot that ever a tired mortal chose to pillow his weary head. if any of my readers are coming abroad for a summer, and wish for a place of _rest_, let me recommend to them this quiet retreat. cadenabbia! it hath a pleasant sound, and it is indeed an enchanting spot. the mountains are all around us, to shut out the world, and the gentle waters ripple at our feet. we do not spend the time in making excursions, for in this balmy air it is a sufficient luxury to exist. we are now writing at a table under an avenue of fine old trees, which stretch along the lake to the villa carlotta, a princely residence, which belongs to a niece of the emperor of germany, where oranges and lemons are growing in the open air, and hang in clusters over our heads, and where one may pick from the trees figs and pomegranates. here we sit in a paradise of beauty, and send our loving thoughts to friends over the sea. and then, if tired of the shore, we have but to step into a boat, and float "at our own sweet will." this is our unfailing resource when the day is over. boats are lying in front of the hotel, and strong-armed rowers are ready to take us anywhere. across the lake, which is here but two miles wide, is bellaggio, with its great hotels along the water, and its numerous villas peering out from the dense foliage of trees. how they glow in the last rays of the sunset, and how brilliant the lights along the shore at evening. sometimes we sail across to visit the villas, or to look among the hotels for friendly american names. but more commonly we sail up and down, only for the pleasure of the motion, now creeping along by the shore, under the shadow of the mountains, and now "launching out into the deep," and rest, like one becalmed, in the middle of the lake. we do not want to go anywhere, but only to float and dream. row gently, boatman! softly and slowly! _lentissimo!_ hush, there is music on the shore. we stop and listen: "my soul was an enchanted boat, that like a sleeping swan did float, upon the waves of that sweet singing." but better than music or the waters is the heaven that is above the waters, and that is reflected in the tranquil bosom of the lake. leaning back on the cushioned seat, we look up to the stars as old friends, as they are the only objects that we recognize in the heavens above or the earth beneath. how we come to love any object that is familiar. i confess it is with a tender feeling that i look up to constellations that have so often shined upon me in other lands, when other eyes looked up with mine. how sweet it is, wherever we go, to have at least one object that we have seen before; one face that is not strange to us, the same on land or sea, in europe and america. thus in our travels i have learned to look up to the stars as the most constant friends. they are the only things in nature that remain faithful. the mountains change as we move from country to country. the rivers know us not as they glide away swiftly to the sea. but the stars are always the same. the same constellations glow in the heavens to-night that shone on julius cæsar when he led his legions through these mountains to conquer the tribes of germany. cæsar is gone, and sixty generations since, but orion and the pleiades remain. the same stars are here that shone on bethlehem when christ was born; the same that now shine in distant lands on holy graves; and that will look down with pitying eyes on our graves when we are gone. blessed lights in the heavens, to illumine the darkness of our earthly existence! are they not the best witnesses for our almighty creator, "forever singing as they shine the hand that made us is divine?" he who hath set his bow in the cloud, hath set in the firmament that is above the clouds, these everlasting signs of his own faithfulness. who that looks up at that midnight sky can ever again doubt his care and love, as he reads these unchanging memorials of an unchanging god? chapter xix. the city in the sea. venice, sept th. it was with real regret that we left lake como, where we had passed ten very quiet but very happy days. but all things pleasant must have an end, and so on monday morning we departed. steamers ply up and down the lake, but as none left at an hour early enough to connect with a train that reached venice the same evening, we took a boat and were rowed to lecco. it was a three hours' pull for two strong men; but as we left at half-past seven, the eastern mountains protected us from the heat of the sun, and we glided swiftly along in their cool shadows. not a breath of air ruffled the bosom of the lake. everything in this parting view conspired to make us regret a scene of which we were taking a long, perhaps a last, farewell. at lecco we came back to railroads, which we had not seen since the morning we left munich for ober-ammergau, more than two weeks before, and were soon flying over a cultivated country, where orchards of mulberry trees (close-trimmed, so as to yield a second crop of leaves the same season) gave promise of the rich silks of lombardy, and vines covered all the terraced slopes of the hills. in the carriage with us was a good old priest, who was attached to st. mark's in venice, with whom we fell in conversation, and who gave us much information about the picturesque country through which we were passing. here, where the land is smiling so peacefully, among these very hills, "rich with corn and wine," was fought the great battle in which venice defeated frederick barbarossa, and thus saved the cause of italian independence. at bergamo we struck the line from milan to venice, and while waiting an hour for the express train, sauntered off with the old priest into the town, which was just then alive with the excitement of its annual fair. the peasants had come in from all the country round--men and women, boys and girls--to enjoy a holiday, bringing whatever they had to sell, and seeking whatever they had to buy. one might imagine that he was in an old-fashioned "cattle show" at home. farmers had brought young colts which they had raised for the market, and some of the brawny fellows, with broad-brimmed hats, answered to the drovers one may see in kansas, who have driven the immense herds of cattle from texas. in another part of the grounds were exposed for sale the delicate fabrics and rich colors which tempt the eye of woman: silks and scarfs and shawls, with many of the sex, young and old, looking on with eager eyes. and there were sports for the children. a merry-go-round picked up its load of little creatures, who, mounted on wooden horses, were whirled about to their infinite delight at a penny apiece--a great deal of happiness for a very little money. and there were all sorts of shows going on--little enclosures, where something wonderful was to be seen, the presence of which was announced by the beating of a drum; and a big tent with a circus, which from the english names of the performers may have been a strolling company from the british islands, or possibly from america! it would be strange indeed, if a troupe of yankee riders and jumpers had come all the way to italy, to make the country folk stare at their surprising feats. and there was a menagerie, which one did not need to enter: for the wild beasts painted on the outside of the canvas, were no doubt much more ferocious and terrible to behold than the subdued and lamb-like creatures within. is not a country fair the same thing all over the world? at length the train came rushing up, and stopping but a moment for passengers, dashed off like a race-horse over the great plain of lombardy. but we must not go so fast as to overlook this historic ground. suddenly, like a sheet of silver, unrolls before us the broad surface of the lago di garda, the greatest of the italian lakes, stretching far into the plain, but with its head resting against the background of the tyrolean alps. what memories gather about these places from the old roman days! in yonder peninsula in the lake, catullus wrote his poems; in mantua, a few miles to the south, virgil was born; while in verona an amphitheatre remains in excellent preservation, which is second only to the coliseum. in events of more recent date this region is full of interest. we are now in the heart of the famous quadrilateral, the four great fortresses, built to overawe as well as defend upper italy. all this ground was fought over by the first napoleon in his italian campaigns; while near at hand is the field of solferino, where under napoleon iii. a french army, with that of victor emmanuel, finally conquered the independence of italy. more peaceful memories linger about padua, whose university, that is over six hundred years old, was long one of the chief seats of learning in europe, within whose walls galileo studied; and tasso and ariosto and petrarch; and the reformer and martyr savonarola. but all these places sink in interest, as just at evening we reach the end of the main land, and passing over the long causeway which crosses the lagune, find ourselves in venice. it seems very prosaic to enter venice by a railroad, but the prose ceases and the poetry begins the instant we emerge from the station, for the marble steps descend to the water, and instead of stepping into a carriage we step into a gondola; and as we move off we leave behind the firm ground of ordinary experience, and our imagination, like our persons, is afloat. everything is strange and unreal. we are in a great city, and yet we cannot put our feet to the ground. there is no sound of carriages rattling over the stony streets, for there is not a horse in venice. we cannot realize where and what we are. the impression is greatly heightened in arriving at night, for the canals are but dimly lighted, and darkness adds to the mystery of this city of silence. now and then we see a light in a window, and somebody leans from a balcony; and we hear the plashing of oars as a gondola shoots by; but these occasional signs of life only deepen the impression of loneliness, till it seems as if we were in a world of ghosts--nay, to be ghosts ourselves--and to be gliding through misty shapes and shadows; as if we had touched the black waters of death, and the silent oarsman himself were guiding our boat to his gloomy realm. thus sunk in reverie, we floated along the watery streets, past the rialto, and under the bridge of sighs, to the hotel danieli on the grand canal, just behind the palace of the doges. when the morning broke, and we could see things about us in plain daylight, we set ourselves, like dutiful travellers, to see the sights, and now in a busy week have come to know something of venice; to feel that it is not familiar _ground_, but familiar _water_, familiar canals and bridges, and churches and palaces. we have been up on the campanile, and looked down upon the city, as it lies spread out like a map under our eye, with all its islands and its waters; and we have sailed around it and through it, going down to the lido, and looking off upon the adriatic; and then coursing about the lagune, and up and down the grand canal and the giudecca, and through many of the smaller canals, which intersect the city in every direction. we have visited the church of st. mark, rich with its colored marbles and mosaics, and richer still in its historic memories; and the palace where the doges reigned, and the church where they are buried, the westminster abbey of venice, where the rulers of many generations lie together in their royal house of death; we have visited the picture galleries, and seen the paintings of titian and the statues of canova, and then looked on the marble tombs in the church of the frati, where sleep these two masters of different centuries. thus we have tried to weave together the artistic, the architectural, and the historical glories of this wonderful city. there is no city in europe about which there is so much of romance as venice, and of _real_ romance (if that be not a contradiction), that is, of romance founded on reality, for indeed the reality is stranger than fiction. its very aspect dazzles the eye, as the traveller approaches from the east, and sees the morning sun reflected from its domes and towers. and how like an apparition it seems, when he reflects that all that glittering splendor rests on the unsubstantial sea. it is a jewel set in water, or rather it seems to rise, like a gigantic sea-flower, out of the waves, and to spread a kind of tropical bloom over the far-shining expanse around it. and then its history is as strange and marvellous as any tale of the arabian nights. it is the wildest romance turned into reality. venice is the oldest state in europe. the proudest modern empires are but of yesterday compared with it. when britain was a howling wilderness, when london and paris were insignificant towns, the queen of the adriatic was in the height of its glory. macaulay says the republic of venice came next in antiquity to the church of rome. thus he places it before all the kingdoms of europe, being antedated only by that hoary ecclesiastical dominion, which (as he writes so eloquently in his celebrated review of ranke's history of the popes) began to live before all the nations, and may endure till that famous new zealander "shall take his stand, in the midst of a vast solitude, on a broken arch of london bridge, to sketch the nuns of st. paul's." and this history, dating so far back, is connected with monuments still standing, which recall it vividly to the modern traveller. the church of st. mark is a whole volume in itself. it is one of the oldest churches in the world, boasting of having under its altar the very bones of st. mark, and behind it alabaster columns from the temple of solomon, while over its ancient portal the four bronze horses still stand proudly erect, which date at least from the time of nero, and are perhaps the work of a grecian sculptor who lived before the birth of christ. and the palace of the doges--is it not a history of centuries written in stone? what grand spectacles it has witnessed in the days of venetian splendor! what pomp and glory have been gathered within its walls! and what deliberations have been carried on in its council chambers; what deeds of patriotism have been there conceived, and also what conspiracies and what crimes! and the prison behind it, with the bridge of sighs leading to it, does not every stone in that gloomy pile seem to have a history written in blood and tears? but the part of venice in european history was not only a leading one for more than a thousand years, but a noble one; it took the foremost place in european civilization, which it preserved after the barbarians had overrun the roman empire. the middle ages would have been dark ages indeed, but for the light thrown into them by the italian republics. it was after the roman empire had fallen under the battle-axes of the german barbarians that the ancient veneti took refuge on these low-lying islands, finding a defence in the surrounding waters, and here began to build a city in the sea. its position at the head of the adriatic was favorable for commerce, and it soon drew to itself the rich trade of the east. it sent out its ships to all parts of the mediterranean, and even beyond the pillars of hercules. and so, century after century, it grew in power and splendor, till it was the greatest maritime city in the world. it was the lord of the waves, and in sign of its supremacy, it was _married to the sea_ with great pomp and magnificence. in the arsenal is shown the model of the bucentaur, that gilded barge in which the doge and the senate were every year carried down the harbor, and dropping a ring of gold and gems (large as one of those huge doorknockers that in former days gave dignity to the portals of great mansions) into the waves, signified the marriage of venice to the sea.[ ] it was the contrast of this display of power and dominion with the later decline of venetian commerce, that suggested the melancholy line, "the spouseless adriatic mourns her lord." but then venice was as much mistress of the sea as england is to-day. she sat at the gates of the orient, and "the gorgeous east with richest hand showered upon her barbaric pearl and gold." then arose on all her islands and her waters those structures which are to this day the wonder of europe. the grand canal, which is nearly two miles long, is lined with palaces, such as no modern capital can approach in costliness and splendor. and venice used her power for a defence to christendom and to civilization, the former against the turks, and the latter against northern barbarians. when frederick barbarossa came down with his hordes upon italy, he found his most stubborn enemy in the republic of venice, which kept up the contest for more than twenty years, till the fierce old emperor acknowledged a power that was invincible, and here in venice, in the church of st. mark, knelt before the pope alexander iii. (who represented, not rome against protestantism, but italian independence against german oppression), and gave his humble submission, and made peace with the states of italy which, thanks to the heroic resistance of venice, he could not conquer. hardly was this long contest ended before the power of venice was turned against the turks in the east. venetians, aided by french crusaders, and led by a warrior whose courage neither age nor blindness could restrain ("oh for one hour of blind old dandolo!"), captured constantinople, and venetian ships sailing up and down the bosphorus kept the conquerors of western asia from crossing into europe. the turks finally passed the straits and took constantinople; but the struggle of the cross and the crescent, as in spain between the spaniard and the moor, was kept up over a hundred years longer, and was not ended till the battle of lepanto in . in the arsenal they still preserve the flag of the turkish admiral captured on that great day, with its motto in arabic, "there is no god but god, and mohammed is his prophet." we can hardly realize, now that the danger is so long past, how great a victory, both for christendom and for civilization, was won on that day when the scattered wrecks of the turkish armada sank in the blood-dyed waters of the gulf of corinth. these are glorious memories for venice, which fully justify the praises of historians, and make the splendid eulogy of byron as true to history as it is beautiful in poetry. in venice, as on the rhine, i have found childe harold the best guide-book, as the poet paints a picture in a few immortal lines. never was venice painted, even by canaletto, more to the eye than in these few strokes, which bring the whole scene before us: i stood in venice on the bridge of sighs, a palace and a prison on each hand, i saw from out the waves her structures rise, as by the stroke of the enchanter's wand, a thousand years their cloudy wings expand around me, and a dying glory smiles o'er the far times when many a subject land looked to the winged lion's marble piles, where venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles. but poets are apt to look at things _only_ in a poetical light, and to admire and to celebrate, or to mourn, according to their own royal fancies, rather than according to the sober prose of history. the picture of the magnificence of venice is true to the letter, for indeed no language can surpass the splendid reality. but when the poet goes farther and laments the loss of its independence, as if it were a loss to liberty and to the world, the honest student of history will differ from him. that he should mourn its subjection, or that of any part of italy, to a foreign power, whether austria or france, we can well understand. and this was perhaps his only real sorrow--a manly and patriotic grief--but at times he seems to go farther, and to regret the old gorgeous mediæval state. here we cannot follow him. poetry is well, and romance is well, but truth is better; and the truth, as history records it, must be confessed, that venice, though in name a republic, was as great a despotism as any in the middle ages. the people had no power whatever. it was all in the hands of the nobles, some five hundred of whom composed the senate, and elected the famous council of ten, by which, with the senate, was chosen the council of three, who were the real masters of venice. the doge, who was generally an old man, was a mere puppet in their hands, a venerable figure-head of the state, to hide what was done by younger and more resolute wills. the council of three were the real dictators of the republic, and the tribunal of the inquisition itself was not more mysterious or more terrible. by some secret mode of election the names of those who composed this council were not known even to their associates in the senate or in the council of ten. they were a secret and therefore wholly irresponsible tribunal. their names were concealed, so that they could act in the dark, and at their will strike down the loftiest head. once indeed their vengeance struck the doge himself. i have had in my hands the very sword which cut off the head of marino faliero more than five hundred years ago. it is a tremendous weapon, and took both hands to lift it, and must have fallen upon that princely neck like an axe upon the block. but commonly their power fell on meaner victims. the whole system of government was one of terror, kept up by a secret espionage which penetrated every man's household, and struck mortal fear into every heart. the government invited accusations. the "lion's mouth"--an aperture in the palace of the doges--was always open, and if a charge against one was thrown into it, instantly he was arrested and brought before this secret tribunal, by which he might be tried, condemned, sentenced, and executed, without his family knowing what had become of him, with only horrible suspicions to account for his mysterious disappearance. in going through the palace of the doges one is struck with the gorgeousness of the old venetian state. all that is magnificent in architecture; and all that is splendid in decoration, carving, and gilding, spread with lavish hand over walls and doors and ceiling; with every open space or panel illumined by paintings by titian or some other of the old venetian masters--are combined to render this more than a "royal house," since it is richer than the palaces of kings. but before any young enthusiast allows his imagination to run away with him, let him explore this palace of the doges a little farther. let him go into the hall of the council of three, and observe how it connects conveniently by a little stair with the hall of torture, where innocent persons could soon be persuaded to accuse themselves of deadly crimes; and how it opens into a narrow passage, through which the condemned passed to swift execution. then let him go down into the dungeons, worse than death, where the accused were buried in a living tomb. byron himself, in a note to childe harold, has given the best answer to his own lamentation over the fall of the republic of venice.[ ] we shall therefore waste no tears over the fall of the old republic of venice, even though it had existed for thirteen hundred years. in its day it had acted a great part in european history, and had often served the cause of progress, when it preserved christendom from the turks, and civilization from the barbarians. but it had accomplished its end, and its time had come to die; and though the poet so musically mourns that in venice tasso's echoes are no more, and silent rows the songless gondolier, yet in the changes which have come, we cannot but recognize the passing away of an old state of things, to be succeeded by a better. even the spirit of byron would be satisfied, could he open his eyes _now_, and see venice rid at last of a foreign yoke, and restored to her rightful place, as a part of free and united italy. though venice is a city which does not change in its external appearance, and looks just as it did when i was here seventeen years ago, i observe _one_ difference; the flag that is flying from all the public buildings is not the same. then the black eagles of austria hovered over the square of st. mark; and as we sat there in the summer evening, austrian officers were around us, in front of the cafés, and the music was by an austrian band. now there is music still, and on summer nights the old piazza is thronged as ever; but i hear another language in the groups--the hated foreigner, with his bayonets, is not here. the change is every way for the better. the people breathe freely, and political and national life revives in the air of liberty. venice is beginning to have also a return of its commercial prosperity. of course it can never again be the mistress of the sea, as other great commercial states have sprung up beyond the mediterranean. the glory of venice culminated about the year . eight years before that date, an italian sailor--though not a venetian, but a genoese--had discovered, lying beyond the western main, a new world. in less than four centuries, the commerce which had flourished on the adriatic was to pass to england, and that other english empire still more remote. venice can never regain her former supremacy. civilization has passed, and left her standing in the sea. but though she can never again take the lead of other nations, she may still have a happy and a prosperous future. there is the commerce of the mediterranean, for which, as before, she holds a commanding position at the head of the adriatic. for some days has been lying in the grand canal, in front of our hotel, a large steamer of the peninsular and oriental steamship company, the delhi, and on friday she sailed for alexandria and bombay! the transference of these ships to venice as a point of departure, will help its commerce with the east and with india. one thing we may be allowed to hope, as a friend of venice and of italy--that its policy will be one of peace. in the arsenal we found models of ironclads and other ships of war, built or building; but i confess i felt rather glad to hear the naval officer who showed them to us confess (though he did it with a tone of regret) that their navy was not large compared with other european navies, and that the government was not doing _much_ to increase it, though it is building dry docks here in venice, and occasionally adds a ship to the fleet. yet what does italy want of a great navy? or a great army? they eat up the substance of the country; and it has no money to waste on needless armaments. besides, italy has no enemy to fear, for both france and germany are friendly; to france she owes the deliverance of lombardy, and to germany that of venice. and even austria is reconciled. last april the emperor made a visit to venice, and was received by victor emmanuel, and was rowed up the grand canal with a state which recalled the pomp of her ancient days of glory. the future therefore of venice and of italy is not in war, but in peace. venice has had enough of war in former centuries--enough of conflicts on land and sea. she can now afford to live on this rich inheritance of glory. let her cherish the memory of the heroic days of old, but let her not tempt fortune by venturing again into the smoke of battle. let her keep in her arsenal the captured flags taken from the turks at lepanto; let the three tall masts of cedar, erected in the square of st. mark three hundred and seventy years ago, to commemorate the conquest of cyprus, candia, and morea, still stand as historical mementoes of the past; but it is no sacrifice of pride that they no longer bear the banners of conquered provinces, since from their lofty and graceful heads now floats a far prouder ensign--the flag of one undivided italy. if i were to choose an emblem of what the future of this country should be, i would that the arms of venice might be henceforth, not the _winged lion_ of st. mark, but the _doves_ of st. mark: for these equally belong to venice, and form not only one of its prettiest sights, but one connected with historical associations, that make them fit emblems both of peace and of victory. the story is that at the siege of candia, in the beginning of the thirteenth century, admiral dandolo had intelligence brought to him by carrier-pigeons which helped him to take the island, and that he used the same swift-winged heralds to send the news to venice. and so from that day to this they have been protected, and thus they have been the pets of venice for six hundred years. they seem perfectly at home, and build their nests on the roofs and under the eaves of the houses, even on the doge's palace and the church of st. mark. not the swallow, but the dove hath found a nest for herself on the house of the lord. i see them nestling together on the bridge of sighs, thinking not of all the broken hearts that have passed along that gloomy arch. a favorite perch at evening is the heavy cross-bars of the prison windows; there they sleep peacefully, where lonely captives have looked up to the dim light, and sighed in vain for liberty. from all these nooks and corners they flock into the great square in the day-time, and walk about quite undisturbed. it has been one of our pleasures to go there with bread in our pockets, to feed them. at the first sign of the scattered crumbs, they come fluttering down from the buildings around, running over each other in their eagerness, coming up to my feet, and eating out of my hand. let these beautiful creatures--the emblems of peace and the messengers of victory--be wrought as an armorial bearing on the flag of the new italy--white doves on a blue ground, as if flying over the sea--their outspread wings the fit emblems of those sails of commerce, which, we trust, are again to go forth from venice and from genoa, not only to all parts of the mediterranean, but to the most distant shores! footnotes: [ ] lest any of my saving countrymen should think this a sacrifice of precious jewels, it should be added that the cunning old venetians, with a prudent economy worthy of a yankee housekeeper, instead of wasting their treasures on the sea, dropped the glittering bauble into a net carefully spread for the purpose, in which it was fished up, to be used in the ceremonies of successive years. [ ] the note is on the opening lines of the fourth canto: "i stood in venice on the bridge of sighs, a palace and a prison on each hand," --in explanation of which the poet says: "the communication between the ducal palace and the prisons of venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. the state dungeons, called 'pozzi,' or wells, were sunk into the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner, when taken out to die, was conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being then led back into the other compartment or cell upon the bridge, was there strangled. the low portal through which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up; but the passage is still open, and is still known as the bridge of sighs. the pozzi are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. they were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the french, the venetians blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. you may still, however, descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first range. if you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may find it there; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. a small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. a wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the only furniture. the conductor tells you that a light was not allowed. the cells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. they are directly beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. only one prisoner was found when the republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen years." chapter xx. milan and genoa.--a ride over the corniche road. genoa, september th. the new life of italy is apparent in its cities more than in the country. a change of government does not change the face of nature. the hills that bear the olive and the vine, were as fresh and green under the rule of austria as they are now under that of victor emmanuel. but in the cities and large towns i see a marked change, both in the places themselves, and in the manner and spirit of the people. then there was an universal lethargy. everything was fixed in a stagnation, like that of china. there was no improvement, and no attempt at any. the incubus of a foreign yoke weighed like lead on the hearts of the people. their depression showed itself in their very countenances, which had a hopeless and sullen look. now this is gone. the austrians have retired behind the mountains of the tyrol, and italy at last is free from the alps to the adriatic. the moral effect of such a political change is seen in the rebound from a state of despair to one of animation and hope. when a people are free, they have courage to attempt works of improvement, knowing that what they do is not for the benefit of foreign masters, but for themselves and their children. hence the new life which i see in the very streets of milan and genoa. everywhere improvements are going on. they are tearing down old houses, and building new ones; opening new streets and squares, and levelling old walls, that wide boulevards may take their place. in milan i found them clearing away blocks of houses in front of the duomo, to form an open square, sufficient to give an ample foreground for the cathedral. and they were just finishing a grand arcade, with an arched roof of iron and glass, like the crystal palace, beneath which are long rows of shops, as well as wide open spaces, where the people may gather in crowds, secure both from heat and cold, protected alike from the rains of summer and the snows of winter. the emperor of germany, who is about to pay a visit to italy, will find in milan a city not so large indeed, but certainly not less beautiful, than his own northern capital. one beauty it has which berlin can never have--its cathedral. if i had not exhausted my epithets of admiration on the cathedrals of strasburg and cologne, i might attempt a description of that of milan; but indeed all words seem feeble beside the reality. one contrast to the german cathedrals is its lighter exterior. it is built of marble, which under an italian sky has preserved its whiteness, and hence it has not the cold gray of those northern minsters blackened by time. nor has it any such lofty towers soaring into the sky. the impression at first, therefore, is one of beauty rather than of grandeur. in place of one or two such towers, standing solitary and sublime, its buttresses along the sides shoot up into as many separate pinnacles, surmounted by statues, which, as they gleam in the last rays of sunset, or under the full moon, seem like angelic sentinels ranged along the heavenly battlements. these details of the exterior draw away the eye from the vastness of the structure as a whole, which only bursts upon us as we enter within. there we recognize its immensity in the remoteness of objects. a man looks very small at the other end of the church. service may be going on at half a dozen side chapels without attracting attention, except as we hear chanting in the distance; and the eye swims in looking up at the vaulted roof. behind the choir, three lofty windows of rich stained glass cast a soft light on the vast interior. if i lived in milan, i should haunt that cathedral, since it is a spot where one may always be _alone_, as if he were in the depths of the forest, and may indulge his meditations undisturbed. but there is another church, of much more humble proportions, which has a great historical interest, that of st. ambrose, the author of the te deum, through which he has led the worship of all the generations since his day, and whose majestic anthem "we praise thee, o god, we acknowledge thee to be the lord," will continue to resound in the earthly temples till it is caught up by voices around the throne. st. ambrose gave another immortal gift to the church in the conversion of st. augustine, the greatest of the fathers, whose massive theology has been the study alike of catholics and protestants--of bossuet and luther and calvin. near the church of st. ambrose one may still see the mutilated remains of the great work of leonardo da vinci--the last supper--painted, as everybody knows, on the walls of the refectory of an old monastery, where it has had all sorts of bad usage till it has been battered out of shape, but where still christ sits in the midst of his disciples, looking with tender and loving eyes around on that circle which he should not meet again till he had passed through his great agony. the mutilation of such a work is a loss to the world, but it is partly repaired by the many excellent copies, and by the admirable engravings, in which it has been reproduced. from milan to genoa is only a ride of five hours, and we are once more by the sea. one must be a dull and emotionless traveller who does not feel a thrill as he emerges from a long tunnel and sees before him the mediterranean. there it lies--the mare magnum of the ancients, which to those who knew not the oceans as we know them, seemed vast and measureless; "the great and wide sea," of which the psalmist wrote; towards which the prophet looked from mount carmel, till he descried rising out of it a cloud like a man's hand; the sea "whose shores are empires," around which the civilization of the world has revolved for thousands of years, passing from egypt to greece, to rome, to france and spain, but always lingering, whether on the side of europe or africa, somewhere along that enchanted coast. here is genoa--genoa superba, as they named her centuries ago--and that still sits like a queen upon the waters, as she looks down so proudly from her amphitheatre of hills upon the bay at her feet. genoa with venice divided the maritime supremacy of the middle ages, when her prows were seen in all parts of the mediterranean. the glory of those days is departed, but, like venice, her prosperity is reviving under the influence of liberty. to americans genoa will always have a special interest as the city of christopher columbus. it was pleasant, in emerging from the station, to see in the very first public square a monument worthy of his great name, to the discoverer of the new world. genoa is a convenient point from which to take an excursion over the corniche road--one of the most famous roads in europe, running along the riviera, or the coast of the mediterranean, as far west as nice. a railroad now follows the same route, but as it passes through a hundred tunnels, more or less, the traveller is half the time buried in the earth. the only way to see the full beauty of this road is to take a carriage and drive over it, so as to get all the best points of view. the whole excursion would take several days. to economize our time we went by rail from genoa to san remo, where the most picturesque part of the road begins, and from there took a basket carriage with two spirited ponies to drive to nice, a good day's journey over the mountains. the day was fair, not too hot nor too cool. the morning air was exhilarating, as we began our ride along the shore, winding in and out of all the little bays, sweeping around the promontories that jut into the sea, and then climbing high up on the spurs of the mountains, which here slope quite down to the coast, from which they take the name of the maritime alps. the special beauty of this riviera is that it lies between the mountains and the sea. the hills, which rise from the very shore, are covered not with vines but with olives--a tree which with its pale yellow leaves, somewhat like the willow is not very attractive to the eye, especially when, as now withered by the fierce summer's heat, and covered with the summer's dust. there has been no rain for two months, and the whole land is burnt like a furnace. the leaves are scorched as with the breath of a sirocco. but when the autumn rains descend, we can well believe that all this barrenness is turned into beauty, as these slopes are then green, both with olive and with orange groves. in the recesses of the hills are many sheltered spots, protected from the northern winds, and open to the southern sun, which are the favorite resorts of invalids for the winter, as here sun and sea combine to give a softened air like that of a perpetual spring. when winter rages over the north of europe, when snow covers the open country, and even drifts in the streets of great capitals, then it seems as if sunshine and summer retreated to the shores of the mediterranean, and here lingered among the orange gardens that look out from the terraced slopes upon the silver sea. the warm south wind from african deserts tempers the fierceness of the northern blasts. and not only invalids, but people of wealth and fashion, who have the command of all countries and climates, and who have only to choose where to spend the winter with least of discomfort and most of luxury and pleasure, flock to these resorts. last winter the empress of russia took up her quarters at san remo, to inhale the balmy air--a simple luxury, which she could not find in her palace at st. petersburg. and prince amadeus, son of the king of italy, who himself wore a crown for a year, occupied a villa near by, and found here a tranquil happiness which he could never find on the troubled throne of spain. a still greater resort than san remo is mentone, which for the winter months is turned into an english colony, with a sprinkling of americans, who altogether form a society of their own, and thus enjoy, along with this delicious climate, the charms of their english and american life. it is a pity that there should be a serpent in this garden of paradise. but here he is--a huge green monster, twining among the flowers and the orange groves. midway between mentone and nice is the little principality of monaco, the smallest sovereignty in europe, covering only a rocky peninsula that projects into the sea, and a small space around it. but small as it is, it is large enough to furnish a site for a pest worse than a lazaretto--worse than the pirates of the barbary coast that once preyed on the commerce of the mediterranean--for here is the greatest gambling house in europe. the famous--or infamous--establishments that so long flourished on the rhine, at homburg and baden baden, drawing hundreds and thousands into their whirlpools of ruin, have been broken up since the petty principalities have been absorbed in the great german empire. thus driven from one point to another, the gamblers have been, like the evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none, till at last, by offering a large sum--i heard that it was four hundred thousand francs (eighty thousand dollars) a year--to the prince of monaco, they have induced him to sell himself to the devil, and to allow his petty state to become a den of thieves. hearing of this notorious establishment, i had a curiosity to see it, and so we were driven to monte carlo, which is the pretty name for a very bad place. surely never was the palace of pleasure decked with more attractions. the place has been made like a garden. extensive grounds have been laid out, where orange trees and palms are in full bloom. winding walks conduct the visitor to retired and shady retreats. the building itself is of stately proportions, and one goes up the steps as if he were ascending a temple. within the broad vestibule servants in livery receive the stranger with studied politeness, as a welcome guest, and with courtly smiles bow him in. the vestibule opens into a large assembly room for concerts and dancing, where one of the finest bands in europe discourses delicious music. entrance is free everywhere, except into the gaming-room, which however requires only your card as a proof of your respectability. one must give his name, and country, and profession! see how careful they are to have only the most select society. i was directed to the office, where two secretaries, of sober aspect, who looked as if they might be retired methodist clergymen, required my name and profession. i felt that i was getting on rather dangerous ground, but answered by giving only my surname and the profession of editor, and received a card of admission, and passed in. we were in a large hall, with lofty ceiling, and walls decorated in a style that might become an apartment in a royal palace. there were three tables, at two of which gaming was going on. at the third the gamblers sat around idle, waiting for customers, for "business" is rather slack just now, as the season has not begun. a few weeks later, when the hotels along the sea are filled up, the place will be thronged, and all these tables will be kept going till midnight. at the two where play was in progress, we stood apart and watched the scene. there was a long table, covered with green cloth (i said it was a _green_ monster), over which were scattered piles of gold and silver, and around which were some twenty-five persons, mostly men, though there were two or three women (it is well known that some of the most infatuated and desperate gamblers at baden baden were women). the game was what is known as _roulette_ or _rouge et noir_ [red and black].[ ] you lay down a piece of coin, a napoleon or a sovereign, or, if you cannot afford that, a five-franc piece, for they are so democratic that they are willing to take the small change of the poor, as well as the hundred or thousand francs of the rich. the wager is that, when a horizontal wheel which is sunk in the table--the _roulette_--is set revolving, a little ball like a boy's marble, which is set whirling in it, will rest on the black or red spot. of course the thing is so managed that the chances are many to one that you will lose your money. but it _looks_ fair, and the greenhorn is easily persuaded that it is an even chance, and that he is as likely to win as to lose, until experience makes him a sadder and a wiser man. of those about the table, it was quite apparent, even to my inexperienced eye, that the greater part were professional gamblers. there is a look about them that is unmistakable. my companion, who had looked on half curious and half frightened, and who shrank up to my side (although everything is kept in such order, and with such an outward show of respectability, that there is no danger), remarked the imperturbable coolness of the players. the game proceeded in perfect silence, and no one betrayed the least emotion, whether he lost or won. but i explained to her that this was probably owing in part to the fact that they were mostly employés of the establishment, and had no real stake in the issue; but if they were _not_, a practised gambler never betrays any emotion. this is a part of his trade. he schools himself to it as an indian does, who scorns to show suffering, even if he is bound at the stake. i noticed only one man who seemed to take his losses to heart. i presumed he was an outsider, and as he lost heavily, his face flushed, but he said nothing. this is the general course of the game. not a word is spoken, even when men are losing thousands. instances have occurred in which men gambled away their last dollar, and then rose from the table and blew out their brains--which interrupted the play disagreeably for a few moments; but the body was removed, the blood washed away, and the game proceeded as usual. when we had watched the silent spectacle for half an hour, we felt that we had quite enough, and after strolling through the grounds and listening to the music, returned to our carriage and drove off, moralizing on the strange scene we had witnessed. did i regret that i had been to see this glittering form of temptation and sin? on the contrary, i wished that every pastor in new york could have stood there and looked on at that scene. we have had quite enough of firing at all kinds of wickedness _at long range_. it is time to move our batteries up a little nearer, and engage the enemy at close quarters. if those pastors had seen what we saw in that half hour, they would realize, as they cannot now, the dangers to which young men are exposed in our cities. they would see with their own eyes how broad is the road, and how alluring it is made, that leads to destruction, and how many there be that go in thereat. i look upon monte carlo as the very mouth of the pit, covered up with flowers, so that giddy creatures dance along its perilous edge till it crumbles under their feet. thousands who come here with no intention of gambling, put down a small sum "just to try their luck," and find that "a fool and his money are soon parted." many do not end with losing a few francs, or even a few sovereigns. it is well if they do not leave behind them what they can ill afford to lose. very many young men leave what is not their own. that such a place of temptation should be allowed to exist here in this lovely spot on the shores of the mediterranean, is a disgrace to monaco, and to the powers on both sides of it, france and italy, which, if they have no legal right to interfere, might by a vigorous protest put an end to the accursed thing. probably it will after awhile provoke its own destruction. i should be glad to see the foul nest of gamblers that have congregated here, broken up, and the wretches sent to the galleys as convicts, or forced in some way to earn an honest living. but is not this vice of gambling very wide-spread? does it not exist in more forms than one, and in more countries than the little state of monaco? i am afraid the vice lies deep in human nature, and may be found in some shape in every part of the world. is there not a great deal of gambling in wall street? when men _bet_ on the rise and fall of stocks, when they sell what they do not possess, or buy that for which they have no money to pay, do they not risk their gains or losses on a chance, as much as those who stake thousands on the turning of a wheel, on a card or a die? it is the old sin of trying to get the fruits of labor without labor, _to get something for nothing_, that is the curse of all modern cities and countries, that demoralizes young men in new york and san francisco, as well as in paris and london. the great lesson which we all need to learn, is the duty and the dignity of labor. when a man never claims anything which he does not work for, then he may feel an honest pride in his gains, and may slowly grow in fortune without losing the esteem of the good, or his own manly self-respect. leaving this gorgeous den of thieves behind us, we haste away to the mountains; for while the railroad seeks its level path along the very shore of the sea, the corniche road, built before railroads were thought of, finds its only passage over stupendous heights. we have now to climb a spur of the alps, which here pushes its great shoulder close to the sea. it is a toilsome path for our little ponies, but they pull up bravely, height after height. every one we mount, we hope to find the summit; but we keep going on and on, and up and up, till it seems like a jacob's ladder, which reaches to heaven. when on one of the highest points, we look right down into monte carlo as into the crater of a volcano. it does not burn or smoke, but it has an open mouth, and many there be that there go down quick into hell. we are at last on the top, and pass on from one peak to another, all the time enjoying a wide outlook over the blue mediterranean, which lies calmly at the foot of these great mountains, with only a white sail here and there dotting the mighty waters. it was nearly sunset when we came in sight of nice, gleaming in the distance on the sea-shore. we had been riding all day, and our driver, a bright young savoyard, seemed eager to have the long journey over, and so he put his ponies to their speed, and we came down the mountain as if shot out of a gun, and rattled through the streets of nice at such a break-neck pace, that the police shouted after us, lest we should run over somebody. but there was no stopping our little jehu, and on we went at full speed, till suddenly he reined us up with a jerk before the hotel. in the old days when i first travelled in the south of europe, nice was an italian town. it belonged to the small kingdom of sardinia. but in , as a return for the help of napoleon in the campaign of against austria, by which victor emmanuel gained lombardy, it was ceded with savoy to france, and now is a french city. i think it has prospered by the change. it has grown very much, until it has some fifty thousand inhabitants. its principal attraction is as a winter resort for english and americans. there are a number of protestant churches, french and english. the french evangelical church has for its pastor rev. leon pilatte, who is well known in america. it was now saturday night, and the sabbath drew on. never was its rest more grateful, and never did it find us in a more restful spot. everybody comes here for repose, to find rest and healing. the place is perhaps a little saddened by the presence of so many invalids, some of whom come here only to die. in yonder hotel on the shore, the heir of the throne of all the russias breathed his last a few winters ago. these clear skies and this soft air could not save him, even when aided by all the medical skill of europe. i should not have great faith in the restoring power of this or of any climate for one far gone in consumption. but certainly as a place of _rest_, if it is permitted to man to find rest anywhere on earth, it must be here, with the blue skies above, and the soft flowery earth below, and with no sound to disturb, but only the murmur of the moaning, melancholy sea. but a traveller is not allowed to rest. he comes not to _stay_, but only to _see_--to look, and then to disappear; and so, after a short two days in nice, we took a quick return by night, and in eight hours found ourselves again in genoa. footnote: [ ] perhaps _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_ are two separate games. i dare say my imperfect description would excite the smile of a professional, for i confess my total ignorance in such matters. i only describe what i saw. chapter xxi. in the vale of the arno. florence, september th. we are getting more into the heart of italy as we come farther south. in the old roman days the country watered by the po was not a part of italy; it was cisalpine gaul. this we leave behind as we turn southward from genoa. the road runs along the shore of the mediterranean; it is a continuation of the riviera as far as spezzia, where we leave the sea and strike inland to pisa, one of the mediæval cities, which in its best days was a rival of genoa, and which has still some memorials of its former grandeur. here we spent a night, and the next morning visited the famous leaning tower, and the cathedral and baptistery, and the campo santo (filled with earth brought from jerusalem in fifty-three ships, that the faithful might be buried in holy ground), and then pursued our way along the valley of the arno to florence. and now the inspiration of the country, the _genius loci_, comes upon us more and more. we are in tuscany, one of the most beautiful portions of the whole peninsula. we are favored by the season of the year. before we came abroad i consulted some of my travelled friends as to the best time of the year to visit italy. most tourists come here in the winter. rome especially is not thought to be safe till late in the autumn. but dr. bellows told me that, so far from waiting for cold weather, he thought italy could be seen in its full beauty _only_ in an earlier month, when the country was still clothed with vegetation. certainly it is better to see it in its summer bloom, or in the ripeness of autumn, than when the land is stripped, when the mountains are bleak and bare, when there is not a leaf on the vine or the fig-tree, and only naked branches shiver in the wintry wind. we have come at a season when the earth has still its glory on. the vineyards are full of the riches of the year; the peasants are now gathering the grapes, and we have witnessed that most picturesque italian scene, the vintage. dark forests clothe the slopes of the apennines. at this season there is a soft, hazy atmosphere, like that of our indian summer, which gives a kind of purple tint to the italian landscapes. the skies are fair, but not more fair than that heaven of blue which bends over many a beloved spot in america. nor is the vegetation richer, nor are the landscapes more lovely, than in our own dear vales of berkshire. even the arno at this season, like most of the other rivers of italy, is a dried up bed with only a rivulet of muddy water running through it. later in the autumn, when the rains descend; or in the spring, when the snows melt upon the mountains, it is swollen to such a height that it often overflows its banks, and the full stream rushes like a torrent. but at present the mighty arno, of which poets have sung so much, is not so large as the housatonic, nor half so beautiful as that silver stream, on whose banks the meadows are always fresh and green, and where the waters are pure and sparkling that ripple over its pebbled bed. but the position of florence is certainly one of infinite beauty, lying in a valley, surrounded by mountains. the approach to it by a railroad, when one gets his first view from a level, is much less picturesque than in the old days when we travelled by _vettura_, and came to it over the apennines, and after a long day's journey reached the top of a distant hill, from which we saw florence afar off, sitting like a queen in the valley of the arno, the setting sun reflected from the duomo and the campanile, and from all its domes and towers. in this valley of paradise we have spent a week, visiting the galleries of pictures, and making excursions to fiesolé and other points of view on the surrounding hills, from which to look down on as fair a scene as ever smiled beneath an italian sun. florence is in many respects the most attractive place in italy, as it unites the charms of art with those of modern life; as it exists not only in the dead past, but in the living present. it is a large, thriving, prosperous city, and has become a great resort of english and americans, who gather here in the winter months, and form a most agreeable society. there are a number of american sculptors and painters, whose works are well known on the other side of the atlantic. some of their studios we visited, and saw abundant evidence, that with all our intensely practical life, the elements of taste and beauty, and of a genius for art, are not wanting in our countrymen. florence has had a material growth within a few years, from being for a time the capital of the new kingdom of italy. when tuscany was added to sardinia, the capital was removed from turin to florence as a more central city, and the presence of the court and the parliament gave a new life to its streets. now the court is removed to rome, but the impulse still remains, and in the large squares which have been opened, and the new buildings which are going up, one sees the signs of life and progress. to be sure, there is not only _growing_ but _groaning_, for the taxes are fearfully high here, as everywhere in italy. the country is bearing burdens as heavy as if it were in a state of war. if only italy were the first country in europe to reduce her armaments, she could soon lighten the load upon her people. but leaving aside all political and financial questions, one may be permitted to enjoy this delightful old city, with its treasures of art, and its rich historical memories. florence has lately been revelling in its glories of old days in a celebration of the four hundredth anniversary of the birth of michael angelo--as a few years since it celebrated the six hundredth anniversary of the birth of dante. surely few men in history better deserve to be remembered than michael angelo, whose rugged face looks more like that of a hard-headed old scotchman, than of one who belonged to the handsome italian race. and yet that brain was full of beautiful creations, and in his life of eighty-nine years he produced enough to leave, not only to florence, but to rome, many monuments of his genius. he was great in several forms of art--as painter, sculptor, and architect--and even had some pretension to be a poet. he was the sculptor of david and moses; the painter of the last judgment and the frescoes of the sistine chapel, and the architect who built st. peter's. and his character was equal to his genius. he was both religious and patriotic, not only building churches, but the fortifications that defended florence against her enemies. such was michael angelo--a simple, grand old man, whose name is worthy to live with the heroes of antiquity. we were too late to enjoy the fétes that were given at this anniversary, and were only able to be present at the performance of verdi's requiem, which concluded the whole. this sublime composition was written for the great italian author manzoni, and to be sung in the cathedral of milan, whose solemn aisles were in harmony with its mournful and majestic strains. now it would have seemed more fitting in the duomo of florence than in a theatre, though perhaps the latter was better constructed for an orchestra and an audience. the performance of the requiem was to be the great musical event of the year; we had heard the fame of it at milan and at venice, and having seen what italy could show in one form of art, we were now able to appreciate it in another. months had been spent in preparation. distinguished singers were to lead in the principal parts, while hundreds were to join their voices in the tremendous chorus. on the night that we witnessed the representation, the largest theatre in florence was crowded from pit to dome, although the price of admission was very high. in the vast assembly was comprised what was most distinguished in florence, with representatives from other cities of italy, and many from other countries. the performance occupied over two hours. it began with soft, wailing melodies, such as might be composed to soothe a departing soul, or to express the wish of survivors that it might enter into its everlasting rest. then succeeded the dies irÆ--the old latin hymn, which for centuries has sounded forth its accents of warning and of woe. those who are familiar with this sublime composition will remember the terrific imagery with which the terrors of the judgment are presented, and can imagine the effect of such a hymn rendered with all the power of music. we had first a quiet, lulling strain--almost like silence, which was the calm before the storm. then a sound was heard, but low, as of something afar off, distant and yet approaching. nearer and nearer it drew, swelling every instant, till it seemed as if the trumpets that should wake the dead were stirring the alarmed air. at last came a crash as if a thunder peal had burst in the building. this terrific explosion, of course, was soon relieved by softer sounds. there were many and sudden transitions, one part being given by a single powerful voice, or by two or three, or four, and then the mighty chorus responding with a sound like that of many waters. after the dies iræ followed a succession of more gentle strains, which spoke of pardon and peace. the _agnus dei_ and other similar parts were given with a tenderness that was quite overpowering. those who have heard the oratorio of the messiah, and remember the melting sweetness of such passages as "he leadeth me beside the still waters," and "i know that my redeemer liveth," can form an idea of the marvellous effect. i am but an indifferent judge of music, but i could not but observe how much grander such a hymn as the dies iræ sounds in the original latin than in any english version. _eternal rest_ are sweet words in english, but in music they can never be rendered with the effect of the latin requiem sempiternam, on which the voices of the most powerful singers lingered and finally died away, as if bidding farewell to a soul that was soaring to the very presence of god. this requiem was a fitting close to the public celebrations by which florence did honor to the memory of her illustrious dead. michael angelo is buried in the church of santa croce, and near his tomb is that of another illustrious florentine, whose name belongs to the world, and to the _heavens_--"the starry galileo." we have sought out the spots associated with his memory--the house where he lived and the room where he died. the tower from which he made his observations is on an elevation which commands a wide horizon. there with his little telescope--a very slender tube and very small glass, compared with the splendid instruments in our modern observatories--he watched the constellations, as they rose over the crest of the apennines, and followed their shining path all night long. there he observed the mountains in the moon, and the satellites of jupiter. what a commentary on the intelligence of the roman catholic church, that such a man should be dragged before the inquisition--before ignorant priests who were not worthy to untie his shoes--and required, under severe penalties, to renounce the doctrine of the revolution of the globe. the old man yielded in a moment of weakness, to escape imprisonment or death, but as he rose from his knees, his spirit returned to him, and he exclaimed "_but still it moves!_" a good motto for reformers of all ages. popes and inquisitors may try to stop the revolution of the earth, but still it moves! there is another name in the history of florence, which recalls the persecutions of rome--that of savonarola. no spot was more sacred to me than the cell in the monastery, where he passed so many years, and from which he issued, crucifix in hand (the same that is still kept there as a holy relic), to make those fiery appeals in the streets of florence, which so stirred the hearts of the people, and led at last to his trial and death. a rude picture that is hung on the wall represents the final scene. it is in the public square, in front of the old palace, where a stage is erected, and monks are conducting savonarola and two others who suffered with him, to the spot where the flames are kindled. here he was burnt, and his ashes thrown into the arno. but how impotent the rage that thought thus to stifle such a voice! his words, like his ashes, have gone into the air, and the winds take them up and carry them round the world. henceforth his name belongs to history, and in the ages to come will be whispered by "those airy tongues that syllable men's names, on sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses." it is a proof of the decline of italy under the oppression of a foreign yoke--of the paralysis of her intellectual as well as her political life--that she has produced no name to equal these in four hundred years. for though byron eulogizes so highly, and perhaps justly, alfieri and canova, it would be an extravagant estimate which should assign them a place in the pantheon of history beside the immortals of the middle ages. and yet italy has not been wholly deserted of genius or of glory in these later ages. in the darkest times she has had some great writers, as well as painters and sculptors, and in the very enthusiasm with which she now recalls in her celebrations the names of dante and michael angelo, we recognize a spirit of life, an admiration for greatness, which may produce in the future those who may rank as their worthy successors. within a few years florence has become such a resort of strangers that some of its most interesting associations are with its foreign residents. in the english burying ground many of that country sleep far from their native island. some, like walter savage landor and mrs. browning, had made florence their home for years. italy was their adopted country, and it is fit that they sleep in its sunny clime, beneath a southern sky. so of our countryman powers, who was a resident of florence for thirty-five years, and whose widow still lives here in the very pretty villa which he built, with her sons and daughter married and settled around her, a beautiful domestic group. in the cemetery i sought another grave of one known to all americans. on a plain stone of granite is inscribed simply the name theodore parker, born at lexington, massachusetts, in the united states of america, august th, . died in florence may th, . one could preach a sermon over that grave, for in that form which is now but dust, was one of the most vigorous minds of our day, a man of prodigious force, an omnivorous reader, and a writer and lecturer on a great variety of subjects, who in his manifold forms of activity, did as much to influence the minds of his countrymen as any man of his time. he struck fierce blows, right and left, often doing more ill than good by his crude religious opinions, which he put forth as boldly as if they were the accepted faith of all mankind; but in his battle for liberty rendering services which the american people will not willingly let die. mrs. browning's epitaph is still briefer. there is a longer inscription on a tablet in the front of the house which was her home for so many years, placed there by the municipal government of florence. there, as one looks up to those casa guidi windows, which she has given as a name to a volume of her poems, he may read that "in this house lived and died elizabeth barrett browning, who by her genius and her poetry made a golden link between england and italy." but on her tomb, which is of pure white marble, is only e. b. b. ob. . but what need of more words to perpetuate a name that is on the lips of millions; or to speak of one who speaks for herself in the poetry she has made for nations; whose very voice thus lives in the air, like a strain of music, and goes floating down the ages, singing itself to immortality? chapter xxii. old rome and new rome.--ruins and resurrection. rome, october th. at last we are in rome! we reached here a week ago, on what was to me a very sad anniversary, as on the first of october of last year i came from the country, bringing one who was never to return. now, as then, the day was sadly beautiful--rich with the hues of autumn, when nature is gently dying, a day suited to quiet thoughts and tender memories. it was late in the afternoon when we found ourselves racing along the banks of the tiber--"the yellow tiber" it was indeed, as its waters were turbid enough--and just as the sun was setting we shot across the campagna, and when the lamps were lighted were rattling through the streets of the eternal city. to a stranger coming here there is a double interest; for there are two cities to be studied--old rome and new rome--the rome of julius cæsar, and the rome of pius ix. and victor emmanuel. in point of historical interest there is no comparison, as the glory of the ancient far surpasses that of the modern city. and it is the former which first engages our attention. how strange it seemed to awake in the morning and feel that we were really in the city that once ruled the world! yes, we are on the very spot. around us are the seven hills. we go to the top of the capitol and count them all. we look down to the river bank where romulus and remus were cast ashore, like moses in the bulrushes, left to die, and where, according to the old legend, they were suckled by a wolf; and where romulus, when grown to man's estate, began to build a city. antiquarians still trace the line of his ancient wall. on the capitol hill is the tarpeian rock, from which traitors were hurled. and under the hill, buried in the earth, one still sees the massive arch of the cloaca maxima, the great sewer, built by the tarquins, through which all the waste of rome has flowed into the tiber for twenty-five hundred years; and there are the pillars of the ancient bridge--so they tell us--held by a hero who must have been a hercules, of whom and his deed macaulay writes in his "lays of ancient rome" how, long after, in the traditions of the people, "still was the story told, how well horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old." looking around the horizon every summit recalls historical memories. there are the sabine hills, where lived the tribe from which the early romans (who were at first, like some of our border settlements, wholly a community of men,) helped themselves to wives. yonder, to the south, are the alban hills; and there, in what seems the hollow of a mountain, hannibal encamped with his army, looking down upon rome. in the same direction lies the appian way, lined for miles with tombs of the illustrious dead. along that way often came the legions returning from distant conquests, "bringing many captives home to rome," with camels and elephants bearing the spoils of africa and the east. these recollections increase in interest as we come down to the time of the cæsars. this is the culminating point of roman history, as then the empire reached its highest point of power and glory. julius cæsar is the greatest character of ancient rome, as soldier and ruler, the leader of armies, and the man whose very presence awed the roman senate. such was the magic of his name that it was said peculiar omens and portents accompanied his death. as shakespeare has it: "in the most high and palmy state of rome, a little ere the mighty julius fell, the graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the roman streets." it was therefore with an interest that no other name could inspire, that we saw in the capitol a statue, which is said to be the most faithful existing representation of that imperial man; and in the strada palace the statue of pompey, which is believed to be the very one at the base of which "great cæsar fell."[ ] with cæsar ended the ancient republic, and began the empire. it was then that rome attained her widest dominion, and the city its greatest splendor. she was the mistress of the whole world, from egypt to britain, ruling on all sides of the mediterranean, along the shores of europe, asia, and africa. and then the whole earth contributed to the magnificence of the eternal city. it was the boast of augustus, that "he found rome of brick, and left it of marble." under him and his successors were reared those palaces and temples, the very ruins of which are still the wonder and admiration of the world. the knowledge of these ruins has been greatly increased by recent excavations. till within a few years rome was a buried city, almost as much as pompeii. the débris of centuries had filled up her streets and squares, till the earth lay more than twenty feet deep in the forum, choking up temples and triumphal arches; and even the lower part of the coliseum had been submerged in the general wreck and ruin. in every part of the city could be seen the upper portions of buildings, the frieze on the capitals of columns, that were half under ground, and that, like milton's lion, seemed pawing to be free. but the work of clearing away this rubbish was so vast that it had been neglected from century to century. but during the occupation by the french troops, that government expended large sums in uncovering these ruins, and the work has since been continued by victor emmanuel, until now, as the result of twenty years continuous labor, a buried city has been brought to light. the forum has been cleared away, so that we may walk on its pavement, amid its broken columns, and see the very tribune from which cicero addressed the roman people. but beside this central forum, there were half a dozen others--such as the forum of julius cæsar, and of augustus, and of nerva, and of trajan, where still stands that marvellous column in bronze (covered with figures in bas-relief, to represent the conquest of the dacians), which has been copied in the column of the place vendome in paris. all of these forums were parts of one whole. what is now covered by streets and houses, was an open space, extending from the capitol as far as the coliseum in one direction, and the column of trajan in another, surrounded by temples and basilicas, and columns and triumphal arches, and overlooked by the palaces of the cæsars. this whole area was the centre of rome, where its heart beat, when it contained two millions of people; where the people came together to discuss public affairs, or to witness triumphal processions returning from the wars. here the roman legions came with mighty tread along the via sacra, winding their way up to the capitoline hill to lay their trophies at the feet of the senate. perhaps the best idea of the splendor and magnificence of ancient rome may be gained from exploring the ruins of the palaces of the cæsars. they are of vast extent, covering all the slopes of the palatine hill. here great excavations have been made. the walk seems endless through what has been laid open. the walls are built like a fortress, as if to last forever, and decorated with every resource of art known to that age, with sculptures and ceilings richly painted, like those uncovered in the houses of pompeii. these buildings have been stripped of everything that was movable--the statues being transported to the galleries of the vatican. the same fate has overtaken all the great structures of ancient rome. they have been divested of their ornaments and decoration, of gilding and bas-reliefs and statues, and in some cases have been quite dismantled. the coliseum, it is well known, was used in the middle ages as a quarry for many proud noble families, and out of it were built some of the greatest palaces in rome. nothing saved the pantheon but its conversion from a heathen temple into a christian church. hundreds and thousands of columns of porphyry and alabaster and costly marbles, which now adorn the churches of rome, were taken from the ruins of temples and palaces. but though thus stripped of every ornament, ancient rome is still magnificent in her ruins. one may wander for days about the palaces of the cæsars, walking through the libraries and theatres, under the arches and over the very tessellated pavement where those proud emperors walked nearly two thousand years ago. he should ascend to the highest point of the ruins to take in their full extent, and there he will see, looking out upon the campagna, a long line of arches reaching many miles, over which water was brought from the distant hills for the golden house of nero. perhaps the most massive ruin which has been lately uncovered, is that of the baths of caracalla, which give an idea of the luxury and splendor of ancient rome, as quite unequalled in modern times. but, of course, the one structure which interests most of all, is the coliseum: and here recent excavations have made fresh discoveries. the whole area has been dug down many feet, and shows a vast system of passages _underground_; not only those through which wild beasts were let into the arena, but conduits for water, by which the whole amphitheatre could be flooded and turned into a lake large enough for roman galleys to sail in; and here naval battles were fought with all the fury of a conflict between actual enemies, to the delight of roman emperor and people, who shouted applause, when blood flowed freely on the decks, and dyed the waters below. there is one reflection that often recurs to me, as i wander among these ruins--what it is of all the works of man that really _lives_. not architecture (the palaces of the cæsars are but heaps of ruins); but the roman _laws_ remain, incorporated with the legislation of every civilized country on the globe; while virgil and cicero, the poet and the orator, are the delight of all who know the latin tongue. thus men pass away, their very monuments may perish, but their thoughts, their wisdom, their learning and their genius remain, a perpetual inheritance to mankind. after imperial rome comes christian rome. many of the stories of the first christian centuries are fables and legends. historical truth is so overlaid with a mass of traditions, that one is ready to reject the whole. when they show you here the stone on which they gravely tell you that abraham bound isaac for the sacrifice; and another on which mary sat when she brought christ into the temple; and the staircase from pilate's house, the scala santa, up which every day and hour pilgrims may be seen going on their knees; and a stone showing the very prints of the saviour's feet when he appeared to peter--one is apt to turn away in disgust. but the general fact of the early planting of christianity here, we know from the new testament itself. ecclesiastical historians are not agreed whether peter was ever in rome (although he is claimed as the first pope), but that paul was here we know from his epistles, and from the book of acts, in which we have the particulars of his "appealing to cæsar," and his voyages to italy, and his shipwreck on the island of malta, his landing at puteoli, and going "towards rome," where he lived two years in "his own hired house," "preaching and teaching, no man forbidding him." several of his epistles were written from rome. it is therefore quite probable that he was confined, according to the tradition, in the mamertine prison under the capitol, and one cannot descend without deep emotion into that dark, rocky dungeon, far underground, where the great apostle was once a prisoner, and from which he was led forth to die. he is said to have been beheaded without the walls. on the road they point out a spot (still marked by a rude figure by the roadside of two men embracing), where it is said paul and peter met and fell on each other's neck on the morning of the last day--paul going to be beheaded, and peter into the city to be crucified, which at his own request was with his head downwards, for he would not be crucified in the same posture as his lord, whom he had once denied. on the spot where paul is said to have suffered now rises one of the grandest churches in the world, second in rome only to st. peter's. so the persecutions of the early christians by successive emperors are matters of authentic history. knowing this, we visit as a sacred place the scene of their martyrdom, and shudder at seeing on the walls the different modes of torture by which it was sought to break their allegiance to the faith; we think of them in the coliseum, where they were thrown to the lions; and still more in the catacombs, to which they fled for refuge, where they worshipped, and (as pliny wrote) "sang hymns to christ as to a god," and where still rest their bones, with many a rude inscription, testifying of their faith and hope. it is a sad reflection that the christian church, once established in rome, should afterwards itself turn persecutor. but unfortunately it too became intoxicated with power, and could brook no resistance to its will. the inquisition was for centuries a recognized institution of the papacy--an appointed means for guarding the purity of the faith. the building devoted to the service of that tribunal stands to this day, close by the church of st. peter, and i believe there is still a papal officer who bears the dread title of "grand inquisitor." but fortunately his office no longer inspires terror, for it is at last reduced to the punishment of ecclesiastical offences by ecclesiastical discipline, instead of the arm of flesh, on which it once leaned. but the old building is at once "a prison and a palace"; the cells are still there, though happily unoccupied. but in the castle of st. angelo there is a chamber of torture, which has not always been merely for exhibition, where a pope clement (what a mockery in the name!) had beatrice cenci put to the torture, and forced to confess a crime of which she was not guilty. but we are not so unjust as to impute all these cruelties of a former and a darker time to the catholic church of the present day. those were ages of intolerance and of persecution. but none can deny that the church has always been fiercely intolerant. there is no doubt that the massacre of st. bartholomew was the occasion of great rejoicings at rome. the bloody persecution of the waldenses found no rebuke from him who claimed to be the vicegerent of christ; a persecution which called forth from milton that sublime prayer: avenge, o lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered upon the alpine mountains cold! amid such bitter recollections it is good to remember also the message of cromwell to the pope, that "if favor were not shown to the people of god, the thunder of english cannon should be heard in the castle of st. angelo." it seems as if it were a just retribution for those crimes of a former age that the pope in these last days has had to walk so long in the valley of humiliation. not for centuries has a pontiff had to endure such repeated blows. the reign of pius ix. has been longer than that of any of his predecessors; some may think it glorious, but it has witnessed at once the most daring assumption and its signal punishment--a claim of infallibility, which belongs to god alone--followed by a bitter humiliation as if god would cast this idol down to the ground. it is certainly a remarkable coincidence, that just as the dogma of infallibility was proclaimed, louis napoleon rushed into war, as the result of which france, the chief supporter of the papacy (which for twenty years had kept an army in rome to hold the pope on his throne), was stricken down, and the first place in europe taken by a protestant power. germany had already humbled the other great catholic power of europe, to the confusion and dismay of the pope and his councillors. a gentleman who has resided for many years in rome, tells me that on the very day that the battle of sadowa was fought, cardinal antonelli told a friend of his to "come around to his house that night to get the news; that he expected to hear of one of the greatest victories ever won for the church," so confidently did he and his master the pope anticipate the triumph of austria. the gentleman went. hour after hour passed, and no tidings came. it was midnight, and still no news of victory. before morning the issue was known, that the austrian army was destroyed. cardinal antonelli did not come forth to proclaim the tidings. he shut himself up, said my informant, and was not seen for three weeks! and so it has come to pass--whether by accident or design, whether by the violence of man or by the will of god--that the pope has been gradually stripped of that power and prestige which once so acted upon the imaginations of men, that, like cæsar, "his bend did awe the world," and has come to be merely the bishop, or archbishop, of that portion of christendom which submits to the catholic church. i find the rome of to-day divided into two camps. the vatican is set over against the quirinal. the pope rules in one, and victor emmanuel in the other; and neither of these two sovereigns has anything to do with the other. it would take long to discuss the present political state of rome or of italy. apart from the right or wrong of this question, it is evident that the sympathies of the italian people are on the side of victor emmanuel. the roman people have had a long experience of a government of priests, and they do not like it. it seems as if the world was entering on a new era, and the papacy, infallible and immutable as it is, must change too--it must "move on" or be overwhelmed. footnote: [ ] "e'en at the base of pompey's statue, which all the while ran blood, great cæsar fell." chapter xxiii. the prisoner of the vatican. rome, october th. it is a great loss to travellers who come to rome to see the sights, that the pope has shut himself up in the vatican. in the good old times, when he was not only a spiritual, but a civil potentate--not only pope, but king--he used to ride about a great deal to take a survey of his dominions. one might meet him of an afternoon taking an airing on the pincian hill, or on some of the roads leading out of rome. he always appeared in a magnificent state carriage, of red trimmed with gold, with six horses richly caparisoned, and outriders going before, and the swiss guards following after. [what would poor old peter have said, if he had met his successor coming along in such mighty pomp?] the cardinals too, arrayed in scarlet, had their red carriages and their fine liveries, and their horses pranced up and down the corso. thus rome was very gay. the processions too were endless, and they were glorious to behold. it was indeed a grand sight to see the pope and all his cardinals, in their scarlet dresses, sweeping into st. peter's and kneeling together in the nave, while the muskets of the swiss guards rang on the pavement, in token of the might of arms which then attended the spiritual power. but now, alas! all this is ended. the spoiler has entered into the holy place, and the holy father appears no more in the streets. since that fatal day when the italian troops marched into rome--the th of september, --he has not put his foot in a carriage, nor shown himself to the roman people. the cardinals, who live in different parts of the city, are obliged to go about; but they have laid aside all their fine raiment and glittering equipage, and appear only in solemn black, as if they were all undertakers, attending the funeral of the papacy. the pope has shut himself up closely in the vatican. he is, indeed, just as free to go abroad as ever. there is nothing to prevent his riding about rome as usual. but no, the dear old man will have it that he is restrained of his liberty, and calls himself "a prisoner!" to be sure he is not exactly in a guard-house, or in a cell, such as those in the inquisition just across the square of st. peter, where heretics used to be accommodated with rather close quarters. his "prison" is a large one--a palace, with hundreds of richly furnished apartments, where he is surrounded with luxury and splendor, and where pilgrims flock to him from all parts of the earth. it is a princely retreat for one in his old age, and a grand theatre on which to assume the role of martyr. almost anybody would be willing to play the part of prisoner, if by this means he might attract the attention and sympathy of the whole civilized world.[ ] but so complete is this voluntary confinement of the pope, that he has not left the vatican in these five years, not even to go into st. peter's, though it adjoins the vatican, and he can enter it by a private passage. it is whispered that he did go in on one occasion, _to see his own portrait_, which is wrought in mosaic, and placed over the bronze statue of st. peter. but on this occasion the public were excluded, and when the doors were opened he had disappeared. he will not even take part in the great festivals of the church, which are thus shorn of half their splendor. how well i remember the gorgeous ceremonies of holy week, beginning with palm sunday, and ending with easter. i was one of the foreigners in the sistine chapel on good friday, when the pope's choir, composed of eunuchs, sang the _miserere_; and on the piazza of st. peter's at easter, when the pope was carried on men's shoulders to the great central window, where, in the presence of an immense crowd, he pronounced his benediction _urbi et orbi_; and the cannon of the castle of st. angelo thundered forth the mighty blessings which had thus descended on "the city and the world." i saw too, that night, the illumination of st. peter's, when arches and columns and roof and dome were hung with lamps, that when all lighted together, made such a flame that it seemed as if the very heavens were on fire. but now all this glory and splendor have gone out in utter night. there are no more blessings for unbelievers--nor even for the faithful, except as they seek them within the sacred precincts of the vatican, where alone the successor of st. peter is now visible. it is a great loss to those who have not been in rome before, especially to those enthusiastic persons who feel that they cannot "die happy" unless they have seen the pope. but i do not need anything to gratify my curiosity. i have seen the pope many times before, and i recognize in the photographs which are in all shop windows the same face which i saw a quarter of a century ago--only aged indeed by the lapse of these many years. _it is a good face._ i used to think he looked like dr. sprague of albany, who certainly had as benevolent a countenance as ever shone forth in kindness on one's fellow creatures. all who know the pope personally, speak of him as a very kind-hearted man, with most gentle and winning manners. this i fully believe, but is it not a strong argument against the system in which he is bound, that it turns a disposition so sweet into bitterness, and leads one of the most amiable of men to do things very inconsistent with the meek character of the vicar of christ; to curse where he ought to bless, and to call down fire from heaven on his enemies? but his natural instincts are all good. when i was here before he was universally popular. his predecessor, gregory xvi., had been very conservative. but when cardinal mastai ferretti--for that was his name--was elected pope, he began a series of reforms, which elated the roman people, and caused the eyes of all europe to be turned towards him as the coming man. he was the idol of the hour. it seemed as if he had been raised up by providence to lead the nations in the path of peaceful progress. but the revolutions of , in paris and elsewhere, frightened him. and when garibaldi took possession of rome, and proclaimed the republic, his ardor for reform was entirely gone. he escaped from the city disguised as a valet, and fled for protection to the king of naples, and was afterwards brought back by french troops. from that time he surrendered himself entirely to the reactionary party, and since then, while as well meaning as ever, he is the victim of a system, from which he cannot escape, and which makes him do things wholly at variance with his kindly and generous nature. even the staunchest protestants who go to see the pope are charmed with him. they had, perhaps, thought of him as the "giant pope," whom bunyan describes as sitting at the mouth of a cave, and glaring fiercely at pilgrims as they go by; and they are astonished to find him a very simple old man, pleasant in conversation, fond of ladies' society, with a great deal of humor, enjoying a joke as much as anybody, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and a face all smiles, as if he had never uttered an anathema. this is indeed very agreeable, but all the more does it make one astounded at the incongruity between such pleasant pastime and his awful spiritual pretensions--for this man who stands there, chatting so familiarly, and laughing so heartily, professes to believe that he is the vicegerent of the almighty upon earth, and that he has the power to open and shut the gates of hell! god forgive him for the blasphemy of such a thought! it seems incredible that he can believe it himself; or, if he did, that the curses could roll so lightly from his lips. but anathemas appear to be a part of his daily recreation. he seems really to enjoy firing a volley into his enemies, as one would fire a gun into a flock of pigeons. here is the last shot which i find in the paper of this very day: "the roman catholic papers at the hague publish a pastoral letter from the pope to the archbishop of utrecht, by which his holiness makes known that johannes heykamp has been excommunicated, as he has allowed himself to be elected and ordained as archbishop of the jansenists in holland, and also johannes rinkel, who calls himself bishop of haarlem, who performed the ordination. the pope also declares to be excommunicated all those who assisted at the ceremony. the pope also calls this ordination 'a vile and despicable deed,' and warns all good catholics not to have any intercourse with the perpetrators of it, but to pray without ceasing that god may turn their hearts." it is noteworthy that all these anathemas are simply for ecclesiastical offences, not for any immorality, however gross. the queen of spain may be notorious for her profligacy, yet she receives no rebuke, she is even as a beloved daughter, to whom the pope sends presents, so long as she is devout and reverent towards him, or towards the church. so any prince, or private gentleman, may break all the ten commandments, and still be a good catholic; but if he doubts infallibility, he is condemned. all sins may be forgiven, except rebellion against the church or the pope. he has excommunicated döllinger, the most learned catholic theologian in europe, and father hyacinthe, the most eloquent preacher. poor victor emmanuel comes in for oft-repeated curses, simply because in a great political crisis he yielded to the inevitable. _he_ did not seize rome. it was _the italian people_, whom he could no more stop than he could stop the inrolling of the sea. if he had not gone before the people they would have gone _over_ him. but for this he is cut off from the communion of the catholic church, and delivered over, so far as the anathema of the pope can do it, to the pains of hell. and yet if we allege this as proof that some remains of human infirmity still cling to the infallible head of the church, or that a very kind nature has been turned into gall and bitterness, we are told by those who have just come from a reception that he was all sweetness and smiles. an english priest who is in our hotel had an audience last evening, and he says: "the holy father was very jolly, laughing heartily at every pleasantry." it does one good to see an old man so merry and light-hearted, but does not such gayety seem a little forced or out of place? men who have no cares on their minds may laugh and be gay, but for the vicar of christ does it not seem to imply that he attaches no weight to the maledictions that he throws about so liberally? if he felt the awful meaning of what he utters, he could not so easily preserve his good spirits and his merriment, while he consigns his fellow-men to perdition. one would think that if obliged to pronounce such a doom upon any, he would do it with tears--that he would retire into his closet, and throw ashes upon his head, and come forth in sackcloth, overwhelmed at the hard necessity which compelled the stern decree. but it does not seem to interfere with any of his enjoyments. he gives a reception at which he is smiling and gracious, and then proceeds to cast out some wretched fellow-creature from the communion of the holy catholic church. there is something shocking in the easy, off-hand manner in which he despatches his enemies. he anathematizes with as little concern as he takes his breakfast, apparently attaching as much solemnity to one as the other. the mixture of levity with stern duties is not a pleasant sight, as when one orders an execution between the puffs of a cigar. but this holy man, this vicegerent of god on earth, pronounces a sentence more awful still; for he orders what, _according to his theory_, is worse than an execution--an excommunication. yet he does it quite unconcerned. if he does not order an anathema between the puffs of a cigar, he does it between two pinches of snuff. such levity would be inconceivable, if we could suppose that he really believes that his curses have power to harm, that they cast a feather's weight into the scale that decides the eternal destiny of a human soul. we do not say that he is conscious of any hypocrisy. far from it. it is one of those cases, which are so common in the world, in which there is an unconscious contradiction between one's private feelings and his public conduct; in which a man is far better than his theory. we do not believe the pope is half as bad as he would make himself to be--half so resentful and vindictive as he appears. as we sometimes say, in excuse for harsh language, "he don't mean anything by it." he _does_ mean something, viz., to assert his own authority. but he does not quite desire to deliver up his fellow-creatures to the pains of eternal death. we are truly sorry for the pope. he is an old man, and with all his natural gentleness, may be supposed to have something of the irritability of age. and now he is engaged in a contest in which he is sure to fail; he is fighting against the inevitable, against a course of things which he has no more power to withstand than to breast the current of niagara. he might as well take his stand on the brink of the great cataract, and think by the force of prayers or maledictions to stop the flowing of the mighty waters. all the powers of europe are against him. among the sovereigns he has not a single friend, or, at least, one who has any power to help him. the emperor of germany is this week on a visit to milan as the guest of victor emmanuel. but he will not come to rome to pay his respects to the pope. the emperor of austria came to venice last spring, but neither did he, though he is a good catholic, continue his journey as far as the vatican. thus the pope is left alone. for this he has only himself to blame. he has forced the conflict, and now he is in a false position, from which there is no escape. all europe is looking anxiously to the event of the pope's death. he has already filled the papal chair longer than any one of his two hundred and fifty-six predecessors, running back to st. peter. but he is still hale and strong, and though he is eighty-three years old,[ ] he may yet live a few years longer. he belongs to a very long-lived family; his grandfather died at ninety-three, his father at eighty-three, his mother at eighty-eight, his eldest brother at ninety. protestants certainly may well pray that he should be blessed with the utmost length of days; for the longer he lives, and the more obstinate he is in his reactionary policy, the more pronounced does he force italy to become in its antagonism, and not only italy, but austria and bavaria, as well as protestant germany. may he live to be a hundred years old! footnotes: [ ] this pretence of being a prisoner is so plainly a device to excite public sympathy, that it is exaggerated in the most absurd manner. a lady, just returned from the rhine, tells me that in germany the catholics circulate pictures of the pope _behind the bars of a prison_, and even _sell straws of his bed_, to show that he is compelled to sleep on a pallet of straw, like a convict! the same thing is done in ireland. [ ] i give his age as put down in the books, where the date of his birth is given as may , ; although our english priest tells me that the pope himself says that he is eighty-_five_, adding playfully that "his enemies have deprived him of his dominions, and his friends of two years of his life." my informant says that, notwithstanding his great age, he is in perfect health, with not a sign of weakness or decay about him, physically or intellectually. he is a tough old oak, that may stand all the storms that rage about him for years to come. chapter xxiv. pictures and palaces. before we go away from rome i should like to say a few words on two subjects which hitherto i have avoided. a large part of the time of most travellers in europe is spent in wandering through palaces and picture galleries, but descriptions of the former would be tedious by their very monotony of magnificence, and of the latter would be hardly intelligible to unprofessional readers, nor of much value to anybody, unless the writer were, what i do not profess to be, a thorough critic in art. but i have certain general impressions, which i may express with due modesty, and yet with frankness, and which may perchance accord with the impressions of some other very plain, but not quite unintelligent, people. one who has not been abroad--i might almost say, who has not _lived_ abroad--cannot realize how much art takes hold of the imagination of a people, and enters into their very life. it is the form in which italian genius has most often expressed itself. what poetry is in some countries, art is in italy. england had great poets in the days of elizabeth, but no great painters, at a time when the churches and galleries of italy were illuminated by the genius of raphael and titian and leonardo da vinci. the products of such genius have been a treasure to italy and to the world. works of art are immortal. raphael is dead, but the transfiguration lives. as the paintings of great masters accumulated from century to century, they were gathered in public or private collections, which became, like the libraries of universities, storehouses for the delight and instruction of mankind. such works justly command the homage and reverence which are due to the highest creations of the human intellect. the man who has put on canvas conceptions which are worthy to live, has left a legacy to the human race. "when i think," said an old monk, who was accustomed to show paintings on the walls of his monastery, "how men come, generation after generation, to see these pictures, and how they pass away, but these remain, i sometimes think that _these are the realities, and that we are the shadows_." but with all this acknowledgment of the genius that is thus immortal, and that gives delight to successive generations, there are one or two drawbacks to the pleasure i have derived from these great collections of art. in the first place, there is the _embarrassment of riches_. one who undertakes to visit all the picture galleries, even of a single city like rome or florence, soon finds himself overwhelmed by their number. he goes on day after day, racing from one place to another, looking here and there in the most hurried manner, till his mind becomes utterly confused, and he gains no definite impression. it is as impossible to study with care all these pictures, as it would be to read all the books in a public library, which are not intended to be read "by wholesale," but only to be used for reference. so with the great collections of paintings, which are arranged in a certain order, so as to give an idea of the style of different countries, such as the dutch school, the venetian school, etc. these are very useful for one who wishes to trace the history of art, but the ordinary traveller does not care to go into such detail. to him a much smaller number of pictures, carefully chosen, would give more pleasure and more instruction. further, it has seemed to me that with all the genius of the old masters (which no one is more ready to confess, and in which no one takes more intense delight), there is sometimes a _worship_ of them, which is extended to all their works without discrimination, which is not the result of personal observation, nor quite consistent with mental independence. indeed, there are few things in which the empire of fashion is more absolute, and more despotic. it is at this point that i meekly offer a protest. i admit fully and gratefully the marvellous genius of some of the old painters, but i cannot admit that everything they touched was equally good. homer sometimes nods, and even raphael and titian--great as they are, and superior perhaps to everybody else--are not always equal to themselves. raphael worked very rapidly, as is shown by the number of pictures which he left, although he died a young man. of course, his works must be very unequal, and we may all exercise our taste in preferring some to others. in another respect it seems to me that there is a limitation of the greatness even of the old masters, viz., in the range of their subjects, in which i find a singular _monotony_. in the numberless galleries that we have visited this summer, i have observed in the old pictures, with all their power of drawing and richness of color, a remarkable sameness, both of subject and of treatment. even the greatest artists have their manner, which one soon comes to recognize; so that he is rarely mistaken in designating the painter. i know a picture of rubens anywhere by the colossal limbs that start out of the canvas. paul veronese always spreads himself over a large surface, where he has room to bring in a great number of figures, and introduce details of architecture. give him the marriage at cana, or a royal feast, and he will produce a picture which will furnish the whole end of a palace hall. it is very grand, of course; but when one sees a constant recurrence of the same general style, he recognizes the limitations of the painter's genius. or, to go from large pictures to small ones, there is a dutch artist, wouvermans, whose pictures are in every gallery in europe. i have seen hundreds of them, and not one in which he does not introduce a white horse! even the greatest of the old masters seem to have exercised their genius upon a limited number of subjects. during the middle ages art was consecrated almost wholly to religion. some of the painters were themselves devout men, and wrought with a feeling of religious devotion. fra angelico was a monk (in the same monastery at florence with savonarola), and regarded his art as a kind of priesthood, going from his prayers to his painting, and from his painting to his prayers. others felt the same influence, though in a less degree. in devoting themselves to art, they were moved at once by the inspiration of genius and the inspiration of religion. others still, who were not at all saintly in their lives, yet painted for churches and convents. thus, from one cause or another, almost all the art of that day was employed to illustrate religious subjects. of these there was one that was before all others--the holy family, or the virgin and her child. this appears and reappears in every possible form. we can understand the attraction of such a subject to an artist; for to him the virgin was _the ideal of womanhood_, to paint whom was to embody his conception of the most exquisite womanly sweetness and grace. and in this how well did the old masters succeed! no one who has a spark of taste or sensibility can deny the exquisite beauty of some of their pictures of the virgin--the tenderness, the grace, the angelic purity. what sweetness have they given to the face of that young mother, so modest, yet flushed with the first dawning of maternal love! what affection looks out of those tender eyes! in the celebrated picture of raphael in the gallery at florence, called "the madonna of the chair," the virgin is seated, and clasps her child to her breast, who turns his large eyes, with a wondering gaze, at the world in which he is to live and to suffer. one stands before such a picture transfixed at a loveliness that seems almost divine. but of all the madonnas of raphael--or of any master--which i have seen, i prefer that at dresden, where the virgin is not seated, but standing erect at her full height, with the clouds under her feet, soaring to heaven with the christ-child in her arms. when i went into the room set apart to that picture (for no other is worthy to keep it company), i felt as if i were in a church; every one spoke in whispers; it seemed as if ordinary conversation were an impertinence; as if it would break the spell of that sacred presence. something of the same effect (some would call it even greater) is produced by titian's or murillo's painting of the "assumption" of the virgin--that is, her being caught up into the clouds, with the angels hovering around her, over her head and under her feet. one of these great paintings is at venice, and the other in the louvre at paris. in both the central figure is floating, like that of christ in the transfiguration. the assumption is a favorite subject of the old masters, and reappears everywhere, as does the "annunciation" by the angel of the approaching birth of christ, the "nativity," and the coming of the magi to adore the holy child. i do not believe there is a gallery in italy, and hardly a private collection, in which there are not "nativities" and "assumptions" and "annunciations." but if some of these pictures are indeed wonderful, there are others which are not at all divine; which are of the earth, earthy; in which the virgin is nothing more than a pretty woman, chosen as a type of female beauty (just as a greek sculptor would aim to give _his_ ideal in a statue of venus), painted sometimes on a jewish, but more often on an italian, model. in holland the madonnas have a decidedly dutch style of beauty. we may be pardoned if we do not go into raptures over them. when the old masters, after painting the virgin mary, venture on an ideal of our lord himself, they are less successful, because the subject is more difficult. they attempt to portray the divine man; but who can paint that blessed countenance, so full of love and sorrow? that brow, heavy with care, that eye so tender? i have seen hundreds of ecce homos, but not one that gave me a new or more exalted impression of the saviour of the world than i obtain from the new testament. but if it seems almost presumption to attempt to paint our saviour, what shall we say to the introduction of the supreme being upon the canvas? yet this appears very often in the paintings of the old masters. i cannot but think it was suggested by the fact that the greek sculptors made statues of the gods for their temples. as they undertook to give the head of jupiter, so these christian artists thought they could paint the almighty! not unfrequently they give the three persons of the trinity--the father being represented as an old man with a long beard, floating on a cloud, the spirit as a dove, while the son is indicated by a human form bearing a cross. can anything be more repulsive than such a representation! these are things beyond the reach of art. no matter what genius may be in certain artistic details, the picture is, and must be, a failure, because it is an attempt _to paint the unpaintable_. next to madonnas and holy families, the old masters delight in the painting of saints and martyrs. and here again the same subjects recur with wearying uniformity. i should be afraid to say how many times i have seen st. lawrence stretched on his gridiron; and youthful st. sebastian bound to a tree, and pierced with arrows; and old st. anthony in the desert, assaulted by the temptations of the devil. no doubt these were blessed martyrs, but after being exhibited for so many centuries to the gaze of the world, i should think it would be a relief for them to retire to the enjoyment of the heavenly paradise. is it not, then, a just criticism of those who painted all those madonnas and saints and martyrs, to say, while admitting their transcendent genius, that still their works present _a magnificent monotony_, both of subject and of treatment, and at last weary the eye even by their interminable splendors? another point in which the same works are signally defective, is in the absence of _landscape painting_. it has been often remarked of the classic poets, that while they describe human actions and passions, they show a total insensibility to the beauties of nature. the same deficiency appears in the paintings of the old masters. seldom do they attempt landscape. sometimes a clump of trees, or a glimpse of sky, is introduced as a background for figures, but it is almost always subordinate to the general effect. here, then, it seems to me no undue assumption of modern pride to say that the artists of the present day are not only the equals of the old masters, but their superiors. they have learned of the mighty mother herself. they have communed with nature. they have felt the ineffable beauty of the woods and lakes and rivers, of the mountains and the meadows, of the valleys and the hills, of the clouds and skies, and in painting these, have led us into a new world of beauty. as i am an enthusiastic lover of nature, i feel like standing up for the moderns against the ancients, and saying (at the risk of being set down as wanting in taste) that i have derived as much pleasure from some of the pictures which i have seen at the annual exhibitions in london and paris, and even in new york, as from any, _except a few hundred of the very best_ of the pictures which i have seen here. i am led to speak thus freely, because i am slightly disgusted with the abject servility in this matter of many foreign tourists. i see them going through these galleries, guide-book in hand, consulting it at every step, to know what they must admire, and not daring to express an opinion, nor even to enjoy what they see until they turn to what is said by murray or bædeker. of course guide-books are useful, and even necessary, and one can hardly go into a gallery without one, to serve at least as a catalogue, but they must not take the place of one's own eyes. if we are ever to know anything of art, we must begin, however modestly, to exercise our own judgment. while therefore i would have every traveller use his guide-book freely, i would have him use still more his eyes and his brain, and try to exercise, so as to cultivate, his taste. is it not time for americans, who boast so much of their independence, to show a little of it here? some come abroad only to learn to despise their own country. for my part, the more i see of other countries, while appreciating them fully, the more i love my own; i love its scenery, its landscapes, and its homes, and its men and women; and while i would not commit the opposite mistake of a foolish conceit of everything american, i think our artists show a fair share of talent, which can best be developed by a constant study of nature. nature is greater than the old masters. what sunset ever painted by claude or poussin equals, or even approaches, what we often see when the sun sinks in the west, covering the clouds with gold? if our artists are to paint sunsets, let them not go to picture galleries, but out of doors, and behold the glory of the dying day. let them paint nature as they see it at home. nature is not fairer in italy than in america. let them paint american landscapes, giving, if they can, the beauty of our autumnal woods, and all the glory of the passing year. if they will keep closely to nature, instead of copying old masters, they may produce an original, as well as a true and genuine school of art, and will fill our galleries and our homes with beauty. from pictures to palaces is an easy transition, as these are the temples in which works of art are enshrined. many years ago, when i first came abroad, a lady in london, who is well known both in england and america, took me to see stafford house, the residence of the duke of sutherland, saying that it was much finer than buckingham palace, and "the best they had to show in england," but that, "of course, it was nothing to what i should see on the continent, and especially in italy." since then i have visited palaces in almost every capital in europe. i find indeed that italy excels all other countries in architecture, as she does in another form of art. when her cities were the richest in europe, drawing to themselves the commerce and the wealth of the east, it was natural that the doges and dukes and princes should display their magnificence in the rearing of costly palaces. these, while they differ in details, have certain general features in which they are all pretty much alike--stately proportions, grand entrances, broad staircases, lofty ceilings, apartments of immense size, with columns of porphyry and alabaster and lapis lazuli, and pavements of mosaic or tessellated marble, with no end of costliness in decoration; ceilings loaded with carving and gilding, and walls hung with tapestries, and adorned with paintings by the first masters in the world. such is the picture of many a palace that one may see to-day in venice and genoa and florence and rome. if any of my readers feel a touch of envy at the tale of such magnificence, it may comfort them to hear, that probably their own american homes, though much less splendid, are a great deal more comfortable. these palaces were not built for comfort, but for pride and for show. they are well enough for courts and for state occasions, but not for ordinary life. they have few of those comforts which we consider indispensable in our american homes. it is almost impossible to keep them warm. their vast halls are cold and dreary. the pavements of marble and mosaic are not half so comfortable as a plain wooden floor covered with a carpet. there is no gas--they are lighted only with candles; while the liberal supply of water which we have in our american cities is unknown. a lady living in one of the grandest palaces in rome, tells me that every drop of water used by her family has to be carried up those tremendous staircases, to ascend which is almost like climbing the leaning tower of pisa. of course a bath is a _luxury_, and not, as with us, an universal comfort. nowhere do i find such a supply of that necessary element of household cleanliness and personal health, as we have in new york, furnished by a river running through the heart of a city, carrying life, as well as luxury, into every dwelling. the english-speaking race understand the art of domestic architecture better than any other in the world. they may not build such grand palaces, but they know how to build _homes_. in country houses we should have to yield the palm to the tasteful english cottages, but in city houses i should claim it for america, for the simple reason that, as our cities are newer, there are many improvements introduced in houses of modern construction unknown before. when prince napoleon was in new york, he said that there was more comfort in one of our best houses than he found in the palais royal in paris. and i can well believe it. i doubt if there is a city in the world where there is a greater number of private dwellings which are more thoroughly comfortable, well warmed and well lighted, well ventilated and well drained, with hot and cold baths everywhere: surely such materials for merely physical comfort never existed before. these are luxuries not always found, even in kings' palaces. but it is not of our rich city houses that i make my boast, but of the tens of thousands of country houses, so full of comfort, full of sunshine, and _full of peace_. these are the things which make a nation happy, and which are better than the palaces of venice or of rome. and so the result of all our observations has been to make us contented with our modest republican ways. how often, while wandering through these marble halls, have i looked away from all this splendor to a happy country beyond the sea, and whispered to myself, "mid pleasures and palaces, wherever we roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." chapter xxv. naples.--pompeii and pÆstum. naples, october d. "see naples and die!" is an old italian proverb, which, it must be confessed, is putting it rather strongly, but which still expresses, with pardonable exaggeration, the popular sense of the surpassing beauty of this city and its environs. florence, lying in the valley of the arno, as seen from the top of fiesolé, is a vision of beauty; but here, instead of a river flowing between narrow banks, there opens before us a bay that is like a sea, alive with ships, with beautiful islands, and in the background vesuvius, with its column of smoke ever rising against the sky. the bay of naples is said to be the most beautiful in the world; at least its only rival is in another hemisphere--in the bay of rio janeiro. it must be fifty miles in circuit (it is nineteen miles across from naples to sorrento), and the whole shore is dotted with villages, so that when lighted up at night, it seems girdled with watch fires. and around this broad-armed bay (as at nice and other points along the mediterranean), summer lingers after she has left the north of italy. not only vineyards and olive groves cover the southern slopes, but palm trees grow in the open air. here the old romans loved to come and sun themselves in this soft atmosphere. on yonder island of capri are still seen the ruins of a palace of tiberius; cicero had a villa at pompeii; and virgil, though born at mantua, wished to rest in death upon these milder shores, and here, at the entrance of the grotto of posilippo, they still point out his tomb. in its interior naples is a great contrast to rome. it is not only larger (indeed, it is much the largest city in italy, having half a million of inhabitants), but brighter and gayer. rome is dark and sombre, always reminding one of the long-buried past; naples seems to live only in the present, without a thought either of the past or of the future. a friend who came here a day or two before us, expressed the contrast between the two cities by saying energetically, "naples is life: rome is death!" indeed, we have here a spectacle of extraordinary animation. i have seen somewhere a series of pictures of "street scenes in naples," and surely no city in europe offers a greater variety of figures and costumes, as rich and poor, princes and beggars, soldiers and priests, jostle each other in the noisy, laughing crowd. even the poorest of the people have something picturesque in their poverty. the lazzaroni of naples are well known. they are the lowest class of the population, such as may be found in all large cities, and which is generally the most disgusting and repulsive. but here, owing to the warm climate, they can live out of doors, and thus the rags and dirt, which elsewhere are hidden in garrets and cellars, are paraded in the streets, making them like a rag fair. one may see a host of young beggars--little imps, worthy sons of their fathers--lying on the sidewalk, asleep in the sun, or coolly picking the vermin from their bodies, or showing their dexterity in holding aloft a string of macaroni, and letting it descend into their mouths, and then running after the carriage for a penny. the streets are very narrow, very crowded, and very noisy. from morning to night they are filled with people, and resound with the cries of market-men and women, who make a perfect bedlam. little donkeys, which seem to be the universal carryalls, come along laden with fruit, grapes and vegetables. the loads put on these poor beasts are quite astonishing. though not much bigger than newfoundland dogs, each one has two huge panniers hung at his sides, which are filled with all sorts of produce which the peasants are bringing to market. often the poor little creature is so covered up that he is hardly visible under his load, and might not be discovered, but that the heap seems to be in motion, and a pair of long ears is seen to project through the superincumbent mass, and an occasional bray from beneath sounds like a cry for pity. the riding carts of the laboring people also have a power of indefinite multiplication of the contents they carry. i thought that an irish jaunting-car would hold about as many human creatures as anything that went on wheels, but it is quite surpassed by the country carts one sees around naples, in which a mere rat of a donkey scuds along before an indescribable vehicle, on which half a dozen men are stuck like so many pegs (of course they stand, for there is not room for them to sit), with women also, and a baby or two, and a fat priest in the bargain, and two or three urchins dangling behind! sometimes, for convenience, babies and vegetables are packed in the same basket, and swung below! with such variety in the streets, one need not go out of the city for constant entertainment. and yet the charm of naples is in its environs, and one who should spend a month or two here, might make constant excursions to points along the bay, which are attractive alike by their natural beauty and their historical interest. he may follow the shore from ischia clear around to capri, and enjoy a succession of beautiful points, as the shore-line curves in and out, now running into some sheltered nook, where the olive groves grow thick in the southern sun, and then coming to a headland that juts out into the sea. few things can be more enchanting than such a ride along the bay to baiæ on one side or from castellamare to sorrento and amalfi, on the other. our first visit was to pompeii, so interesting by its melancholy fate, and by the revelations of ancient life in its recent excavations. it was destroyed in an eruption of vesuvius in the reign of titus, in the year , and so completely was it buried that for seventeen hundred years its very site was not known. it was only about the middle of the last century that it was discovered, and not till within a few years that excavations were prosecuted with much vigor. now the city is uncovered, the roofs are taken off from the houses, and we can look down into the very homes of the people, and see the interior of their dwellings, and all the details of their domestic life. we spent four or five hours in exploring this buried city, going with a guide from street to street, and from house to house. how strange it seemed to walk over the very pavements that were laid there before our saviour was born, the stones still showing the ruts worn by the wheels of roman chariots two thousand years ago! we examined many houses in detail, and found them, while differing in costliness (some of them, such as those of diomed and sallust and polybius, being dwellings of the rich), resembling each other in their general arrangement. all seemed to be built on an oriental model, designed for a hot climate, with a court in the centre, where often a fountain filled the air with delicious coolness, and lulled to rest those who sought in the rooms which opened on the court a retreat from the heat of the summer noon. from this central point of the house, one may go through the different apartments--bedroom, dining-room, and kitchen--and see how the people cooked their food, and where they eat it; where they dined and where they slept; how they lay down and how they rose up. in almost every house there is a niche for the penates, or household gods, which occupied a place in the dwellings of the old pompeiians, such as is given by devout catholics to images of the virgin and saints, at the present day. but that which excites the greatest wonder is the decorations of the houses--the paintings on the walls, which in their grace of form and richness of color, are still subjects of admiration, and furnish many a model to architects and decorators. a great number of these have been removed to the museum at naples, where artists are continually studying and copying them. in this matter of decorative art, wendell phillips may well claim--as he does in his eloquent lecture on "the lost arts"--that there are many things in which the ancients, whether romans, greeks, or egyptians, were superior to the boastful moderns. something of the luxury of those times is seen in the public baths, which are fitted up with furnaces for heating the water, and pipes for conveying it, and rooms for reclining and cooling one's self after the bath, and other refinements of luxury, which we had vainly conceived belonged only to modern civilization. from the houses we pass to the shops, and here we find all the signs of active life, as if the work had been interrupted only yesterday. passing along the street, one sees the merchant's store, the apothecary's shop, and the blacksmith's forge. to be sure, the fire is extinguished, and the utensils which have been discovered have been carried off to the museum at naples; but it needs only to light up the coals, and we might hear again the ring on the anvils where the hammer fell, struck by hands that have been dust for centuries. and here is a bakery, with all the implements of the trade: the stone mills standing in their place for grinding the corn (is it not said that "two shall be grinding at the mill; one shall be taken and the other left"?); the vessels for the flour and for water, the trough for kneading the bread, and the oven for baking--long brick ovens they are, just like those in which our new england mothers are wont to bake their thanksgiving pies. nay, we have some of the bread that was baked, loaves of which are still preserved, charred and blackened by the fire, and possibly might be eaten, although the bread is decidedly well done. of course, the most imposing structures that have been uncovered are the public buildings in the forum and elsewhere--the basilica for the administration of justice; the theatres for games; and the temples for the worship of the gods. i was curious as to the probable loss of life in the destruction of the city, and conclude that it was not very great in proportion to the population. we have no means of knowing exactly the number of inhabitants. murray's guide book says , , but a careful measurement shows that not more than , could have been within the walls, while perhaps as many more were outside of it. as yet there have been discovered not more than six hundred skeletons; so that it is probable that the greater number made their escape. but even these--though few compared with the whole--are enough to disclose, by their attitudes, the suffering and the agony of their terrible fate. from their postures, it is plain that the inhabitants were seized with mortal terror when destruction came upon them. many were found with their bodies prone on the earth, who had evidently thrown themselves down, and buried their faces in their hands, as if to hide from their eyes the danger that was in the air. some tried to escape with their treasures. in one house five skeletons were found, with bracelets and rings of gold, silver, and bronze, lying on the pavement. a woman was found with four rings on one of her fingers, set with precious stones, with gold bracelets and earrings and pieces of money. perhaps her avarice or her vanity proved her destruction. but the hardest fate was that of those who could not fly, as captives chained in their dungeons. three skeletons were found in a prison, with the manacles still on their fleshless hands. even dumb beasts shared in the general catastrophe. the horse that had lost its rider pawed and neighed in vain; and the dog that howled at his master's gate, but would not leave him, shared his fate. the skeletons of both are still preserved. altogether, the most vivid account which has been given of the overthrow of the city, is by the english novelist, bulwer, in his "last days of pompeii." he pictures a great crowd collected for gladiatorial combats. that the people had these cruel sports, is shown by the amphitheatre which remains to this day; and the greatest number of skeletons in any one spot was thirty-six, in a building for the training of gladiators. in the amphitheatre, according to the novelist, the people were assembled when the destruction came. the lion had been let loose, but more sensitive than man to the strange disturbance in the elements, crept round the arena, instead of bounding on his prey, losing his natural ferocity in the sense of terror. beasts in the dens below filled the air with howls, till the assembly, roused from the eager excitement of the combat, at length looked upward, and in the darkening sky above them read the sign of their approaching doom. but no high-wrought description can add to the actual terror of that day, as recounted by historians. there are some things which cannot be overdrawn, and even bulwer does not present to the imagination a greater scene of horror than the plain narrative of the younger pliny, who was himself a witness of the destruction of pompeii from the bay, and whose uncle, advancing nearer to get a better view, perished. a city which has had such a fate, and which, after being buried for so many centuries, is now disentombed, deserves a careful memorial, which shall comprise both an authentic historical account of its overthrow, with a detailed report of the recent discoveries. we are glad, therefore, to meet here a countryman of ours who has taken the matter in hand, and is fully competent for the task. rev. j. c. fletcher, who is well known in america as the author of a work on brazil, which is as entertaining as it is instructive, has been residing two years in naples, preparing for the harpers a work on pompeii, which cannot fail to be of great interest, and to which we look forward as the most valuable account we shall have of this long-buried city. another excursion of almost equal interest was to pÆstum, some fifty miles below naples, the ruins of which are second only to those of the parthenon. it is an excursion which requires two days, and which we accordingly divided. we went first to sorrento, on the southern shore of the bay, one of the most beautiful spots around naples, a kind of eyrie, or eagle's nest, perched on the cliff, and looking off upon the glittering waters. here we were joined by a german lady and her daughter, whom we had met before in florence and in rome, and who are to be our travelling companions in the east; and who added much to our pleasure as we picnicked the next day in the temple of neptune. with our party thus doubled we rode along the shore over that most beautiful drive from sorrento to castellamare, and went on to salerno to pass the night, from which the excursion to pæstum is easily made the next day. notwithstanding the great interest of this excursion, it has been made less frequently than it would have been but for the fact that, until quite recently, the road has been infested by brigands, who had an unpleasant habit of starting up by the roadside with blunderbusses in their hands, and assisting you to alight from the carriage, and taking you for an excursion into the mountains, from which a message was sent to your friends in naples, that on the deposit of a thousand pounds or so at a certain place you would be returned safely. if friends were a little slow in taking this hint, and coming to the rescue, sometimes an ear of the unfortunate captive was cut off and sent to the city as a gentle reminder of what awaited him if the money was not forthcoming immediately. of course, it did not need many such warnings to squeeze the last drop of blood out of friends, who eagerly drained themselves to save a kinsman, who had fallen into the jaws of the lion, from a horrible fate. that these were not idle tales told to frighten travellers, we had abundant evidence. within a very few years there have been repeated adventures of the kind. an english gentleman whom we met at salerno, who had lived some forty years in this part of italy, told us that the stories were not at all exaggerated; that one gang of bandits had their headquarters but half a mile from his house, and that when captured they confessed that they had often lain in wait for _him_! these pleasing reminiscences gave a cheerful zest to the prospect of our journey on the morrow, although at present there is little danger. since the advent of victor emmanuel, brigandage, like a good many other institutions of the old régime, has been got rid of. our english friend last saw his former neighbors, as he was riding in a carriage, and three of them passed him, going to be shot. since then the danger has been removed; and still it gives one a little excitement to drive where such incidents were common only a few years ago, and even now it is not at all disagreeable to see soldiers stationed at different points along the road. though brigandage has passed away _here_, like many an other relic of the good old times, it still flourishes in sicily, where all efforts to extirpate it have as yet proved unsuccessful, and where one who is extremely desirous of a little adventure, may find it without going far outside the walls of palermo. but we will not stop to waste words on brigands, when we have before us the ruins of pæstum. as we drive over a long, level road, we see in the distance the columns of great temples rising over the plain, not far from the sea. they are perhaps more impressive because standing alone, not in the midst of a populous city like the parthenon, with athens at its base, but like tadmor in the wilderness, solitary and desolate, a wonder and a mystery. except the custodian of the place there was not a human creature there; nor a sound to be heard save the cawing of crows that flew among the columns, and lighted on the roof. in such silence we approached these vast remains of former ages. the builders of these mighty temples have vanished, and no man knows even their names. it is not certain by whom they were erected. it is supposed by a greek colony that landed on the shores of southern italy, and there founded cities and built temples at least six hundred years before the christian era. the style of architecture points to a greek origin. the huge columns, without any base, and with the plain doric capitals, show the same hands that reared the parthenon. but whoever they were, there were giants in the earth in those days; and the cyclopean architecture they have left puts to shame the pigmy constructions of modern times. how small it makes one feel to compare his own few years with these hoary monuments of the past! so men pass away, and their names perish, even though the structures they have builded may survive a few hundred, or a few thousand years. what lessons on the greatness and littleness of man have been read under the shadow of these giant columns. hither came augustus, in whose reign christ was born, to visit ruins that were ancient even in his day. here, where a cæsar stood two thousand years ago, the traveller from another continent (though not from new zealand) stands to-day, to muse--at pæstum, as at pompeii--on the fate which overtakes all human things, and at last whelms man and his works in one undistinguishable ruin. chapter xxvi. the ascent of vesuvius. november st. our excursion to vesuvius was delayed for some days to await the arrival of the franklin, which was to bring us the lieutenant who was our travelling companion in germany last summer, and who wished to make the ascent in our company. at length, on thursday, the firing of heavy guns told us that the great ship was coming into the harbor, and we were soon on board, where we received a most hearty welcome, not only from our kinsman, but from all the officers. the franklin is the flag-ship of our european squadron, and bears the flag of admiral john l. worden, the gallant officer whose courage and skill in fighting the monitor against the merrimack in hampton roads in , saved the country in an hour of imminent peril. well do we remember the terror in new york caused by the tidings of the sinking of the congress and the cumberland by that first ironclad--a new sea monster whose powers of destruction were unknown, and which we expected to see within a week sailing up our harbor, and demanding the surrender of the city. from this and other dangers, which we shudder to contemplate, we were saved by the little monitor on that eventful day. as admiral worden commands only the _fleet_, the _ship_ is commanded by an officer who bears the same honored name as the ship itself--captain franklin. we were very proud to see such men, surrounded by a fine set of officers, representing our country here. as we made frequent visits to the ship, we came to feel quite at home there. not the least pleasant part of these visits was to meet several american ladies--the wife and daughters of admiral worden, and the wife of captain franklin. men who have rendered distinguished services to their country are certainly entitled to a little domestic comfort on their long voyages; while the presence of such ladies is a benefit to all on board. when men are alone, whether in camp or on a ship, they are apt to become a little rough, and the mere presence of a noble woman has a refining influence over them. i can see it here in these young officers, who all seem to have a chivalrous feeling towards these ladies, who remind them of their own mothers and sisters at home. a more happy family i have not met on land or sea. to their company we are indebted for much of the pleasure of our excursion to vesuvius. on saturday a large party was made up from the ship, which included the family of admiral worden, captain and mrs. franklin, and half a dozen lieutenants. our excellent consul at naples, mr. duncan, and his sister, were also with us. we filled four carriages, and away we went through the streets of naples at a furious rate; sweeping around the bay (along which, as we looked through arched passages to the right, we could see villas and gardens stretching down to the waters), till we reached resina, which stands on the site of buried herculaneum. here we turned to the left, and began the ascent. and now we found it well that our drivers had harnessed three stout horses abreast to each carriage, as we had a hard climb upward along the blackened sides of the mountain. we soon perceived the wide-spread ruin wrought by successive eruptions of the volcano. over all this mountain side had rolled a deluge of fire, and on every hand were strewn the wrecks of the mighty desolation. it seemed as if a destroying angel had passed over the earth, blasting wherever his shadow fell. on either side stretched miles and miles of lava, which had flowed here and there slowly and sluggishly like molten iron, turning when interrupted in its course, and twisted into a thousand shapes. but if this was a terrible sight, there was something to relieve the eye, as we looked away in the distance to where the smile of god still rests on an unsmitten world. as we mounted higher, we commanded a wider view, and surely never was there a more glorious panorama than that which was unrolled at our feet on that october morning. there was the bay of naples, flashing in the sunlight, with the beautiful islands of ischia and capri lying, like guardian fortresses, off its mouth, and ships coming and going to all parts of the mediterranean. what an image was presented in that one view of the contrasts in our human life between sunshine and shadow--blooming fields on one hand, and a blackened waste on the other; above, a region swept by fire, and below, gardens and vineyards, and cities and villages, smiling in peace and security. we had left naples at nine o'clock, but it was noon before we reached the observatory--a station which the italian government has established on the side of the mountain for the purpose of making meteorological observations. this is the limit to which carriages can ascend, and here we rested for an hour. our watchful lieutenants had thoughtfully provided a substantial lunch, which the steward spread in a little garden overlooking the bay, and there assembled as merry a group of americans as ever gathered on the sides of vesuvius. from the observatory, those who would spare any unnecessary fatigue may take mules a mile farther to the foot of the cone, but our party preferred the excitement of the walk after our long ride. in ascending the cone, no four-footed beast is of any service; one must depend on his own strong limbs, unless he chooses to accept the aid of some of the fierce looking attendants who offer their services as porters. a lady may take a chair, and for forty francs be carried quite to the top on the shoulders of four stout fellows. but the more common way is to take two assistants, one to go forward who drags you up by a strap attached around his waist, to which you hold fast for dear life, while another _pushes_ behind. our young lady had _three_ escorts. she drove a handsome team of two ahead, while a third lubberly fellow was trying to make himself useful, or, at least, to earn his money, by putting his hands on her shoulders, and thus urging her forward. i believe i was the only person of the party, except the consul and one lieutenant, who went up without assistance. i took a man at first, rather to get rid of his importunity, but he gave out sooner than i did, stopping after a few rods to demand more money, whereupon i threw him off in disgust, and made the ascent alone. but i would not recommend others to follow my example, as the fatigue is really very great, especially to one unused to mountain climbing. not only is the cone very steep, but it is covered with ashes; so that one has no firm hold for his feet, but sinks deep at every step. thus he makes slow progress, and is soon out of breath. he can only keep on by going _very slowly_. i had to stop every few minutes, and throw myself down in the ashes, to rest. but with these little delays, i kept steadily mounting higher and higher. as we neared the top, the presence of the volcano became manifest, not merely from the cloud which always hangs about it, but by smoke issuing from many places at the side. it seemed as if the mountain were a vast smouldering heap out of which the internal heat forced its way through every aperture. here and there a long line of smoke seemed to indicate a subterranean fissure or vein, through which the pent-up fires forced their way. as we crossed these lines of smoke the sulphurous fumes were stifling, especially when the wind blew them in our faces. but at last all difficulties were conquered, and we stood on the very top, and looked over the awful verge into the crater. those who have never seen a volcano are apt to picture it as a tall peak, a slender cone, like a sugar loaf, with a round aperture at the top, like the chimney of a blast furnace, out of which issues fire and smoke. something of this indeed there is, but the actual scene is vastly greater and grander. for, instead of a small round opening, like the throat of a chimney, large enough for one flaming column, the crater is nearly half a mile across, and many hundreds of feet deep; and one looks down into a yawning gulf, a vast chasm in the mountain, whose rocky sides are yellow with sulphur, and out of which the smoke issues from different places. at times it is impossible to see anything, as dense volumes of smoke roll upward, which the wind drives toward us, so that we are ourselves lost in the cloud. then they drift away, and for an instant we can see far down into the bowels of the earth. standing on the bald head of vesuvius, one cannot help some grave reflections, looking at what is before him only from the point of view of a man of science. the eruption of a volcano is one of the most awful scenes in nature, and makes one shudder to think of the elements of destruction that are imprisoned in the rocky globe. what desolation has been wrought by vesuvius alone--how it has thrown up mountains, laid waste fields, and buried cities! what a spectacle has it often presented to the terrified inhabitants of naples, as it has shot up a column not only of smoke, but of fire! the flames have often risen to the height of a mile above the summit of the mountain, their red blaze lighting up the darkness of the night, and casting a glare over the waters of the bay, while the earth was moaning and trembling, as if in pain and fear. and the forces that have wrought such destruction are active still. for two thousand years this volcano has been smoking, and yet it is not exhausted. its fury is still unspent. far down in the heart of the earth still glow the eternal fires. this may give some idea of the terrific forces that are at work in the interior of the hollow globe, while it suggests at least the possibility of a final catastrophe, which shall prove the destruction of the planet itself. but if the spectacle be thus suggestive and threatening to the man of science, it speaks still more distinctly to one who has been accustomed to think that a time is coming when "the earth, being on fire, shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat," and who beholds in these ascending flames the prophetic symbol of the dies iræ--the day of doom--that shall at last end the long tragedy of man's existence on the earth. as i stood on the edge of the crater and looked down into the awful depths below, it seemed as if i beheld a scene such as might have inspired the description of dante in his inferno, or of john in the apocalypse; as if that dread abyss were no unfit symbol of the "lower deep" into which sink lost human souls. that "great gulf" was as the valley of hell; its rocky sides, yellow with sulphurous flames--how glistening and slippery they looked!--told of a "lake of fire and brimstone" seething and boiling below; those yawning caverns which were disclosed as the smoke drifted away, were the abodes of despair, and the winds that moaned and shrieked around were the wailings of the lost; while the pillar of cloud which is always rising from beneath, which "ceases not day nor night," was as "the smoke of torment," forever ascending. he must be a dull preacher who could not find a lesson in that awful scene; or see reflected in it the dangers to which he himself is exposed. fire is the element of destruction, even more than water. the "cruel, crawling foam" of the sea, that comes creeping towards us to seize and to destroy, is not so treacherous as the flames, darting out like serpents' tongues, that come creeping upward from the abyss, licking the very stones at our feet, and that seem eager to lick up our blood. the point where we stood projected over the crater. the great eruption three years since had torn away half the cone of the mountain, and now there hung above it a ledge, which seemed ready at any moment to break and fall into the gulf below. as i stood on that "perilous edge," the crumbling verge of the volcano, i seemed to be in the position of a human being exposed to dangers vast and unseen, to powers which blind and smother and destroy. as if nature would fix this lesson, by an image never to be forgotten, the sun that was declining in the west, suddenly burst out of the cloud, and cast my own shadow on the column of smoke that was rising from below. that shadowy form, standing in the air, now vanishing, and then reappearing with every flash of sunlight, seemed no inapt image of human life, a thing of shadow, floating in a cloud, and hovering over an abyss! thus musing, i lingered on the summit to the last, for such was the fascination of the scene that i could not tear myself away, and it was not till all were gone, and i found myself quite alone, that i turned and followed them down the mountain side. the descent is as rapid as the ascent is slow. a few minutes do the work of hours, as one plunges down the ashy cone, and soon our whole party were reassembled at its base. it was five o'clock when we took our carriages at the observatory; and quite dark before we got down the mountain, so that men with lighted torches (long sticks of pine, like those with which travellers make their way through the darkness of american forests), had to go before us to show the road, and with such flaring flambeaux, and much shouting of men and boys, of guides and drivers, we came rolling down the sides of vesuvius, and a little after seven o'clock were again rattling through the streets of naples. yesterday was our last day in this city, as we leave this afternoon for athens and constantinople, and as it was the sabbath, we went on board the franklin for a religious service. such a service is always very grateful to an american far from home. the deck of an american ship is like a part of his country, a floating island, anchored for the moment to a foreign shore: and as he stands there, and sees around him the faces of countrymen, and hears, instead of the language of strangers, his dear old mother tongue, and looks up and sees floating above him the flag he loves so well--that has been through so many battles and storms--he cannot keep down a trembling in his heart, or the tears from his eyes. and how delightful it is, on such a spot, and with such a company, to join in religious worship. the franklin has an excellent chaplain--one who commands the respect of all on board by his consistent life, though without any cant or affectation, while his uniform kindness and sympathy win their hearts. the service was held on the gun-deck, where officers and men were assembled, sitting as they could, between the cannon. the band played one or two sacred airs, and the chaplain read the service with his deep, rich voice, after which it was my privilege to preach to this novel congregation of my countrymen. altogether the occasion was one of very peculiar interest to me, and i hope it was equally so to others. and so we took leave of the franklin, with most grateful memories of the kindness of all, from the admiral down. it is pleasant to see such a body of officers on board of one of our national ships. none can realize, except those who travel abroad, how much of the good name of our country is entrusted to the keeping of such men. they go everywhere, they appear in every port of europe and indeed of the world; they are instantly recognized by their uniform, and are regarded, much more than ordinary travellers, as the representatives of our country. how pleasant it is to find them uniformly _gentlemen_--courteous and dignified, preserving their self-respect, while showing proper respect to others. i am proud to see such a generation of young officers coming on the stage, and trust it may always be said of them, that (taking example from the gallant captains and admirals who are now the pride of our american navy,) they are as modest as they are brave. such be the men to carry the starry flag around the globe! chapter xxvii. greece and its young king. athens, november th. if the best proof of our fondness for a place be that we leave it with regret, few cities will stand higher in our remembrance than naples, from which we turned away with many a lingering look, as we waved our adieus to our friends, who answered us from the deck of the franklin. never did the bay look more beautiful than that monday afternoon, as we sailed away by capri and sorrento, and amalfi and the bay of salerno. the sea was calm, the sky was fair. the coast, with its rocky headlands and deeply indented bays, was in full sight, while behind rose the apennines. the friends were with us who were to be our companions in the east, adding to our animation by their own, as we sat upon the deck till the evening drew on. as the sun went down, it cast such a light over the sea, that the ship seemed to be swimming in glory, as we floated along the beautiful italian shores. a little before morning we passed through the straits of messina, between scylla and charybdis, leaving mount etna on our right, and then for an hour or two stood off the coast of calabria, till we ran out of sight of land, into the open sea of the mediterranean. wednesday found us among the ionian islands, and we soon came in sight of the morea, a part of the mainland of greece. we had been told to watch, as we approached athens, for sunset on the parthenon; but it was not till long after dark that we entered the harbor of the piræus, and saw the lights on the shore, and our first experience was anything but romantic. at ten o'clock we were cast ashore, in darkness and in rain; so that instead of feeling any inspiration, we felt only that we were very wet and very cold. while the commissionaire went to call a carriage, we waited for a few moments in a café, which was filled with greek soldiers who were drinking and smoking, and looked more like brigands than the lawful defenders of life and property. such was our introduction to the classic soil of greece. but the scene was certainly picturesque enough to satisfy our young spirits (for i have two such now in charge), who are always looking out for adventures. soon the carriage came, and splashing through the mud, we drove to athens, and at midnight found a most welcome rest in our hotel. but sunrise clears away the darkness, and we look out of our balcony on a pleasant prospect. we are in the hotel grande bretagne, facing the principal square, and adjoining the royal palace, in front of which the band comes to play under the king's windows every day. before us rises a rocky hill, which we know at once to be the acropolis, as it is strown with ruins, and crowned with the columns of a great temple, which can be no other than the parthenon. turning around the horizon, the view is less attractive. the hills are bleak and bare, masses of rock covered with a scanty vegetation. this desolate appearance is the result of centuries of neglect; for in ancient times (if i have read aright), the plain of athens was a paradise of fertility, and where not laid out in gardens, was dense with foliage. stately trees stood in many a grove besides that of the academy, while the mountains around "waved like lebanon." but nature seems to have dwindled with man, and centuries of misrule, while they have crushed the people, have stripped even the mountains of their forests. but with all the desolateness around it, athens is to the scholar one of the most interesting cities in the world. its very ruins are eloquent, as they speak of the past. we have been here six days, and have been riding about continually, seeking out ancient sites, exploring temples and ruins, and find the charm and the fascination increasing to the last. the parthenon has disappointed me, not in the beauty of its design, which is as nearly perfect as anything ever wrought by the hand of man, but in the state of its preservation, which is much less perfect than that of the temples at pæstum. time and the elements have wrought upon its marble front; but these alone would not have made it the ruin that it is, but for the havoc of war: for so massive was its structure that it might have lasted for ages. indeed, it was preserved nearly intact till about two centuries ago. but the acropolis, owing to the advantages of its site (a rocky eminence, rising up in the midst of the city, like the castle of edinburgh), had often been turned into a fortress, and sustained many sieges. in it was held by the turks, and the parthenon was used as a powder magazine, which was exploded by a bomb from the venetian camp on an opposite hill, and thus was fatally shattered the great edifice that had stood from the age of pericles. many columns were blown down, making a huge rent on both sides. it is sad to see these great blocks of pentelican marble, that had been so perfectly fashioned and chiselled, now strown over the summit of the hill. and then, to complete the destruction, at the beginning of this century, came a british nobleman, lord elgin, and having obtained a firman from the turkish government, proceeded deliberately to put up his scaffolding and take down the friezes of phidias, and carried off a ship-load of them to london, where the elgin marbles now form the chief ornament of the british museum. the english spoilers have indeed allowed some plaster casts to be taken, and brought back here--faint reminders of the glorious originals. with these and such other fragments as they have been able to gather, the greeks have formed a small museum of their own on the acropolis. in those which preserve any degree of entireness, as in the more perfect ones in london, one perceives the matchless grace of ancient greek sculpture. there are long processions of soldiers mounted on horses, and priests leading their victims to the sacrifice. in these every figure is different, yet all are full of majesty and grace. what a power even in the horses, as they sweep along in the endless procession; and what a freedom in their riders. the whole seems to _march_ before us. but many of the fragments that have been collected are so broken that we cannot make anything out of them. we know from history that there were on the acropolis five hundred statues (besides those in the parthenon), scattered over the hill. of these but little remains--here an arm, or a leg, or a headless trunk, which would need a genius like that of the ancient sculptor himself to restore it to any degree of completeness. it is said of cuvier that such was his knowledge of comparative anatomy, that from the smallest fragment of bone he could reconstruct the frame of a mastodon, or of any extinct animal. so perhaps out of these remains of ancient art, a thorwaldsen (who had more of the genius of the ancient greeks than any other modern sculptor,) might reconstruct the friezes and sculptures of the parthenon. but perhaps it is better that they remain as they are--fragments of a mighty ruin, suggestions of a beauty and grace now lost to the world; and which no man is worthy to restore. even as it stands, shattered and broken, the parthenon is majestic in its ruins. until i came here i did not realize how much of its effect was due to its _position_. but the old greeks studied the effect of everything, and thus the loftiest of positions was chosen for the noblest of temples. as michael angelo, in building st. peter's at home, said that he "would lift the pantheon into the air," (that is, erect a structure so vast that its very dome should be equal to the ancient temple of the gods,) so here the builders of the parthenon lifted it into the clouds. it stands on the very pinnacle of the hill, some six hundred feet above the level of the sea, and thus is brought into full relief against the sky. on that lofty summit it could be seen from the city itself, which lies under the shadow of the acropolis, as well as from the more distant plain. it could be seen also from the tops of the mountains, and even far out at sea, as it caught and reflected back the rays of the rising or the setting sun. its marble columns, outlined against the blue sky of greece, seemed almost a temple in the clouds. this effect of position has been half destroyed, at least for those living in athens, by the barbarous additions of later times, by which, in order that the acropolis might be turned into a fortress, the brow of the hill was surmounted with a rude wall, which still encircles it, and hides all but the upper part of the parthenon from view. in any proposed "restoration," the first thing should be to throw down this ugly wall, so that the great temple might be seen to its very base, standing as of old upon the naked rocks, with no barrier to hide its majesty, from those near at hand as well as those "beholding it afar off." but, for the present, to see the beauty of the parthenon, one must go up to the acropolis, and study it there. we often climbed to the summit, and sat down on the steps of the propylæa, or on a broken column, to enjoy the prospect. from this point the eye ranges over the plain of athens, bounded on one side by mountains, and on the other by the sea. here are comprised in one view the points of greatest interest in athenian history. yonder is the bay of salamis, where themistocles defeated the persians, and above it is the hill on which the proud persian monarch xerxes sat to see the ruin of the greek ships, but from which before the day was ended he fled in dismay. to such spots demosthenes could point, as he stood in the bema just below us, and thundered to the athenian people; and by such recollections he roused them to "march against philip, to conquer or die." a mile and a half distant, but in full sight, was the grove of the academy, where plato taught; and here, under the acropolis, is a small recess hewn in the rock which is pointed out as the prison of socrates, and another which is called his tomb. this inconstant people, like many others, after putting to death the wisest man of his age, paid almost divine honors to his memory. like the coliseum at rome, the parthenon is best seen by moonlight, for then the rents are half concealed, and as the shadows of the columns that are still standing fall across the open area, they seem like the giants of old revisiting the place of their glory, while the night wind sighing among the ruins creeps in our ears like whispers of the mighty dead. when our american artist, mr. church, was here, he spent some weeks in studying the parthenon and taking sketches, from which he painted the beautiful picture now in the possession of mr. morris k. jesup. he studied it from every point and in every light--at sunrise and sunset, and by moonlight, and even had bengal lights hung at night to bring out new lights and shadows. this latter mode of illumination was tried on a far grander scale when the prince of wales was here a few days since on his way to india, and the effect was indescribably beautiful as those mighty columns, thus brought into strange relief, stood out against the midnight sky. but if the parthenon be only a ruin, the memorial of a greatness that exists no more, fit emblem of that mythology of which it was the shrine, and of which it is now at once the monument and the tomb, there is something to be seen from this spot which is not a reminder of decay. beneath the acropolis is mars hill, where paul stood, in sight of these very temples, and cried, "ye men of athens, i perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious" [or, as it might be more correctly rendered, "very religious"]; "for as i passed by, and beheld your devotions, i found an altar with this inscription, to the unknown god. whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare i unto you. god that made the world, and all things therein, seeing that he is lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands" [here we may believe he pointed upward to the parthenon and other temples which crowned the hill above him]; "neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed anything, seeing he giveth to all life, and breath, and all things." that voice has died into silence, nor doth remain upon the barren rock a single monument, or token of any kind, to mark where the great apostle stood. but the faith which he preached has gone into all the world, and to-day the proudest dome that overlooks the greatest capital of the modern world, bears the name of st. paul; and not only in london, but in hundreds of other cities, in all parts of the earth, are temples consecrated with his name, that tell of the unknown god who has been declared to men, and of a faith and worship that shall not pass away. it is a long leap in history, from ancient to modern greece; but the intervening period contains so much of sadness and of shame, that it is just as well to pass it by. what need to speak of the centuries of degradation, in which greece has been trampled on by roman and goth and turk, since we may turn to the cheering fact that after this long night of ages, the morning has come, and this stricken land revives again? greece is at last free from her oppressors, and although the smallest of european kingdoms, yet she exists; she has a place among the nations, and the beginning of a new life, the dawn of what may prove a long and happy career. it is impossible to look on the revival of a nation which has had such a history without the deepest interest, and i questioned eagerly every one who could tell me anything about the conditions and prospects of the country. i find the general report is one of progress--slow indeed, but steady. the venerable dr. hill, who has lived here nearly forty-five years, and is about the oldest inhabitant of athens, tells me that when he came, _there was not a single house_--he lived at first in an old venetian tower--and to-day athens is a city of fifty thousand inhabitants, with wide and beautiful streets; with public squares and fountains, and many fine residences; with churches and schools, and a flourishing university; with a palace and a king, a parliament house and a legislature, and all the forms of constitutional government. athens is a very bright and gay city. its climate favors life in the open air, and its streets are filled with people, whose varied costumes give them a most picturesque appearance. the fez is very common, but not a turban is to be seen, for there is hardly a turk in athens, unless it be connected with their embassy. the most striking figures in the streets are the albanians, or suliotes, whose dress is not unlike that of the highlanders, only that the kilt, instead of being of scotch plaid, is of white cotton _frilled_, with the legs covered with long thick stockings, and the costume completed by a "capote"--a cloak as rough as a sheepskin, which is thrown coquettishly over the shoulders. these highlanders, though not of pure greek blood, fought bravely in the war of independence, meriting the praise of byron:-- "o who is more brave than a dark suliote, in his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?" the interior of the country is less advanced than the capital. the great want is that of _internal communication_. greece is a country made by nature both for commerce and for agriculture, as it is a peninsula, and the long line of coast is indented with bays, and the interior is very fertile; and if a few short roads were opened to connect the inland valleys with the sea, so that the farmers and peasants could send their produce to market, the exports of the country might soon be doubled. one "trunk" road also is needed, about a hundred miles long, to connect greece with the european system of railroads. the opening of this single artery of trade would give a great impulse to the industry of the country; but as it would have to cross the frontier of turkey, it is necessary to have the consent of the turkish government, and this the greeks, though they have sought it for years, have never been able to obtain. but the obstacles to improvement are not all the fault of the turks; the greeks are themselves also to blame. there is a lack of enterprise and of public spirit; they do not work together for the public good. if there were a little more of a spirit of coöperation, they could do wonders for their country. they need not go to england to borrow money to build railroads. there is enough in athens itself, which is the residence of many wealthy greeks. greece is about as large in territory as massachusetts, and has about the same population. if it had the same spirit of enterprise, it would soon be covered, as massachusetts is, with a network of railroads, and all its valleys would be alive with the hum of industry. this lack of enterprise and want of combination for public ends, are due to inherent defects of national character. the modern greeks have many of the traits of their illustrious ancestors, in which there is a strange compound of strength and weakness. they are a mercurial and excitable race, very much like the french, effervescing like champagne, bubbling up and boiling over; fond of talk, and often spending in words the energy that were better reserved for deeds. they have a proverb of their own, which well indicates their readiness to get excited about little matters, which says, "they drown themselves in a tumbler of water." a still more serious defect than this lightness of manner, is the want of a high patriotic feeling which overrides all personal ambition. there is too much of party spirit, and of personal ambition. everybody wants to be in office, to obtain control of the government, and selfish interests often take the precedence of public considerations; men seem more eager to get into power by any means, than to secure the good of their country. this party spirit makes more difficult the task of government. but after all these are things which more or less exist in all countries, and especially under all free governments, and which the most skilled statesmen have to use all their tact and skill to restrain within due bounds. but while these are obvious defects of the national character, no one can fail to see the fine qualities of the greeks, and the great things of which they are capable. they are full of talent, in which they show their ancestral blood, and if sometimes a little restless and unmanageable, they are but like spirited horses, that need only to be "reined in" and guided aright, to run a long and glorious race. i have good hope of the country also, from the character of the young king, whom i had an opportunity of seeing. this was an unexpected pleasure, for which i am indebted to the courtesy of our accomplished minister here, gen. j. meredith reed, who suggested and arranged it; and it proved not a mere formality, but a real gratification. i had supposed it would be a mere ceremony, but it was, on the contrary, so free from all stiffness--our reception was so unaffected and so cordial--that i should like to impart a little of the pleasure of it to others. i wish i could convey the impression of that young ruler exactly as he appeared in that interview: for this is a case in which the simplest and most literal description would be the most favorable. public opinion abroad hardly does him justice; for the mere fact of his youth (he is not yet quite thirty years old), may lead those who know nothing of him personally, to suppose that he is a mere figure-head of the state, a graceful ornament indeed, but not capable of adding much to the political wisdom by which it is to be guided. the fact too of his royal connections (for he is the son of the king of denmark, and brother-in-law both of the prince of wales and of the eldest son of the czar), naturally leads one to suppose that he was chosen king by the greeks chiefly to insure the alliance of england and russia. no doubt these considerations did influence, as they very properly might, his election to the throne. but the people were most happy in their choice, in that they obtained not merely a foreign prince to rule over them, but one of such personal qualities as to win their love and command their respect. those who come in contact with him soon discover that he is not only a man of education, but of practical knowledge of affairs; that he "carries an old head on young shoulders," and has little of youth about him _except its modesty_, but this he has in a marked degree, and it gives a great charm to his manners. i was struck with this as soon as we entered the room--an air so modest, and yet so frank and open, that it at once puts a stranger at his ease. there is something very engaging in his manner, which commands your confidence by the freedom with which he gives his own. he welcomed us most cordially, and shook us warmly by the hand, and commenced the conversation in excellent english, talking with as much apparent freedom as if he were with old friends. we were quite alone with him, and had him all to ourselves. there was nothing of the manner of one who feels that his dignity consists in maintaining a stiff and rigid attitude. on the contrary, his spirits seemed to run over, and he conversed not only with the freedom, but the joyousness of a boy. he amused us very much by describing a scene which some traveller professed to have witnessed in the greek legislature, when the speakers became so excited that they passed from words to blows, and the assembly broke up in a general mêlée. of course no such scene ever occurred, but it suited the purpose of some penny-a-liner, who probably was in want of a dinner, and must concoct "a sensation" for his journal. but i had been present at a meeting of the greek parliament a day or two before, and could say with truth that it was far more quiet and decorous than the meeting of the national assembly at versailles, which i had witnessed several months before. indeed no legislative body could be more orderly in its deliberations. then the king talked of a great variety of subjects--of greece and of america, of art and of politics, of the parthenon and of plum-puddings.[ ] gen. reed was very anxious that greece should be represented at the centennial exhibition at philadelphia. the king asked what they should send? i modestly suggested "the parthenon," with which greece would eclipse all the world, unless egypt should send the pyramids! of course, it would be a profanation to touch a stone of that mighty temple, though it would not be half as bad to carry off a few "specimen bricks" as it was for lord elgin to carry off the friezes of phidias. but gen. reed suggested, what would be quite practicable, that they should send plaster casts of some of their greatest statues, which would not rob _them_, and yet be the most glorious memorial of ancient greece. the king spoke very warmly of america. the relations of the two countries have always been most cordial. when greece was struggling single-handed to gain her independence, and european powers stood aloof, america was the first to extend her sympathy and aid. this early friendship has not been forgotten, and it needs only a worthy representative of our country here--such as we are most fortunate in having now--to keep for us this golden friendship through all future years. such is the man who is now the king of greece. he has a great task before him, to restore a country so long depressed. he appreciates fully its difficulties. no man understands better the character of the greeks, nor the real wants of the country. he may sometimes be tried by things in his way. yet he applies himself to them with inexhaustible patience. the greater the difficulty, the greater the glory of success. if he should sometimes feel a little discouraged, yet there is much also to cheer and animate him. if things move rather slowly, yet it is a fact of good omen that they move _at all_; and looking back over a series of years, one may see that there has been a great advance. it is not yet half a century since this country gained its independence. fifty years ago turkish pachas were ruling over greece, and grinding the christian population into the dust. now the turks are gone. the people are _free_, and in their erect attitude, their manly bearing and cheerful spirits, one sees that they feel that they are men, accustomed for these many years to breathe the air of liberty. with such a country and such a people, this young king has before him the most beautiful part which is given to any european sovereign--to restore this ancient state, to reconstruct, not the parthenon, but the kingdom; to open new channels of industry and wealth, and to lead the people in all the ways of progress and of peace. it will not be intruding into any privacy, if i speak of the king in his domestic relations. it is not always that kings and queens present the most worthy example to their people; and it was a real pleasure to hear the way in which everybody spoke of this royal family as a model. the queen, a daughter of the grand duke constantine of russia, is famed for her beauty, and equally for the sweetness of her manners. the whole nation seems to be in love with her, she is so gentle and so good. they have four children, ruddy cheeked little creatures, whom we saw riding about every day, so blooming and rosy that the carriage looked like a basket of flowers. they were always jumping about like squirrels, so that the king told us he had to have them fastened in with leather straps, lest in their childish glee they should throw themselves overboard. in truth it was a pretty sight, that well might warm the heart of the most cold-blooded old bachelor that ever lived; and no one could see them riding by without blessing that beautiful young mother and her happy children. there is something very fitting in such a young king and queen being at the head of a kingdom which is itself young, that so rulers and people may grow in years and in happiness together. i know i express the feelings of every american, when i wish all good to this royal house. may this king and queen long live to present to their people the beautiful spectacle of the purest domestic love and happiness! may they live to see greece greatly increased in population and in wealth--the home of a brave, free, intelligent and happy people! footnote: [ ] this is not a jest. the king said with perfect truth that the chief revenue of greece was derived from the plum-puddings of england and america, the fact being that the currants of corinth (which indeed gives the name to that delicious fruit) form the chief article of export from the kingdom of greece--the amount in one year exported to england alone, being of the value of £ , , . the next article of export is olive oil. chapter xxviii. constantinople. november th. from my childhood no city has taken more hold of my imagination than constantinople. for weeks we have been looking forward to our visit here; and when at last we entered the dardanelles (passing the site of ancient troy), and crossed the sea of marmora, and on friday noon, nov. th, caught the first gleam of the city in the distance, we seemed to be realizing a long cherished dream. there it was in all its glory. venice rising from the sea is not more beautiful than constantinople, when the morning sun strikes on its domes and minarets, rising out of the groves of dark green cypresses, which mark the places where the turks bury their dead. and when we entered the bosphorus, and rounding seraglio point, anchored at the mouth of the golden horn, we seemed to be indeed in the heart of the orient, where the gorgeous east dazzles the traveller from the west with its glittering splendors. but closer contact sometimes turns poetry to prose in rather an abrupt manner, and the impression of oriental magnificence is rudely disturbed when one goes on shore. indeed, if a traveller cares more for pleasant impressions than for disagreeable realities, he would do better not to land at all, but rather to stand afar off, moving slowly up and down the bosphorus, beholding and admiring, and then sail away just at sunset, as the last light of day gilds the domes and minarets with a parting splendor, and he will retain his first impressions undisturbed, and constantinople will remain in his memory as a beautiful dream. but as we are prepared for every variety of experience, and enjoy sudden contrasts, we are rather pleased than otherwise at the noise and confusion which greet the arrival of our steamer in these waters; and the crowd of boats which surround the ship, and the yells of the boatmen, though they are not the voices of paradise, greatly amuse us. happily a dragoman sent from the hôtel d'angleterre, where we had engaged rooms, hails us from a boat, and, coming on board, takes us in charge, and rescues us from the mob, and soon lands us on the quay, where, after passing smoothly through the custom house, we see our numerous trunks piled on the backs of half a dozen porters, or _hamals_, and our guide leads the way up the hill of pera. and now we get an interior view of constantinople, which is quite different from the glittering exterior, as seen from a distance. we are plunging into a labyrinth of dark and narrow and dirty streets, which are overhung with miserable houses, where from little shops turbaned figures peer out upon us, and women, closely veiled, glide swiftly by. such streets we never saw in any city that pretended to civilization. the pavement (if such it deserves to be called) is of the rudest kind, of rough, sharp stones, between which one sinks in mud. there is hardly a street that is decently paved in all constantinople. even the grand street of pera, on which are our hotel and all the foreign embassies, is very mean in appearance. the embassies themselves are fine, as they are set far back from the street, surrounded with ample grounds, and on one side overlook the bosphorus, but the street itself is dingy enough. to our surprise we find that constantinople has no architectural magnificence to boast of. except the mosques, and the palaces of the sultan, which indeed _are_ on an imperial scale, there are no buildings which one would go far to see in london or paris or rome. the city has been again and again swept by fires, so that many parts are of modern construction, while the old parts which have escaped the flames, are miserable beyond description. it is through such a part that we are now picking our way, steering through narrow passages, full of dogs and asses and wretched-looking people. this is our entrance into constantinople. after such an experience one's enthusiasm is dampened a little, and he is willing to exchange somewhat of oriental picturesqueness for western cleanliness and comfort. but the charm is not all gone, nor has it disappeared after twelve days of close familiarity. only the picture takes a more defined shape, and we are able to distinguish the lights and shadows. constantinople is a city full of sharp contrasts, in which one extreme sets the other in a stronger light, as oriental luxury and show look down on oriental dirt and beggary; as gold here appears by the side of rags, and squalid poverty crouches under the walls of splendid palaces. thus the city may be described as mean or as magnificent, and either description be true, according as we contemplate one extreme or the other. as to its natural beauty, (that of situation,) no language can surpass the reality. it stands at the junction of two seas and two continents, where europe looks across the bosphorus to asia, as new york looks across the east river to brooklyn. that narrow strait which divides the land unites the seas, the black sea with the mediterranean. from the lofty height of the seraskier tower one looks down on such a panorama as is not elsewhere on the face of the earth. far away stretches the beautiful sea of marmora, which comes up to the very walls of the city, and seems to kiss its feet. on the other side of stamboul, dividing it from pera, is the golden horn, crowded with ships; and in front is the bosphorus, where the whole turkish navy rides at anchor, and a fleet of steamers and ships is passing, bearing the grain of the black sea to feed the nations of western europe. islanded amid all these waters are the different parts of one great capital--a vast stretch of houses, out of which rise a hundred domes and minarets. as one takes in all the features of this marvellous whole, he can but exclaim, "beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is"--constantinople! nor are its environs less attractive than the position of the city itself. whichever way you turn, sailing over these waters and along these shores, or riding outside of the ancient wall, from the golden horn over the hills to the sea of marmora, with its beautiful islands, there is something to enchant the eye and to excite the imagination. a sail up the bosphorus is one of the most interesting in the world. we have taken it twice. the morning after our arrival, our friend dr. george w. wood, to whom we are indebted for many acts of kindness, gave up the day to accompany us. for miles the shores on either side are dotted with palaces of the sultan, or of the viceroy of egypt, or of this or that grand vizier, or of some pasha who has despoiled provinces to enrich himself, or with the summer residences of the foreign ministers, or of wealthy merchants of constantinople. the bosphorus constantly reminded me of the hudson, with its broad stream indented with bays, now swelling out like our own noble river at the tappan zee, and then narrowing again, as at west point, and with the same steep hills rising from the water's edge, and wooded to the top. so delighted were we with the excursion, that we have since made it a second time, accompanied by rev. a. v. millingen, the excellent pastor of the union church of pera, and find the impression of beauty increased. landing on the eastern side, near where the sweet waters of asia come down to mingle with the sea, we walked up a valley which led among the hills, and climbed the giants' mountain, on which moslem chronicles fix the place of the tomb of joshua, the great hebrew leader, while tradition declares it to be the tomb of hercules. probably one was buried here as truly as the other; authorities differ on the subject, and you take your choice. but what none can dispute is the magnificent site, worthy to have been the place of burial of any hero or demigod. the view extends up and down the bosphorus for miles. how beautiful it seemed that day, which was like one of the golden days of our indian summer, a soft and balmy air resting on all the valleys and the hills. the landscape had not, indeed, the freshness of spring, but the leaves still clung to the trees, which wore the tints of autumn, and thus resembled, though they did not equal, those of our american forests; and as we wandered on amid these wild and wooded scenes, i could imagine that i was rambling among the lovely hills along the hudson. but there is one point in which the resemblance ceases. there is a difference (and one which makes all the difference in the world), viz., that the hudson presents us only the beauty of _nature_, while the bosphorus has the added charm of _history_. the dividing line between europe and asia, it has divided the world for thousands of years. here we come back to the very beginnings of history, or before all history, into the dim twilight of fable and tradition; for through these straits, according to the ancient story, sailed jason with his argonauts in search of the golden fleece, and yonder are the symplegades, the rocks which were the terror of navigators even in the time of jason, if such a man ever lived, and around which the sea still roars as it roared thousands of years ago. on a hill-top stood a temple to jupiter urius, to which mariners entering the stormy euxine came to offer their vows, and to pray for favorable winds; and here still lives an old, long-haired dervish, to whom the turkish sailors apply for the benefit of his prayers. he was very friendly with us, and a trifling gratuity insured us whatever protection he could give. thus we strolled along over the hills to the genoese castle, a great round tower, built hundreds of years ago to guard the entrance to the black sea, and in a grove of oaks stretched ourselves upon the grass, and took our luncheon in full view of two continents, both washed by one "great and wide sea." to this very spot came darius the great, to get the same view on which we are looking now; and a few miles below, opposite the american college at bebek, he built his bridge of boats across the bosphorus, over which he passed his army of seven hundred thousand men. to the same spot xenophon led his famous retreat of the ten thousand. coming down to later times, we are sitting among the graves of arabs who fought and fell in the time of haroun al raschid, the magnificent caliph of bagdad, in whose reign occurred the marvellous adventures related in the tales of the arabian nights. these were moslem heroes, and their graves are still called "the tombs of the martyrs." but hither came other warriors; for in yonder valley across the water encamped godfrey of bouillon, with his crusaders, who had traversed europe, and were now about to cross into asia, to march through asia minor, and descend into syria, to fight for the holy sepulchre. recalling such historic memories, and enjoying to the full the beauty of the day, we came down from the hills to the waters, and crossing in a caique to the other side of the bosphorus, took the steamer back to the city. while such are the surroundings of constantinople, in its interior it is the most picturesque city we have yet seen. i do not know what we may find in india, or china, or japan, but in europe there is nothing like it. on the borders of europe and asia, it derives its character, as well as its mixed population, from both. it is a singular compound of nations. i do not believe there is a spot in the world where meet a greater variety of races than on the long bridge across the golden horn, between pera and stamboul. here are the representatives of all the types of mankind that came out of the ark, the descendants of shem, ham, and japheth--jews and gentiles, turks and greeks and armenians, "parthians and medes and elamites, and dwellers in mesopotamia," persians and parsees, and arabs from egypt and arabia, and moors from the barbary coast, and nubians and abyssinians from the upper nile, and ethiopians from the far interior of africa. i have been surprised to see so many blacks wearing the turban. but here they are in great numbers, the recognized equals of their white co-religionists. i have at last found one country in the world in which the distinction between black and white makes absolutely no difference in one's rank or position. and this, strange to say, is a country where slavery long existed, and where, though suppressed by law, it still exists, though less openly. we visited the old slave market, and though evidently "business" was dull, yet a dozen men were sitting around, who, we were told, were slave merchants, and some black women who were there to be sold. but slavery in turkey is of a mild form, and as it affects both races (fair circassian women being sold as well as the blackest ethiopian), the fact of servitude works no such degradation as attaints the race. and so whites and blacks meet together, and walk together, and eat together, apparently without the slightest consciousness of superiority on one side, or of inferiority on the other. no doubt this equality is partly due to the influence of mohammedanism, which is very democratic, which recognizes no distinction of race, before which all men are equal as before their creator, and which thus lifts up the poor and abases the proud. i am glad to be able to state one fact so much to its honor. but these turbaned asiatics are not the only ones that throng this bridge. here are franks in great numbers, speaking all the languages of the west, french and italian, german and english. one may distinguish them afar off by their stove-pipe hat, that beautiful cylinder whose perpendicular outline is the emblem of uprightness, and which we wish might always be a sign and pledge that the man whose face appears under it would illustrate in his own person the unbending integrity of western civilization. and so the stream of life rolls on over that bridge, as over the bridge of mirza, never ceasing any more than the waters of the golden horn which roll beneath it. and not only all races, but all conditions are represented here--beggars and princes; men on horseback forcing their way through the crowd on foot; carriages rolling and rumbling on, but never stopping the tramp, tramp, of the thousands that keep up their endless march. here the son of the sultan dashes by in a carriage, with mounted officers attending his sacred (though very insignificant) person; while along his path crouch all the forms of wretched humanity--men with loathsome diseases; men without arms or legs, holding up their withered stumps; or with eyes put out, rolling their sightless eyeballs, to excite the pity of passers by--all joining in one wail of misery, and begging for charity. in the mongrel population of constantinople one must not forget the _dogs_, which constitute a large part of the inhabitants. some traveller who has illustrated his sketches with the pen by sketches with the _pencil_, has given, as a faithful picture of this capital of the east, simply a pack of dogs snarling in the foreground as its most conspicuous feature, while a mosque and a minaret may be faintly seen in the distance. if this is a caricature, yet it only exaggerates the reality, for certainly the dogs have taken full possession of the city. they cannot be "christian dogs," but moslem dogs, since they are tolerated, and even protected, by the turks. it is a peculiar breed--all yellow, with long, sharp noses and sharp ears--resembling in fact more the fox or the wolf than the ordinary house-dog. a shaggy newfoundlander is never seen. as they are restrained by no malthusian ideas of population, they multiply exceedingly. they belong to no man, but are their own masters, and roam about as freely as any of the followers of the prophet. they are only kept in bounds by a police of their own. it is said that they are divided into communities, which have their separate districts, and that if by chance a stray dog gets out of his beat, the others set upon him, and punish him so cruelly that he flies yelping to his own crowd for protection. they live in the streets, and there may be seen generally asleep in the day-time. you cannot look anywhere but you see a dog curled up like a rug that has been thrown in a corner. you stumble over them on the sidewalk. they keep pretty quiet during the day, but at night they let themselves loose, and come upon you in full cry. they bark and yelp, but their favorite note is a hideous howl, which they keep up under your window by the hour together (at least it seems an hour when you are trying to sleep), or until they are exhausted, when the cry is immediately taken up by a fresh pack around the corner. the purely oriental character of constantinople is seen in a visit to the _bazaars_--a feature peculiar to eastern cities. it was perhaps to avoid the necessity of locomotion, always painful to a turk, that business has been concentrated within a defined space. imagine an area of many acres, or of many city squares, all enclosed and covered in, and cut up into a great number of little streets or passages, on either side of which are ranged innumerable petty shops, and you have a general idea of the bazaars. in front of each of these a venerable turk sits squatting on his legs, and smoking his pipe, and ready to receive customers. you wonder where he can keep his goods, for his shop is like a baby house, a space of but a few feet square. but he receives you with oriental courtesy, making a respectful _salaam_, perhaps offering you coffee or a pipe to soothe your nerves, and render your mind calm and placid for the contemplation of the treasures he is to set before you. and then he proceeds to take down from his shelves, or from some inner recess, what does indeed stir your enthusiasm, much as you may try to repress it--rich silks from broussa, carpets from persia, blades from damascus, and antique curiosities in bronze and ivory--all of which excite the eager desire of lovers of things that are rare and beautiful. i should not like to say (lest it should be betraying secrets) how many hours some of our party spent in these places, or what follies and extravagances they committed. certainly as an exhibition of one phase of oriental life, it is a scene never to be forgotten. to turn from business to religion, as it is now perhaps midday or sunset, we hear from the minaret of a neighboring mosque the muezzin calling the hour of prayer; and putting off our shoes, with sandaled or slippered feet, we enter the holy place. at the vestibule are fountains, at which the moslems are washing their hands and feet before they go in to pray. we lift the heavy curtain which covers the door, and enter. one glance shows that we are not in a christian church, either catholic or protestant. there is no cross and no altar; no lord's prayer, no creed, and no ten commandments. the walls are naked and bare, with no sculptured form of prophet or apostle, and no painting of christ or the virgin. the mohammedans are the most terrible of iconoclasts, and tolerate no "images" of any kind, which they regard as a form of idolatry. but though the building looks empty and cold, there is a great appearance of devotion. all the worshippers stand with their faces turned towards mecca, as the ulema in a low, wailing tone reads, or chants, the passages from the koran. there is no music of any kind, except this dreary monotone. but all seem moved by some common feeling. they kneel, they bow themselves to the earth, they kiss the floor again and again in sign of their deep abasement before god and his prophet. we looked on in silence, respecting the proprieties of the place. but the scene gave me some unpleasant reflections, not only at the blind superstition of the worshippers, but at the changes which had come to pass in this city of constantine, the first of christian emperors, and in a place which has been so often solemnly devoted to the worship of christ. the mosque of st. sophia, which, in its vastness and severe and simple majesty, is certainly one of the grandest temples of the world, was erected as a christian church, and so remained for nearly a thousand years. in it, or in its predecessor standing on the same spot, preached the "golden-mouthed chrysostom." this venerable temple is now in the hands of those who despise the name of christ. it is about four hundred and twenty years since the turks captured constantinople, and the terrible mohammed ii., mounted on horseback, and sword in hand, rode through yonder high door, and gave orders to slay the thousands who had taken refuge within those sacred walls. then christian blood overflowed that pavement like a sea, as men and women and helpless children were trampled down beneath the heels of the cruel invaders. and so the abomination of desolation came into the holy place, and st. sophia was given up to the spoiler. his first act was to destroy every trace of its christian use; to take away the vessels of the sanctuary, as of old they were taken from the temple at jerusalem; to cover up the beautiful mosaics in the ceiling and on the walls, that for so many centuries had looked down on christian worshippers; and to _cut out the cross_. i observed, in going round the spacious galleries, that wherever the sign of the cross had been carved in the ancient marble, _it had been chiselled away_. thus the usurping moslems had striven to obliterate every trace of christian worship. the sight of such desecration gave me a bitter feeling, only relieved by the assurance which i felt then, and feel now, that that sign _shall be restored_, and that the cross shall yet fly above the crescent, not only over the great temple of st. sophia, but over all the domes and minarets of constantinople. * * * * * for the pleasure of contrast to so much that is dark and sombre, i cannot close this picture without turning to one bright spot, one hopeful sign, that is like a bit of green grass springing up amid the moss-covered ruins of a decaying empire. as it is a relief to come out from under the gloomy arches of st. sophia into the warm sunshine, so is it to turn away from a creed of fatalism, which speaks only of decay and death, to that better faith which has in it the new life of the world. the christian religion was born in the east, and carried by early apostolic missionaries to western europe, where it laid the foundation of great nations and empires; and in after centuries was borne across the seas; and now, in these later ages it is brought back to the east by men from the west. in this work of restoring christianity to its ancient seats, the east is indebted, not only to christian england, but to christian america. from the very beginning of american missions, constantinople was fixed upon as a centre of operations for the east, and the american board sent some of its picked men to the turkish capital. here came at an early day drs. dwight and goodell, and riggs and schauffler. the first two of these have passed away; dr. schauffler, after rendering long service, is now spending the evening of his days with his son in austria; dr. riggs, the venerable translator of the bible, alone remains. these noble men have been succeeded by others who are worthy to follow in their footsteps. dr. wood was here many years ago, and after being transferred for a few years to new york, as the secretary of the american board in that city, has now returned to the scene of his former labors, where he has entered with ardor into that missionary work which he loved so well. with him are associated a number of men whose names are well known and highly honored in america. the efficiency of these men has been greatly increased by proper organization, and by having certain local centres and institutions to rally about. in the heart of old stamboul stands the bible house, a noble monument of american liberality. the money was raised chiefly by the efforts of dr. isaac bliss, and certainly he never spent a year of his life to better purpose. it cost, with the ground, about sixty thousand dollars, and when i saw what a large and handsome building it was, i thought it a miracle of economy. this is a rallying point for the missionaries in and around constantinople. here is a depot for the sale of bibles in all the languages of the east, and the offices for different departments of work; and of the treasurer, who has charge of paying the missionaries, and who thus distributes every year about one-third of all the expenditures of the american board. here, too, is done the editing and printing of different publications. i found rev. mr. greene editing three or four papers in different languages, for children and for adults. of course the circulation of any of these is not large, as we reckon the circulation of papers in america; but all combined, it _is_ large, and such issues going forth every week scatter the seeds of truth all over the turkish empire. another institution founded by the liberality of american christians is the home at scutari, a seminary for the education of girls. it has been in operation for several years with much success, and now a new building has been erected, the money for which--fifty thousand dollars--was given wholly by the _women_ of america. would that all who have had a hand in raising that structure could see it, now that it is completed. it stands on a hill, which commands a view of all constantinople, and of the adjacent waters, far out into the sea of marmora. around this home, as a centre, are settled a number of missionary families--dr. wood, who, besides his other work, has its general oversight; mr. pettibone, the efficient treasurer; drs. edwin and isaac bliss; and mr. dwight, a son of the former missionary; who, with the ladies engaged in teaching in the home, form together as delightful a circle as one can meet in any part of the missionary world. the day that we made our visit to the home, we went to witness the performance of the howling dervishes, who have a weekly howl at scutari, and in witnessing the jumpings and contortions of these men, who seemed more like wild beasts than rational beings, i could not but contrast the disgusting spectacle with the very different scene that i had witnessed that morning--a scene of order, of quiet, and of peace--as the young girls recited with so much intelligence, and sang their beautiful hymns. that is the difference between mohammedanism and that purer religion which our missionaries are seeking to introduce. but they are not allowed to work unopposed. the government is hostile, and though it pretends to give toleration and protection, it would be glad to suspend the missionary operations altogether. but it is itself too dependent on foreign powers for support, to dare to do much openly that might offend them. we are fortunate in having at this time, as the representative of our government, such a man as the hon. horace maynard, who is not only a true american, but a true christian, and whose dignity and firmness, united with tact and courtesy, have secured to our missionaries that protection to which they are entitled as american citizens. the home has just been completed, and is to be opened on thanksgiving day with appropriate services, at which we are invited to be present, but the dreaded spectre of a long quarantine, on account of the cholera, if we go to syria, compels us to embark the day before direct for egypt. but though absent in body, we shall be there in spirit, and shall long remember with the greatest interest and satisfaction our visit to the home at scutari, which is doing so much for the daughters of turkey. last, but not least, of the monuments of american liberality in and around constantinople, is the college at bebek, which owes its existence chiefly to that far-sighted missionary, dr. cyrus hamlin, and to which mr. christopher b. robert of new york has given two hundred thousand dollars, and which fitly bears his honored name. it stands on a high hill overlooking the bosphorus, from which one may see for miles along the shores of europe and asia. the college is solidly built, of gray stone. it is a quadrangle with a court in the centre, around which are the lecture rooms, the library, apparatus-room, etc. in the basement is the large dining-room, while in the upper story are the dormitories. it is very efficiently organized, with dr. washburn, long a missionary in constantinople, as president, and profs. long and grosvenor, and other teachers. there are nearly two hundred students from all parts of turkey, the largest number from any one province being from bulgaria. the course of study is pretty much the same as in our american colleges. half a dozen or more different languages are spoken by the students, but in the impossibility of adopting any one of the native languages as the medium of instruction, the teaching is in english, which has the double advantage of being more convenient for the instructors, and of educating the students in a knowledge of the english tongue. the advantage of such an institution is immeasurable. i confess to a little american pride as i observed the fact, that in all the mighty turkish empire the only institution in which a young man could get a thorough education was in the american college at bebek, except in one other college--also founded by american missionaries, and established by american liberality--that at beirut. grouped around the college at bebek is another missionary circle, like the one at scutari. besides the families of the president and professors, mr. greene of the bible house lives here, going up and down every day. here are the missionaries herrick and byington. a number of english families live here, as a convenient point near constantinople, making altogether quite a large protestant community. there is an english church, where rev. mr. millingen preaches every sabbath morning, preaching also at pera in the afternoon. it is cheering indeed, amid so much that is dark in the east, to see so many bright points in and around constantinople. perhaps those wise observers of passing events, to whom nothing is important except public affairs, may think this notice of missionary operations quite unworthy to be spoken of along with the political changes and the military campaigns which now attract the eye of the world to turkey. but movements which make the most noise are not always the most potent as causes, or the most enduring in their effects. when paul was brought to rome (and cast, according to tradition, into the mamertine prison,) nero living in his golden house cared little for the despised jew, and perhaps did not even know of his existence. but three centuries passed, and the faith which paul introduced into rome ascended the throne of the cæsars. so our missionaries in the east--on the bosphorus, in the interior of asia minor, and on the tigris and the euphrates--are sowing the seed of future harvests. many years ago i heard mr. george p. marsh, the united states minister at constantinople, now at rome, say that the american missionaries in the turkish empire were doing a work the full influence of which could not be seen in many years, perhaps not in this generation. a strange course of events indeed it would be if these men from the farthest west were to be the instruments of bringing back christianity to its ancient seats in the farthest east! that would be paying the debt of former ages, by giving back to the old world what it has given to us; and paying it with interest, since along with the religion that was born in bethlehem of judea, would be brought back to these shores, not only the gospel of good-will among men, but all the progress in government and in civilization which mankind has made in eighteen centuries. chapter xxix. the sultan abdul aziz. whoever comes to constantinople must behold the face of the sultan, if he would see the height of all human glory. other european sovereigns are but men; but he is the incarnation of a spiritual as well as a temporal power. he is not only the ruler of a state, but the head of a religion. what the pope is to the roman catholic church, the sultan is to islamism. he is the caliph to whom all the followers of the prophet in asia and africa look up with reverence as their heaven-appointed leader. but though so great a being, he does not keep himself invisible, like the brother of the sun and moon in china. once a week he makes a public appearance. every friday, which is the mohammedan sabbath, he goes in great state to the mosque, and then whosoever will approach may gaze on the brightness of his face. this is one of the spectacles of constantinople. it is indeed a brilliant pageant, not to be overlooked by those who would see an exhibition of oriental pomp and magnificence. sometimes the sultan goes to mosque by water, in a splendid barge covered with gold, and as soon as he takes his seat under a canopy, all the ships of war lying in the bosphorus fire salutes, making the shores ring with their repeated thunders. at other times he goes on horseback, attended by a large cavalcade, as when we saw him last friday. we took an open barouche with our dragoman as guide, and drove a little before noon to the neighborhood of the palace, where we found a crowd already assembled in front of the gates, and a brilliant staff of officers in waiting troops were drawn up on both sides of the street by which the sultan was to pass. laborers were busy covering it with sand, that even his horse's feet might not touch the common earth. while awaiting his appearance we drove up and down to observe the crowd. carriages filled with the beauties of the harems of different pashas were moving slowly along, that they might enjoy the sight, for their secluded life does not extinguish their feminine curiosity. very pale and languid beauties they were, as one might see through their thin gauze veils, their pallid expressionless faces not relieved by their dull dark eyes. adjoining the palace of the sultan is that of his harem, where we observed a great number of eunuchs standing in front, tall, strapping fellows, black as night, (they are generally nubian slaves brought from the upper nile,) but very well dressed in european costume, with faultless frock coats, and who evidently felt a pride in their position as attendants on the imperial household. while observing these strange figures, the sound of a trumpet and the hurrying of soldiers to their ranks, told that the sultan was about to move. "far off his coming shone." looking back we saw a great stir about the palace gates, out of which issued a large retinue, making a dazzling array, as the sun was reflected from their trappings of gold. and now a ringing cheer from the troops told that their sovereign had appeared. we drew up by the side of the street "to see great cæsar pass." first came a number of high officers of state in brilliant dress, their horses mounted with rich trappings. these passed, and there was an open space, as if no other presence were worthy to precede near at hand the august majesty that was to follow; and on a magnificent white charger appeared the sultan. the drums beat, the bands played, the troops presented arms, and cheers ran along the line. but i hardly noticed this, for my eye was fixed on the central figure, which i confess answered very well to my idea of an oriental sovereign. it is said that the sultan never looks so well as on horseback, as his rather heavy person then appears to the best advantage. he wore no insignia of his rank, not even a military cap or a waving plume, but the universal _fez_, with only a star glittering with diamonds on his breast. slowly he passed, his horse never moving out of a walk, but stepping proudly as if conscious of the dignity of his rider, who held himself erect, as if disdaining the earth on which he rode; not bowing to the right or left, recognizing no one, and betraying no emotion at the sight of the crowd, or the cheers of his soldiers, or the music of the band, but silent, grave and stern, as one who allowed no familiarity, who was accustomed to speak only to be obeyed. he passed, and dismounting on the marble steps of the mosque, which had been spread with a carpet, ascended by stairs to a private gallery, which was screened from the rest of the building, like a box in a theatre, where he bowed himself and repeated that "god is god, and mohammed is his prophet," and whatever other form of prayer is provided for royal sinners. but his devotions were not very long or painful. in half an hour he had confessed his sins, or paid his adoration, and stepped into a carriage drawn by four horses to return. as he drove by he turned towards us, his attention perhaps being attracted by seeing a carriage filled with foreigners, and we had a full view of his face. he looked older than i expected to see him. though not yet fifty, his beard, which is clipped short, is quite gray. but his face is without expression. it is heavy and dull, not lighted up either by intelligence or benevolence. the carriage rolled into the gates of the palace, and the pageant was ended. such was the public appearance of the sultan. but an actor is often very different behind the scenes. a tragic hero may play the part of cæsar, and stride across the stage as if he were the lord of nations, and drop into nothing when he takes off his royal robes, and speaks in his natural voice. so the sultan, though he appears well on horseback, and rides royally--though he has the look of majesty and "his bend doth awe the world"--yet when he retires into his palace is found to be only a man, and a very weak man at that. he has not in him a single element of greatness. though he comes of a royal race, and has in his veins the blood of kings and conquerors, he does not inherit the high qualities of his ancestors. some of the sultans have been truly great men, born to be conquerors as much as alexander or napoleon. the father of the present sultan, mahmoud ii., was a man of force and determination, one worthy to be called the grand turk, as he showed by the way in which he disposed of the janissaries. this was a military body that had become all-powerful at constantinople, being at once the protectors of the sultan, and his masters--setting him up and putting him down, at their will. two of his predecessors they had assassinated, and he might have shared the same fate, if he had not anticipated them. but preparing himself secretly, with troops on which he could rely, as soon as he was strong enough he brought the conflict to an issue, and literally _exterminated_, the janissaries (besieging them in their barracks, and hunting them like dogs in the streets) as mehemet ali had massacred the mamelukes in egypt. then the sultan was free, and had a long and prosperous reign. he ruled with an iron hand, but though despotically, yet on the whole wisely and well. had he been living now, turkey would not be in the wretched condition in which she is to-day. what a contrast between this old lion of the desert, and the poor, weak man who now sits in his seat, and who sees the sceptre of empire dropping from his feeble hands! the sultan is a man of very small capacity. though occupying one of the most exalted positions in the world, he has no corresponding greatness of mind, no large ideas of things. he is not capable of forming any wise scheme of public policy, or any plan of government whatever, or of pursuing it with determination. he likes the pomp of royalty (and is very exacting of its etiquette), without having the cares of government. to ride in state, to be surrounded with awe and reverence, suits his royal taste; but to be "bored" with details of administration, to concern himself with the oppressions of this or that pasha in this or that province, is quite beneath his dignity. the only thing in which he seems to be truly great, is in spending money. for this his capacity is boundless. no child could throw away money in more senseless extravagance. the amount taken for his civil list--that is, for his personal expenses and for his household--is something enormous. his great father, old mahmoud ii., managed to keep up his royal state on a hundred thousand pounds a year; but it is said that this man cannot be satisfied with less than two millions sterling, which is more than the civil list of any other sovereign in europe. indeed nobody knows how much he spends. his civil list is an unfathomable abyss, into which are thrown untold sums of money. then too, like a true oriental, he has magnificent tastes in the way of architecture, and for years his pet folly has been the building of new palaces along the bosphorus. although he had many already, the greater part unoccupied, or used only for occasional royal visits, still if some new position pleased his eye, he immediately ordered a new palace to be built, even at a fabulous cost. some of these dazzle the traveller who has seen all the royal palaces of western europe. to visit them requires a special permission, but we obtained access to one by a liberal use of money, and drove to it immediately after we had seen the sultan going to mosque. it is called the cheragan palace, and stands just above that which the sultan occupies. it is of very great extent, and built of white stone, and as it faces the bosphorus, it seems like a fairy vision rising from the sea. the interior is of truly oriental magnificence. it is in the moorish style, like the alhambra. we passed through apartment after apartment, each more splendid than the last. the eye almost wearies with the succession of great halls with columns of richest marble, supporting lofty ceilings which are finished with beautiful arabesques, and an elaborateness of detail unknown in any other kind of architecture. articles of furniture are wrought of the most precious woods, inlaid with costly stones, or with ivory and pearl. what must have been the cost of such a fairy palace, no one knows--not even the sultan himself--but it must have been millions upon millions. yet this great palace is unoccupied. when it was finished, it is said that the sultan on entering it, slipped his foot, or took a cold (i have heard both reasons assigned), which so excited his superstitious feeling (he thought it an omen of death) that he would not live in it, and so in a few weeks he returned to the palace which he had occupied before, where he has remained ever since. and so this new and costly palace is empty. except the attendants who showed us about, we saw not a human being. it was not built because it was needed, but because it gratified an imperial whim. extravagant and foolish as this is, there is no way to prevent such follies when such is the royal pleasure, for the sultan, like many weak men--feeble in intellect and in character--is yet of violent temper, and cannot brook any opposition to his will. if he wants a new palace, and the grand vizier tells him there is no money in the treasury, he flies into a rage and sends him about his business, and calls for another who will find the money. yet the vices of the sultan are not all his own. they are those of his position. what can be expected of a man who has been accustomed from childhood to have his own way in everything; to be surrounded with a state and awe, as if he were a god; and to have every caprice and whim gratified? it is one of the misfortunes of his position that he never hears the truth about anything. though his credit in europe is gone; though whole provinces are dying of famine, he is not permitted to know the unwelcome truth. he is surrounded by courtiers and flatterers whose interest it is to deceive him, and who are thus leading him blindly to his ruin. in his pleasures the sultan is a man of frivolous tastes, rather than of gross vices. from some vices he is free, and (as i would say every good word in his favor) i gladly record this. he is not a drunkard (as were some of his predecessors, in spite of the mohammedan law against the use of strong drinks); and, what is yet more remarkable for a turk, he does not smoke. but if he does not drink, he _eats_ enormously. he is, like cardinal wolsey, "a man of unbounded stomach," and all the resources of the imperial cuisine are put in requisition to satisfy his royal appetite. it is said that when he goes to the opera he is followed by a retinue of servants, bearing a load of dishes, so that if perchance between the acts his sublime majesty should need to refresh himself, he might be satisfied on the instant. for any higher pleasures than mere amusements he has no taste. he is not a man of education, as europeans understand education, and has no fondness for reading. in all the great palace i did not see a single book--and but _one_ picture. [the mohammedans do not like "images," and so with all their gorgeous decorations, one never sees a picture. this was probably presented to the sultan from a source which he could not refuse. it was a landscape, which might have been by our countryman, mr. church.] but he does not care for these things. he prefers to be amused, and is fond of buffoons and dancing girls, and takes more delight in jugglers and mountebanks than in the society of the most eminent men of science in europe. a man who has to be treated thus--to be humored and petted, and fed with sweetmeats--is nothing more or less than a big baby--a spoiled child, who has to be amused with playthings. yet on the whims and caprices of such a creature may depend the fate of an empire which is at this moment in the most critical situation, and which needs the most skilful statesmanship to guide it through its dangers. is it that god intends to destroy it, that he has suffered such a man to come to the throne for such a time as this? it is a most instructive comment on the vanity of all earthly things, that this man, so fond of pleasure, and with all the resources of an empire at command, is not happy. the spanish minister tells me that he _never saw him smile_. even in his palace he sits silent and gloomy. is it that he is brooding over some secret trouble, or feels coming over him the shadow of approaching ruin? notwithstanding all his outward state and magnificence, there are things which must make him uneasy; which, like belshazzar's dream, must trouble him in the midst of his splendor. though an absolute monarch, he cannot have everything according to his will; he cannot live forever, and what is to come after him? by the mohammedan law of succession the throne passes not to his son, but to the oldest male member of the royal house--it may be a brother or a nephew. in this case the heir apparent is murad effendi, a son of the late sultan. but abdul aziz (unmindful of his dead brother, or of that brother's living son) is very anxious to change the order of succession in favor of his own son (as the viceroy of egypt has already done,) but he does not quite dare to encounter the hostility of the bigoted mussulmans. formerly it was the custom of the sultan, in coming to the throne, to put out of the way all rivals or possible successors, from collateral branches of the family, by the easy method of assassination. but somehow that practice, like many others of the "good old times," has fallen into disuse, and now he must wait for the slow process of nature. meanwhile murad effendi is kept in the background as much as possible. he did not appear in the procession to the mosque, and is never permitted to show himself in state, while the son of the sultan, whom he would make his heir, is kept continually before the public. though he is personally insignificant, both in mind and in body, this poor little manikin is made _the commander-in-chief of the army_, and is always riding about in great state, with mounted officers behind his carriage. all this may make him a prince, but can never make him a man. what is to be the future of the sultan, who can tell? his empire seems to be trembling on the verge of existence, and it is not likely that he could survive its fall. but if he should live many years he may be compelled to leave constantinople; to leave all his beautiful palaces on the bosphorus, and transfer his capital to some city in asia. broussa, in asia minor, was the former capital of the ottoman empire, before the turks conquered constantinople, four hundred and twenty years ago, and to that they may return again; or they may go still farther, to the banks of the tigris, or the shores of the persian gulf, and the sultan may end his days as the caliph of bagdad. chapter xxx. the eastern question.--the exodus of the turks. it is impossible to be in constantinople without having forced upon us the eastern question, which is just now occupying so much of the attention of europe. a child can ask questions which a philosopher cannot answer, and a traveller can see dangers and difficulties which all the wisdom of statesmen cannot resolve. twenty years ago france and england went to war with russia for the maintenance of turkey, and they are now beginning to ask, whether in this they did not make a great mistake; whether turkey was worth saving? if the same circumstances were to arise again, it is doubtful whether they would be so ready to rush into the field. all over europe there has been a great revulsion of feeling caused by the recent financial breakdown of turkey. within a few weeks she has virtually repudiated half the interest on her national debt; that is, she pays one-half, and _funds_ the other half, promising to pay it five years hence. but few believe it will then be paid. this has excited great indignation in france and england and italy,[ ] where millions of turkish bonds are held, and they ask, have we spent our treasure and shed our blood to bolster up a rotten state, a state that is utterly faithless to its engagements, and thus turns upon its benefactors? to tell the whole truth, these powers have themselves partly to blame for having led the turkish government into the easy and slippery ways of borrowing money. _before the crimean war turkey had no national debt._ whatever she spent she wrung out of the sweat and blood of her wretched people, and left no burden of hopeless indebtedness to curse its successors. but the war brought great expenses, and having rich allies, what so natural as to borrow a few of their superfluous millions? once begun, the operation had to be repeated year after year. nothing is so seductive as the habit of borrowing money. it is such an easy way to pay one's debts and to gratify one's love of spending; and as long as one's credit lasts, he may indulge his dreams to the very limit of oriental magnificence. so the sultan found it. he had but to contract a loan in london or paris, and he had millions of pounds sterling to build palaces, and to carry out every imperial desire. but borrowing money is like taking opium, the dose must be constantly increased, till finally the system gives way, and death ends the scene. every year the sultan had to borrow more money to pay the interest on his debts, and to borrow at ever increasing rates; and so at last came, what always comes as the result of a long course of extravagance, a complete collapse of money and credit together. the indignation felt at this would not have been so great, if the money borrowed had been spent for legitimate objects--to construct public works; to build railroads (which are greatly needed to open communications with the interior of the empire); and to create new branches of industry and new sources of wealth. turkey is a very rich country in its natural resources, rich in a fertile soil, rich in mines, with an immense line of sea-coast, and great harbors, offering every facility for commerce; and it needs only a very little political economy to turn all these resources to account. if the money borrowed in england and france had been spent in building railroads all over european turkey, in opening mines, and in promoting agriculture and commerce, the country to-day, instead of being bankrupt, would be rich and independent, and not compelled to ask the help or the compassion of europe. but instead of applying his borrowed money to developing the resources of his empire, there has not been a freak of folly that the sultan did not gratify. he has literally thrown his money into the bosphorus, spending it chiefly for ships on the water, or palaces on the shore. i have already spoken of his passion for building new palaces. next to this, his caprice has been the buying of ironclads. a few years since, when russia, taking advantage of the franco-german war, which rendered france powerless to resist, nullified the clause in the treaty made after the crimean war, which forbade her keeping a navy in the black sea, and began to show her armed ships again in those waters, the sultan seems to have taken it into his wise head that she was about to attack constantinople, and immediately began preparations for defence on land and sea. he bought a million or so of the best rifles that could be found in europe or america; and cannon enough to furnish the grand army of napoleon; and some fifteen tremendous ships of war, which have cost nearly two millions of dollars apiece. the enormous folly of this expense appears in this, that, in case of war, these ships would be almost useless. the safety of turkey is not in such defences, but in the fact that it is for the interest of europe to hold her up awhile longer. if once france and england were to leave her to her fate, all these ships would not save her against russia coming from the black sea--or marching an army overland and attacking constantinople in the rear. but the sultan would have these ships, and here they are. they have been lying idle in the bosphorus all summer, their only use being to fire salutes every friday when the sultan goes to mosque. they never go to sea; if they did they would probably not return, for they are very unwieldy, and the turks are no sailors, and do not know how to manage them; and they would be likely to sink in the first gale. the only voyage they make is twice in the year: once in the spring, when they are taken out of the golden horn to be anchored in the bosphorus, a mile or two distant--about as far as from the battery to the navy yard in brooklyn--and again in the autumn, when they are taken back again to be laid up for the winter. they have just made their annual voyage back to their winter quarters, and are now lying quietly in the golden horn--not doing any harm, _nor any good_ to anybody. then not only must the sultan have a great navy, but a great army. poor as turkey is, she has one of the largest armies in europe. i have found it difficult to obtain exact statistics. a gentleman who has lived long in constantinople tells me that they claim to be able, in case of war, to put seven hundred thousand men under arms, but this includes the reserves--there are perhaps half that number now in barracks or in camp. a hundred thousand men have been sent to herzegovina to suppress the insurrection there. so much does it cost to extinguish a rising among a few mountaineers in a distant province, a mere strip of territory lying far off on the borders of the adriatic. what a fearful drain must the support of all these troops be upon the resources of an exhausted empire! while thus bleeding at every pore, turkey takes no course to keep up a supply of fresh life-blood. england spends freely, but, she _makes_ freely also, and so has always an abundant revenue for her vast empire. so might turkey, if she had but a grain of financial or political wisdom. but her policy is suicidal in the management of all the great industries of the country. for example, the first great interest is _agriculture_, and this the government, so far from encouraging, seems to set itself to _ruin_. of course the people must till the ground to get food to live. of all the produce of the earth the government takes _one-tenth_. even this might be borne, if it would only take it and have done with it, and let the poor peasants gather in the rest. but no; after a farmer has reaped his grain, he cannot store it in his barn until the tax-gatherer has surveyed it and taken out his share. perhaps the official is busy elsewhere, or he is waiting for a bribe; and so it may lie on the ground for days or weeks, exposed to the rains till the whole crop is spoiled. such is the beautiful system of political economy practised in administering the internal affairs of this country, which nature has made so rich, and man has made so poor. so as to the _fisheries_ by which the people on the sea-coast live. all along the bosphorus we saw them drawing their nets. but we were told that not a single fish could be sold until the whole were taken down to constantinople, a distance of some miles, and the government had taken its share, and then the rest could be brought back again. another great source of wealth to turkey--or which might prove so--is its _mines_. the country is very rich in mineral resources. if it were only farmed out to english or welsh miners, they would bring treasures out of the earth. the hills would be found to be of brass, and the mountains of iron. but the turkish government does nothing. it keeps a few men at work, just enough to scratch the surface here and there, but leaving the vast wealth that is in the bowels of the earth untouched. and not only will it do nothing itself, but it will not allow anybody else to do anything. never did a great government play more completely the part of the dog in the manger. for years english capitalists have been trying to get permission to work certain mines, offering to pay millions of pounds for the concession. if once opportunity were given, and they were sure of protection, that their property would not be confiscated, english wealth would flow into turkey in a constant stream. but on the contrary the government puts every obstacle in their way. with the bigotry and stupidity of its race, it is intensely jealous of foreigners, even while it exists only by foreign protection--and its policy is, not only _not_ one of progress--it is absolutely one of obstruction. if it would only get out of the way and let foreign enterprise and capital come in, it might reap the benefit. but it opposes everything. only a few days since a meeting was held here of foreign capitalists, who were ready and anxious to put their money into turkish mines to an almost unlimited extent, but they all declared that the restrictions were so many, and the requirements so complicated and vexatious, and so evidently intended to prevent anything being done, that it was quite hopeless to attempt it. but, although this is very bad political economy, yet it is not in itself alone a reason why a nation should be given up as beyond saving, if it were capable of learning wisdom by experience. merely getting in debt, though it is always a bad business, is not in itself a sign of hopeless decay. many a young and vigorous state has at the beginning spent all its substance, like the prodigal son, in riotous living, but after "sowing its wild oats," has learned wisdom by experience, and settled down to a course of hard labor, and so come up again. but turkey is the prodigal son without his repentance. it is continually wasting its substance, and, although it may have now and then fitful spasms of repentance as it feels the pangs of hunger, it gives not one sign of a change of heart, a real internal reform, and a return to a clean, pure, healthy and wholesome life. is there any hope of anything better? not the least. just now there is some feeling in official circles of the degradation and weakness shown in the late bankruptcy, and there are loud professions that they are going to "reform." but everybody who has lived in turkey knows what these professions mean. it is a little spasm of virtue, which will soon be forgotten. the sultan may not indeed throw away money quite so recklessly as before, but only because he cannot get it. he is at the end of his rope. his credit is gone in all the markets of europe, and nobody will lend him a dollar. yet he is at this very moment building a mosque that is to cost two millions sterling, and if there were the least let-up in the pressure on him, he would resume the same course of folly and extravagance as ever. no one is so lavish with money as the man who does not pretend to pay his debts. he cannot change his nature. "can the ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" the turk, like the pope, _never changes_. it is constitutionally impossible for him to reform, or to "go ahead" in anything. his ideas are against it; his very physical habits are against it. a man who is always squatting on his legs, and smoking a long pipe, cannot run very fast; and the only thing for him to do, when the pressure of modern civilization becomes too great for him, is to "bundle up" and get out of the way. thus there is in turkey not a single element of hope; there is no internal force which may be a cause of political regeneration. it is as impossible to infuse life into this moribund state as it would be to raise the dead. i have met a great many europeans in constantinople--some of whom have lived here ten, twenty, thirty, or even forty years--and have not found _one_ who did not consider the condition of turkey absolutely hopeless, and its disappearance from the map of europe only a question of time. but if for purely economical reasons turkey has to be given up as utterly rotten and going to decay, how much darker does the picture appear when we consider the tyranny and corruption, the impossibility of obtaining justice, and the oppression of the christian populations. a horde of officials is quartered on the country, that eat out the substance of the land, and set no bounds to their rapacity; who plunder the people so that they are reduced to the extreme point of misery. the taxation is so heavy that it drains the very life-blood out of a poor and wretched people--and this is often aggravated by the most wanton oppression and cruelty. such stories have moved, as they justly may, the indignation of europe. such is the present state of turkey--universal corruption and oppression, and things going all the time from bad to worse. and yet this wretched government rules over the fairest portion of the globe. the turkish empire is territorially the finest in the world. half in europe and half in asia, it extends over many degrees of latitude and longitude, including many countries and many climates, "spanning the vast arch from bagdad to belgrade." can such things continue, and such a power be allowed to hold the fairest portion of the earth's surface, for all time to come? it seems impossible. the position of turkey is certainly an anomaly. it is an asiatic power planted in europe. it is a mohammedan power ruling over millions of christians. it is a government of turks--that is of tartars--over men of a better race as well as a purer religion. it is a government of a minority over a majority. the mohammedans, the ruling caste, are only about one-quarter of the population of european turkey--some estimates make it much less, but where there is no accurate census, it must be a matter of conjecture. it is a power occupying the finest situation in the world, where two continents touch, and two great seas mingle their waters, yet sitting there on the bosphorus only to hold the gates of europe and asia, and oppose a fixed and immovable barrier to the progress of the nations. what then shall be done with the grand turk? the feeling is becoming universal that he must be driven out of europe, back into asia from which he came. this would solve the eastern question _in part_, but only in part, for _after_ he is gone what power is to take his place? the solution would be comparatively easy, if there were any independent state near at hand to succeed to the vacant sceptre. when a rich man dies, there are always plenty of heirs ready to step in and take possession of the property. the greeks would willingly transfer their capital from athena to constantinople. the armenians think themselves numerous enough to form a state, but the greeks and the armenians hate each other more even than their common oppressor. russia has not a doubt on the subject, that _she_ is the proper and rightful heir to the throne of the sultan. the possession of european turkey would just "round out" her territory, so that her empire should be bounded only by the seas--the baltic and the white sea on the north, and the black sea and the mediterranean on the south. but that is just the solution of the question which all the rest of europe is determined to prevent. austria, driven out of germany, thinks it would be highly proper that she should be indemnified by an addition to her territory on the south; while the danubian principalities, moldavia and wallachia (now united under the title of roumania) and servia, which are taking their first lessons in independence, think that they will soon be sufficiently educated in the difficult art of government to take possession of the whole ottoman empire. among so many rival claimants who shall decide? perhaps if it were put to vote, they would all prefer to remain under the turk, rather than that the coveted prize should go to a rival. herein lies the difficulty of the eastern question, which no european statesman is wise enough to resolve. there is still another solution possible: that turkey should be divided as poland was, giving a province or two on the danube to austria; and another on the black sea to russia; and syria to egypt; while the sultan took up his residence in asia minor; and making constantinople a free city (as hamburg was), under the protection of all europe, which should hold the position simply to protect the passage of the bosphorus and the dardanelles, and thus keep open the black sea to the commerce of the world. but however these remoter questions may perplex the minds of statesmen, they cannot prevent, nor long delay, the first necessity, viz., that the turk should retire from europe. it cannot be permitted in the interests of civilization, that a half-barbarous power should keep forever the finest position in the world, the point of contact between europe and asia, only to be a barrier between them--an obstacle to commerce and to civilization. this obstruction must be removed. the turks themselves may remain, but they will no longer be the governing race, but subject, like other races, to whatever power may succeed; the sultan may transfer his capital to brousa, the ancient capital of the ottoman empire; but _turkey will thenceforth be wholly an asiatic, and no longer an european power_. and this will be the end of a dominion that for centuries was the terror of europe. it is four hundred and twenty years since the turks crossed the bosphorus and took constantinople. since then they have risen to such power that at one time they threatened to overrun europe. it is not two hundred years since they laid siege to vienna. but within two centuries turkey has greatly declined. the rise of a colossal power in the north has completely overshadowed her, till now she is kept from becoming the easy prey of russia only by the protection of those christian powers to which the turk was once, like attila, the scourge of god. from the moment that the turks ceased to conquer, they began to decline. they came into europe as a race of warriors, and have never made any progress except by the sword. and so they have really never taken root as one of the family of civilized nations, but have always lived as in a camp, a vast asiatic horde, that, while conquering civilized countries, retained the habits and instincts of nomadic tribes, that were only living in tents, and might at any time recross the bosphorus and return to their native deserts. that their exodus is approaching, is felt by the more sagacious turks themselves. the government is taking every precaution against its overthrow. dreading the least popular movement, it does not dare to trust its christian populations. it will not permit them to bear arms, lest the weapons might be turned against itself. _no one but a mohammedan is allowed to enter the army._ there may be some european officers left from the time of the crimean war, whose services are too valuable to be spared, but in the ranks not a man is received who is not a "true believer." this conscription weighs very heavily on the mussulmans, who are but a small minority in european turkey, and who are thus decimated from year to year. it is a terrible blood-tax which they have to pay as the price of continued dominion. but even this the government is willing to pay rather than that arms should be in the hands of those who, as the subject races, are their traditional enemies, and who, in the event of what might become a religious war, would turn upon them, and seek a bloody revenge for ages of oppression and cruelty. seeing these things, many even of the turks themselves anticipate their speedy departure from the promised land which they have so long occupied, and are beginning to set their houses in order for it. aged turks in dying often leave this last request, that they may be buried at scutari, on the other side of the bosphorus, so that if their people are driven across into asia, their bodies at least may rest in peace under the cypress groves which darken the asiatic shore. with such fears and forebodings on one side, and such hopes and expectations on the other, we leave this eastern question just where we found it. anybody can state it; nobody can resolve it. it is the great political problem in europe at this hour, which no statesman, however sagacious--not bismarck, nor thiers, nor andrassy, nor gortchakoff--has yet been able to resolve. but man proposes and god disposes. this is one of those mysteries of the future which divine intelligence alone can penetrate, and divine providence alone can reveal. we must not assume to be over-wise--although there are some signs which we see clearly written on the face of the sky--but "watch and wait," which we do in the full confidence that we shall not have to wait long, but that the curtain will rise on great events in the east before the close of the present century. footnote: [ ] italy, it will be remembered, joined the allies against russia in the latter part of the crimean war. chapter xxxi. the sultan is deposed and commits suicide.--the war in servia.--massacres in bulgaria.--how will it all end? the last three chapters were written in constantinople, near the close of . since then a year has passed--and yet i do not need to change a single word. all that was then said of the wretched character of the sultan, and of the hopeless decay of the empire, has proved literally true. indeed if i were to draw the picture again, i should paint it in still darker colors. the best commentary upon it, and the best proof of its truth, is that which has been furnished by subsequent events. a rapid review of these will complete this political sketch up to the present hour. at the close of the chapter on abdul aziz, i suggested, as a possible event in the near future, that the turks might be driven out of europe into asia, and their capital be removed from constantinople back to broussa, (where it was four hundred and twenty years ago,) or even to the banks of the tigris, and that the sultan might end his days as the caliph of bagdad. was this a gloomy future to predict for a sovereign at the height of power and glory? alas for human ambition! happy would it have been for him if he could have found a refuge, in broussa or in bagdad, from the troubles that were gathering around him. but a fate worse than exile was reserved for this unhappy monarch. in six months from that time he was deposed and dead, dying by his own hand. it is a short story, but forms one of the most melancholy tragedies of modern times. during the winter things went from bad to worse, till even moslem patience and stoicism were exhausted. there was great suffering in the capital, which the sovereign was unable to relieve, or to which rather he was utterly indifferent. murmurs began to be heard, and not from his christian subjects, but from faithful moslems. employés of the government, civil and military, were not paid. yet even in this extremity every caprice of the sultan must be supplied. if money came into the treasury, it was said that he seized it for his own use. feeling the pressure from without, the ministers, who had been accustomed to approach their master like slaves, cowed and cringing in his presence, grew bolder, and presumed to speak a little more plainly. reminding him as gently as possible of the public distress, and especially of the fact that the army was not paid, they ventured to hint that if his august majesty would, out of his serene and benevolent wisdom and condescension, apply a little of his own private resources (for it was well known that he had vast treasures hoarded in the palace), it would allay the growing discontent. but to all such intimations he listened with ill-concealed vexation and disgust. what cared he for the sufferings of his soldiers or people? not a pound would he give out of his full coffers, even to put an end to mutiny in the camp or famine in the capital. dismissing the impertinent ministers, he retired into the harem to forget amid its languishing beauties the unwelcome intrusion. but there is a point beyond which even mohammedan fatalism cannot bow in submission. finding all attempts to move the sultan hopeless, his ministers began to look in each other's faces, and to take courage from their despair. there was but one resource left--they must strike at the head of the state. the sultan himself must be put out of the way. but how can any popular movement be inaugurated under an absolute rule? despotism indeed is sometimes "tempered by assassination"! but here a sovereign was to be removed without that resort. strange as it may seem, there is such a thing as public opinion even in constantinople. though it is a mohammedan state, there is a power above sultans and caliphs; it is that of the koran itself. the government is a theocracy as much as that of the jews, and the law of the state is the koran, of which the priestly class, the ulemas and the mollahs and the softas, are the representatives. mohammedanism has its pope in the sheik-al-islam, who is the authorized interpreter of the sacred law, and who, like other interpreters, knows how to make the most inflexible creed bend to the necessities of the state. his opinion was asked if, in a condition of things so extreme as that which now existed, the sovereign might be lawfully deposed? he answered in the affirmative. thus armed with a spiritual sanction, the conspirators proceeded to obtain the proper civil authority and military support. the sultan had had his suspicions excited, and had sought for safety by a vigilant watch on murad effendi, who was kept under strict surveillance, and almost under guard, like a state prisoner. suspecting the fidelity of the minister of war, he sent to demand his immediate presence at the palace. but as the latter was deep in the plot, he pleaded illness as an excuse for his non-appearance. but this alarm hastened the decisive blow. the ministers met at the war office, and thither murad effendi was brought secretly in the night of monday, may th, and received by them as sultan, and made to issue an order for the immediate arrest of his predecessor, abdul aziz, an order which was entrusted to redif pasha, a soldier of experience and nerve, for execution. troops were already under arms, and were now drawn around the palace, while the officer entered to demand the person of the sultan. passing through the attendants, he came to the chief of the eunuchs, who kept guard over the sacred person of the padishah, and demanded to be led instantly to his master. this black major-domo was not accustomed to such a tone, and, amazed at such audacity, laughed in the face of the intruder. but the old soldier was not to be trifled with. forcing his way into the apartments of the sultan, he announced to him that he had ceased to reign, and must immediately quit his palace. then the terrible truth began to dawn upon him that he was no longer a god, before whom men trembled. he was beside himself with fury. he raved and stormed like a madman, and cursed the unwelcome guest in the name of the prophet. his mother rushed into the room, and added her cries and imprecations. but he could not yet believe that any insolent official had the power to remove him from his palace. he told the pasha that he was a liar! the only answer was, look out of the window! one glance was enough. there in thick ranks stood the soldiers that had so long guarded his person and his throne, and would have guarded him still, if his own folly had not driven them to turn their arms against him. then he changed his tone, and promised to yield everything, if he might be spared. he was told it was too late, and was warned to make haste. time was precious. the boats were waiting below. the sultan had often descended there to his splendid caïque to go to the mosque, when all the ships in the harbor fired salutes in honor of his majesty. now not a gun spoke. silently he embarked with his mother and sons, and fifty-three boats soon followed with his wives and servants. and thus in the gray of the morning they moved across the waters to seraglio point, where abdul aziz, but an hour ago a sovereign, now found himself a prisoner. the same forenoon another retinue of barges conveyed murad effendi across the same waters to the vacant palace, and the ships of war thundered their salutes to the new sultan. was there ever such an overthrow? the humiliation was too great to be borne by a weak mind, which could find no rest but in the grave. five days after he shut himself up in his room, and when the attendants opened the door he was found weltering in his blood. scissors by his side revealed the weapon by which had been wrought the bloody deed. suspicions were freely expressed that he had not died by his own hand, but by assassination. but a council of physicians gave a verdict in support of the theory of suicide. the next day a long procession wound through the streets of old stamboul, following the dead monarch to his tomb, where at last he found the rest he could not find in life. such was the end of abdul aziz, who passed almost in the same hour from his throne and from life. was there ever a more mournful sight under the sun? as we stand over that poor body covered with blood, we think of that brilliant scene when he rode to the mosque, surrounded by his officers of state, and indignation at his selfish life is almost forgotten in pity for his end. we are appalled at the sudden contrast of that exalted height and that tremendous fall. he fell as lightning from heaven. did ever so bright a day end in so black a night? with such solemn thoughts we turn away, with footsteps sad and slow, from that royal tomb, and leave the wretched sleeper to the judgment of history and of god. his successor had not a long or brilliant reign. calamity brooded over the land, and weighed like a pall on an enfeebled body and a weak mind, and after a few months he too was removed, to give place to a younger brother, who had more physical vigor and more mental capacity, and who now fills that troubled throne. i said also that "the curtain might rise on great events in the east before the close of the present century." _it has already begun to rise._ the death of the sultan relieved the state of a terrible incubus, but it failed to restore public tranquillity and prosperity. some had supposed that it alone would allay discontent and quell insurrection. but instead of this, his deposition and death seemed to produce a contrary effect. it relaxed the bonds of authority. it spread more widely the feeling that the empire was in a state of hopeless decay and dissolution, and that the time had come for different provinces to seek their independence. instead of the montenegrins laying down their arms, those brave mountaineers became more determined than ever, and the insurrection, instead of dying out, spread to other provinces. servia had long been chafing with impatience. this province was already independent in everything but the name. though still a part of the turkish empire, and paying an annual tribute to the sultan, it had its own separate government. but such was the sympathy of the people with the other christian populations of european turkey, who were groaning under the oppression of their masters, that the government could not withstand the popular excitement, and at the opening of summer rushed into war. it was a rash step. servia has less than a million and a half of souls; and its army is very small, although, by calling out all the militia, it mustered into the field a hundred thousand men. it hoped to anticipate success by a rapid movement. a large force at once crossed the frontier into turkey, in order to make that country the battle-ground of the hostile armies. the movement was well planned, and if carried out by veteran troops, might have been successful. but the raw servian levies were no match for the turkish regular army; and as soon as the latter could be moved up from constantinople, the former were sacrificed. in the series of battles which followed, the turks were almost uniformly successful; forcing back the servians over the border, and into their own country, where they had every advantage for resistance; where there were rivers to be crossed, and passes in the hills, and fortresses that might be defended. but with all these advantages the turkish troops pressed on. their advance was marked by wasted fields and burning villages, yet nothing could resist their onward march, and but for the delay caused by the interposition of other powers, it seemed probable that the campaign would end by the turks entering in triumph the capital of servia and dictating terms of peace, or rather of submission, within the walls of belgrade. this is a terrible disappointment to those sanguine spirits who were so eager to urge servia into war, and who apparently thought that her raw recruits could defeat any turkish army that could be brought against them. the result is a lesson to the other discontented provinces, and a warning to all europe, that turkey, though she may be dying, is not dead, and that she will die hard. this proof of her remaining vitality will not surprise one who has seen the turks at home. misgoverned and ruined financially as turkey is, she is yet a very formidable military power--not, indeed, as against russia, or germany, or austria, but as against any second-rate power, and especially as against any of her revolted provinces. her troops are not mere militia, they are trained soldiers. those that we saw in the streets of constantinople were men of splendid physique, powerful and athletic, just the stuff for war. they are capable of much greater endurance than even english soldiers, who must have their roast beef and other luxuries of the camp, while the turks will live on the coarsest food, sleep on the ground, and march gayly to battle. such men are not to be despised in a great conflict. in its raw material, therefore, the turkish army is probably equal to any in europe. if as well disciplined and as well _commanded_, it might be equal to the best troops of germany. so far as equipment is concerned, it has little to desire. a great part of the extravagance of the late sultan was in the purchase of the most approved weapons of war, which seemed needless, but have now come into play. his ironclads, no doubt, were a costly folly, but his krupp cannon and breech-loading rifles (the greater part made in america) may turn the scale of battle on many a bloody field. further, these men are not only physically strong and brave; not only are they well disciplined and well armed; but they are inflamed with a religious zeal that heightens their courage and kindles their enthusiasm. that such an army should be victorious, however much we may regret it, cannot be a matter of surprise. as the result of this campaign, however calamitous, was merely the fortune of war, gained in honorable battle; whatever sorrow it might have caused throughout europe, it could not have created any stronger feeling, had not events occurred in another province, which kindled a flame of popular indignation. before the war began, indeed before the death of the sultan, fearing an outbreak in other provinces, an attempt had been made to strike terror into the disaffected people. irregular troops--the circassians and bashi bazouks--were marched into bulgaria, and commenced a series of massacres that have thrilled europe with horror, as it has not been since the massacre of scio in the greek revolution. the events were some time in coming to the knowledge of the world, so that weeks after, when inquiry was made in the british parliament, mr. disraeli replied that the government had no knowledge of any atrocities; that probably the reports were exaggerated; that it was a kind of irregular warfare, in which, no doubt, there were outrages on both sides. since then the facts have come to light. mr. eugene schuyler, lately the american secretary of legation at st. petersburg, and now consul in constantinople, has visited the province, and, as the result of a careful inquiry, finds that not less than twelve thousand men, women, and children (he thinks fifteen thousand) have been massacred. women have been outraged, villages have been burnt, little children thrown into the flames. that peaceful province has been laid waste with fire and slaughter. the report, coming from such a source, and accompanied by the fullest evidence, created a profound sensation in england. meetings were held in all parts of the country to express the public indignation; and not only at the brutal turks, but at their own government for the light and flippant way in which it had treated such horrors: the more so that among the powers of europe, england was the supporter of turkey, and thus might be considered as herself guilty, unless she uttered her indignant protest in the name of humanity and civilization. but why should the people of christian england wonder at these things, or at any act of violence and blood done by such hands? the turk has not changed his nature in the four hundred years that he has lived, or rather _camped_, in europe. he is still a tartar and half a savage. here and there may be found a noble specimen of the race, in some old sheik, who rules a tribe, and exercises hospitality in a rude but generous fashion, and who looks like an ancient patriarch as he sits at his tent door in the cool of the day. enthusiastic travellers may tell us of some grand old turk who is like "a fine old english gentleman," but such cases are exceptional. the mass of the people are tartars, as much as when they roamed the deserts of central asia. the wild blood is in them still, with every brutal instinct intensified by religion. all mussulmans are nursed in such contempt and scorn of the rest of mankind, that when once their passions are aroused, it is impossible for them to exercise either justice or mercy. no tie of a common humanity binds them to the rest of the human race. the followers of the prophet are lifted to such a height above those who are not believers, that the sufferings of others are nothing to them. if called to "rise and slay," they obey the command without the slightest feeling of pity or remorse. with such a people it is impossible to deal as with other nations. there is no common ground to stand upon. they care no more for "christian dogs," nor so much, as they do for the dogs that howl and yelp in the streets of constantinople. their religious fanaticism extinguishes every feeling of a common nature. has not europe a right to put some restraint on passions so lawless and violent, and thus to stop such frightful massacres as have this very year deluged her soil with innocent blood? the campaign in servia is now over. an armistice has been agreed upon for six weeks, and as the winter is at hand, hostilities cannot be resumed before spring. meanwhile european diplomacy will be at work to settle the conflict without another resort to arms. russia appears as the protector and supporter of servia. she asks for a conference of the six powers--england, france, italy, germany, austria, and russia--a conference to decide on the fate of turkey, yet _from which turkey shall be excluded_. already intimations are given out of the nature of the terms which russia will propose. turkey has promised reform for the protection and safety of her christian populations. but experience has proved that her promises are good for nothing. either they are made in bad faith, and are not intended to be kept, or she has no power to enforce them in the face of a fanatical mohammedan population. it is now demanded, in order to secure the christian population absolute protection, that these reforms shall be carried out under the eye of foreign commissioners in the different provinces, _supported by an armed force_. this is indeed an entering wedge, with a very sharp edge too, and driven home with tremendous power. if turkey grants this, she may as well abdicate her authority over her revolted provinces. but europe can be contented with nothing less, for without this there is absolutely no safety for christians in any lands cursed by the rule of the turk. it is quite probable that the negotiations will issue in some sort of autonomy for the disaffected provinces. this has been already granted to wallachia and moldavia (which have been united under the name of roumania), the result of which has been to bring quietness and peace. it has been granted to servia. their connection with the porte is only nominal, being limited to the payment of an annual tribute; while even this nominal dependence has the good effect of warning off other powers, such as austria and russia, from taking possession. if this same degree of independence could be extended to bulgaria and to bosnia and herzegovina, there would be a belt of christian states, which would be virtually independent, drawn around turkey, which would confine within smaller space the range of moslem domination in europe. and yet even that is not the end, nor will it be the final settlement of the eastern question. that will not be reached until some other power, or joint powers, hold constantinople. that is the eye of the east; that is the jewel of the world; and so long as it remains in the hands of the turks, it will be an object of envy, of ambition, and of war. the late charles sumner used to say that "a question is never _settled_ until it is settled _right_;" and it cannot be right that a position which is the most central and regal in all the earth should be held forever by a barbarian power. there is a saying in the east that "where the turk comes the grass never grows." is it not time that these tartar hordes, that have so long held dominion in europe, should return into the deserts from which they came, leaving the grass to spring up from under their departing feet? but some christian people and missionaries dread such an issue, because they think that it is a struggle between the russian and the turk, and that if the turk goes out the russian must come in. but is there no other alternative? is there not political wisdom enough in all europe to make another settlement, and power enough to enforce their will? england holds malta and gibraltar, and france holds algeria: cannot both hold constantinople? their combined fleets could sweep every russian ship out of the black sea, as they did in the crimean war. drawn up in the bosphorus, they could so guard that strait that no russian flag should fly on the seraskier or galata towers. why may not constantinople be placed under the protection of all nations for the common benefit of all? but for this, the first necessity is that the turk should take himself out of the way. this, i believe, will come; but it will not come without a struggle. the turks are not going to depart out of europe at the first invitation of russia, or of all europe combined. they have shown that they are a formidable foe. when this war began, some who had been looking and longing for the destruction of turkey thought this was the beginning of the end; enthusiastic students of prophecy saw in it "the drying up of the euphrates." all these had better moderate their expectations. admitting that the _final end_ will be the overthrow of the mohammedan power in europe, yet this end may be many years in coming. "the sick man" is _not dead_, and he will not die quietly and peacefully, as an old man breathes his last. he will not gather up his feet into his bed, and turn his face to the wall, and give up the ghost. he will die on the field of battle, and his death-struggles will be tremendous. the turk came into europe on horseback, waving his scimitar over his head, and he will not depart like a fugitive, "as men flee away in battle," but will make his last stand on the shores of the bosphorus, and fall fighting to the last. i commend this sober view to those whose minds may be inflamed by reading of the atrocities of the present war, and who may anticipate the march of events. the end will come; but we cannot dictate or even know, the time of its coming. that end, i firmly believe, will be the exodus of the turks from europe. not that the people as a body will depart. there is not likely to be another national migration. the expulsion of a hundred thousand of the conquering race of the osmanlis--or of half that number--may suffice to remove that imperious element that has so long kept the rule in turkey, and by its command of a warlike people, been for centuries the terror of europe. but the turkish power--the power to oppress and to persecute, to kill and destroy, to perpetrate such massacres as now thrill the world with horror--must, and _will_, come to an end. in expressing this confident opinion, i do not lay claim to any political wisdom or sagacity. nor do i attach importance to my personal observations. but i _do_ give weight to the judgment of those who have lived in turkey for years, and who know well the government and the people: and in what i say i only reflect the opinion of the whole foreign community in constantinople. while there i questioned everybody; i sought information from the best informed, and wisdom from the wisest; and i heard but one opinion. not a man expressed the slightest hope of turkey, or the slightest confidence in its professions of reform. one and all--englishmen and americans, frenchmen and germans, spaniards and italians--agreed that it was past saving, that it was "appointed to die," and that its removal from the map of europe was only a question of time. so ends the year , leaving europe in a state of uncertainty and expectancy--fearing, trembling, and hoping. the curtain falls on a year of horrors; on what scenes shall the new year rise? we are in the midst of great events, and may be on the eve of still greater. it may be that a war is coming on which will be nothing less than a death-struggle between the two religions which have so long divided the lands that lie on the borders of europe and asia, and one in which the atrocities now recorded will be but the prelude to more terrible massacres until the vision of the prophet shall be fulfilled, that "blood shall come up to the horses' bridles." but looking through a long vista of years, we cannot doubt the issue as we believe in the steady progress of civilization--nay, as we believe in the power and justice of god. we may not live to see it, and yet we could wish that we might not taste of death till our eyes behold that final deliverance. is it mere imagination, an enthusiastic dream, that anticipates what we desire should come to pass? it may be that we are utterly deceived; but as we look forward we think we see before many years a sadly impressive spectacle. however the tide of battle may ebb and flow, yet slowly, but steadily, will the osmanlis be pushed backward from those christian provinces which they have so long desolated and oppressed, till they find themselves at last on the shores of the golden horn, forced to take their farewell of old stamboul. sadly will they enter st. sophia for the last time, and turn their faces towards mecca, and bow their heads repeating, "god is god, and mohammed is his prophet." it would not be strange that they should mourn and weep as they depart. be it so! they came into that sacred temple with bloodshed and massacre; let them depart with wailing and sorrow. they cross the bosphorus, and linger under the cypresses of scutari, to bid adieu to the graves of their fathers; then bowing, with the fatalism of their creed, to a destiny which they cannot resist, they turn their horses' heads to the east, and ride away over the hills of asia minor. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) a year in europe. [illustration: westminster abbey--jerusalem chamber to the right.] a year in europe. _by_ walter w. moore, d. d., ll. d. president of union theological seminary in virginia third edition [illustration] richmond, virginia the presbyterian committee of publication copyrighted by walter w. moore, . printed by whittet & shepperson, richmond, va. to my traveling companions this book is dedicated as a memento of happy days in the old world. foreword. the only excuse i have to offer for the publication of these desultory and chatty letters in this more permanent form is that a number of my friends have requested it. many of the letters have already appeared in the columns of _the children's friend_, for which they were originally written, at the instance of the presbyterian committee of publication; but i have included in the volume several letters which were written for other periodicals, and a considerable number which have not been published anywhere till now. some of them were written hastily, and, as it were, on the wing, others with more deliberation and care. some were intended for young readers, others for older people. this will account for the differences of style and subject matter which will strike every one, and which will be particularly noticeable when the letters are read consecutively. in some cases i have drawn the materials, in part, from other sources besides my own observations, the main object at times being not originality, but accuracy and fullness of information. in such cases i have endeavored to make full acknowledgment of my indebtedness to other writers. as most of the letters were written for a denominational paper, they naturally contain a good many references to notable events in the history of the presbyterian church, and to some of the differences between that church and others in matters of doctrine, polity and forms of worship. but i trust that in no case have i felt or expressed a spirit of uncharitable sectarianism. if any reader should receive the impression that i have done so in one or two instances, i request him to suspend judgment till he has read all the references to such matters contained in the letters. it will then be seen that if i have had occasion to make some strictures upon the anglican and roman catholic churches, i have not hesitated to make them upon my own church also, when i have observed, in her worship or work, things which seemed to argue that she was untrue in any measure to her principles; and that if i have criticised the anglo-catholic and roman catholic systems as erroneous, i have recognized thankfully the great evangelical truths embedded in the heart of anglican, and even romish theology, though so sadly overlaid, and have rejoiced to pay my tribute of praise to the saintly characters that have been developed within those bodies in spite of their errors. richmond, va., _june , _. contents. chapter i. a cold summer voyage. a pleasant memory.--a depressing start.--discomforts at sea.--life on a german steamship.--the unification of the world.--all's well that ends well.--arrival at southampton, chapter ii. a visit to the town of dr. isaac watts. a sheltered harbor with double tides.--historical interest of southampton: canute, william the conqueror, william rufus, richard lion heart, the pilgrim fathers.--the chief distinction of the town.--statue of dr. watts.--sketch of the great hymn writer, chapter iii. salisbury, sarum, and stonehenge. a fascinating cathedral town.--rural scenery in southern england.--impressiveness of stonehenge.--other things of interest about salisbury.--what the bishop said about the presbyterian form of the early church, chapter iv. winchester worthies: alfred the great, izaak walton, thomas ken. memorials of kings good and bad.--memorial of the gentle fisherman.--wit in winchester college.--a lovely churchman.--ken's defiance of james ii., chapter v. the ugliness and the charm of london. a vast and dingy metropolis.--the Æsthetic value of soot.--brick versus stone.--scotch cities' stately, but gloomy.--brightness of paris.--immensity and multitude.--the body is more than raiment, chapter vi. the english view of the fourth of july. ambassador choate's reception.--increasing friendliness between america and england.--how the english now view the american revolution.--a fair statement of the question and the conflict.--what england learned from fighting against her own principles.--the monument of washington in st. paul's cathedral.--the possible union of canada and the united states, chapter vii. how the english regard the americans. former prejudices passing away.--the english admit that america holds the future.--english candor and english inconsistency.--a sectarian measure in parliament.--what scotchmen think of the education bill.--passive resistance of the nonconformists, chapter viii. the british republic and the house of commons. the real ruler of the british empire.--the house of parliament.--getting into the lower house.--the debate and the debaters.--harcourt, bryce, campbell-bannerman, lloyd-george, john dillon, arthur balfour.--the incongruity of a presbyterian prime minister.--english and american oratory, chapter ix. cambridge and her schools. the cathedral route.--the two university towns.--cambridge more progressive than oxford.--the presbyterian element.--the two most learned women in the world.--westminster college.--the same difficulties about candidates for the ministry, chapter x. from england to scotland--the eastern route. the land of the mountain and the flood.--melrose, abbotsford, and dryburgh.--the wizard of the north.--edinburgh.--temporary residence in auld reekie.--public worship in scotland.--organ, choir, and congregation.--bibles in the churches, chapter xi. some english and scotch preachers. dean farrar in westminster abbey.--mr. haweis and dr. wace.--spurgeon, parker, and hughes.--moravian mission house.--general booth.--scottish mind and scottish heart.--dr. marcus dods.--dr. george matheson.--dr. whyte and mr. black.--interview with professor sayce.--the inevitable subject, chapter xii. echoes of a spicy book on scotland. a unique prayer for prince charlie.--church-going in edinburgh.--the bibles, the sermons, the prayers, the music.--jenny geddes and her stool.--the disruption in .--a sermon-taster with a nippy tongue.--scottish and american repartee, chapter xiii. is the scottish character degenerating? "mine own romantic town."--the seamy side of edinburgh.--the cause of her wretchedness.--not lack of native ability, nor disregard of the sabbath, but the curse of strong drink.--appalling statistics.--a lesser menace, chapter xiv. stirling, the lakes, and glasgow. the wallace monument.--memorials of the martyrs.--margaret wilson.--the covenanters.--the author of "the men of the moss hags."--aberfoyle, the trossachs, loch katrine, loch lomond.--lord overtoun's garden party.--rev. john mcneill.--scotch humor.--glasgow.--the cathedral.--lord kelvin, chapter xv. oban, iona, and staffa. rude seas off the west coast.--a difficult landing.--the presbyter abbot, columba.--the evangelization of scotland from iona.--the burial place of the scottish kings.--the basaltic columns of staffa.--fingal's cave.--nature's cathedral.--the caledonian canal, chapter xvi. inverness and memories of flora macdonald. a clean and comely city.--the statue of flora macdonald.--the career of a royal adventurer.--a fugitive in the hebrides.--a woman to the rescue.--feminine courage and resource.--flora macdonald as prisoner.--her marriage.--she entertains dr. johnson and boswell.--moves to north carolina.--misfortunes in the new world.--her return to scotland and her last days, chapter xvii. from scotland to england--western route. in and around perth.--quhele, shoe heel and maxton.--crieff and drumtochty.--loch leven.--ayr and robert burns.--dumfries, keswick, skiddaw.--the english lakes.--chester.--lichfield and dr. samuel johnson.--the shakespeare country.--the american window at stratford.--the english language as spoken in the birthplace of shakespeare and elsewhere, chapter xviii. a visit to rugby and a tramp to the white horse hill. tom brown's school days at rugby.--the rugby of to-day.--our expedition to tom brown's birthplace.--the highest horse we ever mounted.--the roman camp.--king alfred's defeat of the danes.--the manger and the dragon's hill.--the blowing stone.--the effect upon our appetites.--the tea we did not drink.--return to oxford.--london once more, chapter xix. the most interesting building in the world. the birthplace of the shorter catechism.--the coronation postponed.--westminster abbey still closed.--the assembly of divines.--the two places of meeting.--the two types of worship.--interior of the jerusalem chamber.--exterior of the jerusalem chamber.--connection of henry iv., sir thomas more, joseph addison, and sir isaac newton with the jerusalem chamber.--architectural glory of westminster abbey.--its historical interest.--coronations.--the stone of scone.--burials.--monuments.--pagan sculptures in a christian church, chapter xx. the royal chapels in westminster abbey. a hard-hearted verger.--a courteous sub-dean.--the wax effigies.--mutilated monuments.--monuments denied to notable persons.--the objection to milton.--general meigs and president davis.--the vindication of cromwell.--treatment of his dead body.--history of his head.--his statue at westminster, chapter xxi. the cathedrals versus the gospel. original significance of the cathedrals.--their Æsthetic influence.--their romanizing tendency.--their charm for the greatest of the puritans.--a half-reformed church.--relics of romanism.--effect of cathedrals on presbyterian worship.--superior impressiveness of protestant simplicity, chapter xxii. some things for high churchmen to think about. the use of written prayers.--the huguenot presbyterians in canterbury cathedral.--scuffle between the archbishops of canterbury and york.--the concomitants of anglican worship.--the intoning.--canon henson at st. margaret's.--his remarks on anglican narrowness.--what he could see in virginia.--decreasing attendance in the anglican churches in london.--an episcopalian estimate of presbyterian preaching, chapter xxiii. paris and memories of the huguenots. the english channel as a health resort.--the external beauty of the french capital.--what we did not like about paris.--the louvre and its treasures.--the boer generals.--the huguenot name and the huguenot character.--palissy the potter.--other huguenot heroes and heroines.--a roman catholic's condemnation of roman catholic persecutions.--france's loss the world's gain.--what we owe to the huguenots.--the huguenot strain in virginia.--the present huguenot revival in france.--brussels and waterloo, chapter xxiv. the making of holland. unique interest of holland.--a land below sea-level.--water as an enemy.--dykes as protectors.--how dykes are made.--sand dunes.--canals.--wind-mills.--polders.--entering holland.--the scenery and the scenes.--rotterdam and erasmus.--delft and william the silent.--the hague.--rembrandt's "school of anatomy."--a presbyterian queen.--a presbyterian preacher as prime minister.--unpresbyterian church buildings.--would the destruction of all the cathedrals have been a loss or a gain? chapter xxv. leyden's university, haarlem's flowers, and amsterdam's commerce. the great siege.--a university as a reward of valor.--john robinson and the pilgrim fathers.--horse flesh as food.--haarlem and the flower boom.--amsterdam's islands and canals.--a city built on stakes.--business of amsterdam.--president kruger at utrecht.--queer customs in holland.--the dutch mania for cleanliness.--mr. edward bok on "the mother of america," chapter xxvi. up the rhine and over the alps. cologne and coblentz.--the vintage of the rhine valley.--wiesbaden and the german woods.--the luther monument at worms.--wintry weather at heidelberg.--strasburg's cathedral and clock.--switzerland in winter-time.--the lion of lucerne.--a cold day on the lake.--over the alps.--snow in italy.--milan, chapter xxvii. venice, bologna, florence, and pisa. the queen of the adriatic.--the fallen campanile.--fra paolo sarpi, the greatest of the venetians.--busy bologna.--the leaning towers.--the colonnades.--the oldest university.--galvani and his frog.--the flower of fair cities.--art treasures of florence.--the reformer before the reformation.--martyrdom of savonarola.--pisa's four monuments, chapter xxviii. some little adventures by the way. letter-writing under difficulties.--an exemplary traveller.--a mild sensation in leyden.--a german baby-cart out of its element.--something new in venice.--no place for wheels.--gondolas and gondoliers.--wonderful dexterity with a single oar.--a scattering of baggage on the streets of cologne.--disastrous descent of a baby-cart from the top of an omnibus.--extortion and fraud in sacred places, chapter xxix. relics in general and the iron crown of lombardy in particular. mark twain's animadversions.--the palladium of venice.--the gift of leo xiii. to london.--the blood of st. januarius.--the house of the virgin at loretto.--the wonder-working bones of st. anne in canada.--the iron crown of lombardy.--a winter trip to monza.--the treasury of the cathedral.--the chapel of the great relic.--why the crown is so sacred.--how it was used by charlemagne and napoleon.--rome caps the climax.--do american roman catholics believe in the relics? chapter xxx. roman catholic relics at rome. the miraculous snow in summertime.--the holy cradle.--the little doll that owns a large carriage.--the wealth and power of the miraculous bambino.--the communion table used by christ.--the holy stairs from pilate's palace.--the man who crawled up and walked down.--the miraculous portrait and the shoes of christ.--the inscription on the cross and the finger of thomas.--a bottle of the blood of christ.--exclusion of women from holy places.--the hardness of st. peter's knees.--the hardness of st. peter's head.--what the head of st. paul did.--st. paul's use of plautilla's veil.--the footprints of christ in stone.--the chains of st. peter.--the column against which christ leaned in the temple.--the chair of st. peter.--the lance that pierced the saviour's side.--the napkin of st. veronica with the miraculous impression of our lord's face.--the head of the apostle andrew, chapter xxxi. the legends, the popes, and the pasquinades. the manufacture of st. philomena.--the canonization of buddha.--the courteous spaniard.--the miracles of st. dominic.--miracles wrought by other saints and images.--how the papal treasury was filled, and how it was emptied.--some ugly passages in papal history.--pasquino's view of the pope.--what the italians now think about it.--few men and many women at the confessional.--lord macaulay, charles dickens, mr. gladstone, mr. mccarthy and nathaniel hawthorne on the influence of romanism.--the new pope a good man, chapter xxxii. the old forces and the new in the eternal city. an audience with the pope.--"long live the pope-king!" the pope's last jubilee in st. peter's.--our quarters on the pincian hill.--the sweep of history seen from the janiculum.--the colosseum and the baths of caracalla.--the papal passion for terrestrial immortality.--the building boom under the new government.--can the new government maintain itself against the priests? chapter xxxiii. the two types of religion in rome. the cappucin cemetery.--some differences between america and italy.--the playful inquisition.--the relative rank of the deities worshipped in rome.--the fee of the visitor more important than the soul of the worshipper.--sensuality versus spirituality in art.--the kind of character produced.--the other type.--an apostolic preacher in rome.--a wise and loving pastor, chapter xxxiv. the inexhaustibleness of rome. the most interesting city in the world.--the embarrassment of riches.--boundless wealth of materials.--the appian way, the catacombs, the ecclesiastical statues.--the remains of classical rome: the arches, the columns, the tombs, the statues.--the masterpieces of sculpture and the masterpieces of painting in rome.--the best books about rome.--lord mahon and professor lanciani on the last of the stuarts.--ave roma immortalis, chapter xxxv. naples, capri, vesuvius, amalfi, and pompeii. beauty and filth.--danger and indifference.--street scenes in naples.--the blue grotto of capri.--the ascent of vesuvius.--a stream of liquid fire.--hard climbing through cinders.--driven back from the crater by sulphur fumes.--the most beautiful drive in the world.--the loveliness of amalfi.--the ruins of pompeii.--story of the catastrophe.--the work of exhumation.--the return voyage by gibraltar and the azores.--there is no place like home, illustrations. westminster abbey and jerusalem chamber, _frontispiece._ the house of parliament, london, clare college and king's chapel, cambridge, sir walter scott's seat in melrose abbey, drill of highlanders, edinburgh castle, princes street, edinburgh, monument to margaret wilson, stirling, statue of flora macdonald, inverness, magdalen college, oxford, poets corner, westminster abbey, a stranger in leyden, the lion of lucerne, the doge's palace, venice, the bambino, scala santa, rome, kings of england and italy in rome, panorama of naples, a windy day on mount vesuvius, on the road to amalfi, colonnade of hotel cappuccini, pompeii, a year in europe. chapter i. a cold summer voyage. southampton, england, _june , _. [sidenote: a pleasant memory.] an american traveller says that a sea voyage, compared with land travel, is a good deal like matrimony compared with single blessedness: either decidedly better or decidedly worse. with me, on my first voyage to europe a few years ago, it was, like my own venture in matrimony, decidedly better. we sailed from new york on a brilliant day, and nearly all the way over the weather was bright, bracing, buoyant, with blue sky above, blue sea beneath, and just enough motion of the water to give it all the fascination of changing beauty. only once or twice did even our least seasoned passengers need "some visible means of support," on account of the rolling of the ship, and when we struck the gulf stream, deep blue and warm, it was pleasant on deck even without wraps, and i remember the captain's telling me he had seen the temperature of the water change thirty-one degrees in two minutes, when he would pass from the gulf stream into a colder current, though we ourselves had no such experience then. day after day we lounged on deck restfully, or walked about comfortably, taking deep and leisurely inhalations of the pure ocean air, and having frequent opportunity to learn the meaning of "cat's paw" as applied to winds, when, under the gentle dips of air, the placid ocean took on a pitted appearance exactly like the tracks made by cats' feet in soft snow. [sidenote: a depressing start.] our present voyage has been very different, and i fear that some of the young people with me, who are familiar with my impressions of the former passage, have felt some disappointment with the ocean. the circumstances of our start were depressing, notwithstanding the animation of the scene at the north german lloyd pier, with its throng of carriages, baggage wagons, trucks, trunks, tourists' agents, passengers, and friends who had come to see them off, and who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted farewells and sang german songs, while the band on the _bremen_ played inspiring airs, and her own hoarse whistles capped the climax of the din, as the tugs pulled the great ship out into the river, and turned her prow towards the ocean, and her ponderous engines began to throb. it was all in vain. nothing could make it seem cheerful. the rain was pouring steadily and heavily from leaden skies, and just outside the harbor we ran into an opaque fog that shrouded all the beauty of the sea, and made it necessary for the fog horn to sound its prolonged, mournful, ominous, and nerve-racking blast every minute through the rest of the day and night, to avoid collision with other vessels groping through the deep. it was a comfort to recall the hymn we had used in the family circle the morning we started from home-- "let the sweet hope that thou art mine my life and death attend, thy presence through my journey shine and crown my journey's end"-- and to commit ourselves to the care of him who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and to whom the darkness and the light are both alike, and to whom the night shineth as the day. [sidenote: discomforts at sea.] for several days the sea was "a gray and melancholy waste," and, when at length the weather cleared, a cold wind--very cold and cutting and persistent--blew hard from the northwest, making our side of the deck intolerable, even with our heaviest winter clothing and a great profusion of wraps, so that it was hardly a surprise to us, when about half way over, to see in the distance what we took to be an iceberg glistening cold against the horizon--very interesting, of course, as compared with the steamships, sailing vessels, and schools of porpoises, which are the usual variations of the monotony of the waterscape--but also very uncomfortable. moreover, the wind made the sea so rough at times that the tables in the dining saloon were more than once quite "sparsely settled," not a few people "wanted the earth," and longed for _terra firma_--less terror and more firmer, as a friend of mine once put it. one or two even of our own party, who, though good "tar heels," are not equally good "tars," paid reluctant tribute to neptune. reluctant, did i say? yet it was done eagerly, as though the persons in question "could not contain themselves" for joy, or novelty, or some other emotion. i find it difficult to write of this curious little malady, which baffles the skill of all physicians, with sufficient plainness, and, at the same time, with sufficient reserve. the most delicate reference to it on record was that of a frenchman, who, pale and miserable, was greeted by a blooming englishman with "good morning, monsieur, have you breakfasted?" and replied, "no, monsieur, i have not breakfasted. on the contrary." three or four of our immediate party, however, did not miss a meal on the whole voyage, but "held their own" throughout, and were able to "navigate" every day. moreover, while the rude seas robbed us of the exhilaration which i had always heretofore associated with an ocean voyage, we had on board many bright and attractive things which went far to counterbalance the effect of the chilly and depressing weather. [sidenote: life on a german steamship.] the _bremen_ is a staunch and comfortable ship; not one of the atlantic greyhounds, which are built slender and comparatively light in order to great speed--but all the better for that, as her vast bulk and heavy cargo give her a degree of steadiness unknown to the express steamers, and her appointments are in every way equal to those of the fastest ships afloat. she takes nine days for the trip from new york to southampton, and in ordinary weather that is none too long for the average passenger. it was no fault of hers that our journey was not a comfortable one throughout. it could not have been so in any ship with such weather as we had the misfortune to encounter. of course, everything on board is german. the stewards can speak enough english for all necessary purposes, though one of them, when asked a question by a member of our party, made the naive reply, "i do not hear well in english." one is soon initiated into the mysteries of marks and pfennigs, and begins to pick up sundry guttural german words and phrases. being german, of course the ship has plenty of music, a cornet band discoursing lively airs on deck about the middle of every forenoon, and a string band playing during the dinner hour in the saloon, while the passengers munch in unison. the catering department is organized on the assumption that the chief occupation of people on shipboard is eating, sandwiches and hot beef tea being served on deck in the forenoon, and tea and biscuits of various kinds in the afternoon, in addition to the three very elaborate set meals in the saloon, the lavish abundance of which is provoking to the squeamish passenger. a teutonic bugler, with fully developed lungs, gives the signals for the meals. on sunday morning the passengers are wakened by the strains of luther's "ein feste burg ist unser gott." the management of the ship throughout is characterized by german thoroughness, and the organization and discipline are perfect. shuffle board, ring pitching, and other deck games, and letter-writing, chess, and other amusements indoors, more or less innocent, serve to while away part of the time. ordinarily, reading is my main resource in this way, but the cold weather and searching draughts, making it impossible to find a reasonably comfortable spot to sit down in with a book, reduced my reading on this trip to a minimum. [sidenote: the unification of the world.] various nationalities were represented in our ship's company, the anglo-saxon predominating. this reminds me of the fact that the ocean has played no small part in the unification of the world as thus far accomplished. nothing, perhaps, distinguishes the modern world more sharply from the ancient than its views of the ocean. to the ancients the sea was a mystery and a terror; it was a barrier, it separated men. to the moderns the sea is a highway, a means of communication, it unites men. the nearest approach to a unification of the race in ancient times was effected by the law of the roman and the language of the greek. the unifying force to-day is the anglo-saxon, who to the genius of the roman for conquest and government, and to the genius of the greek for letters and art, has added the genius of the ph[oe]nician for commerce and the genius of the hebrew for religion. here we touch the secret of his ascendancy. the anglo-saxon civilization is _christian_. his language is becoming the universal language. his institutions are becoming the universal institutions. his ships carry the passengers and produce of the world. his capital dominates commerce. london is the clearing-house of the world. will this unification continue? will it endure? it will if the religion to which the anglo-saxon owes his preëminence remains preëminent in his civilization. the brotherhood of man--how else shall it ever be fully and permanently brought about, except through men's knowledge of the fatherhood of god? and how can the fatherhood of god ever be known except through him who taught us to say, "our father," and of whom the father said, "this is my beloved son in whom i am well pleased. hear ye him?" it is no accident that the nations which have most reverently heeded this divine command, the nations which are most truly christian, are the nations which have hitherto stood in the forefront of the foremost civilizations of mankind, and are the nations which now hold the future. "jesus shall reign where'er the sun does his successive journeys run, his kingdom stretch from shore to shore till moons shall wax and wane no more." the force which will bind all men in a real and permanent union is no mere knowledge of navigation, nor is it anglo-saxon commerce, laws, or language; it is the christian religion. [sidenote: all's well that ends well.] the latter part of our voyage was less trying than the earlier, and the days were generally brighter, though still cold. yet all were glad when one night, about nine o'clock, the intermittent gleam of the lighthouse on the scilly islands came into view, assuring us that the voyage would soon be ended. next morning we were steaming along the picturesque south coast of england, with the white chalk cliffs and velvety green downs in plain view through the tender blue haze, the water was quieter and the weather warmer, and in a few hours more we entered the solent, passing on our right, almost within a stone's throw, "the needles," three white, pointed rocks of chalk, at the western extremity of the isle of wight, which rest on dark colored bases and spring abruptly from the sea to a height of a hundred feet, and which are in striking contrast with the vertically striped cliffs of red, yellow, green, and grey sandstone behind them. at last the great engines cease their throbbing for the first time in nine days, the tender comes alongside for the passengers bound for great britain, and in another half hour we set foot on the soil of england, in the ancient city of southampton. chapter ii. a visit to the town of dr. isaac watts. southampton, england, _june , _. southampton, the ancient seaport at which travellers to europe by the steamships of the north german lloyd line first set foot on british soil, is a place of considerable interest at any time, but was especially attractive to us after a cold and uncomfortable voyage across the atlantic. the day of our arrival was fine, with blue sky and genial sunshine, the water of the solent, between the isle of wight and the mainland, was free from the ocean swell, and southampton water was quieter still, so we landed with thankful hearts and rising spirits. the city, which is a place of some , inhabitants, owes its importance to its sheltered harbor and to the phenomenon of double tides, which prolong high water for two hours. [sidenote: historical interest of southampton.] this mention of the tides reminds me to say that southampton is the place where canute the dane is said to have given his famous rebuke to his flattering courtiers. all the children who have read any english history will recall the story. they are familiar, too, with the hard-hearted action of william the conqueror in laying waste an area of one hundred and forty square miles in this neighborhood for the purpose of making a hunting ground, which has ever since been known as the new forest, and which still stretches westward from southampton water. it will be remembered that the conqueror's son and successor, william rufus, met his death here, being found one day in these woods with an arrow through his heart. that arrow may have been shot by one of the many peasants who had been driven from their homes when the new forest was made, though most writers attribute the deed, without sufficient proof, to a gentleman named walter tyrrell. at any rate, here william rufus was killed, and at winchester, thirteen miles from southampton, he was buried under the floor of the cathedral, "many looking on and few grieving," as the old chronicler says. of still more interest to young readers, especially boys, who are familiar with sir walter scott's stories, _the talisman_ and _ivanhoe_, is the fact that the crusaders under richard the lion hearted, sailed from southampton for the holy land. that was in . in the summer of , however, a far more important expedition, though far less spectacular, was fitted out at southampton by the hiring of a ship here called the _mayflower_, in which shortly afterwards the pilgrim fathers sailed for the new world. it will be seen, then, that southampton is a place of no small historical interest, to say nothing of its associations with edward iii., henry v., and charles i., or its being the birthplace of sir john e. millais, the artist, or of its having fine statues of lord palmerston and "chinese" gordon. [sidenote: chief distinction of the town.] but it was not on account of any of these things that we determined to give to this place the first few hours we were to spend in england. the special reason for our interest in southampton is that it was the birthplace and residence of the greatest hymn writer that ever lived, a man of totally different physique, character, gifts, and influence from the able, but bloody kings with whose names the earlier history of the place is associated, a small, delicate, scholarly, christian man, of lovely spirit, who, by exactly antipodal methods, has established a wider, more real, more beneficent, and more lasting reign over human hearts than william or richard were able to achieve--the rev. isaac watts, d. d., whose simpler pieces for children have become household words throughout the english-speaking world, such as, "hush, my dear, lie still and slumber," "let dogs delight to bark and bite," "how doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour," etc., and who, as even a supercilious and grudging critic like matthew arnold admitted, wrote the finest hymn in the english language, "when i survey the wondrous cross," and very many others of scarcely inferior merit. he was the author of various able treatises on philosophy and theology, but it was the thought of what he had done for the world by his hymns that caused us to stop at southampton. so, mounting the winding stairway to the top of the "double-decker" electric tram car, much better adapted to sightseeing than our single-story street cars in america, we were carried smoothly and quickly up the bright and busy high street, gaily decorated for the coronation, and in a few minutes passed under the great stone arch of the bar gate, the most interesting portion of the ancient city wall. the modern city, of course, stretches far beyond the walls, street after street of clean and attractive houses, with a profusion of brilliant flowers and neatly trimmed greenery, shut in from the street, in many cases, by high stone walls, over which, however, we can easily see from our elevated position. [sidenote: sketch of the great hymn-writer.] presently, in the centre of a small park, which opens on the left with velvety grass and fine trees, we see the object of our search, a marble statue of a very small and wizened man, of benevolent face and venerable appearance, with a bible in his hand, and on the pedestal in bold letters the name, "rev. isaac watts, d.d." he was born in , was devoted to books from his infancy, and began to learn latin when four years old. afterwards, as a youth he became so proficient at school that friends proposed to provide for his support at the university (he was the eldest of nine children, and the family, while not indigent, was not rich), but he declined the offer because he could not conscientiously belong to the church of england. he cast in his lot with the dissenters, and became one of the promoters of that mighty and beneficent force in english religious and political life known as "the nonconformist conscience." that his education did not suffer from the choice he then made is clear from his later work. dr. samuel johnson, who was a stiff churchman, with no love for dissenters in general, is constrained, in his work on _english poets_, to pay a warm tribute to dr. watts' remarkable attainments, and says it was with great propriety that in he received from edinburgh and aberdeen an unsolicited diploma, by which he became a doctor of divinity. dr. johnson adds a remark, which is commended to the earnest attention of american colleges, which have done so much to bring honorary degrees into contempt by their promiscuous bestowment, "academical honors would have more value, if they were always bestowed with equal judgment." he says further that dr. watts was one of the first authors that taught the dissenters to court attention by the graces of language. "whatever they had among them before, whether of learning or acuteness, was commonly obscured and blunted by coarseness and inelegance of style. he showed them that zeal and purity might be expressed and enforced by polished diction." of his talents in general the same discriminating writer says that "perhaps there was nothing in which he would not have excelled if he had not divided his powers to different pursuits," and of his character, that he admired dr. watts' meekness of opposition and mildness of censure in theological discussion (qualities which no one could attribute to dr. johnson himself), and that it was not only in his book, but in his mind, that _orthodoxy_ was _united_ with _charity_. dr. johnson concludes his appreciation of him with this remark, "happy will be that reader whose mind is disposed, by his verses or his prose, to imitate him in all but his nonconformity," which shows both his exalted estimate of the man and his amusing dislike of the dissenter. but in nothing was the greatness of dr. watts' character more clearly shown than in his nonconformity; and his countrymen have continued to take his view of that matter in ever-increasing numbers, so that now more than half of the english people are nonconformists. but of that i shall have something to say at another time. chapter iii. salisbury, sarum, and stonehenge. salisbury, _june , _. for one who visits england as a student of history there is hardly a better starting point than southampton, as the most impressive of the druidical and roman remains in great britain are less than forty miles away, the capital city of alfred the great is only twelve miles distant, the whole surrounding region is closely associated with the saxon, danish, norman and plantagenet kings, and two of the most interesting cathedrals in england are within easy reach by rail. one of these cathedral towns, salisbury, we selected as a suitable place in which to spend quietly our first sunday in the old world, having landed at southampton saturday afternoon. so, after we had given a few hours to the principal sights of southampton, we took a train for salisbury, twenty-nine miles distant, and, after a short and delightful journey through the tranquil rural scenery, which is characteristic of southern england, reached our destination refreshed rather than wearied by our experiences since leaving the ship. [sidenote: a fascinating cathedral town.] we recognized the place, even before our train stopped, by the cathedral spire, which is feet high, the loftiest in england, and which dominates all views of the town. this richly adorned spire is one of three things which entitles this cathedral to special attention, the other two being, first, its lovely close, unsurpassed in size and beauty, a glorious expanse of velvety sward, shaded by lofty trees; and secondly, the uniformity and harmony of its architecture, making it the most symmetrical and graceful of all english cathedrals. the interior is less interesting, having no wealth of monuments like winchester, westminster, and st. paul's, and no profusion of stained glass windows like york. on sunday we attended service in the cathedral, and found it formal, cold and unsatisfying. i yield to no man in my admiration of the beauty of these vast and venerable cathedrals, but they have been in some respects a hindrance to vital religion, as i shall endeavor to show in a later letter. this one at salisbury was erected in the middle of the thirteenth century, so that for six hundred and fifty years it has been used continuously as a place of christian worship, first romish and now anglican. but on monday we made an excursion which took us back to a still more remote antiquity. one mile to the north of salisbury at old sarum (a name well known to students of english politics as that of the "rotten borough," which till had the privilege of sending two members to parliament, though without a single inhabitant), crowning a great hill which commands the surrounding country for miles, stands the vast, grass-clad earthworks of an ancient roman fortress, the largest entrenched camp in the kingdom. that is old, but we are bound for something older still, and so we continue our drive northwards. one great charm of the summer in great britain is the cool weather. the english people never have to endure the withering heats to which we are subjected in america. this year it has been much cooler even than usual. so, as we drive on through the june day, although the sun is shining brightly, the air is bracing and exhilarating. [sidenote: rural scenery in southern england.] another marked difference between this country and most parts of ours is the extraordinary finish of the landscape, due to scantiness of forests, absence of undergrowth, thoroughness of tillage, and especially the luxuriance and smoothness of the turf. the quiet beauty of rural england has a perpetual charm. when i was here some years ago it was may, the hawthorn hedges were in bloom, and the whole country was robed in tender green. before landing this time i felt some regret that we should not see it in the same lovely attire, thinking of the difference between early may and late june in america. but i find it even more beautiful than when i first saw it. the farmers were cutting the lush grass in some places, impregnating the air with the delicious fragrance of new-mown hay. in other fields the wheat was standing thick, with here and there a blaze of scarlet poppies, sometimes an acre or two in extent, a solid mass of brilliant red, no green or other color visible at all. still prettier, if possible, are the scattered poppy blooms in a field of half ripe grain, looking like ruby bubbles on a gently moving, sunlit sea. the youngsters in our party are interested to see horses hitched tandem to the wide hay wains in the fields, and to observe that when we meet a double team in the road, instead of being harnessed as two horses are with us, on each side of a tongue, here each of the two horses is in his own pair of shafts. nor are they slow to observe that teams always turn to the left in passing each other, instead of to the right as with us, and the same rule is observed in the running of trains on a double track railway. no frame houses are to be seen in town or country. we have not seen a wooden house since we landed. all are of brick or stone, though many of them in the country are covered with thatch, sometimes with clay tiles. but slate is more and more superseding these old-fashioned materials. this does not promote the cottager's comfort. slate roofs are hotter in summer and colder in winter than those of straw, and, of course, too, they are far less picturesque. i observe that many farmers thatch even their stone and brick fences to prevent the water from coming in and freezing, to the injury of the masonry. no wooden fences are seen, and few of wire. they are either living hedges of thorn or privet or the like, or they are walls of stone or brick. in short, the improvements look more substantial than ours, the agricultural methods more thorough, the country more finished, and, i should think, more comfortable to live in, in the material sense. very striking is the universal love of flowers. every little village yard, if but three or four feet wide, and every cottage window, however humble, has its rows of brilliant geraniums, and other ornamental plants. [sidenote: impressiveness of stonehenge.] and now, after a drive of nine miles, we reach salisbury plain, a name familiar to me from early boyhood from the title of a little book that used to be read in many homes, _the shepherd of salisbury plain_. as we came up, sure enough, there was a shepherd on one of the green slopes, with his flock and his shepherd dog. we give them but a glance, however, for our attention is instantly claimed by the object which we have come so far to see, stonehenge, "the most imposing megalolithic monument in britain," a group of great stones which seem originally to have been arranged in two concentric circles enclosing two ellipses, but some are now fallen. of the outer circle, which was one hundred feet in diameter, seventeen stones are still standing, with six of the great cap-stones over them. the largest uprights of the whole group, those near the centre of the circle, were twenty-two and a half feet high, and the transverse blocks were three and a half feet thick. these are, therefore, quite large stones, but it is not their size that gives them their interest. the ancient egyptians handled much larger stones than these. it is their antiquity, and the mystery, still unsolved, as to the purpose for which they were erected. were they placed here by the druids? if so, for what purpose? the name does not help us, _stonehenge_ being but a corruption of the saxon name, meaning "hanging stones." were they intended for a temple of the sun, or a calendar in stone for the measurement of the solar year, or a huge gallows on which defeated enemies were hung in honor of woden, or a sepulchral circle connected with the burial of the dead? no positive answer can be given, but the last mentioned view is now regarded as the most probable, and is confirmed by the existence in the immediate vicinity of great turf-covered barrows, or burial places. these barrows are of the bronze age, and to this same remote period stonehenge itself is referred by the best authorities. the present owner of salisbury plain has recently enclosed stonehenge with a wire fence and charges an admission fee of a shilling. the public resents this in the case of a unique and world-renowned monument, which for ages has stood in the open, freely accessible to all, and there was not a little satisfaction at finding that, as a sort of road ran along within a few feet of it, and as the closing or moving of this thoroughfare could not be permitted by the county authorities, the fence in question had to run so close to the famous cromlech, after all, that the proposed exclusion of the public without payment of a fee has amounted to very little. visitors can come so near, and can get so good a view of all that is to be seen that but few pay the fee and go inside the enclosure. [sidenote: other things of interest about salisbury.] we return to salisbury by a different road, which takes us for miles through the meadows of one of those "sweet and fishful rivers," which add so much to the quiet charm of the scenery, placid and clear, flowing softly not only between grassy banks but over grassy beds, the grass growing luxuriantly from the bottom, and being cut from the stream by the hay harvesters, as though it were on the open meadow. on reaching the town, i went to the market square to see the bronze statue of a man for whom i had always felt respect and admiration since studying his work on political economy when i was a student in college, mr. fawcett, a talented native of this place, who, though he had the misfortune to lose his sight early in life, by the accidental discharge of a gun in the hands of his own father, nevertheless became a student, a professor, an author, a man of affairs, a member of parliament, and postmaster-general of great britain--a fine example of the triumph of character and will over grievous limitations. it added to the interest of our visit to salisbury, and especially of our walk through the lovely grounds of the bishop's palace, to see this dignitary of the church of england in his clerical garb, with apron, knee breeches, and all, except that he was bareheaded, romping delightedly on the lawn with a little girl, probably his granddaughter, and to recollect that the bishop of salisbury, after bringing the wealth of his undoubted scholarship to his recent book, _the ministry of grace_, had declared, like dean stanley, bishop lightfoot and dean milman, that "throughout the early church, even at rome, and alexandria, down to the third century, the government of the church was presbyterian," thus going even farther than stanley, who says that "nothing like modern episcopacy existed before the beginning of the second century." it interested us also to recall that addison, fielding, and bishop burnet had resided here. so, considering these things, and those above mentioned, we all left salisbury reluctantly, declaring with one accord that it was an exceedingly interesting place, and wondering whether even winchester could equal it. chapter iv. winchester worthies: alfred the great, izaak walton, and thomas ken. winchester, _july , _. [sidenote: memorials of kings, good and bad.] unquestionably the most interesting town in the south of england to a student of history is winchester. it was the ancient capital of the kingdom, and teems with memories of alfred the great, canute, william the conqueror, and many of their successors. thorneycroft's fine bronze statue of alfred stands in the middle of the high street, and instantly catches the eye of any one looking up or down this central thoroughfare. as we paused in front of it for a few moments, i had the pleasure of hearing two little boys from america, who are travelling with me, recall alfred's diligence as a student, and his winning of the book offered by his mother as a prize; his invention of a candle chronometer, and of the lanthorn, as well as the familiar incident of the scolding given him by the neatherd's wife for his negligence in allowing her cakes to burn. the purity of his character, his self-sacrificing labors for his people, and the righteousness and prosperity of his reign have caused him to shine like a star in the long succession of english kings, who have too often been selfish, grasping, licentious or tyrannical. for example, in winchester cathedral, close at hand, lie the remains of hardicanute, the last danish monarch, who died of excessive drinking. the fact that a man is buried in a cathedral argues nothing here as to his piety. if he wore the crown, or won battles, or wrote poems, he is given a place in god's house, regardless of his character. but, besides men like hardicanute or william rufus, winchester cathedral boasts the possession of mortuary chests containing the bones of canute, egbert, ethelwulf, and other kings. there is a monumental brass on the wall in memory of jane austen the novelist, who is buried under the pavement. [sidenote: memorial of the gentle fisherman.] but by far the most interesting thing of this kind in the cathedral, is the floor slab which marks the resting place of izaak walton, the prince of fishermen ( - ), and the author of _the compleat angler_, concerning which it has been truthfully said that walton "hooked a much bigger fish that he angled for" when he offered his quaint treatise to the public. there is hardly a name in our literature, even of the first rank, whose immortality is more secure, or whose personality is the subject of a more devoted cult. not only is he the _sacer vates_ of a considerable sect in the religion of recreation, but multitudes who have never put a worm on a hook--even on a fly-hook--have been caught and securely held by his picture of the delights of the gentle craft and his easy, leisurely transcript of his own simple, peaceable, loving, and amusing character." when, on the outbreak of the civil war, he retired from business as milliner for men in london, he went to a place in the country which he had bought, but we are told that he spent most of his time "in the families of the eminent clergymen of england, of whom he was much beloved." he married twice, both wives being of distinguished clerical connection, the second, anne ken, sister of thomas ken, afterwards bishop of bath and wells. of thomas ken we shall have something in particular to say presently. as we strolled, after supper, along the banks of the itchen, from whose clear and grassy waters walton himself had drawn so many fish, it was interesting to come upon anglers plying his beloved vocation. by the way, long before the time of walton, there were people at winchester who were fond of fish, and oysters, too. we read that, before the reformation, the monks of netley abbey, twelve miles distant, were wont to keep their brethren at winchester supplied during lent with oysters from southampton water, they in return receiving forty-two flagons of ale weekly. enough has been said above to show that no church in great britain, outside of london, is richer in monuments than winchester cathedral. it has also the distinction of great size, being feet long, the longest nave in england. but the exterior is heavy, without a suggestion of the symmetry and grace of salisbury. [sidenote: wit in winchester college.] the other "lion" of winchester, also, has a very uninviting and even forbidding exterior. this is the ancient college, a school for boys, where alfred himself is said to have been educated, though william of wykeham refounded it in . the front of it looks like a prison, but within the quadrangles, and stretching far back to the river, are lovely grounds covered with grass as green and smooth as a velvet carpet. the best thing i saw here was the following inscription on the walls of a school-room, accompanied by the painted emblems which i mention below in brackets: _aut disce._ [a mitre and crosier, as the expected rewards of learning.] _aut discede._ [an inkhorn and sword, the emblems of the civil and military professions.] _manet sors tertia caedi._ [a rod.] which may be freely translated, "either learn, or depart hence, or remain and be chastised," though the pithy, alliterative rendering in vogue among the boys is better, "work, or walk, or be whopped" (_h_ silent in the last word). american boys would probably have rendered it, "learn, or leave, or be licked." the school has revenues of nearly $ , per annum. there are pupils. a number of them were having their supper as we passed through the dining-hall, eating from square beech-wood trenchers instead of plates, talking in shrill tones, and nudging and pushing each other just like american boys, unimpressed by the fact that the heavy, narrow tables from which they were eating were five hundred years old. how like boys it was to call the water pipe in the quadrangle, at which they wash their hands and faces, "moab," and the place where they blacked their shoes, "edom," because in psalm lx. , it is said, "moab is my wash-pot, i will cast my shoe over edom." [sidenote: a lovely churchman.] as we walked through the ancient cloisters we came upon another characteristically boyish thing, a name cut on one of the stone pillars in clear, strong letters--"tho ken "--and hardly anything in winchester interested me so much as this, for the boy who cut it there, nearly two hundred and fifty years ago, became afterwards the author of what we call "the long metre doxology," four lines which have been sung more frequently than any other four lines in the english language, and which for generations to come will express the praise of increasing millions. this doxology was written by ken as a concluding stanza to his famous morning, evening and midnight hymns, the best known of which, perhaps, is his evening hymn, "glory to thee, my god, this night." but there are other reasons why it was a pleasure to be vividly reminded of ken at winchester. he was a man of singularly modest, sweet, and lovable disposition. macaulay says that his character approached, "as near as human infirmity permits, to the ideal perfection of christian virtue." yet he was no weakling, and on two notable occasions he showed that, mild and gentle as he was, he was also firm and fearless. when the profligate charles ii. was at winchester, waiting for the completion of his palace there, he requested ken, then prebendary at winchester, to lend his house temporarily to the notorious nell gwynn, the king's mistress. ken refused to let such a person have his house. charles does not seem to have resented the affront, for he afterwards made ken bishop of bath and wells. it is one of the abominations of the english union of church and state, that a thoroughly depraved man like charles ii., if he succeeds to the throne, becomes _ipso facto_ the head of the church of england. by the way, the altar books in black letter in winchester cathedral were presented to the church by this same graceless charles ii. things get badly mixed under such a system as that of the church of england. [sidenote: ken's defiance of james ii.] the second occasion on which ken showed that, notwithstanding the infelicities of the national church, she does have men who will stand for god against the king when necessity arises, was when james ii., without calling parliament, issued what he called a declaration for liberty of conscience, the real aim of which was to put england again under the yoke of romanism, and ordered that this declaration should be read in every cathedral and church in the kingdom. ken and six other bishops refused, and they were arrested, and committed to the tower of london. instantly a blaze of popular indignation burst forth. enormous crowds assembled to see the seven bishops embark, the shore was covered with crowds of prostrate spectators, who asked their benediction, as did also the very soldiers sent to arrest them. the bishops bore themselves well throughout, and, a few days after, when they were tried in westminster hall, and the verdict "not guilty" was brought in, there was a tumultuous outburst of joy. thus ken bore his bold and manly part in the revolution, which finally swept the stuarts from the throne, and delivered england, for the time, from the menace of romish domination. winchester, then, with her ancient cathedral and her ancient school, with her alfred the great, her izaak walton, and her thomas ken, with her wealth of heroic, and gentle and saintly memories, has given us two of the most profitable days of our sojourn in southern england. chapter v. the ugliness and the charm of london. london, _july , _. vastness and dinginess are the two features of london which make the deepest impression upon the visitor from america. byron's description is exact-- "a mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping in sight, then lost amid the forestry of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping on tip-toe through their sea-coal canopy; a huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown on a fool's head--and there is london town." up to the time of sir richard whittington, in the sixteenth century, the burning of coal in london was considered such a nuisance that it was punished by death. a dispensation to burn coal was first made in favor of whittington, and this innovation on his part has affected the great city, of which he was four times lord mayor, infinitely more than the success of his celebrated venture in bringing up and selling a cat, which enabled him to lay the foundation of other investments. yet the story of the cat is known to boys and girls the world over, while the story of the coal is known to comparatively few, even of their elders. coal serves the same purposes in london that it does elsewhere, of course. but, while elsewhere it warms only thousands of people, and makes steam for only thousands of factories, locomotives, and steamboats, here it warms and works for more than five millions. the output of smoke from this unparalleled consumption of coal is, of course, something enormous, and when we consider that the weather itself is frequently, perhaps i may say generally, dull, heavy and thick, with an amount of clouds and rain unknown to our brilliant american climate, it is not strange that the fogs of london are the thickest and most dangerous in the world, sometimes producing complete darkness at midday, and necessitating the lighting of the gas, as though it were midnight, and at other times producing a peculiar gloom, which is so impervious to light itself that the traffic of the streets has to be stopped for hours. nor is it strange that the city is begrimed to an extraordinary degree from one end to the other. [sidenote: the Æsthetic value of soot.] i have a friend in america, whom i sometimes jestingly call an "anglomaniac," because he admires great britain and her belongings so much. i once accused him of trying to convince me that the sky was bluer and the grass greener in canada than in the united states--and who speaks of the blackness of the london buildings as "richness." it is interesting to find that he is supported in this view by some of the best writers on london. hare, for instance, in speaking of st. paul's cathedral, emphasizes this point, "sublimely impressive in its general outlines, it has a peculiar sooty dignity all its own, which, externally, raises it immeasureably above the fresh, modern-looking st. peter's at rome. g. a. sala says, in one of his capital papers, that it is really the better for 'all the incense which all the chimneys since the time of wren have offered at its shrine, and are still flinging up every day from their foul and grimy censers.' here and there only is the original grey of the stone seen through the overlaying blackness." nathaniel hawthorne, too, says, "it is much better than staring white; the edifice would not be nearly so grand without this drapery of black." by the way, the whole cost of st. paul's, which was nearly four million dollars, was paid by a tax on every chaldron of coal brought into the port of london, "on which account it is said that the cathedral has a special claim of its own to its smoky exterior." whatever one may think of these views, as to the æsthetic value of soot on great stone buildings like st. paul's, it must be admitted by all that london, as a whole, is intensely ugly. henry james, speaking of one of the fashionable quarters of the city, says, "as you walk along the streets, you look up at the brown brick house-walls, corroded with soot and fog, pierced with their straight, stiff window-slits, and finished, by way of cornice, with a little black line resembling a slice of curbstone. there is not an accessory, not a touch of architectural fancy, not the narrowest concession to beauty." in the indictment thus brought against one quarter of the city, it will be observed that there are other counts besides the soot, such as the monotony and plainness of the architecture and the character of the building materials, and in both particulars london does compare very unfavorably with some other cities. [sidenote: brick vs. stone.] there are, of course, some very handsome stone buildings, such as the british museum, the new parliament buildings, many of the churches, and some of the government offices and private residences, but most of the houses are constructed of ugly brownish yellow brick, and capped with rigid rows of chimney pots. the same thing is true of english towns in general, and is one of the most obvious points of inferiority on their part to the cities and towns of scotland. of glasgow as it was in the eighteenth century, then, of course, but a small place in comparison with its present size, sir walter scott wrote, in _rob roy_, "the principal street was broad and important, decorated with public buildings of an architecture, rather striking than correct in point of taste, and running between rows of tall houses, built of stone; the fronts of which were occasionally richly ornamented with mason-work--a circumstance which gave the street an imposing air of dignity and grandeur, of which most english towns are in some measure deprived, by the slight, unsubstantial, and perishable quality and appearance of the bricks with which they are constructed." of the later glasgow of his time, hawthorne said, "it is the stateliest city in the kingdom." the adjective was well chosen. those solid, strong, stone-built scotch cities, glasgow, edinburgh, aberdeen, and others, are stately, as no english cities of brick are or can be; though there is also a suggestion of sombreness or severity about them, which seems to belong to that dour, grey land of the north; so that, after all, the scottish cities do not afford the strongest contrast to london's dingy masses of brick. to find that, we must look to some of the cities of the continent, especially paris, the cleanest, brightest, and most beautiful of all the great capitals of the world. the parisian climate is clearer, there is less fog and smoke, the houses are built of a white stone that gives the city a singular fairness to the eye, quite different from the rather gloomy greyness of the scottish cities, and, of course, antipodal to the brick and grime of london. moreover, the streets of paris, driven this way and that through squalid tenement districts by baron hausmann, in his renovation of the city thirty or forty years ago, are broad and splendid thoroughfares, abounding in pure air, bright sunlight and green trees, all as different as possible from the cramped and tortuous streets and alleys of the british metropolis. "london has had no aedile like hausmann." few things add so much to the attractiveness of great cities as handsome streets along the water fronts. in paris, on both sides of the seine throughout its entire course in the city, are broad, well-paved, and well-shaded _quais_, flanked by noble rows of stone buildings, while in london the victoria embankment is almost the only worthy improvement along the thames. this embankment is unquestionably a fine work, but as one walks along the broad stone pavement of it, the view he gets on the other side of the river is made up principally of dirty wharves and hideous warehouses. in many respects, also, london is untidy. orange peel, paper and trash are much in evidence. why should there not be street scavengers like those who keep even the small towns in france and germany quite free from that kind of litter? [sidenote: immensity and multitude.] strictly speaking, london is not a city, but, as madame de stael called it, "a province of brick," and it looks as though it might become a continent, for, though there are already more people in it than in the whole of scotland, and more than twice as many as in the whole of norway, it is still growing rapidly. it has more than three thousand miles of streets. in spreading thus, the great city has reached out to, and absorbed, many towns that once stood around it. by the way, this accounts, to some extent for the fact that so many streets in london have the same name. i venture to think that the most preposterous and vexatious system of nomenclature ever in vogue is that which has been employed for the streets of london. until quite recently there were different streets in this city bearing the name of new, church, union, york, john, george, and so on. of late some part of this infuriating ambiguity has been removed by certain changes, but enough of it still remains to baffle and puzzle the visitor, and to cause him the loss of much valuable time and some temper. [sidenote: the body is more than raiment.] i have not flattered london. the picture drawn above is repulsive. perhaps some of my readers are ready to ask whether such a place can be attractive. yes. bulwer says of it, in _ernest maltravers_, "the public buildings are few, and, for the most part, mean; the monuments of antiquity not comparable to those which the pettiest town in italy can boast of; the palaces are sad rubbish; the houses of our peers and princes are shabby and shapeless heaps of bricks. but what of all this? the spirit of london is in her thoroughfares--her population! what wealth--what cleanliness--what order--what animation! how majestic, and yet how vivid, is the life that runs through her myriad veins!" externally, paris is incomparably more beautiful than london, but the fundamental characteristics of the french people are not to be named with those of the british. the charm of london is deeper than that of paris; it wears better; it lasts longer. "sir," said dr. johnson to boswell, as they sat in the mitre tavern, in the centre of the city, "the happiness of london is not to be conceived, but by those who have been in it. i will venture to say there is more learning and science within the circumference of ten miles from where we sit than in all the rest of the kingdom." and again, "he who is tired of london is tired of existence." it is the history of the city and the character of the people, rather than the shape and color of their houses, that give london her abiding charm. and, with her vast treasures of literature, science, and art, what a paradise the great smoky city is to all readers and students, in spite of her wretched climate, and her oppressively dingy _tout ensemble_! it is only fair to add that the famous french sculptor, m. rodin, has recently been expressing his admiration for the smoky british metropolis, declaring that "nothing could be more beautiful than the rich, dark, and ruddy tones of london buildings, in the grey and golden haze of the afternoon." chapter vi. the english view of the fourth of july. london, _july , _. it is the custom of the american ambassador to england to give a reception every year, on the fourth of july, to any of his countrymen who may be sojourning in the british metropolis. being in london on the recurrence of that memorable date in , we made it our special business to attend this reception. it did not differ from the conventional affair of this kind. mr. and mrs. choate and their daughter received their guests with gracious cordiality. the house is a large one, well furnished, and worthy to be the home of the representative of the greatest nation in the world. all the great halls, wide stairways, and spacious parlors were thrown open as well as the large dining-room, on the first floor, where refreshments were served, and a wide spreading marquee on the terrace in the rear, where lively music was discoursed and these were all filled with people, well dressed, and, for the most part, well-bred ladies and gentlemen, the ladies predominating a company so numerous as to give one a very strong impression of the number of americans visiting london in the summer. this season may, indeed, have been exceptional, as the coronation of the king had been expected to take place in the latter part of june. but apart altogether from that, it would have been a large crowd, and it is certain that, under ordinary conditions, the number of our people visiting london steadily increases year by year, and that they feel at home there, as among their own kith and kin, to a degree unknown in any other of the european capitals. [sidenote: increasing friendliness between america and england.] speaking by and large, i believe that we like and trust the british people, and that they like and trust us. a marked change has come over the feelings of both peoples within the last quarter of a century. i remember well that when i was a boy, the school histories of the united states had the effect of making all the american boys hate the english. they were not informed that many of the english people, including some of their greatest statesmen, deprecated earnestly the oppressive acts of the british government which led to the american revolution, and that now the people of great britain are practically unanimous in the opinion that their government was wrong, and the americans right in that great conflict. if any reader doubts this, i beg leave to call his attention to some statements found in a pamphlet called "pictures from england's story," which i bought at a london news stand. it belongs to a series of such works called "books for the bairns," which are written by english authors for the instruction of english children, and which, though well printed, in clear, bold type, and copiously illustrated, are sold at the almost incredibly small price of one penny apiece. [sidenote: how the english now view the american revolution.] "most of the pictures which you will find in this book are pictures of english victories, but there is one picture, and that one of the most significant of all, of an english defeat. this is the picture of the battle of bunker's hill, that was fought in america. i want you to take particular notice of that picture, because, although the english were defeated, it was much better for them to be defeated than it would have been for them to have been victorious. you will often be told that you must always be glad when your country is victorious, but that is not true, for justice and right are greater than your country. when your country fights against justice, and against right, and against liberty, it is fighting against god, and even if it succeeds for the time being, it will always suffer in the long run. in the war which began with the battle of bunker's hill, england was in the wrong. every one admits that now, but at the time when it was fought, the king and his ministers, and most of the people of england, believed that they were in the right, because it was the cause of england, and england was the home of liberty, and it seemed to them quite absurd to think that the american farmers could have right on their side. but the american farmers were in the right. they were few, they were poor, they had no army, they had no king, and they had no parliament, and it seemed quite impossible to our forefathers of those days to think that such a small people could possibly stand up against the armies and the navies of great britain. but great britain was in the wrong. the americans were the english people who had gone across the sea to make new homes for themselves in another country, where they could be free to govern themselves in their own way, without interference from the british government. they were good people, honest, hard-working, pious folk, who had carried with them across the sea the english love of liberty and self-government. [sidenote: a fair statement of the question and the conflict.] "the english in england had been victorious in their war against france. they were governed by a german king, who was much less in sympathy with english ideas than were the americans, and he believed, and the majority of the english in england agreed with him at the time that the americans ought to be content to be governed by governors sent out from england, and should be willing to pay the taxes, which the english parliament ordered them to pay. now the english have always maintained that no king or government has a right to compel the people to pay any money for the support of the government unless the people consent to pay it. taxation without representation is tyranny, and the americans said, that as they had no voice in the election of the english parliament, which made the taxes, they were not bound to pay them. the english said, that whether they liked it or not, the americans must pay them. the americans said they would not. the english said they would make them, and they sent an army to america to compel the americans to pay the taxes, and to obey the king and parliament. in doing this they were sinning against the first principle of english liberty, and the americans took up arms to defend their liberty against the english soldiers. they met at bunker's hill, and, to the astonishment of every one, the undrilled farmers, who knew how to shoot, met and defeated the disciplined troops of england. england sent thousands upon thousands of men across the atlantic; they defeated the americans again and again; they burned their houses; they ravaged their country; they captured all their cities; but still the americans went on fighting, because they were of the true english breed, and they would rather lose their lives than give up the independence of their country. they were not independent at first, they were british colonists; but when they found themselves attacked by the british, they declared their independence, and formed themselves into a republic, without a king, or a house of lords, or an established church. [sidenote: what england learned from fighting against her own principles.] "the war went on for long years; it cost england a hundred millions of money, and thousands upon thousands of brave soldiers; but the english were fighting against their own english principles, which were defended by george washington and the americans with such bravery and heroism that at last the english, notwithstanding all their pride, and their wealth, and their power, had to give in, and own themselves beaten.... fortunately, we were defeated, and from our defeat we learned a great lesson, which we did not forget for nearly a hundred years. that lesson is that it is impossible to govern a white, freedom-loving people except by their own consent. we took that lesson to heart so much that for nearly a hundred years we never again attempted to compel our colonists to do anything they did not want to do. we gave them freedom, and let them govern themselves upon the true english principles which george washington fought for, and which george iii. fought against. the british empire, of which we are so proud to-day, exists because the principles of george iii. were knocked on the head at the battle of bunker's hill, and in the long war which followed it.... the united states of america are now a great nation, which is more numerous and more powerful than great britain." this candid and manly statement, made by an english author and published broadcast for the instruction of english children, is one of the most interesting things i have encountered in england, and i have thought it worth while to quote it here in the interests of a still better understanding between the two great nations of the same stock, and the same speech, and the same political ideals. a slighter indication of the same english breadth of view in regard to this question was given by the good ladies who have charge of the pleasant boarding house, on torrington square, which we have made our home on all our visits to london, and who, on the morning of the fourth of july, thought of it themselves, and had a tiny firecracker lying by the plate of each young american in our party when we came down to breakfast, besides other indications later in the day of their readiness, though themselves staunchly british, to enter sympathetically into the enthusiasm with which americans celebrate the natal day of our nation. a movement has been started in london to erect a statue of george washington. it was decided that the subscriptions should be confined to british subjects. archdeacon sinclair, in submitting the plan to the (puritan) society, said: "englishmen have at last fully recognized the great qualities of washington. i feel assured that nothing will be more popular in this country than such a tribute to that great man of english birth, who has done so much for the world's history, not only for the young nation across the sea, but for great britain as well." archdeacon sinclair announced that he was authorized to offer a place for the statue in st. paul's cathedral. but now i find that i have become so much interested in the statement of this reversal of british sentiment concerning the american struggle for independence, that i have left myself no space to speak of the burning question in england just now, in regard to which the government has taken a position, extraordinary as this may seem, which violates the same principles of liberty for which the americans fought, and so i must reserve that for another letter. _p. s._--since my return to america i have seen an interesting statement by the rev. r. j. campbell, of london, in regard to the steady increase of the pro-british feeling in the united states. he says that a book has just been published by an american barrister named dos passos, called _the anglo-saxon century and the unification of the english-speaking people_. this gentleman, although of spanish origin, is of american birth, and his interest in the future of his own country had led him to examine that of ours. he believes that the twentieth century is to be the anglo-saxon century, even more than the nineteenth, and the conditions of an alliance, as advocated by him, are as follows: . the dominion of canada voluntarily to divide itself into such different states, geographically arranged, as its citizens desire, in proportion to population, and each state to be admitted as a full member of the american union, in accordance with the conditions of the constitution of the united states. . to establish common citizenship between all citizens of the united states and the british empire. . to establish absolute freedom of commercial intercourse and relations between the countries involved, to the same extent as that which exists between the different states constituting the united states of america. . great britain and the united states to coin gold, silver, nickel, and copper money, not necessarily displaying the same devices or mottoes, but possessing the same money value, and interchangeable everywhere within the limits covered by the treaty, and to establish a uniform standard of weights and measures. . to provide for a proper and satisfactory arbitration tribunal to decide all questions which may arise under the treaty. much of this may seem chimerical and unsound, but there is certainly a feeling in this country which is influencing things in the direction of a better understanding, and a consciousness of a common destiny between the british empire and the united states. in private one is constantly meeting with expressions of it, and i may as well add that nothing has caused me more surprise than this one fact. one frequently hears the hope expressed that a common citizenship may one day be possible without any interference with the constitution of either country. this is a new idea to me, and may be a fruitful one some day. chapter vii. how the english regard the americans. london, _july , _. there are many indications of a better understanding, and an increasing confidence and regard between the two great english-speaking nations on either side of the atlantic. one such indication is the marked change of tone on the part of english writers in their references to their american cousins. the time was when, in british books and newspapers, americans were uniformly represented as coarse and loud. there are still too many americans, at home and abroad, who deserve to be so described, but the old contemptuous tone towards americans in general is found only in an occasional writer who lives chiefly in the past. for instance, mr. hare, the author of some of the best guide books for reading people that have ever appeared, such as his _walks in london_, and his _walks in rome_, seems still to regard the average american as the embodiment of bad taste and crass ignorance. in his book on florence, after speaking of various other hotels, and their picturesque locations, he says, "americans may possibly like the savoy hotel in the horrible piazza vittorio emanuele"; and in his book on rome he says it is depressing to hear americans, when asked their opinion of the venus de medici, say, "they guess they are not particularly gone on stone gals." but americans only smile as they read these things, remembering that hare is the same man who bewails the downfall of the papacy as a temporal power, and who believes that the emancipation and unification of italy by victor immanuel was a calamity, notwithstanding the steadily increasing prosperity of the people, and the steadily rising financial credit of the nation, and notwithstanding the fact that every unprejudiced observer acknowledges that the chief hindrance to still more rapid progress is the swarm of fat priests and monks who still infest italy, and in the interest of the papacy oppose the new and enlightened government at every turn. [sidenote: the english admit that america holds the future.] in short, hare's view of the average american is now such an anachronism as to entitle him fairly to be called a freak. he certainly does not represent his countrymen of to-day in their view of the spirit and culture of the american people. the usual tone of english reference to them is not only not contemptuous, but respectful and friendly, and in the case of the industrial and commercial enterprise of the americans there is even a tinge of fear in the tone in which the english refer to them. for example, a very able and candid english editor, in speaking of mr. andrew carnegie's address as rector of st. andrews university, last october, which he pronounces one of the most remarkable addresses ever delivered in great britain, practically admits that america has outstripped the mother country in this respect at least. he says, "mr. carnegie is a personage. a man who has risen from nothing to the summit of american finance is a man to be reckoned with. mr. carnegie is also a scotchman, and a devout lover of his country. it is no pleasure to him to contemplate the decadence of great britain. he is anxious to say the best he can for our country, and yet the one thing to be noted in his address is his immense, overpowering faith in america.... she has such resources, and is increasing so rapidly that nothing can stand against her. britain's employers are wanting in energy and enterprise, and the employed think too much of how little they need do, and too little of how much they can do. britain may maintain her present trade, but america will in the lifetime of many people have a population equal to that of europe to-day, excluding russia. america is not an armed camp, as europe is. it is one united whole at peace with itself, and enjoys immunity from attack, while in machinery its position is far ahead of others.... that a man so shrewd, successful and experienced as mr. carnegie, and so well disposed towards britain, should have come reluctantly to the conclusion that for britain there is no future, and for america there is the future of the world, is a fact of first-rate significance, and we should like to see how he is to be answered." this is a remarkably candid statement. [sidenote: english candor and english inconsistency.] in my last letter i said that the english people now frankly acknowledge that their forefathers were wrong in the war they waged against the american colonies, and openly rejoice in the victory achieved by washington and his associates on behalf of the principle of no taxation without representation, and i referred in closing to what seems to be a strange inconsistency on the part of many of the english people in upholding a policy at the present time, which involves a violation of the same principle. the thing referred to was the new education bill, perfidiously introduced into parliament by the tory party, at the instigation of certain leaders of the anglican church, at a time when that party had an overwhelming majority in the house of commons, a majority given it by the country for the specific purpose of bringing the war in south africa to a speedy and successful close, and when the electors never dreamed of that majority being used to promote sectarianism, and to oppress the consciences of a great body of the people. the object of the bill is to tax the whole population of england for the support of schools which are controlled, not by the people, but by the ritualistic clergy of the anglican church, or, as an evangelical clergyman of that church himself puts it, the intention of the measure is "to hand the education of the coming generations over to the romanizing priesthood of the anglican church." the mere suggestion of public support without public control ought to rouse the indignation of a free people. but the bill proposes a worse thing even than this, so far as the nonconformists are concerned, for they are not only to be asked to pay for the support of a religion they do not believe in, but also to hand over their children to its teachers, in order that they may be perverted. in other words, they are to be asked to pay for the destruction of their own religion. however apathetic some englishmen may be in the face of such proposals, that is the sort of thing that never fails to rouse liberty-loving scotland, and so, along with the earnest denunciations of the bill by various organizations of english free churchmen, it has been heartily condemned by all the great religious bodies of scotland. [sidenote: scotchmen and the education bill.] _saint andrew_, as the weekly organ of the church of scotland is called, says as to the origin, spirit and purpose of the measure, "there is no real meaning in calling the party in the english church, which is at present the most indefatigable, the 'high church' party. the party is romanist, pure and simple; and it is devoting itself to the uprooting of the protestantism of the young people of england.... can we wonder at the intelligent nonconformist revolting against his children being brought under the fatally sinister influence here referred to, and knowing the close connection between church and school, resolving that he will resist, with all his might, the perpetuation of a system in which general control of the public schools shall be in the hands of men who openly inculcate the doctrine of the corporeal presence, baptismal regeneration, prayers for the dead, the duty of confession, adoration of the cross; and who beguile the children of their schools to attend 'the sacrifice of the mass,' with the incense and candles, and all the other paraphernalia under which they have disguised the lord's supper?" the folly of the anglicans in this matter will hasten the fall of the established church of england. and in any case the nonconformists will not have long to wait, for they are steadily and rapidly gaining ground. in dissenters were, in comparison with churchmen, one to twenty-two, in , one to eight, and in , one to one. that shows that the day is not distant when real religious liberty shall be established in england, and all such bigoted legislation as this present education bill shall be swept from her statute books. meantime, it is certain that it will go on the books, notwithstanding its glaring injustice. there is not a doubt that mr. balfour's government will push the measure through, by means of the votes of its great war majority. the consequence will be that thousands of nonconformists will refuse to pay the rates, then the king's officers will seize and sell some of their property, and perhaps numbers of them will see the inside of prison walls before all is over. but they will make history in england. for, when men are sold out and imprisoned for the sake of conscience and religious liberty and a historic english principle, viz., that of public control of public funds--when these things occur, an idea will begin to penetrate to the average english mind, the english sense of fair play will be roused, and the english zeal for liberty kindled anew, to say nothing of the english instinct of self-preservation--and then the day of reckoning will have come. chapter viii. the british republic and the house of commons. london, _july , _. the nominal ruler of the british empire is his majesty, edward vii. the real ruler is the house of commons. though i was in great britain at the time of the coronation, and saw something of the pomp with which it was celebrated, i have not thought it worth while to occupy the time of my readers with descriptions of it, since it is only one of those glittering fictions which the english people see fit to preserve, notwithstanding their general good sense--a somewhat childish observance of outworn mediæval ceremonies, a foolish and expensive form. but certainly i ought not to quit the subject of the political ideas suggested by a sojourn in london, and especially by repeated visits to that most interesting portion of it, westminster, without some reference to the part it has played in developing the model of all the free governments of the world. for, as a british writer has truly said, westminster is historically the centre of politics, not for london and great britain only, but for the civilized world. "all civilized nations, both in europe and america, as well as all the british colonies, have now adopted the constitution which was here founded and developed, with a single head of the state and two chambers; though, with regard to the headship of the state and the upper chamber, the elective has, in the most advanced politics, been substituted for the hereditary principle, while in the cases of the united states and switzerland there is a federal as well as a national element. the roman imposed his institutions with arms upon a conquered world; a willing world has adopted the institutions which had their original seat at westminster. but the british constitution now means little more than the omnipotence of the house of commons. the immense edifice is still styled the palace; but the king who now dwells in the palace is the sovereign people." [sidenote: the houses of parliament.] for this reason it is more common now to speak of the palace of westminster as the houses of parliament. it is a vast and costly pile, one of the largest gothic buildings in the world, erected about fifty years ago, in the tudor style, at an outlay of fifteen million dollars. the extremely florid exterior is constructed of a limestone so perishable that already it costs ten thousand dollars a year to keep it in repair. tastes differ as to the merit of the architecture. some pronounce the building majestic and imposing. others say that at a little distance the river front looks like a large modern cotton mill. all agree that there is too much elaborate ornamentation. this is true of the interior, as well as the exterior, and, as some one has said, it is interesting to observe the attempt made to preserve a constitutional fiction by decorating with special gorgeousness that chamber of the house which has been stripped of all its power, viz., the house of lords. it is resplendent in the vivid red leather which covers the seats and backs of the straight benches, rising in tiers on the opposite sides, and in the sumptuous frescoes of the walls, the rich stained glass of the windows, and the excessive gilding of the ceiling. the leather on the benches in the house of commons is black, and there is less of magnificence in general than in the chamber of the peers, though it also is a rich interior. [illustration: the house of parliament, london.] yet neither of them makes an impression of spaciousness and grandeur, and, to one who has seen the noble halls in which our senate and house of representatives sit at washington, both of these legislative chambers of britain seem small and cramped. they are also mean and uncomfortable in their arrangements as compared with those of our congress. at washington each member has his own chair, and a desk for his books and papers. but here there are no desks, only rigid benches, upon which the members sit or loll, facing each other across the narrow chamber, the supporters of the government on the speaker's right, and the opposition on his left. worst of all is the fact that, though the combined science of the country was employed in the construction of these halls of session and debate, they are both wretched failures as to ventilation and acoustics, the house of lords being so bad in the latter particular that it used to be said that members went out to buy an evening paper in order to learn what the debate was about. [sidenote: getting into the lower house.] as the house of commons is king, we looked forward with eager interest to a visit to that potent body. at the instance of our good friend, dr. kerr, sir james campbell, a presbyterian member of the house from scotland, wrote us an invitation to visit the commons in session, but, when we reached the door, at the appointed hour, and sent in our cards through the line of policemen and doorkeepers, there was no reply. when we had waited some time, a gentleman in the crowd at the entrance accosted us, and asked if we were not americans, and if we did not wish to get into the house, both of which polite inquiries we answered with an eager affirmative. he said he thought he could arrange it for us, and, handing us his card, from which we learned that he was the london correspondent of a great american newspaper, he left us for a minute, and soon returned, accompanied by a friend of his, one of the irish members of the house, to whom we were introduced, and who promptly procured us permission to enter the visitors' gallery. at washington, any one who chooses can go into the visitors' gallery, and listen to the debates, but here there is a good deal of red tape. you must even register your name and address, besides being introduced by a member, before you can pass the turnstile and go in. [sidenote: the debate and the debaters.] we soon discovered that we were very fortunate in gaining admission just when we did, as the greatest question of the whole year, and, indeed, the greatest question that has been before the house for many years, was up, viz., the education bill, the object of which is to put the schools of england, for the support of which the whole population is taxed, under the control, not of the representatives of the public, but of the ritualistic clergy of the church of england; and in the course of this very afternoon nearly every prominent man in both of the great political parties was drawn into the discussion. when we entered, sir william vernon harcourt, the veteran liberal statesman, had the floor. among others who followed him on the same side of the house were mr. james bryce, the well-known author of _the holy roman empire_ and _the american commonwealth_, sir henry campbell-bannerman, the leader of the liberal party in the house, and mr. lloyd george, who has made the most active and brilliant opposition to this treacherous, sectarian measure. the irish roman catholics, who, of course, have voted steadily and solidly with the anglican high churchmen for this iniquitous bill, which strikes at the root of the fundamental republican principle of public control of public funds, were represented in the debate by john dillon. of the others who spoke in support of the bill, the two who interested me most were lord hugh cecil, the special patron of the measure, and his gifted cousin, mr. arthur j. balfour, the government leader of the house. the former, who, i believe, is the son of the veteran prime minister, lord salisbury, is a slender, pale, nervous young man, who advocates very narrow views in very good language, nervously pressing or wringing his slim fingers the while, and who is the special champion of the ritualists and reactionaries. far more able and far more interesting in every way is his accomplished kinsman, mr. balfour, who, a few days later, was appointed prime minister. he is a tall, ruddy, handsome scotchman, with a rare grace and charm of manner, and an exceptional air of high breeding, who speaks in a manly, straightforward way, with no trace of the bitterness, or even the heat so common in political discussions. when one notes the clearness of his mind, and the attractiveness of his address, it gives a keener edge to the regret that such a man should be on the wrong side of a great question like this. mr. balfour is well known to the sporting world as a golf player, and to the reading world as the author of a thoughtful book on _the foundations of religious belief_. it will interest the readers of this paper to know that he is a presbyterian, as sir henry campbell-bannerman, the leader of the opposition, also is. so that the leaders of both the great parties in the house of commons are scotchmen and presbyterians. one of the interesting consequences of great britain's having a presbyterian prime minister is, that under their system of the union of church and state, a presbyterian will appoint the bishops and archbishops of the church of england to the vacancies of those offices which occur during his premiership. this must be a very bitter pill for the extreme high churchmen. [sidenote: english and american oratory.] the failure of our arrangement with sir james campbell turned out to be the result of a misunderstanding, so he courteously renewed it for the following day, when his friend and fellow-member, mr. maxwell, who is also a scotch presbyterian, met us at the door, in the absence of sir james, and, after showing us again everything of interest about the houses, including the restaurant, and the wide and spacious terrace, running nearly the whole length of the building alongside the thames, where the members come, on fine afternoons, to drink their tea, ushered us into seats "under the gallery" of the house, which are regarded as the most desirable for visitors, since there the spectator is on a level with the speakers. the education bill was still under discussion, and we heard some good speaking, but not so good as i have heard at washington, and in the constitutional convention at richmond. the matter was generally good, but the manner was in most cases constrained, if not hesitating, and nearly all the members, including mr. balfour himself, have a habit of grasping the lapels of their coats, "taking themselves in hand," as some one has described it. in short, the speaking itself lacks the ease, freedom, fluency and force of our better american oratory. however, it is only fair to give, before closing, the estimate of a canadian writer, who is familiar with both london and washington, and who says: "the average of speaking is not so high in the house of commons as in congress; but the level of the best speakers is higher. american oratory almost always savors somewhat of the school of elocution, and has the fatal drawback of being felt to aim at effect. the greatest of english speakers, such as john bright, the greatest of all, or gladstone, create no such impression; you feel that their only aim is to produce conviction." one of the most striking things about the house of commons to the view of an american visitor is the well-groomed appearance of the members. they are invariably attired in faultless prince albert coats, often with a boutonniere on the lapel, and they all wear silk hats, which, by the way, they are not expected to take off during the sittings, except when addressing the house. it is said to be the best-dressed assembly in the world, and is in sharp contrast with the more democratic and unconventional, not to say slovenly, mode of dressing which obtains in our house of representatives, where the ordinary costume is a long, loose frock coat--sometimes even a sack--and a derby or felt hat. chapter ix. cambridge and her schools. cambridge, _july , _. the cathedral route from london to edinburgh takes one through an interesting stretch of eastern england, part of which is as flat as holland, with fens and canals and windmills, yielding, however, in the north to a more rolling country, vestibule, as it were, to the hills of scotland. as its name indicates, this route affords the opportunity of seeing in rapid succession the great cathedrals at ely, lincoln, york, and durham, not to speak of others. but nothing on this side of england equals in interest the university town of cambridge, with its twenty colleges and three thousand students, its venerable collegiate buildings, its far-famed "backs" (that is, the lovely lawns and stately avenues behind the colleges), its clear and placid little river, and its memories of great men and great causes. it is an exceptionally clean town, of some forty-five thousand inhabitants. [illustration: clare college and king's chapel, cambridge.] [sidenote: the two university towns.] oxford, farther west, is a somewhat larger city (about fifty-three thousand), with twenty-three colleges and about three thousand students, contains an unparalleled collection of picturesque academic buildings, and has some single features which are not surpassed anywhere, such as magdalen (pronounced maudlen) college, "the loveliest of all the homes of learning," addison's walk, the broad walk, and the "streamlike windings of that glorious street," to which wordsworth devoted a sonnet. but cambridge, too, has some features which cannot be paralleled, even in oxford. for instance, cambridge has, in trinity, the largest college in england. it has, in the chapel of king's college, a building of marvellous beauty; oxford cannot match it, nor can it be matched anywhere in england save by that "miracle of the world," the chapel of henry vii., in westminster abbey. the roll of cambridge's alumni is illustrious to a degree, having such names as bacon, erasmus, newton, milton, cromwell, macaulay, byron, thackeray, tennyson, wordsworth, harvey (discoverer of the circulation of the blood), darwin, and many, many others equally well known. [sidenote: cambridge more progressive than oxford.] but the chief difference between cambridge and oxford is in the spirit and influence of the two upon the nation and the world, and here the glory of cambridge excelleth. it used to be said in the fourteenth century, "what oxford thinks to-day, england thinks to-morrow." but, as a matter of fact, it is cambridge which has represented the true progress of england and her modern political and intellectual development, in such men as milton and cromwell, isaac newton and william pitt, darwin and tennyson. oxford has stood chiefly for the reactionary ideas of the high church anglicans. the difference was sharply marked in the great testing time of the seventeenth century, when the east supported the parliament, and the west supported the king. london and cambridge were the centres of the puritan strength, oxford was the capital of charles i. cromwell's home was but a short distance from cambridge, and he was a student at sidney-sussex college, where we had the pleasure of seeing his rooms, and the celebrated crayon portrait of him in the college hall. roughly, we might say, cambridge has stood for the parliament and the people, oxford for the king and the priests. at least, there has been more of the spirit of freedom, democracy and progress at the eastern university town than at the western. [sidenote: the presbyterian element.] that the same difference still exists was indicated to us by a simple fact. when we inquired at oxford for a presbyterian church, the maid-servant said, "that is protestant, isn't it?" she was evidently a romanist, but it is likely that most of the church of england people resident in oxford never heard of presbyterians, though our denomination is so much larger than theirs. oxford is the head centre of anglicanism, and there is no presbyterian church there, though the congregationalists and wesleyans are represented. but at cambridge we found a flourishing, though not yet a very large, church of our faith and order, under the pastoral care of a gifted and earnest man, the rev. g. johnston ross, whose addresses at the winona conference, in indiana, this summer, gave so much satisfaction. we had the pleasure of meeting him, and many of his people, at a pleasant garden party, to which all the presbyterians of cambridge were invited. by the way, we saw a thing in that church which we had never seen before. when the minister read the scripture lesson from the old testament, in the english version, the two ladies in whose pew we were sitting opened the hebrew bible, and followed the reading in that, and, in like manner, when the new testament lesson was read, they followed in the greek text. to these two ladies whose learning has been recognized by the universities of st. andrews and heidelberg, in the bestowment upon them of the degree of ll. d., and whose services to the cause of biblical learning, in the discovery and editing of the old sinaitic syriac manuscripts of the new testament, have made them famous throughout the world of scholars,[ ] we had a letter of introduction from a relative of theirs in virginia, who is a kind friend of ours. and thus we had the pleasure of meeting at their table some of the choice spirits of the university, including the professors in westminster college, which is the theological seminary of the presbyterian church in england. [sidenote: westminster college.] it was largely through the munificence of mrs. lewis and mrs. gibson, the two elect ladies referred to above, that this institution was transplanted from its former undesirable location, and established in the city of cambridge, thus bringing the puritan theology back to its original home in england. the financial agent who canvassed the english presbyterian churches for the supplementing of the donation of these two large-minded and large-hearted ladies was the rev. dr. john watson, of liverpool, better known to the general reader as "ian maclaren," author of _beside the bonnie brier bush_, and other popular works; and for special reasons it was with no ordinary interest that i examined the result of his toils in the outfit with which the institution has been provided. it is admirable. the location, indeed, is not so good or so beautiful as that of union seminary, in richmond, with its breezy sweeps of green campus, and the building, which is of red brick like ours, is not nearly so imposing as the handsome group at richmond. everything, in fact, is on a much smaller scale, naturally so, as the english presbyterian church is a much smaller body than our southern church. but, on the other hand, there are some features that are superior, _e. g._, the stairways are of stone, not of wood as with us. the dining-hall is spacious, comely, cool, inviting, with ornamental windows, and walls hung with portraits of presbyterian worthies, and the tables are heavy and handsome, of hard wood. no seminary in our southern church, or in the northern, has a sufficiently attractive refectory. the one at union seminary is better than most of them, but it, too, is below the mark. some benevolent person can do a great work for our future ministry by presenting that institution with a properly equipped refectory building. the rooms occupied by the students at westminster are much smaller than ours at union, and seem in some cases cramped, but there is a bath-room for every four students. i fear this will seem almost a sinful degree of cleanliness to those brethren who a few years ago were so much opposed to the introduction of any bath-rooms and other modern conveniences into our seminary. there are three professors at westminster college, cambridge: principal dykes, dr. gibb, and professor skinner; and twenty-three students, a slightly smaller number than last year. [sidenote: the same difficulties about candidates.] the churches here are facing the same problem that confronts those in america as to an adequate supply of ministers. the number of candidates is decreasing rapidly in scotland. some attribute this decline to the stagnant spiritual condition of the churches throughout europe and america, and connect it with the spread of devitalizing critical theories concerning the scriptures. but the zeal and activity of the churches do not seem to be deficient in other particulars. it is not a question to discuss here, but it is one for christian people to think about and pray over. the identity of our difficulties in america and britain may be seen again in the fact that here also the theological schools are complaining that the universities are graduating men with the degree of a. b. who have never studied greek. how can a man without greek master the new testament in the original? is it not clear that no man can be a thoroughly furnished minister who has not studied greek? yet some of our own colleges in america, conducted under presbyterian auspices, are encouraging this crippling omission by offering an a. b. course without greek. footnote: [ ] of the value of this find prof. adolf harnack says: "as the text is almost completely preserved, this syrus sinaiticus is one of the most important witnesses; nay, it is extremely probable that it is the most important witness, for our gospels." chapter x. from england to scotland--eastern route. edinburgh, _august , _. [sidenote: the land of the mountain and the flood.] soon after leaving newcastle-on-tyne, the marked change in the scenery of the country through which we were passing apprised us of the fact that we had crossed the border, and were now in scotland. instead of the level or gently undulating fields tilled like gardens, and the fine oaks and other trees here and there, giving the country a park-like aspect, there were bold hills on every hand, intensely green, without a tree as far as the eye could reach, and dotted only with white sheep. and, instead of the tame rivers, winding lazily through wide meadows, such as we had seen everywhere in england, there were brawling brooks dashing down the ravines with an energy that made them fit symbols of the strenuous activity of the race whose land we were entering. nothing in a scottish landscape is more striking to the american eye than the uniform absence of trees on the hills and mountains. there are some forest-clad mountains and ravines, the trossachs, for instance, as readers of scott will remember, but in most cases there are only grass, ferns, and heather. this has the effect of throwing the shape of the mountains into much sharper outline to the eye than is the case with our american mountains, with their dense forests. if we had had the choosing of the conditions under which we should enter scotland, we would not have changed them in any particular. the afternoon sun was pouring golden light over the hills. the sky was as blue as that of italy, save occasional masses of snow-white clouds towards the horizon--what one of our party calls "williams' shaving soap clouds"--and the air, with its abundance of ozone, had an exhilarating and tonic effect such as i have never known anywhere else in midsummer. [sidenote: the wizard of the north.] when we left the train at melrose, and took up our quarters in the abbey hotel, we found that our good fortune continued, as our rooms looked right down upon the lovely ruins, and, as we sat watching them, the moon rose slowly over the tweed, so that we had the opportunity to obey literally the poet's counsel in the _lay of the last minstrel_-- "if thou wouldst view fair melrose aright, go visit it by the pale moonlight." to one who, like myself, regards sir walter scott as the greatest novelist that ever lived, the opportunity to visit his home at abbotsford, and his grave at dryburgh a second time, and to drink in the exquisite beauty of the tweed valley at this point, is one to be thankful for indeed. [illustration: sir walter scott's seat in melrose abbey.] scott was a reactionary and a royalist, a tory politically, and a toady socially. he had an unreasoning reverence for kings and courts. he never was in sympathy with his countrymen in their long and bloody, but finally successful, struggle against the tyranny of the church and the state. in _old mortality_, and elsewhere, he slandered the heroic covenanters, who won the freedom of scotland. in _woodstock_ and elsewhere, he caricatured cromwell and the heroic puritans, who won the freedom of england. but, with all this, he never wrote anything dirty or degrading, like so much of our latter day fiction. he uniformly exalted bravery, and purity, and honor. nor should it ever be forgotten that towards the close of his life, when he was overwhelmed by the disaster that befell the publishing house with which he was connected, and when he was thus plunged from independence and affluence into poverty and debt, he gave the world a splendid object lesson of personal honesty, by setting to work, in his old age, to discharge his obligations by continuous, laborious, exhausting work with his pen. he succeeded, but the effort cost him his life. he has given a larger amount of innocent and wholesome pleasure to the reading world than any other writer that ever lived. the unceasing stream of pilgrims to his home at abbotsford is but one of many indications of his unwaning popularity. [sidenote: temporary residence in auld reekie.] edinburgh at last! no. atholl crescent. it was delightful to settle down here, in our rented apartments, after long toil at home and long travel abroad, for a real rest, with just enough walking and hill-climbing daily in and around the city to give us a keen appetite for our meals. round the bowl of yellow scotch earthenware, in which our oatmeal porridge was served every morning, ran these lines from burns: "some hae meat that canna eat, and some wad eat that want it. but we hae meat an' we can eat, so let the lord be thankit." and, as our appetites sharpened more and more, with the snell air of the german ocean, and the abundant exercise on the heath-clad hills, and the exemption from wearing responsibilities, we entered more and more fully into the sentiment. by the way, the famous definition given by dr. samuel johnson, in his dictionary, runs thus, "oats: a grain, which in england is generally given to horses, but in scotland supports the people." "aye," said a scotchman, when he heard it, "and see what horses they have in england, and what men we have in scotland." dr. johnson, who, by the way, owes his immortal fame to a scotchman, affected a dislike for scotland, and said, among other uncomplimentary things, that the only good road in scotland was the road that led to england. our feeling is exactly contrary to that, and we are so charmed with what a good friend of mine calls "god's country north of the tweed," its wonderful beauty, its matchless romance, its heroic history, the thronging memories of its unsurpassed services to the causes of religion, liberty, and letters, that we shall find it difficult to tear ourselves away, and take the road to england at all. but before undertaking to say anything of the vast and fascinating themes just mentioned, let me set down, in the remaining space of this letter, my impressions of certain features of the present-day customs of the scottish people in their public worship. [sidenote: public worship in scotland.] in a number of particulars the church usages among presbyterians in england and scotland differ from ours in america. it is the universal custom, when entering a pew at the beginning of the service, to bow for a moment or so in silent prayer. likewise, at the close of the service, when the minister pronounces the benediction upon the standing congregation, all the people bow again in silent prayer before leaving the church. they then rise, and withdraw in a quieter and more reverential manner than is usual with us. in america it is not infrequently the case that the moment the minister says "amen," at the close of the benediction, the organist pulls out all the stops of his instrument, sweeps the keyboard with might and main, and fills the building with a crashing tempest of sound, apparently a very lively march, not to say a waltz, to the jubilant strains of which the people move down the aisles, while, instead of the subdued greetings that seem more suitable to the sanctuary, they are straining their voices to make themselves heard over the uproar of the music. [sidenote: organ, choir and congregation.] even in scotland, however, the custom of a rather lively postlude from the organ as the people are retiring is growing, as in free st. georges, edinburgh, which has the best organist i have heard in great britain, mr. hollins. he is blind, but i have never heard a man pour such melody from an organ, or lead a singing congregation more judiciously and effectively with an instrument. at times he leaves the organ quite silent in the midst of the hymn, beating time with his hand, and throwing out the voices of the people themselves. the organ, as he uses it, is not a crutch for a lame congregation to lean on, but a vaulting pole for an active one to spring with. and the singing is magnificent. happy the church with two ministers such as dr. alexander whyte and the rev. hugh black, and an organist such as mr. hollins! little wonder that the great building is crowded to the doors at every service, and that if one wishes to be sure of a seat he must come a half hour before the time for the service to begin. this is quite easy for us to do, as the apartments which we have occupied for a month are but a few doors above the church. the church music in scotland is generally far superior to ours in america. solos and quartettes are almost unknown. the choirs are large, and sit in front of the congregation, just under the pulpit, and regard it as their business, not so much to display their talents in rendering difficult choir pieces as to lead the congregation in this important part of the worship of god. and the people sing, generally and heartily, rolling up to heaven a great volume of praise. i am struck with the fact that the scotch presbyterians have continued to use some of the most majestic and uplifting of the ancient hymns, such as the te deum, which we in america have in many places ceased to use, substituting for these great hymns of the ages the ephemeral jingles which make up too large a part of our so-called "gospel hymns." there is more both of dignity and variety of the right sort in the scottish church music, secured by the free use of close metrical versions of the psalms, paraphrases of other parts of scripture, and anthems of the best type--all sung, mark you, by the whole congregation, and not by the choir only. [sidenote: bibles in the churches.] there is another thing about the scotch churches that i would like to see introduced into every church in america, and that is the use of the bible by the people. a book-board is affixed to the back of every pew, running the whole length of it, and on this are laid a sufficient number of hymn-books and bibles for all the people in the pew behind. when the preacher is about to read his scripture lesson (there are always two at the morning service, one from the old testament, and one from the new), he announces the book and chapter, then pauses a minute while the people turn to the place, and, as he reads, they follow. so, too, when he announces his text. it is an excellent custom. it would be difficult to overstate the value of it. it is not unconnected with the fact that the scotch people, as a whole, know more about the bible than any other people in the world. the international system of sunday-school lessons has done more to promote knowledge of the bible than any other system ever generally used since the modern sunday-school came into existence, notwithstanding the sweeping and indiscriminating strictures made upon it by some good brethren of late. but that system is certainly capable of improvement. one of the unfortunate results charged to the use of the lesson sheets of the international series is the neglect of the bible itself. the children, it is said, do not bring their bibles with them, and do not become familiar with them, as a whole, in the sunday-school. it is too true in many cases. but are not their seniors equally indifferent about having bibles in the regular service? how can ministers expect to bring about the desired revival of expository preaching unless they can get bibles into the hands of the people during the service? suppose that, like the scotch, we had an adequate supply of bibles as a regular part of the equipment of our churches and sunday-schools, would not this difficulty about the neglect of the bible, which so many charge to the use of the lesson leaves, be effectually met? why should there not be at least as good a supply of bibles in a church as of hymn-books? never were bibles so cheap as now. chapter xi. some english and scotch preachers. edinburgh, _august , _. [sidenote: london preachers.] i once received a letter from the late rev. dr. william s. lacy, saying that he had been trying to make use of a certain work in one of the departments of theological study, and asking if i could suggest something "less fearfully jejune," an expression which i have ever since regarded as a masterpiece of characterization. the first sermon i heard in europe, preached in a cathedral, in , by a clergyman of the english church, reminded me of it, for it gave me an intense craving for something "less fearfully jejune." one of my ministerial companions remarked that it was about such a discourse as one would expect from a member of the junior class in union seminary, which i thought was rather hard on the juniors. the other five sermons that i heard from ministers of the church of england that year, preached respectively by canon holland, dean farrar, dr. wace, rev. h. r. haweis, and mr. gray, of heidelberg, were certainly not jejune, whatever else may be said of them. at heidelberg we had the good fortune to meet prof. gildersleeve, of baltimore, who is quite at home in the german university towns, and who was very kind to us in every way. he took us to the english church there. mr. gray is a quiet, thoughtful, and edifying preacher--the right kind of man, i should say, for a community of that sort. canon holland--a man of far more freshness and vigor--preached in st. paul's, and, though powerfully built, and with a resonant and well-managed voice, could be heard by only a small portion of the large congregation. it is said that the late canon liddon, the foremost preacher of the english church in his time, broke himself down prematurely by the extraordinary exertions he made to project his voice to the limits of the great crowds which gathered in that vast building to hear him. i have an eccentric friend in new england who calls the cathedrals "gothic devils," because they hinder the preaching of the gospel. st. paul's is not gothic, of course, but it is worse, perhaps, in point of acoustics than any gothic church whatsoever. [sidenote: dean farrar.] we had the singular good fortune, in , to hear dean farrar one evening in westminster abbey in a discourse which displayed, to the best possible advantage, the exceeding opulence of his rhetoric. he was trying to raise money for the restoration of canterbury cathedral in a manner worthy of its approaching thirteen hundredth anniversary, and his discourse was a review of the work of the english church and the english nation during these thirteen centuries. what a combination of man and subject and place that was! the most rhetorical eminent preacher of the day, discussing with all the exuberance of his splendid diction such a subject as "england," ecclesiastical and civil, for the last thirteen hundred years, in such a place as westminster abbey, surrounded by the tombs and statues of england's mighty dead, the wearers of her crown, and the possessors of her genius, her soldiers, and sailors, and statesmen, her painters, and poets, and philosophers, and preachers-- "those dead but sceptered sovereigns whose spirits still rule us from their urns." the rich music, the soft light, the dim arches, the white statues, the stirring theme, the sympathetic voice, the luxuriant rhetoric--as the preacher referred, for instance, to "the sea which england has turned from an estranging barrier into an azure marriage ring for the union of the nations"--all conspired to make a unique impression. dean farrar's ornate style cloys on the taste sometimes when one reads his books, but when listening to his sermons it was not so. he was a very effective preacher, and, in the notable discourse to which i have just referred, he did not once overlay his thought too thickly with glittering verbiage. as for the other parts of the service i have only to say again that it is an unspeakable pity that a noble service like that of the church of england (in which, as to its essence, all evangelical people can heartily unite) should be so commonly made a mere matter of mechanical routine, and artificial and absurd recitation. [sidenote: mr. haweis and dr. wace.] mr. haweis looked like a small edition of the late henry ward beecher--long hair, smooth face, large mouth, but with a peculiar, penetrating voice, and an abrupt, jerky manner. he was unconventional and racy to the last degree, and cut a good many "monkey shines" in the pulpit, which were all the more startling because of his elaborate white clerical vestments--such as resting his elbow on the desk, with his chin in his hand, for the space of five minutes, talking all the time as fast as phillips brooks, except for the peculiar "ah! ah!" which he interjected between sentences from time to time, as if unable to find the word he wanted--then letting himself down, and hanging over the pulpit on his armpits, with his arms in front and his body behind. his sermon didn't have anything to do with his text, so far as i could see. he was a broad churchman, as broad as dean stanley. in fact, he was like the dog of which the train man said, in answer to an inquiry as to the dog's destination, "i don't know, an' 'ee don't know, an' nobody don't know. 'ee's et his tag." dr. wace, in whom i was interested as one of the stoutest knights who have recently measured lances with the agnostics, preached a well written sermon, in a dull and lifeless way, to a handful of people at lincoln's inn chapel. but we should not forget that there are many presbyterian ministers who, as one of our secretaries of foreign missions once said, "carry a load of dogmatic theology into the pulpit, and dump it on the people, laboring all the time under the delusion that in so doing they are preaching the gospel." [sidenote: spurgeon, parker and hughes.] some years ago a child was asked, "who is the prime minister of england?" and replied, not unnaturally, "mr. spurgeon." that spurgeon has been called up still higher, but in the great metropolitan tabernacle, which he built in london, thousands of people still gather sunday after sunday to hear the gospel preached by his son and successor, the rev. thomas spurgeon. of course, he cannot bend the bow of ulysses. but, for that matter, there is no preacher living who can. still he is a clear, earnest, effective preacher. we were at the opposite end of the church from him, but heard every word distinctly. another dissenting minister, who continues to draw great crowds in london, is dr. joseph parker, and he is probably the ablest preacher in the city, though on the day i first heard him, in , he was so indistinct in his utterances at times that i found it almost impossible to follow him. there was an air of self-importance about him which i trust was only apparent. we heard him again the other day, when he occupied his pulpit for the first time after a long illness. he was quite feeble, and there were only occasional brief flashes of the volcanic fires which used to flame and thunder through his preaching. i heard the rev. hugh price hughes also, the leading methodist preacher of london, in a faithful and striking exposition of haggai, an excellent expository sermon, just what i did not expect from him, as he has at times been charged with sensationalism. the moravians, as is well known, lead the whole christian world in zeal and liberality in the cause of foreign missions. at the moravian chapel in fetter lane we heard a clear and helpful sermon from mr. waugh, the minister in charge. after the service he kindly showed us all through the mission house, the centre of that unique propaganda which, with comparatively small resources, has given the pure gospel to so many remote and needy portions of the globe, and set the pace for all the churches in the work of carrying out the great commission. this chapel has some associations with john wesley; and, remembering the obligations under which he lay to these earnest, evangelical christians of the unitas fratrum, and the part since played by the great methodist church in the evangelization of the world, we felt that the moravian mission house was an appropriate place in which to recall the character and services of that rightly venerated epoch-maker and man of god who said, "my parish is the world." i heard a number of rich sermons from dr. john hunter, gipsy smith, dr. thornton, rev. r. j. campbell, and mr. connell. but the strongest, most spiritual and most comforting sermon i heard in london was preached by the rev. j. monro gibson, d. d., pastor of st. john's wood presbyterian church. that also was an expository sermon, as the best preaching so often is. [sidenote: general booth.] the only other man of mark whom i heard in the metropolis was general booth, organizer, leader, and absolute monarch of the salvation army, an old man of spare frame, with shaggy, grisled hair and beard. his voice is not a good one, but he commands perfect attention, and his sermon, which was evidently well thought out, and which, if i remember aright, had but one undignified remark in it, showed the true nature of sin, and laid hold of the conscience with power. when we entered exeter hall, which was already nearly full of people, we saw on the platform a band of sixty musicians, in scarlet uniforms, leading the multitude with violins, cornets and drums, in a hymn sung lustily to the tune of "auld lang syne." when the general came on the platform a few minutes later, they received him with a cheer. his sermon was followed by the usual uproarious proceedings. with these, of course, i have no sympathy, nor with the absolute despotism of general booth, but the salvation army has done a vast deal of good among "the submerged tenth." the census taken this year by the _london news_ shows, however, that the salvation army is on the decline in that city, and the reason assigned for it is the lack of a body of trained preachers. but scotland is the land of preachers. the greatest scotchman that ever lived was a preacher, and to him, john knox, scotland is more indebted for what she is to-day than to any other man. [sidenote: what sir walter said.] "the scotch, it is well known, are more remarkable for the exercise of their intellectual powers than for the keenness of their feelings; they are, therefore, more moved by logic than by rhetoric, and more attracted by acute and argumentative reasoning on doctrinal points than influenced by the enthusiastic appeals to the heart and to the passions, by which the popular preachers in other countries win the favor of their hearers." so wrote sir walter scott, and no doubt there is truth in it; but we must not underestimate the quickness and depth of their feelings. it was an apparently hard-natured scotchman of our own day who wrote the following more balanced estimate, "it's a god's mercy i was born a scotchman, for i do not see how i could ever have been contented to be anything else. the little, plucky, dour nation, set in her own ways, and getting them, too, level-headed and shrewd, and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily touched to fine issues, so real, so true." carlyle said burns was the æolian harp of nature against which the rude winds of adversity blew, only to be transmuted in their passage into heavenly music. but no people without tender and strong feelings could have produced or appreciated such a poet as burns. (by the way, i was astonished to discover, in , that there were more than thirty thousand visitors annually to the birthplace of burns, as against only twenty thousand to the birthplace of shakespeare.) moreover, no people without the right kind of feeling, and plenty of it--aye, and of enthusiasm, too--could have accomplished what scotland has done. with a rigorous climate and a small country, much of it wild and untillable mountain and moor, and with fewer people in the whole country than in the city of london, scotland-- "on with toil of heart and knees and hand, through the long gorge to the far light hath won her path upward and prevailed," and to-day she wields an influence in the world out of all proportion to her population and resources. in fact, the scotch are in many respects the greatest people of modern times. [sidenote: dr. marcus dods.] but i have wandered from my subject, which was scotch preaching and preachers. i heard four eminent men in edinburgh, on my first visit there six years ago--prof. a. b. davidson, prof. marcus dods, dr. alexander whyte, and dr. george matheson. prof. davidson's voice, manner and style were much better adapted to a small class-room, with its detailed linguistic and exegetical methods, than to popular preaching in a large church. but if there was some disappointment in regard to the preaching of the learned and famous author of the hebrew grammars, and the father of the whole liberal, not to say radical, movement in biblical criticism, which has swept all scotland into its vortex, there was none in regard to that of his brilliant colleague, dr. dods. many of my readers are familiar with the late dr. henry c. alexander's high estimate of dr. dods' work on new testament introduction, which he used as a textbook in union seminary, and with the general excellence of his luminous and suggestive commentaries, though some of them are unfortunately marred by the obtrusion of views which are not altogether satisfactory. but probably few readers, even of his best books, would have expected from him a sermon so sane, and sound, and spiritual as that which i heard from him. it was fully written, and very quietly read, with absolutely no action, and with a modest and even diffident manner, but before he had uttered half a dozen sentences, the originality and power of the thought, and the freshness and vigor of the language, laid the hearer under the spell of a master, and, as he proceeded, first with keen analysis and irrefutable argument, and then with those considerations which can never be adduced save by a man who has had _experience_, who knows sin, and struggle, and salvation, your sense of the preacher's power was succeeded, or rather accompanied, by a sense of his sympathy, and you were ready to accompany him to his high practical conclusion, and left the church assured that he had, under god, given you a real and abiding spiritual uplift. [sidenote: dr. george matheson.] the only other man who impressed me deeply, on my former visit to edinburgh, was dr. matheson. he is antipodal to prof. dods in his style of preaching. he is blind, as you know, and was led in from the vestry to the pulpit, a large man, with gray hair and beard, and a ruddy and radiant face, despite his sightless eyes, as though he walked continually in the white vision of the invisible. his short, fervent, pointed prayers seemed to put every earnest hearer into sensible communion with the father of our spirits, and his sermon on the great disappointments and mysteries of life was most satisfying and comforting, and was delivered with rare animation and unction, the rich fancy and glowing language justifying the remark made to me afterwards by an eminent scotchman, that matheson was a poet as well as a preacher. i must add that some of my friends who went to hear him afterwards, on the ground of my enthusiastic recommendation, were disappointed, saying that his exegesis was illegitimate, and that he treated his text after the manner of origen and the allegorizers. but we must remember that even spurgeon was often guilty of that. this does not excuse it, of course. it only shows that a man may sometimes do it, and yet be a great preacher. [sidenote: dr. whyte and mr. black.] dr. whyte, of free st. george's, is reckoned by many the ablest preacher in edinburgh. i was in his church on my former visit to scotland, when he preached a deeply moving sermon in connection with a communion service. unfortunately for us, he was absent from the city during the whole of our stay this time. but his brilliant young associate, the rev. hugh black, leaves one no ground for complaint as to the quality of the preaching in edinburgh in the summer. he is a very highly cultivated man, and an original and suggestive preacher, but with no special advantages of manner. he is slender, pallid, nervous, with a rather pleasing voice in its lower tones, but of limited range, breaking if he attempts to raise it. this shuts him out from some of the best oratorical effects. but what he lacks in voice and manner he makes up in richness of matter, and finish of style. he is well known as the author of _friendship_ and _culture and restraint_, two books which have had a wide circulation in america. we have made his church our regular place of worship, and have been drawn away from it only occasionally by the desire to hear such well-known veterans as dr. mcgregor, of st. cuthbert's established church, and dr. hood wilson, the retiring pastor of barclay free church. this last, by the way, is a curious, but rather striking stone building, with the most hideous interior i have ever seen. it is a night-mare of bad taste. we have heard at other times prof. orr, author of various works of value in the department of dogmatic theology, the rev. p. carnegie simpson, of glasgow, author of _the fact of christ_, and the rev. thomas burns, f. r. s. e., author of a unique and sumptuous work on _old scottish communion plate_. [sidenote: the inevitable subject.] to mr. burns i am indebted for an introduction to prof. sayce, of oxford, and for a delightful hour at tea with the famous archæologist and author in his house at edinburgh, where he spends most of the summer. he generally lives on a houseboat on the nile in winter, and the weather in edinburgh this summer has been such as to make him long for that houseboat, and that soft egyptian climate more than ever. when we reached the city a month ago, we found much the same kind of weather that greeted mary queen of scots on her return from france, and of which john knox wrote as follows, "the very face of heaven did manifestlie speak what comfort was brought to this country with hir--to wit, sorrow, dolour, darkness and all impiety--for in the memorie of man never was seen more dolorous face of the heavens than was at her arryvall ... the myst was so thick that skairse micht onie man espy another; and the sun was not seyn to shyne two days befoir nor two days after." we had mists a plenty, but it was the cold weather and the rain that interfered most with our plans. it actually did rain nearly every day, and often four or five times a day, not mere showers, but drenching rains. in fact, the kind of weather we had nearly all the time, not only in edinburgh, but throughout scotland and england, gave us a keen appreciation of the following story of the london weather which we find in the manchester _guardian_: "the scene was a strand omnibus. a leaden sky was overhead, the rain poured down uncompromisingly, mud was underfoot. a red-capped parsee, who had been sitting near the dripping driver, got down as the conductor came up. 'what sort o' chap is that,' asked the driver. 'don't yer know that,' answered the conductor. 'why, that's one o' them indians that worship the sun!' 'worships the sun?' said the shivering driver. 'i suppose 'e's come over 'ere to 'ave a rest!' "this recalls the reply given on one occasion by an eastern potentate to queen victoria, who asked him whether his people did not worship the sun. 'yes, your majesty,' said the oriental, 'and if you saw him you would worship him also.'" however, if i begin to write about scotch weather, i shall never get back to my proper subject, which is scotch preaching. chapter xii. echoes of a spicy book on scotland. edinburgh, _august , _. [sidenote: unique prayer for prince charlie.] the mention of st. cuthbert's, where we heard an excellent coronation sermon by dr. mcgregor, reminds me of the prayer offered in st. cuthbert's by the rev. neill mcvicar, in , just after the young pretender had won the battle of prestonpans. a message was sent to the edinburgh ministers, in the name of "charles prince regent," desiring them to open their churches next day as usual. mcvicar preached to a large congregation, many of whom were armed highlanders, and prayed for george ii., the reigning monarch, and also for charles edward, the young pretender, in the following terms, "bless the king! thou knowest what king i mean. may the crown sit long upon his head! as for that young man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech thee to take him to thyself, and give him a crown of glory!" one of our pleasant excursions, of which we have made many since coming to edinburgh, was to the field of prestonpans, where the young pretender won his delusive victory, a field made familiar to many by the vivid description in _waverley_. an aged tree, now supported and braced by iron rods and wires, is pointed out as that under which the pretender stood during part of the engagement. under this tree, in the tall wheat, overlooking the peaceful fields and the shining sea, our photographers insisted that a picture should be taken of some of the party, weary and dusty, and i fear untidy as we were. half a mile away, and within a few feet of the railway, stands the monument to col. gardiner, who was killed in this battle, and of whom scott gives such a striking account in the first of his immortal romances. [sidenote: church-going in edinburgh.] but there i go again, instead of finishing the subject of church services. in kate douglas wiggin's sparkling volume, entitled _penelope's progress_, there is an amusing description of the perplexity of a young woman from america, on noticing from her window the great crowds of people on the streets of edinburgh on sunday morning, her speculations as to the cause--"do you suppose it is a fire?"--and her amazement at discovering that they were all going to church. and truly the scotch people are great church-goers. nothing like it is ever seen on our side of the ocean, except in the predominantly scotch cities of canada. "i have never seen such attention, such concentration, as in these great congregations of the edinburgh churches. as nearly as i can judge, it is intellectual rather than emotional; but it is not a tribute paid to eloquence alone, it is habitual and universal, and is yielded loyally to insufferable dullness when occasion demands. [sidenote: the bibles.] "when the text is announced, there is an indescribable rhythmic movement forward, followed by a concerted rustle of bible leaves; not the rustle of a few bibles in a few pious pews, but the rustle of all of them in all the pews--and there are more bibles in an edinburgh presbyterian church than one ever sees anywhere else, unless it be in the warehouses of the bible societies. [illustration: drill of highlanders, edinburgh castle.] "the text is read twice clearly, and another rhythmical movement follows, when the books are replaced on the shelves. then there is a delightful settling back of the entire congregation, a snuggling comfortably into corners, and a fitting of shoulders to the pews--not to sleep, however; an older generation may have done that under the strain of a two-hour 'wearifu' dreich' sermon, but these church-goers are not to be caught napping. they wear, on the contrary, a keen, expectant, critical look, which must be inexpressibly encouraging to the minister, if he has anything to say. if he has not (and this is a possibility in edinburgh, as it is everywhere else), then i am sure it is wisdom for the beadle to lock him in (the pulpit) lest he flee when he meets those searching eyes. [sidenote: the sermon.] "the edinburgh sermon, though doubtless softened in outline in these later years, is still a more carefully built discourse than one ordinarily hears outside of scotland, being constructed on conventional lines of doctrine, exposition, logical inference, and practical application. though modern preachers do not announce the division of their subject into heads and subheads, firstlies and secondlies and finallies my brethren, there seems to be the old framework underneath the sermon, and every one recognizes it as moving silently below the surface; at least, i always fancy that as the minister finishes one point and attacks another the younger folk fix their eagle eyes on him afresh, and the whole congregation sits up straighter and listens more intently, as if making mental notes. they do not listen so much as if they were enthralled, though they often are, and have good reason to be, but as if they were to pass an examination on the subject afterwards; and i have no doubt that this is the fact. [sidenote: the prayers.] "the prayers are many, and are divided, apparently, like those of the liturgies, into petitions, confessions, and aspirations, not forgetting the all-embracing one with which we are perfectly familiar in our native land, in which the preacher commends to the fatherly care every animate and inanimate thing not mentioned specifically in the foregoing supplications. it was in the middle of this compendious petition, 'the lang prayer,' that rheumatic old scotch dames used to make a practice of 'cheengin' the fit,' as they stood devoutly through it. 'when the meenister comes to the "ingatherin' o' the gentiles," i ken weel it's time to change legs, for then the prayer is jist half dune,' said a good sermon-taster of fife. [sidenote: the music.] "the organ is finding its way rapidly into the scottish kirks (how can the shade of john knox endure a 'kist o' whistles' in good st. giles?), but it is not used yet in some of those we attend most frequently. there is a certain quaint solemnity, a beautiful austerity, in the unaccompanied singing of hymns, that touches me profoundly. i am often carried very high on the waves of splendid church music, when the organ's thunder rolls 'through vaulted aisles,' and the angelic voices of a trained choir chant the aspirations of my soul for me; but when an edinburgh congregation stands, and the precentor leads in that noble paraphrase-- "god of our fathers, be the god of their succeeding race," there is a certain ascetic fervor in it that seems to me the perfection of worship. it may be that my puritan ancestors are mainly responsible for this feeling, or perhaps my recently adopted jenny geddes is a factor in it; of course, if she were in the habit of flinging fauldstules at deans, she was probably the friend of truth and the foe of beauty, so far as it was in her power to separate them." [sidenote: jenny geddes and her stool.] ah! yes. jenny geddes. of course, we made a point of attending service frequently in st. giles, where that redoubtable assailant of "the papists and their apists" hurled her memorable missile. i trust the story is well known to many of my readers, especially our young people, but perhaps all are not familiar with the extremely racy version of it written by the late professor stuart blackie, one of the most brilliant and versatile men of the age, and given to me by a kinswoman of his, whose charming hospitality i once had the privilege of enjoying for two weeks; so i will embody that version of it in my letter. the song of mistress jenny geddes. _tune_: "_the british grenadiers_." some praise the fair queen mary, and some the good queen bess, and some the wise aspasia beloved by pericles; but o'er all the world's brave women, there's one that bears the rule, the valiant jenny geddes that flung the three-legged stool. chorus: with a row dow, at them now-- jenny, fling the stool! 'twas the rd of july in the , on sabbath morn, from high st. giles the solemn peal was given; king charles had sworn that scottish men should pray by printed rule, he sent a book, but never dreamt of danger from a stool. chorus: with a row dow, yes i trow, there's danger in a stool. the council and the judges, with ermined pomp elate, the provost and the bailies, in gold and crimson state, fair silken vested ladies, grave doctors of the school, were there to please the king and learn the virtue of a stool. chorus: with a row dow, yes i trow, there's virtue in a stool. the bishop and the dean cam' in, wi' mickle gravity, right smooth and sleek, but lordly pride was lurking in their e'e, their full lawn sleeves were blown and big like seals in briny pool, they bare a book, but little thought they soon would feel a stool. chorus: with a row dow, yes i trow, they'll feel a three-legged stool. the dean, he to the altar went, and with a solemn look, he cast his eyes to heaven and read the curious printed book; in jenny's heart the blood upwelled, with bitter anguish full, sudden she started to her legs, and stoutly grasped the stool. chorus: with a row dow, at them now-- firmly grasp the stool! as when a mountain wildcat springs on a rabbit small, so jenny on the dean springs with gush of holy gall-- "wilt thou say mass at my lug, ye popish-puling fool? ho! no!" she said, and at his head she flung the three-legged stool. chorus: with a row dow, at them now-- jenny, fling the stool! a bump! a thump! a smash! a crash! now, gentlefolks beware! stool after stool, like rattling hail, came tirling thro' the air, with "well done, jenny! bravo, jenny! that's the proper tool! when the deil will out and shows his snout, just meet him with a stool." chorus: with a row dow, at them now-- there's nothing like a stool. the council and the judges were smitten with strange fear, the ladies and the bailies their seats did deftly clear, the bishop and the dean went in sorrow and in dool, and all the popish flummery fled when jenny showed the stool. chorus: with a row dow, at them now-- jenny, fling the stool! and thus a radiant deed was done by jenny's valiant hand, black prelacy and popery she drove from scottish land, king charles, he was a shuffling knave, priest laud a meddling fool, but jenny was a woman wise, who beat them with a stool. chorus: with a row dow, yes i trow, she beat them with a stool. [sidenote: the disruption in .] of course, too, we visited st. andrew's church, in the newer part of the city, on the other side of the great, picturesque ravine which divides the old town from the new, because it was the scene of another epoch-making event in the ecclesiastical history of scotland, viz., the disruption of . unable to abolish the patronage of livings, by which certain heritors or patrons could appoint any minister they wished to a vacant pastorate, without the consent of the congregation, dr. chalmers and his party decided to take a very bold step in order to preserve the freedom of the church. when the assembly met in st. andrew's church, in the presence of a great body of spectators, while a vast throng outside awaited the result with almost breathless interest, though not really believing that any large number of the ministers would relinquish their homes and salaries for the sake of a "fantastic principle," all expectations were surpassed when the moderator, after reading a formal protest signed by one hundred and twenty ministers and seventy-two elders, left his place, and was followed first by dr. chalmers, and then by four hundred and seventy men, who marched in a body to tanfield hall, and there organized the general assembly of the free church of scotland. when lord jeffrey was told of it an hour later, he exclaimed, "thank god for scotland! there is not another country on earth where such a deed could be done!" well might the scottish minister remind his american visitor of lord macaulay's remark that the scots had made sacrifices for the sake of religious opinion for which there was no parallel in the annals of england. many of my readers are familiar with the exceedingly impressive appearance of this disruption assembly, from the well-known engraving, a copy of which hangs in the reading room of the spence library, at union theological seminary, richmond. [sidenote: a sermon-taster with a nippy tongue.] it would never do, when speaking of church matters in edinburgh, to omit penelope's account of her landlady's breezy comments on the different preachers. "it is to mrs. mccollop that we owe our chief insight into technical church matters, although we seldom agree with her 'opeenions' after we gain our own experience. she never misses hearing one sermon on a sabbath, and oftener she listens to two or three. neither does she confine herself to the ministrations of a single preacher, but roves from one sanctuary to another, seeking the bread of life, often, however, according to her own account, getting a particularly indigestible 'stane.' "she is thus a complete guide to the edinburgh pulpit, and when she is making a bed in the morning she dispenses criticism in so large and impartial a manner that it would make the flesh of the 'meenistry' creep were it overheard. i used to think ian maclaren's sermon-taster a possible exaggeration of an existent type, but i now see that she is truth itself. "'ye'll be tryin' anither kirk the morn?' suggested mrs. mccollop, spreading the clean sunday sheet over the mattress. 'wha did he hear the sawbath that's bye? dr. a.? ay, i ken him ower weel; he's been there for fifteen years and mair. ay, he's a gifted mon--_off an' on!'_ with an emphasis showing clearly that in her estimation the times when he is 'off' outnumber those when he is 'on.' ... 'ye have na heard auld dr. b. yet?' (here she tucks in the upper sheet tidily at the foot.) 'he's a graund strachtforrit mon, is dr. b., forbye he's growin' maist awfu' dreich in his sermons, though when he's that wearisome a body canna heed him withoot takin' peppermints to the kirk, he's nane the less, at seventy-sax, a better mon than the new asseestant. div ye ken the new asseestant? he's a wee bit finger-fed mannie, ower sma' maist to wear a goon! i canna thole him, wi' his lang-nebbit words, explainin' and expoundin' the gude book as if it had jist come oot! the auld doctor's nae kirk-filler, but he gi'es us fu' measure, pressed down an' rinnin' over, nae bit pickin's like the haverin' asseestant; it's my opeenion he's no sound, wi' his parleyvoos and his clishmaclavers!... mr. c.?' (now comes the shaking and straightening and smoothing of the first blanket.) 'ay, he's weel eneuch! i mind ance he prayed for our free assembly, an' then he turned roun' an' prayed for the established, maist in the same breath--he's a broad, leeberal mon, is mr. c.!... mr. d.? ay, i ken him fine; he micht be waur, though he's ower fond o' the kittle pairts o' the old testament; but he reads his sermon from the paper, an' it's an auld sayin', if a meenister canna mind [remember] his ain discoors, nae mair can the congregation be expectit to mind it.... mr. e.? he's my ain meenister.' (she has a pillow in her mouth now, but though she is shaking it as a terrier would a rat, and drawing on the linen slip at the same time, she is still intelligible between the jerks.) 'susanna says his sermon is like claith made o' soond 'oo [wool] wi' a' gude twined thread, an' wairpit an' weftit wi' doctrine. susanna kens her bible weel, but she's never gaed forrit.' (to 'gang forrit' is to take the communion.) 'dr. f.? i ca' him the greetin' doctor. he's aye dingin' the dust oot o' the poopit cushions, an' greetin' ower the sins o' the human race, an' eespecial'y of his ain congregation. he's waur syne his last wife sickened an' slippit awa'. 't was a chastenin' he'd put up wi' twice afore, but he grat nane the less. she was a bonnie bit body, was the third mistress f.! e'nbro could 'a' better spared the greetin' doctor than her, i'm thinkin'. 'the lord giveth and the lord taketh away according to his good will and pleasure,' i ventured piously, as mrs. mccollop beat the bolster and laid it in place. 'ou ay,' responded that good woman, as she spread the counterpane over the pillows in the way i particularly dislike; 'ou ay, but whiles i think it's a peety he couldna be guidit!'" [sidenote: scottish and american repartee.] finally, i cannot refrain from quoting francesca's account of the peppery conversation she had with the young scottish minister with whom she was destined to fall in love. she returned from the dinner, at which she had met him, all out of sorts: "how did you get on with your delightful minister?" inquired salemina.... "he was quite the handsomest man in the room; who is he?" "he is the reverend ronald macdonald, and the most disagreeable, condescending, ill-tempered prig i ever met!" "why, francesca!" i exclaimed. "lady baird speaks of him as her favorite nephew, and says he is full of charm." "he is just as full of charm as he was when i met him," returned the girl nonchalantly; "that is, he parted with none of it this evening. he was incorrigibly stiff and rude, and oh! so scotch! i believe if one punctured him with a hat pin, oatmeal would fly into the air!" "doubtless you acquainted him, early in the evening, with the immeasurable advantages of our sleeping-car system, the superiority of our fast-running elevators, and the height of our buildings?" observed salemina. "i mentioned them," francesca answered evasively. "you naturally inveighed against the scotch climate?" "oh! i alluded to it; but only when he had said that our hot summers must be insufferable." "i suppose you repeated the remark you made at luncheon, that the ladies you had seen in princes street were excessively plain?" "yes, i did," she replied hotly; "but that was because he said that american girls generally looked bloodless and frail. he asked if it were really true that they ate chalk and slate pencils. was'n't that unendurable? i answered that those were the chief solid articles of food, but that after their complexions were established, so to speak, their parents often allowed them pickles and native claret to vary the diet." "what did he say to that?" i asked. "'oh!' he said, 'quite so, quite so'; that was his invariable response to all my witticisms. then, when i told him casually that the shops looked very small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not as many tartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he remarked, that as to the latter point, the american season had not opened yet! presently, he asserted that no royal city in europe could boast ten centuries of such glorious and stirring history as edinburgh. i said it did not appear to be stirring much at present, and that everything in scotland seemed a little slow to an american; that he could have no idea of push or enterprise until he visited a city like chicago. he retorted that, happily, edinburgh was peculiarly free from the taint of the ledger and the counting-house; that it was weimar without a goethe, boston without its twang!" "incredible!" cried salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride. "he never could have said 'twang' unless you had tried him beyond measure!" "i dare say i did; he is easily tried," returned francesca. "i asked him, sarcastically, if he had ever been in boston. 'no,' he said, 'it is not necessary to go there! and while we are discussing these matters,' he went on, 'how is your american dyspepsia these days--have you decided what is the cause of it?'" "'yes, we have,' said i, as quick as a flash; 'we have always taken in more foreigners than we could assimilate!' i wanted to tell him that one scotsman of his type would upset the national digestion anywhere, but i restrained myself." "i am glad you did restrain yourself--once," exclaimed salemina. and so on, with francesca's characterization of the forth bridge as the national idol, her inability to tell which way to turn a drawing of it so as to make the bridge right side up, his asking her if doughnuts resembled peanuts, and his telling her he had heard that the ministers' salaries in america were sometimes paid in pork and potatoes, his comments on international marriages, and her conclusion, as she retired that night, "i doubt if i can sleep for thinking what a pity it is that such an egotistic, bumptious, pugnacious, prejudiced, insular, bigoted person should be so handsome!" that is an excellent little volume to give one an idea of the kind of international clashes that are continually occurring in edinburgh nowadays. but we, being more intent upon getting into the more ancient atmosphere of scotland, give most of our evenings to the reading aloud, in the family circle, of _rob roy_, and the like, in preparation for our proposed tour of the highlands, while the older members of the party acquaint themselves afresh with the _heart of midlothian_, _the monastery_, _the abbot_, and the other works of the wizard of the north, whose scenes are laid at or near "edina, scotia's darling seat." chapter xiii. is the scottish character degenerating? edinburgh, _august , _. [sidenote: "mine own romantic town."] our stay in edinburgh has come to an end. it has been a delightful month in spite of the weather. claudius clear says, "edinburgh is so beautiful that, for love of her face, she is forgiven her bitter east winds," adding that "there is a keenness, a rawness, a chilliness in the air, which you do not find in south britain." so there is, and yet we have been out of doors a great deal, and have threaded her streets and closes, and climbed her heights in every direction--arthur's seat, salisbury crags, calton hill, the castle, corstorphine, the braid hills, the pentlands--and made excursions to the forth bridge, hawthornden, rosslyn, duddingston (where the minister most kindly showed us, between showers, everything of interest in and around the little church in which sir walter scott was once an elder), craigmillar castle, musselburgh, north berwick, bass rock (the dungeons of which were once filled with covenanters, whose only offence was adhering to the form of religion which the king had bound himself by his coronation oath to maintain), tantallon castle, with its memories of _marmion_, and rullion green, with its memories of the martyrs, and, of course, within the city, greyfriars churchyard, the grassmarket, holyrood and the rest. what a wealth of beauty and history and romance! [sidenote: the seamy side of edinburgh.] yet there are some very criticizable things about edinburgh, such as the unseemly billing and cooing of lovers of the servant class in public places, for instance the princes street gardens, where they may be seen at almost any hour of the day embracing each other in the most unblushing manner, apparently oblivious of the passing multitude. there may be just as much of this going on in the parks of other cities, but the peculiar position of these lovely gardens in the great, green hollow in the very centre of the city, in plain view of the most crowded streets, and the most popular hotels, makes this impropriety more obtrusive here than it is anywhere else. [illustration: princes street, edinburgh.] but worse than this are the ever-present proofs of the poverty, wretchedness and degradation of great numbers of the people. the slums of edinburgh are more constantly in evidence than those of any other city in the world. the reason for this is not that the slums are more populous or worse than those of other cities, but that the parts of edinburgh which are of the greatest interest to visitors, viz., the high street, from the castle to holyrood, and the adjacent districts, where the great families once lived, and where the most memorable events of the city's history occurred, the parts made familiar to all readers by the writings of sir walter scott and the historians of scotland, have long since been abandoned by the better classes, and are now occupied by the poorest and most degraded. so that every reading person who visits edinburgh is brought face to face, day after day, with all this squalor and misery; and it is so different from what one naturally expects to find in scotland, and especially in this ancient and wealthy seat of learning, that it makes a very strong impression upon the imagination--an impression so strong that it is scarcely counterbalanced, even by long sojourn in the scrupulously clean residential sections, on either side of this filthy and festering centre. [sidenote: cause of her wretchedness.] why should there be such a plague spot in the heart of edinburgh? the explanation cannot be found in any lack of native ability on the part of scotchmen to overcome the conditions that bring about abject poverty. it is universally conceded that in the qualities which make for success in life the scots are well-nigh unrivalled. mr. andrew carnegie is a pre-eminent example, but the thrift of scotchmen in general is a proverb.[ ] nor can the explanation of the dire poverty and wretchedness seen in scotch cities be found in their disregard of the sabbath rest and the sabbath worship, as in the case of some other european peoples, though there seems to be of late some relaxation of their rigid sabbatarianism. their strictness in this matter has been the subject of many a good story. one is told of a little girl in aberdeen, who brought a basket of strawberries to the minister's, very early monday morning. "thank you, my little girl, they are very nice,", said the minister; "but i hope you did not pick them yesterday, for it was sunday, you know." "no, sir," replied the child, "but," she added, with some dismay, "they were growing all day yesterday." a devout scottish minister once stopped at a country inn, in the northern part of his native land, to pass the sunday. the day was rainy and close, and toward night, as he sat in the little parlor of the inn, he suggested to his landlady that it would be desirable to have one of the windows raised, so that they might have some fresh air in the room. "mon," said the old woman, with stern disapproval written plainly on her rugged face, "dinna ye ken that ye can hae no fresh air in this hoose on the sawbath?" another is related by dr. thomas guthrie, in his autobiography. it was sunday morning, and guthrie was preaching, away from home. after breakfast, he asked his host for a cup of hot water to shave with. "whist, whist," was the response; "if ye wanted hot water for your toddy, 'twould be all right; but if this congregation kenned that ye called for water to shave with, there wad nae be a soul in the kirk to hear ye." [sidenote: the curse of strong drink.] this last incident brings us in sight of the true explanation of edinburgh's misery. the great curse of scotland is drunkenness. the real cause of the deplorable change that seems to be taking place in the character of her people is intemperance. mr. charles e. price, of the well-known firm of mcvittie & price, who is the prospective liberal candidate for the central division of edinburgh, in a recent address, made after a visit to our country, says he was struck with the general sobriety of the american people. he did not see eight persons drunk on the streets during his three months' tour, and he contrasts this showing with the gross drunkenness seen on the streets of edinburgh. he quotes the startling figures in the letter of lord balfour of burleigh, to the lord provost of glasgow, taken from the annual report of the commissioners of prisons, according to which the number of commitments during the twelve months, - , was, for england, per hundred thousand of the population, and for ireland, , and for scotland, , ! that is, nearly twice as many for scotland as for ireland, and nearly three times as many for scotland as for england. "ah!" i said to myself sorrowfully, "whiskey again." such was the comment of mr. john a. steuart, the scottish author and social reformer, when this shocking official statement appeared in the newspapers; and, referring to lord balfour of burleigh's declaration, that the time has come when it is necessary to consider whether a large new prison should not be erected, he adds, "that is the commentary of your secretary of state on the morality of the countrymen of john knox." mr. steuart goes on to show that the national drink bill, direct and indirect, amounts to the enormous sum of £ , , . "three hundred millions sterling and one hundred thousand human lives, that is the yearly expense of maintaining the publican. the south african war cost us altogether , lives; during the period it lasted the drink traffic cost us upwards of , , that is to say, for every soldier who died in south africa, from wounds or disease, twelve men and women in britain perished miserably from strong drink. let christian people think of it.... nothing is more certain than this, that religion and the drink traffic cannot flourish together, and one of them is flourishing terribly now.... if the church does not gird herself promptly and vigorously to dispose of the drink traffic, the drink traffic will assuredly dispose of the church." in an american journal i find the statement that, in writing to dr. t. l. cuyler recently, sending him a generous contribution to the national temperance society, mr. andrew carnegie, after expressing his deep interest in the temperance cause, added, "the best temperance lecture i have delivered lately was my offer of ten per cent. premium on their wages to all employees on my scottish estates who will abstain from intoxicating liquors." [sidenote: what mr. carnegie thinks.] speaking still more recently, at an entertainment at govan, scotland, mr. carnegie said "he wished his countrymen would take to their hearts that the one blot upon the people of scotland was that they often fell from true manhood through the use of intoxicating liquor. there was a saying in america that a totally abstaining scotsman could not be beaten, and wherever a scot has fallen, it was, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, the result of intemperance. every scotsman at home or abroad had in his keeping part of the honor of scotland, and scotland having so much more honor per man than other lands, it followed that every scot carried a greater load of honor than the man of other lands. he wished that every word of his to workmen in scotland would cause them to reflect upon that, and to resolve that henceforth they would never disgrace either themselves or the land that gave them birth. the only defect of the scot, compared with the man of other lands, was that of intemperance, which, however, he rejoiced to know, was steadily decreasing." [sidenote: a lesser menace.] one other ominous feature of present day conditions in scotland i find referred to in the following clipping from a british journal: "in edinburgh of late the jesuits have been showing unwonted activity. owing partly to the unsettling effect of biblical criticism upon the average mind, and partly to some utterances by some of the leading ministers in the scottish churches, the society has evidently deemed the moment opportune for pressing the claims of rome upon the scottish people. in their spokesman, father power, who addresses a great gathering every sabbath evening in the open, they have an instrument well fitted for their purpose. of fine presence, manifest learning, and no mean orator, he is bound to make an impression on some minds. here is one sentence from his last lecture. after referring to the utterance of a noted scottish divine in the general assembly, reflecting on some passage in the confession of faith, he said, 'so that fundamental basis being removed (the confession), the presbyterian church collapsed like a house of cards. and hence i say that the catholic church has an opportunity, let us hope a god-given one, for entering the field once occupied by our late lamented sister.'" but he would be a sanguine man, indeed, who could believe that the people of scotland generally would ever become roman catholics. for one thing, there is too much printing there. for the vicar of croyden was a true prophet when he said, in the early days of the reformation, "we must root out printing, or printing will root out us." footnote: [ ] _december, ._--the prime minister of the british empire is a scotchman. the leaders of both parties in the house of commons are scotchmen. the archbishop of canterbury and the archbishop of york, the two heads of the church of england, are scotchmen. these are specimen facts. chapter xiv. stirling, the lakes, and glasgow. glasgow, _september , _. from stirling castle we revelled in the view which many consider the finest in scotland, embracing, as it does, both lowland and highland scenery. we drove to the towering, but rather top-heavy wallace monument, on abbey crag, and climbed its winding stone stairway, for the sake of another look at that smiling landscape, and a nearer view of the scene of wallace's victory over surrey at stirling bridge, in . in one of the rooms of this great monument we gazed reverently on the hero's sword with a thrill of our boyhood enthusiasm over _scottish chiefs_, remembering that "the sword which looked heavy for an archangel to wield was light in his terrible hand." the statue of wallace in front of the building looked like an old friend, because of our familiarity with the replica of it in druid hill park, presented to the city of baltimore by mr. william wallace spence. of course, we drove, too, to "cambuskenneth's fane," and the field of bannockburn, where the "bore stone" may still be seen. [sidenote: memorials of the martyrs.] but the place that interested us most at stirling was the old greyfriars churchyard, adjoining the castle, with its monuments of john knox, alexander henderson, andrew melville, and especially james renwick and margaret wilson. during our stay in edinburgh we had read and talked much of the martyrs of scotland, those glorious men and women who had died for christ's crown and covenant in "the killing time,"--those heroic ministers, nobles, and peasants, male and female, who to the number of eighteen thousand had laid down their lives rather than submit to the tyranny and popery of the stuarts. we had visited repeatedly greyfriars churchyard at edinburgh, where the covenant was signed, and where many of the martyrs who were beheaded in the adjoining grassmarket are buried. the last of those who "kissed the red maiden" here was the youthful and gifted james renwick. his statue at stirling represents a mere stripling indeed. not far from renwick's statue stands the most beautiful of all the monuments of the covenanters, the snow white group of margaret and agnes wilson, and the figure of an angel standing by them. the inscription is as follows: margaret, virgin martyr of the ocean wave, with her likeminded sister, agnes. love many waters cannot quench. god saves his chaste impearled one in covenant true. o scotia's daughters! earnest scan the page, and prize this flower of grace--blood-bought for you. psalm ix: . through faith margaret wilson, a youthful maiden, chose rather to depart and be with christ than to disown his holy cause and covenant, to own erastian usurpation, and conform to prelacy enforced by cruel laws. bound to a stake within flood mark of the solway tide, she died a martyr's death on th may, . [illustration: monument to margaret wilson, stirling.] i had had the satisfaction, on my former visit to scotland, of seeing many of the places around which the heroism of the covenanters has thrown imperishable renown, bothwell bridge, drumclog, ayrsmoss, wigtown (where a noble monument to margaret wilson and margaret mclachlan crowns the highest hill and overlooks the sad sands of wigtown, which all readers of _the men of the moss hags_ will remember), also the little duchrae (where, by the way, mr. s. r. crockett was born), and earlstoun castle on ken water, and sanquhar. at dumfries one morning, i had eaten my breakfast in the room where charles edward, the pretender, the last of the stuarts to curse and trouble the united kingdom, had dined with his staff, the night before his final withdrawal northward; and at sanquhar, in the afternoon of the same day, i had eaten my dinner close to the granite shaft which marks the spot where richard cameron and the other twenty heroes sat their horses on that memorable day, when they unfurled the blue silken banner, with its inscription in letters of gold "for christ's crown and covenant," and flashed their swords in the sunlit air, and declared themselves independent of the tyrannical and perjured house of stuart--one of the sublimest actions in the history of human freedom--and the twenty men won, though they themselves perished in the conflict. as i thought of it all, and how much it meant for the civil and religious liberty of our own country, i had taken off my hat, and, standing there in the street, had silently thanked god for the gift to scotland and the world of such men as richard cameron and william gordon and james renwick. i had a very pleasant note the other day from mr. s. r. crockett, the novelist, in which he was kind enough to say, "if you are in galloway, i shall be glad indeed to see you," and in which he expressed a lively interest in the work of the "covenanters" in our church. in speaking of _the men of the moss hags_, he says, "i put a great deal of faithful work into it, but that very quality somewhat marred the dramatic element. i think of trying again with a book on _peden_--a red-hot one this time--not trying to hold the balance, but going straight for all persecutors and sitters-at-ease in the covenant zion." [sidenote: the lake scenery of scotland.] those who go to the trossachs by way of callander, as most tourists do, and as i did on my former visit, miss the finest scenery of this region. readers of _the lady of the lake_ naturally wish to go by coilantogle ford, clan-alpine's out-most bound, but by doing so they miss not only the finest mountain views of the district, but also the scenes of _rob roy_, on the upper waters of the forth. so this time we went by rail from stirling to aberfoyle, spent the night at the delightful bailie nicol jarvie hotel, antipodal in every respect to the wretched inn of the clachan described by sir walter, and took the coach over the mountains next morning for the trossachs and loch katrine. the beauty of the mountains, seen in this way, with their rocks and ferns and heather all around us, and the glittering lakes far below us, was a revelation even to one who had been through the district on the other route. at the loch katrine pier we took the little steamer _sir walter scott_, and passing ellen's isle, were soon favored with another memorable view. surely ben venue was never lovelier than it was that day, with the sunlight and shadow alternating on its rugged sides. the stronachlachar hotel, at the foot of the lake, is another excellent place of entertainment. we could not tear ourselves away at once, so after luncheon we rowed on the lake, and climbed on the rocks, and gathered the heather till late in the afternoon. then we took coach for inversnaid. we thought we had seen it rain in scotland. we had not. those downpours which had so often drenched us in and around edinburgh were mere showers compared to the floods which fell upon us on that drive to inversnaid. the best opportunity i ever had to observe, in perfect comfort, the effect of a heavy rain on highland scenery was on a steamboat ride up loch tay some years ago. from the windows of the saloon we could see everything on both sides. all the trickling burns, swollen by the rain, had become full and foaming streams, and, dashing down the mossy mountains, gave them the appearance of immense slopes of green velvet, striped from top to bottom with ribbons of silver. but on this drive from stronachlachar to inversnaid we were too busy trying to keep ourselves dry to take account of the effect of the rain on the scenery. we were much more concerned about its effect upon ourselves. but on reaching the hotel we hung up our dripping wraps, and were quite comfortable again in a few minutes. next morning was fine. we walked to rob roy's cave in the tumbled rocks overlooking the water. we climbed the hills above inversnaid falls. some of the party rowed across the lake to the arrochar mountains. from every point of view we were enchanted with the loveliness of loch lomond. it is the largest and most beautiful of the scottish lakes. we left inversnaid reluctantly, after a too brief stay of a day and a half, and steamed down to balloch. taking the cars there for glasgow, we soon came in sight of the gray stone mansion of lord overtoun, standing high and clear to the view on our left. the sight of it rendered the senior member of the party reminiscent again, and he told the others of the garden party given there to the pan-presbyterian council in . about people had come by rail from glasgow to dumbarton on a specially chartered train, and were conveyed the two or three miles from there to overtoun in breaks, thirty-five in number. over the door of the mansion ran the chiselled words, "let everything that hath breath praise the lord." the host and lady overtoun received the delegates in the hall. after passing through the elegant apartments on the first floor, they dispersed over the beautiful grounds where ices were served at various places, and ten pipers of the celebrated black watch, in their picturesque highland costume, marched up and down the lawn, playing their national instrument, one which, with its "tangled squeaking," as hawthorne calls it, has always seemed to me more picturesque than musical. at four o'clock the guests, to the number of nearly one thousand, all assembled in the great marquee which had been erected on the lawn, and were seated at tables for refreshments, after which they were welcomed by lord overtoun in a most cordial speech, to which responses were made by dr. roberts, dr. blaikie, dr. hoge, rev. john mcneill and others, and at about six o'clock we all went back to glasgow, fully agreed that this was far and away the most elaborate and elegant entertainment we had ever seen. one of the raciest men i met at glasgow, on that occasion, was the rev. john mcneill. i had the good fortune, with some other friends, to travel in the same compartment with him the day we went to lord overtoun's garden party. noticing the river through the car window, he began to speak of the filth of the clyde below glasgow, and then naturally enough of the chicago river, which is probably the filthiest ditch on this planet, and quoted the remark he had made while there, that peter could have walked on the chicago river without faith. this led him to speak of exaggerations in general, one especially in which a local scotch orator indulged when offering the congratulations of his community to the owner of three or four small coasting vessels when he was about launching another one. after "disporting himself in the empyrean," as dr. alexander used to say of such sky-scrapers, this bailie wound up with the statement that "the sails of your ships whiten the universal seas." the local minister was the next speaker, but after such a burst of eloquence as the foregoing, his remarks were, of course, very tame, so much so that the bailie who had covered himself with glory turned to another bailie sitting next to him, and said, "bailie, mon, some o' them that have never been to college can make a better speech than them that have been through _the hale corrycolium_!" another example of unconscious scotch humor, related, i think, in lockhart's _life of scott_, was that of the pastor of the small islands of cumbrae, near the mouth of the clyde, who was accustomed to pray that the lord would "bless great cumbrae and little cumbrae and _the adjacent islands_ of great britain and ireland." still another was that of the simple highlanders on the estates of the great presbyterian nobleman, the duke of argyll, who when the duke's son, the marquis of lorne, married the daughter of queen victoria, said, "the queen must be a great woman if her daughter could marry the son of mccallum more." [sidenote: the city of glasgow.] "let glasgow flourish by the preaching of the word." from time immemorial that has been the motto of this stately city, now the second in size in great britain, numbering some nine hundred thousand souls. it should, therefore, be no surprise that there are _two hundred and seventy-five_ presbyterian churches here. "glasgow is the largest presbyterian city in the world, whether it be measured by the number of churches, of communicants, or of aggressive work done in the cause of christ." it was in glasgow that the first missionary society, to send the gospel to the heathen world, was formed in scotland. glasgow was also the principal scene of the great home mission enterprise of dr. chalmers. thus, as prof. lindsay says, glasgow has taken the lead in the two greatest characteristics of modern evangelical presbyterianism--missions to the heathen, and to the lapsed and drifting population at home. besides what is raised by the churches of the city, glasgow spends annually more than seven hundred thousand dollars in the support of various charitable institutions. for instance, over nine hundred orphan children are cared for in the "homes," all the money for buildings and daily bread being sent in, in answer to prayer. eighty-eight services are held on sabbath forenoons for non-churchgoing lads and girls, superintended by two thousand monitors and workers. the boys' brigade took its rise in glasgow. there are ten thousand young men enrolled as members of the young men's christian association. these bare statements will give some idea of the religious activities of this great presbyterian city, and of its suitableness as a rallying centre, in , for the three hundred representatives of that vast army of more than twenty million people of god, who, in every nation under heaven, march under the blue banner, constituting the largest protestant church in the world. glasgow is, moreover, an ancient seat of learning, and a great centre of commerce. for five hundred years its university has shed light over scotland, and other countries as well. as for primary education, the official report says, "it is a rare thing now to find a child in the city, over ten or eleven years of age, who cannot read and write. its art galleries, museums, music, lectures, its magnificent municipal buildings erected at a cost of two million six hundred thousand dollars, its sanitary arrangements, under the influence of which the rate of mortality is steadily decreasing, its water system, which, at a cost of seventeen million five hundred dollars, has brought an abundant supply of pure water from loch katrine through thirty-five miles of mountainous country--all are worthy of the second city of the kingdom. and, as everybody knows, glasgow is the place where "the stately ocean greyhounds" are built. fifty-five million dollars have been expended in "turning what was once a little salmon stream into one of the greatest navigable highways of the world." in , the clyde, at low water, was one foot deep, where now it is twenty-four feet. what is it that has given this venerable presbyterian city this proud position, next to london? "let glasgow flourish by the preaching of the word." [sidenote: the old cathedral.] it is said that the word "glasgow" comes from "glescu," gray mist. it deserved its name when we arrived there on the th of august, , and it continued to deserve it throughout our stay. the fog was so heavy and dense that one felt almost as if it could be sawn into slabs. i can testify further that the city deserved its name also on the th of june, , when the delegates to the sixth general council of the reformed churches throughout the world holding the presbyterian system, gathered in the barony church, and marched through a cold rain, across the wide paved square, to the ancient cathedral, where the opening sermon was to be preached. this majestic building, now more than seven hundred years old, is thus described by sir walter scott in the nineteenth chapter of _rob roy_, "the pile is of a gloomy and massive, rather than of an elegant, style of gothic architecture; but its peculiar character is so strongly preserved, and so well suited with the accompaniments which surround it, that the impression of the first view was solemn and awful in the extreme." as andrew fairservice said to the hero of that stirring story, whom scott represents as addressed by rob roy from behind one of the pillars in the crypt, "it's a brave kirk--nane o' yer whigmalieries and curliewurlies and opensteek hems about it--a solid, weel-jointed mason-wark, that will stand as long as the world, keep hands and gunpowder aff it." and, indeed, it looks as if it would. on the crest of the hill, in the adjacent necropolis, stands a splendid doric column surmounted by a statue of john knox. [sidenote: the most eminent citizen of glasgow.] the preëminence of scotland in theology, philosophy, and medicine has long been recognized the world over. but it may not be known to all of my readers that the most eminent scientist now living is also a resident of this country, a citizen of glasgow--lord kelvin. in the regalia room of edinburgh castle, on my way to glasgow in , i had the pleasure of meeting, for the first time, one of the most intellectual young men that the south has produced since the war, professor woodrow wilson, of princeton university, a former fellow student at davidson college of one of my fellow-travellers at that time. he told us he was on his way to glasgow, too, for the purpose of representing princeton in the celebration of lord kelvin's jubilee. this veteran professor, who thus completed fifty years of service as a teacher in the university of glasgow, and who, by the way, like so many other epoch-makers, is a scotch-irishman, has long been recognized as one of the most eminent scientists of modern times, and the greatest of all electricians. as professor william thomson, he first won renown by the wonder which he wrought in annihilating space by enabling us to telegraph across the atlantic ocean, for it was he who solved the difficulty which, in , threatened to defeat all the plans of the late cyrus w. field just as he seemed about to realize his gigantic dream of uniting two continents. the signals passing through a long submarine cable were found to "drag" so much as to make it practically useless. thomson discovered the law governing the retardation, and invented the "mirror instrument," by which all the delicate fluctuations of the varying current could be interpreted. "so sensitive is the arrangement that on one occasion a signal was sent to america and back through two atlantic cables with the current from a toy battery, made in a silver thimble with a drop of acidulated water and a grain of zinc." by means of thomson's magical apparatus, on august , , this message was flashed from shore to shore, "europe and america are united by telegraph: glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." for this success he was knighted. in , after many other successes, he was raised to the peerage. the submarine telegraph is not the only invention which connects his name with the sea. by substituting piano-forte wire for the old-fashioned rope, he made it possible to measure quickly and accurately the depth of water at any spot under a moving ship. when dr. toule was visiting prof. thomson, he noticed a bundle of this piano-forte wire, and, inquiring what it was for, was informed by thomson that he intended using it for "sounding purposes." "what note?" innocently inquired toule, to which thomson promptly replied, "the deep c." but lord kelvin's most valuable aid to navigation is the adjustable compass, which bears his name, and which is now used on every first-class ship in the world. so numerous and useful are his inventions that there is an establishment at glasgow devoted solely to the manufacture of his patents, and employing nearly two hundred highly skilled workmen, and a staff of electricians. his home, in the precincts of glasgow university, was the first house in the world to be lighted with electricity. it is not strange, then, that we found the whole city doing him honor on our arrival in , and scores of scholars convened to offer the congratulations of other institutions in every part of the world. yesterday we had the pleasure of hearing a very thoughtful and striking sermon from the rev. p. carnegie simpson, author of _the fact of christ_, a book which in a very short time has gained a deservedly wide circulation. i am constrained to believe that, generally speaking, scottish ministers have more intellectual ability and better theological furnishing than those in america. chapter xv. oban, iona, and staffa. "for oban is a dainty place; in distant lands or nigh lands, no town delights the tourist race like oban in the highlands." caledonian canal, _september , _. the fog was so thick the morning we steamed down the ill-smelling clyde, and out through the kyles of bute, that we could see nothing whatever, and had to content ourselves as best we could with the tantalizing recollections of one member of the party, who on a former occasion had made an excursion with some five hundred other persons, delegates to the glasgow council and their friends, on the elegant steamer, _duchess of hamilton_, up loch long, loch goil, and the kyles of bute, with alternating showers and sunshine, getting charming views of the lovely scenery that abounds about the firth of clyde. but the atmosphere lightened somewhat as we steamed through the crinan canal, and as we approached oban it cleared completely, and gave us full opportunity to enjoy the glorious scenery on every hand. situated near the southern terminus of the caledonian canal, and also not far from the western isles, and being the starting point of all excursions through this, the wildest and most romantic region of scotland, oban is called "the charing cross of the highlands." [sidenote: rude seas off the west coast.] the first excursion undertaken by our party from oban was the famous one to staffa and iona, and in this we were so fortunate that we almost forgot our disappointment at the kyles of bute. frequently the sea is so rough in this windy region that passengers cannot be landed on the islands. it was so on the day before our trip, and also on the day after it. it seemed to us rough enough on the day we made the trip, and the captain was doubtful about landing us until the very last. but the boats from shore put out and came alongside, swinging on the waves five or six feet up, and then quickly down again, so that it was necessary for us to step in promptly, one by one, just at the moment when they rose to the highest point. it looked dangerous, but nobody backed out. it looked still more dangerous after we were in the tossing boats, with the great green waves running high all around us. i think several of the party had doubts whether they would ever again set foot on land, and there were thankful hearts and deep sighs of relief when, after the visit to staffa, we all got safe back on the steamer. the danger, however, was more apparent than real. the boats were staunch, strongly manned, and handled with consummate skill. [sidenote: iona and columba.] we visited iona first, a small island and homely, but sacred and memorable forever as the place where the presbyter abbot, columba, the apostle of caledonia, and his twelve companions from ireland, landed in a. d. , to begin that series of toilsome, but marvellously successful campaigns, which resulted in the evangelization of a large part of scotland. the tomb of columba is still shown in the ancient cathedral. for centuries iona was a part of the domain of the duke of argyll, but three or four years ago the late duke, the author of _the reign of law_, presented the property to the church of scotland. since that time the cathedral has been re-roofed and otherwise restored, so that now it presents a less desolate appearance than it did on my first visit a few years ago. iona was the burial place of the ancient scottish kings. more than fifty of them lie in the cemetery, hard by the cathedral, in graves marked, for the most part, by ancient tombstones, with interesting inscriptions. the last of these kings to be laid here was duncan i., who was murdered by macbeth about the middle of the eleventh century. not far away stands maclean's cross, supposed to be the oldest in scotland. it is one of three hundred and sixty iona crosses which are said to have once stood on the island. [sidenote: staffa and fingal's cave.] half an hour from iona by the steamer is staffa. staffa means the "isle of columns." it is of the same columnar basaltic formation as the giant's causeway in the north of ireland, and was produced by the same outpouring of lava that formed the irish causeway. we climbed along the irregular floor of perfectly formed polygonal columns, which fit each other with absolute exactness, though no two are alike. we stopped for a moment to sit down in fingal's wishing chair, and then pushed on to see the most impressive of all these natural wonders--fingal's cave--which penetrates the volcanic columns for a distance of two hundred and twenty-seven feet. this stupendous basaltic grotto in the lonely isle of staffa remained, singularly enough, unknown to the outer world until visited by sir joseph banks in . as the visitors' boat glides under its vast portal, the mighty octagonal columns of lava, which form the sides of the cavern--the depth and strength of the tide which rolls its deep and heavy swell into the extremity of the vault unseen amid its vague uncertainty--the variety of tints formed by the white, crimson, and yellow stalactites which occupy the base of the broken pillars that form the roof, and intersect them with a rich and variegated chasing--the corresponding variety of tint below water, where the ocean rolls over a dark red or violet-colored rock, from which the basaltic columns rise--the tremendous noise of the swelling tide mingling with the deep-toned echoes of the vault that stretches far into the bowels of the isle--form a combination of effects without a parallel in the world! sir walter scott's lines express the sentiment most proper to the place: "the shores of mull on the eastward lay, and ulva dark, and colonsay, and all the group of islets gay that guard famed staffa round. then all unknown its columns rose, where dark and undisturbed repose the cormorant had found, and the shy seal had quiet home, and welter'd in that wondrous dome, where, as to shame the temples deck'd by skill of earthly architect, nature herself, it seem'd, would raise a minster to her maker's praise! not for a meaner use ascend her columns, or her arches bend; nor of a theme less solemn tells that mighty surge that ebbs and swells, and still, between each awful pause, from the high vault an answer draws, in varied tone, prolong'd and high, that mocks the organ's melody. nor doth its entrance front in vain to old iona's holy fane, that nature's voice might seem to say, 'well hast thou done, frail child of clay; thy humble powers that stately shrine task'd high and hard--but witness mine!'" [sidenote: the great canal.] the trip from oban to inverness, through the caledonian canal, with its alternating locks and lochs, and its mountain walls on either side, is one of the finest in the world in point of scenery. it was something of a surprise to us to find at fort augustus, half way up the canal, the benedictine order established in a magnificent group of buildings, which had been erected at a cost of four hundred thousand dollars, but we presently remembered that there had always been a roman catholic element in the highlands, that this element had ardently supported the pretensions of charles edward stuart to the british crown, and that lord lovat, the leading roman catholic nobleman of the region, had been executed for the treasonable part he took in that affair. in the tower of london we had seen the block on which he was beheaded, with the print of the axe showing plainly in the wood. in the lord lovat of that time presented this splendid property to the benedictines. of prince charlie's career in this part of scotland we shall have more to say in our next letter. chapter xvi. inverness and memories of flora macdonald. perth, _september , _. our farthest north on our european tour was inverness, the capital of the highlands, which we reached from oban by way of the magnificent route through the caledonian canal, and which we left by way of the railroad that runs southwards through the battlefield of culloden, where the young pretender was defeated, and the cause of the stuarts finally overthrown in . the town has twenty thousand people, is well built of substantial materials, a fresh-looking pink stone predominating, and is the cleanest city we have seen in great britain. it has a fine situation, its business portion occupying the more level ground on both sides of its broad, clear river, while handsome villas stretch along the terrace which rises above the valley. at a short distance from the town there rises, from the level plain on the riverside, a strikingly beautiful wooded hill, on the summit and sides of which the people of inverness have made their cemetery, one of the loveliest of all the lovely cities of the dead. [illustration: statue of flora macdonald--inverness.] from elevated points, and especially from the castle hill in the midst of the town, one gets a very fine view of richly diversified scenery, comprising, besides river and firth and valley, a wealth of hills, some wooded and others gay with purple heather and green ferns. this central hill, on which the handsome castellated county buildings now stand, was the site of macbeth's castle, concerning which shakespeare represents king duncan as saying, "this castle hath a pleasant seat; the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses." just in front of the buildings which now occupy this celebrated site stands a graceful statue of flora macdonald. she is represented as a comely young woman, with her left hand lightly holding her dress skirt, and her right raised as though shading her eyes, while she gazes intently across the water. a very finely executed scotch collie at her side looks up into her face.[ ] [sidenote: the career of a royal adventurer.] being a native of north carolina, and having most pleasant memories of the highland scotch communities of the cape fear country, and the fine old town of fayetteville, where flora macdonald lived during a portion of her maturer life, i was delighted to be thus reminded that i was now so near the scenes connected with the romantic incidents of her younger days, when, at the peril of her own life, she saved the worthless life of prince charles stuart, the young pretender to the british throne. students of that period of english history, or readers of _waverly_, that immortal romance, which, as the first venture of its then unknown author in this line of literature, gave its name to the whole series of those unrivalled historical romances which were put forth thereafter in rapid succession by sir walter scott, and which have given a greater amount of wholesome pleasure to the world of readers in general than any other series of books that were ever written--students of history and readers of _waverly_, i say, will remember, that after the pretender's delusive victory at prestonpans, near edinburgh, and his disappointment at the failure of the roman catholic population of western england to rise in support of his cause, he fell back to the northern part of scotland, and there, on the desolate moor of culloden, four miles from inverness, he was overwhelmingly defeated by the duke of cumberland, and his army of devoted highlanders cut to pieces. over that bloody field the star of the stuarts, a race which had so long been a curse to great britain, sank to rise no more, and the protestant succession has never since been seriously called in question. [sidenote: a fugitive in the hebrides.] the pretender, with a few faithful friends, fled through the wild country to the southwest, and, after many hardships and hairbreadth escapes, reached the outer hebrides, and was concealed in a cave there, on the wet and windy island of benbecula. but the fact that he was on this island soon became known to the government, and then his position became perilous in the extreme. by sea and land every precaution was taken to prevent his escape, every road, pass and landing place being guarded, and the whole coast being patrolled by government vessels in such numbers that no craft, however small, could approach or leave the island unobserved, except perhaps under cover of darkness by special good fortune, while some two thousand soldiers made diligent search on shore; in addition to which a prize of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was offered for his capture. in this crisis of his affairs it was agreed that a final attempt for his rescue should be made through the agency of a young lady of the neighborhood, miss flora macdonald, then twenty-four years of age, two years younger than the prince himself, but whose selection for his perilous office argues a prudence and strength of character far beyond her years. [sidenote: a woman to the rescue.] this remarkable young woman was well born, being the granddaughter of the rev. angus macdonald, known throughout the isles as "the strong minister," on account of his extraordinary physical strength. she was also well bred, and well educated, having enjoyed not only the advantages of her own home, and of the other respectable families of her native island, but also the benefit of long residence in the home of her kinsman, sir alexander macdonald, of monkstadt, in the island of skye, and of three years in the ladies' seminary of miss henderson, at edinburgh. sir alexander was loyal to the house of hanover, and had refused to take any part in supporting the pretensions of prince charles. flora also was indifferent to the claim of the stuarts, and saved the pretender's life out of pure compassion. indeed, afterwards, when she had been released from her imprisonment at london on the charge of treason, and the prince of wales called on her and asked her, half jocularly, how she dared to assist a rebel against his father's throne, she answered with characteristic simplicity and firmness that she would have done the same thing for him had she found him in like distress. [sidenote: feminine courage and resource.] the plan adopted, and successfully carried out, for the escape of the pretender from benbecula to skye was this: our heroine, having expressed a strong desire to visit her mother, then living in skye, procured a passport for herself and two servants from her stepfather, captain hugh macdonald, who, though in command of a body of the king's militia on benbecula, shared the general compassion for the beaten prince, and the general desire that he might escape with his life. one of these servants was neil macdonald, a faithful, intelligent, and pretty well educated youth, who had spent several years in paris, and, therefore, spoke french fluently, and who, after the adventures with which we are here concerned, followed the pretender to france, and became the father of the celebrated marshal macdonald, duke of tarentum, one of napoleon's great generals. the other, ostensibly an awkward and overgrown irish girl, was in reality prince charles himself. with the principal member of the party thus disguised, and armed with the passport for use in case of need, these three, with a picked boat crew of six, set out on a dark night when the rain was falling in torrents, and, after an exceedingly tempestuous and perilous voyage, arrived safely in skye, where the coolness, courage and resourcefulness of flora macdonald baffled the king's officers, overcame all difficulties, and eventually accomplished the desired end of getting the pretender to the mainland, whence, after three months more of severe hardships, he got aboard of a french vessel, and so reached the continent. that he was utterly unworthy of the great service rendered him, is clearly shown by the fact, that though he lived for more than forty-two years after he parted with her on the beach of portree, he never acknowledged, by letter or otherwise, the dangers to which she exposed herself in order to save his life. at his death his body was appropriately laid in st. peter's cathedral at rome with the rest of his romish kindred. [sidenote: flora macdonald as prisoner.] flora macdonald's part in the escape of the young pretender could not long be concealed. as soon as it became known she was arrested, and taken on board one of the king's vessels, and by general campbell sent to dunstaffnage castle, on loch etive, his note to the governor of the castle referring to her as "a very pretty young rebel." after ten days of imprisonment there, she was taken to leith, the port of edinburgh, and placed on board the _bridgewater_, where she was detained for nearly three months, being lionized the while by the aristocracy and professional men of the scottish metropolis in a way that would have turned a weaker head. an episcopal clergyman of the place wrote of her as follows: "although she was easy and cheerful, yet she had a certain mixture of gravity in all her behavior, which became her situation exceedingly well, and set her off to great advantage. she is of a low stature, of a fair complexion, and well enough shaped. one would not discern by her conversation that she had spent all her former days in the highlands, for she talks english easily, and not at all through the erse tone. she has a sweet voice, and sings well; and no lady, edinburgh-bred, can acquit herself better at the tea-table, than what she did when in leith roads. her wise conduct, in one of the most perplexing scenes that can happen in life--her fortitude and good sense--are memorable instances of the strength of a female mind, even in those years that are tender and inexperienced." in november, , the _bridgewater_ sailed, with our heroine and others, to london, where they were to stand trial on charges of treason. her popularity, however, was so great, and public sentiment so strongly opposed to the infliction of any stern penalty upon a young and attractive woman for the performance of a self-sacrificing act of humanity, that, after a short confinement in the gloomy tower of london, whose walls have enclosed so many heavy hearts in the course of the centuries, she was turned over to friends, who became responsible to the government for her appearance when demanded, and, after remaining a state prisoner in this mitigated manner for some twelve months, she was set at liberty, under the act of indemnity of . the first use she made of her freedom was to solicit as a special favor that her fellow-prisoners from the isles should be given the same liberty as herself, and the request was granted, one of those thus released being her future father-in-law, macdonald of kingsburgh. [sidenote: her marriage.] some three years after her return to her native islands, she was married, in , to allan macdonald. boswell, in his _journal of a tour to the hebrides_, thus describes the man to whom our heroine yielded her heart and hand: "he was completely the figure of a gallant highlander, exhibiting the graceful mien and manly looks which our popular scotch song has justly attributed to that character. he had his tartan plaid thrown around him, a large blue bonnet with a knot of black ribbon like a cockade, a brown short coat, a tartan waistcoat with gold buttons, a bluish philibeg, and tartan hose. he had jet-black hair, tied behind, and was a large, stately man, with a steady, sensible countenance." [sidenote: she entertains dr. johnson and boswell.] it was in that boswell and dr. samuel johnson were entertained at the hospitable home of allan macdonald and his famous wife. the great lexicographer and moralist was delighted with his hostess and describes her as "a woman of middle stature, soft features, gentle manners, and elegant presence." he asked her, as a special favor, to let him sleep in the bed which had been occupied by the unfortunate prince, a request which she readily granted, adding, to his immense gratification, that she would also furnish him with the identical sheets on which the prince had lain, and which, by the way, she kept till the end of her days, taking them with her to north carolina and back, and in which, at her own request, her body was wrapped after her death. before leaving the house next morning, dr. johnson laid on his toilet table a slip of paper containing the pencilled words, _quantum cedat virtutibus aurum_, which boswell renders, "with virtue weighed, what worthless trash is gold." [sidenote: she moves to north carolina.] through no mismanagement or extravagance of his own, but in consequence of losses incurred by his father, by the part he had taken in the pretender's cause, allan macdonald had become seriously embarrassed, and so, in the hope of mending his fortune, he determined to emigrate to north carolina, where many other families from skye had already settled. accordingly, in , with his wife and their nine children, he sailed for wilmington, and, after receiving various attentions there, whither the fame of his wife had preceded them, they went up the cape fear river to cross creek, now called fayetteville, and after some months in cumberland county, where they were regular worshippers in the presbyterian church, purchased a place on the borders of richmond and montgomery counties, which they named killiegray. [sidenote: misfortunes in the new world.] their life in america was a sad one. two of their children died, a bereavement made the more trying to the mother because of the absence of her husband, whose duties as a military officer required his presence elsewhere. the revolutionary war was on the point of breaking out, and governor martin, seeing the honor paid to allan macdonald by the highlanders, made him brigadier-general of a command of his countrymen, which became a part of the ill-fated army that was defeated by the american patriots at the battle of moore's creek. he was captured and committed to halifax jail, virginia, as a prisoner of war. with misfortunes thickening around her, her husband in prison, her five sons away from home in the service of the king, her youngest daughter enfeebled by a dangerous attack of typhus fever, and her adopted country in the throes of war, flora macdonald resolved, on the recommendation of her imprisoned husband, to return to scotland, and, having obtained a passport through the kind offices of captain ingram, of the american army, she went to wilmington, and later to charleston, whence she sailed in . [sidenote: her return to scotland and her last days.] during this voyage she had the last of her notable adventures, in a sharp action between the vessel on which she sailed and a french privateer. she characteristically refused to take shelter below during the engagement, but appeared on deck, and encouraged the sailors, assuring them of success. she had an arm broken in this battle, and was accustomed to say afterwards that she had fought both for the house of stuart and the house of hanover, but had been worsted in the service of both. when peace was restored between britain and america, her husband was released from his long imprisonment, and returned as speedily as possible to skye, where they continued to live comfortably and happily for eight or nine years. she died on the th of march, , and was buried in the churchyard of kilmuir, in the north end of skye, her funeral being more numerously attended than any other that has ever taken place in the western isles. footnote: [ ] three or four months after our visit to inverness, i had the pleasure of meeting the sculptor of this striking statue, mr. alexander davidson, of rome, and of talking with him at large about the heroine of the highlands. chapter xvii. from scotland to england--western route. stratford-on-avon, _september , _. the finest expanses of heather that we saw in scotland were on the great moors through which our train ran southwards from inverness, a rolling sea of pinkish purple bloom, stretching for miles and miles on every hand. farther down we enjoyed the picturesqueness of the pass of killiecrankie, but it was the history here rather than the scenery which interested us, for it was here that claverhouse, the stony-hearted persecutor of the covenanters, fought and won his last battle, but lost his own life. still farther south, at dunkeld, we were reminded of the heroic and successful resistance made by the staunch men of galloway to the hitherto victorious highlanders, well described in mr. crockett's _lochinvar_, which, as many of my young readers know, is a sort of sequel to _the men of the moss hags_. [sidenote: in and around perth.] the tay at perth is a noble stream. it is said that when the romans came in sight of it, they exclaimed, "ecce tiber! ecce campus martius!" the scornful resentment which scotchmen feel at this comparison of their beautiful river to the more famous italian stream, which hawthorne somewhere describes as "a mud puddle in strenuous motion," is expressed in the lines which sir walter scott has placed at the head of the first chapter of his _fair maid of perth_: "'behold the tiber!' the vain roman cried, viewing the ample tay from baiglie's side; but where's the scot that would the vaunt repay, and hail the puny tiber for the tay?" it has been whimsically said that perth is the smallest city in the world, because it is situated between two inches. inch was the old scottish word denoting an island or meadow. we were most interested, of course, in the north inch, where the judicial combat took place between the two clans, and in which henry wynd and conachar were engaged. the name of one of these clans, the clan quhele, reminded me of the thrifty little town built up by the highland scotch element in eastern north carolina. they called the town "quhele." but the other native elements of the population, not appreciating scotch tradition and what seemed to them an outlandish name, changed it in common use to "shoe heel," and this undignified designation of their town so completely ousted the other that the people by act of legislature had the name changed to "maxton," that is, mac's town, for nine-tenths of the people in that region are macs, and mighty good people they are, too. we visited the fair maid's house, and in the evening read the magician's romance about her. through the great kindness of relatives and boyhood companions of friends of ours in richmond, who had the good fortune to be born and brought up in perth, we were given every opportunity to see the interesting old city from every point of view, and both those of us who climbed to the top of kinnoul hill, which an old traveller once called "the glory of scotland," and those of us who drove with the kind friends above mentioned to scone palace, whence the ancient crowning stone now in westminster abbey was taken, were fully agreed that the place richly deserved its affectionate name of "the fair city." one member of our party made an excursion one day from perth to kirriemuir, the "thrums" of mr. barrie's stories, while two others devoted the day to an excursion in the other direction to the beautifully situated town of crieff, world renowned as a health resort. here we were most pleasantly entertained by the kind friends in whose delightful home i was a guest at glasgow in . any one of the drives about crieff on a perfect day, such as we had, will give one a new impression of the loveliness of perthshire, the district of scotland to which sir walter awards the palm for beauty. on my former visit, i had made a detour from perth, in this same direction, for the purpose of seeing logiealmond, the "drumtochty" of ian maclaren, which is only a few miles from crieff, and had visited the free church, in which the young pastor of the _bonnie brier bush_ stories preached "his mother's sermon," and "spoke a gude word for jesus christ"; and the established church, where, under a big elm, the nippy tongue of jamie soutar was wont to wag on sunday mornings; and the farm of burnbrae, and other places in the glen which has now become so famous. i am sorry to say that dr. john watson's later development, both theological and literary, has not been so satisfactory as was once expected. [sidenote: southwest scotland and the english lakes.] on our way down to edinburgh we had a glimpse from the car windows of loch leven, and the island castle in which mary queen of scots was confined to keep her out of mischief, and in connection therewith recalled what we could of _the monastery_ and _the abbot_, the former one of the least successful, and the latter one of the most successful of scott's romances. we had a glimpse also of dunfermline, the birthplace of andrew carnegie, to say nothing of its ancient renown, crossed the forth bridge once more, made a brief stay in edinburgh, and pushed on to ayr, passing the battlefield of ayrsmoss and other points of interest in connection with the covenanters. we could give only two days to ayr, but saw the birthplace of burns, auld alloway kirk, bonnie doon, and the various memorials of the poet; then went to dumfries principally to see the burns monuments there, passing reluctantly through the covenanter country without stopping. from dumfries we crossed the border, passing the original gretna green, where for more than a hundred years the runaway couples from england were married, and went direct to keswick, at the head of derwentwater, for the purpose of seeing something of the english lake district. skiddaw is a noble and satisfying mountain. we were interested also in the memorials of southey at crossthwaite church. but southey is responsible for the severest disappointment that comes to travellers in the lake district. by his artificial and jingling lines on "how the water comes down at lodore," he has raised expectations which the poor little falls at the foot of derwentwater cannot realize. the american who came there and sat down on a rock and watched the falls for a while, and then declared that there was at least a gill of water coming down, was hardly guilty of a greater exaggeration in one direction than southey in the other. but there is no other disappointment about the scenery of the english lakes. it is lovely. it is said that a famous classical scholar, preaching to a small congregation of rustics in the lake district, said to them, "in this beautiful country, my brethren, you have an apotheosis of nature and an apodeikneusis of theocratic omnipotence!" we trust that the sentiment which he tried to express was all right, notwithstanding the insufferably pedantic form of it. of course we took the coach from keswick to windermere, stopping for the night at ambleside, and visiting the grave of wordsworth hard by the clear and placid stream, an ideal resting-place for the poet of nature. [sidenote: chester and lichfield.] chester, with its quaint rows, and red sandstone cathedral, and its high promenade on top of the walls encircling the old part of the town, and especially its roman remains--for chester is fundamentally a roman town, as its name indicates (it was the castra of the twentieth legion)--interested us, as did also eaton hall, the magnificent seat of the duke of westminster, three miles distant; but we had rain, rain, rain, and besides, we had lingered so long in the fascinating "land of the mountain and the flood" that we were anxious to push on to places of still more interest to us. so we did not tarry there long. we treated coventry, kenilworth, leamington, and even lichfield, in the same touch-and-go fashion. we could not bring ourselves to omit lichfield altogether, partly because of its lovely cathedral, but chiefly because it was the town of dr. samuel johnson, the greatest man of books that ever lived. therefore, we stopped there long enough to go through the rich collection of johnson relics in the house where he was brought up, to study the monument to him in the marketplace in front, and to inspect the cathedral. boswell's _life of johnson_ is the best biography in the english language. the careful reading of it is a pretty thorough education in literature. i fear it is not read as much as it used to be. people are too much occupied with the ephemeral effusions of contemporary mediocrities to read the great books. our visit to this town reminded me of a story that i had read years ago of a certain bishop of lichfield who had a reputation for repartee and ready replies to difficult questions. in a crowded room one evening, when it was not known that the bishop was present, the conversation turned to this aptness of his, and a man said, "i should like to meet that bishop of lichfield; i'd put a question to him that would puzzle him." "very well," said a voice from another corner, "now is your time, for i am the bishop." the first speaker was somewhat taken aback, but recovered himself sufficiently to say, "well, my lord, can you tell me the way to heaven?" "nothing easier," answered the bishop, "you have only to turn to the right and go straight ahead." [sidenote: the shakespeare country.] and now we are off for the shakespeare country, not far away. very different from the bold scenery of scotland is that of this part of england. here one sees-- "the ground's most gentle dimplement (as if god's finger touched, but did not press, in making england)--such an up and down of verdure; nothing too much up and down, a ripple of land, such little hills the sky can stoop to tenderly and the wheat fields climb." the most striking feature of an english landscape to an american eye is the _extraordinary finish_--lawns, fields, fences, houses, roads, are all such as can belong only to an old and prosperous country. an oxford man, when asked how they managed to get such perfect sward in the college lawns, replied: "it is the simplest thing in the world; you have only to mow and roll regularly _for about four hundred years_." at stratford-on-avon we stayed at the red horse inn, washington irving's hotel when here. we visited anne hathaway's cottage, the school of the poet's boyhood, the ugly and staring shakespeare memorial, and the other points of interest. it is familiar ground to most readers, and i shall refer to only two things. [sidenote: the american window at stratford.] in the church where shakespeare is buried there is an american window, not yet finished when i first saw it, and there was a box hard by to receive the donations of american visitors. the rich stained glass represents the infant christ in his mother's arms, and on either side english and american worthies in attitudes of adoration. on one side are amerigo vespucci, christopher columbus and william penn, representative pious _americans_, and on the other bishop egwin of worcester, "king charles the martyr and archbishop laud!" the fact that more than two thousand dollars have been contributed for this window is conclusive proof of the humiliating fact that a large number of the americans who visit stratford are ninnies. i venture the assertion that their admiration for shakespeare is humbug, that they have not sufficient intelligence to appreciate his real worth, and that they could stand about as good an examination on the immortal plays as that king george who, after vain attempts to read shakespeare, gave it up with the remark that it was very dull stuff. he was "clever just like a donkey," as one of our european guides said when we asked him about the intellectual grade of certain monks, and these citizens of a free country who give money for a monument to charles i. and archbishop laud are equally clever. i was speaking of this window to one of the most interesting men i met in scotland, my host, the learned and distinguished dr. w. g. blackie, and he put the whole thing into "the husk o' a hazel" with the remark that "charles the first was one of the most incorrigible liars that ever lived." he was, and he was moreover the inveterate foe of every principle represented by the american government. and yet americans are contributing to a memorial window of him and laud! [sidenote: english in england.] as one wanders about the streets of the quaint english town he is beset from time to time by groups of children, who in a kind of humming or chanting chorus recite the leading facts in the life of shakespeare, for which they expect, of course, to receive a small fee. the substance and sound of this curious monotone have been represented approximately as follows: "william shykespeare, the gryte poet, was born in stratford-on-avon in --the 'ouse in which he dwelt may still be seen--'is father in the gryte poet's boyhood was 'igh bailiff of the plyce--one who shykes a spear is the meaning of 'is nyme," and so on. in like manner the london newsboys say, "pipers, sir?" as a friend of mine puts it, they do not "label your trunks" here, but "libel your boxes," and they call the tate gallery "tight." that reminds me of the queer pronunciation of many proper names in great britain. of course you know that thames is pronounced temz, and greenwich grinij, and beauchamp beecham, and gloucester gloster, and brougham broom. but did you know that kirkcudbright was pronounced kirk-coó-bree, that at cambridge they call caius college keys college, and that at oxford they call magdalen college maudlen college? the cockburn hotel at which we stopped in edinburgh is called coburn. so colquhoun is cohoon, wemyss is weems, glamis is glams, charteris is charters, methuen is methven, cholmondeley is chumley, marjoribanks is marchbanks, ruthven is riven, debelvoir is de beever and menzies is mingis. worse yet, bethune is beeten, levison-gower is luson-gore, colclough is coatley, st. john is sinjun, st. leger is silleger, and uttoxeter is uxeter. but, then, we have in virginia the name enroughty pronounced darby. high holborn in london is 'i 'obun. some of their contractions are remarkable. the name of bunhill fields, the great nonconformist burying-ground, is short for bone hill. the famous charity school, where the boys wear blue coats, is called "the blukkit school," instead of the blue coat school. rotten row, the fashionable track for horseback riders in hyde park, is an ugly contraction of the french words _route de roi_, the king's road, because there was a time when only the king was allowed to use it. i cannot leave this subject without telling you that the name of dugald dalgetty of drumthwacket, who afforded you so much amusement when you were reading _the legend of montrose_, is called in scotland diggety instead of dalgetty. other things of interest in this connection are that shoes are not shoes in england, they are boots. if you ask for shoes they will give you slippers. there are no overshoes, only galoches. no shirtwaists, nothing but blouses. you can't get a spool of thread, but a reel of cotton. locomotive engineers are called "drivers," and conductors are called "guards." in scotland all the church notices are "intimations." chapter xviii. a visit to rugby and a tramp to the white horse hill. london, _september , _. [sidenote: tom brown's school-days at rugby.] one would think at first view that it would be as easy to write a good book for boys about school life as to write a good story about any other subject. but it does not seem to be so. at any rate, many gifted and practised authors have attempted it, with only moderate success. archdeacon farrar, one of the most versatile writers of our time, has given us a pretty good story of school life in his _st. winifred's_, but the work is marred by its too constant appeal to morbid emotion. mr. rudyard kipling, too, has tried his hand on a book for boys, and has only given us what dr. robertson nicoll justly calls "that detestable thing," _stalky & co_. the less boys have to do with that kind of books the better. high hopes were raised by the announcement that the rev. john watson, d. d., of liverpool, better known as "ian maclaren," author of _beside the bonny brier bush_, and many other exceedingly popular volumes, was to publish a book on school-boy life. it was known that he had the requisite talent, sympathy and humor, that he was a scholarly and high-minded man, and that he had sons of his own. surely these are just the qualifications that a man ought to have in order to write an ideal book for boys. but dr. watson's book, _young barbarians_, was a disappointment. it has many true and bright and laughable things in it, and it glorifies manliness and pluck, but it often ridicules the good boys of the school, the boys who give the teacher no trouble and perform their tasks faithfully, and it makes the most mischievous and lawless boy in school its hero. besides, it is not one continuous story, but a group of sketches. in short, i know only one book of this class having the first order of merit, and that is _tom brown's school days at rugby_. in my judgment, that is the best book for boys that has yet been written, the most natural, the most interesting, the most wholesome. it has an abiding charm. i read it as a boy, and i have read it again and again since i was grown. it is one of the books whose scenes i have always wished to visit. the opportunity came a few days ago while i was travelling through central england with several youngsters, ranging from eleven years to fifteen, to whom i had read _tom brown_, and who wished to visit rugby. [sidenote: the rugby of to-day.] the place is now an important railway junction, with a wilderness of tracks, and trains flying in and out in every direction. what a change in the mode of travel since the days of the pig and whistle which brought tom down to rugby! the school itself, however, is much the same--the venerable buildings and quadrangles; the doctor's house, with its wealth of vines; the wide sweep of green playground, where tom had his memorable first experience at football, and "the island," as the mound on one side was called. on the bulletin board was an announcement about "hare and hounds," so that this splendid game, so finely described in the book, is evidently still a favorite. one marked innovation since tom's time is the introduction of the military feature into the school. the boys are now regularly drilled, and in passing through the buildings one sees the rows of rifles neatly ranged along the walls. it is one of many indications of england's effort to keep up a full stream of recruits for her army. in the library we are shown the long gilt hand from the old clock in the school tower, the very hand on which tom and east scratched their names as a suitable conclusion to a certain series of exploits; and, looking closely, we see the name "thomas hughes." he was the original of tom brown, and to him we are indebted for this unrivalled story of life at school. just in front of the library building stands a singularly fit and vital bronze statue of judge hughes, represented as wearing a sack coat, informal, manly, keenly intelligent, kind and true--the very thing to appeal to boys. i spoke above of the generally unchanged appearance of the buildings. but the library just mentioned is an exception, being new; and another exception is the very large and handsome new chapel of variegated brick, so that we no longer see it just as it was when tom, on revisiting rugby, knelt before dr. arnold's tomb, and lifted a subdued and thankful heart to god. but the remains of the great head-master still lie there, and on one side of the chapel is a good recumbent statue of arnold, and just below it a similar one of his favorite pupil, stanley, afterwards the celebrated dean of westminster. [sidenote: our expedition to tom brown's birthplace.] we left rugby regretfully, but we were not through with the scenes connected with tom brown, by any means, for, a few days later, while sojourning at oxford, i proposed one evening to our young people that we should make an expedition to the white horse vale, where tom was born, and where, moreover, we could see that most ancient, most striking, and most durable of saxon monuments, the huge figure of a galloping horse, three hundred and seventy feet long, cut in the hillside by removing the turf to the depth of a foot or two and exposing the white chalk beneath, made by king alfred's soldiers to commemorate his great victory over the danes at this place--to say nothing of a great fortified roman camp on top of the same hill. the suggestion was agreed to with alacrity, and next morning, after an early breakfast, we took a train from oxford down the thames valley, but at didcot turned westward, and soon came to wantage, the birthplace of alfred the great, of whom there is a statue in the marketplace, the native town also of bishop butler, the author of the immortal _analogy_, and the residence at present of the notorious leader of tammany hall, new york, richard croker, who has his racing stables here. the country through which we are passing is as flat as a western prairie, but since leaving didcot we have come in sight of a range of chalk hills covered with the greenest of grass, running parallel with the railway on our left, and distant some two or three miles. the highest point in this range is the white horse hill--our destination. at uffington station we leave the train and begin our tramp, first of two miles to uffington village, where, as we pass the parish school, we have the good fortune to see the children all out at play, as in the time when harry winburn taught tom brown that valuable trick in wrestling, and when tom and jacob doodlecalf were caught by the wheelwright while performing in the porch in a manner not conducive to the gravity and order of the school. [sidenote: the highest horse we ever mounted.] the ground has been level thus far, but for the next mile or so it rises gently, the great white figure on the hill before us becoming more distinct as we come around in front of it somewhat, and then when we come to the foot of the hill itself we find a sharp climb before us, and are presently going almost straight up. up, up we go. let us pause for a rest. up again. another pause. now look back. what a lovely view! one more pull for the top, and here we are at last, standing on the broad tail of the white horse, mopping our brows with our handkerchiefs, and panting with the exertion, while the wind blows a stiff gale from the west. but we yield the floor for a few moments to the man who first told us about this place: what a hill is the white horse hill! there it stands right up above all the rest, nine hundred feet above the sea, the boldest, bravest shape for a chalk hill that you ever saw. let us go up to the top of him, and see what is to be found there. ay, you may well wonder and think it odd you never heard of this before.... [sidenote: the roman camp.] yes, it's a magnificent roman camp, and no mistake, with gates and ditch and mounds, all as complete as it was twenty years after the strong old rogues had left it. here, right up on the highest point, from which they say you can see eleven counties, they trenched round all the tableland, some twelve or fourteen acres, as was their custom, for they couldn't bear anybody to overlook them, and made their eyrie. the ground falls away rapidly on all sides. was there ever such turf in the whole world? you sink up to your ankles at every step, and yet the spring of it is delicious. there is always a breeze in the "camp," as it is called; and here it lies, just as the romans left it.... it is altogether a place that you won't forget,--a place to open a man's soul and make him prophesy, as he looks down on that great vale spread out as the garden of the lord before him, and wave on wave of the mysterious downs behind; and to the right and left the chalk hills running away into the distance, along which he can trace for miles the old roman road, "the ridgeway" ("the rudge," as the country folk call it), keeping straight along the highest back of the hills;--such a place as balak brought balaam to and told him to prophesy against the people in the valley beneath. and he could not, neither shall you, for they are a people of the lord who abide there. [sidenote: king alfred's defeat of the danes.] and now we leave the camp, and descend towards the west and are on the ash-down. we are treading on heroes. for this is the actual place where our alfred won his great battle, the battle of ash-down, which broke the danish power, and made england a christian land. the danes held the camp and the slope where we are standing--the whole crown of the hill, in fact. "the heathen had beforehand seized the higher ground," as old asser says, having wasted everything behind them from london, and being just ready to burst down on the fair vale, alfred's own birthplace and heritage. and up the heights came the saxons, "and there the battle was joined with a mighty shout, and the pagans were defeated with great slaughter." after which crowning mercy the pious king, that there might never be wanting a sign and a memorial to the countryside, carved out on the northern side of the chalk hill, under the camp, where it is almost precipitous, the great saxon white horse, which he who will may see from the railway, and which gives its name to the vale, over which it has looked these thousand years and more. [sidenote: the manger and the dragon's hill.] right down below the white horse is a curious deep and broad gully, called "the manger" [because it is right under the mouth of the white horse], into one side of which the hills fall with a series of the most lovely sweeping curves, known as "the giant's stairs"; they are not a bit like stairs, but i never saw anything like them anywhere else, with their short, green turf, and tender bluebells, and gossamer and thistle-down gleaming in the sun, and the sheep paths running along their sides like ruled lines. the other side of the manger is formed by the dragon's hill, a curious little round self-confident fellow, thrown forward from the range, utterly unlike everything round him. on this hill some deliverer of mankind--st. george, the country folk used to tell me--killed a dragon. whether it were st. george i cannot say; but surely a dragon was killed there, for you may see the marks yet where his blood ran down, and more by token the place where it ran down is the easiest way up the hillside. so far thomas hughes. as a truthful chronicler, i must record that some of our party, tempted by the precipitous slope covered with luxuriant grass, slid down the hill from the white horse into the manger, sitting down on the turf and letting themselves go, with the result of wrecking a pair of trousers or so, and carrying away some portion of the fertile soil of berks to oxford. [sidenote: the blowing stone.] passing along the ridgeway to the west for about a mile, we may come to wayland smith's forge, a cave familiar to readers of _kenilworth_, but we content ourselves with a distant view, and, descending the hill, turn to the east, and, after a brisk walk of three or four miles, we halt under a fine old tree in front of a cottage door, to see another object described in _tom brown's school days at rugby_, the celebrated blowing stone, "a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high, perforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian rat holes." it is chained to the tree and secured with a padlock. instead of the innkeeper, for whom mr. hughes was so fearful lest he should burst or have apoplexy when he blew the stone, a very comely matron came out of the cottage and blew it for us--then we all blew it in turn. the sound is described exactly in the book: "a grewsome sound, between a moan and a roar, spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside, and into the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like, awful voice." this stone is said to have been used in old times to give warning and summons in time of war. in his other book, on _the scouring of the white horse_, that is, the scraping away of the accumulated sand and grass, which is the occasion every year for the gathering of the whole countryside for games and festivities, judge hughes gives the following ballad in the country dialect, which contains a reference to this use of the stone: "the owed white horse wants zettin to rights, and the 'squire hev promised good cheer, zo we'll gee un a scrape to kip un in zhape, an a'll last for many a year. "a was made a lang, lang time ago, wi a good dale o' labor and pains, by king alfred the great when he spwiled their consate and caddled[ ] they wosbirds,[ ] the danes. "the bleawin' stwun in days gone by wur king alfred's bugle harn, and the tharnin' tree you med plainly zee as is called king alfred's tharn." [sidenote: the effect upon our appetite.] but the sun is now sinking westward, and we have still a long walk before us to the railroad, and in order to catch our train it must be a rapid walk as well. we have been so much interested that we did not think of anything to eat until now, but the vigorous exercise has given us keen appetites, and we begin to inquire for food. none to be had. so we set out hungry on our forced march to the station, and by steady toil reach it a few minutes before the arrival of our train, having tramped thirteen long miles up hill and down dale since leaving the train there that morning. in the compartment which we entered were a couple of english ladies, who presently opened a small case of tea things, lighted a spirit lamp, and brewed their tea. then _they_ drank it. that was the best tea i ever--smelled. the delicious aroma of it tantalized and tormented our weary and hungry pedestrians for miles, and put an edge on our appetites that made obedience to the tenth commandment an utter impossibility. it may seem incredible, but it is a fact that our friend, mr. bird, and two of the youngsters in the party, did four miles more on foot at wantage later on in the same day. you may be sure there was hearty eating and sound sleeping when we all got back to our quarters at oxford that night, well satisfied with our memorable visit to the white horse and the blowing stone. our sojourn at oxford, with her wealth of mellow architecture and her inspiring historical and literary associations,--our visits to windsor castle, eton college, and stoke pogis, where gray wrote his immortal "elegy,"--and our excursions to hampton court, with its wonderful grape vine and its crowding memories of wolsey, cromwell, and william iii., and to kingston, richmond hill, kew gardens, kensington and the crystal palace,--were all full of interest, but must be passed over here, as there are subjects of greater importance connected with london which will occupy all the remaining space that we can give to england. [illustration: magdalen college, oxford.] footnotes: [ ] caddled, worried. [ ] wosbird, bird of woe, of evil omen. chapter xix. the most interesting building in the world. london, _october , _. [sidenote: the birthplace of the shorter catechism.] some months ago, when the kind urgency of my friends made it plain to me that i should go abroad for a while, and when it was decided that certain young students of the shorter catechism in my family should go with me, i promised them a visit to the birthplace of that marvellous compendium of biblical doctrine, which for two hundred and fifty years has been such a weariness to the flesh of presbyterian children throughout the english-speaking world, especially on sunday afternoons, and which is such a priceless possession of their adult years when once thoroughly acquired in youth; but i told them that the condition on which alone i could take them with a clear conscience to the spot where that matchless little book was written, was that they should memorize it perfectly beforehand, and i had the satisfaction before leaving home of hearing them all recite it without a mistake; and, in order to retain with ease what was thus acquired with toil, they have continued to recite it regularly from beginning to end every sunday afternoon. this is, of course, nothing more than hundreds of other children have done, and i do not mention it as anything remarkable, but only as suggesting one reason for the eager interest with which we were looking forward to our visit to a certain part of westminster abbey. and so, on the very first morning after our first arrival in london, as soon as we had finished breakfast, we hurried down to the gray old minster, where, in the midst of the roaring city, so many of the restless makers of the world's history, literature and art are now quietly sleeping; for we intended, after seeing where the westminster assembly sat, to give a full morning to the other historical memorials of the abbey. [sidenote: the coronation postponed.] imagine, then, our disappointment, on reaching the place, to find the abbey closed, and to learn from the policeman at the door that no one knew when it would be opened again, certainly not for several weeks. you see, the building had been elaborately decorated for the coronation of king edward vii., for this is where all the kings of england have been crowned, from the time of william the conqueror down; and while we were crossing the ocean king edward became very ill and had to undergo a surgical operation, as we learned on landing at southampton, and so the great ceremonies planned for june th had to be postponed. but the costly draperies used in the decorations were still in position, and had to remain till it should be seen whether the king would be well enough in a few weeks to receive the crown; and of course the public could not be admitted to the abbey till these sumptuous fabrics had either served their original purpose or been removed. happily the king did recover in a few weeks, to the great joy of his subjects, who, chastened and subdued by their sovereign's sickness at a time so critical, came to the coronation on the second date appointed, august th, in a more thankful, if less jubilant, temper. [sidenote: the abbey still closed.] meantime, however, we had gone on to scotland, after three weeks in london, feeling sure that on our return there would be nothing to prevent our seeing the great abbey to our hearts' content. but no; after two full months in edinburgh and the scottish highlands and the west of england, we found the abbey still closed. the work of removing the temporary structures and hangings used at the coronation was still going on, a fact which suggests forcibly the extent of these preparations, and, perhaps, also the leisureliness of english workmen, who are probably not accustomed to doing things as rapidly as americans. but we had no idea of being deprived altogether of a sight of the interior of the abbey by their slowness. london is a place of endless interest to visitors; and so, though we had already given three weeks to the principal sights of the city, we contentedly settled down for two weeks more there, till the work in the abbey should be finished. at last it was all done, and on october st the building was again opened. we were among the first on the ground, and gave two full days to as thorough an examination of the building and its unparalleled contents as was practicable within that time. [sidenote: the assembly of divines.] of this inspection of the abbey and its monuments in general we shall have something to say after a while, but for the present let us turn our attention to those parts of the building which are associated with the work of the famous assembly of ministers and other scholars who met here in by ordinance of parliament "to establish a new platform of worship and discipline to this nation for all time to come," and to whose pious and learned labors, extending through more than five years and a half, and occupying one thousand one hundred and sixty-three sessions, the world is indebted for the larger and shorter catechisms and that great confession of faith "which, alone within these islands, was imposed by law on the whole kingdom," and which, by its fidelity to scripture, its logical coherence, and the majesty and fervor of its style, still commands the adherence of a multitude of the clearest and strongest minds in christendom. [sidenote: the two places of meeting.] the two parts of the abbey especially connected with the work of the assembly are at the two opposite ends of the building: the chapel of henry vii. at the eastern end, and the jerusalem chamber at the western; the one the most beautiful chapel in the world, the other a plain but comfortable rectangular room. immediately after the service with which the assembly was opened, and in which both houses of parliament took part, and which was probably held in the choir of the abbey, where the regular daily services now take place, the members appointed to the assembly ascended the steps to the chapel of henry vii., and there the enrollment was made and the earlier sessions held. that was in summer, but when the weather became colder the assembly gladly forsook the architectural magnificence of this chapel, called by leland "the miracle of the world," for the comfortable warmth of the homely room at the other end of the abbey; for, as robert baillie, "the boswell of the assembly," says in his delightful account of the proceedings, the jerusalem chamber "has a good fyre, which is some dainties at london." [sidenote: the two types of worship.] in this removal of the historic assembly from the cold splendor of the finest perpendicular building in england to the plain comfort and common-sense arrangements of the little rectangular room where they were to reason together through so many months concerning the teachings of scripture, one may see a parable of the assembly's action in rejecting the ritualistic type of worship, with its predominating appeal to the æsthetic sensibilities through elaborate ceremonies, and its adoption of the new testament type, with its predominating appeal to the mind through the oral teaching of truth. they were convinced that the spiritual life can be really nourished and developed only by the intelligent apprehension of the truth. their own statement of the matter, drawn up in this very room, is that "the spirit of god maketh the reading, but especially the preaching of the word, an effectual means of convincing and converting sinners, and of building them up in holiness and comfort, through faith unto salvation." and so those churches which have adopted the standards then framed by the westminster divines have steadily magnified the didactic element of public worship, accentuating the teaching function of the minister to the extinction of the priestly. [sidenote: interior of the jerusalem chamber.] we pass from the nave of the abbey through a door on the south side into the ancient cloisters, and, turning to the right, ring at the door of the janitor. a cherry-cheeked woman appears, and, when we state that we wish to see the jerusalem chamber, she brings a key, turns with us again to the right, which brings us to the southwest corner of the abbey, and ushers us through an ante-room into the celebrated meeting-place of the great assembly, a rectangular room, running north and south, about forty feet in length by twenty in breadth, with a large double window in the western side opposite the spacious fireplace referred to by baillie, and another fine window in the northern end, which, by the way, contains the finest stained glass in the whole abbey. a long table, covered with a plain green cloth, occupies the centre of the room, with chairs around it ready for convocation; for the room is still regularly used for the meetings of ecclesiastical functionaries, occasionally also for special gatherings of wider interest, the most notable of which, since the westminster assembly, was the series of sessions held here by the company of scholars who had been appointed to revise the common english version of the scriptures, and who, in , brought that immensely difficult and important work to a successful conclusion by their publication of the revised version of the old testament. this room has been the scene of many other memorable events, as we shall presently see, but none of them, nor all of them, can equal in interest and importance the work of that great assembly which two hundred and fifty years ago formulated that lofty ideal of human life so familiar to us in the answer to the first question of the shorter catechism: what is the chief end of man? man's chief end is to glorify god and to enjoy him forever--a statement which has probably had a deeper and wider influence for good in the anglo-saxon world than any other twelve words ever written by uninspired men. [sidenote: exterior of the jerusalem chamber.] the jerusalem chamber, in which the westminster assembly of divines held its long sessions and did its immortal work, is a low building which runs along the southern half of the front of the abbey, and is easily seen to the right of the main door in any picture of the great western facade. it strikes one at first as an architectural blunder, except as a foil to the lofty front of the main structure, but it has served many great practical uses. it was built about five hundred years ago, in the old days of monastery, as a guest chamber for the abbot's house. i may pause here a moment to remind my younger readers of the fact that the word "minster," as in "westminster," is equivalent to monastery, from the latin _monasterium_, and the still more curious fact that the word has been preserved more nearly in its latin form in the monster tavern and the monster omnibuses, well known in the immediate neighborhood of the abbey, which derive their name from the same ancient monastery now known as westminster. [sidenote: origin of its name.] the name, jerusalem chamber, seems to have been derived from the tapestries with which the walls were originally hung, and which portrayed different scenes in the history of jerusalem. before the meeting of the westminster assembly, however, these had been replaced by another series of pictures representing the planets, and it is to these that baillie refers when he tells us that the room was "well hung." to the same keen observer, whom nothing escaped, we are indebted for the information that the light from the great window was softened by "curtains of pale thread with red roses." but the curtains and tapestries that baillie saw have in turn given place to those which the visitor now sees on the walls, and which do not call for special notice here. [sidenote: death of henry iv.] the first tapestries, however, those which gave the room its name, are connected with one of the most memorable events that ever occurred in this historic apartment, the death of henry iv., in fulfillment, as the king thought, of the prophecy that he should die in jerusalem. in his old age henry projected a visit to the holy sepulchre at jerusalem, by way of penance for his usurpation, and when the galleys were already in port to bear him on his journey, he came to pay his parting devotions at the shrine of edward the confessor in westminster abbey. there he was seized with a chill, and, as the old chronicler says, "became so sick that such as were about him feared that he would have died right there; wherefore they, for his comfort, bare him into the abbot's place, and lodged him in a chamber, and there upon a pallet laid him before the fire, where he lay in great agony a certain time." when borne to the bed, which had meantime been prepared for him in another room, the scene occurred which is so graphically described by shakespeare: "_king henry._--doth any name particular belong unto the lodging where i first did swoon? _warwick._--'tis call'd jerusalem, my noble lord. _king henry._--laud be to god!--even there my life must end, it hath been prophesied to me many years i should not die but in jerusalem; which vainly i supposed the holy land: but bear me to that chamber; there i'll lie; in that jerusalem shall harry die." [sidenote: imprisonment of sir thomas more.] but henry iv. was not the only man who looked death in the face in this room. many years later, when henry viii. was just beginning that infamous career of divorcing and beheading wives, and burning protestants as heretics, and hanging romanists as traitors for saying that the pope was superior to the king in matters of religion--a career which has made his name one of the most detestable in history--sir thomas more, the noblest englishman of his time, was arrested for his refusal to swear that henry's marriage with anne boleyn was lawful, and on his way to the tower of london was confined for four days in the jerusalem chamber. shortly afterwards, under the act of parliament which directed that every one who refused to give the king a title belonging to him was to be put to death as a traitor, sir thomas more was executed on tower hill because he could not honestly give henry the title of supreme head of the church of england. other dead bodies, too, besides that of henry iv. have lain in this room. the body of dr. south, the witty and eloquent court preacher, lay in state here. it was south who, when reading from the seventeenth chapter of the acts the accusation of the thessalonian mob against paul and silas--"these that have turned the world upside down are come hither also"--remarked that it was well for the apostles to turn the world upside down, because the devil had turned it downside up. [sidenote: funeral of joseph addison.] from the jerusalem chamber the body of the illustrious essayist, joseph addison, after lying in state for four days, was carried forth in that memorable funeral procession at dead of night which was led by torchlight round the shrine of st. edward and the graves of the plantagenets to the chapel of henry vii., the body being finally laid to rest opposite the poet's corner in the south transept. "such a mark of national respect was due to the unsullied statesman, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of pure english eloquence, to the consummate painter of life and manners. it was due, above all, to the great satirist, who alone knew how to use ridicule without abusing it; who, without inflicting a wound, effected a great social reform, and who reconciled wit and virtue, after a long and disastrous separation, during which wit had been led astray by profligacy, and virtue by fanaticism." so wrote lord macaulay of addison, reminding us, at the same time, how addison "was accustomed to walk by himself in westminster abbey, and meditate on the condition of those who lay in it"; and now macaulay himself lies there close to the grave of addison. [sidenote: sir isaac newton.] but the most illustrious man whose body has ever lain in state in the jerusalem chamber is sir isaac newton, the great philosopher, whom his friends called "the whitest soul they had ever known," and of whom pope wrote the celebrated couplet: "nature and nature's laws lay hid in night; god said, _let newton be_, and all was light." such are some of the great names associated with the jerusalem chamber--henry iv., thomas more, robert south, joseph addison, isaac newton--and to some of them the whole world is indebted, as to sir thomas more for his calm refusal to purchase his life at the cost of his convictions, and to joseph addison for all that he was as an author, a man, and a christian, and to sir isaac newton for his lofty character and his unparalleled services to the cause of human knowledge; but, after all, it may be doubted whether the world is more deeply indebted to any of them than to that body of thoroughgoing scholars and profound thinkers who in this room two centuries and a half ago formulated the statement that "effectual calling is the work of god's spirit, whereby, convincing us of our sin and misery, enlightening our minds in the knowledge of christ, and renewing our wills, he doth persuade and enable us to embrace jesus christ, freely offered to us in the gospel"--and one hundred and six other propositions concerning the most momentous interests of human existence, which for luminous condensation of truth have never been surpassed in all the history of the human expression of the doctrines of scripture. [sidenote: an architectural triumph.] westminster abbey is not wanting in architectural interest. indeed, it is pronounced by mr. freeman the most glorious of english churches, and is said to be the one great church of england which retains its beautiful ancient coloring undestroyed by so-called "restoration." the exterior is singularly impressive, whether viewed from the east, where the exquisite lacework of henry vii.'s chapel, with its richly decorated buttresses, rivets the attention at the first glance; or from the north, where we face the north transept, the front of which, with its niches, its rose-window, and its great triple entrance, is pronounced by mr. hare the richest part of the building externally; or even from the west, where, in spite of the two comparatively late and feeble towers, we have a noble front, the loftiness of which is well brought out by "the low line of grey wall which indicates the jerusalem chamber." the interior is still more beautiful, and, as we have already seen, this beauty culminates in henry vii.'s chapel, the loveliness of which is absolutely unrivalled in the whole world. in his very sympathetic essay on westminster abbey in _the sketch book_, washington irving says of this wonderful chapel: "on entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. the very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb." [sidenote: coronations and burials.] but the intrinsic beauty of the building is only a small part of the explanation of the unique place which it holds in the interest of mankind. the two real reasons are suggested by waller's lines: "that antique pile behold, where royal heads receive the sacred gold: it gives them crowns, and does their ashes keep; there made like gods, like mortals there they sleep, making the circle of their reign complete, those suns of empire, where they rise they set." coronation and burial! here the nominal kings are crowned. here they and the real kings--those who by their genius and character really rule the race--are buried. [sidenote: the stone of scone.] in the chapel of edward the confessor stands a scratched and battered wooden chair, six hundred years old, beneath the seat of which is inserted a thick, flat block of reddish sandstone. this is the celebrated stone of destiny, about the adventures and travels of which so many incredible stories have been told, from the time of its alleged use by the patriarch jacob as a pillar at bethel, till the time of its arrival at scone, near perth, in scotland. it is certain that from the middle of the twelfth century all the scottish kings were crowned on this stone, till it was captured and carried to london by edward i., and that in the oak chair beneath which the stone was then enclosed all the kings of england since the time of edward i. have been crowned, the last being edward vii., on the th of last august. it has never been carried out of the church but once. that was when it was taken to westminster hall, across the street, that in it oliver cromwell might be installed lord protector. thus it was that "the greatest prince that ever ruled england," as lord macaulay rightly calls him, the man who refused to wear the crown, but who wielded so much more of real power than any of those who did wear it that he placed england in the forefront of european nations and made her mistress of the seas, was not inducted into his office in the abbey, where all the other sovereigns have been crowned since william i., but in westminster hall, which is also a place of extraordinary historical interest. the chair which holds the stone of scone, and the mate to it, made later and used for the queen consort, are, of course, covered with rich upholstering at the coronations, and much of the defacement of them is the result of driving nails into the wood for this purpose. [sidenote: whither the paths of glory lead.] but the main attraction of westminster abbey is neither its architectural glory nor its connection with the crowning of the nation's sovereigns, but the fact that it is the chief sepulchre of britain's great men. not only is the building "paved with princes and a royal race," their memory a mingling of grandeur and of shame, but the uncrowned glories of the nation, the true and pure and gifted, lie there as well under our feet, or are commemorated in stone before our eyes. some english sovereigns are buried elsewhere, as charles i. at windsor, and victoria at frogmore; some preëminent men of action also, as nelson and wellington at st. paul's cathedral; some authors, too, of the first order of genius, as shakespeare at stratford, milton at st. giles, and goldsmith in the temple yard at london; and so on, but nowhere else on earth have the ashes of so many great men been brought together as in westminster abbey. moreover, to many who are buried elsewhere monuments have been erected in the abbey; for instance, to the three poets who have just been mentioned. that of shakespeare is a marble figure holding a scroll on which are inscribed these lines from the _tempest_, peculiarly appropriate in the building where so much greatness is buried: "the cloud capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and like the baseless fabrick of a vision leave not a rack behind." in st. margaret's church, hard by the abbey on the north side, lies the decapitated body of another great englishman of the elizabethan era, sir walter raleigh, whose _history of the world_ contains a passage which expresses, as no other within my knowledge has done, the feeling that comes to a thoughtful man as he walks through this solemn burial place of genius and power: "o eloquent, just, and mighty death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two words, _hic jacet_." a sober autumn day, with the leaves changing and the atmosphere touched with melancholy suggestive of the passing of worldly glory, prepared us to feel the full force of raleigh's sentiment, and, as we stepped through the doorway into the subdued light of the minster, and saw the multitude of white marble statues and tombs stretching through dim aisles and clustering in gloomy chapels, we were "hushed into noiseless reverence," and understood what edmund burke meant when he said, "the moment i entered westminster abbey, i felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which i cannot describe; the very silence seemed sacred." [illustration: poet's corner, westminster.] [sidenote: the monuments of the nave and transepts.] remembering that "too many tombs will produce the same satiety as too many pictures," and determined not to fill our minds with "a hopeless jumble in which kings and statesmen, warriors, ecclesiastics and poets are tossing about together," we began at the poet's corner, as every one should do on his first visit, and, merely glancing at the monuments of subordinate interest, gave our time to those of the men with whose lives and works we had some acquaintance from our former reading, thus spending a whole morning in the two transepts and the nave. what a list of glorious names is afforded by even this meagre selection! chaucer, spencer, browning, tennyson, shakespeare, milton, gray, burns, scott, goldsmith, coleridge, southey (the last eight named being represented by monuments, but buried elsewhere); thackeray, addison, macaulay, garrick, samuel johnson (with his degree of ll. d. chiselled after his name in the unscholarly form of "l. l. d."--a thing which would have mortified him, and which one would not expect to find in westminster abbey), charles dickens; dr. busby (for fifty-five years head-master of westminster school, celebrated for his extremely free use of the rod and for having persistently kept his hat on when charles ii. visited his school, saying that it would never do for the boys to think any one superior to himself);--all these and many more in or near the south transept; then in the nave, major andré (hanged by washington as a spy), lord lawrence ("who feared man so little because he feared god so much"), david livingstone, charles darwin, sir isaac newton, matthew arnold, charles kingsley, wordsworth, william pitt, charles james fox, "rare ben jonson"; then, in the north transept, lord mansfield, warren hastings, and others, among them the monument of the "loyall duke of newcastle" ( ) and his literary wife, a most voluminous writer, who was in the habit of calling up her servants at all hours of the night to take down her thoughts, much to the disgust of her husband. when complimented on her learning, he said, "sir, a very wise woman is a very foolish thing." [sidenote: pagan sculptures in a christian church.] a great deal of bad taste has been displayed in the monuments of this transept. there is a colossal tomb by nollekens, the worst but one in the abbey, commemorating three sea captains. it represents neptune reclining on the back of a sea-horse, and directing the attention of britannia to the medallions of the dead, which hang from a rostral column surmounted by a figure of victory. "is that christianity?" asked a visitor, pointing to neptune and the trident. "yes," wittily answered dean milman, "it is _tridentine_ christianity"--a remark which has an exceedingly keen edge, though it may not be appreciated except by those who have some knowledge of the relation sustained by the council of trent to the beliefs and practices of the romish church. the sculptors were for a time "weighed down by the pagan mania for neptunes, britannias, and victorys." goldwin smith says, "some of the monuments might with advantage be removed from a christian church to a heathen pantheon, while some might be better for being macadamized." [sidenote: the nightingale monuments.] the most striking monument in the abbey, though walpole calls it "more theatrical than sepulchral," is that of lady elizabeth nightingale. in the lower part of the sculpture a skeleton figure, death, has broken through the iron doors of the grave, and, grasping the ledge above him with one bony hand, is in the act of hurling his dart with the other at the lady, who with her husband occupies the upper part of the sculpture, and who is represented as falling back into the arms of her horror-stricken husband, while he makes frantic but futile efforts to shield her from the stroke. wesley said mrs. nightingale's tomb was the finest in the abbey, as showing "common sense among heaps of unmeaning stone and marble"; but washington irving, while granting that the whole group is executed with terrible truth and spirit, says it appears to him horrible rather than sublime, and asks, "why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? the grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. it is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation." chapter xx. the royal chapels in westminster abbey. london, _october , _. [sidenote: a hard-hearted verger.] we had reserved our last day in london for a visit to the eastern part of the great abbey, where nearly all the kings and queens of england are buried. there is a charge of sixpence for admission to this part of the building. when we had paid our fees a black robed, bullet-headed, hard-voiced verger led us rapidly, along with a big crowd of other sightseers, from one chapel to another, pointing out one or two objects of special interest in each, and speaking a few words of explanation. thus we were "railroaded" through the royal chapels in the most tantalizing manner. when we were all turned out of the iron gate at the end of this rapid round, with our heads full of a jumble of kings and queens, and other notables, our little party lingered to parley with our burly conductor, in the hope of getting more time in this fascinating part of the abbey; but, though a shilling is a wonder-worker in england, and though we offered to pay another fee each for the privilege of remaining a while longer, our guide was for some reason obdurate. it should be added, in justice to him, that this was only the second day that the abbey had been opened to visitors, after being closed throughout the greater part of the summer on account of the coronation, and consequently there was a much larger number of visitors for the vergers to handle than usual. [sidenote: a courteous sub-dean.] we were not yet beaten, however. after a brief "council of war," two of us walked out through the cloisters, rang at the door of the sub-dean's residence, and, learning that he was not in, left a note for him, explaining our disappointment at having waited so long for the abbey to open, only to find that we could get but a hasty glance at some of its most interesting parts, and asking him to give us permission to visit those parts at our leisure. on his return home, the sub-dean, canon duckworth, very courteously wrote the desired authorization that we should visit the chapels "without a guide," and this permission was of use to some members of the party that afternoon. meantime it occurred to us that all vergers might not be equally ungracious, so, pending the canon's answer to our note, we approached that one of the vergers who seemed to have the most benevolent face, informed him that we had just been through the chapels, but that our guide had given us very little time, and had not shown us the wax effigies at all, which we were very anxious to see, and asked him if he could not afford us a better opportunity. unlike him of the stony heart into whose hands we had fallen at first, this one promptly and kindly granted our request, though doubtless expecting a fee, which, by the way, he deserved and received, and not only came with us himself to show us the wax effigies, but then gave us liberty to roam among the chapels at our pleasure. it was now dinner-time, but we gladly did without dinner in order to improve the opportunity thus secured, and set about a leisurely and thorough examination of the contents of the chapels and adjoining rooms in the eastern half of the building. [sidenote: the wax effigies.] the wax work figures in a chamber over one of the chapels are very interesting, and should not be missed by visitors to westminster, and yet i went through the abbey some years ago without even knowing that they were there. we had a good look at them this time. they are effigies of notable personages, dressed exactly as they were in life. these effigies were carried at the public funerals of those whom they represent. the earlier custom was to carry the embalmed bodies of the kings and queens, with faces uncovered, at their funerals, but from the time of henry v. these life-like representations were carried instead. here is queen elizabeth, ugly and overdressed, as usual, with the diadem on her head, the huge ruff round her neck, the long stomacher covered with jewels, the velvet robe embroidered with gold and supported on panniers, and the pointed high-heeled shoes with rosettes--"gotten up," perhaps, pretty much as she was when, just a year before her death, she had allowed the scottish ambassador, as if by accident, to see her "dancing high and disposedly," that he might disappoint the hopes of his master, king james, by his report of her health and spirits; she was then an old woman. there are few subjects more perilous for a man to write about than a woman's dress, and i may as well tell my readers that in the foregoing description of elizabeth's finery i have closely followed good authorities. another of the effigies shows us the swarthy and sensual face of charles ii. he is dressed in red velvet, with lace collar and ruffles. here, too, is the strong face and slight figure of william iii., represented as very much shorter than mary, his wife, who stands nearly six feet in height beside him. the fat figure of queen anne, and the very small one of lord nelson, with the empty sleeve of course, are among the most interesting. there are eleven in all still existing. a good many have disappeared. [sidenote: mutilated monuments.] the shrine of edward the confessor is raised upon a kind of platform mound, said to have been made of several shiploads of earth brought from the holy land, and is surrounded by the tombs of edward i., the good queen eleanor, richard ii., henry v., and others. above the grand tomb of henry v. are hung his shield, saddle and helmet. upon it lies the headless effigy of the great king, which was cut from english oak and plated with silver-gilt. the head, which was of solid silver, with teeth of gold, was stolen from the abbey centuries ago. other tombs have suffered in the same way. the coffin of edward the confessor has been robbed of its funeral ornaments. the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of queen elizabeth. one of the beautifully modelled fingers of the recumbent marble statue of mary, queen of scots, has been broken off, carried away as a souvenir, perhaps, by some conscienceless vandal. in the two aisles on the opposite side of henry vii.'s chapel lie the remains of these two rival queens, elizabeth and mary, the one beheaded by the other,--a striking instance of the equality of the grave, and reminding us of macaulay's description of the abbey as "the great temple of silence and reconciliation, where the enmities of twenty generations lie buried." i have only touched in the briefest manner a few of the many interesting monuments which throng the royal chapels. but there is one thing that i must write to you about before leaving the subject of westminster abbey finally, and that is the vacant space in the central eastern chapel, where the body of the greatest man that ever ruled england once lay, and the story of why his body is not there now. we have seen that lord macaulay speaks of westminster abbey as "the great temple of silence and reconciliation, where the enmities of twenty generations lie buried." in the same strain, sir walter scott writes: "here, where the end of earthly things lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; where stiff the hand and still the tongue of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; here, where the fretted aisles prolong the distant notes of holy song, as if some angel spoke again, 'all peace on earth, good will to men'; if ever from an english heart, oh! here let prejudice depart." these are fine sentiments, and certainly the policy of the authorities of the abbey has been broad enough in some respects, far too broad indeed, as many think, in the matter of admitting the bodies of men of skeptical views and evil lives to lie here alongside of the great and good in god's house. [sidenote: monuments denied to notable persons.] but in some other respects the policy has been a narrow one. the erection of a monument here to louis napoleon, the late prince imperial of france, who fell in zululand while fighting in the cause of england, was prevented by what has been called "the illiberal clamor of an ignorant faction." by the way, within the precincts of the roman catholic oratory of brompton, in west london, stands a statue of cardinal newman, the most distinguished of modern apostates, who forsook the english church for the romish; it was intended for oxford, but was refused by the university, and not allowed a place in the streets of london. these two are not very good examples of the kind of narrowness to which i refer,--one can hardly blame the english churchmen for the treatment accorded to newman's statue,--they are simply instances which naturally come to mind in connection with the general subject. i will give an example presently of the complete triumph of prejudice in the exclusion from the abbey of the greatest man of action that england ever produced. [sidenote: the objection to milton.] meantime, as leading up to that, let us note the remark of dr. gregory to dr. johnson when, in , the monument of milton was placed in the abbey: "i have seen erected in the church a bust of that man whose name i once knew considered a pollution of its walls." he was referring to the action of dean sprat in cutting away a part of the fulsome epitaph on the tomb of john philips which compared him to milton, of whom he was a feeble imitator. "the line, '_uni miltono secundus, primoque paene par_,' was effaced under dean sprat, not because of its almost profane arrogance, but because the royalist dean would not allow even the name of the regicide milton to appear within the abbey--it was 'too detestable to be read on the wall of a building dedicated to devotion.' the line was restored under dean atterbury," and, as already noted, a bust of the great puritan genius was installed in the abbey a few decades later, so that the triumph of prejudice in this case was short-lived. [sidenote: general meigs and president davis.] the story reminds one of the action of general meigs in removing the name of president davis from the record-stone of the cabin john bridge near washington. this magnificent aqueduct bridge, one of the largest and most beautiful single stone arches in the world, was erected by jefferson davis while secretary of war for the united states, and of course his name, with those of the then president and other high officials of the government, was placed on the completed structure. when the civil war came on, and mr. davis was elected president of the confederate states, general meigs had the misfortune to lose a son in battle in virginia. one can feel profound sympathy with him in such a bereavement, but does it not seem a small and childish thing that he should then have had mr. davis' name chiselled off the bridge in revenge? and has not his action, like dean sprat's, defeated itself? the blank made in the inscription excited curiosity and gave rise to questions, which brought out the whole story, and thus reminded many people who might otherwise have forgotten it, what eminent services jefferson davis had rendered to the united country before the unhappy division which made him the president of that portion of it with which his greater fame is now associated. [sidenote: the vindication of cromwell.] to but few men in her long history is england so deeply indebted as to oliver cromwell. clarendon's _history of the rebellion_, written by a bitterly hostile and prejudiced contemporary, effectually blackened cromwell's character for some two hundred years, the misrepresentation being continued by other royalist writers, such as sir walter scott in _woodstock_. carlyle's publication of cromwell's own letters proved that he had been grossly slandered, and put it beyond question that the protector was a sincere and godly man and a true patriot, as well as the greatest man of action that had ever lived in england. this is the view taken of cromwell by the more recent biographies of him, which have been coming from the press in significantly rapid succession, such as hood's, gardiner's, john morley's and president roosevelt's. so that in several senses cromwell is coming to his own again, though his work seemed at one time to have failed utterly, and to have been swept clean away by the restoration of charles ii. to the throne. [sidenote: treatment of his dead body.] it is of the indignities visited upon cromwell's remains at the time of this restoration that i wish to tell you. the great men of the commonwealth and several members of cromwell's family were buried in the extreme eastern end of the abbey. after the restoration they were disinterred from this honorable place of sepulture, and the only member of the protector's family who was allowed to remain in the abbey was his second daughter, elizabeth claypole, "as being both a royalist and a member of the church of england." the bodies of cromwell, his son-in-law, general ireton, and bradshaw, the judge who had condemned charles i., were dragged through london on sledges and hanged at tyburn, and their heads were set up on the high roof-gable of westminster hall, the very building in which cromwell had been made lord protector of the commonwealth. it is safer to kick a dead lion than a living one. fancy these valiant royalists treating cromwell that way in his lifetime! [sidenote: history of cromwell's head.] cromwell's head having been embalmed before his burial, "remained exposed to the atmosphere for twenty-five years, and then one stormy night it was blown down, and picked up by the sentry, who, hiding it under his cloak, took it home and secreted it in the chimney corner; and, as inquiries were constantly being made about it by the government, it was only on his death-bed that he revealed where he had hidden it. his family sold the head to one of the cambridgeshire russells, and in the same box in which it still is, it descended to a certain samuel russell," who, being in need, sold it to james cox, the keeper of a famous museum. cox in turn sold it, about the time of the french revolution, for $ , , to three men, who made a business of exhibiting it at half a crown per head in bond street, london. at the death of the last of these three men, it came into the possession of his three nieces. these young ladies, being nervous at keeping it in the house, asked mr. horace wilkinson, their physician, to take charge of it for them, and finally sold it to him; and in his house at sevenoaks, kent, the head of oliver cromwell remains to this day. it is a ghastly story, though i have been careful to leave out the most gruesome details. to-day, immediately in front of westminster hall, where his head was first exposed in dishonor, stands a bronze statue of the great protector, with a bible in one hand and a sword in the other,--erected within the last five years,--and doubtless the day will come when a monument of "the greatest prince that ever ruled england" will be given its rightful place in westminster abbey. chapter xxi. the cathedrals vs. the gospel. london, _october , _. [sidenote: original significance of the cathedrals.] before saying what i had in mind when i remarked, in a former letter, that in some respects the english cathedrals had proved to be hindrances to vital religion, i wish to cite what goldwin smith says of the significance and beauty of these glorious monuments of mediæval piety: "nothing so wonderful or beautiful has ever been built by man as these fanes of mediæval religion which still, surviving the faith and the civilization which reared them, rise above the din and smoke of modern life into purity and stillness. in religious impressiveness they far excel all the works of heathen art, and all the classical temples of the renaissance. even in point of architectural skill they stand unrivalled, though they are the creations of an age before mechanical science. their groined roofs appear still to baffle imitation. but we do not fully comprehend the marvel, unless we imagine the cathedrals rising, as they did, out of towns which were then little better than collections of hovels, with but small accumulation of wealth, and without what we now deem the appliances of civilized life. never did man's spiritual aspirations soar so high above the realities of his worldly lot as when he built the cathedrals." the last proposition is not true. what professor smith wished to say was that never did an outward, material expression of man's religion so far surpass all his other outward conditions. but even when thus stated, it must be remembered that these great structures were not erected by those who inhabited the "hovels" referred to, but by kings, or nobles, or prelates who lived in palaces and rolled in wealth. still, the cathedrals were built as an expression of religion. religion in the middle ages expressed itself chiefly in the erection of these costly and splendid buildings, as it now expresses itself chiefly in missionary activity. [sidenote: their Æsthetic influence.] passing by, for the present, westminster abbey, canterbury and winchester, which excel all others in historical interest, and st. paul's, which, though the largest of all, is modern, we may agree fully with smith's estimate of the relative merits of the different cathedrals and the effect produced by them: that "salisbury is the most perfect monument of mediæval christianity in england"; that in height and grandeur the palm is borne off by york; in beauty and poetry, by lincoln; that norman durham, "half church of god, half castle 'gainst the scot," is profoundly imposing from its massiveness, which seems enduring as the foundations of the earth, as well as from its commanding situation; that ely also is a glorious pile, on its unique mound among the fens; and that wells and salisbury are "the two best specimens of the cathedral close, that haven of religious calm amidst this bustling world, in which a man tired of business and contentious life might delight, especially if he has a taste for books, to find tranquillity, with quiet companionship, in his old age. take your stand on the close of salisbury or wells on a summer afternoon when the congregation is filing leisurely out from the service and the sounds are still heard from the cathedral, and you will experience a sensation not to be experienced in the new world." having shown by these citations that goldwin smith is not indifferent to the æsthetic influence of the cathedrals, i wish now to quote from him a final paragraph which states very well the practical point to which i referred in the outset: [sidenote: their romanizing tendency.] "the cathedral and the parish church belong to the present as well as to the past. indeed, they have been recently exerting a peculiar influence over the present, for there can be no doubt that the spell of their beauty and their adaptation, as places of [roman] catholic devotion, to the ritualistic rather than to the protestant form of worship have had a great effect in producing the neo-catholic reaction of the last half century. creations of the religious genius of the middle ages, they have been potent missionaries of the mediæval faith." i wish to call special attention to this ominous feature of the influence of english cathedrals upon the forms, and thus eventually upon the spirit, of christian worship. i am not unsusceptible, i think, to the glorious beauty of these stately buildings, or the spell of their exquisite music, or the fascination of their spectacular forms of worship. i shall never forget the solemn impression made upon my mind the first time i ever entered a great cathedral, when, at chester, i stepped from the broad glare of outer sunshine into the cool, dim light of the minster, and heard the choir of white-robed, sweet-voiced boys responding with a prolonged, musical "a-men," accompanied by the great organ, as the priest intoned the english service. but i am clear, nevertheless, that goldwin smith is right in saying that by their adaptation to the ritualistic rather than the protestant form of worship the cathedrals have been potent missionaries of the mediæval faith. the roman catholic ideal of christian worship is very different from that of protestants. its functionary is a priest, who offers sacrifice, and performs the ceremonies of an elaborate ritual. its appeal is chiefly to the senses and the æsthetic sensibilities. protestants, on the other hand, hold that the minister is not a priest, but a teacher; his function is not the performance of ceremonies, but the inculcation of truth. the truly protestant churches appeal chiefly to the mind rather than to the senses, they rely upon ideas rather than ceremonies, because they know that only by the intelligent apprehension of truth can the spiritual life be really nourished and developed. in a romish church the central thing is the altar. in a protestant church the central thing is the pulpit. in short, romish churches are built for ceremonies, and protestant churches for preaching. the cathedrals were erected as romish churches. there was little or no thought of their being used for preaching. they were erected as expressions in stone of religious aspiration; they are "frozen music"; they are places for processions, and incense, and altars, and pictures, and vestments, and chants, but they are not adapted to preaching. they are too large, for one thing. no man could make himself heard throughout some of them. nor was it intended that he should. [sidenote: their charm for the greatest of the puritans.] it is an extraordinary paradox that the finest expression in any language of the idea which lay in the minds of those who built the cathedrals was given by a puritan writer: "but let my due feet never fail to walk the studious cloisters pale; and love the high embowe'd roof with antique pillars massy proof: and storied windows, richly dight, casting a dim, religious light. there let the pealing organ blow to the full-voic'd choir below, in service high and anthems clear, as may, with sweetness through mine ear, dissolve me into ecstasies, and bring all heaven before mine eyes." thus milton in _il penseroso_, the interpretation of which i must leave to the students of that exquisite poem. only let it not be forgotten that in his _eikonoclastes_, milton ridicules the organs and the singing men in the king's chapel, as well as the "english mass-book" of the "old ephesian goddess called the church of england." i am sorry to say, milton is at times vituperative in his prose writings. [sidenote: a half-reformed church.] let us be more respectful in our references to the church of england. it contains many good people and has done much good work. still, it is an indisputable fact that it never has been a thoroughly reformed church. its origin as a separate church was different from that of the reformed churches. not through the protracted struggles of people and ministers did it win out clear from romanism, with generally diffused and clear convictions of truth, as was the case with the really reformed churches, but by the act of henry viii. detaching a certain portion of the catholic church from the papacy, for interesting domestic reasons, and making himself the head of the church. that was the origin of the church of england as entirely distinct from the church of rome. henry did not wish to become a protestant at all, nor did he wish the people to change their religion, and, as a matter of fact, he had people burned alive for being protestants. of course, protestantism did make progress afterwards under edward vi. and elizabeth, but there never was a sufficiently decisive break with romish doctrine and romish forms of worship. and, the architecture of the cathedrals and parish churches being what it is, there has been a constant tendency to relapse to the romish model outright. if we seem to attribute too much influence to mere architecture, let it be remembered that the structure and arrangements of the college buildings at oxford, which did not admit of family life, but were designed for the mediæval clerical students who were celibates, have had a tendency to revive the monk, and that, as a matter of fact, these oxford colleges produced newman and the other leaders of the anglo-catholic reaction in our day, to say nothing of laud and his reaction two centuries ago. [sidenote: relics of romanism.] how easily the cathedrals may aid roman catholicism, and how strong is the lingering influence of what macaulay calls "that august and fascinating superstition," may be seen not only in the general character of the services, but also in certain details. each cathedral has what is still called a lady chapel, that is, a chapel dedicated to our lady, the virgin mary. in the lady chapel of winchester cathedral is a series of highly prized wall paintings, of whose edifying character the reader may judge when he learns that one of them represents "the virgin commanding the burial of a clerk of _irreligious life_ in consecrated ground, because he had been her votary"; while another depicts a miracle by an _image_ of the virgin, which is bending its finger, so as to prevent a young man from taking off a ring, given him by his lady love, which he had placed on the image that it might not be lost or injured while he played at ball. "by this the young man was won to monastic life." does this mean that he jilted the girl, or that she discarded him for losing her ring? again, the inscription on the tomb of the builder of that cathedral, william of wykeham, the same who built the round tower at windsor castle, records his work as bishop, politician, and founder of colleges, and concludes with this injunction: "you who behold this tomb cease not to pray that, for such great merits, he may enjoy everlasting life." finally, the most striking effigy on any tomb in winchester cathedral is that of a great dignitary of the romish church, cardinal beaufort, represented here by a very fine recumbent figure in scarlet cloak and hat. he was enormously wealthy, was four times lord chancellor of england, was present at the burning of joan of arc at rouen, and is said to have burst into tears and to have left the horrible scene; but he persecuted the lollards and gave a half million pounds to put down the hussites in bohemia, in which crusade he was general and legate. yet here he lies, one of the most honored figures, in what is generally regarded as a protestant church. these points are sufficient to indicate what i mean by saying that the cathedrals have in some respects had an unfavorable influence upon the doctrine and worship of the church of england. [sidenote: presbyterians also have felt the effect of them.] if at the reformation every cathedral in great britain had been pounded to pieces by the iconoclasts, it would have been an immeasurable calamity to art, but it might have been a real gain for religion. at any rate, it is ritualism rather than religion that is now promoted by the cathedrals. nor is the english church the only one that has inherited these splendid but baleful monuments of mediæval romanism. the presbyterian church has come into the possession of a few. the people of scotland at the time of the reformation, remembering their oppression and impoverishment by the great church establishments, and disregarding the more moderate counsels of their leaders, smashed most of these buildings which fell to them, witness melrose abbey and many others--john knox speaks of "the rascal multitude" that destroyed the buildings at perth--but one or two they spared, for example, the cathedral at glasgow. it is maintained by some that the same tendency to ritualism manifests itself in these presbyterian cathedrals as in others, though, of course, not to the same extent. certainly our simple and scriptural forms of worship, with the prominence which they give to the preaching of the word, suit a warm, home-like church, where everything can be heard, much better than they do a cold and vast cathedral of stone which is too large for any congregation that ever assembles in it, and where the voice of the preacher is lost among the lofty arches. while the presbyterians have in some cases not freed themselves completely from the romish associations, and in the great buildings which were erected for romish worship show something of the same tendency to undue ritualism, still i think it will be generally conceded that they severed the connection with rome more effectually, on the whole, than any other church. [sidenote: protestant simplicity more impressive.] nor did their worship lose in real religious impressiveness. even sir walter scott (who, though a presbyterian elder, had a strong leaning to the ritualistic churches), in the twentieth chapter of _rob roy_, puts into the mouth of his hero this description of the presbyterian service in the crypt of glasgow cathedral: "i had heard the service of high mass in france, celebrated with all the _éclat_ which the choicest music, the richest dresses, the most imposing ceremonies, could confer on it; yet it fell short in effect of the simplicity of the presbyterian worship. the devotion, in which every one took a share, seemed so superior to that which was recited by musicians as a lesson which they had learned by rote, that it gave the scottish worship all the advantage of reality over acting." the more i see of the high church "service" the more incomprehensible it seems to me that any thoughtful man can take any other view than the one thus expressed by scott. the service he describes was indeed conducted in a cathedral, but it was in the crypt, the part best adapted to intelligent protestant worship, on account of its smaller dimensions and better acoustics. chapter xxii. some things for high churchmen to think about. london, _october , _. it does not follow, from what i said in my former letter about the different forms of service in use among episcopalians and presbyterians, respectively, that the latter necessarily disapprove of the use of written prayers. so far is this from being the case that calvin and knox themselves wrote liturgies, though neither they nor their successors believed in the rigid prescription of fixed forms, but insisted upon ample freedom for the use of such original prayers as occasion demanded. the book of common prayer itself, which is the product of every christian age and christian people, including reformers, presbyterians, puritans and lutherans, as well as romanists and anglicans, and which is used constantly by the episcopal churches throughout the english-speaking world, owes no little to the influence of men of our faith and polity, and especially to that of the illustrious genevan reformer, john calvin. the general thanksgiving, called "the chiefest treasure of the prayer-book," is said to have been composed by the rev. dr. edward reynolds, a distinguished presbyterian member of the westminster assembly of divines, and afterwards bishop of norwich. these prayers, as well as other parts of the book of common prayer, are constantly used, in whole or in part, by many presbyterian ministers when leading the public devotions of their people, and the more such models of prayer are studied by presbyterian ministers in general the sooner will they cease to deserve the reproach that their manner of conducting this important part of public worship is sometimes rambling, slovenly and unedifying. no minister of our time of any denomination was more acceptable and helpful in the conduct of this part of the service than the late rev. dr. moses d. hoge, of richmond. his prayers were characterized in a preëminent degree by good taste and propriety of expression, as well as by unction. he was a diligent student of the best liturgies, such as those of calvin, knox and cranmer. his biographer, speaking of "the elaborate and laborious preparation that he made for this service, as evinced by his papers," says: "dr. hoge's peculiar power in prayer was not merely the result of what is called the 'gift of prayer.' not only his celebrated prayers on great public occasions were carefully written out, but from his early ministry he wrote prayers for every variety of occasion and service, and formulated petitions on every variety of topic." [sidenote: the huguenot presbyterians in canterbury cathedral.] when we visited canterbury cathedral, the other day, we were reminded of another striking proof of the liberty of presbyterian usage in this matter. the place is, of course, one that brings to mind innumerable events of interest, ranging all the way from the tragedy of thomas a becket's death to the comedy of the struggle that took place in st. catherine's chapel, westminster, in , between the archbishops of canterbury and york, a scuffle which led to the question of their precedence being decided by a papal edict, giving to one the title of primate of all england, to the other that of primate of england. one cannot help thinking, in connection with it, of the official titles of the two great presbyterian bodies in our country, the technical title of the northern church being the presbyterian church in the united states of america, and the technical title of the southern church being the presbyterian church in the united states. fuller's _church history_ gives a racy account of the scene referred to: "a synod was called at westminster, the pope's legate being present thereat; on whose right hand sat richard, archbishop of canterbury, as in his proper place. when in springs roger of york, and finding canterbury so seated, fairly sits him down on canterbury's lap (a baby too big to be danced thereon); yea, canterbury's servants dandled this lap-child with a witness, who plucked him thence, and buffeted him to purpose." but far more interesting to us than the story of this undignified behavior on the part of these two dignitaries, and even more interesting than the thrilling story of becket's murder, was the chapel in the crypt, where for three hundred and fifty years the huguenots, who were welcomed by queen elizabeth and given the use of this part of the cathedral, have continued to use the ancient presbyterian forms of worship which they brought with them when driven from france by roman catholic persecution. and it is a very interesting fact that the liturgy (in french) which they use is almost the same as the book of common prayer, but immensely significant that the congregation continues to observe the lord's supper seated, after the presbyterian form. the communion plates and cups, which we had the pleasure of taking up in our hands, were brought by the refugees to england three hundred and fifty years ago, but are still in use. [sidenote: the concomitants and the intoning.] from what has now been said, it is clear that it is not altogether the use of the prayer-book which gives to the american protestant worshipping in an anglican church that curious feeling of strangeness and formalism. it is rather the romish-looking arrangements about the "altar," the crosses and candles and cloths, the vestments and processions, the turning of the people towards the east when they pray, the "vain repetitions" of certain parts of the liturgy, such as the lord's prayer, which sometimes occurs four or five times in one service, and the "intoning" of the service, that is, the literally monotonous recitation of the prayers, without any rising or falling inflection, every word being uttered in precisely the same tone, without the slightest variation. i do not mean that all these features always occur in every service. sometimes one or more of them will be omitted, such as turning to the east in prayer, or intoning. for instance, canon hensley henson, whom we heard a short time ago at st. margaret's, westminster, where the late canon farrar preached so long and so brilliantly, and who, though quite radical in some of his views, is the most thoughtful preacher among the ministers of the anglican church in london at the present time, did not intone the prayers which he offered, though his assistant did. i do not know whether canon henson's usage is from necessity or choice--whether it is because he cannot intone or because he does not care to do so, preferring to address the almighty in the same natural and expressive tones which he uses in communications with his fellow-men. [sidenote: canon hensley henson at st. margaret's.] canon henson does not look the least like the typical englishman. his appearance is antipodal to that of the beefy, bluff, full-blooded john bull. he is slender, clean-shaven, boyish, white, his face "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." his body may be delicate, but there is no lack of vigor about his mind. the strength and charm of his preaching, due chiefly to the freshness of the thought and the purity and clearness of the language--for he has no marked advantages of presence or voice or manner--draw great crowds to st. margaret's. we had to wait at the door for some time to let the pewholders have a chance, but when the word was given the crowd at the door poured in and quickly overflowed all the vacant seating space. shortly after he began his sermon, which was read throughout, three ladies rose to leave the church, and i was not a little astonished to hear him stop and say, with what i thought was a touch of irritation, "i will wait till those ladies get out." no doubt it is vexatious to have people leave the church during the sermon, but no minister has a right to pillory anybody in that fashion, unless it is somebody who is known to be in the habit of interrupting the service in that way. the minister has no right to assume that people are doing a deliberately discourteous or culpably thoughtless thing. the probability is that one of the ladies in the group referred to was sick or faint and had to withdraw. this kind of rudeness may be naturally expected from some of the men who in our country have done so much to degrade the fine name of "evangelist," but surely one does not expect it from a gentleman like canon henson. [sidenote: canon henson on anglican narrowness.] while bound to criticise canon henson for this breach of good manners, i hasten to express my cordial admiration of his courtesy, courage, and christliness in general, and especially of the power of his statement of the claims of christian love against the anglican custom of refusing to commune with nonconformists. the most remarkable sermon preached by any clergyman of the established church during our sojourn in england was a sermon preached by him before the university of cambridge on the text, "there shall be one fold and one shepherd," in which he advocated the admission of nonconformists to the sacrament. hear him: "the primary need of the hour is more religious honesty. in the classic phrase of dr. johnson, churchmen beyond all others need 'to clear their minds of cant.' '_let love be without hypocrisy_' is the kindred protest of st. paul. bear with me while i bring these considerations to a very simple, indeed an obvious application. on all hands there is talk of christian unity. not a conference or a congress of churchmen meets without effusive welcome from nonconformists. a few weeks ago i sat in the congress hall at brighton and listened to a series of speeches by prominent nonconformists, all expressing the warmest sentiments of christian fraternity. i reflected that by the existing law and current practice of our church all those excellent orators and their fellow-believers were spiritual outcasts; that, if they presented themselves for the sacrament of unity, they would be decisively rejected; that, in no consecrated building, might their voices be heard from the pulpit, though all men--as in the case of dr. dale, of birmingham--owned their conspicuous power and goodness. the contradiction came home to my conscience as an intolerable outrage, and i determined to say here to-day in this famous pulpit, to which your kindness has bidden me, what i had long been thinking, that the time has come for churchmen to remove barriers for which they can no longer plead political utility, and which have behind them no sanctions in the best conscience and worthiest reason of our time. i remembered that in my study, at work in preparation of the sermons which expressed my obligation as a christian teacher, i drew no invidious distinctions. baxter and jeremy taylor, dale and gore, ramsay and lightfoot, döllinger and hort, george adam smith and driver, ritschl and moberley, fairbairn and westcott, bruce and sanday, liddon and lacordaire, these and many others of all christian churches united without difficulty in the fellowship of sacred science; it was not otherwise in my devotions. roman catholic, lutheran, anglican, nonconformist were reconciled easily enough in the privacy of prayer and meditation. the two persons whom i venerated as the best christians i knew, and to whom spiritually i owed most, were not anglicans. only in the sanctuary itself was the hideous discovery vouchsafed that they were outcasts from my fellowship. i might feed my mind with their wisdom, and kindle my devotion with their piety, and stir my conscience with their example, but i might not break bread with them at the table of our common lord, nor bear their presence as teachers in the churches dedicated to his worship. it seemed to me that the love so lavishly expressed in that congress hall must, at least on our side, be a strangely hollow thing. it is true that the presiding bishop reminded the nonconformists that there were doctrinal differences which could not be forgotten or minimized, but this obstacle was effectively demolished by the debates of the congress--debates which revealed the widest possible doctrinal divergence between men who, none the less, communicated at the same altars and owned allegiance to the same church." [sidenote: what canon henson could see in virginia.] such a discourse from such a man in such a place naturally created a sensation in england. it would not have done so, as to its main point, in virginia. why? well, the fundamental reason is that the average virginia episcopalian represents a much higher type of christianity than the average english churchman, broader, sweeter, truer. indeed, if there are in any church anywhere people of lovelier character, truer charity, and more genuine devotion to our lord than the evangelical episcopalians of virginia, many of whom it has been my good fortune to know long and intimately, i have never heard of them. i only wish the type was more common in some other parts of the country. now, the things so trenchantly stated by canon henson in the foregoing excerpt are mere matters of course to the mind of your evangelical low churchman in virginia. to him it is no uncommon thing to break bread with christians of other denominations at the table of our common lord or to hear the gospel preached by ministers of other churches from the pulpits of his own. i have heard it said that this fraternal attitude is deprecated by some of the younger clergy in virginia of late, and that through their opposition this open recognition of other christian people and their ministers is less common than it used to be. i should be sorry to believe it, and i know some facts which seem to disprove it. four or five years ago i myself was invited to deliver the reinicke lecture to the students of the episcopal seminary at alexandria, va., and did so with a feeling of as cordial welcome as i had ever received anywhere in my whole life. i have been repeatedly invited to preach in episcopal pulpits. when the general assembly of our church meets in lexington, va., next may, you may rely upon it presbyterian ministers will be invited by the rector of the episcopal church there to supply his pulpit on sunday, just as they are by the pastors of the other churches. more than that, i have a friend in the presbyterian ministry, now a pastor in baltimore, who not long ago, by invitation of the vestry of an episcopal church in a virginia town, not only occupied the pulpit and preached, but also wore the surplice and administered the sacrament of the lord's supper. [sidenote: are virginia episcopalians becoming less liberal?] it may be true that there is a reaction going on even in virginia against this spirit of christian fellowship, and that things of this kind are less frequent than formerly; but, if so, i am satisfied that it is a reaction with which the virginia laymen have nothing to do, and which they will oppose as soon as they become aware of it,[ ] and i am sure, too, that clergymen will not be lacking who will make a strong stand against it. [sidenote: decreasing attendance in the anglican churches in london.] one or two other facts which may well be pondered by high churchmen have been brought to light by the census of church attendance in london, recently taken by the _daily news_ of that city. the census shows that, while more than one-half of the five millions of people in london are christian worshippers, there has been a decrease in church attendance of over one hundred thousand since , that this decrease has been almost entirely in the congregations of the church of england, and that the attendance in the established and nonconformist churches is now about equal. the census shows further that in wealthy districts the established church, as we might expect, has the majority. as was also expected, nonconformists have a majority in middle-class districts. but, contrary to all expectations, nonconformists are a majority in the working-class districts and among the very poor. it was often said that only the ritualists were getting hold of the poor, and many supposed the salvation army was doing great things amongst the lowest people. it is one of the surprises of the census that ritualism fails to attract the non-churchgoing classes. in the proportion of the sexes present, in almost all cases the episcopal churches showed two women to one man; in nonconformist churches the proportion of men was greater, being two men to three women. does not this preponderance of men in the nonconformist congregations indicate clearly that if the church of england is to retain her hold upon men she must lay less stress upon the appeal to the æsthetic sensibilities and more upon the appeal to the mind; that she must make less of the ornamental features of public worship and more of the didactic; less of millinery, music and marching, and more of the preaching of the gospel? as the _british weekly_ puts it: "the great means of attracting the people is christian preaching. whenever a preacher appears, no matter what his denomination is, he has a great audience. nothing makes up for a failure in preaching. the churches of all denominations, if they are wise, will give themselves with increased zeal and devotion to the training of the christian ministry. i have no doubt that it is for lack of a trained order of preachers that the salvation army has failed in london. nor will any magnificence of ritual or any musical attractions, or any lectures on secular subjects, permanently attract worshippers. it can be done only by christian preaching." [sidenote: an episcopalian estimate of presbyterian preaching.] in this connection the following clipping from _the evangelist_ is not without interest, as showing that both the disease and the remedy are at least partially recognized by some observers within the english church: "a recent writer in _the guardian_, one of the leading church of england papers, laments the decay of preaching within his own communion, and is forced to contrast the conditions obtaining in presbyterian churches with those which prevail in episcopalian ones, to the obvious disadvantage of the latter. while it is true that the church of england has some great preachers, as it always has had, the ordinary village vicar is scarcely mediocre. such is not the case among the presbyterians--in scotland, with which the writer is familiar--or in america, canada, australia, or in missionary lands, where the same standards and ideals are in effect. here are the characteristics of presbyterian preaching as described by a church of england critic: "'their ministry lays itself out for the cultivation of prophetical power, and not without success. in general, they are students of hebrew, which the english clergy are not. the consequence is that for a good old testament sermon you must go north of the tweed. in england we confine ourselves almost exclusively to the new testament, not merely because of its transcendent importance, but because it is ground with which we are more familiar. but the loss to our people is great. "'then, again, the scottish ministers are students of german theology. more or less they are at home in the writings of the great german thinkers, both orthodox and liberal. we, as a rule, are not.... "'one more point. in travelling through palestine some years ago, with a view to the study of biblical geography, i was greatly struck with the preponderance of scottish ministers who were there on the same purpose intent. i think it no exaggeration to say that they were in numbers to the english clergy as five to one. evidently they regard it as a necessary part of that same biblical equipment they are so careful about, that they should with their own eyes realize the scenes of the sacred narrative. a pilgrimage to the holy land is now so easy, and is, moreover, to any thoughtful christian teacher so fruitful in results, that it is a marvel it should not be made an ordinary addition to a university or theological college course. to any one who will go with a reverent mind and open eyes, and with his bible as his baedeker, it is an unparalleled experience for life. if it is objected to on the score of expense, i ask, how do the presbyterian ministers, and a large proportion of nonconformist ministers also, manage to accomplish it?'" the _guardian_ itself, in an editorial comment on the decreasing attendance of men in the anglican churches, says frankly that a large number of men are "repelled by the extremely low standard of preaching which prevails, and the comparative success of nonconformity may be due in part to the attention which is devoted to the preparation of the sermon." "another source of offence is the over-elaboration of musical services, and the practical exclusion of the congregation from any real share in prayer and praise. it is a fatal policy which drives the devout but unmusical away from our churches to chapels in which they can find greater simplicity and greater heartiness. one of the surprises of the census has been that the nonconformists have been found to be strong not only in middle-class districts, but in the regions where poverty abounds. the poor, we believe, are attracted by greater simplicity, and it must be acknowledged that the services of our prayer-book are difficult for the uninstructed to follow and to appreciate. there is a stage at which a greater elasticity of worship is needed, and for this we make no adequate provision." according to the latest statistics, the relative strength of the established church and the free evangelical churches is as follows: sittings. communicants. established (estimated), , , , , free, , , , , s. s. teachers. s. s. scholars. established, , , , free, , , , footnote: [ ] _december, ._--it was an immense satisfaction to me to learn, on my return to america, that in the matter of the proposed change in the name of the protestant episcopal church, the laity had saved the day and decisively defeated the clerical delegates who represented the pro-catholic sentiment, and wished to call their denomination the american catholic church, and thus make it appear that there was closer sympathy between episcopacy and romanism than between episcopacy and protestantism. in one diocese in particular, in which i have always felt a peculiar interest, although the bishop in his opening address made a strong plea for the change, and although he carried the clergy with him, he and they were overwhelmingly defeated by the lay delegates. would it not be a singular situation if the clergy, the official leaders of the people in spiritual things, should come to stand as a class for all that is reactionary or bigoted or trivial, while the people themselves represented the real spirit of christ? there may be such a tendency on the part of the clergy in other dioceses, but i can hardly believe that it is true of those in virginia. chapter xxiii. paris and memories of the huguenots. the hague, _october , _. the english channel is one of the oldest ferries in the world. for two thousand years and more, men have been crossing it in all sorts of craft, but they have never yet found a way to do it comfortably when the water is rough, as it generally is. our experience made us doubt whether the modern steamers that ply between new haven and dieppe are a whit more comfortable than the galleys of julius cæsar. our boat was mercilessly buffeted by the winds. she rolled and plunged in every direction. it seemed to us that her propeller was out of the water half the time. if seasickness really is good for people, this channel should be called a health resort. all the members of our party were violently sick except myself. we felt sure we had discovered one of the reasons why the shore to which we looked so wistfully is called "the pleasant land of france." any land would seem pleasant after that dreadful channel. at last we reached it, pale and wretched. as we entered the mouth of the river at dieppe the huge crucifix overhanging the harbor reminded us that we were now in a roman catholic country. and a "pleasant land" it is in many respects. our railroad journey to paris through the fair and fertile valley of the seine made that quite evident. [sidenote: the external beauty of the french capital.] we secured quiet and comfortable quarters close to the lovely madeleine church and only two blocks from the place de la concorde, the finest square in europe, with the seine on one side, the tuileries gardens on another, the champs Élysées leading from it in one direction, and the rue de rivoli in the other. london, as we have seen, is a dingy congeries of dingy towns built mostly of dingy bricks. paris is sunny and bright, the streets are wide and clean, and the houses are uniformly handsome, being built of a light stone that gives the whole city an air of elegance. no doubt it is the most beautiful city in the world, it has a glitter and sparkle unmatched elsewhere,--but, gay as it seems, it has more suicides than any other city. [sidenote: what we did not like about paris.] we submitted to it, but could not enjoy the french custom of taking our morning rolls and coffee in bed. there are many other french customs constantly in evidence in paris, but not to be described here, to which i trust our english and american people will never become accustomed. modesty is not prominent among the virtues of the french, though of course there must be many good people among them. vice flaunts itself more in paris than in any city i have ever seen. there is a certain brazen shamelessness even in french art that one does not see in new york or london. but the collection in the louvre is one of the richest aggregations of antiquarian and artistic objects in the world, and surely no museum was ever so splendidly housed. the moabite stone, the oldest extant hebrew inscription, was one of the things that we made a point of seeing. as we passed to another part of the great building, we had the pleasure of seeing the celebrated dewet and the other boer generals who were visiting paris at that time. in the rear of the louvre stands the church of st. germain l'auxerrois. it was from the bell-tower of this church that the signal was given for the massacre of st. bartholomew. on the other side of the rue de rivoli, and in plain view of this fateful tower, stands the pure white marble statue of admiral coligni, the most illustrious victim of that fearful massacre. what france needs to-day is the influence of that huguenot element which she slaughtered and expelled at that time. [sidenote: the huguenot name and the huguenot character.] several names which are now among the most illustrious in the history of the world were originally used as terms of reproach. when abram left his home in chaldea and crossed the great boundary stream between the east and the west and settled in palestine, the canaanites dubbed him "the hebrew," that is, the man who crossed over the euphrates--intruder, interloper. but for ages "hebrew" has been the honored designation of one of the most gifted and enterprising of the races of mankind. it is not unlikely that the name "christian" was first applied in a contemptuous sense to the disciples of our lord at antioch. it is well known that the name of "methodist," which is now the honored designation of a large, active and devoted body of the people of god, was at first given to the followers of wesley in a spirit of ridicule and derision. in like manner, the name "huguenot," according to its most probable derivation from a french word meaning a kind of hobgoblin of darkness, a night-wanderer, was given to the protestants of that country, because there were times in their early history when, for fear of persecution, they dared not meet except under cover of darkness. but this term of reproach has gathered about itself all the glory that belongs to genius and skill in the useful arts, to industry, thrift and purity in the home, to patriotic valor on the field of battle, and to unpurchasable and unconquerable devotion to principle, and is now a name that is venerated by every clear-headed and sound-hearted and well-informed and unprejudiced person in the world. it is a name which will wear forever the red halo of martyrdom. by the massacre of st. bartholomew alone thirty-five thousand names were added to the church's crimson roll of martyrs, with that of the great admiral coligni leading the list. by the revocation of the edict of nantes, and the refusal of louis xiv. to tolerate any exercise of the protestant religion in france, while at the same time punishing inexorably all who attempted to escape from france, nearly half a million huguenots were driven into exile, sacrificing their homes, their property and their country rather than renounce their religion; and sismondi estimates that some four hundred thousand others perished in prison, on the scaffold, at the galleys, and in their attempts to escape. [sidenote: palissy, the potter.] on our visit to the celebrated porcelain works at sevres, a few miles below paris on the seine, our interest centered less in any of the works of art shown inside than in the fine bronze figure in front of the building which represents bernard palissy, natural philosopher, chemist, geologist, artist, political economist, christian hero and author, of whom lamartine himself said, "this potter was one of the greatest writers of the french tongue. montaigne does not excel him in freedom, rousseau in vigor, la fontaine in grace, bossuet in lyric energy." he was the inventor of enamelled pottery. for fifteen years he pursued his search for the secret of his art, scorned as a visionary, suspected of being a counterfeiter, reproached by his wife for the scanty living he provided for his family, sitting by his fire for six successive days and nights without changing his clothes, and, in his last desperate experiment, when fuel began to run short and still the enamel did not melt, rushing into the house, breaking up his furniture and hurling that into the furnace to keep up the heat--his long and furious search being rewarded at last by the appearance of the beautiful white glaze which has made him famous. his transcendant merits as an artist were then fully recognized, and the duke of montmorency and catherine de medici became his patrons, the latter appointing him to decorate the gardens of the palace of the tuileries. but in the meantime he had founded the reformed church at saintes, and had revolutionized the morals of the community. he was seized, dragged from his home, and hurried off by night to be punished as a heretic. and the most brilliant genius of france would certainly have been burnt, as hundreds of others were, but for the accidental circumstance that the duke of montmorency was in urgent need of enamelled tiles for his castle floor, and palissy was the only man in the world capable of executing them. few scenes in history can match that in the bastile when this aged and gifted man lay chained to the floor, and henry iii., standing over him, and referring to the forty-five years of faithful and splendid service which palissy had rendered, said, "i am now compelled to leave you to your enemies, and to-morrow you will be burnt unless you become a roman catholic." then the fearless answer: "sire, you have often said you pity me. i now pity you. 'compelled!' it is not spoken like a king. these girls, my companions, and i, who have a portion in the kingdom of heaven, will teach you royal language. _i cannot be compelled to do wrong._ neither you nor the guises will know how to compel a potter to bow the knee to images." [sidenote: other huguenot heroes and heroines.] french protestantism is rich also in memories of heroic women. there is the record, for example, of charlotte de laval, sitting by her husband, admiral coligni, on the balcony of their castle, and asking, "husband, why do you not openly avow your faith, as your brother andelot has done?" "sound your own soul," was his reply; "are you prepared to be chased into exile with your children, and to see your husband hunted to the death? i will give you three weeks to consider, and then i will take your advice." she looked at him a moment through her tears, and said, "husband, the three weeks are ended; do your duty, and leave us to god." the world knows well the sequel. surely no right-minded person can refuse to honor such sacrifices for principle, such loyalty to conscience, such devotion to christ. the huguenots could have remained peaceful and prosperous in their own country had they but been willing to conform to the romish religion. the views i am expressing are not determined merely by my protestant birth and training. in proof of this, let me quote to you the words of the duke of saint simon, himself a roman catholic and a courtier of louis xiv.: "the revocation of the edict of nantes ... as well as the various proscriptions that followed, were the fruits of that horrible conspiracy which depopulated a fourth part of the kingdom, ruined its trade, weakened it throughout, surrendered it for so long a time to open and avowed pillage by the dragoons, and authorized the torments and sufferings by means of which they procured the death of so many persons of both sexes and by thousands together.... a plot that caused our manufactures to pass over into the hands of foreigners, made their states to flourish and grow populous at the expense of our own, and enabled them to build new cities. a plot that presented to the nations the spectacle of so vast a multitude of people, who had committed no crime, proscribed, denuded, fleeing, wandering, seeking an asylum afar from their country. a plot that consigned the noble, the wealthy, the aged, those highly esteemed for their piety, their learning, their virtue, those accustomed to a life of ease, frail, delicate, to hard labor in the galleys, under the driver's lash, and for no reason save that of their religion." such are the blistering words of this eminent roman catholic nobleman in regard to the policy of the church of which he was a member. if a fair-minded member of that communion can thus condemn these horrible iniquities and thus extol the persecuted huguenots as the best people in france, surely no protestant should ever hesitate about recognizing clearly the world's debt to this pure and heroic people. and no well-informed protestant ever does. the rev. dr. croly, of the church of england, late rector of st. stephens, in london, expresses the opinion of all who know the facts when he says: "the protestant church of france was for half a century unquestionably one of the most illustrious churches in europe. it held the gospel in singular purity. its preachers were apostolic. its people the purest, most intellectual and most illustrious of france." [sidenote: france's loss the world's gain.] now that is the church which was all but stamped out of existence by the fierce persecutions of the papacy two hundred years ago. and it is the remnant of that glorious church which now calls on all christians to help it to give once more the pure gospel to priest-ridden, infidel france, and to deliver the nation from that fearful succession of bloody revolutions and panama scandals and dreyfus outrages and shameless immoralities which have so largely constituted the history of that unhappy land since it butchered and banished the only class of its people who would have effectually kept its conscience true, its morality pure, and its institutions stable and sound. do we owe the huguenots anything? yes, the whole world is indebted to them. what france lost the other nations gained. the emigration of the huguenots gave a death-blow to several great branches of french industry. the population of nantes was reduced from eighty thousand to forty thousand, a blow to its prosperity from which it has not recovered to this day. of twelve thousand artisans engaged in the manufacture of silk at lyons, nine thousand went to switzerland. the most skilled artisans, the wealthiest merchants, the bravest sailors and soldiers, the most eminent scholars and scientists went by thousands to germany, holland, england, enriching those lands in money and morals beyond computation. the cause of civil and religious liberty is deeply indebted to the huguenots. it was oliver cromwell, "the greatest prince that ever ruled england," who raised britain to her present position of power and gave her the dominion of the seas. but it was william of orange who completed cromwell's work after the temporary reaction in favor of rome and the stuarts. it was the battle of the boyne which finally decided that great britain and america were to be protestant countries and not romish. and do you know who it was that won the day for william on the banks of the boyne? it was the three regiments of huguenot infantry and the squadron of huguenot cavalry hurled upon the papists at the critical moment by the huguenot, marshal schomberg. that is a part of your debt to the huguenots for the civil and religious liberty which you enjoy to-day. in the franco-german war of , many of the officers of the victorious army of invasion were descendants of the huguenots whom louis xiv. expatriated. "though the mills of god grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all." the king of england himself is of huguenot blood, george i. having married dorothea, granddaughter of the marquis d'olbreuse, who was one of the huguenot refugees to brandenburg after the revocation. time would fail me to tell of all the scholars, scientists and noblemen of england who have sprung from the same great stock, such as grote, the historian of greece, sydney smith, the martineaus, garrick the actor, and a great number of gifted clergymen of the church of england. many of the french churches established in london and other parts of england by the exiles have contributed for centuries to the vigorous religious life of britain. for three hundred and fifty years the presbyterian huguenots and the episcopal englishmen have worshipped in different portions of canterbury cathedral, and to this day the huguenot church at canterbury continues to conduct its worship in the cathedral in french, singing the psalms to the old huguenot tunes. but for the most part, the exiles have become merged with the english, and their names have been anglicised. in every way britain has been enriched and blessed by the infusion of huguenot blood and genius. [sidenote: huguenot strain in america.] what america owes to huguenot immigration you know. had the huguenots given us only hugh swinton legare, john jay, francis marion, and commodore maury, "the pathfinder of the seas," we should have owed them an everlasting debt of gratitude. but when we remember what they have been in virginia itself--the maurys, maryes, michauxs, flournoys, dupuys, fontaines, moncures, fauntleroys, latanes, mauzys, lacys, venables, dabneys, and many others--we cannot fail to see that we are under great and lasting obligation to that heroic race, whose banishment, while it resulted in the moral ruin of france, resulted in the moral enrichment of america. and we should count it a privilege to do what we can to retrieve the religious ruin of misguided france by giving her once more the pure huguenot gospel. from a statement published by the rev. j. e. knatz, b. d., delegate of the huguenot churches of france to america, i take the following facts: [sidenote: the huguenot revival in france.] the population of france is composed of six hundred thousand protestants and nearly thirty-nine million catholics. the former are mostly descendants of the huguenots. in spite of centuries of persecution, which reduced them to a mere handful, they have not only kept their ground, but made important advance. they are the strongest bulwark of republican institutions. in the dreyfus trial, they were foremost in forming a better public opinion, fighting the hardest for the triumph of truth and justice. lately a catholic paper had to admit, reluctantly, that for the last twenty-five years the war waged against intemperance, immorality and other social evils, had been the work of the protestants. outside of france the huguenots carry on a great missionary work in the french colonies, which are many and extensive. the religious reorganization of madagascar alone cost them two hundred thousand dollars. in france they have to care for the spiritual welfare of an ever-increasing number of non-protestant communities. the movement toward protestantism is making great progress in the rural districts, the population of which, all catholics, had been hitherto indifferent or bigoted. new huguenot churches are springing up on all sides, often in places where protestant worship had been abolished for over two hundred years. the tears and blood our fathers shed, the torments they suffered on scaffolds and stakes, are bringing forth fruit after many years, and "the harvest is truly plenteous." in two departments of central france alone, forty-five villages have, within a single year, besought our societies for regular protestant services. to this church extension work alone the french protestants contribute one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars annually. congregations of two hundred members (not one of whom was brought up in the evangelical faith), sunday-schools of fifty children (none of whom a year before had ever heard of the bible), are common results of our work. other missionary enterprises have to devise means of attracting audiences. with us there is no such difficulty, crowds gather wherever we are able to send ministers. where in the whole world could be found so promising a mission field--one ready to yield such rich returns? where could be found people so eager to listen to the preaching of the gospel, and to have their children taught its lessons? as well as a most promising, france is a most important mission field. the conversion, within the next few years, of some thousands of french people, would be of incalculable value to the religious and moral welfare of the world, for france exerts a mighty influence throughout the world. moreover, the outlay would be comparatively small. there are men willing to bring the bread of life to the hungering crowds for a mere pittance, prompted, not by any worldly motive, but by the spirit of god. the salary of a minister is only four hundred dollars. this amount will send one more to some of the many localities from which urgent appeals have come; it will open a new district to the permanent influence of the gospel. no movement of such size and promise has been witnessed in france since the time of the reformation. it is the old light, the eternal light from above, dawning again on france, illuminating the approach of a new century and bringing hope for the future. let the christians of america help the huguenot church of france in this great work of hers. * * * * * at the american church in paris, whose pastor, the rev. dr. thurber, showed us many courtesies, we had the pleasure, a few days ago, of hearing a very striking address by the rev. merle d'aubigné, son of the well-known historian of the reformation, which abounded with equally awakening facts as to the present religious condition of france. paris is not only one of the most brilliant, but one of the most interesting cities in the world, from almost every point of view, and we revelled in its museums and monuments; but its memories of the huguenots had more interest for us than anything else, and we have thought it best to devote our space to that subject rather than to the louvre, the tomb of napoleon, notre dame, versailles, fontainebleau, and the scores of other fascinating places and subjects that appeal to one's interest in this ancient, gay, and terrible city. we had a rainy day at brussels and a cold one on the battlefield of waterloo, but were not deterred from seeing them by these conditions of the weather. then, with a comfortable feeling, almost like the feeling one has on coming home after journeying in strange lands, we crossed from roman catholic france and belgium into protestant holland. chapter xxiv. the making of holland. the hague, _october , _. there is an endless variety of interest in the different countries of the old world. each has its own fascination for travellers. but, after all, the strangest, quaintest, cleanest and most picturesque country in europe is holland--little, wet, flat, energetic, heroic holland. by calling it picturesque i do not mean that nature has made it so. there are no bold cliffs overlooking the sea, no heathery hills reflecting themselves in placid lakes, no soaring mountains, forest-clad or snow-capped, no waterfalls foaming and thundering among the rocks. it is not what nature has done, but what man has done, that makes holland so picturesque. there is no country on the globe for which nature has done so little and man has done so much. by an energy and industry unsurpassed in the annals of the world, the dutchman has wrested his land from the ocean itself, walling out its wild waves with huge dykes, and has converted this swamp into a blooming paradise, studded all over with prosperous farms and opulent cities. [sidenote: a land below sea level.] as the two most common names of this country themselves suggest, _holland_ meaning hollow land, and _netherlands_ meaning lowlands, the greater part of it is from twenty to thirty feet below the level of the ocean; that is to say, the sea actually rolls some ten yards higher than the ground on which the people live. hence the common remark, in which, however, there is some exaggeration, that the frog, croaking among the bulrushes, looks down upon the swallow on the housetops, and that the ships float high above the chimneys of the houses. [sidenote: water as an enemy.] of course, then, there is the ever-present danger that the ocean will break in and again overspread all this fair territory where its waters once rolled, and only by the most remarkable ingenuity, the most incessant vigilance, and the most untiring industry can it be prevented from doing so. water is the immemorial enemy of the dutch. they are trained at college to fight against water, as in other lands soldiers are trained to fight against the human foes of their country. they are compelled to wage a perpetual battle for their very existence, for, as some one has expressed it, as soon as they cease to pump they begin to drown. it costs the dutch people about six million dollars a year to keep their country above water, or, to speak more accurately, to keep the water above it. if one wishes to appreciate the imminence of this danger, he has only to stand for a few minutes at the foot of one of the great dykes on the coast, at high tide, and listen to the waves dashing against the outer side of the barrier, twenty feet above his head. [sidenote: dykes as protectors.] of course, the explanation of all this lies in the fact that holland is of alluvial formation. like lower egypt and some other regions at the mouths of great rivers, it is a delta land, the soil of which has been carried down from the interior by the rhine and deposited here, little by little, in the course of the ages; so that napoleon bonaparte is said to have laid claim to the country on the whimsical plea that it was land robbed from other countries which were his by right of conquest. moreover this particular delta lies farther below sea level than any other, holland, as a whole, being the lowest country in the world. these vast and costly embankments are therefore absolutely necessary to shut the ocean out and keep it out. the dutch proverb says, "god made the sea, we made the shore." but that is not all. in many places the dykes are no less necessary to prevent the country from being overflowed by the rivers, the beds of which have been gradually raised by alluvial deposits, so that now the surface of the water is considerably above the level of the surrounding country, as is the case in our own land with the mississippi river at new orleans. [sidenote: how dykes are made.] these huge ramparts, by which the sea has been made to obey the command of canute, sometimes rise to a height of not less than thirty-six feet, and rest upon massive foundations a hundred and fifty feet wide. they are made of earth, sand and mud thoroughly consolidated so as to be impervious to water, and the surface is covered with interwoven willow twigs, the interstices being filled with clay, and the whole thus bound into a solid mass. many of the dykes are planted with trees, the roots of which help to bind the materials of the structure more firmly together. others are protected by bulwarks of masonry or by stakes driven along the sides, the surface being covered with turf. [sidenote: sand dunes.] in addition to the directly aggressive action of the water, the sea has made trouble for the hollanders in another way. along the coast, low sand hills, from thirty to a hundred and fifty feet high, have been thrown up by the action of the wind and the waves, and, as these dunes, if left to themselves, are continually changing their shape, shifting their position, and scattering their loose sand over the fertile land adjacent, the people, in order to prevent this, sow them annually with reed-grass and other plants which will sprout in such poor soil, and the roots, spreading and intertwining in every direction, gradually consolidate the sand, form a substratum of vegetable soil, and convert the arid sand dunes into stable and productive agricultural regions. [sidenote: canals.] having thus made his land by walling out the sea and the rivers, and by anchoring those portions of it which were too much disposed to travel about, the dutchman's next task was to provide drains for removing the superfluous water from the cultivated land, fences for enclosing the portion belonging to each individual farmer and separating it from that of his neighbor, and highways for communication and traffic between the different parts of the country. by means of canals he made the conquered water serve all three of these purposes. the whole country is a network of canals, which stretch their shining lengths in every direction, and which are of all sizes, from the main thoroughfares, sixty feet wide and six feet deep, along which glide the great barges laden with merchandise and drawn by sedate horses, down to the ditches of five or six feet which mark the boundaries of separate farms or divide the fields of each farmer from one another, canals being used in this way as uniformly as hedges and fences are in other lands. [sidenote: windmills.] remembering, as already stated, that not only the surface of the water, but the beds of the larger canals are often considerably above the level of the surrounding country, it will be seen that the problem of drainage was not an easy one. the dutch solved it by making the wind work for them. on every hand are seen windmills, larger and stronger here than in any other country, swinging their huge arms, and pumping up the superfluous water from the low lying ground to the canals, which carry it to the sea. these mills are used also for grinding grain, cutting tobacco, sawing timber, manufacturing paper, and many other things for which we use water mills or steam mills. [sidenote: polders.] of late, however, windmills have been to a large extent superseded by steam engines for purposes of drainage, especially in the making of polders, as they call the marshes or lakes, the beds of which have been reclaimed by draining. in this process, which is still actively carried on by speculators, the morass or lake to be drained is first enclosed with a dyke to prevent the entrance of any water from without. then the water within is removed by means of peculiarly constructed water-wheels, driven by steam engines. sometimes the lake is so deep that the water cannot be lifted directly to the main canal, and thus be carried off, and when this is the case a series of dykes and canals at different levels has to be made, and the water transferred successively from one to another. the land thus reclaimed is wonderfully fertile, since in wet seasons superfluous water can always be quickly removed, and in dry seasons thorough irrigation can be effected still more easily and quickly. if these polders could be looked down upon from a balloon, they would have a very artificial appearance, something like gigantic checker-boards, as they have been mapped out with mathematical precision, divided into rectangular plots by straight canals and straight rows of trees, and furnished with houses all built on exactly the same pattern. the most stupendous work of this kind ever projected is the proposed construction of an embankment which would convert the zuider zee into a vast lagoon, with an area of , square miles, two-thirds of which could be made into a polder. it is estimated that the work would cost $ , , . it is evident, therefore, that this little nation, which has accomplished such wonders in making its own land and in keeping it from being swallowed up by the sea after it was made, and which has in the past done such great things for liberty and learning, for manufactures and commerce, is still capable of great enterprises. [sidenote: entering holland.] no boy or girl who has read _hans brinker or the silver skates_ can ever think of holland with indifference. no man or woman who has read motley's stirring history of the heroic little republic in the rhine delta can ever enter the netherlands without a feeling of the liveliest interest. no lover of liberty who recalls the sufferings and services of the dutch calvinists in the cause of freedom, and the glorious victory they achieved against tremendous odds, can set foot on that sacred soil without a thrill of reverent gratitude. [sidenote: the scenery and the scenes.] such were some of the memories with which our hearts were warmed as our train from brussels began to cross the bridges over the broad estuaries that make in from the sea through the low, flat country, in the neighborhood of dordrecht and rotterdam, and to run through an unmistakably dutch landscape, with bright green fields divided into rectangular sections by hundreds of shining canals, and occupied by innumerable herds of black and white holstein cattle, not a few of them actually wearing jackets, apparently made of burlaps or bagging, to protect them from the dampness; with level roads running along the tops of the dykes several yards above the surrounding country, and sedate looking horses drawing old-fashioned wagons, and brisk looking dogs drawing clattering milk carts, with their cargo of burnished cans; with innumerable rows of willow trees, the twigs of which the people use to make the covering of the dykes, and the wood of which they use to make their heavy, pointed shoes, or sabots; with picturesque houses roofed with red tiles, and broad-built peasants working in the fields, wearing those same wooden sabots, and clean looking market women trudging into the towns in their exceedingly picturesque head-dress of gold helmets covered with lace caps; with stiff, symmetrical gardens, and trees clipped into fantastic shapes; with quaint old church steeples and gilded weather-cocks; and ever and anon a weather-beaten windmill swinging its great arms between us and the low horizon. this was holland, beyond a doubt. [sidenote: rotterdam.] an interesting indication of the important part played by the dykes in the development of holland is the number of towns which have been named from the dyke or dam originally built on a site, such as rotterdam, schiedam, amsterdam, and so on. the first important place we passed was rotterdam, the most active seaport of holland, with a population of three hundred and twenty thousand, and from the high railway bridge on which we crossed the maas we had a good view of the boompjes, as they call the magnificent quays, which, with their graceful fringe of trees and their tangled forest of shipping, line the banks of the river for a mile and a half. we caught a glimpse also of the bronze statue of erasmus, the dutch scholar, who, as some say, "laid the egg which luther hatched." on a former visit to rotterdam i had seen the birthplace of this illustrious man, bearing on its front the inscription, "_haec est parva domus, magnus qua natus erasmus_" (_this is the little house in which great erasmus was born_.) [sidenote: the hague.] leaving rotterdam, we pass on our left delftshaven, from which a party of the pilgrim fathers sailed to america in ; then schiedam, noted for its "schnapps," of which there are more than two hundred distilleries; then delft, where william the silent, the immortal founder of dutch independence, was assassinated by a jesuit whom the roman catholic persecutors of the netherlands had hired to rid them of their great foeman, but which, i fear, is better known to some of my readers as the place where a certain blue-glazed earthenware used to be made in imitation of chinese porcelain; and then, fifteen miles from rotterdam, the hague, one of the handsomest towns in holland, with the royal palace, and in a lovely park outside the city the royal villa, called the house in the wood, and two miles away on the sea the fashionable watering-place of scheveningen, and in the city itself scrupulously clean and bright houses on every hand, where its two hundred thousand people live, and, above all, the picture gallery, with its two world-renowned paintings by rembrandt and potter, to say nothing of others scarcely inferior, if at all so, such as vermeer's "view of delft," with its red and blue roofs partly lit up with yellow sunlight, a simple view which "is perhaps unmatched by any other landscape in the world for the truthfulness of its atmospheric and light effects and for the vigor and brilliance of its coloring." paul potter's "young bull" is a marvellous picture, but the one which demands and repays the longest study is rembrandt's "school of anatomy," which shows us the celebrated nicolaas tulp, in black coat, lace collar and broad-brimmed soft hat, explaining the anatomy of the arm of a corpse to a body of surgeons, who listen to the lecture with the most life-like expressions, and which has been happily characterized as the truest and most life-like representation of the "working of intellect" ever produced. [sidenote: a presbyterian government.] as we had reminded ourselves when visiting the royal residences that the young and beloved queen wilhelmina is the only presbyterian queen in the world, so we reminded ourselves when visiting the chambers of the states general that holland is the only country in the world which has the good fortune to have a presbyterian preacher for its prime minister. of course, other countries have presbyterian laymen for prime ministers, mr. balfour of great britain, for example, but holland is the only one that has placed the helm of the state in the hands of a preacher. his name is the rev. dr. abraham kuyper, and he is one of the ablest and most versatile men in the world. his recent book on _the holy spirit_ is the greatest monograph on that subject that has appeared since the work of john owen. he has rendered a great service to the cause of vital religion in checking the rationalistic views of such men as professor kuenen, and strongly reasserting the evangelical doctrines to which holland has been so deeply indebted in the past for the heroic character of her people, and the glorious position she holds in the history of human freedom. though the chambers were not in session when we visited the binnenhof, we took special pleasure in having even the chair of dr. kuyper pointed out to us. [sidenote: unpresbyterian church buildings.] by the way, the cathedrals and other great churches of holland erected before the reformation strikingly illustrate how unfit such structures are for christian worship, according to the simple new testament model, especially for preaching the gospel. they are adapted only to the spectacular ceremonies of the roman catholics and other ritualists. therefore, any protestant community which has had the misfortune to inherit a cathedral from the unreformed period has an elephant on its hands. the dutch people, being mostly presbyterians, have had this experience, and, finding themselves unable to make the most effective use of these great buildings erected for romish rites, have allowed them to assume a very unattractive, dreary and barn-like appearance on the inside. the question may shock our æsthetic friends, but, notwithstanding the incalculable loss to art, would it not have been better for the world if the protestant countries at the time of the reformation had macadamized all their cathedrals? and if any one hesitates to answer in the affirmative, let him consider carefully the connection between the modes of worship, and the character of the worshipper, and let him explain to himself clearly why it is that the countries which have adopted the protestant model, with its steady appeal to the reason, and its earnest insistence upon intelligent apprehension of the truth, are the cleanest, safest, thriftiest and strongest countries in the world, while those which have adopted the romish model, with its constant appeal to the æsthetic sensibilities, and its millinery, music, processions, incense, and "vain repetitions," are precisely the countries which have suffered the greatest material and moral deterioration, and which were not long ago contemptuously characterized by lord salisbury, the late premier of great britain, as "decaying nations." chapter xxv. leyden's university, haarlem's flowers, and amsterdam's commerce. utrecht, _october , _. we gave only one day to leyden, ten miles from the hague, but it was one of the most interesting days we have had in europe. taking a guide at the railway station, we traversed the quaint streets and crossed and recrossed the multitudinous canals, and climbed to the top of the great fortified circular mound of earth in the centre of the city, called the _burg_, the foundations of which date from the tenth century, and from the top of which we had a unique view of the heroic old town and the peaceful homes of its fifty-four thousand people. [sidenote: the great siege.] but one does not go far in leyden without being reminded of the terrible siege to which it was subjected by the spaniards in . one such reminder is the bronze statue of the gallant mayor van der werf, who defended the city in that siege and would listen to no suggestion of surrender. another is an inscription on the front of the stadhuis, which, translated, reads: "when the black famine had brought to the death nearly six thousand persons, then god the lord repented and gave us bread again as much as we could wish"; and which in the original dutch is an ingenious chronogram, the capital letters as roman numerals giving the date, and the one hundred and thirty-one letters used in the original indicating the number of days during which the siege lasted. but, after a short and partial relief, the siege was continued in the form of a blockade for many dreadful months. william of orange finally cut the dykes and flooded the country, and relieved the famished city by ships. [illustration: a stranger in leyden.] [sidenote: a unique reward of valor.] the story of leyden which made the deepest impression upon me as a boy was that of william's offering to reward the citizens for this gallant defence either by exempting them from taxes for a certain number of years or by the establishment of a university in their city. to their everlasting honor they chose the latter, even in that time of distress and poverty, and the university was founded in . of course we wished to see the university which had such a history as that, to say nothing of the fact that we had heard of leyden jars ever since we began the study of electricity at college, and that we knew something of a few of the men whose genius has at different periods since made the faculty one of the most illustrious in europe, such as "the learned scaliger," the famous physician boerhaave, arminius and gomar, champions, respectively, of the two theological schools known as arminians or remonstrants and calvinists, which in brought their differences to debate in the famous synod of dort; and, as is always the case when an opportunity for thorough discussion on the basis of scripture is given, the result was a victory for the calvinists. we remembered also with pleasure that oliver goldsmith, author of the immortal _vicar of wakefield_, was for a time a student at the university of leyden; and we recalled with less pleasure that in our own day the faculty of the institution had furnished one of the boldest advocates of the destructive criticism of the old testament, professor abraham kuenen. [sidenote: plain college buildings abroad.] it was a satisfaction to see it, though there is little to see; this university, like most of those on the continent, having very indifferent buildings and appointments. the men who sometimes "kick" in american colleges and seminaries because the class-rooms and dormitories do not suit them, to say nothing of their board, would get a superabundance of that sort of exercise if they had to attend the average dutch or german university. in fact, it has been intimated at times that there are men in american colleges and seminaries who belong to that class of people of whom it was suggested that they would grumble even after getting to heaven on the ground that their haloes didn't fit. fortunately, however, these are very few, the great majority of our american students being not spoiled and fussy children, but manly, sensible, hard working, plain living, high thinking men. [sidenote: john robinson and the pilgrim fathers.] before leaving leyden we made a point of visiting the house in which the rev. john robinson lived. he was the leader of the first puritans who were banished from england, and who, like the adherents of every other persecuted faith, found toleration and liberty in calvinistic holland. a bronze tablet affixed to the wall of the church on the opposite side of the street contains a bas-relief of the _mayflower_, and states that it was at mr. robinson's prompting that the pilgrim fathers went forth to settle new england in . [sidenote: horse flesh as food.] as we passed with our guide through what looked like an open-air beef market, he surprised us not a little by telling us that what the people were buying there was not beef, but horse flesh, which is much cheaper, adding that the worn-out dray horses and car horses of the english cities were regularly bought and shipped to holland to be sold to the poor instead of beef. no doubt the people of leyden became accustomed to much worse fare than that when, during the great siege of , the spaniards were trying to starve them into resubmission to roman catholicism. but those conditions no longer exist, and the idea of eating horse flesh as a regular thing is not one which commends itself to our feelings. [sidenote: haarlem.] this place, seventeen miles from leyden, also had experience of the tender mercies of the papal soldiery when, in , after a gallant defence of seven months, it fell into the hands of the spaniards, and the entire garrison, the protestant ministers of the gospel, and two thousand of the townspeople were executed. haarlem is now, and has been for two hundred and fifty years, famous for its horticulture. it supplies bulbs to every part of the world, and in the spring the nurseries around the city are ablaze with the brilliant blooms of the tulips, hyacinths, crocuses and lilies, whole fields of them in every variety of color, like vast natural flags of the brightest hues, lying on the flat surface of the country, and the whole atmosphere is impregnated with their delicious fragrance. [sidenote: a flower boom.] two centuries and a half ago, at the time of the "tulip mania," there was as wild speculation in bulbs as there has ever been in our day in stocks. enormous prices were paid for the rarer bulbs. for instance, a single bulb of the species called "semper augustus" was sold for five thousand two hundred dollars. this statement will not seem incredible to any of my readers who have had bitter experience with the fictitious values created by the "booms" which cursed and crippled so many of our southern communities a few years ago. the tulip craze in holland had the same history: the mania subsided, the prices fell, many of the speculators were ruined, and before long a "semper augustus" could be bought for twenty dollars. even that will seem to most people a pretty high price for a single tulip bulb. [sidenote: a small country.] we did not stop at haarlem, as it was not the right season for the gorgeous display of flowers above referred to, that is, the latter part of april and the beginning of may, but pushed on to amsterdam, which is only ten miles away. if the reader has taken account of the distances between these populous cities as they have been successively mentioned, and has observed how short they are, he will have received a very strong impression of the smallness of the country. [sidenote: amsterdam.] amsterdam, the largest city in holland, with a population of more than half a million, is built upon nearly a hundred islands, separated from one another by a network of canals and connected by means of some three hundred bridges, and is, therefore, sometimes spoken of as "a vulgar venice," but, with its prodigious vitality, its crowded streets, its busy waters, and its financial eminence, it must be far more like the venice which was queen of the adriatic some centuries ago than the stagnant and melancholy town which bears that name to-day. [sidenote: odoriferous canals.] the water in the canals is about three feet deep, and below this is a layer of mud of the same thickness. it is said that, in order to prevent malarial exhalations, the water is constantly renewed from an arm of the north sea canal and the mud removed by dredging. i hope this process is effective, but there were unmistakable exhalations from the canals when we were there. whether they were malarial or not i cannot say, but certainly they were unfragrant to a degree. still, the evil smells of amsterdam are not to be named in number and vigor with those of venice. [sidenote: a city built on stakes.] as in venice, so here, all the houses are built on piles which are driven fifteen or twenty feet through the loose sand near the surface into the firmer layers below. hence the jest of erasmus, that he knew a city whose inhabitants dwelt on the tops of trees like rooks. they are not so secure on their perch, however, as the rooks. for, although the preparations underground are often more costly than the buildings afterwards erected above, yet, such is the difficulty of securing a firm foundation, and such the ravages of the wood worm among the fir-tree piles after they are driven into the sand and built upon, that many of the brick houses which were once erect are now considerably out of the perpendicular, and lean backwards or forwards or sideways, according as the piles have given way at one place or another. in thirty-four hundred tons of grain were stored in a grain magazine originally built for the east india company, and, the piles being unable to sustain the weight, the building literally sank down into the mud. [sidenote: the business of amsterdam.] besides its importance as a mart for the tobacco, sugar, rice, spices, and other produce of the dutch colonies in the east indies, west indies and south america (which, by the way, have a population of thirty-five million, that is, seven times as many as the little mother country), amsterdam has a number of important industrial establishments, such as ship-yards, sugar and camphor refineries, cobalt-blue and candle factories, machine shops, breweries, and especially diamond-polishing mills, of which last there are no less than seventy, employing in all about ten thousand men. we visited one of these mills and watched the process for a few minutes. [sidenote: the jewish quarter.] the art of polishing diamonds was introduced here in the sixteenth century by portuguese jews, who, driven from their former homes by papal persecution, found in protestant holland an asylum, and, like the oppressed adherents of other creeds, secured the full religious toleration which they craved. they have ever since constituted an important part of the population of amsterdam, and now number about thirty-five thousand. one of the interesting episodes of our visit was a drive through the poorer jewish quarter, with its swarms of untidy men, women and children. in this quarter and of this stock spinoza, the philosopher, was born; and in this quarter, though not of this stock, rembrandt, the painter, lived for fifteen years, in a house marked by a tablet, which those who are specially interested in art always wish to see. [sidenote: home of president kruger.] utrecht, twenty-two miles from amsterdam, is an attractive city of one hundred thousand inhabitants. it interested us chiefly as the centre of the jansenists, the redoubtable roman catholic adversaries of the jesuits, and as the peaceful home of ex-president kruger since his withdrawal from the stormy experiences of his life in south africa. this venerable man, so remarkable on account of his public career, is of special interest to any one connected with union seminary in virginia, because it was under the ministry of a former student of our seminary, the late dr. daniel lindley, who went as a missionary to south africa more than sixty years ago, that mr. kruger was brought into the church. he lives in great comfort on the famous malieban, which, with its triple row of lime trees, is one of the loveliest residential districts in europe. [sidenote: queer customs in holland.] it seems odd that in a country where there is so much water, there should be so little that is fit to drink, and that in a country where land is so valuable the people should use any part of it for fuel, and yet, not only does one constantly see dog-carts containing barrels of fresh water and loads of peat passing hither and thither in the towns, but at cellar doors in the side streets sign-boards are seen announcing "water and fire to sell," and at these places the poorer classes buy the boiling water or red-hot turf that they need to make their tea or coffee. foot-warmers are very generally used by the dutch women, and in some of the churches we saw immense numbers of these little fireboxes. [sidenote: the comfort of a hot water bottle.] this reminds me to say, for the benefit of any of my readers who may be planning a trip to europe, that two things are more conducive to comfort and health than a good hot-water bottle when one is travelling in northern or central europe, for these lands are much colder than ours in spring, summer and autumn, and arrangements for heating the hotels either do not exist or are utterly ineffective. american tourists who do not observe this precaution are likely to need physic, and, by the way, the universal sign for drug stores in holland is not the mortar and pestle, but "the gaper," that is, a painted turk's head showing his tongue. [sidenote: domestic store-rooms in the top stories.] in amsterdam and other dutch cities many of the houses, which are made of brick with light colored painting and have a very substantial and neat appearance, are narrow and high, standing with ornamented gable ends to the street, and have beams projecting from the gables with fixtures for hoisting goods to the top stories, which are used for store-rooms. these are not business houses, but dwelling houses of people well to do, and the windows and woodwork from top to bottom are scrupulously clean and bright. [sidenote: the original "spotless town."] broeck, in the north of holland, is said to be the original spotless town. we did not visit this place, but it is thus described by a writer in _public opinion_ who has done so: "the palings of the fences of broeck are sky-blue. the streets are paved with shining bricks of many colors. the houses are rose-colored, black, gray, purple, light blue or pale green. the doors are painted and gilded. for hours you may not see a soul in the streets or at the windows. the streets and houses, bridges, windows and barns show a neatness and a brilliancy that are absolutely painful. "at every step a new effect is disclosed, a new scene is beheld, as if painted upon the drop-curtain of a stage. everything is minute, compact, painted, spotless and clean. in the houses of broeck for cleaning purposes you will find big brooms, little brooms, tooth-brushes, aqua fortis, whiting for the window panes, rouge for the forks and spoons, coal dust for the copper, emery for the iron utensils, brick powder for the floors, and even small splinters of wood with which to pick out the tiny bits of straw in the cracks between the bricks. here are some of the rules of this wonderful town: "citizens must leave their shoes at the door when entering a house. "before or after sunset no one is allowed to smoke excepting with a pipe having a cover, so that the ashes will not be scattered upon the street. "any one crossing the village on horseback must get out of the saddle and lead the horse. "a cuspidor shall be kept by the front door of each house. "it is forbidden to cross the village in a carriage, or to drive animals through the streets." thus, it appears that "spotless town" is not merely an ideal existing in the imagination of the man who writes the very clever verses placarded in our street-cars and elsewhere in praise of the cleansing properties of sapolio, but a reality; and there are numerous places in holland which in point of cleanliness would put to shame any of our american towns. [sidenote: a pardonable mania.] some one has said that the dutch love of cleanliness amounts almost to a monomania, and that the washing, scrubbing and polishing to which every house is subjected once every week is rather subversive of comfort. and it would appear from the regulations above cited that the matter is sometimes pushed to extremes. but my experience as a traveller in some parts of my own country, as well as in some parts of other lands, has made me very tolerant of such a mania as that, and, when amid the filth of venice or naples, for instance, my mind has reverted to these clean dutch towns, it has caused me to sigh--"_o si sic omnes!_" [sidenote: mr. edward bok on the "mother of america."] i cannot resist the temptation to append to these letters about little, quaint, clean, energetic, heroic, learned, unpretentious holland some extracts from an article of mr. edward bok's which i have read since my return to america. he refers to the fact that twenty thousand more american travellers are said to have visited the netherlands during the past summer than in any previous year, and to the fact that there is a rapidly increasing demand for books on the history of the dutch people, as shown by the reports of the librarians in american towns, and he regards these as specimens of a group of facts which, taken together, indicate clearly that the reading world of america is beginning to appreciate the real extent of the strong dutch influences which underlie american institutions and have shaped american life. he says that for years we have written in our histories and taught in our schools that this nation is a transplanted england; that the institutions which have made this country distinctively great were derived from england. but he denies that england is entitled to this honor, and declares that the true mother land of america is not england, but holland: "take, for instance, what may be truly designated as the four vital institutions upon which america not only rests, but which have caused it to be regarded as the most distinctive nation in the world. i mean our public-school system of free education; our freedom of religious worship; our freedom of the press; and our freedom of suffrage as represented by the secret ballot. not one of these came from england, since not one of them existed there when they were established in america; in fact, only one of them existed in england earlier than fifty years after they existed in america, and the other three did not exist in england until nearly one hundred years after their establishment in america. each and all of these four institutions came to america directly from holland. take the two documents upon which the whole fabric of the establishment and maintenance of america rests--the declaration of independence and the federal constitution of the united states--and one, the declaration, is based almost entirely upon the declaration of independence of the united republic of the netherlands; while all through the constitution its salient points are based upon, and some literally copied from, the dutch constitution. so strong is this netherland influence upon our american form of government that the senate of the united states, as a body, derives most of the peculiarities of its organization from the netherlands states general, a similar body, and its predecessor by nearly a century of years, while even in the american flag we find the colors and the five-pointed star chosen from the dutch. "the common modern practice of the state allowing a prisoner the free services of a lawyer for his defence, and the office of a district attorney for each county, are so familiar to us that we regard them as american inventions. both institutions have been credited to england, whereas, as a matter of fact, it is impossible to find in england even to-day any official corresponding to our district attorney. both of these institutions existed in holland three centuries before they were brought to america. "the equal distribution of property among the children of a person dying intestate--that is, without a will--was brought to america direct from holland by the puritans. it never existed in england. "the record of all deeds and mortgages in a public office, a custom which affects every man and woman who owns or buys property, came to america direct from holland. it never came from england, since it does not exist there even at the present day. "the township system, by which each town has local self-government, with its natural sequence of local self-government in county and state, came from holland. "the practice of making prisoners work, and turning prisons into workhouses, and, in fact, our whole modern american management of free prisons which has caused the admiration of the entire world, was brought from holland to america by william penn. "group these astonishing facts together, if you will, and see their tremendous import: the federal constitution; the declaration of independence; the whole organization of the senate; our state constitutions; our freedom of religion; our free schools; our free press; our written ballot; our town, county and state systems of self-government; the system of recording deeds and mortgages; the giving of every criminal a just chance for his life; a public prosecutor of crime in every county; our free prison workhouse system--to say nothing of kindred important and vital elements in our national life. when each and all of these can be traced directly to one nation, or to the influence of that nation, and that nation not england, is it any wonder, asks one enlightened historian, that some modern scholars, who, looking beneath the mere surface resemblance of language, seek an explanation of the manifest difference between the people of england and the people of the united states assumed by them to be of the same blood, and influenced by the same (?) institutions? "nor is it strange that so strong a dutch influence should have entered into the establishment and making of america, when one considers the immense debt which the world owes to holland. for it may be said without fear of contradiction that in nearly every art which uplifts and adorns human life, in nearly every aspect of human endeavor, holland has not only added to the moral resources of mankind and contributed more to the fabric of civilization, but has also actually led the way. it was the first nation to master the soil and teach agriculture to the world. it has taught the world the art of gardening. it taught commerce and merchandise to the entire world when it ranked as the only great commercial nation on the globe. it taught the broadest lines of finance to the world by the establishment, in , of its great bank of amsterdam, with one hundred and eighty millions of dollars deposits, preceding the establishment of the bank of england by nearly one hundred years. the founding of its great university of leyden, in , marked an epoch in the world's history of education, and made the netherlands the centre of learning of europe. here was founded international law through grotius, one of holland's greatest sons. here boerhaave, a dutchman, revolutionized medicine by his wonderful discoveries until holland's medical school became the seat of authority for all europe. from this centre, too, came that great lesson in the publishing of books in the shape of the famous elzevir books. it was the first nation to place the reader and the spelling-book in the hands of the child, irrespective of station or means. as musicians, for nearly two hundred years the netherlands stood supreme, and furnished all the courts of europe with vocal and instrumental music. it was the dutch who founded, in naples, the first musical conservatory in the world, and another in venice, and it was to their influence and example that the renowned school of rome owed its existence. "the starting of all these masterful influences would alone make a nation great. but these were only a part of holland's wonderful contributions to the world's enlightenment. it went on and introduced to the world the manufacture of woollen cloth that marked an epoch in history, and followed this up by developing the manufacture of silk, linen, tapestry and lace until it made its city of flanders the manufacturing centre of the world. it devised and presented through the van eyck brothers the wonderful discovery of oil painting, and revolutionized the world of art, and gave, in the person of one of these brothers, jan van eyck, the originator of the painted portrait. then came the invention of wood-engraving by a dutchman, followed quickly by the printing of books from blocks; the substitution of movable type for the solid block of wood, and we have the printing-press--the invention of which germany may never concede to holland, and yet the germ of which lay in the block books to which holland lays unquestioned claim. but holland need never squabble over a single invention. a nation that, in addition to what has been cited above, has likewise invented the telescope, the microscope, the thermometer, the method of measuring degrees of latitude and longitude, the pendulum clock, thereby putting before the world the beginning of anything which we can call accuracy in time, and discovered the capillary circulation of the blood, need not stop to split straws. there is a wonderful charm in reading the history of a people who have done so much toward the enlightenment of the world, and not alone in one field of thought or activity, but in every field of human endeavor. the people of no nation make so bold and strong an impression on the mind as one after another of their achievements pass before one, and especially when it is considered that all these contributions to humankind were done with one hand while the other was busy in saving every foot of land from the rushing waters. but the people always remained cool, balanced and solid. that same patient but deep, perfervid spirit which built the dykes and saved the land with one hand, and opened those same dykes, built by the very life-blood of the people, with the other, and flooded the land against encroaching enemies--that same spirit built up a nation unrivalled in history as a financial, commercial, maritime, art, learning, medical and political centre, from which have radiated the strongest influences for the upbuilding of great empires--not only in the new western world of america, but also in the far east of the indies, and in the strong colonial establishment of south africa. her glory may be of the past, but he is indeed a rash prophet who would predict the future of any nation, however small, on the face of the globe of to-day. of some things the american traveller is to-day constantly convinced: that there is less intellectual veneer in holland than in any other country in europe; that there is more solid and abiding culture of the very highest kind, and that the modern dutch family represents a repose of mind, a simplicity of living, and a contented happiness with life in general that we, as a nation, might well envy." chapter xxvi. up the rhine and over the alps. the cologne cathedral is the finest gothic structure in the world. we had a perfect view of the majestic exterior from the windows of our hotel, but, of course, devoted most of our time to the still more impressive interior. it is no part of my purpose to descant upon these things which are described in all the books of travel. the city possesses other objects of interest besides its matchless cathedral, and some of them we visited, in spite of the weather. it was cold and wet, and we did not prolong our stay. but no conditions of weather could have deterred us from taking the steamer for our trip up the rhine, rather than the railroad. it was late in the season. the summer tourists had long since returned to their homes in england and america. we had the boat pretty much to ourselves. we could hardly have fallen upon a worse day for the first half of our trip. it was not only cold, but foggy, and we could get only tantalizing glimpses of the shores now and then when the mist thinned a little. so it continued nearly all the way to coblentz, where we landed and spent the night. we comforted ourselves, however, with the reflection that the finest scenery was farther up, and with the hope that we should have a better day for that part of the trip. and we had. the mist was rolling away rapidly when we rose next morning, and it soon disappeared, leaving us a fine autumn day. after listening to the exhilarating music of a military band which was serenading a young general near our hotel and after taking a look at the noble statue of william i., and at the massive fortifications of ehrenbreitstein, the german gibraltar, on the other side of the river, we took the boat in better spirits, addressed ourselves with more zest than before to the volume of _legends of the rhine_, and thus began a delightful and memorable day. the chief advantage of making this celebrated trip at this season is that one thus gets the opportunity to see the vintage of the rhine valley as it can be seen at no other season. "purple and red, to left, to right, for miles the gorgeous vintage blazed." though, as a matter of fact, i believe that most of the rhine grapes that we saw were white. the steep slopes of the hills among which the great river winds are covered with vineyards, the vines in rows as regular as ranks of indian corn, and laden with millions of luscious bunches. the vintagers, men, women and children, in picturesque costumes and with huge baskets on their backs, were busy everywhere stripping the fruit from the yellow vines. the soil is kept in place by stone terraces. above the line of the vineyards jut out the huge rocks of the mountains, their gray bastions alternating with forests robed in green, brown, red and yellow, and standing out boldly against the pure blue sky. it is only by strong self-restraint that i can pass without special notice such a rock as rhinestein, such a town as bingen, and such a monument as that to "germania" on the niederwald, but it must be done. _november , ._ [sidenote: wiesbaden and the german woods.] wiesbaden, the most charming of german watering-places, is a clean and handsome city, with broad and well paved streets, many attractive shops and pleasant residences, excellent hotels, extensive and lovely parks, a sumptuous opera house, a less costly but very spacious music hall (where, by the way, we had the pleasure of hearing frau shuman-heink sing), and a few large and costly churches, but with no adequate arrangements, so far as i could see, for the churching of its large population. the place owes its importance primarily to the boiling salt springs, which here gush from the earth, and which have made this the great resort for rheumatics and the victims of various other ailments. it is also the home of one of the most celebrated oculists in europe, whose patients come to him from every part of the world. the chief attraction for those who are fond of outdoor life is the glorious forests which stretch from wiesbaden back through the valleys and over the taunus mountains. one of our young people has just been writing to the folks at home about an eighteen-mile walk through these woods, guided only by the blazed trees, and speaks with pardonable enthusiasm of "the blue-gray trunks outlined against the terra cotta carpet of fallen leaves, the sunlight glancing through the trees, and the gently waving branches against the azure sky. there is no undergrowth as in our forests at home, but there are here and there gray rocks, large and small, covered with fresh green moss, or with gray, pink and yellow lichen. there were rustic benches all along, but the forest was quite deserted except for an occasional woodman with a fire and piles of neatly chopped wood, or some little boys drawing carts filled with bundles of sticks for winter use." _november , ._ [sidenote: worms, heidelberg and strasburg.] we spent three weeks at wholesome wiesbaden, counting a day that we gave to mayence, on the other side of the rhine, for the purpose of seeing the memorials of gutenberg, the inventor of printing. then we took the train for worms. the chief "lion" here is, of course, the magnificent luther monument, a thing which no visitor to this part of the world should fail to see. recrossing the rhine, we ran up to heidelberg, and devoted a day to the fine old castle and the famous university--a stinging cold day it was, too. nor did winter relax his grip at strasburg, for there we had snow. one of the youngsters celebrated his birthday there by watching the noon performances of the world-renowned clock in the old cathedral, our whole party going with him, the adults watching the wonderful mechanism with scarcely less interest than the children. the striking of that clock and the movements of its various figures and fixtures at twelve o'clock every day invariably draws a large crowd of people. we saw the storks' nests on the chimneys, too, but of course the storks themselves were down in the warm sunshine of africa at that season. _november , ._ [sidenote: switzerland in winter-time.] switzerland caps the climax of scenic interest in europe--lakes, waterfalls, mountains, glaciers--language and pictures are alike unavailing to convey an adequate impression of this sublime scenery. my first views of it were in midsummer. on the st of july, , at the top of the wengern alp, seven thousand feet above the sea, reached by rail all the way, my travelling companions and i had coasted on sleds over the snow like boys, wearing our heavy overcoats the while. above us rose the jungfrau, six thousand feet higher, piercing the clouds. as we watched, the clouds parted, and the white jungfrau, wearing the dazzling silberhorn on her bosom, burst upon our view. never shall we see anything more beautiful till our eyes rest upon the pinnacles of the celestial city. we were standing at the time on the eiger glacier, an immense mass of pale green ice covered with a snowy crust. longfellow somewhere (in "hyperion," i think) likens the shape of one of the glaciers to a glove, lying with the palm downwards. "it is a gauntlet of ice, which centuries ago winter, the king of these mountains, threw down in defiance to the sun, and year by year the sun strives in vain to lift it from the ground on the point of his glittering spear." aye, in vain. winter is king. but the sun now and then wrenches somewhat from his grasp. and even while we gazed speechless at the unearthly splendor of the jungfrau and the silberhorn we heard an avalanche fall with a crash like the end of the world. that night we sat before a roaring fire and wrote home about it. [illustration: the lion of lucerne.] that was my experience in midsummer. now we were to see not only the great mountain tops, but the whole country, in the undisputed grasp of winter. when we reached lucerne, not only the high alps, but all the mountains and hills, far as the eye could reach, were covered with snow. when we visited thorwaldsen's celebrated lion of lucerne we found workmen with scaffolding and ladders against the cliff, carefully boxing it in with boards to prevent it from being injured by the freezing of water trickling down upon it during the winter now at hand. but we were in time, just in time, to see it, and we all agreed that few monuments in europe are so impressive. the great figure, twenty-eight feet in length, i believe, carved in the living rock, represents the king of beasts lying slain, pierced by an arrow, with broken spear and shield beneath, and over that shield, which bears the lilies of france, the huge paws are thrown, as if guarding it still in death. it commemorates the devotion of the swiss guard who, in , were appointed to keep the palace at versailles, and receiving no orders to retire, preferred to die at their post rather than betray their trust. the glacier gardens near by, with their ingenious and realistic illustration of the action of the falling water in grinding the boulders in the glacier pots, interested us greatly. we paid some attention to the shops also, and the old cathedral, and the quaint old bridges. but we did not tarry long at lucerne. it was too cold. we took the steamer down the lake, though, cold as it was, for we had no idea of missing entirely the magnificent scenery which gives this body of water easy preëminence among the swiss lakes. we spent the night, bitter cold, at fluelen, then took the fastest train we could get for milan, only to meet there another disappointment in the matter of the weather. _november , ._ [sidenote: italy gives us little relief.] we had seen the ice floating in great blocks down the neckar at heidelberg, and had felt the stinging winds on the hills above the old castle; we had stamped our feet on the stone floors of the cathedral at strasburg to renew the circulation in our benumbed extremities while waiting for the crowing of the rooster and the marching of the puppets, and the striking of the bells on the famous clock; we had seen vast fields of snow covering the alps in every direction as we passed through switzerland, and had shivered in the searching cold as we steamed down lake lucerne, unable to tear ourselves from the glorious beauty that lay open to our view on every hand from the steamer's decks; we had caught the wintry glitter of gigantic icicles against the cliffs on either side as our train climbed the wild st. gothard pass--and, in short, we had had a surfeit of cold weather, and for days and weeks we had been sighing for sunny italy. imagine our disappointment, then, when we emerged from the alps and entered the land of balmy climate and blue skies (as most of us had always ignorantly thought it to be even in winter) to find the whole world still white around us, to run along the side of lake lugano and lake como in a whirling snow-storm, and to arrive at milan in a fog so thick that it looked like it could be cut into blocks, so opaque that at times we could not see the mighty cathedral from our hotel, though but little more than a block away, and so persistent that it did not lift during the whole of our stay. add to these conditions the slush in the streets and the penetrating quality of the damp, cold air, and our desire to push on at once to the farther south in search of more genial skies will not seem unnatural. and we might have done so, notwithstanding the attraction of the cathedral and of leonardo's picture of the "last supper" (which, however, we expected to see on our return to northern italy in the spring), had it not been for our anxiety to get a sight of the iron crown of lombardy at monza, a few miles north of milan. and see it we did, in spite of the weather, as i shall tell you more fully in a later letter. we ate our thanksgiving dinner at milan, visited again and again the white marble cathedral, whose delicate stone lace work was touched into marvellous and weird beauty by the snow clinging to its pinnacles and projections and statues, saw leonardo's picture, and the other principal sights, and then took the train for venice. chapter xxvii. venice, bologna, florence and pisa. _december , ._ though still cool, the weather was milder in venice, so we remained a week or so, yielding ourselves to the pensive charm of that-- "white phantom city, whose untrodden streets are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting shadows of palaces and strips of sky." [sidenote: the queen of the adriatic.] of the palaces that we visited, the one in which the poet browning lived, and in which his son now lives, is the best preserved, and illustrates better than any other the almost regal state in which the wealthy venetians lived in the day of their commercial supremacy. one of these old palaces on the grand canal is now used as a bank. some are used as warehouses, and others are put to still meaner uses. the doge's palace is, of course, the largest and finest, but it is more like a public building than a residence. next to this stands the chief architectural glory of venice, the gorgeous cathedral of st. mark, with its unequalled profusion of costly materials, and its ominously uneven stone floor, suggesting the painful possibility that it, too, may some day share the fate of the great campanile, which till last summer lifted its head three hundred and seventy-five feet in the air from the pavement of the square in front. we found the ruins of this graceful structure, up the winding incline of which napoleon bonaparte is said to have ridden his horse to the belfry, lying in a heap on the square surrounded by a temporary unpainted board fence. workmen within were making preparations for the erection of the new bell tower which is to take the place of the old one. on the first sunday after our arrival we heard the rev. dr. robertson, at the presbyterian church, make felicitous use of the fate of the old campanile in a sermon on the text, "other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is jesus christ." nowhere are foundations of more importance than in venice. the whole city is built upon piles. the rialto bridge, a great marble arch of a single span, rests upon twelve thousand of these piles, which are driven deep into the mud. the interior of the church of the jesuits made more impression upon us than any other venetian church except st. marks. it looks at first view like it was lined throughout with chintz, through which runs a green pattern; but on closer inspection you find that it is all white marble--the pulpit and its heavy curtains, the altar steps, the walls from floor to ceiling, are all of white marble, and the green pattern is nothing less than verd antique. some of our young people, who had already wearied of the miles of picture galleries in europe, manifested but little interest in the rich collection of art at venice, but i think that all brought away an indelible impression of titian's splendid "assumption of the virgin." they felt a much keener interest in the marvellous skill of the venetian glass-makers at murano. but their special delight was the gondolas. they soon had their favorites among the gondoliers, and, with marco and pedro propelling them, threaded the innumerable canals in every direction, visited the outlying islands, drifted hither and thither on the broad lagoons, and enjoyed the distant views of this strangely beautiful city, sometimes looming through the mist, at other times standing out sharp and clear against the red sky of a flaming sunset. [illustration: doge's palace, venice.] [sidenote: the greatest of the venetians.] nothing in all the strange history of venice interested us so much as the career of fra paolo sarpi, "the greatest of the venetians," as dr. alexander robertson well calls him in his striking biography of that illustrious thinker and man of action. an ecclesiastic whom gibbon calls "the incomparable historian of the council of trent"; a mathematician of whom galileo said, "no man in europe surpasses master paolo sarpi in his knowledge of the science of mathematics"; an anatomist whom acquapendente, the famous surgeon of padua, calls "the oracle of this century"; a metaphysician who, as lord macaulay says, anticipated "locke on the human understanding"; and a statesman who saved venice from the domination of the papacy--it is no wonder that dr. bedell, chaplain of the english ambassador to venice, should have said that he was "holden for a miracle in all manner of knowledge, divine and human." "as a statesman, the great republic of venice committed all its interests to his guidance, and he made its history, while he lived, an unbroken series of triumphs; in an age when the papacy lifted high its head, and rode roughshod over the rights of kings and peoples, he forced pope paul v., one of the haughtiest of rome's pontiffs, to his knees, and so shattered in his hands the weapon of interdict and excommunication that never again has it served the interest of a wearer of the tiara. constitutional government everywhere owes something to fra paolo; and modern italian history is the outcome and embodiment of the principles he laid down in his voluminous state papers. he was stronger than the papacy, for, in spite of the hatred, persecution and protest of pope and curia, he lived and died within the pale of the church, enjoying the esteem and affection of its clergy, performing all his priestly duties, and receiving, as the senate wrote in its circular announcing his death to the courts of europe, '_li santissimi sagramenti con ogni maggior pieta_.' and he was stronger than the republic, for immediately after his death it began to succumb to papal domination, and to totter to its fall." we visited the servite monastery, where he lived, the bridge where he was set upon and stabbed by the pope's hired assassins, and where his statue now stands, and the grave in the island cemetery of venice where his body rests at last after all the strange adventures and removals made necessary by the ghoulish malice of his foes. _december , ._ [sidenote: bologna, the fat.] the business activity of bologna is in sharp contrast with the stagnation and decay of venice. it is a brisk and handsome city, with well-paved streets, flanked by arcades like those along the rue de rivoli in paris. bologna has an unequalled number of these colonnades. they are so continuous, indeed, and afford such perfect protection from the sun in summer and the rain in winter, that it is more nearly possible to dispense with umbrellas here than in any other city in the world. the greatest of these covered ways is the portico which winds up the mountain just outside the city, by an easy gradation, to the costly church of the madonna di s. lucca, which, as its name indicates, possesses an image of the virgin said to have been the work of saint luke. there are no fewer than six hundred and thirty-five arches in this colonnade, and they command lovely views on either side, as one ascends; but the view from the church, at the top of the mountain, caps the climax, combining, as it does, alps, appennines, adriatic, plains and cities. it is from the arches of this long colonnade up the mountain that one gets the best impression of bologna's towers. they are very numerous, and many of them are out of the perpendicular. in fact, there are more leaning towers here than in any other city in the world. but, unlike "pisa's leaning miracle," these are not beautiful. they are imposing only in the grouping of a distant view, being nothing but quadrangular masses of ugly brown brick, with no ornaments, no windows, and indeed no known uses, the object for which they were erected being now an insoluble mystery. bologna has important manufactures of silk goods, velvet, crape, chemicals, paper, musical instruments, soap and sausages. we made full trial of the last two mentioned commodities, and found them excellent. but bologna, while vital and modern, is not lacking in the matter of antiquity and literary and historical interest. it boasts the oldest university in the world, founded in a. d. in the thirteenth century it had ten thousand students, and it still has over a thousand. in front of the university stands a statue of galvani, holding a tablet on which he is exhibiting the famous frog legs. but it is said that "his wife was the real discoverer of galvanism, having laid some frogs, which she was preparing for soup, beside a charged electrical machine; and it was she who observed the convulsion in the frogs which she touched with the scalpel, and communicated the discovery to her husband, who repeated the experiment at the university." _december , ._ [sidenote: the flower of fair cities.] florence! "city of fair flowers, and flower of fair cities!" second only to rome itself in variety and wealth of historical, artistic and literary interest, home of dante and boccacio, machiavelli and the medici, galileo and amerigo vespucci, savonarola and fra angelico, cimabue, giotto, brunelleschi, ghiberti, donatello, michelangelo and benvenuto cellini--what can one do in a letter like this but merely name them and pass on, hoping for a time of larger leisure to say at least a word concerning the most illustrious of them? in the uffizi gallery, which is "a complete exemplification of the progress and development of art," there is an octagonal room, called the tribune, which contains perhaps the richest aggregation of masterpieces in the world. sculpture is represented by the venus de medici, the young apollo, the wrestlers, the grinder, and the dancing faun; and painting by no less remarkable pictures. in addition to these, the things that stand out in one's memory in connection with florence are cellini's "perseus," ghiberti's "doors," michael angelo's "david" and his "lorenzo de medici," brunelleschi's "dome," and last, but not least, giotto's "tower," "the model and mirror of perfect architecture," of which john ruskin says: "the characteristics of power and beauty occur more or less in different buildings--some in one and some in another. but all together, all in their highest possible relative degrees, they exist, as far as i know, only in one building in the world--the campanile of giotto at florence." for the proper appreciation of almost any other great production of art some education in art is necessary, but any one can see the transcendant beauty of giotto's "tower." untutored as we are in these matters, we never wearied of looking at it. in the freshness of its undimmed splendor, there is nothing in florence to compare with the medici chapel. it is still unfinished, but has cost up to the present time three million five hundred thousand dollars. it is probably the most magnificent mausoleum in the world. "the walls are covered with costly marbles, inlaid with precious stones--a gorgeous mosaic of the richest material." [sidenote: the reformer before the reformation.] but, after all, the thing that lays deepest hold of us in florence is the story of savonarola, harbinger of the reformation and martyr for the truth. that little cell in the monastery of san marco, where he once lived, and where his manuscript sermons, his annotated books and his wooden crucifix are still shown; those fearful dungeons in the palazzo vecchio, where the greatest man of his age endured his forty days' imprisonment, and lay during the intervals of torture, and spent his last hours on earth; and the bustling piazza della signoria, which witnessed the triumphant tragedy of may , --florence has nothing else so impressive as these. we visit them with subdued hearts and reverent spirits. "on the nd of may, , it was announced to savonarola and his friends, domenico and maruffi, that they were to be executed by five the next morning; our heroic preacher was thoroughly resigned to his share of the doom, saying to domenico, 'knowest thou not it is not permitted to a man to choose the mode of his own death?' the three friends partook of the sacrament of the holy supper, administered by savonarola. he said, 'we shall soon be there, where we can sing with david, "behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!"' they were then taken to the tribunal, where they were divested of all their priestly decorations, during which the bishop took savonarola by the hand, saying, 'thus i exclude thee from the church militant and triumphant.' 'from the church militant thou mayest,' exclaimed savonarola, 'but from the church triumphant thou canst not; that does not belong to thee.'... the last that was beheld of him was his hand uplifted as if to bless the people; the last that was heard of him, 'my saviour, though innocent, willingly died for my sins, and should i not willingly give up this poor body out of love to him?' the cinders of the bodies of the martyred friars were carted away, and thrown into the river arno." but-- "the avon to the severn runs, the severn to the sea; and wycliffe's dust shall spread abroad, wide as the waters be." what the principles of wycliffe have done for england, the principles of savonarola may yet do for italy. at any rate, his work for italy is not done yet. _december , ._ [sidenote: pisa's four monuments.] the four chief objects of interest at pisa are all in a group at the northern end of the town, and a wonderfully effective group it is: the cloistered cemetery, or camp santo, with its fifty-five shiploads of earth from the holy land; the baptistery, with its remarkable echo; the cathedral, with the pendent lamp in the nave which suggested to galileo the idea of the pendulum; and that wonder of the world, the white marble tower, which leans thirteen feet out of the perpendicular. we all tried in vain to stand with heels and back to the inside of the north wall on the ground floor--it cannot be done; one falls forward at once. from the top there is a magnificent view of the city and the surrounding plain, of the mountains on the east and the sea on the west, of the city of leghorn and the island of elba. from the windows of our hotel at pisa we saw for the first time the red gold of ripe oranges shining amid their dark green leaves in the gardens, and rejoiced to think that at last we had reached a somewhat milder climate, and were now leaving rigorous winter behind us. the journey from pisa to rome is a long one, and the schedule was such that we did not arrive till late at night. from the car windows we had some impressive views of the mediterranean by moonlight, and of the solemn campagna, and, thus prepared, we crossed the tiber at midnight, and passed through the breach in the walls which has been made for the railway, feeling, perhaps even more deeply than is usual, the thrill with which all travellers except those who are utterly devoid of imagination first enter the eternal city. chapter xxviii. some little adventures by the way. _december , ._ [sidenote: conditions unfavorable to letter-writing abroad.] the margin of leisure left to a traveller in europe for the writing of letters is, after all, a very narrow one, as those of my readers who have been abroad will readily remember. one generally moves from place to place in such rapid succession that the feeling of being settled, which is essential to the most satisfactory writing, is almost unknown. then, when one does stop for a few days in a historic city, each day is so full of interest, and the golden opportunity to see its sights seems so fleeting, that one hesitates to take any part of such time for writing, to say nothing of the weariness and drowsiness of an evening that follows a day of sightseeing. add to this the amount of time required of one who acts as general director of the tour, and has to take account of all manner of business details, and the number of questions to be answered when there are three or four young people in the party who have read just enough general history to make their minds bristle with interrogations at every interesting place, and who have to be read to daily _en masse_ on the spot in order to improve the psychological moment of excited curiosity; add also the physician's injunction to take abundance of exercise in the open air, in order to the full recovery of health and the laying up of strength for future work, and his earnest counsel not to linger much at a writing desk or a study table--and it will be seen that if the continuity of this series of letters suffers an occasional break, it is but the natural result of the conditions of tourist life. [sidenote: an american baby in europe.] it may interest some of my younger readers to know that the member of our party who receives the most attention is a little blue-eyed girl, just two years old to-day, who is the most extraordinary traveller of her age that i ever saw or ever heard of, accepting all the irregularities, inconveniences and discomforts of this migratory mode of life with the serene indifference of a veteran. we naturally supposed that, being so young, she would give us more or less trouble on so long a journey, and this proved to be true on the cold and rough sea voyage, but, from the day that we landed on this side of the ocean, she has been a delight to our whole party, a maker of friends wherever we have gone, and an immensely interesting object to the populace of the cities through which we have passed. at leyden, in holland, as we passed along the streets, we were followed all over town by an admiring throng of dutch children, just out of school, to whom our baby's bright red coat and cap were no less interesting than their wooden shoes were to us; and so we found out how the elephants and monkeys and musicians and other people who make up the street parade of a circus may be supposed to feel when they pass through a town followed by the motley gang of school boys, ragamuffins, and general miscellanies of humanity. [sidenote: something new in venice.] at wiesbaden, in germany, we bought one of those odd little german baby carts with two wheels and two handles, like plow handles, between which the person who pushes it walks, the baby really riding backwards, instead of forwards, as in our american baby carriages. you will see from this description that german baby carriages are like the german language--all turned the wrong way, though it must be said for this arrangement that the baby is not so likely to be lonesome as when riding face forward, since she always has some one to look at. well, at venice, which is almost a dead town now, so far as business is concerned, and which has perhaps as large a leisure class--that is, street loafers--as any city of equal size on this terraqueous planet, a lady of our party essayed to take the baby out for an airing in her german cart. it would appear that it was the first time since the foundation of that pile-driven city in the sea that a pair of wheels was ever seen on her streets. at any rate, from the moment that the lady and the baby and the cart emerged from the hotel door they were attended by an ever-increasing throng of unwashed venetians, whose interest could not have been keener had santos dumont's air-ship or a japanese jinriksha suddenly appeared in their gondola-ridden town, and who commented in shrill italian on this wheeled apparition. the lady is not easily beaten when she decides to do anything, but, after standing that for half a block or so, she made a hasty retreat to the hotel, and wheels disappeared, probably forever, from the streets of venice. [sidenote: gondolas and gondoliers.] although venice, with its population of one hundred and sixty-three thousand, is seven miles in circumference, and is divided by one hundred and forty-six canals into one hundred and seventeen islands, yet these are so joined together by means of four hundred bridges that it is possible to walk all over the city. but the bridges are built in steps, and cannot be used by wheeled vehicles. there are no horses or carriages of any kind. the funereal-looking gondola, always painted black, is the only conveyance upon these streets of water, and does duty for cab, omnibus, wagon, cart, wheelbarrow and hearse. it is used for pleasure riding, shopping, church-going, theatre-going, visiting, carrying prisoners to jail, carrying the dead to the cemetery--in short, for everything. in propelling this black but graceful and easy-going boat, the gondolier does not sit. he stands, on a sort of deck platform towards the stern, and to balance his weight there is affixed to the prow a heavy piece of shining steel, which rears itself at the front almost like a figure-head, only this is always of the same pattern, simply a broad, upright blade of steel, notched deeply on the front edge. the gondolier does not pull the oar, he pushes it--there is only one oar--and he does not change it from side to side, as in paddling a canoe, but makes all the strokes on one side, a thing that looks very easy, but is in fact extremely difficult. the dexterity of these men with their long single oar is wonderful. they glide in and out among scores of gondolas on the crowded canals without collision or jerking, and they turn a corner within an inch. [sidenote: baggage smashing in europe.] these remarks upon the skill of the gondoliers, and the ease and safety of the gondolas, remind me, by contrast, of the destructive bungling of a porter in cologne, who undertook to cart a load of trunks and handbags and shawl-straps down from our hotel to the rhine steamer, and who, in turning a corner on a down grade, made the turn too short, and hurled the whole lot of our belongings into the muddy street with such violence that many of them were defaced, some permanently damaged, and one valise broken to pieces and utterly ruined. that german baby carriage had an exciting adventure also on the night of our arrival in rome. as usual, it was made the apex of the pyramid of trunks and grip-sacks which constitute our sign manual, so to speak, on the top of every omnibus that takes us from the station to the hotel; but in this instance it was carelessly left untied, so that as we went steeply down one of the seven hills of rome, the cart tumbled from its high perch to the stone-paved street, snapping off one of the handles, and suffering sundry other shattering experiences. a few days after we had the pleasure of paying a fraudulent cabinetmaker more for repairing it than it cost in the first instance. the italian workmen and shopkeepers uniformly charge you more than their work and goods are worth. i think i have had more counterfeit money passed on me in the short time i have been in italy than i have had in all the rest of my life before, and the very first swindle of this kind to which i was subjected was in a church, when the sacristan gave me a counterfeit two-franc piece in change as i paid the admission fees to see certain paintings and sculptures behind the high altar. however, i am wandering from my subject; i may conclude my eulogy on the baby above mentioned by saying that, young as she is, she sits through the seventy or eighty minutes of the customary tedious european dinner almost as circumspectly as a graven image might, but reminding us of one of raphael's cherubs in her blue-eyed combination of sweetness, archness and dignity. next time we will resume our account of matters of more general interest. chapter xxix. relics in general, and the iron crown of lombardy in particular. rome, _december , _. i had heard of relics before. years ago i had read mark twain's account of the large piece of the true cross which he had seen in a church in the azores; and of another piece which he had seen in the cathedral of notre dame in paris, besides some nails of the true cross and a part of the crown of thorns; and of the marble chest in the cathedral of san lorenzo at genoa, which he was told contained the ashes of st. john, and was wound about with the chain that had confined st. john when he was in prison; and of the interesting collection shown him in the cathedral of milan, including two of st. paul's fingers and one of st. peter's, a bone of judas iscariot (black, not white), and also bones of all the other disciples (presumably of the normal color), a handkerchief in which the saviour had left the impression of his face, part of the crown of thorns, a fragment of the purple robe worn by christ, a picture of the virgin and child painted by st. luke, and a nail from the cross--adding in another place that he thought he had seen in all not less than a keg of these nails. but i had hardly taken mark twain seriously in these statements, not knowing at the time that his _innocents abroad_ was, notwithstanding its broad humor, really one of the best guide-books to europe that was ever written. [sidenote: the palladium of venice.] i had read repeatedly the story of the bringing of st. mark's bones from alexandria, in egypt, to their present resting-place in st. mark's cathedral at venice--a story which is related as follows in that same lively volume: "st. mark died at alexandria, in egypt. he was martyred, i think. however, that has nothing to do with my legend. about the founding of the city of venice--say four hundred and fifty years after christ--(for venice is much younger than any other italian city), a priest dreamed that an angel told him that until the remains of st. mark were brought to venice, the city could never rise to high distinction among the nations; that the body must be captured, brought to the city, and a magnificent church built over it; and that if ever the venetians allowed the saint to be removed from his new resting-place, in that day venice would perish from off the face of the earth. the priest proclaimed his dream, and forthwith venice set about procuring the corpse of st. mark. one expedition after another tried and failed, but the project was never abandoned during four hundred years. at last it was secured by stratagem, in the year eight hundred and something. the commander of the venetian expedition disguised himself, stole the bones, separated them, and packed them in vessels filled with lard. the religion of mahomet causes its devotees to abhor anything in the nature of pork, and so when the christian was stopped at the gate of the city, they only glanced once into the precious baskets, then turned up their noses at the unholy lard, and let him go. the bones were buried in the vaults of the grand cathedral, which had been waiting long years to receive them, and thus the safety and the greatness of venice were secured. and to this day there be those in venice who believe that if those holy ashes were stolen away, the ancient city would vanish like a dream, and its foundation be buried forever in the unremembering sea." [sidenote: the gift of leo xiii. to london.] more recently i had read of what has been well called the burlesque enacted at arundel castle no longer ago than in july, , in which the duke of norfolk, cardinal vaughan, and many lesser ornaments and dignitaries of the romish church, took part. "pope leo xiii., in order to show his 'good-will to england,' sent from rome the remains of st. edmund to garnish the new roman catholic cathedral at westminster. it was an appropriate gift, for such buildings are usually garnished with 'dead men's bones and all uncleanness.' but as the cathedral is not yet finished, as a further token of good-will, the relics were committed to the care of no less a personage than the earl marshal of england. they arrived at arundel on the evening of july th, and were placed for the night in fitzalen chapel. the next morning the whole castle was astir betimes, for the great event of the day, the transference of the bones to the castle chapel, was to take place. this was accomplished in a solemn and befitting manner. a procession was formed, and, to the measured tread of the earl marshal of england, cardinal vaughan, several archbishops and bishops, and a mixed company of priests and acolytes and a numerous train of household servants and dependents, carrying banners, crosses, crucifixes, censers, lamps, candles, torches, and other ecclesiastical stage paraphernalia, the remains of st. edmund were borne to their resting-place. all went off well, and at last the curtain fell on the finished play, to the satisfaction of every one. unfortunately, however, the pope and all concerned had to reckon with english common-sense and with english love of truth, and it was not very long before it was proved to the world that the bones, like most relics of the kind, were counterfeit--whoever else's bones they were, they were not those of st. edmund."[ ] [sidenote: the blood of st. januarius.] i had read with cordial approval mark twain's animadversions upon the fraud which is regularly practiced on the people of naples by the priests in the cathedral: "in this city of naples they believe in and support one of the wretchedest of all religious impostures one can find in italy--the miraculous liquefaction of the blood of st. januarius. twice a year the priests assemble all the people at the cathedral, and get out this phial of clotted blood, and let them see it slowly dissolve and become liquid; and every day for eight days this dismal farce is repeated, while the priests go among the crowd and collect money for the exhibition. the first day the blood liquefies in forty-seven minutes--the church is full then, and time must be allowed the collectors to get around; after a while it liquefies a little quicker and a little quicker every day, as the houses grow smaller, till on the eighth day, with only a few dozen present to see the miracle, it liquefies in four minutes.[ ] "and here, also, they used to have a grand procession of priests, citizens, soldiers, sailors, and the high dignitaries of the city government, once a year, to shave the head of a made-up madonna--a stuffed and painted image, like the milliner's dummy--whose hair miraculously grew and restored itself every twelve months. they still kept up this shaving procession as late as four or five years ago. it was a source of great profit to the church that possessed the remarkable effigy, and the public barbering of her was always carried out with the greatest _éclat_ and display--the more the better, because the more excitement there was about it the larger the crowds it drew and the heavier the revenues it produced--but at last the day came when the pope and his servants were unpopular in naples, and the city government stopped the madonna's annual show. "there we have two specimens of these neapolitans--two of the silliest possible frauds, which half the population religiously and faithfully believed, and the other half either believed or else said nothing about, and thus lent themselves to the support of the imposture." [sidenote: the house of the virgin at loretto.] i had read the story of the _casa santa_, or holy house, the little stone building, thirteen and one-half feet high and twenty-eight feet long, in which the virgin mary had lived at nazareth. in the empress helena, mother of constantine the great, made a pilgrimage to nazareth and built a church over the holy house. this church fell into decay when the saracens again got the upper hand in palestine, and when the christians lost ptolemais the holy house was carried by angels through the air from nazareth to the coast of dalmatia. this miraculous transportation took place in . a few years later it was again removed by angels during the night, and set down in the province of ancona, near the eastern coast of italy, on the ground of a widow named _laureta_. hence the name, _loretto_, given to the town which sprang up around it for the accommodation of the thousands of pilgrims who flocked thither, and which is now a place of some six thousand inhabitants, whose principal business is begging and the sale of rosaries, medals and images. in a niche inside the casa santa is a small black image of the virgin and child, of cedar, attributed, of course, to st. luke. we did not visit loretto, but at bologna we had the satisfaction of seeing a _fac-simile_ of the casa santa, with its little window and fireplace, and the replica of st. luke's handi-work in the niche above. a large number of women, some of them handsomely dressed, were saying their prayers and counting their beads before the altar that had been erected in front of these images and the holy house, and a few were kneeling in the narrow space behind the altar, close to the fireplace of the house. as we passed, one of these women, in plainer garb, interrupted her devotions long enough to hold out her hand to us, begging for pennies, but without rising from her knees. there was nothing unusual about this, except that this beggar made her appeal to us while actually on her knees to the image of the virgin, for nothing is more common in italy than for visitors to a roman catholic church to pass through such "an avenue of palms" when leaving it. [sidenote: the wonder-working bones of st. anne in canada.] i had even seen a few relics, not mere reproductions like that of the casa santa at bologna, but the relics themselves. for instance, three summers ago, when in quebec, i had made a special trip to the church of st. anne beaupre, some twenty miles below the city, for the purpose of seeing the wonder-working relics of st. anne, the alleged mother of the virgin mary--a bit of her finger bone and a bit of her wrist bone--which are devoutly kissed and adored by thousands of pilgrims to this magnificent church from all the french and irish portions of canada, and which are said to have wrought miraculous cures of all manner of maladies, cures which are attested by two immense stacks of canes, crutches, wooden legs, and the like, which rise from the floor almost to the roof on either side of the entrance. in the store in another part of the church i had got a clue to it all by seeing the poor pilgrims buying all sorts of cheap, tawdry, worthless little images and pictures, and especially little vials of oil of remarkable curative virtue because it had stood for a while before the image of st. anne, and for which they paid probably five times as much as the oil had cost the priests who were selling it. [sidenote: the iron crown of lombardy.] these, then, are potent bones and images and oils, but by far the most interesting relic i had seen before reaching rome itself was the iron crown of lombardy, at monza, a little town in northern italy. this is the place where the good king humbert was assassinated on the th of july, , and it is not without interest for other reasons. for instance, it has a cathedral built of black and white marble in horizontal stripes, and containing, besides the tomb of queen theodolinda and other interesting objects in the nave and its chapels, a great number of costly articles of gold and silver, set with precious stones, in the treasury, as well as various relics, such as some of the baskets carried by the apostles, a piece of the virgin mary's veil, and one of john the baptist's teeth. but we should never have made a special trip to monza in such weather as we were having at the time of our visit, last november, had it not been for our intense desire to see its chief treasure, the iron crown, the most sacred and most celebrated diadem in the world, a relic possessing real historical interest, not because of any probability whatever in the story of its origin, but because of the extraordinary uses and associations of it within the last thousand years. [sidenote: a winter trip to monza.] so, regardless of the wet, cold, foggy weather that we found in milan, and the rivers of mud and slush that were then doing duty for streets, and the splotches of snow that lay here and there in the forlorn-looking olive orchards, we took the electric tram, which was comfortably heated, and ran out to monza, a distance of some ten miles. when we stepped into the chilly cathedral and looked about us, we could not at first see anybody to show us around, though there were a good many poor people saying their prayers there. evidently the custodians were not expecting tourists at such a season and in such weather. but presently, in an apartment to the left, we found a number of the priests warming their hands over a dish of twig coals covered with a light layer of white ashes, which they kindly stirred a little to make them give forth more heat as they saw us stretch our cold hands also towards the grateful warmth. [sidenote: the treasury of the cathedral.] when we asked if we could see the iron crown, they said we could; but instead of going at once to the chapel in which it is kept, they got a great bag of keys, large keys, thirty-seven in number, as the observant statistician of our party ascertained, and led us into the treasury and unlocked a great number of doors (one of which had seven locks), and showed us the costly objects and precious relics above mentioned. we were only mildly interested in these--even in the apostolic baskets, the virgin's veil, and john the baptist's tooth--partly because we were so cold and partly because of our greater interest in the more famous relic which we had come especially to see. [sidenote: the chapel of the great relic.] at last one of the priests, attended by an acolyte, took up a censer, placed a little incense on the coals with a teaspoon, and, swinging it in his hand by the chain, led us back into the cathedral, turned to a chapel on the left, unlocked an iron gate in a tall railing which separated this chapel from the body of the building, closed the gate again when our party had come inside, and, while a dozen or so of the people who had been at their devotions crowded up to the railing and peered curiously through, he and his attendant began to kneel repeatedly before the altar and to swing the smoking censer on every side. above the altar was a strong, square steel box, over which, in plain view, was suspended a _fac-simile_ of the iron crown, made of cheaper materials, while the real crown was still concealed within the steel safe. [sidenote: the great relic itself.] handing the censer to his attendant, that it might be kept swinging without intermission, the priest produced another series of keys and proceeded to unlock a succession of small doors in the side of the metal safe, which proved to be a "nest" of caskets, one within another, the last of which was a glass case. drawing this out, he brought into full view the venerated crown of the lombard kings, and told us to step up on the stool by the altar so as to see it better. it is made of six plates of gold, joined end to end, richly chased, and set with splendid jewels. but one would see at a glance that neither the material, nor the workmanship, nor the gems, could account for the unique reverence with which it has been regarded for centuries, and an indication of which we had just seen in the service conducted by the priest. among the regalia in the tower of london, and at several other places in europe, we had seen crowns which far surpassed this one in costliness and beauty, but none of which, nor all of which combined, had ever excited a thousandth part of the interest attaching to this old crown in monza. [sidenote: why the crown is so sacred.] the explanation is this: within that ring of jointed plates of gold runs a thin band of iron, which priestly tradition says was made of one of the spikes that fastened the feet of our lord jesus christ to the cross. it was this band of iron that we tiptoed to see, hardly noticing the bejewelled rim of gold around it. it was on account of this band of iron that the priest and his attendant swung their censer and performed their ceremony as we entered. it was this band of iron that gave to the crown its sacred place above the altar. it was for the safe keeping of this band of iron that the steel case, with its numerous locks, was made. it was from this band of iron that the diadem received its name, the iron crown of lombardy. [sidenote: how it was used by charlemagne and napoleon.] and what were the historical uses of it, referred to above, which made it so much more interesting to us than the many other so-called nails of the true cross elsewhere? well, this among others: on the last christmas day of the eighth century, while charlemagne was kneeling with uncovered head before the high altar of st. peter's in rome, the pope approached him from behind, and, placing the iron crown of lombardy on his head, hailed him as emperor of the holy roman empire. a thousand years later on the th of may, , napoleon bonaparte, "watched by an apparently invincible army which adored him and a world which feared him," standing in the vast marble cathedral at milan, with fifteen thousand of his soldiers around him, lifted this same iron crown of lombardy into their view, and placed it upon his brow, saying, "god has given it to me, let him touch it who dares!" [sidenote: high reflections and hard cash.] that men who, like charlemagne and napoleon, had reached the highest pinnacle of human power, should seek to enhance their influence by crowning their heads with one of the nails which, as their followers believed, had pierced the galilean's foot, is a richly suggestive fact. but we must keep our tempted thoughts to another and less edifying line at present. when we had examined all the parts of the famous crown to our satisfaction, we stepped to the desk in the ante-room and paid our five francs (one dollar), the regular price for the exhibition of the iron crown, then left the cathedral, bought one or two post-card pictures of the crown, and took the tram through the dreary weather back to milan, well pleased with the results of our first pilgrimage to the shrine of a real roman catholic relic in italy. [sidenote: rome caps the climax.] but on our arrival at rome, a month later, we found that, interesting as were the relics which we had seen or read of elsewhere, they were nothing to those in the eternal city itself. in this, as in everything else except such little matters as cleanliness and morality and truthfulness and honesty, rome outvies all her rivals. it is only fair to add, however, that, since the overthrow of the papal sovereignty and the establishment of a capable government, rome has improved immensely in the matter of cleanliness, and even her immorality is not so flaunting as it was. this is attested by the hon. guiseppe zanardelli, the present premier of italy, who says: "the church appears better than it once was. i no longer see in rome what i used often to see in my young days, ladies driving about its streets with their coachmen and footmen in the liveries of their respective cardinals. has this improvement come about because the church is really growing better? nothing of the kind. it is because the strong arm of the law checks the villainy of the priests." that is the testimony of the prime minister of italy. * * * * * [sidenote: do american roman catholics believe in the relics?] a few weeks after my return from italy, while driving one afternoon with a friend of mine, a lawyer of high intelligence and wide information, our conversation turned to the subject of the recent death of pope leo xiii., and from that drifted to the alleged liquefaction of the blood of st. januarius, and from that to relics in general. i mentioned some of the facts above stated concerning the numerous pieces of the true cross and the miracle-working bones and oils to be seen in roman catholic churches in europe. "but," he said, "surely the roman catholics in america do not believe in such mediæval superstitions." i happened to have in hand a couple of copies of a daily newspaper, published in one of our southern towns, dated august , , and august , , respectively, containing extracts from the letters of a roman catholic bishop, the highest dignitary of his church in that state; and, for answer to my friend's remark, i cited the following passage from the bishop's letter of july th, written from munich, concerning the abbey church of scheyern: "the chapel of the holy cross is specially sacred, as within is preserved a very large piece of the true cross upon which christ was crucified, brought to scheyern in by count conrad, the crusader, who afterwards entered the monastery as lay-brother, and lies buried near the altar upon which the sacred relic is preserved." also the following passage from his letter of july th, written from eichstadt: "i remained the guest of prince ahrenberg for the night, and early in the morning, accompanied by some benedictine students, i made a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. walburg. above the altar is the large silver receptacle into which flows the miraculous oil from her sacred relics, which is known the world over." [sidenote: what america needs is some relics.] writing from vienna, july , , concerning the imperial palaces, he says, "they are awfully big and grand, and cost a lot of good people's money," but adds that "the pride and glory of vienna" is the cathedral, and then exclaims: "how often have i wished we could have some such church in ----, so that our good people who cannot visit the achievements of catholic life in europe could form some idea of the greatness of the religion of their fathers!" one hesitates to differ from so good an authority on such matters as this bishop, but really would he not agree, on reflection, that what this benighted and decaying country of ours needs to bring it up to a level with italy and austria and spain is not a big church, but some relics? would not some miraculous oil, or some wonder-working bones, or a piece of the true cross, or one of the nails, if placed on exhibition here attract far more attention than a big church, and enable "our good people who cannot visit the achievements of catholic life in europe" to form a much better "idea of the greatness of the religion of their fathers"? does it not seem strange that so many hundreds of these relics should be kept in those enlightened and happy countries like italy, where "the achievements of catholic life" are so well known, and where mother church has for centuries had full sway, and that none of them should be brought to these benighted protestant regions, where they could effect such a salutary change in the faith of the people? but, seriously, as i added to my friend in the conversation referred to, i have a better opinion of the intelligence of our good roman catholic people in america than to believe that they put the slightest credence in these childish superstitions. whatever the bishop above quoted may believe, i am confident that the intelligent roman catholic people of our country have no more faith in many of these alleged relics than we have. footnotes: [ ] _the roman catholic church in italy_, alexander robertson, pp. , . [ ] in july of this year, , while the roman catholic world was greatly exercised over the grave illness of the late pope, leo xiii., the associated press dispatches from naples reported that the blood of st. januarius had miraculously liquefied at that unusual time in token that the prayers offered for the pope's recovery had been answered. the archbishop of naples has up to the present time vouchsafed no explanation of the fact that the pope died a few days later, notwithstanding this miraculous assurance that he would recover. chapter xxx. roman catholic relics at rome. we reached rome at a good time for seeing relics, as the special services of the christmas season were just beginning. one of the most splendid of these ceremonies is the procession in honor of the _santa culla_; that is, the cradle in which the priestly tradition says the infant jesus was carried into egypt. this is the great relic and chief distinction of the church of santa maria maggiore, though it contains a number of others, such as the bodies of st. matthew and st. jerome, and two little bags of the brains of thomas á becket, and "one of the pictures attributed to st. luke (and announced to be such in a papal bull attached to the walls!), much revered for the belief that it stayed the plague which decimated the city during the reign of pelagius ii., and that (after its intercession had been sought by a procession by order of innocent viii.) it brought about the overthrow of the moorish dominion in spain." [sidenote: the miraculous snow in summertime.] moreover, this church of santa maria maggiore is by no means lacking in legendary and architectural interest. it was founded a. d. , by pope liberius and john, a roman patrician, to commemorate an alleged miraculous fall of snow, which covered this spot of ground and no other, on the th of august, and an alleged appearance of the virgin mary, in a vision, at the same time, showing them that she had thus appropriated the site of a new temple, all of which is duly represented in a fine painting on the wall of the church, and in two of murillo's most beautiful pictures in the academy at madrid, and commemorated every year on the th of august by a solemn high mass, and by showers of white rose leaves thrown down constantly through two holes in the ceiling, "like a leafy mist between the priests and the worshippers." [sidenote: a splendid church.] the worshippers of the virgin have not been lacking in their efforts to erect a suitably sumptuous building on the site of this "miracle." the magnificent nave, with its avenue of forty-two columns of greek marble, surmounted by a frieze of mosaic pictures; the glorious pavement of _opus alexandrinum_, whose "crimson and violet hues temper the white and gold of the walls"; the grand _baldacchino_, with its four porphyry columns wreathed with gilt leaves; and the splendid tomb chamber of pius ix. (predecessor of the late pope leo xiii.), with its riot of rich marbles and alabaster, in front of the high altar--to say nothing of the almost incredibly costly chapels opening into the nave--combine to give s. maria maggiore a proud place among the very finest of the fine basilicas of rome. [sidenote: a dazzling scene.] but not all the splendors of the building, nor all the fascination of its "miracles" and legends, nor all the spell of its other relics, can equal the interest attaching to the "santa culla," the holy cradle. on the afternoon of christmas day, we walked through the wet streets to the front of the church, pushed back the heavy, dirty screen of padded canvas, such as hangs at the door of every great church in italy, however fine, and, stepping within, found ourselves in the midst of a scene of the most dazzling splendor. the building was brilliantly illuminated with hundreds of electric lights and huge candles, which were sharply reflected by the glistening marbles on every hand; the air was heavy with clouds of incense, through the blue smoke of which the lofty ceiling looked higher than ever, and the organ and choir were pouring forth the richest music, while a dense crowd of people, many thousands, all standing, watched with eager interest a small, crate-like object, made of slats of dark wood, which rested on the high altar, enclosed in a glass case, with a gold baby on top and gold ornaments round about. [sidenote: the holy cradle.] we pushed our way through the crowd, so as to get a satisfactory view of it while the service was in progress--the genuflections, the robing and disrobing of the archbishop, the chanting, and the rest--after which six men, dressed in pure white from head to foot (white gloves included), except for a red circle and cross on the breast, knelt before the cradle, then lifted it from the altar, with its gold and glass setting, and placing it on a kind of litter on their shoulders, under a gilt and white canopy borne by other attendants, marched with it thus, in procession around the church, along with a large crucifix under another canopy, and followed by a long line of cardinals, bishops, priests and acolytes, carrying it back finally to its place in the sacristy, where it will remain till next christmas day. [sidenote: the christ of rome a babe or a corpse.] we squeezed our way through the great crowd at the door, and walked back to our hotel, wondering to what extent the usual roman catholic conception of christ had deprived that organization of real spiritual energy; for, almost invariably, roman catholic art represents him either as a dead christ on the cross, or a babe in his mother's arms, and hardly ever as the risen and glorified lord, the conqueror of death, the leader of his people, to whom all power is given in heaven and on earth--the more usual protestant conception. and we asked ourselves whether this difference did not help to explain the greater hopefulness, vigor and growth of protestant christianity in these strenuous latter days. [sidenote: the little doll that owns a large carriage.] but we were soon to learn that the roman catholics did not think of the infant christ as lacking in power of a certain sort; on the contrary they ascribe miraculous agency even to an image of the divine babe. on the afternoon of december th, as two of our party were returning to our hotel, they passed at the foot of the capitoline hill a carriage, out of the window of which hung a ribbon or sash of cloth of gold, and they were not a little astonished to observe that, as this carriage rolled along, people knelt reverently before it on the street. inside they saw two bareheaded men holding a child on a pillow with a wealth of lace about it. they thought perhaps it was the royal carriage with the baby princess, but they could not imagine why _men_ should be nursing the baby, as that is usually the employment of women, nor why the people should kneel so reverently before the young princess, a thing which they never did even for the king himself. the fact is that, as they learned on the following afternoon when visiting the church of ara coeli, on the capitoline hill, the carriage in question belonged to a far more important personage in rome than any princess, though that personage was not even a living baby, but only a doll. it was the coach of the famous bambino--_il santissimo bambino_--which with its dress of gold and silver tissue and its magnificent diamonds, emeralds and rubies, is the chief attraction of this church. [illustration: the bambino.] [sidenote: the wealth and power of the miraculous bambino.] dr. alexander robertson, in his book on _the roman catholic church in italy_, says: "the bambino is a doll about three feet high, and it stands on a cushion in a glass case. it is clad in rich robes with a crown on its head, a regal order across its breast, and embroidered slippers on its feet. from head to foot it is one mass of dazzling jewelry, gold chains, strings of pearls, and diamond bracelets and rings, which not only cover the neck, arms and fingers, but are suspended, intermixed with crosses, stars, hearts, monograms, and every kind of precious stone, to all parts of its body. the only part unweighted with gems is its round, priest-like, wax face. but all this display of wealth, great in itself, is really only suggestive of that untold quantity which it has brought, and is still daily bringing, into the coffers of the church. people are continually kneeling before this dumb idol, offering petitions and leaving gifts, whilst letters containing requests, accompanied with post-office orders and checks to pay for the granting of the same, arrive by post for it from various parts of the globe." hare's _walks in rome_ gives the following account of the bambino and one of its most remarkable experiences: "it has servants of its own, and a carriage in which it drives out with its attendants, and goes to visit the sick; for, though an infant, it is the oldest medical practitioner in rome. devout peasants always kneel as the blessed infant passes. formerly it was taken to sick persons and left on their beds for some hours, in the hope that it would work a miracle. now it is never left alone. in explanation of this, it is said that an audacious woman formed the design of appropriating to herself the holy image and its benefits. she had another doll prepared of the same size and appearance as the santissimo, and having feigned sickness and obtained permission to have it left with her, she dressed the false image in its clothes, and sent it back to ara coeli. the fraud was not discovered till night, when the franciscan monks were awakened by the most furious ringing of bells and by thundering knocks at the west door of the church, and hastening thither, could see nothing but a wee naked pink foot peeping in from under the door; but when they opened the door, without stood the little naked figure of the true bambino of ara coeli, shivering in the wind and rain--so the false baby was sent back in disgrace, and the real baby restored to its home, never to be trusted away alone any more." [sidenote: the communion table used by christ.] but if i dwell on all these interesting relics and images as i have done on the holy cradle and the miraculous bambino, i shall never finish even the brief list of them which i had in mind when i began. i must hasten on, contenting myself with a bare mention of a few of the more notable relics at the other churches. on the th of january we paid our first visit to the great church of st. john lateran,[ ] and here also the relics interested us more than anything else. under the canopy in the centre the skulls of st. peter and st. paul are preserved. beneath the altar we saw the wooden table on which the apostle peter is said to have "celebrated mass" in the house of pudens. the interest of this relic, however, is completely eclipsed by that of another relic over an altar at a little distance in the same church, viz: the cedar table used by our lord and his disciples in the last supper. this table is concealed behind a bronze relief representing that solemn scene in the upper room at jerusalem. [sidenote: other relics at st. john lateran.] "the basilica claims to possess many valuable relics. amongst these are some portions of the manger in which christ was cradled, the shirt and seamless coat made for him by the virgin; some of the barley loaves and small fishes miraculously multiplied to feed the five thousand; the linen cloth with which he dried the feet of his apostles; also aaron's rod, the rod with which moses smote the red sea," etc., etc. (_cook's southern italy_, p. .) we did not see these, but in the cloister behind this church we were shown a marble slab on pillars which was once an altar, "at which the officiating priest doubted of the real presence, when the wafer fell from his hand through the stone, leaving a round hole, which still remains." here, too, we were shown a larger slab resting on pillars, more than six feet from the ground, which marks the height of our saviour; also a porphyry slab, upon which the soldiers cast lots for his seamless robe; and some columns from pilate's house in jerusalem, which were rent by the earthquake of the crucifixion. [illustration: the scala santa, rome.] [sidenote: the holy stairs from pilate's palace.] but the great relic of pilate's house, and one of the most interesting of all the relics in rome, is across the street from st. john lateran, viz., the world-renowned _scala santa_, or holy stairway, a flight of twenty-eight marble steps, once ascended by our saviour in the palace of pilate, and brought from jerusalem to rome in by the empress helena, mother of constantine the great. they are covered with a wooden casing, but holes have been left through which the marble steps can be seen. two of them are stained with the saviour's blood. these spots are covered with glass. the light was rather dim, and as we entered a gentleman struck a match and held it over one of these glass-covered stains to show it to his little girl, so that, passing just at that moment, we also had a good view. [sidenote: the man who crawled up and walked down.] no foot is allowed to touch the _scala santa_; it must be ascended on the knees. a number of people were going up in this way when we entered, pausing on each step to repeat a prayer, for which indulgences are granted by the pope. there are stairways on each side, by which those who have thus crawled up may walk down. the only man i know of that ever walked down the holy stairs themselves, and the most illustrious man that ever crawled up them on his knees, was martin luther. when he had mounted slowly half way up, step by step on his knees, he seemed to hear a voice saying, "the just shall live by faith." martin luther rose from his knees, walked down the staircase, and left the place a free man so far as this superstition was concerned, and shortly afterwards became the most formidable foe that ever assailed the falsehood and corruption of the romish church. [sidenote: the miraculous portrait and the shoes of christ.] at the top of the scala santa we saw through a grating the beautiful silver tabernacle containing the great relic which has given to this chapel the name of _sancta sanctorum_, viz.: the portrait of christ, held by the romish church to be authentic, having been drawn in outline by st. luke and finished by an angel, whence its name "acheiropoëton," _i. e._, the picture made without hands. the relic chamber here contains fragments of the true cross, the sandals of christ, and "the iron bar of hades which he brought away with him from that doleful region,"[ ] but we did not see these. [sidenote: the inscription on the cross, and the finger of thomas.] a short walk beyond the scala santa and the lateran brings us to the church of s. croce in gerusalemme, which is specially rich in relics. here our party was shown a piece of the true cross of christ and the original plank bearing the inscription, "_jesus, nazarene king_," in hebrew, greek and latin, which was placed over his head; also one of the nails used in his crucifixion, and two of the thorns of his crown; besides a large piece of the cross of the penitent thief who was executed with him; and, most interesting of all in some respects, the finger used by thomas to resolve his doubts as to the resurrection of christ (john xx. - ). [sidenote: a bottle of the blood of christ.] in percy's _romanism_ it is said that "the list of relics on the right of the apsis of s. croce includes the finger of s. thomas, apostle, with which he touched the most holy side of our lord jesus christ; one of the pieces of money with which the jews paid the treachery of judas; great part of the veil and of the hair of the most blessed virgin; a mass of cinders and charcoal united in the form of a loaf, with the fat of s. lawrence, martyr; one bottle of the most precious blood of our lord jesus christ; another of the milk of the most blessed virgin; a little piece of the stone where christ was born; a little piece of the stone where our lord sat when he pardoned mary magdalene; of the stone where our lord wrote the law given to moses on mount sinai; of the stone where reposed ss. peter and paul; of the cotton which collected the blood of christ; of the manna which fed the israelites; of the rod of aaron which flourished in the desert; of the relics of the eleven prophets!"[ ] but our party saw none of these except the finger of thomas. it is to be hoped that the others have been withdrawn from exhibition, for surely superstition and vulgarity can no further go. i fear, however, that those who are willing to pay enough can still see "one bottle of the most precious blood of our lord jesus christ," and "another of the milk of the most blessed virgin"! there is also "_una ampulla lactis beatae mariae virginis_" among the many relics to be seen in the church of ss. cosmo and damiano, near the forum. [sidenote: no women admitted.] it is a curious illustration of romish wrong-headedness that women are never allowed to enter the chapel of st. helena, in the church of s. croce, except on the festival of the saint, august th, notwithstanding the fact that st. helena herself was a woman, and that the church owes its existence to her and is also indebted to her for the piece of the true cross which it boasts, and which has given it its name. so while men are permitted to go inside the chapel of st. helena, women are stopped at the entrance and only allowed to peer through the railing. the same degrading discrimination is made in the church of s. prassede (who also was a woman) as to entering the splendid chapel, orto del paradiso, which contains the column of blood jasper to which christ was bound, and which was "given by the saracens to giovanni colonna, cardinal of this church, and legate of the crusade, because when he had fallen into their hands and was about to be put to death, he was rescued by a marvellous intervention of celestial light." females are never allowed to enter this chapel except upon sundays in lent, but are permitted to look at the relic through a grating.[ ] [sidenote: four other stones of great interest.] the mention of this column reminds me of the two columns in the church of s. maria transpontina, on the other side of the tiber, near st. peter's, which bear inscriptions stating that they were the pillars to which st. peter and st. paul were fastened, respectively, when they suffered flagellation by order of nero. a little farther on towards st. peter's is the piazza scossa cavalli, with a pretty fountain. "its name bears witness to a curious legend, which tells how when s. helena returned from palestine, bringing with her the stone on which abraham was about to sacrifice isaac, and that on which the virgin mary sat down at the time of the presentation of the saviour in the temple, the horses drawing these precious relics stood still at this spot, and refused every effort to make them move. then christian people, 'recognizing the finger of god,' erected a church on this spot--_s. giacomo scossa cavalli_--where the stones are still to be seen." [sidenote: the hardness of st. peter's knees.] while speaking of interesting stones, i must not omit to mention those in the church of s. francesca romana, near the forum, containing the marks of the knees of st. peter--(which show, by the way, that this apostle was a giant in size)--when he knelt to pray that simon magus might be dropped by the demons he had invoked to support him in the air in fulfilment of his promise to fly. one of these stones used to lie in the _via sacra_, and the water which collected in the two holes or knee prints was looked upon as so potent a remedy of disease that groups of infirm people used to gather around them on the approach of a shower. according to the legend, the place where peter knelt when he thus effected the discomfiture of simon magus and brought him to the ground with such force that his thigh was fractured, never to be healed, was the ancient _via sacra_. but, after the priests had removed the stone from the roadway into the church, the inconsiderate and iconoclastic explorers of our day, who have made so many discoveries in their excavations about the forum, proved that the roadway from which this relic was taken was not the ancient _via sacra_ at all, but a more modern roadway which had been mistaken for it! [sidenote: the hardness of st. peter's head.] in the mamertine prisons, which are also quite close to the forum, a depression on the stone wall by which we descend to the lower dungeon is shown as the spot against which st. peter's head rested, though our guide had just told us that these stairs were not in existence then and prisoners were let down into the dungeon through the hole in the middle of the stone floor. such trifling discrepancies do not seem to trouble the average italian mind. st. peter and st. paul are said to have been bound in this prison for nine months to a pillar, which is shown here. "a fountain of excellent water beneath the floor of the prison is attributed to the prayers of st. peter, that he might have wherewith to baptize his gaolers, processus and martinianus; but, unfortunately for this ecclesiastical tradition, the fountain is described by plutarch as having existed at the time of jugurtha's imprisonment" here, long before the time of st. peter. another miraculous spring, still flowing, is shown in the church of ss. cosmo and damiano as that which burst forth in answer to the prayers of felix iv., that he might have water to baptize his disciples. [sidenote: what the head of st. paul did.] but the most interesting of all the miraculous springs in or around rome are the three fountains, about two miles from the city, where the apostle paul was executed. when his head was severed from his body it bounded from the earth three times, crying out thrice, "jesus! jesus! jesus!" a fountain burst from the ground at each of the three spots where the severed head struck. it is asserted, in proof of this origin of the fountains, that the water of the first is still warm, of the second tepid, and of the third cold, but we drank of them one after another without being able to detect any difference in temperature. the apostle's head is shown in bas relief upon the three altars above the fountains. in the church which has been built over them we were shown the pillar to which he was bound, and the block of marble upon which he was decapitated, and, in the vault of another church hard by, the prison in which he was placed just before his execution. we could not help asking the priest who was our escort whether this extraordinary story was still believed. his answer was: "certainly! there is no reason whatever to doubt it. the facts have been handed down in an unbroken succession from eye-witnesses," a position which he proceeded to defend at length and with great warmth when one of our party in particular manifested much slowness to believe. [sidenote: st. paul's use of plautilla's veil.] furthermore, the opening of these three fountains was not the only miracle wrought by the apostle after his death. mrs. jameson says: "the legend of his death relates that a certain roman matron named plautilla, one of the converts of s. peter, placed herself on the road by which s. paul passed to his martyrdom, to behold him for the last time; and when she saw him she wept greatly and besought his blessing. the apostle then, seeing her faith, turned to her, and begged that she would give him her veil to blind his eyes when he should be beheaded, promising to return it to her after his death. the attendants mocked at such a promise; but plautilla, with a woman's faith and charity, taking off her veil, presented it to him. after his martyrdom, s. paul appeared to her and restored the veil, stained with his blood. in the ancient representations of the martyrdom of s. paul, the legend of plautilla is seldom omitted. in the picture by giotto in the sacristy of s. peter's, plautilla is seen on an eminence in the background, receiving the veil from the hands of s. paul, who appears in the clouds above; the same representation, but little varied, is executed in bas-relief on the bronze doors of st. peter's." [sidenote: the footprints of christ in stone.] about two miles northeast of the three fountains, and the same distance from the city, on the appian way, stands the church of st. sebastian. over an altar on the right, as you enter, the attendant priest, drawing aside a curtain, shows you a slab of dark red stone with two enormous footprints on it. these, we are told, were made by the feet of christ during an interview with peter which took place near here, on the site of the small church of domine quo vadis. the story is as follows: after the burning of rome, nero charged the christians with having fired the city. straightway the first persecution broke forth, and many of the christians were put to death with dreadful torture. the survivors besought peter not to expose his life. as he fled along the appian way, christ appeared to him travelling towards the city. the fleeing apostle exclaimed in amazement, "_domine, quo vadis?_" (lord, whither goest thou?), to which, with a look of mild sadness, the saviour replied, "_venio iterum crucifigi_" (i come to be crucified a second time), then vanished, whereupon the apostle, ashamed of his weakness, returned to rome, and shortly afterwards was crucified there himself. [sidenote: the chains of st. peter.] another relic of great interest connected with the same apostle is shown in the church of s. pietro in vincoli, in rome, and indeed gives the church its name. the church is not without interest for other reasons. for instance, it possesses portions of the crosses of st. peter and st. andrew, and we are told that the high altar covers the remains of the seven maccabean brothers. but the basilica is specially famous for the possession of the greatest masterpiece of sculpture since the time of the greeks--the majestic "moses" of michelangelo, which draws thousands of sightseers who might otherwise never set foot in the building. nevertheless, its chief attraction, to the devout roman catholic mind, is neither the bones of the maccabees nor the statue of moses, but the chains referred to in the following familiar passage of scripture: "peter therefore was kept in prison; but prayer was made without ceasing of the church unto god for him. and when herod would have brought him forth, the same night peter was sleeping between two soldiers bound with two chains; and the keepers before the door kept the prison. and behold, the angel of the lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison; and he smote peter on the side, and raised him up, saying, arise up quickly. and his chains fell off from his hands." (acts xii. - .) these two chains were presented by juvenal, bishop of jerusalem, to the empress eudoxia, wife of theodosius the younger, who placed one of them in the basilica of the apostles in constantinople and sent the other to rome, where this church was erected as its special shrine. this was about the middle of the fifth century. "but the romans could not rest satisfied with the possession of half the relic; and within the walls of this very basilica, leo i. beheld in a vision the miraculous and mystical uniting of the two chains, since which they have both been exhibited here, and the day of their being soldered together by invisible power, august st, has been kept sacred in the latin church!" "they are of unequal size, owing to many fragments of one of them (first whole links, then only filings) having been removed in the course of centuries by various popes and sent to christian princes who have been esteemed worthy of the favor! the longest is about five feet in length. at the end of one of them is a collar, which is said to have encircled the neck of st. peter. they are exposed on the day of the 'station' (the first monday in lent) in a reliquary presented by pius ix., adorned with statuettes of st. peter and the angel--to whom he is represented as saying, '_ecce nunc scio vere_' (acts xii. ii). on the following day a priest gives the chains to be kissed by the pilgrims, and touches their foreheads with them, saying, 'by the intercession of the blessed apostle peter, may god preserve you from evil. amen.'"[ ] [sidenote: the benefits of buying a fac-simile of the chains.] in the sacristy we found a young priest doing a thriving business in copies of the relic. we bought from him "an iron _fac-simile_ of the chains (about the size of an ordinary watch-chain), authenticated by a certificate testifying to its having touched the original chains. on the back of this certificate was printed an extract from the rules of the confraternity of the chains of st. peter, from which we learned that all associates in this brotherhood must wear such a _fac-simile_ as we had just bought, that the objects of the confraternity are "the propagation of the veneration of the chains of st. peter, an increase of devotion to the holy see, prayers for the pope's intention, for the needs of holy church, the conversion of infidels and sinners, and the extirpation of heresy and blasphemy," and that pius ix. had granted to the members of the confraternity various indulgences, one of which is "_a plenary indulgence and remission of all sins_[ ] if one visits the church of san pietro in vincoli on january th[ ] and june th,[ ] between the first vespers of the feast and sunset of the said days, or on august st, or any one of the seven days following it. the usual prayers for the holy father's intention," etc., are comprised in these visits. we are told also that "the foregoing indulgences are applicable to the souls in purgatory." [sidenote: the relics in st. peter's cathedral.] we may close this running account of the relics at rome with a brief mention of those that are to be seen in st. peter's itself, the largest and costliest church in the world. the construction of it extended over one hundred and seventy-six years. the cost of the main building alone was fifty million dollars. the annual outlay for repairs is thirty-one thousand five hundred dollars. but it cost the romish church far more than money--it cost her the loss of all the leading nations of the world, which had been under her dominion till that time. for the expense of the vast structure, with its "insolent opulence of marbles," was so great that julius ii. and leo x. were obliged to meet the enormous outlay by the sale of indulgences, and that, as is well known, precipitated the reformation. so that protestants may well feel a peculiar interest in this mighty cathedral. [sidenote: the column against which christ leaned in the temple.] it goes without saying that the popes would not allow the chief church of roman catholicism to go begging in the matter of relics. and, sure enough, we have no sooner pushed aside the heavy padded screen and stepped within than we find on our right the chapel of the holy column, so called because it contains a pillar which is declared to have been that against which our lord leaned when he prayed and taught in the temple at jerusalem. the pillar contains this inscription: "haec est illa columna in qua dns n{r} jesus xps appodiatus dum populo prædicabat et deo pno preces in templo effundebat adhaerendo, stabatque una cum aliis undecim hic circumstantibus. de salomonis templo in triumphum hujus basilicæ hic locata fuit: demones expellit et immundis spiritibus vexatos liberos reddit et multa miracula cotidie facit. p. reverendissimum prem et dominum dominum card. de ursinis. a. d. mdcccxxviii." [sidenote: the chair of st. peter.] at the other end of the church we are shown an ancient wooden chair, encrusted with ivory, which we are told was the cathedra petri, the episcopal throne of st. peter and his immediate successors. a magnificent festival in honor of this chair has been annually celebrated here for hundreds of years. my party seems to be made up of very determined protestants. at any rate, the sight of this relic leads an inquisitive person in the party to ask whether the bible does not say that "peter's wife's mother lay sick of a fever." "yes," replies the unfortunate gentleman to whose lot it falls to answer all questions of all kinds. "then," continues the inquisitive person, "peter was married?" unfortunate gentleman: "yes." i. p.: "do the popes still marry?" u. g.: "no." i. p.: "if 'the first pope' was married, why should not his successors be married, and why should they insist upon a celibate clergy in every age, in every country, and under all circumstances?" [sidenote: the bones of st. peter.] u. g.: "these questions are becoming too hard for me. come, let me show you the tomb which contains the bones of st. peter and st. paul. only half of their bodies are preserved here, the other portion of st. peter's being in the church of st. john lateran and the other portion of st. paul's at the magnificent basilica of st. paul's without the walls." "a circle of eighty-six gold lamps is always burning around the tomb of the poor fisherman of galilee.... hence one can gaze up into the dome, with its huge letters in purple-blue mosaic upon a gold ground (each six feet long)--tu es petrus, et super hanc petram ædificabo ecclesiam meam, et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum.' above this are four colossal mosaics of the evangelists.... the pen of st. luke is seven feet in length." but we must not permit ourselves to be diverted from our proper subject by the vastness and splendor of the building, natural as it is to do so when standing under this matchless dome. the four huge piers which support the dome are used as shrines for the four great relics of the church, viz.: . the lance of st. longinus, the soldier who pierced the saviour's side; . a portion of the true cross; . the napkin of st. veronica, containing the miraculous impression of our lord's face; and . the head of the apostle andrew. i did not see these relics myself, as i was in the east when they were exhibited, but on april th, the day before easter, other members of my party did, that is, they saw all of them but andrew's head, and from a letter written me by the youngest of my correspondents in my own family, giving not only description, but drawings of the spear head, the cross and the handkerchief in their several frames, i infer that, notwithstanding the great height of the veronica balcony from which they are exhibited, my young correspondent and his companions fared better in the matter of a good view than fritz in _chronicles of the schönberg cotta family_, who says: "to-day we gazed on the veronica--the holy impression left by our saviour's face on the cloth s. veronica presented to him to wipe his brow, bowed under the weight of the cross. we had looked forward to this sight for days, for seven thousand years of indulgence from penance are attached to it. but when the moment came we could see nothing but a black board hung with a cloth, before which another white cloth was held. in a few minutes this was withdrawn, and the great moment was over, the glimpse of the sacred thing on which hung the fate of seven thousand years." footnotes: [ ] _later._--this is the church in which the late pope leo xiii. is to be buried. [ ] _the roman catholic church in italy_, alexander robertson, p. . [ ] hare, ii., . [ ] hare's _walks in rome_, ii., pp. , . [ ] hare, ii., . [ ] italics not mine, but so printed in the extract. [ ] feast of st. peter's chair. [ ] feast of st. peter. chapter xxxi. the legends, the popes, and the pasquinades. [sidenote: the manufacture of st. philomena.] before quitting the subject of the relics at rome, i must give my readers what hare calls "the extraordinary history of the manufacture of s. filomena, now one of the most popular saints in italy, and one towards whom idolatry is carried out with frantic enthusiasm both at domo d'ossola and in some of the neapolitan states." "in the year , while some excavations were going forward in the catacombs of priscilla, a sepulchre was discovered containing the skeleton of a young female; on the exterior were rudely painted some of the symbols constantly recurring in these chambers of the dead--an anchor, an olive branch (emblems of hope and peace), a scourge, two arrows, and a javelin; above them the following inscription, of which the beginning and end were destroyed: --"lumena pax te cum fi"-- the remains, reasonably supposed to be those of one of the early martyrs for the faith, were sealed up and deposited in the treasury of relics in the lateran; here they remained for some years unthought of. on the return of pius vii. from france, a neapolitan prelate was sent to congratulate him. one of the priests in his train, who wished to create a sensation in his district, where the long residence of the french had probably caused some decay of piety, begged for a few relics to carry home, and these recently discovered remains were bestowed on him; the inscription was translated somewhat freely to signify _santa philomena, rest in peace_. another priest, whose name is suppressed, _because of his great humility_, was favored by a vision in the broad noonday, in which he beheld the glorious virgin filomena, who was pleased to reveal to him that she had suffered death for preferring the christian faith and her vow of chastity to the addresses of the emperor, who wished to make her his wife. this vision leaving much of her history obscure, a certain young artist, whose name is also suppressed, perhaps because of his great humility, was informed in a vision that the emperor alluded to was diocletian, and at the same time the torments and persecutions suffered by the christian virgin filomena, as well as her wonderful constancy, were also revealed to him. there were some difficulties in the way of the emperor diocletian, which _incline_ the writer of the _historical_ account to incline to the opinion that the young artist in his wisdom _may_ have made a mistake, and that the emperor may have been not diocletian, but maximian. the facts, however, now admitted of no doubt; the relics were carried by the priest francesco da lucia to naples; they were enclosed in a case of wood resembling in form the human body; this figure was habited in a petticoat of white satin, and over it a crimson tunic after the greek fashion; the face was painted to represent nature, a garland of flowers was placed on the head, and in the hands a lily and a javelin with the point reversed, to express her purity and her martyrdom; then she was laid in a half-sitting posture in a sarcophagus, of which the sides were glass, and, after lying for some time in state in the chapel of the torres family in the church of sant' angiolo, she was carried in grand procession to mugnano, a little town about twenty miles from naples, amid the acclamations of the people, working many and surprising miracles by the way.... such is the legend of s. filomena, and such the authority on which she has become within the last twenty years one of the most popular saints in italy."--_mrs. jameson's sacred and legendary art_, p. . but, after all, the most extraordinary case of saint-manufacture is not that of philomena, but that of _buddha_! i have not room for the story here, but if any one wishes to know how the papacy made buddha a christian saint, he will find the whole story, with the proofs, in _a history of the warfare of science and theology_, by andrew d. white, ll. d., late president and professor of history at cornell university, and until recently united states ambassador to germany. [sidenote: "the courteous spaniard."] a few days ago we visited the church of st. laurence without the walls, where in a silver shrine under the high altar, the remains of st. laurence and st. stephen are said to rest. the walls of the portico of the church are covered with a series of frescoes, lately repainted. one series represents the story of st. stephen and that of the translation of his relics to this church. "the relics of st. stephen were preserved at constantinople, whither they had been transported from jerusalem by the empress eudoxia, wife of theodosius ii. hearing that her daughter, eudoxia, wife of valentinian ii., emperor of the west, was afflicted with a devil, she begged her to come to constantinople, that her demon might be driven out by the touch of the relics. the younger eudoxia wished to comply, but the devil refused to leave her unless st. stephen was brought to rome. an agreement was therefore made that the relics of st. stephen should be exchanged for those of st. laurence. st. stephen arrived, and the empress was immediately relieved of her devil; but when the persons who had brought the relics of st. stephen from constantinople were about to take those of st. laurence back with them, they all fell down dead! pope pelagius prayed for their restoration to life, which was granted for a short time, to prove the efficacy of prayer, but they all died again ten days later! thus the romans knew that it would be criminal to fulfil their promise, and part with the relics of st. laurence, and the bodies of the two martyrs were laid in the same sarcophagus." and thus we know how much more the romans think of relics than of honor and truth. "it is related that when they opened the sarcophagus, and lowered into it the body of st. stephen, st. laurence moved on one side, giving the place of honor on the right hand to st. stephen; hence, the common people of rome have conferred on st. laurence the title of '_il cortese spagnuolo_'--the courteous spaniard." another series of these pictures in the portico represents the story of a sacristan who, coming to pray in this church before day, found it filled with worshippers, and was told by st. laurence himself that they were the apostle peter, the first martyr, stephen, and other apostles, martyrs and virgins from paradise, and was ordered to go and tell the pope what he had seen, and bid him come and celebrate a solemn mass. the sacristan objected that the pope would not believe him, and asked for some visible sign. then st. laurence ungirt his robe and gave him his girdle. when the pope was accompanying him back to the basilica they met a funeral procession. to test the powers of the girdle, the pope laid it on the bier, and at once the dead arose and walked. [sidenote: the miracles of st. dominic.] that is not the only miracle of resurrection offered to our credulity by these ecclesiastical legends. the three principal frescoes in the chapter house of the church of st. sisto, recently painted by the padre besson, represent three miracles of st. dominic--in each case of raising from the dead--the subjects being a mason who had fallen from a scaffold when building this monastery, a child, and the young lord napoleone orsini, who had been thrown from his horse and instantly killed, and who was brought to life by st. dominic on this spot, as is further commemorated by an inscription on the wall. but miracles were nothing uncommon in the history of the founder of the powerful dominican order. in the refectory of st. marco, at florence, we had seen the fine fresco which represents the miraculous provision made for him and his forty friars at a time of scarcity by two angels. the refectory in which this miracle took place is at the church of st. sabina, on the aventine, in rome; but there are three other things at this church which interested us hardly less than the scene of that miracle. one of them is the huge, pumpkin-shaped, black stone, two or three times as big as a man's head, which the devil is said to have hurled at st. dominic one day when he found him lying prostrate in prayer. this stone is the most conspicuous object in the church, being set up on a pillar about three feet high, right in the middle of the nave. not far away is the marble slab on which the saint was lying at the time that the formidable missile was thrown. the adversary's aim was not good, and the saint was not harmed. the second thing of chief interest here is the chapel of the rosary, at the other end of the same aisle in which the marble slab lies, built on the very spot where st. dominic had the vision in which he received the rosary from the hands of the virgin. the supernatural gift is commemorated in a beautiful painting by sassoferato. it is hardly necessary to explain to any of my readers that a rosary is a string of beads used by roman catholics to keep the count of the number of _pater-nosters_ and _ave-marias_ which they repeat, and that this manner of "vain repetitions" was first used by the dominicans among roman catholics, though the custom was really borrowed from the mohammedans and brahmins, who still use rosaries. the third object is the famous orange tree, now six hundred and seventy years old, which is said to have been brought from spain and planted in the court here by st. dominic himself, orange trees having been unknown in rome before that time, and "which still lives, and is firmly believed to flourish or fail with the fortunes of the dominican order." ladies are not allowed to approach this tree, so, as there were ladies in our party, we all contented ourselves with a look at it through a window. hard by, of course, there is a room where things are sold to pilgrims and visitors. there we bought a rosary, the beads of which are made of the fruit of the plant called the thorn of christ, with the exception of the bead next to the cross, which is a tiny dried orange from st. dominic's tree. enclosed in the cross are a little piece of the wood of the tree, and some earth from the catacombs where the bodies of sts. peter and paul, and of the holy virgin martyrs, sts. agnes and cecilia, reposed for some time. the printed leaflet which accompanies our purchase tells us that "these rosaries, when sold or ordered, are blessed and enriched with the indulgences of the rosary confraternity and the papal blessing. when blessed they may be distributed; _but if resold they lose all the indulgences_." (italics ours.) still another relic of great interest in this convent of st. sabina is the crucifix of michele ghislieri (afterwards pope pius v.). "one day, as ghislieri was about to kiss his crucifix, in the eagerness of prayer, the image of christ, says the legend, retired of its own accord from his touch, for it had been poisoned by an enemy, and a kiss would have been death." [sidenote: sundry miracles by other saints, and images.] in the church of st. gregory, on the c[oe]lian hill, the thing that interested us most was the picture by badalocchi, "commemorating a miracle on this spot, when, at the moment of elevation, the host is said to have bled in the hands of st. gregory, to convince an unbeliever of the truth of transubstantiation." this is the same gregory who presented certain foreign ambassadors with a handful of earth from the arena of the coliseum as a relic for their sovereigns, so many martyrs having suffered death there, and "upon their receiving the gift with disrespect, he pressed it, when blood flowed from the soil." not far from the church of st. gregory we were shown the hermitage where st. giovanni de matha lived. "before he came to reside here he had been miraculously brought from tunis (whither he had gone on a mission) to ostia, in a boat without helm or sail, in which he knelt without ceasing before the crucifix throughout the whole of his voyage!" time would fail me to tell of the miraculous surgical operation performed by sts. cosmo and damian upon a man who was praying in the church dedicated to them, and who had a diseased leg amputated without pain by the good saints while he slept; and not only so, but had a sound leg, which they had taken from the body of a man just buried, substituted for the diseased one. nor can i dwell on the miraculous blindness with which the guard sent to seize pope st. martin i. was stricken the moment he caught sight of the pontiff in st. maria maggiore, or the miraculous tears shed by an image of the virgin attached to a neighboring wall when she saw a cruel murder committed in the street below, or the madonnas and crucifixes that spoke to saints on various occasions. one of these, however, is too significant to be omitted altogether. there is in the church of st. agostino a sculptured image of the madonna and child. "it is not long since the report was spread that one day a poor woman called upon this image of the madonna for help; it began to speak, and replied, 'if i had only something, then i could help thee, but i myself am so poor!' this story was circulated, and very soon throngs of credulous people hastened hither to kiss the foot of the madonna, _and to present her with all kinds of gifts_." (italics mine.) [sidenote: how the papal treasury was filled, and how it was emptied.] the evil methods employed at various times to replenish the papal treasury are known to all readers of history. the best known, perhaps, is the shameless traffic in indulgences by tetzel, which helped to precipitate the reformation. hare closes his account of the execution of beatrice cenci for complicity in the murder of her father with the statement that "sympathy will always follow one who sinned under the most terrible of provocations, and whose cruel death was due to the avarice of clement viii. for the riches which the church acquired by the confiscation of the cenci property," and cites the petition of gaspare guizza ( ), in which he claims a reward from the pope for his service in apprehending one of the assassins of francesco cenci, on the ground that thus "the other accomplices and their confessions were secured, and _so many thousands of crowns brought into the papal treasury_." the venality of pope alexander vi., rodrigo borgia ( - ), "the wicked and avaricious father of cæsar and lucretia, who is believed to have died of the poison which he intended for one of his cardinals," is thus hit off by pasquino: "vendit alexander claves, altaria, christum; emerat ille prius, vendere jure potest." of innocent x. ( -' ), pasquino says, "magis amat olympiam quam olympium," referring to the shameful relations existing between this pope and his avaricious sister-in-law, olympia maidalchini, who made it her business to secure the profits of the papacy in hard cash. trollope, in his _life of olympia_, says: "no appointment to office of any kind was made except in consideration of a proportionable sum paid down into her own coffers. this often amounted to three or four years' revenue of the place to be granted. bishoprics and benefices were sold as fast as they became vacant. one story is told of an unlucky disciple of simon, who in treating with the pope for a valuable see, just fallen vacant, and hearing from her a price at which it might be his, far exceeding all he could command, persuaded the members of his family to sell all they had for the purpose of making this profitable investment. the price was paid, and the bishopric was given him, but, with a fearful resemblance to the case of ananias, he died within the year, and his ruined family saw the see a second time sold by the insatiable and incorrigible olympia.... during the last year of innocent's life, olympia literally hardly ever quitted him. once a week, we read, she left the vatican, secretly by night, accompanied by several porters carrying sacks of coins, the proceeds of the week's extortions and sales, to her own palace. and during these short absences she used to lock the pope into his chamber, and take the key with her!" she finally "deserted him on his death-bed, making off with the accumulated spoils of his ten years' papacy, which enabled her son, don camillo, to build the palazzo doria pamfili, in the corso, and the beautiful villa doria pamfili," west of the janiculan hill. this villa, with its casino, garden, lake, fountain, pine-shaded lawns and woods, and its fine view of st. peter's standing out against the green campagna beyond, and the blue sabine mountains in the distance, is to this day one of the loveliest villas in italy, and the favorite resort of the latter-day romans and visitors to their city on the two afternoons of the week on which it is open to pedestrians and two-horse carriages. the notorious simony practiced by the popes, in which, as we have just seen, olympia became such an adept, gave rise to the biting latin couplet-- "an petrus romæ fuerit, sub judice lis est; simonem romæ nemo fuisse negat." some of the modern methods of making use of the pope for purposes of gain are less objectionable than those of olympia. dr. alexander robertson, in his _roman catholic church in italy_, just published, says: "one of the very latest novelties of the 'pope's shop' is a penny-in-the-slot blessing machine. specimens of this were lately to be seen in the corso, rome, about half way between the piazza colonna and the piazza del popolo. a penny is dropped into it. the cinematograph, or wheel of life, goes round, when, lo! there appears a long procession of richly clothed cardinals and monsignori, and then the pope in a sedan chair, accompanied by his swiss guards. as he is carried past the spectator, he turns towards the window of his chair, a smile overspreads his face, he raises his hands, and gives his blessing. on these machines there is an inscription to the effect that the blessing thus given and received is equivalent to that given by the pope in person in st. peter's. truly a novel way of turning an honest penny!" we hear that a rash churchman, not liking the facts just stated, undertook to deny them in the public prints, when up spoke some english gentlemen, who had been in rome recently, and bowled the churchman over with the statement that they had themselves seen this blessing machine on the corso. one never touches this subject of the vast wealth of the papacy without calling to mind the well-known rejoinder of the great theologian, thomas aquinas, when the pope was showing him all his money and riches, and said, "you see, thomas, the church cannot now say what it said in early times, 'silver and gold have i none.'" "no," answered aquinas, "nor can it say, 'rise up and walk'" (acts iii. ). this loss of spiritual power, this loss of ability to minister salvation to others, is one of the most melancholy results of the corruption of the papacy. [sidenote: some ugly things in the lives of the popes.] dr. alexander robertson, in his recent book on _the roman catholic church in italy_, which has received the hearty approval of the king of italy and his prime minister, says: "there are few, i daresay, who have looked into the history of the popes, no matter what their religious faith may be, who will not agree with me when i say that it does not afford pleasant reading. one's intellect rebels against their preposterous claims and pretensions, and one's moral sense against their character and lives. amongst them there were some good men, some learned men, and some really able men; but, taking them all in all, they were, beyond doubt, amongst the lowest class of men to be found on the pages of history. to wade through their lives is to cross a pestiferous moral swamp of worldliness, simony, nepotism, concubinage, personal animosities, sanguinary feuds, forged decretals, plunderings, poisonings, assassinations, massacres, death."[ ] one may smile at such papal peccadilloes as the vanity of paul ii., who was chiefly remarkable for his personal beauty, and was so vain of his appearance that, when he was elected pope, he wished to take the name of formosus. one may be amused at the intense self-esteem of urban viii., of whose spoliation of ancient rome pasquino says, "quod non fecerunt barbari, fecerunt barberini," and who, in the barberini palace, had the virgin and angels represented as bringing in the ornaments of the papacy at his coronation, and in another room a number of the barberini bees (the family crest) flocking against the sun, and eclipsing it--to symbolize the splendor of the family. but our feeling changes when we read that "he issued a bull by which the name, estates and privileges of his house might pass to any living male descendant, legitimate or illegitimate, whether child of prince or priest," lest the family of barberini might become absorbed in that of colonna. and we do not go far in our reading about such popes before the feeling of amusement yields to one of sadness, indignation and horror. we need not insist upon the story of the female pope joan, who is said to have secured her election to the papal throne disguised as a man, and to have reigned two years as john viii., and then to have died a shameful death; for, notwithstanding the indisputable fact that till her head was included among the terra cotta representations of the other popes in the cathedral of sienna, and was inscribed "johannes viii., femina de anglia," and that it was then changed into a head of pope zacharias by the grand duke, at the request of pope clement viii., the story is now generally discredited. but there are many other facts, established beyond controversy, which explain fully the feeling of the great majority of the italian people and the verdict of the accredited historians of the world. when the penitential pope, adrian vi. ( -' ), died of drinking too much beer, "the house of his physician was hung with garlands by midnight revellers, and decorated with the inscription, liberatori patriæ, s. p. q. r.'" the nepotism of the learned, brilliant and witty paul iii. "induced him to form parma into a duchy for his natural son pierluigui, to build the farnese palace, and to marry his grandson ottavio to marguerite, natural daughter of charles v." john xii., the first pope who took a new name, "scandalized christendom by a life of murder, robbery, adultery and incest." of the tombs of the eighty-seven popes who were buried in the old basilica of st. peter's, only two were replaced when the present building was erected, those of the two popes who lived in the time and excited the indignation of savonarola--"sixtus iv., with whose cordial concurrence the assassination of lorenzo de' medici was attempted, and innocent viii., the main object of whose policy was to secure place and power for his illegitimate children," sixteen in number, and who is represented on his tomb as holding in his hand the spear of "st. longinus," which had pierced the side of christ. this spear was sent to innocent viii. by the sultan bajazet, nearly fifteen hundred years after the crucifixion, and, as we have already seen, is now preserved in st. peter's as one of its four chief relics. guicciardini says of the death of alexander vi.: "all rome ran with indescribable gladness to visit the corpse. men could not satiate their eyes with feeding on the carcase of the serpent who, by his unbounded ambition and pestiferous perfidy, by every demonstration of horrible cruelty, monstrous lust and unheard-of avarice, selling without distinction things sacred and profane, had filled the world with venom." "pope paul v. granted dispensations and pensions to any persons who would assassinate fra paolo sarpi; pope pius v. offered, as mr. froude tells us, 'remission of sin to them and their heirs, with annuities, honors and promotions, to any cook, brewer, baker, vintner, physician, grocer, surgeon, or others,' who would make away with queen elizabeth; and pope gregory xiii. offered a high place in heaven to any one who would murder the prince of orange; and the poor wretch, balthazar gerard, who did the infamous deed, actually told his judges 'that he would soon be a saint in heaven, and would have the first place there next to god,' whilst his family received a patent of nobility, and entered into the possession of the estate of the prince in the franche comté--rewards promised for the commission of the crime by cardinal granvelle." (dr. alexander robertson's _roman catholic church in italy_, p. .) these are some of the things that help to explain not only the tone of the pasquinades, not only the indictments of the world's leading historians, which are to be presently cited, but also the present attitude of something like twenty millions of the thirty-odd millions of italy's inhabitants, who have forsaken the church altogether. what idea the people have of the jesuits in particular is well shown by the legend connected with the piazza del gesu, the great open space in front of the jesuit church, which is considered the windiest place in rome. the story is that the devil and the wind were one day taking a walk together. "when they came to this square, the devil, who seemed to be very devout, said to the wind, 'just wait a minute, mio caro, while i go into this church.' so the wind promised, and the devil went into the gesu, and has never come out again--and the wind is blowing about in the piazza del gesu to this day." [sidenote: pasquino's view of the pope.] one of the interesting objects in rome is a mutilated statue called pasquino, which stands at the corner of the orsini palace, one of the most central and public places in the city. the reason for the interest attaching to this almost shapeless piece of marble is that for centuries it was used for placarding those satires upon the popes which, by their exceeding cleverness and biting truth, have made the name of pasquinade famous the world over. no squib that was ever affixed to that column had a keener edge than the one known as "the antithesis of christ," which appeared at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and runs as follows: christ said, "my kingdom is not of this world." the pope conquers cities by force. christ had a crown of thorns: the pope wears a triple diadem. christ washed the feet of his disciples: the pope has his kissed by kings. christ paid tribute: the pope takes it. christ fed the sheep: the pope wishes to be master of the world. christ carried on his shoulders the cross: the pope is carried on the shoulders of his servants in liveries of gold. christ despised riches: the pope has no other passion than for gold. christ drove out the merchants from the temple: the pope welcomes them. christ preached peace: the pope is the torch of war. christ was meekness: the pope is pride personified. christ promulgated the laws that the pope tramples under foot. [sidenote: what the italians now think about it.] "but," some one may say, "the pasquinades were written long ago, and, while they are doubtless true descriptions of the papacy of the past, surely no one would take the same view now." for answer i may quote the statement of dr. raffaelle mariano, professor of philosophy in the university of naples, who is not a protestant, but, as he tells us, was "born in the roman catholic church," and was "a fervent catholic from infancy." speaking of the vast difference which he found between the teachings of the church and those of the new testament as to what is necessary to salvation, he says, "therefore, roman catholicism is not only not christianity, but it is the very antithesis of christianity," a statement every whit as strong as pasquino's. some american protestants, especially those who have personal friends in the roman catholic church whom they honor and love--and there are many people in that church who are richly worthy of honor and love, and who do not approve of the evils we have been describing any more than we do--are sometimes disposed to think that protestant writers are too severe in their condemnation of the romish church as a system. a visit to italy, the centre of romanism, would quickly disabuse these overcharitable protestants of that impression. we have all read of such things as are described above in connection with the relics and legends, but they seem far away and unreal, and almost impossible, until we come to the home of romanism and find them all around us. then it ceases to surprise us that so large a proportion of the most intelligent men in italy occupy a position of indifference and unbelief, or hostility and scorn, towards the christian religion, for romanism is the only christianity that most of them know. let it be remembered, too, that the king, able, conscientious, patriotic, devoted to the welfare of his people, and the prime minister, zanardelli, like his predecessor, crispi, and the members of parliament, and the army and navy, and the whole government which has given italy such wonderful stability and prosperity since the overthrow of the papal dominion and opened before the nation a future of so much promise, are all standing aloof from the pope. let any one see one of the great pilgrimages from every part of the country to the tomb of victor emmanuel, who freed italy, as we saw it the other day, and observe the immense popularity of the great liberator and his successors of the house of savoy, and let him note the firm opposition of italy's leading men to the papacy, and he will see that the view of the pope which the secular newspapers so persistently seek to force upon the people of the english-speaking world simply cannot be that of the thoughtful men of italy. by the way, i see plenty of women confessing to the priests, but very, very few men. the textbook used in the training of priests as father-confessors, and the standard work of the church on that subject, approved by pope leo xiii., is liguori's _moral philosophy_. "on july , , the _asino_, a daily newspaper published in rome, printed in its columns, and also in the form of large bills, which it caused to be posted up in public places in the chief cities of italy, a challenge offering one thousand francs to any roman catholic newspaper which would have the courage to print the latin text, with an italian translation, of two passages in liguori's book, which it specified. the challenge was never taken up, and it never will be, for any one daring to publish the passages named would certainly be prosecuted for outraging public decency" (dr. alexander robertson, _roman catholic church in italy_, p. ). hare says, "it was a curious characteristic of the laxity of morals in the time of julius ii. ( -' ), that her friends did not hesitate to bury the famous aspasia of that age in this church (st. gregorio), and to inscribe upon her tomb: 'imperia, cortisana romana, quæ digna tanto nomine, raræ inter homines formæ specimen dedit.'... but this monument has now been removed."[ ] most of the facts above cited, especially those concerning the legends and the popes, except where specific acknowledgment is made to other writers, have been drawn from hare's invaluable _walks in rome_. let us conclude the list with the testimonies of a few eminent men of unimpeachable competence and veracity as to the character and influence of the roman catholic church as a system. [sidenote: macaulay, dickens and gladstone on the influence of romanism.] in the first chapter of his _history of england_, lord macaulay says: "from the time when the barbarians overran the western empire to the time of the revival of letters, the influence of the church of rome had been generally favorable to science, to civilization, to good government. but during the last three centuries, to stunt the growth of the human mind has been her chief object. throughout christendom, whatever advance has been made in knowledge, in freedom, in wealth, and in the arts of life, has been made in spite of her, and has everywhere been in inverse proportion to her power. the loveliest and most fertile provinces of europe have, under her rule, been sunk in poverty, in political servitude, and in intellectual torpor, while protestant countries, once proverbial for sterility and barbarism, have been turned by skill and industry into gardens, and can boast of a long list of heroes and statesmen, philosophers and poets. whoever, knowing what italy and scotland naturally are, and what, four hundred years ago, they actually were, shall now compare the country round rome with the country round edinburgh, will be able to form some judgment as to the tendency of papal domination. the descent of spain, once the first among the monarchies, to the lowest depths of degradation, the elevation of holland, in spite of many natural disadvantages, to a position such as no commonwealth so small has ever reached, teach the same lesson. whoever passes in germany from a roman catholic to a protestant principality, in switzerland from a roman catholic to a protestant canton, in ireland from a roman catholic to a protestant county, finds that he has passed from a lower to a higher grade of civilization. on the other side of the atlantic the same law prevails. the protestants of the united states have left far behind them the roman catholics of mexico, peru and brazil. the roman catholics of lower canada remain inert, while the whole continent round them is in a ferment with protestant activity and enterprise. the french have doubtless shown an energy and intelligence which, even when misdirected, have justly entitled them to be called a great people. but this apparent exception, when examined, will be found to confirm the rule, for in no country that is called roman catholic has the roman catholic church, during several generations, possessed so little authority as in france." charles dickens, in a letter written from switzerland, in , to his friend and biographer, forster, says: "in the simplon, hard by here, where (at the bridge of st. maurice over the rhone) the protestant canton ends and a catholic canton begins, you might separate two perfectly distinct and different conditions of humanity by drawing a line with your stick in the dust on the ground. on the protestant side--neatness, cheerfulness, industry, education, continued aspiration, at least, after better things. on the catholic side--dirt, disease, ignorance, squalor and misery. i have so constantly observed the like of this since i came abroad that i have a sad misgiving that the religion of ireland lies at the root of all its sorrows." writing from genoa, in , dickens says, "if i were a swiss, with a hundred thousand pounds, i would be as steady against the catholic canons and the propagation of jesuitism as any radical among them; believing the dissemination of catholicity to be the most horrible means of political and social degradation left in the world." in connection with dickens' remark about ireland, we may quote the remarkable statement of mr. michael mccarthy, himself a roman catholic, in his book, _five years in ireland_, pp. and , where, after describing the welcome of the belfast corporation to lord cadogan on his first visit, in , to the protestant north of ireland, and their glowing statements about the peaceful and prosperous condition of their city and district, he contrasts this happy condition with the unhappy state of the "rest of ireland," meaning by that the roman catholic parts. "in the rest of ireland there is no social or industrial progress to record. the man who would say of it that it was 'progressing and prospering,' or that 'its work people were fully employed,' or that there existed 'a continued development of its industries,' or that its towns 'had increased in value and population,' would be set down as a madman. it is in this seven-eighths of ireland that the growing and great organization of the catholic church has taken root." mr. gladstone, in an article on "italy and her church," in the _church quarterly review_ for october, , says: "profligacy, corruption and ambition, continued for ages, unitedly and severally, their destructive work upon the country, through the curia and the papal chair; and in doing it they of course have heavily tainted the faith of which that chair was the guardian." elsewhere he says, "there has never been any more cunning blade devised against the freedom, the virtue and the happiness of a people than romanism." nathaniel hawthorne, in his _marble faun_, which, by the way, contains the most charming of all the descriptive writing about rome, put the case none too strongly when he spoke of being "disgusted with the pretense of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent" in the city of the popes. the new government has wrought a great change in this respect, and rome is in many parts of it now quite a clean city. there, then, are the facts as to the influence of the roman catholic church. i am, of course, very far from saying that there are no good people in that church. as i have already stated, i believe that there are many good people in it, but my own observation has satisfied me that the verdict of history as to the baleful influence of the system is absolutely correct. "what, then," some one may ask, "do the good people in that church think of all the immoralities and frauds that it has condoned and fostered?" the answer is that the really good people in that church must grieve over them and deplore them just as the good people in other churches do. * * * * * _p. s._--it is generally believed, and apparently with good reason, that the new pope, pius x., is a better man than many of his predecessors, and that he cannot be charged with the immoralities or the ambition and avarice which characterized them. let us hope that he will have the courage to attempt some real reform in the lives of many of his clergy. footnotes: [ ] it was a bad day for the cause of truth when foxe's _book of martyrs_ was allowed to go out of general circulation. when i was a boy it was no uncommon thing to see copies of it in american homes. now it is rarely seen. a new and corrected edition of it ought to be brought out and given wide circulation. there have been not a few indications this year that our people are forgetting some of the most instructive history of all the past, and those who seem to be most oblivious of it are the editors of some of the secular newspapers. [ ] there are other indications of some improvement in this matter, but an anglican resident in italy, quoted by the _review of reviews_ as "a painstaking and fair-minded" witness, says, "people are not shocked by clerical immorality, but regard it as natural and inevitable." to an anglican friend a roman prelate lamented that a certain cardinal was not elected at the late conclave. but the anglican replied, "he is a man of conspicuous immorality." "no doubt," was the answer, "but you americans seem to think there is no virtue but chastity. the cardinal has not that, but he is an honest man." chapter xxxii. the old forces and the new in the eternal city. [sidenote: an audience with the pope.] well, we have seen the pope. hearing that a body of italian pilgrims were to be received by the pontiff at the vatican, and having assured ourselves that the function was one which would involve no official recognition of the pope on our part, and that we should be merely protestant spectators, we gladly accepted the offer of tickets for the audience, and, supposing in our simplicity that, as the reception was set for noon, we should be sufficiently early if we went at eleven o'clock, we drove up to the main entrance of the vatican at that hour. there was a great throng of people about the door, but our tickets obtained for us immediate entrance along with a stream of other ladies and gentlemen. the regulation attire for these functions is full evening dress for gentlemen, while ladies wear black, with no hat, but with a lace mantilla on the head. we first passed through a double line of the famous swiss guards, in their extraordinary uniform of crimson, yellow and black, designed by no less a person than michael angelo. then we were shown up the great stairway, and passing through a couple of large rooms, one of which was adorned with raphael's frescoes, we found ourselves at the entrance of a long and spacious hall, already densely crowded, as it seemed to us, but with a space kept open down the centre between the rows of seats on either side. looking down this open space, we could see at the other end, on a slightly raised platform, the pontifical throne, upholstered in red velvet, with golden back and arms, effectively set in the midst of crimson hangings, which swept in rich masses from the lofty ceiling to the floor. preceded by guards, we travelled the whole length of the hall, and found, to our great gratification, that our seats were quite close to the throne, so that we had an excellent position for seeing and hearing all that was going on. we soon noticed that many of the hundreds of people present, like some of us, had not observed the regulations as to dress. many others had. mingled with the soberer attire of the spectators, pilgrims and priests, we saw now and then a violet cassock, as one bishop after another drifted in. apart from these vestments, there was no semblance of a religious gathering. it was more like a social function, and the people were chatting gaily, the jolliest and noisiest crowd being a group of young seminarians, prospective priests, who occupied the same bench with us and the two or three nearest to it. after we had been there an hour the great clock of st. peter's struck twelve. instantly all the noisy young seminarians rose to their feet and began to recite, in a lower, humming tone, their _ave-marias_ and _pater-nosters_. as soon as the reciting and counting of beads was over, as it was in a minute, they struck in again with their gay conversation. we had plenty of time to take it all in. the pope is always late, and it was an hour after the time fixed for the audience when he appeared; but at last he did, and instantly everybody, men and women, sprang up on the benches and chairs, frantically waving their handkerchiefs and shouting at the top of their voices, "_evviva il papa-re! evviva il papa-re!_"--"long live the pope-king! long live the pope-king!"--the ablest performer in this part of the ceremony being a leather-lunged young priest at my elbow, with a voice as powerful and persistent as that of a hungry calf, and who made known his desire for the restoration of the temporal power to the pope with such energy that the perspiration rolled down his fat face in shining rivulets. i never heard anything like it except in a political convention or a stock exchange. accompanied by the noble guard, a body of picked men renowned for their superb physique and clad in resplendent uniform, the holy father was borne in on an arm-chair, carried by twelve men, also in uniform. occasionally he would rise to his feet with evident effort, leaning on, or rather grasping, one arm of his chair, and bless the people he was passing, with two fingers outstretched in the familiar attitude that we have seen in the pictures. at such times the furious acclamations, and waving of handkerchiefs, and clapping of hands, would be redoubled. he passed within arm's length of us, a little knot of protestants, silent amid the uproar. it was a pitiful spectacle. a pallid, feeble, tottering old man, with slender, shrunken neck, and excessively sharp and prominent features, nose and chin almost meeting--we now understood zola's description: "the simious ugliness of his face, the largeness of his nose, the long slit of his mouth, the hugeness of his ears, the conflicting jumble of his withered features." but out of this waxen face peered a pair of brilliant dark eyes, the only sign of real vitality about him. when he had been carefully lowered by the chair-bearers, and had taken his throne on the platform, with his attendants ranged round him, the spokesman of the pilgrims came forward and read an address, to which the pope's amanuensis, standing by his side, read a brief reply. then the pope pronounced the benediction in a surprisingly clear voice, after which the pilgrims were introduced individually, not all of them, but a certain number of representative persons among them. these all knelt and kissed his hand. when this ceremony was over the audience closed, and the pontiff was borne out as he came in, amid wild applause. [sidenote: the pope's last jubilee in st. peter's.] on the third of march, while i was in egypt, our party in rome saw a much more imposing ceremony than the one i have just described. every one has noticed how numerous the papal jubilees have been during the last quarter of a century, every year or so seeing the celebration of some jubilee of the pope's official life. in twenty-one years he has had no less than fourteen of them. their frequency should not surprise us when we remember that each of them turns a vast stream of gifts and money into the papal treasury from every part of the world. one of my correspondents writes me that for the celebration of march rd both sides of the nave of st. peter's were lined with pens or boxes, all free except those near the high altar, and in the middle of the nave a passage about fifteen feet wide was railed off for the procession. "we drove to st. peter's through a pouring rain about : a. m. the building was already packed with people. it is estimated that there were fifty thousand of us by eleven o'clock. we walked down the left aisle and took our position at the base of a pillar, where we could see the pope as he entered from the right aisle. there we waited from eight o'clock till after eleven. he was an hour late. finally, we heard the silver trumpets sounding from the gallery in the dome. his guards preceded him, and other attendants bearing swords, maces and a cross. the caps indicating the offices he filled before he became pope were carried on cushions by three cardinals. he was himself carried on the shoulders of twelve men, dressed in rich red costumes. the pope sat in his red and gold chair, richly robed in white satin embroidered with gold. he wore a crown of the same materials, white silk mits, and a large ring. when he entered the nave he stood and blessed the people, holding up two fingers. the music was fine. we heard the singing as it came nearer and nearer, but as soon as the pope appeared the people broke into shouts, waving handkerchiefs, and making so much noise that we could no longer hear the music. we left after five hours." [illustration: edward vii. of england, and victor emmanuel iii. of italy, in rome.] later in the season those members of our party who remained in rome while we were travelling through egypt and palestine, had very satisfactory views of king edward vii. of england and william ii., the emperor of germany, on their visits to rome. as they had seen the prince of wales in london, and young prince edward, who will also be king of england some day if he lives, and the other royal children at marlborough house, and as they have repeatedly seen king victor emmanuel and queen helena, they have had unusual opportunities for seeing for themselves whether the royalties are made of common clay. i must say for them that they are stauncher than ever in their devotion to the republican ideals of our own country. their opportunities for seeing these royalties were better than those enjoyed by most visitors to rome, because their rooms overlooked the palace and grounds of the queen mother, marguerita, and king edward and the kaiser, like other royal visitors to rome, made it their first business to call on her. she is still the most beloved woman in italy. [sidenote: our quarters on the pincian hill.] the location of our rooms was advantageous in many other respects. they were high up in the southwestern corner of a tall building on the pincian hill, so high that we could look clear across the city to the sabine mountains. as soon as the sun rose over the eastern hills he looked cheerily into our windows, and continued his genial companionship with us till he sank into the mediterranean at night. we had selected the rooms with a view to this particularly, remembering the italian proverb that "when the sun goes out of the window, the doctor comes in at the door." a room on the north side of a building should never be taken. the roman winter is short but sharp. we could see snow on the mountains during nearly the whole of our stay, which in the case of the majority of us was five months. then, too, we were close to the city wall, and to the gate which led out into the lovely borghese gardens, "whose wooded and flowery lawns are more beautiful than the finest english park scenery," where "the stone pines lift their dense clumps of branches upon a slender length of stem, so high that they look like green islands in the air, flinging down a shadow upon the turf so far off that you scarcely know which tree made it"; where there are "avenues of cypress, resembling dark flames of huge funeral candles, which spread dusk and twilight round about them, instead of cheerful radiance"; and where ancient and majestic ilex trees "lean over the green turf in ponderous grace.... never was there a more venerable quietude than that which sleeps among their sheltering boughs; never a sweeter sunshine than that which gladdens the gentle gloom which these leafy patriarchs strive to diffuse over the swelling and subsiding lawns." moreover, our quarters were within so short a walk of the park on the pincio (where the band plays every afternoon, and where all rome drives round and round the little circle at the top), and of the terrace of the villa medici, that we were drawn thither day after day to watch the picturesque groups of models lounging in the wintry sun on the great flight of steps that lead from the church of trinita de' monti down to the piazza di spagna, to muse over the eternal city spread out below us, with the dome of st. peter's, in the distance, standing out against a sky of gold, and, above all, to watch "the light that broods over the fallen sun." nowhere in the world, at least so far as my observation of it extends, is this wonderful glow which suffuses all the western sky with crimson, orange and violet lights after the sun goes down--nowhere else is this afterglow at once so rich and so delicate as at rome. [sidenote: the sweep of history seen from the janiculan.] but it is from the janiculan hill, on the other side of the tiber, that one gets the most comprehensive view of the city. among other things that take the eye from that commanding point there are three hills which may be said to epitomize the history of rome: on the east the palatine, where, as its name intimates, the palaces of the cæsar's stood, representing the culmination of the glory of pagan rome; on the west, the vatican, where, as its name suggests, a prophet ought to dwell, though i fear he does not, and where st. peter's, with its "insolent opulence of marble" and its colossal apotheosis of the popedom, represents the culmination of the glory of papal rome; and, immediately in front, in the centre of the city, the quirinal, where victor emmanuel's royal house stands, representing the new government of free and united italy. from his windows in the quirinal palace, the king can look across the intervening city to the windows of that other palace where the relentless foe of his government lives, that vast, luxurious "prison" of the vatican, with its eleven thousand rooms, the largest palace in the world, with its museums and libraries filled with priceless treasures, and with its extensive gardens and grounds. zola has pointed out how persistent, through all these three periods of rome's history, has been that passion for cyclopean building, the "blossoming of that ancient sap, peculiar to the soil of rome, which in all ages has thrown up preposterous edifices, of exaggerated hugeness and dazzling and ruinous luxury." first, the pagan emperors set the pace, and of their work we may take the colosseum and the baths of caracalla as specimens. [sidenote: the colosseum and the baths of caracalla.] "the colosseum. ah! that colossus, only one-half or so of which has been destroyed by time as with the stroke of a mighty scythe, it rises in its enormity and majesty like a stone lacework, with hundreds of empty bays agape against the blue of heaven! there is a world of halls, stairs, landings and passages, a world where one loses one's self amid the death-like silence and solitude. the furrowed tiers of seats, eaten into by the atmosphere, are like shapeless steps leading down into some old extinct crater, some natural circus excavated by the force of the elements in indestructible rock. the hot suns of eighteen hundred years have baked and scorched this ruin, which has reverted to a state of nature, bare and golden-brown like a mountain side, since it has been stripped of its vegetation, the flora which once made it like a virgin forest. and what an evocation when the mind sets flesh and blood and life again on all that dead osseous framework, fills the circus with the ninety thousand spectators which it could hold, marshals the games and the combats of the arena, gathers a whole civilization together, from the emperor and the dignitaries to the surging plebeian sea, all aglow with the agitation and brilliancy of an impassioned people, assembled under the ruddy reflection of the giant purple _velum_. and then, yet further on the horizon, were other cyclopean ruins, the baths of caracalla, standing there like relics of a race of giants long since vanished from the world: halls extravagantly and inexplicably spacious and lofty; vestibules large enough for an entire population; a _frigidarium_, where five hundred people could swim together; a _tepidarium_ and a _calidarium_ on the same proportions, born of a wild craving for the huge; and then the terrific massiveness of the structures, the thickness of the piles of brick-work, such as no feudal castle ever knew; and, in addition, the general immensity which makes passing visitors look like lost ants; one wonders for what men, for what multitudes, this monstrous edifice was reared. to-day you would say a mass of rocks in the rough thrown from some height for building the abode of titans." [sidenote: the papal passion for terrestrial immortality.] then the popes, when they came to power, followed this pagan example, moved by the same spirit of conquest, the same human vanity, the same passionate desire to set their names on imperishable walls, and, after dominating the world, to leave behind them indestructible traces, tangible proofs of their passing glory, eternal edifices of bronze and marble, to attest that glory till the end of time. "among the illustrious popes there has not been one that did not seek to build, did not revert to the traditions of the cæsars, eternizing their reigns in stone and raising temples for resting-places, so as to rank among the gods. ever the same passion for terrestrial immortality has burst forth: it has been a battle as to who should leave the highest, most substantial, most gorgeous monument; and so acute has been the disease that those who, for lack of means and opportunity, have been unable to build, and have been forced to content themselves with repairing, have, nevertheless, desired to bequeath the memory of their modest achievements to subsequent generations by commemorative marble slabs engraved with pompous inscriptions. these slabs are to be seen on every side; not a wall has ever been strengthened but some pope has stamped it with his arms, not a ruin has been restored, not a palace repaired, not a fountain cleaned, but the reigning pope has signed the work with his roman and pagan title of 'pontifex maximus.'[ ] it is a haunting passion, a form of involuntary debauchery, the fated florescence of that compost of ruins, that dust of edifices whence new edifices are ever arising. and given the perversion with which the old roman soil almost immediately tarnished the doctrines of jesus, that resolute passion for domination, and that desire for terrestrial glory which wrought the triumph of catholicism in scorn of the humble and pure, the fraternal and simple ones of the primitive church, one may well ask whether rome has ever been christian at all." [sidenote: the building boom under the new government.] and, finally, the new government of victor emmanuel, for a time at least, was caught in the same current, infected with the same mania for building that seems to exhale from the very soil of the eternal city. as the popes had not become masters of rome without feeling impelled to rebuild it in their passion to rule over the world, so young italy, "yielding to the hereditary madness of universal domination, had in its turn sought to make the city larger than any other, erecting whole districts for people who never came." but, fortunately for italy, the old idea was not unmixed with newer and better ones. their first delirious outburst of huge building operations has been explained as "a legitimate explosion of the delight and the hopes of a young nation anxious to show its power. the question was to make rome a modern capital worthy of a great kingdom, and before aught else there were sanitary requirements to be dealt with; the city needed to be cleansed of all the filth which disgraced it. one cannot nowadays imagine in what abominable putrescence the city of the popes, the _roma sporca_ which artists regret, was then steeped: the vast majority of the houses lacked even the most primitive arrangements, the public thoroughfares were used for all purposes, noble ruins served as store-places for sewage, the princely palaces were surrounded by filth, and the streets were perfect manure beds, which fostered frequent epidemics. thus, vast municipal works were absolutely necessary; the question was one of health and life itself. and in much the same way it was only right to think of building houses for the new comers who would assuredly flock into the city. there had been a precedent at berlin, whose population, after the establishment of the german empire, had suddenly increased by some hundreds of thousands. in the same way the population of rome would certainly be doubled, tripled, quadrupled, for, as the new centre of national life, the city would necessarily attract all the _vis viva_ of the provinces. and at this thought pride stepped in; the fallen government of the vatican must be shown what italy was capable of achieving, what splendor she would bestow on the new and third rome, which, by the magnificence of its thoroughfares and the multitude of its people, would far excel either the imperial or the papal city." we need not follow the melancholy story of this delusion. the boom had a disastrous collapse, and the city was left full of vast, pretentious, flimsy, deserted palaces. the best thing about them is that they are perishable. the lesson, happily, was not lost on the men of the new order in italy, and they seem at last to have extricated themselves from the toils of that miasmatic megalo-mania. the government is sane, sound, conservative, proceeding with care and deliberation in its upbuilding of the country, understanding the meaning of the proverb that "rome was not built in a day," and it has already given the country more security and prosperity than it has enjoyed for many, many centuries. if it can continue to maintain itself against the priests, there is undoubtedly a bright future before italy. but can it maintain itself against the priests? i think so. yet a man would be blind indeed who could not see their number, power and activity. rome swarms with them. speaking of the incredible number of cassocks that one encounters in the streets, zola says: "ah! that ebb and flow; that ceaseless tide of black gowns and frocks of every hue! with their processions of students ever walking abroad, the seminaries of the different nations would alone suffice to drape and decorate the streets, for there are the french and the english all in black, the south americans in black with blue sashes, the north americans in black with red sashes, the poles in black with green sashes, the greeks in blue, the germans in red, the scots in violet, the romans in black or violet or purple, the bohemians with chocolate sashes, the irish with red lappets, the spaniards with blue cords, to say nothing of all the others with broidery and bindings and buttons in a hundred different styles. and, in addition, there are the confraternities, the penitents, white, black, blue and gray, with sleeveless frocks and capes of different hue, gray, blue, black or white. and thus, even nowadays, papal rome at times seems to resuscitate, and one can realize how tenaciously and vigorously she struggles on in order that she may not disappear in the cosmopolitan rome of the new era." yes, italy will escape from the clutches of the papacy, but she will have to work. there must be no relaxation of vigilance or energy on her part--or on ours. for this multitude of young priests from every part of the world spells menace for other lands besides italy. footnote: [ ] on the appian way, beyond the tomb of cecilia metella, a marble tablet has been placed, informing all men that here pius ix. once ate his lunch. chapter xxxiii. the two types of religion in rome. [sidenote: the cappuccini cemetery.] only three or four blocks from our hotel stands the church of the cappuccini, which contains one of the most gruesome sights in rome, the celebrated cemetery of the cappuccini monks, the soil of which was brought from jerusalem. all roman catholic cemeteries have a peculiarly melancholy aspect. they have none of that gentle beauty which is so characteristic of our cemeteries, where the grass grows green under the open sky or great trees cast their peaceful shade over "god's acre." but this is the most weird and ghastly of them all. there are four recesses or chapels underneath the church, the pillars and pilasters of which are made of thigh-bones and skulls, the architectural ornaments being represented by the joints of the spine, and the more delicate tracery by the smaller bones of the human frame. "the summits of the arches are adorned with entire skeletons, looking as if they were wrought most skillfully in bas-relief. there is no possibility of describing how ugly and grotesque is the effect.... on some of the skulls there are inscriptions, purporting that such a monk, who formerly made use of that particular head-piece, died on such a day and year; but vastly the greater number are piled up undistinguishably into the architectural design.... in the side walls of the vaults are niches where skeleton monks sit or stand, clad in the brown habits that they wore in life.... yet let us give the cemetery the praise that it deserves. there is no disagreeable scent, such as might have been expected from the decay of so many holy persons, in whatever odor of sanctity they may have taken their departure. the same number of living monks would not smell half so unexceptionably." so hawthorne says, and i have spared my readers the most disagreeable parts of his description. the allusion in his last sentence is one which is justified by the olfactory organs of every visitor to rome. the vices which were encouraged in the magnificent baths of the emperors, and which have given the word _bagnio_ an evil signification the world over, "found their reaction in the impression of the early christians that uncleanliness was a virtue, an impression which is retained by several of the monastic orders to the present day." we sometimes weary of the superabundant advertisements of the different kinds of soap in the advertising pages of our monthly magazines. but what a wholesome sign it is! and what a difference it marks between us and the average italian! and what a field for their business would be opened to mr. pears and the rest if only the monks would adopt the view that "cleanliness is next to godliness," and that, therefore, soap might be regarded as a sort of means of grace! [sidenote: some differences between america and italy.] mark twain once described what he would say, if he were a native of italy, and had been on a visit to the united states, and had come back to the campagna for the purpose of telling his italian countrymen what he had seen in america: "one hardly ever sees a minister of the gospel going around there in his bare feet, with a basket, begging for subsistence. in that country the preachers are not like our mendicant orders of friars--they have two or three suits of clothing, _and they wash sometimes_."... "i saw common men and common women who could read; i even saw small children of common country people reading from books; if i dared think you would believe it, i would say they could write, also.... i saw real glass windows in the houses of even the commonest people. some of the houses are not of stone, nor yet of bricks; i solemnly swear they are made of wood. houses there will take fire and burn, sometimes--actually burn entirely down, and not leave a single vestige behind. i could state that for a truth upon my death-bed. and, as a proof that the circumstance is not rare, i aver that they have a thing which they call a fire-engine, which vomits forth great streams of water, and is kept always in readiness, by night and by day, to rush to houses that are burning. you would think one engine would be sufficient, but some great cities have a hundred; they keep men hired, and pay them by the month to do nothing but put out fires.[ ]... in that singular country if a rich man dies a sinner, he is damned; he cannot buy salvation with money for masses. there is really not much use in being rich there. not much use as far as the other world is concerned, but much, very much, use as concerns this; because there, if a man be rich, he is very greatly honored, and can become a legislator, a governor, a general, a senator, no matter how ignorant an ass he is--just as in our beloved italy the nobles hold all the great places, even though sometimes they are born noble idiots. there, if a man be rich, they give him costly presents, they ask him to feasts, they invite him to drink complicated beverages; but if he be poor and in debt, they require him to do that which they term to 'settle.'... in that country you might fall from a third-story window three several times and not mash either a soldier or a priest.... jews there are treated just like human beings, instead of dogs.... they never have had to run races naked through the public streets against jackasses to please the people in carnival time; there they never have been driven by the soldiers into a church every sunday for hundreds of years to hear themselves and their religion especially and particularly cursed."[ ] [sidenote: the playful inquisition.] while i have mark twain in hand, i will make two more quotations from him, and then dismiss him for good. looking from the dome of st. peter's upon the building which was once the inquisition, he says: "how times are changed, between the older ages and the new! some seventeen or eighteen centuries ago, the ignorant men of rome were wont to put christians in the arena of the coliseum yonder, and turn the wild beasts in upon them for a show. it was for a lesson as well. it was to teach the people to abhor and fear the new doctrine the followers of christ were teaching. the beasts tore the victims limb from limb, and made poor mangled corpses of them in the twinkling of an eye. but when the christians came into power, when the holy mother church became mistress of the barbarians, she taught them the error of their ways by no such means. no, she put them in this pleasant inquisition, and pointed to the blessed redeemer, who was so gentle and so merciful toward all men, and they urged the barbarians to love him; and they did all they could to persuade them to love and honor him--first by twisting their thumbs out of joint with a screw; then by nipping their flesh with pincers--red-hot ones, because they are the most comfortable in cold weather; then by skinning them alive a little, and finally by roasting them in public. they always convinced those barbarians. the true religion, properly administered, as the good mother church used to administer it, is very, very soothing. it is wonderfully persuasive, also. there is a great difference between feeding parties to wild beasts and stirring up their finer feelings in an inquisition. one is the system of degraded barbarians, the other of enlightened, civilized people. it is a great pity the playful inquisition is no more." [sidenote: the relative rank of the deities worshipped in rome.] speaking of a mosaic group at the side of the scala santa which represents the saviour, st. peter, pope leo, st. silvester, constantine and charlemagne, he says: "peter is giving the _pallium_ to the pope, and a standard to charlemagne. the saviour is giving the keys to st. silvester, and a standard to constantine. no prayer is offered to the saviour, who seems to be of little importance anywhere in rome; but an inscription below says, '_blessed peter, give life to pope leo and victory to king charles_.' it does not say, '_intercede for us_, through the saviour, with the father, for this boon,' but 'blessed peter, _give it_ us.' "in all seriousness--without meaning to be frivolous, without meaning to be irreverent, and, more than all, without meaning to be blasphemous--i state, as my simple deduction from the things i have seen and the things i have heard, that the holy personages rank thus in rome: "_first._ 'the mother of god'--otherwise the virgin mary. "_second._ the deity. "_third._ peter. "_fourth._ some twelve or fifteen canonized popes and martyrs. "_fifth._ jesus christ the saviour (but always an infant in arms). "i may be wrong in this--my judgment errs often, just as is the case with other men's--but it _is_ my judgment, be it good or bad. "just here i will mention something that seems curious to me. there are no 'christ's churches' in rome, and no 'churches of the holy ghost,' that i can discover. there are some four hundred churches, but about a fourth of them seem to be named for the madonna and st. peter. there are so many named for mary that they have to be distinguished by all sorts of affixes, if i understand the matter rightly. then we have churches of st. louis, st. augustine, st. agnes, st. calixtus, st. lorenzo in lucina, st. lorenzo in damaso, st. cecilia, st. athanasius, st. philip neri, st. catherine, st. dominico, and a multitude of lesser saints whose names are not familiar in the world--and away down, clear out of the list of the churches, comes a couple of hospitals; one of them is named for the saviour and the other for the holy ghost!" [sidenote: the fee of the visitor more important than the soul of the worshipper.] but we have allowed this clean, shrewd, racy american with his biting satire and his outspoken common sense, to lead us far away from our subject. let us come back to the church of the cappuccini. for, besides its horrible cemetery, it contains another object of great interest, though of a very different character, viz., guido's great picture of the archangel michael trampling upon the devil. the devil's face is said to be a portrait of pope innocent x., against whom the painter had a spite. it is not for the purpose of describing the picture that i refer to it, for i am not competent to do that, but for the purpose of quoting the animadversions of another american writer upon the custom of concealing this picture and others of special interest in romish churches with closely drawn curtains, requiring the presence of an attendant to unveil them and the bestowment of a fee by the visitor. "the churchmen of italy make no scruple of sacrificing the very purpose for which a work of sacred art has been created, that of opening the way for religious sentiment through the quick medium of sight, by bringing angels, saints and martyrs down visibly upon earth--of sacrificing this high purpose, and, for aught they know, the welfare of many souls along with it, to the hope of a paltry fee. every work by an artist of celebrity is hidden behind a veil, and seldom revealed, except to protestants, who scorn it as an object of devotion, and value it only for its artistic merit." [sidenote: sensuality versus spirituality in art.] the same author (hawthorne), speaking of the terrible lack of variety in the subjects of the great italian masters, says a quarter part, probably, of any large collection of pictures consists of virgins and infant christs.... half of the other pictures are magdalens, flights into egypt, crucifixions, etc. "the remainder of the gallery comprises mythological subjects, such as nude venuses, ledas, graces, and, in short, a general apotheosis of nudity.... these impure pictures are from the same illustrious and impious hands that adventured to call before us the august forms of apostles and saints, the blessed mother of the redeemer, and her son, at his death, and in his glory, and even the awfulness of him to whom the martyrs, dead a thousand years ago, have not dared to raise their eyes. they seem to take up one task or the other--the disrobed woman whom they call venus, or the type of highest and tenderest womanhood in the mother of the saviour--with equal readiness, but to achieve the former with far more satisfactory success. if an artist sometimes produced a picture of the virgin possessing warmth enough to excite devotional feelings, it was probably the object of his earthly love, to whom he thus paid the stupendous and fearful homage of setting up her portrait to be worshipped, not figuratively as a mortal, but by religious souls in their earnest aspirations towards divinity. and who can trust the religious sentiment of raphael, or receive any of his virgins as heaven-descended likenesses, after seeing, for example, the "fornarina" of the barberini palace, and feeling how sensual the artist must have been to paint such a brazen trollop of his own accord, and lovingly? would the blessed mary reveal herself to his spiritual vision, and favor him with sittings alternately with that type of glowing earthliness, the fornarina?" [sidenote: the kind of character produced.] true, hawthorne proceeds at once to weaken the force of this criticism somewhat by referring to the throng of spiritual faces, innocent cherubs, serene angels, pure-eyed madonnas, and "that divinest countenance in the transfiguration"--all of which we owe to raphael's marvellous brush. but the criticism above quoted is sound. and that hawthorne himself saw how little such "sacred art" had availed to lift the representatives of this kind of worship out of gross sensualism, let the following passage witness: "here was a priesthood, pampered, sensual, with red and bloated cheeks, and carnal eyes. with apparently a grosser development of animal life than most men, they were placed in an unnatural relation with woman, and thereby lost the healthy, human conscience that pertains to other human beings, who own the sweet household ties connecting them with wife and daughter. and here was an indolent nobility, with no high aims or opportunities, but cultivating a vicious way of life, as if it were an art, and the only one which they cared to learn. here was a population, high and low, that had no genuine belief in virtue; and if they recognized any act as criminal, they might throw off all care, remorse and memory of it, by kneeling a little while at the confessional, and rising unburdened, active, elastic and incited by fresh appetite for the next ensuing sin." of course all the priests are not such as above described, as eugene sue has endeavored to show in the character of gabriel in _the wandering jew_, and victor hugo in the character of the good bishop in _les miserables_, and marie corelli in the character of the good cardinal bonpre in _the master christian_. hawthorne simply describes the prevailing type. let it be observed, too, that he is speaking of the priests in italy, not of those in america, among whom we are glad to believe there is a much larger proportion of good men. moreover, it should not be forgotten that the present premier of italy has himself stated publicly, in a passage which i have quoted in chapter xxix., that there has been some improvement, at least in the outward conduct of the clergy, since the overthrow of the papal government, and that the immorality of the priests and cardinals is not so shamelessly flaunted in rome as it used to be under the popes. [sidenote: the other type.] on the th of september, , the italian army entered rome, after a slight resistance. this event, which marked the downfall of the temporal power of the papacy, the unification of italy, and the establishment of religious liberty under the enlightened and progressive government of victor emmanuel, is properly commemorated in the name of a handsome street, via venti settembre, which extends from the porta pia, where the army entered, to the quirinal palace, where the king resides. appropriately placed on a street which thus commemorates the establishment of civil and religious freedom in italy, are several of the protestant churches, which for the last thirty years have caused a pure river of water of life to flow once more through rome as in the days when the great apostle of the gentiles preached there the kingdom of god, and taught the things concerning the lord jesus christ with all boldness, none forbidding him. at no. on this high and pleasant street we find a tall, clean, handsome building, standing well back from the street, with a spacious, green yard in front, the whole occupying a portion of what were once the gardens of the barberini palace. a neat notice-board on the high iron picket fence informs us that this attractive building is the presbyterian church, and that the pastor is the rev. j. gordon gray, d. d. [sidenote: an apostolic preacher in rome.] when you enter the church on sunday morning, a few minutes before eleven o'clock, you find it filled with a congregation of exceptionally intelligent people, mostly english-speaking residents in rome and english-speaking visitors from every part of the world, including many christians of other denominations besides our own--for it does not take visitors in rome long to find out how strong and wholesome is the spiritual nourishment here furnished, how broad-minded and large-hearted the minister is, and how surely he declares the whole counsel of god, without ever a syllable that can offend any of those who love our lord jesus christ in sincerity. if you return in the afternoon, as you will do if you are wise, and as everybody does, in fact, after hearing him once, you will find the house full again, and, while you will see no splendid pageant, no rows of bishops and archbishops in purple and lace and furs, no robing and disrobing, no intoned service in latin, no choral responses from high and gilded choir loft, no clouds of incense filling the air--you will hear the old sweet gospel in all its pristine purity--you will see the great apostle and his friends before you, instinct with life and love and zeal, as the minister lectures, with astonishing fullness and accuracy of information and sympathetic understanding, on roman sites which can be identified with st. paul's sojourn here, the saints of cæsar's household in the light of the columbaria, the site and probable incidents of paul's roman trial, the first martyrdoms and the probable site of nero's circus, paul's two years in his hired house, paul's travels and labors between his first and second roman imprisonments, the closing years of paul's ministry, the jews in rome in paul's time--and you will hear things that make for the peace of your soul and for your upbuilding on your most holy faith as he expounds the chief elements of paul's teaching; christ in early christian art as found in the roman catacombs; the state after death, prayers to the dead, and prayers for the dead, in the light of the testimony of the roman catacombs; the place and efficacy of the sacraments in the light of the testimony of the roman catacombs; and the ministry in the early church of the catacombs. [sidenote: a wise and loving pastor.] surely never was christian workman better adapted to his work than dr. gray. the sturdy frame, the massive head, the clear eye, the kindly voice, the genial manner, the transparent sincerity, and the ready sympathy of the man, invite one's confidence from the first, and the longer you know him the more you value him for his rare combination of strength and tenderness, and for his wisdom, piety and learning. we had the good fortune to hear his sermon on the eighteenth anniversary of the formation of his pastorate in rome, in which he reviewed the history of his church during those eighteen years, and the years immediately preceding, and the growth of protestantism in rome since the downfall of the papacy--and a deeply interesting discourse it was. it lifted one's hopes for the future of italy. undoubtedly the day is breaking over the darkness which has so long lain like a pall over this lovely land. a good man is known by his prayers. there is a fullness, propriety and fervor about dr. gray's public prayers that are seldom equalled. the homesick stranger, with the wide ocean between him and his native land--the professional man wavering in health and doubtful as to the future--the stricken widow, who has lost her husband by the sudden stroke of death--as well as those who bear the usual burdens of the human heart, find themselves strangely comforted and cheered, strangely relieved of their toils and cares and anxieties and fears, strangely upborne and strengthened, as this man of god pours from a sympathetic heart the needs of his people into the ear of him who careth for us. among the usual petitions on sunday morning there is invariably one for the king of england and the royal family, the president of the united states, and the king and queen of italy. we had two reminders on the nd of february that it was washington's birthday: one was the flags hanging out at the american embassy, and the other was dr. gray's prayer of thanksgiving for the character and services of washington. he never forgets anything. yet his activities are multifarious. his resourcefulness, adequacy and strength have long since made him the real dean of the fine force of protestant ministers in rome. his advice is sought by them, and by all manner of visitors to rome, on all manner of subjects. he is deeply interested in the matter of excavating the house of priscilla and aquila, the apostle paul's friends, on the aventine, and hopes to raise the necessary funds and have that done--a valuable service to archæological and biblical learning. he ought by all means to be allowed to find time to publish a volume on the apostle paul in rome. dr. gray is another of the many good gifts of scotland to the world, and, like dr. alexander whyte, of edinburgh, and other eminent scotchmen, is an aberdeen man. they are some of the aberdonians who almost tempt us at times to agree with the aberdeen man of whom our good scotch physician in rome told me the other day, who said, "tak' awa' aberdeen and sax miles around it, and what would you have left?" footnotes: [ ] few things struck our boys so much as the non-occurrence of fires in rome, and the absence of all apparatus for extinguishing them, and on our return to america few things seemed so strange to us at first as the frame houses in the new jersey towns along the pennsylvania railroad. [ ] this custom of compelling jews to listen to christian sermons was only abolished in , under pius ix., through influence of michelangelo caëtani, duke of sermoneta. chapter xxxiv. the inexhaustibleness of rome. rome is easily the most interesting city in the world. the subject is simply inexhaustible. ampere said that by diligence one could obtain a superficial knowledge of it in ten years. just what terms should be used to characterize the seventy pages or so that i have written, from the basis of the desultory reading and observation of only a few months, i must leave to the decision of the reader. "presumptuous sciolism," perhaps. and, yet, though i have filled these seventy pages with what i regarded as pertinent descriptions, salient facts and suggestive quotations from the best authorities, all subjected to as much compression as was consistent with a fair statement of the particular points which i wished to make, i have restricted myself almost exclusively to one phase of the subject, viz., ecclesiastical rome, and have had almost nothing to say of classical rome and artistic rome. even when confining myself to this one line, i have found no opportunity to give you any description of the appian way, over the paving-stones of which the apostle paul entered rome in a. d. (acts xxviii. - ); or of the pyramid of cestius, still standing beside the road, just outside the gate which now bears the apostle's name--a sepulchral monument upon which his eyes must have rested for a moment as he passed out to his own execution--"among the works of man, that pyramid is the only surviving witness of the martyrdom of st. paul"; or of the catacombs, those vast labyrinths of subterranean galleries, the aggregate length of which is estimated at nearly six hundred miles, so that if placed end to end they would extend the whole length of italy--where the bodies of thousands of the early christians were laid in full hope of the resurrection; or of the bronze statue of st. peter in the great cathedral, the extended foot of which has been largely worn away by the kisses of roman catholic devotees--the figure which, on the occasion of pope leo's jubilee, our party saw dressed up in a mitre and pontifical robes; or of houdon's marvellous statue of st. bruno in the church of st. maria degli angeli, of which clement xiv., the pope who is supposed to have died of poison administered by the jesuits, in , used to say, "he would speak, if the rule of his order did not forbid it"; or of the statue of that other bruno who now stands in the campo de' fiori, on the spot where he was burnt as a heretic in for his advocacy of the copernican system. i have been able to say nothing of the remains of classical rome, such as the palaces of the cæsars, the arch of titus--with its bas-reliefs of the golden candle-stick and other treasures from the temple at jerusalem, which were borne among the spoils of that emperor's triumph--the monuments of the forum, the column of trajan, the tomb of hadrian, the much lauded equestrian statue of marcus aurelius on the capitoline hill, the immensely impressive pantheon, and the majestic statue of pompey, at the foot of which julius cæsar was assassinated. i have not been able even to mention such masterpieces of sculpture as the dancing faun, the dying gaul--"butchered to make a roman holiday"--the laocoon, the apollo belvedere, the young augustus, and scores of others, or such paintings as guido's "aurora," michelangelo's "last judgment," and the scarcely less wonderful creations of botticelli, titian and domenichino. i have had to pass unnoticed such tempting details as the tarpeian rock, the site of the bridge which horatius kept in the brave days of old, the walls of the paedagogium under the palatine cliff, where a school boy had drawn, for the encouragement of his successors, a sketch of an ass turning a corn-mill, with the superscription in latin, "work, little donkey, as i have worked, and it will profit thee"; the famous keyhole view of st. peter's from the aventine, and many others, for which i must refer you to other books. [sidenote: the best books about rome.] besides the books on rome, such as hare's _walks_, and hawthorne's _marble faun_, to which i have tried to introduce my readers by appetizing quotations from time to time in former letters, i must mention also dennie's _pagan rome_, story's _roba di roma_, mrs. ward's _eleanor_ (which contains the best descriptions of the wonderful scenery around lake nemi), and the standard works of professor lanciani. these are much better for home reading, and even for reading on the spot, than the guide books. in a sumptuously bound and profusely illustrated copy of lanciani's _new tales of old rome_, which was presented to me by a friend last christmas, i find a criticism of the well-known passage in which lord mahon refers to the fact that the last of the stuarts, the old pretender, his wife, and his two sons, are buried in st. peter's, and where, lord mahon says, "a stately monument from the chisel of canova has since risen to the memory of james iii., charles iii., and henry ix., kings of england, names which an englishman can scarcely read without a smile or a sigh." lanciani says, "lord mahon could have saved both his smiles and his sighs if he had simply read with care the epitaph engraved on the monument, which says: 'to james iii., son of james ii., king of great britain, to charles edward, and henry, dean of the sacred college, sons of james iii., the last of the royal house of stuart.'" this is the only statement, so far as i have observed, in professor lanciani's writings which is not scrupulously fair. that the criticism is not perfectly fair is clear from the very inscription which he cites, where the old pretender is twice called james iii.; from the inscription on the tomb of his wife, close at hand, where she is called "queen of great britain, france and ireland"; from the fact that the canopy under which the body of the old pretender lay in state at rome for five days, crowned, sceptred, and in royal robes, was inscribed, "jacobus, magnæ britanniæ rex, anno mdcclxvi."; and from the fact, stated by lanciani himself in the same volume, that when charles edward, the young pretender, died, cardinal york, his brother, proclaimed himself the legitimate sovereign of great britain and ireland, under the name of henry ix. lord mahon was substantially correct. st. peter's is a peculiarly appropriate place of sepulture for the line of tyrannical kings who tried so hard to fasten the yoke of romanism upon great britain. they went to their own place. england and scotland will do well to remember that the same forces which the stuarts represented, and which endangered their liberties then, still constitute the gravest menace to the true freedom of their island empire. one other book i must mention before finishing what i have to say about the literature of this vast subject: the volume entitled _ave roma immortalis_, by francis marion crawford, son of the sculptor to whom we are indebted for the superb equestrian statue of washington at richmond, with its circle of illustrious virginians in bronze. let no one be deterred by the latin title. the book itself is written in the most delightful english. it is not to be commended without qualification, for this prolific author who bears the name of the immortal huguenot partisan of south carolina, and ought by every consideration, so far as we know, to be a sturdy protestant, has suffered somewhat in his religious faith by his italian birth and rearing. but his book is full of good things culled from wide and discriminating reading, the feature that is really of most value in a book of travel. but i must not forget that, while there is no limit to such a subject as rome, there is a limit to the patience of my readers. so we will now take leave of rome abruptly, and pass at once to naples and its environs, where we spent the concluding days of our sojourn in italy. chapter xxxv. naples, capri, vesuvius, amalfi and pompeii. naples is the largest, dirtiest and most beautiful city in italy. from the balconies of our hotel, which stands high on the thickly-built hillside, we have a matchless view--the cream-colored city at our feet, with its red roofs and blue domes, rising from the water's edge and climbing the embayed mountain like half of a vast amphitheatre; the volcano of vesuvius beyond, lifting its white plume of warning smoke by day, and sometimes glaring red at night; the brown ruins of overwhelmed but disentombed pompeii a little to the right; then the cliffs of sorrento; and, stretching between us and them, the bay itself, with its incomparable crescent of contiguous cities running like a fringe of snow round its blue waters. there-- "the bridegroom sea is toying with the shore, his wedded bride; and in the fullness of his marriage joy he decorates her tawny brow with shells, retires a space to see how fair she looks, then proud runs up to kiss her." [illustration: panorama of naples.] [sidenote: street scenes in naples.] the contrast between the heavenly scenery of this bay and that awful volcano, which stands over it like an ever-present threat of destruction, reminds one of the cherubim which stood at the gate of eden to guarantee the restoration of redeemed and glorified humanity to communion with god, along with the self-revolving sword which symbolized the certainty and terribleness of divine vengeance upon sin. but neither by the promises of his grace nor by the threat of his vengeance do these people seem to be restrained from sin. many of them are sunk in vice. the contrast between splendor and squalor, superfluous wealth and abject poverty, which characterizes all large cities, is sharper, if possible, here than anywhere else. but it is the latter, the picturesque misery of naples, that makes most impression upon the visitor. some of the narrow streets, often not more than ten or twenty feet wide, are indescribably filthy, and they swarm with bareheaded, untidy women and half-naked children, yelling hucksters and pertinacious beggars, dirty monks and gowned priests. all this, and more which cannot here be set down, in one of the loveliest places on this beautiful earth. an observant and witty friend of mine says: "the people live outdoors, and for the best of reason--they would die indoors.... into most of the living rooms on their narrowest streets the sun never shines.... at the best, the ordinary buildings feel sepulchral, and an overcoat is to be worn here in the house, and not on the streets! lining the sides of many, if not most of the streets, are shops or booths. they are, as far as one can see, single rooms, furnished about the door with vegetables, or meats, or maccaroni, or wine bottles, or charcoal, or bread, the rest of the room filled with beds and tables and dressers, with dishes and food, and shrines and highly-colored chromos of the saints and apostles. the children are washed and dressed in the doorways, and their heads constantly watched and investigated, much after the friendly fashion of monkeys. by the way, peddlers are forever thrusting small boxes of combs into our faces, insisting upon our buying. we have not purchased any yet--but who can tell? the people do much of their cooking in small braziers outside the doors, on the sidewalk, burning charcoal and fanning the fires with hats or aprons. they have no hesitancy about eating out of the same dish and in the public eye. cows and goats are driven along the street and milked at the doors into glasses or bottles, which seems a fair guarantee for the milk being fresh. the calves and kids come to town, too, and take in the ways of the city, along with what they get of their mothers' milk. women wash clothes at the public fountains, some bringing wash-boards or flat stones, some treading the clothes in tubs with their feet. from windows and balconies, on lines stretched along the streets and on cane poles that almost touch the opposite houses, the wet things drip and dry. squads of soldiers in various uniforms pass and repass at all times of day; old women knit and rest in the doorways; vegetable and fish venders proclaim their wares in high, hard voices. at their cries baskets are let down from upper windows, and the sharpest bargains in the shrillest accents are driven in midair. if the goods are not satisfactory, down go the baskets to the sidewalk." of course we visited the aquarium, said to be the finest in the world, and the museum, with its two thousand mural paintings brought from pompeii, and its collection of ancient bronzes--also the finest in the world. but the things that interested us most were not in naples, but around it--such as puteoli, where, many centuries ago, on a balmy spring day like this, when the south wind was blowing softly over the sea, the apostle paul landed, with luke and aristarchus, on his way to rome; and where the ruins of the temple of jupiter serapis, bearing sea-marks at various levels and having its columns perforated by lithodomites and containing imbedded shells, shows how the building, by gradual subsidence of the land, was first let down into the water, and then by volcanic upheaval lifted again to the higher level. [sidenote: the blue grotto at capri.] directly in front of us as we look from our windows, but far out over the expanse of sunlit water, twenty-two miles away, we can see capri, lying like a turquoise gem on the bosom of the bay. our party returned from their visit to this enchanting island with quite new conceptions of the color effects that may be produced by the combination of sunlight and sea water. when the steamer stops at capri, a short distance beyond the town of capri, the passengers get into small boats and are rowed up to a lofty cliff, in the base of which, at the water level, there is a small hole, four feet high and four feet wide, so small, indeed, that it cannot be entered at all when the tide is up or the water is rough. even under favorable conditions, passengers have to sit on the bottom of the boat and duck their heads. this is the entrance to the wonderful blue grotto. "once within, you find yourself in an arched cavern about one hundred and sixty feet long, one hundred and twenty wide, and about seventy high. how deep it is no man knows. it goes down to the bottom of the ocean. the waters of this placid subterranean lake are the brightest, loveliest blue that can be imagined. they are as transparent as plate glass, and their coloring would shame the richest sky that ever bent over italy. no tint could be more ravishing, no lustre more superb. throw a stone into the water, and the myriad of tiny bubbles that are created flash out a brilliant glare like blue theatrical fires. dip an oar, and its blade turns to frosted silver, tinted with blue. let a man jump in, and instantly he is cased in an armor more gorgeous than ever kingly crusader wore." two boys, in the scantiest possible attire, who were standing on a ledge when we entered, clothed themselves repeatedly in this celestial armor for our delectation and their profit, by diving for the pennies flung into the water by the passengers. [sidenote: the ascent of vesuvius.] when you visit vesuvius, make an early start and give yourself plenty of time. it took our party four hours and a half, with a good team, to drive from naples to the foot of the steep cone at the top. the journey takes you through some of the disagreeable parts of the city and gives you a new impression of its extent. when at last you do turn from the squalid streets and begin the ascent of the mountain, your enjoyment begins. the fresh breeze, laden with the fragrance of orange blossoms, tempers the heat, and at every turn of the winding, climbing road you have the most entrancing views of the city and the bay. the mountain itself is partly covered with the luxuriant greenery of orchards and villas, and partly by the gloomy beds of lava thrown out by successive eruptions--"a black ocean, which was tumbled into a thousand fantastic shapes--a wild chaos of ruin, desolation and barrenness--a wilderness of billowy upheavals, of furious whirlpools, of miniature mountains rent asunder--of gnarled and knotted, wrinkled and twisted masses of blackness that mimicked branching roots, great vines, trunks of trees all interlaced and mingled together; and all these weird shapes, all this turbulent panorama, all this stormy, far stretching waste of blackness, with its thrilling suggestiveness of life, of action, of boiling, surging, furious motion, was petrified!--all stricken dead and cold in the instant of its maddest rioting!--fettered, paralyzed and left to glower at heaven in impotent rage for evermore!" [illustration: a windy day on mount vesuvius.] i had had the good fortune on a former visit to see the process of its formation. at that time the lava was actually flowing from a breach in the side of the mountain, a little below the cone which surrounds the great crater, and a party of us walked over a half mile or so among the wild rocks and congealed lava to get a sight of it. the rocks over which we walked were too hot to touch with the naked hand, and scorched the bottoms of our shoes. the fumes of sulphur escaping through the crevices made the air almost suffocating. these conditions became more aggravated the nearer we came to the object of our search, so that one or two of the party became quite unnerved, gave up the expedition, and returned. we felt like we were walking in a furnace. then the guide made a turn round some great boulders, and there it was--a slowly moving stream of liquid fire, issuing from under a great rock, and flowing down the side of the mountain. every one threw his hands before his face to protect it from the blistering heat. the guide, standing behind a big rock, reached over with a long pole into this fearful red river and lifted out a glob of the molten lava on the end of it, as you would dip up a bit of hot molasses candy on the end of a fork, then, withdrawing a little way, he disengaged the lava from the end of the pole with a smaller stick, and, asking me for a penny, he laid the coin on the lump of lava and pressed it well down into the mass which rose round the edges of the coin, holding it firmly in its place--and thus made for me a paper weight, which is my best souvenir of vesuvius. the ascent of the cone to the crater is next thing to trying to climb a church steeple. thanks to the enterprise of thomas cook & sons, there is an inclined railway which takes you from the foot of the cone up the steep breast of the mountain nearly to the top--a dizzy ride, one that makes you shut your eyes and grip the arms of your seat. then comes the worst of it--the final climb through warm cinders ankle deep, which furnish very bad footing and come over your shoe tops at every step. there are rude sedan chairs on poles, and chair-bearers who will gladly carry you up for an additional fee--and there are often ludicrous scenes when timid ladies essay this mode of ascent. the distance is very short, so the ladies of our party determined to climb it themselves, but, when about half way up, they were glad enough to take hold of the looped ends of ropes while men at the other end pulled, and so at last they stood on the very top of the great volcano. not for long, however, for, after they had walked round the edge of the great crater and gotten a view of the new crater, formed within, and looking like the heaped hole of a gigantic "doodle bug," with its slopes made of cinders instead of sand, and sprinkled with orange-colored sulphur, the wind veered suddenly and swept the stifling sulphur fumes right into their faces. they ran, coughing, back over the cinders and down again to the upper station of the railway, fully convinced that vesuvius, though not perhaps so impressive, was decidedly more pleasant at a distance than at such close range. [illustration: on the road from castellamare to amalfi.] [sidenote: the loveliness of amalfi.] perhaps the most beautiful drive in the world is the drive from castellamare to amalfi. castellamare is about an hour and a half by rail from naples, and not far from pompeii. it was here, indeed, that the elder pliny lost his life in the eruption of a. d., which destroyed pompeii and herculaneum. taking a wagonette there about the middle of the day, we followed this magnificent road nearly all the afternoon, as it wound in and out along the mountainside, with the towering cliffs on one hand and the intensely blue bay on the other, seen ever and anon through openings between the silvery olive trees which clothed all the slopes, the view backwards being terminated by the majestic uplift of vesuvius, wearing a soft plum-colored tinge that we had never seen it have before. the soil here is wonderfully fertile, and every hillside is terraced and cultivated with the utmost care. the orange and lemon groves, with the trees trained over trellises and protected from too intense heat by straw, laid on frames above, were still blooming, though the trees were heavily laden with green and golden fruit. every now and then little boys and girls from the villages which are perched on the rocks or cling to the hillsides would run after us, throwing nosegays into the carriage and expecting "soldi" in return. after a while the scenery became more rugged, not unlike switzerland, with little waterfalls trickling down the cliffs, and scotch broom and other wild plants taking the place of the vineyards and orchards on the towering rocks. and now we begin to drive through tunnels cut through the cliffs and to pass over solid stone bridges, spanning glorious ravines at a dizzy height, with the transparent sea making in far below us, and the mountains of gray rock towering skyward above us. and at last, in the soft evening light, we reached the culmination of all this wonderful beauty at amalfi. when we stopped at the foot of the cliff on which the cappuccini hotel stands, overlooking the town and the sea, we found the uniformed portiere and other attendants in a little lodge or office at the bottom of a long, zigzag flight of stone steps, which leads up to the high perched hotel. but there were sedan chairs and chair-bearers to spare the ladies and the youngest of the children the long, lung-taxing climb, and we were soon comfortably installed in the most romantically situated hotel i have ever seen. it was a cappucin monastery once, and the cloisters are still there, but the cells are now used as bed-rooms. from the windows and balconies, and from the long and lovely arcade, covered with grape vines and lined with the most beautiful marguerites, lilies, roses and geraniums, the guests look down upon the picturesque little city, the boats drawn up on the beach, the burnished mediterranean, and the opaline islands in the offing. and how we protestants did sleep in the comfortably furnished cells of those ousted monks! amalfi is the place i wish to come to if i am ever again in italy. [sidenote: the ruins of pompeii.] when we tore ourselves away from amalfi, we drove on around by salerno, another feast of beauty, and took the train at la cava for pompeii. for days we had been reading, or re-reading, bulwer's _last days of pompeii_ with breathless interest, or plodding through the dryer, but hardly more accurate, details of the guide book--we had been to the museum at naples, where the mural paintings and other disentombed relics of the city are shown, and we had stood on the crater of the volcano that wrought its destruction--so that we came to the exhumed ruins with as thorough preparation as we had found it possible to make. but what description can prepare one for the impression of that appalling catastrophe which one receives when he stands in the midst of the ruins themselves, and _sees_ how sudden and terrible the overthrow was? [illustration: colonnade of the hotel cappuccini, amalfi.] pompeii had been shattered by an earthquake sixteen years before the final catastrophe, but the warning had been disregarded. the place was rebuilt with lavish outlay, and embellished with all the resources of contemporary art, so that it was a new and splendid city which was buried by the eruption of a. d. on the rd of august in that year, about two o'clock in the afternoon, terrible detonations were heard in the mountain, and shortly afterwards an enormous column of watery vapor issued from the top of it, remained suspended for a time in the air, then condensed and fell in boiling rain on the mountain sides, creating an irresistible torrent of mud, which quickly engulfed the city of herculaneum. following this, later in the evening, apparently about dark, came a roaring eruption of red hot pumice stones and volcanic dust, succeeded quickly by other showers of the same material, which covered pompeii to the depth of fifteen or twenty feet. thus was the brilliant city, in all the exuberance of its gay life, plunged into death in a single night. and all the inhabitants of that part of italy believed that they were about to share the same dreadful fate. the air was so thick that for many miles from the volcano it was almost stifling. it is said to have extended as far as africa. it certainly reached as far as rome, and covered that city with a pall of darkness so deep that the people took it for a sign of impending doom. they said to each other, "the end of the world is come! the sun is going to fall to the earth, or the earth mount up and be set on fire by the heavens." the most graphic account of the horrors of that awful night at pompeii is to be found in the two letters of the younger pliny to tacitus. speaking of his efforts to remove his mother out of reach of harm, while she was begging him to leave her to perish and save himself, he says: "by this time the murky darkness had so increased that one might have believed himself abroad in a black and moonless night, or in a chamber where all the lights had been extinguished. on every hand were heard the complaints of women, the wailing of children, and the cries of men. one called his father, another his son, another his wife, and only by their voices could they know each other. many in their despair begged that death would come and end their distress. some implored the gods to succor them, and some believed that this night was the last, the eternal night which should engulf the universe! even so it seemed to me--and i consoled myself for the coming death with the reflection, _behold the world is passing away!_" no one saw the sun rise on the morrow. the clouds of volcanic matter, still pouring their pitiless rain upon the ruins, so darkened the sky that people could not tell when the day came. and there, under the superincumbent mass of stones and dust, the city slept undisturbed till a few years ago, with everything as it was in the days of titus. "it was like a clock that stopped when the householder died. meats were on the table and bread was in the oven; sentries were in their boxes and dogs on guard at house doors." most of the inhabitants escaped, but it is estimated, from the skeletons found in the ruins, that not less than two thousand lost their lives. in the museum by the entrance at the marine gate we are shown the blackened loaves of bread, recovered from the bakeries, the beans and eggs, the chickens and dogs, or their shapes from the moulds they left--and, most distressing of all, human figures. "plaster of paris had been poured into the hollows where bones were found, and in all the contortion of suffocation or convulsion appeared the forms of men and women. how little the ones whose brawny or whose delicate outlines we gazed upon dreamt that they would be their own monuments to-day, and be seen by the eyes of other races and ages, eyes curious, but not unsympathetic! it was good to be in the warm sunshine again. a cloud of smoke floated like a gray scarf--how gracefully and innocently!--from vesuvius." [illustration: pompeii.] we walked up the narrow streets, paved with blocks of hard lava, deeply rutted by chariot wheels, passing the basilica, the forum, the triumphal arch, the temples, the theatres, the baths, the bakeries, and the houses of pansa, diomedes, and the tragic poet--all laid bare and clean to the view. we had the good fortune to see the process of excavation itself--for while most of the city has been disentombed, some of it still remains under the layers of small grayish white pumice stones and brown dust. three or four men were shovelling these away as we passed. from most of the houses the furniture and wall paintings have been taken away to the museums. but in the last large residence exhumed, one which has only recently been brought to light, nearly everything has been left as it was, except for a new roof of mica or some such substance, which has been built over it for its protection. nearly all the frescoes are as fresh as on the day when they were painted, and the fountain in the peristyle and its connecting pipes are so perfectly preserved that, when the water was turned into them by the excavators, the fountains began to play as they did on that fateful day eighteen hundred years ago. "for as in the days that were before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that noah entered into the ark, and knew not until the flood came, and took them all away," so it was with the careless dwellers in this opulent city--and so it is with the careless dwellers in many an opulent city to-day. * * * * * from naples we turned our faces homeward, taking passage on the _könig albert_, and coming by way of gibraltar and the azores. we had a delightful ship's company, including dr. andrew d. white, the accomplished ex-president of cornell university and our late ambassador to berlin, whom we found full of illuminating talk about fra paolo sarpi and other great men and great subjects. after a quiet and restful voyage, affording a pleasant contrast with our experience of the preceding summer when outward bound, we arrived at new york on the th of june, , deeply thankful for all the pleasure and benefit the year had brought us, and fully convinced that, after all, ours is the best country in the world. index. aberfoyle, . addison, joseph, funeral of, . alfred the great, , , . amalfi, - . america and england, proposed alliance of, . america's future, english view of, , . american revolution, british view of, - . amsterdam, islands and canals, . built on piles, . business activities, . jewish quarter, . aquinas, thomas, retort to the pope, . ayr, . balfour, arthur j., prime minister, . bibles, in edinburgh churches, , . black, rev. hugh, . blackie, prof. stuart, on jenny geddes, . on oban, . blowing stone of king alfred, , . blue grotto at capri, . bologna, colonnades, . leaning towers, . university, . galvani's frog, . house of the virgin, . booth, general, and salvation army, . buddha canonized by rome, . british government a republic, , . burns, robert, birthplace, . burns, rev. thos., . caledonian canal, . cambridge, - . canterbury cathedral, , . carnegie, andrew, on america's future, , . on intemperance, , . cathedrals in england, original significance, . æsthetic influence, . romanizing tendency, - . cenci, beatrice, . charles i., "the martyr," . charles ii., wax effigy of, in westminster abbey, . defied by bishop ken, . chester, . church-going in edinburgh, . claverhouse, victory and death at killiecrankie, . coblentz, . coligni, admiral, - . cologne, cathedral, . accident to baggage, . commons, house of, - . confession of faith, . confessional, the, in rome, , . crieff, . crockett, s. r., author, . cromwell, oliver, portrait at sidney sussex college, . slandered by royalists, . body disinterred and hanged, , . statue at westminster, . culloden moor, battle of, . davis, jefferson, name erased by gen. meigs, , . delft, . dickens, charles, on the influence of romanism, , . disruption of in scotland, . dods, marcus, d. d., , . drumtochty, . edinburgh and environs, . slums, . english channel, . english education bill, a sectarian measure, - . english lakes, . english pronunciations, , . english rural scenery, . episcopalians in virginia, , . erasmus, statue of, . farrar, dean, sermon in westminster abbey, . fingal's cave, , . florence, art treasures, . savonarola, , . foxe, _book of martyrs_, . geddes, jenny and her stool, , . german steamships, . gibson, mrs. margaret d., ll. d., , . gladstone, on the papacy, . glasgow, . cathedral, , . gray, rev. dr. j. gordon, in rome, - . haarlem, flowers, tulip mania, . hague, the, . hawthorne, nathaniel, on borghese gardens, , . on sensual and spiritual art, , . on the priests of rome, , . heidelberg, . henry iv., death of, . henry v., tomb of, . henry vii.'s chapel in westminster abbey, . henry viii. detaches church of england from the papacy, . henson, canon, on anglican narrowness, - . holland, wrested from the sea, , . dykes, canals, windmills, polders, - . scenery, . art, . presbyterian faith and un-presbyterian church buildings, , . queer customs, , . cleanliness, , . mother of america, - . huguenots, worshipping in canterbury cathedral, , , . origin of name, . massacre of st. bartholomew, . other persecutions, , . the world's debt to them, , . revival in france, - . intemperance in scotland, - . inverness, . iona, . iron crown of lombardy, - . jerusalem chamber westminster abbey, - . johnson, dr. samuel, opinion of london, . prejudice against scotland, . visits flora macdonald, . house and monument at lichfield, . buried in westminster abbey, . kelvin, lord, , . ken, thomas, - . knox, john, greatest of scotchmen, . comments on the ominous advent of mary queen of scots, . kruger, oom paul, at utrecht, . kuyper, rev. dr. a., prime minister of holland, . lewis, mrs. agnes s., ll. d., , . leyden, siege, . university, , . pilgrim fathers, . horse flesh as food, , . interest in an american baby, . lichfield, . liguori's moral philosophy approved by leo xiii., , . loch katrine, . loch leven, . loch lomond, . loch tay, . london, soot, , . brick houses, . compared with glasgow and paris, - , . immensity, . charm, , . lucerne, lake, . lion of, . luther, monument at worms, . disenthrallment at rome, . macaulay, lord, on romanism, , . macdonald, flora, statue at inverness, . saves prince charlie, - . arrested, . confined in tower of london, . marries, . entertains dr. johnson and boswell, . moves to north carolina, . her husband defeated at moore's creek, . returns to scotland, . mal de mer, , . martyrs of scotland, , - . matheson, geo., d. d., , . milan, cathedral, leonardo's great picture, . milton, john, monument in westminster abbey, . miracles, alleged, of christ's portrait, , . christ's footprints, . ghislieri, , . santissimo bambino, - . st. anne's bones, . sts. cosmo and damian, . st. dominic, , . st. giovanni de matha, . st. gregory, . st. januarius' blood, . st. martin i., . st. paul's head, , . st. peter's head, . st. peter's knees, . st. veronica's napkin, . the virgin's house, . the virgin's image, . wafer, . monza, iron crown of lombardy, - . moravian mission agency, london, . more, sir thos., imprisonment and death, . mcneill, rev. john, . naples, scenery and scenes, - . blood of st. januarius, . newton, sir isaac, . oban, . ocean, a modern highway, . overtoun, garden party, . oxford, compared with cambridge, - . palissy the potter, , . papal mania for building, . paris, beauty of, , , , . customs in, . parker, joseph, d. d., . parliament houses, london, , . pasquinades, , , , . _penelope's progress_, quoted, . perth, , . pisa, four monuments, . pompeii, - . popes, general character of, . retort of thos. aquinas, . pasquinades, , , , . adrian vi., excessive drinking of, . alexander vi., crimes of, , . clement viii. and beatrice cenci, . gregory xiii. and assassination of prince of orange, . innocent viii., illegitimate children of, . innocent x. and olympia, , . joan, woman pope, legend of, , . john xii., crimes of, . leo xiii., appearance, . approval of liguori's moral philosophy, . audience, - . blessing machine, , . last jubilee, . paul ii., vanity of, . paul iii., nepotism of, . paul v. and assassination of paolo sarpi, . pius v. and assassination of queen elizabeth, . pius x., a good man, . sixtus iv., enemy of medici, . urban viii., self-esteem of, . prayers, written, in presbyterian churches, , . presbyterian church, largest protestant church in the world, . presbyterian queen of holland, . presbyterian services, , , - , , . prestonpans, battle of, . prince charlie, unique prayer for, . victory at prestonpans, . defeat at culloden, . flight to hebrides, . saved by flora macdonald, , . ingratitude, . burial in st. peter's cathedral, . protestantism contrasted with romanism by macaulay, dickens and gladstone, - . queen elizabeth, wax effigy in westminster abbey, . queen wilhelmina, . quhele, shoe heel, maxton, . relics-- abraham's stone, . aaron's rod, , . bambino, santissimo, - . christ's blood, . communion table, . cross, , . footprints, . loaves and fishes, . pillar, , . portrait, , . sandals, . seamless coat, . towel, . devil's, the, missile against st. dominic, . john the baptist's tooth, . maccabees, . santa culla, - . santissimo bambino, - . scala santa, , . st. andrew's head, . cross, . st. anne's bones, quebec, . st. dominic's orange tree, . st. edmund's bones, . st. januarius' blood, . st lawrence's bones, , . fat, . st. longinus' spear, . st. mark's bones, . st. paul's body, . head, miraculous springs, , . st. peter's body, . chains, - . chair, . cross, . head, . knees, . spring, . st. philomena's bones, , . st. stephens's bones, , . st. thomas' finger, . st. veronica's napkin, . virgin's hair, . house, . milk, . stone seat, . veil, , . rembrandt's "school of anatomy," . renwick, james, martyr, . rhine, vintage, . robertson, rev. alex., quoted, , , , , , , . roman catholicism in italy, dr. mariano on, . macaulay, dickens and gladstone on, - . (see also robertson.) rome-- appian way, . arrival at night, . art, sensual and spiritual, , . baths of caracalla, . books on rome, - . borghese gardens, , . building boom, , . cappucin cemetery, , . catacombs, , . colosseum, , . deities worshipped, , . domine quo vadis, . fees before souls, . gray, rev. dr. j. gordon, , . guido's "michael," . inquisition, , . janiculum, view from, , . jesuit church and the devil, . mamertine prisons, . michael angelo's "moses," . morals of clergy, , , , , . pasquino, . piazza scossa cavalli, . pincian hill, . pompey, statue, . presbyterian church, -' . priscilla and aquila, house of, . quirinal, , . raphael, . royalties, visiting, , . rosary presented to st. dominic by the virgin, . st. peter's cathedral, - . tre fontane, , . unwashed monks, . vatican, , . villa doria pamfili, . villa medici, view from, . (see also miracles, popes, relics, and roman catholicism.) rosaries, introduced by dominicans, . rugby, . sabbath observance in scotland, . salisbury cathedral, , . sanquhar declaration, . sarpi, fra paolo, , . savonarola, , . sayce, prof. a. h., . scotland, character of people, , , . cities solid and stately, . humor, . oatmeal, , . public worship, - , -' . scenery, , . sermon taster, . weather, , . scott, sir walter, , , . on superiority of presbyterian worship, , . scottish and american repartee, - . shorter catechism, - . simon magus, discomfited by st. peter, . simony at rome, . southampton, . staffa, , . stirling, , . stonehenge, , . strasburg, clock, , . stratford-on-avon, . american window, . sing-song of children, . stuart kings, buried in st. peter's, , . st. peter's cathedral, . switzerland, scenery in summer and winter, , . twain, mark, on relics, , , , . on differences between america and italy, , . on the inquisition, , . on the relative rank of the deities of rome, , . venice, palaces, . fallen campanile, , . church of jesuits, . gondolas, , , . fra paolo sarpi, , . bones of st. mark, . vesuvius, ascent of, - . victor emmanuel, liberator of italy, . wallace, sir william, . walton, izaak, , . watson, rev. john, d. d.-- financial agent of westminster college, . drumtochty stories, . _young barbarians_, . watts, isaac, - . westminster abbey-- architectural interest, -' . burials, , . coronations, , . decorated for coronation, , . edward the confessor's tomb, . henry vii.'s chapel, . jerusalem chamber, - . monuments, - . monuments denied to notable persons, , . mutilated monuments, . poets' corner, . royal chapels, , . wax effigies, , . westminster assembly of divines, - . westminster college, cambridge, . white, dr. andrew d., on canonization of buddha, . on fra paolo sarpi, . white horse hill, - . wiesbaden, , . wilson, margaret, martyr, - . winchester, cathedral, - . college, , . worms, luther monument, . zanardelli, prime minister, on the morality of the priests, , . opposition to the papacy, . zola, emile, on roman megalo-mania, - . on the multitude of priests in rome, , . +----------------------------------------------------------------- + | transcriber's note: | | | | minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. | | | | punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant | | form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. | | | | ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. | | | | mid-paragraph illustrations have been moved between paragraphs | | and some illustrations have been moved closer to the text that | | references them. the illustrations paginations were changed | |accordingly. | | | | italicized words are surrounded by underline characters, | | _like this_. | | | | ligatures are surrounded by brackets, like this: ph[oe]nician. | | | | superscripts are enclosed in brackets like this n{r}. | | | | footnotes were moved to the end of chapters and numbered in one | | continuous sequence. | +------------------------------------------------------------------+ produced from images available at the internet archive/american libraries.) from the oak to the olive. a plain record of a pleasant journey. by julia ward howe boston: lee and shepard. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by julia ward howe, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry, spring lane. to s. g. h., _the strenuous champion of greek liberty and of human rights_, is offered such small homage as the dedication of this volume can confer. contents page preliminaries. the voyage. liverpool. chester--lichfield. london. st. paul's--the japanese. society. the channel. paris and thence. marseilles. rome. st. peter's. supper of the pilgrims. easter. works of art. piazza navona--the tombola. sundays in rome. catacombs. via appia and the columbaria. naples--the journey. the museum. naples--excursions. the capuchin. baja. capri. sorrento. florence. palazzo pitti. venice. greece and the voyage thither. syra. pirÆus--athens. expeditions--nauplia. argos. egina. days in athens. excursions. hymettus. items. the palace. the cathedral. the missionaries. the piazza. departure. return voyage. farther. fragments. flying footsteps. munich. switzerland. the great exposition. pictures in antwerp. from the oak to the olive. preliminaries. not being, at this moment, in the pay of any press, whether foreign or domestic, i will not, at this my third landing in english country, be in haste to accomplish the correspondent's office of extroversion, and to expose all the inner processes of thought and of nature to the gaze of an imaginary public, often, alas! a delusory one, and difficult to be met with. no individual editor, nor joint stock company, bespoke my emotions before my departure. i am, therefore, under no obligation to furnish for the market, with the elements of time and of postage unhandsomely curtailed. instead, then, of that breathless steeple chase after the butterfly of the moment, with whose risks and hurry i am intimately acquainted, i feel myself enabled to look around me at every step which i shall take on paper, and to represent, in my small literary operations, the three dimensions of time, instead of the flat disc of the present. and first as to my pronoun. the augmentative _we_ is essential for newspaper writing, because people are liable to be horsewhipped for what they put in the sacred columns of a daily journal. _we_ may represent a vague number of individuals, less inviting to, and safer from, the cowhide, than the provoking _egomet ipse_. or perhaps the _we_ derives from the new testament incorporation of devils, whose name was legion, for we are many. in the fichtean philosophy, also, there are three pronouns comprised in the personal unity whose corporeal effort applies this pen to this paper, to wit, the _i_ absolute, the _i_ limited, and the _i_ resulting from the union of these two. so that a philosopher may say _we_ as well as a monarch or a penny-a-liner. yet i, at the present moment, incline to fall back upon my record of baptism, and to confront the white sheet, whose blankness i trust to overcome, in the character of an agent one and indivisible. nor let it be supposed that these preliminary remarks undervalue the merits and dignity of those who write for ready money, whose meals and travels are at the expense of mysterious corporations, the very cocktail which fringes their daily experience being thrown in as a brightener of their wits and fancies. thus would i, too, have written, had anybody ordered me to do so. i can hurry up my hot cakes like another, when there is any one to pay for them. but, leisure being accorded me, i shall stand with my tablets in the marketplace, hoping in the end to receive my penny, upon a footing of equality with those who have borne the burden and heat of the day. with the rights of translation, however, already arranged for in the russian, sclavonian, hindustanee, and fijian dialects, i reserve to myself the right to convert my pronoun, and to write a chapter in _we_ whenever the individual _i_ shall seem to be insufficient. with these little points agreed upon beforehand, to prevent mistakes,--since a book always represents a bargain,--i will enter, without further delay, upon what i intend as a very brief but cogent chronicle of a third visit to europe, the first two having attained no personal record. the voyage. the steamer voyage is now become a fact so trite and familiar as to call for no special illustration at these or any other hands. yet voyages and lives resemble each other in many particulars, and differ in as many others. ours proves almost unprecedented for smoothness, as well as for safety. we start on the fatal wednesday, as twice before, expecting the fatal pang. our last vicarious purchase on shore was a box of that energetic mustard, so useful as a counter-irritant in cases of internal commotion. the bitter partings are over, the dear ones heartily commended to heaven, we see, as in a dream, the figure of command mounted upon the paddle-box. we cling to a camp stool near the red smoke-stack, and cruelly murmur to the two rosy neophytes who are our companions, "in five minutes you will be more unhappy than you ever were or ever dreamed of being." they reply with sweet, unconscious looks of wonder, that ignorance of danger which the recruit carries into his first battle, or which carries him into it. but five minutes pass, and twelve times five, and the moment for going below does not come. in the expected shape, in fact, it does not arrive at all. we do not resolve upon locomotion, nor venture into the dining saloon; but leaning back upon a borrowed _chaise longue_, we receive hurried and fragmentary instalments of victuals, and discuss with an improvised acquaintance the aspects of foreign and domestic travel. the plunge into the state-room at bedtime, and the crawl into the narrow berth, are not without their direr features, which the sea-smells and confined air aggravate. we hear bad accounts of a, b, and c, but our neophytes patrol the deck to the last moment, and rise from their dive, on the second morning, fresher than ever. our steamer is an old one, but a favorite, and as steady as a massachusetts matron of forty. our captain is a kindly old sea-dog, who understands his business, and does not mind much else. to the innocent flatteries of the neophytes he opposes a resolute front. they will forget him, he says, as soon as they touch land. they protest that they will not, and assure him that he shall breakfast, dine, and sup with them in boston, six months hence, and that he shall always remain their sole, single, and ideal captain; at all of which he laughs as grimly as jove is said to do at lovers' perjuries. our company is a small one, after the debarkation at halifax, where sixty-five passengers leave us,--among whom are some of the most strenuous _euchreists_. the remaining thirty-six are composed partly of our own country people,--of whom praise or blame would be impertinent in this connection,--partly of the anglo-saxon of the day, in the pre-puritan variety. of the latter, as of the former, we will waive all discriminating mention, having porrigated to them the dexter of good-will, with no hint of aboriginal tomahawks to be exhumed hereafter. some traits, however, of the _anglais de voyage_, as seen on his return from an american trip, may be vaguely given, without personality or fear of offence. the higher in grade the culture of the european traveller in america, the more reverently does he speak of what he has seen and learned. to the gentle-hearted, childhood and its defects are no less sacred than age and its decrepitude; withal, much dearer, because full of hope and of promise. the french barber sneezes out "paris" at every step taken on the new land. that is the utmost his ratiocination can do; he can perceive that boston, washington, chicago, are not paris. the french exquisite flirts, flatters the individual, and depreciates the commonwealth. the english bagman hazards the glibbest sentences as to the falsity of the whole american foundation. not much behind him lags the fox-hunting squire. the folly and uselessness of our late war supply the theme of diatribes as eloquent as twenty-_five_ letters can make them. obliging _aperçus_ of the degradation and misery in store for us are vouchsafed at every opportunity. but it is when primogeniture is touched upon, or the neutrality of england in the late war criticised, that the bellowing of the sacred bulls becomes a brazen thunder. after listening to their voluminous complaints of the shortcomings of western civilization, we are tempted to go back to a set of questions asked and answered many centuries ago. "what went ye out into the wilderness for to see? a man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that live delicately dwell in kings' houses. but what went ye out for to see? a prophet? yea, i say unto you, and more than a prophet." for the prophet only foretells what is to be, but the prophetic nation is working out and fulfilling the prophet's future. peace, however, peace between us and them. let the bagman return to his business, the squire to his five-barred gate. we wish them nothing worse than to stay at home, once they have got there. not thus do the goldwin smiths, the liulph stanleys, take the altitude of things under a new horizon. they have those tools and appliances of scientific thought which build just theories and strait conclusions. the imperfection and the value of human phenomena are too well understood by them to allow them to place all of the values in the old world, and all of the imperfections in the new. and, _apropos_ of this, we have an antidote to all the poison of gratuitous malignity in the shape of m. auguste laugel's thorough and appreciative treatise entitled the united states during the war. from depths of misconception which we cannot fathom we turn to his pages, and see the truths of our record and of our conviction set forth with a simplicity and elegance which should give his work a permanent value. to americans it must be dear as a righteous judgment; to europeans as a vindication of their power of judging. it must not, however, be supposed that our whole _traversée_ is a squabble, open or suppressed, between nationalities which should contend only in good will. the dreamy sea-days bring, on the contrary, much social chat and comfort. two of the britons exercise hospitality of tea, of fresh butter, of drinks cunningly compounded. one of these glows at night like a smelting furnace, and goes about humming in privileged ears, "the great brew is about to begin." for this same great brew he ties a white apron before his stout person, breaks ten eggs into a bowl, inflicting flagellation on the same, empties as many bottles of ale in a tin pan, and flies off to the galley, whence he returns with a smoking, frothing mixture, which is dispensed in tumblers, and much appreciated by the recipients. in good fellowship these two britons are not deficient, and the restriction of the alphabet, dimly alluded to above, does not lie at their door. after rocking, and dreaming, and tumbling; after drowsy attempts to get hold of other people's ideas and to disentangle your own; after a week's wonder over the hot suppers of such as dine copiously at four p. m., and the morning cocktails of those who drink whiskey in all its varieties before we separate for the night; after repeated experiments, which end by suiting our gait and diet to an ever-mobile existence, in which our prejudices are the only stable points, our personal restraints the only fixed facts,--we fairly reach the other side. the earliest terrene object which we behold is a light-house some sixty miles out at sea, whose occupants, we hope, are not resolutely bent upon social enjoyment. here the sending up of blue lights and rockets gives us a cheerful sense of some one besides ourselves. queenstown, our next point, is made at two a. m., and left after weary waiting for the pilot, but still before convenient hours for being up. some hours later we heave the lead, and enjoy the sight of as much _terra firma_ as can be fished up on the greased end of the same. our last day on board is marred by a heavy and penetrating fog. we are in the channel, but can see neither shore. in the early morning we arrive at liverpool, and, after one more of those good breakfasts, and a mild encounter with the custom-house officers, we part from our late home, its mingled associations and associates to be recalled hereafter with various shades of regard and regret. the good captain, having been without sleep for two nights, does not come to take leave of us--a neglect which almost moves the neophytes to tears. the two veterans console them, however; and now all parties are in the little lighter which carries the steamer's passengers and luggage to the dock. here, three shillings' worth of cab and horse convey us and ours, a respectable show of trunks, to the hotel of our choice--the washington by name. we commend this cheapness of conveyance, a novel feature in american experience. at the hotel we find a comfortable parlor, and, for the first time in many days, part from our wrappings. after losing ourselves among the egyptian china of our toilet set, wondering at the width of beds and warmth of carpets, we descend to the coffee-room, order dinner, and feel that we have again taken possession of ourselves. liverpool. a good deal of our time here is spent in the prosaic but vital occupation of getting something to eat. if nature abhors a vacuum, she does so especially when, after twelve days of a fluctuating and predatory existence, the well-shaken traveller at last finds a stable foundation for self and victuals. the washington being announced as organized on the american plan, we descend to the coffee-room with the same happy confidence which would characterize our first appearance at the buffet of the tremont house or fifth avenue hotel. but here no waiter takes possession of you and your wants, hastening to administer both to the mutual advantage of guest and landlord. you sit long unnoticed; you attract attention only by a desperate effort. having at length secured the medium through which a dinner may be ordered, the minister (he wears a black dress coat and white trimmings) disappears with an air of "will you have it now, or wait till you can get it?" which our subsequent experience entirely justifies. we learn later that a meal ordered half an hour beforehand will be punctually served. and here, except in cases of absolute starvation, we shall dismiss the meal question altogether, and devote ourselves to nobler themes. we ransack the smoky and commercial city in search of objects of interest. the weather being incessantly showery, we lay the foundation of our english liberty in the purchase of two umbrellas, capable each of protecting two heads. of clothes we must henceforward be regardless. in the streets, barefooted beggary strikes us, running along in the wet, whining and coaxing. we visit the boasted st. george's hall, where, among other statues, is one of the distinguished stephenson, of railroad memory. here the court is in session for the assizes. the wigs and gowns astound the neophytes. the ushers in green and orange livery shriek "silence!" through every sentence of judge or counsel. no one can hear what is going on. probably all is known beforehand. at the hotel, the greek committee wait upon the veteran, with asseverations and hiccoughings of to us incomprehensible emotions. we resist the theatre, with the programme of "lost in london," expecting soon to experience the sensation without artistic intervention. we sleep, missing the cradle of the deep, and on the morrow, by means of an uncanny little ferry-boat, reach the birkenhead station, and are booked for chester. chester--lichfield. the grosvenor inn receives us, not at all in the fashion of the hostelry of twenty years ago. a new and spacious building forming a quadrangle around a small open garden, the style highly architectural and somewhat inconvenient; waiters got up after fashion plates; chambermaids with apologetic caps, not smaller than a dime nor larger than a dinner plate; a handsome sitting-room, difficult to warm; airy sleeping-rooms; a coffee-room in which our hunger and cold seek food and shelter; a housekeeper in a striped silk gown,--these are the first features with which we become familiar at the grosvenor. the veteran falling ill detains us there for the better part of two days; and we employ the interim of his and our necessities in exploring the curious old town, with its many relics of times long distant. the neophytes here see their first cathedral, and are in raptures with nothing so much as with its dilapidation. we happen in during the afternoon hour of cathedral service, and the sexton, finding that we do not ask for seats, fastens upon us with the zeal of a starved leech upon a fresh patient, and leads us as weary a dance as puck led the athenian clowns. this chase after antiquity proves to have something unsubstantial about it. the object is really long dead and done with. these ancient buildings are only its external skeleton, the empty shell of the tortoise. no effort of imagination can show us how people felt when these dark passages and deserted enclosures were full of the arterial warmth and current of human life. the monumental tablets tell an impossible tale. the immortal spirit of things, which is past, present, and future, dwells not in these relics, but lives in the descent of noble thoughts, in the perpetuity of moral effort which makes man human. we make these reflections shivering, while the neophytes explore nave and transept, gallery and crypt. a long tale does the old sexton tell, to which they listen with ever-wondering expectation. meantime the cold cathedral service has ended. canon, precentor, and choir have departed, with the very slender lay attendance. in a commodious apartment, by a bright fire, we recover our frozen joints a little. here stands a full-length portrait of his most gracious etc., etc. the sexton, preparing for a huge jest, says to us, "ladies, this represents the last king of america." the most curious thing we see in the cathedral is the room in which the ecclesiastical court held its sittings. the judges' seat and the high-backed benches still form a quadrangular enclosure within a room of the same shape. across one corner of this enclosure is mounted a chair, on which the prisoner, accused of the intangible offence of heresy or witchcraft, was perforce seated. i seem to see there a face and figure not unlike my own, the brow seamed with cabalistic wrinkles. add a little queerness to the travelling dress, a pinch or two to the black bonnet, and how easy were it to make a witch out of the sibyl of these present leaves! the march from one of these types to the other is one of those retrograde steps whose contrast only attests the world's progress. the sibylline was an excellent career for a queer and unexplained old woman. to make her a sorceress was an ingenious device for getting rid of a much-decried element of the social variety. poor kepler's years of solitary glory and poverty were made more wretched by the danger which constantly threatened his aged mother, who was in imminent danger of burning, on account of her supposed occult intelligences with the powers of darkness. after a long and chilly wandering, we dismiss our voluble guide with a guerdon which certainly sends him home to keep a silver wedding with his ancient wife. the next day, the veteran's illness detained us within the ancient city, and we contemplated at some leisure its quaint old houses, which in boston would not stand five days. they have been much propped and cherished, and the new architecture of the town does its best to continue the traditions of the old. the guide to chester, in which we regretfully invest a shilling, presents a list of objects of interest which a week would not more than exhaust. one of these--the roodeye--is an extensive meadow with a silly legend, and is now utilized as a race-course. we see the winning post, the graduated seats, the track. for the rest,-- "the spanish fleet thou canst not see, because it is not yet in sight." we visit the outside of a tiny church of ancient renown,--st. olave's,--but, dreading the eternal sexton with the eternal story, we do not attempt to effect an entrance. the much-famed roman bath we find in connection with a shop at which newspapers are sold. we descend a narrow staircase, and view much rubbish in a small space. for description, see chester guide. one of our party gets into the bath, and comes out none the cleaner. spleen apart, however, the ruin is probably authentic, with its deep spring and worn arches. near the grosvenor hotel is a curious arcade, built in a part of the old wall--for chester was a fortified place. a portion of the old castle still stands, but we fail to visit its interior. the third morning sees us depart, having been quite comfortably entertained at the grosvenor, even to the indulgence of sweetmeats with our tea, which american extravagance we propose speedily to abjure. our national sins, however, still cling to us. although the servants are "put in the bill," the cringing civility with which they follow us to the coach leads me to suspect that the nimble sixpence might find its way to their acceptance without too severe a gymnastic. _en route_, now, in a comfortable compartment, with hot water to our feet, according to the european custom. our way to lichfield lies through an agricultural region, and the fine english mutton appear to be forward. small lambs cuddle near magnificent fat mothers. the wide domains lie open to the view. everything attests the concentration of landed property in the hands of the few. we stop at lichfield, attracted by the famous cathedral. the swan inn receives, but cannot make us comfortable, a violent wind sweeping through walls and windows. having eaten and drunk, we implore our way to the cathedral, st. chadde, which we find beautiful without, and magnificently restored within. many monuments, ancient and modern, adorn it, with epitaphs of latin in every stage of plagiarism. a costly monument to some hero of the sutlej war challenges attention, with its tame and polished modern sphinxes. tombs of ancient abbots we also find, and one recumbent carving of a starved and shrunken figure, whose leanness attests some ascetic period not famous in sculpture. the pulpit is adorned with shining brass and stones, principally cornelians and agates. the organ discoursed a sonata of beethoven for the practice of the organist, but secondarily for our delectation. a box with an inscription invites us to contribute our mite to the restoration of the cathedral, which may easily cost as much as the original structure. carving, gilding, inlaid work, stained glass--no one circumstance of ecclesiastical gewgawry is spared or omitted; and trusting that some to us unknown centre of sanctification exists, to make the result of the whole something other than idol worship, we comply with the gratifying suggestion of our wealth and generosity. after satisfying ourselves with the cathedral, we look round wonderingly for the recipient of some further fee. he appears in the shape of a one-eyed man who invites us to ascend the tower. guided by a small boy, neophyte no. executes this ascent, and of course reports a wonderful prospect, which we are content to take on hearsay. leaving the cathedral, we seek the house in which dr. johnson is said to have been born. it is, strange to say, much like other houses, the lower story having been turned into a furnishing shop, where we buy a pincushion tidy for remembrance. in an open space, in front of the house, sits a statue of the renowned and redoubted doctor, supported by a pedestal with biographical bas-reliefs. below one of these is inscribed, "he hears sacheverell." the design represents a small child in a father's arms, presented before a wiggy divine, who can, of course, be none other than the one in question. while these simple undertakings are planned and executed, the veteran and elder neophyte engage a one-horse vehicle, and madly fly to visit an insane asylum. we shiver till dinner in the chilly parlor of the inn, and inter ourselves at an early hour in the recesses of a huge feather-bed, where the precious jewel, sleep, is easily found. and the next morning sees us _en route_ for london. at one of the stations between lichfield and london, we encounter a group whose chief figure is that of a pretty little lady, blithe as a golden butterfly, apparelled for the chase. her dress consists of a narrow-skirted habit, of moderate length, beneath which we perceive a pair of stout boots, of a description not strictly feminine. a black plush paletot corresponds with her black skirt. a shining stove-pipe crowns her yellow tresses. as she emerges from the railway carriage, a young man of elegant aspect approaches her. he wears white hunting trousers, high black boots, a black plush coat, and carries a hunting whip. the similarity of color in the costumes leads us to suppose that the wearers belong to some hunting association. he is at least sir charles, she, lady arabella. he accosts her with evident pleasure, and is allowed a shake of the hand. an elderly relative in the background, a servant in top boots, who touches his hat as if it could cure the plague,--these complete the picture. at the same station we descry another huntsman in white breeches, scarlet cap, and overcoat. we learn that there are two _meets_ to-day in this region, but our interests are with the black and white party. farewell, sir charles and lady arabella. joyous be your gallop, light your leap over five-barred gates. the sly fox cupid may be chasing you, while you chase poor renard. _prosit_. london. "charing cross hotel? 'ere you are, sir;" and a small four-wheeled cab, with a diminutive horse and beer-tinted driver, has us up at the door of the same. in front, within the precincts of the hotel court, stands the ancient cross, or that which replaces it, and around radiate cook-shops and book-shops, jewellers and victuallers and milliners. the human river of the strand fluxes and refluxes before this central spot, and trafalgar square, and waterloo place, and westminster abbey, and the houses of parliament are near. cabs spring up like daisies and primroses beneath the footsteps of spring. at the hotel they make a gratifying fuss about us. they seize upon all of us but our persons; the lift, (_americane_--elevator) does that, and noiselessly lodges us on the second floor, where we occupy a decent sitting-room, with bedrooms _en suite_. a fire of soft coal soon glows in the grate. a smart chambermaid takes our orders. we get out our address-book, rub up our recollections, enclose and send our cards, then run out and take a dip in the strand, and expand to the full consciousness that we are in the mighty city which cannot fall because there is no hollow deep enough to hold it. we have a quiet day and a half at the hotel before we receive the echo of our cards. this interval we improve by visits to the houses of parliament and westminster abbey, where we pay our full price, and visit the royal chapels with their many tombs. at the recumbent figures of mary stuart and elizabeth we pause to think of the dramatic ghosts which will not allow them to rest in their graves. poetry is resurrection, and for us who have seen rachel and ristori, mary and elizabeth are still living and speaking lessons of human passion and misfortune. these marbles hold their crumbling bones, but we have seen them in far america, doing a night's royalty before a democratic audience, and demanding to be largely paid for the same. the frescoes and statues in the long corridors of the houses of parliament deserve a more minute study than we are able to give them. the former show considerable progress in the pictorial art during the seventeen years which divide our present from our past observations. they represent noted events in english history, the last sleep of argyle, the execution of montrose, and so on. among them we see the departure of the may flower, but not the battle of bunker hill. the statues perpetuate the memories of public men, including a great variety both as to opinion and as to service. the solidity of all these adornments and arrangements well deserves the praise with which english authorities have been wont to comment upon them. a little sombre and sober in their tone, they are expressive of the taste and feeling of the nation. parliament is now in session, and various interesting measures and reforms are under contemplation. among these are the extension of the elective franchise, the abolition of flogging in the army, and the change of the whole long-transmitted system by which commissions in the latter are conferred or purchased. the last is perhaps a more democratic measure than is dreamed of. throw open the military and church benefices to the competition of the most able and deserving, and the younger sons of houses esteemed noble will stand no better chance than others. they will then simply earn their bread where they can get it. then, down comes primogeniture, then the union of state and church, then the prestige of royalty. this last we think to be greatly on the wane. the english prefer an hereditary to an elective symbol of supreme power. the permitted descent in the female line prevents the inconvenient issues to which the failure of an heir male might give rise. the georges rose to great respectability in the third person, and sank to a disreputable level in the fourth. the present queen is an excellently behaved woman, and has adhered strictly to her public and private duties. her long and strict widowhood is a little carped at by people in general, the personal sentiment having seemed to encroach upon the public career and office. but the prince of wales will be held to strict and sensible behavior, and, failing of it, will be severely dealt with. the english people will endure no second season of carlton house, no letting down of manly reserve and womanly character by the spectacle of royal favorites, bankrupt at the fireside, but current in the world. all this john bull will not put up with again. nor will any christendom, save that frankish and monkeyish one which has yet to learn that true freedom of thought is not to be had without purity of conscience, and which, in its desire to be polite, holds the door wider open to bad manners than to good ones. rash words! what noble, thoughtful frenchmen have not we known, and the world with us! shall boastful secesh and blustering yankee, or the sordid, shining shoddy fool stand for the american? yet these are the figures with which europe is most familiar. so let us fling no smallest pebble at the nation of des cartes, montesquieu, pascal, and de tocqueville. it is not in one, but in all countries that extremes meet. and in this connection a word. the less we know about a thing, the easier to write about it. to give quite an assured and fluent account of a country, we should lose no time on our first arrival. the first impression is the strongest. familiarity constantly wears off the edge of observation. the face of the new region astonishes us once, and once only. we soon grow used to it, and forget to describe it. the first day of our arrival in liverpool or in london gave us volumes to write, which have proved as evanescent as the pictures of a swift panorama, vanishing to return no more. for now we are seated in london as though we had always lived there. we may sooner astonish it with our western accent, unconsidered costume, and wild coiffure, than it can rivet our attention with its splendors and its queernesses, its squares, fountains, equipages, cabmen, well-dressed and well-mannered circles. this for the features, for the surface. but for the depth and spirit of things, the longer we explore, the less sanguine do we feel of being able to exhaust them. we sink our deepest shaft, and write upon it, "thus far our abilities and opportunities; far more remains than we can ever bring to light." and, _apropos_ of this terrible familiarity with things once discerned, let me say that when we shall have been two days in heaven, we shall not know it any longer, which is one reason why we must always be getting there, but never arrive. pope's old-fashioned line, "always to be blest," expresses profoundly this philosophical necessity, although he saw it in a simply didactic light, and stated it accordingly. the line none the less takes its place in the stately train of the ideal philosophy, to which those have best contributed who have been least aware of the fact of their having done so. "lord, when saw i thee naked and an hungered," etc., etc. on some smallest, obscurest occasion probably, when, the recognized form and the ignored spirit presenting themselves together, thy hospitable bosom received the one, and left the other to take care of itself. our neophytes take this great babel with the charming _at-homeness_ to which our paragraph alludes. they devour london as if it were the perpetual bread and butter which their father's house keeps always cut and spread for them; cab hire, great dinners, distinguished company, the lofty friend's equipage and livery, lent for precious occasions,--all this seems as much a matter of course as lindley murray's rules, or the creed and the commandments. joachim? of course they will hear joachim, and the opera, if it be good enough, and mr. dickens. lady ----, duke of so and so. very well in their way. presented at court? they wouldn't mind, provided it were not too tedious. mr. carlyle? herbert spencer? yes, they have heard tell of them. happy season of youth, which can find nothing more reverend than its possibilities, more glorious than its unwasted powers! in spite of all the new views and theories, i say, let children be born, and let women nurse them and bring them up, and let us have young people to take our work where we leave it, laughing at our limitations, and excelling us with noble strides; to pause some day, and remember our lessons, and weep over our pains, not the less, o god of the future, surpassing us! so let children continue to be born, and let no one attempt to reconstruct society at the expense of one hair of the head of these little ones, ourselves in hope as well as in memory. st. paul's--the japanese. the first feature of novelty in visiting st. paul's cathedral is the facility for going thither afforded by the city railways,--one of which swiftly deposits us in cannon street, whence, with the cathedral in full sight, we beg our way to the entrance, so far as information goes,--one only of its several doors being open to the public at all times. the second is the crypt occupied and solemnized by the ponderous funereal pomps of the late duke of wellington. in conjunction with these must be mentioned the nelson monument. these two men have been the great deliverers of england in modern times, and there is, no doubt, a certain heartiness in the gratitude that attends their memory. the duke's mausoleum is of solid porphyry, highly polished, in a quadrangular enclosure, at each of whose four corners flames a gas-jet, fixed on a porphyry shaft. behind this a large space is filled by the huge funereal car which bore the hero to this place of rest. it is of cast iron, furnished by the cannon taken in his victories. in it are harnessed effigies of the six horses that dragged it, in the veritable trappings worn on the occasion. the heavy black draperies of the car are edged with a colored border, representing the orders worn by the duke. and here the care of england will, no doubt, preserve them, with the nodding hearse-plumes, and all the monuments of that holiday of woe, to moulder as long as such things can possibly hold together. for there is a point at which the most illustrious antiquity degenerates into dirt. and in england the past and present will yet have some awkward controversies to settle; for the small island cannot always have room for both, and to cramp and crowd the one for the heraldic display of the other will not be good housekeeping, according to the theories of to-day. so, when the fox-hunting squire tells us that his chief public aim and occupation will be to keep his county conservative, we think that this should mean to cheat the honest and laborious peasantry out of their eye teeth; though how they should be ignorant enough to be outwitted by him, is a question which makes us pause as over an unexplored abyss of knownothingism. st. paul's is clearly organized for the extortion of shillings and sixpences. so much for seeing the bell, clock, and whispering gallery; so much for the crypt. you are pressed, too, at every turn, to purchase guide-books, each more authentic than the last. there, as elsewhere, we go about spilling our small change at every step, and wondering where it will all end. we remember the debtors' prisons which still abound in england, and endeavor to view the younger neophyte in the sober livery of little dorrit. the only occasion of public amusement that we improve, after the one happy hearing of joachim, is an evening performance of the japanese jugglers, which remains fresh and vivid in our recollections, with all its barbaric smoothness and perfection. the first spectacle which we behold is that of a chattering and shrieking monkey of a man, who, squatting on his haunches, visibly fills a tea-cup with water, inverts it upon a pile of papers without spilling a drop, and pulls out layer after layer of those papers, all perfectly dry, which he waves at us with a childish joy. by and by, he restores the cup to its original position, and then empties its contents into another vessel before our eyes. another, a top-spinning savage, continually whirls his top into that state which the boys call "sleep," and spins it, thus impelled, along the sharp edge of a steel sword, up to the point and back again, and along the border of a paper fan, with other deeds which it were tedious to enumerate. while these feats go on, two funny little japanese children, oddly bundled up according to the patterns of the two sexes, toddle about and chatter with the elders, probably for the purpose of illustrating the features of family life in japan. a young creature, said to be the wife of six unpronounceable syllables, strums on a monotonous stringed instrument, and screeches, sometimes striking an octave, but successfully dodging every other interval. both in speech and in song the tones of these people betray an utter want of command over the inflections of the voice. every elevation is a scream, every depression, _con rispetto_, a grunt. and when, in addition to the song and strumming, the little ones lustily beat a large wooden tea-box with wooden weapons, we begin to waver a little about the old proverb, _de gustibus non disputandum est_. the beautiful butterfly trick, however, consoles our eyes for what our ears have suffered. the conjurer twists first one, then two, butterflies out of a bit of white paper, and, by means of a fan, causes them to fly and poise as if they were coquetting with july breezes. when, at last, he presents a basket of flowers, the illusion is perfect. they settle, fly again, and hover round, in true coleopteric fashion. but the acrobatic exhibition is that which beggars all that our overworked sensibilities have endured at the hands of rope-dancer or equestrian. blondin himself, hanlon in the flying trapeze, are less perfect and less terrible. acrobat no. appears in an athlete's costume of white linen. he binds a stout silken tie around his head--a precaution whose object is later understood. he then gets into a small metal triangle with a running cord attached, and is swung up to the neighborhood of the high, arched ceiling, where various cross-pieces, slight in appearance, are attached. to one of these he directs his venturous flight, and letting his triangle depart, he takes his station with his legs firmly closed upon the cross-piece, his head hanging down, his hands free. acrobat no. now comes upon the scene. mounting in a second triangle, he is swung to a certain height at a distance of some twenty or more feet from the first performer. a bamboo pole is here handed him, of which he manages to convey the upper end within the grasp of the latter. and now, swinging loose from his triangle, he hangs at the lower end of the bamboo, his steadfast colleague holding fast the upper end. and this mere straight line, with only the natural jointings of the cane, becomes to him a domain, a palace of ease. now he clings to it apparently with one finger, throwing out the other hand and both feet. now he clings by one foot, his head being down, and his hands occupied with a fan. there is, in fact, no name for the singularities with which he amazes us for at least a quarter of an hour. no. always holds on like grim death. no. seems at times to hold on by nothing. all the while one of their number chatters volubly in the japanese dialect, directing attention to the achievements of the two pendent heroes. our thoughts recurred forcibly to a dialogue long familiar in our own country:-- "wat's dat darkening up de hole?" asks cuffee in the she bear's den to cuffee without, who is forcibly detaining the returned she bear by one extremity. "if de tail slips through my fingers, you'll find out," is the curt reply, and end of the story. but the pole did not slip through, and, finally, the second triangle was swung towards acrobat no. , who relinquished his hold of the bamboo, and intwining his legs about it, pleasantly made his descent with his head downwards, afterwards setting himself to rights with one shake. acrobat no. now condescends to come down from his high position, also with his head down, and a cool and consummate demeanor. but he walks off from the stage as if his late inverted view of it had given him something to think of. and in all this, not one jerk, one hasty snatch, one fall and recovery. all goes with the rounded smoothness of machinery. these gymnasts have perfected the mechanism of the body, but they have given it nothing to do that is worth doing. society. we bite at the tempting bait of london society a little eagerly. in our case, as veterans, it is like returning to a delicious element from which we have long been weaned. the cheerfulness with which english people respond to the modest presentment of a card _well-motived_, the cordiality with which they welcome an old friend, once truly a friend, may well offset the reserve with which they respond to advances made at random, and the resolute self-defence of the british _lion_ in particular against all vague and vagabond enthusiasms. carlyle's wrath at the americans who homaged and tormented him prompted a grandiose vengeance. he called them a nation of hyperbores. not for this do we now vigorously let him alone, but because his spleeny literary utterances these many years attest the precise moment in which bright apollo left him. the most brilliant genius should beware of the infirmity of the fireside and admiring few, whose friendship applauds his poorest sayings, and, at the utmost, shrugs its shoulders where praise is out of the question. our remembrance of the london of twenty-four years ago is, indeed hyperdelightful, and of that description which one does not ask to have repeated, so perfect is it in the first instance. a second visit was less social and more secluded in its opportunities. but now--for what reason it matters not; would it were that of our superior merit--we find the old delightful account reopened, the friendly visits frequent, and the luxurious invitations to dinner occupy every evening of our short week in london, crowding out theatres and opera,--the latter now just in the bud. to these dissipations a new one has been added, and the afternoon tea is now a recognized institution. less formal and expensive than a new york afternoon reception, it answers the same purpose of a final object and rest for the day's visiting. in some instances, it continues through the season; in others, invitations are given for a single occasion only. you go, if invited, in spruce morning dress, with as much or as little display of train and bonnet as may suit with your views. you find a cheerful and broken-up assemblage--people conversing in twos, or, at most, in threes. and here is the very reverend the dean. and here is the catholic archbishop, renowned for the rank and number of his proselytes. and here is sir charles--not he of the hunting-whip and breeches, but one renowned in science, and making a practical as well as a theoretical approximation to the antiquity of man. and here is sir samuel, who has finally discovered those parent lakes of the nile which have been among the lost arts of geography for so many centuries. in this society, no man sees or shows a full-length portrait. a word is given, a phrase exchanged, and "_tout est dit_." what it all may amount to must be made out in another book than mine. well, having been more or less introduced, you take a cup of tea, with the option of bread and butter or a fragment of sponge cake. having finished this, you vanish; you have shown yourself, reported yourself; more was not expected of you. a graver and more important institution is the london dinner, commencing at half past seven, with good evening clothes--a white neckcloth and black vest for gentlemen; for _nous autres_, evening dress, not resplendent. the dinners we attend have perhaps the edge of state a little taken off, being given at short notice; but we observe female attire to be less showy than in our recollections of twenty-four years previous, and our one evening dress, devised to answer for dinner, evening party, and ball, proves a little over, rather than under, the golden mean of average appearance. as one dinner is like all, the briefest sketch of a single possible occasion may suffice. if you have been at afternoon tea before dinner, your toilet has been perforce a very hurried one. if it is your first appearance, the _annonce_ of a french hair-dresser in the upper floor of your hotel may have inspired you with the insane idea of submitting your precious brain-case to his manipulations. having you once in his dreadful seat, he imposes upon you at his pleasure. you must accept his hair-string, his pins, his rats, at a price at which angola cats were dear. you are palpitating with haste, he with the conceit of his character and profession. fain would he add swindle to swindle, and perfidy to perfidy. "don't you want a little crayon to darken the hair?" and hide the ravages of age; "it is true it colors a little, since it is made on purpose." you desire it not. "a cream? a pomade? a hair-wash?" none of all this; only in heaven's name to have done with him! he capers behind you, puffing your sober head with curls, as if he had the breath of Æolus, according to flaxman's illustration. finally he dismisses you at large and unwarranted cost; but in your imagination he capers at your back for a week to come. this prelude, which gives to "_hairy_ nothing a local habitation and a name," leaves little time for further adornment. a hired cab takes your splendors to the door of the inviting mansion, and leaves them there. when you depart, you request the servant of the house which feeds you to call another cab, which he does with the air of rendering a familiar service. i have no intention of giving a detailed portrait of the entertainment that follows. its few characteristic features can be briefly given. introductions are not general; and even in case the occasion should have been invoked and invited for you, the greater part of your fellow-guests may not directly make your acquaintance. servants are graver than senators with us. dishes follow each other in bewildering and rather oppressive variety. you could be very happy with any one of them alone, but with a dozen you fear even to touch and taste. conversation is not loud nor general, scarcely audible across the table. as in marriage, your partner is your fate. one would be very glad to present one brick so that another could be laid on top of it, or even to attempt an angle and a corner adjustment. but this conversation is not architectonic. it aims at nothing more than the requisite small change. if by chance the society be assembled at an informal house, and composed of artists and authors, we shall hear jests and laughter, but the themes of these will scarcely go beyond the most familiar matters. having told thus much we have told all, except that ice is not served, as with us, upon the table, in picturesque variety of form and color, but is usually bestowed in spoonfuls, one of either kind to each person, the quality being excellent, and the quantity, after all else that has been offered, quite sufficient. it is here one of the most expensive articles of _luxe_--costing thrice its yankee prices. the ladies leave the table a little before the gentlemen; but these arrive with no symptoms of inordinate drinking. the latter, as is well known, is long gone out of fashion, and with it, we imagine, the description of wit and anecdote, whose special enjoyment used to be reserved for the time "after the ladies had left the table." this is all that can be told of the dinner, which is the _ne plus ultra_ of english social enjoyments; for balls everywhere are stale affairs, save to the dancing neophytes, and the enjoyment to be had at them is either official or gymnastic. at a "select" _soirée_ following a state dinner, we hear mr. ap thomas, the renowned harpist, whose execution is indeed brilliant and remarkable. the harp, however, is an instrument that owes its prestige partly to its beauty of form, partly to the romance of its traditions, from king david to the welsh bards. in tone and temper it remains greatly inferior to the piano-forte, the finger governing the strings far better with than without the intervention of the keys and hammers. but while we thankfully accept the offered opportunities of meeting those whom we desire to see, we are forced, as hygienists and economists, to enter our protest against the english dinner--this last joint in the back-bone of luxury. after hearty luncheon and social tea, it would seem to be a mere superfluity, not needed, a danger if partaken of, a mockery if neglected. so let new england cherish while she can the early dinner; for with the extended areas of business and society, dinner grows ever later, and the man and his family wider apart. by the time that tea and coffee are got through with, it may well be half past ten o'clock, and by eleven, at latest, unless there should be music or some special after-entertainment, you take leave. hoping to revisit more fully this ancestral isle before the tocsin of depart for home, we will now, with a little more of our sketchiness, take leave of it, which we should do with heartier regret but for the prospect of a not distant return. in philosophy, england at the present day does not seem to go beyond mill on the one hand, and stewart on the other. the word "science" is still used, as it was ten years ago with us, to express the rules and observances of physical and mathematical study. science, as the mother of the rules of thought, generating logic, building metaphysics, and devising the rules of coherence by which human cogitation is at once promoted and measured,--this conception of science i did not recognize in those with whom i spoke, unless i except rev. h. martineau, with whom i had only general conversation, but whose intellectual position is at once without the walls of form, and within the sanctuary of freedom. i was referred to jowett and his friends as the authorities under this head, but this was not the moment in which to find them. in religion, miss cobbe leads the van, her partial method assuming as an original conception what the germans have done, and much better done, before her. theodore parker is, i gather, her great man; and in her case, as in his, largeness of nature, force and geniality of temperament, take the place of scientific construction and responsible labor. mr. martineau's position is well known, and is for us new englanders beyond controversy. the broad church is best known to us by kingsley and maurice. to those who still stand within the limits of an absolute authority in spiritual matters, its achievements may appear worthy of surprise and of gratulation. to those who have passed that barrier they present no intellectual feature worth remarking. i well remember to-day my childish astonishment when i first learned that i and my fellows were outside the earth's crust, not within it. in connection with this came also the fact of a mysterious force binding us to the surface of the planet, so that, in its voyages and revolutions, it can lose nothing of its own. something akin to this may be the discovery of believers that they and those whom they follow are, so far as concerns actual opportunity of knowledge, on the outside of the world of ideal truth. eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart conceived, any absolute form of its manifestation. a divine, mysterious force binds us to our place on its smiling borders. of what lies beyond we construe as we can--moses according to his ability, christ and paul according to theirs. unseen and unmanifested it must ever remain; for though men say that god has done so and so, god has never said so. of this we become sure: religion spiritualizes, inspires, and consoles us. the strait gate and narrow path are blessed for all who find them, and are the same for all who seek them. but this oneness of morals is learned experimentally; it cannot be taught dogmatically. proposing to return to this theme, and to see more of the broad church before i decide upon its position, i take leave of it and of its domain together. farewell, england! farewell, london! for three months to come thou wilt contain the regalia of all wits, of all capabilities. fain would we have lingered beside the hospitable tables, and around the ancient monuments, considering also the steadfast and slowly-developing institutions. but the chief veteran is in haste for greece, and on the very sunday on which we should have heard martineau in the forenoon, and dean stanley in the afternoon, with delightful social recreation in the evening, we break loose from our moorings, reach folkstone, and embark for its french antithesis, _boulogne sur mer_. the channel. if the devil is not so black as he is painted, it must be because he has an occasional day of good humor. some such wondrous interval is hinted at by people who profess to have seen the channel sea smooth and calm. we remember it piled with mountains of anguish--one's poor head swimming, one's heart sinking, while an organ more important than either in this connection underwent a sort of turning inside out which seemed to wrench the very strings of life. but on this broken sabbath our wonderful luck still pursues us. it is in favor of the neophytes that this new dispensation has been granted. the monsters of the deep respect their innocence, and cannot visit on them the vulgar offences of their progenitors. they bind the waves with a garland of roses and lilies, whose freshness proves a spell of peace. we, the elders, embark, expecting the usual speedy prostration; but, placing ourselves against the mast, we determine, like ulysses, to maintain the integrity of our position. and it so happens that we do. while a few sensitive mortals about us execute the irregular symphony of despair, we rest in a calm and upright silence. never was the channel so quiet! we were not uproarious, certainly, but contemplative. a wretch tucked us up with a tarpaulin, for which he afterwards demanded a trifle. if civility is sold for its weight in silver anywhere, it is on english soil and in english dependencies. we, the veterans, took our quiet ferriage in mute amazement; the neophytes took it as a thing of course. arrived, we rush to the _buffet_ of the railroad station, where every one speaks french-english. here a very limited dinner costs us five francs a head. we accept the imposition with melancholy thoughtfulness. then comes the whistle of the locomotive. "_en voiture, messieurs!_" and away, with a shriek, and a groan, and a rattle,--to borrow mr. dickens's refrain, now that he has done with it,--_en route_ for paris. paris and thence. in paris the fate of greece still pursues us. two days the rigid veteran will grant; no more--the rest promised when the eastern business shall have been settled. but those two days suffice to undo our immortal souls so far as shop windows can do this. the shining sins and vanities of the world are so insidiously set forth in this jesuits' college of satan, that you catch the contagion of folly and extravagance as you pace the streets, or saunter through the brilliant arcades. your purveyor makes a sybarite of you, through the inevitable instrumentality of breakfast and dinner. your clothier, from boots to bonnet, seduces you into putting the agreeable before the useful. for if you purchase the latter, you will be moved to buy by the former, and use becomes an after-thought to your itching desire and disturbed conscience. paris is a sweating furnace in which human beings would turn life everlasting into gold, provided it were a negotiable value. you, who escape its allurements solvent, with a franc or two in your pocket, and your resources for a year to come not mortgaged, should after your own manner cause _te deum_ to be sung or celebrated. strongly impressed at the time, moved towards every acquisitive villany, not excluding shop-lifting nor the picking of pockets, i now regard with a sort of indignation those silken snares, those diamond, jet, and crystal allurements, which so nearly brought my self-restraint, and with it my self-respect, to ruin. everything in paris said to me, "shine, dye your hair, rouge your cheeks, beggar your purse with real diamonds, or your pride with false ones. but shine, and, if necessary, beg or steal." nothing said, "be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary, like a roaring lion," etc., etc. what a deliverer was therefore the stern crete-bound veteran, who cut the gordian knot of enchantment with, "pack and begone." and having ended that inevitable protest against his barbarity with which women requite the offices of true friendship, i now turn my wrath against false, fair paris, and cry, "avoid thee, _scelestissima_! away from me, _nequissima_! i will none of thee; not a franc, not an obolus. avoid thee! _nolo ornari!_" touching our journey from paris to marseilles, i will only give the scarce-needed advice that those who have this route to make should inflict upon themselves a little extra fatigue, and stop only at lyons, if at all, rather than risk the damp rooms and musty accommodations of the smaller places which lie upon the route, offering to the traveller few objects of interest, or none. for it often happens in travelling that a choice only of inconveniences is presented to us, and in our opinion a prolonged day's journey in a luxurious car is far less grievous to be borne than a succession of stoppages, unpackings, and plungings into unknown inns and unaired beds. to this opinion, however, our greece-bound veteran suffers not himself to be converted, and, accordingly, we, leaving paris on the wednesday at ten a. m., do not reach marseilles until four o'clock of the friday afternoon following. the features of our first day's journey are those of a country whose landed possessions are subdivided into the smallest portions cultivable. plains and hill-sides are alike covered with the stripes which denote the limits of property. fruit trees in blossom abound every where, but the villages, built of rough stone and lime, are distant from each other. as we go southward, the vine becomes more apparent, and before we reach lyons we see much of that contested gift of god. the trains that pass us are often loaded with barrels whose precious contents cannot be bought pure for any money, on the other side of the atlantic, or even of the straits of dover. to this the procession of the jolly god has come at last. he leers at us through the two red eyes of the locomotive; its stout cylinder represents his _embonpoint_. instead of frantic bacchantes, the rattling cars dance after him, and "_ohe evohe!_" degenerates into the shrill whew, whew of the engine. at the _buffets_ and hotels _en route_ his mysteries are celebrated. these must be sought in the labyrinthine state of mind of those who have drunken frequently and freely. they utter words unintelligible to the sober and uninspired, sentences of prophetic madness which the prose of modern physiology condenses into those two words--gout and delirium tremens. yet these two dire diseases are rare among the temperate french. they export the producing medium _au profit de l'étranger_. we stop the first night at macon, and sleep in an imposing, chilly room, without carpets, under down coverlets. the second day's journey brings us to lyons an hour before noon. we engage a _fiacre_, drive around the town, whose growth and improvement in the interval of sixteen years do not fail to strike us. fine public squares adorn it, themselves embellished with bronze statues, among which we observe an equestrian figure of the first and only napoleon. the shops are as tormenting as those of paris, the café casati, where we dine, as elegant. re-embarking at four p. m., we reach valence in about four hours. the worst of it is, that, arriving at these quaint little places after dark, you see none of their features, and taste only of their discomforts. at valence our inn was so dreary, that, having bestowed the neophytes in sound slumber, the veteran and i sallied forth in quest of any pastime whatever, without being at all fastidious as to its source and character. passing along the quiet streets, we observe what would seem to be a theatre, on the other side of the way. entering, we find a youthful guardian, who tells us that there is up stairs a "_confèrence de philosophie_." we enter, and find a very respectable assemblage, listening attentively to an indistinct orator, who rhapsodizes upon the poets of modern france, with quotations and personal anecdotes. what he says has little originality, but is delivered with good taste and feeling. he speaks without notes; for, indeed, such a _causerie_ spins itself, like a sailor's yarn, though out of finer materials. returning to our hostelry, we sleep with open window in a musty room, and catch cold. the next day's journey still conducts us through a vine-growing region, in a more and more advanced condition. the constant presence of the _morus multicaulis_ also makes us aware of the presence of the silk-worm--so far, only in the egg-condition; for that prime minister of vanity is not hatched yet. we learn that the disease which has for some years devastated the worm is on the decline. the world with us, meanwhile has become somewhat weaned from the absolute necessity of the article, and the friendly sheep and alpaca have made great progress in the æsthetics of the toilet. as we approach marseilles, we cross a dreary flat of wide extent, covered with stones and saltish grass, and said to produce the finest cattle in france. the olive, too, makes his stiff bow to us as we pass, well remembering his dusty green. the olive trees seem very small, and are, indeed, of comparatively recent growth; all the larger ones having been killed by a frost, rare in these latitudes, whose epoch we are inclined to state as posterior to our last presence in these parts. our informant places it at twenty years ago. after three days of piecemeal travelling, the arrival at marseilles seems quite a relief. marseilles. at marseilles we find a quasi tropical aspect--long streets, handsome and well-shaded, tempting shops, luxurious hotels, a motley company, and, above all, a friend, one of our own countrymen, divided between the glitter of the new life and the homesick weaning of the old. half, he assumes the cicerone, and guides our ignorance about. half, he sits to learn, and we expound to him what has befallen at home, so far as we are conscious of it. we take half a day for resting, the next day for sight-seeing. on the third, we must sail, for finding that holy week is still to be, we determine to make our reluctant sacrifice to the mediterranean, and to trust our precious comfort and delicate equilibrium to that blue imposture, that sunniest of humbugs. on the second day, we climb the steep ascent that leads to the chapel of la bonne mère de la garde. this hot and panting ascent is not made by us without many pauses for recovered breath and energy. at every convenient stopping-place in the steep ascent are stationed elderly women presiding over small booths, who urgently invite us to purchase candles to give to the madonna, medals, rosaries, and photographs, to all of whom we oppose a steadfast resistance. we have twice in our lives brought home from europe boat-loads of trash, and we think that, as paul says, the time past of our lives may suffice us. finally, with a degree of perspiration more than salutary, we reach the top, and enjoy first the view of the mediterranean, including a bird's-eye prospect of the town, which looks so parched and arid as to make the remembrance of london in the rain soothing and pleasant. a palace is pointed out which was built in the expectation of a night's sojourn of the emperor, but to which, they tell us, he never came. our point of view is the top of one of the towers of the church. going inside, we look down upon the aisles and altars from a lofty gallery. the silver robes of the madonna glisten, reflecting the many wax-lights that devotees have kindled around her. the first sight of these material expressions of devotion is imposing, the second instructive, the third, commonplace and wearisome. we are at the last clause, and gaze at these things with the eyes of people who have seen enough of them. the remainder of the disposable day we employ in a drive to the prado, the fashionable region for the display of equipage and toilet. this is not, however, the fashionable day, and we meet only a few grumpy-looking dowagers in all stages of fatitude. the road is planted with double rows of lindens, and is skirted by country residences and villas to let. we stop and alight at the musée, a spacious and handsome building, erected and owned by a noble of great wealth, long since dead, who committed celibacy, and left no personal heir. it is now the property of the city of marseilles. the hall is fine. among the spacious salons, the largest is used as a gallery of pictures, mostly by artists of this neighborhood, and of very humble merit. in another we find a very good collection of egyptian antiquities, while in yet another the old state furniture is retained, the rich crimson hangings, long divan of gobelin, and chairs covered with fine worsted needle-work. beyond is a pretty chinese cabinet, with a full-length _squatue_ of buddh, gayly gilded and painted. above stairs, the state bed and hangings are shown, the latter matching a handsome landscape chintz, with which the walls are covered. this museum has in it a good deal of instructive and entertaining matter, and is kept in first-rate order. returning, we drive around the outer skirts of the town, and see something of the summer bathing hotels, the great storehouses, and the streets frequented by the working and seafaring portion of the community. in the evening we walk through the streets, which are brilliant with gas, and visit the cafés, where ices, coffee, and lemonade are enjoyed. we finally seat ourselves in a casino, a sort of mixed café and theatre, where the most motley groups of people are coming, going, and sitting. at one end is a small stage, with a curtain, which falls at the end of each separate performance. here songs and dances succeed each other, only half heeded by the public, who drink, smoke, and chatter without stint. after a hornpipe, a dreadful woman in white, with a blue peplum, hoarsely shouts a song without music, accompanied by drums and barbaric cymbals. she makes at last a vile courtesy, matching the insufficiency of her dress below by its utter absence above the waist, and we take flight. the next morning witnesses our early departure from marseilles. rome. with feelings much mingled, i approach, for the third time, the city of rome. i pause to collect the experience of sixteen years, the period intervening between my second visit and the present. i left rome, after those days, with entire determination, but with infinite reluctance. america seemed the place of exile, rome the home of sympathy and comfort. to console myself for the termination of my travels, i undertook a mental pilgrimage, which unfolded to me something of the spirit of that older world, of which i had found the form so congenial. to the course of private experience were added great public lessons. among these i may name the sublime failure of john brown, the sorrow and success of the late war. and now i must confess that, after so many intense and vivid pages of life, this visit to rome, once a theme of fervent and solemn desire, becomes a mere page of embellishment in a serious and instructive volume. so, while my countrymen and women, and the roman world in general, hang intent upon the pages of the picture-book, let me resume my graver argument, and ask and answer such questions of the present as may seem useful and not ungenial. the roman problem has for the american thinker two clauses: first, that of state and society; secondly, that of his personal relation to the same. arriving here, and becoming in some degree acquainted with things as they are, he asks, first, what is the theory of this society, and how long will it continue? secondly, what do my countrymen who consent to pass their lives here gain? what do they give up? i cannot answer either of these questions exhaustively. the first would lead me far into social theorizing; the second into some ungracious criticism. so a word, a friendly one must stand for good intentions where wisdom is at fault. the theory of this society in policy and religion is that of a symbolism whose remote significance has long been lost sight of and forgotten. here the rulers, whose derived power should represent the _consensus_ of the people, affect to be greater than those who constitute them, and the petty statue, raised by the great artist for the convenience and instruction of the crowd, spurns at the solid basis of the heaven-born planet, without which it could not stand. rank here is not a mere convenience and classification for the encouragement of virtue and promotion of order. rank here takes the place of virtue, and repression, its tool, takes the place of order. a paralysis of thought characterizes the whole community, for thought deprived of its legitimate results is like the human race debarred from its productive functions--it becomes effete, and soon extinct. abject poverty and rudeness characterize the lower class (_basso ceto_), bad taste and want of education the middle, utter arrogance and superficiality the upper class. the distinctions between one set of human beings and another are held to be absolute, and the inferiority of opportunity, carefully preserved and exaggerated, is regarded as intrinsic, not accidental. vain is it to plead the democratic allowances of the catholic church. the equality of man before god is here purely abstract and disembodied. the name of god, on the contrary, is invoked to authorize the most flagrant inequalization that ignorance can prepare and institutions uphold. the finest churches, the fairest galleries, you will say, are open to the poorest as to the richest. this is true. but the man's mind is the castle and edifice of his life. look at these rough and ragged people, unwashed, uncombed, untaught. see how little sensible they are of the decencies and amenities of life. search their faces for an intelligent smile, a glance that recognizes beauty or fitness in any of the stately circumstances that surround them. they are kept like human cattle, and have been so kept for centuries. and their dominants suppose themselves to be of one sort, and these of another. but give us absolutism, and take away education, even in rich and roomy america, and what shall we have? the cruel and arrogant slaveholder, the vulgar and miserable poor white, the wronged and degraded negro. the three classes of men exist in all constituted society. absolutism allows them to exist only in this false form. this race is not a poor, but a robust and kindly one. inclining more to artistic illustration than to abstract thought, its gifts, in the hierarchy of the nations, are eminent and precious. like the modern greek, the modern celt, and the modern negro, the italian peasant asks a century or two of education towards modern ideas. and all that can be said of his want of comprehension only makes it the more evident that the sooner we begin, the better. it should not need, to americans or englishmen, to set out any formal argument against absolutism. among them it has long since been tried and judged. enough of its advocacy only remains to present that opposition which is the necessary basis of action. and yet a word to my countrymen and countrywomen, who, lingering on the edge of the vase, are lured by its sweets, and fall into its imprisonment. it is a false, false superiority to which you are striving to join yourself. a prince of puppets is not a prince, but a puppet; a superfluous duke is no dux; a titular count does not count. dresses, jewels, and equipages of tasteless extravagance; the sickly smile of disdain for simple people; the clinging together, by turns eager and haughty, of a clique that becomes daily smaller in intention, and whose true decline consists in its numerical increase,--do not dream that these lift you in any time way--in any true sense. for italians to believe that it does, is natural; for englishmen to believe it, is discreditable; for americans, disgraceful. leaving philosophy for the moment, i must renew my sketchy pictures of the scenes i pass through, lest treacherous memory should relinquish their best traits unpreserved. arrived in rome, at a very prosaic and commonplace station, i had some difficulty in recognizing the front of villa negroni, an old papal residence belonging to the massimi family, in whose wide walls the relatives i now visit had formerly built their nest. a cosy and pleasant one it was, with the view of the distant hills, a large _entourage_ of gardens, a fine orange grove, and the neighborhood of some interesting ruins and churches. with all the cordiality of the old time these relatives now met me. my labors of baggage and conveyance were ended. one leads me to the carriage, where another waits to receive me. time has been indulgent, we think, to both of us, for each finds the other little changed. and now we begin in earnest to tread the fairy land of dreams. here are the quattro fontane, there is the quirinal, yonder the dome of domes. we thread the streets in which i used to hunt for small jewelry and pictures at a bargain, enacting the part of the prodigal son, and providing a dinner of husks for the sake of a feast of gewgaws. a certain salutary tingling of shame visits my cheeks at the remembrance of the same. i find the personage of those days poor and trivial. but here is the forum of trajan, and soon we drive within a palatial doorway, and our guides lead us up a stately marble staircase--a long ascent; but we pause finally, and a great door opens, and they say, welcome! we are now at home. through a long hall we go, and through a sweep of apartments unmatchable in fifth avenue, at least in architectural dignity, seconded by rich and measured taste--green parlor, crimson parlor, drab parlor, the lady's room, the signore's room, the children's room. and in the guest-chamber i confronted my small and dusty self in the glass--small, not especially in my human proportions. but the whole of my modest house in b. place would easily, as to solid contents, lodge in the largest of those lofty rooms. the place itself would equally lodge in the palace. i regard my re-found friends with wonder, and expect to see them execute some large and stately manoeuvre, indicating their possession of all this space. and now, dinner served in irreproachable style, and waited on by two young men whose air and deportment would amply justify their appearance at papanti's hall on any state occasion. we soon grow used to their polite services; but at first mario and giuseppe somewhat intimidate us. and after dinner, talk of old times and old friends, question of this region and the other, the cold limbo as to weather, whence we come. long and familiar is our interchange of facts, and sleep comes too soon, yet is welcome. st. peter's. the first day in rome sees us pursuing the phantom of the st. peter ceremonies, for all of which, tickets have been secured for us. solid fact as the performance of the _functions_ remains, for us it assumes a forcible unreality, through the impeding intervention of black dresses and veils, with what should be women under them. but as these creatures push like battering-rams, and caper like he-goats, we shall prefer to adjourn the question of their humanity, and to give it the benefit of a doubt. we must except, however, our countrywomen from dear boston, who were not seen otherwise than decently and in order. into the well-remembered _palco_ we now drag the trembling neophyte, dished up in black in a manner altogether astonishing to herself. and we push her youthful head this way and that. "see, there are the cardinals; there is the pope; there, in white-capped row, sit the pilgrims. now, the pope's mitre being removed, he proceeds with great state to wash the pilgrims' feet." but she, like sister anne in the blue beard controversy, might reply, "i see only a flock of black dresses, heaped helter-skelter, the one above the other." some bits of the picture she does get, certainly, which may thus be catalogued: "pope's nose, black dress, ditto skull-cap, black dress, a touch of cardinal's back, black dress--and now? bla--ck dre--ss, for the rest of the time. but what is this commotion?" for now the he-goats begin to jump in the most extraordinary way, racing out of the tribune as eagerly as they had pressed into it. their haste is to see the _tavola_, or pilgrims' table, up stairs, where the pope and cardinals are to wait upon the twelve elect, whose foot-washing we have just tried to see. silence, decency, decorum--all are forgotten. one in diamonds calls to a friend in the crowd outside, "hollo, hollo! come along with us!" and at the top of her voice. if "the devil take the hindmost" be the moving cause of this gymnastic, i would humbly suggest that, on these occasions, the devil certainly seems to be in the foremost. with a little suppressed grumbling, we tumble out of the tribune, and descend to the body of the church, where the double line of swiss guards detains us so long as to render our tickets for the _cupola_, where the pilgrims' feast takes place, nearly useless. this detention seems to be entirely arbitrary; for when, after endless entreaty, we are allowed to reach the door, an easy ingress is allowed us. and here, bit by bit, the neophyte puzzles out the significance of the scene before her--a table set with massive golden ornaments (silver gilt at best), the twelve white caps behind; the great church dignitaries handing plates of fish, vegetables, and fruit towards the table; the pope hidden behind some black dress or other, and a chanting of prayers or texts, we know not what. the whole is much like the stage banquet in macbeth, the part of banquo's ghost being played by the spirit of the christian religion. and now away, away! to the door of the sistine chapel, where the _miserere_ will be sung at six of the clock, it now being one of the same. so, in profane haste, we reach that door, already occupied by a small mob of women of the politer sort, and others. here one maintains one's position till two o'clock, when the door opens, and, in shocking disorder, the mob enter. those who keep the door exclaim, "do not push so, ladies; there is room for all." but the savageness of the anglo-saxon race has full scope to-day, not being on its good behavior, as at home. so the abler-bodied jam and cram the less athletic without stint. after falling harmlessly on my face, i breathe freely, and obtain an end seat on the long benches reserved for the unreserved ladies. and here passed three weary hours before the office began, and another hour after that before the musical _bonne bouche_, coveted by these people, and little appreciated by many of them, was offered to their tired acceptance. the first interval was mostly employed in the resuscitating process of _chawing_ upon such victuals as had not proved contraband for such an occasion. and here were exchanged some little amenities which revived our sinking hopes of the race. biscuits, sandwiches, and chocolate pastilles were shared. "muffin from the hotel de russie" was offered by a face not unknown. munching thereon with thankfulness, we interrogate, and find with joy a boston woman. o comfort! be my friend; and when the next black rush doth come, if fisticuffs should become general and dangerous, be so good as to belabor the woman who belabors me. the office begins at five. it consists mostly of linked sameness long drawn out. the chapel is by this time well filled with ceremonial amateurs in every sort and quality. men of all nationalities, in gentlemen's dress, fill the seats and throng the aisle. priests, _militaires_, and even sisters of charity, vary the monotony of the strict coat and pantaloon. upon an upright triangle, as is well known, are spiked the fifteen burning candles, of which all, save one, must be quenched before we can enjoy our dear-bought _miserere_. much of our attendant zeal is concentrated upon the progress visible in their decline. the effect of the chanting is as square and monotonous as would be the laying down of so many musical paving-stones. we tried to peep at the latin text of a book of prayers in the hand of a priest on our left; but the pitiless swiss guard caused him and his breviary to move on, and this resource was lost. about half way through the office, a pause came over matters, very unwelcome to our hurry. a door on the left of the altar opened, and the pope entered, preceded by his guard. he walked to his throne on the right of the altar, and the chanting was resumed. some time before this, however, the _treni_ or lamentations were sung. these were chanted in a high voice, neither fresh nor exact, and did not make on me the impression of sixteen years ago. the extinguishing of the candles was a slow agony, the intervals appearing endless. finally, all the lights were out. the one burning taper which represented christ was removed out of sight, the pope sank upon his knees before the altar, and the verses of the _miserere_ were sung. twilight and fixed attention prevailed through the chapel, whose vaulted roof lends a certain magic of its own to the weird chant. yet, with the remembrance of sixteen years since, and with present judgment, i am inclined to consider the supremacy of the _miserere_ a musical superstition. i know not what critical convictions its literal study would develop, but, as i heard it, much of it seemed out of tune, and deformed by other than musical discords. the _soprani_, without exception, were husky, and strained their voices to meet the highest effects. the vaulted roof, indeed, gives a lovely scope to such melody as there is. the dim, majestic frescos, which you still feel, though you see them no longer,--the brilliancy and variety of the company, its temporary stillness,--all these circumstances in this _ne plus ultra_ of the roman æsthetic combine to impress you. but the kneeling pontiff and his cardinals did not appear to me invested with any true priesthood. i could feel no religious sympathy with their movements, which seemed a show, and part of a show--nothing more. and when the verses were all sung, and the shuffling of feet at the end got through with, i staid not to see the procession into the pauline chapel, nor the adoration of the relics, nor the mopping of st. peter's altar. i had seen enough of such sights, and, quietly wrapping the twilight about my discontent, i thankfully went where kindred voices and a kindred faith allowed me to claim the shelter of home. supper of the pilgrims. faster go these shows than one can describe them. on good friday evening we attempted only to see the supper of the female pilgrims at the trinità dei pellegrini. this again i undertook for the neophytes' sake, having myself once witnessed the august ceremony. here, as everywhere at this time, we found a crowd of black dresses, with and without veils, which, on this occasion, are optional. another mob of women, small but energetic; another rush to see what, under other circumstances, we should hold to be but a sorry sight. the pilgrims are waited upon by an association of ladies, who wear a sort of feminine overall in scarlet cotton, nearly concealing a dress, usually black, of ordinary wear. they are also distinguished by a pictorial badge, representing, i think, the easter lamb, in some connection. some of these ladies are of princely family, others of rank merely civic. princess massimo, of first-rate pretensions, keeps the inner entrance to the rites, and accords it only to a limited number in turn. we tumble down the dividing stairs in the usual indecorous manner, and walk through two rooms, in each of which the pilgrims sit with their feet in tubs of water, the attendant ladies being employed either in scrubbing them clean, or in wiping them dry. all were working women from the country, their faces mostly empty of thought and rude with toil. some of the heads were not without character, and would easily have made, with their folded head-dresses, a _genre_ picture. in general, they and their attire were as rough and uninteresting as women and their belongings can be. a number of them carried infants, whose appearance also invited the cleansing ministration, which did not include them. in either room an ecclesiastic recited prayers in latin, and a pretty young lady at intervals rattled a box, the signal for the participants to make the sign of the cross, which they did in a business-like manner. from this _lavanda_ we passed to other rooms, in which the supper tables were in process of preparation. the materials for the meal were divided into portions. to each one was allotted a plate of salad and sardines, one of _bacala_, or fried salt fish, two small loaves of bread, and a little pitcher of wine, together with figs and oranges. the red-gowned ministrants bestirred themselves in dividing and arranging these portions, with much apparent good nature. many of them wore diamond earrings, and one young lady, whom we did not see at work, was adorned as to the neck with a rich collar of jewelled lockets, an article of the latest fashion. all of these ladies are supposed to be princesses, but several of them talked house-gossip in homely italian. to us the time seemed long, but at length arrived the _minestra_ in a huge kettle. this universal italian dish is a watery soup, containing a paste akin to macaroni. and now the pilgrims, having had all the washing they could endure, came in to take possession of the goods prepared for them. those of the same family tried to sit together, but did not always manage to do so. for every babe a double portion is allowed, and the coin (ten cents) received at departure is also doubled. we had feared lest the pilgrims might have found the presence of numbers a source of embarrassment. but it did not prove so. they attacked their victuals with the most practical and evident enjoyment. the babies were fed with _minestra_, fish, salad, and wine. of these one was two weeks old, and its mother had walked four days to get to rome. each pilgrim carried either a bottle or a tin canteen, into which the superior waiting-women decanted the wine allowed, that they might carry it home with them. a latin grace was rehearsed before they fell to. cardinals and _monsignori_ were seen, here and there, talking with friends among the spectators. observing that pilgrims eat much like other people, we left them still at table, and came away, to find the prince massimo in pink cotton, at the bottom of the staircase, and a stupid swiss, with ill-managed bayonet, guarding the outer entrance. he, a raw recruit, carried his weapon as carelessly as a lady waves a bouquet. close to the eye of the neophyte he thrusts it, through inattention. a scream from me makes her aware of the danger, but affects him not. under the weight of my objurgation he falters not, but makes a vehement pass at a harmless dog, which runs by unhurt. and my reflections upon his sheer brutishness were the closing ones of the day. easter. st. peter's on easter called us with the magical summons of the silver trumpets, blown at the elevation of the host, and remembered by me through these sixteen years. to the tribunes, however, i did not betake myself, but, armed with a camp stool, wandered about the church, getting now a _coup d'oeil_, now a whiff of harmony. the neophytes had our tickets, and beheld the ceremonies, which, once seen, are of little interest to those to whom they are not matters of religion. the pope and cardinals officiate at high mass, with the music of the sistine singers. the pope drinks of the consecrated cup through a golden tube, the cup itself having previously been tasted of by one commissioned for the purpose. this feature clearly indicates the recognized possibility of poison. it is probably not observed by most of those present, who have, after all, but a glimpse of what passes. the effect of the trumpets is certainly magical. the public has no knowledge of their whereabouts, and the sound seems to fall from some higher region. having enjoyed this æsthetic moment, one hurries out into the piazza in front of the church, where a great assemblage waits to receive the papal benediction. here seats and balconies can be hired, and a wretched boy screeches, "_ecco luoghi_," for half an hour, as if he had a watchman's rattle in his head. at last the blessed father in his palanquin is borne to that upper window of the church, over which the white canopy rests: his mitres are all arranged before him. the triple crown, glittering with jewels, is on his head. on either side of him flutter the peacock fans. cannons clear the way for his utterance, and holding up two fingers, he recites the apostolic benediction in a voice of remarkable distinctness and power. it is received by good catholics on their knees. another cannon shot closes the performance, and at the same moment two or three papers, containing indulgences, fall from the pontiff's hand. then the crowd disperses, and you yourself, having witnessed "the most impressive ceremony in the world," become chiefly occupied with the getting home, the crowd of carriages being very great, and the bridge of st. angelo reserved for the passage of the _legni privilegiati_. and on the way, query as to this impressiveness. if one could suppose that the pope had any special blessing to bestow, or that he thought he had, one would certainly be desirous and grateful to share in it. if one could consider him as consecrated by anything better than a superstition for anything better than the priestly maintenance of an absolute rule, one might look in his kindly old face with a feeling stronger than that of personal good-will or indifference. but i, standing to see and hear him, was in the position of macbeth. "i had most need of blessing, but amen stuck in my throat." and i concluded that common sense, common justice, and civil and religious liberty,--the noblest gifts of the past and promises of the future,--had been quite long enough "butchered to make a roman holiday." as for the evening illumination, it was just as i remember it on two former occasions, separated from this and from each other by long intervals. a magical and unique spectacle it certainly is, with the well-known change from the paper lanterns to the flaring _lampions_. costly is it of human labor, and perilous to human life. and when i remembered that those employed in it receive the sacrament beforehand, in order that imminent death may not find them out of a state of grace, i thought that its beauty did not so much signify. we have a dome, too, in washington. the genius of liberty poises on its top; the pediment below it is adorned with the emblems of honest thrift and civic prosperity. may that dome perish ere it be lit at the risk of human life, and lit, like this, to make the social darkness around it more evident by its momentary aureole. works of art. enough of shows. galleries and studios are better. rome is rich in both, and with a sort of studious contentment, one embraces one's murray, picks out the palace that unfolds its art treasures to-day, and travels up the stairs, and along the marble corridors, to wonderful suites of apartments, in which the pasteboard programmes lie about waiting for you, while the still drama of the pictures acts itself upon the thronged wall, yourself their small public, and they giving their color-eloquence, whether any one gives heed or not. they are precious, the colonna, doria, sciarra, borghese, and we have seen them. we have picked out our old favorites, and have carried the neophytes before them, saying, "i saw this, dear, before you were born." but this past, whose reflex fold inwraps us, does not exist for the neophytes, who look at it as out of a moment's puzzle, and then conclude to begin their own business on their own responsibility, without any reference to these outstanding credits of ours. of the pictures it is little useful to speak. your description enables no one to see them, and the narration of the feelings they excite in you is as likely to be tedious as interesting to those who cultivate feelings of their own. copies and engravings have done here what you cannot do, and the best subjects are familiar to art students and lovers in all countries. a little sigh of pleasure may be allowed you at this, your third sight of the francias, the raphaels, titian's bella, claude's landscapes, and the scientific leonardo's heavily-labored heads and groups. but do not therefore put the trumpet to your lips, and blow that sigh across the ocean, to claim the attention of ears that invite the lesson for the day. the lesson for this day is not written on canvas, and though it may be read everywhere in the world, you will scarcely find its clearest type in rome. and here, perhaps, i may as well carry further the philosophizing which i began a week ago with regard to the objects and resources of roman life, and their compatibility with the thoughts and pursuits most dear and valuable to americans. art is, of course, the only solid object which an american can bring forward to justify a prolonged residence in rome. art, health, and official duty, are among the valid reasons which bring our countrymen abroad. two of these admit of no argument. the sick have a right, other things permitting, to go where they can be bettered; a duty perhaps, to go where the sum of their waning years and wasting activities admits of multiplication. those who live abroad as ministers and consuls have a twofold opportunity of benefiting their country. if honest and able, they may benefit her by their presence in foreign lands; if unworthy and incompetent, by their absence from home. but our artists are those whose expatriation gives us most to think about. they take leave of us either in the first bloom or in the full maturity of their powers. the ease of living in southern europe, the abundance of models and of works of art, the picturesque charms of nature and of scenery, detain them forever from us, and, save for an abstract sentiment, which itself weakens with every year, the sacred tie of country is severed. its sensibilities play no part in these lives devoted to painting and modelling. now, an eminent gift for art is an exceptional circumstance. he who has it weds his profession, leaves father and mother, and goes where his slowly-unfolding destiny seems to call him. against such a course we have no word to say. it presents itself as a necessary conclusion to earnest and noble men, who love not their native country less, but their votive country more. of the first and its customs they would still say,-- "i cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me." yet of this career, so often coveted by those to whom its attainment does not open, i cannot speak in terms of supreme recognition. the office of art is always as precious as its true ministers are rare. but the relative importance of sculptural and pictorial art is not to-day what it was in days of less thought, of smaller culture. every one who likes the bible to-day, likes it best without illustrations. were christ here to speak anew, he would speak without parables. in ruder times, heavenly fancies could only be illustrated on the one hand, received on the other, through the mediation of a personal embodiment. only through human sympathy was the assent to divine truth obtained. the necessity which added a feminine personality to the worship of christ, and completed the divided godhead by making it female as well as male, was a philosophical one, but not recognized as such. the device of the virgin was its practical result, counterbalancing the partiality of the one-sided personal _culte_ of the savior. modern religious thought gets far beyond this, makes in spiritual things no distinction of male and female, and does not apply sex to the divine, save in the most vague and poetic sense. the inner convictions of heart and conscience may now be spoken in plain prose, or sung in ringing verse. the _vates_, prophet or reformer, may proclaim his system and publish his belief; and his audience will best apprehend it in its simplest and most direct form. the wide spaces of the new continent allow room for the most precious practical experimentation; and speculative and theoretical liberty keep pace with liberty of action. the only absolute restraint, the best one, is a moral one. "thou shalt not" applies only to what is intrinsically inhuman and profane. and now, there is no need to puzzle simple souls with a marble gospel. faith needs not to digest whole side-walls of saints and madonnas, who once stood for something, no one now knows what. the italian school was to art what the greek school was to literature--an original creation and beginning. but life has surpassed plato and aristotle. we are forced to piece their short experiences, and to say to both, "you are matchless, but insufficient." and so, though raphael's art remains immortal and unsurpassed, we are forced to say of his thought, "it is too small." no one can settle, govern, or moralize a country by it. it will not even suffice to reform italy. the golden transfigurations hang quiet on the walls, and let pope and cardinal do their worst. we want a world peopled with faithful and intelligent men and women. the prometheus of the present day is needed rather to animate statues than to make them. piazza navona--the tombola. when, o, when does the bee make his honey? not while he is sipping from flower to flower, levying his dainty tribute as lightly as love--enriching the world with what the flower does not miss, and cannot. this question suggests itself in the course of these busy days in rome, where pleasures are offered oftener than sensibilities can ripen, and the edge of appetite is blunted with sweets, instead of rusting with disuse. in these scarce three weeks how much have we seen, how little recorded and described! so sweet has been the fable, that the intended moral has passed like an act in a dream--a thing of illusion and intention, not of fact. impotent am i, indeed, to describe the riches of this roman world,--its treasures, its pleasures, its flatteries, its lessons. of so much that one receives, one can give again but the smallest shred,--a leaf of each flower, a scrap of each garment, a proverb for a sermon, a stave for a song. so be it; so, perhaps, is it best. last sunday i attended a tombola at piazza navona--not a state lottery, but a private enterprise brought to issue in the most public manner. i know the piazza of old. sixteen years since i made many a pilgrimage thither, in search of roman trash. i was not then past the poor amusement of spending money for the sake of spending it. the foolish things i brought home moved the laughter of my little roman public. i appeared in public with some forlorn brooch or dilapidated earring; the giddy laughed outright, and the polite gazed quietly. my rooms were the refuge of all broken-down vases and halting candelabra. i lived on the third floor of a modest lodging, and all the wrecks of art that neither first, second, nor fourth would buy, found their way into my parlor, and staid there at my expense. i recall some of these adornments to-day. two heroes, in painted wood, stood in my dark little entry. a gouty cupid in bas-relief encumbered my mantel-piece. two forlorn figures in black and white glass recalled the auction whose unlucky prize they had been. and horace wallace, coming to talk of art and poetry, on my red sofa, sometimes saluted me with a paroxysm of merriment, provoked by the sight of my last purchase. those days are not now. of their accumulations i retain but a fragment or two. of their delights remain a tender memory, a childish wonder at my own childishness. to-day, in heathen rome, i can find better amusements than those shards and rags were ever able to represent. going now to piazza navona with a sober and reasonable companion, i scarcely recognize it. at the braschi palace, which borders it, we pause, and enter to observe the square hall and the fine staircase of polished marble. this palace is now offered in a lottery, at five francs the ticket; and all orders in rome, no doubt, participate in the venture it presents. the immense piazza is so filled and thronged with people that its distinctive features are quite lost. its numerous balconies are crowded with that doubtful community comprehended in the title of the "better class." from many of its windows hang the red cotton draperies, edged with gilt lace, which supply so much of the color in roman _festas_. soldiers are everywhere mingled with the crowd, so skilfully as to present no contrast with them, but so effectually that any popular disorder would be instantly suppressed. the dragoons, mounted and bearing sabres, are seen here and there in the streets leading to the piazza. these constitute the police of rome; and where with us a civil man with a badge interposes himself and says, "no entrance here, sir," in rome an arbitrary, ignorant beast, mounted upon a lesser brute, waves his sabre at you, shrieks unintelligible threats and orders, and has the pleasure of bringing your common sense to a fault, and of making all understanding of what is or is not to be done impossible. their greatest glory, however, culminates on public _festas_, when there are foreigners as well as romans to be intimidated. at the tombola they are only an _en cas_. well, the office of the tombola is solemnized upon a raised stage, whereon stand divers officials, two seedy trumpeters, and a small boy in fancy costume, whose duty soon becomes apparent. before him rests a rotatory machine, composed of two disks of glass, bound together by a band of brass: this urn of fate revolves upon a pivot, and is provided with an opening, through which the papers bearing the numbers are put in, to be drawn out, one by one, after certain revolutions of the machine. not quite so fast, however, with your drawing. the numbers are not all in yet. a grave man, in a black coat, holds up each number to the public view, calls it in his loudest tones, and then hands it to another, who folds and slips it into the receptacle. when all of the numbers have been verified and deposited, the opening is closed up, the trumpeters sound a bar or two, the wheel revolves, the fancy boy paws the air with his right hand, puts the hand into the opening, and draws forth a number, which the second black coat presents to the first, who unfolds it, and announces it to the multitude. at the same moment, a huge card, some two feet square in dimensions, is placed in a frame, and upon this we read the number just drawn out. the number is also shown upon several large wooden frames in other parts of the square. upon these it remains, so that the whole count of the drawing may be apparent to the eager public. this course of action is repeated until a stir in one part of the piazza announces a candidate for one of the smaller prizes. a white flag, repeated at all the counting frames, arrests the public attention. the candidate brings forward his ticket and is examined. finally, a _quaterna_ is announced, formed by the agreement of four numbers on a ticket with four in the order of the drawing. the crowd applaud, the trumpets sound again, and the drawing proceeds. unhappily, at one moment the persons on duty forget to close the valve through which the numbers are taken out. the omission is not perceived until several rotations have shaken out many of the precious papers. a roar of indignation is heard from the populace; the wheel is arrested, the numbers eagerly sought, counted, and replaced, under the jealous scrutiny of the public eye. meanwhile, one of two copious brass bands, provided with five ophicleides each, and cornets, etc., to match, discoursed tarantellas and polkas. and we see the _quinquina_ (formed by five numbers) drawn, and then the first tombola, and the second. and lo! there are four tombolas: but we await them not. but in all this crowd, busy with emotion and reeking with tobacco and roman filth in all its varieties, who shall interest us like the _limonaro_ with his basket of fruit, his bottles of water, his lemon squeezer, and his eager thrifty countenance? a father of family, surely, he loves no plays as thou dost, anthony. pale, in shirt sleeves, he keeps the sharpest lookout for a customer, and in voice whose measure is not to be given, hammers out his endless sentence, "_chi vuol bere? ecco, il limonaro._" to the most doubtful order he responds, carrying his glasses into the thickest of the throng, and thundering, "_chi ha comandato questo limone?_" for half a _bajoco_ he gives a quarter of a lemon, wrung out in a glass of tepid water, which his customers absorb with relish. sometimes he varies this procedure by the sale of an _orzata_, produced by pouring a few drops of a milky fluid into a glass of water. on our way from the piazza we encounter other _limonari_,--dark, sleepy, italian, not trenchant nor incisive in their offers. but our man, a blond, yet remains a picture to us, with his business zeal and economy of time. a thread of good blood he possibly has. we adopt and pity him as a misplaced yankee. sundays in rome. our first sunday in rome was easter, in st. peter's, of which we have elsewhere given a sufficient description. our second was divided between the tombola just described, in the afternoon, and the quiet of the american chapel in the morning. we found this an upper chamber, quietly and appropriately furnished, with a pleasant and well-dressed attendance of friends and fellow country-people. the prayers of the episcopal service were simply read, with no extra formality or aping of more traditional forms. it was pleasant to find ourselves called upon once more to pray for the president of the united states, although in our own country he is considered as past praying for. still, we remembered the old adage, "while there is life there is hope," and were able, with a good conscience, to beseech that he might be plenteously endowed with heavenly grace, although the reception of such a gift might seriously compromise him with his own party. the sermon, like others we have heard of late, shows a certain progress and liberalization even in the holding of the absolute tenets which constitute what has been hitherto held as orthodoxy. in our youth, the episcopal church, like the orthodox dissenters, preached atonement, atonement, atonement, wrath of god, birth in sin,--position of sentimental reprobation towards the one fact, of unavailing repentance concerning the other. the doctrine of atonement in those days was as literal in the protestant church as in the catholic, while the possibility of profiting by it was hedged about and encumbered by frightful perils and intangible difficulties. but to-day, while these doctrines are not repudiated by the denominations which then held them, they are comparatively set out of sight. the charity and diligence of paul are preached, and even the sublime theistic simplicity of jesus is not altogether contraband; though he, alas! is as little understood in doctrine as followed in example. for he has hitherto been like a beautiful figure set to point out a certain way, and people at large have been so entranced with worshipping the figure, that they have neglected to follow the direction it indicates. well, our american sermon was dry, but sensible and conscientious. it did not congratulate those who had accepted the mysterious atonement, nor threaten those who had neglected to do so. but it exhorted all men towards a reasonable, religious, and diligent life, and thus afforded the commonplace man a basis for effort, and a possible gradual amelioration of his moral condition. one little old-fashioned phrase, however, the preacher let slip. he cast a slight slur upon the moral, as distinguished from the religious man. now, modern ethics do not recognize this distinction. for it, true morals are religion. he who exemplifies the standard does it more honor than he who praises, and pursues it not. and he who prays and plunders is less a saint than he who does neither. we passed this, however, and went away in peace. our third sunday morning was passed in _s. andrea delta valle_, a large and sumptuous church, where we had been promised a fine _messa-cantata_, i.e., a mass performed principally in music. mustafa, of the pope's choir, was there, with some ten other vocalists, who put into their _kyrie_, _miserere_, and so on, as much operatic emphasis and cadence as the bars could hold. the organ was harsh, loud, and overpowering, the music utterly uninteresting. mustafa's renowned voice, which has suffered by time and use, has something nasal and _criard_ in it, with all its power. he still takes and holds a and b with firmness and persistence, but his middle notes are unequal and husky. although the sopranos of to-day are merely falsetto tenors, and their unsexed voices a fiction, they yet acquire in process of time a tone of old-woman quality, which contrasts strangely with their usually robust appearance. on this occasion we did not conjecture whose might be the music to which we listened. it had a mongrel paternity, and hailed from no noble race of compositions. having, however, our comfortable chairs, and being out of the murderous direct reverberation of the organ, we sat and saw as outsiders the flux and reflux of life which passed through the church. it was obviously, this morning, a place of fashionable resort; and many were the good dresses and comfortable family groups that first appeared, and then were absorbed among its crowded chairs and their occupants. the well-dressed people were mostly, i thought, of _medio ceto_,--middling class,--which in rome is a term of strict reprobation, and answers to what we used to call bowery in new york. their devotion had mostly a business-like aspect. they hired their chair, brought it, sat down, made their crosses and courtesies, accompanied the priest with their books, went down on their knees at the elevation of the host, had benediction, and went. mass was taking place at various side altars, and people were coming and going, as their devotions were past or future. dirty and shabby figures mingled with the others; a group of little children from the street, holding each other by the hand; a crippled old woman, hobbling on two crutches, who, wonderfully, did not beg, of us at least; an elderly dwarf, of composed aspect, some thirty-eight inches high, who took a chair, but could not get into it, so squatted down beside it, and stared at us. a loud bell was rung, and one in yellow satin bore an object under yellow satin across the church. this was the sacrament, going to one of the altars for the beginning of the mass. having mused sufficiently on the music and on the crowd, we desired to hear a puritan sermon, and, there being none to be had, we went away. away to the farnesina palace, lovely with raphael's frescos of galatea and the story of psyche, with michael angelo's grim charcoal head looming in the distance. the psyche series has suffered much by restorations; and though the gracious outline and designs remain, the coloring, one thinks, is far other than that of the master. the galatea has faded less, and has been less restored. the lovely sodoma fresco up stairs--the family of darius--was undergoing repairs, and could not be seen. the palace belongs to the ex-king of naples. it was formerly visible at all times, but may now be seen only on sunday. he himself now lives in rome, and perhaps chooses to tread its banquet halls deserted, which possibly accounts for the present restriction. in the afternoon we were bidden to see the embalmed remains of an ancient pontiff,--pius v.,--who should be happy to make himself useful to catholic institutions at a period so remote from the intentions of nature. the old body is shown in a glass case, upon an altar of santa maria maggiore. he lies on his side, his darkened face adorned by a new white beard composed of lamb's wool. his hands are concealed by muslin gloves; his garments are white, and he wears a brilliant mitre. and the devout crowd the church to touch and kiss the glass case in which he resides. there is, moreover, a procession of the crucifix, and vespers are sung in pleasing style by a tolerable choir; and many _pauls_ and _bajocs_ are dropped hither and thither in pious receptacles by the pious in heart. so, i repeat it, the mummied pope, sainted also, is of use. catacombs. of all that befell us in the catacombs we may not tell. we betook ourselves to the neighborhood of st. calixtus one afternoon. a noted ecclesiastic of the romish church soon joined our party, with various of our countrymen and countrywomen. he wore a white woollen gown and a black hat. before descending, he ranged us in a circle, and harangued us much as follows:-- "you will ask me the meaning of the word 'catacomb,' and i shall tell you that it is derived from two greek words--_cata_, hidden, and _cumba_, tomb. you have doubtless heard that the whole city of rome is undermined with catacombs; but this is not true. the american encyclopædia says this. i have read the article. but intramural burials were not allowed in rome; therefore the catacombs commence outside the walls. they are, moreover, limited to an irregular extent of some three miles. why is this? it is because they were possible only in the tufa formation. why only in the tufa? because it cuts easily and crumbles easily, hardening afterwards. and as the burials of the christians were necessarily concealed, it was important for them to deal with a material easily worked and easily disposed of. the solid contents of the catacombs of rome could be included within a square mile; their series, if arranged at full length, would not measure less than five hundred miles. in some places there are no less than seven strata of tombs, one below the other." all of this, with more repetitions than i can possibly signify, was delivered under the cogent stimulus of a roasting afternoon sun of the full roman power. being quite calcined as to the head and shoulders, we somewhat thankfully undertook the descent. the extreme contrast, however, between the outer heat and the inner chill and damp, proved an unwelcome alternative to most of us. had we been allowed a somewhat brisk motion, we should have dreaded less its effects. but father ---- fought his ground inch by inch, and continued to carry on a stringent controversy with imaginary antagonists. we will not endeavor to transcribe the catechism, at once tedious and amusing, with which he held captive a dozen of yankees prepared to sell their lives dearly, but uncertain how to deal with his mode of warfare. he kept us long in the crypt of the pontiffs, where are found two fragments of marble tablets bearing names in mingled latin and greek character. one inscription records, "_anteros episcopus_." the other is of another name--"_episcopus et martyr_." the father now led us into a narrow crypt, where his stout form wedged us all as closely as possible together. he showed us on the walls two time-worn frescos, one of which--jonah and the whale--represented the resurrection, while the other depicted that farewell banquet at emmaus in which peter received the thrice-repeated charge, "feed my sheep." to this symbolical expression the father added one later and more puzzling. the fish which appeared in one of the dishes represented, he told us, the anagram of christ in the greek language--_icthus_, the fish, _jesus christos theos_--i forget the rest. the fish was the only hint of the presence of christ on this occasion, and its significance could be apprehended only with this explanation. these pictures, he insisted, sufficiently showed us that the early christians had religious images--a point of great authority and significance in the catholic church, for us how easily disposed of! the pictures and the symbolism of the primitive church are both alike features of its time. in periods when culture is rare and limited, the picture and the parable have their indispensable office. the one preserves and presents to the eye much that would otherwise be overlooked and forgotten; the other presents to the mind that which could not otherwise be apprehended. the painted christs, madonnas, and so on, were in their time a gospel to the common people. even in raphael's period, even in the italy of to-day, how few of the populace at large are able to save their souls by reading the new testament! the paintings undoubtedly answered a useful purpose, as all men must acknowledge; but the catholic system, carried out in its completeness, would give a melancholy perpetuity to the class of people who cannot read otherwise than in pictures. even where it teaches to read, it withholds the power of interpretation. protestantism means direct and general instruction. it gives to the symbolism of the bible its plainest and most practical interpretation, without building upon it a labyrinth of types whose threading asks the study of a lifetime. the fear and danger of early times had, no doubt, much to do with the growth of symbolism, both in pictures and in language. the intercourse of the early christians was limited and insecure. it was guarded by watchwords. its bodily presence took refuge in pits and caves. its thought buried itself in similitudes and allusions. but now, when christianity has become the paramount demand of the world, this obscurity is no longer needed nor legitimate. the parables of christ may be supposed to have had a double object. the most usually recognized is that of popular instruction, in the form best suited to the comprehension of his hearers. many of his sayings, however, point to another meaning; viz., the discrimination between those who were fitted to receive his doctrine, and those who were not. how many, among the multitudes who heard him, can we suppose to have been anxious about the moral lessons intended by his illustrious fables? few indeed; and those few alone would be able to understand his teaching, and, in turn, to teach according to his method. so he represents the kingdom of heaven which he preached as a net thrown into the sea. his sermons were such castings of the net; he made his disciples fishers of men. the christian church, like the jewish, rapidly degenerated into a tissue of legends and observances--at first representative of morality, soon cumbrous, finally inimical to it. all this time, however, we are standing wedged by father ---- in a narrow compass, and, while the thought of one undertakes this long, swift retrospect, the temper of the others becomes irritated--not without reason. so we insist upon breaking out of the small quadrangle, and are led into the crypt in which were found the remains of st. cecilia. here tradition again holds a long parley with the representatives of modern thought. st. cecilia, a noble roman lady, was beheaded, but survived the stroke of the executioner three days, which she occupied in describing and explaining the doctrine of the trinity. (this, therefore, is the doctrine of those who have lost their head.) for this purpose she employed two fingers of the right hand and one of the left. all of this passes without controversy. her body was found lying on its face, in an attitude perpetuated by the well-known statue in the church in trastevere. but in this crypt are the relics of an altar, erected over the remains of another saint. the early christian altars, our guide says, were always erected above the burial-place of some saint. hence, no catholic church is allowed to dispense with the presence of consecrated bones. other graves, moreover, cluster around that which is supposed to have consecrated this altar: sums of money were paid for the privilege of interment in this proximity. this clearly shows the early christians to have supposed that the saint himself had the power to benefit them, and the right of intercession. this we concede as quite possible; but does this go to show, o father, that the saint _had_ any such power? let us go back after this fashion in other things. fingers were made before knives and forks, skins were worn before tissues, and nakedness is of earlier authority than either. a predatory existence has older precedent than agriculture or commerce. let us go backward like a crab, if you will, but let us be consistent. in another crypt we are shown two marble sarcophagi, well carved, in each of which lies a mouldering human figure once embalmed, and now black, without features, and with only a dim outline of form. elsewhere we are shown a large marble slab handsomely engraved, with the record of a christian martyr on one side, and with an inscription concerning the emperor hadrian on the other, presenting the economic expedient of a second-hand tombstone. we passed also through various dark galleries, and down one staircase. some chambers of the catacomb had a _luminarium_, or light from the top; many of them were entirely dark. father ----'s style of explanation threatening to prolong itself till midnight, impatience became general, and one of our party ventured a remonstrance, which was made and met something after the following fashion:-- _mr. f._ hem--hem! sir, i am old and infirm, and-- _father ----._ o, sir, ask any questions you like. the more you ask, the better i can explain myself. (repeated over some three times.) _mr. f._ but, sir, i do not wish to ask any questions. i only wish-- _father ----._ don't make any excuses, sir. i shall be very glad to have you ask any questions. i am very ready to answer and explain everything. (several repetitions.) after a number of efforts, the senior member of the party at length obtained the floor, and succeeded in expressing himself to the effect that he feared to take death of cold in the catacomb, and would gladly be piloted out by the commonplace youth who followed father ---- as attendant, without views of any kind, except as to a possible _buona mano_. this suggestion of the elder met with so hearty a response from the remainder of the party as to bring the present exploration to an end, and father ---- and his public simultaneously dispersed to carriages and horses. in view of the whole expedition, i would advise people in general to read up on the subject of the catacombs, but not to visit them in company with one intent on developing theories of any kind. the underground chill is unwholesome in warm weather, and a conversion made in these dark galleries and windings would be much akin to baptism at the sword's point. meet, therefore, the theorist above ground, and on equal terms; and for the subterraneous proceeding, elect the society of swift and prosaic silence. via appia and the columbaria. since my last visit to rome, more progress has been made under ground than above it. rome is the true antipodes of america. our business is to build--her business is to excavate. the tombs on via appia are among the interesting objects which the spade and mattock, during the last seventeen years, have brought to view. i remember well the beginning of this work, and the marble tombs and sarcophagi which it brought to light. i also remember, in those unconscientious days, a marble head, in exceedingly flat relief, which was desired by me, and stolen for me by the faithful servant of a friend. at the commencement of the diggings, we descended from our carriage, and easily walked to the end of the way then opened. via appia now affords a long drive, set with tombs on either side. many of these are in brick, and of large dimensions. most of the marbles have, however, been removed to the museum of the vatican. on this road, if i mistake not, are the two _columbaria_ discovered and excavated some seven years ago. they stand in a vineyard, which i saw in its spring bloom. the proprietor, a civil man, answers the little bell at the gate, and taking down a bunch of keys, unlocks for you the door of the small building erected over the vault. the original roof has fallen. all else looks as if it might have been used the day before for burial. the descent is by a steep, narrow stairway, of at least thirty steps, each of which is paved with a single lamina of coarse brick. the walls are honeycombed with small parallelogrammatic niches, in each of which was set a funeral vase or box. over some of these places are such inscriptions as, "_non tangite vestes mortales_," "_vencrare deos manes_." there are many names, of which i have preserved but one, "_castus germanicus cæsaris_." this _columbarium_ belonged to the flavian family. it has about it an indescribable gloom, like that of a family vault in our own time, but, it must be confessed, more æsthetic. one felt the bitter partings that death had made here, the tears, the unavailing desire to heap all the remaining goods of life upon the altar of departed friendship. time healed these wounds then, no doubt, as he does to-day. the tears were dried, the goods enjoyed again; but, while christianity has certainly lightened the dead weight of such sorrows, the anguish of the first blow remains what it was all those dim centuries ago. a glance into the _columbarium_ makes you feel this. the second _columbarium_ is much like the first, excepting that the stair is not so well preserved. on emerging, the proprietor invited us to visit an upper room in his own house, in which were a number of objects, taken, he averred, from the two _columbaria_. these were mostly vases, tear-bottles, and engraved gems. but i doubted their genuineness too much to make any purchases from among them. the trade in antiquities is too cheap and easy a thing in italy to allow faith in unattested relics. not very far beyond the _columbaria_ stand the catacombs of the ancient hebrews, much resembling in general arrangement those of the christians. we found in several places the image of the seven-branched candlestick impressed upon the tufa. in one of the rooms were some remains of fresco. at each of its corners was painted a date-palm with its fruit. in two other rooms the frescos were in good preservation. some of the graves were sunk in the earth, the head and feet at right angles with the others. we were shown the graves of two masters of synagogues. the frescos are not unlike those in the christian and pagan tombs, though as i remember them, the christian paintings are the rudest of all, as respects artistic merit. the subjects were usually genii, peacocks, the cock, fruits, garlands, the latter sometimes painted from end to end of the wall. some of the small tombs were still sealed with a marble slab. an entire skeleton was here shown us, and a number of sarcophagi. of these, one was sunk into the ground, and several graves were grouped around it, much after the fashion of those in the christian catacombs, from which dr. smith inferred so largely, both concerning the sanctity of the saint's body and the post-mortem power of the saint. we were taken also to see some interesting tombs in the via latina. these were recently brought to light from their long concealment in a tract of the campagna, belonging to the barberini family. descending a flight of stone steps, the custode admitted us into two fine vaulted chambers, decorated each after its own manner. the ceiling of the first was adorned with miniature bas-reliefs in stucco. the small figures, beautifully modelled, were enclosed in alternate squares and octagons. the designs were exhibitions of genii, griffins, and of centaurs, bearing female figures on their backs. the sculptured sarcophagi found in this tomb were removed to the lateran museum. in the second tomb the walls and ceilings were adorned with miniature frescos, also enclosed in small compartments. many of these represented landscapes, sometimes including a water view, with boats. these were rather faint in style, but very good. peacocks, also, were frequent; and in one compartment was painted a glass dessert vase, with the fruit showing through its transparency. this design amazed us, both as to its subject and execution. some panels in this tomb bore stucco reliefs on grounds of brilliant red and blue. in its centre was found hanging a fine bronze lamp, which is now at the barberini palace. a large sarcophagus of stone still remains here, nearly entire, with a pointed lid. on looking through a small break in one side of it, we perceived two skeletons, lying side by side, supposed, the custode told us, to have been husband and wife. these tombs certainly belong to a period other than that of the _columbaria_ before described. the presence of sarcophagi, and of these skeletons, attests the burial of the dead in accordance with the usage of modern society, while the great elegance and finish of the ornamentation point to a time of wealth and luxury. i have heard no conjecture as to the original proprietorship of these tombs. they contain no military or civil emblems, and probably belonged to wealthy contractors or merchants. that day, no doubt, had its shoddy, and of the tricks practised upon the government one may read some account in titus livy, who, to be sure, wrote of an earlier time, but not a more vicious one. rome now boasts an archæological society, not indeed of romans, but composed of foreign residents, mostly of british origin. the well-known artist shakspear wood is one of its most energetic members. at his invitation i attended a lecture given by mr. charles hemans, on the subject of the ancient churches and mosaics of the city. complementary to this lecture was an expedition of the society to several of these churches, which i very gladly joined. our first and principal object of interest was the old church of san clementi, a building dating from the eleventh or twelfth century. here mr. hemans first led us to observe an ancient fresco in the apsis, which represents the twelve apostles in the guise of twelve lambs, a thirteenth lamb, in the middle of the row, and crowned with a nimbus, representing christ. here we saw also an ancient marble chair, a marble altar screen, and a pavement in the ribbon mosaic, of which archæologues have so much to say. this mosaic is so named from the strips of colored stones which form its various patterns on the white marble of the pavement. the church itself, however, occupied us but briefly. beneath the church has recently been discovered and excavated a very extensive basilica, of a date far more ancient. this crypt was now lighted for us. its original proportions are marred by walls of masonry built between its long rows of columns, and essential to the support of the church above. these walls are adorned by curious paintings of saints, popes, martyrs, and miracles. among them is a very rude crucifixion; also a picture of christ giving benediction after the fashion of the greek church, and of a pontiff in the same act. upon these things mr. hemans made many interesting comments. from the crypt we descended yet farther into a house supposed to date back at least to the empire, if not to the republic. it is a small but heavily-built enclosure, of two chambers, and contains a curious bas-relief in marble, representing a pagan sacrifice. in the narrow descent that led to it mr. wood showed me in three consecutive strata the tufa of the time of the kingdom, travertine of the republic, and brick of the empire. the presence of the ancient basilica below the ancient church was suggested to one of the priests of the latter by the presence of a capital, rising just above the pavement of the church, and not accounted for by any circumstance in its architecture. this capital belonged to one of the columns of the basilica; but before so much could be ascertained, a long and laborious series of excavations had to be instituted. father ----, the priest who first conjectured of the presence of this under building, has been indefatigable in following up the hint given by the capital, which he alone, in a succession of centuries, was clever enough to interpret. most of the expense of this work has been borne by him. from san clementi the worshipful society went to the church of santi quattro. the object of interest here was a small chapel filled with curious old frescos, one series of which represents the conversion of constantine. we see first depicted a dream, in which sts. peter and paul appear to constantine, warning him to desist from the murder of innocent children, whose blood was supposed to be a cure for his leprosy. not disobedient to the heavenly vision, constantine relinquishes the blood-bath, and releases the children. he sends for st. sylvester, the happy possessor of an authentic portrait of the two apostles. the fresco shows us sylvester responding to this summons, and bringing in his hand the portrait, which the emperor immediately recognizes. farther on we see sylvester riding in papal triumph, the emperor leading his palfrey--a haughty device for those days. another fresco records the finding of the true cross by st. helena. coming at one time upon the three crosses she applied each of them in succession to the body of a dying person, who was healed at once by the contact of the true one. the archæological society also explores the interesting neighborhoods of rome, the villas of emperors, statesmen, and poets. thus life springs out from decay, and the crumbling relics of the past incite new activities in minds that cling, like the ivy, about relics and ruins. this society, ancient as are the facts about which it occupies itself, seemed to me one of the most modern features of rome, especially as it travels by rail, and carries its luncheon with it. i was not fortunate enough to join its visits to the environs of the eternal city, but i wish that on one of its excursions it would take with it the oldest nuisance of modern society, and forget to bring it back. there is room enough outside of rome for that which, shut within its walls, crowds out every new impulse of life and progress. no harm to the old man; no violence to his representative immunity; only let him remember that the world has room for him, and that rome has not. naples--the journey. from these brief, sombre notes of rome, we slide at once to naples and her brilliant surroundings. here, taking the seven colors as the equivalents of the seven notes, we are at the upper end of the octave of color. rome is painted in purple, gold, olive, and bistre--its shadows all in the latter pigment. naples is clear red, white, and yellow. orange tawny is its deepest shade. the sounds of rome awaken memories of devotion. they call to prayer, although the forms now be empty, and the religious spirit resident elsewhere. the voice of naples trills, shrieks, scolds, mingling laughter, wail, and entreaty, in a new and confused symphony. little piano-fortes, played like a barrel organ, go about the streets, giving a pulse to the quick rhythm of life. the common people are pictures, the aristocracy caricatures. when you rise above low life, italian taste is too splendid for good effects in costume. the most ill-married colors, the most ill-assorted ornaments, deform the pale olive faces, and contradict the dignity of the dark eyes and massive hair. this is somewhat the case in rome, much more in naples. the continual _crescendo_ of glare, as you go southward, points to the african crisis of orange and crimson, after which the negro nakedness presents an enforced pause, saying, "i can no more." this land is the antipodes of the puritan country. there all is concentration, inward energy, interior. here all is external glow and glitter. if there be any interior, it can only belong to one of these three--passion, superstition, avarice. every one who deals with you speculates upon your credulity. "will you give four times the value of a thing, or five, or only twice?" is the question which the seller's eyes put to the buyer, however the tongue of the one may respond to that of the other. and here is a sad deforming of the scripture parable; and he who has five in value gets ten in money for it, he who has three gets six, while the one talent, honesty,--the fundamental gift of god to man,--is indeed ignominiously buried in a dirty napkin, and laid nobody knows where. and while new england energy is a hundred-armed giant that labors, italian sloth is a hundred-handed lazzaro that begs. if this is the result of the loveliest climate, the most brilliant nature, give me our snow and ice, ay, the east wind and all. the journey from rome to naples at this season is hot, oppressive. railway carriages, even as administered in europe, make you acquainted with strange way-fellows. we chance upon a neapolitan prince, with an english wife, returning to his own country and possessions after an absence of six years, the time elapsed since the inauguration of the new rule. he obviously regrets the changes over which the rest of the civilized world rejoices. in person, however, he and his partner are simple and courteous. our car confines also a female nondescript carrying a dog, herself quite decently got up, but with an extraordinary smile, that is either lunatic or wicked, we cannot determine which. a certain steadiness and self-possession incline us to the latter theory, but we hold it subject to correction at a later day. she is obviously of irish or low english extraction, and may be anything, from a discarded lady's maid to a reigning mistress. as we approach naples, our princely friend begins to take notice. here is caserta, here its battle-field, where poor francesco would certainly have had the victory, had not the french and piedmontese interfered. "_oh richard, oh mon roi!_" but we remember another saying: "and i tell you, if these had held their peace, the very stones would have cried out." ay, those very stones, volcanic lava and tufa, worn by the chariot wheels of the wicked, from tiberius to napoleon and after, would have sobbed, "let the feet of the messenger of peace, the beautiful feet, at last pass this way!" arrived at the station, no warning can have taught you what to expect. it costs you forty cents to have your moderate effects transported from the cars to the omnibus of the hotel,--this not through any system, but because various people meddle with them, and shriek after you for recompense. at the hotel de rome, you are shown up many stairs into a dingy little room, a sort of spider's web. this will not do. you try the hotel de russie, opposite. here you are forced to take an apartment much too fine for your means and intentions. the choice being this or none, you shut your eyes upon consequences, and blindly issue orders for tea and meats. to-morrow you will surely get a cheaper apartment. but to-morrow you do not. the hotel book looks discouraging. names of your countrymen are in it, not of your friends. better remain apart than run the risk of ungenial society, and enforced fellowship. but the dull waters soon break into the sparkle of special providences. a bright little briton, with a mild husband, hospitably makes your acquaintance. she is from ireland, and has not the "thorough-bred british stare." all the more of a lady do we deem and find her. to her pleasant company is soon added that of an american of the sincere kind. he accepts us without fear or condition, and while we remain under the same roof with him, we have no cause to complain for want of sympathy or of countenance. the museum. in the museum we spend two laborious days. the first we give to the world-renowned marbles, finding again with delight our favorites of twenty years' standing. prominent among these are the amore delfino, and the faun bearing the infant bacchus. the farnese bull and the farnese hercules are admirable for their execution, but their subject has no special interest for us. we observe the atlas, the athletes, and the venuses, one of whom is world-famous, but inexcusable. here, too, is the quadriform relic of the psyche, well known by copies, and the whole balbo family on horseback. these marble knights once guarded the forum of pompeii. there is a certain melancholy in their present aspect, whether of fact or imagination we will not determine. one of the most interesting objects, from the vicissitudes through which it has passed, is the statue of caligula, destroyed by the people with all other mementos of him after his death, the head having served, even in modern times, to steady the wheels of carriages in a ferry boat. the naples museum does not rival the vatican in the merit of its nude marbles; but in draped statues it is far richer, as well as in statues of personal historical interest. the belief of the past has the most stately illustration in rome, its life the most vivid record in naples. many new treasures have been added to the collection during these years of our absence. among them are some exquisite small bronzes, and three statuettes in marble, of which the eyes are colored blue, and the hair of a reddish tint. one of them is very pretty. it represents the seated figure of a little boy, and almost reconciles us to the strictly inadmissible invasion of color into the abstract domain of sculpture. each art has, indeed, its abstraction. sculpture dispenses with color, painting with the materiality of form. the one is to the other as philosophy to poetry. from the marbles we flit to the pompeian bronzes and mosaics, rich in number and in interest. two tablets in mosaic especially detain us, from their representation of theatrical subjects. one of these shows the manager surrounded by several of his actors, to whom he dispenses the various implements of their art. at his feet, in a basket, lie the comic and tragic masks. of the personages around him, one is pulling on his garment, another is trying the double tubes of a wind instrument. the second mosaic presents a group of three closely-draped figures. actor is written on their faces, though we know not the scene they enact. the bronzes are numerous and admirable. miniature art seems to have been held in great esteem among the pompeians. most of these figures are of small size, and suggest a florid and detailed style of adornment. among other objects, we are shown the semicircular model of a pompeian bath, on which are arranged the ornaments and water-fixtures just as they were found. one of these imitates a rampant lion standing on his hind legs, and delivering water from his mouth; another a serpent nearly upright. in the upper story of the museum we see whole rooms floored with mosaic pavements removed entire from houses in pompeii. the patterns are mostly in black and white, but of an endless variety. the contents of these rooms match well in interest with their pavements. here, in glass cases, are carefully ranged and presented the tools and implements of pompeian life; the loaves that never left the baker's shop, still fresh and puffy in outline, although calcined in substance; the jewels and silver vessels of the wealthy, the painter's colors, the workman's needles and thread: baths and braziers, armor in bronze and in iron, scarcely more barbaric than that of the middle ages; helmets, with clumsy metal network guarding the spaces for the eyes; spades, cooking utensils in great variety, fruits and provisions as various. among the bronze utensils is a pretty and economical arrangement which furnishes at once hot water, a fire of coals to heat the room, with the convenience of performing at the same time the solemn rites of cookery. hot water, both for bathing and drinking, seems to have been a great desideratum with the pompeians. the stone cameos and engraved gems are shown in rows under glass cases. this museum contains a well-known tazza, or flat cup, of onyx entire, elaborately carved in cameo on either side. it also possesses a vase of double glass, of which the outer or white layer has been cut, like a cameo, into the most delicate and elaborate designs. the latter is an object of unique interest and value, as is shown by the magnificence with which it has been mounted on a base of solid silver, the whole being placed under glass. the cumæan collection is less rich in objects of interest than the pompeian. its treasures are mostly etruscan. it possesses many vases, etruscan and greek, many rude etruscan sculptures, with household articles of various descriptions. it occupies a separate set of rooms, and is the gift of the prince of carignano. among the pompeian remains we forgot to mention a mosaic tablet representing a cock-fight. one cock already bleeds and droops; above him the figure of his genius turns desponding away. the genius of the victorious cock, on the contrary, bears a crown and palm. the design is worthy of the island of cuba at the present day. the frescos brought and transferred from pompeii are beautiful and interesting. one of them shows thirteen dancing figures, all of which are frequently copied. many inscriptions in marble are also preserved, but to decipher them would ask much time. we were interested in a small painted model of a pompeian dwelling, called the house of the poet. it shows the quadriform arrangement of the dark chambers around the open courts, of which one is the _atrium_, one the _peristylium_. the window-panes of the house of diomed are shown,--not of glass, but talc, and only translucent. windows, however, were rare in pompeii. perhaps the most pathetic relic that we observe is the skull of the sentinel in his helmet, as it was found. we have here given only the most hurried and imperfect indication of the mines of wealth which this institution offers to the student of art and of history. a detailed account of its contents will be found in the valuable but prosaic murray, and would here be superfluous. its guardians, the custodi, are civil, and are not allowed to ask or receive any compensation from visitors. several of them, nevertheless, manage to suggest that they would be glad to wait on you at your hotel, with books, objects of antiquity, and other small merchandise, which you hurriedly decline. you will be fortunate to get out of naples in any state short of utter bankruptcy. how you are ever to get home to america, with temptations and expenses multiplying so frightfully upon you, sometimes threatens to become a serious question. naples--excursions. you have been two days in naples, the hotel expenses and temptations of the street eating into your little capital. for value received your intellects have nothing to show. your eyes and ears have been full, your brain passive and empty. you rouse yourself, and determine upon an investment. to learn something, you must spend something. these cherished napoleons must decrease, and you must, if possible, increase. the first attempt is scarcely a success. having heard marvels of the conventual church of san martino, formerly belonging to the cistercian brotherhood, you consult the porter of the hotel, and engage, for seven francs, a carriage to transport you thither. the drive is one immense climb under the heat of the afternoon sun. when you have gained the difficult ascent, your driver coolly informs you that the church is always closed at four p. m., the present time being . . "why did you not tell me so?" is the natural but useless question. "because i could not in that case have got seven francs from you," would be the real answer. the driver shrugs his shoulders, and expects a scolding, which you are too indignant to give. but you are not to be defeated in this way. a second expedition is planned and executed. to the gates of pompeii you fly, partly by steam, and partly by horse-aid. you alight from your cloud of dust, demand a guide. "yes; you can have the guide by paying also for the litter. this being sunday, the entrance is free, and the government supplies no guide. you must have the _portantina_, or blunder about alone." the litter, with its pink gingham frill and cushion, looks hateful to you. you remember it twenty-three years ago with dislike. the sun of noon is hot upon you. the men are unpersuadable. red and fierce as lava, you storm through the deserted streets of the ancient capital of seaside luxury. like the lava, you soon cool, as to your temper--the rest of you continuing at fahrenheit. there are two of your party: one finds the litter convenient; the other also gives way, and you ride and tie, as the saying is, in very amicable style, and encourage the guide to tell you all he knows; but he, alas! has cropped but the very top of the clover. the fragments of history which he is able to give you, measure only his own ignorance and yours. "here is the forum in which the balbo statues were found. at the upper end were the court and seat of justice,--for a figure was found there bearing a balance; underneath were the prisons." ah, the broken columns! stately did they stand around the mounted statues, that expected to ride into perpetual fame on their marble horses--now most famous because so long forgotten. "wherever four streets met, madam, stood a fountain. the exchange stood also in the forum. here is the street of abundance, in which was found a marble bust bearing a horn of plenty. here is the temple of isis. by this secret staircase the priest ascended and stood unseen behind the goddess, making the sounds which she was supposed to utter. here was the bakery; behold the ovens. this was found filled with newly baked loaves. [yes; for i myself beheld them in the museum at naples.] ah, madam! the baths, with hot water and cold, and vapor. in those niches running around the wall were placed the vases with unguents. here is the house of the poet; here that of the faun. see the frescos. what forms! what colors! here is a newly excavated house, large and richly appointed. each of these marble columns surrounding the inner court contains a leaden water-pipe with a faucet, so that from all at once water might flow to cool the extreme heats of summer. here still stand two fine dragons carved in white marble, which must formerly have supported a marble slab. see what a garden this house had! what a fish-pond! climb this stair, madam, if you would see the theatre. this larger one was for day performances. yonder was the stage. there are still the grooves for the scenes to slide in. there was the orchestra [mostly flutes and fiddles]. here sat the nobles, here the citizens, here the plebeians. from this eminence you can look over into the smaller theatre close at hand, in which night performances were given." and the stately dames, with those jewels which you saw stored at the museo, and dressed and undressed like the frescos we have seen to-day, sat on their cushioned benches, and wafted their perfumes far and wide. here was the house of diomed, rich and very extensive. the skeleton of diomed (as is supposed) was found at the garden gate, with the key of the house and a purse of money. in one of the subterranean rooms is shown the impression of his wife's figure, merely a darker mark on a dark wall. seventeen similar impressions were found. i think it is in this house that the walls of one of the rooms have an under-coating of lead to keep the moisture from the frescos, which are still brilliant. the _luxe_ of fountains was, as is known, great and universal in pompeii, and the arrangement of its leaden conduits is ample and skilful. besides the well-known frescos, with their airy figures and brilliant coloring, we are shown a bath, whose vaulted roof is adorned with stucco reliefs, arranged in small medallions, octagons alternating with squares. presently we come to the street of tombs. among these i best remember that which bears the inscription, "_diomede, sibi suis_." at the upper end of this street we find a semicircular seat of stone, for the accommodation of the guard. close by this was found the skeleton of the sentinel in armor which we saw in the museum at naples. in the prison were found the iron stocks, with at least one skeleton in them; others chained in divers ways. a feature new to me is that of various diminutive temples, with roofs roundly or sharply arched, devoted to the household gods. these usually stand upon an elevated projection, and might measure three feet in height and four in depth. the guide pointed out to us some small, square windows, which are simply open squares in the masonry, defended by iron gratings, deeply rusted. they are not numerous. our guide suggests that there may have been a tax upon windows, accounting for their rare occurrence. one he shows us still nearly entire, a narrow slit, measuring, perhaps, eight inches by three, with a slab of talc in place of glass. and presently we come to a small museum, whose contents are much the same in kind with the household remains seen by us in the museum at naples. and farther on is a room in which we are shown the _quattro morti_--the four dead bodies whose impress on the hardened cinders which surrounded them has been so ingeniously utilized. it is known that the masses of cinder within which these bodies had slowly mouldered were filled with liquid plaster, and the forms of the bodies themselves, writhing in their last agonies, were thus obtained. one of these figures--that of a young woman--is full of pathetic expression. she lies nearly on her face, her hand near her eyes, as if weeping. her back, entirely exposed, has the fresh and smooth outline of youth. the forms of two elder women and one man complete the sad gallery. of these women one wears upon her finger a silver ring, the plaster having just fitted within it. this figure and that of the man are both swollen, probably from the decomposition that took place before the crust of ashes hardened around them into the rigid mould which to-day gives us their outlines. these four plaster ghosts were the last sights seen by us in pompeii. for by this time we had walked and ridden three hours, and those three the most fervent of the day, beginning soon after noon. the heat was cruel and intense, but we had not given ourselves time to think of it. the umbrella and _portantina_ helped us as they could, but the feeling that the work had to be done now or never helped us most of all. our vexation against our guides had long ago cooled into a quiet good will. relinquishing the fiery journey, which might have been prolonged some hours further, we paid the rather heavy fee. the second carrier of the litter demanded a few extra pence, reminding us that at our first arrival he had brushed the dust from our dresses with a zeal which then appeared mysterious, but whose object was now clear. parting from these, we passed into the little inn, quite bare and dirty, whose coolness seemed delicious. we here ordered an afternoon _déjeûner_, and ate, drank, and rested. the capuchin. while we waited for our dinner, a capuchin at another table enjoyed a moderate repast. bologna sausage, cheese, fruit, and wine of two sorts contented him. his robust countenance beamed with health, his eyes were intelligent. this was one of the personalities of which the little shown makes one desirous to know more. his refreshment consumed and paid for, he began a rambling conversation with the _garçon_ who attended us, as well as with the proprietor of the _locanda_ in which we were. capuchin and garçon mutually deplored the poverty of the poor in naples. capuchin showed two blue silk handkerchiefs which he had been forced to purchase, for compassion, of a poor woman. both obviously considered the new state of things as partly accountable for this poverty, which is, on the contrary, as old as the monastic orders. the capuchin had been preaching lenten sermons in greece, and had been well received. garçon rejoined that there were good catholics in greece, agreeing harmoniously with the man in brown. but at this juncture another face looks in at the door. "that is the man who plagues me to give him lucky numbers for play," says the _frate_. here i can keep out of the company no longer. "what does he play at--cards or dice?" i ask. "neither, madam; that man ruins himself with playing at the lottery." capuchin continues: "if i had the gift of fortunate numbers, i would not withhold them. i should wish to benefit my fellow-creatures in this way, if i were able to do so. but i have it not, this gift of prophecy." and if you had it, thought i, i am not so sure of the ultimate benefit of gambling to your fellow-creatures, even were they to win, instead of losing. the capuchin and i, however, talk of other things--of monasteries, and rich libraries, closed to women. "so, father, you consider us the allies of the devil." "no, signora; the inhibition is mutual: we may not enter any nunnery." the _padrone_ of the inn here breaks in with the robust suggestion that these restrictions ought to be removed, and that monks and nuns should have liberty to visit each the establishments of the other. while this talk proceeds, i occasionally glance into the smoky depths of the kitchen opposite, where a mysterious figure, in whose cleanliness i desire to believe, wafts a frying-pan across a dull fire, which he stimulates by fanning with a turkey's wing. after each of his gymnastics, a dish is brought out, and set upon our table--first fish, then omelet, then cutlet; and we discover that the capuchin and ourselves have a mutual friend at fuligno, the good, intelligent, accomplished count ----, in whose praises each of us is eloquent. we part, exchanging names and addresses. our pompeian guide urges us to return and make the ascent of vesuvius under his care. but we depart untrammelled. every one was satisfied with us except the cripple who rolled himself in the dust, and the weird, white-haired women with spindles, who followed us shrieking for a largess. we gave nothing, and they commented upon us with a gravity of moral reprobation quite fit to make one's hair stand on end, even with new england versus beggar behind one. but the train came, and mercifully took us away; and whether in not giving we did well or ill, is a point upon which theorists will not agree; so we may be pardoned for giving ourselves the benefit of a doubt. after pompeii a little good fortune awaited us. as before said, we had encountered an american of the right sort,--kindly, sincere, and of adequate education. joining forces with him, we no longer shivered before the hackman, nor shrank from the _valet de place_. we at once engaged the latter functionary, ordered the _remise_ of the hotel to wait for us, and started upon two days of eager but weary sight-seeing. our first joint act was to scale again the height of san martino, this time to enter the church and convent, and view their boasted riches. a pleasant court, with a well in the centre of it; a church whose chapels and altars were gorgeous with lapis lazuli, jasper, agate, and all precious marbles; a row of seats in wooden mosaic, executed by a monk of the cistercian order, vowed to silence; cloisters as spacious and luxurious as can well be imagined; a great array of relics in golden boxes, shielded from dust and common sight by rich curtains of heavy silk and gold--this is all of the establishment that remains in our recollection. the present government has dismissed the saintly idlers of the monasteries, saying, perhaps, in the style of henry viii., "go plough, you drones, go plough." but in what field and for what wages they henceforth labor is not known to me. hence to the grotto of siana, half a mile long, and some eight feet wide. the chill of this long, damp passage, in contrast with the high temperature from which we entered it, so alarmed us that we turned back at half the distance, and gave up seeing the den or cave that lay beyond. at pozzuoli we view caligula's bridge, of which but a few large stones remain: the guide points out the place at which paul and peter landed. here are the ruins of a fine amphitheatre. the underground arrangements still show us the pits in which the wild beasts and the gladiators were kept. square openings at the top ventilated each of these, and a long, open space in the middle separated the cells of the beasts from those of the gladiators. on public occasions all of these openings were closed by heavy plates of metal, so as to present the solid surface desired for the combats. "arise, ye goths, and glut your ire!" in this neighborhood we visited what is left of the temple of jupiter serapis. the salt water formerly covered its columns to such a height as to corrode them badly. the smell caused by the evaporation of the sea-water in the hot sun was so offensive that the government found it necessary to apply a thorough drain. these time and tide worn marbles were of the choicest kinds--african marble, _rosso antico_, and so on. their former beauty little avails them now. we drive further to the cavern with the stratum of carbonic acid gas, and see the dog victimized, which cruel folly costs us two francs. and then we visit the sulphur vapor baths, whose fiery, volcanic breath frightens us. these are near the lake of agnano, an ancient volcanic crater. in its neighborhood are the royal game preserves, in which fratricidal v. e. hunts and slays the wild boar. returning, we climb to virgil's tomb, a small, empty enclosure, with a stone and inscription dating from . "cecini pascua, rura, duces," says the poet, through his commemorator. item, this steep journey under a scorching sun did not pay very well. yet, having ascended the fiery stair, and stood in the small, dark enclosure, and read the tolerable inscription, i felt that i had done what i could to honor the great mantuan: so, with a good conscience, i returned through cool, ill-smelling posilippo, to the hotel, dinner, and the afternoon meditation. baja. the excursion to baja called us up early in the morning. with a tender hush, a mysterious remembrance of our weaker and still sleeping brethren, we stole through the hotel, swallowed coffee, and issued forth with carriage and _valet de place_ for a day's campaigning. as the functionary just mentioned had invented a hitherto unpatented language, supposed by him to present some points of advantage over the queen's english, i will here, _en passant_, serve up a brief sample, for the study of those inclined to the practical pursuit of linguistics. "zat is ze leg agnano [lake of.] in vinter he is full of vile dog [wild duck]." of lake avernus: "zis was de helty [hell]." of the ruins of the amphitheatre at pozzuoli: "ruin by de barbions [barbarians]. zey brok him in piece and pushed him down. zar is caligole's [caligula's] bridge. tis de sibyl's cave, where she gib de ragle [oracle]. temple diana, temple neptune, ze god of ze sea and ze god of ze land." here was a mythological _aperçu_ thrown in. this individual rarely condescended to speak his native language--italian. in ours, it required no little adjustment of the perceptive faculties to meet his views. passing through posilippo, we come first to a piece of ground which bears the form of an amphitheatre, although the whole structure, if it exist at all, is thickly overgrown with trees and shrubs. a rustic proprietor cultivates the vine here, but cannot pass the nights during july, august, and september, on account of the bad air. the wines, white and red, are nevertheless excellent. the right of excavation here vests in a frenchman, who has purchased the same. our next point of exploration is the temple of mercury, at baja--a circular building, with fine columns partly overthrown. here exists a perfect whispering gallery, for at a certain spot in the wall the slightest utterance is instantly heard at the point directly opposite. here two forlorn women, with a tambourine and without costume, dance a joyless _tarantella_, which costs us a franc. they urge us, also, to buy sea-shells, and small fragments of mosaic, together with skeletons of the sea-horse, a queer little fish, some two inches long. after this, we are shown some _columbaria_, and a bath with stucco reliefs. adjacent is the well preserved ruin of a large bathing establishment. besides the baths, we here find places for reclining, where vapor baths were probably enjoyed. now come nero's prisons, gloomy, under-ground galleries, in which he kept his slaves. torches here became necessary. these galleries, destitute of daylight, were quite extensive, frequently crossing each other at right angles. and then we visited the piscina mirabilis, an immense reservoir which formerly supplied the roman fleet at marina with fresh water. its tall columns, still entire, are deeply corroded by water. this was a work of surprising extent and finish. thereafter, mindful of murder considered as a fine art, we gave some heed to the whereabouts of agrippina's villa, and inquired concerning those matricidal attempts of her son, which were finally crowned with so entire a success. the villa of hortensius, in this neighborhood, lies chiefly under water, the level of the ground having changed. perhaps this villa was anciently built on ground reclaimed from the sea, as horace says,-- "marisque baiis obstrepentis urges summovere litora. parum locuples continente ripa." we next visited the lake of avernus, and lake fusano, the river styx of virgil and the romans. bordering upon this we found a whole hill-side honeycombed with _columbaria_. then came the long sulphurous gallery leading to the hot spring in which eggs are boiled for your instruction. each of these visitations has its fee, so that the pilgrimage, even if made on foot, would be a costly one. cuma next claimed us. a long, dark gallery leads to the cave of the cumæan sibyl, described by virgil. but the presence of water here makes it necessary for visitors to sit upon the shoulders of two or three shaggy and uncleanly-looking sprites. we stoutly decline this adventure, and are afterwards sorry. from this neighborhood was taken the cumæan collection, which figures at the _museo nazionale_, presented by the prince of carignano. somewhere in the course of this crowded and heated day, a dinner was slidden in, which gave our labor a brief interval of rest and refreshment. it consisted mostly of dirt, in various forms, flavored with cheese, garlic, and a variety of savors equally choice. to facilitate its consumption, we drank a sour-sweet fluid, called white capri. i found none of the italian wines joyous. despite their want of body, they give one's nerves a decided shake. well, i have narrated all that took place on the day set apart for baja. its results may be prosaically summed up as heat, haste, and headache, with a confused vision of the past and a most fragmentary sense of the present. capri. i have a fresh chapter of torment for a new dante, if such an one could be induced to apply to me. i will not expatiate, nor exhale any francesca episodes, any "_lasciate ogni spiranza!_" i will be succinct and business-like, furnishing the outlines from which some more leisurely artist, better paid and employed, shall do his hell-painting. we leave enchanting naples,--tear ourselves from our hotel, whose very impositions grow dear to us; the precious window, too, which shows the bay and capri, and close at hand the boats, the fish-market, and the chairs on which the populace sit at eventide to eat oysters and drink mineral water. a small boat takes us to a very small steamer, on whose deck we pay ten francs each to a stout young man, in appearance much like a southern poor buckra, who departs in another small boat as soon as he has plundered us. the voyage to capri is cool and reasonably smooth. a pleasant chance companion, bound to the same port, beguiles the time for us. we exchange our intellectual small wares with a certain good will, which remains the best part of the bargain. when quite near the island, the small steamer pauses, and lowers a boat in which we descend to view the famous blue grotto. at the entrance, we are warned to stoop as low as possible. we do so, and still the entrance seems dangerous. with some scratching and pushing, however, the boat goes through, and the lovers of blue feast their eyes with the tender color. the water is ultramarine, and the roof sapphire. the place seems a toy of nature--a forced detention of a single ray of the spectrum. dyes change with the fashion; the blue of our youth does not color our daughter's silks and ribbons. the purples of ten years ago cannot be met with to-day. but this blue is constant, and therefore perfect. our enjoyment of it, however, is marred by an old beast in human form who rushes at us, and insists upon being paid two francs for diving. he promises us that he will show us wondrous things--that he will fill the azure cave with silver sparkles. wearied with his screeching, and a little deluded by his promises, we weakly offer him a franc and a half; whereupon he throws off some superfluous clothing, and softly glides into the deep, without so much as a single sparkle. he certainly presents an odd appearance; his weird legs look as if twisted out of silver; his back is dark upon the water. but the refreshing bath he takes is so little worth thirty sous to us that we feel tempted to harpoon him as he dodges about, sure that, if pierced, he can shed nothing more solid than humbug. on our return to the steamer we pay two francs each for this melancholy expedition, and presently make the little harbor of capri. and here the promised hell begins. the way to it, remember, is always pleasant. no sooner does our boat touch the land than a nest of human rattlesnakes begins to coil and hiss about us, each trying to carry us off, each pouring into our ears discordant, rapid jargon. "my donkey, siora." "and mine." "and mine." "how much will you give?" "will you go up to tiberio?" but all this with more repetition and less music than a chorus of handel's or an aria of sebastian bach. "my donkey," flourish; "my do-n-onkey," high soprano variation; "my donkey," good grumbling contralto. "how much?" "how much?" "how much?" "how much?" shriek all in chorus. and you, the unhappy star in this hell opera, begin with uncertain utterance--"let me see, good people. one at a time. what is just i will pay"--the _motivo_ also repeated; chorus renewed--"money;" "three francs;" "four francs;" "five francs;" "a _bottiglia_;" "a _buona mano_." a _buona mano_? good hand--would one could administer it in the right way, in the right place! by this time each of you occupies the warm saddle of a donkey, and at one p. m., less twenty, the thermometer at fahrenheit or more, and being warned to reach the steamer by three p. m., at latest, the punishment of all your past, and most of your future sins begins. _facile descensus averni._ yes; but the _ascensus_? to climb so high after tiberio, who went so low! for this is the ruined palace of tiberius cæsar himself, which you go to seek and see, if possible. he still plagues the world, as he would have wished to do. your expedition in search of his stony vestiges is a long network of torment, spun by you, the donkey, and the donkey-driver, undisguised apollo standing by to weld the golden chains by which you suffer. as often as you seem to approach the object, a new _détour_ leads you at a zigzag from the straight direction. but this is little. at every turn in the road a beggar, in some variety, addresses you. now a deformed wretch shows you his twisted limbs, and shrieks, "_co cosa, siora_." now, a wholesome-looking mother, with a small child, asks a contribution to the wants of "_questa creatura_" now, a grandam, with blackened face and bleached hair, hobbles after you. children oppress you with flowers, women with oranges,--all in view of the largest _quid_ for the smallest _quo_. you grow afraid to look in a pretty face or return a civil nod, lest the eternal signal of beggary should make itself manifest. and such women and children!--every one a picture. such intense eyes, such sun-ripened complexions! i take note of them, handsome devils that they are, all foreordained as a part of my fiery probation. for all this time i am making a steep ascent. sometimes the donkey takes me up a flight of stone steps, clutching at each with an uncertain quiver, but stimulated by the nasal "n--a--a--a," which follows him from the woman who by turns coaxes and threatens him. now we clamber along a narrow ledge, whose height causes my dizzy head to swim; there is nothing but special providence between me and perdition. a little girl, six years of age, pulls my donkey by the head; a dignified matron behind me holds the whip. the little girl leads carelessly, and i quake and grow hot and cold with terror; but it is of no use. the matron will not take the rein; her office is to flog, and she will do nought else. and the sun?--the sun works his miracles upon us until we wish ourselves as well off as the niobides, who, at least, look cool. finally, after an hour of jolting, roasting, quivering, and general exasperation, we reach the top. here we are passively lifted from our donkeys; we mechanically follow our guide through a white-washed wine-shop into a small outer space, with a low wall around it, over which we are invited to look down some hundreds of feet into the sea. this is called the leap of tiberio: from this height, says the barefooted old vagabond who guides us, he pitched his victims into the deep. the descent here is as straight as the wall of a house. farther on, we find some very fragmentary ruins, in the usual roman style. among them is a good mosaic pavement, with some vaults and broken columns. a sloping way is shown us, carefully paved, and with a groove on either side. into this, say they, fitted the wheels of a certain chariot, in which guests were invited to seat themselves. the chariot, guided by two cords, then started to go down to the sea. but at a certain moment the vehicle was arrested by a sudden shock. those within it were precipitated into the water, after which the cords comfortably drew the chariot back. i have never heard any of the evidence upon which is based the modern rehabilitation of tiberius and nero. i have, however, found in the stately tacitus, and even in gossipy suetonius, a shudder of horror accompanying the narration of their deeds. the world has seen cruelty in all ages, and sees it still; but i cannot believe that the average standard of humanity can justly be lowered so far as to make the acts of tiberius simply rigorous, those of nero a little arbitrary. mr. carlyle, in dealing with the french revolution, reprobates the hysterical style of reviewing painful events; but in the history of rome under the cæsars we hear too plainly the sobs and shrieks of the victims to be satisfied with the modern philosophizing which would deprive them of our compassion. man is naturally cruel; superstition makes him more so. a genuine religion alone softens his ferocious instincts, and places the centre of action and obligation elsewhere than in his own pleasure or personal advantage. man is also compassionate; but without the systematic formation of morals, his weak compassion will not compensate the ardor of his self-assertion, which may involve all crimes. luxury exaggerates cruelty, because it intensifies the action of the selfish interests, and loosens the rein of restraint--its objects and the objects of morals being incompatible. the most cruel characters have been those presenting this admixture of luxury and ferocity. the silken noose gives finer and more atrocious death than the iron sword. i think that the (unless vilified) wretch tiberius built this palace in fear, and dwelt in it in torment. in its fastnesses he felt himself safe from the knife of the assassin. in the leisure of its isolation he could meditate murders with æsthetic deliberation, and hurl his bolts of death upon the world below, remorseless and unattainable as jove himself. here is an episode of philosophizing in the hell i promised you. but hell itself would not be complete without the button-bore--the man or woman who holds you by a theory, and detains you amid life's intensity to attend the slow circlings of an elaborative brain. i have now finished tiberio. the donkeys brought us down with more danger, more heat, more fear and clatter. only beggary diminishes, a little discouraged, in our rear. it seems to have been given out that we have no small change, as is indeed the fact; so the young and old only grumble after us enough to keep their hand in. in compensation for this, however, a new trouble is added, viz., the danger of losing the small steamboat, which threatens to leave at three p. m., a period by this time scarce half an hour distant. yet a bit of bread we must have at the hotel. it is the former palace of queen joanna; but we do not know it at the moment, and nothing leads us to suspect it. here two good-natured english faces make us for the moment at home. a cup of tea,--the english and american restorative for all fatigues,--a wholesome slice of bread and butter, a moderate charge, and ten minutes of cool seclusion, make the hotel di tiberio pleasant in our recollection. and then we remount, and, the little steamer beginning to manoeuvre, our haste and anxiety become extreme; so we take no more heed of steep or narrow, but the donkeys and we make one headlong business of it down to the beach, where we have still to make a secondary embarkation before reaching the steamer. here, as we had foreseen, the final crush attends us. the guide and each of the donkey girls and women insist upon separate payment. with grim satisfaction i fling a five-franc note for the whole. it is too much, but the whole island cannot or will not give change for it. and then ensues much shrieking, expostulation, and gesticulation, in the midst of which i plunge into the boat, make my bargain with charon, and am for the time out of hell. as i looked back, methought i saw stefano the guide and the women having it out pretty well with reference to the undivided fee. stefano leaped wildly into the sea after me, and extorted five more _soldi_ from my confusion. finally, i exhort all good christians to beware of capri, and on no account to throw away a trip thither, but to undertake the same as a penance, for the mortification of the flesh and the good of the immortal soul. the island is to-day in as heathen a condition as tiberius himself could wish; only from a golden, it has descended to the perpetual invoking of a copper rain. that the beggar's opera should have been written out of the kingdom of naples is a matter of reasonable astonishment to the logically inferring mind. i could improvise it myself on the spur of the moment, making a heroine out of the black-eyed woman who drove my animal--black-haired also, and with a scarlet cotton handkerchief bound around her head in careless picturesqueness. gold ear-rings and necklace had she who screamed and begged so for a penny more than her due. and when i cried aloud in fear, she replied, "_non abbia timor--donkey molt' avezzo_;" which diverted my mind, and caused me to laugh. as we went up and as we went down, she encountered all her friends and gossips in holiday attire; for yesterday was _festa_, and to-day, consequently, is _festa_ also--a saint's day leaving many small arrearages to settle, in the shape of headache, fight, and so on, so that one does not comfortably get to work again until the third day. this fact of the antecedent _festa_ accounted for the unusual amount of good clothes displayed throughout the island. our eyes certainly profited by it, and possibly our purses; for we just remember that one or two groups in velvet jackets and gold necklaces did not beg. but all of this is a superfluous after-digression, as i am really, in my narrative, already on board of the little steamer, with the charitable waves between me and the brigand caprians. a pleasant sail--not so smooth but that it made the italian passengers ill--brought us to sorrento. here our trunk was hoisted on the head of a stout fellow, all the small fry of the harbor squabbling for our minor luggage. we climbed a long, steep flight of stone steps, walked through a shady orange garden, and came out upon a cool terrace fronting the sea, with the rispoli hotel behind it. here we were to stay; our bargain was soon made, with the divine prospect thrown in. our room was on the ground floor, behind a shallow arcade paved with majolica. shaking off the dust of travel, and ranging our few effects in the rather narrow quarters, we at once took possession of the prospect, and regulated ourselves accordingly. sorrento. ugh! after the roasting, hurried day at capri, how delicious was the first morning's rest at sorrento! the coral merchant came and went. we did not allow him to trouble us. they offered us the hotel asses; we did not engage them. the blue sea, the purple mountains, the green, rustling orange groves,--these were enough for us, pieced with the writing of these ragged notes, and a little dipping into our horace, who, it must be confessed, goes lamely without a dictionary. a day of lights and shadows, of sunshine and silence, of pains caressed, and fatigues whose healing was sweeter than fresh repose. and we dreamed of novels that we could write beneath this romance-forging sun, and how the commonplace men and women about us should take grandiose shapes of good and ill, and figure as ideals, no longer as atoms. we would forsake our scholastic anatomy, and make studies of real life, with color and action. for this, as we know, we should need at least six months of freedom, which perhaps the remnant of our mortal lives does not offer. meantime we sit and dream. each sees the content of the landscape reflected in the other's eyes. we sit just within our room, the little writing-table half within, half without the window, that reaches to the ground. the soft breeze flutters our pages to and fro. we scold it caressingly, as one reproves the overplay of a gracious child. with the exception of an occasional straggling visitor, the whole terrace is ours. now and then we forsake the writing-table, rush to the railing that borders the terrace, and take a good look up and down, to assure ourselves that what we see is real, and founded on terra firma. here our wearied nerves shall bathe in seas of heavenly rest. as to our suffering finances, too,--if one word is not too often profaned for us to profane it, we will quote horace's "mox reficit rates quassas," not "indociles pauperiem pati" here our rapture will cost nothing. we will feed our eyes. the sea and sky shall wear sapphires and diamonds for us. our shabbiness will be the æsthetic complement to their splendors. do you not remember the figures in brown or olive green that always lurk in the corners of pictures in whose centre the madonna, or some saint, is glorified? they also serve, who only stand and wait in the shadow. so will we do now. we will lie forgotten in the corner of this splendid picture, while our time and our remaining credit equalize themselves a little. the days in naples considerably outran our estimate; the days here must make up for it. and we want nothing; and all is delightful. it is true, we do not carry out those good intentions quite literally. who ever does? but we adhere to our proposed outline of rigid economy with only an occasional break. we soon begin to take note of small temptations that lie about the streets. here we see the little neck-ribbons that are so cheap and pretty. a handful of them twisted around the neck of economy give her something of a choke. further on in our days and walks, a sound of saws in motion arrests our attention; while a sign and tempting show-case urge us at least to _look_ at the far-famed sorrento woodwork. we enter; we set the tenth clause of the decalogue at nought, coveting wildly. brackets, tea, glove, and cash boxes are displayed there for our overthrow; watch-cases, on a new principle, all either brave with mosaic, or smooth and shining in the simple beauty of the olive wood. something of all this we snatched and fled. we took far too little for our wishes, rather too much for our means. silk stockings we did resist by that simplest and best of measures--not entering the shops in which they were pressingly advertised. the very passing of those shops gave us, however, vague dreams of swimming about in silken movements; how grateful in a world of heat! but the line has to be drawn somewhere, and we draw it here. a donkey excursion pleasantly varies our experience in sorrento. do you know how much a donkey ride means in sorrento? it does not mean a perpetual jolt, and horrible inter-asinicidal contest between the ass who carries the stick and the ass who carries you. the donkeys of sorrento are fat and well-liking: smooth and gray are the pair that come for us, comfortable as to the saddle and the bridle. and our donkey-driver is a handsome youth, with a bold, frank countenance, and the ripest olive and vermilion complexion. his walk is graceful and robust; he knows every one he meets, and has his bit of fun with sundry of the groups who pass us. these consist of men and women bearing on their heads large flat baskets filled with cocoons, or in their hands bundles of the same; girls leading mules, or carrying household burdens; soldiers, beggars, neapolitan princes, the syndic of sorrento, and other varieties of the species vaguely called human. he takes us up a steep and rough ascent to the telegraph station. there are many bad bits in the road; he is but one, and the donkeys are two; but he has such a clever way, at critical moments, of holding on to the head of the second donkey in conjunction with the tail of the first, that he gets the two cowardly riders through many difficulties and more fears. once on level ground, the donkeys amble along delightfully. so pleasant is the whole in remembrance, that, sitting here, at an interval of many miles in distance, and ten days in time, we feel a sincere twinge in remembering that we gave him only a franc for himself, paying by agreement two francs for either donkey. forgive us, beauteous and generous gaetano, and do not curse us in _aggio_ and _saggio_, the open-mouthed _patois_ of your country. florence. a week is little for the grandeurs of florence, much for the discomforts of its summer weather. the last week of may, which we passed there, mistook itself for june, and governed itself accordingly. we went out as early as human weakness, unsubdued by special discipline, permitted. we struggled with church, gallery, painting, sculpture, and antiquities. we breathlessly read sensible books, guides, and catalogues, in the little intervals of our sight-seeing. we dropped at night, worn and greedy for slumber; and the day died, and made no sign. a hot week, but a happy one. to be overcome in a good cause is glorious, and our failure, we trust, was quantitative, not qualitative. good friends helped us, took away all little troubles and responsibilities; took us about in carriages of dignity and ease, and landed us before royal, imperial works of art. with all their aid and cherishing, florence was too many for us. so, of her garment of splendors, we were able only to catch at and hold fast a shred here and there, and whether these fragments are worth weaving into a chapter at all, will better appear when we shall have made the experiment of so combining them. our first view of her was by night; when, wearied with a day's shaking, a hot and a long one, we tumbled out of railroad car into arms of philanthropic friend, who received us and our bundles, selected our luggage, conquered our porter and hackman, pointed to various interesting quadrangles of lamps, and said, "this is florence." but we had seen such things before, and gave little heed--our thought machinery being quite run down for lack of fuel. the aspect which we first truly perceived, and still remember, was that of a clean and friendly interior, a tea-table set, a good lamp bright with american _petrolio_ (o shade of downer!), and, behind an alcove, the dim, inviting perspective of a comfortable bed, which seemed to say, "come hither, weary ones. i have waited long enough, and so have you." palazzo pitti. the second aspect of florence was the pitti palace, brown and massive; and the bridges numerously spanning the bright river; and the gay, busy streets, shady in lengths and sunny only in patches; the picturesque _mélange_ of business and of leisure, artisans, country people, english travellers and dressed-up americans; the jeweller's bridge, displaying ropes of pearls and flashes of diamonds, with endless knottings and perplexities of gold and mosaic; alabaster shops, reading-rooms, book-stores, fashions, cabinets of antiquities--all leading to a welcome retirement within the walls of the palazzo pitti. well content was the medici to live in it, ill content to exchange it, even for the promised threshold of paradise. a good little sermon here suggests itself, of which the text was preached long ago, "for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." and medici's investments had been large in pitti, and trifling in paradise; hence the difficulty of realizing in the latter. within the pitti palace are things that astonish the world, and have a right to do so, as have all the original results of art. the paintings are all--so to speak--set on doors that open into new avenues of thought and speculation for mankind. the ideal world, of which the real is but a poor assertion, has, in these glimpses, its truest portraiture. their use and dignity have also limits which the luxury and enthusiasm of mankind transgress. but indispensable were they in the world's humanization and civilization: that is enough to say of them. o, unseen in twenty-three years, and never to be seen again with the keen relish of youth. what have i kept of you? what good seed from your abundant harvest has ripened in my stony corner of new england? your forms have filled and beautified the blank pages of life, for every life has its actual blanks, which the ideal must fill up, or which else remain bare and profitless forever. and you are here, my seggiola, and you, my andreas and peruginos and raphael; and guercino's woman in red still tenderly clasps the knees of the dead savior. but o! they have restored this picture, and daubed the faded red with savage vermilion. scarcely less ungrateful than the restoration of a beautiful picture is the attempt to restore, after the busy intervals of travelling, the precious impressions made by works and wonders of art. the incessant labor of sight-seeing in florence left little time for writing up on the spot, and that little was necessarily given to recording the then recent recollections of naples and rome. it was in venice that i first tried to overtake the subject of florence. it is in trieste that i sit down and despair of doing the poorest justice to either. my meagre notes must help me out; but, in setting them down, i forgot how rapidly and entirely the material, of which they gave the outline, would disappear. i thought that i held it, so far as mind possession goes, forever. at the feast of the gods we think our joys eternal. on reference to the notes, then, i find that the best andreas and fra bartolomeos are to be found here, and quite a number of them in the pitti. some of the first raphaels also are here, and some titians. the seggiola looked to me a little dim under her glass. the fates of michael angelo were strong and sincere. two of the andreas are the largest i remember, and very finely composed. each represents some modification of the madonna and saints, subjects of which we grow very weary. yet one perceives the necessity of these pictures at the time in which they were painted. the æsthetic platform of the time would have them, and accepted little else. a much smaller picture shows us the heads of andrea and his beautiful wife, the _lucia_, made famous by browning. the two heads look a little dim now, both with age, and one with sorrow. raphael's pictures, seen here in copious connection with those of his predecessors, appear as the undoubted culmination of the florentine school, grandly drawn, and conceived with the subtlest grace and spirit. the florentine school, as compared with others, has a great weight of æsthetic reason behind it. it reminds me of some rare writing in which what is given you represents much besides itself. the best peruginos share this merit, so do, in a different manner, the works of beato angelico, whose wonderful faces deserve their gold background. how to overtake these supreme merits in the regions of prose and of verse, one scarcely knows. by combining bold and immediate conception with untiring energy, unflinching criticism, and a nicety that stops before no painfulness, one might do it. life runs like a centiped; one dreams of being an artist, and dies. here it may not be amiss for me to recur to the form of my diary, whose inartistic jottings will best give the order of my days and movements. wednesday, may .--walked to santa croce, hearing that a mass was to be celebrated there for the florentine victims of ' . when i arrived, the mass was nearly over; the attendance had been very numerous, and we found many people still there. near the high altar were wreaths and floral trophies. i should be glad to know whether the priests who celebrated this mass did so with a good will. the ideas of ' are the deadly enemies of the absolute and unbounded assumptions of the roman papacy and priesthood. i hear that many of the priests desire a more liberal construction of their office. would to god it might be so. it is most mournful that those who stand, in the public eye, for the religion of the country, should be pledged to a course utterly out of equilibrium with the religious ideas of the age. thus religious forms contradict the spirit and essence of religion, and the established fountain-heads of improvement shut the door against social and moral amelioration. in santa croce we hastily visited the monument erected to alfieri by the countess of albany, and the tombs of machiavelli, galileo, and raphael morghen. the last has a mural background of florid marble, of a light red color, with a recumbent figure in white marble, and an elaborate medallion of the same material, representing the madonna, infant and saints. i fully hoped and intended to revisit this venerable and interesting church, but was never able to do so. it has lately received, as all the world knows, a fine front in pure white marble, adorned by bas-reliefs executed by the popular sculptor fedi. in the square before the church stands the new statue of dante, which i found graceful, but not grandiose, nor indeed characteristic. the face bears no trace of the great poem; the awe and dignity of super-human visions do not appear in its lines. he, making hell and heaven present to our thoughts, did a far deeper and more difficult work than those accomplished who made their material semblance present to our eyes. the remainder of this morning we devoted to the gallery of the uffizi, the artistic _pendant_ of the pitti. we hastily make its circuit with a friend who points out to us the portraits of alfieri and the countess of albany, his lady and companion. the head of alfieri is bold and striking, the hair red, the temperament showing more of the northern energy than of the southern passion. the sobriety of his works and laborious character of his composition also evince this. the countess, painted from mature life, shows no very marked characteristic. hers is the face of an intelligent woman, but her especial charm does not appear in this portrait. the uffizi collection appears to have been at once increased and rearranged during the three and twenty years of our absence. we find the niobides grouped in an order different from that in which we remember them. the portrait gallery of modern artists is for us a new feature, and one which, alas! we have not time to study, seeing that the great _chefs-d'oeuvres_ imperiously challenge our attention, and that our time is very short for them. we spend a dreamy hour in the tribune, whose very circumscription is a relief. here we are not afraid of missing anything. this _étui_ of gems is so perfectly arranged and inventoried that the absence of any one of them would at once be perceived. here stands the venus, in incomparable nudity. here the slave still sharpens his instrument--the classic boxers hold each other in close struggle. raphael, correggio, michael angelo, carlo dolce, are all here in concentration. you can look from one to the other, and read the pictorial language of their dissents and arguments. a splendid paul veronese, in half figures, merits well its place here. it represents a madonna and attendant female saint: the hair and costumes are of the richest venetian type; and though the crinkles of the one and the stripes of the other scarcely suggest the fashions of palestine, they make in themselves a very gorgeous presentment. in the other rooms we remember some of the finest raphaels, a magnificent perugino, sodoma's beautiful st. sebastian, a famous salutation of mary and elizabeth, by albertinelli, a very tipsy and impudent silenus by rubens, with other pictures of his which i cannot characterize. the vandykes were all hung too high to be well seen. they did not seem nearly so fine as the vandykes in the brignoli palace in genoa. here are some of beato angelico's finest works, among others his famous triptych, from whose bordering of miniature angels so many copies are constantly made. here is also a well-known leonardo da vinci, as well as raphael's portraits of leo tenth, attended by a cardinal and another dignitary. a narrow gallery is occupied by numerous marble alto relievos by luca della robbia and donatello; here is also a marble bas-relief of the madonna and child, the work of the great michael. by knocking at a side door you gain admittance into a small chamber, whose glass cases contain works of art in gold, crystal, and precious stones. here is a famous cup, upon whose cover a golden hercules encounters the many heads of the hydra, brilliant with varied enamels, the work of benvenuto cellini. miniature busts in agate and jasper, small columns of the same materials,--these are some of the features which my treacherous memory records. it has, however, let slip most of what is precious and characteristic in this collection. the uffizi demands at least a week's study for even the slightest sketch of its contents. we had but a week for all florence, and tasted of the great treasure only on this day, and a subsequent one still more hurried. in remembrance, therefore, we can only salute it with a free confession of our insufficiency. thursday.--a _dies non_ for the galleries. it was a festa, and they were all closed. so was the bargello. the boboli gardens were not open till noon, at which time the heat made them scarcely occupable. we visited the church of san michele, which was formerly a loggia, or building with open sides and arches, like others still existing in various parts of the city. the filling up of these open arches changed it into a church. they tell us that it is to be reconverted into a loggia, to answer the present necessities of the over-crowded city. here we found a curious tabernacle, carved in marble--a square enclosure, with much detail of execution, and, on the whole, a gothic effect. tombs, monuments, and old mosaic pavement this temple also contains; but i cannot recall its details. the afternoon of this day we employed partly in a visit to the two tombs beside which american feet will be sure to pause. here, in this sculptured sarcophagus, sleeps the dust of e. b. b. here, beneath this granite cross, lie the remains of theodore parker. at the first, i seemed to hear the stifled sobs that mourned a private sorrow too great to take account of the public loss. for what she gave the world, rich and precious as it was, was less than that inner, unalienable jewel which she could not give but in giving herself. and he who had both, the singer and her song, now goes through the world interrogating the ranks of womanhood for her peer. seek it not! she was unique. she died and left no fellow. a soberer _cortege_, probably, followed theodore to his final resting-place. the grief of poets is ecstatic, and cannot be thought of without dramatic light and shade, imagined, if not known of. a sorrowing, patient woman, faithful through all reverses, stood beside the grave of the great preacher, the mighty disputant. she remembered that it had always been peace between her and this church militant. from every raid, every foray, into the disputed grounds of theory and opinion, she kept open for him a return to the orthodoxy of domestic life. the basis of his days was a calm, well-ordered household, whose doors were opened or shut in accordance with his desire of the moment. would he receive his whole congregation, or a meeting of the clergy, or a company more mixed and fashionable? the simple, well-appointed rooms were always in order; the lights were always clear; the carpets swept; the books and engravings in nice order. the staid new england women-servants brought in the refreshments, excellent of their kind, and carefully selected for their suitableness to the occasion. the wife sat or moved unobtrusively among her guests; but she loved theodore's friends, and made his visitors welcome. if theodore had war without, and it became his business to have it, he had ever peace within. and this it was pleasant and exemplary to remember, standing beside his grave. how often have i, in thought, linked these two graves together, striving to find a middle term or point of meeting for them both! the distant image of the spot was sacred and dear to me. the person of the one, the character of the other, were fixed among my affections. for let me say here that though i have criticised parker's theology, adopting neither his methods nor his conclusions, of parker himself i have never ceased to think as of a person with a grand and earnest scope, of large powers and generous nature. he was tender in large and in little, a sympathist in practice as well as a philanthropist in theory. my heart still warms and expands at the remembrance of what he was in the pulpit and at the fireside. nor was he the less a stern moralist because he considered the ordinary theories of sin as unjust and insufficient. no one would better console you for a sin deplored, no one could more forcibly deprecate a sin contemplated. he painted his time more wicked than it was, and saw it so. a modern dante, all in the force of prose, e. b. b. lies here like the sweet beatrice, who was at hand when the cruel task of criticism was over, to build before the corrected vision of the great pilgrim the silvery shrines and turrets of the new jerusalem. so will we leave them--a lesser dante, a greater beatrice, and one who has borne record of herself. venice. venice, which i seek to hold fast, is already a thing of yesterday. "haste is of the devil," truly says the koran, whose prophet yet knew its value. but the strokes of the pen need deliberation as much as those of the sword need swiftness. strength goes with time, and skill against him. little of either had i after a night in the cars between florence and venice,--hot, dusty florence, and cool, glassy venice,--a night of starts and stops, morsels of sleep set in large frames of uneasy waking. the steep ascent of the apennines is only partially descried through the darkness. it begins at pistoia, and when it ends, pistoia lies vertically under you, at the bottom of what seems in the darkness an abyss, in which its lights shine brightly. tunnels there are in plenty on this road, and one of these threatens us with suffocation. for the engine was unduly replenished with coal at pistoia in view of the hard task before it, and the undigested food vented itself in unwholesome gases, which the constraints of the tunnel drove in upon us, filling the lungs with mephitic stuff which caused them to ache for more than an hour afterwards. this part of the journey was made pleasant to us by the presence of a venetian lady, handsome, intelligent, and cordial. at bologna we lost her, making also a long stop. the hour was three in the morning; the place, a bare railroad depot. the hour passed there would not have been patiently endured by an american public. but italians endure every possible inconvenience from the railway management, which is clearly conducted on _pessimistic_ principles. on reaching the cars again, another pleasant companion shortened the time with easy conversation. not but that we dozed a little after the weary night; and the priest in the opposite compartment fell asleep over his morning prayers. but my new companion and i made our way through a shoal of general remarks to the _terra firma_ of a mutual acquaintance, in whose praises both of us grew warm. and at length we began to see marshes, and waters, and a fortress. "that is venice," said the captain; and i replied with sincere surprise, "is it possible?" for venice, as approached by the railroad, makes no impression, presents no _coup d'oeil_. and this marks a precaution for which the devisers of railroads in this country may deserve praise. being pure men of business, and not sentimentalists, they do not wish to find themselves mixed up with any emotions consequent upon the encounter of the sublime and beautiful. they cannot become responsible for any enthusiasm. and so, in their entrances and exits, they sedulously avoid the picturesque, and lead the traveller into no temptation towards stopping and lingering by the way. of two possible routes, they, on principle, choose the more prosaic; so that the railroad traveller nowhere gets less beauty for his money than in this same italy, the flower-garden of the world. the arrival even in venice becomes, therefore, vulgar and commonplace in their management. and soon one gets one's luggage out of the clutches of guardians and porters, and cheaply, in an omnibus gondola, one swashes through a great deal of middling water, landing finally at hotel barbesi, where breakfast and the appliances of repose are obtained. we did not prudently devote this first day to sleep, as we ought to have done. the energy of travel was still in us, and we aroused ourselves, and went forth. the _valet de place_, with high cheek-bones, a fresh color, and vivacious eyes, led us on foot to the place and cathedral of st. mark, the ducal palace, the bridge of sighs, and prisons of the condemned. we visited the great council-halls, superb with fretted gilding, and endless paintings by tintoretto and bellini. we saw the lion's mouth, into which anonymous accusations were dropped; the room of the ten; the staircase all in white and gold, sacred to the feet of doge and dogaressa alone. as magnificent as is the palace, so miserable are the prisons, destitute of light, and almost of air--a series of small, close parallelograms, with a small hole for a window, opening only into a dark corridor, containing each a stony elevation, on which, perhaps, a pallet of straw was placed. heaven forbid that the blackest criminal of our day should confront the justice of god with so poor a report to make of the mercy of man! in the dreaminess of our fatigue, we next visited a bead factory, and inspected some of its delicate operations. and then came the _table d'hôte_, and with it a little whiff of toilet and hotel breeding, sufficiently irksome and distasteful. in the evening there was to be a fresco, or procession of gondolas on the great canal, with lanterns and music, in honor of prince plomplon, who was at danieli's hotel. uncertain whether to engage a gondola or not, i sat in the garden balcony of barbesi's, immediately over the canal. i saw the gondolas of high society flit by, gay with flags and colored lanterns, the gondoliers in full livery. their attitude in rowing is singular. they stand slanting forward, so that one almost expects to see them fall on their faces. in the gondola, however, one becomes aware of the skill and nicety with which they impel and guide their weird-looking vehicles. the fresco was to be at nine o'clock; but by an hour earlier the gondolas were frequent. and soon a bark, with lanterns and a placard announcing an association of artists, stopped beneath our balcony, while its occupants, with vigorous lungs, shouted a chorus or two in the venetian dialect. the effect was good; but when one of the singers asked for a "_piccola bottiglia_" and proceeded, hat in hand, to collect from each of us a small contribution, we felt that such an act was rather compromising for the artists. in truth, these men were artisans, not artists; but the italian language has but one word for the two meanings, contriving to distinguish them in other ways. the stream of gondolas continued to thicken on the canal, and at nine o'clock, or thereabouts, a floating theatre made its appearance--a large platform, brilliantly lighted, and bearing upon it a numerous orchestra and chorus. the _chef d'orchestre_ was clearly visible as he passed, energetically dividing the melody and uniting the performers. this lovely music floated up and down the quiet waters, many lesser lights clustering around the greater ones. comparison seems to be the great trick of descriptive writing; but i, for my part, cannot tell what the fresco was like. it was like nothing that i have ever seen. and i saw it in the intervals of a leaden stupor; for, after the sleepless night and active day, the quiet of barbesi's balcony was too much for me. fain would i have hired a gondola, have gone forth to follow the musical crusade, albeit that to homage a napoleon be small business for an american. but by a new sort of centaurship, my chair and i were that evening one, and the idea of dividing the two presented itself only in the light of an impossibility. roused by the exclamations of those about me, i awoke from time to time, and mechanically took note of what i have here described, returning to sleep again, until a final wrench, like the partition of soul and body, sent me with its impetus to the end of all days--bed. the fatigue of this day made itself severely felt in the waking of the next morning. shaking off a deadly stupor and dizziness, i arose and armed for the day's warfare. my first victim was the american consul, who, at the sight of a formidable letter of introduction, surrendered at discretion. annexing the consul, i bore him in triumph to my gondola, but not until i had induced him to find me a lodging, which he did speedily; for of barbesi and many francs _per diem_ i had already enough, and preferred charities nearer home to that of enriching him. i do, moreover, detest hotel life, and the black-coated varlets that settle, like so many flies, upon your smallest movement. i have more than once intrenched myself in my room, determining to starve there rather than summon in the imps of the bell. with the consul's aid, which was, i must say, freely given, i secured to myself the disposal of a snug bedroom and parlor, with a balcony leading into a music-haunted garden, full of shiny foliage, mostly lemon and myrtle trees, having also a convenient access to the grand canal. after this, we proceeded to the church of the frari, rich with the two monuments of titian and canova. both are architectural as well as sculptural. that of canova is a repetition of his own model, executed in the well-known vienna monument, with the addition, i thought, of a winged lion and one or two figures not included in the other. the monument of titian stands opposite to that already described. the upper portion of it presents a handsome façade enclosed in three arches, each of which contains a bas-relief of one of his great pictures. the middle one presents the assumption, in sculpture; that on the right the entombment of christ; that on the left the st. peter martyr--the picture itself being in the sacristy of the church of santi giovanni e paolo. the frari also contains a curious and elaborate monument to a doge whose name i forget. above sits the doge in his ducal chair; below, four black slaves clad in white marble, their black knees showing through their white trousers, support the upper part of the monument upon their heads. two bronze deaths, between the doge and the slaves, bear each a scroll in white marble, with long inscriptions, which we did not read. the choir was adorned with the usual row of seats, richly carved in black walnut. from this rich and interesting temple we passed to the academia delle belle arti. this institution contains many precious and beautiful works of art. the venetian school is, however, to the florentine much as rossini's barbière to dante's divina commedia. here all is color, vitality, energy. the superabundance of life and of temperament does not allow the severer deliberations of thoughtful art. the finest picture of this school, the assumption of titian, is the intense embodiment of the present, an ideal moment that presupposes no antecedent and no successor. it is as startling as a sudden vision. but it is a vision of life, not of paradise. the madonna is a grand, simple, human woman, whose attitude is more rapt than her expression. she stands in the middle of the picture, upon a mass of clouds, which two pendent cherubs deliciously loop up. above, the eternal father, wonderfully foreshortened, looks down upon her. beneath, the apostles are gazing at the astonishing revelation. all is in the strongest drawing, the most vigorous coloring. yet the pale-eyed raphaels have more of the inward heaven in them. for this is a dream of sunset, not of transfiguration. so great a work of art is, however, a boon beyond absolute criticism. like a precious personality, its value settles the account of its being, however widely it may depart from the standard recognized in other things. in the same hall is the last work of titian, a pieta, or figure of the dead christ upon his mother's knees. this picture is so badly placed that its effects can only be inferred, absolute glare and darkness putting out its light and shade. far from the joyous allegro of titian's characteristic style, the coloring presents a greenish pallor, rather negative and monotonous. the composition of the picture is artistic, tonic, and harmonious; its expression high and pathetic. the ebbing tide of the great master's vitality left this pearl on the shore of time. the presentation of the virgin in the temple, by titian, is another of the famous pictures in this collection. the virgin is represented as a maiden of ten years, ascending the steps of the temple at jerusalem. the figure and the steps are both of them seen in profile. her pale-blue dress is relieved by an oblong glory which surrounds her from head to foot. more famous is a large paul veronese, representing christ at supper in the house of the pharisee. the richness of the venetian costumes, the vigor and vitality of the figures, give this picture its great charm. it is no nearer to christ and jerusalem "than i to hercules." a large painting by a french artist, in this hall, replaces the great paul veronese taken to paris by napoleon i.,--the cena,--and, to my mind, replaces it very poorly. the huge paintings of tintoretto are among the things that amaze one in venice. how one hand, guided by one brain, could, in any average human life, have covered such enormous spaces of canvas, is a problem and a puzzle. the paintings themselves are full of vigor, color, and variety. but one naturally values them less on account of their great number. of course, in the style of raphael or perugino, a single life could not have produced half of them. the venetian school is sketchy, and its figures often have more toilet than anatomy. i am almost ashamed to speak of these pictures at all, since i speak of them so inadequately. yet, gentle reader, all is not criticism that criticises, all is not enthusiasm that admires. copious treatises are written on these subjects by people who know as little of them as is possible for a person of average education. americans have especially to learn that a general tolerable intelligence does not give a man special knowledge in matters of art. among the herd of trans-atlantic travellers who yearly throng these galleries, they know most who pretend least to know. a brief interval of rest and dinner enabled us to visit the armenian convent at san lazzaro. for this excursion two rowers were requisite. starting at five p. m., we reached the convent in half an hour. it stands upon an island which its walls and enclosures fill. the porter opens to us. we have a letter of introduction from ex-consul howills to padre giacomo, and bring also a presentation copy of the late consul's work on venice. the padre receives us with courteous gravity. we make acquaintance with his monkey before we make acquaintance with him. the monkey leaps on the neophyte's hat, tears off a waxen berry, and eats it. his master thoughtfully leads us through the dreamy rooms and passages of the convent. here is the room that byron occupied; here is his name, written in armenian in his own hand. here also is prince plonplon's name, written by him in the book of illustrious visitors. after showing it, the padre offers another book, for commonplace visitors, in which he invites me to enter my name: i humbly comply. we visit the chapel, which is handsome, and the pleasant garden. the printing establishment interests us most. these armenian fathers are great polyglots, and print books in a variety of languages. padre giacomo, who speaks good english, shows us an armenian translation of napoleon's life of julius cæsar, which we are surprised and rather sorry to see. we afterwards hear it suggested that the expense of this work has probably been borne by the french emperor himself, with a view to the eastern question. among the antiquities of the convent we find a fine armenian manuscript of the fourth century; among its modern curiosities, a book of prayers in thirty languages. in the refectory is a pulpit, from which one monk reads aloud, while the others dine. connected with this convent is a college for the education of armenian youths, either for the priesthood or for active life. another institution, in venice proper, receives from this those scholars who decide upon an ecclesiastical profession. padre giacomo had already bought consul howill's book for the convent library. he led us, lastly, into a small room, in which are kept the publications of the convent, to be sold for its benefit. here we made a few purchases, and took leave, trusting to see padre giacomo again. one of my earliest acts in venice, after the first preliminaries of living, was to get from a circulating library the first volume of mr. ruskin's stones of venice. i have never been a reader of mr. ruskin, and my position towards him is that of an outside unbeliever. i shun his partisans and disbelieve his theories. the title of this book, however, seemed to promise a key to the architectural mysteries of the mirror city, and i, taking him at his word, reached out eagerly after the same. but mr. ruskin's key opens a great many preliminary doors before admitting you to the point desired, and my one busy week was far too short to follow the intricacies of his persuasions. i could easily see that the book, right or wrong, would add to the pleasure and interest of investigating the city. mr. ruskin is an author who gives to his readers a great deal of thought and of study. his very positive mode of statement has this advantage; it sums up one side of the matter so exhaustively as to make comparatively easy the construction of the opposite argument, and the final decision between the two. yet, while the writer's zeal and genius lead us to follow his reasonings with interest, and often with pleasure, his judgment scarcely possesses that weight and impartiality which would lead us to acquiesce in his decisions. those who fully yield to his individual charm adopt and follow his opinions to all extremes. this already shows his power. but they scarcely become as wise as do those who resist, and having fully heard him, continue to observe and to think for themselves. and as, in coleridge's well-known lines, anxiety is expressed as to the human agency that can cleanse the river rhine when that river has cleansed the city of cologne, we must confess that our expectations always desire the man who shall criticise mr. ruskin, when he has criticised to his full extent. for there is one person whom he cannot criticise, and that is himself. to do this would involve a deliberation of thought, an exactness of style, to which even mr. ruskin cannot pretend. with his help, however, i did observe the two granite columns in the piazzetta, to whose shafts he gives fifteen feet of circumference, and to their octagonal bases fifty-six, a discrepancy exceeding the difference which the eye would measure. but he certainly ought to know. and i found also the columns brought from st. jean d'acre, which are, as he does not mention, square, and of a dark marble, with oriental capitals and adornments. and i sought out, in the church of ss. giov. e paolo, two dogal monuments, of which he praises one and criticises the other with stress. the one praised is that of doge mocenigo; the other, that of doge vendramin. i did not find in either a significance to warrant the extensive notice he gives them. having learned, with great satisfaction, that the artist of the monument which "dislikes" him was afterwards exiled from venice for forgery, he proceeds to speak of "this forger's work," allowing no benefit of doubt. and this was my account with mr. ruskin, so far as the stones of venice are concerned; for time so shortened, and objects so multiplied, that i was constrained thereafter to dispense with his complicated instruments of vision, and to look at things simply with my own eyes. we made various visits to the cathedral of san marco, whose mosaic saints, on gold backgrounds, greet you in the portico with delight. the church is very rich in objects of art and in antiquities. it has columns from palestine, dogal monuments, tessellated pavements, in endless variety. but the mosaics in the sacristy were for me its richest treasure. they comprise the conscientious labors mentioned by george sand, in her maîtres mosaistes. the easy arch of the ceiling allows one to admire them without the painful straining usually entailed by the study of fresco or other ceiling adornment. in a small chapel we were shown a large baptismal font brought from palestine, and the very stone on which john baptist's head was cut off! we went in, one sunday, hoping to see the famous _palle d'oro_, an altar-covering in massive gold, exhibited only on rare festas, of which this day was one. but while we wedged ourselves in among the crowd, one of our party descried a boy with the pustules of small pox still fresh upon his face. we fled in precipitation, marvelling at the sanitary negligence which allows such exposures to take place at the public risk. we visited the church of the scalzi (barefooted friars), and found it very rich in african and other marbles. it boasts some splendid columns of _nero antico_. one of the side chapels has four doors executed in oriental alabaster, together with simulated hangings in _rosso antico_, the fringe being carved in _giallo_. another was adorned with oval slabs of jasper, very beautiful in color and in polish. the ceiling, painted in fresco by tiepolo, was full of light and airy grace. from this, we went to the church of the gesuiti, in high repute for the richness of its adornments. we found it a basilica, its sides divided by square piers, and the whole interior, piers and walls, covered with a damasked pattern wrought in verd antique upon a ground of white marble. the capitals of the piers were heavily gilded. the baldecchino of the high altar was dome-shaped, and covered on the outside with a scolloped pattern in verd antique, each scollop having a slender bordering of white marble. the baldecchino is supported by four twisted columns formed of small rounded pieces of verd antique closely joined together. the pulpit has a heavy marble drapery, with simulated fringe, all in the pattern already mentioned. the whole is more luxurious than beautiful. its art bears no proportion to its expense. to those who think of the jesuits in general as i do, it will hardly stand as a monument of saintly service and simplicity. near the high altar rest the ashes of the last doge of venice. the spot is designated by a simple slab, forming part of the pavement. on it is written, "_Æternitate suoe manini cineres_." we visited two very good collections of antiquities, in one of which we found the door of the bucentaur, and its banner of crimson silk, with gilded designs. here were portraits of doges, curious arms, majolicas, and old venetian glass, much finer than that of the present day. here also are collected many relics of canova, the most interesting of which are the small designs for his great works. over the door of this museum stands a pathetic inscription to the effect that michel correr, "_vedendo cadere la patria_" had collected here many things of patriotic and historical interest. but these prosaic recounts are only the record of actual steps. the charm, the delight of venice they do not and cannot express. my recollections of the city invest her with a solemn and stately personality. i did not see her bowed beneath the austrian yoke, betrayed, but not sold, refusing to be cajoled and comforted. that cloud was removed. the shops were busy and prosperous, the streets thronged with people, the canals gay with gondolas, bearing also barges and large and small boats of very various patterns. the piazza was filled at night with social groups of people, less childish, methought, than other italians, and with a more visible purpose in them. still, the contrast of the past and present, no longer shameful and agonizing, was full of melancholy. venice can never be what she has been. the present world has no room for a repetition of her former career. but she can be a prosperous and happy christian commonwealth, with her offices and dignities vested in her own sons, with education and political rights secured to all her children. and this is better, in the present day, than to be the tyrant of one half of the world, the fear and admiration of the other. for peace, now, with open hands, bestows the blessings which war formerly compelled with iron grasp and frowning brow. the true compulsion now is to compel the world to have need of you, by the excellence of your service. industry has a deeper mine of wealth than piracy or plunder can ever open. a man's success is in strict proportion to his use; and the servant of all is the master of all. so the new venice for which i look is to be no more like the old venice than the new jerusalem will be like the city of david. moral grandeur must make her great. justice must make her people happy. and so beautiful and delightful is she, that i cannot help echoing the psalmist's exclamation, "pray for the peace of jerusalem! they shall prosper who love thee!" a wash of waters, a play of lights, a breeze that cools like the perfumed water of the narguilé, a constant interchange of accents musically softened from the soft italian itself, which seems hard in comparison with them; rows of palaces that have swallowed their own story; churches modelled upon the water like wax-flowers upon a mirror; balconies with hangings of yellow-brown and white; dark canals, that suggest easy murders and throwing over of victims; music on the water; robust voices, of well-defined character; columns and arches, over which mr. ruskin raves, and which for him are significant of religion or irreligion; resolute-looking men and women; a world of history and legend which he who has to live in to-day can scarcely afford time to decipher,--this is venice as i have seen her, and would see her again. rejoice, o sister cities, that she is free. visit her with your golden rain, o travellers; with your golden sympathy, o poets! enrich her, commerce! protect her, christian faith of nations, for she is free--free! to me she is already a recollection. for after the days of which i have so briefly told, a far summons carried me to an elder land, a more mournful mystery. looking, but not loving my last, i packed the wearisome trunk, paid for the nights and dinners, owing little else at my lodging. a certain nightingale, who, at eight precisely every morning, broke in upon my slumbers with delicious singing, did not figure in the bill. but remembering his priceless song, i almost regret my objections to certain items set down in the account against me. and i had a last row in the gondola, and a last ice in the piazzetta, and, last of all, a midnight embarkation on board the austrian steamer for trieste. farewell, sebastiano, my trusty gondolier. i shall not hear you cry, "oh, juiné" (giovine) again. i see the line of the piazzetta, defined by the lamps. brightly may they burn; glad be the hearts that beat near them. and now they are all out of sight, and the one outside light is disappearing, too. farewell, wonderful venice. thou wert painfully gotten together, no doubt, like other dwelling-places of man. thou camest of toiling and moiling, planning, digging, and stone-breaking. but thou lookest to have risen from the waters like a dream. and this wholeness of effect makes thee a great work of art, not henceforth to be plundered by the powerful ones of the earth, but to be cherished by the lovers of beauty, studied by the lovers of art. i will return upon my steps to mention one feature in the new venice, a small and obscure one, whose significance greatly interested me. having heard of a protestant italian congregation in the neighborhood of one of the great catholic temples, i turned my steps one evening towards one of its meetings, and found, in a large upper chamber, a numerous assemblage of italians of various grades, chiefly people of the poorer class, who listened with attention to a fervent address from a young clergyman of their own nation. the discourse had much of the spirit of religion, little of its technic, and was thereby, i thought, the better adapted to the feeling of the congregation. a sprinkling of well-dressed men was observable. a prayer followed the discourse, in which the auditors joined with a hearty amen. this little kernel of protestantism, dropped in a field so new, gave me the assurance of the presence of one of the most important elements in the progress and prosperity of any state, to wit, that of religious liberty. it is quite true that the sects under whose protection the protestant venetian church has sprung up--the scotch and swiss presbyterians--can in no sense be considered as exponents of liberal ideas in religion. calvinism, _per se_, is as absolute as catholicism, and as cruel. the calvinistic hell is but an adjourned inquisition, in which controversialists have as great satisfaction in tormenting the souls of their opponents as torquemada had in tormenting their bodies. yet calvinism itself is a rough and barbaric symbolization of great truths which the discipline of catholicism tended ever more and more to distance from the efficient lives of men. the principle of individual responsibility, the impossibility of moral action without religious liberty, the inward character of religious acts and experiences, in contradistinction to the precepts and practice of a religion which had become all form, all observance. these ideas, gathered together by a vigorous mind, and made efficient by the constitution of a sect or party, were capable of regenerating modern europe, and did so. for it will be found that all of its protestant piety ran within the bounds of this somewhat narrow channel. but even here, the liberalizing influences of time are irresistible, and although the cruel and insufficient doctrines are still subscribed to by zealous millions, the practice and culture of the church itself become more and more liberal. the zeal for propagandism, which characterizes the less tolerant portion of the protestant sects, makes their ministration on new ground efficient and valuable. the material hell, from which, in good faith, they seek to deliver those who hear them, symbolizes the infinite danger and loss to man of a life passed without the impulses and restraints of religion. a more philosophic statement would be far less tangible to the minds alike of teacher and disciple. their intervention in communities characterized by a low grade of religious culture is therefore useful, perhaps indispensable. and while i value and prize my own religious connections beyond aught else, i am thankful to the american missions that support waldense preaching in italy. they at least teach that a man is to think for himself, pray for himself; and their worship, even when rudest and most uncultured, is more an instruction of the multitude than a propitiation of the infinite love which is always ready to do for us more and better than we can ask. so, little protestant congregation in venice, my heart bids you god speed! but may the love of god be preached to you rather than the torment of fear, and may the simplicity and beauty of the christian doctrine and example preserve you alike from the passional and the metaphysical dangers of the day. greece and the voyage thither. "in a transition state." we have left venice. we have passed an intolerable night on board the austrian steamer, whose state-rooms are without air, its cabin without quiet, and its deck without shelter. so inconvenient a transport, in these days of steamboat luxury, makes one laugh and wonder. trieste, our stopping-place, is the strangest mongrel, a perfect cur of a city (cur-i-o-sity). it is neither italian, greek, nor german, but all three of these, and many more. the hotel servants speak german and italian, the shop-keepers also. paper money passes without fight or _agio_ upon the prices demanded. it seems to be par, with gold and silver at a premium. much oriental-looking merchandise is seen in the shop windows. the situation is fine, the port first rate. our consul here, mr. alex. thayer, is the author of the life of beethoven, already favorably known to the world as far as the first volume. the second, not yet completed, is looked for with interest. mr. thayer's kind attentions made our short stay in trieste pleasant, and our transit to the austrian lloyd's steamer easy, and within thirty-six hours after our arrival we found ourselves embarked on board the latter, _en route_ for syra, where we should find another austrian lloyd waiting to convey us to the piræus, the well-known port of athens. our voyage began with a stormy day. incessant rain soaked the deck. a charming little upper cabin, cushioned and windowed like a luxurious carriage, gave us shelter, combined with fresh air--the cordial of those who "_coelum et animum mutant, quia trans mare current_." here i pillowed myself in inevitable idleness, now become, alas! too familiar, and amused myself with the energetic _caquet_ of my companions. an elderly greek gentleman, count lunzi of zante, with a pleasing daughter; a young austrian, accompanied by a pretty sister; an elderly neapolitan bachelor,--these were our fellow-passengers in the first cabin. in the second cabin were eleven friars, and an intelligent venetian apothecary, with whom i subsequently made acquaintance. the captain, a middle-aged dalmatian, came and went. he wore over his uniform a capote of india rubber cloth, which he laid aside when he came into our deck-parlor for a brief sitting and a whiff of tobacco. the gentlemen all smoked without apology. the little greek lady soon became violently seasick, and the austrian maiden followed. the neophyte and the austrian brother felt no pang, but the neophyte's mother was dizzy and uncomfortable. count lunzi and the neapolitan kept up a perpetual conversation in french, having many mutual acquaintances, whose absence they found it worth while to improve. i blessed their loquacity, which beguiled for me the weary, helpless hours. we went down to dinner; at tea-time we were _non compos mensis_. the state-rooms below being intensely hot and close in consequence of the rain, we all staid up stairs as long as possible, and our final retreat was made in the order of our symptoms. the following morning brought us the sun. the rain was at an end, and the sea grew less turbulent. the day was sunday, and the unmistakable accents of theological controversy saluted my ears as i ascended the companion-way, and took my place in the deck-parlor. count lunzi, a liberal, and a student of german criticism, was vigorously belaboring three of the friars, who replied to him whenever they were able to get a word in, which was not often. his arguments supported the action of the italian government in disbanding all monastic fraternities throughout its dominions, giving to each member a small pension, and inviting all to live by exercising the duties of their profession as secular priests. our friars had concluded to expatriate, rather than secularize, themselves, and were now _en route_ for kaiafa, a place concerning which i could only learn that it was in syria. they were impugned, according to the ancient superstition, as the causes of our bad embarkation and rough voyage. they were young and vigorous men, and the old count not unreasonably urged them to abandon a career now recognized as useless and obsolete, and to earn their bread by some availing labor. the circle of the controversy widened. more friars came up from below. the ship's surgeon joined himself to them, the venetian siding with the count. the neapolitan stood by to see fair play, and a good part of the day of rest was occupied by this symphony of discord. i confess that, although the friars' opinions were abhorrent to mine, i yet wished that they might have been let alone. even puritan milton does not set a calvinistic angel to argue with adam and eve concerning the justice of their expulsion from paradise. the journey itself was pain enough, without the reprobation. as the friars had been turned out of their comfortable nests, and were poor and disconsolate, i myself would sooner have given them an obolus unjustified by theory than a diatribe justified by logic. but the old count was sincere and able, and at least presented to them views greatly in advance of their bigotry and superstition. while this conversation went on, we passed lissa, where the italian fleet was repulsed by the austrians, during the war of italian unity. our fellow-passenger of the nation second named quietly exults over this event. he does well. austrian victories have been rare of late. of the day following my diary says,-- june .--in sight of the acroceraunian mountains and shore of albania. vessel laboring with head wind, i with guizot's meditations, which also have some head wind in them. they seem to me inconclusive in statement, and insufficient in thought, presenting, nevertheless, some facts and considerations of interest. at a little before two p. m., we pass fano, the island in which calypso could not console herself; and no wonder. at two we enter the channel of corfu, but do not reach the shore itself until five o'clock. a boat conveys us to the shore, where, with our austrian friends, we engage a carriage, and drive to view the environs. this is my first experience of greece. the streets are narrow and irregular, the men mostly in european costume, with here and there a _fustanella_. our drive took us to a picturesque eminence, commanding a lovely prospect. it led us through a sort of elysian field, planted with shade trees, where the populace on gala days go to sip coffee, and meet their friends and neighbors. returning to the town, we pass several large hotels and cafés, at one of which we order ices. i puzzle myself in vain with the greek signs over the shop windows. our leave of absence having expired, we hasten back to the steamer, but find its departure delayed by the labor of embarking a turkish dignitary, achmed pacha, who, with a numerous suite, male and female, is to take passage with us for the dardanelles. a steamer, bearing the crescent flag at her mast-head, was anchored alongside of our own. our hitherto quiet quarters were become a little babel of strange tongues and costumes. any costume artist would have gone mad with delight over the variety of coats and colors which our new visitors displayed. those wonderful jackets and capotes, which are the romance of stage and fancy-ball attire, here appeared as the common prose of every-day dress. every man wore a fez. i remember a handsome youth, whose crimson head-gear contrasted with a white sheepskin jacket with wide, hanging sleeves--the sleeves not worn on the arms, but at the back; the close vest, loose, short skirt, and leggings were also white--the whole very effective. he was only one figure of a brilliant panorama, but treacherous memory does not give me the features of the others. our vessel, meanwhile, was engaged in swallowing the contents of the turkish steamer with the same deliberation with which an anaconda swallows a bullock. the turks and albanians might scream and chatter, and declaim the whole koran at their pleasure, the great crane went steadily on--hoisting bale after bale, and lowering the same into our hold. this household stuff consisted principally of rugs and bedding, with trunks, boxes, and kitchen furniture, and some mysterious bundles whose contents could not be conjectured. the sight of this unwholesome-looking luggage suggested to some of us possible communication of cholera, or eastern plague. the neophyte and i sat hand in hand, looking ruefully on, and wondering how soon we should break out. but when the dry goods were disposed of, the transfer of the human merchandise from one vessel to the other seized our attention, and put our fears out of sight. our first view of the pacha's _harem_ showed us a dozen or more women crouching on the deck of the turkish steamer, their heads and faces bundled up with white muslin veils, which concealed hair, forehead, mouth, and chin, leaving exposed to view only the triangle of the eyes and nose. several children were there, who at first sight all appeared equally dirty and ill-dressed. we were afterwards able to distinguish differences between them. the women and children came on board in a body, and took up a position on the starboard side of the deck. with them came an old man-servant, in a long garment of whitish woollen cloth, who defined their boundaries by piling up certain bales of property. in the space thus marked off, mattresses were at once laid down and spread with coverlets; for these women were to pass night as well as day on deck. five ladies of the pacha's family at once intrenched themselves in one of the small cabins below, where, with five children, they continued for the remainder of the voyage, without exercise or ventilation. too sacred to be seen by human eyes, these ladies made us aware of their presence by the sound of their incessant chattering, by the odor of their tobacco, and by the screaming of one of their little ones, an infant of eight months. when these things had been accomplished, our captain sent word to the pacha that he was ready to depart. the great man's easy-chair--by no means a splendid one--was then carried on board, and the great man himself, accompanied by his son-in-law and his dragoman, came among us. he was a short, stout person, some fifty years of age, and wore a dark military coat, with a gold stripe on the shoulder, and lilac trousers. his dragoman was a greek. he and his suite smoked vigorously, and stared somewhat, as, with the neophyte on one side and the little austrian lady on the other, i walked up and down the deck. the women and the old servant all slept _à la belle étoile_. the pacha and his officers had state-rooms in the saloon; the other men were in the third cabin. i forgot to say that at corfu we left count lunzi and his amiable daughter, whose gracious manners and good english did credit to mrs. hills's excellent tuition, which the young lady had enjoyed for some years at her well-known school in athens. when we came on deck the next morning, we found some of the turkish women still recumbent, others seated upon their mattresses. two of the children, a girl of ten years and a boy of twelve, went about under orders, and carried dishes and water-vessels between the cabin and the deck. we afterwards learned that these were albanian slaves. the girl was named haspir, the boy ali. the first had large dark eyes and a melancholy expression of countenance; the boy also had oriental eyes, whose mischievous twinkle was tempered by the gravity of his situation. the old servant, whom they called baba, ate his breakfast in a corner. he had a miscellaneous looking dish of fish, bread, and olives. the women fed chiefly, as far as i could judge, on cucumbers and radishes, which they held and munched. water was given from a brazen pitcher, of a pattern decidedly oriental. coffee was served to the invisible family in the small cabin. i did not see the women on deck partake of it. but from this time the scope of my observations was limited. a canvas partition, made fast to the mast overhead, now intervened, to preserve this portion of the _harem_ from the pollution of external regards. henceforth, we had glimpses of its members only when a lurch of the steamer swayed the canvas wall far out of equilibrium. the _far niente_ seemed to be their fate, without alternative. nor book nor needle had they. the children came outside, and peeped at us. baba, grim guardian of the household, sat or squatted among his bales, oftenest quite unoccupied, but sometimes smoking, or chattering with the children. i took my modest drawing-book, and, with unsteady hand, began to sketch him in pen and ink. he soon divined my occupation, and kept as still as a mouse until by a sign i released him, when he begged, in the same language, to see what i had drawn. i next tried to get a _croquis_ of a pretty little girl who played about, wearing a pink wadded sack over a gown and trousers of common flowered calico, buff and brown. she was disposed to wriggle out of sight; but baba threatened her, and she was still. presently, the slave-boy, ali, came up from the select cabin below, bearing in his arms an ill-conditioned little creature, two years of age, who had come on board in a cashmere pelisse lined with fur, a pink wadded under-jacket, and a pair of trousers of dirty common calico. he had now discarded the fur-pelisse. on his round little head he wore a cap of pink cashmere, soiled and defaced, with a large gold coin attached to it. a natural weakness drew me towards the little wretch, whom i tried to caress. ali patted him tenderly, and said, "pacha." this was indeed the youngest member, save one, of the pacha's family--the true baby being the infant secluded down stairs, whose frequent cries appealed in vain for change of air and of scene. the two-year-old had already the title of bey. "can a baby a bey be?" i asked, provoking the disgust which a pun is sure to awaken in those who have not made it. we met the pacha at meals, interchanging mute salutations. he had a pleasant, helpless sort of smile, and ate according to the orthodox standard of nicety. on deck some attendant constantly brought him a pipe composed of a large knob of amber, which served as a mouth piece, and a reed some eight inches in length, bearing a lighted cigar. as we sat much in our round house, it was inevitable that i should at last establish communication with him through the mediation of a young greek passenger, who spoke both turkish and french. it was from the pacha that i learned that haspir and ali were slaves. the little girl whom i had sketched was his daughter. i inquired about a girl somewhat younger, who played with this one. the pacha signified that he had given the mother of his daughter to one of his men, and that the second little girl was born of this connection. the two younger children already spoken of were born of another mother, probably each of a different one. "o christian marriage!" i thought, as i looked on this miscellaneous and inorganic family, "let us not complain of thy burdens." with us the birth of a child is the strongest bond of union between its parents; with the oriental it is the signal for separation. no society will ever permanently increase whose structure rests on an architecture so feeble. the turkish empire might spread by conquest and thrive by plunder. but at home it can never compete with nations in which family life has individuality of centre and equality of obligation. with greeks and albanians to work for them, and pay them tribute, the turks are able to attain a certain wealth. it is the wealth, however, which impoverishes mankind, exhausting the sources of industry and of enterprise. let the turk live upon what he can earn, and we shall hear little of him. the women sometimes struggled out from their canvas enclosure, and went below on various errands. on these occasions they were enveloped in a straight striped covering, white and red, much like a summer counterpane. this was thrown over the head, held together between the teeth, and reached to the feet. it left in view their muslin head-dresses, and calico trousers, gathered at the ankle, nothing more. a few were barefoot--one or two only wore stockings. most of them were shod with _brodequins_, of a size usually worn by men. at a late hour in the afternoon, ali brought to their enclosure a round metal dish of stewed meat, cut in small pieces for the convenience of those whose customs are present proof that fingers were made before knives and forks. a great dish of rice simultaneously made its appearance. baba chattered very much, ali made himself busy, and a little internal commotion became perceptible behind the canvas wall. my opportunity of observing turkish manners was as brief as it was limited. having taken the moslems on board on monday, well towards evening, the wednesday following saw, at ten a. m., my exit from the steamer. for we were now in the harbor of syra. when i came on deck, soon after five a. m., the pacha sent me coffee in a little cup with a silver stand. it was prepared after the turkish manner, and was fragrant and delicious. while we were at breakfast, mr. saponzaki, american consul at syra, came on board in search of me, followed soon by an old friend, mr. evangelides. with real regret i took leave of the friendly captain and pleasant companions of the voyage. i shook hands with the pacha, not unmindful of the miseries of crete. baba also gave me a parting salutation. he was a nice observer of womanly actions, and his farewell gesture seemed to say, "although barefaced, you are respectable;" which, if he really meant it, was a great deal for him to allow. our luggage was now transferred on board the smaller steamer, which was to sail at six p. m. for the piræus, and the neophyte and myself soon found ourselves under the shelter of mr. evangelides' roof, where his greek wife made us cordially welcome. syra. mr. evangelides was one of a number of youths brought to the united states, after the war of greek independence, for aid and education. the latter was the chief endowment with which his adopted country returned him to his native land. the value of this gift he was soon to realize, though not without previous hardships and privations. after a year or two of trial, he commenced a school in syra. this school was soon filled with pupils, and many intelligent and successful greeks of the present day are among his old scholars. besides methods of education, he brought from america a novel idea--that of the value of real estate. looking about syra, and becoming convinced of its inevitable growth, he invested the surplus of his earnings in tracts of land in the immediate neighborhood of the then small town, to the utter mystification of his neighbors. that one should invest in jewels, arms, a house, or a vineyard, would have seemed to them natural enough; but what any man should want of mere land scarcely fit for tillage, was beyond their comprehension. the expected growth was not slow in coming. mr. evangelides soon began to realize handsomely, as we should say, from his investment, and is now esteemed a man of wealth. his neighbors thereafter named him "the greek yankee;" and i must say that he seems to hold equally to the two belongings, in spite of the scripture caution. under the escort of my old friend, i went out to see the town, and to make acquaintance with the most eminent of the inhabitants, the custom of the country making the duty of the first call incumbent upon the person newly arrived. unfurling a large umbrella, and trembling with the fear of sun-stroke, i proceeded to climb the steep and narrow streets of the town. we first incommode with our presence the governor of the cyclades, a patriotic greek, who speaks good english and good sense. we talk of cretan affairs; he is not sanguine as to the efficient intervention of the european powers. we next call upon the archbishop, at whose house we are received by a black servant in frank dress, speaking good french. presently the prelate appeared--a tall, gentlemanly person in a rich costume, one feature of which was a medallion, brilliant with precious stones of various colors. his reverence had made his studies in germany, and spoke the language of that country quite fluently. tholuck had been his especial professor, but he had also known bauer; and he took some pains to assure me that the latter was not an irreligious man, in spite of the hardihood of his criticism. he deplored the absence of a state religion in america. i told him that the progress of religion in our country seemed to establish the fact that society attains the best religious culture through the greatest religious liberty. he replied that the members should all be united under one head. "yes," said i, "but the head is invisible;" and he repeated after me, "indeed, the head is invisible." i will here remark that nothing could have been more refreshing to the new england mind than this immediate introduction to the theological opinions of the east. other refreshment, however, was in store for me--the sweetmeats and water which form the somewhat symbolical staple of greek hospitality. of these i partook in the orthodox manner. one dish only is brought in, but many spoons, one of which each guest dips into the _gliko_ (sweet), and, having partaken, drops the spoon into the glass of fresh water which always follows. turkish coffee was afterwards served in small cups without spoons. and now, not knowing what sermons or other duties my presence might impede, i took leave, much gratified by the interview. we passed from hence to the house of the austrian consul, dr. hahn, a writer of scientific travels, and a student of antiquities. he had not long before visited the island of santorin, whose recently-awakened volcano interests the world of science. he told me of a house newly excavated in this region, containing tools and implements as old, at least, as those of the lacustrine period, and, in his opinion, somewhat older. this house had been deeply buried in ashes by an ancient eruption, so violent as to have eviscerated the volcano of that time, which subsequently collapsed. the depth of ashes he stated as considerably greater than that found in any part of the pompeian excavation, being at least thirty yards. hewn stones were found here, but no metal implements, nor traces of any. caucasian skulls were also found, and pottery of a finer description than that belonging to the lacustrine period. he gave me a model of a small pitcher discovered among the ruins, of which the nose was shaped like the beak of a bird, with a further imitation of the eye on either side. another small vessel was ornamented by the model of a human breast, to denote plenty. he had also plaster casts of skulls, arm and jaw bones, and flint saws, upon which he descanted with great vivacity. dr. hahn's courteous and charming manners caused me to remember him as one of the many austrians whose amiable qualities make us doubly regret the _onus_ which the untimely policy of their government throws upon them. these visits at end, mr. evangelides took me home to dinner, where the best greek dishes were enhanced by samian wine. we had scarcely dined when the archbishop, followed by an attendant priest, came to return our visit. the greeks present all kissed his hand, and _gliko_ and coffee were speedily offered. we resumed our conversation of the morning, and the celibacy of the clerical hierarchy came next in order in our discussion. the father was in something of a strait between the christian dignification of marriage and its ascetic depreciation. the arrival of other visitors forced us to part, with this interesting point still unsettled. we next visited the wife of the american vice-consul--mr. saponzaki--a handsome person, who received us with great cordiality. after a brief sojourn, we walked down to the landing, visiting the foundery, where they were making brass cannon, and the _acadi_, the smart little steamer given by the greeks of london to the cretan cause. she ran our blockade in the late war, but is now engaged in a more honest service, for she runs the turkish blockade, and carries the means of subsistence to the cretans. here we met mr. dekay, a youthful philcandiote of our own country. he had already made himself familiar with the state of things in candia, and, like the blockade-runner, was serving in his second war, with the difference that his former record showed him to have been always on the side of christian loyalty. finally, amid thanks and farewells, a small boat took us alongside of the austrian steamer, which carried us comfortably, and by magnificent moonlight, to the piræus. pirÆus--athens. we were still soundly asleep when the cameriere knocked at the door of our cabin, crying, "signora, here we are at the piræus." the hour was four of the morning, but we were now come to the regions in which men use the two ends of the day, and throw away the middle. we, therefore, seized the end offered to us, and as briefly as possible made our way on deck, where we found a commissionaire from the hotel des etrangers, at athens. we had expected to meet here the chief of our party, who had gone before us to athens. the commissionaire, however, brought us a note, telling of an accident whose fatigues did not allow him to wait upon us in person. we were soon in the small boat, and soon after in the carriage, intent upon reaching athens. pireo, as they call the classic port, is quite a bustling place, the harbor gay with shipping and flags of all nations. the drive to the capitol occupies three quarters of an hour. the half-way point of the distance is marked by two rival _khans_, at one of which the driver of a public vehicle always stops to water his horses and light his cigar. here a plate of _lokumia_, a sweetmeat something like fig-paste, and glasses of fresh water, were brought out and offered to us. soon we came in sight of the acropolis, not without an indescribable puzzle at beholding, in commonplace existence, one of those dreams whose mystical beauty we never expect to realize, and fear to dissipate. now we drive through many streets and squares, and finally stop at a hotel in front of one of the prettiest of the latter, from whose door our chief issues to welcome us. with him is the elder neophyte, who has so far shared his wanderings, and latterly the near danger of shipwreck. under her guidance we walk out, after breakfast, to look at the shops in hermes street, but the glaring sun soon drives us back to our quarters. we take the midday nap, dine, and at sunset drive to the acropolis. on our way thither, we pass the remaining columns of the temple of jupiter olympius, a roman-greek structure, the work of adrian. these columns, sixteen in number, stand on a level area of some extent. one of them, overthrown by an earthquake, lies in ruins, its separate segments suggesting the image of gigantic vertebræ. the spine is indeed a column, but it has the advantage of being flexible, and the method and principle of its unity are not imitable by human architects. at the acropolis a wooden gate opens for our admission, and a man in half-military costume follows our steps. we visit first the propylea, or five gates, then the parthenon. our guide points out the beauty of its doric columns, the perfection of their execution--the two uniting faces of each of their pieces being polished, so as to allow of their entire union. here stood the great statue of minerva medica; here, the table for sacrifice. here are the ways on which the ponderous doors opened and shut. and pericles caused it to be built; and this, his marble utterance, is now a lame sentence, with half its sense left out. in this corner is the high venetian tower, a solid relic, modern beside that which it guards. and worse than any wrong _dénouement_ of a novel is the intelligence here given you that the parthenon stood entire not two hundred years ago, and that the explosion of a powder magazine, connected with this venetian fortification, shattered its matchless beauty. here is the temple of victory. within are the bas-reliefs of the victories arriving in the hurry of their glorious errands. something so they tumbled in upon us when sherman conquered the carolinas, and sheridan the valley of the shenandoah, when lee surrendered, and the glad president went to richmond. one of these victories is untying her sandal, in token of her permanent abiding. yet all of them have trooped away long since, scared by the hideous havoc of barbarians. and the bas-reliefs, their marble shadows, have all been battered and mutilated into the saddest mockery of their original tradition. the statue of wingless victory that stood in the little temple, has long been absent and unaccounted for. but the only victory that the parthenon now can seize or desire is this very wingless victory, the triumph of a power that retreats not--the power of truth. i give heed to all that is told me in a dreamy and desolate manner. it is true, no doubt--this was, and this, and this; but what i see is none the less emptiness--the broken eggshell of a civilization which time has hatched and devoured. and this incapacity to reconstruct the past goes with me through most of my days in athens. the city is so modern, and its circle so small! the trumpeters who shriek around the theseum in the morning, the _café_ keeper who taxes you for a chair beneath the shadow of the olympian columns, the _custode_ who hangs about to see that you do not break the broken marbles further, or carry off their piteous fragments, all of these are significant of modern greece; but the ruins have nothing to do with it. poor as these relics are in comparison with what one would wish them to be, they are still priceless. this greek marble is the noblest in descent; it needs no eulogy. these forms have given the model for a hundred familiar and commonplace works, which caught a little gleam of their glory, squaring to shapeliness some town-house of the west, or southern bank or church. so well do we know them in the prose of modern design, that we are startled at seeing them transfigured in the poetry of their own conception. poor old age! poor columns! and poor greece, plundered by roman, christian, and mussulman. hers were the lovely statues that grace the halls of the vatican--at least the loveliest of them. and rome shows to this day two colossal groups, of which one bears the inscription, "_opus praxitelæ_," the other that of "_opus phidiæ_." and naples has a greek treasure or two, one thinks, besides her wealth of sculptural gems, of which the best are of greek workmanship. and in england those bas-reliefs which are the treasure of art students and the wonder of the world, were pulled from the pediment of the parthenon, like the pearly teeth from a fair mouth, the mournful gaps remaining open in the sight of the unforgiving world. "thou art old and decrepit," said england. "i am still in strength and in vigor. all else has gone, as well thy dower as thy earnings. thou hast but these left. i want them; so give them me." royal munich also had his share. the relict of lola montes did to the temple at egina what lord elgin did to the parthenon, inflicting worse damage upon its architecture. at the time, the unsettled state of the country, and the desire to preserve things so costly and beautiful, may be accepted as excuses for such acts. but when greece shall have a museum fit to preserve the marbles now huddled in the theseum, or left exposed on the highways, then she may demand back the elgin and bavarian marbles. she will then deserve to receive them again. nor could she, methinks, do better than devote to this noble purpose some of the superfluous extent of otho's monstrous palace, whose emptiness afflicts the visitor with sad waste of room and of good material. making all allowance for the removal of the penates of its late occupants, it is still obvious that these two luxurious wrens occupied but a small portion of this eagle's nest. a fine gallery could as easily be spared from its endless apartments as are the public galleries from the vatican. nor should this new kingling and his russian bride be encouraged to people such an extent of masonry with smart aid-de-camps, lying diplomats, and plundering stewards and _dames d'honneur_. for pity's sake, let the poor kingdom have a modest representative, who shall follow the spirit of modern reform, and administer the people's revenues with clean hands. a sculpture gallery, therefore, in the palace by all means, open to the public, as are the galleries of italian palaces. and these marbles in the theseum and elsewhere--fie upon them! not only are they so crowded that one cannot see them, but so dirty that one cannot discern their features. "are they marble?" one asks, for a thick coating of the sand and dust in which they were embodied for ages still envelops them, and can only be removed by careful artistic intervention. a little money, please, king and parliament, for these unhappy ones. the gift would repay itself in the end, for a respectable collection of authentic greek remains on the very soil in which they were found would bring here many of the wide-ranging students of art and antiquity. a little money, please, for good investment is good economy. moreover, despite the velvet flatteries and smiling treasons of diplomacy, the present government of greece is, as every government should be, on good behavior before the people. wonderfully clever, enterprising, and liberal have the french people made the author of the life of julius cæsar. wonderfully reformative did the radicals of twenty years since make the pope. and the greek nation, taken in the large, may prove to have some common sense to impart to its symbolical head, of whom we can only hope that the something rotten in the state of denmark may not have been taken from it to corrupt the state of greece. expeditions--nauplia. a few days of midsummer passed in athens make welcome any summons that calls one out of it. majestic as the past is, one likes to have its grim skeleton a little cushioned over by the æsthetic of the present, and, at the present season, this is not to be had, even in its poorest and cheapest forms. the heat, moreover, though tempered by healthful breezes, is yet of a kind and degree to tell heavily upon a northern constitution. to take exercise of any kind, between ten a. m. and six p. m., is uncomfortable and far from safe. how delightful, therefore, to pack one's little budget, and start upon a cruise! for the government, we must confess, is very hospitable to us. our chief veteran goes about to distribute clothing to the cretan refugees, who, in advanced stages of nakedness, congregate in egina, syra, argos, and other places, as well as in athens. and he asks the government, and the government lends its steamer, the parados, for the philanthropic voyage. so we drive down to the pireo and embark, and are on our way. a pleasant little athenian lady accompanies us, together with her father, a cretan by birth, and a man who has been much in the service of the government. our travelling library for this occasion is reduced to a copy of machiavelli's principe, a volume of muir's greece, and a greek phrase-book on ollendorff's principle. we have also some worsted work; but one of us, the writer of these notes, has added to these another occupation, another interest. take note that the beds of the hotel at athens are defended by mosquito-nets, which show, here and there, the marks of age. take note that we close these nettings the first night a little carelessly, remembering cuba, and expecting nothing worse. take note that we neither wear gloves at night, nor bandage our arms and wrists, and then take note of what follows. a fiery stinging of needle points in every accessible part of your body. each new bite is like a new star of torment in the milky way of your corporeal repose. these creatures warn not, like the honest american mosquito, rattlesnake, or bore, of their intended descent upon you. in comparison with their silent impudence, the familiar humming of our yankee torments becomes an apologetic murmur, significant of, "we are very sorry indeed, but we cannot well do otherwise." this is the language of the dun--the greek insect has the quiet of the thief. so much for the action; now for the result. you awake uncomfortably, and, provoked here and there, begin to retort upon your skin a little. never was more salient illustration of the doctrine of the forgiveness of injuries. let by-gones be by-gones; suffer the bites to rest. ah! the warning comes too late. the fatal process has begun. at every touch you get worse, but cannot stop. you now realize what a good gift your anglo-saxon skin was, and so clean, and so comfortable! and it cost you so little! but just because it was so good, these foreign vermin insisted on sharing it with you. and you exemplify in little the fate of italy and of greece, which have been feasted on for ages, and cursed by the absolute mosquito for not continuing in perpetuity to yield their life-blood without remonstrance. this for the moral aspect of the case. the material aspect is that of intolerable pain and itching, accompanying a distinct suppuration of every spot punctured by the insect. for some days and nights the principal occupation of the writer of these notes was to tear the unhappy hands and arms that aid in their production. a remedy is casually mentioned--vinegar. bandages dipped in this fluid, and closely wrapped around the suffering members, give instant relief, but have to be frequently renewed, the fever of the skin rapidly drying them. the sufferings of job were now understood, and his eminent but impossible virtue appreciated. even he, however, had recourse to a potsherd. never were my human sympathies so called out towards the afflicted scotch nation! well, let this subject rest. recovery is now an established fact. from the height of experience we can look down upon future sufferers and say, "this, too, shall pass away." but now, to return to the deck of the parados. scenery, worsted work, the principe, and a little conversation caused the time to pass very agreeably. we took also the ollendorff book, and made a short trial of its lumbering machinery. and we had _déjeûner_ on board, and dinner. and georgi, the cameriere, had the features of edwin booth--the strong eyes, the less forcible mouth, something even of the general expression. at about . p. m., we made the harbor of nauplia, otherwise called napoli de romania. the harbor being shallow, the steamer anchored at some distance from the land, whither its boats conveyed us. on the quay stood a crowd of people, waiting to see us. they had discerned the steamer afar, and had flocked together from mere curiosity. something in the landing made me think of that portion of the quay at naples which lies before the hotel de russie. much of the present town was built by the turks. the streets are narrow and irregular, and many of the houses have balconies. one of these streets is nearly blocked by a crowd. we inquire, and learn that the head of a brigand has just been brought in. for the brigands, long tolerated in some regions by usage and indolence, have now set foot in a region in which they will not be endured. the peloponnesus will not have them, and the peasants, who elsewhere aid the brigands, here aid the _gens d'armes_. upon the head of their leader, kitzos, a large price has been set. but the head which causes the commotion of this evening is not that of kitzos. getting through the crowd at length, we come upon a pretty square, surrounded by houses, and planted with pepper-trees. here is the house of the prefect, at whose door we knock, imploring shelter. our cretan friend, m. antoniades, is well known to the prefect; hence the daring of this summons. the prefecture receives us. the prefect--a vivacious little man, with blue eyes and light hair--capers about in great excitement. he has to do with the war against the brigands, and joy at the bringing in of the head before mentioned nearly causes him to lose his own. his large _salon_ is thronged with visitors, who come partly to talk over these matters, partly to see the strangers. we, the ladies, meanwhile take refuge on a roomy balcony, where we have chairs, and where _gliko_ and cold water are offered to us. i make my usual piteous request for vinegar, and renew my bandages, while the others enjoy cool air and starlight. the prefect goes off to supper at nine, having first signified to us that his wife is occupied with a baby two days old, and cannot wait upon us; that his house is at our disposal, and that he will send out among his neighbors and obtain all that we may require. one of his visitors--m. zampacopolus, a major of cavalry--promises to wait upon us at five in the morning, to conduct us up the steep ascent of the fortress palamides. by ten o'clock the mattresses are brought. they are spread in a row on the floor, and we weary women, four in number, lie down and sleep as only weary people can. the summons that arouses us at five the next morning does not awaken enthusiasm. we struggle up, however, and get each a minimum of the limited basin and towel privilege. descending, we find major zampacopolus in full uniform, and are admonished by him for being so late. he came for us at four o'clock; but the chief veteran would not suffer us to be disturbed. the sun had already risen, and the ascent looked most formidable. invoking the courage of our ancestors, we unfolded the umbrellas and began. we had six hundred steps to climb, and steep ones at that. the labor caused such perspiration that at any turn commanding the breeze we were forced to shield ourselves, the sudden evaporation being attended with great danger. the ascent is everywhere guarded by loopholes for musketry, and could not be carried by any party of human assailants. there is, however, another route of access to the fortress, which may be pursued on horseback. it was by this latter path that the greeks ascended during the war of independence. they took the fortress from the turks, but were admitted within the gates by treachery. after weary efforts and pauses, we reach the plane of the main structure, which consists of a number of independent bastions in strong positions, commanding each other and the pass. it was built by the venetians, and vouches for their skill and thoroughness in military architecture. the officers receive us, and accommodate us in an airy bedroom, whose draughts of air we avoid, being _en nage_ with perspiration. we cool by degrees, and enjoy the balcony. a pot of basil is offered us for fragrance, at which we smell with little pleasure. we are then told the legend of the discovery of the true cross beneath a growth of this plant, which circumstance consecrates it among eastern traditions forever. in the mean time a functionary enters, and furtively carries away a small box. not very long afterwards its contents are returned in the shape of a cup of delicious coffee for each of us, with a piece of the ration bread of the garrison. "this bread," said the major, "is made with the hands, as we know, for it is made by the soldiers; but the bread you commonly eat in greece is made with the feet." here was indeed a heightening of present enjoyment by a somewhat unwelcome disparagement of unavoidable past and future experiences. we now proceeded to visit the bastions in detail. each of them has its own name. one is called miltiades. the most formidable one is called satan. the view from the highest parapet is very grand. we go about, wondering at the grim walls and the manifold openings for musketry. they show us an enormous cistern for rain water. the place contains several of these, and is thus capable of standing a very long siege. we pass an enclosure in which are detained "the military prisoners," whoever they may be. as a _bonne bouche_ we are promised a sight of the criminals condemned to death. these are kept in the strongest recess of the fortress. they lead us to it, and bid us look down into a court below, in which we perceive twenty-five or more unfortunates refreshing themselves in the open air. at the door and grated window of the prison behind them appear the faces of others. stationed on a narrow bridge above stand the military guard, whose muskets command the court. these men have all been convicted of crimes of violence against the person. sentence has been passed upon them, and its execution follows the convenience and pleasure of the officers of the law. at short intervals a little group of them is led out to endure the last penalty. "do not pity them, madam," said the major; "they have all done deeds worthy of death." but how not to pity them, when they and we are made of the same fragile human stuff, that corrupts so easily to crime, and is always redeemable, if society would only afford the costly process of redemption. a sad listlessness hung over the melancholy group. some of them were busied in preparing breakfast--coffee, probably. most of them sat or stood quite idly, with the terrible guns bristling above them. they looked up in our women's faces as if they sought there something, some compassionate glance that might recall mother or sweetheart--if such people have them. one old brigand lifted his voice, and petitioned the officers that his single daily hour of fresh air might be extended to two hours, pleading the pain he suffered in his eyes. this was granted. our guides directed our attention to a man of elastic figure and marked face--tall, athletic, and blond. all that they could tell us was, that there seemed to be something remarkable about this man, as, indeed, his appearance indicated. in his face, more than in those of the others, we observed the blank that hope leaves when her light is extinguished. all days, all things, were alike to him now; the dark, close prison behind, before him only the day when one in command shall say, "this is thy last!" if the priest shall then have any hidden comfort to bestow upon him! shade of jesus, we will hope so! these men, however, go to death with bold defiance, singing and laughing. a rude sympathy and admiration from the multitude gives them the last thrill of pleasure. as i looked at them, i was struck by a feeling of their helplessness. what is there in the world so helpless as a disarmed criminal? no inner armor has he to beat back the rude visiting of society; no secure soul-citadel, where scorn and anger cannot reach him. he has thrown away the jewel of his manhood; human law crushes its empty case. but the final possessor and creditor is unseen. in our wanderings we catch glimpses of a pretty little garden, disposed in terraces, and planted with flowers, vegetables, and vines. this garden recalls to memory a gentle-hearted commandant who planted it, loving flowers, and therefore not hating men. it is a little gone to decay since he left it, but its presence here is a welcome and useful boon. after visiting its beds and borders, we take leave of the hospitable officers, and by rapid and easy descent return to the prefecture, where the breakfast-table is set, and where a large tea-pot and heaped dish of rice attest the hospitable efforts of our host. i have only forgotten to say that on one of the ramparts of the fortress they showed us two old venetian cannon, both of which served in the last revolution; and further, that, in returning, passing through the old gate of the town, we saw sculptured in stone the winged lion of st. mark, the valorous device of venice. argos. we found the prefect at the very maximum of excitement. another telegram concerning the brigands, and yet another. kitzos is closely beleaguered by peasants and gens-d'armes; he cannot get away. another head will be brought in, and the country will be free of its scourge. with much jumping up and declaiming, our entertainer shared the morning meal with us. we feed the discontented servant, whose views of life appeared to be dismal, kissed the sweet-eyed children of the family, and, as a party, leaped into two carriages, leaving the prefect intent upon welcoming with grim hospitality the prospective heads of bandits, which did not hinder him from shaking hands with us, cordially inviting us to return to the shelter of his roof. but shelter was not for us under any roof, save the ambulating cover of the carriage. we were now _en route_ for argos. our drivers were clothed alike, in well-worn bags of blue homespun, peaked babouches without stockings, and handkerchiefs bound about the head. the thermometer was ranging in the upper regions. dust and overwhelming heat assail us. stopping to water the well-flogged horses, we take refuge for a few minutes in a shady garden, planted with flowers, vines, and merciful trees with flat, not pointed, foliage. we sit around a tiny fountain, at whose small spouts the smaller bees refresh themselves on the wing. this sojourn is brief; our next halt is on the burning, dusty high-road, where the chief veteran says, "tiryns," and leads a very forlorn hope across thorny fields and stony ditches to a cyclopean ruin--a side and angle of old wall, built after the manner so denominated, and so solidly that it outlasts at least three thousand years. we stand and consider this grim old remnant as long and as attentively as the fear of sun-stroke will permit. the veteran, however, leads us farther in pursuit of a cave in which, during the war of greek independence, he was wont to seek shelter from sun and rain. this cave is probably one of the galleries of the ancient fortress; for that the ruin was a fortress, they say who know. it is perhaps twenty yards in length, and three in its greatest height; for it has a pointed roof, laboriously formed by the fitting and approximation of the two sides, no arch being then invented. the stones that form this roof are very large, rather broken than hewn, and are laid together with great care. some of them are of very hard material. from these most venerable relics we creep back, under the deadly fire of the sun, to the carriage. the remainder of our drive leads across the plain of argos, the "courser feeding," as homer denominates it. we come in sight of its lofty acropolis long before we reach the town, through whose narrow streets we drive, and after a brief pause at the prefecture, find rest and shelter in a private house. the proprietors of this house ranked among the best people of the place--_oi megaloi_, as the multitude naively denominate them. they received us in a large _salon_ without carpets, darkened by green blinds, and furnished with a mahogany centre table and chairs, all of a european pattern, with a cushioned divan occupying one corner of the room, according to the favorite fashion of these parts. the lady of the house wore a dress of ordinary figured jacconet, open at the neck, and a red fez, around which her own hair was bound in a braid. her husband appeared in full palicari dress, with an irrepproachable fustanella, and handsome jacket and leggings. they welcomed us with great cordiality, and bestirred themselves to minister to our necessities. gliko and water were immediately brought us, together with the vinegar for my fevered hands. we next begged for mattresses, which were brought and spread on the floor of a bedroom adjoining. the four feminines, as usual, dropped down in a row. in the drawing-room mattresses were arranged for the gentlemen. we rested from . until p. m., the hour appointed for the distribution of clothing to the destitute cretans, of whom there is a large settlement at argos. for i may as well mention here that our pursuit of pleasures and antiquities in the terms of this expedition was entirely secondary to the plans of our veteran for clothing the nakedness of these poor exiles. in his energetic company we now walked to a large building with court enclosed--a former convent, in whose corridors our eager customers, restrained by one or two officials, were in waiting. we were ushered into a well-sized room, in which lay heaps of cotton under-clothing, and of calico dresses, most of them in the shape of sacks and skirts. these were the contents of one or two boxes recently arrived from boston. some of them were recognized as having connection with a hive of busy bees who used to gather weekly in our own new england parlor. and what stress there was! and what hurrying! and how the little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and dainty gloves, wielding the heavy implements of cutting, and eagerly adjusting the arms and legs, the gores and gathers! with patient pride the mother trotted off to the bakery, that a few buns might sustain these strenuous little cutters and sewers, whose tongues, however active over the charitable work, talked, we may be sure, no empty nonsense nor unkind gossip. for charity begins indeed at home, in the heart, and, descending to the fingers, rules also the rebellious member whose mischief is often done before it is meditated. at the sight of these well-made garments a little swelling of the heart seized us, with the love and pride of remembrance so dear. but sooner than we could turn from it to set about our business, the cretans were in presence. here they come, called in order from a list, with names nine syllables long, mostly ending in _poulos_, a term signifying descent, like the russian "witzch." here they come, the shapely maiden, the sturdy matron, the gray-haired grandmother, with little ones of all small sizes and ages. many of the women carried infants at the breast; many were expectant of maternity. not a few of them were followed by groups of boys and girls. most of them were ill-clothed; many of them appeared extremely destitute of attire. a strong, marked race of people, with powerful eyes, fine black hair, healthy complexions, and symmetrical figures. they bear traces of suffering. some of the infants have pined; but most of them promise to do well. each mother cherishes and shows her little beggar in the approved way. the children are usually robust, although showing in their appearance the very limited resources of their parents. some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give only under-clothing. others have but the rag of a gown--a few stripes of stuff over their coarse chemises. these we make haste to cover with the beneficent growth of new england factories. they are admitted in groups of three or four at a time. as many of us fly to the heaps of clothing, and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual. a papa, or priest, keeps order among them. he wears his black hair uncut, a narrow robe much patched, and holds in his hand a rosary of beads, which he fingers mechanically. we work at this distribution for a couple of hours, and return to the house to take some necessary refreshment. we find a dinner-table set for us in one of the sleeping-rooms, and are cordially invited to partake of fish cooked in oil, bread, acrid cheese, cucumbers, olives, and cherries, together with wine which our greek companions praised as highly stomachic, but which to us seemed at once bitter, sour, and insipid--a wine without either sugar or sparkle, dull as a drug, sufficient of itself to overthrow the whole bacchic dispensation. having enjoyed the repast, we returned to the cretan settlement, and continued the distribution of the clothing until all were provided. the dresses did not quite hold out, but sufficed to supply the most needy, and, in fact, the greater number. of the under-clothes we carried back a portion, having given to every one. to an old papa (priest) who came, looking ill and disconsolate, i sent two shirts and a good dark woollen jacket. among all of these, only one discontented old lady demurred at the gift bestowed. she wanted a gown, but there was none; so that she was forced to content herself, much against her will, with some under-clothing. the garments supplied, of which many were sent by the boston sewing circle, under the superintendence of miss abby w. may, proved to be very suitable in pattern and in quality. the good taste of their assortment gave them an air of superiority over the usual dress of the poor in this and other countries of the old world. the proportion of children's clothing was insufficient; but who could have foreseen that the cretans would have had such large families of such little children? finally, we rejoiced in the philanthropic energy of our countrywomen, and in the good appearance of our domestic manufactures. as we descended the steps, we met with some of the children, already arrayed in their little clean shirts, and strutting about with the inspiration of fresh clothing, long unfelt by them. we now went on foot to visit a fine amphitheatre in the neighborhood of the town, called by the ignorant "the tomb of helen." the seats are hewn out of the solid rock, and occupy the whole ascent of a lofty hill-side. from the ground to the middle row they were faced with fine white marble. the remainder consisted simply of the stone itself, without covering. the division first mentioned is in better condition than the second, the marble incasement having protected the softer stone against the action of the elements. in front are some remains which probably represent the stage and its background. the extent embraced is unusually large; and as we sat in the chief seats and looked towards the proscenium, we wondered a little as to what manner of entertainment could be given to an assembly so vast. the ancient masks were indeed necessary to enable the distant portion of the audience to have any idea of the expression of countenance intended to be conveyed. but i should suppose that games of strength and agility, races, combats of wild beasts, would have been best suited to such an arena. to us it was sufficiently melancholy in its desertion and desecration--grass and thorny shrubs growing profusely between its defaced stones, the heavy twilight forming the background, while the stars that enlivened the evening were real ones, not their human symbols. as we descended, however, from our half hour of contemplation, we received notice of the incursion of busy western life even into this charmed domain. in a field hard by, a threshing machine was winnowing the argive grain,--a thing of wonder to the inhabitants, probably an object of suspicion,--the property of a rich land-owner. beggars are rare in greece; but the argos children followed us both to and from the amphitheatre with mendicant solicitations. they went thither under the plea of showing us the way, and pursued our return under that of being paid for the same. we endeavored to satisfy two or three of them; but, the whole troop following and tormenting, one of our companions appealed in greek to the parents, as we passed their thatched dwellings. these called off the little hounds with threats of the bastinado. we reached the hospitable roof of our entertainers, first taking a lemonade at a little booth in the dark street. the mattresses were spread, the sick hands bathed, and we lay down to rest as we could, an early start being before us. a variety of insects preyed upon us, and made not very unwelcome the dawning of the early hour that saw us roused and dressed. but here i have forgotten to make mention of a fact which had much to do with our immediate movements at this time. the evening of our sojourn in argos saw an excitement much like that which blocked the street in nauplia. the occasion was the same--the bringing home of a brigand's head; but this the very head and front of all the brigands, kitzos himself, upon whose head had been set a prize of several thousand drachmas. our veteran with difficulty obtained a view of the same, and reported accordingly. the robber chief, the original of edmond about's "hadji stauros," had been shot while sighting at his gun. he had fallen with one eye shut and one open, and in this form of feature his dissevered head remained. the soldier who was its fortunate captor carried it concealed in a bag, with its long elf-locks lying loose about it. he showed it with some unwillingness, fearing to have the prize wrested from him. it was, however, taken on board of our steamer, and carried to athens, there to be identified and buried. all this imported to us that mycenæ, which we desired to visit, had for some time been considered unsafe on account of the presence of this very kitzos and his band. but at this moment the band were closely besieged in the mountains. they wanted their head, and so did kitzos. we, in consequence, were fully able to visit the treasure of atreus and the ruins of mycenæ without fear or risk from those acephalous enemies. taking leave therefore of our friendly entertainers with many thanks, "polloi, polloi," we sprang again into the dusty carriages, and the sunburnt youths in blue bagging drove us out upon the wide plain to a spot where we were desired to dismount and make our way over a thorny and flinty hill-side to the spot in question. such walking, in all of greece with which i became acquainted, is difficult and painful. it is scarcely possible to avoid treading on the closely-growing bushes of nettles. to come in contact with these is like putting one's foot on a cushion of needles whose sharp points should be uppermost. where you shun these, the small, pointed stones present difficulty as great. creeping up from the plain, crying out for assistance and sympathy, beneath a sun already burning, we came to the entrance of the cave to which they give the name of the tomb of agamemnon. this is an opening in the hill-side. its door has long been wanting, but the formidable door-posts still remain. two heavily-built stone sides support a single, horizontal stone, twenty-seven feet in length, by perhaps eight in breadth, and about the same in thickness. the door obviously swung open from the bottom; the traces in the stone-work make this clear. the cave itself is hollowed out from the height and depth of the hill. it is lined with large stones, carefully fitted to each other, and is in the shape of a rounded cone, whose gradual diminution to the top is very symmetrical. here a small aperture, partly covered by a stone, admits the light. the perfection of the work in its kind is singular. from this outer chamber, an opening admits you to an inner cave, without light, in which they suppose the treasure to have been kept. this is much smaller than the first chamber, and, like it, is heavily lined with squared stone. a fire of dry brush enables us to distinguish so much; but our observations are somewhat hurried, for the chill of these interterranean passages, acting upon the perspiration that bathes our limbs, suggests terrible fears of an untimely end to be attained in some inflammatory and painful way. the outer structure, of which i have endeavored to give some idea, is, however, indescribable, and the manner of its building scarcely comprehensible in these days. it suggests a time whose art must be as far removed from ours as its nature, and whose solid and simple construction takes little heed of the passage of time. from the treasure of atreus to the old citadel and gate of mycenæ, we pass, by a few painful steps, through thorns, stones, and dust. here we sit and meditate, as well as we are able. mycenæ was in ruins in homer's time. this gate and citadel go back at least to the time of agamemnon. in one of the tragedies of sophocles, electra and orestes meet before the gate of mycenæ, which we naturally suppose to have been this one. its heavy stone masonry is surmounted by a curious sculpture, a bas-relief, representing two lions aspiring to a column that stands between them. the column is one of the ancient symbols of apollo, and is met with in some of the coins of the period. agamemnon, cassandra, clytemnestra,--this trio of ghosts will serve to fill up for us the ancient gateway. of the city nothing remains save the walls of the citadel, the space within being now piled up and grassed over by the action of time. at the present day, this citadel would be of little avail, being itself commanded by an adjacent hill, from which artillery would soon knock it into pieces. the walls just mentioned are solidly built of squared stone, laid together without mortar. the briefness of our time hurried us away before we had taken in half the significance of the spot. but so it was, and we turned with regret from a mere survey of objects that deserve much study. we were now to find our way back to nauplia, but our fasting condition compelled us to pause for a moment at a little khan, whose energetic mistress bestirred herself, with small materials, to make us comfortable. the morning shadow threw her window in the dark. we gathered around it, escaping for the moment the scorching heat of the sun. near us a traveller on a donkey rested himself and his patient beast. the little woman had blue eyes and chestnut hair, bound with a handkerchief. she offered us cold fish, fried in oil, from her frying pan. each of us took a fish by the tail, and devoured it as we could. cucumbers were next handed to us. of these we ate with salt, which the mistress strewed with her fingers on the wooden window-sill, together with a little pepper. wine and water she dipped out for us, the one from a barrel, the other from an earthen jar. we had brought with us two large loaves of bread from argos, which greatly assisted our pedestrian meal. the mistress rinsed the glasses with her own hands, not over clean. when we had eaten, she poured water over our hands, offering us a piece of soap and a towel. as we laughed, she laughed--we at her want of accommodation, she probably rejoicing in its sufficiency. we now returned to our carriages, and drove back to nauplia, and through nauplia down to the quay, where our boats were waiting for us. the remainder of the day we passed on board the steamer, reaching porus at sunset, and going on shore to visit its fine arsenal, and narrow, dirty streets. in the arsenal, with other heroes, hangs the portrait of bouboulina, the famous woman who did such good naval service in the war of greek independence. she commanded a ship, and her patriotic efforts were acknowledged by conferring on her the style and title of admiral. from the roof of the arsenal we enjoyed a beautiful view of the harbor. the town, as seen at a little distance, has rather an inviting aspect. on a nearer view, it offers little to detain the traveller. we passed along the quay, looking at the groups of men, occupied with coffee or the narghilé, and soon regained our boat and steamer. the greeks, we are told, give porus a nickname which signifies "pig-city," just as our cincinnati is sometimes called "porkopolis." but the pigs in porus are human. egina. we passed this night on board of the steamer, first supping luxuriously on deck, by the light of various lanterns fastened to the masts and bulwarks of the ship. the next morning saw us early awake and on foot to visit the temple of egina. the steamer came to anchor near the shore, and its boats soon conveyed us to land. we found on the shore two donkeys with pack-saddles, upon which two of us adventured to ascend the long and weary eminence. the temple is one of the most beautiful remains that we have seen. its columns are of the noblest doric structure. a number of them are still standing. his majesty of munich and montes robbed this temple, at some convenient moment of political confusion. he had a statue or so, perhaps several, and pulled down the architrave to obtain the bas-reliefs. can we wonder that the greeks do not punish brigandage after such royal precedents in its favor. a fine lion in marble, twenty feet in length, was taken from this temple, either by this or a similar marauding. the lion was sawn in three pieces, that it might be more conveniently conveyed by boat. but, being left over night, the peasants, in their rage, came and destroyed with their hammers what they were not able to protect. here no diplomatic interference was possible, and the fact accomplished had to be accepted. this temple stands upon one of those breezy eminences so often selected by the greeks for their places of worship and defence. it commands a wide view of the sea and surrounding islands. on the opposite island of salamis they show you xerxes' seat, the spot from which he contemplated the land he intended to enslave. here the inexorable veteran conceded to us a pleasant half hour, enabling us to survey the fine columns from various points of view, and to enjoy fully the beauty of their surroundings. too soon, however, came the summons to descend. i again mounted the ass, but found my sideward and unsupported seat only maintainable by a gymnastic of the severest order. i yielded, therefore, this uneasy accommodation to one who might bestride the beast at his ease, being quite of the opinion of the irishman, who, having been regaled with a ride in a bottomless sedan chair, said that, if it was not for the name of it, it was not much better than walking. in the same way i concluded that to be so badly carried by the ass was almost as bad as to carry him myself. we were soon on board and afloat again, and a few hours of sea travel, cherished for their coolness, brought us back to busy piræus, and thence to torrid athens, where the great heats now begin. we had meditated a change of hotel at the time of our leaving athens, and had contemplated a fine apartment at lower charges in an establishment opposite to our own. but our hitherto landlord was too much for us. he was down at piræus to receive us. the veteran yielded to his dangerous smile, and after a brief parley, implying a slight enlargement in accommodations, we found ourselves bagged, and carried back to the hotel des etrangers. here the servants cordially welcomed us, and made us much at home. i regretted a certain beautiful view of the acropolis commanded by the hotel opposite, but my view was outvoted; and we gave ourselves up again to the imprisonment of our small rooms, and to the darkness which is a necessary attendant upon summer life in athens. and the gallant vision of the parados, with its prow turned to the sea, and of lofty climbings, and monument-seeking wanderings, faded from all but these notes, in which so much of it as may live is faithfully preserved. days in athens. "as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean." o, there were many of them, each hotter and stiller than the other. all night we steamed and sleepily suffered beneath the mosquito-net. in the morning we arose betimes. we smiled to each other at breakfast, sighed at dinner, were dumb at tea-time. the whole long day held its flaming sword at our door. sun-stroke and fever threatened us, should we cross the threshold. visits were tame, and carriages expensive. for many days we sat still, doing little. this is what people call "being thrown upon one's own resources." but to those accustomed to active and energetic life it is rather a being thrown off from all that usually renders the passage of time pleasurable and useful. even those dull days had, however, their distinctions. and, like a picture of our indian summer, hazy, dreamy, and indistinct, so will i try to give a color picture of that unheroic time, in which we grew ungrateful for classic surroundings, forgetful of great names and histories, and sat and sewed, and said, "how long?" first, the little newsboys in the street who shriek, "_pende leptà!_" calling the price of the paper for the paper itself. this music one may hear at any hour of the day when there is news from crete, or when a steamer has arrived from england for the cretan service, or when anything takes place that can motive the publishing of an extra. the veteran catches one day one of these curious little insects. he is barefoot, his hair is wild, his eyes are wilder. his extra is a single column, scarcely ten inches long; and over this he dares to make as much noise as if it were an issue of the new york herald, or the tribune itself, with white-haired greeley at its back. next, the funerals, starting always with music, and bearing flat disks of gilded metal, something in the style of the roman eagles. at one time a mortality prevailed among children, and the little coffins were carried through the street, with mournful sounds of wind instruments. we saw several military funerals. in these the deceased is carried by hand in a crimson velvet coffin, bound with silver lace. a glass cover shows him at full length. the velvet cover that corresponds with the coffin itself is carried before in an upright position. the hearse, drawn by four or five horses, follows. priests walk along, and chant prayers in the intervals of the music, which on these occasions is supplied by a full band. a body of soldiers also makes part of the pageant. friends and relatives walk after, carrying the large cambric parasols so much in vogue here. as the cemetery is at some distance from the town, the hearse probably serves later for the transport of the body. but i from my window always saw it following in empty state. the friends all go to the church, where the prayers and orations occupy from one to two hours. the deceased is usually in full dress, and the countenance is often painted in white and red. the gilded symbols which are carried, and the wild tones of the wind instruments, give to those processions a somewhat barbaric aspect, as compared with the sober mourning of countries more familiar to ourselves. but there is nothing grim in the greek funeral; it seems rather a cheerful and friendly attendance, and compares favorably with the _luxe_ of english burials, their ingenious ugliness and tasteless exaggeration of all that is gloomy and uncongenial to life. next, the out-of-door life and music. the first is, of course, limited by the severe heat of the day. eight a. m. is a fashionable hour for being abroad. you will then find the market thronged. you will encounter seated groups, who take their coffee or smoke their cigar. many carriages drive past, conveying people in easy circumstances to faleran, a small harbor three miles distant from athens, where the luxury of sea-bathing is enjoyed. at nine a. m. the best of the military bands begins to play before the palace. i have their _repertoire_ pretty well in mind, having listened to its repetition for three weeks past. they play most of the airs from the barbiere di seviglia, the overture to othello, and sundry marches and polkas. with the early morning period begins the crying of fruit in the streets. these cries proceed from men who drive before them donkeys laden with rude baskets, in which you see potatoes, tomatoes, small squashes, apricots, and other fruits. they stop at various doors in our neighborhood, and serve their customers. the maid-servants come out. from one of those doors issues with his nurse a little child, who is set upon the donkey's back, and allowed to stay there while the dealer supplies the houses in the vicinity. this little one wears a white cambric weed on his hat to prevent sun-stroke, after the manner of greater people. from ten a. m. to five p. m., the streets are quiet. after the latter hour the carriages begin again to roll, though the fashionable drive scarcely begins earlier than six o'clock. one drives to faleran, to the piræus, or, if it be sunday, to the polygonon, where the band plays, and whither the regent, mounted on a well-bred steed, is sure to betake himself. this polygonon is simply a several-sided pavilion, at a distance of a mile and a half from the palace. a crowd of people flock to it on sunday afternoons, either in carriages or on foot, and all in their best clothes. at a little distance stands a small café, where lemonade and lokumia may be enjoyed, but no ince. the view of the acropolis from this spot is a very pleasant one. but to return to our athenian streets. carriages are very dear in the afternoon, being in request for drives to the bath, which is taken either at faleran or at pireo. a visit to either place refreshes after the long, hot day. when you return in the evening, you see the streets and squares about the cafés thronged with people sitting at little tables and enjoying ices or coffee. the narghilé, or water-pipe, is much in use here. at these tables one often sees it. the sacred herb basil, also, whose legend we have elsewhere recounted, appears upon these tables, growing in earthen pots. you will somewhere encounter the military band, which nightly performs in some stated place. but the café opposite our hotel has a band every evening, and our discussions of greek politics and of cretan prospects are frequently interrupted by strains from norma, trovatore, traviata, and other late abortions of the muse. from this phrase let me, however, even in passing, deliver norma. this statement carefully enumerates the external resources of athens during waking hours. within doors, besides our grave studies, we have visits. many greeks and cretans wait upon the veteran, together with american consuls, and cretan women bringing silks, laces, and stockings of their own manufacture, or petitioning for little special helps over and above the forty lepta per diem allowed to each of them by the committee. some mysterious consultations are there, bent on merciful conspiracies and heaven-approved stratagems. omer pacha and his army have surrounded the unhappy island of candia, and are tightening their folds like a huge serpent. the severity of the blockade is starving to death the women and children who are shut up in the towns, or hidden in caves and recesses of the mountains. england meanwhile feasts the sultan, and pledges the bloody toast of non-interference. how comfortable is the water-proof by which my lords derby and stanley ward off the approach of any fact that might induce compassion or compel indignation! sympathy at every entrance quite shut out, and at every appeal for mercy a fat english laugh, echoed by the house, which may make the angels weep. smart argyle keeps heart of grace against this squad of the heartless. he even takes the trouble to get facts from greece from sources less poisoned with prejudice than the times' correspondent.[a] and i am fain to believe that a scotch presbyterian may easily have more heart, brains, and religion than one who combines church and state with the betting-book, and, among all races, honors least the human race. [a] it is only fair to state here that the times' correspondent, minus his mishellenism, is a most genial, accomplished, and hospitable person. our war upon the turks is a war of biscuit and of cotton cloth. we run every permissible risk to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, both of these terms being of literal application. our agent lands his insufficient cargo, and before his errand is known, the moan and wail of the suffering ones break out from hill-side and cavern. _psomi!_ _psomi!_ for god's sake, bread! and here comes the sad procession. the merciful man is ashamed to look at the women; their rags do not cover them. hunted are they and starved like beasts. but the sultan feasts in england well. o, brave and merciful hearts of men and women, be lifted up to help them. and o, noble people, poor and hard-working, unsophisticated by theories which make the turk's dominion a necessary nuisance, and his religion a form of christianity, do you come forward, and make common cause with christ's poor and oppressed, whose faces are ground, whose chains are riveted, in his name. last evening the veteran received his cretan mail. the biscuits arrived safely. the letters which acknowledge them begin with, "glory to the triune god!" they then invoke blessings on the american people, and fervently thank the veteran, who has been at once the provoker of their zeal and the distributor of their bounty. such thanks are painful; they make us feel the agonized suffering to which our small largess gives a momentary relief. the arkadi, our blockade-runner, after landing her cargo, took on board more than three hundred women and children, fleeing from the last extremities of want and misery. this morning appears at the door of our hotel a little group of these unfortunates--a mother with four small children, the youngest a little nursing babe. bread we give them, and a line to the committee. we ask the woman if she would not go back to crete. "o god! no," she replies: "the turks would murder us." before the letters came, last evening, we heard continual cries of "pende lepta," betokening the issue of an extra. the servant buys one and brings it. the news from crete is, that mechmet pacha has been in a measure surrounded by the cretans. our veteran shakes his head, and fears that it is otherwise. a little later come in some of our cretan friends, together with one or two new faces. they are hopeful and in some excitement. in the midst of this arrives the cretan budget, as before mentioned. eagerly indeed are the letters devoured. but the veteran remains thoughtful, and not sanguine. and when we are alone, i find that he will go at once to france and england, jog the easy conscience of diplomacy, and appeal to the sense and sympathy of the people. i utter a hearty "god speed!" we had intended visiting constantinople; but that is now given up, and scarcely regretted, so urgent is the need of doing all that can be done for crete. excursions. to return to matters purely personal. i must not set down the heat and monotony of long days in athens without stating also the _per contras_ of freshness and enjoyment which have been paid in by various small undertakings and excursions. first among these i will mention a morning meeting under the columns of jupiter olympius. a small party of us, by appointment, started at five a. m., and reached the columns, some ten minutes later. they stand quite flatly on a large plain, lifting their corinthian capitals high in the blue empyrean. but this we have already described elsewhere. on this occasion we take seats in the comforting shadow, around a little table, and call for coffee, lemonade, and lokumias. the early morning is very beautiful. a company of soldiers goes through its drill quite near us. presently its officers also retreat under the shadows, take chairs and a table, and call for what pleases them best. the regimental band plays an air or two, perhaps in compliment to the neophytes, who are of our company. we enjoy the unique scene and combination--the picturesque costumes, the beauties and associations of the spot. so rampant does this effort make us, that we determine to have a meeting in the acropolis in the afternoon of this very day, of cloudless promise, like its fellows. we disperse and return home before the severe heat of the morning sets in; and this is well, for between the shade of the pepper-tree walk and the shade of the columns there is a long tract of sunny expanse. at this hour it is quite endurable; an hour later it becomes overpowering. we pass the day after the usual fashion. at six o'clock in the afternoon we do meet in the acropolis, and hold poetic session in a sheltered corner of the parthenon. she who was there invited to read her own and other verses felt an especial joy and honor in so doing. and we had recitations besides, and singing, and bengal lights, which the fairest of moons put to shame. and we went home afterwards with great reluctance. we had three windy days in athens, really of a cool and boisterous quality. we took advantage of one of them to visit eleusis, where stood the great temple of ceres, famous as the scene of initiation into the eleusinian mysteries, which formed an epoch in the youth of every greek. the road to it leads through daphne, the spot on which apollo is supposed to have chased the classic nymph. the rose laurels (oleanders) still bloom on its somewhat barren soil. the way leads also by the sea, commanding a refreshing outlook on the same. a modern albanian village covers the greater part of the space formerly occupied by the temple. as the day is sunday, we find the inhabitants walking about in picturesque costumes, the men in embroidered jackets or goatskin capotes, the shoulder of the garment expanding into a wide, short sleeve; the women in narrow skirts, wearing long, narrow redingotes without sleeves, in a coarse white woollen material, with two rows of black embroidery down the back, between which falls their long, braided hair, tied at the end with a black ribbon. some of them wore at the waist large girdle-clasps, composed of two disks of silvered copper, not unlike a belt ornament worn by ladies in our own country. we asked leave to enter one of the small thatched cottages. it consisted of a single room. the walls were neatly whitewashed. an earthen pot was boiling upon a fire of sticks. i saw no furniture except a low wooden chest, on which was seated an old woman, the grandmother of the family. several young women occupied the hut with her; all had small children with them. they stood about, all but one, who sat on the floor in a corner, soothing a sick and crying child. of the ruins of the temple a small angle only is exposed. it includes some square yards of marble pavement, fragments of pillars, and one very large and fine corinthian capital. it shows, besides this, some remnants of masonry indicating a number of small chambers. near it is a wall, piled up of large pieces of the finest greek marble, roughly broken with a hammer--the wreck, obviously, of former walls or columns. the magnitude of the temple is marked by some stones lying quite at the other end of the village street: the space between these and those first mentioned would indicate a building of enormous extent. much of its ruined material probably underlies the little village, and will scarcely be brought to light in these times. a small cabin adjacent is dignified with the title of museum. to this we were admitted by a custode, an old soldier, who has it in charge. the collection consists of a mass of small fragments, some of which formerly belonged to statues, some to architectural sculptures. we saw little to move the cupidity of the visitor, but tried to bargain for one relic less ugly than the rest; in vain, however. a frenchman, not long ago, took from these ruins many valuable objects, marbles, and even jewelry; since which time the government has strictly forbidden these elgin thefts. the custode's domestic arrangements amused me more than did his museum. there was one very poor little tin, in which he boiled his coffee; another, smaller and more miserable, held oil and a wick. he had gunpowder in a gourd. his bed was small and much dilapidated. a fragment of mat thrown upon a heap of stones was his only seat. few beggars in america are, probably, so ill provided with the appliances of life. one of the women of the cabin i had visited followed me to the museum, and naturally held out her hand for "pende lepta." yet beggary is very rare in greece, and this petitioner asked in rather a shamefaced manner, pointing to the little baby on her arm. and this is all that there is to narrate of the expedition to eleusis. of a more stately character was the expedition to kephissia. we started at seven in the morning. there were two carriage-loads of our party; for, in addition to the veteran's six-syllabled secretary, we were accompanied by an amiable greek family, whose guests we became for the day. in the villages that surround athens there are no hotels or lodging-houses of any description. the traveller perforce implores hospitality, and usually receives it. on this occasion our friends had asked and obtained the key of a large and sumptuous house at kephissia, whose owners are absent. they had also secured the company of three _gens d'armes_, who galloped along the dusty road beside us. the drive at this early hour was cool and most refreshing. the only drawback to its comfort was the dust, which the foremost carriage could not avoid sending back to that which followed. we reached first the village of maroussi, a pretty, shady little place, in whose café we saw a group of peasants playing at cards. the usual appliances, coffee and tobacco, were also visible. here we stopped to water the horses. a handsome marble fountain, beneath a shady clump of trees, bears the names of the family who caused it to be erected for the public good. shade and water are, indeed, the two luxuries of regions such as these. a little farther on, we came to kephissia, and stopped at the door of the palatial residence that was to give us shelter for the day. we entered a hall paved with white marble, and ascended a marble staircase. we now found ourselves in a spacious set of apartments, well kept, and furnished according to the greek theory of summer furniture. roomy divans extended with the walls of each _salon_, of which there were three, opening one into the other. tables and chairs there were; and, had the proprietors resided there, handsome turkish mats would, no doubt, have variegated the bare floors. the chief _salon_ opened upon a balcony commanding an extensive view. the fresh wind blew to quite a gale, greatly raising our languid energies. on the walls of this apartment hung two portraits--those of the former master and mistress of the house. she was sumptuous in dark blue velvet, with a collar of valenciennes lace and a fastening bow of blue plaid ribbon. her fingers were adorned with rings. her husband appeared in his best broadcloth, wearing on his head a red fez with a white under edge. he had begun life in a humble station, and had raised himself to great opulence by his own exertions. something of the consciousness of this was expressed in his countenance, which was a good-natured one. he and his wife did not long enjoy the fortune so justly earned. they died almost before the house at kephissia was finished, bequeathing its magnificence to two young nephews, also rich, but resident in italy. the freedom of our day here made amends for the many days of hot imprisonment passed in the hotel at athens. breakfast was necessary on first arriving. we then surveyed the bedrooms and made arrangements for our midday nap. we found comfortable bedsteads of bright metal. the servants brought clean mattresses, and unrolled them for us. water and towels we enjoyed in abundance. we then walked out to view the environs. and first our steps brought us to an enormous plane tree, under whose far-reaching shade the gossips of the village hold their daily meetings. the boughs of this tree, with the cleared space under them, formed a sort of rustic _salon_, cool and delightful even in the heat of the day. the unfailing café was near at hand; its chairs and tables were scattered about these rustic purlieus, and its servants waited for orders. here our companions encountered various acquaintances from the city, who have come hither to pass the season of the great heats. they wore white veils on their straw hats, as is much the custom here, and had altogether the enfranchised air which city men are wont to assume in country retirement. mail and public conveyance they had none. one of our party brought them letters, and took the answers back to athens. we now went in search of the source of the kephisus, called kefalari. we found a deep spring of the purest water, very cool for these parts, and constantly welling up. so clear was this pool that one saw without impediment the smallest objects at the bottom of the water. there were waving trees beside it. we sat down, and drank, and rested. our walk next brought us to a wine factory, and, as we entered to look at it, the sound of a grand piano, skilfully touched, arrested us. our friends guessed the unseen artist, and knocked at her door for admittance. entering, we found two ladies, mother and daughter, of whom the elder was the mistress of the musical instrument. the daughter, very young, but already married, bears the historical name of colocotroni, her husband being the grandson of the old revolutionary chieftain of that name. these ladies own extensive possessions in this vicinity, and the establishment in which we were belonged to them. they have a large villa at some distance; but fear of the brigands induces them to be satisfied with the shelter of two or three rooms, divided off from the rest of the factory, in which they live in comfortable simplicity. the table was laid for their _déjeûner_ in a little arbor made of pine tree branches. dinner they took at twilight, without shelter. they entertained us with the invariable _gliko_ and water, and, at our request, the elder lady gave us a specimen of her skill in dealing with the piano-forte. madame colocotroni speaks both french and english, and the books and pamphlets in her drawing-room had quite a cosmopolitan air of culture. after these doings, we returned to the great house, and sheltered ourselves in its shady rooms. here reading, worsted work, and conversation beguiled the time until dinner was announced. the gentlemen, meanwhile, had retired to smoke and discuss political questions. the dinner was much too well-appointed for a country picnic. our munificent entertainers had sent out their own valets and _chef de cuisine_. and so we had potage, and entrées, and dessert, with kephissia wine, both white and red, of which i found the former much like a sauterne wine, and very mild and pure in quality. one of the guests was an asiatic greek from broussa. his politics were of the backward sort--those of the greek greeks were radical and progressive. the dinner arena developed therefore some amicable differences of opinion. he from broussa gave me a few characteristic particulars of his life. when he was but a year old, his father chartered a ship, put much of his property on board of her, and sent therewith his children to be educated in europe. after many years of absence, m. l. returned to broussa, to seek some traces of his family. such as remained of them had been compelled by the pressure of circumstances to adopt the turkish language, and to profess mohammedanism. their christian prayers they always continued to recite in private, but were fain by every outward expedient to escape the ill treatment which christians receive in a country in which turkish authority is dominant. he told me--what i hear strongly corroborated by other testimony--that the turks had often cut out the tongues of greek women, in order that they should not be able to teach their children either their own language or their own religion. under these circumstances the gradual absorption of the race in those regions seems almost inevitable. an after-dinner nap and a ramble completed our experience of kephissia. at sunset we started homeward, the carriages all open, the _gens d'armes_ galloping, the dust playing a thousand solid antics, and writing hieroglyphics of movement all over our garments and faces. we found the little village of maroussi cool with the evening shadows, and the women and children with their pitchers gathered around the marble fountain. we ourselves came back to athens in a cooled and consoled condition, and said at parting, commanding the little greek we knew, _poly kalá-evkaristò_. hymettus. it happened that the next day was fixed upon for a visit to hymettus, whose water is celebrated, as well as its honey. a certain monkless monastery on the side of the mountain receives travellers within its shady courts, and allows them to feed, rest, and amuse themselves according to their own pleasure. we started on this classic journey soon after five a. m., carrying with us a basket containing cold chicken, bread, and fruit. we filled one carriage; a party of friends accompanied us in another. the road to hymettus is hilly and difficult; and our own troubles in travelling it were augmented by those of our friends in the foremost carriages, whose horses, at an early period in the ascent, began to back and balk. as these horses, who go so ill, insist upon going first, and refuse to stir the moment we take the lead, it comes to pass that in some steep ascents they press back upon us, to our discomfort and danger. an anxious hour brings us to the convent, which stands at no great elevation on the side of the mountain. the sun is already burning, and we are glad to take refuge in the shady inner court of the convent, where we are to pass the day. our friends of the other carriage have brought with them hatty, a child two years of age, and marigo, a little servant of thirteen. the latter has somewhat the complexion of a potato-skin, with vivacious eyes, and dark hair, bound, after the greek fashion, with a handkerchief. a young brother follows on a slow donkey, which he belabors to his heart's content. the court just spoken of is a small enclosure, surrounded on all sides by whitewashed walls, of which one includes a small chapel, with its tapers and painted images. in one corner a doorway leads into a den which must once have served as a kitchen. it is roughly built of stone, with no chimney, its roof presenting various apertures for the issue of smoke. here a fire of sticks is hastily kindled on a layer of stones, and the coffee, boiled at home, is made hot for us. a wooden table is allowed us from the convent, which we decorate with a white cloth and green leaves. rolls, butter, hard-boiled eggs, and fruits, together with the coffee, constitute a very presentable breakfast. we have around us the shade of vines and of lemon trees. our repast is gay. when it is ended, we amuse ourselves with books, work, and conversation of a scope suited to the weather. an athenian plato could discourse philosophy in the present state of the thermometer. we need it more than ever he did, but we cannot attain it. while we sit cheerful and quiescent, dodging the sharp sunlight, which slyly carries one position after another, sounds of laughter from the outer court reach our ears. this is a feast day, and in this outer court a company of athenian artisans, of the snug and bottom order, are keeping it after their fashion. following their voices, we come to a shady terrace, where some eight or ten men are seated on the ground around a wooden table, one foot in height, while two or three of their comrades are employed in cutting up a lamb newly roasted, spitted on a long, slender pole. the cooking apparatus consisted of two or three stones, on which the fire of sticks was kindled, and of two forked stakes, planted upright, across which the spit and roast were laid. while the two before mentioned were hacking the paschal lamb with rude anatomy, a third was occupied with the salad, consisting of cucumbers sliced, with green herbs, oil, and vinegar. olives, bread, and wine completed the repast. as we stood surveying them, one of their number approached us, bearing in one hand a plate containing choice morsels of the roasted meat. this he offered to each of us in turn, with great courtesy. in the other hand he carried a rather dirty fragment of cotton cloth, which he also presented to each in turn, as a towel. we took the meat with our fingers, and ate it standing, in true passover fashion. the doubtful accommodation of the table napkin also we were glad to accept. having fed each of us, he presently returned with a glass and bottle of wine, which he poured out and offered, saying, "_eleuthera, eleuthera_" which signifies "free, free." the wine, however, was a little out of rule for us, and was therefore declined. this man wore neither coat nor shoes, but his manners were full dress. his comrades, meanwhile, had fallen to attacking their provisions with a hearty good will. when the wine was poured out, a toast was proposed, and "_eleutheria tis cretis_" ("the liberty of crete") rang from every lip. "amen, amen," answered we, and the _entente cordiale_ was at once established. having eaten and drunk, they began to sing in a monotonous strain, keeping time by clapping their hands. retiring to our court, we still heard this cadence from theirs. their song, though little musical, had no brutal intonations. it breathed a rather refined good nature and hilarity. when we again visited our neighbors, they were dancing. all, save two of them, formed a line, joining hands, the leader and the one next him holding together by a pocket handkerchief. they sang all the while, stepping rather slowly. the leader, at intervals, made as though he would sit upon the ground, and then suddenly sprang high, with an _oich!_ something like the shout in a highland fling. in another figure, they all lay upon their backs, springing up again quite abruptly, and continuing their round. these doings, together with talking, writing, and needle-work, brought on the hour at which, in these climates, sleep becomes necessary. in greece, if you have risen early in the morning, by noon, or soon after, you are sensible of a sudden ebb of energy. the marrow seems to forsake your bones, the volition your muscles. you may not feel common sleepiness, but your skeleton demands instant release from its upright effort. you ask to become a heap, instead of a pile, and on the offer of the first accommodation, you fall like the disjointed column of jupiter olympius, more fortunate only in the easier renewal of your architecture. such a fall, at this moment, the stiffest of us coveted. meanwhile, an ancient hag, from the inner recesses of the building, had waited upon us, with copious chattering of her pleasure in seeing us, and of the drawback which the brigands had offered to her little business of serving the strangers who used to visit the convent before kitzos and others made them afraid. for, the convent no longer containing monks, those who occupy it are glad to accommodate visitors from athens and elsewhere. and the hag brought some heavy mats and quilts, and spread them on the floor of a little whitewashed out-house. and on these the little two-year-old child and others of the party lay down and slept. but "_e megale kyrie_"--meaning here the elder lady,--said the hag, "cannot sleep on the floor. i have a good bed up stairs; she shall lie there." so up stairs mounted the _megale kyrie_, and found a quiet room, and a bed spread with clean sheets in one corner. a rude chintz lounge, a wooden chest, and an eight-inch mirror completed the furniture of this apartment. here, in the bed-corner, the olympian column of _e megale_ fell, and barbarian sleep, sleep of the _middle ages_, at once seized upon it and kept it prostrate. after a brief interval of gothic darkness, the column rose again, and confronted the windows commanding a view of the court. on one of its wooden settles lay the young greek secretary in wholesome slumber. not far from him rested the greek missionary, a graduate of amherst, and a genial and energetic man. and presently the two-year-old, waking, desires to waken these also, and makes divers attempts against their peace, causing _e megale_ to descend for their protection. on her way, in an outer passage, she encounters a poor woman, lying on a heap of cedar boughs, and bewailing a bitter headache. dinner-time next arrives. the wooden tables are once more set out with meat and fruit. we exert ourselves to give the feast a picturesque aspect, and are not altogether unsuccessful in so doing. the true feast, however, seems to consist in saying over to one's self, "this is greece--this is hymettus. i am i, and i am here." and now the greatest heat of the day being overpast, a ramble is proposed. the young people, escorted by the missionary, climb half the steep ascent of the mountain. _e megale_ and the secretary pause in the outer court, to whose festivities a new feature is now added. our friends, the artisans, have feasted again, and little of the lamb remains save the bones. they are singing and dancing as before, but a strange figure from the mountain has joined them. he calls himself a shepherd, but looks much like a brigand. he wears a jacket, fustanella, and leggings, of the dirtiest possible white--a white which mocks at all washings, past and future. he has taken the leadership of the coryphées, and now executes a dance which is called the "klepht." his sly movements express cunning, to which the twinkle of his sinister eyes responds. now he pretends to be stabbed from behind; now he creeps cautiously upon a pretended foe. his dancing, which is very quiet, fatigues him extremely; but before making an end, he performs the feat of carrying a glass of wine on his head through various movements, not spilling a drop of it. the artisans are now intending to break up. they cork the bottles of wine and vinegar, empty and repack the dishes. we have brought them some fruit from our dessert. one of them makes a little speech to us, in behalf of all, thanking for our interest in the freedom of crete and in the prosperity of their country. and "_zeto! zeto!_" (live! live!) was the pleasant termination of the discourse, to which we were obliged to respond through the medium of a friendly interpretation. finally the day began to wane, and we to pack and embark. the bell of the little church now made itself heard, and, looking in, we saw the priest engaged in going through his service, while a very homespun assistant stood at the reading-desk, wearing spectacles upon his nose, and making responses through it. a circlet of tapers was burning before the altar. one old woman or so, a peasant mother with her child,--these were the congregation. the idea of the greek as of the catholic mass is, that it effects a propitiation of the divine being; so the priest performs his office, often with little or no following. as to those who should attend, i believe that one pays one's money and has one's choice; there is nothing absolute about it. and now _e megale_ bestows a trifling largess upon the hag, who has also dined off the relics of our feast. the books and work are gathered, the carriages summoned. item, our driver wore a palicari dress, and took part, very lamely, in the dances we witnessed. farewell, hymettus! farewell, shady convent, clear and sparkling water! we kiss our hands to you, and cherish you in our remembrance. on our homeward way we soon passed the athenian party, riding ten or twelve in a one-horse cart, carrying with them for an ensign the pole on which their lamb had been spitted. they saluted us, and we shouted back, "_eleutheria tis kritis!_" amen, simple souls! your instincts are wiser than the reasons of diplomatists. items. my remaining chronicles of athens will be brief and simple--gleanings at large from the field of memory, whose harvests grow more uncertain as the memorizer grows older. in youth the die is new and sharp, and the impression distinct and clean cut. this sharpness of outline wears with age; all things observed give us more the common material of human life, less its individual features. in this point of view it may well be that i shall often speak of things trivial, and omit matters of greater importance. yet even these trifles, sketched in surroundings so grandiose, may serve to shadow out the features of something greater than themselves, always inwardly felt, even when not especially depicted. it is in this hope that i bind together my few and precious reminiscences of grecian life, and present them, inadequate as they are, as almost better than anything else i have. the palace. armed with a permit, and accompanied by a greek friend, we walked, one bitter hot afternoon, to see the royal palace built by king otho, it is said, out of his own appanage, or private income. as an investment even for his own ultimate benefit, he would have done much better in expending the money on some of the improvements so much needed in his capital. the salary of the king of greece amounts to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars; and this sum is sufficiently disproportionate to the slender monetary resources of the kingdom, without the additional testimony of this palatial monument of a monarch who wished to live like a rich man in a poor country. the palace is a very large one. it not only encloses a hollow square, but divides that square by an extension running across it. the internal arrangements and adornments are mostly in good taste, and one can imagine that when the king and queen held their state there, the state apartments may have made a brave show. the rooms now appear rather scantily furnished; the hangings are faded; and one can make one's own reflections upon the vanity and folly of ambitious expense, unperverted by the witchery of present luxury, which always argues, "yes, the peasants have no beds, but see--this arm-chair is so comfortable!" now, luxury was for the time absent on leave, and we thought much of the peasant, and little of the prince. for the peasant is a fact, and the prince but a symbol, and a symbol of that which to-day can be represented without him; viz., the unity of will and action essential to the existence of the state. this unity to-day is accomplished by the coöperation of the multitude, not by its exclusion. the symbol remains useful, but no longer sublime. no need, therefore, to exaggerate the difference between the common symbol and the common man. fortify your unity in the will and understanding of the people, not in their fear and imagination. and let the king be moderate in his following, and illustrious in his character and office. so shall he be a leader as well as a banner--a fact as well as a symbol. while i thought these things, i admired queen amalia's blue, pink, and green rooms, the lustres of fine bohemian glass, the suite of apartments for royal visitors, the ball-room and its marble columns, running through two stories in height, and altogether well-appointed. "the court balls were beautiful," said my companion, "and the hall is very brilliant when lighted and filled." "is the queen regretted?" i asked. "not much," was the moderate reply. the theatre interested me more, with its scenes still standing. in the same hall, at the other end, is a frame and enclosure for "tableaux vivants," of which the court were very fond. the prettiest girls in athens came here, and _posed_ as muses, minervas, and what not. i have the photograph of one, with her white robe and lyre. and this brings to me the only good word i can say for otho and amalia, in the historic light in which i view them. they were not gross, nor cruel, nor sluttish. their tastes and pleasures were of the refined, social order, and in so far their influence and example were softening and civilizing in tendency. the temporary prevalence of the german element has introduced a tendency towards german culture. and while the greeks who seek commercial education very generally migrate to london or liverpool, the men most accomplished in letters and philosophy have studied in germany. all this may not have hindered the german patronage from becoming oppressive, nor the german rule from becoming intolerable to the people at large. but, with the examples of this and other ages before one, one thanks a monarch for not becoming either a beast or a butcher. otho was neither. but neither was he, on the other hand, a greek, nor a lover of greeks. nor could he and his queen present the people with a successor greek in birth, if not in parentage. this absence of offspring, which is said to have sorely galled the queen, was really a weak point in their case before the people. to be ruled by a greek is their natural and just desire. europe, which has so little charity for their divergence from her absolute standard, must remember that it is not at their request that this expensive and uncongenial condition of a foreign prince has been annexed to their system of government. the superstitions of the old world have here planted a seed of mischief in the gardens of the new. england finds it most convenient to be governed by a german; france, by an italian; russia, by a tartar line. what more natural than that they should muffle new-born greece in their own antiquated fashions? the greeks assassinated capo d'istrias for acts of tyranny from which they knew no other escape. for, indeed, the head of their state was very clumsily adjusted to its body by the same powers who left out of their construction several of its most important members. an arbitrary president was no head for a nation which had just conquered its own liberty. a foreign absolute prince was only the same thing, with another name and a larger salary. by their last resolution the greeks have attained a constitutional government. if their present king cannot administer such a one properly, he will make room for some one who can. to his political duties, meanwhile, military ones will be added. greece for the greeks,--candia, thessaly, and epirus delivered from the moslem yoke,--this will be the watchword, to which he must reply or vanish. it is in the face of america that the new nations, greece and italy, must look for encouragement and recognition. the old diplomacy has no solution for their difficulties, no cure for their distresses. the experience of the present century has developed new political methods, new social combinations. in the domestic economy of france and england these new features are felt and acknowledged. but in the foreign policy of those nations the element of progress scarcely appears. in this, force still takes the place of reason; the right of conquest depends upon the power of him who undertakes it; and in the farthest regions visited by their flags, organized barbarism gets the better of disorganized barbarism. the english in india, the french in algeria, were first brigands, then brokers. of these two, we need not tell the civilized world that the broker plunders best. greece is a poor democracy; america, a rich one. the second commands all the luxuries and commodities of life; the first, little more than its necessaries. yet we, coming from our own state of things, can understand how the greek values himself upon being a man, and upon having a part in the efficient action of the commonwealth. greece is reproached with giving too ambitious an education to her sons and daughters. her institutions form teachers, not maids and valets, mistresses and masters, not servants. but for this america will not reproach her--america, whose shop-girls take music lessons, whose poorest menials attend lectures, concerts, and balls. a democratic people does not acquiesce either in priestly or in diplomatic precedence. let people perform their uses, earn their bread, enjoy their own, and respect their neighbors; these are the maxims of good life in a democratic country. "love god, love thy neighbor," is better than "fear god, honor the king." as to the sycophancy of snobs, the corruption of office, the contingent insufficiency alike of electors and elected,--these are the accidents of all human governments, to be arrested only by the constant watchfulness of the wiser spirits, the true pilots of the state. by the time that i had excogitated all this, my feet had visited many square yards of palace, comprising bed-room, banqueting-room, chief lady's room, chapel, and so on. i had seen the queen's garden, and the _palmas qui meruit ferat_, and which she has left for her successor. i had seen, too, the fine view from the upper windows, sweeping from the acropolis to the sea. i had exchanged various remarks with my athenian companion. new furniture was expected with the russian princess, but scarcely new enthusiasm. the little king had stopped the movement in thessaly, which would have diverted the turkish force now concentrated upon crete, giving that laboring island a chance of rising above the bloody waters that drown her. little love did the little king earn by this course. one might say that he is on probation, and will, in the end, get his deserts, and no more. and here my friend has slipped some suitable coin into the hand of the smiling major-domo, who showed us over the royal house. farewell, palace: the day of kings is over. peoples have now their turn, and god wills it. the cathedral. in close juxtaposition with the state is the church. in america we have religious liberty. this does not mean that a man has morally the right to have no religion, but that the very nature of religion requires that he should hold his own convictions above the ordinances of others. the greeks have religious liberty, whose idea is rather this, that people may believe much as they please, provided they adhere outwardly to the national church. the reason assigned for this is, that any change in the form or discipline of this church would weaken the bond that unites the greeks out of greece proper with those within her limits. this outward compression and inward latitude is always a dangerous symptom. it points to practical irreligion, an ever widening distance between a man's inward convictions and his outward practice. passing this by, however, let us have a few words on the familiar aspect and practical working of the greek church as at present administered. like other bodies politic and individual already known to us, it consists of a reconciled opposition, which, held within bounds, secures its efficiency. the same, passing those bounds, would cause its annihilation. like other churches, it is at once aristocratic and democratic. it binds and looses. it is less intellectual than either catholicism or protestantism; perhaps less intolerant than either, so far as dogma goes. i still think it narrower than either in the scope of its sympathies, lower than either in its social and individual standard. taken with the others, it makes up the desired three of human conditions; but before it can meet them harmoniously, it has a long way to go. refusing images, but clinging to pictures; allowing the scriptures to the common people, but discouraging their use of the same; with an unmarried hierarchy of some education, and a married secular clergy of none,--the greek church seems to me to be too flatly in contradiction with itself and with the spirit of the age to maintain long a social supremacy, a moral efficiency. the department of the clergy last mentioned receive no other support than that of the contingent contributions of the people, paid in small sums, as the wages of services better withheld than rendered. exorcisms, benedictions, prayers recited over graves, or secured as a cure for sick cattle,--these are some of the sacerdotal acts by which the lesser clergy live. those who wish to keep these resources open must, of course, discourage the reading of the new testament, whose great aim and tendency are to substitute a religion of life and doctrine for a religion of observances. congregations reading this book for themselves, no matter how poor or ignorant in other matters, will ask something other of the priest than the exorcism of demons or the cure of cattle. of the higher clergy, some have studied in germany, and, reversing mr. emerson's sentence, must know, one thinks, better than they build. orthodox their will may be, firm their adherence to the establishment, strict their administration of it. but they must be aware of the limits that it sets to religious progress. and so long as they cannot preach to their congregations the full sincerity and power of their inward convictions, their ministration loses in moral power,--the house is divided against itself. i visited the cathedral of athens but once. it is a spacious and handsome church, in what i should call a modern eastern style. it was on sunday, and mass was going on. the middle and right aisles were filled with men, the left aisle with women. i do not know whether i have mentioned elsewhere that in the greek and russian, as in the quaker church, men and women stand separately--stand, for seats are neither provided nor allowed. i found a place among the women, commanding a view of the high altar. the archbishop, a venerable-looking man, in gold brocade and golden head-dress, went through various functions, which, though not identical with those of the romish mass, seemed to amount to about the same thing. there were bowings, appearings and retirings, the swinging of censers, and the presentation of tapers fixed in silver candelabras, and tied in the middle with black ribbon, so as to form a sheaf. these candelabras the archbishop from time to time took, one under each arm, and made a step or two towards the congregation. the dresses of the assistant priests were very rich, and their heads altogether oriental in aspect. one of them, with his gold-bronzed face and golden hair, looked like pictures of st. john. the vocal part of the performance consisted of a sort of chant, with responses intensely nasal and unmusical. this psalmody, which is little relished by greeks of culture, is yet maintained, like the discipline, intact, lest the most trifling amelioration should weaken the tie of christian brotherhood between the free greek church and the church that is in bondage with her children. to one familiar with the pretexts of conservatism, this plea of union before improvement is not new nor availing. one laughs, and remembers the respectabilities who tried to paralyze the american intellect and conscience in order to save the union, which, after all, was saved only by the measures they abhorred and denounced. i had soon enough of what i was able to hear and see of the greek mass. as i stole softly away, i passed a sort of lesser altar, before which was burning a circular row of tapers. an old woman had similar tapers on a small table, for sale, i suppose. i was invited, by gesture, to consummate a pious act by the purchase of some of these, but declined, not without remembering that i was some time since elected a lay delegate from a certain unitarian church to a certain unitarian conference. this fact, if communicated, would not have heightened my standing in the approbation of the sisters who then surrounded me. "what, no candle?" said their indignant glances. i was silent, and fled. the missionaries. in the presence of the contradictions alluded to above, the position of the greek church and of american protestant missionaries becomes one of mutual delicacy and difficulty. the church allows religious liberty, and assumes religious tolerance. yet it naturally holds fast its own children within its own borders. the protestants are pledged to labor for the world's christianization. when they see its progress opposed by antiquated usage and insufficient method, they cannot acquiesce in these obstacles, nor teach others to revere them. here we must say at once that no act is so irreligious as the resistance of progress. thought and conscience are progressive. christ's progressive labor carried further the jewish faith and tenets which were religious before he came, but which became irreligious in resisting the further and finer conclusions to which he led. "i come not to destroy, but to fulfil." progress does fulfil in the spirit, even though it destroy in the letter. protestantism acknowledges this, and this acknowledgment constitutes its superiority over the greek and catholic churches. the sincere reader of the new testament will be ever more and more disposed to make his religion a matter lying directly between himself and the divine being. his outward conformity to all just laws and good institutions will be, not the less, but the more, perfect because his scale of obligation is an individual one, the spring and motive of his actions a deeply inward one. church and state gain in soundness and efficiency by every individual conscience that functions within their bounds. religion of this sort leads away from human mediations, from confessions, benedictions, injunctions, and permissions of merely human authority. it confesses first to god, afterwards, if at all, to those whom its confessions can benefit. it brings its own thought to aid and illustrate the general thought. it cannot abdicate its own conclusions before any magnitude either of intellect or of age. the protestant, therefore, would be much straitened within the greek limits. he is forced to teach those who will listen to him that god is much nearer than the priest, and that their own simple and sincere understanding of christian doctrine is at once more just and more precious than the fallacies and sophisms of an absolute theology. such teaching will scarcely be more relished by the greek than by the romish clergy; yet the protestant must teach this, or be silent. and this, after their fashion, the american missionaries do set forth and illustrate. their merits and demerits i am not here to discuss. how much of polite culture, of sufficient philosophy, goes with their honest purpose, it is not at this time my business to know or to say. neither is their special theology mine. they believe in a literal atonement, while i believe in the symbolism which makes a pure and blameless sufferer a victim offered in behalf of his enemies. they look for a miraculous, i for a moral regeneration. they make christ divine of birth, i make him simply divine of life. their dogmas would reconcile god to man, mine would only reconcile man to god. finally, they revere as absolute and divine a book which i hold to be a human record of surpassing thoughts and actions, but with the short-comings, omissions, and errors of the human historiographer stamped upon them. with all this diversity of opinion between the church of their communion and that of mine, i still honor, beyond all difference, the protestant cause for which they stand in greece, and consider their representation a just and genuine one. in writing this i have had in mind the three dissenting missionaries, messrs. kalopothaki, constantine, and zacularius. the older mission of dr. and mrs. hill is an educational one. i believe it to have borne the happiest fruits for greece. whenever i have met a scholar of mrs. hill, i have seen the traces of a firm, pure, and gentle hand--one to which the wisest and tenderest of us would willingly confide our daughters. in raising the whole scale of feminine education in greece, she has applied the most potent and subtle agent for the elevation of its whole society. she herself is childless; but she need scarcely regret it, since whole generations are sure to rise up and call her blessed. dr. hill is at present chaplain to the english embassy, at whose chapel he preaches weekly. mrs. hill and himself seem to stand in very harmonious relations with athenian society, as well as with the travelling and visiting world. the missionaries preach and practise with unremitting zeal. they also publish a weekly religious paper. their wives labor faithfully in the aid and employment of the cretan women and children, and, i doubt not, in other good works. but of these things i have now told the little that i know. the piazza. venice has a piazza, gorgeous with shops, lights, music, and, above all, the joyous life of the people. athens also has a piazza, bordered with hotels and cafés, with a square of trees and flowering shrubs in the middle. it lies broadly open to the sun all day long, and gives back his rays with a torrid refraction. when day declines, the evening breezes sweep it refreshingly. accordingly, as soon as the shadows permit, the spaces in front of the cafés--or, in greek, _cafféneions_--are crowded with chairs and tables, the chairs being filled by human beings, many of whom have ripened, so far as the head goes, into a fez--have unfolded, so far as the costume goes, into pali-kari petticoats and leggings. between the two hotels is mortal antipathy. ours--"des etrangers"--has taken the lead, and manages to keep it. the prices of the other are lower, the _cuisine_ much the same, the upper windows set to command a view of the acropolis, which is in itself an unsurpassable picture. where the magic resides which keeps our hotel full and the other empty, i know not, unless it be in the slippery eastern smile of the landlord--an expression of countenance so singular that it inevitably leads you, from curiosity, to follow it further. in our case it led to no profound of wickedness. we were not cheated, nor plundered, nor got the better of in any way that i remember. our food was good, our rooms proper, our charges just. yet i felt, whenever i encountered the smile, that it angled for me, and caught me on a hook cunningly baited. i must say that our landlord was even generous. besides our three meals _per diem_,--which grew to be very slender affairs, so far as we were concerned,--we often required lemonades and lokumia, besides sending of errands innumerable. for these indulgences no extra charge was made. in an italian, french, or english hotel, each one of them would have had its penitentiary record. so the mystery of the smile must have had reference to matters deeply personal to its wearer, and never made known to me. the cafés seemed to maintain a thrifty existence. but one of them took especial pains to secure the services of a band of music. hence, on the evenings when the public band did not play, emanated the usual capriccios from norma, trovatore, and the agonies of traviata. something better and worse than all this was given to us in the shape of certain ancient greek or turkish melodies, obviously composed in ignorance of all rules of thorough-bass, with a confusion of majors and minors most perplexing to the classic, but interesting to the historic sense. i rejoiced especially in one of these, which bore the same relation to good harmony that eastern dress bears to good composition of color. it was obviously well liked by the public, as it was usually played more than once during the same evening. before the shadows grew quite dark, a barouche or two, with ladies and livery, would drive across the piazza, giving a whiff of fashion like the gleam of red costume that heightens a landscape. and the people sat, ate and drank, came and went, in sober gladness, not laughing open-mouthed--rather smiling with their eyes. from our narrow hotel balcony we used to look down and wonder whether we should ever be cool again. for though the evenings were not sultry, their length did not suffice to reduce the fever of the day. and the night within the mosquito-nettings was an agony of perspiration. i now sit in venice, and am cool; but i would gladly suffer something to hear the weird music, and to see the cheerful piazza again. yet when i was there, for ten minutes of this sea-breeze over the lagoons i would have given--heaven knows what. o esau! departure. too soon, too soon for all of us, these rare and costly delights were ended. we had indeed suffered days of fahrenheit at ° in the shade. we had made experience of states of body which are termed bilious, of states of mind more or less splenetic, lethargic, and irritable. we dreamed always of islands we were never to visit, of ruins which we shall know, according to the flesh, never. we pored over muir and miss bremer, and feebly devised outbreaks towards the islands, towards the cyclades, santorini, but especially towards corinth, whose acropolis rested steadily in our wishes, resting in our memory only as a wish. towards constantinople, too, our uncertain destinies had one moment pointed. but when the word of command came, it despatched us westward, and not eastward. by this time our life had become somewhat too literally a vapor, and our sublimated brains were with difficulty condensed to the act of packing. perpetual thirst tormented us. and of this as of other eastern temptations, i must say, "resist it." drinking does not relieve this symptom of hot climates. it, moreover, utterly destroys the tone of the stomach. a little tea is the safest refreshment; and even this should not be taken in copious draughts. patience and self-control are essential to bodily health and comfort under these torrid skies. the little food one can take should be of the order usually characterized as "nutritious and easy of digestion." but so far as health goes, "avoid athens in midsummer" will be the safest direction, and will obviate the necessity of all others. in spite, however, of all symptoms and inconveniences, the mandate that said, "pack and go," struck a chill to our collective heart. we visited all the dear spots, gave pledges of constancy to all the kind friends, tried with our weak sight to photograph the precious views upon our memory. then, with a sort of agony, we hurried our possessions, new and old, into the usual narrow receptacles, saw all accounts discharged, feed the hotel servants, took the smile for the last time, and found ourselves dashing along the road to the piræus with feelings very unlike the jubilation in which we first passed that classic transit. it was all over now, like a first love, like a first authorship, like a honey-moon. it was over. we could not say that we had not had it. but o, the void of not having it now, of never expecting to have it again! kind friends went with us to soften the journey. at the boat, dr. and mrs. hill met and waited with us. i parted from the apostolic woman with sincere good-will and regret. warned to be on board by six p. m., the boat did not start till half-past seven. we waved last adieus. we clung to the last glimpses of the acropolis, of the mountains; but they soon passed out of sight. we savagely went below and to bed. the diary bears this little extract: "the Ægean was calm and blue. thus, with great pleasure and interest, and with some drawbacks, ends my visit to athens. a dream--a dream!" return voyage. to narrate the circumstances of our return voyage would seem much like descending from the poetic _dénouement_ of a novel to all the prosaic steps by which the commonplace regains its inevitable ascendency after no matter what abdication in favor of the heroic. yet, as travel is travel, whether outward or inward bound, and as our homeward cruise had features, i will try, with the help of the diary, to pick them out of the vanishing chaos of memory, premising only that i have no further _dénouement_ to give. "story? lord bless you, i have none to tell, sir." on referring, therefore, to clayton's quarto, of the date of july , , i find the day to have been passed by us all in the hot harbor of syra, on board the boat that brought us there. at seven a. m. we did indeed land in a small boat with vice-consul saponsaki, and betake ourselves through several of the steep and sunny streets of the town. at one of the two hotels we staid long enough to order lemonades and drink them. the said hotel appeared, on a cursory survey, to be as dirty and disorderly as need be; but we soon escaped therefrom, and visited the theatre, the casino, and the austrian consul. the casino is spacious and handsome, giving evidence at once of wealth and of taste in those who caused it to be built. such an establishment would be a boon in athens, where there is no good public reading-room of any kind. the theatre is reasonable. here, in winter, a short opera season is enjoyed, and, in consequence, the music books of the young ladies teem with arrangements of verdi and of donizetti. we found the square near the quay lively with the early enjoyers of coffee and the narghilé. every precious inch of shade was, as usual, carefully appropriated; but the sun was rapidly narrowing the boundaries of the shadow district. our chief errand resulted in the purchase of an ok of _lokumias_, which we virtuously resolved to carry to america, if possible. the little boat now returned us to the steamer, where breakfast and dinner quietly succeeded each other, little worthy of record occurring between. one interesting half hour reached us in the shape of a visit from papa parthenius, a young and active member of the cretan syn-eleusis. he came with tidings for our chief veteran,--tales of the turks, and how they could get no water at svakia; tidings also of brave young dekay, and of his good service in behalf of the island. while these, in the dreadful secrecy of an unknown tongue, impart he did, i seized pen and ink, and ennobled my unworthy sketch-book with a _croquis_ of his finely-bronzed visage. his countenance was such as miss bremer would have called dark and energetic. he wore the dress of his calling, which was that of the secular priesthood. he soon detected my occupation, and said, in greek, "i regret that the kyrie should make my portrait without my arms." we parted from him very cordially. consul campfield afterwards gave us a refreshing row about the harbor, bringing us within view of the two iron-clads newly purchased and brought out to run the turkish blockade. one of these was famous in the annals of secessia. both served that more than doubtful cause. then we went back to the vessel, and the rest of the day did not get beyond perspiration and patience. towards evening a spirited breeze began to lash the waters of the harbor into hilly madness. white caps showed themselves, and we, who were to embark on board another vessel, for another voyage, took note of the same. the friendly evangelides now came on board, and scolded us for not having sent him word of our arrival. we pleaded the extreme heat of the day, which had made dreadful the idea of visiting and of locomotion of any sort. he was clad from head to foot in white linen, and looked most comfortable. while he was yet with us, the summons of departure came. in our chief's plans, meanwhile, a change had taken place. determining causes induced him to return to athens, minus his female _impedimenta_: so the little boat that danced with us from the lloyd's syra to the lloyd's trieste steamer danced back with him, leaving three disconsolate ones, bereft of greece, and unprotected of all and any. nor did we make this second start without a _contretemps_. having bidden the chief farewell, we proceeded at once to take account of our luggage; and lo! the shawl bundle was not. now, every knowing traveller is aware that this article of travelling furniture contains much besides the shawl, which is but the envelope of all the odds and ends usually most essential to comfort. for the second in command, therefore, previously designated as _a megale_, there was but one course to pursue. to hire a boat, refuse to be cheated in its price, tumble down the ship's side, row to the syra steamer, pick up the missing bundle, astonish the chief in a pensive reverie, "_sibi et suis_," on the cabin sofa, and return triumphant, was the work of ten minutes. but the sea ran high, the little boat danced like a cockle-shell, and the neophytes were afraid, and much relieved in mind when the ancient reappeared. the america (the trieste steamer) did not weigh anchor before midnight. soon after the adventure of the shawl bundle, the syra steamer fired a gun, and slipped out to sea. we had seen the last of the chief for a fortnight at least, and our attention was now turned to the quarters we were to occupy for four days to come. these did not at first sight seem very promising. our state-rooms were small, and bare of all furniture, except the bed and washing fixtures. just outside of them, on the deck, was the tent under which the turkish women horded. for we found, on coming on board, a turkish pacha and suite, bound from constantinople to janina, to take the place of him whom we had, a month before, accompanied on his way from janina to constantinople, via corfu, where we were to be quit of the present dignitary. but before i get to the turks, i must mention that good christian, the austrian consul at syra, who came on board before we left, and introduced to me a young man in an alarming condition of health, a venetian by birth, and an officer in the austrian navy. his illness had been induced by exposure incident to his profession in the hot harbor of kanea. the first night we made acquaintance only with various screaming babies, the torment of young mothers who did not know how to take care of them, their nurses having been left at home. the night was sufficiently disturbed up to the period of departure, and these little ones vented their displeasure in tones which argued well for their lungs. the next morning showed us a rough sea, the vessel pitching and tossing, the ladies mostly sea sick--we ourselves well and about, but much incommoded by heat and want of room. a tall member of the pacha's suite came into our little round house, dressed principally in a short, quilted sack of bright red calico. he carried in his arms a teething baby, very dirty and ill-dressed, and tried to nurse and soothe it on his knee, the mother being totally incapacitated by seasickness. this man was tall and fair. i thought he might be an albanian. i made some incautious remarks in french concerning his dress, which he obviously understood, for he disappeared, and then reappeared dressed in a handsome european suit, with a bran-new fez on his head, but carrying no baby. another of the suite, unmistakably a turk, pestered the round-house. this individual wore white cotton drawers under a long calico night shirt of a faded lilac pattern, which was bound about his waist with a strip of yellow calico. the articles of this toilet were far from clean. glasses and a fez completed it. the wearer we learned to be a fanatical turk, who came among us in this disorderly dress to show his contempt for christians in general. his motive was held to be, in his creed, a religious one. it further caused him to take his meals separately from us--a circumstance which we scarcely regretted. he was much amazed at the worsted work in the hands of one of the neophytes, and went so far as to take it up, and to ask a bystander who spoke his language whether the young girl spun the wools herself before she began her tapestry. he then asked the price of the wools, and on hearing the reply exclaimed, "what land on earth equals turkey, where you can buy the finest wool for twelve píastres an ok!" besides these not very appetizing figures, we had on board some fanariote greeks, of aristocratic pretensions and turkish principles; some hellenes of the true greek stamp; a dalmatian sea captain, his wife and daughters, who spoke italian and looked german; an armenian lady and young daughter from constantinople, bound to paris; several greeks resident in transylvania, speaking greek and german with equal facility; two armenian priests returning from an eastern mission, and _en route_ for vienna; the austro-italian before spoken of; a bohemian glass merchant; and an array of deck passengers as varied and motley as those already enumerated as belonging to the first cabin. with all of the latter we made acquaintance; but although we moved among them with cordiality and good-will, the equilibrium of sympathy was difficult to find. the fanariotes were no philhellenes, the armenian ladies were frequenters of the sultan's palace; the italian was thoroughly german in his inclinations, and spoke in utter dispraise of his own country when his feeble condition allowed him to speak. of the armenian priests, one was quite a man of the world, and somewhat reserved and suspicious. the other showed something of the infirmity of advanced age in the prolixity of his speech, as well as in its matter. in this noah's ark _e megale_ moved about, mindful of the bull in the china shop, and tried not to upset this one's mustard-pot and that one's vase of perfume. and as all were whole when she parted from them, she has reason to hope that her efforts were tolerably successful. in the human variety shop just described, i must not forget to speak of my sisters, the turkish women, imprisoned in a small portion of the deck, protected by a curtain from all intrusion or inspection. as this sacred precinct lay along the outside partition of the ladies' cabin, i became aware of a remote window, through which a practicable breach might be made in their fortress. thither, on the first day, i repaired, and paid my compliments. they were, i think, five in number, and lay along on mattresses, disconsolately enough. with the help of the stewardess, i inquired after their health, and learned that seasickness held them prostrate and helpless. nothing ate they, nothing drank they. two of them were young and pretty. of these, one was the wife of the bey who accompanied the pacha. she had a delicate cast of features, melancholy dark eyes, and dark hair bound up with a lilac crape handkerchief. the other was the mother of the teething child spoken of above, and the wife of the tall parent who nursed it. by noon on the second day the sea had sunk to almost glassy smoothness. all of the patients were up and about; the children were freshly washed and dressed, and became coaxable. one of the armenian ladies now volunteered to go with me to look in upon our turkish friends. we found them up and stirring, making themselves ready to land at corfu. and to my companion they told what good messes they had brought from constantinople, and thrown into the blue Ægean; for the heat of the vessel spoiled their victuals much faster than they, being seasick, could keep them from spoiling. and they laughed over their past sufferings much after the fashion of other women. the pretty mother now appeared in a loose gown of yellow calico, holding up her baby. i made a hasty sketch of the pair as they showed themselves at the cabin window; but the flat, glaring light did not allow me to do even as well as usual, which is saying little. the oval face, smooth, black brows, and long, liquid eyes, were beautiful, and her smile was touchingly child-like and innocent. the bey's wife wore a lilac calico; another wore pale green. these dresses consisted of loose gowns, with under-trousers of the same material; they were utterly unneat and tasteless. i presently saw them put on their yashmacs, and draw over their calicoes a sort of cloak of black stuff, not unlike alpaca. they now looked very decently, and, being covered, were allowed to sit on deck until the time of the arrival in corfu. the pretty one whom i sketched begged to look at my work. on seeing it she exclaimed, "let no man ever behold this!" nor could i blame her, for it maligned her sadly. concerning the landing in corfu, the meagre diary shows this passage:-- "went on shore at corfu at . p. m., returning at . . expenses in all, ten francs, including boat, ices, and _valet de place_. the steamer was so hot that this short visit on shore was a great relief, corfu being at this hour very breezy and shady. every one says that the ionian islands are going to ruin since the departure of the english. this is from the want of capital and of enterprise. so it would seem as if people who have no enterprise of their own must be content to thrive secondarily upon that of other people. the whole type of greek life, however, is opposed to the occidental type. its luxury is to be in health, and to be satisfied with little. we westerns illustrate the multiplication of wants with that of resources, or _vice versa_. [the diary, prudently, does not attempt to decide the question of antecedence and consequence between these two.] the greeks seem, so far, to illustrate the converse. whether this opposition can endure in the present day, i cannot foresee. but this i can see--that greece will not have more luxury without more poverty. the circle of wealth, enlarging, will more and more crowd those who are unfitted to attain it, and who must be content with the minimum even of food and raiment." so far the pitiful, sea-addled diary. it does not recount how mercifully the captain of our steamer found a _valet de place_ for us, and told him to take care of us, and bring us back at a given moment. nor how our payment of ten francs for three persons, instead of heaven knows what exorbitation, was owing to this circumstance. for it may not be known to the inexperienced that the boatmen of corfu are wont to make a very moderate charge for setting people ashore on the island. this is done in order to disarm suspicion: _facile descensus averni--sed revocare gradum_! but when you wish to return to your vessel, the need being pressing, and the time admitting of no delay, the same boatmen are wont to demand fifteen or twenty francs _per capita_, and the more you swear the more they laugh. among the arrearages of justice adjourned to that supreme chancery term, the day of judgment, i fear there must be many of english et al. _vs._ boatmen. but under the captain's happy administration, i made bold, when the boatman insisted on being paid for the return trip in mid-sea, to refuse a single copper. now, the gift of unknown tongues sometimes resides in the person who hears them. and i received it as a decided advantage that i understood no phrase of the boatmen's low muttering and grumbling. so they were forced to carry us to the gangway of the steamer, where the captain stood to receive us. and i paid the men and the valet under the captain's supervision, and when the former demanded a _bottiglia_, the captain cried out, in energetic tones, "get off of my ship at once, you scoundrels; you have been well paid already;" the which indeed befell. neither does the diary recount how the drivers of public carriages followed us up and down the streets, insisting upon our engaging them, first at their price, and then at ours, for a trip which we had neither time nor mind to make, desisting after half an hour's annoyance; nor how a money changer, given a napoleon, contrived to make up one of its francs by slipping in two miserable turkish _paras_, not worth half a franc; nor how the whistle of the steamer made our return very anxious and hurried, the passengers accusing us of having delayed the departure, while the captain confided to us that he had assumed this air of extreme hurry, in order to stimulate the disembarkation of the turks, whose theory of taking one's own time was somewhat loosely applied in the present instance. well, this is all i know of corfu. it is little enough, and yet, perhaps, too much. farther. corfu was the last of greece to us. a tightening at our heartstrings told us so. we consented to depart, but conquered the agony of making farewell verses, dear at any price, in the then state of the thermometer. our feelings, such as they were, were mutely exchanged with the bronze statue of that late governor, who brought the water into the town. unless he should prove as frisky as the commendatore in don giovanni, they will never be divulged. we now set our faces, in conjunction with the tide of conquest, westward. we all suffered heat, ennui, and baby-yell. the italian invalid languished in his hot state-room, or in our cabin, his weak condition increasing the dangerous discomfort of perspiration--a grave matter when a chill would be death. worsted work progressed, the hungry sketch-book got a nibble or two, and the mild good-wills of the voyage ripened, never, we fear, to bear future harvests of profit and intercourse. not the less were we beholden to them for the time. and we will even praise thee here, armenian anna, with thy young graces, thy eastern beauty, thy charming english, and thoroughly genial behavior. mother and daughter had _distinction_, in the french sense of the word. from the former i had many _aperçus_ of eastern life. she was married at the early age of fourteen, and wore on that occasion the traditional veiling of threads of gold, bound on her brow and falling to her feet. "how glad i was to remove it," she said, "it was so heavy!" "what did you do with it?" i asked. "i divided it into several portions, and endowed with them the marriage of poorer girls, who could not afford it for themselves." but madame informed me that this cumbrous ornament has now passed out of fashion, the tulle veil and orange flowers of french usage having generally taken its place. this lady was supposed by most people to be the elder sister of her pretty daughter. in her soberer beauty one seemed to see the dancing eyes and pouting cheeks of the other carried only a little farther on. and both were among the chief comforts of the voyage. of the two armenian priests, the younger held himself aloof, as if he understood full well the inconveniences of sympathy--a dry, steely, well-balanced man, without enthusiasm, but fine in temperament, well bred, and with at least the culture of a man of the present world. but père michel, the elder, was more willing to impart his mental gifts and experiences to such as would hear them. and he was a man of another age, with obsolete opinions, which he produced like the unconscious bearer of uncurrent coin. here is a little specimen of his talk, the subject being that of dreams and revelations: "what is to happen, that god alone can know. but that which is already happening, or which has happened at a distance, this the _demonio_ may know and reveal. and he will reveal it to you in a dream, or in a vision, or by a presentiment." "but what does the _demonio_ get, père michel, for the trouble of revealing it to us?" "the satisfaction of making men superstitious?" _non c'e male, père michel._ and what, thought i, is the chief advantage of being pope, cardinal, arch-priest, confessor? the satisfaction of making men superstitious. at another time i remarked upon the fact that the monasteries in greece are usually situated at some height on a mountain side. "they are of the order of st. basil," said the old man; "he always loved the retirement of the mountains, and his followers imitate him in this." père michel had a pleasant smile, with just enough of second childhood to be guileless, not foolish. and i may here say that the armenian priesthood appear to me to have quite an individuality of their own, corresponding to no order of the romish priesthood with which i am acquainted. the excessive heat of the cabins and after deck one day induced me to head a valorous invasion of the forward deck, followed by as many of the sisterhood as i was able to recruit. the steamer being a very long one, we had to make quite a journey before we entered that almost interdicted region, crossing a long bridge, and passing the captain's sacred office. we carried books and work; our _fauteuils_ followed us. and here we found cool breezes and delicious shade. the sailors and deck passengers lay in heaps about the boards, taking their noonday nap in a very primitive manner. we profited by this discovery so far as to repeat the invasion daily while the voyage lasted. but it came to end sooner than one might suppose from this long description. we had left syra on sunday night; on thursday afternoon we landed in trieste. farewell, turco-italians, austro-italians, sieben gebirgers, transylvanians, dalmatians, ladies, babies, priests, and all. when shall we meet again? scarcely before that great and final analysis which promises to distinguish, once for all, the sheep from the goats. and even for that supreme consummation and its results, all of you may command my best wishes. fragments. up to the point last reached, my jottings down had been made with tolerable regularity. living is so much more rapid than writing, that an impossible babe, who should begin his diary at his birth, would be sure to have large arrears between that period and the day of his death, however indefatigable he might be in his recording. a man cannot live his life and write it too; hence the work that men who live much leave to their biographers. so, of the space that here intervened between trieste and paris, i lived the maximum and wrote the minimum; that is, the little death's-head and cross-bone mementos with which the diary is forced to record the spot at which each day fell and lay, together with the current expenses of its interment. in some places even these are wanting, and the stricken soul, looking over the diary, cries out, "o, my leanness!" or words to that effect. yet the poor document referred to shall help us what it can, beginning with the return from cheap, cosy trieste to that polished jewel of the adriatic, which now shines doubly in its new setting of liberty. we went, as we came, in the lloyd steamer, declining, however, to engage a state-room, mindful of the exceeding closeness of that in which we suffered on our outward voyage. the embarkation was made, like that from venice, at the mysterious hour of midnight; and we, coming on board at half past ten, secured such sofa and easy-chair privileges as moved the wrath of a high-talking german party who came at the last moment, and shouted for a quarter of an hour the assertion that his damen were fully equal, if not superior, to any other damen on board the steamer, and that if the other damen had places, his surely ought much more to have them. the cameriere merely shrugged his shoulders, and we failed to be convinced that our first duty would be to vacate our limited accommodations, and stand at large for the benefit of these or any other virgins of the tardy and oily description. the blatant champion thereon took himself and his damen up stairs. we reserved to ourselves the good intention of sharing our advantages with them at a later period, when the passage of the present acerbity should make intercourse possible. the cabin soon became insufferably hot and close. after various ineffectual attempts at repose, in a cramped position on the sofa, with a shawl bundle for a pillow, i went on deck, where i at least found fresh air and darkness, the blazing lamp in the cabin being enough, of itself, to banish sleep. every available spot here was occupied by groups or single figures, whose _tout ensemble_, what with the darkness and their draping, constituted a very respectable gallery of figures, much resembling the conspirators in ernani, or mme. tussaud's chamber of horrors, in the absence of the illuminating medium. i unconsciously seated myself on one sleeping figure, which kicked and cried, o! with difficulty i found a narrow vacancy on one of the side benches, after occupation of which i wrapped my shawl about me, and gave up to the situation. "for we were tired, my back and i." seasick women sobbed and gasped around me, not having, as we, graduated in the great college of ocean passage. the night was very black. presently a form nestled at my right. it was the elder neophyte, disgusted with the cabin, and willing to be anywhere else. the moon rose late, a de-crescent. the whole time was amphibious, neither sleeping nor waking, neither day nor night. suddenly, a perceptible chill seized upon us; a little later the black sky grew gray, and the series of groups that filled the deck were all revealed, like hidden motives in the light of some new doctrine. the sunrise was showery, and attended by a rainbow. the people bestirred themselves, stretched their benumbed limbs, and shook their tumbled garments into shape. black coffee could now be had for ten sous a cup, and _café au lait_ for twenty, with a crust of bread which defied gnawing. the diary says, "l. and i grew quite tearful as we saw beautiful venice come out of the water, just as we had seen her disappear. at the health station we were fumigated with chloride of lime--an unpleasant and useless process. we arrived opposite the piazzetta at half past seven a. m. the captain was kind in helping us to find our effects and to get off. the gondoliers asked five francs for bringing us to our lodgings, and got them. the barbiers could not receive us at our former snug abode, but monsieur went round to show us some rooms in palazzo gambaro, which he offered for seven francs _per diem_. we were glad to take them. went to florian's café for breakfast, visited san marco, and then proceeded to install ourselves in our new lodging. ordered a dinner for six francs, which proved abundant. took a long sleep,--from one to four p. m.,--having only dozed a little during the night. our lodgings are very roomy and pleasant--two large rooms well furnished, and two smaller ones. we expect to enjoy many things here, and all the more because we now know something of what is to be seen." this expectation was fully realized during the week that followed, although the meagre entries of the diary give little assistance in recalling the strict outlines of the brilliant picture. it was now height of season in venice. the grand canal was brilliant, every evening, with gondolas, and gondoliers in costumes. now we admired full suits of white, with scarlet sashes, trimmed with gold fringe, now gray and blue, edged with silver. now an ugly jockey costume, got up by some anglo-maniac, insulted the italian _beau-idéal_, and, indeed, every other. for the short coat and heavy clothes, suited at once to the saddle and the english climate, were utterly unsuited to the action of rowing, as well as to the full bloom of an italian summer. i cannot help remarking upon this unsightly livery, because it was an eyesore, and because it was obviously considered by its proprietor as a brilliant success. in stylish gondolas, the rowers are two in number, and always dressed in livery. the fashionables, in height of millinery bliss, float up and down the grand canal, until it is time for the rendezvous on the piazza. as you pass the palaces, you often see the gondola in waiting below, while in a balcony or arched window above, the fresh, smiling faces make their bright picture; and the domestic stands draped in the white opera-cloaks or bournooses. and i remember a hundred little nonsensical songs about this very passage in venetian life. "prent'e la gondoletta, tutt'e serena il mar, ninetta, mia diletta, vieni solcar il mar il marinar, che gioja--che gioja il marinar!" which i translate into english equivalency as follows:-- the two-in-hand is waiting, the groom is in his boots; the lover's fondly prating, the lady's humor suits: susanna! susanna! what joy to flog the brutes! what joy, what joy in driving! what joy, what joy to drive! like all other poetical visions, these, once seen, speedily become matters of course. still, we found always a fairy element in the "_gita in gondoletta_." our gondolier had always a weird charm in our eyes. he seemed almost a feudal retainer, a servant for life or death. his shrewd glance showed that he was not easily to be astonished. he could tip over an obnoxious person in the dark, stab at a street corner, carry the most audacious of letters, and deliver the contraband answer under the very nose of high-snuffing authority. nought of all this did we desire of him: in fact, nothing but safe conduct and moderate charges. yet we admired his mysterious talents, and wondered in what unwritten novels he might have figured. for, indeed, the watery streets of venice, no less than her gondoliers, suggest the idea of romantic and desperate adventure. what balconies from which to throw a rival, dead or alive! what silent, know-nothing waters to receive him! what clever assistants to aid and abet! but enough of the evening row, which ends at the piazzetta. here you dismiss your man-at-oars, naming the hour at which you shall require his presence, he being meanwhile at liberty to sleep in his gondola, or lo leave it in charge with a friend, and to follow you to the piazza, where you will amuse yourself after your fashion, he after his. here the banners are floating, the lights glancing, the band stormily performing. florian's café is represented by a crowd of well-dressed people sitting in the open air, with the appliances of chair and table covered by their voluminous draperies. if you arrive late, you may wait some time before a table, fourteen inches by ten, is vouchsafed to you. ices are very good, very cheap, and very small. tea and bread and butter are excellent. while you wait and while you feast, a succession of venders endeavor to impose upon you every small article which the streets of venice show for sale. shoes, slippers, alabaster work, shell work, tin gondolas concealing inkstands, nets, bracelets, necklaces,--all these things are offered to you in succession, together with allumettes, cigars, journals, and caramels, or candied fruits strung upon straws. if you are mild in your discouragement of these venders, they will fasten upon you like other vermin, and refuse to depart until they shall have drawn the last drop of your change. i found a brisk charge necessary, with appeals to florian's _garçon_, after whose interference, life on the piazza became practicable. to the mere enjoyment of good victuals, with squabbles intervening, may be superadded the perception of fashionable life, as it goes on in these regions. when your eyes have taken the standard of light of the piazza, you recognize in some of the groups about you persons whom you have seen, either in the balcony or in the gondola. here are two young women whom i saw emerge from a narrow passage, this evening, rowed by a fine-looking servant, who stood bareheaded, and one other. they have diamond earrings, fashionable bonnets, and dresses dripping from a baptism of beads. one by one a group of young men, probably of the first water, forms about them. one of the ladies is handsome and quiet, the other plain and voluble. the latter becomes perforce the prominent figure in what goes on, which indeed amounts to nothing worth repeating. these were on my right. on my left soon appeared a lady of a certain age, with "world" written in large letters all over her countenance. she chaperons a daughter, got up with hair _à l'anglaise_, whose pantomimic countenance suggests that she has been drilled by an english governess with _papa_, _prunes_, _prism_, or some equivalent gymnastic. when addressed, she looks down into her fan, and rolls her eyes as if she saw her face in it. and lady friends come up: "ah, marchesa! ah, signora contessa!" and the young bloods, hat in hand. so here we are, really, on the borders of high life, without intending it. and the baroness introduces a female relative--_una sorella maritata_--who has been handsome, and whose smile seems accustomed to fold the cloak of her beauty around the poverty of her character. and there is coffee, and there come ices. the ladies sip and gossip, the beaux come and go, talking of intended _villeggiaturas_; for the greatest social illustration for an italian is that of travel. a third group immediately in front of us shows a young lady in an advanced stage of ambition, attired in a conspicuous tone, accompanied by quieter female relatives and a young boy. she regards with envious eyes the two popular associations on my right and left. she is dying to be noticed, and does not know how to manage it. and while i take note of these and other vanities, beggars whine for pence, or insist upon carrying off our superfluous bread or cake, for which, indeed, we must pay; but they eat the bread before your eyes with such evident relish that you are satisfied. by and by this palls upon you. you have seen and heard enough. the society to which you belong is over the water. here your heart finds no place; and from the crowd of strangers even your lodging and quiet bed seem a refuge. so you settle with florian's _garçon_, close your account with all beggars for the night, wander to the piazzetta, and cry, "bastiano!" and he of the mysterious intelligence sooner or later responds. you give a penny to the crab,--the man who superfluously holds the boat while you get in,--and are at home after a brief dream of smooth motion under a starry sky. and in this way end all midsummer days in venice. not so smooth, however, is your climbing of three flights of stone stairs in the dark, with thumping and bumping. but you are up at last, and gianetta--the shrewd maid--receives you with a candle-end. frugal orders for breakfast, and to rest, with the cherubs of the mantel-piece watching over you. for over the said mantel-piece, two fair, fat babes, modelled in flat-relief, playfully contended for the mastery, their laughing faces near together, their swinging heels wide apart, as the festoon required. elsewhere in the same relief were arabesques with birds and flowers. this bedroom of ours has been a room of state in its day. a passage-way and dressing-room have been taken from its stately proportions, and still it remains very spacious for our pretensions. our _salon_ is larger still, and largely mirrored. two of its windows give upon a leafy garden, whose tree-tops lie nearer to us than to their owners. its furniture has been hastily thrown together, and is mostly composed of odds and ends. but one of its pieces moves our admiration. it is a toilet table, enclosing a complete set of utensils in the finest venetian glass--basins, ewers, toilet bottles and glasses, and the little boxes for soap and powder, all cut after the finest pattern. this toilet was made for a royal personage, a queen of something, whose effects somehow seem to have been sold at auction in these parts. another relic of her we discover in a bureau entirely incrusted with mother-of-pearl, an article that makes one's mouth water, if one has any mouth, which all men, like all horses, have not. the doors which divide our sitting from our sleeping room are at once objects of wonder and of fear to us. their size is monstrous, and each of them hangs, or rather clings, by the upper hinge, the lower being dismounted. these doors are left all day at a conciliatory angle between closing and opening. we fear their falling on our heads whenever we approach them. we hear vaguely of some one who shall come to put them in order; but he never appears. our own veteran, arriving at last, sets this right in as summary a manner as he has dealt with other nuisances. for the veteran, worn with travel, does arrive from greece one morning, rowing up to our palace just as we have stepped from it to meet our gondola. he has a tale to tell like the wanderings of ulysses. but between this event and those that precede it, the diary shows the following important entry:-- thursday, aug. .--to malamocco this a. m., with three rowers--our own, and two others, who received one florin between them. the row, both in going and returning, was delightful. arrived at malamocco, the men demanded one franc for breakfast, and disappeared within the shades of the osteria. this is a small settlement at the very entrance of the lagoons. it was strongly fortified by the austrians. the heat, however, did not permit us to inspect the fortifications. we saw little of interest, but visited the church and a peasant's house. one of the daughters was engaged in stringing beads for sale. the beads were in a tray, and she plunged into them a bunch of wire needles some six inches in length, each carrying its slender thread. the merchant, she said, came weekly to bring the beads, and to take away those ready strung for the market. "to earn a penny, signora," said the mother, a substantial-looking person, wearing large gold earrings. the houses here looked very comfortable for people of the plain sort. the men seemed to be mostly away, whether engaged in fishing, or following the sea to foreign parts. on our way back we stopped at san clementi, an ancient church upon a little island, now undergoing repairs. within the church we found a marble tabernacle with solid walls, built behind the high altar. it may have been forty feet in length by twenty in breadth, and twelve or more feet in height. a massive door of bronze gave entrance to this huge strong-box, which was formerly used as a prison for refractory priests. we found the interior divided into two compartments. the larger of these was fitted up as a chapel; the smaller had served as the cell of confinement. the altar was erected at the partition which separated the two, and a grating inserted behind the altar figure allowed the prisoner the benefit of the religious services carried on in the chapel. the dreariness of this little prison can scarcely be described. no light had it, unless that of a lamp was allowed. a church within a church, and within the inner church a place of torment! this arrangement seemed to violate even the catholic immunity of sanctuary. think of the unfortunate shut up within on a feast day, when faint sounds of outward jubilee might penetrate the marble walls, and heighten his pain by its contrast with the general joyous thrill of life. think of the cheerless mass or vespers vouchsafed to him,--no friendly face, no brother voice, to sweeten worship. and if he continued recalcitrant, how convenient was this isolation for the final disposition to be made of him! _de profundis clamavit_, doubtless, and the church did not know that god could hear him. the diary does not record our second visit to the armenian convent, which took place in these days. i do not even find in its irregular columns any mention of a franc which i am sure i paid to the porter, and which, i faintly hope, has been put to my credit elsewhere. despite this absence of _pièces justificatives_, the visit still remains so freshly in my memory that i may venture to speak of it. the elder neophyte not having been with us before in venice, the convent was new ground to her. we who had already seen it felt much more at home on the occasion of our second visit than of our first. for padre giacomo had answered our invasion by a friendly call; and did we not now know him to be a most genial and hospitable person? had we not, moreover, made ourselves familiar with his religion, on our late voyage, by frequent converse with two priests of his profession? did i not possess father michel's views concerning the _demonio_, as well as his version of the book of job? and of père isaak did i not know the polished, uncommunicative side which covered his intimate convictions, whatever they may have been? the armenian ladies, too,--had they not made me free of the guild? one of them had shown me her prayer-book. the other, being but fifteen years of age, had no prayer-book. so, with an assured step, we entered the sacred parlor, and demanded news of padre giacomo, and of his monkey. and the father came, smiling a little better than before, but with a sweet oriental gravity. and he showed us again the library, and hall, and chapel, with the refectory, from whose cruel pulpit one brother is set to read while the others feast. we saw again the printing presses, worked by hand. and in the sacristy he commanded two of the younger brethren to bring the chiefest embroidered garments, reserved for high occasions, judging of us unjustly by our sex. and these satin and velvet wonders were, indeed, embossed with lambs, and birds, and flowers, in needlework of silver and gold, and of various colors, meet for the necks of them that divide the spoil. and we saw also a very fine mummy, as black, and dried, and wizened, as any old pharaoh could be. a splendid bead covering lay over him, in open rows of blue and white, with hieroglyphic-looking men in black and yellow. this covering had been lately cleaned and repaired at the glass-works of murano, as padre giacomo recounted with pride. he showed us in the old part of the work some curious double beads, which venice itself, he said, was unable to imitate. the colors were as fresh and clear as if the mummy had clothed himself from the last fancy fair, with a description of afghan well suited to the egyptian climate. having done justice to this human preserve, the padre now regaled us with a preparation of rose leaves embalmed in sugar. he also bestowed upon us one of the convent publications, a tolerable copy of verses composed on the spot itself by the late louis of bavaria, celebrating its calm and retirement. i myself could have responded to the royal _suspiria_ with one distich. "here no people comes to beg thee, here no lola comes to plague thee." as we passed from the building to the garden, the wicked monkey, chained and lying in wait, sprang at my hat, and, snatching my lilac veil, bore it off with a flying leap of animal grace and malice. padre giacomo anxiously apologized for his pet's misconduct, which was certainly surprising. but the monkey's education, as every one knows, is dependent, not upon precept, but upon example, and padre giacomo's example, to the monkey, was only a negative. we parted from our cloistered friend, sincerely desiring, if not hoping, to see him again. of our last day in fairest venice the diary gives this meagre account:-- sunday, august . early to piazza, where we encountered the bishop of rhode island. at san marco's, visited luccati's beautiful mosaics in the sacristy. the three figures over the door are especially fine--madonna in the middle, and a saint on either side. a colossal cross adorns the ceiling, and the wall on one side is occupied by figures of twelve prophets; on the other, by the twelve disciples. the cross almost seems to bloom with beautiful devices. luccati was imprisoned, they say, in the piombi. to the italian protestant service, held in a good hall in the neighborhood of the church of san giovanni e paolo. the hall was densely crowded. i found no seat, and barely room to stand. the audience seemed a mixed one, so far as worldly position goes, but was entirely respectable in aspect and demeanor, the masculine element largely predominating. signor comba, a young man, is quite eloquent and taking. he delivers himself clearly, and with energy. he criticised at some length the unchristian doctrines of the romish church--this is part of his work. the service ended, i passed into the church of san giovanni e paolo, and enjoyed my visit unusually. the vivid light of the day and hour made many of the monuments appear new to me. the doges in this, as in other churches, are stowed away on shelves, like mummies. found a monument to doge sterno, dated early in the fifteenth century, and beside it the effigy of a youth designated as aloysius trevisano, æt. , deeply regretted, and commemorated for his attainments in greek, latin, and philosophy. the figure is recumbent, the face of a high and refined character, with the unmistakable charm of youth impressed upon it. the date is also of the fifteen century. from the church to the sacristy, to take a last look at the two pictures, titian's death of st. peter, martyr, and a fine madonna of gian bellini. the titian was glorious to-day. it has great life and action. the dominican in the foreground, who has his arm raised as if appealing to heaven and earth against the barbarous act, seems to have communicated a touch of his passion to the two cherubs above, who bear the martyr palm. they are stormy little cherubs, and seem in haste to bring in sight the recompense of so much suffering. of the protestant preaching i will once more and finally say, that it is a genuine missionary work, and commend it to the good wishes and good offices of those whose benefactions do not fear to cross the ocean. may it permanently thrive and prosper. of the pictures i can only say, that i doubly congratulate myself on having paid them my last homage before leaving titian's lovely city. for, not long after, a cruel fire broke out in or near that sacristy, precious with carvings in wood and marble bas-reliefs; and all the treasures were destroyed, including the two pictures, only temporarily bestowed there, and many square yards of multitude by tintoretto, bearing, as usual, his own portrait in a sly corner, representative, no doubt, of his wish to watch the effect of his masterpieces upon humanity at large. the madonna by bellini was a charming picture, but the st. peter is a loss that concerns the world. the saint, one hopes, has been comfortable in paradise these many years. but the artist? what paradise would console him for the burning of one of his _chefs-d'oeuvre_? he would be like rachel weeping for her children, which reminds me that ideal parentage is of no sex. the artist, the poet, the reformer, are father and mother, all in one. we left venice, the diary tells me, on the th of august, with what regret we need not say. the same venerable authority records a grave disagreement with the custom-house officers, of whose ministrations we had received no previous warning. so, two very modest pieces of dress goods, delayed in the making, caused me to be branded as a _contrabandista_, with a fine, and record to my discredit. i confess to some indecorous manifestations of displeasure at these circumstances. the truth is, forewarned is forearmed. venice is a free port, and the traveller who leaves her by railroad for the first time may not be aware of the strict account to which he will be held for every little indulgence in venetian traffic. now, to have the spoons presented to you in the house, and to be arrested as a thief when you would pass the door, is a grievous ending to a hospitable beginning. so it came to pass that i anathematized beautiful venice as i departed, gathering up the broken fragments of my peace, past diamond cement. but here, in trunk-upsetting boston, i bethink me, and confess. i was wrong, utterly wrong, o custom-house officers, when i frowned and stormed at you, contending inch by inch and phrase by phrase. you were neither unjust nor uncivil, although i was both. only i still attest and obsecrate to the fact that i did not intend to smuggle, and entered your jealous domain with no sense of contraband about me. yet to such wrath did your perquisitions bring me, that the angry thoughts slackened only at verona, where the tombs of the scaligers and the rounds of the amphitheatre compelled me to quiet small distempers with great thoughts. at railroad speed, however, we visited these rare monuments. can grande and his horse looked flat and heavy from their eminence. we admired the beautiful iron screen of one of the tombs, hammer-wrought, and flexible as a shirt of mail. and we remembered dante, paid two francs to the guardian of the enclosure, and drove away. the afternoon's journey whirled us past some strange antique towns, with walls and battlements, and at night we were in bolsena, germanicè _bottsen_. and when we asked the hotel maid if she had ever been in verona, she replied, "o, no; that is in italy." and so we knew that we were not. flying footsteps. the journey which we now commenced was too rapid to allow of more than the briefest record of its route. the breathlessness of haste, and the number of things to be seen and visited, left no time for writing up on the subjects suggested by the meagre notes of the diary. to the latter, therefore, i am forced to betake myself, piecing its fragmentary statements, where i can do so, from memory. tuesday, august . started with vetturino for innspruck, via brenner pass. a splendid day's journey. stopped to dine at a pretty village,--name forgotten,--at whose principal inn a smart, bustling maid-servant in costume, very clean and civil, came to the carriage, helped us to alight, and carried our travelling bags up stairs to a parlor with a stout bed in it, upon which our chief threw himself and slept until the cutlets were ready. this old-fashioned zeal and civility were pleasant to contemplate once more, probably for the last time. for a railroad has been built over the brenner pass, the which will go into operation next week. then will these pleasant manners insensibly fade away, with the up-to-time curtness of modern travel. the porter who helps you to carry your hand luggage from the car to the depot will sternly demand his fee for that laborious service. all officials will grow as reticent of doing you the smallest pleasure as if civility were a contraband of war. and it does indeed become so, for the railroad develops the antagonisms of trade. its flaming sword allows of no wanderings in wayside paradises. its steam trumpet shrieks in your ear the lesson that the straight line is the shortest distance between two points. it swallows you at one point and vomits you at another, with extreme risk of your life between. and it vulgarizes every place that it touches. the mixed stir and quiet of the little town become concentrated into fixed crises of excitement. for the postilion's horn and whip, and the pleasant rattling of the coming and going post-chaise, you will have, three or four times in the day, those shrill bars whose infernal symphony is mercifully allowed to proceed no farther; and a cross and steaming crowd; and a cool and supercilious few in the first or second class _wart-saal_; and then a dull and dead quiet in the little town, as if steam and stir came and went together, and left nothing behind them. the buxom maid-servant mourned over the impending ruin of the small tavern business, as she showed us the curious arrangements of the old house. it had formerly been a convent of nuns, and was very solidly put together. the back windows commanded a lovely view of the mountains. in the garden we found a pleasant open house, no doubt formerly a place for devout assemblages and meditations, but now chiefly devoted to the consumption of beer. after dinner we walked to the church near by, and looked at the curious iron crosses and small mural tablets which marked the final resting-place of the village worthies. their petty offices and cherished distinctions were all preserved here. all of them had received the "holy death sacrament," and had started on the mysterious voyage in good hope. through this whole extent of country, the crucifixes by the wayside were numerous. resuming our journey, we reached mittelwald, a picturesque hamlet, composed of a small church, a stream, a bridge, and a short string of houses. here we defeated the future machinations of all officers of customs, by causing the two offending dress-patterns, already twice paid for, and treated at length in various printed and written documents, to be cut into breadths, which we hastily managed to sew up, reserving their fuller treatment for the purlieus of civilized life. our two days' drive over the mountains was refreshing and most charming. our vetturino was not less despondent than the maid-servant before alluded to. in our progress we were much in sight of the scarcely completed railroad, whose locomotive and working cars constantly appeared and disappeared before us, plunging into the numerous tunnels that defeat the designs of the mountain fortresses, and mocking our slow progress, as the money-getting train of success and sensation mocks the tedious steps of learning and the painful elaboration of art. "this is my last journey," said the vetturino; "the railway opens on monday of next week." "what will you do thereafter?" i inquired. "sell all out, and go to work as i can," he answered; adding, however, "in case you should intend going as far as munich by carriage, i beg to be honored,"--of which the yankee rendering would be, "i shouldn't mind putting you through." this, however, was hardly to be thought of, and at innspruck we took leave of this honest and polite man, whose species must soon become extinct, whether he survive or no. here recommenced for us the prosaic chapter of the railroad. our route, however, for a good part of the way, lay within sight of the mountains. the depots at which we took fiery breath were in the style of swiss châlets, quite ornamental in themselves, and further graced by vines and flowers. the travellers we encountered were not commonplacely cosmopolite. the young women were often in tyrolese costume, wearing gilt tassels on their broad, black felt hats. we encountered parties of archers going to attend shooting matches, attired in picturesque uniforms of green and gold. at the depots, too, we encountered a new medium of enlivenment. we were now in a land of beer, and foaming glasses were offered to us in the cars, and at the railway buffets. mild and cheerful we found this bavarian beverage,--less verse-inspiring than wine,--and valuable as tending to reduce the number of poets who tease the world by putting all its lessons into rhymes, chimes, and jingles. whatever we ourselves may have done, it is certain that our companions of both sexes embraced these frequent opportunities of refreshment, and that the color in their cheeks and the tone of their good-natured laughter were heightened by the same. one of these, a young maiden, told us how she had climbed the mountain during four hours of the day before, visiting the huts of the cowherds, who, during summer, pasture their cows high up on the green slopes. the existence of these people she described as hard and solitary in the extreme. the rich butter and cheese they make are all for the market. they themselves eat only what they cannot sell, according to the rule whereby small farmers live and thrive in all lands. the young girl wore in her hat a bunch of the blossom called _edelweiss_, which she had brought from her lofty wanderings. it is held in great esteem here, and is often offered for sale. in the afternoon we turned our back upon the mountains. a flat land lay before us, green and well tilled. and long before sunset we saw the spires of munich, and the lifted arm of the great statue of bavaria. our arrival was prosperous, and through the streets of the handsome modern city we attained the quiet of an upper chamber in a hotel filled with americans. munich. our two days in munich were characterized by the most laborious sight-seeing. a week, even in our rapid scale of travelling, would not have been too much for this gorgeous city. we gave what we had, and cannot give a good account of it. my first visit was to the pinakothek, which i had thoroughly explored some twenty-three years earlier, when the galleries of italy and the louvre were unknown to me. coming now quite freshly from venice, with rome and florence still recent in my experience, i found the munich gallery less grandiose than my former remembrance had made it. the diary says, "the rubenses are the best feature. i note also two fine heads by rembrandt, and a first-rate paris bordone--a female head with golden hair and dark-red dress; four peasant pictures by murillo, excellent in their kind, quite familiar through copies and engravings; some of the best albert dürers. the italian pictures not all genuine. none of the raphaels, i should say, would be accepted as such in italy. the fra angelicos not good. two good andrea del sartos; a leonardo da vinci, which seems to me a little caricatured; a room full of vander wertes, very smooth and finely finished; many vandycks, scarcely first rate." the afternoon of this day we devoted to the glyptothek, or gallery of sculpture. here our first objects of interest were the Æginetan marbles, whose vacant places we had so recently seen on the breezy height of the temple from which they were taken. we found these rough, and attesting a period of art far more remote than that of the elgin marbles. they are arranged in the order in which they stood before the pediment of the temple, a standing figure of minerva in the middle, the other figures tapering off on either side, and ending with two seated warriors, the feet of either turned towards the outer angle of his side of the pediment. all seemed to have belonged to a dispensation of ugliness; they reminded us of some of the etruscan sculptures. this gallery possesses a famous torso called the ilioneus, concerning which mrs. jamieson rhapsodizes somewhat in her munich book. the barberini faun, too, is among its treasures. as my readers may not be acquainted with the artistic antecedents of this statue, i will subjoin for their benefit the following narration, which i abridge from the "ricordi" of the marquis massimo d' azeglio, recently published. at the time of the french domination in italy, the roman nobles were subjected to the levying of heavy contributions. the inconvenience of these requisitions often taxed the resources of the wealthiest families, and led to the sale of furniture, jewels, and the multifarious denomination of articles classed together as _objets d'art_. among others, the barberini family, in their palace at the quattro fontane, exposed for sale various antiquitties, and especially the torso of a male figure, of greek execution and in pentelican marble, a relic of the palmy days of hellenic art. a certain sculptor, cavalier pacetti, purchased this last fragment, sold at auction for the sum of seven or eight hundred dollars. the arms and legs were wholly wanting--the narrator is uncertain as to the head. pacetti had made this purchase with the view of restoring the mutilated statue to entireness. he proceeded to model for himself the parts that were wanting, and in time produced the sleeping figure known as the barberini faun. this work was esteemed a great success. besides the value of its long and uncertain labor must be mentioned the difficulty of matching the original marble. to effect this the artist was obliged to purchase and destroy another greek statue, of less merit, whose marble supplied the material for the restoration. in the mean time the napoleonic era had passed away; the pope had returned to rome. foreigners from all parts now flocked to the eternal city, and to one of these pacetti sold his work for many thousands of dollars. before it could be packed and delivered, however, a governmental veto annulled the sale, directing the artist to restore the statue to the barberini family, under the plea of its being subject to a _fidei commissa_, and offering him the sum of money expended by him in the first purchase, together with such further compensation for his labor and materials as a committee of experts should award. the unfortunate pacetti resisted this injustice to the extent of his ability. he demonstrated the sale of the torso to have been made without reserve, the money for its purchase to have been raised by him with considerable effort. the further expense of the secondary statue was a heavy item. as an artist, he could not allow any one but himself to set a price upon his work. in spite of these arguments, the barberinis, remembering that possession is nine points of the law, managed to confiscate the statue by armed force. before this last measure, however, a mandate informed the artist that the pitiful sum offered to him in exchange (not in compensation) for his work, had been placed in the bank, subject to his order, and that from this sum a steady discount would mark every day of his delay to close with the shameful bargain. pacetti now fell ill with a bilious fever, the result of this bitter disappointment. his recovery was only partial, and his death soon followed. his sons commenced and continued a suit against the barberini family. they obtained a favorable judgment, but did not obtain their property, which the barberinis sold to the king of bavaria. i have thought it worth while to quote this history of a world-renowned work of art. i do not know that a more perfect and successful combination of modern with ancient art exists than that achieved in this munich faun. the mutilated honor of the barberini name is, we should fear, beyond restoration by any artist. the glyptothek closed much too soon for us. with the exception of the sculptures just enumerated, it possesses nothing that can compete in interest with the noted italian galleries, or perhaps with the louvre. but the few valuables that it has are first rate of their kind, and it contains many duplicates of well-known subjects. the building and arrangements are very elegant, and seem to cast a certain pathos over the follies of the old king, to whom it owes its origin, making one more sorry than angry that one who knew the graces so well should not have fraternized more with the virtues. the Æginetan minerva is stern and hideous, however, and may have exercised an unfortunate influence over her _protegé_. we closed the labors of this day by visiting the colossal statue of bavaria, who, with a strange hospitality, throws open her skull to the public. the external effect of the figure is not grandiose, and the sudden slope of the ground in front makes it very difficult to get a good view of it. with the help of a lamp, and in consideration of a small fee, we ascended the spinal column, and made ourselves comfortable within the sacred precincts of phrenology. the circulation, however, soon became so rapid as to produce a pressure at the base of the brain. calling to the guardian below to impede for the moment all further ascent, we flowed down, and the congestion was relieved. of this statue an artist once said to us, "as for such a thing as the munich bavaria, the bigger it is, the smaller it is"--a saying not unintelligible to those who have seen it. our remaining day we devoted, in the first place, to the new pinakothek. here we saw a large picture, by kaulbach, representing the fall of jerusalem. although full of historical and artistic interest, it seemed to me less individual and remarkable than his cartoons. a series of small pictures by the same artist appeared quite unworthy of his great powers and reputation. they were exceedingly well executed, certainly, but poorly conceived, representing matters merely personal to artistic and other society in munich, and of little value to the world at large. here was also a holy family by overbeck, closely imitated from raphael. the diary speaks vaguely of "many interesting pictures, the religious ones the poorest." i remember that we greatly regretted the limitation of our time in visiting this gallery. in the vestibule of the building we were shown a splendid bavaria, in a triumphal car, driving four lions abreast, the work of schwanthaler. this noble design so far exists only in plaster; one would wish to see it in fine munich bronze. apropos of which i must mention, but cannot describe, a visit to the celebrated foundery in which many of the best modern statues have been cast. here were crawford's noble works; here the more recent compositions of rogers, miss stebbins, and miss hosmer. an american naturally first seeks acquaintance here with the works of his countrymen. he finds them in distinguished company. the foundery keeps a plaster cast of each of its models, and the ghosts of our heroes appear with tie-wig princes and generals of other times, as also with poets and _littérateurs_. the group of goethe and schiller, crowned and hand in hand, suggests one of the noblest of literary reminiscences--that of the devoted and genuine friendship of two most eminent authors, within the narrow limits of one small society. the entireness and sincerity of each in his own department of art alone made this possible. he who dares to be himself, and to work out his own ideal, fears no other, however praised and distinguished. we visited the new and old palaces in company with a small mob of travellers of all nations, whose disorderly tendencies were restrained by the palace _cicerones_. these worthies did the honors of the place, told the stories, and kept the company together. in the new palace we were shown the frescos, the hall of the battlepieces, the famous gallery of beauties, and the throne-room, whose whole length is adorned with life-size statues of royal and ducal bavarian ancestors in gilded bronze. the throne is a great gilded chair, cushioned with crimson velvet, the seat adorned with a huge _l_ in gold embroidery. of the gallery mentioned just before, i must say that its portraits are those of society belles, not of artist beauties. however handsome, therefore, they may have been in their ball and court dresses, there is something conventional and unlovely in their _toute ensemble_, as a collection of female heads. i would agree to find artists who should make better pictures from women of the people, taken in their ordinary costume, and with the freedom of common life in their actions and expressions. an intangible armor of formality seems to guard the persons of those great ladies. one imagines that one could understand their faces better, were they translated into human nature. in the old palace, which has now rather a deserted and denuded aspect, we still found traces of former splendor. among these, i remember a state bed with a covering so heavily embroidered with gold, that eight men are requisite to lift it. the _valet de place_ astonished us with the price of this article; but having forgotten his statement, i cannot astonish any one with it. of greater interest was a room, whose walls bore everywhere small brackets, supporting costly pieces of porcelain, cups, _flacons_, and statuettes. beyond this was a _boudoir_, whose vermilion sides were nearly covered by miniature paintings, set into them. many of these miniatures were of great beauty and value. clearly the tastes of the bavarian family were always of the most expensive. they looked after the flower garden, and allowed the kitchen garden to take care of itself. of this sort was the farming of otho and amalia. but peace be to them. otho is just dead of measles, amalia nearly dead of vexations. our two days allowed us little time for the churches of munich. the frauenkirche has many antiquities more interesting than its splendid restorations. on one of its altars i found the inscription, "holy mother ann, pray for us." i suppose that ever since the dogma of the immaculate conception has become part of church discipline, the sacred person just mentioned has found her clientele much enlarged. the new basilica is quite gorgeous in its adornments, but i have preserved no minutes of them. we had the satisfaction of seeing a number of kaulbach's drawings, among which were his goethe and schiller series, very fine and full of interest. one of the last of these represents tell stepping from gessler's boat at the critical moment described in schiller's drama. one of the newest to me was a figure of ottilie, from the wahlverwandtschaften, hanging with mingled horror and affection over the innocent babe of the story. the intense distress of the young girl's countenance contrasts strongly with the reposeful attitude of the little one. it made me ponder this ingenious and laboriously achieved distress. the very exuberance of goethe's temperament, i must think, caused him to seek his sorrows in regions quite remote from common disaster. the miseries of his personages (vide werther and the wahlverwandtschaften) are far-fetched; and the alchemy by which he turns wholesome life into sentimental anguish brings to light no life-treasure more substantial than the fairy gold which genius is bound to convert into value more solid. and this was all of munich, a place of polite tastes surely, in which life must flow on, adorned with many pleasantnesses. neither would business seem to be deficient, judging from the handsome shops and general air of prosperity. our view of its resources was certainly most cursory. but life is the richer even for adjourned pleasures, and we shall never think of munich without desiring its better acquaintance. switzerland. travelling in switzerland is now become so common and conventional as to invite little comment, except from those who remain in the country long enough to study out scientific and social questions, which the hasty traveller has not time to entertain in even the most cursory matter. i confess, for one, that i was content to be enchanted with the wonderful beauty which feasts the eye without intermission. i was willing to believe that the mountains had done for this people all that they should have done, giving them political immunities, and a sort of necessary independence, while the hardships of climate and situation keep stringent the social bond, and temper the fierceness of individuality with the sense of mutual need and protection. it would be, i think, an instructive study for an american to become intimately acquainted with the domestic features of swiss republicanism. it is undoubtedly a system less lax and more carefully administered than our own. the door is not thrown open for beggary, ignorance, and rascality to vote themselves, in the shape of their representatives, the first places in outward dignity and efficient power. the old traditions of breeding and education are carefully held to. without the nonsense of aristocratic absolutism, there is yet no confusion of orders. the mistress is mistress, and the maid is maid. wealth and landed property persevere in families. great changes of position without great talents are rare. to our american pretensions, and to our brilliant style of manoeuvring, the swiss mode of life would appear a very slow business. it seems rather to develop a high mediocrity than an array of startling superiorities. it has, moreover, no room for daring theories and experiments. it cannot afford a mormon corner, a woman's-rights platform, an endless intricacy of speculating and swindling rings. whether we can afford these things, future generations will determine. there is a great deal of moral and political fancy-work done in america which another age may put out of sight to make room for necessary scrubbing, sweeping, and getting rid of vermin. meantime the poor present age works, and deceives, and dawdles, hoping to be dismissed with the absolving edict, "she hath done what she could." hotels, railways, and depots in switzerland are comfortable, and managed with great order and system. the telegraph arrangements are admirable, cheap, and punctual, as they might be here, if they were administered for the people's interest, and not for the aggrandizement of private fortunes. living and comfort are expensive to the traveller, not exorbitant. subordinates neither insult nor cringe. churches are well filled; intelligent and intelligible doctrine is preached. education is valued, and liberal provision is made for those classes in which natural disability calls for special modes of instruction. i dare not go more into generals, from my very limited opportunity of observation. everything, however, in the aspect of town and country, leads one to suppose that the average of crime must be a low one, and that the preventing influences--so much more efficient than remedial measures--have long, been at work. it is protestant switzerland which makes this impression most strongly. in the catholic cantons, beggary exists and is tolerated as a thing of course; yet the protestant element has everywhere its representation and its influence. swiss catholicism has not the slavish ignorance of roman catholicism. the little painted crucifixes by the wayside indeed afflict one by their impotence and insignificance. not thus shall christ be recognized in these days. in some places their frequency reminded me of the recurrence of the pattern on a calico or a wall paper. yet, as a whole, one feels that switzerland is a protestant power. for specials, i must have recourse to the insufficient pages of the diary, which give the following:-- august . museum at zurich. lacustrine remains, in stone, flint, and bronze; fragments of the old piles, cut with stone knives. hand-mill for corn, consisting of a hollow stone and a round one, concave and convex. toilet ornaments, in bone and bronze; a few in gold.--the library. lady jane grey's letters, three in number; zwingle's greek bible.--the armory. zwingle's helmet and battle-axe; three suits of female armor; curious shields, cannon, pikes, and every variety of personal defence. august . left zurich at half past six a. m. for lucerne, reaching the latter place at half past eight. visited thorwaldsen's lion, whose majestic presence i had not forgotten in twenty-three years. yet the swiss hireling under foreign pay is a mischievous institution. at two p. m. took the boat for hergeswyl, intending to ascend from that point the mount pilatus. at half past three began this ascension. the road is very fine, and my leader was excellent; yet i had some uncomfortable moments in the latter part of the ascent, which was in zigzag, and very steep. each horse cost ten francs, and each leader was to have a _trink-geld_ besides. we stopped very gladly at the earliest reached of the two hotels which render habitable the heights of the mountain. we learned too late that it would have been better to proceed at once to that which stands nearly on the summit. we should thus have gained time for the great spectacle of the sunrise on the following morning. our view of the sunset, too, would have been more extended. yet we were well content with it. near the hotel was a very small catholic chapel, through whose painted windows we tried to peep. a herd of goats feeding near by made music with their tinkling bells. swiss sounds are as individual as swiss sights. voices, horns, bells, all have their peculiar ring in these high atmospheres. we lay down at night with the intention of rising at a quarter of four next morning, in order to witness the sunrise from the highest point of the mountain. mistaking some sounds which disturbed my slumbers for the guide's summons, i sprang out of bed, and having no match, made a hasty toilet in the dark, and then ran to arouse my companions. one of these, fortunately, was able to strike a light and look at his watch. it was just twelve, and my zeal and energy had been misdirected. when i again awoke, it was at four a. m., already rather late for our purpose. we dressed hastily, and vehemently started on the upward zigzag. as the guide had not yet appeared, i carried our night bundle, but for which i should have kept the lead of the party. small as was its weight, i felt it sensibly in this painful ascent, and was thankful to relinquish it when the tardy guide came up with us. in spite of his aid, i was much distressed for breath, and suffered from a thirst surpassing that of fever. my ears also ached exceedingly in consequence of the rarefaction of the atmosphere. the last effort of the ascent was made upon a ladder pitched at such an angle that one could climb it only on hands and knees. we reached the last peak a little late for the sunrise, but enjoyed a near and magnificent view of the snow alps. the diary contains no description of this prospect. i can only remember that its coloring and extent were wonderful. but a day of fatigue was still before us. breakfasting at six o'clock, we soon commenced the painful downward journey. no "_facilis descensus_" was this, but a climbing down which lasted three full hours. we had kept but one horse for this part of our journey, but this was such an uncertain and stumbling beast that we gladly surrendered him to our chief, who, in spite of this assistance, was found more than once lying on a log, assuring us that his end was at hand. we had little breath to spare for his consolation, but gave him a silent and aching sympathy. a pleasant party of english girls left the hotel when we did, one on horseback and three on foot. the hardships of the way brought us together. i can still recall the ring of their voices, and the freshness and sparkle of their faces, which really encouraged my efforts. the pleasures of this descent were as intense as its pains. the brilliant grass was enamelled with wild flowers, exquisite in color and fragrance. the mountain air was bracing and delightful, the details of tree and stream most picturesque. for some reason, which i now forget, we stopped but little to take rest. at a small châlet half way down, we enjoyed a glass of beer, and were waited upon by a maiden in white sleeves and black bodice, her fair hair being braided with a strip of white linen, and secured in its place by a large pin with an ornamented head. we reached alpenach in a state of body and of wardrobe scarcely describable. but our minds at least were at ease. we had done something to make a note of. we had been to the top of mons pilatus. of interlaken the diary preserves nothing worth transcribing. the great beauty of the scenery made us reluctant to leave it after a few hours of enjoyment. the appalling fashionable and watering-place aspect of the streets and hotels, on the other hand, rendered it uncongenial to quiet travellers, whose strength did not lie in the _clothes_ line. our brief stay showed us the greatest mixture and variety of people; the hotels were splendid with showy costumes, the shops tempting with onyx, amethyst, and crystal ornaments. we saw here also a great display of carvings in wood. the unpaved streets were gay with equipages and donkey parties. a sousing rain soon made confusion among them, and reconciled us to a speedy departure. of berne and fribourg i will chronicle only the organ concerts, given to exhibit the resources of two famous instruments. at both places we found the organ very fine, and the musical performance very trashy. no real organ music was given on either occasion, the _pièce de resistance_ being an imitation of a thunderstorm. both instruments seemed to me to surpass our own great organ in beauty and variety of tone. the larger proportions of the buildings in which they are heard may contribute to this result. both of these are cathedrals, with fine vaulted roofs and long aisles, very different from the essentially civic character of the music hall, whose compact squareness cannot deal with the immense volume of sound thrown upon its hands by the present overgrown incum--bent. the great exposition. it would be unfair to american journalism not to suppose that all possible information concerning the great exposition has already been given to the great republic. there have doubtless been quires upon quires of brilliant writing devoted to that absorbing theme. columns from the most authentic sources have been commanded and paid for. american writing is rich in epithets, and we may suppose that all the adjective splendors have been put in requisition to aid imagination to take the place of sight. yet, as the diversities of landscape painting show the different views which may be taken of one nature, even so the view taken by my sober instrument may possibly show something that has escaped another. i here refer to the pages of my oft-quoted diary. but alas! the wretch deserts me in the hour of my greatest need. i find a record of my first visit only, and that couched in one prosaic phrase as follows: exposition--valet, six francs. now, i am not a cuvier, to reconstruct a whole animal from a single fossil bone; nor am i a german historian, to present the picture of a period by inventing the opposite of its records. yet what i can report of this great feature of the summer must take as its starting-point this phrase: exposition--valet, six francs. this extravagant attendance was secured by us on the occasion of our first visit, when, passing inside the narrow turnstile, with ready change and eager mind, we encountered the great reality we had to deal with, and felt, to our dismay, that spirit would help us little, and that flesh and blood, eyes and muscles, must do their utmost, and begin by acknowledging a defeat. looking on the diverse paths, and flags and buildings, we sought an ariadne, and found at least a guide whom bacchus might console. escorted by him, we entered the first great hall, with massive machines partially displayed on one side. a _coup d'oeil_ was what we sought on this occasion, and our movements were rapid. the sèvre porcelains, the magnificent french and english glasses, the weighty majolicas, the gobelin tapestries, and the galleries of paintings, chiefly consumed our six francs, which represented some three hours. magnificent services of plate, some in silver, and some in imitation of silver, were shown to us. in another place the close clustering of men and women around certain glass cases made us suspect the attraction of jewelry, which may be called the sugar-plummery of æsthetics. insinuating ourselves among the human bees, we, too, fed our eyes on these sweets. diadems, necklaces, earrings, sufficient, in the hands of a skilful satan, to accomplish the damnation of the whole female sex, were here displayed. i was glad to see these dangerous implements of temptation restrained within cases of solid glass. i myself would fain have written upon them, "deadly poison." there are enough, however, to preach, and i practised by running off from these disputed neighborhoods, and passing to the contemplation of treasures which to see is to have. among the gobelins i was amazed to see a fine presentation of titian's sacred and profane love, a picture of universal reputation. the difficulty of copying so old and so perfect a work in tapestry made this success a very remarkable one. very beautiful, too, was their copy of guido's aurora, and yet less difficult than the other, the coloring being at once less subtile and more brilliant. i remember a gigantic pyramid of glass, which arose, like a frost-stricken fountain, in the middle of the english china and glass department. i remember huge vases, cups as thin as egg-shell, pellucid crystals in all shapes, a glory of hard materials and tender colors. and i remember a department of raw material, fibres, minerals, germs, and grains, and a department of eastern confectionery, and one of algerine small work, to wit, jewelry and embroidery. an american soda fountain caused us to tingle with renewed associations. and we hear, with shamefaced satisfaction, that american drinks have proved a feature in this great phenomenon. machines have, of course, been creditable to us. chickering and steinway have carried off prizes in a piano-forte tilt, each grudging the other his share of the common victory. and our veteran's maps for the blind have received a silver medal. tiffany, the new york jeweller, presents a good silver miniature of crawford's beautiful america. and with these successes our patriotism must now be content. we are not ahead of all creation, so far as the exposition is concerned, and the things that do us most credit must be seen and studied in our midst. our longest lingerings in the halls of the exposition were among the galleries of art. among these the french pictures were preëminent in interest. the group of jerome's paintings were the most striking of their kind, uniting finish with intensity, and both with ease. in his choice of subjects, jerome is not a puritan. the much admired almée is a picture of low scope, excusable only as an historic representation. the judgment of phryne will not commend itself more to maids and matrons who love their limits. both pictures, however, are powerfully conceived and colored. the "ave cesar" of the _morituri_ before vitellius is better inspired, if less well executed, and holds the mirror close in the cruel face of absolute power. study of the italian masters was clearly visible in many of the best works of the french gallery. i recall a fine triptych representing the story of the prodigal son in which the chief picture spoke plainly of paul veronese, and his venetian life and coloring. in this picture the prodigal appeared as the lavish entertainer of gay company. a banquet, shared by joyous _hetairæ_, occupied the canvas. a slender compartment on the right showed the second act of the drama--hunger, swine-feeding, and repentance. a similar one on the left gave the pleasanter _dénouement_--the return, the welcome, the feast of forgiveness. both of the latter subjects were treated in _chiaro-scuro_, a manner that heightened the contrast between the flush of pleasure and the pallor of its consequences. rosa bonheur's part in the exposition was scarcely equal to her reputation. one charming picture of a boat-load of sheep crossing a highland loch still dwells in my memory like a limpid sapphire, so lovely was the color of the water. the russian, swedish, and danish pictures surprised me by their good points. if we may judge of russian art by these specimens, it is not behind the european standard of attainment. of the bavarian gallery, rich in works of interest, i can here mention but two. the first must be a very large and magnificent cartoon by kaulbach, representing a fancied assemblage of illustrious personages at the period of the reformation. luther, erasmus, and melanchthon were prominent among these, the whole belonging to a large style of historical composition. the second was already familiar to us through a photograph seen and admired in munich. it is called ste. julie, and represents a young christian martyr, dead upon the cross, at whose foot a young man is depositing an offering of flowers. the pale beauty and repose of the figure, the massive hair and lovely head, the modesty of attitude and attire, are very striking. the sky is subdued, clear, and gray, the black hair standing out powerfully against it. the whole palette seems to have been set with pure and pearly tints. one thinks the brushes that painted this fair dove could never paint a courtesan. a single star, the first of evening, breaks the continuity of the twilight sky. this picture seemed as if it should make those who look at it thenceforward more tender, and more devout. among the english pictures, the enemy sowing tares, by millais, was particularly original--a malignant sky, full of blight and destruction, and a malignant wretch, smiling at mischief, and scowling at good,--a powerful figure, mighty and mean. this picture makes one start and shudder; such must have been its intention, and such is its success. among sculptures, the most conspicuous was one called the last hour of napoleon--a figure in an invalid's chair, with drooping head and worn countenance, the map of the globe lying spread upon his passive knees. every trait already says, "this _was_ napoleon," the man of modern times who longest survived himself, who was dead and could not expire. wreaths of immortelles always lay at the foot of this statue. it is the work of an italian artist, and the only sculpture in the whole exhibition which i can recall as easily and deservedly remembered. our american part in the art-exhibition was not great. william hunt's pictures were badly placed, and not grouped, as they should have been, to give an adequate idea of the variety of his merits. bierstadt's rocky mountains looked thin in coloring, and showed a want of design. church's niagara was effective. johnston's old kentucky home was excellent in its kind, and characteristic. kensett had a good landscape. but america has still more to learn than to teach in the way of high art. success among us is too cheap and easy. art-critics are wordy and ignorant, praising from caprice rather than from conscience. it would be most important for us to form at least one gallery of art in which american artists might study something better than themselves. the presence of twenty first-rate pictures in one of our great cities would save a great deal of going abroad, and help to form a sincere and intelligent standard of æsthetic judgment. such pictures should, of course, be constantly open to the public, as no private collection can well be. we should have a titian, a rubens, an andrea, a paul veronese, and so on. but these pictures should be of historical authenticity. the most responsible artists of the country should be empowered to negotiate for them, and the money might be afforded from the heavy gains of late years with far more honor and profit than the superfluous splendors with which the fortunate of this period bedizen their houses and their persons. among american sculptures i may mention a pleasing medallion or two by miss foley. miss hosmer's faun is a near relative in descent from the barberini faun, and, however good in execution, has little originality of conception. and these things i say, beloved, in the bosom of our american family, because i think they ought to be said, and not out of pride or fancied superiority. i am ashamed to say that i have already told the little i am able to tell of the exposition as seen by daylight--the little, at least, that every one else has not told. but i visited the enclosure once in the evening, when only the cafés were open. among these i sought a beer-shop characterized as the bavarian brewery, and sought it long and with trouble; for the long, winding paths showed us, one after the other, many agglomerations of light, which were obviously places of public entertainment, and in each of which we expected to find our bavarian brewery, famous for the musical performances of certain gypsies much spoken of in parisian circles. in the pursuit of this we entered half a dozen buildings, in each of which some characteristic entertainment was proceeding. coming finally to the object of our search, we found it a plain room with small tables, half filled with visitors. opposite the entrance was a small orchestral stage, on which were seated the wild musicians whom we sought. a franc each person was the entrance fee, and we were scarcely seated before a functionary authoritatively invited us to command some refreshment, in a tone which was itself the order of the day. in obedience, one ordered beer, another _gloria_, a third cigars--all at extortionate prices. but then the music was given for nothing, and must be paid for somehow. and it proved worth paying for. at first the body of sound seemed overpowering, for there was no pianissimo, and not one of the regular orchestral effects. a weird-looking leader in high boots stood and fiddled, holding his violin now on a level with his eyes, now with his nose, now with his stomach, writhing and swaying with excitement, his excitable troupe following the ups and downs of his movement like a track of gaunt hounds dashing after a spectre. the café gradually filled, and orders were asked and given. but little disturbance did these give either to the band or its hearers. they played various wild airs and symphonies (not technical ones), being partially advised therein by an elegant male personage who sat leaning his head upon his jewelled hand, absorbed in attention. these melodies were obviously compositions of the most eccentric and accidental sort. not thus do great or small harmonists mate their tones and arch their passages. but there was a vivacity and a passion in all that these men did which made every bar seem full of electric fire; and these must be, i thought, traditional vestiges of another time, when music was not yet an art, but only nature. here dwight's journal has no power. beethoven or handel may do as he likes; these do as they please, also. this is the heathendom of art, in which feeling is all, authority nothing; in which rules are only suspected, not created. after an hour or more of this entertainment, we left it, not unwillingly, being a little weary of its labyrinthine character and unmoderated ecstasy. yet we left it much impressed with the musical material presented in it. our civilized orchestras have no such enthusiasts as that nervous leader, with his leaping violin and restraining high boots. and this, with the lights and shadows, and broken music of the outside walks, is all that i saw of evening at the exposition. pictures in antwerp. as you cannot, with rare exceptions, see raphael out of italy, so, i should almost say, you cannot see rubens and vandyck out of belgium. this is especially true of the former; for one does, i confess, see marvellous portraits of vandyck's in genoa and in other places. but one judges a painter best by seeing a group of his best works, which show his sphere of thought with some completeness. a single sentence suffices to show the great poet; but no one will assume that a sentence will give you to know as much of him as a poem or volume. so the detached sentences of the two great flemish painters, easily met with in european galleries, bear genuine evidence of the master's hand; but the collections of antwerp and bruges show us the master himself. intending no disrespect to florence, munich, or the medicean series at the louvre, i must say that i had no just measure of the dignity of rubens as a man and as an artist, until i stood before his two great pictures in the cathedral of antwerp. one of these represents the elevation of the cross. mathematically it offends one--the cross, the principal object in the picture, being seen diagonally, in an uneasy and awkward posture. on the other hand, the face of the christ corresponds fully to the heroism of the moment; it expresses the human horror and agony, but, triumphing over all, the steadfastness of resolve and faith. it is a transfiguration--the spiritual glory holding its own above all circumstances of pain and infamy. a sort of beautiful surprise is in the eyes--the first deadly pang of an organism unused to suffer. it is a face that lifts one above the weakness and meanness of ordinary human life. this soul, one sees, had the true talisman, the true treasure. if we earn what he did, we can afford to let all else go. the descent from the cross is better known than its fellow-picture. it had not to me the wonderful interest of the living face of christ in the supreme moment of his great life; for i shall always consider that the christ represented in the elevation is a true christ, not a mere fancy figure or dramatic ghost. the descent is, however, more grand and satisfactory in its grouping, and the contrast between the agony of the friendly faces that surround the chief figure and the dead peace of his expression and attitude is profound and pathetic. the head and body fall heavily upon the arms of those who support it, and who seem to bear an inward weight far transcending the outward one. the pale face of the virgin is stricken and compressed with sorrow. each of the pictures is the centre of a triptych, the two smaller paintings representing subjects in harmony with the chief groups. on the right of the descent we have mary making her historical visit to the house of elisabeth; on the left, the presentation of the infant christ in the temple. on the right of the elevation is a group of those daughters of jerusalem to whom christ said, "weep not for me." the subject on the left is less significant. with these pictures deserves to rank the flagellation of christ, by the same artist, in the church of st. paul. the resplendent fairness of the body, the cruel reality of the bleeding which follows the scourge, and the expression of genuine but noble suffering, seize upon the very quick of sympathy, weakened by mythicism and sentimentalism. this fair body, sensitive as yours or mine, endured bitter and agonizing blows. this great heart was content to endure them as the penalty of bequeathing to mankind its priceless secret. the churches of antwerp are rich in architecture, paintings, and marbles. in the latter the church of st. jacques excels, the high altar and side chapels being adorned with twisted columns of white marble, and with various sculptures. the musée contains many pictures of great reputation and merit. among these are a miniature painting of the descent from the cross, by rubens himself, closely, but not wholly, corresponding with his great picture; the education of the virgin, and the vierge au perroquet, both by rubens, in his most brilliant style. another composition represents st. theresa imploring the savior to release from purgatory the soul of a benefactor of her order. rubens is said to have given to this benefactor the features of vandyck, and to one of the angels releasing him those of his young wife, helena forman; while the face of an old man still in suffering represents his own. this gallery contains three vandycks of first-class merit, each of which will detain the attention of lovers of art. the one that first meets your eye is a pietà, in which the body of christ is stretched horizontally, his head lying on the lap of his mother. the strongest point of the picture is the virgin's sorrow, expressed in her pallid face, eyes worn with weeping, and outstretched hands. the second is a small crucifix, very harmonious and expressive. the third is a life-size picture of the crucifixion, with a very individual tone of color. the virgin, at the foot of the cross, has great truth and dignity, but is rather a modern figure for the subject. but the pride of the whole collection is a unique triptych by quintin matsys, his greatest work, and one without which the extent of his power can never be realized. the central picture represents a dead christ, surrounded by the men and women who ministered to him, preparing him for sepulture. the right hand of the christ lies half open, with a wonderful expression of acquiescence. the faces of those who surround him are full of intense interest and tenderness; the virgin's countenance expresses heart-break. the whole picture disposes you to weep, not from sentimentalism, but from real sympathy. of the side pieces, one represents the wicked women with the head of john the baptist, the other the martyrdom of ste. barbe. add to these some of the best teniers, ostades, ruysdaels, and vanderweldes, with many excellent works of second-class merit, and you will understand, as well as words can tell you, what treasures lie within the musée of antwerp. * * * * * copy is exhausted, say the printers. perhaps patience gave out first. my ms. is at end--not handsomely rounded off, nor even shortened by a surgical amputation, but broken at some point in which facts left no room for words. observation became absorbing, and description was adjourned, as it now proves, forever. the few sentences which i shall add to what is already written will merely apologize for my sudden disappearance, lest the clown's "here we are" should find a comic _pendant_ in my "here we are not." i have only to say that i have endeavored in good faith to set down this simple and hurried record of a journey crowded with interests and pleasures. i was afraid to receive so freely of these without attempting to give what i could in return, under the advantages and disadvantages of immediate transcription. in sketches executed upon the spot, one hopes that the vividness of the impression under which one labors may atone for the want of finish and of elaboration. if read at all, these notes may be called to account for many insufficiencies. some pages may appear careless, some sentences quixotic. i am still inclined to think that with more leisure and deliberation i should not have done the work as well. i should, perhaps, like tintoretto, have occupied acres and acres of attention with superfluous delineation, putting, as he did, my own portrait in the corner. rejoice, therefore, good reader, in my limitations. they are your enfranchisement. touching quixotism, i will plead guilty to the sounding of various parleys before some stately buildings and unshaken fortresses. "who is this that blows so sharp a summons?" may the inmates ask. i may answer, "one who believes in the twelve legions of angels that wait upon the endeavors of faithful souls." should they further threaten or deride, i will borrow elizabeth browning's sweet refrain,-- "i am no trumpet, but a reed,"-- and trust not to become a broken one. conscious of my many shortcomings, and asking attention only for the message i have tried to bring, i ask also for that charity which recognizes that good will is the best part of action, and good faith the first condition of knowledge. * * * * * the following typogrphical errors were corrected by the etext transcriber: embarassment=>embarrassment minature=>miniature procesison=>procession pivations=>privations the shonlder of the garment=>the shoulder of the garment fortutunate=>fortunate bronner pass.=>brenner pass. pinakethek=>pinakothek antiquitties=>antiquities macchiavelli's principe=>machiavelli's principe europe from a motor car [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the approach to the stelvio pass_ _page _] europe from a motor car _by_ russell richardson [illustration] rand mcnally & company chicago new york _copyright, _ by rand, mcnally & company the rand-mcnally press _chicago_ to my mother contents chapter page _preface_ i berlin to marienbad ii marienbad to trafoi iii crossing the stelvio into italy iv a visit to lyons v chambéry to nîmes vi nîmes to carcassonne vii carcassonne to tarbes viii tarbes to biarritz ix a day in spain x biarritz to mont-de-marsan xi mont-de-marsan to périgueux xii périgueux to tours xiii the châteaux of touraine xiv orléans to dieppe xv expenses and suggestions illustrations page the approach to the stelvio pass a french highway the brandenburger thor cutting across the glacier lake como, most beautiful of the italian lakes italian villas on lake como above the val d'aosta the rhone at lyons out of the silence and gloom the ancient roman theater at orange arc de triomphe at orange the palace of the popes at avignon the ruined bridge of st. benezet at avignon the maison carrée at nîmes the castle and double line of fortifications at carcassonne the walled city of carcassonne the pyrenees were in sight ice peaks of the pyrenees the grande plage at biarritz the ox-carts were curious creations the death stroke a familiar village scene in provincial france a miracle of gothic splendor a convenient way to carry bread the road swept us along the bank of the loire the château of loches behind its imposing entrance the château of chenonceaux the château of amboise on the loire the wheat fields of normandy the gothic cathedral at chartres the seine at rouen where jeanne d'arc was burned at the stake preface the following pages have not been written to supplement the thousands of guide books about europe. long, technical descriptions have been avoided. an endeavor has been made, rather, to give our personal impressions of the old world from a motor car. our itinerary overlooked the larger cities whose contents have been so well inventoried by baedeker. the life of the peasantry, the small towns seldom visited by american tourists, quaint villages unapproached by any railroad, the superb roads and views of the tyrol, the crossing of the alps over the snow-crowned stelvio into italy, the flight through northern italy to como, loveliest of the italian lakes--such unique experiences amid beautiful scenery appealed to us more than the attractions of the crowded metropolis. we were out for a motor ramble instead of a sight-seeing tour. our route did not follow entirely the familiar highways of tourist traffic. from the summit of the alps we were to see, far below us, the valleys of picturesque savoy. then came the long, thrilling descent into france through provençe, that treasure land of roman antiquity, through the pyrenees, lifting their huge barriers between france and spain, to biarritz on the atlantic. spain was before us, the pastoral beauties of limousin and périgord, the châteaux of touraine, and the cathedrals of normandy. an important part of our equipment was the _michelin guide_, which, with its convenient arrangement and wealth of useful information about hotels and roads, rendered invaluable aid. its maps were so clear that it was seldom necessary to retrace our path. by means of them we planned our route and found our way through the different countries. the writer wishes to thank michelin & co. of paris, and dr. lehmann of the benz company in mannheim, germany, for their assistance and advice. the files of the _london daily mail_ contributed helpful suggestions. obligation is also expressed to mr. charles netcher, whose good judgment and motormanship were indispensable to the success of the trip. russell richardson. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _a french highway_ _page _] europe from a motor car chapter i berlin to marienbad before us was the long stretch of the potsdamer strasse bathed in the sunshine of a july morning. slowly the speedometer began to devour the kilometers of the kaiser's imperial city, and the low music of the siren seemed like a song of rejoicing that we were at last starting on our quest of motor experiences along the highways of europe. the exhilaration of the moment called for speed, a leaping burst of it, but a berlin street is unfortunately no place for speeding. numerous helmeted policemen, vigilant guardians of german speed laws, were sufficient reminders that the way of the motor transgressor would be paved with heavy fines. these policemen looked like soldiers. in berlin one is always surrounded by a military atmosphere. the city is the product and the producer of this martial spirit. the prussian wars are written so completely in pages of bronze and marble, one has the impression of being among people who are on the verge of war and prepared for it. even as we glided along, a huge zeppelin air ship hovered above us, one of those ill-fated war machines which have so often met destruction. a little farther on, there was a stirring sound of military music, and our way was intercepted by a marching regiment. it was fully ten minutes before the last soldier passed. such scenes are common in the capital of a country bounded on two frontiers by powerful nations, and dependent for its very existence upon the maintenance of a large standing army. gradually the music grew fainter, the warnings of countless "verbotens" became less frequent. soon we were riding through the prussian country, pleasantly pastoral and interspersed by red-roofed villages. everywhere were barracks and soldiers, and each small community was throbbing with industrial life. this was prosaic, military, modern germany; that is, it might have seemed prosaic had we not seen it from a motor car. there is a quality of romance about all motoring in europe. it is fascinating to appear unexpectedly among a people in the midst of their everyday activities, to see them as they really are, to flash for a brief moment upon the horizon of their local life, and then to whirl on to other scenes. such a trip is never monotonous. there is magic in this song of the swift kilometers. the tourist, by train or on foot, is overwhelmed by details. he sees small cross-sections of life. but the motorist, of all travelers, can see larger outlines. for him a thousand details merge to form a unit which he can grasp; to paint a picture of clear-cut, dominating impressions and filled with life-long memories. even "the best traveler[ ] on foot--barrow or stevenson--can enjoy himself, or interest others, only by his impressions of the insistent details of each trudged mile. the motorist alone can perform the great deduction of travel. his privilege is to see the surface of his planet and the activities of his fellowmen unroll in impressive continuity. he moves along the vital lines of cause and effect. he sees how the earth has imposed character and habits upon her inhabitants." [ ] from "the alpine road of france," by sir henry norman, m. p., in _scribner's magazine_ for february, . when one has seen europe from a motor car, the geography of the old world ceases to be a mass of hazy facts set off by indefinite boundaries. we had vaguely thought of the alps as being in switzerland. after crossing them twice, these mountain barriers, extending from vienna to the mediterranean, through austria, switzerland, italy, and france, were to have a new meaning. most of us would probably confuse the old provinces of france with the departments which correspond roughly to our states. but normandy, brittany, and provençe have no more geographical significance to-day than "mason and dixon's line," which once served as a boundary between north and south. places which had previously existed for us, in cold print, were to glow with life and color, and were in turn to tell their romantic story. now, when we look at our map of france, we can see "the great central wheat plain; the broad wine belt; the western _landes_; the eastern pine slopes; the welter of history in touraine and anjou; dear, yellow, dusty, windswept, singing, dancing, provençe; the southward climatic procession of buckwheat, wheat, vine, olive, palm, and orange tree."[ ] [ ] from "the alpine road of france," by sir henry norman, m. p., in _scribner's magazine_ for february, . our chronicle of this first day of motoring includes a brief glimpse of wittenberg, where luther burned the papal bull and thus kindled the flame of the reformation. after wittenberg came leipzig, famed as the home of immortal baedeker. one cannot ride far in germany without encountering a city counting its population by the hundred thousand. this wealth of population explains in part how prussia, only a generation ago so agricultural, could have changed so quickly into a vast workshop; there has always been a plentiful supply of labor. we stopped for the night at chemnitz, a smoky city and with a dreary looking hotel showing in prominent letters the unpleasant name of "hotel zur stadt gotha." the next morning we ran the easy gauntlet of customhouse formalities at gottesgab, and crossed the austrian frontier into bohemia, that land of shadows and thorn in the flesh of the austrian government where the gay colors of peasant dress hardly conceal the evidences of poverty and squalid misery, and where hunger appears to be driving out plenty. it is a country of peasants. there are millions of them, back in the middle ages as to their agricultural methods, unable to adapt themselves to the harsh, progressive realities of the present, and careless whether the abundant meal of to-morrow will make up for the meager repast of to-day. if you wish to see real misery, and to understand why the bohemians emigrate in such great numbers to the united states, then take a motor trip through this most discontented and unhappy of all the austrian provinces. here amid picturesque and beautiful scenery one finds the rural slums of europe. the small farm hamlets look forlorn and unkempt, the barnyards disorderly, the towns dirty and neglected, the people as if they were both the cause and effect of these conditions. it is a common sight of the road to see women harnessed with dogs or oxen. here even wooden shoes would be something of a luxury. there is something fascinating about exploring these neglected corners of europe in a motor car. the dress of the peasants is gay even though ragged, their life picturesque even in its poverty. one finds lights as well as shadows in the picture. nature has softened the harsh lines of peasant life with dreamy, misty horizons, with pine-clad hills and dashing brooks, with pleasant vistas of distant mountains. on reaching carlsbad about noon we found the season of this fashionable watering place at its height. crowds of visitors were promenading in the street, returning from the baths and springs or trying to stimulate jaded appetites by a few breaths of the fine invigorating air. the place is really beautiful with its fine setting of bohemian mountains. friends were expecting us in marienbad, so we resumed our journey early in the afternoon. this stretch of forty miles lay through the loveliest part of bohemia. such depths of blue atmosphere melting into the green of pine forests! the forestry system of bohemia is something to admire and to study. for generations, governmental inspection has been tireless in its efforts to improve and develop the forests. there are many large estates which have their own private foresters; no opportunity for tree planting is neglected. on the smaller farms, if the soil is not adapted to the raising of fruits and vegetables, the state tells the farmer what trees will flourish best in that kind of soil. thus no acre is wasted. twice a year the official inspector decides what trees may be cut. if, during the year, some farmer wishes lumber, it is the inspector who decides what trees, if any, may be cut. no sooner has the tree fallen than a fresh sapling takes its place. the trees are planted in regular rows. there is no crowding. in such a land, forestry is a distinguished profession. for some distance the valley narrowed almost to a cañon. then wider views opened, until from a wooded ridge we saw below us in the valley the village of marienbad. nature was good to her children when she fashioned this rare resort, lying so white and clean in its green cradle of high pine-covered hills. much too briefly must we give our impressions of life at a bohemian watering place. every one lives out of doors. the many villas are generously provided with balconies to catch the sunshine and pine breezes. unlike most health resorts, the atmosphere of the sick room is absent. few invalids are to be seen. most of the _kurgäste_ come here for the purpose of reducing their weight. their chief rule of life is to eat little and exercise much. the numerous tennis courts are constantly filled. the mountains invite to long walks. there are hot baths, steam baths, mud baths, and baths that would probably have been new even to the bath-loving romans. the gymnasia are elaborately equipped with exercising apparatus. if one wishes to watch another phase of this struggle against excessive avoirdupois, he should rise at a dim gray hour and walk over to the promenade. people of every nationality crowd about the mineral springs and then, with their glasses well filled, they take their places in the cosmopolitan throng which moves slowly up and down the long promenade. one hears the confused murmuring of many voices in many languages, the favorite topics of this linguistic babel relating to various ailments and the weight-reducing qualities of different mineral waters. a less corpulent arrival is looked upon with envy. slowly the glasses are emptied, and then again filled. it is customary to walk up and down for an hour, while drinking two glasses of mineral water. with each swallow the _kurgäste_ appear to be imbibing the hopes of their diminishing avoirdupois. the germans are in the majority. they are always desperately conscientious in their endeavor to meet all the requirements of this simple but exacting life, possibly because they realize that a long devotion to beer and sandwiches is not the best means to preserve the youthful figure. near the promenade are weighing shops. a place like marienbad naturally includes among its habitués some who could easily qualify for the monstrosity class. we remember one egyptian phenomenon of enormous proportions who had to have his own private scales. after the hour at the spring comes a strenuous half-hour climb to a hilltop restaurant where breakfast is served. how inviting those repasts in the open air! the coffee is as good as can be found anywhere in europe, and the scrambled eggs and _schinken aus prague_ are served by pretty bohemian waitresses arrayed in all the colors of their native costumes. at these hilltop restaurants orchestra music is always an attractive feature of the breakfast. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the brandenburger thor_ _page _] one is never sure what distinguished statesmen or prince of royal blood is sitting near by. while we were breakfasting one morning a gentleman dressed in an ordinary business suit approached and sat alone at a table close at hand. we learned later that he was the prime minister of russia. the activities and diversions of the day would be incomplete without a stroll after dinner down the pleasant kaiserstrasse. at this evening hour all the visitors to marienbad pass in leisurely review. the austrian officers, erect and soldierly, make quite a striking appearance. our attention was also attracted to the monks of tepl, with their long black cloaks and broad-brimmed hats. they are the owners of marienbad, and live in a monastery situated a few miles from the village. about two centuries ago the monks of tepl began to realize the commercial possibilities of their springs. forests were cut away; streets were laid; marshes blossomed into gardens and green lawns; splendid buildings were erected for patrons who wished to take the various baths, and to-day marienbad is a village of hotels and villas. last year there were about forty thousand visitors. the monks whom we saw looked sleek and well-fed. they lead an easy life, hunting, fishing, and managing their lucrative property. the monastic vow of poverty has probably long since ceased to mean much of a hardship. this fact of a modern village being controlled by a wealthy religious organization dating as far back as is most unique. it is doubtful if a parallel case can be found anywhere. the town shows in many ways the influence of its monastic administration. licensed gambling halls, which are so prevalent in all of the french watering places, do not exist here. there is no night life. after ten o'clock in the evening the streets begin to look deserted. amusement places of doubtful character have thus far found no footing in this simple village life. considering the thousands of idle and pleasure-loving europeans who throng every year to marienbad, it seems remarkable that the general tone of the place should have been kept so high. chapter ii marienbad to trafoi even a congenial environment like that of marienbad began to lack interest when we looked at our motor itinerary and saw awaiting us such rich experiences as climbing above the clouds over the snowbound stelvio, or the sight of carcassonne, tower-girt and formidable behind feudal walls. the call of the white road was irresistible when it led through the purple valleys of the pyrenees to beautiful biarritz on the atlantic and to san sebastian in spain, where the spanish king and queen hold summer court. the perfect day of blue skies added its persuasive voice. we were again on the road. the villas of marienbad withdrew behind the mountains, and we settled down to the complete enjoyment of the ride through bohemia and southern germany to munich. on either side were quaint scenes of bohemian life. every little farm hamlet had its pond of geese, with a goose girl tending her flocks. one of them threw us a flower. her action meant more to us than she thought; it was a happy omen for the rest of the trip. peasant women were toiling barefooted in the fields, or trudging along the road, bending under heavy burdens of wood. this human element in the scene was impressive. here, as everywhere, the great drama of human life was being played. but the role of the actors was such a humble and pathetic one, so much of the land was given over to unfruitful fields, half cleared of stumps! there were no such pictures of content and prosperity as one finds everywhere in germany and holland. the houses were scarcely more than huts. we halted in some of the towns to take a first lesson in the czeck or bohemian dialect. the store signs were mysterious, with their hieroglyphics. one shop contained sewing machines, and the word "singowiski" above the door hinted that this might be the bohemian translation of singer sewing machines. road signs were not always visible, and less often intelligible. then we were obliged to ask the way. if the source of our information was a town official he usually spoke in german, otherwise in bohemian, an answer which did not relieve us of our uncertainty. the german frontier was reached about noon. our _triptyque_ received the customary official stamping at the _zoll-amt_. to our great relief, no questions were asked about _pichner torte_, a very delicious kind of cake made only in austria, and so good that tourists always lay in ample supplies. such articles as a rule are heavily taxed at the austrian frontier. just at this moment looloo, our french bull terrier, became sick. the shock of coming so suddenly into german territory was probably too much for her sensitive french temperament, but she soon revived after eating a piece of french dog biscuit. we lunched at a _gasthaus_ in the small town of furth im walde. the first word on the wall which caught our attention was "_ausstellung_." that was enough to make us feel that we were once more in the fatherland. the germans seem to be always holding or advertising exhibitions and fairs. "_ausstellung_" and "_practisch_" need have no immediate fear of losing their place in the vocabulary of the average german. there was no doubt of our being in germany. we would have known it from the trim, clean farms. order and thrift were in evidence, every stick of every wood pile in place--all such a contrast to bohemian untidiness. once more in the land of the kaiser, and motoring through picturesque bavaria, slow changing and old-fashioned, the mediæval part of modern germany, a region of small towns and peasant farms. we were often delayed to pay the _zoll_ of a few _pfennigs_. the impost was not onerous, but it was inconvenient to stop so often. frequently a little girl or small boy would come out to collect our _pfennigs_, and would hold up flowers for us to purchase. on one occasion we saw an aged collector of tolls apparently overburdened by official cares, his head sunk in slumber, and a large beer stein on a table near him. the picture was so characteristic of the slow-moving life around us! our motor flight through this fascinating region of germany afforded opportunity to observe how the different towns had striven for a style of architecture original and unique. the houses had much warmth of color, much more than one would see in northern germany. but then bavaria is of course closer to italy, and to the vivid landscapes, the bright sunny skies of the southland, and this difference in climate is naturally reflected in the life of the people. it is not surprising that the great artists of germany should have come from the south. we remember vividly the town of straubing, where we stopped to buy gasoline. in the middle of the street an old-fashioned clock tower rose above the red-tiled roofs and gabled houses. many of the homes had attractive window gardens; red and blue were the prevailing colors. no one was in a hurry; life moved with a leisurely swing. baedeker barely mentions straubing, but we doubt if nurnberg or munich could show a street more typically south german or better worth the artist's brush. at this point should be mentioned the happy discovery of the lunch box which thoughtful friends had stowed away with the baggage. there had been so much to attract our attention that we had overlooked it. our motor appetites were equal to the occasion; fruit, cakes, and cold chicken sandwiches received no mercy. it is unnecessary to add that scenery and sandwiches went well together, especially such scenery and such sandwiches. the landscapes were not more varied than the weather. at times the road was wet where a shower had just preceded us. all day the sunshine had brightened and faded. now we noticed a battalion of dark clouds massing heavily above us; little by little the blue sky surrendered to the storm king; the artillery of heaven thundered into action. it was worth a wetting to see the storm sweep toward us and then fade into the gorgeous sunset which closed the day. the church spires of munich were luminous in the golden light. swiftly we sped down the long, straight road into the city. when we stopped before the comfortable regina palast hotel our speedometer registered one hundred and eighty-five miles, the longest run of the trip. the country ahead of us was to prove too interesting for any attempt at long-distance records. the evening gave a pleasant glimpse of bavarian life, of its good cheer and warm spirit of hospitality, so in contrast with the colder social customs of the north. the berliner is reserved, exclusive. when he enters a café he would like, if possible, a table where he can sit alone. but bavarian sociability is all-pervasive. the café where we passed an hour or so was filled with it. tyrolean warblers in native costume occupied the stage fashioned to portray a bit of south german landscape. song books were handed us. every one joined in singing the rollicking folk songs. of course the evening would have been incomplete without a visit to the famous _brauerei_ and a cooling sample of _münchner brau_. after a couple of days in munich we departed for landeck, in the austrian tyrol, a ride of one hundred and eighty-two kilometers. for some distance our course was the same as the route to ober-ammergau. lunch at a wayside inn included _gänsebraten_, which can only be described as "_ausgezeichnet_." bright tyrolese landscapes flew by. it was glorious running, the air buoyant with the breath of the mountains, which rose in a jagged, majestic profile above little villages where the houses were painted with queer scenes of peasant life. at garmisch we were in the heart of the bavarian tyrol. it was a good place to stop for a few minutes to watch the people, the women almost theatrical in the gay colors of their dress, the men equally gorgeous with their red neckties, green hats and vests, to say nothing of green leggings which left knee and ankle bare. every one wore the feather. garmisch is not far from the austrian frontier, so we purchased five liters of gasoline, this necessary article being much more expensive in austria than elsewhere in europe. indeed, on reaching the _zoll-amt_ at griesen we found that gasoline had jumped from forty-five or fifty _pfennigs_ to a _kronen_ a liter, an increase of about eight cents. the austrian officials made us pay a duty of ninety _heller_ on the five liters of gasoline which we carried as reserve. they also enriched the treasury of their government by a duty of . _kronen_ on our twelve liters of oil, and thoughtfully suggested that we purchase five additional liters of gasoline at the austrian rates. in view of our purchase in garmisch, this invitation was declined. had we carried a spare wheel and covers, they would have requested us to remove them and would have weighed them in an outhouse opposite the _zoll-amt_. it is customary to charge duty on tires if the equipment be above a certain weight. if one carries the average equipment, there is usually no trouble. just across the frontier a sign post, bearing the word "_rechtsfahren_," reminded us of the change in the rule of the road. the scenery grew wilder. nowhere in europe can be found a more perfect country for the motorist than the austrian tyrol, with its splendid roads and incomparable scenery. steadily the road circled and climbed. it was the sunset hour. shadows were creeping out of deep valleys; a snowy mountain was turning to a lovely rose color in the crucible of the afterglow. far down among the shadows we spied a little lake, still and black under the overhanging mountains. the post-hotel in landeck was surprisingly good. it is located right on the river inn, which rushes noisily through the middle of the town. after an excellent _abendessen_ we retired early, and were not long in yielding to the drowsy roar of the waters. breakfast was followed by an animated scene in front of our hotel. amid a medley of motor horns, other cars were also departing. as we ascended beyond landeck, the road swung with easy grades above the magnificent gorge of the hoch finstermünz pass, where we stopped for a picture. the ride from this point over the reschen-scheideck pass was simply indescribable. in that exhilarating air, one seemed to be flying instead of motoring. we plunged through rocky tunnels, or hesitated as the road appeared to leap off into the abyss or the towering rock masses seemed to sweep forward as if to bar further progress. then would come a sharp turn, opening up a new sweep of highway. the road was as good as we found anywhere on the trip, and wide enough for the motor cars that occasionally passed us. but accidents could easily have happened at the curves. sure brakes and a tireless motor horn are invaluable at these critical moments. it was a pleasant surprise at reschen to see a cozy villa flying the american flag, and to discover acquaintances in this secluded corner of the old world. we had forgotten that buckwheat cakes could be so good. our departure was accompanied with warnings about the difficulties of the stelvio, which we were to climb the next day. after being shown the picture of this most formidable of mountain roads, with its serpentine windings, rising mile upon mile, and finally disappearing above the clouds, we wondered if the car could possibly ascend such a barrier, and if it would not be better to reach italy by some less dangerous route. one motorist had attempted the feat a few weeks before, and after climbing eight thousand feet was forced to turn back on account of deep snowdrifts. mention was also made of a particularly dangerous curve where there had once been a fatal accident. these reports were not encouraging, but nevertheless we wanted to make the attempt. every one who motors in the austrian tyrol has but one dream, one ambition--to submit his skill and car to the supreme test of scaling the stelvio. from reschen the car ran along a pretty lake, then shot down a long grade to mals and from there wound along to neu spondinig, where we stopped for a few minutes for tea and to exchange motor experiences with other travelers, on their way to landeck over the same route by which we had come. [illustration: _cutting across the glacier_ _page _] leaving neu spondinig, we turned sharply to the right and into the gloom of a deep gorge, crossing the bridges of the impetuous trafoier bach and climbing for several kilometers to trafoi, where a most marvelous view burst upon us. until this moment the high walls of the gorge had shut us in, but now the road suddenly opened into a view so magnificent as to seem almost unreal. we were directly under the shadow of the ortler, with its twelve thousand feet of rock and ice. the glittering whiteness of the madatsch glacier formed with its ice floods a veritable _mer de glace_. the scene was so wild, the impression so overwhelming, that for some minutes we forgot to order rooms for the night at the fine trafoi hotel. chapter iii crossing the stelvio into italy it was before seven that we started on the long climb. an early start is important when the main care is to keep the engine cool. cloudless skies favored our attempt. across the gorge we saw the towering weiskugel, its snows turned to radiant silver while the valley was still in shadow. the ortler was transfigured, the madatsch dazzling--almost blinding until our eyes had grown wonted to the brilliant spectacle. slowly the long grades sank behind us. it seemed better to set a steady, even though slow pace, and maintain it until the summit was reached. so we were forced to use second speed. the sides of the engine bonnet had been tied back to give the engine every possible bit of cool air. from "hairpin" to "hairpin" we went, these curves so sharp that at first it seemed impossible to make them without backing. how they twisted above us like the loops of a gigantic lasso flung far up the mountain, into the region of eternal snow! imagine it! forty-six of them! only on one turn were we forced to back, but with a large, powerful car this record would have been impossible. any car that cannot turn easily in a fifty-foot circle would better find some other way of reaching italy. it is not pleasant to back up when the edge of the precipice is a matter of inches. when the austrians built this road, a century ago, they were not thinking about motor cars. this masterpiece of road construction was intended for armies, not for automobiles. the makers of those curves, cut through heights of solid rock, never anticipated the luxurious modes of modern travel. if then they had only foreseen the coming of motor warfare, how much inconvenience would have been spared the impetuous motorist who to-day attempts to climb the stelvio in a long, powerful car which cannot quite make the turns without backing. surely, a few feet would have been added to those tantalizing, agonizing curves. how little the austrians realized that their military invasion would be followed by the more peaceful motor invasion of our day. with every turn, our admiration for this perfect road increased. one marvels at such matchless feats of engineering, at such gigantic obstacles so completely overcome. here, high retaining walls have been built to keep the road from crumbling away; there, mountain torrents that would have washed it away have been diverted. turn after turn, and still higher to go! pine woods gave way to stunted shrubbery, and then vegetation ceased altogether. we were above the clouds. nothing but the sun above us. snow banks appeared on either side; we could put out our hands and touch them. then through franzenshöhe, formerly the seat of the austrian customhouse, to ferdinandshöhe and the summit of stelvio, , feet above the sea, the highest point of motor or carriage travel in europe. it is impossible to describe the thrill, the intoxication, of the moment as we stood there watching the ice fields roll away in great waves, as if the ocean, in a moment of wild upheaval, had been frozen. leaving the car near the little ferdinandshöhe hotel, we climbed an elevation of one hundred and fifty feet to the hotel dreisprachenspitze, where one stands at the apex of three countries. we could look down into italy. the ice floods of switzerland swept to the horizon; a hundred snow peaks flashed in the morning sun. in the other direction yawned the mighty gorge of the stelvio, where it had taken us two hours and seven minutes to make eight miles. the wind was of razor keenness. on descending to arrange customhouse details with the austrian officials, we found the car frozen in the ice. the hot steel-studded tires had melted a deep groove, and were now held fast in the prison of their own making. even on the stelvio we had not expected to be frozen fast on the first of august. in vain we opened wide the throttle. the wheels turned furiously without gaining an inch. austrian soldiers came to our rescue. half a dozen of us pushed from behind. two american tourists who had just climbed the stelvio from the italian side in a cadillac, also gave generous aid. with the additional help of pickaxes and quantities of sawdust, the car finally shook off its icy fetters. meanwhile we had succeeded in snapping some kodak pictures without attracting the notice of the austrian officers. the stelvio is a military road, various forts are in the neighborhood, and the government regulations forbid the taking of photographs. in securing these pictures we ran the risk of heavier penalties than the confiscation of the camera and films. fortune did not smile so cheerfully at the italian _dogana_, two miles farther down. hardly had we touched the kodak when italian soldiers and customhouse officers rushed toward us. we were not sure whether we would be shot on the spot or simply left to languish in an italian prison. one of the officers seized the camera, tied a red string around it, and sealed it. observing that our ignorance of military regulations was fully equal to our ignorance of italian, he instructed us in french not to open the camera until we were beyond tirano, seventy miles away, the frontier town of the military zone. during the ascent the engine bore the chief strain. it had worked heroically without once faltering. now, upon the long down grades of the italian slope, we were forced to rely upon the brakes. the road descended with a continuous and fairly steep gradient for almost fourteen miles. it was dangerous, difficult work. we not only had to make the turns, which were just as sharp as on the austrian side, but it was necessary to watch the straining brakes, releasing them when the grade permitted and alternating the emergency brake with compression. this was a feat demanding all the qualities of motormanship. coolness and good judgment were indispensable at every curve of the descent. the road turned icy corners and edged along precipitous cliffs. if the brakes had refused to work, it would have been fatal; the downward plunge of the car would have been beyond control in a few seconds. but at that moment we were not thinking of danger. the thrill of the descent, the feeling of flying down from a great height, the ice peaks that rose higher above us, the stupendous chasm that at every curve opened newer and more savage depths--these were all a part of our exhilarating experience. we were coasting much of the time; gasoline and ignition had been cut off. rocky walls hurled back the blast of our motor horn as we entered the slippery winter galleries of the diroccamento defile. according to law, no vehicle may enter a tunnel if it is occupied. farther down, the road looped like the coils of a great serpent, twisting, disappearing, only to reappear farther down as a faint streak of shimmering roadway. it was curious, that sensation of falling, always sinking lower and yet never reaching the bottom. one more sweep through the braulio valley, and we stopped for lunch before the luxurious hotel bagni-nuovi, that popular watering place for the leisure rich of italy. our first repast upon italian soil very fittingly included macaroni and a generous _bottiglia di vino italiano_. after lunch we went into the terraced garden, fragrant with orange trees, overlooking dreamy bormio, the gateway of italy. the warm sunshine was delightful after having so recently faced the icy winds of the stelvio. here we joined an american party from detroit, mr. and mrs. ----, who were chaperoning two attractive american girls on a motor trip through italy and the tyrol. they had rented an italian car in rome, but had not found the investment altogether satisfactory, the usual story of rented cars in europe. these chance meetings with other americans _en route_ were among the pleasantest features of our trip. we would gladly have prolonged the visit, had it not been necessary to leave early in the afternoon if we were to reach menaggio on lake como before dark. after descending into bormio, one motors for some distance between high, vine-clad slopes, and then passes through two or three villages, typically italian with their dilapidated churches and narrow, cobbled streets swarming with dirty children, many of whom took a special delight in darting across our track just as we were passing. northern italy is wonderfully picturesque. the long defile of s. antonio morignone, the antiquated towns, the slender _campaniles_ standing out so clearly in the misty, dreamy landscape, the plains of lombardy with their scenes of peasant life,--these were all interesting details to be duly jotted down in the notebook of memory. it was haying time. the farming methods seemed so primitive; everything was hand work. we did not see a single labor-saving machine. the international harvester company would not have done a profitable business here. the hayricks were very small, and even these were often lacking, for barefooted women staggered under large bundles of hay. yet these backward farmers make stalwart soldiers. sturdy and frugal, they are, as in france, the backbone and hope of the nation. europe recognizes the fine horsemanship of the italian cavalry. the "corazzieri," or royal bodyguard, is a magnificent corps. it is difficult to believe that most of these men are peasants. there was no need of a compass to learn that we were going west, for the afternoon sun shone full in our faces. this steady glare, and the dazzling reflection from the white, dusty road, became almost unbearable. it was constantly necessary to shield the eyes. there was no winding or turning. often we overtook a hayrick occupying most of the highway. the driver was usually invisible in the soft depths of the hay, and so drowsy from the sun or liberal drafts of _chianti_ that persistent blasts of the motor horn were necessary to attract his attention. tresenda was passed, and then sondrio, the capital of the fertile val tellina, noted for its wines. [illustration: _lake como, most beautiful of the italian lakes_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] the sun was a glowing disk upon the horizon when we reached colico upon lake como, most beautiful of the italian lakes. there was a crimson light on the water. red sails drifted lazily toward the shore. across the lake the high mountains rose cone-like to a peak, like extinct volcanoes. from a distant bell tower floated the clear, sweet tones of the angelus. before some of the houses, young italians were playing melodies on guitars. twilight was falling, that wonderful twilight so full of color and feeling, of the romance and sentiment of northern italy. after several miles along the shore, through these fascinating scenes, we reached menaggio. the evening in the cool lake garden of the grand hotel was a refreshing sequel to the afternoon's hot ride. we could see the government searchlight sweeping its bright rays in search of smugglers. the italian lakes are partly in italy and partly in switzerland. salt and tobacco are state monopolies in italy. the poor people are forbidden even to pick up from the docks the few grains of salt which may have fallen during the loading and unloading of ships. guards patrol the beaches to compel those who use the sea for a washtub, thoroughly to wring the salt water from the clothes. in spite of all the government's precautions, large quantities of salt and tobacco are smuggled in from switzerland over the italian lakes. the italian officials are poorly paid. the operator of the searchlight which we saw received only eight dollars a month. the small salaries breed bribery and corruption, and it often happens, therefore, that on a dark night the government searchlight fails to discover a rowboat that goes out from the swiss shore. the smugglers escape the vigilance of the swift revenue cutters, and make a successful landing on the italian side. the next day was so hot that it seemed best to pass the time quietly at menaggio, in our restful retreat. the rooms were large and airy, and open to the fresh lake breezes. the hotel had once been a villa, and with its private garden of thick plane trees was just such a spot as the dusty motorist delights to stumble upon after a long ride over the hot italian roads. our gasoline was running low, so noticing a sign with the words _benzino-lubrificanti_, we entered. the _commercianti_ spoke as much english as we spoke italian. we compromised on gestures. in italy it is a safe rule to pay about half the price asked. after half an hour of bargaining we obtained five liters of gasoline for forty-five _centesimi_ a liter. the price demanded at first was ninety-five _centesimi_. our change included a couple of five-lira notes so dirty, greasy, and mangled that they looked in the last stages of the plague. we would have felt safer to have handled them with tongs. within a few days we had received _kronen_, _heller_, _marks_, _pfennigs_, _lira_, _centesimi_. it was quite an education in the currency systems of europe. on the way back to the hotel we entered the cathedral. to find so imposing an edifice amid so much poverty was a surprise. equally astonishing was the way the steep hills behind the town were terraced and cultivated, as though the very rocks themselves had been made to blossom and bear fruit. an italian woman across the street was filling her jug at a fountain. the nozzle, crumpled into a trefoil, was of the same style as that used by the roman matrons twenty-five centuries ago. little things like this show how slowly time has marched in these lake towns of northern italy. the cool fragrance of early morning filled the air when we waved _addio_ to our _padrone_ and followed the curves of the shore toward como at the end of the lake. there is much in favor of an early start before the heat begins to quiver above the road and the air to resemble a continuous cloud of dust. every foot of the way was interesting. there were bright-colored villas half smothered in vines; crumbling bell towers flung their shadows across our path; dizzy cliffs hung above us; the lake was constantly within view. at one of the turns a bicycle rider shot by. we missed him by an inch. he was followed by many others, scattered over the distance of a mile. they were all riding recklessly, rounding the corners at top speed and with heads bent low over the handle bars. different numbers were pinned on their backs. this was evidently a long-distance bicycle race. it was nerve racking to meet so many curves and not to know whether the riders would pass us on the right or on the left. there is no fixed rule of the road in italy. in towns having a tram, one turns to the left. southern italy is still more confusing, since each town has its own rule. in como we motored down two or three streets before finally discovering, after many inquiries, the road running northward to aosta in the italian alps. [illustration: _italian villas on lake como_ copyright by underwood & underwood] we regretted our last glimpse of the lake. instead of hazy mountains, blue sparkling waters, red sails, and pretty villas, the scenery changed to flat, uninteresting country. novara was reached by noon, its streets baking in the fierce august sun. at the hotel italia the flies covered table and dishes. the ménu card presented difficulties; it was written in a very illegible italian. we guessed at most of the courses, but macaroni was the only dish of which we were sure. but our plight was not quite so discouraging as that of another motorist who found that for three of his courses he had ordered eggs cooked in three different ways. the early afternoon was so hot that we had thought of taking a siesta, but soon gave up the idea. there were too many flies. the inmates of the garage were all fast asleep, and the two blinking men whom we aroused could not conceal their surprise at our unseasonable departure. once out in the country, the dust invaded and pervaded everything. it was real italian dust, that sifted into us and all but blinded us. the heat was terrific. for fear of bursting a tire, we halted in a drowsy village to let the car cool off under a shady chestnut tree. as if by magic, a score of dirty, ragged italian children surrounded us, and begged for _centesimi_. we threw them a few coppers, but this vision of riches only served to redouble the clamor. flight seemed the only price of tranquillity. a little way outside the village, a cloud rolled swiftly toward us. the motor car did not appear to be much more than a cloud when it passed us, so thick was the dust. if there is anything hotter or dustier than an italian highway on the third of august, we do not wish to see it. the drivers of most of the small carts were curled up, content to let the patient mule take its own pace, provided their siesta was undisturbed. the shrill call of our horn often caused them to move a little; there would be a slight twitching of the reins, and then they would relax again into slumber. the mule never changed its course. beyond ivrea the country became more rolling and broken, and the alps, which an hour before had appeared as blue, shadowy cloud masses, now lifted bold, distinct outlines. this contrast in scenery was as abrupt as it was impressive. perhaps it was a ruined castle perched like an eagle's nest amid high crags. within the same view, the eye beheld the vineyards, not planted in the usual manner of row above row, but arbor above arbor, supported by white stone pillars, and these arbors rising to the very summit of lofty hills. the road which had been winding and rising above the magnificent valley of aosta now ran into a level stretch. we had opened wide the throttle, when all at once a motor car flashed around a curve two hundred yards ahead of us. an officer in the back seat waved to attract our attention, and kept pointing back to the curve. the warning was just in time, for as we waited within the shadow of the bend, another motor car shot at racing speed around the curve. she was a french racer. there had been no warning shriek of her horns; the road was so narrow at this point that a collision could hardly have been avoided without that precious second of warning. every year in europe reckless driving causes more accidents than all the steep roads of the alps. this is the chief danger of motoring on the continent. the roads are so good that there is the constant temptation to disregard the still small voice of prudence. the old roman town of aosta was in sight. this "rome of the alps" is a perfect treasure house of antiquities. passing under ancient roman arches, we rode down the quaint main streets to the hotel royal victoria, situated, according to our _michelin guide_, "_près de la gare_." the hotel, although small, was clean. this fact of cleanliness speaks much for any hotel located in a small italian town. our morning promenade revealed much that was interesting. the middle of some of the streets was traversed by a mountain stream, the above-ground sewage system of aosta. it was curious to notice how a part of the ancient roman theater had become the supporting wall of a crowded tenement house. aosta remains to-day almost undiscovered to the american tourist world. yet there are few places where antiquity speaks more vividly. the market place was a scene of activity. this is the starting point for the crossing of the petit st. bernard pass. here tourists were climbing into large excursion automobiles, and german mountain climbers were setting out, well equipped with long, iron-pointed poles, ice picks, ropes, and heavy spiked shoes for their battle with snow and ice. it was ideal weather for our second conquest of the alps over the petit st. bernard, which is closed eight months out of the year. while very dangerous in places, the pass is free from the restrictions which the motorist finds on the simplon. there, one has to give notice in writing of intention to cross. it is also necessary to pay five francs for a permit. the speed limit of six miles an hour is rigidly enforced. nevertheless, as one experienced motorist told us, if the simplon pass compels a speed of six miles an hour on the straight course, and one and three-fourths miles at the curves, the petit st. bernard ought to have a special speed-limit of three miles an hour on the straight and two guards at every corner. except the stelvio, there is probably not a more difficult mountain pass in europe. we left aosta to its memories of roman days, threaded for some distance the tortuous windings of the val d'aosta, and crossed the pont de la salle above a high gorge. near the ancient village of pré st. didier a rocky tunnel buried us temporarily from the outer world. here the ascent began, and continued for some miles to la thuile, the italian _dogana_. as we climbed out of the valley the panorama included a sublime view of mont blanc, highest of the alps. [illustration: _above the val d'aosta_ copyright by underwood & underwood] at la thuile, two frenchmen, about to make the ascent on motor cycles, cautioned us about the dangers of the climb. the customhouse officials were unusually affable, and were delighted to be included in a group picture. then the long climb of six miles to the summit began to reveal dangers and difficulties. one sharp curve followed another. we soon overtook the french motor cyclists. they were walking, having found the ascent too steep. it was thrilling to be able to look down into the sunshine and fertility of italy and then to observe the barren world of rock and snow into which we had risen. the engine proved equal to the severe test. we used the same tactics which were so successful on the stelvio, keeping the same pace until the summit was gained, where we let the car rest near the world-famous hospice du petit st. bernard. other cars had halted in succession, having made the ascent from the french side _en tour_ to italy. there was missing one interesting personality who had greeted visitors to the _hospice_ in other years, the abbé chanoux, for fifty years rector of the _hospice_ and the last patriarch of that legendary region of the alps. the _hospices_ of the grand st. bernard, and of the simplon in swiss territory, are managed by priests, but the abbé chanoux reigned alone in his mountain hospital, assisted by a few helpers and by his dogs. for half a century it was always a joy, when he saw some traveler less hurried than the others, to offer him a glass of _muscat_ in his workshop and then, after having shown his garden of alpine plants, to point out the shortest road to la thuile. to-day the tourist can see the alpine garden and the grave where, at the age of eighty-one years, abbé chanoux was buried. the resting place is where he wished it to be, in view of italy, france, mont blanc, and his beloved _hospice_. just beyond the _hospice_ is a roman column of rough marble bearing the statue of st. bernard. one also sees, close by, a circle of large stones marking the spot where hannibal is supposed to have held a council of war. a simple slab by the roadside designates the boundary line between italy and france. as if to emphasize the fact that we were in france, a group of french soldiers were on duty close to the frontier. the cuisine of the restaurant belvedere, with its attractive _carte du jour_, took us into the real atmosphere of the country. the descent of nearly eighteen miles from the summit to the french _douane_ at séez, was like passing from mid-winter to mid-summer. what a superb stretch of motoring it was! the panorama, one of those marvelous masterpieces which nature rarely spreads before the eyes even of fortunate motorists! from our point of observation, on a level with the ice peaks, we could look for miles down into the plains of savoy. mont blanc glistened like burnished silver. we could trace the mountain streams from their cradle in the glacier to their wild leaping from cascade to cascade and to the more peaceful flow through the valley. pine forests mantled the lower part of the mountain. ignition was cut off, and the car left to her own momentum. the grades were much steeper than on the italian slope, and the curves without railing or protection of any kind. the slightest carelessness in steering would have been fatal. flowers and grass began to cover the meadows. pine forests surrounded us. then we entered on the long, sharp descent to séez, stopping at the _douane_ where the french officials came out to receive us. the following incident will sound almost too incredible even to be included in a story of motor experiences. there was a small duty to be paid on the gasoline which we were carrying. our wealth consisted of american express checks, a few italian coins, and some french change, insufficient by twenty _centimes_ to pay the duty. one of the officials advanced the twenty _centimes_ from his own pocket, thus saving us the inconvenience of trying to cash the express checks somewhere in the town. we wished to "snap" his picture, but his modesty was too great. he also refused the italian coins which we tried to press upon him as a souvenir of the occasion. one associates customhouse officials with so many things that are unpleasant, that the incident naturally made a great impression on us. our difficulties were by no means over. the winding road with its sharp grades required the greatest caution. near the pont st. martin it appeared to run straight over a precipice, and then turned sharply to the right. this was the place where only a few weeks later an american party suffered a terrible accident. their machine swerved while making the slippery turn, and fell nearly seventy feet among the rocks. for a distance of seventeen miles from bourg st. maurice to mouthiers the road was in an appalling condition, any speed over ten miles an hour being at the risk of breaking the springs. a railroad was being constructed, and the heavy teams had raised havoc. we were creeping through this traffic, when the sudden halt of the wagon in front compelled us to stop. two big teams, drawing stone, closed in on either side. the drivers, intent only on looking ahead, did not notice that their heavy wheels were in danger of smashing the car. we finally attracted their attention, but barely in time to avoid trouble. from albertville our course was over the splendid nationale, which runs from paris to italy. it is always a pleasant experience to motor on these famous highways, to observe the governmental system of tree planting, and to study what trees have been found most suitable in certain regions to protect the road and the traveler. the ornamental horse chestnut and maple greeted us most often in the small towns of eastern and northern france. long rows of plane trees formed one of the familiar and beautiful sights of provençe. we often saw these trees fringing the fields to give shelter and protection from the blasts of the mistral. it was also interesting to notice how fruit trees have in many places replaced forest trees along the road. these national highways, so much improved by napoleon, were for us like open books for the study of the french trees. it has been well noted that "while the state has the right to plant along the national roads, at any distance it pleases from the adjoining property, it exercises this right with judicious moderation and leaves, as a rule, two meters--six and one-half feet--between the trees and the outside edge of the roadway. "tree planting is let in small contracts, sometimes as low as five thousand francs apiece. the object of this is to promote competition and to attract specialists, such as gardeners and nurserymen, who are hardly likely to have the means for undertaking large contracts. "government inspectors see that the contractor plants well-formed trees, free from disease and in every way first class. "as the best planting season is short, a fine is imposed for every day's delay. when the contractor gets his pay, a certain sum is retained as a guarantee; and for two years he is responsible for the care of the trees and for the replacing of any that died or that proved defective. the sum held back until the final acceptance of his work, protects the government from danger of loss."[ ] [ ] from "french roads and their trees," by j. j. conway, in _munsey's magazine_ for october, . there was no hurry about reaching chambéry, our headquarters for the night. the distance of a few miles could easily be covered before dark, so we halted for a little while by the roadside. the car was in remarkably good condition after the tremendous strain of the day's ride. dimly, in the distance, towered the snow-clad heights where we had been motoring only a short time before. by thus tarrying a while we enjoyed dazzling retrospect, present beauty, and alluring prospect. a big peugot tore by. these wide, smooth highways of crushed stone invite speed. there is a speed limit of eighteen miles in the open country, but it has long been a dead letter. the french system is to allow the motorist to choose his own pace, but to make him fully responsible for accidents. by thus heavily penalizing careless driving, the law works to develop the driver's discretion and does not impose farcical speed limits. this absence of burdensome regulations eliminates an endless amount of friction, and is one of many conditions in france which have contributed to the pleasure and comfort of foreign motorists. now we were in savoy, celebrated for its mountain scenery, its lakes, and curious peasant villages. there was a home feeling in our return to this beautiful french province, for we had motored here a previous summer. many a delightful motor ramble was associated with the names of chamonix, at the foot of mont blanc; evian-les-bains, on lake geneva; annecy, on the lake of the same name, that quaint city which so charmed the prince of wales, a few years ago, with its arcaded, winding streets and old-world charm; aix-les-bains, the noted and popular watering place; and there, only a few miles away, chambéry, historic city of the dukes of savoy and of the kings of italy. it was fine to see that same blue atmosphere about us again, and, above all, to think that for weeks our motor wanderings were to be in france, the one country on the continent of europe where an american can feel most at home, and where the motorist can find, amid diversity of scenery, a provincial life charming alike for its hospitality and old-fashioned customs. riding through the twilight to chambéry, we hunted up the hôtel de france. this hotel could hardly have been described as luxurious, but it was comfortable, as are most of the hotels in the provinces. the chief interest of chambéry centers about the rue des arcades. at one end of the arcaded street is the curious fontaine des elephants. this monument, on four bronze elephants, is dedicated "to the comte de boigne, who settled here after his romantic life of soldiering in india and bestowed much of the fruit of the pagoda-tree upon the town." at the other end of the street are the high, massive walls which protect the château where the dukes of savoy lived and where some of the kings of italy were born. there is little enough to recall the glamour and glitter of those proud days. the city, with its more prosaic emblems of civil and military authority, now occupies the château. chapter iv a visit to lyons at chambéry we interrupted our trip through southern france to visit lyons, the center of the silk industry not only for france but for the entire world. for once, we traveled by train. there is an element of strain about mountain motoring which is as severe upon driver as upon car. a diversion is not only welcome but almost necessary to the motorist who has twice guided his car over the alps within the short space of a few days. the exhilaration of looking down into france or italy from the summit of the alps does not lessen the dangers of the long descent, where for considerable stretches every foot of the way is crowded with possibilities of accident. lyons, while usually overlooked by the vast army of summer tourists, holds, in many respects, a unique place among the world's great cities. we would speak of its magnificent location upon two rivers, the rapid rhone and the sluggish saône; of the twenty-seven bridges that cross them; of the many miles of tree-lined quays, which hold back the spring floods and offer a lovely promenade to the people. no one who has seen lyons will forget how the houses rise in picturesque confusion, tier piled above tier, to the heights of fauvière, where some of the roman emperors lived centuries ago, and where, on the site of the old roman forum, stands a beautiful church, overlooking the city and embracing one of the views of europe of which one never tires. on a clear day the alps are visible, and the snows of mont blanc, and just outside the city one can see the two rivers uniting in their sweep to the mediterranean. lyons is a military stronghold. its prominence as a manufacturing and railroad center indicates, of course, its great strategic importance. seventeen forts guard the hills around the city. the army is much in evidence. this constant coming and going of the french soldiers gives much color and animation to the street scenes. everyone is impressed by the cuirassiers. they are powerfully built and look so effective, like real soldiers who could uphold the traditions of napoleon's time, and who would feel much more at home on the battle field than at an afternoon tea. we saw the zouaves, in their huge, baggy red _pantalons_ and with their faces tanned by exposure to the tropical sun of algeria. their red caps reminded us of the turkish fez. [illustration: _the rhone at lyons_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] the place des terraux, peaceful enough to-day with its busy shops and clouds of white doves, witnessed many a tragic spectacle of the french revolution. the guillotine stood in the center of the square. lyons, always royalist in its sympathies, was one of the first cities to raise the standard of revolt against the excesses of the revolutionists in paris. the consequences of this act were fatal and terrible. the reign of terror in paris was surpassed by the more gruesome reign of terror in lyons. an army was sent against the city, which was finally captured, after a desperate resistance. "then the convention resolved to inflict an unheard-of punishment; it ordered the destruction of a part of the city and the erection on the ruins of a pillar, with the inscription, 'lyons waged war with liberty; lyons is no more.'"[ ] [ ] _political history of modern europe_, by ferdinand schwill, ph.d. the city was "the scene of perhaps the greatest cruelty of the revolution, when women who had begged for mercy to their dear ones, were tied to the foot of the guillotine and compelled to witness hours of butchery."[ ] it was soon found that the guillotine did not work fast enough. the defect was quickly remedied. hundreds of captives were taken outside the city, where the guns of the revolutionists continued the slaughter on a larger and more satisfactory scale. [ ] from "the alpine road of france," by sir henry norman, m. p., in _scribner's magazine_, february, . possibly the most interesting fact about modern lyons is its industrial prominence. baedeker tells us that the city exports annually over one hundred million dollars' worth of silk. its life seems to be founded upon this one industry. the rich lyonnais are silk manufacturers. the museum of silks is the finest thing of its kind in europe. in the old part of the city is the statue of jacquard, the inventor of the silk loom. as we walked through the narrow streets, there could be heard the sharp clicking of the shuttles, a sign that the weavers were busy at their looms. we were shown the "conditioning house," where the imported raw silk is tested and subjected to a high temperature. this is the first important step in the manufacture of silk, which in the raw state absorbs moisture readily. but by exposing the silk to heat at a temperature of seventy-two to seventy-seven degrees fahrenheit, the water evaporates and the weight of the silk may then be ascertained. to prevent fraud it is then marked by a sworn valuer. france raises very little raw silk, most of it being imported from japan and china. out of a population of nearly half a million, nearly a third is directly engaged in the production of silk, and the workers in the surrounding districts would probably number as many more. for a distance of thirty miles, outside of lyons, the country is dotted with little houses, each containing one or more looms. the prosperity of few large cities is more clearly the result of a single industry. americans are especially interested in lyons for its connection with the starting of silk manufacturing in the united states. a short time ago we were shown a letter written in by an american living in lyons. he refers to the excitement created in this district by the rumor that weavers were being engaged with a view to establishing silk manufacturing in the united states on a very extensive scale, and that several companies had been formed and had sent out agents to purchase in lyons all the machinery and looms used in the manufacture of silk. the writer doubted if the conditions in the united states would make possible the success of the venture. in spite of this prediction, the industry developed rapidly, so that to-day nine hundred american manufacturers have a combined annual output valued at over two hundred million dollars. at the time of the assassination of lincoln the united states government received a silk flag from the weavers of lyons dedicated to the people of the united states in memory of abraham lincoln. the flag was of the finest fabric and was inscribed: "popular subscription to the republic of the united states, in memory of abraham lincoln. lyons, ." but while the united states is making more silk than france, lyons remains the real center and heart of the industry. american high-power looms are mostly engaged in turning out, by the mile, a cheaper kind of silk, and largely confined to standard grades in most common use. the thread is much coarser. after having lived in lyons it is possible to understand why this city continues to be the center of the silk industry, even when we consider that this is a mechanical age, and that the inventions of one nation spread quickly to competing nations. american manufacturers are using the jacquard loom, a lyonnais invention. the first american looms were imported from lyons, but one thing which was not bought and imported with the loom, was that aptitude for handling it which is inborn in the lyonnais. machinery has its limitations, and back of the machine is the question of efficient labor. the trained hand of the workman is needed at every turn. the looms of lyons are famous for their light, soft, brilliant tissues. the silk thread woven into many of these beautiful products is so fine that two and one-half million feet of it would weigh only two and one-fifth pounds. it is an experience to see the weavers at their work, and to watch the sure, skillful way in which they weave the thousands of delicate threads into harmonies of color. their skill is the heritage that has come down from father to son. these workmen have a start of many centuries over their american competitors. their ancestors were weaving silk before america was discovered, the industry being started in lyons in by italian refugees. traditions count for a great deal in the silk industry, and from the moment when lyonnais weavers gained the grand prix from their venetian rivals, under louis xiv, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, their looms were busy making costly robes and rare tapestries for the royalty of europe. in the museum at lyons is a robe worn by the famous catherine ii of russia. one is shown tapestries that adorned the apartments of marie antoinette in the tuileries at paris, and the throne room of napoleon i in the palace at versailles. money could not buy these precious souvenirs of the lyonnais looms. many of the gorgeous robes worn at the coronation ceremony of george v were made in lyons. to-day, as in the past, to make these rich silks and brocades that france is exporting, there is needed not only the skill of the worker, but the soul of the artist. this artistic french temperament is the important and deciding factor that makes lyons the center of the silk industry. there has been the attempt to create in the united states a style which would be distinctly american. it failed. the german emperor also encouraged efforts to create a style which would be typically german. the result was the same. the atmosphere in these countries is too commercial and mechanical for artistic vitality. in such an environment it is said that the french weavers who are employed in american silk factories become less effective, and lose much of their artistic originality. the industrial pace is too fast. the cost of labor in the united states is so great that the emphasis has to be placed on speed and quantity in order to cover the cost of production. but in lyons, with a cheaper labor cost, the organization of hand and power looms is so perfect that a manufacturer is able to fill large orders readily. a superior loom organization, combined with a temperament naturally artistic and creative, explains the advantage of the lyonnais manufacturer over his american rival, and why it is that american buyers for our large department stores come to lyons twice a year to select designs and place orders with the lyonnais manufacturers. department stores which cater to the wealthiest class of trade have their representatives permanently stationed here to keep in closest possible touch with the latest french fashions. this question of style is of such absorbing interest to the average american home that it will be worth while to notice the forces at work in lyons to produce it. paris is so largely the parade ground for new fashions that nearly everyone overlooks the tremendous influence of lyons in the creation of styles. the hundred and more silk manufacturers of lyons have their own designers, who are constantly devising new patterns and color combinations. most of the new designs and color schemes that appear every season in muslins, taffetas, satins, in all the varied kinds and qualities of silk, have their origin here. this is the creative source. it is paris that discriminates and decides to which of these new patterns it will give expression in the models which will be copied in all the fashion centers of the world. paris has the artistic sense of knowing how to combine the materials that lyons furnishes. the two cities work together. the famous fashion stores of paris and the silk manufacturers of lyons are the primary factors in the creation of styles, and yet, after all, the origin of style is to be found in the spirit of the times. our restless age craves constant change. a century ago in france, when life moved more slowly, the silk dress was an important part of the bride's trousseau, and after being worn on special occasions through her life, was handed down to the next generation. but to-day the styles change with the seasons. and as they change in paris so they change in the united states. if we look at this question of style simply from the standpoint of organization, it seems remarkable how perfectly every little detail of the complicated machinery has been worked out. a french silk manufacturer, who arrived in lyons after a visit to several american cities, was impressed not only with the rapidity with which styles spread from the upper to the middle classes, and the quickness with which the american people grasp new ideas of dress, but also with the fact that paris fashions appear in new york and chicago at almost the same time that they appear in paris. he saw accurate reproductions of the spring paris fashions, made in america of french materials, and with the color, the line, the idea, the detail, so perfectly reproduced that it would have been difficult to decide between them and the paris garment. more and more we are coming to realize our great debt to france, and to the old world, for our education in matters of taste, for our appreciation of beauty in line and color. and in lyons one comes closest to this artistic spirit in the workshops of the weavers, and especially those who work on the hand looms. there are thousands of these weavers of the old school that has done so much to make famous the silk industry of the city. their wages are small and they work amid surroundings of extreme poverty. we visited some of them in their shops. often we found the loom situated in a damp, gloomy basement, or on the top floor of some old house that looked as though it might have passed through the storm and stress of the period of the french revolution. these sanitary conditions are so bad that in there was organized a charitable company with the sole purpose of providing decent lodgings where the weavers could work under improved conditions of light and shade. we always found them hospitable, eager to exhibit their work and explain the workings of the loom. in one workshop the weaver was busy with a piece of satin, the design being wrought in silver and gold. for this beautiful bit of tapestry, which had been ordered for one of the apartments of the queen of england in windsor castle, the workman was receiving only one dollar a day. on another loom there was being reproduced a piece of sixteenth-century brocade. a french millionaire had noticed the original in a museum and wanted an exact reproduction of it for a new château he is building. after a morning passed amid such scenes, you feel that lyons is worth visiting, if for no other reason than to see at their work these artists of the loom who are so closely associated with one of the world's oldest and most interesting industries. chapter v chambÉry to nÎmes from chambéry our course ran southwest through the midi, that great sweep of territory stretching across the mediterranean basin from the alps to the pyrenees and embracing many of the most interesting regions in france. our departure, early in the afternoon, was under somber skies. we were just reaching the outskirts of the city when the engine gave evidence of trouble. the car ran for a little way and then stopped. an investigation revealed the necessity of cleaning the spark plugs. while engaged in this work, we did not notice the approach of an ox team which came swinging along the road, drawing a two-wheeled cart, the wheels high and heavy, of a type which one often sees in the midi. we were bending over the engine, with no thought of impending danger, when, without warning, the great wheels were upon us. the driver was evidently asleep; it was too late to attract his attention. the wheel grazed one of us, and then, as the oxen swung in, crushed the other against the fender. it was fortunate that the fender yielded just enough to cause him to be forced under it and thus saved him from serious injury. our car carried the scars of that encounter until the end of the trip. we were just as well satisfied that it was the car which bore the scars. not more than a mile or so from the scene of this adventure, a sign called attention to a long tunnel just ahead. the signs of the french roads speak an expressive language, they are so elaborately worked out for the traveler's convenience. this time it was a voice of warning. lamps were lighted. the tunnel closed over us. we could just make out the faint star of daylight ahead. weird shadows danced in front of the car. in the silence and gloom, the noise of our progress over the slippery road was greatly magnified. we emerged from the tunnel to find ourselves above a broad valley and nearing the small town of les echelles. [illustration: _out of the silence and gloom_ copyright by underwood & underwood] until this point our course was the route to the grande chartreuse, the monastery where, in mediæval days, the monks concocted a soothing cordial to refresh the hours of rude toil. the road now branched off in another direction. our hopes of catching a glimpse of the celebrated old monastery, built high amid enshrining mountains, were doomed to disappointment. a storm was about to break. heavy clouds, weighted down by their burdens of water, blotted out everything. from a patch of blue sky above les echelles, the sun streamed, and then disappeared. we raced down the easy slope to gain shelter in the village a mile away. swiftly the thick curtain of rain closed in. it was a question whether we would be able to reach shelter before the fury of the elements burst upon us. once more our car proved equal to the emergency, and we poked our way into the shed adjoining a village inn and waited until the worst of the storm had subsided. the rain continuing, we put up the top, and started in time to see a brilliant rainbow arching the whole valley. it was only for a moment. for the rest of the afternoon we splashed steadily through puddles and mud. the scenery changed. mountain landscapes gave place to the lowlands of the midi, barren rocks to fertile peasant farms. it was all a glimpse of france as she really is; not like germany, a land of large cities, but rather of small towns and rural hamlets where peasant ownership is a fact, and where the peasantry form a mighty political force. france, so torn by rival factions, would be like a machine without a balance wheel if it were not for a large peasant class attached to the soil by the bond of ownership. the life of the french peasant is not easy. he toils long hours for small rewards. even in the rain, we could see him continuing at his work. but he is free. those two or three acres are his own. that is the great point. this fact of possession, by creating local ties and by fostering patriotism, is the safeguard of the country. his implements appeared to be of the simplest; probably most of those whom we saw working on that rainy afternoon had never seen a steam plow or a harvesting machine. the homes were equally rude. everywhere in france we noticed the absence of those cozy, comfortable houses which are so characteristic of the average american farm. few fences were to be seen, possibly because of the spirit of justice as regards property rights, or perhaps because the land laws had been so perfectly worked out. we entered romans through a street so unusually wide as to be a pleasant surprise. darkness was coming on. road signs were indistinct, so we were forced to inquire the way to valence. the people were obliging. whether we were in the country or in some small town, there was always in evidence that same spirit of hospitable helpfulness which we found at the french _douane_ in séez. the street lamps of valence were burning when we arrived at the hôtel de la croix d'or, so well known to all who journey from paris to the riviera. the marble entrance was quite imposing, but apparently after reaching the top of the staircase the builders were suddenly seized by a passion for economy, since the interior was very plain, like most of the hotels in the french provincial towns. the dinner, however, made up for other deficiencies. here, and all through the midi, we could be sure of delicious _haricots verts_, _omelette_, and _poulet_; and what may seem strange, we never became tired of these dishes. the art of cooking them must be a monopoly of the french cuisine, for they never tasted so good in other countries. valence is more of a place to stop _en tour_ than to visit for sight-seeing. it is fortunate in being situated on the main route from paris to the riviera, the road that we were to follow, and probably the most popular and most frequented motor road in france. over its smooth, broad surface passes the winter rush of motorists seeking the warmer, more congenial climate of the mediterranean shores. we often found more or less trouble in getting out of the larger french towns. the streets are apt to have a snarl and tangle. carts and wagons block the way. roads are the worse for wear. this seemed to us one of the big differences between france and germany. the german town is neat, clean, well-kept as if the watchful eye of municipal authority were always on the alert to notice and remedy small defects. the average french town looks neglected. the people are just as thrifty, but they appear to care less for appearances. from valence we swung more quickly than usual into the splendid route nationale above mentioned. it was sunday. peasants were entering and coming from the small age-worn churches. at that hour the fields looked strangely deserted. blue skies were radiant, the air agreeably cooled by the rain of the night before, the dust well laid. more and more we were yielding to the fascination of europe from a motor car. train schedules did not trouble us. we were independent. there were no worries about having to arrive or depart at a certain hour. life on the road was a constant flow of new impressions, new experiences. every village had its own unique attraction. many motor cars passed us, each one an object of interest. possibly in our cruise along these high seas of the french roads our feelings were a little like those of the mariner when he sights a passing ship. where does she hail from? where her probable destination? of what make? what flag is she flying? it was always a welcome sight to view the stars and stripes flying toward us. one can usually tell the american car even when some distance away, it is built so high. we noticed many fords and cadillacs. there is not much of a market in europe for the expensive american car, because the foreign high-priced car is considered by the europeans to be good enough. the cheaper american product has a market because few of the foreign firms make a cheap car. high noon was upon us, the heat oppressive, our appetites ravenous, when we stopped in the poor little village of pierrelatte. the prospect for lunch was not encouraging. a single stray resident appeared at the other end of the silent street. the houses might have been occupied by peasants who wrested mere existence from a barren soil. the inn, which was pointed out to us, would never have been recognized as such. it looked more like a venerable ruin. in an american town of this size we would have hesitated before entering, and then probably would have turned away in despair to look for a bakery shop to stay the pangs of hunger. but we were growing familiar with the small french towns. it does not take long to discover that a hotel with an exterior symbolizing woe and want can have a very attractive interior at lunch time. [illustration: _the ancient roman theater at orange_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] we are still carrying pleasant memories of that lunch. there was _potage st. germain_, made as only the french can make it. the oil for the _salade_ was from the neighboring olive groves of provençe. the _haricots verts_ picked that morning in the garden, the _raisins_ fresh from the vineyard. best of all were the mushroom patties. one portion called for another. our hostess was pleased; there was no mistaking our genuine appreciation of her cooking. interrupting her culinary labors, she told us that the mushrooms were of her own canning. each year it was necessary to lay in a larger supply. tourists had found them so good that, on leaving, they had left orders for shipment to their home addresses. now she was planning to erect a small factory. her recital was interrupted by a frenchman, who implored "_une troisième portion_." he purchased a dozen cans of mushrooms, and if they had been gold nuggets he could not have stowed them away more carefully in his car. the french are authorities when it is a question of good things to eat. the road to orange was like a continuous leafy arbor. this shimmering arcade was too refreshingly cool to be covered quickly. on the outskirts of orange we halted to see the arc de triomphe, a wonderful echo from the age of tiberius. the arch stands in a circular grassy plot and the road divides, as if this product of the roman mind were too precious to be exposed to the accidents of ordinary traffic. the antique theater at the other end of the town is just as remarkable for architectural splendor. it is not enough to say that this structure is the largest and most magnificent of its kind in the world. it is also the best preserved. every year in august dramatic and lyrical performances are given by _la comédie française_. thus, after nearly twenty centuries, the theater is still serving its original purpose. we were impressed by the auditory facilities. one of us stood on the lowest tier of seats, and the other on the topmost row. even a whisper was distinctly audible. the erection of buildings with such perfect acoustics may perhaps be classed among the lost arts. [illustration: _arc de triomphe at orange_ copyright by underwood & underwood] southward from orange, the country began to look more like italy. olive and mulberry trees were more numerous. the cypress trees, so often seen in italian cemeteries, gave an impression of solemnity, almost of melancholy, to the country. at times they fringed the highway or stood alone upon the horizon like a distant steeple against a crimson sunset. the twilight was full of a brooding, dreamy silence as of communion with the past. this is the atmosphere of provençe, an atmosphere of "old, forgotten, far-off things and battles long ago." if one is interested in wonderful ruins that suggest the might of rome's empire, then let him go to provençe, that part of southern france where the romans founded their _provincia_, and where they built great cities. we found the hotels rather dreary. the towns were quiet. many of them, like pierrelatte, looked so poor. the streets were dirty and littered. one notices these things at first, and then forgets them, the air is so clear, the sunshine so dazzling, the horizons so distinct, the stars so bright. much of the country is barren and rocky. but the rocks as well as the ruins have a rich, golden brown color from being steeped for centuries in this bright southern sun. the people are romantic, impractical, happy in their poverty, singing amid grinding routine. they have their own dialect, which is very musical. even the names of their towns and cities are full of music, for example, montélimar, avignon, carcassonne. the country, with its roman ruins, its bright sun, its rich color, its laughter, and song, is like another italy. nowhere except in that land do we come so close to the great things of roman antiquity. we reached the grand hôtel in avignon at nightfall, but dined outside that we might the better observe the life of the people. the sweet voice of an italian street singer made it easy for us to imagine ourselves under the skies of florence or naples. avignon is the most italian looking city in france. [illustration: _the palace of the popes at avignon_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] the following morning was devoted to rambling. sometime we must spend a week in this interesting walled city on the rhone, where the popes lived between and in the huge palace that resembles a fortress. if there were nothing to avignon but its high mediæval walls and watch towers, the place would be worth a long pilgrimage. these gray ramparts, apparently new, were actually built in the fourteenth century. what a picture they gave us of stormy feudal times, when even the church was compelled to seek safety behind strong walls! the palais des papes is a colossal structure. we have forgotten what pope it was who was besieged here for years by a french army, and then escaped by the postern; it does not matter. the palace walls looked high and thick enough to defy all attack. the scenes of vice and profligacy during this period must have rivaled the court life of an ancient roman emperor. there was one pope, john xxii, who in eighteen years amassed a fortune of eighteen million gold florins in specie, not to mention the trifling sum of seven millions in plate and jewels. perhaps it was just as well for the popes of that time that the walls of their fortress towers were high and thick. above the palace of the popes and the adjoining cathedral is the promenade des doms, a public garden. we followed one of the paths that led along the edge of a high precipice. this view is one of the sights of avignon. it embraces the valley of the rhone, the swiftest river in france. the rapid current winds and disappears. nearly opposite, on the other shore, is the village of villeneuve. it is desolate enough now, with no trace of the beautiful villas which the cardinals built and where they were wont to revel amid luxury after the day's duties at the palace. beyond the town we could see the stately towers of fort st. andré, in that early period a frontier fortress of france, so jealous of the growing power of the papacy. most appealing of all, was the broken bridge of st. benezet, resisting with its few remaining arches the hastening rhone. above one of the piers is the little chapel of st. nicholas. the bridge is a romantic relic of the gay life of avignon when the city was the refuge of the popes. daudet, in his _lettres de mon moulin_, tells us that the streets were too narrow for the _farandole_, so the people would place the pipes and tambourine on the bridge and there, in the fresh wind of the rhone, they would dance and sing. [illustration: _the ruined bridge of st. benezet at avignon_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] "sur le pont d'avignon, l'on y danse, 'on y danse; sur le pont d'avignon, l'on y danse tous en rond." the distance to nîmes was so short that we decided to motor there for lunch, see the vast roman amphitheater and the world-famous maison carrée, and then push on to montpellier, where we planned to spend the night and perhaps remain for a day or so. the ride was more memorable for the oppressive heat than for any particular charm of scenery. it was noon when we crossed the river and looked back for a last view of the huge palais des papes. the sun blazed upon the white road, which quivered like white heat. there were few trees. the engine hood was so hot that we could not touch it. it would not have surprised us if one tire, or all of them, had burst; they probably would have done so if we had gone much farther. the glare was so intense that we entirely overlooked the little _octroi_ station on the edge of the town. we, however, were not overlooked. some one was shouting and waving a hundred yards behind us. it was not inspiring to back slowly through our own dust to convey the valuable information that we carried nothing dutiable. of course, at a time like this, the engine refused to start. after vigorously "cranking" for a quarter of an hour, and suffering all the sensations of sunstroke, we moved on to the hôtel du luxembourg for _déjeuner_. among our recollections of the lunch at this hotel were the ripe, purple figs. there is no reason why we should confess how quickly this delicious fruit disappeared. farther north, in berlin, such figs would have been a luxury, and might have appeared for sale at a fancy price in some store window. in nîmes they were served as a regular part of the lunch. we could almost have traced our trip southward by the fruits that were served us from time to time. [illustration: _the maison carrée at nimes_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] the broad boulevards and shady avenues of nîmes form a small part of the attractions of this prosperous city. there are fine theaters and cafés, especially the cafés with tables and chairs extending into the streets to accommodate the crowds of thirsty patrons. it was pleasant to be a part of this typically french environment, to watch this group or that, with their gestures, shrugging of shoulders, laughter, and rapid conversation. many phases of french life pass before so advantageous an observation point. but nîmes is not simply a modern city. nowhere else in france, not even in orange, does one get a clearer idea of what the splendor of roman civilization must have been. _provincia_ was a favorite and favored province of the empire; nîmes was the center of provincial life. for five centuries the different emperors took turns in enriching and embellishing it. we visited the maison carrée, most perfect of existing roman temples, inspected the gateway called the porte d'auguste, looked up at the tour magne, a roman tower, saw the remains of the roman baths, and then made our way to the amphitheater, smaller than the colosseum but so wonderfully preserved that you simply lose track of the centuries. the great stones, fitting so evenly without cement, have that same rich, golden brown color, the prevailing color tone of provençe. we entered the amphitheater through one of many arcades, the same arcades through which so many generations of toga-clad romans had passed to applaud the gladiatorial combats. now the people go there to see the bull fights which are held three or four times a year. on that particular afternoon a large platform had been erected for the orchestra in the middle of the arena. open-air concerts are very popular in nîmes during the summer. it was something of a shock to pass from these scenes of roman life by a jump into a motor car--the amphitheater illustrating the grandeur of rome's once imperial sway, the motor car symbolizing the spirit of our rushing modern age. the contrast was startling. chapter vi nÎmes to carcassonne there was abundance of time to arrive in montpellier before dark, so we let the speedometer waver between thirty and thirty-five kilometers. the road was hardly a model of smoothness. we were not always enthusiastic about the roads in the midi. on the whole, they were not much more than average, and not so good as we had expected to find them after that first experience on the route nationale to chambéry. where there was a bad place in the road we usually saw a pile of loose stones waiting to be used for repair, but many of these piles looked as though they had been waiting a long time. the roads are apparently allowed to go too long before receiving attention. owing to the increasing amount of heavy traffic, the deterioration in recent years has been more rapid than formerly. in some of the provinces, like touraine, there were short stretches of roadway in urgent need of repair. with conditions as they now are, the money voted by the government is insufficient to keep up the standard of former years. england now expends more than twice as much per mile as france, but while the french roads are in danger of losing to england the supremacy they have so long enjoyed, we cannot state too clearly that, taken as a whole, they are still the finest on the continent. it is probable that the present signs of decadence are only temporary. the government is fully alive to the needs of the hour. in all probability the movement headed by president poincaré more fully to open up the provinces to motor-tourist travel will have a good effect upon road conditions. it would be hard to find a small french city which makes such a pleasant first impression as montpellier; there is such an atmosphere of culture. one does not need to be told that this is a university town. municipal affairs seem to be well regulated; the _hôtel de ville_ would do credit to a much larger city. we discovered an open-air restaurant located upon an attractive _place_. the _garçon_, after receiving a preliminary _pourboire_, served us so well that we returned there the next day. everybody who visits montpellier will remember the promenade de peyrou which rises above the town. the scenic display is great. only a few miles away, and in clear view, tosses the restless mediterranean. the prospect made us realize how far south we had come since the starting of our tour from berlin. another interesting bit of sight-seeing in the neighborhood is the jardin des plantes, a remarkable botanical garden which was founded as far back as by henry iv, and is said to be the oldest in france. whatever the indictment against french roads in the midi, the stretch from montpellier to carcassonne was above reproach. much of the way it was the french highway at its best. wide-spreading trees arched our route. we would have been speeding every foot of the distance if the beautiful scenery had not acted as a constant brake. for a little way we ran close to the sea. the fresh salt breeze fanned our faces. it was a rare glimpse of the mediterranean. this enchanting scene lasted but a moment, for the road swerved into the great vineyards of the midi, an arcadian land of peace and plenty, the home of a wine industry celebrated since roman times. as far as the eye could reach, nothing but these green waves that billowed and rolled away from either side of the road. there was a touch of fall in the air, a glint of purple amid the green. ripening suns and tender rains had done their work. the road led through béziers, bustling center of preparations for the harvest. on several occasions we passed a wagon loaded with wine casks so large that three horses with difficulty drew it. the capacity of those huge casks must have been thousands of gallons. at béziers we could have taken the direct route to toulouse, but then we would have missed seeing carcassonne, the most unique architectural curiosity in france and perhaps in the whole world. our roundabout course brought us to capestang, a scattered peasant village inhabited by laborers in the vineyards. the luxuries and even the ordinary conveniences seemed far away from these homes. the shutters consisted of nothing but a couple of boards bolted or nailed together and clumsily working on a hinge. it was a region of flies; certainly they had invaded the little inn where we lunched. a heavy green matting tried ineffectually to take the place of a screen door, and let in thousands of unbidden guests. under these circumstances our lunch was a hasty one. as the noontide heat was too great to permit a start, we gladly accepted the invitation of our _hôtesse_ to see the church. the cool interior induced us to prolong our acquaintance with the sacred relics and to admire with our guide a statue of st. peter whose halo had become somewhat dimmed by the dust of centuries. the afternoon's ride to carcassonne was in the face of a strong wind. it was our first experience with the mistral, a curious and disagreeable phenomenon of provençe. there was no let-up to the storms of dust it swept over us. there were no clouds; simply this incessant wind that hurled its invisible forces against the car, at times with such violence that we were almost standing still. a heavy rainstorm would have been preferable; at least we would not then have been so blinded by the dust. occasionally the shelter of the high hills gave a brief respite from the choking gusts. all at once we forgot about the wind. in full view from the road was a hill crowned by the towers and ramparts of a mediæval city, a marvelous maze of battlements, frowning and formidable as if the enemy were expected any moment. we rode on to _la ville basse_, the other and more modern carcassonne, a little checkerboard of a city with streets running at right angles and so different from the usual intricate streets of mediæval origin. securing rooms at the grand hôtel st. bernard, we hastened back, lest in the meantime an apparition so mirage-like should have disappeared. the first view of this silent, fortified city makes one believe that the imagination has played tricks. there is something fairy-like and unreal in the vision. it seems impossible that so majestic a spectacle could have survived the ages in a form so perfect and complete. carcassonne had always been one of our travel dreams. from somewhere back in high-school days came the memory of a french poem about an old soldier, a veteran of the napoleonic wars, who longed to see _la cité_. one day he started on his pilgrimage, but he was sick and feeble. his weakness increased, and death overtook him while the journey was still unfinished. he never saw carcassonne. since that time we had wondered what kind of place it was that had made such an impression upon the french writers, and induced the french government to make of it a _monument historique_. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the castle and double line of fortifications at carcassonne_ _page _] at that moment, as we climbed the hill, the past seemed more real than the present. we looked for armored knights upon the wall, and listened for the rattle of weapons, the sharp challenge of the sentry. crossing the drawbridge over the deep moat, we were conducted by the _gardien_ along the walls and through the fighting-towers, great masses of masonry that had known so often the horrors of attack and siege. in this double belt of fortifications there were sentinel stations and secret tunnels by which the city was provisioned in time of war. here, was a wall that the romans had built; there, a tower constructed by the visigoths; and all so well preserved, as if there were no such thing as the touch of time or the flight of centuries. other places, like avignon, show the military architecture of the middle ages, but it is the work of a single epoch. the defenses of carcassonne show all the systems of military architecture from roman times to the fourteenth century. nowhere in the world can be found such a perfect picture of the military defenses of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. the walls and the huge round towers tell their own thrilling tales of roman occupation, of visigothic triumph, and of conquering saracen. then we could understand why the old french soldier longed to see carcassonne, and why tourists from all over the world include the city in their itinerary of places that must be visited. from our lofty observation point on the ramparts there was visible a great range of country, the slender windings of the river aude, the foothills of the pyrenees, and the vague summits of the cévennes. we followed a silent grass-grown street to the church of st. nazaire. it was beautiful to see the windows of rare gothic glass in the full glow of the setting sun. such burning reds, such brilliant blues and purples! "_c'est magnifique comme c'est beau._" a french family was standing near us. before leaving the church, we looked back. they were still under the spell of that glory of color. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the walled city of carcassonne_] there may have been an elevator in the grand hôtel st. bernard, but we were not successful in locating it. in a general way, this modest hostelry was of the same type which one finds in most of the small french cities like valence and avignon. we were of course greatly interested in gathering and comparing impressions of provincial hotel life. this was particularly interesting in a country like france, where the provinces with their rural and small-town life represent to such a marked degree the nation as a whole. it is always an instructive experience to discover how other countries live, and to compare their standard of living with our own. the hotel life of any country, if we keep away from fashionable tourist centers, usually gives an illuminating insight into the customs of that people. we had often noticed that the french are indifferent to matters relating to domestic architecture. so long as the kitchen performs its functions well, so long as the quality of the cuisine is above criticism, it does not matter if the rooms are small and gloomy or if the architect forgets to put a bathroom in the house. the frenchman likes to dine well. the café ministers to his social life. but with these important questions settled to his satisfaction, he is not inclined to be too exacting about his domestic environment. if we keep in mind these general observations, it will be easier for us to understand the defects and advantages of the french provincial hotel. most of the hotels where we passed the night would not begin to compare, in many ways, with the hotels to be found in american towns of the same size. we noticed a characteristic lack of progressiveness in so many respects. it was exceptional to find running hot and cold water. the corridors were narrow and gloomy, the electric light poor for reading. if there was an elevator, it usually failed to work. bathing facilities were on the same primitive scale. the attractions of the writing room were conspicuous for their absence. in france it is usually the writing room that suffers most; either it is a gloomy, stuffy chamber, more fitted to be a closet than a place for correspondence, or else located with no idea of privacy, and in full view of everyone coming in and going out. there were no cheerful lounging or smoking rooms. had it been winter, the heating facilities would probably have left much to be desired, and we might often have repeated our experience at the hôtel touvard in romans. it was january, and very cold. arriving early in the afternoon, we found that our rooms had absorbed a large part of the frigidity of out-of-doors. complaints were fruitless. we were informed that it was not the custom of the hotel management to heat the rooms before seven o'clock in the evening. in our selection of hotels we followed the advice contained in the excellent _michelin guide_, which has a convenient way of placing two little gables opposite the names of hotels above the average. while they were not pretentious, the quality of service was surprisingly good. we could always get hot water when we wanted it. the _maître de l'hôtel_ was always on the alert to render our stay as comfortable as possible, and to give us any information to facilitate sight-seeing. most of the hotels had electric lights, such as they were; the bedrooms were clean and comfortable, the cuisine faultless. if it be true that one pays as high as two francs for a bath, that is because bathing among the french is more of the nature of a ceremony than a habit. as for the small and neglected writing room, we must remember that in france the café usurps that function of the american hotel. this is a national custom. how the frenchman lives in his café! here he comes before lunch for his _aperitif_, to discuss business or politics, to write letters, to read the newspapers and play games, to enjoy his _tasse de café_ after lunch, and in summer to while away the drowsy hours of the early afternoon while listening to open-air music. it was pleasant to meet in carcassonne two american students from joliet, illinois, who were making a long european tour on "indian" motor cycles. one of them had received not less than six punctures the preceding day and was awaiting in carcassonne the arrival of another tire. he was beginning to be a little doubtful about the perfect joys of motor cycling on the french roads. neither of them spoke french, but their resourceful american gestures had up to that point extricated them from situations both humorous and annoying. chapter vii carcassonne to tarbes our ride toward toulouse led us steadily into southwestern france and nearer the pyrenees. from time to time the landscape, with its fields of fodder corn, was peculiarly american. the illusion never lasted long; a château appeared on a distant hill, or a sixteenth-century church by the roadside, and we were once more in europe, with its ancient architecture and historical association, with its infinite change of scenery and life. our trip never grew monotonous. there was always the element of the unexpected. for instance, in the village of villefranche we rode into the midst of a local _fête_. banners overhung the road; flags were flying from the windows; ruddy-cheeked girls in gay peasant dress were practicing in the dusty street a rustic two-step or _farandole_ in preparation for the harvest dance. while entering toulouse we narrowly escaped disaster. it was not late, but our depleted funds made it necessary to reach a bank before closing time. suddenly a bicycle rider shot out from a cross street. there was a "whish" as we grazed his rear wheel. the infinitesimal fraction of an inch means a good deal sometimes. we were too late; the banks were closed. the next day was a business holiday, and the following day was sunday. our letter-of-credit would not help us before monday. but as luck would have it, we were able to discover and fall back upon a few good american express checks. our hotel, the tiviolier, gave us a poor rate of exchange, but almost any exchange would have looked good at that poverty-stricken moment. toulouse, the flourishing and lively capital of languedoc, is a city of brick still awaiting its augustus to make of it a city of marble. the old museum must have been a splendid monastery. we dined in three different restaurants, and fared sumptuously in them all. the _cassoulet_ of toulouse was so good that we tried to order it in other towns. the experiences of the day very fittingly included a trolley ride along the banks of the famous canal du midi, and a visit to the remarkable church of st. sernin, considered the finest romanesque monument in france. it would have been difficult not to make an early start the next morning, the air was so keenly exhilarating. the usually turbid garonne revealed limpid depths and blue skies as we crossed the bridge. the road dipped into a valley and then, ascending, spread before us imposing mountain ranges. the pyrenees were in sight; every mile brought them nearer. the name was magical. it suggested landscapes colorful and lovely, strange types of peasant dress, songs that had been sung the same way for centuries, exquisite villages that had never been awakened by the locomotive's whistle. range retreated behind range into mysterious cloud realms. the road was like a _boulevard parisien_ under the black bars of shadow cast by the poplar trees. at st. gaudens, where we stopped before the hôtel ferrière for lunch, an american party was just arriving from the opposite direction. there were three middle-aged ladies and a french chauffeur who did not appear to understand much english. the question of what they should order for lunch was evidently not settled. one of them wished to order _potage st. germain_. another thought it would be better to have something else for a change, since they had partaken of _potage st. germain_ the preceding day. the remaining member of the party was sure it would be nicer if they saved time by all ordering the same thing, but did not suggest what that should be. the chauffeur, who looked hungry and cross, merely contributed a long-suffering silence to the conversation. [illustration: _the pyrenees were in sight_ _page _ copyright by underwood & underwood] leaving our car in the garage and our sympathy with the unfortunate chauffeur, we went in to give appreciative attention to a well-served ménu. so long as we remained in france we never failed to order sardines. there is a certain quality and delicacy about the flavor of the french sardine which one misses outside of that country. coffee was served outside, under the trees in front of the hotel, where we could watch the life of the road. st. gaudens is on the main highway passing through the pyrenees to cannes and nice on the riviera. it is also the central market for the fine cattle of the pyrenees, and for their sale and distribution to other parts of france and the outside world. we could see them swaying lazily along the road, big, powerful creatures with wide horns and glossy skin. descending from st. gaudens into the plain, we shot along the highway to montréjeau, where there was a steep ascent through this bizarre little town, very italian looking with its arcaded streets, red roofs, and brightly painted shutters. then the moors of a high plateau swept by us until we darted downward and curved for several miles through a beautiful wooded valley. one of the front tires was evidently in trouble. it was our first puncture in more than thirteen hundred miles of motoring, not a bad record when one considers the frequency of such accidents on european roads, where the hobnails of peasants lie in ambush at every turn. we halted by the side of the road, to put on a fresh tire, refusing many offers of assistance from passing cars. an unusual reception awaited us near tournay. the whole barnyard family had taken the road for their private promenade. there were a couple of mules, some goats, half a dozen geese, and a large white bull. he was a savage looking brute as he stood facing us and angrily pawing the ground. it did not add to our composure when a gaunt collie, awakened by the noise, came snarling up to the car. at this eventful moment, the engine stopped running. no one of us was in a hurry to alight and "crank up." the barnyard clamor would have rivaled the well-known symphony of the edison phonograph company of new york and paris. at last a peasant appeared. he whistled to the dog and succeeded in driving the bull to one side, so that we could edge by to less dangerous scenes. the standard of living in these mountain communities is not high. we saw one farmhouse where the goats moved in and out as if very much at home and on the same social footing as their peasant owners. a mile farther on, we were spectators at a dance which the peasants were giving along the roadside. there was an orchestra of two violins and a cornet, enthroned upon a wooden platform brightly decorated with flags and flowers. a dozen couples were dancing up and down the road. wooden shoes were all the style. this unique ballroom floor impressed us as being rather dusty. steepsided valleys yawned in quick succession. there were views of the snowy pyrenees. on the side of a mountain we caught a moment's glimpse of tarbes in the plain. the grand hôtel moderne was a happy surprise. the elevator actually worked, and the running hot and cold water was a boon delightful to find after these dusty mountain roads. tarbes is chiefly interesting for its great horse-breeding industry. barère, the regicide, described by macaulay as coming "nearer than any person mentioned in history or fiction, whether man or devil, to the idea of consummate and universal depravity," was born here in . tourist traffic has found tarbes to be a convenient stopping place on the through route from biarritz on the atlantic to the winter resorts of the mediterranean shores, and also a natural center for excursions to the pyrenees. we remained in tarbes an extra day to make the trip to lourdes, the tragic mecca for increasing thousands of catholic pilgrims. [illustration: _ice peaks of the pyrenees_ copyright by underwood & underwood] a short half-hour's ride and then lourdes, without doubt one of the most dismal and melancholy places in the world. we are certain that nothing would ever draw us there again. for many, the trip is a pilgrimage of faith; others go from curiosity; but for so many suffering thousands the miraculous spring at lourdes is the goal of anxious hopes. they gather from all parts of france, from england, scotland, and ireland, and even from distant parts of europe. last year there were over six hundred thousand visitors. around us, on that afternoon, we saw the sick and the dying. some were hobbling along on crutches, others walking helplessly with sightless eyes. many were being carried on stretchers, and there were sights that we would rather not mention. it seemed as if all the diseases to which mortal humanity is heir were represented in that pathetic throng. the following newspaper account describes the pilgrimage which left paris in august, : "the great austerlitz railway station in paris presented a strange and terrible scene--and above all, a distressingly pitiful one--yesterday afternoon, when the annual pilgrimage to lourdes set forth on the long journey to the little pyrenean village. during last night thirty-three special long trains converged on lourdes from every quarter of france. every train ran slowly because of the many sick people on board. and this morning all the trains will reach their destination and will discharge their pilgrims at the station near the shrine. "from two to four o'clock, the greater part of the austerlitz station was given up entirely to the pilgrims. the railway servants withdrew, and their places were taken by hundreds of saintly faced little sisters of the assumption, and brave men of all ages and all ranks in life, all wearing the broad armlet that denoted their self-sacrificing service to the sick and helpless. one by one, on stretchers, in bath chairs, over a thousand suffering people, men and women of all ages, youths and little children, entered the great hall of the station. "each, as he or she is brought in, is laid upon a bench transformed into an ambulance, to await the departure of the train. a silence that is almost oppressive falls upon the usually noisy station; people speak in whispers, and move with silent feet. "then the train--the long white train for the _grands malades_--moves softly in to the platform, and each poor human parcel is gently convoyed to its allotted place. eventually, the long task is over, and then came the last moving ceremony. the cardinal archbishop of paris passed slowly down the train and blessed the sick within it. a moment after, without a whistle or a sound, the long white train moved out. "eight other equally long trains followed, the last bearing at the rear the red cross flag." we watched the procession forming to move toward the sacred miraculous spring, such a sad procession,--the halt, the maimed, and the blind, who had come, many of them, thousands of miles to bathe in the icy waters and be healed. attendants passed us, carrying a sick man on a stretcher; the eyes were closed, the features white and fixed. we saw a mother clasping a sick child; she also joined the slow, pitiful procession. where will you find such a picture of human suffering! it was all like the incurable ward of a vast open-air hospital. the fame of lourdes dates back to , when a little village girl, fourteen years old, named bernadette soubirons, said that she had seen and talked with the virgin. this happened several times. each time the virgin is said to have commanded the child to tell others, and to have a church built above the spring, since its waters were to have miraculous powers of healing. crowds went with her to the grotto, but she was the only one who saw anything. the bishop of tarbes believed in her visions. the fact that the child was "diseased, asthmatic, and underfed," and also that "she was not particularly intelligent," did not make any difference. pope pius x issued a bull of endorsement. a basilica was built above the grotto, and from that time the thousands kept coming in increasing numbers every year. we noticed that not all of the visitors to lourdes had come on a pilgrimage of faith. everywhere one sees signs with large letters warning against pickpockets. the evidence of business enterprise was also unmistakable. there were large hotels; one long street was devoted to bazaars for selling pious mementos; the windows of many shops contained tin cans of all sizes for sale, these to be filled with lourdes water. the many advertisements of lourdes lozenges, made from lourdes water, and the women dressed in black, sitting at the gates of the garden and selling wax candles, all helped to give the place an atmosphere of commercial enterprise. chapter viii tarbes to biarritz from tarbes the road climbed a high hill above the city and then flung its marvelous coils through the mountains to pau, that fashionable english resort where the pyrenees can be seen marshaling their peaks in such grandeur. the country around pau looked very english. there were neat villages with high-pitched roofs, spreading trees, and a feeling of repose in the scenery very characteristic of the large english estate. with almost fantastic suddenness, the landscape changed. peasant houses showed traces of spanish influence. we saw no horses; plows and country carts were drawn by bullocks. such fine looking cattle of the pyrenees, hundreds of them! it seemed at least every few minutes that a new drove crowded in confusion down the road or across it, and made it very difficult for us to get through. there were many bulls. one hears so many exciting tales about the savage bulls of the pyrenees that we were prepared for an attack at almost any time. if any one would like to make sure of having an eventful experience, we suggest that he motor through the pyrenees in a red car. other motor cars kept the dust clouds flying. at one railway crossing we counted ten automobiles waiting for the bar to be lifted. a score of hungry motorists were lunching in the village inn of orthez when we arrived. one of them, a frenchman, told us by all means to see the curious fortified bridge that crosses the gave in this village. "_c'est très curieux. c'est quelque chose à voir!_" the ruin, with the high stone tower in the middle of the bridge, is a thrilling relic of the religious wars. one can see the tower window through which the unfortunate priests and friars were forced by the protestants to leap into the rapid stream. those who breasted the strong current were killed as they climbed out on the banks. bayonne was calling us. our speedometer registered the kilometers so quickly that there were fully two hours of daylight to spare when we crossed the long bridge over the adour in search of the grand hôtel. one street led us astray, and then another, until we were in the suburbs before discovering our mistake. it was a fortunate mistake, for we were here favored with a view of the fortifications of bayonne and the ivy-covered ruin of marrac, the château where napoleon met the spanish king ferdinand and compelled him to renounce the throne in favor of his brother joseph. it is one of the strange turnings of history that the same city where joseph was proclaimed king of spain should have witnessed, six years later, the downfall of his hopes. our return search was more successful. we found the grand hôtel, and then were half sorry that we had found it. the hotel was crowded, the only _chambre_ placed at our disposal not large enough for two people. an extra cot had been put in to meet the emergency. the room was gloomy, and opened on a stuffy little court. many repairs were under way, so that the appearance of the hotel was far from being at its best. had it not been raining heavily we would have gone on to biarritz; but the torrents were descending. for one night we submitted to the inevitable and to the inconvenience of our cramped quarters. on descending, we noticed other tourists still arriving. possibly these new victims were stowed away in the elevator or in the garage. our stay in bayonne was, under the circumstances, not long, but long enough for us to become acquainted with the _jambon delicieux_ and the _bonbons_ for which the city is so well known. after paying our _compte_, including a garage charge of two francs,--the first which we had paid since leaving chambéry,--we covered the few remaining kilometers to biarritz, stopping _en route_ to pick up ten liters of gasoline in order to avoid the more extravagant prices of that playground for europe's royalty and aristocracy. the choicest feature of our rooms at the hôtel victoria was the splendid outlook upon the atlantic and its ever-changing panorama of sky and sea. the spanish season was in full swing. there is always a season in the golden curve of biarritz's sunny sands. the spanish invasion during the hot summer months is followed by that of the french, when parisian beauties promenade in all the voluptuous array of costly toilettes. for a couple of months, paris ceases to be the proud capital of french animation and gayety. during the winter, the place takes on the appearance of an english colony; and the russian royal family has made spring a fashionable time for the invasion from that country. the charm of biarritz is irresistible. it is easy to see why napoleon iii made it the seat of his summer court and built the villa eugénie, which has since become the hôtel du palais. if one searched the whole coast line of europe, it would be hard to find a spot so rich in natural beauty. the sea has such wide horizons; no matter how calm the weather, the snowy surges are always rolling on the grande plage. other smaller beaches alternate with rugged, rocky promontories. the coast line is very irregular, full of arcades, caverns, and grottoes. at sunset, when the wind falls and the air is clear, the coast of spain appears, the mountains respond to the western glow, and the low cadence of the waves makes the scene too wonderful for words. we always looked forward to the morning plunge into the cool breakers. eleven o'clock was the popular hour. then the plage was covered with brilliant tent umbrellas. there were the shouts of the bathers as the green, foaming combers swept over them. the beach was a kaleidoscope of color and animation. dark-eyed _señoritas_, carrying brightly colored parasols and robed in the latest and most original french toilettes, walked along the shore. the spanish women are very fond of dress, and especially of anything that comes from paris. often the breeze would sweep aside their veils of black silk, and show their powder-whitened faces. french girls, daintily gowned and with complexions just as "artistic," were busy with delicate embroidery. there were basque nursemaids whose somber black-and-white checkerboard costumes contrasted with the latest styles from the gay metropolis. all types were there, from the portly german who adjusted his monocle before wading into the frothy brine, to the contemplative englishman who smoked his pipe while watching the animated scenes around him. where will one find a more cosmopolitan glimpse of fashionable europe in the enjoyment of a summer holiday! after the plunge comes the drying off on the warm sands, or the walk, barefooted and in bathrobe, along the plage; then lunch in the casino restaurant above the sea, while an italian orchestra plays music that one likes to hear by the ocean. for our _tasse de café_ we would choose one of the cafés along the crowded avenue bellevue. what a display of wealth and fine motor cars! [illustration: _the grande plage at biarritz_ copyright by underwood & underwood] on one of these occasions we saw the young king of spain stop his spanish car before one of the stores. he was bareheaded, and was driving his own car. one of his officers sat with him. the king is a keen sportsman, and motoring is one of his favorite diversions. under the reign of this popular and aggressive young monarch there ought to be great progress in the improvement of the spanish roads and in the opening of spain's scenic wealth to the tourist world. toward the close of the afternoon every one went to the beautiful casino to enjoy the concert and _une tasse de thé_, and then later in the evening to watch the brilliant spectacle of dress and gayety. the interesting places around biarritz are part of its attraction. if we had stayed there for months, there could have been an excursion for each day. placed beside the ocean, at the foot of the pyrenees, close to the spanish frontier and amid the fascinating basque country where the people have retained all their primitive ways and quaint dress, biarritz makes an ideal center for one-day trips. the excursion which we enjoyed most was to the spanish resort of san sebastian, a modern seaside town where the king and queen pass the summer in their splendid villa miramar. chapter ix a day in spain there is always a thrill about motoring for the first time in a new country. we had long looked forward to crossing the spanish frontier and visiting the summer capital of king alfonso xiii. it was a ride of about thirty miles, far too short for one of the most interesting sweeps of country to be found anywhere in europe. there was plenty of variety. this basque country, forming a triangular corner of northern spain and reaching over into france, is full of it. the people speak a dialect which is as much a puzzle to spanish as to french. until less than half a century ago, they had retained their independence. proud of their history, and claiming to be the oldest race in europe, they still cling to their language and hold to their ancient customs, their dances, songs, and pastoral plays. in this region of valleys and mountains we were always within sight or sound of the sea, the road approaching a smooth, white beach washed with foam, or sinking into a quiet valley drowsy with the faint monotone of the waves. a few miles before reaching spain is the old seaside town of st. jean-de-luz, once the winter headquarters of wellington and now buried in the shade of its venerable trees. the life in this little village of only four thousand people was not always so simple as it is now. louis xiv was a frequent visitor, with his courtiers. one can see the château where the "grand monarque" lodged at the time of his marriage to the infanta marie thérèse of spain on june , . another page from this gorgeous period is the church of st. jean baptiste, where the ceremony took place. following the basque custom, the upper galleries are reserved for the men, while the area below is reserved for the women. on reaching the franco-spanish frontier village of béhobie a french officer appeared and, after he had entered the necessary details in his book, allowed us to cross the bridge over the bidassoa river into spain. this part of the town is called béhobeia. it is a unique arrangement, this administration of what is practically one and the same town by two different countries. yet the difference between béhobie and béhobeia is as great as the difference between france and spain. the houses across the river began to display the most lively colors. it would have been hard to say whether browns, pinks, blues, or greens predominated. some of the people wore blue shoes. red caps were the style for cab drivers. of course we looked around for some of our "castles in spain," but saw instead the spanish customhouse. an official came out, modestly arrayed in more than solomon's glory. he wore red trousers, yellow hose, and blue shoes, and looked as though in more prosperous days he might have been a _matador_. we had forgotten to bring along a fluent supply of spanish. the oversight caused us no inconvenience. french is sufficient to carry one through any matter of official red tape. one hears many reports about the difficulty of passing the spanish customhouse, the severity of the examination, of the long delays. at our hotel in biarritz they told us that the only safe way would be to pay eight francs to a private company on the french side of the frontier, and that with the _passavant_ so obtained, together with our _triptyque_, we would not only secure prompt service but also make this company responsible for our safety while in spain. so much solicitude made us wonder just what percentage of our eight francs would be received by this hotel proprietor, so we decided to cross the frontier without the much advised _passavant_. these warnings proved to be exaggerated. the delay was not greater than it would have been in france or germany. the _douaniers_ were, nevertheless, keenly alert to prevent the smuggling of motor supplies for purposes of sale in spain. these articles are much more expensive in spain than elsewhere in europe. the number of our tires was noted, so that the officials could make sure that we carried the same number of tires out of the country. another arrangement, new to us, was the method of ascertaining how much the gasoline duty would be. the amount of gasoline in the tank was calculated by depth only and not by capacity. a hundred fascinating scenes of spanish country life attracted our attention. peasant women, evidently returning from market, bestraddled patient little donkeys, or walked, balancing on their heads burdens of various kinds. one of them carried a baby under one arm, a pail filled with wine bottles under the other, and all the time preserved with her head the equilibrium of a basket piled several stories high with household articles. we would not have been greatly surprised to see another baby tucked away somewhere in the top story. these peasant types looked bent and worn, their wrinkled faces old from drudging toil in the fields; they fitted in perfectly with the dilapidated farmhouses. the country was fertile, with vineyards and cornfields, but a prosperity in such contrast with the wretched homes of the people. little donkeys strained in front of heavily loaded wagons that would have taxed the strength of a large horse. the ox carts were curious creations, the wheels being without spokes, as though made from a single piece of flat board. the small chimneys on the houses resembled those which we had seen in italy. we did not see a single plow, not even a wooden one; the peasants of the basque country use instead the _laga_, or digging fork, an implement shaped like the letter "h." [illustration: _the ox-carts were curious creations_ copyright by underwood & underwood] san sebastian is a clean, fresh-looking city, a place essentially, almost exaggeratedly, spanish, with all that gayety and vivid architecture which one naturally expects to see in a place patronized by the royal court. it was hopeless to think of finding a place for our car in any garage. they were all full. this was the day of the bull fight. from different parts of spain, as well as from france, motorists had swarmed in to see the _matadors_ show their skill and daring. in spain the people divert themselves at the bull fight very much as we would go to see a baseball game. we saw motor cars stationed in long files in the streets. leaving our car to stand in the rear of one of these imposing lines, we strolled down a bright, picturesque street to the concha. just as la grande plage represents biarritz, so the concha represents san sebastian. "concha" suggests a bay shaped like a shell. the word exactly describes the beautiful body of water around which the city is built. through the narrow channel we could see the waves roll in, contracted at first, then widening as they sweep down the bay to break on the long, curving stretch of yellow sand. from the concha we could see the white walls of the royal villa miramar. the fortress la mota guarded from its high elevation the narrow entrance to the harbor. we walked along the paseo de la concha, in the dense shade of tamarisk trees which nearly encircled the bay. sitting in chairs under the trees were spanish girls, their dark eyes glowing through their black lace veils. the scene was full of color, completely spanish, the green of the tamarisks shining between the golden sands and the white villas which edged the water. we watched the bathers, haughty dons from madrid and peasants from aragon, for the moment on a level in the joyous democracy of the surf. after lunching at the continental hotel, fronting on the concha, we turned our steps in the direction of the amphitheater, where the bull fight was to take place. the tickets cost twelve _pesetas_ (about $ . ) apiece. it was not with any anticipation of pleasure that we decided to watch the spaniards engage in their national sport. the bull fight is a combination of a scene from the chicago stockyards and from an ancient roman arena. it is a succession of shivers and thrills, from the first blast of the trumpet announcing the entry of the _toreadors_ to the final _estocade_, when the last bull falls dying upon the bloody sand. few of the _toreadors_ die a natural death. connected with the large amphitheater is the operating room, where the wounded fighters can receive prompt treatment. we were told that it is customary for them to receive the sacrament before entering into the arena. their coolness and dexterity in sidestepping the mad rushes of the bull are wonderful. but the moment comes when the bull is unexpectedly quick, when the foot slips just a little, or when the eye misjudges the precious fraction of an inch which may mean life or death. we noticed at regular intervals, around the arena, wooden barriers, placed just far enough from the main encircling barrier to let the hard-pressed _toreador_ slip in, when there was no time to vault. these exhibitions take place all over spain, and in san sebastian at least once a week. there is keen rivalry between spanish cities over the skill of their _toreadors_. bull fighting is not on the decline. the city of cordova has just started a school for the training of professional bull fighters. when we arrived the amphitheater was crowded to the highest tier of seats. the vast crowd, impatient, whistled and shouted. attendants passed among the spectators, selling spanish fans painted with bull-fight scenes. the large orchestra was playing. suddenly, above the music and the noise of the crowds, sounded the piercing blast of a trumpet. the music ceased. the crowd became silent, then cheered and clapped as doors swung open and two horsemen dashed out and made the tour of the arena. they were followed by a procession of _toreadors_, _picadores_, and _banderilleros_, with their attendants. the _picadores_ were armed with long pikes with which to enrage the bull. they were mounted on wretched skeletons of so-called horses, with one eye blindfolded. six bulls were to battle with their tormentors before finally falling, pierced by the _toreador's_ sword. three or four horses are usually killed by each bull. the _banderilleros_ appear in the second phase of the struggle, after the horses have been killed. they are on foot. their work is to face the bull, infuriated by the pikes of the _picadores_, and to plant in his neck several darts, each over two feet long and decorated with ribbons. the _toreador_ comes on the scene the last of all, when the bull, though tired, is still dangerous. it would be a mistake to imagine that the bulls are spiritless, or have been so starved that they are weak, without strength, energy, and courage. these animals that we saw leap into the arena were all specially bred andalusian bulls, the very picture of strength and wild ferocity. we have no desire to describe in detail the barbarous spectacle which followed. in front of us sat an american couple. it was the lady's first bull fight, and when the moment was critical, the scene a gory confusion of bull, horses, and _picadores_, she would scream and hide her face behind her fan. in contrast, were the spanish girls seated around us. their faces were whitened more by powder than by emotion. they would languidly move embroidered fans, or wave them with gentle enthusiasm when the _banderillero_ planted a daring dart or the _toreador_ thrust home the death stroke. there was one moment in that exhibition, however, when even their hardened indifference to suffering was touched. one of the _banderilleros_ planted his dart in the neck of the bull, but slipped while trying to get away from the enraged beast. there was a cry of horror, a groan of pity from the crowd as the great armed head lifted its victim and hurled him thirty feet through the air. the man struck heavily on the sand, moved a little, and then lay motionless. there was no shouting at that moment. an agony of suspense pervaded the amphitheater. but the bull was given no opportunity to follow up his attack; a _toreador_ waved a red cape before his eyes; another dart was planted in his neck. he turned savagely to face and charge on his new assailants, who nimbly avoided his rush. the wounded man was carried from the arena. the enthusiasm and cheers of the crowd were unbounded when he revived and struggled with the attendants to get back into the arena. [illustration: _the death stroke_ copyright by underwood & underwood] after all, human nature has changed but little under these southern skies, so that what the plebeian sought in the gladiatorial combats of the amphitheater, the spaniard or frenchman of to-day seeks and finds in the bloody scenes of the _course de tauraux_. we left early to get a start of the rush of motor cars for the french frontier, but others had done the same thing, so that by the time the spanish authorities had stamped our _sortie definitive_, we found the international bridge filled with cars, all impatiently waiting to take their turn at the french _douane_. then amid a whirl of dust and a blowing of horns, car after car leaped for the homeward flight. ahead of us and behind us, cars of every make, motor horns of every variety. the dust fog was continuous. every one seemed racing to get out of it. it was a likely place for an accident. there was the wind-smothered shriek of a horn as a french racer shot by to lead the exciting procession. farther ahead, the road turned sharply, and we stopped to find thirty or forty cars held up at a railway crossing. one of them was the french racer; officers were taking her number. it was growing dark, and we lighted our lamps. looking back from the summit of a long hill, we could see the lights of other cars swiftly ascending around the curves. the wind was rising. through the twilight came the dull roaring of heavy surf. a revolving beacon light, appearing and then disappearing, announced that we were once more in biarritz. chapter x biarritz to mont-de-marsan our three days in biarritz had grown to three short weeks before we were able to break the spell of the alluring grande plage and shape our course in a northeasterly direction, along the foothills of the pyrenees, through the picturesque regions of périgord and limousin to tours and the châteaux country. bayonne, the fortress city, looked peaceful enough with its tapering cathedral spires rising above the great earthen ramparts, now grass-grown and long disused to war. not far from bayonne the road forked; we were in doubt whether to continue straight on or to turn to the left. a group of workingmen near by ceased their toil as we drew near to ask for information. the answer to our question was very different from what we expected. one of them approached the car, brandishing a scythe in a manner more hostile than friendly, and asked if we were germans. this question concerning our nationality came with all the force of a threat. the restless scythe cut a nearer airy swath. he had recognized the german make of our car, and was convinced that we belonged to the hated _nation allemande_. a german motor car is not the safest kind of an introduction to these french peasants, especially when the _vin du pays_ has circulated freely. if appearances counted for anything, this particular peasant was quite inclined to use his scythe for more warlike purposes than those for which it was originally intended. but his companions, more peaceably disposed, seizing him, drew him back from the car and gave us, although reluctantly, the necessary information. it was not our first experience of this kind. in france there is a strong sentiment against germany. our german car was often the target for unfriendly observation. this fierce ill feeling appears to be increasing. never since the war of has there been such a period of military activity in the two countries. germany is raising her army to a total of nearly nine hundred thousand men, at an initial cost of two hundred and fifty million dollars, and a subsequent annual cost of fifty million dollars. france has decided to meet these warlike preparations by keeping under the colors for another year the soldiers whose term of service would have expired last fall. this measure adds about two hundred thousand soldiers to the fighting strength of the french army. this increase of armament involves necessarily the admission of the increase of suspicion and antagonism. at such a time of tension and suspense it was for us a rare privilege to motor through the french provinces, to stop in the small towns and villages and to hear from the lips of the people themselves an expression of their attitude toward germany. rural france is conservative; opinions and ideas form slowly, yet there can be no doubt but that their views represent the sentiment of the french nation which is so largely agricultural. no feature of our long tour through france was more instructive than this opportunity to study at first hand the influences at work to widen the gulf between the two nations. we conversed with soldiers, officers, peasants in the fields, and casual french acquaintances whom we met in the cafés and hotels. every one admitted the gravity of the situation, and said that nothing short of the actual shadow of german invasion could have induced france to submit to the tremendous sacrifices incident to the large increase of the army. the enthusiasm with which france has consented to the enormous sacrifices entailed by increasing the army on so large a scale shows how widespread is the impression of impending conflict. france realizes that there is only one way to prevent war, and that is to be so strong that germany will hesitate to take the fatal step. there have been past menaces of invasion, and while it is true that germany has not made war for over forty years, she has repeatedly threatened it. william i and moltke wanted to attack france in and again in , before she had recovered from the effects of , to make it impossible for her again to become a power of the first rank. russia and england supported france; germany drew back to wait for another chance. professor lamprecht, the great german historian, regrets that germany did not hurl her armies against france at that time. in the delcassé crisis of france was again threatened. we know now that the morocco negotiations between france and germany in kept europe on the verge of war for months. this movement toward a more vigorous expression of french national spirit, while gathering strength for the last ten years, actually dates from the sending of the gunboat _panther_ to agadir in . this was the igniting spark. it was in that moment that the french nation found itself. the generation that lived through and followed the disastrous war of was saddened and subdued. there was little of that spirit of national self-confidence; politics played a larger role than patriotism. but now a new generation is to the front. young france is coming into power, and the result is a rebirth of self-confidence and aggressiveness along patriotic lines. it will no longer be possible for germany to be successful in a policy of intimidation against france, as she was in the congress of berlin in . the new france is too patriotic, too proud, too conscious of her own strength, to concede to any unreasonable demand for economic compensation that germany or austria might make. if there were no other reason for possibility of war, the internal situation in germany itself would be enough to place france on her guard. in spite of germany's industrial progress, the struggle of the masses for bread is nowhere more bitter. the intense competition in the markets of the world, the necessity of paying interest on borrowed capital, the fact of a vast and rapidly increasing population--all this spells low wages in a country where taxes are high and where the burdens of armament are fast becoming unbearable. such conditions make for socialism. already the socialists form the most powerful party in the reichstag. the kaiser wishes peace, but he is, above all, a believer in monarchical institutions. if socialism continues to spread with its present rapidity, no one doubts that he would stake germany's supremacy in a foreign war in order to unite the nation around him and to divert the people from their struggle for a more democratic form of government. a successful war with france would not only mean rich provinces, a big war indemnity, but it would also mean a new prestige for the hohenzollern government, sufficient to carry it through the socialistic perils of another generation. in view of these facts, it is not surprising that the french nation considers a conflict inevitable, and especially when they see the kaiser appealing to his already overtaxed and discontented people to make a supreme sacrifice. with germany the question is one of economic existence. she can feed her population for only a fraction of a year. more and more she finds herself dependent upon rival nations for foodstuffs and raw materials. she has built up great steel and iron industries, but the supply of ore in the province of silesia will be exhausted, at the present rate of consumption, in about twenty-five years. germany will then be totally dependent upon france, spain, and sweden for iron ore. but france has an eighty per cent superiority over spain and sweden in her supply of this material. her richest mines are situated in basse-lorraine, hardly more than a cannon shot from the german frontier. by the conquest of a few miles in lorraine, she would secure enough iron ore to supply her iron and steel industries for centuries. a suggestive commentary upon germany's aggressive plans may be noted in the german atlas of steiler. it writes the names of different countries and their cities in the spelling of each country. the french cities and provinces are written in french, with the exception of provinces of basse-lorraine, franche-comté, and bourgogne. these are written in german. another force in germany making for war is the pan-german league. this is the war party of the armor-plate factories of the officers of the army and navy, of a large part of the german press, of the crown prince, of many who have intimate relations with the kaiser. the spectacular demonstrations of the crown prince in the reichstag against the too peaceful policy of the chancellor at the time of the morocco negotiations, the sending of the _panther_ to agadir, the enormous increase of the army and navy in recent years, the arbitrary suppression of french influence in alsace-lorraine, have all been the fruits of its efforts. there can be no question of the tremendous power of this organization which is so close to the heart of the crown prince. if the kaiser should die to-morrow, france might well have reason to distrust the warlike and impulsive young ruler who would ascend the hohenzollern throne. the crown prince has recently written a book called _germany in arms_. its warlike fervor shows how little he is in sympathy with the emperor's loyalty to peace. what makes the influence of the crown prince all the more dangerous is the great discontent to-day in germany with the government's foreign policy "of spending hundreds of millions upon a fruitless and pacific imperialism." added to all these influences which are straining the relations between france and germany, is the question of alsace-lorraine, for more than two centuries a french province and ceded to germany after the franco-prussian war as a part of the price of peace. it is now a generation and more that germany has tried to assimilate the province, but with so little success that to-day the people persist more than ever in their sympathy with french culture and their hostility toward germany. there has been immigration; probably two fifths of the population are germans, but the two peoples do not mix. the silent struggle between two civilizations goes on. the reason for the failure of german government in alsace-lorraine is due to its refusal to recognize this dual civilization. alsace is largely french in sympathy; but instead of letting the people cling to their local customs, germany has tried to make them think and speak german, and adopt the german ways. instead of enjoying an equality with the other states in the regulation of local affairs, the province is treated as a vassal state, the governor being responsible to the kaiser. naturally such a system of government means the continual clash of the two nationalities. the teaching of french and french history has been almost suppressed in the schools, and the younger generation compelled to learn german. "but they are french at heart, and after leaving school return again to the traditions of their family. after forty years, no music stirs them like the _marseillaise_." it is said that the little alsatian schoolboys, when on a trip to the frontier, decorate their hats and buttonholes with the french colors. no one can be long in strassburg without realizing the futility of germany's campaign against french influence. it is true that there is a certain veneer of german civilization; the policemen wear the same uniform as the berlin police; german names appear over the principal shops; but in the stores and cafés one hears the middle-class alsatians speaking french; french clothes, french customs prevail. in a word, the people, without french support, have gradually become more french in feeling and in culture than at the moment of annexation. one effect of this struggle against germany's brutal and arbitrary policy has been to start a strong undercurrent of sympathy in france. in many of the french towns one sees alsace postcards in the store windows. the picture on one card was a reproduction of a french painting. a soldier appears on the lookout in a forest. not far away is a captive bound to a tree. he is watching with expectant joy the coming of the soldier. one can easily guess that the captive is alsace, the soldier, france. we might also speak of the petty annoyances practiced by the german authorities in alsace upon any one suspected of french sympathy. sporting clubs have been dissolved. one reads of french sportsmen who have been refused permission to rent "shootings." the most recent measure of oppression gives the governor of the province absolute power to suppress all french newspapers, as well as all societies supposed to favor french culture. this is only a part of the evidence at hand, which gives the impartial observer reason to believe that the friction of nationalities in alsace is the prelude to the larger and more terrible struggle to-day is regarded in france as inevitable. at the school of political science in the sorbonne at paris, where the superiority of german methods used to be accepted without question, it is said the professors can now hardly mention them, for fear of hostile demonstrations. this question of franco-german relations has already overshadowed europe. all attempts to promote a more friendly understanding have been fruitless. even though the present tension be only temporary, it is very doubtful if there can be any approach to better relations until germany has solved the question of alsace-lorraine, abandoning her policy of rough-shod assimilation, recognizing the existence of a dual civilization, granting autonomy of local affairs, and welcoming the province, on an equal footing with the other german states, to the brotherhood of the empire. with this source of discord removed, alsace-lorraine might become a bond instead of a barrier between france and germany. such a solution, however remote, would be an important step toward a more auspicious era of friendly feeling, of good faith. unfortunately, the kaiser is opposed to this conciliatory policy. the fact that alsace-lorraine belongs to the empire as a whole, and is therefore a bond of unity between the german states, makes him unwilling to disturb the present arrangement and to recognize anything approaching a dual government in alsace-lorraine. in the light of the above facts, our encounter with the french peasant was of deep significance. we could see behind it the forces--economic, political, and sentimental--that are at work to divide france and germany. naturally, we were on the lookout for any incident of this kind which would give us a clearer view of the great question which is placing such terrible burdens upon the two countries. we shall not easily forget our experience in one french town. it was sunday evening, and the street was crowded with peasants and artisans. one of us had stuck in his hat a swiss feather, such as is commonly worn in the tyrol of southern germany. he purchased a french newspaper, and after glancing through it, dropped it in the gutter. this harmless act very nearly involved us in serious trouble. a burly frenchman, noticing the feather and taking him for a german, resented the apparently contemptuous way in which the journal had been thrown in the street. "_vous avez insulté la patrie_," he said in a loud voice. like a flash the rumor spread in the street that three germans had insulted france, and a threatening crowd surrounded us. a restaurant offering the nearest refuge, we stepped inside to order _une demi-tasse_ and to wait until the excitement had subsided. the _garcon_ refused to serve us. outside, the crowd grew larger. then a policeman appeared. upon learning that we were americans, he quickly appreciated the humor of the situation, and explained the misunderstanding to the crowd pressing around the door. the excitement abated as quickly as it arose, and we were allowed to continue our walk without further interruption. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _a familiar village scene in provincial france_ _page _] mont-de-marsan has little to relieve the monotony of its narrow village life. we bumped over cobbled streets to the hôtel richelieu, securing pleasant rooms which opened on an attractive little court, enlivened by a murmuring fountain. dinner was hardly over when the silence of the country began to settle along the deserted streets. such a soporific environment was sleep-compelling. an alarm clock was not necessary, for at early dawn the street resounded with a medley of noises, the varied repertoire of the barnyard,--a hundred of them, in fact. geese, chickens, goats, and sheep were all tuning up for the village fair. it is a mystery how we motored through that maze of poultry and small wooden stands heaped with fruits, poultry, game, even dry goods--a kind of open-air department store. the clerks were grizzled peasant women, some of them eating their breakfast of grapes and dry bread, others displaying tempting fruit to entice us into a purchase. chapter xi mont-de-marsan to pÉrigueux motoring on to st. justin, we plunged into an immense forest broken only now and then by small clearings and extending for nearly sixty miles to the lumber town of casteljaloux. woodland depths shut out the view. mile followed mile of dark pines and somber perspective, an endless succession of dim forest glades. the sappers were at their work, peeling the bark from the long trunks and attaching small earthenware cups to catch the resinous gum. the road was so easy and smooth that we did not find it difficult to take notes. from the lumber yards of casteljaloux was blown the fragrant odor of fresh-sawn pine. bright sunshine flooded the wide-open country. the freedom of the fields was around us again. here and there a maple showed the first gorgeous colors of autumn. in the enjoyment of these peaceful scenes we ran unexpectedly through an encampment of french soldiers. the army was getting ready for the autumn maneuvers. rifles were stacked, and heavy accouterments deposited on the grass. there were three or four large paris omnibuses transformed into kitchens, motor-propelled and equal to a speed of twenty miles an hour. soldiers and officers watched us curiously, almost suspiciously. our notebooks were hastily put aside. to be detected taking notes from a german motor car in a french encampment might have had unpleasant consequences, or at least subjected us to serious inconvenience. one of the officers took our number; another "snapped" us with a camera, but there was no attempt to interfere with our progress. the infantry wore long blue coats and red trousers. one wonders why the french army, otherwise so scientifically equipped, should have such showy uniforms. if france went to war to-morrow, her soldiers would be at a great disadvantage. these uniforms would be a conspicuous target at the farthest rifle range. all other modern armies, like those of germany, england, or italy, have adopted the "invisible" field dress. but in france the colors have not changed from the blue and red of napoleon's soldiers. a few years ago the war minister berteaux tried to introduce a uniform of green material. his efforts were without success; the old color tradition was too strong. a french officer commented as follows: "the french army is one of the most routine-bound in europe. in some things, like flying, we have a lead, because civilians have done all the preliminary work, but in purely military matters, like uniforms, officialdom delays reform at every turn. it was not until that we gave up wearing the gaiters and shoes of napoleon's time, and took to boots like other armies." even the officers whom we saw from our motor car were dressed in scarlet and gold, red breeches, and sky-blue tunics with gold braid. a little farther on we passed several motor cars filled with french officers; just behind them came a dozen berliet trucks of a heavy military type, loaded with meat and ammunition. these are the times of motor war. the automobile has revolutionized the old method of food supply. the long, slow train of transport wagons, unwieldy and drawn by horses, has been replaced by swift motor trucks. the french army is unsurpassed in mechanical equipment. no effort has been spared to give the army the full benefit of technical and scientific improvements. this year, for the first time, the paris motor omnibuses are serving as meat-delivery vans. with this innovation, the army can have fresh meat every morning, instead of the canned meats of other years. the supply stations can be, in safety, thirty miles from the front, and yet remain in effective communication with the troops. france is in grim earnest. the army is ready and competent. the terrible lessons of the franco-prussian war of have been learned. a french officer with whom we conversed on the subject of the french and german armies, spoke of the superiority of the french artillery over german guns in the recent balkan war. he said that the french were counting upon their great advantage in this respect to offset the german superiority in numbers. commenting on the wish of the kaiser to visit paris, he was quite sure that the kaiser would never repeat the performance of his grandfather, emperor william i, and arrive in paris at the head of the german army. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _a miracle of gothic splendor_] our lunch in marmande reminded us of a banquet, but we were not yet french enough to do full justice to three kinds of meat. france is essentially a country of fields and gardens. how we looked forward to every _déjeuner_ and every _dîner_ so bountifully spread with the famous products of her soil! the cuisine of these small towns would not suffer in comparison with the hotels of larger cities. one is served more generously for half the price, and the cooking is just as good. a delightful succession of little foreign touches brightened the ride from marmande,--the sluggish bullock carts, and vineyards interspersed with tobacco fields, small churches with bell cotes guarded by solemn, century-old cypress trees; or perhaps it was an old gothic house or an ancient gateway with a piece of mediæval wall still clinging to it. in one village we saw bizarre stores, where the doorway and window were one. this must be a survival of roman times, because we had seen the same thing in pompeii. we were quickly called back from antiquity, however, by the cement telegraph poles which lined the road for some miles. it was a surprise to see such evidence of progress in a region where the years leave so few traces of their march. by this time the weather had become the chief topic of conversation. a storm was swiftly approaching. tall cypress trees creaked and swayed in the wind; the dark clouds, nearly above us, shot out murky, ominous streamers, like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus; a few big drops fell; then the floodgates burst. the drenching downpour was so sudden that there was no time to put up the top of the car. a tall tree offered refuge, but soon each separate leaf had a tiny waterfall of its own. fortune did not entirely desert us, for a small farmhouse, near by, promised a more substantial shelter. it was just the kind of peasant's home that we had often seen from the roadside: an exterior of rustic quaintness, built of stone and rough timbers, and artistically framed in rustic vines and flowers. what would the interior look like? we knocked. a barefooted peasant woman opened the door. she was surprised to see three dripping apparitions, apparently swept in by the rage of the elements, but her invitation to enter could not have been more cordial. the "_salon_" served the purposes of kitchen, bedchamber, and dining room. there was no trace of carpet or rug on the cobble-stoned floor. the heap of straw in the corner did not disclose whether it was for dog or goat. on the wall hung a cheap color-print of napoleon. the hospitable "_asseyez-vous_" called our attention to a single decrepit chair. there was not even a wooden table. the rain, pattering down the chimney, had almost extinguished the blaze in the small open fireplace. could anything have been more barren or forlorn! judging from the appearance of our _hôtesse_, the bathtub either did not exist or had long since ceased to figure prominently in the domestic life of the household. two other peasant women of the same neglected appearance entered without knocking. one of them was barefooted; the other would have been if she had not worn heavy _sabots_. both of them greeted us, but their dialect was unintelligible. the sun coming out we said good-by with all the polite french phrases at our command. the three peasant women stood in the doorway and waved their ragged aprons till we disappeared over the hill. the bridge spanning the dordogne into cheerful bergerac showed a town busy with festal preparation for the coming of president poincaré. pine branches were being wound around telephone poles; festoons of green decorated the houses; windows were bright with flags; the streets overhung with arches bearing inscriptions of welcome. we stopped at a tea shop which was also a _boulangerie_. it was interesting to discover, from the local papers, that our route for the next two days was to be part of the itinerary selected by president poincaré for his tour through the french provinces. this trip resulted from the president's desire to know his people better, to become acquainted with their local life, to visit their industries, and especially to attract the attention of the motor world to beautiful and interesting regions of france which had too long been neglected,--these slumberous small towns of the dordogne, limousin and périgord, hidden from the broad travel track, rich in local traditions and peculiarities, wrapped in their old-world atmosphere, surrounded by exquisite landscapes with marvelous horizons. for these towns, the president's coming was a big event. some of them recalled that since the days of louis xi no ruler of the state had visited their village. we were to see périgueux, with its precious relics of roman life and of the middle ages; limoges, noted for its beautiful enamels and the center of the porcelain industry. it was this part of france, so little visited even by the french themselves, that president poincaré chose for his week of motoring. for him, as well as for us, it was to be a delightful voyage of discovery. the twenty-nine miles to périgueux proved a memorable motor experience. much of the way was among steep, tree-covered slopes. no one met us along the road. it is surprising how far one can motor in france without seeing any trace of human life; areas of deserted country are so common; abandoned farmhouses appear so frequently. the reason lies not alone in the drift of population to the larger towns and cities, but in the fact that the french birth rate is failing to hold its own. france, so rich in other respects, is actually threatened by a decreasing population. in the number of deaths exceeded the number of births by , . in the first third of the last century, when the death rate was much higher than now, there were six births to every death; in the ratio had fallen to two births to each death; in it was even. if we consider the number of births per , inhabitants during the decades of the last century, we find the series to be an invariably decreasing one--from in to in . in germany and france had each about , , . germany now has over , , , a gain of , , over the present french population of , , . france is thus placed at a great disadvantage in the matter of national defense. if we assume the german army to be only , soldiers, there would be one soldier to every inhabitants; france, to have the same army, would be obliged to have one soldier to every or inhabitants. the fact that the french soldiers will now be compelled to serve three years in the army, as compared with two years in germany, shows how france is now paying the penalty for neglecting that vital national problem of population. our ride to périgueux gave vivid emphasis to the above figures. there was little evidence of peasant life. one had the impression of roaming through a vast, uninhabited country. from the top of a hill the town, and the valley of the isle, stretched beneath us a lovely view; the windings of the river isle, its bridges mirrored in the crimson flood. wooded hills faded slowly into the blue depths of twilight. the graceful byzantine _campanile_ and domes of st. front reminded us of the church of st. marks in venice. europe has few more romantic corners. descending the hill, we motored over the river and into the town, under arches of electric lights arranged in letters to spell words of greeting to the president. the grand hôtel du commerce should have been torn down years ago. it was a good example of how poor a provincial hotel can be. even the recommendation of the touring club of france could not make us forget the musty smells that filled rooms and corridors. we opened wide all the windows. after a few minutes, the fresh air revived us. for a place that occupies so little space in the pages of baedeker, périgueux is unique. numerous remains from the different epochs of history may be found. the roman period, the middle ages, the renaissance, and modern times have all left their imprint. there is the massive tower of vesône, once part of a gallo-roman temple. the château barrière has one curious feature: a railroad runs through the deep moat of feudal times. we shall need all our superlatives to describe the jardin des arènes. where else will you find a public garden laid out on the site of an ancient roman amphitheater, keeping the same size, the same circular form, and even preserving some of the original arches to admit the modern public? a french journalist once wrote that "even without its bright sunlight, even without imagination, périgueux remains one of the quaintest towns in the world and one of those places which the french people would visit in crowds if it were situated in another country." viewed from a distance, the cathedral of st. front makes a striking appearance; the five huge domes might have been transplanted from st. sophia of constantinople. chapter xii pÉrigueux to tours from périgueux we followed the isle for some distance before turning to wind over the hills. it was a region of chestnut trees, the _marronniers_ for which the province is so celebrated. for miles the trees formed a stately hedge along both sides of the highway, and groves of them were in the near distance, their spreading branches reminding us of english oaks. the ascent continued to thivièrs, a tiny village of the dordogne. one of the _vieux citoyens_ pointed out the hôtel de france as the best place to lunch. "_on mange très bien lábas_," he said. the lunch was a _chef d'oeuvre_. we had never tasted such _poulet au casserole_ or such _cotelettes de mouton grillées_. the _lievre_ had a delicious _suc de viande_ which went well with the _pommes frités_. there was _vin à discrétion_, and, besides, different kinds of _fromage_ and the french melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast. nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like thivièrs than the delicacies peculiar to them. these little communities, so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just as unique and original in their cooking. it was always interesting, when we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the ménu for some new dish that we had never tasted. whenever the _garcon_ or _maître de l'hôtel_ pointed to an item on the ménu and said, "_c'est une specialitè de la maison_," then we knew that something good was coming. one never tires of these french delicacies. our regret at leaving them behind was usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and delicious was awaiting us in the next place _en route_. each one of the following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. these are simply samples. the list would be too long if we named them all; the _truites_ of chambéry; the mushroom patties of pierrelatte; the _jambon_ of bayonne; the _truffes_ of périgueux; the _rillettes_ and _vins_ of tours; the _miel du gatinais_ of orléans; the fried sole of chartres and dieppe. in normandy, sweet cider was often placed on the table instead of the mild _vin du pays_. the cheese, _patisserie_, and fruits were good everywhere. another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the ménu and yet always flavored the whole repast. that was the geniality, the provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel. the welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. if there was some one dish that we especially liked, the _patronne_ was never satisfied till she was sure that we had been bountifully served. after so many experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign motorist feels so much at home in france. it was a splendid run to limoges. the long grades were scarcely noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our speed. donkey carts were fashionable, and _sabots_, as usual, in style. there was always a shining river or green valley in sight. haute-vienne, arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president. here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal preparations. the bridge over the river vienne was like a green arbor. some of the worthy citizens of these communities were probably more familiar with town affairs than the current events of the outer world. we read in a local journal of a shopkeeper who shouted a lusty "_vive faillières_," to greet the president's arrival. the mayor of one village threw himself in front of the presidential car, and threatened to commit suicide if the president did not make a speech, as he had done in a neighboring town. these petty municipal jealousies gave us a picture of france in miniature. what country is more torn by faction! internal dissension is the nation's peril. the river kept us company until limoges was in sight. the president had left the city only a few hours before our arrival. decorations were still in their splendor. one _arc de triomphe_ bore the words "_vive poincaré_." another read, "_nos fleurs et nos coeurs_." this popular ovation seems remarkable when we consider the strength of socialism in france, and the fact that limoges is a socialistic center. the mayor, a socialist, refused to receive the president. the city council was not present at the festivities of welcome. municipal buildings like the hôtel de ville were not decorated. all this was in accordance with instructions received from the leaders of the socialistic party. it was even considered unsafe for the president to include limoges in his itinerary. but the people, the wage earners, the various trade organizations, acted for themselves. their spontaneous, enthusiastic greeting was all the more striking in contrast with the cold indifference of the city authorities. to be in an important french city at just this time, on the very day when the president was there, to see all the preparations for his welcome, to hear the people talk about him and praise him, made us feel that we had been close indeed to one of the great personalities of modern europe. france has found her leader, a man of vast energy who understands his country's problems and is peculiarly fitted to solve them. his motor tour through the provinces was like a triumphal march. everywhere he preached that gospel of unity which is the great need of the hour. thanks to a letter of introduction, we had the interesting privilege of visiting a porcelain factory and of seeing the different processes through which the product passes from the shapeless lump of clay to the final touch of the artist's brush. the city reflects the artistic spirit of its inhabitants. one notices many attractive garden plots and window gardens, and the beauty of the flowers appears in their art. these artists can reproduce them in porcelain and enamel because first of all they have painted them in their hearts. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _a convenient way to carry bread_] after limoges, came tours as the goal of the day's run through the pastoral beauties of limousin to the châteaux of touraine. the air was crisp and clear. two hours of easy running through the bright september sunshine brought us to the palais hôtel in poitiers before noon--poitiers, the city of old romanesque churches and older traditions, where are living so many of the _vieille noblesse_ who would rather eat dry bread than make their sons work. the echoes of parisian rush do not penetrate these quiet streets. the people drink _tilleul_ after lunch instead of coffee. the effect is to make them drowsy. in fact, we have seldom visited a place with such an atmosphere of slumber. after lunch the _patronne_ offered to show us some of the hotel rooms. most of them were connected with a private _salle de bain_. the price was so reasonable that we at once placed this hotel in a class by itself. as before stated, bathrooms do not enter largely into the life of the french home or hotel. even in cities like tours, the public bathtub still makes its round from house to house once a week, or once a month as the case may be. an englishman, who so often places cleanliness above godliness, is unable to understand this french indifference to the blessings of hot and cold water. in lyons, the third largest city of france, there is a popular saying that only millionaires have the _salle de bain_ in their homes. these facts will help to explain why the hôtel palais, with its many bathrooms, made such an impression on us. we regret that our snapshot of this hotel did not turn out well. we would have had it enlarged and framed. from poitiers to tours one is on the famous route nationale no. , that remarkable highway which napoleon built across france into spain when his soldiers made the long march only to meet defeat in the peninsular campaign. we had followed it from bayonne to biarritz and on to san sebastian. to see this familiar sign again seemed like the greeting of an old friend. it looks like an army road, the trees are planted with such military precision. one could almost feel the measured step to martial music. this straight-away stretch for so many miles through the country suggested the great soldier himself. like his strategy, there was no unnecessary swerving. it was the shortest practicable line to the enemy's battle front. these magnificent _routes nationales_ are the best illustration of the order and system that he gave to french life. we have often thought too much emphasis has been laid on the destructive side of napoleon's career. he shook europe, but europe needed to be shaken. the divine-right-of-kings theory needed to be shattered. france needed to be centralized. if our motoring in that country had been limited to route nationale no. , this would have been enough to give us a new appreciation of napoleon as a constructive force. the afternoon's ride flew all too quickly. it was glorious, as evening approached, to watch the harvest moon growing brighter and larger on our right, while the sunset fires slowly changed from burning colors to dusky gray. tours was in sight, tours on the loire, names that we had always linked with the châteaux of touraine. a multitude of lights gleamed from the plain below. descending the hill, we crossed the loire to the hôtel metropole. tours was not what we had anticipated. one reads about the kings of france who resided here, from louis ix to françois i. plundering visigoths, ravaging normans, catholics and huguenots, even the germans in , all in their turn assailed the unfortunate city. we looked for half-ruined palaces and vine-covered, crumbling walls. the reality spread a different picture. aside from the streets and houses of mediæval tours, little remains of great historic interest. this large, busy industrial center produces so many articles that the list resembles a section from the new tariff act. we enjoyed varying our châteaux excursions with rambles in the city. there are old gabled houses in the rue du change, where the overhanging stories rest on brackets richly carved. one loses all sense of direction in some of these intricate streets. the cathedral compelled us to linger longer than we had intended. the ages have given such a warm, rich gray to the stones that the usual atmosphere of frozen grandeur was absent. our interest in gothic glass and mediæval pillars was diverted by a wedding that was going on in the cathedral. one of the priests, who was assisting in the ceremonies, left his duties to offer us his services as guide; there is always a certain magnetic power to the american tip. of course we climbed the royal staircase of the north tower, even counting the number of steps. the fact that our numbers did not correspond is all that saves this part of our story from resembling a quotation from baedeker. the panorama showed the city spread out in a plain between the loire and the cher. we grew to have an intimate feeling for these old cathedral towers. when returning along the loire from our châteaux trips, it was always a beautiful sight to see them in the distance, clear-cut and luminous, or looking like majestic shadows in the haze of twilight. [illustration: _the road swept us along the bank of the loire_ _page _] chapter xiii the chÂteaux of touraine tours made a convenient headquarters for our explorations in touraine, where along the banks of the loire and the indre were enacted the most important events in french history from charles vii to henry iv. every one would be interested in an historical course having for subjects these renaissance homes of france's gallantry and beauty. one lingers, and imagines the scenes of magnificent revel, the court life of kings and queens when the artistic and architectural glory of france was at its zenith. it was easy to plan our one-day trips so as to include on the same circuit several of the most famous châteaux. the first day we motored to azay-le-rideau, chinon, rigny-ussé, and langeais, in the order named. the distances were short, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five kilometers in all, so that we could go leisurely and yet return to tours before dark. with this wonderful program before us, we crossed the loire, and traversing a wooded country with areas of vineyards and gardens, came to azay-sur-indre. there were not even hints of a château, nothing but the aimless cobbled streets of the typical french town. we halted beside a long wall which holds back the encroaching village and betrays no sign of the surprise in store within. any one about to see his first château would do well to visit azay-le-rideau, a veritable gem of renaissance style. this graceful pile of white architecture, as seen to-day, belongs to the early part of the sixteenth century. françois i built it. that patron of the _beaux arts_ has placed our twentieth century under lasting obligation. every line is artistic. there is the picture of airy lightness in the turrets and carven chimneys that rise from the high sloping roofs of blue slate. in gratitude for the preservation of this perfect work one forgets the ravages of the french revolution. passing over a small bridge, we followed the _gardien_ through the sculptured doorway and up the grand staircase so often ascended by françois and his parisian favorites. we were permitted to see the ancient kitchen and old kitchen utensils of wrought iron. paintings and flemish tapestries adorned the billiard room. the king's bedroom has a fine specimen of rare mediæval flooring. the ballroom, with its gobelin tapestries, suggested the artistic luxury of the age. from nearly every window there were pleasing outlooks on a green woodland and on the sunny branch of the indre, which surrounds the château on three sides. it was all a picture of peace. azay-le-rideau is a château of elegance, instead of defense. one could imagine it built by a king who had leisure to collect beautiful works of art and whose throne was not seriously threatened by invading armies. quite different from it is the château of chinon, an immense ruined fortress built on a hill above the vienne river. the walls are as impregnable as rocky cliffs. chinon was the refuge of a king who had need of the strongest towers. charles vii, still uncrowned, assembled here the states-general while the english were besieging orléans. it was a time of despair. the french were divided, discouraged, helpless, their richest provinces overrun by english armies. at this lowest ebb of french history, a simple peasant girl came to chinon. only a solitary gable and chimneypiece remain of the grande salle du trône where jeanne d'arc told the king of her visions from heaven and of mysterious voices commanding her to save the nation. we entered the tower, her rude quarters till she departed a few weeks later to lead the french troops to the victory of orléans. after lunch we motored through the gardens of touraine to the magnificent château of ussé. the elegant grounds and surrounding woods formed an appropriate setting. terraces descended to the wall below, where our view swept over a wide range of picturesque country, watered by the indre. much to our regret, we were not permitted to visit the château, which is now occupied by a prominent french family. langeais, a few miles away, gave us a more hospitable welcome. it is a superb stronghold upon the loire, and has dark, frowning towers and a heavy drawbridge which looks very mediæval. the widow of m. siegfried, a parisian millionaire, lives here part of the year with her daughter. m. siegfried, who bought the château, was interested in art as well as in ships. he lavished his wealth to furnish the different rooms with furniture and _objets d'art_ peculiar to the period. his will provides that after the wife's death the château is to belong to the institute of france, and that a sum equal to six thousand dollars is to be devoted to its upkeep. other tourists had arrived. the _concierge_ conducted our party through the many different rooms, lavishly furnished and decorated in the period of louis xi and charles viii. there were wide, open fireplaces. we were interested in the grand salon, where the marriage of charles viii and anne of brittany was celebrated in . the return to tours led along the banks of the loire. rain was falling, a cold drizzle which the rising wind dashed in our faces. the wide sweeps of the river grew indistinct. there were few carts to check our homeward spurt through the darkening landscape. we were fortunate in having so comfortable a hostelry for a goal. the dinner, equal to the best french cuisine, proved a pleasant ending to a memorable day. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the chateau of loches behind its imposing entrance_ _page _] the next morning ushered in one of those golden fall days that seemed made for "châteauing." the swift kilometers soon carried us to loches, that impressive combination of state prison, château royal, and grim fortress overlooking the valley of the indre. so many horrible memories are linked with the prisons of loches that we almost hesitate to record our impressions. we have seen the dungeon cells of the ducal palace in venice and the equally gruesome chambers of the castle of chillon, but the dungeons of loches are the most fear-inspiring that we have ever penetrated. perhaps a part of this impression was due to the _concierge_ who showed us the prisons where famous captives were incarcerated and tortured at the will of monarchs. there was one dark cell with a deep hole, purposely fashioned that the victims should stumble headlong to their fate. our guide gave us a graphic description of this method of execution. in that gloomy hole, his sudden climax of "_très horrible_," would have made any one shiver. some of these cells extend an interminable distance underground. it is not the most cheerful experience to descend deeper and deeper into this subterranean darkness, to see the daylight growing fainter, to hear the trickle of water from the cold rocks, and then to imagine the slow, frightful death of many a political captive. louis xi, not satisfied with the capacity of the dungeon, built a great round tower, the tour neuve, where he imprisoned the rebellious barons whose lives could not be taken. some one has written of this amiable king that "his reign was a daily battle, carried on in the manner of savages, by astuteness and cruelty, without courtesy and without mercy." in the cell occupied by ludovico sforza, the duke of milan, may be seen the paintings, sun dial, and inscriptions with which he tried to ward off approaching madness. this prisoner is said to have died from the joy of regaining his liberty. louis xi was resourceful in his method of imprisonment. in a subterranean room of the tour neuve we were shown where the cardinal balue was suspended in a small cage. one reads that he "survived so much longer than might have been expected this extraordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure." almost as horrible was the window cell in one of the torture chambers. the prisoner was confined on a narrow stone ledge between two rows of bars. there was barely space to stand up or lie down. a handful of straw served for a bed. on the one side, he was exposed to the elements, and on the other, he viewed the torments of fellow prisoners. we turned with relief to less hideous scenes, to the apartments of the château royal, occupied by the irresolute charles vii, the terrible louis xi, and their successors; to the tower, from the top of which we had a commanding view of the quaint, mediæval town and the wandering indre. our guide did not forget to show us the tomb of agnes sorel, the beautiful mistress of charles vii. two little angels kneel at her head, while her feet rest on two couchant lambs, symbols of innocence. the monument would have made an appropriate resting place for a martyred saint. from loches, we motored through a deep forest to the château of montrésor, well protected on its rocky height by a double encircling wall, flanked with towers. once within these formidable barriers, we were delighted with the pleasant grounds and green arbors above the valley of the indrois. the building dates from the commencement of the sixteenth century, and was small enough to look more like a home than a palace. the _concierge_ spoke of a distinguished polish family who occupied it part of the year. this was the first "home château" we had seen. everything looked livable; there was warmth and coziness and refinement in the different rooms. we felt almost like intruders into this domestic atmosphere. some of the paintings were by great artists. one was fleury's "the massacre of the poles at warsaw," on april , . there were rare specimens of antique furniture, and, most interesting of all, the "treasury of the kings of poland," consisting in part of the large gold dish and silver soup tureen presented to john sobieski by the city of vienna, and of the silver-gilt services of sobieski and of sigismond ii, king of poland. the château has a rich collection of works of art and souvenirs relating to the history of poland. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the chateau of chenonceaux_ _page _] the hôtel de france nearby spread before us a ménu so good that we confiscated the _carte du jour_ as a souvenir. eagerly we looked forward to chenonceaux, built on the cher, most exquisite of the french châteaux and for centuries the rendezvous of wit and beauty. motor cars lined the roadside by the gates of the park. some of the visitors had driven in carriages from the nearest railway stations. we sauntered down an avenue of trees to a large garden, rather a formal piece of landscape work. the drawbridge offered access to the château. françois i purchased it. later, henry ii, ascending the throne, gave it to his mistress, diane de poitiers. the french women of that day had a big share in the shaping of history; the conversations of the boudoir were often more influential than state councils. diane built a bridge which connected the castle with the other side of the river. twelve years later, the death of henry ii gave his widow, catherine de' medici, a chance to relieve her embittered feelings. she forced diane to exchange chenonceaux for another château. upon the bridge built by her rival, catherine erected a long gallery, surmounted by a banqueting hall. this fairy-like structure is so strangely placed, one is reminded of a fantastic ship moored in the river. it is remarkable for its celebrated renaissance architecture and for the absence of bloody traditions. "blois is stained with the blood of guise; amboise was the scene of massacre; loches stands upon unnumbered dungeons; chenonceaux alone has no bloodstain on its stones and no groan has ever risen from its vaults. eight generations of kings took their pleasure there, and a long line of brilliant and beautiful women makes its history like a rope of pearls." even the gloomy, plotting catherine did nothing to disturb the peaceful records and gorgeous _fêtes_ of chenonceaux. in the "_chambre de diane de poitiers_" we saw a painting representing catherine. those cold, brooding eyes looked capable of anything, from the murder of the duc de guise to the massacre of st. bartholomew. two other châteaux of our itinerary still remained, amboise and blois, the latter perhaps the most famous of them all. we decided to visit these châteaux _en route_ down the valley of loire to orléans. the following morning we bade farewell to tours. the road swept us along the left bank of the loire, all aglitter in the september sunshine. what a wonderful stream it is, the longest river in france, with its basin embracing one fourth of that country! there is not a river in the world like it. one feels the breath of romance, the spell of historical associations, the beauty of its curves sweeping through a smiling land. "perhaps no stream, in so short a portion of its course, has so much history to tell."[ ] along its banks flourished for three centuries the court of the valois kings. there are vineyards, the remains of mediæval forests, little villages that have scarcely changed in a hundred years, and splendid châteaux like those of blois, chaumont, chambord, and amboise, almost reflecting their towers in the water and rich in the wonders of the french renaissance. [ ] _old touraine_, by t. a. cook. of all the châteaux along the loire, amboise enjoys the finest situation. from across the river we could see this dark gothic mass rising from its cliff-like walls to dominate the town and far-winding stream. the panorama from the high terrace is one of the indescribable views of france. the real treasure of amboise is the exquisite chapelle de saint hubert, due to charles viii. his artistic zeal was tragically interrupted. we saw the low doorway where, according to tradition, he struck his head and killed himself while hastening to play tennis. on the terrace is a bust of leonardo da vinci, who died here in . the name of catherine de' medici is connected with a frightful scene that occurred in the courtyard. a huguenot conspiracy to capture the youthful françois ii was discovered. the fierce catherine not only witnessed the executions from a balcony, but insisted upon the company of her horrified daughter-in-law, mary stuart. twelve hundred huguenots were butchered. one writer[ ] makes the following grim comment: "it was a long job, of course, to kill so many, and the company could hardly be expected to watch it all, but the noble victims were reserved for their special entertainment after dinner." catherine seems to have had a peculiar fondness for these innocent and edifying spectacles. we descended the spiral roadway of the colossal tower up which emperor charles v rode on horseback when he visited françois i. this inclined plane was so perfect and gradual that our motor car could have climbed it with ease. [ ] sir henry norman, m. p., in "the alpine road of france," in _scribner's magazine_, february, . [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the chateau of amboise on the loire_] recrossing the loire, we rode on to blois for lunch at that famous hostelry, the hôtel d'angleterre, close by the river's edge. to the château of blois belongs historical preëminence. this great castle was the center of french history in the sixteenth century. elaborate and imposing, blois recalls the splendor of the age as well as its crimes. such fireplaces and such ceilings! the colors are crimson and gold. amid this gloomy grandeur moved catherine de' medici. the memory of her presence alone is enough to make the air heavy with intrigue and murder, with all the passions that inflamed the religious wars. joining the usual tourist crowd, we visited her apartments, including the bedroom where she died in , at the age of seventy, the most infamous of french queens. to us, the strangest fact in the life of this fierce, blood-loving queen is that she was permitted to die a natural death. in one of the chambers were curious secret cupboards where she may have concealed her jewels. the floor above suggested a terribly realistic picture of the assassination of the duc de guise, whose popularity and influence had aroused the jealousy of catherine and henry iii. the _concierge_ explained all the tragic details. this was the _salle du conseil_, where, on the morning of the assassination, the duke was summoned by the queen to a council; that, the _cabinet neuf_, where the king remained while the fatal blows were being struck. and there, in the king's chamber, at the foot of the bed, the spot where the body lay when the king exclaimed, "he seems greater in death than in life." chapter xiv orlÉans to dieppe leaving the châteaux country, we proceeded to orléans in the lower part of the loire valley, spending the night at the hôtel saint aignan. the general appearance of the city is prosperous and modern. the walls which once surrounded it have been turned into promenades. everything in orléans seems connected with jeanne d'arc. there is a bronze equestrian statue with bas-reliefs of the "maid" who, clad in white armor, led her soldiers from victory to victory. we hope sometime to be present at the brilliant "fête de jeanne d'arc," which is held every year on may , in commemoration of her raising the siege of orléans in . small shops display postal cards representing scenes from her life. the musée is filled with interesting souvenirs. in the cathedral, where the people worship her as a saint, we saw on the walls votive tablets bearing inscriptions of gratitude to her for recovery from sickness. in the same street is the "maison de jeanne d'arc" where she was received by the duc d'orléans during the eventful siege. that morning was filled with an interesting series of historical sidelights. from the vineyards of touraine to the wheat fields of normandy; the change was complete. like an endless white ribbon, the road stretched straight through the vast plain of la beauce, the granary of france. what far reaches of level fields! there were no telegraph poles, no hedges, no fences. we seemed to be moving through a strange solitude, empty of human face or habitation. the distant farmhouses and windmills were too much like specks on the horizon to seem real. there is, after all, no scenery to compare with the beauty of the lowlands, where every mood of heaven, every change of sky, is part of a wonderful picture. the weather, which was threatening when we left orléans, now looked more and more like a storm. no shelter was in sight, nothing but the open country, the great dome of heaven, and the road ever narrowing ahead of us until its indistinct thread merged into a faint blur. swift clouds took on a greenish, copper-colored hue, which deepened into black as they swirled toward us. then the hailstones began to fall with a stinging force that increased with every movement. it was one of those furious hailstorms of northern france which are as characteristic of that region as the mistral is of the midi. there were no mitigating influences. the wind was pitiless, untempered even by the shelter of a tree or barn. by stopping the car and crouching behind it, we secured a little protection from the biting blasts. the sun soon burst through the cloud barriers. we continued toward chartres, stopping for a moment at a railway crossing to "kodak" a passing freight train. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the wheat fields of normandy_] the approach to chartres was impressively picturesque. the double spires of its vast gothic cathedral, growing more distinct, finally towered above the moat and the porte guillaume, the fourteenth-century gateway of the city. our hotel, the grand monarque, gazed upon the turmoil of a village fair. the din was deafening. a merry-go-round added the blare of brazen music; several hand-organs were in discordant evidence. we mingled with the peasants around the small booths, and were almost enticed by a _jolie paysanne_ into buying a pair of small _sabots_. our ride in the small motor car of the merry-go-round was the dizziest burst of speed on our whole trip. little chartres is overshadowed by its mighty cathedral. all interest concentrates there. many consider it the finest in france. every one would agree that the interior is incomparable. nowhere can we find a more sublime expression of gothic art. those who fashioned this "sacred rock-work set to music" belong to the great unknown; their names are buried somewhere back in the early part of the thirteenth century when the cathedral was built. at least, they have given us a picture of their times; such structures could not be erected now. our age is attuned to a different key; there are too many distracting influences. then, there were no popular theaters, and few books or forms of amusement. the church was the natural center of thought and life. only the religious inspiration of a people naturally artistic could have created the immortal works which the cathedral builders have bequeathed. [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the gothic cathedral at chartres_ _page _] for a few miles outside of chartres we were again on route nationale no. . the blue-and-white advertisements of various productions appeared close to the road signs. this is a common practice of the french advertisers, who wish to catch the eye of the _voyageur_. we had no idea there were so many different makes of _pneus_ and _chocolats_. in the roadside hamlets the french advertiser makes use of the sides of barns and the corners of houses, but there is very little landscape advertising. being americans, we were impressed by this absence of disfiguring advertisements along the countryside in normandy and other parts of france. the "bull durham" herd, so often found in american meadows, would not thrive in french pastures. it would be taxed out of existence. hardly had we sat down to lunch in the hôtel du grand cerf of nonancourt when there was a great shouting and beating of drums outside. a group of conscripts marched noisily by. they wore red, white, and blue cockades, and neckties of the same color, in curious contrast to their simple peasant dress. in accordance with the provincial custom, it was a day of feasting to signalize their admission to the army. in two weeks they were to leave their homes to begin the long, tedious period of military service. a young _cuirassier_ whom we met in limoges, and who had just completed his first year of service in the cavalry, related interesting experiences of life in the french army. the discipline is severe. the german soldier is not subjected to a more rigorous training. the rising hour is a.m. in the spring, and a.m. in the summer. there are long, exhausting marches. as often as two or three times a week the recruits are awakened in the middle of the night to make a long march. life is made to conform as closely as possible to the conditions of actual war. a day's work of eighteen hours is not unusual. naturally, this means hardship, but it also means good soldiers. the french army is very democratic. rich and poor are treated alike. both live together in the barracks. there are no privileges. even if a recruit is wealthy, he is not allowed to keep a valet. every man is his own domestic. the german army is not nearly so democratic. there, if the recruit has means, he can keep a servant and may live out of barracks in a comfortable apartment. the conscripts whom we saw in nonancourt were destined to anything but an easy, inactive life. for infantry as well as cavalry there is the same grueling routine. the three hours of drilling in the morning do not include gymnasium exercises for three-quarters of an hour. such menial duties as peeling potatoes, or washing dishes and clothes, form part of the morning's work. the short noon respite is followed by three hours of military exercises. during this period of training the recruits receive only one cent a day, besides clothing, guns, and very simple fare. the term of service has recently been extended from two to three years, to offset the increases of the german army. the average age of enlistment is about eighteen years, an age when the american boy is entering college or laying the foundation for a business career. in comparison, the french boy is heavily handicapped. even if his school days end at the age of sixteen, he can do little in business. the french business man does not think it worth while to prepare the boy for an important position, since his military service is so close at hand. france pays a terrible price for national security. the financial cost, burdensome though it is, is the smallest item. frenchmen who have lived in the united states often speak of the great advantages enjoyed by the young american who can devote to his education or to his life work those three precious years which the french youth must give to the army. anatole france, the distinguished french writer, was among those who protested against the new military law. "this addition of a year to the conscription comes on us just when france is moving forward with a new energy, both in science and industry. it will be a grave blow to all our higher life. medicine especially will be injured, for the medicine of the army is not the medicine of the civil state. french science requires the time of its young students, and that will be gravely curtailed. the demand for another army year from all young frenchmen, imposed without any exemptions, will draw off the best from every field of life. it comes at a moment of great industrial development. it will check that development. it comes at a moment of expansion in our arts, especially in sculpture. it will be a heavy blow. sculpture is not practiced on the battlefield." we wonder if there is any help for europe! how will it all end? so far as we can now foresee, the peace conference at the hague, to have been held in , has been indefinitely postponed. instead of this gathering of the nations to establish some practical basis for limitation of armaments, there is the prospect of increased armaments. the burdens, already so crushing, are apparently only the prelude to what is coming. england is the pacemaker on the sea. mr. winston churchill, in his recent speech before the house of commons, urged that the naval budget for be raised to over a quarter billion dollars. he said: "the naval estimates for the next year are the largest in british history, $ , , . the causes which might lead to a general war have not been removed. the world is arming as it never armed before. all attempts at arresting it have been ineffectual." germany is more than ever a nation in arms. at the present rate of increase, her standing army in time of peace will soon number more than a million men. france, which less than a year ago passed the three years' service bill, already faces the possible necessity of adding still another year to the term of military service. count witte, the russian statesman, has estimated that forty per cent of the total income of the great powers is absorbed by their armies and navies. he said: "unless the great states which have set this hideous example agree to call a halt and to knit their subjects into a pacific, united europe, war is the only issue i can perceive. and when i say war, i mean a conflict which will surpass in horror the most brutal armed conflicts known to human history, and entail distress more widespread and more terrible than living men can realize." russia is making sweeping military reforms. the disastrous war with japan taught valuable lessons. the reorganization of the army includes vast increases of men, and especially the improvement in facilities of transportation. the railroad network in process of construction on her western frontier will probably be completed in . when the plans of the czar are realized in , russia will have one of the most formidable armies in the world, a war machine with a fighting strength of over four million men. "throughout austria-hungary there is just now a feeling of considerable dread of russia's ulterior motives in a number of measures, military and otherwise, that are being discussed in political circles here. of greatest moment in that connection is a short but vigorous speech made by the hungarian premier, count tisza, before the parliament. it was delivered while advocating the new army increase bill (since adopted by a large majority), which raises considerably the annual quota of recruits. after bewailing the necessity of imposing new burdens on a nation impoverished and already staggering under its load, he termed the contemplated increase in the fighting strength of the army an absolute necessity. 'the shadows of a coming big war are thrown ahead, and the losing side will forfeit its national life, or at least expect a painful amputation,' he cried." in every country where we motored there was scarcely an hour which did not bring the sound of drums, the sight of barracks, of soldiers drilling or on the march. whether in germany, austria, italy, or france, there were the same sights of preparation for war. the sacrifices of peace in are hardly less exhausting than were the sacrifices of war in . "what a reflection on modern diplomacy the whole situation casts! a policy which men like gray and asquith have repeatedly characterized as one of madness, as one leading to bankruptcy, as one that makes a mockery of peace by throwing away half its benefits, is pursued because the diplomats can't agree on a plan of armament limitation. it is admitted that the frenzied rivalry in armament increase adds nothing to the relative strength of any power or group of powers, yet the frenzied rivalry continues at the expense of industry and constructive social and economical reforms. if the 'causes of a general war' in europe have not been removed, what has diplomacy been doing and of what use are the alliances, the ententes, and understandings among the powers? might not a little courage and boldness in pushing the armament-limitation idea and appealing to public, business, and democratic sentiment force the hands of the routine-ridden diplomats?" [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _the seine at rouen_ _page _] for nearly twenty miles the road cut a white swath through the treeless plain of st. andré to the cathedral town of evreux. the wheat fields and cathedrals of normandy should be mentioned in the same sentence. france, so full of the picturesque, has few finer sights than the view of these airy cathedral spires while one is still miles away from any town. we zigzagged into the valley of iton, climbed, swooped downward, and crossing that hurrying stream, ran beside the river eure into the main street of louviers. the warning, "_allure modère_," was unnecessary. the cobble stones were sufficient to make us slacken speed. the beauty of the church of nôtre dame served to stop us completely. the church, with its profuse embroidery of rich, delicate carving, shone like a jewel amid the motley and jumbled houses. it was like finding a rosebush blooming in the gutter of some neglected street. through the forest of pont de l'arche to the town of the same name, where we crossed the seine, past bright little norman cottages, our route shot ahead to rouen, the center of cotton manufacturing for france, the most interesting mediæval city in normandy, and renowned the world over for splendid gothic churches. after inspecting the rooms of two or three hotels, we chose the hôtel d'angleterre, close by the crowded traffic of the seine. sight-seeing in rouen is more convenient by carriage than by motor car. we moved from the abbey church of st. ouen to the church of st. maclou. if europe had no other remains of gothic art, rouen would be enough to describe all the splendor of that style of architecture. the cathedral is a whole library of description in itself. curious is the legend of the tour de beurre, built by money received from indulgences sold, and permitting the people to eat butter in lent. "at the base of the tour st. romain, there still stands the lodge of the porter whose duties from very early times right up to , included the care of the fierce watchdogs who were at night let loose in the cathedral to guard its many precious treasures from robbers. how much would we give for a glimpse of one of those porters walking through the cavernous gloom of these echoing aisles, with his lamp throwing strange shadows from the great slouching dogs!"[ ] [ ] from _motor routes of france_, part i, by gordon home. the central tower rises into a great spire of open iron work, more than one and a half times as high as the steeple of trinity church in new york. one seldom sees anything so quaintly picturesque as the little wooden cloister, aître saint-maclou. from its courtyard, the burial ground for so many victims of the black death of , one sees mediæval spires which rise in all directions. another vivid reminder of the past is the archway of the grosse horloge, with its huge clock in colors of blue and gold and dating from the sixteenth century. but the impressions of rouen that thrilled us most related to the sad closing days of jeanne d'arc. at orléans we saw her in the hour of victory, a young girl dictating to experienced generals, cutting her way through the english army around the city and bringing provisions and succor to the beleaguered inhabitants. our _cocher_ escorted us to the tower where, with instruments of torture around her, she faced and baffled her brutal inquisitors. in the old market place, the scene of her martyrdom, one is shown a simple slab which reads, "jeanne d'arc, mai, ." this marks the spot where she was burned at the stake. the last lap of the trip, the ride to dieppe on the english channel, was past many large norman farms. neat haystacks dotted the rolling acres. nowhere else had we seen so many horses,--big, powerful creatures. normandy breeds and exports them. apple orchards were in constant view. coasting down a long hill into the city, we left the car in the garage of the grand hôtel, and joined an enthusiastic crowd which was watching a football game between dieppe and rouen. the new france is keenly interested in sports and games. in there was held in paris the international congress for physical culture, the idea being to impress upon the young the need for physical development. the extent to which the idea of physical culture has captured france will be evident from the following figures: in the various athletic societies had less than fifty thousand members; to-day, they have more than three hundred thousand members. france has indeed entered upon a new era. the chief characteristic of it is not literary but practical, self-assertive, and everywhere for action. the young frenchman of to-day is more interested in sports than in art or literature. a french professor recently said: "i have lived my life in my library. there i have passed through my intellectual crises. there i have experienced my most fervent emotions. in the lives of my sons i notice that books play a very little part, or if they read, it is biography, and especially the biography of men of action like napoleon." [illustration: copyright by underwood & underwood _where jeanne d'arc was burned at the stake_] * * * * * now comes the pang of keen regret. we are close to the end. these weeks of unmingled joy stand around us like a group of friends, as if to stay our leaving. four thousand miles of motoring, in five countries, and without an accident! our car has taken on personality. here, climbing a mountain to the very summit whose far-away vistas held us enchanted, or rushing down on the other side, we skirted some quiet lake that lay embosomed in its own loveliness; there, a wild glen with its mysterious depths beckoning us to halt! we have seen the peasantry, as in france, looked upon their quaint costumes and customs, and caught the simple melody of their songs. we have gone close to palaces, and wondered whether prince or peasant were the happier. we have seen châteaux that were tragedies and cathedrals that were poems. we have seen the conscripts file slowly past, each surrendering three years of the most important period of his life. then, we have contrasted a nation as a military camp with our own great republic, without a large standing army, but safe. and now, homeward bound to the freest land beneath the sun, america! chapter xv expenses and suggestions the purchase of the car at the benz factory in mannheim, germany, plunged us at once into a maze of police regulations. it was necessary to secure a driving license. with us in the united states this is hardly more than a matter of routine. not so in germany, where the examination is really a formidable affair. it is especially difficult for a foreigner to secure a driving license. he may be able to give evidence proving that he has driven a car for years in his own country. this fact makes no difference. it is not even taken into consideration. every possible opportunity is given the candidate to make mistakes, and thus to prove that he is not qualified to receive the desired certificate. no detail of motormanship is overlooked. there is an age requirement of eighteen years. first came the physical examination. then it was necessary to spend two hours a day in the shop for five and a half weeks so as to become thoroughly acquainted with the various parts of the motor car. the candidate is given an opportunity to see motor cars taken apart and put together. in this way he is made familiar with the use and purpose of every part of the car. the crucial test begins when he is called upon to show his skill as chauffeur. it is customary to drive one hundred miles in the city and surrounding country. the official police inspector who accompanies him is resourceful in his tests. under his supervision the car is driven through crowded streets, and made to back up and turn around in difficult places,--in fact, to meet all the emergencies of motor travel. even after the examination has been passed successfully, there is a delay of several days before the license is given the final stamp of official approval. the license for which we made application on february was not secured until april . it cost one hundred _marks_ (about twenty-five dollars). of this amount, one half goes to the state and the balance to the shop giving the candidate his instruction in motor-car mechanics. the inspector receives ten dollars for his services. there is also a customary charge of one dollar and a half for the number plate. americans who have lived for a considerable time in germany are always impressed with the numerous occasions when the state interferes in the private life of the individual; the foreign motorist is no exception to this rule of coming at once into contact with the state. he no sooner crosses the frontier than the state compels him to pay a tax. even though he remains in the country but a single day, he is forced to secure a tax license which costs three _marks_ (about seventy-five cents). these tax licenses are issued to cover periods of from one to ninety days, the license good for three months costing fifty _marks_. if one remains longer than ninety days it is necessary to renew this license or _steuerkarte_. the annual tax on motor cars varies according to the power of the car. a car of . horse power (german rating) would be taxed one hundred and twenty _marks_. the german tax net spreads everywhere. at the time of our sojourn in that country the city of munich was considering the introduction of a tax on cats. such a tax would without doubt be the first of its kind in the world. in southern germany the small towns still continue to exact imposts of ten _pfennigs_ (three cents) from the motor cars passing over their roads. in spite of the complaint that this tax is a serious obstacle to trade and traffic, there is no immediate prospect of its being removed. france, in contrast to germany, does not subject the foreign motorist to a tax unless his sojourn exceeds a period of four months. the annual dues of the rheinische automobile club amounted to forty _marks_. membership in an organization of this kind is necessary to secure the _triptyques_ which are so indispensable to the motorist whose itinerary includes several countries of europe. the usefulness of this important document has been described so often that we do not feel called upon to make further comment here. our international driving permit based upon the special license issued by the state was also secured for a small fee from the automobile club above mentioned. among the incidental expenses, the cost of repairs is apt to figure largely, particularly when one is motoring along mountain highways. such services are much cheaper in europe than in the united states. in our case the item was so small as to be almost negligible. the car was so carefully overhauled and inspected before leaving the factory that we suffered little inconvenience or delay. our tire troubles were limited to a single puncture. continental tires in the rear and excelsior in the front gave excellent service. notwithstanding the wear and tear of mountain motoring, we found it necessary to use only one of the two reserve tires. gasoline was everywhere obtainable. in germany and france the price is about thirty-seven cents a gallon, but in austria and spain it is much higher, generally approximating eighty cents a gallon. in italy, where bargaining is necessary, the price usually dropped from eighty cents to less than forty-eight cents a gallon. a bosch magneto greatly increased the speed and climbing ability of the car, and enabled us to average about twenty-one miles to every gallon of gasoline. in france the cost of this necessary article is not fixed. neighboring towns often showed a difference of several cents in the cost per gallon. but although the price is not uniform, the fine quality is, and always gave excellent results. as a part of our equipment we carried as reserve a five-gallon sealed can of gasoline and a similar quantity of oil. on these it was occasionally necessary to pay a duty of a couple of cents at the numerous _octroi_ stations in france. the inconvenience of these imposts was usually more burdensome than the amount of the tax. for our oil, which would have cost about forty cents a gallon in the united states, we averaged one dollar and ten cents a gallon. our hotel bills were not high. we had expected to find them much higher. two dollars or two dollars and a half was sufficient as a rule to cover dinner, chamber, and breakfast. for instance, our rooms at the hôtel de france cost one dollar each, the dinner _table d'hôte_ seventy-five cents each, and breakfast thirty cents, the usual prices which secured us satisfactory accommodations nearly everywhere in france. every hotel had its garage, a fact which we did not always find to be true of the hotels in germany. the garage was often not much more than a shed or lean-to, but it always offered the shelter and protection necessary for our one-or two-night stops. sometimes there was a garage charge of one franc (nineteen and one half cents) a day, but this was exceptional. if the car was washed we were expected to pay from thirty-five to fifty cents for this extra service. the scale of prices in germany and austria was possibly twenty per cent higher, but nowhere was there any attempt to take advantage of the fact that we were foreigners. the motor tourist is such a familiar sight abroad that the stopping of a motor car before a provincial hotel does not excite unusual interest. it is rather an everyday occurrence, an accustomed detail of the day's routine. france especially, more than any other country in europe, has become a land of motor tourists. the large well-to-do class turns naturally to motoring for recreation and diversion. the frenchman practices thrift in his hours of leisure and travel as well as in his business. this fact probably explains in great part the comparatively low level of hotel charges to be found in that country. contrary to the popular idea, there are not two sets of charges, one for the european and a higher one for the american. we were never expected to pay for services that were not rendered in more than ample measure. on the contrary, we had daily opportunities to observe the effort made to give us the best possible service for the prices charged. this was true not only of the hotels but of the restaurants as well. of course, for a dollar a day we did not expect to have a _chambre de luxe_. it is really a constant surprise to see how much one can get in the way of clean, comfortable rooms and appetizing meals for a small outlay. france is a country by itself in this respect. there is perhaps no country where the traveler can get so much for his money. in no other land of europe can one motor so cheaply. it is always possible to avoid the big towns as sleeping places and at meal times, and yet run no risk of not enjoying the finest cooking and a comfortable night's lodging. austria is the most expensive country for the motorist. spain and central and southern italy are so little patronized by motor traffic that they do not need to be included in our comparison. the consideration of incidental expenses brings us to the question of tipping, without doubt the most perplexing and the most misunderstood of all the problems that confront the foreign motorist in europe. long before his steamer touches the shore of the old world, he has visions of an extended line of servants standing with outstretched hands to receive the expected shower of coins. for the majority of tourists it is almost an ordeal to leave a european hotel. how often we have heard the question, "what shall i give?" the average american has such an instinctive sense of fairness, of wanting to do the right thing, that a matter of this kind assumes an importance out of all proportion to the value of the tip. he is willing to be liberal; on the other hand, he is not eager to pose as a philanthropic and charitable institution created to satisfy the needs of every hotel employee who says "_guten tag_" or "_bon jour_" to him when he enters the hotel. the trouble is that in borrowing this custom from europe we have so americanized it that we find it difficult to get the european viewpoint and to adapt ourselves readily to the practice as it exists to-day across the water. the american _voyageur_ is so accustomed to doing things in a large way that it is not easy for him to appreciate the european system of small percentages. his common mistake is to give larger tips than are expected and overlook the small tips which do not seem to be so important. he hesitates to give a small tip, and in such cases would prefer to give none at all. we have read somewhere the story of a frenchman who was visiting the united states for the first time. he ate a sixty-cent meal in a new york restaurant. following the custom in paris, he left five per cent of the bill, three cents, for the waiter. many of us could probably confess to an equal uncertainty and helplessness in the presence of our first tipping experience in europe. baedeker's classic rule of ten per cent of the total amount of the bill seems strangely inadequate when a traveler has stayed only one night at a hotel and finds that his bill is about two dollars. the problem of dividing twenty cents so that every one will be satisfied is a task that he would willingly turn over to somebody else. as a matter of fact, while there is no arbitrary rule, it does not take long to discover that the _pourboire_ and _trinkgeld_ are fixed and permanent institutions, as solid in their reality as the credit lyonnais or the reichsbank. one is expected to give at least something, even if the service rendered has been merely nominal. the french and german systems of coinage, with their _ -centime_ and _ -pfennig_ pieces, fit in so conveniently to the european standards of tipping. judging from our experience, the tourist will be most quickly at ease who observes the custom as it is practiced by the inhabitants of the country, and then makes his own scale of tips slightly larger. foreigners are expected to be a little more liberal. the quality of service received will ordinarily more than compensate for this slight increase. in valence, where we stayed only one night, the bill, including chamber, dinner, and breakfast, amounted to twenty francs for two people. our tips were itemized as follows: francs centimes garçon femme de chambre valet de chambre concierge garage -- -- total if there was an _ascenseur_ in the hotel the elevator boy never looked insulted when we gave him ten or fifteen _centimes_. if extra service was rendered, we paid for it accordingly. this scale of tipping secured us good service in the small provincial towns. in the larger places the _maître de l'hôtel_ (head waiter) plays a more important role and ranks in tipping dignity with the _concierge_. in italy the equivalent of four cents per person would be considered liberal in most restaurants. in germany, where the rise in cost of living is more noticeable than in france, the item of tipping was slightly larger. austria gave us the most difficulty. here the system is more complicated. the _speise-traeger_ who brings you food, the _piccolo_ who ministers to your thirst, the _zahl-kellner_ who receives payment for the bill, all expect their contribution of _hellers_. these dignitaries were ordinarily satisfied with tips of twenty, ten, and forty _hellers_ in the order named. the value of _hellers_ and _centimes_ is so nearly equal that it was not confusing to pass from the austrian to the french system of coinage. the largest single item of expense was of course the cost of transportation, which always depends on the size and weight of the car. the cost of ocean transportation for an ordinary four-seated touring car would run from one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and seventy-five dollars. to this amount must be added fifty dollars to cover cost of boxing. in our case, since the car was purchased abroad, it was necessary to pay a duty of thirty per cent on the original cost, minus the agent's commission of twenty-five per cent. transcriber's note: _underscores_ have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts. the illustration captions were printed without accents. this has been left as it was in the original. [every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. no attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling of non-english words. archaic spelllings (i.e. divers, ecstacy, graneries, asthetic, etc.) have been retained. (note of etext transcriber.)] [illustration: mont st. michael.] nasby in exile: or, six months of travel in england, ireland, scotland, france, germany, switzerland and belgium, with many things not of travel. by david r. locke, (petroleum v. nasby.) profusely illustrated. toledo and boston: locke publishing company. . copyright, , by david r. locke. all rights reserved. blade printing and paper co., _printers and binders_, toledo, o. preface. on the afternoon of may , , the good ship "city of richmond," steamed out of new york harbor with a varied assortment of passengers on board, all intent upon seeing europe. among these was the writer of the pages that follow. six of the passengers having contracted a sort of liking for each other, made a tour of six months together, that is, together most of the time. this book is the record of their experiences, as they appeared originally in the columns of the toledo blade. it is not issued in compliance with any demand for it. i have no recollection that any one of the one hundred thousand regular subscribers to the toledo blade ever asked that the letters that appeared from week to week in its columns should be gathered into book form. the volume is a purely mercantile speculation, which may or may not be successful. the publishers held that the matter was of sufficient value to go between covers, and believing that they were good judges of such things, i edited the letters, and here they are. the ground we went over has been gone over by other writers a thousand times. we went where other tourists have gone, and what we saw others have seen. the only difference between this book and the thousands of others that have been printed describing the same scenes, is purely the difference in the eyes of the writers who saw them. i saw the countries i visited with a pair of american eyes, and judged of men and things from a purely american stand-point. i have not attempted to describe scenery, and buildings, and things of that nature, at all. that has been done by men and women more capable of such work than i am. every library in america is full of books of that nature. but i was interested in the men and women of the countries i passed through, i was interested in their ways of living, their industries and their customs and habits, and i tried faithfully to put upon paper what i saw, as well as the observations and comments of the party that traveled and observed with me. i have a hope that the readers of these pages will lay the book down in quite as good condition, mentally and physically, as when they took it up, and that some information as to european life will result from its perusal. as i make no promises at the beginning i shall have no apologies to make at the ending. it is only justice to say that much of the descriptive matter is the work of mr. robinson locke, who was with me every minute of the time, and the intelligent reader will be perfectly safe in ascribing the best of its pages to his pen. i can only hope that this work, as a book, will meet with the same measure of favor that the material did as newspaper sketches. d. r. l. _toledo, ohio, june , ._ illustrations. no. page . frontispiece. . the departure . "shuffle board" . the betting young man from chicago . "dear, sea-sickness is only a feminine weakness," . lemuel tibbitts, from oshkosh, writes a letter . every sin i had committed came before me . off for london . public buildings, london . the indian policy . the emetic policy . a london street scene . a london steak . "and is the them shanghais?" . sol. carpenter and the race . leaving for the derby . by the roadside . english negro minstrelsy . the roadside repast . the betting ring . "d----n the swindling scoundrel" . egyptian room, british museum . a bold briton trying the american custom . a london gin drinking woman . the poor man is sick . "that nigger is mine" . st. thomas hospital . interior of a variety hall . the magic purse . the man who was music proof . madame tussaud . wax figures of americans . "digging corpses is all wrong" . improved process of burke and hare . isle of wight . the london lawyer . the old english way of procuring a loan . "beware of fraudulent imitations" . the old temple bar . the sidewalk shoe store . "sheap clodink" . "dake dot ring" . a lane in camberwell . the tower of london . the jewel tower . sir magnus' men . horse armory . st. john's chapel . st. thomas' tower . general view of the tower . the bloody tower . drowning of clarence in a butt of wine . the byward tower from the east . the beauchamp tower . the overworked headsman . the persuasive rack . the byward tower from the west . the middle tower . the beef eater . the flint tower . the traitor's gate . what shall we do with sir thomas? . the easiest way . the suits come home . the candle episode . the little bill . getting ready to leave a hotel . the last straw . the cabman tipped . the universal demand . the lord mayor's show . a second hand debauch . the anniversary ceremonies . in the harbor . isle of wight . the unfinished entries in the diary . westminster abbey . exterior of the abbey . entrance to the abbey . the poet's corner . henry vii.'s chapel . chapel of edward . effigy room . the abbey in queen anne's time . "if she ever miscalculates she's gone," . the death of the trainer . the gorgeous funeral procession . monument to the trainer . the side show zulu . the lost finger . on the thames . sandwiches at new haven . off dieppe--four a. m. . "have you tobacco or spirits?" . fisher folk--dieppe . fisher women--dieppe . fisher boy and child . the boys of rouen . rouen . the professor stood before it . cathedral of notre dame . house of joan d'arc . harbor of rouen . st. ouen--rouen . the showman in paris . bloss' great moral spectacle . tower of st. pierre . old houses--rouen . the professor's spectacles . old paris . liberty, fraternity, equality . new paris . the louvre . a boulevard cafe . a costume by worth . a magazine on the boulevard . mr. thompson's art purchases . the american party outside a cafe . the avenue de l'opera . cafe concerts . the faro bankeress . french soldiers . parisian bread carriers . queer--to frenchmen . the porte st. martin . a very polite frenchman . "merci, monsieur!" . paris underground . interior of the paris bourse . the arc du carrousel . "how long must i endure this?" . tail piece . the mother of the gamin as she was . the mother of the gamin in the sere and yellow leaf . the aged stump gatherer . a talk with a gamin . the mabille at night . a mabille divinity . professionals in a quadrille . a male dancer . the grisette . meeting of tibbitts and the professor . the cafe swell . tail piece . beauvais cathedral . struggle for the kingship . of the commune . tibbitts and faro bankeress . tail piece . palais royal . vision of the commune . mother and bonne . the youthful bonne . the aged bonne . "who put that ribbon in your cap?" . corrective used by mr. tibbitts . the coco seller . in any of the parks . the no-legged beggar woman . how the french sport kills game . fishing in the seine . inside a paris omnibus . the showman shown the door . the tell catastrophe . zoological room . cork harbor . queenstown . irish woman and daughter . a county cork cabin . interior of better class cabin . royal irish constabulary . interior of cabin . a quiver full . street in an irish village . blarney castle . free speech in ireland . in a bog village . "drop the child!" . nature's looking glass . irishman of the stage and novel . the evicted irishman . to market and back . the real irish girl . a small but well-to-do farmer . sketches in galway . affixing notice of eviction . eviction . the eviction we saw . evicted . farming in county mayo . my lord's agent . kind of a girl my lord wants . the woman who paid the poor rate . conemara women . at work in the bog . duke leinster's tenants . tenant farmer . in a discontented district . protecting a gentleman farmer . filling the ditch . ready for emigration . old but tolerably cheerful . after a wholesale eviction . the "faymale painther" . old and not cheerful . the proper end of royalty . meath lads at crossakeel . a mayo farmer . mayo peasantry . inhabitants of a bog village . dublin . they glared ferociously . bog village . interior french car . they were lively children . geneva . "your hotel is a swindle, sir" . group of swiss girls . the sweat of other men's brows . the alpine guide . a non-professional lady tourist . young man with inopportune remarks . "would you oblige me?" . "see me unmask this jew" . swiss timber village . the slender bridge . a bit of climbing . where the maiden leaped from . the chamois . taking the cattle to the mountains . outside the chalet . inside the chalet . an alpine homestead . "i should wake them cheerily" . on the road to chamonix . the presumed chamois hunter . the fate of two englishmen . a frequent accident . the mer de glace . a slip toward the edge . crevasses . the moraine . the dilemma . rocks polished by old glaciers . the path to the village . mt. blanc and valley of chamonix . the conscientious barber . the jungfrau . wood carving . home of the carver . female costumes . our party at the giessbach . peasants of east switzerland . near brienz . lion of lucerne . end of pontius pilate . lucerne rigi-rail . ditto from kanzell . old way of ascending rigi . night ascent of rigi . railway up the rigi . rigi railway . railway up the mountain . tell's chapel . tibbitts in concert hall . entrance strasburg cathedral . pig market, strasburg . the great hall . tibbitts making plain the point . front of the kursale . the swimming bath . the donkey enjoyed it . the lichtenthal . promenade in baden-baden . charcoal burners, black forest . heidelberg castle . heidelberg tun . tibbitts and the students . rhine steamer . mannheim . tibbitts in the cloak room . mayence . erchenheim tower . roemer . luther's home . street on the roemerberg . the jews' street . "der hind leg of a helty mule" . cologne cathedral . death of bishop hatto . legend of the cathedral contents. .....page chapter i. the departure--how the passengers amused themselves--sea-sickness--tibbitts, of oshkosh--the storm..... - chapter ii. london--the englishman--a few statistics--the climate--a red-coated romance..... - chapter iii. the derby races--departure for the derby--sights and scenes--shows and beggars--betting..... - chapter iv. what the londoners quench their thirst with--the kind of liquor--tobacco--early closing..... - chapter v. how london is amused--the london theaters--an english idea of a good time--punch and judy..... - chapter vi. madame tussaud--american worthies..... - chapter vii. the london lawyer--the solicitor's bill..... - chapter viii. english capital--london quacks--the london advertiser..... - chapter ix. petticoat lane--the home of second-hand--the clothing dealer--diamonds--the confiding israelite..... - chapter x. the tower--the royal jewels--the horse armory--interesting relics--the beef-eaters..... - chapter xi. two english nuisances--a badly dressed people--an english hotel--the english landlord..... - chapter xii. portsmouth--nelson's ship--in the harbor--tibbitts' diary..... - chapter xiii. westminster abbey--seeing the abbey--warren hastings--epitaphs--religious service--a little history..... - chapter xiv. the american showman--the trainer's widow--foggerty the zulu..... - chapter xv. richmond--the star and garter--down the river..... - chapter xvi. from london to paris--the custom house--normandy--the cathedral--on the way to paris..... - chapter xvii. a scattering view of paris--drinking in paris--wine and whisky--the national fête..... - chapter xviii. something about parisians--french cleanliness--the polite french--the disgust of tibbitts..... - chapter xix. parisian gamin--interview with a gamin--a contented being..... - chapter xx. how paris amuses itself--the grand opera--the wicked mabille--gardens other than the mabille--tibbitts and the professor..... - chapter xxi. the louvre--art in the louvre--the commune..... - chapter xxii. the palais-royal--a tale of the commune--the wisdom of therese--the two lovers..... - chapter xxiii. french drinking--the water of paris--the mild swash..... - chapter xxiv. parisian living--the market woman--parisian washing--female shop-keepers--the career of sam..... - chapter xxv. ireland--cork--the jaunting car--another cabin..... - chapter xxvi. bantry--how my lord bantry lives--the real and the ideal--several delusions--the conversion of an irish lady..... - chapter xxvii. an irish mass meeting--an eviction--boycotting--one landlord who was killed--how he was killed--patsey's dead..... - chapter xxviii. some little history--the question of lease--a foiled landlord--bantry village--the boatman and nancy..... - chapter xxix. england, ireland, scotland--land troubles in england--the royal family--the palace and the workhouse--women's work..... - chapter xxx. paris to geneva--a night on the rail--geneva--affecting anecdote--piracy on lake erie--the irate guest--too much music..... - chapter xxxi. switzerland--the rhone--a geneva bakery--swiss roads--female climbers--ascent of mont blanc--a useful man at last..... - chapter xxxii. chillon--tibbitts and the jew--on the lake..... - chapter xxxiii. from geneva over the alps--mountain climbing--legend of the gorge--martigny--a swiss cottage--alpine ascents..... - chapter xxxiv. over the alps--tibbitts' idea--dangers of ascending mt. blanc..... - chapter xxxv. going up the mountain--the mer de glace--the gorge--something about glaciers..... - chapter xxxvi. in switzerland--tibbitts' letter--berne and bears--barbers..... - chapter xxxvii. lake thun and beyond--interlaken--wood carving--geissbach..... - chapter xxxviii. lucerne and the rigi--up the rigi--a mountain railway--the rigi kulm--tell's chapel..... - chapter xxxix. zurich and strasburg--beer and music--the cathedral--the wonderful clock..... - chapter xl. baden-baden--a few legends--up the mountain--to old schloss..... - chapter xli. heidelberg--the great cask--the students..... - chapter xlii. mannheim--opera--a treatise on treating..... - chapter xliii. frankfort-on-the-maine--red tape--jews' street--lovely gardens..... - chapter xliv. down the rhine--bingen--mouse tower--tibbitts' romance..... - chapter xlv. cologne--the cathedral--eleven thousand virgins--home..... - to charles a. b. shepard, _the "poetical bookseller,"_ _this book is dedicated (without permission) as a tribute to a most reliable friend, a thorough business man, and one whose steady devotion to everything right and proper, and whose hatred for everything mean and disreputable, was never questioned by any one who knew him._ nasby in exile. chapter i. the departure, voyage, and landing. "cast off!" there was a bustle, a movement of fifty men, a rush of people to the gangways; hurried good-bys were said; another rush, assisted by the fifty men, the enormous gangways were lifted, there was a throb of steam, a mighty jar of machinery, a tremor along the line of the vast body of wood and iron, and the good ship "city of richmond" was out at sea. [illustration: the departure.] i am not going to inflict upon the reader a description of the harbor of new york, or anything of the kind. the whole world knows that it is the finest in the world, and every american would believe it so, whether it is so or not. suffice it to say that the ship got out of the harbor safely, and before nightfall was upon the broad atlantic, out of the way of telegraph and mail facilities, and one hundred and fifty-six saloon passengers--men, women, and children--found themselves beyond the reach of daily papers, though they had everything else that pertains to civilization and luxury. a voyage at sea is not what it was when first i sailed from--but no, i have never been abroad before, and have not, therefore, the privilege of lying about travel. that will come in time, and doubtless i shall use it as others do. but i was going to say that sailing is not what it was, as i understand it to have been. the ship of to-day is nothing more or less than a floating hotel, with some few of the conveniences omitted, and a great many conveniences that hotels on shore have not. you have your luxurious barber-shop, you have a gorgeous bar, you have hot and cold water in your room, and a table as good as the best in new york. you eat, drink, and sleep just as well, if not better, than on shore. the sailor is no more what he used to be than the ship is. i have seen any number of sailors, and know all about them. the tight young fellow in blue jacket and shiny tarpaulin, and equally shiny belt, and white trousers, the latter enormously wide at the bottom, which trousers he was always hitching up with a very peculiar movement of the body, standing first upon one leg and then upon the other; the sailor who could fight three pirates at once and kill them all, finishing the last one by disabling his starboard eye with a chew of tobacco thrown with terrible precision; who, if an english sailor, was always a match for three frenchmen, if an american a match for three englishmen, and no matter of what nationality, was always ready to d--n the eyes of the man he did not like, and protect prepossessing females and oppressed children even at the risk of being hung at the yard-arm by a court-martial--this kind of a sailor is gone, and i fear forever. i know i have given a proper description of him, for i have seen hundreds of them--at the theater. [sidenote: who were on board.] in his stead is an unpoetic being, clad in all sorts of unpoetic clothing, and no two of them alike. there is a faint effort at uniformity in their caps, which have sometimes the name of their ship on them, but even that not always. in fair weather he is in appearance very like a hod carrier, and in foul weather a new york drayman. he doesn't d--n anybody's eyes, and he doesn't sing out "belay there," or "avast, you lubber," or indulge in any other nautical expressions. he uses just about the language that people on shore do, and is as dull and uninteresting a person as one would wish not to meet. the traditional jack tar, of whom the dibden of the last century sang, only remains in "pinafore" opera, and can only be seen when the nautical pieces of the thirty years ago are revived. if such sailors ever existed, off the stage, they are as extinct a race as the icthyosaurus. steam has knocked the poetry out of navigation, as it has out of everything else--that is, that kind of poetry. it will doubtless have a poetry of its own, when its gets older, but it is too new yet. there is no holystoning the decks. on the contrary the decks are washed with hose, and scrubbed afterward by a patent appliance, which has nothing of the old time about it. the lifting is done by steam, and in fact every blessed thing about the ship is done by machinery. there is neither a ship nor a sailor any more. there are floating hotels, and help. the last remaining show for a ship is the masts and sails they all have, and they seem to be more for ornament than use. the company on board was, on the whole, monotonous. ocean travel is either monotonous or dangerous. its principal advantage over land travel is, the track is not dusty. we had on our passenger list precisely the usual people, and none others. there were three jews of different types: the strong, robust, eagle-nosed and eagle-eyed german jew, resident of new york, going abroad on business; the keen french jew, returning from a successful foray on new york jewelers, and the southern jew, who, having made a fortune in cotton, attached no value to anything else. i like the jews, and ten days with them did not lessen my liking. they know something for certain; they do things, and they do well what they do. there was a chicago operator in mining stocks, going abroad to place the "great mastodon" in london. there was the smooth-chinned, side-whiskered minister, or "priest," as he delighted in calling himself, of the church of england, going home, and a fiery welsh baptist who had been laboring in the states for many years. on sunday evening the chicago man and a texan engaged the english minister in a discussion on the evidences of christianity. it was a furious controversy, and an amusing one. the welsh baptist was a more zealous christian than the church of england man, and he did by far the best part of the argument; but the priest, by look at least, resented his interference. being a baptist, he was entirely irregular, and did not hold up his end of the argument regularly. the priest regarded the evangelist as a regular soldier might a guerilla serving the same side. the discussion embraced every point that religionists affirm and infidels deny, commencing with the creation and coming down to the present day, with long excursions into the future. a terrible disaster was the result. the next morning the priest met the infidel on deck, and extended his hand humbly: "my dear sir," said he, "i have been thinking over the matter we discussed last night. i am convinced that you are right, and that--" "what!" exclaimed the infidel. "my dear sir, i was looking for you. your forcible and convincing statements satisfy me that there is truth in the christian religion, and--" neither said more. the priest had converted the infidel to christianity, and the infidel had converted the priest to infidelity. so far as the result upon the religion of the world was concerned, it was a stand-off. the days were devoted to all sorts of occupations. there were young men spooning young women, and young women who made a business of flirtation, or what was akin to it. one young lady who could be seen at any time in the day, in a most bewitching attitude, reclining on a steamer chair, picturesque in all sorts of wraps, held a brief conversation with her mother, who had hooked a widower the second day out. the mother was skillful at looking young, and compelled her child, therefore, to be juvenile and shy of young men. [sidenote: how the passengers amused themselves.] "helen, you were flirting with that chicago young man, this morning!" "flirting! mamma! it's too mean! you won't let me flirt. i havn't enjoyed myself a minute since we sailed. i wish you would let me alone to do as i please." the poor child envied her mother, and with good reason, for within ten minutes she was under the wing, or arm, of the widower, looking not a minute over thirty-five. there were old maids who found themselves objects of attention for the first time for years; there were widows who grew sentimental looking at the changing waters, especially at night when the moon and stars were out; there were married men whose wives were many leagues away, determined to have a good time once more, flirting with all sorts and conditions of women, and there were all sorts and conditions of women flirting hungrily with all sorts and conditions of men. there were speculators driving bargains with each other just the same as on land--in brief, the ship was a little world by itself, and just about the same as any other world. in the smoking room the great and muscular american game of draw poker was played incessantly, from early in the morning, till late in the night. a portion of the passengers, including the english dominie, played a game called "shuffle-board." squares were marked upon the deck, which were numbered from one to seven. then some distance from the squares a line was drawn, and what you had to do was to take an implement shaped like a crutch, and shove discs of wood at the squares. we all played it, sooner or later, for on ship-board one will get, in time, to playing pin alone in his room. the beauty about shuffle-board is, one player is as good as another, if not better, for there isn't the slightest skill to be displayed in it. indeed, the best playing is always done at first, when the player shoots entirely at random. there is a chance that he will strike a square, then; but when one gets to calculating distances, and looking knowingly, and attempting some particular square, the chances are even that the disc goes overboard. however, it is a good and useful game. the young ladies look well handling the clumsy cues, and the attitudes they are compelled to take are graceful. then as the vessel lurches they fall naturally in your arms. by the way, it is a curious fact and one worthy of record, that i did not see a young lady fall into the arms of another young lady during the entire voyage. we had on board, as a matter of course, the betting young man from chicago. no steamer ever sailed that did not have this young fellow aboard, and there is enough of them to last the atlantic for a great many years. he knew everything that everybody thinks they know, but do not, and his delight was to propound a query, and then when you had answered it, to very coolly and exasperatingly remark:-- "bet yer bottle of wine you're wrong." the matter would be so simple and one of so common repute that immediately you accepted the wager only to find that in some minute particular, you _were_ wrong, and that the knowing youth had won. for instance:-- "thompson, do you know how many states there are in the union?" [illustration: "shuffle board."] now any citizen of the united states who votes, and is eligible to the presidency, ought to know how many states there are in his beloved country without thinking, but how many are there who can say, off-hand? and so poor thompson answered:-- "what a question! of course i know." "bet ye bottle ye don't!" "done. there are--" [sidenote: the young man from chicago.] and then thompson would find himself figuring the very important problem as to whether colorado had been admitted, and nevada, and oregon, and he would decide that one had and the other hadn't, and finally state the number, with great certainty that it was wrong. the chicago man's crowning bet occurred the last day out. the smoking room was tolerably full, as were the occupants, and everybody was bored, as everybody is on the last day. the chicago man had been silent for an hour, when suddenly he broke out: "gentlemen--" "oh, no more bets," was the exclamation of the entire party. "give us a rest." "i don't want to bet, but i can show you something curious." "well?" "i say it and mean it. i can drink a glass of water without it's going down my throat." "and get it into your stomach?" "certainly." there was a silence of considerably more than a minute. every man in the room had been victimized by this gatherer up of inconsidered trifles, and there was a general disposition to get the better of him in some way if possible. here was the opportunity. how could a man get a glass of water into his stomach without its going down his throat? impossible! and so the usual bottle of wine was wagered, and the chicago man proceeded to accomplish the supposed impossible feat. it was very easily done. all he did was to stand upon his head on the seat that runs around the room and swallow a glass of water. it went to his stomach, but it did not go _down_ his throat. it went _up_ his throat. and so his last triumph was greater than all his previous ones, for every man in the room had been eager to accept his wager. from that time out had he offered to wager that he would swallow his own head he would have got no takers. it is astonishing how short remembrance is, and how the knowledge of one decade is swallowed up in the increasing volume of the next. every one of the catches employed by this young man to keep himself in wine and cigars were well known ten years ago, but totally unknown now except by the few who use them. the water going up the throat instead of down was published years ago in a small volume called "hocus pocus," and it sold by the million, but nobody knows of it to-day. i once asked a sharper who had lived thirty years by the practice of one simple trick, how it happened that the whole world did not know his little game? [illustration: the betting young man from chicago.] "there are new crops of fools coming on every year," was his answer. he was right. the stock will never run out. [sidenote: sea-sickness.] there were one hundred and fifty-six saloon passengers on board, but with the exception of those mentioned, a distressing monotony prevailed among them. never was so good a set of people ever gathered together. they were fearfully good--too good by half. true goodness is all very well in the abstract, but there is nothing picturesque about it. it is slightly tame. your brigand, with short green jacket and yellow breeches, with blue or green garters, and a tall hat with a feather in it, is a much more striking being than a quaker woman. the wicked is always the startling, and, therefore, taking to the eye. on our ship the people were all good. there wasn't a pickpocket, a card sharper, or anything of the sort to vary the monotony of life. it was a dead level of goodness, a sort of quiet mill-pond of morality, that to the lover of excitement was distressing in the extreme. the card parties were conducted decorously, and the religious services in the grand saloon were attended by nearly every passenger, and what is more they all seemed to enjoy it. possibly it was because religious services were a novelty to the most of them. the second day out was a very rough one. the wind freshened--i think that is the proper phrase--and a tremendously heavy sea was on. the "city of richmond" is a very staunch ship, and behaves herself commendably in bad weather, but there is no ship that can resist the power of the enormous waves of the north atlantic. consequently she tossed like a cork, and, consequently, there was an amount of suffering for two days that was amusing to everybody but the sufferers. sea-sickness is probably the most distressing of all the maladies that do not kill. the sickness from first to last is a taste of death. the resultant vomiting is of a nature totally different from any other variety of vomiting known. the victim does not vomit--he throws up. there is a wild legend that one man in a severe fit of sea-sickness threw up his boots, but it is not credible. it is entirely safe to say, however, that one throws up everything but original sin, and he gives that a tolerable trial. it was amusing to see those who had done the voyage before, and who had been through sea-sickness, smile upon those who were in the throes of agony. the look of superiority they took on, as much as to say, "when you have been through it as i have, you won't have it any more." and then to see these same fellows turn deadly pale, and leave their seats, and rush to their rooms and disappear from mortal view a day or so, was refreshing to those who were having their first experience. the beauty of sea-sickness is that you may have it every voyage, which is fortunate, as having a tendency to restrain pride and keep down assumption of superiority; for when one has to suffer, one loves to see everybody else suffer. one man aboard did not think it possible that he could be sick, and he was rather indignant that his wife should be. she, poor thing, was in the agonies of death, and he insisted, as he held her head, that she ought not to be sick, that her giving way to it was a weakness purely feminine, and he went on wondering why a woman could not-- he quit talking very quickly. the strong man who was not a woman, turned pale, the regular paleness that denotes the coming of the malady, and dropping the head he had been holding so patronizingly with no more compunction than as though it had been his pet dog's, rushed to the side of the vessel, and there paid his tribute to neptune. the suffering wife, sick as she was, could not resist the temptation to wreak a trifle of feminine vengeance upon him. "dear," said she, between the heaves that were rending her in several twains, "sea-sickness is only a feminine weakness. oh--ugh--ugh--how i wish i were a strong man!" there is one good thing about sea-sickness, and only one: the sufferer cannot possibly have any other disease at the same time. one may have bronchitis and dyspepsia at once, but sea-sickness monopolizes the whole body. it is so all-pervading; it is such a giant of illness that there is room for nothing else when it takes possession of a human body. during general butler's occupancy of new orleans a fiery rebel frenchman was inveighing against him in set terms. "but you must admit," said a loyal northerner, "that during general butler's administration your city was free from yellow fever." [sidenote: the sharp-nosed man.] "ze yellow fevair and general butlair in one season? have ze great god no maircy, zen?" a kind providence couldn't possibly saddle sea-sickness with any other ailment. [illustration: "dear--, sea-sickness is only--a feminine weakness."] was there ever a ship or a rail car, or any other place where danger is possible, that there was not present the man with a sharp nose, slightly red at the tip, whose chief delight seems to be to point out the possibilities of all sorts of disaster, and to do it in the most friendly way? i remember once going down the hoosac tunnel before it was finished. i went down, not because i wanted to, (indeed i would have given a farm, if i had had one, to have avoided it,) but it was the thing to do there, and must be done. so with about the feeling that accompanied john rogers to the stake, i stepped, with others, upon the platform, and down we went. it was a most terrible descent. a hole in the ground eighteen hundred feet deep, and a platform, suspended by a single rope! in my eyes that rope was not larger or stronger than pack-thread. "is this safe?" i asked of the sharp-nosed man. "wa'all, yes, i s'pose so. it does break sometimes--did last month and killed eight men. i guess we are all right, though the rope's tollable old and yest'dy they histed out a very heavy ingine and biler, which may hev strained it. long ways to fall--if she does break!" cheerful suggestion for people who were fifteen hundred feet from the bottom and couldn't possibly get off. another time on the shore line between boston and new york, there was an old lady who had never been upon a railroad train before, and who was exceedingly nervous. behind her sat the sharp-nosed man of that train, who answered all her questions. "ya'as, railroad travelin' is dangerous. y'see they git keerless. only a year ago, they left a draw opened, and a train run into it, and mor'n a hundred passengers wuz drownded." "merciful heavens!" ejaculated the old lady, in an agony of horror. "we don't go over that bridge." "yes we do, and we're putty nigh to it now. and the men are jest ez keerless now ez they wuz then. they git keerless. i never travel over this road ef i kin help it." then he went on and told her of every accident that he could remember, especially those that had occurred upon that road. and the old lady, with her blood frozen by the horrible recitals, sat during the entire trip with her hands grasping tightly the arms of her seat, expecting momentarily to be hurled from the track and torn limb from limb, or to be plunged into the wild waters of the sound. [sidenote: tibbitts, of oshkosh.] we had the sharp-nosed man with us. his delight was to take timid girls, or nervous women, and explain if the slightest thing should get wrong with the machinery how we should be at the mercy of the waves. for instance, if we should lose our propeller what would happen? or if any one of the boilers should explode, filling the ship with hot steam, scalding the passengers, or if the main shaft should break, in such a sea as we were then having, or if we should run upon an iceberg, or collide with some floating hulk? "they say all these ships are built with water-tight compartments. sho! stave in one part of the ship and it must go down. what happened to the 'city of boston?' never heard of. 'city of paris?' lost half her passengers. but we must take our chances if we will travel." and this to a lot of people who had never been at sea before, with an ugly wind blowing and a tremendous sea on. imagine the frame of mind he left his auditors in, and he made it his business, day after day, to regale the very timid ones with harrowing histories of shipwrecks and disasters at sea till their blood would run cold. some night this old raven will be lost overboard, but there will be others just like him to take his place. nature duplicates her monstrosities as well as her good things. [illustration: lemuel tibbitts, from near oshkosh, wisconsin, writing a letter to his mother.] among the passengers was a young man from oshkosh, wisconsin, named tibbitts. he was an excellent young man, of his kind, and he very soon acquired the reputation, which he deserved, of being the very best poker player on the ship. he was uneasy till a game was organized in the morning, and he growled ferociously when the lights were turned down at twelve at night. he was impatient with slow players, because, as he said, all the time they wasted was so much loss to him. he could drink more scotch whisky than any one on the ship, and he was the pet of the entire crew, for his hand was always in his pocket. he ruined the rest of the passengers by his reckless liberality. his father was a rich wisconsin farmer, and this was his first experience in travel. what time he could spare from poker and his meals, was devoted to writing a letter to his mother, for whom the scape-grace did seem to have a great deal of respect and a very considerable amount of love. his letter was finished the day before we made queenstown, so that he could mail it from there. he read it to me. the sentences in parenthesis were his comments:-- on board the city of richmond, } near queenstown, may , . } dear mother:--while there is everything to interest one from the interior in a sea voyage, i confess that i have not enjoyed the passage at all. i have no heart for it for my mind is perpetually on you and my home in the far west. (_you see it will please the old lady to know i am thinking of her all the time. didn't i scoop in that jack pot nicely last evening? hadn't a thing in my hand, and filkins actually opened it with three deuces._) the ship is one of the strongest and best on the ocean, and is commanded and manned by the best sailors on the sea. the passengers are all good, serious people, with perhaps one exception. there is one young man from new york of dissolute habits, who has a bottle of whisky in his room, and who actually tried to tempt me to play cards with him. but he is known and avoided by the entire company. we have regular services in the grand saloon, every morning, and occasional meetings for vocal exercises and conversation at other hours. i have just come from one, at which-- "you are not going to send this infernal aggregation of lies to your mother, are you?" i asked. "why not? she don't know any better, and it will make her feel good. i have my opinion of a man who won't give his old mother a pleasure when he can just as well as not. i will, you bet?" "but such atrocious lies!" [sidenote: tibbitts' letter.] "i'll chance that. i can stand lies of that kind when they are told in so good a cause. i love my mother, i do. let's see, where was i? oh yes." i have just come from one at which the discussion was mostly on the progress of missions in the far west. (_the old lady is treasurer of a society for the conversion of the apaches, or some other tribe._) just now the sailors are heaving a log, which they do to ascertain the speed the ship is making. mr. inman, the owner of this ship, is a very wealthy man, and he has everything of the best. he furnishes his vessel with nothing but black walnut logs to heave, while the others use pine or poplar. captain leitch is a very humane man, and never uses profane language to his crew. on other ships the men who go aloft are compelled to climb tarred rope ladders, but captain leitch has passenger elevators rigged to the masts, such as you saw in the palmer house in chicago, in which they sit comfortably and are hoisted up by a steam engine. "great heavens! you are not surely going to send that?" "why not? what is an old lady in silver spectacles on a farm thirty miles from any water more than a well, going to know about a steamer? i must write her something, for she persuaded the old gentleman to let me take the trip. i ain't ungrateful, i ain't. i'll give her one good letter, anyhow. why, by the way you talk, i should suppose you never had a mother, and if you had that you didn't know how to treat her. i hate a man who don't love his mother and isn't willing to sacrifice himself for her. all i can do for her now is to write to her, and write such letters as will interest her, and the dear old girl is going to get them, if the paper and ink holds out, and they are going to be good ones, too." i have got to be a good deal of a sailor, and if it were not for leaving you, which i couldn't do, i believe i should take one of these ships myself. i know all about starboard and port--port used to be larboard--and i can tell the stern from the bow. on a ship you don't say, "i will go down stairs," but you say, "i will go below." one would think that i had been born on the sea, and was a true child of the ocean. owing to my strictly temperate habits at home, and my absolute abstemiousness on the ship, i have escaped the horrors of sea sickness. as you taught me, true happiness can only be found in virtue. the wicked young man from new york has been sick half the time, as a young man who keeps a bottle in his room should be. the nice woolen stockings you knit for me have been a great comfort, and all i regret is, i am afraid i have not enough of them to last me till i get home. (the young villain had purchased in new york an assortment of the most picturesque hosiery procurable, which he was wearing with low cut shoes. the woolen stockings he gave to his room-steward.) the tracts you put in my valise i have read over and over again, and have lent them since to the passengers who prefer serious reading to trashy novels and literature of that kind. what time i have had to spare for other reading, i have devoted to books of travel, so that i may see europe intelligently. "by the way," he stopped to say, "are the argyle rooms in london actually closed, and is the mabille in paris as lively as it used to be? great cæsar! won't i make it lively for them!" in another day we shall land in liverpool, and then i shall be only five hours from london. i long to reach london, for i do so desire to hear spurgeon, and attend the exeter hall meetings, as you desired me. but as we shall reach london on tuesday, i shall be compelled to wait till the following sunday--five long days. please ma, have pa send me a draft at my address at london, at once. i find the expense of travel is much greater than i supposed, and i fear i shall not have enough. your affectionate son, lemuel. "there," said lemuel, as he sealed the letter, "that is what i call a good letter. the old lady will read it over and over to herself, and then she will read it to all the neighbors. it will do her a heap of good. bye-bye. the boys are waiting for me in the smoking-room." and stopping at the bar to take a drink--the liberality of english measure was not too great for him--he was, a minute after, absorbed in the mysteries of poker, and was "raking-in" the money of the others at a lively rate. and the letter went to the good old mother, and probably did her good. and she, doubtless, worried the old gentleman till he sent the graceless fellow a remittance. boys can always be sure of their mothers--would that mothers could only be half as sure of their boys. [sidenote: the storm.] the fourth night out we were favored with a most terrific thunder storm. i say favored, now that we are through with it, for it is a good thing to look back upon, but we esteemed it no favor at the time. a fierce storm is bad enough on land--it is a terror on water. on the land you are threatened with danger only from above--on the water you are doubly menaced. there was the marshaling of the clouds that were arranging themselves for an attack upon us, then the terrible darkness, then the first onslaught of the winds, that tossed the strong ship like a cork, then the thunder that seemed like the voice of a merciless vengeance, and the lightnings that were its fiery fingers; pitchy darkness, except when the lightning illuminated the scene, and the sight it disclosed made darkness preferable, for it showed the great waves rolling one after another, their white crests like the teeth of enormous dragons, strong enough to crush the mass of iron against which their fury was directed. and then the wind howling through the rigging was fearfully like the shrieks of the monsters baffled and robbed of their prey. it seemed as though the entire forces of nature were arrayed intelligently against our ship, and for the sole purpose of its destruction. [illustration: every sin i had committed came before me like accusing ghosts.] it was far from pleasant, and it is fortunate that such displays last but a little while. in less than a second from its beginning every sin i had ever committed, namely, the stealing of a watermelon in my boyhood, and the voting of a split ticket in my manhood, came vividly before me like accusing ghosts. i did remember also, once, that when a ticket-seller in a railroad station in troy, who was very insolent and unobliging, made a mistake in my favor to the amount of thirty cents, in my anger i did not rectify it, and i debated as to whether that was a sin or not; but when i thought it over i came to the conclusion that, inasmuch as the recording angel knew how brutal the fellow was, he would blot out the record if he had to drop upon it a tear of oxalic acid. but the good ship endured it all. the great body of iron, with its soul of steam, and muscles of steel, defied the elements and rode it out safely. the storm hurried away to pursue and fright other vessels, and the waste of waters was once more in a sort of a light that was not lurid. though the greatest terror was passed, the long swell which kept the ship either climbing a mountain of water or descending into its depths was anything but pleasant. a ship at dock looks strong enough to defy all the elements, but out at sea when those elements become angry it is wonderful how frail she seems. it is man against omnipotence. i don't care how many times a man has been to sea, the first sight of land after a voyage is an unmixed delight. i know that, for i have crossed the great lakes repeatedly, and when a boy i used to "go home" via the erie canal, i always got up early in the morning to look at the land on either shore. a man is not a fish, and no man takes to water naturally. it is a necessity that drives him to it, the same as to labor. therefore the decks were crowded on the ninth morning of the voyage when the shores of ireland were sighted. not because it was ireland--nobody thrilled over that--but because it was land, because it was something that did not roll and pitch, and toss and swing, but was substantial and permanent. the mississippi ethiopian, when discussing the difference between traveling by rail and water remarked: "ef de cahs run off de track dah ye is--ef de boat goes to pieces, wha is ye?" [sidenote: "land!"] ireland was there and land was there and reliable. ireland--as land--has no machinery to get out of order, no icebergs to run into--no other steamers to collide with. i was delighted to look at her, and i venture to say that the older the sailor, the more reassuring and delightful the sight of land. the bold cliffs looked friendly, and the long stretches of green on their summits were an absolute delight. the color was the green of grass and trees, that had something akin to humanity in it, not the glittering, changing, treacherous green of the water we had been sailing over and plunging through for eight very long days. and then to think that twenty-four hours more would release us from our friendly prison, and that during that twenty-four hours we should be within a short distance of land, was a delight. i have at times found fault with the irish in america, and i don't rank ireland as the greatest country under the heavens, but that morning i felt for her a most profound respect. had ashantee been the first land we had sighted that morning, i presume i should have forgiven the ashantees for killing and eating the missionaries. after one has been at sea, even for eight days, land is the principal wish of the heart. one day and night across the channel, and we made liverpool. there were promises to meet in london, or paris, exchanges of cards, the passing the custom house with our baggage, the purchase of tickets, and we found ourselves in the cars of the midland road and scurrying away through derbyshire to london. [illustration: off for london.] [illustration] chapter ii. london, and things pertaining. the largest city of the world! the most monstrous aggregation of men, women, children; the center of financial, military, mental, and moral power! the controlling city of the world! this is london! there may be in the effete east larger aggregations of what, by courtesy, may be called humanity, for in those countries the limits of cities are not properly defined, nor is the census taken with any accuracy. but these cities exercise no especial influence upon the world; they control nothing outside of their own countries; they reach out to nothing; they are simply hives. [sidenote: the englishman.] even an american, with all his pride in his country and her magnificent cities, feels somewhat dwarfed to find himself in a city eight times as large as chicago, four times as large as new york, and his pride in wealth and power, and all that sort of thing, collapses when he realizes the fact that he is where the finances of the world are absolutely controlled; that he is at the very center of the vastest money and military power in the world! there is nothing greater as yet than london, and whether there ever will be is a question. i hope not. men, women and children are all very well, but they thrive best where they have room to develop. four millions of them together on so small a piece of ground dwarfs them. they do better on the prairies. england is an enormous octopus, whose feelers, armed with very strong and sharp claws, embrace the world, and london, the mouth and stomach of the monster, is sucking its prey steadily and mercilessly. the animal lost one feeler which america cut off in , and her grasp is weakening elsewhere, but she has enough. india contributes its life blood, china contributes, the islands of the sea contribute, and pretty much the whole world gives more or less. england comes by her characteristics honestly. the human being we call an englishman, half merchant and half soldier, the soldier element being purely piratical, never could have been developed out of one race. each race has some peculiar quality which distinguishes it and marks it everywhere. the scotchman is noted for his hardiness, thrift, and stubbornness; the dutchman for his steadiness, boldness, and quiet daring; the irishman for emigrating to new york and getting on the police force in a month, and so on. but the man we call an englishman is a composite institution. the old saxon was a stolid fellow, with flashes of temper. he never could control things, for he was too lazy and sensual; but he had qualities that mixed well with others. you have to have hair in plaster. but when the dane, who was a born sea pirate, swooped down upon britain, and the norman, who was a born land pirate, came also, and mixed with the saxon, there was a new creation, and that is the englishman of to-day. he is a born trader and a born soldier, with a wisdom that the rest of the world has not. his fighting power is made subject and subordinate to his trading power. when england wants anything she does not stop to ask any questions as to the right or wrong of the thing--she quietly goes and takes it, that is, if she is stronger than the party she desires to capture. if the other party objects, a few armies are sent out and the country is brought to reason immediately. your bayonet is a rare persuader. can a country afford to fit out costly armaments and maintain vast armies for such purposes? certainly, if it is done on england's plan. england, after spending some millions in subjugating a country, simply assesses the cost of the operation with as many millions for interest as she thinks the subjugated party can bear without destroying it, and makes it pay. she never destroys a country entirely, for she has further use for it. she wants the inhabitants, once subjugated, to go on and labor and toil and sweat, for all time to come, to furnish her with raw material, and then to buy it back again in the shape of manufactured goods, which, as she buys cheap and sells dear, makes a very handsome profit, besides furnishing employment to her vast merchant marine in the carrying trade. and then her merchants manage to interest a certain portion of the natives with her in plundering their neighbors, and so her rule is made tolerably safe and inexpensive. this is about the size of it. she conquers a country, and after reimbursing herself, calls a convention of native princes and says: "here, now, we are going to hold this country, anyhow. we are going to have the trade and the revenues, and you see we can do it. you fellows may as well have your whack in it." (these, of course, are not the exact words used, but i am writing what a new york politician would say. a ring man's words mean exactly what diplomatic language does, and they are always more to the point.) "now you help us keep the others down, and you shall keep your own places and shall have yourselves fifty per cent. of what you can grind out of your people, and as we shall stand behind you with our power, that fifty per cent. will be more than you could possibly screw out of them alone and unaided." [sidenote: two policies.] the native prince sees the point, for he is as merciless and cruel as an englishman, and i cannot say more than that, and he assents. immediately there is a rush of native princes, all anxious to join in for their plunder, and england apportions to each his share, according to his importance, and in less than no time she has a native army, officered by english, to keep the people down to the proper level, and to collect taxes and protect traders, and all that sort of thing, and london draws in the money and lives royally. and, then, if any prince, or people, or soldiery, or anybody else, fancy they have rights of their own, and question the right of the foreigner to tax them and grind them, they blow a few thousands of them from the mouths of cannon, to teach them the beauty of obedience. it would take a wiser man than i am to determine by what right, earthly or unearthly, england holds india, but she does all the same, without a blush. [illustration: the indian policy.] perhaps it is as well for the indians. the native princes were just as rapacious and more senseless than the english. if a native indian should swallow a diamond, his prince would rip him open to get it, which made him useless ever after. johnny bull, more politic and far seeing, would force an emetic down his throat, so that he might go on and find more diamonds to swallow. he gets the diamond all the same, and saves the subject for future profit. [illustration: the emetic policy.] the strength of england is its fighting capacity, its mercantile capacity, and its wonderful rapacity. as was said of a noted criminal in the states, "he wouldn't steal anything he couldn't lift, though he did tackle a red-hot cook-stove," so with england. the eyes of her moneyed power, and it is more than argus-eyed, are being strained every day for new worlds to sell goods to, knowing perfectly well that when they find a field the government will furnish muskets to occupy that field. and let no mistake be made. if the field is worth occupying it will be occupied beyond a doubt. ireland is an example, scotland would be, only the scotch, having a habit of standing together, are ugly customers to deal with, and as they and the english get along tolerably well together, there is no especial trouble between them. hence it is that london is so great. london is the center of this vast system of plunder and rapine, and the result of it all comes here. here is the court, here is the seat of government, here is where the great nobles, no matter where their seats may be, are compelled to spend a portion of their time; they are all obliged to have town residences; here they bring their flunkies and _retinues_ of servants, and they make the great city. it is not a commercial point, as is liverpool or new york, nor a manufacturing point, as is manchester or philadelphia. it is where the spoils of the present organized legal brigandage are divided, and where the surplus of the organized brigandage of past centuries is expended. the tradesman of london would not alter the existing condition of things if he could. he believes in that shadowy myth called the queen, not because he knows anything about her, or cares a straw for her, but simply because when she, which means the court, is in london, trade is good. that eminent descendant of an eminent robber, sir giles fitz battleaxe, is here during the season, with all his flunkies and servitors, and the tradesmen have to supply them. as sir giles has vast estates in ireland and scotland, and the lord knows where else, which yield him an immense revenue, sir giles's steward can pool his issues with his tradesman and both get rich. sir giles doesn't care, for he is paying all this out of rents of property, the title to which came from a king who stole the ground, and he has enough anyhow. [sidenote: a few statistics.] and then comes the foreign robberies, which he has an interest in, and those make up any waste that may happen at home. even the cabman, who haggles with you over a shilling, is loyal to the crown and the church, for the crown and the church bring to london the people who make him his fares. rampant republican as i am, opposed to monarchy as i am, i am contributing several pounds per diem to the maintenance of the british throne. i am here to see royalty, and everybody that i come in contact with, from the boy who cleans my boots to the lady who rents me my rooms, sing hosannas to the system that brings me here to be plundered. when i give a shilling to a servant she doesn't thank me for it, but she goes to her garret and sings, "god save the queen." that amiable shadow gets all the credit for my money. they shall give thanks to victoria for me but very little. i will be a republican to the extent of leaving as small an amount of money in england as possible. could there be a league of americans formed who would refuse to pay anything, i am not sure but that royalty might be overthrown, and a republic established on its ruins. and yet i am not certain that that would answer any good purpose. but for these advantages i don't think anybody would live in london. it was said that if the pilgrims had landed in the mississippi valley, new england would never have been settled, and, therefore, it was providential that the pilgrims were so directed. but for royalty and the profit that pertains to a court, i doubt if london could hold population. for if there is a disagreeable--but i reserve this for a special occasion, when, less amiable than i am now, i can do the subject justice. london has a population, in round numbers, of four millions. without including outlying suburbs, it covers seventy-eight thousand and eighty acres, or one hundred and twenty-two square miles. the length of the streets and roads is about fifteen hundred miles, and their area nearly twelve square miles. the area of london being one hundred and twenty-two square miles, is equal to a square of about eleven miles to the side. assuming that it is crossed by straight roads at equal intervals, there would be one hundred and thirty-six such roads, each eleven miles long and one hundred and forty-two yards apart. the sewers have a length of about two thousand miles, and are equal to one hundred and eighty-two sewers eleven miles in length, on an average of one hundred and six yards apart. at the census in there were within this area four hundred and seventeen thousand seven hundred and sixty-seven inhabited houses, containing an average of seven and eight-tenths persons to a house, exactly corresponding with the proportion in . the density of population was forty-two persons to an acre, twenty-six thousand six hundred and seventy-four to a square mile. the population, estimated to the middle of the year, amounted to three million six hundred and sixty-four thousand one hundred and forty-nine. these statistics i know to be correct, for i got them from a newspaper. i copy it entire, for the readers of this book do not take the london _chronicle_, as a rule, and it would be too expensive to send each one a copy of it. if any false statements are made it is the _chronicle's_ fault and not mine. the climate is, to put it mildly, fiendish. i have been in every possible section of the united states that could be reached by rail, water, or stage, and i was never in a location, excepting california, in which the citizens whereof would not remark: "oh, yes; this would be a good country to live in if it was not for the changeable climate. the changes are too sudden and severe." one blessed result of my coming to london is to make me entirely content with the worst climate america has. tennessee is a paradise to it, so far as climate goes, and when you have said that the subject is closed. [sidenote: the climate.] it rains in london with greater ease than it does in any place in the world. the sun will be shining brightly in the heavens; you look out of your window and say: "i will take a walk this morning without that accursed umbrella," and you brush your silk hat--everybody who is anybody must wear a silk hat--and you sally forth with your cane. you turn into the strand, feeling especially cheerful in the sun, when all of a sudden the sky is overcast and you hat is ruined. you call a hansom and go back to your lodgings for your umbrella, and when you have encumbered yourself with the clumsy nuisance the sun comes out smiling, and the rain is over, only to resume operations again without the slightest possible reason. everybody in london carries an umbrella habitually and all the time. no man ventures out of doors without one, no matter how the sky appears. in america a fair day may be counted upon, but here there is no dependence to be placed upon anything in the form of weather. last week (june ) it was as hot as it ought to be the same day in charleston, south carolina; to-day (june ) i came in, went out, and came in wearing an overcoat, and a tolerably heavy one at that. what the weather will be to-morrow, heaven only knows. i have experienced so many and so violent changes that i should not be surprised if it should snow. i may go skating next week upon the serpentine. but the londoners don't mind it. they are used to it. from the ease with which they carry umbrellas, i am convinced that they are born with them, as george washington was with the hatchet. a londoner never lends his umbrella, for everybody has his own, and he never loses it. it is a part of him, as much as is his nose. the umbrella should be in the coat of arms of the royal family, and i do not know but it is. it is a dull and heavy climate. how it affects a native i cannot tell, but an american has a disposition to sleep perpetually and forever. in the house i am in is an american, who insisted one morning on going across the square without his umbrella. i mildly remonstrated. "it is safe," he said, "it isn't raining now, for it was a minute ago." he was right, but he came to grief for all that. it rained again in another minute. london is a miracle of twistedness. if there is a straight street in it--that is, one that runs parallel with any other--i have not found it. the streets of boston, it is said, were originally cow-paths. if those of london were located on the paths of cows, the cows must have been intoxicated, for there is no system nor any approach to one. they begin without cause and end without reason. there are angles, curves and stoppages, and that is all there is about it. where a street, to answer the ends of convenience and economy, should go on, you come squarely against a dead wall, and where a street should naturally end, there has been constructed, at vast expense, a continuance, and for no apparent reason. doubtless there is a reason, but i would give a handsome premium to have it made manifest to me. like all old cities, there never was a plan. this ground was never taken up at a dollar and a quarter an acre, as in america, by a set of speculators, and laid out in regular squares, and sold at so much a lot. london never was made--it grew. the original city is a little spot, occupied mostly by banks, but other cities grew around it, and they were joined by all sorts of lanes and roads, which in time became occupied, and so the inextricable jumble occurred. the city is built entirely of brick and stone, and in the style and convenience of its buildings, is not to be compared to american cities. there is a terrible monotony in its architecture, and a most depressing sameness in color. all london is dingy. occasionally an enterprising citizen paints his house to distinguish it from his neighbor's, but he never does it but once. the coal consumed is bituminous, and the smoke it produces is the thickest smoke in the world, and it hangs very close to the earth. the paint becomes discolored in a few months, and the aspiring citizen finds in the smoke a protest against his vanity. his house soon drops into line with his neighbor's, and is as dingy as before. [sidenote: vehicular.] the streets of london are crowded to a degree that an american can hardly conceive. isaiah rynders said once that it required more intellect to cross broadway than it did to be a country justice. had isaiah stayed a week in london he would have had the conceit taken out of him. the streets of london, all of them, are boiling, seething masses of moving men and animals. omnibusses, vast cumbrous machines, loaded full inside, and with twenty people on the top, hansoms, cabs, trucks, drays, donkey carts, pony carts, carriages, form a never-beginning and never-ending procession, making a roar like the waters of niagara. he who attempts to cross a street has to make it a regular business. it cannot be done leisurely or in a dignified way. you narrowly escape being run down by a hansom, only to find yourself in danger of being impaled by the pole of an omnibus, and escaping that, a donkey cart is charging full at you, and if you escape a carriage, and a dozen dog carts, you finally find yourself on the sidewalk plump in the stomach of somebody, who accepts your apology with a growl. [illustration: a london street scene.] i shall never get over my admiration for the london driver. how he can guide one horse, or still more wonderful, two, through this vehicular labyrinth, is a mystery that i cannot comprehend. i would as soon think of taking command of the british army, and a great deal sooner, for if i didn't stomach fighting, i could run. but they do it, and they seldom have accidents. and while i am on the subject of driving, i may as well get through with it. the horses used in london embrace a vast variety. the draught horses are all of the norman variety, about as large as small elephants, and magnificent in their strength. they are massive, and the loads they draw are wonderful. the trucks are enormous in size and strength, with great, broad wheels, and merchandise is piled upon them mountain high. two of these horses, nineteen hands high, and built proportionately, with great, clumsy legs, will take an enormous load along the streets, making no fuss, and seemingly without worry. but when one notices the condition of the streets the wonder at the loads that are drawn ceases. they are as smooth as glass. the stone pavements are evenly laid and absolutely without ruts. the wooden pavement, answering to the nicholson, which has invariably been a failure in america, is a success here, and for a very simple reason. the contractors are compelled to do their work honestly. there is no shoddy in the pavements of london. they are all as sound as the bank of england. they don't lay down some pine boards in the mud, and then stand rotten blocks on end upon them, as we do in america, but there is a solid foundation of broken stone and such matter laid down first, and this is filled with sand, and then the blocks, all good timber, are placed upon that in a proper way, the whole resulting in a road-bed as solid as stone itself, and smooth and noiseless, making a roadway over which any load can be drawn without injury to either beast or vehicle, and one which will be good long after the makers are dust. the vehicles are made so strong as they are, not for fear of the roads, but to hold the enormous weights that the roads make possible. [sidenote: the vicious horse.] sometime we of america will get to doing things in a permanent way. it will be, however, after all the present race of contractors are worth several millions each. i presume in the ancient days there were rings in london. if so i can understand the uses for the beheading blocks exhibited at the tower. all the vehicles used in the city are massive and solid. you see none of the flimsy spider-web wheels and light airy bodies in carriages that we affect in america. the wheels of a cab to carry four people are quite three inches thick, and the bodies are correspondingly clumsy. like their owners, they are very solid. but the hansom is the peculiar vehicle. the four-wheeler is a sort of a sober-going cab, the one you would expect the mother of a family or a respectable widow lady to use. the driver sits in front, as a driver should, and the entire concern is closed except as you may desire to have air by letting down eminently respectable windows in the side. but the hansom is quite another thing. the occupant is in a low seat, while his driver sits above him on a perch and the reins go over the occupant's head. next to swindling his customer out of a sixpence on his fare, the chief ambition of the driver of a hansom is to run down a foot passenger, and in this ambition his horse shares fully, if he does not exceed him. the horses used in these piratical vehicles are generally broken-down hunters, who, too slow to longer hunt the wily fox, and harnessed in the ignoble hansom, have transferred their hunting instincts to men. when the "jarvey," as he is called here, fixes his eagle eye upon a citizen whom he proposes to run down, the horse knows it as if by instinct, and they come charging down upon him at a pace something as did the french cuirassiers at waterloo. and if the intended victim escapes, the driver gnashes his teeth in rage, and the sympathizing horse drops his head and moves on a walk till the sight of another countryman or stranger rouses his ambition. it is said that when a driver succeeds in running down a foot passenger the injured man is the one who is arrested. the shops of london are of two kinds--the gorgeous modern and the respectable ancient. the modern are of the most gorgeous kind. they are not as in new york, immense show windows with a door between; but there is an immense show window in the middle, with a small passage on the side. when a london tradesman wants a show window he wants it all show. it is very like the piety of some men i know. he doesn't care how small the opening is to get into the place, for he knows if he attracts a customer by the display of his goods in the window, he, the said customer, will manage somehow to get inside. the point is to corral the customer. once in, his bones can be picked at leisure. the modern shops are as gorgeously fitted up inside as out. they have silver plated rails, magnificently decorated counters and show-cases, even more than the new york stores have. then there are the eminently respectable shops which despise these gorgeous ones about the same as an old noble, descended from one of the first robbers, looks down upon a knight of day before yesterday. these are the shops that have over their doors "established in ." they would no more put in a plate glass window than they would forge a note. they revel in their dustiness, and are proud of their darkness and inconvenience. they wouldn't sweep out the premises if they could help it, and the very cob-webs are sacred as being so many silent witnesses to the antiquity of the house. "the house, sir, of smithers & co., was established by samuel smithers on this very spot in , and business has been done under that name, and by his successors, ever since, except an interval of two months, which was occasioned by a fire--from the outside. the house of samuel smithers & co. could never have originated a fire upon their own premises. the business is conducted with more system. we have never had a protested paper and never asked an accommodation." this is what the present head of the house will say to you. he has as much pride in the house as the queen has in her queenship, and with infinitely more reason. he would not allow a new pane of glass to be put in, and he wouldn't change a thing about the premises for the world. he prides himself on the inconveniences of a hundred years ago, and would die sooner than to use a modern notion in the business. [sidenote: an old house.] but the smitherses are good people with whom to do business. among the other old-fashioned customs they preserve is that of honesty. they keep good goods, no shoddy; they have a fair price, and you might as well undertake to tear down westminster abbey with a hair-pin as to induce any variation therefrom. they want your trade--every englishman wants trade--but they prefer their system to trade. you buy, if you buy of them, on their terms. but you know what you get, and that is worth something. this affection for the old is general. it is a fact that one eating house, noted for its chops and steaks, and ales and wines, which had been in existence no one knows how many years, and had its regular succession of patrons, who came in at regular hours, and ate and drank the same things, and read the same newspapers till death claimed them, fell, by reason of death, into the hands of young men. these young fellows were somewhat progressive, and they determined to bring the old place abreast with modern ideas. and so they swept out the cob-webs, painted the interior, decorated it in bright colors, put in new tables, swept and cleaned things, and replaced the old floor with modern tiles, and made it one of the most handsome places in london. the effect was fatal. the old _habitues_ of the place came, looked inside, ran out to see if they had not made a mistake as to the number, and finding they were right as to locality, sighed and turned sadly away. they could not eat in any such place, and they went and found some other antiquated den, whose proprietor was sensible enough not to tear down sacred cob-webs, and put in fresh floors. the old patronage was lost forever, and the proprietors were compelled to build up an entirely new business, the cost of which nearly put them into bankruptcy. all travelers lie. i am going to try to be an exception to this rule, and shall, to the best of my ability, cling to the truth as a shipwrecked mariner does to a spar. i shall try to conquer the tendency to lie that overcome every man who gets a hundred miles away from home. but i presume i shall fail; and so when i get home and say that living is cheaper and better in london than it is anywhere in america, please say to me, "you are lying!" you will do the correct thing. no doubt when there i shall say to smith or thompson, "my boy, what you want to do is to go abroad. you want to see london. and as for the expense, what is it? your passage across is only one hundred dollars--ten days--and that is but ten dollars a day. and then you can live so much cheaper in london than you can in new york that it is really cheaper to go abroad than it is to stay at home." [illustration: a london steak.] i presume i shall say this when i get home, for i know the tendency of the traveler to lie. i have traveled all over north america, and i confess, with shame mantling my cheek, that i have at times added some feet to the height of mountains and to the width of rivers, and to the number of indians, and once i did invent an exploit which never happened, and i have narrated incidents which never occurred. it is such a temptation to be a hero when you know you can never be successfully disputed. while i am yet young in foreign travel, and capable of an approximation to truth, i wish to say that london is not only not a cheap place to live, but an exceedingly dear one. [sidenote: the matter of cost.] "just think of it," said a travel-wise new yorker, in new york, to me, "just think of a steak for a shilling! here you pay twice that!" so we do, but when you pay fifty cents for a steak in new york, you get a steak, and you get with it bread and butter _ad libitum_--you get pickles, and sauces, and potatoes, and all that sort of thing. your fifty cent steak, with the accompaniments it carries, makes you a meal, and a good one. in london your steak is twenty-five cents, but it is only a sample. after eating it you want some steak. then you pay six cents for potatoes, two cents for what they call a bread--you always have more and there is a charge for each individual slice--you pay two cents for each tiny pat of butter, you are compelled to struggle for a napkin, and if you ask for ice to cool the infernal insipid water, you pay two cents for that, and you get just enough to aggravate you. and, then, when you are through, the smirking mass of stupidity and inefficiency they call a waiter wants and expects a sixpence, which is twelve and one-half cents more. where is your cheapness now? if you have a square, appetite-satisfying, strength-giving meal, it has cost you twice as much as it would in new york, with the difference that in new york it would be decently cooked, decently served, and done with a sort of breadth that makes it a luxury to eat, while here it is so hampered about with extras and charges for minute things--things which in america are free to everybody--that eating is reduced to a mere commercial basis and has no comfort in it. the hotels are simply infamous in their charges. you agree to pay so much per day for your rooms, and it looks tolerably cheap, but you discover your mistake at the close of the first week, when you come to settle your bill. though you have never touched your bell and have never seen the face of a servant, you are charged so much a day for "attendance," you are charged for light, for fires. if you have ordered a bit of anything, no matter how infinitesimal, it is there, and these charges make up a bill larger than your room rent. there is no use in remonstrating, nor in threatening to leave. you know, and the landlord knows a great deal better, that no matter where you go it will be the same, and so submitting to the inevitable, you draw a draft for more money, and settle down to be cheated in peace. the lodging houses are quite as bad, only of course in a smaller way. your accommodations are less, and the swindle less, but the proportion is very carefully observed. clothing is somewhat cheaper than in america, but nevertheless let me warn the intending comer against buying it here. you may buy cloths, if you choose, and pay duty on them and take them home, but never let a london tailor or dressmaker profane your person, be you man or woman. the creator never made either for a london tailor to mar. he has too much respect for his handiwork. i have been here now two weeks, and have yet to see a native englishman or a tailor-spoiled american who was well-dressed. the english tailor has no more idea of style than a pig has of the revised testament. you can tell an american a square off by the cut of his coat, and an american woman by the very hang of her dress. the english tailor looks at you wisely, and takes a measurement or two, and puts his shears into the cloth. the result is a sort of a square abortion, loose where it should be close, close where it should be wide, long where it should be short and short where it should be long, and the poor victim takes it and is miserable till time releases him from it. the majority of english women are dowdies, and by the way they have immense feet and hands. they are excellent wives, mothers and sisters, but their extremities are something frightful. they do have delightful complexions though, and are as bright and good as they can be. [sidenote: a pittsburgh reminiscence.] speaking of the feet of english women reminds me of captain mcfadden, of pittsburgh. the dear old captain--he is dead and gone now these many a year--in addition to being one of the best river men that pittsburgh could boast of, was also,--think of it,--a poultry fancier. when the fancy for shanghais broke out the captain joined in it, as he did in everything in the fowl way, and he paid cheerfully twenty-five dollars for a half-dozen eggs of the famous breed, which he immediately put under a hen that was in a setting mood. but captain mcfadden had a son who was without reverence either for his father or poultry. young jim mcfadden went and bought a half-dozen duck's eggs and removed the shanghais and put the duck's eggs under the hen, the said hen not knowing or caring whether she was hatching the common duck or the royal shanghai. in time its labors were accomplished and captain mcfadden was viewing the resultant ducklings, with jim laughing in his sleeve as he looked on. [illustration: "jim, my boy, and is them the shanghais? luk at their futs! hevens, jim."] "jim, me boy, and is them the shanghais? luk at their futs! hevens, jim, luk at their futs. all h--l wouldn't up-trup em." i can't imagine anything that would "up-trup" an english woman. but as small feet and hands are not essential to salvation i forgive them this. they can't help it. i presume they would if they could, but they are so kindly, so hospitable, so bright and pleasing generally, that i shut my eyes gladly to their feet, and their bad taste in dress, and accept it all without a word. still i wish they could pare down their feet. then an english woman would be the simple perfection of nature's most perfect work. i can't help thinking, however, that when your hostess's shoe is--but never mind. their kindliness and their cheery laughs and their never failing good humor are admirable substitutes for small feet. feet are not the whole of life. you see soldiers about london. they are as common as mosquitos in new jersey, and to me just about as offensive. they are everywhere. go where you will, you see a tall fellow in a blue or scarlet, or some other colored uniform, with an absurd little cap on his head, to which is attached a leather strap which comes down to his lower lip, to keep the absurd little cap in place. he has sometimes a sword hanging to him, and sometimes not, but he is a soldier all the same. england has need of a great many soldiers. in london they are used as a sort of show, as walking advertisements of the power and strength of the government, and to make the picture of royalty complete. as soldiers don't cost much here, it is a luxury royalty can afford a great deal of. the ordinary soldier gets twenty-five cents a day, and his rations, and after twenty-one years service, if rum and beer and bullets--the two first are the most dangerous--have not finished him, he becomes a pensioner, which means he puts on a red coat and eats three times a day in a sort of hospital, all the rest of his life. [sidenote: a red-coated romance.] the army is recruited largely from ireland and the poorer districts of england and scotland. it is about the last thing an englishman or irishman does, but various causes keep the ranks full without conscription. women are the best recruiting officers the queen has. it is the regular thing for a young fellow who has been jilted to go and enlist. he thinks he will make the girl feel badly. but it doesn't. she rather prides herself upon the number of young fellows she has given the army, and when the time comes to marry and settle down, she goes and marries, and laughs at them all. poverty is another very active and efficient recruiting sergeant. a young fellow comes down to "lunnon" to seek his fortune, equipped with a few pounds and his mother's blessing. he finds london quite different from what he expected. he discovers it to be a very hard and cruel place, with more mouths than bread, and more hands than work. he lives as closely as he can, but, as meagerly as he lives, his pounds melt into shillings and his shillings into pence. and finally, when his last penny is gone, and hunger is upon him, he takes the queen's shilling, and the next thing his mother hears of him, he is fighting the boers in south africa. and once a soldier, always a soldier. the life unfits a man for any other, and when he has once worn a uniform, he never wears anything else. as i said, women are the best recruiting sergeants. i got into a conversation with one very handsome young fellow who had been in the service only a year, who told me his little story. he is the son of a small farmer in scotland somewhere, with an unpronounceable name, where it doesn't matter. he had been in love with a pretty daughter of a widow near by from the time he was a boy, and the girl professed to be, and doubtless was, in love with him, but as she grew up she made the discovery that she was very handsome (what woman does not?), and she found that that beauty attracted others beside poor jamie. other swains in the neighborhood laid siege to her, and she, exulting in her power over the young fellows, and being unquestionably the belle of the neighborhood, made it very uncomfortable for her real lover, to whom she was betrothed. sore were the conflicts between them. the girl delighted in annoying him, for she was as wilful and cruel as she was beautiful. she would dance with the others, and she would flirt with them to the point of driving the poor man mad, and then, just at the nick of time, she had a trick of coming back to him, and for a time being as sweet as possible, and so for several years she kept him alternating between the seventh heaven of happiness, and the lowest depths of a hell upon earth. there was one fellow in the neighborhood as much smitten with her as jamie, who was determined to marry her, whether or no. he was a well-to-do young man, who had a farm of his own, and being quite as good-looking and more enterprising than jamie, was a most dangerous rival to the hapless youth. jennie had dismissed all the others, but with the perversity that seems to be an infallible accompaniment to beauty, she persisted in receiving the attention of this man. finally it came to a head. jamie insisted that she should not see him any more, and he insisted upon it with an earnestness that affected the girl, and she made a solemn promise that she never would see him again. it so happened that the very next day after this promise was asked and given, jamie was to leave for glasgow on business, and he started early the next morning. he hadn't got to the railroad station before his mind misgave him. something worried him. he had slept all the night comfortably on her promise, but something told him that she did not intend to keep it, and that something preyed upon him to the degree that instead of proceeding on his journey he turned about and walked back. she knew that he was going to be gone a week, and the other man knew it also. if she intended to play him false, this was her opportunity, and he would know for certain, and set his mind at ease. poor devil! it would have been better had he proceeded on his journey. for if he had known anything he would have known that if a woman wanted to deceive him, watching her would amount to nothing. the devil is very lavish of opportunities, that being all that he has to do, and simple human nature is certain to avail itself of them; but jamie was not a philosopher, or a very bright man. he was a simple scotch lad, frightfully in love with a wilful and perverse beauty. [sidenote: how it ended.] but he did go back, and he concealed himself near her cottage, where he could watch unobserved, hoping, in a desperate sort of way, that he had made a fool of himself, but rather certain that he had not. and sure enough, along toward evening his rival made his appearance sauntering down the road, and sure enough he had no sooner appeared in the road than jennie, as if by accident, appeared, and the two talked across the little gate in front, very earnestly, she in a mixed sort of way. and jamie, full of rage at what he believed to be a betrayal, and desperate on general principles, sallied out and attacked his man, and after a fearful struggle left him almost dead on the ground, and despite jennie's tearful assertions that she had seen him only to tell him that he must not follow her any more, as she would henceforth and forever have nothing whatever to do with him, jamie, who didn't believe a word of it, announced his intention of enlisting, and started off toward the station again. jennie followed him, for it appears the girl's story was true, and she, coquette as she was, did love him, but she arrived too late. he had taken the fatal plunge, and was in the queen's uniform. "and jennie?" i asked. jennie was in london in service. she would not stay at home after he left, and she came to town where she could see him at times, and things were so arranged between them that when his term should expire they were to marry and go back and settle down upon the old place and be happy for evermore. if his regiment should be ordered upon foreign duty, she would manage somehow to accompany him. anyhow, she was entirely cured of flirting, rightly concluding that one true man is enough for one woman, and he was equally soundly cured of jealousy, though it must be admitted that he had sufficient cause therefor. and so ends a red-coated romance. chapter iii. the derby races, with some other things. horse-racing in america is not considered the most exciting, or, for that matter, the most reputable business in the world. a horsey man, except in new york, is not looked upon with much favor, being, as a rule, and i suppose justly, regarded as a modified and somewhat toned down black-leg. i never ventured money upon but one race. i shall never forget it, for it was my first and last experience. it was many years ago, ere time had whitened my locks, and had set the seal of age in my face in the form of wrinkles. it is needless to say i was as immature mentally as physically, or what is to follow would not have occurred. there was a horseman in the county in ohio in which i was living named carpenter--sol. carpenter. every horseman's given name is abbreviated, the same as a negro minstrel's. carpenter was the possessor of many horses which he used in racing, but he had one, "nero," which commanded the confidence of all the sporting men for miles around. in a mile race he had never been beaten, and there were wild rumors, which obtained credence, that he had won a four-mile race in kentucky (which at that time was the starting point for all the running horses), and that sol. was holding him back for some great master-stroke of turf business. presently there appeared in greenfield--sol. lived in plymouth--a horse named "calico," which the owner intimated could _lay out_ "nero," without any particular trouble or worry. carpenter laughed the man to scorn--his name was pete scobey--and promptly challenged him for a mile dash, two best in three. [sidenote: an american horse contest.] scobey accepted the challenge and the date was fixed. there was the wildest possible excitement in plymouth. greenfield did not share in it, as there were no horsemen there, the village consisting of one presbyterian church, a dry goods store, and a blacksmith shop. but plymouth absolutely boiled. carpenter poured oil upon the fire by confidentially assuring everybody that "nero" could get away with "calico" without the slightest trouble; that he knew "calico" like a book, and knew exactly what he could do, and if the people of plymouth were wise, they would impoverish greenfield, or rather the norwalk parties, who were to back "calico." his advice was taken. every man in plymouth who could raise a dollar went to that race at greenfield and staked his money on "nero," on carpenter's assurance as well as their own confidence. there was nobody doing much betting on "calico," except mr. scobey and one or two others, and they held off at first, which gave plymouth more confidence. so eager were we to despoil the adverse faction that we gave great odds, all of which mr. scobey and his confreres took, finally, with a calm confidence that should have taught us better. but it didn't. i remember that i wagered every dollar i had with me, and some more that mr. carpenter kindly lent me, taking my note, and in addition to this a sixteen-dollar silver watch. the first heat was won by "nero," easily, and mr. carpenter winked to plymouth to make another assault upon the purses of greenfield. we did it. we gave even greater odds than before, which mr. scobey required, as he admitted that his chances were very slim. "but," he remarked, "i will bet one to ten on anything." to our surprise the second heat was won by "calico," by just about a head. then mr. scobey offered to take even bets, and he would have got a great many but for the fact that plymouth had staked her entire wealth already. the next and decisive heat was run. it was closely contested. each horse seemingly did his best, and the jockeys seemed to ride properly. alas for plymouth! "calico" won, as he did the second heat, by just a head. the indignation of mr. carpenter knew no bounds. he grasped his jockey by the neck and pulled him from the horse, and accused him of giving away the race, and he stormed about the track very like a madman. "pete," he said finally, "nero kin beat that cart horse of yours ez easy ez winkin. i'll run yoo two weeks from to-day at plymouth for two hundred dollars a side, and i'll hev a rider that won't sell out to yoo." [illustration: sol carpenter and the greenfield race.] "jest ez you please, mr. carpenter. it's easy enough to charge up a poor horse to the account of a rider. here's the boodle." [sidenote: departure for the derby] and so another race was arranged, and mr. carpenter went among us and assured that his own son should ride the next time, and there would be no trouble about it. we consulted all the next week, and mr. scobey was approached on the subject. mr. scobey assured us that he knew "nero," and knew his own horse. "nero" was good for a long race, but for a dash of a mile "calico" could get away with him every time. we shared mr. scobey's opinion, and to mr. carpenter's disgust, plymouth wagered all the money it could raise upon "calico." it requires but few words to state the result. "calico" won the first heat easily, and "nero" won the other two just as easily, and plymouth was again bankrupt. and then one of the riders who was disappointed in his share of the plunder, came to the front and made known what, if we had not been an entire menagerie of asses, we might have known in advance, that mr. carpenter and mr. scobey were in partnership, and that "calico" was a horse hired from cleveland for the occasion, and that it was a very ingenious scheme put up by mr. carpenter to victimize his neighbors, and that out of the speculation the two had made a very nice lot of money. i don't pretend to say that this has anything to do with the derby, but it illustrates the morals of the turf so well that i could not help putting it upon paper. racing is about the same thing everywhere, except upon epsom downs. these races are conducted fairly, for they are under the patronage of men to whom the honor of owning a winning horse is more than any amount of money that can possibly be won. the english noblemen want this honor, and they spend fabulous amounts of money to attain it. i won't say that the duke of wellington would have exchanged waterloo for the derby, but i do say that if after waterloo he could have had a horse capable of taking the prize, he would have died better satisfied with himself. thirty americans were in the party that, on the morning of the first of june, left the american exchange at charing cross for epsom downs. it was a very jolly party, and none of the accompaniments were forgotten. an englishman does nothing without a great plenty of eating and drinking, and so the inside of one of the immense omnibusses--"breaks" they call them--was filled with great hampers of lunch, and wine, and things of that nature. as early as it was all the avenues leading to the downs were literally packed with conveyances, to say nothing of the railroad trains which passed in quick succession, and such a motley procession! there were lords and ladies, merchants and clerks, prostitutes and gamblers, workingmen and beggars, sewing-girls and bar-maids,--in fact every sort and condition of people, who had for one day thrown care to the winds and were on pleasure bent. [illustration: leaving for the derby.] [sidenote: sights and scenes.] the roads swarmed with vehicles, and there was as much of a surprise in the variety as in the number. there was my lord in his dog cart, or, if a family man, in his gorgeous carriage, which does not differ materially from the american open barouche, save in the accommodations for the everlasting flunkies behind, without which no english establishment is complete. then came the swarm of hansoms--which is a two-wheeled vehicle, with a calash top to it, carrying the driver on a high perch behind--the army of omnibusses, the tops covered with chaffing people, and the inside full of more sober ones, and add to these every variety of vehicle to which an animal can be attached, that would carry a human being, and you have some faint idea of the appearance of the roads leading to epsom downs on the st of june, a.d. . it was rather amusing than otherwise to note two kinds of vehicles and the people they hauled. they have in london a little pony, not much larger than a good-sized newfoundland dog, extensively used by costermongers and that class of tradesmen to deliver goods. a half of these in london were at the derby, hitched to a two-wheeled cart of twice their size, and seven heavy men and women would be packed therein, and this little mite bowled them along at a good pace, without being worried. there were literally thousands of them upon the roads, the pony pulling his heavy load, and seeming to enjoy the sport as much as those he was hauling. he was having a holiday, and his holiday was much like a human one, very hard work. the donkey is another english institution. he is not as large as the pony, but what enormous loads he will pull, and what a slight amount of food he requires. he will breakfast on a tin tomato can, and relish a circus poster for dinner. he is a patient little brute, and bears his loads as meekly as the english laborer does his, and in just about the same way. as we leave the city the crowd of vehicles and pedestrians becomes denser and denser. at the point where all the streets out of the city meet the throng becomes more than immense, it is terrific. the drivers of the vehicles, skillful as they are, have difficulty in guiding their teams, whether it be the pretentious four-in-hand, or the humble donkey-cart, through the mass, though they did it, and without an accident. and now the fun begins; that is, the english fun. troops of fantastics, with false faces, spring up, the lord knows from where, or for what purpose, unless it be to blow piercing horns [illustration: by the road-side.] and beat toy drums for their own amusement. on one side just over a hedge, an admiring party are witnessing a boxing match between two yokels, who are giving and taking real blows in dead earnest, while just beyond is a punch and judy show, which always has been popular in england, and will be to the end of time. all along the dusty road are men over come with liquor, sleeping the sleep that only the drunkard knows, with faces upturned to the hot sun. they are perfectly safe, and will not be disturbed. every englishman of the lower class knows all about it, and as for robbery, all that he has on him couldn't be pawned for a penny. next to the boxing match was a street preacher of some denomination, armed with his testament and hymn-book, "holding forth" to a throng constantly coming and going. i didn't hear this one, for we were too much on pleasure bent to stop for a sermon, be it ever so good or our need for it ever so great. but i did hear one on the grounds, and a curious sermon it was. there was no miss nancying about that preacher. he did not attempt to win his hearers by depicting the delights of a heaven for piety on this earth, not any. he knew his hearers too well. the lower grade englishman might try to be good to escape a hell, but no one ever conceived a heaven that would win him. his idea of a heaven is a pot-house, with plenty of beer, and bread and cheese, and nothing to do. and so the preacher sang the hymn:-- "my thoughts on awful subjects roll, damnation and the dead," in which his audience joined, some devoutly and some jeeringly. [sidenote: the road-side evangelist.] and he pictured hell in such lurid colors as to frighten the most hardened. he had no fancy for a hell, such as american clergymen talk about, which consists merely in being deprived of the company of angels and all that sort of thing, but he had a substantial, real hell, with actual fire and brimstone and real devils with red hot pitch-forks, toasting and gridling sinners, and rivers of fire, and perpetual torments of this cheerful kind, forever and forever. that was the kind of a hell he had. it had its effect. one man who stood listening, with his wife, said to her as they turned away: "weel, jenny, 'ell is a hawful thing, i don't knaw but what i'll turn around and do better, hafter to-morrow." and the wife assenting to this proposition they went to the nearest beer place and buried their countenances and their consciences, or their fright rather, in pots of beer that would swamp the most seasoned american, and a few moments after were dancing like mad in a booth constructed for the purpose. except there be a special dispensation this party will never repent, and if there be such a hell as the preacher described they will find it. their to-morrow for becoming good, like everybody else's, will never come. the negro who, when asked why, in view of the punishment that must follow his sinful life, he would continue in his evil courses, replied:-- "boss, de great comfort and 'scurity i has, is in a deff-bed 'pentance." "but suppose you die too suddenly to repent?" "boss, i alluz keeps myseff ready for 'pentance." the road down is lined with public houses, little quaint inns in which nobody sleeps, but which are devoted exclusively to the selling of beer and spirits. at each of these half the vehicles stopped, and the scenes about them were curious, if not altogether enjoyable. the only business done inside was the drawing and drinking of beer, and outside--heaven help an american--negro minstrelsy. imagine three cockneys burnt corked, and dressed in trowsers striped in imitation of the american flag, with long blue striped coats and red vests, one playing the banjo, another the concertina, and the third doing the silver sand clog, with that peculiar soul-depressing, spirit-quenching expression that all clog dancers wear habitually. [illustration: english negro minstrelsy.] [sidenote: the roadside repast.] a clog dance on a stage in a hall is sufficiently depressing to send a middle-aged man home to make his will, but imagine it done by an englishman on a board outside an inn, on a hot day, so hot that the perspiration streaming down his face washed the burnt cork out in streaks, and then when this doleful performance was finally accomplished, think of a negro melody sung in the genuine cockney dialect, and accepted as a correct representation of the american african. by the way, in a first-class music hall i heard an english minstrel use the word "nothink," and misplace his h's as fluently as the most accomplished shopman. but the un-enlightened englishman who had never heard the rich, mellow tones of the genuine african didn't know any better, and so it was as well. people who love minstrelsy deserve nothing better. by this time it was noon, and the sun was blazing hot. but the sun doesn't mean as much on english roads as it does on american. england is some centuries old, and the roads are bordered on either side with immense trees, the hedges afford a grateful shade, and he who cannot find a delightful seat upon the soft grass is very hard to please. exactly at noon the thousands of humble folk, the pony and donkey-cart people, stopped and unharnessed their diminutive power, and permitted it to crop the grass, while they unloaded those wonderful hampers, and spread them upon the grass and ate and drank. there was the boiled ham, the great masses of very bad bread made from the cheapest and worst american flour, the pot of mustard, and the inevitable bottle of beer. they sat under the delicious shade, men, women and children, and ate and drank and chaffed, and seemed to be enjoying themselves. [illustration: the roadside repast.] i think they all did enjoy themselves, except the women. the children got more to eat than they did other days, so they were satisfied; the men, great hulking fellows, gorged themselves, and were pleased because they were full of beer, but the poor women had the children to care for, and that ought to have been enough to have destroyed all the pleasure there was in it to them. for be it understood, no english laborer's wife ever leaves her children at home on holiday occasions. there are two reasons for this. one is there is nobody to leave them with, and the other is there is a vague idea that it is a part of a child's education to know all about beer and public houses from its very beginning. therefore, almost every woman on that road to the derby, had from one to four children with her, the youngest very frequently being at the very tender age of a month. the husbands always permit the mother to assume the entire charge of the youngsters, and the wives accept the situation uncomplainingly. they carry the "brats," as the fathers delicately style their offspring, and the small woman with a healthy baby in her arms, keeping three others in tow, under a hot sun, must have an amusing time of it. but they seem to like it, and i don't know as it is any of my business. only i am rejoiced that the venerable miss susan b. anthony don't know how the lower-grade englishman treats his wife. could she see what i have seen she would start upon another lecturing tour, as ancient as she is. [sidenote: on the field.] one peculiarity strikes an american--everything has its price, which is rigorously exacted. everything is fenced up and the slightest accommodation has to be paid for. do you want a glass of water? it is given you, and you drink and set the glass down. immediately the man or woman who handed it to you remarks quietly, but with a tone that admits of no question: "penny, sir!" you pay it, for it is the custom of the country. it isn't for the water, but for the handing it to you. at every gate stands a man who asks for his penny as he opens it, and he gets it. it got to that point with me, that when i felt a breeze striking my face and i got a breath of fresh air, i instinctively turned around to see to whom i should give the inevitable penny. air is the only thing that is not charged for, and if there were any way of fencing that in and selling it, it would be done immediately. i remonstrated mildly at paying for a very simple service, for which in no country i was ever in would a fee be demanded, but i was silenced instantly. "it helps me make a day's wages, sir, and it won't break you, sir," was the very prompt answer. i never dared to object again, but whenever i asked a question i offered the penny, and i did not find any one too proud to take it. finally we reached the downs. epsom downs is an immense field, the property of the earl of derby, whose seat, "the oaks," is about two miles distant. the "derby" is only one of many races, but out of compliment to the earl, it is counted the chief event of the racing season. the importance given to it may be inferred from the fact that it is really a national holiday, that business is almost entirely suspended, and that parliament adjourns to attend it. i am not going to write a description of the race, for one very good reason. i didn't see it. i could do it, but i am too honest, and beside i have no idea that it would interest anybody. one race is just the same as another. the horses all start, and run the course, and come in. one horse wins, and a dozen lose; as in the american game of keno, one man exclaims "keno!" and forty-nine utter a profane word. a quarter-race in kentucky is precisely the same as the derby, except that one is witnessed by a hundred men in jeans, and the other by some hundreds of thousands in all sorts of clothing. at all events i was too busy studying the people to pay any attention to the horses. possibly i made a mistake, the horse may be the nobler animal of the two. i should like to get the opinion of the horse on that point. the sight of the field was indescribable. there were people by the hundred thousand. the railroads brought down one hundred and twenty-five thousand, and nobody goes to the "darby" by train if he can help it. many prefer to walk the sixteen miles to going by rail. these either haven't the money to pay their fares, or shrink from giving money to railroads so long as there is beer to be had. the grand stand, an immense three-story structure, was black with people, and as far as the eye could reach there was nothing but people. and, as it is in america, the people were there for everything except to see the races, which is proper. for if there be anything under heaven that is exasperating it is a horse race, unless it be a regatta. except as an excuse for something else, i never could see why people went to either. to sit or stand for an hoar under a hot sun, while a lot of jockeys are undertaking to swindle each other, simply to see a field of horses run or trot for a minute or two, or a parcel of boats start and come to the finish, always did seem to me to be the very acme of absurdity. but when you have thirty jolly fellows with you, who make good talk, a wild profusion of lunch, and oceans of wine, it is quite another thing, that is if you like lunch, wine, and talk. the principal race this year, and the one on which the interest centered, was between "peregrine," the english favorite, and "iroquois," the american horse. there were others in the field, but these two absorbed the entire attention of the throng. it was a national matter, and a vast amount of money was lost and won on the event. as is known, "iroquois" won the race by a very small majority, and the american eagle screamed with delight, and the british lion hung its head. the english felt more humiliated than they did when they lost the colonies, and archer, the english jockey who rode "iroquois" to victory, was considered a very unpatriotic man. the english found one consolation: "well, you know, the blarsted yankee 'oss couldn't 'ave won the 'eat if a hinglish jockey hadn't ridden 'im." this was the remark that i heard everywhere. [sidenote: shows and beggars.] the enthusiasm of the americans knew no bounds. the glorious victory was made the reason for a fresh assault upon the lunch and wine, and a number of american parties had provided themselves with american flags, which they immediately pulled from their hiding places and flung to the breeze. and then as the emblem of freedom displayed itself upon english soil, it became immediately necessary to drink to the flag, which was done with that promptness which has ever distinguished the genuine american. parties of americans would arm themselves with champagne bottles, and pass to the carriages displaying the flag, and insist upon the occupants partaking with them in honor of the victory and the flag, and when one would get the address of the other, they would find the one was from kalamazoo and the other from oshkosh, and the coincidence was so striking that they would drink again. by that time a new yorker would appear, and "why, you are from new york! open another bottle!" and so on. it was a glorious day, but for all that anybody saw of the race, it struck me that it would have done just as well to have taken the lunch and the wine to any other field outside of london, and become patriotically intoxicated. the country people and the laborers of london enjoyed the races about as the americans did. for their amusement there were shows and games on the ground by the hundred. there were penny theaters; there were shooting galleries, and the cocoanut game. a dozen or more pegs are driven into the ground, and on each is placed a cocoanut. the man who hungers after cocoanuts and amusement pays a penny, for which he has the privilege of throwing a wooden ball at the row of pegs. if he hits a peg the nut drops off and he is entitled to it, with the resultant colic. there were hundreds and hundreds of tents, inside of which were cheap shows, precisely such as we see at state fairs and outside of circuses. as i gazed upon the enormous pictures of fat women, and bearded women, and circassian beauties with enormous masses of hair, and the wonderful snakes, and the groups of genuine zulu chiefs, and heard the inspiring tones of the hand organ, accompanied with the bass drum, and heard the man at the door imploring the people not to lose the great chance of their lives, and saw the young fellow with his girl, torn by the perplexing conundrum as to which was the better investment, the show or more beer, i fancied for a moment that i was at home. but i was not. i was three thousand miles from home, but i was seeing exactly what i should have seen had i been there. human nature is about the same everywhere. certainly, there is no difference in the side-showmen or the people from whom he earns his living. beggars and gipsies, so-called (there was no doubt about the genuineness of the beggars), were as thick as leaves in vallambrosa. stout men who could have wrestled with the primeval forests were begging for half-pence; women, with bloated faces, on every inch of which was written "gin" in unmistakable characters, carrying wretched babies, beset you at every turn; and hideous hags, with unmistakable irish brogue, thronged about the carriages with: "my pretty gentlemon, will ye cross the palm ov the poor gipsy, and let her till yer forchoon? och, and i kin till ye the shtyle ov the shwate lady ye'll marry, and the number ov childher ye'll hev, an bring ye gud luck." the absurdity of addressing me as a "pretty gintlemon," and of proposing to tell me the sweet lady i'd marry! i, a married man this quarter of a century and the father of a family! that old lady got nothing from me. but the good-natured fellows in the carriage did throw her pennies, which she took with the regular "god bless yez," and i have no doubt that in the course of the day she picked up a very pretty sum, enough at all events to keep her full of gin during the night. the gipsies proper were on the ground in force, and a curious folk they are. the women were telling fortunes, and a vast number of customers they secured from the shop and servant girls on the ground, to all of whom she promised speedy marriages, no husband being under the degree of a duke, and all of them very handsome and very rich men. the girls paid their pennies and sixpences with great alacrity, and went home to dream of their good luck, as they had a score of times before. the investment was doubtless a good one. they were satisfied with themselves for a while, at least, and when happiness can be had for a penny, why should any one be miserable? the men were hiring donkeys, saddled and bridled, for the boys and girls to ride. to ride a donkey a certain fixed distance costs a penny, and among english children it is famous fun. and as the gipsy owner lives out of doors and steals all his food and the subsistence of his animals, and the animals themselves, it was great fun for him. albeit, as he steals everything he uses and always proposes to, and never intends to reform and start a bank, i don't see what he wants of pennies. were they philosophical they wouldn't let donkeys, but would lie down in the shade till hunger compelled them to steal something to eat, and enjoy themselves all the time. [sidenote: betting.] as i said the races on this course are fairly conducted, and the best horse, or the best jockey, actually wins. but there is as much rascality here as on an american course, and i can't say more than that. under the grand stand is the "betting ring," in which the book-makers stand. these are flashy gentlemen, with tall hats of painful newness, and diamonds of unearthly size and luster, which gives one a comforting assurance of solvency. these men take bets at the market rates. thus, the betting that morning was three to one on "peregrine." now in america the betting ring is under the control of the association owning the track; but it is not so here, as any number of americans discovered. they had faith in "iroquois," and "laid" their money on him freely. one gentleman of my acquaintance deposited ninety pounds sterling with a book-maker, and was consequently entitled to two hundred and seventy pounds sterling, as his horse won. in great glee he hied himself to the ring, after the race, to collect his winnings. he hied himself back to the carriage sadly. had "peregrine" won the race the book-maker would, unquestionably, have been there and received the gentleman smilingly; but as "iroquois" won, he folded his tent, like the arab, and as silently stole away. none of them were to be found. smarting under the sense of wrong, the american told his story to the party on the way home, and he was pitied or laughed at, according to the temper of his listener, quite a number laughing at more than pitying him. one gentleman laughed at him fearfully, but before we had got half way home, he broke out with "d--n the swindling scoundrel." [illustration: the betting ring.] "to what swindling scoundrel do you refer?" "that blank, blank, swindling devil of a book-maker!" "oh! oh! you were taken in, were you?" joyously exclaimed victim no. . "of course, i was, thirty pounds sterling!" "and you were laughing at me." and then one after another confessed to have been bitten the same way, and upon getting all the confessions in, it was discovered that one carriage had deposited to the credit of a set of london sharks three hundred pounds sterling, or fifteen hundred dollars. i lost nothing, for i do not bet upon horses now, for reasons stated at the beginning of this epistle, which shows that perfect safety is only found in complete virtue. [illustration: "d--n the swindling scoundrel."] [sidenote: on the way home.] one peculiarity of the event was the absence of fighting. during the entire day i did not see a fight or anything that approached it. gather three hundred thousand people together in one field in america, and fill them with our whisky, or even beer, and there would be processions of broken heads, and funerals in plenty the next day. there is no question as to the englishman's fighting qualities, but he does not fight on his holidays. there were "d--n his eyes," in plenty, and any quantity of talk, but no actual combats, except the boxing matches, and they were all in good humor. why? i can't tell. possibly it is because the beer they drink tends to peace, and possibly it is because they find vent for their combativeness in whipping their wives at home. but they don't fight on race courses. the mass commenced melting away at about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the grounds were entirely deserted, except by the showmen and those who have money to make during the entire racing season. they live in their tents. the scene on the road back was slightly different from the morning. the people on the way out started to get drunk, and a vast majority succeeded. the road was lined with prostrate forms of men and women. the english women of the lower order drink as much as their husbands and brothers. you see them in the public houses standing at the bars with their husbands or lovers, pouring down huge measures of beer, and it is a toss which can drink the most, or which enjoys it the most keenly. it is certain that the woman gets drunk with more facility than the man, she being the weaker, if not the smaller vessel. and understand, these women are not disreputable; they are hard working wives and daughters of respectable laboring people, mechanics and the like. it is their notion of a day's pleasure. possibly they are not to be blamed. the life of a london workingman or woman is not a pleasant one; their pay is very small, and beer is very cheap, and for the time they are happy. but the next morning! dickens and all other english writers, have given most charming descriptions of the delights of a night's drinking, but why, oh why, have none of them ever described the repentance of the next morning? that would have done the world some good. and so we rode on through masses of people, two-thirds of them at that stage of intoxication where the idea of enjoyment is noise and horse-play, shouting, cheering, singing, yelling, waving handkerchiefs, and all without the faintest idea of the object of either, till we struck the lights of the city. then the masses separated, and we finally reached our homes, tired, half-pleased and half-disgusted. the derby was over. no american, unless he be a sporting man, ever goes to the derby twice. it is necessary to go once to see it, but once is quite enough. it is a sight to see three hundred thousand people in one mass, but it is not a pleasant thing to realize the fact that two-thirds or more of the number are under the influence of liquor, and that they did it deliberately, and went there with no other idea. it rather lessens one's confidence in the future of the race, and leads one to the increasing of his donations to the home missionary societies. but it has always been so in england, and probably always will be. and then if the english workingman didn't get drunk at the derby he doubtless would find some other place for it, and as he gets a day's pure air and sunshine, it is perhaps, as well. if any good can be drawn from it, let us hunt it persistently. [illustration: egyptian room, british museum.] chapter iv. what the londoners quench their thirst with. speaking within bounds, i should say that one-half of england is engaged in manufacturing beer for the other half. possibly it takes two-thirds of the entire population to make beer enough for the other third, but i think an equal division would be about the thing. the british public is very drouthy. one is astounded at the amount of drinking that is done here. go where you will, turn whichever way you choose, the inevitable "public," or the "pub" as they say between drinks, stares you in the face. and on the streets almost every other vehicle you see is a vast, massive, clumsy truck, loaded either with full kegs for the publics, or taking away empty ones. the british public house is not the same thing as the american. except in a few instances you see none of the glass and mahogany palaces of new york, you see none of the flashy bars with plate glass, silver rails, elegant glass-ware, and the gorgeous bar-tender with diamonds as large as hickory nuts. the london public house is a dingy affair, the dingier the better, with barrels piled upon barrels, and cob-webs as plenty as liquor. there is a wild superstition prevalent that age has something to do with the quality of liquor, and therefore, every place devoted to the sale or handling of the stuff, assumes as much of a methuselean appearance as possible. you are to have a party of friends at your lodgings, we will say. you must have at least two kinds of liquor to entertain them withal, for no englishman does anything without moistening his clay, and his clay is of a variety that absorbs a great deal of moisture. you pay for it and the man sends home the bottles. now an american liquor dealer would carefully wipe the bottles, and they would be delivered at your house as clean and tidy as a laundried shirt, but not so here. they are sent with dust on them, and with cobwebs on them, and to brush off the dust would be sacrilege. that dust is a sort of patent--a testimonial to its age, and consequently a guarantee of its excellence. i mortally offended one liquor dealer by asking him to show me his machine for dusting bottles, and also would he kindly explain to me his process for cob-webbing them, and was it expensive to keep spiders? the man actually resented it--was angry about it. singular how sensitive the islanders can be about trifles like that! to keep spiders for the manufacture of cobwebs would be more enterprising than to buy cobwebs, and no american would dust bottles by hand, when a very simple machine could be devised for the purpose. the british landlord don't set the bottle before his customer as his brother does in free and enlightened america. now at home,--as i have been told by those who frequent bar-rooms--the barkeeper sets before his customer a bottle of the liquor he prefers, and the drouthy man helps himself to such quantity as he deems sufficient for the purpose desired. if he is fixing himself for a common riot, he takes a certain quantity; if for a murder, more or less, according to how aggravated the crime is to be. a man would take more to fit himself to kill his wife than he would for his mother-in-law, and the wife-killing draught is at the same price as the mother-in-law annihilator. but over here the bar-maid measures your liquor. you may have three penn'orth, four penn'orth or six penn'orth. it is measured out to you and handed to you, and you swallow it and go away. i remonstrated with one proprietor as to the absurdity of the custom, and the meanness of it. [sidenote: the reason why] "i will show you the reason for it," he said, quietly. just then a bold briton came in and the landlord directed the maid behind the bar to set down a bottle. the astonished customer was invited to help himself, after the american custom. he _was_ an astonished briton, but he managed to express his gratification at the innovation. seizing the bottle he poured out an ordinary dinner tumbler full, and, looking grieved because the glass was no larger, drank it off without a wink. [illustration: a bold briton trying the american custom.] i could easily see why the british landlord measures the liquor to the british public. two such customers on the american plan would bankrupt a very opulent proprietor. the quality of liquor used by the better classes is perhaps a trifle better than that consumed in america, at least so i have been informed by those who use liquors. a vast quantity of brandy is imported from france, and it is so cheap there that it doubtless approximates to purity. the whiskies drank are entirely scotch and irish, the english making none whatever. wines are consumed in great quantities, and there is no question as to the purity of the cheaper grades, which is to say they are undoubtedly the pure juice of the grape. the duty on wines is so small that there is no inducement, as in america, for the manufacture of bogus varieties. but the liquors consumed in london by the lower classes are probably the most execrable and vile that the ingenuity of the haters of mankind ever invented. the brandy they drink is liquid lightning--chain lightning--which goes crashing through the system, breaking down and destroying every pulsation towards anything good. the gin--well, their gin is the very acme, the absolute summit, of vileness. there is a quarrel in every gill of it, a wife-beating in every pint, and a murder in every quart. a smell of a glass of it nearly drove me to criminal recklessness. [illustration: a london gin drinking woman.] and yet they all drink it, and especially the women. the most disgusting sight the world can produce is a london gin drinking woman standing at a bar, waiting feverishly for her "drain," with unkempt hair, a small but intensely dirty shawl, with stockingless feet, and shoes down at the heel, with eyes rheumy and watery, that twinkle with gin light out from the obscurity of gin-swelled flesh, with a face on which the scorching fingers of a depraved appetite have set red lines, as ineffaceable as though they had been placed there by red-hot iron, every one of which is the unavailing protest of a long-outraged stomach. [sidenote: the general booze.] there she stands, a blotch upon the face of nature and a satire upon womanhood. it is difficult to realize that this bloated mass was once a fair young girl, and had a mother who loved her, and it is equally difficult to comprehend how any power, even that of nature, could ever make use of it. but the elements are kindly to man. when they have done their work, sweet flowers may grow out of this putridity. in america this sort of being exists, but it is herded somewhere out of sight. it does not stand at the bars in the best streets to offend the eyes of decent people. but it is everywhere here. it is in the strand and on piccadilly and regent street. the average englishman of the lower, and even the middle classes, dearly loves to booze. drunkenness is not the result either of conviviality or desperation as it is in other countries. it is the one thing longed for and set deliberately about. [illustration: the poor man is sick.] rare john leech, illustrated it in his picture in _punch_, years ago. a man was lying very drunk at the foot of a lamp-post. a benevolent old lady of the exeter hall school seeing him, called a cabman. "the poor man is sick," quoth the kindly dame, "why don't you help him?" "sick, is he," replied cabby, "sick! don't i vish i 'ad just 'arf of vot ails him?" the cabby spoke the honest sentiment of his heart. the londoner of his class loves it for the effect it has upon him, and as he accomplishes his design with english gin, he carries with him a breath that suggests the tomb of a not very ancient king, a breath which has a density, a center, as one might say. [illustration: "that nigger is mine, and worth fifteen hundred dollars."] [sidenote: the kind of liquor.] at twelve o'clock, saturday night, he would fight a rattlesnake and give the snake the first bite. were a venomous snake to bite such an englishman the man would never know it, for alcohol is a sure cure for reptilian poison, but the poor snake would wriggle faintly away to some secluded spot and die sadly. this is why, i presume, i have seen no rattlesnakes in london; they cannot safely prosecute the business for which they were created. they are similarly worried, i believe, in west virginia. to drink this vile stuff successfully one would want his stomach glass-lined and backed up with fire-brick. i never would attempt it except as the man did in kentucky. he walked into a bar, and distrusting the quality of the whisky, called up a negro and gave him a glass before drinking his own. the landlord, divining his purpose, knocked the glass out of the negro's hand. "no you don't!" said the boniface, "that nigger is mine, and worth fifteen hundred dollars. get an irishman to try it on." and while i am about it i may say that alcoholization is not confined to the lower order by any means. almost every body drinks something beside water. the tradesman who can afford it has claret at his table, and during the day his "drains" of brandy are very frequent. the gentry and nobility drink more costly wines and better brandy, but liquor is everywhere. nothing is done without the accompanying drink; it is universal and in all places. the climate prevents the injury that would visit the same man in america, but it hurts. if the english could only live as temperately as the americans they would be the greatest race of people on earth. the exclusiveness of the english is manifest in their vices as in their virtues. every bar is divided in the front by partitions, one for each class. over the one designated as "the private bar," you get precisely the same liquors as at the others, but you pay more for it, because laborers and the like are not admitted. one compartment exacts four pence, the next three pence, and the last and lowest two pence. but all are served out of the same wood. but very few men are employed behind english bars, women filling those places. the london bar-maid is an institution to be studied. to begin with she must be pretty, for being pretty is a part of her qualifications. as her feet cannot be seen, owing to her standing behind the bar, she _is_ generally pretty. then they are required to dress well, and all in one establishment dress their hair alike. in one place the maids part their hair on one side, in another on the other, and in a third in the middle. they are alike in each shop. they are required to make themselves pleasant to customers, for each one is expected to influence an amount of trade to the house. they are exceedingly free and easy damsels, without being positively indelicate, and there isn't a cabman in the city who is so much a master of chaff as they are. they will wink and leer at you in the most free way possible, they will talk to the very verge of indelicacy if they think it will please you, and if they form another judgment of your tastes they will be as sedate as priests. these bar-maids were all born a great while ago, and have improved all their time. they are not only expected to be pretty, but they must have the power of extracting drinks for themselves from the young or old fellows who delight to chaff with them. if the young fellow who is enjoying the delight of her conversation is not sufficiently prompt, the warning eye of the landlord or landlady intimates that she has wasted enough time upon him, and she simply asks him, when he has ordered a drink for himself, if he won't treat her, and he always does. per consequence by eleven at night the gentle maids are in a condition highly satisfactory to the house, for their drunkenness represents so much money in his till. he who serves the british public with drink would utilize the very soul of an employe to make money, man or woman. as a rule the wife of the landlord of a popular drinking place takes personal charge of the bar, and she is a thousand times more cruel and grasping than her husband. when a woman does unsex herself, she can give a man points in wickedness that he never dreamed of. these wives are as eager to have liquor paid for for themselves as bar-maids, and the sharp eye they keep upon the girls to see that they swallow enough to make the business profitable is something wonderful. they are invariably dressed very richly, with elaborate coiffures, and sparkling with diamonds. as the british young man prefers blonde hair to any other, the landladies are mostly of that persuasion. if they were born brunettes there are arts by which they can be changed, and besides wigs are very cheap in this country. [sidenote: the edibles on the bars.] the british woman drinks as much as the british man, and possibly more. i am not speaking of the low, degraded woman, but of the respectability. it is nothing singular to see women, respectable women, sitting in bars with their husbands and lovers, and the amount of stout and "brandy cold," they make away with is something wonderful. i was through the wonderful park at richmond the other day. it was a holiday, and all london was out of the city in the parks. all the little roadside inns were filled with the populace, women and children being largely in the majority; and there was never a woman, no matter if she had a child at the breast, who did not have a monster pot of pewter filled either with porter or ale. and they gave it to their little children as freely as an american mother would milk. the drinking house in london is, as a rule, especially for drinking. there are no free lunches, no nibbling bits, free on any bar. nothing but liquids are sold. an american speculator conceived the brilliant idea of starting a bar with the addition of the american free lunch, with which to attract trade. it did attract altogether too much. in twenty minutes the lunch, which should have lasted all day, was gone, and the british public was indignant that it was not renewed. they pronounced the proprietor a swindle, and the speculation was a disastrous failure. at some of the bars an attempt is made to take the curse off the liquor traffic by making some pretence of selling eatables. but the british public knows this is a sham, and resents it by never buying any comestibles at the counter. the british public scorns eating in such a place, and insists upon drinks. indeed, the british public won't eat at all as long as it can drink. what they generally have in these places under glass covers, are curiously indigestible meat pies, sandwiches, cheese, cakes and buns. sometimes at railway stations a hungry briton buys and partakes of these things, but not often, and never without his glass of something to wash it down. this is the time i forgive him for drinking. it is necessary. the sandwich is made either of ham or beef, and may be said to be the universal cold refreshment. it is about four inches long by two wide, and is a miracle of thinness. it is the thinnest thing on earth. i have often purchased them, not to eat, but to admire this quality. how bread and meat can be cut so thin, especially bread, is one of the mysteries that never will be solved till i penetrate a public kitchen and see the operation. it is an art i suppose, and the professor of it gets, i presume, a very high salary. he ought to. the bread is stringy enough and the meat tough enough to be cut as thin as might be desired, but the puzzle is how any one can acquire the skill to cut it, that way. but they do it. the english sandwich is more an object of interest to me than the obelisk, and is just about as digestible. i would as soon undertake to eat the one as the other. the meat pie is made of hashed beef, the fat being put in liberally, enclosed in a wrapper of dough, and all baked together, in some sort of way. i could procure and write out the process, but being a true american and loving the american people i will not. it is utterly indigestible. i ate one at eleven p.m. one night, and woke up in the morning feeling as though i had swallowed the plaster bust of the infant samuel at prayer that stood on my mantel. the pie is a trifle worse than the sandwich. the cheese cake may be dismissed with the simple remark that it is a trifle worse than the meat pie. the bun is a stand-off as to the others. altogether they make a frightful stomachic quartet. but the british public, who know nothing of our hash and other luxuries, are content with them, and i don't know as i shall undertake to reform them in this particular. i pity them, but there are so many things to reform here that i shall not attempt any movement in that direction. life is very short. [sidenote: tobacco.] the englishman takes his liquor straight, or neat, as they call it. mixed drinks are entirely unknown. the sherry cobbler, the mint julep, the fragrant cock-tail, are never heard of in regular english bars, but the drouthy man who drinks, and they all do, takes either brandy or scotch or irish whisky, raw from a barrel, and swallows his portion and walks away satisfied. one woman in a famous drinking place was taught by an american to make cock-tails, and the fame of the mixture drew all the americans to this particular place. the proprietor was sore displeased at this trade, and raised the price two pence above what was regular, to keep it away. it took too much of the girl's time to compound the mixture. drinking does not have the effect upon an englishman that it does upon an american. the englishman is a more stolid and phlegmatic man anyhow, and the climate is less exciting. there is not the exhilaration in the atmosphere that there is in america, and the moist humidity that you exist in is very favorable to the consumption of alcoholic drinks. i had got so before i had been here a week, that i think i could have endured a glass of brandy and water. i did not do it, but i say i could have done it. the prices of liquors average quite as high as in america, and tobacco and everything made of it, is much higher and the quality is vile. a decent cigar, or one counted decent here, costs twenty-five cents, it being of the grade that in new york sells for ten cents. no tobacco is chewed except by sailors, and the englishman, very properly, considers it a disgusting habit, only to be practiced by very low people. in consequence of the high price of tobacco, pipes and cigarettes are very generally used. the englishman of the better class smokes his pipe upon the street, the same as an american does his cigar. he prefers a pipe to a cigar, possibly because it is better, and possibly because it is cheaper. your englishman loves dearly to get the value of his money, and he generally does it. the lover of drink in america, especially our german fellow citizens, are emphatic in their denunciation of the liquor laws of the united states. they ought to live in england a little while to appreciate the privileges they have at home. hartford, connecticut, is, i believe, a paradise to those who live there. one old lady who was born and had always lived in hartford, came to die--an impertinence of nature, as all hartford people firmly believe. people should die in other places, but not in hartford. but this old lady had come to death, and her minister was consoling her. "i trust, mrs. thompson," he said, professionally, "that you are prepared to die?" "i am," was her answer; "i owe no pew rent." "and are you content with the change?" "well, on the whole, yes. heaven is no doubt a very nice place, but i shall greatly miss my hartford privileges." there is no especial moral to this story, except that if our german population were compelled to endure english law they would greatly miss their american privileges. while you can get all the drink you want during the day, you must either have it at home or go without it after twelve o'clock at night. in london no liquor can be procured after twelve o'clock at night. every bar, big or little, is closed, and this law is not evaded, for the risk is too great. a man's license would be taken from him immediately, and without remedy. persons are not licensed to sell liquor in england--it is the premises that are licensed. the board having it in charge license one public house in a district, basing it upon the supposed necessity, and these premises hold this license till deprived of it by violation of law. if you desire to sell liquor you cannot go and rent a room and open your bar; you are compelled to buy the lease of a place which carries the license with it. consequently a licensed place is a valuable piece of property. one at the corner of st. martin's street and orange, a dingy building in a dingy neighborhood, was bought by an american to be used as an american bar, and he paid twenty-five thousand dollars bonus for the lease. the annual rental of the place is fifteen hundred dollars, and the lease for which he paid the bonus has forty-five years to run. for any other business the bonus would have been next to nothing in that neighborhood. [sidenote: early closing.] sunday is an especially drouthy day in london. all the bars are closed till one o'clock p.m., and are then open but an hour. then they are closed till six, and are permitted to keep open from that hour till eleven. and let it be remembered that law in england is law. you cannot laugh at it as you do in america. there is no evasion of this law attempted. the publics are required to be closed and they are closed. there are no side-doors, as in new york--there is no selling on the sly--they are closed. the only exception is at the railroad stations. the refreshment bars there are permitted to be kept open as long as trains arrive or depart, for the british government recognizes the necessity of an englishman having his grog till the prescribed hour for his getting into his bed. the thirsty soul who pants for beer after twelve goes to charing cross station, and buys a ticket to the first station out, which is "tuppence ha'penny," or five cents. then he walks into the bar, and being a "traveler," can buy, drink and pay for all the stimulants he desires, till the last train has arrived or departed for the night. his ticket he puts into his pocket, to be used when he desires. the night trade in liquor is something enormous. a landlord in the haymarket, whose lease is about expiring, is now paying one thousand dollars a year rent, and the proprietors have notified him that his renewal will cost him just five times that sum. he told me that he should not renew, but that he would gladly if he were allowed to keep open till half-past twelve, a half hour after the regular time. that half hour each day would more than make the difference in rent. a walk along piccadilly after twelve explains this difference. the street, from end to end, is crowded with prostitutes, and drunken rakes who think they are having a good time, but they are not. they walk up and down, chaffing with these poor unfortunates. they take them into the publics, and pay for their drinks, all of which the landlord not only approves of but encourages. and the english prostitute can drink as heartily and just as long as any man alive. she has just as drouthy a system, and it takes just as much to fill it. and there they sit, and chaff, and booze, till the clock strikes twelve and the place is closed. the landlord turns off the gas and puts up his shutters, cursing the law that compels him to close just as his harvest begins. as there are literally tens of thousands of these women walking the street, and as ninety per cent of them are drunk at ten, with a carrying capacity of continuing to drink every minute as long as anybody will pay for it, and as there is an equal number of men prowling the streets whose highest idea of amusement is to pay for it, the importance of an extra half hour after midnight may be appreciated. but it is of no use. law is law in england, and whether the citizen likes it or not, he is compelled to obey it in letter and spirit. were a public house to be open a minute after the hour, a policeman would walk in and close it for him, and the next day the nearest magistrate would revoke his license, and he could never get one again. no proprietor would rent him a place, for the license is too valuable to be risked by a violator of law. there are a few bars in london that make a specialty of american drinks, which are very curious. the names they palm off as american are very funny to an american, because they are never heard of over there. none of my readers ever go into bars, except for curiosity, but just imagine this list of drinks: "copper-cooler," "pick-me-up," "our swizzle," "maiden's blush," "bosom-caresser," "corpse-reviver," "flash-of-lightning," and so on. and these names are actually believed by englishmen to be genuinely american, and in common use in the states. ice is about the scarcest thing in england, and cannot be had at the majority of bars. at some of the very best it will be furnished, if very forcibly asked for, but then in too small quantities to be satisfactory to an american, who is accustomed to taking his drinks ice cold. the frozen reminiscence of winter is rather expensive here, and, besides that, the englishman very rightly considers it unhealthy. the water is drank in its natural temperature, and it is really wonderful how soon one becomes accustomed to it. the prices of strong beverages run about the same as in the united states. brandy is three pence, six cents of our bird of freedom money, and when the amount is considered, your three pence buys about the same as twelve and one-half cents in new york. malt liquors are about the same. the glass is a trifle smaller, and the regular price at the small publics is two pence, an equivalent, quantity considered, of five cents. the quality of malt liquors is a long way below the american article, and america, singular as it may seem, drinks better english ale than the englishman does. the ale made here for home consumption is vile stuff, while that made for export is infinitely better. the englishman eats what he cannot sell. to get at these facts concerning drinking has cost me an inconceivable amount of wear and tear of feeling, which sacrifice i trust my readers will appreciate. chapter v. how london is amused. to pass from rum to amusement is a very easy and natural transition, for unfortunately the people who drink are, as a rule, those who need and will have amusement. having done with liquor forever, i am glad to get to a subject not quite so disagreeable. london supports forty theaters proper; that is, forty theaters devoted entirely to dramatic or operatic representations, and several hundred places of amusement of all kinds, which may be classed as variety shows. the regular theaters are a long way beyond those in america. i dislike to acknowledge this, but candor and fairness compels it. i cannot tell a lie, even for national pride. my hatchet is bright--it has never been used much. the london theaters will not compare with those of any of the large american cities in point of size, or convenience of access. they are generally situated in out of the way places, and the halls and entrances are as shabby as anything can be, but when you are once in nothing can be more delightful. there is a softness in the appointments, a perfection in the furnishing, a good taste generally that america has not. we are splendid, but it must be confessed, rather garish and loud. the character of the performances excels the style of the theaters. their pieces are put upon the stage with an attention to detail, and with a strength of cast which we at home never see, even in the best. [sidenote: the london theaters.] i witnessed a piece at the st. james, the time of which was the first charles. in a drawing-room scene musical instruments [illustration: st. thomas hospital and houses of parliament.] were necessary. in america it would have been nothing singular had a chickering piano been used, and a parlor set in reps. imagine the delight of seeing a drawing-room furnished with furniture of the period, with an old harpsichord, such as the ladies of the time used, with the ancient zittern, and the gorgeous harp, with the chairs and couches precisely as they were in the country house of the time. the costumes were not mere guess work--they were designed and constructed by a professional costumer, who made studies from pictures, and put upon the stage men and women of king charles' day. this was a delight, in and of itself, that paid one for his time and expenditure, even if he cared nothing for the play. and then the acting. if there is any one thing in the way of amusements that is utterly and fiendishly detestable, it is the acting of the usual child. the mother or father who trains the ten year old phenomenon to play children's parts, takes it as far away from childhood as he can possibly, and the child does not play a child at all. he does, or tries to do, _hamlet_, in children's clothes. but nothing of the sort is permitted in london. the child plays the child, and does it as it should be done. it was a comfort to see two children on the floor in one scene, playing at the game of "see-saw, margery daw," and doing it exactly as children would do in real life, instead of mouthing the lines like an old-style actor in "macbeth." and all the way down there was the same perfection in the acting as in the setting of the piece. there was not one star and twenty "sticks," as is the rule over the water, but the servant who merely said, "my lord, the carriage waits," did that bit just as well as the hero or heroine of the piece. the englishman is a very thorough sort of a man, and wants what he has done well, according to his notion of what well is. the places of amusement, other than the regular theaters, are of as great variety as they are vast in number. the prevailing attraction is, of course, the regular variety theater, which does not differ materially from its brother in america. it is singular that the stock attraction at the variety theater is the negro minstrel act. minstrelsy originated in america forty years ago, but it has as firm a hold upon england as it has upon america, and a trifle firmer. no programme is complete without it, and no part of the performances are so heartily enjoyed. but their minstrelsy would drive an american negro crazy. it is sufficient for a london audience to have a performer black his face and hands, and put on a long-tailed coat, and striped trowsers, and sing negro songs. the rich, mellow accent of the american african, the rollicking humor, the funny grotesqueness, all that is wanting. at any music hall you shall hear the songs popular in america sung by a cockney with all the cockney peculiarities of speech, even to the misplacing of the h's. the leg business is even more common and more indecent than in america, and variety performance is more highly flavored generally. magic and athletic performances are greatly in favor, albeit fine vocalism and instrumental performance of a very high character must be interspersed. these variety performances are attended by all classes. the respectable mechanic and his family, the professional man and his family, the thief, pickpocket, and prostitute, are all mingled in one common mass, the only division being the prices in different parts of the house. and here, as everywhere, drinking goes on incessantly and forever. waiters move about through the audience, taking orders for beverages, and men and women drink and guzzle, and men smoke during the entire performance. no matter what else stops, the flow of beer never does. it is very like time in this particular, constantly moving. the life of a variety actor is a very busy one after eight at night. if he has any popularity at all he has engagements at three and even four theaters. he sings one song and responds to three _encores_, then throwing himself into a cab he is driven to another and to another, the time of his appearance at each being fixed to a minute. [sidenote: an english idea of a good time.] singular as it may seem, the wretches who sing the most idiotic songs, of the "champagne charley" kind, compositions so utterly and entirely stupid that one wonders that any audience would endure them for a minute, are the most popular. they sing them in extravagant evening costumes, in the most doleful and melancholy way, and call themselves "comiques." one of them, probably the nearest approach to an idiot of any man on the english stage, makes from two hundred to three hundred dollars a week, and is in demand all the time. [illustration: interior of a variety hall.] but they have a good time at these theaters. to hear a woman sing a slang song dressed--or rather undressed--is not calculated to inflict much wear and tear upon the mind, and as all the performances are of the alleged humorous order there is abundant room for chaff and talk of like cheerful nature, which is further aided and promoted by the consumption of beer. the parties seem to enjoy it, and i presume they do. the low londoner has very brutal tastes. his greatest delight is a prize fight; a dog fight comes next in his estimation; a rat pit is satisfactory in default of anything more bloody; a cock-fight will answer as an appetizer; and a horse race is pleasing, though that shades up into something too near respectability for him. a dog fight in london is a sight that is worth seeing just once, if studies of _in_human nature are what you want. the arena is always behind a "sporting public," on whose tables in the parlor you shall always find the flash and sporting papers of the metropolis, and the walls of which are decorated with engravings of prize fights, portraits of famous dogs, and highly colored lithographs of noted horse encounters. gathered around the arena will be a hundred or more of "the fancy," who were to me anything but fancy. they are the broad-jawed, soap-locked, sturdy brutes, of the bill sykes type, beer-bloated and gin-inflamed, who subsist by practices which, if not absolutely criminal, come as close to it as possible. the dogs are of the english bull variety, those plucky, tenacious brutes who will die rather than yield, or even make any manifestation of pain. at the signal the brute dogs are let loose upon each other, the human dogs about expressing the keenest possible delight at any especial and exceedingly bloody performance. the highest pleasure is attained, and the wildest enthusiasm is evoked, when one dog gets the shoulder or jaw of the other in his iron jaws, and holds it there, while the other literally eats him up. then wagers are laid as to which will hold out the longest, and every movement is watched with the keenest solicitude, and when the bloody drama ends in the death of one or both, and the wagers are settled, the conversation flows naturally into a dog channel, and the victories and defeats of past years are discussed, much as soldiers discuss their achievements. [sidenote: punch and judy.] dogs of this breed, of approved courage and strength, are of great value, and large sums of money are hazarded upon their performances. the aristocratic dog fanciers can have a private match made for them at any time for from one to five pounds. of course there are any quantity of aquariums and menageries, and institutions of a supposed usefully scientific nature, which are largely attended, but the variety theater, or music hall, as it is called, is the stock amusement of the londoner. he can drink to better advantage in them than anywhere else, and that, after all, is the principal business of his life. the street amusements are beyond any possibility of enumeration or description. you will not walk a dozen blocks without seeing the very absurd and very brutal punch and judy, which has delighted england for centuries, and seems to be immortal. one would naturally suppose that when a boy had laughed at two wooden figures manipulated by a man inside of a box, knocking each other on the head, with squeaks and idiotic dialogue, every day up to his twenty-first year, would naturally pass it by ever afterward, but it is not so. i have seen venerable men, who were doubtless bank presidents or clergymen, or something of the eminently respectable kind, stop in front of a punch and judy show, and laugh as heartily at the ancient performance as they did when they were boys in roundabouts. and they would stand out the performance, and at its conclusion give the performer their two pence, and go away as if they had been amused. there never has been any change in punch and judy from the time it was brought to england from italy. the fun is now, as then, in punch knocking judy on the head with his stick, and the shrieks of judy with an expression on her face of enjoyment. that is all there is of it, and all there ever has been. and singular as it may seem, it is the first amusement of an english boy, and it delights him till he dies. he enjoyed it at eight, and just the same at eighty. no doubt he has a vague idea that he will find a punch and judy show in heaven when he reaches it. but punch and judy shows are not all the amusements of the great city. garden hose not being common, owing to the fewness of gardens and the limited use of water, the hand organ flourishes in all its native ferocity, the grinders being, as over the water, italian noblemen with their wives. and they are just as dirty and grimy here as there. the mixed brass and string banditti perambulate the streets making the day and early night hideous, and in the side streets where the policeman is infrequent the street juggler plies his vocation. [illustration: the magic purse.] [sidenote: musical nuisances.] one, for instance, has a common purse with four shillings. he places the four shillings in the purse, the country yokel sees them placed therein, and he chinks the purse. so far as the countrymen's eyes and ears go there can be no doubt as to the fact of the four shillings being in the purse. then the fakir offers to sell the purse to the countryman for sixpence, which, were the shillings actually inside, would certainly be a bargain. the countryman pays the sixpence, and straightway opens the purse, but he does not find the sixpence therein. it is as empty as his head. he finds that he has paid sixpence for a purse dear at a penny, and he retires amid the jeers of the populace. as the clever juggler only finds a few victims each day, and as from each he makes only ten cents, i don't see how he expects to ever retire from business and live upon his hard earned capital. the skill, knowledge of human nature, and hard work necessary to the successful prosecution of this little swindle would make him rich, with half the wear and tear. but such men would rather work a day to swindle somebody out of sixpence than to earn a dollar by honest work in a quarter of the time. that is why i shall never go into the business of juggling with four shillings and a penny purse. it is disreputable, and then it doesn't pay. couples of negro minstrels are a common sight on the streets, one armed with a banjo, and another with a concertina, that he plays with an atrocious disregard of time and tune, which under a despotism would consign him to a block. they roam from house to house and play, as they call it. the helpless family, worried to the very verge of madness, throw them sixpence, and they move on. they stand and play till they get their sixpence. the race is not as it was in jem bagg's day. he played the clarionet. "ven the man tosses me a sixpence," was his remark, and says 'now, my good man, move hon,' i gently says to him, says i, 'i never moves hon for a sixpence. i knows the vally of peace and quietness too much for that, and then, hif 'e doesn't throw me another sixpence, i tips him my corkscrew hovertoor, and that halways fetches 'im.'" in this degenerate day either the street musicians have forgotten their "corkscrew overtoors," or they are satisfied with less money. a sixpence moves them on now certainly, but woe be to you if you are short the sixpence. next door to me lives a deaf man who is a bachelor. it is his delight to have the musicians come to this house. he sits in the doorway, and they play and play, and he assumes an ecstatic expression, and they wonder why he doesn't order them to "move on," but he doesn't. it amuses him, and they play, till, lost in amazement at his powerful endurance, they put up their instruments sadly and move on of their own accord. i get very little amusement out of him now. the majority of the fiends have found him out. [illustration: the man who was music proof.] chapter vi. madame tussaud. one of the stock sights in london which every foreigner as well as every man, woman and child from the country who goes to london, does with great regularity, is madame tussaud's museum. it is known the world over and is as regular a thing to see as the tower. a great many years ago, some time since the flood, a swiss woman named tussaud, who had studied art in paris, took the brilliant notion into her wise head that money was better than fame, and instead of spoiling marble she commenced doing some very good things in wax. she brought her figures to london and opened a museum, which she added to and enlarged as men and women became of sufficient interest to attract attention, until she got pretty much everybody of whom the world ever heard. she died many years ago, but the collection was continued by her family, three generations of which have waxed rich and gone to join those whom they put so well in wax in life. this wonderful museum, which actually deserves all the attention it gets, is filled with really excellent figures of the entire line of english kings, dressed in the costumes of the period in which they lived, including arms, although court dresses generally adorn them. as the tussaud family were, and are, artists, these figures are not the limp, misshapen, grinning effigies usually exhibited, but are in size, stature, color and general grouping, perfect. i cannot say that the effigies of king edward and richard, and those other ancient marauders, are correct, for i never saw them in life. they died many years ago. but all you have to do is what dicken's marchioness did with the orange peel wine: "make believe very hard," and they will do. the faces were modeled from portraits, and their dresses were made from actual costumes preserved in the curious repositories of which london is full. the visitor gets some notion of what the subjects were like, and that ought to be and is satisfactory. [illustration: madame tussaud.] [sidenote: american worthies.] you see, standing or sitting, marvelous likenesses of all the great soldiers and statesmen of england, but heavens! how our poor americans have been abused! washington is about as like our washington as he is like an ohio river coal-boat captain. ex-president grant has good cause for action for libel, for such a face as they have put upon him could not have been on a third corporal of the poorest company in the very worst north carolina regiment, and president hayes and garfield have been similarly treated. that of franklin is a tolerable likeness of the maker of infernal maxims, but there was a malicious design evident on the part of the artists to dwarf the americans, as i fancy there was to enlarge and exaggerate the englishmen. the groups are something wonderful. the lying-in-state of the czar, a recent addition, is a miracle of naturalness and awful beauty, as is the death of pope pius; and they are so natural that one cannot help feeling that he is in the presence of actual death, and not a counterfeit presentment. [illustration: wax figures of americans.] the museum contains, among other curiosities that are of interest, the identical coach used by napoleon at the battle of waterloo, with a vast number of other relics of the great corsican. from the number of napoleonic relics i fancy that the madame was at heart a french woman, though she was making her money from the english. great halls are filled with correct statuary in wax of the world's great, or notorious men, all of which have to be "done," as a matter of course. but the great point, and one which no visitor ever fails to visit is the "chamber of horrors." you pay a sixpence extra--there is always sixpence extra in england--and you are introduced to the most cheerful assemblage of monsters that the world has ever produced. if there ever was a murder committed of an especially atrocious description, one done under peculiarly horrifying and terrible circumstances, here is a wax figure of the murderer, and, if possible, of the victim. there is the original guillotine which made the acquaintance of so many necks during the various french revolutions. there is the identical scaffold which was devised by a man condemned to be hung, and on which he suffered, with forty-eight others afterward, before it was retired, and there are ropes and delightful articles of that nature with which criminals have suffered, and in such numbers that we come to the conclusion that the principal business of the english and french is to kill somebody and get hung for it. the two criminals in which i took the liveliest interest were messrs. burke and hare, of edinburgh, scotland. these gentlemen had a contract with the medical university of edinburgh, to furnish the students with corpses for dissection, which they did by resurrecting them from various church-yards. mr. burke, who was evidently the leader in the enterprise, remarked one night to mr. hare,--that is, i presume he did: "why go out this dark and rainy night and dig in the damp earth for corpses? digging corpses is all wrong. if the friends of the deceased should ever discover that a corpse had been abstracted it would occasion the most profound feeling. we should have more respect for the survivors than to raise their dead, and then, in the interest of science, we should give the students fresher bodies for dissection. i am inflexibly opposed to digging any more." [sidenote: the consultation.] "but how shall we get the corpses?" asked the obtuse mr. hare. "it is far easier," replied mr. burke, "to knock a man on the head than it is to dig him up, and, in addition to the other reasons i have mentioned, a sand-bag or a club is cheaper than a spade." [illustration: "digging corpses is all wrong."] and mr. hare coinciding with mr. burke, they went out that night and killed a man, and they kept going out and killing men till thirty had disappeared. the authorities finally got upon their track, when mr. hare turned states' evidence and hung mr. burke, and he went peacefully into some other business. [illustration: the improved process of messrs. burke and hare.] it is needless to add that a careful study of the faces of the two men would not lead one to purposely encounter them in a dark alley after twelve at night. nothing earthly could be so villainous. a little incident that occurred the day i explored the museum illustrates the perfection of the modeling and draping the figures. there were in the party a gentleman and lady from pennsylvania, the former being a devotee of the alleged science of phrenology, and rather fond of discussing the subject. [sidenote: the science of phrenology.] a female figure was standing on the floor, which attracted his attention. this was in the chamber of horrors. "i want to call your attention," he said to his wife, "to this illustration of the truth of phrenology. could there be modeled a more vicious face? notice the development back of the ears, showing the head to be all animal, and the pinched forehead and the general insignificance of the front head as compared with the development of the back portion. there is murder in every line of that face. let me see who it is." "thank you," exclaimed the figure as it moved away. it was a very estimable american lady whom the phrenologist had mistaken for a wax figure. [illustration: osborn house, isle of wight.] chapter vii. the london lawyer. london is probably the most expensive place to do business in the world. its business men are conservative, so conservative that they would not for the world part their hair in any way differing from their fathers, nor would they adopt a modern convenience unless it were absolutely necessary to the maintenance of english supremacy, and they would sigh as they parted with an old nuisance for a modern delight. their professions have all got into ruts from which you can no more move them than you can the pyramids, and their practices are so established that they may and do do as they please, without regard to the notions of any body. an american resident in london bargained for a house, and the lease had to be transferred. now in any country where a common school exists almost anybody can assign a lease, but not so here. a solicitor had to be employed, and afterward a contract long enough to cover a sheet of legal paper had to be drawn up. it was a very plain matter--forty words would have been sufficient. but a solicitor must be employed nevertheless. how much do you suppose it cost mr. foote to have this trifle of work done? as a matter of instruction to the american people and for the benefit of american lawyers, who are too modest in their charges, and i am now convinced that the majority of them are, i make a partial copy of the solicitor's bill, as it is a more interesting document than anything that i can write. here it is: [sidenote: the solicitor's bill.] w. m. foote, esq., _to_ blank, blank, solicitor. _re_ star of the west. prior to yourself. clerk attending at messrs. ingram's (vendor's solicitors), for £. s. p. draft proposed contract procuring and considering and found same objectionable instructions for contract drawing same, folios twenty engrossing in two parts writing messrs. ingram with one part writing mr. challer for schedule of fixtures to answer to contract same as to appointment for monday drawing telegram and attending to forward and paid attending you, and then at messrs. ingram, engaged a considerable time going through deed and documents, etc., and settling contracts and signing writing your hereon, fully instructions for registration on title drawing same engrossing attending to deliver replying to your letter attending appointing conference engrossing papers, leases and covenants attending dr. thomson therewith fee to him and clerk paid conference fee attending conference and cab hire perusing his opinion writing you with copy dr. thomson's opinion making copy of schedule and fixtures waiting upon messrs. ingram with same perusing abstract writing with appointment to examine deeds with abstract attending examining deeds with abstract, self and clerk attending searching liquidation proceedings of arthur coleman and paid as this remarkable document extends over four and a half pages of foolscap paper i will not give it all. however, there are some other charges worthy of going upon record. for instance this item: a replying to your letter and this: attending you long conference, and you left cheque for purchase money writing you fully attending appointing conference the entire bill footed up forty-two pounds, fourteen shillings and ten pence, which, reduced to bird of freedom money amounts to about two hundred and twenty-five dollars. and all this for transferring a lease from one party to another, about which operation there couldn't be the slightest trouble, except as the two attorneys made it. doubtless the messrs. ingram and dr. thomson, whatever he had to do with it, put in a similar bill against their clients, so both sides had a very good thing of it. but this was not all there was of it. it was necessary that mr. foote should have a little article of agreement with mr. welch, his manager, not that there was any especial need for it, but as a mere matter of form, as we say when we want a sure thing on somebody. the same attorney was employed to do this, in fact he suggested it and did it before this bill was presented. [illustration: the london lawyer.] [sidenote: mr. foote's experience.] the bill for this service is precisely like the other. there are items for "attendance," for "preparing telegrams," for "waiting, self and clerk," for "instructions," and so on, the amount charged for preparing an article of agreement being eight pounds sterling. the attorney's fees for the whole of this trifling piece of business footed up exactly seventy-two pounds sterling, or three hundred and sixty dollars. "what do these items mean?" i asked mr. foote. "well, the items for attendance mean that i went to his office and told him in three minutes' time what i wanted, and he made minutes with a pencil." "the clerk?" "oh, they never go anywhere without a clerk. his business is to carry a green bag with nothing in it, and look like an umpire. all the writing of letters, for which he relentlessly charged three shillings and sixpence each, was totally unnecessary, as they related to matters of which i fully informed him at the beginning. but he was the most industrious letter writer i ever saw. and i would answer his letters like an idiot, and he charged for replying to mine, and then he would write again and charge for that, and so on. and when he couldn't decently write another letter, he would telegraph me and charge for that, and--well, if i had taken two leases i shouldn't have been through till this time." "did you pay it?" "pay it? of course i did. to have resisted would have been ruin. he would have sued me, and i should have had to have employed another attorney, and the case would have gone into the courts, after about a thousand instructions, conferences, letters, and telegrams, and clerks, and all that, from him--the same as this--and it would have dragged along, with more clerks, and letters, and telegrams, till the crack o' doom. instead of bills of four pages i should have had bills of forty, and then there would have been money to be paid on account, and bail, and the lord only knows what. a law suit in london means ruin to everybody but the lawyers and officers of the court. and in the end i should have been compelled to pay it, for the courts take care of the attorneys. and, after all, he only made the regular charges that every london lawyer does. indeed, as he omitted twice to charge three and six pence for bidding me good morning, i don't know but that he is rather liberal than otherwise. i think," said mr. foote, reflectively, "that three times he shook my hand, and i find no charge for that. on the whole, he is a tolerable fair lawyer to do business with." "tell me all about him." "he is one of say twenty thousand lawyers in london who get a case like this, occasionally. he occupies "chambers," as they call their offices, and keeps a clerk, as they all have to, to ever expect any business, as a lawyer without a clerk would have no standing. the clerk spends most of his time eating ham sandwiches, having nothing else to do, except when his employer gets a man like myself on a string, on which occasion he follows him about carrying a bag which is supposed to contain papers of great moment. my lease was all that was in that bag for a month or more. he lives well all the time, for no matter how poor he may be, or how little business he has, he must live well for the sake of appearance. finally he does get the management of a good estate, and is fixed for life. an englishman reposes confidence in his solicitor, and would no more think of disputing a charge made by him than he would of heading a rebellion. they are doubtless a very nice lot, but the less you have to do with them the better. a little of them go a long way. dispute his bill, not i. i don't want to make england a permanent residence, for i hope to get back to america some time, and a law suit would keep me here all my life, provided i had money enough to pay fees and costs. they'll hold on you as long as you've a penny." that mr. foote did not exaggerate, i know. had i supposed he had been exaggerating i should not have written this. but i copied this bill from the original, which was receipted by the attorney, who, doubtless, sighed as he wrote his name, that some mistake had not occurred which made litigation necessary. chapter viii. some notes as to the investment of english capital, and also british patent medicines. it is a very common remark that americans love to be humbugged. perhaps they do, but their english cousins can give them points in this desire. the ease with which adventurers and bogus schemers get their claws into english moneybags, is something astounding. perhaps it is because the nation has so much money that it don't know what to do with it, or possibly because the englishman is naturally credulous, but it is a fact that london is the paradise of the sharper, and the pleasant pasture for the bogus speculator. there are several reasons for it. interest is very low in england, and for the man who desires to live "like a gentleman" the temptation to increase the rate is very strong. then again there is an immense amount of capital lying idle and seeking investment, and the man who has just enough money at three per cent. to live upon very closely, is always anxious to increase his income by making it six. every man who has just money enough to drink beer, has an insatiable thirst for champagne. and the englishman who has a strong sense of mercantile honor, naturally has more faith than the inhabitant of a country where the standard of honor is lower, and men are, by habit, more cautious of believing. the papers of london are filled with prospectuses of companies organized for developing something in all parts of the world, and these prospectuses are so written that they would deceive the very elect. the principal point at the beginning is to get a board with a great many lords, dukes, esquires, and all that sort of thing, on it, the average englishman not seeming to realize that there are a good many of these gentry who are as impecunious as anybody else, and who would do a piece of roguery for enough to live upon comfortably upon the continent, as readily as the commonest sharper in the world. the baronet has a stomach to fill and a back to cover the same as the costermonger. in this, all humanity stands upon an equality. before me lies a respectable paper, its pages filled with glowing advertisements of projected companies. the first is for the "acquiring and further developing the well-known so-and-so gold mine," in venezuela. it begins with the board of directors, not one of whom is less in degree than an esquire, and several "sirs" figure in it. then comes the bankers--nothing in london is complete without a banker--then solicitors, then brokers. after this elaborate outfit, all of which looks as solvent and sound as the bank of england, comes a glowing prospectus. nothing can be finer than this prospectus. "the property proposed to be acquird consists of six hundred and fifty-nine acres, which contain the most of the noted venezuela gold mines. the vein has been traced on the surface for a distance of one thousand nine hundred feet," and so on. then comes a very complete table showing the profit that _has been_ made mining in venezuela, and after this a statement from "mr. george atwood, a. m. inst., c. e., f. g. s., etc., etc.,"--it would not be complete without all these initials, even to the etc., the etc., showing that as learned as is stated there is more behind him,--who makes a statement as to the probable profits of the enterprise, all of which are as good as anybody could desire. the estimated profits are set down at twenty per cent. on the investment. the capital wanted is two million five hundred thousand dollars, in shares of five dollars each. you are asked to pay the moderate sum of sixty-two cents on application, which is modest enough, and the balance of the five dollars you pay as the work goes on. [sidenote: air-castles.] what could be better than this? here is a man with some money bearing three per cent., and here is a proposition to give him twenty per cent. there are "honorables," and "sirs," and "esquires" on the board, and mr. atwood, f. r. s., and all the rest of it, shows that twenty per cent. has been made in venezuela. why should not the man convert some of his beggarly three per cents. into cash and take a shy at it, as wall street would say, and set up his carriage on the profits? true, he don't know one of the sirs or honorables, and atwood, f. r. s., etc., is quite as unknown to him. but then the advertisements! they cover half a page in each paper in london, and that costs an immense sum, and were there not something in it how could they make that vast expenditure? he takes it, never dreaming that the speculators who pay for these advertisements, do it for the purpose of catching just such gudgeons as he is, knowing, for they know human nature, that the modest announcements that are made for really solid investments, would not catch him at all. there are projected companies for supplying london with fish, all with boards of directors, and all promising from ten to twenty per cent. profit, not one of them with less than two million five hundred thousand dollars capital, in shares of five dollars each. now there is no city in the world so well supplied with fish as london, in fact the supply is far beyond the demand, and there is no city which has cheaper sea food. there being innumerable private firms in the business, and there being fish markets everywhere, it would be supposed that a man of fair intelligence would question the possibility of any new company being able to compete in the business profitably. but, as in the mining companies, the array of names, and the deliciously worded prospectus, are hooks that never fail to catch. it is not the fish in the sea that these fellows are after. these are only specimen bricks. there are companies for the development of iron mines, of tin mines, of copper mines, and all other kinds of mines in england, spain, algeria, india, and everywhere under the sun, companies proposing to buy vast tracts of land in iowa, minnesota, wisconsin, colorado, new mexico, and everywhere else, each with its board of noblemen, its bankers and solicitors. the american sharpers who have mines in colorado and nevada have reaped a rich harvest. the city is full of them. you shall see about the place where americans most do congregate, sharp faced fellows, dressed very seedily, whose trowsers are chewed off at the heel, and whose coats bear unmistakable evidence of having passed through the renovator's hands a great many times, and would again if their proprietors only had the one-and-nine pence necessary, or had another to wear while it was being done, the said coats buttoned very closely to the throat, so closely that a cheap scarf conceals the condition of the shirt beneath, if happily there be one, standing listlessly, as if waiting for some one who will never come. they know you to be an american at once, and one introduces himself, claiming to have seen you in the states: "what are you doing here?" is your first inquiry. "oh, i have been here a year. i came over to place a mine i own in nevada." "how are you getting on?" "splendid! i just sold the half of it for five hundred thousand dollars. i ought to have got more for it, but i am tired of waiting, and want to get home, and so i let it go. five hundred thousand dollars is a good sum, and then i retain a half interest in it. it will make me all the money i shall ever want. by the way have you met any of the nobility? no? i shall be glad to introduce you to the duke of buccleugh. i am going down to his country seat to-morrow. he is interested with me, and he's a devilish clever fellow." you plead a prior engagement if you are wise, but you have not seen the last of your american friend who has just sold the half of a mine for five hundred thousand dollars. oh, no! for the next day he will be waiting for you, and he will volunteer to go about with you in so persistent a way that you cannot refuse without being brutally blunt, and after taking you to all sorts of show places which are open to anybody, and which you want no guide for, he will establish himself in such a way as to make you feel, whether or no, that he has some claim upon you. then comes the final stroke. as you part with him, he will take you one side, and then this: [sidenote: the american mine-owner.] "by the way, i am waiting for the final drawing of papers to complete the sale, when i get my money. i have been here so long that i have exhausted my ready money, and my remittances did not come by the last steamer, but they must come by the next, which will be saturday. would you mind lending me five pounds till saturday?" you have but little pocket-money, you say. "an order on the american exchange will do as well." you never give orders. he lowers his want, till, finally, when he gets down to five shillings you give it to him, glad to be rid of him so cheaply. nevertheless this fellow will finally sell his mine, or his alleged mine. all he has to do is to wait long enough, and he will find some credulous englishman who will bite at the naked hook, and put his name and influence to it, and it will be done. then he will go home and establish himself in good style, and be a prominent man. but what becomes of the english investors? echo answers. it is a conundrum that goes echoing down the ages, and will only be answered in that period of the next world when everything shall be made plain. the poor widow who put her little pittance in the hands of these sharks doubtless started a private school, if she was qualified for it, or made use of her one accomplishment, painting, music or what not, to earn a miserable existence. the poor clerk who was saving to purchase a home of his own, went back to his lodgings and put his nose freshly upon the grindstone, and the young tradesman went into bankruptcy, his shop passed out of his hands, and he served where he had once commanded. and the shark, if an english one, shelters himself behind his assumed name, or goes to the continent, and lives in luxury all his days. inasmuch as these things have been going on ever since the south sea bubble it would seem that people would get wiser, and know better than to put their all in such wild-cat schemes. but bear this in mind, the loser never admits that he lost in so stupid a way, and his fellows are never fully informed about it, and besides there are children born every day, a certain percentage of them with sharp teeth, and the rest with fat. the teeth find the fat, the shark finds the gudgeon invariably. that's his business. when i read these prospectuses i find myself getting up a great deal of respect for the old barons who, when they wanted money, seized a rich jew and starved him awhile in a dungeon, and if that gentle treatment did not suffice to extract the requisite cash, pulled out his teeth, one by one, till he disgorged. in those days a venerable jew whose teeth were all gone was as fortunate as the man caught by the indians who was bald and wore a wig--he saved his scalp. [illustration: the old english way of procuring a loan.] [sidenote: london quacks.] these ancient robbers did not add grandiloquent lying to theft. it was with them a simple taking of what they wanted without circumlocution. it was highway robbery to picking pockets, and was certainly the preferable of the two. were i an emperor, with absolute power, i should immediately discharge the honest soldier, who would work for a living were he out of the service, and draft in the army all these fellows. and the regiments composed of them should lead every forlorn hope, charge every battery, and do all the dangerous and fatiguing work that soldiers have to do. a country could afford to lose a great many battles to rid itself of these worse than thieves. do you remember dickens' montagu tigg in martin chuzzlewit? i used to think it an overdrawn picture, but it is not. it is as correct a portrait as was ever limned. america has been deemed the paradise of the quack, but before england she must pale her ineffectual fires. next to beer, patent medicines stare you in the face everywhere. the walls fairly shine with the advertisements of remedies for every disease known to the faculty, and when that supply runs out the ingenious proprietor invents a stock of new ailments that never did exist, and inasmuch as the least of them are six syllabled ones, it is to be hoped never will. there are medicines for the liver, for the kidneys, for the lungs, for the feet, for the head, for the ears, for the eyes, for the scalp, for the hair, and for every part and parcel of the human body, and for every animal that man has subjugated and brought subservient to his will. there are certificates from lords, and dukes, and honorables, as to the efficiency of hobson's vermifuge, though with these it is always a tenant's child that was cured, the scions of noble houses being of too blue blood to ever have so vulgar a complaint. in case of gout, or any genuinely aristocratic ailment, they are not so particular. the advertisement of every remedy ends with the announcement:-- "as there are unprincipled parties in the kingdom who seize upon every article of known merit, to imitate the same, the purchasers of hobson's remedies are respectfully requested to particularly observe the label on the bottles. the name of "hobson" is printed on the steel engraving, on the face of the bottle, fourteen hundred and sixty-three times, and without this none are genuine. beware of fraudulent imitations." and the british dame will stand at the counter and count the wearying repetition, much to the disgust of the shopman, who, knowing that the remedy is only three days old, and that there are no imitations, and never will be, wants her to take her bottle of the stuff and move on and make room for another victim. [illustration: "beware of fraudulent imitations."] [sidenote: the london advertiser.] their ingenuity in advertising is as good as that of their trans-atlantic brethren. you see vast vans driven slowly up and down the streets, built up twenty feet with canvass, showing an emaciated mortal, with scarcely an hour of life in him, with the legend underneath, "before taking gobson's elixir," and the same party dressed, and walking the streets with the physical perfection of a prize fighter, and underneath, "after taking gobson's elixir." transparencies at night flash forth the miraculous virtues of "hopkins' saline draught," and there isn't an inch of dead wall anywhere that has not its burden of announcements. long processions of ragged men the most of them too old and weak to do anything else, march along the sidewalks sandwiched between two boards, each one bearing testimony to the virtues of some wonderful compound, there being enough of them to weary the eye and make one wish he could go somewhere where advertising was impossible. one of these human sandwiches remarked to me that the boards were a little uncomfortable in the summer, but the two made a mighty good overcoat in the winter. and as if there was not enough of it already, an enterprising yankee is here with a steam whale, ninety feet long, spouting water sixty feet high, the machinery and crew concealed in the boat on which it rests, which is to ply up and down the beautiful thames, bearing upon either side the announcement of a liver pill. the proprietor gives him ten thousand dollars for the use of it for the season, and bears all the expenses of running it. it is very like a whale, and as it attracts much attention will doubtless pay a handsome profit to the man by whom it has been engaged. the papers are full of such advertising, the only difference between england and america being that the advertisements here are more elegantly written, and couched in really superior english which ours are not, always. the english shoemaker who turns doctor, employs the best literary talent at command to write his announcements, and he pays more liberally than the magazines do the same men. many a london writer, struggling for fame and a place in literature, makes a handsome addition to his slender income by going into the service of these patent medicine vendors. nearly all of them succeed. the british public are a medicine-taking people by nature. there are not many diseases upon the island naturally, but the inhabitants create a very large number by their habits. the universal use of beer--and vile stuff it is--is not conducive to general health, and the englishman is about the heartiest eater on the globe. he is more than hearty--he verges very closely upon the gluttonous. consequently he needs medicines, and the manufacturers adapt themselves to the market. there are more than a thousand "after dinner pills," warranted to correct all the effect of "over-indulgence at the table," which means that it will do something toward keeping up a man who eats about four times what he ought to, and drinks enough every year to drive an american or frenchman into delirium tremens. the market for these goods is world-wide, and enormous fortunes are amassed. i must say, however, that the trade is not in the best repute. many brewers have been knighted, but no patent medicine man. in the matter of ennobling people the line must be drawn somewhere. dickens' barber drew it at the baker--the english draw it at the brewer. [illustration: the old temple bar.] chapter ix. petticoat lane. there is no petticoat lane any more, some finnicky board having very foolishly changed the good old name to middlesex street. there was something suggestive in the name "petticoat lane," for it indicated with great accuracy the business carried on there, but there is nothing suggestive about middlesex street. it might as well have been called wellington street, or wesley street, or washington street. i hate these changes. a street is a street, and calling it an avenue don't make it so. why not petticoat lane? by any other name it smells as strong. it _is_ petticoat lane and always will be petticoat lane, and despite the edict of the board, the londoner calls it by that title and always will. petticoat lane is a long, tortuous narrow street, properly a lane, (about the width of an ordinary alley in an american city,) in the heart of the city proper. it is probably the dirtiest spot on the globe. if there is a dirtier i do not wish to see it--or, more especially, to smell it. it is the very acme of filth, the incarnation of dirt, and the very top, the peaked point of the summit of rottenness. a friend of mine who had lost the sense of smell was condoled with on his misfortune. "don't pity me," he said, "please don't. it is a blessing, and not a misfortune. in this imperfect world there are more bad smells than perfumes. if i am deprived of one delight i escape a dozen inflictions. if i can't enjoy the rose, i, at least, dodge the tan yard." precisely so another friend who had his right leg torn off in a threshing machine during the war, reveled in his cork leg, because, having but one flesh and blood foot, he only took half the chances of ordinary mortals of taking cold from wet feet. so does philosophy turn misfortunes into blessings. to carry out the idea i suppose the more troubles happen to a man the happier he should be. would that i could take life that way, but i can't. unfortunately the day i was in petticoat lane my sense of smell was unusually acute, at least so it seemed to me. philosophers of this school should spend a great deal of their time in petticoat lane, for in that savory locality all the senses one needs are his eyes and ears. a loss of smell there would be a blessing. it is the especial street belonging to the jews. not the jews we have in america, the bright, busy, active men, who have left their impress upon every spot they have touched, who have done so much to make america what it is--not the well-dressed, well-housed leader in business and everything else he puts his hands to, but the old kind of jew, the jew of poland, with the long beard and long coat, very like the gaberdine we see in pictures and on the stage, the jew of shakespeare, the jew who will trade in anything, and live in a way that no other race or section of a race on earth can live. there is a denser population in petticoat lane, i verily believe, than anywhere else on the globe, outside of china, and it is all hebrew. you should go sunday morning, which is their especial day, and get there about ten o'clock, to see it in all its glory. all places for selling liquor in london are closed part of the day sunday, except in this street; but here they are all open and in full blast. whether there is a special exception made by law, or whether there is a tacit winking at the violation by the authorities because of the religion of the people, i do not know; but it is a fact that in this street the beer shops are open all day and a thriving business they do. [sidenote: the home of second-hand.] it is the busiest place i ever saw. the streets are crowded, not the sidewalks only, but the streets, to the very center. you see no horse-drawn vehicles--it is all people. barrows and carts drawn by people, men or women, are the only vehicles. there would be no room for any other. the fiery steed attached to a hansom, which shares its driver's noble ambition to run down a foot passenger, would be tamed in petticoat lane. the number of opportunities to run down people would embarrass, and, finally, subdue him. [illustration: the sidewalk shoe-store.] what do all these people do? it would be easier to answer the question, what don't they do? they do everything. if there is an article on earth--that is, a second-hand article,--that is not bought and sold in petticoat lane on sunday morning, i have not seen it. you can buy anything you want there, provided you want it second-hand, from a knitting needle to a ship's anchor. there is nothing in the street that is not second-hand, except the people. they all bear the stamp of originality, every one of them. they are born traders. if a pair of petticoat lane jew twins in a cradle don't trade teething rings, and attempt to swindle each other, the father and mother drop tears of sorrow over them, and as soon as they are old enough, take them out of the place and apprentice them to a trade. without this manifestation they would not be considered good enough for petticoat lane. very few have, however, been so apprenticed. here is a hideous old woman on the sidewalk with her stock in trade under her eye, and a sharp eye it is, arranged along the curb. what is it? a few dozen or more pairs of boots and shoes, in all stages of dilapidation, carefully polished, and made to look as respectable as possible, any pair of which (by the way, they are not always mates,) you shall buy, if you desire, at any price ranging from a penny to a shilling. no matter what the ancient dame gets for them, she has made a profit. she picked them up on the streets, save a few that she may have borrowed when the owner was not looking. what anybody wants of these remnants, these ghosts of foot wear, i can't conceive. but she sells them. the trade is consummated easily after the chaffering is over with. the purchaser pays the woman, and sheds the worse ones he has on, and puts on his acquisition, and wends his way. probably in an hour he would be glad to trade back, but it is too late. next to her stands a cart, which is a portable hardware store. there are hinges, nails, all second-hand, carpenter's tools, axes, locks, keys, and all sorts of iron-mongery, and he sells, too. somebody wants these goods, and he gets his price. as these things are collected as were the boots, the vender is happy at every pennyworth he sells. [sidenote: the clothing dealer.] here is a clothing merchant with his stock laid conveniently on the sidewalk. it is a motley mass, and his method of disposing of it is precisely the same as that of the second-hand clothing dealer the world over. i don't know as these dealers rise to the sublime height of the new york chatham street jew, who claimed that a villainous green coat was made for general grant, but that he wouldn't have it because the velvet on the collar was too fine for his taste, but they approach it. he has everything that one can conceive of. there are flunkeys' uniforms, sailors' jackets, worn-out dress coats that once figured in the best society, but they decayed, and went down and down through all the grades of society, till they finally landed in petticoat lane, where they will be sold for a shilling, and the purchaser will tear the tails off as useless encumbrances that give no warmth and are simply in the way, and comfortable jackets will be made of them. [illustration: "sheap clodink!"] under this head i might ring in _hamlet's_ soliloquy about the dust of great men stopping cracks, and preach a very pretty sermon on the mutability of human affairs, but i won't. petticoat lane is not exactly the place for philosophizing, nor will it be for me till i get its smell out of my nostrils. visiting petticoat lane is very much like eating onions--you carry the taste with you a long time, which is a blessing--for those who like onions. the onion is an economical vegetable at any price. it may come high to begin with, but it lasts a long time. i saw general's uniforms, american sack-coats, trowsers that may have graced the legs of royalty, and a great many that had not, there not being many of the royalty. there were french blouses, police uniforms, irish knee-breeches, everything. one coat i saw sold for a penny, the vender originally asking two shillings for it. next to this merchant was a man who had an assortment of sewing machines--wheeler & wilson, wilcox & gibbs, the domestic, singer--all the american machines were represented, and he sold them, too. people come there to buy these things. they went as low as three dollars, and as high as five. one bloated aristocrat, who was particular as to appearances, actually paid seven dollars for a wheeler & wilson, and was not above carrying it off himself. in petticoat lane they don't have wagons to deliver your purchases as they do in regent street and elsewhere, nor do they sell on time. you buy, and pay for what you buy, and to prevent mistakes you pay for your goods just before you get them. it's a habit they have. the furniture stores--all on the sidewalk--are curiosities. it would delight a gatherer-up of unconsidered trifles to see one of them. i did not notice a whole piece of furniture in the lot. there was either a leg gone, or two legs, or the top, or the side, something must be gone. but the dealer didn't mind that. "you see, ma teer, all you hef to do ish to get dot leg put on, and its shoost ash goot as new, efery bit." bureaus with missing drawers, tables with three legs where four were essential, chairs with the top, bottom and legs gone; in short, everything that was broken and condemned as useless by everybody finds its last resting-place here. surely there can be no lower depth for the disabled. [sidenote: a motley mass.] as i gazed in wonder upon some of the articles i saw, and noticed how little of the original article could be sold, i bethought myself of the cooper who was brought a bung hole, with the request that he build a barrel about it. the street vendors of eatables formed no small portion of the traffic that was going on incessantly. you can get a slice of roast beef with greens (greens is what these people call cabbage, and, by the way, they call a lemonade a "lemon squash"), for a penny, and you shall see it cut from the joint, otherwise you wouldn't know what it was. true the plate on which the satisfying food was placed had been merely dipped in cold water, and true it was that the two hundred pound woman who served it had never washed her hands since the day she was married, but that did not matter. the dish was taken and devoured, the ceremony of paying before getting it being religiously observed. there were shrimps, and snails, and lettuce salads, and moldy fruit, and everything else that the british public eats, all on the street, which is convenient, to say the least. sharpers were not wanting to complete this variegated scene. the thimble-rigger was there, his game being confined to a penny, so as to harmonize with the general cheapness of the locality, and, to keep it in perfect accord, his little portable table, and his thimbles were second-hand. there were street acrobats, nigger minstrels, hand organs, hurdy-gurdys, street singers, and the inevitable street brass band, made up of four sad-looking men who appeared as though there was nothing in life for them, and that they were playing in expiation of some great crime, and were compelled to play on forever. how these people live i never could make out. during the whole day i never saw a penny given them, except one which one of our party threw them. they took it up with an expression of the most intense surprise, as though it was an astounding and unlooked-for occurrence, and immediately stopped playing, and made for the nearest cook stand and invested the whole of it in a plate of beef and greens, which was divided among the four. i was about to throw them another penny, but was checked by our guide. he protested against pampering them. i understood him. the american indian will consume a month's provisions in a single day's feast, and starve the other twenty-nine. had i given them another penny they would have had another plate of beef on the spot, and then gone hungry a week. as we intended to come again next sunday, for their own good i reserved the penny for that occasion. understand it is not jews who are the purchasers of these wrecks of goods, these reminiscences of furniture and the like; they are the sellers. the purchasers are the british public proper, who come here for bargains. they get them--perhaps. the question is, where do all these things come from? if there are more than one in the jewish family, and whether there is or not depends upon the age, for they marry very young, and have children as rapidly as possible, all but one of them roam through the country incessantly, buying, bartering for and picking up all the stuff, which, after bought or picked up, is brought here and fixed as far as the skill and ingenuity of the purchaser and the rottenness of the material will permit. then it is sold, at no matter what price. the motto in petticoat lane is, "no reasonable offer refused." it is not, however, only the second-hand that petticoat lane deals in. you see moving among the crowd here and there quite another class of israelites from those who are vending dilapidated clothing and broken furniture. they are well dressed men, with coats buttoned up very closely. their raven locks are surmounted with tall hats, and their boots cleaned as carefully as any swell's in london. they are all distinctively hebrew, there being no exception to this rule. [sidenote: diamonds.] across the way is a beer-shop, kept by a hebrew, the bar-maids and all being hebrew. on the one side of the bar is a small dining room; back of that a kitchen, and from the bar-room is a flight of stairs. follow your guide, who in this instance was an american hebrew, and you find yourself in a low room just the size of the bar below, and a curious scene presents itself. these rooms, and there are scores of them in petticoat lane, contain on an average any number of millions of pounds that you choose to say. i could say that there were a hundred millions of wealth in each one, and perhaps wouldn't be very much out of the way, but as i desire to be accurate, i will not. if there is anything i detest, it is exaggeration. i hope to distinguish myself by being the first tourist who adhered strictly to the naked truth. these rooms are diamond marts. in them all the diamonds that deck out royalty and the wives of patent medicine men, gamblers, negro minstrels, and other people who are not royal, are first handled. to these dingy dens in the very heart of the worst quarter of the worst city in the world, comes the diamond merchant, and here he meets the broker who deals with the manufacturer in the city. here all the diamonds of london are first bought and sold. one looks at it with amazement. enter a young jew with the preternaturally sharp features that distinguish the race. all the merchants, and there may be a dozen, each sitting at his little table, hail him, and all in the language that the new comer speaks the best. the hebrew speaks all languages, and all of them well. (facts crowd upon me so fast that it is difficult to keep to my subject.) the young fellow unbuttons his coat, and then the top buttons of his vest, and takes from an inner pocket a long leather pocket-book, which he opens carefully. there are disclosed a dozen papers folded like an apothecary's package, and he opens them. your eyes dance as you see the contents. diamonds! i never dreamed there were so many in the world. each paper contains a handful of all sizes and qualities, cut and uncut, of all colors and shades known to the diamond, and the ancient jews at the tables take these papers and examine critically the different sparklers, going over the lot as the western farmer would his cattle. with a little steel instrument he separates this one from his fellows and puts it under a glass, and screws his eye into the stone, and then little tiny scales, which would turn under the weight of a sunbeam, are brought into requisition, and then would come more chaffering and bargaining than would suffice to buy and sell an empire. this young fellow does not own these precious stones. he is a broker. the diamond is first brought to light in brazil, india, or the cape of good hope. from the original producer it passes into the hands of the resident buyer, who consigns it to the broker to sell, and he does it on commission the same as the elevator men handle wheat. the buyer in petticoat lane either cuts and sets it himself, or re-sells it to the fashionable jeweler, as he can make the most profit. trust them for doing that. it is something the london hebrew understands long before he cuts his teeth. but it is not alone diamonds you find in these rooms. on the various tables may be seen jewelry of every possible description, and all sorts of goods, from a tooth-pick up. you can buy a watch or a jack-knife, a button-hook or a diamond bracelet. especially is the variety of curious old jewelry very extensive. you find there rings and brooches set with all sorts of stones, of every period in the world's history, which makes it the resort of the wealthy collectors of the ancient and curious. here is a brooch, said to have been worn by queen anne, and another by one of the mistresses of louis xviii., of france. the seller says it was, and if he happens to be mistaken, what difference does it make so that you believe it? it is just as good to you as though the history was accurate. one should not be particular in such matters, though i saw enough brooches that were once the property of an english queen to have set up a very large jewelry store, and were they all genuine it explains the high taxes in england, and justifies all the rebellions the country has suffered. but it is all well enough. the goods are actually quaint and beautiful. it is darkly hinted that these jews have factories where jewelry once worn by royalty is manufactured by the bushel, and i should not wonder thereat. for, you see, a brooch of modern style, worth say fifty pounds, is worth one hundred pounds if it were once queen anne's. "dose goots, ma tear sir, vat ish anshent, and hef historical associations, are wort any money. at one hundred pounts it ish a bargain." as the price doubles because of historical features it pays very nicely to manufacture the old styles, and tarnish the gold, and make antiques. but possibly this is a weak invention of the gentiles who do not deal in antiques. [sidenote: the confiding israelite.] one would suppose that it would be rather hazardous to carry about so much wealth in a paper. what is to prevent the jew at the table who has a paper before him containing, say, two hundred diamonds, from secreting one or two? the broker hands a paper to one, and another to another, and divides his time between them, and to take a stone would be as easy as lying. possibly it would be hazardous among gentiles, but not so among these jews. there is an unwritten code among them which makes the property as safe in their hands as though one diamond were shown at a time. there is absolute honor among them, which was never yet known to be tarnished. it is absolute and perfect. [illustration: "dake dot ring."] one venerable jew was very anxious to sell me a ring, the price of which he fixed at one hundred and twenty dollars, "and no abatement." (when a jew diamond merchant says "no abatement," that settles it. there is none.) "dake dot ring, put him in your bocket, go to any scheweler in rechent street, and oof you can get him vor dwice de monish i will give him to you." "what!" was my reply, "do you say that i, a perfect stranger to you, may carry off a ring worth forty pounds? suppose i shouldn't come back with it?" "ach, ma tear sir, philip (my american friend) vouldn't pring nobody here vot vould do such a ting. dake der ring, ma tear sir, and see about him. it ish a bargain." philip or any one of the guild would be allowed to carry away a king's ransom. would, oh would, that the other people of the world were equally honest and upright. still, i wouldn't advise any one to depend upon their word in a purchase. they have two kinds of morality. a trade with them is a battle royal, in which each tries to get the better of the other, but the word once passed is never broken. the merchant sits all day at his table, his meals, always a cut of beef and greens, with a pewter of bitter beer, being brought to him from the kitchen below. he sits and eats, never permitting, however, his eating and drinking to interfere with his business. he would put down his pot of beer to continue a trade any time, something i know a great many americans would not do. petticoat lane is one of the curiosities of london, and the day was well spent. it is a world by itself--a foreign nation preserving its religion and customs intact, injected into the very heart of london. [illustration: a lane in camberwell.] [illustration] chapter x. the tower. to visit the tower is to draw aside the curtain that separates the past from the present. it is to go back a thousand years, and commune with those who have long ages been dust, and of whom only a memory remains. once in the tower, one seems to be with them, to see them, and to feel their influence as though they were living, moving beings, and not historical ghosts. the vast structure, now in the heart of the great city, though once on its borders, is as much out of place in this day and age of the world, as a soldier would be in any of the suits of armor within its walls. it is war in the midst of peace, it is a fortress surrounded by traffic, it is lawless force against law, it is simply an incongruity, and only valuable and interesting as showing what was, in comparison with what is. it was built originally as a stronghold, to keep the fiery and oft-times rebellious citizens of london in check, and was afterward occupied alternately, or at the same time, as a prison or palace. many a terrible drama has been enacted within the ancient walls, many a broken heart has wasted away within the solid stone in its gloomy dungeons, and many a noble head has parted company with its body, under its cold shadow, and there is any quantity of "human interest," as the dramatists say, connected with it. there is a strong flavor of murder all through it, there is cruelty written upon every stone, and treachery and death on every inch of the cold, paved floors. if a king desired to put quietly out of the way a dangerous rival, or if he lusted after a woman, or wanted anything that was especially unlawful and damnable, he could not have been better fixed for the business than with this fortress, provided he had a sufficient number of servitors to do his bidding faithfully. and that sort of material was very plenty, in those days, for kings who had the means of rewarding them. the devil himself could not have fitted up a better arrangement if he had given his whole mind to the matter, and his ability in this direction is unquestioned. there are dungeons where an unfortunate's cries could never be heard; there are cells so strong that escape was simply impossible, even without the watchful care of the soldiery with which it was filled, and in short over each of its gates might well be written, "who enters here leaves hope behind." it is a wonderful but an intensely disagreeable place. these old places are not the most cheerful in the world, but still i like them. a ride behind a tandem team through the green lanes of hampstead, with the beautiful hedges on either hand, and the quaint old houses with their steep red-tiled roofs, and their low rooms and curious little windows that look more like eyes than windows, the broad fields, grass green, (grass is greener in england than america,) with the beautiful sleek cattle feeding peacefully, is a more pleasant thing, for it is a singular as well as delightful mixture of to-day and yesterday. the fields and cattle are of to-day, the houses are of a long ago yesterday, but there is added what the tower has not, the sun, which is of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, shining down, and lighting up the quiet glories that surround you. this is not depressing. the houses fit the atmosphere--in good sooth i cannot imagine such houses in any other atmosphere, and certainly the atmosphere would not be complete without the houses. everything adapts itself to everything else. a pale face would be as much out of place in an american rum shop as a strawberry patch in an alkaline desert. rum requires something lurid--the quiet, soft, hazy english atmosphere exactly fits the soft brown and the subdued red that almost narrowly escapes being a brown of the houses. [sidenote: the cheerfulness of the tower.] but in the tower you have nothing that is soft, nothing that is pleasant, nothing one would like to have about him. the tower is a good thing for a world to see, so that it can know what to avoid. two teachers of elocution were in great rivalry. one gave an exhibition with his pupils. "where are your classes to-day?" asked a friend of the other one. "gone to mr. blank's exhibition." "do you permit your pupils to attend your rival's exhibition?" "certainly. i want them to learn what to avoid." no light ever penetrates its gloomy walls. there are but two colors--the blackened wood painted by time, and the cold gray of the stones. all the color indicates cruelty--the very stones typify the character of the men who put them together, and their successors who used them. it is the cruelest appearing place on the face of the earth, now that the french bastile is gone, and i doubt if a frenchman could possibly construct a place so grimly severe, so unutterably merciless as the tower. he would have had some fancy about it--it would have been lighted up somehow. the tower is so severe that a picture of a beheading, or of a torture, would be cheerful by contrast and improve it. i would suggest now, that to enliven the old place a bit, and save a man from giving way too much to the depression that governs the spot, that a fresco be painted representing the burning of john rogers at the stake, or the disemboweling of the waldenses, or some cheerful historical picture of that kind. should the artist select pictures from fox's book of martyrs, that one where the soldiers are crowding people off a precipice so that they fall upon iron spikes about four feet long, would impart a cheerful tone to the surroundings in the tower and make one feel more kindly toward his race. as it is, he who enters and stays awhile becomes a convert to the doctrine of total depravity. he gets blood-thirsty himself, and feels like snatching up some one of the million weapons that are stored there and killing somebody. the articles preserved with so much care are all suggestive of blood. it is a moloch of a place; but one must see it, all the same. the most cheerful place in the great structure is the jewel room, or tower, as it is called. it isn't very much of a room, but there is a great deal in it which is of interest. here are kept the regalia appertaining to the throne. in glass cases very carefully guarded are all the crowns of the royal family, and the scepters and things which they display on state occasions, and a rare lot they are. [illustration: the jewel tower.] [sidenote: the royal jewels.] the prevailing impression among those not used to royalty is that the king and queen and the rest of their "royal nibses," as an american would irreverently say, go about dressed in velvet robes, covered with jewels, with crowns upon their heads; that when the queen goes to bed at night she removes the crown, or a dozen maids of honor do it for her, and that she resumes it the first thing in the morning, before she comes down to breakfast. a moment's reflection will show any one the impossibility of anything of the kind. a crown would be no protection for the head, and velvet robes would be exceedingly warm in summer, and not warm enough in winter; and besides were the queen to wear a crown with some millions of dollars' worth of precious stones in it, some enterprising footpad would have it in no time, and then what would she do? for these reasons, which ought to be satisfactory to any reflective mind, the crowns and articles of like nature are kept in the tower, and are only worn on state occasions, when the public want a free show. at all other times the queen dresses like any other lady, with a regular dress, and bustles, and all that sort of thing, and a bonnet, and she dresses frightfully plain, so all the milliners and modistes say, too plain for their trade; for victoria, to a certain extent, sets the fashion, which the court follows. but in these cases you shall see the queen's crown, a cap of purple velvet enclosed in hoops of silver, surmounted by a ball and cross, and glittering with actual diamonds. in the center is an immense sapphire, and in front is a famous heart-shaped ruby, said to have been worn by the black prince. i don't know the value of this article, or where he stole it, but if victoria gets hard-up and wants to raise money, i presume the jews in petticoat lane would advance a million or two on it, and take their chances. queens have done this before now, and all the crown jewels in europe have been in the hands of the israelites at different times; but i rather think victoria will worry through. she has an income of many thousands of pounds a year, and is very economical. if i remember aright, she sent the starving irish a thousand pounds, which was about her income for an hour. and then an admiring parliament, to make it good to her, voted her thirty thousand pounds sterling, which the people accepted without a murmur. she finds profit in liberality. then there is st. edward's crown, the prince of wales's, the ancient queen's crown, the queen's diadem, that of charles the second, and a dozen or two others, with scepters and rods, and all sorts of things which are carried before, or behind, or on one side or the other, of kings and queens, on occasions of great solemnity, when the people are to be impressed with a sense of the importance of these individuals to the world at large. the famous koihnoor, stolen from an east india prince, some years since, is there--in glass, which is a swindle. we wanted, and expected, when we paid our sixpence, to see the genuine article, not a base imitation. it is as it is at side-shows at a circus, you are allured inside by a picture of a vast giraffe, nipping boughs from trees, and when you have paid and are in, you are shown a stuffed giraffe, who can no more eat boughs from tall trees than he could preach a funeral sermon. possibly we should have demanded our money back, but we didn't. [illustration: sir magnus' men.] [sidenote: the horse armory.] from the jewel room you pass on to an infinity of towers, all through long halls, how long i can't say, filled with all sorts of armor and weapons. horses are set up and figures placed upon them, dressed in the identical armor worn by the old kings and nobles, who, in their day, rode about the country clad in iron fish scales, with a half ton of iron, more or less, on their heads, engaged in the (to them) delightful occupation of burning each other's castles and killing the occupants. they did not require a "cause," or anything of the sort. if sir hugh bloody-bones wanted the wife or daughter of sir magnus blunderbore, he simply donned his iron, picked up his lance, called together the inferior cut-throats who followed and lived upon him, and went for it. sir magnus, if not surprised and murdered in cold blood, and he was generally not, for those old ruffians slept upon their arms, harried the country for supplies, shut the clumsy gates of his castle, and stood the siege. if the castle was carried, all within were put to death, except such of sir magnus' cut-throats who were willing to join sir hugh, the women were carried off, and so on. the survivors were willing, always, to join the victor. the successful knight would say, "now look here, you fellows, sir magnus is dead. i slew him, and you can't get provisions from him any more, while with me there will always be plenty of prog. i shall keep you busy, for there are other castles to storm, and i am not very particular with my men." and they would all "take service," as they called it, with the successful robber, and go right on as usual. they would take anything. it was a cheerful life these ancient murderers lived, though the people who supported them didn't find it so pleasant. the horse armory, so called because the figures in it are mostly equestrian, is one hundred and fifty feet in length by thirty-four in width. there sits a knight of the time of henry vi., in complete armor, lance and all, just as he appeared when he started out to kill somebody and steal his effects. the armor, understand, is not a _fac-simile_, it is the genuine thing, actually worn by the marauder of that time. then come knights of the time of edward iii. and edward iv., both on their horses and armored from top to bottom. how any man could carry such a load of iron and sit upon a horse, and how any horse could carry such a mass of iron, with his own, for the horses were armored also, passes my comprehension. imagine a man in july, with the thermometer at ninety-five in the shade, with a steel pot on his head, covering his face entirely, with little holes to admit air, with a breast-plate of boiler-iron, and a similar one on his back, with his arms and hands guarded with iron, and his legs and feet likewise, with swords and battle-axes, and daggers hung to him, and a lance fourteen feet in length, to handle, doing battle. yet they wore all this, and in palestine, and in every other hot country in the world. [illustration: horse armory.] woe to the knight who was unhorsed with all this pot-metal on him. he couldn't rise under the load, and the other one could prod him to death at his leisure, and enjoy himself at it as long as he pleased. [sidenote: bluff king harry.] next to this is the figure of that wonderful old mormon, henry viii. the armor on this figure is the most curious and valuable in the collection. it was presented to him on the occasion of his marriage to catherine, his no.--,--i forget what her number was--and he wore it at many a tournament. this king, it will be remembered, had a way of getting rid of wives that was far superior to indiana divorce courts. whenever he saw a woman that he thought he wanted, and he had an eye for women, he merely accused his wife of being unfaithful to him, and had a court which always brought her in guilty, and her head was chopped off without ceremony, and he married his new flame, only to accuse her and bring her before the court and chop her head off in her turn. he finished eight in this way. it was the pope's opposition to one of these little arrangements that brought about the divorce of england from the church of rome, and was the beginning of the protestant movement. but for henry's terrible liking for women and his peremptory and decisive way of divorcing wives, i probably to-day should have been a catholic! what great events spring from trifling causes. [illustration: st. john's chapel.] all the way down the long hall are equestrian figures, all armed in the identical armor worn by the men whose names they bear, and between the figures are the arms of the various periods of english history since men took to killing each other as a trade. in this and adjoining halls are grouped very artistically the arms of every country of the globe, and of all ages and times. there are guns of every possible kind, most of them of very rare workmanship, for the mechanics of those old days put more work upon arms than upon anything else, and swords and daggers, and battle-axes, and various devices for knocking out brains. [illustration: st. thomas's tower.] [sidenote: the bloody structure.] by the way, the revolver is popularly supposed to be an american invention, but it is not. there are a score of revolvers here that were made almost as soon as gunpowder was invented and came into use. the very one from which colonel colt got the idea of a repeating arm is here, and it is identical in construction with that which now graces the thighs of so many americans, and which has done so much for the glory of our happy country. they were not very much used, however, as, owing to the imperfect means of firing the loads, all the barrels were liable to go off at once, invariably killing the shooter without materially damaging the shootee. the invention of the percussion cap made the revolver practicable, and colonel colt's widow is living in great luxury upon an idea taken by her husband from the tower of london, the work of some humble mechanic hundreds of years ago. i doubt not that if she could find the heirs of that mechanic she would pension them. but they were doubtless all killed in the wars of the day, and so it probably would not be worth her while to try to seek them out. [illustration: general view of the tower.] to enumerate everything that is curious in the way of arms and armor in this hall would be to make a catalogue. it takes more than a day to merely see (not study) this collection, and then one has his mind overloaded. the different buildings that make up what is known collectively as the tower, have all histories, and all bloody ones. there is nothing but blood connected with it. in the white tower, sir walter raleigh was confined, and near his den is that once occupied by rudstone, culpepper, and sir thomas wyat, who were all beheaded on tower hill. the council room was used by the kings when they wanted to give some sort of show of law for a murder, and in this the council sat when richard iii. ordered lord hastings to instant execution. the bloody tower (that would be the proper name for all of them) was where richard iii. was supposed to have murdered the two children of edward iv., his brother, on which event shakespeare founded his play of that name. some english historians have endeavored to show that richard was no such a man as shakespeare represents. instead of being a hump backed, distorted villain, such as we see upon the stage, they insist that he was the handsomest man of his time; that he did not even try to murder the princes, and, moreover, that he was one of the most humane, politic kings england ever had, and during his short reign of nine months, instituted material reforms, and did more to promote the welfare of england than any king who had preceded or followed him. also, they deny the story of his drowning his brother clarence in a butt of malmsey wine, and likewise his murder of king henry. [illustration: the bloody tower.] [sidenote: the much-abused king richard.] probably these historians are right. since it has been shown that general jackson did not fight his men behind a breastwork of cotton bales, a delusion that grew up with me, and since it has been demonstrated that there is no maelstrom on the coast of norway, that takes down ships and whales into its terrible vortex, as shown in the ancient geographies of thirty years ago, i have lost faith in everything. when i want romance i read history, and when i hunger for history i read novels. but whether he was a good man or a bad, [illustration: the presumed drowning of clarence in a butt of wine.] shakespeare has fixed his flint for all time. the essayist may essay, and facts may be piled up mountain high in his favor, but richard will always appear to us as shakespeare painted him, a hump-backed, withered-legged man with a villainous face, killing princes, stabbing kings and drowning brothers in wine. still, i don't suppose richard cares now what is said of him. if he killed the princes, they, dying young and before they could be kings, and consequently comparatively pure, he will never meet them. if he did not, and is with them, they have had ample time to arrange their little differences. the opinion of the world makes little difference to richard, whereever he is. nevertheless, as i wish to stand well with the world hereafter, i shall try not to get the ill-will of the poets whose works are likely to live. richard's reputation should be a warning. [illustration: the byward tower. (from the east.)] [sidenote: a chapter of murders.] the bloody record continues. devereux tower is where the brilliant essex was confined till he was "privately beheaded." the byward tower is where duke clarence is said to have been drowned in the wine, which was a great waste of wine, though it was a delicate compliment to the duke, who was fond of it. it was probably distributed among the soldiers who did the job. in the brick tower lady jane grey was immured, and in the martin tower anne boleyn, one of henry viii.'s wives, was confined, till she was beheaded, as well as "several unhappy gentlemen" who were foolish enough to stand up for her, who also had their heads chopped off. the word "unhappy" is not misused in their case. in the salt tower is shown an inscription made by a gentleman who was accused of using enchantments "to the hurt of sir w. st. lowe and my ladye," who also found himself short a head one fine morning. it was a comfortable time to live when "sir w. st. lowe," a court favorite, could accuse a man he owed money to of being a wizard, and then ordering him beheaded. it was easier to pay debts in those days than going through bankruptcy is now. [illustration: the beauchamp tower.] there were so many murders committed in the beauchamp tower that in the guide books it is counted worthy of a chapter by itself, not only because of the number, but because of the peculiarly atrocious quality of them. the other murderers were mere apprentices at the business compared with those who had the beauchamp tower in charge. they were artists, and knew all about it. they gave their whole mind to it. marmaduke neville with fifty others who believed in mary, queen of scots, were confined in this tower, and they were all beheaded in one day. likewise mr. william tyrrell, who had some differences with the government; then the earl arundel was beheaded from this interesting old slaughter house for aspiring to the hand of mary queen of scots. it appears that a man couldn't safely make love in those days. but as he was tried for his religion--not for love--he was not beheaded, but was mercifully permitted to "languish in prison" till he died. it is probable that his jailors did not feed him on porter-house steaks. the earl of warwick and the three brothers dudley were here. the duke, the eldest of the three, was beheaded, and the others mercifully starved to death. a gentleman named gyfford was put to the rack in the tower, and finally consenting to answer the questions put to him--your rack was a rare persuader--was probably dismissed. but doubtless the headsman got him. dr. stohr, who refused to deny his religion--he was a catholic--was imprisoned here, and was released only to suffer a cruel death at tyburn. being a catholic, and murdered by protestants, we may draw from his history the useful lesson that persecution was not, strictly speaking, confined to the catholic church, as is popularly supposed. the protestants, when in power, knew the uses of the rack, and thumbscrew, and stake, just as well as the catholics, and they were just as handy with them. [illustration: the overworked headsman--fifty in one day.] [sidenote: interesting relics.] the brothers poole wanted mary to be the queen, and they went the long road from here. but the list is too long for these pages. [illustration: the persuasive rack.] that you may be perfectly sure of the accuracy of these things, the identical headsman's block is carefully preserved, with the ax he used and the mask he wore when engaged in his delightful duty. the ax is shaped very like a butcher's cleaver, and the mask is about the most fiendish face that a devilish ingenuity could devise. ugly and devilish as it is, it was probably an improvement on the face it concealed. you are shown the thumbscrew and rack. the thumbscrew would extort a confession from a dead man; and the rack--well, that is something inconceivably devilish. you are laid in a box; ropes on windlasses are tied to your ankles and wrists; then the windlasses are turned, inch by inch, till your joints are dislocated. after enduring the rack and answering questions the way they desired,--for a man in that apparatus would say anything for a moment's respite--you are hurried to the block for fear you may recant as soon as you get out of it. then what was said in the rack was put upon record as a testimony on which to rack and behead other people. those were the "good old days of merrie england." [illustration: the byward tower. [from the west.]] [sidenote: more murder.] during the reign of edward iii. six hundred jews were imprisoned in the dungeons of the tower for "adulterating the coin of the realm." the trouble with these jews was they had too much of the coin of the realm, and edward too little. the chronicler goes on to say that so strong was the prejudice of the king against these people that he banished the race from england, but, with the thrift that distinguished the kings of that day, he compelled them to leave behind them their immense wealth, which he gobbled, and their libraries, which, as he couldn't read he had no use for, went to the monasteries. i suppose he sold them by the pound to the monks who could read. king edward has a counterpart in the english landlord of to-day. he allows no foreigner to take any money out of the kingdom. it is curious how national traits show in people through ages. england has no more barons to take things by the strong hand, but she has hotel-keepers. their processes are different, but the result is the same. they have no racks now, but they have beds--the thumb-screw is gone forever, but bills are yet made out. in those days it was not enough to be a heretic or disturber to gain admission to this portal to the tomb; it was only necessary to be suspected, and when a man in favor wanted to get his enemy out of the way, it was very easy to suspect. talent, usefulness to the state--nothing was proof against it. cromwell, one of the most brilliant men of his day, secretary to the still greater wolsey, on a most frivolous charge, was seized and beheaded. he was becoming too powerful to suit the favorites. women suffered the same as men, and exalted station went for nothing. sir walter raleigh was beheaded please the spaniards, one of whose princesses the king desired to marry. [illustration: the middle tower (from the east.)] a large part of the vast building is now used as a great national armory. stored within its walls are ninety thousand rifles of the latest and most approved patterns, all in perfect order, even to the oiling, and ready for use at a moment's notice. england is always ready for war. it would be a quick nation that could catch her napping. these murderous weapons looked cheerfully by comparison with the barbarous tools the old english used. after looking at the battle-axes, and flails, and lances, it would seem to be a comfort to be merely shot to death with a martini henry rifle. one could feel some sort of comfort in going out _via_ a decent rifle ball. [illustration: the beef eater.] [sidenote: the ancient beef eaters.] the guards of the tower are the famous "beef eaters," and are all habited in the uniform of the yeomen of the guard of the time of henry vii., who instituted the corps. the present yeomen are all old soldiers, who have distinguished themselves, and a very pleasant time they have of it. they don't have to drag women to the block by the hair of their heads any more, but spend most of their time standing around listlessly and eating ham sandwiches, which is certainly better than their ancient employment. there is nothing cruel in an english ham sandwich but its indigestibility, and that only concerns the eater. it is a matter entirely between him and his stomach, and does not concern me at all. [illustration: the flint tower.] the ancient kings did not have as good a time as one would think, for every now and then a baron would raise a rebellion, or a knight would shoot a vicious arrow at him, or the house of commons would rise, and protest with arms in their hands against his abuses. but their followers, these fellows whose armors are before me this minute, they did have a good time. their masters found it to their own interest to feed them well, and their little acts of oppression on their own account were winked at. and so they lived a jolly life, their bodies pampered with food, their noses in a constant blush for the liquor they consumed, and with the pick of the daughters of the peasantry, who were helpless against them. it was no small thing to be a stout man-at-arms in those days, and in the service of a powerful lord. fighting was really and literally meat and drink to them, and they actually liked it. [illustration: the traitor's gate.] suspected men of unusual importance were always conveyed to the tower by water, in barges gorgeous to a degree. hence there is a water gate called "traitor's gate," which is worth seeing, when one considers how many great men have passed through it to their death. for a commitment to the tower was equivalent to death. if a man was accused of treason, or witchcraft, or anything else, and the party against him was strong enough to send him to the tower, that ended it. or if a king desired to get rid of anybody, man or woman, it was easy enough to have a charge brought, a commitment to the tower followed, and the dispatch was easy enough. the tower was a slaughter pen where those obnoxious to a king or his favorites could be butchered without uncomfortable publicity, and, if necessary with some color of law. as if the favorite should say: "your majesty, what shall we do with sir thomas buster? behead him?" [sidenote: the case of sir thomas buster.] "oh, bother, what's the use of going to that worry. a knife under his fifth rib will do as well." and accordingly the next morning, just before his breakfast was served, a low-browed ruffian would go to his cell, and sir thomas would get the knife under his ribs, and a hole would be dug, and that was the last of him. they generally stabbed them at seven in the morning, to save the expenses of the last breakfast. he might as well go into the hereafter on an empty stomach, and it was that much saved to the king's treasury. they had a good notion of economy in some directions. or a hasty trial might be had, and the illustrious prisoner might be led to the block and have his head chopped off. anyhow it amounted to the same thing, sir thomas was bound to die in one way or another. [illustration: what shall we do with sir thomas buster?] i have a profound respect for the murdered of the tower, but not a particle for their sacred butchers, the kings and queens of that day. to have been murdered in the tower, no matter by what means or in what way, was a certificate of good character that should have lasted till to-day. by chance, they might occasionally kill a bad man, but as a rule the victims were men who incurred the displeasure of the powers that were by opposing infamy; by making some sort of a stand, no matter how weak, for something good. i should liked to have had time to get flowers to drop on the spots where they were supposed to be interred, and i would have done it to some extent, only no one knows where these spots are. a flower dropped anywhere within the tower would fall on some one's grave, but you might possibly decorate the wrong man. i didn't do it, and i don't suppose the illustrious deceased would care much about it anyhow. if i cared anything about what posterity should say about me after i had gone hence, i shouldn't want anything better than to have been butchered in the tower. that is a better patent of nobility than any that king or kaiser can confer. whoso died there, died in a good cause, no matter what it was. the victim must have been good, for the kingly butcher was always bad. [illustration: the easiest way.] chapter xi. two english nuisances--dress and tips. with that propensity for lying on the part of traveled men and women to which i have had occasion to refer, the intending tourist is warned by all who have crossed the water to take as little clothing as possible, for the reason that "you can get any clothes you want in london at half the money, and then you have the style, you know." what infernal spirit seizes traveled people and compels such terrible falsification, i cannot conceive. quality considered, clothing is no cheaper in london than in new york. which is to say, if you are so lost to all sense of what is due yourself and the world as to wear such clothes as the londoner does, you can get them quite as cheaply in new york as in london, and even if you want bad clothes the style will be better. should the american tailor try ever so hard to make a badly-fitting garment, his conscience, his taste, his everything, would rebel against doing such work as the english tailor considers quite good enough for anybody. you can get at a fairly fashionable shop in london a suit of black or blue, frock coat, trowsers and vest, for five pounds, which looks very cheap to one who has been in the habit of paying sixty-five dollars for the same clothing in new york or boston. but just wait till you get the clothes and the idea of cheapness goes like dew under a july sun. all there is cheap in the transaction is the suit. the material is very cheap, cheap to the point of flimsiness, and the making--heaven help you--it is thrown together. there are no stays to the pockets, no reinforcing to the seat, no leather on the inside of the bottoms of the trowsers, and the linings of the coat and vest, or waistcoat, as these semi-barbarians call it, are of the cheapest and flimsiest material that a devilish ingenuity can weave. the suit cannot possibly wear a month and look decent. but the worst is yet to come. you try it on. we will suppose the coat to be a single-breasted frock. you are immediately astonished at the liberality of your tailor in the matter of cloth, for when you draw the lapels together you find yourself able to button the right hand one on the left hand shoulder. "too much cloth in front," you remark. "i thought you wanted an easy fit!" the villain answers without a blush. "so i did, but i did not want all the cloth in your shop." then comes an animated discussion. you insist that it never has been your habit to go about in a sack, that you prefer not to appear habited in a bag. the tailor stands off a foot or two, and admits that while it is perhaps "a trifle easy," it is still a proper garment and quite in the mode. but if you prefer he will alter it. prefer! why it will fit daniel lambert. it is twice too large for you and of course it must be altered. then he takes french chalk, and makes a lot of marks on it and you leave it. in a few days he sends it to you altered. you put it on, and commence swearing if you are a profane man, and objurgating, if you are not. i objurgated. for the trowsers hang about your legs like bags, the waistcoat climbs up the back of your neck to the ears, the coat is loose where it should fit closely, it is tight where it should be easy, the skirts hang about you awkwardly, it is angular, stiff and awkward, and yet it comes so near to being a garment that you are compelled to take it, especially, as, following the advice of the infernal tourist who said to you to take only one suit with you, you must have it at once. and so you put it on, and go out into the street, feeling as though you were an object to be stared at, and blighted. you bear not only the burden of physical discomfort, for a misfit is always uncomfortable, but have the consciousness that you are badly dressed, and that every bad point in your physical make-up, is made still more conspicuous by the lack of skill in a tailor. [sidenote: the mix in clothes.] the only comfort you have is that everybody else is just as badly apparelled. your american friends know at a glance that it is not your fault, but that you have passed under the blighting shears of an english tailor, and your english friends are all in the same fix. but then they enjoy bad clothes, never having had any other. there were four americans in one house in london who each ordered a suit of clothes of one tailor at one time. the four suits came home saturday evening, and were all tried on sunday morning. one was tall and slender, another short and stout, the third was dumpy, and the fourth was medium in height and breadth. [illustration: the suits come home.] no. rushed into my room. "look here," he exclaimed "there is a mistake somewhere. these clothes must be yours. they were never made for me." no. entered. "these d----d trowsers must be yours. they were never made for me." and in a minute no. came in with the same exclamation. an examination of the addresses on the wrapping paper showed, however, that each had received the clothes intended for him, notwithstanding that each suit would have better fitted some other man. and then i soothed them by explaining that the english tailor makes all clothes alike; that he goes upon the supposition that every man should be so high, and so broad, and that measurement is a mere form gone through with as a professional fraud, the same as a lawyer looks the wisest when he knows the least; and that to make any fuss about it would result in nothing, and the only thing to do was to take them, pay for them, and wear them while in england. they were no worse off than everybody else, and that they should be philosophical and content. one remarked, with a great deal of truth, that all the philosophy in the world wouldn't make a six foot man look well in a pair of trowsers constructed for a five foot sixer, and another that he knew of no philosophy that would support one under the trying affliction of a coat that bagged on the shoulders and in the back, and that had no more shape to it than a bean sack. that is where they were wrong. that is what philosophy is made for. england has given the world its greatest philosophers, her philosophers being made necessary by her tailors, the same as every country that cherishes an especially poisonous serpent, also grows a particularly powerful antidote, and the snake and antidote grow together. the women dress a trifle worse than the men--their dressmakers are a trifle worse than their tailors. if an english woman would only buy her gowns ready made, it would be better, for there would be a chance--only a slight one, it is true, but yet a chance--of her getting a fit; but she will not. she goes to the most expensive modiste, "to get something good," and then all hope of a prettily dressed woman is gone, and gone forever. [sidenote: a badly dressed people.] you can tell an american or french woman as far as you can see one. the neatly fitting dress, so neatly fitting as to make you almost think the woman had been melted and poured into it, the dress of which an american girl said, that when she got into it she felt as if she had been born again; the neat little shoe; the grace with which the dress is carried, and the grace of the woman who carries it; all contrast terribly with the angular gown, the shawl badly hung, and awkwardly worn, the ugly shoe and the large foot it covers, and the square, steady, grenadier-like step of the english woman. no matter how expensive the material, or how costly the garments, no matter how much nature has done for the englishwomen, (and they are, as a rule, magnificent specimens of womankind,) they can't dress, and consequently lose half their attractiveness. they have strength, but they sadly lack grace. it is all well enough for me, for i prefer badly fitting clothes, desiring to keep down to the ordinary level, and not be made too conspicuous; but it is hard upon those less favored, and who need to reinforce nature by art. but always bear this in mind. when you come abroad bring with you all the clothes you think you will need, unless, indeed, you come flying light in the matter of baggage for convenience of transit. if that is your idea it is well, but if you come expecting to furnish yourself in england at a less price, or to get superior styles, you will be the worst deceived man or woman in the world. quality considered, there is nothing cheaper than in america, and, as for style, it is a parisian dandy to a hottentot. the english tailor is the most detestable cloth-butcher on the globe. so unutterably bad is he that i cannot ascribe his miracles of misfits to lack of mechanical skill, or general imbecility; there must be underlying his work a fiendish purpose and determination. the english tailor or dressmaker must be a misanthropic individual who has a spite against the human race, and they must have a vengeance to wreak which they accomplish in this way. i don't wish it to be understood that all english men and women are badly dressed. i have seen some most charming toilettes, but on inquiry i found that they were well-to-do people who could afford to go to paris to get their clothes, or those who had just returned from new york. if you desire to be well dressed in london, take your clothes with you. this is the parting advice of a sufferer and victim. i have paid for my experience--i give it to my readers gratis. that is what i am here for, and i shall discharge my duty regardless of consequences. the next principal nuisance you meet in england is the system of "tipping." "tipping," be it known, is gratuities given to servants, or whomsoever does anything for you which, in any other enlightened country on the face of the globe, is considered an act of courtesy, or a matter of right. it commences the moment you leave the dock at new york. you have paid a very large sum for your passage, enough to entitle you to every comfort that money can buy. but there sets upon you immediately a horde of blood-suckers who never let go, till, gorged, they drop off at liverpool. there is a sovereign to the man who makes your bed; there is the chamber-maid, there is the table steward, the smoking-room steward, the deck steward; there are collections for asylums in liverpool; there are collections for the man who attends to the purser's room, where a select few are treated to a little refreshment at five in the afternoon; there are fees for showing the machinery of the vessel; there are tips for the lord only knows what. the only thing free about the vessel is the water outside, and could a scheme be devised for making you pay for a sight of that it would be put into operation at once. then there is the english hotel. the landlord measures you as you come in. he inventories you. he says "this man will stand six pounds, or eight may be. that will leave him enough to get back to london, with a cab fare to take him to his lodgings." and so when he makes his bill he manages to make it to the exact amount of what he thinks you have about your person, irrespective of what accommodation you have received. in paying this enormous bill should you display more money than he supposed you carried, he gnashes his teeth and howls with rage. but he very seldom gnashes or howls. he is a very skillful person, and knows intuitively to a half-sovereign how much you will, or rather can, bleed. [sidenote: at an english hotel.] you contract for your room for so much a day--and the sum is always a round one--and it is explained to you that you may order your meals from a bill of fare, the price of each dish being set down opposite its name. very good, you say to yourself, i know now what i am to pay, and you fall to work. do you? not much. there stands a waiter, who makes a frantic effort to appear like a man, but only succeeds in getting to where darwin commenced the human race. but he rubs his hands, and smirks, and smiles, and brings you your orders, and still smiles and smiles, and would be a villain were there enough of him. he does all he can in this direction, however. when you are through, you rise and prepare to get out. the waiter stops you with an obsequious smile in which there is much determination, and remarks, "the waiter!" you are made to understand that he expects a shilling. you give it to him. getting to your room you want a pitcher of water. a servant brings it, and waits till you give him a six pence. you take a drink--if you do drink--i know this from seeing other victims--you pay for the drink, and the servant who brings it to you expects and manages to get three pence. the boy who cleans your boots wants six pence, the chambermaid who sweeps your room wants a shilling, the boy who goes down to see if you have any letters wants six pence, and after paying for all this you get your bill. understand you have already paid exorbitant prices for each and every bit of service you have received, but nevertheless, there in your bill is an item, "attendance four days, eight shillings." you pay it without a murmur, externally; and hope you are done with it. not so. as you leave the hotel, there stands the entire retinue of servants, the boots, the chambermaid, the bar-man, the bell-boy, all with their hands extended, and every one expecting a parting shower of small coin. you pay it. there is no other way to do. you see how it is. you pay the servants for the performance of every possible duty when they perform it; you then pay the landlord for the duties already paid for, and then as you leave the house you pay the servants over again. three times for the same service, and that whether any service has been rendered or not. you get into your cab and drive to the station. the legal fare is one and six pence. the cabby expects six pence in addition, for himself, the porter who shows you what car to get into, with the uniform of the company on his back, expects four pence for that, the other porter who takes your valise to the car-door, must be fed, and so on, and so on forever and forever. i tried conclusions with a hotel clerk in a city in england, but i shall never do it again. there is no use. you might as well submit first as last. you may struggle, but they have you as certainly as their ancestors and prototypes, the old barons, had the jews. i went to bed at night with two candles on the mantel. it was bright moonlight, and as i had read my regular chapter in the revised testament in the office, i had no occasion for light. i simply wanted to get into bed, therefore i didn't light the candles, at all. the next morning i found in my bill a charge for two candles, two shillings. i protested. "i used no candles," i said. "but they were there," was the cool reply. "perhaps you used matches--it is all the same." "but i didn't use matches, and if i did, i had my own." "we do everything for the comfort of the guests of the house. there were candles and matches for you." he never blushed but took the two shillings as coolly as possible, receipted the bill and said "thank you," and hoped if i ever visited the place again i would call upon them. [illustration: the candle episode.] i presume i shall. it doesn't make any difference where you go, it is all the same; and if you are to be swindled, it is preferable to have it done by somebody you have a slight acquaintance with. it reminded me of the man who built a tavern in indiana. a traveler stopped with him one night, and the next morning asked for his bill. [sidenote: the english landlord.] "twelve hundred and fifty dollars," said the landlord, promptly. "twelve hundred and fifty dollars for one day! it is outrageous!" "it is a little high," said the landlord, "but i'll tell you how it is. i opened this house exactly a year ago yesterday. i expected to make a thousand dollars the first year, and you are the first customer i have had. i ought to charge you a little more to cover insurance, but i like you, and don't want to be hard on you. twelve hundred and fifty dollars will do." the english landlord likewise makes out his bill with the calm confidence that he will never see his guest again. he seldom does--if the guest can help it. [illustration: the little bill.] i have orated much against the american hotel clerk and his diamond pin and cool insolence, but i shall never do it again. he is a babe in arms as compared with his english brother. [illustration: getting ready to leave a hotel.] the system of feeing goes into everything and everywhere. you are begrudged a breath of fresh air, unless you are willing to tip somebody, and i suppose a tip would be required for a snore, if a servant could possibly get into your room. [illustration: the last straw.] in fact, you cannot go anywhere in london without the everlasting and eternal tip, except the british museum. that is the single and sole exception. there, on certain days, there is no admission fee, and you pay nothing for having your cane and umbrella cared for. but everywhere else you pay an admission fee, you pay a swindler for taking your cane, and you pay the guide for giving you an entirely unintelligible account of what is to be seen. even westminster abbey, the most sacred spot in england, has its regular system of tips. it is not as it was in the temple of jerusalem, in the time of our savior. there were money changers there--here the vergers give no change. they keep all you give them. consequently they are not liable to be scourged out. [illustration: the cabman tipped.] in the restaurants there is a charge on the bills for attendance, but nevertheless you are expected to tip the man who waits upon you. by the way, these waiters get no pay for their services; they pay the proprietors a bonus for their places. [sidenote: would the queen accept a tip?] the hackney coach driver gets about two shillings a day from the proprietors of his vehicles, and makes his money from his customers. the man who drove us down to the derby expected, and did not expect in vain, for he demanded it directly, two shillings each from his twelve passengers, notwithstanding the fact that we had paid twelve dollars and fifty cents each for our passage. [illustration: the universal demand.] it runs through everything. i will not say that the queen herself divides with her servants the tips they receive, for i do not know. i will not make statements rashly. but i presume she does. i do not see how so important a source of revenue should escape her notice, or be neglected. i shall not offer her sixpence when i inspect any of her palaces, nor do i say she would take it from me. but so firmly fixed is the infernal system, so much is it a part of english life, that i verily believe it would wrench the amiable old lady's heart not to take it, and i also believe that she would so manage that i should not get away with it in my possession. oh! my countrymen! it is my duty to warn you against a great impending danger. the system of tipping is, gradually but surely, getting its rapacious fingers upon your vitals. it has its clammy grasp upon your sleeping cars; it is gradually working into hotels, and everywhere else. strangle the monster in its infancy. declare war upon it at once, and fight it to the death. refuse to pay the sleeping car porter for what you have already paid the corporation of which he is an excrescence. refuse sternly to fee the servant at a hotel, the porter who handles your trunk, and the man who waits on you at table. when he says to you, "my wages are small, and i must have fees," say to him, kindly but firmly, "either make the proprietor pay you proper wages or quit his employ. if you cannot plow or hammer stone, go out quietly and die for the good of the many. it is not necessary that you should wear a swallow-tailed coat, and make more for trivial services than the average mechanic does for a hard day's work. we will none of it." and so shall you rid yourself of the most infernal nuisance that afflicts england, the one petty worriment that makes the life of the tourist unhappy. we can endure a giant monopoly, but these small tyrannies are unbearable. [illustration: the lord mayor's show--on the thames.] chapter xii. portsmouth. way down upon the southern coast of england is an old town of more than ordinary interest. everybody is familiar with that great depot for england's naval and military forces--portsmouth. the run down from london is one of delight, that is it would be were it not for the fact that the stolid briton will not keep pace with the times, and introduce upon his railroads modern carriages, in which a traveler may ride with some degree of comfort. he refuses to abandon the ancient compartment carriage, which is the most abominable arrangement conceivable. the cars, as we would call them, are about half the size of the ordinary american passenger coaches, but instead of being large, roomy and convenient, they are exactly the reverse. they are divided into compartments, each one of which will hold ten persons, five on each side, facing each other. after booking your place, instead of buying your ticket--although really you do buy a ticket--you take your seat in one of these compartments, in which are nine other persons. thereupon the guard, about like our brakeman, locks the door, and you are a prisoner until the next station is reached. there are absolutely no conveniences. you are simply compelled to sit bolt upright, in a close, stuffy room, in company with nine other persons whom you don't know, and don't care to know. you can't walk from one end of the car to the other, because there is no aisle, as in our cars. you can do nothing but sit there and think what reforms you would inaugurate were you only a board of directors on one of the roads. [sidenote: the beauties of english railways.] [illustration: a second hand debauch.] it is possibly a finicky sort of a person who would object to trifles light as air; but there be breaths that are not as light as air, and they are no trifles. you travel second or third class, and there shall be nine sturdy englishmen smoking short pipes, or villainous cigars, with their breaths ornamented with every variety of very bad liquor that the combined genius of the liquor compounders of all nations can produce. likewise there are feet innocent of baths. if you happen to have an end seat you may let down the window and get fresh air, but heaven help you if you are in the middle. you inhale the fumes till a state approaching intoxication ensues, but you must sit there all the same, for there is no escape. such a debauch may be cheap; but i never did like anything second-hand--second-hand intoxication least of all. i vastly prefer original sin. and then imagine the pleasure of traveling in such company as one must necessarily be thrown into by this system. the terrible tragedy on the brighton road recently, gives a good idea of some of its beauties. a well-to-do merchant living in the country had been to london to make some sales of land, and was spotted by an impecunious wretch, who had previously known him. the merchant, whose name was gold, left london on the afternoon train, and was alone in one of these compartments, securely locked with the villain, whose name was lefroy. it seems from the facts of the case, as gathered by the police, that while between two stations lefroy attacked gold. there was a violent struggle, during the course of which lefroy killed gold, rifled the body and threw it out of the window, as it was found by the road side. when the guard unlocked the compartment at the next station lefroy invented some flimsy story about some mysterious shooting, to account for the presence of the blood, and actually made his escape. it is comforting to know that afterward lefroy was caught, tried and hung. england does hang murderers. how utterly impossible such a tragedy would have been in an american car. but here the victim had absolutely no way of calling for or obtaining assistance. the two were alone, locked in the compartment, and the cries of the wretched man as he realized his danger, were drowned by the noise of the train thundering along at sixty miles an hour. but to return to portsmouth. the scenery from london is charming. the train rushes along, after leaving the fog and smoke of london in the rear, through the garden land of england. the fields are all cultivated, the farm houses, ancient and peculiar, have an air of solidity and comfort, and an occasional castle lends variety to the scene and makes the picture perfect. the towns through which the road passes are, of course, all very old. they abound in red-tiled houses of antique pattern, narrow streets, that at the end of the village lose themselves in beautiful lanes, fringed on either side with long rows of stately trees that shade the close-cut hawthorne hedges. but over all these is an air of age. everything is finished. everything is complete. we have visited so many old towns, and inspected so many old buildings, that it would be a positive relief to see a brand new house, painted white, with green shutters, whose gable roof glistens in the sunlight with its new pine shingles. but, alas! that cannot be. here everything is old and purely english. portsmouth was reached after a delightful run of two and a half hours, and soon after we were snugly quartered in the queerest hostelry imaginable, our comfortable room overlooking an arm of the sea, upon which were all manner of craft, from the diminutive dory to the massive merchantman. [sidenote: nelson's ship.] portsmouth is, and always has been, one of england's strongest points. situated in a most commanding position it has been an invaluable factor in her matter of defenses. only five or six miles away, the isle of wight runs for miles parallel with the coast, forming a narrow passage through which the vessels for a foreign nation, if they intended to make a hostile landing in that neighborhood, must pass. spithead, the famous place of entry and departure of vessels, is just off portsmouth, and is guarded, as is the passage, by two immense stone forts, built at no end of labor and money, directly in the channel, effectually protecting that entrance. and then to make things more secure, there is a series of three forts on the isle of wight, while portsmouth, to speak within bounds, is made up almost entirely of forts. at first one wonders why england finds it necessary to keep these forts, and the heavy force of soldiers required to garrison them. at portsmouth is one of the largest, if not the largest, dock yard in the world, upon the safety of which the fate of the nation's navy depends, and if that point, strong as it is, and affording such excellent opportunities for the protection of the southern coast, were to fall into the hands of an enemy, it would open all england to it. and your english are great generals. in time of peace they prepare for war, and keep all things in readiness for any emergency, no matter how sudden or how severe. the harbor is a beautiful one and full of interest. of course there is the inevitable waterman, with his tarpaulin hat and tight fitting "jersey," who beseeches "y'r hon'r," to let him row you about. and of course he carries his point. the very first thing he does, before you can admire the strange species of ships that are on every hand, is to row you directly to lord nelson's flag ship, the "victory," on which the gallant sailor died, at the battle of trafalgar. but one is not sorry at that, for nelson's character was one that compelled the admiration of every one who had ever studied him and his glorious achievements. with what a thrill, then, one stands upon the very deck upon which he trod during one the most brilliant sea fights in the annals of history, to go upon the gun decks where he commanded his gallant sailors. with what feeling of sadness one stands on the spot where he stood when the deadly leaden ball of a french sharpshooter gave him his death wound, and with uncovered head bows before the spot where the soul of the greatest, bravest sailor the world ever knew, winged its way amid the smoke and horror of battle to the peaceful haven of the great hereafter. [illustration: the anniversary ceremonies--"here nelson fell."] [sidenote: in the harbour.] the anniversary of the battle is celebrated regularly, and the old ship is once each year made radiant with flowers. a beautiful wreath is always placed upon the spot on the deck where the hero fell. it does not seem possible that the great, clumsy-looking vessels that were used in those days could even be navigated, to say nothing of fighting with them. the "victory," which is only one of a half dozen of the same kind now laid up--put on the retired list--in portsmouth harbor, is a huge floating castle, and required, when in commission, one thousand men to operate her. she is fifty-eight feet from the main deck to the hold, though she seems, with her four decks above the water line, to be even higher than that. comparing her with the long, narrow iron-clad of to-day, it requires a considerable stretch of imagination to realize that she had once been really in service, and no slight service, either. [illustration: in the harbor.] a two hours' trip around the harbor is one of constantly increasing interest. there are ships and ships. here are immense men-of-war, full rigged and ready for a cruise, alongside of which is a trim yacht flying the pennant of the royal yacht squadron. here a huge merchantman, with a cargo from bombay, perhaps. beyond, a great white steamer, larger than the transatlantic passenger steamship, that takes england's soldiers, these same red-coated fellows we see strutting about here with their diminutive caps jauntily perched over their left ear, out to india to help keep the natives quiet and subdued. right here is the queen's private yacht, the "albert and mary," a vessel of large dimensions, and fitted up in the most exquisite manner. this is the ship the queen takes her little excursions in, and occasionally sends it across the channel to bring over some distinguished personage whom she wishes to honor. near this palatial steamer, as though to make the contrast all the greater, is an old man-of-war, built years ago, and found now to be of no use, either for the purpose for which it was originally built, or for the carrying trade. so it lies there a worn-out monument of the past, gradually yielding to the ravages of time. but the great point of interest in portsmouth is the dockyards, the finest in the world. a thorough survey of it would take three or four days, but a stroll of four or five hours gives one a fair idea of what it is. here the mammoth vessels belonging to england's naval equipment are taken for repairs, and the dry docks, of which no description is sufficient to convey a definite idea of their size and general appearance, are constantly filled with them. these docks are magnificent specimens of masonry, some of them being acres in extent, and built in the most solid, substantial manner. in the great buildings fronting on the water are vessels of all sizes and descriptions, in course of construction, some ready to launch, and others in the first stage of the work. [sidenote: soldiers and sailors.] just now the workmen are engaged in putting the finishing touches on a great iron-clad turret-ship, of which england is very proud. and well she may be, for the "inflexible" is really a wonderful vessel, with her two turrets bearing each two guns of eighty tons weight. the turrets, made of heavy iron plates, are made to revolve by machinery, so that the guns may be fired in any direction. the loading and cleaning is all done by ingeniously arranged machinery, worked by hydraulic pressure. in fact, all over the ship steam power is used wherever it is possible, and in some instances where it seems almost impossible. she is built entirely of iron, and seems impregnable. as one gazes upon her monstrous proportions, her terrible facilities for dealing death and destruction, there comes involuntarily the wish that there may never be an occasion when her loud-mouthed and frightfully effective services may be required. impregnable as she seems to be, english mechanics are busy inventing guns to pierce her. that is going on all the time. they construct a vessel which will resist any gun they have, and then construct a gun which will pierce the vessel. where it will end the lord only knows. in england the irresistible is always meeting the immovable, and vice versa. in portsmouth, more than in any place in england, the policy of england is manifest. portsmouth is one vast fort, and every other man you see on her streets is a soldier. you come upon vast fortifications everywhere, long lines of earth works stretch in every direction on the coast, commanding every approach to the city, and vast stores of ammunition are piled away safe and secure but ready for use at a moment's notice. portsmouth is a watch dog for that part of the island, and it would be a daring foe that would attack her. it gives you a very good idea of england's strength, and of her power of defense. but heaven help the people who have to foot the bills for all this. after a day spent in the midst of all these places suggestive of war with its terrible sequences, it was a pleasure, in the evening, when the light sea breeze tempered the heat that had been so oppressive, to stroll down to the "old fort," as it is called, though it bears but faint resemblance now, to an effective fortification. its heavy stone abutments that were once crowned with cannon, are now covered with moss; the cannons have been taken away, and in their stead are rustic seats around which happy children laugh and play, while their nurses sit talking of their red coated favorites in the adjoining barracks. there is just now an air of peace and harmony, of war days done away with, that is only disturbed by the occasional sight of a sentry who paces his beat in front of the barracks. it is [illustration: under cliff--isle of wight.] [sidenote: our steamer friend tibbitts.] peace now, but the sentry shows how insecure the peace. england must be always ready for war. but standing upon a parapet, overlooking the sea, one forgets for the time the fact that he is in the very midst of that oppressive power, the strong arm of the soldier, and gives himself up to kindlier thoughts, brought up by the marvelous beauties of the scene spread out before him like the mystic picture painted by fairy hands. the sea, over which the last rays of the sinking sun dance and shimmer, is just rippled with a light breeze that sends the graceful little yachts skimming merrily over its surface. the misty outlines of the isle of wight, half hidden by a delicate purple haze, gradually fade from sight as the sun sinks lower and lower, and throws a broad path of golden light along the bright blue water. as it sinks into the sea, a great globe of brilliant red, a stately ship, with graceful masts rising high in air, cuts the path of golden light, and for an instant is clearly outlined against the glowing orb. every mast, every rope, even, can be seen clearly and distinctly against the beautiful background. for an instant every outline is tinged with gold, then it passes slowly on, the sun sinks beneath the waves, and then comes the soft twilight, when one "sinks into reveries and dreams." this reverie and dream business is all very well for awhile, but it cannot last, and the awakening is not pleasant. the good old town of portsmouth, with its historical memories, the beautiful harbor filled with so much that is interesting, must be left for others to enjoy while we go back to london and resume the routine of sight seeing--that is, to draw it mildly, becoming just a trifle tiresome. one can have too much of even london. * * * * * on our return to london we met our old steamer friend, tibbitts's lemuel, of oshkosh. he had been traveling in the north of england, and tiring of the smaller cities and the country, had returned to london to "do it." he was rather puffy in the cheeks and rather bleary about the eyes, which showed a season of not altogether strict adherence to the precepts of father matthew. he was overjoyed at seeing us, as men always are at seeing anybody of whom they want something. he was in trouble. "look here," said lemuel, "you are a good fellow, now, and i know you will help me out. you see i came over for improvement and experience, and to enlarge my mind, and all that sort of thing, and the old gentleman insisted that i should keep a diary, and note down _my_ impressions of scenery, and industries, and modes of living, and all that, and send it to him regularly, and i _must_ do it, or he will cut off the supplies, and bring me home." "well, that is easy enough. you have done it? you have kept a diary?" "yes, a sort of a diary. you see there were four of us in the party, devilish good fellows, one from chicago, and two from new york, and we went to a lot of places, and saw a great deal, and i wrote in my memorandum book every day, but it was certainly the last thing i did before going to bed, about four o'clock in the morning, or a little later. what the old gentleman wanted was not only an account of all this rot, but _my_ impression of the places, to develop me. you understand?" [illustration: the unfinished entries in the diary.] "yes; and a good idea it is. did you write down your impressions of the places you visited?" "well, yes; but i am afraid they won't satisfy father. he is mighty particular, and awful sharp." "will you let me see your memorandum book?" [sidenote: tibbitts' diary.] he handed it to me, and these are some of the entries, which were, no doubt, written at four in the morning, the last thing before getting into bed; and they were, unquestionably, _his_ impressions. i select a few at random, these few being excellent samples of the whole lot:-- _leeds_--manufacturing city--beer very bad--scotch whisky tolerable, though i never liked it cold. _birmingham_--manufacturing city--beer bad--not equal to our lager--no good beer in england--stout rather better--went in on stout. _manchester_--good bottle beer--draft beer bad--all draft--(this sentence was not finished, probably for reasons. he explained that that night he slept in his boots.) _sheffield_--manufacturing city--found some genuine american bourbon, and went for it--it was refreshing, as a reminder at home--don't know about the beer--there's no place like home. _nottingham_--don't know what the people do--a great many of them--beer bad as usual--guinness' stout in bottles fairish--wish-- (another unfinished sentence, explained as before.) and so on. i told lemuel that it certainly would not do to send these impressions to his father, as evidently he observed only one side of english life; that he had taken his observations through a glass darkly, but that i really hadn't the time to write up a set for him, especially as i had not visited those places myself. "but what am i to do?" advising him to procure a good guide-book, and remain sober for a week, and get to work, we parted. there are a great many lemuels getting similar impressions of europe--a great many; i may say altogether too many. [illustration: westminster abbey--interior.] chapter xiii. westminster abbey. sometime in the sixth century a saxon king, named sebert, founded an abbey, where westminster now stands. it is another of the regular show places of london, and possibly the most interesting, unless it be the tower. it has been rebuilt a dozen or more times, and is really the most beautiful building in london of its class. [illustration: exterior of westminster abbey.] the abbey is three hundred and seventy-five feet in length, by two hundred in width, and its height from the pavement to the foot of the lantern is one hundred and forty feet. i know this, for i got it from the guide-book. there is nothing in england, in the way of architecture, more striking or grand. the beautiful is not always the grand, or the grand the beautiful. westminster abbey is both. the old architects might not have been able to have built the capitol at washington, and they certainly could not have built the court house in new york, and made it cost more than the houses of parliament, for they were not that kind of architects; they mostly died poor and did not wear diamonds, but they managed to erect a building that is worth the passage across the atlantic to see. [illustration: the entrance to the abbey.] [sidenote: seeing the abbey.] on entering the abbey you run the gauntlet of a dozen or more fellows who have the privilege of selling guide-books. they will not take "no!" for an answer, but manage somehow to compel the gratuity. they are potiphar's wives with designs upon your pockets, and you have to choose between yielding to them, like joseph, or leaving some portion of your garments in their grasp. you always shed the sixpence. then you wander about through the magnificent structure, reading tablets on which are inscribed the virtues of all sorts of men, till happily remembering that kings and queens were buried in the building, you ask whereabouts they may be lying. some one gives the information, the party is made up, and you place yourself under the charge of what they call a verger, a beery old fellow, with a face that blazes like a comet, with some sort of a black gown over his shoulders, who conducts you to the gate of a chapel, at which stands another beery old fellow, with a like face and a similar gown on his shoulders, who deliberately asks you for sixpence apiece, which being paid, you pass in, very like you would in a circus. then the beery old fellow commences in a sing-song, monotonous way, his descriptions:-- "the first on the left is the tomb of queen eleanor, who died in the year of our lord," and so on. he intones his service just about as those officiating in the other services do, only he goes on without making a stop or punctuating a sentence. he guides you from one room to another without the slightest pause, and when he gets through he and the one at the gate, who takes the money, go out and drink beer till another party is formed. but it is a very cheap show, and i am under obligations to the church of england for the delight. in fact, it is a big shilling's worth--for a drinking man. one blast from the fiery orifice in the volcanic face of the verger is enough to save anybody sixpence in beer, and as for the book, why you have it, and it is worth the money. thus, you see, you have the show of the building and the dead kings thrown in. i was not sure that we should not have given the dean a shilling or two, and i felt like offering it to him, but, unfortunately, i was out of silver. it is not the magnificence and grandeur of the structure, or its sacredness as a place of religious worship, that give westminster abbey its interest to the average tourist. it is the burial place of the great dead of england, and its walls contain the dust of more great men than any building in the world. of course i did not enthuse a particle over the tombs of the old kings, those ancient robbers, whose titles came from force and were perpetuated by fraud, thirteen of whom are buried here, and fourteen queens, commencing with sebert, the saxon, and ending with george, the second. they may sleep anywhere without exciting a thrill in me, for not one of them ever did the world any good, or added one to the list of achievements that really make men's names worth remembering. i do not like kings, and if we must have them, i much prefer them dead. safe in an abbey, they are not making wars upon each other, and besides, a dead king can be kept much more cheaply than a living one. i pay sixpence willingly to see where a dead king lies. when i remember that they must die, i always feel encouraged. but england has buried here those who made her glory on the field, the wave, and in the senate and closet, and it is england's glory that she does this. england has never let a great achievement go unnoted, or unremembered. in the floors and on the walls of this great church, are tablets, commemorating not only generals and admirals, but captains and lieutenants, who aided in repulsing the foes of the country, or extending its possessions, and the private soldier or common sailor receives his meed of praise, the same as his officer. in this, england is wise, as she is in most things. in this faithful remembrance, the youth of england have a constant incentive to great deeds and meritorious acts. speaking of monuments and commemorative structures, how many has the united states? one was attempted to the memory of washington, of the general form and style of a scotch claymore, set on end, hilt downward, and it was placed in the mud, on the banks of the potomac, where it has been surely and certainly sinking these thirty years at least, and is not yet half finished. [sidenote: monuments in general.] occasionally, some enterprising woman, who wants a house, or to pay off a mortgage, or something of the kind, organizes a washington monument association, and collects money for the purpose of completing it. but it never amounts to anything. the lady and the managers collect a great deal of money, but no stones are added to the monument, and there stands, or rather, is sinking, a monument, not to washington, but to the inefficient management of the citizens of the country he freed, and their indifference to the fame of their best and greatest men. england does not do this. there is never a name in english history that is not carefully preserved in the abbey, and it is not permitted to wear out and fade. when time has meddled with it the chisel is brought into requisition, and it is restored. [illustration: poets' corner--westminster abbey.] if one wishes to thoroughly and completely appreciate the worthlessness of human reputation, he should walk through these walls and over these floors. while the fame of the heroes, poets and statesmen have been carefully cared for, the nobodies buried here and hereabouts, and there are thousands of them, have been permitted to fade out mercilessly. sir toby belch, we will say, or sir toby anybody else, who was so circumstanced that he received the honor of being buried in the abbey or the grounds adjacent, lies here under a slab, on which is a long inscription. the slab is here; but alas! where is the inscription? the iron-nailed shoes of generations have as completely obliterated it as though a chisel had been used for the purpose. but not so the actually great. the slab that covers the remains of dickens has flowers placed upon it every day, and the inscriptions to the memory of shakespeare, byron, handel, haydn, macaulay, sheridan, garrick, rare ben johnson, and others, who made english literature, and the innumerable warriors by land and sea who have extended english possessions and defended england's greatness, are kept as distinct and as bright as the day they were erected. one singular thing is that there are no bad men buried in the abbey; that is, if you may believe the marble inscriptions. marble is a bad material to tell lies upon, because of the limited space that can be used. were there more room there would be more lies, i suppose, but the english have managed it tolerably well. there was warren hastings, for instance, governor-general of india, who in his day was held up as a monster of cruelty, and a model of rapacity and oppression. even the english parliament and the east india company were forced to protest against his extreme cruelty to the east indians. nevertheless hastings has a bust in the abbey, and an inscription on it, in which he is given every virtue under the sun. he is extolled as being all that was merciful, just, kind, good, and wise, and if there is a virtue that is not ascribed to him, the man who wrote it forgot it. as a matter of curiosity i copied the epitaph, and here it is:-- sacred to the memory of the right honorable warren hastings, _governor-general of bengal_, _member of his majesty's most honorable privy council, l. l. d., f. r. s._ _descended from the elder branch of the ancient and noble family of huntingdon._ [sidenote: warren hastings.] selected for his eminent talents and integrity, he was appointed by parliament, in , the first governor-general of india, to which high office he was thrice re-appointed by the same authority. of a most eventful period, he restored the affairs of the east india company from the deepest distress to the highest prosperity, and rescued their possessions from a combination of the most powerful enemies ever leagued against them. in the wisdom of his counsels and the energy of his measures, he found unexhausted resources, and successfully sustained a long, varied, and multiplied war with france, mysore, and the mahratta states, whose power he humbled, and concluded an honorable peace; for which and for his distinguished services he received the thanks of the east india company, sanctioned by the board of control. the kingdom of bengal, the seat of his government, he ruled with a mild and equitable sway, preserved it from invasion, and while he secured to its inhabitants the enjoyment of their customs, laws and religion, and the blessings of peace, was rewarded by their affection and gratitude; nor was he more distinguished by the highest qualities of a statesman and a patriot, than by the exercise of every christian virtue. he lived for many years in dignified retirement, beloved and revered by all who knew him, at his seat of daylesford, in the county of worcester, where he died in peace, in the th year of his age, august , in the year of our lord . pretty good, this, for a man who was the terror of the east, and who was publicly branded in parliament as the most audacious, corrupt and cruel tyrant that ever seized anything that armed force could lay its hands upon. but as england reaped the benefit of a portion, at least, of his wickedness, england manufactures a record for him and permits it to stand among its other heroes, for the admiration of future generations. [illustration: henry vii.'s chapel--westminster abbey.] i can imagine the ghost of hastings, as he hovers over this tablet and reads it. he must have smiled a spirit smile. however, it is probably as correct as other history, marble or written upon paper. the inhabitants of the other world must be amused as they read what is said of them in this. a great many of them must feel as the horse thief did when he wept after the speech of his counsel in his defense. "what are you sobbing so for?" asked the counsel. "i never knew before what a good man i am," was the reply. there are hundreds buried in the abbey who have no especial claim to the honor, that is so far as to deeds that survive the ages gone. they enjoyed what we of to-day would term a mere local reputation, and all that remains of them is what the marble says. the inscriptions are all in the same strain, and are curious specimens of obituary literature. for instance this:-- to the memory of james bartleman, _formerly a chorister and lay clerk of westminster abbey, and gentleman of his majesty's royal chapel_. educated by dr. cooke, he caught all the taste and science of that great master, which he augmented and adorned. with the peculiar powers of his native genius, he possessed qualities which are seldom united; a lively enthusiasm, with an exact judgment, and exhibited a perfect model of a correct style and a commanding voice; simple and powerful, tender and dignified; solemn, chaste and purely english. his social and domestic virtues corresponded with these rare endowments; affectionate and liberal, sincere and open-hearted, he was not less beloved by his family and friends, than admired by all for his pre-eminence in his profession. he was born septr. . died april, . and was buried in this cloister, near his beloved master. "solemn, chaste and purely english" is very good. what could mr. bartleman ask more? [sidenote: epitaphs.] on the monument of admiral sir wondesley shovel the inscription reads:-- "he was deservedly beloved by his country, and esteemed, though dreaded, by the enemy, who had often experienced his conduct and courage. being shipwrecked on the rocks of scilly, in his voyage from toulon, oct. , , at night, in the th year of his age, his fate was lamented by all, but especially by the seafaring part of the nation, to whom he was a generous patron and a worthy example. his body was flung on the shore, and buried with others on the sand; but being soon after taken up, was placed under this monument, which his royal mistress had caused to be erected to commemorate his steady loyalty and extraordinary virtues." mr. william lawrence, who was a prebendary, gets this poetical effusion:-- "with dilligence and trust most exemplary did william lawrence serve a prebendary, and for his paines now past before not lost gained this remembrance at his master's cost. o read these lines again: you seldom finde a servant faithful to a master kind. short hand he wrote, his flowre in prime did fade and hasty death short hand of him hath made. well couth he numbers, and well measured land, thus doth he now that ground whereon you stand, wherein he lies so geometrical; art maketh some, but this will nature all." obit dec. , . Ã�status bud . as a specimen of old english, this can hardly be excelled:-- ander neath lyeth the bodyes of sonns of mr. christopher chapman, richard christopher and peter peter dyed the th of september, . richard dyed the th of february, , and christopher chapman, m. of artes, dyed the of march, . the next is a memorial to an authoress, who was the most popular of her day, and whose pieces were the delight of london. to-day, she is only remembered by book-worms and antiquaries:-- mrs. aphra behn, dyed april , a.d. . here lies a proof that wit can never be defence enough against mortality. this lady was the authoress of many dramatic pieces--all as dead as their author. the wesley family are represented in this:-- nutty, susanna, ursula, samuel, wesley. , , , . infant children of _samuel wesley_, brother of john wesley. the british merchant was honored, as well as the british soldier:-- sacred to the memory of jonas hanway, who departed this life september , , aged , but whose name liveth, and will ever live, whilst active piety shall distinguish _the christian_. integrity and truth shall recommend _the british merchant_. and universal kindness shall characterize _the citizen of the world_. the helpless _infant_ natur'd thro' his care: the friendless _prostitute_ sheltered and reformed; the hopeless _youth_ rescu'd from misery and rum, and trained to serve and to defend his country, uniting in one common strain of gratitude, bear testimony to their benefactors' virtues-- _this_ was the _friend_ and _father_ of the poor. [sidenote: religious services.] the wandering about among the tombs of so many illustrious dead, and the reading of so many fulsome epitaphs--albeit i know they were not altogether deserved--produced an impression, a feeling of solemnity, that no other one place in all england could conjure up. it was in vain that tibbitts tried to make fun out of some of the quaint inscriptions. it could not be done, and in a very short time the youth succumbed to the influence of the mighty memory, and became a subdued and quiet admirer of the solemn grandeur of the place. [illustration: chapel of edward, the confessor.] three is the hour that religious services are held in the large nave. more out of curiosity, perhaps, than anything else, we determined to remain during the service. as we sat there looking over into the poets' corner, the deep silence of the majestic building, growing more and more profound, there came trooping through the mind constantly changing pictures suggested by the memories awakened by the vivid recollections of the once great in literature and art, science and warfare, who are still alive in the hearts of all english-speaking people, although their bodies have been lying for years beneath the massive pillars and superb arches of westminster. as the eye wanders upwards along the walls, covered with tablets and rare pieces of sculpture, and seeks to unravel the intricacies of the fretted roof, just discernible through the dim light, the great organ peals forth the wondrous strains of the processional. at that instant, as though to lend a new and greater impressiveness to the scene, the clouds, which had been lowering all the afternoon, suddenly breaking with a glorious burst of sunshine, that comes streaming in through the tall, graceful windows, beautiful with their colored designs, lights up the abbey even to its darkest recess with a light, soft, and mellow, which only intensifies the mystic feeling of reverence and joy combined. and then the boy choristers, with their fresh, innocent faces, sing in wondrous tones the gregorian chant. nothing more is needed; everything is complete. you are lost in a rapturous reverie, the mind is cleansed of all things earthly, and wanders unchecked and unfettered through the boundless realms of purity. one sits almost entranced; his very being filled with the wondrous power of the place. gradually it dawns upon him that there is a discord somewhere, that something has occurred to mar the perfection of the whole. for an instant he rebels against the thought, and strives to believe that he still dreams. but the inspiration has fled. the music, which a moment before caused the tears to fill his eyes, has lost itself in the far-away cornices of the high columns, and in its stead there is the dull, monotonous chanting of a priest, who is intoning the service in a tired sort of way, as though he thought that, having done the same thing every afternoon for forty years, it was time for him to retire upon a pension, and enjoy the quiet of a pleasant home, where there was no absolute necessity of going through the ritual every afternoon at three o'clock. [sidenote: how the service is done.] the awakening was not a pleasant one, and so we left the abbey, disappointed, as though we had been given the promise of something wonderful and then been denied it. the service, no matter how beautiful in and of itself, is not in keeping with the grandeur of the place. there is lacking, to an american, that sense of power and majesty in it that the massive building, glorying in its wondrous architectural beauties, demands. the clergymen had an aimlessness that was simply tiresome, and as they drawled out the words, it seemed as though they did not care whether it produced an effect upon the worshippers or not. but it did produce an effect. not the one to be desired, perhaps, but an effect after all, for the greater number of them quietly left the place, and reached the open air with a sigh of relief, as if they had escaped from some very depressing, dispiriting place. in america religion and religious services mean something more than form, and the ministers, no matter of what denomination, or in what sort of a building, throw something of life and fervor into their services. they act and talk as though they had souls to save, and that the responsibility of the souls of their congregations were upon them. this was not of that kind. the priests went through the service as though, having offered the bread of life to their people, it was for them to take it or let it alone, as they chose. indeed, when one was a little slow, as though he had been up the night before, the other would look at him reproachfully, as if to say, "look here; why don't you hurry up and get through with this, and let us get home. i don't want my dinner to spoil," and the boys in the choir, though they sang like angels, did it, not as if they knew or cared anything about it, but as a mere matter of business, looking from one to another, and then upon the congregation. whatever the effect upon the people, their beautiful music had no more effect upon them than as if they had been so many oysters. these people would not do for a western camp-meeting, or even for a fashionable revival in an eastern church. but they have their uses. one room in the abbey is devoted to the effigies in wax of seven kings and queens, but few people visit it. they can see a more extensive collection of murderers at madam tussaud's for the same money, and they go there. the cloisters, as they are called, form a not uninteresting portion of the abbey, they being the former places of residence of the monks of the establishment. in the various walks, with their quaintly carved pillars, and moss-covered arches, are buried many distinguished personages, most of whom belonged to the abbey. [illustration: effigy room--westminster abbey.] another point of interest is the "chapter house," a circular room, of large dimensions, which was built in by henry iii., on the site of the earlier chapter house belonging to the abbey, founded by edward the confessor. it was the chamber in which the abbot and monks, in the time of the ancient monastery held their "chapter," or meeting for discussion and business. the stone seats upon which the abbot and the monks sat are still preserved. [sidenote: a little history.] [illustration: the abbey in queen anne's time.] in , when the house of commons came into existence, it first sat in westminster hall with the house of lords; but the two bodies having parted, the commons held its meetings in the chapter house for nearly three hundred years. the last parliament known to have sat here was that which assembled on the last day of the reign of king henry viii. after that the house passed into the possession of the crown, and from , when the house of commons was transferred to westminster palace, until , it was used as the depository of public records, and was very much disfigured. in its restoration was begun, and it now presents the same appearance it did in years gone by, save where the finger of father time has been laid rather heavily upon its once fair paintings and graceful proportions. it does not appear that the nave and cloisters, though the last resting places of so many eminent persons, were treated with due respect in the reign of queen anne. at all events, the following occurs in the acts of the dean and chapter, under date of may , . "whereas, several butchers and other persons have of late, especially on market days, carried meat and other burdens through the church, and that in time of divine service, to the great scandal and offence of all sober-minded persons; and, whereas, divers disorderly beggars are daily walking and begging in the abbey and cloisters, and do fill the same with nastiness, whereby great offense is caused to all persons going through the church and cloisters; and, whereas many idle boys come into the cloister daily, and there play at cards and other games, for money, and are often heard to curse and swear, charles baldwin is appointed beadel to restrain this, and to complain of offenders, if necessary, to a justice of the peace." the abbey is the especial pride of england, and well it may be. it is a delight in and of itself, and would be were it empty. but filled, as it is, with the enduring monuments of its glory, it possesses a double interest. every american visits it, and every american should, for those who built it and those who sleep under its wonderful roof, are of the same blood and kin. america shares in england's glory, if not in her shame. but then, we have some sins to answer for, and an englishman may not blush in the presence of his cousin across the water. chapter xiv. some account of an american showman, with a little insight into the show business. right in the heart of london--if london may be said to have any heart--is a tavern kept by an american, which is the headquarters of american "professionals," as showmen delight to call themselves. you can never go there without meeting managers, nigger minstrels, song-and-dance-men, unappreciated actors, and all sorts of people who prefer living from hand to mouth and wearing no shirts, in this way, than to making a fortune in any regular business. i go there frequently from sheer loneliness, and to hear the kindly american language spoken; and, besides, a man alone is generally in bad company, for the heart of man is deceitful and desperately wicked. any company that is fair to middling is better than none at all. even a hostler can tell you something you don't know. you may excel him in the philosophy of finance, but when it comes to horses you are nowhere. i met one circus manager who is over here, as he expressed it, to "secure talent," and he proved a delight. he was short and very thick, and wore a sack coat, of rough material, and a little mastiff followed him about constantly. his hat and necktie were something too utterly gorgeous for description, his face was of a peculiarly puffy purple, and his nose blazed like a comet. and he would sit and talk of his business by the hour, keeping before him all the time a glass of british brandy and water, which he pronounced "goodish." you could be sure he was a showman as far as you could see him. my first interview with him was something like this:-- "i shall have the biggest list of genooine attractions that ever was taken across the atlantic, and if i don't astonish the showmen of our great country, as well as the people, i'm a sinner. i have got a baby elephant, and a genooine babulus, capchered by stanley in the interior of africa, at a great loss of life, and i am after a performer sich as the world never seen. she does an act on the trapeze that is so risky, that sooner or later she _must_ be killed. there ain't any doubt about it. i have seen her. she runs up a rope like a squirrel, and jumps from a horizontal bar, twenty feet, catching hold of her pardner's hands, and then plunges down from his body head-fust, at the frightful altitood of seventy feet, catchin' a rope twenty feet from the ground. if the lights are ever wrong by a half inch, or if she ever miscalculates a hair's breadth, she is a goner, sure." [illustration: if she ever miscalculates by a hair's breadth, she's a goner, sure.] and the enthusiastic old gentleman rubbed his hands in glee, as though the death of a performer was a consummation most devoutly to be wished. [sidenote: the trapeze artist.] "do people enjoy such perilous feats?" "enjoy em! enjoy em! why, bless your innocent soul, a feat ain't nothin'--won't dror a cent onless it's morally certain that the performer will break his neck. this woman i'm after draws crowds every night, because she _must_ kill herself. the trick is so dangerous that men make bets every night she will miss her lucky, and be carried out a corpse. i'm a goin' to have that woman, no matter what the salary is. she does this trapeze act, and then goes on in the first part of the minstrel entertainment after the big show. oh, she's got talent into her." "but if the performance is so hazardous, and she should be killed, would it not entail a heavy loss upon you?" "killed! loss! where was you born? my child, there never was a feat so dangerous that there ain't a thousand waitin' to attempt it, and they'll do it. when mamselle zhoubert gits killed, as she will, i'll hev to hold a lev-vee to decide atwixt the dozen who will want to take her place. i'll select one of 'em, give her a french name--yoo can't get on in the perfesh with a english name--and she'll go on and do it, and do it jist as well. and then wat an advertisement it is! this will be about the size of it:-- "the management begs to state that since the untimely death of mademoiselle zhoubert, at cincinnati, it was doubtful if another lady competent to fill her place could be found. the feat was so difficult, so dangerous, and required such arduous training and such wonderful nerve, that it was feared that this leading attraction of the world's aggregation would have to be omitted. there was only one other such artiste in the world--mademoiselle blanche, but she was engaged at the cirque imperial, paris. the management knows no such word as fail, and a commissioner was dispatched at once to paris, with unlimited powers to treat for this stellar attraction, this acme of talent. at an expense which would bankrupt any other establishment, conducted by narrow-minded managers who advertise more and perform less, she was secured and is now with us. mademoiselle blanche not only performs the original feat of the sincerely mourned zhoubert, but adds to it one so much more dangerous as to make hers seem insignificant and commonplace. mademoiselle blanche will appear at each and every performance, all reports to the contrary notwithstanding." "that'll fetch 'em." "dangerous feats! why, i run a whole season on a lion that had once eaten a keeper. the people come in crowds, expecting every day to see him make a breakfast of his trainer." "was he actually dangerous?" [illustration: the death of the trainer.] [sidenote: the trainer's widow.] "dangerous! he et another trainer, and then i lost him. his widder was actilly in love with her husband, and she swore the animal shood be killed, and the people sided with her, and as the broot was gettin' old, and the killin' made a sensation, i did it. but i made all there was out of it. i insisted that the husband should have a gorgeous funeral. the woman kicked at the idea of a funeral, for she sed there was nothing to berry, as the lion had eaten her husband. but ain't the dear departed inside the lion? if we berry the lion, don't we berry the dear deceast? cert. and we hed it, and it was gorgeous. we hed a percession, with all our wagons in it--the regelar street parade--only all the riders hed black scarfs on 'em, and the wagons and hosses and elephants and sich was draped in black (mourning goods is cheap,), and the band played a dead [illustration: the gorgeous funeral procession.] march. the widder was in an open carriage, in full mournin' with a white handkerchief, with a black border, to her eyes lookin' on his minatoor. there wasn't no minatoor, but she held a case jist the same. that nite the canvass coodent hold the people, and we run on that two weeks to splendid biz. in two weeks, the woman got over her grief and went into the lion trainin' line herself, ez 'senorita aguardiente, the lion queen.' i give her some old lions to practis on, and in less than a month she could do jest as well as the old man. she was a good woman, too. she rid in the grand entree, and rid in the 'halt in the desert,' did the bar'l act, rid a good pad act, and is now practisin' bare-back. she juggles tollable, and does a society sketch song and dance in a side-show. when i git talent i pay it and keep it. my treasurer changes the names of my people every season, so as to have always fresh attractions. oh, i know my biz. but that wuzn't all i made out uv that afflictin' event. i went and hed a moniment made and sot up over his grave. this is the vig., inscription and all: [illustration: here lies the body of the famous ferocious lion, emperor, which contains the body of senor seronimo castillo the celebrated "lion king," for many years connected with bloss's stupendous and unapproachable international aggregation, the best circus and most wonderful collection of wild beasts and natural curiosities in the world! senor castillo was devoured by the ferocious animal while exhibiting him under the spacious tents of the _international aggregation_, in st. louis, august , . he was a worthy man, a talented performer, and died cheerfully in the discharge of his duty. his place in the great international aggregation is more than filled by senor tomaso crevado, of the royal menagerie, madrid, who daily enters the den of a still more ferocious lion than emperor, at the risk of his life!] and on the back uv the monument, i had this:-- "his sorrowing widow still does her unapproachable act of equitation and prestidigitation, in the great international aggregation, with which her devoured husband was so long connected, and may be seen at each and every exhibition. "while mourning the loss of our friend, the great aggregation travels as usual, and exhibits without regard to weather, twice each day. lion kings may die, but the great international aggregation is immortal." "the widder insisted on hevin a scriptural quotashen on the moniment, and it took me a good while lookin up suthin approprit. i know more about circus than i do about bible, but when i set out to do a thing i do it. ez the two hed lived together and died together, ez the lion et him for cert, it struck me that this wuz about the racket, and i put it on the base:-- they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not divided.-- d sam. : . "i had the monument did in galvanized iron, and it will stand there for forty years, and every visitor to that cemetery will know suthin about the great international. i wrote it modest, for i didn't want it to look too much like an advertisement, though, of course, i wanted to get all i could out of the afflictin event." ordering another brandy cold, the pleasant old gentleman murmured more reminiscences. he had always had a penchant for wild indian troupes, and, since the zulu war, for zulus, and he flowed on about them:-- "foggarty," said he, "was the best zulu i ever had, and i have had a hundred of 'em. he laid over the lot. he entered into the spirit of the thing, and did the bizniss conscientiously. when he came outside with a iron girdle about him, and a pizen spear, he lept in dead earnest, he did. he made it mighty lively for the keeper to hold him, and he howled so like a savage that he skeered the wimin and gals to a degree that they couldn't help goin' in to see him. foggarty was a great man, and hed talent. he was the best modoc chief i ever had. o'finnegan cood lay over him on the green corn dance, and possibly drest the best, but foggarty's war-whoop was suthin' sublime. we hed him one season as scar-faced charley, and the next as shack-nasty jim, and he did himself proud in [illustration: the side-show zulu.] [sidenote: foggarty's misfortune.] both. and then, there wan't no dam nonsense about him. he wood peel out of his injun clothes, and go and clean the lamps, and help pack, or do anything. before the doors opened, he'd do canvasman, and howl at the door, and at the door he'd play the bass drum or grind the organ with cheerfulness. in the street parade of the big show, he was, for five years, our washington, the father of his country, standing on a revolvin' pedestal. then, jist as soon as he got his dinner, he'd help get up the canvas, and then skin into the zulu rig, and after that, he'd peddle lemonade, or do anything to make himself yooseful. but a woman spiled him. wimin spile a great many good men. we hed a woman, biddy mccarty, wich was doin' the circassian lady, with hair to her heels, you know 'em, and sometimes the bearded lady. likewise, she was a chinese knife thrower, and foggarty yoosed to do the chinaman she throwed her knives at. well, foggarty, seein' that she was an irish gal, and he an irishman, coodent no more help fallin' in love with her than fire kin help burnin' tow. he got it into his head that ef he could marry a gal with so much talent, he might, some day, have a side-show of his own. and then, as time rolled on, and they hed kids, he cood train 'em up to the family business, and do things cheap. he wanted to be a bearded family, or a zulu family, or a jap family, or suthin, and so he married biddy, and they went double. biddy hed a will of her own, and besides she would git drunk. rum spiles more talent in the perfesh than anything else. she had a trick of beating foggarty, and she led him the devil's own life. it was at leroy, new york. she had bin on as the bearded woman, and as the circassian lady, and hed sold all the photographs she cood, and hed changed to go on as the chinese knife thrower, from hang fo. foggarty hed changed to a chinaman--lu fu, the wizard--when i diskivered that biddy hed bin drinkin'. i warned foggarty to look out, for she was ugly, but he laughed, and said she wouldn't hurt him, and went on. you hev seen that act. foggarty stands agin a board with his arms spread out, and the china woman throws knives all around him. she puts 'em between his fingers, and clost to his neck and between his legs. biddy could throw a knife within a hair of where she wanted it to go. she hed talent, as i sed. but that day she was ugly. she and foggarty hed hed it hot, and when she came in twistin' her queue, i knowd suthin was goin' to happen. she throwd six or eight knives all right, and then one went, whiz! it took off foggarty's second finger on his right hand, as clean as a butcher's cleaver could do it. and biddy fired the rest of the knives at him and rushed out, yellin', 'be gorra, mike foggarty, and ye'll bate me over the head with a tent pin agin, will ye? ye'll hev one finger less to do it wid, onyhow.' most men would hev abandoned the perfesh with that finger off, but while it was bein' dressed mike whispered to me, 'put it on the bills that the zulu chief lost the finger by a english saber, at the battle of--where was the battle?' i hev foggarty yet, but biddy broke his heart and he aint as good as he was. she run away with the cannibal from the friendly islands, who cood do the tight-rope and fire-eatin', and they are doin' hall shows and the variety business together. he taught her to do a song and dance, as well as fire-eatin', and she is now 'm'lle lulu delmayne.' they do society sketches, too. foggarty is jest as willin' as ever, but the blow was too much for him. he goes with us next season as a zulu, and also lecters the sacred burmese cattle, and has a part in the wild perarie scene, and fires the calliope. he can't do washington any more, for he has rheumatiz, and can't stand an hour with his right hand in a military coat. he's practisin' to be a lion tamer, but i don't bleeve it'll do. he may git to play the snake, but that is about as high as he'll ever git in the perfesh." [illustration: the lost finger.] the next day the old gentleman departed for the continent. chapter xv. richmond. four weeks in london! twenty-eight days of incessant sight-seeing. a series of continual surprises day after day, from early in the morning until late at night; a constant succession of new things of interest crowded and forced upon one, until at length the senses weary, the mind refuses to take in any more, and imperatively cries out for a change, for rest. the body is exhausted. the dull, dense atmosphere is enervating. a night's sleep gives no refreshment. one rises in the morning by sheer force of will power, with a feeling that it would be a delight, pure and simple, to go back to bed and sleep five or six hours longer, and when he does finally dress and go out on the street, he has no more ambition, nor inclination to do anything, or go anywhere, or see anything, than as if there were nothing to do, nowhere to go, nor anything to see. but that is what he is here for, and from force of habit he goes on the everlasting treadmill of sight-seeing, until the very name of london is odious, and its never-ending throng of people, hurrying along in the pursuit of pleasure or business, that, at first, was such a novel and interesting study, becomes distasteful to a degree, and he wishes he were home again or in some vast wilderness, or--anywhere, away from the narrow, crowded streets of high wall, and old-fashioned buildings, that stifle all his energies and tire his very nature. so it seemed--so it really was--after four weeks' stay in london, when one forenoon a trip down to richmond, twelve miles away, was suggested. the suggestion was acted upon with alacrity, and half-an-hour's ride produced a change such as one sees in the transformation scenes of a pantomime. vanished the dull, heavy air; gone all the queer old buildings, with their still queerer old people; hushed the noise and bustle of the streets, with their never-ceasing turmoil of struggling humanity and ever-rolling 'ansoms, and instead a bright blue sky with a glorious flood of sunlight, its fierceness tempered by a gentle breeze, cool and delicious, that was breathing through the grand old oaks, and stirred with gentle ripple the placid bosom of the thames, which wanders like a ribbon of silver through the wonderful meadows and dales of the beautiful country that makes richmond seem like a paradise. the first feeling was one of relief--that the terrors of london had been left far behind; and there was light and air and happiness again. then this gave way to exultation. the pure air intoxicated, the green trees, the velvety turf, the warbling of the birds, after four long, dreary weeks in london, caused the heart to throb with new life, the blood to course through the veins with new strength, and there came an almost irresistible desire to throw up one's hands and shout for very gladness. it was almost too good to be real, and once in a while one really stopped to think whether or not he would suddenly awaken and find himself in dingy, smoky london. but no. it was all real. the pure air was there, the sunlight, the breeze, the green turf, the magnificent trees, centuries old. all, all were there, and the day was to be one of unalloyed pleasure and happiness. god made the country--man made the town. in all truth richmond is a most charming place. only twelve miles from the metropolis, and in reality one of its many suburbs, it nestles among the hills, and looks off upon a broad expanse of field and meadow and forest, as though there were no such place as london in existence. it is not a commercial city, although of course it has its quota of shops. it is a residence city--or, as they call it, town--for, although it has a population of one hundred thousand, there is no cathedral, so it cannot aspire to the dignity of being a city. the town is made up in great part of families whose members do business "in the city," and they live in quiet elegance in beautiful homes. that is the ideal suburban existence. [sidenote: the star and garter.] but aside from the quaint beauty of the town itself, its chiefest perfection is in its environs. a few minutes' walk from the heart of the town is that famous hostelry, known the world over, "the star and garter," where, in olden times, royalty disported itself under its moss-covered roof, in grand entertainments lasting for days at a time. for generations it was the resort of nobles, and then, when they tired of it, the people, imitating them as far as they were able, took it up and basked in the mellow light of its former grandeur, which has long since departed, it having become unfashionable. gay old times these noble roysterers used to have in this beautiful spot. the wines of the south, actually cobwebbed and dusty, flowed like water, and the most delicious food, brought from the forests and seas of all climes, graced the board. it was no trouble to them. they had no occasion to count expense as the people who go there now have to. for they had their tenants working for them at home, and they had their armies and fleets bringing them wealth from everywhere, and they could afford to eat, drink and be merry, and they did it all. to be a king in those days was a very comfortable thing, except when some sturdy commoner, like cromwell, tired of all this, and cut off a head. opposed as i am to royalty and nobility and all that sort of thing, had i lived in those days i should very much liked to have been even a duke. it wasn't a bad situation, at all. it is no wonder that the star and garter was a great favorite, and is yet in its way, for it is most beautifully situated. standing in its broad verandas there is a rural panorama spread out that is simply superb. near at hand is the park, filled with gnarled old trees, under whose branches hundreds of years ago haughty ladies and imperious lords indulged in courtly pleasures, or engaged in intrigues where the nobles amused themselves in hunting the wild deer that ranged across its commons; where the flower of the youth of the country met in fierce tournaments, with all the pride and pomp of the time. just below the cliff is the thames, placid and serene, that winds in and out the wooded lands in graceful curves, while beyond, rising not boldly and grandly, but none the less beautiful, are green hills, dotted here and there with clumps of beautiful oaks and pines; dales and valleys that give us a view miles in extent. over all this picture, to which no pen can do justice, is that marvelous atmospheric effect that can only be found in an english woodland scene. not a mist, and yet a delicate haze, soft and subdued, that tones down the broad effects and gives the whole a perfection that is enchanting. one can stand, as before a magnificent painting, gazing for hours upon the scene and find new features every instant. and then the long walk through the park, itself a marvel of the picturesque. along winding paths, over rustic hedges, resting here under the cooling shade of a huge chestnut, whose branches cover a vast extent of ground, stopping anon to admire the graceful deer that gaze timidly and yet curiously at the passer-by, as though wondering why he should trespass upon their domain. for a whole hour there was a continual revelation of natural beauties, and then suddenly the old town of kingston was entered. here the streets were narrow, the houses low and old-fashioned, and the people quiet-going english, who have lived in the same place where their fathers lived before them, and their's before them. [sidenote: down the river.] passing the cattle market, which is about the only live business of kingston, a large square stone, surrounded by an iron railing, attracts attention. examination shows it to be the identical stone upon which sat the ancient saxon kings when they were crowned. there was nothing particularly peculiar about the stone, but of course it would not have done to have gone by without at least casting a glance at the relic of so long ago. possibly the proper thing to do was to uncover and drop a tear as the memories of the glorious scenes thereon enacted went trooping through the mind. possibly it would have been the thing to sit on the queer old stone and imagine the space around filled with warlike chiefs and outlandishly arrayed ladies of the court, and indulge in a day dream of the times when such things occurred. possibly this may have been the thing to do, but it wasn't done, and for good reasons, too. even if one had had the inclination to act in such an orthodox, sight-seeing manner, which is much doubted, there was a high iron railing, with sharp pointed iron palings, that would have effectually kept the greatest enthusiast outside the sacred enclosure. passing on through the town, the long walk begins to tell upon one's powers of endurance, so a rest is taken at "bond's." who has not heard of bond's, the great resort of boating parties on the thames? it is noted all over england, and its fame has spread even to america. a pleasant summer garden, with trees and plants and flowers, gravelly walks and rustic arbors, on a high terrace, at the bottom of which the limpid stream glides smoothly along, while beyond, as far as the eye can reach, is the beautiful scenery that seems almost like fairyland. what better place can be imagined for a lunch--a biscuit and a bit of cheese, washed down with a pint of refreshing "shandygaff." one could drink the bad beer of the country here. it is truly delightful. and then a quiet smoke, the light clouds curling upward in an atmosphere as pure and clear as the air of life; while all that is poetic in one's nature is appealed to by the beauty of the scene, the sense of delicious comfort, and the faint music of distant boating parties, who, singing as they row, make a harmony that intensifies the pleasure of the hour, and makes one almost wish that this most perfect day might go on forever. but still a greater treat is in store. a ride back to richmond on the water, rowed by a brawny waterman, who does, as a matter of business, exactly the same thing that so many of the "swells," who are seen skimming past in their graceful single sculls, are doing for pleasure. "why," said i to the waterman, "do you make us pay for doing what those men do for nothing?" "ah!" was his reply, "'spose they 'ad to!" philosophic waterman! whether any given exercise is pleasure or pain depends very much whether one "has to." the london jarvey drives a four in hand for one pound a week, and lord tom noddy does precisely the same thing for the fun of it. one has to, and the other hasn't, and there's the difference. by this time the river is full of pleasure crafts. here comes an eight-oared shell, whizzing along at a rattling pace, the little cockswain urging the crew on to still greater efforts as he skilfully guides the long, slender boat through the multitude of pleasure barges and skiffs. over there is a trim craft gliding along lazily, a pair of brawny arms just moving the oars, while a pair of honest, manly eyes are speaking in unmistakable language to a fair-haired girl who is reclining in the stern, idly tossing the tassels to the rudder strings, as if she didn't care about what was being said, even though the swift glances from under her broad brimmed hat, and the mantling crimson on her cheek, tell an entirely different tale. [illustration: on the thames.] [sidenote: a pleasant place to live.] just beyond is a boat, large and roomy, in which five young ladies are enjoying the pleasure of the hour. while four of them pull strong and gracefully, the fifth steers the rapidly moving lapstreak with a skill and precision that shows a master hand. these english girls may be laughed at by their more delicate american cousins, but in the matter of health and strength, they are the ones to laugh. they believe in plenty of exercise in the open air, and they take it; as, for example, these girls, beautiful as a picture, who row as perfectly and in as good "form" as though they had always been on the water. see the perfection of their development, the ruddy glow of health in their cheeks, the merry sparkle of the eye, the gladness in their hearty laugh, and then talk about the usefulness of outdoor exercise. every stroke of the oar as the boat speeds merrily down the river, reveals a new picture, each one as perfect in its completeness as that which preceded it. on the left bank are the country seats of gentlemen of means. they are for the most part odd looking old places, with their angular towers and turrets, and bowed windows long and narrow. the lawns sloping gradually from the house down to the water's edge are perfectly smooth, and ornamented with clustering chestnuts and laburnums, elms and lindens, and the green foliaged birch, while the green hedges, wonderfully well kept, add to the general effect of the scene. the river winds in and out among all the charming places, for seven miles, and the town of richmond is seen far off in the distance. as the river makes a sudden bend there appears still another picture, the masterpiece of the series that has delighted the senses for the last two hours. there on the bluff stands the picturesque "star and garter." with its background of foliage. just below is a portion of an old stone bridge across the thames, while to the left the beautiful landscape stretches away to the distant hills, whose summits are lost in the purple haze of the closing day. it is a sight never to be forgotten; one that will linger ever upon the memory as a revelation of the absolutely beautiful in nature. chapter xvi. from london to paris. good-bye for the present to london. good-bye to its smoke, its fogs, its predatory hackmen, its bad water, its worse beer, its still worse gin. good-bye to its eternal rains, its never-ending badly dressed men and worse dressed women. good-bye to very bad bread. good-bye to the greatest collection of shams and realities, goodness and cruelty in the world. seven weeks in london and its environs is all that an american can endure, who ever expects to get back to his own country. were fate to have a spite at him, and condemn him to make his residence there forever, he would settle down as a man does in a penitentiary and do the best he could, but for one who has a hope of returning to a country that was made after the maker had had some experience in making countries, a longer stay in london than seven weeks would be too much. seven weeks of biliousness and depression--seven weeks of exasperation and discomfort, seven weeks of extortion and tipping, seven weeks in an english suit of clothes, is all that an average american can endure. and so good-bye to london till we renew our strength and can tackle it again. it is not exhausted, nor could it be in a year. it is a brute among cities, but it is a mastodon. it is a very large and variegated animal. [sidenote: the landlady's objection to paris.] to the south lies france--la belle france--and thither we go. our landlady would hold us if she could, and gives expression to many reasons why we should stay in london: it is very warm in paris; it is very disagreeable crossing the channel; paris is unhealthy. at this time of the year paris is crowded, and it is probable that we will not be able to get apartments such as would be suitable. it is not the season in paris, and we had better go there later, and so on and so forth. you see the season in london is waning, and the good lady will have difficulty in filling her rooms. it is delicately hinted that if a slight deduction in rent (we have been paying three prices) would be an object, etc. but it all avails nothing. we should go to paris if we should be compelled to sleep under a bridge and eat in a market. it is not so much to get to paris as it is to get out of london, and raise our spirits to something like their normal condition. and so, when the good woman finds there is no holding us, she makes out our bill vindictively, racking her imagination to find items to insert, and weeping, no doubt, after our departure, over items that she might have inserted, but, in the hurry, forgot. the cabman, knowing by the station he was driving us to that we were going, managed to charge an extra shilling, and at the lunch counter at the station we paid an extra penny for the everlasting ham sandwich, which was to be the last. and when the last tip was paid, and the last extortion submitted to, we were finally locked in our villainous compartment, and were off. london, or the fog that covered it, faded from our sight, we saw the sun, and were scurrying through the green fields and the real delights of rural england. from victoria station to new haven is not the most interesting trip that can be imagined, although there are picturesque towns, waving fields of grass, with an occasional bit of woods, that relieve the journey of some of its unpleasant features, and make it rather enjoyable. but by the time one has gone through miles and miles of such scenery, the towns become monotonous, each succeeding field of grain waves just as the one before it did, the woods, miniature forests, are just alike, and, leaning back in the corner of the compartment, the time is spent in dozing until eleven o'clock, when the train rushes into the station at new haven, and we struggle through the dimly lighted passages to the dock, where lies the steamer that is to take us across that bugbear of all tourists, the english channel. and then we have the satisfaction of learning that the tide is not in, and the steamer will not leave for two hours and a half. it is a dark, windy night, and there is no way to spend the time save by pacing up and down the narrow confines of the deck, watching the enormous cranes loading huge packages of merchandize into the vessel's hold; or taking a stroll along the dock, regardless of the momentary danger of stumbling over an unseen cable and pitching headlong into the water. there is one other way of passing the time. whenever a tourist can find nothing else to do, he eats. there is in the station at new haven the inevitable lunch counter, with the orthodox ham sandwich and bitter beer. to this everybody was attracted as by a magnet. there is no escaping it. no body was hungry; but it seems to be a law of nature that you must eat ham sandwiches while you wait at railroad stations. and in obedience to this law, a cart-load of the sandwiches were devoured and paid for. [illustration: sandwiches at new haven.] [sidenote: the long wait.] the new haven sandwich is very like its london brother, only it is a trifle thicker. the cutter is not as expert as the london professional, but he makes it just as indigestible. it is a trifle worse, because it is a trifle larger. but time goes on, no matter how slowly it seems to move, and the tide comes in, although its rise cannot be seen, and so, just before one o'clock the warning whistle was given, the passengers took their places, the great wheels began to revolve, and we slowly steamed out past the breakwater into the channel. the necessity for making the boat's landing so far away from the deep water cannot be understood. but so it is. instead of running the track down to the dock and establishing the station there, where there would be no occasion to wait for the tide, the steamer goes up an arm of the sea about an eighth of a mile, and has to stay there until the water is deep enough to allow the passage to be made. once out upon the channel, the fresh breeze blows away all the wicked thoughts the two hours' detention had engendered, and as the moon breaks through the clouds, dimming the fast disappearing lights on shore, we give ourselves up to pleasant reverie. there is the memory of all that has occurred during an exceedingly busy seven weeks in london, and the anticipation of experiences new and strange that are to fill in the next two or three months. and as we sit on deck smoking and dreaming, until, our last cigar having gone out, and the chill air made us shiver, we go below only to find fresh cause for growling at the english, and things english. instead of commodious, airy staterooms in which we can go regularly to bed and enjoy a good night's rest, there is nothing but a series of bunks, upholstered in a cheap red plush, on which the weary traveler may stretch himself, and, putting a blanket over him, get such rest as he can from such scanty accommodations. and this, too, for the first-class passenger. at four o'clock every one was turned out, for dieppe was in sight. such a sorry looking lot of passengers i never saw. most of them had caught a severe cold, and all of them looked uncomfortable and cross, as though they really had not enjoyed the luxurious quarters furnished by the enterprising manager of that line. the view from the steamer's deck was beautiful. the sun, about half an hour high, made the water sparkle as the light off-shore breeze rippled its surface. the channel, which had behaved wonderfully well, was dotted with fishing smacks from dieppe, while here and there a steamer, trailing a long cloud of smoke behind, sailed along utterly indifferent to the smaller craft that had to tack with each phase of the ever-varying wind. just ahead of us, half hidden by chalky cliffs, could be seen a part of the town, while to the right, huge white cliffs arose and stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach, the straight white sides rising abruptly from the water, reflecting the rays of the sun, and shining with dazzling whiteness. on the left, high up on the hills, were stately mansions, pretty villas, cool looking parks and pleasant drives. it was indeed a beautiful sight, and we were gazing on it with rapture when a bell sounded, the paddle wheel stopped revolving, and we drifted slowly on. [illustration: off dieppe--four a.m.] "the tide does not serve, and we will have to cruise about here for two or three hours." so said one of the seamen when asked why the steamer had been stopped. [sidenote: the custom house.] it was pleasant. we enjoyed it. we fairly reveled in it. we were hungry, it's true, but what was hunger to the delight of waiting three hours in an abominable steamer? we were cold and tired. but what of that? we could gaze on white cliffs and talk pleasant things to each other for three hours! when the tide did serve, and we were landed, which happened about six o'clock sunday morning, we went through the custom house, our countenances expressing such christian resignation as must have indicated our character to the officials, for they never opened our baggage at all. they simply said: "avez vous tabac ou liquers?" (observe how well we are getting on in french), and as we murmured "no," aloud, and to ourselves, "but we wish we had," they waved us on, and we were all right. [illustration: have you tobacco or spirits?] adjoining the custom house is a coffee room, and we entered. the repast spread out for us was just a trifle the worst that was ever seen. it was worse than anything in london, and more than that cannot be said. i suppose it is all right, and for the best. i suppose that taking us out of london at six o'clock p.m., and waiting two and a half hours in new haven for the tide, and two hours in dieppe harbor also, for the tide, is unavoidable. but if i ever get a chance i shall ask the manager of the line these questions: . do you know the hour at which the tide comes in at new haven? . do you know the hour the tide serves to enter dieppe? . if so, why not give us the five and a half hours that were consumed in useless waiting at new haven and dieppe, in london? . has your company any interest in the ham sandwich and beer counter in new haven? and is this delay in that most uninteresting place for the purpose of compelling the waiting passengers to leave a few more shillings in england? and i shall demand specific answers to these queries. the taste of the new haven sandwiches is yet in my mouth. dieppe is a pleasant little city of perhaps twenty thousand population, devoted to the carving of ivory, fishing, and swindling tourists, the latter pursuit being evidently the most prosperous. the fisher people are a picturesque lot as to costume, and are hardy withal, men, women and children. they are bold sailors, and what they do not know about water and its contents is not worth knowing. bad as the english trains are, in france, where there is the same system, it was even worse, for we were a little shaky in our french. however, we put on a cheerful countenance, and said "_oui_" to everything, and made believe we knew all about it, and let the guard put us where he pleased, and were soon humming along through the outskirts of dieppe. we were just beginning to enjoy the prospect of rural scenery, when, without a note of warning, we plunged into a tunnel, which seemed to last forever, though it was only a mile long. emerging from this, it was seen that an immense mountain had been pierced, and we were at once in the fertile valleys of picturesque normandy. as the train hurried along there was a constant succession of pictures that would drive a poet or painter into raptures. [sidenote: normandy.] the broad valleys, the hills and dales, were intersected by smooth white roads that wound around side hills, through forests and then far away over a long, level stretch, through queer little towns, the existence of which was never dreamed of by the outside world. all along these well-kept wagonways were lined on either side by closely trimmed hedges, shaded by tall and stately lombardy poplars, that stood grim and erect as though they were the guardians of the country. [illustration: fisher folk--dieppe.] here and there between the quaint little villages, with their one main street running their entire length, were the high, narrow houses of the peasants, with thatched roofs and queer little windows. around them, neatly piled, were bundles of fagots, carefully done up and stored away for winter use. they are a frugal people, these normans, and waste absolutely nothing. [illustration: fisher women--dieppe.] [sidenote: the people.] although it is sunday morning, and we are sad because circumstances will not allow us to attend divine worship, it seems to make no difference with the people here, for in every field are seen women, with their high peaked bonnets, busily engaged in raking fragrant hay into huge piles, which the men, arrayed in the traditional blue blouse and overalls, are loading upon wagons for carriage to the barns. [illustration: fisher boy and child--dieppe.] these men and women are well built, sturdy people, who have thrived well upon the pure air that comes down from the mountains above. in the olden time the men were noted for their stature and strength, and furnished the french army with its best troops; and they are to-day fine specimens of physical manhood. i don't know why it is, but there is something irresistibly fascinating in an old castle, or the ruins of what once was a great stronghold. after passing malaunay and getting well out into the country, we came to a series of hills stretching way back from the railroad. there was a dense forest near the summit of the highest part, upon the top of which, half hidden by the trees, was part of a castle, a bit of wall and a huge round tower, all that remained of what was, in the early history of the country, a castle that was utterly impregnable. as the train wound round the base of the hill, a better view of it was obtained, and then came the longing to plunge through the forest, clamber up the steep hillside and wander through the old ruins, hunting for trap-doors and deep, dark dungeons, where noble knights had been confined for years and years, while fair ladies pined away and died because they came not back to them. this pleasant reverie might have gone on indefinitely, even after the romantic spot had been left far behind, had not the other passengers in the compartment begun preparing to alight at the next station, rouen. we determined to stop over one train at rouen, to see not only a french city, but the old statue of the french heroine, joan of arc, who was there burned at the stake, and the famous cathedral therein. tibbitts, lemuel, was of the party, and a professor in a western college likewise. the professor was calmly enthusiastic, and tibbitts was unutterably miserable. he could not speak a word of french, and it puzzled him to even order a drink. and then the wine! he did not like wine, and french brandy was not to his taste. he managed to make them understand, however, what he wanted, and managed to get it a minute after he landed from the cars. it was sunday, but the shops were all open, and newsboys were crying their papers upon the streets. their announcements were very long, and tibbitts stood and heard one of them clear through. [sidenote: the professor's ecstacy.] "listen to the little villain," he exclaimed. "i don't believe a d--d word of it." and mr. tibbitts preached a short sermon anent the exaggerations common to newsboys, recounting the number of times he had been induced by their false representation to purchase papers in america. he considered himself too old to be taken in by a french newsboy. "newsboys are the same in rouen as in oshkosh," he said. after a light lunch in an arbor in a delicious garden back of a café, we started to see rouen, its cathedral and the statue of joan, and what else was to be seen. we urged tibbitts to accompany us. he concluded to do it, though he protested it was far more pleasant to sit in that arbor, even though it was beastly wine he was drinking instead of the delicious whisky of oshkosh, than it was tramping around in search of antiquities. we came to a narrow street, one of the kind only to be seen in french cities. the entire space from wall to wall could not have been twelve feet, and on either hand were curious houses, seven stories high, entered by dark, narrow tunnels rather than passages, but with flowers at every window, clear to the queer, quaint top, which was continued after it had reached what should have been its summit. the professor stopped before one of these dark passages, and observed a parcel of illy dressed but marvelously clean children--there are no dirty children in france--playing some game. "it is wonderful!" said the professor, in an ecstacy; "here are we, of the new west, standing on ground in a street through which, may be, the soldiers of old france marched. here are we within sight of the place where joan of arc was burned, on ground pressed by the feet of charlemagne. in this house, perchance, were born heroes; within these walls for hundreds of years have been born children who have grown to manhood, and died. these children, playing in this gutter, were born in this historic city, and----" "and they all speak french," interrupted tibbitts, "which i can't, but, thank heaven, i can lay all over 'em in english. look here, professor, don't give us any more rot about this being old. we are just as old in oshkosh as they are in rouen. when the old norman warriors were cruising about [illustration: the boys of rouen.] [sidenote: tibbitts' sermon.] loaded down with pot-metal, killing each other, the indians of america were doing the same thing among themselves, only they were clothed more sensibly. a breech clout was a thundering sight more comfortable in the summer than steel armor, and i don't know that killing a man with a lance was any more deserving of adoration than killing one with a bow and arrow. the point to it all is killing the man. antiquity! "what do you know about it? here is a lot of stone that has been piled up a thousand years or more. how do you know but what the indians are older than the gauls? i hold that they are. the gauls built a cathedral that is standing yet. i defy you to go anywhere in wisconsin and find such a cathedral standing. what does that prove? why! that the ancient indians built their cathedrals so much farther back than the gauls that they have all disappeared. nothing can resist the iron tooth of time. now i think that this cathedral is rather modern than otherwise. [by this time we were in front of the cathedral.] it is tolerably ancient, but if you want to visit a really old country, go to wisconsin. that is so old that everything of this kind has disappeared entirely." [illustration: rouen.] we left the cathedral, and after infinite trouble, owing to the fact that the average citizen of rouen is sadly deficient in english, found the statue of joan of arc. the professor stood before it in an ecstatic mood; tibbitts, profoundly disgusted. [illustration: the professor stood before it in an ecstatic mood.] "who was joan of arc, anyway?" said he. "a dreamy sort of a girl who thought she had a mission. there were no lecture courses in france in that day, and no lecture bureaus. had there been such a vent for her inspiration she would have been an anna dickinson no. . she would have gone about france lecturing for anywhere from one hundred and fifty to three hundred and fifty dollars a night, and would have made a pile of money, and bought a place in fee simple for her father, and got a lot of money in bonds; that's what she would have done. but there were no such facilities for genius at that time, and so she put on armor, and led soldiers, and won victories, and finally was burned at the stake for a witch. i don't see anything special to craze over in joan. i'm going back to the café and put in the time before the train leaves in literary pursuits. i'll write a letter to my mother. it's a thousand pities that we didn't go straight on to paris, instead of stopping in this infernal old hole. we might have got there in time to go to the mabille to-night. but it will be too late by the time we get there." [sidenote: the cathedrals.] and tibbitts left us and returned to the café and we went on. there is nothing in rouen that is not interesting. sunday as it was, the sidewalks in front of the numberless cafés were occupied with chairs, the white-aproned waiters flitting hither and thither, serving their customers with the light wines of the country; the market was in full blast, and business was going on the same as any other day. there is no sunday in france, that is as americans understand the day. due honor having been done to joan of arc, we entered a narrow, crooked thoroughfare, spanned by an old arch, built hundreds of years ago to mark the spot where a peasant named rouen built the first house, erected on the site that was destined to play such an important part in the subsequent history of the country. [illustration: cathedral of notre dame--rouen.] the one great sight of rouen, however, is the cathedral of notre dame, which is one of the grandest gothic edifices in normandy. it dates back to , and is a magnificent building. it is impossible to describe the grandeur of the structure, with its finely carved figures, its symmetrical proportions, its graceful spires and lofty towers. the interior is very fine, the high columns of white marble supporting the roof, which is formed of a succession of arches. adjoining the high altar is the _chapelle du christ_, containing an ancient, mutilated figure in limestone of richard coeur de leon, discovered in . his heart, which was interred in the choir, was found at the same time, and is now preserved in the museum. [illustration: house of jean d'arc--rouen.] st. maclou and st. ouen are two fine churches of the florid gothic style, the latter said to be one of the most beautiful in existence. it was founded in , and completed toward the close of the fifteenth century. [illustration: harbor of rouen.] [sidenote: tibbitts writes a story.] throughout the entire city the prevailing style of architecture is gothic--the palais de justice being in late gothic, and is a very handsome building. the residences, for the most part, are large and beautiful, surrounded by well-kept lawns and adorned with flower beds and fountains. rouen is a very important cotton manufacturing place, and is one of the principal depots for the wines of bordeaux. it is a commercial center, too, the seine affording a good harbor for large ocean steamers, most of which are in the mediterranean trade. when we returned we found tibbitts sitting in the arbor, with a pile of manuscript before him, and we asked what he had been doing. "i promised the old gentleman," he said, "to learn the languages of the countries i passed through, and i shall do it. i shall learn french, some afternoon when i get time. and he requested me to practice writing things for general improvement. as i am in france i have written mother a letter, and i have enclosed in it a part of a chapter of a story, into which i have jerked a lot of french to show her that i have not wasted my time. here it is, and i think it's devilish good!" this was tibbitts' part of a chapter of a story:-- "precisely at the stroke of seven the count was upon the ground, and the clock had not ceased to sound the hour before the marquis appeared. both threw off their outer clothing, and stood in their shirts, sword in hand." "it's an account of a french duel," explained tibbitts. "_fromage!_" hissed the count, between his clenched teeth. "_fromage gratin!_" echoed the marquis. the swords crossed with an angry clang. it was a supreme moment. the two men glared at each other, each fearing to hazard a movement. finally, tired of inaction, the count took the offensive. his rapier flashed like lightning. with an adroit _mouton_, he well nigh succeeded in breaking his enemy's guard, indeed he would have done it but for the skill with which a _marrons glacê_ was interposed. both pause a moment for breath. breath is necessary to a duelist. the marquis was the first assailant. he delivered a fierce _cotellette de veau_, which had stretched many a tall fellow on the sod, followed by a _mayonnaise_, of which few are the master, but gnashed his teeth to find himself stopped by a _poulet a la paris_. they paused again. "i see you have advantaged by practice with vol au vent," said the marquis. (vol au vent was the most celebrated swordsman of paris.) "he taught you the lunge--i invented the parry. we will resume." they eyed each other closely. "this time i will finish him," said the count to himself. using the _pomme de terre_ as a feint, he threw himself with all his force into a _patè_, and would have ended the contest then and there, but that the marquis avoided the thrust by a _poisson_. [illustration: st. ouen--rouen.] "ah! ha!" said the marquis, "i have had other masters than vol au vent! didst never hear of vol au vent's younger brother!" "_a la carte!_" hissed the marquis. "_table d'hote!_" was the determined reply, and again the swords crossed. [sidenote: on the way to paris.] it was over in a moment. the marquis, springing lightly back, made a rapid advance. his rapier made a motion that was as quick as the stroke of a cobra. it was as fatal. a lightning-like _potage_, to which the count opposed a _patisserie_ in vain, and he fell to the ground lifeless, the thirsty sand drinking up his blood. "_haricot!_" said the marquis, as he wiped his sword as cooly as though blood had never stained it, and walked deliberately away. "in the name of all that's good what _is_ all this about?" exclaimed the professor. "why, tibbitts, all this french you have taken from this bill of fare here. _pomme de terre_, means simply potato, and _poisson_ is fish, _mouton_ is mutton, and _fromage_ is cheese. you are not going to send this to your mother?" "ain't i though! the good old girl don't read french, and this will do just as well as any i ever saw in anybody's novel. it shows that i have not neglected my opportunities. send it? you bet!" and he did fold it, and put it into an envelope, and after several frantic endeavors he made the boy understand that he wanted a postage stamp, and in the box it went. and now that i come to think of it, i am not sure but that tibbitts was right. if french phrases must be used in english writing, why not take them from a bill of fare? so far as the general public goes they would do just as well. i have no doubt but his french will pass muster, twelve miles back of oshkosh. leaving rouen with its rich mediæval architecture, its quaint streets and lovely parks, we cross the seine and are whirling along at a rapid rate towards paris, the center of the gay world. as we approach the metropolis several beautiful cities are passed, the principal one being poissy, a town of fifty thousand inhabitants, which was the birth place of st. louis, who frequently styled himself "louis de poissy." at asnieres, the seine is crossed for the last time, and in a few minutes cluney is reached, and away over to the right may be seen the tomb of napoleon, its gilt dome sparkling in the sunlight. here we pass the fortifications and in another brief interval are in the station at rue st. lazarre, and before us with all its beauty is paris. in paris the first american i met was bloss, my circus friend. he had succeeded in getting his "wonder" in germany, and in switzerland he had purchased two bears, which he had with him. [illustration: the showman in paris.] "they are probably the greatest wonders of the nineteenth century," he remarked. "garsong, two cognacs, lo. i am pretty well up in french. i hev got so sence i hev bin here that i kin order my drinks without any trouble, and that's the main pint. them bears are something inscrutable. they kin waltz on their hind legs; they kin fire pistols, and will work in splendid with my injuns. but what is more wonderful, they kin ride a horse, ef the pad is made big enuff. and that's where i'm goin' to fetch the public. to yootilize bears i'm goin' to present a grand scriptooral spectacle. the public want moral amoosement, and the public is goin' to hev it now till they can't rest. them bears is what is goin' to do it. i shel present the unparalleled spectacle uv elijah and the bears eatin the children, all on hosses. come to think of it, wuz it elijah, or elisha? i've forgotten, and must read it up afore i git it on the bills. when yoo hev a scriptooral spectacle yoo want be very akerit on the bills. "it will be the gorgusest thing ever seen. elijah--foggarty kin ride well enough to do elijah, and i got a dozen kids in the company, mostly tumblin', wich will anser for the children. elijah, perfectly bald-headed, will ride in on a black hoss to slow moosic, a sort uv scriptural waltz ez it were. the kids will ride in on spotted ponies and shout, all in chorus, "go up bald head!" then the two bears--they ain't she bears, but that's no difference--will come in on white hosses, and chase the children. then the band will play furious moosic, jist ez they do at the finish of a tumblin act, and the bears will each snatch a kid off his pony by the belt and ride out. [sidenote: the showman's scheme.] "but the children were eaten by the bears?" [illustration: bloss' great moral equestrian spectacle.] "cert. but suthin must be left to the imagginashen. realism is all well enough, but it kin be carried too fur. the children will all rush out and the eatin will be supposed to have taken place outside. i can't afford to feed them bears on children every afternoon and evenin'. it would draw, no doubt, but i couldn't afford sich a luxury. but the spectacle will draw. it will fetch the religious people. they disapprove of the circus, as a rool, but they will all come to see a great moral lesson, illustrated. to see this great moral lesson, they will come early so as to get good seats, and when it is over they won't go till the show is out. to accommodate their prejoodisses and give 'em the hull show i shel hev it put on the last thing, for once in they won't leave till they see the moral spectacle. to see this they'll shock theirselves with mademoiselle blanche on the tight rope, in tights. you've got to have a moral show, and these bears will lay over anything on the road, becoz it's not only moral, but it's actilly scriptooral. i'm after a lot uv attracshens here. there's a sword swallerer that i think i kin git, and i know uv a lot uv the loveliest anacondas that ever went under a canvas." [illustration: tower of st. pierre--caen.] the old gentleman by this time had consumed a half dozen brandies and water, and was becoming incoherent. the waiter knew him so well that whenever his glass was empty he filled it without orders, all of which he approved, as it saved wrenching himself with french. "bong garsong," he remarked as he went off into a doze. [illustration: old houses--rouen.] chapter xvii. a scattering view of paris. when an enlightened public sentiment drove the pirates from the high seas, and compelled them to seek other methods of supplying themselves with means for the enjoyment of luxury, i am convinced that every one of them came to europe, and went into the hotel business. a few of them might have got hotels in america, but the vast majority came here. i did come across one at the gorge de triente, in switzerland, who might not have been a pirate, or, if he was, he was either a mild one, or, being now very old, is endeavoring to patch up his old body for heaven. i am inclined to the belief that he was a pirate, but not of the sentimental order who shed human gore for the love of it; that when his schooner, the "mary jane," captured a prize, he only killed such of her crew as were necessary, in the action, and after the vessel had surrendered he did not make the survivors walk the plank for the amusement of his men, but mercifully set them adrift in an open boat, without water or provisions. that's the kind of pirate he was. and since he has been a landlord, he does not take every dollar you have--he leaves you enough to get to the next bank, where your letter of credit is available. i shall always remember this landlord. he is an ornament to his sex. but the first hotel we encountered in paris had for a landlord one who must have commanded the long, low, black schooner, "the terror of the seas," who never spared a prisoner, or gave quarter to anybody, but who hove overboard for the sharks every human being he captured, without reference to age, sex, or previous condition of servitude. indeed, i think that after he was driven from the seas, he took a shy at highway robbery before taking his hotel in paris, thus fitting himself thoroughly for his profession. "ze room will be ten francs, messieurs," was the remark of the polite villain who showed us our apartments. "_we_, _we_," we cheerfully replied, for the room was worth it. we said "_we_, _we_," that the gentleman might know that we understood french, and that he need not unnecessarily strand himself upon the rocks of the english language. but the next morning! the bill was made out, and as we glanced at it we forgave the english landlords--every one of them. apartment ten francs, candles, or "bougies," as the barbarous french call them, two and one-half francs; attendance (we had not seen a servant), two and a half francs each, five francs. then there were charges for liquors enough for bloss, the american showman, not a particle of which had been ordered or had been brought to our room, and so on. we expostulated, but when we commenced that, the clerk began to talk in french, and as all the french we had between us was "_we_, _we_," he had rather the advantage. in reply to some question he appeared to be asking, we said, "_we_, _we_," whereupon he dropped back into english promptly, and said that inasmuch as we admitted that the bill was right, why didn't we pay it? that "_we_, _we_" was our ruin. "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing; drink deep or taste not the pierian spring." were we over with it? by no means. as we were ready to file down the stairs there came to our various rooms more porters than we ever supposed lived, each of whom seized a piece of baggage, when one might well have carried it all. we discovered, finally, what that meant. those who did not carry baggage stood grinning in the passages, with their hands extended, and those who did expected each a franc. as we had passed the concierge, who had certainly been no earthly use to us, his hand was extended, and to crown the whole and have it lack nothing, a chambermaid came running to me with a handkerchief which "monsieur had left in his room," and out went her hand. the brazen hussy had abstracted it from my valise, and held it till the last moment, that she might have some excuse for a gratuity. [sidenote: the uses of spectacles.] tibbitts and the others shed silver freely, but the professor did not. entrenched behind his spectacles he did not catch the eye of one of them, and he stalked majestically through the lot, turning neither to the right nor the left till he was safely ensconced in his fiacre. that pair of spectacles saved him at least their cost that day. i shall wear them hereafter. they are good for this purpose, and then one behind this wall of glass can look another man in the eye steadily when he is enlarging on facts. spectacles have uses beside aiding the vision. [illustration: the professor's spectacles.] we paid everybody and everything, and departed sadly. no matter how joyously you enter a french hotel, you walk out to the music, mentally, of the dead march in saul. but what are you going to do about it? you cannot sleep in the streets, and you must eat, and the pirates have you in an iron grip, and they realize the strength and impregnability of their position. paris is another octopus, differing from london only in the quality and style of its feelers. london has been built up by main strength, that being its characteristic. paris has as many feelers as london, and they are perhaps as strong and far-reaching; but they are wrapped in velvet. it is a rather pleasant thing to be devoured by the french octopus. he does not rend you limb from limb, like the english one, but he holds you just as firmly, and sucks your life blood in so delightful a way, that you rather like the operation. paris is the city of luxury. no matter where you go, nor among what class of people, you see but two things--a vast population catering to sensualism, and another vast population paying the price for it. the difference between london and paris is shown even in its proprietary medicines. in london the walls groan, or would if they could, under announcements of liver medicines; in paris the walls of corresponding conspicuousness are covered with advertisements of articles for the hair and complexion. a french woman will get on with almost any kind of a liver, but she must have hair to her heels, and a complexion that is faultless. no matter what kind of underclothing she has on, or no matter if she hasn't any, the outside must be dressed in elegance and taste. paris lives largely for the eye. [illustration: old paris.] [sidenote: old and new paris.] the city is made up of two distinct parts--the old and new. old paris, the paris of sue, and dumas, and victor hugo, still exists, and its people are precisely the same as when these authors wrote of them. you leave the most splendid streets in the world, wide, and paved like floors, with enormous rows of palatial structures on either hand, as modern as modern can be, and in fifteen minutes you are in narrow, crooked alleys, with the quaint old houses on either hand, six and seven stories in height, with all sorts of gables, all sorts of deformities in the matter of walls; with the quaintest and most curious passages, and paved with the boulders which the parisian of twenty or thirty years since found so useful in constructing barricades when they had their regular monthly revolution. and you see the same men and women who fought behind these barricades, and who will do it again--the wine shop politicians, who believe in "liberty, fraternity and equality" to-day, and accept an empire to-morrow for a change. a parisian cannot endure monotony, even in a government. possibly he accepts imperialism, now and then, just for the pleasure of overturning it. [illustration: "liberty, fraternity, equality."] but the new paris is quite another thing. all paris was, not many years ago, like the portions of the latin quarter and the faubourg st. antoine, but the third napoleon intended to be emperor all his life, and these crooked streets were not good for imperial artillery, and the pavements were easily torn up for barricades. so he called to himself baron haussman, the prefect of the seine, and said, "we will reconstruct paris." the baron, thoroughly devoted to the emperor, and himself, called about him the best talent in the world, and the work was begun. [illustration: new paris--boulevard des italiens.] [sidenote: how the new paris was made.] but be it understood that the baron and the emperor did not go about this work carelessly. the baron, whose ancestors were israelites, had all the thrift of that remarkable race, and napoleon was not much behind him. whenever they decided upon tearing down the whole quarter and a score of crooked streets, and constructing a boulevard wider than the widest street in new york, they had an agent who, before the design was made public, went and purchased the entire property at the market rate. then came the necessary legal steps for the condemnation of the property, and the payment therefor by the city. the new owner was allowed twenty or thirty times for it above what he paid, and vast sums were by this simple process turned into the emperor's private exchequer and added to the already vast estate of the astute baron. the emperor used his share of the plunder in amusing the parisians, but the baron's share is still in his family. there are tweeds in every country, but these were greater than our great peculator. the emperor napoleon and baron haussman were just as much greater than tweed as france is greater than the single city of new york. but then their opportunities were greater. had tweed had a chance he might have risen to the front rank. it is perhaps as well for paris that it had an emperor, and possibly it would have been better for the united states had she had a king in her earlier days. for a republic will never do toward the beautifying a city or country what an emperor will. i helped to elect a member of congress once, who, finding that a single door in the capitol at washington cost twenty thousand dollars, exclaimed against the extravagance of the country. "why," said he, "a good two inch pine plank door, painted white, with three coats of paint, can be had in upper sandusky for eight dollars, and it would do just as well as this infernal bronze thing covered all over with figures." had paris been governed by a congress, the honorable gentlemen from normandy, and savoy, and other out-lying districts, would never have paid for the wonderfully beautiful boulevards that make paris the most beautiful city in the world. the old alleys were good enough for their fathers, and why not for the present generation? but the will of a single man did it, and the memory of that man is still worshiped in paris. dead though he be, he wields power in paris to-day, and had not his son been so reckless in africa, the chances are a hundred to one that he would to-day be occupying his father's throne. new paris is made up of beautiful wide boulevards, some of them two hundred feet wide, with sidewalks at least thirty feet wide on either side, and lined with shops and cafés, the shops devoted almost entirely to the sale of articles of luxury. the cafés are very peculiar. paris lives, as much as possible, out of doors, for paris desires to see and be seen. therefore, in front of every café, under tasteful awnings, are chairs and little white sheet iron tables; there sits paris, drinking its drinks and eating its light repasts, from early morning till very late at night. to an american it is a most peculiar sight. no matter where you go, in old paris or new, it is the same, except in the grade of the people. in old paris you see blue blouses and calico dresses at these tables, and in new paris broadcloth and silk, but the tables are there on the sidewalk, and the people sitting by them, the same in one as in the other, and very jolly they are. [illustration: the louvre from the rue de rivoli.] [sidenote: drinking in paris.] paris is the most temperate city on the globe. there is as great a quantity of liquids consumed as in london, and perhaps more, but it is a different kind. the frenchman drinks the light wines of the country, or curious compounds of stuff that are as innocent as milk, so far as intoxication goes. he has syrups something like those the american druggist uses in his alleged soda water, and he either mixes that with pure water and makes his heart glad, or, if he is particular about it, he mixes it with seltzer water from the gushing syphon. there are vast varieties of these syrups, but they are all alike except in the matter of flavor. occasionally one rushes to the extreme of dissipation and stupefies himself with german lager beer, but as a rule it is either wine or these syrups. of course there are french drunkards. the brain-annihilating absinthe obtains here, and a seductive fluid it is. it is the most innocent tasting stuff in the world, and does not affect one immediately. and so the ignorant stranger, on his first introduction to it, takes dose after dose of it, and goes home wondering why people are so mortally in dread of absinthe. in the still watches of the night he becomes convinced that he has been taking something, and the next morning he, or his friends, are entirely sure of it. for in the morning he is drunk, drunk clear through, and he generally manages to stay so for some days. tibbitts, whose experience i am relating, said it was much cheaper than oshkosh whisky, for one night's sitting at absinthe lasted him a week. there is a vast quantity of absinthe consumed in paris, but it is done quietly and in great moderation. an american or foreigner who likes it drinks it immoderately, and pays the penalty of his folly. the frenchman knows exactly how much is safe for him, and very rarely exceeds his limit. i have seen but one drunken man in paris, and he was either an englishman, or an american who had been long enough in london to get spoiled. he spoke english, and from the style of his clothes i should take him for an englishman, but there was an especial wobble in his step that proclaimed the american. i have seen the same a great many times in my beloved country. drunkenness is impossible on these innocent liquids. the wine of the country is consumed everywhere and in large quantities, and its use by all ages and sexes is unrestricted. it is on every table for breakfast and dinner, and is everywhere the substitute for tea and coffee. containing as it does a very small proportion of alcohol, and as that is diluted fully a half with water, it cannot be a very dangerous beverage. at all events, the french--men, women, and children,--drink [illustration: a boulevard cafÃ�--outside.] [sidenote: wine and whisky.] it in great quantities at all hours, and intoxication does not ensue. outdoor sitting is made possible by the harmlessness of their accustomed drinks. the climate of new york is well adapted to this sort of thing, but were broadway lined with these cafés, with the public sitting at the small tables, how long would it be before a gang of ruffians, filled with the frightful whisky of the country, would swoop down upon them and scatter tables and people. a gang from the bowery, filled with the fighting whisky of america, or the soul-searing brandy of the british land, turned loose upon the boulevard des italiens, or any other boulevard in paris, would occasion as much terror as a communist insurrection. but with the light wines of france, and the quiet pleasure-seeking and pleasure-enjoying disposition of the parisian, everything is as quiet and orderly as could be desired. [illustration: a costume by worth--that costs.] there cannot be in city life any sight so bewilderingly gorgeous or so delightful as the boulevards, either by day or night. the streets are lined with beautiful trees, and then the shops and cafés are exquisitely beautiful, as are their contents. as i said, the shops are almost entirely devoted to the sale of articles of luxury, for the frenchman, acute being that he is, discovered thousands of years ago, that a profit of five hundred per cent. may be made upon articles of fancy; while the dealer in things essential, which may not be dispensed with--articles of prime necessity--obtains a beggarly ten or twenty. he learned centuries since that madame will pay any price for a hat that pleases her taste, and do it without question, while she will haggle an hour over the price of twenty pounds of sugar or a cut of beef. he who deals in necessities must find his reward in the consciousness of honesty. his customers will not let him be anything else. [illustration: a magazine on the boulevard.] [sidenote: thompson, of terre haute.] you shall see shop windows filled with jewels that might well hang about the neck of royalty--indeed, so costly that only he or she who has an empire to tax can afford them--shops devoted to the sale of pipes, the price of which, some of them, go up into thousands of francs; galleries of pictures, magazines of bronzes, and all kinds and descriptions of statuary, and the thousands upon thousands of costly nothings with which rich people adorn their homes. artistic paper hangings, ornamental work in leathers, and every other material; shops for the sale of everything that is ornamental in women's wear, and, in a word, everything that delights the eye, but which humanity, but for its vanity and longing for the beautiful, could do without as well as not. and an enormous trade these caterers to the non-useful carry on. the whole world comes to paris for these things, and they bring their money with them for this purpose and expect to spend it. woe to the american, man or woman, who ventures into these shops. the shopman knows the moment he enters that the coming victim who is rushing upon his doom is an american; he knows that he has so much money to leave with him, and no matter how much knowledge he affects, that he is as ignorant of the real value of his wares as a babe unborn. what should the citizen of terre haute, ind., know of the value of bronzes? nothing, whatever. but he has just made a good speculation in pork, and he has built him a two-story house, with a mansard roof on it, and has furnished it gorgeously with upholstered chairs, and on his floors he has laid brussels carpets, and his wife and he are taking their first visit "abroad." mrs. thompson is determined to astonish her female friends and excite their envy with some "statoos" from "paree," and she is going to do it. the pair look critically through the assortment. they object to the venus of milo, because the arms are lacking, and are surprised that an imperfect sort of second-hand work of art of that kind can't be had at a reduced price. the price of a picture takes their breath away, and mr. thompson suggests that a few pairs of chromos can be had a great deal cheaper, and he thinks they will make a better show than the paintings that are shown them. perhaps he is right, when the paintings that are shown him are critically considered. but mrs. t. will have none of the chromo business. she will have some works of art from "paree," and mr. t., fired with ambition, assents, and the "works of art" are bought and paid for at anywhere from four to ten times their value, and they retire with them grieved and yet satisfied--grieved at the hole the purchase has made in their pocket-book, and satisfied to think what a sensation the purchase will make when they are displayed in their home in the west. thompson anticipates the pleasure of calling the attention of his guests to these wonders, and remarking casually, as though he were a regular patron of art, "oh, them! they are a few little things i bought in paree, the last time i was over. they are nothing. i only paid four thousand francs for the pair. i shall buy more when i go over again. i really hadn't time to look around." and then mrs. t. must have a parisian watch, and some jewelry, and the dealer sells them to her at a very large advance over what a parisian would pay, and when they are gone, loaded with their absurd purchases, he falls upon his knees and prays for good crops in america, and a more plentiful rush of visitors. they are his wheat fields. [illustration: mr. thompson's art purchases.] the difference between the english and french is admirably illustrated by two incidents somewhat similar in nature. it was our fortune to be in london on the occasion of the celebration of the queen's birthday, a time that is always made a general holiday by all classes. business was suspended, and every one gave himself up to pleasure--the kind of amusement that the londoner considers pleasure. the bands were out, the military paraded, and all the parks were filled with people in holiday attire. [sidenote: a holiday in london.] as the afternoon wore on it became apparent that there was some agency at work aside from devotion to royalty. there was a boisterousness that savored of strong beer and still stronger gin. the crowd of men and women who thronged the strand and regent street, and piccadilly, laughed and shouted, not with the merry ring of pure pleasure, but with the maudlin utterances of semi-drunkenness. in the evening there was a grand illumination of the government buildings, the clubs and the prominent business houses. the streets were thronged with people--men, women, and children--all elbowing their way along, eager to see all that was to be seen, and willing to give no one an opportunity they themselves could not enjoy. it was a motley crowd, composed of all classes. the well-dressed shopman was jostled by the ragpicker; and ragged, homeless girls, arm in arm, shoved aside the elderly matron, who had come out with her children to see the illuminations. there were all classes and conditions of people, and they raved and tore about more like escaped lunatics than the staid, sober britons they pride themselves upon being. a walk down pall mall was almost worth one's life. on this thoroughfare are located the principal clubs of london, and as they were rather brilliantly lighted with gas jets arranged in fanciful designs, the crowd flocked there to see them. the street was actually packed from curb to curb, so that locomotion was difficult. the illuminations were not on a scale grand enough to merit all this outpouring of people, this great hubbub, this drunkenness and gin-incited hilarity. for the most part the designs were simply the english coat of arms, with the letters "v. r." on each side, the whole being done in plain gas jets. occasionally some thriving shop-keeper, who had made a little something from the royal family, would branch out a little more extensively, and use tiny glass shades of different colors, over his gas. but it was dreary beyond measure. the streets were dark and gloomy, the air was close, and the so-called illuminations were so very, very meager that they made the general effect only more dismal. yet the people surged up and down the streets, hurrahing and shouting for the queen, for the prince of wales, for the royal family, for themselves, for anybody they could think of. the public houses were open long after other places of business were closed, and there was a constant stream of thirsty people gliding from behind the half-closed doors out upon the street to yell until another dram became necessary. the customers were not limited to the sterner sex by any manner of means. there were crowds of young girls ranging from fourteen to twenty, poor working girls, who had saved all of their scant earnings they could in anticipation of this holiday, who boldly pushed their way with a coarse laugh, through the crowd of men and, standing at the bar, would call for and drink their bitter beer, or ale, or stout, or gin, even, with all the effrontery of an old toper. and old women there were too, who would quietly glide into the compartments marked "private bar," and there drink their brandy or irish whisky. throughout it all there seemed to be a dogged determination to become intoxicated, just as though there could be no pleasure, the queen's birthday could not be celebrated properly, unless every one filled himself up with ardent spirits. as it grew later, the crowds increased both in size and disorder. notwithstanding the fact that most of the illuminations had been extinguished, the masses had had a taste, and they wanted more. they became momentarily ruder and more boisterous. as the time approached for the closing of the publics, the crowd received fresh installments of the worse class of women, and then drunken women tried to do worse than the drunken men, and they succeeded. a woman thoroughly under the influence of liquor is something simply terrible to see, and here we saw it. on that night the air rang with their ribald jokes and coarse songs, as they jostled each other in their unsteady walk. [sidenote: a holiday in paris.] this, it must be remembered, is not a scene that occurred down in cheapside, or in the seven dials, or the streets down near the river. no, indeed. pall mall, one of the most aristocratic streets in london, regent street, the broadway of london, piccadilly, the haymarket, these were the scenes of this frightful display, and evidently nothing was thought of it. the police made no arrests, and did not seem to know that there was anything occurring that was not perfectly allowable and justifiable. so the wild debauch went on all night, and it was not until the gray light made its appearance in the east that the city quieted down and the streets no longer echoed with the maudlin cries of the host of people who celebrated in their own peculiar style the anniversary of their queen's birthday. [illustration: the american party outside a cafÃ� on the boulevard.] how entirely different was the grand national fête of france on the th of july. this, too, is made a day for general rejoicing and merry-making, and the french people get out of it all that is to be had. for days before, active preparations for the event are made, flags and streamers of the colored bunting are put up all over the city, elaborate designs in gas jets are prepared; fountains erected; electric lights put up; in a word, everything is done that can in the slightest way add to the brilliancy of the beautiful city, whose white buildings make it bright and cheerful at all times. on the night of the th it was apparent that something was about to occur, for the streets, the broad, brilliantly lighted boulevards, were crowded with people, all of them full of life and animation. the great stores, with their glass fronts, were literally ablaze with lights; the gaily decorated cafés with their inviting tables on the broad sidewalks, were filled with people sipping wine, or coffee, and discussing with the animation and vivacity that a frenchman only possesses, the attractions of the morrow. all along the principal boulevards electric lights were suspended high in the air, while in the place de concorde, and out the champs elysées, were thousands of brilliant clusters of gas jets, making the night seem day. the crowds swayed hither and thither with one impulse, to see everything, yet there was no departure from decorum. everybody was happy. but it was the happiness that comes of a sense of pleasure, from bright and beautiful surroundings, and the knowledge that every one else is happy. there was no sign of drunkenness; there was no rowdyism; there was nothing suggestive even of offensiveness. everybody was gay and merry. there were songs and hearty peals of laughter, but it was pure and wholesome, something that one could participate in with all his heart. [sidenote: the national fÃ�te.] the morning of the th dawned with a bright, clear sky, and the sun came up with a serenity that augured well for the fête. during the night, while all paris slept, busy workmen put the finishing touches on the decorations, and when all business suspended, paris turned out to see itself, there was a general murmur of approval at the beautiful sights displayed everywhere. the houses along the streets were almost hidden by flags and banners and streamers; the statues were decorated; high staffs that were not visible the day before, now floated long streamers; the parks and gardens were in holiday attire. paris was arrayed in gorgeous dress, and every one went in for a day of rare pleasure. at all the theaters, including the grand opera, free performances were given during the afternoon, and there were all sorts of entertainments provided by the government for the amusement of the populace. in various quarters of the city platforms were erected, and all during that warm afternoon the working classes danced to the music of superb orchestras, which were furnished to them without money and without cost. [illustration: the avenue de l'opÃ�ra from the loggia of the opera house.] but when evening came the fête was seen to its best advantage. as it grew dark the whole city blazed with light. there were millions of lanterns of every possible color, hanging from every point that could hold a support. electric lights flashed from every corner, and gas jets blazed everywhere. the boulevard des italiens, from the madelaine to the bastille, was as light as though a noonday sun were pouring down upon it. and so with the other large thoroughfares, while the different _quartiers_ had illuminations of their own, each of which was wonderfully brilliant. the one particular place that eclipsed all others was the two mile stretch from the tuileries to the arch of triumph, and then on to the bois de boulogne. the straight promenade through the tuileries garden was lined on either side with a high trestle work, literally covered with fanciful designs wrought in gas, while high arches of brilliant flame intersected it at regular intervals. the place de concorde was a marvel of beauty. all around the immense square were hung festoons of gas jets, while all the statues of the different cities of france that ornament each corner, were thrown into bold relief by brilliant lights on the limpid water of the fountain in the center; different colored lights were thrown during the evening, the effect being wondrously beautiful. [illustration: cafÃ� concerts--champs elysÃ�es.] [sidenote: jollity and patriotism.] standing in the center of the place, and looking towards the arch, the sight was simply marvelous. nowhere in the world but in paris could such a thing be seen. the broad avenue, champs elysées, rising with a gentle slope, was lined its whole distance on both sides with a stream of light, that drooped gracefully from cluster to cluster, all the way out, as far as the eye could reach. then the concert cafés which abound on either side, made unusual displays, swinging lines of light from tree to tree and café to café, till the effect was dazzling, and one really had to stop to realize that he was here on earth and not in some fairy land. the bois de boulogne, always beautiful, with its charming lakes, long winding drives, its parks, tiny brooks and picturesque café, was unusually brilliant that night. on the shores of the lake large set pieces of fire works were displayed, while bands of music in odd looking gondolas blazing with colored fires, furnished exquisite music. the paths and carriage-ways were lined with small set pieces, which, together with the constantly burning colored fires, produced an effect that was grandly weird. all paris was one blaze of light. and all night long the people of paris and all france were on the streets enjoying the rare sight. after nine o'clock carriages were compelled to keep off the principal boulevards and streets, so densely were they packed with people. the champs elysées from ten o'clock was one surging mass of people--men, women and children--returning from the bois. from curb to curb was one solid mass of humanity, and such a jolly good-natured crowd was never seen before. they sang patriotic songs, and laughed and joked, and had a good time generally. now and then there would come down the street a small procession of students, wearing grotesque caps, each student bearing a chinese lantern. they sang funny songs, and chaffed those that passed. but there was not a single display of temper. everybody took everything in good part, and every one was superlatively happy. during all that long day and still longer night, not a single case of drunkenness did i see, and during that time i was in a great many different places, and would have seen it had there been any. there was fun and frolic on every side. but it was the overflow of exuberant spirits, and not the outgrowth of too much wine and beer and liquor. in no city in england, nor, i am afraid, in america, could there be so gigantic a celebration, so much fun and hilarity, with so little drunkenness and so few disturbances. verily, the french, insincere and superficial as they are, know how to get the most enjoyment out of life. they have all the fun the anglo-saxon has, without the subsequent horror. foreign travel is of a vast amount of use to a great many people. coming from dieppe to paris there were seated in our compartment two ladies with their husbands, who were in new york, bankers, one regular and the other faro, and both with loads of money. the wife of the faro banker was arrayed in the most gorgeous and fearfully expensive apparel, with a no. foot in a no. shoe. the other lady _was_ a lady, and she really desired to see something of the country she was traveling through. the faro bankeress talked to her from dieppe to st. lazarre station, and this was about what she said:-- "you never saw anything so perfectly lovely as the children's ball last year at the academy of music. my little girl, lulu, you saw her at the school--she goes to the same school with your minnie, only lulu isn't studying anything but french and geography now. i want her to get to be perfect in french, because it will be such a comfort to travel with her, and see things, and not be entirely dependent upon your maid--we have a maid with us, but, of course, we have her travel third-class--not for the difference in the expense, for we don't have to economize--but you know it won't do to have your servants too close to you; they get to presuming upon their privileges, and you must make them know their place. oh, how i wish we had a monarchy or something of the kind in america, so that we could be divided up into classes, and not be compelled to mix with the lower orders." [i may as well remark here that this fine lady was originally a mcfadden; that she came to america in the steerage, and was a chambermaid in a boarding-house, where she first met her husband, who was a brisk young bar-tender, who finally got a bar of his own, which gradually blossomed into a faro bank. the maid was a thoroughly educated and refined young lady, who was compelled by poverty to take a position of this kind.] [sidenote: the talk of the faro bankeress.] "well, monsieur bigwig, the dancing teacher, you know of him. he was a russian or a prussian, or one of them people. why, he has taught the children of all the kings in europe--the little princesses; but he came to america and has three schools in new york and one in brooklyn, and he is perfectly splendid. dodworth isn't nothing beside him for giving dancing lessons. monsieur was a great friend of lulu's, and showed her a great deal of attention, and paid her a great many compliments. when a new pupil came in he used to take lulu and dance with her to show the new one the step, lulu danced so prettily, and was altogether too sweet for anything. and at his ball he had one tableau of four little girls representing spring, autumn, summer, and winter, and he came to my house and gave me the choice of characters for dear lulu. i remember he came to the house to do it, because he took dinner with us that day, and my husband lent him fifty dollars. well, i selected 'winter' for lulu, for i could dress her warmer in that character than in any of the others, and the dear child is delicate; she is so spirituelle, and i had for her a costume which was altogether too sweet for anything. she had on a dress--" "oh heavens! do look at that beautiful valley," exclaimed the unwilling listener. there was a valley spread out before us, so entirely perfect in its soft loveliness that it was worth a voyage across the atlantic to see it. the faro bankeress glanced out of the window, and with the remark, "it's altogether too lovely for anything," went on without a moment's pause:-- "i had a dress made of a white material that represented ice, with little balls of white down to represent snow balls all over it, and furs, the edges trimmed with down, and a little crown upon her head, with points like icicles, and the same things tacked onto the bottom of her outer skirt, and her hair powdered so as to be like snow, and she was the ice queen, and had a retinoo of ice men, twelve little boys with ice axes, and she was drawn in on a sled by two boys dressed like reindeers, and in front of the reindeers was two little boys dressed like bears, and it was altogether too sweet for anything. i don't know how the other little girls were dressed, but everybody looked at lulu; and then, after they four had made the circuit of the academy (it was all floored over), they formed in the center and danced a dance which monsieur had arranged for them, and lulu danced too sweet for anything. everybody said to me that she was the sweetest little girl in the ball. where did you get that lace? i got some in paris last year; we go abroad every year; we are tired of saratoga; we have been going there so long that it is an old story, and then you have to meet all sorts of people there, and i don't like it. i don't suppose it is just right, but i do wish we could have a monarchy, so that the better classes could be more select. that lace was altogether the sweetest thing i ever saw, and it cost less than half it would in new york, and then--" [illustration: the faro bankeress admiring the village.] "what a delightful village this is, and how quaint! do look at it!" this from the actual lady. there was the same quick sweep of the head by the lady of laces, with the regular remark: "yes; it's altogether too sweet for anything," and she resumed:-- [sidenote: travel and dry goods.] "now when we get to paris i do so want you to go with me. i can show you where you can get laces and everything for half you pay in new york. and hosiery! well now. i always buy five dozen pairs of silk stockings in paris. and gloves! you can get kid gloves in paris for almost nothing, and all you have to do not to pay duties is to put them on once and swear they have been worn. i always spend my last day in paris putting on and off gloves. and children's clothes! let me see; you have a little boy, and so have i. is yours in pants yet, or is he in kilts? mine is in pants, but i hated to take him out of kilts; he was altogether too sweet for anything in them. with a broad white collar, and lace about his wrists, and little black shoes, and red stockings, with a highland cap and feather in it, just like a highland chieftain and--" at this point the train stopped at a station, and our party got into another compartment. i pitied the lady who had to stay, but self-preservation is the first law of nature. i should not like to be with her on a steamboat, where escape would be impossible. travel does her a power of good. but heavens! how many like her are strewing their gabble all over the continent! [illustration] chapter xviii. something about paris and the parisians. paris covers an area of thirty square miles, has five hundred and thirty miles of public streets, and has a resident population of nearly two millions, all engaged in trading in articles of luxury for the rest of the world. it supports about one hundred and fifteen thousand paupers. its religion is a very mild form of catholicism tinged with infidelity, or infidelity flavored with catholicism, as you choose. which flavor predominates in the average parisian i have not been able to determine. i should say catholicism sunday forenoon, and infidelity the remainder of the week. at all events, the cafés are always crowded, while the churches never are, except by strangers, who go religiously and devoutly thither--to see the buildings and the decorations. the parisian generally puts off going to church till next sunday, and goes this sunday to the country instead. one-fourth of the births are illegitimate, which is doing very well for paris. the city consumes annually eighty-six millions gallons of wine, and three millions five hundred thousand gallons of spirits; the latter going very largely into the seasoned stomachs of foreigners, the french themselves being altogether too acute to use anything of the kind. however, they are very willing to sell it, and welcome the englishman or american with hospitable hands to drunkards' graves--if they have the money to pay for it--with great politeness and suavity. i have not yet been in any country which did not extend a hearty welcome to any stranger with money. [sidenote: something about wine.] about ninety-five millions of gallons of water per day come from the water-works, which is mostly used in keeping the streets clean. i have not yet seen a frenchman who ever used any as a beverage or on his person. for economy he mixes some of it with his wine, and his ablutions may require a pint or such matter a day, but that is all the use he has for water. [illustration: parisian bread carrier.] the very first thing that strikes an american in paris with astonishment is the meagreness of the water supply in the houses. you look for the faucets which supply your room with hot and cold water, as at home, but you don't find them. a chambermaid pours out about two quarts in a diminutive pitcher, and that is expected to last you for purposes of ablution twenty-four hours. and this with the seine running directly through the center of the city. the houses are from five to seven stories high, but all the water used in them, for all purposes, is carted up to the top by men. my landlord told me it was cheaper to have it so carried than to put plumbing in his house, and pay the water-tax, "and we don't use much of it, anyway," he remarked, and he was right. still, accustomed as i have always been to the use of a great deal of it, it took me some time to fall into their ways. pure water is a very good thing to have plenty of, but it's all a matter of habit, i suppose. a man can get to be a frenchman, in time, if he tries hard enough. nothing is impossible, where there's a will and a stubborn purpose. but to keep oneself clean with a pint, or thereabouts, of water per day looks rather difficult to a novice. john leech was very fond of illustrating this peculiarity of the french people, in _punch_, years ago. when the first english exposition was in progress in london, the city was overrun with french. one picture he made was of two elegantly dressed young frenchmen, standing in front of an ordinary wash-stand, on which was the usual pitcher, washbowl, soap-dish, etc., and underneath was this conversation:-- _alphonse_--what is this? _henri_--i do not know. it is queer! the good leech doubtless exaggerated, as all satirists do, but he had sufficient foundation for his skit. [sidenote: french cleanliness.] but whatever may be the condition of the french, man or woman, interiorally, the outside is as delightfully clean as could be desired. the blouse of the workman is outwardly as fresh and clean as the coat of the swell on the boulevards, and the said swell would sooner lie down and die than to wear soiled linen or uncleaned boots. the women, high and low, are invariably neat and tidy in appearance--immaculately so. the chambermaid, who cares for your room; the washerwoman who brings you your linen; equally with my lady in her drawing room or in her carriage, is neatness itself, and not only that, but elegance itself. condition is no excuse for outward slovenliness in paris. the servants in the house always have white about the throat and wrist, and it _is_ white. and then their dresses are made with some degree of taste, and are worn in such a way as to make the cheapest and most common goods attractive. with the same eye to appearance, and with the devotion to comfort that is a part of french nature, the streets of paris are the best kept in the world. i do not wonder that the frenchman, condemned by business or other considerations to live in new york, considers himself a sort of napoleon, after waterloo, and new york his st. helena. the streets of london are kept clean; the dirt from the throngs of horses and vehicles is carefully removed, and it is done thoroughly, but not so much because of cleanliness as for want of manure. the streets of paris are kept absolutely clean, simply for comfort and appearance. the neatly polished boots of monsieur and madame must not be soiled on crossings, nor must the skirts of its women be made unwearable by dragging through dust and filth. the streets of new york would send a french woman to a mad-house--they are nasty enough to send any one there compelled to wade through them. [illustration: queer--to frenchmen.] there are no people in the world who are so delightfully polite as the parisians. i might say the french, but paris is [illustration: the porte st. martin.] [sidenote: tibbitts' english.] france, and it is the same all over the country. it is a delight to be swindled by a french shopkeeper, man or woman, they do it so neatly and with such infinite grace. there is so much patience, so much suavity, such a general oiling of the rough places, and such a delightful smoothing out of creases. it is monsieur who is the obliged party if you come into his place. he feels the honor that you have conferred upon him, and he makes you feel that he feels it. true, you pay for all this politeness, and pay for it at very high rates, but it is, like all high-priced commodities, very pleasant. he never wearies of showing you goods; your atrocious french is laboriously translated, and if you buy a franc's worth monsieur seems as much delighted as though you had beggared yourself by taking his whole stock. and if you have taken an hour of his time and purchased nothing, he seems to be even more pleased. indeed, his politeness on occasions that to an english or american tradesman would be depressing, is even more marked. he bows and smiles, not grimaces, as has been vainly written, but a most gracious bow and a most delightful smile, which, if not genuine, is a most natural substitute for it, and he modestly hopes that if monsieur or madame desires anything in his line that they will give him the preference. possibly he says "_sacre_" to himself after you are on the sidewalk, and possibly he launches all sorts of curses after you, but you don't know it, and so it doesn't hurt you. go back within five minutes and you will find him with the same smile, ready and willing to go through the same operation over again. tibbitts tried to worry one of them, and for once succeeded. he stopped the party promenading with him on the boulevard des italiens, at a jeweler's, who displayed in his window the legend, "english spoken." the "english spoken" in the shops is good enough, as a rule, to explain the nature and quality of the goods, and that is all. further than this, the english-speaking salesman has no more idea of english than he has of ashantee. tibbitts marched in boldly, and the english-speaking man appeared. he was a very well-preserved, bald-headed man of fifty, and at him tibbitts went. "do you speak english?" "oui--yees, monsieur." tibbitts grasped his hand enthusiastically. "it's refreshing to meet one in a strange land who can speak one's own language." "yees, monsieur." "well, what i want to know is, is the chicago & northwestern railroad cutting rates the same as the other roads, and do they cut for western-bound passengers the same as for eastern, and have you the remotest idea that the cutting will be kept up till september when i return, and does the pullman sleeping car company cut the same as the railroad companies?" "eh, monsieur? zeese watches--" "you don't quite understand me. you see the pullman sleeping car company is quite distinct from the railroad companies, and one may cut rates without the other. see? now what i want to know is--" the bewildered frenchman who spoke english stared in a wild sort of way, but his politeness did not desert him. "ees eet ze watch, ze diamond, ze--" "not yet. what i want to know is, who is this lapham and miller who have been elected to fill the vacancies occasioned by the resignations of platt and conkling, and is miller going to be a tail to lapham's kite, or are they both square, bang-up men, and--" "will monsieur look at ze goods?" "no, no! is the chicago & northwestern in this row?" by this time the frenchman was out of patience. "monsieur, talks--wat you call 'im--gibberish. i 'ave not ze time to waste. eef it ees ze watch--" "sir," replies tibbitts, severely, "when you announce 'english spoken,' you should speak english, or at least understand it. good morning, or, as you don't understand the plainest english, _bong-swoir_." he had succeeded this time, and should have rested on his laurels. but tibbittses, alas, always overdo what they undertake. he had extracted so much amusement from his first experiment that he tried it over again the next day. he entered a similar place and commenced the same thing. "what i want to know, is the chicago & northwestern in the railroad war, and do you suppose the cutting of rates will continue till september, when i return, and--" "indeed i cannot tell you, sir. it is something i do not keep the run of. you had better apply at the american exchange, or the _herald_ office." [sidenote: the polite french.] this in the best and clearest american english. poor tibbitts had fallen upon a bright american who was turning his knowledge of french to account by serving as a salesman in paris. he smiled a ghastly smile as he bowed himself out of the place. bad marksmen who by chance hit the bull's eye, should be very modest and refuse to shoot again. even napoleon, great as he was, fought one battle too many. politeness with the french is a matter of education as well as nature. the french child is taught that lesson from the beginning of its existence, and it is made a part of its life. it is the one thing that is never forgotten and lack of it is never forgiven. a shipwrecked frenchman who could not get into a boat, as he was disappearing under the waves, raised his hat, and with such a bow as he could make under the circumstances, said, "adieu, mesdames; adieu, messieurs," and went to the fishes. i doubt not that it really occurred, for i have seen ladies splashed by a cab on a rainy day, smile politely at the driver. a race that has women of that degree of politeness can never be anything but polite. when such exasperation as splashed skirts and stockings will not ruffle them, nothing will. [illustration: a very polite frenchman.] the children are delightful in this particular. french children do not go about clamoring for the best places and sulking if they do not get them, and talking in a rude, boisterous way. they do not take favors and attentions as a matter of course and unacknowledged. the slightest attention shown them is acknowledged by the sweetest kind of a bow--not the dancing-master's bow, but a genuine one--and the invariable "merci, monsieur!" or madame, or mademoiselle, as the case may be. i was in a compartment with a little french boy of twelve, the precise age at which american children, as a rule, deserve killing for their rudeness and general disagreeableness. he was dressed faultlessly, but his clothes were not the chief charm. i sat between him and the open window, and he was eating pears. now an american boy of that age would either have dropped the cores upon the floor, or tossed them out of the window without a word to anybody. but this small gentleman every time, with a "permit me, monsieur," said in the most pleasant way, rose and came to the window and dropped them out, and then, "merci, monsieur," as he quietly took his seat. it was a delight. i am sorry to say that such small boys do not travel on american railroad trains to any alarming extent. would they were more frequent. and when in his seat, if an elderly person or any one else came in, he was the very first to rise and offer his place if it were in the slightest degree more comfortable than the one vacant, and the good nature in which he insisted upon the new comer taking it was something "altogether too sweet for anything," as the faro bankeress would say. and this boy was no exception. he was not a show boy, out posing before the great american republic, or such of it as happened to be in france at the time, but he was a sample, a perfect type of the regulation french child. i have seen just as much politeness in the ragged waifs in the faubourg st. antoine, where the child never saw the blue sky more than the little patches that could be seen over the tops of seven-storied houses, as i ever did in the champs elysées. one sunday at st. cloud, where the ragged children of poverty are taken by their mothers for air and light, it was a delight to fill the pockets with sweets to give them. they had no money to buy, and the little human rats looked longingly at the riches of the candy stands, and a sou's worth made the difference between perfect happiness and half-pleasure. you gave them the sou's worth, and what a glad smile came to the lips, and accompanied with it was the delicious half bow and half courtesy, and invariable "merci, monsieur." one little tot, who could not speak, filled her tiny mouth with the unheard of delicacies she had received, and, too young to say "_merci_," put up her lips to be kissed. [sidenote: the disgust of tibbitts.] tibbitts gave some confectionery to her elder sister, a young girl of eighteen, but she merely said "merci, monsieur," and that was all. she took the candy, but declined to kiss him, much to tibbitts' disgust. [illustration: "merci, monsieur."] oh, ye thoughtless, heedless mothers of america, would that you could all see these children and take lessons from their mothers. there is a difference in people, and a still greater difference in children. our american congress could well afford a commission of ladies to learn the secret of training children, and a school for mothers should be established in every city for their preparation for this important duty. it would pay better than any monetary conference. the french family is an unknown quantity. monsieur, the husband and father, spends his time at his café according to his quality, while madame the wife receives her friends, or admirers, if she be not too old to have them, in her drawing-room. there are no homes in france, as the english and americans understand the word. it would drive a frenchman crazy if, when business hours are over, he should be compelled to eat his dinner and afterward go up stairs, sit with his wife and children quietly till bed-time, and then retire in good order. likewise would it be distasteful to the french wife. she may be in love--in fact, she always is--but not with her husband. a frenchman once, who was too fond of the softer sex, pledged himself to avoid women. later he was asked if he had kept his pledge. "certainly, or rather partially. i have religiously avoided madame; i can keep that pledge always, so far as she is concerned." he meets his wife with, "good evening, madame. i trust you have had a pleasant day." "merci, monsieur; very pleasant." he does not ask her whether she has been driving out with the children, or with a lover; in fact, he does not care. he knows she has a lover, but that is nothing to him so long as he himself sees nothing wrong. and after dinner he bids her "good evening," and goes to his favorite café, where he, and other similar husbands, save the country over innumerable bottles of wine, and when the cafés are shut, and there is no other earthly place to visit, he goes home and retires to his room, only to meet madame the next morning at breakfast. this is not singular. the french girl is kept by her mother under the strictest possible guardianship till she is of the age to marry. she might as well be in a prison, for she is never out from under the sharp eye of her mother, or aunt, or in default of these, a governess. her life, when she gets to be about fourteen, and begins to know something of what life really is, and wants to enjoy it, is most intolerable. [sidenote: marriage in paris.] she is married in due time, but she has very little to do with it. a husband is selected for her, and she accepts him scarcely knowing or hardly caring who it is she is to wed, for she wants that liberty which in france comes with marriage, and marriage only. she knows that a wife may do that which a maiden may not--that matrimony means in france what it does not in any other country--almost absolute freedom. once married, the mother washes her hands of her, considering that she has discharged her whole duty by her child. [illustration: paris underground--making the tour of the sewers.] the whole idea of french matrimony from the girl's standpoint is well illustrated in the picture of the french caricaturist. two girls are discussing the approaching marriage of one of them. the bargained-for girl exclaims lugubriously, "but i love henri!" "very good, my child," replies her elder and wiser friend, "you _love_ henri; then _marry_ alphonse." her marrying alphonse made love for henri possible. it was all there in one small picture and two lines of print, but a page of small type could not explain the situation more clearly. [illustration: interior of the paris bourse.] [sidenote: bargain and sale.] marriages are arranged by the parents of the parties, and an exceedingly curious performance it is. the girl's parents actually buy her a husband. the two old cats who have one a son and the other a daughter, meet like two gray-headed diplomatists, and there ensues a series of negotiations that would put to shame traders in anything else. the girl has to have a _dot_, which is to say, a dowry, and the son must have money or property settled upon him. the mother of the girl proposes to give her one hundred thousand francs as the _dot_. the mother of the son insists that it is not enough, and enlarges upon the perfections of the young man. he is educated, he is polished, he is handsome, he is amiable. he isn't a brute who would make a wife miserable; not he. clearly one hundred thousand francs is not enough for such a paragon. the mother of the girl strikes in. the girl is the handsomest in paris, and has had every advantage. she is a lady, and would make a desirable addition to the house of any man in paris; but finally she names one hundred and ten thousand francs. it will not do. "_mon dieu!_" exclaims the mother, "you must remember i have three other daughters to provide for, and the estate is not large. if i give one hundred and ten thousand francs to one, what will become of the others? there is reason in all things, even in marrying off a daughter!" and thus they haggle and haggle, just as though they were trading horses, until finally it is fixed. the happy pair are permitted to see each other; so much is settled upon the young man and so much upon the girl, and they are married, and by the laws of france and the sanction of the holy church, are man and wife. they are man and wife legally but in no other sense. of course there can be nothing of love, or affection, or even esteem in such marriages. monsieur wants madame to be handsome and accomplished, precisely as he wants a handsome horse--it pleases his eye and gratifies his tastes--but the main point after all is the _dot_. he has that additional income to live upon. madame desires monsieur to be likewise prepossessing, for she wants the world to believe that she married something beside the title of madame, though all the world knows better. each wants the other to be amiable, for even living separate, as they do, they are necessarily under one roof, and bad temper on either side would make things uncomfortable. above all, they want no jealousy or inquisitiveness. each wants to be let alone; each desires to follow the bent of his or her inclination, undisturbed and unmolested. and they get up, doubtless, some sort of an esteem for each other, which may in time ripen into something like what outside barbarians call love. but that occurs, probably, after one of them is dead, provided the survivor is too old to marry again. it looks well for a widow of fifty or sixty to revere the memory of her dear departed, and they generally do it, no matter on what terms they lived. [illustration: the arc du carrousel.] of course they have children born to them, for there must be heirs to the estate. madame loves them very much, or appears to, but she sees very little of them. she puts them out to nurse at once. children are tiresome and wearying to a woman whose day is divided into so much for dressing, so much for riding, so much for eating, and so much for balls or opera. she sees them and admires them, and when they are old enough, marries them off. the father is pleased to see that henri is growing into a fine boy, or marie into a fine girl, but he has his business and pleasures to attend to, and besides, there is invariably some woman, somewhere in paris, that he does love, and she has children also. and so the children grow up, monsieuring their father and madaming their mother till they escape from under the paternal and maternal charge, only to go and do the same things for themselves. [sidenote: marriage in low life.] curious notions "our lively neighbors, the gauls," as mr. micawber says, have of domestic life. there is no such thing in paris. this among the upper classes. jean and jeannette, the baker and the milliner, are not so particular about the _dot_, and for a very good reason--neither of them or their parents have a sou to give more than the wedding clothes and a holiday, with an extra bottle of wine on the occasion of the wedding. they dispense with the _dot_, and, in very many cases, with the legal and religious ceremonies, which are considered necessary among other classes, and among all classes in other countries. having nothing else to marry for, they marry for love, and very good husbands and wives they make. true, jean goes to his café every night, to save the country in his way, and jeannette expects him to, but as they do not inhabit large houses they are naturally brought closer together, and, consequently, are more in sympathy with each other. jean, with two francs a day, even with the help of jeannette, who may earn quite as much, cannot afford the luxury of separate rooms or separate beds. one answers them both, and not infrequently they have not that one. but with their cheap wine and their very cheap bread, and, above all, their careless, happy-go-lucky dispositions, they manage to get along very comfortably. so long as they can work, and they do work, both of them, they live very well; and when sickness or old age comes there are excellent hospitals to go to, and after that--why, the church has fixed their hereafter, and so everything is smooth with them. poverty has its uses, though, desirable as it is, i find i can get on with a very little of it. i firmly believe that in time i could accustom myself to riches, and really enjoy myself. but it may never be. madame, the faro bankeress, is at the same hotel with us, and is getting on famously in french. this morning at breakfast--she calls it "dejuner"--much to the waiter's astonishment, she ordered "café o'lay--_with milk_," and at dinner, "_frozen_ champagne glace," never knowing, poor woman, that _café au lait_ means, simply, coffee with milk, and _champagne glacé_ is simply chilled champagne. but it did nobody else any harm except the waiter, and it pleased her. she remarked to the other lady that she was sure she would have no trouble in getting along--which she would not, as the waiter, being an englishman, could understand even her english, except when she plunged too much into french. "have you been to the louvre?" asked the other lady, or _the_ lady, to be accurate. "oh, no, not yet. i have no doubt it is altogether too sweet for anything, but i have not had time. i dote on art. but i have found a new place where you can get such lovely laces, for almost nothing, and another where silk hosiery can be had for less than half what you have to pay in new york. and i bought such a lovely dress for lulu, a pearl silk, with such a lovely waist, and an embroidered front, with roses embroidered in the skirt. it is just like the one she wore at the children's ball, at mrs. thompson's, last winter, which cost me more than twice what this one did and wasn't half so nice. but lulu looked altogether too sweet for anything in that, though, and everybody at the ball was in perfect rapture over her. and then i bought a sweet suit for little alfred, my youngest child, nine years old. it is such a perfectly sweet little pair of pants with a waist that buttons on just lovely, and with red stockings and purple shoes he will be altogether too sweet for anything. they will fit, for i have the measure of both the children with me. i have found out that when one travels to see nature and things, one ought always to be prepared. that's why i brought their measure with me." at this point the husband of the other lady, who could not help hearing all this, as he had for many weary days, told me an anecdote like this:-- "a young man with a very bad voice, but who firmly and steadfastly believed that in the article of voice he was the superior of brignoli, engaged a teacher to give him lessons. when asked how he liked his teacher his reply was that he was a good master, but he was altogether too religious for him. "how too religious?" "why, while i am practicing, he walks up and down the room wringing his hands and praying." "what is his prayer? what does he pray about?" [sidenote: the strategy of tibbits.] "i can't exactly say, but i caught the words, 'heavenly father! how long must i endure this?' there was doubtless something the matter with him." there was no necessity for him to point to the moral of this, for the stream of gabble flowed on in a smooth and continuous flow, finding no rocks of thought to give it picturesqueness, or no impediment of fact to make it pause. it was simply the wagging of a tongue that was hung on a swivel in the middle--a tongue which would wag so long as the lungs furnished breath and the muscles that moved it held out. inasmuch as she has pleasant rooms and likes the hotel, and will not move, we are going to find another. but probably we shall find another just like her at the new place. they are the people who delight in travel and are everywhere. tibbitts has made the acquaintance of a wholesale liquor dealer, who is going to "do" switzerland, and tibbitts has determined to join him. [illustration: "how long must i endure this?"] "why join a wholesale liquor dealer?" "with an eye solely to the future. in the coming years what may happen to me? will it not be handy to drop into his place, and, after remarking about the weather, say, 'thompson, do you remember it was just five years ago to-day that we climbed mont blanc? and do you remember when you gave out at the foot of the first glacier how i pulled you up?' or, 'what day of the month is this? th? yes; exactly six years ago to-day we were skimming over the brunig pass, on our way to lucerne.' then he can't do less than to ask me to take something. and then we will sit and sit, talking over our european experiences and drinking his liquor. i shall live very near his place, so as to have it handy. it is a provision for a doubtful future. you are altogether too careless about such things. you haven't common prudence. a man who in his youth do'n't lay up provision for his old age is very reckless indeed. i count the association with this delightful man as good as half my living all my life. i shall try to strike a merchant tailor after i have fixed myself in this man's memory, and after that, if i stay long enough, a boot and shoe man. the past is safe; the present i am satisfied with. what i want now is an assured future. then i am heeled." [illustration] chapter xix. the parisian gamin. paris has one institution possessed by no other city in the world--the genuine street arab. london has, heaven knows, enough homeless waifs, born the lord only knows where, and brought up the lord only knows how; but the london article is no more like the parisian than chalk is like cheese. the new york street boy comes nearer it--new york is more like paris than any other city--but even the new york arab is not to be compared with the parisian. he stands alone, a miracle of impudence, good nature, self-possession and resource. where he was born he never knows and never cares. he don't carry his pedigree in his pocket, not simply because he has no pocket, but because he don't care a straw about it. it doesn't concern him. he would not give a sou to be the son of the late emperor. birth and blood concern him very little. what his mind is running on, chiefly, is where and how to get a crust of black bread, a draught of very cheap wine, and a dry, warm place to sleep. his mother was, and is, a seamstress, or a house servant, or woman of all work, or a shop girl. his father--well, it is doubtful if the mother could give any very definite information on that subject. she may have been a true daughter of paris, or she may have come from the delicious valleys of normandy or brittany, or the mountains of switzerland, with her heavy shoes, her quaint bodice, and her long, braided hair hanging down her shapely back. she got work, she wrought in a clothing warehouse, or she went behind a counter; then came the balls in the latin quarter (it is a part of the nature of the girls of this country to love lights and glitter and dancing, and the like); then appeared the student with his half-polished brigandage, and then began the life of a grisette. they lived together till the student was called home, and he went back to his native country to marry and settle down into respectable citizenship, forgetting entirely the poor little girl he left behind, and the wee baby she had borne him. [illustration: the mother of the gamin--as she was.] but whoever his father might have been he never saw him that he remembers, and he has a very indistinct idea of what a father is. the uncertainty of fatherhood in paris is illustrated by the grisette who was walking with her little boy. a funeral procession was passing:-- "who is it that is dead?" asked the boy of his mother. "i do not know, but take off your hat, my child. it may be your father!" it was not unlikely. i don't think this ever happened, however, for in france, every one removes his hat while a funeral passes. they are polite to the dead as to the living. besides this, the boy had no hat to remove. [sidenote: the mother of the gamin.] he knows his mother, however, very well; he remembers a pale, worn woman, who always gave him the largest half of the scant bread, and assuaged her hunger by seeing him eat, and who managed somehow to keep the rags that hung about him clean, and had hidden somewhere, a neat and tidy suit of clothes which were worn only on fête days, and when they went to church. no matter about the father, since every boy knows who his mother is, and he knows likewise that whatever may happen to her, he is sure of all she can possibly do for him, even to the last, the supreme sacrifice. they lived together in a garret, somewhere, or a cellar. with these people it is always one extreme or another,--they never have the middle of anything. [illustration: the mother of the gamin in the sere and yellow leaf.] somehow she managed to make the little den they existed in rather pleasant, and he had a tolerably happy life. only the mother was compelled to leave him very much alone, for there was the black bread to earn, and no matter how miserable their apartment, there was something to pay for rent. he was left, always, with a score of others just like him, with an old woman who had once gone through the same experience, and who, unable now to do other work, earned her few sous a day caring for children that were short a father, and whose mothers were skirmishing on the outside borders of existence for enough to keep body and soul together. this was all very well till the little legs were strong enough to walk, and the old woman could no longer control him. armed with the [illustration: the aged picker-up of cigar stumps.] [sidenote: the gamin and his mother.] preternatural sharpness that always accompanies poverty, he took to the streets, and, in the old times when begging was permitted, he was a beggar. now he is anything. he scorns regular work, he is a hawk, who picks up his living here, there and everywhere. he may be on the boulevards, and a handkerchief may be dropped; the apple-women, sharp as they are, find in him a most competent brigand. there are cigar-stumps to be picked up, and they are worth something an ounce to be worked over into smoking tobacco. everywhere in the great city there are unconsidered trifles, but an unconsidered trifle is everything to a boy who has no use for clothing, and to whom a crust of bread is enough for a day. finally, at the mature age of eight, or thereabouts, he leaves his mother; or, rather, some night he does not come home. he has found a dry place under an arch to sleep, or a hole in the docks, and he has associated with him other boys of the same breed; now he is an independent citizen. his mother knows the way of the world, and she goes right on, sure that her child is living, and, in his way, well. he occasionally goes to see her, till she moves some time suddenly, and is lost to him in the great desert. he probably never sees her again. if she gets on well and keeps her health she dies finally in a hospital--if not, a plunge in the seine ends her struggles with a very hard world. not infrequently his last look at her is taken in the morgue. while he is a boy he leads a very independent and happy life. he toils not, neither does he spin; he does not dine at the maison doree; nor does he drink champagne or burgundy. he drinks wine when he can get it, and water from the public fountain when he cannot. he eats black bread when he has a sou to buy it with; lacking the sou, there are always opportunities to steal an apple, and failing in that, there are apple cores to be picked up on the streets. as for clothing, very little does him; very little, but where he obtains that little, i have never been able to ascertain. he gets it, though, somehow, each article in the suit coming from a different source, and all just strong enough to hold together. a picturesque vagabond it makes of him. his conversation is something wonderful. there isn't a slang phrase in french that he has not, and as the mothers are of all nations, he has made piratical excursions into other languages, and has the worst of them all. he can swear very well in english, not the unctuous, brutal oaths of the american or englishman, for even a parisian gamin has taste, but english oaths lose none of their strength in him. he ornaments them, but not to the degree of weakening. no frenchman would ever think of chaffing a gamin twice, for he knows by bitter experience that the gamin always gets the best of it, and the first and last time he tried it he retired with everybody laughing but himself and the boy. he did not laugh, because the boy had routed him, horse, foot and dragoon--the boy did not, because to have laughed would have been undignified, and lessened the effect of his wordy victory. he professed to sympathize with his victim, which was adding insult to injury. in this matter of talk the very cabmen are afraid of him, and the policemen dread him. it is his delight to catch a policeman or a soldier in a position where he cannot move, and to cover him with not exactly abuse, but what the english call chaff. he makes the poor fellow ridiculous; he sets a crowd laughing at him, and does it in perfect safety, too, for the official cannot leave his post to capture and punish him, and if he could it would do no good. the urchin is as slippery as an eel, and as fleet as an antelope. he can slip through the crowd and be a safe distance long before the encumbered man has made up his mind to go for him. these boys make up no small portion of every mob that has devastated paris for centuries, and popular risings are altogether too common for comfort in that excitable city. in all the revolutions these little fellows have handled muskets and pikes, and made much of them. the gamin was foremost in the mob that leveled the bastille to the ground, and when that monument of irresponsible tyranny was in ruins the dead bodies of hundreds of them were found underneath them, and the living bodies of hundreds of others waved their crownless hats over the smoking debris. there never has been a barricade erected that had not gamins behind it, boys of fourteen, fighting as coolly and steadily as grizzled veterans of sixty. [sidenote: an interview with a gamin.] they knew not what they were fighting for, nor cared. they only felt it was the people against the recognized authorities, and that was enough. the parisian gamin hates the authorities, for his chief idea is that the name means a prison, police, and everything else that a brigand in a small way don't like. he loves commotion, for commotion signifies excitement, and excitement is as necessary to him as bread itself. he will stand behind a barricade and load and fire as long as the oldest man, and, firing with a musket, he is as good as a giant. there are theaters which he patronizes regularly, for next to a revolution he loves the theater. where he procures the money for admission, small as it is, heaven only knows; but he gets it somehow, for he is there nearly every night. if he cannot get in at the beginning, he hangs about the entrances, waiting for some good-natured man, who does not care to see the performance out, to give him his check, or he wheedles a good natured doorman into letting him pass. and once in, there is no adult in the audience who is so critical an auditor. he knows all about the drama, all about the music, and all about everything connected with it. he applauds at the right place, and if there be the slightest fault of omission or commission in the representation, his hiss is the first and the most distinct and deadly. the parisian actor dreads the gamin almost as much as he does the newspaper critics. they have made and unmade many an aspirant for public favor. i gave a sou to one for the privilege of a minute's conversation. (i had a friend to translate--a street boy would not understand my french.) "where were you born?" there was a comprehensive wave of the hand which took in all paris. he might have been born all over the vast city. "how do you live?" there was an expressive shrug of the shoulders that meant anything you chose. "what are you intending to do when you are older?" another expressive shrug, as if to say "who knows?" (these french boys can talk more with their arms and shoulders than other people can with their tongues.) but when he saw the sou in hand he had expression enough all over him for a dozen boys. he took it with the invariable "merci, monsieur," and darting away, in a minute re-appeared with a loaf of black bread, and was as willing to be communicative as you desired. all that could be gathered from him was that his mother was a washerwoman, his father the lord only knew, and he had been living on the streets as long as he could remember anything. that was all. that was his beginning--his end was in the hands of fate; possibly one thing, and possibly another, but, one thing or another, he had bread enough to last him twenty-four hours, and he was more happy than many a man in a palace. [illustration: a talk with a gamin.] they are ubiquitous, and all alike. their being all alike is what makes them ubiquitous. you see him on the boulevards--you dive down from those dizzy heights of splendor, from the broad glare of that magnificence, to the poverty-made twilight of the latin quarter, or the cimmerian gloom of the faubourg st. antoine, and you see him. just the same. he wears the same reminiscence of a hat, the same remnants of trowsers, the same shirt with holes torn in it in the same places, the flag of distress floats from the same quarter, if, indeed, the shirt is long enough to boast a lower end, and the bare feet in the summer, and the dilapidated shoes in the winter, are the same. it is not the same boy, but it is the boy cast in the same mold, and with all the others, subject to the same conditions, and consequently exactly like as peas. nature makes men in molds. noblemen's sons have something in their make-up besides their clothes, and so have the children of poverty. a pallet in a garret, or, more usually, the bare floor; a crust, or the core of an apple at rare and uncertain intervals, are as certain to produce one typical face and a typical body as luxurious beds and rich food do another. [sidenote: what becomes of the gamin.] the parisian gamins are alike wherever you see them, for they all come from one stock, and are all brought up in one way. so nearly are they alike that the old saying might well be reversed. instead of its being "it's a wise child that knows its own father," it should read "it's a wise mother that knows her own child." with these waifs, a child's knowing, or even guessing, at its own father, would be an idea utterly chimerical. yet they are good-natured, and even kind to each other. there are girl vagabonds and girl waifs as well as boy waifs. the boys are wonderfully good to the little homeless girls who are too arab-like to go to the retreats provided for them by the government. if the boy has a warm place under a bridge or over a lime kiln, he gives it up to the wandering female rat, with as much chivalry as any grand seigneur could display, and he shares with her the result of his predatory excursions, even going a trifle more hungry himself that she may not entirely starve. they are always hungry--it is only a question of how hungry they may be. what becomes of them? i don't know. sometimes they get into other ways and grow into respectable citizens. occasionally one of them is sufficiently tamed to learn a trade, if some citizen picks him up and cares for him, and now and then a street boy or girl drifts, by accident, into a profession and becomes eminent. the great french actress, rachel, was a street girl, whose only fortune was her guitar, and whose living was made by singing in front of cafés. by hook or crook she got upon the stage, and once there her genius made her way for her. the frenchman cares nothing for birth or position in the matter of genius. he wants good singing and good acting, and he cares not whether the singer or actor comes from the gutter or the palace. if from the gutter, the genius which delights him removes the slime, and he does it even greater honor than as though it had been pushed by more favorable circumstances. rachel not only made a world-wide fame, but she raised her family, all of whom were as poor and low down as herself, to the very heights of french grandeur. one of the felix girls--that is their name--is now the wealthy and prosperous manufacturer of a face powder, which is the delight of the upper classes. with the shrewdness of the israelite, she did not go into groceries or such trifles. she knew the french people too well. she invented a face powder and hair restorative, and waxed rich. she will marry her daughters to noblemen, and possibly kings may spring from a line that once was delighted with a sou thrown into the gutter for them to scramble for. one of the great chocolate manufacturers, whose name is known wherever there is civilization, who counts his residences by the dozen, and his wealth by millions, was a gamin till he was eighteen. some of them, like rachel, from their intense love of the drama, get to be actors, when they are old enough. some of them become rag-pickers, or work into other employments of a semi-vagabondizing nature; some of them become thieves, and take in all the range of crime from picking a pocket to committing murder, and numbers of them go into the army and navy. but these instances are comparatively rare. the gamin grows, as a rule, into a vagabond, the vagabond into a criminal, and the criminal either ends at the guillotine or in the prison hospital. a lucky chance may graft something better on them, or a revolution may afford them opportunities for distinction in a military way, but those so promoted are exceptions. the rule is quite the other way. in new york these human rats sell newspapers, clean boots, and do things of that nature, nominally. the genuine parisian gamin might do this, for there are papers cried and sold on the street, though the most of this trade is transacted in picturesque little buildings called "kiosques." but he will have none of it. should he labor or do anything approaching labor, he would lose caste with his fellows, and become to them a social pariah. one important specimen of the kind, nine years old, and weighing, perhaps, fifty pounds, saw a former member of the fraternity, who had seceded, passing with packages to deliver, neatly dressed, and with a general air of being well cared for, and comfortably fed and housed. [sidenote: the seceding gamin.] the ragamuffin looked upon him with an expression of contempt never equalled off the stage, and he called the attention of a score of his ragged comrades to the seceder:-- "look at him! just look at him! he has got to be a baker's boy! poor devil! poor devil! he has clothes, he has a cap on his head, and shoes on his feet. he sits at a table with the maid, and eats three times a day, and has a bed to sleep in! he will never more be one of us! he is ruined! poor devil! why can't everybody have spirit? bah! a bed to sleep in, and regular meals!" and the mob of ragamuffins jeered and hooted at him as he passed, and the boy himself looked as though he had been a traitor to his class, and as if he had half a mind to confiscate the bread he was carrying and return to his former fellows. the young bundle of rags felt all that he said. to him this desertion from a life of vagabondage was a betrayal, as it were, and he felt, actually, a supreme pity for the gamin who could be anything else for so small a consideration as a comfortable life. to him the liberty of the streets was better than any house that required regularity. he would not have dined at the grand hotel if it required his coming at regular hours. and after venting his opinion he went out in search of something to eat, and if he found that something he was happy--if not it was a shrug of the shoulders, and to sleep an hour or two sooner. they have a trick of making a dinner upon an hour or two of sleep, and an enjoyable breakfast by not waking up till dinner time. it is an economical way of living, but not conducive to increase of flesh. how long they can stand it has never been determined, for, not regarding the interests of science, they always manage to find a crust, or a bone, or something, just as the experiment is getting to be interesting. none of them have ever been willing to die in the interest of science. they are largely devoted to themselves. the gamin of paris is deserving of more credit than the gamin of new york, for he has nothing especially cheerful before him. when he ceases to be a vagabond boy he becomes a vagabond man, except in the rare cases i have mentioned, and ends his career, as vagabond men do, the world over. in new york the ending is quite different--indeed the vagabond boy has better opportunities than the good boy. for in new york he loafs about gin mills, and he has the advantages of free lunches, an institution unknown in paris, and the good old ladies get up excursions for him, and give him sandwiches and ice cream, in the hopes of reaching his better nature through the medium of his stomach, they firmly believing there is a better nature, and as it has never been seen it must be in the stomach. in time he grows up and gets as far along as to have that blessed boon of the ballot, and becomes useful to the politicians, who transfer him from the front of the bar to the back of it, and he has a gin mill of his own, and controls votes, and "hez inflooence in my warrud." when his "inflooence" is sufficient, he boldly demands office for himself and becomes a school commissioner, or an alderman, and finally goes to the legislature and waxes enormously rich, and his wife--for this sort of a fellow marries when he gets off the streets and has a gin mill of his own--wears diamonds and has a carriage. it was teddy mcshane, and mickey o'finnegan, two of this class, who got into the board of aldermen of new york. alderman mcshane had heard of gondolas and wanted a few in the little lakes in the park, for, of course, had his motion prevailed he would have got his commission from the builder thereof. and so he spoke:-- "misther prisidint--we cannot be too liberal in ornamintin' our parruks. a parruk is for the paple, and they should be ornamintid. to this ind, i move ye sorr, that twinty gondolas be purchast for the lakes in cintril parruk to-wanst." alderman mcfinnegan, who saw a job in this, decided to oppose it till mcshane should come to him and propose a divide. and so he said:-- "misther prisidint--no man in new yorrick will go furdther in ornamintin' the city than mesilf; but the paple's money musht not be squandered. why buy twinty gondolas, to-wanst? why not buy two--a male and a faymale, and breed thim ourselves?" [sidenote: a contented being.] the parisian gamin can do nothing of this kind--indeed, it is impossible in paris, and he would not want to do it if it were possible. he does not care for money; he does not long for houses and lands or a fixed habitation. if he had the best house in paris, with silken beds and all that sort of thing, the second night he would steal away and sleep comfortably under an arch, or in one of his accustomed places. he is very like one of the chiefs of the onondaga indians, who was persuaded to build him a house in the civilized fashion. he slept in it one night and the next morning broke every pane of glass out of the windows. that night he slumbered with the rain and sleet pouring in upon him, and was happy. that was something like. the parisian gamin, grown to be a man, could not sit still long enough to make an efficient alderman, and he would not give a turn of his hand for all the money that could be made out of the position. he can be happy with rags and a crust, and what is money to such a being? he understands better than any philosopher, that riches consist in not how much you have, as how little you can get on with. if rags and apple cores suffice, why more? and so he doesn't go about speculating in stocks, and getting "politikle inflooence," as his counterpart in new york does, but he is content with what he finds himself. no one ever heard of a parisian grown-up gamin attempting to control railroads, or build steamships, or anything of the sort. he dies as he lived, and is always happy. possibly he is the wise man. who shall say? but he is a part and parcel of french civilization--a natural outgrowth of french habits and customs. without the gamin, paris would not be paris. bad as he may be, he is always like artemus ward's kangaroo, "an amoosin' little cuss," a perpetual mystery, an everlasting study, and something that no other city in the world possesses. he can live on less and get more happiness out of it than any other human being on earth; but he could not exist out of paris. he had rather be in prison in paris than to have a palace anywhere else. he belongs to that atmosphere, to those surroundings, and can exist nowhere else in the world. he is a savage in the midst of the highest civilization, a drone in a hive of industry, and hungry in the midst of plenty. he is everything that he should not be. nevertheless, i rather like him, to say the least. he is picturesque. chapter xx. how paris amuses itself. the average parisian thinks of but two things--how to get the wherewith to amuse himself, and how to get the most amusement out of that wherewith. i doubt if he ever thinks of any hereafter beyond to-night. his religion is admirably adapted to his nature. he is either a catholic or an infidel. if a catholic, a few minutes at the end suffices to fix him for the next world; if an infidel, death is annihilation, and therefore he proposes to have as much enjoyment as possible out of the present. paris would not be a good place for a series of revival meetings. the parisian would jeer at the exhorters, and say, "go to!" paris supports seventy theaters, good, bad, and indifferent. it is not fair to use the words "bad and indifferent," with reference to the quality of acting, for there is no bad acting in paris. it is as to the quality and material of the representations. they have all kinds, from the gorgeous italian opera down to the small and cheap affairs in which burlesque comic opera of the funniest, and melodrama of the most lurid character is performed, for the especial delectation of the lower classes. the theaters devoted to the melodrama are of the most melodramatic kind. there can be no crime too horrible for representation, and the situations cannot be too intense, or the plot too complicated. french life, like french cooking, must have any quantity of pepper in it. [sidenote: a melo-drama.] about the least thrilling situation that would be considered good in these theaters would be the chopping up of the villain's grandmother, and the roasting alive of a parcel of illegitimate children, to hide the consequences of a "damning crime." there is always any quantity of blowing up of towers, of stabbings and shootings and bludgeonings, and all that sort of thing. there are secret passages in ancient castles, and paid cut-throats, and blue lights, and heroines with hair hanging down their backs, and everything pertaining to what in america is known as the "blood and thunder drama." one that i saw reminded me of an incident that happened at home many years ago. in a village in which i was residing, there came the usual strolling company of players of the olden time, the sad-faced men and wan women, who knew by actual walking all the various roads in the united states, to whom a good house would be a novelty that would make them uncomfortable. they had played to empty benches so long that they could not do well if living people occupied the seats. i was fond of the drama, and the variety that we had there was better than none at all; so that i always patronized the strolling companies, attended invariably by a german physician who was quite as fond as myself of theatrical representations, and who, like myself, preferred a half loaf to no bread. we went together that night. the play on the occasion was that cheerful drama from the french, "la tour de nesle." the plot is variegated, to say the least. margaret of burgundy is afflicted with a desire for lovers, and she has a tower in which she receives them and holds her orgies. it is a pleasant thing to be invited to sup with the fair margaret, while the supper lasts, but the pleasure doesn't hold out. it is not continuous. for when you have bidden her good-evening, and get your hat on, you come across a trap door on which you step, and you go down several hundred feet, and alight on spikes situated conveniently in a bed of quick-lime, and your friends never know what has become of you; and if your life is insured there is always trouble about that, for there can be no proof of your death. margaret loved amusement, but, for reasons, she desired no living witnesses of her escapades. she fell in love once with a captain in the french army, one buridan, and invited him to one of her little receptions. the disappearance of so many of her gallants had made the youth in the neighborhood rather wary of her, and buridan was advised not to go, and good reason was given. an intimate friend of his had disappeared mysteriously a little while before, and the last that was ever heard of him was when he entered the tower. hearing of this, buridan determined to go anyhow, and find out whether this friend had really dropped out of the way, _via_ the tower. he went and supped with the fair margaret, with whom he fell in love in the regular french fashion. for reasons of her own, margaret did not want him to take the regular walk over the trap-door, but desired to let him out another way. all would have been well had not buridan discovered, inopportunely, that his friend had been in the same room, and had stepped on and gone through the trap, and that the lime had finished him. margaret confessed it, whereupon buridan drew his sword and killed her to avenge his friend. before margaret passed out she informed buridan that he was her son! buridan then immediately killed somebody else, and that one, before dying, stabbed another, and so on, till the entire company, fifteen in all, were piled upon the stage like cord-wood, which ended the play, there being no living actors to continue it. my friend, the german physician, rose and remarked: "my frendt, dere ish shoost one ding lacking to make dish blay gomplete. der beople on der stage ish all deadt. de first violin shood now stab der second violin mit his bow, and gommit soocide mit himself by schwallowing his fiddle. dot wood endt de entire gompany." as we were leaving the hall a young man named smith, who was always blatting about art, and music, and the drama, and such things, having been in new york once, seized the doctor and said, "was it not a good performance? there is power in this company. have you anything better in germany?" the doctor looked at him pityingly. "my tear young man, you are not to plame. i pity you. when de almighty rained common sense, de schmidt family all shtood unter umbrellas." [sidenote: the grand opera.] "la tour de nesle," as lurid as is its plot, would be mild meat for the frequenters of the minor theaters of paris. they would insist upon seeing the actual trap-door, and the lovers of margaret falling through it, and i am not sure but what they would demand real spikes and lime. you pay enormous prices in the one class and next to nothing at the other; but in both the standard of performance is a very high one, and is rigidly maintained. the parisian, gamin or marquis, will have no bad music or acting. he may tolerate adulteration in his food, but none in his amusements. it was always the policy of the french government to see that the people were sufficiently amused, and also to do every thing possible to attract strangers to the gay capital. therefore, the theaters are the most gorgeous in the world, and as it would be impossible to maintain them from the admission receipts, the deficiencies are made up from the public treasury. the grand opera receives from the government nearly two hundred thousand dollars per year, and a number of other theaters receive like support, the entire amount thus paid aggregating something over six hundred thousand dollars per year. the citizen who may never see the inside of the opera house is content with this, for it attracts to paris the foreign sheep whose fleece is his living. without the opera the rich american would not come to paris, and then what would trade be? the parisian shopkeeper pays that tax willingly; and they pay their artists well, so as to have and keep the best. any eminent tenor has a salary of twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars per annum; and other talent in proportion. it is not a bad thing to be a tenor in paris. the salary is very comfortable. in addition to the regular theaters there are numberless open-air concerts and variety performances in gardens, the spectators sitting on benches on the sand, the stage only being covered. these are always brilliantly lighted, and most artistically and profusely ornamented, and as attractive to the parisian as to the stranger. there is no entrance fee to these places. you wonder at the liberality of the proprietor, and say to yourself, if you could only find a hotel with similar views, you would immediately remove to paris, and make it a permanent residence. but once inside, you find a pang in store for you. the free entrance is merely to evade some ordinance or other, and you are required to purchase refreshments, and no matter what it is, an ice or a glass of beer, the price is the same, three francs, or sixty cents, which makes really a high admission, even for paris. it is the same as though a landlord should make no charge for his rooms, but compel you to pay two dollars for the privilege of getting into bed. nowhere can something be had for nothing, and the more liberal it is at the beginning, the dearer it is at the ending. but the chief delight of the middle and lower class of parisians is the ball at night. there are scores and scores of gardens in every part of the city, immense enclosures, with a magnificent orchestra in the center, in which the parisian dances and dances, seemingly never tiring. he stops now and then for a glass of wine, or the non-exhilarating syrup with which he lights his soul and ruins his stomach, if he has soul and stomach, but he seems to regret even this loss of time. the women are even more intoxicated with the dance than the men. a man may stop a minute and be easy, but the women chafe under the pauses in the music, and are impatient to be in motion. there are gardens for the very poor, where the admission is a sou, or such a matter, for the men, and nothing for the women. the grounds outside are rather diminutive, and the ornamentation somewhat scanty, but the dancing floor is there and the orchestra likewise, and the blouses and calico enjoy themselves as thoroughly as the broadcloth and silk that frequent the higher priced places. the jardin mabille, near the champs elysées, is the best known in paris. it has world-wide celebrity, and no foreigner, no matter of what nation, ever leaves paris without paying it, at least, one visit. it is a wondrously beautiful place, gorgeously illuminated with colored lights, and full to excess of trees, shrubbery, flowers and everything else that is beautiful. there are long walks, tortuous labyrinths, tables everywhere under trees, and it is filled with all sorts of attractions to take money from the visitor. [sidenote: the wicked mabille.] the foreigner goes there to see the peculiar dancing, of which he or she has heard so much. the whole world knows of the can-can, and the whole world has heard of the frightfully immodest exposure of person visible at these bacchanalian orgies. i doubt if a youth ever left his native home in america that his mother did not exact a promise from him that he would not visit this horrible mabille, which promise he gave, with, "why, mother, do you suppose i would go to such a place? never!" and then he went there the first time he was in paris. he wasted no time. [illustration: the mabille at night.] inasmuch as the mabille has, ere these pages will be printed, gone the way of the world (the ground has been sold, and is to be used for legitimate business purposes), some little account of it is proper, even though it is like embalming a fly in precious ointment. mabille was established in by an old and not very popular dancing master named mabille, by virtue of his age known as père (father) mabille. he purchased or leased a piece of ground on the allée des veuves and the champs elysées, and built thereon a dance house. originally it was a dingy structure and the admission, male and female, was only ten sous. it prospered, for it was the resort of the doubtful classes who always pay. [illustration: a mabille divinity and the idiot who pays.] the sons of père mabille took the money the old gentleman had saved, and enlarged it. they substituted gas for oil; they enlarged and decorated the grounds; they planted shrubbery and introduced decorations; they had better music, and made it the resort of the better, that is, richer class of the _demi-monde_, the wild bohemians and that enormous class in paris who live from hour to hour like butterflies. then commenced its prosperity. it became the fashion among all classes. the rich and aristocratic went there to get the dissipation that more correct amusements would not afford them; the foreigners flocked thither in droves, for the jardin mabille was one phase of parisian life which must be seen, and every girl who wanted to display her charms and graces in a way to excite attention, chose mabille as the stage upon which to make her essay. enter a girl from the provinces of any peculiar type of beauty, any especial beauty of face and figure, with the wit and boldness for the venture. she danced at the mabille. some rich or notorious debauchee picked her up at once, and made her the fashion. he gave her carriages, costumes, palaces. poets, who are never so divine as when a responsible spendthrift inspires them, sang the beauties of the new sensation, and all paris talked of her. of course she did not dance at mabille after she had made her conquest--mabille was her opportunity. [sidenote: harriet beecher stowe at the mabille.] they lived their brief existence, they were attired like the butterfly while they lived but, alas! they died as does the butterfly. originally it was the resort of the middle class of parisians, who worked for their living, clerks, students, and that class, and grisettes, and the women who skirted the edges of decency. the dances that made the place famous were born of the natural extravagance of feeling that possesses these classes of frenchmen, and they were done with an abandon which their paid imitators never rivaled. it was grotesque, wild and suggestive, but it was genuine. if finette flung herself into a position that procured applause, marie would excel her or die in the attempt. these people, forty years ago, did the grotesque because it pleased them to do it--the paid dancers last summer were mere imitations, and bad ones at that. the proprietors encouraged this kind of thing, for in it was their profit. and they engaged other women, not beautiful enough to become sensations, but accommodating enough to stay in the place nights, who were ready to endure the attentions of any man who had francs enough in his pocket to afford it, and who, for their society, would pay ten prices for refreshments; they getting their percentage regularly in the morning. we saw them by the hundred, each one with some wealthy idiot attached to her, spending his money supposing that he was seeing "life." he was, the dirty end of it, and he was paying roundly for it. who went to mabille? everybody. thirty years ago, harriet beecher stowe visited it, and described it as follows: we entered by an avenue of poplars and other trees and shrubs, so illuminated by jets of gas sprinkled among the foliage as to give it the effect of enchantment. we found flower-beds laid out in every conceivable form, with diminutive jets of gas so distributed as to imitate flowers of the softest tints and the most perfect shape. in the centre there is a circle of pillars, on the top of each of which is a pot of flowers with gas jets, and between them an arch of gas jets. in the midst of this is another circle, forming a pavilion for musicians, also brilliantly illuminated, and containing a large cotillion band of the most finished performers. around this you find thousands of gentlemen and ladies strolling, singly, in pairs, or in groups. while the musicians repose they loiter, sauntering round, or recline on seats. but now a lively waltz strikes the ear. in an instant twenty or thirty couples are whirling along, floating like thistles in the wind, around the central pavilion. their feet scarce touch the smooth-trodden earth. round and round, in a vortex of life, beauty and brilliancy they go, a whirlwind of delight, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushing, and gauzy draperies floating by, while the crowds outside gather in a ring and watch the giddy revel. there are countless forms of symmetry and grace, faces of wondrous beauty; there, too, are feats of agility and elasticity quite aerial. one lithe and active dancer grasped his fair partner by the waist; she was dressed in red, was small, elastic, agile, and went by like the wind, and in the course of a very few seconds he would give her a whirl and a lift, sending her spinning through the air, around himself as an axis, full four feet from the ground. it is a scene perfectly unearthly, or rather perfectly parisian, and just as earthly as possible; yet a scene where earthliness is worked up into a style of sublimation the most exquisite conceivable. aside from the impropriety inherent in the very nature of waltzing, there was not a word, look or gesture of immorality or impropriety. the dresses were all decent, and if there was a vice it was vice masked under the guise of polite propriety. it was different in the summer of . the dancers were professionals; the poor, painted, broken down danseuses of the minor theaters, and the male dancers were professionals, or semi-professionals, who came every night and went through the same dreary performance. now it is no more. it existed forty years; poets have raved over its habitues; women who made their _debut_ on the treacherous surface of parisian life, survive only in their rhymes, and the visitor to paris next season will find in its place imposing structures devoted to trade. it is well. the more trade and the less mabille the better for the world. [sidenote: the professional dancer at the gardens.] but the american youth who thought to have a bacchanalian orgie was terribly disappointed, for there is nothing bacchanalian about it. all he saw was the entire dancing platform occupied by waltzers, who waltzed just as everybody does in good society, nothing more or less. only after each waltz comes the terribly immoral can-can, and the eyes of the young american, or english, man or woman glitter with expected enjoyment. alas! they do not get it. the can-can is simply a quadrille danced by two or more couples; there is no prompter, no set figure as i could see, and nothing about it singular except the extravagant poses of the dancers. they advance and retreat, not with the dignified walk-through that the english speaking races affect, but more like comanche indians. the male being who dances, always with his hat on, will indulge in the most terrific leaps; he will twist his body into every possible shape that the human body is capable of, and will do more grotesque work than any pantomimist on any stage. he twirls, he twists, he leaps, he dances on one foot, and then on the other. he throws his body into the air in all sorts of shapes; he squats, he lolls his tongue out of his mouth, he makes play with his hat, he puts it back on his head, either at the back or over his eyes; he springs and knocks his feet together; all without system or design, but always in time with the music. it is not the poetry, it is the delirium tremens, of motion. it is such a dance as one might expect to see in a lunatic asylum containing only incurables. [illustration: professionals in a quadrille at the mabille.] as an exhibition of absurd posturing, it is always a success; as a specimen of dancing, as we understand dancing, it is anything else. but for just once it is amusing. as between seeing it every night and serving an equal time in the penitentiary, i would unhesitatingly choose the penitentiary. the human body is a thing of joy when naturally carried, but you do not want too much of it in the can-can. the women are, it must be confessed, a trifle freer. they will kick a bystander's hat from his head, and in some of the movements there is a very free exhibition of leg; that is to say, if the leg be shapely. i noticed that the ladies whose general contour suggested pipe-stemmy support were as modest about their displays as though they had been nuns, and i fancied i could detect a shade of anguish pass over their faces as they observed the shapely proportions of their more favored sisters. but be it known that the especial dancers, those who do these extraordinary leaps and contortions, are such by profession, who get so much per night, the same as at any other theater. this style of dancing was always in favor in paris among the people, and the proprietor of the place, finding that it attracted strangers, reduced it to a system. he hires a certain number of dancers, the same as he does his orchestra, and these set the fashion for the citizens who indulge in terpsichorean gymnastics. you can easily detect the professionals. they come on the floor at regular intervals and do their dreary performance coolly and in a purely professional way, without any more emotion than they would manifest in combing their hair. i do not know what it might have been in other days, but at present writing it is about the tamest place i know of. i overheard this conversation between two young ladies one morning:-- "mary, dear, where did you go last evening? i could not find you." "ah, don't tell anybody, but mamie, and charlie, and i, went to the mabille." "is it good?" "good! it is nothing. _it is the most shockingly moral place i ever saw. why, anybody can go there._" mary dear had expected to be shocked, but she was not. possibly the world never saw so much of her lower limbs as it did of the ladies dancing at the mabille, but i will venture to say that she, herself, under the eyes of her prudish mamma at home, had more than made that up by display from the neck downward, a great many times. [illustration: a male dancer at jardin bullier.] [sidenote: gardens other than mabille.] it is not altogether pleasant for young americans of the gentler sex to visit mabille, no matter how good their escort. there are too many draw-backs to the pleasure, and it is being continually marred. i noticed one party, a young lady and gentleman who were perpetually troubled; they would be observing something that interested them, when very suddenly the girl would exclaim, "charley, this way! quick! there comes sadie mercer, and i would not have her see me here for anything. sammy burton is with her!" they rose and darted down a path-way, only to turn and meet another party whom they knew, and so on. the most of the evening was spent in vain endeavors to keep their acquaintances from knowing they were there, and their friends were similarly employed. there was no occasion for all this effort. everybody goes to the mabille, once at least, because everybody must. but it isn't worth the time, however. [illustration: the grisette who prefers the jardin bullier.] at the _jardin bullier_, in the latin quarter, there is wilder dancing and more freedom than the mabille. it is the resort of the students and the grisettes proper, and the spectacle is genuine. there are no professionals there, and the dancing is done by those who have paid for it, and do it for the pleasure they find in it. the high-kicking girl kicks as a colt does, because she enjoys it, and not in the languid way of the paid dancers. the brigandish youth who can contort the wildest is cheered on to renewed exertions, and the grisette who can kick the highest or do the most grotesque things is applauded to the echo. and when in these extravaganzas one slips upon the waxed floor, and falls, what a shout goes up from the excited spectators! she cares nothing for it--slips are common on these floors. she laughs more heartily than the rest, and rises and resumes her place. the french quadrille is like american hash--a mystery. there is no earthly system in it. like volunteer soldiers, each one operates upon his own hook. they forward and back with the most sublime disregard of everybody else; they combine in the one dance the american quadrille, the german and french waltz, the spanish fandango, the galop, the polka, and every other dance known to ancient and modern times. the only reason that they do not incorporate other dances into their alleged quadrille, is because they do not know any more. they put in all they have heard of, and one would be unreasonable to expect more of them. but they have a good time, and, as the french world goes, an innocent one. there is perhaps more freedom in gesture than would be considered proper in england or america, but there is no drunkenness, and the utmost decorum is observed. such a thing would be impossible with the fighting whisky of america, or face-bruising brandy of england. get together a thousand of the lower classes in either of those excessively moral countries, and the affair would break up in a row in an hour. there would be knock-downs and dragging-outs without number; there would be bruised heads and mashed faces, and the broken nose brigade would be largely recruited. the frenchman does not get drunk. he drinks his light wine to the point of exhileration, and that is all. the student of art, or law, or medicine, who finds his enjoyment at these places, keeps as sober as a judge, and a great deal more sober than a great many judges in america i wot of. he looks to be capable of any enormity, but he is the most inoffensive being on earth. indulging in the wildest vagaries--dressed in the most rakish and brigandish costume, he is scrupulously polite and intensely considerate. he could not be more so were the grisettes his sisters, and the spectators his father, mother and aunts. [sidenote: at the jardin bullier.] one evening at the _jardin bullier_ one young fellow, utterly and entirely brainless, evidently the fop of his quarter, appeared dressed, to his taste, gorgeously. he wore a pearl gray suit; the bottoms of his trowsers were so absurdly wide that they covered his boot; his coat sleeves were so wide that they made a fair match for his trowsers; his cuffs (with a showy sham button) came down to his knuckles; his shirt collar was cut half way down his breast, and his hat was the most painful in shine that i had ever seen. he was, in short, gotten up regardless of expense, and entirely for effect. this young fellow offered some slight indignity to a girl with whom he was dancing. very promptly she cried out, and in an instant the dancing was suspended. "put him out!" cried those near them, who comprehended the matter. "put him out! put him out!" was echoed from one side to the other of the vast hall, and a rush of excited frenchmen was made toward that part of the room. the fellow attempted some sort of an explanation, but it was of no avail. out he went, guilty or not. in that place everybody must be like cæsar's wife--above suspicion. out he went, and the dancing was resumed with redoubled fury. a duty discharged, they might abandon themselves to pleasure with increased zest. all the difference was those who had yelled "put him out" the loudest, kicked a trifle higher than before, and went crab-like sideways with more extraordinary contortions. tibbitts and the professor had an awkward experience the first night they were in paris. the professor had received a letter from tibbitts' father requesting him to look after the young man, and see that he attended to legitimate matters and be not carried away with the frivolities of parisian life, which destroy so many inexperienced youth. in fact, he gave the professor authority in the matter, and made him a sort of a guardian over him. after dinner the professor showed tibbitts the letter and assumed control at once. "to-night, lemuel, i have to meet the american delegates to the international science congress, and i cannot be with you. but i must exact a promise from you that you will not go to any of those public balls, such as the mabille. i have no objection to your visiting the opera, for i understand the building itself is a study, and it is perhaps well that you should hear and enjoy the music of the masters. this is as far as i can permit you to go. you promise?" "certainly," replied tibbitts, "though it is not necessary. without a promise i should not go to those wicked places." [illustration: the meeting of tibbitts and the professor.] scene the second: the jardin mabille--music, lights, gaily dressed women, little tables, wine, and all that sort of thing. tibbitts dancing furiously with a lady in silken attire, and striving in vain to do the high, grotesque dancing of the parisian. the music ceases and tibbitts leads his partner to a table. in his excitement he does not at once notice that at the table exactly in front of him is seated the professor, who, inasmuch as he was holding an interesting conversation with a lady who spoke english somewhat, did not notice tibbitts till their eyes met. [sidenote: tibbitts and the professor.] tibbitts is a young man of great presence of mind. he was equal to this emergency. the professor regarded him a moment, and said:-- "lemuel!" lemuel stared at him and replied:-- "are you addressing me, sir?" "certainly i am." "you are mistaken in the person, sir. i do not know you. my name is not lemuel, it is smith. smith, of hartford, connecticut. may i ask your name, and why you address me, a perfect stranger? do i resemble any friend of yours? am i like any grandson you have? if so, could you, for the sake of the resemblance, lend me a hundred francs?" "lemuel, this is trifling. what are you doing here?" it suddenly occurred to lemuel that he had the professor in as close a corner as the professor had him, and he replied:-- "professor, what are _you_ doing here?" "lemuel, i was fearful that you would break your promise to me, and i came here to be sure that _you_ were not here." "professor, i was fearful that _you_ might accidentally stray hither after the meeting of the social science sharps was over, and i came here to see that no harm came to you." "lemuel, we are, i perceive, both innocent of any harmful intention, but as our action might be misconstrued at home, it would be as well if no mention is made of this unfortunate matter." lemuel coughed slightly and appeared wrapped in thought a moment. finally he spoke:-- "i do not know but that i am permitting my good nature to get the better of my duty, but i will not make mention of your escapade. but i wish it distinctly understood that this must not be repeated, and that you go home at once. you ought to be ashamed of yourself. it is no place for you. you, a teacher, an instructor of youth, a man of sixty, one whose duty it is to form the morals of american youth, one to whose care is entrusted inexperienced youth, to be seen in such a place and in such a company. it is too much, and would not sound well in the west. for shame. as i said, it must not be repeated. go. i now see why you were so willing that i should go to the opera, and why you exacted of me a promise that i should not come here. you intended to come here by yourself, and did not want me to be a witness to your shame. but go! i forgive you! i forgive you." the professor went, and as soon as he was safely away, lemuel took the seat he had vacated, and was presently engaged in a very pleasant conversation with the lady who spoke english somewhat. the professor's guardianship will not be of much use to the pleasure-seeking youth. professors have curiosity, which they generally gratify, in one way or another. poor humanity! the café is the frenchman's especial resort, however. they are everywhere and of all classes, and from six to twelve at night are full. the regular frenchman sees his friends here; business is transacted here; the political questions of the day are discussed, and here nations are made and unmade. in foul weather the inside is crowded; in fair, the little tables on the sidewalk under the beautiful trees are all occupied. and these little tables outside afford never-failing pleasure, to any one, native or foreign. there is a constant ebb and flow of humanity along the streets; there the costumes of all nations and the manners and customs of the world are reproduced for your benefit. americans, english, germans, turks, tunisians, west indians, carribeans, russians, and polanders. if there is a nation on earth that is not represented in the boulevard des italiens or any of the principal streets, any fine night, i do not know of it. [illustration: the cafÃ� swell.] and here sits the parisian, hour after hour, watching this human kaleidoscope, and thanking heaven that he is a frenchman, and above all a parisian. [sidenote: the religious african.] the electric lights shine through the foliage of the trees, making figures of rare beauty upon the faultless sidewalks; there is the constant procession of vehicles more beautiful under this light than at noonday; opposite him are the brilliantly lighted shops with their wealth of beauty in the windows, and all around him is bustle, stir, and life. there is nothing dull or stagnant on the streets of paris at night. the parisian will not have it that way. the glitter may be very thin, but he will have the glitter. he lives upon it. paris by day is beautiful--paris by night is superb. the faro bankeress is getting ready to go home. she has well nigh done europe, which is to say, she has explored every shop in paris and london. she may go through switzerland and germany with us, but we hope not. we are praying that she will go home from paris, and she can't start any too quick. that she is making preparations for a start, she confesses. she is afraid of sea voyages; she has a mortal dread of water; she remarks that she always lives very correctly a week or so before she sails. she says her prayers regularly, attends church every service, and does nothing wrong that she knows of. she will not go to an opera on sunday; she declined to go to the mabille at all; nor will she even play cards any day. this for ten days before sailing. "and after you land safely in new york?" "o, i ain't on the water then, and it don't differ so much." which is very like a negro i once knew in bucyrus, ohio. he was very religious, of the african kind of religion, and was the loudest and most muscular man at a prayer meeting for many a mile around. a gentleman who had a piece of work to do that was not entirely legal offered sam two dollars to do it for him. "massa perkins, dis ting doesn't adzackly squar wid my perfeshn, an' it's decidedly wicked. it's suthin' a perfessin' christian shouldn't do, nohow. but two dollahs is a mi'ty heap ob money foh de ole man, and ain't picked up ebery day. i'll chance it. bress de lawd! it's a sin, but i can 'pent. bress de lawd, i can 'pent. "while de lamp holds out to bun, de vilest sinnah may retun." "bress de lawd foh de deff-bed 'pentance. dat is de great t'ing. yoo can 'pent on a dying bed." "but, sam," said perkins, "i don't want you to do anything that grinds against your conscience. a death bed repentance is all very well, but suppose you die too suddenly to repent?" "it's a risk, massa perkins, but i'll chance it. two dollahs is a great deal ob money foh de ole man. it's a mi'ty sudden deff dat'll ketch me onpropared. and come to t'ink ob it, to be entirely safe, i'll 'pent--jist ez soon ez i git de two dollahs." our faro bankeress had the same kind of religion. land her safe in new york, and she was easy as to her sins. it was only against the dangers of navigation that she wanted to be insured. [illustration] [sidenote: cathedral at beauvais.] [illustration: beauvais cathedral.] chapter xxi. the louvre. paris, the magnificent, has thousands of structures that are worth a voyage across the atlantic to see, but there is in all that wonderful city no one that is so utterly bewildering in its magnificence as the massive pile, the louvre, one of the largest as well as grandest places in the world. its long galleries and beautiful salons, with hundreds of winds and turns, form a labyrinth in which, without a guide, one may almost be lost. it required a great deal of time to build the louvre, as its completion was being continually retarded. but through all the years and the changes in the styles of architecture, a general oneness of plan was maintained, and the noble structure, though constructed piece-meal, is consistent and symmetrical. it is admirably located near the banks of the seine, and with the tuileries, occupies forty acres of ground. it is of a quadrilateral form, enclosing an immense square. approaching it from the place du royale, its imposing front challenges attention and then invites study. admiration is excited by the solidity, as well as symmetry of the pile, and this is increased by its elaborate ornamentation. such buildings are impossible in this day and age of the world. private means are not sufficient. an american railroad magnate might do something in this direction, but when the idea of expending even a few paltry millions upon a residence for himself comes to him, he puts it off till after he has attempted a corner in some stock or another, which generally makes a lame duck of him, and he is glad to retire to the humble mansion which he always has--in his wife's name. [sidenote: the struggle for the leadership.] modern governments cannot do it, for they haven't the facilities of the ancient kings for this kind of work. all that the old french kings had to do when they wanted a palace of this kind was to call upon the workmen of the nation, with spears, and set them about it, and feed them upon black bread and very sour and cheap wine, and take possession of the stone quarries and the lumber mills, and put it up. the painters and sculptors and the makers of the furnishings they were compelled to pay, but that was nothing. an extra tax on everything the people lived upon was levied and collected with great vigor and much certainty, and so without any bother or worry the king had a new palace, with fountains, and trees, and flowers, and pictures, and statuary, and all that sort of thing, in the most gorgeous style. a french king, a few hundred years ago, had what an american would not unjustly style a soft thing of it. it was a good situation to hold, and i don't wonder that nobles fought to be kings, and kings struggled to be emperors. everybody wants power. and this reminds me of a little incident that happened in my own beloved america, illustrative of this principle. in a certain county in the good state of ohio was, and is, a township called cranberry, inhabited largely by germans and those of german descent. these germans, without exception, adhered to one political party, and all voted one way, and their devotion to their party was such that it was considered an unpardonable sin to "scratch" a ticket, or in any way run counter to the action of their convention. in politics they were as regular as a horse in a bark-mill. one man, always the stoutest and best one physically, of the party, stood at the polls, and every one of his organization as he came to vote was expected to show his ticket to this recognized king, that it might be made certain that no one scratched or acted unorthodox. this man was by right entitled to a county office, and held one as long as he could maintain his position at home. one peter feltzer had been king of cranberry for a great many years, and by virtue of his position had been successively commissioner, treasurer, representative, and, in fact, had gone up and down the ladder of earthly glory a great many times, and was waxing as full of glory and honors as he was of years. there was a young man named meyer, who had an idea that he wanted to hold a county office, and live at the county seat, and spend his time in drinking beer, at good pay, and he knew there was but one road to this summit of human bliss, and that was over feltzer's body. so one election day he presented himself at the polls, and ignoring feltzer, offered a folded ballot. [illustration: the struggle for the kingship.] "mike, show me dot dicket!" exclaimed feltzer. "yoo shust go mit hell!" was meyer's answer. [sidenote: art in the louvre.] feltzer divined the meaning of this revolt at once. he knew that this was a challenge to mortal combat, and that the prize of the victor was the crown. meyer was a splendid young man, built like a bull, and only thirty. feltzer had been, in his day, more than a match for him; but alas, he was sixty, and had been enervated by the soft allurements of official position. however, he determined not to die without a struggle, and so laying off their coats, at it they went. meyer had no easy contract. feltzer was fighting for life, and the contest was long and severe. youth finally triumphed, and feltzer, after half an hour of rolling in the mud, admitted defeat. meyer sprang gaily to his feet, and seizing feltzer's hickory club exclaimed to the bystanders, "now, yoo men vat vants to vote will shust show _me_ your dickets!" they accepted their new ruler the same as the french do, and he was elected to an office the ensuing fall, and ever since, for aught i know. he held it, anyhow, till some younger man deposed him. this has nothing to do with the louvre, except as showing that humanity is the same everywhere. if any other moral can be got out of it i have no objection. all over the louvre are statues of men who are famous in french history--those who have achieved fame in art, science, literature or war. they are here, and in stone that will last for ages; longer, probably, than the memory of the acts that placed them there. on the north side of the place napoleon there is a wonderful corinthian colonnade, over the columns of which are heroic statues of eighty-six celebrated men, and on the balustrade are sixty-five allegorical groups, wonderful in design and execution, and so, all the way around the enormous building, story after story is burdened with works of art. wondrous works, artistically bestowed, always profuse, but never overdone. every column, every window-cap, even the ledges just under the projection of the roof, bear the impress of genius. there are statues, medallions, large groups illustrating important events in the history of france, exquisitely carved by master hands, on all four sides of the exterior, all symmetrical in design and faultless in proportion. the interior is in keeping with the exterior. the noble pile is a fit repository for what it contains. the one hundred and forty salons into which the louvre is divided are marvels of artistic beauty. intended for the abode of royalty, it was royally constructed. the kingly builders did not spare the sweat or blood of their subjects. they set out to have a royal palais, and they did not allow the miseries of a few millions of their people to stand in the way of its achievement. the most beautiful of them all is the galerie d'apollon, the ornamentation of which, in beauty of design and skill in execution, is marvelous. it is of itself a study. the vaulted ceiling is filled with paintings by le brun, one of the greatest of the french masters. the cornices and corners are ornamented with beautiful designs in gilt, elaborately wrought, and on the walls are portraits of french artists in gobelin tapestry, making it one of the finest collections of this kind of work extant. there is a perfection in the drawing that is remarkable, and the coloring is exquisite, the various shades and tints blending with a nicety that makes one almost feel that they were done by artists with brush and paint. tapestry, as a rule, has small degree of expression in face and feature, but in these every feature is faithfully reproduced, and the whole figure is strikingly life-like. this room has a history. it was originally built by henry iv., and was burned in . during the reign of louis xiv. the work of reconstruction was begun, le brun furnishing the designs. his death in put a stop to the work, and for a century and a half it stood in an unfinished condition. in work was resumed, and in three years it was finished as it now stands. there are scores of other rooms of quite as much interest. in all, the frescoes and wall paintings are incomparable, and though the galleries aggregate over a mile and a half in length, in no place is there a barren spot. the great masters, through all these ages, gave to it their best years and their best work, and so long as the louvre remains these rooms will be monuments of their genius. [sidenote: the reason for the commune.] the louvre is inseparable from the history of france. in all the upheavals, the tearings down and overturnings, it has been a central figure. it was from the louvre on that dreadful night in august, , that charles ix. fired the shot that was the signal for the horrible massacre of st. bartholomew, which ended in the indiscriminate slaughter of the huguenots, and from that time on to the present it has been the stage on which tragedies have been enacted. it figured in the terrible days of the commune, in , and but for an almost providential interference, would have passed into history as a memory. the louvre has always been the especial object of the hatred of the parisian mob, and no wonder. every stone laid was so much bread taken from the mouths of french workingmen; every stroke of a chisel, every inch of the wonderful pile, was a robbery of himself of whatever it cost. it was the habitation of a nobility, supported in luxury at the expense of the french people. it is all well enough to talk of reason, but there is no reason in a revolution. the parisian whose wife and family were living in garrets and cellars, eating black bread and drinking sour wine, could not be reasoned with when he caught glimpses of the luxurious salons in which the few took their pleasure. he could not be expected to have much reason when he got a smell of the delicacies of the royal table, and thought of the scant fare on which he was compelled to subsist. his garret and thin pallet did not contrast well with the gorgeous apartments and silken couches of his royal masters, nor did the offal with which he was fed compare pleasantly with the wild profusion of dainties which they rioted upon. it was nightingale tongues _versus_ offal--it was poverty in the extreme _versus_ prodigal waste. and then the arrogance of these tyrants! they held the commoners as an inferior race, as another creation, much as the southern planter used to hold his slaves. one of the ancient nobility replied to a demand from the workingmen for better food: "the animals! let them eat grass!" it is no wonder, a few months later, when this silken lord was beheaded, that the mob carried his head upon a pike with a tuft of grass in his set jaws. it is no wonder that when the mob, starved and frozen to a point where death was preferable to life, wrested the power from the nobility and controlled paris, that it should blindly destroy everything that symbolized royalty, everything that smacked of class rule. true, the commune should not have destroyed fountains, and statuary, and paintings, but it must be said that they did not destroy these priceless works for the mere sake of destroying them. the statues symbolized royalty. it was not a venus that was the object of their hatred--the venus was their wrong, in stone. [illustration: of the commune.] there is much to be said about these parisian mobs, and whoever knows of the sufferings of the people, even under the mildest form of royalty, cannot wholly condemn. the many laboring for the few; the man with a hungry wife and pallid children does not care much for the art that his oppressors delight in. he looks at immortal work through eyes dimmed with suffering and half blinded with tears, and it is not singular that in his rage he strikes blindly. [sidenote: the commune.] at this time napoleon had fought an unprovoked war, and to perpetuate his dynasty had dragged from their wretched homes thousands of the youth of france, and had been driven back by the prussians in utter and entire humiliation. had he crushed prussia, the glory of the achievement would have atoned in some degree for its cost; but to bear the burden of defeat in shame and humiliation was too much, and though a republic followed, the commune was not satisfied. it would not trust the republic. it looked upon the republic as a partial change--it wanted a radical one; and, with the childishness peculiar to the french, they commenced the work of reconstruction by destroying what was their own, and which would delight them as much under the republic of the future as it had their oppressors in the monarchies of the past. english, american or german people would have done differently. if these wonderful works reminded them too much of their sufferings to be pleasant, they would have been sold to other nations, and the proceeds devoted to the payment of the national debt. it is well for the world that so much of the louvre was preserved, for there are other nations than france that have an interest in it. art has no nationality--it is the property of the world. the communists ruined many of the finest works in the lower part of the building, but fortunately their ravages were confined to a small space. more important matters occupied their attention, and the louvre was virtually spared. it was set on fire, however, and the magnificent library of ninety thousand volumes was entirely destroyed, and many works of art were injured, but the troops of the republic arrived in time to arrest the progress of the flames, and the building was preserved. the first floor of the building is devoted wholly to ancient sculpture, and a wilderness there is of it. too much of it, in fact, unless one has time for its study. you stop a moment to admire a psyche; you have only time to glance at the caryatides in the hall in which henri iv. celebrated his marriage with margaret of valois; you pass through the salle du gladiateur, containing the borghese gladiator, the famous work made familiar through copies of it; you look down a long hall filled with wonderful statues and see at the farther end the outline of a figure whose very pose is a poem. the room is hung in crimson velvet, and the light, soft and subdued, makes the figure seem almost that of a living, breathing being. at this distance the effect is wonderful. there was great genius in making the sculpture; there was almost as much in placing it. there is a long vista of beautiful statues lining the way on either side to the crimson chamber, which, with its gentle lights and shades, makes the picture perfect, and as one feels the delight of the scene wonder ceases at the ravings of artists and lovers of art over the venus of milo. there, in the center of the crimson room, stands the armless figure whose perfection of form and face has never been equaled. it stands alone, with nothing near to distract the mind by divided attention, and as the lover of the beautiful looks upon the wondrous beauty of that speechless yet speaking statue, admiration ripens into adoration. even tibbitts and the faro bankeress stood still and silent before it for full twenty minutes, and no greater compliment was ever paid a work of art. it interested even them. the figure compels feeling. you do not feel that you are enjoying rare sculpture, but your sympathies go out to the beautiful form before you, not in cold marble but in life--real life, with all the tender qualities belonging in nature to such a perfect face and figure. this may be gush, but there is something about this block of marble that is fascinating beyond expression. in it art has conquered material. the marble lives and breathes. it is marble, but it is marble endowed with life. or, rather it is not marble, it is life resembling marble. it is a dream caught and materialized. if it is not nature, it is more than nature. it is a poet's idea of what nature should be. [sidenote: a very pretty art speech.] whether it be the face with the wonderful features that almost speak, or the form so graceful in pose, or the combination of both, cannot be said; but the effect is produced, and no one can withstand the silent appeal made by this creation of an unequaled genius. it is something of which one cannot tire. the oftener it is seen the greater the impression. it can never be forgotten, nor can it be described. it cannot be reproduced, either in marble or oil. there are innumerable copies of it the world over, but to feel and realize the absolute perfection of the work the original must be seen. no copy can do it justice. the great trouble with the louvre is there is too much of it. if one could live to the age of methusaleh it would all be very well, but unfortunately life is short. you wish you had not so much to see, for you want to see it all, and the very wealth is bewildering. recollection becomes confusing and mixed. of course every one selects some one picture or statue which impresses him to the point of carrying away a memory thereof. we had among us a young american physician who stood in the orthodox pose before the gladiator. having studied anatomy, muscles and things of that nature were just in his way. he stood for full twenty minutes wrapped in what he desired us to understand as ecstacy, and then delivered himself thus:-- "a----! this is the very actuality of the ideality of individuality." it was a very pretty speech, and the fact that he had lain awake all the night before arranging it, and that he pulled us all around to the gladiator to get his chance of firing it off did not detract from its merit. no one knew what it meant, but the words were mouth filling, and it did as well as though it had some glimmer of meaning. there is nothing in art like good sounding words. from the ground-floor you ascend a broad stair-case, exquisitely carved. you come into another wilderness, only this is in canvas, instead of marble. every school in the world is represented here, for when the french potentate was not able to buy he could always sieze. you don't stop to inquire how the collection was made; it is here, and to an american, or any other foreigner, that is sufficient. we come to enjoy the pictures, and we don't care whether they were purchased or taken by force. there are, as i said, one hundred and forty of these salons, and you must go through them all. there are galleries devoted to the french school, ancient and modern, the italian school, the german, dutch, flemish, and spanish, and you come away feeling a sort of satisfaction that it has been done; but no man living, in the time one usually has in paris, can get a good idea of what is there gathered. four miles of art is rather too much for one short effort. it is bewildering in its very profusion. one may be fond of art, but not educated to the point of taking so much of it in systematically. nevertheless, days spent in collections like the louvre are too good to miss. some of it will stick to you if you cannot carry it all away. [illustration: tibbitts and the faro bankeress enjoying art.] [sidenote: two people's delight in art.] tibbitts and the faro bankeress were delighted. tibbitts, with an eye to speculation, made elaborate calculation as to the cost of the entire collection, and wondered whether or not a good thing could not be made by buying it all up and exhibiting it in new york. that was the delight he got out of it. the faro bankeress protested that she had never enjoyed art so much, and had never before known the delight that was in it. from several of the female figures she had got ideas of lace that were entirely new to her, and she had found and fixed in her mind a design for a fancy dress for lulu, which she should have made the next day. she wondered if she could borrow the picture to show to the modiste. she had no idea that the ladies of ancient days dressed in such good taste, or that they had such wonderful material to dress with. some of the costumes she had studied were altogether too sweet for anything. and that was the delight she got out of it. [illustration] chapter xxii. the palais-royal. the palais-royal is the parisian mecca for all americans. its brilliant shops, glittering with diamonds and precious stones, are so many shrines at which americans are most devout worshipers. they go there day after day, admiring the bewildering display, and the admiration excited by the wily shopkeeper by his skill in arranging his costly wares leads to purchases that would not otherwise have been made. there is a fascination about a shop window literally filled with diamonds, arranged by a frenchman, that is irresistible, and with hundreds of such windows extending all the way around the immense court, there is no escaping its power. what a parisian shopkeeper doesn't know about display isn't worth knowing. all paris is arranged solely for the eye. they ignore the other senses to a very great degree. with all its present wealth and beauty the palais-royal has witnessed some very exciting scenes. it was built by cardinal richelieu for his residence, and he built it extremely well, little dreaming of the scenes of carnival, riot, quarrels, and bloodshed that were to be enacted there long after he had vacated it forever. in , when it was finished, it was called the palais-cardinal, but having been presented by richelieu to louis xiii., whose widow, anne of austria, with her two sons, louis xiv. and philippe d'orléans, lived there, it was called the palais-royal. [sidenote: the luxurious palais.] louis, on coming into possession of the palais, presented it to his brother philippe, during whose occupancy it was the scene of the most horrible orgies the world ever saw. the royal profligate gathered about him a host whose tastes were as depraved as his own, and with these he led a life of wild debauchery. [illustration: palais-royal.] later on, philippe egalité, exceeding the excesses of his grandfather, philippe d'orléans, made the palais-royal the scene of wilder disorders than had ever been seen there before, as bad as it had been. he was so reckless that his princely income was not enough to keep him in ready money. in fact his coffers were well nigh exhausted when he conceived the idea of deriving a revenue from some of the property that surrounded the palais, which up to that time had been used simply for ornamentation. so he caused a number of shops to be erected around the garden adjoining the palais, and from the rents paid for these was enabled to keep up his former manner of life until that (to him) memorable morning in november, , when he took a walk to the place de la concorde, up a short flight of stairs, and for once in his life laid his head on a hard pillow. the deadly guillotine did its work, and the riotous life of philippe egalité came to a sudden end. at that time the upper rooms of the vast galleries, now converted into handsome restaurants, were devoted to gaming, and it was no child's play, then, either. here the excitable nobles, fascinated by the green cloth, lived in a constant whirl of excitement. the stakes ran high. fortunes were made and lost in a night, and the seine never did so good a business in the way of suicide. while these elegantly furnished and brilliantly lighted salons witnessed the demonstrative joy of the lucky winner or the gloomy despondency of the unhappy loser, scenes of an entirely different nature, and far more terrible in their results were being enacted in the cafés below. in these cafés met the leaders of the people who were organizing for the destruction of the thoughtless revelers above their heads. it was the old story over again. the _canaille_, as the nobles termed the people, were groaning under the loads imposed upon them. the life-blood of the french people was being drained by the parasites of royalty--it was waste on the one hand and starvation on the other. every gold piece that passed upon the tables above represented so much unpaid for sweat from the many below. absolute power had, as it always does, run into unbridled license, and unbridled license had made the people desperate. they might not succeed, but they could no more than die, and the life they had was not worth the having. it was in these cafés that camille desmoulins organized the people, and with such arms as they could seize on that memorable morning in july, marched upon the bastille. they did not need arms. that mob, so led, could have torn down the hoary old wrong with their bare hands. there was not a man or woman in the throng that surged out of the palais that morning who had not some especial reason for its destruction. confined within its walls had died their brothers and fathers. to them it was royalty, and to royalty they owed every woe that afflicted them. desperate, determined men they were, crazed with excitement, and caring for nothing. they reached the bastille and hurled themselves against its stubborn sides. again and again were they beaten back by the garrison within, but each repulse only served to more determined efforts, and finally on the th of july the bastille was swept from the face of the earth. nothing was left of it but the terrible memories of the bloody past. [sidenote: the commune.] in - the first napoleon assembled the tribunate in the palais-royal, and in , lucien bonaparte made it his residence during the "one hundred days." from to it was again in the possession of orleans family, and louis philippe occupied it until his ascension to the throne. eighteen [illustration: vision of the commune.] years later, during the revolution of february, which finally resulted in the presidency of louis napoleon and subsequently his election by _plébiscite_ as emperor, the royal apartments were completely wrecked. the mob, wild with excitement, went through the palais like a whirlwind, destroying anything and everything it could lay its hands upon. of all the magnificent paintings, the exquisite statues, the marvelous collections of fine glass and porcelain, with which the royal apartments were adorned, nothing escaped their fury. almost the entire building was destroyed. napoleon iii., who did so much to beautify paris, restored the palais to its original condition, and it continued so, being the residence of prince napoleon, cousin of the emperor and son of jeróme napoleon, until the outbreak of the war in . then in , on the d of may, the communists took a hand at it, and sad work they made. almost the entire south wing was destroyed by fire, and the other portions were badly damaged. now it is bright and gay with its magnificent display of diamonds, its pleasant little park with fountains and statues, its long spacious galleries that form unequaled promenades, and its restaurants celebrated the world over. the galleries, four in number, extend entirely around the square park, which is two hundred and fifty-seven yards long and one hundred and ten wide. the galerie d'orléans, on the south side, is the most showy. it is three hundred and twenty feet long and one hundred and six feet wide, flanked with shops, containing fine goods of all descriptions. the roof is glass covered, and when lighted up at night, presents a dazzling appearance. it was on this site that, previous to , stood the disreputable shops that gave the locality such an unsavory reputation. the other galleries, though not so fine in construction, are just as attractive, and their wide pavements, shaded by the high balcony that forms a part of the second story, are thronged day and night with strangers, to whom these windows, ablaze with the light of precious stones, are always a delight. it is a pleasure to saunter slowly along and admire the beauties that increase every minute. [sidenote: in the court yard.] nowhere in the world can be found so great a collection of gems in so small a space as in these four galleries. the fronts of the stores consist of a huge plate glass window and a small door. although disproportionate in size, the window suffices to show the goods, and the door is plenty large enough for any one who wishes to enter. the frenchman has a natural love for the beautiful, and the french jeweler shows his taste in the arrangement of his window. a large space, covered with diamonds, set and unset, of fine gold jewelry, artistic designs in rubies, pearls, opals, or emeralds, is in itself a beautiful sight, but when they are all arranged so as to show them all to the best advantage, then the effect is marvelous. but there can be too much of a good thing. as a whole day spent among the wonders of the louvre fatigues the mind and body, so the constant succession of dazzling windows in the palais-royal becomes after a while tiresome, and the pretty little park is sought for rest and refreshment. [illustration: mother and bonne--palais-royal.] there the scene changes again, and a new and interesting phase of the palais-royal's attractions is seen. under the long rows of trees that fringe the busy galleries are groups of women enjoying the cool breeze that just moves the branches above them, and tempers the heat that elsewhere is oppressive. they have some little trifle of fancy work in their hands, and as they languidly ply the needle they talk. it may be too warm to knit. it is never too warm to gossip. closely imitating these are the bonnes, or nurse girls, old and young, who chatter away like magpies, while their charges are amusing themselves making pictures in the sand. the youngsters romp and roll about with all the pleasure of childhood. they don't care whether the palais-royal ever saw bloodsheds and riots or not. it makes a good playground for them, and that is all they want. [illustration: the youthful bonne.] then the concerts that are given there during the afternoons are enjoyable, and they always attract large audiences. the entire space on the south side is occupied by all kinds and conditions of people, and like all french assemblages, it is quiet and orderly. the music, if not of a high classical standard, is good, and the people enjoy it. given a little white table in the open air, some light offenbachian music and a glass of wine, and the frenchman is happy. [illustration: the aged bonne.] the restaurants in the palais-royal form another by no means unimportant feature, for the average american is no less fond of a good dinner than the french _bon vivant_, and in these pleasant places he can find the perfection of good living. the skill of french cooks is acknowledged everywhere. here he is on his native heath, and is seen, or tasted rather, to his best advantage. [sidenote: a tale of the commune.] the clerk or bookkeeper whose salary is not in keeping with his tastes, takes his modest dinner in one of the second-floor restaurants, where he gets a small bottle of claret and a well cooked, well served meal for two francs. the place is clean, the surroundings cheerful, and though there are none of those delicate trifles the french cook delights in making, there is an abundance of hunger-satisfying viands prepared in a most appetizing manner, and they are to him better than the delicacies that grace a more elaborate table. the more pretentious man, or the one having more money, goes to more pretentious places, and takes a dinner of several courses for five francs. there is a pleasing variety of soup, fish and entrées, with a dessert, and, if desired, coffee and cognac afterward, all prepared in good style, and well served. but the thoroughly good liver goes to none of these. he knows the places, there in the palais-royal, where cooking has been reduced to a science; where the finest cooks in paris bend their best energies to the concoction of dishes that epicurus himself would have delighted in; where fine pictures and elegant surroundings appeal to the sense of sight, while the sense of taste is being catered to. he hies himself there and revels in the delights of a perfect dinner. as the parisian, man, woman, or child, will never sit indoors when the open air is possible, the palais is always full. as a park it is delightful; the shops are just as attractive to the citizen as to the stranger, for the windows change contents every day, and the variety is such that something new and attractive can be seen at any time. it is a small world by itself, and it is no wonder that every american finds him or herself within it every day. it is always a good thing to get hold of a good modern legend, a story that, while it may not be as gray-headed as those of the time of the gods and goddesses the ancients wrote of, has still attained a respectable age--a middle-aged legend, as it were. such an one i have unearthed, and write it down for the benefit of coming generations. it was during the terrible days of the commune, mademoiselle therese, a beauty of the faubourg st. antoine, was loved by a monsieur adolph, the son of a rich baker in that quarter. that is to say, the baker was rich--but i am anticipating. mademoiselle was a dressmaker of ravishing beauty. she could have married far above her condition on account of this ravishing beauty, but she was as wise as she was beautiful. she said to herself, "i could marry, by virtue of my face and figure, a grand gentleman, but--what then? i am not accomplished. i could learn to be a fine lady, it is true; but when monsieur should tire of me, as he inevitably would, i should lead a very uncomfortable life. i am a daughter of france--i do not wish to lead an uncomfortable life. adolph is not handsome; he is only five feet four; he has bandy legs; his hair is bad, and his nose is a pug; but his papa has much ducats, and he is so much in love with me that he will take me without a _dot_, and on his papa's money we shall do business. i shall manage the business, we will make much more money, and found a family of our own, of which i shall be the head! who knows? my sons will be gentlemen, and my daughters shall marry into the best families. clearly, i shall marry adolph." she had one other suitor whom she favored somewhat, because he was a handsome fellow of some aristocratic connections, but he lacked the money of adolph's father, being the heir of an impoverished house that had barely enough to live on in a sort of scrimped gentility. he was the son of a widow whose husband died with nothing, leaving her with just what she inherited from her own family, which was little enough, the lord knows. in some speculations at this time, adolph's father, to use the language of the ancients, went up the spout. he lost every sou he had and in his chagrin laid down and died, which precluded the possibility of his acquiring another fortune. mademoiselle therese found herself in this predicament:-- she was solemnly engaged to adolph. adolph was bandy-legged, five feet four inches in height, with a pug nose and sandy hair. adolph possessed the additional drawback of not having a sou to bless himself or herself with. it was a terrible situation. at this precise time henri, her other suitor, had come into improved circumstances. an uncle had died leaving him something, not as much as she had expected with adolph, but yet something. in addition to this the handsome young fellow had served gallantly in the war, had attained the rank of lieutenant, and was well up in the military. he came to her with his improved prospects and once more tendered her his hand. [sidenote: the wisdom of therese.] she thought it over and decided to accept him. "it is my duty. i adored adolph, despite his legs, and hair, and nose, but i have a duty i owe to france. how can i bring up children for france on nothing and encumbered with a five-foot four husband with sandy hair, a pug nose, and bandy legs? clearly it is my duty to marry henri." but how to get rid of adolph? it would never do to jilt him, for it would ruin her reputation, and then she had a regard for his feelings. "it would drive him to madness should he lose me, and once mad he would become a burden to france. i will spare his feelings." by this time the commune was in possession of paris, and the national troops were besieging the city. henri was with the national troops, while adolph was a bitter communist, as were all the parisians who had lost their money. women are proverbially fickle, and french women especially. therese was not only a woman, but she was a french woman. therefore, there could be no question as to her fickleness. she had pondered long and seriously over the situation, and was troubled. matrimony is a very serious matter, and she finally came to the conclusion that she could not marry henri. she loved him to distraction, but he had not enough money. without a rich husband she should still have to depend upon her needle for a living, and if she had to needle her way through life she preferred to do it for herself alone. this interesting female found herself engaged to two men, and determined to marry neither. but she was equal to the emergency. "i have it," said therese to herself. "i will extricate myself from this dilemma. i will not marry henri. i cannot. it is a duty i owe to myself to have money, and a great deal of it. henri has not enough, and yet i have promised to marry him. adolph has none, and yet i have promised to marry him, though i cannot blame myself for this. when i promised him he had money. but i will marry neither, and will spare the feelings of both. no daughter of france ever wounds the feelings of those who love her. love must be respected, even though it cannot be returned. i see my way out of these woods." a terrible struggle was impending. the citizens and soldiers could not help coming in collision the next day. adolph, armed as the communists were, called upon her, on the afternoon preceding the final struggle. she sat calmly, frozen with despair. "love of my life," said she, bursting into tears, "you, to-morrow, rush upon death; i--i shall survive--would that i might die with you. what will become of me?" "i may not die," said adolph, "but if i do it will be for _la belle france_." and he drew himself up to his full height, which was, as i have stated, five feet four. all frenchmen draw themselves up to their full height when they say "_la belle france_." "i have come, my darling, to bid you farewell. to-morrow we are to be attacked--" "yes, i know it, adolph, and as much as i adore you, i adore france more. i am a daughter of france. fight! be a hero! all frenchmen may be heroes. and listen! there will lead the enemy to-morrow an officer whom you must recognize. he is six feet tall, with a black mustache, dressed in the uniform of the tenth. he will have a cockade on the left side of his hat. he must die! he is an aristocrat! he is brave, and being an aristocrat and brave, clearly he must die that france may live! shoot him as you would an enemy of france! to a hero--a french hero--i can say no more!" "he dies--i swear it!" ejaculated adolph, drawing himself once more up to his full height. "and now, my heart's beloved, go; and meet whatever fate may be in reserve for you like a man--like a frenchman. but stay! you have a watch, shirt-studs, cuff-buttons, and some money. should you fall, this portable property would be seized by the enemy, and be used against france. that would be deplorable. in this holy cause one should think of everything. leave them with me, and when you return--oh, my beloved, you must return! else i shall die!" and adolph took his personal effects, and gave them to her, and with a passionate embrace was about to leave her. "stay a moment, my darling. you must not go into battle without a charm to keep the bullets from you. here!" and she twisted a ribbon, a very red one, into a bow, and pinned it in the front of his cap. "now go and be a hero!" [sidenote: the two lovers.] he gave her a passionate embrace, she sank to the floor in a fainting fit, and he rushed out with a gesture. as soon as the door was shut, she rose very calmly, and inventoried the property. "it is not much, but it is better than nothing. i am a daughter of france. i will be content with what is sent me; but i think the chain is oroide, and i know the shirt studs are snide." a few moments later henri entered. she received him with evident signs of pleasure. "therese," said the handsome young fellow, "i know that you love me. we attack the _canaille_ to-morrow. i come to bid you farewell. i may never see you again!" "henri! i love you! but fight like a hero for france!" "adorable! rapture! this is peaches! i will fight; i will be a hero--i am in the hero line just now. you have given me a new heart. oh, therese!" and then there was more kissing and embracing, which was all very nice. then henri rose and said he must go. mars could not wait upon venus. france called him. "must you go? alas! but, henri, should you fall, what would become of me?" "die," said henri, "and follow me to the next world." therese said to herself, "not much, i thank you. i know a trick worth two of that. i prefer to live." but she said audibly: "i cannot die, for i shall live to avenge you and france. but should you die on the field, the horrible commune will take your watch, your chain, your personal effects, to continue this sacrilegious strife. leave them with me." henri emptied his pockets, and took off his watch and everything on his person that had value, even to his cuff buttons, and then therese said: "you have your money in the hands of duclos, the notary. give me an order for that, for he is affected toward the commune. france before everything. when you return we will destroy the paper. should you fall, i will spend it to avenge you." then henri wrote the order for the money, and the prudent girl had up the concierge, who witnessed it, to make it all legal like, and then with one passionate embrace she bade him farewell. "stay, but for a moment, my heart's beloved," she said. "foremost on the barricade to-morrow you will see a young man who is an enemy of france. there isn't much of him, but what there is, is pizen. you will know him--he is only five feet four high, has sandy hair and a pug nose, and very bandy legs. he ought to dance well, for he is put up on elliptic springs. he wears a red bow in his cap in front. he must die, for he is an enemy to france. swear that he shall not live." "i swear. he is as good as dead now. you may bet your sweet life he populates a trench to-morrow night. he shall count one in the census of the hereafter." "thanks--for france. and now, my beloved, go! be a hero. but stay, wear this for my sake." and she pinned very securely upon the left side of his hat, a cockade, and they embraced once more, and he left the room, leaving her in a swoon. "poor thing!" said he to himself, as he took one last look at her, curled up gracefully on the floor, "shall i leave her thus? yes; she could not endure a second parting." and he went. then she immediately got up and inventoried his property, and put the order for his money in her bosom, which all french women do, though i can't say that that is a very safe place--in france. and she was pleased to find that his jewelry, though not extensive, was all genuine, and she said her prayers and went to bed, with the calmness of one who had done her whole duty. the next day the assault was made and things worked about as therese had calculated. adolph had but one objective point and that was the man with a cockade, and henri carried a carbine for the fellow with the red bow. they saw each other at precisely the same moment, both fired the same moment, and both fell mortally wounded. having each noticed a peculiar mark upon the other's hat they used what life was left in them to crawl to each other. [sidenote: the end of the romance.] "who put that ribbon in your cap?" gasped henri. "therese! and who that cockade in yours?" "therese! and she took my effects?" "and mine. _perfide!_ but we die for france all the same?" "precisely." and they both went into the hereafter. therese waited quietly and with great resignation till the troubles were over, and then realized upon her trust funds. shortly after she purchased a café in a good drinking quarter and grew wealthy. she married a rich, banker, whose place of business was just over her's, and they waxed very rich. "what kind of a banker was he?" i inquired of a gentleman who indistinctly mastered some of the english language. [illustration: "who put that ribbon in your cap?"] "he eez some thing vat you in l'amerique would call--vat eez eet?--_oui_, a faro banker." i do not vouch for the truth of this legend, though i have every reason to believe it to be true. i was personally in a café presided over by a woman whom i firmly believe could manage just such a scheme. true or not, it shows what the women of france will do for their beloved country. chapter xxiii. french drinking. the french are the most temperate people on the globe. why this is so is not easily explained, for it would be naturally supposed that so excitable a people ought, in the very nature of things, to be intemperate. they have no fixed code of morals, as the saxon people have, and they make no pretense of anything of the kind. they are intemperate enough, heaven knows, in their politics, and apparently so, to a stranger who does not understand french, in their conversation; but in the matter of drinking they don't do enough of it to injure an english baby, and an american is lost in amazement at the little stimulant they get on with. there are drinkers of the deadly absinthe, and occasionally indulgers in the more immediate but less fearful brandy, but they are rare. the absinthe drinkers are, as a rule, literary men, reformers, and the long-haired visionaries who have a notion that in stimulants there is inspiration, and the reckless ones who hold that the more they get out of life in ten minutes the more they enjoy. they are the men who invite the guillotine, and walk to the scaffold with great alacrity, and shout "vive la france," in the most picturesque and absurd manner. the devotee of absinthe drinks it as a part of his social system, and generally dies of softening of the brain at about thirty-five. he thinks he has a good time, but he does not. [sidenote: the water of paris.] there are low people who stupefy themselves with cheap brandy, but they are not common. the frenchman does not take kindly to the fierce stimulant so common across the channel, and the amount of raw whisky consumed each day by the average whisky-drinking american would fill him with astonishment. he cannot comprehend it at all, and regards such a man as a brute. possibly he is not very much out of the way. i, for one, quite agree with him. and when it comes to wine he is very moderate. there is very little alcohol in the red wine he drinks, so little that tibbitts, after taking a glass of it, remarked that he had known water in america that was more exhilarating. and that wine, mild as it is, he dilutes fully one-half with water, and sips it very slowly. in an evening he consumes not more than a pint of it, getting out of that pint about as much stimulation as is held in one drink of american sod-corn whisky. but it suffices him. he sits and laughs and talks just as well over this mild swash as the american does over his fiery, bowel-burning, stomach-destroying, brain-shriveling liquor, and a great deal more, for he enjoys himself, and the american does not. at least, so i have been informed. the use of wine is universal. it is in the bed-room in the morning, on the table at twelve o'clock breakfast, it is taken at dinner at six o'clock, and during the evening till bed-time. the water of paris is very bad; at least, so all parisians tell you, though i cannot see why it should be. i tasted it several times, and i saw no especial difference between paris water and any other, except, as they do not use ice, it does get rather insipid in the summer, when the thermometer reaches ninety-five. but there is a superstition prevalent that it is unhealthy, and hence it is never used as a beverage unless it is qualified. the frenchman drops a lump of sugar in it when he takes it raw, though, as a rule, wine is used as a corrective. tibbitts had a bottle of cognac in his room to mix with the water. he insisted that he thought too much of his mother and her happiness to endanger his life by taking the water, bad as it was, clear, and the wine of the country did not agree with him. he wanted to get back to america, he did, that his friends might have the benefit of his foreign experience. an american in london remarked, that in all the time he spent in that city he met but one cordial englishman, and he was a dublin man. so with me in paris. in all the time i spent there i saw very few drunken frenchmen, and they were to a man from either london or new york, and i made very thorough search. the sobriety of the people is something wonderful. [illustration: the corrective used by mr. tibbitts.] i saw plenty of men exhilarated; i heard more laughter than i ever heard in twice the time in any other country; but drunkenness, the drunkenness that maunders, and is idiotic, or the drunkenness that tends to destroying property or life, i saw none of. in the jardin mabille, where in england or america drunkenness would be co-extensive with the attendance, at the students' balls, at the chateau rouge or at even the less pretentious places, there was hilarity in plenty, but no vinous or spirituous excess. the same condition of affairs obtains in switzerland and germany. i don't want any man to say this is not so, for i assert that drunkenness is comparatively unknown in the two countries where wine and beer are the staple drinks of the people of all classes. i am aware that the same statement has been made hundreds of times before and disputed a thousand times, and therefore i was at pains to get at the truth of the matter. the use of wine in france is universal. it is drank by the commonest laborer and the most aristocratic citizen. you go nowhere that you do not see it--it is everywhere present, and is the one drink of the country. the fruitful vineyards of france make it almost as cheap as water, and the pampered wives and daughters of the ancient nobility who bathed in wine were not guilty of a very frightful extravagance after all. [sidenote: the mild swash.] what a frenchman satisfies his appetite with for drink is [illustration: the coco seller.] something astonishing. the middle-aged man in america who would deliberately ask for the root-beer of his youth would be laughed at as a milk-sop. in america even the lemonade drinker is not looked upon with favor, although that is admissible. but in paris you shall see a sturdy man walking the streets with an immense can upon his back with cups attached, and men of all ages stop him. he draws from the can a cup full of a liquid. he drinks it and pays for it. what do you suppose this liquid is? merely a decoction of herbs and spanish licorice, and coco, as harmless as mother's milk, and a great deal more insipid. of mother's milk i cannot speak, for it is a long time since i have tasted it. i wish to heaven that the gap between the present and the mother's milk period were less. but the frenchman patronizes the coco seller, and his chinese pagoda arrangement is always well patronized. there is no drunkenness. it may be that the frenchman does not want to get drunk, but i am convinced that the nature of the regular beverage of the country is to be credited with this delightful exemption from the great curse that devastates other countries. i am compelled to this conclusion, for i have noticed that the french in america and england, where spirituous liquors are the rule, come to be as frightful drunkards as anybody; and, per contra, i know scores of americans in paris who at home drank whisky habitually, and in consequence rarely went to bed sober--so seldom that when it did happen their wives needed an introduction to them--i know scores of these men here who have fallen into the french habit, and drink nothing but wine, and are as sober as the french themselves. they are getting to be so good that some of them have felt justified in taking on other sins to keep them down to the true american average. they have discovered that they can get on very well with wine, and do not crave the fiery liquid they considered so necessary at home. [sidenote: a woeful lack of moral.] i made a point of investigating this very thoroughly, for in days past i have seen some drunkenness and the effects thereof. i have seen the dead bodies of women murdered by drunken husbands; i have seen the best men in america go down to disgraceful graves; i have seen fortunes wrecked, prospects blighted; and i have perused a great many pages of statistics. there are crimes on the calendar not resulting from rum, but, were rum eliminated, the catalogue would be so reduced as to make it hardly worth the compiling. directly or indirectly, rum is chargeable with a good ninety per cent, of the woes that afflict our country. the moral to all this is--but come to think of it i am not here to point out morals. i have made a true statement, and each one may extract from it any moral he chooses. this is all there is of it: the french drink all the wine they want, and the french are a sober people. it hasn't much to do with foreign travel; but to see thousands of men sitting and drinking without a fight, an angry word, a broken head, or a black eye, was so delightful an experience that i felt it must go upon paper. chapter xxiv. parisian living. the parisian family, unless it be one of the bloated aristocrats and pampered children of luxury, do not occupy separate houses, as families do in american cities. rents are somewhat too high to permit that luxury, and besides they never were used to it, and it wouldn't suit them at all. they have been accustomed to living up stairs for so many generations that i doubt if a genuine parisian of the middle classes could be happy on or near the ground floor. the first floor, and, for that matter, the second and third, in the heart of the city, are devoted to business purposes. above the third floors the residences begin, and they continue to the very top. as a rule, each floor constitutes a dwelling by itself, with halls, parlor or drawing-room, dining and sleeping rooms and kitchen, all compactly and very conveniently arranged. true, some of these apartments are small, not large enough to swing a cat in; but, as mr. dick swiveler wisely observed, "you don't want to swing a cat, you know." the french housekeeper finds a kitchen five feet wide and six feet long quite large enough for the preparation of the food for the family, and the sleeping rooms, being only used for sleeping, may be very comfortable, if they are only large enough to hold a bed and the other necessary furniture. [sidenote: how you get into your house.] the entrance to these buildings is on the ground floor, and is a wide gateway with a diminutive suite of apartments on one side, which is habited by the concierge, or, as the english call it, the porter. this personage, usually a woman, receives all messages from the different flats above her, answers all calls and gives all the information concerning the various families inhabiting it. it is she who cleans the main staircase which goes to the top of the house, and has charge of the buildings. at night, say at eleven, the great doors guarding this common entrance are shut, and whoever desires to enter thereafter finds a bell-pull, the other end of which is at the head of the concierge's bed. she doesn't bother herself to get up and see who it is, but she merely pulls a wire, the bolt of the great door is withdrawn, you enter, and shutting the door after you--it fastens with a spring lock--go to your floor, and enter your own house. tibbitts likes this idea very much. he says that when you come home late at night, and not precisely in the condition to be accurate about things, there isn't any nonsense about finding a key first, and then going through the more delicate operations of finding a keyhole and getting the key in right side up. "all you have to do is to catch on that bell-pull, and the more unsteady you are, the better, for you lean back upon it, and your whole weight takes it." and he further remarked that there wasn't a concierge in paris who wouldn't know his ring before he had been in the house a week. the principal business of the concierge and her entire family is to keep the stairs clean. i once held that the philadelphia servant girl would die were the supply of water to run out so that she could not wash sidewalks and marble steps, but she has a worthy rival in the parisian. the stairs leading to the top of the buildings are kept sloppy all the time with the perpetual cleaning. indeed so constantly is this going on that no time is given to enjoy the luxury of clean stairs. not only the stairs are cleansed, but the very sides of the building are washed and scrubbed once in so many years, by law. if paris only took as much pains with its inside as it does with its outside! but it doesn't. once inside the houses, the first thing that strikes an american is the total absence of carpets; that is, carpets as we have them. the floors are of wood in many patterns, and in the center there may or may not be a rug, which covers, perhaps, two-thirds of the room. a room carpeted the entire surface is very rare, and i must say that therein the french housekeeper does better than the american. these rugs are taken up very frequently, it being no trouble, and are kept clean and free of dust, something impossible when they are fastened to the floor, as is the custom across the water. in the summer they are taken out of the way entirely, and the bright waxed floor is deliciously cool, and in the winter the rug, always in warm colors, forms a pleasing contrast to the wood on the edges. the french idea is better than ours. the french housekeeper is perfection in her way. she allows nothing to go to waste. there is not a penny's worth more purchased than can be used, and the ending of the day sees the ending of what was bought for the day. if there are ten to sit down to the table there is soup made for just ten--not enough for twenty and the remainder to the slop bucket--and there is just meat enough to make ten portions, and no more. there is butter for ten and vegetables for ten. by the way, very little butter is used. wine is provided _ad libitum_, and even that, cheap as it is, is carefully poured from the half or two-thirds emptied bottles into others and carefully husbanded till the next meal brings it out. there is nothing of meanness in this--only the good sense not to waste. the french housewife, very properly, sees no use in throwing away food any more than she does money. consequently, despite the much higher cost of provisions, a french house gets on in better style than an american, and at a much less expenditure. [sidenote: the market woman.] the skill of the french cook is proverbial, and his reputation is deserved. one of the craft once said that with a pair of cavalry boots, a handful of grass and plenty of salt and pepper, he could make soup for a regiment, and i believe him. they use more vegetables than we do, and use them infinitely better. out of the despised carrot, which seldom makes its appearance on american tables, they make a delicious dish, and their treatment of potatoes, tomatoes, and the whole race of salad-making vegetables, is something akin to miraculous. they use oil in profusion, and no matter what the raw material is that comes under the hands of a french cook, there is a taste and relish about the product that is satisfying as well as gratifying. the frenchman at his table aims at all the senses. to begin with it is garnished with flowers, and, second, the dishes gratify hunger, and, thirdly, they gratify the taste. then, as an appropriate finish, they will have the most cheerful conversation, and for the time all care and trouble is banished and the feeding time is the good time of the household. a frenchman may come to his house ever so much depressed, but he has a thoroughly enjoyable time at his dinner. he may rise from the table and blow his brains out, but at the table no one would ever know or dream that he ever had a trouble. among the middle classes, and indeed the better, the lady of the house does the marketing in person. it is too important a matter to be entrusted to a servant, for they are exceedingly particular as to the quality, and equally so as to the price of the supplies. french market-people, especially the women, are the shrewdest and the most unscrupulous in the world, and it requires much care and skill not to be imposed upon. i went one morning with my landlady to see a french market. the first thing desired was a lobster. one was selected and then commenced the bargaining. "how much?" demanded the madame. "five francs," was the answer, "and very cheap it is. observe, madame, its size, and its condition. oh, i have nothing but the best. shall i put it into your basket?" "no, it is too much!" "too much! madame, you would starve me. well, then, you are an old customer (she had never seen madame before), i will give it to you--i would no one else--for four and a half. it is ruin, but i can't keep them over." "i will give you two francs." "two francs! you jest, madame. two francs for this king of lobsters--this emperor! ah no! but i will say four--and little jean shall go without shoes." "two francs." "say three and a half--my landlord can do without his rent till times are better." precisely as the two franc offer was being accepted, a young man drove up in a stylish coupe. "how much for that lobster?" "ten francs, monsieur le colonel," replied the dame without a blush. "wrap it up and put it in my carriage," was the reply, and it was done. "why did you ask him ten francs when you only asked me five to begin with, and intended to take two?" demanded my landlady, purely that i might hear the answer. "eh? oh, the young man has plenty of money--it is for his little woman, i suppose. we poor must live, and i must make my profit. but here is one just like it--rather better. shall i say three francs?" "two." "well, it must be so. but i lose money." the old dame made a good hundred per cent. as it was. as it was in lobsters so it was in everything. the price offered in every instance was about two-fifths of the price asked and even then it was not certain but that too much was not paid. but when a french market woman and a french housekeeper come together there is not going to be very much swindling. both know their business and whoever gets the best in the encounter may congratulate herself upon possessing a great deal of acumen. the servants in french families are now tolerably attentive and obliging, but their bearing depends very much upon the political condition of the country. every frenchman is a politician, and they have all the shades of politics down to the humblest, and the lower orders, as elsewhere, take their politics from their superiors. the retainers in the families of the old nobility are monarchists to a man, and hate the republic with a hatred that the dispossessed nobility themselves do not feel. the waiters at the cafés and those who entered domestic service latterly are all virulent republicans, disagreeably so. especially was this true just after the downfall of the third napoleon, and after the commune. a lady of my acquaintance, who got out of paris just before the commune, returned and rearranged her household after order was restored. her daughter had engaged servants, and the good old lady rang for one. [sidenote: parisian washing.] "are you one of the new servants?" she asked, as a strange man answered her summons. "no, madame. i am in your employment, but no servant. since the republic, there are no servants. address me, please, as 'citizen!'" and she was compelled to do it, or go without service. the man considered himself the equal of his mistress in all particulars, and would be counted nothing less. fuel is very costly in france, and consequently very little used. in paris the climate is mild, and very little is needed. but the same economy is observed in this as in everything. twigs of trees and the smallest bushes, cut in uniform lengths, are used for firing, and for cooking the use of charcoal is almost universal. as the shops furnish food as cheaply as it can be prepared at home, it is only in families that cooking is done. the washing among this class is done altogether at the public wash-houses in the seine. these are immense boats anchored close to the bank and partitioned off into spaces just wide enough for a woman to work comfortably. for two sous, the woman has the use of tubs and hot and cold water _ad libitum_. she takes her bundle of soiled goods, and her own soap, and washes them, using a heavy wooden paddle to drive the soap through the fabric, instead of the pounder and washboard, and, wringing them out, carries them home wet. a few sous' worth of charcoal suffices to iron them, and the same fire cooks her little dinner, and so two very important birds are killed with one stone. the shop girls, whose attics will not admit of a fire, have no other way of washing their clothes, and so the public wash-houses are always full. the eating of the day commences with a very slight breakfast in your room at any hour you choose. the said breakfast consists of exactly one cup of coffee or chocolate--it is measured accurately, there is exactly one cup in the little pot--two rolls and an infinitesimal portion of fresh butter. you bid good-bye to salted butter when you leave the steamer. on this you exist till twelve, or thereabouts, when you have a breakfast as is a breakfast. there are eggs and one or two varieties of meat, and wine _ad libitum_, ending with sweets. this over, at six you have the meal of the day, the dinner, consisting of five or six courses, commencing with the everlasting soup, and ending with black coffee. wine constitutes the drink of this meal, as at the breakfast. [illustration: in any of the parks.] [sidenote: the tidy french woman.] it takes an american some little time to get used to this light breakfast, but when accustomed to it he is entirely satisfied with it. if he has nothing to do it is certainly better than the heavy breakfast of his own country, and unless he has the most violent bodily labor to perform, it is better than to go to business with an overloaded stomach. anyhow, whether you like it or not, it is all you can get, and a wise man always manages to like what is inevitable. one very soon gets to liking this very strange innovation upon one's established habits. the french woman esteems tidiness and cleanliness above everything on earth, that is, outward tidiness. if rumor be true, they are not so particular as to internal economy, but the outside of the platter must be as white as the driven snow. an english or american woman will walk the sloppy streets and drag her skirts in the mud and filth till they are not only uncomfortable but are absolutely indecent in appearance. all this could be avoided by merely lifting the skirts, but the notion of delicacy, the fear of exposing an ankle, prevents this. that is the anglo-saxon notion of delicacy. the french woman has other views. her ankles are not sacred, but her skirts are. she will not have soiled skirts, she will not have petticoats with the filth of the streets upon them, and so when she comes to a vile spot, she lifts her skirts and passes over without carrying any of the filth with her. it matters not if her ankles are exposed. that she expects. but she does this skirt-lifting with such a grace and such a manner that to an american even it is the most natural thing in the world. the french woman hoists her skirts in a way that makes it apparent to the most critical observer that it is not done to show neatly turned ankles, but to save her person from filth. it is a necessity with her, from her stand-point, and is consequently accepted as such. she has no objection to exposing a shapely ankle, but whether the ankle be shapely or not, no parisian woman will ever, under any circumstances, be untidy. she has a passion for neatness, and a very pleasant passion it is. would that she were as correct in her other passions. every woman in paris, or for that matter everywhere in france, works. this is the secret of french prosperity. this explains the ease with which the french people recovered from [illustration: the no-legged beggar woman--boulevard des capucines.] [sidenote: female shop-keepers.] the extravagance of the empire, the frightful cost of the war with prussia, and the enormous indemnity exacted by the merciless bismarck. it is the universality of labor, and the knowing how to live well upon next to nothing. a french wife not only does the house keeping for her family, but she takes care of the shop. she sells the goods which her husband makes. say he is a trunkmaker--he is in the shop on the floor above, or the floor below, as the case may be, working for dear life, but in the salesroom sits madame, his wife, or mademoiselle, his daughter, who sells the goods, takes the money, keeps the books, buys the materials, and runs the business end of the concern. but this is not all. customers do not come in every minute, and madame has time upon her hands. she does not waste it. there are her children, too young to work, but they must be clothed, and if there are no children there are a few sous to be earned by knitting, or fancy needlework. and so all this spare time is put in by madame, sewing or knitting, either for her own family or for a market. not a minute goes to waste. wherever you see a french woman you see her doing some thing. the nurse-maid, who takes her charges out for an airing, has work in her hands, and she works. in the gardens in the palais-royal you shall see hundreds of nurse-maids whose charges are playing under the beautiful trees, knitting industriously, one eye on the work and the other on the children, and in every shop you enter you see the same thing. wages are very low, but with this absolute economy of time and the more absolute economy in the matter of living, the french workingman manages to get on better, on an average, than those in the same station in any other country in the world. french industry and french thrift make anything in the way of living possible. there is nothing like it. transportation is very cheap in paris and exceedingly good. the omnibusses are large and the street cars likewise, and have the delight of holding as many people on the top as on the inside. and then they are never overcrowded. you are entitled to and get a seat. when the seats are all taken the sign "complet," is displayed, and no more passengers are admitted. a ride on the top of a french omnibus in good weather is a delight. the frenchman tries to imitate the english and americans in the matters of sport, but it is a sorry failure. the young french sport gets himself up in remarkable sporting costumes, and goes out gunning, and always returns with game. does he shoot it? alas! it can be bought, and--he buys it. but he brings in his hare or his birds, or whatever can be bought that has been freshly killed, and proudly displays it to his friends and talks loudly of the pleasures of field sports. [illustration: how the french sport kills game.] [sidenote: the french sport.] fishing in the seine is another amusement, though i never met anybody who had ever caught a fish. there are more lines in the seine any hour of the day than there are fish, but they all fish just the same. the docks are lined with men and boys at all hours, and all standing as gravely and patiently as though they made their living by it. the sight of a fish would astonish them. [illustration: fishing in the seine.] bloss, my old showman friend, arrived last night from switzerland. there are a number of bears kept at berne, the property of the city, one of which, some years ago, killed an english officer who fell into his den. that bear--but bloss may tell his own story. "wat i wantid wuz that bear. i wantid that identical bear, the very one that squoze the britisher. ef i cood hev [illustration: inside a parisian omnibus.] [sidenote: a show advertisement.] got that bear it wood hev bin the biggest thing in the annals of the show biznis. so i went to berne and saw the president of the swiss republic. i offered him fust two hundred dollars for it, pervided he would write a certifikit on parchment and put the seal of the republic onto it that it wuz the identical animile. ye see, ef he hed done this i should hev put it onto the bills this way:-- that there may be no doubt in the minds of a too-oft deceived public, deceived by audacious pretenders who advertise what they know they cannot perform, that this is the identical ferocious bear that did actually kill an unfortunate british officer in the presence of his newly-made bride (he wasn't married at all, but you can't awaken no interest without the pathetic)--who was powerless to extricate him from the tenacious grasp of the ferocious brute, the most dangerous of the species, the certificate of the president of the swiss republic, with the broad seal of the republic attached, will be exhibited at each and every entertainment, all reports to the contrary notwithstanding, and positively without any extra charge. this statement is made to counteract the envious and malicious reports of would-be rivals, who seek to make up by slander and misrepresentation, what they lack in enterprise and resource. [illustration: the showman shown the door.] i should hev hed a copy--a fac-similer--uv the certifikit printed, in two colors, and i shood hev hed the certifikit itself hung out afore the big tent, and it would hev bin wuth a heap uv money to me. "did you succeed?" "succeed! why the bloated aristocrat refoozed to hev anything to say to me, and directed a servant to show me out. a pretty republic that is, where the president won't hear a common biznis proposishen! and then i went to the mayor uv the city, and when my proposishen wuz translated to him, he remarked that he wuzn't in the bear biznis, and he hed me showed out. i shood like to be a voter in berne at one elecshun. but i shel hev the bear that killed the offiser jes the same. that is, i shel advertise that one uv the bears i yoose that eat the children in the elijah act is the identikle one. i don't like to deceeve the public--i hed ruther deal strate with 'em, but i must git my expenses out uv that trip to berne somehow, and i shel hev the president's certifikit all the same. yes, and blast me ef i don't add the mayor's to it to make ashoorence doubly shoor. i ain't agoin' to berne for nothin', nor am i goin' to lose an ijee. ijees are too skase to waste one." "did you enjoy this trip to the land of tell?" the sound of the word "tell," was sufficient to tap the old gentleman once more, and he went off into a narrative that flowed smoothly as cider from a barrel. [sidenote: de lacy's idea.] "the land uv tell! i shel never forgit tell--willyum, the swiss wat shot a apple offen his boy's head. it wuz way back in , when i was runnin' my great aggregashun in the west. we had a minstrel sideshow in the afternoon, and a regler theater for a sideshow in the evenin'. our leadin' man wuz mortimer de lacy, from the principal european and noo york theaters--his real name was tubbs; he wuz the son uv a ginooine injun physician, which hed stands about the country suthin' like a circus--who wuz very fond uv playin' tell. de lacy wuz one uv the most yooseful men i ever hed. he rid the six hoss act, the "rooshun courier uv moscow," and did the stone-breakin' act, where he bends over on his arms and hez stuns broken on his breast with sledges, and he did the cannon ball act, and in the afternoon wuz the interlocootor in the minstrel show, playin' the triangle--anybody kin play the triangle, and he alluz sed he wood give anything ef he cood manage a banjo or even a accordeon so ez to git up in the perfesh--and in the evenin' he did the classical in high tragedy. the afternoon minstrel show wuz for the country people, but the play in the evenin' wuz to ketch the more refined towns folks. well, one day de lacy cum to me, and sez he:-- "'guvnor, i hev a idear.' "'spit it out,' sez i. 'idears is wuth money in our biznis.' "'i kin make tell more realistic. you know the way we do the shootin' uv the apple off the boy's head is to shoot an arrer into the wings and the boy comes runnin' out with a split apple in his hand.' "'yes, that's the way it alluz hez bin done. it's a tradishn uv the stage.' "'i perpose to hev the boy stand on the stage in full view uv the awjence, and to shoot the apple off his head under their very eyes. it's a big thing.' "'big thing! i should say so. but you can't shoot an apple with an arrer. you couldn't hit the side of a barn.' "'very good, but this is my idear. we only play tell at night. we stretch a wire across the stage jes the height of the boy, and the wire runs through the apple on the boy's head. then i hev a loop fixed onto the arrer, and when i shoot it runs along the wire--see?--and knocks the apple into smithereens. it's a big notion.' "it occurred to me that it wood be a good piece of biznis and i agreed to it. my youngest boy, sam, alluz played the boy, and de lacy and i fixed the riggin' and hed it all right. to make it more realistic de lacy hed a very broad-headed arrer made so that the awjence should see it wuz reel, and everythin' wuz ready. when that scene come on, the boy come out walkin' very keerful--we hed the apple fixed tight upon his head so that ef he walked in a strate line it wooden't be moved, and he wuz placed. after the speeches de lacy sprung the bow, and let the arrer drive with all the force it hed." "it must have been a thrilling scene." "thrillin'! yoo bet! but we didn't repeat it. bekaze yoo see the wire slackened, and the arrer struck sam on the top uv the head and scalped him as clean as a camanche injun cood hev done it, and he howled and jumped onter de lacy and the wire tore down the two wings it wuz hitched onter, and de lacy in gittin' rid uv him tore down the rest uv the wings, and they clinched and rolled down onto the stage, and the awjence got up and howled, and the peeple all rushed on, and there wuz about ez lively a scene ez i ever witnessed in a long and varied experience. it wuz picteresk and lurid. i rung the curtain down and separated 'em. it wuz a good idear, but it didn't jes work, owin' to defective machinery." [illustration: the tell catastrophe.] [sidenote: the career of sam.] "but it turned out pretty well, after all. the smart man is he who turns wat to others wood be a misfortoon to account. i hed the scalp tanned with the hair outside, and ez soon ez sam's bald head healed up i exhibited him in a blue roundabout, with brass buttons--i bought the soot cheap uv a bell boy at a hotel in cincinnati--ez the son uv the rev. melchizadek smith, a missionary for thirty years among the injuns, who wuz scalped at the time his father wuz barbariously killed, and i hed a life uv the rev. smith writ, and an account of the massacre, and sam sold it after he hed bin exhibited. it did very well till he got too big for that biznis." "but sam is doin' very well. he is now an end man in a minstrel show, and he does the lancashire clog, and does mighty well in the wench biznis, and he hez a partner in the brother biznis, the de montmorencies, i beleeve they wuz, the last time i heerd uv 'em. he will git on--he hez a great deal uv talent and kin turn his hand to almost anything." [illustration: zoological room--british museum.] chapter xxv. ireland. "'tis the most distressful country that ever yet was seen, they're hanging men and women there for the wearin' of the green." from france the gay, france the prosperous, france the delightful, to ireland the sad, ireland the poor, ireland the oppressed, is a tremendous jump. contrasts are necessary, and my readers are going to have all they want of them. [illustration: cork harbor.] [sidenote: cork.] cork is a lovely city; that is, it would be a lovely city were it a city at all. nature intended cork for a great city, but man stepped in and thwarted nature. it is situated on the most magnificent site for a city there is in all europe. a wonderfully beautiful river, with water enough to float any vessel, flows through it; and at the mouth of that river, twelve miles below, is one of the great harbors of the world. queenstown--i wonder that any irishman ever consented to call it queenstown--is the nearest port to the great western hemisphere, and cork should be the center of all the trade from america. it is twenty-four hours nearer new york than liverpool, and should be the final landing-place of the american lines, instead of being simply a point to be touched. [illustration: queenstown.] cork is a sleepy city of perhaps seventy thousand population, made up of the handsomest men and most beautiful women and children on the face of the globe. you shall see more feminine beauty on the streets of cork in an hour than you can anywhere else in a week. homely women there are none--beautiful women are so plenty that it really becomes monotonous. one rather gets to wishing that he could see an occasional pair of english feet, for the sake of variety. the city itself is beautiful, as are all the cities of ireland; but it is a sad city, as are all the cities of ireland. it is not prosperous, and cannot be, for it is under english domination, and england will not permit prosperity in ireland. it is only the attachment which an irishman has for his own country that makes anybody stay there. with every natural advantage, with every facility for manufacturing, for trade and commerce, with the best harbor in the world, and the nearest point for american trade, it has no manufactures to speak of, and no trade whatever. its population has decreased thirty thousand within fifteen years, and its trade is slowly but surely dwindling to nothingness. the river lea is a wonderfully beautiful stream, and cork, which occupies both sides of it, is a wonderfully beautiful city, and would be an enjoyable city but for the feeling of sadness that comes to an american the moment he sees the empty warehouses, the empty dwellings, and the signs of decay that are everywhere. there are churches everywhere, and churches with a history. here is the church of shandon, of whose chimes father prout wrote: "the bells of shandon that sound so grand on the pleasant waters of the river lea." here is climate, soil, situation--everything to make a great controlling city; here are a people with industry, intelligence, brains, and all the requisites to make a great controlling city; but, despite all these points in its favor, cork has decreased year by year, and is to-day absolutely nothing. the city has lost population every year; its business is leaving it, its warehouses are empty, its streets are deserted, its quays are silent--it is nothing. what is the reason for this? it is all summed up in one word--landlordism. there is no man in the world, not excepting the frenchman, who will work longer or harder than the irishman. there is no race of men who are better merchants or more enterprising dealers, and there is no reason, but one, why cork should not be one of the largest and richest cities of the world. that reason is, english ownership of irish soil. irish landlordism is condensed villainy. it is the very top and summit of oppression, cruelty, brutality and terror. it was conceived in lust and greed, born of fraud, and perpetuated by force. [sidenote: a mild expression of opinion.] it does not recognize manhood, womanhood or childhood. its cold hand is upon every cradle in ireland. its victims are the five millions of people in ireland who cannot get away, and the instruments used to hold them are bayonets and ball cartridges. it is a ghoul that would invade grave-yards were there any profit to be gotten out of grave-yards. it is the coldest-blooded, cruelest infamy that the world has ever seen, and that any race of people was ever fated to groan under. irish landlordism is legal brigandage--it is an organized hell. wesley said that african slavery was the sum of all villainies. irish landlordism comprises all the villainies that the devil ever invented, with african slavery thrown in. irish landlordism makes african slavery a virtue by comparison. for when a negro slave got too old to work, he was given some place in which to live, and sufficient food to keep him in some sort of life, and clothes enough to shield him from the elements. the irish tenant, when he becomes old and cannot work, is thrown out upon the roadside, with his wife and his children, to die and rot. he has created lands with his own hands, which he is not allowed to occupy; he has grown crops which he is not allowed to eat; he has labored as no other man in the world has labored, without being permitted to enjoy the fruits of his labor. the virtue of his wife and daughter are in the keeping of the villain, who by virtue of bayonets, controls his land. in short, to sum it all up in one word, the irishman is a serf, a slave. in a country that makes a boast of its freedom, he is the suffering victim of men who claim to be christians; he is the robbed, outraged sufferer of a few men who are as unfeeling as the bayonets that keep him down, as merciless and cruel as tigers. from the above feeble utterances my readers will, i hope, get the idea that i do not like irish landlordism. i hope some day to get sufficient command of words to make my meaning apparent. i really would like to make it understood just how i feel about it. to see ireland you must not do as the regular tourist always does, follow the regular routes of tourists' travel. you may go all over ireland, in one way, and you will not see a particle of suffering, or any discontent. at glengariff, for instance, the most charming spot on the earth, you are lodged in as fine a hotel as there is anywhere; the people are all well dressed and well fed, and the visitor wonders why there should be any discontent. this is a part of the english government's policy. on these lines of travel, which the tourist for pleasure always takes, the misery is kept out of sight, and the mouths of the people who serve you are sealed. the american lady traveling through that country don't like to see naked women and squalid poverty, for it would make her uncomfortable. none of it is shown her, and she wonders at the discontent of the irish. but just take a boat at glengariff, leave the splendid hotel, and be rowed two miles across the bay, and you begin to see ireland, the real ireland. you then know why ireland is agitated; you then see the real reason why an englishman is hated with an intensity that would find expression in a rifle shot, if rifles were permitted to be owned and used. we took a train for fermoy, a distance of perhaps fifty miles from cork. in fermoy, a tolerably prosperous village for ireland, the women did not only have no shoes or stockings, but they had scarcely anything else to wear. "this is nothing," said the wise mr. redpath, who was with us; "these people are fairly prosperous--for ireland. i shall show you something worth while before night." it puzzled me somewhat to understand how anybody could be worse off than to be walking in cold mud without any protection whatever for the feet, but i found it at mitchellstown, at the foot of the galtee mountains. [sidenote: the jaunting car.] the irish jaunting-car, being the most inconvenient and detestable vehicle on earth, deserves a description. it should be known in order to be avoided. a jaunting-car is simply a two-wheeled vehicle with the body that supports the seat reversed. instead of sitting so as to look forward, you are on the side; the seat runs the wrong way--which is characteristic of almost everything in ireland. the driver sits looking toward the horse, the passengers sit backing each other, and the concern is so balanced that you must hold on a rail with a death-grip, or be flung off upon the road by every jolt. as detestable as it is, it is the national irish vehicle, and you ride on the car, or go afoot. [illustration: an irish woman and her daughter on the road to church.] on one of these atrocious conveyances, we left mitchellstown at nine o'clock in the morning, in a soaking rain-storm, the cold, misty drizzle going through our heavy overcoats, and almost penetrating the very marrow. the road wound along past well cultivated fields, over picturesque streams, now up gentle declivities that gave us, or would have given us had the day been clear and fine, an admirable view of the valley that lay spread at the foot of the galtee mountains. but on that day the picture was not a cheering one. the sun refused to shine, the rain was cold, and the whole prospect was bleak and desolate. then our driver was a loquacious fellow, who had at his tongue's end hundreds of instances of the oppression of landlords and the terrible sufferings of the poor, evicted tenants. he talked fast, and, his whole heart being in the subject, he talked well, oftentimes emphasizing his stories by pointing to bare-footed, bare-legged and bare-headed women, who went trudging along the cold, wet road, with no protection from the frightful inclemency of the weather but a light shawl thrown over the ragged dress that scarcely covered their bodies. these women, whom he pointed out as evicted tenants, were not the rough, degraded-looking beggars that are commonly supposed to overrun ireland, and make the tourist's life one of continual annoyance. they were bright, intelligent and handsome, and, notwithstanding the horrors of their situation, comparatively cheerful. but it was an unnatural cheerfulness, for it was noticeable that there were lines about the mouth and around the eyes that told only too plainly their story of want and suffering. even with these living evidences, we could hardly believe the stories of cruelties committed by the landlords and their agents, which our driver kept pouring into our ears. we could not realize that they could be true. they seemed so absolutely barbarous that we utterly refused to accept them, and did not, till, having gone about nine miles from mitchellstown, we stopped at a little roadside cabin, as they called it, although we would have more properly denominated it a hovel. [sidenote: mr. duggan's family.] at the invitation of our guide we alighted, shook the rain off from our great coats, and entered the place to inquire for michael duggan, who worked the little holding back of it. he was not at home, but his wife, a comely, buxom woman of about forty years, asked us to be seated, at the same time offering a small stool on which one of the girls of the family had been sitting near the fire, taking care of an infant. while our guide was inquiring for mr. duggan, we made an inspection of the house, where a man, his wife and seven children lived. there was the one principal room in which we were standing, which was about ten by twelve feet, and eight feet high. there was no floor, except the original earth. there was only one opening for a window, and that had never known a pane of glass. in one end of the room there was a dingy, smoky fireplace, around which were huddled three or four children, scantily dressed in loose cotton slips that came to just below the knee. at the other end of the room a brood of chickens disported themselves in a pile of furze, while every few minutes a huge porker would push his nose in at the open door, only to be driven away by one of the children. [illustration: a county cork cabin.] the family was very interesting. the mother was tall, well formed, and of an exceedingly pleasant appearance, while the children, shy at the sight of so many strangers, were sturdy, healthful and _clean_. they were bright and intelligent, and under any other circumstances and mode of life would grow up to be eminently representative citizens. on the return of mr. duggan from the fields, we went with him up the galtee mountains, he explaining on the way that he was very comfortably fixed compared with his neighbors. he said that his grandfather had taken the little holding he occupied, when it was full of stones and rocks, and was next to worthless. he paid a rent of three shillings an acre for it. during his lifetime the land was partially reclaimed, the rocks and boulders were taken out of a part of one field, and the rent was advanced to seven shillings. his father further improved it and raised some little crops, and the rent went up to twenty shillings. when the present tenant succeeded to it, it was in comparatively good shape, and with the improvements he had made, building the house, or rather hovel, the value of the land had increased enough in the mind of the landlord to justify him in placing the rent at two pounds. [illustration: interior of a better class cabin, county cork.] [sidenote: the alternative.] that tract of land in america, if one were to go to the few districts where such abominably bad land can be found, would be thought extremely high if it were sold at a dollar, or four shillings an acre. "well, how in the world can you raise enough on such a holding to pay such an exorbitant rent?" [illustration: royal irish constabulary.] "i can't do it. i've tried my best, but it is absolutely impossible." "suppose you don't pay the rent, then what?" "i'll be thrown out in the road, with my family and the little furniture we have gotten together." "in case you refuse to be thrown out of the house you have built, and off the land you and your fathers before you made from utterly worthless fields of rocks?" "then those fellows would come down upon me." as he spoke he pointed to a flying squadron of a hundred and fifty men, who were riding back to mitchellstown after having evicted a number of tenants who had been unable to pay the back rent. they were a fine looking body of men, well mounted and well armed, each one carrying a loaded carbine, while at his side was dangling a sword bayonet. [illustration: interior of a cabin in killaleen.] but our business in hand was not speculating upon results so much as to see the actual conditions that led to and still sustains the agitation. so we plodded on, through the drenching rain that was coming down in torrents, up the bleak and desolate hill side. along the side of the road were high stone fences, from four to seven feet wide at the top, rather good fences for so poor a country. "why, you see," said mr. duggan in reply to an inquiry as to how they found time to make such solid substantial fences, "those stones were every one taken from that field there, and having no other place to put them we made a fence, and our rent was raised on us for doing it, worse the luck." [sidenote: another cabin.] we looked into the field whence these stones were taken. it was as uninviting a piece of ground as can be imagined, still full of huge boulders, rocks, weeds and the never-dying heather. it was not capable of supporting a sparrow, yet for the slight improvement that had been made, the rent had been raised. great inducement that for a man to work! seeing a little low, thatched cabin just off the road, we asked in all simplicity, if it had any history, for by this time it was beginning to dawn upon us that almost everything in that vicinity had some story connected with it. but we were totally unprepared for the reply. [illustration: a quiver full.] "no, there's no history about it. it is simply the dwelling place of a family of people who are daily expecting to be evicted because they can't pay the rent, the father having been unable, through sickness, to work all of the season." the idea that human beings, made in god's image, having the power to think, to reason and to act, could live, even exist, in such a hovel as that was so incredible that we insisted upon going over and seeing how it was done. wading through mud and slush coming over our shoe-tops, we bent our heads and entered. the room, if so it could, by a stretch of the imagination, be called, was so low that we could not stand erect. the cold bare earth that constituted the floor was damp and slippery as the rain came trickling down through the broken thatch and formed little pools on the ground. near a suggestion of a fire, were huddled a woman and four children, the eldest not more than eight years of age. as we entered they all arose. we were horrified to see that they were as usual without stockings or shoes, and their clothing was so torn and ragged that it afforded no warmth whatever. the mother and her little girls were blue with cold. their features were pinched with hunger. their whole appearance indicated the want and suffering they had been patiently enduring for years. over in one corner of the room was what they called a bed. it consisted of four posts driven into the ground. on stringers were laid a few rough boards; on these boards were dried leaves and heather, covered by a few old potato sacks. there was where this family of six persons slept. there was no window in the house, the only light and ventilation being furnished by the door and the cracks in the thatched roof. it was too horrible and we went out again into the rain--there we could at least get a breath of fresh air. we asked our guide how these people managed to keep the breath of life in them. he said they lived as their neighbors did, on potatoes and "stirabout." "what is 'stirabout'?" "it is a sort of a mush made of indian meal and skimmed milk. they have that occasionally, for a little luxury, or when the potatoes are so scarce that they think they must husband them." "you don't mean to say that these people actually live on that fare? that they have nothing else? they at least have meat with their potatoes?" "god bless you, sir," and the honest man's eyes filled with tears, "they never know the taste of meat. there has not been a bit of meat in my house since last christmas, when we were fortunate enough to get a bit of pig's head. but up here they don't even have that." [sidenote: a terrible seven hours.] surely this must have been an exceptional case. it was impossible that even in that country there could be more than one or two instances of such utter and abject woe and misery. but mr. duggan told us to the contrary. he said that the house we had just left was only a fair sample of what was to be seen all over the galtee mountains. to be convinced, we trudged painfully through the rain for seven long hours. we toiled through fields that in america would not be accepted as a gift. here, if the exorbitant rent charged for them could not be paid, the holders were evicted. we went through roads so wretchedly bad that teams could not travel over them. yet taxes had to be paid by those who had holdings on either side. we saw fields that had been reclaimed from the original state, had been made productive, and had been the cause of the eviction of the holder because he could not pay the rent which the improvements brought upon him. he had been thrown off the land and it was rapidly going to waste again. large patches of heather, which is worse than the american farmer's bane, the canada thistle, were growing over it, choking all other forms of vegetation. it would only take another season to make the land so worthless that three years of hard work would be required to put it back to the condition it was in when the holder had been compelled to leave it, after having devoted the best years of his life to reclaiming and making it productive. after seven hours of such sights as these, which cannot be described, we were wet, weary and mad. we had seen enough for one day, and were ready to go back. all during the long drive to mitchellstown not a word was said. the subject was too terrible to discuss. chapter xxvi. bantry. the village of bantry, in county cork, some forty miles from cork, is owned and controlled by my lord bantry, who is, or, at least, ought to be, one of the richest men in ireland. whether he is or not depends entirely upon how expensively he lives in paris, and how much extravagance he commits there and in london. he certainly screws enough money out of the unfortunates born upon the land stolen from them by english kings and given to him, to make him a richer man than rothschild, if he has taken care of it. but i don't suppose he has. probably the magnificent estate, robbed from the people, is mortgaged to its full value, and he supports himself by keeping his so-called tenants down to a point, in food, shelter, and clothes, that a camanche indian would turn up his nose at. indeed, were the most degraded piute compelled to accept life on the terms that my lord bantry imposes upon the men he robs, he would paint his face, sing his death song, go out and kill somebody, and die with great pleasure. [illustration: a street in an irish village.] [sidenote: bantry village.] bantry is a pleasant village; that is, some of its streets are pleasant, and it has the most beautiful bay on the coast. sailing across the most lovely body of water i have ever seen, is the famous watering place, glengariff, which is the most delicious spot of land in the world. and bantry itself has much in its favor, all marred by the abject poverty of nine-tenths of its inhabitants. leaving the main street, which is, like all the streets of irish villages, made up of small stores, or shops, as they are called, you walk up a rather steep hill, pass through a crooked street, and you find yourself in the midst of the regulation irish cabins. [illustration: blarney castle.] miserable structures of stones piled one upon the other, not even daubed with plaster, with no windows, as a rule, though the more pretentious ones have a single pane of glass in the wall somewhere. however, as that pane is almost invariably broken, its principal use is the extra ventilation it affords. the cabin is the same size as those on farms, say from ten to twelve feet wide by fifteen or sixteen in length. in the country, however, they do have the space above, to the thatched roof, but land is more valuable in the villages, and my lord bantry's expenses in london and paris are enormous. he must get more money out of the villagers, and he makes two stories out of the wretched hovel, and by crowding in two families makes double rent. the first floor is not above five feet six inches in height, and the upper is a good foot shorter. in neither floor can an ordinary man stand upright. we went up the miserable stairs in one of them, and gained the still more miserable den above. it was more like a coffin than a room, and the idea of a coffin was brought forcibly to the mind as you glanced at the wretched occupants. on a miserable bed of dried leaves, covered with potato sacks on the one side, was the emaciated form of a man dying of starvation and consumption. he had about forty-eight hours of life in him. upon my word i felt happy to see he was so near death. for having an excellent reputation, having always been a good man, he is certain to go, after death, where there would not be the slightest possible chance of meeting my lord bantry or his agent. in the other corner was a flat stone, upon which a consumptive fire of peat was burning, the smoke filling the room. huddled around this fire were five children, under the watchful eye of a very comely woman. the children were barefooted and stockingless, and clad in the most deplorable rags, while the mother, also barefooted, was clothed in the regular cotton slip, without a particle of underclothing of any kind or description. and into that garret, poor as it was, came other women, not clothed sufficiently to be decent, to boil their potatoes at the wretched fire. they have a practice of exchanging fires in this way, that none shall be wasted. "what do you pay for this apartment?" "ten-pence a week, sor!" "are you in arrears for rent?" "yis sor. he (pointing to her husband) has been sick, sor, for months, sor, and cud not worruk." "what will you do if he dies?" "we shall be put out, sor." this with no burst of anguish, with no special tone of anger or manifestation of emotion. to be "put out" is the common lot of the irish laborer, and irish wife, and they expect it. [sidenote: how my lord bantry lives.] and within a mile of that wretched spot, of that dying man and starving children, my lord bantry has a most beautiful castle, luxurious furniture, filled with pampered flunkies, his stable crowded with the most wonderful horses, and his table groaning under the weight of the luxuries of every clime. [illustration: free speech in ireland--interdicting a land league meeting.] surely, not for ten pence a week will he tear this woman from the side of her dead husband, and throw her, with her helpless children, out into the cold and wet street? yes, but he will, though! for this family is but one of many thousands on the land which a bad king stole from the people who owned it. were this the only case he might relent; but should he do it in this case he would have to do it for others, and ten pence a week from thousands aggregates a very large sum, and my lord bantry's expenses are very high, for it costs money to run a castle, and there is his house in london, his house in paris, and his house in rome, and his houses the lord knows where; and then his yacht is rather expensive, as his officers and men must be paid, to say nothing of the larder and wines necessary to entertain his friends; and then there is the terrible expense of entertaining his friends from london during the shooting season, and occasional losses at play, and all that. clearly, the widow flanagan must either pay her rent or be pitched out into the street to make room for some other widow who can pay, for a while at least, and when she can't pay there are others who can. it is needless to add that there is in bantry bay a splendid english gunboat armed as in time of war, with burnished guns, with bombs of all sort of explosive power, rifled guns, which would knock poor bantry into a cocked hat in ten minutes, with fine looking marines, armed to the teeth, which, with the military on shore, would make it very warm for the widow flanagan and her friends, should they presume to interfere with my lord's land agent, and the bailiffs and the soldiers behind them. the widow has nothing to do but to bow her head and submit, and pray that some relief may come to her from somewhere. but where is it to come from? not from my lord, for, as i said, he has his private expenses to meet; not from his agent, for he was selected for his especial fondness for pitching women and children into the street; not from england, for england looks upon every country it has anything to do with as either to be plundered or traded with; not from the peasantry about them, for they are in the same boat with the widow. [sidenote: a little pathos.] what becomes of her finally, i don't know. i am altogether too soft-hearted to stay any length of time where such things are to be seen every hour. [illustration: in a bog village.] a pathetic little scene took place in the widow's loft, which illustrates something of irish character. as i said the husband and father was lying upon his wretched pallet, dying of consumption. the youngest but one of the children was the most beautiful child i have ever seen, a sweet little fairy, with long curly, blonde hair and black eyes, built from the ground up, and with a face that a painter would walk miles to sketch. she was a delicious little dream, a dainty bit of humanity. true, she had nothing but rags upon her delightful little figure, and true it was that her sweet little face was smeared with dirt, and her little hands were as grimy as grimy could be, and her little shapely bare legs were very red and somewhat pimply. but why not? clothes cannot be had for the children when the father works for ten pence a day and is sick half the time, and nickel-plated bath-tubs and scented soap are not to be expected in the top of a cabin in which you cannot stand upright; and how can a child's face be kept clean where there is no chimney, and where the room is so thick with peat smoke that you may almost cut it with a knife, and a child that never had a pair of shoes and stockings could hardly be expected to have white legs and feet. the cold prevents that. in our party was an american gentleman, who was blessed with an abundance of boys, but no girls, and he and his wife had been contemplating the adoption of a girl. here was an opportunity to secure not only a girl, but just the kind of a girl that he would have given half his estate to be the father of. and so he opened negotiations. an irishman who knew him, explained to the father and mother that the gentleman was a man of means, that his wife was an excellent, good woman, and that the child would be adopted regularly under the laws of the state in which he lived, and would be educated, and would rank equally with his own children in the matter of inheritance, and all that. in short, norah would be reared a lady. then the american struck in. she, the mother, might select a girl to accompany the child across the atlantic, and the girl selected should go into his family as the child's nurse, and the child should be reared in the religion of its parents. the father and mother consulted long and anxiously. it was a terrible struggle. on the one hand was the child's advantage; on the other, paternal and maternal love. finally a conclusion was arrived at. "god help me," said the mother, "you shall have her. i know you will be good to her." then the arrangements were pushed very briskly, and, with regular american business-like vehemence. the girl selected to act as nurse was the mother's sister, a comely girl of twenty. the american took the child, and rushed out to the haberdasher's, and purchased an outfit for her. he put shoes and stockings on her, which was a novel experience, and a pretty little dress, and a little hat with a feather in it, and a little sash, and all that sort of thing; and he procured shoes and stockings for the elder girl, and a tidy dress, and a hat and shawl, and so forth. and then he brought them back, instructing the mother that he should leave with them for cork the next morning at eleven, and that the girl and the child should be dressed and ready to depart. [sidenote: a mother's love.] the next morning came, and the american went for his child. she was dressed, though very awkwardly. the mother had never had any experience in dressing children, and it was a wonder that she did not get the dress wrong side up. but there she was, and the mother wailed as one who was parting with everything that was dear to her, and the father lay and moaned, looking from norah to the american. time was up. the mother took the baby in her arms, and gave it the final embrace, and the long, loving kiss; the father took her in his arms, and kissed her; the other children looked on astounded, while the girl stood weeping. [illustration: "drop the child!"] "good-bye!" said the american; "i will take good care of the baby," and, taking her from the mother's arms, he started for the door. there was a shriek--the woman darted to him just as he was closing the door, and snatched the baby from him. "drop the child!" said the father. "you can't have her for all the money there is in ameriky." "no, sor!" ejaculated the mother, half way between fainting and hysterics. "i can't part wid her!" and she commenced undressing the baby. "take back yer beautiful clothes--give me back the rags that was on her--but ye can't have the child!" and the girl--she commenced undressing, too; for she did not want to obtain clothes under false pretenses. but the american stopped the disrobing. "it's bad for the child," he said, "but somehow i can't blame you. you are welcome to the clothes, though." and he left as fast as he could, and i noticed he was busy with his handkerchief about his eyes for some minutes. and i am sorry to say he indulged in a very profane soliloquy, 'till he got out of the street, and his objurgations were not leveled at the father and mother. what became of the clothes i know not, but i presume that, when the husband died and went where landlords cease from troubling and the weary are at rest, the widow pawned them to pay the rent, and save the dead body of her husband from being pitched into the street with herself and children; and that when my lord bantry saw her name on the list, as paid, he remarked: "ah! the widow flanagan has paid her rent. i thought she would! what is necessary with these irish, is to be firm with them. by the way, is she paying enough?" and after ascertaining that the wine had been properly _frappéd_, he went to his dinner, and the gunboat, and the royal constabulary felt relieved. it is a pleasant thing for all concerned to have the widow flanagan pay her rent promptly, and make no fuss about it, except, of course, for the widow flanagan. but she, being an irish widow, is not to be considered. but if there is a god of justice and mercy, there will come a time when she will be considered, and then it will be made very warm for my lord bantry, his agent, the captain of the gunboat, the officers of the soldiery, and the whole brood of oppressors. there is a court at which the widow flanagan can appear on equal terms with her landlord, but it is not in ireland. [sidenote: a religious opinion.] [illustration: nature's looking glass.] if i ever leaned toward the doctrines taught by the universalists, a contemplation of the system of bantryism has entirely and completely convinced me that they are erroneous. if there is not a lake of fire and brimstone, a very wide and very deep, and very hot one there ought to be, and when the british house of lords meet there, there will always be a quorum. and my lord will lift up his eyes to the widow flanagan and beg for a drop of water to cool his parched tongue. but he won't get it. he don't deserve it. it is impossible to make an american comprehend the width, depth and breadth of irish misery until he has seen it with his own eyes. no other man's eyes are good for anything in this matter, for the reason that nothing parallel exists this side of the water. and besides this the writers for the stage and of general literature have most woefully misrepresented the irish man and woman, and very much to his and her disadvantage. the irishman of the stage and novel is always a rollicking, happy-go-lucky sort of a reckless fellow, with a short-tailed coat, red vest and corduroy trowsers, woolen stockings and stout brogans; with a bottle of whisky peeping out of his pocket, a blackthorn shillelah in his fist; always ready for a dance, or a fight, or for love-making, or any other pleasant employment. there is always on his head a rather bad hat, worn jauntily, however, and though he may be occasionally rather short of food, he manages always to get enough to be fat, sleek, and rosy. and then he always has a laugh on his face, a joke on his lips, and he goes through life with a perpetual "hurroo." [illustration: the irishman of the stage and novel.] [sidenote: the real and the ideal.] and katy--she is always presented to us clad in a short woolen gown, her shapely legs enclosed in warm red stockings; and she had a bright red handkerchief about her neck, with good, comfortable shoes, and a coquettish straw hat--a buxom girl, who can dance down any lad within ten miles, and can "hurroo" as well as pat, and a little better. the irish priest is always represented to us as a fat, sleek, jolly fellow, who is constantly giving his people good advice but who nevertheless is always ready to sing "the cruiskeen lawn," in a "rich, mellow voice," before a splendid fire in the house of his parishioners, with a glass of poteen in one hand and a pipe in the other, the company joining jollily in the chorus. he is supposed to live in luxury from the superstition of his people, and to have about as rosy a life as any man on earth. all these are lies. the irishman is the saddest man on the surface of the globe. you may travel a week and never see a smile or hear a laugh. utter and abject misery, starvation and helplessness, are not conducive of merriment. [illustration: the evicted irishman.] the irishman has not only no short-tailed coat, but he considers himself fortunate if he has any coat at all. he has what by courtesy may be called trowsers, but the vest is a myth. he has no comfortable woolen stockings, nor is he possessed of the regulation stage shoes. he does not sing, dance or laugh, for he has no place to sing, laugh and dance in. he is a moving pyramid of rags. a man who cuts bog all day from daylight to dark, whose diet consists of a few potatoes twice a day, is not much in the humor for dancing all night, even were there a place for him to dance in. and as for jollity, a man with a land agent watching him like a hawk to see how much he is improving his land, with the charitable intent of raising the rent, if by any possibility he can screw more out of him, is not in the mood to laugh, sing, dance or "hurroo." one might as well think of laughing at a funeral. ireland is one perpetual funeral. the ghastly procession is constantly passing. there is unquestionably a vast fund of humor in the irishman, which would be delightful could it have proper vent. you hear faint tones of it, as it is; but it is in the minor key, and very sad. it always has a flavor of rack-rent in it, a taste of starvation, a suggestion of eviction and death, by cold and hunger, on the road-side. it isn't cheerful. i had much rather have the irishman silent, than to hear this remnant of jocularity which is always streaked with blood. [illustration: to market and back for sixpence.] [sidenote: several delusions.] the irish girl is always comely, and, properly clothed and fed, would be beautiful; still she is comely. irish landlordism has not been sufficient to destroy her beauty, although it has done its best. but she has no gown of woolen stuff--a cotton slip, without underclothing of any kind, makes up her costume. the comfortable stockings and stout shoes, and the red kerchief about her neck, are so many libels upon irish landlordism. were my lord's agent to see such clothing upon a girl, he would immediately raise the rent upon her father, and confiscate those clothes. and he would keep on raising the rent till he was certain that shoes and stockings would be forever impossible. neither does she dance pat down at rustic balls, for a most excellent reason--there are no balls; and, besides, when she has cut and dried a donkey load of peat, and walked beside that donkey, barefooted in the cold mud, twelve miles and back again, and sold that peat for a sixpence, she is not very much in the humor for dancing down any one. on the contrary, she is mighty glad to get into her wretched bed of dried leaves, and pull over her the potato sack which constitutes her sole covering, and, soothed to sleep by the gruntings of the pigs in the wretched cabin, forget landlords and rent, and go off into the land of happiness, which to her is america. she finds in sleep surcease of sorrow, and, besides, it refreshes her to the degree of walking barefooted through the mud twenty-four miles on the morrow, to sell another load of peat for sixpence, that she may pay more money to my lord bantry, whose town-house in london, and whose mistresses in paris, require a great deal of money. champagne and the delicacies of the season are always expensive; and my lord's appetite, and the appetite of his wife and mistresses, and his children, legitimate and illegitimate, are delicate. clearly, katy is in no humor for dancing. she has her share to contribute to all these objects. and so she eats her meal of potato or stirabout--she never has both at once--and goes into sleep and dreams. [illustration: the real irish girl.] as to the priest, there never was a wilder delusion than exists in the minds of the american people concerning him. i was at the houses, or rather lodgings, of a great many of them, but one example will suffice. half-way between kenmare and killarney, in a wild, desolate country, lives one of these parish priests who are supposed to inhabit luxurious houses, and to live gorgeously, and to be perpetually singing the "cruiskeen lawn," with a pipe in one hand and a glass of poteen in the other. he is a magnificent man. in face and figure he is the exact picture of the lamented salmon p. chase, one of the greatest of americans; and i venture the assertion that had he chosen any other profession, and come to america, where genius and intellect mean something, and where great ability finds great rewards, he would have been one of the most eminent of men. a man of great learning, of wonderful intuitions, of cool and clear judgment, of great nerve and unbounded heart, he would, were he to come to america, and drop his priestly robes be president of a great railroad corporation, or a senator, or anything else he chose to be. but what is he in ireland? his apartments consist of a bed-room, just large enough to hold a very poor bed, and a study, in a better class farm-house, and for which he pays rent, the same as everybody else does. his floor is uncarpeted, and the entire furniture of his rooms, leaving out his library, would not invoice ten dollars. his parish is one of the wildest and bleakest in ireland, and is twenty-five miles long and eighteen wide. [illustration: a small, but well-to-do farmer--county cork.] [sidenote: "i was called to it."] now, understand that this man is the lawyer, the friend, the guide and director in temporal as well as spiritual matters of the entire population of this district. if a husband and wife quarrel it is his duty to hear and decide. if a tenant gets into trouble with his landlord he is the go-between to arrange it. in short every trouble, great and small, in the parish is referred to him, and he must act. he is their lawyer as well as their priest. he is their everything. he supplies to them the intelligence that the most infernal government on earth has denied them. but this is a small part of his duties. he has to conduct services at all the chapels in this stretch of country. he has to watch over the morals of all the people. but this is not all. no matter at what hour of night, no matter what the condition of the weather, the summons to the bedside of a dying man to administer the last sacraments of the church must be obeyed. it may be that to do this requires a ride on horseback of twenty miles in a blinding storm, but it must be done. every child must be christened, every death-bed must be soothed, every sorrow mitigated by the only comfort this suffering people have--faith in their church. what do you suppose this magnificent man gets for all this? the largest income he ever received in his life was one hundred pounds, which, reduced to american money, amounts to exactly four hundred and eighty-one dollars. and out of this he has to pay his rent, his food, his clothing, the keeping of his horse, and all that remained goes in charity to the suffering sick--every cent of it. when the father dies his nephews and nieces will not find good picking from what is left, i assure you. "why do you," i asked, "a man capable of doing so much in the world, stay and do this enormous work, for nothing?" "i was called to it," was the answer, "what would these poor people do without me?" that was all. here is a man capable of anything, who deliberately sacrifices a career, sacrifices comfort, sacrifices the life he was fitted for, sinks his identity, foregoes fame, reputation, everything, for the sake of a suffering people! "i was called to it--what would these poor people do without me!" i am a very vigorous protestant, and have no especial love for the catholic church, but i shall esteem myself especially fortunate if i can make a record in this world that will give me a place in the next within gun shot of where this man will be placed. i am not capable of making the sacrifices for my fellows that he is doing--i wish to heaven i was. i found by actual demonstration why the irish so love their priests. they would be in a still worse way, if possible, without them. ignorance of the real condition of the farming irish is almost as common among the better class of irishmen, i mean the dwellers in the cities, as it is among americans. at one of the fine hotels in glengariff, a watering place, i made the acquaintance of an irish lady, a resident of cork. her husband is a wealthy citizen, a thorough irishman, a land leaguer and all that, and she is a more ardent land leaguer than her husband. she is a more than usually intelligent lady, with a warm heart, and she realized, she thought, the wrongs ireland was suffering, and was doing, she supposed, all she could to aid the oppressed people. now in glengariff suffering is not permitted to be seen. the hotels are magnificent, the servants well-clothed and well fed, and it is so arranged that the people in rags are seldom seen in that vicinity. but two miles across the bay and you may see all the misery you can endure. i had been over there and had gone through a dozen or more cabins, and on my return i expressed myself to the lady in as strong terms as my command of language permitted. "are you not exaggerating?" asked she. "i have never seen such misery as you describe. it cannot be." "because you have never sought it out. but it is there. fifteen minutes in a boat will take you to it. will you go over now, and see for yourself if i have exaggerated?" she went. it was a lovely morning; the waters were smiling, and the glengariff shore, with its beautiful buildings, its long hedges of fuchsias along the winding street, the background a mountain of flowers, was a fairy scene. from this side the mountains on the opposite in the delicate brown of autumn, were beautiful. distance showed you only the beauties of nature; it mercifully hid the squalid poverty the mountains contained. [sidenote: the conversion of an irish lady.] we landed and began the ascent. the land was, as everywhere, bog and rock, with here and there a spot reclaimed, which smiled in green. we approached one of the regular hovels. "how far have we to go before we come to one of the houses you spoke of?" "we are at one now." the woman stood petrified. "do people live in such places?" "madam, that cabin holds a man, his wife, six children, the wife's father and brother, pigs, calves and poultry. but you must see for yourself that i did not exaggerate. come in with me." the lady entered, wading pluckily through the slush and mud that surrounded the cabin, and saw all and more than i had told her. there was the cold earth floor, wet and slippery, the two wretched beds on which these people slept, the pigs, the calves and the poultry, which must be sheltered and grown and fattened, not for their eating, but that my lord may have his rent. there was the flat stone in one corner, with the smoky peat fire, no chimney to carry away the smoke; there were the half-ragged men, the half-naked women and children, shoeless, stockingless, skirtless, less everything; in short, there were all the horrors of absolute destitution, without one single redeeming feature. "take me out of this place," she gasped. it was not a pleasant sight for a lady delicately nurtured and daintily kept, whose hands had never been in cold water and upon whose face cold wind had never blown. these people were of her own blood, her own race, almost her own kin. she said never a word on the way back, but that afternoon she left glengariff for cork. but before she went, a boat went over the bay, and a dozen families had at least one square meal, and more money than they had ever seen before. it is to be hoped that they ate the provisions, but the money--that went to my lord's agent for rent, beyond a doubt. and if my lord's agent was certain that he could depend upon the lady from cork as a permanent almoner, he would ascertain to a penny just how much she intended to give, and raise the rent to that amount. my lord's agent is as ravenous and insatiable as a grave-yard--he takes all that comes. the lady from cork is spending her entire time and a great deal of money in the interest of her people. it requires actual sight to understand the condition of the irish. [illustration: sketches in galway.] chapter xxvii. an irish mass meeting. mr. charles stewart parnell, lately in kilmainhaim jail for the crime of lifting up his voice in behalf of an oppressed people, represents cork in the british parliament, and his constituents determined to give him a reception. in catholic countries political demonstrations take place on sunday, always, the catholic having attended services in the morning, devoting the rest of the day to recreation and public business. and besides this reason for sunday demonstrations in any country under british rule, the citizen does not have time enough on any other day to make any demonstrations, political or otherwise. he has to earn his two meals of potatoes a day, and his landlord has a mortgage upon the remainder of his time. sunday is his only day, and it is a blessed thing for him that the church of england stands between him and his landlord. were not labor on the sabbath illegal, my lord would raise his rent to the point of making sunday labor necessary. i had always supposed that america was the country for demonstrations of a public nature, and indeed we do get up some monsters in this way, but the irish, in , did things, compared with which our largest are but pigmies. early in the morning the city began filling with people. they came singly and in pairs, and in processions. they came from down the river, from up the river, from the east, west, north and south; they came in steamboats, by rail, on horses and donkeys, in wagons and donkey carts, and on foot. by nine o'clock cork was swarming with people, literally swarming. then came the most wonderful procession i ever saw or ever expect to see. the trades and occupations of the city were in bodies with emblems, flags and banners; the land leagues of the entire south of ireland were there with appropriate banners, and then came a swarming, seething, boiling mass of humanity, without order, without form or coherence. there were men, women and children, on foot, and in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, and bestriding every animal that permits its back to be crossed. there were women with children in their arms, men carrying their boys to save them from being crushed in the press; there were old men, young men and boys, maids and matrons of all ages, all sorts and conditions of people, in all sorts of garments; men and women shod, men and women barefooted, and all in one inextricable jam. if there was an idea in the way of a banner that was not in that procession it escaped my notice; and if there was a form or manner of decoration that was not in the seemingly endless mass of humanity that i did not notice, it was because there was so much of it that one pair of eyes could not take it all in. the procession was fully ten miles long, and there were in it not less than one hundred thousand people. i know that mass meetings are always exaggerated, but there were actually that number in that monster procession on that sunday. a very great deal is said about the intemperance of the irish people. in all this vast throng, this hive of human beings, there were but three drunken men. also, much is said about their tendency to brawls. there was not a single fight. the procession was wild in enthusiasm, wild in cheering and handkerchief-shaking, but there was not a blackened eye nor a broken head. i never saw one-fourth the number of americans together that did not eventuate in a score or two of fights. ireland certainly behaved herself remarkably well on that occasion. [sidenote: "come down."] there was one curious scene. a young man in cork in the early days of the land league had been suspected of playing into the hands of the government, for gain. since the movement became overwhelmingly popular, he shifted his course and tried to curry favor with the leaguers, but without success. they did not trust him. a carriage was set apart for the use of the prominent americans then in the city, and he, by sheer impudence, forced himself upon them. he managed to get himself seated upon the box of the carriage, making himself exceedingly conspicuous. it was a kind of conspicuosity which the young irishmen did not like. they remembered his betrayal of the cause a few months before, and they believed his present zeal was for effect and not honest. they would not have him foist himself upon their american friends. there was no violence, no obstreperousness. ten of them, five upon each side, formed beside the carriage, and they kept step as soldiers do, only instead of the regular "left!" "left!" the words were "come down!" "come down!" he tried to reason with them; he said all sorts of pretty things to them; he assured them of his entire and utter devotion to the cause; but to every word he uttered there came the one response, "come down!" "come down!" he came. he might have resisted force, but the moral suasion in the simple words "come down!" was too much for him. he descended from the carriage and slunk away in the crowd, and we saw no more of him. immediately the young men fell into rank, and the procession swept on. it was their way of punishing one who was seeking for himself instead of for the mass. and that enormous mass of people paraded the streets all day, and in the evening, in the fields outside the city, they waited patiently and listened to speeches from the leaders of the people, every sentence bringing a quick response. as grand as was the demonstration, it was no mere man worship that was at the bottom of it. it was not so much in honor of their leader; it was a protest of a great people against a system which has already driven out from the country two-thirds of the entire population, and which would drive out the remainder were there means enough left to take them. it was the wail of a starving people, a naked people, a robbed, outraged and oppressed people. it was a protest against bayonet rule, a protest against carbines and ball cartridges, an appeal for the right to live upon the ground upon which they [illustration: affixing notice of eviction under protection of the police.] [sidenote: an eviction.] were born. had they arms probably they would make this protest in another form, and there never was a cause in which arms could be taken up so justly, but unfortunately they have not. the british government allows the irishman to bear nothing more deadly than the spade, and all the arms that are in ireland are used to compel him to use that implement for british greed. [illustration: eviction.] i was present at an eviction near skibbereen. an eviction is a very simple thing. the landlord desires to possess himself of the land which a tenant holds, having been born upon it, his father and his grandfather for many generations back. when the land passed into the hands of the present alleged owners it was worthless, but several generations have toiled upon it, until it has been "reclaimed," as they term it, and made into good soil, which will yield crops. the landlord has raised the rent regularly, keeping the tenant and his family down to the potato and stirabout point, until it is impossible for him to pay. there is no question of a desire to pay--paying is a physical impossibility, unless the tenant has a son in america, and even in that case the rent is raised to the point of absorbing the boy's wages. just as the crop is ripening the landlord gets out a process of eviction, a bailiff, backed by thirty constabularly, go to the house, the warrant is served, the tenant knows exactly what is to happen, and he goes out without a word. but the mother, not so well versed in english law, does make a protest. as wretched as the cabin is, as poor as are her surroundings, it is the only home she has. in this wretched cabin her children were born, this is her home, and no woman relinquishes that without a protest. but she might as well whistle against the north wind. there is no pity nor mercy in these beasts, to say nothing of justice. first the poor furniture is pitched out into the road, then the children are thrown out after the furniture, and then the woman is hustled out, the door is nailed up, and the family are by the roadside in the cold or rain. pat or mick, as the case may be, is offered another farm, farther up the mountain, a piece of land, bog and rock, which he may go on and convert into smiling fields only to be evicted from that when his landlord sees fit, or he may die by the roadside. [illustration: the eviction we saw.] in the village of kenmare, there were thirteen families one cold wet morning, out on the roadside, men, women and children, some of the latter being only two months old, their only protection being blankets made of potato sacks stretched upon four sticks driven into the cold clay, and their only bed, leaves, which were wet with the rain. the mothers were boiling their potatoes, contributed by neighbors almost as poor as themselves, in pots suspended from extemporized tripods, the fuel being leaves and twigs. [sidenote: what happens.] [illustration: evicted--scene in galway.] what became of them? i do not know. i presume some of the children died from exposure, but that was nothing to the landlord or his agent. they were too young to work, and really stood in the way of the mother and father paying their rent. possibly the father working in the mines in wales, got money enough before the children were all dead to enable them to get into some kind of a shelter. it is only necessary for me to say that they were there, and there because they could not pay an unmerciful rent unmercifully exacted and relentlessly pursued. [illustration: farming in county mayo.] [sidenote: boycotting.] an english landlord's agent would levy upon a child's coffin for arrearages of rent, and the british government would give him thirty soldiers to protect the bailiff in serving the process. they wish it distinctly understood that rent must be paid though the heavens fall. rent is my lord's living and the agent's also. where mercy is shown to one tenant others might expect it, and so the rule must be inexorable. "boycotting" is a system devised by mr. james redpath, of america. it is this: the landlord, when he has made up his mind that he wants to rob a tenant of the land he once owned, and which he has, does not evict him in the spring. he waits till the tenant has dug up the ground, planted it and tended it, and it is ready for the harvest. he wants to steal the crops as well as the land, and so just before harvest he gets out his process, and accompanied by the everlasting thirty constables, armed with carbines, he makes his descent. the process is served, the tenant and his family are pitched out into the street, and the place taken possession of. prior to the land league, the villain had no difficulty in employing labor to secure the crop, thus giving the agent his percentage of the robbery, and enabling my lord to indulge in fresh extravagances in london or paris, or wherever he might be. but the land league steps in now, and my lord's agent cannot find a man who will put a sickle into the ground. no matter what price he offers, or how sorely the laborer needs work, or how cheaply he would be glad to work for any one else, he will not work for this man at any price. consequently the crops rot on the ground, and if the robbed tenant gets no benefit from his labor, my lord in paris, and his agent at home, do not. i was in one cottage over the bay from glengariff, in a cabin in which three men were sitting listlessly, waiting for work. they had nothing to eat but the everlasting potatoes, and would have given their lives, almost, for something to do that would keep the pot boiling, even though there was nothing but potatoes in it. enter my lord's agent. "come, men. i want you for a few days." "yis, sor, what is it?" "i want you on captain ----'s place. i will give you two shillings a day." ten pence a day is good wages. "is it on mickey doolan's farrum?" "yes." "we don't want wurruk. we're rich, and are enjoyin' ourselves." mickey doolan was the evicted tenant, and had the agent offered them a thousand pounds an hour he could not have got a stroke from one of them. this is boycotting. the process was first tried upon a captain boycott, hence the term. it was an invention of mr. james redpath, as i said, and a very clever one it is. to prevent the evicted tenant from taking another farm, and reclaiming it for the benefit of my lord and his agent, the land league makes him the princely allowance of three shillings a week, on which he supports his family, and it finds him some sort of a shelter. my lord and his agent have the privilege of getting in the crops themselves, else they rot in the field. there is no violence, no shooting or mobbing--only passive resistance. the british government cannot compel a man to labor, and there is left the irish the blessed boon of dying from starvation. possibly the government will make labor compulsory--it would not be worse than most of the laws for the government of the unhappy island now in force. but so far the irishman need not labor for an unjust landlord unless he chooses to, and that means he need not labor for any of them. there is no such thing as a just landlord in ireland. ireland is a cow to be milked, and just enough potatoes are given her to make the milk. [sidenote: one landlord who was killed.] you hear a great deal in america about shooting landlords. how many landlords have been shot? it is much to the discredit of the irish race that more have not been; but the melancholy fact is, only a very few have been put out of the way by buck-shot. when i look over the meagre list i blush for the irish. it is something in the way of an offset to know that they are not permitted to have arms, and it may be plead in extenuation that the police and soldiery are all pervading; but, nevertheless, it does seem as though a few more might be picked off. if they cannot have fire-arms, there are at least pitch-forks and stones. clearly, the irish are not so public-spirited as they should be. [illustration: my lord's agent.] one was shot, some years ago, and a great to-do was made about it. in this case, as in most of the others, it was not a question of rent. my lord had visited his estates to see how much more money could be screwed out of his tenants, and his lecherous eye happened to rest upon a very beautiful girl, the eldest daughter of a widow with seven children. now, this beautiful girl was betrothed to a nice sort of a boy, who, having been in america, knew a thing or two. my lord, through his agent, who is always a pimp as well as a brigand, ordered kitty to come to the castle. kitty, knowing very well what that meant, refused. "very good," says the agent, "your mother is in arrears for rent, and you had better see my lord, or i shall be compelled to evict her." kitty knew what that meant, also. it meant that her gray-haired mother, her six helpless brothers and sisters, would be pitched out by the roadside, to die of starvation and exposure; and so kitty, without saying a word to her mother or any one else, went to the castle, and was kept there three days, till my lord was tired of her, when she was permitted to go. [illustration: the kind of a girl my lord wants.] she went to her lover, like an honest girl, and told him she would not marry him, but refused to give any reason. [sidenote: how he was killed.] finally, the truth was wrenched out of her, and mike went and found a shot-gun that had escaped the watchful eye of the royal constabulary, and he got powder, and shot, and old nails, and he lay behind a hedge under a tree for several days. finally, one day my lord came riding by, all so gay, and that gun went off, and "subsequent events interested him no more." there was a hole, a blessed hole, clear through him, and he never was so good a man before, because there was less of him. then mike went to kitty and told her to be of good cheer, and not be cast down; that the little difference between him and my lord had been happily settled, and that they would be married as soon as possible. and they were married, and i had the pleasure of taking in my hand the very hand that fired the blessed shot, and of seeing the wife to avenge whose cruel wrongs the shot was fired. "vengeance is mine!" is written. in these cases it is well to facilitate the vengeance a trifle by means of a shot-gun. i object to keeping such a man as my lord out of fire and brimstone a minute. give the devil his due, and never let the note he holds go to protest. an immense reward was offered for information leading to the conviction of the noble man who fired the shot, but, though every man, woman and child in a radius of twenty miles knew exactly who did it, no one was found base enough to lodge information against him. you see the irish all have daughters and they are all comely, and if shooting lords for such crimes comes to be a rule, the lords will turn their lecherous eyes elsewhere. there are worse things in the world than shot-guns. that particular one should be wreathed with flowers, and hung up in the church of that parish. there is much moral suasion in a shot-gun loaded with rusty nails. i entered one cabin in the galtees which rather eclipsed anything in the way of misery that i had seen. it was the smallest and the most wretched of any i had investigated, and there was a refinement of wretchedness about the whole arrangement that to an american would seem impossible. the children were the thinnest that i had ever seen. it was poverty condensed--it was wretchedness boiled down. it was the very essence of misery. "what rent do you pay for this place?" "three pounds a year, sor!" then with an inflection in my voice that had something of sarcasm, i suppose, in it, i asked:-- "is that all?" "oh, no sor, i pay a pound a year, poor rate!" think of it! to pay a poor rate implies that somebody is poorer than the payer. here was a family living in a pig style, and paying fifteen dollars a year for the privilege, who, with a starving and almost naked family, was compelled in addition to this monstrous rental to contribute an additional five dollars per year for the support of the poor! [illustration: the woman who paid the poor rate.] this would be humorous were it not ghastly. had she intended it as a joke it would have been a good one, but unfortunately it was no joke. the british government is not jocular. the wretched woman was actually paying a tax to support the poor! what must be the condition of the poor if such as she were paying to support them? i was in the postoffice at cork, when a middle-aged woman came in and received a letter. she opened it and read it, or rather read a few lines. the letter dropped to the floor, and she staggered and would have fallen but for the friendly wall against which she leaned. "what is the matter?" "oh, sor, patsey is dead--_and who'll pay the rint_!" [sidenote: patsey's dead.] here it was again! patsey was her son, a boy of nineteen, who by the aid of an uncle who had fortunately escaped from the clutches of the british government, years ago, had been taken to america. he had found employment and had been regularly sending money to his mother to pay the rent of the miserable cabin she existed in. she had not heard from him for six weeks and had been worried about him. this letter was from his room-mate, and it conveyed the intelligence that he had been sick for six weeks, and that his sickness had terminated in death. poor patsey was dead and buried. what kind of an infamy is it that will not permit a mother to mourn the death of her first born without connecting it with "rint?" this one could not, for as dearly as she loved patsey, there were six others just as dear to her, to whom patsey was the life. it was patsey in america who shielded the others from starvation. what kind of an infernalism is it that grips the hearts of women, that lays its icy iron finger upon the tenderest chords in a mother's heart? "patsey's dead--who'll pay the rint!" death and rent! a most proper combination. rent _is_ death. tibbitts is here, but i am sorry to say that that not altogether exemplary young man is paying a great deal more attention to irish whisky than he is to irish troubles. he came in very much intoxicated last night at twelve o'clock, and i reproved him for the condition he was in. "it's my (hic) mother that did it," he replied. "my mother in oshkosh." "your mother, you--well, that is too much!" "true, 'shoor you. she wrote me a long letter, which i got this mornin'. (hic.) r'ligious letter, and a mighty (hic) good one. (hic.) great woman, mother. she said man in state of nature (hic) was wicked as sparks fly upward. struck me (hic) as true. what was duty? to get out of state of nature. (hic.) man full of irish whisky is not in state (hic) nature--entirely unnatural. ergo--man drunk not bein' in state of nature, not sinner. see? logic. have too much regard (hic) for mother's feelings to be in state of nature. never will be, so long as the old (hic) man comes down." i don't think he ever will be. clearly, it is my duty to have the young man sent home as soon as possible. while i am informed that irish whisky is less destructive of the tissues than english gin or british brandy, or the vile compound they call ale, it will intoxicate, and i do not accept mr. tibbitt's logic. his getting outside of whisky does not enable him to get outside of himself. [illustration: _conemara women._] chapter xxviii. some little history. it is very difficult to make an american understand the irish question, for the simple reason we have nothing parallel to it in our own country; for which every american should thank his heavenly father, who cast his lines in such pleasant places. whenever you speak to an american about the woes and wrongs of ireland he at once says, "why does the irish farmer sign a lease which he knows he cannot live to?" "if he don't like the country and the laws, why don't he get out of it?" "why is it, the country being under one government, that the english farmer and the north of ireland farmer are prosperous, while the south of ireland farmer is in a state of discontent?" the trouble with the man who asks these questions is, he doesn't know anything about the subject. he measures everybody's grain in his half-bushel. he supposes that under english government, as in america, there is one law which obtains everywhere, and under which all men are equal. i shall try to make it plain how a farmer in one part of ireland may be prosperous, and in another poorer than the pigs he fattens. to understand this matter it is necessary to go back some hundreds of years. all grievances took root a long way back--the world has got too wise to commence or tolerate any new ones. originally ireland was an independent kingdom; in fact, five independent kingdoms. under the kings were the clans. the clan o'connor, for instance, held a certain amount of land--not each man an owner in fee simple, but in common. that is to say, the ownership of the soil was in the clan as a community, each family of the clan holding its land forever, and that land was distributed among them as the best interests of the clan dictated. the chief of the clan was elected, and he was their general, their counsellor, their judge, their advisor, philosopher, guide and friend. he was the father of the clan. [illustration: at work in the bog.] to support the dignity of his position, and to bear the expenses of the post of honor put upon him, a tribute was paid to him, based upon the land held--so much per acre. it was very light, for the chief farmed land, as did the clansmen; and there was, for the time, a fair degree of prosperity in the island--as much as could be expected for that day and generation. at least everybody had all they could eat, drink and wear. [sidenote: conquering and distributing.] the english wanted ireland, and england did with ireland as it has done with every country it ever desired to possess. she simply measured bayonets, and, finding her bayonet the strongest, took possession. this work was begun by henry ii., but received a great impetus from henry viii., the brute who was so handy at decapitating his wives, and it was followed up vigorously by succeeding kings and queens. the country was conquered, the chieftains were expelled, the land was divided up among the favorites of the english kings, and the people found themselves tenants at will of a foreign proprietary, instead of being actually owners in fee simple of their own land. england never does an injustice by halves. she is very moderate in the matter of mercy and justice, and things of that nature, but when it comes to robbery and spoliation she knows no middle way. when elizabeth determined upon occupying ireland, the orders were to spare neither man, woman nor child. the chiefs were driven out, and the land of the clans was distributed among the favorites of the english court. sir walter raleigh had forty-two thousand acres given him from the estate of the munster geraldines, and a proclamation was made through england, inviting "younger brothers of good families" to undertake the planting of the land from which the irish--the owners and occupiers of the soil--had been killed or driven off, and the repopulation of the country, "none of the native irish to be admitted." under this invitation, which the english robbers were not slow to accept, scores of estates were given to the dissolute nobility of england, who were willing enough to take possession of land which they got for nothing, and which would give them means to dodge the primal curse of labor. what they wanted was to live as they wanted, by the sweat of other men's brows, and british bayonets gave the means. it is not possible to detail the outrages perpetrated upon this unfortunate people by the kings and queens of england, but let it suffice to say that a wholesale system of spoliation, robbery, and even extirpation, was inaugurated and most relentlessly and rigorously pursued. man, woman and child, and even the animals that could not be driven off and sold, were destroyed. there never was, in the history of the world, a record so black with infamy, so red with blood, or so scarlet with injustice. [illustration: some of the duke of leinster's kildare tenants.] [sidenote: the question of lease.] this is the way england obtained possession of ireland. this is the title by which my lord this, and my lord that, holds the lands he exacts rent for to-day. this is his deed to the property upon which five millions of people are eating two meals of potatoes a day, that he may gamble and keep mistresses in london and paris. "why does he sign a lease, the conditions of which he cannot fulfil?" there are no leases. it is not as it is in america, where the tenant and the landlord come together, and bargain and wrangle over the terms, and when an agreement is arrived at both are bound by the terms thereof. there is no lease, no writing, no courts, except for the landlord. the tenant is born upon the ground which british brute force, the only principle there is in british government, robbed him of. the new landlord enforced upon him by the pikes of elizabeth's banditti, said to him, "the rent of this land will be one shilling an acre." he could go nowhere else. he knew no other country, and so he bowed his head and built with his own hands a cabin--in the subjugation the old homes were entirely destroyed--and went to work upon land, forty acres of which, in its natural state, would not pasture a goat. before it had any value whatever the bog had to be cut off, the stones dug out--in short, the land had to be made. they call it "reclaiming." the tenant has no lease. he is purely and simply in the power of the landlord. whatever rent the landlord chooses to exact, that is the rent he must pay. he is a tenant at will--and the will is the will of his landlord, the english robber who lives in luxury in london and paris, and permits himself to be fleeced by sharpers, who, differing from the english, use finesse instead of force. in brute force the english cannot be excelled; when it comes to decent robbery, the kind of robbery where the victim has some sort of compensation in the knowing that it was accomplished by superior acumen, the english are babies. the tenant--the robbed farmer--for his own sake is compelled to go on and reclaim the land; he must raise something, for he has children who must be fed; and so he digs out the rocks, and cuts the bog, and makes good, arable land out of what was a barren and dreary waste. what happens to him then? why, my lord in paris has a subordinate watching his tenant. there is nothing so mean that there is not something meaner. cruel as my lord is, he has a crueller man under him. and that is my lord's agent. he comes to the miserable holding, and he notices that pat has reclaimed an acre more this year. immediately he says to pat, "your rent next year, my fine fellow, will be advanced." [illustration: tenant farmer, county meath.] [sidenote: something to be considered.] what can pat do? nothing. he can't get off the land, for the merciless exactions of my lord, who is living in paris and london, have left him nothing; he cannot get away; he has no title to possession a minute; he can be evicted from his holding at any time, for any one of a thousand causes; there are no courts he can appeal to, as in america, for the magistrates are all landlords. and so he bows his head, and meekly goes on and reclaims more land, only to have the rent raised for every acre made valuable by the labor of his own hands; until, finally, it comes to a point where he has reclaimed the entire holding, and my lord's agent comes to the conclusion that it is better for him and my lord--their interests are identical--to convert the farm into a sheep-walk, and pat is evicted--which is to say, he is thrown out upon the roadside to starve, with his wife and children; and the cabin he has built is torn down. does he get anything for the making of the land? not a halfpenny. all the labor bestowed upon that land, originally his, goes to my lord, whose mistresses in london and paris need it. they must have their silks and velvets, they must have their wines and carriages, and horses and servants--and pat must pay for it. it must be understood that there is no such thing as leases in the south and west of ireland--the landlord dictates the terms, and the tenant must accept them. he has no alternative. he cannot get away; he has nothing to get away with. as to the difference between the farmer of the north and south of ireland, it is not true that the farmer of the north is a wonderfully prosperous man, but it is true that he is better off than the farmer of the south. why? because there is not one law governing the whole country. the "custom" that governs one section does not govern the other. now, please, get this infamy in your mind, and try to comprehend it. the british government actually drove the irish, which is to say the native owners of the soil, out of the north of ireland into the south. the phrase "to hell or connaught" had its origin in this. it was to connaught that these people were condemned to go, the alternative being death. of course no american can understand why anybody should go to any place that he does not want to go, america being a free country. but the american must understand that england is not a free country; that the corrupt and vicious nobility of england wanted ground upon which they could commit piracy, and that they had the entire power of the british government behind it. the english bayonet is a rare persuader, especially when it has the stolid cruelty and the iron will of a cromwell behind it. let a man like oliver cromwell breathe upon a bayonet, and you may reasonably expect to see a baby impaled upon it in a minute. to have satisfied his ambition, and what he, in a mistaken way, considered his duty, he would have burned his mother. it was considered necessary to have an english garrison in the land. to accomplish this the irish were driven out of the north of ireland, and when i say driven out, i mean driven out. they were forced to go, man, woman and child, into the wilds of connaught. then the land vacated by this exodus, at the end of a bayonet--british rule always means bayonet, british statesmanship begins and ends with a bayonet, that being the only thing in the world that does not think--this land was divided up among the dissolute villains who infested the british court, and for whom, they being the alleged sons of nobles, something must be done. but a condition was attached to these grants of stolen lands. no native irishman was to have a holding there. it was considered necessary that there should be in ireland a garrison of what they chose to call "loyal" citizens, to hold the robbed and outraged irish who had been driven into the south in check. therefore the north of ireland was given to the dissolute younger sons of dissolute english lords, upon condition that their tenants should be english or scotch, and in all cases protestants. [illustration: in a discontented district.] [sidenote: "custom."] to get english or scotch farmers to join in this wholesale brigandage, there had to be some inducement held out. they were not compelled to come upon the ground, and they made their bargain with the lords. they insisted upon fixity of tenure, a low rent and free sale, which is to say they would not enter upon these stolen lands except upon a low rent, and if they made improvements they should have the benefit thereof, and if they chose to quit the lands they should have the right to sell the improvements they had made, and that the improvements should be a part of the value of the lands, and their interest therein should be an interest in law and equity. this was agreed to, and on these conditions the north of ireland was settled by english and scotch protestants; the "custom" known as "ulster custom" was established, and is law to-day. [illustration: protecting a gentleman farmer.] but "ulster custom" does not extend over the entire island. while the farmer in ulster has fair rent, fixity of tenure and free sale, the farmer of cork and tipperary has nothing of the kind. he is a simple tenant at will. he holds a farm at the will of his landlord; his life is in the hands of a dissolute scoundrel who has no brains, backed by a dissolute scoundrel in the form of an agent who has brains, and both of these scoundrels are backed by the bayonets of the most infamous government on the face of the earth. "ulster custom" gives the tenant some rights. "cork custom" is quite another thing. "ulster custom" was a bribe. "cork custom" is robbery. it is a system of wholesale confiscation of labor, of body and soul. the farmer of cork and tipperary has nothing to say about himself, his wife or his children. if the son of the thief who stole his land loses money at bacaret in paris, he telegraphs the other thief, his agent, that he wants money, and the secondary thief, who has a percentage in the robbery, goes about among the tenants, and raises the rent. and that is all there is about it. the tenant farmer has no lease. he lives upon the land at the pleasure of his landlord, and the measure of the rent he pays is the measure of the landlord's vices and the agent's expectations. each county has its own "custom," and the poor, robbed slave lives under that custom. the north of ireland farmer comes nearer to keeping body and soul together than the south of ireland farmer, because the villain robbers who expelled the irish from the north of ireland had to make a custom more favorable to get the scotch and english to go there to keep the catholic irish in check, and they would not have gone to the country except for some advantage. an english lord will do anything mean for the love of it--the scotch are altogether too acute to do a mean thing without being paid for it. an instance, not a very large one, but enough to illustrate the power of the landlord over his victim, the tenant, occurred upon the estate of my lord leitrim, who is this minute where i hope never to go if there is a hereafter. this worthy descendant of a very unworthy race had an industrious tenant, whose farm he had been long coveting. but somehow he did not dare to take it by force, with the feeling there was in the country at the time, and so he sought a legal pretext. an irish tenant is not permitted by the paternal government, under which he starves and goes naked, to make any improvements without the consent of the landlord. he cannot build an addition to his cabin (this condition is unnecessary, for he couldn't if he would), he cannot dig a ditch or do anything. this is the law, but it has never been enforced, for in the very nature of things the tenant would not do more than was profitable to himself for the improvement of the land is the enrichment of the landlord, who religiously raises the rent with every improvement made. [sidenote: a foiled landlord.] this tenant needed a ditch preparatory to the reclamation of a bog farther back, and he had been putting in all his spare time for two years digging it. he did not suppose that my lord would object to his reclaiming the bog. [illustration: the filling of the ditch.] one saturday mike was working in the ditch up to his knees in water when my lord came riding by. he saw his opportunity. he knew the law. "what are you doing?" he asked. "making the drain, sor," replied pat, proudly, for it was a big thing he had undertaken. "who gave you permission to make a ditch on my land?" demanded my lord. "my fine fellow, you have that dirt all back by monday morning, or out you go." mike saw the trap he had fallen into. before striking a spade he should have gone to my lord's agent, and got permission. but he was in for it, for he knew that my lord had a legal excuse to rob him of his years of labor. but the next morning he went to the chapel, and interviewed the priest. the priest asked:-- "if you get that earth back by monday morning, will you hold the land?" "unless the ould--that is--my lord doesn't kape his worrud." "we'll try whether he does!" said the father. and so the sermon that morning was a very short one, and mostly devoted to mike's case. at its conclusion the father asked every man in the parish to come at once with his spade and put that earth back. they came--thousands of them--and they wrought with a will, and long before monday morning the drain was filled up as nicely as possible; and when my lord came riding by again to see the drain, and give orders for the eviction of mike, he found that his cruel alternative had been fulfilled, as if by fairies. an irishman in corduroy knee-breeches, with a spade in his hand and a short clay pipe in his mouth, would not make a very happy stage fairy, but he was a very serviceable fairy to mike. had mike not been so assisted he would have been evicted, and there would have been no appeal from it. he couldn't employ counsel to fight his battle, for he had nothing with which to pay counsel, and the justice would be a landlord anyhow, who had other mikes to evict, and so mike would have never gone into court at all, but would have accepted his fate in silence. a cheerful state of affairs, surely. and speaking of the possibility of paying rent, i remember a young man on the galtees, insufficiently clad (that was nothing new), working for dear life in a soaking rain. "how many hours do you work?" i asked. "from daylight to dark, sor," was his answer, first peering around before speaking, to be sure that no one heard him. in free britain it is dangerous for him to talk even of so small a matter as wages. "and what are your wages?" "ten pence a day, sor." "are you satisfied to work for so many hours for so little money?" "troth, sor, it wuld be betther for my ould mother if i cud get that the year around." [sidenote: a bit of history.] ten pence is about nineteen cents; and understand he was not boarded. out of that pittance he had to furnish his own food and his own bed. and yet he would have been thankful to the man who would have given him steady work at that price. to know something of what landlordism really is, and how it all came about, read the following little history of the barony of farney: in lord essex, who had "obtained" a grant of the barony of farney, leased it to evar mcmahon, at a yearly rent of two hundred and fifty pounds. and this was a mighty comfortable rent, for, understand, under the _crown_ grants the one receiving it was only charged for arable land, the bog and mountain land adjacent, then esteemed worthless, being thrown in. [illustration: ready for emigration.] mcmahon sub-let it to poorer men, and they so improved it that, fourteen years later, the same land was let for one thousand five hundred pounds, and in thirty-eight tenants were compelled to pay a rental of two thousand and twenty-three pounds. under the strong hands of the original owners, the robbed peasantry, who found themselves tenants on their own lands, this piece of property was mounting up in value very rapidly. the earl of essex died in a.d. "his" estate went to his sisters. there is in english families always somebody to inherit, and in case there should not be, the crown steps in and takes it, that the proceeds of the robbery may not go out of the race. the two sisters married and had children, of course, and in , when the two came together to divide their plunder, it was found that the rentals had risen to twenty-six hundred and twenty-six pounds. then the rents began to be put up so as to produce something like. the two daughters had children to be educated and provided for, marriages were getting to be common in the family, and the debts of the youngsters had to be paid. and so in this estate, which started so modestly at two hundred and fifty pounds, yielded eight thousand pounds. how? easily enough. the land in this stolen estate, as i said, was nine-tenths of it bog and stone, and only the arable land, some twenty-five hundred acres, was set down in the lease, all the bog and mountain adjacent for miles around being thrown in. by judiciously evicting the tenants from the arable land and converting it into cattle and sheep walks, and compelling the tenants to go upon the bog and stone land, which they were compelled to reclaim and drain, the original twenty-five hundred acres of arable land silently grew into twenty-four thousand six hundred acres, and fifty-seven families had multiplied to a population of twenty-three thousand eight hundred! can there be any way of making a great estate so delightful as this? it is a pleasant thing to have a government steal land and give it to you, and then protect you with bayonets while you are compelling the original owners to improve it for you. bear in mind this fact. the plunderers never put a penny upon this land. they never dug a ditch, dug out a stone, or cut a square foot of bog. the cabins the tenantry lived in they built themselves, and every improvement, great and small, they made themselves. and this process of swindling, robbing, confiscation, spoliation and plunder went on until this estate, which commenced at two hundred and fifty-nine pounds in , now yields the enormous revenue of sixty thousand pounds, or three hundred thousand dollars per annum! [sidenote: the young man boyle.] which is to say, the laborers on this estate have been yearly robbed of their labor, and starved and frozen, that one family in england may live in wasteful luxury. this is all there is of it. about the same time that essex got his grant, sir walter raleigh got a grant of forty-two thousand acres (exclusive of bog and waste) from the plunder of the earl of desmond's estates. there lived in london at the time a young lawyer named boyle, who was probably the worst man then living. he had been a horse thief, a forger, and murder had been charged to him. raleigh was in prison and wanted money, and boyle offered him one thousand five hundred pounds for his grant, which raleigh accepted. boyle paid him five hundred pounds on account, and promptly swindled him out of the balance. [illustration: old but tolerably cheerful.] boyle being serviceable to the court (such men always are), was created earl of cork, and got from james i. patents for his plunder. then he proceeded to marry his children into noble english families, the duke of devonshire being one of the descendants. one small portion of the estate now yields his grace an annual income of thirty thousand pounds, being only a part of the land for which his ancestor, the horse-thief, forger and murderer, paid five hundred pounds. his grace, the duke, is not content with the land. under some clause in the patent given by the pedantic james to the criminal boyle, he claims the right to the fisheries in the blackwater, and the irish appellate court, an english landlord's institution, as are all the courts, sustain the claim, and he levies tribute upon every fish drawn from the waters. if it were very certain that there is no hereafter, and if a man had no more heart than an exploded bomb shell, it would be a very good thing to be a duke, with a forger and horse-thief for an ancestor. the duke was very judicious in the selection of a father. the english landlord found after a while that sheep and cattle raising was more profitable than diversified farming, and with that calm, sublime disregard of the rights of the people which is characteristic of the ruling classes in england, eviction became fashionable. the policy pretty much all over ireland was to clean out the population and consolidate a thousand small farms into one large one. between the years and , twenty years, there were destroyed in ireland two hundred and seventy thousand cabins, representing a population of one million three hundred thousand, all driven to the workhouse, to exile or death. the process was a very simple one. a process of eviction was served, the tenant and his family would be pitched out into the road, and the cottage be leveled to the ground. this was originally done with crowbars, but crowbars were too slow. a mechanical genius, who was a landlord and had a great deal of eviction to do, invented a machine to facilitate the process. it was an elaborate arrangement of ropes, and pulleys, and iron dogs, and all that sort of thing, which could be run up beside a cabin and tear the miserable structure down in a few minutes and save a great deal in the way of labor. this is the only labor-saving machine irish landlordism has ever produced. any system that does not permit the marriage of two persons of sound bodies and minds and of the proper age, is an infamy that should be wiped out at no matter what cost, and no matter what means. [sidenote: bantry village.] i was walking down a street in bantry, when i came to a little grocery store, with a ladder projecting over the wretched [illustration: after a wholesale eviction.] sidewalk. my lord bantry, who owns, or professes to, every foot of the ground in the village, is not willing to put the sidewalks in good order. his tenants, who pay him ground rent, built their own homes and are expected to build the sidewalks and keep them in order if they want them. otherwise they may walk in the mud. my lord bantry has his carriage, but he never drives through the village. he does not like to see distress. this grocery was the property of an old lady of seventy, and perched on the ladder was a girl of about seven teen--her grandchild. she was using a paint brush as vigorously, if not as skillfully, as any male painter that ever lived. we halted a minute and greeted her. unclosing a pair of very rosy lips and showing a magnificent row of teeth (it might have been a pride in the teeth that made her open her mouth so wide, but, if so, it was pardonable!), she exclaimed: [illustration: the "firsht faymale painther in oirland!"] "i am the firsht faymale painther in oirland! have ye a job ye can give me?" and she laughed a very cheery laugh at the little pleasantry. there was with us a boatman whom we had employed for a sail on the bay. as we passed, he looked back with a pleased expression. "nancy, there, on the ladther, is my gurl." [sidenote: the boatman and nancy.] we congratulated him on his good fortune, for nancy was a bright, handsome, buxom, cheery girl, who was just the kind that such a man should marry. "you are to marry her?" "yes, some time." "why not now?" "marry her now! what on? she has her grandmudther to care for, i have my fadther and mudther, and there is but little boating to do, and the rint is to pay jist the same. i have lived in ameriky, and want to get back, but i won't go widout nancy, and god knows whin i shall git enough to go wid her." "why don't you marry her and take the chances." "niver! i'll niver marry a gurl and bring childher into the world to go through what we have had to. i've seen enough of it. my fadther has been upon the place all his life and his fadther afore him. they made the land they wuz born upon, and the rint has bin raised rigularly, lavin us jist what we could git to eat, and now at sixty-five and bad wid the rheumatiz, so that he can't work half the time, he has nothing. i went away to sea, and got to ameriky, but i had to kim back to take care of him and my mudther, and it's all i kin do to keep 'em from bein' evicted. an amerikin gev me the boat, which he had built for the season, and if it wuzn't for wat i make out of it we would all be in the workhouse. i'll never marry nancy till i kin find some way to git to ameriky, and some way there to make a dacint livin'. i will niver marry and settle here, to see nancy and her childher kim up as i kim up, and me livin' as my fadther and mudther is livin'." "and nancy?" "it's hard on the poor gurl, for there are any quantity uv the byes who wants to marry her, but she, with her grandmudther on her hands, knows all about it, and she has sense enough to wait for something to toorn up. it will come, we hope, some day; but it's weary waitin'." and so the two, who in any other country would be wedded and have a cottage of their own, with plenty to eat, and drink, and wear, two who owe the world by this time at least three chubby urchins, the girls like their mother and the boys like their father, are kept apart by this more than inhuman system of landlordism, which is the bottom, top and sides of irish misery. others who never knew what it was to live better, would marry and would add to the eternal roll of paupers that make up the population of ireland; but a residence in god's country unfitted this man for that. he discovered that man's natural inheritance was not rags, and filth and starvation, and he determined not to marry till he could get, somehow, to the country where that crowning achievement of the devil's most astute prime minister, a landlord, is unknown. [illustration: old and not cheerful.] but the poor fellow will have to wait a long time. he is like a bear chained to a post--he can neither fight nor run. my lord has a mortgage on him, and my lord's agent will never let up on him so long as there is a penny to be squeezed out of him. what to my lord is nancy and her woes or her hopes? he would be willing she should marry and multiply and replenish the earth, for it would give him more muscle to enslave in time, or rather, the young lord who is riding by on his gaily caparisoned pony, with two flunkies after him, would, when he came into the estate, have the children of the boatman and nancy to fleece, as the present lord fleeces nancy and the boatman. but as for his having any care for the welfare of nancy and the boatman, that is preposterous. the cost of the trappings of the young lord's pony would make them comfortable, but he would be a bold man who would suggest such a thing to him. chapter xxix. england, ireland, scotland--royalty and nobility. this will be found to be a mixed chapter, but i respectfully desire every american to read it very carefully, and to give it some thought after reading it. in america, where one man is as good as another, we have so much that is good that we do not appreciate the blessings we enjoy; we do not realize how much a free government is worth. i am going to put upon paper some few governmental facts, to the end of showing my countrymen what a good government is worth to them, and what a bad government costs the people who groan under it. in a late number of that especial organ of king-worshipers, the london _illustrated news_, there is a beautiful engraving, entitled "the princess of wales and her daughter, in the garden of sandringham." it is a lovely picture. the garden itself is a study, with its wonderful shrubbery, and flowers, and statuary; a garden that falls but little short of being a paradise. and the princess of wales and her six or eight daughters are just as lovely--by the way, as the british parliament gives every child born in the royal family a princely estate and an enormous allowance to start with, the royal family all have large families--the princess herself is arrayed in gorgeous morning costume, with a hat trimmed with ostrich feathers, with a parasol with silken fringe upon it a foot deep, and everything comporting. the children are likewise gorgeously arrayed, and one of them is teaching a pug dog how to sit up, the said pug costing the british people at least an hundred guineas. the entire party are in as jolly a state as can be imagined. now i like such scenes as this immensely. i like to see comfort and even luxury. had the husband of this fortunate woman and the father of these happy children been, early in life, a shoemaker, a tailor, a lawyer, a merchant, or anything under heaven, and had by his own labor and his own skill accumulated the means for all this luxury, i should insist upon his right to enjoy it because he had earned it, and had given the world something for it. but how did this woman get it? why is she with a parasol with silken fringe a foot deep, her children in silks and satins, while just as good children, and just as good women, in ireland, are shoeless, stockingless and almost naked! what title has she to the gardens at sandringham, and by what right does she starve the peasantry of ireland that she may thus disport herself and her children? simply this: she is the wife a dissolute middle-aged man, whose stupid mother was the niece of a stupid uncle, who was the son or brother or something or other of the worst kind of a man in the world, who happened to be the son of a king who was half a lunatic and half an idiot--the same who attempted by hireling soldiery to subjugate america--who became a king because he was the descendant of a race of pirates, who by arms wrested from the people of the countries they invaded, all their rights, and assumed to own the land. have these people from first to last ever added one penny to the wealth of the world? is there any one thing they have ever done to push forward the progress of the nations? not a thing. on the contrary, they have been the dead weights; they have been the blocks in the way. they simply live, and eat, and drink, and wear and disport themselves in the gardens at sandringham and an hundred other gardens; they have castles, and servants, and special trains, and all that sort of thing, and hundreds of guinea pug dogs; and to support all this, with the horde of nobility hanging upon them, and their retainers, the men of ireland are starving, and the women of ireland are going shoeless, stockingless, and well nigh naked. [sidenote: a dire wish.] i am not especially cruel in my nature, but were the royal family of england to invite the royal family of prussia, and the czar of russia, and the king of italy, and the sultan of turkey, and all the kings of the world, with all their nobles, to an excursion on the german ocean, and were the ships all to go down to the bottom of the sea, and make an end of the whole business at once, i should thank heaven more fervently than i ever did before in my life. royalty is larceny in the first degree. it is larceny all the way down, according to the amount of the spoil. [illustration: the proper end of royalty.] i did not confine my observations of land troubles to ireland alone, though it is in ireland that there is the worst condition of affairs, for the reason that there is a vital difference between the ruling classes of england and the entire irish people, in race and religion, and that makes a great deal more difference in the british empire than anywhere else on the footstool. but the english or scotch farmer has not so happy a time of it as he might have, and england will have just as violent a land agitation as ireland within a very few years. the average englishman has a vast veneration for royalty and nobility, and all that sort of thing, for he ascribes to the "system" what he himself has done to make britain great, but his wife and children are nearer to him than her majesty or my lord, and he is beginning to ask why he is yearly getting worse off, while her majesty and my lord are living even more luxuriously and expensively than ever? when a strong, vigorous race of men get to asking themselves this question, it is high time that her majesty and my lord begin to look out for themselves. the french peasantry and the french artisans made it very warm for the "divine righters" several times, and finally they have a republic that will endure; not the best republic in the world, but a very good attempt at one; as good as we could expect from frenchmen. farming in england doesn't pay much better than in ireland, and the reason for it, as in ireland, is summed up in the one word, rent. in bedfordshire, lincolnshire, nottinghamshire, and cambridgeshire, there are hundreds upon hundreds of farms vacant, and doing nothing, the reason being the insecurity of tenant farmers and the rottenness of land ownership. it all comes from the fact that in england as in ireland, the fee simple of the land is in the hands of the few, and that the few owners regard the tenants as so many cows to be milked for their infernal extravagancies, and that they are so stupid that they cannot be made to understand that there is a point beyond which the tenant cannot go, and that when that point is reached something must break. [sidenote: land troubles in england.] one farm i saw was a good piece of land of two hundred and eighty acres. it lies as dead as julius cæsar, and is growing up to thistles. why? because the rent is four hundred pounds a year, or two thousand dollars. it has been screwed up to that point by successive owners, till the closest labor and the most starving economy will not pay the rent. it would not pay it anywhere on the globe. in nottinghamshire the "noble" proprietors are having their farms left upon their hands for the same reasons, and they are attempting to farm them by their agents, practically evicting the skilled labor which was born upon the soil and is best fitted to cultivate it. these owners are those whose debts compel them to get something out of their land. they either attempt to farm them themselves, or they make leases at a rent just low enough to induce their tenants to continue. [illustration: meath lads at crossakeel.] but there is another class that is not so merciful--or rather who are not compelled to be just, and the english nobleman is never just except upon compulsion. these are the drones who are actually rich, and have an income from some plunder outside of their lands. they will not make leases at all, for fear of losing the game! they want this beautiful land to grow up into shelter for hares and birds and all that sort of thing, for the sake of the pleasure of shooting in the season. the distress of the evicted tenant--eviction by reason of exorbitant rent is as certain as eviction for non-payment--is nothing to them. they must have their preserves of game; they must have their sport. the process is the same in england as it is in ireland. the landlord puts his estates in the hands of an agent, selecting for the purpose a man with a heart of flint and a face of brass, one who knows no mercy, and who would not do a kind act were he paid for it. the tenant appeals to him for a reduction, but he might as well ask mercy of a tiger. then in his despair goes to the landlord. "my good sir," says the landlord, beaming upon him benevolently, "i know nothing about these things. the matter is entirely in the hands of mr. smithson, my agent. go to him." "but i have been to him and he will do nothing." "really i regret it. but mr. smithson knows all about it--i don't. if he, with a knowledge of the situation--that is what he is there for--can do nothing, i cannot. i am not to be expected to know anything about it, nor can i meddle with business that is his." and the poor devil of a tenant, with the prospect of starving on the land or emigrating from the only place on earth which to him is a home, goes away sadly, and my lord or the rev., as the case may be, drops his agent a note, saying:--"jobson was here to get a reduction of his rent. he will stay, and can be made to pay. be firm with him." then the agent tells jobson that lowering the rent is out of the question--and jobson stays, for he does not want to leave. he buys his artificial manures and his fertilizers from the agent, for he can get credit nowhere else, the agent has a handsome commission from the manufacturer, and so between the agent and the landlord, the manufacturer and the usurer, and the rest of them, jobson works fourteen hours a day only in the end to either lie down and die or by the help of friends get away to america. [sidenote: the cost of "sport."] i know one tenant who, dissatisfied with an agent's apology for serious and unreasonable raising of his rent, determined to see the duke himself. at the interview his grace said he really knew nothing about the matter; he had put the re-valuing into the hands of the most eminent man recommended to him; and, in short, if the tenant did not feel comfortable, it was open to him to leave and let another man come in at the new terms. now this was the cruel truth, but only part of the truth. the tenant could not quit without tremendous sacrifice of his property--to say nothing of his home-love and other feelings. so he answered, "your grace, i cannot leave without ruinous loss; i have farmed well for many years; i can get nothing else at my time of life; and hence your power to oppress me." all england is dotted with unoccupied farms, and these blotches upon the fair face of nature are becoming more frequent every year. there are in england about five hundred packs of hounds, numbering about eighty each, or forty thousand in all. the hunting horses number about one hundred and fifteen thousand, and the yearly cost of these hunting establishments is estimated at more than forty-five million dollars. [illustration: a mayo farmer.] these estimates do not include the original cost of the establishments, it is merely the annual expense. the first cost goes up into hundreds of thousands, for enormous prices are paid for good hunters and the better breeds of hounds. and this hunting is no joke to the farmer. the horsemen and the hounds go across the country, and it matters little to them what damage is done to crops, grounds and animals. the tenant has no rights that the landlord is bound to respect, and he must submit to whatever burdens are imposed upon him. it may be necessary to keep up the "good old english customs," and to encourage "manly sports," but are not the stomachs of the tenants and the stomachs of the tenant's children worthy of some consideration? and then if killing game is a sport to be encouraged to keep up english manliness, why not give the tenantry, who, after all, do the fighting, a shy at it? why keep all the good things for the nobility? john hodge could improve his markmanship and his manhood by having an occasional shot at a deer, or a hare, and the deer or hare would not be an unacceptable addition to his remarkably short commons at table. but were john to presume to be seen with a gun in his hand he would be shot at by a burly game keeper, and if not killed would be arrested, tried, convicted and transported. what is my lord's amusement is john hodge's crime. inasmuch as the british government is for one class only, that class takes mighty good care of itself. men in favor with the ruling classes are pensioned for life, and in many cases the pension goes beyond life, and is handed down to descendants on more pleas than is comprehensible. the army, the navy, the law departments, the state departments, the--well, if there is a department in the english government that is not like a comet, the pension tail ten times as long as the department nucleus, i have not found it. the list of pensioners set in very small type, two columns to the page, occupy twenty-two large pages. and this enormous list is made up not of the common soldiers and sailors, but entirely of what are called gentlemen pensioners--men who were foisted into office as the younger sons of the nobility, or "sisters, cousins and aunts," and after a few years of loafing about the government offices retired upon life pensions. a fair sample of these pensions is that of the duke of schomberg. the duke was killed at the battle of the boyne, in the year , and a pension of six thousand pounds or thirty thousand dollars per annum was given his heirs. it is estimated that this family, the heirs of a foreign mercenary, has received from the british government the enormous sum of six hundred and eighty thousand pounds, or in american money three million four hundred thousand dollars! and this for his being a favorite of william of orange, a dutch king! [sidenote: the royal family.] rev. j. smith, whoever he may be, served at the lord knows what, twenty-three years, at a yearly salary of three hundred and sixty-four pounds, and was retired at fifty-six years of age with the comfortable pension for life of two hundred and thirty-one pounds annually! and so on you go, wading through twenty-two closely printed pages, two columns to the page, of just such cases, the yearly allowance for these excrescencies footing up for the year the enormous sum of one million three hundred and thirteen thousand two hundred and fifty-eight pounds! it is a good thing to be the favorite of a duke. [illustration: mayo peasantry.] the royal family have a remarkably soft thing of it. her royal highness, the princess royal, receives a yearly allowance of eight thousand pounds, the prince of wales receives the snug sum of forty thousand pounds, which he manages to squander in questionable ways (this does not include the grants parliament has made at divers and sundry times to pay his debts), the princess of wales ten thousand pounds, prince alfred ten thousand pounds from his marriage and fifteen thousand pounds from his majority--twenty-five thousand pounds in all--prince arthur fifteen thousand pounds, princess alice six thousand pounds, princess louise, she of canada, six thousand pounds, princess mary five thousand pounds, prince leopold fifteen thousand pounds, princess augusta three thousand pounds, duke of cambridge twelve thousand pounds, and in addition the last mentioned fraud has princely pay as field marshal, general, colonel, and no one knows what else. whoever chooses may figure up what all this costs the people of great britain. i have not the patience. and bear in mind the fact that this does not represent any portion of what these absorbers take out of the people. this is merely pin money for the female leeches and pocket money for the male! in addition to this they have enormous estates all over england, ireland, scotland and wales; they have offices beyond number, with a salary attached to each, and they have allowances for everything under heaven. if the tax-payer breathes it costs him something, for the nobility have revenues based upon everything. the royal household is a curiosity. there's the lord steward, who draws two thousand pounds a year; the lord treasurer and comptroller, nine hundred pounds each; master of the household, twenty one hundred and fifty-eight pounds; secretary of the board of green cloth, whatever that may be, three hundred pounds; paymaster, five hundred pounds; lord chamberlain, two thousand pounds; keeper of the privy purse, two thousand pounds; assistant keeper of the privy purse, one thousand pounds. it takes two men to keep the privy purse, and it is large enough to require it. then there are eight lords in waiting, who get for waiting seven hundred and two pounds each, and there are grooms in waiting, grooms of the privy chamber, extra grooms in waiting, four gentlemen ushers, one "black rod," whatever he may do i don't know, but for being a "black rod" he gets two thousand pounds a year. then there's a clerk of the closet, mistress of the robes, ladies of the bed-chamber, and bed-chamber women, maids of honor, and poet laureate, and examiner of plays. the poet laureate gets five hundred pounds a year for writing a very bad ode in praise of her majesty on each birthday, which must be a very bitter pill for him, he being actually a poet. but he does not give the worth of the money, for there is absolutely nothing in the queen of england to praise. mr. tennyson has a very hard place. [sidenote: the royal household.] the master of the horse receives two thousand five hundred pounds, the master of the buck-hounds one thousand seven hundred pounds, hereditary grand falconer one thousand two hundred pounds, (by the way kings don't falcon any more), then there are eight equerries in ordinary at seven hundred pounds each, which is certainly cheap; five pages of honor at one hundred and twenty pounds each, and a master of the tennis court, which is a sort of a ten pins, i suppose, at one hundred and thirty-two pounds. these, understand, are only a few of the people belonging to the royal household. there are over a thousand persons, male and female, attached thereto, all receiving magnificent salaries, for real or imaginary services to her majesty. [illustration: inhabitants of a bog village.] the queen receives, exclusive of the vast income of her estates, for the running of her household and pensions for the dead-beats who get too old to show themselves, the enormous sum of four hundred and seven thousand pounds, or, in american money, two million thirty-five thousand dollars per annum! and this represents but a portion of the swindle, as constantly allowances are being made and annuities granted which do not show upon paper, and can only be reached by the most ferret-like acuteness and perseverance. ninety per cent. of all this mummery, for which the people of england have to pay in good hard cash, is the most absurd and utter nonsense. like falconry and all that business, it has gone out of date. in the old times kings kept buck-hounds and flew falcons, and such offices were necessary, that is, if kings were ever necessary, which i deny, but it has all gone, never to return. but the offices remain--and the salaries. they are kept up to make places for illegitimate children of lords, for poor relations of royalty and nobility, and for favorites whose fathers or themselves have done dirty work for the government. in the name of all that's good, what does the queen of england want of eight ladies of the bed-chamber, and thirteen women of the bed-chamber? can't she unhook her dress and corset, untie the fastenings of her skirts, peel off her clothes, draw on her woolen night-cap over her foolish old head, and turn in the same as other women? what does she want of all these people about her? i can understand that it would take that number and more to make the ancient nuisance presentable in the morning, but why tax the people of great britain forty-four thousand pounds a year for this service? and then when it is taken into account that the entire royal family have each all this humbuggery, to a less extent, it can be figured up what a very expensive thing royalty is, and how wise the american people were to bundle the whole business off the continent at the time they did. one thousand people at salaries ranging from one hundred to ten thousand dollars a year, to take care of one rickety old woman, who is mortal the same as is the humblest of those ground into the dust by her and hers, and who has no more title to the place she occupies than a thief has to your watch. [sidenote: the palace and the workhouse.] ireland swarms with soldiers, and, for that matter, every nook and corner of the british empire is scarlet with military. royalty and nobility, having no reason for existence, have to be maintained by brute force. royalty and nobility do not pay for this expenditure; a subjugated people pay for their own debasement. to every pound of the expenditure in the british empire, sixteen shillings four and one-eighth pence go to the war debt and the support of the army, leaving three shillings seven and seven-eighth pence for all other purposes whatsoever. military power is the basis of despotism everywhere. germany groans under it; russia sweats under it; and wherever a king is tolerated you will find bayonets and artillery in most uncomfortable plenty. some day, let it be hoped, the kings and nobles will experience the delight of looking down the muzzles of these arms themselves. up to the time of the disestablishment of the irish church, the irish were compelled to support the archbishops and bishops of a church whose religion is as foreign to them as buddhism, paying therefor the sum of one hundred and two thousand eight hundred and twenty-five pounds per annum, and to other attaches, for curacies and all that business, a vast amount more. this immense amount of money was a tax yearly upon a starved and overworked people, to keep in luxurious idleness a parcel of drones whose only functions in life were to eat, sleep and hunt; who were of no earthly use to the people who supported them, either in a temporal or a spiritual way. there is one english church at glengariff, in a parish in which there are only six protestants, the rector, his wife, two children, and two servants. the rector has as fine a house as there is in the country-side, the cost of which and its support is a burden on a people struggling for their daily bread. pauperism is a certain consequence of royalty and nobility. the queen of england cannot have one thousand men and women about her person under pay without taking bread from the mouths of many people, and the luxury of a noble must find an echo in the other extreme, the workhouse. the number of adult paupers in england and wales in , exclusive of vagrants, was seven hundred and eleven thousand seven hundred and twelve and the cost to the labor of the country to relieve them footed up eight millions eight hundred and nineteen thousand six hundred and seventy-eight pounds. this does not include ireland and scotland, but england, the most prosperous part of the british empire. the english writers on political economy ascribe this appalling pauperism to every cause but the right one. wipe out royalty, nobility, and landlordism, and give the people a chance to earn their bread, and this army would be reduced to almost nothing. crime goes on hand in hand with pauperism. in the united kingdom had the enormous number of one million four hundred and ninety thousand four hundred and thirty-nine committals for crime. this does not include the cases of drunkenness or kindred offences which come before magistrates and are summarily disposed of. [illustration: dublin.] [sidenote: how the nobility are employed.] the principal business of the aristocracy of england is to make places for themselves and their sons and nephews. no matter how large the plunder of the tenantry, the landed aristocracy must have government employment for their surplus children, for they cannot all stay on the acres originally stolen from the people. and so british arms conquer other lands, or british diplomacy, which is a lie backed by a man-of-war, "acquires" it, and immediately a full staff of officials is sent out, all under magnificent salaries, to stay just long enough to be retired upon a fat pension. if possible, the expense of governing the "acquired" possession is squeezed out of the unfortunate natives; if not, the home government makes up the deficiency. cyprus, an island made almost barren by years of turkish misrule and oppression, is now in the hands of the english, with a commander-in-chief at fifteen thousand pounds a year, and a complete staff, the cost of which is not less than seventy thousand pounds per annum, to say nothing about the armament necessary to be kept there. the island of maritius, a speck in the indian ocean, thirty-six miles long and twenty miles broad, furnishes sinecures for the scions of english nobility to the tune of eleven thousand six hundred pounds per year, and three little islands off the malayan peninsula are governed by a parcel of "sirs" and "hons." at an annual cost of twenty-one thousand two hundred and ten pounds. these are only samples. england has such harbors of refuge for her surplus nobility everywhere, and the cost of supporting these locusts is a crushing tax upon the labor of the country. the items of pauperism and crime are easily accounted for. some of her stolen dependencies, however, are made to pay very well. the total receipts from british india for the year , (customs, taxes, etc.), were sixty-five million one hundred and ninety-nine thousand six hundred and sixty-two pounds, while the expenditures for the same year were sixty-three million one hundred and sixty-five thousand three hundred and fifty-six pounds. india is so worked as to support a vast army of officials and leave a balance of two million pounds for profit besides. but the real profit is much larger. the manufacturers and merchants of england compel the down-trodden natives to buy their goods at their own prices, and a never failing stream of wealth flows from india to england. india was a successful piece of brigandage, and has always paid very well. other steals have been successful--in fact they all have been. these younger sons, legitimate and illegitimate, have to be supported some how, by the labor of the country, and to transfer even a portion of their cost to the people of other countries is a saving of just that much from the people at home. but where is the necessity of supporting them at all? what necessity is there for their existence? the peers of the realm number four hundred and eighty-seven, and of this number four hundred and two own, or at least get rent for, fourteen million one hundred and twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and thirty-one acres of land, which bring them a rental annually of eleven million six hundred and seventy-nine thousand eight hundred and thirty-nine pounds. in addition to this enormous income the most of them have appointments of various kinds, all of which make the position of peer a very comfortable one. they have a very pleasant life of it. they all have a castle on their estates in the country, and in the season guests made up of the same class, with a few poets, novelists and painters to supply the intellect and make variety, indulge in all sorts of festivities, and in town, in the season, their houses are constantly filled, at no matter what expense. then they each have a membership in all the clubs, and between their country houses, and their town houses, and their clubs, they take pleasure and cultivate gout till death, which has no more respect for them than it has for their oppressed tenants, takes them to a place where there is no difference between a duke and a laborer. [sidenote: my lord.] gout, by the way, is the fashionable english disease, and a nobleman or a squire of an old family would rather have it than not. it is a sort of mark of gentility, about as essential to his position as his family tree, and no matter how they suffer under it, they bear it with fortitude as one of the evils incident to their rank--an evil that emphasizes their dignity. when dickens sent sir leicester deadlock into the next world _via_ the family gout, he did not satirize at all. the starved irish never have the gout, nor do the working people who clamor for some measure of right. the jack cades never were so afflicted; only your noble, who toils not, neither does he spin, who goes to bed every night full of every flesh that exists, every wine that is pressed, to say nothing of more potent beverages. it is an accompaniment of "gentle birth," and very liberal living--living so liberal as to be only possible by those who have other people's unrequited labor to live upon. an englishman dearly loves a lord. there is a cringing servility, a hat-off reverence for noble birth, in england, that to an american is about the most disgusting thing he sees. my lord may be a thin-haired, weak-legged, half-witted being, capable of nothing under heaven but billiards and horses, loaded to the guards with vices, and only not possessing all of them because of his lack of ability to master them. he may be the most infernal cumberer of the earth in existence, but if he is of noble birth, if he has the proper handle to his name, he is bowed to, deferred to in every possible way. a london tradesman had rather be swindled by a nobleman than paid honestly by a common man, and for one to have permission to put over his door, "plumber (for instance) to his royal highness the prince of wales," is to put him in the seventh heaven of ecstacy. the farm population of england show outward deference, but they don't feel it, and the irish have so intimate an acquaintance with them that they refuse even lip service and ignore the "hat-off" requirement altogether. this lack of respect for the nobility in ireland is considered one of the most alarming signs of the times. i saw a sample of this bowing to royalty, in scotland. i happened to be doing holyrood castle at the same time his majesty kalakeau, king of the sandwich islands, was in edinburgh. now king k. may be a very good man, but in appearance he is an ordinary looking man of half negro blood, and not a very remarkable mulatto at that. our fred douglas would cut up into a thousand of him. he is a sort of a two-for-a-penny king; but he is a king for all that, and so all the dignitaries of edinburgh, the mayor, the principal citizens, a duke or two, and a half dozen right honorables showed him the city, and escorted him, and lunched him, and banquetted him. they brought him to holyrood, and the entire lot of them formed in two ranks, and, with hats in hand, bowed reverently as this king of a few thousand breechless, semi-civilized savages, passed to his carriage. and they glared ferociously upon the few americans who, not just _au fait_ in such matters, and not knowing precisely who the distinguished colored man was, stood with their hats on their heads, inasmuch as it was raining. had it been the king of the fijis, and had it been raining hot pitchforks, these snobs would have stood with uncovered and bowed heads, simply because he was a king. to these people, "there is a divinity which doth hedge a king," no matter what kind of a king it is. they do the same thing for that venerable old stupidity, victoria guelph, precisely as they did it for that amiable imbecility, albert, her husband, and are doing it every day for those embryo locusts, their children. burns wrote:-- "rank is but the guinea's stamp, a man's a man for a' that." [illustration: they glared ferociously upon the americans.] [sidenote: living in ireland.] but this class of scotch have forgotten burns. possibly they never understood him. but burns was wrong. kalakeau may be a man, but the snobs who toadied to him so meekly, are not, and never can be. "look upon that picture, and then upon this!" i have shown how the english oppressor lives. let us go, by actual figures, taken from official sources, for a few actual facts as to the irish tenant. the parish of glencolumbkille, in county donegal, is a fair sample of the west coast. in this parish there are eight hundred families. in the famine of , seven hundred of these families were on the relief list, and on to the end of the famine (if famine may be said to ever end in ireland), four hundred families had absolutely nothing but what the relief committees gave them. the committees were able to give each of these families per head per week seven pounds of indian meal, costing five pence farthing, up to about five dollars and fifty cents per year. these people all said that if they got half as much more, ten and one-half pounds, it would be as much as they would use in times of plenty. your pencil and figures will show you that this would be equivalent in good years, to an expenditure per head for food for every individual, of one pound thirteen shillings and sixpence a year, or for the average family of say four and one-half, seven pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence per year. this is the cost of food for the average family per year when the times are good. when potatoes are cheaper than indian meal potatoes are eaten, but one or the other constitutes the sole food of the people. as the cost is always about the same, the figures are not changed in either case. to this you want to add about three pounds a year for "luxuries." luxury in an irish cabin means an ounce of tobacco a week for the man of the house, and the remainder of the three pounds goes for tea. i admit this is an extravagance, this tobacco and tea, and i doubt not that a commission will be appointed by parliament to devise ways and means to extinguish the dudheen of the man and abolish the teapot of the woman. this three pounds a year, thus squandered, would enable the landlords to have a great many more comforts than they now enjoy. i presume the earl of cork could build another yacht on what his tenantry squander in tea and tobacco. add to this one pound for clothing (an extravagant estimate) for each member of the family, and you have the entire cost of the existence of the donegal family, twelve pounds three shillings six and three-quarters pence, or, in american money, fifty-seven dollars and sixty-one cents! the clothing provided by this pound a year means for the man of the house a pair of brogans, which he must have to work at all, a couple of shirts, a pair of corduroy trowsers, and a second-hand coat of some kind. the women and children wear no shoes or stockings, and their clothing i have described before. of bed-clothing they have nothing to speak of. a few potato sacks, or gunny bags, or anything else that contributes anything of warmth, makes up that item. the queen and the princess of wales sleep on down and under silk, and the queen has one thousand people about her person. my lord has his yacht in the harbor, and the humblest seaman on board sleeps under woolen and has meat three times a day. some day there will be a board of equalization from whose decision there will be no appeal. then i would rather be the donegal peasant's wife than the queen. despite the fact that she sent one hundred pounds to the starving irish, she won't need silken covering to keep her warm. to pay the rent and provide this fifty-eight dollars for food and clothing consumes the entire time of every member of the household. the land will not pay it--it is impossible to get it off the soil. so the man of the house plants his crops and leaves them for the women and children to care for, and he goes off to england or wales, and works in mines, or in harvest fields in the season, or at anything to make some little money to fill the insatiable maw of the landlord, and to keep absolute starvation from the house. then the boy in america sends his stipend, which helps--provided his remittances can be kept from the lynx-eyed agent, who would raise the rent in a minute if he knew that remittances were coming. [sidenote: women's work.] but the work of caring for the crops is not all the women [illustration: bog village, county roscommon.] and children do. they knit and sew, every minute of the spare time they have from field work, making thereby from two to three cents a day. this knitting is done for dealers who furnish the material and pay for the work, and to get the material journeys of twenty to forty miles, and the same distance back again to deliver the finished work, have to be performed. in brief, there is not a moment to be lost, nor an opportunity wasted to make a penny. the penny not earned makes the difference between enough food to sustain life, bare as life is of everything that makes it desirable, and absolute pinching, merciless hunger. no matter at what sacrifice, the penny must be earned and religiously applied either for rent or food. clothing is always a secondary consideration--a place to stay in and food to keep life in the body, these are the first. what is the amount paid the drones of england in the form of pensions? how much does the queen receive? how much do the little princes and princesses cost the nation? how much the dukes and dukelings, the right honorables and the generals and colonels, and the secretaries and all that? "look upon this picture and then upon that!" a nobility rioting in extravagance--a whole people starving! and yet there are those who believe the people of great britain have no grievances, but should settle down contentedly and in quiet! if there is an american who does not hate royalty, nobility, and aristocracy, in no matter what form they come to view, he either wants to be an aristocrat himself, or is grossly ignorant of what this triplet of infamy means. if there is an american who does not sympathize with the common people of england, ireland, scotland and wales, he is either a heartless man or does not know the condition of the laboring classes of that unhappy empire. and if there is an american who reads these pages, and does not from this time out, make politics just as much a part of his business as planting his crops, that american does not know what is good for him. government is the most important matter on this earth. good or bad government makes the difference between nobility-ridden england and free america. chapter xxx. paris to geneva from ireland with its woes, ireland with its oppressions, through england, the world's oppressor, to paris, and from paris to switzerland--that was the route our party took; not so much because it was consecutive or in order, but because the whim so to do seized us. we were out to see, and to us all countries that were to be seen were alike of interest. we spent a few more days in paris--everybody wants to spend a few more days in paris--and then turned our reluctant faces southward. a dismal, gloomy night; the fine, penetrating rain, cold and disagreeable, that chills the very marrow, half hides the dimly burning gas-lights, and makes the streets utterly forlorn. the belated pedestrian bends his head to the blast and hurries along, eager to reach the cozy room where the gloom that pervades everything out of doors cannot penetrate. the cabs roll along the stony pavements with a dead, metallic sound that adds to the general dreariness. everything and everybody is depressed. so it was when the train drew out of the dimly lighted station in paris, and plunged into the unfathomable gloom and darkness of the country beyond. wonderful invention--this railroad! and never so wonderful as at night. the mariner has his compass to guide him--the engine-driver has the rail. you go to sleep, or try to, in paris; you wake in switzerland. it makes reality of the magic carpet in the "arabian night's tales." though the coarse, stuffy compartment afforded no pleasure, the dull roar of the train as it sped on through the driving storm lulled the senses, gave our memory full sway; gradually [illustration: compartment in a french car.] [sidenote: a night on the rail.] the rain ceased its pattering against the window pane, the sky broke into a rosy blue, the brilliant sunlight streamed out in the night over the beautiful white city, and paris, the frivolous empress of the world, held out to the mind its multitudinous attractions and unlimited pleasures. we saw again, reflected in the memory of the last six weeks, the long, wide boulevards, with their cheerful cafés filled with beautifully dressed women and leisure-loving men. there was the constant, ever-changing streams of humanity surging on to some end, each in his own way. there were the lights, the flowers, the gaities of the beautiful city, where the attainment of happiness and pleasure seems to be the chief aim of existence. the louvre with its infinity of beauties, the palais royal with its bewildering jewels, the place de concorde with its historic memories, the champ elysées dazzling bright, with its arch-crowned vista of brilliant equipages, the bois du boulogne with its flower-lined walls and flower-lined lakes. there was rare relief, ever present to us, in all its glory, all its pleasure, all its gaiety. days passed into weeks, and weeks into months, of perfect enjoyment that came to an end only when the guard in gruff tones hustled us out of the car at macon, to change for the train going to geneva. the transition was sudden and decidedly unpleasant. there were eight of us in the compartment all that night--a frenchman and four small daughters, on their way to geneva, tibbitts and ourselves. tibbitts, who could not speak a word of french, except "_der bock_," which means in english "two beers," and "_combien?_" which is "how much," entered into a cheerful conversation with the frenchman, who could not speak a word of english. it was vastly entertaining. tibbitts would make a beautiful remark in english, to which the frenchman would reply, "oui, monsieur." then the frenchman would make an elaborate observation on something or other in french, to which tibbitts would reply, "oui, monsieur," and so on all night. it was not pleasant for those trying to sleep, but it seemed to amuse the two participants. at macon, in the morning, the frenchman followed tibbitts around the platform, attempting by gesture and a volley of parisian french, to make something known to him. tibbitts came to me alarmed. "what is 'oui monsieur' in english?" "it means simply 'yes, sir,' or 'certainly, sir.'" "did you know what that frenchman was saying last night?" "not a word." "i said 'oui, monsieur' to everything he said. suppose he asked me to lend him a hundred francs! i am in a fix about it. i can't go back on my word, and if he asked me that i certainly promised to do it, and if i have to do it i shall have to borrow it of you." mr. tibbitts' fears were unfounded. a hotel-porter who could master a trifle of english, came between them, and found that the frenchman had been so impressed with the urbanity of my oshkosh friend as to ask him in the night to take care of his four children to geneva, that he might return by the next train to paris, and tibbitts had said "oui, monsieur" to the proposition, and he had the babies on his hands all the way. [illustration: they were lively children.] they were lively children, and made the poor fellow much trouble, and tibbitts heaved a prodigious sigh of relief when he turned them over to their waiting guardian at geneva. he immediately asked for the french word for "no," and vowed solemnly to ever after use that word when in conversation with frenchmen on railroads or elsewhere. [sidenote: on the way to geneva] the day broke dull and cheerless, but as soon as the sun came up the clouds were driven away, and the whole country was bright and beautiful. the road passes through some of the best wine districts of france, and nearly all of the little towns through which the train whirls with only a long shriek of the whistle, are devoted to the handling of wine, although in most of them there is a church or two and some monuments, just enough to make it a show place. a town on this side of the water is no town at all if it does not have at least two or three places that were either old or historical, or both. thus at tournus, a little town of six thousand inhabitants, there is an abbey church that was begun in , and not completed until late in the twelfth century. it isn't much of a church, but it attracts visitors to the town, and so adds to its revenue. it pays to have show places. from macon to culoz the line passes through lovely vineyards that lie spread out almost as far as the eye can reach, over gently undulating hills and dales that are watered by pretty little streams, clear and pure, having their source way off in the mountains, dimly discernible in the distance. soon after passing culoz the country assumes a more picturesque appearance, the vine-clad hills giving way to rugged mountains that tower high above the fertile valley, through which the train has been rushing for the past two or three hours. swift, deep streams, fed by mountain springs, come tumbling down the sides of the high cliffs and lose themselves in the mass of foliage that skirts the base of the range, which hourly grows more and more imposing. we are whirled through long tunnels, over high bridges, and are treated to magnificent prospects. green mountain sides crowned with the ruins of old castles that in days long gone by had been the terror of the neighborhood, picturesque towns nestling in cozy nooks flit by as the train speeds rapidly on, until, early in the forenoon, we arrive at geneva, the mecca of all strangers who contemplate an alpine or swiss tour. the day was perfect. a cool breeze from lovely lake leman tempered the heat that otherwise would have been oppressive; the sky was without a cloud and as the pure air was gratefully inhaled by long delightful breaths, there was a sense of joyousness and happiness that was heavenly. near at hand a long range of high mountains stretched out into the country and lost itself in the range that skirts the shores of the long irregular lake. far off in the distance, between the dimly outlined peaks of another range, mont blanc rears its grand white head high among the clouds, its aged covering of pure white, glistening and glinting in the sunlight. it is an impressive scene, full of strange fascinating beauty. [illustration: the lake and city of geneva.] [sidenote: geneva.] grandly the view changes. a light fleecy cloud floats languidly past the summit, casting a weird shadow on the spotless white. that delicate lace-like cloud, beautiful in form and color, is followed by another, darker and more threatening. another and another comes, each darker and more forbidding, until suddenly the whole is overcast. mont blanc is enveloped in a sable mantle from which, presently, issues a low rumbling noise that foretells in unmistakable language what is to come. now long jagged flashes of lightning rend the gloomy masses of fast scudding clouds, that turned the bright day into darkness, the wind sweeps down from the mountain with a wail half human; the rain comes down in torrents, not in fitful gusts but in a steady, angry stream. the placid waters of the lake, only a moment before laughing in the bright sunlight, are lashed to a fury, as the storm increases in violence. terrific peals of thunder that seem to shake the earth, break directly overhead and then go rolling and rumbling away up the valley, until they exhaust themselves and die away with one final crash. all the elements seem to combine to produce a grand spectacle that strikes the beholder with awe-tempered admiration. as quickly as it came the storm died away, and in a short time all nature smiled again and seemed to feel better after the display of its ability in getting up grand sights on short notice. the sun came out with renewed splendor and tinged mont blanc forty miles away, with a rosy hue, that lasted all the afternoon, long until the other and less pretentious peaks had become mere outlines in the twilight that presaged the coming night. and then even the king of peaks began to fade. gradually but constantly the pink tints turned lighter until it was ashen. then it became darker and darker until at length its massive proportions faded entirely away and were lost in the darkness that had come so gradually that its presence was hardly felt. geneva is a curious old city, one of the links that connect the dead past with the terribly active and quite distinct present. its memories are of monks and opposers of monks; its present is of watches and music boxes. however, the genevan has been shrewd enough to carefully preserve the dust of the past, out of which, combined with its delightful situation, it gathers many shekels from the horde of tourists who sweep over europe every year. everybody must and does see geneva. it is the capital of the smallest canton in switzerland but one, the entire territory being but fifteen miles long by as many square, a large portion of this being taken up by the lake. its population is less than fifty thousand, but, nevertheless, it is the largest city in switzerland, and one which has the most of historical interest attached to it. the land is so nearly perpendicular in switzerland that large cities are impossible. so small was the canton of geneva that voltaire said of it: "when i shake my wig, i powder the whole republic," and when some commotion occurred in the little republic the emperor paul said of it: "it is a tempest in a glass of water." but, small as it is, it has played its part, and a very important one it has been, in the history of the world. here lived john calvin, or jean caulvin, who originated that cheerful form of religious faith known as calvinism. as he preached, and, to the credit of his powers of endurance be it said, practiced, it made a good heaven necessary in the next world, to compensate somewhat for what his disciples had to endure in this. he eliminated from life everything that was pleasant, everything that was cheerful, everything that was pleasurable, and brought mankind into a sort of religious straight-jacket, that made any swerving from a straight line impossible. daring calvin's reign, for his rule was almost absolute, geneva was a safe place to live in (if you believed with calvin, or pretended to believe hard enough), but it would hardly suit a parisian. theaters were considered the especially wide gateways to perdition, and everything that savored of amusement was strictly prohibited. as his was a stern and gloomy religion, which made the business of this life a constant preparation for the next, and the reward for all this sort of penance a continuance of the same in the next, his doctrines found more ardent support in scotland than in france. in opposing the catholic church, as the catholic church was in that day, calvin, with luther, did a great work, but calvin, after all, simply wanted the people to exchange one form of spiritual despotism for another. the chief benefit arising to the world was that, in moving the people out of romanism he taught them that they _could_ move, and, so instructed, they lost but little time in moving out from the perpetual thunder-cloud he put over them. for many years he was supreme in geneva in temporal as well as spiritual matters. as a liberal who hates authority invariably becomes in time the worst bigot, so calvin, who commenced as a champion of liberty of conscience, came to executing and banishing all who differed with him on points of religious belief. he wanted everybody to believe as their conscience taught them, provided it taught them his belief. castellio, one of his oldest supporters, differed with him on the doctrine of predestination, and calvin promptly banished him. servetus, a spaniard, wrote a treatise on the doctrine of the trinity. he was arrested by calvin in , and was promptly tried, found guilty of not believing as the great reformer did, and was condemned to the stake, and was burned, calvin standing by to make it impressive. [sidenote: an affecting anecdote.] tibbitts told an old boston story of a confirmed joker who was dying. a friend called upon him one morning, and finding his feet warm sought to encourage him. "barnes, you ain't going to die. no man ever died with warm feet." "one did." "who?" "john rogers!" servetus died with warm feet, and his ashes were scattered to the four winds. he and calvin differed about the exact meaning of some passages of scripture and as it had not been revised at that date, calvin made himself the authority. as he had supreme power and could do as he pleased he succeeded in having a tolerable degree of unanimity. after the burning of servetus there were but few who desired to argue with calvin. i have observed that burning and otherwise killing for the up-building of the kingdom of the prince of peace has been common in all ages, and that the sect that does the most of it is always the one that happens to be in power. the jesuits have published a sort of catholic "fox's book of martyrs," which sets forth with ghastly wood engravings the histories of the persecutions of catholics by protestants. the burning of servetus by calvin is the subject of one of the illustrations, though the editor carefully omits the fact that servetus was not a catholic at all. rosseau, the great socialist, was born here, and here he wrote the works that have consigned his memory to infamy or glory, according as the reader believes. he was a man of wonderful genius, one of the foremost writers of the world, but he was as fantastic as any other frenchman, and his doctrines were based upon a condition of things which only a dreamy poet could imagine as possible. he was a socialist, a latitudinarian, and one of the kind of "world reformers" who hold that everything that is, is wrong, and that to destroy anything is to better the condition of the world. it is a curious commentary upon french morals that after he had been the lover, (with all that the word implies) of a dozen or more of french titled women who affected men of letters, and while living openly with his cook, who bore him five illegitimate children, a french college invited him to write a treatise upon the "effect of science and art upon morals," which invitation he most cheerfully accepted. he was the reverse of calvin, but like calvin, he left his impress upon the thought of the little city. geneva is a pleasant place to come to, and, but for the extortionate hotels, would be a place that one would be loth to leave. swiss hotel keepers have got swindling down to so fine a point that further progress in that direction is impossible. there is a legend afloat that hotel keepers from all over europe come to geneva to learn the business, and that lectures on the art of swindling travelers are given regularly by the managers of geneva hotels; in short, that geneva is a sort of hotel college, but i don't know as to its truth. any hotel keeper here, however, is competent to fill a professorship--in such an institution. you are charged for candles, a franc each. you never use a candle, except during the minute necessary to disrobe for your bed, but you are charged a franc for it just the same. the more conscientious hotel manager wants to satisfy you with a new candle every night, and so he has a little machine, something like a pencil sharpener, with which he tapers off the top of the burned candle, making it look as though it had never been lighted, and charges you right over again for it. tibbitts exasperated his landlord by putting his candle in his pocket every morning, and from the front of the hotel giving it to the first poor person who passed. but the landlord smiled grimly, in french, when he saw the little trick, and promptly instructed his clerk to charge monsieur tibbitts two francs a day for broken glass. [sidenote: the chambermaid's trick.] you are to depart to-morrow morning, and you charge the clerk with great distinctness to have your bill made out before you retire. you want to go over the items and see that everything is correct. the clerk, with great suavity, assures you that it shall be done, but it isn't. you come for it and find the office closed. the next morning you arise betimes and make the same request; you say you want your bill immediately, to which the same answer is given with an apology for its not having been done the night before. you get through your breakfast--it is not yet done. minutes fly, the carriage is at the door to take you to your train, and just as the last minute possible to catch the train is on you, it comes--as long as your arm, written in french, which you can't understand if you had time to, but which now is utterly impossible. you glance at the grand total--it is a grand total--and you pay it, objurgating because it is a trifle over twice what it should be. then comes the long array of servants, the chambermaid, the boots, the elevator boy, the head waiter, the table waiter, and so on, all of whom expect and plumply demand recognition, and you think you are done. but you are not. just as you are getting into the carriage, a chambermaid, not the one who had charge of your room, but her sister, appears with one of your silk handkerchiefs. "monsieur forgot the handkerchief." she extends the handkerchief with one hand, holding out the other for a franc. you give it to her of course, knowing all the time that your own chambermaid abstracted it and gave it to her for the purpose of wringing the last possible drop of blood out of you, and that this wretch has done the same kind office for your chambermaid, to be practised upon another victim who leaves to-morrow. i presume the landlord compels a division of these swindles, for as they all lay awake nights to devise ways and means to wrench money from tourists it is not likely they would let so easy a source of revenue escape them. here everybody takes gratuities, even excelling the english in the practice. there is a story which comes in here by way of illustration. an old lady had a case in court which was going slowly. she desired more speed, and asked an old man, who was supposed to know everything, how she could accelerate the matter. "give your lawyer twenty francs." "what! will the grave and great man take twenty francs? would he not throw the money in my face and feel so insulted that he would throw up my case?" "he might, but i can tell you how to know whether he will take the gratuity or not. when you come into his presence observe his mouth. if it runs up and down his face don't offer it to him, for he would not take it. but if his mouth runs across his face offer it with confidence. every man in switzerland whose mouth is cut crosswise the face will accept a gratuity." it so happened that in sailing up the lake the question of piracy came up,--it grew out of a discussion of the charges at the various hotels--when tibbitts broke in with that calm confidence that distinguishes the young man:-- "i have been giving the matter of piracy most serious consideration, its rise, decline and fall. formerly piracy was everywhere on the high seas. adventurous spirits manned vessels which were built, armed and sent out by wealthy corporations, their business being to capture merchant vessels, cut the throats of the male passengers and crew and confiscate the property. in those halcyon days money was gold and silver, and the pirates after capturing a rich prize sailed their vessels to some point on the spanish main, where there was a convenient cove, captured a spanish village, murdered the men, and made such love to the women that they very soon preferred the picturesque villains to their virtuous but common-place and insipid (because honest) husbands. and there they lived; gaily dancing fandangos and boleros, under the shade of palms, to the soft pleasings of the lute, till the money was spent (by the way i never could see how they spent money in such places after they had killed all the shop-keepers and saloon men) and then they sailed sweetly out to be a scourge of the seas once more. "it was a pleasant thing to be a pirate in those days. "the first blow this industry received was the invention of sight draft, by which money could be transmitted. the pirate who seized drafts couldn't forge the names necessary to their collection, to say nothing of the risk of presenting himself at a bank in london to collect them. [sidenote: piracy on lake erie.] "the second and severest blow was the introduction and general use of dollar jewelry. dollar jewelry has done more for the suppression of piracy than the christian religion. imagine a pirate captain parading the crew of a captured ship to despoil their persons before inviting them to walk the plank, the hungry sharks about the vessel in joyful--not jawful--anticipation. imagine his disgust at tearing out a pair of ear-drops from a lady's ears of the size of hickory nuts, that ought to be worth thousands, and finding them parisian imitation stones set in oroide gold. such experiences were heart-breaking. who would cut a throat for oroide gold with imitation stones? "a score of daring spirits once organized a piratical party for a steamer on lake erie. we proposed to take passage sundays, when there were excursions; to murder the excursionists, and throw their bodies over to the catfish, the nearest approach we have to sharks on the lakes. our first attempt was our last. there was an excursion from indiana, the party numbering eight hundred. we had a contract with a gentleman named moses for their clothes, so much a dozen for stockings, shirts, and so on, as they run; and the money and jewelry we proposed to divide among the party, each one disposing of his share of the plunder as he pleased. "it was a disgusting failure. we discovered that the passengers had spent all their money in purchasing round tickets for the excursion, they had brought their lunches with them in baskets, and there wasn't a single piece of anything but dollar jewelry among them; and as for their clothes--mr. moses was on board, and he looked over the lot and begged us not to inaugurate our slaughter, as "'selp him, he vouldn't gif tventy-fife tollar for all as it stood." we stood idly by, endured the excursion ourselves, and were even reduced to the ineffable chagrin of paying for our own dinners and refreshments. the dashing captain actually begged his dinner of an old lady in spectacles. "that was the last effort at piracy on the lakes, and it is about the same on the high seas. drafts and dollar jewelry have tamed the adventurous spirit of the buccaneer, and driven them all into keeping hotels in switzerland, the captains as proprietors, the second officers as head-porters, and the crew as waiters, chambermaids, etc. they are doing as well, probably, as before, and by similar methods, though piracy has lost its picturesqueness. your pirate, instead of wearing a broad hat and a picturesque sash, and all that, is clad in sober broadcloth, with a white necktie; his cutlass is transformed into a pen, the deck of his vessel is the floor of the corridor of his hotel. but he preys upon mankind the same as of old. it is the method only that is changed. dollar jewelry don't affect them, except in cases where the landlord has to seize baggage for his bill. sometimes he comes to grief then, but not often." [illustration: "your hotel is a swindle, sir!"] one of the most amusing things connected with the hotels is the final talk that ensues when the traveler has paid his bill, and is buttoning up his coat for departure. "your hotel is a swindle, sir, and i will never darken its doors again. i will take especial pains to inform my friends, sir. this bill is an outrage, sir, an outrage! and my friends shall know of it!" "_oui_, monsieur," says the landlord, bowing gracefully and grimacing as expressively as a monkey. [sidenote: the irate guest.] the plundered guest tells everybody not to go to the national, but by all means go to the beau rivage, not knowing, poor soul, that the very minute he was abusing, justly abusing, the proprietor of the national, another man just like him was abusing the proprietor of the beau rivage, and that, while he is sending guests to the beau rivage, the swindled beau rivager is sending his friends to the national. "ze zentleman ees offend," smirkingly remarked the landlord of the national, after one of these scenes; "vera goot. he sents all hees frients to ze beau rivage. the proprietor of ze beau rivage ees my frère--vat yoo call 'im, eh?--bruzzer. ve ees in partnersheep." and so it is. all the hotel men are in partnership, and, besides this powerful leverage, they know that so many come every year, anyhow; that those flayed at the national this year will go to be fleeced at the beau rivage next, and so on around. despite this modified piracy, geneva is a pleasant and hospitable place to visit, and one difficult to leave. it is a thoroughly enjoyable old city, and life there was very full. there is just enough quaintness in its queer, rambling streets to make one wish to be constantly exploring them, hoping, yet fearing, that he would get lost. it was an especial delight to go across the river and prowl among the steep, narrow streets that end finally against a dead wall; to scale high hills, with old fashioned houses forming alleys so narrow that two people could scarcely pass. we loved to plunge into dark, forbidding passages, groping our way along under houses, until, when least expected, we found ourselves in a bright, well-paved street in another portion of the town. and then the long rambles on the lake shore, especially at night, when, far off in the distance could be seen the twinkling lights of the city on both sides of the lake, connected by a tiny belt of light across the bridge that connected the old with the new. and the concerts at the jardin du lac, a pleasant garden with trees and flowers and fountains, on the south bank of the lake, where a fine orchestra furnishes exquisite music during the soft, balmy summer evenings. ah! those were indeed days and nights of rare enjoyment. geneva is divided into two sections; one as distinct from the other as an indiana cabin is from the cathedral at cologne. on the one side of the river, it is the same as the freshly built and lively looking streets of a new american city. you see the modern cornice on the roofs and over the windows, the elegant plate glass fronts to the shops, the massive buildings for the factories, the orthodox basement dwellings in the main part of the city, and the modern villas with ample grounds farther out. this is the new part, the part created by the latter day swiss, who were compelled by the reconstruction of paris to modernize and wipe out the old to make room for the new. there is less of reverence in a dollar than in anything else in the world. the owner of a historical old rookery didn't care a straw for the associations connected with his premises; what he wanted was rent, and so the quaint old piles were demolished and new buildings, modeled after the new paris, went up in their stead. the uncomfortable old streets were widened into something like boulevards, the beautifully smooth and clean asphalt pavement took the place of the wretched old bowlders, and everything that was old, no matter whether its savor was of the puritanic calvin, or the antedating monk, was bundled out of the way with as little reverence as a cromwellian soldier displayed in cleaning out an english or irish monastery. but the other side of the river has escaped the hand of the vandal, and whoever hungers for the uncomfortable past can find all he wants of it. the streets are as wretched as the most exacting could desire, and the houses run up as many stories as you choose, and the old notion of a building being so high that you have to look twice to get to the top of it, is well nigh realized. very like the conductor who was boasting of the speed of his train: "thunder," says he, "we passed millgrove so fast that the station master had to call out the telegraph operator to help him ketch a glance at us." there are passages so tortuous and cavernous, built for no earthly purpose that any one can divine now-a-days, buildings like small alps, with the quaintest windows, the most absurd staircases, and the most inconvenient arrangements, shops in passages so dark as to require artificial light in mid-day, and human habitations in these underground burrows. [sidenote: too much music.] old geneva, like old paris, has a musty smell and ancient flavor that is delightful, if you do not have to live in it. on the other side you are oppressed with watches and music boxes, the manufacture of which support the city. in the matter of watches geneva is not so absolute as she was, for the inventive yankee makes a better watch than the genevan hand-worker. we do not make so many kinds or so curious specimens of horology, but for substantial wear and constant use, the american watch is conceded even by the genevan to be the best. but in music boxes and every species of musical machinery, geneva has no rival. at your hotel the doors of some of the grand halls reel off snatches of opera as they swing upon their hinges, the caraffe from which you pour your water at table sings an air as the water gurgles from its mouth, and you shall see beautiful trees with gorgeous birds hopping from limb to limb, and all singing deliciously and naturally. snuff boxes, tobacco boxes, cigar cases, everything of the kind has a musical attachment, that discusses sweet melody whenever opened. in short, there is such a wealth of melody, and it comes to you from such unexpected quarters, that one gets rather tired of it, and wishes he could go somewhere to get out from under it. a perpetual concert is rather too much of a good thing. and they get prices for these goods, too. my friend, the faro bankeress, who has about as much of an idea of music as a pig has of the greek testament, paid five thousand dollars for a tree with singing birds, because, i presume, the price was five thousand dollars. had it been fifty dollars i doubt if she would have taken it. it didn't matter to her. her husband's establishment could win that amount any night, and it pleased her to astonish the manufacturers of these airy nothings, with her profuseness of expenditure. i saw a duplicate sold to a man who knew something about these things for one thousand dollars. these sellers of whims know their customers at sight. chapter xxxi. switzerland--something more about geneva and the swiss of that ilk--the lake and river. some one remarked to the rev. mr. henry ward beecher, before he had the little difference with mr. theodore tilton, and was editing the _independent_, "mr. beecher, i like your paper. you had a religious article in the last number. now i think it is the correct thing for a church paper to have, occasionally, a religious article." so, in a record of travels, i think it entirely proper to say something, occasionally, about the country the traveler explores. the lake, at one end of which sits the beautiful though much mixed geneva, is known abroad as lake geneva, but here as lake leman, the name given it by the romans who once occupied this country, as they did every other country they could reach and conquer. the inlet to the lake is the river rhone, and so, likewise, is its outlet; which is to say, the lake is simply a widening of the river, a huge goitre, as it were, on the lovely neck of that beautiful stream. the rhone collects the waters that fall on the south side of the chain of mountains, as the rhine does the water drainage of the north side, and is created originally, and fed as it goes, by the glaciers that adorn the mountain sides, and support switzerland by attracting tourists. at the top of the mountains there is snow, soft, regular snow, which slides down fissures, and which, as it gets down the slides, changes from snow to ice. it melts slowly all the summer, the water seeking the bottom of the field of ice, but its thickness being constantly maintained by fresh supplies of snow from the top. [sidenote: the rhone.] this water brings out of the mountains all sorts of material, rocks and earth, which fill the streams that come down the mountain side in swiftly flowing streams which lose themselves in the river in the valley below. the rhone flows past sion, martigny, bex, and other points, till it falls into lake leman, as beautiful an inland body of water as there is in europe, and almost as beautiful as some of the american lakes. before and at its entrance into the lake, the water of the rhone is as muddy as the mississippi at st. louis. it is about the color of cheap restaurant coffee, but the lake acts as a great settling bed, or filter, or both; and by the time the water finds itself in its new location it becomes the most pure and limpid of any in europe. the water in the lake, which was so muddy and discolored in the river above, becomes so pure and limpid that the fish may be seen disporting themselves in its lowest depths, and the minute pebbles on the bottom are distinctly to be seen. geneva is at the lower point of the lake, and the rhone, which was buried in it at the upper end, is resurrected at geneva, and issues therefrom in a stream of fearful rapidity. the waters spring out from the lake with a fall that would be called rapids in america, and rush through the city actually singing as if with joy at its deliverance. it rushes out as if it spurned all impediments of shore that kept it into a well-behaved and quiet lake, and as if anxious to get the freedom of rushing through the valleys, over rocks, and tumbling around generally in a free and easy way till it runs its race and loses itself forever in the common sepulchre of all rivers, the great sea. laundrying is done in geneva as it is in paris. anchored in the river are large boats arranged for wash houses. in these floating temples are furnaces which supply hot water, and plank tables at which the washerwomen do their work. the garment is taken and swashed in the hot water of the floating laundry, then they are religiously and conscientiously soaped, and placed upon these thick tables, and pounded with a wooden paddle till the soap and water is driven completely through them. then they are rinsed in the swift running water of the rhone, and pounded more, and rinsed and rinsed again, till they come out as white as the snow from which comes the water. these nymphs of the paddle and soap-kettle are industrious workers, with strong muscular arms that seem capable of doing any kind of work, as indeed they are. it is no small matter to carry down to the river the enormous bundles of superlatively filthy clothes, and after the soaping and beating and wringing, carrying them home wet and heavy. but possibly there are no more pounds to carry home than they brought. there is added weight in the water they hold, but the dirt is gone down the river to form bars below and impede navigation. possibly the loss of the dirt balances the increased weight of the water. it is a stand-off. these women earn a good living, for there is any quantity of laundrying to do, not from the citizens, but from the horde of tourists who throng the city and make geneva their headquarters for the alpine tour, and who here lay in a fresh stock of linen. [illustration: group of swiss girls.] [sidenote: a genevan bakery.] the genevan, like all other men of french or partially french extraction, is a tremendous worker, and this includes the female as well as the male. the male genevan is up with the lark, or whatever bird in switzerland has the disagreeable habit of early rising, and his labor continues as long as he can see, and even after. and he works, not in a perfunctory sort of way, but tackles his business as though he was doing it for the simple liking of it. he is a most persistent and rapid worker. i was exploring the old part of the city one night, and in groping through the narrow, half-underground passages, i came upon a baker's shop. as i wanted to get at the secret of the delicious bread for which the french are famous, i investigated. it was a scorching night, but nevertheless there was a roaring oven, heated seven times hotter than any furnace i had ever read of, except one. in front of this furnace, were the mixing and kneading troughs, and at them, in a space of not more than twenty feet square, were a score or more of men naked to the waist, with perspiration pouring from every pore, at work at the stiff and tenacious dough. they would lift a mass of it half as large as their bodies, and slap it about, and pull it out, and compress it, and elongate it, and torture it in all sorts of shapes, and in every way possible for dough to be tortured. it was as hard manual labor as i had ever seen performed. [illustration: the sweat of other men's brows.] and finally after the dough had been tormented a sufficient length of time it was formed into rolls, five or six feet long, and not more than six inches in diameter, and placed in the oven, from whence it emerged the most deliciously crisp bread that ever was eaten, and entirely different from the heavy, soggy english bread which has dyspepsia in every crumb of it. the secret of this light, delicious crustiness is not only in the form in which it is baked, but also in the thoroughness of the kneading. it is worked over and over, till it is as smooth as silk all the way through, and as light as a feather. such bread needs no butter (and, by the way, very little is used) and may be eaten with gustatory delight anywhere, and at any time. still, a person who has to eat bread had better not go and see it made, on the same principle that a wise old boarder of experience never ventures near the kitchen. "where ignorance is bliss," etc. the industry and conscientious perseverance of the kneaders cannot be too highly commended, but the consumer of their product had better remain in ignorance of the perspiration. i prefer not to live upon the sweat of other men's brows. there are seasonings more to my taste. one of the very pleasant things in switzerland, and france as well, is the perfect system of roads everywhere, and the care taken to shade the roads. the road-beds are marvels of excellence, and well would it be for america could we find it in our people to pay some little attention to this important matter. whatever else may be slighted the roads are not. in making a comparison between swiss roadways and american, i take into consideration the fact, that switzerland is old and america new, and that the present swiss road represents the labor of hundreds, or, for that matter, thousands of years, while the average age of the american road is not sixty years. still, we might, and should, with our enterprise come nearer to continental roads than we do. [sidenote: swiss roads.] everywhere in switzerland the earth on the roadway is removed to the depth of four or more feet, and pounded stone, gravel and sand are deposited in its stead, gutters on the side are carefully made; till you have, to travel over, a beautifully rounded way which never can be wet, and never anything but solid and smooth. along the entire length there are, beside the road, small piles of broken stone, and at regular distances are men with tools, whose business is to keep them clean and in perfect order. whenever a depression, no matter how slight, appears, it is instantly filled, as skillfully as a tailor puts a patch in your trowsers; thus keeping them, everywhere and always, smooth, uniform and clean. the bridges are solid masonry, and on the edge of declivities and dangerous places are solid walls of stone. not a point, either for safety or comfort, is overlooked. they are rather costly to make, to begin with, and it costs something to keep them in order, but it pays, after all. enormous loads are hauled over these smooth roads, and the wear and tear upon horses, vehicles and harness is reduced to well-nigh nothing, to say nothing of the comfort and pleasure. bad weather makes no difference with their inland traffic, for just as great a burden can be hauled in wet weather as in dry, nor does frost affect them. i would that every american farmer, in the month, say, of march, could see these roads, could view the enormous loads piled upon the enormous wagons, and see with what ease they are moved. then his mind should go back to his own country, and there should come up a recollection of the last march, when he was lashing and swearing at his poor horses, who were doing their level best to pull him, in an empty wagon, through the rivers of mud we call roads. a swiss horse would commit suicide were he taken to illinois in winter or spring. it would pay america to imitate switzerland in this particular. our half-made roads should be at once abolished, and the money spread out over ten miles, which the first thaw obliterates, should be used in making one mile of permanent road, and that mile should be extended just as fast as the people can bear the burden. the swiss are not so fast as we are, but their work, when once done, stays. there is scarcely any section of america where material of some sort is not attainable to make better roads than the wretched apologies we have for them. whoever makes himself the apostle of good roads in america will have many generations to rise up and call him blessed. next to the perfection of the roads comes the delightful shade that is over them. this has been done, not spasmodically and at the whim of the people residing along the roads, but it is a government matter, and as much care is taken of it as of the roads. on either hand are lines of beautiful trees, forming a most delightful arch over the road, and the shade is as grateful to the horses as to the riders. a long vista of trees, whose branches form an arch over the roadway, is not only a comfort, but it gratifies all the senses. a swiss tree-bordered road is one of the most delightful sights in the country. we cannot, of course, compel the planting of trees by the roadside, by law, but if the farmers of america could be made to understand the beauty and comfort there is in it, they would do it of their own free will and accord. new england has shaded roads, and some scattering parts of other sections, but it should be made general. it would add several per cent. to the value of every farm, to say nothing of the perpetual gratification it would afford. we have the best shade trees in the world, and the cost of transplanting is comparatively nothing. road shading should be systematically pushed in america, and the sooner it is commenced the better. at geneva you get the first glimpse of the alpenstock people, male and female. they are a queer lot. they appear to you at the hotels clad as follows: the men with a sort of blouse bound by an enormous belt, for which there is no earthly use, short knee breeches with woolen stockings reaching above the knee, and the most utterly absurd shoes that ever annoyed the human foot. the soles of these shoes are an inch thick; they project beyond the uppers, and are studded with nails, as if the wearer had joined an exploring party which would require eight years of his life, and make necessary one pair of shoes that should exist all that time, inasmuch as he would be far beyond the reach of that important adjunct of civilization, a cobbler. then he has a broad-brimmed hat, with a clout about it, hanging down behind, and a vast assortment of baskets, flasks and glasses, and all sorts of appliances, provisions enough to join livingstone or stanley for the exploration of the interior of africa. [sidenote: female climbers.] the women are either misses of seventeen or mature women of thirty-eight. they have the same outfit of material and differ from the males only in the matter of dress. everything that savors of femininity is religiously eliminated (even the bustle is sacrificed), heavy underclothing is worn, a most ungraceful skirt, the most barbarous english shoes appear on feet never too small, and their entire hideousness is made painfully visible, inasmuch as the straight skirt never reaches below the ankle. [illustration: the alpine guide.] the alpenstock is a staff perhaps seven feet long, of ash, very stout, with a hook upon one end and a spike in the other. in this hideous garb, in a stern sort of a way, as though they were leading a forlorn hope and never expected to escape with their lives, but were doing it as a sort of sacrificial duty, they ride out to the foot of the alps somewhere, as safely and in as much luxury as though they were in rocking chairs in their own homes, and coming to the hotel thereat they purchase another lot of climbing apparatus, and hire all sorts of donkeys and mules and guides, and after a day or so commence the ascent. they go up roads that are so plain as to need no guides, on donkeys or mules, over paths that could be walked as well, and tiring half way up, stop and rest and never go farther, but return, with their mouths full of lies. every mother's son and daughter of them claim to have made the full ascent of the peak essayed, and having read themselves up, talk as glibly about it as though they had lived upon the mountains all their lives, and knew every glacier as familiarly as they do their bedrooms. and then when they come down they are stared at by the last arrivals, and laughed at by the old ones, and they go to a shop around the corner, and pay several francs to have the name and date of the ascent of the mountains in the neighborhood burned in upon their alpenstocks, which they cart all over europe, and finally hang up in their homes as "souvenirs." there ought to be an alpenstock shop in new york, where all this could be done. it would save a deal of annoyance to a great many people and do just as well. [sidenote: a proper ascent of mont blanc.] did i ascend any of these mountains? i did not. some of my party did, but i preferred not to essay it. the heat was intense, the paths are not good, and lifting one's self by sheer strength up sixteen thousand feet is not the thing to do, especially when you may read it, see it in engravings, and even make the ascent yourself--with a telescope--at the cost of a franc. i did it by telescope, and have never regretted it. i could buy an alpenstock just the same, and have burned in it, "mont blanc, july , ," just as well. and, as they all lie about it, anyhow, why not, if you are going to lie, commence lying at the beginning, and save labor? if tongue work is to do it, why not use your tongue, and save your legs? were i to lie at all, i would sooner lie from the door of the hotel than half way up the mountain. but i will not lie at all. i did go up mt. blanc, perhaps five hundred feet, to the very foot of one of the glaciers, and saw and touched it. that did me. i had seen all that was to be seen, and i was glad enough to get back. i was willing that anybody who chose should do the remaining fifteen thousand feet; five hundred was quite enough for me. [illustration: a non-professional lady tourist.] it is a most amusing thing to see a woman with this absurd gown, actually glorying in looking hideous, with her ghastly blue spectacles, alpenstock in hand, ride up to a hotel on a mule, and march boldly into the grand hall, after one of these fraudulent excursions. she speaks of the topmost peaks as though she had been there; she talks of chasms in the glaciers, of the risks she ran because the ropes were not exactly right; she abuses her guide, and says he was the worst she ever had, as though she had been climbing alps from the time she left off short dresses; and when her little stock is run out, she goes to her room, and reads up her guide-books and such local printed matter as is attainable, and commences again. she buys alpine flowers at the market in the village, and sends them home as gathered on the mountains; she has all sorts of carved work which she swears she purchased from the alpine dwellers who make it (there are factories of these "souvenirs" all over switzerland); and she loads herself with all sorts of rubbish, all of which her people at home will preserve and cherish as carefully as though the lies she told about it were truths. there are enthusiasts who make it the business of their lives to explore the alps, and as they alone take the risk, they do no harm if they do no good. but the average amateur climber is about as absurd a being as is permitted to exist, and inasmuch as there are thousands of them, one may imagine what an offense they are. you meet all sorts of queer people in europe, and as many in switzerland as anywhere, unless it be paris, which is a common sink for all the world. i met in geneva a very curious specimen, whose career is worth a place in history. he was the son of one of the most wealthy men of new york. his father had made some millions of dollars in trade and judicious real-estate investments, and brought up his family as all rich new yorkers do. the young man had gone through college, and had graduated by the skin of his teeth. he had learned much of boating and base ball, and was one of the best billiard players in his set. out of college with a lot of knowledge that he could make no use of, for he had nothing to do in life, he became a club man in new york, and commenced the pursuit of pleasure. it was all well enough for a time. yachting occupied him for two seasons, horses took his attention for two more. he once, in desperation, made a trip in a wagon from new york to montreal, just to put in a summer, with three companions, he footing all the bills. horses palling on his taste, he entered upon a life of general and miscellaneous dissipation, and finally that tired him and he was without an aim in life. he had hunted pleasure and now pleasure was hunting him. in despair he took to travel, and for five years he rambled from one capital to another, seeing everything and being bored by everything. [sidenote: feeling an interest in something.] here he was living at the best hotel, in the best style; he kept a servant or two, and had oceans of friends, as every man has who has money, but life to him was a curse. he had nothing to do. "why don't you go up the alps?" i said to him. "bless your innocent soul i have been up the alps a dozen times. there isn't a dangerous place that i haven't attempted, nor anything that is regular that i haven't done. it don't pay." he had seen all the theaters, all the stock places were as familiar to him as the alphabet, and as for the dissipations he had so tired of them that he was a saint. he was virtuous from necessity. one morning i asked him to go with me to inspect a machine shop which was one of the lions of the place. for sheer want of something else to do, he put on his coat and went. i was very much interested in some of the processes which were new to me, but my friend yawned through the whole of it, in the same _ennuied_ way that was manifest since i knew him. finally we came before a machine known in machinery as a shaper. it was a powerful tool, which went backward and forward, cutting at each forward movement a thin thread of iron. the work it was doing was cutting a slot in a shaft of iron. the shaft, before it went into the shaper, was a round piece of iron. delancy looked at it with the first expression of interest i had ever seen in his face. the man at the machine had nothing to do after the shaft was put into the "chucks" but to sit and read a novel, the machine doing all the work with regularity and accuracy. "do you forge this shaft originally?" he asked the man. "certainly, sir." "how long does it take you to cut this slot in it?" "about four hours." "then why don't you have the piece of iron forged with this slot made down to within say a quarter-inch and save nine-tenths of this time?" "we never did it that way," was the reply of the man; "it won't do." "but it will do," said delancy. "that shaft can be forged, to begin with, something as it should come out, and it's a cussed waste of time to do it in this way." the foreman assured him that it could be done in no other way. the workmen corroborated the foreman, but delancy was not satisfied. that evening in his room he had a dictionary of mechanics, and was intent upon the parts relating to forging. he called my attention to it, and swore great oaths that the machinists were a set of asses, and that they hadn't a process which he could not better. the next morning he was up at six and had an early breakfast and was at the shop driving the workmen mad with his persistent inquiries. at dinner he talked of nothing but machines and machinery, and the evening he devoted to whittling curiously shaped things out of wood. suddenly he disappeared. one morning i went to the shops again, and who should i see in a greasy suit of overalls, with his gold eye-glasses, but a man who looked like my friend delancy, at a lathe. it was a curious transformation, and about the most incongruous spectacle i had ever seen. here was a man with gold eye-glasses, a diamond ring, thin white hands, patent leather boots, with greasy overalls. it was an earnest mechanic engrafted upon a broadway exquisite. "do my eyes deceive me?" "they do not. it is i, delancy. not the old delancy, but an entirely new one. i have now something to live for." "why have you quit the hotel?" "because i want to associate with my fellows. i am living with them. i have been admitted as one of them, and they all know me as well as though i had been born one of them, which i wish to heaven i had. i can eat something now, and their beer--well, with a lot of good fellows it lays all over the champagne i have always paid for. you see i have made up my mind to demonstrate to these ignoramuses that a piece of iron can be forged to any shape, with any depression in it desirable, and that these men at the lathes and shapers waste ninety per cent. of their time. we have got to have machinery, and we want it cheap. i have something to live for. i shall be a machinist." [sidenote: a useful man at last.] the man had actually bribed the master of the works to accept him as an apprentice, and he had made an exceedingly good one. he was at the works at the regular hour, and stayed as late as the latest. and he developed wonderful genius in the way of mechanics, and was in a fair way to arrive at a high position in the business. the workmen idolized him. he delighted to go with them evenings to the cafés they frequented, to be a little king among them; he helped the sick and unfortunate; he took some interest in their concerns, and they in turn did everything possible to acquaint him with the practical part of the trade. "they are a much better lot," he said, "than the leeches who used to hang upon me." he invited me to dine with him one day, and the amount of coarse food he could consume--this man who had not had an appetite for twenty years--was something wonderful. for the first time in his life, he declared, he was absolutely happy. he had something to do. before he had been in the shop a week he showed the master how the iron bar could be forged to the shape required, and how two-thirds of the time at the machine could be saved, and he succeeded in having his system introduced. he vows that he will stick to it till he has learned his trade, then go home to new york and start the most perfect machine shop on the continent, and that, moreover, he will be perfectly happy therein. he is not _ennuied_ any more, for he has found something to do. there are others who would do well to follow his example. chapter xxxii. chillon and other points. on a clear bright day, the hot air tempered by a gentle breeze wafted down from the ice-covered mountains, with others we left geneva, to cross the mountains and visit mont blanc, that patriarch of the alps. the blue waters of lake geneva danced and sparkled in the sunlight as our steamer sped along towards nyon. at last we were skimming over the surface of that wonderful body of water whose peans have for hundreds of years been sung by the poets, in prose and verse, of all countries. rosseau, voltaire, byron, goethe have revelled in the delights of its tranquil beauty and celebrated its charms in immortal words. and it is indeed a fitting theme for a poet's song. to-day its deep blue surface is broken into a myriad of ripples. here and there, sailing slowly along, are large barges with the graceful lateen sails that are seldom seen except upon the mediterranean. the shores are lined with rich foliage, the cedar of lebanon mingling its sweet odor with that of the chestnut, the walnut and the magnolia, the whole enlivened with pretty villas and picturesque hamlets. though more beautiful, lake geneva has a peculiarity that is enjoyed by lake constance. it is subject to a change of level. at places, where the bed of the lake is narrow, the water occasionally rises several feet above the ordinary level, and remains so for half an hour or more, this too without any previous warning of what was about to occur. another peculiarity is that hidden springs oftentimes break forth from the bed of the lake and form a current so swift that it is impossible, almost, to stem the tide. these springs are very dangerous to oarsmen and are nearly as badly feared by the fishermen as the waterspouts that frequently occur. [sidenote: the inopportune young man.] here, as everywhere, we had all sorts of people with us. we had a widower, and a widow with a daughter, and the widower had been making love to the widow all the way from london, which the widow accepted more than kindly. indeed, the attentions of the ancient beau had become so marked, that to the mind of any widow of experience, it was only a question of time as to a proposal direct, which she was waiting for impatiently. [illustration: the young man with his inopportune remarks.] among others on the boat was the young man who knows everything, who has studied everything, and who has that rasping memory that enables him to retain everything he ever read, as well as every thought that ever passed through his mind, and the self-sufficiency that impels him to thrust his own talk at you, at no matter how inopportune a time, and no matter how inapplicable it may be to whatever is being discussed. he will discuss a question with you to-day, and when in his bed at night he will remember something that he should have said at the time, and break in upon you a week after with the omitted remark, with no preface, no explanation, taking it for granted that any discussion you ever had with him was of sufficient importance to take full possession of your mind and occupy it forever and forever. he had had an argument with the widower the night before at the hotel in geneva, upon the authority of the old testament, which the widower, as was natural, forgot in an hour. our widow and widower were sitting near the stern, in loving proximity, discussing quietly the loneliness of their situation. the young man was waiting very close, entirely oblivious of what they were saying, and only anxious to fire off his charge. "ah, mrs. redding," said the widower, "when one has once tasted the sweets of congenial companionship--" in broke the young man: "it was the old dispensation, and is not binding on us to-day at all. therefore you needn't do everything that moses put upon the jews; but, mr. thompson, you can just bet your sweet life that you are perfectly safe in not doing anything that he said the jews should not do." the widower looked daggers, and the widow broadswords. as handsome a proposal as was ever to be made was nipped in the bud--an opportunity for the widow was lost which might never be regained. who could tell? possibly his passion might cool off. the fish was hooked but not landed, and this insufferable argument-monger was the cause of it. "blast your moses," uttered the irate widower. "madam, if there is any part of this boat safe from the intrusion of young men who dabble in moses, let us find it." and they went off, leaving the young man not at all abashed. he merely turned to an amused spectator, with the remark: "that man's face proves the correctness of the darwinian theory. in time his descendants may become men. i was about to enlighten him on an important subject, but he would not." [sidenote: the impecunious tourist.] there never was a boat loaded with tourists which did not have on its deck the man who was doing europe on insufficient capital. he spent money freely in london, paris nearly finished him, and he commenced traveling on credit in switzerland. his method was very simple: he borrowed a hundred francs of every man he thought simple enough to lend it to him. it was always the same story, he had drawn on his people at home and would have the money at the next stopping place _but one_. then he always slipped away from his victim at the _next_ stopping place and was seen no more. we had him, but he did not succeed. there were too many old travelers in the party. geneva, on a plateau above the level of the lake, with its picturesque background of rugged mountains, gradually melts into a solid mass of buildings, bridges and parks as we go up the lake, past the mammoth hotels, with their beautifully arranged lawns and gardens. on the left, in an immense pleasure park, is the rothschild villa, a country seat as beautiful as the surroundings. for miles the left bank of the lake is lined with summer residences, nestling among the lovely groves of fragrant trees. [illustration: "would you oblige me with a hundred francs till saturday?"] on the right bank, a range of hills, starting way up the lake, rises gradually higher and higher until it culminates, apparently, in mt. blanc, fifty-six miles away. these mountains, rugged and severe, slope gradually down to the bank of the lake, which is lined with well cultivated farms. the lake is a study. its bright blue waters are as clear as crystal, the small white pebbles on the bottom being plainly discernable. as the sharp prow cleaves the water and throws it off on either side, the hue is changed into a dark green, making a charming contrast with the unruffled water beyond, which retains its peculiar blue. long before nyon is reached, the white buildings of geneva have faded away in a mild rose colored haze, through which the dim outlines of the mountains can just be seen. after an hour's run, full of beauty, nyon, a favorite resting place for tourists, is reached, and the steamer stops long enough to take on three or four mountain climbers, who, with alpenstocks in hand and knapsacks on back, are going on a pedestrian expedition on the other side of the lake. the sharp pointed roofs of nyon's houses, its quaint streets, pretentious hotels and historic buildings make it a favorite resort all summer long. the faro bankeress was of the party, she and her husband. the husband looked listlessly into the blue water, and enjoyed the succession of beautiful views, and studied nature in all its aspects, with a party of kindred spirits, in the hot cabin below, over a game of euchre, with a rapid succession of orders for cognac and water. that's all he saw of lake leman. he played moodily, as though the time taken from his magnificent game at home was so much wasted. green cloth was more to him than emerald water, and he never desired to see an elevation greater than a roulette ball. his wife made the acquaintance of, and fastened herself to, a party of actual tourists, and to them she discoursed volubly of the prices of silk stockings in paris, and of dress making and millinery and kindred topics. there was one young girl who really had the eye of a hawk for the actually beautiful, who would go into raptures as some wonderfully beautiful view dawned upon us, and who felt an enthusiasm which she must share with somebody. and so she would pull the faro bankeress by the sleeve, and interrupt her flow of talk. "and then you see these stockings are--" "oh, mrs. ----, do look at that mountain with the cataract rushing down its side!" a hasty glance at the wonderful work of nature. "oh, yes, my dear--it's _nice_. but them stockings. why, in new york, at any first-class store--" and so forth, and so on. [sidenote: tibbits and the jew.] tibbitts was gorgeously arrayed in a parisian suit, with trowsers very wide at the bottom, and cuffs of preposterous length and width. he discussed all sorts of abstruse questions with grave german professors, neither understanding a word of what the other was saying, and so he passed for a very wise young man. more men would be so esteemed if they would always talk in language which nobody can understand. i remember of being wonderfully impressed with the profundity of a new england metaphysical talker, but alas! when his six syllabled words were translated into common english, i wondered at the stupidity of his commonplaces. [illustration: "see me unmask this jew."] but poor tibbitts was finally conquered. there was a jew on board who was selling the "art work" of the country. he spoke all languages, as the continental jews all can. tibbitts admired a little ivory carving. "what is the price of it?" "my tear sir ze work of art vill be given avay for ze redeecoolus sum oof two huntret francs. it gost me dwice dot." then tibbitts winked a wink of intelligence to the rest of us, as if he should say, "see me unmask this jew." "i will give you five francs for it." "fife francs? fadder abraham, but you laugh at me! i vill dake--but no, mine friend, dis ees a bat season--you dake him." then the laugh was not with tibbitts. the "ivory carving" was the basest kind of an imitation, and would be dear at a half franc. and tibbitts retired sullenly to the cabin below, and all the way up his american friends amused themselves by asking to see his rare ivory carving. there is so much that is beautiful on this side that time slips away without notice, so that when thonon is reached it scarcely seems possible that it has taken an hour to make the run across the lake from nyon. at the entrance to thonon, the channel is very tortuous, and once, near the landing, you may seek in vain for the entrance or the way out. there is a little lake all by itself, hemmed in on every side, apparently, by mountain and forest. surrounded by mountains, thonon nestles at the foot of a vineyard-covered hill, up the sides of which low houses, with their queer, overhanging roofs, line narrow, angular streets that seem to be too steep for any practical use. high up the side of the hill is a picturesque terrace, with pretty, vine-clad houses on the site of the old ducal palaces destroyed by the bernese in , from which a beautiful view of the lake and surrounding country is obtained. at one time this little place was the residence of the counts and dukes of savoy, it still being the capital of the savoyard province of chamblais. the vineyards in this neighborhood produce the fine white wines that are celebrated the world over. [sidenote: on the lake.] touching for a few minutes at evian, a favorite resort for wealthy people from the south of france, with its pretty hotels, charming oak shaded promenades, the boat sped rapidly on toward auchy, crossing the lake again. looking up the lake the mountain ranges, towering high above, change their form and color with every revolution of the wheel. just ahead of us on the right, a great peak, starting abruptly from the water's edge, shoots straight up into the air for a thousand or two feet. all about us are the green covered hills, forming a rare frame for the picture of the sun-lit lake, dotted here and there with a lateen sail, and the slowly drifting smoke of a pleasure steamer that skirts along the shores. at this point a long detour is made around a huge hill that juts out into the water, completely shutting out the view on the right. as we passed round it, an exclamation of surprise and wonder involuntarily burst forth at the sight of the tête noire, which lay before us, with its lofty peaks crowned with eternal snow. on we go, past pretty little villages, any one of which would be a most delightful place to spend the summer; past vineyards, with their luscious fruit ripening in the sun, until, just above chillon, we come to the castle of chillon, made famous by byron. "chillon, thy prison is a holy place, and thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod-- until his very steps have left a trace, worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod-- by bonivard! may none those marks efface, for they appeal from tyranny to god." this ancient castle, built as far back as a.d. , stands in a picturesque position on a barren rock some twenty yards from the shore, with which it is connected by a wooden bridge. its history is full of romance, from the time louis le debonnaire incarcerated within its gloomy walls--from which but the sky, the alps, and lake leman, could be seen--the abbot wala of corvey, for instigating his sons to rebellion, down to the reigns of the counts of savoy, who used it as a military prison. the walls of its dingy dungeons are literally covered with names of persons who have visited them, among others being those of byron, victor hugo, george sands, and eugene sue. here in republican switzerland the traces only of monarchy remain, for which the swiss should perpetually thank heaven. everywhere else in europe the monster actually lives--here only its ghost survives. it is here a remembrance to be shuddered at, not a living reality. but they had it here once. there was a time, and the castle of chillon is a silent testimony to it, when a duke or a king, who claimed to be of better clay than ordinary mortals, could seize a man and immure him within its gloomy walls, just as victoria, by the accident of birth, mistress of britain, may order the arrest of an irishman who opens his mouth the wrong way. kilmainham is the irish chillon, and there are within its walls men whose hair is turning gray, not in a single night, but turning gray just as surely. the ancient tyrants who lorded it over switzerland were not one whit worse than the tyrants who now lord it over europe. royalty is royalty, the same in all ages, because based upon the same infernal heresy. it is the absolute rule of a class, backed by organized force. switzerland, america and france have repudiated it, and the rest of the civilized world will. but what oceans of blood must flow before all this is accomplished. in order to be a complete and very radical republican one needs to visit a few just such places as the castle of chillon, that the true inwardness of monarchy may be realized. as the castle, so full of historical interest, fades away, the boat rounds the head of the lake, where the river rhone pours its gray glacial waters into the brilliant blue of the lake, making a clearly defined mark of gray and blue at least a quarter of a mile from the shore. then vernayaz is reached and we disembark for our trip across the alps. as the boat glides up to the dock, the ancient castle, built in the twelfth century, is pointed out. its walls and towers are very massive, and bid fair to stand as long as the city endures. near the castle is a chateau, where, at one time, joseph bonaparte lived. it is now the property of the moravians, and all its former grandeur is sunk in the abysses of a boys' school. just opposite the town the jura mountains have entirely changed in appearance, and are full of strange, fantastic peaks and crags, while mt. blanc, always visible, presents different faces as the boat changes its course, always, however, grand and fascinating. [sidenote: rural switzerland.] [illustration: swiss timber village.] chapter xxxiii. from geneva over the alps. a short drive over one of those wonderfully hard, smooth roads that make carriage traveling in switzerland so delightful, and we are at the hotel at the gorge du trient, whence, early in the morning, we are to begin the ascent of the mountains. the time before dinner is occupied in an exploration of the wildly picturesque gorge, with its winding foot-bridge built alongside the cliffs, over yawning chasms, around jutting bowlders that rise to such a height that the sky seems like a strip of blue ribbon suspended high above our heads. at the bottom of the gorge a mountain torrent, springing from some unknown nook way up in the mountain, comes rushing and tumbling down over the jagged rocks, foaming and whirling, and dashing its spray high in the air, as it hurries along to join the rhone. the slender bridge, at times hanging apparently without any support over deep pools of water, seems too fragile to bear the weight of a person, and one treads lightly, lest the frail structure give way, and he be precipitated into the unfathomable abyss below. the gorge is about three-quarters of a mile long, and is wierdly picturesque. [sidenote: mountain climbing.] after dinner, some rash member of the party suggested that we do a little mountain climbing. then a wager was immediately laid that no one had the courage and endurance to go to the summit of a high peak near by. of course the challenge was accepted, and the whole party, there were three ladies and five gentlemen, all started to accomplish the easy feat. it looked easy. the path zigzagged up the hill, and [illustration: the slender bridge.] was provided with resting places at stated intervals. nothing could be more delightful than to skip merrily along, like chamois, clear to the summit. it was all very well for the first few hundred feet, and we laughed and vowed that mountain climbing was not such a terrible affair, after all. but at the first resting place two of the gentlemen and one of the ladies announced that they were subject to heart disease, and dare not go any farther. they _could_ do it, but it was a duty they owed to their families and the world at large not to tempt death. [illustration: a bit of climbing.] [sidenote: the persevering one.] at the next resting place one of the ladies discovered that she had turned her ankle, and she went back. she danced as briskly as usual, however, at the hotel that evening. another of the gentlemen thought it his duty to assist her down to the hotel. this left but three, who silently lifted themselves up step by step to the next resting place. from this the view was something unutterably grand. the valley sweeping out to the lake, the mountains on the other side, with the clouds kissing their summits, the fleecy white, pink-tinged by the setting sun, forming a beautiful contrast to the forbidding black of the rocks, and the dark green of the mountain foliage. one of the gentlemen looked up to the dizzy height still before him, and remarked that he had seen as much grandeur as he could take in at one time, and down hill he went. the other and last smiled a contemptuous smile as he disappeared on the zigzag path, and setting his teeth, turned his footsteps upward. he reached the summit, and waving a small american flag (which he always carried about his person), took in the wonderful view, and slowly but majestically descended. i will not say which of the eight persevered and made the ascent. it is a fault, a common fault, in travelers, this boasting of their own achievements, and because one has a command of type and presses i do not see why he should use those facilities to record his own performances. if any one else of the party publishes an account of the excursion i shall see my name in this connection, but never will i write it. but i--or rather, that is, the one who did persevere to the summit, was rewarded with a sight that amply repaid me--or him--for my, or his labor. there at his feet, bathed in the light of the sinking sun, was the valley of the rhone, brilliant with its covering of green, relieved by the silvery river meandering through its center. to the right, crossing and cutting off the valley, are the bernese alps, their snow-covered peaks glistening in the sunlight. it was a magnificent view, giving us a good idea of the glories of nature that were to be entered upon on the morrow. when the gorge du trient was organized, nature must have been laboring under an attack of cholera morbus. at some remote period in the history of the earth there was a solid mountain, but some glacier, or earthquake, or other irresistible force, cleft it in twain, and the ever present water, nature's slow but exceedingly certain worker, poured into the chasm to finish what the first rude force commenced. there is a great plenty of water stored away in these mountains, and it has been pouring through this rent in the bosom of the earth, wearing away a few feet here and a few feet there, augmenting in volume as the space for it increased, until it has become a wild, resistless torrent, which doesn't dance, but rushes through the rocks, till after its brief attack of delirium tremens it loses itself in the rhone and finally in lake geneva, and becomes as quiet and well-behaved as you could wish. the scenic artist who painted "the devil's glen" in the black crook, had doubtless visited this gorge. if devils ever came together in convention, and wanted a place, the horrible wildness of which should be absolutely satanic, they could find it here. the rocks on either hand are nearly five hundred feet high, and the ravine twists and turns in every direction, the sides approaching each other so nearly at every turn at their summit that the gorge seems to be but an immense vaulted cavern with an entirely irresponsible torrent of water gyrating through it. it drops itself down sheer precipices, in places thirty feet, and everywhere _rushes_, it never dances, but rushes with an ugly, wicked, vindictive rush, a cruel rush, a resistless force, as if it wanted to catch something in its merciless grasp, and toss it against rocks, grasp it when it came back, and hurl it down a dizzy fall of cruel, jagged rocks, and shoot it way up the side of the gorge, on other rocks, and finally release it when pounded to a jelly, in the river below. this water is well-behaved enough when it reaches the river, but up here in the gorge it is the wildest, most cruel, most devilish and wicked water i ever saw. niagara impresses one with its calm, resistless strength, minnehaha is beautiful enough to induce one, almost, to go over it, but this torrent in the gorge has strength only. it is a fiendish, impish body of water. [sidenote: the legend of the gorge.] it is not utilized. its only use is to support a very good hotel, the venerable party who takes a franc for admission to it, and several shops devoted to selling "souvenirs" to tourists. these are the only wheels this water power turns. about one hundred people make a comfortable living from the gorge, and they no doubt esteem it highly. of course the gorge has its legend. every well regulated gorge in switzerland as well as every other country in europe has a legend, done in the most atrocious english, and execrably printed, which you can purchase of the local guide for what is equivalent to ten cents american money. i doubt not that switzerland has a legend-factory running somewhere, which turns them out to order. people go several times, you see, and they want a new legend every time. this legend accounts for the formation of the gorge, and i spent an entire night getting it into understandable english. it runs thus:-- way back in the dark ages, when the devil was in the habit of coming in person to transact his business with men--and women--there was no gorge at all. the mountain was shaped not as it is now, but was a respectable mountain, with a properly conducted stream dancing down its side. this stream turned two mills, one owned by a very nice miller, named balthazar, and the other by a very wicked miller, named caspar. balthazar had the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, while caspar was universally detested. he was a griping, grasping man, who took double toll, and was as avaricious as a grave-yard. balthazar, on the other hand, was beloved by everybody, because he was good; and, because he was good, he was very poor. caspar had succeeded in buying up his notes, and he held a claim on his mill, which he desired to get out of the way, as he wanted no competition. but balthazar kept right along, for he had friends somewhere who advanced money to him, so that he could keep up the interest and defy the enemy. caspar tried every way to get rid of his competitor, but he could not, and he chafed under it. he dwelt upon it so long that it became a mania with him. how to crush balthazar and have the sole privilege of plundering the people was the thought with him by day and night. one spring he bought more of balthazar's paper, but, to his chagrin, balthazar came around promptly and paid it, the day it was due, and caspar found himself foiled again. and so that night when he was pacing his room and fretting and fuming about his disappointment, he remarked to himself mentally--a very dangerous thing in those days--that he would give his soul to be relieved of this popular rival. no sooner thought than done. the archdemon appeared in person, and caspar did not seem to be surprised. "are you in earnest, herr caspar?" "indeed i am. that man is poison to me. i must get rid of him and his mill." "very right. you can do it, but you know the terms?" "certainly. you remove the mill, you ruin balthazar, and after a time i become yours, i sign an article of agreement, writing my name in my own blood. that's the regular thing, i believe!" "you are right, old man, right as a trivet. sign here." and he produced the document which he had with him. it stipulated that balthazar's mill was to be utterly destroyed, and caspar's not injured, and that things should be so fixed that caspar's would be the only respectable water-power possible on the mountain. as a consideration for this friendly service, caspar was, after twenty years of milling with no competition, to yield himself gracefully to the demon, body and soul. caspar whipped off his coat, cut his arm for blood, and signed. the devil disappeared in a clap of thunder, leaving a perceptible odor of brimstone in the room, and caspar went calmly to bed. the next morning he heard that an immense stream of water had burst out of the mountain below his mill, and that it had swept poor balthazar's property entirely away--that not a vestige of it was left. he smiled grimly, doubled the size of his toll-dish, and went about his business. [sidenote: some doubts.] twenty years later, to the minute, the devil appeared and demanded his pay. but he did not know caspar, who had been thinking the matter over for some two years, and being hale and hearty, had no idea of going at all, and especially of going where he had rashly ticketed himself. he had consulted an abbott of rare power in such cases, and the abbott had shown him how to evade the contract. the writer of the legend does not state just what this was, but it was sufficient. caspar declined to fulfil his contract, and the devil saw he was foiled. he recognized the superior power of the abbott, but he couldn't help himself. he merely lashed his tail around, and smiling sarcastically, remarked: "very good, my fine fellow, you have won the first point in this game, but i shall proceed to show you that there are things over which the abbott has no control. good night." he sailed out into the night, caspar jeering him. he jeered too soon. for just then there came a horrible darkness, with terrible thunder and flashes of frightful lightning, and the mountain was rent in twain, and caspar's mill with himself and his live stock all went down into the chasm, and the gorge du trient was made. caspar's body was found in the river below, with ugly marks about the throat, with the debris of his mill. there was not a splinter left of anything. this is the legend. i don't believe it, for several reasons. if the devil had sufficient knowledge of the intention of men in advance to bring with him a contract all drawn up, (which must have cost him some trouble unless he kept them printed in blank) he would also have known that caspar would outwit him in the end. if he had the power to catch caspar by destroying his mill by splitting the mountain, he had the same power before, and was just as sure of the miller before as after this exhibition of his power. going through all this rigmarole of signing and making contracts would be totally unnecessary. satan is supposed to be cunning. what sense was there in laying traps for caspar when caspar was doing his level best to get to him anyhow? had he let him alone, caspar would have come to him of his own accord. and then splitting a mountain to catch one miller would be something like firing a columbiad at a cock sparrow. it would be a great waste of ammunition. he could safely have depended upon caspar's own toll-dish. he may have made the gorge knowing it would be used, as time rolled on, by guides and hotel-keepers, but the legend of the miller will not do. however, it is the legend of the place, and so i have to give it. the only lesson i can draw from it is not a good one. the virtuous balthazar lost his property just the same as the wicked caspar, and as he probably starved to death immediately, while caspar had a good time for twenty years, his virtue counted him nothing, so far as this world goes. i have found that out, however, in my own experience. in every country in the world that has rocks, there is some frightfully high one from which a great many years ago a maiden leaped. indian maidens were addicted to this in america, and so were maidens in switzerland. you are compelled to climb to the very top of the mountain on one side of the gorge to see the place where a maiden threw herself over. the guide said she was crossed in love by her parents, while our landlord had it that she was deserted by her lover. thus you had two stories at the price of one, and could believe which you chose. tibbitts looked calmly down the frightful chasm. "the maiden leaped from this spot?" "yes, sare." "how under heaven did she _ever_ get back!" "she did not get back." "did she hurt herself?" "hurt hairselluf! it ees five huntret veet to ze bottom. how could she fall five huntret veet and not hurt hairselluf?" "five hundred feet! well, i should say it was rather risky. what did the old folks do about it?" he wanted to know all the circumstances, but the information of guides on such subjects always ends with the blood-curdling tragedy. they know nothing of what happened after the girl took the fatal plunge. [sidenote: martigny.] the road from vernayaz leads through a number of pretty swiss villages, whose peculiarly built stone houses contrast strangely with the pretentious edifices of the towns and cities we had just left. the one narrow street through which the carriages passed is filled with queerly dressed people, to whom the passing of a tourist party is about the only event that relieves the dull routine of their monotonous lives. [illustration: where the maiden leaped from.] near martigny we pass an old dilapidated castle, that, seven hundred years ago, was the stronghold of peter of savoy, who ruled with an iron hand the people in the neighboring cantons. now we leave the valley of the rhone and begin in earnest the ascent of the mountains. it is hard to realize that horses and carriage can make their way over these great towering mountains. apparently they are inaccessible as the clouds that float lazily above them. but we bowl along the hard white road at a rattling pace, and are soon at an elevation from which the villages in the valley below look like toy towns. the road is a continuous letter z, winding up the side of the mountain, each tack bringing us higher and higher. the air is clear and dry, so that at each turn in the road a wonderful view is afforded. across the valley are seen well cultivated farms, with men and women hard at work in the harvest fields. further down is a grove, the green foliage standing out in bold relief from the golden fields of grain that surround it, while above towers an old ruined church, its cold, gray color softened and subdued by the ivy that nearly covers it. there is an exhilaration as we mount higher and higher. all thoughts of worldly cares are thrown to the winds and we revel in the delights of this new and wonderful experience. we almost envy the swiss peasant as he cuts the sweet-smelling grass high up the mountain side. we are tempted to stop and visit some of these ugly chalets, with their stone-anchored roofs, which looked like miniature bee-hives from the valley below. we want to do almost anything to give vent to the superabundant supply of animal spirits this clear and bracing air produces. [sidenote: a woeful lack.] we were subjected, however, to many grievous disappointments. we expected the moment we struck the alps to see the graceful chamois, leaping from crag to crag, the alpine hunter, dressed in knee breeches, with a peaked hat and particolored ribbons wound around his stockings. we kept sharp lookout for the swiss maidens with their broad-brimmed hats and picturesque short dresses, and above all we hungered for a sight of a swiss chalet, one of those delightfully beautiful and picturesque houses, all angles and gables, and things of that nature, which we all have admired at long branch and other watering places in america. [illustration: the chamois.] we saw no chamois, either leaping from crag to crag, or in any other business. if there are any chamois they manage to keep themselves in very strict seclusion. [illustration: taking the cattle to the mountains.] there being no chamois, it follows, as a matter of course, that there are no alpine hunters after them, for the alpine swiss don't go about posing in picturesque garments for the benefit of tourists. not he. he keeps himself busy in his shop, making carvings of wood, which he sells to the tourists, and he isn't picturesque either. he wears shocking bad clothes, just about the same that poor people wear the world over, and poverty is scarcely ever picturesque. the smiling swiss maiden is also a myth. those we met on the roads were anything but pretty, anything but smiling, and anything but pleasant to look at. they were, as a rule, short, dumpy young ladies, with either bare feet or feet in wooden shoes, carrying enormous loads, their mothers following them, also carrying a heavy load of grass or wood, and she and the mother were generally ornamented with immense goitres which hung down from their necks in particularly disagreeable prominence. this disease is fearfully prevalent in these mountains, almost every other woman of age having it. i don't remember seeing a man with it, nor a very young woman, but it is almost the rule in some sections, in women of forty and over. physicians do not pretend to cure it, and so it hangs and grows, and the neck swells and swells, till the goitre becomes an immense bag. it is a singular dispensation. why should it be the exclusive property of women? it doesn't make much difference how a man looks, and the swiss women, worked to death as they are, have little enough beauty at best, and with all these disadvantages to hang a goitre upon their necks is burdening them a trifle too much. still, so much do they love their mountains, that they would stay among them if their necks should enlarge to the degree of requiring wheelbarrows to carry them comfortably. the swiss chalet is another disappointment. we expected to see the mountains dotted all over with those beautiful houses, all gables and dormer windows, picturesquely painted in all sorts of gay colors, such as we see in the theaters. such a house with a pretty peasant girl in short dress, with gay colored stockings, and a simple but very sweet broad straw hat, and a few dozens of chamois leaping from crag to crag, would make a very pretty picture and one worth going a long way to see. [sidenote: the swiss cottage.] as we were disappointed in the chamois and the maidens, so were we in the swiss houses. there is everything in them but beauty. they are just about as beautiful as a western grain elevator or a quaker meeting-house. there is enough timber in them--each stick crossing the other in a most unnecessary way, and there are gables, and dormer windows and all that, but they are put together in a most unsatisfactory way, if beauty is what you are after. they are absolutely shapeless. the roof is burdened with layers of stone to keep it on in the high winds that prevail, and they are invariably weather-beaten, dingy, and altogether unsatisfactory. [illustration: outside the chalet.] in one end of these uncouth dwellings the family reside, and the work is done, and in the other the cattle are stabled, in what in america we use as a barn. the cattle, the pigs and the poultry are all stabled convenient, only a thin wall separating them from the women and children. it must be confessed that the residence end of the hideous building is kept very clean, and very nicely, for your swiss housewife is a good one, but the proximity to the stock would not be considered pleasant in any other country. they cannot plead lack of land for thus crowding together, for these mountains are immense, and very sparsely settled. it is so arranged probably for convenience. inasmuch as the traveler through switzerland is always disappointed in the matter of chamois, picturesquely clad and pretty girls and swiss chalets, i insist that the government should furnish them. it is a matter for national action. the government should breed chamois, and train them to skip from crag to crag, it should maintain a force of chamois hunters, such as we see in pictures and at the theater, to hunt them, and it should have pretty girls dressed as we were led to expect to see them, at regular intervals, even if it should import them from paris, and it should build on each alpine pass at least a dozen chalets of the regulation style. then tourists would be satisfied and invest more liberally in wood carvings and music boxes, and would be more content with having got the full worth of their money. [illustration: inside the chalet.] the principal industry on the mountains is cheese, and selling refreshments to travelers. the travelers stop and drink wine every time possible, for the purpose of improving their taste in wines, which affords a very respectable revenue to the inhabitants along the roads. the cattle in the spring are driven to the very summits of such of the mountains as are not tipped with snow, in the little valleys of which a very sweet grass is found, which makes a cheese almost as good as the imitations that are produced in various sections of america. the people live upon a tolerably bad cheese, very bad bread, and still worse wine, and when one looks at the almost absolute sterility of the soil, the wonder is how they get enough of that to sustain life. [sidenote: the swiss in general.] but they do. it takes very little to sustain a mountain family in this country. the women don't wear gaiters with high heels at ten dollars a pair--wooden shoes, a pair of which lasts for several generations, does them, if indeed they do not go barefooted, which in the summer is the prevailing fashion. their clothing is substantial, though very coarse, and if they don't go to theaters or operas, or have any of the expenses of a more luxurious civilization, they get on very well, and seem to be happy. as it is a day's journey down a mountain to a village where there is anything to buy, they don't buy very much; and as their little land furnishes all they can eat, drink and wear, they are just as rich as rothschild, every bit. it isn't what you want that makes you rich, it is what you don't want. the mountain swiss don't want anything, and they have it. therefore they are rich. their government doesn't bother them with taxes to any extent; they don't require daily newspapers or magazines, or anything of that kind, and so they live on the next thing to nothing a long time, and die at the end of it, when they have just as much as anybody. as quiet and stagnant as is the life of a swiss family, don't make the mistake of supposing them to be either unintelligent or stupid. they are well educated, and in every one of these ugly houses there are books, and books that are used. they keep themselves posted in everything that is going on in the world outside, their intelligence being a month or such a matter behind the rest of the world, but they get it, and they understand it when they do get it. a sturdy race they are, and the world knows and appreciates them. there is scarcely a battle-field in europe upon which they have not bled, and though subjected to the stigma of being hirelings and mercenaries, they have never proved false to the side they hired to. they do not scrutinize the cause they fight for very closely, unless it be their own, but when once enlisted they can be depended upon to the death. thousands of them are coming to the united states, and i wish every one of them could be multiplied by a hundred. they make excellent americans, and we can't have too many of them. chapter xxxiv. over the alps--the pass tÃ�te noire. it is just in the midst of the hay harvest, and men, women and children are all cutting, raking and carrying from the mountain side to the vale below. all this work is done by hand. there can be no such thing as a team on these mountains--one would as soon think of driving a team up the side of a wall. the swiss woman takes an active part in the duties of the field, and an immense amount of work she is capable of. while the men are cutting the grass, she fills a huge sheet with that which has dried, forming a bundle about eight feet square and two or three feet high. this she balances upon her head and carries it down the steep mountain side to their curiously constructed barns, which have the side of the hill for one end. women in this region do the most of the outdoor work, and do every kind. the swiss maid or matron isn't lolling about parlors or spending her time over her dressing bureau. she plows, or rather digs, for on these steep mountain sides plowing is an impossibility, for so steep are they that should the team be plowing transversely the upper horse would fall and crush his mate on the lower side. they dig up the ground with a heavy mattock, a tool heavier than i would care to wield, and the women are just as expert at it as the men. muscular parties are these swiss women, and their lives are anything but easy. in such a country every one must labor to procure the common necessaries of life--men, women and children. it is a good thing, however, to have so much that is kindly in nature as to make a living sure if those wanting the living are willing to work for it. [sidenote: mr. tibbitts' idea.] tibbitts observed these stout, sturdy women as they came zig-zagging down the mountain, carrying these enormous burdens as patiently as mules and quite as surely. there was a lapse of five minutes, during which time he never spoke a word, which was something so unusual as to cause remark. [illustration: an alpine homestead.] "i was thinking," said tibbitts, "that could polygamy be [illustration: "i should wake them up cheerily with an alpine horn."] [sidenote: what tibbitts would do.] introduced into switzerland, i should emigrate to this country and become a william tell. i should secure a large tract of this land and go into a general marrying business. i should take to my bosom say fifty of these maidens--nay i wouldn't object to widows, not even those with goitres, for i have noticed that the goitre, no matter how large, does not interfere with an elderly woman's capacity for carrying hay down the mountain. indeed, a goitre, skillfully managed, may be helpful. for if arranged so as to hang on the upper side of the woman it would assist materially in preserving her equilibrium. with fifty of these wives the labor problem is solved. i should wake them up early in the morning cheerily with an alpine horn (after taking one myself), and after the frugal meal of black bread and cheese, i should have them skip merrily up the mountains and cut the sweet smelling grass, and rake it and turn it, like so many maud mullers, and tie it up in bundles and carry it down to the modest chalet, where i would be to see that other wives stored it safely away for use in the long alpine winter. "i should at once purchase cows, with the dowry of my fifty wives, and establish a cheese factory, making the fragrant limberger for the germans in america, and the smooth neuchatel for more delicate appetites, and all the other varieties. to carry on the business successfully would take me much to geneva, and, in pursuit of a better market, to paris, where, as the proprietors of the jardin mabille are large consumers of the products of the swiss dairies, i should be thrown largely into society that would prevent life from becoming too monotonous. "and while i was away, my fifty wives would rise early in the gladsome morn and labor cheerily, singing the while the simple carols of their native mountains till dewy eve, and sleep sweetly, gaining strength for a larger day's work on the morrow. "there is some sense in marrying a swiss woman, for she can do something toward supporting you. an american woman expects to be supported; she expects to have luxurious surroundings, and all that sort of thing, which the man labors for. i like this scheme the best. but, unfortunately, one is not sufficient to support a man, and, as polygamy is unlawful, i shall not marry in switzerland. one could not be made useful, and when i marry for ornament, i shall require something more ornamental." and tibbitts relapsed into moody silence, disgusted with life because the swiss government would not permit him to marry enough women to insure him a comfortable living. at geneva we took a courier. a courier is a man who professes to speak seven languages, but in reality speaks one well, generally the german, and two, english and french, very badly. he is invariably the champion liar of the universe. there isn't a lying club on the pacific coast of which the humblest and most recent courier would not at once be unanimously elected perpetual president. he lies, not from necessity growing out of his situation, but because to him it is a luxury. he revels in it, and is never so happy in it as when he has accomplished a gorgeous lie--one of those picturesque lies that the listener is compelled to accept, though he knows it to be false. he approaches a lie with the feverish anxiety that always accompanies an expected pleasure; rapturizes over the performance, and is unhappy till he can bring forth another. he has been in all countries; he has been in the service of every notable on earth, from the shah of persia down; and he is with you at the absurd price of forty-five dollars a month only, because he has to wait a month for a russian prince, who would never take a step without him. you feel from the beginning that you are under obligations to this gorgeous being; you are ashamed of yourself when you hand him the miserable pittance he condescends to accept for his services; and you would no more think of asking him to account for any moneys put into his hands than you would of offering a tip to the queen of england. the courier is a man who professes to know all the hotels, all the roads, all the manners and customs, everything of the country through which you pass; and he takes charge of a party for a stipulated price per month, pledging himself to use his wonderful gifts entirely for your benefit. at the beginning, while you are engaging him, he warns you that to travel through any country is to expose yourself to swindles, and extortions and impositions of all kinds, from an exorbitant hotel bill up the whole gamut to the swindle in works of art--the only protection against which is a good courier. "am i dot man? i vill not say. but ask the prince petrowski, the duke of magenta, the earl of strathcommon. dose are my references." [sidenote: the courier.] these personages being a long way off, you don't ask them at all; but you engage him and flatter yourself that from this time on your pocket is safe and your comfort is assured. the courier is your servant for one day, and your master all the rest of the time he is with you. the second day he comes to you with a smile. "i have you feexed goot. dot rascal landlord knows me, and he vouldn't dare try a schwindle mit any barty oof mine." "what do you pay for the rooms?" "ten francs--only ten francs!" "but we had better rooms day before yesterday for six!" "not in dees blace. het you pin alone you would hef baid feefteen." this was all a lie. the courier is known to all the landlords, and the landlords allow him a very snug commission on all parties he brings into their sheep fold to be sheared. this matter of commission goes into everything you touch. your courier will not permit you to purchase anything without him--he places himself between you and everything, from a picture to a tooth pick. he buys for you, the goods are sent to your hotel, you give the courier the money to pay it, which he does, bringing back a receipt for the money which he has really paid, less the commission, all of which was added to the price of the goods at the beginning. in order that you may not escape him in material things, he reduces you to abject helplessness in things not material. he bears down upon you in such a way that you comprehend the fact that you can do nothing without him. for instance, you see a beautiful spring by the roadside; the water as pure and sweet as water can be, which actually invites you to drink. now, should you ask the courier if that is good water, he doubtless would say yes; but should you spring from the carriage and attempt to drink without permission, he jumps also and holds you back. "dot vater ees boison," he says. "i vill show you de vater vot you may trink mit safety." likewise in the matter of wines. at one resting place on the mountains, tibbitts was ferocious for a bottle of the delightful white wine you get everywhere, and called for a bottle without consulting the courier. promptly the man countermanded the order. "mr. teebbeets, de vine here ish pat mit de stomach. ve vell vait till ve get to de next blace." tibbitts was furious, for he was arid. "look here, my friend," he said, "i am not carrying your stomach around with me. the one i am endangering i have had a proprietary interest in for twenty-six years, and if i don't know its capacity, its powers of endurance, and all that, i don't know who does. you take care of your stomach and let mine alone. _mademoiselle, apportez moi_ ze--that is--d--- n it--_botteille_--bottle--_du vin_--that is, fetch back that bottle and be mighty quick about it." and a minute later he was pouring it out, and as he swallowed it, he remarked to himself, "injure the stomach, indeed! a man who has swallowed enough sod-corn whisky in oshkosh to float the great eastern, to be afraid of this thin drink. if it were aquafortis now--" the courier was mortally offended, and sulked all the afternoon. if tibbitts could order a bottle of wine without his permission, he might possibly buy a swiss carving in chamonix when we arrived there, without consulting him, and then where would be the commission? after the rest and the wine, and the bad bread and the tolerably bad cheese, we proceeded on our journey. from that time on it was a succession of wonderful views, a panorama sometimes beautiful, sometimes awesome, sometimes soothing, and sometimes frightful. but no matter which it was, it was never insipid. there was a positive character to each view, something that you must observe, whether or no, and something that seen left an impression that many years will not efface. the pass tête noir is an experience that will last a life time. [sidenote: a satisfactory fall.] we made a sharp turn in the road at one point, and a view burst upon us that was worth a journey across the atlantic to see. we were hanging over a chasm full six thousand feet deep--that is, to the first impediment to a full and satisfactory fall. should you go down that six thousand feet you would [illustration: on the road to chamonix.] strike upon a ledge and bound off a number of thousand feet more before you finally came to the bottom. across this yawning gulf was a mountain, the twin of the one on whose sides we were hanging, covered with evergreen trees to a certain way up to the top, which was crowned with the pure white of the eternal snow and ice. there were a thousand shades of color as the eye commenced at the level we were on and traveled up to the top, all brought out gloriously by the sunlight of noon-day. one of the party took in the whole view and very properly went into a rapture. "is there anything under heaven so magnificent as this combination of colors!" she exclaimed, holding her breath in an ecstacy. then up spoke the faro bankeress as she took it all in at a glance: "what a dress it would make, could one only have them colors brought out in silk!" the scenery, always grand and imposing, changes with every bend in the road, and always gives a view better than the preceding one. we are now at an altitude where the fragrant spruce lines the narrow roadway, and covers the hillside with everlasting green. way over there, where the cold gray of the rocks is hidden under a mantle of green, on which the sun and clouds make ever-changing pictures, is a bright, flashing stream, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, as it falls tumultuously from rock to rock, now losing itself in a chasm hundreds of feet deep, then springing out again further down, until at length it worries and frets itself over the crags and cliffs till it reaches the valley, and flows tranquilly and smoothly along to the lake. it typifies life, with its early struggles, its constant striving for the rest and quiet that comes at last. now we approach the summit of the mountains. all around, as far as the eye can reach, is nothing but a series of rough, jagged crags, the peaks of the irregular range of mountains. not the forest-covered hills we have been riding through, but vast piles of everlasting snow, which even the fierce and angry sun is unable to make any impression upon. [sidenote: the troubles of tibbitts.] but we were not permitted to take all the enjoyment possible out of the wondrous views. there never was a party that did not have a professor in it, who knows all about everything, and who considers it his mission to instruct everybody else. add to this, a courier who knows all the stock show points, professionally, and life becomes a burden. some peak would come to our view higher and grander than any we had encountered. and then the courier: "ladies unt shentlemen, dot ish--" the professor, who had charge of tibbitts: "lemuel, particularly note that mountain peak. it is--" "of course it is," said tibbitts. "what am i here for, anyhow? what did i sail across the atlantic, and come to switzerland for? why do you and that other weazened monkey interrupt me when i am contemplating nature, by calling my attention to it, and asking me to note it? havn't i got eyes? don't i know the difference between a western prairie and an alpine peak? and as for the names of the places, havn't i got a guide book, and can't i read? am i a baby in my a b abs? curious you can't let a fellow alone." the faro bankeress was asleep, she had been for many miles, and her husband was asking her why they charged a franc for a little bit of ice, at the last hotel, when the mountains were all covered with it. the road, which, up to this time, had been comparatively pleasant, now assumed a more dangerous look to those who have only known wide paved streets. it winds along the very edge of precipices, where a single balk would send us all tumbling down three or four thousand feet. at places it is cut out of the side of the hill, so that on one side there is a solid wall of rock rising high above our heads, while on the other is a sheer descent of thousands of feet. as we rattle around the sharp curves there is an involuntary clutching at the seats, for it seems certain that the carriage cannot keep the road. but the swiss voiturier is an expert driver, and his horses are sure footed, so there is not the slightest danger, perilous though it may seem. after a brief rest at the summit, the brakes are put on, one of the three horses is taken from the front, and down we go on the other side of the mountain it took us all day to ascend. if the journey so far was attended with any danger, fancied or real, the fact was driven out of our minds by the nature of the road we were descending. it was frightful. from the carriage we could look down into a valley miles and miles away, and the road was so narrow that the slightest slip would have sent us into that valley in short order. the view was grand but the ride was fearful. we were all charmed when we reached the valley and were enabled to look up at the dizzy heights that had given us such a scare. from this on to the hotel at tête noir, there was a constant succession of tunnels, high bridges over deep crevasses, and sharp curves around jutting crags that almost blocked the road. at the "half-way house," as it is called, the view is beautiful; three or four waterfalls tumbling down the mountain sides, and falling into the mad stream that goes careering wildly over the rocks and bowlders. then another long ride through a rough and barren country, indicating the approach to the glacier region, and then at a sudden turn in the road, mont blanc looms up high above the great peaks by which it is surrounded. we speed rapidly over the floor-like road, and at six o'clock in the evening, after having been on the road since seven in the morning, we are in chamonix, the little village at the foot of mt. blanc, that lives entirely on tourists. of course the great point of interest is mt. blanc, the highest point of the central chain of the swiss and italian high alps. there it is--fifteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-one feet high, covered with a great mass of ice and snow that has been accumulating for ages. there stands the patriarch of the alps, crowned with the centuries, and still smiling grimly at time. it stands alone in its fearful beauty. of all the european mountains, it impresses the mind with the power of the forces, the source of which are hidden to man, and which it is not given to man to comprehend. one feels his own insignificance as he gazes on this wonderful peak, and, no matter what his creed, feels a profound reverence for whatever power he believes created it. [sidenote: the dangers of ascending mont blanc.] around it are other peaks that elsewhere would be considered very high, but compared with this giant they are pigmies. mt. blanc is not to be described. descriptions and pictures can convey no idea of it. one must stand under the shadow of that eternal snow, must feel the presence of the grand old mountain, to fully appreciate it. from the streets of chamonix the sides seem to be as smooth as a frozen pond, as the sun glistens on the ice and snow; but viewed through the powerful telescope great crags are seen. wide chasms, no one knows how deep, yawn on every side. blank, inaccessible walls shoot straight up in the air, hundreds of feet. there are impassible glaciers and great gullies where, centuries ago, a great landslide occurred. all this can be seen through the telescope, but not till one attempts the ascent can he realize the nature of mt. blanc's formation. then he finds his path beset with dangers he never dreamed of. he sees the glaciers, which by the glass seemed only rough places, are full of deep crevices hundreds of feet wide. he hears the rumbling of wild streams of water far down in the ice, as they swirl and swish round and round in the cavities formed by the everlasting action of the water against the flinty ice. he comes upon solid mountains of ice, around or over which it is next to impossible to go. he finds bridges of ice, where one misstep would launch him down a crevice, so far that his body could never be recovered. in short, he finds that mt. blanc is only smooth and safe and pleasant when seen at a distance through a telescope. chapter xxxv. going up the mountain. i cannot see why any one should desire to ascend mt. blanc. it is a trip of great danger, is very fatiguing, and, it is said, even when the summit is reached the view is unsatisfactory, on account of the great distance from all objects save the jagged peaks of the big mountain. yet there are quite a number of ascents made every year. [illustration: the presumed chamois hunter.] [sidenote: alpine ascents.] why? because the innocents who do it dearly love to start out, the males with their knee breeches and horrible spiked shoes, and the females with their hideous dresses, and after the ascent is either made, or not made, it is a pleasant thing to be photographed in groups in these costumes. thousands of these photographs are taken, for home consumption. everybody likes to be photographed in the act of doing what they can't do. the stupid man who never looks into a book always wants to be taken with one elbow upon a pile of books, and his fore finger thoughtfully upon his forehead, as though he were devising a plan for the payment of the national debt; the young sprout who buys a double-barreled shot-gun, which is destined never to take animal life, always rushes to be photographed in complete sporting costume, shot-gun, game-bag, dog and all; and where was there ever a militia officer who did not want to be photographed in full uniform, as though he had served with credit through the great rebellion? so these alpine climbers, these mt. blanc ascenders, would no more leave chamonix without being photographed in costume than they would leave their letters of credit behind them. photography is an unconscious liar. it is as unreliable as history. mt. blanc was first ascended in ; then in ; again in . since then the trip has been made several times, two ladies, even, having gone to the very summit. the guides and souvenir dealers in chamonix are full of stories of the dangers incurred in making the trip. they say that some forty or fifty years ago a couple of guides made a misstep, and were hurled down a chasm. an attempt was made to recover the bodies but without success. they were never found as a whole. some thirty or forty years afterward, portions of their clothing, with a few bones, were found in a glacier, having been gradually worked from the place they were killed, by the slow but continual motion of the ice. they didn't show us the shoes nor the bones, so we did not feel obliged to believe the story. accidents! there have been enough of them to deter any sane man or woman from attempting the perilous ascent. the scientists who ascend these dizzy heights, which a goat hardly dares essay, may be excused, for the real scientist is bound by his profession to risk his life any time to establish or demolish [illustration: the fate of two englishmen.] [sidenote: the mer de glace.] a theory, but there can be no excuse for the mere sight seer to attempt it. some years ago four english clergymen attempted the ascent. when near the top, toiling up a precipice of ice, the rope to which they were attached broke, and two of them slid down the smooth descent to a precipice, and plunged into a chasm thousands upon thousands of feet deep, and were never more seen. in these ascents every care must be used, for every step is only one step from death. a fall of three thousand feet may be an easy way to die, provided one wants to die, but people are not, as a rule, anxious for so sudden a parting with things sublunary. imagine the feelings of a man in the instant after the rope breaks and he feels himself nearing the chasm, with nothing on earth to save him! [illustration: a frequent accident.] it is now a well established fact that these immense glaciers, between ten and twenty miles long, and from one to three miles wide, and oftentimes five hundred feet thick, are continually moving, though of course very slowly, averaging from one hundred to as high as five hundred feet per annum. the mer de glace, near chamonix, which is twelve miles long and nearly a mile wide, is said to have moved a foot a day during the past year. this glacier, the mer de glace, is one of the most beautiful of the four hundred that are to be found in the alps near mt. blanc. de saussure, the genevese naturalist, speaking of its surface, said that it "resembles a sea suddenly frozen, not during a tempest, but when the wind has subsided, and the waves, although still high, have become blunted and rounded. these great waves are intersected by transverse crevasses, the interior of which appears blue, while the ice is white on the surface." the journey from chamonix to montavert, where the best view on the "sea of ice" can be had, is very tiresome, and not unattended with danger, but the sight is well worth the time and trouble. twelve miles of solid ice in the most fantastic shapes, "a sea suddenly frozen," is a sight never to be forgotten. [illustration: the mer de glace.] a very little mountain climbing goes a great way. we tried it and know whereof we speak. the courier was to blame for it. [sidenote: the gorge.] couriers make men do more foolish things than any other agency in the world. we had been out to visit a gorge some six or seven miles from chamonix, and had been delighted with the ravine, with its foaming stream tearing along way down the valley. we had walked for an hour or more on a rickety old foot-bridge, hundreds of feet above the bottom of the gorge, we had crept along wooden galleries fastened to the sides of the precipices, the tops of which were well-nigh out of [illustration: a slip towards the edge.] sight, and the bottoms scarcely discernable. galleries that creaked and shook, and swayed under our weight, secured to the rocks with rusty irons, renewed no one knew when, and suggesting at every step the probability of giving way, and letting you down thousands of feet upon jagged rocks, and bounding from one to another till your corpse finally struck water, a torrent as wild and uncontrollable as niagara. the gallery did not go down and we had gone to the end and admired the waterfall, and then on our way back to chamonix that courier insisted upon our going up the glacier des bossons. in vain we demurred, and told him we could see the glacier from the road quite well enough. he insisted. it was an easy path clear up, and the view was something marvelous. our whole visit to europe would be a failure if we missed this view. there was no help for it and we went. the ladies were provided with mules, while the gentlemen, under the guidance of the courier, struck out across lots. [illustration: crevasses.] for the first quarter of an hour it was all right. there was a good path, and the hill was not very steep. we crossed a number of little brooks that had their source in the glaciers above, and emptied into the arve in the valley below. the woods through which we passed were huge pine trees, among which the narrow path wound its tortuous course. occasionally there would be a little clearing and then we could get a glimpse of the valley and the mountains towering high above us. the higher we ascended the more precipitous became the path. we found huge bowlders obstructing our way, and soon had to begin climbing in real earnest, oftentimes using both hands and feet. at length we reached a narrow ledge that led directly to the little house at the foot of the glacier, whither we were going. this ledge was like a backbone, with only a tiny path two or three feet wide. on the right, was a sharp descent of several hundred feet to the woods through which we passed. beyond these woods could be seen bright spots of green and yellow, where harvesting was in progress. further down was the chamonix valley, its broad acres divided by the silvery arve, that starts from the mer de glace, and empties into the rhone, just below geneva. [sidenote: the trials of the fat man.] on the left there is a descent of some five or six hundred feet to the ice crags of the glacier. it requires steady nerves and a sure foot to walk along this dizzy path, for a stumble or fall would be attended with fatal results. and right here was where the infernal persistency of the courier got in its worst work. one of the party was a gentleman of full habit, who weighs, perhaps, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, one of that kind whose head becomes dizzy when at any elevation, who hardly dares to look out of a third-story window, one of those who have an almost uncontrollable desire to spring off any elevation they may be so unfortunate as to be placed upon. he came panting like a second falstaff to this narrow ledge, the edge of which was not more than three feet wide, and the descent on either side was hundreds of feet. it was a place that nothing but a goat or a born alpine climber should ever think of essaying, and here was a fleshy party, with a dizzy head, never sure-footed in anything but his morals, with an impulse to jump down a chasm, either to the right or to the left! [illustration: the moraine.] he did not desire to jump, he could not go forward, and to go backward was just as impossible. he thought of his pleasant home across the atlantic, he thought of his wife and family, his creditors, and all who had an interest in him, and shut his eyes and sat down, clinging desperately to the few bushes that were within reach. another of the party, who had skipped very like a goat over the ridge, and had gained the porch of the little tavern, saw his danger, and called the courier. the party were all amused at the predicament of the fleshy man except the fleshy man himself. to him it was no joke. he was anchored in the fix described by the colored clergyman. "on de one side, bredern, is perdition, and on de oder damnation." [illustration: the dilemma--which side to fall.] but the courier, good for something, acted promptly. he seized a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and rushed down the path. he bade the victim of an attempt to do something he couldn't do, to eat of the loaf and drink all he could of wine (which he did, especially the latter), shut his eyes, grab his hand, and run; adding cheerfully:-- "geep your eysh shut dight--oof yoo opens dem at all yoo are gone--and run mit me." in this way the poor man was brought to the little tavern, where he sat in gloomy silence while the rest of the party essayed the glacier. i may add here that he made the descent safely. there is another path, a mile or two longer, but entirely safe. he didn't mind the mile or two. [sidenote: something about glaciers.] the glacier des bossons, while not so imposing as the mer de glace, has a great many wonderful points. here at the beginning of this dangerous ledge is one of the best places to study it. the surface, rough and jagged, with sharp peaks and crags from three to twenty feet high, is partially covered with slate, rocks and debris, while beneath this, bright and sparkling, is the pure, solid ice, with its greenish-blue tint. just opposite us, resting on the ice, is an immense bowlder that must weigh at least twenty tons, while all about are smaller stones, varying in weight from one hundred pounds to four or five tons. these immense stones became detached from the mountain, ages ago, by the continued pressure of the solid ice, expanded by the heat and contracted again by the cold, and have gradually been carried down the mountain on the bosom of this imperceptibly moving field of ice. [illustration: rocks polished by old glaciers.] the warm sun, which beats down upon us with terrible effect, gradually melts exposed portions of the snow and ice, and tiny rivulets are seen trickling along in the crevasses and depressions. they come together at the foot of the glacier, and, after a fall of about sixty feet, they wander off down the woods to join the arve. as we stand there enjoying the beautiful view down the chamonix valley, the courier breaks in and says it is time to go on. day dreaming is over, and, with no kindly feelings toward him, we push on up the steep and narrow ledge. at the pavilion, a little one-story house, we obtained a fine view of the glacier. we also obtained some fine wine and bread. at this height the air is so rarified that a little wine is all that one can drink. but after the long, hard walk through the intense heat, it is very refreshing, and revives one's drooping spirits wonderfully. leaving the pavilion, a narrow foot-path, cut out of the side of the mountain, leads to a long flight of steps, at the bottom of which we reach the ice. there a long scramble over its slippery surface, to the entrance of the cavern. imagine a solid wall of clear, transparent ice. into this by means of picks and spades a cave eighty-five yards long, eight feet wide and seven feet high has been dug. as you go in, the little lights flickering along the side seem to say, "who enters here leaves hope behind." but we push on through the dripping water at the entrance, and finally find ourselves walking on ice that is hard and dry, while the atmosphere is cold enough to make an overcoat comfortable. from the end of the cavern the view is like a glimpse of fairyland. away down the dimly lighted tunnel, the tiny lights reflected against the crystalline blue, can be seen the smooth surface of the ice, gradually growing bluer and bluer until, at the very entrance, where the sunlight pours down upon it, it becomes nearly transparent, forming a dazzling frame to the bright picture of the glacier, the forest-covered mountain and brilliant sky beyond. [sidenote: marking sheets and things.] as we are about to emerge from the cavern the guide shows us a hole in the side, where we can see, some distance off, a subterranean stream, that has forced a channel through the ice. here we can hear most distinctly the glacier mills in full operation. there is one, very large, near this spot, said to be sixteen hundred feet deep. it was formed by the action of huge stones moved by the water against the ice, making, during the ages the glacier has been in existence, a deep round well in the ice. this low, rumbling noise we hear is the water rushing into that well with terrific force, and working the stones against its sides. but we are aweary of mountain climbing and glacier exploring, and it is with a sigh of relief that we retrace our steps, take another glass of wine at the pavilion, and, after a short rest, descend the mountain by an easy path. a short drive, and we are in chamonix, some of the party telling marvelous stories of our hair-breadth escapes during our perilous ascent of mt. blanc. of course they didn't go up mt. blanc, but the glacier gave them all the experience in mountain climbing they wanted. it satisfied them just as well as though they had scaled the great peak. as a matter of course all these people purchased alpenstocks, which they had marked "mt. blanc, july , ," and were all photographed in alpine climbing costume, which the enterprising photographer leases you for a consideration. and these photographs went home with the alpenstocks, and are to-day being displayed upon center-tables and in albums, while the fraudulent alpenstock has the post of honor in libraries. also we didn't see any chamois, nor any chamois hunters, nor any sweet swiss maidens in picturesque costumes. like the fever and ague in the west, "there ain't none of it here, but there's any quantity of it over in the next county." that evening, in the hotel, tibbitts became indignant. he noticed for the first time that the sheets and pillow cases on his bed were marked with the name of the hotel in indelible ink. "what is this for?" he demanded. "to keep guests of the house from carrying them off, i suppose." "then the prevailing impression is that everybody in the world is a thief? the idea is that i, tibbitts, am going to snake off these sheets and cram them in my valise and tote them all over the continent, and finally take them to oshkosh for my mother's use! "it is my opinion, and i say it deliberately, that the vices of one-half of mankind keep the other half of mankind busy. it is the wickedness of man that makes courts necessary, and sheriffs and policemen, and all that sort of thing. but for vice we could dispense with nine-tenths of the churches and ministry, and we could let up on standing armies. all the locksmiths and the time wasted upon marking these sheets and pillow cases could have been devoted to the multiplication of the wealth of the world. think of the number of hotels in the world, and the number of sheets and pillow cases in them, and the quantity of indelible ink and the time spent in using it, just to keep them from being stolen! the grand aggregate is appalling. and then add to that all the rest of the precautions, and mighty expensive they are, that have to be taken to keep the property you have, and it amounts to the absorption of fully a half of the industry of the world. "i have made up my mind what i am going to do. i am going home, and shall immediately organize societies for the promotion of common honesty. i shall have to pay for the marking of these sheets and pillow-cases in my bill to-morrow. in self-defense these societies must be organized, and this sort of thing done away. had the time employed in marking these sheets been used in making cheese, we should not have to pay such prices for it in america. vice is an expensive luxury--it eats two ways; it consumes the time of the vicer, and the time of another man to watch him. it must be crushed out!" and tibbitts went to bed full of projects for the suppression of vice and for the eventual universality of virtue. we had at the hotel, of course, the everlasting talker--that man is ubiquitous, and as frequent as sin. the class was represented with us by a commission merchant from milwaukee. one evening the discussion happened to turn upon the tariff question, and overflowing its banks, as conversation always does, meandered off into a variety of channels. one gentleman asked jones, the milwaukee man, why wheat could be manufactured into flour at minneapolis, and not at points further east. [sidenote: the milwaukee man.] and this question set jones running, and he answered: "that question is easily answered. i'll illustrate it. you know filkins & beaver, of buffalo? no? i have always known 'em--ever since i have been in the business. i have sold 'em many a thousand bushel of wheat since i have been in milwaukee, and many a thousand barrel of flour for 'em when i was in toronto. ef there is anything about wheat and flour that they don't know, you just want to go and tell 'em, you do, and they are the whitest men in the business. they have been longer in it than any two men livin'. they have the immense eagle mill in buffalo, and the excelsior in lockport, down on the second dock, the best water-power in lockport, and that's saying a good deal, for the fall there is immense--it is the water-power that has made lockport. take that away and there wouldn't be anything of that city at all, and the people there are enterprising enough to use it, they are. filkins & beaver, take all their mills together, must flour one hundred thousand bushels of wheat a day, and that's no small business, and don't you forget it. it takes good heads to run such a business, y' bet yer. they know me mighty well, i tell ye, for i have done business with 'em for nigh onto thirty years, and every time i go to buffalo, and i have to go there once a month, i have to stop with either one or the other of 'em. they wouldn't any more let me go to a hotel than they'd let me sleep on the street. "both of 'em came from the same village in england and both went back and married the girls they were engaged to afore they left, and then brought 'em to buffalo, and settled down to work. they worked themselves, they did, y' bet yer. first they bought the little eagle mill, that hadn't only two run of stone, and they did the whole work with their own hands, they made a great deal of money for they were close operators, and kept the run of the markets, and they enlarged the eagle till it kivered all the ground they had, and then they built the continental, and that was too small for 'em, and then they went to lockport and bought a water-power there, and built the excelsior, and another one at wellsville, and i don't know where all." in glided the young man who knows everything, as chirpy as possible, and he broke into jones' narration without as much as saying "by your leave." "jones, there's no use in trying it. you can't cover up bad actions with loud professions. you can't smother the scent of a skunk by singing 'old hundred.'" "what in blazes has bad actions and skunks to do with--" he might as well have talked to an atlantic gale. the young man ambled off serenely and attacked another party with the same cheerfulness with which he assailed jones, who resumed his narrative: "as i was saying when that blasted--well, then they bought a propeller, the old ada, and they paid for it in cash. they always pay cash for everything. there ain't none of their paper afloat, and they have the prettiest bank balance of any concern in buffalo. "i always have a good time with 'em, no matter which i stay with. sometimes i go to filkins' and sometimes to beaver's. filkins' wife is a rather high-falutin sort of a woman, and when filkins got rich she made him go and buy a lot on eagle street--no cheap lot, bet yer--one hundred feet front, and the lord knows how deep, and she made him build the best house on it there is in buffalo. she has conservatories, and a carriage, and velvet carpets, pianos, and bath rooms, and silver, and everything bang up, and when they dine the old man has to sit down in a dress coat, with a nigger behind him. oh, it's nifty, y' bet yer. [sidenote: end of filkins & beaver.] "but old beaver he'd never do anything of the kind. he stuck to the little frame cottage he built for himself down on swan street, and he sets down to his dinner in his shirt sleeves, and eats off'n stone ware, and has no wines like filkins, and swears he wouldn't trade his toby of ale for all the wines that ever were imported. and his wife only keeps one hired gal, and does the heft of the work about the house herself. you kin see her any time with her sleeves rolled up and her apern on, bustlin' about in jist the same old way, and they have their friends on sunday to take pot-luck with 'em, and i ain't sure after all but that beaver is right. he swears he will never build a new house till he has thirty grand-children, and then only one jist large enough to accommodate and hold 'em all at one table christmas day. he laughs at filkins with his fine airs, though they are the best friends in the world. you couldn't get a word of difference between 'em for any one of their mills, or for all of 'em together. "i remember in i was in buffalo, and one of their propellers--it was the jeannette, i believe--no, it was the ariel, had just--" one by one the party had slipped out of the smoking-room at the beginning of the new chapter of the experience of filkins & beaver, the termination of which no man could foretell. i took advantage of his raising his glass to his lips to get away myself. i presume he finished the story to the waiter, for the next day when i casually remarked that jones was coming he looked frightened, and quietly slipped out of the room. but no one of the party ever learned why wheat could not be advantageously floured east of minneapolis. chapter xxxvi. in switzerland. the scenery from chamonix to geneva, by the way of sallanches, st. martin, cluses and bonneville is magnificent. leaving chamonix the road winds down the beautiful valley with the glacier des bossons, overshadowed by mont blanc, on the right, while on the left are the pretty hamlets and fruitful farms that relieve the barren, rugged mountains on either side. the road, which is a marvel of smoothness, as are all the roads in switzerland, crosses and recrosses the river arve, until, after passing through a long tunnel, hewn through a massive rock, it strikes another valley and makes a wide sweep around the horseshoe-shaped mountain, giving a splendid view up and down the valley. far across this valley is a long high range of mountains down which at different places great cataracts of water come tumbling, dashing the spray high in air. here we pass through the pretty village of st. gervais, with its celebrated baths. then a long straight drive for an hour or more, and with an extra crack of the whip the carriage whirls into sallanches, where the horses are changed, while the weary, hot and dusty travelers rest and refresh themselves. at st. gervais is one celebrated bathing establishment conducted by an englishman and patronized almost entirely by english and americans, the principal treatment being for rheumatism and kindred diseases, and especially for the alcoholic habit. it is claimed that the most inveterate drunkard can be cured by the use of these waters, and therefore it is continually full of men who have burned life's candle at both ends, and who need rest from their vices, and moral, as well as physical recuperation. [sidenote: mr. tibbitts' letter.] tibbitts determined to stay a week and test the efficacy of the waters. "i shouldn't need it if i could have the regular oshkosh sod-corn, but a foundation of vile english brandy, and the edifice built up and topped off with french cognac is too much for me. i will test the waters." the fact that a half-dozen very wild americans of his own age and tastes were at the establishment was really what induced him to stay, but he repeated over and again, that what he wanted was to stay a while in a place where rum was impossible. he wanted to get away from it. we left him, and the next week i received a letter, the following being an extract therefrom:-- "i did not go over to the cure at once, for the day you left i met a young american, troubled as i was, who decided to go with me. slosson (he is from st. louis) and i, having met the proprietor of the cure and taken a fancy to him, determined to do him a good turn, and to that end we would not go to his establishment till we had got ourselves into a condition that would make a cure creditable. i am always ready to make sacrifices for those i love. "we then went over to the establishment to get out of the way of rum. "we had been in the house perhaps five minutes, when the proprietor took us one side and remarked, casually, that while he would not advise any one in the establishment to drink, if one must, he could furnish much better liquor than could be had in the village. and it was injurious to those taking the baths to walk much either before or after. "it is a good thing to get out of the way of rum. "the bar man was an american who could mix a cocktail, and so we drank to the old flag and went to our dinner. the wine at the place is excellent. "after dinner we walked up to the village with an american to whom i was introduced, and he took us to a very comfortable place where the cognac was good, very good, and we sampled it several times. "if there is a place on earth where the alcohol appetite can be cured it is here. "on the way down the main street of the village we stopped in another place like the first one, for the purpose of seeing whether there was any difference in cognac. "there are superior facilities for getting away from rum at this place. "there is a museum in the village which has a smoking room attached, which we visited that evening. the cognac was better than at the first place. "to have the vile stuff out of reach is a great help to the struggling victim of strong drink. "what we would call a drug store in america was the next place we visited, to have some prescriptions filled, and the proprietor, an englishman, insisted upon our tasting some very old brandy he kept for medicinal purposes. [illustration: the path to the village.] "there is no place in the world where you are so safe from the destroyer as here. [sidenote: reform at st. gervais.] "returning to the cure we thought it unfair not to patronize it. we did--twice. "st. gervais offers inducements for those really trying to reform. "we went to our room and sat down to a quiet game of poker. it was suggested that it would be dry work, and a bottle of cognac was ordered, and if i remember, there wasn't enough left to make a cocktail for a flea. the very smell was gone. "for absolute absence of temptation to drink, st. gervais is the place. i will write you concerning the water when i have tasted some. "p. s.--i forgot to mention that another thing you come here for is to get regular sleep, and plenty of it, in the early part of the night. having resolved upon this, we played poker till three in the morning. "if you have a friend who desires to reform, by all means advise him to come to st. gervais. there is no such place on the continent for reform. a man in the next room, with acute inflammatory rheumatism, actually complained of us this morning. he said he couldn't sleep with us near him. we sent word to him that there were other hotels, but that we couldn't peril our chances of reform by moving. we were determined to persevere till we had made new men of ourselves. we were very positive, and would not move. "we could hear the rheumatic gentleman swear, through the wall, but we sat there reforming all the same, and smiling at his irascibility. why will such men come to places intended as reformatories? what is a man with rheumatism, inflammatory or otherwise, to five men trying to mend their ways? i think we played an hour longer than we would, for the pleasure of hearing him profane. "st. gervais is a good place to come to to get away from rum, but it is of no account for rheumatism. this man thought so, for he left the house in the morning. i will write you about the baths to-morrow. i have no doubt they are good. it is said they do away with the rum appetite." from sallanches the road is through a most beautiful country. as we approach st. martin the carriage is stopped, so that we can have one last look at the dazzling peaks of mt. blanc. they are at the very head of the valley, and although twelve miles away, in a straight line, they loom up so magnificently that they seem only a short distance from where we stand. it is a sight never to be forgotten. the valley now assumes a more barren appearance, with but little to interest one. an occasional waterfall, a handsome hedge or two, relieves the dull monotony of the ride, till bonneville, a picturesque town, the capital of the province, is reached. there we have dinner, and then on towards geneva, passing the two ruined towers of the ancient castle of fancingny, after which the province was named. crossing the long substantial bridge of the foron river, we come to annemasse, and then rush through a number of pretty little villages, reaching the suburbs of geneva, and, after having been on the road since seven o'clock, finally draw up at the hotel on the lake, a thoroughly tired, hot and dusty party. [illustration: mont blanc and the valley of chamonix from sallanches.] [sidenote: the swiss system of begging.] this is the especial part of switzerland where beggary is reduced to a science. your carriage is going at a very rapid rate, but in advance you notice one of those ugly swiss cottages. the mother is in the door, holding well in hand four children, ranging in age from five to ten, boys and girls. as you get opposite the door, she looses her hold upon them, and then commences the chase. these children, trained as they are, can keep up with a carriage at a seven-mile an-hour pace, and, bare-headed and bare-footed, they do it, two on each side. they make no appeal; they say nothing, either by word or look; they simply run by the side of the carriage, as though it were a race intended as a test of the endurance of swiss children against swiss horses. after ten minutes of this, you begin to feel some concern for the children, and you ask the courier what they want. "vat dey vant? oof you vants to kit rid mit dem, fling 'em some sous. dey vill run into zhenave oof you ton't." and so, merely to get them out of your sight, knowing that they dare not go home to their mother without something, a shower of sous fall in the dust, which the children gather, and return to the cottage to wait for the next coach. sometimes they catch one on the return trip, which is good luck. it is the most systematic begging i have yet encountered. the strong point in it is the not asking. there is no professional whine, no story; nothing but a sturdy assault upon your sympathies. they make the legs take the place of the tongue. it is very well done, and, as carriages loaded with tourists pass every half hour, it must pay well. i presume the rent of these cottages is fixed with reference to their facilities for begging. an advertisement of one of them reads as follows, i suppose: for rent--an eligible begging station, on the route from chamonix to geneva. regular diligence route, and the favorite route for carriages of rich english and americans. there are no hills near, the course in each direction is level for miles, permitting children to run a long distance without exhaustion. especially recommended for very young children. half hour after dining station, which ensures good nature on the part of passengers. the most certain and profitable location on the route. owner will take a percentage of the collections for rent, or will rent for a certainty. the journey by cars from geneva to interlaken is delightful. the road follows the left bank of lake geneva until lausanne is reached. now and then a break in the woods gives a glimpse of the blue waters of the lake, with the mountains beyond, then a long, dark tunnel shuts off every view, but only for a few minutes. then we enter a country that is magnificent in its quiet beauty. the hillsides are cultivated to the summit. rich vineyards with their luscious grapes fast ripening in the sun, fine farms with the variegated fields hide from sight the cold gray stone that makes the chamonix valley so desolate. after passing lausanne, lake leman is left behind and we go nearly due north to friburg, a beautiful town situated on a rocky eminence and nearly surrounded by the river sarine. friburg, like every swiss city, has its organ and legend. the organ is one of the finest of europe, and is played every afternoon and evening, provided the admissions amount to twenty francs. if there is not the vast amount of four dollars in the house the curtain does not go up, or rather, there is no performance. however, there are generally enough tourists present to justify the performance, and the listener is well rewarded for the expenditure of time. in front of the council house is an immense lime tree, partly supported by stone pillars. it has its legend. it is said that a young man of friburg--a participant in the great victory of morat, in the year , was sent after the battle to convey the glad news to his townsmen. he arrived, breathless and exhausted, so much so that he had just strength left to gasp the word "victory!" and expired. there was in his lifeless hand a lime twig which the citizens planted, and it grew to be the patriarch of trees it now is, and it is guarded with as much care as though the legend were actually true. how many in our late war ran from battle-fields, who might have had lime twigs in their hands if they had waited long enough to get them. but they did not. they were in too great a hurry to reach canada, from which they will all ( ) return to claim pensions under the arrearages of pensions act. [sidenote: berne and bears.] it would have been well for the country if all of this class had imitated the example of the young man of friburg, and expired. the citizens could well have afforded the time to plant the twigs in their hands. only a short stop is made here, and then to berne, one of the most interesting cities in switzerland. berne is the city of bears, and were it located in wisconsin would be called bearville. a bear was its origin. berthold dezahringen, some centuries ago, killed a tremendous bear on the ground now occupied by the pretty city, and founded a town in commemoration of the event, and so the bear became as common in berne as the lion is in england, or the eagle in america. there is bear everywhere. the public decorations are in the form of bears, the flags have bears on them, the bread is stamped with bears, the pot you drink your beer out of is in form a bear; the children's toys are all bears, and the city keeps two bear-pits, in which a dozen, more or less, fine specimens are kept. not many years ago an english officer, who, with his lately wedded bride, were doing switzerland, fell into one of these pits, and after a desperate struggle with the ferocious brutes, was literally torn to pieces in the sight of his agonized wife. i could not learn who it was the heart-broken wife married the next year, or whether she married well or not. it is a quaint and curious old city, and well worth a day or two. the situation is particularly beautiful, and as it has preserved the peculiar characteristics of the long ago, it is an instructive place. in the older section the streets have no sidewalks, the ground floors being made into arcades, with the houses above supported upon arches, under which you walk. it is always well for an american to visit the older portions of these cities, that he may more fervently thank heaven that his lot was cast in a new country, where there is no ancient and inconvenient rubbish to worry him. there is more of convenience in any one modern american house than there is in all of the old part berne, or, for that matter, of any ancient city. they do well to look at, but that is all the use they should be put to. i have a profound sympathy for the people condemned to live in them. berne is the capital of the little republic, and here its congress meets. its sessions last a month, as a rule, and then congress adjourns, and the members go home. the country is too poor to have much to steal, and consequently a short session is sufficient. i was shaved in berne, and, speaking of shaving and barbers generally, i want to say all i have to say on that subject at once. there is no barber like the american barber, and no such comfort anywhere in barbers as we enjoy at home. tourists have complained of the straight chairs, the dull razors, and all that sort of thing, and with some reason, though it is not as bad as represented. i have never known of any one being absolutely killed by an european barber, either at sight or sixty days. it is true that you do not have the luxurious reclining chair, nor the soothing manipulations of a deft artist, nor the delightful hair dressing, and all that. in england you are seated in a common, straight-backed chair, a napkin is adjusted closely about your neck, a dab of soap, three strokes of a bad razor, and you are permitted to staunch the blood and wash off the soap yourself. if you desire your hair dressed, as a very clumsy brushing is called, it is "tuppence extra." in france the operation is the same, only the barber, being always a statesman, talks you to the verge of madness. he knows that you do not understand a word of his language, but he talks on cheerfully just the same, till he is through, and really believes he has entertained you. the german barber does not talk you to death, for he is by nature phlegmatic. he stays by you longer, however, and leaves less of your face to carry away than either the english or french torturer. he wants to earn his money, and he does. the swiss is less airy than the frenchman, and more active than the german, for, very likely, he is of both nationalities. he is more careful, likewise. when his razor enters the flesh, he does not slice the whole side of the face off, for his time is not occupied with talk, as is the frenchman, nor is he so heavy as the german. no, indeed! when he sees that his razor has cut through the skin, and is entering the flesh, he stops right there, and calls your attention to the fact that he has stopped, and claims some credit for not carving off a half pound or more. [sidenote: barbers.] french, german, and swiss allow you to wash your own face, and comb your own hair, and otherwise fix yourself, but the swiss is the best of the three. but even in switzerland, it is better for the tourist if he has his own shaving material, and does it himself. he may cut and scar himself, but he will have some skin left, and may console himself that the cutting was the result of his own lack of skill, and not that of another. [illustration: the conscientious barber.] the continental barber has much to learn in the matter of shaving. the english barbers say they would like to adopt the american system, but their english customers will not. i understand it. their fathers were scarified, and why should they not be? it would be un-english to change. and so they go on with the same straight-backed chairs, the same clumsy contrivances, and they will so go on, till the end of time. the last englishman will be so shaved, when he might have had comfort and luxury all his life. chapter xxxvii. lake thun and beyond. from berne to thun the scenery is less bold and rugged, although the horizon is always filled with great peaks that are to be seen from every quarter. at thun we take steamer across lake thun, one of the most beautiful of all the swiss lakes. it is not so large as lake geneva, and is not fringed with such enormous mountain chains, but it abounds with unexpected views of rare beauty, resembling very much our own picturesque lake george. as the steamer skirts the north bank of the lake, which is a succession of vineyards, we suddenly come upon a magnificent view of the jungfrau, almost as impressive as mt. blanc. from that time on the great range gradually unfolds itself like the views of a panorama, until at length we have all the highest peaks in full sight. at därlingen we leave the steamer, and, after a short wait, see a peculiar looking train dash through the tunnel, at the head of the lake, and then come puffing noisily into the station. this is the celebrated bödeli railway, the second shortest in the world. it runs from därlingen to interlaken, a distance of a mile and a half. its cars are especially adapted to sight seeing, being constructed in two stories, so that every one can have an outside seat, to fully enjoy the picturesque scenery between the two stations. [sidenote: interlaken.] the one main street of interlaken is chiefly devoted to hotels, especially the upper portion of it, for from this location one has the best view of the celebrated jungfrau, that stands head and shoulders above the high silberhorn on the right and the schneehorn on the left. further down, the street is occupied with tempting stores filled with swiss wood carvings. from this time on nothing can be seen but wood carving, save perhaps an occasional bit of chamois horn. it is a quaint old town, full of odd nooks and corners, that would afford interesting study for weeks at a time. while there are no particular attractions, interlaken is a favorite resort of tourists, and is always full of strangers, who enjoy the mild, equable climate and find pleasure in resting. [illustration: the jungfrau, from interlaken.] the broad walnut-lined höheweg, a beautiful avenue, leads down across an old-fashioned, massive stone bridge to a street set aside for markets. here, during the forenoon, is a miniature petticoat lane, only the people are all clean, picturesquely dressed and decent. there are no rum shops, reeking with the vile odors of stale liquors and still staler tobacco smoke; there are no intoxicated men and women. everything is quiet, orderly and well conducted. but the variety of articles offered for sale is something astonishing. here an enterprising woman, as stiff and formal as the high white cap she wears, has a small stock of dry goods spread out on the pavement for the inspection of the picturesquely dressed peasants, who trade their milk and farm products for clothing material. a little further on you will find a complete assortment of boots and shoes, of all kinds and conditions. there a man has a hat store and a junk shop combined. at any place, almost, you can buy specimens of swiss skill in carving. these stores or exchanges are all on the street, along which it is difficult to thread one's way, so crowded is it with buyers and sellers. these narrow, crooked streets are lined with houses built the lord only knows how long ago. the long beams that cross each other in the front of the houses are carved and cut in every conceivable shape. sometimes the artist was a little ambitious and attempted very elaborate work, not always successfully, however, for the heads and figures that adorn the fronts of some of them are grotesque to a degree. interlaken is the starting point for most of the mountaineering parties that visit the bernese oberland, the chief point of interest centering about the jungfrau, which is forty-one hundred and sixty-seven feet high. the ascent of this mountain, which, though very fatiguing, is not dangerous, was first made in , and between that time and it was only accomplished five times. since the latter date, however, it has been made very frequently. we did not attempt to explore the icy regions, so far above the clouds, being perfectly content with our experience at mont blanc. interlaken is the great distributing point for the vast quantities of carved goods made in this vicinity. there are a number of large factories in the city, but the greater part of the work is done in the little towns near there. the displays made in the large stores are wonderful, some of the pieces being the work of genius. while every possible subject is treated, the carvers have a passion for bears, the heraldic emblem of some of the cantons. you will see bears of every conceivable size, and in every attitude. whole parties of them, playing billiards or cards, or dancing a quadrille; bears standing, sitting, lying down; bears everywhere and doing everything. some of this work is wonderfully well done, the lines and spaces being so delicately cut that it seems as though a breath would break them. [sidenote: wood carving.] on the way from interlaken to brienz we passed through little villages, whose one street is filled with wood carving establishments, and almost every house between the two places has a small factory for the manufacture of these pretty trifles. [illustration: wood carving.] at brienz we went through a very large factory and saw the patient swiss chipping away tirelessly at the huge piece of wood that was soon to be a medallion portrait. it is an art that requires great skill and delicacy of touch to produce fine work. in this factory there were some four hundred or five hundred men employed, and the work they turned out was marvelously beautiful. in fact one cannot sufficiently admire the wood carving of the region. the patient workers do everything artistic in the material, and it is artistic. landscapes, portraits, hunting scenes, animals, angels, scriptural subjects, everything that is done on canvas or in marble, is done in wood, and many of the pieces are purchased by crowned heads, and at a very high price. [illustration: the home of the carver.] [sidenote: the romance of the wood carver.] the artists in wood are, however, very poorly paid, even for switzerland. in america their wages would be considered as close to starvation as possible, without touching it. think of a man capable of doing the most artistic work laboring at four francs a day, or eighty cents! this is as high as any, except an occasional phenomenal genius, gets, and they appear to be content with it. for this miserable sum they work so long as they can see, commencing at daylight and ending at dark. true, living is very cheap, and such as it is it ought to be. the wretched beer of the region is only about a cent a glass, and the black bread of the country costs next to nothing, and so the artist works all day and at night sits himself in his little café, and with his cheap wine and cheaper beer, plays cards contentedly, and enjoys himself thoroughly. after all he is as well as though he got ten dollars a day. he couldn't drink any more wine than he does, and neither would additional pay enlarge his capacity for black bread, and what does he want of anything more? it isn't what you want--it's what you don't want that makes you rich. even in little wood carving brienz, romance gets in. we saw on the street, there is only one in brienz, a young man whose demoralized clothing, fiery eyes and unsteady steps, all bore evidence to the terrible fact of dissipation. he was the first drunken man of the genus loafer we had struck in switzerland. the young man who knows everything looked at him and promptly remarked:-- "that young man has wisdom. he is cultivating a vice. when he wants to economize he has a basis for economy. suppose he had always lived a perfectly correct life, and some emergency should come to him that demanded economy, what would he have to economize on? every man should so live that he can, if he must, better himself. i admire that young man, for he leaves himself room for development." the landlord gave us his history. the young man was ruined by prosperity. he was an industrious and very skillful carver, and had attained sixty cents a day with an immediate prospect of a raise of twenty cents, which is the summit of a legitimate brienz ambition. he was engaged to be married to the daughter of a poor swiss farmer, who had three cows and a goat or two, and there was no reason under heaven why he should not have been happy. he had health, strength, skill; josepha was beautiful, and there was nothing to prevent his marrying her, and settling down quietly to watch the development of her goitre, and passing a long and happy life. but evil was hanging over them. an uncle of rudolph's, who was a cook in paris, died without issue, and left his entire estate, sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents, to his nephew, our rudolph, in brienz. immediately rudolph grew cold towards josepha. he did not meet her on the little bridge after his work; he did not take her to fairs where the two drank beer lovingly out of the same mug; he did not always have some little present for her; in short, he avoided her. to use the strong though not elegant english of the wild and untamed west, he "shook" her. [illustration: female costumes in appenzell.] josepha noticed this change, and wept in her enforced solitude. with true womanly instinct she felt what was coming. there was now an inseparable bar between them. could she, a plain country girl, with no dowry to speak of, hope to wed a man with a fortune of sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents? and so she wept her lost love, her first love, which never comes again. one may love twice, but the second love has not the twang, the flavor, as it were, of the first. it is the difference of a meal on an empty stomach and the tail end of a feast. they met and josepha made one appeal to him. he answered her briefly, brutally: [sidenote: josepha's woe.] "i did love you, josepha," he said, "and could love you again, were it possible. but you must remember, my girl, that circumstances have changed; i am a man of fortune--you are the daughter of a poor farmer with but three cows, and those to be divided among ten children. and the price of cheese is sadly going down, and must still go down, owing to the competition of the factory system in america, where they can imitate even our most penetrating limburger, and sell it cheaper here than we can produce it. it is no use to talk of buying our own product, all people buy where they can buy the cheapest. that is political economy. "had you an uncle, a cook in paris, and liable to die, with sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents, the aspect of things would be changed. but you have no such uncle, and really, josepha, you cannot expect me, in my altered condition, to so throw myself away. no indeed. but i wish you well. forget me, if you can, and marry some one in your own sphere, and be happy. you would not want to wed me, and see me miserable! life would then be a burden to both. be ye not unequally yoked." josepha, weeping, turned away, for despite her love, she realized the truth of what he said. and rudolph, whistling an air, gaily went into the café, and sought to drown his feelings in wine. he knew he had done a very mean thing, but he felt it to be impossible for a youth of his prospects to marry a penniless girl. reveling in his wealth he pursued his mad career and came to grief, as such men always do. he quit work, he dressed extravagantly, and finally he made an unlucky investment in stocks, which swept off every sou he had. his sixty-eight dollars and fifty cents were irrevocably gone, and rudolph the gay found himself without money, with an expensive appetite for wine and an extreme disposition to do no work of any kind. one morning he heard a wild rumor that a brother of josepha in america had made a strike in oil and had sent josepha five hundred dollars. then his feelings toward that young lady changed. he went to her and remarked that he forgave her for her treatment of him; that the cloud that had come between them and obscured their happiness had passed away, and that there was no reason now why they should not realize the dreams of their youth and wed. it was now josepha's turn. she remarked that sentiment was all well enough, but that there was something in viewing matters from a mere worldly standpoint. love was sweet, but fortunately the stock of the article in the world was not limited. it was not to be expected in her altered condition that she should unite her fortunes with those of a penniless man. she quite agreed with what he (rudolph) had said to her on a former occasion, "be ye not unequally yoked." she (josepha) had now five hundred dollars. he (rudolph) had not a sou. had he (rudolph) five hundred dollars, and had he the good habits of his youth when he was an humble worker in wood, she would wed him gladly, but as he (rudolph) was, in the language of the world, short of that amount, and as she (josepha) had any quantity of coin, she rather thought she wouldn't. she should always regard him in the light of a friend, and should weep with great regularity when she thought of their severed loves, but there was a young farmer up the mountain who had twelve cows, and with her capital could double the stock, and she believed that her best show was with him. and so rudolph, penniless, loveless, and with an appetite which, like jealousy, makes the meat it feeds on, is a mere cumberer on the earth about brienz, the wreck we saw. and josepha, she married the young grazier, and has two children and one of the largest goitres in the neighborhood, and the two have prospered to the point of seriously contemplating the starting of a small inn, near a convenient waterfall, that they may fleece strangers, which is a more lucrative business in switzerland than cheese-making or wood-carving. in the evening we were rowed across the lake of brienz to the giessbach, the regular sight of the locality. the lake is twenty feet higher than lake thun, from which it is separated by a narrow strip of low land only two miles wide. it is thought that at one time the two lakes were joined. lake brienz is from five hundred to nine hundred feet deep, its water being of a very dark blue. [sidenote: the giessbach.] the giessbach consists of seven falls, the highest being one thousand one hundred and forty-seven feet above the lake. the water comes from a lake in the summit of the mountain, and tumbles from rock to rock till it finds its level in the lake below. all the seven are visible at once, and the sight is one of the most delightful in all switzerland. opposite the falls, on the other side of the enormous chasm, is a magnificent hotel, as a matter of course, where you are charged very reasonably--not more than twice what the same accommodations would cost you in a first-class hotel anywhere else. for this reasonableness you try to feel very thankful. one has to see the giessbach, anyhow; and, as there is but one place to stop, the proprietor's facilities for swindling are unlimited. a mere double charge may be classed as reasonable, there; especially as the sight is worth almost any expenditure. it was nearly dark when we reached the geissbach shore, so that we had but an imperfect view of the lovely falls, as we climbed up the steep path leading to the terrace, three hundred and nine feet above the lake. but even in the half twilight they were wondrously beautiful, as they dashed from rock to rock, hundreds of feet apart. [illustration: our party at the giessbach.] as it grew darker, the green foliage on each side threw out the silvery cascades, dancing from one to the other, in bold relief. gradually darkness completely enveloped them, and we could see nothing but the dark, gloomy mass of mountains down whose side for a thousand feet the water fell, from one pool to another. the terrace on which the hotel stands was brilliantly lighted, and was filled with tourists who were spending some little time here, visiting the many beautiful spots that make the giessbach one of the favorite resorts in switzerland. suddenly, about nine o'clock, a rocket flew skyward, from a point on the mountain opposite us. then one went up from the terrace, and while we were admiring its flight high in air, the lights about the hotel and on the terrace were extinguished and we were left in utter darkness. a long drawn "oh-h-h" involuntarily burst forth as the lowest cascade suddenly stood before us, a brilliant, beautiful sheet of water, of a delicate light blue tint. then simultaneously the other cascades above shone forth in all their splendor. the scene was wonderful. it was fairy land. bengal lights of different colors were arranged back of the sheets of water, so that each cascade was brilliantly lighted, producing an effect exquisitely and indescribably beautiful. gradually the lights under the water went out, the gas at hotel was relighted, and we were rowed back to brienz with a picture of wondrous beauty printed indelibly on our minds. tibbitts, who has rejoined the party after his attempt at reformation at the st. gervais baths, (by the way his personal appearance is not a good advertisement for the waters,) got an idea at giessbach, which he developed thus: "i have at last got my fortune made. what is wanted in switzerland is more waterfalls, with legends, more mineral springs, and more ruins, secular and sacred. as soon as i get back to new york i am going to organize a company for a waterfall, ruin and spring company." "but all the eligible waterfalls are taken." "very true, and to get one we should have to pay too large a price. this is the very essence of my idea--i am going to create a waterfall. what is a waterfall, anyway? nothing more than water pouring over a rock or other material. all that is necessary to a waterfall is an elevation and water. turn on the water, and it can't help falling, and there you are. [sidenote: a model waterfall.] "how shall we get water? easily enough. a side of a precipice, with a notch in it big enough for a hotel, can be bought anywhere along the lake of brienz for almost nothing. what is more easy than to construct a reservoir on the top, put a ninety-horse power engine in at the lake, and pump the water to the reservoir on the summit, and when visitors are there turn it on, and give them the best waterfall in all switzerland. "keep the water on till after they all go to bed, and for an hour or so after, so the roar'll soothe them to sleep; and if any rich americans choose to stay up all night, and buy wine, keep it on all night. we must have nothing mean about our waterfall. [illustration: peasants of eastern switzerland.] "there are a great many advantages in this over the natural article. the water can be turned off while the lights are being placed behind the sheet for illuminations, and the flow can be regulated so as to suit every taste. if the party is made up of young ladies who delight in the soft and beautiful, we can make a minnehaha of it; if it is strong men and old maids who hunger for the grand, why, whack on more steam, and we can have a niagara. "about a mile or so away i am going to have a castle in ruins--ruins ain't expensive where there is so much rock--and i can have any newspaper man write me a proper legend of it for ten dollars. this for the history crank. for the more devout we want the ruins of an ancient church, which was destroyed by whoever you choose. this will fetch all those who are on their way to the holy land. they don't spend as much money for wine as the other classes, but we can make it up in charges for board and guides. the ruins must be so built as to make a guide necessary, and so extensive that two days will be necessary to get the proper views of them, and to study their history understandingly. [illustration: near brienz.] "but this speculation will not be complete without mineral springs in the valley below. this is the easiest thing of the lot. you will build a reservoir and chuck into it a few barrels of salt, and a few bushels of rusty iron filings with sulphuric acid, a ton or so of sulphur (we must be liberal with sulphur for it is cheap), and any other articles that smell--asafoetida isn't bad--get it so thundering strong that it would drive a yellow dog out of a tanyard, and have it cure anything, from original sin to corns. we want a gorgeous cure, and a corps of distinguished physicians, and an analysis of the water, and all that, and we can just rope in the money. we commence them at the falls, we deplete them at the ruined castle, and dig into them at the ruined church, and finally finish them at the medicinal springs. we want a bank at the latter place, and, if the law permits it, a faro bank. anyhow, we can get a swiss hotel man, and if every blessed tourist doesn't have to draw more money before he gets out, then the race has lost its cunning. "i am going to be the president of this company, with a brother-in-law i have in wisconsin for treasurer. there's money lying around loose, and this scheme will corral all of it i shall ever want." tibbitts talked of his joint-stock waterfall, ruin and medicinal spring company all the way into lucerne. chapter xxxviii. lucerne and the rigi. the road from brienz to lucerne, over the brünig pass, follows the valley of meiringen for a long distance, and gives some very pretty views of lake brienz, the river aare, and a number of cascades in the mountains across the valley. as the ascent of the pass begins the road is frequently overshadowed by hanging rocks, which seem about to topple over every minute. as we wind around the mountains occasional glimpses are obtained of the valley far below, and then, after having gone over the summit of the pass, we have a long almost level stretch along the side of the mountain, from which we have a magnificent view of the valley of sarnea, with its pretty little lakes and rivers, its long, straight, white roads, and its queer little towns. two hours later we come in sight of pilatus rearing its lofty head high above lake lucerne, as though it were the guardian of that beautiful body of water. then a long drive on the banks of the lake, where the road is cut out of the solid rocks, and in a short time we rattle over the rough stones of a pavement, across the reuss river, and are in lucerne. this city, which is to switzerland what saratoga is to america, is prettily built at the head of lake lucerne, or, as the swiss call it, the vierwaldstätter see, which resembles somewhat in shape a roman cross, lucerne being at the head. it is situated in an amphitheater, if the term might be so applied, facing the snow capped alps of uri and engelberg, with rigi on one side and pilatus on the other. around it are massive walls and watch towers, built in , and still in a good state of preservation. the hotels are nearly all located on the schweizerhof quays, which occupies the site of an arm of the lake that was filled up some fourteen years ago. from any one of these mammoth hotels magnificent views may be obtained on any clear day. directly in front is the lake; to the right the rigi group, with its hotel-crowned summit; in the center the reussstock chain, and to the extreme right pilatus. all of these mountains are full of points of interest, and are annually visited by thousands of tourists, who make up their parties at lucerne. the sail across the lake to any part of the town on its borders, makes a delightful excursion that is always new and interesting. [illustration: lion of lucerne.] the show sight here is the celebrated lion of lucerne, which photographs and pictures have made famous the world over. it is an immense figure, cut in the side of a great rock, about a quarter of a mile from the quay, in memory of the twenty-six officers and seven hundred soldiers who were massacred in the tuileries, paris, on the tenth of august, , when the commune obtained control of the government, and compelled king louis to fly for his life. an immense lion, twenty-eight feet in length, lies dying in a grotto, transfixed with a broken lance. under one paw, as though he would shelter it even in death, is the bourbon lily. on either side of the lion are the names of the officers, and an inscription. the idea is a simple one, but the work was done by a master hand, (the danish sculptor thorwalsden being the artist) and is very impressive. [sidenote: the swiss soldiers abroad.] as a rule, people thrill when they look upon this famous lion of lucerne, but i declined to do anything of the kind. the death of these swiss, in paris, was a purely commercial matter. they were the hirelings of an infamous despot, who was crushing the life out of the french people by their aid. i have no sympathy for king, queen or noble, and when one dies i have a hosanna to sing immediately. and i cannot imagine anything more disgraceful than a man, swiss, or of any other nationality, who would sell himself to a despot. these fellows, who fell in defense of louis, had but one merit: they sold their blood, bones and sinews, and they carried out their contract. they were simply honest butchers, who contracted to do certain work for a lecherous french king, and did it. but the monument at lucerne to these hirelings is an insult to humanity, and all the good i got out of it, was the contemplation of a wondrously carved lion, and the drawback to that satisfaction was the frightful fact that the men, to whose memory it stands, never should have had any monument erected at all. this inscription is the only one they deserved: "sacred to the memory of some hundreds of hired soldiery, who fought for pay only, had too much animal courage to run, and who died to carry out a contract." as a work of art, thorwalsden's lion is worth seeing--as a piece of sentiment, excuse me. i have seen too many soldiers in europe who sell their sinews for pay, and i have seen too many starving people who are kept poor to support them. i do not like any soldiers but volunteers, and whenever the people get the upper hand of the other kind, i want to contribute for a monument to the people, not to their oppressors. aside from the bridges, whose only merit is their age, and one or two rather scantily furnished churches, there is but little of interest in lucerne. the glacier mills are an attraction, and are well worth seeing. there is no humbug about nature. you climb a hill after looking at the lion, and you come to a garden in which are a series of the great pits known as glacier mills. these are simply great holes in solid rock thirty or forty feet deep, and about the same in diameter. in the ages gone by when this country was covered with glaciers, the action of water wore holes in the rock, great stones lost themselves in these cavities, the water came in and the stones, weighing many tons, revolved by the action of the water, wore away the rock and enlarged the pit at every revolution. this work went on for ages. the water forced itself into the pit, the great rock revolved, by its action enlarging the cavity at every revolution, until finally the glacier disappeared and the rocks were at rest. and here they are to-day, round as marbles, lying at the bottom of the pits they made, so many evidences of the irresistible forces of nature. in this enclosure there are, perhaps, twenty of them, varying in depth from thirty to fifty feet, and about the same distance across. tibbitts believed they were artificial, and said he should dig a few for his hotel and ruin company, but he is entirely mistaken. the glacier mills are genuine and the same forces are at work to-day under every ice-field, and doing the work precisely as this was done. however, there is no reason why he should not manufacture a few--tourists would take them just the same, and be just as well satisfied. he claims that with nitro-glycerine he can do in five hours the work that requires centuries to accomplish with water and rock, which demonstrates the supremacy of mind over matter. mont pilatus, just out of lucerne, is something you must see whether you want to or not. it isn't a very remarkable mountain, but the astute hotel keeper and the more rapacious hackman, has made it necessary for you to spend more money than you want to, by seeing mont pilatus. it is a proper mountain to see, nothing extraordinary, as a mountain, but you are compelled to go anyhow, and you do. and this is why you go. [sidenote: pontius pilate.] there has to be a legend for every point of sufficient interest to attract a traveler, and so pilatus has its legend. you are told gravely that after pontius pilate washed his hands of the blood of our savior, and saw him go to his death, instead of saving him as he might have done, he was struck with remorse, returned to rome, and pursued by a feeling which he could not get rid of, made his way to this mountain in switzerland, and lived in a cave therein, a recluse, expiating by a life of solitude the crime he had been guilty of in shedding innocent blood. and they show you gravely and without a blush, a pond in the top of the mountain, where, after he became an old man, he ended the life that was a burden to him, by drowning himself therein, and they tell you of the earthquakes and things of unpleasant nature that followed his demise. the arch enemy of mankind was on hand in person to seize him, and when he had struck the water he was taken bodily by his satanic majesty and whisked away to the lower regions. [illustration: the end of pontius pilate.] did all this happen? possibly. i was not there, and therefore cannot say positively that it did not. i wish to be truthful and reasonable. but i will venture my opinion that pilate never came to switzerland; that after his term expired as governor of judea he stole all he could lay his hands upon and went back to rome, and went over to the new emperor or consul, or whatever they called the official who had the giving out of patronage, and got a new appointment somewhere else. that is what became of pontius pilate. however, mt. pilatus is well worth seeing, and the legend is a very effective one, and the guide who tells it to you always gets several francs in addition to his original swindle. you must have legends, and as people believe them it is the same as though they were true. an imaginative friend of mine was once standing upon the railroad platform at forest, ohio, in the war years, probably the most lonesome and desolate station in the world. there were twenty passengers with him for a train that was so far behind that no one could guess as to when it would arrive. he had cut a little switch from a tree near the platform, and as he flourished it ostentatiously, some one asked him where he got it. with a quickness of invention--a fertility of lying that was simply admirable--he said it was the tip of the flag-staff of fort donelson! now this was nothing but a little switch cut within twenty feet of where they were standing, but immediately all the passengers came up and took it in their hands and examined it critically, and commented on it, as though it were something of actual importance. it was, to them. the battle was discussed, the merits of grant as a soldier were discussed, and the whole war was with its causes and consequences, reviewed. and all this because a prompt liar, in an impulsive way, located a forest switch as the tip of the flag-staff of donelson. we believed it, and handled the switch reverently. the tourist to pilatus swallows the legend of pilate, and it does him just as much good as though it were true. the moral to all this is, the wise man swallows what is set before him and asks no questions for his stomach's sake. never go into the kitchen in which your hash is made. be ignorant and happy. [sidenote: up the rigi.] by this time we were ready for another mountaineering [illustration: lucerne-rigi-rail--vitznau as seen from the eichberg.] expedition, especially as in this instance the ascent could be made in a comfortable railway car. to reach vitznau, where the railway station is, we took a sail of about an hour and a half, through beautiful scenery. as we steam out from lucerne, the city is seen to its best advantage, its long walnut-shaded quay, its massive hotels, churches, walls and towers, standing up from the water and thrown into relief by the dark green forests on the mountains behind it. [illustration: lucerne-rigi-rail--view from the kanzeli.] [sidenote: pilate in the guide book.] soon after lucerne fades away we see the cross-like formation of the lake, one arm, known as lake küssnach, stretching way to the north, while on the other side is lake alpnach. far ahead of us is the bay of buosch and lake of uri, forming the foot of the cross. at the head of lake küssnach can be seen the town of that name. here, in the central part of the cross, the view is particularly impressive; the rigi, on the left, with its wooded slopes shining in the sunlight, contrasting strangely with the mist and clouds that envelope pilatus, on the other side of the lake. as we see the clouds lowering around the high peak of mt. pilate, the legend told by antonio, the guide in sir walter scott's "anne of gierestein," comes vividly to mind. i have given my readers my notion of the legend of pilatus--now they have it exactly as the guide books give it. you pay your money and you take your choice. here it is in guide book talk: 'the wicked pontius pilate, proconsul of judea, here found the termination of his impious life; having, after spending years in the recesses of the mountain which bears his name, at length, in remorse and despair rather than in penitence, plunged into the dismal lake that occupies the summit. whether water refused to do the executioner's duty upon such a wretch, or whether, his body being drowned, his vexed spirit continued to haunt the place where he committed suicide, no one pretended to say. but a form was often seen to emerge from the gloomy waters, and go through the action of washing his hands, and when he did so dark clouds of mist gathered, first round the bosom of the infernal lake (such it had been styled of old), and then wrapping the whole upper part of the mountain in darkness, presaged a tempest or hurricane, which was sure to follow in a short space. the evil spirit was peculiarly exasperated at the audacity of such strangers as ascended the mountain to gaze at his place of punishment, and, in consequence, the magistrates of lucerne had prohibited any one from approaching mt. pilate, under severe penalties.' it is perhaps needless to say that the prohibition has been long removed, and that every season a great many tourists ascend the grand old peak, to see the infernal lake on its summit. all do it who can afford to pay for it. and speaking of these miracles and appearances, and all that sort of thing, they don't take place any more. pilate hasn't appeared in person to any tourists for hundreds of years. his appearance is something that used to happen, but doesn't any more. tibbitts remarked that when he got his hotel done, he would have pilate appear, actually washing his hands, no matter what it cost him. he intended to have a lot of fresh miracles. he would treat his patrons decently, and not palm off upon them a lot of old legends. he could get a man to do the pilate business for thirty dollars a month, and he wouldn't be mean enough to stop at so small an expense as that. passing weggis, a pretty village nestling at the foot of the rigi, vitznau is reached, and there we disembark for our ride up the mountain. the rigi has long been a favorite resort for tourists, and as far back as an attempt was made to assist them in reaching the summit with less fatigue and greater comfort and security. in that year, one riggenbach, of olten, and an engineer of aaron, named olivier zschokke, after having experimented for years on the subject, published a pamphlet, in which they declared that it was possible to construct a railway from vitznau to the summit of the rigi. [illustration: the old way of ascending the rigi.] the treatise attracted a great deal of attention, and the following year the two engineers applied for aid from the government of lucerne to carry out the scheme they had devised. this aid was granted, and in two years the road was finished to stoffel, over half the distance, and two years later to the very summit of the mountain. [sidenote: a mountain railway.] the new system consists of two rails of standard gauge, such as are used on ordinary railways, firmly fixed on sleepers, which are solidly secured to the rock by every device known, to insure their solidity. then a third rail, supplied with cogs, is placed between the other two, and on this the cogged driving wheel of the engine of a new construction propels the [illustration: night ascent of the rigi in the old times.] engine up the hill. engines of a special pattern were built, for as the ascent is often at an angle of twenty-five degrees, ordinary locomotives would not do. the boiler in the new engine is perpendicular and the rear is slightly elevated. the tread-wheels are connected with the cog wheel in the center of the engine in such a manner that each wheel bears its proportion of the weight. the road has been a complete success from the start, not a single accident having ever occurred. the sensation after the car leaves level ground at the station in vitznau and begins to climb steadily up the mountain is peculiar. the ground seems to melt away, and yet is always replaced. as we mount higher and higher, the view becomes more extensive. now we can see the little town we have just left on the pretty little bay, at the foot of the mountains. beyond it the lake stretches out to the mountains that seem to come to its very edge. then the road passes through a tunnel, a marvel of engineering skill, for going through there the ascent is at a rise of twenty-five degrees. emerging from this tunnel, the train speeds across a bridge, over a yawning chasm, whose sides are lined with stunted trees and great bowlders, that are washed by a large stream which takes its rise higher up the mountain. from this point the view is grand. pilate, towering above the lake, is clearly seen on the right; just below is weggis, and further on the bright buildings of lucerne shine in the sunlight, while the lake, with its different arms, looks like "a painted sea." all around and above are the huge red rocks of the rigi. there are two or three stations along the route, but we push steadily on, the views becoming grander and grander with each successive step, until the summit is reached, and then the panorama is complete. you see the alps in the eastern part of switzerland, the massive pile of the loudi, all the western mountains of schwyz, and to the north the cantons of zug, zurich and lucerne spread out like a map at our feet. way down the valley can be seen eleven different lakes, with little clumps of houses, the villages on the shores of the "vierwaldstätter see." passing by the great hotels that flourish here so high above the world, we go to the great bluff which is so prominently seen from lucerne, and there the view is magnificent. as far as the eye can reach on the south are the countless peaks of the alps, covered with snow the year around. near at hand are beautiful valleys with winding rivers and straight, thread-like roads. [sidenote: rigi kulm.] as we stand there, lost in wonder at the overpowering magnificence of the scene, the sun, which up to this time had been shining brightly, was obscured by clouds, and we were treated to a thunder storm which raged with terrific fury for half an hour or more. then the sun broke forth again in all his splendor and we saw the clouds disappear beneath his powerful rays. [illustration: railway up the rigi.] sunrise as seen from the rigi kulm is said to be one of the most magnificent sights imaginable. one enthusiastic german writer gives a very glowing account of it, which has been literally translated and is sold in all the book-stores in lucerne. the translation is so good (?) that it should be universally read. a portion of it is reproduced: "the starlight night far expanded and aromatic with the herbs of the alps and the meadow ground, now begins to assume a gray and hazy veil. their mists arise from the top of the feathered pines, an airy crowd of ghost-like silent shapes approaching the light, that with a feebly pale glimmering dawns in the east. it is a strange beginning, a gentle breath of the morning air greets us from the rocky walls in the deep, and brings confused noises from below. that is a signal for all who did not like to ascend so high, without beholding the sunrise. meanwhile the day breaks out bright and clear; a golden stripe, getting broader and broader, covers the mountains of st. gall; the peaks of snow change their colors, indifferently white at first, then yellowish, and at last they turn a lovely pink. the new-born day illuminates them. now, a general suspense! one bright flash--and the first ray of the sun shoots forth. a loud and general "oh" bursts out. the public feels grateful, be it a ray of the rising sun, or a rocket burnt off and dying away in the distance, with an illuminating tail of fire, and, after the refulgent globe, giving life to our little planet, has fully risen, the crowd of people drop off one by one to their various occupations." [illustration: the rigi railway.] the ride down, while full of surprising views, is not so interesting as the ascent, for one is familiar with every turn, and has not that feeling of novelty that impresses him while going up. going back to lucerne we are treated to a magnificent sunset, old sol sinking behind the mountains with a grand blaze of glory that tinges the peaks all around the horizon with a brilliant golden outline. [sidenote: tell's chapel.] on the eastern border of this wondrously beautiful lake is [illustration: the railway up the mountain.] a chapel, built, it is said, upon the spot where tell leaped from the boat of gesler, the austrian tyrant, while on his way to prison, and shot him. it is a pretty little structure, at the water's edge, and is every year visited by thousands of people who come to enthuse over the alleged swiss patriot. i should have enthused with the rest, only ever since i have been in switzerland i have been investigating tell, and to my profound grief i find that like sairy gamp's mrs. harris, "there ain't no sich a person," and never was. [illustration: tell's chapel, lake of lucerne.] when i say to my profound grief, i mean it. in my boyhood--alas, that was many a year ago--i had several pet heroes among men and things. tell shooting the arrow off his boy's head and saving another arrow to shoot gesler had he harmed his son, was one of them; jackson and his cotton bales at new orleans was another; the maelstrom, sucking down whales and ships, as depicted in the school geographies, was another; and then came wellington with his "up guards and at 'em," at waterloo, the quiet but heroic general taylor at monterey with his "a little more grape, captain bragg!" with others too tedious to mention. among my especial hatreds was the cruel king richard, of england, who slaughtered the infant princes in the tower. [sidenote: historical romance.] alas for history and geography! one by one these idols were dismounted. later geographical investigation proves that there is no maelstrom on the coast of norway; that the statement was founded upon a few rather ugly currents that swirl and eddy among some islands, but which are yet perfectly safe for vessels of light draft. i had scarcely recovered from this before it came to light that jackson's riflemen did not rest their unerring pieces upon cotton bales. when one thinks of it, it would be rather risky to fire flint-lock rifles over such inflammable material as cotton, to say nothing of the confession of that brobindignagian fraud, vincent nolte, who confessed that all there was of the cotton story was this: he was moving a few bales of cotton he had in new orleans up the country for safety, when it was feared the british would burn the city, and one of his mule teams, with two bales upon the wagon, was passing where some tennesseeans were throwing up an earthwork. the wild backwoodsmen, in sheer mischief, upset the wagon, cut the mules loose, and buried the two bales and the wagon under the earth. then, as he sued the government, per custom, for the price of five hundred bales, it was said that the battle was fought behind cotton, and the pictures show it. for wellington to have said "up guards and at them!" would be to presume that wellington was in the extreme front with the guards, and taylor, to have made his exclamation, must have been sitting on his horse beside captain bragg, something generals never do. but i said, though all these are gone, i have my tell left me. alas! swiss and german investigators have proved conclusively that there never was such a man as tell; that gesler is quite as much of a fiction, and that the whole business of the apple on the son's head, the leap from the boat, and all the rest of it, is a poetic legend, the counterpart of which may be found in the literature of all old people. there is no mention either of tell or gesler in any authentic history. but i thank heaven my objects of dislike are proved to be just as much fictions as the others. for up comes an english essayist who proves that richard iii. did not smother the infant princes, that he was not a cruel, humpbacked tyrant, but was the wisest and best king england had ever had, and that his untimely taking off was one of the greatest misfortunes that ever befell that country. so these investigators have reduced humanity to a sort of average dead level, with no mt. blancs of goodness and no jungfraus of badness. tibbitts was very indignant when i told him this about tell. he remarked that he preferred not to believe the investigators; he preferred to believe in tell. he didn't care a straw for the investigators, he defied them. suppose tell didn't shoot the apple? what then? tell shooting the apple made a picturesque picture, and it pleased him. he protested against reducing all mankind to the drawing of molasses and the hewing of calico. he wanted heroes and heroines, and if they didn't appear in real life the poet gave them to us, and it did just as well. by this time tibbitts got wound up. "how does any one know that there was no tell? i demand proof. you can't prove that there was _not_ such a man, and that he did _not_ do the feats ascribed to him. very well! i assert there _was_ such a man; that there was a gesler; that gesler put his hat on a pole in the market place, and required everybody to bow to it, and tell refused; and then gesler insisted that he should shoot an apple from his boy's head, and he did it. you have no proof that this is not so. i have proof that it is. i can show you the market place, and an apple. that the feat is possible every schoolboy knows, for have we not all seen buffalo bill do the same thing in the theaters? and, then, if it were not precisely true, it should have been. we want such incidents to keep alive a love of country, a healthy spirit of patriotism, and a wholesome hatred of tyrants who go about putting caps upon poles and requiring people to bow to them. admitting it to be a fable, we want more such fables. what difference does it make if it is a fable? does it not inculcate a great principle just the same? and inculcating a great principle is the main thing. i hold to tell with all the simple faith i had in childhood, and even more. for in childhood tell was merely a romantic and highly colored sensation--now he has grown to the sublime dimensions of a moral necessity." and in spite of the bald facts staring him in the face, he went into ecstacies in the chapel, and spoke of it as a "shrine," and remarked that it would be better for the world had it had more tells, and said everything that everybody says. [sidenote: swiss reverence for tell.] the young man who knows everything ambled in at this point with the remark that worms were made for sparrows, and the sparrows know it. it is a beautiful provision of nature that the strong eat the weak. if intellect and strength won't provide a living, what is the use of intellect and strength. a man might as well be a fool as anything else, if he can't live on his mental endowments. which, as it had no earthly application to the subject under discussion, was characteristic, very. but it satisfied him. but you had better not express any doubt as to tell to any of the swiss, especially in this region. they believe in him as firmly as americans do in washington, and in the apple as steadily as we do in the hatchet. there was a book published in berne, proving tell to be a myth, and it was suppressed by the government, and all the copies in circulation siezed and burned. tell is a national pride, and besides, the legend brings tourists into the country, and keeps them longer after they come, which is a matter of national profit. and so, between pride and profit, they keep up the fiction, and will, to the end of time. however, i still believe in washington's hatchet, and in franklin's eating bread in the streets of philadelphia. i am going to cling to something of my youth. but i suppose somebody will disembowel these legends in the course of time, and life thereafter will be as monotonous as a mill-pond--all on a dead level. chapter xxxix. zurich and strasburg. leaving lucerne, mont pilatus and the rigi behind us, we speed rapidly on through pleasant valleys and fragrant meadows. the country loses its high, mountainous nature, and becomes a level, well-farmed district, extremely pleasant after three weeks of nothing but huge mountains, steep passes and rugged hills. mountain scenery is all very well in its way, but one can have too much of it. a little is quite sufficient. zurich is a beautiful city, lying around the head of the lake of the same name. the old portion dates back to the twelfth century, and contains many interesting relics of that period. but around the old part there has grown up a fine modern city, whose solid substantial buildings, of fine architecture, contrast strangely with the old houses and churches that were built centuries ago. its location could not be more beautiful. in front is the clear pale-green lake, from which the limpid limmat emerges and divides the city into two parts. its shores are lined with picturesque villas, peeping out from among the orchards and vineyards that clothe the banks, clear to the foot of the snow clad alps which form a strong background, being so far away that they are soft and subdued in the hazy air that partly obscures them from view. the pride of zurich is her schools, indeed all of german switzerland is proud to recognize this place as its educational center. for centuries it has enjoyed this distinction, and its university, founded in , is maintaining in these years the reputation of the city. [sidenote: beer and music.] where german is spoken three things are always found, music, wine and beer. bacchus, gambrinus and orpheus go hand in hand, and they engross the german mind about equally. zurich has more music to the square foot than any of the swiss cities, and the other two members of the trinity are by no means neglected. [illustration: tibbitts in a concert hall, zurich.] the tonhalle is a spacious building finely decorated with rare plants and flowers, and brilliantly lighted with gas jets springing from artificial palm trees. here the good citizens of zurich spend an evening of perfect enjoyment. an orchestra of seventy pieces, each performer a trained musician, renders a programme of classical and popular music, in the most perfect manner. the vast audience, composed of ladies and gentlemen of the best standing, sit around the little round tables sipping their light wine or beer, listening to the music and, during the intervals, chatting and laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves. there is a something about such an evening that is irresistable. the perfect order that prevails, the exquisite music, the brilliancy of the room, all combined to make it a perfect delight. night after night--the programme is never twice alike--the tonhalle is crowded with the wealth and fashion of zurich, people of refinement and culture, who can fully appreciate and enjoy the delightful music. there is one custom which obtains all over germany, and especially in zurich, which is a german city in reality, which custom i would could be transplanted in all its native vigor to america; and that is the carrying of the family relation into amusement as well as business. a zuricher doesn't eat his supper in silence, his mind full of his business, and after, without a word, put on his hat and overcoat, and with some indistinct reference to a lodge or a council meeting, or "the office," walk off to a club or beer place, and spend the evening convivially, only to return in the middle of the night, and roll into his bed without knowing or caring whether his wife and children have had a pleasant evening or no. not he! on the contrary, he consults his wife at lunch as to whether she prefers a dinner at home or at the gardens. the programmes of the various places are consulted, and it is decided, we will say, that the tonhalle affords the most ponderous inducement; and so the whole family--father, mother, children, and grandchildren and grandparents, if such there be--go together and dine to the soft pleasings of the lute, or, rather, to the music of a magnificent orchestra. for, be it known, at all these musical resorts there are superb restaurants, where splendid repasts are served at a very low price, so that in the matter of expense it makes no difference whether a family dines at home or at the public gardens. [sidenote: the swiss way.] the whole family sit and chat over their dinner in the jolliest way, listening to, enjoying and discussing the music, and after the dinner there is the long evening over the delightful light wines for the ladies and children, and the heavier beer for the adults; there are cigars for the males, and confections for the women and children, and so on, until the hour comes for home. these concerts are made up of all kinds of music, from the weightiest classical to the most simple and popular, but the simple and popular is rendered with as much painstaking conscientiousness as the highest. they do "way down upon the swanee river" as conscientiously as a selection from wagner, and as the performance lasts four hours or more there is variety enough to suit every taste. and then, after it is over, the whole family go home, pleased with their simple enjoyment, and they go home together. the husband does not stop on the way; his enjoyment is with his family, and in his family. there is no more pleasant sight in europe than a swiss or german family around one of these tables, enjoying drinking, music, smoking, and conversation, all at once. happy people! they have the rare art of gratifying all the senses at once, at less cost than an american can any one singly. the whole cost of an evening in the tonhalle for a man and his entire family is less than many an american of very moderate means spends upon himself alone, and they get ten times as much out of it as we do. tibbitts insisted the first night he was with a german family at one of these places, that he should certainly marry a german girl and settle in switzerland. when you can dine a large family for a dollar, wine, music and cigars included, was his remark, there is some inducement for having a family. he could afford, if the price of land kept up in wisconsin, to have an indefinite number of children. and the young man who knows everything, who felt the influence of the heady wine he had drank, added, with great gravity: "better a dinner of herbs on a house-top with a brawling woman, than to dwell with a stalled ox in the tents of wickedness." it was his time for a quotation. from zurich through basle, or bale, we come to strasburg, one of the most interesting cities in europe. in this old city of strasburg, founded by the romans hundreds of years ago, we get a better idea of old architecture than in any city yet visited. its narrow, crooked streets, with high, many-storied roofs, tell the story of its age in unmistakable language. the unique wood carving that embellishes the façades of so many of the old wooden buildings look strange and out of place in this matter-of-fact age, but in years gone by they gave to strasburg the name of "the most beautiful city." approaching the city we pass a number of strong fortifications, which were in active use during the franco-prussian war. strasburg, two miles from the rhine, has always been a strategical point, and played a very important part in the struggle of - , the siege, which lasted from the thirteenth of august till the twenty-seventh of september, being one of the marked episodes of the war. once in the city the tourist turns first to the cathedral, which stands nearly in the center of the city. unfortunately for the general effect, it is located in a neighborhood of narrow streets and ugly high-roofed houses that entirely surround the massive pile, and the first impression is rather disappointing. but this feeling soon wears off. there is a certain majesty about the noble building that compels admiration, while the cloud-cleaving spire, wondrously graceful, is a marvel of strength and grace. it is a fascinating structure. the more one studies its beautiful proportions, and the wonderful decorations which so profusely embellish it, the more he is struck with wonder at the genius of the architect and the skill of the patient builders. the present cathedral was begun some time during the twelfth century, on the site of one destroyed by fire, said to have been built during the sixth century. tradition says that the site of the present cathedral has been devoted to worship from the remotest times; that there was a sacred wood in the midst of which the celts built their druidical dolmen. after the romans conquered gaul, they founded a fortified town, where strasburg now stands, and in place of the dolmen they dedicated a temple to hercules and mars. old chronicles record that in the fourth century st. armand built a church on the ruins of an old roman temple, the previous existence of which is authenticated by the finding of several brass statues of hercules and mars, during the excavations for the foundations of the first cathedral. [sidenote: the cathedral.] from the beginning of the work on the present cathedral [illustration: principal entrance to strasburg cathedral.] down to it has been terribly unfortunate, having been burned, struck by lightning, shaken by earthquakes, and in it suffered terribly by the cannon balls of the german besiegers. in the first part of the siege of strasburg, the germans tried to force the surrender by the bombardment and partial destruction of the inner town. in the night of the d of august began for the frightened inhabitants the real time of terror; however, that night the rising conflagrations, for instance in st. thomas' church, were quickly put out. but in the following night the new church, the library of the town, the museum of painting, and many of the finest houses, became a heap of ruins, and under the hail of shells all efforts to extinguish the fire were useless. for the cathedral the night from the th to the th of august was the worst. towards midnight the flames broke out from the roof perforated by shells, and increased by the melting copper they rose to a fearful height beside the pyramid of the spire. the sight of this grand volume of flames, rising above the town, was indescribable and tinged the whole sky with its glowing reflection. and the guns went on thundering, and shattering parts of the stone ornaments which adorned the front and sides of the cathedral. the whole roof came down and the fire died out for want of fuel. the following morning the interior was covered with ruins, and through the holes in the vault of the nave one could see the blue sky. the beautiful organ built by silbermann was pierced by a shell, and the magnificent painted windows were in great part spoiled. on the th of september two shells hit the crown of the cathedral and hurled the stone masses to incredible distance; on the th a shot came even into the point below the cross, which was bent on one side, and had its threatened fall only prevented by the iron bars of the lightning conductor which held it. after the entrance of the germans into the reconquered town, the difficult and dangerous work of restoration of the point of the spire was begun at once and happily ended a few months after. they have now obliterated all traces of the ruin and devastation of that dreadful time. [sidenote: royalty.] this is war, and what was this war all about? why, louis napoleon, who stole france and kept the french enslaved by amusing one-half of them that he might rob the other half, had to appeal to french patriotism and plunge france into a war to cover his imperial thefts. on the other hand, the kaiser william, and the iron-handed bismarck, who had been grinding the people of germany for years to prepare for war, were not slow to accept the challenge. what they wanted was to have more territory to plunder. there was no bad blood between the french and german people; it was the self-constituted rulers of the two peoples, who, for their own glory, set them to butchering each other. and so at it they went. these kings and emperors respect neither god nor man, and so they sent their bombs hurtling through this wonderful temple dedicated to god. nothing to the gunners inspired by royalty was the delicate tracery, the genius-inspired proportions, the almost breathing statues, the wonderfully beautiful spire, that crystallized dream; nothing to them the magnificent organ, attuned to the sweetest worship of the most high, nothing the recollections of the centuries that clustered about it, nothing the art treasures it held. it was strasburg, and strasburg must fall. and they counted god's images in the doomed city even less than they did god's temple. and so they sent shells crashing through the homes of strasburg, and men were killed in its streets, women in the houses, and children in their cradles. it made no difference to the white-bearded william, the iron-handed bismarck, or the sensual napoleon. it was their fight, but they bore none of the suffering. the kaiser actually had the impudence to order a thanksgiving for the slaughter of ten thousand frenchmen, and louis napoleon would have done the same had he been in condition. i have expressed my opinion of kings before. the more one sees of them and their work the less love he has for them. soldiers and thin soup for the people in germany, soldiers and starvation in ireland. that's what royalty and nobility mean everywhere--brute force and suffering. the façade of the great cathedral is by erwin, of steinbach, the most famous architect of the middle ages, and is a marvel of beauty, its massive proportions being toned down and improved by the innumerable figures, statues, and a fine rose window, forty-two feet in diameter, that adorn it. entering the cathedral, one is greatly impressed with the harmonious effect produced by the massive yet graceful columns from which spring the light arches that form the ceiling. the proportions are admirable, the height being ninety-nine feet, the width forty-five yards, and the length one hundred and twenty-one yards. the pulpit, a fine specimen of stone carving, dates back to , and affords a good idea of the style of art that flourished in germany at that time. [illustration: pig market, strasburg.] [sidenote: the wonderful clock.] next to the cathedral itself, which demands a great deal of study, the great astronomical clock attracts the most attention. it was constructed during the years - , by a strasburg clockmaker named schwilgue, and is a wonderful piece of mechanism. the exterior, handsomely decorated with exquisite carvings and paintings, shows a perpetual calendar, with the feasts that vary, according to their connection with easter or advent sunday. the dial, which is thirty feet in circumference, is subject to a revolution in three hundred and sixty-five or three hundred and sixty-six days, and indicates the suppression of the circular bi-sextile days. there is also a complete planetarium, representing the mean tropical revolutions of each of the planets visible to the naked eye, the phases of the moon, and the eclipses of the sun and moon calculated forever. then with the same mechanism a number of figures are made to go through certain motions at stated intervals. at noon the twelve apostles appear before the savior, who raises his hands to bless them, during which time a cock flaps his wings, and crows three times. a figure of death stands in the midst of figures representing the four ages, childhood striking the first quarter of the hour, youth the second, manhood the third, and old age the last. just before each quarter is struck, one of the two genii seated above this perpetual calendar strikes a note of warning. when the hour is struck by death, the second of these genii turns over the hour glass he holds in his hand. it is a wonderful piece of mechanism. as with everything else of public interest around this section, where in olden times imagination ran riot, this clock has its legend. it is said that, long ages ago, a mechanic of strasburg labored and studied for years for the accomplishment of some purpose that he kept secret from all his neighbors. even his only child, a lovely girl who was sought in marriage by a prospective mayor of the city, and by a handsome young clockmaker, was not allowed to enter the room where this mysterious work was being carried on. in the course of time the elder suitor was made mayor, and then proposed for the hand of the beautiful girl, who, loving the young man, refused him. soon after this, the old mechanic showed to the astonished citizens of strasburg, who up to this time had ridiculed him as an insane person, the wonderful clock he had constructed. he at once became very popular, much to the disgust of the mayor who had been rejected by his daughter. the clockmaker's fame spread all over the country, and the citizens of basel, a neighboring city, attempted to buy the wonderful piece of mechanism. but the corporation of strasburg would not part with it, and caused a chapel to be built in the cathedral for its reception. then the citizens of basel offered a large sum of money if the master would construct them a similar clock, and he accepted their offer. this would never do. the wonderful clock was the principal glory of strasburg, and people were coming from all parts of the then civilized world to see it. if basel should have a clock like it or superior to it, it would divide the trade as well as the glory, and strasburg, instead of standing alone as the possessor of such a piece of mechanism, would have a rival. should basel get a clock, the citizen thereof would cock his hat upon one side of his head and say, to a strasburger, "you needn't put on airs about your old clock, with its twelve apostles, and all that. we see your twelve apostles and go you a judas iscariot better. you have a rooster it is true, we admit that, but we have one with all the latest improvements. he flaps his wings better than yours, and his crow is three times as loud. come over to basel and see a really good clock." to prevent this the city council of strasburg, at the suggestion of the mayor who had never got over being rejected by the clock-maker's daughter, determined to put out the old gentleman's eyes, which they rightly judged would prevent him from making any more clocks, and strasburg would still have the glory of owning the most wonderful one in the world. this was assented to and the poor man was asked if there was anything he wanted before the sentence was executed. he asked to have the terrible operation performed in front of his noble work. when taken before it, he gazed at it fondly, and secretly slipped out of place two or three important springs. just as the torture was completed the works in the clock began to whirr, it struck thirteen times and then ceased to work. the glory of strasburg was destroyed. the artisan lost his sight, the city its clock, the mayor his love--in short, it was a dead loss all around, as it always is when fair dealing is departed from. [sidenote: st. thomas.] years after the young clockmaker married his old blind friend's daughter, and after many years of hard, steady work, succeeded in repairing and improving the clock, which was the predecessor of the one now in the cathedral. this is the legend of the clock. in the protestant church of st. thomas is one of the finest monuments in europe. it was erected by louis xv. in honor of marshal saxe. in front of a high tablet, upon which there is a long inscription, is a figure of the marshal, heroic size, dressed in military uniform. he is descending a short flight of steps leading to a coffin, the lid of which death holds open for his reception. a female figure, representing france, attempts to detain the marshal and ward off death. on the left, hercules in a mournful attitude leans upon his club. commemorating the marshal's victories in the flemish war are the austrian eagle, the dutch lion and the english lion. the whole work is exquisitely done, the figures of france and death being wonderful specimens of carving in marble. the artist, pigalle, was occupied twenty years in the execution of this masterpiece. there are several other things of interest in the old church of st. thomas, besides the memorial of the great marshal, though they are of the ghastly order, and more curious than pleasing. a great many years ago there lived in strasburg a lunatic whose very soul was bound up in this old church. his soul being devoted to it, he determined to throw in his body, and so he starved himself to death that he might leave the corporation more money. he left all his fortune to the church, and the least it could do was to give him a tomb, which it did, and then carved upon it his emaciated form, taking him after death, that nothing should be lacking in ghastliness. when religion or vanity, or a compound of both, is freakish, it is very freakish. the most repulsive sight in all europe is within these venerable walls. the duke of nassau wanted immortality, and so his remains--he was killed in battle--are carefully preserved in a glass case, hermetically sealed, clad in the very garments he wore when death struck him. and after he was killed his little daughter, aged thirteen, died, and the family had her poor remains, clad in the silks and tinsel of the period, disposed of in the same way. and there they are to this day, as beautiful a commentary on human hopes and human ambitions as one would wish to see. the duke of nassau was a mighty man in his day, and he hoped to be remembered of men for all time. what is he now? the flesh has melted from his bones, the very bones are crumbling into dust, the garments in which he was clad are disappearing, and all there is of him is a grinning, ghastly skeleton, and the daughter is the same in the same way; the flesh has disappeared from her bones, the little finger, once so plump and taper, is now a bone which time has eaten away to almost nothing; the ring of gold which she wore in life is still there, but it hangs on a time-wasted bone, the flesh having melted from under it. it is a ghastly commentary. the duke undertook a fight with time with a certainty of time's winning. the philosopher draws a moral from his poor remains, the loose-minded make jokes over them. could he hear the comments on his once august body he would get up and walk out of that church, and go and bury himself somewhere in some cemetery, that he might, as he should, be forgotten once for all. the duke should have realized the fact before he had himself put in this glass case, that so far as earth goes, everything ends with death, and that efforts that men have made to perpetuate their memory have been invariably failures. the kings who built the pyramids, solid as they are, are scarcely remembered. it was in a famous beer house in strasburg that we met an american who was not of the regulation kind, and who, consequently, was a sweet boon. [sidenote: a philosophical tramp.] he came into the place with a slouching gait, though his manner was by no means deprecatory or humble. there was nothing in him to distinguish him from the regular tramp, except that his rum-illuminated face carried on its surface more intelligence and less brutality than the usual tramp shows, and he evidently had some idea of not bidding eternal good-bye to his respectability. instead of the greasy wrap about the throat of the regular tramp, he had a paper collar, which he had unquestionably picked up somewhere and turned, and his coat was buttoned up carefully to conceal the painfully evident absence of a shirt, a deceit the confirmed tramp would scorn to practice. and then he wore a tall hat, and had made attempts to brush it, and his carriage, when he knew he was observed, was bold and defiant, and not cringing or slouching. he sat down at the table with us, and commenced conversation with some remarks about the weather, some original remarks concerning the state of trade, and from that he glided with a grace that was to be commended into a disquisition as to the effect upon the commerce of the world of the building of a ship-canal across the isthmus, and likewise the effect it would have upon the climate of the united states, ending his conversation with the request of the loan of a dollar. "how happens it," i asked, "that a man informed as you are, with your evident education and your general information should be borrowing dollars in this way?" "excuse me, sir," said he; "i have not borrowed dollars, as yet, though i hope to. you have, as yet, made no response to my modest appeal. but why am i thus? can you tell? can i tell? who is responsible for what happens to him? who can control tastes? who can analyze that subtle and unknown thing we call mind?" "but who are you, anyhow?" "i am a graduate of harvard, sir, and a son of one of the once wealthiest men in boston." "why this condition of things, then?" "my dear sir, i was born fortunately--you would say unfortunately--i say fortunately. i had tastes, appetites, and a philosophical mind. while a student i indulged those tastes to the top of my bent. i was the best billiard player, the most constant and steady drinker, the hardest rider, and, in fact, the most confirmed pleasure seeker in the college. i utterly refused to do anything that did not please me. i learned much, for the pursuit of knowledge afforded me a delight, but i would learn nothing the getting of which did not afford me pleasure. "at the close of my college career, the world was before me. the question was, what should i do? what should be the plan of my life? should i go into business, and make a great fortune? should i go into literature, and make myself an imperishable name? should i go into politics, and control the destinies of nations? "fortunately philosophy came to my aid. what earthly good would all this do me? what good of piling up money? what good of making a name, and what earthly use was there in controlling the destiny of nations? i could do something for myself, and what i did for myself i got the good of, but why worry about making a name, or why labor to make money which i could not take with me? "i could see no good in any of it, and so i followed the impulses of my nature, feeling that if nature was no guide then was i lost, indeed. "i sang, i drank, i yachted, i did everything till my money was gone, and here i am." "would it not have been better for you had you followed a more reputable career?" "i don't see it. i could have done anything that i wanted to, but to what purpose? sir, the world is coming to an end, shortly. the approach of various planets to the earth, the frequency of comets, the changes so common now that have been totally unknown, all conspire to a very sudden ending of the planet on which we live and move. within my life-time, doubtless, there will be a collapse. we shall either get away from the sun or get into it, or some erratic planet will come bouncing into us, and the entire universe will go to eternal smash. the earth will either melt or freeze solid, or it will be dispersed into infinitesimal fragments. "now, sir, let me ask you what encouragement there is for a man to worry himself about making a fortune with this terrible condition of things staring him in the face? what good would the ownership of the new york central railroad be when there is a certainty that the entire structure, road-bed, depots, rolling stock and everything will be utterly destroyed within my life-time? under such circumstances who would care to own a city, or to possess in fee simple the cattle on a thousand hills? what is beef going to be worth then? [sidenote: one franc.] "and then reputation. when the earth melts and the sky is rolled up like a scroll, where is your shakespeare? where is milton, byron, burns, and the long list of men who have written that their names may be everlasting? the dust of shakespeare will be mingled with that of the organ grinder across the street, and the pyramids will be of no more account than the dirt-heap on the other side, which the street commissioner never moves away. the libraries will all be destroyed, and in the general annihilation, clergymen, scholars, capitalists, life insurance agents, presidents, emperors, book agents and tramps will all stand upon a common level. one fragment of me may assume the character of an aerolite and astonish the natives of another planet, and another fragment may go to feed the sun and thus furnish heat for the shivering tramp on mars, and mingled with me may be the iron that is now in the system of vanderbilt. "therefore i have no desire for a name or money. things are not sufficiently permanent to be desirable for an ambitious man. "but speaking of the great cataclysm that is imminent, i did not hear any response to my application for a loan of a dollar to relieve my hunger. that is permanent, and will be till the universal smash-up." i gave the man a franc. "it is little but it will do, it will assuage the pangs of hunger. a philosopher needs but little. thank you. farewell forever. in the smash that is to come, let us hope that our fragments may come together, and that we may sail through space in company." and he departed. he did not go to a restaurant, but he went, as straight as the bird flies, to the nearest brandy shop from which he emerged in a minute with his face illuminated. he did not live by bread alone. strasburg is rich in antiquity, rich in the quaintest old houses on the continent, houses that commence inland from the sidewalk, each story projecting above the one under it, the fronts filled full of carving of the quaintest and most curious description. these houses, some of them, count the years of their being by the hundreds, and strasburg, sleepy old town that it is, either keeps them because she is too lazy to pull them down, or because she really treasures them because of their age. an american looking at them feels that time has gone backward with him, and that he has awakened in the fourteenth century. here you see the genuine alsatian costume. the women are, as a rule, fine-looking, some of them pretty, and the style of dress fits their peculiar style of beauty. they wear immense bows of wide black ribbon, which stands up at the back of the head, and flares out at the sides like the wings of a wind-mill. this admits of no hat or any other head-gear, and its effect, though odd at first sight, is rather pleasing. however, anything looks well on a pretty woman, and the women of alsace are all comely. they wear their gowns short, that the effect of shapely ankles and trim feet may not be lost, and altogether they are good specimens of femininity. the peculiarity of the old houses in strasburg, already spoken of, is greatly intensified by the huge storks' nests that crown the large awkward chimneys of many of the houses. all summer long, the great white storks live in strasburg, until the cold weather drives them further south. their nests are built on the tops of chimneys, of rough sticks and straw, and are very clumsy-looking affairs. but when there is a white stork standing in them, solemn and grave, on one leg, the other drawn closely under him, the effect is extremely ludicrous. the stork is a peculiarly strasburgian institution. it is considered a bad omen if a stork leaves a house, in the chimney of which he has once built his nest, and misfortune is certain, so they believe, to follow any one who mistreats or offends a stork. there are thousands of legends about them, in brief the stork figures in everything strasburgian. it is said that about a week before their departure in the autumn, all the storks meet in a meadow outside of the city and hold solemn council, the oldest acting as chairman, and all talking and discussing things the same as men do, in their own language. it is not said that they come to blows in their debates, as american congressmen do, but that is doubtless because they know only french and german usages. the stork is a well behaved bird. chapter xl. baden-baden and things therein. at one time baden-baden was one of the most famous gambling places in the world, but it is now simply a fashionable watering place, very like saratoga. it is beautifully situated in the valley of the oos, at the entrance to the black forest. during the time the gambling rooms flourished, great pains were taken to make it as attractive as possible. long, wide avenues were laid out and planted with beautiful trees, picturesque drives were made, and all the natural advantages were improved a thousand fold, so that to-day it is one of the most beautiful spots imaginable. the buildings, formerly the scenes of fashionable riot and dissipation, were built in the most elaborate manner and most lavishly decorated with beautiful frescoes by most eminent artists. nature made baden-baden a natural pleasure and health resort, and wherever men and women go for pleasure or health you may be sure of meeting vice in almost every form. the pleasure seekers must be perpetually stimulated, and those who haunt mineral springs to recover health, generally lost by persistent following of vicious practices, come expecting the waters to build them up to the resumption of the vices that brought them down. consequently they gamble. a few years ago baden-baden was the head centre of gambling for the world. the frenchman, englishman, german, russian, american, turk, and, for that matter, men of all nations came here to drink the waters, take the baths and gamble. following in the train of the rich invalids came the professional gamblers, hawks following pigeons everywhere. the government gave the exclusive right to manage a [illustration: the great hall.] [sidenote: a few legends.] gambling house to one company, or rather one man. originally a frenchman named benezet had it, paying some forty thousand dollars a year for the privilege of plucking fools, and when he died, leaving an immense fortune, his son-in-law, dupressoir, continued the business. the money received by the government for this privilege was appropriated to the beautifying of the city and the other mineral water resorts in the grand duchy. the gambling was done in an immense building which is now the "conversation-haus," and, if its walls could speak, many a tale, comic and tragic, they could tell. you are assailed with all sorts of legends concerning it. there was a lady, of what nationality was never known, a woman who commenced gambling at the age of thirty-six, who always came to the rooms closely veiled, whose face was never seen. she played so much money invariably, leaving the rooms when she had lost or won her limit. it was never ascertained where she lodged, even. for twenty years she came to the rooms twice each day, staking a napoleon (four dollars) on each turn of the wheel till she had lost or won fifty, and when that loss or that winning was accomplished she glided out, only to reappear the next day. there is a wild legend prevalent that this mysterious being's lover had lost his fortune at the tables, and had blown his brains out as a fitting finish to his folly, and that there was an irresistible impulse that brought her to the scene of his death, and kept her there all her life. what interested tibbitts the most in this legend was the statement that the lover lost all his money, and then blew out his brains. "any man, or alleged man," said tibbitts, "who would lose a fortune at such a game as they played here, must have great faith in his marksmanship, to try to hit his brains, no matter how short the range." the young man who knows everything wanted tibbitts to make plain the point to the remark, and then the professor had to go on and explain that what mr. tibbitts intended was that a man who would gamble at all must have an infinitesimal brain, so small, indeed, as to make it safe from the best marksman. the young man pondered over it a minute, and expressed himself satisfied. there is another story of a woman, an old and haggard woman, who came every day and staked a napoleon. she would not play unless there should be in the room a child, a young, fresh child; and she used to take the baby, and put her napoleon in its little hand, and have it place it on the black or red, as the child's whim dictated. and it is said that she generally won. like all the rest of the mysterious beings of the gambling hall, this eccentric old lady disappeared one day, and was never seen again. [illustration: the young man wanted tibbitts to make plain the point.] [sidenote: the regular legend.] it made little difference to her successors. the croupier, that calm, impassive man, raked in the napoleons, or raked them out, the wheel revolved, and the life or death of one habitué of the place made no more difference than a footprint on the sands of the sea. german students who, by extravagant living, encumbered themselves with debt, and who were afraid to apply at home for more money, came hither to make enough at gambling to restore themselves. they never did it. m. benezet was not paying forty thousand dollars a year rent for the privilege of running a game at which improvident and extravagant young men could make up their folly--not he. his game was to take what they had left, without knowing or caring what became of them afterward. the most common legend of them all is of the young man who walked calmly into the room with one hundred napoleons, all he had left, and staked one piece after another, and lost invariably. finally there was but one left. turning to his friend, he remarked calmly, "this is my life i am wagering." he put it upon the black, the wheel revolved, he lost. without a word this calm young man went out, and hung himself with his handkerchief to a tree, where his inanimate body was found the next morning. this young man is very plentiful in baden-baden, though not much more so than the same kind of a fellow who, staking his last gold piece, draws a pistol from his pocket, and shoots himself at the table, the croupier paying no attention to it, and going on with the game as though it was a regular part of it, and an everyday occurrence. tibbitts frowned upon this legend severely, holding it to be unworthy of credence. "the young man," said tibbitts, "would have gone out and pawned his revolver for ten dollars, and taken another hack at it." and then this young man with a lively imagination went on to show that no matter how desperate the situation there is always a chance to get out. his story was to this effect: a young new yorker had gone to paris with some thousands of dollars given him by his indulgent father, that he might see the world and study the languages. he studied french with a young grisette whose acquaintance he had made, and a very pleasant life he lived, till one morning the two discovered that they hadn't a dollar between them left, that he had spent in three months with his syren what was sufficient to have supported him decently for three years. he dared not send home for more money, he could not leave his friend (that's what they call it), and they had not enough to buy another meal. the pawn shops were resorted to, till everything they had was gone and starvation stared them in the face. they wept over it, and finally came to a conclusion. they loved each other dearly, they could not live apart, and so they decided to die together. she rushed out and pawned her last pair of stockings to purchase charcoal; they closed all the cracks in the room and lighted the coal, that its fumes might kill them in the regular parisian style. the girl died, but life was left in the young man. he rose and broke a window with a boot--no, he had pawned his boots--but with something, anyhow, and let in fresh air, which saved his life. then he turned and looked at the poor girl on the bed, her long hair flung negligently over the pillow, her face not wasted by disease, but plump and fresh as in life. "poor fifine," he sighed in agony; "how beautiful she is, and how i loved her and how she loved me! i shall never love again. from this time out my life, should i live, will be a desert waste. should i live? alas! i cannot, will not live. why did i spring from that couch and break open the window? i cannot live without her; i will die with her." he commenced closing the window and looking for more charcoal, when something occurred to him. "come to think, i won't die with her. dying with her wouldn't do her any good, and if i live, she, my love, will perpetually have something to look down upon." he merely walked down and reported a case of suicide, and after the investigation claimed the body as the next best friend, which was all right. [sidenote: the end of the legend of paris.] then he sold the body to a medical college for dissection, for sixty dollars, and bought a second-class ticket and went home to new york and told his mother he had been robbed of his money, and got her to intercede with the irate father, and is, i believe, living in comparative luxury to-day." "how could he have got out on the street, if he had pawned all his clothes and his boots?" queried the young man who knows everything. tibbitts answered with asperity that there were so-called men everywhere in the world who perpetually strewed the salt of fact over the flowery fields of fancy. "you are the young man, i believe, who made me miserable the other day, by unearthing the fact that there never was a william tell." the professor, after thinking the tale over awhile, said that such a thing might have happened in oshkosh, but never in paris. in paris the young woman would have lived and sold the body of the young man and started a café on the proceeds. then the young man remarked that revenge was a fool's luxury, and that the new testament precept about turning the other cheek, was not only sound in religion, but was the highest good sense, as religion always is. to nurse a hatred is more expensive than to keep a horse in feed or a fine watch in repair. the gambling came to an end finally, and the romance of baden-baden with it. a decree withdrew the privilege of the establishment, another prohibited the establishing of other places, and on one fateful night in , at twelve o'clock, the bankers turned off their lights, and baden-baden as a gambling resort was no more. the old gambling house is now called the conversationhaus and is used for concerts and balls, and is the favorite rendezvous for the fashionable world, especially during the time the band plays, in the morning, afternoon and evening. then the wealth and fashion residing in baden and representing all nationalities promenades the beautiful avenues, or, making little parties, sips beer and laughs and flirts to its hearts' content. near the conversationhaus is the "trinkhalle," where invalids, and those who wish to be thought invalids, drink the famous mineral waters that have made baden celebrated all over the world. the rooms are magnificently furnished, and on the arcade in front of the building are some fine frescoes illustrating different legends of the black forest. [illustration: in front of the kursaal, at baden.] the peculiar waters of baden-baden come from a great many springs in the hill-sides, and are conducted to the various bathing places in pipes, and they are as hot as you want them. one of the springs is known as hell spring, because of the temperature of the water, one would suppose, but the badenese have another reason for its name. of course they have a legend for it, which runs thus: [sidenote: the legend of the hell spring.] a great many centuries ago an irascible and very wicked old man who possessed the ground on which the spring is, had, as a matter of course, a beautiful and supernaturally good daughter. by the way, i never could understand why excessively wicked men in legends always had so sweet a lot of daughters, but i suppose it is necessary in order to have legends. this daughter was beloved by the son of a neighboring noble who was at feud with her father, and, as a matter of course, the old man opposed the match. the present hot spring was then as cold as ice and a most delicious water for drinking, of which the old man was very fond, which statement proves the legend to be false. no german noble in this or any other period of the world's history ever knew whether the water on his estate was good for drinking or not. he may have tested it for other purposes, but never for a beverage. he prefers wine or beer. one day going down to his pet spring he found his girl there, and with her her lover. he was enraged, and when the young man told him he loved his daughter and would wed her, he exclaimed with a horrible oath: "wed her! you may wed her when this spring is as hot as hell, and when that happens i will drink to your nuptials in its waters!" no sooner said than done. the spring changed from its lovely greenish blue to a sulphurous and salty color. great jets of gas with an unpleasant smell issued, and the water boiled up quite as hot as the place the profane old man had indicated as a standard. and satan himself, with tail and hoofs, and everything complete, appeared, from where none of the three could determine, and politely handed him a goblet of the boiling water. he had sworn an oath, and there was no going back upon it. so he took the goblet and swallowed the contents and rolled over in agony and died, as i should suppose any one would. the young man married the girl, and i doubt not his descendants are interested in the bath houses supplied from the springs. it isn't much of a legend, indeed with a little practice i believe i could write a better one myself, but it is as they gave it to me. [illustration: the swimming bath.] [sidenote: up the mountain.] the grand bathing houses are on a scale of magnificence that is truly wonderful, and one almost feels like shamming illness simply to enjoy their luxury. nothing that money can buy, and in europe as in america, it will buy almost anything, has been spared to make them as attractive to the eye and the other senses as possible. they make up baden's stock in trade, and baden is too good a merchant not to have attractive wares for sale. one of the favorite excursions from baden is up the hill to the south of the city to the old castle, the walls of which are said to have been built in the third century, when the romans constructed fortifications here. from the twelfth century till the completion of the new castle nearer the city, the old schloss was the residence of the margraves of the duchy. the road leading to the castle winds up the battert, giving some beautiful views of the valley, with baden, rich with its luxuriant foliage, nestling at the foot of the black mountains, whose dark profile stretches away off far to the north. before reaching the steep portion of the ascent, the ladies of the party were provided with donkeys. the professor, whose age and avoirdupois rendered steephill climbing a matter of great difficulty, determined that he would ride. a diminutive donkey, scarcely larger than a good sized newfoundland dog, was assigned to him, and a most ludicrous sight it was as the party made its start up the hill. a gentleman six feet in height, with very long legs and a remarkably protuberant abdomen, arrayed in a very ill-fitting coat, light trowsers, a tall hat, and enormous spectacles, with an immense cotton umbrella under one arm, is not a sight to inspire respect, even when it is traveling as infantry. but take that figure and put it astride of a donkey so small that the rider's legs have to be drawn up to keep the feet off the ground, and have that donkey a perverse and mischievous animal (most of them answer to this description), and it is about as ludicrous a sight as was ever vouchsafed to mortal ken. each donkey is led or driven, as the case may be, by a boy, and the german boy has all the elements of mischief in him that any other boy possesses. and so when this especial boy saw that the entire party were laughing at the professor, he wisely determined to gain popularity by adding to the merriment. and so he would wink at the people following, and twist the donkey's tail, and the intelligent animal, knowing what was expected of him, would kick up his heels, and the professor, one hand busy with the bridle and the other with the umbrella under his arm, would objurgate as much as a professor dared. [illustration: the donkey enjoyed it hugely.] the donkey enjoyed it hugely, for he kicked up his heels with delight, and pranced from one side of the road to the other in an ecstacy of pleasure. the portly gentleman didn't seem to think it very funny, although at last he was compelled to join in the general laugh that went up at his expense. [sidenote: to the old schloss.] finally he beat the boy and the donkey both. when the donkey would kick up behind he simply dropped both feet to the ground and brought him to anchor; and when he attempted a shy to one side, one foot on the ground held him to his business; and catching the boy at the trick he took him by the arm, and, with a grip that long years of flagellating boys had perfected, pulled him up in front of him, and everything was pleasant again. [illustration: the lichtenthal avenue--baden.] as we toiled up the long hill the gathering clouds presaged a rain storm. then they broke, and as we reached the old ruin the sun came out with great brilliancy, and gave us a magnificent view up and down the broad, fertile valley. but, unexpectedly, before we had time to go through the various rooms of the castle the rain began to fall in torrents, which was uncomfortable, the roof having long years ago succumbed to time, which has no more respect for a margrave's castle than it has for a laborer's hut. time is no aristocrat. we sought shelter in a room that had been fitted up as a restaurant, and then we were treated to a genuine storm right from the black forest. the wind howled around the open spaces of the ruined wails, the rain dashed against the window panes in fitful gusts, while above all other sounds could be heard the creaking and moaning of the trees all around us, as they were bent and swayed by the storm. it required but a little stretch of the imagination to fill the room with gallant knights, and to believe it was the din and clatter of battle we heard without. [illustration: promenade in baden-baden.] we were sitting on the ground on which knights and ladies in the centuries past had sat and feasted. there was not an inch of space within a half mile of us that had not its story. mailed knights in that very room had "carved their meat in gloves of steel, and drank red wine with their visors down." [sidenote: war and cards.] and possibly their spirits were hovering over us. if they were, we did not know it; they did not materialize. instead of the mailed knights and beardless pages and fair ladies of the middle ages, there was a party of americans in tall hats and short coats, ladies in the latest possible parisian walking dresses, and instead of the glorious game of war it was a simple game of euchre, which the men played with the same earnestness that characterizes them at home in their business, and the ladies with that utter disregard of rule that characterizes feminine card playing everywhere. it is needless to observe that in the matter of wine the example of the old knights was followed, only we had no visors. [illustration: charcoal burners in the black forest.] a party of americans playing cards in the castle of a warlike king! well! well! there are steamboats on loch katrine; there will be a railroad to jerusalem, and the holy places will yet be illuminated with the electric light. there is no room to-day for sentiment. this castle was built, originally, by the romans, and fell into the hands of the margrave of baden in . it was necessary in that day to have these strongholds, from which the margraves could issue and make war upon their neighbors, that being their principal business. it was continued as a residence for the baden potentates till , when louis xv. of france demolished it, leaving it, less the ivy that has grown over it, as it is to-day. its principal use now is to give employment to the donkeys to get to it, and the selling of wine and refreshments to the tourists who hunger after the delightful view it affords. the new friedrichsbad is an imposing edifice built against the hillside upon which the springs are located. the exterior is a fine specimen of the renaissance style of architecture, and is embellished with a great many fine statues, busts and medallions. the interior is a marvel of completeness and elegance, being finer in all its details than any similar bathing establishment in the world. the wood work is all massive and elegant; the walls and ceilings are artistically frescoed; the bath tubs, large swimming baths, are cut out of solid marble, and are so arranged that the bather can go from one to another, securing any desired temperature without inconvenience. the water comes from springs on the hillsides, at a temperature of ° fahrenheit, and is conveyed by pipes throughout the building, the pipes being so arranged that the water is gradually cooled. in this way one is enabled to bathe in any kind of water he desires. the yield is upwards of one hundred gallons a minute, and are said to be among the most efficacious mineral springs known, the solid ingredients, chiefly chloride of sodium, amounting only to three per cent. [sidenote: baths in baden.] in this magnificent structure, there are the common bath tubs, hewn out of solid blocks of marble and completely let into the floor, with steps leading down to them; large hip baths, supplied with a continual stream of mineral water; an electric bathroom for inhaling the thermal water; baths for the cold water treatment and the cold shower baths; vapor baths, hot air baths, swimming baths of different degrees of temperature, supplied also with shower baths the temperature of whose water can be regulated by the bather, and vapor baths in boxes. after taking as many of these as he desires, and having been rubbed in a room lurid with hot air, the bather is conducted to a large room where he is enveloped in a warm bath cloak. then he is taken to a large, luxuriously furnished room where he lies down for half or three-quarters of an hour. when he emerges from the building, he feels like a new man--or says he does, which is the same thing. when the young man who knows everything made that remark, tibbitts replied promptly that he most earnestly hoped the change would be permanent. "my young friend, if you feel symptoms of getting back to your original self, take more baths." baden merits all the good things said of it. it is a delicious spot, and if one had nothing to do in life but enjoy it, i know of no place where, with money, he could get more out of it. its people are hospitable, and its physicians will humor you to any disease you choose. if there is nothing the matter with you, they will prescribe just as cheerfully as though you had all the ills that human flesh is heir to, and will pocket their fees with a grace unexcelled. they have had vast experience with hypochondriacs, and know all about it. chapter xli. heidelberg. there is hardly a man, woman or child in the world who has not heard of heidelberg, and who does not know something of this famous little city of students, wine, beer, castle and casks. it is a place better known, probably, than any in europe of its size and non-political importance, and it entertains more sight-seers than any other. it is well worth the attention given it. heidelberg is beautifully situated on the river neckar, about twelve miles from its junction with the rhine, and a more delightful spot for establishing the seat of a palatial residence does not exist in all germany. on the one side is a high range of hills, on the other the beautiful neckar, the opposite bank of which is covered to the tops of the lovely hills with terraced vineyards. the very first thing the tourist has to see is the old schloss, founded by the count palatine rudolph i., about the beginning of the fourteenth century. it has passed through remarkable events. various princes and electors improved and fortified the original structure of rudolph, until, in , when elector carl theador rebuilt it, it covered a vast extent of territory. [sidenote: the old schloss.] situated on a spur of the königestuhl, it is surrounded on three sides by beautiful woods, while on the fourth the river neckar flows past the town down a wondrously beautiful valley, and loses itself in the rhine, twelve miles below. the outside walls are plain and unpretending, being designed entirely for defense. but inside, the façades are embellished with fine carvings, allegorical figures, the window arches having medallions of eminent men of ancient times. in niches around the front, facing the entrance, are statues of the sixteen counts palatine. this front is thought to be the most magnificent, architecturally, of any of the four, combining, as it does, four different styles: doric, tuscan, ionic and corinthian. it certainly is very imposing, and before it was battered and disfigured by cannon balls, during the war of , it must have been a wonderfully fine piece of work. [illustration: heidelberg castle, inside the court.] the regular thing to do at heidelberg is to go through the great, gloomy subterranean passages that wind in and out under the massive pile. it is not a cheerful trip, but it gives one a good idea of the solidity of ancient masonry, and of the security of their old dungeons. the grand balcony is a wide, well-built terrace on the river side of the castle. from this point the view is magnificent, the whole neckar valley being spread out like a map, below us. then we go on through great rooms, whose ivy-covered walls once resounded with song and merry jest, to the huge tower at the eastern angle of the castle. this old tower is, or was, rather, a monster, being ninety-three feet in diameter, with walls twenty-one feet thick. in , when the french general, melac, was obliged to surrender the castle and town to the germans, he blew up the fortifications and set the castle on fire. the attempt to demolish the tower was only a partial success. the walls were so thick and so well built that the explosion only detached about a half of it, which fell, a solid mass, into the moat, where it is to-day, as solid as it was two centuries ago, though now its rough sides are covered with shrubs and ivy. the best view of the castle in its entirety is from the great terrace, quite a little distance from the garden that surrounds the grand old ruin. from this height is seen the beautiful valley, with the town spread out in irregular shape on the banks of the neckar. across a deep ravine, beautifully clothed with green, is the ruined castle, standing out in bold relief, the ruined tower, the dismantled walls, the grand promenade making a picture of rare beauty. the castle is decidedly the finest structure of the kind in europe, beautiful in its location, beautiful in its design, and beautiful even in its ruin. like most things that are interesting in these old countries, it is, however, a remembrance of the days when force was the only law, when the sword and the spear were the only arbiters, and he who had command of the most of them was the ruler. [sidenote: the destruction of the castle.] it has had many masters. in louis xiv., of france, set up a claim to the country and invaded it. of course he had no earthly right to it, any more than the then occupant, but that didn't matter. they didn't split hairs in those days. when a king wanted an adjoining country he simply figured up how many cut-throats he had and how many cut-throats the king had that he proposed to go for, and if he had more cut-throats than the other king, why he went for him. and so count melac, louis's chief cut-throat, assailed heidelberg, and the city and castle capitulated to him. he occupied it during the winter of , but as the german armies were approaching in too great force to suit his notions, in march, , he evacuated the place, having first blown up the fortifications and burned the town, and made what havoc he could. four years later the french finished the destruction, then the germans rebuilt it in part, but, as if fate had a spite against it, it was struck by lightning shortly after and was abandoned as a fortress and palace, and so it stands to-day. ruin as it is, it is the most wonderful combination of nature and art i have ever seen or ever expect to. the old kings who built it had good eyes for effect as well as defense. the mountain is three hundred and thirty feet above the river, and it is a precipice inaccessible except by winding paths, which, when fortified, an hundred men might hold against ten thousand. this before the days of rifled guns. our present artillery would knock the place as it was into a cocked hat in an hour. but in those smooth-bore days it was a place of strength, and could only be taken by a systematic siege. we are much obliged to the french for one piece of vandalism. when they evacuated it the last time they tried to blow up the principal round tower. they placed a frightful amount of powder in it, and it exploded, but so well had the work been built that it merely broke off about a third of it, which toppled over into the moat and still lies there as it fell. the walls at the point where the break is, are twenty feet thick, and are as solid as a rock. there was no shoddy in this work. there needed to be no shoddy, for the work cost the rhine robbers who built it nothing. they confiscated the quarries for the stone, and then drafted a sufficient force of men from all parts of their dominions to do the work, feeding them upon black bread and sour wine, which they seized also, making the building of almost any kind of a castle a very cheap affair. it is a curious place--this reminiscence of the past. there are miles of halls, of passages, secret and open; there are drawbridges and turrets, and posts for warders; there is the enormous terrace, overlooking the beautiful neckar and the vine-clad hills on the opposite bank; there is the wonderful court in the interior, the walls facing inward, rich in statuary and wondrous carving, grandly even though a ruin. imagine this vast structure when it was itself, filled with knights and ladies, on the night of some festival! think of it, with lights gleaming from every window, the terrace filled with happy dancers, and the immense court full of pleasure-seekers! there have been high jinks in the old schloss. it must have been a wonderful place for everyone except the wretched peasantry--whose unrequited labor built it, whose unrequited labor supported it, and whose bodies defended it. [illustration: great cask--heidelberg castle.] it is well that it is in ruins. its walls are royal, and, the fact is, i hate everything that savors of royalty. [sidenote: the students.] in the castle is the famous tun of heidelberg. this famous cask is twenty-six feet high and thirty-two feet long, and it holds, or rather held, for it has not been filled for several years, eight hundred hogsheads of wine, or two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles. there is a platform on the top of it, upon which a cotillion can be comfortably danced. the university at heidelberg has in course of preparation for future beer drinking some eight hundred students, from all the countries of the world. i suppose they do pay some attention to studies, that they do attend lectures and recitations, and all that sort of thing; but all i saw them do was to drink beer, which they do in a way that no other class of young men in the world can. it is a large thing in heidelberg to be able to drink more beer than any one else. smoking divides the honors with beer, although, as one student can smoke about as much as another, there is not that opportunity for display of talent that there is in beer drinking. the students are all in societies or clubs, and each club wears a cap of a peculiar color. you go into one of the innumerable beer halls, and you see at one table students with blue caps, at another with red, and another with yellow, and so on. they never mix, and each society is at deadly feud with all the others. they sit, and sit, and sit, at these tables, drinking beer out of mugs, and smoking enormous pipes, mostly meerschaum, which they are at great pains to color. as a red-capped student is supposed to be at mortal feud with all the other colored caps, duels are as common as beer--and i can't say more than that. but a duel in heidelberg is not a remarkably sanguinary affair. it is about as harmless as a french duel. they don't fight with revolvers at ten paces, or shot-guns at thirty, or sabres, or anything of that sort; and instead of trying to kill each other, every possible precaution is taken not to kill at all. the weapons are rapiers, very sharp, and ugly enough, if the duelist really meant business; but both contestants are so swaddled in cloths, so wrapped in cotton defences, that any harm, aside from a cut in the face, is impossible. they fence and thrust, and do all sorts of things, the object being to inflict a wound upon the face; and the student receiving the wound is very proud of it, and if his flesh is healthy enough to heal without a scar, he tears it open. the scars he must have, for they are testimonials, as it were, of his bravery. so you see on the streets of heidelberg any number of students with their faces scarred and seamed, horribly disfigured, but not one of them would sell a scar for anything earthly. their beer-drinking proclivities i have referred to. tibbitts had a letter to one of the red-capped students, who immediately introduced him to his club, and the result was--beer. the quantity that lemuel could consume nettled his friend, and an attempt was made to put him under the table. the professor, who believes that there is a devil in every drop of beer, warned tibbitts against joining the party. "they will get you intoxicated," said the good old man. "will they? perhaps they will. but, professor, a young man of good physique, a son of nature, who has lived in oshkosh, need not fear any man who comes of the effete civilization of germany. don't fear the result of this encounter. i shall do credit to the old flag. to my beloved country i dedicate my stomach. i will fetch them all." and so tibbitts sat down with them, and he drank as often as they did for a half hour, then he urged the drinking, and he called for larger mugs. there was consternation among the students. tibbitts' friend was the president of the club, and a mighty man among the beer drinkers; indeed, he owed his official position to his prowess in this line, and here was a fresh american urging him to deeper and deeper draughts. the contest waxed warm. one by one the feebler men dropped out until only two remained--tibbitts and the president. tibbitts was cool and collected, the president was hot and flurried. tibbitts made the president understand that he wanted larger mugs. he explained that he was thirsty, and that the time consumed in bringing the small mugs (they held nearly a quart) was so much waste, and that the effect of one quencher died out before another could be brought. what he wanted was a mug that held some beer. he was not a baby, but a man. [sidenote: mr. tibbitts and the students.] and so mugs were brought about twice the size of those they had been using. tibbitts touched his opponent's mug in good-fellowship, after the custom, and putting his lips to it drank it off at one pull, and tapped on the table to have it re-filled, to the delight of the other colored caps, and the dismay of the reds. the president smiled in a sickly sort of way and drank. he finished the mug, and leering wildly around the room, made a feeble attempt to get his pipe to his mouth, reeled and fell prostrate. he was vanquished, and his friends bore him senseless from the floor. "the idea of a mere german attempting to drink with a man who was weaned on oshkosh whisky," said tibbitts, contemptuously. "i am now just in humor to tackle the vice-president, secretary and treasurer of this club, all at once." [illustration: mr. tibbitts and the students.] he did not, however, for they were all gone. but the honor of america was saved--according to the notion of tibbitts. a curious place is the famous restaurant on haupstrasse, which for many years has been the resort of the university student. here he sits and drinks his beer at a table that is literally covered with the names of students carved in the solid oak. many of the names there engraved are now known the world over, though when they were cut there, many decades ago, the youthful carvers were great in literature, science or art, only in the dreams of their early manhood. [illustration: a rhine steamer.] chapter xlii. an inland german city--mannheim. it was comfort to get out of the beaten routes of tourists, and find yourself in a city where you do not hear english, and where the sight-seer with the inevitable guide book and field-glass, does not display himself. it was a relief to get into a city that had not been half anglicised and americanized by the constant stream of tourists that pour over europe every summer, where you could see germany and the germans, pure and simple. such a place is mannheim, at the confluence of the rhine and neckar, twelve miles below heidelberg. [illustration: mannheim.] mannheim is a delicious old city, once the seat of the grand dukes of baden, but now the seat of what is a great deal better than grand dukes, much merchandising and manufacturing. it is the only city in europe that is laid out like philadelphia, in regular squares. the principal pride of the mannheimers is their theater, and the mannheimers have every reason to be proud of it, for, in addition to its being one of the best conducted in europe, it is where schiller and other great german poets won their first successes. the germans amuse themselves at public cost whenever possible. for instance, this beautiful theater, which contains costumes and stage sets for all the standard operas, is supported by the city government. there is a small fee for admission, (i believe the most expensive seat in the house is a trifle less than a dollar, and ranging down from that to ten cents), but the deficiency is put upon the tax duplicate and paid the same as other taxes. nowhere in europe are better performances given, either operatic or dramatic. the principal characters are assigned to artists of the very highest order, the orchestra is made up of picked musicians, every one a soloist, and the chorus is not that mass of associated howlers that drive us mad in america; but the members are trained singers, as well as actors. for the presentation of wagner's "lohengrin" there was an orchestra of fifty-eight in number, a chorus of two hundred and fifty, and as many more supernumeraries. nowhere is the detail of a presentation so carefully and conscientiously worked out, and nowhere an opera more satisfactorily given than in this little german city of less than fifty thousand. the singers enter into a contract with the direction for a term of years, and if they sing or act the full term they may go elsewhere, but they are pensioned by the city for life. their salaries are very small, but the resultant pension is so comfortable a thing that they never break their engagements and never do slovenly work. the sunday night we reached mannheim, wagner's "lohengrin" was given, the performance commencing at half-past five in the afternoon and continuing till eleven at night. it was not as in american opera houses. there wasn't a note omitted, a song, or line of text cut; the entire opera as it came from the composer was given with a degree of conscientious care that the american party had never heard before. [sidenote: opera in mannheim.] tibbitts was in a state of surprise all the time. first going to an opera, not a matinee, in daylight; and then another custom that was as novel and strange as the hour at which the performance began. after entering the vestibule we passed through a long hallway lined with shelves; on these shelves the gentlemen placed their hats, overcoats, canes and umbrellas, and then passed into the auditorium without getting any check for the articles so left. "imagine," said tibbitts, "an american theater with a free cloak room in the lobby! how many hats, coats and walking sticks would be left by the time the entertainment was over? think of such a thing in new york, or even oshkosh! why, in oshkosh the boys out of one such audience would supply themselves with overcoats, hats and umbrellas for a year. it is a temptation even to me, as well as i have been brought up." the opera of lohengrin is extremely difficult to render, but in this little german town of only forty-seven thousand inhabitants, it was done in a manner that would surprise the grand opera goers of new york, or even paris or london. the stage settings were magnificent, every detail being most carefully and faithfully attended to. [illustration: tibbitts in the cloak room.] wagner's music, to be fully appreciated and enjoyed, must be heard under the most favorable circumstances--at the mannheim court theater, for instance. there is an individuality about it, an expression of thought by sound, that has never been equalled by any other composer. and when performed by such a company as that at mannheim it rises to the sublime. every member of that great company from the star down to the most humble member of the orchestra, was a thorough artist, and having had the very best training they interpreted the divine work of the great master in the same spirit in which it was conceived. it was a rare performance. "tannhauser" was the next opera, and performed as carefully as "lohengrin". it was enjoyed by the entire party except tibbitts. he is not musical or asthetic. and so when the young man who knows everything went into raptures over the wonderful orchestra, tibbitts spoke of it contemptuously as "sound factory." and he jeered at the procession of pilgrims who, in the opera, are returning, to delicious music, from rome, where they had been for their sins. "yes, that's the way of it. they load up with iniquity and go to rome, if they are catholics, or somewhere else if they are of other beliefs. then they come back as good as new and entirely ready to take another load." he criticised other points in the opera. tannhauser was in despair at having committed the unpardonable sin of heathen worship. "you see how it is. other sinners who had merely committed murders and sins like that, made a pilgrimage to rome and were absolved, but tannhauser knew better. religious power forgives everything except joining the opposition shop." and he was particularly severe upon tannhauser for confessing his sin to his love. "for," he continued, "had he kept it to himself it would have been just as well. but i suppose it had to be. had tannhauser kept his counsel and married the girl, the opera would have closed at the second act." mannheim is a purely commercial and manufacturing town. it enjoys a most picturesque situation. its streets are regular and handsome, and in the outskirts of the city are numerous pretty parks, which add greatly to the beauty of the place. when, in , the elector, charles philip had ecclesiastical differences with the protestant citizens of heidelberg, where up to that time he had his court, he transferred the seat to mannheim, which from that time became an important place. the town was founded in , and destroyed by the french eighty-three years later. during the residence there of charles philip, the spacious castle, which occupies the entire southwestern portion of the town, was built, and though it suffered partial destruction in , it has been restored, and with the lovely grounds surrounding it, forms one of the most attractive spots in mannheim. [sidenote: the difference in people.] in appearance mannheim is quite modern, though some of its buildings bear the impress of the hand of time. but as a rule, its wealthy citizens, with the enterprise and go-ahead activity that characterizes a mercantile people, have erected solid substantial buildings of the most approved modern style, which gives the city the look of wealth and business success it possesses. the theater, next to the castle, is probably the oldest building in the town. it was constructed during the last century, and restored in . the people of mannheim are industrious, hard-working germans, full of enterprise and business tact. during business hours they are always on duty, but, with the purely german characteristic, as soon as business is over they devote themselves to innocent amusement with as much gusto as they do to their work during the day. and the german citizen is not selfish in his enjoyments. he wants his whole family to partake of them with him. so in the evening, in the parks where the bands play, you will see him surrounded by his whole family, wife, daughters and sons, sipping beer, chatting with friends, and enjoying the music. they are a social lot of people, these germans, and know full well how to get all the pleasure there is in life. they differ materially from the french and the english. the french are full of life and vivacity that spur them up to an unusual state of activity all the time. they must have a constant excitement, and noise, and show, or they are miserable. he is the most generous man in speech and the closest man in action in the world. he is effusive. he will, on a steamer, embrace you at parting, and insist upon your making his house your home when you visit paris. he will swear that he will devote his whole time to you, that he will take it as a mortal affront if you do not command him, and all that. but don't take too much stock in it. he doubtless means it while he is saying it, but when he reaches paris, and you find him there, it is quite another thing. you are not necessary to his happiness any more, and in the most adroit and suave way he gets rid of you, and forever. very like people the world over, however. the man who applauds a virtuous sentiment the most vehemently at a theater is the very fellow who will go home and kick his wife, and the wildest approver of patriotic sentiments is the very man who goes to canada to avoid a draft, or jumps the bounty for a thousand dollars. the frenchman makes the best outward show of any one in the world, but his goodness is very thin. it will not bear the solid weight of actual use. the englishman delights in what he is pleased to think dignity, but what is really overweening conceit. he is pompous, dull and heavy. if he does a good thing, he does it in such a way as to make it an offense. the german is neither the one nor the other. he goes through life tranquilly, in perfect content with himself, always making the best of his opportunities, and in a perfectly rational way getting all the enjoyment he possibly can. he does not profess to be your friend unless he is so in good faith, and when he invites you to his house he always means it. he is rather careful about his friendships, for as he never falsifies in this, he needs to be, but when once said it is done. a rare good man to meet is your german. he has his peculiarities, but he is good and solid all the way through. in mannheim, as in all german communities, the absurd american fashion of treating is most sternly discountenanced and tabooed. the true german will not have it at all, at any price. your friend asks you to join him in a bottle of wine, and you accept, but that does not mean that he pays for your drink. not at all. he desires you to join him because you are his friend, because he likes your society, and because he wants to talk to you and have you talk to him. and when the bottle, or three, as a german says, is consumed each pays for what he has had and they go their way. consequently the bar-room beat so common in america is an unknown institution in germany, and the beery, bloated pimpled faces hanging around public places waiting for invitations are never seen. [sidenote: a treatise on treating.] mr. tibbitts most heartily approved of this custom. he remarked that the american system of treating came very nearly ruining him. in oshkosh he had a very large circle of close friends, who loved him dearly. they were very fond of him, why, he would not say, because he was a modest man. it might have been that they admired his physical graces, or possibly his intellectual endowments--men have tastes that cannot be accounted for. i met one gentleman on this trip who admired the young man who knows everything; that is, he said he rather liked him. he was studying law in oshkosh, and after wrestling all the forenoon with his studies he was, naturally, mentally as well as physically exhausted. "i tell you," said mr. tibbitts, "when a young and enthusiastic student at law has been poring all day over the pages of walter scott, or dickens, or thackeray, with only an occasional intermission at a beer-shop across the street, without feeling something like a squeezed lemon, he is a strong man indeed. i am physically fragile, and my active mental nature makes fearful drains upon my body. "and so on my way to my boarding house for dinner i was accustomed to stop over a minute at the spread eagle hotel, to take one solitary cock-tail, which i really needed as a bracer, as it were, to the system; something that would encourage nature to the point of taking in a full meal, a meal that would hold me up to the work of the afternoon. "now here is where the infernalism of the american system comes in. there would be at the bar every day at the same hour seven fellows, all good, jolly men, all particular friends of mine, who came there, as i did, for just one drink. now, understand, i went in there for one drink, which i felt i needed, and one drink only. but seeing the other seven in classical poses about the bar, i could do no less than to ask them to join me, which, in the freshness of youth and the first blush of a strong manhood, they always did promptly. after a minute of joyous conversation, snedeker would wink at the barkeeper, who would set before us another. more talk, a little more cheerful than before, and wilson would insist upon all drinking with him. still more talk, and adams would consider it an offense if we did not take just one more with him. "by this time any one of us would have taken something with anybody, for good sense, that faithful though easily overcome sentinel over our passions, had been driven out, and we were on the high road to inebriety. and there we would stand, and stand, taking 'just another one,' till we had forgotten all about dinner and everything pertaining to life, except of that article contained in the bottles before us. "i have known these incidents to cover a great space of time and much territory. i have gone into the spread eagle for just one cock-tail, and in consequence of the infernal american system of treating, have found myself a day or two later in st. louis, paying a most recklessly incurred hotel bill from money obtained by pawning my watch and overcoat. and once i extended the excursion as far as new orleans, and probably would have gone on through mexico if delirium tremens had not kindly put in an estopper. "if we did in america as they do in germany i should have gone in and taken one cock-tail and gone to my dinner and returned to my studies, and gone home to my supper and have been a good and useful citizen." and tibbitts having got fairly launched upon the wide ocean of drinking continued: "americans are fools in their way of drinking. all other peoples have a defined idea of what they want to accomplish with stimulants, but the american has not. your englishman wants to get stupid drunk; he wants forgetfulness, which i can't blame him for. were i living in england i should want forgetfulness in large doses. i don't blame an englishman, condemned to london climate and london customs, for drinking. the frenchman and german drink just enough to produce the requisite hilarity, the general good feeling which light stimulants in moderation produces, and then they quit. an american does nothing of the sort. he drinks through all the stages, the slightly exhilerant, the mild hilarious, the boisterous idiotic, the brutally quarrelsome, the pitiful maudlin, and then slips off his chair harmless because helpless. "why, i have heard a nine-tenths drunken man rouse up his companion by shaking him, with the appeal: 'jimmy, rouse up! can't you _stand_ another one?' [sidenote: why mr. tibbitts was not a temperance lecturer.] "just think of it! in this fellow's case there was no pleasure to be had from the drinking of 'another one.' his poor, outraged stomach rebelled against it, the very smell of it was death, and the taste worse than death, and yet he was asked if he could not endure 'another one!' he was asked if his abused system could not be further outraged. and he did manage to stagger up to the bar and swallow another dose of poison, which was the last straw that broke the camel's back. his indignant stomach deposited it on the floor with great promptness. a moment's rest, and he did take 'another one,' and subsided into a miserable sleep. "i have seen so much of the infernalism of the american treating system that i could deliver a wonderful lecture upon that and kindred temperance subjects." "why don't you lecture on temperance?" asked one of the party. "alas! i am not a reformed drunkard," was tibbitts reply. then up spoke the young man who knows everything. "my dear sir, all you have to do is to reform." tibbitts disdained to answer this, and walked moodily away. [illustration: mayence.] chapter xliii. from mannheim to frankfort-on-the-maine. [illustration: rÃ�mer.] [illustration: eschenheim tower.] [illustration: luther's house.] we had a great deal of trouble to get out of mannheim. all german railroad officials are in uniform, and the regulations are about as strict in the railroad service as in the military. the train we were compelled to take left at six o'clock in the morning, and we were at the station promptly. that is, we had four of five minutes in which to get our tickets, see to our baggage and go on. we hurried to the little window in the ticket-office, but it was down. through the window we could see the official in an ordinary coat, and we knocked on the glass. he did not open it, but sat there, nervously consulting his watch. the minutes were rushing on, tumbling over each other with frightful rapidity. but still he did not open the window, and we were ticketless, and the train was within a minute of departure. [sidenote: red-tape.] what was the matter? why simply this: the ticket agent had sent his uniform coat out to be brushed and the boy had not returned with it. he would no more think of selling a ticket except with that blue coat on, buttoned up to the chin, and with every button there, than he would have thought of cutting off his right hand. it mattered not that passengers were waiting, it mattered not that the engine was whistling its last warning notes, that coat was not brushed and on the official's back, and no tickets could be sold till it was. fortunately the boy came with the coat, the official got it on somehow, the train waited two or three minutes, tickets were sold hurriedly and we did get away. what would have happened if the boy had not come back with the coat at all, no one can answer. certainly no one would have got tickets till he got his coat, and we should all have missed our train. red-tape is a great institution, and nowhere do you see more of it than in germany. but we got away finally to frankfort. contrasting strangely with mannheim's straight streets and quiet unpretentious business blocks, is the very peculiar city of frankfort, where within a stone's throw of each other are streets so entirely different, that in one you may imagine yourself on broadway, while in the other you may with equal propriety consider yourself set back five or six hundred years. new frankfort is the newest city i know of. it is more fresh and recent than broadway. it is very like broadway, except that its buildings are less garish, and more solidly built. the line between the old and the new is only a street, and the old is the oldest in europe, as the new is the newest. the contrast is wonderful. it is the fourteenth century and the nineteenth shaking hands across the chasm of time. it is the mediæval knight and the london exquisite side by side. the same may be seen in all european cities, but nowhere so striking as in frankfort. approaching the city you see the old watch towers high on the hills that surround the environs of frankfort, those remaining monuments of the reign of force, when the people, ruled mercilessly by the nobles, erected these towers from which the usurpers watched each other. germany is not yet free from this kind of rule; it has merely taken a different form. gunpowder changed the form of force, but not its spirit. these once impregnable fortresses would not stand a minute before the artillery of the present, and so they are abandoned. but in their stead are the regiments we saw in mannheim and everywhere else, each one a fortress of flesh and blood. germany will get rid of the whole of it one of these days, and the million of men employed to support that one unmitigated curse of the world, royalty, will be added to the productive power of the country instead of living upon it. [illustration: street on the rÃ�merberg.] [sidenote: solid buildings.] as we leave the fine station and enter the wide "anlagen," or public grounds, that completely encircle the city and are lined with handsome buildings, it is hard to realize that the city of frankfort dates from the time of charlemagne, and that it has for centuries played an important part in the history of germany. from the year the german emperors were chosen in frankfort. the kaiser-strasse leads directly to the center of the city, and is lined with magnificent business blocks and dwellings. the street is wide and well kept, the buildings are all of the modern style of architecture, built of cut stone, and they present a fresh and attractive appearance. speaking of buildings in european cities, it would be fortunate for us of america if we could imitate them ever so slightly. in london i visited a steam fire engine house, and was amused at the clumsiness of the apparatus, and the slowness in general of the entire concern. the horses, for instance, were stabled around a corner! in new york the horses are in the same room with the engine, fastened so they may be unhitched by electricity, the men sleep in their clothes above, and everything is arranged so that in one second the engine is on the street, and on its way to the fire on a run. "how long does it take you to get out upon the street?" i asked. "from seven to ten minutes." "why, in america we get out in two and one-half seconds." "y-a-a-s, and so would we, _if we built tinder boxes_." there he had me and had me badly. there is no necessity for rapid and extensive fire departments in europe, for the houses are not mere lumber yards, as with us. when a man wants to build in a european city he has to get a license. his plans are submitted to the authorities, and, if approved, a proper authority stands over the work and sees that it is properly built. you are not permitted to run up a fire trap in the midst of valuable property; you are not permitted to build a showy sham that may be burned to the ground in ten minutes. nothing of the sort. your walls must be solid, your staircases of stone, and open, not of pine with the space under them for coal-oil depositories, there must be so many escapes from the building, the roof must be metal or slate, and the walls must be so built that a fire cannot get beyond the room in which it originates, and the only damage that can possibly result is the destruction of the contents of the room, and such damage as smoke and water may inflict. when a fire occurs in one room in a house, the people in the other rooms keep on as usual. it does not annoy them, for the fire cannot spread. [illustration: frankfort-on-the-maine--the jews' street.] [sidenote: the jews' street.] no one dreads to occupy a room on the fourth floor of a european hotel, for the idea of fire never occurs to one. they seldom have fires, and when one occurs it is counted a misdemeanor on the part of the owner of the premises. this all comes of solid and substantial buildings, to begin with. as a matter of course, a house costs something at the start, but when you get through you have a house for all time. the modern buildings in frankfort will be standing and in good repair centuries hence. i wish i could live to verify this assertion, but i suppose i shall not. going on through the kossmarkt, where there is a fine monument to gutenberg, we came to the zeil, a very beautiful street, and then, turning to the right, found ourselves in the celebrated judengasse, or jews' street, one of the most dingy, wretched, forlorn quarters that can well be imagined. the street is narrow, dirty, and squalid. the houses are high structures in the last stages of decay, many of them having great props to keep them from falling. the inmates of these apologies for houses are as dirty and squalid as the street itself. there are little pawn shops, dirty shops where old clothes are sold, an occasional tenement house, and very many liquor stores. it is the very acme of squalor and is in great contrast with the elegance of the zeil, only a block or two away. a dirty, squalid, beggarly-looking street is judengasse, but who knows what wealth is hidden behind all this apparent poverty? the jew of to-day is no less acute than the jew of the fourteenth century. he has all the wisdom of his ancestors in money getting, with the added experience of time. he can no longer be hauled up by a mailed knight, and compelled to disgorge; but in the stead of the robber, by the strong hand, there is the tax-gatherer; and, in his passion for the accumulation of wealth and disinclination to part with it, the frankfort israelite hates the one as heartily as his ancestor did the other. the american israelite lives as bravely and ostentatiously as any man, and even more so, but the habit in the old european cities is to conceal wealth, to live meanly, and to find enjoyment, not in the using of money but its accumulation. this street has always been set apart for jews, and down to the year it was closed every evening, and on sundays and holidays, throughout the entire day, and no one of its inhabitants were allowed in any other part of the city, under heavy penalty. until the time of the prince primate, in , no jew was ever allowed to enter the römerberg, or market place in front of the town hall. it is said that while the persecutions of the jews from the twelfth to the seventeenth century throughout the continent was merciless, it continued longer in germany than any other country, coming down, in frankfort, even to the present century. notwithstanding the abridgement of their rights, a great many of the jews attained wealth and distinction. the house is still pointed out in judengasse where the rothschilds, the founders of the present great banking house, lived during those troublous times. it is the same old story. the jews, despised, persecuted and outraged in every way, bore everything patiently, waiting for the time for their revenge. and their revenge has come in every country. in the olden days, in all the countries of europe, the jew had no rights which any other nationality or blood was bound to respect. he was outside of the law. he was taxed at the caprice of every prince and power. he had no chance in any court where a christian was opposed to him, and when they differed among themselves, it was made a pretext to rob him. the most absurd laws were made against them, and it really seemed as though the native rulers and their subjects laid awake nights to invent ways to oppress them. all this has changed. with a power of endurance simply wonderful, they bowed their heads to their oppressors, and, as all oppressed people do, substituted cunning for brute strength, and trained minds for lusty thews and sinews. they won in the end. the despised family of rothschild, once compelled by the haughty citizens to confine themselves to one quarter of the city, is now its boast. the frankforter takes more pride to-day in the fact that the city was the home of the rothschilds, than it does in the fact that it was for centuries the seat of government of the german empire. the jew in europe, while yet under something of a ban, is not the despised creature he was. the world has learned to respect him. [sidenote: something about jews.] there is not a calling in europe that a jew is not at the very head and front of. he has composed all the great operas, the sons and daughters of judea are the great actors and singers of the world; in law and divinity, and learning of all kinds, they stand at the head, and in finance they are the world's creditors. a convention of jew bankers could be called together who could shake every throne in europe. kings and nobles don't pull the teeth of jews any more to extract loans. on the contrary, they come into the presence of these great financiers with hat in hand and humble step. the jew holds the forceps now, and it is the noble's teeth that are pulled. how, in the absence of all law, hated, despised and contemned, and persecuted, they could amass wealth, is a mystery, but they did it. when persecution in one state got too warm for them they always had enough wealth to get away to another, and they always found a prince who needed money badly enough to give them protection, for a time, at least, and these same princes were wont to become silent partners with the jews in the work of eating up their own subjects with usury, which held until the jews got the upper hand, when the prince always made a raid upon them, paying his debts to them in this way, and they flitted. finally they got some measure of rights, when they made themselves felt. the hatred of jews continues in germany and russia, for the reason that their superior energy and acuteness has made them the masters of the trade of those countries. there is no business that they do not control. a great people are the descendants of abraham, isaac and jacob. they live where all others die, they wax rich where others starve. it is so in europe, it is so in america, it is so everywhere. there is no village so small that it has not its jew, precisely as in america. the jew with his goods is the first man in a new town--he progresses a little faster than progress. he was in the front or in the rear of the armies going southward; he was at the western end of every rail laid on the pacific road; he is essentially the pioneer in money and trade. they are a wonderful people. the jew of the fifteenth century and the jew of to-day are practically the same. they use different methods, but the underlying principle that moves them remains unchanged. we had two of them in the cars coming to frankfort, an elderly israelite with the regular nose, and his nephew, who was the exact picture of his uncle. the old man was giving the boy sage counsel: "vot is necessary for a peesnis man, abram, is berseverance more ash anyting else. berseverance is vot vins, every dime. ven i livet in shalesfille, shust back mit vicksberg, (i vas in clodink), der vash cohen and lilienthal both in groceries. cohen vas doin der besht peesness and it made lilienthal mat. lilienthal mate a special ding oof mackarel and cohen unterselt him. den lilienthal put down sugar but cohen unterselt him. lilienthal put rice down mit almosht nottin, unt cohen almosht gif it avay. cohen het de peesnis, and no matter how much lilienthal sanded hees sugar and vatered hees vishkey cohen alvays beet him. dot cohen vas a goot peesnis man. "but lilienthal vash de most berseverin' man ash ever vash, and he vash pound to beat cohen anyhow, and so vun day he notist dot cohen het a fery fine delivery mule. so lilienthal he sait to cohen: "'shake, dit you efer dink dot oof dot mule oof yours hed dot wart off his hint leg he wood pring you more ash dwice vot he vood now?' "'dot wart? it don't look vell. but how ish dot wart to be got off? der hint leg oof a helty mule isn't der pesht blace to go foolin rount.' "lilienthal vas a most berseverin' man. he sait: "'it's der easiest ting vot efer vos. you come up behint dot mule mit a red hot iron and burn off der wart. de mule is vort a huntret tollars more ash he vas.' "cohen triet it der next tay, unt hish funeral vash der piggest vot dey efer hat in shalesfille. lilienthal attented it hisself in two carriages, an' he vent right along and did all de peesness, and at a goot brofit, vor he hedn't no gompetishun. lilienthal vosh a berseverin' man, abram. der ain't notting in peesness like berseverance. remember dot." [sidenote: the rÃ�mer.] in a historic point of view, very interesting is the römer, or council hall, erected about the year . it faces the römerberg, and its three pointed gables give it a picturesque appearance. in the principal hall on the second floor are "portraits of the emperors," beginning with charlemagne ( - ), [illustration: "der hint leg oof a helty mule isn't der pesht blace to go foolin' rount."] and conrad i. ( - ), and coming down to ferdinand iii. ( - ). it was in this room the new emperor dined with the electors and then showed himself to the people assembled in the market place in front. adjoining this room is a smaller one, in which the electors used to meet to consult on the choice of an emperor. it is still preserved in the style of the olden days. of course frankfort has fine churches and a cathedral, but there is no especial merit in them. near the monument erected on the friedberger thor by frederick william ii. to the memory of the hessians who fell in , during the attack on frankfort, is a small circular building which contains one of the most beautiful as well as most celebrated works of art in germany, if not in europe. a wealthy banker, named bethman, purchased from the artist, dannecker, of stuttgart, his masterpiece, the exquisite "ariadne on the panther," and erected this building for its exhibition. in one part of the room is a recess, separated from the room by a crimson curtain. the ceiling is of glass, across which is stretched some heavy crimson cloth stuff. this filters the light, soft and subdued upon the group, producing a most beautiful effect. the figure of ariadne, nearly life-size, is half sitting, half reclining on the back of the panther, one elbow resting on the animal's head. the position is one of grace itself, and the modeling is perfect. as the soft light is shed upon the pure white marble, one can almost believe that it is the figure of a living, breathing woman before him. the effect is greatly heightened by the arrangement of the pedestal which allows the statue to be slowly revolved, thus giving the peculiar light and shade effect to every part. it is truly a most marvelous piece of statuary, and is worthy the admiration and praise bestowed upon it by the most eminent critics. during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, frankfort derived the most of her importance from the great fairs that were held there annually. merchants came from all parts of the country, with their stuffs, and made the old city, for the time being, a great commercial center, a position its excellent location especially adapted it for. but later, these fairs lost their prestige, and finally died away altogether, though occasionally they have an industrial exposition. but they are nothing compared to the fairs of the olden time. [sidenote: the lovely gardens.] while we were in frankfort an industrial exposition was in progress which, of course, we visited, and spent at least two hours very pleasantly, wandering around the different buildings and the beautiful grounds. the display was about equal to an ordinary state fair in western america. the most enjoyable portion of it all was the ride back to the depot, through the floral gardens, with their magnificent flowers and plants and shrubs, and along the broad anlagen, with their handsome residences and well kept lawns. [illustration: cologne cathedral.] chapter xliv. down the rhine. what a flood of anticipations came trooping through the mind at the mere thought of a sail "down the rhine." down that famous old river, every mile the scene of a legend; the river in whose praise poets have sung for ages; whose every turn reveals a castle or fortress that has figured for centuries in story and song! what visions of wooded banks, vine-clad hills, and ivy-covered ruins! what pure, unalloyed pleasure a trip "down the rhine" must be! and it is. poets may have written what seemed to be over-wrought praises of its marvelous beauty; writers may have gone into ecstacies over its beauty, its grandeur and its sublimity, but they have none of them exaggerated. it is all that has been said of it, and more. we were whirled into the fortified city of mayence, a place that has long been an important strategical point, early in the afternoon of a lovely day in august. the sun was shining brightly, the river was clear and limpid, and everything was propitious. favorable, indeed, began our trip down the rhine. sailing down the river, past the grim fortifications on both sides, we pass between two islands, and soon reach the pretty little town of biebrich, where, in a.d. , louis the pious, son and successor of charlemagne, died. the river at this point begins to assume a bolder and more picturesque appearance than it did near mayence, and as we approach eltville we get the first glimpse of a ruined castle, built in , by baldwin, archbishop of treves, who was then governor of mayence. it stands high up the bank, and is almost hidden from view by the trees that surround it. just beyond, back of a low-lying island, is the town of erbach, near which are some old abbey's ruins. [sidenote: "bingen on the rhine."] from here the river is dotted with little islands whose irregular shape and diversified surface adds a new charm to the scene; while over on the right bank, in a commanding position, surrounded by fruitful vineyards, is the celebrated schloss johannisberg, built in on the site of an old benedictine monastery founded in . around this old castle, which is in good repair, are the vineyards from which come the famous johannisberger wines, the favorite of all rhine wines. from this point all along the river to the "siebengeberger" or "seven mountains," the vineyards that clothe the banks of the river are famous for their exquisite wines. a few minutes further on and on the same bank rüdesheim comes into sight, flanked by the massive brömserburg, a massive castle, with ivy-grown walls, that towers high above the little town below it. this is another famous wine-producing district, its fame having been handed down from as far back as the twelfth century. the castle, a three-storied rectangular building, was erected in the twelfth century, and has but recently been restored. with a graceful sweep that reveals new beauties every minute, we came in sight of bingen, "fair bingen on the rhine," just where the river nahe empties into the noble stream. high above it, on a thickly wooded eminence, on the site of an ancient roman fortress, is the castle klopp, with its frowning battlements and forbidding towers. no one can see what there is about bingen to make it famous. it never would have been famous but for the hon. mrs. norton, an english poetess, who found the name to be properly accented, and of the right number of syllables for use in a poem, which she wrote. it will be known so long as the platform is infested with readers and there are school exhibitions. "a soldier of the legion lay dying in algiers, there was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears." that's the way it commences, and the burden to each stanza is:-- "for i was born in bingen--fair bingen on the rhine." it is a most absurd poem. there must necessarily be a lack of woman's tears around a shot soldier in a foreign land, for no government on earth could afford its soldiers any such luxury. how, possibly, could a government send out a complement of wives, sisters, cousins and aunts to nurse and weep over each wounded individual? and then this soldier, mortally wounded, instead of dying properly, goes on through nearly two hundred lines to send messages to everybody he ever knew in bingen, ending each message with: "fair bingen on the rhine." and so, as the boat approached bingen, all the excursionists, especially the sweet girls from the seminaries, who were on their summer vacation, murmured softly: "for i was born at bingen--fair bingen on the rhine." and one young divinity student, with long hair, and a high forehead, and long, narrow white hands, deliberately recited the whole poem with what he firmly believed to be "expression," which consisted in ending each sentence with the upward inflection. the ineffable nuisance had spent the night in committing the drivel to memory, and he spared us never a line. the school-girls all said, "how nice!" tibbitts went below and amused himself with a bottle of wine, and the majority of the other passengers walked forward where they could smoke. and then the real worry of life began. the dozen or more young men with high foreheads, who did hear the "reader" through, sought you out, and collared you, and said: "did you hear mr. ---- read bingen? he thinks he can read, but he can't. now this is the proper way to read that poem." and he went right on, and read it to you as he thought it should be done. there were thirteen of them. [sidenote: the mouse tower.] scarcely has this view faded from sight before we pass the ruined towers of a castle erected in , and destroyed by the french in . just opposite this ruin is the famous mouse tower, a small, circular tower, built of massive stone. it takes its name from the legend of hatto, archbishop of mayence. the legend runs that during a great famine in the land thereabouts, the poor people were sorely distressed for corn, and vainly besought archbishop hatto, who had graneries full of the previous year's crop, to aid them in their time of want. at length he promised that to all who should be at his barn on a certain morning he would give corn. of course the poor people flocked thither, and when the barn was full he locked the doors, and, despite their piteous cries for mercy, set the barn on fire, and laughed at their cries, comparing them to mice that had come to carry away his corn. [illustration: death of archbishop hatto.] that night he had troubled dreams, as was proper, and in the morning his servants told him to fly, for his grounds were being filled with rats who had eaten all the corn he had saved. he hastily quitted his castle and sought refuge in the castle on the island, thinking that the steep rocks and swift water would prevent the rats from finding him there. but they swarmed over the island by millions and the cruel archbishop died a terrible lingering death. this is a good solid legend, with meat in it. there is a great moral lesson inculcated, and every legend should inculcate a moral. it contains, i thought, a solemn warning to american grain operators. but tibbitts found a great many flaws in it, and said he did not consider it a good legend at all. it was full of improbabilities. hatto made a corner on corn. very good. he had some purpose in it. very good. that purpose could have been nothing but a speculative desire to run up the price of his corn and sell out at an advance. very good. to whom could he sell the corn at a profit? only to the starving people. now what an ass he must have been to corner the corn and then go and burn up his customers, the people to whom he could have sold the corn at any price! mr. tibbitts insisted, that that wouldn't wash. he doubted the rat story also. he knew all about grain operators. he knew many of them in chicago who frequently saw rats, and snakes, and all that sort of thing. probably archbishop hatto had been drinking, and fancied these things. but it was well enough. one must have legends and it wouldn't do to go any more closely into particulars about legends, than it does to be too critical as to the character of candidates for congress. he should accept hatto, corn, rats and all. it was a very pretty story--for children. it would teach them not to burn people. at this point the rhine makes a sudden bend and the channel becomes very narrow. formerly the passage was very dangerous, and in the olden times it was a favorite spot for the robber knights who had their strongholds on the banks thereabouts, to stop trading vessels on their way up and down the river to request the payment of tolls. [sidenote: the devil's ladder.] the merchants always paid the tolls. sir hugo, or sir bruno, or sir whoever he might be, did not need a custom house to collect his imposts. he merely had a score or more of cut-throats, fellows who would kill a man for sixpence, or its equivalent in the money of the day, and in default of the sixpence would do it for the sheer love of the thing, and the trader found it much better to give what was asked than to go to the bottom of the rhine with a slit in his windpipe. but i have no idea that he lost anything. he counted this in his expense account, the same as the merchant of to-day does his insurance and bad debts, and he took it out of his customers, and they in turn took it out of the people. all of these things come out of the ground at the end. it is the tiller of the soil who finally pays for the soldier, the robber, the judge and jury, the gin-mill and the faro bank. and tibbitts referred at once to a remark he had previously made, that it was vice, not virtue, that cost the world, that to wipe out the gin-mills was to do away with the police, the courts, and with the hangman, and everything else connected with what is called justice, that is so expensive. armies are supported to sustain kings and courts, liquor makes police and justices' courts necessary, and while everybody seems to pay a tax, none of them do it but the tiller of the soil, for they all charge up these expenses on what they do till it gets down to him. what he would do would be to do away with vice. virtue is very cheap--so cheap that he wondered more people did not encourage it. the banks now assume a more rugged appearance, and on each eminence is a castle or a ruin. we pass by in rapid succession a number of very picturesque views, in each one of which these ancient fortresses play an important part. those old robbers knew well where to build, and they built exceeding well. after passing lorch we came to the pretty stream of the wisper, which empties into the rhine at this point. on the left bank of the stream is a rugged cliff, towering high in the air, called the "devil's ladder," which, of course, has its legend. near lorch there lived a knight who, after losing his wife, became sullen and morose, and would have nothing to do with any one but his daughter, a lovely girl, just budding into womanhood. he refused to grant hospitality to any one who asked it. one stormy night a knight in distress applied for shelter and rest and was gruffly refused. the next morning when old sibo, the knight, inquired for his daughter, he was told that she had been seen early in the morning with two sprites going up the impassable crag across the river. the distracted father hastened after and could see his daughter on the very summit of the crag. almost crazed with grief he in vain besought the sprites to return her to him. but they only laughed and jeered at him. finally, after a long time had passed, a young knight who had long loved the maid returned from the wars, and hearing the rather awkward situation his early love was in, hastily repaired to the foot of the crag determined to rescue her. but it was in vain. there was no way of making the ascent. he was about giving up in despair when a little figure suddenly appeared before him, and asked him why he was so despondent. on learning his love for the girl she told him to come again at the same time the following evening. the young knight returned promptly, as young men in love always do, and was surprised to find a ladder reaching from the foot to the top of the crag. he hastily mounted to the summit, and there in an enchanted garden he found the object of his search, and soon restored her to her father, who henceforth was most lavish with his hospitality. the maiden and the brave young knight were united in marriage and lived a long and happy life. the ladder remained on the rock for many years, and was called the devil's ladder. it fell away in the course of time, but the name has ever since been applied to the great rugged cliff. it is a thousand pities that some of these ladders and things don't remain, simply to give us faith in the legends. if there was just one round of the ladder left, if one could only be shown the holes in the rock in which he was fastened, it would be something, but there is nothing of the kind. you have to take it all on faith, and that is sometimes wrenching. [sidenote: the lurlieberg.] all the way along the river, from here to beyond coblenz, the rhine is a succession of constantly changing views as the boat winds its way around the tortuous channel, every one more beautiful and picturesque than its predecessor. there are castles on high hills on the right bank, some close to the river, others further inland, just discernable through the trees. on the left bank are pretty villas and more castles, and occasionally an island is passed that has on it a ruined watch tower built hundreds of years ago, when might was right in this romantic country. just before approaching the pretty village of st. goar, on the left hand of the rhine, the imposing rocks of the lurlie rise over four hundred feet above the river. here the current is very swift, and many are the tales told of bold adventurous knights who have lost their lives under the shadow of this famous rock. of course the lurlieberg, as the rock is called, has its legend, as has every well regulated rock on the river. a rock without an appropriate legend would be no rock at all. the knights and ladies, and witches and devils, of the olden time, existed, apparently, solely in the interest of the booksellers of mayence, and the other cities of to-day. the legend of the lurlie runs something like this: the rock known as the lurlie was the resort of a water-nymph, who was about as capricious as other nymphs. she was a young lady who could live under water as well as above it; in fact, her permanent residence was under the rhine. her regular recreation was to come out of the wet, and sit on a rock, and comb her long, yellow hair (she was a natural blonde, as all entrancers are), and sing, accompanying herself on a golden lute. of course all the young men in the vicinity fell desperately in love with her, and they went for her. but while the nymph would sing and pose for them so as to set them crazy, their boats were all dashed to pieces upon the rock, whereat the nymph would laugh, and comb her hair, and sing, and entice other young fellows to their doom. she was kindly only to fishermen, and the one item to her credit is that she never did them harm, but always good. that was probably because they were old men, and unimpressible. the son of a count in the vicinity, fell in love with her, and despite the warnings he had received, determined to conquer her. he ordered his boat, and commanded the men to steer for the fatal rock. there was no nymph on it at first, but after a minute or two she appeared more radiantly beautiful than ever. the foolish young man attempted to climb the rock, but he fell into the seething waves and was never more seen. then his father swore vengeance and sent valiant men to seize her and burn her as a witch. the result might have been anticipated. the nymph sang a song to the waves and plunged into them, laughing, the same waves upsetting the boat which held the soldiers, and she descended to her cave under the water, while her pursuers thought themselves lucky to escape with their lives. at another time a maiden loved a young man who was to go to palestine to fight the saracens. during his absence she was so persecuted by the other young men that she retired to a convent near the lurlie, and waited for her lover. at last she saw a boat approaching filled with men, and among them, gorgeously attired, was her young man. unfortunately to get to where she was the boat had to come very near the rock, the water-demons raised the whirlpool, the beautiful nymph presiding with a mocking smile, and they seized the doomed craft and hurled it against the rock, and down it went, and all on board were lost. the hapless maid plunged into the seething waves after her lover, and as she went under the flood, the nymph of the lurlie appeared on the surface, beautiful as ever, but with the laugh that was frightfully harsh and discordant. she could not bear to see earthly young maids happy. that same night she was on the rock as usual, combing her hair, and other young men got into her toils, till there was a scarcity of eligible suitors in the neighborhood. she was a dangerous person, this young nymph of lurlie. passing coblenz, a beautiful city, picturesquely situated at the confluence of the mosel and the rhine, we soon came to the siebengebergen, "seven mountains," the rugged banks gradually tone down, and between bonn and cologne the scenery is not so interesting, because of the grandeur of that which has preceded it. still it is not altogether devoid of interest, though it is of a quieter and less imposing kind. after a five hours' ride through such magnificence, one is quite willing to take it in a little milder form, and we were thoroughly content when we landed in cologne, the great cathedral city. [sidenote: the smart young man.] was there ever a steamboat, or stage, or rail car, or any other place where people are thrown together in such a way that they can not escape, that that unmitigated nuisance, that nuisance without any compensating features, the knowing young man, the young man who knows everything that a young man should be ashamed to have it known that he does know, is not present? there is a tremendous crop of these weeds every year: lightning strikes innocent cows and beautiful houses, but it never hits one of these fellows, which argues a great waste of electricity. good men and beautiful women die of fevers and such complaints, but these insects never have anything of the kind. a row of shanties never burns, but stately buildings go down or up in smoke daily. they are an exasperating set. they do not seem to know that it is rather discreditable than otherwise for a man not in the trade to actually _know_ all about wines and liquors, and things of that nature. but when a young fellow is weak enough to profess this disreputable knowledge when he has it not, he ought to be immediately taken out and killed. to see the old wine tasters and the ancient beer drinkers, who do actually know all about these things, smile and wink at the vaporings of these young simpletons, is a piteous sight. but, heaven help them, they go on just the same. panoplied in egotism, they do not know they are asses, and therefore enjoy themselves. it is a delightful thing to be an egotist. an egotist pities the people who do not enjoy him. we had him on our steamer down the rhine. he was six feet high, with a moustache, and a billy-cock hat, and pointed shoes, and short coat, and all that, and he talked to everybody. "know ned stokes? should say so! knew him before he killed jim fisk. used to meet him at harry felter's, and many a hot old time i've had with him. last time i met ned was in chicago, and we were both so blind drunk we didn't know whether we were in illinois or louisiana." he rattled on about wines, and salads, and so on, and then a bottle of wine that he had ordered came up. he took a little of it in his mouth, and rinsed it, and passed the bottle under his nose, backward and forward, and sniffed critically, and then remarked sagely that it would do, but that it was not quite up to the mark, and that it was difficult to get good wine even in the rhine country. from this he glided off to beer, criticising the various varieties, with the air of a man who had lived a long life in sampling beverages and doing everything else of that kind, and he branched out in cheerful conversation about celebrities in the various walks of life. "d'ye ever meet ned sothern? poor ned! there was ned and billy florence, and we used to have high old times before poor ned went under. i remember--" tibbitts moved uneasily in his chair, which portended something. "then there was uncle john brougham, and lester wallack"--and he went glibly through all the noted actors and actresses as though he had been a boon companion and bosom friend of all of them for years. then he took a short excursion into the realm of sport. he knew every pugilist who had ever fought, every rower, every pedestrian, and all the crack shots and base ball players, and he had the dates of their various performances down to a dot. he reeled off this interesting matter, toying the while with corks from champagne bottles, pausing a moment in his narrations, to give the history of each one. he not only knew all these people, but he never by any means used family names. he did not say, "mr. fechter," it was "charley," "old charley," and when he spoke of women it was not "miss rose eytinge," it was "rosy." and he kept on talking of clubs, and horses, and yachts, and fishing, and gunning, and cards, and women, and racing, and "events" of that sort, till tibbitts pounced down upon him as a cat does upon a mouse. "may i ask what part of the great republic you are from?" asked tibbitts. "i hail from kokomo, indiana, but i spend most of my time east." "your business?" "business, ah, i am in hardware." [sidenote: mr. tibbitts' romance.] "i see--you have a branch house in new york. do you know billy vanderbilt? no? you ought to know him. take billy vanderbilt and russ sage, and cy field, and little gouldy, and you just more than have an everlasting team. and there's chet arthur; who'd ever spose that chet would ever have got to be president? some men have all the luck. and there's jack sherman, of ohio, why jack and i--but never mind. i don't let on all i know. but i tell you, when jack and his brother cump--he's the general of the armies now, and his other brother charley, is a judge. poor scotty, of philadelphia, the president of the pennsylvania road, he's gone. he couldn't stand the racket, and he went under. but hughy jewett, of the erie, he's another kind of a rooster, he is. he is in with gus belmont, and they two, with jim keene and dave mills, of san francisco--well you ought to just see them punish wine after they have taken the boys in and done for 'em. they are up to everything, they are. i remember one night--" "where are you from?" asked the knowing young man, gasping in astonishment at this array of names and the familiarity with which they were used. "me! oh, i'm from oshkosh; but i have a branch house in new york too. i go down just once a year to sell live stock, and i pick up more names in the week i stay there than an ordinary man can remember, and i remember all their given names, and i can reel them off just as fast as any indiana young man i ever met, and i know them just as well. only i prefer financiers and statesmen to horse men, actors and prize fighters. i am very select. next year i shall not know anybody under a senator. you may just as well know big men, really great men, as merely notorious ones. now there's 'lyss grant and bob schenck, and rufe ingalls, and black jack logan, you ought to just sit down with them at a game of poker! that's where you have sport, and as for fishing, bill wheeler, till he got spoiled by being vice-president, he could everlastingly handle a rod, and the way he'd yank 'em out was a caution. he was no slouch. many a time i've--" the wise young man from kokomo, indiana, who knew everybody, could not endure the reminiscences of the oshkosh young man, and he beat a precipitate retreat and we saw him no more. tibbitts drew a sigh of relief and remarked that he had never strained his imagination so frightfully in all his life. chapter xlv. cologne, its cathedral and other things. there may be altogether too much of even cathedrals. after going through those in london, then tackling those in northern france and wandering through those in paris, going out of your way to see a dozen more or less in southern france, then taking by the way the big and little ones in switzerland, one gets, as it were, somewhat tired of cathedrals, and wishes the necessities of travel did not compel him to see more of them. to a certain extent they are all alike. it is true they are all built in different styles, but there is a striking family resemblance, and they are so alike that after you have seen a dozen or two you will not be very much interested in those to follow. the interiors are all alike, and the "objects of interest" are the same. they have the same style of pictures, there is always a "descent from the cross" by an old master, and there is a well-selected assortment of saints, also by old masters, and the interiors are always dim and sombre, and have the precise kind of light that aggravates the always too faithful picture of a saint undergoing martyrdom, or dead just after martyrdom. mr. tibbitts discoursed at length upon the general gloominess of religious institutions. inasmuch as the builders of churches put in their time and money for the good of mankind, he wondered why they didn't have the knowledge of human nature, and the good sense of those engaged in wicked pursuits. [sidenote: an orthodox church.] "cathedrals in europe," said he, "and even the churches in our own beloved country, are always the darkest, gloomiest places that human ingenuity can possibly devise. i remember the one my grandmother used to compel me to attend when i was a boy of six. the interior, even to the pews, and their furnishings were of a dark and dismal color, the hen-coop pulpit was dark, the trimmings about it were dark, the windows were narrow and very high up. the ceiling was dark, and to add to the prevailing gloominess, there were outside green blinds over the windows that admitted just enough light to make the gloom of the interior felt. and then the domine was a sallow man with gray hair, brushed back from his forehead; and he dressed in a black frock coat buttoned up to his chin. he was the least cheerful picture in the church. "the seats in the pews were very high, and slanted slightly forward, as did the backs; and as the feet of a six-year-old child wouldn't touch the floor, it was the most distressing thing in life to sit there. and then the music! the worthy old gentleman in the pulpit, in a voice as harsh as a saw mill, would grind out a most doleful hymn, which was always sung to most doleful music. and that was followed by a sermon three hours long, on the doctrine of foreordination! cheerful, for a boy of six, who, when dragged into that gloom on a bright june morning, looked longingly out upon the bright, green fields, on which the soft sunlight was falling like a benison from a good creator; and who, to get to the church, had to cross a beautiful brook with trout, which knew no sunday, swimming in the clear waters, every ripple of which was an invitation to him. "now the wicked people are a great deal more wise than this. a wicked place is always made attractive. there never was such a lie written as "vice is a monster of such hideous mien." vice is not hideous; it is that which follows vice that is hideous. champagne is as beautiful as can be; its effects are hideous. it isn't the getting drunk that is hideous; it is the resultant headache the next morning. a bar-room is always made light and pleasant; there is silverware, and curious glass, and chandeliers, and warm fires, and everything pleasant and cheerful. your merchant, who is worldly if not wicked, makes his place as pleasant as possible, and even the butcher dresses his meats in sprigs of evergreen. if i ever go into the ministry, i shall do away with gloom, and have my place as pleasant as light and flowers can make it. as religion is the best thing in the world, i don't see why it should be made the gloomiest. as for these pictures--bah!" then we went through the cathedral. we did it as a duty. there's another trouble about cathedrals, and that is the "restoration" that is going on perpetually and constantly. they were all commenced some hundreds of years ago, they were very slow in building, and by the time the last part was done the first part had decayed, and had to be restored. go wherever you may in a cathedral, you shall see a large part of it disfigured with scaffolds, with workmen on them, and building material around, giving one the idea they are yet unfinished. it is said by scoffers and sneerers that the reason why it took several centuries to finish a cathedral was to prolong the time for pulling money out of the faithful, and that the perpetual restorations that are going on are for the same purpose, but of course that is a slander. boss tweed might do such a thing, but not those filled with zeal for cathedrals. cologne has many points of interest, but the principal one is its grand cathedral, the fourth largest in christendom; st. peter's at rome standing first, the cathedral at milan second, st. paul's in london third, cologne fourth. though it may not be so huge in its dimensions as the other three, it certainly cannot be excelled in beauty of design or artistic excellence in construction. it is cruciform in shape, with a total length of one hundred and forty-eight yards, and sixty-seven yards breadth. its walls are one hundred and fifty feet high, the roof two hundred and one feet, and the tower over the transept three hundred and fifty-seven feet, and the two towers over the west façade two hundred and fifty feet high. tibbitts didn't think much of the architect. the tower over the transept, he insisted, should have been an inch, or an inch and a half, wider at the top. these figures, however, give but a faint idea of the immensity of the structure, whose imposing appearance is greatly heightened by the elaborate galleries, turrets, flying buttresses and cornices that adorn every portion of the walls and towers. [sidenote: the great cathedral.] the history of this cathedral, which has been building since , is somewhat interesting to those who take any interest in cathedrals. the foundation stone was laid on the twenty-fourth of august, , by archbishop conrad, of hechstaden, but it was a number of years before anything more was done. in the choir was finished and consecrated. in the nave was fitted up for use, and in the bells were placed in the south tower. from that time the interest in the work gradually died out, and it seemed as though the original design would never be carried out. in the french took off the lead roof that had been placed over the decaying building, and converted it into a hay magazine. it was not till that anything was done to restore the church. in that year the work of renovation commenced, and a few years later a talented architect named zwirner, suggested the completion of the building according to the original designs. the idea was enthusiastically taken up, and in the work was begun, and has been steadily continued, until now only a few finishing touches remain to be given. the architect who first designed this structure, undoubtedly the finest gothic edifice in the world, is not definitely known, though it is commonly supposed to be meister gerard, of riehl, a small village near cologne. the imaginative people there had to have a legend about the cathedral, which is as follows: archbishop st. engelbert conceived the idea of building, on the site of an old roman church, the most magnificent cathedral the world ever saw. he called to him a young architect and told him to prepare plans in accordance with this idea. the young man, delighted with this opportunity of distinguishing himself and making his name famous forever, worked night and day to design a building that would meet the requirements of the archbishop. but there was one part he could not master. he became almost insane over his disappointment, and was about to give up, when one night he dreamed he saw the missing portion sketched on the wall of his chamber. thoroughly awakened, he sprang from his bed to make a copy of it. but it had disappeared, and in the room stood satan with an illuminated parchment in his hand. this contained the long sought plan. satan, doing the regular thing, offered it to the despairing architect on condition that he should have his soul and that of the first person who entered the cathedral. the young man was distracted. he wanted the plan, and told satan he might have his soul; but he could not barter away the salvation of another. satan smiled, returned the parchment to his bosom, and was about to go away, when the young man acceded to his terms. the devil knew his business. he knew that the architect's ambition would not let him stop for a soul or two, as he had mortgaged his own, and that he would get him finally. he has gone on that principle ever since and has always won. [illustration: legend of the cathedral--cologne.] [sidenote: how satan was fooled.] the plans were then made out, and work on the beautiful edifice was pushed rapidly forward, and at length was so far completed that a date was set for the consecration. then the architect realized the position he was in. not only was his own soul everlastingly lost, but that of an innocent person. this so preyed upon his mind that the people noticed his agitation and besought the archbishop to ascertain the cause. the unhappy man finally told the good father the whole circumstance, much to the latter's horror. he was advised to make his peace with god, while the archbishop determined to sacrifice a woman of ill-repute who was in prison awaiting sentence, by making her the first to enter the church. when the day for consecration came, a long box containing, as was supposed, the poor woman, was carried to the cathedral, the door was opened, the lid of the box was taken off, and the unfortunate victim crawled on her knees into the church, the attendants sprinkling holy water all the time. as she entered there was a terrific noise. satan appeared, broke the neck of the unfortunate in the box, flying off, presumably, with her soul. he then flew to the architect's house and broke his neck. as satan disappeared from the church, the woman arose from the box, went into the building to pray, while the servants carried from the dome the carcass of a pig, which had been enveloped in a woman's gown, and sacrificed. this legend will not do, any more than the other legends you hear about these places. satan could not have been fooled with a pig. it is no compliment to him. to suppose that he did not see the woman enter the church is to give him credit for very little intelligence and a most singular neglect of his own business; and the attempt to try to swindle him with so clumsy a contrivance is too absurd. and then why should satan be perpetually swindled? the contract was a fair one, and should have been carried out in good faith. it may be remarked, in passing, that satan does not, now-a-days, appear to those having charge of government buildings in the united states, making offers of plans and other assistance, that he may get them in the end. he is too acute for that. why should he go to the trouble of helping them, when he knows perfectly well that he will get them, anyhow? he doesn't waste his time that way any longer. the interior of the cathedral is large and very impressive, the fifty-six pillars which support the roof being of huge but graceful dimensions, giving a pleasing aspect to the whole. the stained glass windows are particularly fine, being among the best in europe. the various chapels that surround the nave are all handsomely decorated with statues, frescoes, and fine altars, done in the highest style of art. the wood carving representing the passion in the altar of st. clara is especially good, as is also the tapestry on the walls back of the choir stalls, illustrative of the nicene creed and the seven sacraments. this tapestry was worked by the ladies of cologne, and is a fine specimen of that style of art. from the cathedral the visitor naturally turns to the other churches, but a hasty inspection of them is all that is required, for, after the cathedral, everything else loses its interest. there are some very imposing edifices, which, if they did not suffer so by comparison with the cathedral, would be considered fine specimens of early architecture. for instance, the gross st. martin, consecrated in , which is a massive building, with an imposing tower surrounded by four corner turrets. the still older church, st. maria im capital, consecrated in , is in the shape of a cross, built in the romanesque style. the interior is decorated with modern frescoes that are very badly done, being of light and gaudy colors, that do away entirely with the idea that they adorn a place of worship. other churches of interest are, st. peter's and st. cecilia, the former of the sixteenth and the latter of the tenth and twelfth century; st. gereon, dedicated to the three hundred and eighteen martyrs of the theban legion, with their captain gereon, who perished on the site of the church during the persecutions of the christians under diocletian. on the substructure of an ancient roman stronghold stands the rath-house, a picturesque building erected in different centuries, beginning with the fourteenth. here the meetings of hanseatic league were held in the fourteenth century. from the rath-house the visitor turns to the markets, passing through narrow, dirty streets, with high overlapping houses, to the monument of frederick william iii., a huge equestrian statue of the king. here is the heumarkt, and a busy sight it is. as far as the eye can reach is a vast concourse of people, buying and selling all manner of things. the women, with their white caps and peculiar dresses, flit hither and yon, talking, laughing and jesting with men, who are arrayed in costumes that suggest the old rheinish peasants, made familiar by the painters of the old rheinish school. [sidenote: eleven thousand virgins.] time was when cologne, founded by the ubii, when agrippa compelled them to migrate from the right to the left bank of the rhine, was a power in that land. at the end of the fifteenth century she was the wealthiest and most influential city in germany: not only was it great in commerce, but it was the center of german art, both in architecture and painting, as may be seen yet by the elegant buildings, designed and erected in those olden days, that are yet standing, and in the pictures of that age that are still preserved. cologne's great troubles were internal dissensions, which finally led to the banishment of the protestants in . it was due more than to any other one cause, to these discords that caused the city to gradually decline in power as early as the middle of the sixteenth century. later on she lost nearly all her importance and continued in a state of lethargy until the prussians obtained control in , since which time her trade and commerce have been steadily improving, making her to-day one of the chiefest commercial cities in germany. in the old church of st. ursula are the alleged bones of eleven thousand virgins. the legend is that this sainted woman, a scotch princess, was returning from a pilgrimage to rome with eleven thousand virgins in her train, and they were set upon by the barbarous huns and all slain. there can be no doubt as to the truth of the legend (if you want to believe it), for you are shown, through gratings, bones enough to stock a cemetery. i have no opinion about it. possibly st. ursula was skillful enough to corner that number of virgins; but would the huns have slain them all? that makes us pause. it was a great many years ago, and i am glad the legend has it (for i wish to believe all the legends i can) that the virgins came from a country far distant from cologne. could a saint, be she ever so devout, find that number in cologne now? it is not for me to say. possibly they are all gone on pilgrimages. let us take the legend down at one gulp, and forget the fact that among these bones are the remains of any number of males, and likewise any number of animals. in this same church you are shown one of the identical jars in which water was miraculously turned into wine at the marriage in cana, and various other relics, such as the teeth of saints, and cheerful things of that nature, in which i really could take no especial interest. after the eleven thousand skeletons of virgins, anything else in the way of relics seemed tame. if they had saved the teeth of eleven thousand saints, it would have been something like; but isolated teeth, single teeth at that, make too small a show. the teeth were doubtless genuine, but there were too few of them. cologne is probably the best known city in europe. leaving out the wonderful cathedral, and the bones of the virgins and the history that clings to it, giving it a musty and ancient flavor, it is the place where cologne water was invented, and where is the american school-girl who does not know all about that? she may know nothing about the cathedral, but she knows all about that especial perfume. a man named farina invented it several generations ago, and every male child born since in the families of perfumers has been christened farina. there are at least fifty places where the "original" is sold. here you get the genuine, and though you shall have it much better in any little drug store, in any western village in america, you buy a flask of it in cologne, at one of the originals. it is the thing to do. our party all supplied themselves, though i noticed that the most of them threw the flasks away, from the train on the way to brussels. it was genuine, but cologne by any other name would smell as sweet. * * * * * home! there are other countries to see, but, first, home. three thousand miles away lies a land fairer than any yet visited, a country more pleasing. we are glad that our time is expended, for we go home! six months of absence is quite enough, and the thought of returning makes the blood course quicker in one's veins. and yet never was time more profitably spent than in these rambles through strange countries, for the experience put us in condition to appreciate our own. an american has no idea how good america is, till he sees europe. he does not know how good a government he has, till he lives for a time under others. it requires a glimpse of oppressed ireland or king-ridden prussia, to make one properly appreciate a republic. we have no palaces, but we have no soldiers. we have no cathedrals, but we have no paupers. we have no ruins, and shall never have, for under our system the ephemeral structures of to-day will be replaced to-morrow with what will be eternal. every american should go abroad once at least, that he may, with sufficient fervor, thank the fates that cast his lines in pleasant places. and so, glad that we have been abroad, but much gladder to get back, we turn our faces westward. our exile is ended. the end. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: when its gets older=> when it gets older {pg } never heerd of=> never heard of {pg } then there is the eminently respectable shops=> then there are the eminently respectable shops {pg } assured us that he know=> assured us that he knew {pg } peace and and quietness=> peace and quietness {pg } waiting uopn messrs.=> waiting upon messrs. {pg } a repectable paper=> a respectable paper {pg } but is is not alone=> but it is not alone {pg } an american would irrevelantly say=> an american would irreverently say {pg } must be feed=> must be fed {pg } the average menhanic=> the average mechanic {pg } a hugh merchantman=> a huge merchantman {pg } a pleasent place to live=> a pleasant place to live {pg } began preparing=> begun preparing {pg } fire works were diplayed=> fire works were displayed {pg } religous ceremonies=> religious ceremonies {pg } royal palaise=> royal palais {pg } for he know that=> for he knew that {pg } nephews and neices=> nephews and nieces {pg } as if by faries=> as if by fairies {pg } than a theif has to your watch=> than a thief has to your watch {pg } equivalant to ten cents=> equivalent to ten cents {pg } leave chamounix=> leave chamonix {pg } in an ampitheater=> in an amphitheater {pg } to yet=> as yet {pg } as my modest appeal=> to my modest appeal {pg } feminity=> femininity {pg } is very plenty in baden-baden=> is very plentiful in baden-baden {pg } it's streets=> its streets {pg } troubulous times=> troublous times {pg } conrad i. ( - )=> conrad i. ( - ) {pg } flying butresses=> flying buttresses {pg } during the the persecutions=> during the persecutions {pg } hills and the sea by h. belloc methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london * * * * * dedication to the other man mr philip kershaw _there were once two men. they were men of might and breeding. they were young, they were intolerant, they were hale. were there for humans as there is for dogs a tribunal to determine excellence; were there judges of anthropoidal points and juries to, give prizes for manly race, vigour, and the rest, undoubtedly these two men would have gained the gold and the pewter medals. they were men absolute._ _they loved each other like brothers, yet they quarrelled like socialists. they loved each other because they had in common the bond of mankind; they quarrelled because they differed upon nearly all other things. the one was of the faith, the other most certainly was not. the one sang loudly, the other sweetly. the one was stronger, the other more cunning. the one rode horses with a long stirrup, the other with a short. the one was indifferent to danger, the other forced himself at it. the one could write verse, the other was quite incapable thereof. the one could read and quote theocritus, the other read and quoted himself alone. the high gods had given to one judgment, to the other valour; but to both that measure of misfortune which is their gift to those whom they cherish._ _from this last proceeded in them both a great knowledge of truth and a defence of it, to the tedium of their friends: a demotion to the beauty of women and of this world; an outspoken hatred of certain things and men, and, alas! a permanent sadness also. all these things the gods gave them in the day when the decision was taken upon olympus that these two men should not profit by any great good except friendship, and that all their lives through necessity should jerk her bit between their teeth, and even at moments goad their honour._ _the high gods, which are names only to the multitude, visited these men. dionysus came to them with all his company once, at dawn, upon the surrey hills, and drove them in his car from a suburb whose name i forget right out into the weald. pallas athene taught them by word of mouth, and the cytherean was their rosy, warm, unfailing friend. apollo loved them. he bestowed upon them, under his own hand the power not only of remembering all songs, but even of composing light airs of their own; and pan, who is hairy by nature and a lurking fellow afraid of others, was reconciled to their easy comradeship, and would accompany them into the mountains when they were remote from mankind. upon these occasions he revealed to them the life of trees and the spirits that haunt the cataracts, so that they heard voices calling where no one else had ever heard them, and that they saw stones turned into animals and men._ _many things came to them in common. once in the hills, a thousand miles from home, when they had not seen men for a very long time, dalua touched them with his wing, and they went mad for the space of thirty hours. it was by a stream in a profound gorge at evening and under a fretful moon. the next morning they lustrated themselves with water, and immediately they were healed._ _at another time they took a rotten old leaky boat they were poor and could afford no other--they took, i say, a rotten old leaky boat whose tiller was loose and whose sails mouldy, and whose blocks were jammed and creaking, and whose rigging frayed, and they boldly set out together into the great north sea._ _it blew a capful, it blew half a gale, it blew a gale: little they cared, these sons of ares, these cousins of the broad daylight! there mere no men on earth save these two who would not have got her under a trysail and a rag of a storm-jib with fifteen reefs and another: not so the heroes. not a stitch would they take in. they carried all her canvas, and cried out to the north-east wind: "we know her better than you! she'll carry away before she capsizes, and she'll burst long before she'll carry away." so they ran before it largely till the bows were pressed right under, and it was no human poser that saved the gybe. they went tearing and foaming before it, singing a saga as befitted the place and time. for it was their habit to sing in every place its proper song--in italy a ritornella, in spain a segeduilla, in provence a pastourou, in sussex a glee, but an the great north sea a saga. and they rolled at last into orford haven on the very tiptop of the highest tide that ever has run since the noachic deluge; and even so, as they crossed the bar they heard the grating of the keel. that night they sacrificed oysters to poseidon._ _and when they slept the sea lady, the silver-footed one, came up through the waves and kissed them in their sleep; for she had seen no such men since achilles. then she went back through the waves with all her nereids around her to where her throne is, beside her old father in the depths of the sea._ _in their errantry they did great good. it was they that rescued andromeda, though she lied, as a woman will, and gave the praise to her lover. it was they, also, who slew the tarasque on his second appearance, when he came in a thunderstorm across the broad bridge of beaucaire, all scaled in crimson and gold, forty foot long and twenty foot high, galloping like an angry dog and belching forth flames and smoke. they also hunted down the bactrian bear, who had claws like the horns of a cow, and of whom it is written in the sacred books of the east that:_ _a bear out of bactria came, and he wandered all over the world, and his eyes were aglint and aflame, and the tip of his caudal was curled._ _oh! they hunted him down and they cut him up, and they cured one of his hams and ate it, thereby acquiring something of his mighty spirit.... and they it was who caught the great devil of dax and tied him up and swinged him with an ash-plant till he swore that he would haunt the woods no more._ _and here it is that you ask me for their names. their names! their names? why, they gave themselves a hundred names: now this, now that, but always names of power. thus upon that great march of theirs from gascony into navarre, one, on the crest of the mountains, cut himself a huge staff and cried loudly:_ _"my name is ursus, and this is my staff dreadnought: let the people in the valley be afraid!"_ _whereat the other cut himself a yet huger staff, and cried out in a yet louder voice:_ _"my name is taurus, and this is my staff crack-skull: let them tremble who live in the dales!"_ _and when they had said this they strode shouting down the mountain-side and conquered the town of elizondo, where they are worshipped as gods to this day. their names? they gave themselves a hundred names!_ _"well, well," you say to me then, "no matter about the names: what are names? the men themselves concern me!... tell me," you go on, "tell me where i am to find them in the flesh, and converse with them. i am in haste to see them with my own eyes."_ _it is useless to ask. they are dead. they will never again be heard upon the heaths at morning singing their happy songs: they will never more drink with their peers in the deep ingle-nooks of home. they are perished. they have disappeared. alas! the valiant fellows!_ _but lest some list of their proud deeds and notable excursions should be lost on earth, and turn perhaps into legend, or what is worse, fade away unrecorded, this book has been got together; in which will be found now a sight they saw together, and now a sight one saw by himself, and now a sight seen only by the other. as also certain thoughts and admirations which the second or the first enjoyed, or both together: and indeed many other towns, seas, places, mountains, rivers, and men--whatever could be crammed between the covers._ _and there is an end of it._ * * * * * many of these pages have appeared in the "speaker," the "pilot," the "morning post," the "daily news." the "pall mall magazine," the "evening standard," the "morning leader," and the "westminster gazette." * * * * * the north sea it was on or about a tuesday (i speak without boasting) that my companion and i crept in by darkness to the unpleasant harbour of lowestoft. and i say "unpleasant" because, however charming for the large colonial yacht, it is the very devil for the little english craft that tries to lie there. great boats are moored in the southern basin, each with two head ropes to a buoy, so that the front of them makes a kind of entanglement such as is used to defend the front of a position in warfare. through this entanglement you are told to creep as best you can, and if you cannot (who could?) a man comes off in a boat and moors you, not head and stern, but, as it were, criss-cross, or slant-ways, so that you are really foul of the next berth alongside, and that in our case was a little steamer. then when you protest that there may be a collision at midnight, the man in the boat says merrily, "oh, the wind will keep you off," as though winds never changed or dropped. i should like to see moorings done that way, at cowes, say, or in southampton water. i should like to see a lot of craft laid head and tail to the wind with a yard between each, and, when lord isaacs protested, i should like to hear the harbour man say in a distant voice, "_sic volo, sic jubeo_" (a classical quotation misquoted, as in the south-country way), "the wind never changes here." such as it was, there it was, and trusting in the wind and god's providence we lay criss-cross in lowestoft south basin. the great bear shuffled round the pole and streaks of wispy clouds lay out in heaven. the next morning there was a jolly great breeze from the east, and my companion said, "let us put out to sea." but before i go further, let me explain to you and to the whole world what vast courage and meaning underlay these simple words. in what were we to put to sea? this little boat was but twenty-five feet over all. she had lived since in inland waters, mousing about rivers, and lying comfortably in mudbanks. she had a sprit seventeen foot outboard, and i appeal to the trinity brothers to explain what that means; a sprit dangerous and horrible where there are waves; a sprit that will catch every sea and wet the foot of your jib in the best of weathers; a sprit that weighs down already overweighted bows and buries them with every plunge. _quid dicam?_ a sprit of erebus. and why had the boat such a sprit? because her mast was so far aft, her forefoot so deep and narrow, her helm so insufficient, that but for this gigantic sprit she would never come round, and even as it was she hung in stays and had to have her weather jib-sheet hauled in for about five minutes before she would come round. so much for the sprit. this is not all, nor nearly all. she had about six inches of free-board. she did not rise at the bows: not she! her mast was dependent upon a forestay (spliced) and was not stepped, but worked in a tabernacle. she was a hundred and two years old. her counter was all but awash. her helm--i will describe her helm. it waggled back and forth without effect unless you jerked it suddenly over. then it "bit," as it were, into the rudder post, and she just felt it--but only just--the ronyon! she did not reef as you and i do by sane reefing points, but in a gimcrack fashion with a long lace, so that it took half an hour to take in sail. she had not a jib and foresail, but just one big headsail as high as the peak, and if one wanted to shorten sail after the enormous labour of reefing the mainsail (which no man could do alone) one had to change jibs forward and put up a storm sail--under which (by the way) she was harder to put round than ever. did she leak? no, i think not. it is a pious opinion. i think she was tight under the composition, but above that and between wind and water she positively showed daylight. she was a basket. glory be to god that such a boat should swim at all! but she drew little water? the devil she did! there was a legend in the yard where she was built that she drew five feet four, but on a close examination of her (on the third time she was wrecked), i calculated with my companion that she drew little if anything under six feet. all this i say knowing well that i shall soon put her up for sale; but that is neither here nor there. i shall not divulge her name. so we put to sea, intending to run to harwich. there was a strong flood down the coast, and the wind was to the north of north-east. but the wind was with the tide--to that you owe the lives of the two men and the lection of this delightful story; for had the tide been against the wind and the water steep and mutinous, you would never have seen either of us again: indeed we should have trembled out of sight for ever. the wind was with the tide, and in a following lump of a sea, without combers and with a rising glass, we valorously set out, and, missing the south pier by four inches, we occupied the deep. for one short half-hour things went more or less well. i noted a white horse or two to windward, but my companion said it was only the sea breaking over the outer sands. she plunged a lot, but i flattered myself she was carrying caesar, and thought it no great harm. we had started without food, meaning to cook a breakfast when we were well outside: but men's plans are on the knees of the gods. the god called Æolus, that blows from the north-east of the world (you may see him on old maps--it is a pity they don't put him on the modern), said to his friends: "i see a little boat. it is long since i sank one"; and altogether they gave chase, like imperialists, to destroy what was infinitely weak. i looked to windward and saw the sea tumbling, and a great number of white waves. my heart was still so high that i gave them the names of the waves in the eighteenth _iliad_: the long-haired wave, the graceful wave, the wave that breaks on an island a long way off, the sandy wave, the wave before us, the wave that brings good tidings. but they were in no mood for poetry. they began to be great, angry, roaring waves, like the chiefs of charging clans, and though i tried to keep up my courage with an excellent song by mr. newbolt, "slung between the round shot in nombre dios bay," i soon found it useless, and pinned my soul to the tiller. every sea following caught my helm and battered it. i hung on like a stout gentleman, and prayed to the seven gods of the land. my companion said things were no worse than when we started. god forgive him the courageous lie. the wind and the sea rose. it was about opposite southwold that the danger became intolerable, and that i thought it could only end one way. which way? the way out, my honest jingoes, which you are more afraid of than of anything else in the world. we ran before it; we were already over-canvased, and she buried her nose every time, so that i feared i should next be cold in the water, seeing england from the top of a wave. every time she rose the jib let out a hundredweight of sea-water; the sprit buckled and cracked, and i looked at the splice in the forestay to see if it yet held. i looked a thousand times, and a thousand times the honest splice that i had poked together in a pleasant shelter under bungay woods (in the old times of peace, before ever the sons of the achaians came to the land) stood the strain. the sea roared over the fore-peak, and gurgled out of the scuppers, and still we held on. till (Æolus blowing much more loudly, and, what you may think a lie, singing through the rigging, though we were before the wind) opposite aldeburgh i thought she could not bear it any more. i turned to my companion and said: "let us drive her for the shore and have done with it; she cannot live in this. we will jump when she touches." but he, having a chest of oak, and being bound three times with brass, said: "drive her through it. _it is not often we have such a fair-wind_." with these words he went below; i hung on for orfordness. the people on the strand at aldeburgh saw us. an old man desired to put out in a boat to our aid. he danced with fear. the scene still stands in their hollow minds. as orfordness came near, the seas that had hitherto followed like giants in battle now took to a mad scrimmage. they leapt pyramidically, they heaved up horribly under her; she hardly obeyed her helm, and even in that gale her canvas flapped in the troughs. then in despair i prayed to the boat itself (since nothing else could hear me), "oh, boat," for so i was taught the vocative, "bear me safe round this corner, and i will scatter wine over your decks." she heard me and rounded the point, and so terrified was i that (believe me if you will) i had not even the soul to remember how ridiculous and laughable it was that sailors should call this cape of storms "the onion." once round it, for some reason i will not explain, but that i believe connected with my prayer, the sea grew tolerable. it still came on to the land (we could sail with the wind starboard), and the wind blew harder yet; but we ran before it more easily, because the water was less steep. we were racing down the long drear shingle bank of oxford, past what they call "the life-boat house" on the chart (there is no life-boat there, nor ever was), past the look-out of the coastguard, till we saw white water breaking on the bar of the alde. then i said to my companion, "there are, i know, two mouths to this harbour, a northern and a southern; which shall we take?" but he said, "take the nearest." i then, reciting my firm beliefs and remembering my religion, ran for the white water. before i knew well that she was round, the sea was yellow like a pond, the waves no longer heaved, but raced and broke as they do upon a beach. one greener, kindly and roaring, a messenger of the gale grown friendly after its play with us, took us up on its crest and ran us into the deep and calm beyond the bar, but as we crossed, the gravel ground beneath our keel. so the boat made harbour. then, without hesitation, she cast herself upon the mud, and i, sitting at the tiller, my companion ashore, and pushing at her inordinate sprit, but both revelling in safety, we gave thanks and praise. that night we scattered her decks with wine as i had promised, and lay easy in deep water within. but which of you who talk so loudly about the island race and the command of the sea have had such a day? i say to you all it does not make one boastful, but fills one with humility and right vision. go out some day and run before it in a gale. you will talk less and think more; i dislike the memory of your faces. i have written for your correction. read less, good people, and sail more; and, above all, leave us in peace. the singer the other day as i was taking my pleasure along a river called "the river of gold," from which one can faintly see the enormous mountains which shut off spain from europe, as i walked, i say, along the mail, or ordered and planted quay of the town, i heard, a long way off, a man singing. his singing was of that very deep and vibrating kind which gascons take for natural singing, and which makes one think of hollow metal and of well-tuned bells, for it sounds through the air in waves; the further it is the more it booms, and it occupies the whole place in which it rises. there is no other singing like it in the world. he was too far off for any words to be heard, and i confess i was too occupied in listening to the sound of the music to turn round at first and notice who it was that sang; but as he gradually approached between the houses towards the river upon that happy summer morning, i left the sight of the houses, and myself sauntered nearer to him to learn more about him and his song. i saw a man of fifty or thereabouts, not a mountaineer, but a man of the plains--tall and square, large and full of travel. his face was brown like chestnut wood, his eyes were grey but ardent; his brows were fierce, strong, and of the colour of shining metal, half-way between iron and silver. he bore himself as though he were still well able to wrestle with younger men in the fairs, and his step, though extremely slow (for he was intent upon his song), was determined as it was deliberate. i came yet nearer and saw that he carried a few pots and pans and also a kind of kit in a bag: in his right hand was a long and polished staff of ashwood, shod with iron; and still as he went he sang. the song now rose nearer me and more loud, and at last i could distinguish the words, which, were, in english, these: "men that cook in copper know well how difficult is the cleaning of copper. all cooking is a double labour unless the copper is properly tinned." this couplet rhymed well in the tongue he used, which was not languedoc nor even béarnais, but ordinary french of the north, well chosen, rhythmical, and sure. when he had sung this couplet once, glancing, as he sang it, nobly upwards to the left and the right at the people in their houses, he paused a little, set down his kit and his pots and his pans, and leant upon his stick to rest. a man in white clothes with a white square cap on his head ran out of a neighbouring door and gave him a saucepan, which he accepted with a solemn salute, and then, as though invigorated by such good fortune, he lifted his burdens again and made a dignified progress of some few steps forward, nearer to the place in which i stood. he halted again and resumed his song. it had a quality in it which savoured at once of the pathetic and of the steadfast: its few notes recalled to me those classical themes which conceal something of dreadful fate and of necessity, but are yet instinct with dignity and with the majestic purpose of the human will, and athens would have envied such a song. the words were these: "all kinds of game, izard, quails, and wild pigeon, are best roasted upon a spit; but what spit is so clean and fresh as a spit that has been newly tinned?" when he had sung this verse by way of challenge to the world, he halted once more and mopped his face with a great handkerchief, waiting, perhaps, for a spit to be brought; but none came. the spits of the town were new, and though the people loved his singing, yet they were of too active and sensible a kind to waste pence for nothing. when he saw that spits were not forthcoming he lifted up his kit again and changed his subject just by so pinch as might attract another sort of need. he sang--but now more violently, and as though with a worthy protest: le lièvre et le lapin, quand c'est bien cuit, ça fait du bien. that is: "hare and rabbit, properly cooked, do one great good," and then added after the necessary pause and with a gesture half of offering and half of disdain: "but who can call them well cooked if the tinning of the pot has been neglected?" and into this last phrase he added notes which hinted of sadness and of disillusion. it was very fine. as he was now quite near me and ready, through the slackness of trade, to enter into a conversation, i came quite close and said to him, "i wish you good day," to which he answered, "and i to you and the company," though there was no company. then i said, "you sing and so advertise your trade?" he answered, "i do. it lifts the heart, it shortens the way, it attracts the attention of the citizens, it guarantees good work." "in what way," said i, "does it guarantee good work?" "the man," he answered, "who sings loudly, clearly, and well, is a man in good health. he is master of himself. he is strict and well-managed. when people hear him they say, 'here is a prompt, ready, and serviceable man. he is not afraid. there is no rudeness in him. he is urbane, swift, and to the point. there is method in this fellow.' all these things may be in the man who does not sing, but singing makes them apparent. therefore in our trade we sing." "but there must be some," i said, "who do not sing and who yet are good tinners." at this he gave a little shrug of his shoulders and spread down his hands slightly but imperatively. "there are such," said he. "they are even numerous. but while they get less trade they are also less happy men. for i would have you note (saving your respect and that of the company) that this singing has a quality. it does good within as well as without. it pleases the singer in his very self as well as brings him work and clients." then i said, "you are right, and i wish to god i had something to tin; let me however tell you something in place of the trade i cannot offer you. all things are trine, as you have heard" (here he nodded), "and your singing does, therefore, not a double but a triple good. for it gives you pleasure within, it brings in trade and content from others, and it delights the world around you. it is an admirable thing." when he heard this he was very pleased. he took off his enormous hat, which was of straw and as big as a wheel, and said, "sir, to the next meeting!" and went off singing with a happier and more triumphant note, "carrots, onions, lentils, and beans, depend upon the tinner for their worth to mankind." on "mails" a "mail" is a place set with trees in regular order so as to form alleys; sand and gravel are laid on the earth beneath the trees; masonry of great solidity, grey, and exquisitely worked, surrounds the whole except on one side, where strong stone pillars carry heavy chains across the entrance. a "mail" takes about two hundred years to mature, remains in perfection for about a hundred more, and then, for all i know, begins to go off. but neither the exact moment at which it fails nor the length of its decline is yet fixed, for all "mails" date from the seventeenth century at earliest, and the time when most were constructed was that of charles ii's youth and louis xiv's maturity--or am i wrong? were these two men not much of an age? i am far from books; i am up in the pyrenees. let me consider dates and reconstruct my formula. i take it that charles ii was more than a boy when worcester was fought and when he drank that glass of ale at hotighton, at the "george and dragon" there, and crept along tinder the downs to bramber and so to shoreham, where he took ship and was free. i take it, therefore, that when he came back in he must have been in the thirties, more or less, but how far in the thirties i dare not affirm. now, in , the year before charles ii came back, mazarin signed the treaty with spain. at that time louis xiv must have been quite a young man. again, he died about thirty years after charles ii, and he was seventy something when he died. i am increasingly certain that charles ii was older than louis xiv.... i affirm it. i feel no hesitation.... lord! how dependent is mortal man upon books of reference! an editor or a minister of the crown with books of reference at his elbow will seem more learned than erasmus himself in the wilds. but let any man who reads this (and i am certain five out of six have books of reference by them as they read), i say, let any man who reads this ask himself whether he would rather be where he is, in london, on this august day (for it is august), or where i am, which is up in los altos, the very high pyrenees, far from every sort of derivative and secondary thing and close to all things primary? i will describe this place. it is a forest of beech and pine; it grows upon a mountain-side so steep that only here and there is there a ledge on which to camp. great precipices of limestone diversify the wood and show through the trees, tall and white beyond them. one has to pick one's way very carefully along the steep from one night's camp to another, and often one spends whole hours seeking up and down to turn a face of rock one cannot cross. it seems dead silent. there are few birds, and even at dawn one only hears a twittering here and there. swirls of cloud form and pass beneath one in the gorge and hurry up the opposing face of the ravine; they add to this impression of silence: and the awful height of the pines and the utter remoteness from men in some way enhance it. yet, though it seems dead silent, it is not really so, and if you were suddenly put here from the midst of london, you would be confused by the noise which we who know the place continually forget--and that is the waterfalls. all the way down the gorge for miles, sawing its cut in sheer surfaces through the rock, crashes a violent stream, and all the valley is full of its thunder. but it is so continuous, so sedulous, that it becomes part of oneself. one does not lose it at night as one falls asleep, nor does one recover it in the morning, when dreams are disturbed by a little stir of life in the undergrowth and one opens one's eyes to see above one the bronze of the dawn. it possesses one, does this noise of the torrent, and when, after many days in such a wood, i pick my way back by marks i know to a ford, and thence to an old shelter long abandoned, and thence to the faint beginnings of a path, and thence to the high road and so to men; when i come down into the plains i shall miss the torrent and feel ill at ease, hardly knowing what i miss, and i shall recall los altos, the high places, and remember nothing but their loneliness and silence. i shall saunter in one of the towns of the plain, st. girons or another, along the riverside and under the lime trees ... which reminds me of "mails"! little pen, little fountain pen, little vagulous, blandulous pen, companion and friend, whither have you led me, and why cannot you learn the plodding of your trade? the pyrenean hive shut in between two of the greatest hills in europe--hills almost as high as etna, and covering with their huge bases half a county of land--there lies, in the spanish pyrenees, a little town. it has been mentioned in books very rarely, and visited perhaps more rarely. of three men whom in my life i have heard speak its name, two only had written of it, and but one had seen it. yet to see it is to learn a hundred things. there is no road to it. no wheeled thing has ever been seen in its streets. the crest of the pyrenees (which are here both precipitous and extremely high) is not a ridge nor an edge, but a great wall of slabs, as it were, leaning up against the sky. through a crack in this wall, between two of these huge slabs, the mountaineers for many thousand years have wormed their way across the hills, but the height and the extreme steepness of the last four thousand feet have kept that passage isolated and ill-known. upon the french side the path has recently been renewed; within a few yards upon the southern slope it dwindles and almost disappears. as one so passes from the one country to the other, it is for all the world like the shutting of a door between oneself and the world. for some reason or other the impression of a civilisation active to the point of distress follows one all up the pass from the french railway to the summit of the range; but when that summit is passed the new and brilliant sun upon the enormous glaciers before one, the absence of human signs and of water, impress one suddenly with silence. from that point one scrambles down and down for hours into a deserted valley--all noon and afternoon and evening: on the first flats a rude path, at last appears. a river begins to flow; great waterfalls pour across one's way, and for miles upon miles one limps along and down the valley across sharp boulders such as mules go best on, and often along the bed of a stream, until at nightfall--if one has started early and has put energy into one's going, and if it is a long summer day--then at nightfall one first sees cultivated fields--patches of oats not half an acre large hanging upon the sides of the ravine wherever a little shelf of soil has formed. so went the two men upon an august evening, till they came in the half-light upon something which might have been rocks or might have been ruins--grey lumps against the moon: they were the houses of a little town. a sort of gulf, winding like a river gorge, and narrower than a column of men, was the street that brought us in. but just as we feared that we should have to grope our way to find companionship we saw that great surprise of modern mountain villages (but not of our own england)--a little row of electric lamps hanging from walls of an incalculable age. here, in this heap of mountain stones, and led by this last of inventions, we heard at last the sound of music, and knew that we were near an inn. the moors called (and call) an inn fundouk; the spaniards call it fonda. to this fonda, therefore, we went, and as we went the sound of music grew louder, till we came to a door of oak studded with gigantic nails and swung upon hinges which, by their careful workmanship and the nature of their grotesques, were certainly of the renaissance. indeed, the whole of this strange hive of mountain men was a mixture--ignorance, sharp modernity, utter reclusion: barbaric, christian; ruinous and enduring things. the more recent houses had for the most part their dates marked above their doors. there were some of the sixteenth century, and many of the seventeenth, but the rest were far older, and bore no marks at all. there was but one house of our own time, and as for the church, it was fortified with narrow windows made for arrows. not only did the moors call an inn a fundouk, but also they lived (and live) not on the ground floor, but on the first floor of their houses: so after them the spaniards. we came in from the street through those great oaken doors, not into a room, but into a sort of barn, with a floor of beaten earth; from this a stair (every banister of which was separately carved in a dark-wood) led up to the storey upon which the inn was held. there was no hour for the meal. some were beginning to eat, some had ended. when we asked for food it was prepared, but an hour was taken to prepare it, and it was very vile; the wine also was a wine that tasted as much of leather as of grapes, and reminded a man more of an old saddle than of vineyards. the people who put this before us had in their faces courage, complete innocence, carelessness, and sleep. they spoke to us in their language (i understood it very ill) of far countries, which they did not clearly know--they hardly knew the french beyond the hills. as no road led into their ageless village, so did no road lead out of it. to reach the great cities in the plain, and the railway eighty miles away, why, there was the telephone. they slept at such late hours as they chose; by midnight many were still clattering through the lane below. no order and no law compelled them in anything. the two men were asleep after this first astonishing glimpse of forgotten men and of a strange country. in the stifling air outside there was a clattering of the hoofs of mules and an argument of drivers. a long way off a man was playing a little stringed instrument, and there was also in the air a noise of insects buzzing in the night heat; when all of a sudden the whole place awoke to the noise of a piercing cry which but for its exquisite tone might have been the cry of pain, so shrill was it and so coercing to the ear. it was maintained, and before it fell was followed by a succession of those quarter-tones which only the arabs have, and which i had thought finally banished from europe. to this inhuman and appalling song were set loud open vowels rather than words. of the two men, one leapt at once from his bed crying out, "this is the music! this is what i have desired to hear!" for this is what he had once been told could be heard in the desert, when first he looked out over the sand from atlas: but though he had travelled far, he had never heard it, and now he heard it here, in the very root of these european hills. it was on this account that he cried out, "this is the music!" and when he had said this he put on a great rough cloak and ran to the room from which the song or cry proceeded, and after him ran his companion. the two men stood at the door behind a great mass of muleteers, who all craned forward to where, upon a dais at the end of the room, sat a jewess who still continued for some five minutes this intense and terrible effort of the voice. beside her a man who was not of her race urged her on as one urges an animal to further effort, crying out, "hap! hap!" and beating his palms together rhythmically and driving and goading her to the full limit of her power. the sound ceased suddenly as though it had been stabbed and killed, and the woman whose eyes had been strained and lifted throughout as in a trance, and whose body had been rigid and quivering, sank down upon herself and let her eyelids fall, and her head bent forward. there was complete silence from that moment till the dawn, and the second of the two men said to the first that they had had an experience not so much of music as of fire. delft delft is the most charming town in the world. it is one of the neat cities: trim, small, packed, self-contained. a good woman in early middle age, careful of her dress, combined, orderly, not without a sober beauty--such a woman on her way to church of a sunday morning is not more pleasing than delft. it is on the verge of monotony, yet still individual; in one style, yet suggesting many centuries of activity. there is a full harmony of many colours, yet the memory the place leaves is of a united, warm, and generous tone. were you suddenly put down in delft you would know very well that the vast and luxuriant meadows of holland surrounded it, so much are its air, houses, and habits those of men inspired by the fields. delft is very quiet, as befits a town so many of whose streets are ordered lanes of water, yet one is inspired all the while by the voices of children, and the place is strongly alive. over its sky there follow in stately order the great white clouds of summer, and at evening the haze is lit just barely from below with that transforming level light which is the joy and inspiration of the netherlands. against such an expanse stands up for ever one of the gigantic but delicate belfries, round which these towns are gathered. for holland, it seems, is not a country of villages, but of compact, clean towns, standing scattered over a great waste of grass like the sea. this belfrey of delft is a thing by itself in europe, and all these truths can be said of it by a man who sees it for the first time: first, that its enormous height is drawn up, as it were, and enhanced by every chance stroke that the instinct of its slow builders lit upon; for these men of the infinite flats love the contrast of such pinnacles, and they have made in the labour of about a thousand years a landscape of their own by building, just as they have made by ceaseless labour a rich pasture and home out of those solitary marshes of the delta. secondly, that height is inhanced by something which you will not see, save in the low countries between the hills of ardennes and the yellow seas--i mean brick gothic; for the gothic which you and i know is built up of stone, and, even so, produces every effect of depth and distance; but the gothic of the netherlands is often built curiously of bricks, and the bricks are so thin that it needs a whole host of them in an infinity of fine lines to cover a hundred feet of wall. they fill the blank spaces with their repeated detail; they make the style (which even in stone is full of chances and particular corners) most intricate, and--if one may use so exaggerated a metaphor--"populous." above all, they lead the eye up and up, making a comparison and measure of their tiny bands until the domination of a buttress or a tower is exaggerated to the enormous. now the belfry of delft, though all the upper part is of stone, yet it stands on a great pedestal (as it were) of brick--a pedestal higher than the houses, and in this base are pierced two towering, broad, and single ogives, empty and wonderful and full of that untragic sadness which you may find also in the drooping and wide eyes of extreme old age. thirdly, the very structure of the thing is bells. here the bells are more than the soul of a christian spire; they are its body too, its whole self. an army of them fills up all the space between the delicate supports and framework of the upper parts; for i know not how many feet, in order, diminishing in actual size and in the perspective also of that triumphant elevation, stand ranks on ranks of bells from the solemn to the wild, from the large to the small; a hundred or two hundred or a thousand. there is here the prodigality of brabant and hainaut and the batavian blood, a generosity and a productivity in bells without stint, the man who designed it saying: "since we are to have bells, let us have bells: not measured out, calculated, expensive, and prudent bells, but careless bells, self-answering multitudinous bells; bells without fear, bells excessive and bells innumerable; bells worthy of the ecstasies that are best thrown out and published in the clashing of bells. for bells are single, like real pleasures, and we will combine such a great number that they shall be like the happy and complex life of a man. in a word, let us be noble and scatter our bells and reap a harvest till our town is famous for its bells." so now all the spire is more than clothed with them; they are more than stuff or ornament; they are an outer and yet sensitive armour, all of bells. nor is the wealth of these bells in their number only, but also in their use; for they are not reserved in any way, but ring tunes and add harmonies at every half and quarter and at all the hours both by night and by day. nor must you imagine that there is any obsession of noise through this; they are far too high and melodious, and, what is more, too thoroughly a part of all the spirit of delft to be more than a perpetual and half-forgotten impression of continual music; they render its air sacred and fill it with something so akin to an uplifted silence as to leave one--when one has passed from their influence--asking what balm that was which soothed all the harshness of sound about one. round that tower and that voice the town hangs industrious and subdued--a family. its waters, its intimate canals, its boats for travel, and its slight plashing of bows in the place of wheels, entered the spirit of the traveller and gave him for one long day the right of burgess. in autumn, in the early afternoon--the very season for those walls--it was easy for him to be filled with a restrained but united chorus, the under-voices of the city, droning and murmuring perpetually of peace and of labour and of the wild rose--content.... peace, labour, and content--three very good words, and summing up, perhaps, the goal of all mankind. of course, there is a problem everywhere, and it would be heresy to say that the people of delft have solved it. it is matter of breviary that the progress of our lives is but asymptotic to true joy; we can approach it nearer and nearer, but we can never reach it. nevertheless, i say that in this excellent city, though it is outside eden, you may, when the wind is in the right quarter, receive in distant and rare appeals the scent and air of paradise; the soul is filled. to this emotion there corresponds and shall here be quoted a very noble verse, which runs--or rather glides--as follows:-- satiety, that momentary flower stretched to an hour-- these are her gifts which all mankind may use, and all refuse. or words to that effect. and to think that you can get to a place like that for less than a pound! the wing of dalua time was, and that not so long ago, when the two men had revealed to them by their genius a corner of europe wherein they were promised more surprises and delights than in any other. it was secretly made known to them that in this place there were no pictures, and no one had praised its people, and further that no saint had ever troubled it; and the rich and all their evils (so the two men were assured) had never known the place at all. it was under the influence of such a message that they at once began walking at a great speed for the river which is called the river of gold, and for the valleys of andorra; and since it seemed that other men had dared to cross the pyrenees and to see the republic, and since it seemed also, according to books, records, and what not, that may have been truth or may have been lies, that common men so doing went always by one way, called the way of hospitalet, the two men determined to go by no such common path, but to march, all clothed with power, in a straight line, and to take the main range of the mountains just where they chose, and to come down upon the andorrans unexpectedly and to deserve their admiration and perhaps their fear. they chose, therefore, upon the map the valley of that torrent called the aston, and before it was evening, but at an hour when the light of the sun was already very ripe and low, they stood under a great rock called guie, which was all of bare limestone with façades as bare as the yosemite, and almost as clean. they looked up at this great rock of guie and made it the terminal of their attempt. i was one and my companion was the other: these were the two men who started out before a sunset in august to conquer the high pyrenees. before me was a very deep valley full of woods, and reaching higher and higher perpetually so that it reminded me of hyperion, but as for my companion, it reminded him of nothing, for he said loudly that he had never seen any such things before and had never believed that summits of so astonishing a height were to be found on earth. not even at night had he imagined such appalling upward and upward into the sky, and this he said though he had seen the alps, of which it is true that when you are close to them they are very middling affairs; but not so the pyrenees, which are not only great but also terrible, for they are haunted, as you shall hear. but before i begin to write of the spirits that inhabit the deserts of the aston, i must first explain, for the sake of those who have not seen them, how the awful valleys of the pyrenees are made. all the high valleys of mountains go in steps, but those of the pyrenees in a manner more regular even than those of the sierra nevada out in california, which the pyrenees so greatly resemble. for the steps here are nearly always three in number between the plain and the main chain, and each is entered by a regular gate of rock. so it is in the valley of the ariege, and so it is in that of the aston, and so it is in every other valley until you get to the far end where live the cleanly but incomprehensible basques. each of these steps is perfectly level, somewhat oval in shape, a mile or two or sometimes five miles long, but not often a mile broad. through each will run the river of the valley, and upon either side of it there will be rich pastures, and a high plain of this sort is called a _jasse_, the same as in california is called a "flat": as "dutch flat," "poverty flat," and other famous flats. first, then, will come a great gorge through which one marches up from the plain, and then at the head of it very often a waterfall of some kind, along the side of which one forces one's way up painfully through a narrow chasm of rock and finds above one the great green level of the first jasse with the mountains standing solemnly around it. and then when one has marched all along this level one will come to another gorge and another chasm, and when one has climbed over the barrier of rock and risen up another feet or so, one comes to a second jasse, smaller as a rule than the lower one; but so high are the mountains that all this climbing into the heart of them does not seem to have reduced their height at all. and then one marches along this second jasse and one comes to yet another gorge and climbs up just as one did the two others, through a chasm where there will be a little waterfall or a large one, and one finds at the top the smallest and most lonely of the jasses. this often has a lake in it. the mountains round it will usually be cliffs, forming sometimes a perfect ring, and so called cirques, or, by the spaniards, cooking-pots; and as one stands on the level floor of one such last highest jasse and looks up at the summit of the cliffs, one knows that one is looking at the ridge of the main chain. then it is one's business, if one desires to conquer the high pyrenees, to find a sloping place up the cliffs to reach their summits and to go down into the further spanish valleys. this is the order of the pyrenean dale, and this was the order of that of the aston. up the gorge then we went, my companion and i; the day fell as we marched, and there was a great moon out, filling the still air, when we came to the first chasm, and climbing through it saw before us, spread with a light mist over its pastures, the first jasse under the moonlight. and up we went, and up again, to the end of the second jasse, having before us the vast wall of the main range, and in our hearts a fear that there was something unblessed in the sight of it. for though neither i told it to my companion nor he to me, we had both begun to feel a fear which the shepherds of these mountains know very well. it was perhaps midnight or a little more when we made our camp, after looking in vain for a hut which may once have stood there, but now stood no longer. we lit a fire, but did not overcome the cold, which tormented us throughout the night, for the wind blew off the summits; and at last we woke from our half-sleep and spent the miserable hours in watching the great bear creeping round the pole, and in trying to feed the dying embers with damp fuel. and there it was that i discovered what i now make known to the world, namely, that gorse and holly will burn of themselves, even while they are yet rooted in the ground. so we sat sleepless and exhausted, and not without misgiving, for we had meant that night before camping to be right under the foot of the last cliffs, and we were yet many miles away. we were glad to see the river at last in the meadows show plainly under the growing light, the rocks turning red upon the sky-line, and the extinction of the stars. as we so looked north and eastward the great rock of guie stood up all its thousands of feet enormous against the rising of the sun. we were very weary, and invigorated by nothing but the light, but, having that at least to strengthen us, we made at once for the main range, knowing very well that, once we were over it, it would be downhill all the way, and seeing upon our maps that there were houses and living men high in the further andorran valley, which was not deserted like this vale of the aston, but inhabited: full, that is, of catalans, who would soon make us forget the inhuman loneliness of the heights, for by this time we were both convinced, though still neither of us said it to the other, that there was an evil brooding over all this place. it was noon when, after many hours of broken marching and stumbling, which betrayed our weakness, we stood at last beside the tarn in which the last cliffs of the ridge are reflected, and here was a steep slope up which a man could scramble. we drank at the foot of it the last of our wine and ate the last of our bread, promising ourselves refreshment, light, and peace immediately upon the further side, and thus lightened of our provisions, and with more heart in us, we assaulted the final hill; but just at the summit, where there should have greeted us a great view over spain, there lowered upon us the angry folds of a black cloud, and the first of the accidents that were set in order by some enemy to ruin us fell upon my companion and me. for a storm broke, and that with such violence that we thought it would have shattered the bare hills, for an infernal thunder crashed from one precipice to another, and there flashed, now close to us, now vividly but far off, in the thickness of the cloud, great useless and blinding glares of lightning, and hailstones of great size fell about us also, leaping from the bare rocks like marbles. and when the rain fell it was just as though it had been from a hose, forced at one by a pressure instead of falling, and we two on that height were the sole objects of so much fury, until at last my companion cried out from the rock beneath which he was cowering, "this is intolerable!" and i answered him, from the rock which barely covered me, "it is not to be borne!" so in the midst of the storm we groped our way down into the valley beneath, and got below the cloud; and when we were there we thought we had saved the day, for surely we were upon the southern side of the hills, and in a very little while we should see the first roofs of the andorrans. for two doubtful hours we trudged down that higher valley, but there were no men, nor any trace of men except this, that here and there the semblance of a path appeared, especially where the valley fell rapidly from one stage to another over smooth rocks, which, in their least dangerous descent, showed by smooth scratches the passage of some lost animal. for the rest, nothing human nor the memory of it was there to comfort us, though in one place we found a group of cattle browsing alone without a master. there we sat down in our exhaustion and confessed at last what every hour had inwardly convinced us of with greater strength, that we were not our own masters, that there was trouble and fate all round us, that we did not know what valley this might be, and that the storm had been but the beginning of an unholy adventure. we had been snared into fairyland. we did not speak much together, for fear of lowering our hearts yet more by the confession one to the other of the things we knew to be true. we did not tell each other what reserve of courage remained to us, or of strength. we sat and looked at the peaks immeasurably above us, and at the veils of rain between them, and at the black background of the sky. nor was there anything in the landscape which did not seem to us unearthly and forlorn. it was, in a manner, more lonely than had been the very silence of the further slope: there was less to comfort and support the soul of a man; but with every step downward we were penetrated more and more with the presence of things not mortal and of influences to which any desolation is preferable. at one moment voices called to us from the water, at another we heard our names, but pronounced in a whisper so slight and so exact that the more certain we were of hearing them the less did we dare to admit the reality of what we had heard. in a third place we saw twice in succession, though we were still going forward, the same tree standing by the same stone: for neither tree nor stone were natural to the good world, but each had been put there by whatever was mocking us and drawing us on. already had we stumbled twice and thrice the distance that should have separated us from the first andorran village, but we had seen nothing, not a wall, nor smoke from a fire, let alone the tower of a christian church, or the houses of men. nor did any length of the way now make us wonder more than we had already wondered, nor did we hope, however far we might proceed, that we should be saved unless some other influence could be found to save us from the unseen masters of this place. for by this time we had need of mutual comfort, and openly said it to one another--but in low tones--that the valley was faëry. the river went on calling to us all the while. in places it was full of distant cheering, in others crowded with the laughter of a present multitude of tiny things, and always mocking us with innumerable tenuous voices. it grew to be evening. it was nearly two days since we had seen a man. there stood in the broader and lower part of the valley to which we had now come, numerous rocks and boulders; for our deception some one of them or another would seem to be a man. i heard my companion call suddenly, as though to a stranger, and as he called i thought that he had indeed perceived the face of a human being, and i felt a sort of sudden health in me when i heard the tone of his voice; and when i looked up i also saw a man. we came towards him and he did not move. close up beside his form we put out our hands: but what we touched was a rough and silent stone. after that we spoke no more. we went on through the gathering twilight, determined to march downwards to the end, but knowing pretty well what the end would be. once only did we again fall into the traps that were laid about us, when we went and knocked at the hillside where we thought we had seen a cottage and its oaken door, and after the mockery of that disappointment we would not be deceived again, nor make ourselves again the victims of the laughter that perpetually proceeded from the torrent. the path led us onwards in a manner that was all one with the plot now woven round our feet. we could but follow the path, though we knew with what an evil purpose it was made: that it was as phantom as the rest. at one place it invited us to cross, upon two shaking pine trunks, the abyss of a cataract; in another it invited us to climb, in spite of our final weariness, a great barrier of rock that lay between an upper and a lower jasse. we continued upon it determinedly, with heads bent, barely hoping that perhaps at last we should emerge from this haunted ground, but the illusions which had first mocked us we resolutely refused. so much so, that where at one place there stood plainly before us in the gathering darkness a farm-house with its trees and its close, its orchard and its garden gate, i said to my companion, "all this place is cursed, and i will not go near." and he applauded me, for he knew as well as i that if we had gone a few steps towards that orchard and that garden close, they would have turned into the bracken of the hillside, bare granite and unfruitful scree. the main range, where it appeared in revelations behind us through the clouds, was far higher than mountains ever seem to waking men, and it stood quite sheer as might a precipice in a dream. the forests upon either side ran up until they were lost miles and miles above us in the storm. night fell and we still went onward, the one never daring to fall far behind the other, and once or twice in an hour calling to each other to make sure that another man was near; but this we did not continue, because as we went on each of us became aware under the midnight of the presence of a third. there was a place where the path, now broad and plain, approached a sort of little sandy bay going down towards the stream, and there i saw, by a sudden glimpse of the moon through the clouds, a large cave standing wide. we went down to it in silence, we gathered brushwood, we lit a fire, and we lay down in the cave. but before we lay down i said to my companion: "i have seen the moon--she is in the _north_. into what place have we come?" he said to me in answer, "nothing here is earthly," and after he had said this we both fell into a profound sleep in which we forgot not only cold, great hunger, and fatigue, but our own names and our very souls, and passed, as it were, into a deep bath of forgetfulness. when we woke at the same moment, it was dawn. we stood up in the clear and happy light and found that everything was changed. we poured water upon our faces and our hands, strode out a hundred yards and saw again the features of a man. he had a kind face of some age, and eyes such as are the eyes of mountaineers, which seem to have constantly contemplated the distant horizons and wide plains beneath their homes. we heard as he came up the sound of a bell in a christian church below, and we exchanged with him the salutations of living men. then i said to him: "what day is this?" he said "sunday," and a sort of memory of our fear came on us, for we had lost a day. then i said to him: "what river are we upon, and what valley is this?" he answered: "the river and the valley of the aston." and what he said was true, for as we rounded a corner we perceived right before us a barrier, that rock of guie from which we had set out. we had come down again into france, and into the very dale by which we had begun our ascent. but what that valley was which had led us from the summits round backward to our starting-place, forcing upon us the refusal of whatever powers protect this passage of the chain, i have never been able to tell. it is not upon the maps; by our description the peasants knew nothing of it. no book tells of it. no men except ourselves have seen it, and i am willing to believe that it is not of this world. on ely there are two ways by which a man may acquire any kind of learning or profit, and this is especially true of travel. everybody knows that one can increase what one has of knowledge or of any other possession by going outwards and outwards; but what is also true, and what people know less, is that one can increase it by going inwards and inwards. there is no goal to either of these directions, nor any term to your advantage as you travel in them. if you will be extensive, take it easy; the infinite is always well ahead of you, and its symbol is the sky. if you will be intensive, hurry as much as you like you will never exhaust the complexity of things; and the truth of this is very evident in a garden, or even more in the nature of insects; of which beasts i have heard it said that the most stolid man in the longest of lives would acquire only a cursory knowledge of even one kind, as, for instance, of the horned beetle, which sings so angrily at evening. you may travel for the sake of great horizons, and travel all your life, and fill your memory with nothing but views from mountain-tops, and yet not have seen a tenth of the world. or you may spend your life upon the religious history of east rutland, and plan the most enormous book upon it, and yet find that you have continually to excise and select from the growing mass of your material. * * * * * a wise man having told me this some days before (and i having believed it), it seemed to me as though a new entertainment had been invented for me, or rather as though i had found a bottomless purse; since by this doctrine there was manifestly no end to the number of my pleasures, and to each of this infinite number no possibility of exhaustion; but i thought i would put it to the test in this way: putting aside but three days, i determined in that space to explore a little corner of this country. now, although i saw not one-hundredth of the buildings or the people in this very small space, and though i knew nothing of the birds or the beasts or the method of tillage, or of anything of all that makes up a land, yet i saw enough to fill a book. and the pleasure of my thoughts was so great that i determined to pick out a bit here and a bit there, and to put down the notes almost without arrangement, in order that those who cannot do these things (whether from lack of leisure or for some other reason) may get some part of my pleasure without loss to me (on the contrary, with profit); and in order that every one may be convinced of what this little journey finally taught me, and which i repeat--that there is an inexhaustible treasure everywhere, not only outwards, but inwards. i had known the ouse--(how many years ago!)--had looked up at those towers of ely from my boat; but a town from a river and a town from the street are two different things. moreover, in that time i speak of, the day years ago, it was blowing very hard from the south, and i was anxious to be away before it, and away i went down to lynn at one stretch; for in those days the wind and the water seemed of more moment than old stones. now (after how many years!) it was my business to go up by land, and as i went, the weight of the cathedral filled the sky before me. impressions of this sort are explained by every man in his own way--for my part i felt the norman. i know not by what accident it was, but never had i come so nearly into the presence of the men who founded england. the isolation of the hill, the absence of clamour and false noise and everything modern, the smallness of the village, the solidity and amplitude of the homes and their security, all recalled an origin. i went into the door of the cathedral under the high tower. i noted the ponderous simplicity of the great squat pillars, the rough capitals--plain bulges of stone without so much as a pattern cut upon them--the round arch and the low aisles; but in one corner remaining near the door--a baptistery, i suppose--was a crowd of ornament which (like everything of that age) bore the mark of simplicity, for it was an endless heap of the arch and the column and the zigzag ornament--the broken line. its richness was due to nothing but the repetition of similar forms, and everywhere the low stature, the muscles, the broad shoulders of the thing, proved and reawoke the memory of the norman soldiers. they have been written of enough to-day, but who has seen them from close by or understood that brilliant interlude of power? the little bullet-headed men, vivacious, and splendidly brave, we know that they awoke all europe, that the first provided settled financial systems and settled governments of land, and that everywhere, from the grampians to mesopotamia, they were like steel when all other christians were like wood or like lead. we know that they were a flash. they were not formed or definable at all before the year ; by the year they were gone. some odd transitory phenomenon of cross-breeding, a very lucky freak in the history of the european family, produced the only body of men who all were lords and who in their collective action showed continually nothing but genius. we know that they were the spear-head, as it were, of the gallic spirit: the vanguard of that one of the gallic expansions which we associate with the opening of the middle ages and with the crusades. ... we know all this and write about it; nevertheless, we do not make enough of the normans in england. here and there a man who really knows his subject and who disdains the market of the school books, puts as it should be put their conquest of this island and their bringing into our blood whatever is still strongest in it. many (descended from their leaders) have remarked their magical ride through south italy, their ordering of sicily, their hand in palestine. as for the normans in normandy, of their exchequer there, of what rouen was--all that has never been properly written down at all. their great adventure here in england has been most written of by far; but i say again no one has made enough of them; no one has brought them back out of their graves. the character of what they did has been lost in these silly little modern quarrels about races, which are but the unscholarly expression of a deeper hypocritical quarrel about religion. yet it is in england that the norman can be studied as he can be studied nowhere else. he did not write here (as in sicily) upon a palimpsest. he was not merged here (as in the orient) with the rest of the french. he was segregated here; he can be studied in isolation; for though so many that crossed the sea on that september night with william, the big leader of them, held no norman tenure, yet the spirit of the whole thing was norman: the regularity the suddenness, the achievement, and, when the short fighting was over the creation of a new society. it was the norman who began everything over again--the first fresh influence since rome. the riot of building has not been seized. the island was conquered in . it was a place of heavy foolish men with random laws, pale eyes, and a slow manner; their houses were of wood: sometimes they built (but how painfully, and how childishly!) with stone. there was no height, there was no dignity, there was no sense of permanence. the norman government was established. at once rapidity, energy, the clear object of a united and organised power followed. and see what followed in architecture alone, and in what a little space of the earth, and in what a little stretch of time--less than the time that separates us to-day from the year of disraeli's death or the occupation of egypt. the conquest was achieved in . in that same year they pulled down the wooden shed at bury st edmunds, "unworthy," they said, "of a great saint," and began the great shrine of stone. next year it was the castle at oxford, in monkswearmouth, jarrow, and the church at chester; in rochester and st albans; in winchester. ely, worcester, thorney, hurley, lincoln, followed with the next years; by they had tackled gloucester, by carlisle, by lindisfarne, christchurch, tall durham.... and this is but a short and random list of some of their greatest works in the space of one boyhood. hundreds of castles, houses, village churches are unrecorded. were they not indeed a people?... and all that effort realised itself before pope urban had made the speech which launched the armies against the holy land. the norman had created and founded all this before the mass of europe was urged against the flame of the arab, to grow fruitful and to be transformed. one may say of the norman preceding the gothic what dante said of virgil preceding the faith: would that they had been born in a time when they could have known it! but the east was not yet open. the mind of europe had not yet received the great experience of the crusades; the normans had no medium wherein to express their mighty soul, save the round arch and the straight line, the capital barbaric or naked, the sullen round shaft of the pillar--more like a drum than like a column. they could build, as it-were, with nothing but the last ruins of rome. they were given no forms but the forms which the fatigue and lethargy of the dark ages had repeated for six hundred years. they were capable, even in the north, of impressing even these forms with a superhuman majesty. * * * * * was i not right in saying that everywhere in the world one can look in and in and never find an end to one's delight? i began to explore but a tiny corner of england, and here in one corner of that corner, and in but one thought arising from this corner of a corner, i have found these things. * * * * * but england is especially a garden of this sort, or a storehouse; and in nothing more than in this matter of the old architecture which perpetuates the barbaric grandeur of the eleventh century--the time before it was full day. when the gothic came the whole of northern europe was so enamoured of it that common men, bishops, and kings pulled down and rebuilt everywhere. old crumbling walls of the romanesque fell at amiens; you can still see them cowering at beauvais; only an accident of fire destroyed them in notre dame. in england the transition survived; nowhere save in england is the northern romanesque triumphant, not even at caen. elsewhere the gothic has conquered. only here in england can you see the romanesque facing, like an equal, newer things, because here only was there a great outburst of building--a kind of false spring before the gothic came, because here only in europe had a great political change and a great flood of wealth come in before the expansion of the twelfth century began. there is one little corner of england; here is another. the isle of ely lying on the fens is like a starfish lying on a flat shore at low tide. southward, westward, and northward from the head or centre of the clump (which is where the cathedral stands) it throws out arms every way, and these arms have each short tentacles of their own. in between the spurs runs the even fen like a calm sea, and on the crest of the spurs, radiating also from ely, run the roads. long ago there was but one road of these that linked up the isle with the rest of england. it was the road from the south, and there the romans had a station; the others led only to the farms and villages dependent upon the city. now they are prolonged by artifice into the modern causeways which run over the lower and new-made land. the isle has always stood like a fortress, and has always had a title and commandership, which once were very real things; the people told me that the king of england's third title was marquis of ely, and i knew of myself that just before the civil wars the commandership of the isle gave the power of raising men. the ends of many wars drifted to this place to die. here was the last turn of the saxon lords, and the last rally of the feudal rebellions of the thirteenth century. not that the fens were impassable or homeless, but they were difficult in patches; their paths were rare and laid upon no general system. their inhabited fields were isolated, their waters tidal, with great banks of treacherous mud, intricate and unbridged; such conditions are amply sufficient for a defensive war. the flight of a small body in such a land can always baffle an army until that small body is thrust into some one refuge so well defended by marsh or river that the very defence cuts off retreat: and a small body so brought to bay in such a place has this further advantage, that from the bits of higher land, the "islands," one of the first requirements of defence is afforded--an unbroken view of every avenue by which attack can come. there is no surprising such forts. so much is in ely to-day and a great deal more. for instance (a third and last idea out of the thousand that ely arouses), ely is dumb and yet oracular. the town and the hill tell you nothing till you have studied them in silence and for some considerable time. this boast is made by many towns, that they hold a secret. but ely, which is rather a village than a town, has alone a true claim, the proof of which is this, that no one comes to ely for a few hours and carries anything away, whereas no man lives in ely for a year without beginning to write a book. i do not say that all are published, but i swear that all are begun. the inn of the margeride whatever, keeping its proportion and form, is designed upon a scale much greater or much less than that of our general experience, produces upon the mind an effect of phantasy. a little perfect model of an engine or a ship does not only amuse or surprise; it rather casts over the imagination something of that veil through which the world is transfigured, and which i have called "the wing of dalua"; the medium of appreciations beyond experience; the medium of vision, of original passion and of dreams. the principal spell of childhood returns as we bend over the astonishing details. we are giants--or there is no secure standard left in our intelligence. so it is with the common thing built much larger than the million examples upon which we had based our petty security. it has been always in the nature of worship that heroes, or the gods made manifest, should be men, but larger than men. not tall men or men grander, but men transcendent: men only in their form; in their dimension so much superior as to be lifted out of our world. an arch as old as rome but not yet ruined, found on the sands of africa, arrests the traveller in this fashion. in his modern cities he has seen greater things; but here in africa, where men build so squat and punily, cowering under the heat upon the parched ground, so noble and so considerable a span, carved as men can carve under sober and temperate skies, catches the mind and clothes it with a sense of the strange. and of these emotions the strongest, perhaps, is that which most of those who travel to-day go seeking; the enchantment of mountains; the air by which we know them for something utterly different from high hills. accustomed to the contour of downs and tors, or to the valleys and long slopes that introduce a range, we come to some wider horizon and see, far off, a further line of hills. to hills all the mind is attuned: a moderate ecstasy. the clouds are above the hills, lying level in the empty sky; men and their ploughs have visited, it seems, all the land about us; till, suddenly, faint but hard, a cloud less varied, a greyer portion of the infinite sky itself, is seen to be permanent above the world. then all our grasp of the wide view breaks down. we change. the valleys and the tiny towns, the unseen mites of men, the gleams or thread of roads, are prostrate, covering a little watching space before the shrine of this dominant and towering presence. it is as though humanity were permitted to break through the vulgar illusion of daily sense, and to learn in a physical experience how unreal are all the absolute standards by which we build. it is as though the vast and the unexpected had a purpose, and that purpose were the showing to mankind in rare glimpses what places are designed for the soul--those ultimate places where things common become shadows and fail, and the divine part in us, which adores and desires, breathes its own air, and is at last alive. * * * * * this awful charm which attaches to the enormous envelops the causse of mende; for its attributes are all of them pushed beyond the ordinary limit. each of the four causses is a waste; but the causse of mende is utterly bereft of men. each is a high plateau; but this, i believe, the highest in feet, and certainly in impression. you stand there as it were upon the summit of a lonely pedestal, with nothing but a rocky edge around you. each is dried up; but the catisse of mende is without so much as a dew-pan or a well; it is wrinkled, horny, and cauterised under the alternate frost and flame of its fierce open sky, as are the deserts of the moon. each of the causses is silent; but the silence of the causse of mende is scorched and frozen into its stones, and is as old as they: all around, the torrents which have sawn their black canons upon every side of the block frame this silence with their rumble. each of the causses casts up above its plain fantastic heaps of rock consonant to the wild spirit of its isolation; but the causse of mende holds a kind of fortress--a medley so like the ghost of a dead town that, even in full daylight, you expect the footsteps of men; and by night, as you go gently, in fear of waking the sleepers, you tread quite certainly among built houses and spires. this place the peasants of the canons have called "the old city"; and no one living will go near it who knows it well. the causses have also this peculiar to them: that the ravines by which each is cut off are steep and sudden. but the cliffs of the causse of mende are walls. that the chief of these walls may seem the more terrible, it is turned northwards, so that by day and night it is in shadow, and falls sheer. * * * * * it was when i had abandoned this desolate wonder (but with its influence strong upon me) that i left the town of mende, down on the noise of its river, and began to climb the opposing mountain of the margeride. it was already evening, though as yet there were no stars. the air was fresh, because the year was at that season when it is summer in the vineyard plains, but winter in the hills. a twilight so coloured and translucent as to suggest cold spanned like an aurora the western mouth of the gully. upon my eastward and upward way the full moon, not yet risen, began to throw an uncertain glory over the sky. this road was made by the french kings when their influence had crept so far south as to control these mountains. they became despots, and their despotism, which was everywhere magnificent, engraved itself upon these untenanted bare rocks. they strengthened and fortified the road. its grandeur in so empty and impoverished a land was a boast or a threat of their power. the republic succeeded the kings, the armies succeeded the republic, and every experiment succeeded the victories and the breakdown of the armies. the road grew stronger all the while, bridging this desert, and giving pledge that the brain of paris was able, and more able, to order the whole of the soil. so then, as i followed it, it seemed to me to bear in itself, and in its contrast with untamed surroundings, the history and the character of this one nation out of the many which live by the tradition of europe. as i followed it and saw its exact gradient, its hard and even surface, its square border stones, and, every hundred yards, its carved mark of the distance done, these elaborations, standing quite new among the tumbled rocks of a vague upland, made one certain that paris had been at work. very far back (how far was marked on the milestone) the road had left the swarming gate of toulouse. very far on (how far was marked on the milestone) it was to cross the saône by its own bridge, and feed the life of lyons. in between it met and surmounted (still civilised, easy, complete) this barbaric watershed of the margeride. as i followed it, law--good law and evil--seemed to go with me up the mountain side. there was more sound than on the arid wastes of the causse. there were trees, and birds in the trees, moving faintly. the great moon, which had now risen, shone also upon scanty grass and (from time to time) upon the trickle of water passing in runnels beneath the road. the torrent in the depth below roared openly and strong, and, beyond it, the black wall of the causse, immense and battlemented above me under the moon, made what poor life this mountain supported seem for a moment gracious by comparison. i remembered that sheep and goats and men could live on the margeride. but the margeride has rightly compelled its 'very few historians to melancholy or fear. it is a district, or a mountain range, or a single summit, which cuts off the east from the west, the loire from the gironde: a long, even barrow of dark stone. its people are one, suspicious of the plains. its line against the sky is also one: no critical height in europe is so strict and unbroken. you may see it from a long way east--from the velay, or even from the last of the forèz, and wonder whether it is a land or a sullen bar of black cloud. all the world knows how snow, even in mere gullies and streaks, uplifts a mountain. well, i have seen the dull roof-tile of the margeride from above puy in spring, when patches of snow still clung to it, and the snow did no more than it would have done to a plain. it neither raised nor distinguished this brooding thing. but it is indeed a barrier. its rounded top is more formidable than if it were a ridge of rock; its saddle, broad and indeterminate, deceives the traveller, with new slight slopes following one upon the other when the sharp first of the ascent is done. already the last edge of the causse beyond the valley had disappeared, and already had the great road taken me higher than the buttress which holds up that table-land, when, thinking i had gained the summit, i turned a corner in the way and found a vague roll of rising land before me. upon this also, under the strong moonlight, i saw the ruin of a mill. water, therefore, must have risen behind it. i expected and found yet another uncertain height, and beyond it a third, and, a mile beyond, another. this summit was like those random marshy steps which rise continually and wearily between the sluggish rivers of the prairies. i passed the fields that gave his title to la peyrouse. the cold, which with every hundred feet had increased unnoticed, now first disturbed me. the wind had risen (for i had come to that last stretch of the glacis, over which, from beyond the final height, an eastern wind can blow), and this wind carried i know not what dust of ice, that did not make a perceptible fall, yet in an hour covered my clothes with tiny spangles, and stung upon the face like highland snow in a gale. with that wind and that fine, powdery frost went no apparent clouds. the sky was still clear above me. such rare stars as can conquer the full moon shone palely; but round the moon herself bent an evanescent halo, like those one sees over the channel upon clear nights before a stormy morning. the spindrift of fine ice had, i think, defined this halo. how long i climbed through the night i do not know. the summit was but a slight accident upon a tumbled plain. the ponds stood thick with ice, the sound of running water had ceased, when the slight downward of the road through a barren moor and past broad undrained films of frozen bog, told me that i was on the further northern slope. the wind also was now roaring over the platform of the watershed, and great patches of whirling snow lay to the right and left like sand upon the grassy dunes of a coast. through all this loneliness and cold i went down, with the great road for a companion. majesty and power were imposed by it upon these savage wilds. the hours uncalculated, and the long arrears of the night, had confused my attention; the wind, the little arrows of the ice, the absence of ploughlands and of men. those standards of measure which (i have said) the causses so easily disturb would not return to me. i took mile after mile almost unheeding, numbed with cold, demanding sleep, but ignorant of where might be found the next habitation. it was in this mood that i noticed on a distant swirl of rocks before me what might have been roofs and walls; but in that haunted country the rocks play such tricks as i have told. the moonlight also, which seems so much too bright upon a lonely heath, fails one altogether when distinction must be made between distant things, and when men are near. i did not know that these rocks (or houses) were the high group of chateauneuf till i came suddenly upon the long and low house which stands below it on the road, and is the highway inn for the mountain town beyond. i halted for a moment, because no light came from the windows. just opposite the house a great tomb marked the fall of some hero. the wind seemed less violent. the waters of the marshy plain had gathered. they were no longer frozen, and a little brook ran by. as i waited there, hesitating, my fatigue came upon me, and i knocked at their great door. they opened, and light poured upon the road, and the noise of peasants talking loudly, and the roaring welcome of a fire. in this way i ended my crossing of these sombre and unrecorded hills. * * * * * i that had lost count of hours and of heights in the glamour of the midnight and of the huge abandoned places of my climb, stepped now into a hall where the centuries also mingled and lost their order. the dancing fire filled one of those great pent-house chimneys that witness to the communal life of the middle ages. around and above it, ironwork of a hundred years branched from the ingle-nooks to support the drying meats of the winter provision. a wide board, rude, over-massive, and shining with long usage, reflected the stone ware and the wine. chairs, carved grotesquely, and as old almost as the walls about me, stood round the comfort of the fire. i saw that the windows were deeper than a man's arms could reach, and wedge-shaped--made for fighting. i saw that the beams of the high roof, which the firelight hardly caught, were black oak and squared enormously, like the ribs of a master-galley, and in the leaves and garden things that hung from them, in the mighty stones of the wall, and the beaten earth of the floor, the strong simplicity of our past, and the promise of our endurance, came upon me. the peasants sitting about the board and fire had risen, looking at the door; for strangers were rare, and it was very late as i came out of the empty cold into that human room. their dress was ancestral; the master, as he spoke to me, mixed new words with old. he had phrases that the black prince used when he went riding at arms across the margeride. he spoke also of modern things, of the news in the valley from which i had come, and the railway and puy below us. they put before me bread and wine, which i most needed. i sat right up against the blaze. we all talked high together of the things we knew. for when i had told them what news there was in the valley, they also answered my questions, into which i wove as best i could those still living ancient words i had caught from their mouths. i asked them whose was that great tomb under the moonlight, at which i had shuddered as i entered their doors. they told me it was duguesclin's tomb; for he got his death-wound here under the walls of the town above them five hundred years ago, and in this house he had died. then i asked what stream that was which trickled from the half-frozen moss, and led down the valley of my next day's journey. they told me it was called the river red-cap, and they said that it was faëry. i asked them also what was the name of the height over which i had come; they answered, that the shepherds called it "the king's house," and that hence, in clear weather, under an eastern wind, one could see far off, beyond the velay, that lonely height which is called "the chair of god." so we talked together, drinking wine and telling each other of many things, i of the world to which i was compelled to return, and they of the pastures and the streams, and all the story of lozère. and, all the while, not the antiquity alone, but the endurance of christendom poured into me from every influence around. they rose to go to the homes which were their own, without a lord. we exchanged the last salutations. the wooden soles of their shoes clattered upon the stone threshold of the door. the master also rose and left me. i sat there for perhaps an hour, alone, with the falling fire before me and a vision in my heart. though i was here on the very roof and centre of the western land, i heard the surge of the inner and the roll of the outer sea; the foam broke against the hebrides, and made a white margin to the cliffs of holy ireland. the tide poured up beyond our islands to the darkness in the north. i saw the german towns, and lombardy, and the light on rome. and the great landscape i saw from the summit to which i was exalted was not of to-day only, but also of yesterday, and perhaps of to-morrow. our europe cannot perish. her religion--which is also mine--has in it those victorious energies of defence which neither merchants nor philosophers can understand, and which are yet the prime condition of establishment. europe, though she must always repel attacks from within and from without, is always secure; the soul of her is a certain spirit, at once reasonable and chivalric. and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. she will not dissolve by expansion, nor be broken by internal strains. she will not suffer that loss of unity which would be for all her members death, and for her history and meaning and self an utter oblivion. she will certainly remain. her component peoples have merged and have remerged. her particular, famous cities have fallen down. her soldiers have believed the world to have lost all, because a battle turned against them, hittin or leipsic. her best has at times grown poor, and her worst rich. her colonies have seemed dangerous for a moment from the insolence of their power, and then again (for a moment) from the contamination of their decline. she has suffered invasion of every sort; the east has wounded her in arms and has corrupted her with ideas; her vigorous blood has healed the wounds at once, and her permanent sanity has turned such corruptions into innocuous follies. she will certainly remain. * * * * * so that old room, by its very age, reminded me, not of decay, but of unchangeable things. all this came to me out of the fire; and upon such a scene passed the pageantry of our astounding history. the armies marching perpetually, the guns and ring of bronze; i heard the chant of our prayers; and, though so great a host went by from the baltic to the passes of the pyrenees, the myriads were contained in one figure common to them all. i was refreshed, as though by the resurrection of something loved and thought dead. i was no longer afraid of time. that night i slept ten hours. next day, as i swung out into the air, i knew that whatever power comforts men had thrown wide open the gates of morning; and a gale sang strong and clean across that pale blue sky which mountains have for a neighbour. i could see the further valley broadening among woods, to the warmer places; and i went down beside the river red-cap onwards, whither it pleased me to go. a family of the fens upon the very limit of the fens, not a hundred feet in height, but very sharp against the level, there is a lonely little hill. from the edge of that hill the land seems very vague; the flat line of the horizon is the only boundary, and that horizon mixes into watery clouds. no countryside is so formless until one has seen the plan of it set down in a map, but on studying such a map one understands the scheme of the fens. the wash is in the shape of a keystone with the narrow side towards the sea and the broad side towards the land. imagine the wash prolonged for twenty or thirty miles inland and broadened considerably as it proceeded as would a curving fan, or better still, a horseshoe, and you have the fens: a horseshoe whose points, as dugdale says, are the corners of lincolnshire and norfolk. all around them is land of some little height, and quite dry. it is oölitic on the east, chalky on the south, and the old towns and the old roads look from all round this amphitheatre of dry land down upon the alluvial flats beneath. peterboro', cambridge, lynn, are all just off the fens, and the ermine street runs on the bank which forms their eastern frontier. this plain has suffered very various fortunes. how good the land was and how well inhabited before the ruin of the monasteries is not yet completely grasped, even by these who love these marshes and who have written their history. yet there is physical evidence of what was once here: masses of trees but just buried, grass lying mown in swathes beneath the moss-land, the implements of men where now no men can live, the great buried causeway running right across from east to west. beyond such proofs there are the writers who, rare as are the descriptions of medieval scenery, manage to speak of this. for henry of huntingdon it was a kind of garden. there were many meres in it, but there were also islands and woods and orchards. william of malmesbury writes of it with delight, and mentions even its vines. the meres were not impassable marshes; for instance, in _domesday_ you find the abbot of ramsay owning a vessel upon whittlesea mere. the whole impression one gets from the earlier time is that of something like the upper waters of the rivers in the broads: much draining and a good many ponds, but most of the land firm with good deep pastures and a great diversity of woods. great catastrophes have certainly overcome this countryside. the greatest was the anarchy of the sixteenth century; but it is probable that, coincidently with every grave lesion in the continuity of our civilisation, the fens suffered, for they always needed the perpetual attention of man to keep them (as they so long were, and may be again if ever our people get back their land and restore a communal life) fully inhabited, afforested, and cultured. it is probable that the break-up of the ninth century saw the fens partly drowned, and that after the black death something of the same sort happened again, for it is in the latter fourteenth and fifteenth centuries that you begin to hear of a necessity for reclaiming them. john of gaunt had a scheme, and morton dug a ditch which is still called "morton's leam." i say, every defeat of our civilisation was inflicted here in the fens, but it is certain that the principal disaster followed the suppression of the monasteries. these great foundations--nourishing hundreds and governing thousands, based upon the populace, drawn from the populace, and living by the common life--were scattered throughout the fens. they were founded on the "islands" nearest the good land: thorney, ramsay, croyland, ely--the nuns of chatteris. they dated from the very beginning. ely was founded within sight of our conversion, . croyland came even before that, before civilisation and religion were truly re-established in britain; penda's great-nephew gave it its charter; st augustine had been dead for little more than a century when the charter was signed. even as the monks came to claim their land they discovered hermits long settled there. thorney--ancarig it was then--was even fifty years older than croyland. the roots of all these go back to the beginning of the nation. ramsay and charteris cannot be traced beyond the gulf of the danish invasion, but they are members of the group or ring of houses which clustered round the edge of the dry land and sent out its industry towards the wash, making new land; for this ring sent out feelers eastward, draining the land and recovering it every way, founding cells, establishing villages. holbeach, spalding, freiston, holland, and i know not how much more was their land. when the monasteries were destroyed their lordship fell into the hands of that high class--now old, then new--the cromwells and russells and the rest, upon whom has since depended the greatness of the country. the intensive spirit proper to a teeming but humble population was forgotten. the extensive economics of the great owners, their love of distances and of isolation took the place of the old agriculture. within a generation the whole land was drowned. the isolated villages forgot the general civilisation of england; they came to depend for their living upon the wildfowl of the marshes; here and there was a little summer pasturing, more rarely a little ploughing of the rare patches of dry land; but the whole place soon ran wild, and there englishmen soon grew to cause an endless trouble to the new landlords. these, all the while on from the death of henry to that of elizabeth, pursued their vigilance and their accumulations. their power rose above the marshes like a slow sun and dried them up at last. in every inch of england you can find the history of england. you find it very typically here. the growth of that leisured class which we still enjoy--the class that in the seventeenth century destroyed the central government of the crown, penetrated and refreshed the universities, acquired for its use and reformed the endowed primary education of the english, and began a thorough occupation of our public land--the growth of that leisured class is nowhere more clearly to be seen than in the history of the fens, since the fens had their faith removed from them. here is the story of one such family, a family without whose privileges and public services it would be difficult to conceive modern england. their wealth is rooted in the fens; the growth of that wealth is parallel to the growth of every fortune by which we are governed. when the monasteries were despoiled and their farms thrown open to a gamble, when the water ran in again, the countryside and all its generations of human effort were drowned, there was raised up for the restoration of this land the family of russell. the abbey of thorney had been given to these little squires. they were in possession when, towards the end of elizabeth's reign, in , was passed the general draining act. it was a generous and a broad act: it was to apply not only to the great level, but to all the marshes of the realm. it was soon bent to apply to the family. seven years later a dutchman of the name of cornelius vermuyden was sent for, that the work might be begun. for fifty years this man dug and intrigued. he was called in to be the engineer; he had the temerity to compete with the new landlords; he boasted a desire--less legitimate in an alien than in a courtier--to make a great fortune rapidly. he was ruined. all the adventurers who first attempted the draining of the fens were ruined--but not that permanent russell-francis, the earl of bedford, surnamed "the incomparable." the story of vermuyden by him is intricate, but every englishman now living on another man's land should study it. vermuyden was to drain the great level and to have , acres for his pains. these acres were in the occupation--for the matter of that, in great part the ownership--of a number of english families. it is true the land had lain derelict for seventy years, bereft of capital since the reformation, and swamped. it is true that the occupiers (and owners) were very poor. it is true, therefore, that they could not properly comprehend a policy that was designed for the general advantage of the country. they only understood that the hunting and fishing by which they lived were to stop; that their land was to be very considerably improved and taken from them. in their ignorance of ultimate political good they began to show some considerable impatience. the cry of the multitude has a way of taking on the forms of stupidity. the multitude in this case cried out against vermuyden. they objected to a foreigner being given so much freehold. "in an anguish of despair"--to use one chronicler's words--they threw themselves under the protection of a leader. "that leader was, of course, francis, earl of bedford, surnamed 'the incomparable.' he could not hear unmoved the cry of his fellow-citizens. he yielded to their petition, took means to oust the dutchmen, and immediately obtained for himself the grant of the , acres, by a royal order of january, / , known as 'the lynn law.'" when he saw the extent of the land and of the water upon it, even his tenacious spirit was alarmed. he therefore associated with himself in the expenses thirteen others, all persons of rank and fortune, as was fitting: alone of the fourteen he preserved his fortune. the fourteen, then, began the digging of nine drains (if we include the repair of morton's leam); the largest was that fine twenty-one miles called the old bedford river, and charles i, though all in favour of so great a work, was all in dread of the power it might give to the class which--as his prophetic conscience told him--was destined to be his ruin. there was a contract that the work should be finished in six years: when the six years were ended it was very far from finished. the king grumbled; but francis, earl of bedford, belonged to a clique already half as powerful as the crown. he threatened, and a new royal order gave him an extension of time. it was the second of his many victories. the king refused to forget his defeat, and francis, earl of bedford, began to show that hatred of absolute government which has made of his kind the leaders of a happy england. the king did a stuart thing--he lost his temper. he said, "you may keep your , acres, but i shall tax them"; and he did. francis, earl of bedford, felt in him a growing passion for just government. he already spoke of freedom; but he had no leisure wherein to enjoy it, for within two years he departed this life, of the smallpox, leaving to his son william the legacy of the great battle for liberty and for the public land. this change in the bedford dynasty coincided with the civil wars. william russell, having led some of the parliamentary forces at edge hill, was so uncertain which side might ultimately be victorious as to open secret negotiations with the king. nothing happened to him, nor even to his brother, who intrigued later against cromwell's life. he was at liberty to return once more and to survey from the walls of the old abbey the drowned land upon which he had set his heart. the work of digging could not be carried on during the turmoil of the time; william, earl of bedford, filled his leisure in the framing of an elaborate bill of costs. it was dated may, , and showed the sums which he had spent and which had been wasted in the failure to reclaim the fens. he stated them at over £ , , and to this he added, like a good business man, interest at the rate of per cent, for so many years as to amount to more than another £ , . as against the king, the trick was a good one; but, like many another financier, william, earl of bedford, was shortsighted. the more anxious the king grew to pay out public money to the russells, the less able he grew to do so, till at last he lost not only the shadow of power over the treasury, but life itself; and william, earl of bedford, brought in his bill to the commonwealth. cromwell was of the same class, and knew the trick too well. he gave the family leave to prosecute their digging to forget their demand for money. the act was passed at noon. bedford was sent for at seven o'clock the next morning and ordered to attend upon cromwell, "and make thankful acknowledgments." he did so. the works began once more. the common people, in their simplicity, rose as they had so often risen before, against a benefit they could not comprehend; but they no longer had a stuart to deal with. to their extreme surprise they were put down "with the aid of the military." then, for all the world as in the promotion of a modern company, the consulting engineer of the original promotors reappears. the russells had patched it up with vermuyden, and the work was resumed a third time. there was, however, this difficulty, that though englishmen might properly be constrained at this moment to love an orderly and godly life, and to relinquish their property when it was to the public good that they should do so, yet it would have been abhorrent to the whole spirit of the commonwealth to enslave them even for a work of national advantage. a labour difficulty arose, and the works were in grave peril. those whose petty envy may be pleased at the entanglement of william, earl of bedford, have forgotten the destiny which maintains our great families. in the worst of the crisis the battle of dunbar was fought; scotch prisoners (and later more) were indentured out to dig the ditches, and it was printed and posted in the end of that it was "death without mercy" for any to attempt to escape. the respite was not for long. heaven, as though to try the patience of its chosen agent, raised up a new obstacle before the great patriot. peace was made, and the scotch prisoners were sent home. it was but the passing frown which makes the succeeding smiles of the deity more gracious. at that very moment blake was defeating the dutch upon the seas, and these excellent prisoners, laborious, and (by an accident which clearly shows the finger of divine providence) especially acquainted with the digging of ditches, arrived in considerable numbers, chained, and were handed over to the premier house. at the same time it was ordered by the lord protector that when the , acres should at last be dry, any protestant, even though he were a foreigner, might buy. two years later an unfortunate peace compelled the return of the dutch prisoners; but the work was done, and the earl of bedford returned thanks in his cathedral. restored to the leisure which is necessary for political action, the russells actively intrigued for the return of the stuarts, and pointed out (when charles ii was well upon his throne) how necessary it was for the fens that their old, if irregular, privileges should be confirmed. it was argued for the crown that , acres of land had been quietly absorbed by the family while there was no king in england: but there happened in this case what happened in every other since the upper class, the natural leaders of the people, had curbed the tyranny of the king--charles capitulated. then followed (of course) popular rising; it was quelled. before their long struggle for freedom against the stuart dynasty was ended, the peasants had been taught their place, vermuyden was out of the way, the ditches were all dug, the land acquired. all the world knows the great part played by the house in the emancipation of england from the yoke of james ii. the martyrdom of lord william may have cast upon the family a passing cloud; but whatever compensation the perishable things of this world can afford, they received and accepted. in , having assisted at the destruction of yet another form of government, the earl of bedford was made duke, and on september, , his great work now entirely accomplished, he departed this life peacefully in his eighty-seventh year. it was once more in their cathedral that the funeral service was preached by a dr. freeman, chaplain of no less than the king himself. i have read the sermon in its entirety. it closes with the fine phrase that william the fifth earl and the first duke of bedford had sought throughout the whole of a laborious and patriotic life a crown not corruptible but incorruptible. it was precisely a century since the family had set out in its quest for that hundred square miles of land. through four reigns, a bloody civil war, three revolutions and innumerable treasons, it had maintained its purpose, and at last it reached its goal. "_tantae molis erat romanam condere gentem_." the election the other day as i was going out upon my travels, i came upon a plain so broad that it greatly wearied me. this plain was grown in parts with barley, but as it stood high in foreign mountains and was arid, very little was grown. small runnels, long run dry under the heat, made the place look like a desert--almost like africa; nor was there anything to relieve my gaze except a huddle of small grey houses far away; but when i reached them i found, to my inexpressible joy, a railway running by and a station to receive me. for those who complain of railways talk folly, and prove themselves either rich or, more probably, the hangers-on of the rich. a railway is an excellent thing; it takes one quickly through the world for next to nothing, and if in many countries the people it takes are brutes, and disfigure all they visit, that is not the fault of the railway, but of the government and religion of these people, which, between them, have ruined the citizens of the state. so was it not in this place of which i speak, for all the people were industrious, wealthy, kind, amenable, and free. i took a ticket for the only town on the railway list whose history i knew, and then in a third-class carriage made entirely of wood i settled down to a conversation with my kind; for though these people were not of my blood--indeed, i am certain that for some hundreds of years not a drop of their blood has mingled with my own--yet we understood each other by a common tongue called lingua franca, of which i have spoken in another place and am a past master. as all the people round began their talk of cattle, land, and weather, two men next me, or rather the one next me and the other opposite me, began to talk of the election which had been held in that delightful plain: by which, as i learnt, a dealer in herds had been defeated by a somewhat usurious and perhaps insignificant attorney. in this election more than half the voters--that is, a good third of the families in the plain--had gone up to the little huts of wood and had made a mark upon a bit of paper, some on one part, some on the other. about a sixth of the families had desired the dealer in herds to make their laws, and about a sixth the attorney. of the rest some could not, some would not, go and make the little mark of which i speak. many more could by law make it, and would have made it, if they had thought it useful to any possible purpose under the sun. one-sixth, i say, had made their mark for the aged and money-lending attorney, and one-sixth for the venerable but avaricious dealer in herds, and since the first sixth was imperceptibly larger than the second it was the lawyer, not the merchant, who stood to make the laws for the people. but not only to make laws: he was also in some mystic way the persona and representative of all the plain. the long sun-lit fields; the infinite past--carolingian, enormous; the delicate fronds of young trees; the distant sight of the mountains, which is the note of all that land; the invasions it had suffered, the conquests it might yet achieve; its soul and its material self, were all summed up in the solicitor, not in the farmer, and he was to vote on peace or war, on wine or water, on god or no god in the schools. for the people of the plain were self-governing; they had no lords. of my two companions, the one had voted for the cow-buyer, but the other for the scribbler upon parchment, and they discussed their action without heat, gently and with many reasons. the one said: "it cannot be doubted that the solidarity of society demands that the homogeneity of economic interests should be recognised by the magistrate." the other said: "the first need is rather that the historic continuity of society should be affirmed by the momentary depositaries of the executive." for these two men were of some education, and saw things from a higher standpoint than the peasants around us, who continued to discourse, now angrily, now merrily, but always loudly and rapidly, upon the insignificant matter of their lives: that is, strong, red, bubbling wine, healthy and well-fed beef, rich land and housing, the marriage of daughters, and the putting forward of sons. then one of the two, who had long guessed by my dress and face from what country i came, said to me: "and you, how is it in your country?" i told him we met from time to time, upon occasions not less often than seven years apart, and did just as they had done. that one-sixth of us voted one way and one-sixth the other; the first, let us say, for a moneylender, and the second for a man remarkable for motor-cars or famous for the wealth of his mother; and whichever sixth was imperceptibly larger than the other, that sixth carried its man, and he stood for the flats of the wash or for the clear hills of cumberland, or for devon, which is all one great and lonely hill. "this man," said i, "in some very mystic way is _ourselves_--he is our past and our great national memory. by his vote he decides what shall be done; but he is controlled." "by what is he controlled?" said my companions eagerly. evidently they had a sneaking love of seeing representatives controlled. "by a committee of the rich," said i promptly. at this they shrugged their shoulders and said: "it is a bad system!" "and by what are yours?" said i. at this the gravest and oldest of them, looking as it were far away with his eyes, answered: "by the name of our country and a wholesome terror of the people." "your system," said i, shrugging my shoulders in turn, but a little awkwardly, "is different from ours." after this, we were silent all three. we remembered, all three of us, the times when no such things were done in europe, and yet men hung well together, and a nation was vaguer and yet more instinctive and ready. we remembered also--for it was in our common faith--the gross, permanent, and irremediable imperfection of human affairs. there arose perhaps in their minds a sight of the man they had sent to be the spirit and spokesman, or rather the very self, of that golden plateau which the train was crawling through, and certainly in my mind there rose the picture of a man--small, false, and vile--who was, by some fiction, the voice of a certain valley in my own land. then i said to them as i left the train at the town i spoke of: "days, knights!"--for so one addresses strangers in that country. and they answered: "your grace, we commend you to god." arles the use and the pleasure of travel are closely mingled, because the use of it is fulfilment, and in fulfilling oneself a great pleasure is enjoyed. every man bears within him not only his own direct experience, but all the past of his blood: the things his own race has done are part of himself, and in him also is what his race will do when he is dead. this is why men will always read _records_, and why, even when letters are at their lowest, _records_ still remain. thus, if a diary be known to be true, then it seems vivid and becomes famous where if it were fiction no one would find any merit in it. history, therefore, once a man has begun to know it, becomes a necessary food for the mind, without which it cannot sustain its new dimension. it is an aggregate of universal experience, nor, other things being equal, is any man's judgment so thin and weak as the judgment of a man who knows nothing of the past. but history, if it is to be kept just and true and not to become a set of airy scenes, fantastically coloured by our later time, must be continually corrected and moderated by the seeing and handling of _things_. if the west of europe be one place and one people separate from all the rest of the world, then that unity is of the last importance to us; and that it is so, the wider our learning the more certain we are. all our religion and custom and mode of thought are european. a european state is only a state because it is a state of europe; and the demarcations between the ever-shifting states of europe are only dotted lines, but between the christian and the non-christian the boundary is hard and full. now, a man who recognises this truth will ask, "where could i find a model of the past of that europe? in what place could i find the best single collection of all the forms which european energy has created, and of all the outward symbols in which its soul has been made manifest? to such a man the answer should be given, 'you will find these things better in the town of _arles_ than in any other place.'" a man asking such a question would mean to travel. he ought to travel to _arles_. long before men could write, this hill (which was the first dry land at the head of the rhone delta, beyond the early mud-flats which the river was pushing out into the sea) was inhabited by our ancestors. their barbaric huts were grouped round the shelving shore; their axes and their spindles remain. when thousands of years later the greeks pushed northward from massilia, arles was the first great corner in their road and the first halting-place after the useless deserts that separated their port from the highway of the rhone valley. at the close of antiquity rome came to arles in the beginning of her expansion, and the strong memories of rome which arles still holds are famous. every traveller has heard of the vast unbroken amphitheatre and the ruined temple in a market square that is still called the forum; they are famous--but when you see them it seems to you that they should be more famous still. they have something about them so familiar and yet so unexpected that the centuries in which they were built come actively before you. * * * * * the city of arles is small and packed. a man may spend an hour in it instead of a day or a year, but in that hour he can receive full communion with antiquity. for as you walk along the tortuous lane between high houses, passing on either hand as you go the ornaments of every age, you turn some dirty little corner or other and come suddenly upon the titanic arches of rome. there are the huge stones which appal you with the roman weight and perpetuate in their arrangement an order that has modelled the world. they lie exact and mighty; they are unmoved, clamped with metal, a little worn, enduring. they are none the less a domestic and native part of the living town in which they stand. you pass from the garden of a house that was built in your grandfather's time, and you see familiarly before you in the street a pedestal and a column. they are two thousand years old. you read a placard idly upon the wall; the placard interests you; it deals with the politics of the place or with the army, but the wall might be meaningless. you look more closely, and you see that that wall was raised in a fashion that has been forgotten since the antonines, and these realities still press upon you, revealed and lost again with every few steps you walk within the limited circuit of the town. rome slowly fell asleep. the sculpture lost its power; something barbaric returned. you may see that decline in capitals and masks still embedded in buildings of the fifth century. the sleep grew deeper. there came five hundred years of which so little is left in europe that paris has but one doubtful tower and london nothing. arles still preserves its relics. when charlemagne was dead and christendom almost extinguished the barbarian and the saracen alternately built, and broke against, a keep that still stands and that is still so strong that one might still defend it. it is unlit. it is a dungeon; a ponderous menace above the main street of the city, blind and enormous. it is the very time it comes from. when all that fear and anarchy of the mind had passed, and when it was discovered that the west still lived, a dawn broke. the medieval civilisation began to sprout vigorously through the eleventh and twelfth centuries, as an old tree sprouts before march is out. the memorials of that transition are common enough. we have them here in england in great quantity; we call them the "norman" architecture. a peculiarly vivid relic of that springtime remains at arles. it is the door of what was then the cathedral--the door of st. trophimus. it perpetuates the beginning of the civilisation of the middle ages. and of that civilisation an accident which has all the force of a particular design has preserved here, attached to this same church, another complete type. the cloisters of this same church of st. trophimus are not only the middle ages caught and made eternal, they are also a progression of that great experiment from its youth to its sharp close. you come into these cloisters from a little side street and a neglected yard, which give you no hint of what you are going to see. you find yourself cut off at once and put separately by. silence inhabits the place; you see nothing but the sky beyond the border of the low roofs. one old man there, who cannot read or write and is all but blind, will talk to you of the rhone. then as you go round the arches, "withershins" against the sun (in which way lucky progression has always been made in sacred places), there pass you one after the other the epochs of the middle ages. for each group of arches come later than the last in the order of sculpture, and the sculptors during those years went withershins as should you. you have first the solemn purpose of the early work. this takes on neatness of detail, then fineness; a great maturity dignifies all the northern side. upon the western you already see that spell beneath which the middle ages died. the mystery of the fifteenth century; none of its wickedness but all its final vitality is there. you see in fifty details the last attempt of our race to grasp and permanently to retain the beautiful. when the circuit is completed the series ends abruptly--as the medieval story itself ended. there is no way of writing or of telling history which could be so true as these visions are. arles, at a corner of the great main road of the empire, never so strong as to destroy nor so insignificant as to cease from building, catching the earliest roman march into the north, the christian advance, the full experience of the invasions; retaining in a vague legend the memory of st. paul; drawing in, after the long trouble, the new life that followed the crusades, can show such visions better, i think, than rome herself can show them. the griffin a specialist told me once in ealing that no inn could compare with the griffin, a fenland inn. "it is painted green" he said, "and stands in the town of march. if you would enjoy the griffin, you must ask your way to that town, and as you go ask also for the griffin, for many who may not have heard of march will certainly have heard of the griffin." so i set out at once for the fens and came at the very beginning of them to a great ditch, which barred all further progress. i wandered up and down the banks for an hour thinking of the inn, when i met a man who was sadder and more silent even than the vast level and lonely land in which he lived. i asked him how i should cross the great dyke. he shook his head, and said he did not know. i asked him if he had heard of the griffin, but he said no. i broke away from him and went for miles along the bank eastward, seeing the rare trees of the marshes dwindling in the distance, and up against the horizon a distant spire, which i thought might be the spire of march. for march and the griffin were not twenty miles away. and still the great ditch stood between me and my pilgrimage. * * * * * these dykes of the fens are accursed things: they are the separation of friends and lovers. here is a man whose crony would come and sit by his fireside at evening and drink with him, a custom perhaps of twenty years' standing, when there comes another man from another part armed with public power, and digs between them a trench too wide to leap and too soft to ford. the fens are full of such tragedies. one may march up and down the banks all day without finding a boat, and as for bridges there are none, except, indeed, the bridges which the railway makes; for the railways have grown to be as powerful as the landlords or the brewers, and can go across this country where they choose. and here the fens are typical, for it may be said that these three monopolies--the landlords, the railways, and the brewers--govern england. * * * * * but at last, at a place called oxlode, i found a boat, and the news that just beyond lay another dyke. i asked where that could be crossed, but the ferryman of oxlode did not know. he pointed two houses out, however, standing close together out of the plain, and said they were called "purles' bridge," and that i would do well to try there. but when i reached them i found that the water was between me and them and, what is more, that there was no bridge there and never had been one since the beginning of time. of these jests the fens are full. in half an hour a man came out of one of the houses and ferried me across in silence. i asked him also if he had heard of the griffin. he laughed and shook his head as the first one had done, but he showed me a little way off the village of monea, saying that the people of that place knew every house for a day's walk around. so i trudged to monea, which is a village on one of the old dry islands of the marsh; but no one at monea knew. there was, none the less, one old man who told me he had heard the name, and his advice to me was to go to the cross roads and past them towards march, and then to ask again. so i went outwards to the cross roads, and from the cross roads outward again it seemed without end, a similar land repeating itself for ever. there was the same silence, the same completely even soil, the same deep little trenches, the same rare distant and regular rows of trees. * * * * * since it was useless to continue thus for you--one yard was as good as twenty miles--and since you could know nothing more of these silences, even if i were to give you every inch of the road, i will pass at once to the moment in which i saw a baker's cart catching me up at great speed. the man inside had an expression of irritable poverty. i did not promise him money, but gave it him. then he took me aboard and rattled on, with me by his side. i had by this time a suspicion that the griffin was a claustral thing and a mystery not to be blurted out. i knew that all the secrets of hermes may be reached by careful and long-drawn words, and that the simplest of things will not be told one if one asks too precipitately; so i began to lay siege to his mind by the method of dialogue. the words were these:-- myself: this land wanted draining, didn't it? the other man: ah! myself: it seems to be pretty well drained now. the other man: ugh! myself: i mean it seems dry enough. the other man: it was drownded only last winter. myself: it looks to be good land. the other man: it's lousy land; it's worth nowt. myself: still, there are dark bits--black, you may say--and thereabouts it will be good. the other man: that's where you're wrong; the lighter it is the better it is ... ah! that's where many of 'em go wrong. (_short silence_.) myself: (_cheerfully_): a sort of loam? the other man (_calvinistically_): ugh!--sand!... (_shaking his head_). it blaws away with a blast of wind. (_a longer silence_.) myself (_as though full of interest_): then you set your drills to sow deep about here? the other man (_with a gesture of fatigue_): shoal. (_here he sighed deeply_.) after this we ceased to speak to each other for several miles. then: myself: who owns the land about here? the other man: some owns parts and some others. myself (_angrily pointing to an enormous field with a little new house in the middle_): who owns that? the other man (_startled by my tone_): a frenchman. he grows onions. now if you know little of england and of the temper of the english (i mean of . of the english people and not of the . with which you associate), if, i say, you know little or nothing of your fellow-countrymen, you may imagine that all this conversation was wasted. "it was not to the point," you say. "you got no nearer the griffin." you are wrong. such conversation is like the kneading of dough or the mixing of mortar; it mollifies and makes ready; it is three-quarters of the work; for if you will let your fellow-citizen curse you and grunt at you, and if you will but talk to him on matters which he knows far better than you, then you have him ready at the end. so had i this man, for i asked him point-blank at the end of all this: "_what about the griffin?_" he looked at me for a moment almost with intelligence, and told me that he would hand me over in the next village to a man who was going through march. so he did, and the horse of this second man was even faster than that of the baker. the horses of the fens are like no horses in the world for speed. * * * * * this horse was twenty-three years old, yet it went as fast as though all that tomfoolery men talk about progress were true, and as though things got better by the process of time. it went so fast that one might imagine it at forty-six winning many races, and at eighty standing beyond all comparison or competition; and because it went so fast i went hammering right through the town of march before i had time to learn its name or to know whither i was driving; it whirled me past the houses and out into the country beyond; only when i had pulled up two miles beyond did i know what i had done and did i realise that i had missed for ever one of those pleasures which, fleeting as they are, are all that is to be discovered in human life. it went so fast, that before i knew what had happened the griffin had flashed by me and was gone. * * * * * yet i will affirm with the tongue of faith that it is the noblest house of call in the fens. * * * * * it is better to believe than to handle or to see. i will affirm with the tongue of faith that the griffin is, as it were, the captain and chief of these plains, and has just managed to touch perfection in all the qualities that an inn should achieve. i am speaking not of what i know by the doubtful light of physical experience, but of what i have seen with the inward eye and felt by something that transcends gross taste and touch. low rooms of my repose! beams of comfort and great age; drowsy and inhabiting fires; ingle-nooks made for companionship. you also, beer much better, much more soft, than the beer of lesser towns; beans, bacon, and chicken cooked to the very limit of excellence; port drawn from barrels which the simple portuguese had sent to lynn over the cloud-shadowed sea, and honourable lynn without admixture had sent upon a cart to you, port undefined, port homogeneous, entirely made of wine: you also beds! wooden beds with curtains around them, feathers for sleeping on, and every decent thing which the accursed would attempt to destroy; candles (i trust)--and trust is more perfect than proof--bread made (if it be possible) out of english wheat; milk drawn most certainly from english cows, and butter worthy of the pastures of england all around. oh, glory to the fens, griffin, it shall not be said that i have not enjoyed you! * * * * * there is a modern habit, i know, of gloom, and men without faith upon every side recount the things that they have not enjoyed. for my part i will yield to no such habit. i will consider that i have more perfectly tasted in the mind that which may have been denied to my mere body, and i will produce for myself and others a greater pleasure than any pleasure of the sense. i will do what the poets and the prophets have always done, and satisfy myself with vision, and (who knows?) perhaps by this the griffin of the idea has been made a better thing (if that were possible!) than the griffin as it is--as it materially stands in this evil and uncertain world. so let the old horse go by and snatch me from this chance of joy: he has not taken everything in his flight, and there remains something in spite of time, which eats us all up. and yet ... what is that in me which makes me regret the griffin, the real griffin at which they would not let me stay? the griffin painted green: the real rooms, the real fire ... the material beer? alas for mortality! something in me still clings to affections temporal and mundane. england, my desire, what have you not refused me! the first day's march i very well remember the spring breaking ten years ago in lorraine. i remember it better far than i shall ever remember another spring, because one of those petty summits of emotion that seem in boyhood like the peaks of the world was before me. we were going off to camp. since every man that fires guns or drives them in france--that is, some hundred thousand and more at any one time, and taking in reserves, half a million--must go to camp in his time, and that more than once, it seems monstrous that a boy should make so much of it; but then to a boy six months is a little lifetime, and for six months i had passed through that great annealing fire of drill which stamps and moulds the french people to-day, putting too much knowledge and bitterness into their eyes, but a great determination into their gestures and a trained tenacity into the methods of their thought. to me also this fire seemed fiercer and more transforming because, until the day when they had marched me up to barracks in the dark and the rain with a batch of recruits, i had known nothing but the easy illusions and the comfort of an english village, and had had but journeys or short visits to teach me that enduring mystery of europe, the french temper: whose aims and reticence, whose hidden enthusiasms, great range of effort, divisions, defeats, and resurrections must now remain the principal problem before my mind; for the few who have seen this sight know that the french mind is the pivot on which europe turns. i had come into the regiment faulty in my grammar and doubtful in accent, ignorant especially of those things which in every civilisation are taken for granted but never explained in full; i was ignorant, therefore, of the key which alone can open that civilisation to a stranger. things irksome or a heavy burden to the young men of my age, born and brought up in the french air, were to me, brought up with englishmen an englishman, odious and bewildering. orders that i but half comprehended; simple phrases that seemed charged with menace; boasting (a habit of which i knew little), coupled with a fierce and, as it were, expected courage that seemed ill suited to boasting--and certainly unknown outside this army; enormous powers of endurance in men whose stature my english training had taught me to despise; a habit of fighting with the fists, coupled with a curious contempt for the accident of individual superiority--all these things amazed me and put me into a topsy-turvy world where i was weeks in finding my feet. but strangest of all, and (as i now especially believe) most pregnant with meaning for the future, was to find the inherited experience in me of so much teaching and careful habit--instinct of command, if you will--all that goes to make what we call in western europe a "gentleman," put at the orders and the occasional insult of a hierarchy of office, many of whose functionaries were peasants and artisans. stripes on the arm, symbols, suddenly became of overwhelming value; what i had been made with so much care in an english public school was here thought nothing but a hindrance and an absurdity. this had seemed to me first a miracle, then a grievous injustice, then most unpractical, and at last, like one that sees the answer to a riddle, i saw (when i had long lost my manners and ceased to care for refinements) that the french were attempting, a generation before any others in the world, to establish an army that should be a mere army, and in which a living man counted only as one numbered man. whether that experiment will hold or not i cannot tell; it shocks the refinement of the whole west of europe; it seems monstrous to the aristocratic organisation of germany; it jars in france also with the traditions of that decent elder class of whom so many still remain to guide the republic, and in whose social philosophy the segregation of a "directing class" has been hitherto a dogma. but soon i cared little whether that experiment was to succeed or no in its final effort, or whether the french were to perfect a democracy where wealth has one vast experience of its own artificiality, or to fail. the intellectual interest of such an experiment, when once i seized it, drove out every other feeling. i became like a man who has thoroughly awaked from a long sleep and finds that in sleep he has been taken overseas. i merged into the great system whose wheels and grindings had at first astonished or disgusted me, and i found that they had made of me what they meant to make. i cared more for guns than for books; i now obeyed by instinct not men, but symbols of authority. no comfortable fallacy remained; it no longer seemed strange that my captain was a man promoted from the ranks; that one of my lieutenants was an alsatian charity boy and the other a rich fellow mixed up with sugar-broking; that the sergeant of my piece should be a poor young noble, the wheeler of no. a wealthy and very vulgar chemist's son, the man in the next bed ("my ancient," as they say in that service) a cook of some skill, and my bombardier a mild young farmer. i thought only in terms of the artillery: i could judge men from their aptitude alone, and in me, i suppose, were accomplished many things--one of danton's dreams, one of st. just's prophecies, the fulfilment also of what a hundred brains had silently determined twenty years before when the staff gave up their swords outside metz; the army and the kind of army of which chanzy had said in the first breath of the armistice, "a man who forgets it should be hanged, but a man who speaks of it before its time should be shot with the honours of his rank." all this had happened to me in especial in that melting-pot up in the eastern hills, and to thirty thousand others that year in their separate crucibles. in the process things had passed which would seem to you incredible if i wrote them all down. i cared little in what vessel i ate, or whether i had to tear meat with my fingers. i could march in reserve more than twenty miles a day for day upon day. i knew all about my horses; i could sweep, wash, make a bed, clean kit, cook a little, tidy a stable, turn to entrenching for emplacement, take a place at lifting a gun or changing a wheel. i took change with a gunner, and could point well. and all this was not learnt save under a grinding pressure of authority and harshness, without which in one's whole life i suppose one would never properly have learnt a half of these things--at least, not to do them so readily, or in such unison, or on so definite a plan. but (what will seem astonishing to our critics and verbalists), with all this there increased the power, or perhaps it was but the desire, to express the greatest thoughts--newer and keener things. i began to understand de vigny when he wrote, "if a man despairs of becoming a poet, let him carry his pack and march in the ranks." thus the great hills that border the moselle, the distant frontier, the vast plain which is (they say) to be a battlefield, and which lay five hundred feet sheer below me, the far guns when they were practising at metz, the awful strength of columns on the march moved me. the sky also grew more wonderful, and i noticed living things. the middle ages, of which till then i had had but troubling visions, rose up and took flesh in the old town, on the rare winter evenings when i had purchased the leisure to leave quarters by some excessive toil. a man could feel france going by. it was at the end of these six months, when there was no more darkness at roll-call, and when the bitter cold (that had frozen us all winter) was half forgotten, that the spring brought me this excellent news, earlier than i had dared to expect it--the news that sounds to a recruit half as good as active service. we were going to march and go off right away westward over half a dozen horizons, till we could see the real thing at chalons, and with this news the world seemed recreated. seven times that winter we had been mobilised: four times in the dead of the night; once at midday, once at evening, and once at dawn. seven times we had started down the wide metz road, hoping in some vague way that they would do something with us and give us at least some manoeuvres, and seven times we had marched back to barracks to undo all that serious packing and to return to routine. once, for a week in february, the french and german governments, or, more probably, two minor permanent officials, took it into their silly heads that there was some danger of war. we packed our campaign saddles every night and put them on the pegs behind the stalls; we had the emergency rations served out, and for two days in the middle of that time we had slept ready. but nothing came of it. now at least we were off to play a little at the game whose theory we had learnt so wearily. and the way i first knew it would easily fill a book if it were told as it should be, with every detail and its meaning unrolled and with every joy described: as it is, i must put it in ten lines. garnon (a sergeant), three others, and i were sent out (one patrol out of fifty) to go round and see the reserve horses on the farms. that was delight enough, to have a vigorous windy morning with the clouds large and white and in a clear sky, and to mix with the first grain of the year, "out of the loose-box." we took the round they gave us along the base of the high hills, we got our papers signed at the different stables, we noted the hoofs of the horses and their numbers; a good woman at a large farm gave us food of eggs and onions, and at noon we turned to get back to quarters for the grooming. everything then was very well--to have ridden out alone without the second horse and with no horrible great pole to crush one's leg, and be free--though we missed it--of the clank of the guns. we felt like gentlemen at ease, and were speaking grandly to each other, when i heard garnon say to the senior of us a word that made things seem better still, for he pointed out to a long blue line beyond domremy and overhanging the house of joan of arc, saying that the town lay there. "what town?" said i to my ancient; and my ancient, instead of answering simply, took five minutes to explain to me how a recruit could not know that the round of the reserve horses came next before camp, and that this town away on the western ridge was the first halting-place upon the road. then my mind filled with distances, and i was overjoyed, saving for this one thing, that i had but two francs and a few coppers left, and that i was not in reach of more. when we had ridden in, saluted, and reported at the guard, we saw the guns drawn up in line at the end of the yard, and we went into grooming and ate and slept, hardly waiting for the morning and the long regimental call before the réveillé; the notes that always mean the high road for an army, and that are as old as fontenoy. * * * * * that next morning they woke us all before dawn--long before dawn. the sky was still keen, and there was not even a promise of morning in the air, nor the least faintness in the eastern stars. they twinkled right on the edges of the world over the far woods of lorraine, beyond the hollow wherein lay the town; it was even cold like winter as we harnessed; and i remember the night air catching me in the face as i staggered from the harness-room, with my campaign saddle and the traces and the girths and the saddle cloth, and all the great weight that i had to put upon my horses. we stood in the long stables all together, very hurriedly saddling and bridling and knotting up the traces behind. a few lanterns gave us an imperfect light. we hurried because it was a pride to be the first battery, and in the french service, rightly or wrongly, everything in the artillery is made for speed, and to speed everything is sacrificed. so we made ready in the stable and brought our horses out in order before the guns in the open square of quarters. the high plateau on which the barracks stood was touched with a last late frost, and the horses coming out of the warm stables bore the change ill, lifting their heads and stamping. a man could not leave the leaders for a moment, and, while the chains were hooked on, even my middle horses were restive and had to be held. my hands stiffened at the reins, and i tried to soothe both my beasts, as the lantern went up and down wherever the work was being done. they quieted when the light was taken round behind by the tumbrils, where two men were tying on the great sack of oats exactly as though we were going on campaign. these two horses of mine were called pacte and basilique. basilique was saddled; a slow beast, full of strength and sympathy, but stupid and given to sudden fears. pacte was the led horse, and had never heard guns. it was prophesied that when first i should have to hold him in camp when we were practising he would break everything near him, and either kill me or get me cells. but i did not believe these prophecies, having found my ancient and all third-year men too often to be liars, fond of frightening the younger recruits. meanwhile pacte stood in the sharp night, impatient, and shook his harness. everything had been quickly ordered. we filed out of quarters, passed the lamp of the guard, and saw huddled there the dozen or so that were left behind while we were off to better things. then a drawn-out cry at the head of the column was caught up all along its length, and we trotted; the metal of shoes and wheel-rims rang upon the road, and i felt as a man feels on a ship when it leaves harbour for great discoveries. we had climbed the steep bank above st. martin, and were on the highest ridge of land dominating the plain, when the sky first felt the approach of the sun. our backs were to the east, but the horizon before us caught a reflection of the dawn; the woods lost their mystery, and one found oneself marching in a partly cultivated open space with a forest all around. the road ran straight for miles like an arrow, and stretched swarmingly along it was the interminable line of guns. but with the full daylight, and after the sun had risen in a mist, they deployed us out of column into a wide front on a great heath in the forest, and we halted. there we brewed coffee, not by batteries, but gun by gun. warmed by this little meal, mere coffee without sugar or milk, but with a hunk left over from yesterday's bread and drawn stale from one's haversack (the armies of the republic and of napoleon often fought all day upon such sustenance, and even now, as you will see, the french do not really eat till a march is over--and this may be a great advantage in warfare)--warmed, i say, by this little meal, and very much refreshed by the sun and the increasing merriment of morning, we heard the first trumpet-call and then the shouted order to mount. we did not form one column again. we went off at intervals, by batteries; and the reason of this was soon clear, for on getting to a place where four roads met, some took one and some took another, the object being to split up the unwieldy train of thirty-six guns, with all their waggons and forges, into a number of smaller groups, marching by ways more or less parallel towards the same goal; and my battery was left separate, and went at last along a lane that ran through pasture land in a valley. the villages were already awake, and the mist was all but lifted from the meadows when we heard men singing in chorus in front of us some way off. these were the gunners that had left long before us and had gone on forward afoot. for in the french artillery it is a maxim (for all i know, common to all others--if other artilleries are wise) that you should weight your limber (and therefore your horses) with useful things alone; and as gunners are useful only to fire guns, they are not carried, save into action or when some great rapidity of movement is desired. i do, indeed, remember one case when it was thought necessary to send a group of batteries during the manoeuvres right over from the left to the right of a very long position which our division was occupying on the crest of the argonne. there was the greatest need for haste, and we packed the gunners on to the limber (there were no seats on the gun in the old type--there are now) and galloped all the way down the road, and put the guns in action with the horses still panting and exhausted by that extra weight carried at such a speed and for such a distance. but on the march, i say again, we send the gunners forward, and not only the gunners, but as you shall hear when we come to commercy, a reserve of drivers also. we send them forward an hour or two before the guns start; we catch them up with the guns on the road; they file up to let us pass, and commonly salute us by way of formality and ceremony. then they come into the town of the halt an hour or two after we have reached it. so here in this silent and delightful valley, through which ran a river, which may have been the meuse or may have been a tributary only, we caught up our gunners. their song ceased, they were lined up along the road, and not till we were passed were they given a little halt and repose. but when we had gone past with a huge clattering and dust, the bombardier of my piece, who was a very kindly man, a young farmer, and who happened to be riding abreast of my horses, pointed them out to me behind us at a turning in the road. they were taking that five minutes' rest which the french have borrowed from the germans, and which comes at the end of every hour on the march. they had thrown down their knapsacks and were lying flat taking their ease, i could not long look backwards, but a very little time after, when we had already gained nearly half a mile upon them, we again heard the noise of their singing, and knew that they had reshouldered their heavy packs. and this pack is the same in every unmounted branch of the service, and is the heaviest thing, i believe, that has been carried by infantry since the romans. it was not yet noon, and extremely hot for the time of year and for the coldness of the preceding night, when they halted us at a place where the road bent round in a curve and went down a little hollow. there we dismounted and cleaned things up a little before getting into the town, where we were to find what the french call an _étape_; that is, the town at which one halts at the end of one's march, and the word is also used for the length of a march itself. it is not in general orders to clean up in this way before coming in, and there were some commanders who were never more pleased than when they could bring their battery into town covered with dust and the horses steaming and the men haggard, for this they thought to be evidence of a workmanlike spirit. but our colonel had given very contrary orders, to the annoyance of our captain, a man risen from the ranks who loved the guns and hated finery. then we went at a walk, the two trumpets of the battery sounding the call which is known among french gunners as "the eighty hunters," because the words to it are, "_quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, quatre-vingt, chasseurs_," which words, by their metallic noise and monotony, exactly express the long call that announces the approach of guns. we went right through the town, the name of which is commercy, and the boys looked at us with pride, not knowing how hateful they would find the service when once they were in for its grind and hopelessness. but then, for that matter, i did not know myself with what great pleasure i should look back upon it ten years after. moreover, nobody knows beforehand whether he will like a thing or not; and there is the end of it. we formed a park in the principal place of the town; there were appointed two sentinels to do duty until the arrival of the gunners who should relieve them and mount a proper guard, and then we were marched off to be shown our various quarters. for before a french regiment arrives at a town others have ridden forward and have marked in chalk upon the doors how many men and how many horses are to be quartered here or there, and my quarters were in a great barn with a very high roof; but my ancient, upon whom i depended for advice, was quartered in a house, and i was therefore lonely. we groomed our horses, ate our great midday meal, and were free for a couple of hours to wander about the place. it is a garrison, and, at that time, it was full of cavalry, with whom we fraternised; but the experiment was a trifle dangerous, for there is always a risk of a quarrel when regiments meet as there is with two dogs, or two of any other kind of lively things. then came the evening, and very early, before it was dark, i was asleep in my clothes in some straw, very warm; but i was so lazy that i had not even taken off my belt or sword. and that was the end of the first day's marching. the sea-wall of the wash the town of wisbeach is very like the town of boston. it stands upon a river which is very narrow and which curves, and in which there rises and falls a most considerable tide, and which is bounded by slimy wooden sides. here, as at boston, the boats cannot turn round; if they come in frontways they have to go out backwards, like mevagissey bees: an awkward harbour. as i sat there in the white hart, waiting for steak and onions, i read in a book descriptive of the place that a whale had come to wisbeach once, and i considered that a whale coming up to wisbeach on a tide would certainly stay there; not indeed for the delights of the town (of which i say nothing), but because there would be no room to turn round; and a whale cannot swim backwards. the only fish that can swim backwards is an eel. this i have proved by observation, and i challenge any fisherman to deny it. so much for wisbeach, which stands upon the river nene or nen, which is the last of the towns defended by the old sea-wall--which is the third of the fen ports--the other two being boston and lynn, which is served by two lines of railway and which has two stations. very early next morning, and by one of these stations, another man and i took train to a bridge called sutton bridge, where one can cross the river nen, and where (according to the map) one can see both the sea-walls, the old and the new. it was my plan to walk along the shore of the wash right across the flats to lynn, and so at last perhaps comprehend the nature of this curious land. * * * * * when i got to sutton bridge i discovered it to be a monstrous thing of iron standing poised upon a huge pivot in mid-stream. it bore the railway and the road together. it was that kind of triumphant engineering which once you saw only in england, but which now you will see all over the world. it was designed to swing open on its central pivot to let boats go up the river nen, and then to come back exactly to its place with a clang; but when we got to it we found it neither one thing nor the other. it was twisted just so much that the two parts of the roads (the road on the bridge and the road on land) did not join. was a boat about to pass? no. why was it open thus? a man was cleaning it. the bridge is not as big as the tower bridge, but it is very big, and the man was cleaning it with a little rag. he was cleaning the under part, the mechanisms and contraptions that can only be got at when the bridge is thus ajar. he cleaned without haste and without exertion, and as i watched him i considered the mightiness of the works of man contrasted with his puny frame. i also asked him when i should pass, but he answered nothing. as we thus waited men gathered upon either side--men of all characters and kinds, men holding bicycles, men in carts, afoot, on horseback, vigorous men and feeble, old men, women also and little children, and youths witless of life, and innocent young girls; they gathered and increased, they became as numerous as leaves, they stretched out their hands in a desire for the further shore: but the river ran between. then, as being next the gate, i again called out: when might we pass? a fenland man who was on duty there doing nothing said, i could pass when the bridge was shut again. i said: when would that be? he said: could i not see that the man was cleaning the bridge? i said that, contrasting the bridge with him and his little rag, he might go on from now to the disestablishment of the english church before he had done; but as for me, i desired to cross, and so did all that multitude. without grace they shut the bridge for us, the gate opened of itself, and in a great clamorous flood, like an army released from a siege, we poured over, all of us, rejoicing into wringland; for so is called this flat, reclaimed land, which stands isolated between the nen and the ouse. * * * * * was i not right in saying when i wrote about ely that the corner of a corner of england is infinite, and can never be exhausted? along the cut which takes the nen out to sea, then across some level fields, and jumping a ditch or two, one gets to the straight, steep, and high dyke which protects the dry land and cuts off the plough from the sea marshes. when i had climbed it and looked out over endless flats to the sails under the brune of the horizon i understood the fens. * * * * * nowhere that i have been to in the world does the land fade into the sea so inconspicuously. the coasts of western england are like the death of a western man in battle--violent and heroic. the land dares all, and plunges into a noisy sea. this coast of eastern england is like the death of one of these eastern merchants here--lethargic, ill-contented, drugged with ease. the dry land slips, and wallows into a quiet, very shallow water, confused with a yellow thickness and brackish with the weight of inland water behind. i have heard of the great lakes, especially of the marshes at the mouth of the volga, in the caspian, where the two elements are for miles indistinguishable, and where no one can speak of a shore; but here the thing is more marvellous, because it is the true sea. you have, i say, the true sea, with great tides, and bearing ships, and seaports to which the ships can go; and on the other side you have, inhabited, an ancient land. there should be a demarcation between them, a tide mark or limit. there is nothing. you cannot say where one begins and the other ends. one does not understand the fens until one has seen that shore. the sand and the mud commingle. the mud takes on little tufts of salt grass barely growing under the harsh wind. the marsh is cut and wasted into little islands covered at every high tide, except, perhaps, the extreme of the neaps. down on that level, out from the dyke to the uncertain line of the water, you cannot walk a hundred yards without having to cross a channel more or less deep, a channel which the working of the muddy tides has scoured up into the silt and ooze of the sodden land. these channels are yards deep in slime, and they ramify like the twisted shoots of an old vine. were you to make a map of them as they engrave this desolate waste it would look like the fine tortuous cracks that show upon antique enamel, or the wandering of threads blown at random on a woman's work-table by the wind. there are miles and miles of it right up to the embankment, the great and old sea-wall, which protects the houses of men. you have but to eliminate that embankment to imagine what the whole countryside must have been like before it was raised, and the meaning of the fens becomes clear to you. the fens were long ago but the continuation inland of this sea-morass. the tide channels of the marsh were all of one kind, though they differed so much in size. some of these channels were small without name; some a little larger, and these had a local name; others were a little larger again, and worthy to be called rivers--the ouse, the nen, the welland, the glen, the witham. but, large or small, they were nothing, all of them, but the scouring of tide-channels in the light and sodden slime. it was the high tide that drowned all this land, the low tide that drained it; and wherever a patch could be found just above the influence of the tide or near enough to some main channel for the rush and swirl of the water to drain the island, there the villages grew. wherever such a patch could be found men built their first homes. sometimes, before men civic, came the holy hermits. but man, religious, or greedy, or just wandering, crept in after each inundation and began to tame the water and spread out even here his slow, interminable conquest. so wisbeach, so march, so boston grew, and so--the oldest of them all--the isle of ely. the nature of the country (a nature at which i had but guessed whenever before this i had wandered through it, and which i had puzzled at as i viewed its mere history) was quite clear, now that i stood upon the wall that fenced it in from the salt water. it was easy to see not only what judgments had been mistaken, but also in what way they had erred. one could see why and how the homelessness of the place had been exaggerated. one could see how the level was just above (not, as in holland, below) the mean of the tides. one could discover the manner in which communication from the open sea was possible. the deeps lead out through the sand; they are but continuations under water of that tide-scouring which is the note of all the place inland, and out, far out, we could see the continuation of the river-beds, and at their mouths far into the sea, the sails. a man sounding as he went before the north-east wind was led by force into the main channels. he was "shepherded" into lynn river or wisbeach river or boston river, according as he found the water shoaler to one side or other of his boat. so must have come the first saxon pirates from the mainland: so (hundreds of years later) came here our portion of that swarm of pagans, which all but destroyed europe; so centuries before either of them, in a time of which there is no record, the ignorant seafaring men from the east and the north must have come right up into our island, as the sea itself creeps right up into the land through these curious crevices and draughts in the fenland wall. men--at least the men of our race--have made everything for themselves; and they will never cease. they continue to extend and possess. it is not only the architecture; it is the very landscape of europe which has been made by europeans. in what way did we begin to form this difficult place, which is neither earth nor water, and in which we might have despaired? it was conquered by human artifice, of course, somewhat as frisia and the netherlands, and, as we may believe, the great bay of the cotentin were conquered; but it has certain special characters of its own, and these again are due to the value in this place of the tides, and to the absence of those natural dykes of sand which were, a thousand years ago, the beginnings of holland. * * * * * two methods, working side by side, have from the beginning of human habitation reclaimed the fens. the first has been the canalisation, the fencing in of the tideways; the second has been the banking out of the general sea. the spring tides covered much of this land, and when they retired left it drowned. against their universal advancing sheet of water a bank could be made. such a bank cut off the invasion of the hundreds of runnels, small and great, by which the more ordinary tides that could not cover the surface had yet crept into the soil and soaked it through. when such a bank had been built, gates, as it were, permitted the water to spend its force and also to use its ebb and flow for the draining of the land beyond. the gates which let the tide pour up and down the main ways became the new mouths of the main rivers; inland the courses of the rivers (which now took all the sea and thus became prodigious) were carefully guarded. even before trenches were dug to drain the fields around, earth was thrown up on either side of the rivers to confine them each to one permanent channel; nor did the level of the rivers rise, or their beds gets clogged; the strength of the tide sufficed for the deepening of their channels. into the rivers so fortified the other waterways of the fens were conducted. by these methods alone much of the land was rendered habitable and subject to the plough. probably these methods were enough to make it all it was in the middle ages. it was only far later, almost in our own time, that water was gathered by trenches in the lowland beneath the rivers and pumped out artificially with mills; nor is it quite certain even now that this method (borrowed from holland) is the best; for the land, as i have said, is above and not below the sea. of these words, whose tradition is immemorial, the greatest, of course, are the sea-walls. perhaps the river-walls came first, but the great bank which limited and protected the land against the sea is also older than any history. it is called roman, and relics of rome have been found in it, but it has not the characteristic of roman work. it runs upon no regular lines; its contour is curved and variable. it is surely far older than the roman occupation. earth, heaped and beaten hard, is the most enduring of things; the tumuli all over england have outlasted even the monoliths, and the great defensive mounds at norwich and at oxford are stronger and clearer cut than anything that the middle ages have left. this bank, which first made fenland, still stands most conspicuous. you may follow it from the nene above sutton bridge right over to lynn river, and again northward from sutton bridge (or rather, from the ferry above it) right round _outside_ long sutton and holbeach, and by forsdyke bridge and _outside_ swyneshead; everywhere it encloses and protects the old parishes, and everywhere seaward of it the names of the fields mark the newest of endeavours. * * * * * we returned from a long wandering upon the desolate edges of the sea to the bank which we proposed to follow right round to the mouth of the ouse: a bank that runs not straight, but in great broken lines, as in old-fashioned fortification, and from which far off upon the right one sees the famous churches of the wringland, far off upon the left a hint beyond the marshes and the sands of the very distant open sea. a gale had risen with the morning, and while it invigorated the travellers in these wastes it seemed to increase their loneliness, for it broke upon nothing, and it removed the interest of the eye from the monotonous sad land to the charge and change of the torn sky above, but in a sense also it impelled us, as though we were sailing before it as it swept along the edge of the bank and helped us to forget the interminable hours. the birds for whom this estuary is a kind of sanctuary and a place of secure food in all weathers, the birds swept out in great flocks over the flats towards the sea. they were the only companionship afforded to us upon this long day, and they had, or i fancied they had, in their demeanour a kind of contempt for the rare human beings they might see, as though knowing how little man could do upon those sands. they fed all together upon the edge of the water, upon the edge of the falling tide, very far off, making long bands of white that mixed with the tiny breaking wavelets. now and then they rose in bodies, and so rising disappeared; but as they would turn and wheel against the wind, seeking some other ground, they sent from moment to moment flashes of delicate and rare light from the great multitude of their wings. i know of nothing to which one may compare these glimpses of evanescent shining but these two things--the flash of a sword edge and the rapid turning in human hands of a diaphanous veil held in the light. it shone or glinted for a moment, then they would all wheel together and it disappeared. so, watching them as a kind of marvel, we saw distant across the sea a faint blue tower, and recognised it for boston stump, so many, many miles away. but for the birds and this landmark, which never left us, all the length of the dyke was empty of any sight save the mixing of the sea and the land. then gradually the heights in norfolk beyond grew clearer, a further shore narrowed the expanse of waters, and we came to the river mouth of the ouse, and caught sight, up the stream, of the houses of a town. the cerdagne there is a part of europe of which for the moment most people have not heard, but which in a few years everybody will know; so it is well worth telling before it is changed what it is like to-day. it is called the cerdagne. it is a very broad valley, stretching out between hills whose height is so incredible--or at least, whose appearance of height is so incredible--that when they are properly painted no one will believe them to be true. indeed, i know a man who painted them just as they are, and those who saw the picture said it was fantastic and out of nature, like turner's drawings. but those who had been with him and had seen the place, said that somehow he had just missed the effect of height. it is remarkable that in any country, even if one does not know that country well, what is unusual to the country strikes the traveller at once. and so it is with the cerdagne. for all the valleys of the pyrenees except this one are built upon the same plan. they are deep gorges, narrowing in two places to gates or profound corridors, one of these places being near the crest and one near the plain; and down these valleys fall violent torrents, and in them there is only room for tiny villages or very little towns, squeezed in between the sheer surfaces of the rock or the steep forests. so it is with the valley of laruns, and with that of meuléon, and with that of luz, and with those of the two bagnères, and with the val d'aran, and with the val d'esera, and with the very famous valley of andorra. with valleys so made the mountains are indeed more awful than they might be in the alps: but you never see them standing out and apart, and the mastering elevation of the pyrenees is not apprehended until you come to the cirque or hollow at the end of each valley just underneath the main ridge; by that time you have climbed so far that you have halved the height of the barrier. but the cerdagne, unlike all the other valleys, is as broad as half a county, and is full of towns and fields and men and mules and slow rivulets and corn; so, standing upon either side and looking to the other, you see all together and in the large its mountain boundaries. it is like the sight of the grampians from beyond strathmore, but very much more grand. moreover, as no one has written sufficiently about it to prepare the traveller for what he is to see (and in attempting to do so here i am probably doing wrong, but a man must write down what he has seen), the cerdagne breaks upon him quite unexpectedly, and his descent into that wealthy plain is the entry into a new world. he may have learnt the mountains by heart, as we had, in many stumbling marches and many nights slept out beneath the trees, and many crossings of the main chain by those precipitous cols which make the ridge of the pyrenees more like a paling than a mountain crest, but though he should know them thoroughly all the way from the atlantic for two hundred miles, the cerdagne will only appear to him the more astonishing. it renews in any man however familiar he may be with great mountains, the impressions of that day when he first saw the distant summits and thought them to be clouds. apart from all this, the cerdagne is full of a lively interest, because it preserves far better than any other pyrenean valley those two pyrenean things--the memory of european history and the intense local spirit of the vals. the memory of european history is to be seen in the odd tricks which the frontier plays. it was laid down by the commissioners of mazarin two hundred and fifty years ago, and instead of following the watershed (which would leave the cerdagne all spanish politically as it is catalan by language and position) it crosses the valley from one side to another, leaving the top end of it and the sources of its rivers under french control. that endless debate as to whether race or government will most affect a people can here be tested, though hardly decided. the villages are spanish, the hour of meals is spanish, and the wine is spanish wine. but the clocks keep time, and the streets are swept, and, oddest of all, the cooking is french cooking. the people are spanish in that they are slow to serve you or to find you a mount or to show you the way, but they are french in that they are punctual in the hour at which they have promised to do these things; and they are spanish in the shapes of their ricks and the nature of their implements, but french in the aspect of their fields. one might also discuss--it would be most profitable of all--where they are spanish and where they are french in their observance of religion. this freak which the frontier plays in cutting so united a countryside into two by an imaginary line is further emphasised by an island of spanish territory which has been left stranded, as it were, in the midst of the valley. it is called llivia, and is about as large as a large english country parish, with a small country town in the middle. one comes across the fields from villages where the signs and villagers and the very look of the surface of the road are french; one suddenly notices spanish soldiers, spanish signs, and spanish prices in the streets of the little place; one leaves it, and in five minutes one is in france again. it is connected with its own country by a neutral road, but it is an island of territory all the same, and the reason that it was so left isolated is very typical of the old regime, with its solemn legal pedantry, which we in england alone preserve in all western europe. for the treaty which marked the limits here ceded to the french "the valley and all its villages." the spaniards pleaded that llivia was not a village but a town, and their plea was admitted. i began by saying that this wide basin of land, with its strong people and its isolated traditions, though it was so little known to-day, would soon be too well known. so it will be, and the reason is this, that the very low pass at one end of it will soon be crossed by a railway. it is the only low pass in the pyrenees, and it is so gradual and even (upon the spanish side) that the railway will everywhere be above ground. within perhaps five years it will be for the pyrenees what the brenner is for the alps, and when that is done any one who has read this may go and see for himself whether it is not true that from that plain at evening the frontier ridge of andorra seems to be the highest thing in the world. carcassonne carcassonne differs from other monumental towns in this: that it preserves exactly the aspect of many centuries up to a certain moment, and from that moment has "set," and has suffered no further change. you see and touch, as you walk along its ramparts, all the generations from that crisis in the fifth century when the public power was finally despaired of--and after which each group of the western empire began to see to its own preservation--down to that last achievement of the thirteenth, when medieval civilisation had reached its full flower and was ready for the decline that followed the death of st. louis and the extinction of the german phantasy of empire. no other town can present so vivid and clean-cut a fossil of the seven hundred years into which poured and melted all the dissolution of antiquity, and out of which was formed or chrystallised the highly specialised diversity of our modern europe. in the fascination of extreme age many english sites are richer; winchester and canterbury may be quoted from among a hundred. in the superimposition of age upon age of human history, arles and rome are far more surprising. in historic continuity most european towns surpass it, from paris, whose public justice, worship, and market have kept to the same site for quite sixteen centuries, to london, of which the city at least preserves upon three sides the roman limit. but no town can of its nature give as does carcassonne this overwhelming impression of survival or resurrection. * * * * * the attitude and position of carcassonne enforce its character. up above the river, but a little set back from the valley, right against the dawn as you come to it from toulouse through the morning, stands a long, steep, and isolated rock, the whole summit of which from the sharp cliff on the north to that other on the south is doubled in height by what seems one vast wall--and more than twenty towers. indeed, it is at such a time, in early morning, and best in winter when the frost defines and chisels every outline, that carcassonne should be drawn. you then see it in a band of dark blue-grey, all even in texture, serrated and battlemented and towered, with the metallic shining of the dawn behind it. so to have seen it makes it very difficult to write of it or even to paint; what one wishes to do is rather to work it out in enamel upon a surface of bronze. this rock, wholly covered with the works of the city, stands looking at the pyrenees and holding the only level valley between the mediterranean and the garonne, and even if one had read nothing concerning it one would understand why it has filled all the legends of the return of armies from spain, why victor hugo could not rest from the memory of it, and why it is so strongly woven in with the story of charlemagne. there is another and better reason for the quality of carcassonne, and that is the act, to which i can recall no perfect parallel in christian history, by which st. louis turned what had been a living town into a mere stronghold. every inhabitant of carcassonne was transferred, not to suburbs, but right beyond the river, a mile and more away, to the site of that delightful town which is the carcassonne of maps and railways, the place where the seventeenth century meets you in graceful ornaments, and where is, to my certain knowledge, the best inn south of parallel . st. louis turned the rock into a mere stronghold, strengthened it, built new towers, and curtained them into that unsurpassable masonry of the central middle ages which you may yet admire in aigues-mortes and in carnarvon. this political act, the removal of a whole city, may have been accomplished in many other places; it is certainly recorded of many: but, for the moment at least, i can remember none except carcassonne in which its consequences have remained. to this many causes have contributed, but chiefly this, that the new town was transferred to the open plain from the trammels of a narrow plateau, just at the moment when all the towns of western europe were growing and breaking their bonds; just after the principal cities of north-western europe had got their charters, and when paris (the typical municipality of that age as of our own) was trebling its area and its population. the transference of the population once accomplished, the rock and towers of carcassonne ceased to change and to grow. humanity was gone. the fortress was still of great value in war; the black prince attempted its destruction, and it is only within living memory that it ceased to be set down on maps (and in government offices!) as a fortified place: but the necessity for immediate defence, and the labour which would have remodelled it, had disappeared. there had disappeared also that eager and destructive activity which accompanies any permanent gathering of french families. the new town on the plain changed perpetually, and is changing still. it has lost almost everything of the middle ages; it carries, by a sort of momentum, a flavour of louis xiv, but the masons are at it as they are everywhere, from the channel to the mediterranean; for to pull down and rebuild is the permanent recreation of the french. the rock remains. it is put in order whenever a stone falls out of place--no one of weight has talked nonsense here against restoration, for the sense of the past is too strong--but though it is minutely and continually repaired, old carcassonne does not change. there is no other set of walls in europe of which this is true. * * * * * walking round the circuit of these walls and watching from their height the long line of the mountains, one is first held by that modern subject, the landscape, or that still more modern fascination of great hills. next one feels what the middle ages designed of mass and weight and height, and wonders by what accident of the mind they so succeeded in suggesting infinity: one remembers beauvais, which is infinitely high at evening, and the tower of portrut, which seems bigger than any hill. but when these commoner emotions are passed, one comes upon a very different thing. a little tower there, jutting out perilously from the wall, shows three courses of a _small red brick_ set in a mortar-like stone. when i saw this kind of building i went close up and touched it with my hand. it was roman. i knew the signal well. i had seen that brick, and picked it loose from an arab stable on the edge of the sahara, and i had seen it jutting through moss on the high moors of northumberland. i know a man who reverently brought home to sussex such another, which he had found unbroken far beyond damascus upon the syrian sand. it is easy to speak of the empire and to say that it established its order from the tyne to the euphrates; but when one has travelled alone and on foot up and down the world and seen its vastness and its complexity, and yet everywhere the unity even of bricks in their courses, then one begins to understand the name of rome. lynn every man that lands in lynn feels all through him the antiquity and the call of the town; but especially if he comes, as i came in with another man in springtime, from the miles and miles of emptiness and miles of bending grass and the shouting of the wind. after that morning, in which one had been a little point on an immense plane, with the gale not only above one, as it commonly is, but all around one as it is at sea; and after having steeped one's mind in the peculiar loneliness which haunts a stretch of ill-defined and wasted shore, the narrow, varied, and unordered streets of the port enhance the creations of man and emphasise his presence. words so few are necessarily obscure. let me expand them. i mean that the unexpected turning of the ways in such a port is perpetually revealing something new; that the little spaces frame, as it were, each unexpected sight: thus at the end of a street one will catch a patch of the fens beyond the river, a great moving sail, a cloud, or the sculptured corner of an excellent house. the same history also that permitted continual encroachment upon the public thoroughfares and that built up a gradual high street upon the line of some cow-track leading from the fields to the ferry, the spirit that everywhere permitted the powerful or the cunning to withstand authority--that history (which is the history of all our little english towns) has endowed lynn with an endless diversity. it is not only that the separate things in such towns are delightful, nor only that one comes upon them suddenly, but also that these separate things are so many. they have characters as men have. there is nothing of that repetition which must accompany the love of order and the presence of strong laws. the similar insistent forms which go with a strong civilisation, as they give it majesty, so they give it also gloom, and a heavy feeling of finality: these are quite lacking here in england, where the poor have for so long submitted to the domination of the rich, and the rich have dreaded and refused a central government. everything that goes with the power of individuals has added peculiarity and meaning to all the stones of lynn. moreover, a quality whose absence all men now deplore was once higher in england than anywhere else, save, perhaps, in the northern italian hills. i mean ownership, and what comes from ownership--the love of home. you can see the past effect of ownership and individuality in lynn as clearly as you can catch affection or menace in a human voice. the outward expression is most manifest, and to pass in and out along the lanes in front of the old houses inspires in one precisely those emotions which are aroused by a human crowd. all the roofs of lynn and all its pavements are worthy (as though they were living beings) of individual names. along the river shore, from the race of the ebb that had so nearly drowned me many years before, i watched the walls that mark the edge of the town against the ouse, and especially that group towards which the ferry-boat was struggling against the eddy and tumble of the tide. they were walls of every age, not high, brick of a dozen harmonious tones, with the accidents, corners, and breaches of perhaps seven hundred years. beyond, to the left, down the river, stood the masts in the new docks that were built to preserve the trade of this difficult port. up-river, great new works of i know not what kind stood like a bastion against the plain; and in between ran these oldest bits of lynn, somnolescent and refreshing--permanent. the lanes up from the ouse when i landed i found to be of a slow and natural growth, with that slight bend to them that comes, i believe, from the drying of fishing-nets. for it is said that courts of this kind grew up in our sea-towns all round our eastern and the southern coast in such a manner. it happened thus. the town would begin upon the highest of the bank, for it was flatter for building, drier and easier to defend than that part next to the water. down from the town to the shore the fishermen would lay out their nets to dry. how nets look when they are so laid, their narrowness and the curve they take, everybody knows. then on the spaces between the nets shanties would be built, or old boats turned upside down for shelter, so that the curing of fish and the boiling of tar and the serving and parcelling of ropes could be done under cover. then as the number of people grew, the squatters' land got value, and houses were raised (you will find many small freeholds in such rows to this day), but the lines of the net remained in the alley-ways between the houses. all this i was once told by an old man who helped me to take my boat down breydon. he wore trousers of a brick red, and the stuff of them as thick as boards, and had on also a very thick jersey and a cap of fur. he was shaved upon his lips and chin, but all round the rest of his face was a beard. he smoked a tiny pipe, quite black, and upon matters within his own experience he was a great liar; but upon matters of tradition i was willing to believe him. within the town, when i had gained it from that lane which has been the ferry-lane, i suppose, since the ferry began, age and distinction were everywhere. where else, thought i, in england could you say that nine years would make no change? whether, indeed, the globe had that same wine of the nineties i could not tell, for the hour was not congenial to wine; but if it has some store of its burgundy left from those days it must be better still by now, for burgundy wine takes nine years to mature, for nine years remains in the plenitude of its powers, and for nine years more declines into an honourable age; and this is also true of claret, but in claret it goes by sevens. * * * * * the open square of the town, which one looks at from the globe, gives one a mingled pleasure of reminiscence and discovery. it breaks on one abruptly. it is as wide as the pasture field, and all the houses are ample and largely founded. indeed, throughout this country, elbow-room--the sense that there is space enough and to spare in such flats and under an open sky--has filled the minds of builders. you may see it in all the inland towns of the fens; and one found it again here upon the further bank, upon the edge of the fens; for though lynn is just off the fens, yet it looks upon their horizon and their sky, and belongs to them in spirit. in this large and comfortable square a very steadfast and most considerable english bank is to be discovered. it is of honest brown brick! its architecture is of the plainest; its appearance is such that its credit could never fail, and that the house alone by its presence could conduct a dignified business for ever. the rooms in it are so many and so great that the owners of such a bank (having become princes by its success) could inhabit them with a majesty worthy of their new title. but who lives above his shop since richardson died? and did old richardson? lord knows!... anyhow, the bank is glorious, and it is but one of the fifty houses that i saw in lynn. thus, in the same street as the globe, was a façade of stone. if it was georgian, it was very early georgian, for it was relieved with ornaments of a delicate and accurate sort, and the proportions were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked on it. the stone also was of that kind (portland stone, i think) which goes black and white with age, and which is better suited than any other to the english climate. in another house near the church i saw a roof that might have been a roof for a town. it covered the living part and the stables, and the outhouse and the brewhouse, and the barns, and for all i know the pig-pens and the pigeons' as well. it was a benediction of a roof--a roof traditional, a roof patriarchal, a roof customary, a roof of permanence and unity, a roof that physically sheltered and spiritually sustained, a roof majestic, a roof eternal. in a word, it was a roof catholic. and what, thought i, is paid yearly in this town for such a roof as that? i do not know; but i know of another roof at goudhurst, in kent, which would have cost me less than £ a year, only i could not get it for love or money. then is also in lynn a custom house not very english, but very beautiful. the faces carved upon it were so vivid that i could not but believe them to have been carved in the netherlands, and from this custom house looks down the pinched, unhappy face of that narrow gentleman whom the great families destroyed--james ii. there is also in lynn what i did not know was to be seen out of sussex--a tudor building of chipped flints, and on it the mouldering arms of elizabeth. the last gothic of this bishop's borough which the king seized from the church clings to chance houses in little carven masks and occasional ogives: there is everywhere a feast for whatever in the mind is curious, searching, and reverent, and over the town, as over all the failing ports of our silting eastern seaboard, hangs the air of a great past time, the influence of the baltic and the lowlands. * * * * * for these ancient places do not change, they permit themselves to stand apart and to repose and--by paying that price--almost alone of all things in england they preserve some historic continuity, and satisfy the memories in one's blood. * * * * * so having come round to the ouse again, and to the edge of the fens at lynn, i went off at random whither next it pleased me to go. the guns i had slept perhaps seven hours when a lantern woke me, flashed in my face, and i wondered confusedly why there was straw in my bed; then i remembered that i was not in bed at all, but on manoeuvres. i looked up and saw a sergeant with a bit of paper in his hand. he was giving out orders, and the little light he carried sparkled on the gold of his great dark-blue coat. "you, the englishman," he said (for that was what they called me as a nickname), "go with the gunners to-day. where is labbé?" labbé (that man by profession a cook, by inclination a marquis, and now by destiny a very good driver of guns) the day before had gone on foot. to-day he was to ride. i pointed him out where he still lay sleeping. the sergeant stirred him about with his foot, and said, "pacte and basilique"; and labbé grunted. in this simple way every one knew his duty--labbé that he had another hour's sleep and more, and that he was to take my horses: i, that i must rise and get off to the square. then the sergeant went out of the barn, cursing the straw on his spurs, and i lit a match and brushed down my clothes and ran off to the square. it was not yet two in the morning. the gunners were drawn up in a double line, and we reserve drivers stood separate (there were only a dozen of us), and when they formed fours we were at the tail. there was a lieutenant with us and a sergeant, also two bombardiers--all mounted; and so we went off, keeping step till we were out of the town, and then marching as we chose and thanking god for the change. for it is no easy matter for drivers to march with gunners; their swords impede them, and though the french drivers have not the ridiculous top-boots that theatricalise other armies, yet even their simple boots are not well suited for the road. this custom of sending forward reserve drivers on foot, in rotation, has a fine name to it. it is called "haut-le-pied," "high-the-foot," and must therefore be old. a little way out of the town we had leave to sing, and we began, all together, one of those long and charming songs with which the french soldiery make-believe to forget the tedium of the road and the hardship of arms. now, if a man desired to answer once and for all those pedants who refuse to understand the nature of military training (both those who make a silly theatre-show of it and those who make it hideous and diabolical), there could be no better way than to let him hear the songs of soldiers. in the french service, at least, these songs are a whole expression of the barrack-room; its extreme coarseness, its steady and perpetual humour, its hatred of the hard conditions of discipline; and also these songs continually portray the distant but delightful picture of things--i mean of things rare and far off--which must lie at the back of men's minds when they have much work to do with their hands and much living in the open air and no women to pour out their wine. moreover, these songs have another excellent quality. they show all through that splendid unconsciousness of the soldier, that inability in him to see himself from without, or to pose as civilians always think and say he poses. we sang that morning first, the chief and oldest of the songs. it dates from the flemish wars of louis xiv, and is called "auprès de ma blonde." every one knows the tune. then we sang "the song of the miller," and then many other songs, each longer than the last. for these songs, like other lyrics, have it for an object to string out as many verses as possible in order to kill the endless straight roads and the weariness. we had need to sing. no sun rose, but the day broke over an ugly plain with hardly any trees, and that grey and wretched dawn came in with a cold and dispiriting rain unrefreshed by wind. colson, who was a foolish little man (the son of a squire), marching by my side, wondered where and how we should be dried that day. the army was for ever producing problems for colson, and i was often his comforter. he liked to talk to me and hear about england, and the rich people and their security, and how they never served as soldiers (from luxury), and how (what he could not understand) the poor had a bargain struck with them by the rich whereby they also need not serve. i could learn from him the meaning of many french words which i did not yet know. he had some little education; had i asked the more ignorant men of my battery, they would only have laughed, but he had read, in common books, of the differences between nations, and could explain many things to me. colson, then, complaining of the rain, and wondering where he should get dried, i told him to consider not so much the happy english, but rather his poor scabbard and how he should clean it after the march, and his poor clothes, all coated with mud, and needing an hour's brushing, and his poor temper, which, if he did not take great care, would make him grow up to be an anti-militarist and a byword. so we wrangled, and it still rained. our songs grew rarer, and there was at last no noise but the slush of all those feet beating the muddy road, and the occasional clank of metal as a scabbard touched some other steel, or a slung carbine struck the hilt of a bayonet. it was well on in the morning when the guns caught us up and passed us; the drivers all shrouded in their coats and bending forward in the rain; the guns coated and splashed with thick mud, and the horses also threatened hours of grooming. i looked mine up and down as labbé passed on them, and i groaned, for it is a rule that a man grooms his own horses whether he has ridden them or no, and after all, day in and day out, it works fair. the guns disappeared into the mist of rain, and we went on through more hours of miserable tramping, seeing no spire ahead of us, and unable to count on a long halt. still, as we went, i noticed that we were on some great division, between provinces perhaps, or between river valleys, for in france there are many bare upland plateaus dividing separate districts; and it is a feature of the country that the districts so divided have either formed separate provinces in the past or, at any rate (even if they have not had political recognition), have stood, and do still stand, for separate units in french society. it was more apparent with every mile as we went on that we were approaching new things. the plain was naked save for rare planted trees, and here and there, a long way off (on the horizon, it seemed) a farm or two, unprotected and alone. the rain ceased, and the steady grey sky broke a little as we marched on, still in silence, and by this time thirsty and a little dazed. a ravine opened in a bare plateau, and we saw that it held a little village. they led us into it, down a short steep bit of road, and lined us up by a great basin of sparkling water, and every man was mad to break ranks and drink; but no one dared. the children of the village gathered in a little group and looked at us, and we envied their freedom. when we had stood thus for a quarter of an hour or so, an orderly came riding in all splashed, and his horse's coat rough with the rain and steaming up into the air. he came up to the lieutenant in command and delivered an order; then he rode away fast northward along the ravine and out of the village. the lieutenant, when he had gone, formed us into a little column, and we, who had expected to dismiss at any moment, were full of anger, and were sullen to find that by some wretched order or other we had to take another hour of the road: first we had to go back four miles along the road we had already come, and then to branch off perpendicular to our general line of march, and (as it seemed to us) quite out of our way. it is a difficult thing to move a great mass of men through a desolate country by small units and leave them dependent on the country, and it is rather wonderful that they do it so neatly and effect the junctions so well; but the private soldier, who stands for those little black blocks on the military map, has a boy's impatience in him; and a very wise man, if he wishes to keep an army in spirit, will avoid counter-marching as much as he can, for--i cannot tell why--nothing takes the heart out of a man like having to plod over again the very way he has just come. so, when we had come to a very small village in the waste and halted there, finding our guns and drivers already long arrived, we made an end of a dull and meaningless day--very difficult to tell of, because the story is merely a record of fatigue. but in a diary of route everything must be set down faithfully; and so i have set down all this sodden and empty day. that night i sat at a peasant's table and heard my four stable-companions understanding everything, and evidently in their world and at home, although they were conscripts. this turned me silent, and i sat away from the light, looking at the fire and drying myself by its logs. as i heard their laughter i remembered sussex and the woods above arun, and i felt myself to be in exile. then we slept in beds, and the goodwife had our tunics dry by morning, for she also had a son in the service, who was a long way off at lyons, and was not to return for two years. * * * * * there are days in a long march when a man is made to do too much, and others when he is made to do what seems meaningless, doubling backward on his road, as we had done; there are days when he seems to advance very little; but they are not days of repose, for they are full of halting and doubts and special bits of work. such a day had come to us with the next dawn. the reason of all these things--i mean, of the over-long marches, of the counter-marches, and of the short days--was the complexity of the only plan by which a great number of men and guns can be taken from one large place to another without confusion by the way--living, as they must do, upon the country, and finding at the end of every march water and hay for the horses, food and some kind of shelter for the men. and this plan, as i have said before, consists (in a european country) in dividing your force, marching by roads more or less parallel, and converging, after some days, on the object of the march. it is evident that in a somewhat desolate region of small and distant hamlets the front will be broader and the columns smaller, but when a large town stands in the line of march, advantage will be taken of it to mass one's men. such a town was bar-le-duc, and it was because our battery was so near to it that this fourth day was a short march of less than eight miles. they sent the gunners in early; we drivers started later than usual, and the pace was smart at first under a happy morning sun, but still around us were the bare fields, all but treeless, and the road was part of the plain, not divided by hedges. the bombardier trotted by my side and told me of the glories of rheims, which was his native town. he was a mild man, genial and good, and little apt for promotion. he interlarded his conversation with official remarks to show a zeal he never felt, telling one man that his tracks were slack, and another that his led-horse was shirking, and after each official remark he returned up abeam of me to tell me more of the riches and splendour of rheims. he chose me out for this favour because i already knew the countryside of the upper champagne, and had twice seen his city. he promised me that when we got our first leave from camp he would show me many sights in the town; but this he said hoping that i would pay for the entertainment, as indeed i did. we did not halt, nor did we pass the gunners that morning; but when we had gone about four miles or so the road began to descend through a wide gully, and we saw before us the secluded and fruitful valley of the meuse. it is here of an even width for miles, bounded by regular low hills. we were coming down the eastern wall of that valley, and on the parallel western side a similar height, with similar ravines and gullies leading down to the river, bounded our narrow view. i caught the distant sound of trumpets up there beyond us, and nearer was the unmistakable rumble of the guns. the clatter of horses below in the valley road and the shouting of commands were the signs that the regiment was meeting. the road turned. on a kind of platform, just before it joined the main highway, a few feet above it, we halted to wait our order--and we saw the guns go by! only half the regiment was to halt at bar-le-duc. but six batteries, thirty-six guns, their men, horses, apparatus, forges, and waggons occupying and advancing in streams over a valley are a wonderful sight. clouds of dust and the noise of the metal woke the silent places of the meuse, and sometimes river birds would rise and wheel in the air as the clamour neared them. far off a lonely battery was coming down the western slope to join the throng in its order, and for some reason their two trumpets were still playing the march and lending to this great display the unity of music. we dismounted and watched from the turf of the roadside a pageant which the accident of an ordered and servile life afforded us; for it is true of armies that the compensation of their drudgery and miserable subjection is the continual opportunity of these large emotions; and not only by their vastness and arrangement, but by the very fact that they merge us into themselves, do armies widen the spirit of a man and give it communion with the majesty of great numbers. one becomes a part of many men. the seventh battery, with which we had little to do (for in quarters they belonged to the furthest corner from our own), first came by and passed us, with that interminable repetition of similar things which is the note of a force on the march, and makes it seem like a river flowing. we recognised it by the figure of one chevalier, a major attached to them. he was an absent-minded man of whom many stories were told--kindly, with a round face; and he wore eyeglasses, either for the distinction they afforded or because he was short of sight. the seventh passed us, and their forge and waggon ended the long train. a regulation space between them and the next allowed the dust to lie a little, and then the ninth came by; we knew them well, because in quarters they were our neighbours. at their head was their captain, whose name was levy. he was a jew, small, very sharp-featured, and a man who worked astonishingly hard. he was very popular with his men, and his battery was happy and boasted. he cared especially for their food, and would go into their kitchen daily to taste the soup. he was also a silent man. he sat his horse badly, bent and crouched, but his eyes were very keen; and he again was a character of whom the men talked and told stories. i believe he was something of a mathematician; but we knew little of such things where our superiors were concerned. as the ninth battery passed us we were given the order to mount, and knew that our place came next. the long-drawn _ha-a-lte!_ and the lifted swords down the road contained for a while the batteries that were to follow, and we filed out of our side road into the long gap they had left us. then, taking up the trot, ourselves, we heard the order passing down infinitely till it was lost in the length of the road; the trumpets galloped past us and formed at the head of the column; a much more triumphant noise of brass than we had yet heard heralded us with a kind of insolence, and the whole train with its two miles and more of noisy power gloried into the old town of bar-le-duc, to the great joy of its young men and women at the windows, to the annoyance of the householders, to the stupefaction of the old, and doubtless to the ultimate advantage of the republic. when we had formed park in the grey market-square, ridden our horses off to water at the river and to their quarters, cleaned kit and harness, and at last were free--that is, when it was already evening--matthieu, a friend of mine who had come by another road with his battery, met me strolling on the bridge. matthieu was of my kind, he had such a lineage as i had and such an education. we were glad to meet. he told me of his last halting-place--pagny--hidden on the upper river. it is the place where the houses of luxembourg were buried, and some also of the great men who fell when henry v of england was fighting in the north, and when on this flank the eastern dukes were waging the burgundian wars. it was not the first time that the tumult of men in arms had made echoes along the valley. matthieu and i went off together to dine. he lent me a pin of his, a pin with a worked head, to pin my tunic with where it was torn, and he begged me to give it back to him. but i have it still, for i have never seen him since; nor shall i see him, nor he me, till the great day. the looe stream of the complexity of the sea, and of how it is manifold, and of how it mixes up with a man, and may broaden or perfect him, it would be very tempting to write; but if one once began on this, one would be immeshed and drowned in the metaphysic, which never yet did good to man nor beast. for no one can eat or drink the metaphysic, or take any sustenance out of it, and it has no movement or colour, and it does not give one joy or sorrow; one cannot paint it or hear it, and it is too thin to swim about in. leaving, then, all these general things, though they haunt me and tempt me, at least i can deal little by little and picture by picture with that sea which is perpetually in my mind, and let those who will draw what philosophies they choose. and the first thing i would like to describe is that of a place called the looe stream, through which in a boat only the other day i sailed for the first time, noticing many things. when st. wilfrid went through those bare heaths and coppices, which were called the forest of anderida, and which lay all along under the surrey downs, and through which there was a long, deserted roman road, and on this road a number of little brutish farms and settlements (for this was twelve hundred years ago), he came out into the open under the south downs, and crossed my hills and came to the sea plain, and there he found a kind of englishman more savage than the rest, though heaven knows there were none of them particularly refined or gay. from these englishmen the noble people of sussex are descended. already the rest of england had been christian a hundred years when st. wilfrid came down into the sea plain, and found, to his astonishment, this sparse and ignorant tribe. they were living in the ruins of the roman palaces; they were too stupid to be able to use any one of the roman things they had destroyed. they had kept, perhaps, some few of the roman women, certainly all the roman slaves. they had, therefore, vague memories of how the romans tilled the land. but those memories were getting worse and worse, for it was nearly two hundred years since the ships of aella had sailed into shoreham (which showed him to be a man of immense determination, for it is a most difficult harbour, and there were then no piers and lights)--it was nearly two hundred years, and there was only the least little glimmering twilight left of the old day. these barbarians were going utterly to pieces, as barbarians ever will when they are cut off from the life and splendour of the south. they had become so cretinous and idiotic, that when st. wilfrid came wandering among them they did not know how to get food. there was a famine, and as their miserable religion, such as it was (probably it was very like these little twopenny-halfpenny modern heresies of their cousins, the german pessimists)--their religion, i say, not giving them the jolly energy which all decent western religion gives a man, they being also by the wrath of god deprived of the use of wine (though tuns upon tuns of it were waiting for them over the sea a little way off, but probably they thought their horizon was the end of the world)--their religion, i say, being of this nature, they had determined, under the pressure of that famine which drove them so hard, to put an end to themselves, and st. wilfrid saw them tying themselves together in bands (which shows that they knew at least how to make rope) and jumping off the cliffs into the sea. this practice he determined to oppose. he went to their king--who lived in chichester, i suppose, or possibly at bramber--and asked him why the people were going on in this fashion, who said to him: "it is because of the famine." st. wilfrid, shrugging his shoulders, said: "why do they not eat fish?" "because," said the king, "fish, swimming about in the water, are almost impossible to catch. we have tried it in our hunger a hundred times, but even when we had the good luck to grasp one of them, the slippery thing would glide from our fingers." st. wilfrid then in some contempt said again: "why do you not make nets?" and he explained the use of nets to the whole court, preaching, as it were, a sermon upon nets to them, and craftily introducing st. peter and that great net which they hang outside his tomb in rome upon his feast day--which is the th of june. the king and his court made a net and threw it into the sea, and brought out a great mass of fish. they were so pleased that they told st. wilfrid they would do anything he asked. he baptised them and they made him their first bishop; and he took up his residence in selsey, and since then the people of sussex have gone steadily forward, increasing in every good thing, until they are now by far the first and most noble of all the people in the world. there is i know not what in history, or in the way in which it is taught, which makes people imagine that it is something separate from the life they are living, and because of this modern error, you may very well be wondering what on earth this true story of the foundation of our country has to do with the looe stream. it has everything to do with it. the sea, being governed by a pagan god, made war at once, and began eating up all those fields which had specially been consecrated to the church, civilisation, common sense, and human happiness. it is still doing so, and i know an old man who can remember a forty-acre field all along by clymping having been eaten up by the sea; and out along past rustington there is, about a quarter of a mile from the shore, a rock, called the church rock, the remains of a church which quite a little time ago people used for all the ordinary purposes of a church. the sea then began to eat up selsey. before the conquest--though i cannot remember exactly when--the whole town had gone, and they had to remove the cathedral to chichester. in henry viii's time there was still a park left out of the old estates, a park with trees in it; but this also the sea has eaten up; and here it is that i come to the looe stream. the looe stream is a little dell that used to run through the park, and which to-day,--right out at sea, furnishes the only gate by which ships can pass through the great maze of banks and rocks which go right out to sea from selsey bill, miles and miles, and are called the owers. on the chart that district is still called "the park," and at very low tides stumps of the old trees can be seen; and for myself i believe, though i don't think it can be proved, that in among the masses of sand and shingle which go together to make the confused dangers of the owers, you would find the walls of roman palaces, and heads of bronze and marble, and fragments of mosaic and coins of gold. the tide coming up from the channel finds, rising straight out of the bottom of the sea, the shelf of this old land, and it has no avenue by which to pour through save this looe stream, which therefore bubbles and runs like a mill-race, though it is in the middle of the sea. if you did not know what was underneath you, you could not understand why this river should run separate from the sea all round, but when you have noticed the depths on the chart, you see a kind of picture in your mind: the wall of that old mass of land standing feet above the floor of the channel, and the top of what was once its fields and its villas, and its great church almost awash at low tides, and through it a cleft, which was, i say, a dell in the old park, but is now that looe stream buoyed up on either side, and making a river by itself running in the sea. sailing over it, and remembering all these things at evening, i got out of the boil and tumble into deep water. it got darker, and the light on the _nab_ ship showed clearly a long way off, and purple against the west stood the solemn height of the island. i set a course for this light, being alone at the tiller, while my two companions slept down below. when the night was full the little variable air freshened into a breeze from the south-east; it grew stronger and stronger, and lifted little hearty following seas, and blowing on my quarter drove me quickly to the west, whither i was bound. the night was very warm and very silent, although little patches of foam murmured perpetually, and though the wind could be heard lightly in the weather shrouds. the star jupiter shone brightly just above my wake, and over selsey bill, through a flat band of mist, the red moon rose slowly, enormous. roncesvalles sitting one day in pampeluna, which occupies the plain just below the southern and spanish escarpment of the pyrenees, i and another remembered with an equal desire that we had all our lives desired to see roncesvalles and the place where roland died. this town (we said) was that which charlemagne destroyed upon his march to the pass, and i, for my part, desired here, as in every other part of europe where i had been able to find his footsteps, to follow them, and so to re-create his time. the road leads slantwise through the upper valleys of navarre, crossing by passes the various spurs of the mountains, but each pass higher than the last and less frequented, for each is nearer the main range. as you leave pampeluna the road grows more and more deserted, and the country through which it cuts more wild. the advantages of wealth which are conferred by the neighbourhood of the capital of navarre are rapidly lost as one proceeds; the houses grow rarer, the shrines more ruinous and more aged, until one comes at last upon the bleak valley which introduces the final approach to roncesvalles. the wealth and order everywhere associated with the basque blood have wholly disappeared. this people is not receding--it holds its own, as it deserves to do; but as there are new fields which it has occupied within the present century upon the more western hills, so there are others to the east, and this valley among them, from whence it has disappeared. the basque names remain, but the people are no longer of the basque type, and the tongue is forgotten. so gradual is the ascent and so continual the little cols which have to be surmounted, that a man does not notice how much upward he is being led towards the crest of the ridge. and when he comes at last upon the grove from which he sees the plateau of roncesvalles spread before him, he wonders that the chain of the pyrenees (which here lie out along in cliffs like sharp sunward walls, stretching in a strict perspective to the distant horizon) should seem so low. the reason that this white wall of cliffs seems so low is that the traveller is standing upon the last of a series of great steps which have led him up towards the frontier, much as the prairie leads one up towards the rockies in colorado. when he has passed through the very pleasant wood which lies directly beneath the cliffs, and reaches the little village of roncesvalles itself, he wonders still more that so famous a pass should be so small a thing. the pass from this side is so broad, with so low a saddle of grass, that it seems more like the crossing of the sussex downs than the crossing of an awful range of mountains. it is a rounded gap, up to which there lifts a pretty little wooded combe; and no one could be certain, during the half-hour spent in climbing such a petty summit, that he was, in so climbing, conquering los altos, the high pyrenees. but when the summit is reached, then the meaning of the "_imus pyrenaeus_," and the place that passage has taken in history, is comprehended in a moment. one sees at what a height one was in that plain of roncesvalles, and one sees how the main range dominates the world; for down below one an enormous cleft into the stuff of the mountains falls suddenly and almost sheer, and you see unexpectedly beneath you the approach from france into spain. the gulf at its narrowest is tremendous; but, more than that, when the floor of the valley is reached, that floor itself slopes away down and down by runs and by cascades towards the very distant plains of the north, upon which the funnel debouches. moreover, it was up this gulf, and from the north, that the armies came; it was this vision of a precipice that seized them when their leaders had determined to invade the peninsula. this also was what, for so many generations, so many wanderers must have seen who came to wonder at the place where the rearguard of charlemagne had been destroyed. the whole of the slope is covered with an ancient wood, and this wood is so steep that it would be impossible or dangerous to venture down it. the old carolingian road skirts the mountain-side with difficulty, clinging well up upon its flank; the great modern road, which is excellent and made for artillery, has to go even nearer the summit; below them there falls away a slant or edge to which the huge beech trees cling almost parallel to the steep earth, running their perpendicular lines so high and close against the hill that they look like pines. as you peer down in among the trunks, you see the darkness increasing until the eye can penetrate no more, and dead, enormous trees that have lived their centuries, and have fallen perhaps for decades, lie across the aisles of the wood, propped up against their living fellows; for, by one of those political accidents which are common throughout the whole length of the pyrenees, both sides of the watershed belong to spain, so that no government or modern energy has come to disturb the silence. one would swear that the last to order this wood were the romans. i had thought to find so famous a valley peopled, or at least visited. i found it utterly alone, and even free from travellers, as though the wealthier part of europe had forgotten the most famous of christian epics. i saw no motor-cars, nor any women--only at last, in the very depths of the valley, a boy cutting grass in a tiny patch of open land. and it was hereabouts, so far as i could make out, that the peers were killed. the song, of course, makes them fall on the far side of the summit, upon the fields of roncesvalles, with the sun setting right at them along the hills. and that is as it should be, for it is evident that (in a poem) the hero fighting among hills should die upon the enemy's side of the hills. but that is not the place where roland really died. the place where he really died, he and oliver and turpin and all the others, was here in the very recess of the northern valley. it was here only that rocks could have been rolled down upon an army, and here is that narrow, strangling gorge where the line of march could most easily have been cut in two by the fury of the mountaineers. also eginhard says very clearly that they had already passed the hills and seen france, and that is final. it was from these cliffs, then, that such an echo was made by the horn of roland, and it was down that funnel of a valley that the noise grew until it filled christendom; and it was up that gorge that there came, as it says in the song-- the host in a tide returning: charles the king and his barony. this was the place. and any man who may yet believe (i know such a discussion is pedantry)--any man who may yet believe the song of roland to have been a northern legend had better come to this place and drink the mountains in. for whoever to-day high are the hills and huge and dim with cloud, down in the deeps, the living streams are loud, had certainly himself stood in the silence and majesty of this valley. it was already nearly dark when we two men had clambered down to that place, and up between the walls of the valley we had already seen the early stars. we pushed on to the french frontier in an eager appetite for cleanliness and human food. the last spanish town is called val carlos, as it ought to be, considering that charlemagne himself had once come roaring by. when we reached it in the darkness we had completed a forced march of forty-two miles, going light, it is true, and carrying nothing each of us but a gourd of wine and a sack, but we were very tired. there, at the goal of our effort, one faint sign of government and of men at last appeared. it was in character with all the rest. one might not cross the frontier upon the road without a written leave. the written leave was given us, and in half an hour spain was free. the slant off the land we live a very little time. before we have reached the middle of our time perhaps, but not long before, we discover the magnitude of our inheritance. consider england. how many men, i should like to know, have discovered before thirty what treasures they may work in her air? she magnifies us inwards and outwards; her fields can lead the mind down towards the subtle beginning of things; the tiny irridescence of insects; the play of light upon the facets of a blade of grass. her skies can lead the mind up infinitely into regions where it seems to expand and fill, no matter what immensities. it was the wind off the land that made me think of all this possession in which i am to enjoy so short a usufruct. i sat in my boat holding that tiller of mine, which is not over firm, and is but a rough bar of iron. there was no breeze in the air, and the little deep vessel swung slightly to the breathing of the sea. her great mainsail and her baloon-jib came over lazily as she swung, and filled themselves with the cheating semblance of a wind. the boom creaked in the goose-neck, and at every roll the slack of the mainsheet tautened with a kind of little thud which thrilled the deck behind me. i saw under the curve of my headsail the long and hazy line, which is the only frontier of england; the plain that rather marries with than defies her peculiar seas. for it was in the channel, and not ten miles from the coastline of my own country, that these thoughts rose in me during the calm at the end of winter, and the boat was drifting down more swiftly than i knew upon the ebb of the outer tide. far off to the south sunlight played upon the water, and was gone again. the great ships did not pass near me, and so i sat under a hazy sky restraining the slight vibration of the helm and waiting for the wind. in whatever place a man may be the spring will come to him. i have heard of men in prison who would note the day when its influence passed through the narrow window that was their only communion with their kind. it comes even to men in cities; men of the stupid political sort, who think in maps and whose interest is in the addition of numbers. indeed, i have heard such men in london itself expressing pleasure when a south-west gale came up in april from over the pines of hampshire and of surrey and mixed the atlantic with the air of the fields. to me this year the spring came suddenly, like a voice speaking, though a low one--the voice of a person subtle, remembered, little known, and always desired. for a wind blew off the land. the surface of the sea northward between me and the coast of sussex had been for so many hours elastic, smooth, and dull, that i had come to forget the indications of a change. but here and there, a long way off, little lines began to show, which were indeed broad spaces of ruffled water, seen edgeways from the low free-board of my boat. these joined and made a surface all the way out towards me, but a surface not yet revealed for what it was, nor showing the movement and life and grace of waves. for no light shone upon it, and it was not yet near enough to be distinguished. it grew rapidly, but the haze and silence had put me into so dreamy a state that i had forgotten the ordinary anxiety and irritation of a calm, nor had i at the moment that eager expectancy of movement which should accompany the sight of that dark line upon the sea. other things possessed me, the memory of home and of the downs. there went before this breeze, as it were, attendant servants, outriders who brought with them the scent of those first flowers in the north wood or beyond gumber corner, and the fragrance of our grass, the savour which the sheep know at least, however much the visitors to my dear home ignore it. a deeper sympathy even than that of the senses came with those messengers and brought me the beeches and the yew trees also, although i was so far out at sea, for the loneliness of this great water recalled the loneliness of the woods, and both those solitudes--the real and the imaginary--mixed in my mind together as they might in the mind of a sleeping man. before this wind as it approached, the sky also cleared: not of clouds, for there were none, but of that impalpable and warm mist which seems to us, who know the south country and the channel, to be so often part of the sky, and to shroud without obscuring the empty distances of our seas. there was a hard clear light to the north; and even over the downs, low as they were upon the horizon, there was a sharp belt of blue. i saw the sun strike the white walls of lady newburgh's folly, and i saw, what had hitherto been all confused, the long line of the arundel woods contrasting with the plain. then the boom went over to port, the jib filled, i felt the helm pulling steadily for the first time in so many hours, and the boat responded. the wind was on me; and though it was from the north, that wind was warm, for it came from the sheltered hills. then, indeed, i quite forgot those first few moments, which had so little to do with the art of sailing, and which were perhaps unworthy of the full life that goes with the governing of sails and rudders. for one thing, i was no longer alone; a man is never alone with the wind--and the boat made three. there was work to be done in pressing against the tiller and in bringing her up to meet the seas, small though they were, for my boat was also small. life came into everything; the channel leapt and (because the wind was across the tide) the little waves broke in small white tips: in their movement and my own, in the dance of the boat and the noise of the shrouds, in the curtsy of the long sprit that caught the ridges of foam and lifted them in spray, even in the free streaming of that loose untidy end of line which played in the air from the leach, as young things play from wantonness, in the rush of the water, just up to and sometimes through the lee scuppers, and in the humming tautness of the sheet, in everything about me there was exuberance and joy. the sun upon the twenty million faces of the waves made, music rather than laughter, and the energy which this first warmth of the year had spread all over the channel and shore, while it made life one, seemed also to make it innumerable. we were now not only three, the wind and my boat and i; we were all part (and masters for the moment) of a great throng. i knew them all by their names, which i had learnt a long time ago, and had sung of them in the north sea. i have often written them down. i will not be ashamed to repeat them here, for good things never grow old. there was the wave that brings good tidings, and the wave that breaks on the shore, and the wave of the island, and the wave that helps, and the wave that lifts forrard, the kindly wave and the youngest wave, and amathea the wave with bright hair, all the waves that come up round thetis in her train when she rises from the side of the old man, her father, where he sits on his throne in the depth of the sea; when she comes up cleaving the water and appears to her sons in the upper world. the wight showed clear before me. i was certain with the tide of making the horse buoy and spithead while it was yet afternoon, and before the plenitude of that light and movement should have left me. i settled down to so much and such exalted delight as to a settled task. i lit my pipe for a further companion (since it was good to add even to so many). i kept my right shoulder only against the tiller, for the pressure was now steady and sound. i felt the wind grow heavy and equable, and i caught over my shoulder the merry wake of this very honest moving home of mine as she breasted and hissed through the sea. here, then, was the proper end of a long cruise. it was springtime, and the season for work on land. i had been told so by the heartening wind. and as i went still westward, remembering the duties of the land, the sails still held full, the sheets and the weather shrouds still stood taut and straining, and the little clatter of the broken water spoke along the lee rail. and so the ship sailed on. [greek: 'en d thnemos prêsen mxson istion, thmphi de kuma] [greek: sseirê porphureon megal' iache, nêos iousês.] the canigou a man might discuss with himself what it was that made certain great sights of the world famous, and what it is that keeps others hidden. this would be especially interesting in the case of mountains. for there is no doubt that there is a modern attraction in mountains which may not endure, but which is almost as intense in our generation as it was in that of our fathers. the emotion produced by great height and by the something unique and inspiring which distinguishes a mountain from a hill has bitten deeply into the modern mind. yet there are some of the most astounding visions of this sort in europe which are, and will probably remain, unemphasised for travellers. the vision of the berenese oberland when it breaks upon one from the crest of jura has been impressed--upon english people, at least--in two fine passages: the one written by ruskin, the other, if i remember right, in a book called _a cruise upon wheels_. the french have, i believe, no classical presentment of that view, nor perhaps have the germans. the line of the alps as one sees it upon very clear days from the last of the apennines--this, i think, has never been properly praised in any modern book--not even an italian. the great red mountain-face which st. bruno called "the desert" i do not remember to have read of anywhere nor to have heard described; for it stands above an unfrequented valley, and the regular approach to the chartreuse is from the other side. yet it is something which remains as vivid to those few who have suddenly caught sight of it from a turn of the old lyons road as though they had seen it in a fantastic dream. that astonishing circle of cliffs which surrounds bourg d'oisans, though it has been written of now and then, has not, so to speak, taken root in people's imagination. even in this country there are twenty great effects which, though they have, of course, suffered record, are still secure from general praise; for instance, that awful trench which opens under your feet, as it were, up north and beyond plynlimmon. it is a valley as unexpected and as incredible in its steepness and complete isolation as any one may see in the drawings of the romantic generation of english water-colour, yet perhaps no one has drawn it; there is certainly no familiar picture of it anywhere. when one comes to think of it, the reason of such exceptions to fame as are these is usually that such and such an unknown but great sight lies off the few general roads of travel. it is a vulgar reason, but the true one. unless men go to a mountain to climb because it is difficult to climb, or unless it often appears before them along one of their main journeys, it will remain quiet. among such masses is the canigou. here is a mountain which may be compared to etna. it is lower, indeed, in the proportion of nine to eleven; but when great isolated heights of this sort are in question, such a difference hardly counts. it can be seen, as etna can, from the sea, though it stands a good deal more inland; it dominates, as etna does, a very famous plain, but modern travel does nothing to bring it into the general consciousness of the world. if spain were wealthy, or if the spanish harbours naturally led to any place which all the rich desired to visit, the name of the canigou would begin to grow. where the railway skirts the sea from narbonne to barcelona, it is your permanent companion for a good hour in the express, and for any time you like in the ordinary trains. during at least three months in the year, its isolation is peculiarly relieved and marked by the snow, which lies above an even line all along its vast bulk. it is also one of those mountains in which one can recognise the curious regularity of the "belts" which text-books talk of. there are great forests at the base of it, just above the hot mediterranean plain; the beech comes higher than the olive, the pines last of all; after them the pastures and the rocks. in the end of february a man climbs up from a spring that is as southern as africa to a winter that is as northern as the highlands of scotland, and all the while he feels that he is climbing nothing confused or vague, but one individual peak which is the genius of the whole countryside. this countryside is the roussillon, a lordship as united as the cerdagne; it speaks one language, shows one type of face, and is approached by but a small group of roads, and each road passes through a mountain gap. for centuries it went with barcelona. it needed the revolution to make it french, and it is full of spanish memories to this day. for the roussillon depends upon the canigou just as the bay of syracuse depends upon etna, or that of naples upon vesuvius, and its familiar presence has sunk into the patriotism of the roussillon people, as those more famous mountains have into the art and legends of their neighbours. there are i know not how many monographs upon the canigou, but not one has been translated, i would wager, into any foreign language. yet it is the mountain which very many men who have hardly heard its name have been looking for all their lives. it gives as good camping as is to be had in the whole of the pyrenees. i believe there is fishing, and perhaps one can shoot. properly speaking, there is no climbing in it; at least, one can walk up it all the way if one chooses the right path, but there is everything else men look for when they escape from cities. it is so big that you would never learn it in any number of camps, and the change of its impressions is perpetual. from the summit the view has two interests--of colour and of the past. you have below you a plain like an inlaid work of chosen stones: the whole field is an arrangement of different culture and of bright rocks and sand; and below you, also, in a curve, is all that coast which at the close of the roman empire was, perhaps, the wealthiest in europe. in the extreme north a man might make out upon a clear day the bulk of narbonne. perpignan is close by; the little rock harbour of venus, port vendres, is to the south. from the plain below one, which has always been crammed with riches, sprang the chief influences of southern gaul. it was here that the family of charlemagne took its origin, and it was perhaps from here that he saw, through the windows of a palace, that fleet of pirates which moved him to his sad prophecy. that plain, moreover, will re-arise; it is still rich, and all the catalan province of spain below it, of which it is the highway and the approach, must increase in value before europe from year to year. the vast development of the french african territory is reacting upon that coast: all it needs is a central harbour, and if that harbour were formed it would do what narbo did for the romans at the end of their occupation;--it would tap, much better than does cette, the wealth of gascony, perhaps, also, an atlantic trade, and its exchanges towards africa and the levant. the mediterranean, which is perpetually increasing in wealth and in importance to-day, would have a second marseilles, and should such a port arise--then, when our ships and our travellers are familiar with it, the canigou (if it cares for that sort of thing) will be as happy as the matterhorn. for the present it is all alone. the man and his wood i knew a man once that was a territorial magnate and had an estate in the county of berkshire. i will not conceal his name. it was william frederick charles hermann-postlethwaite. on his estate was a large family mansion, surrounded by tasteful gardens of a charming old kind, and next outside these a great park, well timbered. but the thing i am going to talk about was a certain wood of which he was rightly very proud. it stood on the slope of a grass down, just above the valley, and beneath it was a clean white road, and a little way along that a town, part of which belonged to mr. hermann-postlethwaite, part to a local solicitor and moneylender, several bits to a brewer in reading, and a few houses to the inhabitants. the people in the town were also fond of the wood, and called it "the old wood." it was not very large, but, as i have said before, it was very beautiful, and contained all manner of trees, but especially beeches, under which nothing will grow--as the poet puts it in sussex: unner t' beech and t' yow nowt 'll grow. well, as years passed, mr. hermann-postlethwaite became fonder and fonder of the wood. he began towards to think it the nicest thing on his estate--which it was; and he would often ride out to look at it of a morning on his grey mare "betsy." when he rode out like this of a morning his mount was well groomed, and so was he, however early it might be, and he would carry a little cane to hit the mare with and also as a symbol of authority. the people who met him would touch their foreheads, and he would wave his hand genially in reply. he was a good fellow. but the principal thing about him was his care for the old wood; and when he rode out to look at it, as i say, he would speak to any one around so early--his bailiff, as might be, or sometimes his agent, or even the foreman of the workshop or the carpenter, or any hedger or ditcher that might be there, and point out bits of the wood, and say, "that branch looks pretty dicky. no harm to cut that off short and parcel and serve the end and cap it with a zinc cap;" or, "better be cutting the yartle bush for the next fallow, it chokes the gammon-rings, and i don't like to see so much standard ivy about, it's the death of trees." i am not sure that i have got the technical words right, but at any rate they were more or less like that, for i have heard him myself time and again. i often used to go out with him on another horse, called sultan, which he lent me to ride upon. well, he got fonder and fonder of this wood, and kept on asking people what he should do, and how one could make most use of it, and he worried a good deal about it. he reads books about woods, and in the opening of he had down to stay with him for a few days a man called churt, who had made a great success with woods on the warra-warra. but churt was a vulgar fellow, and so hermann-postlethwaite's wife, lady gywnnys hermann-postlethwaite, would not have him in the house again, which was a bother. her husband then rode over to see another man, and the upshot of it was that he put up a great board saying "trespassers in this wood will be prosecuted," and it might as well not have been put up, for no one ever went into the wood, not even from the little town, because it was too far for them to walk, and, anyhow, they did not care for walking. and as for the doctor's son, a boy of thirteen, who went in there with an air-gun to shoot things, he paid no attention to the board. the next thing my friend did was to have a fine strong paling put all round the wood in march, . this paling was of oak; it was seven feet high; it had iron spikes along the top. there were six gates in it, and stout posts at intervals of ten yards. the boards overlapped very exactly. it was as good a bit of work as ever i saw. he had it varnished, and it looked splendid. all this took two years. just then he was elected to parliament, not for berkshire, as you might have imagined, but for a slum division of birmingham. he was very proud of this, and quite rightly too. he said: "i am the one conservative member in the midlands." it almost made him forget about his wood. he shut up the berkshire place and took a house in town, and as he could not afford mayfair, and did not understand such things very well, the house he took was an enormous empty house in bayswater, and he had no peace until he gave it up for a set of rooms off piccadilly; and then his mother thought that looked so odd that he did the right thing, and got into a nice old-fashioned furnished house in westminster, overlooking the green park. but all this cost him a mint of money, and politics made him angrier and angrier. they never let him speak, and they made him vote for things he thought perfectly detestable. then he did speak, and as he was an honest english gentleman the papers called him ridiculous names and said he had no brains. so he just jolly well threw the whole thing up and went back to berkshire, and everybody welcomed him, and he did a thing he had never done before: he put a flag up over his house to show he was at home. then he began to think of his wood again. the very first time he rode out to look at it he found the paling had given way in places from the fall of trees, and that some leaned inwards and some outwards, and that one of the gates was off its hinges. there were also two cows walking about in the wood, and what annoyed him most of all, the iron spikes were rusty and the varnish had all gone rotten and white and streaky on the palings. he spoke to the bailiff about this, and hauled him out to look at it. the bailiff rubbed the varnish with his finger, smelt it, and said that it had perished. he also said there was no such thing as good varnish nowadays, and he added there wasn't any varnish, not the very best, but wouldn't go like that with rain and all. mr. hermann-postlethwaite grumbled a good deal, but he supposed the bailiff knew best; so he told him to see what could be done, and for several weeks he heard no more about it. i forgot to tell you that about this time the south african war had broken out, and as things were getting pretty tangled, hermann-postlethwaite went out with his regiment, the eighth battalion, not of the berkshire, but of the orkney regiment. while he was out there, his brother, in dr. charlbury's home, died, and he succeeded to the baronetcy. as he already had a v.c. and was now given a d.s.o., as well as being one of the people mentioned in dispatches, he was pretty important by the time he came home, when the war was over, just before the elections of . when he got home he had a splendid welcome, both from his tenants in berkshire in passing through and from those of his late brother in the big place in worcestershire. he preferred his berkshire place, however, and, letting the big place to an american of the name of hendrik k. boulge, he went back to his first home. when he got there he thought of the old wood, and went out to look at it. the palings were mended, but they were covered all over with tar! he was exceedingly angry, and ordered them to be painted at once; but the bailiff assured him one could not paint over tar, and so did the carpenter and the foreman. at this he had a fit of rage, and ordered the whole damned thing to be pulled down, and swore he would be damned if he ever had a damned stick or a rail round the damned wood again. he was no longer young; he was getting stout and rather puffy; he was not so reasonable as of old. anyhow, he had the whole thing pulled down. next year (that is, in ) his wife died. i wish i had the space to tell you all the other things he did to the wood. how a friend of his having sold a similar wood on the thames in building lots at £ an acre, he put up the whole wood at the same rate. how, the whole wood being acres in extent, he hoped to make £ , out of it. how he thought this a tidy sum. how he got no offers at this price, nor at £ , nor at £ . how an artist offered him £ for half an acre to put up a red tin bungalow upon. how he lost his temper with the artist. how at last he left the whole thing alone and tried to forget all about it. * * * * * the old wood to-day is just like what it was when i wandered in it as a boy. the doctor's son is a man now, and is keeping a bar in sydney; so he is gone. the townspeople don't come any more than before. i am the only person who goes near the place. the trees are a trifle grander. i happen now and then, when i visit this berkshire parish, upon a stump of a post or an old spike in the grass of this wood, but otherwise it is as though all this had not been. a solemn thought: how enduring are the works of nature--how perishable those of man! the channel friends of mine, friends all, and you also, publishers, colonials and critics, do you know that particular experience for which i am trying to find words? do you know that glamour in the mind which arises and transforms our thought when we see the things that the men who made us saw--the things of a long time ago, the origins? i think everybody knows that glamour, but very few people know where to find it. every man knows that he has in him the power for such revelations, and every man wonders in what strange place he may come upon them. there are men also (very rich) who have considered all the world and wandered over it, seeking those first experiences and trying to feel as felt the earlier men in a happier time--yet these few rich men have not felt and have not so found the things which they desire. i have known men who have thought to find them in the mountains, but would not climb them simply enough and refused to leave their luxuries behind, and so lost everything, and might as well have been walking in a dirty town at home for all the little good that the mountains did to them. and i know men who have thought to find this memory and desire in foreign countries, in africa, hunting great beasts such as our fathers hunted; yet even these have not relit those old embers, which if they lie dead and dark in a man make his whole soul dusty and useless, but which if they be once rekindled can make him part of all the centuries. yet there is a simple and an easy way to find what the men who made us found, and to see the world as they saw it, and to take a bath, as it were, in the freshness of beginnings; and that is to go to work as cheaply and as hardly as you can, and only as much away from men as they were away from men, and not to read or to write or to think, but to eat and drink and use the body in many immediate ways, which are at the feet of every man. every man who will walk for some days carelessly, sleeping, rough when he must, or in poor inns, and making for some one place direct because he desires to see it, will know the thing i mean. and there is a better way still of which i shall now speak: i mean, to try the seas in a little boat not more than twenty-five feet long, preferably decked, of shallow draught, such as can enter into all creeks and havens, and so simply rigged that by oneself, or with a friend at most, one can wander all over the world. certainly every man that goes to sea in a little boat of this kind learns terror and salvation, happy living, air, danger, exultation, glory, and repose at the end; and they are not words to him, but, on the contrary, realities which will afterwards throughout his life give the mere words a full meaning. and for this experiment there lies at our feet, i say, the channel. it is the most marvellous sea in the world--the most suited for these little adventures; it is crammed with strange towns, differing one from the other; it has two opposite people upon either side, and hills and varying climates, and the hundred shapes and colours of the earth, here rocks, there sand, there cliffs, and there marshy shores. it is a little world. and what is more, it is a kind of inland sea. people will not understand how narrow it is, crossing it hurriedly in great steamships; nor will they make it a home for pleasure unless they are rich and can have great boats; yet they should, for on its water lies the best stage for playing out the old drama by which the soul of a healthy man is kept alive. for instance, listen to this story:-- the sea being calm, and the wind hot, uncertain, and light from the east, leaving oily gaps on the water, and continually dying down, i drifted one morning in the strong ebb to the south goodwin lightship, wondering what to do. there was a haze over the land and over the sea, and through the haze great ships a long way off showed, one or two of them, like oblong targets which one fires at with guns. they hardly moved in spite of all their canvas set, there was so little breeze. so i drifted in the slow ebb past the south goodwin, and i thought: "what is all this drifting and doing nothing? let us play the fool, and see if there are no adventures left." so i put my little boat about until the wind took her from forward, such as it was, and she crawled out to sea. it was a dull, uneasy morning, hot and silent, and the wind, i say, was hardly a wind, and most of the time the sails flapped uselessly. but after eleven o'clock the wind first rose, and then shifted a little, and then blew light but steady; and then at last she heeled and the water spoke under her bows, and still she heeled and ran, until in the haze i could see no more land; but ever so far out there were no seas, for the light full breeze was with the tide, the tide ebbing out as a strong, and silent as a man in anger, down the hidden parallel valleys of the narrow sea. and i held this little wind till about two o'clock, when i drank wine and ate bread and meat at the tiller, for i had them by me, and just afterwards, still through a thick haze of heat, i saw gris-nez, a huge ghost, right up against and above me; and i wondered, for i had crossed the channel, now for the first time, and knew now what it felt like to see new land. though i knew nothing of the place, i had this much sense, that i said to myself: "the tide is right-down channel, racing through the hidden valleys under the narrow sea, so it will all go down together and all come up together, and the flood will come on this foreign side much at the same hour that it does on the home side." my boat lay to the east and the ebb tide held her down, and i lit a pipe and looked at the french hills and thought about them and the people in them, and england which i had left behind, and i was delighted with the loneliness of the sea; and still i waited for the flood. but in a little while the chain made a rattling noise, and she lay quite slack and swung oddly; and then there were little boiling and eddying places in the water, and the water seemed to come up from underneath sometimes, and altogether it behaved very strangely, and this was the turn of the tide. then the wind dropped also, and for a moment she lollopped about, till at last, after i had gone below and straightened things, i came on deck to see that she had turned completely round, and that the tide at last was making up my way, towards calais, and her chain was taut and her nose pointed down channel, and a little westerly breeze, a little draught of air, came up cool along the tide. when this came i was very glad, for i saw that i could end my adventure before night. so i pulled up the anchor and fished it, and then turned with the tide under me, and the slight half-felt breeze just barely filling the mainsail (the sheet was slack, so powerless was the wind), and i ran up along that high coast, watching eagerly every new thing; but i kept some way out for fear of shoals, till after three good hours under the reclining sun of afternoon, which glorified the mist, i saw, far off, the roofs and spires of a town, and a low pier running well out to sea, and i knew that it must be calais. and i ran for these piers, careless of how i went, for it was already half of the spring flood tide, and everything was surely well covered for so small a boat, and i ran up the fairway in between the piers, and saw frenchmen walking about and a great gun peeping up over its earthwork, and plenty of clean new masonry. and a man came along and showed me where i could lie; but i was so strange to the place that i would not take a berth, but lay that night moored to an english ship. and when i had eaten and drunk and everything was stowed away and darkness had fallen, i went on deck, and for a long time sat silent, smoking a pipe and watching the enormous lighthouse of calais, which is built right in the town, and which turns round and round above one all night long. and i thought: "here is a wonderful thing! i have crossed the channel in this little boat, and i know now what the sea means that separates france from england. i have strained my eyes for shore through a haze. i have seen new lands, and i feel as men do who have dreamt dreams." but in reality i had had very great luck indeed, and had had no right to cross, for my coming back was to be far more difficult and dreadful, and i was to suffer many things before again i could see tall england, close by me, out of the sea. but how i came back, and of the storm, and of its majesty, and of how the boat and i survived, i will tell you another time, only imploring you to do the same; not to tell of it, i mean, but to sail it in a little boat. the mowing of a field there is a valley in south england remote from ambition and from fear, where the passage of strangers is rare and unperceived, and where the scent of the grass in summer is breathed only by those who are native to that unvisited land. the roads to the channel do not traverse it; they choose upon either side easier passes over the range. one track alone leads up through it to the hills, and this is changeable: now green where men have little occasion to go, now a good road where it nears the homesteads and the barns. the woods grow steep above the slopes; they reach sometimes the very summit of the heights, or, when they cannot attain them, fill in and clothe the coombes. and, in between, along the floor of the valley, deep pastures and their silence are bordered by lawns of chalky grass and the small yew trees of the downs. the clouds that visit its sky reveal themselves beyond the one great rise, and sail, white and enormous, to the other, and sink beyond that other. but the plains above which they have travelled and the weald to which they go, the people of the valley cannot see and hardly recall. the wind, when it reaches such fields, is no longer a gale from the salt, but fruitful and soft, an inland breeze; and those whose blood was nourished here, feel in that wind the fruitfulness of our orchards and all the life that all things draw from the air. in this place, when i was a boy, i pushed through a fringe of beeches that made a complete screen between me and the world, and i came to a glade called no man's land. i climbed beyond it, and i was surprised and glad, because from the ridge of that glade i saw the sea. to this place very lately i returned. the many things that i recovered as i came up the countryside were not less charming than when a distant memory had enshrined them, but much more. whatever veil is thrown by a longing recollection had not intensified nor even made more mysterious the beauty of that happy ground; not in my very dreams of morning had i, in exile, seen it more beloved or more rare. much also that i had forgotten now returned to me as i approached--a group of elms, a little turn of the parson's wall, a small paddock beyond the graveyard close, cherished by one man, with a low wall of very old stone guarding it all round. and all these things fulfilled and amplified my delight, till even the good vision of the place, which i had kept so many years, left me and was replaced by its better reality. "here," i said to myself, "is a symbol of what some say is reserved for the soul: pleasure of a kind which cannot be imagined save in a moment when at last it is attained." when i came to my own gate and my own field, and had before me the house i knew, i looked around a little (though it was already evening), and i saw that the grass was standing as it should stand when it is ready for the scythe. for in this, as in everything that a man can do--of those things at least which are very old--there is an exact moment when they are done best. and it has been remarked of whatever rules us that it works blunderingly, seeing that the good things given to a man are not given at the precise moment when they would have filled him with delight. but, whether this be true or false, we can choose the just turn of the seasons in everything we do of our own will, and especially in the making of hay. many think that hay is best made when the grass is thickest; and so they delay until it is rank and in flower, and has already heavily pulled the ground. and there is another false reason for delay, which is wet weather. for very few will understand (though it comes year after year) that we have rain always in south england between the sickle and the scythe, or say just after the weeks of east wind are over. first we have a week of sudden warmth, as though the south had come to see us all; then we have the weeks of east and south-east wind; and then we have more or less of that rain of which i spoke, and which always astonishes the world. now it is just before, or during, or at the very end of that rain--but not later--that grass should be cut for hay. true, upland grass, which is always thin, should be cut earlier than the grass in the bottoms and along the water meadows; but not even the latest, even in the wettest seasons, should be left (as it is) to flower and even to seed. for what we get when we store our grass is not a harvest of something ripe, but a thing just caught in its prime before maturity: as witness that our corn and straw are best yellow, but our hay is best green. so also death should be represented with a scythe and time with a sickle; for time can take only what is ripe, but death comes always too soon. in a word, then, it is always much easier to cut grass too late than too early; and i, under that evening and come back to these pleasant fields, looked at the grass and knew that it was time. june was in full advance: it was the beginning of that season when the night has already lost her foothold of the earth and hovers over it, never quite descending, but mixing sunset with the dawn. next morning, before it was yet broad day, i awoke, and thought of the mowing. the birds were already chattering in the trees beside my window, all except the nightingale, which had left and flown away to the weald, where he sings all summer by day as well as by night in the oaks and the hazel spinneys, and especially along the little river adur, one of the rivers of the weald. the birds and the thought of the mowing had awakened me, and i went down the stairs and along the stone floors to where i could find a scythe; and when i took it from its nail, i remembered how, fourteen years ago, i had last gone out with my scythe, just so, into the fields at morning. in between that day and this were many things, cities and armies, and a confusion of books, mountains and the desert, and horrible great breadths of sea. when i got out into the long grass the sun was not yet risen, but there were already many colours in the eastern sky, and i made haste to sharpen my scythe, so that i might get to the cutting before the dew should dry. some say that it is best to wait till all the dew has risen, so as to get the grass quite dry from the very first. but, though it is an advantage to get the grass quite dry, yet it is not worth while to wait till the dew has risen. for, in the first place, you lose many hours of work (and those the coolest), and next--which is more important--you lose that great ease and thickness in cutting which comes of the dew. so i at once began to sharpen my scythe. there is an art also in the sharpening of a scythe, and it is worth describing carefully. your blade must be dry, and that is why you will see men rubbing the scythe-blade with grass before they whet it. then also your rubber must be quite dry, and on this account it is a good thing to lay it on your coat and keep it there during all your day's mowing. the scythe you stand upright, with the blade pointing away from you, and you put your left hand firmly on the back of the blade, grasping it: then you pass the rubber first down one side of the blade-edge and then down the other, beginning near the handle and going on to the point and working quickly and hard. when you first do this you will, perhaps, cut your hand; but it is only at first that such an accident will happen to you. to tell when the scythe is sharp enough this is the rule. first the stone clangs and grinds against the iron harshly; then it rings musically to one note; then, at last, it purrs as though the iron and stone were exactly suited. when you hear this, your scythe is sharp enough; and i, when i heard it that june dawn, with everything quite silent except the birds, let down the scythe and bent myself to mow. when one does anything anew, after so many years, one fears very much for one's trick or habit. but all things once learnt are easily recoverable, and i very soon recovered the swing and power of the mower. mowing well and mowing badly--or rather not mowing at all--are separated by very little; as is also true of writing verse, of playing the fiddle, and of dozens of other things, but of nothing more than of believing. for the bad or young or untaught mower without tradition, the mower promethean, the mower original and contemptuous of the past, does all these things: he leaves great crescents of grass uncut. he digs the point of the scythe hard into the ground with a jerk. he loosens the handles and even the fastening of the blade. he twists the blade with his blunders, he blunts the blade, he chips it, dulls it, or breaks it clean off at the tip. if any one is standing by he cuts him in the ankle. he sweeps up into the air wildly, with nothing to resist his stroke. he drags up earth with the grass, which is like making the meadow bleed. but the good mower who does things just as they should be done and have been for a hundred thousand years, falls into none of these fooleries. he goes forward very steadily, his scythe-blade just barely missing the ground, every grass falling; the swish and rhythm of his mowing are always the same. so great an art can only be learnt by continual practice; but this much is worth writing down, that, as in all good work, to know the thing with which you work is the core of the affair. good verse is best written on good paper with an easy pen, not with a lump of coal on a whitewashed wall. the pen thinks for you; and so does the scythe mow for you if you treat it honourably and in a manner that makes it recognise its service. the manner is this. you must regard the scythe as a pendulum that swings, not as a knife that cuts. a good mower puts no more strength into his stroke than into his lifting. again, stand up to your work. the bad mower, eager and full of pain, leans forward and tries to force the scythe through the grass. the good mower, serene and able, stands as nearly straight as the shape of the scythe will let him, and follows up every stroke closely, moving his left foot forward. then also let every stroke get well away. mowing is a thing of ample gestures, like drawing a cartoon. then, again, get yourself into a mechanical and repetitive mood: be thinking of anything at all but your mowing, and be anxious only when there seems some interruption to the monotony of the sound. in this mowing should be like one's prayers--all of a sort and always the same, and so made that you can establish a monotony and work them, as it were, with half your mind: that happier half, the half that does not bother. in this way, when i had recovered the art after so many years, i went forward over the field, cutting lane after lane through the grass, and bringing out its most secret essences with the sweep of the scythe until the air was full of odours. at the end of every lane i sharpened my scythe and looked back at the work done, and then carried my scythe down again upon my shoulder to begin another. so, long before the bell rang in the chapel above me--that is, long before six o'clock, which is the time for the _angelus_--i had many swathes already lying in order parallel like soldiery; and the high grass yet standing, making a great contrast with the shaven part, looked dense and high. as it says in the _ballad of val-ès-dunes,_ where-- the tall son of the seven winds came riding out of hither-hythe, and his horse-hoofs (you will remember) trampled into the press and made a gap in it, and his sword (as you know) ... was like a scythe in arcus when the grass is high and all the swathes in order lie, and there's the bailiff standing by a-gathering of the tithe. so i mowed all that morning, till the houses awoke in the valley, and from some of them rose a little fragrant smoke, and men began to be seen. i stood still and rested on my scythe to watch the awakening of the village, when i saw coming up to my field a man whom i had known in older times, before i had left the valley. he was of that dark silent race upon which all the learned quarrel, but which, by whatever meaningless name it may be called--iberian, or celtic, or what you will--is the permanent root of all england, and makes england wealthy and preserves it everywhere, except perhaps in the fens and in a part of yorkshire. everywhere else you will find it active and strong. these people are intensive; their thoughts and their labours turn inward. it is on account of their presence in these islands that our gardens are the richest in the world. they also love low rooms and ample fires and great warm slopes of thatch. they have, as i believe, an older acquaintance with the english air than any other of all the strains that make up england. they hunted in the weald with stones, and camped in the pines of the green-sand. they lurked under the oaks of the upper rivers, and saw the legionaries go up, up the straight paved road from the sea. they helped the few pirates to destroy the towns, and mixed with those pirates and shared the spoils of the roman villas, and were glad to see the captains and the priests destroyed. they remain; and no admixture of the frisian pirates, or the breton, or the angevin and norman conquerors, has very much affected their cunning eyes. to this race, i say, belonged the man who now approached me. and he said to me, "mowing?" and i answered, "ar." then he also said "ar," as in duty bound; for so we speak to each other in the stenes of the downs. next he told me that, as he had nothing to do, he would lend me a hand; and i thanked him warmly, or, as we say, "kindly." for it is a good custom of ours always to treat bargaining as though it were a courteous pastime; and though what he was after was money, and what i wanted was his labour at the least pay, yet we both played the comedy that we were free men, the one granting a grace and the other accepting it. for the dry bones of commerce, avarice and method and need, are odious to the valley; and we cover them up with a pretty body of fiction and observances. thus, when it comes to buying pigs, the buyer does not begin to decry the pig and the vendor to praise it, as is the custom with lesser men; but tradition makes them do business in this fashion:-- first the buyer will go up to the seller when he sees him in his own steading, and, looking at the pig with admiration, the buyer will say that rain may or may not fall, or that we shall have snow or thunder, according to the time of year. then the seller, looking critically at the pig, will agree that the weather is as his friend maintains. there is no haste at all; great leisure marks the dignity of their exchange. and the next step is, that the buyer says: "that's a fine pig you have there, mr. ----" (giving the seller's name). "ar, powerful fine pig." then the seller, saying also "mr." (for twin brothers rocked in one cradle give each other ceremonious observance here), the seller, i say, admits, as though with reluctance, the strength and beauty of the pig, and falls into deep thought. then the buyer says, as though moved by a great desire, that he is ready to give so much for the pig, naming half the proper price, or a little less. then the seller remains in silence for some moments; and at last begins to shake his head slowly, till he says: "i don't be thinking of selling the pig, anyways." he will also add that a party only wednesday offered him so much for the pig--and he names about double the proper price. thus all ritual is duly accomplished; and the solemn act is entered upon with reverence and in a spirit of truth. for when the buyer uses this phrase: "i'll tell you what i _will_ do," and offers within half a crown of the pig's value, the seller replies that he can refuse him nothing, and names half a crown above its value; the difference is split, the pig is sold, and in the quiet soul of each runs the peace of something accomplished. thus do we buy a pig or land or labour or malt or lime, always with elaboration and set forms; and many a london man has paid double and more for his violence and his greedy haste and very unchivalrous higgling. as happened with the land at underwaltham, which the mortgagees had begged and implored the estate to take at twelve hundred, and had privately offered to all the world at a thousand, but which a sharp direct man, of the kind that makes great fortunes, a man in a motor-car, a man in a fur coat, a man of few words, bought for two thousand three hundred before my very eyes, protesting that they might take his offer or leave it; and all because he did not begin by praising the land. well then, this man i spoke of offered to help me, and he went to get his scythe. but i went into the house and brought out a gallon jar of small ale for him and for me; for the sun was now very warm, and small ale goes well with mowing. when we had drunk some of this ale in mugs called "i see you," we took each a swathe, he a little behind me because he was the better mower; and so for many hours we swung, one before the other, mowing and mowing at the tall grass of the field. and the sun rose to noon and we were still at our mowing; and we ate food, but only for a little while, and we took again to our mowing. and at last there was nothing left but a small square of grass, standing like a square of linesmen who keep their formation, tall and unbroken, with all the dead lying around them when the battle is over and done. then for some little time i rested after all those hours; and the man and i talked together, and a long way off we heard in another field the musical sharpening of a scythe. the sunlight slanted powdered and mellow over the breadth of the valley; for day was nearing its end. i went to fetch rakes from the steading; and when i had come back the last of the grass had fallen, and all the field lay flat and smooth, with the very green short grass in lanes between the dead and yellow swathes. these swathes we raked into cocks to keep them from the dew against our return at daybreak; and we made the cocks as tall and steep as we could, for in that shape they best keep off the dew, and it is easier also to spread them after the sun has risen. then we raked up every straggling blade, till the whole field was a clean floor for the tedding and the carrying of the hay next morning. the grass we had mown was but a little over two acres; for that is all the pasture on my little tiny farm. when we had done all this, there fell upon us the beneficent and deliberate evening; so that as we sat a little while together near the rakes, we saw the valley more solemn and dim around us, and all the trees and hedgerows quite still, and held by a complete silence. then i paid my companion his wage, and bade him a good night, till we should meet in the same place before sunrise. he went off with a slow and steady progress, as all our peasants do, making their walking a part of the easy but continual labour of their lives. but i sat on, watching the light creep around towards the north and change, and the waning moon coming up as though by stealth behind the woods of no man's land. the roman road the other day (it was wednesday, and the air was very pure) i went into the stable upon my way toward the wood, and there i saw my horse monster standing by himself, regarding nothingness. and when i had considered what a shame it was to take one's pleasure in a wood and leave one's helpless horse at home, i bridled him and saddled him and took him out, and rode him the way that i had meant to go alone. so we went together along the stene under the north wood until we got to the edge of the forest, and then we took the green ride to the right, for it was my intention to go and look at the roman road. behind my house, behind my little farm, there are as many miles of turf as one cares to count, and then behind it also, but the other way, there goes this deep and lonely forest. it is principally of beech, which is the tree of the chalk, and no one has cut it or fenced it or thought about it (except to love it), since the parts about my village took their names: gumber and fairmile bay combe, the nore, and the stretch called no man's land. into the darkness of these trees i rode very quietly with monster, my horse, but whether the autumn air were pleasanter to him or to me neither of us could decide, for there is no bridge between two souls. that is, if horses have a soul, which i suppose they have, for they are both stupid and kindly, and they fear death as though a part, and but a part, of them were immortal. also they see things in the dark and are cognisant of evil. when i had gone some hundred yards towards the roman road i saw, bending lower than the rest on the tree from which it hung, a golden bough, and i said to myself that i had had good luck, for such a thing has always been the sign of an unusual experience and of a voyage among the dead. all the other leaves of the tree were green, but the turn of the year, which sends out foragers just as the spring does, marking the way it is to go, had come and touched this bough and changed it, so that it shone out by itself in the recesses of the forest and gleamed before and behind. i did not ask what way it led me, for i knew; and so i went onwards, riding my horse, until i came to that long bank of earth which runs like a sort of challenge through this ancient land to prove what our origins were, and who first brought us merry people into the circuit of the world. when i saw the roman road the sharper influence which it had had upon my boyhood returned to me, and i got off my horse and took his bit out of his mouth so that he could play the fool with the grass and leaves (which are bad for him), and i hitched the snaffle to a little broken peg of bough so that he could not wander. and then i looked up and down along the boles of the great north wood, taking in the straight line of the way. i have heard it said that certain professors, the most learned of their day, did once deny that this was a roman road. i can well believe it, and it is delightful to believe that they did. for this road startles and controls a true man, presenting an eternal example of what rome could do. the peasants around have always called it the "street." it leads from what was certainly one roman town to what was certainly another. that sign of roman occupation, the modern word "cold harbour," is scattered up and down it. there are roman pavements on it. it goes plumb straight for miles, and at times, wherever it crosses undisturbed land, it is three or four feet above the level of the down. here, then, was a feast for the learned: since certainly the more obvious a thing is, the more glory there must be in denying it. and deny it they did (or at least, so i am told), just as they will deny that thomas à becket was a papist, or that austerlitz was fought in spite of trafalgar, or that the gospel of st. john is the gospel of st. john. here then, sitting upon this roman road i considered the nature of such men, and when i had thought out carefully where the nearest don might be at that moment, i decided that he was at least twenty-three miles away, and i was very glad: for it permitted me to contemplate the road with common sense and with faith, which is common sense transfigured; and i could see the legionaries climbing the hill. i remembered also what a sight there was upon the down above, and i got upon my horse again to go and see it. when one has pushed one's way through the brambles and the rounded great roots which have grown upon this street--where no man has walked perhaps for about a thousand years--one gets to the place where it tops the hill, and here one sees the way in which the line of it was first struck out. from where one stands, right away like a beam, leading from rise to rise, it runs to the cathedral town. you see the spot where it enters the eastern gate of the roman walls; you see at the end of it, like the dot upon an "i," the mass of the cathedral. then, if you turn and look northward, you see from point to point its taut stretch across the weald to where, at the very limit of the horizon, there is a gap in the chain of hills that bars your view. the strict design of such a thing weighs upon one as might weigh upon one four great lines of virgil, or the sight of those enormous stones which one comes upon, roman also, in the algerian sands. the plan of such an avenue by which to lead great armies and along which to drive commands argues a mixture of unity and of power as intimate as the lime and the sand of which these conquerors welded their imperishable cement. and it does more than this. it suggests swiftness and certitude of aim and a sort of eager determination which we are slow to connect with government, but which certainly underlay the triumph of this people. a road will give one less trouble if it winds about and feels the contours of the land. it will pay better if it is of earth and broken stones instead of being paved, nor would any one aiming at wealth or comfort alone laboriously raise its level, as the level of this road is raised. but in all that the romans did there was something of a monument. where they might have taken pipes down a valley and up the opposing side they preferred the broad shoulders of an arcade, and where a seven-foot door would have done well enough to enter their houses by they were content with nothing less than an arch of fifty. in all their work they were conscious of some business other than that immediately to hand, and therefore it is possible that their ruins will survive the establishment of our own time as they have survived that of the middle ages. in this wild place, at least, nothing remained of all that was done between their time and ours. these things did the sight on either side of the summit suggest to me, but chiefly there returned as i gazed the delicious thought that learned men, laborious and heavily endowed, had denied the _existence_ of this roman road. see with what manifold uses every accident of human life is crammed! here was a piece of pedantry and scepticism, which might make some men weep and some men stamp with irritation, and some men, from sheer boredom, fall asleep, but which fed in my own spirit a fountain of pure joy, as i considered carefully what kind of man it is who denies these things; the kind of way he walks; the kind of face he has; the kind of book he writes; the kind of publisher who chisels him; and the kind of way in which his works are bound. with every moment my elation grew greater and more impetuous, until at last i could not bear to sit any longer still, even upon so admirable a beast, nor to look down even at so rich a plain (though that was seen through the air of southern england), but turning over the downs i galloped home, and came in straight from the turf to my own ground--for what man would live upon a high road who could go through a gate right off the turf to his own steading and let the world go hang? and so did i. but as they brought me beer and bacon at evening, and i toasted the memory of things past, i said to myself: "oxford, cambridge, dublin, durham--you four great universities--you terrors of europe--that road is older than you: and meanwhile i drink to your continued healths, but let us have a little room ... air, there, give us air, good people. i stifle when i think of you." the onion-eater there is a hill not far from my home whence it is possible to see northward and southward such a stretch of land as is not to be seen from any eminence among those i know in western europe. southward the sea-plain and the sea standing up in a belt of light against the sky, and northward all the weald. from this summit the eye is disturbed by no great cities of the modern sort, but a dozen at least of those small market towns which are the delight of south england hold the view from point to point, from the pale blue downs of the island over, eastward, to the kentish hills. a very long way off, and near the sea-line, the high faint spire of that cathedral which was once the mother of all my county goes up without weight into the air and gathers round it the delicate and distant outlines of the landscape--as, indeed, its builders meant that it should do. in such a spot, on such a high watch-tower of england, i met, three days ago, a man. i had been riding my kind and honourable horse for two hours, broken, indeed, by a long rest in a deserted barn. i had been his companion, i say, for two hours, and had told him a hundred interesting things--to which he had answered nothing at all--when i took him along a path that neither of us yet had trod. i had not, i know; he had not (i think), for he went snorting and doubtfully. this path broke up from the kennels near waltham, and made for the high wood between gumber and no man's land. it went over dead leaves and quite lonely to the thick of the forest; there it died out into a vaguer and a vaguer trail. at last it ceased altogether, and for half an hour or so i pushed carefully, always climbing upwards, through the branches, and picked my way along the bramble-shoots, until at last i came out upon that open space of which i had spoken, and which i have known since my childhood. as i came out of the wood the south-west wind met me, full of the atlantic, and it seemed to me to blow from paradise. i remembered, as i halted and so gazed north and south to the weald below me, and then again to the sea, the story of that sultan who publicly proclaimed that he had possessed all power on earth, and had numbered on a tablet with his own hand each of his happy days, and had found them, when he came to die, to be seventeen. i knew what that heathen had meant, and i looked into my heart as i remembered the story, but i came back from the examination satisfied, for "so far," i said to myself, "this day is among my number, and the light is falling. i will count it for one." it was then that i saw before me, going easily and slowly across the downs, the figure of a man. he was powerful, full of health and easy; his clothes were rags; his face was open and bronzed. i came at once off my horse to speak with him, and, holding my horse by the bridle, i led it forward till we met. then i asked him whither he was going, and whether, as i knew these open hills by heart, i could not help him on his way. he answered me that he was in no need of help, for he was bound nowhere, but that he had come up off the high road on to the hills in order to get his pleasure and also to see what there was on the other side. he said to me also, with evident enjoyment (and in the accent of a lettered man), "this is indeed a day to be alive!" i saw that i had here some chance of an adventure, since it is not every day that one meets upon a lonely down a man of culture, in rags and happy. i therefore took the bridle right off my horse and let him nibble, and i sat down on the bank of the roman road holding the leather of the bridle in my hand, and wiping the bit with plucked grass. the stranger sat down beside me, and drew from his pocket a piece of bread and a large onion. we then talked of those things which should chiefly occupy mankind: i mean, of happiness and of the destiny of the soul. upon these matters i found him to be exact, thoughtful, and just. first, then, i said to him: "i also have been full of gladness all this day, and, what is more, as i came up the hill from waltham i was inspired to verse, and wrote it inside my mind, completing a passage i had been working at for two years, upon joy. but it was easy for me to be happy, since i was on a horse and warm and well fed; yet even for me such days are capricious. i have known but few in my life. they are each of them distinct and clear, so rare are they, and (what is more) so different are they in their very quality from all other days." "you are right," he said, "in this last phrase of yours.... they are indeed quite other from all the common days of our lives. but you were wrong, i think, in saying that your horse and clothes and good feeding and the rest had to do with these curious intervals of content. wealth makes the run of our days somewhat more easy, poverty makes them more hard--or very hard. but no poverty has ever yet brought of itself despair into the soul--the men who kill themselves are neither rich nor poor. still less has wealth ever purchased those peculiar hours. i also am filled with their spirit to-day, and god knows," said he, cutting his onion in two, so that it gave out a strong savour, "god knows i can purchase nothing." "then tell me," i said, "whence do you believe these moments come? and will you give me half your onion?" "with pleasure," he replied, "for no man can eat a whole onion; and as for that other matter, why i think the door of heaven is ajar from time to time, and that light shines out upon us for a moment between its opening and closing." he said this in a merry, sober manner; his black eyes sparkled, and his large beard was blown about a little by the wind. then he added: "if a man is a slave to the rich in the great cities (the most miserable of mankind), yet these days come to him. to the vicious wealthy and privileged men, whose faces are stamped hard with degradation, these days come; they come to you, you say, working (i suppose) in anxiety like most of men. they come to me who neither work nor am anxious so long as south england may freely import onions." "i believe you are right," i said. "and i especially commend you for eating onions; they contain all health; they induce sleep; they may be called the apples of content, or, again, the companion fruits of mankind." "i have always said," he answered gravely, "that when the couple of them left eden they hid and took away with them an onion. i am moved in my soul to have known a man who reveres and loves them in the due measure, for such men are rare." then he asked, with evident anxiety: "is there no inn about here where a man like me will be taken in?" "yes," i told him. "down under the combe at duncton is a very good inn. have you money to pay? will you take some of my money?" "i will take all you can possibly afford me," he answered in a cheerful, manly fashion. i counted out my money and found i had on me but s. d. "here is s. d.," i said. "thank you, indeed," he answered, taking the coins and wrapping them in a little rag (for he had no pockets, but only holes). "i wish," i said with regret, "we might meet and talk more often of many things. so much do we agree, and men like you and me are often lonely." he shrugged his shoulders and put his head on one side, quizzing at me with his eyes. then he shook his head decidedly, and said: "no, no--it is certain that we shall never meet again." and thanking me with great fervour, but briefly, he went largely and strongly down the escarpment of the combe to duncton and the weald; and i shall never see him again till the great day.... the return to england in calais harbour, it being still very early in the morning, about half-past five, i peered out to see how things were looking, for if that coast corresponded at all to ours, the tide should be making westerly by six o'clock that day--the ebb tide--and it was on the first of that tide that i should make the passage to england, for at sea you never can tell. at sea you never can tell, and you must take every inch the gods allow you. you will need that and more very often before evening. now, as i put my head out i saw that i could not yet start, for there was a thick white mist over everything, so that i could not even see the bowsprit of my own boat. everything was damp: the decks smelt of fog, and from the shore came sounds whose cause i could not see. looking over the iron bulwarks of the big english cargo ship, alongside of which i was moored, was a man with his head upon his folded arms. he told me that he thought the fog would lift; and so i waited, seeking no more sleep, but sitting up there in the drifting fog, and taking pleasure in a bugle call which the french call "la diane," and which they play to wake the soldiers. but in summer it wakes nobody, for all the world is waking long before. towards six the mist blew clean away before a little air from the north-east; it had come sharp over those miles and miles of sand dunes and flats which stretched away from gris-nez on to denmark. from gris-nez all the way to the sound there is no other hill; but coarse grass, wind-swept and flying sand. finding this wind, i very quickly set sail, and as i did not know the harbour i let down the peak of the mainsail that she might sail slowly, and crept along close to the eastern pier, for fear that when i got to the open work the westerly tide should drive me against the western pier; but there was no need for all this caution, since the tide was not yet making strongly. yet was i wise to beware, for if you give the strange gods of the sea one little chance they will take a hundred, and drown you for their pleasure. and sailing, if you sail in all weathers, is a perpetual game of skill against them, the heartiest and most hazardous game in the world. so then, when i had got well outside, i found what is called "a lump." the sea was jumbling up and down irregularly, as though great animals had just stopped fighting there. but whatever was the cause of it, this lump made it difficult to manage the boat i was in, for the air was still light and somewhat unsteady; sometimes within a point of north, and then again dropping and rising free within a point of east: on the whole, north-east. to windward the sea was very clear, but down towards the land there was a haze, and when i got to the black buoy which is three miles from calais, and marks the place where you should turn to go into the harbour, i could barely see the high land glooming through the weather, and calais belfry and lighthouse tower i could not see at all. i looked at my watch and saw it was seven, and immediately afterwards the wind became steady and true, and somewhat stronger, and work began. she would point very nearly north, and so i laid her for that course, though that would have taken me right outside the goodwins, for i knew that the tide was making westerly down the channel, ebbing away faster and faster, and that, like a man crossing a rapid river in a ferry-boat, i had to point up far above where i wanted to land, which was at dover, the nearest harbour. i sailed her, therefore, i say, as close as she would lie, and the wind rose. the wind rose, and for half an hour i kept her to it. she had no more sail than she needed; she heeled beautifully and strongly to the wind; she took the seas, as they ran more regular, with a motion of mastery. it was like the gesture of a horse when he bends his head back to his chest, arching his neck with pride as he springs upon our downs at morning. so set had the surging of the sea become that she rose and fell to it with rhythm, and the helm could be kept quite steady, and the regular splash of the rising bows and the little wisps of foam came in ceaseless exactitude like the marching of men, and in all this one mixed with the life of the sea. but before it was eight o'clock (and i had eaten nothing) the wind got stronger still, and i was anxious and gazed continuously into it, up to windward, seeing the white caps beginning on the tops of the seas, although the wind and tide were together. she heeled also much more, and my anxiety hardened with the wind, for the wind had strengthened by about half-past eight, so that it was very strong indeed, and she was plainly over-canvased, her lee rail under all the time and all the cordage humming; there it stood, and by the grace and mercy of god the wind increased no more, for its caprice might have been very different. then began that excellent game which it is so hard to play, but so good to remember, and in which all men, whether they admit it or not, are full of fear, but it is a fear so steeped in exhilaration that one would think the personal spirit of the sea was mingled with the noise of the air. for a whole great hour she roared and lifted through it still, taking the larger seas grandly, with disdain, as she had taken the smaller, and still over the buried lee rail the stream of the sea went by rejoicing and pouring, and the sheets and the weather runner trembled with the vigour of the charge, and on she went, and on. i was weary of the seas ahead (for each and individually they struck my soul as they came, even more strongly than they struck the bows--steep, curling, unintermittent, rank upon rank upon rank, as innumerable cavalry); still watching them, i say, i groped round with my hand behind the cabin door and pulled out brandy and bread, and drank brandy and ate bread, still watching the seas. and, as men are proud of their companions in danger, so i was proud to see the admirable lift and swing of that good boat, and to note how, if she slowed for a moment under the pounding, she recovered with a stride, rejoicing; and as for my fears, which were now fixed and considerable, i found this argument against them: that, though i could see nothing round me but the sea, yet soon i should be under the lee of the goodwins, for, though i could not exactly calculate my speed, and though in the haze beyond nothing appeared, it was certain that i was roaring very quickly towards the further shore. when, later, the sea grew confused and full of swirls and boiling, i said to myself: "this must be the tail of the goodwins." but it was, not. for, though i did not know it, the ebb of the great spring tide had carried me right away down channel, and there was not twelve feet of water under the keel, for the seething of the sea that i noticed came from the varne--the varne, that curious, long, steep hill, with its twin ridge close by, the colbert; they stand right up in the channel between france and england; they very nearly lift their heads above the waves. i passed over the crest of them, unknowing, into the deep beyond, and still the ship raced on. then, somewhat suddenly, so suddenly that i gave a cry, i saw right up above me, through what was now a thick haze, the cliffs of england, perhaps two miles away, and showing very faintly indeed, a bare outline upon the white weather. a thought ran into my mind with violence, how, one behind the other, beyond known things, beyond history, the men from whom i came had greeted this sight after winds like these and danger and the crossing of the narrow seas. i looked at my watch; it was ten o'clock, so that this crossing had taken three hours, and to see the land again like that was better than any harbour, and i knew that all those hours my mind had been at strain. i looked again at the vague cliffs narrowly, thinking them the south foreland, but as they cleared i saw to my astonishment that i had blown all down the straits, and that folkestone and the last walls of the chalk were before me.' the wind dropped; the sea went on uneasily, tumbling and rolling, but within a very little while--before eleven, i think--there was no breeze at all; and there i lay, with folkestone harbour not a mile away, but never any chance of getting there; and i whistled, but no wind came. i sat idle and admired the loneliness of the sea. till, towards one, a little draught of air blew slantwise from the land, and under it i crept to the smooth water within the stone arm of the breakwater, and here i let the anchor go, and settling everything, i slept. it is pleasant to remember these things. the valley of the rother there is in that part of england which is very properly called her eden (that centre of all good things and home of happy men, the county of sussex), there is, i say, in that exalted county a valley which i shall praise for your greater pleasure, because i know that it is too jealously guarded for any run of strangers to make it common, and because i am very sure that you may go and only make it the more delightful by your presence. it is the valley of the river rother; the sacred and fruitful river between the downs and the weald. now, here many travelling men, bicyclists even and some who visit for a livelihood, will think i mean the famous river rother that almost reaches the sea. the rother into which the foreigners sailed for so many hundred years, the river of the marshes, the river on which stands rye; the easy rother along whose deep meadows are the sloping kilns, the bright-tilted towns and the steep roads; the red rother that is fed by streams from the ironstone. this rother also all good men know and love, both those that come in for pleasure, strangers of kent, and those that have a distant birthright in east sussex, being born beyond ouse in the rape of bramber. but it is not this rother that i am telling of, though i would love to tell of it also--as indeed i would love to tell at length of all the rivers of sussex--the brede, the ouse, the adur, the cuckmere; all the streams that cut the chalk hills. but for this i have no space and you no patience. neither can i tell you of a thousand adventures and wonderful hazards along the hills and valley of this eastern rother; of how i once through a telescope on brightling hill saw the meet at battle, and of how it looked quite near; of how i leapt the river rother once, landing on the far side safely (which argues the river narrow or the leap tremendous); of how i poached in the wood of a friend who is still my friend; of how i rode a horse into robertsbridge; of the inn. all these things could i tell with growing fervour, and to all these would you listen with an increasing delight. but i must write of the river rother under petworth, the other rother in the west. why? because i started out so to do, and no man should let himself be led away by a word, or by any such little thing. let me therefore have done with this eastern river, far away from my home, a river at the end of long journeys, and speak of that other noble rother, the rother of quiet men, the valley that is like a shrine in england. many famous towns and villages stand in the valley of this river and even (some of them) upon its very banks. thus there are the three principal towns of this part, midhurst and petworth and pulborough: but these have been dealt with and written of in so many great books and by such a swarm of new men that i have no business further to describe their merits and antiquity. but this i will add to all that is known of them. midhurst takes its name from standing in the middle, for it is half-way between the open downs and the thick woods on the borders of surrey. petworth has a steeple that slopes to one side; not so much as chesterfield, but somewhat more than most steeples. pulborough stands upon a hill, and is famous for its corn-market, to which people come from far and near, from as far off as burpham or as close by as bury. all these noble towns have (as i said before) been written of in books, only no book that i know puts them all together and calls them "the valley of the rother." that is the title that such a book should have if it is to treat of the heart of west sussex, and i make no doubt that such a book would be read lovingly by many men. for the valley of the rother breeds men and is the cause of many delightful villages, all the homes of men. i know that cobden was born there, the last of the yeomen: i hope that cobbett lived here too. manning was here in his short married life; he lived at barlton (which foolish men call barlavington), under the old downs, where the steep woods make a hollow. in this valley also are fittleworth (the only place in england that rhymes with little worth); duncton, about which there is nothing to be said; burton, which is very old and has its church right in the grounds of the house; westburton, where the racehorses were; graffham, bignor, sutton, and i know not how many delightful hamlets. in the valley of the river rother no hurried men ever come, for it leads nowhere. they cross it now and then, and they forget it; but who, unless he be a son or a lover, has really known that plain? it leads nowhere: to the no man's land, the broken country by liss. it has in it no curious sight, but only beauty. the rich men in it (and thank heaven they are few) are of a reticent and homing kind, or (when the worst comes to the worst) they have estates elsewhere, and go north for their pleasure. foxes are hunted in the valley of the rother, but there are not very many. pheasants and partridges are shot, but i never heard of great bags; one animal indeed there is in profusion. the rabbit swarms and exults in this life of southern england. do you stalk him? he sits and watches you. do you hunt him with dogs? he thinks it a vast bother about a very little matter. do you ferret him? he dies, and rejoices to know that so many more will take his place. the rabbit is the sacred emblem of my river, and when we have a symbol, he shall be our symbol. he loves men and eats the things they plant, especially the tender shoots of young trees, wheat, and the choice roots in gardens. he only remains, and is happy all his little life in the valley from which we depart when our boyhood ends. the valley of the rother is made of many parts. there is the chalk of the southern down-land, the belt of the loam beneath it; then the curious country of sand, full of dells and dark with pine woods; then the luxurious meadows, which are open and full of cattle, colts, and even sheep; then the woods. it is, in a few miles, a little england. there are also large heaths--larger, you would think, than such a corner of the earth could contain; old elms and oaks; many wide parks; fish ponds; one trout stream and half a score of mills. there are men of many characters, but all happy, honest, good, witty, and hale. and when i have said all i could say of this delightful place (which indeed i think is set apart for the reward of virtue) i should not have given you a tithe of its prosperity and peace and beneficence. there is the picture of the valley of the river rother. it flows in a short and happy murmur from the confined hills by hindhead to the arun itself; but of the arun no one could write with any justice except at the expense of far more space and time than i have given me. if ever again we have a religion in the south country, we will have a temple to my darling valley. it shall be round, with columns and a wall, and there i will hang a wreath in thanksgiving for having known the river. the coronation my companion said to me that there was a doom over the day and the reign and the times, and that the turn of the nation had come. he felt it in the sky. the day had been troubled: from the forest ridge to the sea there was neither wind nor sun, but a dull, even heat oppressed the fields and the high downs under the uncertain, half-luminous confusion of grey clouds. it was as though a relief was being denied, and as though something inexorable had come into that air which is normally the softest and most tender in the world. the hours of the low tide were too silent. the little inland river was quite dead, the reeds beside it dry and motionless; even in the trees about it no leaves stirred. in the late afternoon, as the heat grew more masterful, a slight wind came out of the east. it was so faint and doubtful in quantity that one could not be certain, as one stood on the deserted shore, whether it blew from just off the land or from the sullen level of the sea. it followed along the line of the coast without refreshment and without vigour, even hotter than had been the still air out of which it was engendered. it did not do more than ruffle here and there the uneasy surface of our sea; that surface moved a little, but with a motion borrowed from nothing so living or so natural as the wind. it was a dull memory of past storms, or perhaps that mysterious heaving from the lower sands which sailors know, but which no silence has yet explained. in such an influence of expectation and of presage--an influence having in it that quality which seemed to the ancients only fate, but to us moderns a something evil--in the strained attention for necessary and immovable things that cannot hear and cannot pity--the hour came for me to reascend the valley to my home. already upon the far and confused horizon two or three motionless sails that had been invisible began to show white against a rising cloud. this cloud had not the definition of sudden conquering storms, proper to the summer, and leaving a blessing behind their fury. the edge of it against the misty and brooding sky had all the vagueness of smoke, and as it rose up out of the sea its growth was so methodical and regular as to disconnect it wholly in one's mind from the little fainting breeze that still blew, from rain, or from any daily thing. it advanced with the fall of the evening till it held half the sky. there it seemed halted for a while, and lent by contrast an unnatural brightness to the parched hills beneath it; for now the sun having set, we had come north of the gap, and were looking southward upon that spectacle as upon the climax of a tragedy. but there was nothing of movement or of sound. no lightning, no thunder; and soon the hot breath of the afternoon had itself disappeared before the advance of this silent pall. the night of june to the north was brighter than twilight, and still southward, a deliberate spectacle, stood this great range of vague and menacing cloud, shutting off the sky and towering above the downs, so that it seemed permissible to ascribe to those protecting gods of our valley a burden of fear. just when all that scene had been arranged to an adjustment that no art could have attained, the first great fire blazed out miles and miles to the west, somewhere above midhurst: i think near no man's land. then we saw, miles to the east again, a glare over mount harry, the signal of lewes, and one after another all the heights took it up in a chain--above bramber, above poynings, above wiston, on amberley mount (i think), certainly on the noble sweep of bury. even in those greater distances which the horizon concealed they were burning and answering each other into hampshire: perhaps on the beaten grass of the high forts above portsmouth, and to the left away to the flat rye level, and to the eastern rother; for we saw the line of red angry upon that cloud which had come to receive it, an endless line which suddenly called up what one had heard old men say of the prairie fires. it was easy, without covering the face and without abstracting the mind from the whirl of modern circumstance, it was easy, merely looking at the thing, to be seized with an impression of disaster. the stars were so pale on the lingering white light of the pure north, the smoky cloud so deep and heavy and steadfast and low above the hills, the fire so near to it, so sharp against it, and so huge, that the awe and sinister meaning of conflagrations dominated the impression of all the scene. there arose in the mind that memory which associates such a glare and the rising and falling fury of flames with sacrifice or with vengeance, or with the warning of an enemy's approach, or with the mark of his conquest; for with such things our race (for how many thousand years!) has watched the fires upon the hills far off. it touched one as does the reiterated note of a chaunt; if not with an impression of doom, at least with that of calamity. when the fires had died down to a sullen glow, and the men watching them had gone home under the weight of what they had seen, the storm broke and occupied the whole sky. a very low wind rose and a furious rain fell. it became suddenly cold; there was thunder all over the weald, and the lightning along the unseen crest of the downs answered the lightning above the forest. the man of the desert i lay once alone upon the crest of a range whose name i have never seen spelt, but which is pronounced "haueedja," from whence a man can see right away for ever the expanse of the sahara. it is well known that mount atlas and those inhabited lands where there is a sufficient rainfall and every evidence of man's activity, the province of africa, the plateaux which are full of the memories of rome, end abruptly towards the sun, and are bounded by a sort of cliff which falls sheer upon the desert. on the summit of this cliff i lay and looked down upon the sand. it was impressed upon my mind that here was an influence quite peculiar, not to be discovered in any other climate of the world; that all europe received that influence, and yet that no one in europe had accepted it save for his hurt. god forbid that any man should pretend that the material environment of mankind determines the destiny of mankind. those who say such things have abandoned the domain of intelligence. but it is true that the soul eagerly seeks for and receives the impressions of the world about it, and will be moved to a different creed or to a different poetry, according as the body perceives the sea or the hills or the rainless and inhuman places which lie to the south of europe; and certainly the souls of those races which have inhabited the great zone of calms between the trade winds and the tropics, those races which have felt nothing beneficent, but only something awful and unfamiliar in the earth and sky, have produced a peculiar philosophy. it is to be remarked that this philosophy is not atheist; those races called semitic have never denied either the presence or the personality of god. it is, on the contrary, their boast that they have felt his presence, his unity, and his personality in a manner more pointed than have the rest of mankind; and those of us who pretend to find in the desert a mere negation, are checked by the thought that within the desert the most positive of religions have appeared. indeed, to deny god has been the sad privilege of very few in any society of men; and those few, if it be examined, have invariably been men in whom the power to experience was deadened, usually by luxury, sometimes by distress. it is not atheist; but whatever it is, it is hurtful, and has about it something of the despair and strength of atheism. consider the book of job; consider the arab mohammedan; consider the fierce heresies which besieged the last of the romans in this province of africa, and which tortured the short history of the vandals; consider the modern tragedies which develop among the french soldiers to the north and to the south of this wide belt of sand; and you will see that the thing which the sahara and its prolongation produce is something evil, or at least to us evil. there is in the idea running through the mind of the desert an intensity which may be of some value to us if it be diluted by a large admixture of european tradition, or if it be mellowed and transformed by a long process of time, but which, if we take it at its source and inspire ourselves directly from it, warps and does hurt to our european sense. it may be taken that whatever form truth takes among men will be the more perfect in proportion as the men who receive that form are more fully men. the whole of truth can never be comprehended by anything finite; and truth as it appears to this species or to that is most true when the type which receives it is the healthiest and the most normal of its own kind. the truth as it is to men is most true when the men who receive it are the healthiest and the most normal of men. we in europe are the healthiest and most normal of our kind. it is to us that the world must look for its headship; we have the harbours, the continual presence of the sea through all our polities; we have that high differentiation between the various parts of our unity which makes the whole of europe so marvellous an organism; we alone change without suffering decay. to the truth as europe accepts it i cannot but bow down; for if that is not the truth, then the truth is not to be found upon earth. but there conies upon us perpetually that "wind of africa"; and it disturbs us. as i lay that day, a year ago, upon the crest of the mountain, my whole mind was possessed with the influence of such a gale. day after day, after day, the silent men of the desert go forward across its monotonous horizons; their mouths are flanked with those two deep lines of patience and of sorrow which you may note to-day in all the ghettoes of europe; their smile, when they smile, is restrained by a sort of ironic strength in the muscles of the face. their eyes are more bright than should be eyes of happy men; they are, as it were, inured to sterility; there is nothing in them of that repose which we westerners acquire from a continual contemplation of deep pastures and of innumerable leaves; they are at war, not only among themselves, but against the good earth; in a silent and powerful way they are also _afraid_. you may note that their morals are an angry series of unexplained commands, and that their worship does not include that fringe of half-reasonable, wholly pleasant things which the true worship of a true god must surely contain. all is as clear-cut as their rocks, and as unfruitful as their dry valleys, and as dreadful as their brazen sky; "thou shalt not" this, that, and the other. their god is jealous; he is vengeful; he is (awfully present and real to them!) a vision of that demon of which we in our happier countries make a quaint legend. he catches men out and trips them up; he has but little relation to the father of christian men, who made the downs of south england and the high clouds above them. the good uses of the world are forgotten in the desert, or fiercely denied. love is impure; so are birth, and death, and eating, and every other necessary part in the life of a man. and yet, though all these things are impure, there is no lustration. we also feel in a genial manner that this merry body of ours requires apology; but those others to south of us have no toleration in their attitude; they are awfully afraid. i have continually considered, as i have read my history, the special points in which their influence is to be observed in the development of europe. it takes the form of the great heresies; the denial of the importance of matter (sometimes of its existence); the denial that anything but matter exists; the denial of the family; the denial of ownership; the over-simplicity which is peculiarly a desert product runs through all such follies, as does the rejection of a central and governing power upon earth, which is again just such a rebellion as the desert would bring. i say the great heresies are the main signs of that influence; but it is in small and particular matters that you may see its effect most clearly. for instance, the men of the desert are afraid of wine. they have good reason; if you drink wine in the desert you die. in the desert, a man can drink only water; and, when he gets it, it is like diamonds to him, or, better still, it is like rejuvenation. all our long european legends which denounce and bring a curse upon the men who are the enemies of wine, are legends inspired by our hatred of the thing which is not europe, and that bounds europe, and is the enemy of europe. so also with their attachment to numbers. for instance, the seventh day must have about it something awful and oppressive; the fast must be seven times seven days, and so forth. we europeans have always smiled in our hearts at these things. we would take this day or that, and make up a scheme of great and natural complexity, full of interlacing seasons; and nearly all our special days were days of rejoicing. we carried images about our fields further to develop and enhance the nature of our religion; we dedicated trees and caves; and the feasts of one place were not the feasts of another. but to the men of the desert mere unfruitful number was a god. then again, the word, especially the written word, the document, overshadows their mind. it has always had for them a power of something mysterious. to engrave characters was to cast a spell; and when they seek for some infallible authority upon earth, they can only discover it in the written characters traced in a sacred book. all their expression of worship is wrought through symbols. with us, the symbol is clearly retained separate from that for which it stands, though hallowed by that for which it stands. with them the symbol is the whole object of affection. on this account you will find in the men of the desert a curious panic in the presence of statues, which is even more severe than the panic they suffer in the presence of wine. it is as though they said to themselves: "take this away; if you leave it here i shall worship it." they are subject to possession. side by side with this fear of the graphic representation of men or of animals, you will find in them an incapacity to represent them well. the art of the iconoclasts is either childish, weak, or, at its strongest, evil. and especially among all these symptoms of the philosophy from which they suffer is their manner of comprehending the nature of creation. of creation in any form they are afraid; and the infinite creator is on that account present to them almost as though he were a man, for when we are afraid of things we see them very vividly indeed. on this account you will find in the legends of the men of the desert all manner of fantastic tales incomprehensible to us europeans, wherein god walks, talks, eats, and wrestles. nor is there any trace in this attitude of theirs of parable or of allegory. that mixture of the truth, and of a subtle unreal glamour which expands and confirms the truth, is a mixture proper to our hazy landscapes, to our drowsy woods, and to our large vision. we, who so often see from our high village squares soft and distant horizons, mountains now near, now very far, according as the weather changes: we, who are perpetually feeling the transformation of the seasons, and who are immersed in a very ocean of manifold and mysterious life, we need, create, and live by legends. the line between the real and imaginary is vague and penumbral to us. we are justly influenced by our twilights, and our imagination teaches us. how many deities have we not summoned up to inhabit groves and lakes--special deities who are never seen, but yet have never died? to the men of the desert, doubt and beauty mingled in this fashion seemed meaningless. that which they worship they see and almost handle. in the dreadful silence which surrounds them, their illusions turn into convictions--the haunting voices are heard; the forms are seen. of two further things, native to us, their starved experience has no hold; of nationality (or if the term be preferred, of "the city") and of what we have come to call "chivalry." the two are but aspects of one thing without a name; but that thing all europeans possess, nor is it possible for us to conceive of a patriotism unless it is a patriotism which is chivalric. in our earliest stories, we honour men fighting odds. our epics are of small numbers against great; humility and charity are in them, lending a kind of magic strength to the sword. the faith did not bring in that spirit, but rather completed it. our boundaries have always been intensely sacred to us. we are not passionate to cross them save for the sake of adventure; but we are passionate to defend them. in all that enormous story of rome, from the dim etrurian origins right up to the end of her thousand years, the wall of the town was more sacred than the limits of the empire. the men of the desert do not understand these things. they are by compulsion nomad, and for ever wandering; they strike no root; their pride is in mere expansion; they must colonise or fail; nor does any man die for a city. as i looked from the mountain i thought the desert which i had come so far to see had explained to me what hitherto i had not understood in the mischances of europe. i remained for a long while looking out upon the glare. but when i came down again, northward from the high sandstone hill, and was in the fields again near running water, and drinking wine from a cup carved with roman emblems, i began to wonder whether the desert had not put before my mind, as they say it can do before the eye of the traveller, a mirage. is there such an influence? are there such men? the departure once, in barbary, i grew tired of unusual things, especially of palms, and desired to return to europe and the things i knew; so i went down from the hills to the sea coast, and when after two days i had reached the railway, i took a train for algiers and reached that port at evening. from algiers it is possible to go at once and for almost any sum one chooses to any part of the world. the town is on a sharp slope of a theatre of hills, and in the quiet harbour below it there are all sorts of ships, but mostly steamships, moored with their sterns towards the quay. for there is no tide here, and the ships can lie quite still. i sat upon a wall of the upper town and considered how each of these ships were going to some different place, and how pleasant it was to roam about the world. behind the ships, along the stone quays, were a great number of wooden huts, of offices built, into archways, of little houses, booths, and dens, in each of which you could take your passage to some place or other. "now," said i to myself, "now is the time to be free." for one never feels master of oneself unless one is obeying no law, plan, custom, trend, or necessity, but simply spreading out at ease and occupying the world. in this also aristotle was misled by fashion, or was ill-informed by some friend of his, or was, perhaps, lying for money when he said that liberty was obedience to a self-made law; for the most distant hint of law is odious to liberty. true, it is more free to obey a law of one's own making than of some one else's; just as if a man should give himself a punch in the eye it would be less hurtful and far less angering than one given by a passer-by; yet to suffer either would not be a benefit of freedom. liberty cannot breathe where the faintest odour of regulation is to be discovered, but only in that ether whose very nature is largeness. oh! diviner air! how few have drunk you, and in what deep draughts have i! i had a great weight of coined, golden, metallic money all loose in my pocket. there was no call upon me nor any purpose before me. i spent an hour looking down upon the sea and the steamships, and taking my pick out of all the world. one thing, however, guided me, which was this: that desire, to be satisfied at all, must be satisfied at once; and of the many new countries i might seek that would most attract me whose ship was starting soonest. so i looked round for mooring cables in the place of anchor chains, for blue peter, for smoke from funnels, for little boats coming and going, and for all that shows a steamboat to be off; when i saw, just behind a large new boat in such a condition of bustle, a sign in huge yellow letters staring on a bright black ground, which said, "to the balearic islands, eight shillings"; underneath, in smaller yellow letters, was written: "gentlemen the honourable travellers are warned that they must pay for any food they consume." when i had read this notice i said to myself: "i will go to the balearic islands, of which the rich have never heard. i, poor and unencumbered, will go and visit these remote places, which have in their time received all the influences of the world, and which yet have no history; for i am tired of this africa, where so many men are different from me." as i said this to myself i saw a little picture in my mind of three small islands standing in the middle of the sea, quite alone, and inhabited by happy men; but this picture, as it always is with such pictures, was not at all the same as what i saw when next morning the islands rose along the north to which we steered. i went down to the quay by some large stone steps which an englishman had built many years ago, and i entered the office above which this great sign was raised. within was a tall man of doubtful race, smoking a cigarette made of loose paper, and gazing kindly at the air. he was full of reveries. of this man i asked when the boat would be starting. he told me it started in half an hour, a little before the setting of the sun. so i bought a ticket for eight shillings, upon which it was clearly printed in two languages that i had bound myself to all manner of things by the purchase, and especially that i might not go below, but must sit upon deck all night; nevertheless, i was glad to hold that little bit of printed prose, for it would enable me to reach the balearic islands, which for all other men are names in a dream. i then went up into the town of algiers, and was careful to buy some ham from a jew, some wine from a mohammedan, and some bread and chocolate from a very indifferent christian. after that i got aboard. as i came over the side i heard the sailors, stokers, and people all talking to each other in low tones, and i at once recognised the tongue called catalan. i had heard this sort of latin in many places, some lonely and some populous. i had heard it once from a chemist at perpignan who dressed a wound of mine, and this was the first time i heard it. very often after in the valleys of the pyrenees, in the cerdagne, and especially in andorra, hundreds of men had spoken to me in catalan. at urgel, that notable city where there is only one shop and where the streets are quite narrow and moorish, a woman and six or seven men had spoken catalan to me for nearly one hour: it was in a cellar surrounded by great barrels, and i remember it well. so, also, on the river noguera, coming up again into the hills, a girl who took the toll at the wooden bridge had spoken catalan to me. but none of these had i ever answered so that they could understand, and on this account i was very grieved to hear the catalan tongue, though i remembered that if i spoke to them with ordinary spanish words or in french with a strong southern accent they would usually have some idea of what i was saying. as the evening fell the cables were slipped without songs, and with great dignity, rapidity, and order the ship was got away. i knew a man once, a seafaring man, a scotchman, with whom i travelled on a very slow old boat in the atlantic, who told me that the northern people of europe were bravest in a unexpected danger, but the southern in a danger long foreseen. he said he had known many of both kinds, and had served under them and commanded them. he said that in sudden accident the northerner was the more reliable man, but that if an act of great danger had to be planned and coolly achieved, then the southerner was strongest in doing what he had to do. he said that in taking the ground he would rather have a northern, but in bringing in a short ship a southern crew. he was a man who observed closely, and never said a thing because he had read it. indeed, he did not read, and he had in a little hanging shelf above his bunk only four or five tattered books, and even these were magazines. i remembered his testimony now as i watched these catalans letting the ship go free, and i believed it, comparing it with history and the things i had myself seen. they did everything with such regularity and so silently that it was a different deck from what one would have had in the heave of the channel. with normans or bretons, or cornishmen or men of kent, but especially with men from london river, there would have been all sorts of cursing and bellowing, and they could not have touched a rope without throwing themselves into attitudes of violence. but these men took the sea quite quietly, nor could you tell from their faces which was rich and which was poor. it was not till the ship was out throbbing swiftly over the smooth sea and darkness had fallen that they began to sing. then those of them who were not working gathered together with a stringed instrument forward and sang of pity and of death. one of them said to me, "knight, can your grace sing?" i told him that i could sing, certainly, but that my singing was unpleasing, and that i only knew foreign songs. he said that singing was a great solace, and desired to hear a song of my own country. so i sang them a song out of sussex, to which they listened in deep silence, and when it was concluded their leader snapped and twanged at the strings again and began another song about the riding of horses in the hills. so we passed the short night until the sky upon our quarter grew faintly pale and the little wind that rises before morning awakened the sea. the idea of a pilgrimage a pilgrimage is, of course, an expedition to some venerated place to which a vivid memory of sacred things experienced, or a long and wonderful history of human experience in divine matters, or a personal attraction affecting the soul impels one. this is, i say, its essence. so a pilgrimage may be made to the tomb of descartes, in paris, or it may be a little walk uphill to a neighbouring and beloved grave, or a modern travel, even in luxury, on the impulse to see something that greatly calls one. but there has always hung round the idea of a pilgrimage, with all people and at all times--i except those very rare and highly decadent generations of history in which no pilgrimages are made, nor any journeys, save for curiosity or greed--there has always hung round it, i say, something more than the mere objective. just as in general worship you will have noble gowns, vivid colour, and majestic music (symbols, but necessary symbols of the great business you are at); so, in this particular case of worship, clothes, as it were, and accoutrements, gather round one's principal action. i will visit the grave of a saint or of a man whom i venerate privately for his virtues and deeds, but on my way i wish to do something a little difficult to show at what a price i hold communion with his resting-place, and also on toy way i will see all i can of men and things; for anything great and worthy is but an ordinary thing transfigured, and if i am about to venerate a humanity absorbed into the divine, so it behoves me on my journey to it to enter into and delight in the divine that is hidden in everything. thus i may go upon a pilgrimage with no pack and nothing but a stick and my clothes, but i must get myself into the frame of mind that carries an invisible burden, an eye for happiness and suffering, humour, gladness at the beauty of the world, a readiness for raising the heart at the vastness of a wide view, and especially a readiness to give multitudinous praise to god; for a man that goes on a pilgrimage does best of all if he starts out (i say it of his temporal object only) with the heart of a wanderer, eager for the world as it is, forgetful of maps or descriptions, but hungry for real colours and men and the seeming of things. this desire for reality and contact is a kind of humility, this pleasure in it a kind of charity. it is surely in the essence of a pilgrimage that all vain imaginations are controlled by the greatness of our object. thus, if a man should go to see the place where (as they say) st. peter met our lord on the appian way at dawn, he will not care very much for the niggling of pedants about this or that building, or for the rhetoric of posers about this or that beautiful picture. if a thing in his way seem to him frankly ugly he will easily treat it as a neutral, forget it and pass it by. if, on the contrary, he find a beautiful thing, whether done by god or by man, he will remember and love it. this is what children do, and to get the heart of a child is the end surely of any act of religion. in such a temper he will observe rather than read, and though on his way he cannot do other than remember the names of places, saying, "why, these are the alps of which i have read! here is florence, of which i have heard so many rich women talk!" yet he will never let himself argue and decide or put himself, so to speak, before an audience in his own mind--for that is pride which all of us moderns always fall into. he will, on the contrary, go into everything with curiosity and pleasure, and be a brother to the streets and trees and to all the new world he finds. the alps that he sees with his eyes will be as much more than the names he reads about, the florence of his desires as much more than the florence of sickly-drawing-rooms; as beauty loved is more than beauty heard of, or as our own taste, smell, hearing, touch and sight are more than the vague relations of others. nor does religion exercise in our common life any function more temporarily valuable than this, that it makes us be sure at least of realities, and look very much askance at philosophies and imaginaries and academic whimsies. look, then, how a pilgrimage ought to be nothing but a nobler kind of travel, in which, according to our age and inclination, we tell our tales, or draw our pictures, or compose our songs. it is a very great error, and one unknown before our most recent corruptions, that the religious spirit should be so superficial and so self-conscious as to dominate our method of action at special times and to be absent at others. it is better occasionally to travel in one way or another to some beloved place (or to some place wonderful and desired for its associations), haunted by our mission, yet falling into every ordinary levity, than to go about a common voyage in a chastened and devout spirit. i fear this is bad theology, and i propound it subject to authority. but, surely, if a man should say, "i will go to redditch to buy needles cheap," and all the way take care to speak no evil of his neighbour, to keep very sober, to be punctual in his accounts, and to say his regular prayers with exactitude, though that would be a good work, yet if he is to be a _pilgrim_ (and the church has a hundred gates), i would rather for the moment that he went off in a gay, tramping spirit, not oversure of his expenses, not very careful of all he said or did, but illuminated and increasingly informed by the great object of his voyage, which is here not to buy or sell needles, or what not, but to loose the mind and purge it in the ultimate contemplation of something divine. there is, indeed, that kind of pilgrimage which some few sad men undertake because their minds are overburdened by a sin or tortured with some great care that is not of their own fault. these are excepted from the general rule, though even to these a very human spirit comes by the way, and the adventures of inns and foreign conversations broaden the world for them and lighten their burden. but this kind of pilgrimage is rare and special, having its peculiar virtues. the common sort (which how many men undertake under another name!) is a separate and human satisfaction of a need, the fulfilling of an instinct in us, the realisation of imagined horizons, the reaching of a goal. for whoever yet that was alive reached an end and could say he was satisfied? yet who has not desired so to reach an end and to be satisfied? well, pilgrimage is for the most a sort of prefiguring or rehearsal. a man says: "i will play in show (but a show stiffened with a real and just object) at that great part which is all we can ever play. here i start from home, and there i reach a goal, and on the way i laugh and watch, sing and work. now i am at ease and again hampered; now poor, now rich, weary towards the end and at last arrived at that end. so my great life is, and so this little chapter shall be." thus he packs up the meaning of life into a little space to be able to look at it closely, as men carry with them small locket portraits of their birthplace or of those they love. if a pilgrimage is all this, it is evident that however careless, it must not be untroublesome. it would be a contradiction of pilgrimage to seek to make the journey short and rapid, merely consuming the mind for nothing, as is our modern habit; for they seem to think nowadays that to remain as near as possible to what one was at starting, and to one's usual rut, is the great good of travel (as though a man should run through the _iliad_ only to note the barbarous absurdity of the greek characters, or through catullus for the sake of discovering such words as were like enough to english). that is not the spirit of a pilgrimage at all. the pilgrim is humble and devout, and human and charitable, and ready to smile and admire; therefore he should comprehend the whole of his way, the people in it, and the hills and the clouds, and the habits of the various cities. and as to the method of doing this, we may go bicycling (though that is a little flurried) or driving (though that is luxurious and dangerous, because it brings us constantly against servants and flattery); but the best way of all is on foot, where one is a man like any other man, with the sky above one, and the road beneath, and the world on every side, and time to see all. so also i designed to walk, and did, when i visited the tombs of the apostles. the arena it was in paris, in his room on the hill of the university, that a traveller woke and wondered what he should do with his day. in some way--i cannot tell how--ephemeral things had captured his mind in the few hours he had already spent in the city. there is no civilisation where the various parts stand so separate as they do with the french. you may live in paris all your life and never suspect that there is a garrison of eighty thousand men within call. you may spend a year in a provincial town and never hear that the large building you see daily is a bishop's palace. or you may be the guest of the bishop for a month, and remain under the impression that somewhere, hidden away in the place, there is a powerful clique of governing atheists whom, somehow, you never run across. and so this traveller, who knew paris like his pocket, and had known it since he could speak plain, had managed to gather up in this particular visit all the impressions which are least characteristic of the town. he had dined with a friend at pousset's; he had passed the evening at the exhibition, and he had had a bare touch of the real thing in the rue de tournon; but even there it was in the company of foreigners. therefore, i repeat, he woke up next morning wondering what he should do, for the veneer of paris is the thinnest in the world, and he had exhausted it in one feverish day. luckily for him, the room in which he lay was french, and had been french for a hundred years. you looked out of the window into a sky cut by the tall mansard roofs of the eighteenth century; and over the stones of what had been the scotch college you could see below you at the foot of the hill all the higher points of the island--especially the sainte chapelle and the vast towers of the cathedral. then it suddenly struck him that the air was full of bells. now, it is a curious thing, and one that every traveller will bear me out in, that you associate a country place with the sound of bells, but a capital never. caen is noisy enough and rouen big enough, one would think, to drown the memory of music; yet any one who has lived in his normandy remembers their perpetual bells; and as for the admirable town of chinon, where no one ever goes, i believe it is ringing island itself. but paris one never thinks of as a place of bells. and yet there are bells enough there to take a man right into the past, and from there through fairyland to hell and out and back again. if i were writing of the bells, i could make you a list of all the famous bells, living and dead, that haunt the city, and the tale of what they have done would be a history of france. the bell of the st. bartholomew over against the louvre, the tocsin of the hotel de ville that rang the knell of the monarchy, the bell of st. julien that is as old as the university, the old bourdon of notre dame that first rang when st. louis brought in the crown of thorns, and the peal that saluted napoleon, and the new bourdon that is made of the guns of sebastopol, and the savoyarde up on montmartre, a new bell much larger than the rest. this morning the air was full of them. they came up to the height on which the traveller lay listening; they came clear and innumerable over the distant surge of the streets; he spent an hour wondering at such an unusual parliament and general council of bells. then he said to himself: "it must be some great feast of the church." he was in a world he had never known before. he was like a man who gets into a strange country in a dream and follows his own imagination instead of suffering the pressure of outer things; or like a boy who wanders by a known river till he comes to unknown gardens. so anxious was he to take possession at once of this discovery of his that he went off hurriedly without eating or drinking, thinking only of what he might find. he desired to embrace at one sight all that paris was doing on a day which was full of st. louis and of resurrection. the thoughts upon thoughts that flow into the mind from its impression, as water creams up out of a stone fountain at a river head, disturbed him, swelling beyond the possibility of fulfilment. he wished to see at once the fashionables in st. clotilde and the greek uniates at st. julien, and the empty sorbonne and the great crowd of boys at stanislas; but what he was going to see never occurred to him, for he thought he knew paris too well to approach the cathedral. notre dame is jealously set apart for special and well-advertised official things. if you know the official world you know the great church, and unless some great man had died, or some victory had been won, you would never go there to see how paris took its religion. no midnight mass is said in it; for the lovely carols of the middle ages you must go to st. gervais, and for the pomp of the counter-reformation to the madeleine, for soldiers to st. augustin, for pilgrims to st. etienne. therefore no one would, ever have thought of going to the cathedral on this day, when an instinct and revelation of paris at prayer filled the mind. nevertheless, the traveller's feet went, of their own accord, towards the seven bridges, because the island draws all paris to it, and was drawing him along with the rest. he had meant perhaps to go the way that all the world has gone since men began to live on this river, and to follow up the roman way across the seine--a vague intention of getting a mass at st. merry or st. laurent. but he was going as a dream sent him, without purpose or direction. the sun was already very hot and the parvis was blinding with light when he crossed the little bridge. then he noticed that the open place had dotted about it little groups of people making eastward. the parvis is so large that you could have a multitude scattered in it and only notice that the square was not deserted. there were no more than a thousand, perhaps, going separately to notre dame, and a thousand made no show in such a square. but when he went in through the doors he saw there something he had never seen before, and that he thought did not exist. it was as though the vague interior visions of which the morning had been so full had taken on reality. you may sometimes see in modern picture galleries an attempt to combine the story from which proceeds the nourishing flame of christianity with the crudities and the shameful ugliness of our decline. thus, with others, a picture of our lord and mary magdalen; all the figures except that of our lord were dressed in the modern way. i remember another of our lord and the little children, where the scene is put into a village school. now, if you can imagine (which it is not easy to do) such an attempt to be successful, untouched by the love of display and eccentricity, and informing--as it commonly pretends to inform--our time with an idea, then you will understand what the traveller saw that morning in notre dame. the church seemed the vastest cavern that had ever been built for worship. coming in from the high morning, the half-light alone, with which we always connect a certain majesty and presence, seemed to have taken on amplitude as well. the incense veiled what appeared to be an infinite lift of roof, and the third great measurement--the length of nave that leads like a forest ride to the lights of the choir--were drawn out into an immeasurable perspective by reason of a countless crowd of men and women divided by the narrow path of the procession. so full was this great place that a man moved slowly and with difficulty, edging through such a mass of folk as you may find at holiday time in a railway station, or outside a theatre--never surely before was a church like this, unless, indeed, some very rich or very famous man happened to be gracing it. but here to-day, for nothing but the function proper to the feast, the cathedral was paved and floored with human beings. in the galilee there was a kind of movement so that a man could get up further, and at last the traveller found a place to stand in just on the edge of the open gangway, at the very end of the nave. he peered up this, and saw from the further end, near the altar, the head of the procession approaching, which was (in his fancy of that morning) like the line of the faith, still living and returning in a perpetual circle to revivify the world. moreover, there was in the advent of the procession a kind of climax. as it came nearer, the great crowd moved more quickly towards it; children were lifted up, and by one of sully's wide pillars a group of three young soldiers climbed on a rail to see the great sight better. the cardinal-archbishop, very old and supported by his priests, half walked and half tottered down the length of the people; his head, grown weary with age, barely supported the mitre, from which great jewels, false or true, were flashing. in his hand he had a crozier that was studded in the same way with gems, and that seemed to be made of gold; the same hands had twisted the metal of it as had hammered the hinges of the cathedral doors. certainly there here appeared one of the resurrections of europe. the matter of life seemed to take on a fuller stuff and to lift into a dimension above that in which it ordinarily moves. the thin, narrow, and unfruitful experience of to-day and yesterday was amplified by all the lives that had made our life, and the blood of which we are only a last expression, the race that is older even than rome seemed in this revelation of continuity to be gathered up into one intense and passionate moment. the pagan altar of tiberius, the legend of dionysius, the whole circle of the wars came into this one pageant, and the old man in his office and his blessing was understood by all the crowd before him to transmit the centuries. a rich woman thrust a young child forward, and he stopped and stooped with difficulty to touch its hair. as he approached the traveller it was as though there had come great and sudden news to him, or the sound of unexpected and absorbing music. the procession went on and closed; the high mass followed; it lasted a very long time, and the traveller went out before the crowd had moved and found himself again in the glare of the sun on the parvis. he went over the bridge to find his eating-shop near the archives, and eat the first food of that day, thinking as he went that certainly there are an infinity of lives side by side in our cities, and each ignores the rest; and yet, that to pass from what we know of these to what we do not--though it is the most wonderful journey in the world--is one that no one undertakes unless accident or a good fortune pushes him on. he desired to make another such journey. he came back to find me in london, and spoke to me of paris as of a city newly discovered: as i listened i thought i saw an arena. in a plain of the north, undistinguished by great hills, open to the torment of the sky, the gods had traced an arena wherein were to be fought out the principal battles of a later age. * * * * * spirits lower than the divine, spirits intermediate, have been imagined by men wiser than ourselves to have some power over the world--a power which we might vanquish in a special manner, but still a power. to such conceptions the best races of europe cling; upon such a soil are grown the legends that tell us most about our dark, and yet enormous, human fate. these intermediate spirits have been called in all the older creeds "the gods." it is in the nature of the church to frown upon these dreams; but i, as i listened to him, saw clearly that plain wherein the gods had marked out an arena for mankind. it was oval, as should be a theatre for any show, with heights around it insignificant, but offering a vantage ground whence could be watched the struggle in the midst. there was a sacred centre--an island and a mount--and, within the lines, so great a concourse of gladiatorial souls as befits the greatest of spectacles. i say, i do not know how far such visions are permitted, nor how far the right reason of the church condemns them; but the dream returned to me very powerfully, recalling my boyhood, when the traveller told me his story. i also therefore went and caught the fresh gale of the stream of the seine in flood, and saw the many roofs of paris quite clear after the rain, and read the writings of the men i mixed with and heard the noise of the city. * * * * * it is not upon the paltry level of negations or of decent philosophies, it is in the action and hot mood of creative certitudes that the french battle is engaged. the little sophists are dumb and terrified, their books are quite forgotten. i myself forgot (in those few days by that water and in that city) the thin and ineffectual bodies of ignorant men who live quite beyond any knowledge of such fires. the printed things which tired and poor writers put down for pay no longer even disturbed me; the reflections, the mere phantasms of reality, with which in a secluded measure we please our intellect, faded. i was like a man who was in the centre of two lines that meet in war; to such a man this fellow's prose on fighting and that one's verse, this theory of strategy, or that essay upon arms, are not for one moment remembered. here (in the narrow street which i knew and was now following) st. bernard had upheld the sacrament in the shock of the first awakening--in that twelfth century, when julian stirred in his sleep. beyond the bridge, in roman walls that still stand carefully preserved, the church of gaul had sustained athanasius, and determined the course of the christian centuries. i had passed upon my way the vast and empty room where had been established the terror; where had been forced by an angry and compelling force the full return of equal laws upon europe. who could remember in such an air the follies and the pottering of men who analyse and put in categories and explain the follies of wealth and of old age? good lord, how little the academies became! i remembered the phrases upon one side and upon the other which still live in the stones of the city, carved and deep, but more lasting than are even the letters of their inscription. i remembered the defiant sentence of mad dolet on his statue there in the quarter, the deliberate perversion of plato, "and when you are dead you shall no more be anything at all." i remembered the "ave crux spes unica"; and st. just's "the words that we have spoken will never be lost on earth"; and danton's "continual daring," and the scribbled greek on the walls of the cathedral towers. for not only are the air and the voice, but the very material of this town is filled with words that remain. certainly the philosophies and the negations dwindled to be so small as at last to disappear, and to leave only the two antagonists. passion brooded over the silence of the morning; there was great energy in the cool of the spring air, and up above, the forms the clouds were taking were forms of gigantic powers. i came, as the traveller had come, into the cathedral. it was not yet within half an hour of the feast. there was still room to be found, though with every moment the nave and the aisles grew fuller, until one doubted how at the end so great a throng could be dismissed. they were of all kinds. some few were strangers holding in their hands books about the building. some few were devout men on travel, and praying at this great office on the way: men from the islands, men from the places that spain has redeemed for the future in the new world. i saw an irishman near me, and two west indians also, half negro, like the third of the kings that came to worship at the manger where our lord was born. for two hours and nearly three i saw and wondered at that immense concourse. the tribunes were full, the whole choir was black, moving with the celebrants, and all the church floor beyond and around me was covered and dark with expectant men. the bourdon that had summoned the traveller and driven mad so many despairs, sounded above me upon this day with amplitude and yet with menace. the silence was a solace when it ceased to boom. the creed, the oldest of our chaunts, filled and completed those walls; it was as though at last a battle had been joined, and in that issue a great relief ran through the crowd. * * * * * from such a temple i came out at last. they had thrown the western doors wide open, the doors whose hinges man scarcely could have hammered and to whose miracle legend has lent its aid; the midday, now captured by the sun, came right into the hollow simplicity of the nave, and caught the river of people as they flowed outwards; but even that and the cry of the benediction from the altar gave no greater peace than an appeal to combat. in the air outside that other power stood waiting to conquer or to fail. i came out, as from a camp, into the civilian debate, the atmosphere of the spectators. the permanent and toppling influence against which this bulwark of ours, the faith, was reared (as we say) by god himself, shouted in half the prints, in half the houses. i sat down to read and compare (as it should be one's custom when one is among real and determining things) the writings of the extreme, that is of the leading men. i chose the two pamphleteers who are of equal weight in this war, but of whom one only is known as yet to us in england, and that the least. i read their battle-cries. their style was excellent; their good faith shone even in their style. since i had been upon phrases all these hours i separated and remembered the principal words of each. one said: "they will break their teeth against it. the catholic church is not to perish, for she has allies from outside time." the other said: "how long will the death of this crucified god linger? how long will his agony crush men with its despair?" but i read these two writers for my entertainment only, and in order to be acquainted with men around me; for on the quarrel between them i had long ago made up my mind. at the sign of the lion it was late, and the day was already falling when i came, sitting my horse monster, to a rise of land. we were at a walk, for we had gone very far since early morning, and were now off the turf upon the hard road; moreover, the hill, though gentle, had been prolonged. from its summit i saw before me, as i had seen it a hundred times, the whole of the weald. but now that landscape was transfigured, because many influences had met to make it, for the moment, an enchanted land. the autumn, coming late, had crowded it with colours; a slight mist drew out the distances, and along the horizon stood out, quite even and grey like mountains, the solemn presence of the downs. over all this the sky was full of storm. in some manner which language cannot express, and hardly music, the vision was unearthly. all the lesser heights of the plain ministered to one effect, a picture which was to other pictures what the marvellous is to the experience of common things. the distant mills, the edges of heath and the pine trees, were as though they had not before been caught by the eyes of travellers, and would not, after the brief space of their apparition, be seen again. here was a countryside whose every outline was familiar; and yet it was pervaded by a general quality of the uplifted and the strange. and for that one hour under the sunset the county did not seem to me a thing well known, but rather adored. the glow of evening, which had seemed to put this horizon into another place and time than ours, warned me of darkness; and i made off the road to the right for an inn i knew of, that stands close to the upper arun and is very good. here an old man and his wife live easily, and have so lived for at least thirty years, proving how accessible is content. their children are in service beyond the boundaries of the county, and are thus provided with sufficiency; and they themselves, the old people, enjoy a small possession which at least does not diminish, for, thank god, their land is free. it is a square of pasture bordered by great elms upon three sides of it, but on the fourth, towards the water, a line of pollard willows; and off a little way before the house runs arun, sliding as smooth as mincius, and still so young that he can remember the lake in the forest where he rose. on such ancestral land these two people await without anxiety what they believe will be a kindly death. nor is their piety of that violent and tortured kind which is associated with fear and with distress of earlier life; but they remain peasants, drawing from the earth they have always known as much sustenance for the soul as even their religion can afford them, and mixing that religion so intimately with their experience of the soil that, were they not isolated in an evil time, they would have set up some shrine about the place to sanctify it. the passion and the strain which must accompany (even in the happiest and most secluded) the working years of life, have so far disappeared from them, that now they can no longer recall any circumstances other than those which they enjoy; so that their presence in a room about one, as they set rood before one or meet one at the door, is in itself an influence of peace. in such a place, and with such hosts to serve him, be wears of the world retire for a little time, from an evening to a morning; and a man can enjoy a great refreshment. in such a place he will eat strongly and drink largely, and sleep well and deeply, and, when he saddles again for his journey, he will take the whole world new; nor are those intervals without their future value, for the memory of a complete repose is a sort of sacrament, and a viaticum for the weary lengths of the way. the stable of this place is made of oak entirely, and, after more than a hundred years, the woodwork is still sound, save that the roof now falls in waves where the great beams have sagged a little under the pressure of the tiles. and these tiles are of that old hand-made kind which, whenever you find them, you will do well to buy; for they have a slight downward curve to them, and so they fit closer and shed the rain better than if they were flat. also they do not slip, and thus they put less strain upon the timber. this excellent stable has no flooring but a packed layer of chalk laid on the ground; and the wooden manger is all polished and shining, where it has been rubbed by the noses of ten thousand horses since the great war. that polishing was helped, perhaps, by the nose of percy's horse, and perhaps by the nose of some wheeler who in his time had dragged the guns back aboard, retreating through the night after corunna. it is in every way a stable that a small peasant should put up for himself, without seeking money from other men. it is, therefore, a stable which your gaping scientists would condemn; and though as yet they have not got their ugly hands upon the dwellings of beasts as they have upon those of men, yet i often fear for this stable, and am always glad when i come back and find it there. for the men who make our laws are the same as those that sell us our bricks and our land and our metals; and they make the laws so that rebuilding shall go on: and vile rebuilding too. anyhow, this stable yet stands; and in none does the horse, monster, take a greater delight, for he also is open to the influence of holiness. so i led him in, and tied him by the ancient headstall, and i rubbed him down, and i washed his feet and covered him with the rough rug that lay there. and when i had done all that, i got him oats from the neighbouring bin; for the place knew me well, and i could always tend to my own beast when i came there. and as he ate his oats, i said to him: "monster, my horse, is there any place on earth where a man, even for a little time, can be as happy as the brutes? if there is, it is here at the sign of the lion." and monster answered: "there is a tradition among us that, of all creatures that creep upon the earth, man is the fullest of sorrow." i left him then, and went towards the house. it was quite dark, and the windows, with their square, large panes and true proportions, shone out and made it home. the room within received me like a friend. the open chimney at its end, round which the house is built, was filled with beech logs burning; and the candles, which were set in brass, mixed their yellow light with that of the fire. the long ceiling was low, as are the ceilings of heaven. and oak was here everywhere also: in the beams and the shelves and the mighty table. for oak was, and will be again, the chief wood of the weald. when they put food and ale before me, it was of the kind which has been english ever since england began, and which perhaps good fortune will preserve over the breakdown of our generation, until we have england back again. one could see the hops in the tankard, and one could taste the barley, until, more and more sunk into the plenitude of this good house, one could dare to contemplate, as though from a distant standpoint, the corruption and the imminent danger of the time through which we must lead our lives. and, as i so considered the ruin of the great cities and their slime, i felt as though i were in a fortress of virtue and of health, which could hold out through the pressure of the war. and i thought to myself: "perhaps even before our children are men, these parts which survive from a better order will be accepted as models, and england will be built again." this fantasy had not time, tenuous as it was, to disappear, before there came into that room a man whose gesture and bearing promised him to be an excellent companion, but in whose eyes i also perceived some light not ordinary. he was of middle age, fifty or more; his hair was crisp and grey, his face brown, as though he had been much upon the sea. he was tall in stature, and of some strength. he saluted me, and, when he had eaten, asked me if i also were familiar with this inn. "very familiar," i said; "and since i can enter it at any hour freely, it is now more familiar to me even than the houses that were once my homes. for nowadays we, who work in the state and are not idle, must be driven from one place to another; and only the very rich have certitude and continuity. but to them it is of no service; for they are too idle to take root in the soil." "yet i was of their blood," he said; "and there is in this county a home which should be mine. but nothing to-day is capable of endurance. i have not seen my home (though it is but ten miles from here) since i left it in my thirtieth year; and i too would rather come to this inn, which i know as you know it, than to any house in england; because i am certain of entry, and because i know what i shall find, and because what i find is what any man of this county should find, if the soul of it is not to disappear." "you, then," i answered (we were now seated side by side before the fire with but one flickering candle behind us, and on the floor between us a port just younger than the host), "you, then, come here for much the same reason as do i?" "and what is that?" said he. "why," said i, "to enjoy the illusion that change can somewhere be arrested, and that, in some shape, a part at least of the things we love remains. for, since i was a boy and almost since i can remember, everything in this house has been the same; and here i escape from the threats of the society we know." when i had said this, he was grave and silent for a little while; and then he answered: "it is impossible, i think, after many years to recover any such illusion. just as a young man can no longer think himself (as children do) the actor in any drama of his own choosing, so a man growing old (as am i) can no longer expect of any society--and least of all of his own--the gladness that comes from an illusion of permanence." "for my part," i answered in turn, "i know very well, though i can conjure up this feeling of security, that it is very flimsy stuff; and i take it rather as men take symbols. for though these good people will at last perish, and some brewer--a colonel of volunteers as like as not--will buy this little field, and though for the port we are drinking there will be imperial port, and for the beer we have just drunk something as noisome as that port, and though thistles will grow up in the good pasture ground, and though, in a word, this inn will become a hotel and will perish, nevertheless i cannot but believe that england remains, and i do not think it the taking of a drug or a deliberate cheating of oneself to come and steep one's soul in what has already endured so long because it was proper to our country." "all that you say," he answered, "is but part of the attempt to escape necessity. your very frame is of that substance for which permanence means death; and every one of all the emotions that you know is of its nature momentary, and must be so if it is to be alive." "yet there is a divine thirst," i said, "for something that will not so perish. if there were no such thirst, why should you and i debate such things, or come here to the lion either of us, to taste antiquity? and if that thirst is there, it is a proof that there is for us some end and some such satisfaction. for my part, as i know of nothing else, i cannot but seek it in this visible good world. i seek it in sussex, in the nature of my home, and in the tradition of my blood." but he answered: "no; it is not thus to be attained, the end of which you speak. and that thirst, which surely is divine, is to be quenched in no stream that we can find by journeying, not even in the little rivers that run here under the combes of home." myself: "well, then, what is the end?" he: "i have sometimes seen it clearly, that when the disappointed quest was over, all this journeying would turn out to be but the beginning of a much greater adventure, and that i should set out towards another place where every sense should be fulfilled, and where the fear of mutation should be set at rest." myself: "no one denies that such a picture in the mind haunts men their whole lives through, though, after they have once experienced loss and incompletion, and especially when they have caught sight a long way off of the barrier which ends all our experience, they recognise that picture for a cheat; and surely nothing can save it? that which reasons in us may be absolute and undying; for it is outside time. it escapes the gropings of the learned, and it has nothing to do with material things. but as for all those functions which we but half fulfil in life, surely elsewhere they cannot be fulfilled at all? colour is for the eyes and music is for the ears; and all that we love so much comes in by channels that do not remain." he: "yet the desire can only be for things that we have known; and the desire, as you have said, is a proof of the thing desired, and, but for these things which we know, the words 'joy' and 'contentment' and 'fulfilment' would have no meaning." myself: "why yes; but, though desires are the strongest evidence of truth, yet there is also desire for illusions, as there is a waking demand for things attainable, and a demand in dreams for things fantastic and unreal. every analogy increasingly persuades us, and so does the whole scheme of things as we learn it, that, with our passing, there shall also pass speech and comfortable fires and fields and the voices of our children, and that, when they pass, we lose them for ever." he: "yet these things would not be, but for the mind which receives them; and how can we make sure what channels are necessary for the mind? and may not the mind stretch on? and you, since you reject my guess at what may be reserved for us, tell me, what is the end which we shall attain?" myself: "_salva fide_, i cannot tell." then he continued and said: "i have too long considered these matters for any opposition between one experience and another to affect my spirit, and i know that a long and careful inquiry into any matter must lead the same man to opposing conclusions; but, for my part, i shall confidently expect throughout that old age, which is not far from me, that, when it ceases, i shall find beyond it things similar to those which i have known. for all i here enjoy is of one nature; and if the life of a man be bereft of them at last, then it is falsehood or metaphor to use the word 'eternal.'" "you think, then," said i, "that some immortal part in us is concerned not only with our knowledge, but with our every feeling, and that our final satisfaction will include a sensual pleasure: fragrance, and landscape, and a visible home that shall be dearer even than these dear hills?" "something of the sort," he said, and slightly shrugged his shoulders. they were broad, as he sat beside me staring at the fire. they conveyed in their attitude that effect of mingled strength and weariness which is common to all who have travelled far and with great purpose, perpetually seeking some worthy thing which they could never find. the fire had fallen. flames no longer leapt from the beech logs; but on their under side, where a glow still lingered, embers fell. the autumn and the fall of leaves it is not true that the close of a life which ends in a natural fashion--life which is permitted to put on the pomp of death and to go out in glory--inclines the mind to repose. it is not true of a day ending nor the passing of the year, nor of the fall of leaves. whatever permanent, uneasy question is native to men, comes forward most insistent and most loud at such times. there is a house in my own county which is built of stone, whose gardens are fitted to the autumn. it has level alleys standing high and banked with stone. their ornaments were carved under the influence of that restraint which marked the stuarts. they stand above old ponds, and are strewn at this moment with the leaves of elms. these walks are like the mailles of the flemish cities, the walls of the french towns or the terraces of the loire. they are enjoyed to-day by whoever has seen all our time go racing by; they are the proper resting-places of the aged, and their spirit is felt especially in the fall of leaves. at this season a sky which is of so delicate and faint a blue as to contain something of gentle mockery, and certainly more of tenderness, presides at the fall of leaves. there is no air, no breath at all. the leaves are so light that they sidle on their going downward, hesitating in that which is not void to them, and touching at last so imperceptibly the earth with which they are to mingle, that the gesture is much gentler than a salutation, and even more discreet than a discreet caress. they make a little sound, less than the least of sounds. no bird at night in the marshes rustles so slightly; no man, though men are the subtlest of living beings, put so evanescent a stress upon their sacred whispers or their prayers. the leaves are hardly heard, but they are heard just so much that men also, who are destined at the end to grow glorious and to die, look up and hear them falling. * * * * * with what a pageantry of every sort is not that troubling symbol surrounded! the scent of life is never fuller in the woods than now, for the ground is yielding up its memories. the spring when it comes will not restore this fullness, nor these deep and ample recollections of the earth. for the earth seems now to remember the drive of the ploughshare and its harrying; the seed, and the full bursting of it, the swelling and the completion of the harvest. up to the edge of the woods throughout the weald the earth has borne fruit; the barns are full, and the wheat is standing stacked in the fields, and there are orchards all around. it is upon such a mood of parentage and of fruition that the dead leaves fall. the colour is not a mere splendour: it is intricate. the same unbounded power, never at fault and never in calculation, which comprehends all the landscape, and which has made the woods, has worked in each one separate leaf as well; they are inconceivably varied. take up one leaf and see. how many kinds of boundary are there here between the stain which ends in a sharp edge against the gold, and the sweep in which the purple and red mingle more evenly than they do in shot-silk or in flames? nor are the boundaries to be measured only by degrees of definition. they have also their characters of line. here in this leaf are boundaries intermittent, boundaries rugged, boundaries curved, and boundaries broken. nor do shape and definition ever begin to exhaust the list. for there are softness and hardness too: the agreement and disagreement with the scheme of veins; the grotesque and the simple in line; the sharp and the broad, the smooth, and raised in boundaries. so in this one matter of boundaries might you discover for ever new things; there is no end to them. their qualities are infinite. and beside boundaries you have hues and tints, shades also, varying thicknesses of stuff, and endless choice of surface; that list also is infinite, and the divisions of each item in it are infinite; nor is it of any use to analyse the thing, for everywhere the depth and the meaning of so much creation are beyond our powers. and all this is true of but one dead leaf; and yet every dead leaf will differ from its fellow. that which has delighted to excel in boundlessness within the bounds of this one leaf, has also transformed the whole forest. there is no number to the particular colour of the one leaf. the forest is like a thing so changeful of its nature that change clings to it as a quality, apparent even during the glance of a moment. this forest makes a picture which is designed, but not seizable. it is a scheme, but a scheme you cannot set down. it is of those things which can best be retained by mere copying with a pencil or a brush. it is of those things which a man cannot fully receive, and which he cannot fully re-express to other men. it is no wonder, then, that at this peculiar time, this week (or moment) of the year, the desires which if they do not prove at least demand--perhaps remember--our destiny, come strongest. they are proper to the time of autumn, and all men feel them. the air is at once new and old; the morning (if one rises early enough to welcome its leisurely advance) contains something in it of profound reminiscence. the evenings hardly yet suggest (as they soon will) friends and security, and the fires of home. the thoughts awakened in us by their bands of light fading along the downs are thoughts which go with loneliness and prepare me for the isolation of the soul. it is on this account that tradition has set, at the entering of autumn, for a watch at the gate of the season, the archangel; and at its close the day and the night of all-hallows on which the dead return. the good woman upon a hill that overlooks a western plain and is conspicuous at the approach of evening, there still stands a house of faded brick faced with cornerings of stone. it is quite empty, but yet not deserted. in each room some little furniture remains; all the pictures are upon the walls; the deep red damask of the panels is not faded, or if faded, shows no contrast of brighter patches, for nothing has been removed from the walls. here it is possible to linger for many hours alone, and to watch the slope of the hill under the level light as the sun descends. here passes a woman of such nobility that, though she is dead, the landscape and the vines are hers. it was in september, during a silence of the air, that i first saw her as she moved among her possessions; she was smiling to herself as though at a memory, but her smile was so slight and so dignified, so genial, and yet so restrained, that you would have thought it part of everything around and married (as she was) to the land which was now her own. she wandered down the garden paths ruling the flowers upon either side, and receiving as she went autumn and the fruition of her fields; plenitude and completion surrounded her; the benediction of almighty god must have been upon her, for she was the fulfilment of her world. three fountains played in that garden--two, next to the northern and the southern walls, were small and low; they rather flowed than rose. two cones of marble received their fall, and over these they spread in an even sheet with little noise, making (as it were) a sheath of water which covered all the stone; but the third sprang into the air with delicate triumph, fine and high, satisfied, tenuous and exultant. this one tossed its summit into the light, and, alone of the things in the garden, the plash of its waters recalled and suggested activity--though that in so discreet a way that it was to be heard rather than regarded. the birds flew off in circles over the roofs of the town below us. very soon they went to their rest. the slow transfiguration of the light by which the air became full of colours and every outline merged into the evening, made of all i saw, as i came up towards her, a soft and united vision wherein her advancing figure stood up central and gave a meaning to the whole. i will not swear that she did not as she came bestow as well as receive an influence of the sunset. it was said by the ancients that virtue is active, an agent, and has power to control created things; for, they said, it is in a direct relation with whatever orders and has ordained the general scheme. such power, perhaps, resided in her hands. it would have awed me but hardly astonished if, as the twilight deepened, the inclination of the stems had obeyed her gesture and she had put the place to sleep. as i came near i saw her plainly. her face was young although she was so wise, but its youth had the aspect of a divine survival. time adorned it. music survives. whatever is eternal in the grace of simple airs or in the christian innocence of mozart was apparent, nay, had increased, in her features as the days in passing had added to them not only experience but also revelation and security. she was serene. the posture of her head was high, and her body, which was visibly informed by an immortal spirit, had in its carriage a large, a regal, an uplifted bearing which even now as i write of it, after so many years, turns common every other sight that has encountered me. this was the way in which i first saw her upon her own hillside at evening. with every season i returned. and with every season she greeted my coming with a more generous and a more vivacious air. i think the years slipped off and did not add themselves upon her mind: the common doom of mortality escaped her until, perhaps, its sign was imposed upon her hair--for this at last was touched all through with that appearance or gleam which might be morning or which might be snow. she was able to conjure all evil. those desperate enemies of mankind which lie in siege of us all around grew feeble and were silent when she came. nor has any other force than hers dared to enter the rooms where she had lived: it is her influence alone which inhabits them to-day. there is a vessel of copper, enamelled in green and gilded, which she gave with her own hands to a friend overseas. i have twice touched it in an evil hour. strength, sustenance, and a sacramental justice are permanent in such lives, and such lives also attain before their close to so general a survey of the world that their appreciations are at once accurate and universal. on this account she did not fail in any human conversation, nor was she ever for a moment less than herself; but always and throughout her moods her laughter was unexpected and full, her fear natural, her indignation glorious. above all, her charity extended like a breeze: it enveloped everything she knew. the sense of destiny faded from me as the warmth of that charity fell upon my soul; the foreknowledge of death retreated, as did every other unworthy panic. she drew the objects of her friendship into something new; they breathed an air from another country, so that those whom she deigned to regard were, compared with other men, like the living compared with the dead; or, better still, they were like men awake while the rest were tortured by dreams and haunted of the unreal. indeed, she had a word given to her which saved all the souls of her acquaintance. it is not true that influence of this sort decays or passes into vaguer and vaguer depths of memory. it does not dissipate. it is not dissolved. it does not only spread and broaden: it also increases with the passage of time. the musicians bequeath their spirit, notably those who have loved delightful themes and easy melodies. the poets are read for ever; but those who resemble her do more, for they grow out upon the centuries--they themselves and not their arts continue. there is stuff in their legend. they are a tangible inheritance for the hurrying generations of men. she was of this kind. she was certainly of this kind. she died upon this day[ ] in the year . in these lines i perpetuate her memory. [footnote : the nd of december.] the harbour in the north upon that shore of europe which looks out towards no further shore, i came once by accident upon a certain man. the day had been warm and almost calm, but a little breeze from the south-east had all day long given life to the sea. the seas had run very small and brilliant, yet without violence, before the wind, and had broken upon the granite cliffs to leeward, not in spouts of foam, but in a white even line that was thin, and from which one heard no sound of surge. moreover, as i was running dead north along the coast, the noise about the bows was very slight and pleasant. the regular and gentle wind came upon the quarter without change, and the heel of the boat was steady. no calm came with the late sunset; the breeze still held, and so till nearly midnight i could hold a course and hardly feel the pulling of the helm. meanwhile the arch of the sunset endured, for i was far to the northward, and all those colours which belong to june above the arctic sea shone and changed in the slow progress of that arch as it advanced before me and mingled at last with the dawn. throughout the hours of that journey i could see clearly the seams of the deck forward, the texture of the canvas and the natural hues of the woodwork and the rigging, the glint of the brasswork, and even the letters painted round the little capstain-head, so continually did the light endure. the silence which properly belongs to darkness, and which accompanies the sleep of birds upon the sea, appeared to be the more intense because of such a continuance of the light, and what with a long vigil and new water, it was as though i had passed the edge of all known maps and had crossed the boundary of new land. in such a mood i saw before me the dark band of a stone jetty running some miles off from the shore into the sea, and at the end of it a fixed beacon whose gleam showed against the translucent sky (and its broken reflection in the pale sea) as a candle shows when one pulls the curtains of one's room and lets in the beginnings of the day. for this point i ran, and as i turned it i discovered a little harbour quite silent under the growing light; there was not a man upon its wharves, and there was no smoke rising from its slate roofs. it was absolutely still. the boat swung easily round in the calm water, the pier-head slipped by, the screen of the pier-head beacon suddenly cut off its glare, and she went slowly with no air in her canvas towards the patch of darkness under the quay. there, as i did not know the place, i would not pick up moorings which another man might own and need, but as my boat still crept along with what was left of her way i let go the little anchor, for it was within an hour of low tide, and i was sure of water. when i had done this she soon tugged at the chain and i slackened all the halyards. i put the cover on the mainsail, and as i did so, looking aft, i noted the high mountain-side behind the town standing clear in the dawn. i turned eastward to receive it. the light still lifted, and though i had not slept i could not but stay up and watch the glory growing over heaven. it was just then, when i had stowed everything away, that i heard to the right of me the crooning of a man. a few moments before i should not have seen him under the darkness of the sea-wall, but the light was so largely advanced (it was nearly two o'clock) that i now clearly made out both his craft and him. she was sturdy and high, and i should think of slight draught. she was of great beam. she carried but one sail, and that was brown. he had it loose, with the peak dipped ready for hoisting, and he himself was busy at some work upon the floor, stowing and fitting his bundles, and as he worked he crooned gently to himself. it was then that i hailed him, but in a low voice, so much did the silence of that place impress itself upon all living beings who were strange to it. he looked up and told me that he had not seen me come in nor heard the rattling of the chain. i asked him what he would do so early, whether he was off fishing at that hour or whether he was taking parcels down the coast for hire or goods to sell at some other port. he answered me that he was doing none of those things. "what cruise, then, are you about to take?" i said. "i am off," he answered in a low and happy voice, "to find what is beyond the sea." "and to what shore," said i, "do you mean to sail?" he answered: "i am out upon this sea northward to where they say there is no further shore." as he spoke he looked towards that horizon which now stood quite clean and clear between the pier-heads: his eyes were full of the broad daylight, and he breathed the rising wind as though it were a promise of new life and of unexpected things. i asked him then what his security was and had he formed a plan, and why he was setting out from this small place, unless, perhaps, it was his home, of which he might be tired. "no," he answered, and smiled; "this is not my home; and i have come to it as you may have come to it, for the first time; and, like you, i came in after the whole place slept; but as i neared i noticed certain shore marks and signs which had been given me, and then i knew that i had come to the starting-place of a long voyage." "of what voyage?" i asked. he answered: "this is that harbour in the north of which a breton priest once told me that i should reach it, and when i had moored in it and laid my stores on board in order, i should set sail before morning and reach at last a complete repose." then he went on with eagerness, though still talking low: "the voyage which i was born to make in the end, and to which my desire has driven me, is towards a place in which everything we have known is forgotten, except those things which, as we knew them, reminded us of an original joy. in that place i shall discover again such full moments of content as i have known, and i shall preserve them without failing. it is in some country beyond this sea, and it has a harbour like this harbour, only set towards the south, as this is towards the north; but like this harbour it looks out over an unknown sea, and like this harbour it enjoys a perpetual light. of what the happy people in this country are, or of how they speak, no one has told me, but they will receive me well, for i am of one kind with themselves. but as to how i shall know this harbour, i can tell you: there is a range of hills, broken by a valley through which one sees a further and a higher range, and steering for this hollow in the hills one sees a tower out to sea upon a rock, and high up inland a white quarry on a hill-top; and these two in line are the leading marks by which one gets clear into the mouth of the river, and so to the wharves of the town. and there," he ended, "i shall come off the sea for ever, and every one will call me by my name." the sun was now near the horizon, but not yet risen, and for a little time he said nothing to me nor i to him, for he was at work sweating up the halyard and setting the peak. he let go the mooring knot also, but he held the end of the rope in his hand and paid it out, standing and looking upward, as the sail slowly filled and his craft drifted towards me. he pressed the tiller with his knee to keep her full. i now knew by his eyes and voice that he was from the west, and i could not see him leave me without asking him from what place he came that he should set out for such another place. so i asked him: "are you from ireland, or from brittany, or from the islands?" he answered me: "i am from none of these, but from cornwall." and as he answered me thus shortly he still watched the sail and still pressed the tiller with his knee, and still paid out the mooring rope without turning round. "you cannot make the harbour," i said to him. "it is not of this world." just at that moment the breeze caught the peak of his jolly brown sail; he dropped the tail of the rope: it slipped and splashed into the harbour slime. his large boat heeled, shot up, just missed my cable; and then he let her go free, and she ran clear away. as she ran he looked over his shoulder and laughed most cheerily; he greeted me with his eyes, and he waved his hand to me in the morning light. he held her well. a clean wake ran behind her. he put her straight for the harbour-mouth and passed the pier-heads and took the sea outside. whether in honest truth he was a fisherman out for fishes who chose to fence with me, or whether in that cruise of his he landed up in a norwegian bay, or thought better of it in orkney, or went through the sea and through death to the place he desired, i have never known. i watched him holding on, and certainly he kept a course. the sun rose, the town awoke, but i would not cease from watching him. his sail still showed a smaller and a smaller point upon the sea; he did not waver. for an hour i caught it and lost it, and caught it again, as it dwindled; for half another hour i could not swear to it in the blaze. before i had wearied it was gone. * * * * * oh! my companions, both you to whom i dedicate this book and you who have accompanied me over other hills and across other waters or before the guns in burgundy, or you others who were with me when i seemed alone--that ulterior shore was the place we were seeking in every cruise and march and the place we thought at last to see. we, too, had in mind that town of which this man spoke to me in the scottish harbour before he sailed out northward to find what he could find. but i did not follow him, for even if i had followed him i should not have found the town. transcriber's note: the following typographical errors have been corrected: page : "from street to street we pass, viewing the wretched tenements, and more wretched inmates huddling together over a faint spark of fire ..." 'tenements' amended from 'temements'. page : "i am quite anxious to capture, by camera, not by force of arms, some of these rare types of strength and beauty, and observing two pretty young girls standing in the doorway of one of the houses, both perfect specimens of physical health, i think this an opportunity not to be neglected." 'two' amended from 'too'. page : "a halo of romance surrounds this region, and in the many excursions from this point, the lover of the weird and visionary will find his every step accompanied by imaginary maidens of rare grace and beauty, brave knights, crafty priests, wild huntsmen, cruel dragons, super-human heroes, and all the wonderful personages of legendary lore." 'weird' amended from 'wierd'. page : "just below are rhöndorf, honnef, rheinbreitbach, unkel, and erpel ..." 'rhöndorf' amended from 'rhondörf'. [illustration: the canal at monnikendam] odd bits of travel with brush and camera by charles m. taylor, jr. author of "vacation days in hawaii and japan" and "the british isles through an opera glass," etc., etc. profusely illustrated by the author philadelphia george w. jacobs & co. and south fifteenth street copyright, , by george w. jacobs & co to my wife preface. in almost every walk of life, even among artists and photographers, we find those who are enthusiasts, and who work with such ardor and perseverance as to overcome all difficulties; while there are others who seem to desire the hard and rough places smoothed down, and the obstacles removed from their pathways. in writing this volume, it has been my purpose to enlist the attention of both of these classes, and to bring before the ardent worker as well as the ease-loving, but no less interested, follower of art, places and scenes that afford unusual attractions for the brush and camera. it might truthfully be said that in one's city may be found innumerable subjects of interest to both the amateur and professional artist; but change of food, scene and atmosphere is beneficial to both mind and body, and it is ofttimes wise to pass to new scenes and broader fields of observation. the places described herein are not linked together by proximity of location and follow no regular line of travel; but are selected from various lands and from among widely differing peoples, for the sole purpose of locating scenes that teem with paintable and photographic subjects. i have endeavored to select nooks and corners where the artist and photographer will have suitable accommodations, and where the country with its fresh, pure air, and wholesome food may build up the health, while at the same time an opportunity is afforded for filling the portfolio with delightful bits of scenery and characteristic figure studies. it has also been my aim to tell of countries and places comparatively easy of access, and where those of limited means may find satisfactory accommodations. at times i digress in my pictorial descriptions and offer some bits of personal experience that have befallen me upon my journeys, which i trust may prove of interest and perhaps be of service to others travelling through the same places. it is with these purposes in view that the following pages have been written, and my hope is that they may serve to guide other lovers of the beautiful to some of the attractive spots and fascinating views which i have attempted to describe in these odd bits of travel. _philadelphia, ._ c. m. t., jr. contents page scenes of the present and relics of the past passing vessels--the ocean--sudden changes--taking photographs--the landing-stage at liverpool--new brighton--in the country--liverpool by night--salvationists--old taverns--chester--an english home--relics--the cathedral--the river dee--leamington--the river leam--warwick castle--an old mill--through kenilworth, coventry and stoneleigh--"the king's arms"--nature's pictures lights and shadows of london life the shadow side--the slums--the city by night--vice and misery--"chinese johnson's" opium den--the "bunco" man--an english guard--"the grand old man"--caution to tourists--great cities by night--the seven dials--derby day--the tally-ho--old robin hood inn--epsom hill--the races--exciting scenes--side shows--the close of the day scenes in the gay capital dover to calais--paris---the gay capital by night--boulevards--life in the streets--champs Élysées--place de la concorde--arc d'etoile--place vendome--louvre--opera house--palais royal--church of the invalides--versailles--notre dame--jardin mabille--the madeleine--the pantheon--the banks of the seine--french funeral ceremonies--la morgue--pere lachaise antwerp and the city of windmills from paris to antwerp--along the route--thrifty farmers--antwerp--dogs in harness--the river--old churches--chimes--an inappreciative listener--steen museum--instruments of torture--lace industry--living expenses--hospitality--the city of windmills--watery highways--a city of canals--the maas river--the houses on the canals--travel by boat--novel scenes--costly headgear--dutch costumes--powerful draught horses--no bonbons--chocolate candy--in the market-place--the belle of the market--photographs--wooden shoes--drawbridges--blowing the horn--ancient relics--the sword of columbus a city of many islands amsterdam--the people of holland--amstel river--merry excursionists--interesting institutions--origin of the city--source of prosperity--a cousin to venice--ninety islands--beams and gables--block and tackle--old salesmen--street markets--haarlem--railway travel at home and abroad--ancient buildings--historic associations--in the canal--groote kerk--the great organ--picturesque subjects--zandvoort--eau de cologne--the beach--dutch sail boats--seamen--hooded chairs--peddlers--music in holland and germany--gypsies--we meet an artist--hospitality--a banquet excursions to broek and the island of marken a charming journey--fellow-passengers--national costumes--the children--a lovely landscape--holstein cattle--windmills--irrigation--farmers--a typical dutch village--washing-day--the red, white and blue--suppose a bull should appear--a brilliant picture--drawing the canal boat--honesty and cleanliness--a thrifty and industrious people--farming and cheese-making--as evening falls--scenes for an artist--dead cities of holland--monnikendam--behind the age--city lamps--houses and people--the island of marken--an isolated wonderland--first impressions--rare holidays--the family doctor--absence of the men--the fishing--healthy and industrious population--the women of marken--pretty girls--they will not be taken--a valuable experience--photographs the ancient town of monnikendam marken homes--beds in the wall--family heirlooms--an ancient clock--precious treasures--quaint customs--betrothed couples--the hotel--its interior--a lack of patrons--costumes of a by-gone age--farewell to marken--remote districts--monnikendam--ancient houses--hotel de posthoorn--the postman of the past--a difficult stairway--we stroll about the town--our retinue--in front of the hotel--such curious children--supper--we visit the shops--pantomime--a novel experience--they cannot understand--no candles--we attract a crowd--the clothing store--a marken suit--"too high"--bargaining--a stranger to the rescue old customs and quaint pictures segars and tobacco--row boats--"gooden morgen"--the zuyder zee--by candle light--total darkness--the town by night--women and girls--shoes and stockings--the shuffling man--streets and sidewalks--the town crier--the daily news--a message to the people--draught dogs--milkmaids--the barber shop--drug stores--horretje--a street auction--selling curios--they leave their shoes at the door--an old grist mill--the holland draught girl a dutch cheese-making district a cheese-making country--edam cheese--a picturesque inn--an interesting interior--a thrifty farmer--at sunrise--in the cow stable--the pretty maid--stall and parlor--the cheese room--the process of making cheese--"i have listened and listened"--a trip to volendam--a fine country road--a charming day--muzzled dogs--the only street--a multitude of children--gay decorations--a united people--as a hen and her brood--their wealth is their health--in sunday dress--stalwart men and sturdy women--a higher type--"i have enough"--fishermen--the anchorage--a volendam suit volendam sights, and the oldest town on the rhine church is out--the promenade--"every man is a volume"--an old suit--his sunday clothes--"let him have it"--an obedient son--the silver buttons--the last straw--an uncommon action--the hotel--an artist's resort--an unfinished painting--good-bye--the ancient city of cologne--the cathedral--within the "dom"--a wonderful collection--foundation of the town--history--vicissitudes--public gardens--eau de cologne--the palace of brühl along the banks of the rhine bonn--the birthplace of beethoven--the museum--monument--a famous restaurant--college students--beer mugs--special tables--affairs of honor--königswinter--magnificent views--drachenfels--the castle--the dombruch--siegfried and the dragon--a desecrated ruin--the splendor of the mountains--many visitors--view from the summit--the students' chorus--german life--a german breakfast--the camera--old castles and lofty mountains--legends of the rhine--the waters of the rhine--vineyards from bingen on the rhine to frankfort-on-the-main vast vineyards--bingen--the hotel--the down quilt--a german maid--taverns--the mouse tower--rüdesheim--niederwald--the rheingau--the national monument--the castle of niederburg--wine vaults--the river--street musicians--a misunderstanding--frankfort-on-the-main--the crossing of the ford--a free city--monument of goethe--history--a convocation of bishops--the city monument of gutenberg--the house in which rothschild was born--luther a prussian capital and a fashionable resort we start for berlin--mountain and valley--harvesters--villages--a great city--unter den linden--kroll theatre and garden--the city streets--the brandenburg gate--potsdam--the old palace--sans souci--ostend--a fashionable watering-place--the promenade--the kursaal--on the beach--bathing machines--studies for an artist--the race-course--sunday--the winning horse--fickle dame fortune--the english channel--a bureau of information--queenstown--an irish lass--the last stop--the end of the journey list of illustrations. page canal at monnikendam (_frontispiece_) we feel the heart throbs of old neptune she proves to be a barkentine under full sail the sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro amongst these are two typical products of the british isles, this is a fine field for the student of human nature wayside inn, new brighton typical english houses with their massive thatched roofs suburban residence white hall horse guards' barracks a short run of an hour the chalky cliffs of dover the largest and handsomest gothic church in the netherlands the place is intersected everywhere by canals in many cases the balconies of residences overhang the water the belle of the market the amstel river wicker chairs offer rest to the weary pedestrian the flat landscape is varied by herds of cattle most of the houses have a canal at the back the blue stream finds its outlet in the river all persuasions accomplish naught one old woman is fascinated with the camera we walk along the narrow streets sheep, grazing upon the green pasture lands, form a homelike scene hotel de posthoorn de hooflstraat, monnikendam there is a young man whose walk is all his own the streets and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clean the whole place is a succession of quaint and picturesque houses a street auction at the farthest end of the street stands an old windmill a beautifully shaded walk just outside the town land and water a good road for the bicycle this strange looking highway runs lengthwise through the town the houses are roofed with red tiles the delicate lace caps frame smiling faces as the congregation draws nearer we halt before the foremost group every man is a volume if you know how to read him goeden dag. tot weerziens palace of brühl lovely walks, and bowery avenues not far off stands the statue of the artist the great peak known as the drachenfels, or dragon rock how noble and defiant is the appearance of these venerable fortresses every turn of the river presents a different view now we behold the little church surrounded by picturesque houses approaching bingen we see vineyards covering the mountain side thousands of fashionably dressed people appear upon this promenade there are many odd and fantastic sights here one's portfolio might soon be filled with interesting subjects many typical irish characters come aboard our vessel several small boats are floating at our side beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach scenes of the present and relics of the past. _scenes of the present and relics of the past._ passing vessels--the ocean--sudden changes--taking photographs--the landing stage at liverpool--new brighton--in the country--liverpool by night--salvationists--old taverns--chester--an english home--relics--the cathedral--the river dee--leamington--the river leam--warwick castle--an old mill--through kenilworth, coventry and stoneleigh--"the king's arms"--nature's pictures. we sight a steamer on our leeward side. a passing vessel is a great excitement on an ocean voyage. from the time when she first appears, a tiny speck on the distant horizon, every one is on deck watching her as she slowly climbs into full view, then draws nearer and nearer to our floating palace. how companionable she seems in the vast waste around us. we wonder to which line she belongs; what is her name; her speed, and whither she is bound: and now that she is within hailing distance, we await eagerly the result of the usual interchange of questions and answers by means of small flags and a certain code of signals, well understood throughout the nautical world. the following are some of the questions asked: "to what line do you belong?" "what is your port?" "have you seen any icebergs?" "met any wrecks?" "are you a tramp?" and so on, until both sides are satisfied, then away she speeds on her course, while the passengers and sailors on both ships gaze at one another through their glasses until they are lost in the distance. the excitement is over, and we all return to our former occupations, or stand looking idly out to sea until once more there is a cry: "a sail! a sail!" and we begin to hope that she too is coming our way. straining our eyes through the powerful field-glasses, we perceive that she is coming toward us, and will probably cross our line. larger and larger she appears as she steadily advances, until she attracts the attention of every one on deck. she is now quite close to us, and proves to be a barkentine under full sail. we shout a greeting to the crew, and wave our handkerchiefs as she passes, and the sailors smile in return and take off their caps. [illustration: "we feel the heart throbs of old neptune." (_see page ._)] the ocean air is delightful and invigorating, the sky a perfect azure, and the translucent waves with their foamy edges stretch away in long beautiful curves. we feel the heart throbs of old neptune, as the waters plash softly over the steamer's sides, and we speed steadily forward, with the rush and swish of the sea sounding in our ears with a wild sweet melody all its own. to fall asleep on deck amid these charming conditions is delightful indeed. but how quickly the scene changes. suddenly a shrill whistle from the quartermaster summons all hands to the deck. orders are rapidly given in quick sharp tones: "aloft. take sail in." "aye, aye, sir," is the swift response, in a twinkling the sure-footed sailors are up among the yards, perched in seemingly impossible places, reefing the flapping sails in preparation for the coming storm. dark clouds above are reflected in gloomy waves below, and heaving billows surround us, uniting with a furious wind that seems bent on the destruction of our noble ship. the sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro, and the panic-stricken passengers in the cabins are telling each other with pale faces that belie their words that they are not afraid, for there is no danger; yet they listen anxiously for every sound from above, and will not allow their dear ones to move beyond reach of their hands. there is no music now in the rushing of the waves or the flapping of the sails. old neptune in his angry moods is not a desirable companion. but nothing lasts forever, and from storm and night and black despair the flower of hope arises, for there comes a lull, followed by a furious blinding onslaught, and then the spirit of the hurricane calls his followers and flies up, away, somewhere beyond our ken: the captain's face relaxes from its tense expression, and he looks proudly around his good ship which has come out victor in the struggle with the elements. one by one, the passengers appear on deck, the purple clouds, after a final frown of disapproval at things in general, break into smiles, life on shipboard resumes its everyday attitude, and all goes "merry as a marriage bell." life is full of contrasts. this is a picture for which neither brush nor camera is ready. he who would paint it must draw it from its recess in his memory, or from some sheltered nook on shore, and be cool and calm enough to follow his favorite occupation in spite of the consciousness that life and death are struggling for mastery in yonder thrilling scene that will make him famous if he can but truly portray it upon his canvas. [illustration: "she proves to be a barkentine under full sail." (_see page ._)] but there are many tableaux and picturesque situations here, very tempting to the traveller who carries with him his sketch book or camera, and i entertain my companions as well as myself by photographing many a little group both comical and interesting in the world around us. i invite our friends to the lower deck, where i wish to take pictures of some of the steerage passengers. amongst these are two typical products of the british isles--one a robust irishman of shillalah fame, and the other a bonny boy from scotland. i make known to them my desire to have their photographs, whereupon the quick witted irishman, without doubt knowing the quality of his face, which is one of the ugliest i have ever seen, begins at once to bargain with me for the privilege of transferring it to my camera. it is true i could have stolen a march on him by a snap shot, and he been all unconscious of the act, but wishing to keep up the comedy i asked at what price he values his face. he replies that if i will take up a collection from the passengers around us, he will accept that as full pay. my friends of the cabin enter into the spirit of the play, and quite a goodly sum finds its way into the horny hand of the hibernian athlete, who now, with a broad smile of satisfaction, intimates that he is ready to be "taken." these pictures too join the gallery of our yesterdays. swift has truly said: "it is the talent of human nature to run from one extreme to another." the long voyage is over, and all hearts rejoice in the sight of land, and now we are upon the landing stage at liverpool, amidst the throng of excited passengers, all moving hither and thither in search of baggage which seems hopelessly lost in the confusion of trunks, porters, policemen, drays and ubiquitous small boys. this is a fine field for the student of human nature. here are groups of inexperienced travellers looking anxiously about them, wondering how it is possible to extricate their belongings from the indistinguishable mass before them, and laboring under the dread that when found, a fierce and merciless custom-house official will seize upon trunks and boxes, and deaf to all protestations, dump the contents, from a shoe to a hat, upon the floor, to the everlasting confusion of the owners and the amusement of the spectators. the cool indifference of those who have crossed the ocean many times is in marked contrast to these panic-stricken, and really pitiable creatures. [illustration: "the sailors in the rigging are swaying to and fro." (see page .)] then there is the "happy-go-lucky" youth, who finds all this tumult a great joke, and who wanders carelessly about, with the serene confidence that "things" will turn out all right; which they generally do. here is the fashionable mother with her pretty daughters who evince a charming delight in everything that happens; the fussy mama who is sure that her baggage has not come ashore, or that the officers of the custom-house are in league against her; children separated from parents or nurses, shrieking wildly in their terror, while others, more venturesome and curious, are in every one's way. porters elbow their way through the crowd, cabmen shout in stentorian tones, policemen watch the masses, and now and then in sharp curt tones call a delinquent to order. a placid looking old gentleman with silvery hair and dignified demeanor stands in the midst of a picturesque party of young people, evidently his grandchildren. they all look so happy that it seems contagious, for the troubled countenances of their neighbors break into sympathetic smiles as they glance at this joyous family group. every shade of human expression may be observed in this motley throng, and he who has eyes to see will find many a charming tableau, many a pathetic scene or diverting situation that would enrich a sketch book, or prove a valuable addition to the collection made by the ready camera. the various changes of expression are worth studying, for where "luxuriant joy and pleasure in excess" appear at one moment, the next may behold an angry frown, and a struggle as if for life amid the surging tide of humanity. "now one's the better--then the other best both tugging to be victor, breast to breast yet neither conqueror, or is conquered." taking a small steamer which plies between liverpool and new brighton, one may for a few cents, after a half hour's ride, land at an attractive and much frequented watering-place upon the bank of the mersey river, opposite liverpool. this resort is the pleasure-ground of the middle classes, and is well worth a visit. upon a holiday many thousands flock to its shores which remind one of vanity fair, where numerous phases and conditions of life are represented. here is the indefatigable and annoying travelling photographer with his "four for a shilling. take you in two minutes. ladies and gentlemen, step in and see the finest pictures to be found in this country. bridal groups a specialty." [illustration: "amongst these are two typical products of the british isles." (_see page ._)] here are games of all kinds, pony and donkey riding, and all the shows to be found at the popular seashore resort. the "merry-go-round" is in full swing, with a crowd of spectators, among them many wistful children, watching the prancing camels and gaily caparisoned horses. the music here is quite inspiring, and the numerous small boys and maidens who lack the necessary pennies for this ravishing entertainment gaze at their more fortunate companions with woe-begone countenances. strains less animated, but more melodious attract us to a fine dancing hall, where the older lads and lasses are tripping about in a lively manner. the light dresses, colored ribbons and happy faces make a pretty picture. along the beach are beautiful views, worthy of a master hand, while out in the country the typical english houses with their massive thatched roofs and lovely surroundings of trees, lawns and gardens fair, cannot fail to captivate the artist's eyes. a stroll through the streets and byways of liverpool at night is a sad but interesting experience. alas for the misery and crime and want that exist in all the great cities! girls, young and pretty, but no longer innocent, may be seen in scores in every locality: children with poverty and depravity written on their faces boldly address one at the street corners: men and women, with sharp, pinched features and misery and despair in their voices, beseech one for alms, or with fierce cunning lie in wait for the unwary. sick at heart and with inexpressible pity we wend our way from one point to another. vice, crime, want, suffering meet our eyes on every side: and the old hopeless cry: why must these things be? rises up again in our souls. through the whole night long upon the curb stones, at the corners, lounging against the windows and doors of closed houses or shops, this lower stratum of life appears with its atmosphere of dusky gloom. when the daylight dawns upon the city, it seems to shrivel up and shrink into the mouths of the yawning black cellars and foul alleys whose very breath is a deadly poison. there are dozens of taverns scattered about the city, and within these rooms or stalls are partitioned off where sin may be screened from public view, for even those dyed deepest in crime sometimes fall so low that they dare not carry on their nefarious operations in the face of their everyday companions. these dens are countenanced by the authorities, and one may find within them criminals of every grade who prey upon each other for their sustenance: but in the long run, it is the proprietor who comes out with a substantial bank account. beggars, peddlers, musicians, singers of both sexes, and itinerant vendors of all kinds jostle each other in these haunts of sin, and great caution should be exercised in visiting them, for in certain localities, crimes of the most brutal character are of daily, i might say hourly occurrence. i would suggest that the tourist should at such times depend for safety upon the company of a first-class detective. let praise be given where it is due. the salvationists of europe have by their indefatigable labors reclaimed thousands of these men and women from their lives of sin and misery. you will meet these untiring workers everywhere, exhorting, praying, pleading with fallen humanity. these noble bands of christians enter fearlessly the most loathsome hovels, and, wrestling with filth and disease, in many cases come off victorious. they have been known to wash the clothing and cleanse the houses of fever-stricken families, and supply wholesome food and care for helpless infants, defied at every step by a drunken son or father. they fear nothing, knowing that their cause is god's cause, and that in the end almighty goodness shall win an eternal conquest. it is customary throughout england to close all the saloons on sundays until noon, after which time they open their doors, and remain open till midnight as upon week-days. of the many cities whose haunts i have visited at night, i think that without exception, unless it be london, liverpool leads in depravity and vice. the country from liverpool to chester abounds in attractive scenery, local in character and possessing the additional charm of novelty for the american tourist. along the route are scattered a number of old taverns, such as "the horn," "the green tree," and similar names. dismounting from bicycle or trap, the traveller who enters one of these ancient landmarks will find everything in "apple pie order": the floor clean and shining like a bright new dollar just launched from the mint. he will sit at a table within one of the three stalls on either side of the little room, and the landlord's wife will bring him a bumper of "good auld al," the effect of which will prove lasting and beneficial, if it corresponds with my experience. [illustration: "this is a fine field for the student of human nature." (_see page ._)] chester, oldest of english cities, is full of quaint residences and other ancient buildings. the old wall which surrounds the town is the only one in great britain which has been preserved entire. it forms a continuous ring, although in some places the earth has climbed so far above its base, that it appears no higher than a terrace. its rugged outer parapet is still complete, and the wide flagging forms a delightful promenade, with a fine view of the surrounding country. the earliest date which we find upon the wall is a. d. , when it was erected by the romans. twelve years later, marius, king of the britons, extended the wall. the britons were defeated under it in , and after a lapse of three centuries, it was rebuilt by the daughter of alfred the great. it has a long and eventful history, and the old cathedral whose edge it skirts, is one of the largest and most ancient in england. the sculptures in this magnificent edifice are worn smooth by the hand of time. the stained glass windows are marvels of art, the groined arches, dreamy cloisters, and antique carving upon seats and pews fill one with admiration mingled with awe. there are many fine mosaics here, and specimens of wood from the holy land. costly gems adorn the choir; here too is a bible whose cover is inlaid with precious stones. the massive gothic pillars are still in a perfect state of preservation, as well as the numerous ancient monuments and relics of the past. the vast size of the cathedral is a perpetual source of wonder to the stranger, who, wandering among its curious historic mementos, gazing upon its storied nave, transepts and choir, and upon the bible scenes pictured in these glorious windows, feels that he has been transported by some magician's hand into an age long buried in the past. the cathedral is said to have been founded in the year . its height within, from floor to the lofty dome lighted by these exquisite windows is from sixty to one hundred feet. the church of st. john the baptist rivals the cathedral in antiquity, but it is now a picturesque ruin covered with moss and ivy. chester itself contains many antiquities that are to be found nowhere else in the world. the houses, dating back to , or even earlier, are of every degree of shade and color, with little windows with diamond-shaped panes, and gable ends facing the streets whose sidewalks are on a level with the second stories. everything here seems to belong to the past, excepting the fine, modern station, ten hundred and fifty feet long, with its projecting iron roofed wings for the protection of vehicles waiting for passengers from the trains. this station is one of the longest in england. the famous chester rows are public passages running through the second stories of the houses facing the four principal streets. these arcades are reached by flights of steps at the corners of the streets, and contain some very attractive shops. the old timber-built houses of chester with their curious inscriptions are all preserved in their original ancient style, and nowhere in england can the artist or photographer find a more interesting spot, or one richer in ancient and mediæval relics than this little town. [illustration: "wayside inn, new brighton." (_see page ._)] the quaint old taverns carry one back, back, to the life of the past. drop in at the bear & billet inn some day, or the falcon inn, and yield yourself up to the charming mediæval atmosphere of the place. seat yourself at the little table beside the window, and look out upon the same scene which your english ancestors looked upon more than two hundred years ago. the landlord's wife will bring you a foaming tankard of ale. it is the same tankard from which your forefathers quenched their thirst, and if you are of a contented, philosophical temperament, you will experience the same comfort and enjoyment as they, in this truly english beverage. if you are not fired with enthusiasm by this old-time picture, wend your way to the banks of the river dee, where you may paint the greens in every variety of light and shade, with one of the picturesque old farmhouses which abound here in the foreground, and some "blooded" cattle resting quietly beneath the wide-spreading branches of the trees. or here is the single wide arch of grosvenor bridge crossing the river, with a span of two hundred feet. this is one of the largest stone arches in europe. or here is a bit of the old wall skirting the water, and the charming picture of the old bridge, which dates back to the thirteenth century; and here too are the vast mills of the dee, associated with the history and traditions of eight hundred years. with its surrounding country, and the succession of lovely gardens bordering the dee, surely chester is one of the choice spots in england for the lover of the quaint and beautiful. within the pretty residences of the suburbs may be found all the comforts and recreations of a happy prosperous family life, united with genuine english hospitality, and a cordial welcome for the stranger. the owner of one of these charming homes orders up his cart, and insists upon taking us for a drive through this delightful locality, and for miles and miles our hearts and eyes are captivated by lovely landscapes and enchanting bits of scenery. we wind up with a cup of good hot tea, thinly cut buttered bread, and other dainties. [illustration: "typical english houses with their massive thatched roofs." (_see page ._)] a decided change from the ancient and mediæval associations of chester is the prosperous city of leamington, a watering-place situated on the leam river, a tributary of the avon. the natural mineral springs discovered here in have proved the source of great benefit to this town, as the springs are highly recommended by physicians, and many invalids resort thither. but as health is not our object in coming, we do not follow the popular custom, but proceeding to the banks of the river leam, engage one of the many small boats which may be hired, and drift leisurely down the stream with the current, revelling in the wealth of beauty which surrounds us. hundreds of lovely nooks disclose themselves to our eager eyes--typical english scenes--and as we float along life assumes an ideal aspect under the witchery of this picturesque river. here are old farmhouses in the foreground, with their richly cultivated fields stretching away for hundreds of acres, and here are velvet lawns, with their dainty high-bred air, surrounding noble homes, stately and silent. now a group of merry children dance about the water side, and a great newfoundland dog dashes wildly into the stream after a ball or stick, swimming gallantly out until he seizes his prize. how the children scream and run away as he rushes joyously up to them, shaking the spray over their dresses and into their faces. oh fair river leam! these lofty elms and giant oaks that look down upon your waters love you, and we too, strangers from a foreign shore, here yield our tribute of loving praise for the happy hours we owe to you, lingering often, reluctant to leave some especially charming spot where the branches of the trees overhang the stream, and touch our faces with soft caressing fingers. "nature was here so lavish of her store, that she bestowed until she had no more." this scene too fades as we board one of the many tram-cars, and in a few moments are carried to the very gateway of the world-renowned warwick castle, which occupies a commanding position, overlooking the avon. this ancient pile is artistically poised, and presents grand effects of color, light and shade. upon the payment of a shilling for each person, the massive iron doors which for centuries have guarded this stately and historic stronghold, open as if by magic, and a passageway cut through the solid rock leads us to an open space, where we have a fine view of the magnificent round towers and embattled walls. a visit of two hours gives us opportunity to climb to the top of the ancient towers which for ages have loomed up as monuments of power and defiance in the face of the enemy. we are impressed with the vast size of the castle. the view from the towers and the windows is beautiful and romantic. in the spacious courtyard there are magnificent old trees and soft velvety turf, and the hand of time has colored towers and battlements a rich brown hue that blends harmoniously with the ivy creeping in and out wherever it can find a place. [illustration: "suburban residence." (_see page ._)] the gardens slope down to the avon, from whose banks there is a picturesque view of the river front of the castle, and here as well as in the park we see some fine old cedars of lebanon, brought from the east by the warwick crusaders. in the main castle we enter a number of the apartments which are furnished in a style of regal splendor. the great entrance hall, sixty two feet long and forty wide, is rich in dark old oak wainscoting, and curious ancient armor; and shields and coronets of the earls of many generations, as well as the "bear and ragged staff," of robert dudley's crest are carved upon its gothic ceiling. the gilt drawing-room contains a rare collection of the masterpieces of great artists. this room is so called from the richly gilded panels which cover its walls and ceiling. in the cedar drawing-room are wonderful antique vases, furniture and other curios, which would well repay a much longer inspection than we can give them. but all the rooms in this magnificent old feudal castle are filled with the finest specimens of works of ancient art in every line. the paintings alone fill us with despair, for they line the walls in close succession, and the artists' names are murillo, rubens, rembrandt, vandyke, sir peter lely, guido, andrea del sarto, and many others of like celebrity. what an opportunity for those who have the time to linger in this atmosphere of lofty genius! many beautiful old shade trees surround the castle, and the restful silence inspires one with the desire to be alone and yield himself up to the spirit of the place, hallowed by such wealth of associations and the presence of immortal art. a short distance from the castle, and outside the warwick enclosure, stands an old mill upon the bank of the avon. this ancient and picturesque structure was originally built for the purpose of grinding wheat, but the all-observing eye of the artist quickly discovered in it a mission of a higher order, and for years it has posed as the central figure in the romantic landscapes portrayed by the brush of the painter or the camera of the photographer. taking a drag and driving through kenilworth, coventry and stoneleigh, will give one delightful views of some of the most beautiful portions of england. the roads are macadamized, and in good condition. this is a fine farming country, and here we see the typical english farmhouses, built of brick and stone, surrounded by well-cultivated fields, stretching away into a peacefully smiling landscape. the fields are separated by green hedges, and the whole scene is one that can hardly be surpassed throughout "merrie england." from these lovely quiet homes, we pass through roads bordered with wild flowers to the ruins of one of the most magnificent castles in great britain. it is hardly necessary to say that kenilworth is inseparably associated with sir walter scott, and his graphic descriptions of the scenes and events that have taken place here in the days of its glory. this castle, one of the finest and most extensive baronial ruins in england, dates back to about a. d. it covered an area of seven acres, but is now a mass of ivy-covered ruins, from which one can form but a faint idea of its appearance in the height of its prosperity. yet the hand of nature has invested it with another kind of beauty, and in place of the pomp and majesty of power, the brilliant pageants of the court of queen elizabeth, we behold the clinging robe of ivy, the daylight illuminating the gallery tower in place of the hundreds of wax torches which flashed their lights upon the royal cavalcade, and a little country road where once a stately avenue led to the tower, and listened to the court secrets, lovers' vows and merry badinage uttered within its shades. the castle has passed through many changes, and experienced stormy days as well as those of prosperity and luxury, but the pen of scott has immortalized it on the summit of its glory, and though the ages may cast their blight upon its visible form, it will ever live in the soul of the artist, the poet, the lover of beauty, as a scene of splendor, of sorrowful tragedy, of magnificent design. but a few steps beyond the kenilworth grounds is an old english inn--the king's arms. it is so picturesque and romantic-looking, that i feel like rechristening it: "the entire royal family." let us enter its hospitable doors and enjoy its old-time atmosphere and many curious attractions. here the artist is in his element, for on every side are quaint corners, cozy nooks, and relics for which the lover of the antique would give a fortune; while outside the windows the beautiful english landscape beams upon one with inviting smiles. the landlady, with her cheerful bustling air and broad accent, imparts a pleasant thrill of anticipation, which is more than realized upon the appearance of the savory chops,--grown on the neighboring hillside, whose rich green pasturage is a guarantee for the flavor and quality of the meat,--the delicious hot cakes, and the unfailing tankard, or if one prefers it, the cup of fragrant tea. and so we sit and refresh the inner man, while the soul revels in the world of beauty around us, and picture after picture passes before the mental vision, connecting these scenes with famous historic characters, or wonderful events of legendary lore. so lovely are these views, that one could gaze for hours, and never weary of the "living jewels dropp'd unstained from heaven," for this picturesque country possesses a peculiar freshness, as though free from the touch of care and the hand of time, like the fair maiden who has received from the fountain of youth the gift of eternal life and beauty. lights and shadows of london life. _lights and shadows of london life._ the shadow side--the slums--the city by night--vice and misery--"chinese johnson's" opium den--the "bunco" man--an english guard--"the grand old man"--caution to tourists--great cities by night--the seven dials--derby day--the tally-ho--old robin hood inn--epsom hill--the races--exciting scenes--side shows--the close of the day. as nature derives much of its charm from the intermingling of light and shade, so in life there are many scenes of sharp contrast, and we often have a deeper appreciation of its beauties after beholding the reverse side of the picture. some one has said: "in actions of life, who seeth not the filthiness of evil, wanteth a great foil to perceive the beauty of virtue." what better opportunity of studying this phase of life can there be, than in the faces of those whose existence is passed amid associations of suffering, want and crime; who not only witness, but experience all these in their different shades and degrees. take with me a walk through the worst portions of the greatest metropolis in the world, and observe a few of the pictures in the localities where humanity is born and nourished in misery, filth and sin. guarded by three of england's best paid detectives, i follow closely in their footsteps, not daring to speak lest i rouse in his lair the slumbering lion of passion and revenge. from street to street we pass, viewing the wretched tenements, and more wretched inmates huddling together over a faint spark of fire, or vainly trying to impart to their little ones some of the natural warmth which still exists in their bodies, in spite of hunger, cold and fatigue. the crumbs from the tables of the rich would be a lavish feast to these poor creatures. clean water is as great a stranger to their stomachs as to their bodies; loathsome rags cover their emaciated forms, and the destroyer drink has left his signet upon their countenances. a little farther on is the vile dance house into which the inhabitants of this neighborhood crawl for the lowest stage of their degradation. a motley throng is assembled here, and the sound of a violin mingles with shrill laughter and drunken oaths. i am guarded so carefully that many times i am hurried away from a scene more quickly than i wish, the officers fearing that our presence may create a disturbance among these reckless characters. we enter a low saloon in a cellar dimly lighted by an old oil lamp: the atmosphere is gruesome, and one of the detectives warns me that the men who frequent this haunt are desperate fellows who would not hesitate to stab me for the sake of my clothing. old and grizzled habitués line reeking walls, with depravity written upon every countenance, and i fully realize that my life would not be worth a moment's purchase here should my attendants forsake me. now we are in a long narrow alley, as black as erebus, which gives one the feeling of being in a subterranean passage upon some mysterious mission. in a few minutes a light appears ahead--a dull glimmering bluish light, like that which is supposed to hover above graveyards--and we pause in front of a small frame house of two stories. a knock upon the door brings to the threshold a little dried up, wizened chinaman, made feeble by long dissipation, who in his broken language makes us welcome. the place is "chinese johnson's" opium den. how can i describe the scene that is before me? in this room are many small dirty cots filled with unconscious human beings, willing victims of the pernicious drug--a loathsome spectacle--and here on a small couch sits the proprietor of the establishment. this is his throne of state, and here he can smoke with impunity the deadly drug, which has no perceptible effect upon his depraved body. we are glad to end this experience and banish from our minds the unattractive picture of the chinaman in his elysian fields. we are not the only ones who have the privilege of viewing these scenes. any one who desires and possesses the necessary courage may invade the haunts and dens of the lower world, and be profited by the lessons here learned; but he must exercise great caution. the studies are not only for the brush and camera: they are food for the thoughtful mind which can apply the wisdom thus gained, and seek in these conditions for the solution of knotty problems. one can better appreciate, by reason of this contrast, the blessings of his own life; of purity, honesty and contentment as opposed to ignorance, poverty and vice. this evening, fatigued in mind and body by my experience in the slums of london, i enter the holborn restaurant, hoping to enjoy a good dinner, and at the same time be entertained by the delightful music of skilled musicians. i seat myself at a table on the second floor, and supposing myself free from intrusion, yield myself up to the charming melody, when a good-looking and well-dressed man approaches, and with many apologies asks if the seat opposite me is engaged. i assure him that i do not lay claim to ownership of any portion of the holborn, and that i can speak only of the chair upon which i am sitting. upon this he takes the opposite place and gives to the waiter an order for quite an extravagant supply of the dainties enumerated on the bill of fare. during the time intervening between the giving of the order and its delivery, no conversation passes between us, but i have an unpleasant consciousness of his presence, and occasionally feel his eyes resting upon me. the appearance of the epicurean repast seems to impart the confidence he requires, and he addresses me with the remark that i must pardon him for staring at me so impolitely, but he is sure he has met me before. am i not an american? to which i assent. "are you a new yorker?" is the next interrogation from this experienced catechiser. he can readily perceive that i am an american by my foreign accent. to the last question i also respond in the affirmative, and may heaven forgive the falsehood. "ah," he says, "do you frequent the races at sheepshead bay?" "yes, generally," i reply. (i have never seen the place.) "it is there, then, that i have met you. were you not there last summer?" "many times." (another breach of truth.) "will you kindly give me your name?" follows as a matter of course. i reach my hand into my pocket and draw out a card upon which is engraved simply my name, and extending it toward him, remark: "my name is charles m. taylor, jr., and i am associated with mr. ----, one of the chief detectives at scotland yard. my present mission is to look up some 'bunco' men from new york who have headquarters in london. here is my card." but the stranger does not take the card. he glances hastily at his watch, and rising hurriedly, says: "it is nine o'clock. i did not know it was so late. i must be off, as i have an important engagement." as he pushes back his chair, i quickly call a waiter, and tell him to collect the money for this gentleman's order, as i do not wish to be held responsible for it. he pays for the meal which he has not touched, and in his haste to depart forgets his manners, for he does not wish me "good-night." did he think i was a tender lamb? this hurts my pride somewhat. i am sorry, however, that i was obliged to deceive him so. one evening while discussing matters in general with an english friend, born and bred in the city of london, we touch upon the order and unswerving obedience of the soldiers, policemen and good citizens who dwell under the dominion of her gracious majesty, the queen, in the great metropolis; and my friend cites as an example, the guards who patrol nightly the white hall horse guards barracks, as adhering so strictly to their line of march that they will not turn out of their way one inch for any person or obstacle in their direct course. i accept the wager of a dinner at the holborn to be given by me if i do not succeed in inducing one of these guards to move out of his line of march. selecting a dark night for the one in which to make good my assertion, i approach the barracks, and espy the guard with bayonet at "carry arms," making a "bee line" toward me. i walk in his direction with head bent low, and come so close that there would be a collision were it not for the stern and firmly-uttered "halt" that comes from his lips. i halt face to face with this noble specimen of humanity, standing fully six feet one in his boots, and as straight as "jack's bean pole." "sir," i say, "you are in my way, will you please move out?" he makes no response. "will you please step aside and allow me to pass?" no response. "come, my good fellow," i continue in persuasive tones, "i have made a wager that you will move out of line for me, and if you do i will share the bet with you." no reply. but i see in the immovable countenance an inflexible determination to do his duty which all the bribes in christendom will not be able to change. i feel that death only can prevent his obedience to orders. "well," i conclude, "you are a good fellow, and the power you serve, be it queen, emperor, or president, is to be envied for having such a faithful subject. i respect your obedience to law and order. good-night." no response. it is needless to say that i pay the forfeit willingly, and my friend and i enjoy a good dinner at the holborn. [illustration: "white hall horse guards' barracks." (_see page ._)] strolling one morning about london, with nothing better to do than to take in "odd bits" that come in my way, i observe a large crowd of citizens assembled opposite the entrance to parliament, and going up to a policeman, i ask what has happened, or is about to happen? but the officer looks perfectly blank, and can give me no information whatever. i bethink suddenly of my remissness and the rules governing information sought from guards, cab-drivers, and omnibus whips in the city of london, and straightway putting my hand in my pocket, i produce several pennies which i give him for a mug of "half and half." a change comes over his countenance, his vanished senses quickly return, and with a courteous smile he remarks that gladstone is expected to appear in parliament for the first time after an illness of some weeks. and this obliging "cop" not only gives me the desired information, but escorts me to a good position in the crowd, just in time to behold the "grand old man," who, holding his hat in his hand, bows smilingly in response to the enthusiastic greetings which come from every side. he walks briskly along, and as he comes close to me, moved by an irresistible impulse, i step out from the throng, and extend my hand, saying: "i am an american, who wishes to shake the hand of the man who has so bravely fought a hard battle." the proud old face looks pleasantly into mine, his hand meets mine with a cordial grasp, and replying that he is glad to meet an american, gladstone passes on to the scene of his many conflicts and victories. the tourist who is bent on seeing the various sections of a great city, and especially those localities which are best observed by night, should be very cautious in visiting the haunts of vice and poverty: such for example as the old seven dials of london, as it used to be. i have had many unpleasant and untold encounters, and been placed in situations, not only trying, but extremely dangerous, while attempting to explore these hidden regions unattended and alone. experience has taught me that it is best to go "well heeled," that is accompanied by the best informed and most expert detectives, as what they may charge for their services is cheap in comparison with a mutilated head or body. one's own ready wit and shrewdness are all very well in some cases, but there are times when these fail, and the man at the other end, drunken, brutal, and excited, will make you wish you had "let sleeping dogs lie." it is well for travellers and others to visit the slums of large cities by night. here is food for comparison and reflection, and from these may perhaps arise a different feeling from that with which we are accustomed to regard the poor wretches who have lacked the advantages of birth, education and environment. in company with four detectives, i visited the "seven dials" of london, and the experience of those nights spent in scenes of horror, vice and degradation would fill volumes. picture to yourself a small narrow street, with low wooden houses of two stories on either side. there are dim glimmering lights at intervals of about fifty feet. the hour is two o'clock in the morning, as one tourist attended by four officers wends his way through an atmosphere filled with dread and horror. we enter some of the houses which present scenes of indescribable squalor and confusion. a perfect bedlam of tongues reigns here. men and women hurl abusive epithets at each other, from windows and doors, as well as from one end of the street to the other. the entire neighborhood enters into the quarrel, and the transition from words to blows is sudden and fierce. the street is filled in an instant with ragged, and almost naked beings, whom one can hardly call human, and the battle which ensues with clubs, knives and fists is beyond imagination. cut heads, broken limbs, bruised bodies, bleeding countenances appear on every side, and it is quite evident that many are scarred for life. the sight is loathsome, yet it makes one's heart ache. such scenes are of frequent occurrence in the slums of nearly every large city, where drink and depravity count their victims by thousands. in these vile abodes are the haunts of the thief, the smuggler, the fallen, and the pictures once seen, are indelibly impressed on the memory, with the long train of reflections awakened by such sights, and the inevitable query: why is not something done to render such scenes impossible in this age of civilization? at last the great derby day has arrived, and the whole atmosphere is filled with the importance of the occasion. the sprinkling rain does not dampen the ardor and enthusiasm of the true englishman, for i am told that the races have never been postponed on account of the weather. after breakfast we stroll to the street corner where stands our tally-ho in readiness for the day's excursion. having engaged our seats the previous day, we take our places and start forth, drawn by four spirited horses under the guidance of an experienced driver. the whip is cracked, the horn sends forth its musical signal, and away we go amid the cheers and applause of numerous spectators. swiftly we roll over the well paved streets, and the high spirits of the company, accompanied by the frequent winding of the horn, render the ride extremely pleasant. the race-course is about eighteen miles out of london, and our road is through a beautiful portion of the country. every lane and avenue is thronged with people, walking, driving, or on bicycles, but all going to the derby. we stop for refreshment at the old robin hood inn, an ancient hostelry, established, we are told, in . here we have a beverage, supposed to be soda water or milk, but which is in truth a stronger concoction, to brace us for the mental and physical strain of this exciting day. "all aboard," cries the coachman, and there is a general scramble for places. at last we are all seated, and proceed on our way, changing horses when half the distance is covered. we take the main thoroughfare within three miles of the epsom grounds, and now a wonderful sight bursts upon us. thousands of pedestrians of both sexes and every age are flocking toward the race course: hundreds of carriages, vans, dog carts, tally-hos, vehicles of every description throng the road. enormous trains are constantly arriving, bearing their thousands to the downs, now covered with a vast moving mass. london empties itself on this all-important day, and proceeds to epsom by every possible means of locomotion. the grand stand, a handsome and commodious structure, is quickly filled to overflowing. there are numerous other stands. the appearance of the downs, with the countless booths and the waving multitude which cover it as far as the eye can reach, is a spectacle that cannot fail to thrill the soul of the most phlegmatic. no other event in england can concentrate such an amount of interest and excitement as is found on the scene of the derby. every one is in high spirits: young and old, men, women and children all seem merry and happy, laughing, singing, dancing along on this one great day of the year. behold the party on our right. a large wagon contains ten or more men and women, who are singing and laughing in great glee, and who invite us to join them. here a group of a half dozen men with musical instruments at their sides are singing to their own accompaniment. the dust rises in clouds, and we are covered from head to foot with it as with a garment: we all wear veils pinned around our heads to protect our eyes. at last we reach epsom hill, and here we pay two guineas for the admission of our party and conveyance. we are also entitled to a place anywhere on the hill which overlooks the race-course. our horses are picketed after being taken from the wagon, and our two attendants spread before us a most sumptuous repast. coaches of every kind are so thickly jumbled together that for a vast distance the hill seems covered with a coat of dark paint. [illustration: "a short run of an hour." (_see page ._)] thousands and thousands of men, women and children are assembled upon this hillside, while tens of thousands fill the stands and encircle the race-course. it is estimated that no less than from one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand persons are massed together at these races. the race-course is not like those in the united states, but is a sodded strip extending about half a mile in a straight line. the ringing of a bell announces the commencement of the races, and the mass of humanity surges to and fro in great excitement. now is the book-maker's time, and he passes hither and thither, shouting his offers to the enthusiastic multitude, who accept or reject his propositions with eagerness or scorn, corresponding with their knowledge or ignorance of the horses ventured. gambling and betting are at their height: vast sums of money change hands at the conclusion of the races, and many inexperienced as well as reckless ones leave the field at night ruined men. meanwhile the confusion is indescribable. but these sounds drop away, and silence prevails as five slender well-shaped racers appear, ridden by jockeys, but when the wild mad race begins in which each endeavors to outdo the others, the excitement and tumult know no bounds: shouts, groans, cheers fill the air, and every eye is strained along the course: one could readily believe that a whole world of mad spirits has been let loose to fill the air with their hoarse discordant sounds. as the winning horse reaches the goal, a placard of large dimensions, on which his number is conspicuously painted, is raised within full view of the swaying crowd. the shouts and cheers burst forth afresh, and jubilee and pandemonium mingle their extremes in a scene to be imagined only by those who have experienced it. as the first excitement cools, bets are paid, and accounts squared. again the bell rings: another race, and a repetition of the previous scene, and so it continues for several hours. but the racing is not the sole attraction, as is evidenced by the crowds surrounding the refreshment booths and side tents, where for a small fee one may see the fat woman, the skeleton man, or the double-headed boy; or listen to the colored minstrels who charm the soul with plantation melodies; or have his fortune told in the gypsy tent by a dark-eyed maid in gorgeous attire, who will tell of a wonderful future which is "sure to come true." or you may have your photograph taken on the spot, and finished while you wait. here is a phonograph representing a variety entertainment, and the little group around it are laughing heartily at the jokes of the "funny man," the ventriloquist, and the story-teller. here are fine bands of musicians, and dozens of oddities, and curious tricksters: and the whole forms one grand panorama of human life, the counterpart of which is to be seen nowhere else in the world. at five o'clock, the horses are harnessed to our tally-ho, and with smiling but dusty and sunburned faces we bid farewell to the scene of gayety and start for home. every road and byway in the surrounding country is swarming with people, and the scale of pleasure, disappointment, grief, hilarity and fatigue is reflected in the countenances of riders and pedestrians. here is a group, overheated, weary, dejected, trudging slowly along the way, interchanging scarcely a word with each other: here a merry party, filled with life, singing, laughing, recounting the events of the day, as they wander on, arm in arm. now a little lame boy smiles in our faces from the tiny cart which his sister pushes cheerily forward, and now a gay belle dashes by in a carriage drawn by fast horses, holding the ribbons and whip in correct style, while her companion leans back, indolently enjoying the situation. the countenances of the men tell various tales, as the triumphs or failures of the day are expressed in their faces. some few wear a stolid, impassive air, while others talk, talk, talk, as though they have never had an opportunity till now. as we ride along amid the stupendous throngs, many thoughts are aroused, and many a picture is put away in the recesses of memory to be brought forth and pondered over on a future day. with the shades of night the curtain falls upon a scene of such magnitude that the brain is weary of contemplating it, and is glad to find temporary forgetfulness in "tired nature's sweet restorer." and so ends the great derby day. [illustration: "the chalky cliffs of dover." (_see page ._)] scenes in the gay capital. _scenes in the gay capital._ dover to calais--paris--the gay capital by night--boulevards--life in the streets--champs Élysées--place de la concorde--arc d'etoile--place vendome--louvre--opera house--palais royal--church of the invalides--versailles--notre dame--jardin mabille--the madeleine--the pantheon--the banks of the seine--french funeral ceremonies--la morgue--pere lachaise. we travel from london to dover by train, thence by steamer to calais. the chalky cliffs of dover with their high precipitous sides are a pleasant and restful farewell picture of the shores of old england. a short run of an hour or more lands us amid scenes so different from those of the past few weeks that we feel that the magician's wand has again been exercised and the "presto, change," has transported us to a region of maliciously disposed genii, who will not understand us, or allow us to comprehend their mysterious utterances; and the transformation scene is complete as we enter paris, the home of the light, the gay, the fantastic. let the lover of the bright, the gay, the jovial, visit the broad boulevards of paris by night, especially the avenue des champs Élysées, which seems to be the favorite promenade of the populace. upon both sides are groves of trees, brilliantly illuminated by myriads of colored lights, and here amid these bowers is to be found every variety of entertainment for the people. games of chance are played in the gay booths, punch and judy shows attract crowds of children, wonderful feats of horsemanship are performed, singers in aërial costumes draw many to the cafés chantants, and the lights of innumerable cabs and carriages flit to and fro in every direction like will-o'-the-wisps. here is fine military music, as well as exhibitions of skillful playing on almost every known instrument. the wide boulevards are long, straight and marvels of beauty, with their lovely gardens, handsome houses, and fine shops. there are strong contrasts in the lives of those one sees upon these streets under the gaslight. i think dante's three realms are pretty clearly represented along the avenues of paris, beneath the starry dome of heaven, and within these gayly decorated booths and cafés. here may be seen the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the grave and the gay, the innocent and the hardened in guilt, the adventurer and his unsuspecting victim. and this heterogeneous throng, this careless pleasure-loving crowd, may be seen drifting from one point to another till the cock crows the warning of approaching dawn. the streets of paris by night afford abundant material for the artist, the photographer, the poet, author and clergyman; as well as the adventurer. here indeed, if anywhere, one may "read the human heart, its strange, mysterious depths explore. what tongue could tell, or pen impart the riches of its hidden lore?" the place de la concorde is the most beautiful square in paris. from its centre are magnificent views of the grand boulevards and many of the handsome public buildings, and here are the great bronze fountains marking the historic spot upon which stood the guillotine during the french revolution. the lovely walks, the sparkling waters, and the statues and monuments, the obelisk, the merry strollers, and picturesque tableaux seen at every turn are positively enchanting. up the broad vista of the champs Élysées the eye rests upon the wonderful arc d'etoile, one of the most conspicuous monuments in paris. it stands in the place d'etoile, one of the most fashionable sections of the city, and is surrounded by elegant residences and pleasant gardens. from this point radiate twelve of the most beautiful avenues in paris, and from the summit of the arch one can see for miles down these grand boulevards. the magnificent arch of triumph, commenced in by napoleon, was not finished until . it is a vast structure, rising one hundred and fifty feet from the ground. the great central arch is ninety feet high and forty-five feet wide, and is crossed by a spacious transverse arch. upon the outside of the arch are groups of splendidly executed statuary, representing scenes of conquest and allegorical figures. a spiral staircase leads to the platform on top, where one beholds this superb prospect which well deserves its world-wide celebrity. we come upon the place vendome through the rue de la paix, and here stands the great historic column, erected by the first napoleon in commemoration of his victories over the russians and austrians. the monument is constructed of twelve hundred pieces of cannon, captured in the campaign of . upon the pedestal and around the shaft which is one hundred and thirty-five feet high, are bas-reliefs representing warlike implements and the history of the war from the departure of the troops from boulogne to its end on the famous field of austerlitz. in front of the central entrance to the court of the tuileries, in the place du carrousel, is the arc de triomphe du carrousel, also erected by napoleon i., in , in imitation of the triumphal arch of severus at rome. in the garden of the tuileries, with its old-time atmosphere, its statues, fountains and pillars, its groves and terraces, its historic ruins, its lovely flower-beds, we find a quaint and charming picture of a past age; yet when these groves and paths resound with the hum of human voices, when the many chairs and benches are filled with joyous human beings, the link between the past and present is established, and we are in one of the favorite resorts of the parisians of to-day. between the tuileries and the louvre is napoleon's triumphal arc du carrousel--or rather between the courtyards of the two famous piles, which now form one continuous structure of magnificent architectural design, whose façade is adorned with corinthian columns, elaborate sculptures and lofty pavilions. groups of statuary, representing the most distinguished men of france, allegorical figures, floral designs and other decorations on a vast scale ornament these magnificent pavilions. the space enclosed by the old and new louvres and the tuileries is about sixty acres. some of the most beautiful of the architectural designs of the louvre were completed by napoleon i.,--to whom it owes much of its restoration,--from the drawings of perrault, the famous author of bluebeard, and the sleeping beauty. we cross a square and quickly find ourselves in the garden of the palais royal, once the palais cardinal, and the home of richelieu. the ground floor of the palace is occupied by shops. the garden which is enclosed by the four sides of the square, is about a thousand feet long and nearly four hundred feet wide. here is a quadruple row of elms, also long flower-beds, shrubbery, a fountain and some statues. a military band plays here in the afternoon, but the garden presents the gayest scene in the evening, when it is brilliantly illuminated, and the chairs under the elms, as well as the long walks are filled with gay pleasure-seekers. there is a magnificent opera house near the grand hotel, whose vast exterior is ornamented with beautiful statuary, medallions, gilding and other rich decorations. in the church of the invalides we find the tomb of napoleon i., who in his will expressed a desire that his ashes might rest on the banks of the seine, in the midst of the french people whom he had loved so well. the open circular crypt is beneath the lofty dome, whose light falls upon it through colored glass, and with a wonderful effect. the pavement of the crypt is a mosaic, representing a great crown of laurels, within which are inscribed the names of napoleon's most important victories; and twelve colossal figures symbolizing conquests, surround the wreath. the sarcophagus rests upon the mosaic pavement within the crypt, which is twenty feet in depth. this is an enormous block of red sandstone, weighing more than sixty tons, which surmounts another huge block supported by a splendid rock of green granite. the scene is solemn and grandly impressive, the faint bluish light from above, producing an effect wholly indescribable. in the higher of the two cupolas, directly over the crypt, is a painting, with figures which appear of life-size even at this great distance, of christ presenting to st. louis the sword with which he vanquished the enemies of christianity. here is versailles, with its "little park of twelve miles in extent, and its great park of forty," with its beautiful fountains and grottos, its wonderful groves and flower-beds. here are velvety lawns adorned with fine statuary, green alleys, shrubberies and terraces, in which art and nature are so cunningly intermingled that they are often mistaken for each other. the fountains are representations of mythological characters, and the figures are carried out in their immediate surroundings. apollo is in his grotto, served by seven graceful nymphs: while close by the steeds of the sun-god are being watered by tritons. again, the basin of this god appears surrounded by tritons, nymphs and dolphins, with neptune and amphitrite in the centre, reposing in an immense shell. latona, apollo and diana are represented by a fine group: the goddess is imploring jupiter to punish the lycian peasants who have refused her a draught of water, while all around her, in swift answer to her appeal, are the peasants, some partially transformed, others wholly changed into huge frogs and tortoises, condemned here to an endless penalty of casting jets of water toward the offended deity. here is the famous old cathedral of notre dame de paris with which victor hugo has made the world familiar. this grand gothic structure was commenced in the twelfth century, and finished in the fourteenth. we view its exterior from a position facing the fine west façade, with its wonderful rose window between the huge square towers. the three beautiful portals are ornamented with rich sculptures and imposing statuary. these doors form a succession of receding arches, dating from the early part of the thirteenth century. the central portion is a fine representation of the last judgment. the interior is vast and impressive with its vaulted arches and long rows of columns. the ancient stained glass of notre dame is represented by three magnificent rose windows. from the summit of the tower there is a glorious view of the seine and its picturesque banks and bridges: indeed one of the loveliest views in paris. another famous and beautiful edifice is the madeleine, or church of st. mary magdalene, which stands in an open space not far from the place de la concorde. it is in the form of a grecian temple, surrounded by corinthian columns, and the flight of twenty-eight steps by which one approaches the church, extends across its entire breadth. the great bronze doors are adorned with illustrations of the ten commandments. within, the walls and floors are of marble richly ornamented, and the side chapels contain fine statues, and paintings of scenes from the life of mary magdalene. the high altar is a magnificent marble group representing angels bearing mary magdalene into paradise. this whole interior is indescribably beautiful, and to enter into its details one would require a volume. from this sublime spectacle we pass to the church of st. genevieve, the protectress of the city of paris, familiarly known as the pantheon. this also is a magnificent structure, with three rows of beautiful corinthian columns supporting its portico. the handsome pediment above this portico contains a splendid group of statuary in high relief, representing france in the act of distributing garlands to her famous sons. the central figure is fifteen feet in height. the edifice is in the form of a greek cross, surmounted by a majestic dome, two hundred and eighty feet high. within the church the spacious rotunda is encircled by corinthian columns which support a handsome gallery, and he who ascends to the dome will have an opportunity of observing closely the wonderful painting, covering a space of thirty-seven hundred square feet, which represents st. genevieve receiving homage from clovis, the first christian monarch of france, charlemagne, st. louis, and louis xviii., while the royal martyrs of the french revolution are pictured in the heavenly regions above. in the gloomy vaults below we behold the tombs of a number of eminent men, among them those of rousseau, voltaire, and soufflot, the architect of the pantheon. in the middle of the vaults is an astonishing echo. the roll of a drum here would sound like the thunder of artillery; a board dropped upon the pavement is like the report of a cannon, and the reverberations are repeated over and over again as though these subterranean spirits are loth to resign the opportunity of speech so seldom afforded them. the tourist in paris rarely fails to spend at least one evening in the jardin mabille; that is the male tourist, who is curious to behold life in all its phrases, and whom the fame of the garden attracts as the candle draws the moth. this is a pretty spot, with bowery paths, gay flowers, sparkling fountains, arbors and sheltered corners where lovers and others may enjoy tête-à-têtes undisturbed, and refreshments may be ordered to suit purses of all dimensions. there is a good orchestra on the brilliantly illuminated stand, and here the soubrette is in the height of her glory, while the better class of the visitors are as a rule, only spectators. there is some pretty gay dancing here, but order is preserved. on certain nights fine displays of fireworks attract many spectators. but the great feature is the dance, and the proprietors generally employ some girls distinguished by peculiar grace, beauty, or other characteristics who serve as magnets to the light and pleasure-loving throngs. but why attempt to give even a faint idea of the innumerable attractions of the city whose abundant resources bewilder the tourist whose time is limited. it teems with life. it is overflowing with beauty, passion and love. wandering along its gay boulevards, whether in the bright sunshine, or beneath the starry vault of night, with picturesque mansions or gay shops on either side, or amid the bowery paths and bewitching avenues, the gardens, statues, music and laughter, one feels that he is in an enchanted land, where high and low, rich and poor share alike in the universal beauty and happiness. the charming banks of the seine offer endless attractions. here are many beautiful bridges, from which one may have picturesque views of the lovely gardens and palaces. these bridges are handsomely ornamented with statuary, bronzes, and reliefs, and bear interesting inscriptions. floating bathing establishments are to be seen along these banks, and swimming schools for both sexes. here are also large floats or boats capable of accommodating at least fifty women, who wash their clothing in the seine. it is quite interesting to watch these robust girls and women, as they pat and slap the heaps of muslin with the large paddles provided for this purpose. when a death occurs in a family of the middle class in paris, it is customary to drape the whole lower story of the house with black, and place the body of the deceased in the front room. holy water is placed at the head, also candles and a crucifix, and any one may enter and view the body, or sprinkle it with holy water, and offer a prayer for the soul of the departed. the men who pass a house so distinguished reverently uncover their heads: they also take off their hats on the appearance of a funeral, and remain so until the procession has passed. for him who is interested in such sights, the morgue presents a curious but sad attraction. here lie on marble slabs, kept cool by a continuous stream of water, the bodies of unknown persons who have met their death in the river or by accident. their clothing is suspended above their heads, and any one may enter and view these silent rows. after a certain period, if not identified, they are buried at the public expense. i behold many pathetic sights here, as broken-hearted relatives find their worst fears realized and lost and erring ones are recognized. sad, sad are the pictures to be seen at the morgue. here is a fair young girl, of not more than twenty years, resting peacefully upon her marble bed, her troubles in this world over forever. her body was found yesterday floating on the seine. "one more unfortunate weary of breath, sadly importunate, gone to her death. "touch her not scornfully; think of her mournfully, gently and humanly; not of the stains of her, all that remains of her now is pure womanly. "make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful: past all dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful." pere lachaise, once an old jesuit stronghold, is now the largest cemetery in paris. it is said that there are more than eighteen thousand monuments here. the older part is much crowded, and we find here famous names connected with every age and profession. here is a granite pyramid, here one of white marble, and here the love of a nation commemorates with flowers the grave of a man whose resting-place no lofty monument marks, but who "lives forever in the hearts of the french people." here a monument whose sides exhibit bas-reliefs of the fable of the fox and stork, and the wolf and lamb, is surmounted by the figure of a fox carved in black marble. this is the tomb of lafontaine. the little gothic chapel yonder is the tomb of abelard, whose effigy lies upon the sarcophagus within, and beside it is that of heloise. this double monument is very lovely, although the signs of neglect and decay are plainly visible. the military chiefs of napoleon's day sleep in this cemetery, and here lie the mortal remains of st. pierre, the author of paul and virginia, of the great painter, david, of pradier, the sculptor, the actress rachel, and hundreds of others with whose names we are all familiar. the grounds are picturesque with winding paths, and cypress groves, and wreaths and flowers everywhere testify to the loving remembrance in which the dead are held by the living. the elevated position of pere lachaise gives one a fine view of the city. the grounds when first laid out in , covered upward of forty acres; they now extend over more than two hundred acres, and it is said that $ , , have been expended in monuments since this cemetery was opened. antwerp and the city of windmills. _antwerp and the city of windmills._ from paris to antwerp--along the route--thrifty farmers--antwerp--dogs in harness--the river--old churches--chimes--an inappreciative listener--steen museum--instruments of torture--lace industry--living expenses--hospitality--the city of windmills--watery highways--a city of canals--the maas river--the houses on the canals--travel by boats--novel scenes--costly headgear--dutch costumes--powerful draught horses--no bonbons--chocolate candy--in the market-place--the belle of the market--photographs--wooden shoes--drawbridges--blowing the horn--ancient relics--the sword of columbus. the country between paris and antwerp is delightful, and very different from the lovely landscapes of england. farms, towns, villages, all present a novel aspect, and the people speak a language very strange to our ears. the great fields along the road are not fenced in but are only distinguished from one another by the difference in the appearance of the crops. in england, as i have said, there are beautiful hedges everywhere separating the fields and meadows. here are strong men and women working side by side in the fields. here are buxom country lasses, rope in hand, one end of which is attached to the horns of the leader of a herd of cattle. these are glowing pictures, and the clean farmhouses, fields and roads are abundant evidences of the industry and thrift of the people. antwerp may well be termed a city of charms and fascinations. it is the most attractive and interesting town in belgium, and at the same time one of the strongest fortresses in europe. our first impression of this place is of clean orderly streets, paved with the square belgian blocks which endure so well the wear and tear of constant travel. the houses and shops are of a quaint, ancient style of architecture, and very picturesque effect. during the middle ages, antwerp was a very important, as well as wealthy city, and its splendid docks, its wonderful cathedral, its magnificent paintings all testify that a period of exceptional prosperity has been granted to it in the past. a strange sight are the heavy freight wagons, with their broad wheels and various loads, drawn by large powerful dogs. in many cases the dogs, of which there are sometimes two or three, are strapped under the body of the wagon by a kind of leather harness, or, if the owner be too poor, rope is substituted. a man or woman assists in drawing the load, which is frequently so massive as to appear disproportioned to the combined strength of man and beast. the dogs are bred and trained for their peculiar vocation, and are never allowed to shirk their part of the burden imposed upon them. should they attempt to do so, they are quickly recalled to their duty by a small whip, hence the maximum result may be obtained from their labor. their muscular limbs show plainly that they possess great strength and endurance. large powerful draught horses with well defined muscles are also used. these horses must weigh fully from twelve to sixteen hundred pounds, and when four or six are harnessed abreast, tons of merchandise may be moved in one load. antwerp, a city of about , inhabitants, is one of the greatest seaports of europe, having splendid facilities for ships of every size, and huge warehouses for the landing and storage of immense quantities of merchandise. it is finely situated on the schelde, which is at this point one third of a mile wide and thirty feet deep, and serves as an outlet for the commerce of germany as well as belgium. the town was founded in the seventh century, and has passed through many vicissitudes, attaining the summit of its glory under the emperor charles v., about the close of the fifteenth century. at that period it is said that thousands of vessels lay in the schelde at one time, and a hundred or more arrived and departed daily. its decline began under the spanish rule, when the terrors of the inquisition banished thousands of its most valuable citizens, who sought refuge in other countries, especially in england, where they established silk factories, and assisted greatly in stimulating the commerce of the country. after scenes of war and frightful devastation, varied by brief seasons of prosperity, the tide of success once more returned to the old harbors about , and since then its commerce has increased in a greater ratio than that of any other european city. the flemish population predominates, and its characteristics are those of a german town. we enjoy many lovely views along the river frontage, where dozens upon dozens of ships lining the banks, offer a variety of pictures to the lover of water scenes, besides the fine prospect of the town from the river. [illustration: "the largest and handsomest gothic church in the netherlands." (_see page ._)] that the cathedral is the first attraction for the tourist goes without saying, and those are well repaid who climb far up into its magnificent spire, even beyond the great group of bells that captivate the soul with their wonderful sweetness and melody. at a height of four hundred feet, the vast prospect spread out before one is indescribably beautiful. this cathedral, the largest and handsomest gothic church in the netherlands, was begun in , but was not completed until about . the chimes consist of ninety-nine bells, the smallest of which is only fifteen inches in circumference, while the largest weighs eight tons. the chimes are rung every fifteen minutes, a musical reminder that the soul of man, no matter what his occupation, should be elevated by continual aspiration toward the living god. oh, these beautiful chimes! what wondrous harmony they peal forth, and what a multitude of loving thoughts they gather up and waft hourly to the very gates of heaven! a stranger in the town, and a traveller, made the remark to me that these bells must be very annoying, ringing at such short intervals, and especially at night. "it is worse than a swarm of mosquitoes," he said, "for one can escape the attentions of these insects by placing a net over his couch, but the piercing sounds of these monstrous bells penetrate one like the chill of zero weather." this reminded me of a man who shared our compartment in one of the french railway cars, who interrupted my enthusiastic remarks on westminster abbey, its exquisite associations, and the sacred atmosphere which impressed all who came within its hallowed walls, by an eager question regarding the luncheon to be served an hour later. the interior of the cathedral impresses one with its grand simplicity, and the long vistas of its six aisles present a fine effect. here is rubens' famous masterpiece, the descent from the cross, and his earlier painting, the elevation of the cross, both magnificent works, remarkable for the easy and natural attitudes of the figures. the high altarpiece is an assumption by rubens, in which the virgin is pictured in the clouds surrounded by a heavenly choir, with the apostles and other figures below. there are many other paintings here; also stained glass windows, both ancient and modern. the tower is an open structure of beautiful and elaborate design, from which lovely views may be seen during the journey to its summit. another interesting landmark is the "steen" originally forming part of the castle of antwerp, but in charles v. made it over to the burghers of antwerp. it was afterward the seat of the spanish inquisition. it is now occupied by the museum van oudheden, a collection of ancient and curious relics from the roman times till the eighteenth century. within this building one may view the identical instruments of torture so mercilessly used by the spanish inquisitors in the name of religion. it would not be difficult to photograph these diabolical inventions, for many of them are quite free from the surrounding objects, and not encased. in this collection we see also specimens of antique furniture, and a variety of ornaments, coins, costumes, tapestry curtains, ancient prints and engravings, and many other objects well worthy of observation. in antwerp we have the opportunity of seeing some exquisite laces and embroideries. a visit to one of the many establishments here cannot fail to interest the stranger. at one of the shops we are conducted to a room in which a dozen girls are at work upon a delicate piece of lace. they have been engaged upon this masterpiece for about three months, and the proprietor tells us that as much more time will be required to finish it. the design is a huge web, in the centre of which is the sly spider apparently watching the victims who have strayed beyond the line of safety. a number of handsome and rare specimens of this valuable handwork are exhibited in the shop window, and one's desire to possess them may be satisfied by a moderate expenditure of money. antwerp is the city of rubens. we find his tomb in the beautiful church of st. jacques, rich in carvings and noble paintings, not far from the fine altarpiece painted by his hand. he lies in the rubens chapel, and here too are monuments of two of his descendants. the house in which the illustrious artist died stands in a street named for him, and in the place verte, formerly the churchyard of the cathedral, stands a bronze statue of rubens, thirteen feet in height upon a pedestal twenty feet high. at the feet of the master lie scrolls and books, also brushes, palette and hat; allusions to the talented diplomatist and statesman, as well as to the painter. one need not feel alarmed as to his expenses in this charming old town, for comfortable accommodations and good board may be enjoyed at less than moderate rates. i love this dear city, not only for its magnificent cathedral, its rare paintings, its picturesque surroundings; but also for the remarkable hospitality of its people, their genial manner, their smiling faces. their candor and honesty win the admiration and the heart of the tourist, and the stranger is quickly at home, and able to enjoy most fully the many attractions which the place affords. [illustration: "the place is intersected everywhere by canals." (_see page ._)] but the time has come to bid it adieu; we take the train and in two hours find ourselves in the ever quaint and picturesque town of rotterdam, fitly named the "city of windmills." comfortable quarters may be found here at the maas hotel. rotterdam, whose population is something over two hundred thousand, is the second city in commercial importance in holland. among its numerous attractions are art galleries, parks, gardens, the markets, bridges and canals, without mentioning the many windmills which wave their arms in blessing over the city. the place is intersected everywhere by canals, all deep enough for the passage of heavily laden ships, and with such names as the oude haven, scheepmakershaven, leuvehaven, nieuwe haven, wynhaven, blaak, and haringvliet. our hotel is situated upon the bank of the maas river, and our windows overlook this body of water, which is in reality a highway. instead of wagons drawn by strong muscular horses, however, barges, schooners, sail boats, and every kind of small craft, overflowing with fruits, vegetables and other produce, traverse the river as well as the canals. looking over these watery roads, the mind is confused by the hundreds of boats which seem inextricably mingled in one great mass, and appear to form a blockade as far as the eye can reach. rotterdam might fitly add to its title of "city of windmills," that of the "city of canals." houses, stores and other buildings are built directly upon the banks, and in fact, the foundations of these form the sides of the canals. in many cases the balconies of residences overhang the water, and passages are made beneath, by means of which produce, freight and other articles are conveyed to and from the buildings by boats, much as the wagons deliver goods in our cities from the streets to the houses. all these novel sights impress the visitor with the great difference between the manners and customs of this nation and our own; the result of the peculiar environment of the two countries. a stroll about the city affords abundant opportunity for interesting observations. here one sees hundreds of dutch women in their costly headgear of gold and silver, heirlooms of many generations. these head ornaments sometimes cover the entire scalp, and have curious filigree additions extending over the ears and temples. the head is first covered with a scrupulously clean and beautiful lace cap, upon which the gold or silver ornament is placed. these heirlooms are valued beyond all price, and i have handled some which are two hundred years old, and which are held as sacred charges to be transmitted to posterity. as we traverse the streets of this quaint city, we feel indeed that fashion has stood still here for many years. the custom is universal throughout holland for the natives of the different provinces, as volendam, marken, brock, etc., to wear in public, and especially when travelling, the costume peculiar to their own province, and it is by no means uncommon to see many odd and quaintly dressed women in close proximity to one another, each one representing by some peculiarity, a different province or section of the country. for instance; when i see the skirt of blue homespun made in full folds, and worn with a jacket of striped red and white, and the peaked bonnet trimmed with red and white tape, i know that the wearer is a native of the island of marken. these various costumes, all gay and picturesque, are the source of great pleasure to the stranger, and add new life and interest to his travels in this country. here also we notice the huge, powerful draught horses, with their massive hoofs and shaggy legs, drawing strange looking wagons laden with curious boxes and furniture. the wooden shoes worn by the working classes also attract our attention and many other novel sights and customs give us the impression that we have chartered one of jules verne's original conveyances and wandered off to a country not located on this earthly planet. wishing to purchase some bonbons, we enter a candy shop and ask the fair maid behind the counter to put up a pound of this confection: our amazement is great when she replies that this form of sweetmeat is not to be found in rotterdam. "what," i exclaim, "no sweets for the sweet girls of holland?" "no, only chocolate candy." and this indeed is the only kind of bonbon to be had in rotterdam. the sweet chocolate is moulded into various shapes. it is delicious, excelling in purity and flavor that which is made in any other part of the world. [illustration: "in many cases the balconies of residences overhang the water." (_see page ._)] our guide is very attentive and energetic; and anxious to show us everything of interest about the town, he conducts us through the numerous market-places. at one of these some amusement is excited by my photographs and sketches of the market people and the buyers. the market man stands beside his wares with a happy, good-natured face that seems to say that the cares and worries of this world affect him not at all. the whole scene is like some vividly colored picture, and i think as i look upon it that this life bears with it pleasures of which we of the outside world know nothing. apparently the people of this country possess the rare blessing of contentment with the lot which god has bestowed upon them. an old man and woman are particularly anxious for me to photograph their daughter, who they assure me is the belle of the market. this assertion, i think, may be true without much compliment to the girl, for a homelier set of human beings it would not be easy to find. after some preliminaries relating to posing and keeping back the curious country people who crowd closely around me and the camera, i finally succeed in making a good picture of the belle of the rotterdam market, with her father and mother on either side. they are all as proud as punch of this performance, and seem quite "set up" by the occasion. one day being near to a manufacturer of the wooden shoes worn by the peasants, our party of four slips within the shop, and are fitted after trying on at least a dozen pairs, to the apparent delight of meinherr. it is necessary to wear a heavy woollen stocking to secure comfort in these shoes. the ordinary american stocking would soon be rubbed into holes by the hard surface of the shoe. indeed it is quite a feat to be able to walk rapidly and gracefully in this clumsy footwear. over many of the watery streets of the city drawbridges are built, which are opened at intervals to allow the streams of boats to pass. the incessant blowing of a trumpet or horn similar to that of the tally-ho notifies the watchman of the approach of boats. this sound may be heard at all hours of the day or night in any part of the city, and is at first, especially at night, rather disturbing to the stranger, but like other annoyances which are inevitable, the exercise of a little patience and endurance will enable one to eventually like the trumpet, or else to become as deaf to them as old "dame eleanor spearing." i know of no place in which the lover of the antique, whether he is a collector of ancient coins, jewels, china, furniture, or a seeker after rare curios and relics, can experience greater delight than in this old city of rotterdam. here are hundreds of shops, whose proprietors devote their whole lives to the accumulation of such objects, and it is needless to say that their stock is rich and unique, and possesses abundant variety. we visit a number of these establishments, and i succeed in gathering up a large assortment of old swords which please my fancy. one of these is said to have been owned by christopher columbus(?). the shopkeeper vouches for the truth of the statement, and as i am willing to believe it, in the absence of proof to the contrary, i label it as the sword of the great navigator who added a new hemisphere to our globe. the remaining swords have been the personal property of lords, generals or other warlike celebrities, and again i take comfort in the thought that if the records are not truthful, it is a minor consideration when taking into account the moderate prices which i have paid for the articles. the artist will find in rotterdam a wealth of material both for figure subjects, and odd and picturesque bits of landscape. here too are wonderful interiors, with all the quaint associations of a bygone age. here are scenes on the canals, the bridges, and the ever changing life on the river. by all means visit rotterdam if you desire original studies for your sketch book. [illustration: "the belle of the market." (_see page ._)] a city of many islands. _a city of many islands._ amsterdam--the people of holland---amstel river--merry excursionists--interesting institutions--origin of the city--source of prosperity--a cousin to venice--ninety islands--beams and gables--block and tackle--old salesmen--street markets--haarlem--railway travel at home and abroad--ancient buildings--historic associations--in the canal--groote kerk--the great organ--picturesque subjects--zandvoort--eau de cologne--the beach--dutch sail boats--seamen--hooded chairs--peddlers--music in holland and germany--gypsies--we meet an artist--hospitality--a banquet. amsterdam, the commercial capital of holland, is but a short ride from rotterdam, and like all the other "dam" cities of this region, possesses many attractions of its own, besides being the centre or hub from which radiate trips to many picturesque towns and other points of interest. these irreverent sounding terminations do not by any means imply that the cities so called are steeped in wickedness and crime. on the contrary they are remarkable as being towns of exceptional purity and honesty, possessing churches, libraries and schools which bear witness to the good and loving aspirations of a conscientious christian people. the natives of holland are kind and peaceable in disposition, and fair in their dealings with one another. they are personally very attractive on account of the natural simplicity of their everyday lives, and the high principle of honor and morality upon which they conduct their business transactions. they train their children in accordance with these principles, and the visitor cannot fail to appreciate their virtues, and rest securely in the confidence that he will receive fair and courteous treatment from both young and old. the amstel river, viewed from the windows of our hotel, presents a beautiful picture. upon the opposite bank are handsome residences, of substantial, square and regular architecture, while in slow, calm motion on the river may be seen boats of every description, many of them with a cargo of human beings; and the gay national flags and other brilliant bunting floating in the fresh breeze have a gala appearance as the boats steam or row past our hotel. merry songs and happy laughter drift back to our ears, and it seems as though we have at last reached a land exempt from the cares and sorrows of the everyday world. the dutch people are as a class happy and satisfied, with a cheerful manner, and a cordial and genuine welcome. amsterdam is indeed a great city, with numberless points of interest for the visitor, without mentioning its museums, art galleries, theatres, libraries, churches and other institutions; its botanical garden, university, parks and tramways. the town was founded by gysbrecht ii., lord of amstel, who built a castle here in , and constructed the dam to which it owes its name. in the fourteenth century it began to increase in importance, becoming at that time a refuge for the merchants who were banished from brabant. at the close of the sixteenth century, when antwerp was ruined by the spanish war, and many merchants, manufacturers, artists and other men of talent and enterprise fled from the horrors of the inquisition to holland, amsterdam nearly doubled its population, and the conclusion of peace in , and the establishment of the east india company combined to raise the town within a short time to the rank of the greatest commercial city in europe. its population in , excluding the suburbs, was , . amsterdam is generally at first sight compared with venice, which it certainly resembles in two points. both cities are intersected by numerous canals, and the buildings of both are constructed upon piles; but there the similarity ends. there are wide, bustling thoroughfares in amsterdam, traversed by wagons and drays which could have no place in the city of gondolas and ancient palaces. [illustration: "the amstel river." (_see page ._)] the canals, or grachten, which intersect amsterdam in every direction, are of various sizes, and divide the city into ninety islands; and these are connected by nearly three hundred bridges. there are four principal, or grand canals, which are in broad, handsome avenues, bordered with trees, and with sidewalks for pedestrians. the other canals intersect these and serve to connect one part of the town with another, as short streets cross wide highways and main thoroughfares in other places. rows of fine-looking houses line the banks of these watercourses, and as all the buildings are constructed on foundations of piles, the old quotation of "a city whose inhabitants dwell on the tops of trees like rooks," is not without considerable truth. the quaint old architecture of the stores and houses is of itself a source of great interest to the visitor. we have seen so many pictures of these odd gabled and tiled roofs overhanging the windows, that at first one has the impression of awakening from a dream to its reality. remarkable order and cleanliness prevail everywhere, adding to this feeling, for the wear and tear of daily living do not seem to affect the almost immaculate atmosphere of the place. windows are as clear as crystal, and the woodwork of the houses everywhere looks as if freshly scrubbed and sanded. projecting from the attic windows of many buildings may be seen a pole or beam, from which hangs a block and tackle used to hoist furniture and other heavy or bulky articles from the sidewalk to the upper stories. these things are not carried up the winding stairway, as with us, scratching and defacing the walls and paint, as well as the furniture, and resulting in much vexation and the utterance of unseemly swear words. all this is avoided by the methods of the people of holland, and the citizens of america would profit by adopting them, if only as a means of avoiding the temptation to express one's feelings in violent and irreligious language. among the thousand and one attractions of this interesting city, the curious-looking old junks, or salesmen and women stationed at various points on the streets, are not unworthy the notice of the photographer or artist. their wares consist of old scrap iron, rusty saws, perhaps toothless, hammers without handles, nails of every size, files, beds and other articles of furniture apparently dating back to scriptural ages. such markets, where odds and ends of every imaginable kind are gathered into piles and sold to the poorer classes of the people, seem to be sanctioned by the authorities, and sometimes present a very active and thriving appearance. they are not unpicturesque in their odd combinations of color, attitude and expression. the great windmills along the canal, with their huge revolving arms, and the boats with their loads of merchandise; the peasant women with their quaint costumes and elaborate yet funny head-dresses; the tall dutch houses with their red and yellow brick fronts and lofty tiles and gables, the beautiful avenues of elms along the grand grachten, the vast docks, with forests of masts, and countless ships from all parts of the world, and products of every country, the wonderful dikes, all form a succession of views of charming variety and individual beauty that are fascinating to the newcomer. many short trips may be taken from here either by boat or train, and he who would fill his portfolio with quaint and lovely pictures, will find his enthusiasm aroused, no matter in which direction he may venture, or whether his expedition be on land or water. interesting localities are always within easy reach, and the moderate rate for transportation and accommodation render all points accessible to the traveller whose purse is of the most slender dimensions. take with me the trip to haarlem and zandvoort. proceeding to the central railroad station, we purchase tickets which entitle us to the short ride in the usual compartment car. and here one may note the difference between railroad travel throughout england and on the continent, and the american system. instead of having one car into which passengers of all kinds, black and white, rich and poor, merchants and emigrants crowd as in free america, european trains are divided into three sections, viz: first, second and third class. although the more general experience is that the second class compartments are quite as comfortable, clean and attractive as the first class compartments, the price of the latter is nearly double that of the former, and the fare of the second class nearly double that of the third. in many sections of england, scotland and germany, the third class accommodations are by no means unpleasant: but do not take third class tickets when travelling in ireland, for should you do so, it is more than probable that just as you are waxing into lofty enthusiasm over the romantic and beautiful scenery around you, paddy with his wife and progeny, several pigs, and whatever other small live stock can be conveniently or inconveniently dragged along, will be planted by your side, or roam about you in such unpleasant proximity as to change all your romantic visions into the most unromantic prose. here we are in the quaint old town of haarlem, famous in past years for its tulips, and now noted for its well-kept gardens and avenues, as well as for the curious old houses of brick and stone which are the delight of all the visitors to holland. these lofty steeples and rows of ancient and picturesque houses have looked down upon many generations, and witnessed scenes of suffering and endurance that have been registered on the pages of history; for like leyden, haarlem sustained a long siege during the war for independence, and stories of the heroism of both men and women have come down through the long centuries to tell us of experiences of which these ancient structures, stately and silent, give no sign. so well cared for are the old buildings, that one can readily imagine that they will appear as they do to-day for many centuries to come. how we enjoy this historic old place! the very air we breathe seems laden with odors of the past. the flower-beds are wonderfully attractive, with their gay colors and delicious fragrance. whole fields of tulips, hyacinths, lilies, and other brilliant blooming plants in every shade of color are to be seen here, and this town supplies many of the largest gardens of europe with roots. the spaarne river winds through the town, which possesses the characteristic cleanliness of the other cities of holland. while driving along the bank of the canal here, our attention is attracted by the sound of loud, shrill cries which seem to come from the water. "what!" i say, "do the lurking spirits of the slain thus make themselves known to the living? are there still lingering 'pale gliding ghosts, with fingers dropping gore'?" whatever it may be, dead or living, ghost or mortal, i bid the driver halt, and alighting, hasten to the edge of the canal. looking into the dark muddy water, i see a lad of about twelve years, just able to keep his head above the stream, and screaming lustily for help. a young man reaches the spot at the same moment, and plunges instantly into the canal to the rescue of the boy who is too much frightened and exhausted to give any account of himself. the "groote" market is in the middle of the town, and here is to be seen one of the finest old buildings in this part of the country. this is the ancient meat market, built in , of brick and stone, and quaint and picturesque enough to charm the soul of an artist with an irresistible desire to carry it home upon his canvas. in the market-place also stands the groote kerk, an imposing and lofty structure, dating back to the end of the fifteenth century, with its tower of two hundred and fifty-five feet adding grace and beauty to the edifice. the interior will more than repay one for the time spent in examining it. the old walls are whitewashed to hide the ravages of time and cover the scars, many of which, history tells us, are the results of the spanish siege. here are odd and elaborate carvings, crude, primitive benches, and the crossbeams forming the ceiling alone would convince one of the antiquity of this relic of the middle ages. the organ, constructed in , was for many years looked upon as the most powerful in the world, and still ranks as one of the largest instruments in existence. it contains four keyboards, sixty-four stops, and five thousand pipes, the greatest of which is fifteen inches in diameter, and thirty two feet in length. we endeavor to persuade the rector to allow us to play upon this wonderful instrument, but he is beyond flattery, coaxing or bribery; faithfully adhering to the rigid rules, which decree that recitals shall be held only on certain regular days. how we long to hear the voice of this noble masterpiece which has uplifted the soul of man, and bidden him look to god in his times of tribulation, or fill this lofty dome with joyous notes of praise and thanksgiving in days of peace and prosperity. i think of the stories these old walls could tell of the cruelties of the spanish intruders; for here are marks too deep for paint to conceal, or time to efface. but one could write interminably of these old towns with their quaint and glowing pictures. at every turn a new and attractive scene presents itself, and we reluctantly tear ourselves away, only half satisfied, and proceed to zandvoort, a somewhat fashionable resort on the coast of the noord zee. at the railway stations and on the streets one can buy the cologne water in small glass bottles which is so popular throughout holland, and which is sold much as peanuts and pretzels are sold in our country. the quality is excellent, and the price is so moderate that the use of this perfume is really carried to excess by tourists, who find that it not only refreshes one after the fatigue of a journey, but cleanses the face from dust and cinders. we alight at a small unpretentious station, the terminus of this railroad, and walk a short distance to the beach. the pure salt air seems like a delightful tonic. this is a beautiful coast, sloping gradually to the water which is very deep. with the white sand for a carpet, we wander on for miles, feasting our eyes upon the lovely scene which at every turn presents a new attraction. here are old dutch sail boats drawn up on the beach, and the picture is enhanced by the groups of sailors waiting for the tide. their blue homespun jackets, rugged faces and not ungraceful attitudes are very suggestive to the artist. [illustration: "wicker chairs offer rest to the weary pedestrian." (_see page ._)] the season seems to be either early or late, for the people along the shore are scant in number. fresh looking wicker chairs, with large comfortable seats and sheltering hoods, stand in front of the hotels and at the water's edge, and at a trifling cost, offer rest to the weary pedestrian, and protection to the shy lovers who seek to escape the embarrassing gaze of the public. here is the ubiquitous and persevering fruit and cake or sandwich vendor, with basket suspended from the shoulder, pausing before the chairs, or waylaying passers-by with importunities to purchase grapes, plums, candies and various other dainties. close by us is a band of musicians with stringed instruments, who charm us with their delightful melodies. their music is superior to that which greets the ear in the streets of philadelphia. in truth, in holland and germany, one rarely hears anything but good music from these bands of itinerant players, and operatic selections of the higher class are frequently heard at the popular beer gardens of these countries. a short distance off are the wagons of a gypsy encampment, and the quick witted members of these roving tribes gain a livelihood by fortune telling. we are told that they are always to be found here during the summer season, and are quite popular among the young and the credulous, who willingly exchange their silver for a glimpse into the future, and the wonderful predictions of fame and fortune made by these glib tongued southerners. their gay dresses, in some of which are displayed all the colors of the rainbow, are beautiful in effect: and now i discover in one of the great hooded chairs a lady artist, with a well covered canvas, upon which she is painting the portrait of a handsome gypsy girl, while the wagons and the sea form a beautiful background. i enter into conversation with her, and learn that she is from amsterdam, and is filled with enthusiasm for the charms of this country. she says: "if one will but open his eyes, he will see delightful pictures in every corner of the province." and it is true. nature has indeed been lavish in her gifts to holland. here are scenes and subjects unlimited in number, and indescribably attractive. the citizens of amsterdam are most kind and hospitable. as an instance of their cordiality i mention a sumptuous banquet given in our honor by a townsman mr. l----, who says we must not return home without a glimpse of the social life of the city. the banquet is held at the largest and most popular banqueting hall (maison couturier), and besides our host and his family, a few intimate friends and some young people are present. at the appointed hour we are driven to a spacious and handsome building, and are conducted to a beautiful apartment with most attractive surroundings. the first floor of this hall is elegantly furnished, and lit by electric lights. flowers, palms, and other tropical plants adorn the halls and rooms. after a cordial welcome from our host, we are led to the banqueting hall, where we are dazzled by the light and beauty around us, and delighted by the artistic effect. covers are laid for sixteen guests. flowers, plants and fruits are picturesquely arranged, and even the electric lights exhibit various glowing designs. the feast is prepared under the direction of an experienced chef, and here we speedily become aware that the city of amsterdam is not one whit behind the great centres of the world in this line of achievement. after many toasts to amsterdam and its people have been responded to, the hospitalities are concluded with one to "america and its beautiful women," and we take our departure after three hours most delightfully spent in social intercourse with our friends. upon this occasion four languages, french, dutch, german and english are fluently spoken. excursions to broek and the island of marken. _excursions to broek and the island of marken._ a charming journey--fellow-passengers--national costumes--the children--a lovely landscape--holstein cattle--windmills--irrigation--farmers--a typical dutch village--washing-day--the red, white and blue--suppose a bull should appear--a brilliant picture--drawing the canal boat--honesty and cleanliness--a thrifty and industrious people--farming and cheese-making--as evening falls--scenes for an artist--dead cities of holland--monnikendam--behind the age--city lamps--houses and people--the island of marken--an isolated wonderland--first impressions--rare holidays--the family doctor--absence of the men--the fishing--healthy and industrious population--the women of marken--pretty girls--they will not be taken--a valuable experience--photographs. a beautiful trip is that to broek. we take the small steamer that lies in the river a short distance from our hotel, the amstel, and after a sail of three-quarters of an hour, are landed at an insignificant station on the opposite shore. here a little car with bare wooden seats running lengthwise, and a queer looking engine waits for passengers from the boat. and now we ride through a picturesque farming country, passing numerous small stations. this road terminates at edam, but we do not go that far. our fellow-passengers are most interesting. many of the women wear their gold heirlooms with the finely embroidered caps which are so quaint and becoming, and all wear the customary wooden shoes. the men have rugged brown faces, and sinewy arms: some of them wear the heavy wooden shoes, others slippers, while a number are barefooted. how they all stare at us, and it is just as impossible for us to withdraw our eyes from them. we are novel sights to each other. i wonder what they think of our appearance. their faces are impassive, but ours must surely express wonder, admiration and a strong desire on the part of one at least, to capture these studies in color and figure that surround us on every side. the children, with their rosy cheeks and round healthy forms, seem merry and happy, although none of them are sociable or talkative with us. they look at us in amazement. this is a delightful ride over a smooth velvety road, with rich pasture land on either side. now we pass great dikes which hold back the waters from these fertile fields; and now short canals with their little boats, on which perhaps the dutch vrow in her snowy cap and gold head-dress is seated beside her husband who smokes his pipe with a meditative air. the flat landscape is varied by innumerable herds of cattle, principally of holstein breed, with the great white bands encircling the bodies, which reminds me of the story of the yankee who used this band for a foundation upon which to paint his sign: "the finest milk and cream in the world within. price two cents per quart." [illustration: "the flat landscape is varied by herds of cattle." (_see page ._)] hundreds of windmills may be seen with their long wings gracefully moving at the touch of a gentle breeze, in perfect harmony with the surrounding landscape. these mills have been used for many centuries in holland, which is their mother country, and serve for draining the land, or for manufacturing purposes. they are placed upon a substantial foundation of brick or stone, and their enormous sails describe a circle of over a hundred feet in diameter: some run saws that cut through logs of great thickness, while others are huge grain mills. the smaller windmills are made of wood like those seen in some portions of our own country. the system of irrigation by means of windmills is very complete in holland, thus it is that we see everywhere such beautiful fertile fields. many of the farms in this locality employ three or four, and even more windmills for this purpose. we see many farmers, with their wives and children, working in the fields, and they all stop for an instant as our train passes, to shout a merry greeting. here a milkmaid in her snowy cap passes along the road. flocks of sheep stand in the shadow of the trees, and armies of quacking ducks emerge from a marshy pool and spread themselves across the green. the average speed of our antediluvian express is from five to seven miles an hour, but it is perfectly satisfactory to these deliberate people; and as to ourselves, we are enjoying everything too much to wish it shortened by one minute. we arrive, however, at broek, which is celebrated as one of the cleanest towns in the world. it contains about sixteen hundred inhabitants, and its narrow streets are paved with yellow bricks which are kept scrupulously clean. the small frame houses have tiled roofs, and with their flower gardens, present an orderly appearance. the whole atmosphere of the place is one of primitive simplicity. some of the buildings are painted white, some green, and others of a variety of hues. they all wear an indescribable air of repose: and it is said that the front doors are not opened from the beginning to the end of the year, except on the occasion of a wedding or a funeral. the gardens are veritable curiosities, with their old-fashioned flower-beds, and box-bushes cut into various fantastic shapes, and all so diminutive that one feels as though he has fallen upon an animated edition of the noah's ark of his childish days. [illustration: "most of the houses have a canal at the back." (_see page ._)] most of the houses have a canal or small stream at the back, and close by, upon a washing-day, the garments of the family may be seen flying in the breeze, displaying to the stranger the prevailing colors of the community, which are red, white and blue. red predominates, however, since red flannel is universally worn by the middle and lower classes in holland. i think of the fine bull which we saw but a short time ago, grazing so peacefully in the meadow, and wonder what effect this exposure of tantalizing color would have upon his equanimity. should he be let loose among the back gardens of broek upon a washing-day, the order of this immaculate village would certainly receive a shock. for once in the history of the place, things would be topsy-turvy, and the excitement would doubtless surpass anything previously seen in this peaceful town. what beautiful and picturesque combinations are here! the varying shades of green and blue, mingled with harmonious tints of yellow, produce a scene for the impressionist, while the effect is enhanced by the streams and canals which wind in and out with many a turn and twist, apparently for the sole purpose of adding to the attraction of this quaint and unique locality. occasionally we see a canal boat of larger size drawn by a buxom dutch maiden and her brother; or not infrequently it is the old man and his wife, and sometimes the entire family all strenuously tugging the stout rope which is securely fastened to the bow of the boat, while the dilapidated old craft, laden with merchandise or produce creaks slowly on its way, breaking the placid surface of the water with a soft musical plash. honesty and truthfulness are unmistakably impressed upon the faces of all whom we meet in this section. the people hereabouts do not possess the shrewd business capacity of our wall street brokers, but they are mild and pleasant, with a wholesome appearance of health and good appetite. they are individually as clean and orderly as is their village. water is as cheap here as in america, but in this place there seems to be an extravagance in the use of it which far exceeds that of the same class in our country. there are no beggars or idlers here. the people are so thrifty and industrious that no portion of the day is wasted. every one seems to have an appointed task, even the small children, whom we see feeding the ducks and pigs. all are engaged in some useful occupation. farming and cheese-making are the principal industries, although other branches of business, such as stock-raising, fishing, boat-making, and the manufacture of wooden shoes, are carried on to some extent. our visit to the village naturally attracts some attention, as foreigners are rarely seen in these out of the way corners. as evening steals upon us, the scene grows indescribably lovely, for the sun in his descent illumines the whole landscape with vivid gleams of many colors. the blue stream which finds its outlet in the larger river, changes its sombre hue to one of dazzling gold, which throws out rich reflections of clouds and foliage. a fairy-like transformation seems to have taken place in the streets and houses; and, as we leave the village and the shades of night fall about us, my thoughts are with the artist, the photographer, the impressionist, who would feel the most exquisite delight in such an opportunity; for he who could do justice to this landscape either with brush or camera, would produce a picture worthy of place among the noblest works of art. we have heard so much of the "dead cities of holland," and especially of the secluded life on the island of marken, that we determine to see for ourselves what this term really signifies. on our way thither, we pass through the old town of monnikendam, in which we behold many strange and curious sights. people and buildings impress us with the idea that "father time" has forgotten this place altogether in his rounds of cutting down and making place for newcomers. the ancient and picturesque houses look as though coeval with time himself; but in truth they are only mediæval; it is the people who have stood still. the present age has no place in their lives. the population of the town numbers about twenty-three hundred, and this is largely made up of children, judging from the appearance of the streets. the main street is wide and attractive, but the side streets are narrow, and all are paved with hard bricks placed edgewise. at night the town is lighted by lamps balanced upon rude posts: coal is generally used for fuel, but some of the residents use gasoline, which also serves for light. the houses are primitive in construction, and the people seem odd and inquisitive, but simple and economical in dress and habit. as we expect to return in a short time, we direct our course without delay to the island of marken. [illustration: "the blue stream finds its outlet in the river." (_see page ._)] a good-sized yacht lies at anchor in the zuyder zee, beside the banks of monnikendam. the captain is a full-blooded "markenite," born and bred on the island. having made arrangements with him, we go on board and are soon on our way to the strange city: our hearts beat more quickly, and all eyes are eagerly strained toward it, when the distant island appears in the direction of our yacht's bow. after an hour's sail, we come to anchor in the harbor of this secluded wonderland. as we approach the town, the view from our boat seems to justify the title which has been given to it of "the dead city." it lies away from everything and everybody, and save the deep sea which surrounds it, and which supplies its inhabitants with food, the island of marken has for centuries known no association outside its own boundaries. no news is carried to or from this isolated region. at rare intervals an islander, by temperament more adventurous or enterprising than his fellows, makes the daring undertaking of a visit to monnikendam, or the bolder flight to amsterdam, although there are but few instances on record of such a reckless proceeding as the last. the place has a population of about thirteen hundred souls, and one may form an idea of the health of its inhabitants from the fact that one doctor, without an assistant, is the family physician for all the people on the island, and we are told that calls upon his professional attention are not sufficiently frequent to keep the cobwebs from forming on his medicine chest. the dutch language is spoken here, and it is so rare to find any one who understands english, that it is necessary to bring an interpreter as well as guide in visiting this secluded spot. the inhabitants look upon us as though we have dropped from the clouds, or sprung suddenly out of the earth. it is unfortunate that we have come here on monday, for on this day the men of the island go off in their fishing boats, and do not return till saturday night. only the old and crippled are left with the women and children. sunday is the one day in the week which the men may spend with their wives and sweethearts. fishing is the sole means of subsistence here. the native inhabitants are industrious and economical, but of a low type of intellect, rarely if ever displaying interest in literary attainments. health and good appetites seem to be their chief characteristics, and a more law-abiding, innocent and virtuous people it would be difficult to find. the women are large, muscular and well shaped, and appear fully able to protect and care for their households in the absence of the men. [illustration: "all persuasions accomplish naught." (_see page ._)] i am quite anxious to capture, by camera, not by force of arms, some of these rare types of strength and beauty, and observing two pretty young girls standing in the doorway of one of the houses, both perfect specimens of physical health, i think this an opportunity not to be neglected. what a fine picture they present with their erect forms, their firm round arms, rosy cheeks and bright eyes! they are well proportioned, and looking at their smiling faces one can readily understand that a physician in a locality whose residents are represented by such glowing life as that which is now before me, may easily find time to be absent from his duties a year or two. fired with enthusiasm, i approach the girls who are talking to a couple of old women, and am about to make a "snap shot" of the group, when suddenly perceiving my intention, they fly into the house like frightened deer, to the amusement of the old women, and the grief of the writer. determined not to be outdone, for now this picture beyond all others is the desire of my heart, i enter the house and learn that the young damsels have sought refuge in the loft, and are hiding, ostrich like, with their heads buried in a mass of clothing. all my persuasions, aided by those of the older women, accomplish nought, even the liberal offer of silver guilders is not sufficient to move these obdurate maids, and i am obliged to relinquish my desire. however, i have made a valuable discovery, and that is that it is better under some circumstances not to ask for the privilege, but to resort to strategy. i request one or more of our party to engage the proposed subject in conversation, while i retire to a suitable distance with my camera, focus the group, then fire away. this plan succeeds admirably, and my collection increases steadily and satisfactorily. [illustration: "one old woman is fascinated with the camera." (_see page ._)] however, upon better acquaintance with the townspeople and the repeated assurances of our skipper, who speaks some english, that our purpose is an innocent one, we are allowed to photograph the whole town freely, and all its valuable possessions. occasionally a guilder slipped quietly into the hand of one of the older women opens a new vein of good fortune, for they insist that "the gentleman shall be allowed to take the picture;" whether it be an old-fashioned interior with its quaint belongings, or a pretty maid too shy to hold her head up properly. one old woman is so fascinated with the camera that she asks me to take picture after picture of her homely wrinkled countenance. at first i do so to her extreme delight, but finally i only pretend to take her picture, and the last bewildering poses and bewitching smiles are all wasted upon an unimpressionable plate. the ancient town of monnikendam. [illustration: "we walk along the narrow streets." (_see page ._)] _the ancient town of monnikendam._ marken homes--beds in the wall--family heirlooms--an ancient clock--precious treasures--quaint customs--betrothed couples--the hotel--its interior--a lack of patrons--costumes of a by-gone age--farewell to marken--remote districts--monnikendam--ancient houses--hotel de posthoorn--the postman of the past--a difficult stairway--we stroll about the town--our retinue--in front of the hotel--such curious children--supper--we visit the shops--pantomime--a novel experience--they cannot understand--no candles--we attract a crowd--the clothing store--a marken suit--"too high"--bargaining--a stranger to the rescue. we walk along the narrow streets, some of which are paved with little footways, and now and then visit one of the whitewashed frame houses with their red tiled roofs. these houses are built after one pattern, and resemble each other so closely in their crude architecture, that a stranger might easily make a mistake, and enter the wrong door, without having previously taken anything stronger than a glass of water. the interior consists of four small rooms, which are kept scrupulously clean and orderly. one of these is used as a living-room, and one as dining-room and kitchen. the beds of the family are simply close, dark recesses in the wall, in which there are bunks or shelves, and on these the mattresses and bed clothing are placed, the occupants mounting by means of wooden steps to this ill-ventilated and most uninviting resting-place. we shudder as we glance into these dismal closets, and feel a touch of nightmare at the thought of sleeping in one of them. in every house there seems to be reserved a special apartment, as a storage-place for the family heirlooms, and here are preserved articles which have been handed down from generation to generation for centuries. dolls of various primitive shapes, broken and torn, with black, dusty clothing; clocks long since arrested in their career by age or accident; chairs of rude manufacture, with perhaps a broken leg or back; watches and jewelry of ancient design; odd furniture and pieces of china, besides other relics which would be useful only in an exhibition of the antique. all these things are sacred in the eyes of their owners, who would as soon think of parting with one of their children as of allowing one of these treasures to pass out of the family. at one of the houses i see stored among the heirlooms a clock, which the owner informs me has been in the family for two hundred and fifty years. i do not doubt the assertion, for it looks as though the dust of a _thousand_ years has silently but steadily accumulated upon its venerable face. i am about with my handkerchief to brush off some of this precious dust, in order to see the wood and brass in their peculiar coloring and design, but am quietly stopped by the hand of my host. there is a noticeable rivalry between the different families in regard to these treasures which are placed carefully away, as if too sacred for the light of day, and are shown to the visitor much as the guide employed in the mint allows one to touch a piece of gold or silver in the early process of coinage. each family tries to outdo the others in its collection, and in the ancient appearance of the hoard. it is amusing to watch their faces, when exhibiting the wonders: they seem very uneasy if the stranger offers to touch one of the pieces, as though in terror lest it should thus lose some of those precious particles which enhance its value. at another house i am allowed, as a great favor, to examine one of the dolls, and really the anxiety shown until the owner has placed it once more in its place in his collection is ludicrous. the most delicate human being, or a piece of frail egg-shell china could not be more tenderly handled. these people are quite as quaint in appearance as in their customs. the old-time costume of the island is worn as in other parts of holland, but here there is an intensity of ancientness, if i may use the expression, which must be seen in order to be fully appreciated. they really seem the remnants of a dead era, and in all their ways display a want of experience of the outside world, a lack of that perception which the men and women of to-day seem to inhale with the very atmosphere, which is truly astonishing. the marriage and betrothal customs are especially peculiar. we learn that an engaged couple cannot wed until five years have elapsed since the announcement of the betrothal; and should a death occur in either family in the meantime, it is considered such an ill omen that the engagement is broken off altogether: at the end of a year, however, a new engagement may be entered into, and after a second long period of waiting the wedding is consummated. [illustration: "sheep, grazing upon the green pasture lands, form a homelike scene." (_see page ._)] there are many rigid rules of etiquette connected with these engagements; for instance: should the young lover, upon each meeting, neglect to impress a kiss upon the cheek of every member of the family of his fiancée, the contract is annulled. one can readily believe almost any statement regarding these strange people who seem like a peculiar race stranded upon a desert island. still from ocular demonstration, we feel very certain that notwithstanding these stringent rules, there is no lack of weddings among the young people, for there is an overwhelming number of children upon the island. marken boasts of a hotel, and the owner and landlord tells us as he stands proudly upon its stoop, that this bold enterprise issued from his fertile brain, and that he is looking for a rich return for his venture. i respond with as much enthusiasm as i can gather upon this occasion, but fear he would receive but cold comfort from the true state of my mind on the subject. the building consists of six rooms which he pronounces quite modern. on the lower floor are a kitchen, ten feet by ten, and a dining-room, twelve by fourteen, which also serves as a barroom, sitting-room and smoking den, all rolled into one. here the guests are supposed to reach the acme of ease and comfort. a bare wooden table and six chairs comprise the furniture of the room, and there is nothing else visible save the snowy muslin curtains which hang at the windows. upstairs are three bedrooms, scantily furnished; here too the windows are curtained. the freshness of these rooms and their surroundings gives us the impression that they have never been occupied since the erection of the hotel a year ago, by any one of greater importance than the myriads of flies and mosquitoes which cling in lazy groups to the walls and ceilings. my sympathy goes out to these ignorant creatures who do not seem to have strength enough to get away, and seek their nourishment in other quarters. we find tolerably comfortable accommodations here, and view things very philosophically on account of the curious and interesting life by which we are surrounded. the men and women in their odd costumes are rare pictures. the clothing worn here is of a style worn hundreds of years ago, and there is no consciousness on the part of its wearers that there is anything unusual in its appearance. "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," and it is more than probable that they will continue to wear this antediluvian garb for centuries to come. much of the washing is done in the little canal which flows through the town, and this is easily accomplished, as linen is not worn to any great extent, as in other places, and the coarse homespun garments are cleansed by a very simple process. sheep, grazing upon many of the green pasture lands, form a homelike, peaceful scene which is very attractive. the air is fresh, yet balmy, imparting tone and vigor to the sturdy natives. at last we bid adieu to this stationary spot upon the earth's surface, wondering if an earthquake or any other startling event will ever happen here to rouse it from its lethargy, and compel it to take its place in the march of the ages. if not, it will remain as of old, a boon to the artist, an infinite source from which he may draw quaint, ideal and most original studies of a people and an era whose counterpart has long since vanished from our everyday world. in our travels in the northern portion of holland, and away from the larger cities, as amsterdam and rotterdam, which are more visited by tourists, we find that our letters of credit extend over an astonishing space of time, for a little money goes a long way among these people. the regions seem to be too remote for the regular tourist, and as there is no great influx of capital from that source, there is no inducement for the people to change their simple and primitive mode of living, hence honesty, frugality and contentment reign here, and the visitor may enjoy to its full extent, the beautiful country and the pure, innocent life of its inhabitants. the quaint and simple town of monnikendam lies some fifteen or sixteen miles north of amsterdam, and here is a rich and rare scene of ancient associations. eyes, ears and brain are almost bewildered by the exquisite strangeness of our surroundings. here are houses with the date of their birth inscribed over the doorways, and the odd designs of bygone centuries still clinging to their walls. these ancient dates and the rich beauty of these aged tenements impress us with a feeling of awe, and we walk softly as we pass the hallowed ground upon which so many lives have risen, passed their little day, then vanished to make place for the next players. of the two hotels which the town supports, we choose the oldest, the hotel de posthoorn, which derives its name from the fact that at an early date the building was used as a post office station. in those days the postman carried a horn, which he blew when approaching a station, as a notice to the townfolk to have their mail ready for collection, that he might not be detained, as his route was long and wearisome. [illustration: "hotel de posthoorn." (_see page ._)] we are conducted to the second floor of the hotel by a steep and narrow stairway, which requires much ingenuity in the ascent, as the steps are constructed at such a peculiar angle that it is difficult to balance one's self upon them. we reach the top as gracefully as possible under the circumstances, and find two pleasant communicating rooms overlooking the main street. rooms, beds and all our surroundings are wonderfully clean, and filled with an atmosphere of the past, which is very charming. the rates charged here are seven dollars a week for each person, and this includes meals and attendance: the latter simply a pleasant fiction, with no meaning whatever. the sheets upon our beds are of homespun linen of good quality, but emitting such an odor of antiquity, that there is no doubt whatever in our minds that they are heirlooms of many generations, and we wish that this genuine, ancient and unpleasant smell could be scattered abroad, or adulterated in some way, even to the extent of a pair of modern sheets, for concentrated age is more attractive in sights than in odors. our hotel bears the date upon a fancifully carved tablet above the middle window, but the stadhuis tower is still older, dating back to . the proprietor, his wife and daughter are pleasant, hospitable people, who make our stay with them, both comfortable and enjoyable. before supper we stroll about the town, which consists of a main or central avenue, with small narrow streets diverging from it. as we walk along, a little crowd, composed chiefly of children, follows us closely. these young people stare at us, and laugh as though we are a freshly imported menagerie. on our return, we sit in front of the hotel where some chairs and small tables are placed for the convenience of those who wish to rest and sip their glass of beer or genuine holland gin in the open. the favorite beverages in holland are beer, porter and gin, the latter of an excellent quality, and genuinely "old." we are soon surrounded by a group of children, who watch our motions and by words and gestures freely express their wonder and amusement at the odd-looking stranger people. they seem greatly surprised that we do not understand their language: not even such simple phrases as "goeden avond," (good-evening), or "ja," (yes), and "nee," (no). when i make them understand that in english yes and no are the same as their ja and nee, they laugh immoderately, and repeat in their own broad accents, yes and no, as if greatly amused. after supper, which consists of cold fish, coffee, cheese, boiled potatoes and tea with a private nip of the real ancient holland gin, we walk out again without a guide, to do some shopping. we have a funny experience, as we are compelled to resort to pantomime in making the various purchases. entering a "general" store in search of candles, we at first ask for them in english: the good-natured shopwoman smiles and shakes her head. i repeat the word "candles," at the same time going through the motion of striking a match on the counter, and holding it up to the end of my forefinger. this strange proceeding attracts the attention of a young man and woman, who draw near the counter, followed by several other members of the family, but i cannot make them comprehend. we then try the french language, but this also proves a failure, so we are obliged to depart without our candles, although i am confident they have them somewhere in the store. scene after scene of this kind is gone through with in the different shops, and now our curious actions have attracted a large crowd of people who follow close at our heels, wondering what we will do next, and thinking, no doubt, that we are a very good kind of free show. such strange beings rarely visit their isolated town, and they are certainly enjoying their opportunity to its full extent. when we stop to look into a shop-window, they stop too, and follow our example like very shadows. the expression of wonder and merriment depicted on the countenances of both young and old is a fine study for an artist. as we saunter leisurely along, we espy a clothing store, which we enter, and find half-a-dozen men lounging about with long clay pipes in their mouths, and their hands in the pockets of their baggy trousers. their faces wear a peaceful, contented expression, which changes to a look of surprise as we approach them, and they scan our attire, as something wholly different from anything to which they are accustomed. the gaping throng outside besieges the doorway. as the men still gaze curiously at us, i draw near the one who appears to be the proprietor of the establishment, and in pantomime, aided by english, interspersed with a little french, ask for a marken suit of clothes. the man laughs and looks perplexed; his companions also shake their heads in token that they do not understand. with serious countenances and widely-opened eyes, they follow the motions of my lips and hands. uttering slowly the words: "marken suit," i point to my own trousers, coat and vest. their eyes follow my hands, first to my trousers, then to my coat and vest. it is a difficult position; but what a treat to watch their puzzled countenances, now smiling, now with a look of actual pain in their efforts to understand. [illustration: "de hooflstraat, monnikendam." (_see page ._)] at last my perseverance and their attention are rewarded, and the storekeeper takes from a shelf a dusty bundle, and carefully unfolds it. within the bundle is a marken suit: yes, the very kind i wish to possess, an entire woman's dress. i am anxious to purchase it at any reasonable figure. the garment is passed to us for inspection. we nod in indication that it is just what we desire. now for the tug of war; the price. "combien? combien?" finally thirty guilders is named as the price set upon the dress. we motion, "too high," and i point to the ceiling. the six weary men all look up in the direction of my finger: they smile, and think it is a good joke, and look at me as though saying: "what next?" they laugh heartily at my vain endeavors. alas! how can i make them understand? "fifteen guilders," i say. the proprietor seems to understand. "nee. nee. ik kan het niet doen." (no. no. i cannot do it.) after long deliberation, still holding the cherished suit in his hands, he turns to his companions, and seems to ask their opinion. several shake their heads and utter: "nee. nee," others say: "ja. ja." one suggests twenty-five guilders as the price; another twenty guilders. the bargaining goes on without drawing any nearer to a conclusion, when to our relief a gentleman enters the shop who understands the language of these people. he has learned from the outsiders that some americans are in the store trying to buy a suit of clothes. through the kindness of this stranger, matters are speedily adjusted, and the sale effected, as he speaks both dutch and english fluently. we purchase the complete suit for fifteen guilders, or about six dollars in the currency of the united states. these suits are rarely made for sale, but only when needed for immediate use. the natives of the island make them for personal wear, or for each other. every man and woman generally owns two suits: one to wear every day, and one for sundays. as we move toward the door to take our departure, after spending three-quarters of an hour over this transaction, we perceive that the throng around the door has increased in numbers. what an assemblage! and we are the curiosities. i count them, and find there are thirty men, women and children, all full of excitement at the presence of strangers in monnikendam. one young girl is so shy and timid, that as we advance toward her on our way out, she starts and runs hurriedly away, and gazes at us from a distance of some twenty feet, as though we are dangerous animals. we make several other purchases; partly because we desire the articles, but chiefly on account of our enjoyment of this novel mode of shopping. [illustration: "there is a young man whose walk is all his own." (_see page ._)] old customs and quaint pictures. [illustration: "the streets and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clean." (_see page ._)] _old customs and quaint pictures._ segars and tobacco--row boats--"goeden morgan"--the zuyder zee--by candle light--total darkness--the town by night--women and girls--shoes and stockings--the shuffling man--streets and sidewalks--the town crier--the daily news--a message to the people--draught dogs--milkmaids--the barber shop--drug stores--"horretje"--a street auction--selling curios--they leave their shoes at the door--an old grist mill--the holland draught girl. in holland, segars and tobacco of very good quality are sold at low prices: it is not uncommon to buy two segars for one cent (united states currency) and should you be detected smoking an article costing more than a penny, you are immediately stamped as a wealthy and extravagant personage. this reputation is easily acquired in a town of such thrifty habits as monnikendam, and here my fondness for a good smoke lays me open to both charges. a row boat may be hired for twenty cents a day, if you do your own rowing; with a man to row, the charge is forty cents. we find it convenient to hire a man, who also serves as guide and interpreter, and who rows us to many lovely nooks and out-of-the-way spots, which we would otherwise miss seeing. the inhabitants of the town are kind and hospitable, and we are charmed with their good, honest countenances. we are always greeted with a pleasant "goeden morgen," or "goeden avond," or it may be: "hoe staat het leven?" (how are you?), when we pass them on the street. the country about here is principally farm land, with rich and abundant pasturage. a short distance from us is the placid zuyder zee, with its shining waters stretching eastward for miles. from its picturesque banks may be seen boats of every size and kind, from the tiniest row boat to craft of many tons' burden, and it is interesting to observe from this point the busy life upon the water, as produce, farm implements and merchandise are carried to and fro. [illustration: "the whole place is a succession of quaint and picturesque houses." (_see page ._)] as i sit writing in my room, by the light of a homemade candle, i now and then pause in my occupation to look around with an ever increasing wonder, at the dark old furniture over which the light casts a ghostly gleam. the spirit of the past seems lurking in the corners, with their long forgotten history, and around yonder ancient cupboard and brass trimmed chest of drawers. i can almost feel upon my shoulder the touch of the hand which has carried this quaint old candlestick in those olden days, and in imagination, hear the rustle of her gown as she stands behind me waiting for her own. it is ten o'clock, and i walk to the window and draw aside the curtain, curious to see the life that is abroad in the town at this hour. to my astonishment there are no signs of life of any kind. the town lies in total darkness. there is not a glimmer of light anywhere, save the dim glow from a lantern dangling carelessly by the side of a pedestrian who moves slowly and quietly along the sidewalk. there is no other evidence of any living thing. even the frogs and crickets, which enliven a night scene at home, are not heard here. dead silence prevails, while "night, sable goddess, from her ebon throne, in rayless majesty now stretches forth her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world." even the stars are slumbering, or their sparkle has been engulfed by this all-devouring darkness. the light of my candle seems out of harmony with the peaceful repose around me: with a half-guilty feeling i extinguish it, and wrapping myself in sheets of holland linen, am soon slumbering with the rest of the world. in the morning, when seated at the breakfast table, my first question to our host is as to the reason for such all-pervading darkness, and the absence of the townspeople from the streets at night. he tells me that it is so rare for any one to be abroad after nine o'clock in the evening, that the street lamps, of which there are but few, are never lighted. at ten o'clock every one is supposed to be at home and in bed. the women and girls of this and the neighboring towns are thrifty and industrious. when resting after their daily labors, whether at noon or in the evening, they will invariably take from their deep side-pockets a ball of thread or yarn, and with the short knitting needle, or the long ones of steel, continue their work on an unfinished stocking, cap or other article of wearing apparel. the prevailing foot-covering for men, women and children is a heavy woolen stocking; this fits the foot snugly, and protects it from the hardness of the clumsy wooden shoe or clog as it is called. these shoes are carved from a single block of wood: when they are worn and shabby they are painted black, and a strap is placed across the instep. they are of all sizes, but only one style or pattern. in the larger cities, however, such as rotterdam, one can obtain from the manufacturers a painted wooden shoe, with buttons and stitches carved upon it as ornaments. but this variation is found only in men's shoes. in holland the ordinary american slipper is frequently worn by both men and women. the clatter of the wooden shoes is at first an unpleasant sound, especially when several persons are walking together, but the ear soon becomes accustomed to it, as to all other odd noises. there is a young man in this place, who walks with a peculiar shuffle, all his own. he is so strange looking altogether that i snap my camera on him one day as he innocently passes by me. the peculiar sound of his walk has taught me to know that he is coming long before his figure is visible. i sometimes feel like telling him in the words of byron, that "he has no singing education, an ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow." the streets and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clean, as the women of each household scrub not only their sidewalks, but half-way across the street in front of their dwellings. one may thus imagine what a charming and inviting place this is for the pedestrian. in this peaceful town where the golden rule is not simply a precept to frame and hang upon the wall, it is not necessary to employ officials with such high sounding but meaningless titles as "street commissioner," "director of the highways," etc., etc. no, here each individual possesses sufficient honor and self-respect to accomplish his own share of municipal work, to the benefit and comfort of the whole community. there is one very ancient custom still existing here which interests and entertains us greatly. this is the old fashion of employing a town crier, who after beating a brass disk which is suspended by a cord from his shoulder, calls out in a loud, clear voice, the news of the day, events in foreign lands, transfers of property, sales and auctions which have already taken place or are to occur in the near future, lost and found articles and the like. for instance: he walks a distance of a block or two, then stops in the middle of the street, beats the brass disk vigorously with a small striker, and casting his head heavenward, utters the phrases which have been prepared and given to him in stereotyped tones. thus the town receives its news, and the crier keeps those who never stir from their homes as well as the business men of the city informed of the most prominent events of their own and other countries. what better method could be employed in the absence of newspapers? the community is kept in touch with the outside world and with its own members by means of this odd and ancient custom. [illustration: "a street auction." (_see page ._)] i have the pleasure of a personal association with the crier. our party is so much annoyed by the continual staring of the people, who seem unable to become accustomed to our appearance in the town, and who follow us constantly day and evening when we walk upon the streets, that i decide to try some means to stop it. the proprietor of the hotel, at my request, adds another sentence to the daily bulletin; it runs as follows: "the three americans now stopping at the posthoorn hotel must not be annoyed by the good people of this town. it is not good manners to stare at them and follow them, and it is unpleasant to these strangers." the day following my request, i listen anxiously for the voice of the crier, and his appearance in our neighborhood. here he comes; and the message is rolled forth in sonorous tones. i seek the landlord and ask him if the notice is to be circulated throughout the town; and he replies in the affirmative. in justice to the inhabitants, i must state that they heed the request, and hereafter go on their way without undue excitement or comment when we appear among them; much to our own comfort and enjoyment. few horses are seen upon these streets: wagons are drawn by two, three, or four huge draught dogs, trained for this purpose. men are also frequently harnessed to wagons, as well as women, and sometimes a woman and dog will appear together drawing a load of merchandise. milk is delivered by buxom young girls who carry on their shoulders a strong wooden yoke: from the ends of this the milk pails are suspended by ropes. vegetables and other provisions are delivered in the same manner. the milkmaid passes from door to door, rapping on each with the ancient brass knocker, and serving her customer with the milk as it is served with us. the whole place is a succession of quaint and picturesque houses. the shapes are various, and the heavy red-tiled roofs and many gables have a charming effect as they stand in rows on either side of the street. each house seems to possess an individual style of its own, and many are so old that they lean quite out of the perpendicular. [illustration: "at the farthest end of the street stands an old windmill." (_see page ._)] while travelling in holland one is constantly confronted with a sign in the form of a wooden arm stretched from a doorway, with a brass disk suspended from it containing the words: hier scheert en snyd men het haar, which signifies that here one can be shaved and have his hair cut: in other words, it is the sign of a barber, who in america designates his calling by the gayly-colored pole. the brass disks in front of these places are polished to a high state of brilliancy, and being suspended so that they swing loosely in the breeze, they cast dazzling reflections in all directions which cannot fail to attract the attention of the passer-by. another advertisement which differs greatly from those in our country is that of the drug store. while with us huge glass vases and globes of different colors are displayed in the window of the apothecary, in holland a wooden head of a man in great agony, with protruding tongue, indicates that here the sufferer can find relief and medicine for all his aches and pains. this head is conspicuously placed over the entrance to the drug store. another odd custom in this strange country is that of placing a large screen called a "horetje" in the front windows of private houses, or on the first floors. the screen is sometimes shaped like a fan, sometimes it is heart-shaped or oval, and is intended to protect the person seated at the door or window from the idle gaze of the pedestrian. indeed it often hides a charming picture of maiden grace and modesty. one day as i am sitting at the door of the hotel attempting to sketch some of the picturesque houses in the neighborhood, with many wondering eyes directed toward my canvas, i notice a crowd of people beginning to gather a short distance off. i do not see the centre of attraction, but seizing my camera, which is my constant companion, together with pencils and brushes, which are as close friends as robinson crusoe and his man friday, i hasten to the scene of action, feeling that probably something is going to happen which will add a new page to my experience. it is true: something interesting is about to take place; and that is a street auction, a common occurrence in this town. the auctioneer, perched above the heads of his audience upon an old wooden box, is calling out his sales in dutch. the articles which he is about to dispose of to the highest bidders are dress goods, linen and wearing apparel. much persuasion is necessary before a sale is effected, as the strong desire of the customers to obtain bargains is met by an equally strong determination on the part of the auctioneer to sell his stock at good prices. a funny sort of a seesaw is the result, which is the source of much merriment among the spectators. i join in some of these outbursts from pure sympathy, as most of the time i do not understand either the jokes or allusions. a lively business is frequently carried on at these auctions; but whether the purchaser really obtains more for his money than by the ordinary method of buying i cannot ascertain. i presume they think they have some advantage, or they would not flock to the sales in such numbers. [illustration: "a beautifully shaded walk just outside the town." (_see page ._)] an active branch of business here is the sale of curios, antique silverware, china, gold, jewels, and bric-a-brac; in fact ancient articles of every description. as we walk down the main street, admiring the clean highway and lovely old houses on either side of us, we observe many pairs of wooden shoes lying in front of the different residences near the doorways, and upon inquiry learn that when one person goes to call upon another, he leaves his heavy wooden shoes outside the door, and enters in his stocking feet. at the farthest end of the street stands an old windmill with its huge arms moving slowly and regularly in harmony with the gentle breeze which blows across the zuyder zee. as we draw nearer, we see that it is an ancient grist mill, and here is the owner, who invites us in to view the interior, and with whom we have a pleasant chat in our own colloquial style, adopted since our arrival in this city. dozens of windmills can be seen from this point, and, as i have already said, they are used for many different purposes. the foundation story is the home of the family, and in a number of these you will find quaint, delightful pictures of old dutch interiors, with their odd chairs and dressers, ancient clocks and brass bound chests, old-fashioned china, and tiled fireplaces. there is a beautifully shaded walk just outside the town, encircling the whole city. large trees here protect monnikendam from the heavy wind and rain storms which come from the zuyder zee, when old neptune rises in one of his dreadful tantrums. we enjoy this lovely walk, but what do we not enjoy in this town which surely has bound us by some magic spell; for the longer we stay here, the more loath we are to leave its borders. one day we take a boat and direct our course along one of the canals, on which there is considerable traffic. here we behold the pitiable sight of two young girls, harnessed like mules, and attached to a lead rope, pulling inch by inch, and foot by foot, a large canal-boat filled with merchandise. i can imagine no harder work than this, for the poor creatures are exposed to the intense heat of the sun, with no protection against its direct rays, and they have a long slow journey before them, ere the heavily-laden boat making its progress foot by foot shall reach its destination. the toil of the factory girl in america is play when compared with that of the draught girl in holland. [illustration: "land and water." (_see page ._)] a dutch cheese-making district. [illustration: "a good road for the bicycle." (_see page ._)] _a dutch cheese-making district._ a cheese-making country--edam cheese--a picturesque inn--an interesting interior--a thrifty farmer--at sunrise--in the cow stable--the pretty maid--stall and parlor--the cheese room--the process of making cheese--"i have listened and listened"--a trip to volendam--a fine country road--a charming day--muzzled dogs--the only street--a multitude of children--gay decorations--a united people--as a hen and her brood--their wealth is health--in sunday dress--stalwart men and sturdy women--a higher type--"i have enough"--fishermen--the anchorage--a volendam suit. to-day we take the train for edam, of world-wide fame as a cheese-making centre. this town, situated about five miles north of monnikendam, abounds in beautiful old trees which protect it from the heat of the sun, and render it very attractive. all of these towns seem to possess individual interest, and the traveller is constantly surprised in this region by new and unexpected scenes: but the imprint of truth and honesty upon the faces of the dwellers in every town, village and settlement in holland is observed as the common bond of union, and leads us to understand the happiness and prosperity for which this region is justly celebrated. it is hardly necessary to say that many cheese factories are scattered throughout this section of the country. at one of these factories, located on the bank of the canal, we see a large barge being loaded with five thousand of the delicious edam cheeses, intended for foreign markets. we stop for rest and refreshment at one of the many inns on the way. this house is a fine subject for an artist. the room in which our meal is served is in itself a masterpiece. the floor, composed of large stone flags, is spotlessly clean, and the walls are covered with odd pieces of china, evidently associated with family history: the woodwork is as white as soap and sand can make it, and the windows are as clear as crystal. in a corner stands the old dutch clock, with the moon, now nearly full, represented above its time-worn face, and on one side is the dark dresser, rich in ancient plates, and other quaint old-fashioned crockery. the table at which we sit is covered with a snowy cloth of homespun linen, and the blue and white dishes with the stories upon them which have been thus told for unknown ages almost charm us into forgetfulness of our luncheon itself, until a healthy cheerful country girl appears, and with deft movements and smiling face places before us the appetizing cheese, delicious bread, freshly churned butter, and new milk as well as buttermilk. for this but a trifling charge is made, but we feel that a glimpse into this quaint old dutch interior, the sight of these brass-bound chests and claw-footed chairs, and the picture of the cheerful holland maid are worth many times the cost of the meal. we are much entertained by our visit to a thrifty farmer whose home is about a mile from monnikendam. this well-to-do personage owns a large dairy farm, and learning that we are interested in this subject, invites us to be present at sunrise to witness the process of cheese-making. an early hour finds us on the way, and in good time a rap on the door of the farmhouse brings us into the presence of a bright middle-aged dutch vrow, who with a cherry "goeden morgen" bids us enter. we are first ushered into the parlor, which is a room of considerable size, immaculately clean, with comfortable chairs and sofas placed in various corners, and a supply of delft ware and shining brass candlesticks that fill our hearts with longing. in a few moments we are invited to the adjoining room, which we suppose to be the kitchen or dining-room, but to our surprise find ourselves in the cow-stable, a spacious, well lighted apartment, about seventy feet long and fifteen feet wide. a row of stalls runs along one side of the room, and here stand as many of the genuine, full blooded holstein cattle. they are handsome creatures, looking as sleek and clean as those which take the premiums at the state and county fairs at home. here they stand, patiently awaiting the appearance of the milkmaid; not however the milkmaid, "all forlorn" of nursery rhyme, but in truth the pretty maid with dress so clean, with shining pail and face serene, who milks the cows with happy smile, and sings her joyous songs the while. the stalls are as sweet, clean and orderly as is the parlor which we have just left, and snowy curtains hang above the windows over them, the only apparent difference between the stable and the parlor being that the cattle stand upon fresh, fragrant straw, instead of a clean carpet. from the stable we are conducted to an adjoining building, which is the cheese factory, and to the room in which are assembled the farmer, his wife and two servants. everything is in readiness: the fresh milk is poured into a huge iron kettle which stands upon the floor, and which is capable of holding about twenty gallons: a small quantity of rennet is put into the milk, and in perhaps twenty minutes a kind of sieve is passed quickly to and fro through the curdled mass. these sieves or curd-knives have handles by which they are held while the blades are drawn from side to side, cutting the curd into myriads of tiny cubes. then the farmer's wife rolls up her sleeves, exposing to view a pair of round, shapely arms which would be the pride of a city belle, and dips both hands and arms deep in the floating mass. she presses, and kneads and rolls this thickening body until it assumes the consistency of dough: the whey is bluish in color, and as thin as water. this is drained off, and water is poured over the mass several times, until the cheese is thoroughly cleansed of all the floating particles. it is now ready to be placed in five pound moulds made of wood: the moulds are put into a powerful press which shapes the cheese, and extracts any lurking remnants of water. after about eight hours in the press, the cheeses are salted and placed on shelves to dry. now for a month it is necessary to turn them every day, and after that, every other day for a month. they are also sponged with lukewarm water and dried in the open air, and the final process is a thin coat of linseed oil. it is a tedious operation; great care is necessary to keep the chamber in which they are shelved perfectly clean and dry, and of an even temperature. at last the articles are ready for shipment to all parts of the world. this is an enormous industry: in north holland alone, we are informed that twenty-six million pounds of cheese are produced per annum. the portion of the process witnessed by us occupies about an hour and a half: these cheeses are worth from the farmer's hands fifty or sixty cents apiece. there is a little boy ten or twelve years of age about here who seems to derive great pleasure from our society, although he cannot understand one word of english. one day, after sitting quietly for a long time, while we are conversing together, he repeats impatiently in his own language: "i have listened and listened to your talk, and i cannot understand one word. i do not think you are talking sense at all." alas, poor child! you are not the only one who has listened and listened, trying in vain to find a gleam of intelligence in the foreigner's gibberish. ignorance of the language of a nation causes it to appear to one like a vast sealed volume, which he knows only by the pictures on the title page. i have written at length of the island of marken, one of the most noted of the "dead cities of holland," and now, let us take a peep at the sister city of volendam, which lies four miles north of monnikendam. as we do not wish to visit this place when all the men are off on their fishing expeditions, we choose for our excursion a clear bright sunday, a day on which the men will surely be at home, and their sea horses at anchor in the harbor. procuring a large carriage and a powerful horse, a difficult thing to obtain at short notice, we direct our driver to jog along slowly that we may enjoy the beauty of the surrounding country. we drive over a fine road, level and well ballasted; a good road for the bicycle: in fact all the roads of holland, city and country, are kept in perfect condition. it is a charming day, and the balmy atmosphere and the refreshing breeze which sweeps over the zuyder zee have a soothing effect upon mind and body. this would be a great country for invalids, and those who seek rest and change from the demands of fashion and social life. there is no fashion here; only pure air and lovely peaceful beauty everywhere, with good wholesome food and kind hearts to extend a cordial welcome to the weary stranger. added to this is the very moderate cost of a sojourn in this delightful region. occasionally we pass a small cart or wagon drawn by dogs, the driver a young girl who is comfortably seated in the vehicle, now and then administering to the animals, by means of a short stick, reminders not to lag on the way. these dogs are not the ordinary house dog which is seen in our country; but are powerful and muscular creatures, as perhaps i have already said, and so cross and savage when roused, that to secure the safety of the persons near them they are closely muzzled. being ignorant of their peculiar traits, one day while admiring a couple of fine draught dogs which are resting near a wagon, i approach them too closely; my enthusiasm is suddenly cooled as one of them springs viciously at me, striking me heavily on the chest, and he certainly would have chipped a good sized piece of flesh from my body had his muzzle not prevented this catastrophe. hereafter i keep a distance of many feet between me and these animals, and others of their species. [illustration: "this strange looking highway runs lengthwise through the town." (_see page ._)] after a lovely drive of an hour, we arrive at the old town which is as wonderful and interesting as its sister city. it too is built upon the banks of the zuyder zee. we stand upon the only street in the place, which in appearance resembles the back bone of a whale, with small brick houses on either side. this strange looking highway runs lengthwise through the town. the street is narrow: horses and dogs are never seen upon it, but there are hundreds of children, who gather in great throngs around our horse, wondering at the strange animal, and declaring him to be a huge dog, for many of them have never seen a horse before. our appearance is also a great event to them, and the visit creates as much excitement on one side as the other. it is a "red letter day" for both the townspeople and ourselves. the houses are roofed with red tiles, which exhibit many different shapes and styles, and we perceive numerous flags floating from the windows, and decorations of gay bunting. upon asking the reason of this festive appearance in the isolated and usually quiet city, we are informed that they are in honor of a wedding which is to take place within a few days. a wedding in this town is an occasion of great rejoicing, and every household enters into the spirit of the entertainment with enthusiasm, as the whole community resembles one large family, and from the least to the greatest, they are all well known to each other. the affairs of one are the affairs of all, hence a single marriage becomes the festive occasion of the entire population. this is not strange when one recollects that the people have no other means of entertainment, such as theatres, concert halls or libraries, whist or euchre parties. they have nothing save the individual happenings in the domestic lives of the different families. a woman whose children are sitting quietly upon the curb stone near us, looks hurriedly around the door of her house, and seeing the commotion which our arrival excites, calls anxiously for her "kids" to come to her protecting arms, in mortal fear lest one of her brood should be carried off by these strange and unexpected visitors. as i look around, and behold the robust and muscular physiques of both men and women, i think any one would be daring indeed who would attempt to carry off a child or any other possession from these people in opposition to their wills. [illustration: "the houses are roofed with red tiles." (_see page ._)] the women and children here are richly endowed with the blessings of health and strength. the whole population of thirteen hundred people employ but one doctor, who has time to grow rusty in his profession, so few are the demands upon his skill. i suggest to him on the occasion of a meeting, that he adopt the chinese plan of remuneration, that is that the people pay him an annuity as long as they are well, and that when they are sick, they be entitled to his services gratis. the natives of holland are not inclined to excesses of any kind, and they thus enjoy the full benefit of naturally sound constitutions, and are able to transmit to their children perfect, unimpaired health. as we stroll along this backbone of a street without name or pretensions, we stop at many of the doorways to talk with the residents, and soon become impressed with the hospitality of the people, who are arrayed in all the glory of their sunday finery, and appear at the fronts of their homes happy in the consciousness that they as well as all their surroundings are in "apple pie order." we are as much interested in them as they are in us, and that is saying a great deal. the great, stalwart fellows with their broad shoulders and rugged faces are indeed true types of all that is brave and manly. a loose shirt and baggy trousers, with a small cloth cap is the ordinary costume of the men, many of whom wear wooden shoes; leather slippers are also worn. the women are equally brave and strong in appearance, and as large in proportion as the men. their sturdy forms and healthy faces are rare models for the artist's brush. their dress is of homespun linen, generally dyed blue, and is composed of several pieces; sometimes these are of various colors combined in a picturesque and effective arrangement. the head-dress is of lace and is pretty and becoming: indeed many of our fashionable belles might greatly improve their appearance by adopting the charming coiffure of these pretty and apparently unconscious holland girls and women. these people represent a higher type of humanity than the inhabitants of marken: their intelligence and refinement are more marked, but they have the sunny temperaments and contented dispositions characteristic of the hollanders, and though ignorant of the customs of the outside world, and limited in their lives to a narrow sphere, they are a happy and satisfied people. they seem in that happy state of mind, so rarely possessed, in which they can say _i have enough_. happiness consists not in possessing much, but in being content with what we possess. he who wants little always has enough. these men, like those in the neighboring island of marken, obtain their livelihood by fishing. they leave their homes in small boats or yachts every monday morning, and do not return until late saturday night, allowing them but one day in the week, sunday, to spend in their homes. close by us is the anchorage, so called from the fact that dozens of fishing boats anchor within its harbor. i suppose that fully a hundred of these yachts are lying there now, and, shifting from side to side as the wind stirs the waters of the zuyder zee, present the appearance of a city of masts in a hurricane. as we wander about it occurs to me that i should like to become the possessor of one of the odd and picturesque suits of clothing worn here; especially one of the better kind of the men's suits, for i know that this quaint and ancient dress would be interesting to a number of friends far away in dear america. filled with the idea, i stop many of the natives, and through our good and genial friend mr. l---- inquire if it is possible to purchase from one of them a suit of clothing, and suggest that if they have none themselves to sell, perhaps one of their comrades would part with a suit in exchange for my bright guilders. we talk to a great many men, but receive the same answer from all: that is that each possesses but two suits; a best or sunday suit, and a week-day or fishing suit, neither of which it is possible to sell for any price that i may offer. i ask again if there is not some one else among the men who may be willing to oblige me, and learn that most of the men and women are in church, but that if we will wait until the service is over, we can talk with them, and may succeed in our quest. volendam sights and the oldest town on the rhine. [illustration: "the delicate lace caps frame smiling faces." (_see page ._)] _volendam sights and the oldest town on the rhine._ church is out--the promenade--every man is a volume--an old suit--his sunday clothes--"let him have it"--an obedient son--the silver buttons--the last straw--an uncommon action--the hotel--an artist's resort--an unfinished painting--good-bye--the ancient city of cologne--the cathedral--within the "dom"--a wonderful collection--foundation of the town--history--vicissitudes--public gardens--eau de cologne--the palace of brühl. within a short time we perceive a large number of people slowly advancing in our direction. church is over, and it is customary after the service for every one to promenade up and down this street. here friends and relatives greet each other, exchange items of local interest and have their little gossips over family affairs. the sight is one long to be remembered. the round weather-beaten faces of the men, as they roll along in true sailor fashion, the merry chattering women and girls in their picturesque costume, the children running hither and thither, and the gayly decorated houses that line the long street are worthy the brush of an artist. truly these people seem to practice the golden rule, for no one appears to be thinking of himself, but every one cares for the comfort and happiness of his family, friends or neighbors. the delicate lace caps of the women frame smiling faces, and the maidens in their quaint homespun gowns look as though they are a part of a play at one of our theatres. as the congregation draws nearer, we halt before the foremost group, and having attracted their attention by our novel appearance, ask through our friend mr. l----, the oft-repeated question about the suit of volendam clothes, which we are anxious to carry home to show our friends in america. in an instant they all shake their heads in the negative, looking very serious at the idea of such a proposition. their manly and straightforward manner charms me. i look into the open countenances, in which there is much individuality, and say to myself: it is as true here as in the great cities of the world that _every man is a volume if you know how to read him._ there is a story in the heart of each one of these sturdy fishermen, whether it has seen the light of day or not, and many a noble deed and heroic action that in another town would receive a medal of honor, or at least the applause of the public, passes here as a common incident of everyday life. these people do not live for show: the only medals which they wear, and which they transmit to their children are the records of pure, honest lives which are proudly handed down from one generation to another. [illustration: "as the congregation draws nearer, we halt before the foremost group." (_see page ._)] meanwhile i stand before them watching the varying expressions and wondering if there is any prospect of obtaining my desire. at last one man says hesitatingly that he has an old suit at home that he no longer wears, and if we will accompany him to his house, a few doors away, he will show it to us. we turn and follow him, and a score or more of the people follow us. what must an old suit look like in this thrifty community where the men and women never discard anything until it is utterly hopeless as regards service? a suit which one of these is willing to dispose of must indeed be a peculiar object. i wonder if it has that "ancient and fish-like smell," described by shakespeare. the fates forbid! perhaps it is a relic of a beloved father or grandfather, handed down as a family heirloom. we enter the house, still surrounded by curious spectators, and our obliging friend takes from a closet a carefully-wrapped bundle, which upon being opened discloses a worn and aged suit: unfortunately its age does not add to its beauty or value as in the cases of old masterpieces in art, as a painting by murillo or rembrandt. the clothes are old, dirty, and faded, and only fit for the receptacle of the ragman, but they do not fail to serve their purpose, for while this young athlete holds them out, with an expression of pride and pleasure, a sudden thought fills me with hope. the suit which this young man wears is of the highest type of the volendam fashion, and is quite new. the flannel blouse with its gay undervest showing at the chest, and the baggy brown velveteen trousers form an ideal specimen of the costume of these people. i must have this suit. no other will answer my purpose. without preliminaries, i boldly propose to him to sell me the suit he wears, and put on the old one until he can procure another. his countenance falls, and with a look of positive fear, he draws back, shaking his head and repeating: "nee. nee. nee." then he moves farther away, as though in terror lest i then and there strip him of his garments. he cannot sell the suit, he says, especially as the wedding festivities of one of his neighbors are so soon to take place. in a corner of the room, quietly smoking a clay pipe, sits the old father, watching without a word the little drama taking place before him. as the boy reiterates his refusal, the man talks to him in expostulatory tones, and as we learn, says: "the gentleman from america is a good man. let him have the suit: you shall have another." at this advice the son, though looking rather sulky, yields, and withdrawing to the adjoining room, exchanges the suit he wears for the old one, and returns with the desire of my heart rolled up and wrapped in a clean paper. the evidence of good will on the part of the parent, and the obedience of the son charm me even more than the possession of the coveted garments. the boy is a noble lad. as we are about leaving, i suddenly espy the silver coin buttons which are such an ornament to the dress, and which are considered a mark of distinction, when worn by old or young. they are rare and valuable decorations, being buttons made of coins, and held together by a link, as our sleeve-buttons. they are worn in the bands of the trousers and shirts, serving the purpose of suspenders. the coins are brilliantly polished and present a striking appearance. they are generally heirlooms, and some of them are of very ancient date. in general they are cherished as treasures beyond price: these worn by the boy are exceedingly rare, and are more than a hundred years old, having belonged to his great-grandfather. the outer and larger coins are three guilder pieces, the smaller ones one guilder. to ask for these is indeed the "last straw," and when the father requests his son to put them in the bundle with the clothing, he bursts into tears, and his hands tremble as he gives them to me. for this final test of obedience i thank him heartily, and bestow upon him a liberal reward for the sacrifice, together with much praise. as he looks at the guilders with which i have filled his hand, his countenance brightens, and the rainfall is changed into radiant sunshine. the neighbors look on this scene with surprise, and many of them declare that this is a very uncommon occurrence in volendam, as they have never known any one heretofore to dispose of family heirlooms to a foreigner. it is unnecessary to say that i also value the coins beyond price, and treasure them for their association, and the interesting picture which they never fail to bring before me. [illustration: "every man is a volume if you know how to read him." (_see page ._)] there is but one hotel in the place, and thither we resort. it is a small building without pretensions, containing about ten rooms, of no great size, but clean and comfortable. we learn that board and accommodations may be had here for four guilders (one dollar) a day. this hotel has entertained artists from all parts of the world. the good-natured landlord will do everything in his power to make his guests comfortable. in the general sitting-room or parlor, there is abundant evidence that these efforts have been appreciated in the beautiful paintings presented to him by some of the most famous artists of our day. he is a loyal upholder of art and artists. his daughter, a fresh looking maiden, is so much pleased when i say that i too, am an artist and photographer, that she insists upon taking me up to the third floor to see the fine view from the windows which overlook the zuyder zee. she also shows me a room which was fitted up for a lady artist from new york. here is an unfinished picture upon the easel, of an old volendam woman, in her fancy cap and bright colored homespun costume. this secluded spot offers many attractions for both brush and camera in interesting studies of figures and landscape, as well as charming water scenes. we would gladly spend a longer time amid these delightful pictures, but it is impossible, so we take our departure amid a hundred good wishes, and as we drive away, the inhabitants who have gathered from all parts of the town to see the queer americans, call after us: "goeden dag," and "tot weerziens," (until we meet again). a dozen or more children run by the side of the carriage shouting and laughing for a considerable distance. and so we bid farewell to a hearty and attractive people and their quaint surroundings. let us take a somewhat hasty glance at cologne, the oldest city on the rhine, and one of the largest towns in the rhenish province of prussia. we cannot afford to miss this town, were it only on account of the great cathedral whose lofty towers rise heavenward to a height of five hundred and twelve feet. how one longs to find himself within these sacred walls, to stand and gaze upon the wondrous arches, pillars, and dome, the stained glass and statues, the frescoes and carving, the work of an endless succession of artists and artisans. next to st. peter's at rome, this cathedral is the largest church in the world. it stands upon the old roman camping ground, and more than six centuries have passed since its foundations were laid. the name of its architect is unknown, and even the original designs have been forgotten. its interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one hundred and forty feet broad. the portion appropriated to divine service covers an area of seventy thousand square feet. it is useless to attempt to describe this vast structure whose buttresses, turrets, gargoyles, canopies and tracery are innumerable and bewildering. the gothic arches and countless pillars form a grand perspective. there are seven chapels which present a wealth of paintings, and relics. in the chapel of the three magi is a marvellous casket of crystal, whose cover is set with precious stones, which is said to contain the skulls of caspar, melchior and balthazar, the three wise men from the east who followed the star to the cradle of the infant christ. [illustration: "goeden dag. tot weerziens." (_see page ._)] in the great treasury of the cathedral are untold treasures. here are silver censers, paintings set in diamonds, shrines of silver, and rare and priceless relics of every description, besides gold and silver chalices, fonts, and other church vessels, and a collection of magnificent vestments. many are the vicissitudes through which this wonderful structure has passed, since its commencement in . at times it seemed abandoned to ruin, then again the work was taken up and vast sums of money contributed, and the masterpiece of gothic architecture was carried on toward completion, until once more the money was exhausted. it seems as though the old legend of the architect who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the plan of the edifice must have some foundation, for tradition relates that satan was finally outwitted by the architect, and in revenge vowed that the cathedral should never be finished, and the architect's name be forgotten. immense fortunes have been expended upon it by monarchs and others of the faithful. the great southern portal alone cost half a million dollars: the bells in the south tower, the largest of which was cast in , from the metal of french guns, weighs twenty-five tons. the combined efforts of twenty-eight ringers are required to set it in motion. the next two in point of size, cast in and , weigh respectively eleven and six tons. the magnificent stained glass windows were contributed by famous and royal donors, such as the emperor frederick iii., archbishop von daun, archbishop von hessen, king lewis i. of bavaria, emperor william i., and many others. a number of these were executed as far back as . few structures can compete with this in beauty, grace and elegance of form. how solemn is the atmosphere within these ancient walls! how impressive the picture of this apparently boundless interior! in one of the great pillars is a flight of one hundred steps, which leads to a gallery extending across the transept, and still nearly forty steps higher one reaches the gallery which makes the tour of the whole cathedral, and upon this one has a beautiful view of the city of cologne, the rhine and the surrounding country. within the church there is a corresponding gallery, from which the visitor may observe the interior decorations, and from the loftiest gallery of all, there is a vast and delightful panorama which includes river and country as far as the eye can see. what can be more beautiful than this scene? where can one find a grander, more solemn atmosphere than within these walls where the spirits and the hands of men have worked for ages? where can he experience more lofty aspirations toward "the glorious author of the universe who reins the minds, gives the vast ocean bounds, and circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds"? the city of cologne was founded by the ubii at the time when they were compelled by agrippa to migrate from the right to the left bank of the rhine, (b. c. ). in a. d. , agrippina, daughter of germanicus, and mother of nero, founded here a colony of roman veterans which at first was called colonia agrippinensis, and afterward colonia claudia agrippina. in constantine the great began a stone bridge over the rhine to deutz. from the end of the fifth century cologne belonged to the franks and was long occupied by the ripuarian kings. charlemagne raised the bishopric which had been founded here in the fourth century to an archbishopric, the first archbishop being the imperial chaplain hildebold who built the oldest cathedral church, and presented to it a valuable library which still exists. "the noble city has passed through many vicissitudes, and it was not until after under prussian rule that it began to enjoy a degree of permanent prosperity. the rapid progress of its steamboat and railway systems, and the enterprise of the citizens, many of whom possess great wealth, have combined to make cologne the centre of the rhenish trade, and one of the most considerable commercial cities in germany." the town is built with long narrow streets curving in semicircles toward the river. its sidewalks have the peculiarity of frequently dwindling away until only a few feet in width. the great cathedral tower may be seen for miles, reaching far above the surrounding buildings. cologne is a city of legends and relics: old and historic buildings dating back many centuries are scattered in all directions, and here the visionary, the lover of myth and legend, can find abundant food for his imagination. the great and valued possessions of the city are the bones of the eleven thousand virgins. this is the legend: fourteen hundred years ago, st. ursula and eleven thousand virgins went on a pilgrimage to rome, and returning were all slain by the huns. their bones were gathered together and brought to cologne, where they were buried, and later the church of st. ursula, now nearly nine hundred years old, was built over their tomb. within this church the bones of the virgins are enclosed in stone caskets, with apertures through which they may be seen. the skulls are covered with needlework and ornamented with pearls and precious stones. among other relics, is also to be found here the alabaster vase or rather one of the vases, in which the saviour turned the water into wine at the marriage in cana. the vase or jar is evidently a very ancient article: it is much cracked, and one handle is broken off. there are many points of interest in this old city, for here are museums, gardens, galleries and churches, and always the picturesque river with its countless views and pleasure trips. if one is weary of these legendary stories, or even of sightseeing itself, let him rest with me in one of the many public gardens, listening to the charming music of a good orchestra. there are skilled musicians in these gardens, and their selections are always well rendered. no loud or idle conversation is indulged in during these recitals. should any such breach of good manners occur, the transgressors are requested to observe the rule of the garden, and if the offence is repeated, they are ejected from the premises. the germans, being such lovers of good music, tolerate no other in their gardens. there is no admission fee, but the expenses are supposed to be met by the sale of beer, wine, pretzels and frankfurt sausages. before leaving cologne i must not forget to mention the refreshing perfume which has made this city famous all over the world. the celebrated eau de cologne is said to have been invented by jean antoine marie farina of domodossola in the year . one could almost bathe in the perfume here for the money it would cost to filter our muddy philadelphia water. there is an enormous quantity of it manufactured, and almost every store seems to have it for sale. [illustration: "palace of brühl." (_see page ._)] a short distance from cologne, or köln as the germans call it, is the almost forsaken station of brühl. i would advise the tourist to alight here, and take a close view of the imperial palace known as the palace of brühl, a handsome building erected about the year . as we advance toward the beautiful and spacious grounds, it is not difficult to imagine the magnificent structure looming up in the distance as the home of royalty. the approach to the palace is studded with marble statues, and the palace itself is a classic example of the french and german rococo style of architecture; from it radiate many lovely walks and bowery avenues which are adorned with fine statuary. here too are velvet lawns, noble trees and glowing flower beds, and should one wish to view the interior of this elegant palace, he will find that some of the rooms are open to visitors. our stay within is necessarily brief. retracing our steps to the station, we take the train, and are carried swiftly toward the old town of bonn. along the banks of the rhine. [illustration: "lovely walks and bowery avenues." (_see page ._)] _along the banks of the rhine._ bonn--the birthplace of beethoven--the museum--monument--a famous restaurant--college students--beer mugs--special tables--affairs of honor--königswinter--magnificent views--drachenfels--the castle--the dombruch--siegfried and the dragon--a desecrated ruin--the splendor of the mountains--many visitors--view from the summit--the students' chorus--german life--a german breakfast--the camera--old castles and lofty mountains--legends of the rhine--the waters of the rhine--vineyards. this town like its sister cities is of ancient foundation, having been one of the first roman fortresses on the rhine. it is the seat of a university which attracts students from all parts of the world. it is a prosperous looking place with pleasant villas on the river banks, and ancient picturesque houses. there are lovely shaded walks in the public gardens, and a fine view from the alte zoll, but the chief interest of the town for us lies in the fact that it is the birthplace of beethoven. in a small unpretentious house the great musician was born in , and here were composed many of those wonderful harmonies which have thrilled the souls of lovers of music all over the world. the room in which this noble genius first saw the light of day is in the top of the house, a garret ten feet by twelve in size, and contains no furniture whatever: nor is it necessary to remind those who enter it, by aught save the wreath of green which lies peacefully upon the floor, that the spirit whose earthly tabernacle dwelt here breathed forth the fire of heaven. "creative genius. from thy hand what shapes of order, beauty rise, where waves thy potent, mystic wand, to people ocean, earth and skies." in an adjoining room are stored some pieces of furniture which belonged to beethoven, and the piano used by him in the composition of some of his most famous sonatas. some of the ladies of our party are permitted to play upon this sacred instrument. do they hope to be inspired by the magic spell of the master's touch still lingering among the keys? the dwelling has been purchased by lovers of the celebrated composer, and fitted up as a beethoven museum. not far off stands the statue of the artist and the monument dedicated to him. before leaving bonn, we visit the famous restaurant which is the nightly resort of the students during the college term. the spacious rooms composing this café communicate with each other by a wide and lofty doorway. the furniture consists of bare wooden tables, a long counter, and dozens of shabby chairs which look as if they have seen hard service. the corpulent and jovial proprietor informs us that these rooms are filled to overflowing with both gay and serious students every night in the week, and that here, notwithstanding the ofttimes boisterous merriment, questions of grave import are often discussed, together with all the current topics of interest; and that speeches are made brilliant enough for publication in the daily papers. here the young orator first tests his powers, and in all his future career, he will find no more critical audience than this composed of his fellow-students. here too are nights given up to fun and jollity, to college songs and wild and reckless mirth, when there is not a serious countenance among the crowd. "he cannot try to speak with gravity, but one perceives he wags an idle tongue; he cannot try to look demure, but spite of all he does he shows a laugher's cheek; he cannot e'en essay to walk sedate, but in his very gait one sees a jest that's ready to break out in spite of all his seeming." hundreds of voices make the roof ring with tuneful harmony: choruses, glees and comic ballads follow each other, interspersed with jokes and puffs at pipes and sips of beer, for the german student is a "rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun, to relish a joke and rejoice at a pun." pounds of poor tobacco are smoked, and gallons of good beer consumed at these gatherings, and the landlord is always on the side of the boys when there is any trouble, and rejoices in all their collegiate honors and their success in every other line. upon the shelves above the tables are long rows of individual beer mugs, with the owners' names or crests conspicuously painted in gay colors upon them. these mugs vary in capacity from a pint to two quarts, and the host assures me gravely that many of the students drain even the largest ones nine or ten times in the course of an evening. i ponder, as he speaks, upon the wonderful power of expansion of the human stomach which performs this feat. [illustration: "not far off stands the statue of the artist." (_see page ._)] as a natural consequence of this enormous appetite for beer, one sees in the restaurants in many of the german cities an especial table constructed with a deep semicircular curve in the side, which allows the corpulent guest to drink his favorite beverage in comfortable proximity to the bottle. such as these must have been in shakespeare's mind, when he wrote: "he was a man of an unbounded stomach." the deep cuts and scars upon the faces of many of the students, are matters of great pride with them, as evidences of the number of "affairs of honor" in which they have been engaged. they look with scorn upon the fellow collegian whose countenance does not display one or more of these signs of bloody combat, and are always ready to seize an occasion of this kind for the exhibition of their bravery or their skill at arms. sometimes these duels are a result of the silliest arguments, at others they are sought by deliberate insult given by the one who wishes to fight. a glance is sometimes sufficient for a sanguinary meeting. will they ever learn that no stain can ever be washed out with blood, no honor redeemed by the sword, no moral bravery displayed by an encounter of this kind? it is falling to the level of the brute, with perhaps a little more skill evinced in the choice of the weapons of warfare. it cannot but detract from the dignity of the human being, and this is true to a far greater extent in the case of those who entertain themselves by witnessing such unnatural sports as prize fights, cock fights, and most degrading of all, but thank heaven a rare sight in civilized countries, the bull fight;--all relics of barbarism. let us leave this unpleasant subject, however, and allow ourselves to be spirited away to a veritable fairy land of beauty, and quaint legendary associations. the little town of königswinter nestles at the foot of the seven mountains, from which there are innumerable views of the rhine and the surrounding country. a halo of romance surrounds this region, and in the many excursions from this point, the lover of the weird and visionary will find his every step accompanied by imaginary maidens of rare grace and beauty, brave knights, crafty priests, wild huntsmen, cruel dragons, super-human heroes, and all the wonderful personages of legendary lore. the town is a thriving, modern looking place of about thirty-five hundred inhabitants, excluding the floating population of tourists who throng the hotels and scatter themselves among the private families. we arrive here early in the afternoon, and establish ourselves in a comfortable and attractive hotel. the day is clear and pleasant, and desiring to make good use of the hours of daylight before us, we determine to make the ascent of the drachenfels. there are a number of different routes or paths, by which one may reach the summit of this mountain on foot; or, should the tourist prefer to ride, he can use the mountain railway which approaches the top in a line almost straight. protected by stout shoes, carrying wraps, and armed with long and strong wooden staffs, we walk slowly along the mountain road, pausing at intervals to gaze upon the beautiful scenes which surround us in every direction. the great peak known as the drachenfels or dragon rock, in which from the river a vast cavern may be seen, owes its name to the numerous legends which are connected with it. in the cave, it is said, lived a terrible monster who daily demanded of the people the sacrifice of a young maiden, who was bound and decorated with flowers, and placed near the entrance to his lair. siegfried slew the dragon and by bathing in his blood, became invulnerable. the maiden whose life he thus saved was hildegarde, the beautiful daughter of the lord of drachenfels, whom he afterward married and bore to the castle whose crumbling and picturesque ruins seem to cling to the lofty crag, fifteen hundred feet above the rhine. this castle was once a mighty stronghold of the robber chieftains; its foundation is associated with arnold, archbishop of cologne at the beginning of the twelfth century, who in bestowed it upon the cassius monastery at bonn. it was held as a fief by the counts of the castle. henry, count of drachenfels, furnished the chapter of the cathedral of cologne with the stone for its construction from a quarry which from this fact still bears the name of dombruch, or cathedral quarry. in the thirty years' war the half-ruined castle was occupied by the swedes, but was besieged and taken from them by duke ferdinand of bavaria, elector of cologne, who completed its destruction. the cliff is now surmounted by a beautiful new castle, the drachenburg, built in for the baron von sarter. it is in the gothic style, and is elaborately decorated with frescoes and stained glass. the upper part of the mountain is covered with trees below the cliff, the lower part with grapevines, while along the banks of the rhine at its foot are picturesque cottages, nestling among trees and vines. the drachenfels is the loftiest of the seven mountains, and its summit commands one of the finest prospects on the rhine. in the ruins of the old castle, ingenious and progressive man has seen fit to ignore sentiment, and thrust a modern restaurant, where in spite of his shocked sensibilities, the weary traveller may in return for german marks, rest and refresh himself with sparkling wine which is famous for its fine quality and flavor, while the cool breezes fan his brow and soothe his excited brain. [illustration: "the great peak known as the drachenfels, or dragon rock." (_see page ._)] one lingers long, dazzled by the splendor of this superb view. mountains and valley, river and islands unite in a glorious picture which entrances the soul, and thrills the heart with gladness; while the pure, bracing mountain air, laden with the perfume of the grape, fills the lungs with "a perpetual feast of nectar's sweets." many tourists surround us, and we hear a perfect babel of tongues: french, english, german and other languages greet our ears, assuring us that visitors from all parts of the world are enjoying this magnificent panorama with us. what a pity the camera will not encompass the wonderful scene. "the castled crag of drachenfels frowns o'er the wide and winding rhine, whose breast of waters broadly swells between the banks which bear the vine; and hills all riched with blossom'd trees, and fields which promise corn and wine; and scatter'd cities crowning these, whose fair white walls along them shine, have strew'd a scene which i should see, with double joy wert thou with me." several of the siebengebirge are visible toward the east, the basaltic heights sloping toward the rhine. just below are rhöndorf, honnef, rheinbreitbach, unkel, and erpel; on the left bank of the river are remagen and the gothic church on the apollinarisberg, with the heights of the eifel and the ruin of olbrück castle on a height of , feet. in the neighborhood are oberwinter, the islands of grafenwerth and nonnenworth and the beautiful ruins of rolandseck with its surrounding villas and gardens. to the right, one may behold kreuzberg, bonn and even the city of cologne in the distance. it seems as though one could gaze upon this scene of grandeur and beauty forever. as twilight falls, the picture receives a new and entrancing sublimity. "the weary sun hath made a golden set," and silently the sparkling stars appear, one by one, while the deepening shadows blend the scene into a vast harmonious whole which seems to draw the soul up to the very threshold of heaven. we descend the mountain rather silently, unwilling to break the impression made by our journey, and slowly through the gloom make our way back to the hotel. while sitting upon the porch in the evening, surrounded by the majestic watch towers of the rhine, and expatiating on the pleasures of the day, we suddenly hear a rich full chorus, harmoniously sung by at least one hundred male and female voices. the singers are invisible, and the notes seem to float out from one of the neighboring mountain caves. we all listen with delight to the sounds, which now approaching nearer, convince us that the singers are not the denizens of another world, but are beings of flesh and blood like ourselves. in the distance we can discern a procession of gay and jovial students with their sweethearts at their sides. the young men are carrying lighted torches and lanterns which illuminate them and the road, and are merrily singing the popular glees and college songs as they wend their way to the boat landing close by. the party is returning from a german students' picnic, and as they board the little steamer, which immediately leaves her moorings, the air is rent by cheer after cheer, and we hear the gay laughter and happy voices long after the boat has disappeared from our eyes down the silent flowing river. such is the german student life, and such is the character of the german people: not averse to pleasure, sociable, jovial, kind and happy. we rise early this morning, and partake of a good german breakfast; and of what do you suppose a good german breakfast consists? dishes of greasy sausage or bacon swimming in its own gravy, kale or saurkraut, onions and hot sauces, potatoes soaked in lard; black bread which has also been soaked in lard to save the expense of butter: and all this washed down with innumerable mugs of beer or rhine wine, with a "thank heaven" when the unsavory repast can no longer offend our eyes or olfactories? no, my dear friend; our breakfast is a most agreeable contrast to the picture just drawn. we are served with deliciously cooked steak and chops, and the connoisseur of any nationality would not disdain these meats or the daintily prepared chicken, coffee and fresh rolls. the eggs are fresh and not underdone: one can find no fault with the butter or the sweet new milk, and it is with a feeling of great satisfaction that we rise from the table at the close of the meal, and exclaim that we have had a breakfast "fit for a king." a small steamer with an upper deck waits at the landing to convey passengers and a limited amount of freight from königswinter to bingen. it is ten o'clock when we step on this attractive little boat with our numerous wraps and parcels. we are well laden, for the camera occupies one hand, and is always ready for an unexpected shot at some picturesque figure, group, building or landscape. and i will here say to the tourist who wishes to illustrate his notes, that it is best to keep camera and sketch book handy, for you little know what fine opportunities are missed while you are stopping to unstrap your needed friend. let your sketching outfit hang over your shoulder, and as to the camera, have one which will respond to your touch within five seconds, or you will lose many a scene of beauty which otherwise would rejoice the hearts of friends at home. we are much amused at the bulky apparatus of a friend, which is always carried neatly strapped in its box, while mine hangs over my shoulder, ready to snap instantly to a demand upon it. the difference in the result of the two methods is that i have a collection of many valuable pictures, while our friend spends most of his time strapping and unstrapping his camera. the day is chilly and threatening, and as we leave the landing, we find ourselves in a heavy fog, much to my disappointment, for i have anticipated great pleasure in seeing and photographing the many beautiful ruins of old castles and the landscape along our route. however as the mist lightens now and then, i "shoot" away here and there with as much ardor as the circumstances will allow: not idly or carelessly, as the enthusiastic amateur, reckless of plates and results, but at unquestionably fine points, such as lofty castles and picturesque mountains, half fearing sometimes that in spite of my precautions the longed-for view will prove but a blur upon my plate. it is bold indeed to attempt to capture such sublime pictures with such faulty exposures. the country around königswinter is extremely beautiful. upon both sides of the rhine rise the lofty peaks of the wooded mountains, with in almost every case a ruined castle upon the summit. how noble and defiant is the appearance of these venerable fortresses with their eventful histories and wonderful legends. here near remagen within full view of the river is the church dedicated to st. apollinaris, at one time a great resort for pilgrims. it is said to be beautifully decorated with ancient and modern works of art; the view from the church tower so charmed the artist who first ornamented it that he painted his portrait upon the tower that his eyes might forever look upon the mountains and valleys and follow the winding course of the glistening river. near the church, at the foot of the mountain, is the celebrated apollinaris fountain, whose waters are bottled and sent to all parts of the world for their medicinal properties. [illustration: "how noble and defiant is the appearance of these venerable fortresses." (_see page ._)] at times the blue breaks through the clouds, and then the pictures are surpassingly lovely. the castles in their sorrowful majesty are very imposing: they are generally built of stone, are of fine architectural design, and are frequently the centre of charming old gardens, or are embowered in trees and shrubbery. here they stand year after year, looking down upon the ever youthful river. some of them are occupied, while others are desolate ruins. "high towers, fair temples, strong walls, rich porches, princely palaces, all these (oh pity), now are turned to dust, and overgrown with black oblivion's rust." one can hardly realize the grandeur of this scenery. every turn of the river presents a different view: it is an ever varying kaleidoscope of natural beauty. now we behold the mountains with their masses of foliage reaching to the very summits; now the charming village amid its vineyards, with its odd little church surrounded by picturesque frame houses with plain roofs and quaint gables. while sitting silently on deck gazing upon the old castles and ever changing scenes which border this beautiful body of water, i hear solemn tones proceeding from the belfry of an old church, and behold a little procession of mourners slowly following the hearse which is bearing the remains of some loved relative or friend to their final resting-place;--a pathetic little group walking sadly along through the drenching rain from the church to the burying ground. one is compelled to notice here the numerous signs with huge letters emblazoned upon them, informing the passers-by that here are bottled popular waters of medicinal qualities. the tottering establishments are, i observe, close to the water's edge, and whether or not the rhine contributes the greater part in the composition of these famous waters is an open question. however it may be, the waters, or mineral springs, of genuine virtue or otherwise, are the source of a considerable profit in this region. water as a beverage is seldom used by the germans, for the light rhine wines are to be had in perfection at a trifling cost. [illustration: "every turn of the river presents a different view." (_see page ._)] we glide along, passing island and vineyard, and castle crowned height, with now and then a wide curve in the river, which looks with its smiling face to-day much as it did centuries ago when the old strongholds reared up their piles of masonry in regal splendor, and noble retinues defiled down the narrow mountain paths to the water's edge. "thou, unchanged from year to year gayly shalt play and glitter here; amid young flowers and tender grass, thine endless infancy shalt pass; and, singing down thy narrow glen, shall mock the fading race of men." from bingen on the rhine to frankfort-on-the-main. [illustration: "now we behold the little church surrounded by picturesque houses." (_see page ._)] _from bingen on the rhine to frankfort-on-the-main._ vast vineyards--bingen--the hotel--the down quilt--a german maid--taverns--the mouse tower--rüdesheim--niederwald--the rheingau--the national monument--the castle of niederburg--wine vaults--the river--street musicians--a misunderstanding--frankfort-on-the-main--the crossing of the ford--a free city--monument of goethe--history--a convocation of bishops--the city--monument of gutenberg--the house in which rothschild was born--luther. after leaving königswinter, we pass vast vineyards on both sides of the rhine, and as we approach bingen we see them covering the whole mountain-side. among the vines may be seen what seem like steps encircling the mountain to its very summit, but which in reality are roads or paths through the vineyard. the sturdy and prolific vines grow close to these walks. in this section of the country the greatest care is given to grape culture, hence in bingen is to be found the finest wine made in the country. in this region are located great breweries and wine vaults extending into the mountain-sides for hundreds of feet. on arriving at bingen we proceed at once to the victoria hotel, a quiet house situated at a convenient distance from both railroad station and steamboat landing. the charges are moderate, and the accommodations good. upon entering our sleeping apartment, i observe upon the beds huge fluffy quilts stuffed with soft feathers, and forming a pile at least two feet in thickness, which covers the entire surface from bolster to footboard. this ominous appearance fills me with strange forebodings and wondering thoughts. i say to myself: "god made the country, and man made the town, but who on earth has manufactured these monstrous counterpanes, and for what purpose?" surely not for ornament, for they are the most unsightly objects i have ever beheld in the line of needlework, and look as if intended to smother hydrophobia patients. but as few dogs are seen hereabout, this does not seem probable. the appearance of a smiling innocent-faced chambermaid interrupts my meditations. she informs me that these great masses of feathers are used to keep the body warm at night. i conclude from this that the germans are a cold-blooded people, since such a slaughter of the "feathery tribe" is necessary to maintain their normal temperature when in a state of repose. as night advances, i summon up courage to crawl under this fluffy mountain, and in a few moments feel as if a great loaf of freshly-baked bread is lying upon me. the heat is intense, and makes me think of "eternal torments, baths of boiling sulphur, vicissitudes of fires." i cast it off, and as the nights are chilly, soon find myself too cool. but i will not allow the enemy to return and overpower me, for there is much to be seen hereabout on the morrow, and i know that overgrown spread would absorb all the strength reserved for the occasion. placing my steamer rug upon the bed, i am soon oblivious to all surroundings and happy in a land of pleasant dreams. [illustration: "approaching bingen we see vineyards covering the mountain side." (_see page ._)] this house is indeed delightfully located in the midst of a beautiful country. bingen is a lovely town at the entrance of the romantic nahe valley, looking out upon mountain, glen and river on every side, upon lofty castles and vine-embowered cottages. quaint narrow streets and ancient buildings, whose history is buried in the distant centuries, tempt the lover of the picturesque to linger in this neighborhood. the place was known to the romans, who erected a castle here, which was destroyed by the french in , but which has been restored and extended. there is a beautiful view from the tower, and footpaths ascend to it both from the nahe and the rhine. here are old historic taverns, whose floors are composed of large slabs of stone. the primitive chairs and tables are of rude workmanship, and devoid of paint or style, but heavy and strong enough to support the weary travellers who resort thither. we wander about, revelling in nature's enchanting pictures, and rejoicing in the mysterious atmosphere of the dense forests, which form the background. the smiling river, with its silver sheen beneath the moon, or its golden reflections of the setting sun, is ever an inspiration and a suggestion for some new trip or point of vantage. yes, here are scenes for the artist, and pictures ready for the camera. here too, on a quartz rock in the middle of the rhine is the mouse tower which is said to owe its name to the well-known legend of the cruel archbishop hatto of mayence. in the year , a protracted rain ruined the harvest in this region, and a terrible famine ensued among the poor people, who in their distress finally applied to the archbishop, as his granaries were overflowing with the harvests of former years. but the hard-hearted prelate would not listen to them. at last they wearied him so with their importunities, that he bade them assemble in an empty barn, promising to meet them on a certain day and quiet their demands. delighted with the prospect of relief, the people gathered on the appointed day in such numbers that the barn was soon filled. the archbishop ordered his servants to fasten all the doors and windows so that none could escape, and then set fire to the building, declaring that they were as troublesome as rats, and should perish in the same way. the following day, when the bishop entered his dining-room, he found that the rats had gnawed his recently finished portrait from the frame, and it lay in a heap of fragments on the floor. while he stood gazing at it a messenger burst into the room with the news that a great army of fierce looking rats were coming toward the castle. without a moment's delay the archbishop flung himself on a horse and rode rapidly away followed by thousands of rats all animated by the revengeful spirits of the starving population he had burned. he had scarcely dismounted and entered a small boat on the rhine, when the rats fell upon his horse and devoured it. rowing to his tower in the middle of the rhine, he locked himself in, thinking he had escaped his voracious foes; but the rats boldly swam across the bingerloch, and gnawed thousands of holes in the tower, through which they rushed to their victim. southey in his ballad, thus describes their entrance into the tower: "and in at the windows, and in at the door, and through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, and down from the ceiling, and up from the floor, from the right and the left, from behind and before, from within and without, from above and below, and all at once to the bishop they go. "they have whetted their teeth against the stones, and now they pick the bishop's bones; they knawed the flesh from every limb, for they were sent to do judgment on him." this is the old legend; but now comes the searcher after truth with the information that the tower was in reality erected in the middle ages as a watch tower, and the name is derived from the old german "musen," to spy. these ruins were again converted into a station for signalling steamers, which in descending the rhine are required to slacken speed here when other vessels are coming up the river. taking one of the small steamboats which run from bingen to the opposite bank, we land at the little town of rüdesheim which lies at the base of the mountain. this old town is one of the most famous on the river, not only for its wines but for the legend of the beautiful gisela, who was commanded by her father to become a nun in fulfillment of his vow made in palestine during the crusade against the saracens. the maiden had a lover, and finding that no entreaties could save her from her fate, gisela leaped from a tower into the river, and the fishermen declare that her spirit still lingers about the bingerloch, and her voice is often heard amid the rushing torrent. the first vineyards here are said to have been planted by charlemagne, who observed that the snow disappeared earlier from the hills behind the town than from other regions in the neighborhood. the rüdesheimer berg is covered with walls and arches, and terrace rises above terrace, to prevent the falling of the soil. we drive to the top of this charming hill whose sunny slopes are clothed with vineyards. upon the summit, as on most of the others in the neighborhood, there is a hotel with grounds prettily laid out, and here one may remain and enjoy the pure air and enchanting views, for a day, a week, or for the whole season. here, too, is the national monument, in describing which i will copy the words of my guide book: "the national monument on the niederwald, erected in commemoration of the unanimous rising of the people and the foundation of the new german empire in - , stands upon a projecting spur of the hill ( feet above the sea level; feet above the rhine), opposite bingen, and is conspicuous far and wide. it was begun in from the designs of professor schilling of dresden, and was inaugurated in in presence of emperor william i. and numerous other german princes. the huge architectural basis is seventy-eight feet high, while the noble figure of germania, with the imperial crown and the laurel-wreathed sword, an emblem of the unity and strength of the empire, is thirty-three feet in height. the principal relief on the side of the pedestal facing the river, symbolizes the 'wacht am rhein.' it contains portraits of king william of prussia and other german princes and generals, together with representatives of the troops from the different parts of germany, with the text of the famous song below; to the right and left are allegorical figures of peace and war, while below are rhenus and mosella, the latter as the future guardian of the western frontier of the empire. the fine reliefs on the sides of the pedestal represent the departure and the return of the troops." we visit many of the most noted breweries and wine vaults in the neighborhood. those of herr j. hufnagel are the largest in this section of the country. they are cut in the base of the mountain, and extend inward many hundred feet. here the choice wines are stored, many of the enormous casks containing upwards of twenty thousand quarts. hundreds of barrels and hogsheads are seen; in fact every nook and corner of the vault is filled, and so extensive is this subterranean apartment, that avenues are made from one part to another, and along these we walk, the guide bearing a lamp to light the way. after visiting these great storerooms, we are invited to the hotel of the proprietor, which is close by, and on the porch we are served with an enjoyable lunch flavored with choice german wine. there is a beautiful drive along the river bank, and if one is tired, he may stop at one of the inviting restaurants in this neighborhood, and while resting and refreshing himself, look out at the tourists and others passing along the wide airy street, or as is a common custom, he may have his luncheon served upon the porch, from which there is a delightful and extended view of the rhine. with plenty of shade and comfortable chairs, and the beautiful river before us, how swiftly the time passes! sometimes, in consequence of our ignorance of the language, laughable mistakes are made in the ordering of our meals, which seem to increase the jollity of both the waiters and our party. on one of these occasions, while eating our luncheon in the open air, a band of eight or ten street musicians station themselves upon the porch but a few feet from us. they are healthy, hearty-looking men, but contrary to our previous experience in this country, they play the most inharmonious airs. we endure this for a short time, then as the discordant sounds become more and more annoying, we bestow upon the leader a number of small coins, and entreat them to begone. they evidently misunderstand us, and think, from our liberal contribution, that we appreciate their efforts, for they continue their playing with increased vigor and--discord. we do not wish to leave our pleasant quarters, so resign ourselves to the situation. after repeating their repertoire, which seems endless, with profuse smiling bows and thanks they leave us at last to the peaceful enjoyment of the day. the niederberg is a massive rectangular castle whose three vaulted stories, belonging to the twelfth century, were joined to the remains of a structure of earlier date. it was originally the seat of the knights of rüdesheim, who were compelled to become vassals of the archbishop of mayence for brigandage. at rüdesheim begins the rheingau, which is the very "vineyard" of this country. here every foot of ground is cultivated, and the grape is the monarch of the land. all the hillsides are covered with the vines, and here in the midst of the verdure appears the picturesque villa of the planter or wine merchant. it is a rich and beautiful region. from bingen and rüdesheim we go to frankfort-on-the-main. this town which has witnessed the coronation of many of the german emperors, is noted for its ancient legends, and to one of these it is said it owes its name. this is the story: charlemagne, having penetrated into the forests to wage war against the saxons, was once compelled to retreat with his brave franks. a heavy fog lay over the country which was unknown to him. fearing that his little army would be cut to pieces if he lingered, and unable to see more than a few feet ahead of him, charlemagne prayed to the lord for help and guidance. the next moment the heavy fog parted, and the emperor saw a doe leading her young through the stream. he instantly called to his men, and they forded the river in safety. the fog closed behind them and hid them from the pursuing enemy. in commemoration of his deliverance, charlemagne called the place frankford (the ford of the franks), and the city which grew up shortly afterward retained the name. this, one of the important cities of germany, is said to have been a small roman military station in the first century, a. d. it is first mentioned as franconoford and the seat of the royal residence in ; and the following year charlemagne held a convocation of bishops and dignitaries of the empire here. the town attained such a degree of prosperity that in , at the death of lewis the german, it was looked upon as the capital of the east franconian empire. on the dissolution of the empire in , frankfort was made over to the primate of the rhenish confederation, and in it became the capital of the grand-duchy of frankfort. it was one of the four free cities of the german confederation, and the seat of the diet from to , in which year it passed to prussia. to-day we find it a handsome city of two hundred and twenty-nine thousand inhabitants, with beautiful streets, stately houses surrounded by lovely gardens, and fine stores, parks, monuments and many attractions for the tourist. here are churches, theatres, libraries and museums, and an opera house which will accommodate two thousand spectators. in the rossmarkt stands the monument of gutenberg, which consists of three figures, gutenberg in the centre with fust and schoffer on either side, upon a large sandstone pedestal. on the frieze are portrait heads of celebrated printers, and in the niches beneath are the arms of the four towns where printing was first practiced: mayence, frankfort, venice and strassburg. around the base are figures representing theology, poetry, natural science and industry. this monument was erected in . this is the birthplace of goethe, and here is the house in which the poet was born, with its inscription recording that event, (august , ). the handsome monument of goethe, erected in , twelve years after his death adorns the goethe-platz. the pedestal of the monument bears allegorical figures in relief in front, while on the sides are figures from the poems of the great writer. there are twenty-three thousand jews in frankfort, and in the quarter to which these people are limited, we are shown the house in which the senior rothschild was born. it is an unassuming brick building of three stories, in good repair. as i gaze upon this modest dwelling, i think of the man who from such unpromising beginning, became the founder of the greatest financial firm the world has known. there is a stone effigy of luther not far from the cathedral, in memory of a tradition that the great reformer preached a sermon here on his journey to worms. it is true that these associations are to be found in almost every european town; but none the less are we impressed as we stand before the monuments of the great ones of the earth--the men who have left their indelible marks--"footprints on the sands of time "--which the years have no power to efface. these men must have truly lived. "he most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best." the cathedral of frankford is a conspicuous edifice towering above the other buildings, quaint and picturesque in spite of a lack of harmony in many of its details. from the platform of the tower, one may have a beautiful view of the city, with its thick border of trees, and of the fields and meadows beyond along the shining waters of the main. this church of st. bartholomew was founded by lewis the german in , and was rebuilt in the gothic style - . the different portions represent various periods. the tower, left unfinished in , now three hundred and twelve feet high, was completed from the designs of the architect which were discovered in the municipal archives. a prussian capital and a fashionable resort. _a prussian capital and a fashionable resort._ we start for berlin--mountain and valley--harvesters--villages--a great city--unter den linden--kroll theatre and garden--the city streets--ostend--a fashionable watering place--the promenade--the kursaal--on the beach--bathing machines--studies for an artist--the race course--sunday--the winning horse--fickle dame fortune--the english channel--a bureau of information--queenstown--an irish lass--the last stop--the end of the journey. the journey from frankfort to berlin is through a pleasant and interesting country. for many miles we look from the car windows upon an undulating landscape: hills and valleys follow each other in rapid succession as our train dashes along at the rate of a mile a minute. now and then we pass men and women in the fields; and now young girls with bare feet and short skirts busily raking the hay,--true pictures of "maud muller on a summer day." and here is a whole group of "nut brown maids" laughing merrily at their work, while over in a corner of the field is the belle of the countryside listening shyly to the stalwart young harvester who stands on the border of the adjoining meadow. "her tresses loose behind play on her neck and wanton with the wind; the rising blushes which her cheeks o'erspread are opening roses in the lily's bed." now we pass the harvesters at rest, sitting under the green trees and hedges with their dinner pails beside them. it is a pleasant, peaceful picture. here is a picturesque village with quaint looking houses, and a little gurgling brook in the foreground. an echo from the distant mountain answers the shrill whistle of our engine and we can see the silvery cloud of smoke that follows us wander off to the right, then fade away in misty fragments. in many of these settlements, there are shaded nooks where tables and chairs are placed, and here the villagers are sipping their beer, in happy social converse. the young people wave their hands and caps to us as we pass, and with their bright costumes animate the lovely scenes which, although so close to each other, are of such different character. at last we reach berlin, and our great iron horse stands puffing in the station, defying man to detect upon him any sign of exhaustion. in this large city entertainment can be found for people of every kind and taste. the street known throughout the world as unter-den-linden is a splendid avenue, one hundred and sixty-five feet in width, and takes its name from the double row of linden trees with which it is ornamented. it is the busiest portion of the city, contains handsome hotels, beautiful palaces, large shops, and many fine statues of celebrated men. the first day or two after your arrival in the city, engage a carriage and take in the general appearance of the city, its parks and suburbs; then visit the art galleries, museums, palaces and churches until the brain becomes accustomed to the bewildering array of subjects which demand attention. stroll quietly along unter-den-linden stopping now and then at one of the many stores which line this beautiful avenue. at one end of this thoroughfare is the celebrated brandenburg gate, a sort of triumphal arch. it is a fine structure, two hundred feet wide and seventy-five feet high, supported by doric columns. there are five entrances, the central one being reserved for the passage of members of the royal family. the kroll theatre and gardens are a popular resort for the people of berlin. these gardens are illuminated every evening by thousands of electric lights, arranged in various designs, as flowers, harps and other graceful forms, and this illuminated scene is the centre of a gay throng of pleasure seekers, who promenade the paths, or sit about in groups listening to the music of the fine orchestras stationed at each end of the spacious grounds. the entertainment is not over until a very late hour. there are a number of these gardens throughout the city, which are not, as may be supposed, frequented by the lower classes of the people, but by persons of every rank in society. one can hardly appreciate this scene without having passed an evening amid its light-hearted crowds. here may be seen officers of many honors, with conspicuous gold and silver badges, mingling with the groups gathered around the tables, or sauntering up and down the garden walks, as well as the private soldier in his regimentals happily quaffing his beer with his sweetheart by his side. title and rank here as well as elsewhere throughout germany, are honored and respected by all classes, and the salute is gracefully made whenever one of the army or navy men meets his superior officer. [illustration: "thousands of fashionably dressed people appear upon this promenade." (_see page ._)] berlin with its life and gayety, its grandeur and simplicity, its hospitality and good cheer, captivates our hearts, and we enter joyously into the many diversions it offers; as we sit among the honest and kind-hearted people, we feel the charm of their social atmosphere and wonder why other nations do not allow themselves more time for relaxation and the simple pleasures which abound here. the friedrichs-strasse is the longest street in the city: it is well laid out, and contains many handsome stores. wilhelms-strasse is a beautiful avenue, and is considered the most aristocratic street in berlin, as it contains the palaces of princes, ministers and other distinguished personages. a handsome square opens from this avenue, ornamented with flower-beds and fine statuary. the museums here are called the old museum and the new museum; they are connected by a passage gallery. the entrance to the old museum is adorned by handsome statuary, and the grand portico is beautifully painted with allegorical and mythological subjects: within, the walls are decorated with frescoes representing barbarous and civilized life, and in the great rotunda are ancient statues of gods and goddesses. from this one passes to the gallery of gods and heroes, the grecian cabinet, the hall of the emperors, and that of greek, roman and assyrian sculptures. but it is vain to attempt a description of this vast collection of paintings, and other works of art in the short space i have to devote to the subject. to appreciate a collection of this kind, one should visit it in person. the thiergarten is a great park, two miles long, beautifully laid out, and containing many splendid old trees, rustic paths, and artificial ponds and streams. the grounds are ornamented with statuary, and the fine zoölogical collection is in good condition and well arranged. but we must leave fascinating berlin, and pass on to other scenes. now we reach ostend on the coast of belgium, one of the most fashionable watering-places of europe. during the season it attracts thousands of visitors, especially from belgium and holland. it was originally a fishing station, but was enlarged by philip the good, and fortified by the prince of orange in . in the early part of the seventeenth century it sustained one of the most remarkable sieges on record, holding out against the spanish for a period of three years, and finally surrendering only at the command of the states general. [illustration: "there are many odd and fantastic sights here." (_see page ._)] to-day promenades take the places of the old fortifications, and handsome residences stand where the simple sturdy fisherfolk once dwelt in their cottages. the tide of fashion rolls where a simple people lived their daily life of care and toil. here congregate people of every nation, the old and the young; and the cosmopolitan character of the promenade is a source of great entertainment to the stranger. as we approach the digue or chief promenade, which is elevated fully a hundred feet above the beach, we are struck with the beauty of this grand esplanade, a hundred feet wide and extending miles along the shore. on the city side are many handsome buildings; residences, hotels, cafés and some stores. these buildings occupy a space fully a mile in length, but the promenade with its tiled pavement skirts the sea for many miles. chairs and benches are placed at convenient intervals for the use of the public, and every day, especially in the afternoon, thousands of fashionably dressed people appear upon this walk, rejoicing in the opportunity to display elaborate gowns; some by strolling to and fro before the benches and chairs, and others by more ostentatiously driving by in handsome equipages, with coachmen and footmen in appropriate livery. yet it is delightful to sit here on a clear evening, listening to the harmonious melody of the sea, as it mingles its voice with the strains of a fine orchestra, and watching the merry throng passing and repassing. the silent night afar out on the glistening waters seems like a brooding spirit. "thou boundless, shining, glorious sea, with ecstasy i gaze on thee; and as i gaze, thy billowy roll wakes the deep feelings of my soul." we extend our walk and take in the kursaal, a handsome structure of marble and iron built upon the side of the promenade. it covers a large area, and within its walls, the sounds of choice music are constantly heard. dances, concerts and many other forms of entertainment keep this fashionable resort in a whirl both day and night. on many of these occasions the dressing is the most important feature of the affair. the people who resort thither are families of considerable wealth, and can, when they choose, run to extremes in paying court to dame fashion. [illustration: "one's portfolio might soon be filled with interesting subjects." (_see page ._)] let us descend about noon, by the long low steps, from the promenade to the beach below, and here we will find a long unbroken line of wagons facing the sea. these wagons have large numbers painted conspicuously on their backs: upon one side is a window with a curtain carelessly drawn, and a pair of strong shafts is attached to each vehicle. the stranger will wonder what on earth these unsightly things are designed for, and why they thus mar the beauty of the beach. have patience; inexperienced stranger, and you will see these inanimate wagons suddenly break ranks and now one, now another be hauled rapidly forward, some to the water's edge, others into the ocean up to the hubs. in explanation of this i would state that when the bathing hour arrives, a horse is attached to each wagon, and the occupant or occupants, when it reaches the water's edge, open the door and spring forth a nymph and her companions, in their scant bathing robes, ready for the plunge. the costumes of both men and women are not such as find favor with fastidious mortals, and many of the scenes witnessed on this beach would not be tolerated at any of our american watering-places. it is quite common for men, women and children to remove their shoes and stockings and wade ankle deep in the surf. however, there are many odd and fantastic sights here, and many pretty tableaux on the beach which would delight the eyes of an artist, and i often think that one's portfolio might soon be filled with interesting subjects. as the races are to be held this afternoon at the course, a mile beyond the kursaal, and just off the promenade, we wend our way thither. the race-course is similar to those in england and france. as the appointed hour approaches, a throng of fashionable people seat themselves upon the grand stand, until every place is filled, and even the aisles are crowded with the élite of ostend. i forgot to mention the fact that the day is sunday, but this seems to make little difference to these gayety-loving people. the horses start, and now betting and excitement go hand in hand. "some play for gain: to pass time, others play for nothing; both do play the fool." i have the peculiar good fortune on this occasion, of predicting the winning horse a number of consecutive times in my conversation with one of our party who sits beside me. these lucky guesses attract the attention of a stranger who is on my other side, and considering them as so many evidences of remarkable judgment or knowledge, he resolves to profit thereby. accordingly before the next running, as the horses walk slowly before the spectators and the judges' stand, the man quietly asks me to name the winner in the next race. i quickly make a choice and mention the horse's name. the stranger bids me good-day and hastens away to place his "pile" with some bookmaker on the identical horse which i have named. [illustration: "many typical irish characters come aboard our vessel." (_see page ._)] with a rush of spirit and courage the noble animals fly over the course, and every jockey seated in a saddle looks determined to win. faster and faster they urge the flying steeds with spur and voice, and the animals themselves, with distended nostrils and steaming breath dash past the judges' stand in frenzied effort. the merry jingle of the bell proclaims that the goal is reached: the great sign-board with the winner's name upon it is visible to all. what has become of my luck? and what has become of the stranger who relied on my judgment a few moments ago? my horse has lost. goodness! i feel as though i have committed a crime, and i am very sure that dame fortune receives from me in private a score of epithets, not the most complimentary in the world for her unprincipled desertion. i feel sure that if i had my instantaneous camera, or pencil handy, this disappointed man's face would make a foreground in the picture that would surely be a "_winner_." we leave ostend on the steamer la flandre. the schedule time is : a. m. we go on board amid shouts of kindly farewell from our friends on shore. as it is a clear bright day with a delightful salt breeze, there is much pleasure in sitting on deck and enjoying the view. the english channel is generally a turbulent body of water, noted for its many victories over the unfortunates who trust themselves in its power, but to-day it is mild and calm, probably plotting mischief to the next boat load of passengers that shall come its way. indescribable confusion reigns in our hotel, at liverpool, for more than a hundred of its guests are on the point of sailing for america. innumerable packages, grips, umbrellas and walking sticks line the corridors. every one is moving to and fro in hot haste. one lady asks me if i know at what hour the steamer on which she has taken passage will sail: another wants information in regard to her steamer: a man with perspiration trickling down his face begs me to tell him how to send his five trunks and other baggage to the landing stage. these and many more annoying and importunate people make life a burden to me. i do not know why they choose me to share in their misery. do i look like a walking bureau of information, i wonder! if i do, i shall learn how to change my expression. but in truth the faces of these bewildered people are a study, and i am genuinely sorry for them. the steamer cuts loose from her moorings, and moves gracefully out into the great ocean. as we approach queenstown, we observe the small farms and dwellings close to the edge of the water. then the lighthouse and the forts which guard the entrance to the harbor come into view, and now we drop anchor and wait for passengers and the mails. a little steam tug becomes visible, and as she draws nearer, we learn that she is bearing the mails and passengers to our ship. at last she is close beside us, and when made fast, the transfer takes place. now is the time for the camera or sketch book, for many typical irish characters come aboard our vessel, with strange, half-frightened faces, and their worldly belongings carried on their backs, or clutched tightly in their hands. among the group i notice a middle-aged woman with a young pig nestling peacefully under her arm. whether it is a pet, or simply a piece of live stock to begin housekeeping with in the new country, i cannot say, but with a contented expression on both faces, bridget and her pig disappear into the special quarters which are reserved for the emigrants. this whole scene is very interesting. the old-fashioned black glazed oilcloth bag and trunk play a conspicuous part in the picture, and here and there are seen bundles tied in red bandanna handkerchiefs and carried on the end of a stick, which is slung over the shoulder, while the corduroy knee breeches, woollen stockings, heavy shoes and pea-jackets with caps to match give us a fine representation of the irishman on his native heath. several small boats are floating at our side: from one of these a rope is thrown to a sailor on our deck, and a bright and comely irish girl climbs nimbly up, hand over hand, and stands among the cabin passengers. with quick, deft movements she pulls up a basket filled with irish knickknacks, such as pipes, crosses, pigs, spoons and forks made of bog-wood; these, with knit shawls and similar articles, she displays on deck, and it would be difficult to find a prettier, wittier, more attractive specimen of old ireland's lasses than this. by means of her ready tongue she disposes of all her wares, and when the whistle warns all hands to leave the deck, she glides gracefully down the rope, and settling herself in her little boat, pulls for the shore. [illustration: "several small boats are floating at our side." (_see page ._)] this is our last stop until we reach new york. the anchor is pulled up, and away we go steaming on our homeward voyage. the little steam tug runs along beside us for a time, then the whistles of both vessels blow a farewell to each other, and our little comrade gradually fades from our sight. suddenly a heavy fog comes up, and the incessant blowing of the fog-horn is a tiresome sound: but the wind follows up the mist and scatters it far and wide, and now we have the boundless prospect of the ocean before us. "strongly it bears us along in smiling and limitless billows, nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean." as we gaze upon it day after day, its beauty and grandeur grow upon us more and more. i can think of no better words than those of childe harold which so beautifully express the thoughts the scene inspires. "roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin--his control stops with the shore; upon the watery plain the wrecks are all thy deeds, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage, save his own, when, for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and unknown." then, as if by magic, the huge waves lessen in their angry murmurs, the surface becomes quiet and calm; evening creeps on, and the glow from a descending sun illuminates the scene. as i look upon this beautiful and restful picture, i think how true the words: "beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach." _the reading of this book has no doubt been a pleasure and a profit to you. then why not recommend it to your friends? you will find cards on the inside of the back cover to assist you._ [illustration: "beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach." (_see page ._)] by the author of odd bits british isles through an opera glass by charles m. taylor, jr. author of "vacation days in hawaii and japan." with full-page illustrations, principally from photographs. crown vo, about pages, deckle edge paper, cloth jacket, in box, $ . . what is said of "the british isles" mr. taylor has the knack of making the story of his journeyings entertaining to the public. the usual descriptions of time-worn scenes give place to charming personal narrative, and a wealth of incident and episode gives to the book an exceptional interest. the fine half-tones of english scenes liberally scattered through the work greatly enhance its charm.--_the philadelphia call._ it is a record of a pleasant tour by the less frequented paths of travel, not only in england, but in scotland and ireland. the author takes little from the guide books and their familiar histories, but notes many interesting details that attracted his own attention. furthermore he has illustrated his book with a large number of photographs, both of places and people, that are quite out of the common run, and the pictures alone would suffice to give the volume distinction.--_the philadelphia times._ the book is all the eye could wish, and as we turn the pages quickly from one to another of the forty-eight beautiful photographic illustrations a veritable panorama passes before us. the author is enthusiastic over what he saw in the british isles, and he is evidently desirous of sharing his pleasure with those who have not been privileged to see for themselves.--_the philadelphia american._ it is a luxurious volume that records the interesting travels of one who knows how to pen vivid word pictures of places where those who love travel would like to be.--_the bookseller._ mr. taylor traveled through the british isles with an observing eye, a ready note-book, and a camera which he used with discreet intelligence. the narrative is brightly written and abounds in anecdote, while the personal point of view is ever present and adds a touch of piquancy. the volume is beautifully made, and the photographs, about fifty in number, are particularly well reproduced in half-tones--_the philadelphia press._ for sale by all booksellers, or sent post-paid upon receipt of the price by the publishers george w. jacobs & co. - south fifteenth street philadelphia, pa. by the author of odd bits vacation days in hawaii and japan by charles m. taylor, jr. with over half-tone illustrations, principally from photographs. crown vo. pages, gilt top, uncut edges. with unique cover design. price, $ . . what is said of "vacation days" mr. taylor is a keen observer, who penetrated beyond the beaten track of the usual tourist, and his sketches of home life, natural beauties and every-day scenes, have individuality and charm.--_literary news._ the narrative is written in a clear, easy style, with an aptitude for giving just that kind of information concerning everyday life which people miss too often in books of travel.--_philadelphia press._ a very interesting feature of the book is the numerous pictures from photographs taken by the author of "japanese people," men, women and children, engaged at their ordinary vocations, also pictures of japanese scenery, shops, living rooms and temples. these illustrations are remarkable for their realism.--_indianapolis journal._ the book recounts the incidents of a recent tour through hawaii and japan. the special value of the narrative is that it covers points of interest in these specially interesting countries not usually recorded in the guide books and ordinary books of travel.---_the philadelphia call._ a four months' trip through hawaii and japan is narrated in this compact and entertaining volume. mr. taylor applies systematic methods to his sight-seeing. he is an appreciative observer as well. he was not content with well beaten paths and hence his record is clear, picturesque and fresh.--_the philadelphia ledger._ two conspicuous merits this capital travel book has over the average in its class; it describes new grounds and scenes, and the narrative ripples along with the ease and liveliness of a brook. without professing to be specially instructive, mr. taylor conveys a great amount of information such as we all enjoy when told in this pleasant way, blending the matter of fact with the entertaining.--_the philadelphia american._ for sale by all booksellers, or sent post-paid upon receipt of the price by the publishers george w. jacobs & co. - south fifteenth street philadelphia, pa. [some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text.] (etext transcriber's note) _old continental towns_ [illustration] * * * * * _uniform with this volume_ (_all very fully illustrated_) _the cathedrals of england and wales_ _by t. francis bumpus_ (_ vols._) _s._ _net each_ _the cathedrals of northern france_ _by t. francis bumpus_ _s._ _net_ _the cathedrals of northern germany and the rhine_ _by t. francis bumpus_ _s._ _net_ _the cathedrals of northern spain_ _by charles rudy_ _s._ _net_ _the cathedrals and churches of northern italy_ _by t. francis bumpus_ ( × - / . _s._ _net_) _the cathedrals of central italy_ _by t. francis bumpus_ _s._ _net_ _london churches ancient and modern_ _by t. francis bumpus_ (_ vols._) _s._ _net each_ _the abbeys of great britain_ by h. claiborne dixon _s._ _net_ _the english castles_ by edmond b. d'auvergne _s._ _net_ _a history of english cathedral music_ _by john s. bumpus_ (_ vols._) _s._ _net each_ _the cathedrals of norway, sweden and denmark_ _by t. francis bumpus_ ( × - / . _s._ _net_) _old english towns_ (_first series_) _by william andrews_ _s._ _net_ _old english towns_ (_second series_) _by elsie lang_ _s._ _net_ _the cathedrals and churches of belgium_ _by t. francis bumpus_ _s._ _net_ * * * * * [illustration: rouen, . a street showing the tower of the cathedral.] old continental towns by walter m. gallichan _author of "the story of seville," "fishing and travel in spain," "cheshire," etc._ [illustration] london t. werner laurie clifford's inn contents page rome assisi venice perugia florence verona seville cordova toledo granada oporto poitiers rouen chartres rheims bruges ghent antwerp amsterdam cologne heidelberg nuremberg wittenberg prague athens list of illustrations rouen. a street showing the tower of the cathedral, _frontispiece_ rome. the bridge and castle of st angelo, _to face page_ venice. the grand canal, " florence. ponte santa trinita, " verona. " seville. plaza real and procession of the corpus christi, " cordova. the prison of the inquisition, " toledo. " oporto. from the quay of villa nova, " poitiers. the church of notre dame, " ghent. " antwerp. the cathedral, " cologne. st martin's church, " nuremberg. " prague. the city and bridge, " athens. a supposed appearance if restored, " old continental towns rome the story of rome is a mighty chronicle of such deep importance towards an understanding of the growth of europe, that a feeling almost of helplessness assails me as i essay to set down in this limited space an account of the city's ancient grandeur and of its monuments. it is with a sense of awe that one enters rome. the scene gives birth to so much reflection, the pulse quickens, the imagination is stirred by the annals of pompey and cæsar, and the mighty names that resound in the history of the wonderful capital; while the ruins of the days of power and pomp are as solemn tokens of the fate of all great civilisations. the surroundings of rome, the vast silent campagna, that rolling tract of wild country, may be likened to an upland district of wales. here are scattered relics of the resplendent days, in a desert where the sirocco breathes hotly; where flocks of sheep and goats wander, and foxes prowl close to the ancient gates. eastward stand the great natural ramparts of purple mountains, whence the tiber rolls swiftly, and washing rome, winds on through lonely valleys. dim are the early records of the city. myth and legend long passed as history in the chronicles of the founding of rome. we learn now from the etymologists and modern historians that the name of rome was not derived from roma, the mother of romulus, nor from _ruma_, but, according to niebuhr, from the greek _rhoma_, signifying strength; while michelet tells us that city was called after the river rumo, the ancient name of the tiber. [illustration: rome, . the bridge and castle of st. angelo.] romulus, the legendary founder, was supposed to have lived b.c. . the growth of the community on the seven hills began, according to the old annalists, with a settlement of shepherds. we are told that after the death of romulus, the first king, the city was ruled by numa pompilius. this sovereign instituted nine guilds of industry, and united the mixed population. tarquinius superbus, the despotic king, reigned with fanatical religious austerity, and after his banishment rome became a republic. the first system of rule was sacerdotal, the second aristocratic, and the third a state of liberty for the plebeians. then came the gauls who burned the city to the ground and harried the whole country. hannibal and scipio arose, and we enter upon the period of the great punic wars, followed by the stirring epoch of cæsar and pompey. how shall we separate myth and simple tradition from the veracious chronicles of the roman people? what were the causes of the downfall of their proud city, and the decadence of the great race that invaded all quarters of europe? these are the questions which fill the mind as we wander to-day in rome. we are reminded of the menace of wealth, the insecurity of prosperity, and the devastating influence of militarism and the lust of conquest. we meditate, too, on the spirit of persecution that flourished here, the love of ferocity, and the cruelty that characterised the recreations of the city under the emperors. with all its eminence in art and industry, in spite of its high distinction in the science of warfare, and its elaborate jurisprudence and codes, rome, at one time terrorised by nero, at another humanely governed by aurelius, was in its last state a melancholy symbol of decrepitude and failure. the final stage of degradation was worse than the primitive period of barbarism and superstition. in the middle ages, at the time when most of the wealth went to the popes of avignon, the city had fallen into pitiful decay. the majestic st peter's was threatened by destruction through lack of repair; the capitol was described as on a level with "a town of cowherds." the monarchy of rome is said to have endured for about two hundred and forty years. the city extended then over a wide area, and was protected by walls and towers. the coliseum, the pantheon, and the forum were built as rome grew in might and magnificence, and the roman style of architecture became a model for the world. happily these structures have survived. the rome of pagan days and the rome of the renaissance are mingled here strangely, and the pomp and affluence of former times contrasts with the poverty of to-day that meets us in the streets. note the faces of the people; here are features stern and regular, recalling often old prints of the romans of history. the dress of the poorer women is ancient, while that of the upper classes is as modern as the costumes of paris, berlin, or london. on days of fête it is interesting to watch these people at play, all animated with a southern gaiety which the northerner may envy. the life of rome is outdoor; folk loiter and congregate in the streets; there is much traffic of vehicles used for pleasure. over the city stretches "the italian sky," ardently blue--the sky that we know from paintings before we have visited rome--and upon the white buildings shines a hot sun from which we shrink in midsummer noons. it is hard to decide which appeals to us the more strongly in rome--the relics of cæsar's empire or the art of the middle ages. the coliseum brings to mind "the grandeur that was rome," in the days of the pagan majesty, while st peter's, with its wealth of gorgeous decoration and great paintings, reminds us of the supreme power of the city under the popes. in the coliseum there is social history written in stone. we look upon the tiers rising one above the other, and picture them in all the splendour of a day of cruel carnival. we may see traces of the lifts that brought the beasts to the arena from the dens below. _ad leones!_ the trumpet blares, and a victim of the heretical creed is led into the amphitheatre to encounter the lions. how often has this soil been drenched in blood. how often have the walls echoed with the plaudits of the roman populace, gloating upon a spectacle of torture, or aroused to ecstasy by the combats of gladiators. silence broods in the arena, and in every interstice the maidenhair fern grows rife among the decaying stones. the glory has departed, but the shell of the flavian amphitheatre remains as a monument of rome's imperial days. here were held the chariot races, the competitions of athletes, the tournaments on horseback, the baiting of savage brutes, the wrestling bouts, throwing the spear, and the fights of martyrs with animals. luxury and cruelty rioted here on roman holidays. for a comprehensive view of the coliseum, you should climb the palatine hill. the hundreds of arches and windows admit the sunlight, and the building glows, "a monstrous mountain of stone," as michelet describes it. tons of the masonry have been removed by vandals. the fountain in which the combatants washed their wounds remains, and the walls of the circus rise to a height of a hundred-and-fifty-seven feet. in yonder "monument of murder" there died ten thousand victims in a hundred days during the reign of trajan. the triumph of christianity is symbolised in st peter's. an impartial chronicler cannot close his eyes to the truth written in the great cathedral. both pagans and christians persecuted in turn to the glory of their deities. force was worshipped alike by emperor and pope. pagans tortured martyrs in the arena; the christians burned them in the square. in giordano bruno was tied to the stake, and consumed in the flames, by decree of the church, after two years of imprisonment. his offence was the writing of treatises attempting to prove that the earth is not flat, and that god is "the all in all." he also dared to opine that there may be other inhabited worlds besides our own. bruno's last words have echoed through the ages: "perhaps it is with greater fear that you pass the sentence upon me than i receive it." under innocent iv. the inquisition was established as a special tribunal against heretics. men of science soon came under its penalties. copernicus was a teacher of mathematics in rome, when he conceived his theory, "the revolutions of the heavenly bodies," which he dedicated to pope paul. fearing the awful penalties of the holy office, he withheld publication of the work for many years, only seeing a copy of the printed volume in his last hours. the book was condemned by the inquisition and placed on the index. about a century later, galileo wrote his "system of the world," an exposition and defence of the theories of copernicus. the inquisition dragged him before its tribunal at rome, where he was charged with heresy and compelled to recant or die. we know that he chose recantation, or the fate of bruno would have been his. for ten years galileo pined in the dungeon, and his body was flung into a dishonoured grave. not a man in rome was safe from the inquisition. its courts travestied justice; its terrified witnesses lied, and the accusers were intimidated. suspicion alone was sufficient to compel arrest and trial, and there was no possible appeal, and no hope of pity or leniency. the church urged that while unbelief existed, the inquisition was a necessity, and the chief means of stamping out heretical doctrine. and yet, a few years ago, an international free-thought congress was held under the shadow of st peter's. how truly, "it moves!" the renaissance, with its mighty intellectual impetus, its reverence for the arts and culture, and its resistance against the absolutism of the papacy came as the salvation of rome from the terrors and the stagnation of the dark days. the birth of michael angelo, in , came with a new era of enlightenment. angelo, painter, sculptor, poet, and philosopher, was commissioned by pope julius ii. to carve a great work in rome, and to adorn the sistine chapel with frescoes. three years were spent on these superb paintings. this is the most wonderful ceiling painting in the world. in the centre are pictures of scenes of the creation and fall; in compartments are the prophets, and other portions represent the ancestors of the virgin mary and historical characters. the figures are colossal, and wonderful in their anatomy, revealing the artist's richness of imagination, as well as his unsurpassed technical skill. to see to advantage the frescoes of the roof, it is necessary to lie flat on the back, and gaze upwards. the human figure is superbly imaged in "the temptation, fall and expulsion." the largest figures in the whole composition are among the prophets and sibyls. "here, at last, here indeed for the first time," writes mr arthur symons, in his "cities," "is all that can be meant by sublimity; a sublimity which attains its pre-eminence through no sacrifice of other qualities; a sublimity which (let us say it frankly) is amusing. i find the magnificent and extreme life of these figures as touching, intimate, and direct in its appeal, as the most vivid and gracious realism of any easel picture." the vast picture of "the last judgment," on the wall of the sistine chapel, was painted by michael angelo when he was growing old. the work occupied about seven years. it is full of figures in every kind of action, and most of them are nude. their nakedness affronted paul iv., who commanded da volterra, a pupil of angelo, to paint clothing on some of the forms, thus marring the beauty of the work. in the pauline chapel of the vatican are two mural paintings by michael angelo, "the crucifixion of st peter," and "the conversion of st paul." "i could only see and wonder," writes goethe, referring to the works of angelo in a letter from rome. the mental confidence and boldness of the master, and his grandeur of conception, are beyond all expression. sir joshua reynolds spent some time in rome, in , and recorded the result of his study of the work of raphael and michael angelo. it was in the cold chambers of the vatican that reynolds caught the chill which brought about his deafness. he made many copies of parts of the paintings of angelo. "the adonis" of titian in the colonna palace, the "leda," by coreggio, and the works of raphael, were closely studied by the english painter. before he left rome he declared that the art of angelo represented the highest perfection. many critics affirm that st peter's is somewhat disappointing, architecturally considered, while some critics maintain that it is one of the finest churches in the world. the colonnades, with their gallery of sculptured images, are stately and impressive. it is the huge façade that disappoints. nevertheless, st peter's is a stupendous temple, with a dignity and majesty of its own. the interior is garish; we miss the dim religious light and the atmosphere of sober piety so manifest in the cathedrals of spain. as a repository of masterpieces st peter's is world-famous. here is "the virgin and dead christ," the finest of michael angelo's early statues. angelo spent various periods in rome, after his first stay of five years. he was in the city at the age of sixty, and much of his work was executed when he was growing old. it was in the evening of his days that he became the close friend of vittoria colonna, the inspirer of his poetry, and after her death, in , he entered upon a spell of ill-health and sadness. but his activities were marvellous, even in old age. in he planned the farnese palace for paul iii., and directed the building of the church of santa maria. immensity is the chief impression of the interior of st peter's. even the figures of cherubs are gigantic. the great nave with its marble pavement and huge pillars, is long-drawn from the portal to the altar, and the space within the great dome is bewildering in its vastness. the bronze statue of st peter, whose foot is kissed yearly by thousands of devotees, is noted here among the numerous images. at the altar we shall see canova's statue of pius vi., the chair of st peter, and tombs of the popes urban and paul. michael angelo designed the beautiful capello gregoriana. his lovely "pieta" is the cappella della pieta, and this is the most splendid work within the building. tombs of popes are seen in the various chapels. in the resplendent choir chapel is thorvaldsen's statue of pius vii. the vatican is a great museum of statuary, the finest collection in existence to-day. on the site of the building once stood a roman emperor's palace, which was reconstructed as a residence for pope innocent iii. besides the statues in the vatican and the cathedral, there are many remarkable works of sculpture in the villa albani and the capitoline. in the capitoline museum are, the "dying gladiator," the "resting faun," and the "venus." days may be spent in inspecting the minor churches of rome. perhaps the most interesting is san giovanni laterano, built on the site of a roman imperial palace, and dating from the fourteenth century. the front is by galileo, very highly decorated. within, the chapels of the double aisles are especially interesting for their lavish embellishment. the apse is a very old part of the structure, and the gothic cloister has grace and dignity, with most admirable carved columns. it is a debated question whether the ceiling of this church was painted by michael angelo or della porta. the lateran palace, close to san giovanni, has a small decorated chapel at the head of a sacred staircase, said to have been trodden by christ when he appeared before pilate, and brought here from jerusalem. the churches of san clemente, santi giovanni paolo, santa maria in ara coeli are among the other churches of note. the memorials of pagan and christian times stand side by side in rome, and in roaming the city it is difficult to direct one's steps on a formal plan. turning away from an arch or a temple of roman origin, you note a renaissance church, and are tempted to enter it. if i fail to point out here many buildings which the visitor should see, it is because the number is so great. the part of the city between the regia and the palatine hill is very rich in antiquities. it is said that michael angelo carried away a great mass of stone from the temple of vesta to build a part of st peter's; but i do not know upon what authority this is stated. a few blocks of stone are, however, all that remain of the buildings sacred to the vestals. the tall columns seen as we walk to the palatine hill, are relics of the temple of castor and pollux. behind the regia is the temple of julius cæsar, built by augustus; and here mark antony delivered his splendid oration. near to this temple is the forum, with traces of basilicas, and a few standing columns. the whole way to the capitoline abounds in ancient stones of rich historical interest. here are the walls of the plutei, with reliefs representing the life of trajan, the grand arch of septimus severus, the columns of the temple of saturn. the palatine hill is crowned with the ruins of the palace of the cæsars. mural decorations still remain on the walls of an apartment. here will be seen relics of a school, a temple dedicated to jupiter, and portions of the famous wall of the mythical romulus. these are but a few of the antiquities of the palatine, whence the eye surveys rome and the rolling campagna. in the quarter of the coliseum are ancient baths, once sumptuously fitted and adorned with images, now removed to the museum of the city. trajan's column towers here to about one hundred-and-fifty feet. then there is the pantheon, a classic building wonderfully preserved. all these are but a few of the ancient edifices of rome. among the more important museums and picture galleries are the splendid vatican, at which we have glanced, the capitol museum, the palazzo del senatore, with works by velazquez, van dyck, titian, and other masters, the national museum, the villa borghese, the dorian palace, and the kircheriano. the art annals of the rome of christian times are of supreme interest. the greatest of the painters who came to study in rome was velazquez, who was offered the hospitality of cardinal barberini in the vatican. he stayed, however, in a quieter lodging, at the villa medici, and afterwards in the house of the spanish ambassador. velazquez paid a second visit to rome in , where he met poussin, and salvator rosa. to rosa he remarked, "it is titian that bears the palm." the spanish painter was made a member of the roman academy; and at this time he painted the portrait of innocent x., which occupies a position of honour in the dorian palace. reynolds described this as "the finest piece of portrait-painting in rome." velazquez' portrait of himself is in the capitoline museum in the city. the art records of rome are so many that i cannot attempt to refer to more than a small number of them. literary associations, too, crowd into the mind as we walk the lava-paved streets of the glowing capital. goethe sojourned long in rome, and wrote many pages of his impressions. in he writes of the amazing loveliness of a walk through the historic streets by moonlight, of the solemnity of the coliseum by night, and the grandeur of the portico of st peter's. he praises the climate in spring, the delight of long sunny days, with noons "almost too warm"; and the sky "like a bright blue taffeta in the sunshine." in the capitoline museum he admired the nude "venus" as one of the finest statues in rome. "my imagination, my memory," he writes, "is storing itself full with endlessly beautiful subjects.... i am in the land of the arts." full of rapture are the letters of shelley from rome: "since i last wrote to you," he says to peacock, "i have seen the ruins of rome, the vatican, st peter's, and all the miracles of ancient and modern art contained in that majestic city. the impression of it exceeds anything i have ever experienced in my travels.... we visited the forum, and the ruins of the coliseum every day. the coliseum is unlike any work of human hands i ever saw before. it is of enormous height and circuit, and the arches, built of massy stones, are piled on one another, and jut into the blue air, shattered into the forms of overhanging rocks." shelley was entranced by the arch of constantine. "it is exquisitely beautiful and perfect." in march , he writes: "come to rome. it is a scene by which expression is overpowered, which words cannot convey." the cathedral scarcely appealed to shelley; he thought it inferior externally to st paul's, though he admired the façade and colonnade. more satisfying to the poet's æsthetic taste was the pantheon, with its handsome fluted columns of yellow marble, and the beauty of the proportions in the structure. the pantheon is generally admitted to be the most noble of the ancient edifices of the city. it was erected by agrippa b.c., and sumptuously adorned with fine marbles. the dome is vast and nobly planned, and the building truly merits shelley's designation, "sublime." keats was buried in the protestant cemetery in rome, in a tomb bearing the inscription: "here lies one whose name was writ in water." his loyal and admiring friend, shelley, wrote a truer memorial of the young poet: "go thou to rome--at once the paradise, the grave, the city, and the wilderness; and where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, and flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress the bones of desolation's nakedness pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead thy footsteps to a slope of green access, where, like an infant's smile, over the dead a light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread." in robert browning and his wife were in rome, and it was then that browning wrote the beautiful love poem, "two in the campagna," telling of the joy of roaming in: "the champaign with its endless fleece of feathery grasses everywhere! silence and passion, joy and peace an everlasting wash of air----" poets and painters have through the centuries drawn inspiration from this wondrous city of splendid monuments and ancient grandeur. how true was goethe's statement that wherever you turn in rome there is an object of beauty and arresting interest. the appeal of the city is strong, the variety bewildering, whether you elect to muse upon the remains of the imperial days, or to study the renaissance art of the christian churches. it is well, if possible, to make a survey of the antiquities in chronological order, beginning with an inspection of the ruins of the romulean wall and the traces of the oldest gates. then the forum should be visited in its valley, and the art of the temple of saturn, the basilica julia, and the arch of fabius examined. the temple of vespasian, the palace of caligula, trajan's column, and the numerous arches will all arouse memories of the emperors and the splendid purple days. the campagna is not only a wilderness, but it is rich in historic memories. here lived the cultured cynthia, the friend of catullus, the poet, and of quintilius varus. numerous villas dotted the campagna in the days of the emperors, and here, during the summer heats, retired many of the wealthy citizens of rome. valuable antiquities, vases, urns, and figures, have been unearthed from this classic soil. assisi "there was a man in the city of assisi, by name francis, whose memory is blessed, for that god, graciously presenting him with blessings of goodness, delivered him in his mercy from the perils of this present life, and abundantly filled him with the gifts of heavenly grace." so speaks saint bonaventura of the noble character of the holy man of assisi, whose figure arises before us as we tread the streets of the town of his birth. for assisi is a place of pilgrimage, filled with fragrant memories of that saint of whom even the heterodox speak with loving reverence. st francis stands distinct in an age of fanatic religious zeal, as an example of tolerance, a lover of mercy, and a practical follower of the teaching of christian benevolence. at the beginning of the thirteenth century, pope innocent iii. offered indulgences to the faithful who would unite in a crusade against the albigensian heretics of languedoc. for twenty years blood was shed plentifully in this war upon heresy; for twenty years the hounds of persecution were let loose on the hated enemies of papal absolutism. "kill all; god will know," was the answer of the pope's legate during this massacre, when asked by the crusaders how they could recognise the heretics. while languedoc and provence were ravaged by the truculent persecutors, and fires were lighted to burn the bodies of men, women and children, st francis lived in assisi, preaching humanity and good will. there is no testimony that he protested expressly against the albigensian crusades; but we know from his life and his writings that he detested cruelty and violence, and never directly counselled persecution. in "the golden legend" we read that "francis, servant and friend of almighty god, was born in the city of assisi, and was made a merchant in the twenty-fifth year of his age, and wasted his time by living vainly, whom our lord corrected by the scourge of sickness, and suddenly changed him into another man, so that he began to shine by the spirit of prophecy." putting on the rags of a beggar, st francis went to rome, where he sat among the mendicants before st peter's. then began the miraculous cures of lepers whose hands he kissed, and his many works of charity and healing. he extolled "holy poverty," and called poverty his "lady." when he saw a worm lying on the path, the compassionate saint removed it, so that it should not be trodden on by passers-by. the birds he called his brothers and sisters; he fed them, bade them sing or keep silence, and they obeyed him. all birds and beasts loved him; and he taught the birds to sing praises to their creator. st francis was perhaps the first eminent christian who showed pity and love for the lower animals. in the morass of venice, he came upon a great company of singing-birds, and entering among them, caused them to sing lauds to the almighty. st francis taught asceticism to his followers, but it was the asceticism of joy rather than of grief and pain. the saint had in him the qualities of poet and artist as well as of pious mystic. he lived for a time the life of the luxurious, and found it profitless and hollow; he passed through the ordeal of the temptations that beset a young man born of wealthy parents. "the more thou art assailed by temptations, the more do i love thee," said the blessed st francis to his friend leo. "verily i say unto thee that no man should deem himself a true friend of god, save in so far as he hath passed through many temptations and tribulations." flung into the prison of perugia, he rejoiced and sang, and when the vulgar threw dirt upon him and his friars, he did not resent their rudeness. trudging bare-footed through umbria, scantily clothed, and subsisting upon crusts offered by the charitable, st francis set an example of the holiness of poverty which impressed the peasants and excited their veneration for the preacher and his gospel. he worked as a mason, repairing the decayed church of st damian, and preached a doctrine of labour and industry, forsaking all that he had so that he might reap the ample harvest of divine blessing. in winter the saint would plunge into a ditch of snow, that he might check the promptings of carnal desire. he refused to live under a roof at assisi, preferring a mere shelter of boughs, with the company of brother giles and brother bernard. a cell of wood was too sumptuous for him. as st francis grew in holiness there appeared in him the stigmata of christ's martyrdom. in his side there was the wound of the spear; in his hands and feet were the marks of the nails. st bonaventura relates that after his death, the flesh of the saint was so soft that he seemed to have become a child again, and that the wound in the side was like a lovely rose. he died, according to this historian, in , on the fourth day of october. his remains were interred in assisi, and afterwards removed to "the church built in his honour," in . after the canonisation of the holy st francis many miracles happened in italy. in the church of his name in assisi, when the bishop of ostia was preaching, a huge stone fell on the head of a devout woman. it was thought that she was dead, but being before the altar of st francis, and having "committed herself in faith" to him, she escaped without any hurt. many persons were cured of disease by calling upon the blessed name of the saint of assisi, and mariners were often saved from wrecks through his intervention. st francis lived when the fourth lateran council gave a new impetus to persecution, by increasing the scope and power of the inquisition. this gentlest of all the saints was surrounded by a host of influences that made for religious rancour, and yet he preached a doctrine of love, and was, so far as we can learn, quite untouched by the persecuting zeal that characterised so many of his sainted contemporaries. it is with relief, after the contemplation of the cruelty of his age, that we greet the tattered ascetic of assisi, as, in imagination, we see him pass up the steps of the house wherein brother bernard was a witness of his ecstasy. the little city of assisi stands on a hill; a mediæval town of a somewhat stern character meets the eye as we approach it. outside the town is a sixteenth-century church, santa maria degli angeli, which will interest by reason of the portinucula, a little chapel repaired by st francis. it was around this church that the first followers of the saint lived in hovels with wattled roofs. here was the garden in which the holy brother delighted to wander, and to watch his kindred the birds, and here are the rose bushes without thorns, that grew from the saint's blood. entering assisi, we soon reach the church of san francisco, in which is the reputed tomb of st francis. this is not a striking edifice, but its charm is in the pictures of giotto. poverty, chastity, and obedience are the subjects of these frescoes. ruskin copied the poverty, and made a long study of these works. the picture symbolises the lady of poverty, the bride of st francis, who is given to him by christ. this is one of giotto's chief pictures. chastity is a young woman in a castle; she is worshipped by angels, and the walls of the fortress are surrounded by men in armour. in another fresco st francis is dressed in canonical garb, attended by angels, who sing praise to him. it is said that dante suggested this subject to giotto. the frescoes of simone, in a chapel of the lower church, are of much interest to the art student. they are richly coloured and very decorative, and have been considered by some authorities as equal to the works of giotto at assisi. simone was a painter of the sienese school, and according to vasari, he was taught by giotto. his "annunciation" is a rich work, preserved in the uffizi palace at florence. the twenty-eight scenes in the history of st francis are in the upper church, and in these we see again giotto's noblest art in the harmonious grouping and the fluidity of his colour. the cathedral of san rufino is a handsome church. here st francis was baptised, and in this edifice he preached. the father of the saint was a woollen merchant, and his shop was in the via portica. the house still stands, and may be recognised by its highly decorated portal. this was not the birthplace of st francis, for the chiesa nuova, built in , covers the site of the house. in the church of st clare you are shown the "remains" of saint clare, in a crypt, lying in a glass case. when goethe was in assisi, the building that interested him more than any other was the temple of minerva, built in the time of augustus. "at last we reached what is properly the old town, and behold before my eyes stood the noble edifice, the first complete memorial of antiquity that i had ever seen.... looking at the façade, i could not sufficiently admire the genius-like identity of design which the architects have here as elsewhere maintained. the order is corinthian, the inter-columnar spaces being somewhat above the two modules. the bases of the columns, and the plinths seem to rest on pedestals, but it is only an appearance." goethe concludes his description: "the impression which the sight of this edifice left upon me is not to be expressed, and will bring forth imperishable fruits." venice the very name breathes romance and spells beauty. poets, artists, and historians without number have revealed to us the glories of this city. dull indeed must be the perception of loveliness of form and colour in the mind of the man who is not deeply moved by the contemplation of the stones of venice. yet it seems to me that no city is so difficult to describe; everything has been said, every scene painted by master hands. one's impression must read inevitably like that which has been written over and over again. and in a brief enumeration of the buildings to be seen by the visitor, how can the unhappy writer avoid the charge of baldness and inefficiency? [illustration: venice, . the grand canal.] well, then, to say that venice is supremely beautiful among the towns of italy is to set down a commonplace. it is a town in which the matter-of-fact man realises the meaning of romance and poetry; a town where the phlegmatic become sentimental, and the poetic are stirred to ecstasies. george borrow wept at beholding the beauty of seville by the guadalquivir in the evening light. "tears of rapture" would have filled his eyes as he gazed upon the splendours of the grand canal. some of the many writers upon venice have found the scene "theatrical"; others assert that the influence of venice is sad, while others again declare that the city provokes hilarity of spirits in a magical way. whatever the nature of the spell, it is strong, and few escape it. ruskin, byron, the brownings, and henry james, are among the souls to whom venice has appealed with the force of a personality. the spirit of venice has been felt by thousands of travellers. its pictures--for every street is a picture--remain deeply graven on the mind's tablet. perhaps there is nothing made by man to float upon the waters more graceful in its lines than a gondola. to think of venice, is to recall these gliding, swan-like, silent craft, that ply upon the innumerable waterways. like ghosts by night they steal along in the deep shadows of the palaces, impelled by boatmen whose every attitude is a study in lissome grace. to lie in a gondola, while the attendant noiselessly propels the stately skiff with his pliant oar, is to realise romance and the perfection of leisurely locomotion. what can be said of the sunsets, the almost garish colouring of sea and sky, and the witchery of reflection upon tower and roof? what can be written for the thousandth time of the resplendent churches, the rich gilding, the noble façades, the hundred picturesque windings of the canals between houses, each one of them a subject for the artist's brush? is there any other city that grips us in every sense like venice? the eyes and the mind grow dazed and bewildered with the beauty and the colour, till the scene seems almost unreal, a fantasy of the brain under the influence of a drug. the student of life and the philosopher will find here matter for cogitation, tinged maybe with seriousness, even sadness. venetian history is not all glorious, and the city to-day has its social evils, like every other populous place on the globe. there are beggars, many of them, artistic beggars, no doubt; but they are often diseased and always unclean. yet even the dirty faces of the alleys, in this city of loveliness, have, according to artists, a value and a harmony. there is the same obvious, sordid poverty here as in london or manchester. but the dress of the people, even if ragged, is bright, and the faces, even though wrinkled and haggard, fit the scene and the setting in the estimate of the painter. if your habit is analytic and critical, you will find defects in the modern life of venice that cannot be hidden. the city is not prosperous in our british sense of the word. there is an air of decayed grandeur, an impression that existence in this town of exquisite art is not happiness for the swarm of indigents that live in the historic purlieus. on the other hand, there is the climate, a soft, sleepy climate, not very healthy perhaps, but usually kindly. the sun is generous, the sky rarely frowns. life passes lazily, dreamily, on the oily waters of the canals, in the piazza, and in those tall tumble-down houses built on piles. no one appears to hurry about the business of money-getting; no one apparently is eager to work, except perhaps the unfortunate mendicants and the persuasive hawkers, who do indeed toil hard at their occupations. when the evening breeze bears the interesting malodours of the canals, with other indescribable and characteristic smells, and the sun sinks in crimson in a flaming sky, and music sounds from the piazza and the water, and the gondolas glide and pass, and beautiful women smile and stroll in streets bathed in gold, you will think only of the loveliness of venice, and forget the terrors of its history and the misery of to-day. and it is well, for one cannot always grapple with the problems of life; there must be hours of sensuous pleasure. sensuous seems to me the right word to convey the influence of venice upon a summer evening, when, a little wearied by the heat of the day, you loll upon a bridge, smoking a cigar, and drinking in languidly the beauty of the scene, while a grateful breeze comes from the darkening sea. go to the via garibaldi, if you wish to lounge and to study the venetians of "the people." here the natives come and go and saunter. the women are small, like the women of spain, dark in complexion, and in manner animated. they are very feminine; often they are lovely. you will be struck with the gaiety of the people, a sheer lightheartedness more evident and exuberant than the gaiety of spanish folk. perhaps the struggle for existence is less keen than it seems among the inhabitants of the more lowly quarters of the city. at anyrate, the venetians are lovers of song and laughter. a flower delights a woman, a cigarette is a gift for a man. they are able to divert themselves in venice without sport, and with very few places of amusement. "the place is as changeable as a nervous woman," writes mr henry james, "and you know it only when you know all the aspects of its beauty. it has high spirits or low, it is pale or red, grey or pink, cold or warm, fresh or wan, according to the weather or the hour." having given a faint presentment of the beauties of venice, i will refer to some of the chief episodes of its great history. in the earliest years of its making, we are upon insecure ground in attempting to write accurately upon venetia. the city probably existed when the goths swept down upon italy, about , and it fell a century later into the hands of the fierce lombards. under the doges (dukes) the land was wrested here and there from the waves, the mudbanks protected with piles and fences, and the great buildings began to arise from a foundation of apparent instability. the ingenuity of the architect and the builder in constructing this city is nothing short of marvellous. in the sixth century the town was no doubt a collection of huts on sandbanks, intersected by tidal streams. there were meadows and gardens by the verge of the sea, and the inhabitants made the most of every yard of firm soil. st mark's cathedral was built in the tenth century, to serve as a resting-place for the bones of the saint. under the wise rule of pietro tribuno, venice withstood the attack of a hungarian horde. the city was walled in and fortified, and the natives gathered at rialto. the resistance was successful. the doge who saved the city was one of the most honoured of all the rulers of venice as a brave general and a man of scholarly parts. genoa and pisa, formed into a powerful republic, warred with venice in the eleventh century; but the venetians won in the protracted warfare. wars in italy and wars in the east followed, and internal trouble reigned intermittently in the city. the discovery of america by columbus, and the opening up of trade with hindustan, affected venice injuriously. until then the city had held a monopoly as a market for the products of the orient. her great power and wealth were imperilled by the discoveries of columbus, the genoese voyager, and by the rounding of cape horn by the portuguese adventurers. spain and portugal were reaping the splendid golden harvest while venice was impoverished. consternation filled the minds of the citizens. the great republic had reached the height of its glory in the fifteenth century, but from the falling off of her commerce she never recovered. it is curious that in the period of decline, venice expended much wealth in works of art, and in the embellishment of the buildings and palaces. several of the city's greatest painters flourished at this time. the doge's palace, often burned down, was rebuilt in its present grandeur. st mark's was constantly repaired, decorations were added, and internal parts reconstructed. the palaces of the rich sprang up by the waterways of this city in the sea. printing was already an art and industry in venice. john of spires used movable type, and succeeding him were many distinguished printers, whose presses supplied the civilised world with books. a terrible plague devastated the city in . among the victims were the great painter, titian, then nearly a hundred years of age. the epidemic spread all over venice. when pope paul v. endeavoured to bring the citizens under his autocratic rule, they resisted with much firmness. one of the causes of offence was that the venetians favoured the principle of toleration in religious beliefs, and permitted the heretical to worship according to their consciences. the pope, after fruitless negotiations, excommunicated venice, sending his agents with the documents. with all vigilance, the government of the city forbade the exposure of any papal decree in the streets, while the doge stoutly asserted that the people of venice regarded the bull with contempt. nearly all europe sided with venice in this conflict between pope and doge. england was prepared to ally herself with france, and to assist venice. months passed without developments. venice remained catholic, but refused to become a vassal of the pope of rome. paul was enraged and humiliated. one cannot admire his action; yet pity for the proud, sincere, and baffled pontiff tinges one's view of the struggle. venice even refused to request the abolition of the ban. she remained quietly indifferent to the thunderings of the see, and haughtily criticised the overtures of reconciliation offered through the french cardinals. finally, with dignity and yet a touch of farce, the senate handed over to the pope's emissaries certain offenders, "without prejudice," to be held by the king of france. paolo sarpi, the priest and born diplomat, was the hero of venice during this quarrel with rome. sarpi was a man of unassailable virtue and integrity, a tactful leader of men, and possessed of intrepidity. he was, not unnaturally, detested by the adherents of the pope for his defence of venetian rights and privileges. one night, crossing a bridge, brother paolo was attacked by ruffians, and stabbed with daggers. the assailants had been sent from rome to kill the obnoxious priest. but the scheme failed, for paolo sarpi recovered from his wounds, and the attempt upon his life endeared him still more deeply to the hearts of the venetians. some years after he died in his bed, lamented by high and low in the city. before the church of santa fosca stands a memorial to this brave citizen. the venice of the eighteenth century was a decaying city, with an enervated, apathetic population, given to gaming, and improvident in their lives. many of the noble families sank into penury. still the people sang and danced and held revelry; nothing could quench their passion for enjoyment. the republic was now the prey of the great imperialist napoleon, who adroitly acquired venice by threats of war followed by promises of democratic rule. a few shots were fired by the french; then the doge offered terms, which gave the city to the emperor, while the citizens held rejoicings at the advent of a new government. a few months later venice was given to austria by the treaty of campoformio. between the french and the austrians the city passed through a troublous period of many years. venice was now a fallen state. but what a memorial it is! the city is like a huge volume of history, and we linger over its enchanting pages. let us now look upon the monuments that reveal to us the soul and genius of venice of the olden times. several of the most important buildings in venice border the fine square of san marco, a favourite evening gathering-place of the venetians. dominating the piazza is the cathedral of san marco, with its magnificent front, a bewildering array of portals, decorated arches, carvings in relief, surmounted by graceful towers and steeples. the style is byzantine, and partly roman, designed after st sophia at constantinople. in shape the edifice is cruciform, with a dome to each arm of the cross. high above the cathedral roof rises the noble campanile. over the chief portal are four bronze horses, brought here in from byzantium. the steeds are beautifully modelled, and the work is ascribed to lysippos, a sculptor of corinth. napoleon took the horses to paris, but they were restored to venice in . the mosaic designs of the façade represent "the last judgment," among other scriptural subjects, while one of the mosaics depicts san marco as it was in the early days. a number of reliefs and images adorn the arches of each of the five doorways of the main entrance. within the decorations are exquisite. ruskin writes: "the church is lost in a deep twilight, to which the eye must be accustomed for some moments before the form of the building can be traced; and then there opens before us a vast cave, hewn out into the form of a cross, and divided into shadowy aisles by many pillars. round the domes of its roof the light enters only through narrow apertures like large stars; and here and there a ray or two from some far-away casement wanders into the darkness, and casts a narrow phosphoric stream upon the waves of marble that heave and fall in a thousand colours along the floor. what else there is of light is from torches or silver lamps, burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the chapels; the roof sheeted with gold, and the polished walls covered with alabaster, give back at every curve and angle some feeble gleaming to the flames, and the glories round the heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we pass them, and sink again into the gloom." in the vestibule of the cathedral, the mosaic decoration depicts old testament scenes. in the apse are represented a figure of the lord, with st mark, and the acts of st peter and st mark. the mosaics of the east dome represent jesus and the prophets. tintoretto's design is in an adjoining archway, and in the centre dome is "the ascension." the western dome has "the descent of the holy ghost," and an arch here is decorated with "the last judgment." there are more mosaics in the aisles, illustrating "the acts of the apostles." the high altar is a superb example of sculpture. the roof is supported by marble columns, carved with scenes from the lives of christ and the virgin mary. the figures date from the eleventh century. a magnificent altarpiece of gold-workers' design is shown for a fee. the upper part is the older, and it was executed in constantinople. the lower portion is the work of venetian artists of the twelfth century. the baptistery contains early mosaics, a monument of one of the doges of venice; and the stone upon which john the baptist is stated to have been beheaded is kept here. "the legend of san marco" is the design in the cappella zen, adjoining the baptistery. here are the tomb of cardinal zen, a renaissance work in bronze, and a handsome altar. in his rapturous description of the interior of san marco, ruskin continues: "the mazes of interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead always and at last to the cross, lifted and carved in every place and upon every stone; sometimes with the serpent of eternity wrapt round it, sometimes with doves beneath its arms, and sweet herbage growing forth from its feet." venetian architecture has a character of its own. we find the oriental influence in most of the buildings of venice; the ogee arch is commonly used, and the square billet ornament is a distinguishing mark. the first church of san marco was built in . the palace of the doge is in the piazza. its architecture has been variously described and classified. it has strong traces of moorish influence, while in many respects it is gothic. the decorated columns of the arcades are very beautifully designed. archangels and figures of justice, temperance, and obedience adorn the building, and there is an ancient front on the south side. enter through the porta della carta, and you will find a court of wonderful interest, with rich façades and the great staircase, which is celebrated as the crowning-place of the doges. the architecture of the interior of the palace is of a later date than that of the exterior. in the big entrance hall are tintoretto's portraits of legislators of venice. from here enter the next apartment, which contains a magnificent painting of "faith" by titian. in another hall are four more of tintoretto's works, and one by paolo veronese. the sala del collegio is one of the principal chambers of the palace and its ceiling was painted by veronese. here is the doge's throne. tintoretto and palma were the artists who executed the paintings in the hall of the senators. the adjoining chapel is decorated with another of tintoretto's pictures. pass to the hall of the council of ten, where the rulers of the city sat, and note the gorgeous ceiling by paolo veronese. a staircase leads to the hall of the great council below. from the window there is an inspiriting view. the walls are hung with portraits, but the glory of this hall is tintoretto's "paradise," an immense painting. before leaving the palace of the doges, i will devote a few lines to the schools of venice of the sixteenth century. unfortunately most of the works of giorgione, the most characteristic painter of venice, have disappeared. he was the founder of a tradition, and the teacher of many painters, including palma, while his work influenced a number of his contemporaries. titian, born in , was one of giorgione's admirers, and his early work shows his influence. the pictures of the great venetian master are one of the glories of the city. some of his paintings are in the academy, in the church of santa maria dei friari--where there is a monument to the artist--in the church of santa maria della salute, and in the private galleries of the city. in the academy collection, in a large building in the square of st mark's, are titian's much-restored "presentation" and the "pieta," among the finest specimens of the venetian school of painters. the celebrated "assumption" has been also restored. "there are many princes; there is but one titian," said charles v. of spain, who declared that through the magic of the venetian painter's pencil, he "thrice received immortality." forty-three examples of the art of titian are in the prado gallery of madrid. sanchez coello, court artist to philip ii. was one of the students of the italian master; indeed several of the great painters of spain were influenced by titian, and none of them revered him more than velazquez. tintoretto's "miracle of st mark" and "adam and eve" are two instances of his genius for colour, in the academy, calling for special study, and another of his works is to be seen in santa maria della salute. we have just looked at a number of this painter's pictures in the doge's palace. it has been said that tintoretto inspired el greco, whose pictures we shall see in toledo. tintoretto was a pupil of titian, basing his drawing on the work of michael angelo, and finding inspiration for his colour in the painting of titian. he was a most industrious and prolific artist. paolo veronese, though not a native of venice, was one of the school of that city. he surpassed even tintoretto in the use of colour, and adorned many ceilings and altars, besides painting canvases. the "rape of europa" and others of paolo's mythical subjects display his gift of colour and richness of imagination. among the later venetian painters, giovanni battista tiepolo is perhaps the most remarkable. his conceptions were bizarre, and his fanciful style is manifest in his picture of the "way to calvary," preserved in venice. canaletto may be mentioned as the last of the historic painters of venice. the work of bellini must on no account be forgotten before we leave the subject of venetian art. his "madonna enthroned" is in the academy, among other of the masterpieces of his brush; and one of his most exquisite paintings is in the church of the friari. let us also remember the splendid treasures of the art of carpaccio, as seen in the picture of "saint ursula" in the academy, and in the delightful paintings of san giorgio, which moved ruskin to rapture. the many churches of venice contain pictures of supreme interest. most of them are in a poor light, and can only be examined with difficulty. san zanipolo is a church of gothic design, built by the dominicans, abounding in tombs and monuments. san zaccaria has bellini's altarpiece "the madonna and child." many of the palaces, especially those of the grand canal, are exceedingly beautiful in design, whether the style is renaissance or byzantine-romanesque. among the oldest are the palazzo venier, the palazzo dona, and the palazzo mesto; while for elegance the following are notable: dario, the three foscari palaces, the pesaro, the turchi, and ca d' oro, and the loredan. some of these historic houses are associated with men of genius of modern times. wagner lived in the palazzo vendramin calergi. in byron resided in the palazzo mocenigo, and browning occupied the palazzo rezzonico. robert browning and his wife had a passionate love for venice. as a young man the poet visited the city, and returned to england thrilled by his impressions. mrs bridell fox, his friend, says that: "he used to illustrate his glowing descriptions of its beauties--the palaces, the sunsets, the moonrises, by a most original kind of etching. taking up a bit of stray notepaper, he would hold it over a lighted candle, moving the paper about gently till it was cloudily smoked over, and then utilising the darker smears for clouds, shadows, water, or what not, would etch with a dry pen the forms of lights on cloud and palace, on bridge or gondola, on the vague and dreamy surface he had produced." william sharp--from whose "life of browning" i cull the passage just quoted--tells us that his friend selected the palace on the grand canal as a corner for his old age. browning was "never happier, more sanguine, more joyous than here. he worked for three or four hours each morning, walked daily for about two hours, crossed occasionally to the lido with his sister, and in the evenings visited friends or went to the opera." in robert browning died in venice, on a december night, as "the great bell of san marco struck ten." he had just received news of the success of his "asolando." the poet was honoured in the city by a splendid and solemn funeral procession of black-draped gondolas, following the boat that held his body. would he not have chosen to die in the venice that he loved with such intense fervour? among the statuary in the streets is the image of bartolomeo colleoni on horseback, "i do not believe that there is a more glorious work of sculpture existing in the world," writes ruskin of this statue, which stands in front of ss. giovanni e paolo. in the piazzetta by the palace of the doges are the two columns, which everyone associates with venice, bearing images of the flying lion of st mark, and of st theodore treading upon a crocodile. one other public building must be seen by the visitor. this is the beautiful library opposite the doge's palace, an edifice that john addington symonds praises as one of the chief achievements of venetian artists. the cathedral, the ducal palace, the library, and the academy of arts are certainly four impressive and splendid buildings. if you have seen the old roofed bridge that spans the river at the head of the lake of lucerne, you will have an impression of the famous rialto of venice. the historic bridge is charged with memories of the days when "venice sate in state throned on her hundred isles," and citizens asked of one another, in the words of solanio, in _the merchant of venice_. "now, what news on the rialto?" the bridge is mediæval in aspect, and romantic in its associations. you cannot lounge there without an apparition of shylock, raving at the loss of the diamond that cost him two thousand ducats in frankfort. all around this "queen of cities" are places of supreme interest to the student of architecture and the lover of natural beauty. padua, and vicenza, with its rare monuments of palladio, murano, torcello, and other towns and villages with histories are within access of venice. but do not hasten from venezia. it is a town in which one should roam and loiter for long days. perugia a white town, perched high on a bleak hill, is one's first impression of perugia. the position of the capital of umbria is menacing, and without any confirmation of history, one surmises that this was once a roman fortified town. after being built and held by the etruscans, perugia was taken by the roman host, and called augusta perusia. for centuries the town was the terror of umbria. its citizens appear to have been a superior order of bold banditti, continually making raids on the surrounding towns and villages, and returning with spoil. mediæval traditions of perugia are a romance of battle within and without the town. at one time one faction held sway, at another a rival faction gained the upper hand, and the natives spent much time and energy in endeavouring to kill one another. the story is perhaps more melodramatic than tragic. it reads almost like a novel of sensational episodes, related by a fertile and imaginative writer in order to thrill his readers. pope paul iii. was the subduer of perugia. he dominated the town with a citadel, now destroyed, and broke the power of its martial inhabitants with the sword and the chain. the surroundings of the town are bare, except for the olive groves which give a cold green to a landscape somewhat devoid of warm colouring. you either climb tediously up a long hill to the city, or ascend in an incongruous electric tramcar. entering the place, the chances are that your sense of smell will be affronted somewhat rudely, for perugia is not very modern in its sanitary system. assisi is seen in the distance, bleached on its slope, and there are far-off prospects of high mountains. the prefeturra terrace is over sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and is a fine view-point. the setting of perugia makes no appeal to the lover of sylvan charms. it stands on an arid height, constantly attacked by the wind, and in dry weather the town is very dusty. but there is hardly a narrow street nor a corner without quaintness and beauty for the eye that can appreciate them. almost everywhere are glimpses of elegant spires and tall belfries. the cathedral, dedicated to san lorenzo, is a fourteenth-century edifice, with an aged aspect, and not much beauty in its decorations. in the chapel of san bernardino is "the descent from the cross," by baroccio. this artist was a follower of coreggio, fervent in his piety, and devoted to his art. he was born in urbino, and painted several pictures in rome. the example in the cathedral is one of his best-known paintings. signorelli designed an altarpiece for this church. three popes were buried here, innocent iii., urban iv., and martin iv. close to san lorenzo is the canonica, a palace of the popes, a huge, heavy building. the fortress-like palazzo pubblico is still used as the town hall. its history is stirring. many trials have been held in its halls, and we read that culprits were sometimes hurled to death from one of the windows. the upper part of the palazzo is a gallery of paintings, the works representing the umbrian school. here we may study perugino, fiorenzo di lorenzo, bonfigli, and other masters of the fifteenth century. perugino instituted a school of painting in the town. in the sistine chapel, in florence, we may see some of his frescoes. we shall see presently examples of his works in other buildings in perugia. fiorenzo di lorenzo, bonfigli, and pinturicchio are represented in the secular buildings and churches of the town. an altarpiece by giannicola, one of perugino's pupils, should be noticed. but perhaps the most important of the paintings are fra angelico's "madonna and saints," "miracles of san nicholas," and "the annunciation." perugino's frescoes in the exchange (collegio del cambio) are very beautiful, depicting the virtues of illustrious greeks and romans. "perugino's landscape backgrounds," writes mr robert clermont witt, in "how to look at pictures," "with their steep blue slopes and winding valleys are as truly representative of the hill country about perugia as are constable's leafy lanes and homesteads of his beloved eastern counties." in the museum of the university, we shall find a number of antiquities of pre-roman and roman times. the church of san severo must be visited, for it contains a priceless early work by raphael. the piazzi del municipio was the scene of many conflicts in the troublous days of perugia. here the austere bernardino used to preach, and here were held the pageants of the popes upon their visits to the town. around this piazzi is a network of narrow, ancient thoroughfares, with many curious houses. the piazzi sopramuro is one of the oldest parts of the town. in this vicinity is the ornate, massive church of san domenico, with a magnificent window, and the decorated monument of benedict xi. passing through the porta san pietro, we approach the church of san pietro, considered to be the oldest sacred building in the town. it has a splendidly ornamented choir, and in the sacristy are some remarkable works of perugino. the belfry of this church is of very graceful design. about three miles from perugia, towards assisi, are some etruscan tombs, with buried chambers, a vestibule, and several statues. this monument is of deep interest. it is a family cemetery of great antiquity, and the carvings are of exquisite art. florence _firenze la bella_, the pride of its natives, the dream of poet and painter and the delight of a multitude of travellers, lies amid graceful hills, clothed with olive gardens and dotted with white villas. in the clear distance are the splendid apennines. climb to the terrace of san miniato, and you will gain a wide general view of this great and beautiful city of culture and the arts. the wonderful campanile of giotto rises above the surrounding buildings, rivalling the height of the cathedral; the sunlight glows on dome and tower, and the valleys and glens lie in deep shadow, stretching away to the slopes of the mountains. very lovely, too, is the prospect from the boboli gardens, and finer still the outlook from fiesole, whence the eye surveys the cathedral, the baptistery, the campanile, the noble churches of bruneschi, the pitti palace, and many fair buildings of the middle ages. gazing over florence from one of the elevations of the environs, a vast pageant of history seems revealed, and men of illustrious name pass in long procession in the vision of the mind. how numerous are the great thinkers and artists associated with the city from savonarola to the brownings! we recall dante, giotto, boccaccio, michael angelo--the roll seems inexhaustible. almost all the famous men of italy are connected with the culture-history and the political annals of florence. the city inspires and holds us with a spell; we are impelled to wander day after day in the narrow streets, to linger in the fragrant gardens, to roam in the luxuriant valleys of the surrounding country, and to climb the hill of classic fiesole. rich and beautiful is the scenery between florence and bologna, with its glimpses of the savage apennines. the glen of vallombrosa is one of the loveliest spots in the vicinity, where the old monastery broods amid beech and chestnut-trees. it was this scene that milton recalled when he wrote the lines: "thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in vallombrosa...." [illustration: florence. ponte santa trinita, .] the history of the city is of abundant interest. florence was probably an important station in the days of the roman triumviri. totila the goth besieged and destroyed the town, and charlemagne restored it two hundred and fifty years later. machiavelli states that from florence was the seat of the ruling power in italy, the descendants of charles the great governing here until the time of the german emperors. in the struggle between the church and the state, the city took sides with the popular party for the time being. there were, however, constant factions within florence, due to the quarrels of the buondelmonti and uberti families. frederick ii. favoured the uberti cause, and with his help, the buondelmontis were expelled. then came the remarkable period of the guelfs and the ghibellines, the former standing for the pope, and the latter siding with the emperor. florence favoured the guelfs, and the ghibellines resolved to destroy the city; but the guelf party again won ascendancy in florence. the trouble was, however, not at an end. for years florence was disturbed by the conflicting aims of these intriguing parties. grandees and commoners warred in florence in the fourteenth century, and efforts were made by the aristocratic rulers to curtail the liberties of the people. this was frustrated by the commoners, and the government was reformed on a more democratic basis. peace followed during a period of about ten years, but calamity befell florence in the form of the pestilence described by boccaccio. ninety-six thousand persons are said to have died from the ravages of this plague. as early as the twelfth century there were many signs in florence of intellectual liberty. the doctrine of the eternity of matter was openly discussed, and on to the days of savonarola civilising forces were at work in this centre of culture. girolamo savonarola arose at the end of the fifteenth century, and his reforming influence soon spread through italy. "the church is shaken to its foundations," he cries. "no more are the prophets remembered, the apostles are no longer reverenced, the columns of the church strew the ground because the foundations are destroyed--in other words because the evangelists are rejected." such heresy as this brought savonarola to the stake. greater among the mighty of florence was dante, born in a memorable age of art and invention. "the vita nuova," inspired by the gentle damsel, beatrice, was written when dante had met his divinity at a may feast given by her father, folco portinari, one of the chief citizens of florence. beatrice died in at the age of twenty-four. boccaccio states that the poet married gemma donati about a year after the death of beatrice. dante died in , and was buried in ravenna. for me the chief appeal in seville, antwerp, or any old continental town is in the human associations. in florence, roaming in the ancient quarters, the figure of dante, made so familiar by many paintings, arises with but little effort of the imagination, for the streets have not greatly changed in aspect since his day. the atmosphere remains mediæval. can we not see the moody poet, driven from his high estate by the quarrels of the ruling houses, pacing the alleys, repeating to himself: "how hard is the path!" can we not picture him in company with petrarch, who, after the merry-making in the palace, remarked that the wise poet was quite eclipsed by the mountebanks who capered before the guests? and do we not hear dante's muttered "like to like!" two great english poets, chaucer and milton, made journeys to florence. giovanni boccaccio was born in , in certaldo, a small town some leagues from florence. he spent a few years in france and in the south of italy, returning to florence at the age of twenty-eight. boccaccio was the close friend and the biographer of dante, and a contemporary of petrarch. in the time of lorenzo de medici, florence was a prosperous city and a seat of learning. machiavelli writes of lorenzo: "the chief aim of his policy was to maintain the city in ease, the people united, and the nobles honoured. he had a marvellous liking for every man who excelled in any branch of art. he favoured the learned, as messer agnola da montepulciano, messer cristofano landini, and messer demetrio; the greek can bear sure testimony whence it came that the count giovanni della mirandola, a man almost divine, withdrew himself from all the other countries of europe through which he had travelled, and attracted by the munificence of lorenzo, took up his abode in florence. in architecture, music, and poetry, he took extraordinary delight.... never was there any man, not in florence merely, but in all italy, who died with such a name for prudence, or whose loss was so much mourned by his country." machiavelli, the florentine historian, lived for a while in retirement in the outskirts of florence. we may gain a little insight into his character and tastes from a passage in one of his letters in which he mentions that it was his custom to repair to the tavern every afternoon, clad in rustic garments, where he played cards with a miller, a butcher and a lime-maker. in the evening he dressed himself in the clothes that he wore in town and at court, and communed with the spirits of the "illustrious dead" in the volumes of his library. over the entrance to the casa guidi is the inscription: "here wrote and died elizabeth barrett browning, who, in the heart of a woman, combined the learning of a scholar and the genius of a poet. by her verse she wrought a golden ring connecting italy and england. grateful florence erected this memorial in ." mrs browning passed away in the casa guidi just before dawn, in june . her remains lie in the beautiful grounds of the protestant cemetery. fierce old walter savage landor lived for a time in florence, and for a longer period in fiesole, where the brownings often visited him. swinburne came just before landor's death to see the poet. shelley was in florence in . a son was born to him here, and he records the event in a letter to leigh hunt. the poet writes of the cascine gardens, where he loved to walk and to gaze upon the arno. florence seems to have impressed shelley almost as powerfully as rome. "florence itself," he writes upon a first visit, "that is the lung arno (for i have seen no more) i think is the most beautiful city i have yet seen." with this tribute from the poet, we will begin our survey of florence. in a magnificent square stands the cathedral, the baptistery, and the belfry. the oldest of the edifices is the baptistery, reared on the ground whereon stood a temple of mars. parts of the building are said to date from the seventh century. the glories of the baptistery are many, but perhaps the most appealing of the external decorations are the reliefs of the bronze door, which michael angelo so greatly admired. they illustrate scenes from the life of john the baptist. the exterior of the duomo or cathedral is the work of several great artists, including giotto and andrea pisano. a modern façade was added in - . the porta della mandoria, one of the most beautiful doorways in existence, is surmounted by a mosaic of ghirlandaio, "the annunciation." there is not much to claim attention within the cathedral, except michael angelo's incomplete and last work, the "pieta," behind the chief altar, a statue of boniface viii., and a painting of dante reading his "divina commedia," by michelino. savonarola preached in this church. the triumph of giotto, the famed campanile, adjoins the duomo. the work was begun in , and the structure and its decorations are a superb achievement of giotto's genius. ruskin has written a glowing passage upon this wonderful example of "power and beauty" in decorative architecture. the edifice is of variously coloured marbles, adorned with splendid bas-reliefs, depicting the growth of industry and art in many ages. another set of bas-reliefs represent scriptural scenes. the statues are the work of rosso and donatello. giotto was born in the neighbourhood of florence, and died in the city. he was the friend of dante, who wrote an eulogy upon his supremacy as a painter. the bell-tower of florence is his finest work in architecture and the most treasured of all the monuments in the city. fra angelico is intimately associated with florence, and many of his pictures are preserved in the city. he was born in the vicinity of florence, near the birthplace of giotto. vasari says: "fra giovanni was a man of simple and blameless life. he shunned the world, with all its temptations, and during his pure and simple life was such a friend to the poor that i think his soul must now be in heaven. he painted incessantly, but would never represent any other than a sacred subject. he might have been rich, but he scorned it, saying that true riches consisted in being content to be poor." the academy of arts in florence contains many of fra angelico's masterpieces. there are six of his paintings in the uffizi palace, and several in the convent of san marco. in this collection of pictures are numerous works of the fourteenth and fifteenth century painters, all claiming diligent study. the uffizi palace and the pitti palace are rich storehouses of some of the most famous of the world's pictures, and of several great statues. the chief pictures cannot even be enumerated. let me only mention raphael's "madonna and child," michael angelo's "holy family," titian's "venus," durer's "adoration of the magi," andrea del sarto's "assumption," ruben's "terrors of wars," and velazquez's "philip iv." these are but few indeed of the treasures of these two noble palaces of art. the wonderful venus de medici, one of the greatest of classic works of art, is in this collection. in the seventeenth century the statue was unearthed in the villa of hadrian, near tivoli. it was in eleven pieces, and it was repaired and set up in the medici palace at rome. in cosmo iii. had the treasure removed to the imperial palace at florence. in the north-eastern part of the city there are three buildings of historical interest. one is the church of santissima annunziata, founded in the thirteenth century, but restored in modern times. here will be seen sacred pictures by andrea del sarto, in the court, while in the cloisters is the "madonna del sacco." the tomb of benvenuto cellini is here. san marco is now a repository of works of art. it was the monastery of savonarola, and the edifice is haunted with the spirit of the zealous reformer. the fine frescoes by fra angelico adorn the cloisters, and in the chapter house is his "crucifixion," one of the largest of the friar's pictures. three of the cells were inhabited at different times by savonarola, and contain memorials of the pious ascetic, a coat of penance, a crucifix, and religious volumes. sir martin conway writes, in "early tuscan art": "in savonarola's cell there hangs a relic of no small interest--the handiwork of fra angelico himself. it is stowed away in so dark a corner that one can hardly see it. eyes accustomed to the gloom discover a small picture of the crucified christ, painted on a simple piece of white stuff. when the great preacher mounted the pulpit, this banner was borne before him. in those impassioned appeals of his, that electrified for a time the people of florence, collected in crowded silence within the vast area of the newly finished cathedral, it was to this very symbol of his faith that he was wont to point, whereon are written the now faded words, _nos predicamus christum crucifixum_." in the church of san marco are the tombs of sant antonino and the learned pico della mirandola. among the other churches of note is santa trinita, originally an example of the art of niccolo pisano, but it has been modernised. it contains a monument by luca della robbia, and some splendid mural paintings, depicting the career of st francis, by ghirlando. there are more paintings by this master in the franciscan church of ognissanti. santa croce is a great burial-place, rich in monuments of illustrious florentines. michael angelo's tomb is here, and near to it is the resting-place of galileo. a monument to dante, the tomb of alfieri, by canova, the memorials of machiavelli, aretino, cherubino, and many others are in this building. my necessarily scanty description of the splendours of this church are offered with an apology for want of fuller space to describe them. donatello's "crucifixion" is in the north transept, and the capella peruzzi and the capella bardi are decorated with frescoes by giotto. agnolo gaddi's paintings are in the choir. reluctantly, one leaves this great treasure-house. a mere catalogue of its works of art would fill pages. we have glanced at two of the palaces. let us now visit the stern palazzo vecchio, once the senate house of the city. the building dates from the thirteenth century, and was the home of the medici. verrochio's fountain beautifies one of the courts. inside the palazzo are mural paintings by ghirlando. another of the interesting buildings is the bargello, an important museum. michael angelo's "dying adonis" and "victory" are in the court, and there are more works of the great artist within. dante lectured in one of the halls of the bargello. benvenuto cellini's design for "perseus" is in one of the rooms, and there are reliefs by della robbia. the riccardi palace is redolent with memories of lorenzo. it stands in the piazza san lorenzo, and in the same square is the church named after him, containing some very beautiful monuments. donatello was buried here, and a stone marks the grave of cosimo de medici. lippo lippi's "annunciation," and michael angelo's works are the glories of this church. the new sacristy contains angelo's "day and night" over the tomb of giuliano medici, and that of lorenzo de medici adorned with statues of "dawn and twilight." these are among the most magnificent examples of michael angelo's statuary. near to the railway station is the church of santa maria novella, a glorious specimen of gothic architecture, with a fine façade. in this church are paintings by orcagna, lippi, cimabue ghirlando, and other artists. the frescoes in the strozzi chapel, and the spanish chapel of this dominican church are of great interest. orcagna's paintings in the strozzi chapel are of the fourteenth century. the chapel was dedicated to st thomas aquinas, who was greatly honoured by the dominican order. modern florence is a bright populous city, with wide main streets, squares, and pleasant gardens. verona amid surroundings of great beauty, in a northern corner of italy, with a huge mountain barrier in the rear, and not far from the lake of garda, is the old city of verona. shakespeare called the place "fair verona," and made it the scene of _romeo and juliet_, while the city is again the background of drama in _the two gentlemen of verona_. [illustration: verona, .] shall we not see, leaning from one of the old balconies, the lovely juliet? do romeo, mercutio, and benvolio no longer roam these twisted ancient streets? and where shall we find julia and lucetta, and valentine, and smile at the pleasantries of launce, with his dog, crab, on a leash? shakespeare has peopled these courts and cloisters for us with characters that we knew when we were young. we resent the bare hint that there never were in verona a fervent youth named romeo and a gentle maid called juliet. verona is the home of _romeo and juliet_, and for this we have known the town since we first turned the magic pages of shakespeare. one wishes that there were a better word than "picturesque." how hackneyed seem adjectives and phrases in describing these old towns. verona then is very beautiful; it is certainly one of the loveliest cities of europe, both in its surroundings and within its confines. you will not soon tire of the piazza della erbe, with the flying lion on its column, the charming fountain, and the stately municipio. here you will watch the life of verona of to-day, and reflect that it has not wholly changed since the time of the scaligers, the mighty rulers of the city. there is, of course, the modern note. but the old buildings stand, and in their shade people in the dress of olden days pass continually. it is inspiring and a trifle unreal when the moon lights the square, and the silence of night lends mystery to the scene. in verona everyone strives to live and work in the open air. the streets are thronged on days of market, stalls are set up in the narrow lanes and in the piazzas, vegetables and fruit come in great store. the eternal garlic scents the street, but we learn to love its odour. in spain a market is quiet and solemn; here the scene is gay and noisy. voices are raised, and there is lively bartering of wares. there are subjects at every turn for the brush of the painter--stern old buildings, winding alleys, and groups of garishly dressed peasants. diocletian's glorious amphitheatre is the chief wonder of verona. few roman monuments are so well preserved; the lower arches are almost perfect, and the stonework has been restored. great gladiators fought here during hundreds of centuries. the tiers had thousands of seats for spectators of all classes; and in later times the knights of chivalry contended in the circus. there is a fine view from the highest tier, overlooking the city and the varied landscape. the structure is of a dull red marble, and signs of decay have been removed by repeated restoration, for the people of verona take great pride in this monument. "the amphitheatre," writes goethe, "is the first important monument of the old times that i have seen--and how well it is preserved!" fra giaconda designed the palazza del consiglio, and his fine arches and statuary deserve close inspection. the tribunale and the palazza della ragione, both interesting, should be visited; the tombs of scaligers in the tribunale are gothic work of great beauty. there are several important churches in the city. the cathedral was begun in the twelfth century, and is adorned with a number of exterior images and reliefs. one of the chief works of the interior is titian's "assumption." san zeno maggiore has a beautiful façade, with theodoric the goth as one of the carvings, and a doorway of noble decorations. the interior of this church is very impressive. the church of sant anastasia dates from the thirteenth century, and is one of the most striking buildings in verona. in the cavilli chapel are some old frescoes, and there is a splendid statue of the last of the scaliger rulers, cortesia sarega, on horseback. san giorgio has some famous paintings. let us inspect first the great picture of paolo veronese, "the martyrdom of st george." paolo caliari, born in , was a native of verona, and came to be known as "the veronese." his model was titian, and he excelled in colour effects, and in the brilliance of his scenes. several of his chief works are in venice, but the example in this church is considered one of his greatest achievements. more of his pictures will be seen in the gallery of the pompeii palace. the art of paolo veronese appealed strongly to goethe, who admired more than all his work in portraiture. jacopo robusti, called tintoretto, was the founder of the venetian school. like veronese, he followed the method of titian. he was a prolific painter. venice abounds in his works, and there are several of his paintings in verona. in san giorgio is "the baptism of christ," and goethe refers to one of this artist's pictures, called "a paradise," in the bevilague palace. one of the finest works of mantegna is in verona. this is the altarpiece "the madonna with angels and saints," in the church of san zeno. the figures and features of the virgin are very beautifully presented. mantegna was by birth a paduan, but he worked chiefly in mantua. his magnificent cartoons, painted for a palace at mantua, are now in the hampton court gallery, england. in the church of santa maria in organo there are some fresco paintings by morone, depicting a madonna accompanied by st augustine and st thomas aquinas. dr kugler, in his "history of painting," says that there is a "madonna" by that painter in a house beyond the ponta delle navi in verona. fra giovanni designed the choir stalls in this church, and executed other decorations during his sojourn in the monastery of verona. from santa maria we may turn into the beautiful old giusti gardens, with their shady walks, their wealth of verdure, and ancient cypress-trees. besides the pictures in the churches, there is a collection of paintings in the picture gallery of the palazzo pompei. here will be found examples of paolo veronese and other notable artists of his day. one of the veronese school here represented is girolomo dai libri, who was a follower of mantegna. his work is of a deeply religious character, and merits careful study. the church of san fermo maggiore should be seen for its handsome gothic architecture, both in the exterior and interior. there are one or two relics of the roman period in the history of verona, besides the splendid amphitheatre. the most noteworthy are the two gateways, the arco dei leoni, and the porta dei borsari. a. e. freeman, the historian, has admirably described the variety of interest in this old town: "there is the classic verona, the verona of catullus and pliny; there is the verona of the nibelungen, the bern of theodoric; there is the mediæval verona, the verona of commonwealths and tyrants; the verona of eccelius and can grande; and there is the verona of later times, under venetian, french, and austrian bondage, the verona of congresses and fortifications." seville a house in seville is the reward of those beloved by the gods. in toledo you are made reflective, perchance a little melancholy, while in granada you are infected by the spirit of a past long dead. but in fair, sunlit seville you live in the present as well as in the past; and your heart is made light by the pervasive gaiety of the people and the cheerfulness of the streets and plazas. climb the beautiful giralda--the brown tower of the moors that rises above the cathedral dome--and look around upon the vegas, and away to the blue mountains of the horizon, and you will know why borrow was moved to shed "tears of rapture," when he gazed upon this delightful land of the blessed virgin and the happy city, with its minarets, its palm-shaded squares, its luxuriant gardens, and broad stream, winding between green banks to the distant marshes, where rice and cotton grow, and the flamingo and heron fly over sparkling lagoons amid a tropical jungle. seville in spring is gay to hilarity. the great fair and the easter ceremonials and _fêtes_ attract thousands to the capital of andalusia at the season when the banks of the guadalquivir are white with the bloom of the orange-trees, and hundreds of nightingales make the evening breezes melodious; when the heat is bearable, the sky a deep azure, and the whole town festive, and bright with the costumes of many provinces. no blight of east wind depresses in early spring, and rarely indeed is the promise of roses and fruit threatened by frost in this region of perennial mildness and sunlight. "only once have i seen ice in seville," said to me a middle-aged native of the place. it is only the winter floods, those great _avenidas_, that are dreaded in seville; for now and then the river swells out of normal bounds, and spreads into the streets and alleys. [illustration: seville, . plaza real and procession of the corpus christi.] seville is a white city in most of its modern parts. lime-wash is used profusely everywhere, and the effect is cool and cleanly; but we wish sometimes that the natural colour of the stonework had been left free from the _brocha del blanquedor_, or the whitewasher's brush. nevertheless, this whiteness hides dirt and dinginess. there are no squalid slums in seville. the poor are there in swarms, but their poverty is not ugly and obvious, and for the greater part they are clad in cotton that is often washed. this is the town of beautiful southern doñas: the true types of andalusian loveliness may be seen here in the park, on the promenade, and at the services in the cathedral--women with black or white mantillas, olive or pale in complexion, with full, dark eyes, copious raven hair, short and rather plump in form, but always charming in their carriage. more picturesque and often more lovely in features are the working girls, those vivacious, intelligent daughters of the people, whose dark hair is adorned with a carnation or a rose. the lightheartedness of seville has expression in music, dancing, and merry forgatherings each evening in the _patios_, when the guitar murmurs sweetly, and the click of the castanets sets the blood tingling. everyone in seville dances. the children dance almost as soon as they learn to toddle. in the _cafés_ you will see the nimblest dancers of spain, and follow the intricate movements of the bolero, as well as the curious swaying and posturings of the older moorish dances. these strange dramatic dances must be seen, and to witness them you should visit the novedades at the end of calle de las sierpes. fashionable seville delights in driving, and some of the wealthiest residents drive a team of gaily-decked, sleek-coated mules, with bells jangling on their bridles. beautiful horses with arab blood may be seen here. even the asses are well-bred and big. but one sees also many ill-fed and sadly over-driven horses and mules. these people, so affectionate in their family life, so kindly in their entertainment of foreigners, and so graciously good-natured, have not yet learned one of the last lessons of humane civilisation--compassion for the animals that serve them. society in seville takes its pleasure seriously, but the seriousness is not the dullness that attends the englishman's attempts at hilarity. the spaniard is less demonstrative than the frenchman, less mercurial than the italian. notwithstanding, the crowd at the races, at the battle of flowers, or watching the religious processions, or at the opera, is happy in its quiet intentness. the enthusiasm for bullfighting is perhaps the strongest visible emotion in seville, the alma mater of the champions of the arena. at the _corrida_ the sevillian allows himself to become excited. he loses his restraint, he shouts himself hoarse, waves his hat, and thrashes the wooden seats with his cane in the ecstasy of his delight, when a great performer plunges his sword into the vital spot of the furious bull that tears the earth with its foot, and prepares for a charge. bullfights, gorgeous ecclesiastic spectacles, and dancing--these are the recreations of rich and poor alike in seville to-day. in this city of pleasure you will see the _majo_, the andalusian dandy, as he struts up and down the sierpes--the only busy street of shops--spruce, self-conscious, casting fervent glances at the señoras accompanied by their duennas. go into the meaner alleys and market streets, and you will see the very vagrants that murillo painted, tattered wastrels who address one another as señor, and hold licences to beg. cross the bridge of isabella to the suburb of triana, and you will find a mixed and curious population of mendicants, thieves, desperadoes, and a colony of gitanos, who live by clipping horses, hawking, fortune-telling, dancing and begging. peep through the delicate trellises of the moorish gates of the patios, and you will see fountains, and flowers, and palms, and the slender columns supporting galleries, as in the alhambra and other ancient buildings. very delightful are these cool courtyards, with their canvas screens, ensuring shade at noonday, their splash of water, and their scent of roses clustering on columns and clothing walls. some of these courtyards are open to the visitor, and one of the finest is the casa de pilatos in the plaza de pilatos. a pleasant garden within a court is that of my friend, don j. lopez-cepero, who lives in the old house of murillo, and allows the stranger to see his fine collection of pictures. here murillo died, in , and some of his paintings are treasured in the gallery. the house is number seven, plaza de alfaro. we will now survey the seville of olden days. no traces remain of seville's earliest epochs. the phoenician traditions are vague, and we know little indeed of the hispolo of the greeks, a town which was supposed to have stood on this ground. the romans came here, and called the town julia romula, and the remains of that age, if scanty, are deeply interesting. italica, five miles from the city, is a roman amphitheatre, with corridors, dens for the lions, and some defined tiers of seats. at this great roman station, trajan, hadrian, and theodosius were born. for other vestiges of the roman rule, we must visit the museo provincial, where there are capitals, statues, and busts. the pillars of hercules in the alaméda are other monuments of this period of the history of seville. vandals and goths ravaged the roman city. then came musâ, the moor, who besieged seville, and captured it, afterwards marrying the widow of the gothic monarch. a succession of moorish rulers governed the city for several hundred years. one of the greatest was motamid ii., under whose sway seville became a prosperous and wealthy capital, with a vast population. the christians took the city in , and expelled thousands of the mohammedans. under the spanish kings, seville remained, for a considerable spell, a royal city; and one of the most renowned of its christian sovereigns was pedro the cruel, who, while democratic in some respects, was, on the other hand, a truculent tyrant. in administration he was jealous and energetic, and though called "the cruel," he has also been named "the just." pedro lived in the alcázar, the old palace which we shall presently visit. the monuments of the moors in seville are numerous. in the alcázar are courts of resplendent beauty, gilded and coloured in hundreds of fantastic designs; arcades with horseshoe arches and graceful columns, marble floors, fountains, and richly decorated doorways. the giralda, which is seen from many open spaces in the city, is a magnificent specimen of the minaret, dating from ; and this tower, and the adjoining court of the oranges, are parts of an ancient mosque. the lower portion of the golden tower, by the guadalquivir, was built by the moors. many of the churches are built in the mudéjar, or late moorish style, and most of them have elegant minarets, arched windows, and interior decorations of an oriental character. the power of seville diminished under the domination of the catholic kings, until the discovery of america by cristoforo colombo (columbus), who sailed from the city on his bold expedition, and was welcomed with fervour upon his triumphal return. we think of the explorer setting forth for a second voyage, with vessels equipped at the cost of isabella the catholic, who profited so liberally by the conquest of the new world, and we picture him in the days of neglect, when he suffered the lot of those who put their trust in the promises of princes. it was columbus who made the seville of the fifteenth century. the commercial importance of the city, after the expulsion of the moors, was re-established through the great trade opened with america. the fortunes of seville at this period were bound up with those of the revered queen isabel. shakespeare styled her "queen of earthly queens," and sir francis bacon praised her. she was tall, fair, and of most amiable bearing, and she possessed many of the qualities of one born to command. unfortunately for seville, the young queen was under the domination of cardinal mendoza, and of torquemada. it was torquemada who urged her to purify spain from her heresy by means of torture and the flame. let it be said that isabel did not comply willingly, and that she strove more than once to check the cruelties of the holy office. the first to suffer from the inquisition in seville were the jews; then followed a long and bitter persecution of heretics of the protestant faith, and a reign of terror among men of learning. the chapel of the alcázar was built in the time of isabel, and her bedroom is still to be seen. charles v. loved the retirement of the alcázar, and his marriage with isabella of portugal was celebrated in the gorgeous hall of the ambassadors. he made several additions to the palace, and directed the planning of the exquisite gardens. philip v. lived here for a time, and he also caused alterations, and added to the curious mixture of buildings within the walls of the moorish palace. there are so few signs of commercialism in the city that we gain an impression that seville only lives to amuse itself, and to entertain its host of visitors. there are, however, industries of many kinds, and a considerable export trade in various ores, in olive oil, fruit, wine, and wool. the population is over one-hundred-and-fifty thousand. there are several factories, and many craftsmen working in their homes. the illustrious natives are numerous. velazquez, the greatest painter of spain, if not of the world, was born here in . murillo was a sevillian, and so were the artists pacheco, herrera, and roelas, and the sculptor, montañez. lope de rueda, one of the earliest spanish dramatists, lived here. cervantes spent a part of his life in seville, and described the characters of the macarena quarter in his shorter tales. the house of the gifted dean pacheco, in seville, was the resort of many artists and notable men. this painter and cleric is chiefly remembered as the teacher of velazquez. he wrote discourses on the art of painting, and trained a number of the sevillian artists. the art of murillo was influenced by juan del castillo, who also taught alonso cano. castillo was born in seville. francisco herrera, born in , studied in rome, and upon his return to spain painted many pictures in madrid. the cordovan painter, juan valdés leal, lived for many years in seville, and worked with murillo to establish an academy of painting in the city. there are many specimens of his art in seville. juan de las roelas was a sevillian by birth ( - ) and his "santiago destroying the moors" is in the chapter of the cathedral, while many of the churches contain his pictures. the provincial museum has an instructive collection of paintings of the andalusian school as well as the works of many artists of other traditions. murillo is represented by several paintings. there are some fine examples of the art of zurbaran, a sombre and realistic artist whose work conveys the mediæval spirit of spain, and is esteemed by many students as more sincere than the art of murillo. his finest pictures are, perhaps, "san hugo visiting the monks," "the virgin of las cuevas," and "st bruno conversing with urban ii." in the museo is a portrait by el greco, supposed erroneously to be the painter himself. this is often appraised as the chief treasure of the collection. among the most admirable of the spanish primitive painters is alejo fernandez, whose work is to be seen in the cathedral, in the churches of seville and triana. fernandez is scarcely known out of spain, but art students will delight in his work, and everyone should see the beautiful "madonna and child" in the church of santa ana in triana, and the large altarpiece in san julian. the sculpture of montañez merits very careful attention. his figure of "st bruno" stands in the museo provincial, and "st dominic" is in the south transept. "the virgin and child" and "john the baptist" are in this collection. in the sacristy of the cathedral is montañez' "statue of the virgin." this artist died in , after a busy life. he carved many images for the church, and founded a school of wood-carving. among his pupils was the gifted alonso cano. the single figures by montañez are considered finer art than his groups. most of his effigies are lavishly coloured. the cathedral is a magnificent building, the largest in spain, and greater than st paul's in london. gautier said that "notre dame de paris might walk erect in the middle nave." there are seven naves with monstrous columns, the loftiness of the interior conveying a sense of vastness which has been often described by travellers. more than a hundred years were spent in the building of this great church, and several architects planned the various parts during that period. ruiz and rodriguez designed the greater portion, and the last of the architects was juan gil de houtañon, who planned the cathedral of salamanca. the chief front is finely decorated, and has three portals, with statue groups and reliefs. there is so much of beauty and interest in the interior that i can only write briefly of a few of the most notable objects. the stained windows number over seventy, and they are chiefly by aleman, a german, and by flemish artists of the sixteenth century. the choir altar has pictures, and a handsome plateresque screen. there are splendidly carved stalls, and a notable lectern. the sacristy is near the chief façade, with a high dome, several chapels, and some interesting statues. the retablo is by roldan, a follower of montañez. murillo's "vision of the holy child" is in the capella del bautisterio. in the royal chapel, which is interesting renaissance work, richly ornamented, there are the tomb of alfonso the wise, and an old figure of the virgin. pedro campaña's altarpiece, in the capilla del mariscal, should be seen. in the south transept is the noted "la gamba," a painting by luis de vargas. the ornate sala capitular has the "conception," by murillo, and a painting by pablo de céspedes, who was a sculptor, poet, and painter, born at cordova, and made a canon of the cathedral in that city. céspedes was a fine portrait painter, and has been described as "one of the best colourists of spain." the sacristy de las calices of the capilla de nuestra senora de las dolores contains goya's well-known painting of saints justa and rufina, the potter-girls who were martyred by the romans. here also will be seen a picture by zurbaran; "the trinity," by el greco, the crucifix carved by montañez, and a "guardian angel," by murillo. the capilla de santiago has paintings by the early artists valdés leal and juan de las roelas. close to the cathedral is the semi-moorish alcázar, with its strangely mingled styles of architecture. the buildings are in part a fortress, while within the walls are portions of a palace of the sultans and a residence of christian kings. the rich frontage of pedro's palace is composite, and probably only the gate is purely moorish. in the court of the maidens there is much gorgeous decoration. as in the alhambra, we see the characteristic gallery with delicate columns, and arches with ornamental inscriptions. the hall of the ambassadors is the pride of the alcázar. here again we shall notice several orders of architecture, but the effect is impressive. the portals are sumptuous, and the whole place and decorations suggest the opulence and might of the early catholic kings. i like the old gardens of the alcázar, with their tiled walks, their clustering roses, their alcoves and arbours, and quaint fountains, all enclosed by an ancient wall. here sultans dreamed, and kings retired from the cares of government, to breathe the scented air of evening. quiet reigns in these flowery courts, only the voices of birds are heard among the orange-trees and tangled roses. there are many beautifully adorned chambers in this palace of delight. alfonso, pedro, isabel, charles, and philip all reconstructed or added to the wonderful pile first erected by yusuf. the old buildings once stretched to the river, the golden tower forming one of the defences. before the moors came to seville, a roman prætorium stood on this ground, and it was in that the morisco architects began to plan the alcázar. much of the present building is of mudéjar, or late moorish, origin. the details that should be studied are the pillared windows, the marble columns, the fine stalactite frieze, the arches, the azulejos of dazzling colour, the choice decoration of the doors, the marble pavements, and the half-orange domes--all representative of the art of the mudéjares. we must now inspect some more of the monuments of seville. king pedro's church, omnium sanctorium, is an example of mixed christian and mohammedan architecture, with a minaret and three portals. the ayuntamiento is an exceedingly flamboyant building in the plaza de la constitucion, with two façades, one of them fronting the plaza de san fernando. the older and finer front was designed by riaño. the archbishop's palace, which dates from the seventeenth century, is not a good example of the plateresque style. the only picture in seville by velazquez, a much restored canvas, is in the palace. the lonja (exchange) was built by philip ii., and finished about . it is a square, imposing structure, but scarcely beautiful in form or decoration. a splendid doorway, very luxuriantly decorated, is that of the palace of san telmo, where there are very lovely gardens. the modern life of seville concentrates in the two principal plazas, in the calle de las sierpes, and in the park of maria luisa. very pleasant are the palm-shaded squares and the walks by the guadalquivir. in the tortuous white alleys you come unexpectedly upon charming wrought-iron gates, through which you catch glimpses of cheerful patios. some of these lanes are so narrow that a pannier-mule almost bars your road. and above this fair city the sun shines almost perpetually, while the smokeless air has a wonderful clarity. cordova cordova, like seville and granada, is a memorial of the moors. it is a city that sleeps, living in the memory of its past. its history since the last of the sultans in spain is comparatively uneventful, its glorious days were before the expulsion of the morisco inhabitants, when the city was a seat of learning, a great centre of art and industry, and the place of residence of illustrious caliphs. the somnolence of cordova is like an eternal siesta. you wander in ancient streets, with houses guarded from the ardent rays of the sun, and marvel how the people live, for there is no outward sign, as in seville, of commercial activity. yet the inhabitants who saunter in the paseo del gran capitan, under the orange-trees, and flock to the bullfights, do not appear so "dull and ill-provided," as o'shea found them in . there is even an air of prosperity among the residents, despite the long centuries of slumber. nor does the aspect of the city convey an impression of neglect. the houses are white and clean, the streets brighter than the thoroughfares of sombre toledo, and the charming courtyards inviting and pleasant, with clustering roses and spreading palms. there is colour everywhere, cordova is a painter's paradise. in summer the heat is extreme. the glare of the whitened houses reflects the brilliant sapphire of the sky, and becomes painful to the eyes; the city is in a plain, exposed to every ray of the andalusian sun. to escape the enervating heat of summer, the wealthier inhabitants migrate to the uplands and the beautiful sierras, at whose base the city lies. the country around cordova is fertile. olives, vines, and many fruit-trees flourished in the valley of the guadalquivir, and on the foothills, and there are large tracts of pasture-land. vegetables are grown in profusion. before the time of the moors, cordova had repute for its succulent artichokes. on the grassy plains the moorish settlers led great flocks of cattle, and here grazed the splendid horses of arab breed, which were long famous throughout spain. [illustration: cordova, . the prison of the inquisition.] but the immediate surroundings of the city are almost treeless. here and there a slope is clothed with olive-trees, and the broad _paseos_ are shaded by young trees, newly planted; but the spanish peasant, dreading the harbourage that woods afford to birds, ruthlessly fells and stubs up trees. for league upon league stretches a monotonous tract of grass, watered by sluggish yellow streams, upon whose banks grows the cold grey cactus. most english travellers reach cordova by rail from madrid or seville. the journey from madrid is by way of alcazar and linares, passing the wine-growing districts of manzanares and valdepeña, and crossing the waste territory of la mancha, in which don quixote roamed in quest of knightly adventure. from seville the rail journey occupies about four hours, and the line runs through a fairly cultivated track of andalusia, following the guadalquivir for the greater part of its course. to the north of cordova, some leagues away, stretch the grey-blue heights of the sierra morena, whence wild winds sweep the plain in winter. between this range and the sierra nevada there are fertile districts, watered by the genil and other streams. at cordova the guadalquivir is a wide, somewhat turgid stream, washing the southern side of the town, around which it sweeps in a mighty circle. the rushing water is spanned by a great bridge of many arches, whose gateway, the _puerta del puente_, a doric triumphal arch, erected by philip ii. on the site of the moorish _bâb al-kantara_, gives entrance to the city. the bridge, with its sixteen arches, is moorish, and stands on roman foundations. this is one of the best points from which to view the city. the great mosque is seen well from here, and the city stretching away from the water's edge, white-gleaming in the blaze of the sun, is beautiful and strangely suggestive. the rugged heights of the sierra de cordoba rise in the far distance; the water of the river tumbles and eddies in its wide bed. a little way up the stream are the moorish mills that have stood unchanged through the centuries. this is the spot to learn the peace of sleeping cordova. the history of cordova dates back to the pre-christian era: corduba was the most important of the ancient iberian cities. it was made a roman settlement about b.c., and later the city was extended, and under the name of colonia patricia was made the capital of southern spain. always the history of the city has been a record of struggle and the shedding of blood. there was a great massacre of the people in the time of cæsar, through their allegiance to pompey. cordova has been ruled by many masters. after the romans, the city came into the possession of goths, and from them it was captured by the moors. roderick the goth was defeated by tarik in , on the guadelete river, and the valiant mughith, one of tarik's commanders, was sent to cordova with a force of horsemen. in a heavy hail shower, mughith rode into cordova, taking the natives by surprise, and capturing the town without resistance. ruled later by the caliphs of damascus, cordova became the centre of the moorish dominion in spain. in the tenth century, the city was in the height of its splendour and renown. for three centuries the omeyyads held sway, and these rulers, descendants of the sovereign family of damascus, vied with one another in enlarging and adorning the city. the three caliphs of the name of abderahman were distinguished for their courage in their administrative capacity, and their love of the arts, and of learning. the last of the trio of great rulers, though brave, was described as "the mildest and most enlightened sovereign that ever ruled a country." abderahman iii. was, in every sense, a potent monarch. none of the caliphs who succeeded him equalled this wise and tactful moor. intrigues, factions, and treachery marked the reigns of his successors. for a time almanzor, the unconquerable minister, saved cordova. the career of this man is witness to the romance which meets us so often in spain; beginning his life as a professional letter-writer, he ended as sole ruler of an empire. almanzor died in , and from this time cordova's history is a monotonous record of revolt and disorder. hisham iii. was imprisoned in the great vault of the mosque, and the rule of the omeyyads was at an end. caliph after caliph was set up. arabs, moors, and spaniards fought for the city. once for four days cordova was turned into a shamble, when "the berber butchers" ransacked the city, slaying the people, and burning its splendid buildings. az-zahra, the summer palace, with all its exquisite treasures of art, was left a heap of charred ruins. afterwards yusuf, the berber, founded the dynasty of the almoravides. but his rule was brief. in cordova fell. fernando had pledged himself to recover spain for the christians. the king advanced into andalusia, with a mighty army of fervent crusaders, and the splendid city of the moors was seized by the warriors of the cross. a host of the morisco natives quitted the city for africa; many were killed, and a proportion remained as "reconciled" spanish subjects. fernando's victory was a triumph for catholicism; but it brought about the slow decay of cordova. the population dwindled, the arts and crafts were neglected, the fields untilled. learning was discountenanced, libraries of precious volumes burned; and in their zeal for cleansing cordova from all traces of the moslem, the reformers even destroyed the baths. to read of the cordova of the moors is like reading a chapter of oriental romance. but the story is not legendary. this marvellous city, equal in grandeur to baghdad, was a great beacon-light of culture for three hundred years. its mosques, its schools, and its hospitals were famous throughout the world. sages, poets, artists found here every scope and assistance for the development of their philosophy and their art. there were no ignorant natives, and no class living in penury and squalor. the moors were almost perfect masters of the art of civilisation. they esteemed education; they taught tolerance; they inculcated a love of beauty in daily life, and lived cleanly, and on the whole, sanely. the life was jocund, but sober, for the moors abstained from wine. "the city of cities," "the bride of andalus," are the names bestowed on the beautiful city of cordova by the moorish writers of that age. in the twelfth century abu mohammed wrote of cordova as "the cupola of islam, the convocation of scholars, the court of the sultans of the family of omeyyah, and the residence of the most illustrious tribes of yemen. students from all parts of the world flocked thither at all times to learn the sciences of which cordova was the most noble repository, and to derive knowledge from the mouths of the doctors and ulemas who flourished in its cultured life. cordova was 'to andalus what the head is to the body.'" the city once boasted of fifty thousand resplendent palaces, and a hundred thousand inferior houses. its mosques numbered seven hundred, and the cleanly moors built nine hundred public baths. the city stretched for ten miles along the banks of the guadalquivir, flanked with walls, battlements, and towers, and approached by guarded gates. throughout the world men spoke in veneration of its four great wonders--the immense and gorgeous mosque, the bridge over the guadalquivir, the suburb city of az-zahra, and the sciences which were studied in the colleges. abderahman iii. built a palace a few miles from the city, called medinat-az-zahra. it was named after the beautiful zahra, one of the sultan's mistresses. a figure of zahra was carved over the chief gateway of this fairy city. medinat-az-zahra was a town rather than a royal residence. there was a splendid mosque upon the site; the suburb had colleges, baths and marts. forty years were spent in building this retreat for the caliph and his favourite. upon the decoration of its buildings abderahman spent large sums of money. el makkari, the arab historian, states that the columns of the buildings came from the east, and that the marble walls of the palace were shining with gold. the caliph even proposed to remove the dark background of hills, but instead the slopes were planted with fruit-trees. this palace, one of the four great glories of the city, has vanished. the savage host of berbers, in , attacked medinat-az-zahra and burned it to the ground. the natives were slaughtered with fearful cruelty, even within the precincts of the mosque the pursuers cut them down. it is said that portions of the caliph's palace were afterwards used in erecting the convent of san jerónimo, to the north-west of the city. at this time cordova was assailed, its buildings burnt, much of its treasure was despoiled or carried away by the troops of abd-l-jabbar, the berber leader. there is one wonder that conquest has left unspoiled to cordova, and one cannot survey the imperishable mosque of the caliph without veneration for the race that set an example to the world in virtue, culture, and the joy of beautiful living. it is to see this wonder of moorish art that the stranger visits cordova. the way to the mosque (mezquita) is readily discovered, for every stranger is recognised by the street urchins who are eager in offering directions. the first religious edifice upon this site was a roman temple. in the building of the moorish mezquita was begun by the first abderahman. the work was carried on by the next sultan, hishem, and by abderahman iii. for more than two centuries the mosque grew in size and splendour, as each succeeding caliph added some new beauty. the mosque is a magnificent example of moorish architecture. vast, massive, bewildering, and beautiful are not extravagant terms to use in describing this edifice. it is worth while to walk round the outside of the building to gain an impression of its vast size and the strength of its structure. like all moorish buildings the exterior is plain, with the fine primitive severity of byzantine work. the interior structure is enclosed by walls of about fifty feet in height, buttressed, and very stout, with numerous towers. the bronze doors are of finest moorish work. there is a handsome portal on the north side, built in the time of hakam between and . the gate of pardon which gives entrance to the court of oranges has a horseshoe arch, surmounted by three smaller arches, and which are decorated with paintings of no value. this gateway is not moorish, but a later addition built by the christians in imitation of the gate at seville cathedral. the court of oranges was used by the moslems for ablution before entering the mosque. it is a wide space, with palms, orange-trees, and fountains, and a colonnade. it is the most beautiful spot in cordova, cool and gracefully shaded, and when the orange-trees are in flower a fragrance pervades the place. once there were nineteen beautiful gateways leading into the court, and these were uniform with the nineteen aisles. the famous fountain of abderahman stands in the centre of the court. here all day the women of cordova are gathered. they come one by one, or in groups together. each carries her red-brown pitcher for water. it is the meeting-place where the day's gossip is exchanged. always there is the sound of laughter and gay chattering. all the cordovese appear to be happy. we enter the mosque by the puerta de las palmas; the eyes are dazed by the endless columns and profusion of arches, numbering nearly nine hundred. nowhere are there such columns and arches as these. every stone has its history. marble, porphyry, and jasper are the material, and the arches are painted red and white. the effect is indescribable. i believe that there are not two columns alike in point of decorative detail. some of the arches are of horseshoe shape, and some are round. but symmetry is retained; the whole interior gives a delightful impression of grace and elegance. look up at the wondrous ceiling. its wealth of colour is dazzling. when the thousands of lamps were lit, the ceiling shone with gold and brilliant colours. in some parts the ceilings of the mosque are embellished with paintings, and a number of cufic inscriptions are seen among the decorative designs. de amicis, writing of the mosque of cordova, says: "imagine a forest, fancy yourself in the densest part of it, and that you can see nothing but the trunks of trees. so in this mosque, on whatever side you look, the eye loses itself among the columns. it is a forest of marble, whose confines one cannot discover. you follow with your eye, one by one, the very long rows of columns that interlace at every step with numberless other rows, and you reach a semi-obscure background, in which other columns seem to be gleaming. there are nineteen aisles, which extend from north to south, traversed by thirty-three others, supported, among them all by more than nine hundred columns of prophyry, jasper, breccia, and marbles of every colour." the walls and ceiling of parts of the building are in marvellous preservation. they gleam with an infinite opulence of colour; they are elaborately embellished with almost every conceivable form of arabesques, bas-reliefs, and moorish designs, painted in wonderful hues and rich in gilt. the mihrâb is the prime glory of the building. it was first erected and adorned by abderahman i., and a second prayer-recess was constructed by the second abderaham. the third mihrâb dates from , and was erected in the time of the caliph hakam ii. it is one of the finest specimens of moorish art extant. here the koran was kept, and the most solemn rites were performed in the days of the great caliphs. the cupola of this superb sanctuary is carved in the shape of a pine-apple, decorated with shell-like ornaments, and painted lavishly in gold, blue, and red. there are delicate pillars of marble, with gold capitals. the niches of the dome are beautifully painted, and the chief arch is decorated with mosaics. over the arch is an inscription in gold on a ground of blue. the slender pillars and graceful double arches of the entrance to the vestibule of the mihrâb are examples of moorish architecture in its finest manifestation. very gorgeous and intricate is the design of the façade of the mihrâb. the portal is a horseshoe arch, handsomely ornamented, and above runs a tier of smaller horseshoe arches. this is surmounted by other arches, gracefully interlaced, and adorned with a profusion of mosaics and decorations in colour. when the mosque was converted into a christian cathedral under the name of santa maria, the side aisles were divided into about forty chapels. the variety of the architectural styles in this great building range from the moorish to the baroque and the plateresque. charles v. was partly responsible for the choir, which gives a strange note of discord to the harmony of the moorish temple. but the emperor lamented having granted leave to the chapter to build the coro, for upon seeing the structure, he exclaimed: "you have built what you or others might have built anywhere, but you have destroyed something that was unique in the world." to construct the choir, a part of the beautiful morisco ceiling was destroyed, and commonplace vaulting took its place. none of the christian chapels are of especial interest, except perhaps the chapel of villaviciosa which is morisco in design. in the capilla de la cena is a painting by céspedes, who was buried in the cathedral. the choir of the christian church is very ornate, and of sixteenth-century date. lope de rueda, the dramatist, was buried here. the stalls are by cornejo, a celebrated carver, who also designed the beautiful silleria. the massive chandelier is of silver. over the altar is a painting by palomino. the sala capitular contains a statue of santa teresa by alonso cano, and images of saints by j. de mora. the bell tower is a substitute for the elegant minaret of abderahman iii. this tower resembled the giralda of seville in design, having lilies and golden balls at its summit. this minaret was despoiled after the capture of cordova by the spanish, and the present tower is the work of ruiz. it is surmounted with a figure of saint raphael. architecturally considered, the campanario or belfry of cordova is an anomaly. apart from its mosque, cordova contains few buildings of interest to the stranger. gautier speaks of the city, once famed for its wonderful beauty as "le squelette blanché et calcin." the churches demand the visitor's inspection alone for their instructive evidence of the decline of architectural taste. san hipolito is the burial-place of the historian, ambrosia de morales, and the original building dates from the fourteenth century. san jacinto has a somewhat handsome doorway, and santa marina is externally ancient. san nicolas has a pseudo-moorish tower. there are one or two christian buildings of interest. the bishop's palace was built originally in the fifteenth century. the ayuntamiento or town hall is not a very impressive edifice. some of the old residences of the city are in the mudéjar style, and many have charming courtyards, with delicate ironwork gates, through which one may peep at a fountain set among pillars upon which roses twine. the renaissance doors of the house of don jeronimo paez and that of the foundling hospital are handsomely decorated; and in the house of don luque, in the plaza de la campania, there are some ancient mosaics. it is worth while to inspect the walls, which have survived a number of severe sieges, and are still standing, though often repaired. the gate of almodovar and the tower of mala muerte are in good preservation, and there are instructive examples of moorish fortification in the turrets and battlements. the old alcazar of the moors was a noble building of great extent. very little of the original structure remains to-day, but one or two towers, a conduit, and a bath still exist. alfonso xi. built a modern alcazar. on this site stood a gothic palace, and this was reconstructed by the caliphs. historians have described the old alcazar as a sumptuous palace, with courts of marble, verdant gardens decked with fountains, and wonderful apartments, adorned with mosaics and gems. the palace was heated in winter, and kept temperate in summer with scented air from the gardens. here the caliphs surrounded themselves with luxury. lovely women resided in the harem, musicians composed and played their melodies on string instruments; writers recounted romances amid the palms, roses, and orange-trees, and philosophers discoursed in the courts of marble and jasper. the decline of trade in cordova that followed upon the ravages of berber and christian aroused the dread of the inhabitants that disaster would result. the citizens who had clamoured for the expulsion of the moors, now begged that a few morisco artisans might be permitted to remain in the city. all the chief industries of cordova were decaying. in de bourgoanne writes: "in so fine a climate, in the midst of so many sources of prosperity, it (cordova) contains no more than , inhabitants. formerly celebrated for its manufactories of silks, fine cloths, etc. it has now no other industrious occupations but a few manufactories of ribbons, galoons, hats, and baize." what a contrast this account affords from that of the arabian historians. in the days of abderahman iii. there were fifty thousand palaces in cordova, and three hundred mosques of noble architecture. a palace on arches was built across the river. there were academies, schools, and libraries in the city of the ommeyads. to-day there are thousands of illiterate persons in spain. but the cordovese do not appear to ponder upon time's changes. they concern themselves with other things--the affairs of the house--and regard their city with its history and wonderful mosques as a valuable asset which brings the stranger to their impoverished city. the cordovese are a contented people. on bullfight days cordova is _en fête_, and all classes of the inhabitants throng the plaza de torres, the hidalgo and the peasant showing the same enthusiasm for the national sport. formerly bull-baiting took place in the corredera, now used as a market. there is now a large bull-ring in cordova, in the ronda de los tejares. near to the amphitheatre are the public gardens. there is a theatre in the city, but few other places of amusement. cordova is rich in its record of great men. seneca was born here under the roman dominion, and so was lucan. in the twelfth century, averroes, the greatest philosopher of islamism, was born. his doctrine pervaded europe, inciting the fury of the dominicans, who regarded averroes as an arch-blasphemer and infidel. in paris and in the north of italy, however, the franciscans accepted the philosophy of the learned cordovan. but averroes, the detestation of the dominican order, is often depicted in the frescoes of contemporary painters, as a heretic and a victim of the burning pit. notwithstanding, averroism was a fashionable cult in venice. among the authors of cordova the poet gongora must be remembered. he was born here in , and educated at the college of salamanca, where he studied law. showing little capacity for the law, he turned his attention to verse, writing satires and lyrics. in later life gongora's poetry became stilted and pompous to the point of absurdity. lope de vega, however, held that luis de gongora was as great as seneca or lucan. at the age of forty-five gongora left his native town, and entered the church. in madrid he was the favourite of philip iii. and of the nobles of the city. he returned to cordova when he was sixty-five, and there he died in . gonsalvo, "the great captain," was a native of the city, "nursed amid the din of battle." in the esteem of spaniards he ranks next to the cid in valour and high integrity as a general. gonsalvo's manners were described as amiable and conciliatory. he was cool in action, courageous, and firm. more than once the great captain's life was imperilled in battle, especially at granada, where his horse was killed beneath him. fernandez gonsalvo was in the height of his military fame about the year . four painters of note are associated with cordova. the first in chronological order was pedro de cordova, who executed "the annunciation," which is in the capilla del santo cristo of the cathedral. the picture is in poor preservation. it is interesting as an example of gothic art. cordova was early a centre of painting in the days of the christian recovery of the city. the eminent pablo de céspedes was born here in , and became a canon of the cathedral. he studied the italian artists, and painted mural pictures in rome. in the mosque are three of his works. they are notable for their seriousness and power. céspedes was very skilful in colouring. the remarkable juan de valdés leal, born in , spent most of his life in seville, where he was a contemporary of murillo. in the church of the carmen at cordova is a retablo representing the "life of elijah," painted by valdés leal. many of this painter's pictures are in seville. the fourth painter of cordova is antonio de castillo, born in , who was an early exponent of the art of landscape painting in spain. some of his pictures are in the museo of the city. castillo was said to be an imitator of murillo. he died in . the picture gallery of cordova, in the school of fine arts, is not a very important collection of paintings. there are, however, some of the works of ribera, céspedes, and castillo, which should be seen. in the museo are a few moorish antiquities. the ancient tiles are good examples of the exquisite moorish art. toledo since visiting toledo i have read that masterly novel by blasco de ibañez, "the cathedral," a work of genius, which has brought the city vividly to my recollection. i see the old dun-coloured houses on the slopes, the gorge of the yellow tagus, and the commanding steeple of the cathedral, and i recall the oriental landscape, viewed from the walls, under a blue, burning sky in june. i know that the goats still wander forth to their feeding-grounds in the early morning, returning at dusk, with softly tinkling bells, that the guitar sounds melodious and low outside the barred window when it is dark, that beggars, wrapped in tattered cloaks, solicit alms "for the love of god," and that the voice of the watchman rings clear at midnight, as he goes his rounds with his lantern and keys, and a sword at his side. [illustration: toledo, .] "romantic" is the word that describes toledo; the setting of the city, its labyrinthine alleys, its guarded houses, its moorish fortress, and its dreaming mood make appeal to the most apathetic of strangers. the aspect of the city is hardly beautiful. it is too stern, too sombre, even in sunlight, and it lacks the colour and gaiety of the andalusian towns. and yet toledo is one of the most fascinating cities in europe, holding you with a strong spell, a grim, irresistible invitation to remain within its gates. there is so much to behold, so much to think upon, in this old moorish place. the cathedral alone claims long days of your sojourn, for it is a great monument, haunted with memories, and richly stored with treasures of art. many legends surround the making of toledo, one of them relating that tubal, grandson of noah, built the city, and another that it was reared by jews driven from jerusalem by nebuchadnezzar. we know, however, that toledo was chiefly noted as the stronghold of the catholic faith in spain, that it was in existence in the time of the romans, held by the moors, wrested from them, and restored to the spanish after many bloody conflicts, and that it is now the seat of the primate. for four centuries the moors held sway here, and everywhere in the city they have left their traces. before the moors, king roderick the goth sat on his throne in the strongly fortified town, and thither came tarik and his hordes, coveting the rich capital. later, the great abd-er-rahman advanced upon toledo, and laid siege, establishing a mighty camp on the hillside facing the city, where he waited until famine compelled the courageous natives to surrender. in the days of its might toledo could boast of nearly two hundred thousand inhabitants. the city lost power when the capital of spain was transferred to valladolid. it is now scarcely more than a museum and resort of tourists and students of art. the streets are silent and unfrequented; there is but little evidence of commerce, and the manners and customs of the people have escaped the influences of to-day. toledo is indeed old-world, a veritable relic of antiquity, in spite of its railway station and large hotel, often thronged with americans. the history of toledo under the moors is constantly recalled by the gates, defences, and buildings that remain. we enter toledo by two arches and a bridge, over the swirling tagus, and immediately we are, as it were, projected into the period of the moorish conquest. this bridge, the puente de alcantara, was first built by the conquerors, but the present structure, though moorish in design, was made in the thirteenth century. older is the puerta del sol, a work of the mudéjares, with the typical horseshoe arches and towers. the arch of the zocodover, the bridge of san martin, and the church of santa maria la blanca each show the moorish spirit in their architecture. in the casa de mesa is a room in the design of the mudéjares, the reconciled moors, who remained and followed their crafts in spain, after the reconquest of the country by the spaniards. the ceiling is a fine specimen of arabian art. at the school of infantry are further traces of the moors, while in the church of el transito will be found treasures of the east. many of the churches have morisco towers, such as san roman, santo tomé, san miguel, and san servando. santo tomé was once a mosque; it is now a gothic church. the interior of el cristo de la luz is typically moorish. the magnificent cathedral stands on the site of an earlier church which the moors shattered, erecting in its place a mosque. in fernando laid the stone of the present edifice; and over two hundred years were spent in the labour of erecting and adorning it, while vast wealth was employed in the work, and thousands of artists, craftsmen and labourers employed. under mendoza and other prelates, flemish artists worked in the cathedral. the architecture is gothic, with many traces of baroque and mudéjar art. there is a very lofty and beautiful tower, with a steeple surmounting it. the flying buttresses are exceedingly graceful; the eight doorways of great beauty. a splendid façade, with a wealth of statues, faces the west. it has three portals and a fine rose window, and is flanked by towers. the puerta de los leones is noble renaissance work, splendidly sculptured with rich ornaments. entering the cathedral we are impressed by its vastness and the simplicity of the aisles. but the numerous chapels are highly ornamented in a bewildering variety of styles. the hand of the artist has been lavish. we are dazzled, astonished, by the wealth of decoration, the carving, the metal work, the jewels, the colouring. the choir stalls are very beautifully carved work by borgoña and berruguéte. the choir, with its jasper columns and decorations, is impressive. the carving of the stalls is superb. how shall the visitor know where to turn for those objects that appeal to him, amid such a wealth of treasures? there are twenty-seven side chapels besides the chief chapel, and in all of them are works of art that will repay inspection. the retablo of the principal chapel is a gorgeous piece of work upon which many artists expended their labour and skill. cardinal de mendoza was buried here in . the capilla de santiago is gothic, and splendidly decorated. there is a superb retablo in this chapel. in the capilla mozarabe there is a painting by juan de borgoña. this was the chapel built for cardinal ximénez, and it is handsomely ornamented. another of borgoña's works will be seen in the capella de san eugénio, an altarpiece representing scenes in the life of christ. in the sacristia is a notable work painted by el greco, whose paintings we shall presently see in the gallery. the subject of this picture is "casting lots for the raiment of the saviour." "the betrayal of christ," by goya, is another important painting in the sacristia. in the cloisters we shall find some frescoes by bayeu, representing incidents in the lives of several saints. francisco bayeu ( - ), who so often worked with maella, was not a great artist, though he was commissioned to paint mural pictures in many parts of spain. the city hall (ayuntamiento) was first erected in the fifteenth century, and has an ornate frontage. the portraits of charles ii. and marianne within the hall were painted by carreño, a pupil of velazquez. proudly perched above the city is the alcazar, a stout fortress of the goths, the residence of the mighty cid, and afterwards a palace of kings. the old building was almost destroyed during the war of , but was restored some years later. it was attacked and damaged in the wars with france, and little of the pristine edifice remains except the eastern façade. toledo was the scene of fierce persecution during the inquisition. in there was a burning of heretics in the city, a display arranged for the entertainment of the young queen, elizabeth de valois. several lutherans were committed to the flames on this occasion. in the days of ecclesiastic splendour, the wealth of the cathedral of toledo was enormous. there were six hundred clerics in the city, and the revenues of the high dignitaries were said to amount to a hundred thousand pounds. the first archbishop was don bernardo, who broke faith with the moors by desecrating the sacred objects which they were permitted to retain in their mosque. the excellence of the sword blades of toledan steel were known all over europe. to-day the sword-making industry is scarcely flourishing, and théophile gautier was unable during his visit to purchase a weapon as a memento. "there are no more swords at toledo," he writes, "than leather at cordova, lace at mechlin, oysters at ostend, or _pâtés de foie gras_ at strasburg." according to henry o'shea, in his "guide to spain," sword blades were made in toledo in his day, but he states that the quality of the steel had deteriorated. one of the most illustrious of the world's painters, dominico theotocupuli, called el greco (the greek), worked for years in the city. mystery encompasses the strange character of el greco; we know not when he was born, but we learn that he died in toledo, in , and that he was a native of crete. while a youth he was a pupil of titian; but he was chiefly influenced in his art by tintoretto. about the year , theotocupuli came to toledo, where he was employed in adorning the church of santo domingo, securing one thousand ducats for his eight pictures over the altars. in character el greco was independent to the point of obstinacy. his mind was sombre and pietistic, and his imagination bizarre and vivid. men said that he was mad, but his alleged madness was the originality of genius. "his nature was extravagant like his painting," wrote a contemporary, guiseppe martinez. "he had few disciples as none cared to follow his capricious and extravagant style, which was only suitable for himself." we read that el greco loved luxury, and that he hired musicians to play to him while he took his meals. he was, however, retiring, almost morbid in his desire for quietude; and there are many matters concerning his life and his personality that will always remain enigmas. for a very long period the work of el greco was scarcely known beyond the borders of spain, and indeed his rare merit was hardly recognised in that country except by a few students. his name now arouses interest among the cultured in every part of europe, and there are admirers of his art who would place him on the highest pedestal. but the more temperate discern in el greco a powerfully intellectual painter, not without defects and mannerisms, a master of colour, with a curiously modern method in portraiture. in the provincial museum at toledo there are several paintings by "the greek." the portraits of antonio covarrubias and of juan de avila give example of el greco's capacity for seizing the characteristics of his sitters. covarrubias has a fine, rugged, thoughtful face. the canvas seems alive. very strange are the pictures of "our saviour," "st paul," "st peter," and other saints in this collection. the figures in many of the artist's paintings are curiously lean and attenuated, the faces long and pinched. in the picture of "our saviour" the hands are large, the fingers remarkably thin and pointed. the most fantastic of el greco's pictures is "the assumption" in san vicente at toledo, in which the ascending figure seems literally flying in the air. "the burial of gonzalo ruiz," in the church of santo tomé, is another splendid composition, revealing amazing skill in portraiture, for each of the figures in the row of castilian caballeros was drawn from life. the sixth figure, from the right-hand side, is the artist himself. there are technical faults in the picture; there are mannerisms and extravagances; but the work is strongly individual, and we may echo the words of ponz, the historian, who states that "the city has never tired of admiring it, visiting it continually, always finding new beauties in it." "the expolio," in the cathedral, we have already seen. if the work of el greco begins to arouse a desire to study more of his paintings, a day may be spent in visiting the gallery and the churches that contain examples of his different periods. "san josé and the child jesus" is in the parish church of st magdalen. "jesus and st john" in st john; portrait of tavera, in the hospital of st john; in santo domingo there are four pictures by el greco. the museum has twenty paintings from his brush. "very few paintings interest me so much as those of el greco," writes théophile gautier, "for his very worst have always something unexpected, something that exceeds the bounds of possibility, that causes astonishment, and affords matter for reflection." toledo expresses castile, as seville reflects andalusia. for, like its stern surroundings of rocky sierras, the city is austere, even gloomy. heavy iron gates protect the courtyards, bars screen the windows of the ancient houses, high, stout walls and towers guard the frowning town. the natives are reserved, a little proud in their demeanour, but not inhospitable to the strangers who come and go constantly, and lose their way in the tortuous streets, in spite of plans and guide-books. persistent beggars hang about the cathedral, and squat, blinking in the sun, along the ramparts. the children pursue the visitor, uttering a few words of broken english, french, and german, asking for a copper in the english tongue, and thanking you for it in french or spanish. i must not forget that there is another toledan more widely known than el greco, and that is lope de vega, the dramatist, the most prolific writer of spain, for it is said that he wrote three thousand plays. we are told that the playwright would compose a comedy in one night. his plays were often topical, and many of them must be regarded as ephemeral and poor; but de vega's stage-craft was excellent, though few of his works are great in a literary sense. cervantes styled the dramatist "a monster of nature," and envied him as "sole monarch of the stage." lope de vega probably wrote for a space of fifty-two years, for he died at the age of seventy-two, and during that period he produced not only plays, but epic poems and twenty-one volumes of miscellaneous writings. cervantes, by the way, spent some time in toledo, where he lodged in an inn, and wrote industriously. some historians have claimed cervantes as a toledan, but his birthplace was alcala de henares. berruguéte, the great sculptor, the favourite of charles v., worked long in toledo, where he died, in the hospital of st john the baptist. there are many of this artist's work in toledo. the fine portal of the hospital, and the monument within, to juan de tavéra, were designed by him. alonso berruguéte was born at valladolid about . he was a pupil of michael angelo, and studied the arts of architecture, painting and sculpture in italy. professor carl justi refers to the italian influence and the "raphaelesque forms" in berruguéte's pictures. but it was as a sculptor that he excelled. writing of toledo in the eighteenth century, the chevalier de bourguanne describes the city in these words: "houses out of repair, fine edifices going to ruin, few or no manufactures, a population reduced from two hundred thousand to twenty-five thousand persons, and the most barren environs are all that now offer themselves to the sight of the traveller drawn thither by the reputation of the famous city. under the present reign some successful efforts have been made to recover it from the universal decay into which it is fallen." about the time when the chevalier wrote this, the alcazar was being restored, and the silk industry in the city was reviving; but toledo, even to-day, is not a flourishing mart. it is a place of dreams and memories, set upon a rock among savage hills. the tagus, which rushes through its rough gorge, was once made navigable between lisbon and toledo, and in last century small boats sailed now and then from the city to the sea. there are many fish in the upper tagus, and its tributaries provide trout for the markets. the surrounding country is bare, and in many districts, savage and unfrequented, the hills affording sparse pasturage for sheep and goats. these desolate uplands were formerly haunted by bands of the most bloodthirsty bandits in all spain. granada that which is lacking in sober toledo is evident everywhere in glowing granada. the fiery andalusian sun gilds and colours the city, and the whitened houses cast a deep blue shade in the narrow streets. no forbidding portals bar the way to the flowing patios, those courtyards that are to-day one of the chief charms of the andalusian towns. the climate is soft and languorous; the air laden with the scent of blossoms and roses, and the people gayer in their garb and bearing than the natives of castile. on twin outlying hills stands granada, divided into two parts by the deep ravine of the darro river, whose waters flow into the genil at the base of an eminence crowned by the noble alhambra palace and the old mosque. around stretches a territory of singular fertility, where fruits of many kinds are plentiful, and the earth yields lavish crops of grain, with scarcely any period of inactivity. grapevines and olive-trees flourish here, and the orange, lemon, and pomegranate thrive. in the distance gleam the snow-capped peaks and blue ridges of the sierra nevada, a savage range, with foothills here and there under cultivation, glens of exceeding beauty, and rocky streamlets that swell to torrents when the snows melt. the vegas (plains) are dotted with hamlets and farms; vineyards clothe the lower slopes; the ferruginous soil is well watered by innumerable runnels from the hills, and so made richly productive. christianised granada remains moorish in aspect to this day, and so it will remain until the end, a mighty "living ruin." we cannot escape in modern granada from signs of the moslem influence; the architecture, the decorations of the houses within, the utensils of daily use--everything recalls the moors. before the coming of the north african hordes to spain, there was probably a city on the banks of the darro and genil, called illiberis, which was seized by the invaders. rival tribes of moslems strove for granada for centuries until al ahmar, a doughty general and ruler, became the sovereign. it was he who began the building of the splendid palace during his long sway. al ahmar was succeeded by mohammed, his son, in , who, like his father, was cultured, and an encourager of learning and the arts. another great monarch of granada, who added to the alhambra, was yusuf i. he was murdered in the palace by a fanatic, and following him came a line of mohammedan rulers, all more or less distinguished in arms and in the art of governing. granada was the last stronghold of the moorish sovereigns in spain; and hither, in , came the christian host, led by the zealous queen isabel, who camped within a few miles of the walls. no succour came during the long siege for the imprisoned moors, who at last besought their leaders to make a sortie on the foe. this course was, however, disapproved by boabdil, the leader, and a treaty was made with the christians, in which it was enjoined that the city should yield within two months. but the starving populace preferred to surrender at once, and the last of the sultans in spain went forth to bend the knee to fernando, the christian king. the capitulation of granada broke the last link of the moorish chain of dominion in southern spain. a christian governor was appointed, and soon the "reconciled" moors learned that their conquerors were faithless in their promises of toleration. libraries of arabian literature were destroyed, and force was used in imposing the rites of the christian church on the subdued mohammedans. "there was crying in granada when the sun was going down, some calling on the trinity--some calling on mahoun." to quell the moorish malcontents, cardinal ximenes was sent to granada, with the royal permission to enforce baptism or to compel exile. the cardinal carried terror into the city. there was no more clemency for the heretics and "heathen"; their temples were desecrated, and they were coerced into acceptance of the catholic religion. "the knights of granada, gentlemen, though moors," as the spanish poets had written of them, were treated with callous cruelty. some fled to the fortresses of the alpujarras; others remained in ignominy in the city of their birth, exposed to harsh exactions. it was the humane archbishop talavera of granada who opposed, with all his courage and energy, the importation of the inquisition into spain. let it be clearly remembered that this tyrannous institution was resisted by all the enlightened spaniards, and that the mass of the people regarded its introduction with horror. many of the chief inquisitors went in fear of their lives through the hatred which they aroused in the people. ximenes was of a very different cast from talavera. he was sufficiently powerful to have contested the establishment of the tribunal, but he was, on the contrary, responsible for many of its worst excesses of persecution. the moors in granada, after the reconquest by fernando, were commanded to wear the garb of christians, to speak the castilian language, and to abandon their ritual of cleanliness. philip ii. even destroyed the baths of the alhambra, to prevent the ablutions of the "infidels." the beautiful morisco painting and decorative work were plastered over with whitewash. christian vandalism ran riot in the fair city of the art-loving sultans. the moors who sought refuge in the glens of the mountains soon began to till the land, and to transform the wilderness into a garden. after a spell of peace, and a recovery of some measure of wealth, the community of refugees rebelled. terrible is the tale of reprisal. christians were driven to bay and slaughtered ruthlessly. the moors gained sway over the district until their leader was slain by one of his own race. then came the final routing by the christian soldiery by means of the sword and firebrand, and moorish might was for ever crushed in andalusia. for what counted all this bloodshed? the answer is written in the history of spain after the expulsion of the intelligent, industrious moriscoes. the lesson is plain. the fall of granada was the beginning of the decline of spain, and not, as the spaniards thought, the dawn of a golden epoch. with the moors went their culture, the arts and industry; and only traditions in craftsmanship remained among the spanish artisans. the half million inhabitants at the time of the surrender of granada very quickly dwindled under the catholic kings. to-day there is scarcely a sign of industrial and commercial energy in this city of the past. the population seem to subsist principally upon providing for the continual influx of visitors, while there are hundreds of beggars in the place. the alhambra was considerably marred by charles v., who used it as a residence. philip v. and his consort were the last of the sovereigns of spain who sojourned in granada. in the wars of - , the french troops were quartered in the alhambra, and they are responsible for the destruction of the mosque built in the fourteenth century. the architecture of the alhambra is of a late morisco order. if we enter by the puerta de judiciaria we shall see the inscription of yusuf i., who built the gateways and the towers. there are two arches to this entrance, the inner one is smaller than the outer, and both are of horseshoe design, with decorations above the curves. the inner side of this portal is an extremely beautiful example of moorish art. the several buildings enclosed within the walls form the alhambra, the palace itself being only a comparatively small part of the whole. towers guard the walls, and starting from the eastern side of the puerta, before which we now stand, we come to the prisoner's tower. the next tower is known as siete suelos, and the others, in their order, are agua, las infantas, cantivá, candil, picos, comares, puñales, homenage, de-las armas, vela guardia, and polvora. the palace of charles v. was reared in the midst of these morisco surroundings, and to the injury of the alhambra. it is, however, a fine quadrangular building, with richly decorated puertas. around the centre court are a number of apartments. at the back of the palace is the fish pond, overshadowed by the imposing comares tower, and from here we enter the court of the lions, so called from the twelve lions supporting the fountain in the centre. this beautiful court dates from the time of mohammed v. it is surrounded by an arcade with very delicate columns and horseshoe arches. writing of the lions, in "the soul of spain," my friend havelock ellis says: "i delight in the byzantine lions who stand in a ring in the midst of the court which bears their name. no photograph does justice to these delicious beasts. they are models of a deliberately conventional art, which yet never becomes extravagant or grotesque. they are quite unreal, and yet have a real life of their own." the sala de los mocarabes is approached from this court. its walls are decorated in the vivid colours used by the moors, and it has a ceiling of later gothic style. the hall of the abencerrages has fine stalactite arches, and a bewildering wealth of decoration. the wooden doors are beautifully ornamented, and the whole effect is fairylike and enchanting. a fountain plays in the centre of the chamber. the hall of justice has been likened to a grotto. it is one of the most wonderful of these apartments, approached by a range of exquisite arches from the court of the lions. the pictures on the walls are said to be portraits of the sovereigns of granada. there is a brilliant centre painting on the ceiling, with quaint moorish figures, and the gilding and colouring of the arches and alcoves are gorgeous. the apartment of the two sisters has a marvellous roof of honeycomb pattern, the walls are decorated with blue tiles, and the floor is of marble. this was the room occupied by the brides of the kings of granada. the inscriptions in this chamber are numerous, and i quote two specimens: "look upon this wonderful cupola, at sight of whose perfection all other domes must pale and disappear." "how many delightful prospects i enfold! prospects, in the contemplation of which a mind enlightened finds the gratification of its desire." the hall of the ambassadors was built by yusuf. it is domed, and the roof is exquisitely carved, while the decorations here surpass those of any apartment in the alhambra, and are of an infinite variety of design. from the windows there are fine views of granada. many of the patterns on the walls of the palace are really inscriptions ingeniously employed as decorations. the reproduction of animal forms in the adornment of buildings was prohibited by mohammedan law. the council chamber (the mexuar) has been restored. the palace proper contains, besides the apartments described, the bath court, the court of the reja, and the court of daxara, a very charming patio, shaded by trees, with apartments surrounding it. the mosque was reconsecrated by charles v. and used as a christian chapel. there is a fine carved roof, and superb colouring on the walls, with an inscription, extolling the power of allah. an oratory adjoins the chapel. the court of the mosque is elaborately embellished, and has graceful columns and arches. several of the towers are provided with chambers, and those of las infantas were occupied by the princesses of the moorish rulers. this tower was erected in the time of mohammed vii. within, las infantas tower is delightfully decorated. the interior of the torre de la cautiva is even more brilliantly adorned. the generalife, the "palace of recreation," or, as other authorities have it, "the garden of the architects," was originally an observation tower, and was used afterwards by the sultans as a villa. this summer residence is separated from the alhambra by a gorge, and approached by a path through a garden. the acequia court is one of the most beautiful of the patios in the buildings comprising the alhambra. a gallery surrounds it, supported by tall pillars and arches, most richly ornamented. we look between the slender columns upon a lovely oriental garden, with a series of fountains playing in jets. the gardens of the generalife are delightful; the trees are luxuriant from the moisture of the soil, and the flowers grow in riotous profusion. here the very trees are aged, for the cypresses were planted in the days of the sultans. there is an expansive and impressive view from the belvedere adjoining. unfortunately most of the internal beauties of the generalife have suffered decay, and the brush of the whitewasher has coated the walls. but the cypress court, the curious gardens, the fountains, and the beautiful arches and pillars must be seen. the darro that flows beneath the hill of the alhambra contains gold, and it is said that when charles v. came with his empress, the inhabitants presented him with a crown made from the precious grains collected from the bed of the stream. a little silver has been found in the genil into which the darro flows. looking back at the magnificent alhambra on its proud summit, we can imagine the distress of the moors when their city was captured by the army of fernando. we leave this monument behind, and, as we descend to the cathedral, our thought turns to the period of christian domination, and of the triumph of the old faith of spain. the first architect was diego de siloe, and the work was continued by his pupils, and by the renowned alonso cano, who designed the west front. as a specimen of renaissance work, the cathedral of granada is one of the most splendid churches of spain. the dome is vast and magnificent, there are five naves and many side chapels, all containing splendid works of art. over the principal doorway are relief carvings, dating from the eighteenth century. but a finer portal is that of del perdon, where we shall see some of siloe's characteristic decoration. alonso cano, painter and sculptor, was buried in the choir. this artist was a native of the city, and the only great painter that granada produced. before his day, the artists of spain painted with an intensity of religious seriousness, to the end of leading men to worship god and the virgin. their work was sombre and dramatic. alonso cano struck a secular note; he had a relish of the life of this world, and his fervent temperament found expression in depicting love episodes, and portraying the women of his day in the guise of saints and madonnas. his "virgin and child," in the saville cathedral, expresses his emotional art. cano has been called "the least spanish of all the painters of spain." he was born in , and the register of the church of st ildefonso records his baptism. in his sixty-sixth year he died. as a lad he studied painting in seville, in the studio of pacheco, at the time when velazquez was a student, and afterwards he learned the methods of juan del castillo. he was patronised by philip iv., and he painted many pictures for the cathedrals of his country, among others at madrid, toledo, and granada. alonso cano was made a priest, and afterwards a prebendary of granada, where an apartment was assigned to him in the cathedral. in the capella mayor the frescoes of the cupola are by cano, depicting episodes in the life of the virgin. the paintings are joyous in temper, and brilliant in colouring. "the purisima," one of his most finished statues, is in the sacristy, and among other examples of his carving are the wooden painted figures of "adam and eve"; and "the virgin and child with st anna" is most probably the work of cano. "st paul," in the chapel of our lady of carmen, is also one of his pieces. the pictures in granada from cano's brush are in the capella mayor, the church of the trinity, the altar of san miguel, and in the chapel of jesus nazareno. his carved work is seen in the lectern of the choir, the west façade, and the doors of the sacristy. el greco, whose work we have seen in toledo, is represented by a picture over the altar of st jesus nazareno, "st francis." the other pictures are by ribera. montañez designed the crucifix in the sacristy. in the chapel royal we trace late gothic work. there is a beautiful reja here (lattice or grating) by bartolomé, and the altar is adorned with statues of ferdinand and isabella. the ornate memorial of these sovereigns is by an italian, fancelli. these are but a few of the objects of art in the cathedral. there are still many churches and historic places to visit in the city, and i must perforce hurry in my descriptions. siloe's architecture is seen in the church of santa ana, and other churches should be inspected, though few of them are important. the charterhouse or cartuja stands on the site of a monastery, and the church is a very resplendent example of later gothic decoration, the effects being gained within by a lavish use of pearl, ebony, tortoise-shell, and marble. the audencia is a handsome building with a gorgeous façade. in the church of san geronimo is the burial-place of el gran capitan, whose effigy and that of his wife are at the altar. if we wish to see the types of andalusian character among the poorer class--such as murillo painted--we must stroll in the albaicin quarter. this is a district of picturesque squalor, and not over-sweet are the odours that may assail sensitive nostrils. but the albaicin must be seen. it was the resort of the moors who remained after the taking of granada by fernando, and it is now largely populated by gypsies such as george borrow describes in "the bible in spain." the city has been a haunt of gitanos for about three hundred years, and many of the swarthy tribe live in caves, which they have delved in the hillsides. for a "consideration," the gypsies will perform one of their curious symbolic dances. "one of the most enchanting prospects i ever beheld," writes the chevalier de bourgoanne, in the eighteenth century, after his visit to granada. travellers of all nationalities since that time have praised the wonderful spell of the city. washington irving, ford, o'shea, and many others have depicted its beauties with the pen, while a large gallery could be filled with the pictures painted here by artists from all parts of europe. there are quaint moorish-looking towns and villages within reach of granada, some within walking distance. "in granada god gives all the necessaries of life to those by whom he is beloved." so runs a local proverb, and it seems a justifiable statement from the evidence of plenty that delights the gaze of the traveller through the richly fertile province. the vega that lies betwixt the city and cadiz is screened by mountains, and thoroughly irrigated by hundreds of rivulets. here the cactas is grown for the sake of the cochineal insect. the vegetation is marvellous; the earth is so generous that lucerne can be cut from ten to twelve times in the year. no wonder that romans and moors craved this sunny land of plenty. oporto when bacchus and lusus came to the peninsula, sundered from italy by the mediterranean sea, they discovered a delightful region of mountains and glens, well-watered and fertile, which they called lusitania. between the rivers minho and douro is a glowing tract of country, not unlike the finest parts of north wales, with a varied sea coast, bright little villages nestling among the hills, and well-tilled fields, vineyards, and gay gardens. mountains screen this district on the north and east, and the vast atlantic washes it on the west. here is the chief wine-growing quarter of portugal, a land appropriately colonised by bacchus; and in the centre of the wine-making and exporting industry is porto, the capital of the province of entre-douro-e-minho. [illustration: oporto, . from the quay of villa nova.] "oporto the proud" is a very old city and seaport on the right bank of the impetuous douro, and within a few miles of the coast. the river is tidal and broad, and big ships come to the busy quays below the great suspension bridge. at the mouth of the douro is a bar, much dreaded by sailors, for it is rocky at this point, and generally a rough sea breaks and foams at the outlet. oporto is one of the most beautiful cities in europe. i visited it in june, when the terraces and gardens were aglow with flowers, the streets steeped in perpetual sunshine, the sky a deep blue, and the sunsets gorgeous. it is a bright city, seen from the opposite bank, with houses rising one above the other on slopes that are almost precipitous. here and there the rock juts out among the villas that overhang the river, while verdure shows on the high banks. in parts of the gorge the cliffs rise to three hundred feet. oporto is a city of squares. there are several of these open spaces, all planted with trees, well-paved, and surrounded by tall buildings which lend a moorish atmosphere to the towns. it is a centre of craftsmen. in one thoroughfare you will find harness-makers and hatters busily employed; in another goldsmiths and jewellers ply their trade. the markets are thronged with peasants from the vineyards, the women dressed in the gaudiest garments, with huge earrings and great gold brooches. perhaps nowhere in europe can so many prosperous and cheerful country-folk be seen assembled as in the streets of oporto on a market day. ox carts come laden with barrels; the river is dotted with the curiously shaped _barcos_ that bring the wine from the rustic presses far up the valley; and up the steep alleys clamber the pannier-donkeys, with fruit heaped in the baskets. the yoked oxen, led by sedate men--with large sallow faces, their loose limbs clothed in short jackets, and wearing the ancient hats of the district--the mule carts and the pack-donkeys appear mediæval and strangely out of accord with the modern motor cars of the fashionable citizens. oporto is both old and new. paris and london fashions in dress may be seen in the shopping quarters. there is a large colony of english people in the city, and many french and german merchants. here you will see a native of the hills in his national garb; there a lady clad in the newest parisian apparel; here an english sailor, and there a spaniard. all is movement, animation, colour, when the streets are gay and crowded on a holiday. the climate of oporto is pleasant and healthy. in the height of summer the heat is tempered by breezes from the atlantic, and from the mountains on the east. there is a high average of sunshine. during the winter there is a considerable rainfall, and occasional snow. around the city is a delightfully varied country of hills and valleys, watered by clear streams, and highly cultivated in the straths. on the slopes are roads of oak, chestnut, and birch. in the sheltered vales oranges, figs, lemons, and many other fruits thrive excellently. strawberries are large in size and abundant. vegetables grow with but little culture in this fertile land, and there are flower gardens with an opulence of colour. on the south bank of the douro there was probably an early roman settlement. the vandals swept down upon lusitania when the power of the romans waned, and after them came other teuton hordes--the suevi and the fierce visigoths. about the middle of the eighth century the moors conquered portugal, and held it for three centuries. the asturians of northern spain appear to have reconquered this part of portugal in the time of ferdinand i. of castile. after the subduing of the moors, alfonso i. was proclaimed king of portugal. until about the house of burgundy held the throne, and from that date the country rose in power, and became commercially prosperous. john i. of portugal married the daughter of john of gaunt, and became a staunch ally of england, receiving the order of the garter. this was a stirring period in the history of the country, a time of strenuous warfare with castile, and the last remnant of the moors. in the reign of juan of castile, portugal became one of the chief exploring nations of europe. henry, third son of the king, was studious, and learned in astronomy and geography. he obtained royal subsidies, and gathered about him travellers and seamen whom he inspired to set forth on voyages of discovery. two vessels were sent by the prince to round the southernmost point of africa, with the object of reaching the east indies. in the voyagers discovered madeira, which was made a portuguese settlement; but they dreaded the rounding of the south cape of africa, a point greatly dreaded by all mariners in those days. the canary islands passed at this time into the hands of a french adventurer, de bethancourt, whose heirs afterwards sold the colony to henry of portugal. vasco de gama's famous expedition to india was undertaken in , and this bold explorer, unlike his predecessors, doubled the cape of good hope, and travelled as far as mozambique, where he found pilots who offered to direct his course to india. the pilots, however, proved treacherous. eventually, after many delays, a trustworthy pilot was found at melinda, and de gama reached india, where he opened trading relations with the natives. at the end of two years the discoverer returned to portugal and was received with great honour. the prosperity of oporto was largely due to the maritime enterprises of this period. cabral discovered brazil in , and de cortereal is said to have reached greenland. the sea-rovers were the makers of modern portugal. the great empire of brazil was colonised by juan iii. in ; and the portuguese claimed great territories in the east, which yielded splendid revenues. this was the most illustrious epoch in the history of portugal. parts of india and china were colonised. art and learning flourished in the time of manuel i., and the architectural style known as the arte manoelina was developed. this style is a flamboyant gothic, with indian and morisco influence, full of fantasy and often extravagant. the colonisers attempted to convert the people of india to christianity, and the zealous st francis xavier conducted a mission to that country in the reign of juan iii. trade with japan was opened at this time. after a long spell of fortune, disaster fell upon portugal. philip ii. of spain envied the western strip of the peninsula, and in he seized portugal and annexed it to spain. it was not until that the portuguese regained their territory, and placed the duke of braganza on the throne. during the peninsular war, the city of oporto was the scene of severe fighting, when the troops of marshal soult were surprised and routed by the force of wellington. in the miguelites besieged the city, and were defeated, with much loss, by the pedroites. civil disturbances have frequently shaken the town. in the powerful oporto wine company was re-established. the port wine, for which oporto is famed throughout the globe, is the staple product of the district. there is little doubt that the port of our grandfathers was a light wine without much "body," and this kind of port is consumed in the country districts of portugal. the tipplers who could consume three or four bottles of port, in the days of the georges, probably drank this light wine, which was imported new, and was not a keeping wine. the prowess of our ancestors, "the six-bottle men," has been overrated. old port cannot be drunk in such quantities. the export trade in wine is enormous, and the chief trade is with england and the united states. besides port, oporto sends to foreign markets cattle, mineral ores, fruits, and olive oil. the population of the city in was , . in his account of his travels in portugal and galicia, the earl of carnarvon writes of the city, in : "at length i reached oporto, an ancient and very picturesque town; the streets with a few noble exceptions, are narrow, and the houses high and ornamented with handsome balconies. that part of the city which overhangs the douro is strikingly beautiful; the river itself is fine and clear, and the banks bold and partially wooded." since this was written new and wider thoroughfares have been made in oporto. the city has been modernised in many respects, but it still retains a savour of the eastern influence. many of the houses are faced with striped tiles, painted blue. these tiles, or ajuléjos, are one of the staple manufactures of portugal, and are moorish in origin. the cathedral, or the sé, stands in a dominating position on the crest of a hill. it is in the pointed gothic style, built of granite. there is an imposing tower, and a fine rose window. in the cloisters there are interesting specimens of ajuléjo work, and highly ornamented pillars. the mosaics represent "the song of solomon," and are well worth attention. the cathedral is in the form of a cross, with a wide nave, and several chapels. there is a marble floor. the interior is without any impressive objects of art, and much of it is modern. close to the cathedral is the bishop's palace, with an interesting staircase. some of the churches of oporto are notable for their lavish internal decoration. san francisco dates from the early fifteenth century, and has a rose window of great beauty. the wood carving within is very interesting, and there is a gorgeous memorial to pereira. the bolsa is a striking building close to this church. são pedro is another old church which should be seen. the renaissance church of the convent of nossa senhora de serra do pilar has beautiful cloisters, and a remarkable dome. the bridge is one of the wonders of oporto. it connects the banks of the douro with a single arch, over five hundred feet in length, and is nearly as long as the cernavoda bridge across the danube. at both ends are towers. the bridge is immensely strong, and though of iron, elegant in design. it is crossed by an upper and a lower roadway, and from the higher road there is a magnificent view up and down the swirling river. in the busiest part of the city is the space known as the praça de dom pedro from which several streets radiate. a modern city hall is on one side. in the middle of the square is a bronze statue of pedro iv. on horseback, the work of calmels. the torre dos clerigos, close to the praça, is a splendid outlook point, with a bird's-eye view of the city, the gorge of the douro, and the shimmering atlantic in the distance. for a riotous wealth of flowers the visitor should see the jardim da cordoaria. the grounds of the crystal palace are also very lovely. the gardens are on the slopes descending to the douro, and the mingling of natural beauty with cultivation is charming. nowhere have i seen such splendid roses. the winding paths afford many delightful glimpses of the river and the ocean. one of the quaintest parts of oporto, where there are still many ancient houses, is the rua cima do muro. but in all the old quarters of the city there are interesting streets and corners. the markets should be visited by travellers interested in the customs of the people. they are bright and animated on market days. the picture gallery will disappoint the student who expects to see a representative collection of portuguese art. in the largo de viriato is the museum, endowed by allen, an englishman, and given to the city. the pictures preserved here are not of much interest, except the few works ascribed to rubens and van dyck. there is a collection of natural history specimens in the museum. the public library has a large collection of volumes, numbering many thousands, and is an excellent institution. it was founded by pedro iv. and stands on the site of a convent near the garden of são lázaro. for art-work in gold, visit the rua das flores, the street of goldsmiths. the windows contain highly interesting gold ornaments of infinite variety of design, in filigree, and enamelled. huge earrings, worn by the women of the vineyards, are displayed here in lavish array. a pleasant excursion may be made to são joão da foz, a favourite sunday and holiday resort of the oporto people in summer time. the road runs by the douro, and upon approaching the mouth of the river, the dangerous bar will be seen. the seaside village, with the difficult name, has fine sands and an interesting coast stretching northwards. the atlantic thunders along this shore in stormy weather, but the bathing is safe. at mattosinhos, to the north of foz, there is a wonderful crucifix, said to have been picked up from the sea after floating from the holy land. it is an object of great veneration among the peasantry and working-class. another excursion may be made to villa de feira, where there is an ancient castle. poitiers a study in grey and green is the impression left upon my mind by a first view of the old town of poitiers. there is a sternness in the aspect of the place as you approach it by rail through the pastures of vienne. but peace now rests upon poitiers; the town dreams in this quiet french landscape, and the chronicles of arms are old and faded memories. crécy and poitiers! every english school-boy remembers the names of these great battlefields, and thrills at the story of the black prince and his encounters with king john of france. poitiers sets the reflective visitor musing upon martial valour, and the vast futile exercise of the bellicose instincts of the french and british nations in the time of the hundred years' war. fighting was then the proper and exclusive occupation of gentlemen. the age that gave birth to chaucer was the age of vainglorious warfare with scotland and france, followed by intellectual stagnation, and all the bitter fruitage of battle. [illustration: poitiers. the church of notre dame, .] in the black prince, at the head of an army, advanced from bordeaux towards poitiers, laying waste the fertile regions of the south, where no war had ever been waged until this aggression. aided by the turbulent gascons, the english prince came on th september to some vineyards and fields about four miles from poitiers. the french host, sixty thousand strong, awaited him. hedgerows and vines formed cover for the english bowmen; the warriors in armour held a point where a narrow lane led to the encampment. up this lane the french soldiers, in their heavy mail, charged to the attack, meeting a terrific rain of arrows from men in ambush. very soon the narrow roadway was choked with the wounded and the dying. the french were arrayed in three strong divisions, and probably outnumbered the troops of the black prince by seven to one. but their position was open and exposed, whereas the english had entrenched themselves and made a barricade of waggons. moreover, the french were worn with long marches. a sally of english archers, under captal de buch, wrought havoc among the french on the left flank of their force, and from that moment the enemy wavered. a great and final charge was led by the black prince and sir denis de morbecque, a knight of artois. the french drew back, routed, and in disorder, to the gates of poitiers. after a valiant stand, king john was taken captive. the victory was complete for england; the vanquished king was a prisoner, his troops lay in thousands on the field. eleven thousand of the flower of french chivalry perished in this fierce carnage. petrarch gives us a picture of the harvest of this strife: "i could not believe that this was the same france which i had seen so rich and flourishing. nothing presented itself to my eyes but a fearful solitude, an utter poverty, land uncultivated, houses in ruin." the black prince treated his royal captive with courtesy, entertaining him at his own table, and praising his bravery. in may the french king was brought to england, and, seated on a charger, he rode side by side with his victor through the streets of london. as a first residence, king john was given the savoy palace, and afterwards he and his son spent some time in windsor castle. watered on three sides by the rivers boivre and clain, and standing on rising ground, poitiers was chosen as the site of a roman settlement. not far from the town are the ruins of a roman burial-place, and antiquities that have been discovered may be seen in the interesting museum of antiquaries de l'ouest. in the count du lude valiantly defended poitiers against the seven weeks' siege of troops led by coligny, finally repulsing the enemy, and retaining the town. protestantism seems to have gained ground in poitiers, for we read that in the days of calvin there were many "conversions" among the inhabitants. in september the justices of the city published a proscription of religious gatherings, and bade all strangers to quit the place in twenty-four hours. no preaching was permitted, the inhabitants were enjoined not to give necessities of life to the pastors under penalty of punishment for sedition. this persecution, directed against the lutherans, was the result of the edict of villars-cotteret, and of an order made in blois, which decreed that all the attenders at religious assemblies should be put to death, "without hope of pardon or mitigation." france was at this time the scene of the fierce religious intolerance which led to the massacre of st bartholomew. gaspard de coligny, admiral of france, who led the siege of poitiers, was a convert to the teaching of calvin, and the leader of the reformed party. touched with fanaticism, he was a valorous soldier, and was never daunted by his reverses. after a long conflict with the church, the admiral was murdered brutally, and his body mutilated, and dragged through the streets of paris by a rabble. the oldest church in the town is st jean. a basilica once stood where st peter's massive bulk overshadows the houses around. the towers of this church date from the thirteenth century. there are some very old stained-glass windows; in one of them are portraits of henry ii. and eleanor of england. portions of the church of st radegonde are probably of the eleventh century. st porchaine is another ancient church worth visiting. the dukes of aquitaine lived in the city, and their palace is now a court of law. one of the halls has a fine vaulted wooden roof. poitiers has many winding, narrow lanes of curious old houses. it is not a busy commercial city, but it does not lack an air of comfort and prosperity. the town has to-day a population of over thirty thousand souls. rouen the fascination of this ancient city of normandy consists not only in its historical associations and its splendid cathedral, but in the fine setting, colour, and aspect of the place. rouen should be approached, if possible, by boat on the seine. the steamboat journey from the mouth of the river is very delightful, and there is no better way of gaining an impression of one of the most beautiful of the provinces of france. hills, with frowning rocks, begirt the seine in its tortuous course. woods and tilled fields alternate with primitive, untamed ravines, watered by rivulets, and old sombre-hued houses and churches peer among woods. parts of the valley recall wales or scotland in their ruggedness; while here and there we are reminded of the softer scenes of southern england. the rouen of obscure days of antiquity was probably a colony of the tribe of the roths-magi. many place-names in normandy suggest that the danes held this district, and they, rather than norwegians, were the early conquerors. from rouen we derive our word "roan" for a horse of a reddish colour, for the first imported norman horses were known as "rouens." in the eighth century this was a city of ecclesiastics, who erected many churches and convents. a long line of celebrated bishops ruled here, and the first church of st ouen was probably built at this period. the normans harried the country in , under the valiant rollo, and rouen was then made the capital of normandy. in the days of duke william of normandy, our gallant conqueror, caen was of greater importance than rouen, and at the first city the sovereigns built their palaces. william the conqueror died in rouen, but his body was taken to caen for burial. rufus invaded the territory in , and obtained possession of all the chief forts on the seine, up to rouen. the attempt to recover normandy, under henry of england, is a stirring chronicle of battle. the city of rouen was at this time stoutly fortified, while it was famed for its wealth and power. led by the brave alan blanchard, the people of rouen made a fierce defence. but henry had cut off approach from the sea; he held, too, the roads to paris. he encompassed the walls of rouen with his army; he brought boats up the river, constructed a floating bridge, and dug trenches for his troops. the soldiers and citizens within the city resisted for six terrible months. many were the victims of famine, and those who strove to escape were at once struck down by the besiegers. "fire, blood and famine" were henry's handmaids of war, and he declared that he had chosen "the meekest maid of the three" to subdue rouen. at length the starving and desperate citizens resolved to burn the city, and to fling themselves on the english. this threat caused henry to offer terms of pacification. blanchard, the valorous defender of rouen, was, however, killed by order of the english monarch. the immortal joan of arc appears later on the scene. we cannot follow the strange and inspiring page of her career. betrayed at length, and given into the hands of the english, she was imprisoned in rouen, where a charge of heresy was made against her. to escape from the military to the ecclesiastic prison joan pleaded guilty to the accusation of heresy. the story of her martyrdom is not a theme upon which one cares to dwell. the english cause was lost, though joan of arc was burned. "oh, rouen, rouen, i have great fear lest you suffer for my death. yes! my voices were of god; they have never deceived me." and as the maid dropped in the writhing flames, the soldiers cried: "we are lost! we have burned a saint!" "no longer on st denis will we cry, but joan la pucelle shall be france's saint." the french recaptured rouen in . there is now no trace of the proud castle built by henry v. of england. the prophetic cry of the soldiers had been fulfilled. before the end of the thirteenth century a cathedral was built in the city, and by the sixteenth century the stupendous edifice was finished. notre dame has a splendid west front, and very ornamental entrances to the transepts. the decorated rose windows are exceedingly fine. the choir has thirteenth-century stained windows, which must be seen in the sunlight. here, too, are the monuments of henry ii. and richard i. unfortunately, much of the external decoration of notre dame has been disfigured by weathering, and some of the images have disappeared. but the rose windows are very celebrated, and the tower of the sixteenth century is richly ornamented. the lady chapel contains the tomb of two cardinals, with beautifully sculptured figures, and carvings of exquisite craftsmanship. the tomb of the duke of brézé is attributed to jean goujon, and the images are true works of genius. saint-owen is perhaps more interesting than the cathedral. it is an immense building, and though so huge, finely proportioned. the south portal is rich and exquisite in its decoration. for an example of goujon's work, you must inspect the remarkably decorated door of the church of st madou. there are other notable churches in rouen; and the fine stained-glass windows of st godard must not be overlooked. among other buildings of interest is the palace of justice, with a stately frontage. in rouen was born corneille, and upon a bridge over the seine you will find his statue. fontenelle was also one of the illustrious natives of the city. readers of gustave flaubert will remember his pictures of the country around rouen, in "madame bovary." charles bovary was sent to school in the city. "his mother selected a room for him, on a fourth floor, overlooking the eau-de-robec, in the house of a dyer she was acquainted with." it was in yonville-l'abbage, "a large village about twenty miles from rouen," that charles and emma bovary settled after their marriage. "the river which runs through it," writes flaubert, "seems to have imparted to it two distinct characters. on the right bank it is all grass-land, whilst on the left it is all arable. the meadow-land spreads at the foot of some high-lying ground until it meets the pastures of bray on the other side; on the east the gently rising ground loses itself in the distance in fields of golden wheat. the water running through the grass-land divides the colours of the meadows and of the furrows by a white streak, and so the landscape looks like a great unfolded cloak, with a green velvet collar bordered with silver." such is the country that the genius of flaubert has peopled with his types of provincial character. municipal enterprise has "improved and beautified" rouen in modern times. the new, broad thoroughfares are undoubtedly admirable, according to the standard of to-day; but the reconstruction of many streets has meant the destruction of a large number of those old gabled houses that delighted the travellers of sixty years ago. fortunately, a few charming ancient corners remain, and the authorities of the city have preserved some of these weather-worn buildings as monuments of mediæval rouen. jean goujon, the most notable sculptor of his period, is associated with rouen, but it has not been proved that he was a native of the city. mystery surrounds the life of this genius. we do not even know the date of his birth. his sculpture is imaginative and powerful art, and he is very successful in presenting nude figures. it is supposed that goujon was one of the victims of the massacre of st bartholomew. a picture of the monastic life of normandy, in the thirteenth century, has been drawn in the remarkable _regestrum visitationum_ of eude rigaud, archbishop of rouen. this wonderful diary has over five hundred pages, and covers a period of about twenty years. in , rigaud was appointed archbishop of rouen by innocent iv. he proved a zealot for reforms in the church; he undertook periodic inspection of the monasteries and nunneries, and his journals contain much "sensational" reading. the archbishop records that the rule in many of the convents was exceedingly lax, and that fasts and penances were not duly observed. he found that a number of the clergy were addicted to tippling, and he made clerical drunkenness an offence punishable by the deprivation of a living. incontinence was very common among the monks. in the convents, rigaud discovered "great disorders." but the archbishop relates that the offenders were so numerous that had he expelled them all, no priests would have been left in the diocese. when wandering in the streets of rouen, we remember that saint-amant was born here in . the life of this wine-loving poet is full of rare adventure and colour. he was a scholar, wit, soldier, statesman, and man of business by turn. saint-amant visited england, went to rome with the fleet, and afterwards to spain. he also started a glass factory, and was for a period a diplomat in poland. his career is a long romance. saint-amant's name in full was marc antoine de gérard, sieur de saint amant. the name by which he is best known was taken from the abbey of saint-amant. he was one of the greatest of good livers, with an unquenchable thirst, and an infinite capacity for absorbing liquor. it is said that he and his boon companions often sat for twenty-four hours over their bottles. in those days of tavern revelry, the poet was respected as a master of deep-drinking and a model for the bibulous. théophile gautier wrote of the poet of rouen: "saint-amant is assuredly a very great and very original poet, worthy to be named among the best of whom france can boast." this exquisite singer and devoted worshipper of bacchus died in paris in . chartres the city of chartres stands on a bold hill, rising from a wide plain on the south-west of paris, watered by the river eure, a tributary of the seine. this commanding position was favourable for a fortified town, and long before the romans came to gaul, kings had a stronghold here of great importance. chartres is dominated by its ancient cathedral towers, that rise grey and massive, forming an outstanding landmark for leagues around. the old low-built houses of the city are dwarfed by this mighty church, which overshadows a number of twisting, narrow alleys of mediæval aspect. many of the houses in chartres are weather-worn, and give an impression of extreme age, and sometimes of decay. parts of the town, it is true, have been rebuilt and made modern; but one's recollection is of an aged, somnolent place, dreaming of its past, though it strives to advance in line with progressive ideas of municipal improvement. according to mr henry james, it is not so long ago that sedan-chairs were used in chartres; and during his visit in , he saw only two vehicles--the omnibuses of the rival hotels. for the student of early gothic architecture in france, chartres is a most profitable field. the older forms of the arch, the foliated window-circles, the boldly decorated doorways, the twelfth-century decorative details, and the massive, as well as the light, buttress can be seen here in perfection. few, if any, cathedral portals in europe can excel in richness those of chartres. here is to be seen the noblest examples of twelfth-century sculpture. after the romans, the city was ruled by christian princes up to the day of charlemagne. before the tenth century, the first christian church in chartres was burned down, and very little of the pristine fabric was spared by the flames. the pious saint bernard preached here, and many illustrious bishops presided over the see. henry v. of england came to the city; and so did mary of scotland. there have been two or three notable sieges, and the city was a scene of slaughter during the great revolution. the legends surrounding the first building consecrated to the christian faith in chartres are numerous. saint aventin was probably the first bishop of the see. fulbert, who received tribute from a number of monarchs, was the founder of the new cathedral, after the wreckage by fire about the year . there were two or three attacks from fire, for fulbert's structure was seriously damaged in the twelfth century. the crypt is part of a very early building. in the chapels are bare traces of the old mural paintings, and several remarkable remains of the more ancient edifice. the crypt forms a church in itself, for it contains no less than fourteen chapels. there are several points of difference between the early gothic styles of england and france, and height is a characteristic of the french cathedrals; the architects delighted in lofty vaultings, and seemed to vie with one another in attaining great height. double aisles and double flying buttresses are other features of the french gothic churches, distinguishing them from the churches of england of the same date. the french pillars are heavy, and not so highly ornamented as those of england. in the windows we find chiefly in france the lancet; and the circle, with trefoils and quatre-foils, is a common form. specimens of round windows may be studied to advantage in the cathedral of chartres. the most beautiful examples of early french gothic architecture, in detail, are the ornate portals, especially of the western façades, the spires, the imposing towers, the rose windows, and the high vaulting. the west front at chartres is early twelfth-century work. few façades present such a bewildering wealth of decoration and of impressive height. the windows are enormous, and the central rose window is remarkably rich in design. each of the three doorways is full of most interesting statuary, with luxuriant decorations. the north portal was once gilded and coloured, but this embellishment has disappeared. many figures adorn this doorway, and every one of them will repay close inspection. the central door on this side is exquisite. another impressive front is on the south. here are the statues of christ trampling on the lion, and of christ as judge. innumerable figures cluster on this porch. every façade and doorway of the cathedral of chartres is a gallery of statuary. very noble are the two huge towers. the north tower is the more majestic of the two, and dates from the sixteenth century. it is literally covered with delicious ornament and mediæval statuary. the south tower is massive, but plainer, rising to a height of about three hundred and fifty feet. it is adorned with some quaint symbolic figures. there were once two immense bells within this tower. the interior of the cathedral impresses by its vastness and height. a wider nave is not to be found among the cathedrals of france, and the aisles are proportionate in width. the eye ranges upwards to the wonderful roof, with its opulent decoration, to the beautiful triforium, and the tall, narrow windows of the clerestory. the magnificent choir screen is finely sculptured. among the host of figures are the virgin, saint joachim, and the adoration of wise men. several groups, representing scenes from scripture, deck the screen. the effigies are far too numerous to describe in detail. there is a monument within the choir, "the assumption," by bridan. the pavement is of variegated marble. in the south aisle of the choir is a tall stained-glass window of an early date. several of the painted windows were executed before the fourteenth century, and these are to be seen in the nave, the clerestory, and the transcepts. the chapels have several interesting stained windows, fine roof decorations, and handsome portals. in the sacristy there is a notable window; and in the ambulatory will be seen the clothed figure of the virgin mary, one of the chief treasures of the cathedral. the sixteenth-century church of saint aignan ranks next to the cathedral in interest. it has a fine, but somewhat worn, front, still rich in examples of renaissance art. more than once fire has ravaged this church, and during the revolution the edifice was despoiled and damaged. saint aignan is the burial-place of the bishop whose name it bears. there are many stained windows in the church. the interior is in other respects somewhat plain. there are some interesting old churches in chartres. in the church of san pierre there are dazzling stained windows which should be seen by the visitor, as they are among the finest examples in chartres. there is an old portal on the north side, and the great buttresses should be noted. many of the decorations of the interior were destroyed by the revolution. there are some old houses of historical and architectural interest in chartres, and one will be seen near saint aignan's. the museum is in the town hall. among the objects of interest collected here are some examples of tapestry that were formerly in the cathedral. there are also many relics of the roman days. in the library are several old missals. chartres is the birthplace of two poets, desportes and mathurin regnier, his nephew. desportes, born in , travelled in italy and poland, and was court bard to henri iii. he died in . mathurin regnier was a poet of a higher order. he composed a number of fine satires and many lyrical poems. a general impression of chartres is gained by following the tree-shaded walk which surrounds the old town, a promenade that gives many delightful glimpses of the plain and of narrow ancient streets, with here and there a trace of the crumbling walls. rheims by the side of the river vesle, in the province of marne, and on the verge of a famous champagne producing country, is one of the oldest towns of france. rheims, with its ancient gates, its memorials of roman times, and monuments of illustrious kings of gaul, has a history of much interest. its cathedral ranks with the finest ecclesiastic buildings of the world, and is celebrated as the scene of many great pageants of the coronations of french sovereigns. the romans captured a city here, and called it durocortorum, and in cæsar's day this was an important station. it is recorded that attila, the fierce conqueror, ravaged the town with fire. the consul, jovinus of rheims, was an early convert to christianity, which was preached here by two missionaries from rome in the fourth century. the marble cenotaph of the christian consul is to be seen in the city. then came the vandals, who seized the town, and murdered the bishop at the door of the first cathedral. when king clovis conquered the fair territory of champagne, st rémi was made bishop of rheims, and henceforward the kings of france were crowned here. many famous prelates lived in the city during the succeeding centuries; one, the most celebrated, gerbert, became pope. joan of arc is an important figure in the drama of rheims during the great war with england. the peasant's daughter, born on the borders of champagne, at domremy, a hamlet which is now a shrine, reached the height of her triumph in , when she led a vast army to the gates of rheims. "o gentle king, the pleasure of god is done," cried the white maid, as she knelt before charles vii. after his coronation in the gorgeous cathedral. a yearning for home and the old tranquil life was in the heart of joan; she wished to leave the tented field, and to return to her sheep-folds and pastures. but, at the battle of compiegne, she fell into the hands of the treacherous bastard of vendôme, and about a year later joan la pucelle was burned to death. the focus of interest in rheims is the cathedral. notre dame was built on the situation of a roman basilica. parts of the present building were first constructed in , but the façade is of the fourteenth century. this magnificent front has a gorgeous portal, with pointed arches of great grace, rising to a large and handsome rose window. there are two towers over two hundred and fifty feet high, very finely decorated. a number of statues adorn this façade, on the portals and in the arch of the rose window. the figure of the virgin is over the principal doorway, bending to receive the crown from the hands of christ. "the three great doorways," writes mr henry james, in "portraits of places," "are in themselves a museum of imagery, disposed in each case in five close tiers, the statues in each of the tiers packed perpendicularly against their comrades. the effect of these great hollowed and chiselled recesses is extremely striking; they are a proper vestibule to the dusky richness of the interior. the cathedral of rheims, more fortunate than many of its companions, appears not to have suffered from the iconoclasts of the revolution; i noticed no absent heads nor broken noses." the rose windows of the transepts are exceedingly lovely, and attention should be paid to the design of the buttresses, and the very remarkable gargoyles. one of the towers contains an enormous bell. in the exterior of the south transept are several good statues. an immense nave stretches for nearly five hundred feet. this part of the edifice was repeatedly extended to make space for the great crowds that attended the imposing coronation ceremonies. around the choir are several chapels. in numerous niches and corners are statues of interest. "the long sweep of the nave, from the threshold to the point where the coloured light-shafts of the choir lose themselves in the grey distance, is a triumph of perpendicular perspective," writes mr henry james. perhaps the greatest treasures preserved in notre dame are the tapestries. there are pieces representing the life of the virgin, while several depict scenes in the life of christ. the canticles form the subject of other examples. two pieces of gobelins, after designs by raphael, represent the life of st paul. these tapestries are exceptionally fine specimens of this art. during the coronation celebrations, the sovereigns occupied the archbishop's palace, which is close to the cathedral. the building was begun about . in the museum of the palace is the famous cenotaph of jovinius, adorned with sculpture. a large hall contains portraits of kings. among the churches of importance in rheims are st jacques, st andré, and st thomas. the church of st rémi, named after the great bishop, dates from the eleventh century. during the revolution this church was terribly damaged; many of the splendid relics and statues were destroyed, and but a few images were spared. the tomb of st rémi is modern, except the images that decorate it. there are some rich tapestries in the church. the doorway of the south transept is handsome, and there are beautiful windows of an early date. the cloister of the abbey is now enclosed by a hotel. in the seventeenth century the present town hall was erected. it contains a gallery of paintings and a museum. the chief roman monument in the town is the great arch of triumph, the porte de mars. this structure was probably erected by agrippa on the occasion of the opening of the highways leading to the city. near to the arch stood a temple of mars. the gate of mars is over a hundred feet long, and over forty feet high. there are several figures under the archways. parts of a roman pavement are near the triumphal arch. these are the only memorials of roman times, but it may be noted that the gates of the city still retain their original names. rheims was fortified after the franco-prussian war; and in recent years many of the streets have been widened and modernised. henry james notes "a prosperous, modern, mercantile air" in the rheims of to-day. considerable business is transacted in the city. it is a centre of the woollen industry, and there are several weaving and spinning works, and a large trade in flannel and blankets. the chief ancient charm of rheims is in the great cathedral, with its highly interesting architecture, the old church of st rémi, and the roman arch. the streets are clean and bright, and the town has its tramcars among other tokens of modernity. there are not many statues of importance. the monument to louis xv. stands in the place royale. bruges the air of prosperity which is so apparent in amsterdam and antwerp is missing in bruges, once populated by a busy multitude of craftsmen and weavers. early in the seventh century, the city contained as many as fifty thousand weavers, and this was probably the period of its greatest splendour. for several centuries, however, bruges held its position as a trading town, and in the fourteenth century, under the rule of the dukes of burgundy, its market was known throughout europe, and was visited by the wealthy merchants of italy and greece. if the greatness of the industrial power has long since declined, bruges can still boast of its ancient monuments, which invite visitors from all parts of the world. the town is much visited by strangers. it is easily reached from england by way of ostend, and ships of five hundred tons can sail up to bruges on its wide artificial waterway. for the causes of the decay of the town, we must refer to the early wars that disturbed the country, to the penalty which the natives suffered for rebellion against the archduke maximilian in , when the trade was transferred to antwerp, and finally to the ravages of the duke of alva's army. peter titelmann harried the burghers in the days of religious strife to such an extent that the catholic burgomasters and senators of the town petitioned the duchess regent to protect them. they complained that the inquisitor of the faith brought before them men and women, and forced them to confess; and that, without warrant, he dragged his victims from the church itself. in the french, under captain chamois, having seized ostend and other towns, came to the gates of bruges. the burgomaster refused to admit the fifteen hundred troops, and rallying the townsmen, he made a stand against the invading force, compelling chamois to retire. the city was famed for its workers in tapestry, an art known early in the netherlands, and probably borrowed from the saracens. in flemish artists, invited by henri iv., introduced the working of tapestry into france, and a few years later the industry was established in england. philip the good, of burgundy, who died in , was scarcely worthy of his title of virtue. he was, however, in spite of his adroitness in deception, an encourager of industry and commerce, and a protector of the arts. he invited the brothers, john and hubert van eyck, to bruges, and he patronised men of science and scholars. "lord of so many opulent cities and fruitful provinces, he felt himself equal to the kings of europe." upon his marriage with isabella of portugal, he founded at bruges the celebrated order of the "golden fleece." this order played a great part in flemish history. the symbol of the golden fleece was both religious and industrial, and the lamb of god, hung upon the breast of the twenty-five knights, represented not only devotion, but also the woollen trade of the country. motley gives the number of the knights as twenty-five, but another authority states that it numbered thirty-one, and that the members of the order wore a distinguishing cloak, lined with ermine, and the cipher of the duke of burgundy in the form of a b, with flints striking fire. the motto was: _aute ferit, quam flamma micat._ the memorials of the days of splendour are many in this city of the past. the cathedral is not of the finest gothic work externally, but it is rich in monuments, and lavishly decorated within. its earlier portions date from the twelfth century, the fine nave is of a later period. the pictures are not of much importance. notre dame has a lofty spire, and many interesting details will be found in its architecture of the early and the later gothic periods. one of the chapels contains the tombs of charles, duke of burgundy, and his daughter, mary. the images are in copper, and recumbent on marble. memories of charles the bold crowd into the mind as we stand before his effigy. his vast ambition led him into rash adventures, and his career, if brilliant, was also tragic in its failures. charles would have made burgundy a kingdom, but he lacked the essentials of a conqueror, in spite of his courage. his rapacity was a drain on the resources of the netherlands; his love of power made him an oppressor, and caused discontent and rebellion. through his want of the true kingly qualities he brought disaster upon the country, and destroyed the peace of the small republics. in his forty-fourth year, in , he died, leaving his people impoverished, and the industries decaying. his realm was given into the charge of his daughter, mary, who married the emperor maximilian. the monument of mary of burgundy is an example of the work of de beckere, an eminent sculptor. a painting by porbus of "the crucifixion and last supper" is in this church. the carved pulpit is a good specimen of this flemish craft. the town hall and palace of justice contain several important pictures, and both buildings are architecturally instinctive; the former is very highly decorated gothic, with a fine façade, and several statues of the flemish counts. there is a library in the town hall with a beautiful roof. here are some missals and manuscripts, and a large collection of books. the palace of justice has been restored, but parts of the older building remain. it has a spacious hall, and an elaborate fireplace, with statues of some of the rulers of burgundy. la chapelle du saint sang is finely decorated, and has an ancient crypt, containing early treasures. we must now visit the academy of painting, and inspect the pictures, though not without regret that there are so few works of the illustrious artists of bruges, the brothers van eyck, in the collection. there is, however, one of j. van eyck's greatest pictures in the academy. this is the famous "portrait of his wife," a rarely finished piece of work, with a singular history, for it was found in one of the markets of bruges, thickly coated with filth. the permanent quality of the colour used by the flemish artists of this period is instanced in the case of this portrait, which has been most successfully cleaned. the tints are in splendid preservation. in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the art of flanders flourished, and the brothers van eyck were the pioneers of oil painting. many painters had tried oil as a medium, but none succeeded till hubert and jan van eyck discovered a suitable oil. working with this new medium, they produced wonderfully durable pictures. it is supposed that the medium was a mixture of oils and resin, which dried rapidly. the colours of our modern artists cannot compare with those of the old flemish school in respect to durability, which is seen in some of the works of the victorian period in england. the other paintings by jan van eyck are "the virgin and child, with st george and st donatus," and "a head of christ," dated . of these two pictures, the former is by far the more representative of the painter's genius. j. van eyck died, and was buried in bruges, in a church which the french destroyed. there is a poor statue of the painter on the ground whereon the church stood. memling's altarpiece is in the collection, a much restored painting of "st christopher and the infant jesus." for other works of this artist, we must visit the hospital of st john, which stands near to notre dame. the pictures are very remarkable and marvellously preserved. "the adoration of the magi," "the virgin and child," "the head of zambetha," "the virgin," and other examples are in this collection. memling and his school used landscape, as seen through windows, in many of their portrait works, and his architectural backgrounds were painted from the houses in bruges. we may still see houses that recall his period. hans memling was probably born in , and appears to have lived in the town until . his statue is in the place du vieux bourg. among the old houses of the town is the prissenhof, though now it is only a ruined memorial of its past grandeur. here charles the bold wedded margaret of york, and here lived several of the counts of flanders. an idea of the fortifications of the town in the middle ages is gained by a walk around the ramparts which enclose bruges. the many canals, that intersect the city, lend beauty to bruges. besides the great waterway to ostend there are a canal to ghent and other streams. lace-making is one of the industries of bruges, and there is a trade in linen and woollen goods and pottery. the city to-day is not a bustling, commercial place, as in mediæval times, and to some visitors it may savour of sadness. mr harry quilter is a traveller who finds the gothic towns "more than ordinarily depressing," by reason of their monotony. "perhaps it is the effect of the angular roofs and windows, wearying to the eye as the diagrams in a book of euclid. perhaps it is the low-browed shops, the irregularly paved streets, the dull unrelieved brown and grey of the houses. but for whatever reason, the effect is certainly dreary." if we do not find bruges a town of dull aspect it is due to personal temperament and taste. there may be greyness in these old gothic towns, there may be a suggestion of decay in bruges; but there is also a strong fascination, a charm that appeals to those whose eyes have grown weary of modern streets with their regular outlines and monotonous architecture. these tortuous lanes of belgium and holland, the gables, and the tall irregular houses, are steeped in an old-world atmosphere, and every corner suggests a subject for the painter's brush. certainly, the term "picturesque" may be used in speaking of bruges. it is still a large town, with a big population; but the thoroughfares seem rarely thronged, and there is slumber in the by-lanes. there appears to be no demand for new houses, and no indication that bruges will grow. its hotels prosper through the number of strangers that visit the city. few tourists in belgium neglect to visit this old town. ghent from bruges to ghent the distance is about twenty-eight miles. the railroad runs by the side of a placid canal, with banks planted with rows of tall trees--such as hobbema painted--and traverses a fertile country, a verdant district of west flanders, famous for its gardens and orchards. though an inland town, ghent can be approached by large vessels, by way of the schelde and a big canal draining from the river. from the top of the belfry tower the eye wanders over the countless spires and towers of the city, and a vague, distant expanse of flat country. there are few city views in europe to be compared with this. the prospect is vast and impressive; the town below presents a curious scene, partly old-world, and yet bustling and modern in many aspects; for ghent, with over one hundred and sixty thousand inhabitants, is one of the largest centres of belgian commerce, and was once the capital of flanders. in the fourteenth century it was said that over seventy thousand of its citizens were trained to arms, while the industrial population was large and thriving. prince john, third son of edward iii. of england, was born here, and took the name of john of ghent. the emperor charles v. was also born in ghent, in the old palace that has disappeared. the history of this city, which was probably founded in the days of the nervii, is nebulous until the tenth century, but in the town was strong enough to resist a big english army, and the prosperity of ghent was envied by the rest of europe. its busy looms gave employment to many thousands of weavers, and most of the wool used was supplied by england. edward iii. invited flemish weavers to his country, and kept up friendly relations with flanders. english wool was, however, still the chief supply of bruges and ghent, and the trade in one year enriched the coffers of edward iii. with £ , in duties. [illustration: ghent, .] erasmus declared that there was no other town in christendom that could be compared with ghent, in "size, power, political constitution, or the culture of its inhabitants." the city was practically a republic, ruled by representatives, elected yearly by fifty-two guilds of manufacturers and thirty-two corporations of weavers, and by a principal senate selected from all classes. it appears that these legislative authorities were often at strife, for outbreaks of factions within the walls of the town were frequent. when charles v. was in need of money to conduct a war against france, he made a very heavy claim upon ghent. the natives rebelled at the extortion; they even offered to fight with francis against the emperor. francis i. was, however, not disposed to ally himself with the people of ghent, and he communicated with charles, telling him of the defection of the burghers. hurrying from spain, through the territory of the enemy, charles v. advanced on flanders, and on th february he appeared unexpectedly at the walls of ghent. surrounded by his great army of lancers, archers, halberd-men and musketeers, and attended by prelates and barons, with many of the knights of the golden fleece, the emperor marched into the rebellious city. the inhabitants were awed by this pomp and display. as a punishment, the duke of alva proposed to destroy ghent; but charles was too cultured and rational to allow such destruction of a noble city. calling the leaders of the revolt before him, the emperor commanded that they should be executed, and he humiliated the chiefs of the trade guilds by causing them to bend before him, with halters tied around their necks, and to ask his leniency. all the privileges and charters of the city were made null, and the rents and revenues confiscated; while the subsidy demanded for the war was to be rendered in full. a fine was also levied, to be paid annually. this was how charles v. punished ghent for its show of independence, and from that day the city suffered in prosperity. the republican form of government was banished; in its stead the emperor gave the town into the despotic control of the supreme court of mechlin. nine miles of walls encompassed ghent in this day. it was a well-armed city, protected on all sides, and furnished with drawbridges over the streams that flowed through it. the population in the height of its glory was probably two hundred thousand. in a great congress was held in ghent, to draw up a document of pacification, in order to end the great struggle between the adherents of the old faith and the reformed religion. all the edicts of alva were withdrawn; all prisoners were to be freed, and compensation paid for confiscated property. saint aldegonde, with several commissioners, signed the treaty at ghent on th november. thus ended the inquisition in flanders. the publication of the treaty was received with the utmost joy throughout the land. hymns of praise were sung, cannons boomed the news, and beacon fires were lighted. a year later there was trouble in ghent, through the appointment of the duke of aerschot as governor of flanders. the duke was an ardent roman catholic, and the city abounded with converts to protestantism. a grand ceremony was witnessed when the new ruler, attended by several companies of infantry and three hundred horse soldiers, came to ghent. aerschot was regarded as an emissary of romanism by a large part of the inhabitants, and by the rest he was distrusted. a young noble named ryhove vowed that he would deliver ghent from the duke; so he went to william of orange with a plan for carrying out the extinction of aerschot's power. he stated that he was prepared to lead a cause which would result in the expulsion of "the duke with his bishops, councillors, lords, and the whole nest of them." on the day following ryhove's interview with the prince, he was visited by saint aldegonde, who informed him that the prince of orange did not strongly discountenance his plan, nor did he strongly approve of it. meanwhile, imbize, another young aristocrat of the city, had confronted aerschot, and the governor had threatened the rebellious citizens with a rope for their necks. when ryhove arrived, he called on the citizens to make a fight for their old charters and rights, and to banish for ever all vestiges of the spanish inquisition. incited by the ardent ryhove, the burghers arose and rushed through the streets to the house of aerschot, demanding admission. refused by the guards, they threatened to burn down the residence. but the duke surrendered in time, and ryhove protected him from the violence of the crowd, at the same time commanding that he should be taken prisoner. half naked, the governor was conveyed to the house of ryhove. so began an anti-catholic campaign, which shattered the supremacy of the older form of religion. aerschot was released. the prince of orange came to ghent, and strove to restore peace in the city. he was received with honour, pageants were arranged, a spectacular drama was displayed, and the prince was entertained generously. in imbize again led the inhabitants in revolt, and incited them to attack and plunder the catholics. william of orange successfully stemmed the conflict for a time, but imbize put himself at the head of a regiment, and actually arrested the magistrates of the city and other dignitaries, and established a board of rulers. william the silent again intervened. he came to ghent, reprimanded the riotous burghers, and had imbize brought before him. with his customary clemency, the prince pardoned the young man, after chiding him for his intolerance and folly. we read again of the fanatical puritan, imbize, in , when he allied himself with the catholic party, and plotted against his country. his scheme was, however, discovered; he was charged with treason, and brought to the gallows. ghent was early a stronghold of powerful trade guilds, and one of the meeting-places of these unions was in the market square. these organisations of craftsmen were probably established first by the flemish weavers to protect the woollen industry. all over europe the guilds were instituted by artisans working in walled towns during the middle ages. chaucer mentions them in england in his day. the guilds had their masters or wardens, who exercised an almost despotic sway over the members, and watched their interests zealously. the election of the wardens was made a pompous ceremony, accompanied by a religious service which was attended by the mayor and corporation, and followed by a banquet. no doubt the market square of ghent saw many of these ceremonies in days of old. the power of the merchants and manufacturers of ghent was great in the time of the city's affluence. we gain an idea of their sumptuous houses and their costly apparel from many paintings of the dutch school. often the merchant was wealthier than the feudal baron, and kings were known to borrow from them. jacques van artevelde, "the brewer" of ghent, was an important burgher in his day, though he was not, strictly speaking, a brewer, but a patrician who joined the brewer's guild, and headed a riotous faction against a rival guild. a fierce fight broke out in the square, and several hundreds of the combatants were slain. van artevelde was a staunch friend of edward iii. of england. he was killed by the populace for plotting to make edward ruler of flanders. such, briefly, are some of the main historical events of this old town of martial and industrial renown. let us now inspect some of the works of art preserved in the cathedral of st bavon. perhaps the masterpiece here is "the adoration of the lamb," the marvellous altar-picture painted by jan and hubert van eyck. the colour is glowing, though the picture was painted in . the lamb is attended by angels, and worshipped by a company of the devout. there are hundreds of heads in the composition, which has several compartments. the landscape is exquisitely rendered, both in the effect of distance and in the flowers of the foreground. parts of the altarpiece are elsewhere, in berlin and brussels, and the whole was carried away by the french, only a portion being restored. portraits of the brothers van eyck are among the just judges in the picture. among other paintings in the cathedral are works of roose, jansen, porbus, and a rubens, highly praised by sir joshua reynolds. there are several monuments, notably the statue of st bavon by verbruggen, and the effigies of bishops of ghent. in the crypt is the tomb of hubert van eyck. in the academy the pictures chiefly claiming inspection are "st francis," by rubens, some works by grayer, and jordaen's "woman taken in adultery." st michael's church contains a painting by vandyk, "the crucifixion," which is in poor preservation, and several modern pictures by flemish artists. the hotel de ville and the university of ghent are both fine buildings; the first has highly decorated frontages on two sides, that on the north showing the greater wealth of detail and ornament. a more modern, but very noble, structure is the university, containing a museum and library. antwerp three centuries ago the city of antwerp had in europe scarcely a rival in commerce and affluence. to-day antwerp remains one of the most populous commercial cities of belgium, although the period of its greatest splendour passed with the spanish persecution under the duke of alva. not only as a busy port and mart is the city on the schelde famous. it has renown as a centre of the arts, as the home of several of the most illustrious painters of the flemish school, and as the birthplace of one of the first academies of painting. as a fortified town, it has always been of first importance in the defence of belgium. the traveller from england, as the harwich boat steams up goldsmith's "lazy scheld" at daybreak, in summer-time, sees long grey vistas, on either side of the estuary, of flat pastures and fertile fields of grain, spreading away to bruges to the south, and across the island of walcheren, to the north. flushing comes into sight, its roofs and spires lit by the rising sun, which quickly lends colour to the landscape, and reveals a picturesque town, intersected by canals, lined with vessels. past islets and sandbanks, upon which sea-birds congregate, the steamer follows the line of buoys and beacons, until the river, though still tidal, becomes narrower, and in sixty odd miles from its mouth, washes the quays of antwerp. during this approach to the city by the schelde an impression is formed in the mind of the voyager of the ingenious methods of dyke-making, canal construction, and damming which have so greatly aided in the prosperity of holland and belgium. antwerp owes its wealth as much to the toil of the engineer and the agriculturist as to the merchant and craftsman. rural belgium is well populated, except in some parts of the ardennes; the farms are tilled with science, the towns and villages of the schelde-side are bright and clean, and inhabited by industrious, thrifty people. [illustration: antwerp, . the cathedral.] antwerp probably derives its name from "an t' werf," "on the wharf." its position on a deep navigable river was one of the principal causes of the early commercial supremacy of the city. when venice, nuremberg, and bruges were declining, the port on the schelde was in the height of its repute, and second to paris in the number of its inhabitants, among whom but few were poor. in education antwerp excelled in these fortunate days, for the schools were admirable, and every burgher's child could benefit by the teaching provided by the senate. philip ii. of spain, who despised the flemings and walloons, and disliked their loquacity, was received joyously in antwerp, as hereditary sovereign of the seventeen netherlands. the city was gay with triumphant arches and splendid banners; a gorgeous assemblage of dignitaries and their servants, with a great troop of soldiers, met the spanish sovereign without the gates. his coldness and reserve disturbed the minds of the citizens. after philip came the duke of alva with his reign of tyranny, the setting up of the inquisition in antwerp, the ruin of the silk trade, and the vast emigration of the oppressed workers to other countries, especially to england. in , william of orange was in antwerp, and two years later, as soon as the prince had left the city, the natives bent to the rule of the oppressor. the spaniards, defeated at brussels, prepared some years after for an attack upon antwerp, then the richest city of belgium. on a grey wintry morning, the enemy encompassed the walls of the city, the besieged having been reinforced by an army of walloons. the fight was one of the most desperate ever recorded in history. gaining entrance, the spaniards swept up the chief thoroughfares; "the confused mob of fugitives and conquerors, spaniards, walloons, germans, burghers," writes motley, "struggling, shouting, striking, cursing, dying, swayed hither and thither like a stormy sea." a frightful massacre followed upon the conquest of antwerp, no less than eight thousand men, women, and children were put to death by the ferocious victors. merchants were tortured in order to extort from them the hiding-places of their gold; the poor were killed because they had no store for the plunderer; and a young bride was torn from the arms of the bridegroom, and conveyed to a dungeon, where she tried to strangle herself with her long gold chain. she was stripped of her jewels and dress, beaten, and flung into the streets, to meet death at the hands of a rabble of soldiers. such were the horrors of the capture of antwerp, to be followed by the "spanish fury," in which more persons were slain than in the terrible massacre of st bartholomew. the siege of , on th october, was one of the most sanguinary conflicts in modern warfare. attacked by the implacable general chassé, the inhabitants had to face a terrible cannonade. the cathedral was damaged, the arsenal fired, and the townsfolk crouched in terror in vaults and cellars, while many of them fled into the open country. again in the revolution of , and in , antwerp was the scene of battle. from such records of carnage and cruelty, it is a relief to turn the pages of history till we read of the arts that flourished for so long in antwerp. not only were the wealthy classes of the city cultivated beyond the standard of many countries of europe, but the artisans also shared in the general culture, and cherished respect for art. quentin matsys, whose pictures may be studied in the museum, was one of the early painters of antwerp. rubens and teniers were both associated with the city, and their statues stand in the streets. vandyk is another famous artist upon the roll of honour of antwerp, and his image in marble is in the rue des fagots. peter paul rubens was born in , in siegen. he was the pupil of verhaecht and van nort, and afterwards of otto van veen, whom he assisted in the decoration of antwerp at the time of the visit of albert and isabella. rubens travelled in italy, where he pursued his art studies, afterwards settling in antwerp at the beginning of the twelve years' truce. here he painted most of his chief pictures. the works in the cathedral were finished in . under the patronage of charles i. rubens visited england, and was commissioned to embellish the banqueting hall in whitehall. his fame also reached spain, and his "metamorphoses of ovid" was painted for the royal hunting seat of that country. sir joshua reynolds, though a somewhat prejudiced critic of dutch and belgian painting, visited the low countries more than once, and brought back art treasures to england. in , he wrote to burke from antwerp, where he inspected the pictures in the churches. the museum contains some of the masterpieces of rubens, and notable examples of the work of vandyk, teniers, rembrandt, and van eyck. here is the great work of quentin matsys, "the descent from the cross." for the best-known painting by rubens, "the descent from the cross," we must visit the cathedral of notre dame. it has been said that the painting of the picture was suggested to rubens by an italian engraving, for there are traces in it of italian influence. parts of the painting have been restored and cleaned. it is seen to good advantage from a short distance, for the painting was planned for a large building. "the elevation of the cross" is another of the treasures in the cathedral. this, in the opinion of sir joshua reynolds, is one of the chief pictures by rubens. "the assumption of the virgin" was painted rapidly, and decorates the choir. the cathedral is gothic, and one of the finest in europe. the interior is impressive, with its wide nave and aisles. the choir stalls are beautifully carved, and should be carefully examined as examples of gothic art. the pulpit is also carved, but the work is indifferent. the steeple, one of the highest in christendom, is very exquisite, like lace work rather than stone and metal. in the tower are the many tuneful bells that ring out chimes, and one huge bell with a sonorous note. in the churches of st paul and st jacques, and of the augustines, are paintings of great interest by rubens, vandyk, and teniers. a ramble around the fortifications will show how strong are the defences of the city, which have been constructed since the last siege in . walls and citadels, well provided with points of vantage for artillery fire, begirt antwerp to-day. the forts and barriers cost an enormous sum. guns and ammunition are made in the city, which is the chief fortress of the country, and an important military centre. in the grande place stands the town hall, a florid building, containing several paintings, though none of remarkable note, except some frescoes by leys, one of the most eminent of modern belgian painters. our tour of the city must include a visit to the house of rubens, in the street named after him. the archway is from the designs of the painter, whose studio was in the grounds. the first exchange was erected in , and destroyed by fire in . it was from this building that the plan of the london royal exchange was taken. the modern bourse is in the rue de la bourse. antwerp is architecturally a handsome city, with several fine squares, wide promenades, and well-planned streets. the docks are extensive, and the long quays stretch thence to the old fort on the south side. there is a triangular park with sheets of water, beyond the great boulevard, and in the zoological garden is a fairly representative collection of animals. in the rue leopold is the botanic garden. the plantin museum, containing relics and volumes of one famous printer, is one of the public institutions that must be visited. such are the chief monuments and objects of interest in the old city of antwerp, where the ancient and the modern are both represented side by side in odd contrast. amsterdam a horn of flatland, bounded by the north sea and the zuyder zee, juts northward, with haarlem and amsterdam at its base. sundered by a channel from the point of the horn is texel, the biggest of the curious line of islands that stretches along the coast to friesland. this helder, or "hell's door," the tidal channel leading to the broad inlet of the zuyder zee, runs like a mill-race, and the passage is deep enough to admit large vessels travelling to the port of amsterdam. the capital of holland is built upon logs driven into the firm earth through morass and silt. it is a city of canals and dykes, spanned by hundreds of bridges, a northern venice, dependent for its safety upon the proper control of sluices. the devouring sea is kept at bay by a mighty dam. truly, amsterdam is one of the wonders of men's ingenuity. the plan of its streets is remarkable; the thoroughfares are a series of semi-circles with their points to the zuyder zee. the flow of the canals and waterways that wind about the city is impelled by artificial means. the number of the piles upon which the palace of amsterdam stands is reckoned at nearly fourteen thousand. about the thirteenth century, the building of the city began around the castle of amstel, on a tidal marsh. during the siege of haarlem by the spanish, amsterdam depended upon its waterway for food supplies. the duke of alva wrote: "since i came into the world, i have never been in such anxiety. if they should succeed in cutting off the communications along the dykes, we should have to raise the siege of haarlem, to surrender, hands crossed, or to starve." in when the king of prussia brought his troops to holland, in favour of the stadtholder, amsterdam surrendered its garrison. and in the french entered the city without the resistance of the inhabitants. sir thomas overbury, who wrote in , describes amsterdam as surpassing "seville, lisbon, and any other mart-town in christendom." the city maintained a great fleet of vessels trading to the east indies, the german ports, and the towns of the baltic sea. the historian relates that the people were not "much wicked," though disposed to drink; they were hard bargainers, but just, thrifty, hardworking, and shrewd in commerce. to-day the natives of amsterdam are assuredly "inventive in manufactures," and eminently capable in all affairs of trading and finance. the fishing industry has declined seriously, but the export trade of amsterdam is enormous, the products being chiefly butter, cheese, cotton goods, glass manufactures, leather goods, bread, stuffs, and gin. in the population of the city was , . amsterdam is still a metropolis of capitalists, many of whom are of the jewish race, while it is a principal european centre of the diamond trade. the famous banking system, established under guarantee of the city, in , is described at length by adam smith in his "wealth of nations." "public utility," he writes, "and not revenue was the original object of this institution. its object was to relieve the merchants from the inconvenience of a disadvantageous exchange." the bank was under the control of four reigning burgomasters, who were changed every year. the opulence of amsterdam is apparent to the stranger who roams its streets to-day. factories abound, artificers are numerous, and everywhere there are evidences of a prosperity that recalls the day when most of the business of europe was transacted in these narrow, twisted streets, and a large fleet of vessels traded with the indies. here several renowned printers set up their presses in the seventeenth century, and many famous books were printed in the city. during the following century amsterdam still remained the great commercial capital of europe. the immigration of spanish and portuguese jews into holland brought to the city a fresh class of artisans, and gave an impulse to several crafts. in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there was a vigorous intellectual development in amsterdam. several notable men were natives. spinoza was born here, in , after the routing of the spanish forces. his parents were traders, jewish fugitives from spain. baruch, or bendictus, spinoza excelled even his tutors at the age of fourteen, and the rabbin saul levi morteira was astounded by the boy's capacity for learning. a troubled, but resplendent life lay before this dark-eyed hebrew youth. he was of the order of reformers, and shared the griefs and the trials of all who strive to benefit humanity. persecution pursued spinoza from the day when he conflicted with morteira in the synagogue, uttering opinions which were regarded as dire heresy. we read of attempts upon his life, of excommunication, and of ostracism. the philosopher supported himself by polishing lenses for telescopes and optical instruments, until he was able to leave amsterdam for the university of leyden. later came recognition with the publication of the great "tractatus." when offered a pension by the king of france, the philosopher refused it, fearing that if he became a slave of the state, he might sacrifice his liberty of thought. spinoza lived in extreme simplicity, it is said that he spent only twopence-farthing a day on his needs. his temper was equable. "reason is my delight," he declared. "a virtuous life is not a sad and gloomy one." strange that this noble and tolerant thinker should have been described as an enemy of humanity. "the god-intoxicated man," as novalis said of spinoza, was accused of atheism in a day when philosophic doubt was synonymous with crime. it was only such thinkers as hegel, lessing, goethe and schelling who were able to appraise spinoza at his true value. for the uncultured he remained for generations an enemy of virtue. in amsterdam spinoza formed at least a measure of toleration among the citizens. he writes: "in the midst of this flourishing republic, this great city, men of all nations and all sects live together in the most perfect harmony." a monument to spinoza was unveiled by renan at the hague, in . amsterdam abounds in memories of rembrandt, though many of his paintings are distributed in the galleries of other cities. the rich capital of holland encouraged painters, poets, and men of science; and in the year when spinoza was born, rembrandt settled in amsterdam, and soon became noted as a painter of portraits. his house is in the breestraat. in his day, it was beautifully adorned with works of art, and he owned a large collection of engravings. like many great artists, rembrandt lived absorbed in his labours, seldom frequenting society. after a spell of reverses he went to live on the rozengracht, and in this house on the quay he spent his last days. we think of rembrandt, in the busy amsterdam of his day, writing to a friend: "in this great town wherein i am, there being no man, save me, who does not pursue commerce; everyone is so attentive to his own profit that i might remain here all my life unseen of any." here, leading a life of strenuous simplicity, content with his labour, a piece of cheese and a crust, rembrandt painted many memorable pictures. he soon became one of the most respected of amsterdam's citizens. his pupils were many, and they paid high fees for their tuition. but rembrandt remained almost a recluse, and seldom forsook his studio for festive company. in the fodor museum in amsterdam may be seen the "tribute money," some portrait drawings, and "mars and venus in the net." several of rembrandt's works are in private collections in the city. the picture gallery also contains some of the painter's famous pictures. for a glimpse of the business life of amsterdam, we must stroll in the kalver straat, an interesting thoroughfare, running from the palace to the sea, and then along the harbour and the quay. the great dyke encloses a number of docks, all thronged with ships, and the fish market should be seen. herring-curing, by the way, was the invention of a native of the low countries. among the public buildings that will repay inspection, are the town hall, the bourse, and two churches, the old church and the new church. the older church dates from about . its beautiful stained windows were painted at a later date. there are some tombs here of illustrious naval conquerors, and these, and the magnificent organ, in its very ornate gallery, are the chief objects of interest. the new church is scarcely "new," for it was built in . this is a fine edifice, with a number of monuments, an interesting carved pulpit, and metal-work screen. admiral de ruyter lived here, the great adversary of blake, and the gallant commander who held us at bay off the coast of suffolk, and did such damage to our ships in the medway. the pictures in the museum are representative of the dutch school, and the collection includes many masterpieces; the chief artists represented are teniers, rembrandt, paul potter, gerard douw, and vandyk. the situation of amsterdam, on a salt marsh, with a stratum of mud below its houses, would seem dangerous to the health of the city. it is, however, a very healthy capital, and the inhabitants do not apparently suffer from the specific diseases that are said to flourish in low, wet lands. amsterdam leaves a picture in the mind of mediæval lanes and alleys, with curious turrets and gables, shadowing slow canals; of sunlight and vivid colour; of ships coming and going, and bustling quays, and streets with old and new houses quaintly jumbled. cologne in the days of roman dominion, a city called civitas ubiorum was built by the rhine upon the site where now stands the fortified mediæval town of cologne. remains of the roman occupation are still to be traced in the city in the bases of walls, but the amphitheatre was demolished long ago. agrippina was born here, and trajan ruled in the fortress. in the middle ages cologne was a prosperous city, with a wide trading repute, and celebrated for its arts and learning. william caxton came here to learn printing, an industry which he introduced into england. militarism and clerical domination appear to have been the chief causes of the long spell of misfortune that fell later upon cologne. persecution was one of the principal occupations of a number of the people at this period; and much zeal was expended in expelling heretics, jews and protestants from the city. cologne also suffered decline through the closing of the rhine as a navigable waterway by the dutch, and it was not until that the river was re-opened to trading vessels plying to foreign ports. to-day the city is an important commercial and industrial centre. perhaps the best general view of cologne is from the opposite bank of the rhine. the city is a forest of spires and towers; there were at one time over two thousand clerics within the walls, and religious buildings were more numerous then than to-day. the wide river is spanned by two bridges; the more important is a wonderful structure, over thirteen hundred feet in length, and made of iron. the cathedral was begun in the thirteenth century, but it remained for a considerable time in an unfinished state, and portions fell into decay. frederick william iii. restored the building, and added to it; and since this time the work has been continued in several parts of the edifice. externally the cathedral is a stately building with its flying buttresses, host of pinnacles, and splendid south doorway. the architecture is french--rather german--gothic. [illustration: cologne. st. martin's church, .] in the choir are very brilliant stained windows, some mural pictures, and numerous statues of scriptural characters. the painted windows here, and in the aisles, are extremely gorgeous examples of this art. among the objects of interest in the chapels are memorials of the archbishops of the city, and an early painting, known as the dombild, depicting the saints of cologne. the church of st ursula and of the eleven thousand virgins is remarkable for its treasury of the bones of the adventurous virgins of the famous legend. these relics are embedded in the walls of the choir. there are a few pictures, but none of note, in this church. st maria himmelfahrt, the church of the jesuits, is highly flamboyant in its embellishments. amongst its treasures are the rosary of st ignatius and the crozier of st francis xavier. in st gereon's church is a collection of the bones of the martyrs killed during the persecution by the romans. architecturally, this church deserves careful attention for it has ancient portions, and presents several styles. the baptistery and sacristy are very ornate in design. one of the works of rubens is in st peter's church. this is the well-known altar picture of "the crucifixion of st peter." sir joshua reynolds and wilkie have both recorded their impressions of this great work. rubens esteemed this as the best picture that he ever painted; but reynolds thought the drawing feeble, and surmised that it was finished by one of the pupils of rubens, after the master's death. the church of santa maria is on the site of the roman capital, and on the same ground stood a palace at a later date. it is interesting for its decorated choir, and the old doorways. there are several other churches in cologne that should be visited. in the museum there are many pictures, including one by durer, "st francis," by rubens, "a madonna," by titian, and a work by vandyk. the paintings of the cologne school are numerous, and demand attention, as they represent the art of the period when painting began to flourish in germany. some of the pictures were painted as early as the thirteenth century. there are many modern paintings in the museum. a number of roman antiquities, statuary, and pottery, are also preserved here. among the secular buildings of note are the rathaus, with varied architectural styles, and the kaufhaus, where the imperial councils were held in former days. the noble historic stream upon which the city stands, "father rhine," flows through its finest scenery above cologne, among the siebengebirge heights. "beneath these battlements, within those walls power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state each robber chief upheld his armed halls, doing his evil will, nor less elate than mightier heroes of a longer date. what want these outlaws conquerors should have? but history's purchas'd page to call them great? a wider space and ornamented grave? their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave." so wrote byron in his verses upon the majestic river, whose "castle crags," and wooded glens have been described again and again by poets of many nations. the rhine has a life and a population of its own. on its banks are the homesteads of vine-growers and farmers, while fishermen ply their craft in its prolific waters. upon the river itself float the voyagers in sea vessels, and the enormous timber-rafts, which are one of the curious sights of the rhine. a steamboat trip on the river will delight the tourist, but he should leave the boat at bonn, for below that old town the stream flows through a tame, featureless country. i must not forget the celebrated perfume for which cologne is famous. the spirit known as eau de cologne was the invention of farina in the seventeenth century. it is still manufactured in the city, and provides an industry for a large number of people. george meredith's novel, "farina," comes to mind as we wander in cologne, and note the name of the discoverer of the world-famous scent. every visitor to the city should read "farina," for its vivid description of the life there, "in those lusty ages when the kaisers lifted high the golden goblet of aachen, and drank, elbow upward, the green-eyed wine of old romance." here is meredith's picture of cologne, on the eve of battle: "the market-places were crowded with buyers and sellers, mixed with a loitering swarm of soldiery, for whose thirsty natures wine-stalls had been tumbled up. barons and knights of the empire, bravely mounted and thickly followed, poured hourly into cologne from south germany and north. here staring suabians, and red-featured warriors of the east kingdom, swaggered up and down, patting what horses came across them, for lack of occupation for their hands. yonder huge pomeranians, with bosks of beard stiffened out square from the chin, hurtled mountainous among the peaceable inhabitants." heidelberg to think of heidelberg is to think of learning. one of the first of european universities was established in this town by the elector rupert; and here culture has flourished for centuries, in spite of repeated sieges and a long history of disasters. what a grim story is that of yonder old grey castle that frowns upon heidelberg across the river neckar. wars and rumours of wars form the chief chronicles of this ancient town from the days of the electors palatine of the rhine to the invasion of the french. besieged by tully after a protracted siege, held by the imperialists, seized by the swedish troops, burnt by the french, who ravaged it again a few years later--heidelberg has been the scene of many calamities and much bloodshed. again and again has the castle been bombarded and fired. the last catastrophe happened in , when the fortress-palace was struck by lightning, set on fire, and almost destroyed. it is now a great ruin; the part least injured dates from the sixteenth century. the massive tower, with walls over twenty feet thick, was hurled down by the french in their last assault. such architectural details as remain are of great interest. the chief gateway has parts of the old portcullis; there are some statues of the sixteenth century, and a triumphal arch. from whatever point of view the castle of heidelberg is seen, it is a striking red pile, proudly dominating the surrounding country, and overshadowing the neckar. a part of the castle is known as the english palace. here lived elizabeth stuart, daughter of james i. and grand-daughter of mary queen of scots, who was united to the elector frederick v. this palace was built in , and the garden was made about this time for the enjoyment of the young bride. the celebrated great tun of heidelberg is in one of the cellars of the castle. this prodigious cask was originally made in the fourteenth century, and contained twenty-one pipes of rhenish wine. a second tun was constructed in , and this held six hundred hogsheads. the french emptied this, and demolished it. a third cask was made to hold eight hundred hogsheads, and when filled, the citizens held a dance upon a stage erected on its top. viewed as a work of architecture, the university is not an inspiring structure. it stands in a small square about the middle of the town. in the library are missals and a large collection of books. attached are the botanic gardens of the college. the vandal tully, during his campaign, ravaged the university, and destroyed a number of valuable volumes and manuscripts. one of the greatest names associated with the university of heidelberg is the philosopher george frederick william hegel, born in . he was a native of stuttgart, and at eighteen years of age he entered the university of tübingen. there hegel met schelling, for whom he had a deep admiration. after a time of struggle as a tutor, the philosopher came to heidelberg, in , as professor. his theses do not seem to have attracted the students of that date, for we read that only four persons attended his opening courses of lectures. hegel found time during two years in heidelberg to write a part of his "encylopædia of philosophical science," a great work, which obtained for the author a chair at the university of berlin, where he lectured for about thirteen years. he died of cholera, in , at the age of sixty-one. another illustrious man of heidelberg was the poet viktor von scheffel, to whose memory a monument stands in the terrace of the castle. the castle and the university are the two historic buildings in heidelberg that attract the traveller. one does not easily tire of the view from the hill three hundred feet above the ruins of the castle, nor of the beauties of the environs, and the banks of the neckar. the city is made cheerful by its law and medical students, who drink their lager beer with gusto, sing their staves, and keep up the old university traditions and customs. there are bright clean streets, and many shops that prosper through the college and the host of summer visitors. two fine bridges span the neckar. the older bridge was constructed in , and the new bridge was built about a hundred years later. it connects heidelberg with neuenheim. the old town is curiously elongated, stretching along the riverside. modern suburbs are extending to-day, to provide for a population numbering about forty thousand. unfortunately, very little of old heidelberg has survived the devastation of wars and conflagrations. even the churches were despoiled of their monuments by the french soldiery, and scarcely one of the ancient houses remains as a memorial of the middle ages. climb the hill of anlagen, and you will reach the church associated with jerome of prague, the contemporary of huss. to the door of this church jerome affixed his heretical affirmations, and in the graveyard he preached to a vast crowd. olympia morata is buried here. this beautiful and cultured italian woman was a second hypatia, who, however, escaped the too common fate of innovating philosophers. she married a german doctor, after a flight from her native land, and lived in heidelberg, where her lectures were attended by the learned of the town. nuremberg few towns in europe have preserved so much of the spirit of the middle ages as nuremberg. its history is pregnant with romance, and its annals of mediæval art are of marked interest. amsterdam recalls rembrandt; antwerp calls to mind rubens, and with the town of nuremberg, the student of painting associates its illustrious native, albert durer. the craftsmen of this town were among the most skilful of any european nation during mediæval times. goldworkers, armourers, clock-makers, and artists in stained glass worked here in the days of the trade guilds. brass was founded in this city at an early date. nuremberg was famed, too, for its metalworkers and goldsmiths. it is still a town of industrious artificers. the architecture of the churches is of the highest gothic order; the façade of the rathaus is a noble specimen of late renaissance work; and the castle and fortifications are feudal structures of much historical interest. there are few towns that can compare with nuremberg in the charm and variety of its memorials of the past. we cannot be certain concerning the date of the founding of the town, but probably it was in existence in the tenth century. in the reign of henry ii., nuremberg was already a place of some importance, and its prosperity advanced until it became one of the chief markets of europe. the castle was the residence of many rulers of the country, and it was one of the favourite palaces of henry iv. in the thirteenth century, nuremberg had a large number of jews among its population, who enjoyed all the rights of citizens. but under karl iv. a policy of oppression was adopted, and at a later period, the jewish inhabitants were bitterly persecuted. [illustration: nuremberg. .] john huss was received here by an enthusiastic populace; but when the reformer's army laid waste the country, the people of nuremberg valiantly withstood the enemy. when the wave of the reformation swept the land, nuremberg gave a welcome to martin luther, and his revised ritual of worship was used in the churches. melanchthon also came to the town, and established a school there, though the institution was not successful. a statue of the "gentle" reformer was set up in nuremberg. civil strife disturbed the town in , but a period of peace followed, and a few years later saw the founding of the university. the thirty years' war brought disaster upon nuremberg. the army of wallenstein attacked the ancient walls, and the outer entrenchments which had been constructed by the inhabitants upon the rumour of war. led by gustavus, the soldiers and people of the town opposed the vast forces of wallenstein that encompassed the fortifications in a series of camps. hunger and plague assailed the besieged within the gates, while without the foe cut off escape, and barred the entrance of food supplies. for weeks the siege endured. thousands died from disease, thousands were slain by the enemy. in a valiant sally, gustavus led his troops to the attack. the battle raged for hours, and both sides suffered terrible losses. nuremberg might have fallen had wallenstein been able to rally his hungry soldiers, but, as it was, he withdrew his force. let us now review the peaceful arts of the city. the record of albert durer's life shows the character of a deeply religious man, devoted to his faith, and absorbed by his art. he was reared in nuremberg, and was the son of a working goldsmith. born in , durer was apprenticed at an early age to his father's craft, in which, however, he did not excel, for his heart was set upon following the profession of a painter. his first master in the art was wolgemut, whose portrait is one of durer's finest works. the young artist spent some time in italy, studying, among other paintings, the work of mantegna, and, on returning to his native town, he applied himself most industriously to his art. albert durer's pictures are scattered among the galleries of the world. durer, in painting landscape, showed a singular modern feeling. in his portraits he was a realist, analytical in the use of his brush, and especially painstaking in painting fine hair, for which he used ordinary brushes with extreme dexterity, much to the amazement of bellini. in the germanic museum at nuremberg there are five pictures by the master, and some copies of his works. the bulk of his paintings are in other galleries at munich, berlin, london, and elsewhere. an interesting memorial of albert durer is the old gabled house in which he lived and worked. here he toiled with the brush and the graver's tools, and received as his guests the cultured men of the city. his life was simple and industrious, and his nature gentle and retiring. durer had several pupils at nuremberg, who carried on his tradition in painting and copper and wood engraving. the art treasures of the churches are very numerous. st sebald's church is a splendid gothic pile, with many architectural triumphs, such as the highly decorated bride's door, with its finely carved effigies, the high pillars, krafft's statuary and reliefs, and the crucifix by stoss. the splendid western door of the frauenkirche must be seen by the visitor, for it is an instructive example of gothic work of the richest design. st lawrence has two figures, adam and eve, on its chief doorway; and some scriptural reliefs adorn the entrance. the windows are beautifully painted. there is a notable picture of "christ and mary" in the imhoff gallery. there are several other churches in nuremberg containing works of art, and offering study for the lover of architecture and painting. the work of the craftsmen of the middle ages is seen everywhere in these buildings, and a detailed description would fill a volume. the museum is in an ancient monastery, and in its numerous rooms will be found roman antiquities, old metal work, pottery, furniture of the middle ages, weapons, a collection of books, some of them illustrated by durer, and an array of paintings of the german school. a full and excellent catalogue is issued. the castle, with its stirring chronicle, is a feudal fortress dominating the plain, and forming the chief rampart of the town's defences. walls and towers protect nuremberg on every side, as in the ancient days of peril. the view from the towers is very remarkable, and from one of these points of outlook, one gains a long-remembered impression of the old town, with its towers and steeples, and the surrounding country, watered by the pegnitz and clothed with forests. the fortifications were finished in the fifteenth century, and provided a strong protection to the town in time of siege. among the buildings of this "quaint old town of art and song," as longfellow describes it, the rathaus must be visited. the west façade is very handsome renaissance work by the brothers wolf, with three towers, and three ornate entrances. the fresco paintings within are the work of durer and his pupils, but they are in poor preservation. there is a beautiful ceiling, by beheim, in the council chamber. a fountain, with a statue of apollo, by peter vischer, is in one of the courtyards. the god is splendidly modelled, and graceful, and the pedestal of the statue has several mythological figures. the most pleasing quarters of the town for the lover of antiquity are below the fleischbrücke, where the ancient houses overhanging the stream are exceedingly quaint, the narrow alleys surrounding the rathaus, and the castle and its environs. the fountain in the fruit market, albert durer's house, the churches, and the imhoff house should all be inspected if you wish to gain a comprehensive recollection of old and new nuremberg. nuremberg was celebrated for its sculpture, an art that awakened here and in würzburg at the renaissance. while donatello was living, stoss, krafft and vischer were gaining repute as image-makers in stone, wood, and bronze. a volume has been published lately in france, "peter vischer et la sculpture franconienne," by louis réan, which tells the story of the rise of the nuremberg craftsmen. adam krafft was no doubt an influence in the work of albert durer. the south kensington museum contains several examples of the work of these german artists. we must not quit nuremberg without recalling the great poet, wolfram, who was born at eschenbach, a village near the city. it was to wolfram that wagner owed the subjects for his two great works, "parsifal" and "lohengrin." nuremberg stands high, on the verge of an ancient forest, long famous for its hunting. its river is the pegnitz, which flows through the town about its centre, and is crossed by several fine bridges. besides its rambling lanes and main thoroughfares, there are several open spaces and squares; but the houses retain, for the greater part, their mediæval air and irregularity of structure, with carved balconies, gables, and turrets. it is the second important town of bavaria in point of population. wittenberg to the south-west of berlin, between that city and leipzig, is the old town of wittenberg. the rolling elbe, which rises in the wild range of the erz gebirge, and crosses germany on its long course to hamburg and the sea, flows by the town, and spreads itself into a wide stream. saxony, the third in importance of the kingdoms of germany, is a fertile land, cultivated from an early date, and famed as a granary and orchard. it is noted, too, for its minerals--coal, tin, cobalt, iron, lead, and marble. the town is still fortified, and bears a somewhat grim aspect. it was much damaged by the austrian artillery in , and has suffered the ravages of war before, and since the electors of saxony lived in the mediæval castle. here was founded an important university, afterwards removed to halle. it was at the university of wittenberg that martin luther taught as professor of theology. the supreme interest of these rambling streets are the associations with the great protestant reformer. wittenberg is a place of pious pilgrimage for those who revere the memory of luther and melanchthon. the schloss kirche contains the ashes of the two preachers of the reformed faith; and it was on the door of this church that luther nailed his bold indictment of papal corruption. the town abounds with memories of that stupendous battle for religious liberty which spread into all parts of christendom. how vast were the issues in the balance when martin luther defied the power of rome! long before the theologian of wittenberg, several reformers had uttered protests against the sale of indulgences by the church of rome. huss, jerome of prague, john of wessel, john of goch, all raised their fervent voices upon the evils of the system. the bible was now coming into the hands of the laity; wicliff's versions were in use in england, and in germany, reuchlin and others had made hebrew the study of the educated. erasmus, too, had satirised the vicious lives of the monks. the way was prepared for a popular reformer, such as the ardent priest and theologian of wittenberg. archbishop albert of mayence and magdeburg was indebted to pope leo x. for his investiture, and was unable to raise the money. the pope was in need of funds. he therefore gave permission to the archbishop to establish a wide sale of indulgences in germany. the bulk of the people, reared in obedience to rome, made no complaint of the practice, and were quite ready to purchase absolution for their sins. but luther contended that indulgences only brought the remission of penalties, and refused to offer complete pardon for indulgences alone. tetzel, the agent of leo x., was naturally enraged. he thundered anathemas upon the presumptuous luther. the reformer met his denunciations by affixing his defiant propositions to the door of the schloss kirche. so began the historic struggle between catholics and protestants. luther merely impeached the sale of indulgences; he was still loyal to the papal authority. the pope was, however, headstrong and tyrannous. he showed neither tact nor diplomacy, but issued a bill of excommunication against the unruly priest. the document was burned in contempt by martin luther. let us glance at the character of this doughty heretic. the birthplace of luther was eisleben, in saxony, and he was born in . his first school was at magdeburg, and he was educated for the law. but the early trend of his mind was pietistic; he aspired to become a teacher of religion. he joined the augustine order, and observed devoutly all the canons of the catholic creed. we read that luther was appointed professor at the university of wittenberg; that he taught many students, and discoursed eloquently. luther's temperament was hostile to asceticism. he had a capacity for enjoying life; he delighted in music, and sang daily. he was not opposed to the custom of drinking wine with company. more than all, he impeached, by precept and example, the teaching of the virtue of celibacy. he said that true manhood finds joy in womanhood; and he married an ex-nun, catherine de bora, who bore him children. this sane indictment of the unnatural practice of celibacy was accounted one of martin luther's most enormous iniquities. his clerical opponents arose and denounced him. he was described as a man of immoral life; it was circulated that he drank wine to excess, and wrote hymns praising drunkenness. he was labelled an atheist, a blasphemer, and a charlatan, who did not believe in the doctrines that he taught. but martin luther soon gathered about him a band of zealous followers, and his fame went forth to the farther ends of europe. philip melanchthon, a man in some respects more admirable than luther, joined in the crusade of reform. "the gentle melanchthon" had studied in heidelberg and tubingen. he was the author of many religious volumes, and it was he who composed the "augsburg confession." the effect of luther's teaching was not without its evils. guided by their own reading of the bible, zealots found authority for violence and persecution. there were risings of peasants, which luther denounced, even urging their suppression with the extremity of force. this brave assailant of rome was unwisely aggressive in his attitude towards those sects that differed from him in their beliefs. he was a bitter enemy of the followers of zwingli, the reformer of zurich. the sectaries were sundered and torn with dissensions and quarrels. melanchthon died rejoicing that he was leaving a world made hideous by the hatreds of the pious disputants. for the jews luther had no toleration. he detested the spirit of science, which was spreading even among the catholics; and declared that the study of aristotle was "useless." he described the great athenian as "a devil, a horrid calumniator, a wicked sycophant, a prince of darkness, a real apollyon, a beast, a most horrid impostor on mankind, and a professed liar." this contempt for the discoveries of science was a mark of the ignorance that led luther to prescribe that a "possessed" child should be thrown into the water to sink or be restored to sanity. the extortionate demands of the popes were no doubt the chief cause of that enthusiasm that burst like a flame when luther withstood the exactions of rome. germany had long been bled to fill the coffers. the country was prepared for revolt. leo x. was one of the most extravagant of the sovereign pontiffs, and it was said that he wasted as much as the revenue of three popes. he created thousands of new livings, which he sold. the office of cardinal was purchasable. but none of the wealth of the curia found its way to germany; on the contrary, that nation was constantly called upon to contribute heavily to the funds of the church. in wittenberg, the flame of revolt burst forth, and all germany soon rallied to the support of luther, who showed himself a born leader of men. the propaganda spread even to spain, that ancient stronghold of catholicism. in a number of tracts by luther were sent into that country from basle, where they were printed in latin. these disquisitions fell into the hands of the learned. valdes, secretary to charles v., sent to spain an account of luther's proclamation against indulgences, together with an acknowledgment that reform was needed in the church. as soon as the discovery was made that lutheran literature was entering spain, the inquisitors diligently sought for those who had copies of the proscribed tracts. valdes, the emperor's secretary, though then a staunch catholic, was brought before the holy office because he had discoursed with melanchthon. it was well for luther that he was defended by frederick, the elector of saxony. we wonder that the rebellious monk, who raised such venomous hatred, escaped with his life. but even the tribunal of the diet of worms could not daunt luther. he flatly refused to retract. nothing was left but to banish him from the town; and under the protection of the elector of saxony, he was kept in the wartburg. in england the lutheran heresy had been checked by henry viii., who wrote against it, and won the esteem of the pope for his defence of the faith. cardinal wolsey's efforts were of no avail in stemming the tide of reformation; and the king, enraged with the pope for refusing a divorce from catherine, suppressed his anti-lutheran scruples of conscience without difficulty. the flame kindled in wittenberg spread over england. monasteries were suppressed; the new creed, first the religion of the poorer educated classes, was soon adopted by all classes. the story of the reformation is of strangely absorbing interest. in wittenberg, the annals of the historic conflict are recalled as we stand before the church door upon which luther nailed his ninety-five theses, and read the inscriptions on bronze that his protestant successors have set there. martin luther was the man for his age, and whatever were his faults, he served humanity. little did he anticipate the terrible wars and the fierce religious persecution that followed upon his challenge to leo x., and the burning of the bull of excommunication outside the walls of wittenberg. the memorials of the vast struggle arising from the resistance of luther to be seen in the town are first the schloss kirche, and then the house of the reformer in the old buildings of the university. in the house, which has been little altered since the death of luther in , are a few relics, a chair and table, some utensils, and the portraits by kranach. a tree marks the spot where luther burned the bull of excommunication in . in the market place is the statue in bronze of the founder of protestantism. the house of melanchthon is also to be seen. his statue was set up about forty years ago. the tombs of luther and melanchthon in the schloss kirche are marked by tablets. in this church is the grave of the elector frederick, the trusty friend of luther, adorned with a magnificent monument by peter vischer. this is one of the notable works of that artist. there is also a relief by vischer in the church. in the stadt kirche luther preached. there are some pictures here ascribed to kranach. one of them represents melanchthon performing baptism, and another, martin luther preaching to his converts. kranach's works will interest students of painting. some more of his portraits of luther and melanchthon will be found in the rathaus. this artist was court painter to the elector frederick. he was one of the most gifted of bavarian painters, and his son inherited his talent. the elder kranach was born in kranach, the town after which he is named. he was a friend of luther and melanchthon. his death occurred in . such are the chief mementoes of luther and his colleague in wittenberg, "the protestant mecca." prague in the valley of the moldau, a beautiful tributary of the elbe, in a setting of hills clothed with pines, lies the old capital of bohemia. great mountain barriers enclose an undulating and wild tract, with prague in its centre. in the valleys there is verdure, and the fields are well tilled. the river flows through the heart of the city, broad and powerful, yet navigable. very delightful and inviting are the banks of the moldau on a summer's evening when prague gives itself to music and idling. handsome bridges span the stream, and through their arches glide the great rafts of timber and the fishermen's boats. viewed from one of the hills of the environs, the city is a scene of colour, with spires and mediæval gables, green open spaces, and narrow lanes. prague is one of the most historically interesting cities in europe, and its aspect to-day still suggests the middle ages, though in spirit its natives are progressive. the atmosphere of olden days remains. there are many buildings here with romantic histories, and instructive works of art are stored within them, though prague is not rich in pictures. let me compress some of the history of the town into a few lines before we inspect the monuments. one of the first rulers of bohemia was a woman, libussa, who probably built a city on the hradcany hill in the eighth century. under the pious king wenceslas the city became a stronghold of the christian faith, and in his time the first cathedral was built. when charles iv. was made ruler of bohemia, the city of prague was enlarged and strongly fortified. the university was then instituted, and there were many guilds of craftsmen within the walls. the prosperity of prague at this period seems to have brought about those conditions which aroused the reforming zeal of huss, who found the people addicted to pleasure and demoralised by luxury. attacks had been made upon the roman catholic creed by mathew of cracow, and other reformers before huss and jerome of prague, who were followers of wicliff. [illustration: prague, . the city and bridge.] huss was an ardent nationalist, and a hater of germany; and there is no doubt that his martyrdom was the result of his political sympathies, as well as of his indictment of the corruption of religion. this great preacher lived in prague, and thundered his monitions from the pulpit of a chapel. his teaching was a defence of wicliff, and the reform of the church, and for this he was excommunicated. wicliff's works were thrown into the flames. huss was forced to fly from prague, taking shelter in the house of one of his followers in the country. through a treacherous invitation to constance, the reformer fell into a snare prepared for him. he was cast into prison, and before long he was taken to the stake, and burnt to death for his heresies. the execution of the reformer of prague aroused the deepest resentment among the citizens. this indignation was the first spark of the great flame that spread through the land, causing a religious war, and the siege of prague by sigismund. this king favoured the papal authority, and so rendered himself unpopular among the citizens during his brief reign. one of the monarchs of bohemia who aided in the extension and the adornment of prague was rudolph. he was an encourager of learning and the arts, and a dabbler in science. rudolph was succeeded by matthias, whose reign was greatly disturbed by religious strife in the city. during the thirty years' war, prague was besieged by a swedish force, and a part of the city fell into the hands of the invaders. the history of the city is largely a chronicle of combats, for it was constantly assailed by armies and disturbed within. protestantism received its deathblow in prague, in , after the great battle of the white mountain. the austrian war of succession was scarcely at an end before the outbreak of the seven years' war of frederick the great, when the famous "battle of prague" was fought. we now enter upon a more tranquil period of bohemian history. writing of the architects of prague, in "cities," mr arthur symons asserts that "there is something in their way of building, fierce, violent, unrestrained, like the savagery of their fighting, of their fighting songs, of their fighting music." one of the most interesting of the sacred buildings is the gothic cathedral of st vitus, designed by petrlik. the decoration is still unfinished, but the edifice has beautiful slender spires, and an ornate tower. the chapels of the cathedral contain several memorials of note, but there are no paintings of great artistic value. several sovereigns and their consorts are buried here. the tyn church has a very fine front. within is the grave of tycho brahe. a church of a later period is st nicholas. the strahov monastery has been reconstructed repeatedly since the days when it was founded in the twelfth century. a "madonna" by albrecht durer is one of the treasures of the monastery. there is a very richly painted and carved ceiling in the library. the capuchin monastery, and the emaus monastery, are both of historic importance, and the church of st george is one of the handsomest in the city. palaces abound in prague, and one of the most characteristic is that of count clam-gallas, with a noble gateway, decorated with statuary. on the hradcany is the castle, which was the residence of many of bohemia's kings and queens. it is approached by two fine courts and an ancient doorway; the older part of the building dating from the period of vladislav, whose magnificent hall is of great architectural interest. there are several more old palaces in prague, such as the kinsky and the morzin, which all invite a lengthy inspection. all the bridges spanning the river are beautifully planned. one of the finest is the karl bridge, dating from the fourteenth century, and adorned by many images of saints and heroes. the powder gate (prãsna brana) was erected by vladislav ii. and served as a storehouse for ammunition. it is a strangely ornamented structure, with carved escutcheons, many effigies, and flamboyant decorations on each of its sides. the gate or tower is surmounted by a wedge-like steeple. the bohemian museum is a modern building, finely adorned with statuary. it contains a large collection of arms and armour, coins, books, and manuscripts of interest. bohemia has a state theatre, and the building is one of the finest in modern prague. i have had the pleasure of meeting the cultured director of the national theatre, herr m[)u]sek, from whom i learned how the bohemian people subscribed, in a few hours, a sufficient sum for the rebuilding of the theatre after its destruction by fire. in prague the drama is esteemed as a real educational force as well as a means of diversion. the actors are artists who regard their calling seriously, and the plays represented are by foreign and bohemian authors. bernard shaw, pinero, and john galsworthy are among the contemporary english playwriters whose works have been performed in prague. ibsen's plays are frequently presented by the national company. there are occasional performances of grand opera, and the theatre has a large and excellent orchestra. the sum granted by government for the support of the theatre is about ten thousand pounds yearly. athens the decay of a great civilisation causes in the reflective the reconsideration of many problems of human life. we who live in great britain, in security and prosperity, and boast of the power of our empire, should feel somewhat humbled by the contemplation of the ruins of athens. the story of the rise and fall of ancient greece abounds with lessons and warnings for those who ponder seriously upon the destiny of great nations. that little country jutting into the sea, and broken up by gulfs and inlets, at the southern extremity of europe--with an area not so large as that of portugal--once dominated wide territories in persia and egypt, tracts of turkey and asia minor, parts of italy, and the shores of the black sea. [illustration: athens, . a supposed appearance if restored.] attica and its capital covered a district that could be crossed to-day in its widest part, by a railway train in less than one hour. the capital of this small but powerful region was a city with a population less than that of sheffield. yet athens stood for the whole of the civilised world as a token of might, wealth, and culture, united in a city of limited dimensions, situated in the midst of natural surroundings not wholly kindly for the development of tillage. the athenians, descendants of tribes of the north, and of the old race of pelasgians, were a vigorous, adventurous, and highly intelligent race when western europe was inhabited by rude primitive tribes. long before the introduction of christianity in the east, athens was a beacon-light of religious and ethical culture. three hundred years before the birth of christ, the greeks had made alexandria the chief seat of learning and refinement in the world, and "the birthplace of modern science." and while other states of europe were ruled by autocrats and tyrants, the athenians adopted an advanced republican form of government. the light of athens shone dazzlingly for centuries. its many splendid buildings, and the glorious parthenon, were erected in the days of its proudest prosperity; in the days of gifted architects and sculptors, such as the world had never known, and in the days long before the apostles of christianity had set foot on attic soil. the light, and not too generous, soil of this limestone tract had been wrested from nature, irrigated, and tilled to perfection. around athens was a land of gardens and vineyards, with groves and pastures by pleasant streams. the piraeus, on the saronic gulf, was connected with athens by walls and roads, and used as a port for vessels of war and commerce. in the city were superb temples, theatres, halls of learning, and academies; while the open spaces were adorned with statues carved by praxiteles and phidias. during this period of magnificence, socrates discoursed in the city, and the plays of sophocles were performed in the vast theatre. we tread to-day on venerable ground as we wander amid the shattered pillars upon which demosthenes and aristotle gazed, and stand where plato stood in contemplation. athens is haunted in every corner with the spirits of mighty philosophers, poets, artists, and statesmen of eternal fame. the passionate admirer of grecian civilisation sometimes fails to detect any imperfection in the athenians of the immemorial epoch. but there were grave faults in the populace of athens even in the days of its rarest enlightenment. the democracy showed at times the same irrationality then as to-day. the statesmen fell into our errors, and were often as prejudiced as our modern politicians. miltiades was thrown into prison; aristides was ostracised; and thucydides and herodotus were banished. themistocles became unpopular, and had to fly from his country to persia. socrates was made to drink the bitter cup. even in this era of culture and science, the reformer and the innovator of moral and social customs ran the risk of persecution. and then, as in our own time, the flippant scoffer, such as aristophanes, was admired and applauded, while the serious thinker was exposed to the ingratitude and cruelty of the less earnest and educated. although the cultured of athens were rationalists in the main, the masses were prone to monstrous and hurtful superstitions. there were in athens, as in modern cities to-day, a number of persons who lived upon the credulity of their neighbours. seers, soothsayers, and charlatans preyed on the foolish, in spite of the ridicule of the philosophers. no wonder that socrates was misunderstood by the mob! in their treatment of women, the athenians were not entirely just and sensible. aristotle held that women were "inferior beings," though he justly demanded the same measure of chastity for men as for their wives. plato was one of the most "feminist" of the philosophers, as we may gather from his "republic"; but plutarch went further, and stated that women should be educated equally with men, a teaching directly opposed to that of xenophon, who declared that young girls should know "as little as possible." we learn, however, that at one period the women of greece were, in civic matters, on a level with their husbands, and could act without their consent in political affairs. the finest and most educated women were the courtesans. the athenians bought and sold slaves, without the least consciousness of injustice. no doubt the serfs were treated fairly well, on the whole. but no athenian appears to have recognised the moral evil of the system of slavery. yet, despite these blemishes, what a resplendent state was that of attica, and how wise and sane in many important respects were the laws, the home life, and the recreations of the people of athens. perhaps one cannot convey in a better manner an idea of the life of the city in its days of noblest fame than by giving a page or two out of the lives of a few of the heroes of war, the lawgivers, and the artists of the capital who were the makers of its glory. one of the famous victors in battle among the athenians was cimon, son of miltiades, who passed a wild youth in the city, but became a great admiral. "in courage he was not inferior to miltiades," writes plutarch, "nor in prudence to themistocles, and he was confessedly an honester man than either of them." cimon was "tall and majestic," and had an abundance of hair which curled upon his shoulders. the athenians admired the young and handsome man, and elected him a commander of battleships. one of his victories was over the invading persian hosts, who harassed the thracians. a picture of his daily life is given by plutarch, who tells us how the admiral kept open house each night for his friends and any citizens who chose to join the repast. cimon had a following of young men; and when walking out, if he met a poor man in meagre garments, he enjoined one of his friends to give him his clothes in exchange for the rags. "this was great and noble," says plutarch. the admiral loved riches, but not from a passion for amassing money. it was his pleasure to distribute money to the needy. his naval skill and enterprise were the wonder of the inhabitants of athens. in one engagement with the persians, cimon captured two hundred vessels. during the siege of citium, the great warrior died, either from a wound, or from natural causes. his body was brought to athens, where a monument was erected in memory of his prowess on land and sea. during the rule of pericles, athens was beautified by the building of a new parthenon under the direction of callicrates and ictinus. at this time the walls of the city were extended, the odeum, or music theatre, erected, and numerous statues set up in the buildings. phidias was chosen by pericles as superintendent of all public buildings in athens. the name of phidias is spoken with reverence by every student of sculpture. he was a supreme artist of varied parts; he carved in marble, made images of ivory and gold, and cast effigies in bronze, besides exercising the art of the painter. some of his matchless statuary has been happily preserved for us in the british museum. it was the chisel of phidias that adorned the frieze of the parthenon. it was this genius who made the famous statue of minerva, and the image of athene in ivory, thirty feet high, for the erechtheum. unfortunately, the minerva image was the cause of the undoing of phidias. a man so eminent was sure to evoke envy among his contemporaries. first he was falsely charged with theft; then his work was condemned on the score that he had introduced his own image upon the shield of minerva. for this breach of convention, in representing a modern figure in a historical subject, the sculptor was deemed disloyal to the ancient fame of athens. he was sent to prison, where he died. "some say poison was given to him," writes plutarch. praxiteles, another mighty image-maker of athens, lived over a hundred years before the days of phidias. he carved the youthful figure with surpassing delicacy and grace. his aphrodite was one of the world's masterpieces; and among his finest works were statues of hermes and niobe and her children. we must now glance at an attic social phenomenon of much importance. the power of the courtesan among the cultured athenians is instanced in the life of pericles. we can learn but little of the grecian social life, without inquiring into the status of the hetæræ at this period in the history of athens. xenophon and socrates were the visitors of aspasia, the friend and adviser of pericles. the influence of this clever woman was almost unbounded. philosophers, soldiers, and poets were of her court; she was one of the causes of the median faction, and her sway over pericles was supreme. "the business that supported her was neither honourable nor decent," writes plutarch. she was, indeed, of mrs warren's profession. pericles never set out upon important affairs, nor returned from them, without waiting upon this fascinating mistress, who combined beauty of body with much wit and skill in conversation. at the advice of aspasia, the ruler of athens proclaimed war against the samians, in which memorable conflict battering-rams were first used by the greeks. and it was through the intervention of pericles that aspasia was acquitted of the charge of impiety, adduced by hermippus, a comic rhymer. in the court pericles "shed many tears" for the woman he loved, and thus obtained her pardon. alcibiades, "the versatile athenian," friend of socrates, was another of the makers of athens. he was a model of manly beauty, with a vigorous frame, and active in exercises. his lisping speech gave a charm to his oratory. he was ambitious, variable, passionate, and withal lovable. socrates was one of the first to discover his virtues of character, and his rare qualities of mind. like pericles he was the companion of courtesans, and his excesses provoked his wife hippareté, who left him on that account and went to the house of her brother. when hippareté appeared before the archon, with a bill of divorce, alcibiades rushed forward, seized her in his arms, and carried her home, where she remained apparently contented until her death. alcibiades was the most eloquent orator of his day. his versatility was great. he bred fine horses, which ran in the competitions at the olympic games, and often won prizes for their owner. he loved display and handsome apparel; he invented a luxurious hanging bed. in warfare he distinguished himself by immense courage and a knowledge of tactics. timanda, daughter of the famous lais, was the mistress of alcibiades, and near her house he was assassinated by hirelings, sent by his political enemies. such are a few pages culled from the annals of some of the illustrious natives of athens in the days of its grandeur. they may serve to throw a slight reflection of the temper and the lives of the people of this ancient republic. anyone who treads the streets of athens, even if only superficially acquainted with grecian history, will find a host of memories crowding the brain. war was an occupation and a trade with the greeks, and the athenians were not often at peace with neighbouring countries. thrice at least was athens besieged. when xerxes came to greece, the citizens consulted the oracle of delphi, who counselled that they should find security "in walls of wood." led by themistocles, the citizens manned the vessels, after sending the old, the infirm, and the women and children to troezene. but the counsel of the oracle proved futile. the persians entered athens, killed the few remaining soldiers, and burnt the splendid city to ruins. upon these ruins grew a second athens. then came lysander and laid siege for eight months, until the citizens yielded. harshly ruled for a time by the spartan victors, athens regained liberty through the valour of a small force collected by lysias. in the third siege the city was assailed by the roman sylla, who strove to expel archelaus, king of pontus, who had entered athens by strategy and deception, and usurped government. sylla's attack on the walls of athens, the tremendous bulwarks erected by pericles, was terrific. the general employed thousands of mules in working the powerful battering-rams. often the defenders rushed out of the city to combat with their assailants in the open. the conflict was deadly and hand-to-hand. sylla's soldiers endeavoured to fire the city, the athenians still resisted, and the troops withdrew for a spell, while their leader reconsidered his plans. worn out with famine, the people within the city begged that their ruler would surrender. his answer was cruel punishment to the deputies. the inhabitants were now actually feeding upon human flesh. sylla finally captured athens, secured the port, and became the ruler of the proud and fallen city. so came about the conquest of attica by the romans. from that day her glory faded. one after another came the invaders, and her liberty was no more the envy of the civilised world, for she became the vassal of turkey, and later of venice. it was the venetians who destroyed the noble parthenon, leaving only two pediments standing. siege, the ravages of time, and constant spoliation, have removed nearly all the great historic edifices from the acropolis. but the pillars and stones that remain are picturesque, if mournful, memorials of athens in the period of splendour. the city stands on the ground where in remote days the phoenicians made a settlement. acropolis, the upper town, or citadel, contains to-day several interesting vestiges of attic art. from the plateau we survey mountains of about the height of ben lomond or snowdon, the famed hymettus, the parnes, and the corydallus. the inferior hill of mars, where st paul preached, is dwarfed by these heights. on this hill ruled the awful deities of olympus, and upon it is a monument of philopappus. amid the waves in the distance are the isles of salamis and Ægina. the scene is beautiful beneath the glowing southern sky. in greece the atmosphere is very clear and bright and the sun shines ardently on the bleached ruins, the gleaming sea, and the roofs of the modern city. the rivers ilissus and cephissus lave the city. away in the level country is the wood where plato had his academy. the whole territory is classic soil. we stand in front of the site of the erechtheum, burned by the persians, and rebuilt by pericles. it was an edifice of superb architecture, dedicated to the virgin goddess, the adored athene. within stood a figure of the goddess, and there hung a lamp that burned by day and night. the athenians worshipped erechtheus and athene in this temple of majestic form. athene was to them the inventress of the plough, the giver of the olive-tree, the goddess of war. she was the daughter of the mighty zeus. the god who shared in her honour was the legendary ruler of athens, and son of the earth by hephæstus. the parthenon was also sacred to athene. the remains of this edifice are very impressive. huge fluted columns support the roof, and parts of the frieze and metopes have survived. five years were spent in the building of the temple. the style was doric, and the whole structure was a splendid example of this imposing style of architecture. the porticoes and colonnades were constructed as promenades, sheltered from the sun and wind, and the columns were erected in double rows. within was the maiden's chamber, beautifully embellished, and provided with altars. everywhere the genius of phidias was displayed in marble friezes, stone images, and bronze casts. the elgin marbles, in the british museum, give an example of the elegance of the decorations of the frontages; and parts of the sculptured eastern frieze are to be seen in the acropolis museum, near to the temple. the carvings represented the war between gods and giants, the victory of the athenians over the amazons, the birth of the goddess athene, the destruction of troy, and other historical and mythical subjects. among the relics of the acropolis are grottoes dedicated to the gods, several traces of temples, and shrines of pan, apollo, and other deities. in the acropolis museum is a collection of treasures, portions of bas-reliefs and statuary rescued from the ruins of the old buildings. the remains of the temple of wingless victory, and the monument of lysiantes, are among the ancient stones of the acropolis. modern athens preserves in a measure the spirit of antiquity; but it is not so ancient in aspect as many of the towns that we have visited. a wide thoroughfare, called hermes, is the chief street of the city. there are several modern buildings of excellent design, such as the university, the academy, and the national museum. in the museum will be found a very fine collection of relics of the ancient buildings, statues, and utensils. schools for the study of hellenic art and culture have been established in athens by the british, americans, and french. every endeavour is now made by the learned societies of the city to preserve the acropolis monuments, those triumphs of the sculptor's art and mason's craft of which plutarch wrote: "that which was the chief delight of the athenians and the wonder of strangers, and which alone serves for a proof that the boasted power and opulence of ancient greece is not an idle tale, was the magnificence of the temples and public edifices.... the different materials, such as stone, brass, ivory, gold, ebony, and cypress, furnished employment to carpenters, masons, brasiers, goldsmiths, painters, tanners, and other artificers.... thus works were raised of an astonishing magnitude and inimitable beauty and perfection, every architect striving to surpass the magnificence of the design with the elegance of the execution, yet still the most wonderful circumstance was the expedition with which they were completed." the superb art of the athenians set an example to the whole of europe. everywhere its influence was manifested in architecture and sculptured decoration. artists with pencil and brush are inspired by the matchless line and form of phidias. the great english painter, g. f. watts, haunted the greek corridors of the british museum until he became steeped in the beauty of the elgin marbles. "the academy training taught him very little; the art of phidias taught him how to produce great works." albert moore, another of our modern painters of genius, found his æsthetic ideal in the art of the greeks. and so from the little nation of attica came the mightiest influences of morality, wisdom, and art that the world has known. index amsterdam alva, duke of, banking system, canals, , churches, haarlem, siege of, helder, museum, pictures, rembrandt, ruyter, de, spinoza, - town hall, trade, - zuyder zee, antwerp alva, duke of, , cathedral, chassé, general, churches, forts, matsys, quentin, museum, painters, , - philip ii., plantin, quays, reynolds, sir j., schelde, siege of, william of orange, zoological garden, assisi chiesa nuova, dante, giotto, , goethe, , ruskin, san francisco, church of, , san rufino, cathedral of, santa maria, church of, simone, st bonaventura, , st clare, church of, st damian, church of, st francis, , , , , , , , via portica, vasari, vespasian, temple of, athens acropolis, , , Ægea, isle of, alcibiades, , alexandria, archelaus, apollo, aristides, aristotle, aristophanes, aspasia, athene, attica, , , , callicrates, cephissus river, cimon, , delphi, oracle of, demosthenes, erechtheum, , hephæstus, hermes, street of, hermippus, herodotus, hippareté, hissus river, ictinus, lais, lysander, lysias, mars, hill of, miltiades, , moore, albert, museum, national, olympus, pan, parthenon, , , , , - pelasgians, pericles, , , , , phidias, , , philopappus, piræus, plato, , , plutarch, , , , , praxiteles, , salamis, isle of, socrates, , , , sophocles, sylla, themistocles, , , timander, watts, g. f., xenophon, , xerxes, zeus, bruges alva, duke of, canals, , cathedral, chamois, captain, chapelle du st sang, dukes of burgundy, , forts, "golden fleece," lace-making, market, mary of burgundy, motley, memling, philip the good, prissenhof, tapestry, titchmann, town hall, van eyck brothers, , , chartres aignan, st, bernard, st, bishops of, cathedral, - charlemagne, churches, desportes, eure river, gothic art, , - museum, pierre, st, regnier, mathurin, romans, , , cologne agrippina, bridges, caxton, cathedral, churches, , durer, eau de cologne, "farina," museum, painters, , rathaus, rhine, romans, titian, trajan, vandyk, cordova abderahman, , , , , abu mohammed, alcazar, almanzor, averroes, az-zahra, berbers, , bridge of, castillo, céspedes, charles v., climate, court of oranges, de amicis, fernando, gate of pardon, gongora, gran capitan, , guadalquivir, , gautier, hakam, , hisham iii., leal, valdés, lucan, mihrâb, moors, , , mosque, - picture gallery, puerta de las palmas, ribera, roderick, sala capitular, seneca, villaviciosa chapel, yusuf, . florence angelo, michael, , , , apennines, aquinas, thomas, beatrice, bargello, boboli gardens, boccaccio, , , browning, bruneschi palace, buondelmonti, campanile, cellini, croce, dante, , , delia robbia, donatello, , fiesole, , fra angelico, , ghibellines, giotto, , , , guelfs, hunt, leigh, lorenzo, machiavelli, marco, san, maria santa, milton, , orcagna, petrarch, pisano, pitti palace, , porta mandoria, raphael, riccardi palace, san miniato, savonarola, , , , shelley, strozzi chapel, titian, totila the goth, uberti, uffizi palace, vallombrosa, vasari, vecchio palace, velazquez, ghent aldegonde, st, , aerschot, duke, , alva, duke of, , belfry, charles v., - edward iii., , erasmus, "golden fleece," hotel de ville, imbize, - john of ghent, museum, pictures in, rubens, ryhove, trade guilds, walls, weaving, university, van artevelde, van eyck brothers, granada albaicin quarter, , alhambra, , , , , , , , -- baths, -- court of lions, , -- council chamber, -- fish pond, -- hall of ambassadors, -- -- abencerrages, -- -- justice, -- palace of charles v., , -- puerta de judiciaria, -- towers, , al-ahmar, audencia, boabdil, borrow, george, bourgoanne, chevalier de, cano, alonso, , , cartuja, castillo, juan del, cathedral, , , charles v., , darro river, , , fancelli, fernando, king, , ford, generalife, genil, , , gran capitan, el, greco, el, isabel, queen, irving, washington, mohammed, montañez, o'shea, henry, pacheco, philip iv., philip v., ribera, san geronimo, church of, sierra nevada, siloe, diego de, st ildefonso, church of, talavera, cardinal, , yusuf i., ximenes, cardinal, , heidelberg anlagen, castle of, hegel, - huss, jerome of prague, mary of scotland, morata, olympia, neckar river, rupert, elector, students, tully, , tun, great, wars, nuremberg bridges, churches, , craftsmen, durer, - forts, gustavus, huss, imhoff gallery, karl iv., krafft, "lohengrin," luther, melanchthon, old houses, "parsifal," pegnitz river, , rathaus, stoss, vischer, peter, , wagner, wars, wolf-brothers, wolfram, oporto alfonso i., art, , , bridge, cathedral, churches, climate, - douro, , , , , english in, explorers of, exports, foz, gama, de, gardens, john i., juan of castile, -- iii., lusitania, manuel i., markets, mattosinhos, museum, pedro iv., pedroites, peninsular war, philip ii., pictures in, port wine, romans, teutons, visigoths, perugia baroccio, bernardino, bonfigli, , canonica, collegio del cambio, coreggio, fra angelico, fiorenzo di lorengo, giannicola, palazzo pubblico, paul iii., pope, perugino, , , piazzi del municipio, piazza sopramuro, pinturicchio, prefeturra terrace, raphael, san domenico, church of, san lorenzo, cathedral of, san pietro, church of, san severo, church of, poitiers battle of, - black prince, buch, captal, coligny, , churches, dukes of aquitaine, john of france, lude, count, morbecque, de, museum, petrarch, population, protestantism, romans, prague bridges, , capuchin monastery, cathedral, charles iv., church, craftsmen, drama in, emaus monastery, huss, libussa, mathew of cracow, moldau river, museum, national theatre, - palaces, petrlik, powder gate, rudolph, king, siege of, sigismund, symons, arthur, thirty years' war, austrian war, vladislav, wenceslas, wicliff, rheims cathedral, - cæsar, churches, clovis, consul of, gate of mars, james, henry, , joan of arc, louis xv., museum, romans, , st remi, , st jacques, st thomas, tapestries, trade, vandals, rome agrippa, albani, villa, augustus, antony, mark, aurelius, berbini, cardinal, borghese, villa, browning, robert, bruno, giordano, , cæsar, cæsar, julius, temple of, cæsars, palace of, campagna , , canova, capitoline, , capitol museum, , castor and pollux, temple of, catullus, caligula, palace of, coliseum, , , , , , colonna palace, colonna, vittoria, constantine, arch of, copernicus, coreggio, cynthia, della porta, dorian palace, fabius, arch of, farnese palace, forum , , , galileo, , gauls, goethe, , , hannibal, julia, basilica, jupiter, keats, kircheriano, lateran palace, medici, villa, michael angelo, , , , michelet, , national museum, nero, niebuhr, palatine hill, , , pantheon, , pauline chapel, plutei, walls of the, pompey, , pompelius, numa, poussin, protestant cemetery, raphael, regia, , reynolds, sir joshua, , romulus, , rosa, salvator, san clemente, san giovanni, san giovanni laterno, santa maria, , santi giovanni paolo, saturn, temple of, , scipio, senatore, palazzo del, septimus severus, arch of, shelley, , , sistine chapel, , st peter's, , , , , , , , , , symons, arthur, tarquinius superbus, thorvaldsen, tiber, titian, , trajan, , trajan's column, , van dyck, varus, quintilius, vatican, , velazquez, vespasian, temple of, vesta, temple of, rouen arc, joan of, - blanchard, alan, bovary, madame, cathedral, - churches, , corneille, danes, flaubert, gautier, godard, st, goujon, henry v., rigaud, bishop, roan horses, rollo, st amant, - william the conqueror, seville alcazar, , , bolero, borrow, g., bullfighting, campaña, p., casa pilatos, cathedral, - charles v., climate, columbus, dancing, easter _fêtes_, gautier, giralda, , gitanos, golden tower, greco, el, guadalquivir, , horses of, mendoza, moors, , , montañez, , murillo, , , -- house of, pacheco, painters of, , , , , , park, pedro the cruel, , romans, , telmo palace, torquemada, trajan, triana, velazquez, , women of, zurbaran, toledo abd-er-rahman, alcantara bridge, alcazar, , ayuntamiento, bayeu, bernardo, don, berruguéte, , , borgoña, , bourgoanne, chevalier de, carreño, casa de mesa, cathedral, , , cervantes, cid, el cristo de la luz, church of, el transito, church of, elizabeth de valois, gautier, , goya, greco, el, , , , , ibañez, blasco de, infantry, school of, justi, carl, martinez, guiseppe, maella, mendoza, cardinal, , museum, provincial, o'shea, henry, ponz, puerta de los leones, puerta del sol, roderick, king, san josé, church of, san juan, church of, san juan, hospital of, san martin, bridge of, san miguel, church of, san roman, church of, san sevando, church of, san vicente, church of, santa maria la blanca, church of, santo domingo, church of, santo tomé, church of, , st magdalen, church of, tagus, , tarik, tintoretto, tubal, vega, lope de, , ximenes, cardinal, venice academy of arts, , , brownings, , byron, bellini, , borrow, george, canaletto, coello, sanchez, columbus, doge, palace of, , , , , giorgione, grand canal, , greco, el, goths, james, henry, lido, the, lysippos, murano, napoleon, , padua, palazzo dario, -- dona, -- ca d'oro, -- foscari, -- loredan, -- mesto, -- mocenigo, -- pesaro, -- rezzonico, -- vendramin, -- venier, palma, palladio, paul v., pope, piazzetta, pietro tribune, rialto, , ruskin, , , , san marco, cathedral of, , , , san marco, square of, san zaccaria, church of, san zanipolo, church of, santa fosca, church of, santa maria dei friari, church of, santa maria della salute, church of, , sarpi, paolo, , sharp, william, spires, john of, symonds, j. a., tiepolo, giovanni battista, tintoretto, , , , , titian, , torcella, veronese, paolo, , via garibaldi, vicenza, wagner, verona amphitheatre, anastasia church, caliari, catullus, cavilli chapel, consiglio palace, diocletian, eccelius, fermo, san, freeman, a. e., garda, lake of, giaconda, giorgio, san, libri, dai, mantegna, , maria, santa, municipio, piazza della erbe, pliny, ragione palace, roman period, romeo and juliet, scaligers, , shakespeare, - 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"why, papa! what is the matter? are you going away? are you sick? what made you come home so early?" were the questions which alice gave rapidly, without waiting for an answer. mr. winter said, "yes, dear, i am obliged to go to nuremberg, germany, on business immediately, and mamma is trying to make up her mind whether it is best for her to go with me. she does not like to leave you for so long a time, and we do not think it wise to take you with us, when you are getting on at school so nicely." "o papa, please take me with you. i shall learn just as much on such a lovely trip as at school, and you know i can take care of mamma, and keep her from being lonely when you are busy. o papa, please ask mamma to let me go. i should be so unhappy to stay without you, even with dear aunt edith, and i know there is where you would send me." "alice, dear, go to your room and get ready for dinner, and leave us to talk it over," said mr. winter. "my dear little daughter knows that no matter which way we decide, it will be as we think is best for all of us. you know it is as hard for us to leave you as it will be for you to let us go." alice left the room without another word, with her heart beating very fast from the excitement of it all. the thought of going to europe across the great ocean was a very happy one to a bright girl of fifteen who was studying all the time about the places she would visit and the objects of interest she would see, if her papa would only decide to take her. alice sat down by the window of her pretty room, and looked out on the village street, far away in the northern part of the state of new york. she wondered how the ocean looked, as she had never seen any larger body of water than that of lake erie, when she went with her mother to make a visit in cleveland. she also wondered if her state-room on the steamer would be as large as the room she was in; also, would she be sick, and how would all those wonderful cities look; if they could be as beautiful as the pictures she had seen of them. then she remembered that only last week she had been studying about the quaint old city of nuremberg, and wishing she could go there and see all its curiosities. alice was startled by the dinner-bell, and could not even wait to brush her hair, she was so anxious to know what her papa had decided. as alice went into the dining-room with a very wistful look in her deep-brown eyes, mr. winter said, "well, dear, we have decided to take you with us, and as it is now wednesday, and we sail saturday from new york on the 'etruria,' you will be very busy getting ready, and you must help your mamma all you can." alice threw her arms around mr. winter's neck, crying with joy, saying at the same time, "oh, you dear, darling papa, how kind and good you are, and how i do love you!" after kissing him again and again, she went to her mamma and nearly smothered her with kisses. mr. winter had never been abroad, though he had large business interests there, which had been attended to by a clerk in whom he had the utmost confidence. this clerk had been taken very suddenly and dangerously ill, mr. winter had no one else he could send, and found he must go himself and at once. he telegraphed to the cunard office for state-rooms, and went home to tell his wife, hardly thinking she would go with him at such short notice, or leave alice. mrs. winter was not willing he should go without her, and soon decided not only to go, but to take alice with them. alice could hardly eat any dinner, she was so happy and full of excitement. the next morning alice went to school to get her books and tell the wonderful news to her teacher and school-mates. they were nearly as interested as she, for it was quite an event for any one to go to europe from that quiet village. it was decided then and there that all would be at the station to see her off on friday. when alice went to her room she found there a new steamer-trunk marked "a. w." in large letters, and then she was busy indeed getting it packed and deciding what to take with her. mrs. winter came in while alice was almost in despair and said, "this is to be such a hurried trip you will need only a couple of dresses, but you must take all your warm wraps." alice laughed and said, "i do not think i shall need them in the spring;" but mamma said, "it is always cold at sea, and you will need your winter clothes." friday afternoon our little party started for new york, with the best wishes of their friends, who came to the station for the very last "good-byes." alice even shed a few tears, but they were soon wiped away, and a happy face looked from the car window, which fortunately was on the side overlooking the hudson river. alice had never seen that lovely river before, and naturally was delighted. when they passed the catskill mountains it was so clear she could see the famous old mountain house, and, beyond, the immense kauterskill hotel, which seemed almost in the clouds, it looked so high. west point was the next object of interest, and alice did hope she could go there sometime and see the cadets do some of their drills. when they were opposite the palisades, which stood up in their grandeur, with the softened tints of the setting sun settling upon them, alice said, "i know i shall see nothing in europe any finer than that." very soon the tall spires and smoke in the distance showed that they were drawing near new york, and after leaving the hudson they followed the pretty harlem river, which makes an island of new york city. alice was much interested in the bridges, there seemed to be so many of them, and papa told her that the one then in sight was the new washington bridge, just completed. the next was high bridge, which carries the water over the river into the city. when it was finished it was said to be the finest engineering in the country. the next bridge was the continuation of the elevated railroad, and then came macomb's dam bridge, the oldest of them all, and used simply for driving and walking across, and looked, alice thought, quite unsafe. the pretty madison avenue bridge was the last they saw as they crossed their own bridge, and were soon in a tunnel which alice thought would never end. when they came out of the tunnel the train was nearly at the station, where the noise and bustle were very confusing, and they were glad to get into a carriage to be driven to the fifth avenue hotel. as it was quite dark, alice thought it was like a glimpse of fairyland when they reached madison square, with its electric lights shining on the trees, and all the bright lights around the hotel. chapter ii. new york for the first time. mr. winter having telegraphed for rooms, found them ready for him; and on going down to dinner they were delighted to see the corridors and dining-room crowded with people, many of them public characters whom he could point out to alice, who was so excited she felt the entire evening as if she were in a dream. of all the prominent men there alice was the most interested in general sherman, with his kind, rugged face. the "etruria" sailed at noon on saturday, and mrs. winter and alice spent the morning buying a few last things, such as a hat and hood and comfortable steamer-chairs. at eleven o'clock a fifth avenue hotel stage was at the door, and several people beside themselves went in it to the steamer. the ladies had flowers and baskets of fruit, and seemed so bright and happy that alice for the first time felt a little lonely and homesick. on reaching the dock there were so many people going on and coming off the steamer, and pushing each other, it was almost impossible to cross the gang-plank and reach their own state-rooms. finally they found them, and, instead of nice large rooms, they were so very small that alice felt she never could live in them for a week or ten days, and the berths were so narrow she said, "o papa, you can never get into one of those in the world." "oh, yes, i can," said mr. winter, "and perhaps before we reach liverpool i shall wish they were narrower yet."' mrs. winter and alice had one room, and mr. winter was across the passage with another gentleman. after settling their valises and rugs they went up on deck to see the people, and also the last of the city itself. large baskets of fruits and flowers in every shape were constantly being brought on board, and much to alice's delight there was a large bunch of violets from her school friends at home. she had been looking at the other people a little enviously, especially at a girl of her own age who had many friends to see her, and her arms full of flowers. very soon the gong sounded, and alice, who had never heard one, put her hands to her ears to shut out the noise. as soon as the man had passed by alice said,-- "what is that?" "that is a gong, dear," said her papa, "and is now being used to notify the people who are not sailing on the steamer that it is time to go ashore." the people who left kissed their friends hurriedly, and went down the gang-plank as if afraid they might be carried away, after all. after the people were on the dock and the mailbags had been put on the steamer, very slowly but surely the great steamer backed out into the river. tugs turned her around, and carefully she steamed toward the ocean, trying to avoid the many boats moving about the river in all directions. [illustration: the great steamer backed out into the river.--_page ._] alice was rather frightened, and thought they certainly would run into some of them. many of the passengers were still waving to their friends, who were also waving to them from the dock as long as they could distinguish it at all. very soon they could see the famous statue of the goddess of liberty, that holds its light so high in the air; then lovely staten island, with its green hills and fine houses. the two forts, hamilton and wordsworth, which guard the entrance to the harbor, were soon left behind, and on the left could be seen coney island, with its large hotels and elephant and high elevator. suddenly, as they were looking at the largest hotel of all, the one at rockaway beach, the steamer stopped. alice, rather startled, said,-- "oh, dear! what is the matter?" "they are going to drop the pilot," said her papa. "where?" said alice. "in the water?" "oh, no," said mr. winter; "do you see that small boat rowing towards us?" "yes, papa. will he drop into that? he never can; he will surely fall into the water." mr. winter smiled and told her to go and watch from the rail, which she did, and soon saw the pilot go down the side of the steamer by a rope and drop into the little row-boat, where two men were waiting to row him to the pretty pilot-boat no.  , which was quite a distance away. the steamer started immediately, and in five minutes the row-boat was only a speck on the water. "there is another hotel, papa. what is it?" said alice. "that is the long beach hotel, and you will not see another until you reach liverpool," said her papa. chapter iii. life on a steamer. "come, alice," said mrs. winter, "we will go down to our state-room and unpack our trunks while we are in smooth water, for to-morrow morning it may be so rough we cannot get out of our berths at all." alice went with her mamma and helped put everything in order, but there were so few hooks and no bureau she did not know at first where to put anything. mrs. winter decided to sleep in the lower berth and have alice on the sofa, which gave them the top berth for a bureau, and they found themselves very comfortable. alice wanted to put some little things around to look pretty, but her mamma said, "no, dear, for if the ship rolls they will be all over the floor." alice laughed and said, "i guess the 'etruria' never rolls enough for that; she is too big." "wait and see," quietly said her mamma. mrs. winter said, "now we will put on our warm wraps and go on deck." mr. winter had found their chairs and put them in a nice place. just as they were being settled in them, the gong was sounded again. "that is for lunch this time," said mr. winter, "and i for one am glad, for i am very hungry." on going to the saloon they were delighted to find that their seats were at the captain's table, and any one who has crossed the ocean with captain hains knows what a treat they had before them, if it should be a nice passage and he could be in his seat at the head of the table. in the afternoon the ship rolled, and when dinner was announced mrs. winter thought she would take hers on deck. she was not sick, but was afraid if she left the air she might be. mr. winter and alice went to the table, and alice was surprised to see the vacant seats around the room. the racks were on the table, so the dishes were held in place, but alice found it rather uncomfortable keeping her chair. in the morning mrs. winter was too ill to leave her berth, but alice never felt better in her life. the captain was so pleased to have her at the table to breakfast he put her in her mamma's seat next to him, and when she told him it was her birthday he said, "you shall have a nice cake for your dinner." after breakfast alice went up on deck with mr. winter, who put her in a comfortable place and covered her up nice and warm. he went down to see his wife. the sea was a deep, bright blue, with lovely white caps, and when the sun shone on them alice could see a rainbow on every wave. alice became tired of sitting in her chair, and went to the rail to look over the side and see how pretty the water looked as the ship cut through it. soon the young girl whom she had seen the day before came up to her and said, "have you ever crossed before?" alice said, "no, have you?" "oh, yes, several times; and i do enjoy every minute, for i am never sick." alice asked her name, and she answered, "nellie ford. what is yours and where are you going?" alice told her name and that she was going to nuremberg. nellie said, "i have never been there. we are going to brussels, and it is such a beautiful city." they talked on until the gong sounded, and agreed to meet again after lunch. at dinner that night alice found the cake which the captain had promised her on the table. after thanking him, she asked if she might send a piece of it to her new friend. "of course, my dear," said the captain. "it is yours to do with just as you please." the second day was very much like the first, only mrs. winter was able to be on deck, and nellie ford introduced her to mr. and mrs. ford, and they soon settled to a little party of six, as passengers on a steamer are very apt to do. the two girls were together all the time, and joined in a game of ring toss with some more of the young people. [illustration: houses of parliament.--_page ._] the days passed away, one very much like another--some pleasant, some stormy and rough, some foggy, with the whistles being blown every two minutes. alice felt that she should be glad when she saw land again. one night they met a steamer, and it did look very pretty all lighted up. the "etruria" set off roman candles, which were answered by the steamer, and alice thought that was the most interesting evening of all, even more so than the night of the concert. the "etruria" made a very quick trip, and reached queenstown friday afternoon. alice was writing letters in the saloon to send home, when suddenly the steamer stopped. "oh, dear, what is the matter?" she cried, jumping to her feet. a gentleman sitting near her said, "it is a fog, and as we are very near fastnet rock they do not dare to go on." soon a gun was heard in answer to the steamer's whistle, and the gentleman said, "we must be right there now." alice went up on deck rather frightened, but as suddenly as the fog had settled upon them it lifted, and directly ahead of them was the straight rock rising out of the water like a sentinel. the "etruria" ran up her signal flags and then started on, and in three hours was off queenstown harbor, where the tug was waiting for their mails and the few passengers who wished to be landed. chapter iv. a first glimpse of england. queenstown was soon a thing of the past, and when they went to their rooms the packing was finished, so that the next morning all the time could be spent upon the deck until they landed. it was a clear, bright morning, but very cold and windy, when the steamer was left to take the tug. on leaving the tug, alice and nellie were very careful to each put her left foot first on the dock, as they had been told it would bring them good luck. there was not much to interest our party in liverpool except the docks, which of course alice had been told were the finest in the world. after leaving the custom house they were driven to the north western hotel, and the ladies and two girls waited in the parlor in front of an enormous soft-coal fire, while mr. ford and mr. winter went into the station, which joins the hotel, and engaged a compartment for london. opposite the hotel they could see st. george's hall, with its two statues in front, one of queen victoria and the other of her husband, prince albert, when they were young. suddenly a noise of horses being rapidly driven was heard, and the girls ran to the window just in time to see the high sheriff's carriage of state being driven to the hotel to take him away to open court. it was very elegant, with its satin linings and the four beautiful horses. the footmen stood up at the back of the carriage, holding themselves on by leather straps. four men in uniform stood in the street and blew on trumpets until the sheriff was out of sight. the girls thought it very interesting, but mrs. winter said, "a sheriff's position in england must be very different from that in america, where they usually go about in the quietest manner possible." mr. winter and mr. ford came in and told them it was time to get some lunch. a very nice one they had, and alice was particularly interested in the table on wheels, with the joints of meat on it, which was pushed about to each person to select the cut of meat he liked. mr. ford advised their going to the hotel victoria in london, as he had tried many others and liked that one the best; so they had telegraphed for rooms before starting on the two o'clock train. all the party were in good spirits, and glad to be on dry land. mrs. winter and alice did not like the carriage, as it is called in england, as well as the drawing-room car at home, but enjoyed every moment of the journey. england is like a large garden, every portion being under cultivation; the fields are so green and full of large, beautiful sheep grazing everywhere. "o mamma, how much more lovely the hedges are than our fences and walls at home!" said alice. "yes, indeed," said mrs. winter. "i have always heard they were lovely, but i did not think they would add so much to the beauties of the landscape." harrow, with its school on the hill, was passed, and caused some interest to the girls. london was reached before they realized it, and they were driven to the hotel victoria in two four-wheeled cabs called "growlers"--why, they did not know, unless people "growl" at their lack of comfort in every way; no springs, narrow, high seats, generally dirty, and a worn-out old horse, whipped the most of the time by a very poor driver. their rooms were ready for them, and glad enough they were to get their dinner and go to bed to get rested for the following days, to which the winters were looking forward with great interest. [illustration: nelson column.] chapter v. a week in london. sunday our party rested, but on monday morning they started for westminster abbey, hardly looking at anything on the way, though they went by trafalgar square, with the high column erected to nelson, which stands there so proudly, with its beautiful lions made by landseer lying so quietly at its base. a pleasant morning was passed at the abbey, and the poets' corner proved to be their greatest attraction, as it is with most americans. the chair in which queen victoria sat when she was crowned was shown to them, but alice said she thought it was a common-looking chair, and wondered why the queen did not have one that was more imposing. on leaving the abbey they naturally turned towards the houses of parliament, and wishing to get even a better view, they walked part way over westminster bridge, where they also saw st. thomas's hospital, situated on the surrey side of the thames. the walk back to the hotel by way of the embankment was very pleasant, with its large buildings one side, and the river with its boats moving up and down on the other, and the rumble of the underground railroad beneath their feet. on reaching home they were so tired it was decided to rest in the afternoon and visit madame tussaud's wax-works in the evening. after dinner mr. ford said, "how would you like to go to the wax-works by the underground railway? it is not very far, if you think you won't mind the smoke and confined air. the station is very near, and we shall be left at the next building to the wax-works. i have been driven there and it only took about twenty minutes, so i think we can go by train in ten." "all right," said mr. winter; "it will be a good opportunity to see how we shall like it." off they all started to the charing cross station. the girls did not like going down underground so far, but alice said to nellie, "i think i will not say much about it unless mamma does." after passing three stations, mr. winter said, "this air is stifling, do you not think we are nearly there?" "oh, yes," said mr. ford, "i think it must be the next station." when they reached it, it was not theirs, and mr. ford called out to the guard, "how many more stations before we reach baker street?" the man looked at him rather queerly, and said, "fourteen. where did you get on the train?" "at charing cross," said mr. ford. "oh," said the guard, "you have taken a train for the outer circle and come the longer way; some one should have told you." the train moved on, and our party had nothing to do but sit patiently and try not to think how close and stifling the air was getting. when they were once more in the fresh air mr. ford said, "driving in cabs suits me pretty well, and that is the way i am going home, if i go alone." there was not a dissenting voice, and after a very pleasant evening they had a lovely drive home in three hansom cabs, and it only took them sixteen minutes. tuesday morning was spent in visiting the bank of england and st. paul's cathedral, where the young people and the gentlemen went upstairs to the whispering gallery. they all went down to the crypt, where are many tombs, among them those of nelson and wellington. the great object of interest to them was the immense funeral car which was made to carry the body of the duke of wellington through the streets of london to his last resting-place. the wheels were made from pieces of cannon picked from the field of waterloo. mr. ford took them to a quaint, old-fashioned place noted for its soups, for lunch. in the afternoon the tower of london was visited, and of course was of more interest to the winters than to the fords. to alice it was very realistic, it was so full of english history. she could tell her mamma much more than could the man, in his strange costume, who showed them around. that night the ladies and the two girls were too tired to go out again, so mr. ford took mr. winter and they did a little sight-seeing on their own account. wednesday was given up to visiting the buckingham palace stables, where they saw the queen's famous ponies that are only used on state occasions; and the south kensington museum, which they found very interesting. [illustration: tower of london.--_page ._] in the evening they went to the theatre, and alice thought it very strange to go downstairs to their seats. the audience looked so much better than in america, as the ladies were in evening dress and the gentlemen in dress suits. thursday was a lovely day, and was spent at hampton court. they went on the outside of a coach, and what a lovely drive it was through richmond and bushy park, with its wonderful horse-chestnut trees all in bloom! [illustration: hampton court.] the coach stopped at a little inn beside the river, where they lunched before visiting the famous court, once the home of henry the eighth, and presented to him by cardinal wolsey. it is now the home of certain ladies of small income who are alone in the world. they are selected by the queen, and of course have only one portion of the palace. the remainder is occupied as state apartments and a famous picture-gallery, beside a gun-room only second in interest to that of the tower. friday was given to windsor castle and the crystal palace. saturday they shopped and visited the royal academy, where they saw a beautiful collection of paintings, and only wished there was more time to spend looking at them. mr. and mrs. ford decided to go with the winters as far as brussels, and as they were to start on monday it was thought best to keep very quiet on sunday. mrs. winter said to her husband she wished they could stay longer in london, where every minute had been a delight; but he said it was impossible. chapter vi. off for the continent. monday morning was bright and clear, and mr. ford said, "this looks like a pleasant crossing of the channel." the ride in the cars to dover was very interesting, and the view of canterbury cathedral was quite fine. quite a large boat was waiting for the train, and the water looked so smooth alice said,-- "i guess the people who are sick crossing this channel do not know much of ocean discomfort." like a good many travellers who see the channel for the first time, she thought it must always be quiet. it proved to be a very smooth trip, and only a little over an hour was spent in crossing. the train left calais fifteen minutes after the arrival of the boat, and the gentlemen bought nice luncheons which were put up in baskets,--chicken, bread and butter, and a bottle of wine. they found a good compartment, and away they went, eating their lunch and enjoying the views from the windows at the same time. belgium is called the garden of europe, as vegetables are raised there for all the principal cities. the country is flat and rather uninteresting to look at, but when one realizes that the willows which surround the farms are used by the women and children to make baskets which are sent all over the world it becomes very interesting. the land is divided by water wide enough for flat-bottomed boats to be rowed about, that the farmers may till their land and bring home the products in them. it seemed very strange to see women at work in the fields, but mr. ford said they would get used to that before they reached nuremberg. it was dark when the train drew in at the station at brussels, and they took a stage marked "grand hotel," and were driven through the principal street of the city. the shops were all lighted, and the streets and sidewalks full of people. outside the restaurants little tables were set on the sidewalks, and men and women were eating and drinking. it was a sight the winters had never seen, and it looked very strange to them. "it is just like paris on a small scale," said mr. ford. excellent rooms were ready for them at the hotel, as they had been telegraphed for by mr. ford, who was in the habit of going there every year. they had a delicious supper, and mr. winter said,-- "that is the best meal i have seen since leaving america." the ladies had found the cars very hard to travel in, and were glad to go to their rooms. the next day mrs. winter was so thoroughly used up that mr. winter decided to stay in brussels a few days for her to get rested. the girls were delighted, as they had become very fond of each other and were dreading the separation. [illustration: brussels bourse.] mr. ford had to go out on business, and mrs. ford said she would entertain mrs. winter if mr. winter would take the girls sight-seeing. they started on their walk in high spirits, and found such wide, clean streets, interesting shops, and large, handsome buildings. the new exchange just completed, and the palace of justice, are two of the most magnificent civic buildings in europe. they were much interested in a lace manufactory. on the lower floor were women at work on the finest patterns. they were all ages, from twenty to seventy, and never looked up while their work was being examined. when the girls were leaving the room, alice laughed at some remark of nellie's, and then every head was lifted and a sad smile came on each face for a second. mr. winter bought two lace handkerchiefs for the girls to take as presents to their mothers. through the remainder of their stay in brussels they had lovely drives in the beautiful park, visited the palace of justice, situated at the end of a long street, on a hill where there was a glorious view of the surrounding country for miles. they also found that the picture gallery had a very fine collection--indeed, said to be the best in belgium, and the pictures were beautifully arranged in schools and periods. one day was given to the field of waterloo, which they all enjoyed very much. alice felt so unhappy to be parted from nellie that mr. winter finally persuaded mr. and mrs. ford to let nellie go with them to nuremberg, as it would give her a delightful trip, and she was equally miserable to be left in brussels without alice. it was decided to meet in paris, have an enjoyable week together, and sail for home on the "etruria" near the middle of july. chapter vii. up the rhine. on monday, mr. and mrs. winter and the girls said "good-bye" to mr. and mrs. ford and started for cologne in the gayest of spirits. the trip was found very interesting, as they followed the meuse river a great deal of the way. between liège and verviers the country was wonderfully picturesque, with the pretty winding river, which they continually crossed, and little villages with the mountains in the distance. the meuse has been called the miniature rhine. verviers is the last belgian station, and aix-la-chapelle is the first town of much interest in germany. from the train there was an excellent view of the city, which has seen many changes since it was the favorite home of charlemagne. [illustration: cologne cathedral.] for more than three centuries the german emperors were crowned there. it was growing dark as cologne was reached, but the girls, knowing the cathedral was near the station, hurried outside to see it, and how wonderfully high and beautiful the noble great spires looked in the twilight no one can imagine who has never seen them. tuesday morning was spent in visiting the church of st. ursula (which is reputed to hold the bones of eleven thousand virgins martyred by the huns) and the cathedral. an excellent guide showed our party around, and pointed out the beautiful windows which king ludwig presented, costing eighteen thousand pounds, english money. the late king frederick gave one elegant window, at the end opposite the entrance. on one side of the building were windows made by albert dürer, considered germany's greatest artist. a large gold cross, presented by marie de medici, and costing an enormous sum of money, alice thought was more beautiful than the windows. on the way back to the hotel they met a company of soldiers who were singing as they marched along. it seemed very inspiring. wednesday morning this happy party took the train for mayence up the rhine, as the boats, they found, were not yet running. alice and nellie had been reading up the legends of the rhine, and could hardly wait to see its beauties and wonders. the rhine was not reached until after leaving bonn. the scenery was so pretty they did not miss the river views. in full view of the train was the famous avenue of horse-chestnuts, three-quarters of a mile in length. there is a large university at bonn, and many other schools. as many of the students in their different costumes came to the station and walked up and down the platform to show themselves, the girls were very much amused. the city is also noted as being the birthplace of beethoven. as soon as bonn was out of sight, the river was beside them. at first the entire party were disappointed, the river seemed so quiet, narrow, and sluggish, compared to the rivers at home. however, that was soon forgotten as its beauties grew upon them. they soon saw the seven mountains coming into view, and wished they could stay over one night to see the sun rise from the top. mr. winter felt he must hurry on, as they had spent so much time in brussels, and see all they could from the train. at oberwinter, where there is the finest view down the rhine, all the party looked back to see it. coblence was the next large town, and the situation is beautiful, as it is at the confluence of the rhine and the moselle, with the strong fortifications opposite, the castle of ehrenbreitstein, often called the gibraltar of the rhine. just after leaving coblence they saw two castles, one the royal castle of stolzenfels on its "proud rock," more than four hundred feet above the river. it was destroyed by the french in the seventeenth century, but is now completely restored. the other castle is directly opposite, above the mouth of the lahn river, is called the castle of lahneck, and has been lately restored. alice knew the legend of this castle, and told it to the rest of the party. "it was here, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, that the order of knights templars, which had been founded for religious purposes chiefly, was severely persecuted by philippe le beau of france and pope clement v. [illustration: lahneck castle.--_page ._] "after many vicissitudes there was a long and desperate siege, in which all the knights fell except one man. he held the commander at bay, who was so overpowered by the knight's bravery he offered him life and liberty if he would stop fighting and beg for mercy. "the templar's only answer was to throw his spear among the soldiers, and then was killed by throwing himself on their lances." boppart was the next town of any interest, it being a walled town of roman origin. the wall had crumbled away in many places, and houses had been built on the ruins. on the opposite side of the river was bornhoffen, with its twin castles of sternberg and liebenstein, or "the brothers." mr. winter told this legend, which runs that once a rich knight, with his two sons and one daughter, lived there, and were very rich in gold and lands, which the old knight had gained through wrong and robbery. all his neighbors felt sure that such ill-gotten wealth would bring him anything but blessings. the brothers inherited the avarice of the father; but the sister was lovely and gentle, like her mother. when the father died the brothers gave their sister much less than a third of the property. she gave hers to the cause of religion and went into a convent. the brothers, disappointed, disputed over their share, and at last fell in love with the same maiden, who did not hesitate to flirt with both and increase their jealousy. they finally fought and killed each other. just as mr. winter finished his story, the guard of the train put his head into the car window, to say that the lorely rock was nearly in sight. chapter viii. the legend of the lorely. both girls jumped to their feet, for of course they were interested to see that famous rock where the water-nymph lore was said to have lived. she would appear on the top of the rock, clothed in wonderful garments, and a veil of the color of the sea-green water reaching to her feet, to lure wicked people to destruction by her singing. the people who came to the foot of the rock were swallowed in the waves, while those who tried to climb to the top were either thrown back into the water or led through the dense woods, only to be days finding their way out of them. lore was very kind to good people, having the fairy power of distinguishing good from evil. at last a young count, much to his father's unhappiness, saw and fell in love with her. he constantly went to gaze upon her, for she was very beautiful. he used to carry his zither and play and sing to her, until she finally caused the waves to rise so high that his boat was upset and broken. the count sank into the waves, and his attendants returned home to tell the father the sad news. the old count swore revenge, and was going to seize lore and have her burnt. the next night he took some friends and surrounded the rock. when lore appeared the old count said, "where is my son?" lore pointed to the waves, at the same time continuing to sing very sweetly. as soon as lore had finished her song, she threw a stone into the river, which caused a wave to rise. she mounted it and sank from view with it, never to be seen again, though her singing was often heard by men passing by. the rock was formerly called lorely, but is now lurlei, and has a lovely echo said to be the gift of lore. the girls were disappointed to see the water around the rock so very quiet--no whirlpool at all. when they saw that a cut had been made through the rock for railroad trains, all the romance was gone for them. alice said, "o papa, how could anybody spoil that pretty story by running trains through the rock? if that is the way my romances are going to end i will not read any more." however, she soon saw a house built in the river, and wanted to know what it was and why it was there. "i know," said nellie. "i was reading about it the other day." it is called the pfalz, and was built by louis of bavaria in the thirteenth century, in order to exact tribute from passing vessels. opposite is the town of bacharach, the ara bacchi of the romans, and has long been famous for its wines. in longfellow's "golden legend" is the old rhyme,-- "at bacharach on the rhine, at hochheim on the main, and at würzburg on the stein, grow the three best kinds of wine." the bacchus-altar is to be found in this lovely country. it stands just below the town, but the water has to be very low to read the inscription (which is nearly illegible), as it is situated between the bank of the river and an islet. the altar is supposed to have been erected by the romans to their god of wine. many other castles, some restored, but the most of them in ruins, were passed, before assmanshausen, famous for its red wines, was reached. mr. winter said, "now this ends what is called 'the great gorge of the rhine,' and the river will broaden, and the open country, not very interesting, is before you." just before reaching bingen they saw the ruins of ehrenfels, and in the middle of the river the mausthurm, or "mouse tower." "o papa, i know the story of that tower," said alice. "can i tell it?" "we are only too glad to hear it," said her mamma. "hatto was bishop of fulda, and wishing to be made archbishop of mayence, used every means in his power to accomplish his purpose. he succeeded, and became very ambitious, proud, and cruel. he taxed the poor to build for himself fine dwellings. [illustration: mouse tower.--_page ._] "at last he built the tower in the river where it was very narrow, to compel all ships to pay him toll. "a famine set in, and he, having plenty of money, bought up everything and filled his granaries. he sold his stores at such high prices that only the rich could buy. "he paid no heed to the supplications of the famishing people, as he intended building a superb palace with his money. "one day when hatto was entertaining friends at dinner, the starving people forced their way into the dining-hall and begged for food. he told them to go to a large barn where corn should be given them. when they were all inside, hatto ordered the doors to be closed and fastened on the outside and the barn to be set on fire. "when their shrieks reached the dining-hall, hatto turned to his guests and said, 'hear how the corn-mice squeal: i do the same to rebels as i do to them.' "the wrath of heaven was turned against him, for out of the ashes at the barn thousands of mice took their way to the palace, filling the rooms and attacking hatto. thousands were killed, but they steadily increased, and he was finally obliged to flee in terror of his life to a boat, still pursued by legions. "hatto was ferried over the rhine to the tower, but the mice perforated the walls, and fell on him by the thousands, and ate him up. they then disappeared, and the tower has been called the 'mouse tower' ever since. "it has never been used in any way, but stands as a warning to despotic people." mr. winter said, "alice, you told that very well; but he was not such a very wicked man as the legend makes him. he was imperious and caused his people much suffering, but was the emperor's confidant and was called the heart of the king." bingen is not a very interesting town, but has many walks and drives that are full of interest in every way. directly opposite, on the heights of niederwald, is the beautiful monument built to commemorate the restitution of the german empire in - . alice and nellie did wish they could stop long enough to go up and see it, it looked so grand and mighty outlined against the sky. mr. winter said, "no, we must get to mayence to-night." there was not much of interest after leaving bingen, as the train left the river and the rhine was not seen again until just before entering mayence, where the main flows most peacefully into it, making a very beautiful picture. chapter ix. mayence to nuremberg. mr. winter as usual had telegraphed to mayence for rooms, and found very comfortable, large rooms ready for them in a new, pleasant hotel near the station. after resting a little while mr. winter said, "who wants to go with me and take a drive around the city?" the entire party, even mrs. winter, who had thought she was too tired to go out again, said they would like to go. what a delightful drive they had, at the close of a warm, lovely day, around that interesting old city, with its wonderful fortifications! the view of the rivers at the base of the hill they thought as pretty as any they had seen all day. mr. winter told them what a very old city it was, a roman camp having been laid there thirty-eight years before christ. [illustration: mayence--general view.--_page ._] the foundations may be said to date from fourteen years b.c., when drusus built his extensive fortifications. there is a roman monument forty-five feet high erected in honor of drusus. there are also remains of a roman aqueduct to be found outside the city. the cathedral was founded in . it has been burnt and restored six times, and is one of the grandest in germany. just outside the cathedral they saw a fine statue of gutenberg, who is regarded by the germans as the inventor of movable types for printing. our party drove back to the hotel, had a nice supper, which was waiting for them, and went to bed feeling they had enjoyed that day more than any since leaving home. the next morning all were rested and eager to get to nuremberg, the end of the trip. mr. winter, by some mistake, did not get the fast train, and as the one they took stopped very often, and the scenery was not very interesting, our party arrived in nuremberg so tired they ate their supper and went directly to bed. chapter x. nuremberg. in the morning mr. winter said, "i will give one day to you for sight-seeing, and then i must attend to business. you will have to spend the rest of your time going around with a guide or by yourselves." alice was delighted with the old moat which was opposite her window, and wanted to look in it at once. nellie felt the castle was of more importance, and could hardly wait to get there. the moat surrounds the old city, and now is rented to gardeners, who live in the old towers and cultivate the land in the moat. our party started out to walk until they were tired, and kept on the sidewalk side of the moat, and thought it did look so pretty with everything so fresh and green. the cherry-trees were all white with their lovely blossoms, which grew even with the sidewalk. [illustration: nuremberg walls.] finally they went through an old gateway, which was said to be the one where a rope was kept in the olden time, to use on the bakers. if they did not give full weight, the bakers were tied to the end of a pole and dipped into the water several times. if poison was found in the bread, they were immediately drowned. as the ladies were getting tired, mr. winter called a carriage to drive them to the castle. as he could speak german, the driver told him many interesting things, and pointed out various objects of interest. he showed them one house that had been occupied by the same family for four hundred and fifty years. the churches of st. sebald and st. lawrence they admired very much on the outside, leaving the beauties of the interiors for another day. they passed one fountain called the goose man, and another, the beautiful fountain, built in . also, a fine statue of hans sachs, erected in , who was known through germany as the cobbler-poet. it was from his life wagner wrote the opera of the "meistersinger." soon the driver drew up his horses at a corner where a small house stood under a hill, called the sausage shop, for its wonderfully cooked sausages. it has been made famous by such men as albert dürer, the great artist, hans sachs, and the old burgomasters meeting there for their nightly mugs of beer and a sausage. [illustration: albrecht dÜrer's house.--_page ._] the statue of albert dürer, erected in , is between the sausage shop and his old home. all the houses, with their deep, slanting roofs, were objects of interest, but most of all was that of albert dürer, which is the only house in nuremberg that has not undergone some alteration. the house is now filled with many curiosities, some of them having belonged to albert dürer, and is open every day to visitors. the girls wanted to stop and go in at once, but mr. winter said, "no, we cannot stop now; we must get to the castle, and leave the house until we have more time." the castle stands very high, and they were obliged to drive up through very narrow and steep streets; but the horses were used to it, and mrs. winter finally overcame her nervousness. when the top of the hill was reached, there was a plateau where a beautiful view of the city was to be seen. they left the carriage here, and after looking at the scenery they walked on up to the castle. [illustration: nuremberg castle.] on the way they saw a small shed, and, on looking in, found it held the famous well. a young girl was there, who, in a parrot sort of way, told them that the well was built in the eleventh century, under conrad ii., by convicts, and that it took thirty years to finish it. she told mrs. winter to hold a mirror in her hand while she lowered a candle, to show by the reflection in the mirror the depth of the well. it took just six seconds for water which she poured out of a glass to reach the water in the well. she told them it was four hundred and fifty feet deep, and they all believed her. in the courtyard of the castle they saw an old linden tree growing, which is said to have been planted by empress kunigunde eight hundred years ago. the castle they found quite interesting without being very elegant. a lady in charge of it told them many things of interest about the castle and the city. she told them that the first records of nuremberg date from . in the town was besieged, conquered, and destroyed by henry v., again besieged in by emperor lothar, from which time imperial officials appeared who took the title of burggrafer. frederick i. (barbarossa), under whom the burg was enlarged, frequently lived here from to . rudolph von hapsburg held his first diet here in , and often visited the town. under emperor karl iv. the first stone bridge was built, and the streets were paved. the first fundamental law of the empire was formed by him, and is known as the "golden bull." it was framed in nuremberg in , and is still kept in frankfort. according to this law, every german emperor was obliged to spend his first day of government in nuremberg. his government was very favorable to nuremberg in every way. the four large towers were built to , after a plan designed by albert dürer. the town reached its highest artistic development in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, under such men as albert dürer, a. krafft, herman fischer, and many others. goblets and many such objects of art were made here at that time. in nuremberg displayed its last splendor. commerce had been ruined by different wars. in it was made a matter of rejoicing when it came under the crown of bavaria. king ludwig first revived art, and trade made a start. in the first railroad was opened to fürth. in king max ii. with his family lived here, and the imperial burg was offered to him as a present by the town. the lady also told them that the five-cornered tower, which is the oldest building in nuremberg and connected with the castle, contained a collection of instruments of torture. among them is the iron virgin, a figure of a woman, which opens and is full of spikes. the poor victim would be shut up in its clutches. none of our party felt like visiting that horrible place, so they thanked the woman, and took some last looks at the beautiful views to be seen from the windows. to their surprise they found it was noon-time, and as everything in nuremberg is closed for an hour and a half at mid-day, they were driven back to the wurtemberger hof, their comfortable hotel, where everything possible was done for their pleasure. after a good dinner and a rest, mr. winter said he thought, as his time was so limited, he would like to visit the town hall and st. john's cemetery. a guide was found, and they started out with more enthusiasm than ever. the guide told them that the town hall was built in the years from to , in italian style. he pointed out to them a fine picture by paul ritter, painted in , to represent the act of the arrival of the german emperor's insignia in nuremberg. the guide also showed them several pictures of dürer's representing the triumphal procession of emperor maximilian. his pictures are, many of them, very indistinct. they were taken into a room where the wedding couples go to sign their marriage contracts. mr. winter was more interested than the girls, and mrs. winter was so tired they were glad enough to get in the carriage and be driven to the famous old cemetery. for some blocks before reaching the entrance are paintings of christ, representing the last days of his life. at the gateway are the three statues of christ and the two thieves nailed to the cross. the guide showed them the graves of dürer and sachs, and one of a man who had been killed, while asleep, by his wife hammering a nail in his head. there was a bronze skull, with the nail in it just where she killed him. another interesting bronze was the figure of a woman with a lizard on a perch, which, when touched, turns towards the woman's figure and shows where she was bitten in the neck by the lizard that killed her. the girls thought that very quaint and more interesting than any they saw, though there were many very beautifully carved, and, being of bronze, were of great value. while our party was wandering through the cemetery a funeral was taking place, and as the entire service was intoned, it was very impressive. mr. winter said as they entered the carriage, "you have had enough sight-seeing for to-day, and we will drive home and talk over all the wonderful and interesting things we have seen and heard to-day." [illustration: nuremberg.] chapter xi. nuremberg.--_continued._ the following morning mr. winter left the ladies, who walked aimlessly, not caring much where they went, it was all so full of interest to them. accidentally they visited quite an interesting place called the preller house. it was built three hundred years ago by a venetian nobleman, and is now used as a furniture warehouse. there is a chapel in it, and some of the old furniture still remains. the ceilings are very fine, and in two of the rooms were only discovered when the present occupants were having gas-pipes put in the house. mr. winter did not come home to dinner, and in the afternoon mrs. winter and the girls went to the museum, where they found more to interest them than anywhere they had been. it had a very large and interesting collection of paintings and antiquities, but the girls enjoyed seeing the old cloister--the first they had ever seen. that evening when mr. winter came home, he told his wife that he should only be obliged to remain one more day, and they must entertain themselves again without him. the next morning mrs. winter took a guide with them, as she wished to visit some of the shops where they could collect some curiosities. they also went to the market square, where the poor people can buy everything they need at very reasonable prices. mrs. winter then said, "now, girls, we will visit those churches of which we have only seen the outside." the guide took them first to st. lawrence's church. this church, he told them, was mentioned as early as , and had the handsomest artistic decoration of any of the celebrated churches throughout germany. the finest portion is the choir, with a vaulted roof supported by slender pillars from which the arches are formed like palm branches. the guide wished them particularly to look at the gothic bronze chandelier, which weighs four hundred and eighty-two pounds, and was cast by peter vischer in . the girls were charmed by the seven windows of the choir, which are considered the best examples of nuremberg glass-painting from to . the last window, called the emperor's, was presented by the citizens of nuremberg in memory of the restitution of the german empire. it was put in the d of march, . mrs. winter was much interested in some beautiful tapestries representing the lives of st. lawrence and st. catharine, and are over four hundred years old. there were many more paintings of much interest, some of them albert dürer's. as they were leaving, the girls saw some richly carved chairs by the doors, and asked the guide why they were there. he told them that they formerly belonged to the guilds, and the masters sat in them, in turn, to receive alms. from this church our party was driven to st. sebaldus's, which was finished in the tenth century. one of the most interesting things they saw was the font, which was remarkable not only as the first product of nuremberg's foundries, but as having been used to christen king wenceslas of bohemia, in . there were more paintings of dürer's to be seen here, but the finest work was the sepulchre of st. sebaldus in the centre of the choir. it is the most extensive work german art has ever produced, and was cast by peter vischer and his five sons. "it was commenced in and completed in . it rests on twelve snails, having four dolphins at its corners, the whole forming a pagan temple adorned with the twelve apostles. it is surmounted by twelve smaller figures, and finally by an infant christ holding a globus in his hand, the latter being a key of the whole monument, when it is to be rent asunder. there is also a fine portrait of peter vischer in this church." of course there were many more objects of interest to be seen, but mrs. winter thought they had seen enough; so they were driven home to dinner. in the afternoon they took a drive out of the city to a beer-garden situated at the side of a pretty lake. they had some tea, and walked on the borders of the lake quite a distance. mrs. winter said, "i wish we had such a quiet, pretty place near home where we could spend an afternoon as delightfully as we have here." that evening nellie said, "dear mrs. winter, how can i ever thank you and your husband for this trip? mamma could not have come, and never shall i forget what i have enjoyed through your kindness." mrs. winter told her that the pleasure she had given them was more than hers, as it had added so much to alice's happiness. alice said, "now, mamma, will you not add to our pleasures by repeating longfellow's beautiful poem on nuremberg before we go to bed?" "dear mrs. winter, please do," said nellie. "i have never heard of it, but i know it must be very lovely." "very well," said mrs. winter. "i certainly never knew a more appropriate time to recite it than now." the girls gathered around her in the twilight as she sweetly commenced:-- in the valley of the pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands rise the blue franconian mountains, nuremberg, the ancient, stands. quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: memories of the middle ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, had their dwelling in the castle, time defying, centuries old; and thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, that their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. in the courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, stands the mighty linden planted by queen cunigunde's hand; on the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days sat the poet melchior singing kaiser maximilian's praise. everywhere i see around me rise the wondrous world of art-- fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; and above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, by a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. in the church of sainted sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, and in bronze the twelve apostles guard from age to age their trust; in the church of sainted lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. here, when art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, lived and labored albrecht dürer, the evangelist of art; hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the better land; _emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies. fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, that he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air. through these streets, so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, walked of yore the mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. from remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, building nests in fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. as the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, and the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; thanking god, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom in the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. here hans sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, wisest of the twelve wise masters, in huge folios sang and laughed; but his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, and a garland in the window, and his face above the door; painted by some humble artist, as in adam puschman's song, as the old man, gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long, and at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cash and care, quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. not thy councils, not thy kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; but thy painter, albrecht dürer, and hans sachs thy cobbler-bard. thus, o nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, as he paced thy streets and courtyards, sang in thought his careless lay; gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, the nobility of labor--the long pedigree of toil. "how very beautiful!" said nellie. "thank you so much, mrs. winter, for reciting it to us. i shall learn it myself when i get home, trusting i may sometime give as much pleasure to another as you have given me." mr. winter said, "why, agnes, i never heard you recite that poem so well." "i never did," said his wife; "for i never truly felt it before." "thank you, mamma dear," said alice. "now we will go to bed, feeling all the happier for the lovely poem which has put our best thoughts into words." [illustration: strasbourg cathedral--side view.] chapter xii. strasbourg. mrs. winter was very anxious to travel to paris by the way of strasbourg, as she had always wished to see the cathedral with its wonderful clock. mr. winter made inquiries and found that was decidedly the best way to go, which was a great delight to them all. our party left nuremberg early in the morning, sorry to see the last of the most interesting city they had seen thus far on their trip. nellie, who was looking forward to meeting her father and mother in paris, was quite happy to make a move in that direction. the first part of the trip was not very interesting, but the latter was delightful, and as they had a compartment to themselves the girls could enjoy the view from both sides of the train. a change of cars was made at a place where there was hardly anything but the station and the railroad interests. here they ate a cold lunch from the counter, though there were some hot dishes on a table; but they did not look very tempting. the spire of the strasbourg cathedral could be seen some time before reaching the station, and well it might, being four hundred and sixty-six feet high, and by some authorities said to be the highest in the world. the fortifications had been so fine at mayence our party was surprised to find others much finer here, many of them being new, having been built at the time of the french and german war in . the engineering of some of them is particularly fine, as they are made to be opened, so that all the surrounding country can be flooded if necessary. the train wound round the city, giving them a fine view of the fortifications and the soldiers being drilled in many of the enclosures. strasbourg was one of the most important cities during the last war, and a great portion of it was destroyed. one side of the cathedral was badly damaged, but is now thoroughly restored. mr. winter took his family to a small hotel on the square near the station, having been recommended there by the manager of the hotel at nuremberg. he found it very comfortable, and every possible attention was shown them. arriving about five o'clock, there was plenty of time to be driven around the city. of course they started for the cathedral, but on the way the driver stopped the carriage to point out one of the highest chimneys on one of the tallest houses, where the storks had built a nest. he also told them how the storks arrive every spring and build their nests, and then leave in the fall with their young, to return the next spring with their families no larger nor smaller than when they go away. what becomes of the surplus is a great question--whether they only increase sufficiently to fill the vacancies caused by death or old age, or that the young ones found colonies in other countries. the storks are held in great reverence by mankind, and are never harmed. indeed, it is considered good fortune to the inmates of a house when a nest is built on one of its chimneys. the driver told a story of one man who gave up the use of his room an entire winter, rather than destroy a nest which two storks had built over the top of his chimney, and thus prevented his building a fire. as they approached the cathedral alice said, "why, papa, where is the clock? i cannot see it at all." [illustration: strasbourg storks.--_page ._] "i do not know," said mr. winter; "but it certainly is there somewhere." the driver took them to the front of the building, where they were met by a guide, who showed them the beauties of the outside architecture and the many statues of the apostles and saints. he told them that the cathedral was commenced in and finished in . the guide showed them the plateau half-way up the height of the steeple, and told them that it is used by men who watch for fires all the time. the citizens are so proud of the cathedral that they have it dusted and washed inside very frequently. "where is the clock?" said mrs. winter, as soon as the guide stopped talking long enough for her to speak a word. the man did not answer, but took them around to a side door, where, after receiving his tip, he left them and walked away. at first they did not know what to do, but mrs. winter said, "i think we had better go inside if we can." in they went, and right by the door was the clock. a fine-looking man dressed elegantly met them. he proved to be a finely educated swiss, and he explained the various wonders of the clock. [illustration: strasbourg--cathedral clock.--_page ._] he told them that the clock was built three hundred years ago, and was to run a certain number of years. it shows all fête days for all those years, tells the changes of the moon, eclipses--in fact, everything that one could imagine. the apostles do not all come out and walk around except at noon, but as it was quarter before six our party saw three men move. the clock stops at six at night and then commences again at six in the morning. mrs. winter said the longer she looked at it, the more wonderful it seemed to her that any man could think of so many things. the guide also told them that the man who first conceived the idea of the clock became totally blind when it was nearly completed. of course he could work no more, and it was never thought the clock would be finished. he lived thirty years, and after his death another man was found who thought he could complete it. he succeeded, and was paid by the government for his time and work. mrs. winter said, "i think it is the most wonderful thing i ever saw, and i do not know which man i admire the most--the one who conceived such a work, or the man who could carry out such marvellous thoughts of a man whom he had never met." after leaving the cathedral our party was driven around the city. the old part they found very quaint and picturesque, with its high and sloping roofs. the new part, built by the germans, was very handsome, some of the buildings, like the palace, conservatory of music, and the post-office, being particularly fine. the driver told them that one of the great interests there was the making of _pâté de foie gras_. it is made from the livers of geese which are fed in such a way that the liver grows abnormally large, often weighing three pounds. he also told them that many of the french people are still very bitter against the germans, even pulling down their shades to the windows if a regiment should march by the house. on their return to the hotel, the manager told mr. winter he would have a very quick and comfortable journey to paris if he took the orient express which runs between constantinople and paris. it would leave strasbourg three hours later than the ordinary train, and would arrive in paris some hours before it. mr. winter engaged a compartment at once, and the next day had a very enjoyable trip, though it was a very long one. the first part of the route, over mountains and through ravines, was very delightful; but after getting into france it was flat and uninteresting. they passed through epérgny, which was interesting for its vines, which covered the fields for many miles. from these grapes champagne is made. paris was reached at six o'clock, and their hotel, which had been recommended by friends, was found to be very homelike. the fords were there waiting for them, and were as glad to see nellie as she was glad to be with them again. chapter xiii. homeward bound. that evening after nellie had told her mamma some of her pleasant experiences, mr. winter said, "now we have just five days to spend in paris, and you must decide what you would most like to do. mr. ford and i are entirely at your disposal." guidebooks were brought out and studied, and after many discussions their plans were settled for each day. on thursday morning they went to the louvre, feeling there would be so many pictures to see they had better visit it first. how tired they did get sliding around on those slippery floors, trying to see the nine miles of pictures, many of which were quite uninteresting to them all. in the afternoon mr. winter took his wife and the girls in a carriage, and started for the bois de boulogne. when the place de la concorde was reached, with its monolithic obelisk of luxor, and fountains and statues, with the gardens of the tuileries one side, and the champs Élysées on the other, the girls both exclaimed, "how beautiful!" but nellie added, "when i think of all the horrors that have taken place here it loses some of its loveliness to me." [illustration: place de la concorde.] the drive through the champs Élysées they thought very beautiful, and when they reached the arc de triomphe de l'Étoile, the most beautiful in the world, their admiration knew no bounds. mr. winter said, "alice, what do you know about this?" alice answered that "it was commenced by napoleon i. in and finished by louis philippe, and cost over two millions of dollars. it is about one hundred and fifty feet high, and the same in breadth, and the central arch is ninety feet high." "very good, my dear; you know that lesson very well," said her papa. from there to the bois everything was full of interest to them, and the drive around the cascade alice thought particularly lovely. nellie said, "it is not kept up as nicely as i like to see a park. they had better make central park a visit, and see its nicely cut lawns and trimmed bushes." on their way home they were driven through the place vendôme, with its magnificent column in the centre. nellie said, "i can tell you a little about that, mr. winter, if you would like me to." "of course i should," said mr. winter. "it is one hundred and forty feet high, and was also built by napoleon i. it was pulled down by the communists in , but has since been restored." the girls felt quite at home historically in paris, as all these interesting things were very fresh in their minds. in the evening, being very near the palais royale, which was built for cardinal richelieu, they thought it would be a pleasant way to pass their evening to go and walk around and gaze into the shop windows. the ladies were too tired, so the gentlemen took the girls, and they had a delightful time. alice told her mamma on her return that she enjoyed it, but did not care to go again; she had seen so much jewelry, all alike, that it was actually tiresome. friday morning they drove to the palais du luxembourg, which has been prison, palace, senate-house, and is now noted for its sculptures and paintings. our party enjoyed it much more than the louvre, as the paintings were so many of them modern and very familiar to them. at the back of the garden they saw the statue of marshal ney, on the very spot where he was shot. being on that side of the river, they visited the church of the hôtel des invalides to see the tomb of napoleon i. it was directly under the dome, and the softened lights all around made it very beautiful. after being driven home and having lunch, they walked to the madeleine, the most magnificent of modern churches. mrs. winter said, "this is very beautiful, but i do like the solemnity of some of the older churches i have seen very much better." leaving there, they walked through some of those wide and interesting boulevards, watching the people and carriages and gazing into the fascinating shop-windows. mr. ford said, "i thought i had seen in new york some florists' windows that could not be improved, but i find i was mistaken. never have i seen such windows as these." when too tired to walk any farther, carriages were called, and they were driven to the cathedral of notre dame, built on an island in the seine; from there to the panthéon, which alice said "looked like a barn, and was cold and inhospitable." the most interesting thing about it was, that such celebrated men as victor hugo, marat, voltaire, mirabeau, and rousseau had been buried there. the hôtel de ville, recently restored, they passed on their way home. the evening was given to the hippodrome, which is quite the thing to do in paris, and is wonderfully fine. the drive there was like a picture of fairyland, with the bright lights and trees and glimpses of the river. saturday was devoted to shopping, a great deal of it being done at the magasin de louvre and the bon marché. the buildings are immense, and there is everything to be found in them that one could possibly desire. that evening it was decided to go to the opera at the grand opera house, the most beautiful one in the world. the girls were so excited they could not eat any dinner, for it was their first appearance. faust was the opera given, and a wonderful ballet followed it. between the opera and ballet they all went outside and looked down at the men on horseback, stationed like sentinels outside the building. before them was the whole length of the rue de l'opera a blaze of light. alice said, "nothing yet has been as delightful as this evening." sunday was bright and clear, much to the delight of our sight-seers, as they were going to versailles. they decided on sunday, as the fountains were advertised to play, and all were very anxious to see them. they drove there and enjoyed every moment, especially when passing st. cloud. they saw all it was possible to see in one day, but felt as if it was very little, after all. they went through the palace as fast as they could, but any one knows who has been there that with those glossy floors it took time. the room devoted to war pictures they did not care for, but were much interested in marie antoinette's private rooms, which were so very small, and also in the place where the swiss guards were killed in defending her. the state apartments were very elegant, especially the galerie de glace, where the german emperor was proclaimed emperor in the late war. of course the girls were eager to get to the great and little trianon. they were disappointed in the size and simplicity of their furnishings. the rooms, however, were so full of historical interest that their disappointment was forgotten, and they thought they could have spent all their time in the two houses. in the coach-house were seen some very curious old state coaches used by charles x. and napoleon i. and many other sovereigns. the man in charge was almost as much of a curiosity as the coaches, he told his stories in such an interesting manner, laughing heartily at his own jokes. [illustration: petit trianon.--_page ._] the drive home was delightful, but they were all too tired to say very much. after a good dinner, the two girls talked as fast as magpies over the delights of the day. being like most girls, marie antoinette was one of the most interesting characters in french history, and they talked of her and her sad life, feeling almost as if they had lived a portion of it with her, in the quiet retreat and lovely gardens of versailles. mr. winter said to his wife, "i have really finished my business this side of the water, and unless you would like to remain in london three or four more days for the 'etruria,' we can catch the 'teutonic' next wednesday." mrs. winter said she would like to go home on the "teutonic" very much, but did not like to leave mr. and mrs. ford, as they had made all their arrangements to go home together. mr. ford said, "we are delighted to shorten the trip, as i ought to be at home now; but we did not like to break up the party." "very well," said mr. winter. "we will go out and telegraph to liverpool for state-rooms." alice said to her mamma, "i wonder if we can like the 'teutonic' as well as we did the 'etruria' that brought us over the seas so safely." monday was devoted to visiting the salon, where they saw so many pictures that they came away with a very vague idea of what they had seen, but all agreed they preferred the english pictures of the present day to those of the french. tuesday night saw our party again in london, but at the savoy hotel, where they had delightful rooms overlooking the river. wednesday at eleven o'clock our happy party took the special train which connects with the fast steamers, and at four o'clock were on the "teutonic" and starting for home. a lovely night down to queenstown, where the steamer stops for the mails. while waiting the next morning, mr. winter and mr. ford took alice and nellie on shore in the tug, and gave them a nice drive in a jaunting car. the girls did not enjoy the drive very much, but were glad of the experience. the ladies were very much interested in the boats which came out to the "teutonic" with women who had laces and small articles to sell. the things were sent up to the deck in baskets, on ropes, which were tossed up for the passengers to catch. some of the irish girls were very bright, and made very good sales. [illustration: thames embankment.--_page ._] at last the tug with the mails arrived, and was attached to the steamer at once. both went down the harbor until the passengers, among them our party, and the mails had been transferred. the girls were uneasy until they were with their mothers. at two o'clock the tug left them, and then, indeed, it seemed as if they had started for home. one bad stormy day, some foggy and some delightful ones, fell to their share. no one of their party was sick, and they thought the steamer delightful. much as they had liked the "etruria," it was decided by all that the "teutonic" would be their steamer in the future. new york was reached on wednesday afternoon, and at night the entire party was at the fifth avenue hotel, feeling very glad to get safely across the ocean again. they had become such good friends it was very hard to separate. however, a promise was made by the fords to visit mr. and mrs. winter before the summer was over. thursday night the winters could have been found in their own home, all very happy, and feeling that the following years would be fuller of interest in every way for the experiences, most of them pleasant, of their charming trip to nuremberg and back. [illustration] [transcriber's notes all words printed in small capitals have been converted to uppercase characters. the following modifications have been made, page : "fairy-land" changed to "fairyland" (it was like a glimpse of fairyland) page : "bergomasters" changed to "burgomasters" (the old burgomasters meeting there for their nightly mugs) page : "runigunde" changed to "kunigunde" (planted by empress kunigunde eight hundred years ago) page : "firth" changed to "fürth" (the first railroad was opened to fürth) page : "mr. and mr." changed to "mr. and mrs." (to visit mr. and mrs. winter)] [illustration: from nature _by j. j. tobin_. traun lake. upper austria.] journal of a tour made in the years - , through styria, carniola, and italy, whilst accompanying the late sir humphry davy. by j. j. tobin, m.d. london: w. s. orr, , paternoster row. . london: bradbury and evans, printers, bouverie street. preface. the following pages were originally intended for the perusal only of my own family and immediate friends. some of these now persuade me to lay them before the public, believing that, to it, a detail of circumstances connected, as my journal necessarily is, with the last recreations and pursuits of the late sir humphry davy, must be interesting. to have been in any degree a partaker of the hours of this great man, whose name must shed a lustre over his native land, so long as genius and science shall be admired, i cannot be supposed to imagine otherwise than highly gratifying; and aware that my journal through him bears an interest it could not otherwise pretend to, i do not hesitate to comply with their request. the state of sir humphry's health inducing him to seek its restoration in a tour on the continent, he wrote to my mother, who was residing on my account and that of my brothers at heidelberg, stating his plan to her, and naming his wish to have a son of his "warmly-loved and sincerely-lamented friend," as the assistant and companion of his journey. my mother did not hesitate to suspend my studies during the period of the proposed tour, conscious that in the society of such a mind and acquirements as those of sir humphry, mine must advance. and to have been the companion of his latter days, clouded as they often were by the sufferings which i beheld him endure, will be my last pride and advantage; and though the hand of death has laid low many a hope which gilded the future, it cannot deprive me of the recollection of those hours, when i marked his spirit still radiant and glowing (to use his own words) "with the undying energy of strength divine." sir humphry's health was in so shattered a state, that it often rendered his inclinations and feelings sensitive and variable to a painful degree. frequently he preferred being left alone at his meals; and in his rides, or fishing and shooting excursions, to be attended only by his servant. sometimes he would pass hours together, when travelling, without exchanging a word, and often appeared exhausted by his mental exertions. when he passed through heidelberg to see my mother, he named all this to her, and with evident feeling thanked her for her request, that he would on all occasions consider me as alone desirous to contribute to his ease and comfort. i mention this to account for my having so seldom spoken of his passing remarks, and for any apparent change which occurred in our arrangements, named in the journal. to give any adequate idea of the beauty and grandeur of the scenes i beheld, must be well known to be impossible by those who have visited these parts of europe, or been accustomed to view the changing tints and hues of the fine sky that encircles them; but if i have imparted only a faint reflection of the pleasure such scenes bestow, even in recollection, or have given enjoyment to any of my readers, my object will be fully attained, nor shall i then regret having listened to the voice of my perhaps too partial friends. j. j. t. _heidelberg, march , ._ journal, &c. &c. on my arrival in london ( th march, ) i found sir humphry better than i had expected, but evidently very weak. he appeared to have altered much during the four years which had elapsed since i last saw him, and it was evident that although his mind was still vigorous and full of energy, his bodily infirmities pressed heavily upon him, and i could not but perceive that he was keenly alive to his altered state. i had hoped to have remained some little time in london, but finding that everything was ready for our departure, i contented myself with calling upon a few old friends, and taking my seat by sir humphry's side, his servant george being on the dicky with his master's favourite pointers, we drove from park street on the morning of the th of march. we slept that night at dover, which we left the next morning at half-past nine o'clock, and arrived at calais about twelve, after a beautiful and calm passage. sir humphry wishing to be left to repose quietly on his bed in the cabin, i took my favourite seat on the prow, and sat musing on times past and to come, looking upon the curling waves which were glittering with a thousand golden colours in the bright beams of the morning sun. the weather formed a strong contrast with that of the day before, when the only change had been from sleet and snow to hail and rain. the difference between the english and french coasts is very striking; and the contrast between the lofty white chalk cliffs of the one, and the gay and verdant hills of the opposite shore, seems almost emblematical of the national peculiarities of the two countries. sir humphry was provided with a letter from prince polignac, the french ambassador at london, to the director of the douane, which greatly facilitated our passing the custom house, where otherwise we should have had much difficulty from the variety of the luggage; among which, to say nothing of scientific instruments, and upwards of eighty volumes of books, were numerous implements for fishing and shooting, and the two pointers. we went to the hôtel rignolle, a large and excellent inn, where sir humphry's travelling carriage awaited us, and we found it in every respect easy and commodious. after dinner i prepared and arranged every thing for our departure on the morrow, for the servant could on such occasions render me but little assistance, he not speaking a word of any language but english; and then took a walk through the town and bought a pack of cards, which sir humphry had begged me to bring that he might teach me the game of _ecarté_. during my walk i was amused by seeing both old and young dressed in their holiday clothes, playing at battledore and shuttlecock in the open streets. i soon returned; and after we had played a game together, i read aloud some of the "tales of the genii," and we then retired to rest. _ st._ this morning i arose with thoughts of heidelberg, it being dear f***'s birthday, which i knew would therefore be one of pleasure in the happy home i had left. after breakfast we set off for dunkirk. the country through which we passed is exceedingly flat and uninteresting. on arriving at gravelines, a strongly fortified little town, we found that the carriage had sunk, the leathers being new, so that we were obliged to send for a smith and a saddler, who detained us nearly two hours. we then proceeded through the same uninteresting flat to dunkirk. after dinner we walked out to see the town, which is very clean, and has good broad streets. near the market place is the episcopal church of cambrai, the diocese of the celebrated fenelon. the portico is chaste and beautiful, consisting of ten lofty corinthian pillars supporting a frieze. the interior of the church is simple and elegant. the harbour of dunkirk is large, but nearly choked up with mud; on one side of it is a large basin newly made, which is kept full at low water by means of flood gates. _april st._ we started after breakfast for ghent, and passed first through bergues, a little town with very strong fortifications. at rousbrugge, three postes and a half from dunkirk, we entered the territory of the king of the netherlands. we passed the custom house without having any part of our baggage examined, sir humphry's passport being signed by the dutch ambassador at london, who had added to his signature a request to the officers on the boundary to treat _ce celebre sçavant_ with all possible attention and respect. the country beyond rousbrugge becomes rather more diversified; the hedges, which are formed of small trees, are often very prettily interwoven, forming a fence at once useful and elegant; and we passed the first hill, a very low one, which we had seen since we left calais. we drove on through ypres and menin, and spent the night at courtrai. all these towns are strongly fortified, chiefly i believe under the direction of the celebrated vauban, and are called the iron boundary of holland. they are kept very clean and neat. ypres has a fine large gothic town-house, with an immense number of windows in it. i read in the evening to sir humphry part of the "bravo of venice," and he dictated a few pages on the existence of a greater quantity of carbon in the primary world, and on some of the phenomena of the lago di solfatara, near rome. his clear reasoning, and the proofs and facts which he adduces in support of his theories, still show the quick and powerful mind of his former days, when his bodily faculties were in the fulness of their vigour, and not, as now, a weight and oppression upon his mental powers. _ nd._ the first _poste_ after leaving courtrai was vive st. eloi, an assemblage of a few shabby houses, hardly worthy the name of a village; thence to peteghen and to ghent. the country is flat, and anything but picturesque, and almost every field has a windmill in it. we only stopped to dine at ghent, and then immediately started for antwerp, where we arrived at about seven in the evening, passing through lakesen and st. nicholas. we were ferried over the scheldt, and afterwards transported to the inn in a very novel manner. on arriving at the ferry opposite the town, the post-horses were taken out of the carriage, which was pushed into the ferry-boat by four men, who with some difficulty dragged it out when on the other side of the river, and then drew it with us in it through the town to the inn, more than half a mile distant from the landing place. after tea i continued the "bravo of venice," and read voltaire's "bababec et les faquirs" to sir humphry. _ rd._ we did not breakfast till late, and afterwards drove out to see the town in spite of hail and snow. our first visit was to the cathedral, which much disappointed us both as to its internal and external appearance. it strongly reminded me of that of strasbourg, which it resembles in its minuteness of architecture, and even in the circumstance of its having its left tower in an unfinished state. the right tower, which is complete, is neither so light, or airy, nor by any means so beautifully sculptured as that of strasbourg; nor does the building, as a whole, bear any comparison with the latter in beauty and effect. the interior is beautiful from its simplicity; and its having been newly white-washed gave it a light and cheerful appearance. it contains some fine pictures; the chief of which are the "crucifixion," and the "descent from the cross," by reubens. the pulpit, the largest and most beautiful specimen of carved wood i ever saw, represents adam and eve in the garden of eden. we afterwards went into many of the various churches, some of which are adorned with very fine paintings. in that of st. barbara are some very curious and beautifully carved wooden confessionals, in a style similar to that of the pulpit in the cathedral. near this church is a celebrated calvary,[a] which also includes a representation of purgatory and of heaven, being an assemblage of demons and saints in the most wretched taste. on one side, through a grating, the mortal remains of our saviour in the tomb are presented to view; on the opposite side the virgin mary appears decked out with flowers and gold lace, surrounded by a choir of angels and saints; and on looking through a third grating one gets a peep at purgatory, where the wicked are seen swimming about among waves of flame in the strangest confusion imaginable. the whole of this representation appeared to us most ridiculous; yet not so to many good catholics, whom we saw silently kneeling before the gratings, and apparently devoutly praying for those souls who had been dear to them whilst upon earth. the devotion of many, however, was not so abstract as to render them indifferent to the presence of sir humphry, whose appearance, it is true, was likely to abstract attention, even though unknown, wrapped up as he was in a large mantle lined with white fur. in all the churches which we visited, the priests and attendants were busied in preparing them for the next day, (good friday.) though the subject represented, the tomb of christ, with its surrounding scenery, attendants, and guards, was the same in every church, it was much more beautifully executed in some than in others. a part of the church was in general nearly encircled and darkened by hangings of black cloth, and a recess was thus formed, in which, in some of the churches, a stage of considerable depth was erected, on which was painted the scene of the tomb, with its figures, side scenes, and distant views, very skilfully managed. the perspective was well kept; and the whole being very well illuminated by unseen lamps, the effect was quite theatrical. leaving these scenes of papal devotion, we drove to the harbour, a work of napoleon's, which, like most of his other works, is remarkable for its strength and durability. its size is not very striking; but it was tolerably well filled with shipping of all nations, amongst which i observed many english, and some north-american vessels. from thence we drove through the town; and sir humphry could not omit paying a visit to the fish-market, which, luckily for his white mantle, was not billingsgate. the market did not appear to be very well stocked, and he could find nothing remarkable or new to satisfy his ever active curiosity. the town appears clean, and has some large open streets, the principal of which is called the mere, in which our hotel, _le grand laboureur_, is situated; it possesses no very remarkable buildings; and the town house and the celebrated exchange, make, at least externally, a very poor show. the picture gallery, which is said to be very excellent, was unfortunately closed, it being a _fête_ day. our visits to the churches and the different parts of the town had fully occupied our morning, and in the evening after dinner i read to sir humphry voltaire's "histoire de la voyage de la raison," and finished the "bravo," which he much admired. _ th._ left antwerp in the morning, and passing through coutegle, malines, or mechlin, we arrived at brussels about one o'clock. the road runs nearly the whole of the way on the bank of a large canal, and is often bordered by a row of fine beech trees. the appearance of this capital from a distance is rather imposing; the handsomer and more modern part of it being situated upon a hill, at the bottom of which lies the old town, on the banks of the river senne. the gate through which we entered is remarkably handsome, and the style of architecture light and elegant. we drove to the hôtel de flandres, on the place royale, where we were very well accommodated. before dinner i took a hasty run through the town, just to see the fine old gothic town-house, with its light and lofty spire, surmounted by a colossal statue of st. michael and the dragon, which acts as a vane; and the parks, palaces, and fine public walks, which latter were crowded with english. english equipages and servants are also continually passing in the streets; and so many of the shops are completely english, that it is difficult to believe that one is in the capital of a foreign nation. the number of english generally in brussels is said to exceed twenty thousand. at one of the english circulating libraries i procured the "legend of montrose," which amused sir humphry for the evening. _ th._ at nine in the evening we left brussels by the porte de louvaine, and drove on to tervueren, through a fine forest of beech trees; at the extremity of which is situated the summer chateau of the prince of orange, which, in external appearance, hardly equals the country residence of an english gentleman. from thence we proceeded to louvaine, or löwen; where we only stopped to change horses. the hôtel de ville is one of the finest specimens of gothic architecture in the netherlands; but we could only catch a hasty view of it as we drove by and went on to thirlemont, where we dined, and after dinner proceeded to st. troud, which we made our resting-place for the night. _ th._ we quitted st. troud after breakfast, in the midst of rain and snow, for liege, or lüttich, where we made no stay, but passed on to battices. between this last place and aix-la-chapelle, we crossed the boundary of the netherlands, and entered upon the prussian territory. the custom-house officers were very civil; and count bülow's _besonders empfohlen_, (particularly recommended), written in his own hand on sir humphry's passport, was of great utility. we entered aix-la-chapelle in the evening; and passing by the new theatre and the bath rooms, which are pretty, but small buildings, we drove to the grand hotel, which was neither grand nor comfortable. our book for this evening was swift's "tale of a tub." _ th._ left aachen, (the german name for aix), and passed on to jülich, the first prussian fortress. from thence we proceeded to bergheim: after which we passed over a wide sandy flat, rendered in many parts almost impassable, by the previous heavy rains. a league or two before we reached cologne, the many and gloomy steeples of the once holy city rose to view; amongst which, the colossal mass of its splendid but unfinished cathedral stood prominent. the fortifications before the town are thickly planted with shrubs, so that from a distance they have more the appearance of sloping green hills, than walls of defence. passing over numerous drawbridges, and under one of the ancient gateways, we drove through many dark and narrow streets to the cour imperiale. _ th._ in the morning we left cologne to the protection of its eleven thousand virgins, and started for coblentz. at bonn, we merely changed horses, and drove on to the little post-town of remagen, leaving the summits of the celebrated seven mountains, _the castled crag of drachenfels_, rolandseck, and the towers of the convent of nonnenwerth, as yet surrounded only by bare and leafless trees, behind us. here we dined; and then continued our route along the banks of the rhine, which was very turbid and swollen, to andernach, and from thence to coblentz. the scenery, which i had formerly beheld in all its summer glory, as well as in its rich autumnal tints, was now not only shorn of its beauty, but enveloped in mist and cloud. _ th._ we quitted coblentz at about eight o'clock in the morning, in the midst of a thick fog, which in a short time cleared away, and afforded us a most magnificent spectacle; for it came rolling down the hills on each bank of the river like immense waves, through which the sunbeams broke in from every side, till it was at last quite dispersed, and unveiled to our view the numberless little towns and villages on the banks, leaving the rhine glittering in the rays of the sun, like a stream of burnished gold, rushing along between its dark and rocky mountains. we changed horses at boppart, and from thence drove on to st. goar, where sir humphry has determined to stop till to-morrow. after dinner he took a ride along the banks of the river, followed by his servant. in the mean while i strolled up the hills, and amused myself by sketching the old ruins of the castle of rheinfels, and the river below me in the distance. on our return, sir humphry told me that he had decided to include heidelberg in his route, which he had not at first intended to do, passing through mayence and mannheim, so that i shall in a day or two again see my home. after having read the "old english baron" to sir humphry, we retired for the night; he to rest, and i to my chamber, where i could not but admire the scene around me. it was a beautiful starry night, and the lofty rocks opposite my window rose as it were from the rolling river beneath, awful and gigantic amid the shades of night, till their dark outlines, mingling with the more distant mountains, were lost in the clear sky. every sound in the village was hushed, and it seemed as if even the air itself was lulled to rest by the stillness of night. "all heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep, but breathless, as we grow when feeling most; and silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep:-- all heaven and earth are still: from the high host of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, all is concenter'd in a life intense, where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, but hath a part of being, and a sense of that which is of all creator and defence." _ th._ our drive this morning from st. goar to bingen was cold and rainy, and the lurley rocks, and the wild and rugged banks of the rhine between st. goar and oberwesel, looked more than usually dreary, the few vines and the little vegetation that appear upon them in summer not having yet begun to shoot. we quitted the banks of the rhine at bingen, and struck across the country through a fine rich plain stretching almost as far as the eye can reach, and every here and there diversified by low hills, to mayence. ingelheim, one of the numerous residences of charlemagne, and where that monarch once had a magnificent palace, is now a little insignificant borough, and the palace with its hundred columns from rome or ravenna, has vanished, or nearly so, for the slight remains that are still standing, shew but little of former grandeur. at mayence our passports were demanded at the first of the numerous draw-bridges, and quickly _visé'd_. sir humphry determined upon spending the night here, as i knew that the accommodations at the roman emperor were much better than any he would find at oppenheim or worms, which latter town we could not have reached till the night had set in, and sir humphry does not like to travel after sunset. the streets of this ancient town are for the most part narrow, dark, and dirty, with the exception of the chief street running from the upper part of the town towards the rhine, called _die grosse bleiche_, the great bleaching place, and which is a broad and handsome street. the whole appearance of the town, the old _dom_ or cathedral, with its heavy towers and light pinnacles of red stone; its brazen gates, still bearing the marks of the balls of the celebrated siege in ; the many magnificent houses, often uninhabited or turned into shops and _cafés_; the vast but ruinous palace of red sand-stone on the rhine; the few inhabitants one meets with in the streets,--the officers and soldiers of the different regiments in garrison of course excepted,--plainly tell the stranger that mayence has no longer any pretension to the splendour it owned under the rule of the ecclesiastical princes, it being then the second ecclesiastical town in germany; or even during its occupation by the french, who, wherever they went, were sure to carry with them life and spirit. as it has changed for the worse, so may it again change for the better, and who can say that it may not in a few lustres more again flourish as a frontier fortress of france. _ th._ quitting mayence, we drove on along the flat and sandy banks of the rhine, through oppenheim to worms, from the time of charlemagne and the frankish kings, till the days of luther, the scene of brilliant _fêtes_, princely tourneys, and solemn diets of the empire,--now a dismal mass of ruin and desolation. the lofty nave and the four steeples of its ponderous gothic cathedral, when seen from a distance, rise with an imposing grandeur in the level plain of the rhine; but, on a nearer survey, the church itself offers nothing of interest. we dined at frankenthal, a neat and clean little town in rhenish bavaria, and then drove on through oggersheim to mannheim, where we crossed the rhine over a fine bridge of boats. the streets of this town are remarkably broad and clean; the houses are lofty, and being built in small compact squares, all the streets meet at right angles, and generally afford at their openings a very pretty peep at the distant country, so that one imagines the surrounding scenery to be finer than it really is. the _planken_, or chief street, traverses the town in a straight line from gate to gate, and forms a fine wide walk between two rows of acacias, which is chained in from the carriage road on each side. the four leagues from mannheim to heidelberg are through a country, not one spot of which is uncultivated; this is backed by the finely wooded mountains of the odenwald, on which are still visible the remains of some of the many castles which formerly crowned the different heights. we reached heidelberg towards evening, and as soon as i had seen sir humphry comfortably lodged in the hotel of the prince carl, immediately under the imposing ruins of its far-famed castle, he begged me to go and see my mother, he being too fatigued to accompany me; and on my doing so, i found that my letter, which should have informed her of my approach, had not yet reached her. _ th._ sir humphry finding himself too indisposed either to visit the university, or to receive any of its eminent professors, some of whom are very desirous to visit him, has determined to remain here only till tomorrow; for it is painful to him to know that he is surrounded by scientific men anxious to see and communicate with him, and to feel that he is no longer able to enjoy their society, or that scientific discussion, which, as it was formerly a source of the highest gratification to him, "_now_," he says, "_only serves to make me feel that i am but the shadow of what i was_." it is in vain to combat with such feelings, but it is impossible not to regret their existence; for could sir humphry be persuaded occasionally to mix more frequently in such society, it would certainly rather be of service to him than not, for his fine mind is still full of intellectual power and elasticity, and he deceives himself in thinking otherwise. in the afternoon, as he did not feel strong enough to mount the hill to the castle, he took a short walk over the bridge along the northern banks of the neckar, and appeared much to enjoy the beautiful scenery that encircles this spot, and is indeed every where to be found around heidelberg. from this side one sees the ancient ruin with its mouldering towers, backed by a lofty amphitheatre of finely wooded mountains, with the town standing immediately under it, and the broad river rushing through its light and airy bridge, often foaming over many a rugged rock. the scene at all times is beautiful and imposing, but when lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, which fall with a resplendent glow upon the red-stone walls and towers of the castle, the effect produced is very striking, and at that hour it is impossible for the most indifferent observer to pass the spot without admiration. the castle itself is now in a very dilapidated state, for with the exception of the chapel, which is merely a bare and lofty hall, there remains scarcely one entire room; but the exterior walls of the quadrangle are nearly perfect, and much of the sculpture that every where adorns the ruin is still in high preservation, and some of the ruined towers, as such, are very beautiful. the gardens too, which, from their situation, sweeping as they do around the hill on which the castle stands, and abounding in fine large trees, are at once commanding and beautiful, afford many a delightful walk and striking view of the country beneath; and wandering amid their risings and descents, one feels that here art has been considered as she really is, the handmaid, not the mistress of nature's works. from some of the terraces one looks directly down upon the town, having a fine view beyond of the fertile plain between it and mannheim, through which the neckar is seen winding till it joins the rhine, which, with the distant vogesian mountains, bounds the view in the west. heidelberg contains about , inhabitants, and has of late years become a favourite resort of strangers. the university library is considered to be one of the richest in europe in ancient manuscripts, and were the sovereign of the state a more liberal patron than he is of learning and science, doubtless the museums and public institutions would be more liberally endowed than they are; there is, however, an excellent anatomical museum in the school for medicine, and so long as such names as those of thibaut, tiedemann, gmelin, schlosser, and various others whose works evince their talent, shall be found amongst the list of its professors, so long must heidelberg hold a deservedly high rank in the learned and scientific world, and open a wide field of advantage and instruction to all young men anxious to avail themselves of such opportunities; nor will any impartial judge deny, that amongst its students many highly honourable examples of talent and application are found. _ th._ we this morning bade adieu to heidelberg, and set off for neckargemünd. sir humphry very much admired the winding river and its picturesque banks, though the woods were yet leafless, and the rocks rather bare; whilst i could see no spot that did not, in one way or another, recall to my mind the many social and happy days i had spent in roving through the green woods, and among the mouldering castles of the neckar. from neckargemünd we struck across the country to wiesenbach and sinsheim, and from thence through very pretty but not striking scenery to fürfeld, where we entered the kingdom of würtemberg, and on to heilbronn. this old town offers nothing interesting save the old square tower in the walls on the neckar, formerly the prison of the celebrated götz of the iron hand, who, it is said, died within its walls. the doughty champion will probably live in the remembrance of the good people of heilbronn, only so long as the old tower which bears the name of the _götzen thurm_ continues to stand; but the fame of götz von berlichingen will never die but with the extinction of german literature, handed down as it is to posterity by the master-hand of göthe. the drive from heilbronn to oehringen is very beautiful, over hill and dale, and from valley to valley through the mountains. the first little village which we passed was weinsberg, and above it, on a hill covered with vineyards, are the remains of the castle of weibertreue (woman's faith.) this spot was the scene of the action celebrated in bürger's admired ballad, _die weiber von weinsberg_--the women of weinsberg. "wer sagt mir an wo weinsberg liegt soll seyn ein wack'res städtchen," &c. &c. the story of which is founded on the following fact:--during the time of the deadly feuds between the houses of hohenstaufen and guelph, about the year , weinsberg was besieged and taken by the emperor conrad. the town and castle had excited his high displeasure for having afforded an asylum to his enemy guelph, and he determined to destroy them with fire and sword, and said he would only allow the women to depart, and take any treasure with them. at dawn of day the gates of the town were opened, and every woman appeared carrying her husband upon her back. many of his officers, indignant at thus seeing the enemy's garrison escape, endeavoured to persuade the emperor to evade his promise, but conrad replied, "_an emperor's faith once pledged was not to be broken_;" and he granted them a free pardon, and from that time the castle of weinsberg has borne the name of weibertreue. we did not reach oehringen till eight o'clock; and then found the only decent inn in the town in great confusion, owing to the exhibition of a cabinet of wax-work, which had attracted all the waiters and chambermaids, so that it was with great difficulty i could obtain even hot water to make our tea. _ th._ we left oehringen at eight in the morning, and arrived at halle, or schöneshalle, about twelve, passing through some very pretty mountainous country. in this part of würtemberg there are some coal mines, but the coal seems to be of a very inferior quality, a brown coal. the female peasantry dress their hair in a very singular manner, drawing it back from the forehead, and tying it up in a bunch behind, which gives the head a remarkably naked appearance, and increases their altogether awkward and uncouth air. the town is small and very old, and has some considerable remains of ancient fortifications. from halle we had a very long drive up-hill and down-hill for five hours, through a fertile country well wooded and watered, to ellwangen, another small town, prettily situated in a valley: the hills on the one side are surmounted by a modern chateau, belonging to the king of würtemberg; and on the top of those opposite stands a fine large church, to which, at certain seasons of the year, pilgrims flock in numbers from great distances. before tea i strolled round the town, and afterwards read one of the "arabian nights entertainments" to sir humphry, after which we played our usual game at _ecarté_. _ th._ leaving ellwangen, we passed through hilly but barren country, and over the most abominable roads possible, to nördlingen, the first bavarian post-town. we were every now and then obliged to get out of the carriage from fear of being overturned; and the postilion frequently preferred driving over a newly ploughed field to passing along the road. we however arrived safely at the post-house; thus accomplishing six short leagues in about as many hours. on driving into the town we were, as usual, asked for our passport, which was an english one: the officer took it for french, and i suppose he had never seen such an one before, for he copied the printed title into a paper which he gave me, as a permission to enter bavaria, as follows:--"permit to pass, &c. &c., _lord dudley, particulier_," and i could hardly make the man believe that the printed name was not that of the person travelling, but that of the minister. from nördlingen we drove to donauwörth, on the donau, or danube; passing through haarburg, a small village, but one of the prettiest spots we had seen since we left the banks of the neckar. the church and many of the houses are situated on the top of a lofty rock, high above the rest of the buildings, and the whole scene is strikingly picturesque. the danube at donauwörth is a small and unimposing stream. opposite our inn were two boats ready to start for vienna; they were of considerable size, but wholly built of rough deal planks. such boats are chiefly filled with merchandize, and rarely take passengers, as their accommodation is very inferior. when they arrive at vienna, they are broken up and sold as old wood, the current of the danube being too rapid to admit of boats ascending. we had good accommodation at the only hotel, the crab, which is out of the town, on the banks of the river; and sir humphry determined to remain till tomorrow, to see the fishermen cast their nets in the morning. _ th._ sir humphry did not feel well enough to-day to accompany the fishermen, but desired them to bring him any fish they might catch; they accordingly brought him a schill, the large perch of the danube, (_perca lucioperca_, block,) of which sir humphry begged me to take a drawing. we then dissected it, and afterwards had it dressed for dinner, and both of us thought it very good, and much resembling cod in taste. sir humphry now generally prefers dining alone, and at a late hour for this part of the world, (four o'clock); and i, therefore, where i find a _table d'hôte_, usually dine at it; for though the business of eating in this country is not one of hasty dispatch, or of such trivial importance as to leave all the powers awake to conversation, yet foreigners who wish to become acquainted with the people and manners, as well as to see them, will, at all events, understand them much better by mixing with them, than by keeping, as is so often the case with english travellers, to their own rooms. while sir humphry dined, i took a walk up the schellenberg, to look at the spot from which marlborough drove the french at the celebrated battle of blenheim; and sitting under an old oak, on the top of the hill, i enjoyed the extensive view beneath me. hardly visible in the distance appeared the towers of blenheim; nearer stood many a small village, embosomed as it were in the forests; and the danube, winding through the woods and verdant meadows, now hidden by an interposing hill, then again appearing in many a bending curve, with here and there a small green island, flowed tranquilly on till it reaches the town of donauwörth, where it receives the tributary waters of the wernitz, a small river which runs through the town. i hastily took a sketch of the view, the scene of actions which can never be forgotten by the friend of english glory, and then returned to sir humphry, and in the evening read to him some of the "arabian nights," and dryden's beautiful poem "the flower and the leaf." _ th._ crossing over to the right bank of the danube by a small wooden bridge, our road passed through many pleasant meadows covered with beautiful anemones, interspersed here and there with the dark blue gentian, and enlivened by numerous herds of cattle. the first _poste_ was bergheim, and from thence to neuburg and ingolstadt. the church steeples of all the villages by which we passed were covered with tiles glazed with different colours, which in the sunshine have a very brilliant and chinese appearance. ingolstadt is a small old town, with dilapidated fortifications and walls. the only inn seemed in a similar condition, and the kitchen and some of the rooms being in a state of repair, we were obliged to continue our route. on leaving the town, we crossed over the danube again and drove on to vohburg. in the distance we thought we saw the salzburg alps, but we were unable to determine with certainty, the clouds having the greatest possible resemblance to distant snowy mountains. the danube at vohburg is by no means so wide as the rhine at mannheim, but is much more rapid. we again recrossed it, and drove through some marshy land, and a small forest of firs, beautifully green, to neustadt, where we remained for the night at a most wretched inn. the whole country through which we have passed appears very populous, but the peasantry look wretchedly squalid and poor, and an english eye is much struck by seeing the women constantly at hard work in the fields, and apparently performing a much greater share of the laborious part of their employment than the men. _ th._ we left neustadt in the morning, and drove on through pretty and hilly country, chiefly covered with fir wood, to postsari, where we came down close upon the danube, and beheld some most beautiful rocky scenery, far superior in grandeur to that of the rhine. immense perpendicular masses of grey rock, with dark fir-trees here and there forcing themselves through the fissures and crevices, form the right bank of the danube at abach, a small village at the foot of a hill, on the top of which stands an enormous round tower, the only remaining vestige of a large castle which formerly crowned the summit. before entering the village the road is hewn through the solid rock, and high above the head of the traveller is a gigantic latin inscription, cut in the rock, purporting that this work was undertaken and completed by charles theodor, elector of bavaria; two colossal lions on pedestals mark the spot which was once solid rock. from this little village we passed over the hill to regensburg, or ratisbon, which lies in the valley beneath. the appearance of this old city from a distance is not more imposing than when in it, for it has no high towers nor fine prominent buildings. we entered it at about one o'clock, through an alley of young poplars, on the right of which stands a small modern temple, dedicated to the memory of the celebrated astronomer, keppler. a light pretty gateway leads into dark and narrow streets, at the end of one of which was our inn, the golden cross, and the good accommodation we here found, was not rendered the less agreeable from its contrast with that of the wretched inn at neustadt. in the afternoon i walked out with sir humphry to see the town. the greatest, or rather only curiosity it possesses, is the large room in which the celebrated diet of the empire used to be held: the exterior has a miserable appearance, and sir humphry, instead of going in, went to see some fish in a tank, and wished me to accompany him as interpreter. i went in the evening again to see the hall of the diet, but it was shut, and the man who shows it was not to be found. from the fish-tank we went to the bridge over the danube, which is well built of stone, and is entirely paved with large flag stones. the river, already of considerable breadth, rushes through it with astonishing rapidity, and turns a number of mills below it. we then returned and took our tea, and our evening's book was "palamon and arcite." _ th._ we quitted ratisbon at nine in the morning, leaving the banks of the danube to our left, and drove on to eglofsheim, and from thence generally through or on the borders of a thick and sombre pine forest, through birkheim to ergolshausen. the cottages in this part of bavaria are usually built of trunks of trees, laid horizontally one upon another, like the log-houses of america; and the roofs are covered with shingles, on which are placed large flat stones, to prevent their being blown off. the better ones have generally some picture, the subject of which is taken from the holy writings, painted on the front; and at ratisbon i saw a "david and goliath," which covered the entire front of a large house three or four stories high. at ergolshausen we were detained whilst the carriage was mended; this reparation cost eighteen kreuzers, (about sixpence,) and in france, for a similar one, we paid five francs. when all was put to rights we set off for landshuth, and soon caught a transient glimpse of the snowy alps, rising out of the distant horizon like clouds into the clouds. the isar, on which landshuth is situated, exceeds even the danube in rapidity, and well may campbell call it "isar rolling rapidly." we had hardly entered the inn when we were visited by a heavy thunderstorm, accompanied by tremendous hail. _ th._ wishing to see something of the town, i took a hasty stroll, early in the morning before we started, through the streets, but found little worth seeing. the cathedral is, externally, a fine old gothic building, and the principal street is respectable. i was much struck with the head-dress of the women, which seems to vary according to their rank. the peasant girls wear large fur caps, whilst the women of a rather higher class have upon their heads most extraordinary gauze or muslin appendages, in all sorts of shapes, some like helmets, some pointed, and others falling in peaks, but all more or less richly embroidered with gold or silver thread. on leaving landshuth we ascended a very long and steep hill, and on arriving at the top we saw the austrian alps, at a distance of seventy or eighty miles, bounding the whole horizon with a line of shining white, and here and there broken by a dark shade of grey; whilst some single perfectly white and shining peaks shone high above the floating clouds, whose white colour appeared tarnished when compared with that of the eternal snow. we drove the greater part of the day through pine forests, up hill and down hill; now perfectly losing sight of the alps, then again from the summit of the next hill catching sight of them, apparently not more than ten miles off, so distinctly could we trace the vallies between the different mountains. we stopped to dine at the post-house at neumarkt, a small village, where i could get nothing but a pigeon dressed in garlic, and some sausage. leaving this village, we descended from the mountains, amid which we had been travelling, into the plain which separates them from the alps, and found ourselves, as it were, in front of this colossal chain, now brightly illuminated by the glowing sun. towards evening i had hoped to have seen the rosy tinge upon the alps, caused by the reflection of the sunbeams upon the snow of the summits, but i was disappointed, for they faded away into the grey clouds of evening as we drove up a very steep but short hill into neu-Ötting, a neat little town, in the streets of which we saw many pretty women and girls knitting before their doors; on the whole, the people are much handsomer here than in the country we have hitherto passed through. about two miles further on we reached alt-Ötting, where we were very well lodged at the post-house. our hostess, a young lass of only seventeen or eighteen, spoke very good french, and seemed intelligent and active in the direction of her household. _ st._ in the morning, before sir humphry was up, i went to see a little church on the _platz_ or square before our inn. the arcades surrounding it are completely covered with _votive_ pictures, or pictures returning thanks to some favourite saint for having been delivered from great danger; some, for example, for having broken their legs or arms instead of their necks, others that their friends had been killed and not they, and such like. many of these pictures bear dates of two or three hundred years ago, but they are almost all mere daubs. the interior of the church is also quite covered with paintings, and gold and silver offerings, some of the latter apparently of great value. on my return to the inn, i asked our hostess about this church, and she told me that it had been a celebrated place of pilgrimage for ages past; that the image of the virgin in it bears the date of the twelfth century, and that there also are kept embalmed the hearts of the sovereigns of bavaria, charles theodore, maximilian joseph, and others. she also informed me that there was a convent of nuns, and a capuchin monastery in the town; some of the former i had seen in the church. on leaving alt-Ötting, we for the first time this year saw cherry-trees in blossom, and on the sides of the road there was abundance of the pretty blue gentian. the next station, and the last in bavaria, was marktl. from thence we drove on to braunau, already a wide and very rapid river. the black and yellow striped posts on the wooden bridge announced to us the dominion of austria; and on entering the town, we drove to the custom-house, where, however, the officers gave us no trouble, for a letter from prince esterhazy, with which sir humphry was furnished, seemed to act as a talisman, producing instantaneous civility, with bows and titles innumerable. the next _poste_ was altheim, where we found that every thing was to be paid for in austrian money, which at first promised to be no slight trouble, though we soon found it was an easy matter to reduce it, six bavarian kreuzers, or six florins, being equal to five austrian ones. it was our intention to have reached haag this evening, but having a very long and steep hill to cross, the night overtook us at ried, a little village, where we were obliged to put up with the accommodations of a miserable inn, with bad coffee and wretched beds, much to the discomfiture of sir humphry. _ nd._ we left ried at about nine, and drove through a fine forest of lofty pines to haag, and from thence to lambach. wood seems so abundant in this country, that not only the inferior houses are wholly built of it, but even the fences between the fields are formed of rough deal planks. lambach is a small insignificant town on the traun, which river we here saw for the first time: its water is beautifully clear, and of a bluish-green colour. from lambach we turned off to vöcklabrück, along the banks of the agger, another clear mountain stream, winding very prettily through a flat valley of the same name. on our approach to this little place we beheld the lofty alps, which form the shores of the traun lake, at a short distance off; and sir humphry rejoiced that he had at length arrived where he might enjoy his favourite amusement of fishing, which, but for a thunderstorm, he would this very evening have indulged in, at the expence of the poor fish in the little river vöckla. _ rd._ early this morning, sir humphry begged me in his name to visit count e----, who lives at a short distance from vöcklabrück, and is proprietor of the fishing right in the agger and vöckla, and request his permission for him to fish in these streams; this the count very graciously granted, and sir humphry accordingly mounted a pony, and rode down to the vöckla, where, however, during the morning, he caught but little fish. the afternoon was spent in the same pursuit, and we closed the evening as usual with reading some of dryden's poems and the "arabian nights." _ th._ in the morning sir humphry begged me to procure a one-horse chaise for him, in which, with his servant, he was driven to the kammer lake, about ten miles off. i, in the meanwhile, strolled about the environs, not finding anything interesting in the town; but my walk did not prove very agreeable, the weather being so misty that i could gain no view of the neighbouring alps, and i was very glad to see sir humphry return in the afternoon, bringing with him a few fish, which were dressed for his dinner. in the evening we read prior's "alma," but not being pleased with it we soon changed it for pope's "essay on man." _ th._ we quitted vöcklabrück at about ten in the morning, not at all to my sorrow; and after a beautiful drive through fine fir woods and lanes, where the hedges were already quite green, we arrived at gmünden, and beheld a scene which surpasses in magnificence any thing i have ever yet seen. on one side of the hill down which we drove was a wood of tall beeches, the leaves just bursting from the bud; on the lower side, meadows of the most beautiful green sloped down to the town of gmünden, which seemed to rise out of the bosom of the lake of the same name, or, as it is more generally called, the traun lake. alps, whose summits were hidden in the clouds, and on whose rocky heights nothing was seen but the dark black pine, form the banks of this large reservoir of water, in some places descending with precipitous and almost perpendicular steepness into the clear lake, whilst in others they are lost in fine meadows and orchards, with neat wooden cottages peeping through the trees; and on an island in the lake we saw a large chateau and church, which are joined to the main land by a long wooden bridge. the best inn at gmünden, the ship, is close upon the edge of the water, and commands a magnificent view over the whole extent of the lake, and every window being provided with a little cushion, one may enjoy the scene leaning on the window-sill for hours, without any detriment to one's elbows. gmünden itself is a pretty clean little town at the north end of the lake, exactly on the spot where it empties itself into the river traun with an impetuous rush, thus dividing the town into two distinct parts, connected by a strong wooden bridge built on piles. on the shores of the lake are many beautiful small villages, now and then seen through the half green trees, and at about six miles from gmünden, apparently at the end of the lake, is the town of traunkirchen, almost lost in distance and haziness. the water of the lake is beautifully clear, and of a deep blue-green colour. after reading to sir humphry in the evening, i spent an hour gazing out upon the lake and its alpine shores, partially illuminated by the moon; the more distant snowy summits seemed like detached clouds, resting as it were upon the dark and gloomy masses beneath, which threw their long broad shadows over the silvery bosom of the lake; while every here and there on the surrounding shores, a few twinkling lights, seen between the trees, marked the situation of a village or country house. _ th._ on awaking this morning, i fancied myself on the sea shore, for the first sound i heard was the surge of the waters of the lake, which had been agitated into light waves by a fresh morning breeze. on going to my window the scene formed a striking contrast to that of yesterday evening; the darkness and deep silence of night had disappeared; not a cloud was to be seen, and the brilliant beams of the young sun shone upon numberless boats, flitting with their white sails over the glittering waves; whilst in the street beneath stood motley groups of peasants lounging about, or awaiting the arrival of some boat from the other shore of the lake. sir humphry rose early, and immediately after breakfast we went out to the bridge over the traun, he to fish, whilst i sketched; and staid the whole morning beneath the bridge, on one of the piers close to the rushing stream. the view from this spot is far more extensive than that from the inn windows, as from hence you see quite to the opposite end of the lake, and can discover beyond the promontory, on which stands the town of traunkirchen, the houses and spires of ebensee, as white specks against the distant grey mountain; and from hence also are seen to great advantage, far beyond the mountains of the lake, the distant snow-clad summits of the schneeberg and other of the styrian alps. on my return home i found sir humphry already there, and that he had caught some fine trout, which proved excellent. in the evening we had a violent storm, and i read green's poem on the spleen, which sir humphry does not admire. _ th._ this morning proved rainy, and sir humphry was in despair, as he had ordered a small carriage, intending to go and see the falls of the traun, about ten miles down the river; it cleared up, however, about eleven o'clock, and turning out very fine, we set off, sir humphry armed with all his fishing-tackle, and i with my sketch-book. after a fine drive along the top of the precipitous and highly picturesque banks of the traun, passing by many smaller falls and rapids, we reached the inn near the great fall, the roar of which is heard at a considerable distance. a little below the cataract a lofty wooden bridge is thrown over the traun, and from beneath it one beholds a truly sublime scene. the greater part of the river here precipitates itself from a height of nearly fifty feet, in one immense mass of foam over the impeding rocks, which are of considerable breadth. thick clouds of mist are continually rising from the boiling pool, and the spectator standing within a few feet of the descending river is completely wetted in an instant. in the centre of the river stands a large rock, from which three smaller falls throw themselves into the greater pool; and again, higher up on the right is another large cascade, where the water falls in a perpendicular sheet between two rocks, which serve as a support to a small wooden house that has been erected over the fall. below the bridge the whole river is one white stream of foam, with dark black rocks here and there jutting out of it. the banks are formed of lofty rocks (chiefly pudding-stone,) and are topped with woods of dark black pine. boats descending the river avoid the danger of this cataract by means of a small canal, which has been cut through the right bank of the river in a sloping direction from the fall, and again joins the river at some distance below it. this canal is immediately filled with water by raising a sluice gate close to the fall, and the boat keeping near the shore is very easily guided into it, and descends quickly and safely. sir humphry finding the fish would not bite, we returned home, after spending a short hour in this sublime and romantic spot. the drive back to gmünden is finer than the drive to the falls, the river presenting more beautiful openings and turnings, and the lake gradually rising into view. in the evening sir humphry determined not to remain at the baths of ischl, about twenty miles distant, as he had intended doing, but to proceed to laybach, three hundred miles off, as he thought the snipe-shooting, which he much wished to enjoy, would not yet be over there. _ th._ we left gmünden at eight, crossing over the lake in a large boat. the view of gmünden from the lake is beautiful, and with its gently sloping green hills and woods in the back ground, and its neat white houses, rising as it were out of the water, forms a strong contrast with the rugged mountains which surround the lake on every other side. whilst crossing over, the scene continually changes, the alps presenting themselves from different sides; and on turning the promontory on which traunkirchen is situated, we entered as it were upon another small lake, and discovered the town of ebensee, about three miles off, quite at the end of it. the traun here flows into the lake, and often brings with it a considerable quantity of wood, which is collected by a long _cordon_, formed of the trunks of fir-trees joined together, and drawn across the end of the lake. ebensee has very large salt-works, which afford employment to the greater number of its inhabitants. post-horses were here again put to the carriage, and we drove on along the banks of the traun through most enchanting scenery to ischl, and from hence to aussee, over a very steep mountain, on the sides of which i found, whilst walking up it, many of our prettiest garden flowers, cyclamens, anemones, &c. &c. after ascending for an hour and a half, we entered styria, passing the boundary of upper austria, and came to the snow, through which we pursued our way for half an hour more, when we found ourselves on the top of the pass, between and feet above the level of the sea, environed by alps clad in deep and for the most part eternal snow. our road down was cut through the snow, which was much deeper on this side than on the other. aussee is a little town, beautifully situated at the bottom of a valley, surrounded on all sides by gigantic rocks; it also has, like ebensee, extensive saltworks, the salt for which is furnished from the salt-mines in the adjacent mountains. _ th._ we quitted aussee this morning, and drove on through mitterndorf, steinach, and liezen, our road lying through beautiful alpine country, sometimes hilly, and always at a great elevation. between liezen and rothenmann we passed the first old feudal castle that we have seen in this part of austria; it is called wolkenstein, and is finely situated upon a hill, between rocks and woods. most of these people have large _gôitres_, the cause of which it is perhaps difficult to ascertain with certainty. sir humphry seemed inclined to attribute their presence to the calcareous earths which the waters of these vallies may hold in solution. this opinion has been also supported by many scientific medical men; still sir humphry seemed to think there was reason in my observation, that it might rather be the effect of climate and damp; for in a mountainous country that is also full of streams, the inhabitants are always exposed to strong currents of damp and chilly air at one season, and to the extreme of heat in the summer months, when the rays of the sun are reflected from the rocky mountains, and, as it were, concentrated upon the lower vallies; for were it from the water, would it not, in an equal degree, affect the upper classes, which, i have observed in the neighbourhood where i have resided, is not the fact; for though they are subject to this disease, they are by no means so much so as the poorer inhabitants of the villages in the odenwald, for instance; and the water of many of these parts has been proved to be more than usually free from earths and salts. between rothenmann and gaishorn, at which latter village we passed the night, we saw a peat moor, a very rare thing in this country. i think i shall never forget the evening we spent here, in one of the most miserable dirty little village inns in europe. when we drove up to the door we heard within the sound of loud and merry music, and the noise of a number of people dancing and clapping their hands; this all of a sudden ceased, and out rushed a whole troop of peasants of both sexes to see the strangers. the master of the inn, a young man, led us up a tumble-down staircase to the first and only story, where we found three rooms in no very inviting state: the walls were dirty, bare, and ragged; the beds almost as bad; the furniture looked as if it had been standing there for a hundred years, and every thing smelt of tobacco-smoke. sir humphry could scarcely make up his mind to remain in such a place, yet it was too late to attempt to proceed, as he did not like to travel after dark; so i was obliged to do my best, and arrange our accommodation for the night, i being the only one who could make myself understood, and this with no small difficulty, the people here speaking the most wretched austrian dialect. when i had at last got dinner served, or rather supper, which we had luckily brought with us, and had ordered chickens to be killed to take with us to-morrow, got out sheets to be aired, &c. &c., none of which orders i could get attended to with any regularity, as every body was running off to the dance, which in the meanwhile had recommenced with as much noise as before, i attempted to read the "arabian nights" to sir humphry, but he found it impossible to hear, and was obliged soon to retire to his bed. before i followed his example i went to take a peep at the dance, and asked the host what all this rout was about? he told me it was the conclusion of a wedding fête which had been celebrated the day before, and his house having been engaged for the purpose, he could not put an end to their merriment. the dance which these peasants were enjoying, the national dance of styria, was a slow waltz, not devoid of grace, with various tours performed by four couple, and which were always preceded by a loud clapping of hands and stamping with the feet. had we arrived yesterday we should have seen the fête in its glory, and all the guests in their gay and motley apparel, which would have been an entertaining sight, but the bride and bridegroom not being present this day, their friends were footing it merrily in their every-day dress. having partaken of some of the remains of the wedding cakes, i retired to bed, but not to sleep, the party continuing their revels and noise till a very late hour. _ th._ we could not set off this morning till after nine, one of the bolts of the carriage wanting repair, which i was obliged to superintend, the workmen understanding nothing of the build of an english carriage. we then set out and drove on to krapath, where our chickens proved very acceptable, the post-house offering nothing but stale brown, or rather black bread and sour wine. we passed to-day another old castle on the mountains, which latter, though still in some parts covered with snow, already begin to lose their rocky and alpine appearance, and have a more rounded form. the day was warm and very dusty. from krapath we drove on to judenburg, a considerable town on the top of a hill, but which we did not enter till long after sunset. _may st._ from judenburg we went on through unzmarkt, to neumarkt, in carinthia; and from thence through some beautiful vallies to friesach, a small town, where we passed the night at a very good inn. upon the hill above the town, stand the remains of an extensive old castle, but we arrived too late to admit of my visiting it. _ nd._ we left friesach early, and went on to st. veit, and from thence to klagenfurth, the capital of carinthia. before us in the distance appeared another range of lofty snowy alps, which form the boundary between this country and carniola. between st. veit and klagenfurth we met a post carriage, and the postilions insisted in spite of all remonstrance upon changing horses, alleging as a reason that we should find none at klagenfurth. on driving to the post, which is a very fine hotel, we found upon enquiry that the postilions were in the right, and that they are permitted to change horses when they know that there are none at the next station. klagenfurth appears to be a very respectable town, with broad and clean streets, and one or two fine open squares. we stopped here to dinner, and then went on to kirschentheur, a small village lying at the foot of the löbel, one of the chain of alps which we had seen in the morning, and over which the high road from carinthia to carniola passes. we had not long left klagenfurth when we again met with another carriage, and were stopped and deprived of our horses, which not a little irritated sir humphry, for we this time got instead of our three only two, and neither of these having a saddle, and our carriage being without a front dicky, the postilion was obliged to walk to the next station. sir humphry had hoped to have crossed the löbel to-night, but on arriving at kirschentheur, we found it was too late to think of it; and we therefore remained at the post-house, where we found ourselves tolerably comfortable. _ rd._ our preparations for departure this morning seemed to indicate a very laborious route, for the carriage was provided with six horses, two postilions, and two drags. we started at seven, and after a drive of half an hour arrived at the foot of the löbel alp, or, to speak more correctly, at the foot of a lesser mountain, which lies before the alps, to the summit of which we ascended by an excellent road, in many places cut through the limestone rock. from the top, already at a considerable elevation, we looked down upon the road before us, which appeared like beautiful terraces built one above the other, and which lay so perpendicularly under our feet, that it seemed almost impossible to reach the lowest without imminent danger. the drags, however, were put on, and we all arrived safely upon the last terrace, which is formed of a noble and lofty stone arch, thrown across a very deep ravine. we then proceeded through a beautiful valley formed of magnificent rocks, crowned with woods of different descriptions, above which appeared the white fields of snow. we at last reached the base of the löbel itself, and began the ascent of it, which occupied nearly four hours. the road, which is everywhere excellent, and is kept in very good order, winds upwards in a continual zig-zag till it reaches the summit, where an opening is hewn through the solid rock, from whence a most extensive and magnificent view presents itself to the eye of the traveller just arrived from below; one seems to look out upon a vast plain, but this plain is formed of the summits of lesser mountains, all beautifully wooded, whilst nearer on each side is a long chain of rocky alps, whose crests are covered with snow, and the road in front is seen winding through a deep valley till it is lost in the woods. upon these alps the varied progress of vegetation is distinctly marked; first appears the beech now just burst into leaf, reaching to a height of about feet; then follow the dark pine and fir, whose sombre tints contrast finely with the beautiful green of the lower woods; and again above these the lowly heath appears, bordering upon bare and rugged rocks, or upon fields of eternal snow. on the road we met with very little snow, and this only near the summit of the pass; on arriving here our three extra horses were taken off, and locking both the hinder wheels, we began the descent; this is much steeper than the ascent from the other side, and from the top one sees terrace lying below terrace, till they reach the valley. we arrived safely at the bottom, having, however, with some difficulty avoided running over a drunken man, who was lying fast asleep in the middle of the road. we then drove on through the valley, always down hill, to neumarkt, in carniola, into which province we had entered on the summit of the löbel; it is a small bourg, beautifully situated in a dell, and completely surrounded by mountains; it is the first station after leaving kirschentheur, and we reached it at about two o'clock, so that we had occupied seven hours in the passage of the löbel. after dining here we went on to krainfurth, a pretty town, and of considerable size, on the river save or sau. the evening being fine, sir humphry went out to fish, but caught nothing. _ th._ we left krainfurth at eight, and arrived, after a pleasant but, as usual, silent drive, at laybach about twelve, and have taken up our quarters at detella's inn, which however is not the first, as the savage, and the city of trieste, are each of them better hotels, and are more pleasantly situated. sir humphry, however, chooses detella's, in consequence, he says, of its being the house in which he was ten years ago, as well as in the year , when he was seriously ill there, and received great attention from some of the innkeeper's family. _ th.- th._ sir humphry generally goes out shooting the whole day, and often brings home quails and landrails; but the snipes are rare. i seldom accompany him on these excursions, as he is not fond of a second gun, and i can be of no use, as he always takes a game-keeper with him besides his servant. after dinner he usually goes out fishing for an hour or two, and in the evening, after i have read to him, we generally play a game at _ecarté_. we are here in the heart of carniola, and it seems as if we were already at the end of germany, for the greater part of the people are servians, and appear to be as different in their manners and habits as in their language from the northern germans; the peasants are servile to their superiors, boorish and uncivil towards strangers, and ignorant to an extreme. the only language which they understand is the _slowenian_ or _krainerisch_, which is said to bear great affinity to the russian; and i am told that when the russian troops were in this part of europe, they and the peasants were on very good terms, as they mutually understood each other. the sound of this language is not hard or unpleasant, with the exception of one or two letters, which are not met with in most european languages; those who understand german and krainerisch, inform me that the latter language possesses equal compass and power with the former. the higher and middling classes mostly speak german, and often italian, and are polite and friendly in their manners. the town of laybach, though of a considerable size, and with a population of about , inhabitants, offers nothing interesting. it is divided into two parts by the river laybach, a slow and usually turbid stream of no great breadth. four or five wooden bridges unite the two parts of the town; they are broad and appear like the continuation of the streets, being shut in on both sides by rows of shops, so that the passenger is not aware that he is crossing the river. the streets are generally narrow and dark, and of the churches, which are numerous, the episcopal church is the first. on a hill above the town are the remains of the ancient citadel, now only used as a prison. the view from hence is fine and extensive, overlooking a vast plain, bounded on one side by the lofty chain of the carinthian alps, and on the other by lesser mountains, covered with one continuous and immense wood, the ancient hyrcinian forest, which stretches on almost to the frontiers of turkey; nearer to the town are a great number of marshes, the theatre of sir humphry's daily sport. the garrison is considerable, and both the officers and soldiers are fine men, and look very well in their white and light blue uniforms. _ th._ we quitted laybach this morning, and sir humphry intends returning to ischl, but by a different route to the one we formerly followed. he would certainly have prolonged his stay in laybach, and have continued his shooting and fishing for some time longer, in spite of the weather, which begins to be already very warm, had he not received intimation from the police that he could not at present continue to shoot, this being the breeding season. a pretty little pony, which sir humphry bought a few days ago for the trifling sum of five pounds, is tied behind the carriage, and runs after it. we followed our old road to krainburg, where we turned off into the sau-thal or valley of the save; along the banks of which river we drove on to saphnitz, a small village of only a few houses, where they seem very rarely to see strangers, for the post-house was not even provided with either butter or cheese. the valley between this place and assling becomes more and more beautiful and sublime as we advance. on one side are barren and bleak rocks, rearing their snow-clad summits into the clouds; and here and there the eye catches a glimpse of one of the ancient passes over the mountains, formed by the romans, and which have probably been often trodden by trajan and his legions during the wars of that emperor in this part of germany; on the other, or left side of the valley, the mountains are lower, and seem to glory in the beauty and luxuriance of their beech woods, through whose foliage rocks of grey limestone are often seen jutting out. the clear blue waters of the save run through the middle of the valley, receiving in their course many small tributary streams on both sides. near assling the contrast becomes less striking; the valley seems to close, the rocks and woods are more intermixed, and beyond them, in the distance, are discovered the snowy peaks of the terglon and skerbina, two lofty mountains in the district of wochain. assling is a pretty little village on the save, almost embosomed in wood. to the left, on entering, is a large iron foundery, and also the remains of an unfortunate chain bridge, which had given way upon the first trial. the post-house, where we stopped for the night, is a very good inn, and the host remarkably civil. [illustration: _from nature_ _by j. j. tobin_ veldes lake] _ th._ sir humphry wishing to see the lake of veldes, the lake of wochain, and the source of the save, which all lie out of the high road in the district of wochain, he determined to make a tour for a day or two into this wild and remote country, a part of austria rarely visited by strangers. we were told at assling, that the roads were in many places too bad and too narrow to admit of our passing in the travelling carriage, and sir humphry, therefore, hired a small calêche, in which we set out. we crossed the save by a very precarious bridge, built of wood, exceedingly narrow, without any railings, and with a floor formed of the trunks of fir-trees, cut into logs and laid parallel to each other. we then went over a steep mountain, and drove on for about two hours in a valley, on the sides of which the trees and rocks were so picturesquely blended, that it would be difficult to say which of the two contributed most to the beauty of the landscape. at the end of the road, on driving down a hill, the lake of veldes opened upon us. this lake is on a much smaller scale, and totally different from the traun-see, and to many would perhaps appear more beautiful. at the bottom of the hill, near the lake, lies the village of veldes, with its church steeple and a few of the houses peeping out from between the trees; above the church an enormous lofty rock rises perpendicularly out of the waters of the lake, bearing on its top an old imperial castle, to which on the land side a pathway is seen winding up through the wood. in the centre of the lake is a small island, completely covered with trees of the most brilliant green, in the midst of which and high above them is seen the steeple of a church, with the roofs of a few houses. the length of this lake is between three and four miles, but its breadth is considerably less; the nearer shores are formed by noble mountains covered with fields, meadows, and fine beech woods, behind which to the right appear the snowy peaks of the wochain alps. driving through the village and around the lake, we entered into the beautiful valley of the wochain-save, a small but beautifully clear stream, of an emerald green colour. after stopping for some time for sir humphry to fish, we drove on to wochain-villach, a wretched little village, where we dined upon the produce of sir humphry's sport. not a soul in the place spoke a word of german or any other language except their _slowenian_, so i was e'en obliged to make use of our assling coachman as interpreter. after dinner we went on through the same magnificent valley along the banks of the wochain-save to feistritz, a large village, chiefly belonging to baron z----, of laybach, who also possesses very large iron and steel-hammers near the village. we were received very politely at his schloss or country house, by his steward, to whom the innkeeper of assling had given us a letter, the baron himself, with whom sir humphry was personally acquainted, and on whom i had called in his name whilst at laybach, being absent. the schloss is old and in bad repair, but we were very comfortably lodged, and contrived to sleep in spite of the noise of the hammers which were at work the whole night, and caused the surrounding ground and houses to tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. _ th._ we set out early this morning for the wochain lake, and as we drove along the banks of the save, the country became at every mile more and more romantic; and upon arriving at the spot where the river issues from the lake, it seems to have reached the highest pitch of wild grandeur. barren rocks, from four to six thousand feet high, rise up to the clouds, in which they hide their lofty snow-clad peaks. the highest of all, visible from this side of the lake, is the skerbina.[b] the south side of the lake, round which the road runs, is finely wooded, and here and there noble masses of light grey rock rise abruptly out of the blue water, contrasting finely with the dark pines which crown their summits. the shores of the north side are formed of sloping meadows and hills, beyond which rise those enormous walls of rock seen on approaching the lake. sir humphry crossed over the lake in a boat, in order to visit the _savitza_, or the source of the wochain-save, a lofty cascade, just seen at the western end of the lake like a glittering silver thread among the grey rocks. i drove round the banks as far as was practicable in the carriage, and then walked on and met sir humphry at the end of the lake, george following with the pony for him to mount on leaving the boat. we then proceeded for about three miles through fields, over rocks and stones, and the dry beds of mountain torrents, till the road became too bad for the pony. sir humphry then dismounted, and taking my arm, proceeded, with the boatman as a guide, for about a mile further, when we reached a frail wooden bridge cast over the foaming save. here sir humphry said he would go no further, but wait with george, who led the pony, till i returned from the source. i and the guide, therefore, went on up the mountain, climbing over rocks and fallen trees, where no vestige of a path was to be traced, till we came to the foot of a high and mouldering scaffold, which the guide told me, in as good german as he could, had been erected some years ago to enable the archduke john to gain a fine view of the fall. having mounted it by a tottering ladder, i found myself in full front of the cascade, which gushed some hundred feet above, out of the side of one of those enormous mountains of rock which we had seen from the other end of the lake, and rushed with a deafening roar into an abyss below, invisible from the spot on which i stood; i made signs to the guide that i wished to get down to the foot of the fall, but he shook his head, and appeared never to have been there, nor to like to go. the noise was so tremendous, that it was impossible to hear any thing he said; but wishing, if possible, to reach the bottom, i determined to trust to my own hand and foot, and after a dangerous descent over the wet and slippery rocks, i found myself close to the pool, into which the descending, but often-broken column of water precipitates itself. the height of the fall must be nearly four hundred feet, and from the transparency and icy coldness of the water, and its gushing out of the middle of a perpendicular wall of rock, which exhibits no trace of vegetation, except here and there a stunted fir-tree thrusting itself through a crevice, it is probably the exit of a subterraneous lake, confined in the interior of the mountain, and supplied from the snows of the still loftier summits. in spite of the clouds of spray and foam, which fell like a continual rain, i took a rapid sketch of the scene before me, and then returned to the guide, whom i had left upon the scaffolding, and who told me that he had descended a part of the way, shouting after me, till he was afraid to go any farther, nor had he ever been at the foot of the fall. in the rock above the scaffolding is engraved a short latin inscription, by baron z----, in honour of prince john. the view from this spot, looking towards the lake, is exceedingly beautiful and picturesque, presenting to the eye a scene very different from the one we beheld at the opposite end of the lake. the immense mountains of rock, from which the save takes its rise, extend on each side in a wide and lofty amphitheatre, till they gradually lose their wildly sublime character, giving place to mountains of lesser height, and of a softer and more undulating form, beautifully covered with fine green beech woods, now and then relieved by a dark forest of pines, or by the lighter shades of the bare limestone rocks. far below the spectator lies the tranquil lake, with its varied shores, partly wooded, partly fields and meadows, through which the save, after having pursued its foaming course through the woods below the _savitza_, is seen to wind, till it mixes its clear waters with those of the deeper coloured lake. the only traces of human habitations are two deserted huts, at some little distance from the lake, for the village of althammer, the only one in the vicinity of this lake, is situated quite at the extremity of it, and is not visible from this point. upon returning to the little bridge, i found that sir humphry had left it, and on reaching the lake, the boatman who had conducted him across it told me he had gone round the lake to althammer in the carriage. i accordingly was rowed over to the village, and met him just arrived, after having fished for half an hour in the lake. he seemed pleased by the account i gave him of the savitza, and though he regretted he had not seen it, he was well satisfied in having given up the attempt; and he said he was convinced he could not have borne the fatigue. althammer is merely a collection of iron and steelworks, with the requisite habitations of the workmen, and is also the property of baron z----. we dined with the directors, who treated us very civilly, and afterwards drove back to feistritz, where we did not arrive till almost night, sir humphry often stopping on the road to fish. _ st._ we quitted feistritz early this morning, and returned by the same beautiful valley through which we had before passed. sir humphry caught fish enough upon our way to furnish us with another dinner at wochain-villach, and between this village and the lake of veldes we witnessed a most beautiful atmospheric phenomenon. it commenced with a fine rainbow, which in a few minutes concentrated itself upon one of the finely wooded mountains in the valley, and here displayed the most beautiful prismatic colours possible; at the base blue, then red, then green, never extending beyond the outline of the mountain, and through these colours we could still plainly descry the dark green of the trees. it was on the whole the most splendid kind of rainbow i had ever beheld, and sir humphry said he had never seen such an one before. it lasted for about five minutes, then gradually disappeared, and proved the forerunner of a very heavy rain, which began to fall just as we entered assling. _ nd._ the morning was exceedingly cloudy, and upon leaving assling we did not expect to see much of the country before us, but about ten o'clock it cleared up, and afforded us a view of the same kind of beautiful scenery as that below assling, though growing wilder and more romantic as we ascended the valley. kronau is a small bourg between assling and wurzen, and the glen, at the entrance of which it is situated, seems to be the finest in the whole valley, although the tops of the higher mountains were obscured by huge masses of cloud. we here met many hundreds of pilgrims, of both sexes, travelling in companies; some returning, some going to mount lushari, a lofty mountain about six leagues beyond wurzen, where there is a famous shrine of the virgin. those who were returning were all singing hymns of joy at having been absolved from their sins; whilst those who were going walked in silence, many bearing serious and often mournful countenances. wurzen is a wretched little village, a collection of a few dozen of wooden huts, situated about two thousand feet above the level of the sea, at the foot of a pass which leads from carniola into carinthia, similar to that of the löbel, but by no means so elevated. the post-house is tolerable, and the view from the windows magnificent, so much so, that sir humphry requested me to take a sketch of it for lady davy. the master of this inn is so remarkably civil that sir humphry has determined to stay for a day or two, and to make an excursion to the source of the isonzo, which we are told is about twenty miles from wurzen. in the afternoon sir humphry went out to fish, and i to examine the source of the wurzen-save, which rises about two miles above the village, and is of a character very different from the savitza, or source of the wochain-save. the river here flows from a large pond, which appears perfectly insulated, lying in the midst of fields, at the end of a dry water-channel coming from one of the lateral vallies. the water in the pond is exceedingly clear, and at the bottom towards the centre, one discovers a number of very large holes, through which the water rises mixed with a great quantity of air, producing a constant ebullition on the surface of the middle of the pond, the water of which is perfectly cold.[c] after leaving the pond, the wurzen-save winds through the valley as a beautiful clear mountain stream, passing by kronau, assling, and radmansdorf, where it receives the wochain-save, flowing from the lake of wochain. these united branches are then called the save, and the river flows on through the valley of the same name to krainburg; it afterwards passes near laybach, where it receives the river of that name with many other smaller streams, and rolls on, already a considerable river, through carniola, passes by agram, traverses croatia, and then forms the boundary between austria and turkey till it reaches belgrade, where it mixes its mighty and rapid waters, swollen to a great size by a hundred tributary streams, with those of the danube, and rolls with it into the black sea. _ rd._ sir humphry going out to-day to shoot in the marshes near the river, i went to see the lake of weisenfels, about six miles off, and had a famous mountain ramble. this lake is not large, but beautifully clear and highly picturesque; it lies at the foot of the mannhardt, a stupendous mountain covered with eternal snow. i took a slight sketch of the lake, and after spending an hour or two upon its beautiful and sunny banks, i returned to wurzen. after recounting what i had seen in my ramble to sir humphry, we spent our evening as usual with cards and reading. _ th._ we left wurzen this morning in a little carriage, and drove over very bad roads up the valley to tarvis, a small and old town, through which the high road from italy to carinthia and vienna passes. the only manufactures of the town appear to be of iron and steel. we here took another road to the left, up the valley of raibl, along the banks of a foaming mountain torrent, till we reached the little village of the same name, where we arrived about twelve o'clock. raibl lies at the foot of the königsberg, a lofty mountain containing very productive lead mines, and is only inhabited by miners. there is a small but very decent inn in the village; immediately in the front of it rises a lofty alp of very singular form, its rocky and barren summit being split into five rounded peaks or cones. whilst sir humphry took a luncheon, i drew a sketch of the place, and we then set out for the source of the isonzo, which the postmaster of wurzen, who accompanied us as a guide, assured us was at a short distance up the mountain, and that the road to it was very good. sir humphry proceeded in this carriage whilst i walked up the mountain with the postmaster, and a friend of his from raibl, neither of whom seemed to know much about the isonzo or its source, for after a long walk they conducted us to a valley in the middle of which ran a small stream, which the postmaster declared was the isonzo. this, however, both to sir humphry and me, appeared impossible on comparing its situation and direction with that of the isonzo, as traced on our maps, and after a long discussion with the postmaster and his friend, the latter admitted they were wrong, and that it was the pless, or fletzbach, a little mountain river, a tributary stream of the isonzo, whose source, from all the information we could gain, lies in a very different direction, at least ten miles off, and in a very wild and barren country. sir humphry was sadly disappointed and very angry with the postmaster, who had assured us at wurzen that he was well acquainted with the source. we had however enjoyed some very fine wild scenery, and had seen many beautiful small cascades leaping from the mountains. on our road we passed a knoll of ground where the grass grew more luxuriantly than any where else, and we learnt that this spot had been the grave of some hundred austrians, who had bravely defended a small fort which stood here, against the french; of the whole garrison three or four only escaped the slaughter. at that time the french had possession of the whole surrounding country, and had thrice sent to the austrians a flag of truce, assuring them that resistance was vain. the inhabitants of raibl still speak with horror of this action, in which the austrians fought with desperate enthusiasm, led on by their commander, major hermann, who, it is said, wished for death, and if so he could scarcely have found a more wildly romantic spot in which to have parted with life. on our return we made a slight detour to see the raibl-see, a small, wild and highly romantic lake, from out of which flows the raibl-bach, the stream which runs through the valley of raibl. sir humphry began to fish in the lake whilst i attempted to sketch, but the clouds of evening, which had already begun to overspread the summits of the alps, gathered so fast around us, as soon to compel us to return to our inn at raibl. _ th._ quitting raibl we returned to wurzen, and on the following morning left it for villach, a considerable town on the other side of the mountains. the road winds up hill for some hours, but the ascent is by no means so steep as that of the löbel. from the top one has a very fine view of the mountains and vallies of carinthia. villach is seen at the foot of the mountain, and a league or two beyond it lies the ossiacher lake, a considerable expanse of water, whose banks on one side are formed by low hills, prettily wooded, while on the other side fine corn fields slope down to the water's edge. to the left is seen the mountain of bleiberg, which contains the most extensive and productive lead mines in austria. it being whit-monday, we found the town very gay and full of peasants from the surrounding villages, who were come to a fair which is held there; we only stopped to change horses, and then drove on up the valley of the drave to paternian, a wretched little village, where scarcely any thing was to be had at the post-house. we have now left the limestone alps and come to mountains of a different character, formed chiefly of _micaceous schist_. their outlines are less wild and rugged than those of the limestone mountains, to which, however, they are not at all inferior in height, and the beautiful forests of beech and fir which skirt their bases, appear, if possible, of a more brilliant verdure than the woods which clothe the alpine chains that we have left behind us. from paternian we continued our road to spital, a small and dirty town, with which the post-house fitly corresponded, but where we were obliged to sleep, it being the only inn in the place. _ th._ sir humphry to-day determined to try the fishing in the millstädter-see, a small lake about a league distant from the town; he accordingly rode there on the pony, and i walked by his side. this lake is of a very different character from those which we have as yet visited. its banks are quite pastoral; the mountains, covered with woods or green fields, rise with a gradual slope from the lake, and although of considerable elevation, for their summits were still covered with snow, present no where the rocky and wild appearance of those of the wochain, or of the valley of the save. the lake itself is between two or three miles in length, and on its shores, embosomed in wood, lie the town of millstadt and some pretty villages. after sir humphry had caught a few trout, we returned to spital, which we soon after left for gemünd. we had a beautiful drive of some hours through the valley of the drave, and arrived about five, but found the hotel occupied by peasants, who were giving a grand ball. we were, however, accommodated with very good rooms, and sir humphry passed the night very comfortably, in spite of the music and bustle. _ th._ we could not leave gemünd till ten o'clock, there being no horses left at the poste. it is a neat little town with an immense square modern schloss, the country residence of count l----, of vienna, and which is almost as extensive as the whole town. as soon as horses arrived, we proceeded to the village of reinweg, and came to more lofty alps of _mica schist_ than those we have seen the two last days, and which form the extensive chain of the tauern. the katzberg, one of this chain, lies immediately above reinweg, and we were here obliged to take a _vorspann_, consisting of an additional horse and two oxen, who with no small difficulty dragged the carriage up to the top of the katzberg, though the road is excellent; the view from the summit is very extensive and grand. the descent into the valley of the murr is very precipitous, and this valley is by no means so beautiful as that of the drave, though the alps are higher and their summits more thickly clothed in snow; the fine woods around their bases are wanting, so that the valley seems cold and barren. we passed the night at st. michael, a large village at the foot of the katzberg, and on the banks of the murr. _ th._ leaving st. michael this morning, we turned out of the valley of the murr into another lateral one, which, though narrower, is more beautiful; and here some of the alps present a variety of very remarkable forms. the first poste is tweng, a few houses collected together at the foot of the radstädter tauern, so called from the town of radstadt, which lies on the other side of this alp, to distinguish it from one or two other chains, which also bear the name of the tauern alps. we were here again furnished with six horses in order to reach the summit of the pass, which is six thousand feet above the level of the sea. we were a long while crawling up this steep ascent, but were fully recompensed by the magnificent views which we every now and then caught a glimpse of. as we ascended higher and higher, these views grew more and more wild, and every ten minutes we passed by beautiful cascades formed by the melting of the snows of the cold regions into which we were penetrating. upon reaching the highest point of the pass, perhaps four thousand feet above the valley below, we entered as it were upon a frozen world, where we could see nothing around us but immense fields of white and dazzling snow, beyond which rose still more elevated mountains, whose summits were crested with a long and jagged wall of semi-transparent crested snow, whilst here and there a dark and rocky peak, seemingly indignant of its load of snows, had shaken them off, and elevated its head far above the surrounding whiteness, forming the most magnificent image of wild sublimity that can well be conceived. having sent back our three extra horses, we began the descent, which, in spite of our two drags, was not without danger, the road being very slippery and steep; but we soon arrived at a little village, aptly called _auf dem tauern_ (on the tauern). the few huts which form this hamlet were still surrounded with snow, which, however, was beginning to melt quickly, and here and there a little brownish green plot of grass appeared, which a few days before was covered with snow. the road both ascending and descending is excellent, but it is not built with so much art as that of the löbel. the views descending on the radstadt side are, if possible, more beautiful than those which we saw during our ascent from tweng. the mountains are more thickly wooded, and the springs of the various turnings of the road present a view of the distant styrian alps, one of which, called the _bischoff's mütze_, or the mitre, is of a very singular form, consisting of two peaks exactly resembling gigantic termites, (anthills,) rising out of vast fields of snow. along the side of the road runs a mountain torrent, clear as crystal, forming at every hundred yards fine cascades, some of which, increased considerably by lateral streams, are beautiful and picturesque to a high degree. the road then winds through a narrow valley, closed in on all sides by stupendous masses of dark blue-limestone, (for we are again travelling over a calcareous chain,) till upon turning suddenly round a corner, we looked down with surprise upon an open, wide, extended, and fertile valley, with hamlets and villages peeping through the trees, and bounded at a great distance by another chain of snowy alps. before arriving at unter-tauern, (below the tauern,) the first village in this valley, situated at the foot of the alps, we passed on our left a noble cascade, bounding in many a broken column from an amazing height; the last of these columns falls more than five hundred feet, and is dispersed into a light white foam before it reaches the pool which receives it below. from unter-tauern to radstadt is a short poste. this latter is a small town, still surrounded by its old wall and towers, and appears to possess nothing remarkable. the poste where we passed the night is a very indifferent inn. _ th._ we left radstadt this morning in the rain, the first wet weather we have had for some time, and drove on through the fertile and beautiful valley of the enns to schladming. the country in many parts resembles a flower garden, for the narcissus, the cyclamen, and many other of our garden flowers flourish here as the common weeds of the fields and mountains. from schladming we proceeded to gröbming, the next poste; it is a small village, picturesquely situated at the foot of high rocky mountains. about noon the weather cleared up, and on arriving here sir humphry determined to spend the afternoon in this place, and to see if he could find any thing to shoot in the fields. we accordingly went out after dinner, but could not see a bird, and returned in the evening to our inn, where i continued to read shakspeare, which has been our book for the last six or seven evenings. _ st._ we quitted gröbming early this morning, where sir humphry had to pay dear for very bad accommodations, the only instance of exorbitant charges which we have as yet met with. to remonstrate with the landlord, however, was in vain; nor did it appear to us extraordinary that a being who had been rendered by illness unable to move, but by the help of a broad wooden bowl, in which he sat and shoved himself about, his legs being shrivelled up and quite useless to him, should be churlish and discontented. from gröbming we went to sternach, where we entered upon our former road, and from thence through mitterndorf to aussee, where we arrived in the afternoon, just as it began to rain hard. _june st.- th._ we have spent the whole of this week at aussee, at a very good country hotel near the poste, which is not, in this little town, an inn, as is generally the case in this part of the country. sir humphry has been fishing every day from eight in the morning till three or four, about which time he usually dines, and our evenings have been spent as usual. i generally accompany him in all his excursions, being needed as an interpreter, and whilst he is fishing i take a sketch, or ramble about the lakes and through the woods, thus fully enjoying the beautiful alpine scenery with which we are surrounded. our first trip was to the gründtl-see, an exceedingly beautiful lake, about four miles from aussee. the drive to it is chiefly along the banks of the traun, and though over a very bad road, which is only passable for a one-horse cabriolet, is very picturesque, and the lake is seen peeping out at intervals through dark green firs. the traun, which is here only a small mountain stream, but beautifully clear, rushes foaming out of the lake at its southern end; a small covered bridge is thrown across it at this spot, beneath which are sluice gates, by means of which the exit of the waters can be partially hindered. close to the bridge is a cottage inhabited by the fisherman, who alone has the right of fishing in the lake, which privilege he rents from the crown. a few zwanzigers (an eightpenny coin) easily procured for sir humphry every possible facility in his favourite pursuit from this man. he rowed us over to the other end of the lake, where the traun enters, which he told us was the best spot for fishing. the view of the lake from the southern end is finer than that from the northern extremity. in the centre of the scene at the latter end, some beautiful white cliffs rise to a great height, topped with bright green beech woods. on the right hand appear rugged mountains, covered with dark forests of pine, whilst those to the left are covered with woods of a lighter and more vivid green. beyond the lake, mountain rises over mountain, the nearer ones finely wooded, whilst those in the distance are rocky and barren, and surmounted by a white crest of snow. leaving sir humphry occupied with fishing, i followed the course of the traun for about a mile and a half up a fine narrow valley to the töplitz lake, from which issues no longer a broad and deep river, such as it flows from the traun-see, but a little brawling brook eight to ten yards wide. the töplitz-see is a small lake, of a wild and gloomy character; its banks are so precipitous that it is impossible to go round it, as i was told by the fishermen of the gründtl-see, and above these banks nothing is to be seen but vast and sombre pine forests. there was a small canoe, hollowed out of the trunk of a fir-tree, lying at the water's edge, but there being no oar or paddle in it i could make no use of it, and accordingly returned to sir humphry. on a second visit to the gründtl-see, i again went on to the töplitz lake, having been told by the fisherman that beyond it, and only a few hundred yards distant from it, lay another lake, the kammer-see, from which the traun took its rise, but that to reach this lake it was necessary to row across the töplitz-see; i therefore took an oar with me, but upon arriving at the lake, i was sadly disappointed at finding the canoe no longer there, nor could i imagine who could have taken it away, for there was not in the surrounding scene the slightest vestige of a human being. i however climbed up the rocks, and attempted to pass round the lake, but was soon obliged to desist, having twice nearly slipped over the edge of the rock, a precipice of many hundred feet above the lake, into the water, upwards of a thousand feet in depth. when i returned with my unused oar to the fisherman, he told me that the canoe had probably been taken by some peasants, who lived in a summer hut at the other end of the töplitz-see. this fisherman appeared to be a man of considerable information; he was well acquainted with the various fish which inhabit the alpine waters, and amongst other things he told us that the _ombre chevalier_, a fish of rare occurrence, was to be met in the lambach-see and in the upper oden-see, two small lakes in the middle of the snowy alps, at a very great elevation above the gründtl-see. sir humphry much wished to visit these lakes, but was immediately deterred by the account which the fisherman gave us of the roads to them. the gründtl lake is famous for its trout and fine char, immense quantities of which are yearly sent to vienna, potted. another of our trips was to the lower oden-see, about four miles on the other side of aussee. this is a small lake, very different in character from the gründtl-see and töplitz-see: the shores, though not exactly flat, are formed of slightly varied hills covered with wood. sir humphry had excellent sport, and caught a great many small trout in the little stream which flows from this lake. [illustration: from nature _by j. j. tobin_ ischl] _ th._ having paid another visit to the gründtl-see this morning, we left aussee and crossed over the mountain which we had passed on our former route to ischl, and found the road now perfectly clear from snow. sir humphry intends to spend some time here, and to make use of the salt baths, which attract much company to this little place during the season. _ th.- st._ sir humphry has now given the baths a fair trial, and has found great benefit from them, although upon our arrival here, after taking his first bath, he was for giving them up in despair, and determined immediately to quit ischl. this determination, however, was caused by the imprudent haste in which he had taken that bath, for no sooner were we arrived than he ordered a bath to go into instantly after his dinner. i could not help urging him not to do so, but in vain; he went into it, and was in consequence afterwards very unwell, and passed a most restless night. in the morning he begged me to order horses to leave ischl, but consented to my looking at some of the lodgings before we set off. i found one which, from its convenience and pleasant situation, i thought would suit him, and on his going with me to see it he was so pleased with it, that he relinquished his intention of leaving ischl, and took it for a week, and we entered into it the same afternoon, causing a great bustle to its inmates, who were not accustomed to prepare so quickly for their lodgers. it is a very good large house, standing quite alone on the top of a grassy mound, with a large garden in front and fields behind, at a short distance from the baths, and within a few steps of the little town. the only persons who inhabit it are the owner, an elderly man, formerly bailiff of the district, with his housekeeper and a servant, so that sir humphry is certain of enjoying the quiet and tranquillity which are so necessary to him. ischl is a small clean town,--if it may be so denominated, for i should think it scarcely contains two thousand inhabitants,--delightfully situated in a valley watered by the river traun, which flows through it, and is crossed by a wooden bridge. on every side are beautiful walks, some into the woods, some along the river, others again up into the mountains; and even these the invalid may enjoy, as he is sure at every short distance of finding a comfortable seat on which to repose. these benches generally bear the name of some prince or princess, whose favorite spot it marks, and they are always so placed as to command a fine view of the town, the valley and river, or the mountains. on the right bank of the town there is a sort of public garden, which is called the prater, and is said to be a _very humble_ imitation of the celebrated park of the same name at vienna. here are various amusements for the people, the principal ones shooting at the target with the rifle and the cross-bow; behind these gardens rises a little wooded hill, on the top of which is a seat called the umbrella-seat, from the awning over it, which is spread in the shape of an umbrella. from this spot one enjoys a most beautiful panoramic view of the surrounding scenery. to the west lies the delightful valley that leads to salzburg, on each side of which, mountain rises over mountain, all richly covered with wood. on the east one sees ischl, with its steaming saltworks, and beyond it the valley of the traun, seemingly closed in by the wild and rocky alps which form the shores of the traun-see. on the northern side a mighty wall of rocks, many thousand feet high, rises out of dark pine forests, and beyond these appears, in hoary whiteness and surrounded by glaciers and eternal snows, the summit of the dachstein or schneeberg, the loftiest of the styrian alps, which we often beheld in the evening from our windows, glowing with the ruddy beams of the setting sun long after all light had departed from the nearer and less elevated mountains. a fine range of wooded hills, at whose feet runs the ischl, a small mountain stream that falls into the traun, forms the southern boundary of this scene. the chief street in ischl runs parallel with the river, and at its end is situated the _pfannhaus_ or boiling house, with its adjacent works. this is a large circular building, containing an enormous iron boiler or pan, between thirty and forty feet in diameter and a foot and a half in depth, in which the solution of salt, conveyed there in pipes from the mines, is evaporated. ischl has but one church, which is catholic. a small theatre is being erected, and is to be finished by the middle of the season, which will be in july. the houses are all arranged for lodgers, and rooms may be had on any scale, from those adapted to the habits of the most simple and retired individual, to those of the prince and his suite. the lodgings are dear, but living, on the contrary, is very cheap. an excellent dinner at the _table d'hôte_, where i usually dine, costs from one to two _paper_, or _schein_ florins (ninepence-halfpenny to twenty-pence english;) but a person may dine at what expence he pleases, as the dinner is always served _à la carte_, and a good plate of soup costs not more than one penny. a few days after our arrival, i met at the _table d'hôte_ mr. b----, a most agreeable and well-informed man, with whom i enjoyed many a walk in the neighbourhood during his stay, which was unfortunately of short duration. sir humphry is now engaged in composing a new work, which he intends to call _a vision_; this usually occupies our mornings, he dictates to me for an hour or two, then reads over what has been written, which i afterwards copy off fair, and at o'clock he takes a bath. these baths are made with the _mother-water_, or residue which remains after the greater part of the salt has been crystallized out of the salt water by evaporation, and is an intensely strong solution of chloride of sodium and some other salts. this is diluted according to prescription for the various patients, so many gallons to so much common water. the same solution of salt is also employed for _douche_ and shower baths, which are much used, and said to be very efficacious. the situation and arrangement of the vapour baths are rather extraordinary. above the large boiler in the panhouse, on the scaffolding which supports the roof, and from which the boiler is suspended, a number of small closets are erected, in which the person taking the bath is seated, so that he is not only completely surrounded by the vapour of the boiling salt water, but breathes an air impregnated with many volatile particles. these baths are used twice a day, and the patient usually remains in his cabinet, or walks along the gallery suspended over the pan from one to two hours at a time, which proves in a variety of cases of the greatest utility. sir humphry generally dines at three, and afterwards goes out fishing, with his servant, and often does not return till nine o'clock, when i read to him. there are a great number of visitors here, who come during the summer months to use the baths and to enjoy themselves, but sir humphry sees no one, and appears to wish to avoid all society, and of course i see none but those i chance to meet at the _table d'hôte_, or in a walk. _ st._ having agreed yesterday with the apothecary of the place (to whose shop i go almost daily with some prescription or other from sir humphry, who often varies his medicines) to ascend one of the nearer alps, we started for the summit of the zimitz early this morning: we crossed over hills and dales, through woods and fields, till we came to the foot of the mountain, on the top of which we proposed eating our dinner, which we carried in our pockets. my companion had told me before that he had already ascended this alp, and was well acquainted with the road; but when we began the ascent he confessed that he was at a loss, and our only alternative was to turn back, or find our way as we could. we chose the latter, and confiding in our own eyes and limbs, we followed the course of a mountain torrent, which came rushing down the rocks. stepping from rock to rock, we in a short time came to the entrance of a snow-cave, through which this little stream flowed. close to the snow we found many rare plants, and amongst others the yellow violet of the alps. before entering into this cave, which had been formed in a fallen avalanche, i slipped on the rock, and was obliged to jump into the icy cold water, which was fortunately not deep. the cave, however, repaid me for my cold bath. entering through an opening in its roof of snow, the rays of the sun illuminated its dark and rocky sides, and were reflected upon the water that flowed through the middle. on looking towards the opposite end of the cave, through a lofty arch of snow, we beheld a distant waterfall, whilst the rocks and bushes, finely lighted by the rays of the sun, contrasted strongly with the darkness of the cave, whose fretted roof seemed as if hewn out of the finest white marble into large descending points, from which the melting snow was continually dropping. having made a slight sketch of this fairy scene, we left the cave, and, following the rivulet, soon reached the waterfall which we had seen in the distance through the arch of snow. an immense barrier of rock here put an end to our progress in this direction, and we were obliged to turn to the right, where the ascent appeared more possible. my companion made a considerable detour whilst i attempted to climb up the rocks; but i had not ascended more than twenty feet, when, on catching hold of a small fir-tree, it snapped off, and i rolled down the rocks into the rivulet below. in spite of my fall i reascended, and with some difficulty reached the uppermost rock, and found myself in a situation whence i could no longer ascend nor descend. at last my companion appeared above, and reaching down to me his long alpine pole, i clung to it, and with his assistance thus extricated myself from my most unpleasant and perilous situation; i was, however, so exhausted, that we were obliged to wait a full half hour before we could proceed on our ascent. our road then lay for a long time through a forest of pine and beech, till we came to a brook, whose course we followed to its rise, which was in a large snow. we passed quickly over this, and then saw that we only had about a fourth part of the ascent to accomplish. we journeyed on merrily, although we were obliged, for upwards of an hour, to climb with the help of hands and feet over the rocks, till we came to the last, though not easiest part of the journey. this was a wood of dwarf firs, which an avalanche of the last winter in its descent had laid flat upon the ground, though their roots generally remained fixed. we scrambled over and through these, and, after all difficulties, i found myself, about two o'clock, on the snow-clad ridge of the mountain. my companion was still battling with the prostrate firs, but arrived about a quarter of an hour afterwards, and we then went on to the highest of the five peaks which form the summit of the zimitz, between seven and eight thousand feet above the sea. the view from this spot amply repaid us for the toil and danger we had encountered in reaching it. many thousand feet below us we beheld four large lakes surrounded by green mountains and vallies glowing in the sun; beyond these lay the wide extended plains of bavaria, clothed with glittering towns and villages, over which the eye wandered to a far distant horizon, bounded only by the clear blue sky. looking back we saw down into many a dark valley, out of which rose numberless snow peaks, and high above the rest the majestic schneeberg, with its eternal glaciers, and at a yet greater distance the still more lofty peaks of the salzburg chain; but the reflection of the sun from the vast and glaring fields of snow was so strong that the eye could scarcely bear to look at them, and turned with delight to the green woods and lakes below. having spent an hour in the pure air of these upper regions, we began to descend by a very different road to the one we had chosen in ascending, which, though better and not so rocky, was in many parts so steep, that we were in continual danger of pitching forwards, and were therefore obliged to seat ourselves each upon a stout branch of a fir-tree, and thus ride down. having traversed two snow fields, we came to some as yet uninhabited huts, about half-way down the mountain, from whence a good sheep path conducted us into a valley. here we got some milk in one of the dairy huts, and then made the best of our way towards ischl, as a thunderstorm, which we had for some time seen approaching, was now fast gathering round us, and the peasants advised us to hasten as quickly as possible, but long before we could reach home it burst over us with tremendous violence. the rain came down in such torrents, that in five minutes the road was more than ankle deep in water, but it soon changed into hail, like a shower of nuts, accompanied by the loudest thunder and most vivid lightning. thus, soaked but much refreshed, we reached ischl about eight o'clock in the evening. _july th._ sir humphry is already tired of ischl, and has left off the use of the baths, by which, however, he has been much strengthened, and his health in general improved, but i suppose we shall soon quit this place, though he seldom fixes on his departure till a day or two before. new guests arrive daily, and this little place is filled with company. parties of pleasure and jaunts are arranged every day to some of the neighbouring lakes or vallies, or other points worthy of being visited. i have only joined a few of these, for sir humphry not knowing well what to do with his morning if i am out of the way, i can of course only be one in those parties which occupy the afternoon. the first of the two most interesting trips was to the _chorinsky klause_. a _klause_, in these alpine countries, generally signifies a dam or embankment, built over some mountain stream, in the centre of which are flood-gates, which can be closed so as to shut in the stream, which by degrees collects behind the wall or dam, till it forms a small lake. the use of this arrangement is to float down the wood which is cut in the mountains into the larger rivers, the mountain streams not having in summer a sufficient body of water to effect this without this contrivance. the fir-trees, cut into pieces from five to ten feet long, are rolled down from the mountain into these artificial lakes. when a sufficient quantity is collected on the surface, or the water rises too high, the _klause wird gesprengt_, that is, the flood-gates are opened, and the pent up lake rushing out with tremendous velocity, carries the wood along with it into the river of the neighbouring valley. it was to see the water let out that we went to the klause. we started from ischl after dinner, at one o'clock, a large party in six or seven carriages, and drove up the valley of the traun, for about a league and a half, to weissenbach, a village at the foot of the mountain on which the klause is situated. here we left our carriages and walked up the mountain, the road being very steep. i joined a party consisting of madame de b---- and her daughter, a greek gentleman and his wife, and two or three others, and we seemed much to have shortened a hot walk of an hour and a half up hill by chatting on various subjects. we found the chorinsky klause to consist of a very strong and thick wall, from thirty to forty feet high, built across a narrow valley. in the centre of the wall was a large flood-gate, and on each side of it a much smaller one. these were situated at a considerable height above a clear shallow pool which lay at the foot of the wall, and was formed by the superfluous water which had drained from the lake, already over full. the whole party having taken a good position in front of the klause, the signal was given. the workmen struck the spring of the flood-gates in the centre, which instantly burst open with a noise resembling a sudden but hollow clap of thunder; at the same moment an immense spout of water rushed forth, filling the space before occupied by the invisible air. it was the work of a second, and it was a magnificent sight to see the tranquil pool in an instant transformed into a basin of curling foam, pouring with irresistible violence over the rocks of the foreground, and whirling up the sand from the bottom of the stream, which was for the first five minutes nothing but foam of a muddy brown colour, till it changed by degrees to a pure white. the lesser flood-gates were afterwards opened, and then three streams poured forth at once from the lake. this scene lasted for nearly half an hour, the cascades becoming less and less as the quantity of water in the lake diminished, until the latter was perfectly drained; and where but a short time before we beheld a beautifully clear lake, we now saw only cleanly washed pebbles and sand, through which a little insignificant rill was running. our walk back was very pleasant and shady. among the party madame a---- and madame l----, two celebrated actresses, the one in comedy, the other in tragedy, from vienna, were pointed out to me; the former of whom was a handsome woman, though of small stature, and lively and animated in her conversation. after this excursion i very often met a great many of the party in a small public garden called the volksgarten, to distinguish it from the prater, and where it is the fashion to spend an hour before dinner. the conversation one day turned upon the following lines, which were found written upon a table in the garden: espérance d'un meilleur sort toujours renaissante et trahie, voila l'histoire de ma vie; il n'est rien de vrai que la mort! various were the discussions upon them, and the ladies took great pains to discover the author. who could he be? who was there in ischl whose character at all answered to this description? no one could be hit upon with any certainty; but at last the lively mademoiselle marie, the daughter of madame de b----, with whom i had walked to the chorinsky klause, declared it must be the solitary young englishman, who so rarely joined in their parties of pleasure, and who visited nobody. it was in vain that i denied having written them, for they determined with one accord that i should be considered as the author, unless i should by the next morning produce four lines which might convince them of their error. i accepted the challenge, and accordingly after dinner, for the first time in my life, attempted to compose a couplet, and after ransacking my brains, i could produce nothing better than the following;-- est elle donc vraie cette mort tant souhaitée? n'est ce pas naître à une plus mauvaise vie? ne dirais tu pas dans l'éternité, la mort que j'ai desiré m'a trahie?-- which i the next morning wrote under those of the anonymous author. in the evening i met the greater part of the company at the little theatre, which had been finished the week before, and in which a small company of players from some neighbouring town were doing their best to amuse the gay visitants of the baths. the ladies, and especially mademoiselle marie, said they had read the verses, and were more than ever persuaded of their being in the right, nor could all my rhetoric, aided by a pocket full of bonbons, convince them of the truth. _ th._ this evening at a late hour sir humphry returned from his fishing, without either fish or rod, and, not a little vexed, begged i would go directly to the commissary of the police, and endeavour to regain his rod, which he told me had been taken from him in the following manner. he had driven along the banks of the traun for about five miles, in a little chaise which he sometimes uses in his longer excursions, had been fishing for some hours, and was just preparing to return, when two men came up, one of whom began to talk to him and george in german, but as neither of them understood him, sir humphry proceeded to get into the carriage, whilst george took up the fish which had been caught. upon this the man became more violent in his words and actions, and at last forcibly seized the rod and basket, and walked off with them. although it was just ten o'clock, i went to the inn where i knew the commissary generally supped, and luckily found him. i related to him what had happened, and he was very polite, but said nothing could be done that night, but begged me to come to him the next morning, and to bring the servant with me. _ th._ i took george this morning to the commissary, who, from his description, immediately recognized the offender, but found that he did not belong to his district, but to that of ebensee, to the commissary of which place he gave me a very civil letter. i returned to sir humphry, who said that i should take a carriage and drive over at once to ebensee with george, and he gave me letters of introduction, which he had with him, to the governor of the province, and some other great men, to show the commissary. arrived at ebensee, i found the commissary all civility, and the fisherman, who lived at some distance, was immediately summoned. in the mean time the commissary told me that the rivers and lakes were let out in different portions to various fishermen, who alone have the right to fish, or allow any other person to do so, in that part which they rent, and he supposed that sir humphry had exceeded the limit of the portion belonging to the fisherman at ischl, from whom he had obtained permission to fish. whilst waiting for the fisherman, i asked the commissary if i could not see the salt works; he said certainly, and that he should be happy to show them to me, and i accordingly accompanied him thither, and found them to be on a very large scale. there are several evaporating pans, much larger than the one at ischl, and immense reservoirs for the salt water are kept constantly by three pipes, through which it is conducted from hallstadt, more than twenty-seven miles distant. these pipes, the master of the works told me, are always running, and should any accident happen to either of them, it can be easily repaired, in spite of the great distance they traverse, there being, at very short intervals, places where the pipes may be uncovered and examined. from the reservoirs the water is conducted into the pans, and the salt produced by the evaporation is taken out twice every day, and put into large conical baskets to drain, after which it is pressed into conical six-sided forms, of various sizes, from twenty to a hundred pounds each. these pyramids are then placed, some thousands at a time, in the baking rooms, where they are exposed to a very high temperature, which renders them quite firm and hard, after which they are carried into the store-houses, from whence the salt is sent to all parts of austria. the quantity produced in this part of the country, in these salt-works, in those of ischl, aussee, hallstadt, &c., must be immense, for i understand that from the warehouses of ebensee alone, upwards of , tons of salt are sent annually across the lake of the traun. upon the arrival of the fisherman we found the case to be as the commissary had supposed, and the man pleaded in his defence that it was allowed to take away both rod and fish from any one so offending. the commissary, however, told him he ought to have warned sir humphry of this. the poor man said he had done so, but they would not understand him, and in spite of his defence, the commissary compelled him to deliver up the rod and basket, with which i returned to ischl. _ st._ sir humphry set out this morning in his little cabriolet on a fishing excursion up the valley of the traun, to the lake of hallstadt, and took me with him. this lake, about eight miles to the north east of ischl, is of a very grand and imposing character, but still does not equal the traun-see in the diversity and beauty of its banks. we drove over a wooden bridge at the end of the lake, where the traun flows out of it, and then round its shores for a short distance to obertraun, where the road terminated. we here took a boat and rowed for some miles up the lake, opposite to the small town of hallstadt. the view from hence was superb; the nearer houses seemed built in the water, behind these the salt works are seen, extensive and noble buildings, more like the palace or seignoral chateau of the lord of the surrounding territory, than a manufactory; and beyond them rose the mountain which contains the salt-mine, a stupendous mass of rock capped with eternal snow, and to the left appeared the glaciers of the schneeberg. rather to the right of the saltworks, embosomed in wood, lay the rest of the town of hallstadt, and one large house was situated some thousand feet above the lake, standing alone in the wood. along the side of the mountain we saw what appeared to be a pathway, but the boatman told us this was the canal cut for the pipes which convey the salt-water from the mines of hallstadt to the works of ischl and ebensee. this is a stupendous undertaking, for the pipes are conveyed a great distance over rivers and vallies and along mountains, where the passage for the pipes has been cut for many miles through the solid rock. sir humphry fished for some time but without success, when, not wishing to visit the town, we rowed back to the village of obertraun, and on our way thither passed by the _gosauzwang_, the most celebrated part of the saliduct or salt canal between hallstadt and ebensee. the three pipes are here carried across a very wild and romantic glen, the defile of the gosau, a mountain stream which runs down through it. four lofty columns of brick work, about two hundred feet in height, are built up from the bottom of the valley and from out of the waters of the gosau, to a level with the pipes, which are thus carried over the valley, being laid from pier to pier; and they serve at the same time as a bridge to any foot passenger who may wish to pass, being railed in on each side. these pipes, after traversing one or two smaller streams, give part of their water to the salt works at ischl, and are then carried on to ebensee, where they fill the reservoirs which i saw when i visited the commissary to procure the return of sir humphry's fishing rod. _ rd._ yesterday i went with a very large party, consisting of almost all the strangers in ischl, to visit the _salzberg_, the salt mountain or rather mine, which was to be illuminated for the visitors. we set out at about one o'clock, a long string of carriages, and after an hour's drive through a very pleasant valley, we arrived at the foot of the mountain which contains the mine. here a number of miners were waiting with sedan chairs for the ladies, many of whom however preferred walking up the mountain, and in about three quarters of an hour we arrived at the _haupt eingang_, or chief entrance of the mine. we were now to be attired, as is usual on entering the mines, in a long white mantle or frock, and a large wide broad brim, the latter to hinder us from knocking our brains out, and the former to keep our clothes clean. here was confusion dire; this frock was too small, this too long; this lady had no brimmer, this gentleman could find no stick. i laid hold of the first frock and hat i met with, but up came a lady and begged i would exchange with her, as her frock was so long she could not walk in it, and mine so short that it did not reach to my knees. _la grande toilette_ at length finished, the ladies were placed in their carriages, that is two in each wheelbarrow, face to face, with a miner before to pull, who carried a lamp in his hand, and another to push behind, and between every two barrows went another miner bearing a paper lanthorn. the gentlemen were of course on foot, with the exception of one or two gouty invalids. in this guise, with half-a-dozen miners going before carrying lamps, the whole train entered the passage, and in a few seconds lost sight of daylight. after a long, wet, and (in spite of our many lamps) dark journey through this narrow and low passage, where my head was continually coming in contact with the roof, we came to the _rutsch_, or slide, which leads down into the salt-chamber. this _rutsch_ is formed of the trunks of two large fir-trees laid close together, rounded and polished, and placed in an oblique direction, in an angle of about forty degrees. a miner, with a lamp in one hand, places himself astride these trees, and holds with his other hand a cord which is fixed to the rock on the sides. the person who wishes to descend seats himself behind the miner, and holds him by the shoulders. the miner then lets the cord slip through his hands, and down they go like lightning into what seems an abyss of darkness: safe at the bottom, he gives a shout that the next couple may follow. when the _rutsch_ is very long, as in the mines at hallein, near salzburg, the miner always sits upon a thick leather apron, and when alone makes no use of the cord, but rushes down with a fearful impetus into the salt-cave below. when we arrived at the _rutsch_, and the ladies had all got out of their barrows, after much discussion and many fears and doubts, they consented thus to descend, as the miners assured them it was more dangerous to do so by the steps cut in the rock at the side, which were exceedingly precipitous and very wet. having reached the bottom of the _rutsch_, which ends in a slight curve to break the impetus of the descent, we found ourselves in an immense cavern, or room, excavated in the rock, about twelve feet high, and from ten to twelve thousand in circumference, supported in the middle by a massive pillar of rock, and lighted up by some hundred lamps, which, however, only served to give the scene a more awful and gloomy appearance. the visitors, whose number was considerable, in their long white mantles and hats, looked like spectres wandering in the shades of a nether world. the roof and walls of this cavern were covered with minute crystals of salt, not, however, sufficiently large to give to it the glittering appearance which i had expected. the mountain contains a great many of these _salzkammern_ or salt-chambers, which at different periods are filled with fresh water, conducted into them by wooden pipes. when this has dissolved a sufficient quantity of salt, which operation occupies some months, it is drained off through a deep perpendicular shaft, near the middle of the cave, and is then conducted through wooden pipes, often for a very great distance, to the boiling-houses, where it undergoes the progress of evaporation. having wandered through these gloomy abodes of silence and night for some time, we ascended the stairs, the ladies resumed their seats in the barrows, and the procession returned as it had entered. to save my head from additional thumps to the many it had received on entering, i took the place of one of the pushers, and after a merry drive of about twenty minutes we again saw daylight, like a distant star, increasing in size till we reached the entrance of the mine. we here unspectred ourselves, and returned home in our usual terrestrial appearance, and a merry party we were. _ th._ we left ischl this morning in a little cabriolet for aussee, leaving the travelling carriage packed and ready for starting at ischl, for sir humphry wished, before he quitted this part of the country, to have a day or two's more fishing in the gründtl-see; but the weather proving very warm, and a thunderstorm coming on in the evening, he determined not to remain at aussee beyond to-morrow. _ th._ we returned this morning to ischl, and after an early dinner bade adieu to it, and set off for ebensee. we here again crossed the magnificent traun-see, and after a row of two hours and a half, and seeing gmünden, as it were, rise out of the lake, we found ourselves in our old quarters at the ship. _ th, th._ these were wet days, and sir humphry chiefly occupied himself in dictating "the vision," and reading. in the afternoon of the latter, his coachman arrived from vienna, and brought with him "salmonia," which had just been published, and was forwarded to him through the embassy at vienna. sir humphry had engaged this man, who is an englishman, at ischl, whilst in the service of the polish princess l----, which he left, not wishing to go to poland. sir humphry now intends buying three additional horses, and thus rendering himself independent of the poste. _ th._ sir humphry this morning finished his "vision," which, he tells me, is really founded on a dream that he had some years ago, in which he found himself borne through the firmament from planet to planet. of this dream, which he introduces as the consequence of a highly interesting and animated conversation that he holds with two friends in the colosæum at rome, on the grandeur and decay of nations, and the mutability of religions, the general outline, he says, has alone remained in his mind; but it has been his pleasure and delight during his mornings at ischl, and when he was not engaged in his favourite pursuit of fishing, to work upon this foundation, and to build up a tale, alike redundant with highly beautiful imagery, fine thoughts, and philosophical ideas; and the hours thus passed with sir humphry have afforded me high mental gratification and advantage, for i have then marked his mind wandering, as it were, with the associates of his early days; those days, in which he was evidently, by the exercise of his extraordinary powers and quick perception, exciting not only his own mind to dive into, and to unfold to clearer view, the mysteries of creation, but that too of other congenial spirits; thus most naturally collecting around him a constellation of shining lights, the remembrance of whom often awakens vivid thoughts of the past, and rouses his whole soul to action. in the afternoon i read to him "salmonia," in which he immediately began to make corrections and additions in preparation for a second edition. _ st._ sir humphry this morning went to look at a pair of horses which he thought of buying. the price demanded was florins, (paper money,) about _l._; but sir humphry thought them too dear, and did not buy them. in the afternoon we paid another and a last visit to the falls of the traun. this grand and striking scene appeared now even more beautiful than when i saw it for the first time. the body of water in the river was considerably less, thus rendering the different cascades more diversified and picturesque. sir humphry amused himself for an hour or two with fishing, and we afterwards returned to gmünden, which we quitted on the rd of august, and drove over to vocklabrück, where we remained the rest of the day, for sir humphry to fish in the vöckla, and went on the next morning across the country for some leagues to schörfling, a little village on the atter, or kammer-see. this lake, the largest of those in upper austria, is about fifteen miles in length; the shores on this side are low, but at the opposite end they are formed by the zimitz alp, the schaafberg, and the chain of mountains which separate this lake on the one side from the wolfgang-see, and on the other from ischl and the valley of the traun. its depth is not very considerable, but the colour of the water is a beautiful green. on a promontory which stretches far out into the lake, stands the castle of kammer, a fine large building, belonging to a noble family of the same name. the most striking view of the lake is from the little village of see-walchen, about a mile from schörfling. we remained at schörfling in a miserable inn, without having one single fine day till the th. sir humphry did so, finding there were some quails in the neighbouring fields, and he went out shooting and fishing every day, in spite of the weather, with considerable success. _ th._ we quitted schörfling at nine o'clock and went to frankenmarkt, a long drive chiefly over bad and cross roads. before arriving at this little town, we beheld on our left a fine and magnificent view of the schneeberg, and the alps of hallstadt and aussee, and on quitting it we caught the first glimpse of the salzburg chain, which we continued to behold increasing in grandeur and beauty the nearer we approached it. the next poste from frankenmarkt is neumarkt, and from hence we drove through many villages and hamlets, the road being now and then rather hilly, till, at about half-past one, we saw salzburg lying before us in the broad valley of the salza, backed by a gigantic rampart of alps. on the right side of the road we passed by a small lake of no great beauty or extent. the situation of salzburg is strikingly grand and beautiful, and probably no town in europe can boast of a finer. lying as it were close at the foot of the lofty pyramid of the watzmann, a mountain more than ten thousand feet in height, the town extends along the right and left bank of the salza or salzache, which separates it into two parts, the old and new town, which are united by a strong wooden bridge. on a hill on the right bank of the river, considerably elevated above the town, stands the fortress or mountain castle, a very strong and imposing fortification. both parts of the town are strongly fortified, and that on the right bank of the river is provided by nature with a lofty wall of rock, superior to any means of defence that could be formed by art. _ th._ the first thing i did this morning was to call upon count w---- for sir humphry, in order to obtain permission for him to shoot in the neighbourhood. the count was not in salzburg, but i easily obtained leave from the person who acted for him during his absence. sir humphry accordingly immediately started for the neighbouring marshes, and i occupied the morning in seeing the town. the most remarkable object is the _neu thor_, the new gate, a stupendous undertaking, which may stand comparison with any of the works of the ancient romans. it is formed of one long arch, or rather tunnel, some hundred feet in length, between twenty to thirty in breadth, and thirty to forty feet in height, cut through the wall of rock, which surrounds the town on the bavarian side. on the outside the rock is handsomely sculptured, and forms a very elegant entrance into this long passage. this work was commenced at the beginning of the last century, and forty years elapsed ere it was completed. another work of a similar kind is the summer riding school, a large amphitheatre, the galleries of which are cut out of the solid rock. from hence i crossed over the salzache into the new town, to visit the church of st. sebastian, which contains the monument of the celebrated theophrastus paracelsus. it is very simple, and formed of the red brown marble of the country. it bears his head in relief, and the following inscription, which is a proof of the great esteem in which the memory of this famous quack was held even till the middle of the eighteenth century. "philippi theophrasti paracelsi qui tantam orbis famam ex auro chymico adeptus est effigia et ossa donec rursus circumdabuntur pelle sua sub reparatione ecclesiæ mdcclii. ex sepulchrali tabe eruta heic locata sunt. "conditur hic philippus theophrastus insignis medicinæ doctor, qui dira illa vulnera, lepram, podagram, hydropsin, aliaque insanabilia corporis contagia mirifica arte sustulit, ac bona sua in pauperes distribuenda collocandaque honoravit. "anno mdxxi. die xxiii septembris vitam cum morte mutavit." on my return i passed by the house in which he died, and on the outside of it there is still a painting of him, and a nearly obliterated inscription. from hence i went to the church of st. peter, in the old town, to see the tomb of haydn; but unfortunately found the church closed, and could not see the monument. the cathedral church of st. rupert is a fine building in the italian style of architecture. it is built partly of free-stone and partly of marble. the streets of salzburg, with the exception of the chief street, are narrow and generally ill paved, but the houses are clean and neat, and of a great height. the palace of the former archbishop is a spacious and magnificent building, and before it is a beautiful fountain. besides its public buildings, salzburg has many large and elegant private houses. on my return to the inn i found sir humphry already there, and that he had dined; and he asked me to accompany him to aigen, a beautiful villa, about two miles from salzburg, the seat of prince schwarzenberg. from the gardens of this villa the view of salzburg and the whole chain of alps is most magnificent, but we could not enjoy it completely, as the summits of the mountains were mostly veiled in cloud, thus mingling as it were with the heavens, and only here and there a dark brown peak was seen piercing through the white shroud, which every now and then passed over it like the foaming wave over a rock, leaving it for some moments invisible. we strolled for some time through the gardens, sir humphry on his pony, and then returned to the city. [illustration: from nature _by j. j. tobin_ falls of the schwartzbach] _ th, th._ were cloudy and rainy days, but in spite of the weather sir humphry has been out shooting the greater part of them, with, however, very little good fortune; and on the th, we left salzburg in the morning, and drove through a long avenue of fine beech-trees to hallein, passing by the untersberg, where there are large quarries of white marble, belonging to bavaria. to the right, the view of the snowy watzmann, and the nearer and finely wooded mountains was exceedingly striking. above hallein two enormous brown rocks rise out of the woods, bearing a very striking resemblance to artificial walls. hallein is a dirty town, celebrated only for its extensive salt mines. the scenery between it and golling is fine, but cannot be compared with that beyond golling. at this latter place we stopped for two or three hours, and whilst sir humphry took his dinner, i went to see the falls of the schwartzbach, about two miles distant. after crossing the salza, i came in about half an hour to the first or lower fall, where, in the very midst of dark pines, some of which seemed even to grow out of the falling water, the _schwartzbach_, or _dark stream_, dashes over the rocks, and divides itself into two branches, one of which makes but one single leap to the pool below, whilst the other descends in innumerable small cascatelles, and the black rocks, peeping here and there through the white and curling foam, give a very beautiful effect to this part of the scene. i then ascended with my young guide, a little boy whom i had taken with me from golling, to the upper fall, of which nothing is visible from below but the rising spray, and the beautiful iris playing upon it. the pathway leads immediately to the front of this fall, which, in point of singularity of situation, is perhaps unrivalled. at this spot the rocks form a wide and massive arch, on which the tall pines and other trees stand firmly rooted. beneath this arch, rude blocks are tumbled one upon another in wild confusion, through which the water of the upper fall forces its way to the lower one. above the arch which nature has thus formed, a slight wooden bridge is built, so that two openings are thus formed, the one above the other, through which the water is seen descending in a broad sheet of foam. standing at the foot of this cascade, it is first seen gushing forth from the rock amongst the trees immediately above the wooden bridge; between this and the natural arch it again appears, and is for the third time seen below the arch, closing the opening between it and the rocks beneath like a white curtain. the rainbow was seen beautifully shadowing the spray wafted from the fall, which was itself in a dark recess of the mountain, and the sun tipped the tops of the surrounding trees with a brilliant light, whilst now and then a single ray shot through the leaves and fell upon the white fall. it was a scene before which a painter might have sat for hours. we afterwards went upon the bridge, from whence we had a view of the whole fall, looking down into the basin which receives it. a little footpath leads from the bridge to the spot where the water issues as clear as crystal from the rock, in the same manner as that of the savitza in wochain. after taking one or two rapid sketches, i returned with my little guide to golling, which sir humphry soon after left for werfen, and we turned into the mountains, passing through a magnificent defile where the salza is quite hemmed in by rocks, through which this foaming river forces its way with irresistible violence. the salza in its whole course is a muddy river, which considerably detracts from the beauty of the scene. towards evening we arrived at werfen, a small insignificant town with an ancient fort on the hill above it, and passed the night at a tolerable inn. _ th._ rising early this morning and looking from my window before sunrise, i beheld one of the finest scenes imaginable. the distant snowy watzmann appeared quite near, and was encircled by beautiful rose-coloured clouds, though not so dense as to hide the mountain which glimmered through them, tinged with the same beautiful hue. these clouds, which kept ascending and descending, and now and then breaking and leaving the mountain quite clear, became gradually fainter and fainter, till the sun rose, bringing with him the mists of morning, when the whole scene vanished from my eyes, and this so quickly, that i was almost tempted to fancy it a dream. at nine o'clock we left werfen, and crossing the salza drove on through some very pretty villages to itan, a little hamlet, where we had to wait a considerable time for horses, the archduke john having passed through but a few hours before, on his road from the baths of gastein to grätz. from itan we proceeded to radstadt, and from thence along our former road to unter-tauern. _ th._ this morning was rainy, but in spite of this i preferred walking up the mountain, to the slow pace at which the carriage ascended with four horses and two oxen. the rain ceased in about an hour, but the distant views, on our former descent so beautiful, were now all veiled in mist and cloud. we passed two very fine falls, one of them a little out of the road, which sir humphry got out to see. it is called prince john's fall, and is a cascade of from three to four hundred feet high, and is well worth seeing. on arriving at auf-dem-tauern, the little village near the summit of the pass, we found the fields and the greater part of the surrounding alps, which when we passed the first time were hidden as far as the eye could reach in snow, now richly clad with fine grass and alpine flowers. the road descending to tweng is formed of white primary marble, mixed with mica-schist. at tweng we struck into a cross road to tamsweg, a large village lying in a fine broad valley, in the middle of which runs a branch of the murr, which we have followed from the very peak of the tauern. the inn here was very bad. in the evening i went to the village doctor for some medicine for sir humphry, who told me that this valley was one of the highest in austria, the village itself lying three thousand and twenty-two paris feet above the level of the sea, and that the pass of the tauern was rather more than two thousand feet higher. _ th._ we left tamsweg this morning, and drove on, over abominable roads, to murrau, a dirty little town on the murr. sir humphry said he should stay a day here to see if he could shoot some quails, or catch any huchos[d] in the river, and he went out immediately after we arrived, about two o'clock, but found no quails. the murr forms a very pretty cascade about a mile below the town. _ th._ sir humphry went this morning to the river and fished for some hours, but in vain. this, added to an exorbitant bill brought in by the host, determined him to proceed, and we left murrau at four in the afternoon. the scenery of the valley of the murr is always of the same kind; mountains clad with fine woods diversified with fields and villages, and the river winding through the valley. we passed on our road two old feudal castles, rearing their grey walls out of the wood. at the next station, neumarkt, we found ourselves on the same road which we had traversed on our way to carniola. there being no tolerable inn here, we proceeded a post further, to friesach, and had a very pleasant moonlight drive along the banks of a foaming brook, and through some dark and shady glens. _ th._ sir humphry spent the whole of this day in the fields round friesach, in the hope of finding a good many quails, but returned late in the afternoon with only one or two, and complaining terribly of the heat. _ th._ we left friesach early this morning, and drove on, over our old road, to st. veit and klagenfurth, where we turned off to the right, and proceeded along the banks of the lake of klagenfurth to velden. the length of this lake is about fifteen miles, its greatest breadth three or four. the scenery of its banks near klagenfurth is rather flat and uninteresting, but towards velden it becomes more diversified and beautiful. sir humphry intended passing the night at velden, but the old ruined chateau, which now serves as the post-house, was better adapted for the habitation of bats and owls than the accommodation of a sickly and susceptible traveller; and accordingly he ordered horses for villach, in spite of the approaching night. whilst they were being put to, we enjoyed a fine view of the lake through the arched windows of the earth-floored hall of the chateau. some time before we arrived at villach it was quite dark, but the road being very good and perfectly safe, sir humphry, notwithstanding his reluctance to travel after nightfall, said that he was glad that he had gone on to villach, where he would stay to try the shooting. _ th._ this morning he changed his mind, and we went on to wurzen, crossing over the same mountain which we had passed on our road to ischl. the ascent on this side is much longer than that from wurzen. at the foot of the mountain are some hot baths, much used by the inhabitants of villach. we tried their temperature and found it to be ° fahrenheit. the proprietor said that the water contained principally sulphur and magnesia. _ st- th._ these days were chiefly wet and rainy, but when it did not pour sir humphry was out shooting in the marshes. two mornings, when the rain kept him at home, he occupied himself with the additions to "salmonia," and in dictating _an ancient irish tale_; a fairy fiction, or a tale of enchantment, founded on the supposed adventures of a norwegian hero in ireland. _ th._ a fine day at last, and we see the alps unveiled for the first time since we have been here. i thought i should have seen them quite free from snow, and was not a little surprised, on the clearing away of the clouds, to find them covered with a newly fallen crest, which was brilliantly white, for i believed that the temperature of the air would be too high to allow the snow, which falls on the heights when it rains in the valleys, to remain unmelted even for the shortest time. in the afternoon i took a ramble with the postmaster, as a guide, to see a waterfall in the neighbourhood, which i suspected from what he told me was the feeder of the pond from which the wurzen-save rises. after a long walk through the woods in one of the smaller side valleys, at the opening of which the pond or source of the save is situated, we arrived at the end of the valley, where all progress was put an end to by the lofty and rocky mountains which shut it in on all sides; mountains, through which there is hardly a path for the most adventurous chamois hunter. in the centre of this vale is a hut, or, as it is called by the peasants, an _alpe_, (a hut on the mountains,) built with the trunks of trees, in which a few cowherds were employed in making cheese. opposite this hut, high up in the rocks, is a considerable cascade, which without doubt is the source of the save. the water issues in a considerable stream from an opening in the side of the mountain, and rushes down into the valley foaming and dashing over the rocks; it then flows on for a short time in a bed of limestone pebbles, where it suddenly disappears, sinking into the ground, and in all probability continues its subterraneous course through the whole length of the valley, till it rises in the pond near wurzen. we ascended with considerable difficulty to the top of the fall, and in order to examine the hole, i was obliged to take off my shoes to prevent my slipping over the rocks. the water flowed perfectly clear and intensely cold from a reservoir in the interior of the mountain, but the opening in the rocks was not sufficiently large to enable me to look in. having descended safely, and drank some curds and whey in the _alpe_, we returned home; and i determined, if the weather should be fine to-morrow, to cross over the alps to trenta, and see the source of the isonzo, to seek which we made such a long trip in vain the last time we were here. _ th._ i started from wurzen at eight o'clock with a guide, who said that he was well acquainted with the pass across the alps, and as he told me we should find nothing to eat at trenta, we took some cold meat and eggs with us. at kronau we turned into the beautiful defile which lies behind this village, and which is called the valley of pisching, from a little stream which flows through it, along whose banks we walked briskly for about an hour and a half, surrounded on all sides by rocky and magnificent mountains. at the end of the valley we turned off to the right, and began to ascend one of the mountains by a very rugged and steep path, passing sometimes through fir woods, and at other times over white limestone rocks. after a very fatiguing ascent of more than two hours, we found ourselves on the top of a pass between two mountains. to our left was a still more lofty mountain, through which, near the summit, there was a large hole like a window, so that the blue sky was distinctly seen through it. my guide told me that it was possible to ascend to this hole from the other side, but that he had never been there. the descent to trenta on the other side was much worse than our ascent had been, the path or rather track that we followed being every now and then impeded by great blocks of limestone and shattered fir-trees. the points of view were very fine and wild, though the whole seemed desolate and dreary. in less than an hour we reached the valley and the few huts which form the hamlet of trenta. in the middle of the valley runs the isonzo, which is seen gushing forth from the rocks, and forming a magnificent cascade in a gulley or crevice of the mountain, a few hundred yards distant from trenta. i immediately went to it, and found that the fall consisted of three distinct cascades, one above the other, all three highly picturesque, but chiefly so the upper one, which is by far the loftiest. my guide said the quantity of water was not now so considerable as in general, and that if i liked to go to the top of the uppermost fall i could see the place from whence it issued out of the mountain. we accordingly climbed up the rocks till we came to a heap of loose and detached fragments of limestone, from under which the water appeared to issue, but on climbing up still further, i came to a large opening in the rock, through which a sunbeam fell, and upon looking into it, i saw that within there was a large cavern filled with water perfectly clear, and apparently of great depth, for when i threw in a large white stone on the spot where the sunbeam played upon the water, i saw it descend through it for a long time. of the extent of this subterraneous lake and cavern it was impossible to form any idea, for all beyond a few feet from the opening was darkness. the peasants at trenta call this source the _sorga_, and they told me that after great melting of the snows the water rushes also out from the opening, and then forms a very noble cascade. the water is intensely cold, yet an old peasant assured me, that on looking through the hole he had sometimes seen fish in the lake. this, however, seemed very doubtful, for many others said they had repeatedly been there and had never seen a trace of any living animal in the water within the mountain. having taken a sketch or two and eaten our frugal dinner, we began to think of returning home, and reascended the rugged path which had brought us to trenta, but before we reached the summit of the pass i experienced great pain in the thighs and legs, so that i was obliged to rest every now and then. at last, however, we gained the top, and having staid there for a good quarter of an hour to recruit my strength, we descended briskly, passed again through the romantic glen of kronau, and i found myself at home by seven o'clock. fifty kreutzers ( _s._ _d._ english) made my guide a happy man, and the evening was passed in recounting to sir humphry the adventures of the day. _ th._ we left wurzen this morning, and passed over our old road to assling. the scenery of the valley is now more beautiful than when we last saw it, for trees of every kind appear in full verdure on the sides of the mountains; beech, oak, ash, walnut, birch, and, last and highest, the pine, above which are the bare brown rocks, just tipped with snow. three leagues beyond assling we turned out of the post road, and drove to radmannsdorf, passing through what much resembled an english park; fine large trees rising from a verdant turf, rendering the drive at once shady and agreeable. radmannsdorf is a small insignificant town; the only inn it has to boast of was being repaired and not habitable, so that we were obliged to go somewhere else, and sir humphry determined to proceed to veldes and to spend a day or two in that beautiful neighbourhood. after an hour's drive we arrived there, and with considerable difficulty, and some danger to the carriage, we got up a narrow and hilly lane, at the top of which the best inn in the village is situated, which we however found bad enough. sir humphry begged me immediately to go to the fisherman's at the other side of the lake, and see what he had. i found in his tank only very large carp and some small specimens of _silurus glanis_. this latter fish is found in this and one or two more of the austrian lakes. the fisherman told me that it here sometimes grows to a great size, and that the last year he and his fellow-fisherman had caught one that weighed upwards of two hundred pounds. i chose the smallest carp, one of five pounds, and a little _silurus_, and was then rowed back to veldes by the fisherman. the lake was beautifully tranquil and clear, and in the shade of the mountains, for the evening was already set in, resembled an extensive surface of black polished marble, only ruffled by the paddle of the canoe which bore us across it. we had part of the fish dressed for supper, and we found the carp far preferable to the _silurus_, for the flesh of the latter is flabby and insipid. _ th._ at one o'clock in the morning george called me to sir humphry, who told me that he felt very ill. at four he begged i would order horses to quit veldes as soon as possible, but none could be procured till seven, and then only a pair of cart horses. sir humphry in the meanwhile applied leeches, and found himself considerably relieved. at seven o'clock we left veldes, but, as if fated to be unfortunate in this village, our peasant-postilion drove us against the projecting roof of a small house, which however did no further damage than that of dashing the lamps to pieces. we at last got clear of veldes, and without further accident soon reached safnitz, where we found post horses which took us to krainburg by one o'clock, and from thence to laibach by four, where we took up our old quarters at detella's inn. _ st august- th october._ sir humphry continued very unwell for two days, but on the third went out shooting as he used to do formerly. the ennui of laibach is terrible, for sir humphry sees nobody, and is daily occupied in shooting or fishing, and it is only when the rain keeps him at home that he dictates to me the additions and corrections for "salmonia," or continues his irish tale, "_the last of the o'donohoes_," which he finished on the th of september. the second edition of "salmonia" was not finished till the th, and i added six little views to it, which sir humphry begged i would draw for him; the first three are from his description, and the remainder from sketches i have taken on our journey. after "salmonia" had been safely despatched to the english embassy at vienna, sir humphry determined upon making a little tour to trieste, and there to examine the electrical phoenomena presented by the _torpedo_, or electrical ray, and we accordingly left laibach on the th of october, in the afternoon, in a little carriage drawn by sir humphry's two ponies, for he bought another shortly after our arrival at laibach. we only went on to oberlaibach, where we spent the night. not far from this small village the river laibach issues, for the last time, from its subterraneous passage. _ th._ early this morning i went with two students from munich, whom i met on their road to adelsberg, to see the source of the river. at the end of a romantic glen, surrounded by fine rocks and wood, the river oozes out of the hill, forming a large pond, which falls over a natural dam in front, and is then joined, a few hundred yards below, by another subterraneous stream, and they together form a tolerably large river. parting here from my munich companions, i returned to oberlaibach, when i found sir humphry was already gone out shooting, but he shortly returned, and having shot nothing, we set out for planina. immediately upon leaving oberlaibach we ascended a very long and steep hill, the surface of which was everywhere perforated with large conical pits, much resembling funnels, affording a striking example of that species of country called by geologists funnel land. arrived at the top of the hill we found ourselves in a wide fertile valley, through which we saw the laibach winding slowly, till on reaching the end of the valley it disappears in the fields, and after pursuing its subterraneous course through the mountain, again rises to the surface near ober-laibach. we stopped to bait the horses at loitsch, and then drove on through the valley to planina, a dirty village, where we passed the night in a miserable inn. [illustration: from nature _by j. j. tobin_ trieste] _ th._ leaving planina early this morning, we ascended a very steep hill, at the foot of which the laibach again rises out of the mountains as it does at ober-laibach. the country between planina and adelsberg is bleak and barren, and presents nothing interesting. the mountain near the latter small town contains the famous grottos of adelsberg, formerly thought to be the only spot where that singular animal the _proteus anguinus_ was found. sir humphry said there was no time for me to visit these grottos now, but he thought that he should pass through adelsberg again upon his return, and we accordingly drove into trewalchen, where we passed over another long and steep hill. at sesana we saw the first olive trees; they much resemble the common willow, but are darker; these and the flat-roofed houses, and a lighter and more airy style of architecture, told us that we were approaching italy. the country between sesana and trieste is wild and bleak, completely covered with broken and waterworn rocks, over which, ages ago, some great current of the ocean must have passed, and thus occasioned their present singular and often fantastic shapes. at the foot of the last hill, which is not steep, we entered the territory of trieste, and from its summit one of the most magnificent sea views i ever beheld burst upon our sight. nearly two thousand feet below us lay the wide expanse of the blue adriatic, its light waves glittering in the sun-beams, occasionally shaded by the intercepting clouds. at the foot of the mountain, and partly concealed by it, appeared trieste, with its harbour full of vessels, lying on a small promontory. looking over the town and across the bay the eye embraces the whole hilly coast of istria, with the towns of capo d'istria, pirano, and others; and promontory is seen beyond promontory till the more distant ones can no longer be distinguished from the waves. the right or opposite coast, stretching down to venice, is flat, and the last visible point on it is the ancient town of aquilea; but behind this low and marshy tract the distant alps of the friul are seen, covered with eternal snow. after stopping the carriage for some time to admire this magnificent view, we descended the hill by a very winding and steep road. every thing bespoke the approach to a large and commercial city, and the road was filled with carts and waggons coming and going, loaded with merchandize. in some of them we counted twenty horses, in another twenty-four oxen, with twelve drivers, who made a terrible noise with their mouths as well as their whips to animate their strong and fine beasts during their ascent. a new road is now building which, when finished, will render the great number of cattle now obliged to be used unnecessary. we reached the gate of trieste about four o'clock, and after driving through some fine wide streets wholly paved with flagstones, and across the ponterosso, a miserable little bridge, we took up our quarters at the locanda grande, in the market-place; but our rooms looked towards the harbour and sea, and immediately beneath them we heard the joyous noise and bustle of the sailors. what a difference between this town and the inland cities of germany! there all seems dead or asleep, and hardly a living soul is to be seen in the streets; here, on the contrary, all is activity and animation. the representatives of all nations seem assembled here,--italians, germans, english, and americans, with greeks and turks in their national dresses, are seen walking through the streets or sitting before the doors of the cafés: this latter applies especially to the turks, who, in their graceful costume with their long pipes, attract the notice of every stranger unaccustomed to see individuals of this nation. leaving sir humphry to repose in his room, i took a walk about the town and harbour. the streets are generally broad, well paved, and clean, and the houses are lofty and well built. the harbour is full of small craft, but i saw but one large merchantman, lately arrived from the brazils. near the molo san carlo, a small pier, lay a steam-boat which was to start the next morning for venice. to the left of the town, looking towards the sea, and at a considerable distance from the houses, is the lazaretto, a large and spacious building, close to a basin or dock, in which the vessels lie whilst performing quarantine. after dinner i went with sir humphry to the theatre, which is an elegant and lofty building, with five tiers of boxes very tastefully ornamented. the piece performed was an opera, _the arabs in gaul_, but spite of the magnificent decorations and really fine music, sir humphry soon became tired, and we returned to our shakspeare and _ecarté_. i sleep to-night, for the first time in my life, in the bed-room of an emperor; a little chamber with only one window in it, and with which, i think, few emperors of the present day would be content. above the bed is painted a gorgeous crown and encircling canopy, beneath which, on a small marble tablet, are the following words:-- locus iste imperatoris josephi secundi habitatio fuit xv maji. the year was either never mentioned, or has been rubbed out. _ th._ the noise of the sailors and the hum of business--sounds long foreign to my ear--greeted me upon waking this morning, and on looking out of my window i saw a number of people upon the quay below, buying fish from the sailors of some fishing-boats that had just come into the harbour. after breakfast i accompanied sir humphry on a visit to the british consul, colonel d----, who politely promised to send sir humphry a fisherman who could supply him with some living torpedos for his experiments. sir humphry afterwards rode out on his pony, george attending him, whilst i took a walk on the hill above the town. i had intended to visit the stalactite grotto at corneale to-day, as sir humphry, who had seen it ten years ago, said it was well worth notice; but on coming away from colonel d----'s i found that it was too late. _ th._ i left trieste early this morning, with a guide, to visit the grotto. after a three hours' walk over two very long and steep hills, from which however the view over the adriatic, with numberless white sails flitting across its waves, the two coasts, the harbour with its shipping, the town and the gardens surrounding it planted with cypresses and olives, was magnificent, we reached corneale, a small and dirty village, and having here provided ourselves with a man carrying a large lamp, and some boys with candles, proceeded over some very rough and stony fields to the grotto. the entrance was not, as i had expected, in the side of a hill, but in the open fields, and surrounded by a wall. having lighted our lamp and candles, i took off my coat, and we began the descent down some very slight wooden stairs, the steps and railing of which were, as i afterwards found to my cost, not only slippery, but quite rotten from the continual dripping. the entrance, or hall, is a fine lofty dark vault, supported in the middle by one enormous stalactite column. beyond this the cave becomes narrower, and the numberless stalactites of all sizes present a greater variety of forms than it is possible to describe: immense cauliflowers, trunks of trees, fruits; rounds and ovals of all sizes, from that of a marble to globes of many feet in diameter; pyramids rising up from below, and whose bases are lost in profound darkness; myriads of peaks hanging from the roof, often invisible to the eye, are seen at every step. these different forms, the deathlike stillness of the cave, the total darkness, except in those points where the guides placed themselves so as to illuminate the most striking objects; deep precipices before and around me, from out of which here and there a single snow white column rose, formed, and still forming, by the water which falls in measured time from the unseen roof; the flickering lights of our candles,--all this, and the thought of where i should roll to were i to slip from the frail steps into one of those dark abysses, produced an indescribable feeling of awe and fear. descending further into the cavern, we passed by the _lion's head_, the _melon_, the _death's head_, and two magnificent single pillars, the one plain, the other beautifully fluted, both of which upon being struck by the hand emit a loud sonorous sound, that thrills mournfully through the surrounding silence. beyond these we came to the _waterfall_, one of the finest specimens of stalactites in the cavern; other pillars and pyramids, and last of all to the _baldachin_, or canopy formed of beautifully fluted hanging stalactites. beyond this point the cave had not been explored, as the precipices are very dangerous. even the descent to this spot is not very safe, being often along very narrow slippery paths and rotten stairs, or rather ladders. on my return i sketched different subjects in the cave, and whilst drawing the entrance-hall, incautiously sat upon the wooden hand-rail, when i heard a sudden crack, and felt that i was falling backwards. not being able to recover myself, i slipped from rock to rock, turning twice head over heels, but without injury, and with perfect presence of mind, although i expected every instant to be dashed over the edge of a precipice. as soon as i felt my fall become slower, i stopped myself with my hands, with my head downwards, and my heels in the air. in this position i remained some minutes, not daring to move a finger, till the guide came down through the rocks with his lamp to my assistance; with his help i regained my feet, and found that i had been lying on the very verge of a smooth rock, beneath which was a dark and impenetrable abyss. my next fall would probably have been into eternity. after the whirl of my brain had passed away, i found, with the exception of some light bruises, that i had not injured myself, as the rocks were very smooth and round. having reascended, we left the cave, and i sat for a long time in the fresh air as i felt very sick. the guide and the boy had been exceedingly terrified, and still looked as pale as i think i must have done myself; nor shall i soon forget the shriek they uttered when they saw me falling. after a draught of water that was very refreshing, though from a dirty pool in the field, and paying the man and boys who had been in the grotto with me for upwards of two hours, i returned to trieste, where the tailor and a good dinner set every thing to rights again. sir humphry had just received two living torpedos, and made some experiments with them upon the power and effect of their electricity, which he seemed inclined to think of a peculiar kind. these finished, he determined to quit trieste to-morrow, and to return to laibach. _ th._ we started from trieste this morning early, and having ascended the hill above the town, from whence we had such a beautiful view upon our arrival, we turned out of the road and drove across the country over very bad roads to wippach, where we did not arrive till evening. we had stopped to bait at mid-day in a miserable little village, and after leaving it we lost our way, robert (the coachman) being a perfect stranger in this part of the country, and spent some hours in vain before we again got into the right road. wippach lies in a fine fertile valley at the foot of a lofty range of mountains. the river of the same name rises close behind the town, out of the rock, in the same manner as the river laibach. the trout in this river were the object of sir humphry's trip hither, and as soon as he arrived, though the evening was too far advanced to allow of his fishing, he went to look at the river, and found it very foul from rain. when he returned to the inn, he dictated to me his observations on the experiments with the torpedos which he had made at trieste. _ th._ in the morning sir humphry went out to try the fishing in the river, and returned about twelve o'clock not having caught anything. we then quitted wippach, which has nothing at all attractive or interesting in it. at the end of the town is a large and handsome chateau, belonging to the counts of wippach, and on the other side an extensive cotton manufactory. the drive from hence to trewalchen is steep and hilly, the road passing over a lofty ridge of the mountain. from trewalchen we went on to adelsberg, where we did not arrive till night, and as sir humphry said that he should the next morning go on to zirknitz, i determined to visit the principal grotto in the night. there are two here, the grotto of the magdalen, long known and celebrated as being the only spot in which the proteus anguinus[e] had been found; and the great grotto, only lately discovered, and more remarkable for the variety and grandeur of the stalactite formations which it contains. after having read to sir humphry till nearly ten, i set out, accompanied by three guides furnished with lamps and some pounds of candles. we walked across the fields for about a mile in darkness, the moon not having yet risen, till we came to a slight ascent which brought us to a door in the mountain. the guides here lighted their lamps, and cut the candles into bits, and unlocking the door, we entered and found ourselves in a low and dark passage. two of the guides went on before with the candles, and i followed a few minutes after with the other, the only one of the three who spoke german. the passage brought us to the top of a rock, where we found ourselves in an immense vault, the roof and sides of which could not be distinguished by the eye. below us, at the foot of the rock, we heard the rushing of a river, whose waters were invisible to us owing to the extreme darkness. we saw the other two guides upon a frail wooden bridge, which is thrown across this subterraneous stream, they having already lighted some of the candles, which they were engaged in fixing upon the side rail, and in a few minutes, more than thirty candles in some degree dispelled the darkness which surrounded us. the river became visible for about one hundred yards on each side of the bridge, flowing as it were out of total darkness above, and passing again into gloom and shade below it. the light however was by no means sufficient to enable me to discover the roof of this vast dome. it is a striking scene, but very different from any presented by the grotto of corneale, and a poet might have thought the vault a banquetting room for the giants of old, or the council-chamber of lucifer and his host; the dark and rushing water the gloomy river styx, dividing him from the kingdom of pluto, and have expected to see the grim ferryman appear with his boat. there was however no charon to ferry us over, and we accordingly descended the steps in the rock, and crossed the river by the tottering and slippery bridge. a steep path cut in the rocks on the other side conducted us to the _little temple_, a small vault, whose roof and sides were covered with stalactites of the most varied and grotesque forms, hanging down from the roof, shooting out from the sides, or rising as stalagmites[f] from the floor, some pointed, some round, and others flat, thin, and transparent. in one part of this temple are inscribed the names of the strangers who have visited the grotto. from hence we went to the _hall_, or _place of the tournament_, passing in another vault by the _butcher's stall_, perhaps one of the most apt denominations of the many which the guides have given to the numerous larger masses of stalactite met with in these caverns. it stands alone, projecting from the walls of the vault, and somewhat resembles a pulpit in form. one of the guides enters this stall with a lamp, and illuminates the different joints of limestone meat, sausages, hams, &c., which hang around. the _tournier-platz_ or place of the tournament, is a lofty and extensive cavern, the floor of which is formed of very fine sand, and is exceedingly level and firm. the shape of the vault is oval, and the sides have some slight resemblance to an amphitheatre. on whit-monday the whole of the grotto is illuminated, and hundreds flock to behold this curious scene, the _tournier-platz_ being arranged as a ball-room, and in which the visitors dance till a very late hour. from thence we went through long passages and caverns, each of which presents something remarkable. in one, a large pillar rises from the ground, which, on being struck with a stone or stick, gives out a sound resembling the deep and sonorous tone of a tolling bell; and in another, stands a large fluted pillar, to which the guides give the strange name of the _kanonen-säule zu moskau_, or the pillar of canons at moscau. in another part of the cavern we see a vase, on the top of a small pillar, constantly full of water, which falls into it, drop by drop, from the roof; it is perfectly clear, and icy cold. beyond this font, we came to the _great curtain_, the most striking single stalactite in the whole cavern. the limestone here descends in many a waving and beautiful fold from the roof, from a height of upwards of twenty feet, and projecting about six feet out from the rock. the whole mass is exceedingly thin, and is bordered by a stripe of red. seen from a distance, when the guides hold their lamps behind it, the effect is highly striking, and the spectator can hardly believe that the transparent curtain before him is formed of hard stone. the red colour in the edge of this mass of limestone, is the only instance of the kind i met with in the grotto, the general colour of the stalactites being either pure white or whitish brown: and they are often covered with a crust of very fine crystals. at some distance beyond the curtain, the cave divides into two branches, one of which ends with a large block of limestone, that bears the name of the _high altar_; the other has been rarely trodden by the foot of a stranger, for my guide said that this was only the second time that he had been there, since the discovery of that part of the cave, by him and another of the men who were with me, six or seven years ago. it extends for a considerable way, till all further progress is stopped by a large pool of water, over which the guides said no one had ever crossed. this pool did not appear to me to be of any very great extent, and i felt persuaded, that with the help of a few long poles, it would have been possible to have passed over the slippery rocks on its sides; we had, however, nothing of the kind with us, and i was obliged to abandon the idea, nor did the guides appear at all inclined to continue our peregrinations, having already penetrated to a greater distance than usual. i carefully examined the water, but in vain, to see if i could discover anything like a proteus, and i asked the guide if on his former visit he had seen any animal in the pool, but he said he had not. the paths through the cavern are generally very good, and broad enough for two or three persons to walk abreast, and have in many places been widened and levelled by art, but the road from the curtain to the end of the grotto, passes over a chaos of rocks and large broken stalactites; these, though now united by the all-binding lime-water into shapeless masses of rock, formerly composed the roof, but have now given place to newer formations, so that even in these subterraneous caverns, as in all other of nature's works, man beholds destruction only as making way for regeneration. the process is one of the slowest, but sure in its effects; an accident, the shock of an earthquake for example, may strew the floor of the cavern with the stalactites which hang from the roof, yet the impregnated water flows from above, deposits the limestone, and in a few centuries, the roof is again ornamented with its curious and beautiful fretwork. retracing our steps through the different halls, temples, and passages, we again found ourselves on the banks of the subterraneous river. this is the laibach, which rising in the plain above adelsberg, enters the mountain, and after flowing through the cavern and underground for a considerable distance, again appears at the foot of the hill near planina. we crossed the little bridge, ascended the rocks, and taking a last look around the vast and dark cupola by which we had first entered, i bade adieu to the caverns of adelsberg. on coming out of the mountain, the air felt very cold, for the temperature within had been very agreeable, almost warm. it was past one o'clock, so that we had been three hours under ground. the moon was up, and guided by her clear light, we soon reached the inn, where i dreamt till morning of grottos, and caverns and their spirit inhabitants. _ th._ we left adelsberg this morning, and after a drive of about three hours through a wild and hilly country, we arrived at the village of zirknitz, on the borders of the celebrated zirknitzer-see. the inn, though small, had two decent rooms, and sir humphry determined to remain here for a day or two, in order to shoot quails, which abound in the neighbourhood; he accordingly went out in the afternoon with his gun, accompanied by the innkeeper, who had recommended himself to him by speaking italian; and i went in the meantime to look at the lake. its banks are formed by mountains of no great height, completely covered with forests of pine, and in the lake are three islands, each of which has a different name. on the largest, called _vomek_, is a little village; the other two, _goritza_ and _malagoritza_, are smaller and barren. the lake itself is of an oblong form, and, as i ascertained from "the chronicle of carniola," (a voluminous and old work on the history and geography of this part of austria, by baron valvasor, and the only book to be found in the inn,) about one german mile (four and three quarters english) in length, and rather more than half a one in breadth. its depth varies, but it is no where considerable. in different parts of it are large and deep conical holes, valvasor says eighteen, each of which has also a name: the chief of them are _koten_, _zeschenza_, _malabonarza_, _velkioberk_, _&c._, and through these holes the lake is filled with water. this generally takes place annually, in october or november, and the water again disappears through these holes in the beginning of summer. in twenty days after the disappearance of the water, grass springs up, and produces very good hay; numbers of birds flock to the fields, and the bed of the lake then becomes a sporting ground. the disappearance of the waters, however, is by no means certain, for sometimes a whole year will elapse without the lake becoming dry, while at times it will sink and re-appear twice, or even thrice, in one year. at the end of the lake, near zirknitz, are two large openings in a rock called _malakarlouza_ and _valkakarlouza_, through which the water runs off when the lake rises higher than usual. during the winter the lake is generally frozen over. the temperature and colour of its water are similar to that of the other lakes in this part of the country, though the fish which inhabit it, chiefly pike, are said to be unwholesome. by what means and from whence this lake is filled, it is very difficult to say; the most probable conjecture is that it is supplied by some vast reservoir of water in the interior of the earth, which may also be the feeder of the many subterraneous rivers with which the surrounding country abounds. not a single stream flows out of the lake, but six or seven small rivulets fall into it, the largest of which is the _zirknitzbach_. in the evening sir humphry returned from his sport, bringing with him some quails and a few snipes. _ th._ sir humphry again went out shooting in the morning, and i went to see the caves of st. kanzian, with a lad, who spoke a little german, as a guide. these caves are situated about four miles from zirknitz, and are merely large and deep natural caverns, through which a small river runs, which again appears about half a mile further, in a beautiful fertile valley, through which it flows for a short distance, when it passes under a natural bridge of rock, on the other side of which it disappears, and does not again rise till near adelsberg. although it has here no particular name, it is probably the same as the laibach river, and may take its rise from the lake of zirknitz. the natural bridge under which it flows before its disappearance, is a fine arch of rock, from thirty to forty feet in height, covered with trees on the top, between which are seen the remains of an old church, dedicated to st. kanzian. _ th._ sir humphry's sport yesterday not having proved so good as he expected, he went to-day, on his pony, up to the mountains with the innkeeper, to see if he could not shoot a _steinhuhn_, or alpine partridge, and i went with my guide of yesterday to see the grotto of heiligen-kreutz, where, he told me, a little white fish with four feet and two red fins on its neck, had been lately found. from this description i knew it to be the proteus, the inhabitant of the magdelena grotto at adelsberg; and the hope of finding this animal in the caves at the other end of the lake of zirknitz, induced me to go thither. we coasted round the lake, passing through many little hamlets on its banks, till we arrived at the end of it, when we turned up a side valley, which brought us to the foot of the mountain of heiligen-kreutz. we here found two small huts, in one of which was an old man, who agreed to be our guide to the grotto, and who furnished us with large pieces of fir-wood for torches. after an ascent of half an hour up the mountain, we came to a great hole, which was the entrance of the cavern. here the guide put a bit of ignited fungus or tinder into a handful of dry moss, and whirling it round with rapidity, soon produced a flame, at which we lighted our torches. we then scrambled down into the hole, and entered a long and lofty passage, the floor of which was covered with great stones and masses of rock, over which it was with great difficulty that we could proceed, and the roof and sides presented nothing but dark and rugged rock, unadorned by stalactites. after advancing for some hundred yards through this passage, we came to a running stream of water of considerable breadth, but only six or eight inches deep. we walked through this for some time, till it fell with a deafening noise into a large hole on one side of the cave, probably into some deep cavern below. the passage then turned to the left, and conducted us into a small round vault, from the roof and sides of which hung a considerable number of stalactites. this the old man said was the end of the cavern, and finding it so, i felt there was nothing to recompense one for the fatigue of a walk of ten miles, and the scramble over the rocks in the passage. during our course through the stream, as well as in the many large holes filled with water, i had in vain looked for the proteus, which however the old man assured me had been found by the peasants in the stream during its course through the cavern, and that it had also been cast up by it, when swelled by rain, near laas, a small town about five miles distant, where this subterraneous stream again appears upon the surface. quitting the cavern, i returned to zirknitz, which i reached late in the afternoon, with a very good appetite, for all that we had partaken of since an early breakfast, was a few smoked pears and a pint of wine, sourer than the sourest vinegar, which, with a bit of black bread, were the only eatables afforded by one of the village inns of the banks of the lake of zirknitz. sir humphry had returned from his pursuit of the mountain partridge, nearly as fatigued and dissatisfied with his ill-success as i was with mine, and he determined upon returning to laibach to-morrow. _ th- th._ quitting zirknitz, and driving through planina and ober-laibach, we returned to laibach, where we remained in our old quarters till the th. sir humphry, as usual, occupying the day in shooting or fishing, and now and then in completing his experiments on the torpedo, by comparing the results of the electricity of this fish with the effects produced by a very small voltaic pile. he found them to be essentially different in their action, and summed up the whole series of his experiments and observations in a long letter to the royal society.[g] he has at last met with a pair of carriage horses that please him, and has bought them for four hundred florins ( _l._), so that he now intends travelling with his own four horses. the weather has been getting colder and colder, but i think that nothing less than the sight of the snow that fell to-day ( th) would have determined his departure, which is now fixed for to-morrow, when we start for italy and rome. _ st._ we have at last quitted laibach, and i never recollect having left any place, not even the most wretched village, with the joy and delight i experienced on quitting detella's inn, which has so long been for me an abode of listlessness and ennui. we slept this night at planina, in the same bad inn which we stopped at on our trip to trieste. _november st._ we set out this morning from planina, and drove over the road we had formerly passed to wippach. the roads as far as this town were very hard and slippery, the snow which had fallen having frozen during the night, but as soon as we passed the mountains between adelsberg and wippach the scene was changed; we had left the winter and wintry country behind us, and found ourselves in a valley, where the trees were still adorned with the fine tints of autumn, and where the temperature was delightful. leaving wippach, we entered the province of friuli, and drove on along a fine high road to gorizia or görz, where we did not arrive till late in the evening. the country is fine; it appears to be well cultivated, and the vines hang in festoons from tree to tree. at gorizia, italian is the only language spoken, and with the language the people seemed also to have changed, for instead of the slow, awkward, and often insolent german servants, we had here quick and intelligent attendants. _ nd._ leaving gorizia, in which town there is very little interesting, at one o'clock, we crossed the isonzo, a beautifully clear and broad river. the roads were excellent, and before us and on our right we had the magnificent chain of the julian alps, still free from snow. palmanova, where we spent the night, is a strong fortress, but a miserable little town with a corresponding inn. _ rd._ the road from palmanova to codroipo lies through a flat country, chiefly vineyards, and is lined on each side with mulberry trees. between codroipo and pordenone, we passed over a magnificent wooden bridge across the tagliamento, the bed of which is here nearly a mile in breadth, and shows what a broad and wild river it must be when swollen by the melting of the snows. upon asking a man on the road the distance to the next town, he only answered us by holding up his five fingers, as much as to say five miles; a quick mode of expression which a german peasant would never have arrived at. the dress of the peasants was as much changed as the climate; instead of the black leather breeches, huge boots, and sheepskin jacket of the krainish boor, we here saw striped cotton trowsers, a white cloth or flannel jacket, and shoes and stockings. we to-day, for the first time, saw many donkeys on the road, and little one-horse carriages, with one person sitting in them and the driver standing behind. pordenone is a small town, with a fine view of the friuli alps in the distance. _ th._ we quitted pordenone and the frioul, and dined at cornegliano, a small old town in the province of venice, and on quitting it we caught a glimpse of the alps in the distance, and after a long drive through flat and low lands, arrived in the evening at treviso. an ancient roman gateway of beautiful architecture forms the entrance to this town, the streets of which however are narrow and dirty. the albergo reale is a very good inn. _ th._ we quitted treviso early this morning for padua, with the ugonian or paduan hills in front of us. about two miles out of the town, looking across the marshes, we saw venice with all her towers rising, as it were, out of them. we were only about five miles from this, the second most interesting city of italy, nor could i help expressing a wish to see it. sir humphry, however, said that he was determined never again to enter it, for he had, upon a former journey, been detained there _upwards of an hour_ about his passport. a little beyond mestre, a dirty and ruinous town, where passengers generally embark for venice, we came to the brenta, and drove along its banks to dolo, a small village, where we dined. the road is lined with fine, but mostly ruinous villas, in the light italian style of architecture, and between dolo and padua we passed by a magnificent palace belonging to the viceroy of milan. we did not arrive at padua till it was nearly dark, and entered the town by an old roman gateway, similar to that at treviso. the streets through which we passed were narrow and dirty, but furnished on both sides with arcades for foot passengers. _ th._ we left padua at eight o'clock this morning, passing through the piazza san antonio, a fine open square ornamented with statues, and at one end of which is the cathedral church of st. antonio, said to be one of the churches containing the greatest number of votive altars in italy. the country between padua and monselice, an insignificant little town where we stopped to bait, is pretty. crossing the adige by a flying bridge, we drove on to rovigo; a town with about eight thousand inhabitants, but with apparently nothing remarkable in it. _ th._ after leaving rovigo, we came in a few hours to the po at polsella, a fine deep river, but very turbid and rapid. a poste further we crossed it by a flying bridge, and quitting the austrian territories, we entered the papal states. the _douane_ is situated upon the bank of the river, and although the _lascia-passare_, for which sir humphry had written to rome from laibach, was not arrived, he had no difficulty in passing unexamined, a little money being, it seems, here as good as the best pass. we then drove on to ferrara, where we lodged at the _tre mori_, a very good inn, though badly situated in a very narrow back street. in the afternoon i walked through the old, deserted, and often grass-grown streets of the town. in the piazza ariostea stands a fine old column, and the church in the great square is a fine building externally, the front consisting of numerous rows of arches one above the other. this and the ancient castle or palace of the house of esté, a large moated brick building, with numerous square towers, in one of which the dungeon of tasso is still shown, are all that is worth seeing here. _ th._ we quitted ferrara in very bad weather, it having snowed all night, and snow and sleet still continued to fall during the day. we stopped to bait at a lone house, which proved to be a very large and good inn, and then proceeded after dinner to bologna, which we entered in company with three other english carriages. this is a very fine city, with good streets, on each side of which are lofty arcades, so that even in the worst weather one can walk through the greater part of the town without getting wet. in the evening i finished reading the "castle of otranto" to sir humphry, for the second time. _ th._ sir humphry dictated a letter this morning to professor morichini at rome, and i afterwards walked about the town whilst he paid a visit to madame m----, the wife of a sculptor to whom he had been introduced when he was formerly in italy. the streets appear well built and modern, though very dirty, and the houses are for the most part fine and lofty; but there are very few grand single buildings or churches; many of the latter are only to be distinguished from private houses under the arcades, by a coloured drapery hung over the door. the neptune which surmounts the fountain in the square of the cathedral, a work by jean de bologna, certainly has its merits as a statue, but the poor water-god enjoys so little of his element, that he can scarcely provide for the wants of his immediate neighbours. after wandering quite alone through the town, the whole morning and a part of the afternoon, i returned to the hotel st. marco. madame m---- having invited sir humphry to take a seat in her box at the theatre in the evening, i went to see the play and ballet, and was very much pleased with each. the house is spacious and grand, but dark; the spectacle showy, and the singing and ballet very good. _ th._ a wet and rainy day. we left bologna at eight in the morning, and had a dreary and unpleasant day's journey through a flat country, to faenza, having only stopped to bait at a little village on the road. _ th._ left faenza this morning, and arrived in the evening at rimini, passing through forti and cecena. every step we now advance is on heroic ground; and before entering rimini near savignano, we passed over the rubicon, a little insignificant stream, though once the boundary of the most powerful state in the world. the bridge over the little river which flows by the gates of rimini, is said to have stood for twenty centuries; and in the middle of the town is an ancient triumphal arch nearly as old. it was built by augustus on his return from his victory over marc antony, and is a fine simple arch of stone, though now patched up with bricks. the town is small and dirty, and the _leon bianco_ is a wretched inn. _ th._ leaving rimini we drove along the coast of the adriatic, close to the sea shore. we saw the distant appenines on our right, as yet only low hills covered with vineyards and towns, one of which, san marino, situated on the top of a hill, is a small independent republic of about five thousand souls. having dined at a little village on the road, we drove on through pesaro to fano. the surrounding country is rather mountainous, and seems to abound in defiles and narrow passes, which may easily account for the defeat of the carthaginians by the romans, in this neighbourhood. fano is a small town, lying close upon the sea. the inn where we passed the night was remarkably good. _ th._ we left fano early in the morning, and with it the adriatic; and turning off to the right, we entered into the appenines and dined at fossombrone, (probably modernized from forum sempronii,) a small and very old town, situated on the side of a hill not far from the spot where hasdrubal was defeated and slain by the roman consuls, nero and sempronius. the country here begins to be very fine, but is not at all alpine. through a wide and fertile valley runs the metauro, a beautifully clear green stream. quitting fossombrone, we soon came to the _forli_, a celebrated pass in the mountains, and a work of the old romans. the rock in a narrow glen on the side of a small stream has been cut away in order to make the road, which then runs for some hundred yards through an arched gallery hollowed out of the solid stone; this work appears as if very lately finished, and the sublime and rocky scene around, beautifully relieved by the fine and varied autumnal tints of the shrubs, and by the white and foaming stream, is a most fitting spot for such a grand undertaking. descending from the pass into the valley on the other side, we drove on through aqualagna to cagli, where we remained for the night, in a most wretched inn. _ th._ we had a long drive from cagli to sigillo through a fine mountainous country, passing over some small roman bridges, easily distinguished from those of modern times, by the gigantic size of the blocks of stone of which they are formed. another remarkable object on this road is a bridge of great height, built over a deep ravine, in order to preserve the level of the road. it consists of a small arch thrown across the mountain stream, above which a complete circle or tunnel of nearly one hundred feet in diameter, has been built, and thus forms the support of the road. in one part of the mountain we observed some very curiously carved strata in the limestone rock which composes this chain. from sigillo we proceeded in the afternoon to nocera, passing on the road many a hill of stones surmounted by a wooden cross, the only monument of the unfortunate travellers who had perished in these wild and solitary spots, by the hands of the ferocious banditti, which still too often infest these parts of the appenines. it was dark when we reached nocera, and we here found the hotel as bad if not worse than at cagli. _ th._ we left nocera at about half-past seven in the morning and reached foligno by eleven. this latter place is a large and very dirty town, nor does there seem to be anything interesting in it or its vicinity. we quitted it at two o'clock, and drove on to spoleto, passing along the banks of the clytumnus, which byron with truth calls "a mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters," for every plant and leaf at the bottom, seems as if viewed through a clear and spotless crystal. a little above the source of this river, stands the temple of its god, of small and delicate proportions. the front is still in good preservation, but the roof is covered with tiles, and the sides are patched with bricks; and it is now apparently used as a stable or pig-sty, and the waters of the stream are polluted by ass-drivers and water-women. we are now driving over roads once covered with the carthaginian legions led on by hannibal, rushing in all the fire of conquest from the field of thrasymene; and in the evening we arrived at spoleto, the town which offered him such stout resistance, when on his march to rome, and before which he lay a fortnight. it lies on a hill, which renders the streets exceedingly steep; and besides this, they are narrow, dark and dirty. the only remarkable object in it is the gate called hannibal's gate, which is very ancient, and bears the following inscription on a marble tablet, celebrating his defeat and retreat from this town. hannibal caesis ad thrasymenum romanis infesto agmine urbem romam petens ad spoletum magna strage suorum repulsus insigne portae nomen fecit. so much for the days of old! a battalion of french troops would however now hardly allow themselves to be repulsed by the descendants of these victors of hannibal. _ th._ leaving spoleto, we passed by a very lofty aqueduct, which conveys the water from the mountains across the valley to the town. a mile or two further on we came to a very long hill, where we had two oxen added to our four horses, to ascend it. the descent on the other side to terni is still longer: the pass through the mountains is in many places exceedingly narrow, and on each side of the road are lofty rocks; the mountains are wild and mostly uncultivated, and are chiefly covered with dark laurel bushes; on the whole road there is not a village for the poste, and half a dozen houses at stretura hardly deserve the name of one. a mile or two before terni the valley widens, and the dark laurel trees give place to groves of olives and green fields, whilst here and there a tall cypress is seen rising from out of the gardens near the town. i was much disappointed here, in not being able to see the celebrated falls of the velino, which are only five miles distant from terni; but as sir humphry only stopped to bait, it was impossible for me to do so. there were many carriages at the inn, english, french, and russian, but the company to whom they belonged were all gone to see the falls. between terni and narni, we entered upon a wide and open though still hilly country, through which the velino winds slowly along. narni is certainly the most beautifully situated town that i have seen in the appenines, lying at the side of a hill, at the foot of which the green waters of the nera roll through a deep romantic glen, out of whose wooded sides gigantic masses of rock are seen to rise, in and upon which many old dwellings, now uninhabited, are discovered. the road from hence to lavenga is fine and hilly, and between this latter and otricoli, the mountains open, and show us in the distance mount soracte, ----"which from out the plain heaves, like a long swept wave about to break, and on the curl hangs pausing," the tiber winding slowly along, and, still further, another chain of distant mountains. the inn at otricoli was the worst of the many bad ones we have met with among the appenines, for there was literally nothing to be had in the house; and the only waiter who was to be seen was drunk. _ th._ we left these wretched quarters at seven in the morning; and quitting the appenines, soon afterwards crossed the tiber, already a tolerably broad, but very muddy river. the whole country is volcanic, and the river seems to flow here through the crater of some tremendous volcano of a former world. at borghetto, on the other side of the river, are the remains of an old castle, probably gothic. the sides of the roads, from hence to citta castellana, contain large masses of white garnet, and we passed by many craters, small and large, some only broad and deep pits, with trees growing out of the clefts of the lava rock; others filled up with earth, and now turned into cultivated fields. citta, or civita castellana, is probably the ancient veii, and must have been a very strong place in former days. the citadel, from which it takes its present name, is a large fort of half roman, half gothic architecture. before entering the town we crossed a small river, which runs deep below through a wild and romantic fissure in the lava rocks, which surround the town, and of which the greater part of the houses are built. we passed through the town and over a bridge erected by pius vi. a pompous latin inscription consigns the name of this pope to posterity, for having ordered this bridge to be built. it is a good strong bridge, but nothing more. the romans of old built and worked, and let others talk; those of the present day talk much and do nothing. we then drove on to nepi, a small village, where we dined, and from hence through monterosa to baccano, which only consists of two inns, the poste and another, where the vetturini generally stop. sir humphry chose the latter, which we found very good. to-morrow we shall enter rome, which is only two postes distant from us. _ th._ left baccano at eight in the morning, and in about half an hour, from the top of the first hill, saw the eternal city, with her seven hills, her towers, cupolas, monuments, and palaces, immediately before us, becoming more and more distinct as the sun dispersed the mists of the morning, and bringing with them the recollections of the times and deeds of old, and of the heroes, statesmen, orators, and poets, whose former dwellings were there, and whose fame still fills the world with admiration. on our left lay the long chain of the appenines, above which rose monte velino, and some other of the more distant and snow-clad mountains, whilst nearer to rome was seen the alban mount, and the hills of tivoli. on the right lay the wide outstretching campagna, beyond which, although sir humphry doubted it, i am sure i saw the straight blue line of the mediterranean. the carriage rolled on from hill to hill, each of which was covered with villas surrounded by trees, amongst which the tall cypress and the magnificent fan, or mediterranean pine, were pre-eminent. at la storta we reached the last hill; ----"now the brow we gain enraptured; beauteously distinct the numerous porticoes and domes upswell, with obelisks and columns interposed, and pine, and fir, and oak; so fair a scene sees not the dervise from the spiral tomb of ancient chammos, while his eye beholds proud memphis' reliques o'er the egyptian plain: nor hoary hermit from hymettus' brow, though graceful athens in the vale beneath." from hence a short drive brought us to the tiber and to the ponte molle, a bridge of brick, built on the ancient foundations of the _pons molvii_, in front of which stands a handsome gateway and tower. crossing this bridge, we drove along a straight broad street upwards of a mile in length, which ends at the porta del popolo, the entrance into rome, and a magnificent entrance it is. the gate itself is fine, though not very elegant, but the view through it into the piazza del popolo is grand in the extreme, and strongly impresses the stranger with the feeling that he is entering into a magnificent city, the metropolis of religion and of the arts. in the middle of the piazza, which is formed of two large semicircles, rises a superb obelisk of red granite, covered with hierogliphics; four lions of white marble spouting water into the basins before them, form part of the pedestal. in the centre of the back of each semicircle is a very elegant fountain in the shape of a colossal shell, and surmounted by groups of gigantic statues. looking across the piazza, three long streets present themselves to view; the middle the corso; the one on the left, the strada del babuino; and to the right, the strada di ripetta. the ends of these streets, facing the piazza, are formed by two elegant churches, perfectly similar in architecture, and above the left semicircle are seen the gardens of the monte pincio, the ascent to which, adorned by columns and statues, is not yet finished. having found our _lascia passare_ at the gate, we were permitted to drive to the hotel directly, and were not first conducted to the custom-house, as is the case with those who enter rome without having procured, through some friend, the permission to pass, which is only given by the secretary of state. at serny's _hôtel de londres_, on the piazza di spagna, a large and open square, we were extremely well accommodated. it is a very large and grand establishment, occupying three different houses, and of course every thing is in the first style. what most strikes a stranger in the streets of rome, are the numerous shops of mosaics, gems, and trinkets in marble and bronze, and a month and a fortune might be spent by those who have nothing better to do with their time and money, in admiring and selecting such objects. the corso, or high street, the theatre of all the festivities during the carnival, is every afternoon thronged with carriages, which drive up and down in two lines, the one going, the other coming. this seems to be one of the principal amusements of the higher classes of rome, and a senseless enjoyment it appears to me, for the greater part of the street is narrow, badly paved, and dark. the number of spectators from four till six o'clock, however, is very great. french is spoken in almost every shop, and the number of english is so great, that one hears nearly as much of that language spoken in the streets as of italian. _ st._ this afternoon i went to the colosæum, where i sat for some hours under the last of the upper arches of the outside circle, looking towards the magnificent church of st. john lateran, over part of the ancient walls of rome, and the remaining arches of two old aqueducts, and down upon gardens and vineyards, in many of which are the ruins of ancient buildings and temples; whilst the view over the surrounding _campagna_ is bounded by the blue appenines, and on the right by the alban mount. from the inner wall i looked down from row to row over the dark and ruined arches of the seats, now picturesquely overgrown with shrubs, ivy, and grass, and which were then beautifully tinged with the rays of the setting sun, into the vast arena beneath, formerly the scene of many a savage sport for the amusement of a cruel people, but now only ornamented by the broken shafts and capitals of pillars which once adorned it; and disfigured by the many altars erected by pious devotees, breaking the harmony of the whole, and only serving to shew the magnitude and beauty of the ancient pillars, contrasted with the smallness and insignificance of the modern ones. in the centre of the arena, a large wooden cross has been erected, which is devoutly kissed by the lips of every pious catholic who passes by. immediately opposite to me the circle of arches was broken, and let in the view of the near and distant country, where many a tall cypress and pine rose amid the foundations of the old palace of the cæsars, to the left of which, amid the trees, appeared the pyramidal monument of caius sestius. from another side i looked down upon the triumphal arches of constantine and titus, upon the colossal remains of the baths of caracalla, and upon the ruins of temples and palaces, and over modern rome, to the distant cupola of st. peter's. quitting this mighty ruin, which, together with the arch of titus, the popes have been, and still are, engaged in patching up with bricks and mortar, thus destroying the harmony and beauty of the ancient architecture, i returned to serny's through the ancient roman forum, (now the campo vaccino,) where lie the chief relics of the former grandeur of the queen of cities. here are the arches of constantine, of titus, and of septimus severus; the ruins of temples, baths, and imperial palaces; ruins which have afforded to antiquarians so much matter for research and for dispute, and which are regularly described in the works of every modern traveller in italy. _ rd december._ we remained at serny's till the first of december, as sir humphry found it no easy thing to find a lodging suited to him so late in the year; on the th, however, he found apartments at the corner of the via di pietra, which he liked, and we entered them on the st of december. they are situated in a good part of the city, and look out on the corso. _ st._ our daily life has been hitherto as monotonous as possible. sir humphry sees no society, and wishes to see none, and his only pleasure and amusement seems to consist in shooting. he drives out every day in the surrounding _campagna_, often to a distance of twelve and fourteen miles from rome, when he gets out and rides on his pony over the fields in search of quails or snipes. on his return, when he is not too much fatigued, he dictates to me a continuation of his "vision," which he thinks of forming into a series of dialogues on religion and other subjects; and our evenings are spent, as they have been ever since we left calais, with a game or two at cards, and with my reading to him different works, principally english and french, which he procures from a circulating library in the corso. i have formed no acquaintances, as sir humphry wishes me not to do so; but when i have copied off the morning's dictation, i often take a solitary walk in the gardens of the pincio, to st. peter's, or to the colosæum. on christmas-day i went to hear the pope celebrate grand mass at st. maria maggiore. the whole of the interior of this beautiful church was superbly illuminated, more especially near and round the high altar, in front of which the swiss guards were drawn up in a semi-circle, and prevented all who were not dressed in black from approaching it. unaccustomed to the _grandeur_ of the catholic service, i could not but admire the magnificent dresses of the pope and the cardinals, and the grand and impressive music and chaunting. at twelve o'clock, when the service was concluded, a line was formed down the grand aisle, through which the pope and the cardinals retired to the sacristy, to lay aside their splendid, but weighty dresses. his holiness was carried in a superb throne, supported on the shoulders of his attendants, whilst above him was held a splendid canopy, and on each side large and beautiful fans of feathers and gold. the pope's swiss guards, who always attend his holiness when he quits his palace, are, if possible, a caricature of our beef-eaters. they are forty in number, all swiss, and many of them do not even speak italian. on grand fête days they wear steel helmets and breastplates instead of the ancient cap and slashed doublet, which, with black, red, and yellow-striped breeches and stockings, form their usual dress, and in their hands they always carry a long halbert or pike. _ st january, ._ the only festivities either to be seen or heard which announce the new year in rome, consist in the discharge of a few cannon early in the morning from the fort st. angelo, (formerly the mausoleum of hadrian, but now the citadel of rome and state-prison,) and the celebration of grand mass at st. john lateran. _ th._ sir humphry this afternoon received a parcel from england, which he has for some days been expecting with the greatest impatience. it was the "quarterly review," containing sir walter scott's critique on "salmonia," which sir humphry begged me to read to him directly, and he seemed highly pleased with the manner in which sir walter speaks of his work. _ st february._ a short time ago a considerable part of the city was illuminated in honour of eight newly-elected cardinals, whose palaces, as well as those of the roman nobili, were adorned with large wax torches, placed two or more in each window, whilst the houses of the citizens were lighted with small transparent paper lanterns, on which the papal arms were painted. the daily drive on the corso is now often enlivened by many gay equipages and servants in splendid liveries, the gayest of which are those of the russian archduchess helena, and the king of bavaria. i have been twice to the theatre; there are several, and they all opened on the th of january. the two principal ones, argentina and valle, are small, and by no means striking. _ th._ to-day we were near being burnt out of our lodging. on awaking in the morning, i found my room and the drawing-room filled with smoke, and perceived a strong smell of burning wood. the servant said that all the windows had been opened for upwards of an hour, and yet he could not get rid of the smoke. we could, however, discover nothing, till the lodgers from below sent up to say that fire was falling through their ceiling, and upon going into their room i found the ceiling on fire, and that a large hole was already burnt through the beams which lay immediately under sir humphry's fire-place. i instantly sent for the fire-men, who did their business very expertly, taking up the floor of sir humphry's drawing-room, which they found burning for a considerable space round the hearth, upon which so large a fire had been kept up the day before, that the heat had penetrated through the stone, and thus set fire to the beams. in an hour it was quite extinguished, and all danger over. to avoid the bustle occasioned by the reparation required, sir humphry determined to visit the lago di solfatara, sometimes called the lake of the swimming islets, and he begged me to accompany him: we therefore set out immediately, and left rome by the porta st. lorenzo, and following the ancient via tibertina, we crossed, about four miles from rome, the aniene, or, as it is more generally called, the teverone, a small river, which forms the celebrated cascades at tivoli. on many parts of the road the remains of the ancient roman pavement are very distinct, formed of large round or octangular flat stones. about thirteen miles from rome we reached the little bridge across the stream which runs from the lake of solfatara. leaving the carriage here, sir humphry mounted his pony, and, turning off to the left across the fields, we soon reached the lago. it is a small bason of water, of an oval form, and measures in its greatest diameter not more than two hundred yards, but its depth is said to be about two hundred feet. the colour of the water is bluish white, and from the quantity of lime which it holds in solution is by no means clear. the surface appears to be in a state of considerable ebullition, which is caused by the quantity of air that escapes through it, and on flinging in a stone the water bubbles up violently at the spot where it falls. the temperature, however, is far below that of boiling water, for on trying it to the depth of six feet in different places, we found it vary between ° and ° fahrenheit. it continually emits a strong smell of sulphurated hydrogen, which is perceptible upon the high road sometime before one arrives at the lago. the floating islands, which have contributed to render this lake celebrated, are no fable, and are easily explained. around it and upon it are numerous species of _confervæ_ and many small water plants, which, becoming encrusted with the carbonate of lime deposited by the water, form with leaves and grasses compact little masses, which, supported by air bubbles that have lodged beneath, or from their own lightness, do not sink, and becoming detached by accident from the shore, swim about and become larger by the junction of these little masses with each other. these little islands are said to have been seen of a diameter of some feet, but the largest which we saw did not exceed two or three inches. a canal has been cut from the lake to the teverone, which carries off the superfluous water that formerly inundated the surrounding plain. near the large lake are two others of smaller size, the waters of which are, however, exactly the same. sticks, leaves, or insects, or any thing which falls into these waters, become thickly encrusted with a strong and hard covering of marble or travertine. it is probable that these three lakes were formerly only one, and may have covered a considerable part of the plain around, which is chiefly formed of travertine that has been deposited by water. of this stone also the greater part of the edifices in rome, ancient as well as modern, are built. close to the lake are still to be seen the ruins of some ancient roman baths, and it is said that augustus frequently made use of the waters of the solfatara. upon our return to rome i heard at the trattoria or restaurateur's, where i generally dine, an indistinct rumour of the death of the pope, which the italians express by saying, _il santo padre é andato_. _ th._ this morning the death of the holy father was publicly announced by the tolling of the bells, the closing of the theatres and all public offices. his decease appears to cause little sensation among the romans, by whom he seems to have been exceedingly disliked; and happening at this moment just before the commencement of the carnival, all the festivities and gaieties of which are thus put an end to, it does not serve to render his memory more popular. _ th- th._ four cardinals have been sitting in counsel for the last two or three days, deliberating whether or not any public festivities shall be allowed, and have now determined that no public amusement shall take place during the time that the papal throne shall remain vacant. the romans at this news are quite in despair; and no wonder, for i am told that the sum daily spent in this city during the last week of the carnival exceeds , roman crowns. numberless little pasquinades and jeux d'esprit on the late pope circulate among the people, the freedom of many of which not a little surprises me. the two following are among many others which i saw handed about in writing, though i question if any appeared in print. todini was the pope's _barber-surgeon_, to whose ignorance and bad treatment his holiness' death is attributed. v'é chi a todini oppone la morte di leone; roma però sostiene ch 'egli à operato bene. and again-- alle dieci di febraro, e successo un caso raro, a un leon creduto forte diede un asino la morte. _ th._ to-day i made an excursion to tivoli, with hofrath f---- of darmstadt, whom i had met a day or two before by mere chance, in the street, and who kindly greeted me as an old friend. we followed the same road which i had passed over with sir humphry when we visited the solfatara; and about two miles beyond the little bridge over the canal, we again crossed the teverone, by the ponte lucano, near which is the sepulchre of the plautian family, built of travertine, in the shape of a round tower, and on the front of it are still the remains of some columns and latin inscriptions. three or four miles beyond this monument lies tivoli, where we arrived about ten o'clock in the morning, having quitted rome at an early hour, and we occupied the whole morning in viewing the ruins and cascades. our first visit was to the temple of vesta, generally called the temple of the sybil, a beautiful and elegant ruin, situated immediately above the falls of the aniene. it is of a circular form, and appears to have been surrounded by eighteen columns, ten of which are still remaining. these columns are of travertine, and of the corinthian order. close to this temple stands another small one, which is said to have been dedicated to the tiburtine sybil, of a square form, with four ionic columns in front. descending near this temple, a very good path led us down to the grotto of neptune, into which the waters of the aniene precipitate themselves with impetuosity, forming on two sides beautiful cascades, which fall into the same pool, and run from it through a very narrow and highly picturesque valley, round the hill upon which tivoli is situated. leaving the grotto and town, we walked along the side of the mountains which look towards the _campagna_ and rome; and during our walk, our guide showed us the remains and situations of some of the most celebrated villas; the country-house of the poet catullus, and that of horace and quintillius varo. before we ascended to the villa of mæcenas, we passed by the _cascatelle_, beautiful and highly picturesque falls, which seem to rise out of the town of tivoli, and leap down the hill into the valley in many a varied bound. the villa of mæcenas is now used as an iron manufactory; many of the rooms and corridors are still distinct, and the roof is still perfect. the view from hence towards rome is magnificent, embracing the whole _campagna_, with the different towns and villages in it, and is bounded by the cupola of st. peter's. the villa d'este is of modern architecture, and must formerly have been very splendid; but it is now falling fast into decay, and its fine gardens are no longer attended to; the fountains in them are dry, and the numberless statues that adorn them have become brown and dirty. after dining at tivoli we returned to rome, but stopped for two hours at the villa adriana, to view the astonishing ruins of this wonderful spot, where the emperor hadrian attempted to unite all the grand and beautiful objects which he had beheld in greece and egypt. he here built a lycæum, an academy, a pritaneum, like those he had seen at athens; he formed the vale of tempe, in imitation of the celebrated thessalian valley; and not content with earthly subjects, he imagined tartarus and the elysian fields, as described in the ancient mythology. the ruins of this stupendous villa cover a surface of seven miles in circumference, in which are found the remains of circuses, temples, theatres, libraries, baths, palaces, &c. &c., which still present an astonishing proof of the almost inconceivable grandeur and magnificence of the ancient lords of the roman empire. the mind that planned and executed this mighty work, and conceived the idea of bringing together into one spot of ground the noblest edifices scattered over the surface of the gigantic empire which he governed, could have been of no common mould, nor can any one dwell upon it as such, whilst wandering amid these now mouldering ruins. leaving the villa, we proceeded to the solfatara, hofrath f---- not having yet seen it, and from thence returned to rome, where i arrived just in time to read to sir humphry, after having spent a day of no common pleasure, which had not been a little heightened by the kind and friendly interest shown me by the hofrath. _ th- th._ these days have been to me days of extreme anxiety, and often of fearful anticipation. on the th sir humphry was attacked with a renewed stroke of palsy, which had nearly proved fatal to him. in the morning he had, after breakfast, been dictating to me his dialogues, which he had nearly finished, and he appeared even to be better, and more gay than i had seen him for some time. i left him at eleven o'clock, and went to my adjoining room to continue the fair copy, but had scarcely seated myself, when i heard him hastily call me, and upon entering the room i found him fallen upon the sofa, and deprived apparently of the use of his limbs. he evidently thought himself dying, but his voice was quite audible, and he told me, that on attempting to rise from the sofa, he felt that he had no power over his limbs, more especially those of his right side, and that he felt sick at his stomach. with the assistance of the servants i got him into bed as quickly as possible, and i sent immediately for dr. jenks, who came directly, bringing with him dr. morichini. they each did all that was possible to relieve sir humphry's apprehensions, and assured me the danger was not so immediate as he imagined. after they left, i wrote both to doctor and lady davy, and then read to sir humphry during the remainder of the day, which seemed to quiet and calm him. he slept very little in the night, and continued much in the same state through the next day, though he was able during it to dictate some codicils to his will, and to finish the little that remained of the dialogues. on the nd he was rather better, although he had much fever, and was able, with the help of my guiding his hand, to sign two or three papers of importance. on the rd, however, he became worse, and he dictated a letter to his brother, dr. davy, to say that he was dying; but the physicians who visited him daily three times, said he was not materially worse. he has often taken large doses of laudanum and acetate of morphine, (of the latter in one day upwards of twenty grains,) even more than his physicians approved, and on the th he was much worse, having passed a sleepless and very restless night. he was extremely weak, and his voice had sunk to a whisper scarcely audible; he said he felt his forces going, and that he should not outlive the day; yet his mental faculties maintained their power and activity, and seemed to be always occupied with the same subject, his dialogues, the title of which, "philosophical dialogues," he said he wished to have changed for "the last days of a philosopher; or, consolations in travel." i could not persuade him to take anything during the morning, and even the little which he had spoken to me seemed to have exhausted him. the idea that his dissolution was close at hand, was fixed in his mind, and saying that he had but a few hours longer to live, he begged to be left quiet and alone, and pressing my hand said, "god bless you, i shall never see you again." after this he lay in a torpor for many hours, but in the afternoon he revived a little, and dr. morichini at length succeeded in persuading him to take a little broth and a glass of champagne. the reading to him seems to afford him much pleasure, and i have often read to him till midnight; george always sits up with him, and, when anything occurs, immediately calls me. since the th he has gradually got better, and on the th he recovered his voice, and was not quite so desponding as before, and the three following days found him still better, but now and then delirious, from the quantity of acetate of morphine which he has taken and still takes. _ th- st april._ sir humphry has been gradually recovering, and has now considerably regained the power over his limbs, and is often able to be upon the sofa the greater part of the day. it seems impossible for him to exist without being read to, and on one day i read shakspeare to him for _nine_ hours. on the th of march dr. davy arrived from malta, and lady davy from london on the th, she having travelled day and night. their arrival relieved me from much anxiety. when sir humphry is able to bear travelling we shall leave rome, and proceed to geneva by way of florence and genoa, and at the latter city dr. davy will probably quit us to return to malta. sir humphry has latterly found himself so much better, that he often takes a drive for an hour or two. _ th._ this being easter monday, sir humphry determined to drive out and see the grand illumination of st. peter's, which takes place annually on this evening. it was indeed one of the grandest sights imaginable, and we were remarkably fortunate in seeing it this year, when it was said to be more magnificent than usual, in honour of the newly elected pope. between six and seven o'clock in the evening, thousands and thousands crowd over the ponte st. angelo to gain a place in the grand piazza of st. peter's. only the carriages belonging to the cardinals and foreign ambassadors are allowed to pass over that bridge on this evening, all others being obliged to make a considerable detour. at seven o'clock the piazza is crowded with all sorts of carriages, and upwards of an hundred thousand people. this front of the church, the cupola, and two smaller domes, are seen illuminated with innumerable small paper lanterns, fixed at regular distances. this lasts till nearly eight, and in the meanwhile the mass of the people in the piazza are loud in their expression of joy and expectation, but as the hour of eight approaches all becomes still and hushed, and only a half-breathed solitary _adess', adesso_, is now and then heard. with the first stroke of the clock, the great bell of st. peter's sounds _one_. all eyes turn instantly to the cross on the top of the cupola, from out of which a magnificent column of flame is seen suddenly to burst. a _second_ stroke upon the great bell, and the fire is seen descending with the rapidity of lightning over the cupola and the other parts of the church. the bell strikes for a _third_ and last time, and the two magnificent semicircular colonades which surround the piazza, are beheld in a blaze of illumination. the whole is the work of three or four seconds, and so great is the light produced, that of the former illumination not a trace is visible. this lasted for about half an hour, when the lights faded away, and the crowd began to disperse. _ st._ this day was celebrated by a magnificent display of fireworks, which the italians call _la girandola_, on the mausoleum of hadrian. they are announced by the explosion of a tremendous maroon, which seems to shake rome to her centre; this is followed by the eruption of vesuvius, formed by thousands of rockets, which rise at the same moment, and give to a person who has not witnessed an eruption, a terrific idea of that phenomenon. after this follow all kinds of fireworks of the most brilliant description, the whole fort is seen illuminated, and on the top appears the name of the pope in gigantic flaming letters; suns and stars are seen bursting from the dense clouds of smoke which hang heavy in the air, and the scene closes by another eruption of vesuvius, which throws a red and fiery glare upon the neighbouring cupola of st. peter's. _ th._ we this morning quitted rome by the same gate through which we entered, and dined at baccano, where we found the inn thronged with strangers, chiefly english, all flocking to the north. a few miles beyond monte rosa we turned out of our former road, and drove on to ronciglione, a small village of dark black houses, in the midst of which rises a newly white-washed church and cupola, like a shining light in the village of darkness. _ st may._ leaving ronciglione, we passed by the lago di vigo, a small lake, which lay beneath us as we wound up a very steep hill, from the top of which we enjoyed a magnificent view. in the plain beneath us lay horace's soracte; and beyond this mountain, and stretching towards the north as far as the eye could reach, the chain of the appenines, whose lower regions were clad in the fresh green of spring, while the higher ridges were mostly covered with snow, above which rose the more distant summits of the velino and many other snowy peaks, now hidden by light fleeting clouds, and then again glittering in a morning sun. at the bottom of the hill we passed through viterbo, and after a drive of some hours over a hilly country, we came to montefiascone, a small place, celebrated for its wine, which, if the following anecdote be true, once cost a reverend prelate his life. he was a great friend of good wines, and when on a journey used always to send a courier on before to taste the wines of the different places through which he was to pass, and when it was good he was ordered to write to his master _est bonum_, and when remarkably good, _est, est_. on tasting the wine at montefiascone, the courier wrote _est, est, est bonum_, and his judgment seemed to have been right; for when his right reverend master arrived, he drank such a quantity of it that it occasioned his death. from the hill on which the town stands is a fine view of the lake of bolsena, which appears to be the crater of an immense volcano of a former world. in the middle of the water rise two islands of solid rock, seemingly basalt, which is found in considerable quantity on the banks, and appears in some very remarkable formations near bolsena, and the whole country around is volcanic tufa. bolsena is the ancient capital of the etruscans; it lies rather above the road, and we did not pass through it, but drove on to st. lorenzo, a miserable collection of a few houses, where we stopped for the night at a very bad inn. _ nd_. the first town after leaving st. lorenzo was aquapendente, a small and very ancient place, romantically situated in a rocky ravine. between this town and radicofani we left the papal territories, and entered tuscany. radicofani is a small and very old town, on the brow of a steep hill, which is surmounted by an ancient ruined castle. the change in the italian pronunciation almost instantly strikes the ear; for here a guttural sound is always predominant. the dress of the peasants also seems to have changed with the change of country; instead of the white and stiffly-starched handkerchiefs of the roman females, laid in a square upon the head, and falling down the back, we now meet women with pretty black turbans, which give them a much more picturesque appearance; many of them also wear men's hats, only adding one or more black feathers as ornament. in this neighbourhood grows the famous wine of monte-pelluciano, called by redi, _il re dei vini_. it was not, however, at all to my taste, for it seemed to me a strong, rough, red wine. the green-jacketed postilions of the pope have disappeared, and in their place we met with red jackets, turned up with black. having dined at radicofani, we drove on through a hilly and barren country to la scala, a lone house, where the vetturini stop for the night. _ rd._ we quitted la scala early, and passing through the same hilly and uninteresting country, arrived and dined at buonconvento, a small and rather more modern town than any we have yet seen. after dinner we went on to sienna, and the country became rather more interesting, being now and then diversified with country houses and villas. the roads are excellent, and very well kept. sienna lies very high, and is seen from a considerable distance, especially two of its towers; one of them very lofty and slender, and the other streaked alternately with black and white lines, just like a prussian boundary-post. we entered the town by a spacious old brick gateway, and driving through a long and wide street, paved with broad flagstones, arrived at the _aquila nera_, a very good inn. with the exception of the chief street, the others seem narrow and dark. sienna is remarkable for the pure tuscan which the inhabitants speak, as a proof of which they relate the following anecdote:--a preacher of some celebrity being on the road to sienna, to edify its inhabitants with an oration, met a peasant girl on the road, and asked her how far distant he was from the town? she replied to him-- "sbarcate il fiume, salite il monte, avrete sienna in fronte." the orator is said to have been so astonished at hearing these words from a peasant, that he instantly gave up his intention of preaching to such connoisseurs of italian, and returned from whence he came. not only for its pure language is sienna famous, but also for its beautiful women; and this very justly, for no where have i seen so many well-made and handsome figures as in the streets of this town. the cathedral is one of the strangest buildings i ever saw; it is entirely built of alternate layers of black and white marble, and the prussian boundary-post which we saw from a distance is its chief tower. the portico is a fine, but very incongruous piece of gothic architecture; pillars of all sorts and sizes are intermingled with statues of saints, bas-reliefs, horses' heads, and the gaping mouths of dragons, some gilt, some bronze, and others in white marble. the black marble in the interior seemed to overpower the white, and threw a strange and unearthly gloom over the broad aisles as i saw them in the dusk of evening, hung with flags, and lighted with a few flickering tapers, which hardly served to discover here and there some solitary devotee, praying at the altar of his patron saint. in the evening, after reading to sir humphry, i went for an hour to the theatre, where i found a juggler amusing a numerous and delighted assembly with his tricks. _ th._ this was a very rainy day, and sir humphry determined to remain at sienna, to rest himself from the fatigue of the journey, which he has, however, borne much better than could have been expected. in the morning i went again to the cathedral, to see the paintings of raphael. they are painted on the walls of the sacristy, and represent scenes from the life of clement ii. it is said they were only designed by raphael when he was very young, and afterwards coloured by another master; good judges, however, can alone decide upon this point. in the same room are some beautifully illuminated old missals, and a fine marble monument by ricchi, to the memory of the celebrated anatomist mascagni, who was a native of sienna. it represents a weeping female in a sitting posture, holding a scroll in her hand, on which is an inscription in letters of gold, and around her lie different anatomical instruments and books. in the middle of the room, on a lofty pedestal, is an antique group in marble, representing the three graces. they were found in repairing the foundations of the church, and, though much mutilated, are beautifully executed, and may probably have given canova the idea of his graces, as the sacristan told me he had repeatedly visited them, and spent much time in the study of them. the cathedral also contains many fine pictures of very ancient date, one as early as the year . the pulpit of african marble is very remarkable for the beauty of its sculpture, and the inlaid and carved pavement before the altar is also very curious, but its chief boast is the possession of one of the arms of john the baptist; it however has lost its little finger, which a bishop of florence is said to have bitten off through envy, while _devoutly_ kissing the relic. st. john's head is said to be at genoa, and i suppose his other limbs are to be found in some part of italy. _ th._ it rained heavily this morning, but cleared up before we left sienna. the country at first is rather barren and hilly, but improves the nearer we approach to florence. tavernelle, where we stopped to dine and bait the horses, is a small and insignificant village; the country beyond it becomes very pretty; the road is bordered with neat villages and villas, from the gardens of which immense clusters of roses hang over the walls, and the distant hills are covered with fine wood, and with the beautiful fan pine. we saw florence in the valley of the arno long before we reached it; in itself smaller than i expected it, but surrounded on all sides by innumerable villas and hamlets, peeping through the fine woods, or standing in the midst of beautifully cultivated fields. we entered the city by the porta romana, a plain old brick gateway, and drove to the hôtel de l'europe, where we were splendidly and comfortably lodged. _ th- th._ we remained these days at florence, that sir humphry might a little recruit his strength; and during this time, at intervals when he did not want me to read to him, i saw as much as i could of the curiosities of this magnificent capital. the celebrated gallery, which is perhaps its greatest attraction, i was only able just to look at, having but two hours to devote to it. the anatomical cabinet of preparations in wax is undoubtedly the finest thing of its kind existing, and shows what effects patience and perseverance can produce, being chiefly the work of one person. many rooms are filled with glass cases, containing the most beautiful and exact representations of the structure of the human body in all its parts, moulded in wax. the finest and most intricate parts of the human frame are delineated and traced with a distinctness and exactitude hardly to be conceived, and the slightest ramifications of the nerves and vessels have been followed with a clearness and accuracy rarely seen in the most exact preparations of the best cabinets of anatomy. the collection is not confined only to the anatomy of the human body, but contains also numerous specimens of comparative anatomy, amongst which is a most beautiful one of a fish, with all its internal organs. in the museum annexed to the anatomical cabinet are also three representations of the plague at florence, describing this terrific scourge with a horrible and disgusting accuracy. this, and all other collections, are open on certain days, and at fixed hours, to the public, and any one is allowed to enter, and without paying. the cathedral is a fine building, in the same style of architecture as that at sienna, and, like it, is built of black and white marble. the celebrated _campanella_, or belfry, is a lofty square tower, detached from the church, and built in a fine and light style; when i was there it was closed, and i had not time to repeat my visit, so that i did not see the interior. one evening i went to the pergola, a very fine and large theatre: it is extremely simple and elegant, the ground-colour being shining white, relieved by light gilt ornaments, and the opera and ballet were in a style of corresponding elegance. i went once to see the house of dante, now called the palazzo dante, and the residence of the french ambassador. near it is also the dwelling place of the two guicciardini. _ th._ we quitted florence this morning for genoa, and drove on to pistoja in two hours and a half. the road runs through a long continued row of villages and villas, linked together by the graceful festoons of the green vine. the plain is covered with italian vineyards, in which the vines are trained from tree to tree, very different from those of germany. the villages are full of roses; and the nearer hills are spotted with white houses, rising among the green trees, and beyond them appears a chain of loftier snow-tipped mountains. the inhabitants of the villages were all sitting in the sun before their doors, chiefly employed in plaiting straw for the leghorn hats. the drive from pistoja to lucca is most beautiful; the land is in high cultivation, and appears to be very rich. the mountains became grander, more rugged and bolder, as we approached the lucchese territory, which we entered about eight miles from lucca. the ramparts surrounding the town are all planted with lofty trees, which perfectly conceal the houses beyond them, so that, with the exception of one or two towers, no part of the town is visible from without the walls. the streets are old, narrow, and dirty, and the cathedral is an awkward building, the front of which is formed of rows of small arches, one above another, surmounted by a gigantic uncouth white angel, in whose head was stuck a great dry bush. _ th._ we quitted lucca at seven in the morning, and from the top of the hill beyond it, i discovered the straight blue line of the mediterranean. descending the hill, and driving about ten miles through groves of olives and rows of poplars, from which the vines hung down in long single festoons, we passed the boundary of the lucchese territory, and entered the small dukedom of massa-carrara, and shortly after into the town of massa, a neat and airy though old town. white marble is generally used here for the stairs, and for the facings of the doors and windows. whilst dinner was preparing, i took a walk up to the old castle above the town, now emphatically called _the fortress_. its only garrison, however, seemed to consist of four or five soldiers, who were provided with one old rusty cannon. the view from the ruined battlements was highly beautiful: in front lay the wide sea, glancing in the beams of the sun, so bright that the eye could not bear to look upon it; to the left, in the distance, appeared the island of gorgona, rising like a dark blue rock out of the glittering waves; to the right, two smaller islands were seen, beyond which appeared promontory upon promontory, conveying their woods of olives far out into the sea. below the castle a vast plain covered with vineyards and groves of olives was seen, stretching down to the edge of the water, intersected by a silvery river winding among the trees, whilst immediately under the hill, and half hidden by it, lay massa, like the plan of a town spread open before me. beyond it were seen the wooded hills leading to carrara, and behind the castle rose rocky and rugged mountains, here and there spotted with a field or two of remaining snow, and, like the alps, hiding their lofty heads in dark grey clouds. quitting massa, we drove over a noble bridge of one lofty arch built entirely of white marble, and after winding across a long hill, we passed through carrara, near which, in one of the lateral vallies, are the celebrated marble quarries. a little beyond this village we entered the piedmontese territory and the dominions of the king of sardinia, and soon arrived at sarzana, a small ill-looking town. it being sunday, the road and town were covered with peasants in their holiday suits: the dress of the women is one of the oddest i have yet seen; they wear no stockings, and their clothes seem huddled on all in a bundle; their hair is drawn away from their foreheads, and tied up behind in a bag of silk, of different colours, some red, some blue, some black, and always with three or four tassels hanging down from the end, whilst on the top of this bag is stuck the funniest little straw hat possible, looking much like a soup plate turned topsy-turvy, and made of frizzled straw, ornamented with coloured ribbons. the women of a higher rank wear white veils over their heads, and no bags. _ th._ leaving sarzana, we crossed the river magara in a ferry-boat, and after a pleasant drive arrived at spezia, a small narrow-streeted town, beautifully situated at the head of the gulf of spezia, and surrounded on the side near the sea by spacious walks and groves of acacias, which were covered with their long white blossoms, and exhaled a most delightful perfume. in the middle of the gulf, not far from the town, we were informed that a spring of fresh water rises through the sea, forming a pool of fresh water of thirty to forty yards in circumference in the middle of the salt-water. i had however no time to visit this phenomenon, for sir humphry wished to be read to for an hour or two, and we shortly after quitted spezia and with it the sea, and drove on to borghetto, a little miserable village, the road to which was not yet finished, and very bad, though running through a beautiful valley, much resembling some of those of austria, with its clear stream and finely wooded mountains. _ th._ we quitted borghetto early, and winding over a very long and high mountain for four hours, we again saw the sea, two or three thousand feet below us, spotted by many a white flitting sail. in the distance was gorgona, and still further, scarcely visible to the eye, the hazy blue line of corsica, which was however soon lost to us. a great part of the mountain was composed of _serpentine_, with which also the roads were mended. from the top we looked down upon other mountains, covered with villages, but very barren, a few olive groves here and there being the only mark of vegetation. at the bottom of the hill we passed through sestri, a pretty little town close upon the sea, and from thence over a beautiful road on the sea shore to chiavari, a larger town, rather more distant from the sea, and partly hidden by trees, above which rose its white steeples and some of its houses. the gulf of sestri is far more beautiful and diversified even than that of spezia. _ th._ we quitted chiavari this morning for genoa. the road is beautiful and romantic, running for miles along the side of a mountain, and hanging perpendicularly over the sea, which lies many hundred feet below it. in many parts it appears very dangerous, and were the carriage to upset, the traveller would be instantly precipitated into the waves below. between chiavari and rapal there are two tunnels cut through the solid rock. this latter place is a very pretty village or small town, close upon the sea, and the whole country round it seems very populous; country-houses, villas, and farms, appearing on all sides among the vineyards and olive woods. at the top of the last hill, after leaving rapal, we came to another tunnel, which was carried through the summit for one hundred yards or more, and presented us with one of the most striking views possible. looking through the mountain we first saw the blue and tranquil sea, with a few passing sails, then presently rose to view, as it were out of the ocean, the white and glittering towers of _genova la superba_, and its field of masts, scarcely visible to the eye. emerging from the tunnel the view became more extensive, for we could trace the road to genoa, about ten miles off, running along the mountains somewhat above the sea, and lined with villages and villas lying upon the sides of the hills, which, however, were not so finely wooded as those we had just passed. this city of palaces much disappointed me, and does not at all answer to its splendid appearance from a distance; it seems like two different towns brought together from the opposite parts of the world, and built for very different inhabitants. the upper part of the city consists of magnificent streets, or rather rows of marble palaces, while the streets of the lower town form only an assemblage of dirty and narrow lanes. our hotel, la villa, looks out upon the harbour, which is chiefly filled with small craft. in the middle of the gulf, however, were three frigates in full sail, which were bearing the king of sardinia and his suite to naples. _ th- th._ sir humphry has determined to remain here two or three days to recover from the fatigues of the journey hither. dr. davy, who was to have left us here and return to malta, has determined upon accompanying his brother to geneva. i generally read to sir humphry the greater part of the day, but i went on the th for a couple of hours upon one of the hills behind the town, and took a sketch of it as it lay stretched out beneath me. the hills are indeed rather barren, and this, combined with the scarcity of fish, speak for the truth of at least a part of the following proverb, mare senza pesce, montagne senza legno, donna senza pudore, which is often applied to genoa. i went one evening to the theatre, after sir humphry had retired to bed, and was much amused by a magnificent ballet, carlo di borgogna, which, however, ended in a very tragical manner, the heroine being struck dead by lightning amongst rocks and snow, and precipitated into a roaring torrent. the theatre is quite new, and is splendidly decorated. _ th._ we quitted genoa this morning, and drove through the whole town round by the harbour and lighthouse, from which spot the city is seen to the greatest advantage, the white and magnificent buildings and churches rising one above another above the thick crowd of masts, whilst behind the city the hills appear almost covered with country villas and gardens, which in some measure make up for the want of wood. on one or two of these hills are fortresses, which were nearly concealed by the dark and lowering clouds. we drove for some way through a long and very populous suburb on the sea-shore, and then turned off into the valley; and upon reaching the top of a very steep hill, took a last view of the mediterranean. we reached ronco, a small and dirty village, but with a decent inn, in a very heavy shower of rain, and having dined there, we afterwards continued our journey to novi, a small common-place town, where we remained for the night. _ th._ we quitted novi early, and dined at alexandria, passing over the plains of marengo, now fine and flourishing corn-fields. in spite of the thick clouds, we now and then caught a glimpse of the white snow on the distant alps. alexandria is a small, and apparently not a very strong fortress. after dinner we drove on to asti, the birth-place of alfieri, but as much or more celebrated for its fine wines. _ th._ we left asti, and reached piorino by dinner-time; the roads were very bad, and became still worse between the latter place and turin. some time before we reached turin we came to the po, which is here not quite so large as the neckar, but is deep and muddy. turin lies flat, and has not the appearance of a great city from a distance. a fine bridge over the po leads into the piazza del po, a noble square, forming the entrance into the town. the streets are all built at right angles, which gives to the whole city a neat and regular appearance. we remained here during the st, which was a completely wet day, the rain beginning in the morning and continuing without intermission. _ nd._ quitting turin, the road for the first eight or ten miles was excellent, but afterwards was not so good. st. ambrosio, where we dined, is a small and dirty village. every body already speaks french, and the piedmontese-italian, which we met with at sarzana, and heard spoken till we reached turin, is now quite lost in _patois_ of french and italian. from st. ambrosio we had a wet drive to susa, a small town, prettily situated at the foot of monte cenisio or mont cenis. our road lay through a valley bounded on each side by snowy alps, mostly hidden in the dark grey clouds, which towards evening fell in a heavy shower, and then sailed away up the mountain, leaving the evening finer than could have been expected, and promising a fair day for the ascent of mont cenis to-morrow. _ rd._ i have now crossed mont cenis, one of the highest and most celebrated alpine passes, and i have been much disappointed; though i have seen it not only in the dark and veiling gloom of an approaching storm, but have also gazed upon its bleak and rugged rocks, its frozen lake, and its fields of snow, glittering in the redoubled splendour of the returning sunbeams after the storm had passed away; for i must confess that it cannot bear comparison either with the pass of the löbel, or the tauern. it has not the brilliant vegetation of either of these to relieve the eye during the long ascent, nor is the wanderer struck with the fine views that meet him on the austrian passes, either during the ascent, on the summit, or on the descent. after leaving susa and the lower vallies, all is bleak and dreary, rock or snow; the road is very good, and often defended by very stout bars. ascending higher, we reached the _case di ricovero_ or houses of refuge, small square cottages built on the road side at short distances from one another, and which afford shelter to travellers during the storms that are very frequent here, and are generally accompanied by tremendous winds. during our ascent we were visited by a storm of hail and rain, which lasted for about an hour. nearly on the summit of the mountain is a hospital, with a few other houses, and two or three inns, and the whole bears the name of les tavernes. we here passed the boundary of italy, and entered into the duchy of savoy. in front of the little village is a small lake, which was still frozen, and the people at one of the inns told me that in summer its banks are haunted by large, but harmless serpents, which are very good to eat. about half a league beyond les tavernes we found ourselves on the summit of the pass, and looked down upon lans-le-bourg, at the bottom of a wide but barren valley. a few snowy mountains appeared in the distance, but they were neither remarkable in form or height. the road on the french side is by no means so long or so steep as that on the italian side, though it often winds round very unnecessarily. we descended to lans-le-bourg in less than two hours, and remained there for the night. _ th._ quitting lans-le-bourg we followed the valley, which becomes more beautiful as we advanced further to st. michael. the sides are frequently covered with fine woods, from amongst which many grand and lofty cascades come rushing down into the ose, which foams and hurries on in its rocky bed by the road side. near st. michael is a large and strong fortress, which quite commands the road in the valley. from hence we drove on through st. jean, a small town, prettily situated and surrounded by some fine rocky scenery, to la chambre, a paltry little village, with a miserable inn, where however we were obliged to spend the night. _ th._ we quitted la chambre early, and drove on through aiguebelle, where we quitted the valley, and passed on through a more open and hilly country to maltaverne, a very good inn, with one or two small houses near it. the surrounding country seems very well cultivated, and appears to be very productive. _ th._ we left maltaverne this morning early, for aix-aux-bains, passing through mount melian, a small town on the ose, the same river which we followed from the foot of mount cenis, and which we here left a broad and navigable stream. three leagues further we passed through chambery, the capital of savoy, an old town, with dirty and narrow streets, at least those through which we drove, but beautifully situated in a valley, and surrounded with magnificent hills and woods. a very fine road up a long and steep hill, brought us in a couple of hours to aix, which is a very neat little bathing place, and which appears, from the list of last year, to have been much frequented during the season. the springs, which are warm and cold, contain chiefly sulphur and alum. near the village is the lake of bourget, which is pretty, though not on a grand or imposing scale. i took a sketch of it from a stone pier which is built out to a short distance in the lake, and then returned to read to sir humphry, who seemed pleased with the sketch, and said he should like to have it introduced in a future edition of "salmonia," it being one of the lakes which he speaks of in his last dialogue. _ th._ quitting aix, we passed through a finely cultivated, though not very pretty country, the nearer hills being rather barren, and the distant view obscured by clouds, as it has been for the last day or two, to frangy, a small country village, where we passed the evening, as sir humphry did not wish to go on any further. _ th._ we quitted frangy this morning, and reached geneva by twelve o'clock, and drove to the _couronne_. sir humphry is in very tolerable spirits, and the journey seems to have fatigued him so little, that he intends to-morrow morning going out to fish in the lake. _ th may._ i quitted sir humphry yesterday evening, after having read to him as usual, since we left rome, till about ten o'clock. our book was smollet's "humphry clinker," and little did i think it was the last book he would ever listen to. he seemed in tolerable spirits, but upon going to bed was seized with spasms, which, however, were not violent, and soon ceased. i left him when in bed, and bidding me "good night," he said i should see him better in the morning. lady davy and the doctor also quitted him, and george went to bed in his master's room, as he always had done since sir humphry's illness at rome. at six o'clock this morning, lady davy's man-servant came to my room, and told me that sir humphry davy was no more. i replied that it was impossible, and that he probably only lay in a torpor; but i went down to his room instantly, when i found that the servant's words were, alas! but too true. i asked george why he had not called me, when he said that he had sent up, but now found that it had been to a wrong room. he told me that sir humphry went to sleep after we had left him, but that he had twice waked, and that at half-past one, hearing him get out of bed, he went to him, when sir humphry said he did not want his assistance, and poured some solution of acetate of morphine into a wine glass of water; but this still remained untouched upon his table. george then helped him into bed, where he says he lay quite still till a little after two o'clock, when hearing him groan, he went to him, and found that he was senseless and expiring. he instantly called up lady davy and the doctor, and sent up, as he believed, to me; but sir humphry, he says, never spoke again, and expired without a sigh. i had so often, whilst at rome, seen sir humphry lie for hours together in a state of torpor, and to all appearance dead, that it was difficult for me to persuade myself of the truth; but the delusion at length vanished, and it became too evident that all that remained before me of this great philosopher, was merely the cold and senseless frame with which he had worked. the animating spirit had fled to its oft self-imagined planetary world, there to join the rejoicing souls of the great and good of past ages, soaring from system to system, and with them still to do good in a higher and less bounded sphere, and i knew that it was freed from many a wearisome and painful toil: yet i could not look upon sir humphry as he was, without remembering that which he had been, and my tears would fall, spite of my effort to restrain them. the end. footnotes: [a] a calvary is a representation of the crucifixion of our saviour, consisting of one, and often of three large crosses, with accompanying figures and decorations. [b] this word means in krainerisch, a rotten or broken tooth, and is applied in this sense to the jagged summits of the mountain. [c] i was afterwards led to believe that this pond or small lake is not the real source of the wurzen-save, as will be seen in the following pages. [d] a variety of the genus salmo that inhabits the danube and its tributary streams. it sometimes reaches the enormous size of eighty pounds. see a complete description in "salmonia," second edition. [e] proteus anguinus, siren anguina, sometimes called the austrian siren. this rare little animal has as yet only been discovered in the subterraneous caverns of carniola, at adelsberg, and sittich, and very lately in those of heiligenstein, near zirknitz; and is also mentioned in a german journal as having been found in sicily. in shape it much resembles an eel, whence its specific name; but it has never yet been found of more than fifteen or sixteen inches in length, and about three-fourths of an inch in diameter. it is either of a pale rose-colour or perfectly white, but after having been for some time exposed to the light it becomes brown. its skin is very smooth and even, the head somewhat depressed, and with a lengthened obtuse snout; the eyes are situated beneath the skin, and are exceedingly small; on each side of the neck are three ramified bronchial gills, of a bright blood-colour during the life of the animal. it is furnished with four legs or rather appendages, for they appear to be of no use to it, which are about three-fourths of an inch long, and the feet of the fore legs have three toes, whilst the hind feet have only two. its motion when touched in the water is brisk and rapid, and is entirely produced by the action of the tail, unaided by the legs, as i observed was the case with one which i procured from a professor at laibach. it has very fine and sharp teeth, which it seems scarcely to need, having been kept for years together in fresh water apparently without any nourishment, but it has never been known to bring forth young, nor is its origin or real abode at all known. from the period of its discovery its nature has been a subject of discussion amongst naturalists, some imagining it to be the larva of a larger animal, whilst others maintain that it forms a new genus; nor is the question yet determined. [f] stalagmites are inverted stalactites, whose base is fixed to the ground, whilst the point is continually rising to a greater height by the gradual dripping of the water from the roof. [g] transactions of the royal society for . transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. punctuation and type-setting errors have been corrected without note. variations in hyphenation and spelling have been retained as in the original publication. corrections: page , neu-netting ==> neu-Ötting pages , , alt-netting ==> alt-Ötting pages , , , kronan ==> kronau [german name of the slovenian town kranjska gora] page , kanonen-saüle ==> kanonen-säule page , entrance this town ==> entrance to this town page , civitta castellana ==> civita castellana pages , , montefiascove ==> montefiascone page , basriefs ==> bas-reliefs page , we past the boundary ==> we passed the boundary [illustration: froll's antics.--page .] [illustrated title plate: springdale stories. illustrated. eric. lee & shepard; boston.] the springdale stories. eric; or, under the sea. by mrs. s. b. c. samuels, author of "adele," "herbert," "nettie's trial," "johnstone's farm," "ennisfellen." boston lee and shepard publishers charles t. dillingham new york entered according to act of congress, in the year , by lee and shepard, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. affectionately dedicated to frank edward samuels. the springdale stories. complete in six volumes, . adele. . eric. . herbert. . nettie's trial. . johnstone's farm. . ennisfellen. preface. the story of the travels of eric and his friends on the continent of europe will, i trust, be interesting to my young readers. many of the incidents described are actual facts, and the descent of eric, in diving armor, to the bottom of the sea, will be found to possess some items which will be worth remembering. the sights, sounds, and sensations which i have described, are such as any submarine diver of experience has seen, heard, and felt, and therefore will be instructive in a certain way. the finding a box of gold by the divers is not of often occurrence, although valuables are reclaimed from the ocean in this manner occasionally. the lesson taught by eric's honesty in trying to find the owner of the money, and its influence on his accusers, when he is unjustly accused of theft, will be worthy of attention to all my young friends who have a name to make. contents chapter page i. leaving the castle. ii. "the hague." iii. the city. iv. allan's story. v. "seeing the elephant." vi. a dutch city. vii. under the sea. viii. thrilling experience. ix. uncle john. x. strasbourg. xi. eric in trouble. xii. "a friend in need is a friend indeed." xiii. the real thief. xiv. percy, beauty, and jack. xv. the last. eric. chapter i. leaving the castle. olendorf is not far from hamburg. the broad and sparkling elbe washes it on the western side, and with the rugged mountains and the weird grand, old forests upon the north and east, seem to shut the little town quite in from the outer world; yet olendorf had been an important place and on account of its grand old fortress, castle wernier, was a bone of contention throughout the french and german wars; and between the french, who were resolute to hold the fortress, and the barons of wernier, who were equally resolute to regain it, the castle suffered severely; and when, long years after, peace was declared, the last baron of wernier died, and the castle came into the possession of adele stanley, his great granddaughter, it was merely a grand old ruin. adele's father rebuilt the tower and a couple of wings, and furnished all the habitable rooms, intending to have his little adele and herbert spend their childhood there. but while adele was yet almost a baby, her kind father died. then she lost her mother, and was for a long time a wanderer among strangers in a foreign land; and the old castle had been uninhabited, except by gretchen, the gardener's wife, and the owls in its dark turrets. now, however, the long windows were thrown open to the fresh breezes and sunshine; merry laughter rang up from the garden; children's voices echoed among the ruins, and children's feet danced through the long corridors, keeping time to the music of the happy voices. adele and herbert stanley were at the castle with their young guests from new york--eric and nettie hyde. they had spent the summer months there; "the happiest months in their lives," they all declared. now, alas! the merry season was drawing to a close. adele was to go to her grandfather's home in england, herbert to school at eton, nettie with her mother to new york, and eric was to travel in holland and the german states with his uncle, dr. ward, and his cousin, johnny van rasseulger. such a busy day as it was to be! but just now all care was forgotten, even to the regret at parting, in watching the absurd freaks of little froll, the monkey. her real name was frolic; but who ever heard children call a pet by its real name? mrs. hyde called to nettie, requesting her to do an errand. at the sound of her voice nettie ran towards her, exclaiming,-- "o, mamma! adele has given us such a splendid present, to take home with us!" "what is it, my dear?" "i love it so dearly! it's--it's--"--here nettie's voice trembled a little, and her heart knew its own misgivings--"it's--froll, mamma, the little darling!" "and who _is_ froll, the little darling!" "that dear little monkey," answered nettie, pointing to froll, now close at hand. "o," exclaimed mrs. hyde, retreating hastily, "i dislike monkeys, and i cannot have one travelling with me." "but, mamma--" said nettie, piteously. "you need not think of it, my dear; it is quite impossible," was the decided reply, to nettie's disappointment. "but may not eric take her?" "uncle charlie must decide that question: if he has no objections to travelling with an animal that is never out of mischief, i suppose eric may take charge of her." "but then, mamma, eric will be gone a whole long year--" "and as you have lived nine whole long years," interrupted her mother, smiling, "without a monkey, or a desire for one, don't you think you could survive the separation?" nettie didn't then think she could; but a while after, when froll chased her with a paint-brush dripping wet with red paint, and then completely spoiled a pretty landscape view that herbert was painting for her, she changed her mind, and decided that a voyage from hamburg to new york with such an uncontrollable creature would be, to say the least, inconvenient. to be sure, papa was to meet them at the hague, and he might be willing to look to her safe transportation across the atlantic; but she had not much faith in this argument, and, making a virtue of necessity, resigned herself with becoming grace to her mother's wishes. looking back upon the pleasant summer months at castle wernier, the children thought time had never gone so quickly. they were soon to be parted from each other, and their pleasant german home and every object took a new interest to them. "the value of a thing is never known till we have lost it," herbert said, sorrowfully, thinking how lonely adele and he would become when parted from their companions. "nor how dear a place an old castle is, until we are forced to leave it," said eric. "i remember thinking once," said nettie, "that this place was horrible. it was when we were all so frightened about the ghost." "and all the time i was the ghost," adele added; "and i used to think it very hard that i couldn't speak to you, not knowing that i was frightening you all out of your wits." "i suppose more than half the ghosts we read about are only people walking in their sleep, as adele did," said herbert. "of course," said nettie; "but if we stay here all day, talking about ghosts, what will become of our pets and toys?" as herbert and adele were to start for their home in england when mrs. hyde and her children left the castle, all their pets were to be disposed of among the gardener's children, that is, all but froll, for eric was sure that uncle charlie would not object to having the little creature for a travelling companion; and as mrs. hyde would not allow nettie to take her with her, froll was to make the tour of germany with dr. ward and the boys. there were the pony, and the rabbits, and the canary bird, of all which gretchen's children were to take the utmost care, until the dear _fraulien_ and the young _herr_ should come again. and many and loud were the expressions of affectionate regret at the children's departure, oddly intermingled with exclamations of delight at the appearance of numerous toys, which mrs. nichols and mrs. hyde had decided must be left over from the packing. then the garden must be visited in every nook and corner. particular directions must be left with hans concerning their choice flowers and favorite plants. and then there was the grand event of the day--the packing up of their own individual treasures, in the shape of books and toys. they worked hard all day, and were very proud of their work when all was accomplished; but, in the dead of night, when they were fast in the "land o' nod," old mauma, who was prowling around the trunks and hampers to see if all were secure, seemed rather suspicious of one, and knelt down on the floor to examine it, giving it a little shake, by way of test. "dear heart alive!" she exclaimed; "just you look here, missis, please. all those little flimpsy toys and things to bottom, an' the heavy book stuck in any ways to top, an' all of 'em jolting roun' like anything!" poor tired mrs. hyde could not help smiling, as she leaned wearily over the two hampers the children had filled, and gave directions to mauma and gretchen about repacking them. the two women soon accomplished what it had taken the children all day to perform; and to their faithful exertions was owing the safe arrival at fifth avenue and ennisfellen of the toys. early in the morning the children were aroused to prepare for their journey. they were all in high spirits, and thought dressing and breakfasting by candle-light the "greatest fun in the world;" though it is doubtful if they would have held to their opinion had the practice been continued permanently. "nobody wants breakfast so early," nettie said, as she laughed and talked in excitement. "i'm sure nobody wants to lunch on the train," shouted eric, across the hall. "the train, indeed! why, we shall be aboard the steamer at noon. i like to travel on these european steamers," nettie called back. "i am so glad we are all to travel together to the hague," said adele's sweet voice. "how quickly you dress, nettie! but where _can_ my other boot be?" "i'm sure i don't know; let's look for it. here 'tis." "no; that's your own." "sure enough; and i've been all this time doing up yours. shouldn't wonder if we did miss the train. and it's in a knot, and i can't untie it. mauma, mauma, bring another light here, quick! and you'd better hurry, adele." "nettie, did you mean the train was in a knot?" called herbert. "no, it's _not_," said nettie, quickly; and then they all laughed merrily. for, though nettie's remark was not particularly brilliant, there was enough in it to amuse the happy, excited hearts around her. the breakfast received a very slight share of attention. the boys were constantly running below to "see after the horses," and nettie was dancing about, in everybody's way, assuring them all that they would certainly lose the train, and begging adele, for her own safety, to keep close to her, and not to be nervous on any account. "i know somebody will forget something!" she exclaimed for the fiftieth time. "be sure, all of you, to remember." "not to forget," interrupted eric, mischievously. "the carriage has come to the door, herr von nichols!" gretchen announced, through her tears. all the werniers, the ancient holders of the castle, had been herr vons; and as mrs. nichols was a wernier, gretchen had adopted the villagers' fashion of bestowing the title upon the husband. the servants were in the hall, sorrowfully awaiting the departure of their kind patrons. "good by! good by!" the children shouted; while the mournful group bade them "god speed." "who's forgotten anything?" said nettie, crowding into a corner of the carriage. "i think you have, my dear," answered her mother. "where is your sacque?" nettie looked quite dismayed. "o, i packed it, mamma. i forgot i was to wear this dress." there was a general consternation at this confession, until mauma drew the missing article from under her shawl. "here 'tis, miss nettie. i 'spects you'd want it." "i'm ever so much obliged to you, mauma," said nettie, eagerly seizing the sacque, and putting herself into it, while mrs. hyde rewarded the faithful old colored woman with a grateful smile. "i was so busy remembering for the others, mamma," nettie said, apologetically. "perhaps it would be as well for you to attend more particularly to yourself, my dear," was her mother's mild rebuke. mr. nichols and the boys were busy stowing boxes and parcels in various hidden compartments of the carriage. just as mr. nichols announced that they were ready to start, eric thrust his head in at the door, exclaiming, funnily,-- "mamma, nettie is so anxious, suppose you all just feel inside your bonnets, to make sure that your heads are here?" "don't detain us, eric," his mother said, smiling at the frank, joyous face. "all right, mamma. this is my load: let me see,--mrs. hyde, adele, nettie, and mauma. go ahead, carl." the coachman drew up his reins, and the spirited horses, after curvetting and prancing for an instant, dashed down the avenue, adele's and nettie's white handkerchiefs floating on the breeze, in a last adieu to wernier. they were followed immediately by another carriage, containing mr. and mrs. nichols and the boys; and, except for the group of sorrowing servants, watching the fast-disappearing carriages, castle wernier was left alone. chapter ii. "the hague." "the sun rode high, the breeze was free, high dashed the diamond spray, and proudly o'er the dark blue sea the steamer ploughed her way." aboard of the hague, the children, watching the distant spires and domes of hamburg "melt into air" as the vessel bore, with almost imperceptible motion rapidly towards the north sea, began to realize that they would see no more of wernier. and though their sorrow but faintly came home to them, they were sad and thoughtful. adele whispered mournfully to herbert, "o, let us go below! it is so like going out in the europa, with dear mamma, before she died in the wreck. o, herbie, i cannot bear the cruel, cruel sea. take me below." so herbert and adele went to the cabin, and eric suggested to nettie that they should follow. "no," said nettie, "i like to stay here. eric, see that boy look at you; i think he wants to speak." eric looked around, and saw a boy of his own age steadfastly regarding him. when he caught eric's eye, he bowed and hastened forward, holding out his hand. "eric hyde?" he said. "yes," said eric. "do you know me?" "i never _saw_ you before; but i know you, for all that," said the boy. "how?" said eric, astonished, and interested, too. "i knew you by your voice. i used to live next door to you in new york. i was blind then, and auntie sent me out to hamburg, to the famous oculist dr. francis. he has given me my sight, and i am going home alone. auntie doesn't know about it yet; she only knows that the operation was performed two months ago, and that dr. francis had no doubt of its success. won't she be surprised to see me walk into the parlor, and to hear the whole story from me?" "hurrah!" cried eric, excitedly, tossing his cap high in the air. "i remember you well," said nettie; "i am nettie hyde. don't you, eric?" "yes," said eric. "i used to pity you so! isn't it just jolly!" "do you know," said the boy, whose name was allan ramsdell, "i never saw a steamer before to-day! i have been blind so long, ever since i was four years old. i've got the key of my state-room here, but i don't know where to go to look for the room." "i'll show you," volunteered eric. "and, nettie, if you will go down for adele and herbie, we'll go all over the steamer." nettie ran quickly into the cabin, eager to impart the news of their new acquaintance. mrs. hyde was glad of anything that would interest adele, and urged her to go upon deck with herbert. mr. nichols was resting from the fatigue of the ride. mrs. nichols, always feeble, did not feel equal to the exertion of climbing the companion way, the stairs from the upper deck to the cabin, and mrs. hyde wished to remain with her; so the children began their exploring expedition alone. the great steamship was now out in the blue sea. the wide decks were gradually being cleared of passengers as they sought their narrow state-rooms, and as the children were quiet and orderly, no one interfered with them. "this is the dining-hall," announced eric, as the five heads peered in at the door of a long saloon, where tables were ranged for the accommodation of the passengers. behind this saloon was the kitchen, a hot, steaming place, where men, mostly cooks, in dirty white jackets, rushed helter-skelter into each other and around the room. "too many cooks spoil the broth," said herbert, in an undertone, which remark so tickled the others that they all ran off laughing, till they met a stout, dignified "yellow man," holding the store-room keys, and wearing a cleaner jacket than the others. he was the steward, and, being cross, scolded the children roundly for getting in his way. in the lower cabin were the steerage passengers. these had no saloon with tables arranged for their accommodation. they ate plain bean soup from tin mugs, and hard ship biscuit from their hands, and their table was a long board, let down from above by ropes. they stood around the board while eating, and when the meal was finished, the temporary table was drawn up out of the way. by the time these observations had been made mrs. hyde joined them; and after speaking kind congratulations to allan, and inviting him to attach himself to their party, she warned the children of the approach of dinner, and requested them to prepare for it. allan was very grateful to mrs. hyde for her kindness, and thanked her politely. he travelled with her to his aunt's door, and was such a gentlemanly, companionable boy that they all became very much attached to him. it would be pleasant to take the trip from hamburg to the western coast with our party; but that is impossible, as eric has considerable journeying to do in another direction, and we are to accompany him. but the voyage was a pleasant one, and the children saw and learned many new and wonderful things before they reached their destination. we must not forget that little froll left hamburg snugly packed in a cage, and intrusted to mauma's care for the voyage. she was quite a favorite aboard the vessel, and made much merriment by her absurd pranks, and at hague was safely landed, and transported to the hotel. at hague, too, the hydes and allan ramsdell left the vessel, after a sorrowful parting with mr. and mrs. nichols and herbert and adele. chapter iii. the city. it would seem strange to us to hear our native city called "the boston," and stranger still to hear the staid old capital called by more names than one. eric, and allan, and nettie were quite confused in the capital of holland by the variety of names given it. "hague," "the hague," and "la haye" they had heard, but upon their arrival they found its inhabitants calling it "_gravenhaag_," which, mrs. hyde explained, meant "the count's meadow." "what a comical place!" nettie exclaimed, as they glided along through "canal streets" to the hotel. "mamma, if our streets were like these, wouldn't you fret for our precious necks every time we looked out of a window? and i don't suppose you would ever let us go out to play, for fear we'd drown." "still, it is very pleasant gliding under these shady trees; and if you look about, my dear, you will see there are also carriage roads, with sidewalks." "yes," said eric; "we've passed several." "i like these boat roads best," said allan, "they are so novel." "where are we going, mamma?" asked nettie, "and how far?" "to the _vyverberg house_, my dear. i do not know the distance." "is it a mile?" asked eric, of the boatman. he shook his head, saying, "_nein_." but you are not to think that he meant nine miles, for "_nein_" is german for "no." the vyverberg house was at the north end of gravenhaag; so our friends had a fine view of the town, and learned much of its history from the sober old boatman, who, very fortunately for them, spoke english well. he pointed out the moat, which surrounded the city and formed its principal defense, and the drawbridges which crossed the moat. "how different from hamburg!" said eric. "there, a strong wall fortified the town, and most of its streets are now built upon its old walls of fortification." "the canals were similar to these," said his mother. "you did not notice those particularly, because you always rode in mr. nichols's carriage." "but this is a much better looking town than hamburg, mamma." "yes, indeed; the buildings are much handsomer here," she assented. "o, how lovely!" "how splendid!" cried nettie and allan in a breath, as they came upon a fine open space, ornamented with a lake, and wooded island in its centre. "this is the vyverberg," the boatman said. "mamma, how good of you to bring us here!" cried the children; "it is perfectly splendid!" well might they say so. the square containing the lovely lake and island was surrounded by the handsomest and chief public edifices of the city, the finest one of them all being the former palace of prince maurice, now the national museum, celebrated for its gallery of pictures. the royal museum and other famous buildings were there; but that to which our party's attention was most closely drawn was the hotel. it stood facing the lake, a broad, comfortable-looking brick building, with heavy balconies, and frowning eaves and ornamental stucco work surrounded its doorways and windows. between it and the avenue lay a beautiful garden, and just beyond the building was a small shady grove. "mamma," exclaimed nettie, "i _do_ think the germans and dutch have the most exquisite gardens in the world." "they are certainly very beautiful," said mrs. hyde. "here in holland great attention is paid to the culture of flowers. indeed, some of the finest varieties are raised here, and holland bulbs are among our choicest varieties." "mrs. hyde, i suppose i am very stupid," said allan, blushing, "but i do not know what 'bulbs' are." "no, indeed, allan; you show great good sense in asking about whatever you do not understand. that is the way to learn. bulbous plants are those which have a round root, and produce very few leaves; they are such as the tulip, hyacinth, crocus, and others. they are nearly all ornamental and beautiful from the very large size and brilliant color of their flowers. holland tulips were once so much in demand as to bring almost fabulous prices. a gentleman in syracuse gave a valuable span of horses, and another exchanged his farm, for a bed of the tulip bulbs." "thank you, ma'am," said allan. "it is very interesting. when i am a man i think i will be a florist. i am very fond of flowers; they were a great comfort to me when i was blind." as allan ceased speaking, the boat stopped, and they were landed upon a short flight of stone steps. eric gave directions for the baggage, and then all proceeded to the hotel. a carriage was approaching them quite rapidly, and nettie suddenly, with a cry of joy, sprang forward, directly in the way of the horses. if allan had not, at the risk of serious injury to himself, immediately sprung after her and drawn her back, she would have been run over. "let go of me, allan; o, let me go! it is papa!" cried nettie. a gentleman in the carriage stopped the horses, and leaned anxiously forward. "is the little girl hurt?" he asked of allan, in german. poor allan did not understand him, and could not answer. but there was no need, for in another instant, exclaiming, "why, 'tis my own little girl!" the gentleman leaped from the carriage, and nettie was in her father's arms. meanwhile mrs. hyde and eric, who had been separated by carriages from them, and had only seen nettie spring before the horses, and allan go after her, were very much frightened. they now appeared upon the scene, and finding the child sobbing in a gentleman's arms, concluded, of course, that she was hurt. "my darling!" cried poor mrs. hyde, in agony, "o, is she hurt, sir?" "no, ma'am," said allan, "she is not hurt, at all!" "alice!" said mr. hyde to his wife. he had but just landed from the american steamer, and was on his way to the hotel, not knowing of the arrival of "the hague," when he first saw nettie and allan. he was overjoyed to find his family thus unexpectedly. "o, eric, eric! i am so glad!" she exclaimed, in relief; "but nettie!" "my little rash, excitable nettie is safe and sound in papa's arms," he said. but the tremor in his voice showed how nearly nettie had escaped severe injury. "eric, my boy," he added, "have you no word for papa?" eric, white and faint, could not speak a word, but clasped his father's hand convulsively. "and where is my daughter's brave protector and deliverer?" mr. hyde asked, looking around for allan. the boy, who had bashfully retreated behind mrs. hyde, was brought forward and introduced as "our neighbor the blind boy, whose sight is now restored." "he is travelling home with us," mrs. hyde added, when her husband had warmly thanked him. quite a crowd had collected around our travellers, and so eagerly and sympathetically inquired what had happened, that mr. hyde was obliged to tell them, briefly, the incident, as he led the way to the vyverberg house. it was but a few steps, and they were soon in the hotel, where the words of congratulation floated after them from the crowd; and presently a hearty cheer followed, when the good hollanders understood that the little american _fraulien_ had found her father. chapter iv. allan's story. poor nettie was mortified enough by the result of her impulsive act. she was quite frightened by the crowd, and their joyous cheering filled her with terror, for she did not understand that these honest, kindly people were filled with joy because a little girl's heart was made happy. her parents talked to her kindly and seriously of the necessity of learning to govern her impulsiveness, and nettie promised; but, alas! the promise was broken again and again, until she learned by hard and terrible experience to be a careful, thoughtful child. she now found that she had spoiled every one's pleasure for the day. her mother suffered from a nervous headache, brought on by the fright and excitement. her father was obliged to leave, when they were comfortably established in the hotel, in order to transact some important business, and had taken eric with him, starting immediately after their dinner. when he went off with eric, mrs. hyde went to her room to lie down, forbidding nettie to leave the parlor, that she might feel assured of the child's safety. allan had a letter to write to dr. francis and his friends in hamburg; so nettie was obliged to amuse herself. she obtained permission from her mamma to take froll out upon the balcony, and played with her for a little while quite happily. but by and by froll spoiled all the fun; for she _would_ climb up the blinds and mouldings to the utmost limit of her chain, which was just long enough to admit of her reaching the window-sill and thrusting her head into the room where mrs. hyde lay. now, mrs. hyde was really afraid of froll, and these performances were not calculated to cure her headache. she spoke to nettie once or twice from the room; but finding the monkey's visits repeated, she sent allan down to tell nettie that, if froll came up to her window again, she must return to her cage, and nettie to the parlor. "i won't let her go up again," said nettie. "now, froll, be good; _do_ climb down the other way, after this cake. see, frolic, see!" and she threw a little fruit cake over the railing. quick as a flash, froll went after it; so very quickly, as to pull the end of the chain from nettie's hand. before the child had time to think, the mischievous monkey had seized the cake, and was travelling quickly up the blinds and moulding, over the sill, and, as nettie drew a frightened breath, in at the window. "o, dear!" said nettie; "now i'll have to be punished. it's silly of mamma to be so easily frightened." her mamma, meanwhile, had just fallen into a doze. the rattling of the chain startled her; she opened her eyes, and saw the ugly little black monkey perched close beside her. she was quite startled, and very angry with nettie, of course: after securing the monkey safely in her cage, she called nettie to her, and speaking quite severely, told her to return to the parlor, to sit down on the lounge, and neither to rise from it, nor touch anything, until her father and eric came home. poor nettie! it was very dull indeed for her, and before long she was sobbing quite bitterly. meanwhile allan finished his letter, and took up his cap, meaning to take a walk around the square. looking into the parlor, and seeing nettie's distress, he resolved to give up his walk and to comfort nettie. "i wouldn't cry, nettie," he said, so softly and kindly that she stopped crying, and looked up at him. "i will stay with you now. i've written my letter." nettie's face lighted up instantly, but fell again as she exclaimed,-- "but it is not fair, allan: you told eric you should take a walk; mamma is very unkind and unjust, too! i could not help froll's going up that time." "o, nettie," said allan, "don't ever speak so of your mother, so kind and good. my mamma is dead, nettie; and if yours should ever be laid away in the cold, cold ground, you would feel so dreadfully to think you had wronged her!" nettie was crying again. "i _do_ love mamma, and it was very bad of me to speak so; but, o, dear! i never _do_ do anything right. i don't see why i can't be good, like adele." "i know what makes adele so good and gentle," said allan. "she loves the lord, and tries to please him." "but _i can't_!" said nettie, piteously. "o, yes, you can, nettie. every one can." "grown-up people can, i know." "and children too," said allan, earnestly. "let me tell you a story auntie used to tell me, when i was blind." nettie assented, and allan repeated the story of "little cristelle," unconscious, the while, that he was fulfilling the teaching of song in ministering to nettie. "slowly forth from the village church, the voice of the choristers hushed overhead, came little cristelle. she paused in the porch, pondering what the preacher had said. "'_even the youngest, humblest child_ _something may do to please the lord._' 'now what,' thought she, and half sadly smiled, 'can i, so little and poor, afford?' "'_never, never a day should pass,_ _without some kindness kindly shown_,' the preacher said. then down to the grass a skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone. "'well, a day is before me now; yet what,' thought she, 'can i do, if i try? if an angel of god would show me how! but silly am i, and the hours they fly.' "then the lark sprang, singing, up from the sod, and the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, 'he says he will carry my prayer to god; but who would have thought the little lark knew?' "now she entered the village street with book in hand and face demure; and soon she came, with sober feet, to a crying babe at a cottage door. "it wept at a windmill that would not move, it puffed with its round red cheeks in vain; one sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove, and baby's breath could not stir it again. "so baby beat the sail, and cried, while no one came from the cottage door; but little cristelle knelt down by its side, and set the windmill going once more. "then baby was pleased, and the little girl was glad, when she heard it laugh and crow, thinking, 'happy windmill that has but to whirl to please the pretty young creature so!' "no thought of herself was in her head, as she passed out at the end of the street, and came to a rose tree, tall and red, drooping and faint with summer heat. "she ran to a brook that was flowing by, she made of her two hands a nice round cup, and washed the roots of the rose tree high, till it lifted its languid blossoms up. "'o, happy brook!' thought little cristelle; 'you have done some good this summer's day: you have made the flowers look fresh and well.' then she rose, and went on her way. "but she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook, some great rough stones, that troubled its course, and the gurgling water seemed to say, 'look! i struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse. "'how these stones obstruct my road! how i wish they were off and gone! then i would flow, as once i flowed, singing in silvery undertone.' "then little cristelle, as bright as a bird, put off the shoes from her young, white feet; she moves two stones, she comes to the third; the brook already sings, 'thanks! sweet! sweet!' "o, then she hears the lark in the skies, and thinks, 'what is it to god he says?' and she tumbles and falls, and cannot rise, for the water stifles her downward face. "the little brook flows on as before, the little lark sings with as sweet a sound, the little babe crows at the cottage door, and the red rose blooms; but cristelle lies drowned! "come in softly; this is the room. is not that an innocent face? yes, those flowers give a faint perfume: think, child, of heaven, and our lord his grace. "three at the right, and three at the left, two at the feet, and two at the head, the tapers burn; the friends bereft have cried till their eyes are swollen and red. "who would have thought it, when little cristelle pondered on what the preacher had told? but the wise god does all things well, and the fair young creature lies dead and cold! "then the little stream crept into the place, and rippled up to the coffin's side, and touched the corpse on its pale round face, and kissed the eyes till they trembled wide,-- "saying, 'i am a river of joy from heaven; you helped the brook, and i help you; i sprinkle your brows with life-drops seven; i bathe your eyes with healing dew.' "then a rose branch in through the window came, and colored her lips and cheeks with red; 'i remember, and heaven does the same,' was all that the faithful rose branch said. "then a bright, small form to her cold neck clung; it breathed on her till her breast did fill, saying, 'i am a cherub fond and young, and i saw who breathed on the baby's mill.' "then little cristelle sat up and smiled, and said, 'who put these flowers in my hand?' and rubbed her eyes--poor innocent child-- not being able to understand. "but soon she heard the big bell of the church give the hour; which made her say, 'ah! i have slept and dreamt in this porch. it is a very drowsy day!'" "o," said nettie, drawing a long, deep breath, "i think, allan, that it's the most beautiful story i ever heard. do you know who wrote it?" "no," said allan. "i used to think it was auntie's own; but i asked her once, and she said, 'o, no, indeed!' and that she did not know who wrote it, but thought it was a translation from the german." "adele would have liked that so much!" said nettie thoughtfully, "and she would have been just like little cristelle, too." "yes," said allan, "i think she would; and that would have been because both of them were trying to please the lord. don't you see, nettie?" "but after all, allan, it is not a true story." "it's an allegory," said allan. "it means that if we do every little simple kindness for the sake of helping others and pleasing the lord, that we shall be children of the lord, and live in heaven with him." "then, allan, you are one of the 'children of the lord;' for you do kind, generous things all the time, and--" "no, no, nettie," said allan, hastily interrupting her. "i am very selfish, and i have to try very hard, and pray to the lord jesus to help me to be good." "but you _do_ give up for the sake of others, you know; now this afternoon--" "i am having a delightful time, and enjoying myself hugely," said allan, interrupting her again, and laughing merrily. "i'll go and get my checker-board, and we'll have a game." thus, thanks to the kind-hearted allan, the afternoon wore pleasantly away, and when mrs. hyde and eric returned, allan and nettie were both very happy, and in the midst of an exciting game. mrs. hyde had slept off her headache, and was giving orders for tea on the balcony, to the children's intense satisfaction. chapter v. "seeing the elephant." "'you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,'" sang nettie, as she leaned over the balcony railing, gazing out upon the lovely lake and island before them; for mr. hyde had explained that, as his time was exceedingly limited, he could allow them only three days to explore havenhaag, and at the end of that time they must leave for new york. "so we will begin with the royal museum to-morrow morning," he added; "and all who are up in good season can take a trip with me, in one of those shallops, around the lake." after the children had retired, mr. and mrs. hyde held a consultation about eric. they expected the arrival of dr. ward and their nephew daily, and were in hopes of seeing them before the steamer should sail. but there was just a chance that the doctor might be delayed at paris; and if it should so happen, what would eric do? his parents were unwilling to disappoint him by taking him to new york without making the desired tour of germany; and they disliked the idea of leaving him, a young boy of thirteen, alone in a strange place. but his father at length decided to let him remain at the vyverberg house, in case the doctor should be detained until after they had sailed. eric was a thoughtful, reliable boy, and old enough, his father said, to learn to depend upon himself. mrs. hyde felt some misgivings as to this course at first; but her confidence in eric was so great, that she soon consented to it, and having once decided in favor of the plan, she would let no thought of it trouble her. you may be sure that the three children did not need an "early call" in the morning, for they were up and dressed with the daylight, having a romp on their balcony with froll, who frightened several of the occupants of adjacent rooms by trying to get in at their windows. nettie told eric how froll had got her into disgrace, the day before, by the same trick. "i think," said eric, "that she must once have belonged to an organ-grinder, and have been taught to climb up for money." "very likely," said allan. "but you had better break her of the trick. people, as a general thing, are not fond of the sudden appearance of a black monkey at their chamber windows." "here's papa!" cried nettie. "now for our sail!" "isn't mrs. hyde coming?" allan asked. "here she is! good morning, mamma, and--o, eric, mind froll!" cried nettie; but too late, for froll had darted from him, and gone in at an open window above. there was a breathless silence. mr. and mrs. hyde were very much annoyed, and the children were alarmed for the safety of their pet. while they were momentarily expecting a scream of terror from the occupant of the room, froll reappeared at the window, and, with a grin and chatter of defiance, tumbled out, and clambered down towards the children, with a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses in her hand. a night-capped head, thrust out after her, was withdrawn again hastily, as its owner's eyes encountered those of mrs. hyde. saucy froll perched herself upon the top of the parlor blind, stuck the glasses upon her nose, and peered down at the children, who greeted this manoeuvre with an irresistible burst of laughter, in which their father and mother joined. the owner of the glasses again thrust his head out at the window, minus the nightcap this time, and seeing the monkey, laughed as heartily as the others. leaning forward, he could reach the chain, which he caught; and then froll was made to surrender her plunder; after which she was committed to her cage in disgrace. the sail on the lake was delightful. the water was as smooth as glass, the air fresh and cool, and the little island in the lake's centre was crowded with song birds, whose sweet, merry notes rang musically over the water, and were echoed back from the shore. after breakfast they prepared to visit the places of interest in "gravenhaag." mr. hyde led the way to the national museum, occupying the prince maurice palace--an elegant building of the seventeenth century. numerous guides offered their services, and when one had been engaged, our party followed him up a broad, solid stairway to the famous picture gallery. most of the paintings were old pieces of the german masters, and did not interest the children so much as their parents, for they were too young to appreciate them. but in one of the rooms almost entirely covering one end, was a grand picture, so vivid and natural that nettie was quite startled by it at first. it was a picture of a young bull spotted white and brown, a cow lazily resting on the grass before it, a few sheep in different attitudes, and an aged cowherd leaning upon a fence. the background of the picture was a distant landscape, and all the objects were life-size. "that picture is paul potter's bull--a highly prized work of art," said mr. hyde. "when the french invaded holland, napoleon ordered it to paris, to be hung in the louvre." "i suppose it didn't go, as it's here now," remarked allan. "yes, it was carried there, and excited much admiration. but when holland was free of the french, and germany victorious, the painting was reclaimed." the children could have staid, gazing with delight upon it, for a much longer time than was allowed them. the guide soon led the way to the royal museum of curiosities, and they reluctantly followed. the collection of curiosities was in the lower part of the building, and here they saw all kinds of chinese and japanese articles, which, the guide informed them, was the largest and best collection of the kind in the world. there was enough here to interest our young folks, and old folks, too. all kinds of merchandise and manufactures, and most interesting and complicated toys, model cities, barges gayly-colored and filled with tiny men at work on tinier oars, pagodas, shops, temples, huts, houses, vehicles, and men, women, and children in every variety of costume, engaged in every conceivable employment. so fascinating was this museum that the entire morning was most agreeably spent in it; and there was but just time, before leaving it, to look into the historical department, where were many objects of interest, and among other things the armor and weapons of de ruyter, the famous admiral. at any other time these would have possessed great interest for the boys; but now they rather slighted them for the unique toys of china and japan. after their dinner and a half hour's rest, the children paid a visit to the king's palace; for gravenhaag, you must know, is the favorite residence of the king and court. nettie and the boys walked very carefully, and held themselves very properly, such a thing as a visit to the king's palace not being a daily event with them. although she would not have missed going for anything, nettie was a little alarmed at their situation, as they drew near to the palace, a large grecian building, with two wings, forming three sides of a square. she had an idea that whenever kings were displeased with people, they ordered their heads to be cut off; and she wondered if he _would_ be pleased to have their party looking at his possessions. her fears were groundless, however. as they reached the square, they saw, near the entrance to the palace, a fine-looking man, well dressed and gentlemanly, who smiled kindly at the children, and, seeing their eager scrutiny of the palace, politely invited them to enter it. the boys were delighted, but nettie declared that she was afraid of the king. "o, the king will not trouble you, my little maid," said the stranger, in excellent english: "walk in, walk in!" he held out his hand to nettie, and was such a kind, pleasant-looking man, that nettie's fears vanished. she gave him her hand, and the two boys followed her into the palace. yes, actually _into_ it, when, a few minutes before, she had hardly dared venture a terrified glance at the outside, and was momentarily expecting the stern command,-- "off with their heads!" their new friend led them to a lovely garden, gave them flowers and fruit, and chatted gayly with them all the time. then he took them to several apartments of the palace, and finally into the drawing-room. the children noticed that every one made a respectful bow to their kind escort, and concluded that he must be some great nobleman; but judge of their surprise, when they found themselves being presented by him to a beautiful, pale lady, quietly dressed in black. "alicia, my dear," said their nobleman, still speaking in english, "i have brought these young american travellers to see you. my little friends," to the children, "yonder lady is the _queen of holland_." wasn't _that_ enough to confuse the best bred child in the world? poor eric had a faint idea that he must kiss the queen's toe, as a mark of courtesy, and stepped forward, with a dizzy singing in his ears, to do so. but he was saved from such a ridiculous situation by the gentle queen, who smiled and extended her hand; then eric thankfully remembered that it was the queen's hand and the pope's toe. so he bent gracefully forward and kissed queen alicia's white fingers. allan, of course, did the same. and nettie had no time to consider what she must do, for the queen had kissed her quite warmly at first, and their strange guide had drawn her to his knee. "why did you fear the king, little maid?" he asked, so kindly that nettie confessed her idea of majestic temperaments. how he laughed! and how the queen laughed, too! "now, i suppose you will want to go to mamma," he said, soon afterwards; and giving them each a gold coin, added, "keep these to remember me by, and you can tell your friends that the _king of holland_ gave them to you." the children were perfectly amazed, and could not speak their thanks properly; but of this the king took no notice. he led them to the entrance on the street, and then kindly said, "good by." mr. and mrs. hyde, who had become quite anxious over their long delay, were much relieved to see the children come safely home just before tea-time. they were quite as much astonished, by the account of the visit, as our young folks had supposed they would be. tea, on the balcony, and some quiet music in the evening, finished up the day; and when the tired children sought their pillows, they quickly fell asleep. chapter vi. a dutch city. it would take too long to mention all the sights seen and famous places visited by the travellers in gravenhaag. they were admitted to the palace of the prince of orange, and saw his famous collection of paintings and chalk drawings. they went over the _binnenhof_, which is a collection of ancient stone buildings, containing a handsome gothic hall, and the prison in which grotius and barneveldt were confined, the churches, synagogues, and the royal library, and walked on the _voorhout_, a beautiful promenade, with a fine, wide road lined with shade trees and furnished with benches, to the _bosch_, a finely wooded park belonging to the king of holland. in its centre, reached by winding walks among the trees and beautiful lakes, stands the _huys in den bosch_--house in the wood--the king's summer palace. after visiting all these places, and the printing establishments and iron foundery, mr. hyde, finding he had another day before the steamer sailed, took them all to rotterdam. they went by railway to the city, and drove around it in an open carriage, like a barouche, which was waiting at the depot. mr. hyde, who had been there before, was quite familiar with the place. he ordered the coachman to drive through the high street; and soon the children found themselves on a street considerably higher than the others, lined with shops, and looking very pleasant and busy. mr. hyde told them it was built upon the dam which prevented the maas river from overflowing. "and this is the only street in rotterdam," said he, "which has not a canal in its centre." [illustration: the queen of holland.--page .] when they had gone the length of high street, they came to street after street, each having a canal in the middle, lined with trees on both sides, and exhibiting a medley of high gable fronts of houses, trees, and masts of shipping. "dear me!" cried nettie; "i wouldn't live in such a place for the world. it's pretty to look at; but think of having those ships going by right under the drawing-room windows. they make me giddy." "how many canals!" cried allan. "they go lengthwise and crosswise through every street but the high." "and these clumsy bridges," said nettie again, pointing to the drawbridges of white painted wood which they saw at every little distance; they were made of large, heavy beams overhead, and lifted by chains for the vessels to pass through. under the trees, beside the canals, were yellow brick "sidewalks," as nettie called them; but they were really quays, for the landing of goods. between the trees and the houses, on a coarse, rough pavement, among carts, drays, and carriages, walked the foot passengers quite frequently. for though there were sidewalks close to the houses, little outbuildings and flights of steps to doorways were continually in the way, and it was "impossible for one to walk straight along, or at all fast, on any of them," as the children said. "mamma," said nettie, "i should think they would break their necks every minute. just look at those canals, right in the street, and nothing to keep people from falling into them. what do they do in dark nights?" "how do they light the streets, papa?" asked eric. "by oil lamps, hung on ropes from the houses to the trees," said mr. hyde. "they have gas on the high street." allan's attention had been attracted by some curious little structures outside the lower windows of several of the houses. "what are they?" he asked. "looking-glasses," said mr. hyde. "looking-glasses, papa! _outside_ their windows?" exclaimed nettie. "yes, dear; they are hung so as to reflect the passing objects to the people inside." "then they can see whatever is going on in the streets below, without coming to the windows," said eric. "what a funny custom!" exclaimed nettie, again. the only building they visited was the church of st. lawrence, where they saw the famous great organ, a splendid structure, larger than the great organs of haarlem and boston. it is one hundred and fifty feet high, mounted upon a colonnade fifty feet high, and has five thousand five hundred pipes. in the market-place they saw a statue of the great scholar erasmus, and "the house where he was born," which is now, alas! a gin-shop. from the _boomptjes_, a fine quay, planted with rows of beautiful trees, and surrounded by elegant, dark brick mansions, our party chartered a little sail boat, and went out upon the maas. the beautiful, quiet maas, with rotterdam's green, woody banks in view; the blue, blue sky, seen clearly in the limpid waters; the steamers coming and going, and birds flying around, adding their sweet notes to nature's harmony--this beautiful picture was one remembered by the children all their lives. to-morrow's parting hung its shadow over them, and softened their hearts to the true beauty everywhere expressed. the sun had set when they reached the vyverberg for the last time. "mamma," said eric, regretfully, "i almost wish i was going home with you all." "uncle charlie may come to-night," said his mother, cheerfully. "at any rate, he will soon come. you would then wish you had staid." "yes, i know," said eric. "but it is very hard to let you all go home without me, for all that." very careful directions were given to eric, and he was placed under the care of the landlord until he should hear from his uncle. the evening was very short to eric, who lingered by his mother, and could not bear to leave her side, knowing he should see her no more for a long, long year. long after nettie and allan had left them, he staid with his parents, listening to their last kind advice, and sending little loving messages to his cousins and schoolmates. in the morning he saw them off with a heavy heart. his father's last kind words, allan's affectionate greeting, nettie's tears, and his promise to his mother that he would remember his prayers and daily chapter in the bible, and would try to make his travels a useful, profitable study, and to keep himself truthful, honest, and kind, were mixed up with a hearty, homesick longing to go after them. his eyes filled with tears as the stretch of water between him and his dear ones rapidly widened; he turned from the wharf with a sorrowful face, slowly and sadly retracing his steps to the hotel. "how dismal it will be! how lonely and dismal without them!" he thought and murmured sorrowfully,-- "alone, alone, all, all alone!" chapter vii. under the sea. eric had been but a few minutes in the parlor at the hotel, and was trying to amuse himself with little froll, when there came a tap upon the door, and the servant entered with a card. eric read the name, emil lacelle, and written underneath, _no. vyverberg house._ "who in the world," thought eric, "is emil lacelle? and what did he send this to me for?" the waiter explained that the gentleman was waiting, in his room, up stairs; and eric, with froll on his shoulder, started for no. . the door stood open, disclosing a pleasant room, with various kinds of odd-looking armor lying around: seated by a table was a gentleman dressed in black, whom eric recognized at once as the one whose glasses froll had stolen. this gentleman was looking for eric, and said at once, when he entered the room,-- "i am pleased to see you, monsieur," and politely requested him to be seated. "do you speak french?" he asked. "not very well, sir," answered eric. "german?" inquired the stranger. "yes, sir," said eric. "and english?" "yes, sir; i am an american." "i am a frenchman," said mr. lacelle. "i want you, if you please, to do me a little service." "i will do anything that i can for you," said eric. "i am very much obliged to you already for being so good-natured about your glasses." "do not mention it!" mr. lacelle exclaimed, with the natural politeness of a frenchman. "i have taken quite a fancy to your playful little beast." and he coaxed the monkey to him, and gently stroked her soft hair. "what is it that i can do for you, sir?" asked eric. he was beginning to like mr. lacelle very much. "i have a letter to write to america, and am not enough of an english scholar to undertake it. now, therefore, if i tell to you that which i want written, would you be so very kind, if you please, as to write for me, it?" "yes, indeed; with much pleasure," said eric; thinking the while, "no wonder he does not like to undertake a letter in english, when he speaks the language so clumsily." mr. lacelle, still holding froll, brought forward a traveller's writing-desk, filled with perfumed french paper, and then placing it before eric, and saying politely, "at your convenience, _monsieur_," he reseated himself. eric arranged the paper, took up a pen, and after writing the date, sat waiting for his instructions. "for example, what do you say to two gentlemen?" asked mr. lacelle. eric was completely puzzled, and could only say, "sir?" "pardon me!" exclaimed the frenchman, "to _one_ you would say 'sir;' but to two, would you say 'sirs'?" "yes," answered eric, but, recollecting some letters he had copied for his father, added, "o, no: it's _messrs._" "exactly!" said mr. lacelle. "i thank you. that is fine." he appeared quite relieved, and began dictating. "the vyverberg, at the hague, holland, october , -. "messrs. brown and lang: "i have given to myself the pleasure of examining the sunken yacht in the zuyder zee; and my opinion it is, that that vessel is injured not in the least, and that i can right her for the sum of two hundred dollars. "most respectfully to you, messrs., emil lacelle, _submarine diver._ "to messrs. brown and lang, new york city." "is it quite correct english?" he asked, anxiously. eric rewrote it, transposing some of the words. mr. lacelle was very grateful for the boy's assistance. he was by no means ignorant, but his knowledge of english was rather limited, and he was too sensitive to be willing to send off a peculiar letter. mr. lacelle's history would be very interesting, had we time to give it minutely; but there is only space to say that he was the younger son of a noble french family, whose circumstances during his youth were so unfortunate that he was thrown upon his own resources at a tender age, and had, by great energy and perseverance, become a wealthy and famous man. eric knew that "sub" meant under, and "marine" the sea, but he did not understand exactly what it all meant; so he asked mr. lacelle, whose explanation and subsequent conversation, we will render in readable english. "a submarine diver is one who goes beneath the water of the sea: professionally he examines and clears harbors, removing obstructions, such as rocks, &c.; draws up sunken vessels, examines wrecks, and brings up from the depths of the ocean money, jewels, and articles of value." "but tell me," cried eric, eagerly, "how does he breathe? what protects him in the water? how--" "i will tell you all about it," said mr. lacelle. "there are several divers here in the house. we are going to the zuyder zee, near amsterdam, to-morrow, and you shall go too, if you wish." "o, thank you, sir," said eric. "i would like to." "meanwhile i will tell you," proceeded the diver. "we wear an armor such as this," he explained, pointing out the several pieces to eric, as he noticed them. "in the first place an india-rubber suit like this. you will observe that it is made entirely water-proof, by being cemented down in the seams, wherever it is sewed." eric looked with interest upon the clumsy-looking dress, which was made entirely whole, except the opening at the sleeves and neck, and was cut away above the shoulders, like a girl's low-necked dress, to admit the body of the wearer; the legs were footed off like stockings, and the wrists of the sleeves were terminated by tight, elastic rubber bands; a similar band surrounded the neck, which was also finished with a flap of white rubber facing. "you see," continued mr. lacelle, "we put ourselves into this suit, drawing it on from the top. it is perfectly water-tight. upon our feet we wear shoes such as these," pointing to a pair of heavy leather shoes, with broad, high straps and buckles, and lead soles half an inch thick. "they weigh twenty-five pounds." "why!" exclaimed eric; "i should call that something of a load." "the weight is imperceptible in the water," the diver explained, and, showing eric a couple of box-shaped canvas bags, added, "we wear these also, filled with weights, just above the waist, one before and one behind." "but you haven't told me yet how you breathe in the water," said eric. "i am coming to that shortly. upon our heads we wear a helmet, made of copper, completely covering head, face, and neck, and firmly inserted between the rubber facing and the tight band about the neck of the dress, just above the shoulders. to the back of the helmet is fastened a rubber hose, attached, above the water, to the pump, which keeps the diver supplied with air; and there is a glass window in the front. a half-inch rope, called the life-line, is securely adjusted to the diver, and by it he is lowered into or drawn from the water; and by it, also, he signals to those above for more air, for withdrawal, or anything he may require." "this helmet is heavy enough," said eric, lifting and examining the curious structure. "there is a valve inside: what is that for?" "to let the air, which the diver breathes from his lungs, into the water," mr. lacelle replied. "this machine in the case," pointing to a high black-walnut case, "is a three-cylinder air-pump; two men in the vessel, or on the shore, keep the pumps constantly in motion by means of the crank attached to the wheel." "why do they have more than one pump?" eric inquired. "one pump," answered mr. lacelle, "would not supply enough air; it would work like a water-pump, sending down the air by jerks, and the receiver would be exhausted between the supplies of air. two pumps would send down the air puff-puff, like the pumps of a steam engine; but three pumps, constantly in motion, send down, through the hose, a steady and continuous stream of air, enabling the diver to breathe freely and fully." "and can you go down into any depth of water?" eric asked, with intense interest. "not lower than one hundred feet, usually, the pressure of the water is so great. i have been down one hundred and fifty-six feet below the surface; but that was something very remarkable." "and did you never have any hair-breadth escapes, or thrilling adventures?" inquired eric. "no," answered the diver, with a slight laugh and shrug of the shoulders, "i never did, and never knew any one who did, although i have read of many such incidents, altogether too marvellous for belief. you see," he continued, "we know that the least carelessness would probably cost us our lives, and we are minutely accurate about all our equipments. and," lowering his voice and speaking reverentially, "i always commit myself to the guidance and tender care of the good shepherd. "'they that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, "'these see the works of the lord, and his wonders in the deep. "'they cry unto the lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distress.'" eric listened, and his respect and esteem for the diver grew tenfold more. mr. lacelle continued:-- "it is a strange business. the danger fascinates some, but the peril is never lost sight of. i put on the helmet, for the first time, more than ten years ago; and yet i never resume it without a feeling that it may be the last time i shall ever go down. of course one has more confidence after a while; but there is something in being shut up in an armor weighed down with a hundred pounds, and knowing that a little leak in your life-pipe is your death, that no diver can get rid of. and i do not know that i should care to banish the feeling, for the sight of the clear blue sky, the genial sun, and the face of a fellow-man after long hours among the fishes, makes you feel like one who has suddenly been drawn away from the grasp of death." "were you ever in great danger?" asked eric. "i think the most dangerous place i ever got into was going down to examine the propeller comet, sunk off toledo. in working about her bottom, i got my air-pipe coiled over a large sliver from the stoven hole, and could not reach it with my hands. every time i sprang up to remove the hose, my tender would give me the 'slack' of the line, thus letting me fall back again. he did not understand his duties, and did not know what my signals on the life-line meant. it was two hours and a half before i was relieved, and there was not a moment that i was not looking to see the hose cut by the ragged wood. it's a strange feeling you have down there. you go walking over a vessel, clambering up her sides, peering here and there, and the feeling that you are alone makes you nervous and uneasy. "sometimes a vessel sinks down so fairly, that she stands up on the bottom as trim and neat as if she rode upon the surface. then you can go down into the cabin, up the shrouds, walk all over her, just as easy as a sailor could if she were still dashing away before the breeze. only it seems quiet, so tomb-like; there are no waves down there--only a swaying back and forth of the waters, and a see-sawing of the ship. you hear nothing from above. the great fishes will come swimming about, rubbing their noses against your glass, and staring with a wonderful look into your eyes. the very stillness sometimes gives life a chill. you hear just a moaning, wailing sound, like the last notes of an organ, and you cannot help thinking of dead men floating over and around you. "a diver does not like to go down more than a hundred and twenty feet; at that depth the pressure is painful, and there is danger of internal injury. i can stay down, for five or six hours at a time, at a hundred and fifteen or twenty feet, and do a good deal of hard work. in the waters of lake huron the diver can see thirty or forty feet away, but the other lakes will screen a vessel not ten feet from you. "up here you seldom think of accident or death, but a hundred feet of water washing over your head would set you to thinking. a little stoppage of the air-pump, a leak in your hose, a careless action on the part of your tender, and a weight of a mountain would press the life out of you before you could make a move. and you may 'foul' your pipe or line yourself, and in your haste bring on what you dread. i often get my hose around a stair or rail, and generally release it without much trouble; the bare idea of what a slender thing holds back the clutch of death off my throat makes a cold sweat start from every pore." "i suppose you find many beautiful things," said eric. "i wish i could describe half the wonderful and beautiful things i find," cried mr. lacelle. "there are flowers, the most exquisite that can be imagined; groves of coral, beautiful caverns, with floors of silver sand, spiral caves winding down, down, down, covered with beautiful, delicate plants, and leading to beds of smooth, hard sand, which shine like gold. feathery ferns turn silver and crimson beneath your hand, and beautiful fish glide around you, or rest in the water, with no motion save the gentle pulsation of their gills as they breathe. "i have stood upon the bottom of the ocean, and gazed up, awe-stricken and bewildered, at the wonderful masses of coral above my head, resembling forests of monstrous trees, with gnarled and twisted branches intertwined; and when i have considered that it was all the work of insects so tiny that millions of them were working at my feet, and i could not see them, i have compared my own littleness in the universe with the wonderful work of the least of them, and have felt my own insignificance. "and curious things have happened, too. i was once examining an old wreck off south america. it was an old spanish frigate, supposed to have valuable jewels and a large amount of money aboard. "i was walking over the wreck one day, and, being disappointed in not finding any treasure, was about returning, when i observed a curious heap of shells, close to one of the stanchions. i picked off a handful from the top of the heap, which was about two feet high, and regularly piled in a conical form, and seeing the shells were of a most beautiful pink color, and very delicate, i filled my pockets with them, and then, touching the life-lines, was pulled up. "the divers in my employ were delighted with them, and as they were just the right size for buttons, one of the boys went down, with a large bag, to bring off the rest. "i told him just where to find them; but when he came up, he declared there were none to be seen anywhere. "i was sure he had not followed my directions; so i went down again; and judge my surprise when i found he had spoken truly. _there was not one to be seen._ the little wretches, disgusted with the disturbance i created, had all crawled away." "how curious!" exclaimed eric. "could you not find any of them?" "not a vestige of them." "it was singular--wasn't it?" "yes. i have learned many singular things since i have gone under the sea. for instance, water is a very powerful conductor of sound, much more so than air. we often blast rocks under the water--" "how can you?" interrupted eric. "what keeps the powder dry?" "we have water-proof charges prepared." "but how can you fire them under the water?" persisted eric. "by electricity," responded mr. lacelle. "a report of blasting rock a little distance off, will scarcely disturb us upon the land; but under the water it is very different. we were once blasting rocks near the coast, and another party were at work three quarters of a mile from us. "our charge was set, and ready to go off; i sent word to our distant neighbors that we were about to blast, and they had better come up until it was over. my courtesy was repaid by a very profane answer, accompanied with a request to 'blast away.' "so the charge was set off; and the unfortunate divers in the distance were hauled out of the water more dead than alive. i afterwards learned from them that the shock was tremendous." "when you blow up the rocks, do you place the charges under them?" inquired eric. "o, no; that would have no effect: holes are drilled in the rock, and the charges placed within them." "and when the rocks are blown, what do you do with the pieces that come off?" asked eric. "we grapple them with hooks and chains, and draw them to the surface." "it is very interesting, and i am very much obliged to you for telling me so much," said eric. "i wish i could learn _all_ about it." "well, my boy, you shall go with me to-morrow; and, if you're not afraid to venture, i'll take you down beneath the sea with me. it is quite safe near amsterdam." "o, thank you, sir," said eric, eagerly, grasping the kind frenchman's hand. "i must go now to the palace," said mr. lacelle. "i have an engagement there. will you do me the honor to amuse yourself here until i return?" "thank you," said eric again, with a joyous smile; for mr. lacelle's room was stored with 'curios' from the bottom of the sea, and eric knew he could spend a long time very comfortably there. he was careful to secure froll in her cage, that she might do no mischief; and then he had a thoroughly good time, examining the sea things; and as they were all labelled with name and date, and the place from which they were taken, he gained much useful information. before night a letter came from his uncle, saying that johnny was quite ill, and had been unable to travel to the hague; but he was now so much better, that they would probably join eric in a day or two. "i shan't mind waiting," said eric to himself; "and there's nothing now to prevent my going to amsterdam to-morrow; but i wish uncle charlie could be with me too." then he remembered that he had been left under the landlord's care, and must obtain his permission. so he sought him out, and made known his request. the landlord of the vyverberg was a kind-hearted german. he was quite fond of his little american guest, and readily consented to his plan for the morrow, telling eric that monsieur lacelle was a remarkable man, and he could not be in better hands. "i think this is just the jolliest country, and full of the jolliest people in the world," was eric's mental comment before he fell asleep that night. indeed, there are few people more kind-hearted, thoughtful, or hospitable than the dutch and germans. eric's parents were anxiously wondering how their boy fared alone in gravenhaag. could they have seen him as he read his promised chapter, and knelt to commit himself to god, or afterwards, falling asleep, his last thought of the kindness of the people around him, their own sleep would have been far lighter, and their prayers would have blessed the good foreigners. chapter viii. thrilling experience. early in the morning they went to amsterdam, or amsteldamme, as the germans call it, because it controls the tides of the amstel river. the city of amsteldamme is situated on a marsh, and all its houses and buildings are erected on piles, which are driven from forty to fifty feet into the earth. "how many canals!" was eric's first remark, when he obtained a good view of the city. "yes," said mr. lacelle. "when i was a boy, i counted the bridges across the canals, and there were two hundred and fifty. the city is divided by the canals into ninety islands. those high walls were once ramparts, but have since been converted into public walks. they are planted with trees, and make excellent promenades." "but suppose there should be another war," said eric; "what would their defence be?" "they could easily flood the surrounding country." "what splendid streets these are!" said eric, as they passed through one and another with rows of beautiful shade trees, handsome little stone bridges, broad, clean pavements, and long lines of elegant mansions. they were indeed very beautiful streets, not easily to be surpassed in all europe. "i should think," said eric, thoughtfully, "that there would be danger to the people here in having so much water in their town. do the dikes ever give way?" "very seldom. the people watch them very faithfully, and whenever a break is discovered it is instantly repaired. there is a very interesting story connected with the dikes of holland, which i will tell you, to show you what great service a little boy did his country. "the little hero, peter daik, was on his way home, one night, from a village to which he had been sent by his father on an errand, when he noticed the water trickling through a narrow opening in the dike, built up to keep out the sea. "he stopped, and thought of what would happen if the hole were not closed. "he knew--for he had often heard his father tell of the sad disasters which had come from small beginnings--how, in a few hours, the opening would become bigger, and let in the mighty mass of water pressing on the dike, until, the whole defence being washed away, the rolling, dashing, angry sea would sweep on to the next village, destroying life and property, and everything in its way. should he run home and alarm the villagers? it would be dark before they could arrive; and the hole, even then, might be so large as to defy all attempts to close it. what could he do to prevent such terrible ruin--he, only a little boy? "i will tell what he did. he sat down on the bank of the canal, stopped the opening with his hand, and patiently awaited the passing of a villager. but no one came. "hour after hour rolled slowly by; yet there sat the heroic boy in the cold and darkness, shivering, wet, and tired, but stoutly pressing his hand against the water that tried to pass the dangerous breach. "all night he staid at his post. at last morning broke, when a clergyman, walking up the canal, heard a groan, and looking around to see where it came from, seeing the boy, and surprised at his strange position, exclaimed with astonishment,-- "'why are you there, my child?' "'i am keeping back the water, sir, and saving the village from being drowned,' answered little peter, with lips so benumbed with cold that he could hardly speak. "the astonished minister at once relieved him of his hard duty, and the poor little fellow had but just strength enough left to alarm the villagers, who flocked to the dike, and repaired the breach. "heroic boy! what a noble spirit of self-devotion he had shown! resolving to brave all the fatigue, the danger, the cold and darkness, rather than permit the ruin which would come if he deserted his post. "there is a beautiful poem on the subject by miss carey. i will repeat a few of the last verses." then mr. lacelle repeated in a clear, mellow voice, whose slight foreign accent lent it an additional charm to eric's ear,-- "so faintly calling and crying till the sun is under the sea,-- crying and moaning till the stars come out for company. he thinks of his brother and sister, asleep in their safe, warm bed; he thinks of his father and mother; of himself as dying--and dead; and of how, when the night is over, they must come and find him at last; but he never thinks he can leave the place where duty holds him fast. "the good dame in the cottage is up and astir with the light, for the thought of her little peter has been with her all the night. and now she watches the pathway, as yestereve she had done; but what does she see so strange and black against the rising sun? her neighbors are bearing between them something straight to her door; her child is coming home, but not as ever he came before. "'he is dead!' she cries; 'my darling!' and the startled father hears, and comes and looks the way she looks, and fears the thing she fears; till a glad shout from the bearers thrills the stricken man and wife-- 'give thanks, for your son has saved our land, and god has saved his life!' so there in the morning sunshine they knelt about the boy, and every head was bared and bent in tearful, reverent joy. "'tis many a day since then; but still, when the sea roars like a flood, their boys are taught what a boy can do who is brave, and true, and good; for every man in that country takes his son by the hand, and tells him of little peter, whose courage saved the land. they have many a valiant hero remembered through the years, but never one whose name so oft is named with loving tears. and his deed shall be sung by the cradle, and told to the child on the knee, so long as the dikes of holland divide the land from the sea." they had now come to the y, an inlet of the zuyder zee, where several of the men under mr. lacelle were at work. "here we are," said eric, gladly. "here we are! now for my 'thrilling experience,' as the newspapers say." there was a tent close by, into which they stepped to change their dress for the diver's costume. "nobody would know me now, i am sure," said eric to himself, when, with much difficulty, and considerable help from the attendants, he emerged from the tent arrayed in the suit. "i can hardly drag my feet along, they are so heavy; and i'm decidedly glad that my every-day hat is not like this helmet." mr. lacelle had given him particular directions about diving, and now the life-line and air-hose were adjusted, and the brave boy stood beside the professional diver, waiting for the descent. the signal was given, and soon eric was going down underneath the blue, cold waves. he could not see mr. lacelle; it seemed as if he were never to stop going down: the water sang around his ears; and seeing nothing but water made him giddy and faint. he thought he must certainly smother, and, for an instant, was thoroughly afraid. then he remembered that, at a single touch of the life-line, the men above would instantly draw him up, and, feeling quite at his ease again, began to look about him. to his great joy he saw the bottom, and was presently upon it, and walking towards mr. lacelle. suddenly a sound like heavy peals of thunder reverberated through the water. at a motion from mr. lacelle, eric looked quickly upward, and saw a school of tiny fish, darting with great velocity towards them, and several large fishes in pursuit of the little ones. on they came, straight towards eric and mr. lacelle; but just before reaching them, they turned sharply off in the opposite direction; as they turned, the noise increased to a heavy peal, and ceased as they passed from sight. "how wonderful!" exclaimed eric, involuntarily; and his voice sounded like roaring and screaming, though he had spoken quite softly. mr. lacelle then held at arm's length a small cartridge, which he signalled, by the lines, for the men above to ignite. almost instantly it exploded. eric was perfectly astounded by the effects of the report. it seemed as if huge rocks had fallen upon his helmet; and such a crashing, rending sound as accompanied the shock! it was quite as much as he was able to bear in the way of noise. mr. lacelle told him afterwards, that the noise of the report in the air would be no louder than that of a common fire-cracker. eric hoped that mr. lacelle would make no more experiments in sound, and the diver did not seem at all anxious to do so. it was rather awe-inspiring, eric thought, to be walking easily about at the bottom of the sea, knowing that around and above him lay the mighty element of death. and there, under the water, the eighth psalm came into his mind, and he realized its beauty as he had never been able to before. he walked around, picking up shells and curious plants, and being careful to keep near mr. lacelle, who was making some calculations about the building of a huge bridge, contemplated by the king. several large fish swam lazily up to eric, eyed him curiously, and let themselves be patted upon the back. "how amused nettie would be!" he thought, and wished the huge fish were less inquisitive, as he did not particularly fancy them. he was quite interested in the flowers, which were as brilliant and beautiful as any upon the land, when suddenly he discovered a heap of shells quite similar to those which mr. lacelle had described the day before. he put several handfuls of them into his diver's basket, and then, moving off a few steps, he watched to see what they would do. when all was quiet, they moved slowly at first, then more rapidly, and all crawled away in the same direction. "that is very curious," thought eric to himself. "i wish i knew what they are." when he moved again, something struck his foot. looking quickly down through the window in his helmet, he saw a small, square box, made of tin, and fastened with a padlock. a key was in the lock, and eric turned it and opened the box, wondering what it could contain. the lid flew back, and disclosed an inner cover, on which was painted a coat of arms, with the name "arthur montgomery" engraved beneath. a spring was visible, and, pressing it, eric disclosed to his astonished vision a number of english sovereigns--gold coins worth about five dollars apiece. his first impulse was to show the prize to mr. lacelle, but he could not readily attract his attention. so, putting the box in his basket after safely locking it, he busied himself with gathering the beautiful flowers within his reach, and storing them in his basket to press for his mother. suddenly he felt himself being drawn up slowly towards the surface, and, turning his head, saw that mr. lacelle was also ascending. he knew that they were being drawn up because mr. lacelle wished him to catch the return train to gravenhaag, and had cautioned the men at the pumps not to let them remain under water more than half an hour; but he was extremely surprised to find that the time had passed. on reaching "terra firma," so much hurrying had to be done in changing his armor for more convenient land apparel, that he entirely forgot the box of money until seated beside mr. lacelle in the carriage. then he showed it to him. "that _was_ a find, for so young a submarinist," said mr. lacelle. "it is yours, my boy; divers consider themselves entitled to all such unexpectedly discovered valuables." "but," said eric, eagerly, "the owner's name is upon the box; and see! here is a letter addressed to 'arthur montgomery, bart., clone, lancaster county, england.' i think i ought to return it." "yes," said mr. lacelle, pleased with eric's honesty, "conscientiously you ought; but you are not obliged to by law." "i would much rather," said eric, earnestly. "will you please to inquire about it, and see that it reaches the owner?" mr. lacelle promised, and, seeing eric safely aboard the cars, bade him good by, and left for amsteldamme. chapter ix. uncle john. when eric returned to gravenhaag, whom should he see but his uncle, mr. van rasseulger? and he being the last person in the world that eric would have thought of meeting there, of course he was decidedly surprised. "uncle john!" he exclaimed, joyfully. "who would have thought of seeing you here?" "you wouldn't, i'll wager, young man, or you'd not have gone wild goosing it over the water at amsterdam." "i've had a glorious time!" exclaimed eric. "i've been walking upon the bottom of the zuyder zee." "it's high time somebody arrived to look after you." "but, uncle john, it was perfectly safe. mr. lacelle is an experienced diver; and the landlord under whose care papa left me gave me permission. besides, nothing happened--" "how stout and healthy you have grown!" exclaimed mr. van rasseulger, interrupting eric. "if johnny has improved as much as you have, i shall send him abroad frequently." "how is johnny? he was ill when uncle charlie wrote to me." "ill!" exclaimed johnny's fond papa, instantly growing anxious. "what did the doctor say, eric?" "only that i must wait here a day or two, until johnny was well enough to come on." "and where were they when he wrote?" "at paris," said eric. "i meant to stay with you to-night," said his uncle; "but i believe i shall take the boat to antwerp to-night, and catch the express to paris. i must look after my boy." "o, please take me with you," pleaded eric. "mr. lacelle is going to stay at amsterdam, and i shall be terribly lonesome here, all alone again." "well, get your things together. can you be ready in two hours?" "in ten minutes," cried eric, gayly: "mamma did all my packing before she left. i've only to tumble a few things into my travelling-bag, and to feed myself and froll." "the little monkey? i've made her acquaintance. we're quite good friends." "uncle john, if you haven't seen the doctor or johnny, how _did_ you find me?" said eric, who had been puzzling himself with this question for some time. "entirely by accident," replied his uncle. "i arrived here about two hours since, and, finding all your names on the register, supposed i had stepped right into a family party; but then i learned that your father and mother, and that bundle of mischief called nettie, had gone home, and that _mynheer_ eric had gone to amsteldamme to explore the mysteries of the bottom of the sea. i was so frightened that if there had been a chance of hitting you, i should have gone directly after you." "i wish you had," said eric, "in time to have gone down into the water." mr. van rasseulger, for all his talk about eric's expedition, was heartily pleased with his brave little nephew, and was thinking to himself such an honest, energetic, courageous boy would make his way well in the world. eric had no idea that he was a particularly interesting boy. he was large and strong for his age, easy in his manners, and had a frank, joyous countenance, surmounted by thick, brown, curly hair. his eyes were very honest eyes indeed, often opening wide in a surprised way, when they saw anything not quite right, and blazing and flashing upon the aggressor when they witnessed wrong, cruelty, or injustice. he had been brought up upon the creed, "first of all, _do right_; and _be a gentleman_." and being thoughtful, careful, and obedient, he was trusted and respected as few boys of his age rarely deserve to be. of course he had his faults. no young lad is without them. but the difference between eric and other boys was, that when he became conscious of a fault in his character, he immediately set about overcoming it, and therefore soon got rid of it. but he was obliged to keep a very careful watch over himself, for little faults creep into one's character faster than the little weeds spring up in the flower garden, and, like the weeds, too, if at once removed are almost harmless, but if allowed to spread and flourish they soon spoil the entire character, as the weeds spoil the garden. while we have been moralizing, eric has eaten his supper, neatly packed up the few things left about, and, with froll and his travelling-bag, starts from the vyverberg for paris. a very common-looking steamboat took them to antwerp. there is not much to relate of their journey, for eric's adventures had so tired him that he slept all the way, only awakening to take the cars at antwerp, and rousing once again to know they were passing through brussels, and to hear his uncle say that the finest altar in the world was in the cathedral there. they arrived at paris about noon of the next day, and, after considerable trouble, found that dr. ward had taken rooms in a hotel in the _place vendôme_, whither they at once repaired. eric wanted to give his uncle and cousin a surprise. so mr. van rasseulger did not send up their names, but they stole softly up the stairs, and opened the door. johnny was alone, lying upon the floor, with a very fretful, discontented expression upon his countenance. he turned his head towards the door, and there, upon the threshold, blushing and laughing, stood eric; and, better still, behind him was papa. the child uttered a joyful cry, and sprang into his father's arms, who hurried to meet him, exclaiming,-- "my boy, my johnny-boy, what is the matter?" "it's only the mumps," said johnny, reassuringly, and holding out his hand to eric. "o, ain't i glad you've come!" he added. "it's awful dull here, uncle charlie is away at the hospital so much." "well, how have you been, excepting the mumps?" inquired his father, relieved enough to find nothing serious the matter with his petted boy. "bully!" exclaimed john, very improperly. "see how strong i'm getting, papa!" and he threw out his fist suddenly, giving his father a very uncomfortable punch in the side. "i'm glad you didn't illustrate on me," said eric, laughing. "uncle john, are you a tester?" "i'm an _at_testor, certainly," replied his uncle. "johnny, if you demonstrate your power of strength so forcibly and practically, some one will apply oil of birch to you." "then i'll be in first-rate running order," retorted johnny, "and you'll have to take me to strasbourg." "indeed," said his father, "i think so." as they all sat, merrily talking, dr. ward returned, and was pleased and surprised enough to find his unexpected guests. his greeting was very cordial. eric he was particularly glad to see; he had been worried about leaving him so long, alone, at the hague; and johnny had been too ill to travel or to be left with strangers, and eric was too inexperienced, his uncle thought, to go from the hague to paris alone. so it was quite a relief to find him safely at hand. "and now," he said, after talking about home affairs for quite a while, "i see my way out of a dilemma. i have been anxious to attend two or three medical lectures at heidelberg, and if you will look after the boys for a day or two, i can have my desire." "certainly; i will for a day or two. at the end of that time i must go home. here's this dutiful boy of mine, with never a word for mamma, annie, or adolphe. "well," said johnny, remonstrating, "you took me so by surprise, papa, that i forgot all about them." "your filial affection must be strong," said his father, laughing at him. johnny did not like this, and proposed to eric to take a walk, and "see paris." while they were gone, mr. van rasseulger arranged with the doctor to meet them again at heidelberg; meanwhile he would keep the boys with him for a week. they would leave paris the next day, if john was well enough. dr. ward thought he would be. mr. van rasseulger explained that he had been obliged to visit rotterdam and hague suddenly on business, and must go to vienna, in austria, and start for home, within a fortnight. "don't neglect to take the boy to munich, and show him to his grandfather; and don't forget your promise to 'make him as hearty and strong as eric,'" he said. poor little johnny, in the interval between his own birth and that of his baby brother,--a space of seven years,--had been petted and pampered, and almost thoroughly spoiled. his temper had suffered with his constitution, and he became a delicate, sickly child. his parents, while living in new york, had lost three boys, and fearing to lose johnny, too, had sent him to travel abroad, under dr. ward's care. mr. van rasseulger was a native of germany, and thought there was no air so invigorating as that breathed in on german soil. he had great hopes of its curing john's delicacy; and dr. ward thought that a strange country and traveller's hardships would be excellent aids in restoring the boy's natural health and good-nature. meanwhile, eric was seeing paris under johnny's guidance. to be sure, he could not see much in a day; but he took a look at the war column in the _place vendôme_, saw the _palace of the tuileries_, the _jardin des plantes_, and entertained his little cousin with an account of his visit to the king of holland, and his submarine diving, both of which johnny thought very wonderful. eric was not much concerned at seeing so little of paris at the time, for he knew that the doctor intended to spend a month there, after visiting munich. he bought a guide-book while out with johnny, and then they returned to their rooms in time to see the doctor start for heidelberg. "eric," said johnny, when dr. ward had gone, "i must show you the american railway here." "why?" said eric; "i'm sure that is the last thing i came to paris to see." "now," said johnny, importantly, "i suppose you think you know just what it is; but you're quite as mistaken as if you were a donkey without ears." "john!" said his father, reprovingly. "that was only a 'simile,' papa," answered johnny, roguishly, as he led eric out again. sure enough, when they reached the railway, eric found that his idea of it had been far from correct. "it is nothing at all but an omnibus running upon rails," he said: "i don't see why they call it american." "it isn't anything like as nice as our street cars--is it?" answered johnny, with a flourish of national pride quite pardonable in so young an american. just then the conductor, supposing the two boys wished to be passengers, saluted them politely, exclaiming, "_complete, complete!_" and the omnibus rolled off along the rails. "what did he mean?" asked eric, quite puzzled. "he said the coach was full," johnny replied. "they are never allowed to carry more passengers than there are seats for." "that is still less and less like an american railway," said eric, laughing, and thinking of the crowded cars and overstrained horses he had so often seen and pitied, wearily perambulating the streets of new york. "let's have some cake and coffee," johnny proposed, as they were strolling towards home. "i think french coffee is hard to beat." "when i was your age," remarked eric, "mamma almost decided to live in paris; but i am very glad she did not, for i think new york a great deal nicer." johnny led the way to a café--that is, a coffee-house,--and here they regaled themselves with rolls and delicious coffee. eric was shocked to see johnny appropriate a couple of cakes and two lumps of sugar, left over from their repast, and convey them to his pocket. "why, johnny!" he exclaimed, in a tone of mortification. "they all do so," said john, laughing. "a frenchman thinks he has a right to everything that he pays for. watch the others." eric looked around and saw several frenchmen, who had finished their lunch, following john's example. "well," said he, "if i should do that at millard's, how they _would_ all stare!" johnny was quite pleased with his own importance in being able to show eric around the city, and proposed several places that they "ought to see." but the afternoon was waning, and a damp, chilly breeze sprang up, which eric knew, from experience, was not at all good for the mumps. so he very prudently hurried johnny home, holding forth froll's loneliness as an additional inducement. chapter x. strasbourg. "uncle john," said eric, the next morning, "do you think of going through strasbourg, when we leave for munich?" "no," said his uncle; "i have business to attend to on another route." "but, papa," expostulated johnny, "we want to see the great clock in the strasbourg cathedral." "it will be impossible for me to go," mr. van rasseulger said, very decidedly; but seeing that both the boys were greatly disappointed, he added, "if you could be a sober boy, johnny, i might trust you alone with eric, and you might go to switzerland by the strasbourg route, meeting me at lucerne." "by ourselves? o, how jolly!" johnny exclaimed, turning a somersault upon the floor. "but the question is, my boy, _can_ i trust you?" "o, papa!" "i will consider it, john. i can trust eric, but your inclinations are apt to be rather unsteady." that was certainly true, for johnny's inclination just then was, back parallel with the floor, heels at a right angle with his head. "but i think i will try you," continued his father. "i shall put you under eric's care, and require you to obey and refer to him. you may start to-morrow morning, which will give you time to spend a day and night at strasbourg, and to meet me at lucerne, on the evening of the day after to-morrow." "hurrah! hurrah!" screamed johnny, leaping to his feet, "hurrah for strasbourg and its wonderful clock! three cheers for--good gracious!" the excited boy's exuberant spirits went up with eric's guide-book to the ceiling of the room, and returned in bewilderment as the unfortunate book came down in a basin of water in which he had been sailing his magnetic ship. "an encouraging beginning that," remarked his father, gravely. "i didn't mean to, eric," johnny said quite meekly; "i guess 'twill dry in the sun." "then you had better put it there," said mr. van rasseulger; "you are tearing the leaves by holding the book in your wet hands." johnny spread the guide-book upon a sunny window-seat, listening with interest to eric's proposal. "i must study the route on the map down stairs; and if you are willing, uncle john, i will go out now with johnny and get the tickets." "certainly," said his uncle; "but my advice would be to study a dry guide-book and the map before getting the tickets; there may be a choice of routes." this was excellent advice, as the boys soon found. there were three routes, and some time elapsed before they decided upon one. at length they chose the shortest of all, as their time was limited and they wanted it all for strasbourg. their choice, therefore, fell upon the most direct route, it being straight across the country of france, and for a distance of about two hundred and fifty miles traversed by rail. they consulted with monsieur richarte, the landlord, and their uncle, and decided to take an early train on the following morning. a ride of eight hours would suffice for the journey, and their early start would enable them to have a few hours for sight-seeing in the day and twilight. but tourists should always allow for detention. for although mr. van rasseulger saw them safely aboard the early train in the morning, an accident detained them at vitry, and when they reached strasbourg it was night--a dark, rainy, dismal night. they rode directly to the principal hotel, a large, roomy, comfortable-looking place, and immediately after supper proceeded to their room for the night. before retiring, johnny looked out from between the crimson window curtains, to see what he could of the city; but little was visible. opposite the window was a little two-story house, with queer stagings about the chimneys. he called eric to look at them, saying he guessed the chimneys were being rebuilt. "no, johnny," said eric. "you will find those stagings upon almost every house here. they are erected by the house-owners for the especial accommodation of storks that build in the chimneys and are the street scavengers of strasbourg." "are they?" said johnny, sleepily; "well, let's go to bed." they were both very tired and sleepy boys, and prepared for a good night's rest. "i think i shall sleep well," johnny remarked. "and i'm sure i shall," said eric. "i've travelled nearly six hundred miles since night before last." but they were destined to disappointment, for from the large, open fireplace in the room there issued, all night long, a continuous wailing, moaning, rustling sound, caused by the wind; added to which were the dismal groanings of the old storks and piping of the young ones. it seemed to eric that he had but just fallen asleep, when johnny was shaking him and hallooing in his ear. "eric! eric! it's a splendid morning! get up quick. i want to go out and see the sights. hurry up!" "yes," said eric. johnny scampered down stairs, and before long eric joined him in the hall, where the impatient boy was walking on his hands, with his heels in the air, by way of diversion. "all ready?" he cried, and resumed a position more convenient and becoming for a promenade, as they started. they had a fine, breezy walk. strasbourg is not far from the rhine; and one of its tributaries, the graceful, sparkling _ill_ river, which, as johnny suggested, is a very _good_ stream, washes the city's walls and supplies it with water. this city is famous for its immense fortifications, its minster, or cathedral, and the astronomical clock of the three sages. its form is triangular, and the entire city is enclosed by a bastioned line of ramparts and several outworks. there are seven entrance gates, and on the east side is a strong pentagonal or five-sided tower. there is a network of sluices, by which the surrounding country can be inundated. strasbourg is one of the most important fortresses and arsenals of france, besides being its principal depot of artillery. it is pleasantly situated, but most of its streets are narrow, with lofty eaves-drooping houses. the boys were surprised to hear its inhabitants speaking german instead of french, but learned that the town was originally german, and was ceded to france in one of the louis xiv. wars, when it became the capital of _bas rhin_, a division of france, on the eastern frontier. in many of the streets of strasbourg are little wooden bridges, similar to canal bridges. these are built over the ill, which intersects the city in all directions. when eric and johnny took their stroll, it was market-day, and, even at that early hour, the streets presented a lively scene. carts and drays were the stalls in the open street, and people were buying and selling at a great rate. the fish stalls were surrounded by storks; but the people seemed to mind them no more than the birds minded the people. these storks are great favorites with germans. in strasbourg they are as tame as our domestic hens, and it is very comical to see them strutting importantly about, as if they had as good a right to the sidewalk as the other citizens. the boys returned to the hotel with ravenous appetites, but, hungry as they were, could not appreciate the described daintiness of a most apparently unpalatable pie, called _pâté de foie gras_; so they were obliged to content themselves with other edibles and fragrant french coffee. "now for the minster!" said eric, as they arose from the table. "the _minister_?" exclaimed johnny; "what for?" eric laughed. "not _minister_, but _minster_. a minster is a cathedral church." "i don't care much about the minster, then," said johnny, running up stairs on all fours. "i've seen cathedrals till i'm sick of them. but this clock _is_ curious, and i'm anxious to see it." "johnny," expostulated eric, "walk properly. you ought to have been a monkey.--and that reminds me," he added, "i must feed froll and fasten her, that she may do no mischief while we're at the cathedral." little froll received an ample breakfast, and her silver chain was securely fastened. then the boys left her. when they had been gone a while, and her breakfast had disappeared, froll became lonesome, and cast her eyes about to see with what mischief she might best employ herself. but thoughtful eric had placed every temptation out of her reach. meanwhile eric and johnny were viewing the wonders of the famous astronomical clock. this clock is in the strasbourg cathedral. it was built in the cathedral, before its completion, in the year , and was invented by isaac habrecht, a jewish astrologer. european clocks were first invented in the eleventh century, by the saracens, and used principally for monasteries. they were very rude, simple affairs, and sometimes would only "go" when somebody pushed the pendulum, which was rather inconvenient than otherwise. so wise mathematicians tried to make improvements; and some succeeded, among whom was isaac habrecht, who, in the fourteenth century, invented the most wonderful clock in the world, and called it the "clock of the three sages," because once in every hour the figures of the three kings of the orient came out from a niche in its side, and made a reverential bow before an image of the virgin mary, seated just above the dial-plate, on the front of the clock. it is built of dark wood, gilded and carved, and is sixty feet high. in shape it is somewhat similar to a church, with a tower on either side of the entrance; and these towers of the clock are encircled by spiral staircases, which are used when repairs are necessary. when isaac habrecht invented this wonderful clock, he meant it to run forever, always displaying to the good people of strasbourg the days of the month, places of the sun and moon, and other celestial phenomena; and while he lived it worked admirably: but when he had been dead a while, the clock stopped; and as nobody else understood its machinery, it had quite a vacation. after a while, however, the good people of strasbourg took it in hand, and it was repaired and set going--only to stop again. thus it went on until napoleon's time. strasbourg, originally a german town, was ceded to louis xiv. in ; so the clock was french property, and napoleon decided it must be brought to life again. under the most skilful french and german machinists this repairing took place. it was eminently successful _this_ time, and, when completed, was a great improvement on the old clock. it will now give not only the time of strasbourg, but of every principal city in the world; also the day of the week and month, the course of the sun and planets, and all the eclipses of the sun and moon, in their regular order. in an alcove, above the dial, is an image of the saviour; and every day, at noon, figures of the twelve apostles march round it and bow, while the holy image, with uplifted hands, administers a silent blessing. a cock, on the highest point of the right hand tower, flaps his wings and crows three times; and when he stops, a beautiful chime of bells rings out familiar and very musical tunes. a figure of time, in a niche on one side, strikes the quarter hours from twelve to one; and four figures--childhood, youth, manhood, and old age--pass slowly before him. in a niche, on the other side is an angel turning an hour-glass. the clock is in the south transept of the cathedral. persons travelling abroad usually take strasbourg on their route, to visit its cathedral,--the spire of which is the highest in the world, being four hundred and sixty feet high,--and to see its wonderful astronomical clock. eric and johnny were very much pleased with the famous clock. the guide who explained and told its history to them was very good-natured, and even allowed them to ascend the tower of the cathedral, which, usually, is not allowable. here they had a most magnificent view, which i cannot attempt to describe, and only advise you to go and see it for yourself. before leaving the cathedral, they bought two photographs of the wonderful clock, intending to send them home, with a description of their visit to strasbourg. by the time their explorations were finished, johnny declared that he was so hungry, he could almost eat one of those goose pies. the morning was quite gone. it would soon be time to take the train for lucerne, and they must have dinner. "won't froll be glad to see us back!" exclaimed johnny, as they reached their room; "she doesn't like to be left alone." eric had bought some nuts for the little creature, and went with them straightway to her cage. the cage was just as he left it; the silver chain was there, too, fastened to one of the bars and to the tiny collar; but the collar hung dangling at the end of the chain, and froll was nowhere to be seen. chapter xi. eric in trouble. a thorough search was instantly made; but neither around the room, nor behind the furniture, nor upon the gallery roof, were any traces to be found of the lost frolic. "it is too bad," cried eric, in perplexity, while johnny looked ready to cry. "we must speak to the landlord, and ask him what we are to do." eric's german was by no means perfect; but he managed to make the good-natured landlord understand their trouble. he made inquiries of all, directly; but no one had seen the little monkey since the boys had left her. he did not think it at all likely that she had been stolen, for no one could get to the boys' room without being noticed by some of the servants, and he was quite sure that she would return safely to her comfortable quarters; so he advised the boys to leave the window open for her, and to go at once to the dinner he had been for some time keeping for them. his sensible advice was unwillingly followed; but froll took no advantage of the window left open for her benefit. eric and johnny waited and watched impatiently, until it was almost time to start for the train. then eric left directions with the landlord, in case the monkey should be found and captured; promising to send for her. he was just going to call johnny, when he heard his voice, crying, excitedly, "eric, eric!" and hoping froll had returned, ran quickly up the stairs. "see there, what i found on the floor," exclaimed johnny, as he entered the room, and held up before eric's astonished gaze a jewelled ring, that flashed and sparkled in the sunlight. "good gracious!" exclaimed eric; "on the floor of _this_ room?" "yes," answered johnny, "on the floor, just where you're standing. it's a mercy we haven't stepped on it. don't you think so?" "we must find the owner at once. isn't it splendid!" said eric, admiringly; "three diamonds and an emerald; it must have cost a fortune." just at this juncture the door opened, and the landlord, followed by a french officer and a civilian, entered the room. the landlord exclaimed, in german,-- "i beg your pardon, young gentlemen, but a serious loss has occurred in the house, and as you are about leaving it, perhaps you will be kind enough to let us inspect--" "_ah! mon dieu! il y ait!_"[ ] screamed the french civilian, darting towards eric and john, and, snatching the ring from johnny's hand, displayed it triumphantly before the landlord and the officer. "i found it on the floor," said johnny. "is it yours?" "a likely story!" muttered the frenchman. "i'm very glad you've got it," said eric, with dignity. "my cousin found it on the floor a minute ago, and we were on the point of taking it to the landlord when you came in." eric spoke slowly and distinctly, and with an air of honest truth that at once convinced the landlord. but the excitable little frenchman, who had been clasping the precious ring, and murmuring, "_ciel, ciel! ah, ciel!_" in an incoherent way, now sprang at eric, and grasping him by the collar, exclaimed, angrily, "o, you fine fellow! you wicked one! where is my--my gold?--my gold? where is it?" and he gave the boy a series of shakes. eric's anger was fully aroused. with flashing eyes, "how dare you!" he said, indignantly, and, turning upon the frenchman, flung him with some violence against the wall. this made the little frenchman still more furious; he would have sprung again upon eric, but the officer interfered. johnny, with his eyes almost starting from his head, had terrifiedly regarded this little scene, doubling his fists to aid in eric's rescue. eric turned indignantly to the landlord,-- "what is the meaning of all this? are two defenceless american boys, your guests, to be openly insulted in your presence without protection?" "count d'orsay has been robbed of his diamond ring and a sum of money," explained the landlord. "he insisted that no person should leave the hotel without examination. that is why we came to you. he has found the ring in your hands, which is very astonishing, and he now suspects you of having the gold." the landlord spoke gently, and seemed grieved to be obliged to hurt their feelings, as he knew his implied meaning must. poor eric's face flushed hotly with shame and anger, while johnny cried, furiously, "eric, eric, for pity's sake send for papa! he will teach that hateful frenchman what it is to call us thieves." "be quiet, john!" said eric, imperiously. "come here." "now, sir," turning to the landlord, "please to let your officer search us, and then our baggage. do it at once, for we are to leave strasbourg directly." "indeed!" sneered count d'orsay. "perhaps you will not leave strasbourg for the present. search them, officer." the officer advanced reluctantly, and, by his expression of sympathy, showed himself much more a gentleman than the titled count, whose habitual politeness had been driven away by eric's powerful thrust. the landlord, although deeply sympathetic, and convinced of their honesty, was powerless to resist count d'orsay. he was a german innholder, and the count a wealthy, influential french nobleman, with a proper warrant for searching his house. so he could in no way protect the boys from the indignity put upon them. but he hailed with joy johnny's suggestion to send for his father, deciding to do so at once, if they should be detained. of course no gold was found upon either of them, except that given to eric for tickets and hotel expenses, and none was found in their baggage. but just as they were preparing to leave the place, having been released by the officer, count d'orsay uttered an exclamation, and pointed to a _fauteuil_--an easy chair--by the window. "_celui-là!_" the officer stepped to the chair, and found, tucked between the cushion and the arm, a silk purse, full of gold pieces. eric and johnny were horror-stricken, and the good landlord was dumb with astonishment. the french count held up the purse triumphantly, and jingled the gold before eric's eyes, exclaiming, tauntingly,-- "it is mine, and i have it. the _prison_ is yours, and you shall have it." "eric, eric," cried johnny, in agony of terror, "they _can't_ send us to prison. we haven't done anything. we didn't know the money was there, or the ring. o, what shall we do? send for papa!" eric's face was very white, and his hand trembled visibly, as he wrote his uncle's address on a card, and requested the landlord to send for him. count d'orsay wished them to be at once conducted to prison: but this the landlord would not allow, and the officer declared was unnecessarily severe. they might remain in their room, with a guard, and the landlord would be responsible for their remaining. as soon as the detestable frenchman had gone, johnny threw himself at full length upon the floor, crying violently. eric could not comfort him, but sat at the window, with a proud, defiant face and swelling heart. presently the kind landlord came again to them. he had sent word by telegraph to johnny's father, and received a return message. mr. van rasseulger would be with them by night. this was comforting. and gradually the boys thought less and less of their trouble, and became quite interested in making conjectures with the landlord as to when and how the money and jewels came into their room, and if froll's disappearance could be owing to the same cause, or in any way connected with it, and if she would probably return at night. "it's an ill wind that blows nobody good," said eric; "and perhaps, by being detained here, we shall find her." [illustration: eric and the french count.--page .] "i don't care what they do when papa gets here," said johnny, whose faith in his father's power was limitless. "he'll just _fix_ that count d'orsay." meanwhile mr. van rasseulger was whizzing rapidly towards them in the afternoon train, and another powerful friend was coming from an opposite direction. ----- [ ] o heaven! he has it! chapter xii. "a friend in need is a friend indeed." one, two, three, four, five, six, sounded a deep-throated bell upon the evening air, and then a chime of bells played luther's chant. "o, dear!" groaned johnny; "that's the wonderful clock; i wish we had let it alone." "hark!" exclaimed eric. his quick ear had caught the sound of footsteps upon the stairway leading to their room, and he fancied them to be his uncle's. he was right. the door opened presently, and mr. van rasseulger was with them. "well, what is all this nonsense?" he exclaimed, grasping eric's hand, and drawing johnny into his lap. "a good-natured guardian lets you off for a good time, and you get into trouble the first thing." eric related all that had occurred, a little embarrassed at johnny's admiring remark,-- "you ought to have seen him spin that little dancing frenchman against the wall, papa. i wish i'd been big enough! i'd have thrashed him!" "hush, johnny," said his father. "go on, eric. you say he found the money in the fauteuil. how in the world did the things get into this room?" "that is just what puzzles everybody," answered eric, earnestly. "uncle john, how _could_ it have got there? and the ring, too?" "where did you find the ring, johnny?" "right here, sir, upon the floor, by froll's cage;" answered johnny, getting up and standing in the place. "it is very mysterious, certainly," mr. van rasseulger said, "and the strange circumstances give the man strong grounds for suspicion against you. of course, it is absurd to think that two little boys would have committed such a robbery; yet the ring was found in your hands, and the money concealed in your room, and therefore you are accused." "but, papa, can't you take us away? we didn't do it." "you silly boy, i _know_ you did not do it. but would you not rather stay and prove satisfactorily to all that you did not? i should not wish to take you from here while the faintest shadow of a suspicion lingered that you were guilty." "nor would i wish to go," said eric, proudly. "well, then we'll stay," said johnny, dolefully; "but i think it is dreadfully unjust to spoil all our good time. we americans wouldn't do so to a frenchman." "i'm afraid we would, under such suspicious evidences," said his uncle. "but you needn't worry about it, boys; every cloud has a silver lining." "it isn't pleasant to know we can't go out of our room," said eric. "no: i must arrange about that," mr. van rasseulger answered. "i will write a note to the american consul, and get you released." eric started suddenly to his feet. "i am sure i heard mr. lacelle's voice," he said. "you couldn't have," said johnny. "you left him at amsterdam." "i did, i know i did!" persisted eric. "there it is again: that is he! o, uncle john, go out and tell him about it." his uncle left them, and before long returned, actually bringing mr. lacelle with him. the diver was surprised beyond measure to find his favorite eric in strasbourg, and highly indignant at the circumstance which detained him. "you are the most honest boy that ever lived," he cried, and told mr. van rasseulger about the box of sovereigns. "but come, tell me all about this," he added. eric again related the incident, beginning with his discovery of froll's disappearance, and ending with the charge of theft and threat of prison. johnny, who despite his dislike of frenchmen in general, cordially liked mr. lacelle, was surprised to see his gradually increasing excitement as eric's story progressed. at its termination, he started to his feet, and rapidly pacing the floor, exclaimed, joyfully,-- "_ha! a bon chat, bon rat!_"[ ] "what have cats and rats to do with it?" thought eric. "he is crazy!" thought johnny. "ah!" thought mr. van rasseulger, "can he see through the millstone?" "eric, your good name shall be cleared of all suspicion. give me your hand!" exclaimed mr. lacelle. "i congratulate you, lad! i know who did the mischief." "do you?" exclaimed the astonished boy. "yes, my friend," answered the frenchman, and darted from the room. "here's a go!" cried johnny, thrusting his hands into his pockets and striking an attitude; "he knows, and he hasn't told us what he knows, and i think _his_ nose ought to be pulled." "do be still, johnny," said eric, "it's no time for jokes. uncle john, what could he have meant?" "i am totally in the dark," replied his uncle. "i wish froll would come back," murmured johnny. "i have it!" cried eric, suddenly, rushing from the room, by the guard at the door, and after mr. lacelle. "well," said johnny, "i wish i had!" count d'orsay's conscience was not quite easy in regard to the manner in which he had persecuted the two friendless american boys. his suspicions had been aroused merely by the fact that they were about to leave strasbourg; and the discovery of the missing articles in their possession had seemed at the time to prove their guilt conclusively. but upon reflection, the honest surprise expressed in little johnny's eyes, and eric's look of proud, indignant disdain, haunted him with suggestions of their innocence. might it not have been just possible that they did find the ring upon the floor, and did not know of the money's concealment? but, then--how could it be so? how could the ring and money have happened in their room, and for what purposes? yet, again, if they did intend to steal, they had given up everything. he had lost nothing; and the french government would not thank him for quarrelling with an american just at that time. he would send word to the landlord to dismiss the policeman and let the boys have their liberty. just as this conclusion was reached, there came a tap at the door, and the waiter entered with mr. lacelle's card, followed closely by mr. lacelle. count d'orsay expressed great pleasure at the unexpected visit; but mr. lacelle, waiving all ceremony, explained that he had come to clear his dear american friends from the disgraceful charge against them. he then spoke rapidly, in french, to the count, who appeared at first surprised, then credulous, then convinced. with sincere regret, he asked to be allowed to apologize at once, and begged mr. lacelle to tell him of some way in which he could make some amends for his unjust accusation. "i wish you to be thoroughly convinced," said mr. lacelle. "place the articles upon the table, open the window, and conceal yourself behind the curtain." mr. lacelle did so. ----- [ ] "to a good cat, a good rat!" chapter xiii. the real thief. eric, when he reached the hall, was called by the landlord, who said,-- "i am having the rooms searched, at monsieur lacelle's request, for your little monkey. will you come with me? we may catch her more easily." eric was very glad to assist in the search. when nearly all the front rooms had been thoroughly examined, to no purpose, the little truant was found at last in the upper story asleep, on a soft cushion, in the sunlight. eric stole up softly and took possession of her. she awoke with a loud chatter of defiance, and tried to escape, but eric held her fast. the landlord then ordered a servant to close all the windows in the front of the hotel, excepting those of count d'orsay, whose room was above that of the two boys. eric hastened, at his request, for froll's collar and chain, which were fastened upon her, and then she was released upon the balcony under the window of the boy's room, the landlord, eric, johnny, and mr. van rasseulger watching her movements with intense interest. meanwhile the count and mr. lacelle were stationed behind the window curtains, on the lookout for the marauder. presently there was a sliding, scrambling, shuffling noise, and the thief came in through the window--not eric, nor johnny, but a being very insufficiently attired, and possessed of a long black tail; no less a personage than the little monkey, froll. she walked straight to the table, climbed upon it, seized the ring, purse, and a gold pencil which mr. lacelle had laid there. then she withdrew to the window, but to her rage and disappointment it was shut tight, and the two gentlemen confronted her. the little beast recognized mr. lacelle, and coolly handed him her stolen freight, which was quickly restored to its rightful owner. thoroughly convinced of his unjust cruelty to eric and johnny, count d'orsay descended to the balcony, offering sincere and earnest apologies. eric and johnny, by turns hugging and scolding froll, freely forgave the indignity put upon them, and shook hands cordially with the mortified count. mr. lacelle was in his glory. he shook hands with the monkey, stroked the boys' heads, and called mr. van rasseulger "my dear" in his excitement; telling everybody how he had instantly surmised the true offender, on hearing of froll's disappearance, and recalling the scene at gravenhaag, when she had stolen his glasses, climbing in then through the open window. finally he expressed an opinion that froll had formerly belonged to an unprincipled master, who had trained her to climb in at windows and take away valuables. and here we will take an opportunity to remark that this was really the case, and that eric subsequently learned that the man of whom mr. nichols bought her was arrested and imprisoned for practising with another monkey the same trick. count d'orsay could not be pacified until mr. van rasseulger promised that the boys should visit him at the _hôtel d'orsay_, on their return to france. his conscience smote him for his unjust severity and unkindness, all the more for the frank, confiding way in which the two little heroes begged him to forget the incident. when they shook hands cordially with him, a glad cheer ascended from the throng of servants and spectators, whose honest hearts took a lively interest in the affair. the boys and froll were made much of; and mr. lacelle delighted johnny for hours with accounts of the wonders of the sea, so that the young gentleman, completely fascinated, made up his mind to be a submarine diver when he grew up. froll's collar was tightened, and she was fastened to her cage, after having a bountiful feast of nuts. when the evening was about half spent, a waiter brought a large parcel to the door. it was addressed to "the two young gentlemen at room no. ," and contained books, toys, games, and confectionery, of which the count begged their acceptance. "this has been a day of adventures," said eric, as he and johnny were retiring late at night. "yes," answered johnny, sleepily, nestling between the sheets, "it has been a day of adventures, beginning with the wonderful clock, and ending with--froll's--froll's--the count--" and with a little more indistinct muttering, johnny was fast asleep. eric had read his chapter, and said his prayers with johnny; but now, as he looked at his little cousin asleep, a sudden impulse seized him, and falling upon his knees by the bedside, he prayed that his influence over johnny might always be for good, and that god would bless the bright, loving little boy, and make him a lamb of his fold for the good shepherd's sake. chapter xiv. percy, beauty, and jack. mr. van rasseulger decided to take the boys to heidelberg, and there await dr. ward. it was inconvenient for him to do this, but he was unwilling to let them travel alone with the monkey again, for froll was certainly a serious trouble. so on the morning of the following day they took the steamer for an eighty mile sail down the rhine. the landlord, mr. lacelle, and count d'orsay bade them an affectionate adieu, after the two former had been sincerely thanked for their kindness to the young strangers, and the latter had begged them to renew their promise of a visit before they returned to america. to mr. van rasseulger he extended an urgent invitation to visit him, whenever it should be convenient to him. just before they left, mr. lacelle requested eric's address, saying that he had written to mr. montgomery about the box of money, and would forward his reply to eric. the boys were not sorry to leave strasbourg, because mr. van rasseulger had told them he should propose to the doctor to obtain horses there, and travel on horseback through the black forest, and over the mountains, to munich, in bavaria. they were enchanted with this idea, and during their sail down the rhine lost much of the beautiful scenery about them in mutual conjectures as to whether uncle charlie would like the proposition. when they reached heidelberg, the doctor was already there, waiting for them. he was quite well satisfied with the plan, and said he would give the boys two days to explore heidelberg, and would meantime be making the necessary arrangements. the boys did not like heidelberg particularly, and eric's shoulders were shrugged expressively when his uncle told him he was to be a student in the university, after his school course was completed. the only building of which they took any notice was the church of the holy ghost--a large structure with a very high steeple, divided so that protestant and roman catholic services were held in it at the same time. but perhaps the picturesque old town might have had more attraction for them, had not dr. ward and mr. van rasseulger been looking up good horses to purchase for the journey. they soon found just what they wanted--a large, powerful horse for the doctor, and a couple of small horses, almost ponies, for the two boys. it was amusing to see the different evidences of delight manifested by eric and johnny. eric's face flushed with glad emotion, and a quiet "uncle john, how good you are!" was all that he said. but johnny danced around the horses, wild with delight, throwing his cap in the air, dancing and hurrahing with all his might, and bestowing kisses indiscriminately upon his good papa and the dumb animals. one of the horses was coal black, with a white star upon his forehead, and one white foot; he was for eric. johnny's was a bright bay, with four white feet and a white nose: and the doctor's was a chestnut-colored horse, with a darker mane and tail. of course the first great question was, what they were to be called. "i have named my horse 'perseus,'" said the doctor, "in honor of the illustrious slayer of the gorgon medusa, and the deliverer of andromeda." "i'll call mine 'jack,' in honor of papa," said roguish johnny. "and mine," exclaimed eric, "shall be bucephalus." eric had just finished reading a classical history, and was greatly interested in the account of alexander's power over bucephalus. these names were soon abbreviated to "percy," "beauty," and "jack." after the horses had been duly admired, mr. van rasseulger took the boys with him, selected saddles, with travellers' saddle-bags, rubber cloaks, a couple of blankets, and two tin boxes for provisions, with an inside compartment for matches. the rubber cloaks were made with hoods, which could be drawn over the head, completely protecting it. dr. ward provided himself with similar apparel, and numerous little things which the boys had no idea would be necessary, and even mr. van rasseulger overlooked. the next morning everything was in readiness. the blankets, light overcoats, rubber cloaks, and a change of clothing, were made into a roll, and strapped behind the saddles. the tin cases were filled for luncheon, and deposited in the saddle-bags, and the boys declared themselves in readiness. but when the doctor presented them each with a light knapsack, a tiny compass to wear upon their watch chains, and a pocket drinking cup, they instantly discovered that they could never in the world have got along without them. the horses were pawing the ground, impatient to be off, their long manes and tails floating in the cool morning breeze, their noble forms quivering with life and excitement. johnny, divided between regret at parting with his father, and delight at the novel excursion; eric, eager and excited, with mischievous froll, demure enough just now, seated composedly upon his shoulder; the doctor coolly testing the saddle girths, and mr. van rasseulger seeing them off, happy in their pleasure. "be good and kind to my boy, as you have always been, eric," he said, bidding his nephew "good by." "you mean, uncle john, as you have always been to me," eric replied, with gratitude beaming in his eyes. "and johnny is a dear little fellow; no one could help being good to him." "i hope he will grow like his cousin," said mr. van rasseulger, with a hearty smile; "and, johnny-boy, you must be very obedient to uncle charlie. do right, be a gentleman, and grow stout and healthy for papa." "we will write from baden and ulm," said the doctor. "we ought to get there by next week." after a few more words of parting they set off, and were soon out of sight. three hours later, as mr. van rasseulger, on his way to vienna by rail, passed a turn in the road, the three travellers were in sight for an instant, apparently in good spirits and prime condition. he was extremely pleased with this unexpected view of them, and for some time after they had again disappeared the wealthy new york merchant lay back in his cushioned seat, building hopes of high promise upon the future of johnny's life. poor johnny! he had been almost spoiled at home, but under the doctor's firm guidance and eric's good influence, was wonderfully improved. the bright, merry little fellow was exhibiting his true character, long hidden by ill-advised indulgence. chapter xv. the last. up the banks of the beautiful rhine, through picturesque hamlets, over high, rugged mountains, and in the glory and grandeur of the forests, our horseback travellers sought and found the best of all treasures--health and happiness. the swabian mountains, and the schwarz wold, or black forest,--a group of mountains covered with forests,--through which they rode thirty-seven miles, required from them the greatest endurance. nevertheless, upon the woody mountains, steep and difficult to climb as they were, they found several thriving villages, where they were kindly received, and where all their wants were generously supplied. but on one occasion, when a violent storm arose, and they were near no village, they were obliged to take shelter in an empty barn, and there remained through the night, sleeping, with their horses, upon the hard, board floor, with their knapsacks for pillows. and johnny had one thrilling adventure. they had encamped for the night upon a small plateau, and, before dismounting, johnny rode back to the edge, and was looking down upon the plains beneath, when suddenly he felt the ground give way from above where his horse was standing, and in an instant horse and rider, covered by a bank of sand, were sliding helplessly down the mountain. the shower of sand smothered their cries, and neither the doctor nor eric noticed their disappearance at first. but presently eric, turning to speak to him, exclaimed,-- "where in the world is johnny?" the doctor looked hastily up. seeing the fresh earth at the edge of the plateau, he rushed to the spot, examined it, and exclaiming, "heavens! the child has fallen down a slide!" prepared to descend in the same place. "eric, stay up there, and take care of the horses," he said, and was soon out of sight. eric secured the horses, and then crept to the place from which the doctor had disappeared. he found, just beneath him, a long line of large troughs, open at both ends, and overlapping each other like shingles. it extended entirely down the side of the mountain, and to his horror eric saw at its foot a lake. "o, johnny, johnny! my dear little cousin! and uncle charlie, too--they will surely be killed!" he cried, in agony. for he knew at once that they had gone down a timber slide, and was afraid they would be drowned in the lake. and now i suppose i must tell you what a timber slide is. the black forest mountains are covered with large and valuable trees, which are felled and sold by their owners; and as it would be decidedly inconvenient to take horses and carts up the mountain, and utterly impossible to get them down with a heavy load of those giant trees with sound necks, an ingenious swiss invented the cheap and rapid way of getting the trees off the mountain by means of a slide, formed of immense troughs lapped together, and terminating in the lake, where the heavy logs are chained together and floated to a railway or wharf, just as they are done in our own country by the loggers of the maine forests and other woody regions. of course a descent in one of these slides, under ordinary circumstances, would be extremely dangerous to human life and limb. but it fortunately happened that neither the doctor, johnny, nor jack were seriously injured, for the slide had been disused for some time, and in consequence of an accident, somewhat similar to johnny's, had been partially removed, and a high, soft bank of sand lay at its new terminus. johnny and jack were pitched violently into this, and rescued from their very uncomfortable position by a party of english travellers encamped near by. many were the exclamations uttered at the marvellous and sudden entrance of our young friend upon the quiet beauties of the twilight scene, and bewildered johnny scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. his first anxiety was for jack, but the english gentleman who drew him from the sand-bank would pay no attention to the horse until he was convinced that johnny was unhurt. assured about this, he patted and soothed poor frightened jack, and walked him carefully over the soft greensward, to see if he appeared at all lame; and then johnny was delighted enough to hear the horse pronounced all right. johnny had several pretty bad bruises, which the englishman, who was a physician, dressed for him. by the time this was done dr. ward, whose descent had been much slower and more careful than johnny's, reached them, and his anxieties were at once quieted by johnny's assurance that it was "just the jolliest coast i ever had." after examining both johnny and jack, to assure himself of their well-being, and heartily thanking the englishman for his kind assistance, the doctor asked permission to leave johnny under his care until he could get eric and the horses from the top of the mountain. the new friend willingly undertook the care of johnny, and the doctor hastened up the mountain to relieve eric's anxiety. johnny seated himself near the door of the tent, and a young man of the party brought him some grapes. jack neighed wistfully for his share, for johnny had made a great pet of him, always dividing his fruit with him. "i'll give you some, jack," he said, walking towards the horse. "gracious, how stiff and sore i feel." while jack was champing his feast with great satisfaction, an english boy, of johnny's size, came towards them. "is that your horse?" said he. "yes," answered johnny; "isn't he a good one?" "_is_ he a good one?" asked the boy. "i guess he is," said johnny, hotly; "there isn't a better horse anywhere." "but papa's groom told me," persisted the english lad, "that a horse with four white feet and a white nose was worthless. he says,-- 'one white foot, buy him, two white feet, try him, three white feet, deny him, four white feet and a white nose, take off his skin and throw him to the crows.'" johnny detected a roguish glitter in his companion's blue eyes, and with a corresponding twinkle in his own, merely answered,-- "my old nurse says,-- 'there was an old woman went up in a basket seventy times as high as the moon.' i suppose you believe that, too." this ready answer pleased the other, and they were soon fast friends. "what is your name?" johnny asked. "arthur montgomery," was the reply. johnny wondered where he had heard the name before; but though he was sure he had heard it, he could not remember where. he began to feel quite tired and sleepy before the doctor returned for him, and his bruises ached badly. once he would have cried and worried every one about him, if in such an uncomfortable state; but now he bore the pain like a spartan. the doctor came at last, and after thanking the englishman again, he led the tired horse, with weary johnny upon his back, to a wood-cutter's cottage near at hand, where they were to pass the night. eric welcomed them with tears of joy in his eyes. "o, johnny, what a narrow escape you have had!" "we ought to be very thankful," said the doctor. "yes," said johnny, sleepily, "i am thankful!" he woke up just before eric went to bed, and said,-- "that boy said his name was arthur montgomery. where have i heard that name, eric?" "why," exclaimed eric, "that was the name on the box of money i found!" "i knew i'd heard it somewhere," murmured johnny, dropping off to sleep again. eric ran to tell his uncle. "ah," said the doctor, quite pleased to be able to return a good deed, "we will see them in the morning." but in the morning the english travellers had disappeared, and our party could find no trace of them. eric was much disappointed. now he would be obliged to wait patiently for mr. lacelle's letter. johnny and jack were not injured by their descent of the mountain, whose only effects were some pretty sore bruises, which johnny tried not to mind, and an obstinacy in jack's disposition that no human powers of persuasion could ever remove. he could never, after that memorable slide, be induced to go near the edge of any kind of an embankment; and he always declined going aboard a steamer, until beauty and percy had gone safely over the gangway. miss virginia f. townsend's books. uniform edition. cloth. $ each. but a philistine. "another novel by the author of 'a woman's word' and 'lenox dare,' will be warmly welcomed by hosts of readers of miss townsend's stories. there is nothing of the 'sensational,' or so called realistic, school in her writings. on the contrary, they are noted for their healthy moral tone and pure sentiment, and yet are not wanting in striking situations and dramatic incidents"--_chicago journal_ lenox dare. "her stories, always sunny and healthful, touch the springs of social life and make the reader better acquainted with this great human organization of which we all form a part, and tend to bring him into more intimate sympathy with what is most pure and noble in our nature. among the best of her productions we place the volume here under notice. in temper and tone the volume is calculated to exert a healthful and elevating influence"--_new england methodist_ daryll gap; or, whether it paid. a story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil. 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[illustration: _london, published by i. murray, _ swiss cottage.] first impressions on a tour upon the continent in the summer of , through parts of france, italy, switzerland, the borders of germany, and a part of _french flanders_. by marianne baillie. london: john murray, albemarle-street. . london: printed by thomas davison, whitefriars. to one of the most valued friends of her earliest years, the right hon. john trevor, the author inscribes the following little work, with every sentiment of affectionate respect and esteem. directions to the binder. swiss cottage to face the title. view of turin passage of the simplon colossal figure hermitage of st. frêne preface in perusing the following pages, it will i hope be believed, that they were not originally written with any view to publication: circumstances have since occurred, which induce me to alter my first intention, and to submit them to a more enlarged circle, than that of a few intimate friends, to whose eye alone i had once thought of presenting them. in committing my first impressions to so fearful an ordeal as the opinion of the public, i feel oppressed by a sense of their various imperfections, and by the conviction of their trifling value as a work of the sort; yet i still flatter myself they will be received with forbearance. i had much amusement in attempting this little sketch, and i most sincerely entreat that it may be considered as what it is, a sketch only. my friends will not, and readers in general must not, look for fine writing from the pen of such a novice as myself; nor ought they to expect me (labouring under the twofold disadvantage of sex and inexperience) to narrate with the accuracy and precision of a regular tourist, the history (natural, moral, political, literary and commercial) of all the places we visited: still less, that (in compliment to the lovers of the gastronomic art) i should undertake to give the bill of fare of every _table d'hôte_ or _traiteur_ that we met with in our progress. among the many fears which assail me, there is one that recurs to my mind with more pertinacity than the rest: that i may be taxed with having bestowed too warm and glowing a colouring upon some objects of natural beauty and sublimity. formerly, indeed, i believe i was in danger of leaning towards romance in describing scenes which had particularly impressed my imagination or interested my feelings, and of attempting to imitate, with too rash and unadvised a pencil, the fervour of a mrs. radcliffe, although to catch the peculiar charm and spirit of her style i felt to be (for me) impossible. but notwithstanding that i still remember with complacence the time when the vivid imagination of very early youth procured me the enjoyment of a thousand bright and lovely illusions, and cast a sort of fairy splendour over existence which was certainly more bewitching than many realities that i have since met with, i at present feel (as better becomes me) more inclined to worship at the sober shrine of reason and judgment. this, it will be easily conceived, was likely to render my tour a more faithful picture, than if it had been undertaken some years ago, and i can safely affirm, that i commenced it with a determination to observe all things without prejudice of any sort, not even that of nationality; for prejudice is still the same irrational and unworthy feeling, in every shape and under every name. i was much hurried at the time of writing this journal; but a greater degree of subsequent leisure has enabled me to add some few notes which may, i hope, amuse and interest my readers. in these i acknowledge with gratitude the occasional assistance of a partial friend. _april, ._ first impressions. on monday, august th, we embarked from the ship inn at dover, for calais, on board the princess augusta packet. the passage was dreadful, the usual miseries attended us, and at the time i am now writing this, viz. august th, we are still suffering from the effects of our voyage. i will not make my readers ill by recalling the disgusting scenes which we there encountered, suffice it to say, that the bare remembrance of them is sufficient to overwhelm my still sick fancy, and to render the very name of the sea appalling to my ears. upon landing at calais, however, we contrived to raise our heavy eyes, with a lively feeling of curiosity and interest, to the motley crowd assembled on the beach to view us come on shore. i was pleased with what we are taught to call the habitual politeness of even the lowest order of french people, evinced in the alacrity with which twenty hands were held out to support me in descending from the packet, and in the commiseration which i plainly discovered in many a sun-burnt countenance for my evident indisposition. the hotel (quillacq's) is excellent, and the attendants remarkably civil and active. the style of furniture is superior to that of the best english hotels; and for a dinner and dessert of the most superior quality, we did not pay more than we should have done at an ordinary inn in our own country for very common fare. the dress of the lower classes here is rather pretty; the circumstance of the women wearing caps, neatly plaited, and tolerably clean, together with the body and petticoat of different colours, gives them a picturesque air: the long gold ear-rings, also (universally worn at this place, consisting of two drops, one suspended at the end of the other), contribute greatly to their graceful effect. the men do not differ much in their appearance from those of the same rank in england, but i think the animation universally displayed in the countenances of the fairer sex particularly striking, and certainly preferable to that want of expression so often to be found among my countrywomen. when we first started from calais for paris, with post-horses, i could not help a little national feeling of complacency upon observing the slovenly, shabby appearance of their harness and accoutrements, compared with those of england. from london to dover, we had bowled away with ease and rapidity; the carriage seemed to cut through the air with a swift and even motion. now we crawled and jumbled along, as it pleased the fancy of the horses and driver, upon the latter of which no remonstrance of ours would have had any effect. the costume of the post-boy (who drives three horses abreast, a fat, full-sized beast in the middle, his own rather smaller, and the off horse always a ragged flap-eared pony, looking as if he had just been caught up from a common) is whimsical enough; it is universally the royal livery: a shabby, dirty, short-waisted blue jacket, turned up with crimson, and laced sometimes with silver; boots resembling those of our heavy cavalry, and a thick clubbed pigtail, swinging like a pendulum from beneath a rusty japan hat. it was not till we had reached the distance of abbeville that we met with the celebrated genuine _grosses bottes_, whose enormous size put me in mind of my nursery days, when i used to listen to the wonderous tale of the giant-killer and his seven-leagued boots. the lash of the post-boy's whip is thick and knotted, and they have a curious method of cracking it upon passing other carriages, to give notice of their approach: this saves their lungs, and has not an unpleasant effect, the cracking sound being of a peculiar nature, double, as if it said "crac-crac" at each stroke. it is not every post-boy, however, who manages this little implement in the true style. they all carry the badge of their profession upon the left arm (like our watermen), being a silver or metal plate with the arms of france upon it. from calais to haut-buisson the country is extremely flat, barren and uninteresting, like the ugliest parts of wiltshire and sussex; and the straight line in which all the french roads are cut is tiresome and monotonous to a great degree. the case is not mended even when you advance as far as marquise, and i began to yawn in melancholy anticipation of a similar prospect for nearly a hundred and eighty miles, which yet remained to be passed ere we reached paris; but upon coming near beaupres, we were agreeably disappointed, finding the surface of the country more undulated, and patches of woodlands thinly strewn here and there--it is amazing how greatly the eye is relieved by this change. the hamlets between haut-buisson and boulogne much resemble those in the west of england; we were perpetually fancying ourselves in a somersetshire village as we passed through them. on the road-side it is very common to see large crucifixes, raised to a considerable height, with the figure of our saviour the size of life. we remarked one in particular, painted black, and the image flesh-colour, with the drapery about the middle gilt; another was inclosed in a small railed space (like a village pound), surrounded by four or five clumsy stone images, which i rather imagine were meant to represent the holy women who assembled round the cross during our saviour's last moments. as we approached boulogne, we met several old peasants: they all wore cocked hats, and a suit of decent, _sad-coloured_ clothes, not unlike the dress of our villagers on a sunday. the entrance to boulogne is very picturesque: the fortifications are crumbling a little beneath the touch of time, and the walls are partly overgrown by trees and lichens; but a very little exertion would render it formidable enough, i imagine, to besiegers. we dined here at an inn, where they thought they could not do us a greater favour than by sending up a meal in what they believed to be the english style of cookery; consequently it was neither one thing nor the other, and extremely disagreeable: amongst various delicacies, we had melted salt butter swimming in oil, and quite rancid, brought to table in a tea-cup, and a large dish of tough spongy lumps of veal, which they called veal cutlets. as i sat at the window, which opened upon the principal street, i had an opportunity of remarking a specimen of true french flattery, but i was not quite so pervious to its benign influence as sterne describes his ladies to have been in the sentimental journey. a little ragged urchin of about ten years old rather annoyed me, by jumping up and grinning repeatedly in my face: "allez, allez, que faites vous là?" said i. "c'est que je veux dire bon jour à madame!"--"eh, bien donc, vous l'avez dit à present--allez!"--"ah! mais que madame est jolie! mon dieu! elle est _very prit_. elle me donnera un sous, n'est ce pas?" it was at poix that we accidentally met a woman of normandy upon the road. she was well looking, and the costume both singular and becoming: the snow white cap with a deep plaited border, and a crown half a yard in height, fastened on the forehead by a gold pin, the long drop ear-rings and gold cross in a heavy worked setting, suspended round the throat by a narrow black riband, white handkerchief crossed over the bosom, and a body and petticoat of opposite colours, with full white shift sleeves coming over the elbows, formed a remarkably pretty dress. i ought to have mentioned before now, that on the road between marquise and beaupres we were amused by observing an unfinished tower, erected by bonaparte some years since, designed to commemorate his intended victory over the english, by invasion--a true _chateau en espagne_. wishing to refresh ourselves by leaving the carriage while the horses were changed, i entered a sort of rustic public-house, where i observed with much interest the interior of a french cottage kitchen and its inhabitants. a group of peasants sat round a wood fire, apparently waiting for their dinner, which, as a brisk lively _paysanne_ took it off the embers to pour into a dish, looked and smelt most temptingly; it consisted of a mess of bread, herbs, and vegetables, stewed in broth: there was a member of this little circle who seemed to watch the progress of the cooking with peculiar delight; i mean a large, powerful, yet playful dog, whose exact breed we did not discover, but we were informed he was english--doubtless he recognized his countrymen! the plates and dishes, utensils, &c. were ranged upon shelves from the top to the bottom of the little kitchen, and equally distributed on all sides, instead of being confined to the vicinity of the dresser, as is generally the case in england; they were chiefly of a coarse white clay, painted in a gaudy and sprawling pattern of red flowers: the old woman of the house apologized for their not being quite so bright as they ought to have been, but said the flies dirtied them sadly; however, every thing looked clean and comfortable. the costume of the men is not becoming; they all wear white coarse cotton night-caps, and smock-frocks dyed with indigo; their features and countenances much resemble those of a similar rank in england. it appears to me that the old peasants alone wear the cocked hat in this part of france: perhaps it is a remnant of the national dress in the time of the _ancien regime_. the young children, from one to five or six years of age, are (generally speaking) very pretty, and some of them have the drollest little faces i ever saw, dark eyes and marked eyebrows and lashes, full of smiles and roguery; their hair is always allowed to hang at full length upon their shoulders, never being shorn and cropt. having dined at boulogne, we proceeded on our journey as far as samer, intending to sleep the first night at montreuil; but a direct stop was put to any such project, by the circumstance of a total absence of post-horses; they were all too much fatigued to carry us farther, or were employed in the service of other travellers. evening was now closing rapidly in, and we were really glad to comply with the urgent solicitations of a rural _fille de chambre_, who ran out of the little inn at that place (samer), and assured us we should meet with very comfortable accommodations and be treated with every attention at the tête de boeuf, to which she belonged: "ma foi, messieurs," said the postilion, "vous trouverez que cette demoiselle est bien engageante." when we entered the house (through the kitchen, which much resembled that of a large cottage), we found a neat little parlour, the water ready boiling in the tea-kettle, excellent tea, bread, butter, and cream. the _demoiselle_ or _fille de la maison_ (being the daughter of the hostess), and her assistant (the before-mentioned _fille de chambre_, in her country costume), flew about, seeming to anticipate all our wishes and wants; every thing was ready in an instant, and all was done, not by the wand of an enchanter, but by the magical influence of good humour and activity, void of pertness, and free from bustle or awkwardness of any sort. _la jeune demoiselle_ was a pretty, modest, well-behaved girl, of sixteen or seventeen, and the maid a merry, good-looking, sprightly lass, some few years older. she appeared to enjoy a joke to her heart, and returned a neat answer to our laughing questions more than once, and this without being at all immodest or impertinent. mr. b. asked her if she was married: "pas encore, monsieur," (said she, looking comically _naïve_), "mais j'espère toujours!" in short, her manner was something quite peculiar to the french in that class of society. an english maid servant who had kept up this sort of badinage would most probably have been a girl of light character; but servants in france are indulged in a playful familiarity of speech and manner which is amusing to witness, and seldom (if ever) prevents them from treating you with every essential respect and attention. when we started the next morning, the demoiselle earnestly entreated us to breakfast at the hotel de l'europe, at montreuil, which was kept by her sister, a young woman only two years older than herself, who was just married; and both she and her little maid added many a remembrance upon their parts to _la chere soeur_. whether this was genuine sisterly affection, or the policy of two innkeepers playing into each other's hands, i really cannot take upon me to determine. the country between samer and montreuil becomes far more agreeable than hitherto; one here sees hills and vales, and waving woods: we passed the forest of tingri, but did not remark any large trees; they were chiefly of beech, with a great profusion of low underwood. we met many waggons and carts upon the road which are all very different from those used in england, being much narrower, and lighter for the horses: they are usually open at the ends, and the sides resemble two long ladders. the wheat harvest in this part of the country was remarkably fine; oats were plentifully planted, but the crops were thin; the hay, clover, &c. were scarce also, and of inferior quality, owing to the long drought. we observed the women reaping quite as much as the men, and their complexions, poor creatures! were absolutely baked black by the sun. the road now led us though the heart of the forest of aregnes: it is of large extent, but we observed the same want of fine timber as in that of tingri; the reason of this is, that the trees are always cut down before they attain their full growth, for the purpose of fuel, as wood fires are universal in france. we admired, however, several "dingles green," and "tangled wood walks wild," which looked very cool and inviting, but i remembered with pride the "giant oaks and twilight glades beneath" of our own new forest, and this coppice made but a trifling appearance in the comparison. emerging once more from hence upon the open country, we beheld in the distance a troop of english dragoons (probably from boulogne) exercising their horses. what a singular spectacle in the midst of a people who so lately ruled the world, but who now are trampled beneath the feet of the stranger! the sight of the english, thus proudly paramount, must necessarily be revolting and galling to them in the highest degree: we should feel quite as bitterly, were it our own fate--more so, perhaps. let us therefore be just, and make allowance for their natural disgust, while we condemn the vanity and mad ambition which has thus reduced them. the approach to montreuil is pretty; the character of the landscape changes, in a sudden and agreeable manner: in place of an uninclosed tract of land, resembling a vast ocean of waving corn, you now see verdant meadows and green pastures, refreshing the tired eye, and wearing the livery of early spring; this effect is produced by the fields lying low, and by the practice of irrigation, which is an admirable substitute for rain. montreuil is a fortified town; we passed over drawbridges upon entering and leaving it: the houses are all very ancient, and the whole appearance is picturesque. here we had a mental struggle between sentiment and good nature, for we wished to breakfast at the same inn where sterne met with la fleur, and yet were unwilling to disappoint the hopes of our little demoiselle at samer, who had recommended her sister's hotel. good nature carried the day, and we drove to l'hotel de l'europe, where we met with most comfortable accommodation, and were pleased by the young hostess's resemblance to her pretty sister, and by her civil, lively manner of receiving us. she sat during our breakfast in a neighbouring apartment, by the kitchen (like the mistress of the mansion in times of yore), working at her needle, surrounded by her hand-maidens, who were occupied in the same employment. they all seemed to be fond of her, and the light laugh of genuine hilarity rang from one to the other as they chatted at their ease. the room in which we breakfasted had (in common with most of the french apartments, which are not paved with brick), a handsome oak floor, waxed and dry rubbed till it was nearly as highly polished as a dining-table; the walls were wainscoted in part, and partly hung with a very amusing paper, having groups of really superior figures stamped upon it, in the manner of black and white chalk drawings upon a blue ground; one space, which had been intended for a looking-glass, was filled up in this style, with a scene from the loves of cupid and psyche, executed in a classical manner. you would never see such a thing in any english country inn, and i consider the french in these sort of decorations to possess far better taste than ourselves. as we passed through the cornfields on our way from montreuil to nampont, we were saluted by the _ramasseurs_ (gleaners), with a bouquet or two, formed of wheat, platted in a neat and ingenious way, which they threw into the carriage, begging a sous in return, which we bestowed with much good will! some children also began to sing and dance on the pathway by the road side, and i was surprised by observing that the tune was that of a quadrille, and that the steps were correct. i plainly recognized the _en avant_ and the _rigadon_. did this nation come into the world under the influence of a dancing star? i should say yes. when the horses were changed at nampont we disturbed the postillion at his dinner, who made his appearance devouring an indescribable something, which we afterwards discovered to be an _omelette aux herbes_: he deposited this occasionally on the saddle, while adjusting his harness. the ricks of corn and hay here are constructed rather in a slovenly manner: the french farmers seem to have no idea of the neat method of the english, in this respect. the road now led us by the celebrated forest of crecy, and the image of our gallant black prince rose vividly before my mind's eye. at bernay we entered another peasant's cottage, where we (for the first time since our landing in this country) beheld real and positive beauty. two lovely girls with clear brown skins (through which glowed a pure and animated carnation), long, dark blue eyes, black fringed lashes, and oval faces, came out with their mother, (a hale, well-looking country woman), and a younger sister of six years old, whose infantine charms were full as great in their way. i asked if the latter was the _cadette_ of the family? upon which the rural dame, with infinite good humour and readiness, corrected what she termed my mistaken appellation, by informing me that it was only the second child which they called the _cadet_ or _cadette_[ ]: the youngest was _le dernier_, or _la derniere_. we had much pleasure in remarking this beautiful trio, and the mother seemed not a little gratified at our evident admiration of her progeny. the face of the country here again changed for the worse, relapsing into the same flat and monotonous appearance as at first, and it continued thus until within a mile of abbeville, which is a very fine old town, with a cathedral dedicated to saint villefrond. the architecture is very striking, and the interior replete with the usual ornaments of superstition and idolatry: it was built by the english. my companions visited it, while i was resting quietly at the hotel, and saw several precious relics of saints departed. they found three very young devotees there, before a _salvator mundi_, who were much too merry to be very religious! i however met with quite an affecting spectacle when i went in my turn. two poor _paysannes_, in the usual picturesque costume, were prostrate before the image of a dead christ supported by the virgin. they were praying with an expression of much earnest and sorrowful devotion: one of them had a sick child in her arms, for whom she appeared to invoke the divine compassion: poor little thing, the impression of approaching death was stamped upon its pale face, as it lay motionless, hardly seeming to breathe. the group struck my imagination so forcibly, that i afterwards attempted to sketch it from memory. surely this religion, with all its faults, is very consolatory; and the faith and piety of these poor women must be confessed to be respectable and praiseworthy, however mingled with the alloy of superstition and ignorance: calvin himself might have thought as i did, had he seen them. it was market-day at abbeville the morning after our arrival, and we were much amused with the various costumes and faces assembled there. we did not, however, see one pretty woman during the whole of our stay, which was two nights and a day. we went one evening to the theatre, and observed the same dearth of beauty among the audience, which chiefly consisted of _petites bourgeoises_, and officers of the national guards. this theatre is a very inferior one, and full of bad smells. we were assured by our hostess that the company (from amiens) was very good, and that the piece they were to act (_les templiers_) was thought highly of. we all found it extremely difficult to follow the actors, owing to their unnatural declamatory tones, and the mouthing manner of pronouncing their words: this i believe, however, is universally the case, even with the first tragedians at paris, _talma_ not excepted. how brightly do nature's favourite children, _o'neil_ and _kean_, shine in comparison! the inn at abbeville, in which we took up our quarters (l'hotel de l'europe), is most excellent: it is very large and roomy, and must once have been a handsome chateau. there is a delightful garden, which belonged formerly to a convent adjacent: the high walls covered with a profusion of delicious fruit. the trees in other parts of the garden also were bending beneath the weight of the apples and pears, plums, &c. myrtles and rododendrons (the latter very large and fine) were placed here and there in tubs; and the fig-tree and vine overshadowed our bed-room windows, which looked upon this agreeable scene: the grapes were nearly ripe. the furniture of our bed-rooms was in a very superior style, though i have seen the same sort of things even in the most shabby looking little inns throughout france. marble must be very common, and of a reasonable price, for we met with it every where, in chimney-pieces, slabs, tables, the tops of drawers, &c. the little washing stand, in our room at abbeville, was of fine carved mahogany, in the form of an antique altar or tripod; and the bason and ewer, of an equally pure and classic form, were of fine french porcelain. as i have a great passion for seeing the manners of all ranks of people, i went down into a little room next the kitchen, to chat with the hostess, while she was shelling some _haricots blancs_ for dinner. i found this lady very communicative and civil; and i won her heart i believe, by taking some notice of her daughter, about six years old (her farewell performance in the maternal line), a pretty, gentle, timid little creature, who was busily occupied in putting her doll to bed in a cradle. several peasants came into the inn-yard as i sat on a bench there: i observed that all the women wore large crosses, of clumsy workmanship, chiefly of white crystal, or glass, and coloured ear-rings, but not so long as those at calais. we went into a little jeweller's shop, and bought a couple of the silver rings, with curious ornaments, which the peasants usually wear; their sentimental devices were very amusing. leaving abbeville, we saw the common people employed in making ropes by the road-side, and remarked several large fields of hemp, and one or two of flax: the hemp, when cut, is piled up in sheaves, like corn. the country here is verdant, and rather woody: it lies low, and the river somme winds through it, whose course may be plainly traced to a great distance by the willows which grow upon its banks, reminding me of parts of berkshire. i ought not to omit mentioning the profusion of apple-trees which grow by the road-side, almost all the way to paris: the trees were absolutely sinking beneath the weight of the fruit, and one or two of them had quite given way, and lay prostrate, training their rosy burthen in the dust. i am almost ashamed to say that my appetite was so much stronger than my honesty, that i could not be satisfied without tasting them; when i discovered that these fair apples were like those mentioned in the scriptures, bright and tempting to the eye, but bitter as ashes within! in short, they were not eatable, but entirely of the cider kind, which, as every body knows, are good for nothing in a natural state. there are quantities, however, of eating apples besides, in every cottage garden; and the favourite food of the peasant children appears to be coarse, brown, heavy bread, with these roasted and spread upon it, instead of butter. we saw large piles of roasted apples in the market at abbeville for this purpose. the country near airaines again becomes tiresome, from its barren sameness. passing a little public house, we observed the following somewhat selfish inscription over the door: "messieurs! nous sommes quatres hussards, et nous disons, que pour conservir nos amis, il ne faut pas faire de credit." the weather was invariably delightful: a bright sun, with a refreshing cool breeze, and an elasticity and lightness in the air, gave animation and cheerfulness to us all. the sky was generally of a cloudless azure, and the nights almost as light and as free from damps as the days: i never beheld the moon in greater majesty. airaines is an uninteresting little town, not worth mentioning. our postillion here was a most ruffian-like, cut-throat looking creature, all over dirt, and having a true jacobinical air. he cast several glances full of sullenness and malignity at my companions; so much so, that i felt very thankful we were in the cheerful haunts of men, and not in the solitary alps, or the black forests of germany, with such a conductor. we dined at granvilliers, where we were waited upon by a little girl of thirteen, fair and lively enough, with an english bloom. she spoke our language remarkably well, although she had only been six months _en pension_ at amiens, in order to acquire it! her instructress was a french woman, which is singular, for she seemed to have given her little pupil a perfect knowledge of our idiom, and an excellent accent. from granvilliers to marseille, the country rapidly improves in beauty. just beyond the latter place we remarked a very fine old chateau, embosomed in extensive woods: it must formerly have belonged to some of the rich noblesse, and perhaps does so still. near marseille, vineyards appeared for the first time. we now approached the town of beauvais, which had a very pretty effect, surrounded by woods, with the cathedral standing proudly conspicuous over all. it just now occurs to me to mention (though not immediately _à-propos_ to beauvais), that the houses, in most of the french towns and villages we have yet seen, are numbered, and in a singular method; for the several streets are not allowed their numbers, separately reckoned, but they go on counting from the first house in the place to the last, so that it sometimes happens you might be directed to call upon a friend at number , or , and so on. in paris they have another peculiarity, for the even numbers, such as , , , , &c. are all on one side of the street, and the odd ones, , , , &c. on the other. beauvais is a filthy town; the streets narrow and dark, and the houses very ordinary. the diversity of intolerable smells here nearly overset me, and made me wish almost to lose the power of my olfactory nerves. the inn was miserable, dirty, inconvenient, badly attended, and noisy. the only good things we met with were beds; indeed we have been fortunate in that respect every where, and the linen throughout france is excellent and plentiful. we had (with some difficulty) prevailed upon the awkward _maritornes_ of a _fille de chambre_ to set a tea-board before us in the little chair-lumbered closet dignified by the name of a _salle a manger_, and into which three or four doors were perpetually opened _sans ceremonie_, when our swiss travelling valet, christian, came in to tell us of the hard fate of an english family who were just arrived, and whose fatigue obliged them to sleep here; but as the sitting-rooms were all occupied, they were under the necessity of taking their tea in the kitchen, which did not, alas! boast the cheerful and clean appearance of the cottage kitchens i have formerly described. common politeness, therefore, laid us under the necessity of sending an invitation to these unfortunates, to share our sitting-room, and join us at our tea. accordingly, in came two ladies; one a fat, comely, masculine dame, of a certain age; the other lean, tall, plain, and some few years younger. in a few minutes they were joined by a large, gruff, sour-looking old gentleman (the husband of the elder lady), who, without attempting any salutation or apology to us, began to express his dissatisfaction at finding tea going forward, 'when you know (said he) i never drink any.' he then settled himself at a small table, and ordered a _pâté_ for his supper. the style of the ladies may easily be guessed by the sort of language in which they described every thing they had seen. the younger, mentioning a tempestuous passage which they had encountered, from dover to boulogne, told us that the air smelt quite _sulphurus_, and the lightning _tizzed_ in the water very frightfully. the old gentleman grumbled himself by degrees into conversation, and we soon discovered that he was a genuine squire sullen, and that his companions were fully aware of it. these poor people seemed to dislike almost all they had met with in france; persons, places, travelling, &c. they beheld every thing _en noir_, and appeared to make mountains of mole-hills. peace be with them! and a speedy release from each other's society. we went (although the day was sinking into twilight) to view the magnificent cathedral, which for beauty of architecture i have seldom seen equalled. it is not finished. the different chapels of the saints, and the high altar, were very striking, seen through the solemn gloom of the fine old stained glass windows. lights were burning before the shrine of one single saint, the patron of the town; they twinkled dimly through the gothic pillars and tracery, and had a highly picturesque and singular effect[ ]. many peasants were kneeling round the altar at this shrine, and the old woman (our guide) informed us they were praying for rain, now the harvest was got safely in: we asked her if she thought the saint would grant their prayers, and she replied she had no doubt but that he would. prostrate on the steps of the altars, in the different small chapels of this cathedral, half lost in shadow, were several other devotees, who had come there for the purpose of confessing themselves previous to the great and solemn festival of the _assomption de la sainte vierge_, which was to take place on the morrow. altogether the spectacle was interesting and imposing, nor could i find any disposition in my heart to ridicule a religion which seemed to be carried on with so much sacred solemnity, and in so awe inspiring a temple. certainly the absence of pews in the body of a place of public worship is a great advantage, both in a religious and a picturesque point of view. there is something soothing and elevating to the imagination in the idea of so grand a building being open equally, and at all times, to the noble and the peasant, who, it might easily happen, may be seen side by side kneeling on the same steps of the magnificent altar, wrapt in devout adoration of that being, in whose sight all men are equal. in my opinion (and i have ever since i can remember thought the same) a gothic cathedral is the most appropriate style of building for a place dedicated to the worship of the almighty, nor can i look upon the magnificent style in which the roman catholics adorn their altars, and array their officiating priests, without some feelings of approbation and reverence. we were right glad to quit beauvais early the next morning; and, as we advanced towards beaumont, were delighted with the beauty of its environs. the river seine has a fine appearance here, although vastly inferior to our thames; and we remarked a great number of chateaus rising among the woods, on every side: many of them, with their parks and domains, were really superb. some peasants here attempted to impose upon us as foreigners, in a very disgusting manner, asking a franc for a couple of greengages, and three sous a-piece for pears, which they offered at the windows of our carriage. our servant was very indignant at their impudence, and sent them off in a hurry, saying, "dey ought to be shamed of demselves." upon entering beaumont, we met the population of the place returning from mass, in their _costumes des fêtes_. nothing can well be more sweetly pretty, and delicately neat, than the dress of the women! snowy caps, with deep lace or thin _linon_ borders plaited, white cotton gowns and stockings, gay coloured cotton handkerchiefs crossed smartly over the bosom so as to display the shape to advantage, a large gold cross suspended from the neck by a black narrow riband, or gold chain, with ear-rings, and pin for the forehead of the same material. some few wore a crimson apron and bib, over the white gown, and others crimson gowns, with aprons of a bright antique sort of blue--a mixture of colours which is for ever to be remarked in the paintings of the old masters, and which has a singularly becoming effect upon the skin. a little worked muslin _fischu_, with a vandyke bordering, is sometimes added, as a finish to the dress, worn over all. we now came to st. denis, and at length beheld paris! we did not pass the heights of montmartre, &c. without emotion, when we recollected the memorable contest which so lately took place there between the veteran blucher and the french! the country in the immediate vicinity of paris is flat and ugly; but we thought not of nature upon entering this celebrated work and wonder of art. covered with dust, and followed by the eyes of the multitude, who easily discovered our english physiognomies, we drove up to several hotels, at every one of which we were refused admittance for want of room to accommodate us, there being at this moment no less than thirty thousand english at paris. at last, we were comfortably housed at the _hotel rivoli_ (near the _jardins des tuileries_), one of the best in the city, where we found abundant civility and attention, and every convenience. why should i attempt to describe paris? it has already and so often been done by abler pens than mine, that the very school girl in a country town in england is perfectly acquainted with all its lions; i shall only say, that we spent so short a time there, and i was so afraid of exhausting my stock of strength, which was fully wanted for the journey to geneva, &c. that i did not even attempt to see every thing that might have been seen. the extreme height of the houses, and narrowness of the streets, together with the inconceivable variety of horrible smells in all parts of the town, and the want of pavements for pedestrians, made an extremely unpleasant impression upon me. the gaiety and fancy displayed in the signs over the shops (every one of which has an emblematic device peculiar to itself) were very striking, however, as well as their markets, where pomona seemed to have lavished the choicest treasures of her horn: indeed i never beheld such a profusion of exquisite fruits and vegetables, the cheapness of which astonished us natives of a more niggard clime not a little. the quantities of cooling and refreshing beverages, sold in every corner of the streets, were also quite a novel thing to us, as well as the circumstance of all the world sitting on hired chairs out of doors, sipping lemonade, or eating ices. i did not remark, i must confess, that appearance of excessive animation and enjoyment, which i had been led to expect among the parisians; on the contrary, i saw full as many grave faces as in _notre triste pays_, as they call it. the palais royal i thought a very amusing place; and the fountain in the midst is most beautiful and refreshing, throwing up a stream of water, which in its descent resembles a weeping willow. the fountain of the lions, also, is still superior, and i think them among the most agreeable objects in paris. the boulevards are an airy, cheerful situation, and the moving scene constantly going on there put me in mind of a perpetual fair. the gentlemen went to the opera françoise, where the splendour of the ballet, and the superiority of the dancing, struck them with astonishment and admiration. they visited tivoli (which did not appear to them to be so good a thing of the sort as our vauxhall); and i went one evening to the _beaujon_, and _les montaignes russes_, in _les champs elysées_. both the latter, however, were shut; that is, no sliding in the cars was going on, for there had been so many fatal accidents lately, that the rage for this amusement was over. i did not like _les champs elysées_ so well as our kensington gardens; the want of turf was unpardonable in our english eyes. _la place de louis xv._, opposite the tuileries, where the unfortunate louis xvi. was executed, is very superb in itself, as well as interesting from its melancholy legends. i was rather disappointed in _les jardins des tuileries_, admiring the fine orange-trees in tubs there more than the gardens themselves. we saw the remains of that horrible monument of cruelty, injustice, and despotism, the bastile; and drove past the entrance to the celebrated _jardin des plantes_, which we did not enter, as i had already seen a very fine botanical collection at kew, and a much superior set of wild beasts at exeter change. to the louvre, however, even in its present state of diminished splendour, no words of mine can do justice; its superb gallery far exceeded even my expectations, which had been highly excited by all i had ever heard upon the subject: to see the paintings properly, one ought to go there every day for a week. we had only time particularly to distinguish several landscapes of claude lorraine, beautiful beyond all idea, and the set of historical pictures illustrative of the life of _henri quatre_, by rubens: i was much struck with the fine countenance and person of the gallant monarch. a saint sebastian also, by guido, rivetted my delighted attention. a friend of ours has painted an exquisite miniature copy of it, with which i remember being greatly struck in england, but it was not until i had seen the original that i was fully aware of its extraordinary merit. the gallery itself is a most magnificent thing; it really is quite a long fatiguing walk from one end of it to the other; and the crowds of people of all ranks who are constantly to be met with there render it altogether one of the most curious and interesting spectacles in europe. i was much amused with the shops, particularly the confectioners; the ingenious and endless devices into which they form their delicious bon bons and dried fruits are really surprising, and we purchased specimens of their different fancies, to astonish our english friends upon our return home. the _vendeurs des tisannes_ (cooling beverages, something like _eau de groseilles_, or lemonade), going about with their stock in trade strapped to their backs like walking tea-urns, were curious figures. the vessel which holds the _tisanne_ is not unlike a long violin case in shape, with a spout to it; it finishes at the top like a chinese pagoda, and is sometimes covered with little jingling bells, and hung round with pretty silver mugs. the dress of the _petites bourgeoises_ is quite distinct from that of every other rank of person; it is rather smart and neat than otherwise, but not at all picturesque. i do not remember to have heard a single note of agreeable music while i was in paris, except that which regaled our ears in an opposite hotel (belonging to count s.) the second evening of our arrival. this nobleman (of an irish family, but now a naturalized frenchman) gave a grand dinner (in a temporary banqueting-room, built out upon the leads of the house _à la troisieme étage_) to the english; and, during the entertainment, his band of musicians played several pieces, amongst others the celebrated national air, still dear to the french, of _vive henri quatre_; they then attempted god save the king, but made a dreadful business of it, which i attribute less to professional ignorance than to the impossibility of their being able to feel it, or to enter into the spirit of it _con amore_! the ballad singers (at least all of them that we had an opportunity of hearing) have harsh wiry voices and nasal tones; the latter circumstance, however, is almost inseparable from their language. i could not but be diverted with the _espièglerie_ of the _fille de chambre_ who attended me at the hotel de rivoli: she was ugly, but shrewd, and very active and civil. i asked her if count s. was a young man; upon which she hopped round the room in the most ridiculous manner possible, imitating the action of a decrepit old person. _jeune!_ (said she) _oh mon dieu, que non! c'est un vieux monsieur_ _qui va toujours comme cela!_ i inquired if she knew why he gave this fête. oh, _je n'en sais rien, mais, le pauvre homme, il n'a que tres peu de temps encore à restre dans ce monde ci, et je crois qu'il aime à faire parler de lui, avant de partir pour l'autre._ as to the personal charms of the women here, they appeared to me to be very mediocre; we remarked three or four pretty faces, but not one that had any claim to superior beauty. the people were all civil to us, except one woman, who kept a little shop for _bijouterie_ in _le palais royal_: nothing could be more pert and sulky than her language and manner; she looked as if she hated us and our nation altogether. we heard reports from other english people residing here, that it was very common for the lower orders of french to treat us with marked incivility and dislike; indeed that they should do so, under the present circumstances, ought not to be wondered at. the bronze statue of _henri quatre_ was erecting during our stay; we passed by the spot (close to the _pont neuf_), and beheld a mob assembled around it, with _gens d'armes_ on duty: we did not see the statue itself, it being at that moment covered with a purple mantle, studded with golden _fleurs de lis_. the various political parties speak differently of this affair: some say the brass of the statue will soon be converted into mortars, and others, that it is built upon a rock, and will stand for ever! the bridges appeared to us all vastly inferior to ours in london; that of waterloo, in the strand, makes them shrink into utter insignificance in comparison! but the palaces and public buildings are, on the contrary, infinitely finer than our own. nothing can be more magnificent, or in a more noble taste! i was very much amused by the novelty (totally unknown to ladies in england) of dining at a _restaurateur's_. curiosity induced me to accompany mr. baillie, and our friend, to _véry's_, and the next day to _beauvilliers'_, two of the most distinguished in the profession in paris; and the excellence of the cookery almost awakened (or rather i should say created) in me a spirit of _gourmandise_. there were a few other ladies present, which was a sort of sanction for me. a russian or prussian officer (by his appearance) sat at one of the little tables next to us, at _beauvilliers'_, and very nearly made me sick by the sight of his long, thick, greasy moustaches, and his disgusting habit of spitting every instant upon the floor. i observed that the french people eat their vegetables (always dressed with white sauce) after the meat, &c. and as a sort of dessert or _bonne bouche_ even after they have finished their sweet dishes: to us this seems an odd custom. we took our coffee and liqueurs at a _café_ near the tuileries, and then, while the gentlemen went to the opera, i returned to the hotel, to go on with my journal. one morning we devoted to an expedition to the interesting cemetery of _père de la chaise_, the celebrated confessor of louis quatorze. the house in which he resided stands in the midst, and is preserved as a sacred ruin. nothing can be more striking, and affecting to the imagination, than this place of burial; it is of considerable extent, with a well managed relief of shade and inequality of ground. the tombs and graves are kept in the highest order and repair, and almost all of them are planted with shrubs and fragrant flowers, mingled with the mournful cypress and yew: the acacia tree also is planted here in great abundance, and the wild vine trails its broad leaves and graceful clusters over many of the monuments. we remarked several beautiful tombs; amongst others, a light gothic temple, which contains the mouldering remains of abelard and eloise, brought from the former place of their interment to the present appropriate and lovely situation: their statues lie side by side carved in stone, in their religious habits, their heads resting on cushions, and his feet upon a dog. all this did him too much honour; as he was the most selfish tyrannical lover in the world, and quite unworthy, in my opinion, of the attachment of the unfortunate eloise. several of the inscriptions on humbler tombs were affecting from their brevity and simplicity; upon that of a man in the prime of life we read the following short sentence: _a la memoire de mon meilleur ami_--_c'étoit mon frere_! on another, _ci_ _git p---- n----: son epouse perd en lui le plus tendre de ses amis, et ses enfans un modele de vertu_. and upon one raised by its parents to the memory of a child, _ci git notre fils cheri_; a little crown of artificial orange blossoms, half blown, was in a glass-case at his head. we observed many garlands of fresh and sweet flowers, hung upon the graves; every thing marked the existence of tender remembrance and regret: it appears to me as if in this place, alone, the dead were never forgotten. i ought, however, to make honourable mention of a similar custom in wales. a woman was kneeling upon one of the tombs (which was overgrown by fragrant shrubs), weeping bitterly, and i felt a great inclination to bear her company: the last roses of summer were still lingering here, and she was gathering one as we passed. there is a remarkably fine view of paris from the mount on which the house of _père de la chaise_ stands. i said it was preserved as a sacred ruin, but i, as a protestant, could not look with much veneration upon it, as the residence of the instigator of the revocation of the edict of nantes; that foul stain upon the character, and disgrace to the understanding of _le grand louis_, which will ever be remembered with indignation by every candid and liberal christian. but protestantism has likewise its bigots, almost as remorseless, and equally blind! witness some sentiments discovered in the discourses of furious calvin, and john knox; witness the actions of cromwell, and his fanatical roundheads; witness (alas! in our own days), the uncharitable and horribly presumptuous principles and tenets of the methodists and saints! but this is another digression: i return to the view of paris. it is, as i said before, extremely fine; you have a bird's eye prospect of the whole city, with the proud towers of notre dame eminently conspicuous, and the gilded dome of _l'hôpital des invalides_, glittering in the sun. a word (only one word) relative to the french custom of gilding so much and so gaudily; it quite spoils the dignified effect of some of their noblest works of architecture, and puts one in mind of a child who prefers the showy ostentation of gold leaf upon his gingerbread to the more wholesome taste of its own plain and unornamented excellence. i have met with english people, however, who are vastly delighted with this false style of decoration. before i take leave of paris, i ought in justice to acknowledge that i have not had an opportunity of enjoying its chief and proudest attraction; i mean its best society. our time did not allow of any intercourse of this nature, and i regretted it much, because i have always heard (and from those most capable of judging rightly) that the tone of conversation in the upper circles here is remarkably attractive and delightful; and that lovers of good taste, high breeding, social enjoyment, and literary pursuits, would find themselves in paris _en pays de connoissance_. deprived of this gratification, we felt (at least mr. b. and myself) no sort of reluctance or regret when the day of our departure arrived: for our friend mr. w. i will not so confidently answer; he had been in paris twice before, had met with many agreeable people there, and consequently felt more at home among them. as for me in particular, i can only say that paris made no great impression upon my fancy, and none at all upon my feelings; (always excepting the _louvre_, the _cimetiere_ of _père de la chaise_, and one or two other interesting spectacles): and that i was, as i before observed, so overpowered by its inconceivably filthy effluvia, and the wretched inconvenience of its streets (both for walking and going in a carriage), that i rather felt an exhilaration of spirits than otherwise when we finally bade it adieu. on the morning of our departure it rained a good deal, and our postillion had taken care to fence himself against the weather; for he had disguised himself in a long shaggy dress of goats' skins, bearing a very accurate resemblance to the prints of robinson crusoe. we observed this done by others, more than once. the horses had little bells fastened to their harness; which practice is very common, we were told, both in france and italy. all the roads in the former, and most of them in the latter country, are good; wide, smooth, and generally paved in the middle, which has a noisy effect, but it renders the draught for horses much easier than the road, in wet weather, or when they work in very heavy carriages. avenues are general; they improve the face of the country when seen at a distance, but are monotonous and tiresome in themselves. i used formerly to admire roads leading though avenues, but it is possible to have too much of this. between villejuif and fromenteau we observed a pillar on the left with the following chivalrous inscription; _dieu, le roi, les dames!_ i was going to rejoice in this apparent proof of the gallant spirit of the nation, but i recollected the celebrated words of burke, in his letter upon the french revolution, and sighed as i involuntarily repeated, "the age of chivalry is no more." just beyond fromenteau, the country is really fine: woods, villages, chateaus were in abundance, and the river seine appeared to much advantage; we remarked two stone fountains, one on each side of the road, with the _fleurs de lis_ engraved upon them, built by louis xv. the french mile-stones here have quite a classical air, resembling broken columns; they are not properly mile-stones, but serve to mark the half leagues. at essone, where we changed horses, the postillion came out in a white night-cap (or rather a cap which once had boasted that title of purity), loose blue trowsers reaching scantily below the knee, and sans shoes or stockings of any sort: upon seeing that his services were wanted, he threw on an old japan hat, jumped into his jack boots, and clawing up the reins, drove off with an air of as much importance and self satisfaction as the smartest-clad post-boy on the epsom road during the race week. in the stubble fields near fontainbleau, we observed great quantities of partridges. the shepherds here sleep in little moveable houses or huts, upon wheels, somewhat inferior to a good english dog-kennel. at chailly, we saw the virgin mary looking out of a round hole in the wall, and not at all more dignified in her appearance than the well-known hero of coventry. we now exchanged our driver for a spirited old gentleman, who frolicked along beneath the burthen of threescore or more, seeming to bid defiance to the whole collection of pains and hh's (vide kemble's classical pronunciation). perhaps, reader, i do not make my meaning perfectly clear; but that does not signify, the first authors write in this way; and besides, i know what i mean myself, which is not always the case even with them. we remarked in the course of our journey a great number of similar merry nestors, and found, almost invariably, that they drove us faster, better, and in a superior style altogether to their younger competitors. i suppose they have a sort of pride in thus displaying their activity, which a middle-aged man does not feel. we entered the superb forest of fontainbleau just as the day began to decline; the sombre gloom and peculiar smell of the leaves were very agreeable. i have ever loved forest scenery, and would prefer a constant residence in its vicinity to that of mountain, lake, or plain: the trees here were chiefly beech, mixed with silver poplars, birch, and a few oaks. how was it possible to thread these mazes without thinking of _henri quatre_, and his famous hunting adventure in the miller's hut? i almost expected to see the stately shade of the noble monarch start from each shadowy dell. methought the sullen, yet faithful sully, emerged from the dark glades on the opposite side, seeking in vain for the benighted sovereign; and venting his affectionate inquietudes in the language of apparent severity and ill humour. i thought--but it does not matter what more i thought, in which opinion i dare say my reader will fully agree with me. we arrived at our inn (_la galère_), and well did it deserve that name, for never poor slave chained to the bench and oar suffered more severely from the merciless lash of his task-master than i did from the tormenting tyranny of the bugs, which swarmed in this detestable place. there was no sitting-room immediately ready for our reception, so we sat down in the old, lofty, smoke-stained kitchen, and amused ourselves with observing the progress of our supper, in company with a very sociable little dog, (who took a great fancy to me,) and _monsieur le chef_, an appropriate name, invariably given to the cook in most parts of the continent. when we retired to rest for the night, no words can express the disgust which assailed us: finding it impossible to remain in bed, i was obliged to lie in the middle of the room, upon six hard, worm-eaten, wooden chairs, whose ruthless angles ran into my wearied frame, and rendered every bone sore before morning; but even this did not save me, for the vermin ascended by the legs of the chairs, and really almost eat me up, as the rats did southey's bishop hatto[ ]. my imagination for several days after this adventure was so deeply saturated with their nauseous idea, that every object brought them in some way or other before me. upon quitting fontainbleau, we first observed the _sabots_ (or wooden shoes) worn by the peasantry; they are of enormous size, and must, i should think, be very heavy and inconvenient to the wearer. a piece of sheep-skin, with the woolly side inwards, is often slipt between the sabot and the foot, to prevent the former from excoriating the instep. at moret, a dirty little town, we saw a whole row of women washing linen in the river; they were in a kneeling position, and beat the clothes with a wooden mallet; they ought all to be provided with husbands from among the linen drapers, as they are such admirable helps to the trade. we met several donkeys here, carrying rushes, piled up like moving houses, so high, that only the heads and hoofs of the animals were visible. vast tracts of land, covered with vineyards, extended on every side, and the eternal straight road, where one could see for three or four miles the track one was to follow, began to be excessively tedious and wearing to the spirits: how different from the winding, undulating, graceful roads in england! country near pont sur yonne open, bald, and monotonous. the french vineyards when seen closely have a formal effect, being planted in stiff rows, like scarlet runners in a kitchen garden, but they much enrich the landscape at a distance. the river yonne is a pretty little stream, but the nymphs on its banks are not at all picturesque in their costume, which is by no means particularly marked, being dirty and unbecoming, and very much (i am ashamed to say) in the style of our common countrywomen about brentford, hammersmith, &c. sens is an ancient town: it has a handsome cathedral and gateway. the bread made here (as well as in most parts of france, except partially in paris) is mixed with leaven instead of yeast, and is sour and disagreeable in consequence. we remarked many gardens richly cultivated, full of choice vegetables and fruit, by the side of the highroad, without the smallest inclosure; a proof, i should imagine, of the honesty of the country people. there are several english families resident here, as the environs are very pretty, and the town itself an agreeable one. we stopped to take our breakfast at _la poste_, and bought excellent grapes for four-pence a pound english money. the late dauphin, father of the present king, is buried in the cathedral of this place, and the duke and duchess d'angouleme, &c. come once a year to pray for his soul's repose. pursuing our route, we met many burgundy waggons, loaded with wine; the horses were ornamented with enormous collars of sheep-skin, dyed of a bright blue colour: the _tout ensemble_ had a picturesque appearance, and the waggons were the first we had seen in france which had four wheels, the weight being usually balanced between a pair. a sudden storm of rain now coming on, had a beautiful effect; the retreating sunbeams played in catching lights (to use the expression of an artist) upon the abrupt points of the distant hills, and partially illuminated their soft and verdant tapestry of vines. we particularly enjoyed it after the long season of heat and drought. here are whole groves of walnut-trees, beneath which we met a group of five women belonging to the vineyards; they were every one handsome, with ruddy, wholesome, yet sun-burnt complexions, lively smiles, and long bright dark eyes and shadowy lashes. entered villeneuve sur yonne; saw loads of charcoal on the river, going to replenish the kitchens of many a _parisian heliogabalus_! this is also an ancient town, with two curious old gateways, but it appeared very dull. i admired some fine hedges of acacia, and four pretty, sleek, grey donkeys, who were drawing the plough. the road is winding here, like those of our own country, for which we were solely indebted to the turns of the river, whose course it accompanied. joigny. a handsome stone bridge seems its most remarkable ornament: the river is broad and fine, flowing through steep banks fringed with wood. we dined and slept at _les cinq mineurs_, and this in the same room. a most obliging, intelligent, young woman waited upon us, whose name was _veronique_. after dinner we walked on the promenade by the side of the river, and saw the barracks, &c. my friends met with a little adventure in their rambles, while i was resting myself at the inn. seeing a pretty little boy and his sister at play near the chateau, (belonging to the ancient counts of joigny,) they entered into conversation with them, upon which they were joined by the father of the children, a french country gentleman, who resided in a small house opposite the chateau: he insisted upon their coming in with him, and as the dinner was ready, much wished to tempt them to partake the meal: this they declined, and their new acquaintance proceeded to shew them his collection of pictures, _de très bons morceaux_, as he called them, but which did not rank quite so high in the estimation of his visitors. he unintentionally displayed, however, a much more pleasing possession; i mean that of an amiable and grateful disposition, for he said in the course of conversation, that he was always on the watch for an opportunity of shewing hospitality and attention to the english, as some little return for the kindness he had experienced from their nation, during a visit he had formerly made to his brother in dorsetshire; this brother was one of the monks of the order of _la trappe_, a small number of whom had been collected together, and who lived, in their former habits of monastic gloom and austerity, at lulworth castle in that county, under the protection of an english catholic (mr. weld), during the french revolution. he related some interesting anecdotes of this severe establishment; in particular, that of an austrian general of high rank, who after enrolling himself a member of the community, and living some years in the practice of incredible hardships and privations, at length permitted his tongue to reveal his name and family, about ten minutes previous to his dissolution; faithful to the vow which is common to them all, of not speaking until the moment of death. i was not aware that such an institution existed in england, till this french gentleman related the circumstance, and it strengthened the sensations of mixed horror and pity, which i have ever felt for the victims of fanaticism, in every shape and in every degree. how incredible does it appear, (in the judgment of reasonable beings) that mortals should imagine the benevolent author of nature can possibly take pleasure in a mode of worship which restricts his creatures from the enjoyment of those comforts and innocent pleasures with which life abounds, and for which he has so peculiarly adapted their faculties! shall all created beings express their sense of existence in bursts of involuntary cheerfulness and hilarity of spirit, and man alone offer up his adorations with a brow of gloom, and a heart withered by slavish sensations of fear and alarm? but enough upon so sacred a subject. on returning to their inn, the gentlemen met several teams of oxen, decorated with pretty high bonnets (_à la cauchoise_) made of straw: the natives here seem to take great pride and pleasure in the accoutrements of their cattle. an english family arrived at the _cinq mineurs_ at the same time with ourselves; they were well known in london as people of some consequence and property. their sensations on passing through france were widely different from ours, as they described themselves to have been thoroughly disgusted with every body and every thing they saw; had met with nothing but cheating and imposition among the people; and had not been able to observe any pretty country, or interesting objects _en route_--yet they had gone over exactly the same ground that we had done. as they sometimes travelled all night, i conclude they slept the whole or greater part of the time; but there are more ways than one of going through the world with the eyes shut. in the neighbourhood of joigny, (on the other side of the town,) there is a great quantity of hemp grown; and all the trees are stripped up to the tops, like those in many parts of berkshire, where the graceful is frequently sacrificed to the useful: they had a very ugly effect. approaching auxerre, the cathedral looks handsome; there are three churches besides. the first view of burgundy is not prepossessing; nothing but tame-looking hills, with casual patches of vines; the river, however, is a pretty object, and continues to bestow a little life upon the landscape. the same absence of costume continues. at auxerre, we breakfasted at _l'hotel du leopard_; the vines were trained over the house with some degree of taste, and took off from the air of forlorn discomfort which the foreign inns so frequently exhibit. i was rather surprised at being ushered into the same room with a fine haughty-looking peacock, a pea-hen, and their young brood; they did not seem at all disconcerted at my entrance, but continued stalking gravely about, as if doing the honors of the apartment. the _salle à manger_ was in a better _goût_ (although not half so comfortable) than most of our english parlours; the walls were papered with graceful figures from stories of the pagan mythology and bold, spirited landscapes in the back ground, coloured in imitation of old bistre drawings; the crazy sopha and arm chair were covered with rich tapestry, of prodigiously fine colours, yet somewhat the worse for wear. this was our first burgundy breakfast, and it evinced the luxuriance of the country, for it consisted (as a thing of course) of black and white grapes, melons, peaches, greengages, and pears, to which were added fresh eggs by the dozen, good _cafè au lait_, and creaming butter just from the churn, with the crucifix stamped upon it. at all french _déjeunés_ they ask if you do not choose fruit, and at dinner it is invariably brought to table in the last course, with a slice of cheese as part of the dessert. mr. baillie was not well, and starved like tantalus in the midst of plenty, which was very unlucky. bonaparte on his return from elba occupied this apartment; and the postillion who drove us was one of those who rendered the same service to him: we had also a pair of the same horses which aided in conveying him on towards paris. he passed two days here, waiting for his small army of five thousand men to come up with him, as his speed greatly outran theirs. he had six horses to his travelling carriage, and gave each postillion ten francs a piece; "_ma foi!_" (said ours in relating the circumstance) "_nous avons bien galoppé! quand on nous paye si bien, les chevaux ne se fatiguent jamais!_" there was some honesty as well as wit in this avowal. quitting auxerre, we passed a large stone cistern, with a cross on the top; several loaded donkeys were drinking here, and some women washing clothes; it was altogether a picturesque group, and singular to an english eye. vineyards, vineyards, vineyards! _toujours perdrix!_ i was quite tired of them at last. the country, however, now became much more hilly, and we used the drag-chain, for the first time, between saint bris and vermanton; these hills were richly covered with vines, and woods began to appear, in the form of thick dwarfish oak. vermanton. this place is famed for wood and wine. we saw the _paysannes_ here in deep gipsy straw hats, the first we had beheld in france among this class of people; for even in paris, the _petites bourgeoises_, as well as the countrywomen, all walk about in caps, or the french handkerchief tied carelessly round the head. the country from hence again changed much for the worse, barren hills extended for several miles, now and then covered with partial spots of vegetation. close to the town of avalon, we remarked a range of hills, one of which is of great height, called montmartre. we here bid adieu for some time to vineyards. large extensive woods surround avalon, from which the greater part of the fuel burnt in paris is taken. flocks of sheep were continually passing, numbers of black ones, and some goats always among them. there seemed to be few pigs any where, and all of them were frightfully lean: "as fat as a pig" is a term of reproach for which i have ever entertained a particular aversion, but i am now convinced that these beasts are much more disgusting when deprived of their natural _embonpoint_. i fancy the french people make too good a use themselves of what we should call _the refuse of the kitchen_, to have any to spare for the necessities of these their fourfooted brethren. we now came into the neighbourhood of widely extended cornfields--fields i ought not to call them, for there are no inclosures. we saw an old woman at a cottage door, with a distaff in her hand; the first i had ever seen except in a picture. she was a withered, grim-looking crone, but not quite sublime enough for one of gray's "fatal sisters." scene the next, a pretty, green, tranquil glen, (where cattle were making the most of the unusually rich pasturage,) bounded by a steep bank, and copse wood; not unlike some spots in surrey. we drove on, through a shady wood, to rouvray, passing on the road crowds of waggons drawn by oxen, loaded with empty wine casks, preparatory to the vintage, which was expected to be very fine this season: the waggoners almost all wore cocked hats, and we remarked that the oxen were yoked by the head. we met a _diligence_ drawn by four mules, and observed many beautiful trees of mountain ash, with their bright clusters of scarlet berries, by the side of the highway. stopping for a few moments at la roche en berney, we joined a group of the most respectable _bourgeoisie_, (men and women,) sitting with the hostess on a bench at her door. they all rose up to salute us, and the men stood _sans chapeau_ as we passed, with an agreeable expression of civil good will upon every countenance. some of the ladies had little french dogs under their arms. the country near this place is covered with wood, yet has notwithstanding a monotonous character; these woods however are worthy of remark, from their extent and duration, continuing on all sides without interruption for many miles. we now arrived at saulieu, where we supped and slept at _la poste_. it was quite in the cottage style, which we all rather liked than not: we had a cheerful little wood fire at night (as the weather felt chilly), and sat round it talking of the adventures of the day, until the hour of repose. this town stands upon the highest ground in france; the snow was never entirely off the neighbouring woods during the whole of the last winter: vineyards will not flourish in so bleak a situation, and other fruits are very scarce. the hostess was a most loyal personage, for upon my observing a bust of _henri quatre_ over the chimney, and saying he was truly the father of his people, she exclaimed, _oui, madame! mais à present nous avons aussi des rois qui font le bonheur de leurs sujets_. the costume here still continues undecided, and devoid of taste. two very pretty, modest, rustic lasses waited upon us, named marie and lodine. lodine was a brunette, with an arch, dimpled, comical little face, (round as an apple, and equally glowing,) teeth white as snow, and regular as a set of pearls; but i rather preferred the opposite style of marie, who was slighter in her person, graver, and whose long dark eyes and penciled brows alone gave lustre and expression to an oval face, and a pale yet clear and fine grained skin: these eyes, however, were not so often illuminated by bright flashes of innocent gaiety as those of lodine, but they made amends by the length and beauty of their soft black lashes. lodine's admiration was prodigiously excited by my english ear-rings, and rings, &c. she took them up one by one to examine, and exclaimed frequently that she had never seen such beautiful things in her life. poor little rustic! i hope no unprincipled traveller will ever take advantage of thy simplicity and love of finery, and persuade thee to exchange for toys of a similar description the precious jewels of innocence and good fame. mr. w. went into the market the next morning, before either mr. baillie or myself were up, and remarked that almost every woman there was well looking; he also saw some really beautiful girls among them. there are two neat churches here. the swarms of beggars which assailed us at every town, in this part of the country, were positively quite annoying; their bold and sturdy importunity made me recollect, with regret, the sensitive delicacy of sterne's poor "monk," and wish that they were as easily repulsed! had this been the case, i dare say we should have given them every _sous_ in our possession; but, as it was, i never felt less difficulty in steeling my ears and my heart. the face of nature seemed like a map, the road was upon such elevated ground. but leaving saulieu, our route was agreeably varied by a continual alternation of hill and dale; the foreground rocky, enlivened with purple heath and furze. we frequently made the remark, that we had not yet seen a single cottage which could be called pretty since we landed at calais; and the lovely and picturesque hamlets of the isle of wight, the neighbourhood of the new forest, and of parts of surrey, returned upon my imagination in all their force. there are woods of dwarf oak near this place, beyond which we caught, for the first time during our tour, the view of a mountain in the horizon. we changed horses at pierre ecrite, where we met with a postillion who was a living image of don quixote. i, who am such an enthusiastic admirer of the latter, could willingly have given a double fee for the pleasure i took in contemplating his faithful resemblance; the loose shamoy leather doublet, brown beaver spanish-looking flapped hat; long, black, greasy hair, hanging in strings about his scraggy neck and doleful visage; the wild, eager, prominent, dark eyes, &c.--all was complete! the french drivers differ in many particulars from ours; in one respect alone there is a wide line of demarcation. the former talk a good deal (_en route_) to their horses, while the latter confine themselves to the mute eloquence of the whip and spur. the country now assumes a totally new character. the hills rise into the dignity of mountains, and are entirely barren, save in the immediate vicinity of a little valley or two which smiles between them, when their rough granite sides are clothed with partial underwood; these valleys have a verdant and cultivated effect, from being well wooded, and also from the unusual practice of inclosing the fields with hedges. indeed the whole scene for three or four miles before you come to autun is bold, rich, and beautiful. we were told that the people here and in the south of france were (generally speaking) extremely well-disposed towards the bourbon government, disliking the remembrance of bonaparte. autun, an ugly town, yet most romantically situated at the foot of three mountains covered with superb woods. here are some fine gateways of corinthian architecture, baths, and a cathedral. we went to look at the latter, and saw several women there telling their beads, who cast an eye of curiosity upon us in the midst of their devotions, while their fingers and lips continued to move with great rapidity. i peeped into several vacant confessionals, which resembled little sentry-boxes, partitioned into two apartments, in one of which there is a seat for the priest, and in the other a grated aperture through which the penitent breathes his communications. the tomb of the president jennin and his wife is shewn here. it was, i believe, concealed during the fury of the revolution, in common with many similar and sacred curiosities. he was one of _henri quatre's_ ministers, and a man much esteemed by that sovereign. he cannot have a higher professional eulogium. the costume both of the president and his dame is quaint in the extreme, and the length of her waist is quite ridiculous. our inn (_la poste_) was comfortable and reasonable. for five francs a-head, they sent us up for dinner (i will for once say what we had for dinner) some capital soup _au ris_, a magnificent jack, a duck stewed with pickles, a fowl, white and delicate as those of dorking, a ragout of sweetbreads in brown sauce, a large dish of craw-fish, potatoes drest _à la maître d'hotel_, guyere cheese, and four baskets of fruit. the latter evinced the coldness of the climate here, for the peaches were diminutive, crude, and colourless, the grapes rather sour, and the cherries hard, tough, and not bigger than black currants. leaving autun, we passed over a very steep granite mountain of that name, covered in the most luxuriant profusion with trees of every sort, but chiefly oak: the road wound round the sides till it reached nearly the summit of this mountain in graceful sweeps. it rained during our ascent, and the groups of women emerging at intervals from the woody recesses in the steeps above us, with their gay coloured cotton handkerchiefs held over their white caps, to shelter them from the scudding shower, looked highly picturesque. the male costume here becomes marked; it consists of a very large black hat, (with a low crown and an enormous breadth of brim,) round which is sometimes worn a string of red and white beads; a dark blue linen jacket and trowsers, coloured waistcoat, white shirt, with a square deep collar thrown open at the throat, and _sabots_. we could plainly hear the babbling of the brook which runs among these sylvan retreats. my husband gathered me some blackberries in the woods, and i longed to accompany him in his rambles, instead of remaining in the carriage. altogether it was the most romantic scene i had ever beheld, and my exclamations of admiration reaching the ears of the postillion, (who was easing his horses by walking by their side) he came up to the window, to ask me if i had ever seen such a beautiful thing in my own country? i assured him i had not, and he graciously added that he would shew me a very grand plain also in a few minutes. our swiss attendant, however, (christian) did not seem to approve of all these commendations, and could not refrain from throwing out a hint, that we should see much finer things in _his_ country. this mountain is covered with wild strawberries in the season. bonaparte intended to have made a wider road through it, had not the fates thought proper to cut short his plans when he least expected it. the view of the promised plain was fertile as that of canaan; the glimpses of it caught occasionally through the openings of the rocks were charming. i liked the national pride of the postillion; applied thus to the beauties of nature, it had almost a character of refinement: he was a good-humoured, merry-looking, ugly fellow, who seemed as if he had never known a care in his life; but (the truth must be told) he was a great admirer of bonaparte, and said he should live and die in the hope of his return. he had laid by his green jacket and badge in his box, thinking it not impossible that he might want to wear it again one day; at all events he trusted to see the young son upon the throne, and spoke of him with much affectionate emotion. bonaparte had been driven by this man (upon his flight from elba,) and this puts me in mind, that i omitted to mention the circumstance of my having slept in the same bed which he then occupied at autun; i think he must have left his troubled spirit behind him, for my dreams were perturbed and melancholy in the greatest degree! there are plenty of wolves and wild boars in this neighbourhood; five of the latter were killed the week before. i expected to have met with gipsies, but neither here, nor in any other part of the continent, had we yet encountered one of the race. at st. emilan, (a small village) we stopt to breakfast: it was a merry, cheerful meal. we sat round the blazing faggots in the cottage kitchen of la poste, and boiled our eggs in a vessel which i believe was an old iron shaving pot; the milk (for our coffee) was served up in a large earthen tureen, with a pewter ladle; and the cups were of a dirty yellow cracked ware, that i am sure my cook would not suffer to be exhibited in her scullery. the bread was sour, and so was the fruit, but i never remember to have enjoyed a breakfast more thoroughly; so true is it, that hunger is the best sauce. the host (seeing that we were english) asked if we would not choose our _pain_ to be _grillé_? and was proceeding to broil it accordingly, instead of toasting it, if we had not preferred the loaf in its natural state. we were somewhat surprised at seeing a print over the chimney of dr. nicholas saunderson, professor of astronomy at cambridge. an obscure village kitchen in the heart of france was the last place where one would have expected to have found such a thing. the hostess had bought it many years since at a sale of the property of the celebrated buffon. seeing some cows ploughing in the fields here, which was what we had never before witnessed, our servant christian gave us an account of the manner of conducting that operation in switzerland; "de only difference is (said he) dat dere de _cows_ be all _oxes_." the costume of the _paysannes_ is very picturesque; a straw hat, of the gipsy form, and large as an umbrella, rather short petticoat, gay coloured handkerchief, deep bordered white cap, and _sabots_. the landscape was rather pretty for some distance beyond st. emilan. we now began to meet with vineyards again, as we descended from these bleak and elevated regions. a brook wound through the lowlands, fringed with willows, by means of which we could as usual trace its course for miles. i forgot to mention the _cajoleries_ made use of by a set of little beggar children, the preceding day. the white beaver hats worn by my husband and mr. w. struck their fancy not a little, and they ran after the carriage with incredible perseverance, calling out, _vivent les chapeaux blancs! vivent les jolis messieurs! vive la jolie dame! vive le joli carrosse! vive le roi, et vive le bon dieu!_ we were engaged in lamenting the drawback of a _goître_ (or swelling in the throat) to the beauty of a very pretty woman, whom we had just seen, when in going down a steep hill we met with an accident, which might have been serious. the harness (made of old ropes) suddenly broke, one of the horses fell down, the postillion was thrown off, and the other horses continuing to trot on without stopping, we felt the carriage go over some soft substance, which we concluded to be the person of their unfortunate driver. both the gentlemen involuntarily exclaimed "he is killed!" when we were relieved by seeing him running by the side of the animals, very little the worse for his fall. the poor horse was the greatest sufferer, as the wheels went twice over his neck! however, even he was not much hurt, and was able to rise and go on with his work in a few seconds. the great creature in the middle was an old, scrambling, wilful beast, who liked his own way, and i believe he would never have stopt, had not his bridle been seized by a man in the road. i was very much alarmed for the moment, and so i rather suspect was our trusty valet, who presented himself at the door to inquire if "madame was frighted," with a face as white as his own neckcloth. this _contretems_ would not have occurred had we not changed our horses and postillion a few moments before it happened, with those belonging to another carriage which we met on the way. the country continued rather pretty, and was also inclosed; were it not for the vineyards, it would be like many parts of england. we saw a little insignificant chateau or two, and that reminds me of the very dull effect of all the houses in france when seen from a distance--they have universally the air of being shut up, owing to the _jalousies_ being painted white instead of green. chalons sur saone; rather a pretty town: there is a stone fountain here, with a statue of neptune, well executed. we stopt at the hotel du parc, a reasonable and tolerably well appointed inn, though by no means deserving of the pompous commendation bestowed upon it in the printed tourist's guide, where it is mentioned as being the best in france. mr. w. suffered some annoyance from bugs, which i must ever consider as great drawbacks to comfort. we were attended at dinner by the first _male_ waiter we had seen since leaving paris, from which chalons is about two hundred miles distant. the people in the town stared at and followed us about in rather a troublesome manner; i believe they were attracted by the white hats, and my travelling cap, so different from any of their own costumes. people talk a great deal about the warmth of the south of france, but all i can say is, that as soon as we approached it, we ordered fires, while we had left our countrymen in frigid england fainting with heat! i may as well indulge myself in a few more desultory remarks while i am about it, particularly as our narrative just now is rather bare of incident. the first is, the great inferiority of the french cutlery to ours: all their knives are extremely coarse and bad; and with regard to the forks and spoons (both of which, to do them justice, are almost always of silver), they do not seem ever to have come in contact with a bit of whiting or a leather rubber since they were made! plate-powder of course is an unknown invention here. how would our butlers at home (so scrupulously nice in the arrangement of their sideboard) have stared, could they have beheld these shabby appurtenances of a foreign dinner table! they are not less behind-hand also with respect to the locks of their doors, all of which are wretchedly finished, even in their best houses. their carriages are generally ugly, shabby, badly built, and inelegant; and they have some domestic customs (existing even in the midst of the utmost splendor and refinement,) which are absolutely revolting to the imagination of an english person, and to which no person who knows what real cleanliness and comfort means, could ever be reconciled; but the french are, beyond all doubt, an innately filthy race,--with them _l'apparence_ is all in all. leaving chalons sur saone, we observed large fields planted with turkey wheat, called here _turquie_; they mix it with other flour in their bread. there is nothing but barren stubble for a length of way, and we should have found the prospect excessively wearying and tiresome, had not a bold hill or two in the distance afforded a slight degree of relief. we saw a man sowing among the stubble, which they plough up after the seed is sown, thereby saving the labour of the harrow; the practice is not general, however. about three miles from tournus, we ascended a very steep hill, covered with underwood and vines, and were refreshed by the sight of a little pasture land. from the summit a surprisingly fine country burst upon us--the river saone leading its tranquil waters through a rich plain, the town of tournus with its bridge and spires, and the chain of alpine mountains bounding the distant horizon, were altogether charming; the latter appeared like a continued ridge of gray clouds, mont blanc towering far above them all. we formed some idea of the magnitude of this hoary giant from the circumstance of our being able thus to see him at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles! he looked, however, like a thin white vapour, rising amid the lovely blue of the summer sky. at tournus, where we stopt to breakfast, the _maîtresse de la maison_ was a very pretty woman, but i cannot praise her taste in china ware; the cups she set before us were of a most disgusting shape and material, and of enormous proportions; they resembled our coarse red flower-pots glazed, and it was with difficulty that i could prevail upon myself to taste the tea or coffee (i forget which) that they contained. the women in this neighbourhood wear a singular head-dress, a black beaver hat, of the size and form of a small soup plate, placed flat upon the crown of the head, with three long knots of broad black riband, hanging down, one behind, and one on each side the face. they have a little white cap, called _la coquette_, under this, with a coarse open lace border, standing stiff off the temples, something like that of mary, queen of scots. this place is celebrated for its pretty women, and we remarked many ourselves. i took a hasty sketch of one as we changed horses. there is a great quantity of hemp grown here. the weather now began to be intensely hot; and we did not wonder at this, as we were in the same latitude as that of verona and venice. the former chill, which i mentioned upon first approaching the south of france, was quite an accidental circumstance, partly induced by our being at that time upon extremely high ground, whereas the temperature of the valleys is very different. we saw the peasants making ropes by the side of the road; one man carried a distaff in his hand, much bigger than a large stable broom. i bought of a _villageoise_ at macon one of the little hats and caps before mentioned. she attempted to impose upon me as to the price; but i do not consider this at all as a national trait. i am afraid an english countrywoman would have been equally anxious to make the best bargain she could, fairly or otherwise! the cap was really very becoming, even to my british features. i saw in one of the cottages a loaf of their bread: it was extremely coarse, and as flat, round, and large as a table. there is a grand chain of mountains on the right, called the _charolais_. we again observed cows ploughing in the fields: they had all a curious head-dress, a sort of veil or network, to preserve them from the flies, like the military bridles of our dragoon horses. most of the cattle hereabouts (and we had seen quantities) were of a cream colour. the country is luxuriant, full of chateaux, fertile, and cultivated, more so than any we had yet observed, and it is allowed to be the finest part of france. mr. w. examined the nature of the soil, and found it fat and rich in the highest degree. i must once more repeat my admiration of the frequent and great beauty of the young children in this country, more particularly in these parts. i saw several with cheeks like the sunny side of a peach; little, round, plump faces, and delicately chiselled features, with a profusion of luxuriant hair hanging in natural ringlets upon their shoulders: the mere babies also are very interesting. the parents throughout france are remarkable for love of offspring[ ]. about three or four miles from macon you enter the department of the maconnais, and afterwards that of the jura (so called from the mountains of the same name), but formerly known by that of the lyonnais. we saw at st. george de rognains a most beautiful woman, a _villageoise_; her proportions were fine, and rather full; her face very much in the style of our well-known english belles, lady o. and mrs. l.; but she was not so large as either of them. she wore the usual costume of her native place, which was more peculiarly marked in the cap. it is extremely becoming, and pretty in itself. i know not how to describe it exactly; but it is flat upon the crown, with a good deal of coarse transparent lace, like wings, full every where but on the brow, across which it is laid low and plain, in the style of some antique pictures i remember to have seen. this superb woman's fine features set it off amazingly. she also wore a flowered cotton gown (of gay colours upon a dark ground), a crimson apron and bib, with a white handkerchief. what a charming portrait would sir thomas lawrence have made of her, and how she would astonish the amateurs of beauty in england, were she suddenly to appear among them! i am thus particular in describing costume, to please the readers of my own sex. we met here some _religieuses_ walking in the road, belonging to a convent in the distance. their habit was not very remarkable, except that they wore black veils, with high peaks on the front of the head, and long rosaries by their sides. villefranche; a populous old town. it was market day; yet not one instance of intoxication did we see, neither here nor in any other part of france through which we had passed. certainly drunkenness is not the vice of the nation, although they have a due admiration for strong beer, which is sold under the name of _bonne bierre de mars_. there is a fine church here, of gothic architecture. we did not reach lyons until late at night; and, as i was very much fatigued, and longed to get into the hotel, i thought the length of the environs and suburbs endless. however, we arrived at last, and after a refreshing sleep, were awakened the next morning by the firing of cannon close under our windows. it was the fête of st. louis, which is always celebrated with particular pomp and splendour. it was also the great jubilee of the lyonese _peruquiers_, who went in procession to high mass, and from thence to an entertainment prepared for them. the _jouteurs_ (or plungers in water) likewise made a very magnificent appearance. they walked two and two round the town, and after a famous dinner (laid out for them in a lower apartment of our hotel) proceeded to exhibit a sort of aquatic tournament, in boats, upon the river. this is a very ancient festival, and is mentioned (if i recollect right) by rousseau. the dress of the combatants (among whom were several young boys of eight and five years old) was very handsome and fanciful, entirely composed of white linen, ornamented with knots of dark-blue riband. they had white kid leather shoes, tied with the same colours, caps richly ornamented with gold, and finished with gold tassels. in their hands they carried blue and gold oars, and long poles, and upon their breasts a wooden sort of shield or breastplate, divided into square compartments, and strapped firmly on like armour, or that peculiar ornament, the ephod, worn by the ancient jewish high priests. against this they pushed with the poles as hard as possible, endeavouring to jostle and overturn their opponents; the vanquished, falling into the water, save themselves by swimming, while the victors carry off a prize. we went down stairs to see these heroes at dinner, and one of them civilly invited us into the room, to observe every particular at our ease. the military were all drawn out this morning, and i thought there never would be an end of their firing, trumpeting, &c.; the whole town resounded with noise, bustle, and gay confusion. we distinguished the swiss guards, who wore a red uniform, like the english troops; a fine regiment of chasseurs, green, faced with red; a troop of lancers, on beautiful spirited black horses, uniform green and orange; the national guards, dark blue and red, with cocked hats; and, lastly, the foot guards, in white: the officers of the latter really looked like london footmen; nothing could be more ugly and ungentlemanly than their costume. all these were reviewed in _la grande place_, built by bonaparte, who laid the first stone. the houses there are very handsome, and some of them rise to the height of seven stories. a steep hill, covered with vines, and crowned by buildings like castles, forms the background of this fine _place_, at the bottom of which rolls the grand and magnificent rhone. our inn (_l'hotel de provence_) stood here. it is a very comfortable, excellent, well-ordered establishment: the apartments assigned for our particular use put me in mind of the old state-rooms in our shabby palace of st. james. the furniture was of crimson and white satin damask, and the beds of rich crimson damask; lyons, as all the world knows, being famous for its rich silks. the ancient arm-chairs were studded with gilt nails, and the brick-floors carefully rubbed and polished till they resembled marble. that of the _salle à manger_ was of curiously inlaid oak. the attendants were all men: one of them made my bed, and was perpetually frisking in and out (in his department of housemaid), rather to my annoyance and surprise. the first night of our arrival, i was shut up (as i thought) in my own room, unpacking my _sac de nuit_, when, upon turning suddenly round, i saw the great rough figure of our postillion, who had entered without knocking, and was standing much at his ease, expecting to be paid. the _garçon_ who waited at dinner was a fine specimen of the honest, cheerful french peasant lad, his countenance and manner the perfection of good humour and simplicity. the promenade of the town (a walk of shady trees in the midst of _la grande place_) being filled with gay groups in every possible variety of costume, offered a most amusing spectacle to a stranger's eye. we sat there some time upon the hired chairs, which are in as great request as at paris. here we found booths, kept by venders of tisanne, lemonade, &c. who were, some of them, niched in little covered tubs, like diogenes. we were much stared at; but not with any rudeness or incivility. we even imagined that we saw a more favourable expression of countenance in the people of lyons (while gazing upon the english) than in those of paris. in the latter we certainly did now and then discover the signs of unequivocal hatred and dislike; and although they never gave vent (in our hearing at least) to their ill-will in words, there was a mute eloquence of eye, which it is difficult to mistake. but to return to the promenade, &c. my petticoat of moravian work seemed to catch the admiring observation of all the females who passed; and indeed i ought, in justice to our british needlewomen, to remark, that their performance is rarely equalled, and assuredly never surpassed, by their continental rivals, however highly french work may be praised and sought after by our capricious leaders of _ton_. the confluence of the rivers rhone and saone here is reckoned to be one of the finest things of the kind in europe. we went to see it, but were rather disappointed in its effect; for the late uncommonly dry season had greatly diminished the pride of both these celebrated streams. it takes place at a spot about half a mile distant from the town, and we drove thither in a ridiculous hired vehicle, called a _carriole_, very like a long four-posted bedstead, on wheels, with coarse linen curtains for summer weather, and black shabby leather ones for winter. a seat, resembling a mattrass, was slung on the inside, upon which the people sit back to back, like those in an irish jaunting car. the driver is upon a seat in front, and manages two horses, which are generally ornamented with frontlets, and knots of gay riband and bells. our coachman was quite a coxcomb, sporting smart nankeen trowsers, gaiters, and yellow shoes of washed leather. the women at lyons struck us as remarkably ugly, and we actually were unable to discover a single pretty face among them. we met a country dame, stumping into town to partake in the gaieties of the fête, dressed in a bright yellow gown, tucked up at the pocket-holes, so as to display a full rose-coloured petticoat beneath, white stockings, black slippers, a deep gipsy hat of leghorn straw, and a white handkerchief with the usual flowered border. nothing can be handsomer than this town: it much resembles bath, particularly in its environs, which are built upon hanging hills, and embosomed in woods and vineyards. the convent of st. michael, rising among them, is very ugly, however, reminding one of a large birmingham manufactory. here dwell _les soeurs de la charité_, and we were informed that they really are of great use, and do much good in their generation, which cannot, alas! be said of the regular nuns, poor victims! at night we went to the _comedie_. the theatre was dirty, and somewhat shabby; all the light thrown exclusively upon the stage, as usual in foreign theatres. the actors were really extremely good, and the audience seemed a loyal one upon the whole, which was discoverable by their seizing and duly applauding the several claptraps which occurred in the piece they were exhibiting. it was _la partie de chasse de henri quatre_--the first scene a beautiful part of the forest of fontainbleau. the story, though familiar to every body, seemed to interest all hearts, ours among the rest. i confess that, for my own part, i was surprised by feeling the tears coursing each other down my face, when i least expected it; and yet i was a stranger and a foreigner! how must the french, then, feel in the recollection of this and all the other thousand acts of benevolence and magnanimity of their glorious monarch, whose now beatified spirit seems to shed a guardian glory around the heads of his descendants! we returned home immediately after the representation of this piece, not staying the farce; and after taking coffee, once more sallied forth to view the beautiful illuminations which were displayed in honour of the day. the night was clear, warm, and balmy, and the whole population of the city (a hundred and nine thousand persons) seemed to be walking about, enjoying themselves completely. the effect of the lights reflected upon the distant vine-clad hills was singularly beautiful. i admired the costume of many of the children here; they wore large shepherdess-sort of leghorn hats with very low crowns, wreathed with pretty roses, which harmonized with their little innocent round faces remarkably well. the soldiers, _paysannes_, and some of the _bourgeoises_, were dancing quadrilles under the trees of the promenade, which was lighted much in the manner of vauxhall. there was a busy hum of voices in the air, swelling upon the breeze, mixed with notes of animating music, and occasional bursts of mirth and laughter, which, i believe, might have been heard for miles. in short, the scene was a perfect carnival. on reaching our inn, we saw the officers of the foot guards (who had been dining together in the same apartment occupied by the _jouteurs_ in the morning) dancing waltzes to the loud music of their own band, in which the brazen tones of the trumpet were painfully pre-eminent. for want of female partners, they had, some of them, taken off their coats, and dressed themselves up in mob caps, shawls, and petticoats made of the dinner napkins. in this strange costume they tore about the room, swinging each other in a manner that disgusted while it made us smile. the master of the house, who seemed to think all this very fine, wanted to know if _madame_ would not join in the merry dance? (meaning me); but mr. b. quietly declined the obliging proposal, saying, "i was not quite strong enough for such an attempt just now." upon which _monsieur_ came behind me, and, supporting me under both the elbows, almost carried me up the stairs to the door of our apartment; so obsequious are the french to all women. there is a proverb relative to our sex, which observes, that _paris est le paradis des femmes, le purgatoire des maris, et l'enfer des chevaux_. i, as an english wife, however, can imagine no place to be a paradise for me, which is at the same time a punishment to my husband; neither could i taste perfect felicity, if it was purchased at the expense of my brute fellow-creatures. but i do not mean tediously to moralize upon a little _jeu d'esprit_, which has some wit and truth in it, after all. determined to make the most of our short time, we went the next day to see the cathedral, which is of moorish architecture. within we found a singular mixture of orders; the corinthian, composite, gothic, saxon, and a sort of nondescript, which (as we were none of us particularly learned on the subject) we concluded to be the regular moorish. the whole body of this fine building appeared glowing with the rose and purple tints of sunset, and the gold ornaments upon the high altar actually flamed resplendent in this lovely light, as if they had been formed of solid fire! the effect was produced by the stained glass of the windows, of every possible variety of colour, magnificent beyond all idea, and far different from any which we had ever seen before; indeed, in attempting to describe their peculiarity, i feel that i have done foolishly, as it is impossible to give my readers any adequate notion of their extraordinary splendour and beauty. we did not so much admire another curiosity exhibited here, which is a clock, from a niche in the front of which, when it strikes the hours, a figure of the virgin suddenly protrudes, and makes a gracious inclination of the body; while in another recess above there is a very paltry and shocking representative of the father, who also leans forward in the act of giving his benediction. the attempt thus to embody the inconceivable glories of person belonging to the unseen god is both absurd and impious; yet surely not so much so, as the wish and endeavour of some fanatics to shroud the ineffable mercy and benevolence of the same being beneath a dark, chilling, and repulsively gloomy veil of severity, wrath, and implacability. in both cases, the true features of the divinity are shamefully and ridiculously misrepresented. we also saw two fine white marble statues of st. stephen and st. john, both spoilt by crowns of trumpery artificial flowers and tinsel, which gave them the air of our "jacks in the green" on may-day. we returned to our hotel, when, after an excellent dinner, we tasted for the first time fresh almonds, brought up in their outside rinds; they resemble small withered peaches in a green state, and i believe, speaking scientifically, that they are in fact a species of that fruit, and are classed accordingly; we found them very good, resembling filberts in flavour, and they are eaten with salt, in the same manner. the next morning we bade adieu to lyons; on the road from thence, at a place called st. laurent des mures, we saw the women as well as the men threshing corn, and this in the open air--a strong proof of fine climate: we afterwards remarked the practice universally. there are many walnut trees about here, but the country was flat and dull for some miles. we now however passed over a heath, (where, as shakespeare expresses it, "the air smelt wooingly,") enriched by wood, and banks of waving fern, bounded by some near mountains; there was a picturesque view of a castle, upon the summit of a hill, embosomed in trees. these objects were a great relief to the eye, after the eternal stubble fields near lyons. here we observed ploughing performed by mules, which i approved of much, when compared with the use of cows for these sort of labours; the latter, poor things, are of such inestimable value in other respects, that surely it is very unfair to require their services as beasts of burthen. the roofs of the buildings in this neighbourhood now first began to assume an italian character, and to harmonize with the ideas i had formed of the vicinity of the alps, which were visible in the distance; but the latter did not improve the landscape so much as my hitherto untravelled eyes had expected, for they were so far off, that they resembled clouds, for which i should certainly have mistaken them, had i not been told what they really were. we here encountered a peasant, who was thin enough to have passed for the death in burgher's "leonora:" his face was a mere skull, with a sallow skin strained over it; his black eager eyes deep sunk in their immense sockets. i was quite afraid of dreaming of him. for several days past, we had taken leave of the peculiar costume of the postillions, which is not much retained on this side of paris. cattle now were seen of all colours; the country became more undulating and woody, and the vineyards wore a very different and much more graceful appearance, being trained far higher, not formally planted, (as i have before described) but frequently twined around standard apple and other trees, from which they hung in light and careless festoons, forming altogether a singular effect of blended foliage. they are universally trained in this manner in italy; the french pretend that the produce is thereby rendered less plentiful, and that what is gained in beauty is lost in value: i cannot pronounce upon the truth of the assertion. the walnut-tree grew here in increased profusion, mixed frequently with the mulberry, forming an agreeable shade to the road. we breakfasted at bourgoin, where they gave us good provisions, but charged in a most extravagant way. there is a great deal of marshy land, and the inhabitants look unhealthy: some of them have _goîtres_ (or glandular swellings) in consequence of extreme relaxation from the moisture of the air. two filthy girls waited upon us at breakfast: they wore no caps, and their hair was in a most disgusting condition. we afterwards remarked numbers of women, equally devoid of coifs and cleanliness. _apropos_ to the former, i certainly greatly incline to prefer them to the more classical and simple fashion of wearing the head wholly uncovered: there is something very feminine and pretty in a white, neat, well-plaited cap, set off by a bright coloured riband and smart knot; and i really think the french _paysannes_ knew what they were about, when they so universally adopted that costume. the country shortly changed to a scene of wonderful richness and beauty, resembling the finest parts of devonshire; but the view of an immense crucifix rising picturesquely amid the woods gave it a foreign character at once. nothing can exceed the loveliness of this part of france; it is indeed exquisite, and doubly pleasing from its rarity. the unusual heat of the late summer (felt as sensibly as in england) had dried up most of the smaller rivers and brooks hereabouts, and the dust was actually flying in their sandy channels. we were now in dauphiny. a few miles before we entered beauvoisin (which divides dauphiny from savoy), a very grand amphitheatre of the savoy mountains rose suddenly upon us. the sight was peculiarly striking to me, as i had never yet seen the effect of this sort of scenery. we frequently observed buildings here of the _pisè_ or mud, very neatly finished; indeed we were surprised to perceive how much they had contrived to make of so base and common a material. we met some countrywomen riding astride, which had a very odd appearance--_odd_ is a vague term, and rather an unclassical one: i am perfectly aware of its defects but i cannot at this moment think of any other which would so well express my meaning; yet confound me not, kind reader, with that mass of ignorant and conceited persons, who always call every thing _odd_ which they themselves either cannot understand, or to which they happen to be unaccustomed. such, for instance, whom i have heard designating byron's grand poetical conceptions as _odd fancies_, or the exquisite sketches of westall's imaginative pencil as _odd things_, or calling the truly enlightened and liberal theological sentiments of paley, watson, fellows, &c. _odd opinions_. but i have rambled strangely from the point; the little countrywomen and their nags completely ran away with me! in spite of the _oddity_ of their position, i am ready candidly to allow that there is a great deal of safety in it. beauvoisin is in the near vicinity of prodigiously fine scenery. we passed through groves of the grandest chestnut trees, loaded with a profusion of fruit, and the whole face of nature afforded such a superb union of the beautiful and sublime, that we thought all we had previously seen in france paltry in the comparison. the silkworm is much cultivated here, and we saw many of the peasants employed in spinning both silk and flax with distaffs and wheels; multitudes of women and girls were seated at their doors, as we passed through beauvoisin, all busied in this occupation: they seemed to be chatting together very happily, their tongues going as fast as their fingers. i thought of shakespeare's "spinners and knitters in the sun" telling "their tales." we dined at the horrid little hole of an inn at this place, dirty, dark, and full of the usual bad odours so prevalent in continental habitations. the meal was served, as might be expected, in a slovenly manner, and we were glad to proceed on our journey as soon as it was despatched; previously submitting our luggage, &c. to the inspection of the custom-house officers, having now entered the sardinian territories. we had not advanced far, ere the country opened, if possible, into an increased blaze of beauty. close to us were well-wooded mountains; on the left, vineyards trained in the graceful italian fashion i have lately mentioned; far below us, on the right, was a limpid river, sweetly winding though a valley, and on all sides villas (beautiful in themselves and most romantically situated) lent an additional grace and charm to the scene. the road was a perfect bower of walnut trees; and the attractions of some of the peasant children, whom we now and then met, with their large black eyes, and peculiar style of beauty, told us that we were fast approaching the confines of italy. we now ascended a steep winding road, which leads to the summit of a mountain called _la montagne de l'eschelles_. i find it more than ever impossible to give any just and proportionate idea of the enchanting prospects which every moment rose upon our delighted eyes! to conceive them properly, they must be _seen_. we distinguished paths amid the woody sides of the opposite heights, which looked as lovely as if they led to paradise; and i longed to spring from the confinement of the carriage, and to explore their wild and exquisitely romantic terminations, although the shades of evening, fast closing upon us, might have rendered such an attempt most perilous. the low parapet wall, erected within the last eight years by that mighty enchanter napoleon, (who seemed, while his "star was lord of the ascendant," to do all he wished with _un coup de baguette_), preserved us from the danger of falling down the precipice which yawned by the side of our road; and also completely obviated the sort of nervous sensation which travellers are so apt to feel while gazing upon the awful depths which surround them! upon turning a sharp angle, the rocks, in vast and stupendous masses, rose perpendicularly above our heads, amidst which we were amazed to perceive several cottages "perched like the eagle's nest, on high." rousseau has ably painted this incomparable scene, in his _nouvelle heloise_, and i was gratified in thus convincing myself of the accuracy and truth of his pencil. as we passed near these lonely habitations, the breath of the cows belonging to the rustic inmates, mingled sweetly with the scent of the leaves and aromatic herbs, and added new fragrance to the soft and refreshing winds of evening. this wild ravine was succeeded by the milder beauties of a green and mossy bank, rising above smiling meadows; the contrast was striking. these are sights indeed, which might arouse the dullest of mortals, and which make the hearts of those gifted with sensibility and imagination swell high within them! echelles, a small town, standing in a valley, completely hemmed in with majestic mountains. we drank our tea and slept here at _la poste_, and i sat out, as long as it was prudent, in an open wooden gallery, (which ran round the outside of the house, and commanded a view of the superb scene), talking with the hostess, a cheerful, well-looking young woman, who was overwhelmed by the number of her progeny. the youngest of the children, a little girl of three years old, came up to me and laid her head upon my knees, with the happy ease of innocent confidence, chattering bad french with all her might; the mother also introduced two of her sons to us (boys of five and seven), who ran in to bid her good night before they went to bed, and to hug and kiss her. the youngest (a fine sturdy rogue) told me that he always said his prayers, and that after _le bon dieu_, he loved "maman." this woman, in the midst of her rustic simplicity, had had the true good sense of presenting the deity to the infant imaginations of her children, under the attractive image of an indulgent parent, thus fulfilling the sacred command of "give me thine heart." a convent of the chartreuse still exists in the neighbourhood; i believe it is the famous convent of _la grande chartreuse_, a most interesting spot, but inaccessible to women. i made inquiries about some of the natural productions of these mountains, and learnt that so many superior simples and aromatic plants (_note_ a) grew there, as to induce the apothecaries and chemists who lived within reach, to come in search of them very frequently. we left echelles early the next morning (our common hour of rising being five o'clock), and proceeded through a solitary road, winding at the feet of some desolate-looking mountains. passing by several deep quarries of limestone, we soon arrived at the tremendous ascent, known under the very appropriate name of _les eschelles de savoy_. here we stopped at a lone hovel, to add a couple of oxen to our usual three horses; but these animals being at work at the plough, we were obliged to be satisfied with the assistance of another horse. a girl accordingly brought him out, helped to arrange the traces, &c, and ran by his side half way up the mountain, till we had attained the most arduous pass, and then returned with him to her cottage. she wore her hair gathered in a knot at the back of the head, in the true italian style. as we toiled along, we observed a _paysanne_, with a load upon her head (most probably on her early way to some village market), stop to pay her morning devotions at a shrine of the virgin, rudely carved in wood, and placed in a niche by the road-side. how shall i describe the wonderful manner in which we climbed these frightful eschelles? we seemed to be drawn up by our straining, labouring horses almost in a perpendicular direction, and at a foot's pace. on our left was a yawning chasm of immense magnitude, among a gloomy pile of frowning rocks, which might well be the abode of some ancient giant or geni; while further on, these same rocks, extending their mighty barriers on every side, seemed to hang tremulously over head, threatening to crush the hapless traveller, should sudden wind or storm arise to shake them from their precarious-looking base. the blue heaven above us was nearly shut from our sight by their dark and shadowy projections. our guides (three or four in number, and resembling, in their wild, strange attire and features, a group of _salvator rosa_'s banditti) pointed out to us the ancient road, passable, even in its best days, by mules alone. it was a narrow ledge, with no defence whatever from the precipice on one side, winding in serpentine mazes through deep grottos, or chasms, in the bowels of the mountain. we saw a prodigious monument of bonaparte's daring genius in a tunnel, which had been cut through the heart of these solid rocks, and beneath which a fine road was to have been made; but his career of power having been so suddenly and awfully checked, the work remains unfinished. after shuddering amid the sublimity of these scenes for some time, their rugged character gradually softened upon us, and the tender green of the fern, mingling richly with the tangled underwood, began to make its welcome appearance. far above our heads, also, dark forests of lofty pine were occasionally visible, although the lower crags of overhanging rock generally hid them from our view. at length the prospect expanded into verdant pastures (where cows and goats were peacefully browsing), shaded by beech, elm, chestnut, and apple trees, and skirted by softly-swelling banks, covered with a rich and mossy vegetation. the blue smoke wreath, frequently rising above the tufted foliage, marked the vicinity of hamlets, and the little orchards and inclosed patches of well-cultivated garden ground (seen here and there), and the groups of women spinning at their cottage doors, gave the whole an indescribable air of pastoral comfort and beauty. in the midst of this serene enjoyment, my nerves were suddenly discomposed, by the fall of our postillion from his horse, who had stumbled, and now took the opportunity (during his short interval of emancipation) of looking in at the side window of the carriage; the last place certainly in which i either wished or expected to have seen him. however, no harm ensued, and we again proceeded quietly on our way. we could not but remark the extraordinary luxuriance of the hedges here, rich in nut trees, brilliant scarlet berries, convolvulus, blue bells, and other wild plants. the master of the post-house in the midst of these mountains seemed a great admirer of the magnificent genius of napoleon, and said (speaking of the tunnel we had lately passed), _que cet homme la avoit bravè la nature_: he added, "that if he had reigned only two years longer, he would have completed this grand undertaking; but now all was at an end; for the king of sardinia was not the sort of person to carry on the daring plans of his great predecessor." the manner in which this man described bonaparte to have first conceived and determined upon the work in question was strongly characteristic of the decision peculiar to the latter. he was passing through the ancient horrible road, with his engineer, stopped, and pointing to the mountains, said, "is it not possible to cut a tunnel through the entrails of yonder rock, and to form a more safe and commodious route beneath it?"--"it is _possible_, certainly, sire," replied the scientific companion. "then let it be done, and immediately," rejoined the emperor. i was romantic enough to mourn over the fate of the mountain stream here, which (in common with many others we had seen) was so weakened by long drought, that it had scarcely force sufficient to pour its scanty waters over their rugged channel, and seemed to vent its complaint in weak murmurs, as it flowed feebly along. the grand cascade, which feeds its urn so nobly during winter, had now lost all strength and magnificence of character. we felt the air very sharp, even in this sultry season; and in the bleak months of the year i can easily conceive that the severity of the cold must be intolerable. the grapes in such regions are always small and sour; they were not half ripe at the present time, and, indeed, never arrive at any perfection. we breakfasted at _la poste_ at chamberry, a picturesque town, and capital of savoy, situated in the bosom of the fine scenery i have just described. the tops of its surrounding mountains (which form part of the endless chain of alps) are hoary with eternal snows: they had a very striking effect. it was at chamberry that that strange, inconsistent, wonderful creature, rousseau, lived for some time with madame de varennes: his house is still shewn. the charm which, while he lived, he contrived to throw around the vices and frailties of his character, and the productions of his bewitching pen, is now broken, the spell is dissolved; but there are, nevertheless, immortal excellencies in many parts of his writings which must make their due and deep impression upon the hearts and imaginations of every successive reader, till time itself shall be no more. to return to chamberry. there is no peculiarity of costume here, except that the _paysannes_ all wear gold hearts and crosses; the poorer classes of silver, lead, or mixed metal. we changed horses at montmeillant, and saw the fine river isere, formed by the melting of the snows. the same sort of grand scenery continued. there were several charming _campagnes_ (or gentlemen's houses) amid the mountains, half concealed by luxuriant woods. we longed to be invited (and able to accept such invitation) to spend a fortnight at one or other of them, in tranquillity and ease, in the society of agreeable, sensible people, who would sometimes allow us leisure to indulge in the luxury of solitude, and our own thoughts; for, without this latter privilege, one might just as well be in a fashionable drawing-room, in all the sophistication of paris or london. it is among these scenes that marmontel has chosen to place his heroine in the graceful little tale of the "shepherdess of the alps." but, alas! the poorer inhabitants of these fairy regions! how unworthy of such lovely arcadian retreats! almost all we met were squalid, filthy, listless, and indolent: a blighted, blasted, wretched race, hardly deserving the name of human. most of them were (in addition to their universal hideousness) afflicted with the disgusting disease of _goîtres_, to say nothing of total idiotcy, which is equally common amongst them. leaving marmontel's lovely fanciful creations in the clouds, from whence they came, these, these we found to be the "dull realities of life;" and such realities!--my imagination actually sickened at their idea. i will not hazard farther detail, lest i should equally shock the feelings of my readers. the mountains, as we approached aiguebelle, became yet more lofty and stupendous than any we had before seen; but they continued to wear the same features of luxuriant beauty, even in the midst of the sublimity of a grander scale of proportion. from their airy summits we could now and then descry the fall of a narrow perpendicular streamlet, sparkling in the sun like a line of melted silver. we reached aiguebelle at four o'clock, dined, and slept. the entrance to the inn was like that of a cow-house, or large old rustic stable, and the accommodations within were uncomfortable enough: not worse, however, than many which we afterwards encountered in various places on the continent. an evening walk, which we took here after tea, at the foot of the alps, i shall never forget; romantic, beautiful, and wild beyond even the dreams of a poetical imagination. passing through enormous masses of rock, consisting of argillaceous slate, called _schist_, in the foreground (at the entrance of a shadowy glade), we gradually ascended a winding path, by which we traced an opening through the richly-wooded recesses of one of the nearer mountains. thick shady bowers of walnut trees (the largest our eyes had ever beheld) formed an agreeable sort of twilight, shedding a flickering gloom around, that well accorded with the pensive tone of our minds, as we stole silently along, wrapt in unfeigned and warm admiration of nature and her wonderful creations, while a rippling spring, murmuring softly amid the mossy grass, assisted the dreamy sort of reverie that hung like a spell upon us! a fair green meadow lay smiling at our feet; where notwithstanding the burning heat of the season, the cattle were feeding on as rich a pasturage, as that which skirts the thames at richmond. far above (towering over our heads) were the snowy peaks of the highest alps, half veiled in clouds of floating mist. i sat down upon a mossy stone, my companions stretched on the turf beside me; the silent, deep, and soothing tranquillity was broken only by the chirp of the cricket, the distant bark of a cottage cur, or the whirring flight of the bats who now were beginning their evening pastimes; one of them, in his airy wheel, almost brushed mr. w.'s face with his wings, as he flew fearlessly past. as the night advanced, we were struck by the beautiful effect of the blazing weeds, which were burning on some of the surrounding heights. at length we unwillingly bade adieu to the enchanting spot, and returned to our inn. we left aiguebelle the next morning, rising at four o'clock, and proceeded to st. jean de maurienne, through a narrow valley, inclosed by a chain of the same mountains, which rose to the height of about two or three thousand metres. a river, formed of melted snows, ran constantly by our side, now brawling and foaming over the rugged stones, now stealing silently along, in an almost imperceptible current, and often seeming wholly exhausted, forming merely a narrow runnel in the middle of its vast, sandy, rocky channel. cottages were frequently dotted about here, some of them perched at such an incredible height, and apparently so inaccessible to human foot, that we could hardly conceive them to be the habitations of our fellow creatures! how the inmates continue to procure the necessaries of life from the adjacent hamlets in the valleys below, i cannot imagine, unless they are drawn up and down by ropes, in the manner which is so awfully described, in his "scene on the sands," by that bold painter from nature, the author of "the antiquary." the singular and beautiful appearance of the opposite rocks told us the moment when the sun had risen to a certain height, but the first burst of glory from that divine orb, it was not our lot to witness, as the east was hid from our sight by the overwhelming mountains that surrounded us. i confess i was disappointed at this circumstance, as the idea of beholding a perfect sun-rise had been the chief inducement to me to quit my warm bed at such a preposterously early hour, and to undergo with cheerfulness the disagreeable ceremony of hurrying on my clothes by candlelight! however, i was in some measure consoled by the lovely effect of the partial gleams, which played occasionally upon the distant objects; finely contrasting with the gloomy shadows of the dark ravines, and lighting up the spots of verdure upon which they brightly fell, they seemed almost kindling into a blaze of unearthly splendour. we passed here a small but romantic fall of water; and soon afterwards encountered (in one of those narrow passes so frequent among the alps), and upon the brow of an abrupt descent, a waggon, drawn by restive mules. these animals flew about the road in every possible direction, rearing till they stood on end, kicking and plunging in the most astonishing manner. the driver emulated their fury, and i know not which of the parties was in the right, they were all in such a passion together; we expected every instant to see their heels dash against the glass of our windows, but our postillion managed with so much skill and discretion, that we soon found ourselves safely _hors de l'embarras_. we were somewhat surprised at his admirable coolness and dexterity, as he was no experienced old stager, but on the contrary a mere boy. solomon, however, justly observes that wisdom does not exclusively reside with white heads, as some veteran worthies have fondly flattered themselves, and this will account for the _sagesse_ of our little driver, which might otherwise have been discredited, perhaps, by those, who constantly associate the ideas of youth and imprudence. i believe that the same author goes so far as to assert, that "wisdom giveth hoary hairs." i am not quite certain as to the accuracy of my quotation, or i should at once feel sure that i had discovered the reason why so many of our beaux and belles evince such a horror of mental attainments. talking of beaux and belles, we were now quite among their antipodes; for never did i behold such a set of dirty, slovenly, squalid, frightful creatures, as were perpetually crossing our path!--i can only say, that (like sancho panza and his goblins) having once seen two or three of them, i shut my eyes for the rest of the journey, although i could not stop my ears against the horrid guttural idiotical croak (resembling that of a choked raven) which they constantly maintained, as they ran begging by the side of the carriage. mr. b. hoping to get rid of them, often threw out money from the windows, but this only attracted a larger flock, and we soon found our sole refuge was in pulling up the blinds the moment they appeared in sight. we breakfasted at st. jean de maurienne, situated at the base of the higher alps: it was dirty, as all the inns in savoy are; and they gave us sour bread and butter, and muddled coffee, rather a mortification to travellers, who (however romantic and enthusiastic) could not help feeling that they should have better relished better fare, after having gone three and twenty miles before breakfast! we met an italian lady here, just come from turin; who assured us, upon our expressing our admiration of savoy, that we should think the scenery of italy far more beautiful: i could not at the moment believe in the possibility of her assertion, and felt a presentiment that after having seen and compared some of the most striking features in these countries, i should not coincide with her in opinion; italy (from all i had heard on the subject) possessing a different character of beauty; but difference does not constitute superiority: i should as soon think of comparing an apple and an orange--both are good in their way. if any body takes offence at the lowliness of my simile, i beg leave to refer him or her to that delightful writer (at all times, and upon such various subjects), marmontel, who avails himself of the very same, and applies it in the still prouder instance of human intellect. the river arque rushes impetuously through this part of savoy; we passed by a _voiture_ overturned upon its stony banks, the wheels in the air, and front nearly touching the brink of the foaming torrent. the accident did not seem to be a very recent one, as no people were assembled about or near it. the savoyards (those who are happily free from _goîtres_, &c.) are seldom brought up to any other trade than stone masonry; wandering about, following this _metier_ in an itinerant manner. many of the rustics appear well acquainted with the scientific terms of mineralogy and chemistry. we conversed with a common cottager in particular, who discoursed most intelligently upon the different substances of which these mountains are composed. we suffered a good deal of inconvenience from the dust, which flew here in such overwhelming eddies, that it completely filled the carriage, and more than once impeded my respiration most painfully. i could feel it gritting between my teeth, and irritating the windpipe; and when we attempted to close the windows against it, the heat thereby increased became equally insupportable; the sun in these regions being so fierce that it absolutely burnt us when we drew up the blinds: still, the peculiar sensation of _weight_ in the atmosphere, from which we experience so much oppression in england, seemed to be unknown in this climate; there was an elasticity in the air, superior to any of which we foggy islanders can boast, and the sky was perfectly italian, of a deep blue cloudless ether. at st. michel, a neat village (comparatively speaking), the peasantry become more human; the _goître_ begins to disappear, and the countenance to assume a more intellectual expression. again the sublime effect of the river arque attracted our attention. it is a regular mountain torrent, flashing and raving over tremendous rocks, with a rapidity and fury difficult to describe. if it was thus mighty during the present parching season, what must it not be in winter! the imagination shudders at the idea of its desolating force. i could scarcely trace the affinity of this element with the tame, slow, glassy, silent waters to which i had been accustomed in my own country. it was like the sublime insanity of a superb human genius, when compared with the almost vegetable existence of a mere common plodding mortal. the little narrow alpine bridges, occasionally thrown across this terrific stream, were highly romantic and beautiful. at this particular spot, dark forests of pine began to succeed to the more pleasing verdure of the tufted beech. they extended to the remotest pinnacles of the mountains, from whose brown sides, lower down, a number of sparkling springs were seen to gush dancing and flashing in the sun. great quantities of barberry trees, and of the plant coltsfoot, were growing wild here. crossing a majestic mountain beyond modena, we were shewn the devil's bridge (_note_ b.), three hundred feet above the river. we ourselves looked proudly down upon it, from our eagle height, where we enjoyed the benefit of a noble and easy road, made (as usual) by order of bonaparte; for which all travellers ought to feel deeply indebted to him. not that i attribute his works of this sort to benevolence rather than ambitious policy: but whatever the cause, we _voyageurs_ have great reason to bless the effect! the postillion seriously assured us, as we gazed upon the above-mentioned bridge, that it was originally built by the arch fiend, although he added, that "this had happened a great while ago." mr. w. attempted to laugh him out of so ridiculous a belief; but he adhered to his point with immoveable gravity. i had always heard that the natives of mountainous countries were peculiarly liable to the impressions of superstition, and in this instance i had an opportunity of proving personally the truth of the remark. we regretted that time did not allow of our making a few more experimental researches into these matters: it might have been very interesting to have collected a set of legends from the mouths of the simple inhabitants; and i should have had considerable amusement in tracing their similarity to those of the scotch highlanders, the german, swedish, and other fond believers in romance. the king of sardinia was at that time building fortresses upon this mountain, and two thousand men were employed in the work. we met some italian officers at modena; they were fine men, and had a far more distinguished and gentlemanly _tournure_ than, the french. it is astonishing how vulgar and gross in appearance and manner all the latter were, whom we had yet had an opportunity of remarking. i had ever thought the subalterns and captains in some of our marching and militia regiments bad enough, but they were certainly much superior to the french officers. this reminds me, that in our apartment at the inn at aiguebelle, we saw scrawled upon the walls a fierce _tirade_ (written by some frenchman) against that interesting work, "eustace's italy." we, of course, were not much surprised at the wrath therein expressed; and i myself think that eustace bears evident marks of being under the dominion of prejudice, in speaking of the french as a nation. crossing another mountain, not far from lans le bourg, we were made doubly sensible of the prodigious altitude of our road, by comparing the different proportions of the objects around: for instance, a water-mill at work in the valley below us appeared like a baby-house, and the stream which fell from the wheel not much more important than what might have issued from a large garden watering-pot. the rocks here were all wild, gloomy, and barren. arriving at lans le bourg, where we slept, we found the inn (_le grand hotel des voyageurs_) clean and comfortable, which was a delightful change to us, after the dirt and misery of those we had lately seen. it stood a short distance beyond the little town, on the brink of a roaring torrent. the host and his wife appeared flattered at our observation of their neat establishment, &c., and told us that it was not the first time their house had been complimented as being very like those in england. the next morning we pursued our route through the same magnificent scenes, and here we first saw a giant glacier, clad in his spotless mantle of everlasting purity. at his feet (to give the reader some idea of his stupendous height and magnitude) lay a town; the steeple of its church did not appear taller than the extinguisher of a candle, which it also resembled in shape. amid these solitary wilds the greatest variety of plants, flowers, &c. are to be found, and violets in profusion during the spring. we ate some strawberries, gathered here by the peasant children, for a large basket of which our host at lans le bourg paid a sum in value rather less than three english halfpence. the postillion and christian gathered me large bunches of very fine wild raspberries, as they walked up the steep ascent. we were now upon mont cenis (_note_ c.), of celebrated fame. my husband collected for me a few specimens of the lovely flowers which bloomed there, and which i have since put by as relics. one plant in particular (wholly unknown to any of us) i must mention. it is a poisonous but exquisitely graceful shrub, with spiral leaves, jagged at the edges, and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries, growing in the form of miniature bunches of grapes. the postillion called it _la tourse_; but we did not feel quite sure of the accuracy of his botanical knowledge. near the summit of this mountain we were shewn the spot where adventurous travellers sometimes descend to the town of lans le bourg upon a sledge, in the short space of seven minutes; whereas it takes two hours and a half to ascend in a carriage, or on a mule. the precipice looked horrible beyond description; yet the english frequently adopt this mode of conveyance during the winter: it is called _la ramasse_, and the amusement of sliding in cars at the _beaujon_ and _les montagnes russes_, in paris, was taken from this. as we continued to climb, the effect of the sheep feeding amid the rocky ledges, upon the grassy patches of land far below us, was curious enough. they appeared diminished to the size of those little round, white, fat inhabitants of a nutshell, which sometimes run races upon a china plate, or a polished mahogany table, after dinner. i believe their names are not mentioned in the newmarket calender; but my readers will know what i mean. we here beheld a fatigued pedestrian, drawn up the steep path with much comparative ease to himself, by clinging to the long tail of a strong mule, upon which another traveller was riding. the road over mont cenis is most superb: there are small houses at set distances, where dwell a regularly organized body of men, called _cantonniers_, whose business it is to keep the highway in repair, and to shelter and assist all _voyageurs_ who may stand in need of their services. this was first ordered and arranged by bonaparte. upon reaching level ground, near the utmost summit, we were agreeably surprised by the sight of a small lake, of the most heavenly blue (the real ultramarine colour well known to artists), situated in the midst of a little plain of verdant turf: it was quite a scene of peace and repose, all view of the surrounding precipices being shut out. from this quiet haven we descended with rapidity and ease, at the rate of seven or eight miles an hour, with only two horses; while in going up on the other side of the mountain, we found four unequal to drag us along at more than a foot's pace. we passed by the hospice, originally built by charlemagne, and re-established by bonaparte, who really put us in mind of the marquis of carrabas, in the fairy tale of "puss in boots;" for if we saw any road better than another, any house particularly well calculated for the relief of travellers, any set of guides whose attendance was unusually convenient and well ordered, or any striking improvement, in short, of whatever nature, and were induced to inquire, "by whom all had been done?" the answer was invariably, "napoleon! napoleon! napoleon!" at this hospice there is a set of monks, who bear a high reputation for benevolence and attention to travellers. a very lofty and majestic waterfall shortly afterwards greeted our eyes, grandly beautiful, though bearing no character of terror. it was the "roar of waters," not the "hell of waters," so admirably described by lord byron, in the fourth canto of his childe harold. the road here perpetually returned upon itself, in zigzag windings, resembling the principle of a corkscrew staircase, and was, in the midst of grandeur and sublimity, both easy and safe. the alps, on the piedmontese side of mont cenis, and to whose firm bases we were now fast descending, were infinitely more stupendous, more overwhelming in their proportions, and displayed stronger features of actual sublimity, perhaps, than those we had seen in savoy; but we all thought them less rich in sylvan beauty, and far less enchantingly romantic in their general character. our wonder was not, as formerly, mingled with delight; on the contrary, a shuddering sensation of horror took possession of our minds, as we involuntarily turned our eyes upon the various dark gulfs, and tremendous abysses, which yawned on every side. it was impossible not to feel, at every turn, that there were but a few inches between us and destruction. at length we reached the foot of the celebrated rocca melone, or roche melon, which is allowed to be the highest of the chain, and is nine thousand feet from the base to the summit. we could now perceive a visible alteration in the costumes of the peasantry; the men came forth in coloured silk or cotton caps, with a long net bag hanging down behind, ending in a tassel: the women, in flat straw hats, lined with pink sarsenet, and jackets laced in front; exactly resembling those italian groups of figures which i had formerly seen in the drawings of mr. w----m l----k. i recognised them instantly as my old acquaintance, and felt myself in some measure _en pays de connoissance_. our postillion had the true features of the venetian punchinello, and i almost expected to hear him squeak. we dined at susa (inn _la posta_), and found it cleanly and comfortable; the people excessively attentive and civil: in short, we looked upon it as a most auspicious entrance into italy. from susa to san giorgio our driver was a regular italian wag, and i suspected he had got a little too much of the juice of the grape in his head, by the way in which he tore along the road, to the amazement of every quiet passenger. at last we called to him, to inquire the reason of his violent proceedings. "i thought i was doing just what you liked best," was his answer; and it was with difficulty we could persuade him that we were not among the number of those english travellers who take delight in risking their own necks, and the lives of their horses, merely for the sake of "astonishing the natives!" this was the first and only instance of intoxication which we had witnessed upon the continent. the dress of the women near san giorgio is picturesque; a short blue petticoat, with several narrow, coloured tucks at the bottom, a high laced cap (something in the style of the french _cauchoises_), and bright necklaces, formed of boxwood beads, turned in an oval shape, and highly gilt, so as to resemble massy gold. the men all wore cocked hats. the verdure of the fields and trees here (the latter chiefly beech, olive, and lime) was delightful, owing partly to the late rains, which the people told us had fallen to the great refreshment of the long-parched earth; the whole air was embalmed with the fragrance of the limes: we had a strong sun, but at the same time, so reviving a breeze, so soft, pure, and elastic, that i never remember to have enjoyed any thing more, nor ever felt a greater degree of physical animation. this sweetly-breathing wind might (by poets) have been supposed the same which blew through the groves of elysium. we now passed by a fine ruin of a castle, built upon a rocky eminence, and overhanging a brawling river. the peasantry in general were well looking, but we still observed several _goîtres_ among them. nothing struck us at this time with higher astonishment than the convent of benedictines, an enormous, massive, dark pile of building, reared upon the topmost height of one of the grandest mountains here, and frowning over the valley below. i in particular remember this with the strongest impression of wonder and admiration; it perfectly seized upon my imagination, and involuntarily brought mrs. radcliffe's, and other tales of romance, to the recollection of us all. at st. antonine, (i sometimes avail myself of the french names of these places, as both french and italian are equally used in this country), we first saw two _paysannes_ with their hair twisted up _à l'antique_, and in long transparent veils of black gauze, which admirably suited their handsome dark eyes and eyebrows; this costume is sometimes worn over the high cap, but it then loses half its graceful effect. it struck me that if women in general were aware of the peculiar advantage and charm of a long floating veil, which thus shades, without concealing, the features, there would be but one style of head-dress in the world. in addition to these bewitching veils, the country girls at this place (st. antonine) generally carry fans; we met several with them, made of bright pink paper, covered with gold spangles, and it appeared to us rather an incongruous implement in the hands of a village belle. mass was performing as we passed, at a church of true grecian architecture; upon the outside steps of which the people were kneeling with every symptom of devotion. in going through a low valley beyond this town, narrow and extremely confined by the tall hedge-rows, where the circulation of air is in consequence impeded, we felt the heat almost intolerable; and the atmosphere exactly of that heavy nature from which we have often suffered during the summers of our own country. i must tell the truth (as it is fit all respectable _travellers_ should do), and therefore am compelled to confess, that in passing over the continent, i was perpetually and forcibly struck with the defects of our english climate when compared with others. condemn me not, ye red-hot john bulls! remember that when the noble animal you resemble makes his fiercest attacks, he always shuts his eyes, in common with every prejudiced person. at rivoli, they were celebrating the fête of st. bartholomew; many pretty women and fine spirited-looking men were among the groups of gay figures assembled there. the caps of the former were very remarkable, being composed of lace in the form of a high roman casque or helmet; and worn over another of pink silk. the church was ornamented with flowers and green wreaths; guns were firing, and a military procession going by as we passed: some of the girls wore pea-green jackets and red petticoats, some blue petticoats and white shift sleeves, and all had a bouquet of natural flowers in their bosoms. from rivoli, we emerged into the fertile and widely extended plains of piedmont; the distant hills, richly tufted with woods, were studded thick with white villas (or _vignes_ as they are called here), and we now entirely lost sight of those hideous _goîtres_, which had hitherto every now and then made their appearance, even in the midst of a generally handsome peasantry. the approach to turin was highly beautiful, through a long avenue of the finest trees; the town itself embosomed among gently rising hills, and adorned by the river po, glassy and smooth as a mirror, and so transparent, that the banks and sky were reflected upon its breast, unbroken by a single wave or ripple. the buildings are very high, many of them extremely handsome, with white or coloured striped awnings to every window, as a shelter from the noon-day sun. our hotel (_albergo del universo_) stood in the middle of _la place du chateau_, immediately fronting the royal palace. the streets are clean, which indeed they ought to be, since through almost all of them a stream of the purest crystal water is perpetually flowing, contributing not a little, i should think, to the health and comfort of the inhabitants. we found apartments allotted to us in the _albergo_ of great height and size, with cove ceilings, and _en suite_; furnished with a curious mixture of poverty and magnificence, and ornamented by some exquisite and well chosen prints, from the designs of poussin and other old masters; rather in better style, it must be allowed, than those of most english inns, where you find "going out to hunt," "in at the death," "matrimony and courtship," and such things, hanging over every chimney piece. but we found one annoyance here that almost disgusted me with italy, in spite of her miracles of nature and art, and brought back the remembrance of english neatness and purity in a very forcible manner: i allude to the circumstance of the vermin, which infest even some of their most expensive establishments, and quite destroy the sensation of comfort. there are other sins also in their household arrangements, which this nation share in common with the french: suffice it to say, that both one and the other are certainly the dirtiest race of beings i ever encountered. i did not much like the smell of garlic, on entering our hotel, where the host, waiters, and assistants, all puffed their _vile rocambole breath_[ ] in our face, as they bustled about, preparing for our accommodation. neither could i relish their method of cookery, and, after the first trial, begged to have our future dinners drest _à la française_. i know not what my friend mr. t. would say to this, who i have heard vaunt his piedmontese garlic truffles as one of the greatest delicacies of the table. to do the people of this hotel justice, i ought, however, to acknowledge that they seemed most anxious to please, and appeared delighted when they succeeded. nor did they attempt to impose upon us in their charges, although they formed exceptions, in this instance, to some other italian innkeepers, by whom we were considerably annoyed and disgusted; the system of cheating and over-rating on their parts, and of shameless begging from the lower classes, being in general carried to an astonishing excess; i must say, that we found the french far preferable in these respects. the royal residence here is a very magnificent and classical building, and _la place de st. charles_ is also very fine. the shops are universally built beneath the refreshing shade of piazzas, which is a very necessary circumstance, for the heat of the sun at noon would otherwise overpower their inhabitants. no business seems to be done at that time, at the public-offices, banking-houses, &c. indeed the italians say, _il n'y a que les chiens et les anglois qui sortent à ces heures_. we proceeded to view the principal _lions_ the next day, and, amongst others, the cathedral, which is a regular grecian temple. the king's seat in a gallery above the high altar, very splendidly adorned, but we agreed in thinking that this style of architecture (although beautiful in itself), was far less appropriate to a place of religious worship than the gothic. in this opinion (which i remember to have expressed before, in the beginning of my tour), i am not sure however, that we are not a little tinged with the ideas of gloomy solemnity (as connected with religion) peculiar to most of the northern nations; and i own (at all events) that i am guilty of an inconsistency in taste, because i have ever been a warm admirer of the bright, soft, and smiling type under which a different mythology has represented death. the poetical butterfly, bursting from its chrysalis, and soaring on triumphant wings to heaven, strikes me as infinitely more rational than the horrible (and low) taste which we have shown in selecting the skeleton as the most proper symbol of the same great and glorious mystery! a sort of _rawhead and bloodybone_ plan, unworthy of so enlightened a people as ourselves, and which seems to answer no one purpose of religion or morality, if impartially considered; but on the contrary to be well calculated to poison the innocent minds of youth with aggravated and unnecessary terrors, and to divert their attention from the nobler truths of immortality! in the evening we drove upon the corso in a _caleche_, the same sort of vehicle which we used while at paris. the corso is a pretty, cool, shady promenade, by the side of the river po. the upper classes of turin take the cool air of the evening here, every day, in their different carriages; we observed no pedestrians above the rank of the _bourgeoisie_. we met the king of sardinia on horseback, not forming (as is usual for sovereigns in england) the centre of a galaxy of stars and ribands, but riding first, by himself, followed by an escort of five gentlemen, among whom was his brother. he looked very earnestly into our carriage, and returned our salutation by taking off his hat in a graceful and courteous manner. he is a little thin man, apparently about fifty-five, with a countenance expressive of good nature. the queen next rolled by, attended by all her suite, in an old-fashioned heavy coach and six, her coachman (big, fat, and important, sunk in his ample box) and her footmen in gay scarlet liveries, gaudily laced. the equipage altogether put me strongly in mind of that raised by the fairy for her god-daughter cinderella, where the coach was originally a pumpkin, the coachman a fat hen, and the lackeys lizards! we saw shortly afterwards, during this brilliant promenade, the prince and princess of carignano (who are adored by all ranks, and are continually active in every benevolent duty), and the spanish, dutch, and other ambassadors. the king shows himself to the populace in this manner every evening. we attended the opera at night; the price of one of the best private boxes did not exceed twelve shillings, and the tickets of admission (being a separate concern) were about fifteen-pence. in london one thinks a box cheap at five guineas! the prince and princess de carignano were present: the theatre is called by their name, but it is not the principal one at turin; there being another upon a larger scale, which was shut up during our _sejour_ at that place: it is never used but during the carnival, or on some great occasion, in compliment to some foreign prince. the carignano theatre is, notwithstanding, a handsome, spacious edifice, about the size of drury lane, and the scenery and machinery carried on in far better style than with us in the haymarket. the drop curtain in particular caught my attention; it is an exquisite painting, representing the judgment of paris, his figure beautiful and graceful in the highest degree, and the drapery remarkably fine. the opera (_il rivale di se stesso_, by veigi) was well got up, but we were not much struck with the music, from the whole of which we could only select one or two _morceaux_ to admire: there was a clever _buffo_ (_signor nicola taci_), and a very agreeable _prima donna_, whose style of singing and flexibility of voice sometimes reminded us of catalani; her name was _emilia bonini_. the ballet was extremely superior to ours in numbers, and in minute attention to the accuracy of costume; but there were no french dancers among them, and it is well known how inferior in the comparison are all others. the _grotesques_, however, (a species of dancers peculiar to italy) were wonderful for activity and strength: they consisted of four men and two women, who really appeared to think the air their proper element rather than the earth; they flew about in every possible strange attitude, but were totally devoid of grace, to which, indeed, i believe they do not pretend. i found that i had by some means formed a very erroneous idea of the usual conduct of an italian audience. i had expected to find a sort of breathless silence, and a refinement of applause, wholly different from the character of an english set of listeners; but on the contrary, they clapped as loudly as any john bulls in the world, and even hissed one of the singers, who did not happen to please. i have subsequently mentioned this circumstance to those who are better acquainted with the customs of italy, and learn that i have been quite mistaken all my life in this respect. the house (as well as those in france) was dark as erebus which i cannot approve, for it evidently does not answer the purpose of increasing the brilliancy and the illusion of the stage. the next morning we drove to moncallier, about six miles from turin, to call upon madame n----, (an old acquaintance of our friend mr. t.'s,) for whom we had letters. the coachman was an insufferable gossip, and we dreaded to ask him a question, sure that it would bring down upon us at least a dozen long answers. we did not go to the english minister's; that gentleman (mr. hill) being then absent for a fortnight at genoa. we therefore had not the pleasure of presenting him with those letters of introduction to himself and other families at turin, with which we were furnished by the kindness of mr. t. who was also formerly minister here, and of whom the people still speak in those terms of enthusiastic gratitude, which his benevolence richly deserves. it was highly pleasing to me to listen to these details, nor were they imparted to us by one person alone; his reputation appeared to be in the hearts and upon the lips of every one who remembered him at all! but to return to our visit to madame n----: the vast expanse of fertile, fresh, and woody country seen from the heights of moncallier, with the po winding in graceful sweeps through the richest banks, is wonderfully like the prospect boasted by richmond hill. i was national enough to admire it the more upon this account, although i confess its superiority in the sublime back ground of the distant alps and glaciers. when arrived at the termination of the carriage road here, we were informed of the necessity of alighting, and of walking a short distance to the garden gate that belonged to madame n.'s _vigne_. this short distance proved to be upwards of half a league (a mile and half), leading through a stony lane of hot sand, (in which our weary feet sunk deep at every step), upon a very long and steep ascent. the hour of noon (which i have already mentioned to be intolerable in this country) rapidly approached, and the scorching influence of the sun caused the drops to start from our foreheads, and our hearts to sink within us, as we proceeded on our way; to make the matter worse, i had attired myself that morning (little dreaming of such a walk) in a smart parisian costume, with a triple flounce at the bottom of the petticoat, which by the time i had reached the end of this lane, formed a very pretty receptacle of dust and sand, scattering its contents most liberally upon my already blistered feet and ancles; a pair of thin, small slippers, also, (which i unfortunately wore) cut my insteps with their tight binding, and admitted at each step the sharp points of flint with which our path abounded! the guide (a bareheaded piedmontese boy) did not understand above one word in ten of what was said to him, either in french or italian, speaking a wretched and indistinct _patois_ himself, which was equally unintelligible to us. he was a lively, arch little fellow, however, and made some amends for having seduced us into attempting the walk, by his encouraging signs that we should soon arrive at its termination. indeed it would have been useless to have gone back, as we had already advanced so far upon our way; and there was no possibility of reaching the house but on foot. i reproached him several times for replying only "_no_, _signora_," when i asked if such and such gates belonged to the _vigne_ we were seeking; and could not help smiling at his desiring me to take courage, for that in a few minutes he should leave off saying "_no_, _signora_," and be able to please me better by "_eccola_, _signora_:" at length we reached the goal, and upon ringing, were ushered by two servant girls in their _paysanne_ costumes, amid the barking of wondering dogs, into a romantic garden, where flowers, fruit, vegetables, and grapes, all flourished together without any attempt at regularity, forming a singular and most agreeable melange. this _vigne_ commanded an exquisite and extensive prospect of the plains of piedmont, and the distant mountains. a grave, respectable _femme de chambre_ now made her appearance, and speaking in english, conducted us into the house, where in a few minutes madame n. herself received us with a degree of frank politeness, and a warm and unaffected hospitality of manner, which was extremely pleasant to meet with, and quite a novelty to those who like ourselves had been accustomed to the reserve (i may say ultra-reserve) of many englishwomen. both mistress and maid (the latter personage above-mentioned having lived with madame n. ever since she was a girl) had a foreign accent and idiom, in speaking our language, although they were really of english birth, and had passed their youth in the county of suffolk or norfolk, i forget which. we were much struck with the difference of this little country house from those to which we had been used in england, it bore so completely the italian character; all the rooms were in _demi jour_, having the _jalousies_ closed, to shield them from the sun at this sultry time of the day: marble in profusion rendered their appearance doubly cool, brick floors and light green stucco walls, still preserving the air of a cottage residence, in which an english eye is surprised at meeting the former costly material. a few beautiful frescos, and water-coloured drawings of mountain scenery, evidently from the hand of a master, a gaily painted ceiling, and a guitar thrown carelessly upon a pianoforte, told us we were in the land of the arts. passing into the small dining-room, opening upon the garden, through a porch thickly shaded with vines, we saw the table ready laid for dinner, to which we were cordially intreated to remain: it was entirely covered with large vine leaves, spread upon the white cloth, and amid which we perceived wooden spoons and forks, in a true arcadian style. nothing could have a cooler or more refreshing effect than this verdant board prepared for "----all those rural messes, which the neat-handed phyllis dresses." we were not, however, at liberty to accept madame n.'s invitation to share her simple meal, having left our friend waiting dinner for us at turin. she told us of a late visit she had been making to the mountains: their party consisted of a few intimate friends, who, joining in a sort of gipseying scheme, hired lodgings for three weeks, at the humble cottage of one of the poor inhabitants of these remote and solitary regions. they carried their own cooking utensils, some provisions, and a complete set of common earthen-ware dishes, plates, wooden spoons, knives and forks, &c. these they presented to their host at parting, whose gratitude and delight at the splendid gift, she said, were unbounded. he repeatedly exclaimed, "too much! this is too much! what beautiful things! they are far too good for me!" their value in toto was about five english shillings; but this unsophisticated child of nature, used to every sort of privation, knowing but few wants, and totally ignorant of the customs and habits of the rest of the world, really imagined that it was a princely donation. the manners of the people in these wild mountains are primitive beyond all conception, and their morals so pure, their affections so warm, and their language so artless and unrestrained, that they seemed as if just fresh from the hand of the creator in the beginning of the world! altogether they had made such a strong and touching impression on madame n.'s mind (who is herself the purest and most romantic child of nature), that she said she should regret their society, and remember their singular virtues and innocence as long as she lived. the advocates for the doctrine of original depravity, and who deny that man is rendered vicious chiefly by circumstances, might have been somewhat staggered in this "plain tale," so truly calculated to "put them down." speaking of the italian character, and more particularly of their excellence in the fine arts, she confirmed the truth of what so many accurate and enlightened observers have remarked, namely, "that the genius of an italian is so peculiarly indigenous to his native soil, so intimately and vitally dependant upon the favouring and animating breath of his own ardent clime, as to faint, droop, and often wholly to wither, in the chilling atmosphere of foreign lands!" like the giant son of the earth, who wrestled with hercules, his power, his very existence, is drawn wholly from thence. madame de staël, in her corinne (that work, whose kindling eloquence, depth of feeling, inimitable powers of language, and historical truth, as a portrait of italy, is so universally admired by the best judges of excellence, and so clamoured against by the tasteless and ignorant cavillers of the day), has forcibly illustrated this truth; as has also canova, in his own person. madame n. related an answer which the latter made to bonaparte (who had sense and elevation enough to appreciate this modern praxiteles as he deserved), upon being reproached for indolence, and want of professional exertion while at paris: "emperor!--canova cannot be canova but in his native italy; she is the source of his inspiration; his powers are palsied in the separation!" we walked in the garden of this pretty _vigne_, after having partaken of the refreshment of fruit and wine and water within, and were surprised at the bruised and battered appearance of the grapes; they had been all nearly destroyed a short time before, by a violent storm of hail; the congealed drops of this destructive element being larger than a small bird's egg, or a gooseberry! what a scourge to the poorer classes, whose only wealth frequently consists in their vineyards! (_note_ d). we now took leave of our friendly, though new, acquaintance; who, not satisfied with having pressed us to pass a few days with her here, also offered us the use of her winter residence in turin, if we had staid longer, assuring us we should find it more comfortable than a hotel. before i quit her, however, i should mention the curious difference which she pointed out to us, in the necessary expenses of an italian and an english domestic establishment: the comforts, and even luxuries, of the former clime being obtained at so much more reasonable a price than those of the latter, as to seem almost incredible. she told me, that for five or six hundred a year a person might keep two houses (one in turin, and one in the country), a carriage, a box at the opera, an appropriate table, and be able to receive friends under his roof with perfect ease. further up, among the more retired mountains, and relinquishing the accommodation of a carriage, you might live most comfortably (although, of course, upon a very small scale of establishment) for fifty pounds per annum. she added, that in her own case, an income which gave her the reputation of a "rich widow" in turin, would not purchase her a decent roof, and bread and cheese, in london. i have no means of ascertaining that this statement is correct, or exaggerated; i merely relate the circumstance. we found our friend, mr. w., in expectation of our return, at the hotel: "we entered, and dinner was served as we came;"[ ] for which we had a better appetite than could have been imagined, after all our fatigues. the heat of the weather would not admit of our going out till the evening had considerably advanced, when we again drove about the town. the waiter (who, by the way, was one of the best looking of his kind we had seen, being particularly remarkable for the elegant expression of his countenance (if i may apply that word to one in his rank of life), as well as the regularity of his truly grecian features), told us, that the late summer had been the most sultry that the people of turin were able to remember; and that he himself had found the heat so unusually oppressive, that he had hardly been able to taste food during the time of its continuance. having occasion to write letters this evening, we sent for materials, and by the appearance of the golden sand which was brought to us, thought the river pactolus ran through the town instead of the po. ice is used in profusion here, in the preparation of almost every beverage; and there are large meadows overflowing with the clearest streams of water, kept solely for this purpose. we went into a bookseller's shop during our stay, where we were agreeably surprised by seeing a translation of rob roy upon the table, which we were assured was much relished in italy, and was extremely popular. a proof (if any were wanting) of the intrinsic excellence of the work, even considered without reference to its merits as a mere national picture. we observed also a sermon, which had been preached upon the death of our lamented princess charlotte; the style, as i slightly turned over the leaves, appeared highly pathetic, and the expressions of pity and regret very forcible and natural. it was altogether a tender and soothing gratification to our feelings as natives of england. priestcraft struck us to be the staple trade of the place; the swarms of dismal, sly-looking, vulgar figures, in their black formal costume, were beyond all belief, and the idea of a flight of ravens came into my head every time i saw them. passing by the market, we were astonished at the quantities of peaches exposed for sale. they are as common in italy as potatoes with us. some small ones of an inferior sort were then selling at the price of four or five english halfpence for three pounds weight of fruit. we went the next day, in the cool of the evening, to drive, as usual, about the environs, and intended to have called upon the marquise d'a----(_née d'a._), for whom we had letters of introduction; but were prevented by a violent and sudden storm of rain, thunder, and lightning. the effect of its coming on was wonderfully grand and beautiful; a painter would have been in ecstasies; and we were highly interested in the sight. looking back upon turin, we beheld the town, and the conspicuous convent of capucins, their white walls starting luminously forth from a background of lowering clouds of a purple hue, indicative of the gathering tempest, which in a few moments darkened into the most awful gloom that can be imagined. we put up the hood and leather apron of the carriage, and drove rapidly homewards, while the clouds burst over our heads, and the rain descended in absolute sheets of water. we could not help being delighted with the refreshing change. if pythagoras's doctrine is true, i am convinced i must formerly have been a duck; for never creature of that nature enjoyed the sort of thing more than myself. the lightning continued for nearly an hour, accompanied by tremendous bursts of thunder, louder than the loudest artillery, the wind howling at the same moment as if in the depth of winter, which, joined to the constant rushing sound of the rain falling from the projecting roofs and broad water-spouts of the surrounding buildings, formed the most sublime concert of wild sounds that i ever heard. we were told that storms are almost always thus violent in the near neighbourhood of the alps. before i quit the subject of turin, there are a few more observations, which, however desultory, i will not withhold, although they sometimes may relate to things which we did not ourselves see, owing to the extreme heat of the weather, and the shortness of our stay. among these is the church of the superga, which i advise every traveller to visit, knowing how amply his trouble would be repaid by the very noble view that it affords, and the peculiar interest and magnificence of the structure itself. in a clear day the spire of the cathedral of milan may be discerned from thence, at the distance of eighty miles. to inspect the convent, in all its details, it is necessary for ladies to procure previously an order from the archbishop of turin. [illustration: _london, published by i, murray, ._ view of turin.] the colline de turin, in addition to its natural beauties, presents two other objects worthy of being seen: the vigne de la reine (a very elegant little summer retreat), and the picturesque and romantic convent, which is the burying-place of the knights of the supreme order of the annunciade, in the neighbourhood of which are found considerable masses of that fibrous schist, called asbestos. bonaparte, it must be allowed, has made considerable amends for the mischief which his army occasioned at turin, by the handsome bridge he caused to be built in place of a miserable wooden one, and by weeding the country of its too numerous monastic institutions, a few of which only have been restored by the present government. as the seeds of revolutionary principles are apt to retain their vital heat, even when apparently crushed beneath the foot of power, one cannot be surprised that a good deal of unpopularity attends the present sovereign among certain classes. but his truly paternal government is nevertheless cherished with affection by many, as the following fact clearly proves, which i learned from the most indisputable authority. there existed an _impôt_, highly profitable to the revenue, but which the king believed to be vexatious and unpopular. he was accordingly taking measures to repeal it, when, unexpectedly, he received addresses from different parts of the country, expressive of their conviction that this resource to the revenue was necessary; and such was their confidence in the certainty of his majesty's relinquishment of it, the moment the situation of the finances would allow him to do so without inconvenience, that they were content willingly to submit to it until that period arrived. we regretted not being able to visit genoa, the magnificence of which city, and its beautiful bay (the latter hardly inferior to that of naples), is much talked of. with respect to this portion of his sardinian majesty's new subjects, we were told that a considerable time will be necessary to reconcile them to the loss of their independence. we should have been glad to have availed ourselves (as i said before) of our letters of introduction to mr. hill, had he been at turin, as we had heard much of the affable and amiable manners of the piedmontese nobility. i have, indeed, always understood that they were remarkable for quickness and penetration. these latter qualities distinguish their diplomacy at the several courts of europe. from the abominable _patois_ which they speak, i should think both gentlemen and ladies must be singularly clever and engaging, to rise superior to such a disadvantage: it seems to be a corruption of french and italian, and to spoil both. they say, however, that it is very expressive: all ranks are much attached to it, and (strange to relate) it is spoken at court, french being only adopted when foreigners are present. in this threshold of italy, one expects to find a considerable progress in the arts, nor were we disappointed. painting, sculpture, orfévrerie, music, &c. have attained to a very fair and reasonable height, and some of their manufactures are particularly good; especially where silk (the great riches of the country) is employed. their damasks for hangings are beautiful, both for patterns and colour. they are the common furniture of all their best apartments, and exceedingly cheap; one third perhaps of what they could be manufactured for in england, whither their raw silk is sent every year to an immense amount, and under a no less immense duty; a certain proportion of it is requisite to mix up with our bengal silks. the light gauzes manufactured at chamberry are a very elegant and favourite article of dress. several of the english nobility have been educated at the university of turin, which used to be the most considerable in italy; the system of education having been carried on in a most liberal and gentlemanly style. there is a remarkable and interesting little protestant colony, which also deserves mention,--the vaudois, who, surviving the cruel persecutions of the dark ages of the church, have for many centuries (certainly before the twelfth) preserved their existence in the midst of this catholic country, and within thirty miles of its capital. they are a very quiet, moral, and industrious people. they owe their ease and safety to the protection of some of the protestant powers, and especially that of great britain, whose minister is particularly instructed to attend to their interests, and to their enjoyment of the toleration that is allowed them; they are, like our catholics, deprived of many privileges; but lately his present majesty has consented to allow a salary to their priests. cromwell supported these people with peculiar energy. we left turin the next morning. the fresh and balmy spirit of the air was delightful, and we had a glorious view of the glaciers which hem in this fair city, the new-risen sun shining brightly upon their snowy and fantastic summits: the host went by, in early procession; all the people as it passed dropped on their knees, in the dirt of the street, and devoutly made the sign of the cross. we met two friars, whose picturesque and really dignified appearance formed a great contrast to the demure, fanatical, formal-looking priests, whom we had hitherto seen in all quarters of the town. these friars were complete models for a painter; their bare feet in sandals, rosary and gold cross by their side, superb grey polls and beards; the latter "streaming like meteors to the troubled air." we now paid toll at the first turnpike we had seen during the last seven hundred miles. i believe i have before mentioned that it was bonaparte who abolished this troublesome system, and who really seems to have favoured the interests of travellers in every respect. the cottages in this neighbourhood were pretty, and many of the little porches and doors were overgrown with the broad verdant leaves of the pumpkin, whose orange-coloured blossoms had a remarkably gay and rich effect. at settimo we saw a beautiful girl, with the true grecian line of feature, long oval cheek, dark pale skin (fine and smooth as marble or ivory), curled red lips, with long cut black eyes and straight eyebrows; her profile was not unlike that of mrs. e., so celebrated in her day for regularity of outline. between settimo and chivasco we passed over a curious bridge, formed of planks, thrown across four boats, which were fixed immoveably in the river, by strong cords fastened to posts. the shape of these boats, and also of many we observed upon the po, resembled that of an indian canoe. the turnpike was a little thatched hut, erected upon the middle of this bridge. refusing to comply with the importunities of an old italian beggar woman here, she poured forth a volume of various maledictions upon us; being not at all inferior in this sort of eloquence to the amazons of our st. giles's or billingsgate. the money (gold coins, i mean) of italy are of very pure metal, without alloy; you may (as a proof of it) bend them into any shape with the fingers. an accident happened to us near rondizzone, which was rather alarming, but happily passed over without any serious consequences. the bridle of the centre horse breaking, we were violently run away with by the hot-headed animals; nor could the postillion stop them by any effort. this was rendered more distressing by the circumstance of our going down a steep hill at the moment. we called out repeatedly, and waved our hands for assistance to one or two peasants who were passing, making signs for them to catch the bridle, if possible; but they seemed to turn a deaf ear to our entreaties, never offering to make the smallest attempt to relieve us. by the time we reached the bottom of the hill, however, which was fortunately a long one, the creatures felt tired, and stopped of themselves. at cigliano we took a _dejeuné_ at _l'albergo reale_, and while it was preparing, stood in the open gallery on the outside of the house, gathering from a vine, which overshadowed it, the most delicious frontigniac grapes that i ever remember to have tasted: indeed their flavour was exquisite, but the people did not appear to think them of any particular value, leaving them freely to the attacks of every traveller. here we first drank the _vino d'asti_, a light wine of the country, which we thought extremely pleasant, tasting like the best sweet cyder. i formerly thought that the flies of this country would probably be much of the same sort as those in england; but they turned out far more impertinently troublesome, inflicting their tiny torments without mercy, being equally obnoxious to man and beast; a true impudent, blood-sucking race! this reminds me, that under the head of _vermin_, i ought to have recorded a disagreeable surprise felt by mr. b. at the opera at turin: feeling something tickle his forehead, he put up his hand, and caught hold of a monstrous black spider, at least four inches in circumference. the people at the hotel, to whom we related the circumstance, said it was rather an uncommon thing, but which sometimes occurred. the country, since we turned our backs upon turin, was monotonous, and only relieved by the chain of alps in the distance. at san germano we observed a very graceful costume among the peasant girls, and women of all ages; those who were advanced to extreme old age still continuing it without any variation. i allude to the wearing silver pins or bodkins in the hair behind, the long tresses of which are tied together with a narrow black riband, and divided into two braids. these are then coiled into a round shape at the back of the head, and fastened to the roots of the hair by these ornamental pins, which are about a finger in length, and have large heads, like beads. their points form the radii of a circle, and are plainly discovered amid the shadowy locks which they thus support. the landscape here was flat and uninteresting; but we remarked a great deal of pasture land. the trees chiefly consisted of stunted willows, planted in straight lines. there were no villas, or even hamlets, to be seen, and the _tout ensemble_ was almost as tame and as ugly as that of the netherlands. the first dulcet notes of true italian music, we heard at vercelli: a baker's wife, who lived next door to the _albergo della posta_ (where we stopped to change horses), sat working and singing in her shop. it was the most elegant, yet simple, air imaginable, and her voice possessed the soft mellifluous tones of a faint but mellow flute. she had a peculiar ease and flexibility also in the execution of several charming and brilliant little graces, which delighted me. i thought it was extremely improbable that this woman could have had the advantage of a master in the art; and yet her style was finished in the most perfect sense of the word; being simple, yet refined; pathetic, yet chastely ornamented. she was plain in face and person; but her lips half open looked almost pretty, as she emitted these sweet sounds, without discomposing a muscle. an effect was thus produced, without effort or instruction, which is frequently denied in our country to the pupils of the most celebrated teachers, although every exertion has been cheerfully and indefatigably made, both by master and scholar. but there is no convincing some people that there are things which are not to be taught. had i a daughter, i would never allow her the assistance of a music master until i perceived, by unequivocal tokens, that nature had qualified her to do credit to his instructions; and hence waste of time, patience, temper, and money, would be avoided. my baker's wife i shall never forget; and if her example would have opened the eyes of half the world in england (who really seem to be music-mad in the present age), i wish that she had had an opportunity of exhibiting her gift, and of mortifying the silly ambition, while she soothed the ears of them all. how have i smiled to see people toiling to acquire the knowledge of composition and thorough base, when i have been certain that they have not possessed a spark of native genius to enable them to make any use of these rules after all. prometheus formed an image, but it was only fire from heaven that could make that image man! the costume of the women at vercelli became still more picturesque than those of san germano, as the bodkins which the former wore were much handsomer, some being of silver filligree, and others of silver gilt, the heads worked and embossed with great taste and richness. we saw large fields of rice here; this grain has a singular appearance, something between the barley and oat: when viewed closely, it has about twelve ears upon each stalk. the hedges by the road side were of a species of acacia, forming a very graceful foliage, but not growing to any height or size. i got out of the carriage to examine the manner in which the women inserted the pretty ornaments i have just described into their hair. i found them (like the french _paysannes_) extremely courteous and frank in their manners, and they seemed flattered by the attention their costume had excited. an old man stood by, holding the hands of his two little grand-children; he observed (in the usual _patois_) that they were beautiful rogues, and he was right, for i have seldom seen sweeter children; very dark, with the bright yet soft black eye peculiar to italians, and which both sir w. jones and lord byron, catching the poetical idea of the eastern writers, have so happily defined, (or rather painted) by a comparison with that of the roe or gazelle. one of these darlings had wavy curls of the darkest auburn hair. what a pity that such lovely cherubim faces and silken locks should not have been kept free from dirt and----worse than dirt! but it is always the case here, the poorer classes are invariably filthy. the same tiresome and tame style of country continued until we reached novara; where we dined and slept at _l'albergo d'italia_. the latter was a horrible-looking place; my heart sank within me, as we drove into the court, for if i was so bitten by the bugs, &c. at the superb albergo of turin, i naturally conceived i should have been quite devoured here! this was a striking proof, however, of the truth of that moral axiom, which tells us, "it is not good to judge of things at first sight," and also that it is absurd to consider them on the dark side, since at this same inn we found every comfort: the dinner was served in a cleanly manner (the knives, forks, and spoons were really washed), and we enjoyed a night of calm repose, undisturbed by vermin of any sort. the gentlemen went in the evening to an italian comedy, at the theatre here, which was a neat building, entirely fitted up with private boxes and a parterre, the scenery and costumes far above mediocrity, and the orchestra very tolerable; but the length of the italian dialogues, and the unnatural bombast of the actor's delivery, soon fatigued their attention and exhausted their patience, and they were glad to return home to indulge unrestrained an overwhelming propensity to sleep. the women at novara were much better looking than any we had yet seen in this country; the custom of gently parting the hair upon the forehead, _à la madonna_, finishing with a soft ringlet behind each ear, and the longer tresses confined in an antique knot, gave an air of infinite grace to the head and throat, and appeared to us to be in far better taste than that of the french, which strains up the long hair to the crown of the head, rendering the forehead quite bald, save at the temples, where a lank straggling greasy curl always is left hanging down upon the cheek, which has a formal and unbecoming effect. apropos to personal charm, i was assured before our departure from england (by an amateur artist of high genius and feeling, and who had lived for years in different parts of italy), that we should find there a small number of what are generally called "pretty women," in comparison with what we had been used to see in our own country; but that when real italian beauty was occasionally encountered, it was of that decided and exquisite nature, as to be infinitely superior to any which england's daughters can boast. even my slight experience has perfectly convinced me of the truth of the remark. i am national enough to be sorry for it, but it cannot be helped; we must submit to this mortification of our vanity, and if we do it with a good grace, may probably find that quality _plus belle encore que la beauté_ of power to captivate, where regularity of feature has failed. the first stage of our journey the next day did not afford us any relief from the insipidity of country of which we had complained since leaving turin. we saw here (as in most parts of the continent) large tracts planted with corn, here called _melliga_, and remarked a good deal of meadow land; but we did not once taste cream either in italy or france (except at samer, and afterwards at quillacq's hotel at calais, when we were treated with a few spoonfuls in our tea of a rich sort of milk which boasted that name), nor was paris itself exempt from the want of it. this wearying sameness in the landscape was at length agreeably broken by the prospect of a vast common, where the purple heath-flower, with which it was entirely covered, wet with dew, gleamed like an amethyst in the morning sun. yet even here, i missed the gay variety of the bright golden broom, which invariably is found upon our commons at home--home! the term always makes my heart throb with pleasure and pride; i know not why, but at that moment its idea rose in vivid strength before me, softened and beautified by the colours with which memory never fails to adorn a beloved object in absence. i felt (and my companions warmly participated in my sentiments) that our dear little island had charms of a different nature, but in no way inferior, to those even of this favoured land, so celebrated, so enthusiastically vaunted, by the poet and the painter. i felt (and what englishwoman ought not to feel?) that i could truly exclaim in apostrophizing my native country, "where'er i go, whatever realms i see, my heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee." and yet, reader, we were no _bigots_ in the cause, for we could discern foreign excellence and deeply feel it, and we could perceive where england's faults lay, could acknowledge those faults, and wish that they were rectified; and this, i am sorry to say, is not always the case with our countrymen, many of whom have listened to all commendations of other nations, as if they were so many insults offered to our own. it seems wonderful that such feelings should in these enlightened days exist among persons who are not actually fools, nor of that class of society in which a want of education necessarily induces ignorance and prejudice; yet so it is, unfortunately, as it has more than once been my lot to witness. we now passed the river tessin, by means of a bridge of boats. it was much impaired in beauty and force, by the heat of the late season, but we could easily imagine that in general its portion of both must be extreme. bonaparte had begun to build a fine and permanent bridge across it, but fate intervened, and it is left unfinished, like his own eventful history. at buffalore, the _douaniers_ were tiresome enough, according to _custom_ (pardon the pun), but we conducted ourselves towards them with great patience and civility, which (together with a little _silver_ eloquence) soon touched their stony hearts. indeed it would have been useless to have done otherwise, as i never yet heard of any body being able to soften rocks with vinegar, except hannibal; and i consider even that instance to be apocryphal. we arrived at the grand city of milan early, and proceeded immediately to visit the cathedral, that mighty _duomo_, of which italy is so justly proud. we were absolutely silent with admiration and wonder, upon first seeing this stupendous work of art, and i really despair of doing it justice in description; like many other things, it must be seen to be fully comprehended and appreciated. st. peter's at rome is generally accounted the superior miracle of genius; but i believe there are many imaginations which have been more forcibly impressed with the effect of this. in the first place, the _material_ claims pre-eminence, being entirely of white marble, brought from the lago maggiore. it is of gothic architecture, and was begun in the year : the plan of the choir and the two grand organs were given by the celebrated pellegrini, and the façade, which had remained for so many years unfinished, was completed by bonaparte, from the simple and superior designs of the architect amati. various statues and bas reliefs, with other costly ornaments in spotless marble, ornament the outside; and the interior has no less than five naves, supported by one hundred and sixty superb columns of the same magnificent material. immediately beneath the dome or cupola (which is by brunellesco) is a subterranean chapel, where sleeps the embalmed body of saint carlo borromeo, (the howard of his age, and an ancient archbishop of milan), enshrined in a coffin of the purest rock crystal, inclosed in a tomb of solid silver, splendidly embossed, and of enormous size and value. the pillars which support this chapel are alternately of silver and of the most exquisite coloured marble, highly polished. the wax tapers, which were lighted by the guides, to enable us to thread the dark mazes of this magnificent dungeon (for i can call it by no other name, debarred as it is from the sweet air and light of heaven), cast a stream of gloomy radiance upon our somewhat lengthened visages, and dimly illuminated the buried treasures of the tomb. never, surely, since the days of aladdin, has there existed so imposing a scene of sepulchral wealth and grandeur! having expressed a wish to see the saint (who i ought to mention has now been dead for nearly three hundred years), the priest (first putting on a sort of cloak of old point lace, and crossing himself with an air of profound respect and reverence), assisted by the guide, began to set some mechanical process at work; by means of which, as though by a stroke of magic, the silver tomb appeared to sink into the earth, the lid flew up as if to the roof of the chapel, and the body inclosed in its transparent coffin was suddenly exhibited to our wondering gaze. it was habited in a long robe of cloth of gold, fresh as if just from the loom; on the head was a mitre of solid gold (presented by one of the former kings of spain), and by the lifeless side, as if just released from the powerless hands which were crossed upon its breast, lay a crosier, of massy chased gold, studded with jewels of extraordinary richness and beauty; the price of which was scarcely to be reckoned, and whose magnitude and lustre were wonderful! they sparkled brightly in the rays of the taper, as if in mockery of the ghastly spectacle of mortality which they were meant to honour and adorn. nothing certainly could well be imagined more alarmingly hideous than st. carlo borromeo; and why the humiliating exhibition of his corporeal remains should thus be produced to the eyes of the careless multitude, when the qualities of his noble and benignant soul should alone be remembered and dwelt upon, i cannot possibly conjecture. what a strange perversion of taste, and what a ludicrous method of evincing gratitude and admiration! a very brief account of the virtues of this good archbishop may not be unwelcome to my readers. he was the head of the noble family of borromeo, and equally distinguished for his extraordinary benevolence towards mankind, and his elevated sentiments of piety towards god. not satisfied with possessing the respect and homage of his fellow creatures, he placed his happiness in soothing their griefs, relieving their wants, and in gaining their warmest affections: he rather wished to be considered as a father than a superior, and the superb head of the clergy was merged in the benevolent friend of the people. his whole fortune was devoted to their service, and during a year of famine he had so completely exhausted his annual income in feeding others, that he literally was left totally destitute either of food or ready money, one evening when he returned to his episcopal residence, fatigued and exhausted with the charitable labours of the day. this benign enthusiasm, kindled in early life, never relaxed to the hour of his dissolution, and he was after death canonized as a saint by the universal consent of all ranks of persons, as might reasonably be expected; and with far more justice than many of his calendared brethren. i am afraid, nevertheless, that he does not quite come up to the ideas of moral and religious perfection, entertained by a faquir of india, or a strict calvinist of our country; for he certainly never stuck any nails into his own sides, or planted the thorns of terror in the agonised bosom of all, whose notions of duty happened not exactly to agree with those he himself entertained. he persecuted, he despised, he denounced no one; and he considered all mankind, whether protestant or catholic, as equally entitled to his good will and benevolence!--to return to the narrative of our individual proceedings, we retired from the cathedral, with our imaginations rather disagreeably impressed by the splendid yet disgusting spectacle we had there witnessed; and instead of remaining at home all the evening, to brood over the idea of coffins and crossbones, and to "dream of the night-mare, and wake in a fright[ ]," we were wicked enough to shake off our melancholy, by going to the theatre of the marionetti (or puppets), for which milan is famous. the scenery and figures (the latter of which were nearly four feet in height) quite surprised us by their correct imitation of nature. i assure the reader, that i have often seen actors of flesh and blood far less animated, and much more wooden. we could now and then discern the strings by which they were worked, and we found it easy to follow the italian dialogue, as the judicious speaker (concealed behind the curtain), did not indulge in the rant or mouthing of high tragedy, but gave every speech a natural degree of emphasis, and possessed in addition, an articulation singularly clear and distinct. the orchestra was capital, the selection of music extremely agreeable, and i never heard a _tout ensemble_ better attended to, even at the opera. milan is a large city, and has the convenience of excellent pavements both for foot passengers and those in carriages. there are four _trottoirs_ in each street, two of them in the middle of the road, which is a great advantage to all the draught horses of the place, as it considerably lessens and facilitates their exertions: i should not wonder if this improvement had been suggested by the guardian spirit of the amiable borromeo, since we are told that "a righteous man is merciful unto his beast." the _bourgeoises_ of milan generally wear black or white transparent veils, thrown carelessly over the hair, and carry fans in the hand. some have thin muslin mob caps with flat crowns under the veil, but the use of a bonnet is quite unknown. both the peasantry and _bourgeoisie_ are generally well-looking, and we saw two or three lovely women: one in particular, a true madonna of coreggio, who if seen in a london circle, would, i am sure, have created an immense sensation; we had no opportunity of judging whether she was fully aware or not of her own extraordinary beauty, but taking the thing in the most rational point of view, i should think it impossible that she should be ignorant of the personal advantages so liberally bestowed upon her. nothing has ever appeared to me more sickening than the pretty innocence some women (who have been highly favoured by nature) think it amiable to affect. that it is genuine, no one will believe who is truly acquainted with human nature and the customs of society; nor will any female, who is not weak in intellect, or of very defective judgment, condescend to adopt so paltry an artifice. a woman of _sense_ must know when she is handsome, and she will also know how to enjoy this species of superiority without abusing it. there is nothing, however, more common than the mistaking ignorance for virtue, amongst persons of a certain calibre of intellect, who yet at the same time pique themselves upon a reputation for solidity. the fruit sold in the markets here is in the most luxuriant profusion that can be imagined. we saw grapes piled up in large wicker baskets, like those used for holding linen; peaches in tubs and wheelbarrows, and innumerable quantities of ripe figs. we had the pleasure of hearing several ballad-singers of a very superior stamp to those of london or paris. this is giving them small praise; but i mean to say, that they were really excellent, differing widely from some to whom we had listened at turin (who said they came from rome), and whose harshness of voice was unpleasant, although their style, and the music they selected, was very good. but these people gratified us extremely: they sang a buffo duet (accompanied by a violoncello, violin, and guitar), with full as much spirit and correctness as either signors n. or a. and we afterwards heard a man (who came under our windows with his guitar) execute one of rossini's refined and difficult serious _arias_ in an equally finished manner. the next day we took a _caleche_, and drove to see many lions, amongst others the _arena_ (i. e. amphitheatre), and the triumphal arch, begun, but not finished, by napoleon. it was at milan that this wonderful man was crowned king of italy, in ; and the arch in question was intended to be at once a monument of his fame, and a gate to the grand road of the simplon, which commences here. when finished, it must have proved the admiration of posterity; even now it is very striking to the imagination, and not the less so (in my opinion) for being left thus awfully incomplete. the groups of figures, prepared as ornamental friezes, lie piled together in a shed or outhouse hard by, scarcely secured from the injuries of weather. nothing can be more chastely classical than their designs, and the figure of napoleon, for ever prominent among them, in the costume of the ancient roman conquerors, is a very correct personal likeness. a statue of him also is shewn here (with some little affectation of mystery), as large, or larger, than the life, and is equally marked as an accurate resemblance. the amphitheatre (lately built by coenonica) is highly magnificent, and of immense proportions, chiefly appropriated to the celebration of the _naumachia_, or naval tournament. we found the city full of english; our attorney-general and lord k., &c. were in the same hotel with ourselves (_albergo reale_); and i should in justice mention, that the master of this inn is one of the most attentive, civil, and obliging persons in the world: i hope all our countrymen will patronise him. in the evening we drove upon the promenade, which is a very fine one, and situated in the best part of the city. we were much struck by the width of the streets adjacent, and by the beauty and dignity of the buildings. here we met a crowd of equipages, of every denomination and description; yet how mean did they all appear, in comparison with those which throng hyde park! i am certain that any english chariot and horses (however plain and unpretending) would have been gazed at, and followed here as a miracle of elegance and beauty. at night we took a box at the opera (_la scala_), which is universally allowed to be the largest and most superb in europe. it was built by pierre marini, in , and did indeed amaze us at the first _coup d'oeil_, as a stupendous miracle of art: but we found the same want of brilliancy and cheerfulness as in all other foreign theatres, and the performance (to say nothing of the performers) was execrable. many of the boxes were shut up; but, by the lights which twinkled through the green latticed blinds, we perceived that persons were in them; and once, upon this sullen screen being casually opened for a few moments, we saw them playing at cards, and eating ices, without the slightest idea of attending to what was passing upon the stage. the latter refreshment is quite indispensable in this hot climate, and it was brought to us in the course of the evening: _camporese_ was the _prima donna_ here; but we did not see her, as she was unwell during the time of our stay at milan. a signora _gioja_ appeared in her stead, who made us all triste enough by her tame and stupid performance. the ballet was _ennuyant à la mort_: its strength lay in its numbers, and the manner of grouping them; for as to the dancing it was----in short, there was no such thing which properly merited that name. the theatre is far too large for the purposes of hearing (much less of enjoying) music; and there was such a stunning echo, that the noise of the enormous band of musicians in the orchestra was almost rendered insupportable to a delicate and refined ear. they played also (to my indignant astonishment) so loud as to drown the voices of the singers, instead of keeping the instruments under, and subservient to them; which i had imagined was a rule so firmly established, as to render all deviation impossible in a country which boasts itself to be the _veritable_ land of harmony. in short, we infinitely preferred the opera at turin, and were completely disappointed with _la scala_. indeed, i consider our own opera in the haymarket (however fastidiously abused by _soi-disant connoisseurs_, and although it appears like a nutshell in point of size, when compared with this overgrown rival), to be indisputably superior in every real advantage. the whole of italy (as i afterwards learned from some good judges at geneva) is at present lamentably deficient in talent, both vocal and instrumental; and whatever it affords of any celebrity is sure to come over to england, where a richer harvest is to be reaped than can be found in any other country. i mean not, however, ignorantly to deny the superior excellence of the italian school of music--superior (as all real judges must allow) to ours or any other. it is the original parent of excellence, the nursing mother of true genius. whatever has charmed us in the art has sprung from the principles it inculcates; and when, even in the national melodies of ireland and scotland, i have heard a finished singer enchant and touch the feelings of their enthusiastic sons, i have been perfectly aware that what they have blindly insisted upon as being preferable to the italian school, has in reality been formed upon its rules; and when i hear a contrary doctrine asserted, i look upon it as nonsense, unworthy even the trouble of contradiction. i only mean to say, that the present singers, performers, and composers of italy are anxious to transplant themselves to the fostering protection of british taste and munificence. we left milan at an early hour the next morning, and found the country beyond, both flat and ugly for some distance. we saw great quantities of white mulberry trees (for the benefit of the silk-worms) in every direction, and many poplars (being now in lombardy). the leaf of the latter we observed to be much larger than those in england: perhaps the tree degenerates in some measure in our climate. the maple also springs in abundance, and i suppose there must be a proportionate number of nightingales in consequence, if the old saying is true, that these birds love the maple better than any other tree. the postillion wore the usual austrian costume, common to his profession: it bore some resemblance to that of an old english jester, being a yellow jacket with black worsted lace, and a red waistcoat. at rho we passed by a church, called _notre dame des miracles_; where signs and wonders are believed to be displayed even in these philosophical days. all the peasants and _bourgeoises_ wore beautiful coral necklaces, brought from the mediterranean, of the true light pink colour, which is so expensive in england. the infants here were cramped up in swaddling-clothes, and had no caps upon their heads; while the want of hair, peculiar to their tender age, gave them the air of little unfledged birds. but now the period approached when we were to encounter a more serious and hair-breadth scape than any which had occurred during our tour. passing through the town of gallarate, near the foot of the alps, we were stopped by a gentleman in an open travelling carriage, whose rueful visage, scared air, and animated gesticulations, awakened our most lively curiosity and attention. he was a merchant of neufchatel, and perceiving that we were proceeding upon the same route which he had just passed, desired us most earnestly to stop at gallarate, and furnish ourselves with a couple of _gens d'armes_, unless we wished to encounter the same fate from which he had just escaped. he then went on to relate a most terrific account of his having been robbed (he might have added, frightened) by three horrible-looking banditti, masked, and armed with carabines, pistols, and stilettos! they had forced his postillion to dismount, and throwing him under the carriage, with his head beneath the wheel (to prevent his offering any interruption to their plunder), proceeded to attack him; and, finally, spared his life, only by his consenting to part with every thing valuable in his possession. they not only took his watch and all his money, but a chain of his wife's hair, which they discovered around his neck; but their ill humour was great, and vehemently expressed, upon finding this poor man's property a less considerable booty than they had expected. all this had passed within a quarter of an hour from the time at which we met him at gallarate. of course, we felt ourselves much indebted for the warning; and as my courage had completely sunk under the recital, and i found it (like that of bob acres, in the rivals) "oozing out at my fingers' ends," at every word this gentleman spoke, my husband took compassion upon me, and accordingly despatched messengers to summon the attendance of a couple of well-mounted and completely armed austrian soldiers, with long moustaches, and fierce martial-looking countenances. these men afterwards rode with us (one on each side the carriage) until we had completely passed the borders, and had entered the king of sardinia's dominions; where we were assured of finding perfect safety. no event of the kind had occurred for the last twelve months; but we were astonished and indignant at the supine apathy of the police, who did not appear to have the smallest intention of sending any soldiers after the robbers, or of making exertions to secure them. these austrian states have a bad reputation, as we were told by our host at lans le bourg, and were warned by him of the possibility of a similar adventure. mr. w., who was so good as to undertake to order the guards for me at gallarate, found that not a single person he encountered in the town understood french, and he was obliged to be conducted to the schoolmaster (the only man capable of conversing in the language), before he could make our wishes comprehended and attended to. my husband remained in the carriage to scold me into better spirits; for, i confess, i never remember to have been more frightened in my life. the country beyond this place began to improve in picturesque beauty; the alps (to which we had approached very close), and woody hills in the distance, forming very imposing features in the landscape. here we were met by several english carriages, protected, as we were, by the attendance of _gens d'armes_; which proved that fear had not been confined to my bosom alone, and that other people felt the same necessity of precaution: a black servant upon the box, grimly leaning upon a monstrous sabre, formed an additional guard. we now entered an irregular forest, where the postillion (who was the same person that had driven monsieur bovet) shewed us the spot where the ruffians had issued forth. it was a fine place for a romantic adventure of this sort; and never did i feel so thankful as when i cast my eyes upon the spirited horsemen, who continued to keep close by the side of our vehicle, giving me now and then looks of mirthful encouragement: indeed they seemed to consider the business as a party of pleasure, and we heard them laughing more than once as they rode along. at sesto a mob gathered round the carriage, as it stopped at the post-house; and i am not sure that they did not at first mistake us for state prisoners. our postillion was now truly a great man! the centre of an open-mouthed, staring circle, wild with curiosity, to whom he held forth at length upon the danger he had undergone. here we crossed a ferry over the river tessin, which divides the dominions of austria from those of sardinia. the richness and grace of the wooded banks, which fringed this fine stream, delighted us; and the face of the whole country gradually smiled and brightened, till it at last expanded into the most glorious burst of exquisite loveliness that the imagination can conceive: for now we first beheld the _lago maggiore_, embosomed in romantic hills, with the superb alps rising beyond them, and its shores studded with innumerable hamlets, villas, and cottages. the declining sun shed a warm colouring of inexpressible beauty upon the calm surface of this celebrated lake, whose waters, smooth and glassy, pure and tranquil, seemed indeed, in the words of byron, to be a fit "mirror and a bath "for beauty's youngest daughters." it was impossible not to kindle into enthusiasm as we gazed upon a scene of such armida-like fascination. why should i attempt a description of the borromean isles, the isola madre, isola bella, and other fairy-green gems, which adorned the bosom of this queen of waters? they have been already so celebrated by the pencil and the lyre, that my efforts would be those of presumption. i find it quite too much even to relate the effect they produced upon our minds; for no words can adequately express our feelings of admiration and surprise! we were now once more in piedmont, and the road led us through the town of arona, built upon the shores of the lake, which is full forty miles in length. we saw a picturesque figure of a peasant girl kneeling upon the banks, and laving (like a young naiad) her long tresses in the stream. there is a fine grey ruin of a castle upon the left, as you enter arona, and a chain of bold cliffs covered with vineyards, with several cottages, peeping out from amid bowers of fragrance, near their craggy summits. a refreshing breeze tempered the still ardent heat of day: it seemed to rise upon us, in a gale of balmy softness, from the water, whose placid waves are sometimes, however, ruffled into sudden anger, by storms of wind from the surrounding alps; and many unfortunate accidents to boatmen, &c. arise in consequence. it would be difficult to imagine any thing in nature more luxuriantly beautiful than the hanging gardens belonging to the little villas in this neighbourhood; where standard peach-trees, olives, filberts, grapes, figs, turkey wheat, orange blossoms, carnations, and all the tribe of vegetables, are mingled together in rich confusion, and the vines trained upon low trellises slope down to the water's edge; while, among the grass at the feet of the taller trees, the pumpkin trails her golden globes and flowers. we remarked several pretty faces, in a style neither wholly italian nor french, but which formed an agreeable and happy mixture of both. the ever odious _goître_, nevertheless, sometimes obtruded its horrid deformity among them; and it was an equal mortification to our dreams of perfection to observe, that even in the little towns, built in the very heart of all this sweetness and purity, the most disgusting smells (indicative of innately filthy habits) perpetually issued forth, poisoning every street, and mingling their pollutions with the fragrant breath of the mountain gale. but now the fanciful crags on the opposite side of the lake began to assume a purplish blue tint, deeply influenced by, and half lost in, the shadow of lowering clouds, which (fast gathering round their summits in dark and misty volumes) foreboded an approaching storm. bright and catching lights, however, still lingered upon the bright sails of distant boats, and upon the no less white walls of the little villages; which were built so close upon the shore as to seem as if they sprung from the bosom of the waves. we arrived at feriola (inn _la posta_), a small town, washed by the same transparent waters, and sheltered by granite mountains (covered with a mossy vegetation mixed with vineyards), which rose abruptly and immediately above the walls of the house: here we passed the night; the storm was just beginning, as we drove up to this welcome refuge: flashes of red and forked lightning shot fiercely down from the alpine heights, and were quenched in the dark lake below; while peals of hollow thunder reverberating from the adjacent caverns, increased the awful effect of the whole. torrents of rain soon followed, and lasted without intermission for many hours. we slept well, our beds being free from vermin, although of the humblest sort, without curtain or canopy, and covered with quilts which were very like stable rugs. they had been occupied before us, by dukes and duchesses; who, although not used to more comforts than those which surround me in my own happy home, had certainly reason to expect more stateliness of accommodation; necessity, however, has no law, and i dare say they were as glad as i was to avail themselves of clean sheets, and a substantial roof over head, after the fatigues of travelling. the whole of this little inn was built of granite, from the neighbouring quarries. we rose the next morning at four, and as i drest by the yet imperfect light, which streamed into the room through the lowly casement, i was interested in observing the different appearances of nature, in the midst of such wild scenery, and at so early an hour. the dewy mists were slowly rising from the valley, which smiled in all the fresh loveliness of morning, as they gradually rolled off, and settled round the brows of the higher mountains like a shadowy veil. the grass smelt strongly of thyme and balm, after the late rain, and seemed to be eagerly relished by a flock of sheep, which two shepherdess figures were leading up the winding path. this fair prospect did not last long; a heavy rain re-commenced; and as we proceeded upon our journey we could hardly see our route amid the mountains, from the dense and heavy fog which obscured every object. all nature truly appeared to be weeping; this is no merely poetical term, but the truth: there are some things which cannot be adequately described in the common expressions of prose, and this is one of them. we passed monte rosa, which is fifteen thousand feet in height: a beautiful little church hung upon its shelving side, built in a style that gave it much the air of the sybil's temple. in all parts of the country through which we had gone, we observed numerous shrines of the virgin; but instead of a simple and appropriate statue, which good taste might reasonably have hoped to find within, they were constantly disgraced by a paltry gaudy painting, in distemper. the outside walls of houses, also, were generally daubed in the same ridiculous manner, and afforded us perpetual cause of exclamation against the _melange_ of real and false taste, which italy thus exhibits. we were sorry to have missed seeing (near arona, in our preceding day's journey) the celebrated colossal statue of st. carlo borromeo in bronze; which, rearing its proud height far above the surrounding woods, forms a very grand and noble spectacle: a man (in speaking of its proportions to mr. b.) told him that the head alone held three persons, and that he himself had stood within the cavity of the nose! i believe it is seventy feet from the ground. we passed over a bridge on the river toscia, a graceful serpentine stream, whose waters were of a milky hue, owing to the heavy rains. here we met a peasant, wearing a singular sort of cloak, made of long dry silky rushes, admirably adapted to resist and throw off the wet; he looked at a distance like a moving thatched hut, his hat forming the chimney, and we afterwards saw several women and children in the same costume. the common people also use a rude kind of umbrella of divers gaudy colours, the frame and spokes being made of clumsy wood. at domo d'ossola we stopped to take refreshment at _la posta_, a most comfortable and cleanly inn; every thing was sent up neatly, and really tempted the fastidious traveller to "eat without fear:" a degree of heroism which i confess i could not always command, not feeling sure that i might not be poisoned by some of the dishes; although it would have been by dirt, not arsenic. this is almost the last town in the sardinian dominions, for as soon as you have crossed the simplon, you enter switzerland. this arduous task we now commenced, taking four horses instead of the usual three. we ascended in a zigzag direction, which seems to be the plan upon which all roads cut through very high mountains are formed; the present much resembled those by which we had descended mont cenis. here we had the leisure and opportunity of contemplating nature in her grandest forms! the wild fig-tree sprung from the sides of the most profound ravines, overhanging gulfs from which the affrighted eye recoiled; and at the base of the most stupendous mountains lay valleys of inimitable verdure and luxuriance. an alpine foot bridge, like a slight dark line, crossed a rapid river here, and was dimly discovered at intervals, amid the snowy foam of the waves; there were also frequent waterfalls, pouring their sounding floods from immense heights above us. at this spot, mr. b. tied a handkerchief over my eyes, for three or four minutes: i thought i heard the noise of water in my ears, louder and more hollow than usual; when he suddenly removed the handkerchief, and i beheld myself in the first of those astonishing galleries of the simplon, of which so much has justly been said by all travellers. they were half cut, half blasted by gunpowder, through the solid rock, and have the appearance of long grottos, with rude windows, or rather chasms in the sides, to admit light, and through which we discovered, with a shuddering sensation of admiring wonder, the awful precipices and steeps around. it was delightful to contemplate them while thus in a situation of perfect security; a species of feeling analogous to that which i have sometimes experienced, when comfortably housed beneath the domestic roof, during the raving of a wintry storm! how different was the aspect of the ancient road; the view of which, as it dangerously wound along the opposite mountains, nearly blocked up by fallen masses of rock, overgrown with tangled shrubs and weeds, and undefended by even the slightest wall from the yawning abysses, which frowned horribly beneath, really made my heart quake with terror! there are rude crosses by the way side, erected here, at long intervals; sad monuments of the tragical end of former unfortunate travellers. nothing can be more terrific than the showers of stony fragments from the overhanging rocks, which frequently fall here during stormy weather; at particular seasons it is certain destruction to attempt to pass. we observed the lower and more level ground to be strewn so thickly with these formidable masses, that it brought to my mind the ancient story of jupiter's wars with the giants; the place indeed truly resembled the state of a field of battle after one of those mighty engagements. [illustration: _london, published by i, murray, ._ scene on the simplon.] the parish church of trasqueras is an object of high astonishment; we passed it, not without adding our individual tribute of wonder. it is built upon the topmost verge of a barren mountain, at a frightful height. apparently no human power could have conveyed thither the materials for its erection; we could only reconcile the existence of the fact, by supposing that there must have been a quarry upon the spot. the priest who does duty there, and the congregation whose zeal leads them to scale the dreadful precipice to attend public worship, are in some danger, i should think, of being canonized for martyrs! but to speak more seriously, there is something infinitely impressive in the idea of a little band of humble and obscure mortals thus meeting together to worship the creator in such a spot of wild and solitary sublimity. these scenes most certainly tend to elevate the imagination, and to fill the heart, with strong feelings of devotional adoration and awful respect. it is not _only_ "those who go down to the great waters," who see "the wonders of the lord!" we remarked a cottage here, in the style of the most romantic hermitage, close to a raving flood, in the frightful strait of yselle. the living rock formed its roof, and the sides were of flat uncemented stones; a rude door of pine wood shut in its inhabitants, for inhabited it certainly must have been, as a little pile of faggots for winter firing evidently evinced. gold dust is sometimes found in the beds of the surrounding torrents. there is no end to the varieties of the simplon: we sometimes crossed from one mountain to another; then dived into the dark entrails of the rocks; now wound along narrow valleys at their feet, and at last rose (by a gentle ascent) to the proud summit of the loftiest glaciers, far above the rolling clouds. in some places our eye rested with delight upon the rich green of the chestnut and beech, in others all vegetation seemed wholly to cease. the rhododendron (_note_ p.) flourishes here in perfection; it grows where few other shrubs or plants are able to exist, braves the severity of the keenest blasts of winter, and affords firing to those cottagers who cannot easily procure other wood. its blossoms are of a lovely pink, and from this circumstance it is called the "rose of the alps." these regions are subject to perpetual avalanches; the top of every stone post that marked the boundary of our road, at about three yards distance one from the other, was in many places knocked off, by the continual falling of masses from the rocks above, and now and then, the whole of the posts had given way, as well as large fir-trees, which commonly grow out of the shelving sides of the precipices. just at the entrance of one of the grand galleries, we crossed over a stone bridge, hanging in mid air above a tremendous gulf; the river doveria boiling far below, fed by a cataract from the heights, near the source of which we passed: so near, indeed, that its foaming spray seemed almost to dash against the glass of our carriage windows. bonaparte had established here (as well as upon mont cenis), a sort of _tavernettes_, or houses of relief for wayworn or distressed travellers. a few military now occasionally inhabit them, and the appropriate word _refuge_ is frequently inscribed over the doors. (_note_ q.) a piece of writing paper inserted in the cleft of a stick, by the road-side, here attracted our attention. we examined it, and found written thereon, _viva napoleone_! our postillions appeared delighted, and exclaimed in a half-checked voice, _bravo_, _bravo_! candidly speaking, one must be indeed fastidious not to be forcibly struck with the various noble works of that wonderful man. at all events we could not be surprised at his still existing popularity in the north of italy, a part of the world where he has really done great good, and far less harm than any where else; and in so short a space of time also--so young a man--from so obscure an origin! it will not do to indulge in reflections upon what might have been, or i could not refrain, i am afraid, from wishing that (for the sake of the arts and sciences) he had known how to set bounds to his ambition. this passage of the simplon alone is sufficient to immortalize his name, and as long as the mountains themselves exist, so must the memory of bonaparte. it is quite the eighth wonder of the world. if he _is_ a fiend, he is not less than "arch-angel ruined!" but i have done, lest those readers who have never crossed the simplon, or gazed upon the other numerous monuments of his grand genius, should imagine that i am still (in the words of pitt, as applied to sheridan's speech upon warren hastings), "under the influence of the wand of the enchanter!" now i am on the subject of this stupendous passage of the simplon, i am fortunate enough to present my readers with an engraving made by a friend, of a curious medal, struck in france, representing an immense colossal figure, which some modern dinocrates had suggested to bonaparte to have cut from the mountain of the simplon, as a sort of genius of the alps. this was to have been of such enormous size, that all passengers should have passed between its legs and arms in zigzag directions: i do not know whether any attention was ever given to the proposal, but that the idea was not a new one, every schoolboy may learn, by looking into lemprière's dictionary, where he will find that a still more hyperbolical project was suggested to alexander the great, by one dinocrates, an architect, who wished to cut mount athos into a gigantic figure of the monarch, that should hold a city in one hand, and a vast bason of water in the other. alexander's reply was a fine piece of irony; "that he thought the idea magnificent, but he did not imagine the neighbouring country sufficiently fertile to feed the inhabitants of the said city." [illustration: _h bankes del printed by b. redman lithog._] we observed quantities of timber felled, and lying scattered about the dark forests; they consisted of a species of larch fir, i believe, straight, taper, and of a yellowish red. at length we reached the village of the simplon, where we dined and slept. it is only three or four and thirty miles from domo d'ossola, yet we were seven hours or more in accomplishing the distance, and had never stopped by the way for more than ten minutes. it was a continual ascent, but very gradual, and our inn here (_l'etoile_) was four thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea. we found other travellers before us assembled in the only sitting-room.--lord f----, his tutor, and another young gentleman: they appeared all to be sensible, well-bred people, and we rejoiced that accident had not thrown us among less agreeable companions. the next morning, we left our auberge, after breakfast, with which we thought it prudent to fortify ourselves, on account of the severity of the cold. all the rooms were obliged to be heated by stoves, as it was (to all outward appearance and feeling) the depth of winter, in its most rigid form; the day before, we had been almost fainting with heat in the valleys, yet when we rose this morning, the mountains around us were entirely covered with snow, which had fallen during the night, accompanied by a rushing blast of wind and a heavy rain. we were now truly in the "land of the mountain and the flood," in the regions of mist and storm. i shuddered at the sight, having been rendered miserable from want of sleep by the vermin, whose unremitting attacks completely broke my rest, and made me less able to encounter with proper _fortitude_ the fatigues of our still arduous journey. i learned upon this tour to feel a great horror at the expression of _soyez tranquille_, which deceitful words were constantly used by every _fille de chambre_, when i inquired if there were any of these disagreeable inhabitants in the beds, and i remarked that the more vehemently this _soyez tranquille_ was uttered, the more certain was i of being bit into a fever. we got into the carriage here in a gust of keen wind, so strong and impetuous that i could not stand without support. the women in these parts wear a black platter hat (sometimes ornamented with gold ribands), and the men a russet-brown suit of clothes with a scarlet waistcoat. a mixture of german and bad french is spoken amongst them. we passed by (during the continuation of our journey) the enormous glacier of ---- i know not exactly the proper name; but it sounded like _roschbahtn_ in the guttural pronunciation of the postillion. higher up, there was a gallery cut through the masses of frozen snow, but it is only used as a foot-way for passengers during the winter. we shortly afterwards saw the hospice of the simplon, built in a comparatively sheltered spot; yet by its outward appearance (resembling a sordid gloomy prison), i should think nothing but the last necessity would induce travellers to seek for refreshment within its walls. mass had been performed there that morning, and we met several peasants returning from it: all persons journeying this way are entertained here gratis, but those whose circumstances can afford it are expected to make some little present to the monks. we observed some dogs about the entrance, which we concluded were those kept for the purpose of finding benighted travellers. the colour of the rocks in those places which were not covered with snow was singular, being of a light _aqua marine_, occasioned by the lichens which grew upon them. large eagles, formidable from their strength and boldness, are frequently seen amidst these dreary wastes. i was soon quite wearied by the bleak spectacle of such wide desolation, my eyes ached with the dazzling brightness of the snows, and i began sincerely to wish the passage over. the ascent and descent altogether is forty-two miles; coming down from a height of seven thousand feet, we could not see three yards before us, being completely enveloped in a thick dense fog. it seemed like plunging into a fearful gulf of vapours! such a mist i never could have _imagined_. the road now led us though tall forests of pine, darkly magnificent, which grew upon the shelving sides of the precipitous descent. upon the jutting crags, we occasionally beheld the fearless goat, bounding about, enjoying the sense of liberty, and snuffing the keen air of his native mountains; a child or two, also, sometimes appeared in almost equally dangerous situations, at the door of a wooden hut, called a _chalet_, built of timber (of a reddish tint), and much in the form of an ark. a little thinly scattered underwood of birch, &c. with coltsfoot twining round the roots, now began to evince our approach to more hospitable regions, and the sensation of piercing cold in some measure abated. the sun made several felicitous attempts to struggle through the heavy and obscuring clouds; and a prospect (of which we caught a transient glimpse between two enormous rocks) seemed to open like an enchanted vision of ineffable brightness and beauty. during this interval of a moment, we beheld a narrow but fertile valley, a river, with hills of vivid green rising beyond, bounded in the distant horizon by mountains of glowing purple, and smiled upon by a summer sky of the clearest blue. suddenly it was brilliantly illuminated by a partial gleam of sun, and thus discovered, (sparkling through a thin veil of still lingering mist) it seemed to break upon us like a lovely dream. i could have fancied it voltaire's eldorado, or the gay, unreal show of fairy land, seen by thomas the rhymer, in scott's minstrelsy of the border. indeed sober language has no words or terms to describe its singular effect. apropos to sobriety of language: although there is nothing so wearing as hyperbolical and exaggerated expressions, applied on common or insignificant occasions, and although i consider them in that case to be the resource of a weak capacity, which is incapable of judicious restraint and discrimination, it is equally insupportable to hear the real wonders and charms of nature or art spoken of with tame and tasteless apathy. those persons who have soul enough to feel and appreciate them must either vent their just enthusiasm, in terms which to common minds sound romantic and poetical, or else resolve to be wholly silent. we reached the end of the simplon, and changed our tired horses at brieg. we were now in switzerland. nothing can be more suddenly and accurately marked than the difference of feature, as well as costume, between the italian and swiss peasants, (i more particularly allude to the women), and it would be impossible for any person of the least observation to mistake one for the other. the latter are frequently hale, clean, and fresh-looking, with cheerful open countenances; but adieu to grace, to expression, to beauty! we left all these perfections on the other side of the alps. the children, too, struck us (in general) as plain and uninteresting. we were not greatly impressed by the entrance to the _pays du valais_, having already passed through scenery of the same nature so much superior in savoy and italy; but it is certainly romantic and pretty in some parts. how naturally one falls into judging by comparison! had it been possible to have immediately entered the valais upon leaving the monotonous plains of france, we should have thought the former highly sublime and beautiful. the barberry and elder flourish here in every hedge; also great quantities of the wild clematis. the rocky banks are fringed with birch, hazle, heath, and juniper, and between them is the deep rolling turgid rhone, skirted with tall reeds and willows. the climate still continued to be chilly and disagreeable. although it was only the th of september, the weather rather resembled that during the last days of november, or commencement of the next dreary month; and in the midst of this picturesque and romantic scenery, i found my imagination dwelling with great pertinacity and satisfaction upon the charms of a blazing fire and a comfortable inn. i did my utmost to shake off such vulgar and unsentimental ideas, but they would recur again and again. we here passed a fall of the rhone, but were rather disappointed in its force and magnitude. our road lay through wild fir woods for a considerable length of way, the snowy tops of the glaciers peeping above them, forming quite a scene for the pencil of salvator rosa. we journeyed on, almost in total silence, the little bells at the horses' heads alone disturbing the breathless stillness of these solitary glades, emerging from which, we now crossed a bridge upon the rhone, which here assumes a character of strength and grandeur, flowing with rapidity, and emulating in its width an arm of the sea. night and her shadows drew near, and we began to wish for the comforts of the friendly auberge; but, owing to continual delays of horses, postillions, &c, we did not reach the town of sierre until eight o'clock, where we intended to have slept; but found upon our arrival that no beds were to be had, and the place itself wore so forlorn, dismal, and dirty an appearance, that we hardly regretted the circumstance, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable necessity of pursuing our route even at that late hour. but ere this could be accomplished we were obliged to wait (in the carriage) till nine, for horses to carry us on; for there was at that time an immense run upon the road. in this melancholy interval our lamps were lit, and the moon arose; the latter (faintly glimmering amid dark rolling clouds) feebly illuminated a road which led us by the side of a terrible precipice, where part of the guardian wall was broken down. the pass was accounted perilous on that account; but there was no possible remedy. i had overheard my husband and mr. w. talking of it at sierre, and trying whether it was not practicable to avoid it by securing any sort of accommodation at the wretched auberge: this, however, being totally out of the question, they did not acquaint me with the terrors of the road by which we were in consequence obliged to pass ere we could attain shelter for the night at the next habitable place: i felt their kindness, and did not undeceive them as to my perfect information upon the subject until we had safely reached the end of our day's journey; but i was truly thankful and relieved when that happy goal appeared, in the shape of the town of sion, capital of the valais. lord f. and party (having gone on first) had politely undertaken to order dinner for us at the _lion d'or_, and to that house we accordingly drove up, half dead with fatigue. here another mortification awaited us; for so many english had previously arrived, and filled the rooms, beds, &c, that accommodation for us was impossible. we, therefore, went to an inferior inn (called _le croix blanc_), where we knocked the people up, and in spite of their being forced from their beds to receive us, we found the utmost celerity, civility, and comfort in every respect. the beds were excellent (their linen furniture fresh washed, and looking inviting to enter), the floors (oh! prodigy of cleanliness) were neatly swept, and our refreshments cooked in a wonderfully short space of time, served with cheerful readiness, and in a clean manner. the next morning we opened our eyes upon a beautifully picturesque landscape. a great delay, however, again took place with regard to horses, as an english family had arrived during the night, and taken away eight. they intended to have slept at _le croix blanc_, as we had done, but were fastidiously disgusted by the look of the inn. unhappy novices! they little knew what a paradise of comfort it afforded, when compared with those which they would afterwards necessarily encounter, and for the shelter of which they would soon learn to be thankful! the waiter here was remarkably attentive, and appeared a truly simple, good-tempered, artless creature. mr. b. was so much satisfied with his behaviour, that he increased the usual fee; for which small gratuity the poor fellow thanked us again and again. we found our bills particularly reasonable, and the host a most amusing and obliging person: he was one of the richest _bourgeois_ in sion, and quite a character. we asked him, amongst other questions, "what was the chief manufacture of the place?" and he replied, with a ridiculous shrug of the shoulders, "_des enfans_." this man possessed a _vigne_ upon the mountains, and brought us a present of a fine basket of grapes from thence, much lamenting that we would not remain with him another day, as "he would then have put his own particular horses into a little vehicle of the country, kept for his use and that of his family, and would have had the pleasure of driving us to see his vineyards, and also two hermitages, in the neighbourhood, which were very curious." mr. b. was taken extremely unwell this morning, and had a terrible attack of faint sickness, owing, as we then imagined, to having fasted so many hours the day before; but we soon found that it was, in fact, the beginning of a sort of ague and fever. (_note_ e.) the country was lovely during our first two or three stages. we met the travelling equipage of a russian princess (potemkin), and her people stopped to inquire of ours about accommodations at sion. christian had the honour of a personal conference with her highness, who was extremely gracious and affable. indeed this man never lost any opportunity of gossip, let it be with whom it might; and i believe he loved chattering on all occasions better than any thing in existence. he was an honest creature; but so idle, that he required constant looking after: we found him, however, so useful, particularly where the different _patois_ is spoken, that we have safely recommended him to our friend, lord g. the roads in this part of switzerland were most execrable, and i thought the carriage would have been overturned every moment: the postillions universally adopted a very disagreeable and awkward manner of driving their horses; not three abreast (which is safe and rational), but harnessing one before the other pair, with long reins, in the unicorn style; the same postillion thus acting the part of a coachman also: the old rope traces were perpetually breaking; and the fore horse scrambling all over the road, often running into a hedge to crop what best pleased his appetite, or to drink at a fountain by the wayside. the driver seemed to have very little command over his lawless motions, and altogether, i confess that i was by no means delighted with this mode of travelling, although no coward in general. however, i recollected that it was customary here, and soon was able to reason myself into not caring for what i had no possible means of altering or preventing: in this instance, happily emulating the example of the late venerable mrs. h. who used to say, "that it was of little use to have powers of understanding, and the faculty of reason, if you could not avail yourself of them, when occasion required; and that by a long and resolute habit of self-control, it was undoubtedly possible to bring the feelings nearly as much under command as the limbs." i have frequently proved the truth of her remark. at riddez (a little village) we saw a christening procession pass by. the godfather (a young man) walked first, with a cockade of ribands, and a large bouquet of natural flowers in his hat, carrying the infant in his arms, covered with a long transparent mantle of coarse white lace. he was followed by the godmother, and the _sage femme_, neither of the parents being present. the manners of the inhabitants here were remarkably gentle; every peasant we met bowed, and often wished us the "good day" as we passed. many horrible _goîtres_, however, and idiots are to be found among them. the villages and hamlets we had as yet seen were even frightful: there was no such thing as a pretty cottage; and the costumes of the people were gross and tasteless in the greatest degree. mr. b.'s illness increased to a height of aguish shudderings and total exhaustion, which prevented our attempting to proceed farther than martigny, where we put up at an inn called _le cigne_, which, on its outside, was not of a much more promising appearance than the hospice of the simplon, which i formerly deprecated. however, we had learned by this time not to judge of an auberge from its exterior, and upon entering this, found shelter, comfort, civility, and wholesome plain food. we procured the only good strong-bodied burgundy we had seen during the whole of our tour, which was particularly fortunate, as it acted as a great relief to our invalid. the hostess was the widow of the poor inn-keeper, who was carried away in the terrible and memorable flood of last june (mentioned with much affecting detail in the english newspapers), where a lake at nine leagues distance burst, and, flowing into the river drance, the latter broke its usual boundaries, and destroyed more than half the village of martigny, with many of the unfortunate inhabitants. poor woman! she was in mourning, as well as her children, who waited upon us, two modest, simple, young creatures. i never saw any thing like their kind-hearted attention, in avoiding the least noise which might have been likely to disturb an invalid, while they were preparing things for dinner in the same room. nothing could be imagined more desolate and wretched than the present appearance of martigny; and, at the moment when the flood happened, the ruin was so instantaneous and complete as to resemble an earthquake. this house was ten feet deep in water. the host might have been saved: he had already avoided the first horrible rush; but venturing into danger once more, in the hope of saving his cattle, he was borne down by the impetuous torrent, and perished miserably! for a long time he was plainly discovered with his head far above the stream, yet unable to stem its resistless tide: his body was afterwards found, in an erect position, supported against a tree, not in the least mangled or disfigured. it was supposed his respiration had been stopped by the weight and force of the current, which could hardly be called water, so thickly was it mingled with mud. the cook (who happened to be in the wine-cellar) was saved by his perfect knowledge of swimming, and presence of mind. the flood completely filled the cellar, staircase, and hall, in a moment, and he paddled and swam up the steps of the former, till he reached the surface, and thus almost miraculously escaped. the next day we quitted martigny about nine o'clock, our spirits depressed by this wretched scene of desolation. the whole country appeared wildly melancholy, under the additional gloom of a very wet dark morning. the prieur of this village, who belonged also to some convent on mont st. bernard (_note_ f.) had written a petition for the relief of his poor parishioners, which was pasted up in the sitting-room of the inn we had occupied. we did not, of course, shut our hearts against the appeal, and carrying our little subscription to the house of the prieur, found it a most humble primitive dwelling: it was built upon a hill behind the church, and at the time of the flood had been a foot deep in water, notwithstanding its elevated situation. the old man described the horrors of the scene, and said he should never forget the moment when he first heard the mighty roar of the waters, louder than a mountain cataract. i am proud to add, that our dear countrymen have been almost the only travellers who have had the humanity to bestow a farthing upon the necessities of the surviving sufferers. i should be narrow-minded indeed not to regret the want of generous feeling which those of other nations have thus evinced, or to rejoice (as some people would, i fear, do) at the foil they have afforded to the merit of the english; but surely it is impossible, as a british subject, not to delight in this additional proof of the liberality and compassion of our compatriots! we now passed a celebrated waterfall (_note_ g.), which descends from a vast height, between granite mountains, covered with rich green moss. it was highly majestic, yet not bearing the character of terror; therefore (according to burke) we must not designate it by the term _sublime_, but rather class it under the head of _the beautiful_. its feathery foam of spotless white, dashing over the craggy obstacles in its descent, afforded a lovely contrast to the dark background of the adjacent rocks. there are great numbers of chestnut, walnut, and apple trees in this neighbourhood. we met an english family in a coach and four here. we stopped to change horses with them, and as they were going to sesto, and from thence to milan, we thought it but kind to warn them that they ought to take _gens d'armes_, on account of the banditti. the abigail (elevated upon the seat behind) seemed prodigiously discomposed at this intelligence; and i should not wonder if she had given warning at the next stage, to avoid the horror of proceeding with the family. her little round grey eyes almost started from their red sockets, and her nose assumed a purplish hue, which was beautifully heightened by the cadaverous tint of her cheeks. her master and mistress also appeared not a little startled, but expressed themselves vastly obliged to us for our information; and we parted with much courtesy on both sides. a hearty fit of laughter, at the expense of mrs. abigail, seized us all at the moment of their departure; but i am sure i had no business to triumph; for never was there a more complete coward than i shewed myself to be, when in my turn i first received a similar warning from our neufchatel friend at gallarate. we saw, shortly afterwards, an old peasant tending a few sheep, in a curious sort of costume: it consisted of a whole suit of clothes of a dingy yellowish brown; his hat, as well as his face and hands (parched by summer's sun and winter's wind), being of the same tan-coloured hue. indeed the costumes in this part of switzerland appeared to us universally unbecoming, as well as singular. we now entered st. maurice. upon the rocks encircling the town was a small hut, inhabited by a hermit; built in such a craggy bleak situation, that we were led to suppose he had chosen it as a place of painful penance. if he is an old man, i think he must have found it nearly impossible to descend, even for the means of subsistence: it would be a hard task for a young and active hunter of the chamois; so i rather imagine he lives, like a genuine ascetic, upon berries, wild fruits, and roots, and quenches his thirst at the crystal spring. part of the town of st. maurice is actually built in the wild rocks that rise abruptly behind it, their rough rude sides forming the back wall, and now and then even the roof, of some of the humbler dwelling-houses. the inhabitants were plain and uninteresting in their persons, and we did not observe any taste or fancy displayed in their costumes. here we changed horses, and passed the rhone again, by means of a bridge, of so ancient a date, that it is said to have been built by julius cæsar. the river is very magnificent. our road led us through a charming bower of long-continued walnut and beech trees, the opposite banks of the stream being covered with rich vegetation, forming an agreeable relief to the imagination, after the desolate and melancholy scenes of the preceding stages. the meadows were enamelled with the autumnal crocus, of a delicate lilac colour, and had a remarkably gay and brilliant appearance. we remarked a number of beehives in the cottage gardens; but they were not of such a picturesque form and material as those in england, being made of wood, in the shape of small square boxes. the whole face of the country was really beautiful, the rocks being fringed with luxuriant copse wood, rich in every varied tint of the declining year, while the pasture-lands were verdant and fresh, as if in early spring. wild boars, wolves, and bears, are common in the valais; very pleasant personages to meet during a late evening ramble. here we dimly descried the _chateau de chillon_, on the borders of the lake of geneva; but it was at too great a distance for us to judge of it accurately. i regretted this, as i did not then know that we should afterwards have had an opportunity of viewing it to greater advantage. the waters of this wonderfully fine lake were of the most brilliant pale blue, majestic mountains rising beyond it, clothed even to their summits with underwood, and mossy velvet turf. it is vastly more expansive than lago maggiore, but still we thought the enchanting italian lake much more beautiful. the roads now began to improve greatly, and after all the jolting we had undergone for the last two days, it was particularly acceptable to find them returning into a state of smoothness and regularity. we dined this day early, at st. gingoulph, (sometimes spelt st. gingo), on the borders of the lake: our vulgar expression of st. jingo is a corruption of the name of this saint. the inn was delightfully clean and comfortable, the people most attentive, civil and active, and we procured an excellent dinner at a very few minutes notice; a circumstance peculiarly agreeable to travellers who were quite exhausted with hunger, like ourselves. we slept at thonon, the capital of the chablais, and found comfortable accommodation. the woman who waited upon us was a native of berne, as well as our servant christian, and they went on puffing off their canton, _à l'envi l'un de l'autre_. i ought to have mentioned that before we arrived at thonon, we passed by the rocks of meillerie, so well known through the medium of rousseau's sentimental descriptions. the same style of country continued, by the side of the lake, for many miles, and the roads were very good. we were now once more in the king of sardinia's dominions, having entered upon them at st. gingoulph, and we did not quit them until we reached douvaine, not far from geneva. as we proceeded, the country opened more, and the lake became restrained between much narrower boundaries: the practice of enclosing fields with hedges, in the same manner as those in england, was general here. at length geneva, rising grandly from the blue waters of her noble lake, and fenced on every side by her superb mountains (mont blanc dimly gleaming through a veil of clouds upon the left), burst upon us;--the _coup d'oeil_ was most electrifying. the morning was clear and bright, the air had a cheerful freshness which lent spirit and animation to us all, and our first entrance to this city was marked by a crowd of agreeable and enlivening sensations. we found, however, that it would be impossible for monsieur de jean to receive us at his well known and comfortable hotel at secherons (about a mile out of town); and even at geneva itself we had the mortification of being turned away from every inn except one, owing to the swarms of our countrymen who had previously monopolized all accommodation. at this one (_hotel des balances_) we at length gained admittance; it was opposite the rhone, a circumstance which to me made it the most desirable of all possible situations, for i never was satiated with looking at and admiring the extraordinary beauty which this glorious river possessed. we had not before beheld any thing to equal its force, rapidity, depth, and exquisite transparency; but above all other perfections, its colour (in this particular part of switzerland) appeared to us the most remarkable. i can compare it to nothing but the hue of liquid sapphires; having all the brilliancy, purity, and vivid blue lustre, of those lovely gems. i never passed it without feeling the strongest wish to drink and at the same time to bathe in its tempting waters, and from the bridge we clearly discerned the bottom, at a depth of at least twenty feet. we sent our servant in the evening, to deliver some letters of introduction to several families here; among others to dr. and mrs. m.--to the former of whom our thanks are particularly due, for his kind attention in prescribing for my husband, who had here a relapse of his complaint. we went the day afterwards to ferney (the celebrated residence of voltaire), and also to sir f. d'i.'s beautiful country house in the same neighbourhood. we were highly interested by all we saw at ferney. voltaire's sitting-room, and bed-chamber, have been scrupulously preserved in the same state in which they were left at the time of his death: there was a bust of him in the former, and in the latter a smaller one, upon a mausoleum (which was erected to his memory, by his niece), bearing this inscription: _son esprit est partout_, _et son coeur est ici_. the latter was literally the case for a considerable time, his heart having been embalmed and placed in a leaden box, within the mausoleum; but it has since been removed to the pantheon at paris. we observed several prints framed and glazed, hanging upon the walls of his bed-room; portraits of those celebrated characters he particularly esteemed, either for their talents or from motives of personal regard. among them we remarked those of milton (notwithstanding voltaire's unjust critiques upon the paradise lost), newton, washington, franklin, marmontel, corneille, racine, helvetius, and delille. the last personage (remarkable as a poet, and as the translator of virgil), had a line underneath his portrait (written in what many people have believed to be the hand of voltaire himself), which was singular enough, as it might be taken in a double sense, either as a compliment or a satire. upon being made acquainted with its meaning in english, i saw the truth of the supposition in a moment. the words were these, "nulli flebilior quam tibi virgili." we saw delille's tomb in the burying-ground of _pere de la chaise_, at paris: a garland of flowers, evidently fresh gathered, had been hung by some admirer of his works over the door of his sepulchre. in this same apartment at ferney were also portraits of voltaire, frederic of prussia, the empress catharine of russia (presented by herself), and some others. his own picture made a great impression upon us, not from any individual merit as a work of art, but as it so exactly expressed, in the countenance and air, the brilliant and lively genius, the arch satire, and acute penetration, of this celebrated wit. all the furniture of both rooms was dropping to pieces with age and decay. the garden was laid out in the ancient french mode, so abhorred by the purer taste of rousseau at that time, and since, by every true judge of the grace and simplicity of nature. on one side was a grove of trees, and on the other a close embowered alley of hornbeam, cut into the shape of formal high walls, with gothic windows or openings in them, from whence the prospect of a rich vineyard in the foreground, a lovely smiling valley beyond, and the magnificent glaciers, with mont blanc, in the distance, formed a most sublime and yet an enchanting spectacle. i should think it almost impossible to live in the midst of all these charms and wonders of creation, without lifting an admiring eye and grateful heart to "nature's god." that voltaire was an atheist is thought now to be a calumny entirely void of foundation, although he was so miserably mistaken, so fatally deceived, in regard to the glorious truths of revealed religion. living in an age when the pure doctrines and benignant spirit of christianity were so atrociously misconstrued and misrepresented, when bigotry stalked abroad in all the horrors of her deformity, and ignorance blindly followed in the bloody traces of her footsteps, it is less to be wondered at than regretted, that voltaire's vigorous understanding should have disdained their disgraceful shackles; and that in his just ridicule and detestation of the conduct of some followers of christianity, he should have been unfortunately induced to mistake and vilify christianity itself: notwithstanding some impious expressions concerning it, at which i shudder in the recollection, he has in many parts of his works evidently looked with a more favourable eye upon the protestant doctrines of england. certain it is, that he built at his own expense the church at ferney. not that i mean to assert, that church-building, any more than church-going, is always an infallible proof of religious feeling; i only mention the fact. the church bears the following inscription: "deo erexit voltaire!" there is a pretty copse or bosquet, at the end of his garden, in which the present proprietor has erected two paltry monuments, to the memory of voltaire and his cotemporary rousseau. i cannot wonder at the dislike which subsisted between them, since the latter was such a warm admirer, and the former so declared an enemy, of overstrained sentiment and sickly sensibility. however, they neither of them did justice to the real merits of each other; and proved individually how strong is the force of prejudice, in blinding the judgment even of the cleverest men. the village of ferney was by far the prettiest we had seen since we left our own country; the houses all had an air of neatness and comfort dear to an english eye, and nothing could be more gay and cheerful than their little gardens and orchards; in the former, flowers and vegetables flourished promiscuously, and in great luxuriance, and the latter were glowing with a profusion of rosy apples. we observed a species of this fruit among them, which we did not remember ever to have seen in any other country; it was quite white, and full of a sweet and spirited juice. from hence, we drove to call upon sir f. d'i., who is a native of switzerland, _conseiller d'etat_ at geneva, and well known in england as the intelligent author of several political works. we were much charmed by the graceful politeness and hospitable frankness with which both himself and madame d'i. received us. we had been provided with letters of introduction to them, by friends in england, and sir f. was personally acquainted with mr. w. he shewed us the grounds of his truly beautiful little villa, which, from being laid out under his own eye, in the english taste, bore a peculiar character of grace and cultivated refinement. i must say that our method of adorning shrubberies, lawns, gardens, &c. appeared in a very superior point of view, when compared with that of other countries. the prospect from the drawing-room windows, of the blue waters of the majestic lake, with mont blanc, surrounded by his attendant chain of humbler mountains, was grand beyond all idea! in short, this abode was far more like paradise than any dwelling upon earth. sir f. was in momentary expectation of the arrival of the duke of gloucester, (then visiting geneva, &c.) and who was desirous of viewing this enchanting epitome of perfection, before he left the neighbourhood. we returned to our inn, and my companions, leaving me under the guard of our swiss, immediately set off upon a three days' journey to chamouni, mont blanc, the mer de glace, &c. i found it neither prudent nor reasonable to attempt joining them in this expedition, as the cold and fatigue inseparable from it would have been too much for my strength. i expected to have been quite solitary until their return, but was agreeably disappointed; my new friends (whose polite attention to all who bear the name of english is well known), being kind enough to engage my whole time in such a manner as completely to banish _ennui_. sir f., who passed many years of his life in our country, respected for his integrity and abilities, and rewarded by the esteem of majesty, has returned to his native land (now restored to its independence), in the bosom of which he enjoys the high consideration of its most distinguished members, among whom he is noted for liberality of sentiment and a singular proportion of domestic felicity. we were told that the people of and near geneva are remarkable for honesty, and we found no reason to doubt the accuracy of this information. we heard also that the servants, as well as country people, were faithful and harmless, and that such an offence as housebreaking, or breach of trust in pilfering personal property, was unknown: that every family in these environs went to bed without closing a shutter, and might safely leave cabinets and drawers unlocked, during any absence from home. there were twelve or more physicians in geneva, eight out of the number having studied and taken their degrees at edinburgh; they are all accounted clever in their profession. the apothecaries here are not allowed to practise as amongst us; they are entirely restricted to the preparation of medicines, have a thorough knowledge of the properties of drugs (which here are of the purest and finest quality always), are good chemists and botanists, and in other respects well educated men. this is a high advantage to invalids. while i was in the _boutique_ of a little jeweller, the princess bariatinski came in, with one of her female attendants. she appeared a graceful unaffected young woman, was drest with extreme simplicity, and addressed herself to the persons who waited upon her with great affability, and a benevolent wish of sparing them all unnecessary trouble. she is the second wife of the prince. in the course of the day i drove about the environs in a caleche, and returned the visits of several ladies, for whom we had letters from their friends in england. madame c. was fortunately at home, and i was much pleased by her polite reception, and also by the sweet countenance and madonna features of her grandaughter, madame p. their house is upon the brow of a hill, commanding the most extensive and lovely prospect; but what place is not lovely in this part of the world? i never could have imagined so delicious a _sejour_ as the neighbourhood of geneva affords, had i not seen and enjoyed it myself. in the grounds of mons. de c. a singular natural phenomenon, takes place; i mean the confluence of the rhone and the arve. they meet here, yet without mingling their currents; the clear blue pure waters of the former being scrupulously distinct from the thick turbid stream of the latter. destiny has compelled them to run the same course, but the laws of sympathy (more powerful still) seem for ever to prevent them from assimilating. how frequently is this the case with mankind! no ties of affinity can cause two dispositions to unite and flow on together in a tranquil or felicitous course, where nature has placed a marked opposition of sentiment and character. those moralists who endeavour, from motives of mistaken principle, violently to force this native bent, do but ensure themselves the mortifying fate of sisyphus. i returned to dinner at _l'hotel des balances_, intending to accept madame c.'s polite invitation to take tea with her, at eight o'clock; but first i accompanied sir f. and madame d'i. in a _promenade_ round the environs, in a little open carriage called a _char_: i found this a very social although somewhat rough conveyance, and it was so near the ground as to allow females to alight from or ascend it without assistance, and with perfect safety. our drive was charming: they pointed out many glorious prospects to my observation, and i accompanied them to the _campagne_ (or country house) of monsieur a., who possesses one of the most elegant places in that neighbourhood. monsieur a. is an uncle of madame d'i.'s. we met him at the entrance of his grounds, driving in a low phaeton. it was a novelty to a curious contemplative english traveller, like myself, to observe the manners here of near relations towards each other. monsieur a. took off his hat, and remained uncovered the whole of the time during his conversation with his niece; and, upon taking leave, the expressions of "_adieu, mon oncle!_"--"_adieu, ma chere nièce!_" with another mutual bow, conveyed an idea of mixed cordiality and ceremony, which was far from unpleasing. i have often thought that family intercourse among us in england is too frequently carried on in a very mistaken and (as it relates to eventual consequences) a very fatal manner. how many people think that it is needless to maintain a constant habit of good-breeding and politeness in their conduct towards immediate relations, and that the nearness of connexion gives them the liberty of wounding their self-love, and of venting unpleasant truths in the most coarse and unfeeling manner; and all this under the pretence of sincere and unrestrained friendship! how entirely do such persons forget that admirable christian precept, "be ye courteous one to another!" we found madame and mademoiselle a. at home: the former is somewhat advanced in years; she has frequently been in england, and both of them speak our language fluently. the conversation this evening, however, was wholly carried on in french, which was an advantage to me, as it gave me an additional opportunity of conquering a ridiculous degree of awkward shyness in speaking the latter, which is a complete bar to improvement, and yet is often dignified amongst very good sort of people in our country by the name of _amiable_ _modesty_. these ladies were highly well-bred and agreeable; they knew several of my friends, the l. family in particular: madame a. perfectly recollected the late mr. l. many years since, at the time he was living at geneva, and spoke of his virtues, his distinguished and noble manners, his various talents, and taste for the fine arts, in a way that brought tears of pleased remembrance into my eyes: indeed no one, who had (like myself) the honour and happiness of being intimate with this excellent and lamented man, can ever, i should think, forget him, and i shall always feel it as a source of great and flattering gratification, that i once was a favourite, and i may say, an _elève_, of so venerable and superior a character. mademoiselle a. shewed me some exquisitely fine casts from the antique, and copies of paintings (the originals of which are now in the louvre at paris), which formed the chief decorations of a charming saloon here, floored with walnut in so elaborate and elegant a manner, that it almost rivalled a tessellated pavement. the house and grounds altogether are delightful, and the latter reminded me of an english park. we enjoyed a promenade under some noble trees in front of the former, and then returned to take our tea, when we entered upon a very animated and (to me) a most interesting conversation upon voltaire. madame a. observed, that it was always a treat to her to hear the original remarks of persons who (judging for themselves) perused his works for the first time. i was sorry when the moment for taking leave arrived, and could have passed the whole of the evening here with much satisfaction. sir f. and madame d'i. had the goodness to deposit me safely at the hotel of madame c., and made me promise to spend the next day with them at their lovely _campagne_. i found a very agreeable and intellectual society assembled at madame c.'s. among them were monsieur and madame de saussure. he is a relation of the celebrated philosopher, who was one of the first persons who ascended to the top of mont blanc, many years since, and whose observations taken there have been published. madame p. (who is very young, and almost a bride) sang like an angel: her husband also possesses no inconsiderable vocal talent, and they gave us several duets of blangini's, which happened to be my own peculiar favourites. le baron de m. an intelligent gentlemanly man (a native of the pays du valais, i believe), and who has travelled a great deal in italy, seemed perfectly to feel and appreciate the superior merits of the italian school of harmony, which surprised me at first, as i had taken him for a frenchman, and knew how rarely pure taste of that sort was to be expected from his nation. he had the politeness to conduct me home at night, and left me at the door of my apartments, with many profound bows, _en preux chevalier!_ the next morning, _presque a mon réveil_, i received a long visit from madame p. and i afterwards drove to sir f.'s, where i dined, and passed a very happy day. i met there the children of count s. (minister for russia at the approaching congress at aix la chapelle), and their _gouvernante_. these two little countesses (for so they were always called), of eight and ten years of age, and their brother, a very fine boy of five or six, ran about amid the flowers and shrubs, much at their ease, and seemed to look upon sir f. as a father. indeed, he had, in a manner, the charge of them at this time. in the evening i accompanied my kind hosts to the house of another very pleasant family, which was also built in a spot that commanded a superb and romantic view, where we met a very large party, among which were several english. some of the company were in full dress, having called to take tea, in their way to a grand ball, which was given that night by our countrymen to the inhabitants of geneva, and the latter were to return the compliment in a similar manner in the space of a few days. i was invited by several of the genevese families, to attend this ball; but declined doing so, for various reasons. this was not the only amusement at that time anticipated; they were preparing to attend a very pretty, and i may say, chivalrous sort of _fête_ (an _alfresco_ breakfast), upon the borders of the lake, given to the ladies by a party of gentlemen, who were called _les chevaliers du lac_. the day which the gallant entertainers had long destined for this gay banquet was unfortunately early overcast by lowering and envious clouds, which, before the company had been assembled half an hour, broke over their heads in torrents of rain. we had thus an opportunity of observing, that england was not the only country where the caprices of climate render _fêtes champêtres_ rather hazardous. the costume of the rest of the ladies was very simple, being exactly that of the french, when not _bien paré_, and much resembling what we wear as a morning dress, all having their gowns made high in the neck, with long sleeves, and many of them wearing large bonnets. the profusion of rich needlework in petticoats, ruffs, &c. was, however, very remarkable. the tone of general conversation here was easy, animated, lively, and full of benevolently polite attention to the feelings of each other. in short, it was conversation; of which we do not always understand the right meaning, or enter into the true spirit, in the circles of england, whatever is the reason. we had a discussion upon the drama, and the present state of the italian opera, both with us and upon the continent. those who had been in england praised miss o'neill very rapturously, but kean did not appear to have struck them so forcibly as i thought his merits deserved. i was asked (as the conversation turned upon the marked taste for classical and studied tragic acting upon the french stage), whether i thought miss o'neill or mrs. siddons (in her day) would have been most applauded and understood by a parisian audience? i had no hesitation in replying that i thought the latter would have been more to their taste, as her style was rather the perfection of art than the wild and spontaneous effect of nature. they all agreed in this opinion, and seemed to prefer miss o'neill to her dignified and splendid rival: those who consider acting as a science, however, will not coincide with them. at about eight o'clock we adjourned to another apartment, where tea was served: the table was very long, and covered with a cloth, round which the company seated themselves as if at dinner. the lady of the house made tea herself, and the servants waited behind her chair, to hand it about; her situation was no sinecure: there was a profusion of cakes, brioches, and fine fruit. this is always the custom at geneva, where, as people dine at three o'clock, they of course are ready to make a sort of supper at tea-time. i never beheld any thing so resplendently beautiful as the moon during my drive home: i saw it rise like a globe of fire from behind the mountains, and throw a long track of glittering brightness upon the calm bosom of the lake. the effect was lovely, and the sky appeared to me to be of a far deeper and more decided blue colour than with us. i ought not to omit the mention of a very singular and striking phenomenon (if i may so call it), which i had likewise this day witnessed at sir f.'s: i mean the influence of the setting sun upon the glaciers. they first, as the orb declined, assumed a yellow tint, then gradually warmed into pink, and kindled at length into a glow of rich crimson, of indescribable beauty. mont blanc's three fantastic peaks received it last of all, and immediately afterwards the whole snowy chain of mountains rapidly faded into their original hue of spotless (or, as my friend mr. t. fancifully calls it, _ghostly_) white. upon my return to the hotel, i had the unexpected pleasure of finding mr. baillie and mr. w. safely arrived from their expedition to chamouni. the following is the former's account to me of the incidents of their journey. "as we could only allow ourselves two entire days in which to perform our journey to chamouni, it was quite necessary that we should make the most of our time; the distance (if i recollect right) being from fifteen to eighteen leagues from geneva. we started from thence at about five o'clock in the afternoon, on the th of september, and slept that night at bonneville, a small town about fifteen miles on our route. there was nothing particularly worthy of remark thus far, except the magnificently beautiful tints of the setting sun upon the mole and adjacent mountains, which we enjoyed in great perfection. the next morning we proceeded through the small town of kluse to st. martin, where we breakfasted, and hired mules for the remainder of our journey, the road being impassable for any carriages except those of the country, called _char-a-bancs_, which are the most uncomfortable conveyances that can be imagined, being built without springs. "we passed this day two very beautiful waterfalls; but as you have already seen the p. v. (which is superior to both), i need not trouble you with an account of them. the aubergiste at st. martin was philosopher enough to have a cabinet of the natural curiosities of the country, upon which he set no small value; his prices for the minerals, &c. being absurdly high. the prospect became far more interesting as we advanced towards the base of that hoary mountain, whose summit we had distinctly seen at a hundred and fifty miles distance, some few weeks since. we observed and admired a singular piece of water, in whose transparent bosom mont blanc was clearly reflected. this was the lac de chede, and though very small, is interesting, from its retired and solitary situation. it is infested by serpents, but i could not learn that they were venomous. "the valley of servoz, into which we afterwards entered, and which joins the vale of chamouni, is romantic beyond any thing i have ever beheld. the road (cut out of the mountain's side) is in many places rough, and somewhat dangerous, a very abrupt precipice being on one hand, and the river arve rolling below, whose waters are of great depth. i confess that i was a little disappointed with the first view of these glaciers (_note_ h.), perhaps, as the imagination has no bounds, from having previously formed too magnificent an idea of them. they are situated in the valley, at the foot of the mountain, and are formed by the frozen snow, or rather snow-water. their shape is irregularly pyramidical, and their colour a very light blue. "the mer de glace, which is the object most worthy of notice in this valley, is a glacier of giant size, the pyramids of ice being in some places of prodigious altitude, and the chasms proportionably deep. from this place the arve takes its source. it is quite impossible for me to give you an adequate idea of this stupendous sea of ice, so called from its constant, although imperceptible, movement towards the valley, the entrance of which, it is generally expected, it will in time effectually block up. we witnessed one or two avalanches, which our guide told us were inconsiderable; their noise, however, made the valley roar. "our trusty mules deserve mention. we really thought we could not too much admire them; although we had been prepared to find them sure-footed and steady, we had no conception that they could possibly have led us with such perfect safety through such rugged and dangerous passes; the more particularly as we had no reason to reckon upon their complaisance, having urged them to a pace to which they were quite unaccustomed, from our desire of visiting the mer de glace the first day. "the inn at chamouni was clean and comfortable, and upon a far superior scale of accommodation than could have been supposed in so forlorn a situation. the duke of g. arrived during the evening, and consequently must have travelled through servoz when it was dark, thereby losing all the beauties of that wonderful scene. we set off the next morning very early, upon our return. it was a severe frost, the ground quite white with the hoary particles, and the weather feeling colder than i ever remember to have experienced, although the season was but little advanced; so much so, that my companion had to walk at a great pace for a considerable distance, to preserve any degree of animal warmth. about the middle of our route we observed a monument, in the shape of a large mile-stone, which had been erected during the consulship of bonaparte, to the memory of a young german philosopher, who was unfortunately lost, from the ignorance of his guide, while traversing these mountains. he fell into the crevice of a glacier, and was not discovered until some time afterwards, when it appeared his nails were worn off, and his fingers stripped to the bone, in his agonizing and desperate attempts to release himself from his horrible grave. the stone was erected (as it is stated in an inscription) first, as a warning to travellers in their choice of guides; secondly, to commemorate the loss of the unhappy youth; and, thirdly, to inform the world that france encourages science, even in her enemies. "we found a variety of all the rarest alpine plants and vegetables in this valley, and were assured that it contained also mines of gold, silver, and lead, (_note_ i.) which the poverty of the state at present prevents being worked. we met at the little inn two polish gentlemen, who had been making a pedestrian tour through switzerland; one of them had a few days before ascended the highest mountain (next to mont blanc) in the neighbourhood: he was the friend and companion of an enterprising nobleman of the same nation, who some weeks since had gone up mont blanc, by a different route to that pursued by monsieur de saussure, who has written voluminously on the subject. the pole had endured great difficulty and fatigue, and had been three days in completing his journey, having slept two nights upon the mountain: he was attended by about twenty guides, all of whom were tied together, as a precaution against any one of them falling into the chasms which are so frequently met with in the ascent. the summit was found to be considerably changed since it had last been visited. this stupendous mountain is feet above the level of the sea, and rises about from the valley of chamouni. it is hardly necessary to tell you, that its brow is eternally crowned with frozen snow. "travellers who are in delicate health, or otherwise not strong, are by no means advised to undertake the journey from st. martin to chamouni on mules; especially if they are pressed for time, as that method of conveyance is both fatiguing and dilatory. they will find the guides of the inn particularly intelligent and conversible, possessing a knowledge of the mineral and vegetable kingdoms that is quite extraordinary in men of their situation and rank in life. they are employed during the winter months in chamois hunting, and other dangerous and hardy exercises, and are frequently detained (as they told me themselves) by the snow, for weeks together, in the cheerless shelter of the most wretched _chalets_." the next day we devoted to the purchase of some of the curiosities for which this place is celebrated (_note_ j.), and to taking leave of our friends, who had shewn us so much attention: we also visited the street in which rousseau was born, and which is called after his name, the rue de jean jacques rousseau. we took leave of sir f. and madame d'i. with a degree of regret that was only softened by the hope of seeing them in england ere many ages should elapse. i believe i have not yet mentioned their children; a fine boy and a very promising little girl, both extremely young, and in whose welfare and happiness the parents seemed to be completely wrapped up. yet sir f. did not appear to have spoiled them by injudicious indulgence; on the contrary, he expressed his conviction of the necessity and importance of _early_ moral restraint, and i had one accidental opportunity of witnessing that his practice perfectly harmonized with his theory: this desirable union does not always take place, even among parents who pride themselves upon a superior system of education. on september th, we bade adieu to this delightful neighbourhood, and proceeded upon our route to lausanne. we continued for a great length of way to wind along the borders of the lake, which sparkled like a diamond in the morning sun, and whose extensive surface was slightly rippled by a fresh and animating breeze from the mountains. with respect to the extraordinary exhilaration of mountain air, which first struck me in crossing mont cenis, and has been confirmed by subsequent experience, i had heard and read a thousand times of its effect; but a truth, when personally proved for the first time, always seems like a discovery, rather than a sober confirmation of the words of other people. this pure atmosphere appears to me the finest remedy possible for every sort of nervous indisposition. it would even lighten (i should think) the heavy pressure of real affliction, acting as a perfect cordial to the spirits, as well as a tonic to the body--but rousseau has expressed this opinion so admirably in the first volume of his _nouvelle heloise_, that while i recal his magical description, any other seems powerless and inadequate. (_note_ k). we now passed though the village of coppet. necker's house is still shewn here, to which he retired upon being denounced by the french government as an enemy to his country, and where the adversity of this great and amiable character was soothed by the presence of his equally celebrated daughter, madame de stael. i feel an involuntary sensation of _attendrissement_, whenever i think of the singular degree of affection that subsisted between this venerable parent and his daughter, and which breathes so touchingly in every line of her _memoires de la vie privée de monsieur necker_, lately published in our own country. an affection so highly wrought, as to bear rather the character of passion, and which has therefore been objected to, by many people, as overstrained and unnatural. but let it be remembered that the great virtues, the attractive gentleness, the grand and expansive mind, and superior talents of necker, were (in her eyes) unique, and might therefore well have the effect of creating a more than ordinary portion of admiration, respect, and love: nor, in judging of madame de stael, should it ever be forgotten, that her extraordinary depth of feeling, and her native enthusiasm of disposition, rendered it impossible for her to experience sensations of any sort, in a mediocre degree, or even in that rationally moderated force, which can alone secure the possession of real happiness. this peculiarity of feeling, which unfortunately induced some errors in her conduct, has been admirably commented upon, by the edinburgh review, in its critique upon her works in general. it explains and apologizes, i think, for those wildly warm expressions in which she has indulged, when speaking of necker's character, and which might perhaps sound strange, if uttered by a less energetic personage, or if applied to those sort of parents who are usually met with in common life. the woman who has been allowed by the general voice of her cotemporary judges to be "the greatest writer of a female, that any age, or any country, has produced;" (nay even by one distinguished genius[ ] has been called "the most powerful author, whether man or woman, of her day;") has surely a high claim upon the forbearance of all who have been charmed by her transcendent talents. at the same time, let me not be mistaken, as to my own particular sentiments upon the subject; for i have no hesitation in avowing, that as a general principle, i extremely disapprove of the admission of what is termed passion into the filial affections, and _vice versa_. i believe it to answer no wise or rational end, but to be, on the contrary, in nine cases out of ten, a fruitful source of disquietude and disappointment. i fear my earnestness in the cause of a writer whose abilities i so greatly admire, has led me into a dissertation which may prove tedious to some of my readers.--_revenons à nos moutons_. the country, the whole of the way to lausanne, is one continued scene of beauty; and the pastoral air of the verdant meadows, the rich cultivation of the hills (sprinkled with the prettiest little hamlets), the appearance of comfort and neatness in the cottages (each with a garden and orchard), and the grandeur of the lake and mountains beyond, altogether formed a scene of peace, loveliness and delight, that is far more easily imagined than described. were it possible for me to forget the charms of my dear native land, it is here that i could happily live, and tranquilly die. not that it possesses the armida-like fascination of the shores of the lago maggiore in italy, or the high romance of parts of savoy: the imagination here is less excited, but the heart is more interested. i turned from one to the other, with the kind of sensation which the mind experiences, when comparing a brilliantly beautiful and accomplished, a highly enchanting and charming acquaintance, with a tender, cheerful, and amiable friend. we stopped to take breakfast at rolle, a neat little town, where at the humble inn (_la couronne_) we hailed with great satisfaction the comforts of cleanliness and domestic order, so totally unknown to the natives of the other countries through which we had passed. morges; a remarkably pretty town. in this neighbourhood there were many vineyards, which yielded the fruit of which the wine called _vin de cote_ is made. the lake became much narrower here, and the mountains upon the opposite side seemed to rise abruptly from the water. their dark purple hue contrasted finely with the light aqua-marine tint of the latter, and the fresh verdure of the banks, where the peasants were mowing their second crop of hay. the beauty of some of the cottages also struck us with admiration, but we observed as yet no particular costume. we arrived at lausanne to dinner. the entrance was cheerful and pretty, and the town itself is clean and gay, built upon the side of a very steep hill; the grand street forming as precipitous an ascent as that of lansdown in bath. we found all the inns full, therefore took lodgings at a charming house upon a hill overhanging the lake, (the view of the chateau de chillon and mountains, in the distance) and to which there was a garden and terrace, ornamented with green-house plants and flowers. we could hardly have desired _une plus jolie campagne_ even for our own permanent residence and property. the restaurateur (who was an appendage to this establishment, and lived in part of the house) was a civil bustling personage, who extremely loved to hear himself talk: he told us that these lodgings ought to stand high in reputation, for they had been occupied successively by _les plus grands seigneurs_, who had all expressed themselves greatly pleased with their accommodations; a fair hint this, how _we_ were expected to behave. we found, however, upon parting, that the hostess had overcharged us for these wonderful accommodations in a very preposterous manner, and she was so conscious of it, that she consented without much difficulty to take off part of her bill, and to allow us to pay for her apartments in french money, instead of the swiss, which makes a very material difference. we breakfasted the next morning upon honeycomb from the mountains; i believe i have mentioned this before. it is a very common article for breakfast in switzerland, and always brings an agreeable association of ideas to my mind. i ought perhaps to have made earlier mention of the great opportunity afforded to the traveller of leisurely surveying and enjoying the beauties of scenery, from the circumstance of his not being able to travel _post_ through switzerland: the system of _voituring_ is, however, rather tedious, and very expensive. the environs of lausanne are almost equally attractive with those of geneva, but the latter were impressed upon my memory in such bright and bewitching colours, that i could never think any other part of switzerland quite so delightful. we quitted lausanne, sept. , for berne. our road still led us through beauties innumerable. on the right was the lake, once more expanded into a breadth like the ocean, bounded, as usual, by mountains. on the left were vineyards, gardens, and hamlets. the grape ripens later here than in france, but is equally luxuriant and delicious in flavour. we frequently passed so near the glowing clusters of this tempting fruit, that we might easily have gathered as many as we chose from the windows of the carriage. there was a wonderfully fine growth of walnut trees also, stretching their long branches for many yards over the water. they are in such quantities that oil is made from the nut, for purposes of the commonest use. we again saw part of the romantic rocks of meillerie, so celebrated by rousseau. we had been reading his _nouvelle heloise_ for the last few days (as we were passing through the same scenes which are so beautifully depicted there), and felt as if these rocks were our old acquaintance. i always feel, in reading his works, ready to exclaim, "i love thee, and hate thee!" a literary friend (in a long conversation which we had upon the subject of this author) thought better of his julie (as a single woman) than i did, or ever can; but we perfectly agreed in admiration of her conduct as a wife and mother, mistress of a family, &c. the lessons of morality (which she there exhibits) are beyond every thing beautiful and impressive; but i never can forgive the disingenuousness of her conduct in consenting to marry monsieur de wolmar, without having previously told him her past story. all the reasonings, the arguments, the chain of entangling circumstances, which rousseau has contrived to justify her for not doing so, i think false, perverted, and totally unsatisfactory. the costume of the peasants in this neighbourhood is not at all remarkable, except for their straw hats, which are universally of the gipsy shape, with a very high crown, ending in a point like a chinese pagoda, or the top of a parasol. we took a _dejeuné_ at vevay, and went in a boat upon the lake, to view the chateau de chillon somewhat nearer than we had hitherto been able to do. the beauty of lord byron's affecting tale of its prisoner returned strongly upon my imagination. i certainly prefer his picture of captivity to that of sterne in the sentimental journey. it appears to me to be equally touching, and far more sublime. one or two of the minor incidents may probably have been founded upon the legends of the bastile; but byron's powerful genius stamps every line with the character of originality. a few miles beyond vevay the country assumed all the refined and cultivated beauties of an english park. here (near a miniature lake) softly swelling hills of velvet turf, ornamented with the rich and feathery foliage of the beech, rose gently upon the admiring eye. there vast plantations of aspiring firs expanded their screen of darker green. close to the road were meadows enamelled with the lilac crocus, and various wild flowers, fringed by hedges, where the white convolvulus and scarlet hawthorn berry mingled gaily with the thick hazel and other native shrubs. a few ledges of rock now and then started from amid these mild beauties, as if to evince that we were still in the vicinity of wilder scenery. this change in the landscape was novel and delightful to us all. we had not seen any thing exactly in its style since leaving england, and i almost felt annoyed when a turning in the road displayed the snowy peaks of the eternal glaciers towering, as usual, in the distance. forgive this honest confession, ye exclusive lovers of the sublime, and recollect, that the eye as well as the mind becomes fatigued by being kept too long upon the stretch. stopping at a little post-house, between vevay and moudon, we were surprised to see a large coarse loaf of bread brought out (instead of hay) for the refreshment of the horses. they eat it in slices, and appeared to relish this sophisticated food not a little. one of the animals, however, would not take the crust in his mouth, tossing it away in the most ridiculously disdainful manner, when he had carefully devoured all the crumb, and it was not until he had received two or three good cuffs on the ears from his driver that he condescended to swallow it. we met several prettyish women in the course of this day's journey; but the style of their beauty did not please us so much as that of france and italy. it was mild without being soft, and fresh without being brilliant: they were, in short, neither _jolie ni belle_; neither had they _la grace plus belle encore que la beauté_; but formed a class apart, which i cannot exactly define, but which certainly i did not like. dined and slept at moudon (inn, _au cerf_), where we experienced the comforts of warmth, cleanliness, and good beds; no bad things after a long and cold journey. we were waited upon by a lively natural young creature, of the name of josephine, who, together with several other girls, was staying at this inn, to learn the french language from the occasional guests. they were all of them german swiss. we astonished them very much, by exhibiting a couple of musical snuff-boxes, which we had bought when at geneva. the girls had never seen any thing of the kind, and were never tired of listening to them. we left moudon the next morning at six o'clock: the country still continued to charm us with a pleasing succession of woods, mossy banks, and rich valleys, watered by little serpentine silver brooks, softly flowing through green meadows. we were still in the _pays du vaud_. our servant christian's national enthusiasm burst forth at every step. our friend, who frequently took a share of his seat behind the carriage, amused us extremely with an account of his transports. "ah! there are de cows with bells round their necks! how i love those bells! there be de neat cottages, all of wood: dey builds very pretty ones always in my country." at lausanne (where he had been at school) it was nothing but "shaking hands," and "greetings in the market-place."--"there is a friend of mine! i know dat man! there lives such a one, a very honest person!" in short, the poor fellow was in a state of continual ecstasy, and carried it so far as to think the very stones in the road were more than commonly valuable and beautiful; for, knowing mr. w. to have made a small collection of spars and fossils, &c. he drew his attention frequently, upon entering switzerland, to the pebbles by the wayside, calling out every now and then, "there be a pretty stone now, mr. v.! very pretty stones all in my country!" a lady at geneva, in describing the peculiar attachment of the swiss to their native land, told me that her brother, upon being exiled to england for pecuniary reasons, actually died of the true _maladie du pays_, pining gradually away in hopeless longings after the dear scenes amid which his youth had been passed. we now entered the grandest and most luxuriant beech woods i ever beheld. i never had seen such magnificent trees, except in some parts of norbury park, in surrey; indeed the whole view strongly reminded me of that exquisite spot, and brought a thousand agreeable recollections and associations to my mind. wherefore is it that the imagination feels a charm and a repose so delightful amid scenes of this nature? my own peculiar feeling is now confirmed by long experience, and i can consequently assert, with renewed confidence, that wood, assisted by a judicious inequality of ground, forms by far the most satisfactory and soothing feature in a landscape. a visit to mountains, glaciers, lakes, waterfalls, and impetuous floods, gives great and animating sensations, but a constant residence among them i should never desire; though i have no doubt but that a highlander or a swiss mountaineer would extremely despise me for the homeliness of my taste. payerne, a small town. the women here amazed us by their superb _chevelures_. we saw three in particular, who wore their hair (of a dark yet golden brown colour) twisted round the head, in a large braid, beneath an enormous flat straw hat. if these braids had been dishevelled, i am certain the hair would have swept the ground, and the thickness of its growth was even yet more remarkable than its length. we were afterwards informed of a circumstance which explained this apparent phenomenon, as i shall presently take occasion to mention. there was a large stone fountain here (with a statue of some warrior, armed from head to heel), which appeared to form the only ornament of the place. at avenche we observed a very singular costume among the _paysannes_; in addition to the full shift sleeve and becoming _chemisette_, confined beneath the bosom by a coloured boddice, they wore a head-dress of black gauze, lace, or thin horse-hair, transparent as a cobweb, stiffened with fine wire, and standing out widely from the temples, in the most extraordinary manner, resembling some representations i have seen of the _cobra capella_, or hooded serpent, the wings of a patagonian butterfly, or the sort of bat-winged cap, which fuseli, in the extravagance of his wild imagination, has given to his pictures of queen mab. the coarse, tame, insipid style of feature which accompanied this attire, however, by no means suited its peculiar character. i looked in vain for the pale, delicate, oval visage, small red lip, and large gazelle sort of dark eye, with which it would have harmonized so exquisitely. this is the usual bernoise costume. the country here became much more open, and was enlivened by the glittering waters of the lake of morat (_note_ l). in almost every house we passed, we remarked great quantities of green tobacco leaves, suspended from the projecting roofs, drying in the sun. on the borders of the lake of morat was formerly a chapel, filled with the bones of the bourguinons, who were killed in battle, in the year , when charles the bold was defeated. it is now destroyed, but the bones are still left "bleaching in the wind." we got out of the carriage, and discovered among them some very large thigh bones, &c. the size of the warriors to whom they belonged must have been wondrous. a small rise, upon which we stood, was entirely formed of the bodies of the slain. the fragrant wild thyme and nodding hare-bell grew thickly upon the fatal spot; and i observed a tuft of the latter wreathing its azure flowers (as if in mockery) around the fragment of a mouldering skull! there are several beautiful little _maisons de campagne_ near this place, with their surrounding vineyards, gardens, orchards, and fountains. they were a good deal in the style of what we are used to call cottages _ornées_, so few of which we had hitherto seen upon the continent, notwithstanding the adoption of a foreign title. there were also many lovely dwellings belonging to the peasantry, built of tan-coloured wood (_note_ m.), with stairs and galleries on the outside, and neatly thatched or tiled. the frontispiece to this little volume, which has been kindly presented to me by an elegant amateur artist, is a most correct representation of a swiss cottage. we were now in the canton of berne: passing through another wood of beech, scarcely less beautiful than the former, the tremulous light, flitting capriciously across the leaf-strewn paths, and the soft chirping of the birds above our heads, again gave us exquisite pleasure. i say we; for my sensations were fully participated by my companions. we now crossed the river sarine, by means of a large wooden bridge, covered overhead like a penthouse, and entered the village of guminen, sunk between bold and rocky hills, fringed with rich trees and underwood. the females in this part of switzerland all appeared to possess a qualification which shakespeare has pronounced (and with truth) to be "a marvellous excellent thing in woman." i allude to the soft musical tone of their voices in speaking: it was really remarkable, and we thought it almost made amends for the want of beauty. we dined at guminen, in a cleanly little inn (_l'ours_), where, on looking out at the window, we were struck by the sight of a lucerne _paysanne_ in full costume. she wore the usual tresses of braided hair hanging down at length behind, and the black gauze cap; but her boddice was remarkably curious, being of black velvet, richly embossed with lilac and black beads (the latter coming from venice, and extremely small), in the manner of embroidery; indeed such quantities had been expended, that her bust looked as if in armour. this boddice was likewise ornamented with silver filigree buttons, and long silver chains, ending in large tassels of the same material, gilt. she had also a black velvet collar, studded with venetian beads and coloured foil, and a worked linen _chemisette_ and full shift sleeves, white as snow. this dress must have been very expensive for a woman in her rank of life; and upon inquiry we found that she was, in fact, the wife of a rich miller. we were not annoyed here, as in italy and france, by the clamours of beggars; they very rarely made their appearance, and even when they did, were always modest and diffident. it gave us pleasure to pass through so large a tract of country without being able to discover any trace of abject poverty among the peasantry: they all wore an air of ease and content, and we found upon inquiry that they were in general enjoying the most comfortable and independent circumstances. from a hill near berne we first caught the distant harmony of a number of mellow-toned bells, which pastoral sounds, our swiss informed us, were produced by the cattle (round whose necks the bells were suspended), and who were at that moment descending in large herds from the mountains, for the evening milking. at the same time we were struck by a glorious view of the alps (_note_ n.), their frozen peaks rosy from the reflection of departing light: one of the highest of them is called, from hence, monte rosa. i have never listened to church bells (when their clang has been mellowed by distance) without a feeling of melancholy; but these seemed to breathe of innocent joy, and to tell a tale of peace, happiness, comfort, and domestic delight. this, i know, must have proceeded in both cases from early associations, and in the latter from the influence of ideas connected with poetry. what an ever-springing source of exquisite enjoyment is that divine gift! a susceptibility of its powers is like a sixth sense, for which it becomes all who possess it to be truly grateful to the benevolent donor. we now entered berne. this is a fine large town, with a remarkably handsome entrance. we obtained most excellent rooms, replete with every essential comfort, and furnished with taste, at our inn (_au faucon_), which was spacious enough to be taken for some ancient castle, when the feudal lords lodged a hundred or two of retainers, besides guests, beneath their ample roof. it was built in the form of an oblong square, with three galleries, one above another (each of which had interminable passages connected with it, all leading to different suites of apartments), looking down upon an open court or area in the midst. in this court a little army of washerwomen were assembled (belonging, i believe, to the establishment), carrying on the process of purification with great activity (in tubs almost large enough for brewing vats), and with hot water, which is an unusual thing upon the continent. apropos to cleanliness, we all made the same observation in passing through switzerland, namely, that the inhabitants (more especially in the protestant cantons) seemed to understand the comfort inseparable from this virtue, and that they certainly practised it in a far higher degree than any people we had seen since leaving england. we have frequently met with better accommodations (because cleanliness has been scrupulously attended to) in the inferior inns of switzerland than in the most superb hotels of paris, turin, milan, &c. i am sorry to be obliged, however, to except those of geneva, which are allowed by the inhabitants themselves to be all very dirty. we walked about berne the next morning, and gave audience to christian's venerable father and to his sister, who came over from their farm in the neighbourhood to fetch him to spend a day with them. they had not met for some years; neither father nor daughter spoke a word of any language but german _patois_; the latter was drest in the complete _bernoise_ costume, even to the little bouquet of natural flowers in the bosom. i forget what great author it is who says that "a man who has left his native place for years is generally anxious to make some figure in it, upon his return,"--this was truly exemplified in our servant, who, the morning after our arrival, burst upon his town's folk, in all the glory of the most dandy english dress, appearing far more smart than his master, and forming a curious contrast to the rustic figures of his humble yet picturesque-looking relations. we proceeded, after dinner, to view the bears, and stags, which have from time immemorial been kept in the deep fosse, which surrounds the town. there are tall fir-trees planted in this moat, for the bears to climb, and plenty of green cool turf for the refreshment of the stags. the animals are separated from each other, of course. the origin of this custom is singular. in ancient times, a rich seigneur of the country, and his sons, determined to found a town, which should transmit their memories to posterity, and should be called after the name of the first animal that they might happen to kill in a grand hunting-match, which they assembled for the purpose. this animal turned out to be a bear; accordingly the town was called berne, and the stone image of the creature was erected at the gates--a custom which is continued to the present moment. when the founders died, they left a sum of money to be laid out for the sole benefit of this bear, which in process of time so greatly accumulated, as to form quite a little fortune; so that all the successive bears have been persons of property, and accustomed to the enjoyment of those _agrèmens_, which an easy income can alone secure. bonaparte pounced upon the senior bruin (called monsieur martin), and carried off both himself and his money to paris, where he now lives in high reputation, and equal splendor, at the bottom of a deep pit, in _le jardin des plantes_. the people of berne have since obtained some other bears, which are the same that we now saw, and a proper sum for their support is awarded by the government, which also is increasing by occasional legacies from individuals. we passed the evening in company with an englishman (an old friend of my husband's), who had spent many years upon the continent, and who had made it one of his chief objects to visit and inspect the different prisons there. we were glad (as far as nationality was concerned) to hear that those of england are (comparatively speaking) carried on upon a system of benevolence superior to most others. this gentleman told us, that the prisons of turin at this day, were a disgrace to humanity, being the most horrible dungeons that the imagination can picture. we saw several groups of the convicts at berne, who wore an iron collar, and were chained by the leg, to a small light cart, which (like beasts of burden) they drew daily round the town, to collect and carry away the dirt of the streets. the prisoners of both sexes are also employed in sweeping the crossways, pavements, &c. and are drest in a peculiar uniform, their labour being proportioned to the degree of their guilt. all the culprits in the country, who are not condemned to death, are sent to berne, and are employed in these and similar offices. the cathedral did not appear to us worth visiting; our eyes had been satiated with buildings in this style, and after having seen the glories of the duomo at milan, we found all other cathedrals poor and uninteresting. most of the shops here are built under stone arches, which renders them somewhat gloomy, but adds to their convenience in rainy weather. there are numerous stone fountains in all parts of the town, many of which have a martial figure on the top; we saw one, however, with a statue of moses upon it, no inappropriate patron, as he could make the solid rock gush out with water. over one of the principal gateways, we remarked a colossal image of goliah, grim and gaunt enough to frighten all the naughty boys in the place. happening to mention the circumstance of the extraordinary growth of hair, among the women about payerne, we were informed that it was almost all false. the _paysannes_ have an ancient and invariable custom of mixing great quantities of borrowed tresses with their own, in order to form that singular braid round the head, which had so forcibly attracted our notice. i should imagine the toilette of these rural belles must be an operation of some skill, for the false is so very well mingled with the real hair, that it might defy the sharp eye of the most prying old spinster to detect the method in which it is done. we saw several girls at berne working upon cushions (something in the manner of lace-makers), under the piazzas; they were embroidering the collars and stomachers of the bernoise _paysannes_, in small venetian beads (called in england seed beads) of all colours, gold tinsel, foil, &c. upon a ground of black velvet. their performance was really very neat and tasteful. the prince leopold of coburg was here, at the same time with ourselves, looking very melancholy, and almost continually alone: he was on a visit to his sister, the grand duchess constantine, who resides in the neighbourhood. she is separated from her husband, who is brother to the emperor of russia. they were married, i believe (in pursuance of one of those horrible schemes of state policy, where every better feeling of the heart is cruelly sacrificed and overborne), at the age of fourteen, and the subsequent catastrophe is not to be wondered at. of the society at berne we could not judge, as our stay did not exceed three days and a half, but our english friend (lately mentioned, and who had been a great deal amongst the best families there) mentioned it to be particularly agreeable. during the winter, there are concerts and balls, private parties, and a company of actors. the hospital is a fine establishment, with a garden full of choice flowers and shrubs, green-house plants, and a fountain, being sustained upon the most liberal plan; any poor person, passing through the town, may find food and lodging at the hospital for twenty-four hours, and is sent away at the expiration of that time with a donation of one franc (value, in english money, tenpence). there is also an asylum for foundlings, where the children are maintained till they attain the age of fifteen, and are then put out to service. it being one of the market days, we saw many different costumes (belonging to the various cantons) assembled. that of the women of guggisberg is frightfully ugly; a napkin is folded flat across the forehead, and tied behind in a slouching manner; the dress is of black cotton, with a very long waist, and the petticoat does not reach to the knee; their legs are terribly thick, but luckily this circumstance is reckoned amongst themselves as a beauty, and to increase it, they wear four or five pair of stockings at a time. mr. b. observed a tyrolese peasant, with whose manly beauty and elegant costume he was much struck. i did not see him myself; they are generally fine figures, strong and athletic, yet extremely graceful, the dress being always particularly becoming and highly picturesque. the women of lucerne i have already described, in the specimen of the rich miller's wife that we saw at guminen. entering the shop of a famous picture-dealer here, he shewed us a collection of portraits, of the most celebrated rural _belles_ of switzerland, among which was that of the fair _bateliere_ of the lake brientz. i hoped to have beheld another "ellen, lady of the lake," but was greatly disappointed, not being able to admire the character of her beauty, thinking it far too coarse; but those persons who have really seen her assured us her picture by no means did her justice. we were also shewn a set of coloured prints from the original drawings of a poor wretch of the name of mind[ ]; he died about two years ago, and his works are very much valued in this country, not only for their intrinsic merit, but as being the performance of a _cretin_, which means an idiot, afflicted with a _goître_. we were told by the picture-dealer, who had known him well, that this mind was one of the most deformed and horrible objects of the sort, and was perfectly imbecile and stupid in every thing that did not immediately relate to his art. he had (like some idiots who have fallen under my own personal observation) a prodigiously retentive memory, from the impressions of which he alone was able to draw. if he met any group of men or animals in his daily rambles, he would instantly run home, lock himself up, and produce shortly afterwards the most spirited and accurate drawing of the objects which had thus fired his fancy. the high finish of his colouring, also, was equally remarkable with the boldness of his outline; he more particularly excelled in drawing cats, and had completed a voluminous collection of these animals, in all their stages of existence and habits of life; from which circumstance he has obtained the name of _le raffaelle des chats_. at a first view of his works, we were inclined to doubt the truth of his having been so complete an idiot in all respects which were unconnected with his art; but as vague arguments of conjecture and probability, cannot stand against the positive evidence of attested facts, of course we gave up our objections, and felt that to persevere in them would be obstinacy, rather than penetration. the history of this man would, i think, form an interesting subject of reflection to the philosopher and the physician, and i wish it were generally known and published. this evening we went to see the exhibition of mr. koenig, an excellent landscape painter; it consisted of a set of transparent views (beautiful beyond any thing of the sort that we had ever previously beheld), taken from the most celebrated scenes in switzerland; among them, we were most pleased with the chapel of william tell (_note_ o.) by moonlight, on the lake of zug, and with a cottage (also by moonlight) on the lakes of bienne and thun. the wonderful degree of nature and truth which these paintings displayed, i shall hardly forget; indeed i cannot say too much in praise of them, and would advise every traveller who visits berne to go and see this enchanting little spectacle: i will venture to say his expectations will be greatly exceeded. september th.--i must in justice recommend all our friends passing this way to take up their quarters _au faucon_, as it is a most excellent house, and the mistress a very attentive sensible person. i ought not to take leave of the place without also mentioning the _promenade_ upon the ramparts, and the glorious view of woods, hamlets, and glaciers to be seen from thence[ ]. we were much amused in watching the sports of the youth of the town there, who have a green inclosure, where various games and exercises (resembling the ancient gymnastic) are carried on every evening, at a certain hour; they are admirably well calculated to cherish habits of activity and agility, and to promote both health and strength. all the public offices here are served by persons who faithfully and zealously fulfil their functions, without emolument of any sort. marriages through switzerland are much encouraged by some of their political institutions; in this canton, for instance, a bachelor cannot arrive at the honourable post of bailiff, or be admitted to the council, or become what they call a _seigneur_, which is an inferior office in the government; but at the same time so fearful are these governments of any circumstance that might in process of time by the accumulation of fortunes infringe upon their liberties, that marriages between cousins german are forbidden by law. in the best statistic account of the population of this country taken from the public registers, it is estimated inclusive of the allied provinces at about two millions. the protestant cantons are found to be the most populous, as they are the most active, industrious, and commercial, but they are not always the richest. the police is regulated with the most exemplary vigilance and good order; the canton is a protestant one. upon quitting berne, we found the country a lovely repetition of rich waving woods (chiefly of beech and pine); the brilliant autumnal tints of the former trees glowing beneath the bright blue of a cheerful morning sky, and the aromatic perfume of the latter, scenting the freshness of the breeze. how weak and inadequate are words to express certain feelings of delight! how easy is it to mention woods and plains, rocks and lakes, and to expatiate upon the charm of each, in appropriate terms; yet how far are we all the time from conveying to the minds of our hearers or readers the sensation of enjoyment which thrilled through our own bosoms while actually beholding the scenes we attempt to describe. we passed through several villages which appeared to be the favourite haunts of peace, health, and humble happiness. the parsonage-house in one of them was a charming picture of comfort, neatness, and picturesque taste; close to the cheerful little whitewashed church, it reared its grey venerable roof. the walls were covered by the spreading branches of a fruitful pear-tree, and the green latticed windows were shaded by a vine, which wreathed its graceful foliage, and hung in luxuriant clusters, likewise, over a small bower, or recess, adjoining the sitting-room, where i could imagine a simple primitive pastor and his happy family assembled together, enjoying the social evening meal. la fontaine's lovely descriptions of such scenes and such beings, in his _nouveau tableau de famille_, rushed upon my recollection, and i almost expected to see his sweet augusta (in the days of her prime) come forth from the rustic porch, leaning on the arm of her valuable husband, and surrounded by their innocent and blooming race. when this same augusta becomes a grandmother, i think la fontaine has painted her too selfishly forgetful of the happiness of her youthful days, and of the feelings natural to girls at that age; it is not in character with the virtue and sentimental graces of her earlier years, and rather conduces to encourage in the bosom of the reader a sensation of indignant disgust at the rigid, frigid, and unamiable propensities sometimes found among the aged. this beautiful and affecting novel is so well known to all persons of good taste and discrimination, that my allusion to it will i hope be at once understood and forgiven. beyond this neighbourhood, the country opened in the most striking manner, affording a fine and heart-cheering prospect of cultivated plains, fresh pastures, peaceful flocks and herds, walnut groves and thatched cottages; the latter looked at a distance like large beehives, and the inhabitants seemed to evince a similarity to the bees in their habits of brisk and lively industry. i can easily understand the pre-eminent attachment of the swiss to their native land; they must indeed be senseless were they less alive to the charms of scenes like this. [illustration: _london, published by i, murray, ._ hermitage of st^e. frene.] we took an early dinner at soleure (_note_ r.), or solothurne. we were now in a catholic canton, and the difference of our accommodations at the inn (_la couronne_) from those we had experienced in the protestant governments was very apparent, for once more dirt, in various shapes, made its unwelcome appearance. the houses were, some of them, painted gaudily on the whitewashed outsides, in the italian manner, and the cathedral, of grecian architecture, was full of paltry paintings. the costume of the townspeople was both tasteless and dirty; a white linen cap, with a border of muslin, half a yard in depth, flapping about in the most unbecoming way, increasing the general plainness of the women's features. their persons, also, were awkward and ill made, particularly about the legs and feet. the place itself was full of bad smells, but situated in a picturesque part of the country. as we proceeded, we found the cottages decrease in beauty; nor did they exhibit the same degree of _aisance_ and comfort as those near berne. the fields likewise partook of this spirit of decline, appearing less cultivated and productive. we could not help attributing this to the people having their time so perpetually broken in upon by the necessity of going to mass, and by the too frequent recurrence of _jours de fêtes_. we passed a fine picturesque old castle upon the left, a few miles beyond soleure, and arriving at balstadt (a dirty-looking village), where we slept, found a most uncomfortable, slovenly inn, and bad attendance; and to heighten our miseries, our friend became so much worse, that we were obliged to send for what medical assistance the wretched place afforded. accordingly there arrived the "village leech," who had much the air of a farrier, or cow-doctor, and who applied various nostrums without success. his unfortunate patient made a vigorous effort to shake him off the next morning, and we went on, hoping to get as far as basle. we started with two horses and three mules, having to ascend a steep mountain immediately upon quitting balstadt (or rather ballstall, in modern orthography). the surrounding scenery was of a very different nature from that of the preceding day: the road (in some places nearly as perpendicular as any in the wild mountains of savoy) led us through pale grey rocks, scooped occasionally into quarries, and fringed on one side by an infinite variety of young trees of every sort, and on the other by extensive woods of pine, whose shades formed a beautiful contrast to the brighter verdure of the velvet turf, from which they sprung. we observed (as usual) great numbers of wild barberry trees, and juniper bushes, while the purple heath-bell, waving her fairy cups amid the moss and thyme, upon every bank, gave a smiling character to the foreground. falkenstein castle (a fantastic ruin, crowning the summit of a bold jutting mass of rock far above our heads) had a very imposing effect. the battled walls and narrow round towers were so much of the same colour as the mountain from which they rose, as scarcely to be distinguished from it at a distance. it reminded us strongly of some of mrs. radcliffe's descriptions, and our fancy easily peopled it with a terrific baron, a fair suffering heroine, a captive lover, and every other requisite _et cetera_ of romance. as we were now in _german_ switzerland, such visions were not inappropriate, and my readers will pardon them accordingly. we saw another castle, also, further on, situated upon an eminence in the midst of magnificent woods of beech, and looking down upon a pretty hamlet of white cottages, each with its neat little _verger_ and _potager_, some of them shaded by vines, and almost all furnished with a range of beehives. the inhabitants were gathering the walnuts, apples, and plums, from their loaded trees, as we passed: a clear little wimpling stream ran through the village, and the spire of the church rose among rich tufted foliage in perspective. we began to suspect, from this appearance of comfort and neatness, that we were once more in the neighbourhood of a protestant government, which we found afterwards was really the case. the sweet stream i have just mentioned was so kind as to accompany us for a considerable way, pure, sparkling, and dashing its shallow waters over the yellow pebbles, with a rippling murmur that was delightfully soothing to the ear. the country again resumed the woody, cultivated appearance, which is so pleasing to behold, and gradually expanded into lovely meadows, which the little brook kept forever fresh and verdant. we stopped at liestall, where we found a cleaner town, a better inn, and a more prepossessing hostess than at ballstall. the people manufacture gloves here: they were good, but very dear. it is not to be told how disagreeably the german language grated upon our ears in passing through these cantons; after the mellifluous harmony of the italian, and even when compared with the french, it was doubly intolerable. our own is harsh enough, in the opinion of foreigners; yet i can with difficulty imagine any thing so bad as german. we arrived to dinner at basle. this is a very large town (under a protestant jurisdiction), clean and gay. its chief attraction to us was the river rhine, which rolled its majestic waters beneath the windows of our auberge (_les trois rois_), which was spacious and convenient. we ascended to our apartments by a curious spiral staircase, in an old round tower, that formed part of the building. the rhine is a noble river, but inferior in beauty of colour to the rhone at geneva. indeed the latter i cannot at this moment recollect without a feeling of pleasure and admiration impossible to describe. we left basle, sept. . the road as far as bourglibre, and even considerably beyond it, was flat and uninteresting; the cottages rather dirty than otherwise, and extremely ugly; the costume of the peasantry very indistinctly marked, and by no means becoming, being a wretched imitation of the french. all this was accounted for, when we recollected that we had now once more entered the territories of that nation, leaving modern germany on our right, and turning our backs upon the sweet simplicity and unequalled charms of switzerland. the postillion also strongly evinced the national character, mounting his horse with a true _gasconade_ flourish, and cracking his whip in the old well-remembered style. we dined and slept at colmar. the inn (_aux six montagnes noirs_) was dirty, and the attendance very mediocre; but the beds were good, and free from vermin. our host was the most hideous man i ever saw: he was absolutely strangling with fat; his bristly grizzled hair was strained off the forehead, and forced into a long thick queue, with so tight a hand, that the water in consequence was perpetually running from his little red eyes; his voice in speaking was most unpleasantly guttural, and rendered still more disagreeable by the absurd mixture of bad french and german, which he sputtered with great difficulty, in answering our necessary questions. his daughter usually sat in the bar, playing a french love ditty upon an old guitar. of her i can only say, that she was the "softened image" of her "honoured papa." the _paysannes_ in the near neighbourhood of colmar wear a pretty little flat, round-eared cap, at the back of the head, made either of very gay coloured silk, or cotton, and sometimes of gold tissue with crimson spots; their neck handkerchiefs are likewise of the brightest dyes, thrown carelessly over the gown, and the ends confined before, by a girdle. these women, generally speaking, are not at all handsome; the men chiefly wear coats of coarse bright green cloth, without collars, enormously long waisted waistcoats (sometimes red, laced with gold, and large buttons), with cocked hats. the country upon first leaving colmar was mountainous, but not very pleasing or interesting, in spite of the inequality of ground, the presence of verdure, the view of distant villages, and a very fine clear sky; all of which are notwithstanding the materials for forming a beautiful landscape. this, to my mind, had an analogy with the persons of some women i had formerly seen; who possessed fine hair and teeth, clear bright eyes, a good complexion, were sufficiently young, and not ill-made; yet with all these requisites to beauty, were plain, awkward, and totally wanting in agreeable effect. a strange caprice of nature, but not less true than strange. the face of things, however, rather improved, upon approaching schelestat. the costume of the _paysannes_ brightened into a degree of taste and neatness that we had not seen equalled since leaving st. denis, near paris. some of their caps were wholly of white worked muslin, with a thin clear border, and bound neatly round the head by a light blue or rose-coloured riband: the gowns also sometimes varied, being not unfrequently made of white cotton, with gay crimson sprigs upon them. we continually saw castles and churches upon the surrounding heights, and a great number of vineyards; but the villages and small towns were invariably dirty, and very ugly. since we had left basle, we had been travelling through alsace (ancient germany), in the department of the haut rhin. a few miles farther, brought us into the vicinity of very fine fresh pasture lands, bordered by willows, and relieved by a magnificently rich back ground of high hills, clothed with young beech-trees, intermingled with oak. here vast herds of cattle were feeding; close to the road, and forming a sort of border to the meadows, were extensive fields of potatoes, turnips, cabbages, and broccoli, &c. without any guard or inclosure; this (as i formerly mentioned) spoke well for the honesty of the poor people, and at all events proved them to be enjoying a degree of ease and plenty, as far as _vegetable_ riches were concerned. i remarked, in the hedges here, the first honey-suckles i had seen since leaving england. the costume of the young infants in this part of the world is very singular; they all wear little foundling-shaped caps of black velvet, studded with gold spots, or of white, with silver embroidery upon them, which has a very strange effect to an english eye; but among the french people there is such an infinite variety of fanciful attire, that nothing appears extraordinary or out of the common way. passing through a small village, we saw several groups of the peasantry, mingled with the austrian soldiery, all dressed in their gayest costume (it being sunday evening), and we caught the musical tones of the slow german waltz, to which national melody some of them were dancing. there was not the least appearance of riot or disorder; they were blamelessly rejoicing in the natural gaiety of their hearts, at the close of that day whose forenoon had been spent in the exercise of their religious duties;--that day which is devoted, in some parts of the world, to mere peaceful rest from labour, unattended with any demonstration of hilarity: in others, to a puritanical gloom, and rigid formality; but in this, to cheerful, social intercourse, and the enjoyment of a harmless mode of exercise--i say harmless, because the waltz is not looked upon by the natives here in at all the same light as it sometimes is, in the higher ranks of english society; and it is the only dance with which they are acquainted. how weak and absurd, how really wicked is the intolerance which leads people to condemn or quarrel with their fellow creatures, for the different points of view under which they regard this same day! although i cannot quote sterne as a moralist in all cases, i certainly do most sincerely coincide with him in his sentiments relative to religious feeling, as expressed in that chapter of his "sentimental journey," called "the grace." at the same time i am perfectly aware that a similar method of passing the sunday evening, after the service of the day is fulfilled, would not be advisable (even were it possible to try the experiment), in our own country. it does not agree with the character and habits of the nation; and the lower orders of people, (in the present state of existing circumstances), would assuredly debase it by every species of vice and immorality. they require a strongly marked line to be laid down, as a rule of right, from which all deviation would probably be dangerous. considering the subject in this light, i should therefore be concerned to behold any great change attempted in the manner of spending the sunday evening, and would certainly not be the first person to put myself forward in the outward display of different opinions to the generality of individuals in the country, and under the government to which i belong. we all owe an example, which may be salutary to our inferiors and dependents. at st. marie aux mines we were obliged to take five horses to the carriage, as the road beyond that place was very mountainous. we had the mental refreshment of observing numbers of sweetly pretty women here, all dressed with native taste and neatness; the children also were engaging in their appearance, and the men generally good-looking. french is almost universally spoken among them. ascending les montagnes de st. marie aux mines, the scenery presented a beautiful melange of wood and rock; the road likewise was excellent. we admired the way in which the postillions managed their horses, walking, the whole of the ascent, by their side, but obliging them to maintain an unrelaxing steady pace, and this by words alone: the poor animals were almost as intelligent as their drivers, obeying them with the utmost readiness and alacrity. i must here indulge myself in marvelling at that perversion of every generous and rational feeling, which leads man to torture and abuse these generous, noble creatures. i have before mentioned, that the conduct of the french drivers to their horses is highly praiseworthy. the sleek comely appearance of the post-horses throughout france, as well as the state of their feet, evinces that they are well fed and kindly treated, and during our whole tour, we met with no instance of brutality among the postillions. these roads have been greatly improved by the present king. we arrived to a late supper at st. diez, where we slept. we were not disposed to quarrel with _la poste_ for being a true country inn: the host had not been spoiled by too many english travellers, those _milords anglais_, of whose proverbial riches every aubergiste imagines he has a right to take advantage, and who in consequence render humbler _voyageurs_ of other nations ready to execrate their very names. we were taken for germans, and found our bills reasonable and moderate in consequence. the _maitresse de la maison_ was a kind-hearted, natural little _bourgeoise_, and very proud of her only child (a fine infant of nine or ten months), which she brought to shew us, in hopes of its being admired and praised. mothers, in higher life than this poor woman, are deeply sensible to the charms of this species of flattery; and, even when they know it to be flattery, are hardly ever able to resist feeling pleased and propitiated thereby. for myself, i plead guilty at once. the amount of our charges at st. diez it may perhaps be as well to mention: for supper (which was a good one), beds, apartments, wine, fruit, lemonade, and breakfast the next morning, we three persons did not pay more than twelve english shillings. we started from hence at eight o'clock the following day, and found the road for the first stage mountainous and woody. most of the cottages were ugly (as usual), and the inhabitants appeared dirty and lamentably poor. for the two or three following stages the country grew perceptibly flatter, and more open; the highway began to resume the old french line of undeviating straightness, and avenues of puny seedling trees were planted by its side. large (or rather vast) tracts of arable land, in all the baldness of a recent harvest, spread their tawny surface around, and the whole presented a picture of monotony that was far from agreeable. all the people in this part of france seemed attached to the memory of bonaparte. the postmaster at menilflin had a conversation with the gentlemen upon the subject. he said that "the nation entertained a good opinion of the private virtues of louis xviii., and wished him well; but it was impossible not to remember what vast improvements of various sorts bonaparte had introduced, what noble works he had achieved, and to what a pitch of military glory he had raised the country." he then asked, with some appearance of reproach, "why the english kept him so barbarously immured in a dreadful prison?" all attempt to soften this representation of napoleon's present circumstances seemed of no avail; our host only shook his head, and seemed to entertain a very strong persuasion of the needless cruelty of the british nation. beyond menilflin the scene again changed to a view of pasture lands, with hills and woods in the distance; and upon approaching the latter we found they were chiefly of oak. the potatoe was here generally cultivated, and in great quantities. formerly the french despised this fine vegetable, but at present they are fully sensible of its importance. just beyond the large town of luneville there were many vineyards, and a profusion of walnut-trees. the vines were planted alternately with the potatoe, in patches, and the contrast of the two different shades of green was singular, and not unpleasing. beggars at this time began to make their reappearance, clamouring, in the old cant, at the windows of the carriage. we now passed through a landscape of wonderful richness and verdure, and enjoyed a succession of woods and vineyards for many miles. it was the time of _les vendanges_. every waggon we met was loaded with grapes, and every peasant was reeling under the weight of a large wooden bucket (as long as himself) filled with the same luxuriant and picturesque burden. groups of young children followed, each, like a little bacchus, holding a ripe cluster in its hand, attended by several women carrying baskets of the fruit, and all of them singing, laughing, and warmly enjoying the cheerful scene. we reached nancy to dinner. this is a large, clean, and very handsome town, and the streets are much broader than in most foreign ones. they resounded, as the evening advanced, with joyous songs in chorus, sung (often in parts with considerable accuracy) by the common people, in honour of _les vendanges_; but their mirth soon became rather too loud for refined ears, as they shouted (men and women together) at the utmost pitch of their voices, a sort of recitative and chorus, dancing at the same time _en ronde_, and frequently mingling shrill bursts of laughter and shrieks with this wild and extraordinary harmony. every one of the _garçons_ of our inn ran out in the street to join the peasantry in the maddening dance. altogether it was a perfect bacchanalian festival, strongly resembling those ancient rites in honour of the rosy god mentioned in the pagan mythology. we went in the evening to the theatre, to see baptiste (from paris), who is reckoned one of the best french actors in comedy, and who performed here for one night only. the piece was a little comic pastoral, interspersed with music, but baptiste's _role_ was far too trifling for us to form any just idea of his talents--but how extraordinary it is that this nation, from time immemorial to the present day, should have been so totally ignorant of the true genius of vocal music. rousseau's well-known opinion (in his letter from st. preux to julie, upon the difference of italian and french taste in singing) came into my head more than once, and i most sincerely wished that the french would always confine themselves to what they so particularly excel in, the dance: their songs make the same sort of impression upon my mind, when compared with the beautiful productions of the italian school, that a savoyard cretin would do, if placed by the side of an apollo belvidere. the theatre at nancy was large, and the decorations and machinery tolerably good. it was the only one that we had seen illuminated in the boxes as well as upon the stage, a lustre being suspended above the pit, which shed a very pleasant light over all the house. the next day, sept. , we pursued our route. there is a beautiful grecian gateway at this end of the town, which is worthy of every traveller's observation. the road from hence was in a straight line with a tiresome avenue, as usual (_note_ s.), and led us through a fine wood of beech and other trees (none of them of large growth); but it lost nearly all picturesque effect, from the vicinity of this artificial avenue, and the unbending line of the highway. the country for many miles is very open, bounded by hills, and bearing some resemblance to the county of wiltshire. thoul, a pretty town, stands in the midst of wide plains, a small hill covered with vines sheltering it on one side. it is decorated with long rows of formal stiff poplars, above which tower the spires of its large cathedral. the river moselle runs near this place, an inconsiderable tame little stream, whose banks can boast no kind of beauty. the town was adorned by several vineyards and kitchen-gardens, full of well-cultivated vegetables and fruit; but the country beyond it was wide, flat, and insipid, for a considerable distance. at length we had the agreeable variety of entering a remarkably pretty, wild looking wood of young beech-trees, where we observed an ancient, lone, white mansion, greatly fallen to decay, yet evidently inhabited, and surrounded by gardens and walls for fruit, of large size and height: the latter also, as well as the house, much dilapidated. the wood, closing round on all sides, gave it an air of singularity and romance; nor could i restrain my fancy (during a subsequent uninteresting drive) from tracing the plan of a little _novel_ sort of history, relative to the inhabitants of this solitude. how delightfully would the late charlotte smith have done the same thing! all her novels (putting on one side her passion for democracy, and her blind prejudices in favour of the americans) interest my feelings extremely. they have a tone of elegant pathos (far removed from the sickly whine of affected sensibility) peculiar to themselves, and with many palpable faults are altogether bewitching. i am not singular in this taste, having, i believe, the honour of acquiescing in the opinion of some of the best judges. we were now close upon the borders of champaigne. immense woods extended in every direction, yet they were not sufficiently near, to vary the landscape agreeably. as far as the eye could distinctly reach, nothing but vast uninclosed stubble fields appeared in view. ligny, a large town (surrounded by vineyards), dull and dead-looking, and unenlivened by any attempt at costume among the inhabitants. there are large manufactories of cotton here. we dined and slept at bar le duc, a cheerful, neat town: inn (_au cigne_), where we met with excellent accommodations. at dinner we were attended by a merry active _paysanne_: she brought us some of the wine to taste, of this year's vintage. it was then in its first state, previous to fermentation, and much resembled sweet cyder fresh from the press. when properly clarified, and ripened by age, it would turn out, we were told, to be a strong bodied red wine. this town, for the last few years, had been successively occupied by soldiers of all nations, french, prussians, russians, austrians, and cossacks: the girl persisted in calling the latter _turques_, and told us that during the time of their _séjour_ here, all the young _paysannes_ of the neighbourhood had been carefully concealed (herself among the number), by their mothers: she said that at that period she had not entered service, but was living at home with _maman_. we observed _maman_ to be the usual title of all mothers, even in the lowest class of people, and that it was used by the grown up daughters (in speaking of them), contrary to our english custom, where the term is a refinement, and not much adopted, except by the little denisons of the nursery: the unlimited power of _mamans_ of all classes now appears to be very happily moderated and reduced; a great moral improvement which has taken place in france in consequence of the revolution. the unprincipled system of parents arranging the marriages of the children, independent of their own choice or consent, which existed during the _ancien régime_, being nearly abolished, and consequent crime and misery connected with it, much diminished. i was happy to learn, from one of the most enlightened and sensible persons at geneva, that since that awful _bouleversement_, conjugal attachment and fidelity, together with a taste for domestic pleasures, had rapidly increased, and this even in paris itself. i was assured that the english (judging of the whole from their experience of a part) have formed an erroneous idea of the general immorality of french families, particularly in fancying that their national and innate love of amusement (springing from climate, constitution, and other causes), interfered improperly with, or was preferred to the duties of husband and parent. this defence of the french nation (prompted by a benevolent love of truth and candour) appeared particularly amiable, coming as it did from persons, whose government, religious opinions, and habits of life, were so very different. leaving bar le duc, october st, we proceeded through several woods, and found the face of the country more varied and agreeable than during the journey of yesterday: there was an appearance of cleanliness and comfort in this town, not often met with in france: the dress of the inhabitants and the neatness of the shops bore a nearer resemblance to an english country town than any we had yet seen. it is situated on the river ornaine, and is as generally called bar sur ornaine as bar le duc. being on the high road to strasburg, we met with many german travellers, and were ourselves now, as well as formerly, frequently mistaken for natives of that country: the similarity of language, and perhaps of features and complexion, will naturally account for it. we soon entered champagne, and continually met bands of joyous peasants gathering the rich produce of the widely extended vineyards. this is the only province throughout france where the grape of which this wine is made will grow, and there must be, i should imagine, some great peculiarity of soil. the vintage, universally, was finer than had been known for years. it is generally remarked, that neither in paris, nor in any other place upon the continent, is wine to be met with of that very superior quality, which it is usual to find in england; no other nation can afford so high a price. in the vicinity of vitri sur marne, the country can scarcely be said to be the country, if trees, green fields, hills, and dales, give a right to that appellation. nothing but one vast boundless uninclosed surface of stubble was to be seen. it reminded me (in point of monotonous effect) of the plain in the _palais de la verité_ (mentioned by madame de genlis), where a fairy condemns the fickle-minded azelie to remain for years, in order to cure her of a passion for variety. during this wearisome journey, i know not what we should have done without moliere. fortunately we had him in the carriage, and i need not say what an enlivening _compagnon du voyage_ he was. turning our eyes therefore from the "dull realities" of the scene around, we were soon lost in an imaginary world, full of bright creations and amusing conceptions. we dined and slept at chalons sur marne, where we met with tolerable accommodations, but were charged very extravagantly, at _la cloche d'or_. we left it at half past six the next morning, and found the road equally uninteresting: i could hardly have formed an accurate idea of the bald sort of ugliness of a great portion of france, had i not thus witnessed its effect. the usual absence of costume continued, and there was nothing to break the dulness, or to give a ray of animation to the scene. we now and then passed through villages, built formally in a long street, with the high road running between the houses; dirty, ugly, tasteless, and mean! no gardens, consequently neither fruit nor vegetables to be seen, and as there was no appearance of trees for such an immense number of miles, we were at a loss to conceive how the wretched inhabitants warmed themselves sufficiently, during the winter, except from the heaps of cinder dirt, at some of their doors, which proved that coals were burned there; not a very common circumstance in france. troops of beggar children now ran after us, bold, audacious, and filthy in the extreme; all our charitable feelings froze in a moment. the farther we proceeded, the wider seemed to extend the vast and barren desert that surrounded us; never can i forget the disgust and ennui which assailed us in consequence. we tried to awaken our powers of conversation, when wearied by long continued reading, but it was a vain attempt. imagination seemed extinguished, and our minds experienced a degree of stagnation impossible to describe. after passing through this country, i must be allowed to differ, for the rest of my life, from those theoretical reasoners, who think it is even a point of morality to maintain, that the mental powers are not influenced by local impressions. i am convinced madame de genlis took her idea of the redoubted plain in her _palais de la verité_ before mentioned, from having travelled through _this_ part of her native country; for surely she would never have discovered its parallel in any other: even in the deserts of arabia the traveller finds a species of sublimity, and undergoes perils, which at all events prevent his suffering from _ennui_. in many of the villages (in all parts of france) we observed the sign of "saint nicholas." he is a very popular saint among this nation, and must have been a man of taste, as he stands forth the patron of all the young unmarried damsels, presiding over every _nôce_, and _fête de village_. he has chosen a most amusing _metier_ altogether, thereby proceeding upon a far more rational and sensible plan than some of his brethren, many of whom have made it their business to frown upon the enjoyments of mankind, and who pretend that the only way to merit heaven in the next world, is to make a purgatory of this. fortunately their unhappy followers are but few, (comparatively speaking); for the great body of the people, in all ages, seem to be of sir toby belch's opinion, when shakespeare makes him indignantly exclaim to his formal censor malvolio, "what! dost think that because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" these roman catholic puritans, let it be remembered, have the honour of being imitated very closely by many a worthy english heretic. it was a great relief to us to enter rheims, where we took a luncheon, and afterwards walked about the town, and saw the grand gothic cathedral. the _façade_ of this building is most superbly beautiful; the fret work, carving, and imagery, are in some respects superior to those of the duomo at milan; although the edifice is of a less precious material, much smaller, and in a different taste altogether. the interior is grandly simple, the windows of the most magnificent old stained glass, in patterns of infinite variety, and of the most glowing colours. but the outside of this cathedral is by far more imposing than any other part, and i was rather discomposed upon being obliged to acknowledge that our westminster abbey is extremely inferior in every way. here the ancient monarchs of france used to be crowned (as books of juvenile information have duly informed us), and we could scarcely imagine a finer place for such sort of spectacles. the portal was built in the thirteenth century, and the other parts as far back as about the seventh or eighth. we did not remark any thing particularly worth notice in the town (which is nevertheless very large), and the only thing which struck us forcibly was the general ugliness of the _bourgeoises_, and also the _paysannes_ of the environs. the country beyond was exactly in the same wearisome character with what we had already passed, and the road for many miles extremely bad. owing to repeated delays about horses, we did not arrive at laon until nine o'clock in the evening, by which means we lost the view of the two last stages before reaching that place, where the country is said to improve in a very striking manner, swelling occasionally into lofty hills, enriched with wood. laon is built upon an abrupt and rocky eminence, shaded by trees, and commanding a very extensive bird's-eye prospect of the surrounding country. there was a high appearance of cultivation and fertility of soil, while the immediate vicinity of vineyards, filled with cheerful groups of people, was very enlivening; but no costume was to be observed except the almost universal cross worn round the necks of the women[ ]. our inn (_à la hure_) was extremely well appointed; the host an attentive, civil old man, and we were waited upon with celerity and good humour by two young _paysannes_, who appeared to think no exertion too much which could contribute in any way to the comfort of the guests. one of them (like most french servants) chatted in a natural intelligent manner, was full of frolic and glee, ready to laugh at every thing, carolling with the gaiety of a lark, in all parts of the house, and seeming with difficulty to restrain herself from dancing at the same time: all this (as i once before mentioned) without the least degree of immodesty. what a wide difference exists between the ideas of a french and english woman in this situation of life, on the score of what is called propriety; a vague term, and changeable as the chamelion in its nature, however some worthy folks may suppose it confined solely to one shape, and one definite meaning. the sense of female honour among the country girls of france, so far from being too lax, or but little regarded, seems, on the contrary, to be particularly correct, and i have taken some pains in my inquiries upon this point. the loss of fair fame is rare, and always accompanied by the utmost disgrace and ignominy; so much so, that one young woman (whose heart was, i am sure, upon her lips) told me, "that if such a circumstance occurred, the unfortunate girl had much better be dead at once; for she never would be looked upon again by her youthful companions." let it, therefore, be remembered, to the credit of the french, that innocence is perfectly compatible with a lively freedom of manner, and that virtue can be firmly maintained, although unshackled by the restraints of primness and formality. i am now convinced that climate has a great deal more influence upon our feelings and conduct than i was once inclined to think. the chilly fogs and heavy weight of atmosphere in england do certainly affect, in some measure, the mental faculties of her children, rendering their ideas of morality needlessly gloomy and strict. i judge (in part) from my own occasional sensations. i never feel in so cheerful and happy a frame of mind, so willing to be candid, and to look upon persons and things in the most favourable light, as during a fine clear sunshiny day. _au contraire_, there have been moments in the cold, humidity, and dark gloom of winter, when i have been shocked and ashamed at perceiving my sentiments involuntarily narrowing into prejudices, and my spirits saddening in proportion. it has required a strong exertion of reason to get the better of such feelings, and even to divest myself of an idea of their being in some degree meritorious. i now hasten to continue the narrative of our route from laon to cambray, which was a day's journey. the road for the first stage presented us with a welcome variety of landscape, hills, dales, copses, shady villages, and fertile fields. never did we see such a profusion of fine apples as were growing here, on each side of the way. the peasants were gathering them as we passed, and heaps of this rosy, tempting fruit were piled up in hillocks beneath the trees from which they had just been taken. they were even strewed by thousands on the grass around, and were perpetually rolling into the road under the wheels of our carriage. such a triumph of pomona it is really difficult to imagine without having seen its animating effect! we stopt to purchase some, and found them truly delicious; spirited, juicy, and possessing all the acid sweetness of champaigne. we remarked the soil in which these trees so peculiarly flourished: it consisted of a loose, light, sandy earth, with a mixture of clay; but in those parts of england where they thrive best, i understand that the soil is of a redder earth, with not nearly so large a proportion of sand. for what are called common fruits and flowers i have ever entertained a preference, and for the latter i have almost a passion. the richest collection of rare exotics do not make the same agreeable and soothing impression upon my imagination as the unpretending garden which my mother formerly cultivated in surrey, or that of a dear and excellent friend, in which from childhood i have ever delighted, and where the common flowers of each season, fruits, vegetables, herbs, and shrubs, flourish together, in defiance of the more refined arrangements of modern days. i recollect the simple charms of her sitting-room windows (shadowed by the climbing honeysuckle and sweetbriar), and those of my mother's pretty doorway, half lost in a thick bower of clematis, with the liveliest feelings of pleasure, while i have totally forgotten a hundred prouder boudoirs, rich in the odours of tuberose, cape jessamine, night-blowing geraniums, and other splendid extravagancies. the country for the last stage before we reached st. quentin (a strong-built large town) was very fast relapsing into the baldness of that which had so lately annoyed us; but the peasantry were generally much better looking, cleaner, and altogether gayer in their appearance. this place is in the direct road from paris to brussels. we arrived at cambray to supper, slept, and breakfasted there the next morning, when we proceeded towards the coast. the inn was not very comfortable, although we had the best apartments in the house. it was a very striking and singular spectacle to behold, as we now did, english sentinels on duty at the drawbridges of this town, and an encampment of the same troops just beneath its walls. how would john bull have writhed and raged with shame and grief, if the scene had been exhibited _vice versa_ in our own country? can we then (with any pretence to candour and justice) affect to wonder at the deep-felt disgust and dislike of the french towards us? we saw the fine regiments of our foot guards, and the th, or sharp-shooters, here. all the men looked clean, bright, and cheerful, and most of them were decorated with waterloo medals. our hearts sensibly warmed at sight of the well-remembered countenance of our countrymen, and (without any degree of unjust partiality) we could not but be forcibly struck with the superiority of appearance and deportment displayed by our english officers, when we compared them with all the french whom we had had an opportunity of observing. there is, i think (generally speaking), a greater suavity and benevolence in the manners of a frenchman of birth and education; there is a higher degree of polish in his address; but in point of personal appearance i must decidedly award the preference to our manly, graceful, dignified countrymen. an english gentleman (in the true acceptation of the word) is the flower of the world. i do not mean to discuss at length, the different moral virtues and mental perfections of either nation. i have neither time nor sufficient experience and information for such a task; but of this i am convinced, "that the head and heart of our countrymen (taking their fairest specimens) may sustain a comparison with those of any other race of men upon this habitable globe, and fail not to come forth with honour and credit from the investigation." of the _bourgeoisie_ of each country i cannot pretend to judge; but with respect to the unsophisticated peasantry, i feel by no means clear that the superiority lies on our side. we were informed that a great many of the english soldiers at cambray, and elsewhere, had taken wives from among the _paysannes_, but that the _petites bourgeoises_ did not listen so favourably to their vows. every where we had the gratification of hearing praises of the orderly, quiet, and moderate behaviour of the british regiments. the country beyond this town, for a considerable distance, was uninteresting, and the lesser towns and villages were very ugly. what was wanting in trees seemed to be made up in windmills, which spread their long arms abroad in every direction. had don quixote been alive, and travelling this road, he would have found himself in the predicament of poor arlechino, _dans l'embarras des richesses_. we now passed through douay, a clean, gay-looking, strong-built town. it was more than usually alive, from the circumstance of a fair which was going on in the market-place. among the different articles exposed for sale, i was struck by the cotton handkerchiefs worn by the _paysannes_. their richness and beauty of colour were very remarkable, the dyes being brilliant beyond any that we possess, and the patterns very fanciful and pretty. here the women adopt the same picturesque double gold drops in the ears, as those of calais; wearing likewise richly-worked heavy crosses upon the bosom, and long loose cloaks, made of coloured linen or black silk, frilled round, with a very deep hood. two pretty little girls, from twelve to thirteen years of age, had a highly graceful effect, as they passed through the crowd, in white gauze or muslin veils, extremely transparent, and reaching to the ground, thrown carelessly over their heads. they appeared like young sylphs, flitting in all their purity among the gayer, yet grosser, figures which surrounded them. we arrived in very good time at lille (frequently spelt lisle), and entered through a most beautiful gateway of tuscan architecture. this town is extensive, well built, lively, and interesting: there are excellent shops, with signs of the most fanciful and ingenious devices, like those of paris. this place is reckoned impregnable, and the citadel is of wonderful strength, being the masterpiece of vauban, the celebrated engineer. our inn (_l'hotel de bourbon_) was very comfortable in every respect, except that we were bitten by bugs. they, however, are so common in various parts of the continent that the traveller must make up his mind to bear with them as things of course. we were amused by the humour of a _valet de place_ here, who was also hair-dresser and barber: he was a true disciple of the renowned vicar of bray, having squared his politics according to every change in the government, and contrived to thrive equally under all. he assured us (as if he had been enumerating his virtues) that _vive la liberté! vive napoleon!_ or _vivent les bourbons!_ was all the same thing to him; and he had constantly held himself in readiness to call out for each, provided they left heads enough for him to find hair to friz, and beards to mow. his countenance made us laugh the moment he appeared, being the counterpart of liston's, with that peculiar expression of _niaiserie_ which is so irresistibly ludicrous in him. it was no wonder that we were amazed by the number of windmills in the environs of this town; for we learnt that there were no less than two hundred used in making oil, &c. we quitted lille the next morning, and in changing horses at bailleul we discovered that the cap and linchpin of the axletree had fallen off. they were found about a quarter of a mile behind us; and it was very extraordinary that this accident did not occasion our overturn, as the wheel had really no support. the country now began to improve in point of trees and verdure, but still wore an air of formality. a disagreeable _patois_ is spoken here. the approach to cassel was very pretty; the trees gradually lost their prim regularity, and formed a rich wood, which entirely covered a high hill, called mont cassel. it is the only one in the netherlands, and commands a most extensive view: no less than twenty-two fortified towns may be discerned from it. most of the cottages in these environs are thatched, and resemble those in england, each having a little garden (inclosed by neat hedges) full of vegetables. from the summit of the above-mentioned hill, we were much pleased by a prospect of great fertility, and some beauty. seen from this distance, the artificial mode of planting the trees was not distinguished, and they had a very luxuriant woody effect altogether. just at the entrance of cassel is a churchyard, in which we observed a tall crucifix, with a wooden image of our saviour, larger than life, painted flesh colour, and having a stream of blood flowing from the side (made of a long strip of wire, standing far out in a curve from the body), and which was caught in a cup by another clumsy image (dutch built) representing a cherubim. the latter was suspended in the air, by some contrivance (not discoverable at that distance), so as to appear flying. nothing could well be more absurd, or in a worse taste! we dined and slept at st. omer, a large town. we found at the inn (_l'ancienne poste_) very comfortable accommodations; but it was full of english officers, who had a mess there, and in consequence we could not get a morsel to eat, or a creature to attend upon us, till these _messieurs_ were first served. they were assembled there in readiness for a ball, which was to take place somewhere in the town, at night. suffering under the sharpest pangs of hunger, we felt the warmth of our feelings towards our compatriots rather decreasing; but we recovered our nationality after dinner. the next morning we went on to calais. it was rather a pretty drive the first two stages; the country woody, and the villages much neater than usual. no costume, however, made its appearance (except the long ear-ring and cross), neither could we observe any beauty. we breakfasted this morning at the small post-house of ardres. the old dame there told us that the behaviour of the british troops had been most exemplary, and that they would be missed and regretted by some among the natives. we were now in picardy, which we understood was more infested with beggars than most other provinces. some half starved children ran after the carriage, screaming the popular air of _vive henri quatre_. we gave them a sous or two, purely for the sake of that _père de son peuple_, whose memory is yet green in their hearts. it is in comparing his species of greatness with that of napoleon, that i am most forcibly impressed with the inferiority of the latter. the union of talent and benevolence in a sovereign (like that of judgment and imagination in an author) seems almost indispensable; and, at all events, there can be no perfection of character without it. how awfully requisite are both these qualities in the head of an absolute monarchy, and how devoutly to be wished for, even under the less extensively important influence which (like our own) is limited by the laws of the constitution. those persons, who, from a timid sort of morality, would exalt mere goodness, in opposition to superior talent, seem to me to be thereby counteracting the influence of the very principle upon which they profess to act. those, on the other hand, who adopt the contrary mode of reasoning are yet worse, for they assert an opinion which is in direct defiance of humanity, morality, and religion. comparing napoleon with some of his crowned cotemporaries, i must confess that my admiration of him alarmingly increases; but place him by the side of _henri quatre_, and he sinks at once. madame de stael has beautifully and justly expressed my own sentiments; i must indulge myself in quoting her eloquent language. speaking of another political tyrant, (cardinal richelieu) she remarks, "on a beaucoup vanté le talent de ce ministre, parce qu'il a maintenu la grandeur politique de la france; et sous ce rapport, on ne sçauroit lui réfuser des talens superieurs! mais _henri quatre_ atteignoit au même but, en gouvernant par des principes de justice et de verité! le génie se manifeste non seulement dans le triomphe qu'on remporte, mais dans les moyens qu'on a pris pour l'obtenir." upon approaching calais, we felt our courage quail beneath the idea of the passage to dover, which was now so near at hand; but as it never answers any rational purpose to dwell upon disagreeables which are inevitable, and as this transient purgatory was the only means of attaining the paradise of english comforts that awaited us on the other side of the water, we made up our minds, and prepared for our fate with becoming resolution. we were very fortunate in arriving at quilliac's early in the day, as we had an opportunity of taking possession of a most comfortable suite of apartments, which would not have fallen to our share, half an hour later; for the concourse of equipages which soon followed ours into the inn-yard was quite astonishing. quilliac's is a magnificent hotel, and seems to be organized in a manner that does credit to the head of the master. they make up from a hundred and fifty to a hundred and sixty beds, and the day of our arrival, they were serving up little separate dinners to a hundred and forty persons, exclusive of servants. yet the attendance was by no means hurried, or our comforts of any sort diminished, upon that account: every waiter and _fille de chambre_ seemed to know their particular walk, nor could we observe any awkward scrambling or jostling among them. determined not again to encounter the annoyance of a crowded packet, we desired inquiries to be made for any family of respectability, who might wish to share a private one with us: fortune befriended us, for we soon beheld some english friends drive into the court, who agreed to join forces, and accordingly we took the antigone (capitaine margollé), between us. she was accounted the best sailer in the harbour, and we found the truth of her reputation confirmed the next morning, when at nine o'clock we all embarked. she brought us into dover before several other packets, which had sailed from calais three hours previous to ourselves; but the winds were nevertheless against us, as we were becalmed for seven hours, and the passage lasted altogether ten. i was the only person on board who suffered much; but i speedily forgot all my wretchedness, when i found myself happily landed at dover, and seated by an english fireside. we left that place the next day (october th), and felt that however we might justly admire foreign countries, our native land possessed a charm above all others, for the hearts of its children. we were delighted by the richness of the woods, and the smiling fertility of the landscape between canterbury and sittingbourne, and also by the peculiar air of neatness and cleanliness displayed in every cottage and house, both in the towns and villages: their superiority in these respects to those of france was very apparent; but i could not help being struck by the different costume, countenance and air of the lower classes of my countrywomen, from what i had been used to behold for the last few weeks among the daughters of the continent. the former certainly did (since the truth must be told) appear what is called dowdy and heavy, and the general expression of face was somewhat sullen, in comparison. i also greatly missed the brilliant dark eye, and the charming shadowy eyelash, which is generally to be met with abroad. we were once more gratified by the pre-eminent swiftness, ease, and dexterity of our english mode of posting; the horses really seemed to fly, and their spruce effect, together with that of their drivers, contrasted favourably with those we had left on the other side the channel. passing through rochester, to dartford, the river thames presented a most imposing spectacle, being covered with innumerable vessels in full sail, bound for london. a foreigner must have been impressed with a superb idea of our commercial wealth and glory. at length we reached home late in the evening, and, full of grateful pleasure for all we had enjoyed during our absence from it, returned to the worship of our penates with all the fervour and sincerity of true hearted, though not wrong headed, britons. footnotes: [ ] i had reason, however, afterwards to doubt the accuracy of the rural dame's assertion. [ ] the principal beauty of this cathedral is the choir, and it is also famous for gobelin tapestry. [ ] vide southey's miscellaneous poems. [ ] vide spurzheim's craniology. [ ] vide bath guide, page . [ ] goldsmith. [ ] vide bath guide. [ ] lord byron. [ ] some of the original productions of this person are in the possession of collectors in our own country. [ ] the _promenade_ also, near the cathedral, is remarkable for the beautiful prospect it discloses of the glaciers, particularly at sunset, when the rose-coloured tints upon their snowy summits are wonderfully fine. [ ] this town is memorable for the sanguinary contests between blucher and the french army, during which it was taken and retaken several times. the epicure will here find the best _grenouilles_ in france: we did not chance to meet with this delicacy, nor with another, which, however common here, does not exactly accord with the taste of john bull, viz. snails. notes. note (a.) page , line . _aromatic plants._ near the summits of these mountains, and in the highest region of vegetation, is found the _gennipi_, a plant of the camomile genus, and which, next to the _sang du bouquetin_, or wild goat (which, as an inhabitant of these places, though now a very rare one, is worthy of mention), is the most powerful sudorific, and of high estimation in the treatment of pleurisy. note (b.) page , line . _the devil's bridge--pont du diable._ we cannot too much admire the boldness and skill with which this extraordinary work has been achieved in such a country, and one knows not in what age. the marvellous histories believed concerning it by the credulous peasantry are scarcely to be wondered at. suffice it to say, that its dimensions are a single arch of twenty-four feet in the span, fourteen wide, and seventy-two above the surface of the stream; but in this circumstance alone (considered without reference to the wild sublimity of the surrounding scenery), there is nothing extraordinary to english eyes, who may view the whole width of the thames at london embraced by three arches of such stupendous dimensions. note (c.) page , line . _mont cenis._ upon the plain of mont cenis are found large masses of the gypsum, or alabaster, from which the plaster of paris is made. the more sheltered parts are bright with the flowers of the _rhododendron ferrugineum_, which i have in another part of my work described. quantities of the beautiful little blue butterfly, called the argus, are seen here, and (though not so common) that fine fly, named _l'apollon des alpes_. besides the great wild goat (_le bouquetin_), there are in these mountains the chamois, with the marmottes, which require bold and active chasseurs to be got at: they are shot by single ball. the whistling sort of cry of the marmotte resembles that of some birds of prey. it is the signal they give upon being alarmed. when fat, they are considered as rather delicate food. we saw one unfortunate little animal of this species in a tame state, belonging to a peasant boy, who had taught it to shoulder a stick like a firelock, and to twirl itself about in a manner difficult to describe, that he called dancing. he sung at the same time, to animate the poor creature's reluctant exertions, a little _patois_ song, in which the words _dansez a madama_ were frequently repeated. the tune haunted me for some time afterwards, and was really not inharmonious. note (d.) page , line . _consists in their vineyards._ there is something awfully striking in the sudden devastation occasioned by the summer storms, too frequent in these climates. in the same garden where at noon you had been walking under the shade of pergolas (i. e. latticed frames of wood, the roofs of which were fretted with innumerable and rich clusters of grapes) surrounded by fig and peach trees full of fruit, you would often find in the evening the whole ground strewed with broken branches, their fruit quite crushed, and hardly a leaf left upon them. note (e.) page , line . _ague and fever._ we were induced, by the opinion of several persons to whom we related this indisposition, to believe that it was most probably brought on by the sudden transition from the intense heat of the shores of the lago maggiore to the equally intolerable cold of the simplon. mr. b. was not provided with that additional clothing which might have obviated the ill effects of the latter. the complaint, however, went off very quickly in the subsequent health-inspiring air of switzerland. note (f.) page , line . _mont st. bernard._ before bonaparte formed his magnificent passage across the simplon, one of the principal roads from switzerland into italy lay over this grand mountain. our line of road did not permit us to visit it, which we much regretted. it was always highly interesting, from the histories, both ancient and modern, which belong to it. by this route it is supposed that hannibal led his army over the alps; not by softening the rocks with vinegar, but by refreshing his fatigued troops by a mixture of it with water. he is said also to have founded here a splendid temple, dedicated to jupiter. it is certain that several remains of antiquity, medals, inscriptions, sacrificial instruments, &c. have been found here, and are preserved in the museum at turin. that the modern hannibal, with or without vinegar, led his army over the st. bernard, we too well know. of the baths of loësche, in the upper valais, we also heard much; but of these, as well as the grand st. bernard, i can only speak from the description of others. notwithstanding the difficult roads which lead to the baths, they are much frequented, and are, we were told, justly celebrated for their salutary effects. it must be truly curious to see water too hot to bear the hand in, of the temperature of degrees of reaumur (boiling water being ), springing from the earth in the midst of this icy country; a phenomenon, however, with which those travellers who have frequented still colder parts of the world are perfectly well acquainted. this water has the peculiar quality of restoring faded flowers to life and freshness, and of preserving them so for some time, when one would rather imagine that it would boil them. i do not here mean to offer a poetical allusion to female beauty, but merely to relate a literal fact. the mode of bathing is too singular not to mention, although i cannot say much of its delicacy. there are four square open divisions, in which twenty or thirty persons of both sexes (attired, as properly as may be, in flannel dresses) bathe all together. they sit very comfortably for half an hour, with a small desk before each, upon which they have their books, and little planks are seen floating on the water, full of holes, in which fragrant flowers and branches of verdure are inserted. note (g.) page , line . _a celebrated waterfall--cascade of the pisse vache._ there are several of the same name in switzerland; but this, i believe, is reckoned the most remarkable. in the neighbourhood of these mountains, one sees with pleasure the industry of man repaid by considerable fertility. the cottages are comfortable, and surrounded with orchards of various fruit-trees. the natural and ungrafted cherry, called _mérise_, is much cultivated in these parts. it is from this fruit that the famed _kirschenwasser_, or cherry-water, is made, and which is not only an agreeable cordial, but a valuable medicine among the peasantry, subsisting, as they do, so much upon a crude and milky diet, not easy of digestion. it was offered to mr. b. during his illness, by a rustic host, with strong commendations. note (h.) page , line . _glaciers._ the height of these glaciers, at their utmost point, is feet above the level of the sea. voltaire might well say, "ces monts sourcilleux, qui pressent les enfers, et qui fendent les cieux." but there is another point of view in which the natural philosopher will contemplate these stupendous mountains with admiration and gratitude: i mean as being the immense and inexhaustible reservoirs of those springs and rivers which make so essential a part in the beautiful and beneficial economy of nature. in these particular regions will be found the sources of the rhone, the rhine, and the tessin, with a multitude of other rivers; and some idea of the enormous quantity of water that they produce may be formed from the known fact, that the magnificent lake of geneva (measuring above twenty-six square leagues) is raised ten feet and a half, by the mere melting of the snows during the summer. strawberries of the finest flavour may be gathered almost at the very edge of the ice, and the adjoining woods are full of wild flowers. note (i.) page , line . _mines of gold, silver, and lead._ it has been thought by some, that it is not so much from the poverty of the state as from a moral policy that the exploration of these dangerous productions has been purposely discouraged. this is the nobler reason of the two. haller (the favourite poet of the swiss) in his poem on the alps, exclaims, "the shepherd of the alps sees these treasures flow beneath his feet--what an example to mankind! he lets them flow on." and he feels a security in the rude simplicity of his country, that holds out nothing to tempt the invasion of avarice or ambition-- "tout son front hérissé, n'offre aux desirs de l'homme rien qui puisse tenter l'avarice de rome." _crebillon, dans rhadamiste._ note (j.) page , line . _for which this place is celebrated._ among other interesting objects to be seen here are the cabinets of natural history of monsieur de saussure, so well known for his scientific and enterprising researches, and of monsieur de luc. petrifactions of the _oursis_, or sea hedgehog, and of the _corni d'ammon_, are preserved in this collection, which were found in the alps of savoy, feet above the level of the sea. note (k.) page , line . _powerless and inadequate._ it will not, i am sure, be unacceptable to the reader if i here transcribe part of the beautiful description to which i have alluded. speaking (in letter ) of the exhilarating but soothing effect of the mountain air, he says--"il semble qu'en s'elevant au-dessûs du sejour des hommes, on y laisse tous les sentimens bas et terrestres; et qu'à mesure qu'on approche des regions ethereés, l'ame contracte quelque chose de leur inalterable pureté: on y est grave sans melancholie, paisible sans indolence, content d'être et de penser. les plaisirs y sont moins ardens, les passions plus modereés. tous les desirs trop vifs, s'emoussent; ils perdent cette point aigue qui les rendent douloureux; il ne laissent au fond du coeur qu'une emotion legère et douce, et c'est ainsi qu'un heureux climat, fait servir à la felicité de l'homme, les passions qui font ailleurs son tourment." without being so unfortunate as to possess rousseau's irritable temper and fiery passions, any person of sensibility must be forcibly struck by the truth of these remarks, in passing through the same scenes. note (l.) page , line . _lake of morat._ this lake in severe winters freezes sufficiently to bear the heaviest loads. there is a popular and vulgar idea in the country, that whoever falls into this lake can no more be recovered; but another quality attached to it (of rather superior probability) is, that its fish are of so excellent a nature, as to sell, in time of lent, at two _creutzers_ a pound dearer than those of any other. one cannot see without surprise, and even a degree of indignant concern, that the ancient chapel, containing the bones of the bourguignons, slain by the swiss (then the allies of louis xi.) in , should be no longer in existence. these remains of mortality were, when we beheld them, thrown upon the ground, totally unsheltered from the air, in a most careless and irreverent manner. formerly (i have heard) the inhabitants of morat used to celebrate the anniversary of this national triumph with feast and song. voltaire, in his "mélange de poesies," alludes to this triumph of liberty in some truly elevated lines. note (m.) page , line . _tan-coloured wood._ this is the cleft fir of which the cottages here are constructed. they have galleries running round the outsides, protected by the projecting roofs. sometimes thatch is used; but in the more mountainous parts of the country they are tiled (if i may be allowed the expression) with pieces of slit wood, which are kept firm by the weight of large stones lying upon them: the whole having a most picturesque appearance. the wide projection of these roofs not only secures their galleries from the snows, but affords convenient shelter for their fire-wood and various other articles. a granary is sometimes built over the dwelling-rooms at the top of these houses, which is rendered attainable by means of a sort of bridge (moveable, i rather think), upon which we ourselves witnessed the singular spectacle of a cart and horses conveying a load of grain to this exalted store-chamber. these wooden fabrics, although one would not suppose so, are warmer than those of brick or stone; but then, in case of fire, its ravage is dreadful, from the quantity of turpentine contained in the fir planks. note (n.) page , line . _the alps._ the alps of switzerland are certainly the highest points of europe. but however elevated these mountains may be, and removed as they now are, a hundred leagues from the sea, there can be no doubt of their having once been covered by its waters. this is clearly demonstrated by the fossile maritime remains which are found in some of their highest parts, as well as by those of shells, fishes, and animals, now only existing in other quarters of the globe. what astonishing changes the surface of our earth has undergone in periods anterior to the mosaic history, may be contemplated from the circumstance of the petrified trunk of the palm-tree, and the bones of elephants, being found in siberia. note (o.) page , line . _william tell._ although the limited time for our tour did not permit us to visit either the lac de thoun, or the village of kussnacht, both of them consecrated in the eyes of the swiss, by the chapels built there in memory of guillaume tell, travellers must not leave switzerland without some mention of this renowned patriot. it was at the latter place that the tyrant ghessler fell by his hand. there is (we were told) a tolerably painted representation of the occurrence on the walls of the chapel, and under it the following inscription in german verse, the french translation of which is this: "ici a eté tué par tell, l'orgueilleux ghessler. ici est le berceau de la noble liberté des suisses, . combien durerâ t'elle? encore long tems, pourvu que nous ressemblions à nos ancêtres." note (p.) page , line . _the rhododendron._ this is the _rhododendron ferrugineum_, which is not much cultivated in our gardens. note (q.) page , line . _over the doors._ what a stupendous conception must the reader form to himself of this range of mountains, when i tell him, that the ascent and descent make together forty-two miles. note (r.) page , line . _soleure._ near soleure is the hermitage of st. frêne. no traveller, i am assured, should miss seeing this beautiful and romantic spot. that we unfortunately did so was owing only to our not having been previously aware of its existence. note (s.) page , line . _avenue as usual._ i ought (in justice) to have recollected, when i exclaimed so much against them, that in forming these roads, convenience, not taste, was consulted. no one can be more grateful to the powers of convenience than myself; but it is difficult to reconcile a lover of the picturesque to so cruel a divorce between the _utile et dolce_. the end. london: printed by thomas davison, whitefriars. transcriber's notes obvious punctuation errors repaired. no attempt was made to correct the diacritics in french. space removed: "green[ ]gages" (p. ), "for[ ]ever" (p. ). hyphen added: "above[-]mentioned" (p. ). hyphen removed: "water[-]fall" (p. ), "way[-]side" (p. ). alternate spellings not changed: "champagne" / "champaigne", "anglais" / "anglois". p. : "farewel" changed to "farewell" (her farewell performance). p. : "aad" changed to "and" (sullenness and malignity). p. : "broood" changed to "brood" (their young brood). p. : "shakspeare's" changed to "shakespeare's" (shakespeare's "spinners and knitters in the sun"). p. : "reblance" changed to "resemblance" (it bore some resemblance). p. : "jaques" changed to "jacques" (rue de jean jacques rousseau). p. : "recal" changed to "recall" (while i recall his magical description). p. : duplicate "in" removed (all dressed in their gayest costume). [illustration: she paid a visit to the little garden. frontispiece.] what katy did next by susan coolidge this story is dedicated to the many little girls (some of them grown to be great girls now), _who, during the last twelve years, have begged that something more might be told them about katy carr, and what she did after leaving school._ contents chapter i. an unexpected guest ii. an invitation iii. rose and rosebud iv. on the "spartacus" v. story-book england vi. across the channel vii. the pension suisse viii. on the track of ulysses ix. a roman holiday x. clear shining after rain xi. next illustrations she paid a visit to the little garden "she was having the measles on the back shelf of the closet, you know" katy was feeding gretchen out of a big bowl full of bread and milk amy was left in peace with her fawn chapter i. an unexpected guest. the september sun was glinting cheerfully into a pretty bedroom furnished with blue. it danced on the glossy hair and bright eyes of two girls, who sat together hemming ruffles for a white muslin dress. the half-finished skirt of the dress lay on the bed; and as each crisp ruffle was completed, the girls added it to the snowy heap, which looked like a drift of transparent clouds or a pile of foamy white-of-egg beaten stiff enough to stand alone. these girls were clover and elsie carr, and it was clover's first evening dress for which they were hemming ruffles. it was nearly two years since a certain visit made by johnnie to inches mills, of which some of you have read in "nine little goslings;" and more than three since clover and katy had returned home from the boarding-school at hillsover. clover was now eighteen. she was a very small clover still, but it would have been hard to find anywhere a prettier little maiden than she had grown to be. her skin was so exquisitely fair that her arms and wrists and shoulders, which were round and dimpled like a baby's, seemed cut out of daisies or white rose leaves. her thick, brown hair waved and coiled gracefully about her head. her smile was peculiarly sweet; and the eyes, always clover's chief beauty, had still that pathetic look which made them irresistible to tender-hearted people. elsie, who adored clover, considered her as beautiful as girls in books, and was proud to be permitted to hem ruffles for the dress in which she was to burst upon the world. though, as for that, not much "bursting" was possible in burnet, where tea-parties of a middle-aged description, and now and then a mild little dance, represented "gayety" and "society." girls "came out" very much, as the sun comes out in the morning,--by slow degrees and gradual approaches, with no particular one moment which could be fixed upon as having been the crisis of the joyful event. "there," said elsie, adding another ruffle to the pile on the bed,--"there's the fifth done. it's going to be ever so pretty, i think. i'm glad you had it all white; it's a great deal nicer." "cecy wanted me to have a blue bodice and sash," said clover, "but i wouldn't. then she tried to persuade me to get a long spray of pink roses for the skirt." "i'm so glad you didn't! cecy was always crazy about pink roses. i only wonder she didn't wear them when she was married!" yes; the excellent cecy, who at thirteen had announced her intention to devote her whole life to teaching sunday school, visiting the poor, and setting a good example to her more worldly contemporaries, had actually forgotten these fine resolutions, and before she was twenty had become the wife of sylvester slack, a young lawyer in a neighboring town! cecy's wedding and wedding-clothes, and cecy's house-furnishing had been the great excitement of the preceding year in burnet; and a fresh excitement had come since in the shape of cecy's baby, now about two months old, and named "katherine clover," after her two friends. this made it natural that cecy and her affairs should still be of interest in the carr household; and johnnie, at the time we write of, was making her a week's visit. "she _was_ rather wedded to them," went on clover, pursuing the subject of the pink roses. "she was almost vexed when i wouldn't buy the spray. but it cost lots, and i didn't want it in the least, so i stood firm. besides, i always said that my first party dress should be plain white. girls in novels always wear white to their first balls; and fresh flowers are a great deal prettier, any way, than artificial. katy says she'll give me some violets to wear." "oh, will she? that will be lovely!" cried the adoring elsie. "violets look just like you, somehow. oh, clover, what sort of a dress do you think i shall have when i grow up and go to parties and things? won't it be awfully interesting when you and i go out to choose it?" just then the noise of some one running upstairs quickly made the sisters look up from their work. footsteps are very significant at times, and these footsteps suggested haste and excitement. another moment, the door opened, and katy dashed in, calling out, "papa!--elsie, clover, where's papa?" "he went over the river to see that son of mr. white's who broke his leg. why, what's the matter?" asked clover. "is somebody hurt?" inquired elsie, startled at katy's agitated looks. "no, not hurt, but poor mrs. ashe is in such trouble." mrs. ashe, it should be explained, was a widow who had come to burnet some months previously, and had taken a pleasant house not far from the carrs'. she was a pretty, lady-like woman, with a particularly graceful, appealing manner, and very fond of her one child, a little girl. katy and papa both took a fancy to her at once; and the families had grown neighborly and intimate in a short time, as people occasionally do when circumstances are favorable. "i'll tell you all about it in a minute," went on katy. "but first i must find alexander, and send him off to meet papa and beg him to hurry home." she went to the head of the stairs as she spoke, and called "debby! debby!" debby answered. katy gave her direction, and then came back again to the room where the other two were sitting. "now," she said, speaking more collectedly, "i must explain as fast as i can, for i have got to go back. you know that mrs. ashe's little nephew is here for a visit, don't you?" "yes, he came on saturday." "well, he was ailing all day yesterday, and to-day he is worse, and she is afraid it is scarlet-fever. luckily, amy was spending the day with the uphams yesterday, so she scarcely saw the boy at all; and as soon as her mother became alarmed, she sent her out into the garden to play, and hasn't let her come indoors since, so she can't have been exposed to any particular danger yet. i went by the house on my way down street, and there sat the poor little thing all alone in the arbor, with her dolly in her lap, looking so disconsolate. i spoke to her over the fence, and mrs. ashe heard my voice, and opened the upstairs window and called to me. she said amy had never had the fever, and that the very idea of her having it frightened her to death. she is such a delicate child, you know." "oh, poor mrs. ashe!" cried clover; "i am so sorry for her! well, katy, what did you do?" "i hope i didn't do wrong, but i offered to bring amy here. papa won't object, i am almost sure." "why, of course he won't. well?" "i am going back now to fetch amy. mrs. ashe is to let ellen, who hasn't been in the room with the little boy, pack a bagful of clothes and put it out on the steps, and i shall send alexander for it by and by. you can't think how troubled poor mrs. ashe was. she couldn't help crying when she said that amy was all she had left in the world. and i nearly cried too, i was so sorry for her. she was so relieved when i said that we would take amy. you know she has a great deal of confidence in papa." "yes, and in you too. where will you put amy to sleep, katy?" "what do you think would be best? in dorry's room?" "i think she'd better come in here with you, and i'll go into dorry's room. she is used to sleeping with her mother, you know, and she would be lonely if she were left to herself." "perhaps that will be better, only it is a great bother for you, clovy dear." "i don't mind," responded clover, cheerfully. "i rather like to change about and try a new room once in a while. it's as good as going on a journey--almost." she pushed aside the half-finished dress as she spoke, opened a drawer, took out its contents, and began to carry them across the entry to dorry's room, doing everything with the orderly deliberation that was characteristic of whatever clover did. her preparations were almost complete before katy returned, bringing with her little amy ashe. amy was a tall child of eight, with a frank, happy face, and long light hair hanging down her back. she looked like the pictures of "alice in wonderland;" but just at that moment it was a very woful little alice indeed that she resembled, for her cheeks were stained with tears and her eyes swollen with recent crying. "why, what is the matter?" cried kind little clover, taking amy in her arms, and giving her a great hug. "aren't you glad that you are coming to make us a visit? we are." "mamma didn't kiss me for good-by," sobbed the little girl. "she didn't come downstairs at all. she just put her head out of the window and said, 'good-by; amy, be very good, and don't make miss carr any trouble,' and then she went away. i never went anywhere before without kissing mamma for good-by." "mamma was afraid to kiss you for fear she might give you the fever," explained katy, taking her turn as a comforter. "it wasn't because she forgot. she felt worse about it than you did, i imagine. you know the thing she cares most for is that you shall not be ill as your cousin walter is. she would rather do anything than have that happen. as soon as he gets well she will kiss you dozens of times, see if she doesn't. meanwhile, she says in this note that you must write her a little letter every day, and she will hang a basket by a string out of the window, and you and i will go and drop the letters into the basket, and stand by the gate and see her pull it up. that will be funny, won't it? we will play that you are my little girl, and that you have a real mamma and a make-believe mamma." "shall i sleep with you?" demanded amy, "yes, in that bed over there." "it's a pretty bed," pronounced amy after examining it gravely for a moment. "will you tell me a story every morning?" [illustration: "she was having the measles on the back shelf of the closet, you know."] "if you don't wake me up too early. my stories are always sleepy till seven o'clock. let us see what ellen has packed in that bag, and then i'll give you some drawers of your own, and we will put the things away." the bag was full of neat little frocks and underclothes stuffed hastily in all together. katy took them out, smoothing the folds, and crimping the tumbled ruffles with her fingers. as she lifted the last skirt, amy, with a cry of joy, pounced on something that lay beneath it. "it is maria matilda," she said, "i'm glad of that. i thought ellen would forget her, and the poor child wouldn't know what to do with me and her little sister not coming to see her for so long. she was having the measles on the back shelf of the closet, you know, and nobody would have heard her if she had cried ever so loud." "what a pretty face she has!" said katy, taking the doll out of amy's hands. "yes, but not so pretty as mabel. miss upham says that mabel is the prettiest child she ever saw. look, miss clover," lifting the other doll from the table where she had laid it; "hasn't she got _sweet_ eyes? she's older than maria matilda, and she knows a great deal more. she's begun on french verbs!" "not really! which ones?" "oh, only 'j'aime, tu aimes, il aime,' you know,--the same that our class is learning at school. she hasn't tried any but that. sometimes she says it quite nicely, but sometimes she's very stupid, and i have to scold her." amy had quite recovered her spirits by this time. "are these the only dolls you have?" "oh, please don't call them _that!_" urged amy. "it hurts their feelings dreadfully. i never let them know that they are dolls. they think that they are real children, only sometimes when they are very bad i use the word for a punishment. i've got several other children. there's old ragazza. my uncle named her, and she's made of rag, but she has such bad rheumatism that i don't play with her any longer; i just give her medicine. then there's effie deans, she's only got one leg; and mopsa the fairy, she's a tiny one made out of china; and peg of linkinvaddy,--but she don't count, for she's all come to pieces." "what very queer names your children have!" said elsie, who had come in during the enumeration. "yes; uncle ned named them. he's a very funny uncle, but he's nice. he's always so much interested in my children." "there's papa now!" cried katy; and she ran downstairs to meet him. "did i do right?" she asked anxiously after she had told her story. "yes, my dear, perfectly right," replied dr. carr. "i only hope amy was taken away in time. i will go round at once to see mrs. ashe and the boy; and, katy, keep away from me when i come back, and keep the others away, till i have changed my coat." it is odd how soon and how easily human beings accustom themselves to a new condition of things. when sudden illness comes, or sudden sorrow, or a house is burned up, or blown down by a tornado, there are a few hours or days of confusion and bewilderment, and then people gather up their wits and their courage and set to work to repair damages. they clear away ruins, plant, rebuild, very much as ants whose hill has been trodden upon, after running wildly about for a little while, begin all together to reconstruct the tiny cone of sand which is so important in their eyes. in a very short time the changes which at first seem so sad and strange become accustomed and matter-of-course things which no longer surprise us. it seemed to the carrs after a few days as if they had always had amy in the house with them. papa's daily visit to the sick-room, their avoidance of him till after he had "changed his coat," amy's lessons and games of play, her dressing and undressing, the walks with the make-believe mamma, the dropping of notes into the little basket, seemed part of a system of things which had been going on for a long, long time, and which everybody would miss should they suddenly stop. but they by no means suddenly stopped. little walter ashe's case proved to be rather a severe one; and after he had begun to mend, he caught cold somehow and was taken worse again. there were some serious symptoms, and for a few days dr. carr did not feel sure how things would turn. he did not speak of his anxiety at home, but kept silence and a cheerful face, as doctors know how to do. only katy, who was more intimate with her father than the rest, guessed that things were going gravely at the other house, and she was too well trained to ask questions. the threatening symptoms passed off, however, and little walter slowly got better; but it was a long convalescence, and mrs. ashe grew thin and pale before he began to look rosy. there was no one on whom she could devolve the charge of the child. his mother was dead; his father, an overworked business man, had barely time to run up once a week to see about him; there was no one at his home but a housekeeper, in whom mrs. ashe had not full confidence. so the good aunt denied herself the sight of her own child, and devoted her strength and time to walter; and nearly two months passed, and still little amy remained at dr. carr's. she was entirely happy there. she had grown very fond of katy, and was perfectly at home with the others. phil and johnnie, who had returned from her visit to cecy, were by no means too old or too proud to be play-fellows to a child of eight; and with all the older members of the family amy was a chosen pet. debby baked turnovers, and twisted cinnamon cakes into all sorts of fantastic shapes to please her; alexander would let her drive if she happened to sit on the front seat of the carryall; dr. carr was seldom so tired that he could not tell her a story,--and nobody told such nice stories as dr. carr, amy thought; elsie invented all manner of charming games for the hour before bedtime; clover made wonderful capes and bonnets for mabel and maria matilda; and katy--katy did all sorts of things. katy had a peculiar gift with children which is not easy to define. some people possess it, and some do not; it cannot be learned, it comes by nature. she was bright and firm and equable all at once. she both amused and influenced them. there was something about her which excited the childish imagination, and always they felt her sympathy. amy was a tractable child, and intelligent beyond her age, but she was never quite so good with any one as with katy. she followed her about like a little lover; she lavished upon her certain special words and caresses which she gave to no one else; and would kneel on her lap, patting katy's shoulders with her soft hand, and cooing up into her face like a happy dove, for a half-hour together. katy laughed at these demonstrations, but they pleased her very much. she loved to be loved, as all affectionate people do, but most of all to be loved by a child. at last, the long convalescence ended, walter was carried away to his father, with every possible precaution against fatigue and exposure, and an army of workpeople was turned into mrs. ashe's house. plaster was scraped and painted, wall-papers torn down, mattresses made over, and clothing burned. at last dr. carr pronounced the premises in a sanitary condition, and mrs. ashe sent for her little girl to come home again. amy was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing her mother; but at the last moment she clung to katy and cried as if her heart would break. "i want you too," she said. "oh, if dr. carr would only let you come and live with me and mamma, i should be so happy! i shall be so lone-ly!" "nonsense!" cried clover. "lonely with mamma, and those poor children of yours who have been wondering all these weeks what has become of you! they'll want a great deal of attention at first, i am sure; medicine and new clothes and whippings,--all manner of things. you remember i promised to make a dress for effie deans out of that blue and brown plaid like johnnie's balmoral. i mean to begin it to-morrow." "oh, will you?"--forgetting her grief--"that will be lovely. the skirt needn't be _very_ full, you know. effie doesn't walk much, because of only having one leg. she will be _so_ pleased, for she hasn't had a new dress i don't know when." consoled by the prospect of effie's satisfaction, amy departed quite cheerfully, and mrs. ashe was spared the pain of seeing her only child in tears on the first evening of their reunion. but amy talked so constantly of katy, and seemed to love her so much, that it put a plan into her mother's head which led to important results, as the next chapter will show. chapter ii. an invitation. it is a curious fact, and makes life very interesting, that, generally speaking, none of us have any expectation that things are going to happen till the very moment when they do happen. we wake up some morning with no idea that a great happiness is at hand, and before night it has come, and all the world is changed for us; or we wake bright and cheerful, with never a guess that clouds of sorrow are lowering in our sky, to put all the sunshine out for a while, and before noon all is dark. nothing whispers of either the joy or the grief. no instinct bids us to delay or to hasten the opening of the letter or telegram, or the lifting of the latch of the door at which stands the messenger of good or ill. and because it may be, and often is, happy tidings that come, and joyful things which happen, each fresh day as it dawns upon us is like an unread story, full of possible interest and adventure, to be made ours as soon as we have cut the pages and begun to read. nothing whispered to katy carr, as she sat at the window mending a long rent in johnnie's school coat, and saw mrs. ashe come in at the side gate and ring the office bell, that the visit had any special significance for her. mrs. ashe often did come to the office to consult dr. carr. amy might not be quite well, katy thought, or there might be a letter with something about walter in it, or perhaps matters had gone wrong at the house, where paperers and painters were still at work. so she went calmly on with her darning, drawing the "ravelling," with which her needle was threaded, carefully in and out, and taking nice even stitches without one prophetic thrill or tremor; while, if only she could have looked through the two walls and two doors which separated the room in which she sat from the office, and have heard what mrs. ashe was saying, the school coat would have been thrown to the winds, and for all her tall stature and propriety, she would have been skipping with delight and astonishment. for mrs. ashe was asking papa to let her do the very thing of all others that she most longed to do; she was asking him to let katy go with her to europe! "i am not very well," she told the doctor. "i got tired and run down while walter was ill, and i don't seem to throw it off as i hoped i should. i feel as if a change would do me good. don't you think so yourself?" "yes, i do," dr. carr admitted. "this idea of europe is not altogether a new one," continued mrs. ashe. "i have always meant to go some time, and have put it off, partly because i dreaded going alone, and didn't know anybody whom i exactly wanted to take with me. but if you will let me have katy, dr. carr, it will settle all my difficulties. amy loves her dearly, and so do i; she is just the companion i need; if i have her with me, i sha'n't be afraid of anything. i do hope you will consent." "how long do you mean to be away?" asked dr. carr, divided between pleasure at these compliments to katy and dismay at the idea of losing her. "about a year, i think. my plans are rather vague as yet; but my idea was to spend a few weeks in scotland and england first,--i have some cousins in london who will be good to us; and an old friend of mine married a gentleman who lives on the isle of wight; perhaps we might go there. then we could cross over to france and visit paris and a few other places; and before it gets cold go down to nice, and from there to italy. katy would like to see italy. don't you think so?" "i dare say she would," said dr. carr, with a smile. "she would be a queer girl if she didn't." "there is one reason why i thought italy would be particularly pleasant this winter for me and for her too," went on mrs. ashe; "and that is, because my brother will be there. he is a lieutenant in the navy, you know, and his ship, the 'natchitoches,' is one of the mediterranean squadron. they will be in naples by and by, and if we were there at the same time we should have ned to go about with; and he would take us to the receptions on the frigate, and all that, which would be a nice chance for katy. then toward spring i should like to go to florence and venice, and visit the italian lakes and switzerland in the early summer. but all this depends on your letting katy go. if you decide against it, i shall give the whole thing up. but you won't decide against it,"--coaxingly,--"you will be kinder than that. i will take the best possible care of her, and do all i can to make her happy, if only you will consent to lend her to me; and i shall consider it _such_ a favor. and it is to cost you nothing. you understand, doctor, she is to be my guest all through. that is a point i want to make clear in the outset; for she goes for my sake, and i cannot take her on any other conditions. now, dr. carr, please, please! i am sure you won't deny me, when i have so set my heart upon having her." mrs. ashe was very pretty and persuasive, but still dr. carr hesitated. to send katy for a year's pleasuring in europe was a thing that had never occurred to his mind as possible. the cost alone would have prevented; for country doctors with six children are not apt to be rich men, even in the limited and old-fashioned construction of the word "wealth." it seemed equally impossible to let her go at mrs. ashe's expense; at the same time, the chance was such a good one, and mrs. ashe so much in earnest and so urgent, that it was difficult to refuse point blank. he finally consented to take time for consideration before making his decision. "i will talk it over with katy," he said. "the child ought to have a say in the matter; and whatever we decide, you must let me thank you in her name as well as my own for your great kindness in proposing it." "doctor, i'm not kind at all, and i don't want to be thanked. my desire to take katy with me to europe is purely selfish. i am a lonely person," she went on; "i have no mother or sister, and no cousins of my own age. my brother's profession keeps him at sea; i scarcely ever see him. i have no one but a couple of old aunts, too feeble in health to travel with me or to be counted on in case of any emergency. you see, i am a real case for pity." mrs. ashe spoke gayly, but her brown eyes were dim with tears as she ended her little appeal. dr. carr, who was soft-hearted where women were concerned, was touched. perhaps his face showed it, for mrs. ashe added in a more hopeful tone,-- "but i won't tease any more. i know you will not refuse me unless you think it right and necessary; and," she continued mischievously, "i have great faith in katy as an ally. i am pretty sure that she will say that she wants to go." and indeed katy's cry of delight when the plan was proposed to her said that sufficiently, without need of further explanation. to go to europe for a year with mrs. ashe and amy seemed simply too delightful to be true. all the things she had heard about and read about--cathedrals, pictures, alpine peaks, famous places, famous people--came rushing into her mind in a sort of bewildering tide as dazzling as it was overwhelming. dr. carr's objections, his reluctance to part with her, melted before the radiance of her satisfaction. he had no idea that katy would care so much about it. after all, it was a great chance,--perhaps the only one of the sort that she would ever have. mrs. ashe could well afford to give katy this treat, he knew; and it was quite true what she said, that it was a favor to her as well as to katy. this train of reasoning led to its natural results. dr. carr began to waver in his mind. but, the first excitement over, katy's second thoughts were more sober ones. how could papa manage without her for a whole year, she asked herself. he would miss her, she well knew, and might not the charge of the house be too much for clover? the preserves were almost all made, that was one comfort; but there were the winter clothes to be seen to; dorry needed new flannels, elsie's dresses must be altered over for johnnie,--there were cucumbers to pickle, the coal to order! a host of housewifely cares began to troop through katy's mind, and a little pucker came into her forehead, and a worried look across the face which had been so bright a few minutes before. strange to say, it was that little pucker and the look of worry which decided dr. carr. "she is only twenty-one," he reflected; "hardly out of childhood. i don't want her to settle into an anxious, drudging state and lose her youth with caring for us all. she shall go; though how we are to manage without her i don't see. little clover will have to come to the fore, and show what sort of stuff there is in her." "little clover" came gallantly "to the fore" when the first shock of surprise was over, and she had relieved her mind with one long private cry over having to do without katy for a year. then she wiped her eyes, and began to revel unselfishly in the idea of her sister's having so great a treat. anything and everything seemed possible to secure it for her; and she made light of all katy's many anxieties and apprehensions. "my dear child, i know a flannel undershirt when i see one, just as well as you do," she declared. "tucks in johnnie's dress, forsooth! why, of course. ripping out a tuck doesn't require any superhuman ingenuity! give me your scissors, and i'll show you at once. quince marmalade? debby can make that. hers is about as good as yours; and if it wasn't, what should we care, as long as you are ascending mont blanc, and hob-nobbing with michael angelo and the crowned heads of europe? i'll make the spiced peaches! i'll order the kindling! and if there ever comes a time when i feel lost and can't manage without advice, i'll go across to mrs. hall. don't worry about us. we shall get on happily and easily; in fact, i shouldn't be surprised if i developed such a turn for housekeeping, that when you come back the family refused to change, and you had just to sit for the rest of your life and twirl your thumbs and watch me do it! wouldn't that be fine?" and clover laughed merrily. "so, katy darling, cast that shadow from your brow, and look as a girl ought to look who's going to europe. why, if it were i who were going, i should simply stand on my head every moment of the time!" "not a very convenient position for packing," said katy, smiling. "yes, it is, if you just turn your trunk upside down! when i think of all the delightful things you are going to do, i can hardly sit still. i _love_ mrs. ashe for inviting you." "so do i," said katy, soberly. "it was the kindest thing! i can't think why she did it." "well, i can," replied clover, always ready to defend katy even against herself. "she did it because she wanted you, and she wanted you because you are the dearest old thing in the world, and the nicest to have about. you needn't say you're not, for you are! now, katy, don't waste another thought on such miserable things as pickles and undershirts. we shall get along perfectly well, i do assure you. just fix your mind instead on the dome of st. peter's, or try to fancy how you'll feel the first time you step into a gondola or see the mediterranean. there will be a moment! i feel a forty-horse power of housekeeping developing within me; and what fun it will be to get your letters! we shall fetch out the encyclopaedia and the big atlas and the 'history of modern europe,' and read all about everything you see and all the places you go to; and it will be as good as a lesson in geography and history and political economy all combined, only a great deal more interesting! we shall stick out all over with knowledge before you come back; and this makes it a plain duty to go, if it were only for our sakes." with these zealous promises, katy was forced to be content. indeed, contentment was not difficult with such a prospect of delight before her. when once her little anxieties had been laid aside, the idea of the coming journey grew in pleasantness every moment. night after night she and papa and the children pored over maps and made out schemes for travel and sight-seeing, every one of which was likely to be discarded as soon as the real journey began. but they didn't know that, and it made no real difference. such schemes are the preliminary joys of travel, and it doesn't signify that they come to nothing after they have served their purpose. katy learned a great deal while thus talking over what she was to see and do. she read every scrap she could lay her hand on which related to rome or florence or venice or london. the driest details had a charm for her now that she was likely to see the real places. she went about with scraps of paper in her pocket, on which were written such things as these: "forum. when built? by whom built? more than one?" "what does _cenacola_ mean?" "cecilia metella. who was she?" "find out about saint catherine of siena." "who was beatrice cenci?" how she wished that she had studied harder and more carefully before this wonderful chance came to her. people always wish this when they are starting for europe; and they wish it more and more after they get there, and realize of what value exact ideas and information and a fuller knowledge of the foreign languages are to all travellers; how they add to the charm of everything seen, and enhance the ease of everything done. all burnet took an interest in katy's plans, and almost everybody had some sort of advice or help, or some little gift to offer. old mrs. worrett, who, though fatter than ever, still retained the power of locomotion, drove in from conic section in her roomy carryall with the present of a rather obsolete copy of "murray's guide," in faded red covers, which her father had used in his youth, and which she was sure katy would find convenient; also a bottle of brown's jamaica ginger, in case of sea-sickness. debby's sister-in-law brought a bundle of dried chamomile for the same purpose. some one had told her it was the "handiest thing in the world to take along with you on them steamboats." cecy sent a wonderful old-gold and scarlet contrivance to hang on the wall of the stateroom. there were pockets for watches, and pockets for medicines, and pockets for handkerchief and hairpins,--in short, there were pockets for everything; besides a pincushion with "bon voyage" in rows of shining pins, a bottle of eau-de-cologne, a cake of soap, and a hammer and tacks to nail the whole up with. mrs. hall's gift was a warm and very pretty woollen wrapper of dark blue flannel, with a pair of soft knitted slippers to match. old mr. worrett sent a note of advice, recommending katy to take a quinine pill every day that she was away, never to stay out late, because the dews "over there" were said to be unwholesome, and on no account to drink a drop of water which had not been boiled. from cousin helen came a delightful travelling-bag, light and strong at once, and fitted up with all manner of nice little conveniences. miss inches sent a "history of europe" in five fat volumes, which was so heavy that it had to be left at home. in fact, a good many of katy's presents had to be left at home, including a bronze paper-weight in the shape of a griffin, a large pair of brass screw candlesticks, and an ormolu inkstand with a pen-rest attached, which weighed at least a pound and a half. these katy laid aside to enjoy after her return. mrs. ashe and cousin helen had both warned her of the inconvenient consequences of weight in baggage; and by their advice she had limited herself to a single trunk of moderate size, besides a little flat valise for use in her stateroom. clover's gift was a set of blank books for notes, journals, etc. in one of these, katy made out a list of "things i must see," "things i must do," "things i would like to see," "things i would like to do." another she devoted to various good shopping addresses which had been given her; for though she did not expect to do any shopping herself, she thought mrs. ashe might find them useful. katy's ideas were still so simple and unworldly, and her experience of life so small, that it had not occurred to her how very tantalizing it might be to stand in front of shop windows full of delightful things and not be able to buy any of them. she was accordingly overpowered with surprise, gratitude, and the sense of sudden wealth, when about a week before the start her father gave her three little thin strips of paper, which he told her were circular notes, and worth a hundred dollars apiece. he also gave her five english sovereigns. "those are for immediate use," he said. "put the notes away carefully, and don't lose them. you had better have them cashed one at a time as you require them. mrs. ashe will explain how. you will need a gown or so before you come back, and you'll want to buy some photographs and so on, and there will be fees--" "but, papa," protested katy, opening wide her candid eyes, "i didn't expect you to give me any money, and i'm afraid you are giving me too much. do you think you can afford it? really and truly, i don't want to buy things. i shall see everything, you know, and that's enough." her father only laughed. "you'll be wiser and greedier before the year is out, my dear," he replied. "three hundred dollars won't go far, as you'll find. but it's all i can spare, and i trust you to keep within it, and not come home with any long bills for me to pay." "papa! i should think not!" cried katy, with unsophisticated horror. one very interesting thing was to happen before they sailed, the thought of which helped both katy and clover through the last hard days, when the preparations were nearly complete, and the family had leisure to feel dull and out of spirits. katy was to make rose red a visit. rose had by no means been idle during the three years and a half which had elapsed since they all parted at hillsover, and during which the girls had not seen her. in fact, she had made more out of the time than any of the rest of them, for she had been engaged for eighteen months, had been married, and was now keeping house near boston with a little rose of her own, who, she wrote to clover, was a perfect angel, and more delicious than words could say! mrs. ashe had taken passage in the "spartacus," sailing from boston; and it was arranged that katy should spend the last two days before sailing, with rose, while mrs. ashe and amy visited an old aunt in hingham. to see rose in her own home, and rose's husband, and rose's baby, was only next in interest to seeing europe. none of the changes in her lot seemed to have changed her particularly, to judge by the letter she sent in reply to katy's announcing her plans, which letter ran as follows:-- "longwood, september . "my dearest child,--your note made me dance with delight. i stood on my head waving my heels wildly to the breeze till deniston thought i must be taken suddenly mad; but when i explained he did the same. it is too enchanting, the whole of it. i put it at the head of all the nice things that ever happened, except my baby. write the moment you get this by what train you expect to reach boston, and when you roll into the station you will behold two forms, one tall and stalwart, the other short and fatsome, waiting for you. they will be those of deniston and myself. deniston is not beautiful, but he is good, and he is prepared to _adore_ you. the baby is both good and beautiful, and you will adore her. i am neither; but you know all about me, and i always did adore you and always shall. i am going out this moment to the butcher's to order a calf fatted for your special behoof; and he shall be slain and made into cutlets the moment i hear from you. my funny little house, which is quite a dear little house too, assumes a new interest in my eyes from the fact that you so soon are to see it. it is somewhat queer, as you might know my house would be; but i think you will like it. "i saw silvery mary the other day and told her you were coming. she is the same mouse as ever. i shall ask her and some of the other girls to come out to lunch on one of your days. good-by, with a hundred and fifty kisses to clovy and the rest. "your loving "rose red." "she never signs herself browne, i observe," said clover, as she finished the letter. "oh, rose red browne would sound too funny. rose red she must stay till the end of the chapter; no other name could suit her half so well, and i can't imagine her being called anything else. what fun it will be to see her and little rose!" "and deniston browne," put in clover. "somehow i find it rather hard to take in the fact that there is a deniston browne," observed katy. "it will be easier after you have seen him, perhaps." the last day came, as last days will. katy's trunk, most carefully and exactly packed by the united efforts of the family, stood in the hall, locked and strapped, not to be opened again till the party reached london. this fact gave it a certain awful interest in the eyes of phil and johnnie, and even elsie gazed upon it with respect. the little valise was also ready; and dorry, the neat-handed, had painted a red star on both ends of both it and the trunk, that they might be easily picked from among a heap of luggage. he now proceeded to prepare and paste on two square cards, labelled respectively, "hold" and "state-room." mrs. hall had told them that this was the correct thing to do. mrs. ashe had been full of business likewise in putting her house to rights for a family who had rented it for the time of her absence, and katy and clover had taken a good many hours from their own preparations to help her. all was done at last; and one bright morning in october, katy stood on the wharf with her family about her, and a lump in her throat which made it difficult to speak to any of them. she stood so very still and said so very little, that a bystander not acquainted with the circumstances might have dubbed her "unfeeling;" while the fact was that she was feeling too much! the first bell rang. katy kissed everybody quietly and went on board with her father. her parting from him, hardest of all, took place in the midst of a crowd of people; then he had to leave her, and as the wheels began to revolve she went out on the side deck to have a last glimpse of the home faces. there they were: elsie crying tumultuously, with her head on papa's coat-sleeve; john laughing, or trying to laugh, with big tears running down her cheeks the while; and brave little clover waving her handkerchief encouragingly, but with a very sober look on her face. katy's heart went out to the little group with a sudden passion of regret and yearning. why had she said she would go? what was all europe in comparison with what she was leaving? life was so short, how could she take a whole year out of it to spend away from the people she loved best? if it had been left to her to choose, i think she would have flown back to the shore then and there, and given up the journey, i also think she would have been heartily sorry a little later, had she done so. but it was not left for her to choose. already the throb of the engines was growing more regular and the distance widening between the great boat and the wharf. gradually the dear faces faded into distance; and after watching till the flutter of clover's handkerchief became an undistinguishable speck, katy went to the cabin with a heavy heart. but there were mrs. ashe and amy, inclined to be homesick also, and in need of cheering; and katy, as she tried to brighten them, gradually grew bright herself, and recovered her hopeful spirits. burnet pulled less strongly as it got farther away, and europe beckoned more brilliantly now that they were fairly embarked on their journey. the sun shone, the lake was a beautiful, dazzling blue, and katy said to herself, "after all, a year is not very long, and how happy i am going to be!" chapter iii. rose and rosebud. thirty-six hours later the albany train, running smoothly across the green levels beyond the mill dam, brought the travellers to boston. katy looked eagerly from the window for her first glimpse of the city of which she had heard so much. "dear little boston! how nice it is to see it again!" she heard a lady behind her say; but why it should be called "little boston" she could not imagine. seen from the train, it looked large, imposing, and very picturesque, after flat burnet with its one bank down to the edge of the lake. she studied the towers, steeples, and red roofs crowding each other up the slopes of the tri-mountain, and the big state house dome crowning all, and made up her mind that she liked the looks of it better than any other city she had ever seen. the train slackened its speed, ran for a few moments between rows of tall, shabby brick walls, and with a long, final screech of its whistle came to halt in the station-house. every one made a simultaneous rush for the door; and katy and mrs. ashe, waiting to collect their books and bags, found themselves wedged into their seats and unable to get out. it was a confusing moment, and not comfortable; such moments never are. but the discomfort brightened into a sense of relief as, looking out of the window, katy caught sight of a face exactly opposite, which had evidently caught sight of her,--a fresh, pretty face, with light, waving hair, pink cheeks all a-dimple, and eyes which shone with laughter and welcome. it was rose herself, not a bit changed during the years since they parted. a tall young man stood beside her, who must, of course, be her husband, deniston browne. "there is rose red," cried katy to mrs. ashe. "oh, doesn't she look dear and natural? do wait and let me introduce you. i want you to know her." but the train had come in a little behind time, and mrs. ashe was afraid of missing the hingham boat; so she only took a hasty peep from the window at rose, pronounced her to be charming-looking, kissed katy hurriedly, reminded her that they must be on the steamer punctually at twelve o'clock the following saturday, and was gone, with amy beside her; so that katy, following last of all the slow-moving line of passengers, stepped all alone down from the platform into the arms of rose red. "you darling!" was rose's first greeting. "i began to think you meant to spend the night in the car, you were so long in getting out. well, how perfectly lovely this is! deniston, here is katy; katy, this is my husband." rose looked about fifteen as she spoke, and so absurdly young to have a "husband," that katy could not help laughing as she shook hands with "deniston;" and his own eyes twinkled with fun and evident recognition of the same joke. he was a tall young man, with a pleasant, "steady" face, and seemed to be infinitely amused, in a quiet way, with everything which his wife said and did. "let us make haste and get out of this hole," went on rose. "i can scarcely see for the smoke. deniston, dear, please find the cab, and have katy's luggage put on it. i am wild to get her home, and exhibit baby before she chews up her new sash or does something else that is dreadful, to spoil her looks. i left her sitting in state, katy, with all her best clothes on, waiting to be made known to you." "my large trunk is to go straight to the steamer," explained katy, as she gave her checks to mr. browne. "i only want the little one taken out to longwood, please." "now, this is cosey," remarked rose, when they were seated in the cab with katy's bag at their feet. "deniston, my love, i wish you were going out with us. there's a nice little bench here all ready and vacant, which is just suited to a man of your inches. you won't? well, come in the early train, then. don't forget.--now, isn't he just as nice as i told you he was?" she demanded, the moment the cab began to move. "he looks very nice indeed, as far as i can judge in three minutes and a quarter." "my dear, it ought not to take anybody of ordinary discernment a minute and a quarter to perceive that he is simply the dearest fellow that ever lived," said rose. "i discovered it three seconds after i first beheld him, and was desperately in love with him before he had fairly finished his first bow after introduction." "and was he equally prompt?" asked katy. "he says so," replied rose, with a pretty blush. "but then, you know, he could hardly say less after such a frank confession on my part. it is no more than decent of him to make believe, even if it is not true. now, katy, look at boston, and see if you don't _love_ it!" the cab had now turned into boylston street; and on the right hand lay the common, green as summer after the autumn rains, with the elm arches leafy still. long, slant beams of afternoon sun were filtering through the boughs and falling across the turf and the paths, where people were walking and sitting, and children and babies playing together. it was a delightful scene; and katy received an impression of space and cheer and air and freshness, which ever after was associated with her recollection of boston. rose was quite satisfied with her raptures as they drove through charles street, between the common and the public garden, all ablaze with autumn flowers, and down the length of beacon street with the blue bay shining between the handsome houses on the water side. every vestibule and bay-window was gay with potted plants and flower-boxes; and a concourse of happy-looking people, on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, was surging to and fro like an equal, prosperous tide, while the sunlight glorified all. "'boston shows a soft venetian side,'" quoted katy, after a while. "i know now what mr. lowell meant when he wrote that. i don't believe there is a more beautiful place in the world." "why, of course there isn't," retorted rose, who was a most devoted little bostonian, in spite of the fact that she had lived in washington nearly all her life. "i've not seen much beside, to be sure, but that is no matter; i know it is true. it is the dream of my life to come into the city to live. i don't care what part i live in,--west end, south end, north end; it's all one to me, so long as it is boston!" "but don't you like longwood?" asked katy, looking out admiringly at the pretty places set amid vines and shrubberies, which they were now passing. "it looks so very pretty and pleasant." "yes, it's well enough for any one who has a taste for natural beauties," replied rose. "i haven't; i never had. there is nothing i hate so much as nature! i'm a born cockney. i'd rather live in one room over jordan and marsh's, and see the world wag past, than be the owner of the most romantic villa that ever was built, i don't care where it may be situated." the cab now turned in at a gate and followed a curving drive bordered with trees to a pretty stone house with a porch embowered with virginia creepers, before which it stopped. "here we are!" cried rose, springing out. "now, katy, you mustn't even take time to sit down before i show you the dearest baby that ever was sent to this sinful earth. here, let me take your bag; come straight upstairs, and i will exhibit her to you." they ran up accordingly, and rose took katy into a large sunny nursery, where, tied with pink ribbon into a little basket-chair and watched over by a pretty young nurse, sat a dear, fat, fair baby, so exactly like rose in miniature that no one could possibly have mistaken the relationship. the baby began to laugh and coo as soon as it caught sight of its gay little mother, and exhibited just such another dimple as hers, in the middle of a pink cheek. katy was enchanted. "oh, you darling!" she said. "would she come to me, do you think, rose?" "why, of course she shall," replied rose, picking up the baby as if she had been a pillow, and stuffing her into katy's arms head first. "now, just look at her, and tell me if ever you saw anything so enchanting in the whole course of your life before? isn't she big? isn't she beautiful? isn't she good? just see her little hands and her hair! she never cries except when it is clearly her duty to cry. see her turn her head to look at me! oh, you angel!" and seizing the long-suffering baby, she smothered it with kisses. "i never, never, never did see anything so sweet. smell her, katy! doesn't she smell like heaven?" little rose was indeed a delicious baby, all dimples and good-humor and violet-powder, with a skin as soft as a lily's leaf, and a happy capacity for allowing herself to be petted and cuddled without remonstrance. katy wanted to hold her all the time; but this rose would by no means permit; in fact, i may as well say at once that the two girls spent a great part of their time during the visit in fighting for the possession of the baby, who looked on at the struggle, and smiled on the victor, whichever it happened to be, with all the philosophic composure of helen of troy. she was so soft and sunny and equable, that it was no more trouble to care for and amuse her than if she had been a bird or a kitten; and, as rose remarked, it was "ten times better fun." "i was never allowed as much doll as i wanted in my infancy," she said. "i suppose i tore them to pieces too soon; and they couldn't give me tin ones to play with, as they did wash-bowls when i broke the china ones." "were you such a very bad child?" asked katy. "oh, utterly depraved, i believe. you wouldn't think so now, would you? i recollect some dreadful occasions at school. once i had my head pinned up in my apron because i _would_ make faces at the other scholars, and they laughed; but i promptly bit a bay-window through the apron, and ran my tongue out of it till they laughed worse than ever. the teacher used to send me home with notes fastened to my pinafore with things like this written in them: 'little frisk has been more troublesome than usual to-day. she has pinched all the younger children, and bent the bonnets of all the older ones. we hope to see an amendment soon, or we do not know what we shall do.'" "why did they call you little frisk?" inquired katy, after she had recovered from the laugh which rose's reminiscences called forth. "it was a term of endearment, i suppose; but somehow my family never seemed to enjoy it as they ought. i cannot understand," she went on reflectively, "why i had not sense enough to suppress those awful little notes. it would have been so easy to lose them on the way home, but somehow it never occurred to me. little rose will be wiser than that; won't you, my angel? she will tear up the horrid notes--mammy will show her how!" all the time that katy was washing her face and brushing the dust of the railway from her dress, rose sat by with the little rose in her lap, entertaining her thus. when she was ready, the droll little mamma tucked her baby under her arm and led the way downstairs to a large square parlor with a bay-window, through which the westering sun was shining. it was a pretty room, and had a flavor about it "just like rose," katy declared. no one else would have hung the pictures or looped back the curtains in exactly that way, or have hit upon the happy device of filling the grate with a great bunch of marigolds, pale brown, golden, and orange, to simulate the fire, which would have been quite too warm on so mild an evening. morris papers and chintzes and "artistic" shades of color were in their infancy at that date; but rose's taste was in advance of her time, and with a foreshadowing of the coming "reaction," she had chosen a "greenery, yallery" paper for her walls, against which hung various articles which looked a great deal queerer then than they would to-day. there was a mandolin, picked up at some eastern sale, a warming-pan in shining brass from her mother's attic, two old samplers worked in faded silks, and a quantity of gayly tinted japanese fans and embroideries. she had also begged from an old aunt at beverly farms a couple of droll little armchairs in white painted wood, with covers of antique needle-work. one had "chit" embroidered on the middle of its cushion; the other, "chat." these stood suggestively at the corners of the hearth. "now, katy," said rose, seating herself in "chit," "pull up 'chat' and let us begin." so they did begin, and went on, interrupted only by baby rose's coos and splutters, till the dusk fell, till appetizing smells floated through from the rear of the house, and the click of a latch-key announced mr. browne, come home just in time for dinner. the two days' visit went only too quickly. there is nothing more fascinating to a girl than the menage of a young couple of her own age. it is a sort of playing at real life without the cares and the sense of responsibility that real life is sure to bring. rose was an adventurous housekeeper. she was still new to the position, she found it very entertaining, and she delighted in experiments of all sorts. if they turned out well, it was good fun; if not, that was funnier still! her husband, for all his serious manner, had a real boy's love of a lark, and he aided and abetted her in all sorts of whimsical devices. they owned a dog who was only less dear than the baby, a cat only less dear than the dog, a parrot whose education required constant supervision, and a hutch of ring-doves whose melancholy little "whuddering" coos were the delight of rose the less. the house seemed astir with young life all over. the only elderly thing in it was the cook, who had the reputation of a dreadful temper; only, unfortunately, rose made her laugh so much that she never found time to be cross. katy felt quite an old, experienced person amid all this movement and liveliness and cheer. it seemed to her that nobody in the world could possibly be having such a good time as rose; but rose did not take the same view of the situation. "it's all very well now," she said, "while the warm weather lasts; but in winter longwood is simply grewsome. the wind never stops blowing day nor night. it howls and it roars and it screams, till i feel as if every nerve in my body were on the point of snapping in two. and the snow, ugh! and the wind, ugh! and burglars! every night of our lives they come,--or i think they come,--and i lie awake and hear them sharpening their tools and forcing the locks and murdering the cook and kidnapping baby, till i long to die, and have done with them forever! oh, nature is the most unpleasant thing!" "burglars are not nature," objected katy. "what are they, then? art? high art? well, whatever they are, i do not like them. oh, if ever the happy day comes when deniston consents to move into town, i never wish to set my eyes on the country again as long as i live, unless--well, yes, i should like to come out just once more in the horse-cars and _kick_ that elm-tree by the fence! the number of times that i have lain awake at night listening to its creaking!" "you might kick it without waiting to have a house in town." "oh, i shouldn't dare as long as we are living here! you never know what nature may do. she has ways of her own of getting even with people," remarked her friend, solemnly. no time must be lost in showing boston to katy, rose said. so the morning after her arrival she was taken in bright and early to see the sights. there were not quite so many sights to be seen then as there are today. the art museum had not got much above its foundations; the new trinity church was still in the future; but the big organ and the bronze statue of beethoven were in their glory, and every day at high noon a small straggling audience wandered into music hall to hear the instrument played. to this extempore concert katy was taken, and to faneuil hall and the athenaeum, to doll and richards's, where was an exhibition of pictures, to the granary graveyard, and the old south. then the girls did a little shopping; and by that time they were quite tired enough to make the idea of luncheon agreeable, so they took the path across the common to the joy street mall. katy was charmed by all she had seen. the delightful nearness of so many interesting things surprised her. she perceived what is one of boston's chief charms,--that the common and its surrounding streets make a natural centre and rallying-point for the whole city; as the heart is the centre of the body and keeps up a quick correspondence and regulates the life of all its extremities. the stately old houses on beacon street, with their rounded fronts, deep window-casements, and here and there a mauve or a lilac pane set in the sashes, took her fancy greatly; and so did the state house, whose situation made it sufficiently imposing, even before the gilding of the dome. up the steep steps of the joy street mall they went, to the house on mt. vernon street which the reddings had taken on their return from washington nearly three years before. rose had previously shown katy the site of the old family house on summer street, where she was born, now given over wholly to warehouses and shops. their present residence was one of those wide old-fashioned brick houses on the crest of the hill, whose upper windows command the view across to the boston highlands; in the rear was a spacious yard, almost large enough to be called a garden, walled in with ivies and grapevines, under which were long beds full of roses and chrysanthemums and marigolds and mignonette. rose carried a latch-key in her pocket, which she said had been one of her wedding-gifts; with this she unlocked the front door and let katy into a roomy white-painted hall. "we will go straight through to the back steps," she said. "mamma is sure to be sitting there; she always sits there till the first frost; she says it makes her think of the country. how different people are! i don't want to think of the country, but i'm never allowed to forget it for a moment. mamma is so fond of those steps and the garden." there, to be sure, mrs. redding was found sitting in a wicker-work chair under the shade of the grapevines, with a big basket of mending at her side. it looked so homely and country-like to find a person thus occupied in the middle of a busy city, that katy's heart warmed to her at once. mrs. redding was a fair little woman, scarcely taller than rose and very much like her. she gave katy a kind welcome. "you do not seem like a stranger," she said, "rose has told us so much about you and your sister. sylvia will be very disappointed not to see you. she went off to make some visits when we broke up in the country, and is not to be home for three weeks yet." katy was disappointed, too, for she had heard a great deal about sylvia and had wished very much to meet her. she was shown her picture, from which she gathered that she did not look in the least like rose; for though equally fair, her fairness was of the tall aquiline type, quite different from rose's dimpled prettiness. in fact, rose resembled her mother, and sylvia her father; they were only alike in little peculiarities of voice and manner, of which a portrait did not enable katy to judge. the two girls had a cosey little luncheon with mrs. redding, after which rose carried katy off to see the house and everything in it which was in any way connected with her own personal history,--the room where she used to sleep, the high-chair in which she sat as a baby and which was presently to be made over to little rose, the sofa where deniston offered himself, and the exact spot on the carpet on which she had stood while they were being married! last of all,-- "now you shall see the best and dearest thing in the whole house," she said, opening the door of a room in the second story.-- "grandmamma, here is my friend katy carr, whom you have so often heard me tell about." it was a large pleasant room, with a little wood-fire blazing in a grate, by which, in an arm-chair full of cushions, with a solitaire-board on a little table beside her, sat a sweet old lady. this was rose's father's mother. she was nearly eighty; but she was beautiful still, and her manner had a gracious old-fashioned courtesy which was full of charm. she had been thrown from a carriage the year before, and had never since been able to come downstairs or to mingle in the family life. "they come to me instead," she told katy. "there is no lack of pleasant company," she added; "every one is very good to me. i have a reader for two hours a day, and i read to myself a little, and play patience and solitaire, and never lack entertainment." there was something restful in the sight of such a lovely specimen of old age. katy realized, as she looked at her, what a loss it had been to her own life that she had never known either of her grandparents. she sat and gazed at old mrs. redding with a mixture of regret and fascination. she longed to hold her hand, and kiss her, and play with her beautiful silvery hair, as rose did. rose was evidently the old lady's peculiar darling. they were on the most intimate terms; and rose dimpled and twinkled, and made saucy speeches, and told all her little adventures and the baby's achievements, and made jests, and talked nonsense as freely as to a person of her own age. it was a delightful relation. "grandmamma has taken a fancy to you, i can see," she told katy, as they drove back to longwood. "she always wants to know my friends; and she has her own opinions about them, i can tell you." "do you really think she liked me?" said katy, warmly. "i am so glad if she did, for i _loved_ her. i never saw a really beautiful old person before." "oh, there's nobody like her," rejoined rose. "i can't imagine what it would be not to have her." her merry little face was quite sad and serious as she spoke. "i wish she were not so old," she added with a sigh. "if we could only put her back twenty years! then, perhaps, she would live as long as i do." but, alas! there is no putting back the hands on the dial of time, no matter how much we may desire it. the second day of katy's visit was devoted to the luncheon-party of which rose had written in her letter, and which was meant to be a reunion or "side chapter" of the s.s.u.c. rose had asked every old hillsover girl who was within reach. there was mary silver, of course, and esther dearborn, both of whom lived in boston; and by good luck alice gibbons happened to be making esther a visit, and ellen gray came in from waltham, where her father had recently been settled over a parish, so that all together they made six of the original nine of the society; and quaker row itself never heard a merrier confusion of tongues than resounded through rose's pretty parlor for the first hour after the arrival of the guests. there was everybody to ask after, and everything to tell. the girls all seemed wonderfully unchanged to katy, but they professed to find her very grown up and dignified. "i wonder if i am," she said. "clover never told me so. but perhaps she has grown dignified too." "nonsense!" cried rose; "clover could no more be dignified than my baby could. mary silver, give me that child this moment! i never saw such a greedy thing as you are; you have kept her to yourself at least a quarter of an hour, and it isn't fair." "oh, i beg your pardon," said mary, laughing and covering her mouth with her hand exactly in her old, shy, half-frightened way. "we only need mrs. nipson to make our little party complete," went on rose, "or dear miss jane! what has become of miss jane, by the way? do any of you know?" "oh, she is still teaching at hillsover and waiting for her missionary. he has never come back. berry searles says that when he goes out to walk he always walks away from the united states, for fear of diminishing the distance between them." "what a shame!" said katy, though she could not help laughing. "miss jane was really quite nice,--no, not nice exactly, but she had good things about her." "had she!" remarked rose, satirically. "i never observed them. it required eyes like yours, real 'double million magnifying-glasses of h'extra power,' to find them out. she was all teeth and talons as far as i was concerned; but i think she really did have a softish spot in her old heart for you, katy, and it's the only good thing i ever knew about her." "what has become of lilly page?" asked ellen. "she's in europe with her mother. i dare say you'll meet, katy, and what a pleasure that will be! and have you heard about bella? she's teaching school in the indian territory. just fancy that scrap teaching school!" "isn't it dangerous?" asked mary silver. "dangerous? how? to her scholars, do you mean? oh, the indians! well, her scalp will be easy to identify if she has adhered to her favorite pomatum; that's one comfort," put in naughty rose. it was a merry luncheon indeed, as little rose seemed to think, for she laughed and cooed incessantly. the girls were enchanted with her, and voted her by acclamation an honorary member of the s.s.u.c. her health was drunk in apollinaris water with all the honors, and rose returned thanks in a droll speech. the friends told each other their histories for the past three years; but it was curious how little, on the whole, most of them had to tell. though, perhaps, that was because they did not tell all; for alice gibbons confided to katy in a whisper that she strongly suspected esther of being engaged, and at the same moment ellen gray was convulsing rose by the intelligence that a theological student from andover was "very attentive" to mary silver. "my dear, i don't believe it," rose said, "not even a theological student would dare! and if he did, i am quite sure mary would consider it most improper. you must be mistaken, ellen." "no, i'm not mistaken; for the theological student is my second cousin, and his sister told me all about it. they are not engaged exactly, but she hasn't said no; so he hopes she will say yes." "oh, she'll never say no; but then she will never say yes, either. he would better take silence as consent! well, i never did think i should live to see silvery mary married. i should as soon have expected to find the thirty-nine articles engaged in a flirtation. she's a dear old thing, though, and as good as gold; and i shall consider your second cousin a lucky man if he persuades her." "i wonder where we shall all be when you come back, katy," said esther dearborn as they parted at the gate. "a year is a long time; all sorts of things may happen in a year." these words rang in katy's ears as she fell asleep that night. "all sorts of things may happen in a year," she thought, "and they may not be all happy things, either." almost she wished that the journey to europe had never been thought of! but when she waked the next morning to the brightest of october suns shining out of a clear blue sky, her misgivings fled. there could not have been a more beautiful day for their start. she and rose went early into town, for old mrs. bedding had made katy promise to come for a few minutes to say good-by. they found her sitting by the fire as usual, though her windows were open to admit the sun-warmed air. a little basket of grapes stood on the table beside her, with a nosegay of tea-roses on top. these were from rose's mother, for katy to take on board the steamer; and there was something else, a small parcel twisted up in thin white paper. "it is my good-by gift," said the dear old lady. "don't open it now. keep it till you are well out at sea, and get some little thing with it as a keepsake from me." grateful and wondering, katy put the little parcel in her pocket. with kisses and good wishes she parted from these new made friends, and she and rose drove to the steamer, stopping for mr. browne by the way. they were a little late, so there was not much time for farewells after they arrived; but rose snatched a moment for a private interview with the stewardess, unnoticed by katy, who was busy with mrs. ashe and amy. the bell rang, and the great steam-vessel slowly backed into the stream. then her head was turned to sea, and down the bay she went, leaving rose and her husband still waving their handkerchiefs on the pier. katy watched them to the last, and when she could no longer distinguish them, felt that her final link with home was broken. it was not till she had settled her things in the little cabin which was to be her home for the next ten days, had put her bonnet and dress for safe keeping in the upper berth, nailed up her red and yellow bag, and donned the woollen gown, ulster, and soft felt hat which were to do service during the voyage, that she found time to examine the mysterious parcel. behold, it was a large, beautiful gold-piece, twenty dollars! "what a darling old lady!" said katy; and she gave the gold-piece a kiss. "how did she come to think of such a thing? i wonder if there is anything in europe good enough to buy with it?" chapter iv. on the "spartacus." the ulster and the felt hat soon came off again, for a head wind lay waiting in the offing, and the "spartacus" began to pitch and toss in a manner which made all her unseasoned passengers glad to betake themselves to their berths. mrs. ashe and amy were among the earliest victims of sea-sickness; and katy, after helping them to settle in their staterooms, found herself too dizzy and ill to sit up a moment longer, and thankfully resorted to her own. as the night came on, the wind grew stronger and the motion worse. the "spartacus" had the reputation of being a dreadful "roller," and seemed bound to justify it on this particular voyage. down, down, down the great hull would slide till katy would hold her breath with fear lest it might never right itself again; then slowly, slowly the turn would be made, and up, up, up it would go, till the cant on the other side was equally alarming. on the whole, katy preferred to have her own side of the ship, the downward one; for it was less difficult to keep herself in the berth, from which she was in continual danger of being thrown. the night seemed endless, for she was too frightened to sleep except in broken snatches; and when day dawned, and she looked through the little round pane of glass in the port-hole, only gray sky and gray weltering waves and flying spray and rain met her view. "oh, dear, why do people ever go to sea, unless they must?" she thought feebly to herself. she wanted to get up and see how mrs. ashe had lived through the night, but the attempt to move made her so miserably ill that she was glad to sink again on her pillows. the stewardess looked in with offers of tea and toast, the very idea of which was simply dreadful, and pronounced the other lady "'orridly ill, worse than you are, miss," and the little girl "takin' on dreadful in the h'upper berth." of this fact katy soon had audible proof; for as her dizzy senses rallied a little, she could hear amy in the opposite stateroom crying and sobbing pitifully. she seemed to be angry as well as sick, for she was scolding her poor mother in the most vehement fashion. "i hate being at sea," katy heard her say. "i won't stay in this nasty old ship. mamma! mamma! do you hear me? i won't stay in this ship! it wasn't a bit kind of you to bring me to such a horrid place. it was very unkind; it was cru-el. i want to go back, mamma. tell the captain to take me back to the land. mamma, why don't you speak to me? oh, i am so sick and so very un-happy. don't you wish you were dead? i do!" and then came another storm of sobs, but never a sound from mrs. ashe, who, katy suspected, was too ill to speak. she felt very sorry for poor little amy, raging there in her high berth like some imprisoned creature, but she was powerless to help her. she could only resign herself to her own discomforts, and try to believe that somehow, sometime, this state of things must mend,--either they should all get to land or all go to the bottom and be drowned, and at that moment she didn't care very much which it turned out to be. the gale increased as the day wore on, and the vessel pitched dreadfully. twice katy was thrown out of her berth on the floor; then the stewardess came and fixed a sort of movable side to the berth, which held her in, but made her feel like a child fastened into a railed crib. at intervals she could still hear amy crying and scolding her mother, and conjectured that they were having a dreadful time of it in the other stateroom. it was all like a bad dream. "and they call this travelling for pleasure!" thought poor katy. one droll thing happened in the course of the second night,--at least it seemed droll afterward; at the time katy was too uncomfortable to enjoy it. amid the rush of the wind, the creaking of the ship's timbers, and the shrill buzz of the screw, she heard a sound of queer little footsteps in the entry outside of her open door, hopping and leaping together in an odd irregular way, like a regiment of mice or toy soldiers. nearer and nearer they came; and katy opening her eyes saw a procession of boots and shoes of all sizes and shapes, which had evidently been left on the floors or at the doors of various staterooms, and which in obedience to the lurchings of the vessel had collected in the cabin. they now seemed to be acting in concert with one another, and really looked alive as they bumped and trotted side by side, and two by two, in at the door and up close to her bedside. there they remained for several moments executing what looked like a dance; then the leading shoe turned on its heel as if giving a signal to the others, and they all hopped slowly again into the passage-way and disappeared. it was exactly like one of hans christian andersen's fairy-tales, katy wrote to clover afterward. she heard them going down the cabin; but how it ended, or whether the owners of the boots and shoes ever got their own particular pairs again, she never knew. toward morning the gale abated, the sea became smoother, and she dropped asleep. when she woke the sun was struggling through the clouds, and she felt better. the stewardess opened the port-hole to freshen the air, and helped her to wash her face and smooth her tangled hair; then she produced a little basin of gruel and a triangular bit of toast, and katy found that her appetite was come again and she could eat. "and 'ere's a letter, ma'am, which has come for you by post this morning," said the nice old stewardess, producing an envelope from her pocket, and eying her patient with great satisfaction. "by post!" cried katy, in amazement; "why, how can that be?" then catching sight of rose's handwriting on the envelope, she understood, and smiled at her own simplicity. the stewardess beamed at her as she opened it, then saying again, "yes, 'm, by post, m'm," withdrew, and left katy to enjoy the little surprise. the letter was not long, but it was very like its writer. rose drew a picture of what katy would probably be doing at the time it reached her,--a picture so near the truth that katy felt as if rose must have the spirit of prophecy, especially as she kindly illustrated the situation with a series of pen-and-ink drawings, in which katy was depicted as prone in her berth, refusing with horror to go to dinner, looking longingly backward toward the quarter where the united states was supposed to be, and fishing out of her port-hole with a crooked pin in hopes of grappling the submarine cable and sending a message to her family to come out at once and take her home. it ended with this short "poem," over which katy laughed till mrs. ashe called feebly across the entry to ask what _was_ the matter? "break, break, break and mis-behave, o sea, and i wish that my tongue could utter the hatred i feel for thee! "oh, well for the fisherman's child on the sandy beach at his play; oh, well for all sensible folk who are safe at home to-day! "but this horrible ship keeps on, and is never a moment still, and i yearn for the touch of the nice dry land, where i needn't feel so ill! "break! break! break! there is no good left in me; for the dinner i ate on the shore so late has vanished into the sea!" laughter is very restorative after the forlornity of sea-sickness; and katy was so stimulated by her letter that she managed to struggle into her dressing-gown and slippers and across the entry to mrs. ashe's stateroom. amy had fallen asleep at last and must not be waked up, so their interview was conducted in whispers. mrs. ashe had by no means got to the tea-and-toast stage yet, and was feeling miserable enough. "i have had the most dreadful time with amy," she said. "all day yesterday, when she wasn't sick she was raging at me from the upper berth, and i too ill to say a word in reply. i never knew her so naughty! and it seemed very neglectful not to come to see after you, poor dear child! but really i couldn't raise my head." "neither could i, and i felt just as guilty not to be taking care of you," said katy. "well, the worst is over with all of us, i hope. the vessel doesn't pitch half so much now, and the stewardess says we shall feel a great deal better as soon as we get on deck. she is coming presently to help me up; and when amy wakes, won't you let her be dressed, and i will take care of her while mrs. barrett attends to you." "i don't think i can be dressed," sighed poor mrs. ashe. "i feel as if i should just lie here till we get to liverpool." "oh no, h'indeed, mum,--no, you won't," put in mrs. barrett, who at that moment appeared, gruel-cup in hand. "i don't never let my ladies lie in their berths a moment longer than there is need of. i h'always gets them on deck as soon as possible to get the h'air. it's the best medicine you can 'ave, ma'am, the fresh h'air; h'indeed it h'is." stewardesses are all-powerful on board ship, and mrs. barrett was so persuasive as well as positive that it was not possible to resist her. she got katy into her dress and wraps, and seated her on deck in a chair with a great rug wrapped about her feet, with very little effort on katy's part. then she dived down the companion-way again, and in the course of an hour appeared escorting a big burly steward, who carried poor little pale amy in his arms as easily as though she had been a kitten. amy gave a scream of joy at the sight of katy, and cuddled down in her lap under the warm rug with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. "i thought i was never going to see you again," she said, with a little squeeze. "oh, miss katy, it has been so horrid! i never thought that going to europe meant such dreadful things as this!" "this is only the beginning; we shall get across the sea in a few days, and then we shall find out what going to europe really means. but what made you behave so, amy, and cry and scold poor mamma when she was sick? i could hear you all the way across the entry." "could you? then why didn't you come to me?" "i wanted to; but i was sick too, so sick that i couldn't move. but why were you so naughty?--you didn't tell me." "i didn't mean to be naughty, but i couldn't help crying. you would have cried too, and so would johnnie, if you had been cooped up in a dreadful old berth at the top of the wall that you couldn't get out of, and hadn't had anything to eat, and nobody to bring you any water when you wanted some. and mamma wouldn't answer when i called to her." "she couldn't answer; she was too ill," explained katy. "well, my pet, it _was_ pretty hard for you. i hope we sha'n't have any more such days. the sea is a great deal smoother now." "mabel looks quite pale; she was sick, too," said amy, regarding the doll in her arms with an anxious air. "i hope the fresh h'air will do her good." "is she going to have any fresh hair?" asked katy, wilfully misunderstanding. "that was what that woman called it,--the fat one who made me come up here. but i'm glad she did, for i feel heaps better already; only i keep thinking of poor little maria matilda shut up in the trunk in that dark place, and wondering if she's sick. there's nobody to explain to her down there." "they say that you don't feel the motion half so much in the bottom of the ship," said katy. "perhaps she hasn't noticed it at all. dear me, how good something smells! i wish they would bring us something to eat." a good many passengers had come up by this time; and robert, the deck steward, was going about, tray in hand, taking orders for lunch. amy and katy both felt suddenly ravenous; and when mrs. ashe awhile later was helped up the stairs, she was amazed to find them eating cold beef and roasted potatoes, with the finest appetites in the world. "they had served out their apprenticeships," the kindly old captain told them, "and were made free of the nautical guild from that time on." so it proved; for after these two bad days none of the party were sick again during the voyage. amy had a clamorous appetite for stories as well as for cold beef; and to appease this craving, katy started a sort of ocean serial, called "the history of violet and emma," which she meant to make last till they got to liverpool, but which in reality lasted much longer. it might with equal propriety have been called "the adventures of two little girls who didn't have any adventures," for nothing in particular happened to either violet or emma during the whole course of their long-drawn-out history. amy, however, found them perfectly enchanting, and was never weary of hearing how they went to school and came home again, how they got into scrapes and got out of them, how they made good resolutions and broke them, about their christmas presents and birthday treats, and what they said and how they felt. the first instalment of this un-exciting romance was given that first afternoon on deck; and after that, amy claimed a new chapter daily, and it was a chief ingredient of her pleasure during the voyage. on the third morning katy woke and dressed so early, that she gained the deck before the sailors had finished their scrubbing and holystoning. she took refuge within the companion-way, and sat down on the top step of the ladder, to wait till the deck was dry enough to venture upon it. there the captain found her and drew near for a talk. captain bryce was exactly the kind of sea-captain that is found in story-books, but not always in real life. he was stout and grizzled and brown and kind. he had a bluff weather-beaten face, lit up with a pair of shrewd blue eyes which twinkled when he was pleased; and his manner, though it was full of the habit of command, was quiet and pleasant. he was a martinet on board his ship. not a sailor under him would have dared dispute his orders for a moment; but he was very popular with them, notwithstanding; they liked him as much as they feared him, for they knew him to be their best friend if it came to sickness or trouble with any of them. katy and he grew quite intimate during their long morning talk. the captain liked girls. he had one of his own, about katy's age, and was fond of talking about her. lucy was his mainstay at home, he told katy. her mother had been "weakly" now this long time back, and bess and nanny were but children yet, so lucy had to take command and keep things ship-shape when he was away. "she'll be on the lookout when the steamer comes in," said the captain. "there's a signal we've arranged which means 'all's well,' and when we get up the river a little way i always look to see if it's flying. it's a bit of a towel hung from a particular window; and when i see it i say to myself, 'thank god! another voyage safely done and no harm come of it.' it's a sad kind of work for a man to go off for a twenty-four days' cruise leaving a sick wife on shore behind him. if it wasn't that i have lucy to look after things, i should have thrown up my command long ago." "indeed, i am glad you have lucy; she must be a great comfort to you," said katy, sympathetically; for the captain's hearty voice trembled a little as he spoke. she made him tell her the color of lucy's hair and eyes, and exactly how tall she was, and what she had studied, and what sort of books she liked. she seemed such a very nice girl, and katy thought she should like to know her. the deck had dried fast in the fresh sea-wind, and the captain had just arranged katy in her chair, and was wrapping the rug about her feet in a fatherly way, when mrs. barrett, all smiles, appeared from below. "oh, 'ere you h'are, miss. i couldn't think what 'ad come to you so early; and you're looking ever so well again, i'm pleased to see; and 'ere's a bundle just arrived, miss, by the parcels delivery." "what!" cried simple katy. then she laughed at her own foolishness, and took the "bundle," which was directed in rose's unmistakable hand. it contained a pretty little green-bound copy of emerson's poems, with katy's name and "to be read at sea," written on the flyleaf. somehow the little gift seemed to bridge the long misty distance which stretched between the vessel's stern and boston bay, and to bring home and friends a great deal nearer. with a half-happy, half-tearful pleasure katy recognized the fact that distance counts for little if people love one another, and that hearts have a telegraph of their own whose messages are as sure and swift as any of those sent over the material lines which link continent to continent and shore with shore. later in the morning, katy, going down to her stateroom for something, came across a pallid, exhausted-looking lady, who lay stretched on one of the long sofas in the cabin, with a baby in her arms and a little girl sitting at her feet, quite still, with a pair of small hands folded in her lap. the little girl did not seem to be more than four years old. she had two pig-tails of thick flaxen hair hanging over her shoulders, and at katy's approach raised a pair of solemn blue eyes, which had so much appeal in them, though she said nothing, that katy stopped at once. "can i do anything for you?" she asked. "i am afraid you have been very ill." at the sound of her voice the lady on the sofa opened her eyes. she tried to speak, but to katy's dismay began to cry instead; and when the words came they were strangled with sobs. "you are so kin-d to ask," she said. "if you would give my little girl something to eat! she has had nothing since yesterday, and i have been so ill; and no-nobody has c-ome near us!" "oh!" cried katy, with horror, "nothing to eat since yesterday! how did it happen?" "everybody has been sick on our side the ship," explained the poor lady, "and i suppose the stewardess thought, as i had a maid with me, that i needed her less than the others. but my maid has been sick, too; and oh, so selfish! she wouldn't even take the baby into the berth with her; and i have had all i could do to manage with him, when i couldn't lift up my head. little gretchen has had to go without anything; and she has been so good and patient!" katy lost no time, but ran for mrs. barrett, whose indignation knew no bounds when she heard how the helpless party had been neglected. "it's a new person that stewardess h'is, ma'am," she explained, "and most h'inefficient! i told the captain when she come aboard that i didn't 'ave much opinion of her, and now he'll see how it h'is. i'm h'ashamed that such a thing should 'appen on the 'spartacus,' ma'am,--i h'am, h'indeed. h'it never would 'ave ben so h'under h'eliza, ma'am,--she's the one that went h'off and got herself married the trip before last, when this person came to take her place." all the time that she talked mrs. barrett was busy in making mrs. ware--for that, it seemed, was the sick lady's name--more comfortable; and katy was feeding gretchen out of a big bowl full of bread and milk which one of the stewards had brought. the little uncomplaining thing was evidently half starved, but with the mouthfuls the pink began to steal back into her cheeks and lips, and the dark circles lessened under the blue eyes. by the time the bottom of the bowl was reached she could smile, but still she said not a word except a whispered _danke schon_. her mother explained that she had been born in germany, and always till now had been cared for by a german nurse, so that she knew that language better than english. [illustration: katy was feeding gretchen out of a big bowl full of bread and milk.] gretchen was a great amusement to katy and amy during the rest of the voyage. they kept her on deck with them a great deal, and she was perfectly content with them and very good, though always solemn and quiet. pleasant people turned up among the passengers, as always happens on an ocean steamship, and others not so pleasant, perhaps, who were rather curious and interesting to watch. katy grew to feel as if she knew a great deal about her fellow travellers as time went on. there was the young girl going out to join her parents under the care of a severe governess, whom everybody on board rather pitied. there was the other girl on her way to study art, who was travelling quite alone, and seemed to have nobody to meet her or to go to except a fellow student of her own age, already in paris, but who seemed quite unconscious of her lonely position and competent to grapple with anything or anybody. there was the queer old gentleman who had "crossed" eleven times before, and had advice and experience to spare for any one who would listen to them; and the other gentleman, not so old but even more queer, who had "frozen his stomach," eight years before, by indulging, on a hot summer's day, in sixteen successive ice-creams, alternated with ten glasses of equally cold soda-water, and who related this exciting experience in turn to everybody on board. there was the bad little boy, whose parents were powerless to oppose him, and who carried terror to the hearts of all beholders whenever he appeared; and the pretty widow who filled the role of reigning belle; and the other widow, not quite so pretty or so much a belle, who had a good deal to say, in a voice made discreetly low, about what a pity it was that dear mrs. so-and-so should do this or that, and "doesn't it strike you as very unfortunate that she should not consider" the other thing? a great sea-going steamer is a little world in itself, and gives one a glimpse of all sorts and conditions of people and characters. on the whole, there was no one on the "spartacus" whom katy liked so well as sedate little gretchen except the dear old captain, with whom she was a prime favorite. he gave mrs. ashe and herself the seats next to him at table, looked after their comfort in every possible way, and each night at dinner sent katy one of the apple-dumplings made specially for him by the cook, who had gone many voyages with the captain and knew his fancies. katy did not care particularly for the dumpling, but she valued it as a mark of regard, and always ate it when she could. meanwhile, every morning brought a fresh surprise from that dear, painstaking rose, who had evidently worked hard and thought harder in contriving pleasures for katy's first voyage at sea. mrs. barrett was enlisted in the plot, there could be no doubt of that, and enjoyed the joke as much as any one, as she presented herself each day with the invariable formula, "a letter for you, ma'am," or "a bundle, miss, come by the parcels delivery." on the fourth morning it was a photograph of baby rose, in a little flat morocco case. the fifth brought a wonderful epistle, full of startling pieces of news, none of them true. on the sixth appeared a long narrow box containing a fountain pen. then came mr. howells's "a foregone conclusion," which katy had never seen; then a box of quinine pills; then a sachet for her trunk; then another burlesque poem; last of all, a cake of delicious violet soap, "to wash the sea-smell from her hands," the label said. it grew to be one of the little excitements of ship life to watch for the arrival of these daily gifts; and "what did the mail bring for you this time, miss carr?" was a question frequently asked. each arrival katy thought must be the final one; but rose's forethought had gone so far even as to provide an extra parcel in case the voyage was a day longer than usual, and "miss carr's mail" continued to come in till the very last morning. katy never forgot the thrill that went through her when, after so many days of sea, her eyes first caught sight of the dim line of the irish coast. an exciting and interesting day followed as, after stopping at queenstown to leave the mails, they sped northeastward between shores which grew more distinct and beautiful with every hour,--on one side ireland, on the other the bold mountain lines of the welsh coast. it was late afternoon when they entered the mersey, and dusk had fallen before the captain got out his glass to look for the white fluttering speck in his own window which meant so much to him. long he studied before he made quite sure that it was there. at last he shut the glass with a satisfied air. "it's all right," he said to katy, who stood near, almost as much interested as he. "lucy never forgets, bless her! well, there's another voyage over and done with, thank god, and my mary is where she was. it's a load taken from my mind." the moon had risen and was shining softly on the river as the crowded tender landed the passengers from the "spartacus" at the liverpool docks. "we shall meet again in london or in paris," said one to another, and cards and addresses were exchanged. then after a brief delay at the custom house they separated, each to his own particular destination; and, as a general thing, none of them ever saw any of the others again. it is often thus with those who have been fellow voyagers at sea; and it is always a surprise and perplexity to inexperienced travellers that it can be so, and that those who have been so much to each other for ten days can melt away into space and disappear as though the brief intimacy had never existed. "four-wheeler or hansom, ma'am?" said a porter to mrs. ashe. "which, katy?" "oh, let us have a hansom! i never saw one, and they look so nice in 'punch.'" so a hansom cab was called, the two ladies got in, amy cuddled down between them, the folding-doors were shut over their knees like a lap-robe, and away they drove up the solidly paved streets to the hotel where they were to pass the night. it was too late to see or do anything but enjoy the sense of being on firm land once more. "how lovely it will be to sleep in a bed that doesn't tip or roll from side to side!" said mrs. ashe. "yes, and that is wide enough and long enough and soft enough to be comfortable!" replied katy. "i feel as if i could sleep for a fortnight to make up for the bad nights at sea." everything seemed delightful to her,--the space for undressing, the great tub of fresh water which stood beside the english-looking washstand with its ample basin and ewer, the chintz-curtained bed, the coolness, the silence,--and she closed her eyes with the pleasant thought in her mind, "it is really england and we are really here!" chapter v. storybook england. "oh, is it raining?" was katy's first question next morning, when the maid came to call her. the pretty room, with its gayly flowered chintz, and china, and its brass bedstead, did not look half so bright as when lit with gas the night before; and a dim gray light struggled in at the window, which in america would certainly have meant bad weather coming or already come. "oh no, h'indeed, ma'am, it's a very fine day,--not bright, ma'am, but very dry," was the answer. katy couldn't imagine what the maid meant, when she peeped between the curtains and saw a thick dull mist lying over everything, and the pavements opposite her window shining with wet. afterwards, when she understood better the peculiarities of the english climate, she too learned to call days not absolutely rainy "fine," and to be grateful for them; but on that first morning her sensations were of bewildered surprise, almost vexation. mrs. ashe and amy were waiting in the coffee-room when she went in search of them. "what shall we have for breakfast," asked mrs. ashe,--"our first meal in england? katy, you order it." "let's have all the things we have read about in books and don't have at home," said katy, eagerly. but when she came to look over the bill of fare there didn't seem to be many such things. soles and muffins she finally decided upon, and, as an after-thought, gooseberry jam. "muffins sound so very good in dickens, you know," she explained to mrs. ashe; "and i never saw a sole." the soles when they came proved to be nice little pan-fish, not unlike what in new england are called "scup." all the party took kindly to them; but the muffins were a great disappointment, tough and tasteless, with a flavor about them as of scorched flannel. "how queer and disagreeable they are!" said katy. "i feel as if i were eating rounds cut from an old ironing-blanket and buttered! dear me! what did dickens mean by making such a fuss about them, i wonder? and i don't care for gooseberry jam, either; it isn't half as good as the jams we have at home. books are very deceptive." "i am afraid they are. we must make up our minds to find a great many things not quite so nice as they sound when we read about them," replied mrs. ashe. mabel was breakfasting with them, of course, and was heard to remark at this juncture that she didn't like muffins, either, and would a great deal rather have waffles; whereupon amy reproved her, and explained that nobody in england knew what waffles were, they were such a stupid nation, and that mabel must learn to eat whatever was given her and not find fault with it! after this moral lesson it was found to be dangerously near train-time; and they all hurried to the railroad station, which, fortunately, was close by. there was rather a scramble and confusion for a few moments; for katy, who had undertaken to buy the tickets, was puzzled by the unaccustomed coinage; and mrs. ashe, whose part was to see after the luggage, found herself perplexed and worried by the absence of checks, and by no means disposed to accept the porter's statement, that if she'd only bear in mind that the trunks were in the second van from the engine, and get out to see that they were safe once or twice during the journey, and call for them as soon as they reached london, she'd have no trouble,--"please remember the porter, ma'am!" however all was happily settled at last; and without any serious inconveniences they found themselves established in a first-class carriage, and presently after running smoothly at full speed across the rich english midlands toward london and the eastern coast. the extreme greenness of the october landscape was what struck them first, and the wonderfully orderly and trim aspect of the country, with no ragged, stump-dotted fields or reaches of wild untended woods. late in october as it was, the hedgerows and meadows were still almost summer-like in color, though the trees were leafless. the delightful-looking old manor-houses and farm-houses, of which they had glimpses now and again, were a constant pleasure to katy, with their mullioned windows, twisted chimney-stacks, porches of quaint build, and thick-growing ivy. she contrasted them with the uncompromising ugliness of farm-houses which she remembered at home, and wondered whether it could be that at the end of another thousand years or so, america would have picturesque buildings like these to show in addition to her picturesque scenery. suddenly into the midst of these reflections there glanced a picture so vivid that it almost took away her breath, as the train steamed past a pack of hounds in full cry, followed by a galloping throng of scarlet-coated huntsmen. one horse and rider were in the air, going over a wall. another was just rising to the leap. a string of others, headed by a lady, were tearing across a meadow bounded by a little brook, and beyond that streamed the hounds following the invisible fox. it was like one of muybridge's instantaneous photographs of "the horse in motion," for the moment that it lasted; and katy put it away in her memory, distinct and brilliant, as she might a real picture. their destination in london was batt's hotel in dover street. the old gentleman on the "spartacus," who had "crossed" so many times, had furnished mrs. ashe with a number of addresses of hotels and lodging-houses, from among which katy had chosen batt's for the reason that it was mentioned in miss edgeworth's "patronage." "it was the place," she explained, "where godfrey percy didn't stay when lord oldborough sent him the letter." it seemed an odd enough reason for going anywhere that a person in a novel didn't stay there. but mrs. ashe knew nothing of london, and had no preference of her own; so she was perfectly willing to give katy hers, and batt's was decided upon. "it is just like a dream or a story," said katy, as they drove away from the london station in a four-wheeler. "it is really ourselves, and this is really london! can you imagine it?" she looked out. nothing met her eyes but dingy weather, muddy streets, long rows of ordinary brick or stone houses. it might very well have been new york or boston on a foggy day, yet to her eyes all things had a subtle difference which made them unlike similar objects at home. "wimpole street!" she cried suddenly, as she caught sight of the name on the corner; "that is the street where maria crawford in mansfield park, you know, 'opened one of the best houses' after she married mr. rushworth. think of seeing wimpole street! what fun!" she looked eagerly out after the "best houses," but the whole street looked uninteresting and old-fashioned; the best house to be seen was not of a kind, katy thought, to reconcile an ambitious young woman to a dull husband. katy had to remind herself that miss austen wrote her novels nearly a century ago, that london was a "growing" place, and that things were probably much changed since that day. more "fun" awaited them when they arrived at batt's, and exactly such a landlady sailed forth to welcome them as they had often met with in books,--an old landlady, smiling and rubicund, with a towering lace cap on her head, a flowered silk gown, a gold chain, and a pair of fat mittened hands demurely crossed over a black brocade apron. she alone would have been worth crossing the ocean to see, they all declared. their telegram had been received, and rooms were ready, with a bright, smoky fire of soft coals; the dinner-table was set, and a nice, formal, white-cravated old waiter, who seemed to have stepped out of the same book with the landlady, was waiting to serve it. everything was dingy and old-fashioned, but very clean and comfortable; and katy concluded that on the whole godfrey percy would have done wisely to go to batt's, and could have fared no better at the other hotel where he did stay. the first of katy's "london sights" came to her next morning before she was out of her bedroom. she heard a bell ring and a queer squeaking little voice utter a speech of which she could not make out a single word. then came a laugh and a shout, as if several boys were amused at something or other; and altogether her curiosity was roused, so that she finished dressing as fast as she could, and ran to the drawing-room window which commanded a view of the street. quite a little crowd was collected under the window, and in their midst was a queer box raised high on poles, with little red curtains tied back on either side to form a miniature stage, on which puppets were moving and vociferating. katy knew in a moment that she was seeing her first punch and judy! the box and the crowd began to move away. katy in despair ran to wilkins, the old waiter who was setting the breakfast-table. "oh, please stop that man!" she said. "i want to see him." "what man is it, miss?" said wilkins. when he reached the window and realized what katy meant, his sense of propriety seemed to receive a severe shock. he even ventured on remonstrance. "h'i wouldn't, miss, h'if h'i was you. them punches are a low lot, miss; they h'ought to be put down, really they h'ought. gentlefolks, h'as a general thing, pays no h'attention to them." but katy didn't care what "gentlefolks" did or did not do, and insisted upon having punch called back. so wilkins was forced to swallow his remonstrances and his dignity, and go in pursuit of the objectionable object. amy came rushing out, with her hair flying and mabel in her arms; and she and katy had a real treat of punch and judy, with all the well-known scenes, and perhaps a few new ones thrown in for their especial behoof; for the showman seemed to be inspired by the rapturous enjoyment of his little audience of three at the first-floor windows. punch beat judy and stole the baby, and judy banged punch in return, and the constable came in and punch outwitted him, and the hangman and the devil made their appearance duly; and it was all perfectly satisfactory, and "just exactly what she hoped it would be, and it quite made up for the muffins," katy declared. then, when punch had gone away, the question arose as to what they should choose, out of the many delightful things in london, for their first morning. like ninety-nine americans out of a hundred, they decided on westminster abbey; and indeed there is nothing in england better worth seeing, or more impressive, in its dim, rich antiquity, to eyes fresh from the world which still calls itself "new." so to the abbey they went, and lingered there till mrs. ashe declared herself to be absolutely dropping with fatigue. "if you don't take me home and give me something to eat," she said, "i shall drop down on one of these pedestals and stay there and be exhibited forever after as an 'h'effigy' of somebody belonging to ancient english history." so katy tore herself away from henry the seventh and the poets' corner, and tore amy away from a quaint little tomb shaped like a cradle, with the marble image of a baby in it, which had greatly taken her fancy. she could only be consoled by the promise that she should soon come again and stay as long as she liked. she reminded katy of this promise the very next morning. "mamma has waked up with rather a bad headache, and she thinks she will lie still and not come to breakfast," she reported. "and she sends her love, and says will you please have a cab and go where you like; and if i won't be a trouble, she would be glad if you would take me with you. and i won't be a trouble, miss katy, and i know where i wish you would go." "where is that!" "to see that cunning little baby again that we saw yesterday. i want to show her to mabel,--she didn't go with us, you know, and i don't like to have her mind not improved; and, darling miss katy, mayn't i buy some flowers and put them on the baby? she's so dusty and so old that i don't believe anybody has put any flowers for her for ever so long." katy found this idea rather pretty, and willingly stopped at covent garden, where they bought a bunch of late roses for eighteen pence, which entirely satisfied amy. with them in her hand, and mabel in her arms, she led the way through the dim aisles of the abbey, through grates and doors and up and down steps; the guide following, but not at all needed, for amy seemed to have a perfectly clear recollection of every turn and winding. when the chapel was reached, she laid the roses on the tomb with gentle fingers, and a pitiful, reverent look in her gray eyes. then she lifted mabel up to kiss the odd little baby effigy above the marble quilt; whereupon the guide seemed altogether surprised out of his composure, and remarked to katy,-- "little miss is an h'american, as is plain to see; no h'english child would be likely to think of doing such a thing." "do not english children take any interest in the tombs of the abbey?" asked katy. "oh yes, m'm,--h'interest; but they don't take no special notice of one tomb above h'another." katy could scarcely keep from laughing, especially as she heard amy, who had been listening to the conversation, give an audible sniff, and inform mabel that she was glad _she_ was not an english child, who didn't notice things and liked grown-up graves as much as she did dear little cunning ones like this! later in the day, when mrs. ashe was better, they all drove together to the quaint old keep which has been the scene of so many tragedies, and is known as the tower of london. here they were shown various rooms and chapels and prisons; and among the rest the apartments where queen elizabeth, when a friendless young princess, was shut up for many months by her sister, queen mary. katy had read somewhere, and now told amy, the pretty legend of the four little children who lived with their parents in the tower, and used to play with the royal captive; and how one little boy brought her a key which he had picked up on the ground, and said, "now you can go out when you will, lady;" and how the lords of the council, getting wind of it, sent for the children to question them, and frightened them and their friends almost to death, and forbade them to go near the princess again. a story about children always brings the past much nearer to a child, and amy's imagination was so excited by this tale, that when they got to the darksome closet which is said to have been the prison of sir walter raleigh, she marched out of it with a pale and wrathful face. "if this is english history, i never mean to learn any more of it, and neither shall mabel," she declared. but it is not possible for amy or any one else not to learn a great deal of history simply by going about london. so many places are associated with people or events, and seeing the places makes one care so much more for the people or the events, that one insensibly questions and wonders. katy, who had "browsed" all through her childhood in a good old-fashioned library, had her memory stuffed with all manner of little scraps of information and literary allusions, which now came into use. it was like owning the disjointed bits of a puzzle, and suddenly discovering that properly put together they make a pattern. mrs. ashe, who had never been much of a reader, considered her young friend a prodigy of intelligence; but katy herself realized how inadequate and inexact her knowledge was, and how many bits were missing from the pattern of her puzzle. she wished with all her heart, as every one wishes under such circumstances, that she had studied harder and more wisely while the chance was in her power. on a journey you cannot read to advantage. remember that, dear girls, who are looking forward to travelling some day, and be industrious in time. october is not a favorable month in which to see england. water, water is everywhere; you breathe it, you absorb it; it wets your clothes and it dampens your spirits. mrs. ashe's friends advised her not to think of scotland at that time of the year. one by one their little intended excursions were given up. a single day and night in oxford and stratford-on-avon; a short visit to the isle of wight, where, in a country-place which seemed provokingly pretty as far as they could see it for the rain, lived that friend of mrs. ashe who had married an englishman and in so doing had, as katy privately thought, "renounced the sun;" a peep at stonehenge from under the shelter of an umbrella, and an hour or two in salisbury cathedral,--was all that they accomplished, except a brief halt at winchester, that katy might have the privilege of seeing the grave of her beloved miss austen. katy had come abroad with a terribly long list of graves to visit, mrs. ashe declared. they laid a few rain-washed flowers upon the tomb, and listened with edification to the verger, who inquired,-- "whatever was it, ma'am, that lady did which brings so many h'americans to h'ask about her? our h'english people don't seem to take the same h'interest." "she wrote such delightful stories," explained katy; but the old verger shook his head. "i think h'it must be some other party, miss, you've confused with this here. it stands to reason, miss, that we'd have heard of 'em h'over 'ere in england sooner than you would h'over there in h'america, if the books 'ad been h'anything so h'extraordinary." the night after their return to london they were dining for the second time with the cousins of whom mrs. ashe had spoken to dr. carr; and as it happened katy sat next to a quaint elderly american, who had lived for twenty years in london and knew it much better than most londoners do. this gentleman, mr. allen beach, had a hobby for antiquities, old books especially, and passed half his time at the british museum, and the other half in sales rooms and the old shops in wardour street. katy was lamenting over the bad weather which stood in the way of their plans. "it is so vexatious," she said. "mrs. ashe meant to go to york and lincoln and all the cathedral towns and to scotland; and we have had to give it all up because of the rains. we shall go away having seen hardly anything." "you can see london." "we have,--that is, we have seen the things that everybody sees." "but there are so many things that people in general do not see. how much longer are you to stay, miss carr?" "a week, i believe." "why don't you make out a list of old buildings which are connected with famous people in history, and visit them in turn? i did that the second year after i came. i gave up three months to it, and it was most interesting. i unearthed all manner of curious stories and traditions." "or," cried katy, struck with a sudden bright thought, "why mightn't i put into the list some of the places i know about in books,--novels as well as history,--and the places where the people who wrote the books lived?" "you might do that, and it wouldn't be a bad idea, either," said mr. beach, pleased with her enthusiasm. "i will get a pencil after dinner and help you with your list if you will allow me." mr. beach was better than his word. he not only suggested places and traced a plan of sight-seeing, but on two different mornings he went with them himself; and his intelligent knowledge of london added very much to the interest of the excursions. under his guidance the little party of four--for mabel was never left out; it was _such_ a chance for her to improve her mind, amy declared--visited the charter-house, where thackeray went to school, and the home of the poor brothers connected with it, in which colonel newcome answered "adsum" to the roll-call of the angels. they took a look at the small house in curzon street, which is supposed to have been in thackeray's mind when he described the residence of becky sharpe; and the other house in russell square which is unmistakably that where george osborne courted amelia sedley. they went to service in the delightful old church of st. mary in the temple, and thought of ivanhoe and brian de bois-guilbert and rebecca the jewess. from there mr. beach took them to lamb's court, where pendennis and george warrington dwelt in chambers together; and to brick court, where oliver goldsmith passed so much of his life, and the little rooms in which charles and mary lamb spent so many sadly happy years. on another day they drove to whitefriars, for the sake of lord glenvarloch and the old privilege of sanctuary in the "fortunes of nigel;" and took a peep at bethnal green, where the blind beggar and his "pretty bessee" lived, and at the old prison of the marshalsea, made interesting by its associations with "little dorrit." they also went to see milton's house and st. giles church, in which he is buried; and stood a long time before st. james palace, trying to make out which could have been miss burney's windows when she was dresser to queen charlotte of bitter memory. and they saw paternoster row and no. cheyne walk, sacred forevermore to the memory of thomas carlyle, and whitehall, where queen elizabeth lay in state and king charles was beheaded, and the state rooms of holland house; and by great good luck had a glimpse of george eliot getting out of a cab. she stood for a moment while she gave her fare to the cabman, and katy looked as one who might not look again, and carried away a distinct picture of the unbeautiful, interesting, remarkable face. with all this to see and to do, the last week sped all too swiftly, and the last day came before they were at all ready to leave what katy called "story-book england." mrs. ashe had decided to cross by newhaven and dieppe, because some one had told her of the beautiful old town of rouen, and it seemed easy and convenient to take it on the way to paris. just landed from the long voyage across the atlantic, the little passage of the channel seemed nothing to our travellers, and they made ready for their night on the dieppe steamer with the philosophy which is born of ignorance. they were speedily undeceived! the english channel has a character of its own, which distinguishes it from other seas and straits. it seems made fractious and difficult by nature, and set as on purpose to be barrier between two nations who are too unlike to easily understand each other, and are the safer neighbors for this wholesome difficulty of communication between them. the "chop" was worse than usual on the night when our travellers crossed; the steamer had to fight her way inch by inch. and oh, such a little steamer! and oh, such a long night! chapter vi. across the channel. dawn had given place to day, and day was well advanced toward noon, before the stout little steamer gained her port. it was hours after the usual time for arrival; the train for paris must long since have started, and katy felt dejected and forlorn as, making her way out of the terrible ladies'-cabin, she crept on deck for her first glimpse of france. the sun was struggling through the fog with a watery smile, and his faint beams shone on a confusion of stone piers, higher than the vessel's deck, intersected with canal-like waterways, through whose intricate windings the steamer was slowly threading her course to the landing-place. looking up, katy could see crowds of people assembled to watch the boat come in,--workmen, peasants, women, children, soldiers, custom-house officers, moving to and fro,--and all this crowd were talking all at once and all were talking french! i don't know why this should have startled her as it did. she knew, of course, that people of different countries were liable to be found speaking their own languages; but somehow the spectacle of the chattering multitude, all seeming so perfectly at ease with their preterits and subjunctives and never once having to refer to ollendorf or a dictionary, filled her with a sense of dismayed surprise. "good gracious!" she said to herself, "even the babies understand it!" she racked her brains to recall what she had once known of french, but very little seemed to have survived the horrors of the night! "oh dear! what is the word for trunk-key?" she asked herself. "they will all begin to ask questions, and i shall not have a word to say; and mrs. ashe will be even worse off, i know." she saw the red-trousered custom-house officers pounce upon the passengers as they landed one by one, and she felt her heart sink within her. but after all, when the time came it did not prove so very bad. katy's pleasant looks and courteous manner stood her in good stead. she did not trust herself to say much; but the officials seemed to understand without saying. they bowed and gestured, whisked the keys in and out, and in a surprisingly short time all was pronounced right, the baggage had "passed," and it and its owners were free to proceed to the railway-station, which fortunately was close at hand. inquiry revealed the fact that no train for paris left till four in the afternoon. "i am rather glad," declared poor mrs. ashe, "for i feel too used up to move. i will lie here on this sofa; and, katy dear, please see if there is an eating-place, and get some breakfast for yourself and amy, and send me a cup of tea." "i don't like to leave you alone," katy was beginning; but at that moment a nice old woman who seemed to be in charge of the waiting-room appeared, and with a flood of french which none of them could follow, but which was evidently sympathetic in its nature, flew at mrs. ashe and began to make her comfortable. from a cupboard in the wall she produced a pillow, from another cupboard a blanket; in a trice she had one under mrs. ashe's head and the other wrapped round her feet. "pauvre madame," she said, "si pâle! si souffrante! il faut avoir quelque chose à boire et à manger tout de suite." she trotted across the room and into the restaurant which opened out of it, while mrs. ashe smiled at katy and said, "you see you can leave me quite safely; i am to be taken care of." and katy and amy passed through the same door into the _buffet_, and sat down at a little table. it was a particularly pleasant-looking place to breakfast in. there were many windows with bright polished panes and very clean short muslin curtains, and on the window-sills stood rows of thrifty potted plants in full bloom,--marigolds, balsams, nasturtiums, and many colored geraniums. two birds in cages were singing loudly; the floor was waxed to a glass-like polish; nothing could have been whiter than the marble of the tables except the napkins laid over them. and such a good breakfast as was presently brought to them,--delicious coffee in bowl-like cups, crisp rolls and rusks, an omelette with a delicate flavor of fine herbs, stewed chicken, little pats of freshly churned butter without salt, shaped like shells and tasting like solidified cream, and a pot of some sort of nice preserve. amy made great delighted eyes at katy, and remarking, "i think france is heaps nicer than that old england," began to eat with a will; and katy herself felt that if this railroad meal was a specimen of what they had to expect in the future, they had indeed come to a land of plenty. fortified with the satisfactory breakfast, she felt equal to a walk; and after they had made sure that mrs. ashe had all she needed, she and amy (and mabel) set off by themselves to see the sights of dieppe. i don't know that travellers generally have considered dieppe an interesting place, but katy found it so. there was a really old church and some quaint buildings of the style of two centuries back, and even the more modern streets had a novel look to her unaccustomed eyes. at first they only ventured a timid turn or two, marking each corner, and going back now and then to reassure themselves by a look at the station; but after a while, growing bolder, katy ventured to ask a question or two in french, and was surprised and charmed to find herself understood. after that she grew adventurous, and, no longer fearful of being lost, led amy straight down a long street lined with shops, almost all of which were for the sale of articles in ivory. ivory wares are one of the chief industries of dieppe. there were cases full, windows full, counters full, of the most exquisite combs and brushes, some with elaborate monograms in silver and colors, others plain; there were boxes and caskets of every size and shape, ornaments, fans, parasol handles, looking-glasses, frames for pictures large and small, napkin-rings. katy was particularly smitten with a paper-knife in the form of an angel with long slender wings raised over its head and meeting to form a point. its price was twenty francs, and she was strongly tempted to buy it for clover or rose red. but she said to herself sensibly, "this is the first shop i have been into and the first thing i have really wanted to buy, and very likely as we go on i shall see things i like better and want more, so it would be foolish to do it. no, i won't." and she resolutely turned her back on the ivory angel, and walked away. the next turn brought them to a gay-looking little market-place, where old women in white caps were sitting on the ground beside baskets and panniers full of apples, pears, and various queer and curly vegetables, none of which katy recognized as familiar; fish of all shapes and colors were flapping in shallow tubs of sea-water; there were piles of stockings, muffetees, and comforters in vivid blue and red worsted, and coarse pottery glazed in bright patterns. the faces of the women were brown and wrinkled; there were no pretty ones among them, but their black eyes were full of life and quickness, and their fingers one and all clicked with knitting-needles, as their tongues flew equally fast in the chatter and the chaffer, which went on without stop or stay, though customers did not seem to be many and sales were few. returning to the station they found that mrs. ashe had been asleep during their absence, and seemed so much better that it was with greatly amended spirits that they took their places in the late afternoon train which was to set them down at rouen. katy said they were like the wise men of the east, "following a star," in their choice of a hotel; for, having no better advice, they had decided upon one of those thus distinguished in baedeker's guide-book. the star did not betray their confidence; for the hôtel de la cloche, to which it led them, proved to be quaint and old, and very pleasant of aspect. the lofty chambers, with their dimly frescoed ceilings, and beds curtained with faded patch, might to all appearances have been furnished about the time when "columbus crossed the ocean blue;" but everything was clean, and had an air of old-time respectability. the dining-room, which was evidently of more modern build, opened into a square courtyard where oleanders and lemon trees in boxes stood round the basin of a little fountain, whose tinkle and plash blended agreeably with the rattle of the knives and forks. in one corner of the room was a raised and railed platform, where behind a desk sat the mistress of the house, busy with her account-books, but keeping an eye the while on all that went forward. mrs. ashe walked past this personage without taking any notice of her, as americans are wont to do under such circumstances; but presently the observant katy noticed that every one else, as they went in or out of the room, addressed a bow or a civil remark to this lady. she quite blushed at the recollection afterward, as she made ready for bed. "how rude we must have seemed!" she thought. "i am afraid the people here think that americans have _awful_ manners, everybody is so polite. they said 'bon soir' and 'merci' and 'voulez-vous avoir la bonté,' to the waiters even! well, there is one thing,--i am going to reform. to-morrow i will be as polite as anybody. they will think that i am miraculously improved by one night on french soil; but, never mind! i am going to do it." she kept her resolution, and astonished mrs. ashe next morning, by bowing to the dame on the platform in the most winning manner, and saying, "bon jour, madame," as they went by. "but, katy, who is that person? why do you speak to her?" "don't you see that they all do? she is the landlady, i think; at all events, everybody bows to her. and just notice how prettily these ladies at the next table speak to the waiter. they do not order him to do things as we do at home. i noticed it last night, and i liked it so much that i made a resolution to get up and be as polite as the french themselves this morning." so all the time that they went about the sumptuous old city, rich in carvings and sculptures and traditions, while they were looking at the cathedral and the wonderful church of st. ouen, and the palace of justice, and the "place of the maid," where poor jeanne d'arc was burned and her ashes scattered to the winds, katy remembered her manners, and smiled and bowed, and used courteous prefixes in a soft pleasant voice; and as mrs. ashe and amy fell in with her example more or less, i think the guides and coachmen and the old women who showed them over the buildings felt that the air of france was very civilizing indeed, and that these strangers from savage countries over the sea were in a fair way to be as well bred as if they had been born in a more favored part of the world! paris looked very modern after the peculiar quaint richness and air of the middle ages which distinguish rouen. rooms had been engaged for mrs. ashe's party in a _pension_ near the arc d'Ã�toile, and there they drove immediately on arriving. the rooms were not in the _pension_ itself, but in a house close by,--a sitting-room with six mirrors, three clocks, and a pinched little grate about a foot wide, a dining-room just large enough for a table and four chairs, and two bedrooms. a maid called amandine had been detailed to take charge of these rooms and serve their meals. dampness, as katy afterward wrote to clover, was the first impression they received of "gay paris." the tiny fire in the tiny grate had only just been lighted, and the walls and the sheets and even the blankets felt chilly and moist to the touch. they spent their first evening in hanging the bedclothes round the grate and piling on fuel; they even set the mattresses up on edge to warm and dry! it was not very enlivening, it must be confessed. amy had taken a cold, mrs. ashe looked worried, and katy thought of burnet and the safety and comfort of home with a throb of longing. the days that ensued were not brilliant enough to remove this impression. the november fogs seemed to have followed them across the channel, and paris remained enveloped in a wet blanket which dimmed and hid its usually brilliant features. going about in cabs with the windows drawn up, and now and then making a rush through the drip into shops, was not exactly delightful, but it seemed pretty much all that they could do. it was worse for amy, whose cold kept her indoors and denied her even the relaxation of the cab. mrs. ashe had engaged a well-recommended elderly english maid to come every morning and take care of amy while they were out; and with this respectable functionary, whose ideas were of a rigidly british type and who did not speak a word of any language but her own, poor amy was compelled to spend most of her time. her only consolation was in persuading this serene attendant to take a part in the french lessons which she made a daily point of giving to mabel out of her own little phrase-book. "wilkins is getting on, i think," she told katy one night. "she says 'biscuit glacé' quite nicely now. but i never will let her look at the book, though she always wants to; for if once she saw how the words are spelled, she would never in the world pronounce them right again. they look so very different, you know." katy looked at amy's pale little face and eager eyes with a real heartache. her rapture when at the end of the long dull afternoons her mother returned to her was touching. paris was very _triste_ to poor amy, with all her happy facility for amusing herself; and katy felt that the sooner they got away from it the better it would be. so, in spite of the delight which her brief glimpses at the louvre gave her, and the fun it was to go about with mrs. ashe and see her buy pretty things, and the real satisfaction she took in the one perfectly made walking-suit to which she had treated herself, she was glad when the final day came, when the belated dressmakers and artistes in jackets and wraps had sent home their last wares, and the trunks were packed. it had been rather the fault of circumstances than of paris; but katy had not learned to love the beautiful capital as most americans do, and did not feel at all as if she wanted that her "reward of virtue" should be to go there when she died! there must be more interesting places for live people, and ghosts too, to be found on the map of europe, she was sure. next morning as they drove slowly down the champs Ã�lysées, and looked back for a last glimpse of the famous arch, a bright object met their eyes, moving vaguely against the mist. it was the gay red wagon of the bon marché, carrying bundles home to the dwellers of some up-town street. katy burst out laughing. "it is an emblem of paris," she said,--"of our paris, i mean. it has been all bon marché and fog!" "miss katy," interrupted amy, "_do_ you like europe? for my part, i was never so disgusted with any place in my life!" "poor little bird, her views of 'europe' are rather dark just now, and no wonder," said her mother. "never mind, darling, you shall have something pleasanter by and by if i can find it for you." "burnet is a great deal pleasanter than paris," pronounced amy, decidedly. "it doesn't keep always raining there, and i can take walks, and i understand everything that people say." all that day they sped southward, and with every hour came a change in the aspect of their surroundings. now they made brief stops in large busy towns which seemed humming with industry. now they whirled through grape countries with miles of vineyards, where the brown leaves still hung on the vines. then again came glimpses of old roman ruins, amphitheatres, viaducts, fragments of wall or arch; or a sudden chill betokened their approach to mountains, where snowy peaks could be seen on the far horizon. and when the long night ended and day roused them from broken slumbers, behold, the world was made over! autumn had vanished, and the summer, which they thought fled for good, had taken his place. green woods waved about them, fresh leaves were blowing in the wind, roses and hollyhocks beckoned from white-walled gardens; and before they had done with exclaiming and rejoicing, the mediterranean shot into view, intensely blue, with white fringes of foam, white sails blowing across, white gulls flying above it, and over all a sky of the same exquisite blue, whose clouds were white as the drifting sails on the water below, and they were at marseilles. it was like a glimpse of paradise to eyes fresh from autumnal grays and glooms, as they sped along the lovely coast, every curve and turn showing new combinations of sea and shore, olive-crowned cliff and shining mountain-peak. with every mile the blue became bluer, the wind softer, the feathery verdure more dense and summer-like. hyères and cannes and antibes were passed, and then, as they rounded a long point, came the view of a sunshiny city lying on a sunlit shore; the train slackened its speed, and they knew that their journey's end was come and they were in nice. the place seemed to laugh with gayety as they drove down the promenade des anglais and past the english garden, where the band was playing beneath the acacias and palm-trees. on one side was a line of bright-windowed hotels and _pensions_, with balconies and striped awnings; on the other, the long reach of yellow sand-beach, where ladies were grouped on shawls and rugs, and children ran up and down in the sun, while beyond stretched the waveless sea. the december sun felt as warm as on a late june day at home, and had the same soft caressing touch. the pavements were thronged with groups of leisurely-looking people, all wearing an unmistakable holiday aspect; pretty girls in correct parisian costumes walked demurely beside their mothers, with cavaliers in attendance; and among these young men appeared now and again the well-known uniform of the united states navy. "i wonder," said mrs. ashe, struck by a sudden thought, "if by any chance our squadron is here." she asked the question the moment they entered the hotel; and the porter, who prided himself on understanding "zose eenglesh," replied,-- "mais oui, madame, ze americaine fleet it is here; zat is, not here, but at villefranche, just a leetle four mile away,--it is ze same zing exactly." "katy, do you hear that?" cried mrs. ashe. "the frigates _are_ here, and the 'natchitoches' among them of course; and we shall have ned to go about with us everywhere. it is a real piece of good luck for us. ladies are at such a loss in a place like this with nobody to escort them. i am perfectly delighted." "so am i," said katy. "i never saw a frigate, and i always wanted to see one. do you suppose they will let us go on board of them?" "why, of course they will." then to the porter, "give me a sheet of paper and an envelope, please.--i must let ned know that i am here at once." mrs. ashe wrote her note and despatched it before they went upstairs to take off their bonnets. she seemed to have a half-hope that some bird of the air might carry the news of her arrival to her brother, for she kept running to the window as if in expectation of seeing him. she was too restless to lie down or sleep, and after she and katy had lunched, proposed that they should go out on the beach for a while. "perhaps we may come across ned," she remarked. they did not come across ned, but there was no lack of other delightful objects to engage their attention. the sands were smooth and hard as a floor. soft pink lights were beginning to tinge the western sky. to the north shone the peaks of the maritime alps, and the same rosy glow caught them here and there, and warmed their grays and whites into color. "i wonder what that can be?" said katy, indicating the rocky point which bounded the beach to the east, where stood a picturesque building of stone, with massive towers and steep pitches of roof. "it looks half like a house and half like a castle, but it is quite fascinating, i think. do you suppose that people live there?" "we might ask," suggested mrs. ashe. just then they came to a shallow river spanned by a bridge, beside whose pebbly bed stood a number of women who seemed to be washing clothes by the simple and primitive process of laying them in the water on top of the stones, and pounding them with a flat wooden paddle till they were white. katy privately thought that the clothes stood a poor chance of lasting through these cleansing operations; but she did not say so, and made the inquiry which mrs. ashe had suggested, in her best french. "celle-là?" answered the old woman whom she had addressed. "mais c'est la pension suisse." "a _pension_; why, that means a boarding-house," cried katy. "what fun it must be to board there!" "well, why shouldn't we board there!" said her friend. "you know we meant to look for rooms as soon as we were rested and had found out a little about the place. let us walk on and see what the pension suisse is like. if the inside is as pleasant as the outside, we could not do better, i should think." "oh, i do hope all the rooms are not already taken," said katy, who had fallen in love at first sight with the pension suisse. she felt quite oppressed with anxiety as they rang the bell. the pension suisse proved to be quite as charming inside as out. the thick stone walls made deep sills and embrasures for the casement windows, which were furnished with red cushions to serve as seats and lounging-places. every window seemed to command a view, for those which did not look toward the sea looked toward the mountains. the house was by no means full, either. several sets of rooms were to be had; and katy felt as if she had walked straight into the pages of a romance when mrs. ashe engaged for a month a delightful suite of three, a sitting-room and two sleeping-chambers, in a round tower, with a balcony overhanging the water, and a side window, from which a flight of steps led down into a little walled garden, nestled in among the masonry, where tall laurestinus and lemon trees grew, and orange and brown wallflowers made the air sweet. her contentment knew no bounds. "i am so glad that i came," she told mrs. ashe. "i never confessed it to you before; but sometimes.--when we were sick at sea, you know, and when it would rain all the time, and after amy caught that cold in paris--i have almost wished, just for a minute or two at a time, that we hadn't. but now i wouldn't not have come for the world! this is perfectly delicious. i am glad, glad, glad we are here, and we are going to have a lovely time, i know." they were passing out of the rooms into the hall as she said these words, and two ladies who were walking up a cross passage turned their heads at the sound of her voice. to her great surprise katy recognized mrs. page and lilly. "why, cousin olivia, is it you?" she cried, springing forward with the cordiality one naturally feels in seeing a familiar face in a foreign land. mrs. page seemed rather puzzled than cordial. she put up her eyeglass and did not seem to quite make out who katy was. "it is katy carr, mamma," explained lilly. "well, katy, this _is_ a surprise! who would have thought of meeting you in nice!" there was a decided absence of rapture in lilly's manner. she was prettier than ever, as katy saw in a moment, and beautifully dressed in soft brown velvet, which exactly suited her complexion and her pale-colored wavy hair. "katy carr! why, so it is," admitted mrs. page. "it is a surprise indeed. we had no idea that you were abroad. what has brought you so far from tunket,--burnet, i mean? who are you with?" "with my friend mrs. ashe," explained katy, rather chilled by this cool reception. "let me introduce you. mrs. ashe, these are my cousins mrs. page and miss page. amy,--why where is amy?" amy had walked back to the door of the garden staircase, and was standing there looking down upon the flowers. cousin olivia bowed rather distantly. her quick eye took in the details of mrs. ashe's travelling-dress and katy's dark blue ulster. "some countrified friend from that dreadful western town where they live," she said to herself. "how foolish of philip carr to try to send his girls to europe! he can't afford it, i know." her voice was rather rigid as she inquired,-- "and what brings you here?--to this house, i mean?" "oh, we are coming to-morrow to stay; we have taken rooms for a month," explained katy. "what a delicious-looking old place it is." "have you?" said lilly, in a voice which did not express any particular pleasure. "why, we are staying here too." chapter vii. the pension suisse. "what do you suppose can have brought katy carr to europe?" inquired lilly, as she stood in the window watching the three figures walk slowly down the sands. "she is the last person i expected to turn up here. i supposed she was stuck in that horrid place--what is the name of it?--where they live, for the rest of her life." "i confess i am surprised at meeting her myself," rejoined mrs. page. "i had no idea that her father could afford so expensive a journey." "and who is this woman that she has got along with her?" "i have no idea, i'm sure. some western friend, i suppose." "dear me, i wish they were going to some other house than this," said lilly, discontentedly. "if they were at the rivoir, for instance, or one of those places at the far end of the beach, we shouldn't need to see anything of them, or even know that they were in town! it's a real nuisance to have people spring upon you this way, people you don't want to meet; and when they happen to be relations it is all the worse. katy will be hanging on us all the time, i'm afraid." "oh, my dear, there is no fear of that. a little repression on our part will prevent her from being any trouble, i'm quite certain. but we _must_ treat her politely, you know, lilly; her father is my cousin." "that's the saddest part of it! well, there's one thing, i shall _not_ take her with me every time we go to the frigates," said lilly, decisively. "i am not going to inflict a country cousin on lieutenant worthington, and spoil all my own fun beside. so i give you fair warning, mamma, and you must manage it somehow." "certainly, dear, i will. it would be a great pity to have your visit to nice spoiled in any way, with the squadron here too, and that pleasant mr. worthington so very attentive." unconscious of these plans for her suppression, katy walked back to the hotel in a mood of pensive pleasure. europe at last promised to be as delightful as it had seemed when she only knew it from maps and books, and nice so far appeared to her the most charming place in the world. somebody was waiting for them at the hotel des anglais,--a tall, bronzed, good-looking somebody in uniform, with pleasant brown eyes beaming from beneath a gold-banded cap; at the sight of whom amy rushed forward with her long locks flying, and mrs. ashe uttered an exclamation of pleasure. it was ned worthington, mrs. ashe's only brother, whom she had not met for two years and a half; and you can easily imagine how glad she was to see him. "you got my note then?" she said after the first eager greetings were over and she had introduced him to katy. "note? no. did you write me a note?" "yes; to villefranche." "to the ship? i shan't get that till tomorrow. no; finding out that you were here is just a bit of good fortune. i came over to call on some friends who are staying down the beach a little way, and dropping in to look over the list of arrivals, as i generally do, i saw your names; and the porter not being able to say which way you had gone, i waited for you to come in." "we have been looking at such a delightful old place, the pension suisse, and have taken rooms." "the pension suisse, eh? why, that was where i was going to call. i know some people who are staying there. it seems a pleasant house; i'm glad you are going there, polly. it's first-rate luck that the ships happen to be here just now. i can see you every day." "but, ned, surely you are not leaving me so soon? surely you will stay and dine with us?" urged his sister, as he took up his cap. "i wish i could, but i can't to-night, polly. you see i had engaged to take some ladies out to drive, and they will expect me. i had no idea that you would be here, or i should have kept myself free," apologetically. "tomorrow i will come over early, and be at your service for whatever you like to do." "that's right, dear boy. we shall expect you." then, the moment he was gone, "now, katy, isn't he nice?" "very nice, i should think," said katy, who had watched the brief interview with interest. "i like his face so much, and how fond he is of you!" "dear fellow! so he is. i am seven years older than he, but we have always been intimate. brothers and sisters are not always intimate, you know,--or perhaps you don't know, for all of yours are." "yes, indeed," said katy, with a happy smile. "there is nobody like clover and elsie, except perhaps johnnie and dorry and phil," she added with a laugh. the remove to the pension suisse was made early the next morning. mrs. page and lilly did not appear to welcome them. katy rather rejoiced in their absence, for she wanted the chance to get into order without interruptions. there was something comfortable in the thought that they were to stay a whole month in these new quarters; for so long a time, it seemed worth while to make them pretty and homelike. so, while mrs. ashe unpacked her own belongings and amy's, katy, who had a natural turn for arranging rooms, took possession of the little parlor, pulled the furniture into new positions, laid out portfolios and work-cases and their few books, pinned various photographs which they had bought in oxford and london on the walls, and tied back the curtains to admit the sunshine. then she paid a visit to the little garden, and came back with a long branch of laurestinus, which she trained across the mantelpiece, and a bunch of wallflowers for their one little vase. the maid, by her orders, laid a fire of wood and pine cones ready for lighting; and when all was done she called mrs. ashe to pronounce upon the effect. "it is lovely," she said, sinking into a great velvet arm-chair which katy had drawn close to the seaward window. "i haven't seen anything so pleasant since we left home. you are a witch, katy, and the comfort of my life. i am so glad i brought you! now, pray go and unpack your own things, and make yourself look nice for the second breakfast. we have been a shabby set enough since we arrived. i saw those cousins of yours looking askance at our old travelling-dresses yesterday. let us try to make a more respectable impression to-day." so they went down to breakfast, mrs. ashe in one of her new paris gowns, katy in a pretty dress of olive serge, and amy all smiles and ruffled pinafore, walking hand in hand with her uncle ned, who had just arrived and whose great ally she was; and mrs. page and lilly, who were already seated at table, had much ado to conceal their somewhat unflattering surprise at the conjunction. for one moment lilly's eyes opened into a wide stare of incredulous astonishment; then she remembered herself, nodded as pleasantly as she could to mrs. ashe and katy, and favored lieutenant worthington with a pretty blushing smile as he went by, while she murmured,-- "mamma, do you see that? what does it mean?" "why, ned, do you know those people?" asked mrs. ashe at the same moment. "do _you_ know them!" "yes; we met yesterday. they are connections of my friend miss carr." "really? there is not the least family likeness between them." and mr. worthington's eyes travelled deliberately from lilly's delicate, golden prettiness to katy, who, truth to say, did not shine by the contrast. "she has a nice, sensible sort of face," he thought, "and she looks like a lady, but for beauty there is no comparison between the two." then he turned to listen to his sister as she replied,-- "no, indeed, not the least; no two girls could be less like." mrs. ashe had made the same comparison, but with quite a different result. katy's face was grown dear to her, and she had not taken the smallest fancy to lilly page. her relationship to the young naval officer, however, made a wonderful difference in the attitude of mrs. page and lilly toward the party. katy became a person to be cultivated rather than repressed, and thenceforward there was no lack of cordiality on their part. "i want to come in and have a good talk," said lilly, slipping her arm through katy's as they left the dining-room. "mayn't i come now while mamma is calling on mrs. ashe?" this arrangement brought her to the side of lieutenant worthington, and she walked between him and katy down the hall and into the little drawing-room. "oh, how perfectly charming! you have been fixing up ever since you came, haven't you? it looks like home. i wish we had a _salon_, but mamma thought it wasn't worth while, as we were only to be here such a little time. what a delicious balcony over the water, too! may i go out on it? oh, mr. worthington, do see this!" she pushed open the half-closed window and stepped out as she spoke. mr. worthington, after hesitating a moment, followed. katy paused uncertain. there was hardly room for three in the balcony, yet she did not quite like to leave them. but lilly had turned her back, and was talking in a low tone; it was nothing more in reality than the lightest chit-chat, but it had the air of being something confidential; so katy, after waiting a little while, retreated to the sofa, and took up her work, joining now and then in the conversation which mrs. ashe was keeping up with cousin olivia. she did not mind lilly's ill-breeding, nor was she surprised at it. mrs. ashe was less tolerant. "isn't it rather damp out there, ned?" she called to her brother; "you had better throw my shawl round miss page's shoulders." "oh, it isn't a bit damp," said lilly, recalled to herself by this broad hint. "thank you so much for thinking of it, mrs. ashe, but i am just coming in." she seated herself beside katy, and began to question her rather languidly. "when did you leave home, and how were they all when you came away?" "all well, thank you. we sailed from boston on the th of october; and before that i spent two days with rose red,--you remember her? she is married now, and has the dearest little home and such a darling baby." "yes, i heard of her marriage. it didn't seem much of a match for mr. redding's daughter to make, did it? i never supposed she would be satisfied with anything less than a member of congress or a secretary of legation." "rose isn't particularly ambitious, i think, and she seems perfectly happy," replied katy, flushing. "oh, you needn't fire up in her defence; you and clover always did adore rose red, i know, but i never could see what there was about her that was so wonderfully fascinating. she never had the least style, and she was always just as rude to me as she could be." "you were not intimate at school, but i am sure rose was never rude," said katy, with spirit. "well, we won't fight about her at this late day. tell me where you have been, and where you are going, and how long you are to stay in europe." katy, glad to change the subject, complied, and the conversation diverged into comparison of plans and experiences. lilly had been in europe nearly a year, and had seen "almost everything," as she phrased it. she and her mother had spent the previous winter in italy, had taken a run into russia, "done" switzerland and the tyrol thoroughly, and france and germany, and were soon going into spain, and from there to paris, to shop in preparation for their return home in the spring. "of course we shall want quantities of things," she said. "no one will believe that we have been abroad unless we bring home a lot of clothes. the _lingerie_ and all that is ordered already; but the dresses must be made at the last moment, and we shall have a horrid time of it, i suppose. worth has promised to make me two walking-suits and two ball-dresses, but he's very bad about keeping his word. did you do much when you were in paris, katy?" "we went to the louvre three times, and to versailles and st. cloud," said katy, wilfully misunderstanding her. "oh, i didn't mean that kind of stupid thing; i meant gowns. what did you buy?" "one tailor-made suit of dark blue cloth." "my! what moderation!" shopping played a large part in lilly's reminiscences. she recollected places, not from their situation or beauty or historical associations, or because of the works of art which they contained, but as the places where she bought this or that. "oh, that dear piazza di spagna!" she would say; "that was where i found my rococo necklace, the loveliest thing you ever saw, katy." or, "prague--oh yes, mother got the most enchanting old silver chatelaine there, with all kinds of things hanging to it,--needlecases and watches and scent-bottles, all solid, and so beautifully chased." or again, "berlin was horrid, we thought; but the amber is better and cheaper than anywhere else,--great strings of beads, of the largest size and that beautiful pale yellow, for a hundred francs. you must get yourself one, katy." poor lilly! europe to her was all "things." she had collected trunks full of objects to carry home, but of the other collections which do not go into trunks, she had little or none. her mind was as empty, her heart as untouched as ever; the beauty and the glory and the pathos of art and history and nature had been poured out in vain before her closed and indifferent eyes. life soon dropped into a peaceful routine at the pension suisse, which was at the same time restful and stimulating. katy's first act in the morning, as soon as she opened her eyes, was to hurry to the window in hopes of getting a glimpse of corsica. she had discovered that this elusive island could almost always be seen from nice at the dawning, but that as soon as the sun was fairly up, it vanished to appear no more for the rest of the day. there was something fascinating to her imagination in the hovering mountain outline between sea and sky. she felt as if she were under an engagement to be there to meet it, and she rarely missed the appointment. then, after corsica had pulled the bright mists over its face and melted from view, she would hurry with her dressing, and as soon as was practicable set to work to make the _salon_ look bright before the coffee and rolls should appear, a little after eight o'clock. mrs. ashe always found the fire lit, the little meal cosily set out beside it, and katy's happy untroubled face to welcome her when she emerged from her room; and the cheer of these morning repasts made a good beginning for the day. then came walking and a french lesson, and a long sitting on the beach, while katy worked at her home letters and amy raced up and down in the sun; and then toward noon lieutenant ned generally appeared, and some scheme of pleasure was set on foot. mrs. ashe ignored his evident _penchant_ for lilly page, and claimed his time and attentions as hers by right. young worthington was a good deal "taken" with the pretty lilly; still, he had an old-time devotion for his sister and the habit of doing what she desired, and he yielded to her behests with no audible objections. he made a fourth in the carriage while they drove over the lovely hills which encircle nice toward the north, to cimiers and the val de st. andré, or down the coast toward ventimiglia. he went with them to monte-carlo and mentone, and was their escort again and again when they visited the great war-ships as they lay at anchor in a bay which in its translucent blue was like an enormous sapphire. mrs. page and her daughter were included in these parties more than once; but there was something in mrs. ashe's cool appropriation of her brother which was infinitely vexatious to lilly, who before her arrival had rather looked upon lieutenant worthington as her own especial property. "i wish _that_ mrs. ashe had stayed at home," she told her mother. "she quite spoils everything. mr. worthington isn't half so nice as he was before she came. i do believe she has a plan for making him fall in love with katy; but there she makes a miss of it, for he doesn't seem to care anything about her." "katy is a nice girl enough," pronounced her mother, "but not of the sort to attract a gay young man, i should fancy. i don't believe _she_ is thinking of any such thing. you needn't be afraid, lilly." "i'm not afraid," said lilly, with a pout; "only it's so provoking." mrs. page was quite right. katy was not thinking of any such thing. she liked ned worthington's frank manners; she owned, quite honestly, that she thought him handsome, and she particularly admired the sort of deferential affection which he showed to mrs. ashe, and his nice ways with amy. for herself, she was aware that he scarcely noticed her except as politeness demanded that he should be civil to his sister's friend; but the knowledge did not trouble her particularly. her head was full of interesting things, plans, ideas. she was not accustomed to being made the object of admiration, and experienced none of the vexations of a neglected belle. if lieutenant worthington happened to talk to her, she responded frankly and freely; if he did not, she occupied herself with something else; in either case she was quite unembarrassed both in feeling and manner, and had none of the awkwardness which comes from disappointed vanity and baffled expectations, and the need for concealing them. toward the close of december the officers of the flag-ship gave a ball, which was the great event of the season to the gay world of nice. americans were naturally in the ascendant on an american frigate; and of all the american girls present, lilly page was unquestionably the prettiest. exquisitely dressed in white lace, with bands of turquoises on her neck and arms and in her hair, she had more partners than she knew what to do with, more bouquets than she could well carry, and compliments enough to turn any girl's head. thrown off her guard by her triumphs, she indulged a little vindictive feeling which had been growing in her mind of late on account of what she chose to consider certain derelictions of duty on the part of lieutenant worthington, and treated him to a taste of neglect. she was engaged three deep when he asked her to dance; she did not hear when he invited her to walk; she turned a cold shoulder when he tried to talk, and seemed absorbed by the other cavaliers, naval and otherwise, who crowded about her. piqued and surprised, ned worthington turned to katy. she did not dance, saying frankly that she did not know how and was too tall; and she was rather simply dressed in a pearl-gray silk, which had been her best gown the winter before in burnet, with a bunch of red roses in the white lace of the tucker, and another in her hand, both the gifts of little amy; but she looked pleasant and serene, and there was something about her which somehow soothed his disturbed mind, as he offered her his arm for a walk on the decks. for a while they said little, and katy was quite content to pace up and down in silence, enjoying the really beautiful scene,--the moonlight on the bay, the deep wavering reflections of the dark hulls and slender spars, the fairy effect of the colored lamps and lanterns, and the brilliant moving maze of the dancers. "do you care for this sort of thing?" he suddenly asked. "what sort of thing do you mean?" "oh, all this jigging and waltzing and amusement." "i don't know how to 'jig,' but it's delightful to look on," she answered merrily. "i never saw anything so pretty in my life." the happy tone of her voice and the unruffled face which she turned upon him quieted his irritation. "i really believe you mean it," he said; "and yet, if you won't think me rude to say so, most girls would consider the thing dull enough if they were only getting out of it what you are,--if they were not dancing, i mean, and nobody in particular was trying to entertain them." "but everything _is_ being done to entertain me," cried katy. "i can't imagine what makes you think that it could seem dull. i am in it all, don't you see,--i have my share--. oh, i am stupid, i can't make you understand." "yes, you do. i understand perfectly, i think; only it is such a different point of view from what girls in general would take." (by girls he meant lilly!) "please do not think me uncivil." "you are not uncivil at all; but don't let us talk any more about me. look at the lights between the shadows of the masts on the water. how they quiver! i never saw anything so beautiful, i think. and how warm it is! i can't believe that we are in december and that it is nearly christmas." "how is polly going to celebrate her christmas? have you decided?" "amy is to have a christmas-tree for her dolls, and two other dolls are coming. we went out this morning to buy things for it,--tiny little toys and candles fit for lilliput. and that reminds me, do you suppose one can get any christmas greens here?" "why not? the place seems full of green." "that's just it; the summer look makes it unnatural. but i should like some to dress the parlor with if they could be had." "i'll see what i can find, and send you a load." i don't know why this very simple little talk should have made an impression on lieutenant worthington's mind, but somehow he did not forget it. "'don't let us talk any more about me,'" he said to himself that night when alone in his cabin. "i wonder how long it would be before the other one did anything to divert the talk from herself. some time, i fancy." he smiled rather grimly as he unbuckled his sword-belt. it is unlucky for a girl when she starts a train of reflection like this. lilly's little attempt to pique her admirer had somehow missed its mark. the next afternoon katy in her favorite place on the beach was at work on the long weekly letter which she never failed to send home to burnet. she held her portfolio in her lap, and her pen ran rapidly over the paper, as rapidly almost as her tongue would have run could her correspondents have been brought nearer. "nice, december . "dear papa and everybody,--amy and i are sitting on my old purple cloak, which is spread over the sand just where it was spread the last time i wrote you. we are playing the following game: i am a fairy and she is a little girl. another fairy--not sitting on the cloak at present--has enchanted the little girl, and i am telling her various ways by which she can work out her deliverance. at present the task is to find twenty-four dull red pebbles of the same color, failing to do which she is to be changed into an owl. when we began to play, i was the wicked fairy; but amy objected to that because i am 'so nice,' so we changed the characters. i wish you could see the glee in her pretty gray eyes over this infantile game, into which she has thrown herself so thoroughly that she half believes in it. 'but i needn't really be changed into an owl! 'she says, with a good deal of anxiety in her voice. "to think that you are shivering in the first snow-storm, or sending the children out with their sleds and india-rubbers to slide! how i wish instead that you were sharing the purple cloak with amy and me, and could sit all this warm balmy afternoon close to the surf-line which fringes this bluest of blue seas! there is plenty of room for you all. not many people come down to this end of the beach, and if you were very good we would let you play. "our life here goes on as delightfully as ever. nice is very full of people, and there seem to be some pleasant ones among them. here at the pension suisse we do not see a great many americans. the fellow-boarders are principally germans and austrians with a sprinkling of french. (amy has found her twenty-four red pebbles, so she is let off from being an owl. she is now engaged in throwing them one by one into the sea. each must hit the water under penalty of her being turned into a muscovy duck. she doesn't know exactly what a muscovy duck is, which makes her all the more particular about her shots.) but, as i was saying, our little _suite_ in the round tower is so on one side of the rest of the pension that it is as good as having a house of our own. the _salon_ is very bright and sunny; we have two sofas and a square table and a round table and a sort of what-not and two easy-chairs and two uneasy chairs and a lamp of our own and a clock. there is also a sofa-pillow. there's richness for you! we have pinned up all our photographs on the walls, including papa's and clovy's and that bad one of phil and johnnie making faces at each other, and three lovely red and yellow japanese pictures on muslin which rose red put in my trunk the last thing, for a spot of color. there are some autumn leaves too; and we always have flowers and in the mornings and evenings a fire. "amy is now finding fifty snow-white pebbles, which when found are to be interred in one common grave among the shingle. if she fails to do this, she is to be changed to an electrical eel. the chief difficulty is that she loses her heart to particular pebbles. 'i can't bury you,' i hear her saying. "to return,--we have jolly little breakfasts together in the _salon_. they consist of coffee and rolls, and are served by a droll, snappish little _garçon_ with no teeth, and an italian-french patois which is very hard to understand when he sputters. he told me the other day that he had been a _garçon_ for forty-six years, which seemed rather a long boyhood. "the company, as we meet them at table, are rather entertaining. cousin olivia and lilly are on their best behavior to me because i am travelling with mrs. ashe, and mrs. ashe is lieutenant worthington's sister, and lieutenant worthington is lilly's admirer, and they like him very much. in fact, lilly has intimated confidentially that she is all but engaged to him; but i am not sure about it, or if that was what she meant; and i fear, if it proves true, that dear polly will not like it at all. she is quite unmanageable, and snubs lilly continually in a polite way, which makes me fidgety for fear lilly will be offended, but she never seems to notice it. cousin olivia looks very handsome and gorgeous. she quite takes the color out of the little russian countess who sits next to her, and who is as dowdy and meek as if she came from akron or binghampton, or any other place where countesses are unknown. then there are two charming, well-bred young austrians. the one who sits nearest to me is a 'candidat' for a doctorate of laws, and speaks eight languages well. he has only studied english for the past six weeks, but has made wonderful progress. i wish my french were half as good as his english is already. "there is a very gossiping young woman on the story beneath ours, whom i meet sometimes in the garden, and from her i hear all manner of romantic tales about people in the house. one little french girl is dying of consumption and a broken heart, because of a quarrel with her lover, who is a courier; and the _padrona_, who is young and pretty, and has only been married a few months to our elderly landlord, has a story also. i forget some of the details; but there was a stern parent and an admirer, and a cup of cold poison, and now she says she wishes she were dying of consumption like poor alphonsine. for all that, she looks quite fat and rosy, and i often see her in her best gown with a great deal of roman scarf and mosaic jewelry, stationed in the doorway, 'making the pension look attractive to the passers-by.' so she has a sense of duty, though she is unhappy. "amy has buried all her pebbles, and says she is tired of playing fairy. she is now sitting with her head on my shoulder, and professedly studying her french verb for to-morrow, but in reality, i am sorry to say, she is conversing with me about be-headings,--a subject which, since her visit to the tower, has exercised a horrible fascination over her mind. 'do people die right away?' she asks. 'don't they feel one minute, and doesn't it feel awfully?' there is a good deal of blood, she supposes, because there was so much straw laid about the block in the picture of lady jane gray's execution, which enlivened our walls in paris. on the whole, i am rather glad that a fat little white dog has come waddling down the beach and taken off her attention. "speaking of paris seems to renew the sense of fog which we had there. oh, how enchanting sunshine is after weeks of gloom! i shall never forget how the mediterranean looked when we saw it first,--all blue, and such a lovely color. there ought, according to morse's atlas, to have been a big red letter t on the water about where we were, but i didn't see any. perhaps they letter it so far out from shore that only people in boats notice it. "now the dusk is fading, and the odd chill which hides under these warm afternoons begins to be felt. amy has received a message written on a mysterious white pebble to the effect--" katy was interrupted at this point by a crunching step on the gravel behind her. "good afternoon," said a voice. "polly has sent me to fetch you and amy in. she says it is growing cool." "we were just coming," said katy, beginning to put away her papers. ned worthington sat down on the cloak beside her. the distance was now steel gray against the sky; then came a stripe of violet, and then a broad sheet of the vivid iridescent blue which one sees on the necks of peacocks, which again melted into the long line of flashing surf. "see that gull," he said, "how it drops plumb into the sea, as if bound to go through to china!" "mrs. hawthorne calls skylarks 'little raptures,'" replied katy. "sea-gulls seem to me like grown-up raptures." "are you going?" said lieutenant worthington in a tone of surprise, as she rose. "didn't you say that polly wanted us to come in?" "why, yes; but it seems too good to leave, doesn't it? oh, by the way, miss carr, i came across a man to-day and ordered your greens. they will be sent on christmas eve. is that right?" "quite right, and we are ever so much obliged to you." she turned for a last look at the sea, and, unseen by ned worthington, formed her lips into a "good-night." katy had made great friends with the mediterranean. the promised "greens" appeared on the afternoon before christmas day, in the shape of an enormous fagot of laurel and laurestinus and holly and box; orange and lemon boughs with ripe fruit hanging from them, thick ivy tendrils whole yards long, arbutus, pepper tree, and great branches of acacia, covered with feathery yellow bloom. the man apologized for bringing so little. the gentleman had ordered two francs worth, he said, but this was all he could carry; he would fetch some more if the young lady wished! but katy, exclaiming with delight over her wealth, wished no more; so the man departed, and the three friends proceeded to turn the little _salon_ into a fairy bower. every photograph and picture was wreathed in ivy, long garlands hung on either side the windows, and the chimney-piece and door-frames became clustering banks of leaf and blossom. a great box of flowers had come with the greens, and bowls of fresh roses and heliotrope and carnations were set everywhere; violets and primroses, gold-hearted brown auriculas, spikes of veronica, all the zones and all the seasons, combining to make the christmas-tide sweet, and to turn winter topsy-turvy in the little parlor. mabel and mary matilda, with their two doll visitors, sat gravely round the table, in the laps of their little mistresses; and katy, putting on an apron and an improvised cap, and speaking irish very fast, served them with a repast of rolls and cocoa, raspberry jam, and delicious little almond cakes. the fun waxed fast and furious; and lieutenant worthington, coming in with his hands full of parcels for the christmas-tree, was just in time to hear katy remark in a strong county kerry brogue,-- "och, thin indade, miss amy, and it's no more cake you'll be getting out of me the night. that's four pieces you've ate, and it's little slape your poor mother'll git with you a tossin' and tumblin' forenenst her all night long because of your big appetite." "oh, miss katy, talk irish some more!" cried the delighted children. "is it irish you'd be afther having me talk, when it's me own langwidge, and sorrow a bit of another do i know?" demanded katy. then she caught sight of the new arrival and stopped short with a blush and a laugh. "come in, mr. worthington," she said; "we're at supper, as you see, and i am acting as waitress." "oh, uncle ned, please go away," pleaded amy, "or katy will be polite, and not talk irish any more." "indade, and the less ye say about politeness the betther, when ye're afther ordering the jantleman out of the room in that fashion!" said the waitress. then she pulled off her cap and untied her apron. "now for the christmas-tree," she said. it was a very little tree, but it bore some remarkable fruits; for in addition to the "tiny toys and candles fit for lilliput," various parcels were found to have been hastily added at the last moment for various people. the "natchitoches" had lately come from the levant, and delightful oriental confections now appeared for amy and mrs. ashe; turkish slippers, all gold embroidery; towels, with richly decorated ends in silks and tinsel;--all the pretty superfluities which the east holds out to charm gold from the pockets of her western visitors. a pretty little dagger in agate and silver fell to katy's share out of what lieutenant worthington called his "loot;" and beside, a most beautiful specimen of the inlaid work for which nice is famous,--a looking-glass, with a stand and little doors to close it in,--which was a present from mrs. ashe. it was quite unlike a christmas eve at home, but altogether delightful; and as katy sat next morning on the sand, after the service in the english church, to finish her home letter, and felt the sun warm on her cheek, and the perfumed air blow past as softly as in june, she had to remind herself that christmas is not necessarily synonymous with snow and winter, but means the great central heat and warmth, the advent of him who came to lighten the whole earth. a few days after this pleasant christmas they left nice. all of them felt a reluctance to move, and amy loudly bewailed the necessity. "if i could stay here till it is time to go home, i shouldn't be homesick at all," she declared. "but what a pity it would be not to see italy!" said her mother. "think of naples and rome and venice." "i don't want to think about them. it makes me feel as if i was studying a great long geography lesson, and it tires me so to learn it." "amy, dear, you're not well." "yes, i am,--quite well; only i don't want to go away from nice." "you only have to learn a little bit at a time of your geography lesson, you know," suggested katy; "and it's a great deal nicer way to study it than out of a book." but though she spoke cheerfully she was conscious that she shared amy's reluctance. "it's all laziness," she told herself. "nice has been so pleasant that it has spoiled me." it was a consolation and made going easier that they were to drive over the famous cornice road as far as san remo, instead of going to genoa by rail as most travellers now-a-days do. they departed from the pension suisse early on an exquisite morning, fair and balmy as june, but with a little zest and sparkle of coolness in the air which made it additionally delightful. the mediterranean was of the deepest violet-blue; a sort of bloom of color seemed to lie upon it. the sky was like an arch of turquoise; every cape and headland shone jewel-like in the golden sunshine. the carriage, as it followed the windings of the road cut shelf-like on the cliffs, seemed poised between earth and heaven; the sea below, the mountain summits above, with a fairy world of verdure between. the journey was like a dream of enchantment and rapidly changing surprises; and when it ended in a quaint hostelry at san remo, with palm-trees feathering the bordighera point and corsica, for once seen by day, lying in bold, clear outlines against the sunset, katy had to admit to herself that nice, much as she loved it, was not the only, not even the most beautiful place in europe. already she felt her horizon growing, her convictions changing; and who should say what lay beyond? the next day brought them to genoa, to a hotel once the stately palace of an archbishop, where they were lodged, all three together, in an enormous room, so high and broad and long that their three little curtained beds set behind a screen of carved wood made no impression on the space. there were not less than four sofas and double that number of arm-chairs in the room, besides a couple of monumental wardrobes; but, as katy remarked, several grand pianos could still have been moved in without anybody's feeling crowded. on one side of them lay the port of genoa, filled with craft from all parts of the world, and flying the flags of a dozen different nations. from the other they caught glimpses of the magnificent old city, rising in tier over tier of churches and palaces and gardens; while nearer still were narrow streets, which glittered with gold filigree and the shops of jewel-workers. and while they went in and out and gazed and wondered, lilly page, at the pension suisse, was saying,-- "i am so glad that katy and _that_ mrs. ashe are gone. nothing has been so pleasant since they came. lieutenant worthington is dreadfully stiff and stupid, and seems quite different from what he used to be. but now that we have got rid of them it will all come right again." "i really don't think that katy was to blame," said mrs. page. "she never seemed to me to be making any effort to attract him." "oh, katy is sly," responded lilly, vindictively. "she never _seems_ to do anything, but somehow she always gets her own way. i suppose she thought i didn't see her keeping him down there on the beach the other day when he was coming in to call on us, but i did. it was just out of spite, and because she wanted to vex me; i know it was." "well, dear, she's gone now, and you won't be worried with her again," said her mother, soothingly. "don't pout so, lilly, and wrinkle up your forehead. it's very unbecoming." "yes, she's gone," snapped lilly; "and as she's bound for the east, and we for the west, we are not likely to meet again, for which i am devoutly thankful." chapter viii. on the track of ulysses. "we are going to follow the track of ulysses," said katy, with her eyes fixed on the little travelling-map in her guide-book. "do you realize that, polly dear? he and his companions sailed these very seas before us, and we shall see the sights they saw,--circe's cape and the isles of the sirens, and polyphemus himself, perhaps, who knows?" the "marco polo" had just cast off her moorings, and was slowly steaming out of the crowded port of genoa into the heart of a still rosy sunset. the water was perfectly smooth; no motion could be felt but the engine's throb. the trembling foam of the long wake showed glancing points of phosphorescence here and there, while low on the eastern sky a great silver planet burned like a signal lamp. "polyphemus was a horrible giant. i read about him once, and i don't want to see him," observed amy, from her safe protected perch in her mother's lap. "he may not be so bad now as he was in those old times. some missionary may have come across him and converted him. if he were good, you wouldn't mind his being big, would you?" suggested katy. "n-o," replied amy, doubtfully; "but it would take a great lot of missionaries to make _him_ good, i should think. one all alone would be afraid to speak to him. we shan't really see him, shall we?" "i don't believe we shall; and if we stuff cotton in our ears and look the other way, we need not hear the sirens sing," said katy, who was in the highest spirits.--"and oh, polly dear, there is one delightful thing i forgot to tell you about. the captain says he shall stay in leghorn all day to-morrow taking on freight, and we shall have plenty of time to run up to pisa and see the cathedral and the leaning tower and everything else. now, that is something ulysses didn't do! i am so glad i didn't die of measles when i was little, as rose red used to say." she gave her book a toss into the air as she spoke, and caught it again as it fell, very much as the katy carr of twelve years ago might have done. "what a child you are!" said mrs. ashe, approvingly; "you never seem out of sorts or tired of things." "out of sorts? i should think not! and pray why should i be, polly dear?" katy had taken to calling her friend "polly dear" of late,--a trick picked up half unconsciously from lieutenant ned. mrs. ashe liked it; it was sisterly and intimate, she said, and made her feel nearer katy's age. "does the tower really lean?" questioned amy,--"far over, i mean, so that we can see it?" "we shall know to-morrow," replied katy. "if it doesn't, i shall lose all my confidence in human nature." katy's confidence in human nature was not doomed to be impaired. there stood the famous tower, when they reached the place del duomo in pisa, next morning, looking all aslant, exactly as it does in the pictures and the alabaster models, and seeming as if in another moment it must topple over, from its own weight, upon their heads. mrs. ashe declared that it was so unnatural that it made her flesh creep; and when she was coaxed up the winding staircase to the top, she turned so giddy that they were all thankful to get her safely down to firm ground again. she turned her back upon the tower, as they crossed the grassy space to the majestic old cathedral, saying that if she thought about it any more, she should become a disbeliever in the attraction of gravitation, which she had always been told all respectable people _must_ believe in. the guide showed them the lamp swinging by a long slender chain, before which galileo is said to have sat and pondered while he worked out his theory of the pendulum. this lamp seemed a sort of own cousin to the attraction of gravitation, and they gazed upon it with respect. then they went to the baptistery to see niccolo pisano's magnificent pulpit of creamy marble, a mass of sculpture supported on the backs of lions, and the equally lovely font, and to admire the extraordinary sound which their guide evoked from a mysterious echo, with which he seemed to be on intimate terms, for he made it say whatever he would and almost "answer back." it was in coming out of the baptistery that they met with an adventure which amy could never quite forget. pisa is the mendicant city of italy, and her streets are infested with a band of religious beggars who call themselves the brethren of the order of mercy. they wear loose black gowns, sandals laced over their bare feet, and black cambric masks with holes, through which their eyes glare awfully; and they carry tin cups for the reception of offerings, which they thrust into the faces of all strangers visiting the city, whom they look upon as their lawful prey. as our party emerged from the baptistery, two of these brethren espied them, and like great human bats came swooping down upon them with long strides, their black garments flying in the wind, their eyes rolling strangely behind their masks, and brandishing their alms-cups, which had "pour les pauvres" lettered upon them, and gave forth a clapping sound like a watchman's rattle. there was something terrible in their appearance and the rushing speed of their movements. amy screamed and ran behind her mother, who visibly shrank. katy stood her ground; but the bat-winged fiends in doré's illustrations to dante occurred to her, and her fingers trembled as she dropped some money in the cups. even mendicant friars are human. katy ceased to tremble as she observed that one of them, as he retreated, walked backward for some distance in order to gaze longer at mrs. ashe, whose cheeks were flushed with bright pink and who was looking particularly handsome. she began to laugh instead, and mrs. ashe laughed too; but amy could not get over the impression of having been attacked by demons, and often afterward recurred with a shudder to the time when those awful black _things_ flew at her and she hid behind mamma. the ghastly pictures of the triumph of death, which were presently exhibited to them on the walls of the campo santo, did not tend to reassure her, and it was with quite a pale, scared little face that she walked toward the hotel where they were to lunch, and she held fast to katy's hand. their way led them through a narrow street inhabited by the poorer classes,--a dusty street with high shabby buildings on either side and wide doorways giving glimpses of interior courtyards, where empty hogsheads and barrels and rusty caldrons lay, and great wooden trays of macaroni were spread out in the sun to dry. some of the macaroni was gray, some white, some yellow; none of it looked at all desirable to eat, as it lay exposed to the dust, with long lines of ill-washed clothes flapping above on wires stretched from one house to another. as is usual in poor streets, there were swarms of children; and the appearance of little amy with her long bright hair falling over her shoulders and mabel clasped in her arms created a great sensation. the children in the street shouted and exclaimed, and other children within the houses heard the sounds and came trooping out, while mothers and older sisters peeped from the doorways. the very air seemed full of eager faces and little brown and curly heads bobbing up and down with excitement, and black eyes all fixed upon big beautiful mabel, who with her thick wig of flaxen hair, her blue velvet dress and jacket, feathered hat, and little muff, seemed to them like some strange small marvel from another world. they could not decide whether she was a living child or a make-believe one, and they dared not come near enough to find out; so they clustered at a little distance, pointed with their fingers, and whispered and giggled, while amy, much pleased with the admiration shown for her darling, lifted mabel up to view. at last one droll little girl with a white cap on her round head seemed to make up _her_ mind, and darting indoors returned with her doll,--a poor little image of wood, its only garment a coarse shirt of red cotton. this she held out for amy to see. amy smiled for the first time since her encounter with the bat-like friars; and katy, taking mabel from her, made signs that the two dolls should kiss each other. but though the little italian screamed with laughter at the idea of a _bacio_ between two dolls, she would by no means allow it, and hid her treasure behind her back, blushing and giggling, and saying something very fast which none of them understood, while she waved two fingers at them with a curious gesture. "i do believe she is afraid mabel will cast the evil eye on her doll," said katy at last, with a sudden understanding as to what this pantomime meant. "why, you silly thing!" cried the outraged amy; "do you suppose for one moment that my child could hurt your dirty old dolly? you ought to be glad to have her noticed at all by anybody that's clean." the sound of the foreign tongue completed the discomfiture of the little italian. with a shriek she fled, and all the other children after her; pausing at a distance to look back at the alarming creatures who didn't speak the familiar language. katy, wishing to leave a pleasant impression, made mabel kiss her waxen fingers toward them. this sent the children off into another fit of laughter and chatter, and they followed our friends for quite a distance as they proceeded on their way to the hotel. all that night, over a sea as smooth as glass, the "marco polo" slipped along the coasts past which the ships of ulysses sailed in those old legendary days which wear so charmed a light to our modern eyes. katy roused at three in the morning, and looking from her cabin window had a glimpse of an island, which her map showed her must be elba, where that war-eagle napoleon was chained for a while. then she fell asleep again, and when she roused in full daylight the steamer was off the coast of ostia and nearing the mouth of the tiber. dreamy mountain-shapes rose beyond the far-away campagna, and every curve and indentation of the coast bore a name which recalled some interesting thing. about eleven a dim-drawn bubble appeared on the horizon, which the captain assured them was the dome of st. peter's, nearly thirty miles distant. this was one of the "moments" which clover had been fond of speculating about; and katy, contrasting the real with the imaginary moment, could not help smiling. neither she nor clover had ever supposed that her first glimpse of the great dome was to be so little impressive. on and on they went till the air-hung bubble disappeared; and amy, grown very tired of scenery with which she had no associations, and grown-up raptures which she did not comprehend, squeezed herself into the end of the long wooden settee on which katy sat, and began to beg for another story concerning violet and emma. "just a little tiny chapter, you know, miss katy, about what they did on new year's day or something. it's so dull to keep sailing and sailing all day and have nothing to do, and it's ever so long since you told me anything about them, really and truly it is!" now, violet and emma, if the truth is to be told, had grown to be the bane of katy's existence. she had rung the changes on their uneventful adventures, and racked her brains to invent more and more details, till her imagination felt like a dry sponge from which every possible drop of moisture had been squeezed. amy was insatiable. her interest in the tale never flagged; and when her exhausted friend explained that she really could not think of another word to say on the subject, she would turn the tables by asking, "then, miss katy, mayn't i tell _you_ a chapter?" whereupon she would proceed somewhat in this fashion:-- "it was the day before christmas--no, we won't have it the day before christmas; it shall be three days before thanksgiving. violet and emma got up in the morning, and--well, they didn't do anything in particular that day. they just had their breakfasts and dinners, and played and studied a little, and went to bed early, you know, and the next morning --well, there didn't much happen that day, either; they just had their breakfasts and dinners, and played." listening to amy's stories was so much worse than telling them to her, that katy in self-defence was driven to recommence her narrations, but she had grown to hate violet and emma with a deadly hatred. so when amy made this appeal on the steamer's deck, a sudden resolution took possession of her, and she decided to put an end to these dreadful children once for all. "yes, amy," she said, "i will tell you one more story about violet and emma; but this is positively the last." so amy cuddled close to her friend, and listened with rapt attention as katy told how on a certain day just before the new year, violet and emma started by themselves in a little sleigh drawn by a pony, to carry to a poor woman who lived in a lonely house high up on a mountain slope a basket containing a turkey, a mould of cranberry jelly, a bunch of celery, and a mince-pie. "they were so pleased at having all these nice things to take to poor widow simpson and in thinking how glad she would be to see them," proceeded the naughty katy, "that they never noticed how black the sky was getting to be, or how the wind howled through the bare boughs of the trees. they had to go slowly, for the road was up hill all the way, and it was hard work for the poor pony. but he was a stout little fellow, and tugged away up the slippery track, and violet and emma talked and laughed, and never thought what was going to happen. just half-way up the mountain there was a rocky cliff which overhung the road, and on this cliff grew an enormous hemlock tree. the branches were loaded with snow, which made them much heavier than usual. just as the sleigh passed slowly underneath the cliff, a violent blast of wind blew up from the ravine, struck the hemlock and tore it out of the ground, roots and all. it fell directly across the sleigh, and violet and emma and the pony and the basket with the turkey and the other things in it were all crushed as flat as pancakes!" "well," said amy, as katy stopped, "go on! what happened then?" "nothing happened then," replied katy, in a tone of awful solemnity; "nothing could happen! violet and emma were dead, the pony was dead, the things in the basket were broken all to little bits, and a great snowstorm began and covered them up, and no one knew where they were or what had become of them till the snow melted in the spring." with a loud shriek amy jumped up from the bench. "no! no! no!" she cried; "they aren't dead! i won't let them be dead!" then she burst into tears, ran down the stairs, locked herself into her mother's stateroom, and did not appear again for several hours. katy laughed heartily at first over this outburst, but presently she began to repent and to think that she had treated her pet unkindly. she went down and knocked at the stateroom door; but amy would not answer. she called her softly through the key-hole, and coaxed and pleaded, but it was all in vain. amy remained invisible till late in the afternoon; and when she finally crept up again to the deck, her eyes were red with crying, and her little face as pale and miserable as if she had been attending the funeral of her dearest friend. katy's heart smote her. "come here, my darling," she said, holding out her hand; "come and sit in my lap and forgive me. violet and emma shall not be dead. they shall go on living, since you care so much for them, and i will tell stories about them to the end of the chapter." "no," said amy, shaking her head mournfully; "you can't. they're dead, and they won't come to life again ever. it's all over, and i'm so so-o-rry." all katy's apologies and efforts to resuscitate the story were useless. violet and emma were dead to amy's imagination, and she could not make herself believe in them any more. she was too woe-begone to care for the fables of circe and her swine which katy told as they rounded the magnificent cape circello, and the isles where the sirens used to sing appealed to her in vain. the sun set, the stars came out; and under the beams of their countless lamps and the beckonings of a slender new moon, the "marco polo" sailed into the bay of naples, past vesuvius, whose dusky curl of smoke could be seen outlined against the luminous sky, and brought her passengers to their landing-place. they woke next morning to a summer atmosphere full of yellow sunshine and true july warmth. flower-vendors stood on every corner, and pursued each newcomer with their fragrant wares. katy could not stop exclaiming over the cheapness of the flowers, which were thrust in at the carriage windows as they drove slowly up and down the streets. they were tied into flat nosegays, whose centre was a white camellia, encircled with concentric rows of pink tea rosebuds, ring after ring, till the whole was the size of an ordinary milk-pan; all to be had for the sum of ten cents! but after they had bought two or three of these enormous bouquets, and had discovered that not a single rose boasted an inch of stem, and that all were pierced with long wires through their very hearts, she ceased to care for them. "i would rather have one souvenir or general jacqueminot, with a long stem and plenty of leaves, than a dozen of these stiff platters of bouquets," katy told mrs. ashe. but when they drove beyond the city gates, and the coachman came to anchor beneath walls overhung with the same roses, and she found that she might stand on the seat and pull down as many branches of the lovely flowers as she desired, and gather wallflowers for herself out of the clefts in the masonry, she was entirely satisfied. "this is the italy of my dreams," she said. with all its beauty there was an underlying sense of danger about naples, which interfered with their enjoyment of it. evil smells came in at the windows, or confronted them as they went about the city. there seemed something deadly in the air. whispered reports met their ears of cases of fever, which the landlords of the hotels were doing their best to hush up. an american gentleman was said to be lying very ill at one house. a lady had died the week before at another. mrs. ashe grew nervous. "we will just take a rapid look at a few of the principal things," she told katy, "and then get away as fast as we can. amy is so on my mind that i have no peace of my life. i keep feeling her pulse and imagining that she does not look right; and though i know it is all my fancy, i am impatient to be off. you won't mind, will you, katy?" after that everything they did was done in a hurry. katy felt as if she were being driven about by a cyclone, as they rushed from one sight to another, filling up all the chinks between with shopping, which was irresistible where everything was so pretty and so wonderfully cheap. she herself purchased a tortoise-shell fan and chain for rose red, and had her monogram carved upon it; a coral locket for elsie; some studs for dorry; and for her father a small, beautiful vase of bronze, copied from one of the pompeian antiques. "how charming it is to have money to spend in such a place as this!" she said to herself with a sigh of satisfaction as she surveyed these delightful buyings. "i only wish i could get ten times as many things and take them to ten times as many people. papa was so wise about it. i can't think how it is that he always knows beforehand exactly how people are going to feel, and what they will want!" mrs. ashe also bought a great many things for herself and amy, and to take home as presents; and it was all very pleasant and satisfactory except for that subtle sense of danger from which they could not escape and which made them glad to go. "see naples and die," says the old adage; and the saying has proved sadly true in the case of many an american traveller. beside the talk of fever there was also a good deal of gossip about brigands going about, as is generally the case in naples and its vicinity. something was said to have happened to a party on one of the heights above sorrento; and though nobody knew exactly what the something was, or was willing to vouch for the story, mrs. ashe and katy felt a good deal of trepidation as they entered the carriage which was to take them to the neighborhood where the mysterious "something" had occurred. the drive between castellamare and sorrento is in reality as safe as that between boston and brookline; but as our party did not know this fact till afterward, it did them no good. it is also one of the most beautiful drives in the world, following the windings of the exquisite coast mile after mile, in long links of perfectly made road, carved on the face of sharp cliffs, with groves of oranges and lemons and olive orchards above, and the bay of naples beneath, stretching away like a solid sheet of lapis-lazuli, and gemmed with islands of the most picturesque form. it is a pity that so much beauty should have been wasted on mrs. ashe and katy, but they were too frightened to half enjoy it. their carriage was driven by a shaggy young savage, who looked quite wild enough to be a bandit himself. he cracked his whip loudly as they rolled along, and every now and then gave a long shrill whistle. mrs. ashe was sure that these were signals to his band, who were lurking somewhere on the olive-hung hillsides. she thought she detected him once or twice making signs to certain questionable-looking characters as they passed; and she fancied that the people they met gazed at them with an air of commiseration, as upon victims who were being carried to execution. her fears affected katy; so, though they talked and laughed, and made jokes to amuse amy, who must not be scared or led to suppose that anything was amiss, and to the outward view seemed a very merry party, they were privately quaking in their shoes all the way, and enjoying a deal of highly superfluous misery. and after all they reached sorrento in perfect safety; and the driver, who looked so dangerous, turned out to be a respectable young man enough, with a wife and family to support, who considered a plateful of macaroni and a glass of sour red wine as the height of luxury, and was grateful for a small gratuity of thirty cents or so, which would enable him to purchase these dainties. mrs. ashe had a very bad headache next day, to pay for her fright; but she and katy agreed that they had been very foolish, and resolved to pay no more attention to unaccredited rumors or allow them to spoil their enjoyment, which was a sensible resolution to make. their hotel was perched directly over the sea. from the balcony of their sitting-room they looked down a sheer cliff some sixty feet high, into the water; their bedrooms opened on a garden of roses, with an orange grove beyond. not far from them was the great gorge which cuts the little town of sorrento almost in two, and whose seaward end makes the harbor of the place. katy was never tired of peering down into this strange and beautiful cleft, whose sides, two hundred feet in depth, are hung with vines and trailing growths of all sorts, and seem all a-tremble with the fairy fronds of maiden-hair ferns growing out of every chink and crevice. she and amy took walks along the coast toward massa, to look off at the lovely island shapes in the bay, and admire the great clumps of cactus and spanish bayonet which grew by the roadside; and they always came back loaded with orange-flowers, which could be picked as freely as apple-blossoms from new england orchards in the spring. the oranges themselves at that time of the year were very sour, but they answered as well for a romantic date, "from an orange grove," as if they had been the sweetest in the world. they made two different excursions to pompeii, which is within easy distance of sorrento. they scrambled on donkeys over the hills, and had glimpses of the far-away calabrian shore, of the natural arch, and the temples of pæstum shining in the sun many miles distant. on katy's birthday, which fell toward the end of january, mrs. ashe let her have her choice of a treat; and she elected to go to the island of capri, which none of them had seen. it turned out a perfect day, with sea and wind exactly right for the sail, and to allow of getting into the famous "blue grotto," which can only be entered under particular conditions of tide and weather. and they climbed the great cliff-rise at the island's end, and saw the ruins of the villa built by the wicked emperor tiberius, and the awful place known as his "leap," down which, it is said, he made his victims throw themselves; and they lunched at a hotel which bore his name, and just at sunset pushed off again for the row home over the charmed sea. this return voyage was almost the pleasantest thing of all the day. the water was smooth, the moon at its full. it was larger and more brilliant than american moons are, and seemed to possess an actual warmth and color. the boatmen timed their oar-strokes to the cadence of neapolitan _barcaroles_ and folk-songs, full of rhythmic movement, which seemed caught from the pulsing tides. and when at last the bow grated on the sands of the sorrento landing-place, katy drew a long, regretful breath, and declared that this was her best birthday-gift of all, better than amy's flowers, or the pretty tortoise-shell locket that mrs. ashe had given her, better even than the letter from home, which, timed by happy accident, had arrived by the morning's post to make a bright opening for the day. all pleasant things must come to an ending. "katy," said mrs. ashe, one afternoon in early february, "i heard some ladies talking just now in the _salon_, and they said that rome is filling up very fast. the carnival begins in less than two weeks, and everybody wants to be there then. if we don't make haste, we shall not be able to get any rooms." "oh dear!" said katy, "it is very trying not to be able to be in two places at once. i want to see rome dreadfully, and yet i cannot bear to leave sorrento. we have been very happy here, haven't we?" so they took up their wandering staves again, and departed for rome, like the apostle, "not knowing what should befall them there." chapter ix. a roman holiday. "oh dear!" said mrs. ashe, as she folded her letters and laid them aside, "i wish those pages would go away from nice, or else that the frigates were not there." "why! what's the matter?" asked katy, looking up from the many-leaved journal from clover over which she was poring. "nothing is the matter except that those everlasting people haven't gone to spain yet, as they said they would, and ned seems to keep on seeing them," replied mrs. ashe, petulantly. "but, dear polly, what difference does it make? and they never did promise you to go on any particular time, did they?" "n-o, they didn't; but i wish they would, all the same. not that ned is such a goose as really to care anything for that foolish lilly!" then she gave a little laugh at her own inconsistency, and added, "but i oughtn't to abuse her when she is your cousin." "don't mention it," said katy, cheerfully. "but, really, i don't see why poor lilly need worry you so, polly dear." the room in which this conversation took place was on the very topmost floor of the hotel del hondo in rome. it was large and many-windowed; and though there was a little bed in one corner half hidden behind a calico screen, with a bureau and washing-stand, and a sort of stout mahogany hat-tree on which katy's dresses and jackets were hanging, the remaining space, with a sofa and easy-chairs grouped round a fire, and a round table furnished with books and a lamp, was ample enough to make a good substitute for the private sitting-room which mrs. ashe had not been able to procure on account of the near approach of the carnival and the consequent crowding of strangers to rome. in fact, she was assured that under the circumstances she was lucky in finding rooms as good as these; and she made the most of the assurance as a consolation for the somewhat unsatisfactory food and service of the hotel, and the four long flights of stairs which must be passed every time they needed to reach the dining-room or the street door. the party had been in rome only four days, but already they had seen a host of interesting things. they had stood in the strange sunken space with its marble floor and broken columns, which is all that is left of the great roman forum. they had visited the coliseum, at that period still overhung with ivy garlands and trailing greeneries, and not, as now, scraped clean and bare and "tidied" out of much of its picturesqueness. they had seen the baths of caracalla and the temple of janus and st. peter's and the vatican marbles, and had driven out on the campagna and to the pamphili-doria villa to gather purple and red anemones, and to the english cemetery to see the grave of keats. they had also peeped into certain shops, and attended a reception at the american minister's,--in short, like most unwarned travellers, they had done about twice as much as prudence and experience would have permitted, had those worthies been consulted. all the romance of katy's nature responded to the fascination of the ancient city,--the capital of the world, as it may truly be called. the shortest drive or walk brought them face to face with innumerable and unexpected delights. now it was a wonderful fountain, with plunging horses and colossal nymphs and tritons, holding cups and horns from which showers of white foam rose high in air to fall like rushing rain into an immense marble basin. now it was an arched doorway with traceries as fine as lace,--sole-remaining fragment of a heathen temple, flung and stranded as it were by the waves of time on the squalid shore of the present. now it was a shrine at the meeting of three streets, where a dim lamp burned beneath the effigy of the madonna, with always a fresh rose beside it in a vase, and at its foot a peasant woman kneeling in red bodice and blue petticoat, with a lace-trimmed towel folded over her hair. or again it would be a sunlit terrace lifted high on a hillside, and crowded with carriages full of beautifully dressed people, while below all rome seemed spread out like a panorama, dim, mighty, majestic, and bounded by the blue wavy line of the campagna and the alban hills. or perhaps it might be a wonderful double flight of steps with massive balustrades and pillars with urns, on which sat a crowd of figures in strange costumes and attitudes, who all looked as though they had stepped out of pictures, but who were in reality models waiting for artists to come by and engage them. no matter what it was,--a bit of oddly tinted masonry with a tuft of brown and orange wallflowers hanging upon it, or a vegetable stall where endive and chiccory and curly lettuces were arranged in wreaths with tiny orange gourds and scarlet peppers for points of color,--it was all rome, and, by virtue of that word, different from any other place,--more suggestive, more interesting, ten times more mysterious than any other could possibly be, so katy thought. this fact consoled her for everything and anything,--for the fleas, the dirt, for the queer things they had to eat and the still queerer odors they were forced to smell! nothing seemed of any particular consequence except the deep sense of enjoyment, and the newly discovered world of thought and sensation of which she had become suddenly conscious. the only drawback to her happiness, as the days went on, was that little amy did not seem quite well or like herself. she had taken a cold on the journey from naples, and though it did not seem serious, that, or something, made her look pale and thin. her mother said she was growing fast, but the explanation did not quite account for the wistful look in the child's eyes and the tired feeling of which she continually complained. mrs. ashe, with vague uneasiness, began to talk of cutting short their roman stay and getting amy off to the more bracing air of florence. but meanwhile there was the carnival close at hand, which they must by no means lose; and the feeling that their opportunity might be a brief one made her and katy all the more anxious to make the very most of their time. so they filled the days full with sights to see and things to do, and came and went; sometimes taking amy with them, but more often leaving her at the hotel under the care of a kind german chambermaid, who spoke pretty good english and to whom amy had taken a fancy. "the marble things are so cold, and the old broken things make me so sorry," she explained; "and i hate beggars because they are dirty, and the stairs make my back ache; and i'd a great deal rather stay with maria and go up on the roof, if you don't mind, mamma." this roof, which amy had chosen as a playplace, covered the whole of the great hotel, and had been turned into a sort of upper-air garden by the simple process of gravelling it all over, placing trellises of ivy here and there, and setting tubs of oranges and oleanders and boxes of gay geraniums and stock-gillyflowers on the balustrades. a tame fawn was tethered there. amy adopted him as a playmate; and what with his company and that of the flowers, the times when her mother and katy were absent from her passed not unhappily. katy always repaired to the roof as soon as they came in from their long mornings and afternoons of sight-seeing. years afterward, she would remember with contrition how pathetically glad amy always was to see her. she would put her little head on katy's breast and hold her tight for many minutes without saying a word. when she did speak it was always about the house and the garden that she talked. she never asked any questions as to where katy had been, or what she had done; it seemed to tire her to think about it. "i should be very lonely sometimes if it were not for my dear little fawn," she told katy once. "he is so sweet that i don't miss you and mamma very much while i have him to play with. i call him florio,--don't you think that is a pretty name? i like to stay with him a great deal better than to go about with you to those nasty-smelling old churches, with fleas hopping all over them!" so amy was left in peace with her fawn, and the others made haste to see all they could before the time came to go to florence. [illustration: amy was left in peace with her fawn.] katy realized one of the "moments" for which she had come to europe when she stood for the first time on the balcony overhanging the corso, which mrs. ashe had hired in company with some acquaintances made at the hotel, and looked down at the ebb and surge of the just-begun carnival. the narrow street seemed humming with people of all sorts and conditions. some were masked; some were not. there were ladies and gentlemen in fashionable clothes, peasants in the gayest costumes, surprised-looking tourists in tall hats and linen dusters, harlequins, clowns, devils, nuns, dominoes of every color,--red, white, blue, black; while above, the balconies bloomed like a rose-garden with pretty faces framed in lace veils or picturesque hats. flowers were everywhere, wreathed along the house-fronts, tied to the horses' ears, in ladies' hands and gentlemen's button-holes, while venders went up and down the street bearing great trays of violets and carnations and camellias for sale. the air was full of cries and laughter, and the shrill calls of merchants advertising their wares,--candy, fruit, birds, lanterns, and _confetti_, the latter being merely lumps of lime, large or small, with a pea or a bean embedded in each lump to give it weight. boxes full of this unpleasant confection were suspended in front of each balcony, with tin scoops to use in ladling it out and flinging it about. everybody wore or carried a wire mask as protection against this white, incessant shower; and before long the air became full of a fine dust which hung above the corso like a mist, and filled the eyes and noses and clothes of all present with irritating particles. pasquino's car was passing underneath just as katy and mrs. ashe arrived,--a gorgeous affair, hung with silken draperies, and bearing as symbol an enormous egg, in which the carnival was supposed to be in act of incubation. a huge wagon followed in its wake, on which was a house some sixteen feet square, whose sole occupant was a gentleman attended by five servants, who kept him supplied with _confetti_, which he showered liberally on the heads of the crowd. then came a car in the shape of a steamboat, with a smoke-pipe and sails, over which flew the union jack, and which was manned with a party wearing the dress of british tars. the next wagon bore a company of jolly maskers equipped with many-colored bladders, which they banged and rattled as they went along. following this was a troupe of beautiful circus horses, cream-colored with scarlet trappings, or sorrel with blue, ridden by ladies in pale green velvet laced with silver, or blue velvet and gold. another car bore a bird-cage which was an exact imitation of st. peter's, within which perched a lonely old parrot. this device evidently had a political signification, for it was alternately hissed and applauded as it went along. the whole scene was like a brilliant, rapidly shifting dream; and katy, as she stood with lips apart and eyes wide open with wonderment and pleasure, forgot whether she was in the body or not,--forgot everything except what was passing before her gaze. she was roused by a stinging shower of lime-dust. an englishman in the next balcony had take courteous advantage of her preoccupation, and had flung a scoopful of _confetti_ in her undefended face! it is generally anglo-saxons of the less refined class, english or americans, who do these things at carnival times. the national love of a rough joke comes to the surface, encouraged by the license of the moment, and all the grace and prettiness of the festival vanish. katy laughed, and dusted herself as well as she could, and took refuge behind her mask; while a nimble american boy of the party changed places with her, and thenceforward made that particular englishman his special target, plying such a lively and adroit shovel as to make katy's assailant rue the hour when he evoked this national reprisal. his powdered head and rather clumsy efforts to retaliate excited shouts of laughter from the adjoining balconies. the young american, fresh from tennis and college athletics, darted about and dodged with an agility impossible to his heavily built foe; and each effective shot and parry on his side was greeted with little cries of applause and the clapping of hands on the part of those who were watching the contest. exactly opposite them was a balcony hung with white silk, in which sat a lady who seemed to be of some distinction; for every now and then an officer in brilliant uniform, or some official covered with orders and stars, would be shown in by her servants, bow before her with the utmost deference, and after a little conversation retire, kissing her gloved hand as he went. the lady was a beautiful person, with lustrous black eyes and dark hair, over which a lace mantilla was fastened with diamond stars. she wore pale blue with white flowers, and altogether, as katy afterward wrote to clover, reminded her exactly of one of those beautiful princesses whom they used to play about in their childhood and quarrel over, because every one of them wanted to be the princess and nobody else. "i wonder who she is," said mrs. ashe in a low tone. "she might be almost anybody from her looks. she keeps glancing across to us, katy. do you know, i think she has taken a fancy to you." perhaps the lady had; for just then she turned her head and said a word to one of her footmen, who immediately placed something in her hand. it was a little shining bonbonniere, and rising she threw it straight at katy. alas! it struck the edge of the balcony and fell into the street below, where it was picked up by a ragged little peasant girl in a red jacket, who raised a pair of astonished eyes to the heavens, as if sure that the gift must have fallen straight from thence. katy bent forward to watch its fate, and went through a little pantomime of regret and despair for the benefit of the opposite lady, who only laughed, and taking another from her servant flung with better aim, so that it fell exactly at katy's feet. this was a gilded box in the shape of a mandolin, with sugar-plums tucked cunningly away inside. katy kissed both her hands in acknowledgment for the pretty toy, and tossed back a bunch of roses which she happened to be wearing in her dress. after that it seemed the chief amusement of the fair unknown to throw bonbons at katy. some went straight and some did not; but before the afternoon ended, katy had quite a lapful of confections and trifles,--roses, sugared almonds, a satin casket, a silvered box in the shape of a horseshoe, a tiny cage with orange blossoms for birds on the perches, a minute gondola with a _marron glacée_ by way of passenger, and, prettiest of all, a little ivory harp strung with enamelled violets instead of wires. for all these favors she had nothing better to offer, in return, than a few long-tailed bonbons with gay streamers of ribbon. these the lady opposite caught very cleverly, rarely missing one, and kissing her hand in thanks each time. "isn't she exquisite?" demanded katy, her eyes shining with excitement. "did you ever see any one so lovely in your life, polly dear? i never did. there, now! she is buying those birds to set them free, i do believe." it was indeed so. a vender of larks had, by the aid of a long staff, thrust a cage full of wretched little prisoners up into the balcony; and "katy's lady," as mrs. ashe called her, was paying for the whole. as they watched she opened the cage door, and with the sweetest look on her face encouraged the birds to fly away. the poor little creatures cowered and hesitated, not knowing at first what use to make of their new liberty; but at last one, the boldest of the company, hopped to the door and with a glad, exultant chirp flew straight upward. then the others, taking courage from his example, followed, and all were lost to view in the twinkling of an eye. "oh, you angel!" cried katy, leaning over the edge of the balcony and kissing both hands impulsively, "i never saw any one so sweet as you are in my life. polly dear, i think carnivals are the most perfectly bewitching things in the world. how glad i am that this lasts a week, and that we can come every day. won't amy be delighted with these bonbons! i do hope my lady will be here tomorrow." how little she dreamed that she was never to enter that balcony again! how little can any of us see what lies before us till it comes so near that we cannot help seeing it, or shut our eyes, or turn away! the next morning, almost as soon as it was light, mrs. ashe tapped at katy's door. she was in her dressing-gown, and her eyes looked large and frightened. "amy is ill," she cried. "she has been hot and feverish all night, and she says that her head aches dreadfully. what shall i do, katy? we ought to have a doctor at once, and i don't know the name even of any doctor here." katy sat up in bed, and for one bewildered moment did not speak. her brain felt in a whirl of confusion; but presently it cleared, and she saw what to do. "i will write a note to mrs. sands," she said. mrs. sands was the wife of the american minister, and one of the few acquaintances they had made since they came to rome. "you remember how nice she was the other day, and how we liked her; and she has lived here so long that of course she must know all about the doctors. don't you think that is the best thing to do!" "the very best," said mrs. ashe, looking relieved. "i wonder i did not think of it myself, but i am so confused that i can't think. write the note at once, please, dear katy. i will ring your bell for you, and then i must hurry back to amy." katy made haste with the note. the answer came promptly in half an hour, and by ten o'clock the physician recommended appeared. dr. hilary was a dark little italian to all appearance; but his mother had been a scotch-woman, and he spoke english very well,--a great comfort to poor mrs. ashe, who knew not a word of italian and not a great deal of french. he felt amy's pulse for a long time, and tested her temperature; but he gave no positive opinion, only left a prescription, and said that he would call later in the day and should then be able to judge more clearly what the attack was likely to prove. katy augured ill from this reserve. there was no talk of going to the carnival that afternoon; no one had any heart for it. instead, katy spent the time in trying to recollect all she had ever heard about the care of sick people,--what was to be done first and what next,--and in searching the shops for a feather pillow, which luxury amy was imperiously demanding. the pillows of roman hotels are, as a general thing, stuffed with wool, and very hard. "i won't have this horrid pillow any longer," poor amy was screaming. "it's got bricks in it. it hurts the back of my neck. take it away, mamma, and give me a nice soft american pillow. i won't have this a minute longer. don't you hear me, mamma! take it away!" so, while mrs. ashe pacified amy to the best of her ability, katy hurried out in quest of the desired pillow. it proved almost an unattainable luxury; but at last, after a long search, she secured an air-cushion, a down cushion about twelve inches square, and one old feather pillow which had come from some auction, and had apparently lain for years in the corner of the shop. when this was encased in a fresh cover of canton flannel, it did very well, and stilled amy's complaints a little; but all night she grew worse, and when dr. hilary came next day, he was forced to utter plainly the dreaded words "roman fever." amy was in for an attack,--a light one he hoped it might be,--but they had better know the truth and make ready for it. mrs. ashe was utterly overwhelmed by this verdict, and for the first bewildered moments did not know which way to turn. katy, happily, kept a steadier head. she had the advantage of a little preparation of thought, and had decided beforehand what it would be necessary to do "in case." oh, that fateful "in case"! the doctor and she consulted together, and the result was that katy sought out the padrona of the establishment, and without hinting at the nature of amy's attack, secured some rooms just vacated, which were at the end of a corridor, and a little removed from the rooms of other people. there was a large room with corner windows, a smaller one opening from it, and another, still smaller, close by, which would serve as a storeroom or might do for the use of a nurse. these rooms, without much consultation with mrs. ashe,--who seemed stunned and sat with her eyes fixed on amy, just answering, "certainly, dear, anything you say," when applied to,--katy had arranged according to her own ideas of comfort and hygienic necessity, as learned from miss nightingale's excellent little book on nursing. from the larger room she had the carpet, curtains, and nearly all the furniture taken away, the floor scrubbed with hot soapsuds, and the bed pulled out from the wall to allow of a free circulation of air all round it. the smaller one she made as comfortable as possible for the use of mrs. ashe, choosing for it the softest sofa and the best mattresses that were obtainable; for she knew that her friend's strength was likely to be severely tried if amy's illness proved serious. when all was ready, amy, well wrapped in her coverings, was carried down the entry and laid in the fresh bed with the soft pillows about her; and katy, as she went to and fro, conveying clothes and books and filling drawers, felt that they were perhaps making arrangements for a long, hard trial of faith and spirits. by the next day the necessity of a nurse became apparent, and in the afternoon katy started out in a little hired carriage in search of one. she had a list of names, and went first to the english nurses; but finding them all engaged, she ordered the coachman to drive to a convent where there was hope that a nursing sister might be procured. their route lay across the corso. so utterly had the carnival with all its gay follies vanished from her mind, that she was for a moment astonished at finding herself entangled in a motley crowd, so dense that the coachman was obliged to rein in his horses and stand still for some time. there were the same masks and dominos, the same picturesque peasant costumes which had struck her as so gay and pretty only three days before. the same jests and merry laughter filled the air, but somehow it all seemed out of tune. the sense of cold, lonely fear that had taken possession of her killed all capacity for merriment; the apprehension and solicitude of which her heart was full made the gay chattering and squeaking of the crowd sound harsh and unfeeling. the bright colors affronted her dejection; she did not want to see them. she lay back in the carriage, trying to be patient under the detention, and half shut her eyes. a shower of lime dust aroused her. it came from a party of burly figures in white cotton dominos, whose carriage had been stayed by the crowd close to her own. she signified by gestures that she had no _confetti_ and no protection, that she "was not playing," in fact; but her appeal made no difference. the maskers kept on shovelling lime all over her hair and person and the carriage, and never tired of the sport till an opportune break in the procession enabled their vehicle to move on. katy was shaking their largesse from her dress and parasol as well as she could, when an odd gibbering sound close to her ear, and the laughter of the crowd attracted her attention to the back of the carriage. a masker attired as a scarlet devil had climbed into the hood, and was now perched close behind her. she shook her head at him; but he only shook his in return, and chattered and grimaced, and bent over till his fiery mask almost grazed her shoulder. there was no hope but in good humor, as she speedily realized; and recollecting that in her shopping-bag one or two of the carnival bonbons still remained, she took these out and offered them in the hope of propitiating him. the fiend bit one to insure that it was made of sugar and not lime, while the crowd laughed more than ever; then, seeming satisfied, he made katy a little speech in rapid italian, of which she did not comprehend a word, kissed her hand, jumped down from the carriage and disappeared in the crowd to her great relief. presently after that the driver spied an opening, of which he took advantage. they were across the corso now, the roar and rush of the carnival dying into silence as they drove rapidly on; and katy, as she finished wiping away the last of the lime dust, wiped some tears from her cheeks as well. "how hateful it all was!" she said to herself. then she remembered a sentence read somewhere, "how heavily roll the wheels of other people's joys when your heart is sorrowful!" and she realized that it is true. the convent was propitious, and promised to send a sister next morning, with the proviso that every second day she was to come back to sleep and rest. katy was too thankful for any aid to make objections, and drove home with visions of saintly nuns with pure pale faces full of peace and resignation, such as she had read of in books, floating before her eyes. sister ambrogia, when she appeared next day, did not exactly realize these imaginations. she was a plump little person, with rosy cheeks, a pair of demure black eyes, and a very obstinate mouth and chin. it soon appeared that natural inclination combined with the rules of her convent made her theory of a nurse's duties a very limited one. if mrs. ashe wished her to go down to the office with an order, she was told: "we sisters care for the sick; we are not allowed to converse with porters and hotel people." if katy suggested that on the way home she should leave a prescription at the chemist's, it was: "we sisters are for nursing only; we do not visit shops." and when she was asked if she could make beef tea, she replied calmly but decisively, "we sisters are not cooks." in fact, all that sister ambrogia seemed able or willing to do, beyond the bathing of amy's face and brushing her hair, which she accomplished handily, was to sit by the bedside telling her rosary, or plying a little ebony shuttle in the manufacture of a long strip of tatting. even this amount of usefulness was interfered with by the fact that amy, who by this time was in a semi-delirious condition, had taken an aversion to her at the first glance, and was not willing to be left with her for a single moment. "i won't stay here alone with sister embroidery," she would cry, if her mother and katy went into the next room for a moment's rest or a private consultation; "i hate sister embroidery! come back, mamma, come back this moment! she's making faces at me, and chattering just like an old parrot, and i don't understand a word she says. take sister embroidery away, mamma, i tell you! don't you hear me? come back, i say!" the little voice would be raised to a shrill scream; and mrs. ashe and katy, hurrying back, would find amy sitting up on her pillow with wet, scarlet-flushed cheeks and eyes bright with fever, ready to throw herself out of bed; while, calm as mabel, whose curly head lay on the pillow beside her little mistress, sister ambrogia, unaware of the intricacies of the english language, was placidly telling her beads and muttering prayers to herself. some of these prayers, i do not doubt, related to amy's recovery if not to her conversion, and were well meant; but they were rather irritating under the circumstances! chapter x. clear shining after rain. when the first shock is over and the inevitable realized and accepted, those who tend a long illness are apt to fall into a routine of life which helps to make the days seem short. the apparatus of nursing is got together. every day the same things need to be done at the same hours and in the same way. each little appliance is kept at hand; and sad and tired as the watchers may be, the very monotony and regularity of their proceedings give a certain stay for their thoughts to rest upon. but there was little of this monotony to help mrs. ashe and katy through with amy's illness. small chance was there for regularity or exact system; for something unexpected was always turning up, and needful things were often lacking. the most ordinary comforts of the sick-room, or what are considered so in america, were hard to come by, and much of katy's time was spent in devising substitutes to take their places. was ice needed? a pailful of dirty snow would be brought in, full of straws, sticks, and other refuse, which had apparently been scraped from the surface of the street after a frosty night. not a particle of it could be put into milk or water; all that could be done was to make the pail serve the purpose of a refrigerator, and set bowls and tumblers in it to chill. was a feeding-cup wanted? it came of a cumbrous and antiquated pattern, which the infant hercules may have enjoyed, but which the modern amy abominated and rejected. such a thing as a glass tube could not be found in all rome. bed-rests were unknown. katy searched in vain for an india-rubber hot-water bag. but the greatest trial of all was the beef tea. it was amy's sole food, and almost her only medicine; for dr. hilary believed in leaving nature pretty much to herself in cases of fever. the kitchen of the hotel sent up, under that name, a mixture of grease and hot water, which could not be given to amy at all. in vain katy remonstrated and explained the process. in vain did she go to the kitchen herself to translate a carefully written recipe to the cook, and to slip a shining five-franc piece in his hand, which it was hoped would quicken his energies and soften his heart. in vain did she order private supplies of the best of beef from a separate market. the cooks stole the beef and ignored the recipe; and day after day the same bottle-full of greasy liquid came upstairs, which amy would not touch, and which would have done her no good had she swallowed it all. at last, driven to desperation, katy procured a couple of stout bottles, and every morning slowly and carefully cut up two pounds of meat into small pieces, sealed the bottle with her own seal ring, and sent it down to be boiled for a specified time. this answered better, for the thieving cook dared not tamper with her seal; but it was a long and toilsome process, and consumed more time than she well knew how to spare,--for there were continual errands to be done which no one could attend to but herself, and the interminable flights of stairs taxed her strength painfully, and seemed to grow longer and harder every day. at last a good samaritan turned up in the shape of an american lady with a house of her own, who, hearing of their plight from mrs. sands, undertook to send each day a supply of strong, perfectly made beef tea, from her own kitchen, for amy's use. it was an inexpressible relief, and the lightening of this one particular care made all the rest seem easier of endurance. another great relief came, when, after some delay, dr. hilary succeeded in getting an english nurse to take the places of the unsatisfactory sister ambrogia and her substitute, sister agatha, whom amy in her half-comprehending condition persisted in calling "sister nutmeg grater." mrs. swift was a tall, wiry, angular person, who seemed made of equal parts of iron and whalebone. she was never tired; she could lift anybody, do anything; and for sleep she seemed to have a sort of antipathy, preferring to sit in an easy-chair and drop off into little dozes, whenever it was convenient, to going regularly to bed for a night's rest. amy took to her from the first, and the new nurse managed her beautifully. no one else could soothe her half so well during the delirious period, when the little shrill voice seemed never to be still, and went on all day and all night in alternate raving or screaming or, what was saddest of all to hear, low pitiful moans. there was no shutting in these sounds. people moved out of the rooms below and on either side, because they could get no sleep; and till the arrival of nurse swift, there was no rest for poor mrs. ashe, who could not keep away from her darling for a moment while that mournful wailing sounded in her ears. somehow the long, dry englishwoman seemed to have a mesmeric effect on amy, who was never quite so violent after she arrived. katy was more thankful for this than can well be told; for her great underlying dread--a dread she dared not whisper plainly even to herself--was that "polly dear" might break down before amy was better, and then what _should_ they do? she took every care that was possible of her friend. she made her eat; she made her lie down. she forced daily doses of quinine and port-wine down her throat, and saved her every possible step. but no one, however affectionate and willing, could do much to lift the crushing burden of care, which was changing mrs. ashe's rosy fairness to wan pallor and laying such dark shadows under the pretty gray eyes. she had taken small thought of looks since amy's illness. all the little touches which had made her toilette becoming, all the crimps and fluffs, had disappeared; yet somehow never had she seemed to katy half so lovely as now in the plain black gown which she wore all day long, with her hair tucked into a knot behind her ears. her real beauty of feature and outline seemed only enhanced by the rigid plainness of her attire, and the charm of true expression grew in her face. never had katy admired and loved her friend so well as during those days of fatigue and wearing suspense, or realized so strongly the worth of her sweetness of temper, her unselfishness and power of devoting herself to other people. "polly bears it wonderfully," she wrote her father; "she was all broken down for the first day or two, but now her courage and patience are surprising. when i think how precious amy is to her and how lonely her life would be if she were to die, i can hardly keep the tears out of my eyes. but polly does not cry. she is quiet and brave and almost cheerful all the time, keeping herself busy with what needs to be done; she never complains, and she looks--oh, so pretty! i think i never knew how much she had in her before." all this time no word had come from lieutenant worthington. his sister had written him as soon as amy was taken ill, and had twice telegraphed since, but no answer had been received, and this strange silence added to the sense of lonely isolation and distance from home and help which those who encounter illness in a foreign land have to bear. so first one week and then another wore themselves away somehow. the fever did not break on the fourteenth day, as had been hoped, and must run for another period, the doctor said; but its force was lessened, and he considered that a favorable sign. amy was quieter now and did not rave so constantly, but she was very weak. all her pretty hair had been shorn away, which made her little face look tiny and sharp. mabel's golden wig was sacrificed at the same time. amy had insisted upon it, and they dared not cross her. "she has got a fever, too, and it's a great deal badder than mine is," she protested. "her cheeks are as hot as fire. she ought to have ice on her head, and how can she when her bang is so thick? cut it all off, every bit, and then i will let you cut mine." "you had better give ze child her way," said dr. hilary. "she's in no state to be fretted with triffles [trifles, the doctor meant], and in ze end it will be well; for ze fever infection might harbor in zat doll's head as well as elsewhere, and i should have to disinfect it, which would be bad for ze skin of her." "she isn't a doll," cried amy, overhearing him; "she's my child, and you sha'n't call her names." she hugged mabel tight in her arms, and glared at dr. hilary defiantly. so katy with pitiful fingers slashed away at mabel's blond wig till her head was as bare as a billiard-ball; and amy, quite content, patted her child while her own locks were being cut, and murmured, "perhaps your hair will all come out in little round curls, darling, as johnnie carr's did;" then she fell into one of the quietest sleeps she had yet had. it was the day after this that katy, coming in from a round of errands, found mrs. ashe standing erect and pale, with a frightened look in her eyes, and her back against amy's door, as if defending it from somebody. confronting her was madame frulini, the _padrona_ of the hotel. madame's cheeks were red, and her eyes bright and fierce; she was evidently in a rage about something, and was pouring out a torrent of excited italian, with now and then a french or english word slipped in by way of punctuation, and all so rapidly that only a trained ear could have followed or grasped her meaning. "what is the matter?" asked katy, in amazement. "oh, katy, i am so glad you have come," cried poor mrs. ashe. "i can hardly understand a word that this horrible woman says, but i think she wants to turn us out of the hotel, and that we shall take amy to some other place. it would be the death of her,--i know it would. i never, never will go, unless the doctor says it is safe. i oughtn't to,--i couldn't; she can't make me, can she, katy?" "madame," said katy,--and there was a flash in her eyes before which the landlady rather shrank,--"what is all this? why do you come to trouble madame while her child is so ill?" then came another torrent of explanation which didn't explain; but katy gathered enough of the meaning to make out that mrs. ashe was quite correct in her guess, and that madame frulini was requesting, nay, insisting, that they should remove amy from the hotel at once. there were plenty of apartments to be had now that the carnival was over, she said,--her own cousin had rooms close by,--it could easily be arranged, and people were going away from the del mondo every day because there was fever in the house. such a thing could not be, it should not be,--the landlady's voice rose to a shriek, "the child must go!" "you are a cruel woman," said katy, indignantly, when she had grasped the meaning of the outburst. "it is wicked, it is cowardly, to come thus and attack a poor lady under your roof who has so much already to bear. it is her only child who is lying in there,--her only one, do you understand, madame?--and she is a widow. what you ask might kill the child. i shall not permit you or any of your people to enter that door till the doctor comes, and then i shall tell him how you have behaved, and we shall see what he will say." as she spoke she turned the key of amy's door, took it out and put it in her pocket, then faced the _padrona_ steadily, looking her straight in the eyes. "mademoiselle," stormed the landlady, "i give you my word, four people have left this house already because of the noises made by little miss. more will go. i shall lose my winter's profit,--all of it,--all; it will be said there is fever at the del mondo,--no one will hereafter come to me. there are lodgings plenty, comfortable,--oh, so comfortable! i will not have my season ruined by a sickness; no, i will not!" madame frulini's voice was again rising to a scream. "be silent!" said katy, sternly; "you will frighten the child. i am sorry that you should lose any customers, madame, but the fever is here and we are here, and here we must stay till it is safe to go. the child shall not be moved till the doctor gives permission. money is not the only thing in the world! mrs. ashe will pay anything that is fair to make up your losses to you, but you must leave this room now, and not return till dr. hilary is here." where katy found french for all these long coherent speeches, she could never afterward imagine. she tried to explain it by saying that excitement inspired her for the moment, but that as soon as the moment was over the inspiration died away and left her as speechless and confused as ever. clover said it made her think of the miracle of balaam; and katy merrily rejoined that it might be so, and that no donkey in any age of the world could possibly have been more grateful than was she for the sudden gift of speech. "but it is not the money,--it is my prestige," declared the landlady. "thank heaven! here is the doctor now," cried mrs. ashe. the doctor had in fact been standing in the doorway for several moments before they noticed him, and had overheard part of the colloquy with madame frulini. with him was some one else, at the sight of whom mrs. ashe gave a great sob of relief. it was her brother, at last. when italian meets italian, then comes the tug of expletive. it did not seem to take one second for dr. hilary to whirl the _padrona_ out into the entry, where they could be heard going at each other like two furious cats. hiss, roll, sputter, recrimination, objurgation! in five minutes madame frulini was, metaphorically speaking, on her knees, and the doctor standing over her with drawn sword, making her take back every word she had said and every threat she had uttered. "prestige of thy miserable hotel!" he thundered; "where will that be when i go and tell the english and americans--all of whom i know, every one!--how thou hast served a countrywoman of theirs in thy house? dost thou think thy prestige will help thee much when dr. hilary has fixed a black mark on thy door! i tell thee no; not a stranger shalt thou have next year to eat so much as a plate of macaroni under thy base roof! i will advertise thy behavior in all the foreign papers,--in figaro, in galignani, in the swiss times, and the english one which is read by all the nobility, and the heraldo of new york, which all americans peruse--" "oh, doctor--pardon me--i regret what i said--i am afflicted--" "i will post thee in the railroad stations," continued the doctor, implacably; "i will bid my patients to write letters to all their friends, warning them against thy flea-ridden del mondo; i will apprise the steamboat companies at genoa and naples. thou shalt see what comes of it,--truly, thou shalt see." having thus reduced madame frulini to powder, the doctor now condescended to take breath and listen to her appeals for mercy; and presently he brought her in with her mouth full of protestations and apologies, and assurances that the ladies had mistaken her meaning, she had only spoken for the good of all; nothing was further from her intention than that they should be disturbed or offended in any way, and she and all her household were at the service of "the little sick angel of god." after which the doctor dismissed her with an air of contemptuous tolerance, and laid his hand on the door of amy's room. behold, it was locked! "oh, i forgot," cried katy, laughing; and she pulled the key out of her pocket. "you are a hee-roine, mademoiselle," said dr. hilary. "i watched you as you faced that tigress, and your eyes were like a swordsman's as he regards his enemy's rapier." "oh, she was so brave, and such a help!" said mrs. ashe, kissing her impulsively. "you can't think how she has stood by me all through, ned, or what a comfort she has been." "yes, i can," said ned worthington, with a warm, grateful look at katy. "i can believe anything good of miss carr." "but where have _you_ been all this time?" said katy, who felt this flood of compliment to be embarrassing; "we have so wondered at not hearing from you." "i have been off on a ten-days' leave to corsica for moufflon-shooting," replied mr. worthington. "i only got polly's telegrams and letters day before yesterday, and i came away as soon as i could get my leave extended. it was a most unlucky absence. i shall always regret it." "oh, it is all right now that you have come," his sister said, leaning her head on his arm with a look of relief and rest which was good to see. "everything will go better now, i am sure." "katy carr has behaved like a perfect angel," she told her brother when they were alone. "she is a trump of a girl. i came in time for part of that scene with the landlady, and upon my word she was glorious! i didn't suppose she could look so handsome." "have the pages left nice yet?" asked his sister, rather irrelevantly. "no,--at least they were there on thursday, but i think that they were to start to-day." mr. worthington answered carelessly, but his face darkened as he spoke. there had been a little scene in nice which he could not forget. he was sitting in the english garden with lilly and her mother when his sister's telegrams were brought to him; and he had read them aloud, partly as an explanation for the immediate departure which they made necessary and which broke up an excursion just arranged with the ladies for the afternoon. it is not pleasant to have plans interfered with; and as neither mrs. page nor her daughter cared personally for little amy, it is not strange that disappointment at the interruption of their pleasure should have been the first impulse with them. still, this did not excuse lilly's unstudied exclamation of "oh, bother!" and though she speedily repented it as an indiscretion, and was properly sympathetic, and "hoped the poor little thing would soon be better," amy's uncle could not forget the jarring impression. it completed a process of disenchantment which had long been going on; and as hearts are sometimes caught at the rebound, mrs. ashe was not so far astray when she built certain little dim sisterly hopes on his evident admiration for katy's courage and this sudden awakening to a sense of her good looks. but no space was left for sentiment or match-making while still amy's fate hung in the balance, and all three of them found plenty to do during the next fortnight. the fever did not turn on the twenty-first day, and another weary week of suspense set in, each day bringing a decrease of the dangerous symptoms, but each day as well marking a lessening in the childish strength which had been so long and severely tested. amy was quite conscious now, and lay quietly, sleeping a great deal and speaking seldom. there was not much to do but to wait and hope; but the flame of hope burned low at times, as the little life flickered in its socket, and seemed likely to go out like a wind-blown torch. now and then lieutenant worthington would persuade his sister to go with him for a few minutes' drive or walk in the fresh air, from which she had so long been debarred, and once or twice he prevailed on katy to do the same; but neither of them could bear to be away long from amy's bedside. intimacy grows fast when people are thus united by a common anxiety, sharing the same hopes and fears day after day, speaking and thinking of the same thing. the gay young officer at nice, who had counted so little in katy's world, seemed to have disappeared, and the gentle, considerate, tender-hearted fellow who now filled his place was quite a different person in her eyes. katy began to count on ned worthington as a friend who could be trusted for help and sympathy and comprehension, and appealed to and relied upon in all emergencies. she was quite at ease with him now, and asked him to do this and that, to come and help her, or to absent himself, as freely as if he had been dorry or phil. he, on his part, found this easy intimacy charming. in the reaction of his temporary glamour for the pretty lilly, katy's very difference from her was an added attraction. this difference consisted, as much as anything else, in the fact that she was so truly in earnest in what she said and did. had lilly been in katy's place, she would probably have been helpful to mrs. ashe and kind to amy so far as in her lay; but the thought of self would have tinctured all that she did and said, and the need of keeping to what was tasteful and becoming would have influenced her in every emergency, and never have been absent from her mind. katy, on the contrary, absorbed in the needs of the moment, gave little heed to how she looked or what any one was thinking about her. her habit of neatness made her take time for the one thorough daily dressing,--the brushing of hair and freshening of clothes, which were customary with her; but, this tax paid to personal comfort, she gave little further heed to appearances. she wore an old gray gown, day in and day out, which lilly would not have put on for half an hour without a large bribe, so unbecoming was it; but somehow lieutenant worthington grew to like the gray gown as a part of katy herself. and if by chance he brought a rose in to cheer the dim stillness of the sick-room, and she tucked it into her buttonhole, immediately it was as though she were decked for conquest. pretty dresses are very pretty on pretty people,--they certainly play an important part in this queer little world of ours; but depend upon it, dear girls, no woman ever has established so distinct and clear a claim on the regard of her lover as when he has ceased to notice or analyze what she wears, and just accepts it unquestioningly, whatever it is, as a bit of the dear human life which has grown or is growing to be the best and most delightful thing in the world to him. the gray gown played its part during the long anxious night when they all sat watching breathlessly to see which way the tide would turn with dear little amy. the doctor came at midnight, and went away to come again at dawn. mrs. swift sat grim and watchful beside the pillow of her charge, rising now and then to feel pulse and skin, or to put a spoonful of something between amy's lips. the doors and windows stood open to admit the air. in the outer room all was hushed. a dim roman lamp, fed with olive oil, burned in one corner behind a screen. mrs. ashe lay on the sofa with her eyes closed, bearing the strain of suspense in absolute silence. her brother sat beside her, holding in his one of the hot hands whose nervous twitches alone told of the surgings of hope and fear within. katy was resting in a big chair near by, her wistful eyes fixed on amy's little figure seen in the dim distance, her ears alert for every sound from the sick-room. so they watched and waited. now and then ned worthington or katy would rise softly, steal on tiptoe to the bedside, and come back to whisper to mrs. ashe that amy had stirred or that she seemed to be asleep. it was one of the nights which do not come often in a lifetime, and which people never forget. the darkness seems full of meaning; the hush, of sound. god is beyond, holding the sunrise in his right hand, holding the sun of our earthly hopes as well,--will it dawn in sorrow or in joy? we dare not ask, we can only wait. a faint stir of wind and a little broadening of the light roused katy from a trance of half-understood thoughts. she crept once more into amy's room. mrs. swift laid a warning finger on her lips; amy was sleeping, she said with a gesture. katy whispered the news to the still figure on the sofa, then she went noiselessly out of the room. the great hotel was fast asleep; not a sound stirred the profound silence of the dark halls. a longing for fresh air led her to the roof. there was the dawn just tingeing the east. the sky, even thus early, wore the deep mysterious blue of italy. a fresh _tramontana_ was blowing, and made katy glad to draw her shawl about her. far away in the distance rose the alban hills above the dim campagna, with the more lofty sabines beyond, and soracte, clear cut against the sky like a wave frozen in the moment of breaking. below lay the ancient city, with its strange mingling of the old and the new, of past things embedded in the present; or is it the present thinly veiling the rich and mighty past,--who shall say? faint rumblings of wheels and here and there a curl of smoke showed that rome was waking up. the light insensibly grew upon the darkness. a pink flush lit up the horizon. florio stirred in his lair, stretched his dappled limbs, and as the first sun-ray glinted on the roof, raised himself, crossed the gravelled tiles with soundless feet, and ran his soft nose into katy's hand. she fondled him for amy's sake as she stood bent over the flower-boxes, inhaling the scent of the mignonette and gilly-flowers, with her eyes fixed on the distance; but her heart was at home with the sleepers there, and a rush of strong desire stirred her. would this dreary time come to an end presently, and should they be set at liberty to go their ways with no heavy sorrow to press them down, to be care-free and happy again in their own land? a footstep startled her. ned worthington was coming over the roof on tiptoe as if fearful of disturbing somebody. his face looked resolute and excited. "i wanted to tell you," he said in a hushed voice, "that the doctor is here, and he says amy has no fever, and with care may be considered out of danger." "thank god!" cried katy, bursting into tears. the long fatigue, the fears kept in check so resolutely, the sleepless night just passed, had their revenge now, and she cried and cried as if she could never stop, but with all the time such joy and gratitude in her heart! she was conscious that ned had his arm round her and was holding both her hands tight; but they were so one in the emotion of the moment that it did not seem strange. "how sweet the sun looks!" she said presently, releasing herself, with a happy smile flashing through her tears; "it hasn't seemed really bright for ever so long. how silly i was to cry! where is dear polly? i must go down to her at once. oh, what does she say?" chapter xi. next. lieut. worthington's leave had nearly expired. he must rejoin his ship; but he waited till the last possible moment in order to help his sister through the move to albano, where it had been decided that amy should go for a few days of hill air before undertaking the longer journey to florence. it was a perfect morning in late march when the pale little invalid was carried in her uncle's strong arms, and placed in the carriage which was to take them to the old town on the mountain slopes which they had seen shining from far away for so many weeks past. spring had come in her fairest shape to italy. the campagna had lost its brown and tawny hues and taken on a tinge of fresher color. the olive orchards were budding thickly. almond boughs extended their dazzling shapes across the blue sky. arums and acanthus and ivy filled every hollow, roses nodded from over every gate, while a carpet of violets and cyclamen and primroses stretched over the fields and freighted every wandering wind with fragrance. when once the campagna with its long line of aqueducts, arches, and hoary tombs was left behind, and the carriage slowly began to mount the gradual rises of the hill, amy revived. with every breath of the fresher air her eyes seemed to brighten and her voice to grow stronger. she held mabel up to look at the view; and the sound of her laugh, faint and feeble as it was, was like music to her mother's ears. amy wore a droll little silk-lined cap on her head, over which a downy growth of pale-brown fuzz was gradually thickening. already it showed a tendency to form into tiny rings, which to amy, who had always hankered for curls, was an extreme satisfaction. strange to say, the same thing exactly had happened to mabel; her hair had grown out into soft little round curls also! uncle ned and katy had ransacked rome for this baby-wig, which filled and realized all amy's hopes for her child. on the same excursion they had bought the materials for the pretty spring suit which mabel wore, for it had been deemed necessary to sacrifice most of her wardrobe as a concession to possible fever-germs. amy admired the pearl-colored dress and hat, the fringed jacket and little lace-trimmed parasol so much, that she was quite consoled for the loss of the blue velvet costume and ermine muff which had been the pride of her heart ever since they left paris, and whose destruction they had scarcely dared to confess to her. so up, up, up, they climbed till the gateway of the old town was passed, and the carriage stopped before a quaint building once the residence of the bishop of albano, but now known as the hôtel de la poste. here they alighted, and were shown up a wide and lofty staircase to their rooms, which were on the sunny side of the house, and looked across a walled garden, where roses and lemon trees grew beside old fountains guarded by sculptured lions and heathen divinities with broken noses and a scant supply of fingers and toes, to the campagna, purple with distance and stretching miles and miles away to where rome sat on her seven hills, lifting high the dome of st. peter's into the illumined air. nurse swift said that amy must go to bed at once, and have a long rest. but amy nearly wept at the proposal, and declared that she was not a bit tired and couldn't sleep if she went to bed ever so much. the change of air had done her good already, and she looked more like herself than for many weeks past. they compromised their dispute on a sofa, where amy, well wrapped up, was laid, and where, in spite of her protestations, she presently fell asleep, leaving the others free to examine and arrange their new quarters. such enormous rooms as they were! it was quite a journey to go from one side of them to another. the floors were of stone, with squares of carpet laid down over them, which looked absurdly small for the great spaces they were supposed to cover. the beds and tables were of the usual size, but they seemed almost like doll furniture because the chambers were so big. a quaint old paper, with an enormous pattern of banyan trees and pagodas, covered the walls, and every now and then betrayed by an oblong of regular cracks the existence of a hidden door, papered to look exactly like the rest of the wall. these mysterious doors made katy nervous, and she never rested till she had opened every one of them and explored the places they led to. one gave access to a queer little bathroom. another led, through a narrow dark passage, to a sort of balcony or loggia overhanging the garden. a third ended in a dusty closet with an artful chink in it from which you could peep into what had been the bishop's drawing-room but which was now turned into the dining-room of the hotel. it seemed made for purposes of espial; and katy had visions of a long line of reverend prelates with their ears glued to the chink, overhearing what was being said about them in the apartment beyond. the most surprising of all she did not discover till she was going to bed on the second night after their arrival, when she thought she knew all about the mysterious doors and what they led to. a little unexplained draught of wind made her candle flicker, and betrayed the existence of still another door so cunningly hid in the wall pattern that she had failed to notice it. she had quite a creepy feeling as she drew her dressing-gown about her, took a light, and entered the narrow passage into which it opened. it was not a long passage, and ended presently in a tiny oratory. there was a little marble altar, with a kneeling-step and candlesticks and a great crucifix above. ends of wax candles still remained in the candlesticks, and bunches of dusty paper flowers filled the vases which stood on either side of them. a faded silk cushion lay on the step. doubtless the bishop had often knelt there. katy felt as if she were the first person to enter the place since he went away. her common-sense told her that in a hotel bedroom constantly occupied by strangers for years past, some one _must_ have discovered the door and found the little oratory before her; but common-sense is sometimes less satisfactory than romance. katy liked to think that she was the first, and to "make believe" that no one else knew about it; so she did so, and invented legends about the place which amy considered better than any fairy story. before he left them lieutenant worthington had a talk with his sister in the garden. she rather forced this talk upon him, for various things were lying at her heart about which she longed for explanation; but he yielded so easily to her wiles that it was evident he was not averse to the idea. "come, polly, don't beat about the bush any longer," he said at last, amused and a little irritated at her half-hints and little feminine _finesses_. "i know what you want to ask; and as there's no use making a secret of it, i will take my turn in asking. have i any chance, do you think?" "any chance?--about katy, do you mean? oh, ned, you make me so happy." "yes; about her, of course." "i don't see why you should say 'of course,'" remarked his sister, with the perversity of her sex, "when it's only five or six weeks ago that i was lying awake at night for fear you were being gobbled up by that lilly page." "there was a little risk of it," replied her brother, seriously. "she's awfully pretty and she dances beautifully, and the other fellows were all wild about her, and--well, you know yourself how such things go. i can't see now what it was that i fancied so much about her, i don't suppose i could have told exactly at the time; but i can tell without the smallest trouble what it is in--the other." "in katy? i should think so," cried mrs. ashe, emphatically; "the two are no more to be compared than--than--well, bread and syllabub! you can live on one, and you can't live on the other." "come, now, miss page isn't so bad as that. she is a nice girl enough, and a pretty girl too,--prettier than katy; i'm not so far gone that i can't see that. but we won't talk about her, she's not in the present question at all; very likely she'd have had nothing to say to me in any case. i was only one out of a dozen, and she never gave me reason to suppose that she cared more for me than the rest. let us talk about this friend of yours; have i any chance at all, do you think, polly?" "ned, you are the dearest boy! i would rather have katy for a sister than any one else i know. she's so nice all through,--so true and sweet and satisfactory." "she is all that and more; she's a woman to tie to for life, to be perfectly sure of always. she would make a splendid wife for any man. i'm not half good enough for her; but the question is,--and you haven't answered it yet, polly,--what's my chance?" "i don't know," said his sister, slowly. "then i must ask herself, and i shall do so to-day." "i don't know," repeated mrs. ashe. "'she is a woman, therefore to be won:' and i don't think there is any one ahead of you; that is the best hope i have to offer, ned. katy never talks of such things; and though she's so frank, i can't guess whether or not she ever thinks about them. she likes you, however, i am sure of that. but, ned, it will not be wise to say anything to her yet." "not say anything? why not?" "no. recollect that it is only a little while since she looked upon you as the admirer of another girl, and a girl she doesn't like very much, though they are cousins. you must give her time to get over that impression. wait awhile; that's my advice, ned." "i'll wait any time if only she will say yes in the end. but it's hard to go away without a word of hope, and it's more like a man to speak out, it seems to me." "it's too soon," persisted his sister. "you don't want her to think you a fickle fellow, falling in love with a fresh girl every time you go into port, and falling out again when the ship sails. sailors have a bad reputation for that sort of thing. no woman cares to win a man like that." "great scott! i should think not! do you mean to say that is the way my conduct appears to her, polly?" "no, i don't mean just that; but wait, dear ned, i am sure it is better." fortified by this sage counsel, lieutenant worthington went away next morning, without saying anything to katy in words, though perhaps eyes and tones may have been less discreet. he made them promise that some one should send a letter every day about amy; and as mrs. ashe frequently devolved the writing of these bulletins upon katy, and the replies came in the shape of long letters, she found herself conducting a pretty regular correspondence without quite intending it. ned worthington wrote particularly nice letters. he had the knack, more often found in women than men, of giving a picture with a few graphic touches, and indicating what was droll or what was characteristic with a single happy phrase. his letters grew to be one of katy's pleasures; and sometimes, as mrs. ashe watched the color deepen in her cheeks while she read, her heart would bound hopefully within her. but she was a wise woman in her way, and she wanted katy for a sister very much; so she never said a word or looked a look to startle or surprise her, but left the thing to work itself out, which is the best course always in love affairs. little amy's improvement at albano was something remarkable. mrs. swift watched over her like a lynx. her vigilance never relaxed. amy was made to eat and sleep and walk and rest with the regularity of a machine; and this exact system, combined with the good air, worked like a charm. the little one gained hour by hour. they could absolutely see her growing fat, her mother declared. fevers, when they do not kill, operate sometimes as spring bonfires do in gardens, burning up all the refuse and leaving the soil free for the growth of fairer things; and amy promised in time to be only the better and stronger for her hard experience. she had gained so much before the time came to start for florence, that they scarcely dreaded the journey; but it proved worse than their expectations. they had not been able to secure a carriage to themselves, and were obliged to share their compartment with two english ladies, and three roman catholic priests, one old, the others young. the older priest seemed to be a person of some consequence; for quite a number of people came to see him off, and knelt for his blessing devoutly as the train moved away. the younger ones katy guessed to be seminary students under his charge. her chief amusement through the long dusty journey was in watching the terrible time that one of these young men was having with his own hat. it was a large three-cornered black affair, with sharp angles and excessively stiff; and a perpetual struggle seemed to be going on between it and its owner, who was evidently unhappy when it was on his head and still more unhappy when it was anywhere else. if he perched it on his knees it was sure to slide away from him and fall with a thump on the floor, whereupon he would pick it up, blushing furiously as he did so. then he would lay it on the seat when the train stopped at a station, and jump out with an air of relief; but he invariably forgot, and sat down upon it when he returned, and sprang up with a look of horror at the loud crackle it made; after which he would tuck it into the baggage-rack overhead, from which it would presently descend, generally into the lap of one of the staid english ladies, who would hand it back to him with an air of deep offence, remarking to her companion,-- "i never knew anything like it. fancy! that makes four times that hat has fallen on me. the young man is a feedgit! he's the most feegitty creature i ever saw in my life." the young _seminariat_ did not understand a word she said; but the tone needed no interpreter, and set him to blushing more painfully than ever. altogether, the hat was never off his mind for a moment. katy could see that he was thinking about it, even when he was thumbing his breviary and making believe to read. at last the train, steaming down the valley of the arno, revealed fair florence sitting among olive-clad hills, with giotto's beautiful bell-tower, and the great, many-colored, soft-hued cathedral, and the square tower of the old palace, and the quaint bridges over the river, looking exactly as they do in the photographs; and katy would have felt delighted, in spite of dust and fatigue, had not amy looked so worn out and exhausted. they were seriously troubled about her, and for the moment could think of nothing else. happily the fatigue did no permanent harm, and a day or two of rest made her all right again. by good fortune, a nice little apartment in the modern quarter of the city had been vacated by its winter occupants the very day of their arrival, and mrs. ashe secured it for a month, with all its conveniences and advantages, including a maid named maria, who had been servant to the just departed tenants. maria was a very tall woman, at least six feet two, and had a splendid contralto voice, which she occasionally exercised while busy over her pots and pans. it was so remarkable to hear these grand arias and recitatives proceeding from a kitchen some eight feet square, that katy was at great pains to satisfy her curiosity about it. by aid of the dictionary and much persistent questioning, she made out that maria in her youth had received a partial training for the opera; but in the end it was decided that she was too big and heavy for the stage, and the poor "giantess," as amy named her, had been forced to abandon her career, and gradually had sunk to the position of a maid-of-all-work. katy suspected that heaviness of mind as well as of body must have stood in her way; for maria, though a good-natured giantess, was by no means quick of intelligence. "i do think that the manner in which people over here can make homes for themselves at five minutes' notice is perfectly delightful," cried katy, at the end of their first day's housekeeping. "i wish we could do the same in america. how cosy it looks here already!" it was indeed cosy. their new domain consisted of a parlor in a corner, furnished in bright yellow brocade, with windows to south and west; a nice little dining-room; three bedrooms, with dimity-curtained beds; a square entrance hall, lighted at night by a tall slender brass lamp whose double wicks were fed with olive oil; and the aforesaid tiny kitchen, behind which was a sleeping cubby, quite too small to be a good fit for the giantess. the rooms were full of conveniences,--easy-chairs, sofas, plenty of bureaus and dressing-tables, and corner fireplaces like franklin stoves, in which odd little fires burned on cool days, made of pine cones, cakes of pressed sawdust exactly like boston brown bread cut into slices, and a few sticks of wood thriftily adjusted, for fuel is worth its weight in gold in florence. katy's was the smallest of the bedrooms, but she liked it best of all for the reason that its one big window opened on an iron balcony over which grew a banksia rose-vine with a stem as thick as her wrist. it was covered just now with masses of tiny white blossoms, whose fragrance was inexpressibly delicious and made every breath drawn in their neighborhood a delight. the sun streamed in on all sides of the little apartment, which filled a narrowing angle at the union of three streets; and from one window and another, glimpses could be caught of the distant heights about the city,--san miniato in one direction, bellosguardo in another, and for the third the long olive-hung ascent of fiesole, crowned by its gray cathedral towers. it was astonishing how easily everything fell into train about the little establishment. every morning at six the english baker left two small sweet brown loaves and a dozen rolls at the door. then followed the dairyman with a supply of tiny leaf-shaped pats of freshly churned butter, a big flask of milk, and two small bottles of thick cream, with a twist of vine leaf in each by way of a cork. next came a _contadino_ with a flask of red chianti wine, a film of oil floating on top to keep it sweet. people in florence must drink wine, whether they like it or not, because the lime-impregnated water is unsafe for use without some admixture. dinner came from a _trattoria_, in a tin box, with a pan of coals inside to keep it warm, which box was carried on a man's head. it was furnished at a fixed price per day,--a soup, two dishes of meat, two vegetables, and a sweet dish; and the supply was so generous as always to leave something toward next day's luncheon. salad, fruit, and fresh eggs maria bought for them in the old market. from the confectioners came loaves of _pane santo_, a sort of light cake made with arrowroot instead of flour; and sometimes, by way of treat, a square of _pan forte da siena_, compounded of honey, almonds, and chocolate,--a mixture as pernicious as it is delicious, and which might take a medal anywhere for the sure production of nightmares. amy soon learned to know the shops from which these delicacies came. she had her favorites, too, among the strolling merchants who sold oranges and those little sweet native figs, dried in the sun without sugar, which are among the specialties of florence. they, in their turn, learned to know her and to watch for the appearance of her little capped head and mabel's blond wig at the window, lingering about till she came, and advertising their wares with musical modulations, so appealing that amy was always running to katy, who acted as housekeeper, to beg her to please buy this or that, "because it is my old man, and he wants me to so much." "but, chicken, we have plenty of figs for to-day." "no matter; get some more, please do. i'll eat them all; really, i will." and amy was as good as her word. her convalescent appetite was something prodigious. there was another branch of shopping in which they all took equal delight. the beauty and the cheapness of the florence flowers are a continual surprise to a stranger. every morning after breakfast an old man came creaking up the two long flights of stairs which led to mrs. ashe's apartment, tapped at the door, and as soon as it opened, inserted a shabby elbow and a large flat basket full of flowers. such flowers! great masses of scarlet and cream-colored tulips, and white and gold narcissus, knots of roses of all shades, carnations, heavy-headed trails of wistaria, wild hyacinths, violets, deep crimson and orange ranunculus, _giglios_, or wild irises,--the florence emblem, so deeply purple as to be almost black,--anemones, spring-beauties, faintly tinted wood-blooms tied in large loose nosegays, ivy, fruit blossoms,--everything that can be thought of that is fair and sweet. these enticing wares the old man would tip out on the table. mrs. ashe and katy would select what they wanted, and then the process of bargaining would begin, without which no sale is complete in italy. the old man would name an enormous price, five times as much as he hoped to get. katy would offer a very small one, considerably less than she expected to give. the old man would dance with dismay, wring his hands, assure them that he should die of hunger and all his family with him if he took less than the price named; he would then come down half a franc in his demand. so it would go on for five minutes, ten, sometimes for a quarter of an hour, the old man's price gradually descending, and katy's terms very slowly going up, a cent or two at a time. next the giantess would mingle with the fray. she would bounce out of her kitchen, berate the flower-vender, snatch up his flowers, declare that they smelt badly, fling them down again, pouring out all the while a voluble tirade of reproaches and revilings, and looking so enormous in her excitement that katy wondered that the old man dared to answer her at all. finally, there would be a sudden lull. the old man would shrug his shoulders, and remarking that he and his wife and his aged grandmother must go without bread that day since it was the signora's will, take the money offered and depart, leaving such a mass of flowers behind him that katy would begin to think that they had paid an unfair price for them and to feel a little rueful, till she observed that the old man was absolutely dancing downstairs with rapture over the good bargain he had made, and that maria was black with indignation over the extravagance of her ladies! "the americani are a nation of spend-thrifts," she would mutter to herself, as she quickened the charcoal in her droll little range by fanning it with a palm-leaf fan; "they squander money like water. well, all the better for us italians!" with a shrug of her shoulders. "but, maria, it was only sixteen cents that we paid, and look at those flowers! there are at least half a bushel of them." "sixteen cents for garbage like that! the signorina would better let me make her bargains for her. _già! già!_ no italian lady would have paid more than eleven sous for such useless _roba_. it is evident that the signorina's countrymen eat gold when at home, they think so little of casting it away!" altogether, what with the comfort and quiet of this little home, the numberless delightful things that there were to do and to see, and viessieux's great library, from which they could draw books at will to make the doing and seeing more intelligible, the month at florence passed only too quickly, and was one of the times to which they afterward looked back with most pleasure. amy grew steadily stronger, and the freedom from anxiety about her after their long strain of apprehension was restful and healing beyond expression to both mind and body. their very last excursion of all, and one of the pleasantest, was to the old amphitheatre at fiesole; and it was while they sat there in the soft glow of the late afternoon, tying into bunches the violets which they had gathered from under walls whose foundations antedate rome itself, that a cheery call sounded from above, and an unexpected surprise descended upon them in the shape of lieutenant worthington, who having secured another fifteen days' furlough, had come to take his sister on to venice. "i didn't write you that i had applied for leave," he explained, "because there seemed so little chance of my getting off again so soon; but as luck had it, carruthers, whose turn it was, sprained his ankle and was laid up, and the commodore let us exchange. i made all the capital i could out of amy's fever; but upon my word, i felt like a humbug when i came upon her and mrs. swift in the cascine just now, as i was hunting for you. how she has picked up! i should never have known her for the same child." "yes, she seems perfectly well again, and as strong as before she had the fever, though that dear old goody swift is just as careful of her as ever. she would not let us bring her here this afternoon, for fear we should stay out till the dew fell. ned, it is perfectly delightful that you were able to come. it makes going to venice seem quite a different thing, doesn't it, katy?" "i don't want it to seem quite different, because going to venice was always one of my dreams," replied katy, with a little laugh. "i hope at least it doesn't make it seem less pleasant," said mr. worthington, as his sister stopped to pick a violet. "no, indeed, i am glad," said katy; "we shall all be seeing it for the first time, too, shall we not? i think you said you had never been there." she spoke simply and frankly, but she was conscious of an odd shyness. "i simply couldn't stand it any longer," ned worthington confided to his sister when they were alone. "my head is so full of her that i can't attend to my work, and it came to me all of a sudden that this might be my last chance. you'll be getting north before long, you know, to switzerland and so on, where i cannot follow you. so i made a clean breast of it to the commodore; and the good old fellow, who has a soft spot in his heart for a love-story, behaved like a brick, and made it all straight for me to come away." mrs. ashe did not join in these commendations of the commodore; her attention was fixed on another part of her brother's discourse. "then you won't be able to come to me again? i sha'n't see you again after this!" she exclaimed. "dear me! i never realized that before. what shall i do without you?" "you will have miss carr. she is a host in herself," suggested ned worthington. his sister shook her head. "katy is a jewel," she remarked presently; "but somehow one wants a man to call upon. i shall feel lost without you, ned." the month's housekeeping wound up that night with a "thick tea" in honor of lieutenant worthington's arrival, which taxed all the resources of the little establishment. maria was sent out hastily to buy _pan forte da siena_ and _vino d'asti_, and fresh eggs for an omelette, and chickens' breasts smothered in cream from the restaurant, and artichokes for a salad, and flowers to garnish all; and the guest ate and praised and admired; and amy and mabel sat on his knee and explained everything to him, and they were all very happy together. their merriment was so infectious that it extended to the poor giantess, who had been very pensive all day at the prospect of losing her good place, and who now raised her voice in the grand aria from "orfeo," and made the kitchen ring with the passionate demand "che farò senza eurydice?" the splendid notes, full of fire and lamentation, rang out across the saucepans as effectively as if they had been footlights; and katy, rising softly, opened the kitchen door a little way that they might not lose a sound. the next day brought them to venice. it was a "moment," indeed, as katy seated herself for the first time in a gondola, and looked from beneath its black hood at the palace walls on the grand canal, past which they were gliding. some were creamy white and black, some orange-tawny, others of a dull delicious ruddy color, half pink, half red; but all, in build and ornament, were unlike palaces elsewhere. high on the prow before her stood the gondolier, his form defined in dark outline against the sky, as he swayed and bent to his long oar, raising his head now and again to give a wild musical cry, as warning to other approaching gondolas. it was all like a dream. ned worthington sat beside her, looking more at the changes in her expressive face than at the palaces. venice was as new to him as to katy; but she was a new feature in his life also, and even more interesting than venice. they seemed to float on pleasures for the next ten days. their arrival had been happily timed to coincide with a great popular festival which for nearly a week kept venice in a state of continual brilliant gala. all the days were spent on the water, only landing now and then to look at some famous building or picture, or to eat ices in the piazza with the lovely façade of st. mark's before them. dining or sleeping seemed a sheer waste of time! the evenings were spent on the water too; for every night, immediately after sunset, a beautiful drifting pageant started from the front of the doge's palace to make the tour of the grand canal, and our friends always took a part in it. in its centre went a barge hung with embroideries and filled with orange trees and musicians. this was surrounded by a great convoy of skiffs and gondolas bearing colored lanterns and pennons and gay awnings, and managed by gondoliers in picturesque uniforms. all these floated and shifted and swept on together with a sort of rhythmic undulation as if keeping time to the music, while across their path dazzling showers and arches of colored fire poured from the palace fronts and the hotels. every movement of the fairy flotilla was repeated in the illuminated water, every torch-tip and scarlet lantern and flake of green or rosy fire; above all the bright full moon looked down as if surprised. it was magically beautiful in effect. katy felt as if her previous sober ideas about life and things had melted away. for the moment the world was turned topsy-turvy. there was nothing hard or real or sordid left in it; it was just a fairy tale, and she was in the middle of it as she had longed to be in her childhood. she was the princess, encircled by delights, as when she and clover and elsie played in "paradise,"--only, this was better; and, dear me! who was this prince who seemed to belong to the story and to grow more important to it every day? fairy tales must come to ending. katy's last chapter closed with a sudden turn-over of the leaf when, toward the end of this happy fortnight, mrs. ashe came into her room with the face of one who has unpleasant news to communicate. "katy," she began, "should you be _awfully_ disappointed, should you consider me a perfect wretch, if i went home now instead of in the autumn?" katy was too much astonished to reply. "i am grown such a coward, i am so knocked up and weakened by what i suffered in rome, that i find i cannot face the idea of going on to germany and switzerland alone, without ned to take care of me. you are a perfect angel, dear, and i know that you would do all you could to make it easy for me, but i am such a fool that i do not dare. i think my nerves must have given way," she continued half tearfully; "but the very idea of shifting for myself for five months longer makes me so miserably homesick that i cannot endure it. i dare say i shall repent afterward, and i tell myself now how silly it is; but it's no use,--i shall never know another easy moment till i have amy safe again in america and under your father's care." "i find," she continued after another little pause, "that we can go down with ned to genoa and take a steamer there which will carry us straight to new york without any stops. i hate to disappoint you dreadfully, katy, but i have almost decided to do it. shall you mind very much? can you ever forgive me?" she was fairly crying now. katy had to swallow hard before she could answer, the sense of disappointment was so sharp; and with all her efforts there was almost a sob in her voice as she said,-- "why yes, indeed, dear polly, there is nothing to forgive. you are perfectly right to go home if you feel so." then with another swallow she added: "you have given me the loveliest six months' treat that ever was, and i should be a greedy girl indeed if i found fault because it is cut off a little sooner than we expected." "you are so dear and good not to be vexed," said her friend, embracing her. "it makes me feel doubly sorry about disappointing you. indeed i wouldn't if i could help it, but i simply can't. i _must_ go home. perhaps we'll come back some day when amy is grown up, or safely married to somebody who will take good care of her!" this distant prospect was but a poor consolation for the immediate disappointment. the more katy thought about it the sorrier did she feel. it was not only losing the chance--very likely the only one she would ever have--of seeing switzerland and germany; it was all sorts of other little things besides. they must go home in a strange ship with a captain they did not know, instead of in the "spartacus," as they had planned; and they should land in new york, where no one would be waiting for them, and not have the fun of sailing into boston bay and seeing rose on the wharf, where she had promised to be. furthermore, they must pass the hot summer in burnet instead of in the cool alpine valleys; and polly's house was let till october. she and amy would have to shift for themselves elsewhere. perhaps they would not be in burnet at all. oh dear, what a pity it was! what a dreadful pity! then, the first shock of surprise and discomfiture over, other ideas asserted themselves; and as she realized that in three weeks more, or four at the longest, she was to see papa and clover and all her dear people at home, she began to feel so very glad that she could hardly wait for the time to come. after all, there was nothing in europe quite so good as that. "no, i'm not sorry," she told herself; "i am glad. poor polly! it's no wonder she feels nervous after all she has gone through. i hope i wasn't cross to her! and it will be _very_ nice to have lieutenant worthington to take care of us as far as genoa." the next three days were full of work. there was no more floating in gondolas, except in the way of business. all the shopping which they had put off must be done, and the trunks packed for the voyage. every one recollected last errands and commissions; there was continual coming and going and confusion, and amy, wild with excitement, popping up every other moment in the midst of it all, to demand of everybody if they were not glad that they were going back to america. katy had never yet bought her gift from old mrs. redding. she had waited, thinking continually that she should see something more tempting still in the next place they went to; but now, with the sense that there were to be no more "next places," she resolved to wait no longer, and with a hundred francs in her pocket, set forth to choose something from among the many tempting things for sale in the piazza. a bracelet of old roman coins had caught her fancy one day in a bric-à-brac shop, and she walked straight toward it, only pausing by the way to buy a pale blue iridescent pitcher at salviate's for cecy slack, and see it carefully rolled in seaweed and soft paper. the price of the bracelet was a little more than she expected, and quite a long process of bargaining was necessary to reduce it to the sum she had to spend. she had just succeeded and was counting out the money when mrs. ashe and her brother appeared, having spied her from the opposite side of the piazza, where they were choosing last photographs at naga's. katy showed her purchase and explained that it was a present; "for of course i should never walk out in cold blood and buy a bracelet for myself," she said with a laugh. "this is a fascinating little shop," said mrs. ashe. "i wonder what is the price of that queer old chatelaine with the bottles hanging from it." the price was high; but mrs. ashe was now tolerably conversant with shopping italian, which consists chiefly of a few words repeated many times over, and it lowered rapidly under the influence of her _troppo's_ and _è molto caro's_, accompanied with telling little shrugs and looks of surprise. in the end she bought it for less than two thirds of what had been originally asked for it. as she put the parcel in her pocket, her brother said,-- "if you have done your shopping now, polly, can't you come out for a last row?" "katy may, but i can't," replied mrs. ashe. "the man promised to bring me gloves at six o'clock, and i must be there to pay for them. take her down to the lido, ned. it's an exquisite evening for the water, and the sunset promises to be delicious. you can take the time, can't you, katy?" katy could. mrs. ashe turned to leave them, but suddenly stopped short. "katy, look! isn't that a picture!" the "picture" was amy, who had come to the piazza with mrs. swift, to feed the doves of st. mark's, which was one of her favorite amusements. these pretty birds are the pets of all venice, and so accustomed to being fondled and made much of by strangers, that they are perfectly tame. amy, when her mother caught sight of her, was sitting on the marble pavement, with one on her shoulder, two perched on the edge of her lap, which was full of crumbs, and a flight of others circling round her head. she was looking up and calling them in soft tones. the sunlight caught the little downy curls on her head and made them glitter. the flying doves lit on the pavement, and crowded round her, their pearl and gray and rose-tinted and white feathers, their scarlet feet and gold-ringed eyes, making a shifting confusion of colors, as they hopped and fluttered and cooed about the little maid, unstartled even by her clear laughter. close by stood nurse swift, observant and grimly pleased. the mother looked on with happy tears in her eyes. "oh, katy, think what she was a few weeks ago and look at her now! can i ever be thankful enough?" she squeezed katy's hand convulsively and walked away, turning her head now and then for another glance at amy and the doves; while ned and katy silently crossed to the landing and got into a gondola. it was the perfection of a venice evening, with silver waves lapsing and lulling under a rose and opal sky; and the sense that it was their last row on those enchanted waters made every moment seem doubly precious. i cannot tell you exactly what it was that ned worthington said to katy during that row, or why it took so long to say it that they did not get in till after the sun was set, and the stars had come out to peep at their bright, glinting faces, reflected in the grand canal. in fact, no one can tell; for no one overheard, except giacomo, the brown yellow-jacketed gondolier, and as he did not understand a word of english he could not repeat the conversation. venetian boatmen, however, know pretty well what it means when a gentleman and lady, both young, find so much to say in low tones to each other under the gondola hood, and are so long about giving the order to return; and giacomo, deeply sympathetic, rowed as softly and made himself as imperceptible as he could,--a display of tact which merited the big silver piece with which lieutenant worthington "crossed his palm" on landing. mrs. ashe had begun to look for them long before they appeared, but i think she was neither surprised nor sorry that they were so late. katy kissed her hastily and went away at once,--"to pack," she said,--and ned was equally undemonstrative; but they looked so happy, both of them, that "polly dear" was quite satisfied and asked no questions. five days later the parting came, when the "florio" steamer put into the port of genoa for passengers. it was not an easy good-by to say. mrs. ashe and amy both cried, and mabel was said to be in deep affliction also. but there were alleviations. the squadron was coming home in the autumn, and the officers would have leave to see their friends, and of course lieutenant worthington must come to burnet--to visit his sister. five months would soon go, he declared; but for all the cheerful assurance, his face was rueful enough as he held katy's hand in a long tight clasp while the little boat waited to take him ashore. after that it was just a waiting to be got through with till they sighted sandy hook and the neversinks,--a waiting varied with peeps at marseilles and gibraltar and the sight of a whale or two and one distant iceberg. the weather was fair all the way, and the ocean smooth. amy was never weary of lamenting her own stupidity in not having taken maria matilda out of confinement before they left venice. "that child has hardly been out of the trunk since we started," she said. "she hasn't seen anything except a little bit of nice. i shall really be ashamed when the other children ask her about it. i think i shall play that she was left at boarding-school and didn't come to europe at all! don't you think that would be the best way, mamma?" "you might play that she was left in the states-prison for having done something naughty," suggested katy; but amy scouted this idea. "she never does naughty things," she said, "because she never does anything at all. she's just stupid, poor child! it's not her fault." the thirty-six hours between new york and burnet seemed longer than all the rest of the journey put together, katy thought. but they ended at last, as the "lake queen" swung to her moorings at the familiar wharf, where dr. carr stood surrounded with all his boys and girls just as they had stood the previous october, only that now there were no clouds on anybody's face, and johnnie was skipping up and down for joy instead of grief. it was a long moment while the plank was being lowered from the gangway; but the moment it was in place, katy darted across, first ashore of all the passengers, and was in her father's arms. mrs. ashe and amy spent two or three days with them, while looking up temporary quarters elsewhere; and so long as they stayed all seemed a happy confusion of talking and embracing and exclaiming, and distributing of gifts. after they went away things fell into their customary train, and a certain flatness became apparent. everything had happened that could happen. the long-talked-of european journey was over. here was katy at home again, months sooner than they expected; yet she looked remarkably cheerful and content! clover could not understand it; she was likewise puzzled to account for one or two private conversations between katy and papa in which she had not been invited to take part, and the occasional arrival of a letter from "foreign parts" about whose contents nothing was said. "it seems a dreadful pity that you had to come so soon," she said one day when they were alone in their bedroom. "it's delightful to have you, of course; but we had braced ourselves to do without you till october, and there are such lots of delightful things that you could have been doing and seeing at this moment." "oh, yes, indeed," replied katy, but not at all as if she were particularly disappointed. "katy carr, i don't understand you," persisted clover. "why don't you feel worse about it? here you have lost five months of the most splendid time you ever had, and you don't seem to mind it a bit! why, if i were in your place my heart would be perfectly broken. and you needn't have come, either; that's the worst of it. it was just a whim of polly's. papa says amy might have stayed as well as not. why aren't you sorrier, katy?" "oh, i don't know. perhaps because i had so much as it was,--enough to last all my life, i think, though i _should_ like to go again. you can't imagine what beautiful pictures are put away in my memory." "i don't see that you had so awfully much," said the aggravated clover; "you were there only a little more than six months,--for i don't count the sea,--and ever so much of that time was taken up with nursing amy. you can't have any pleasant pictures of _that_ part of it." "yes, i have, some." "well, i should really like to know what. there you were in a dark room, frightened to death and tired to death, with only mrs. ashe and the old nurse to keep you company--oh, yes, that brother was there part of the time; i forgot him--" clover stopped short in sudden amazement. katy was standing with her back toward her, smoothing her hair, but her face was reflected in the glass. at clover's words a sudden deep flush had mounted in katy's cheeks. deeper and deeper it burned as she became conscious of clover's astonished gaze, till even the back of her neck was pink. then, as if she could not bear it any longer, she put the brush down, turned, and fled out of the room; while clover, looking after her, exclaimed in a tone of sudden comical dismay,-- "what does it mean? oh, dear me! is that what katy is going to do next?" transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. footnote has an anchor but no footnote text. glimpses of three coasts. by helen jackson (h. h.), author of "ramona," "a century of dishonor," "verses," "sonnets and lyrics," "hetty's strange history," "bits of travel," "bits of travel at home," "zeph," "mercy philbrick's choice," "between whiles," "bits of talk about home matters," "bits of talk for young folks," "nelly's silver mine," "cat stories." boston: roberts brothers. . _copyright, _, by roberts brothers. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge. contents. i. california and oregon. page outdoor industries in southern california father junipero and his work. i. ii. the present condition of the mission indians in southern california echoes in the city of the angels chance days in oregon ii. scotland and england. a burns pilgrimage glints in auld reekie chester streets iii. norway, denmark, and germany. bergen days four days with sanna the katrina saga. i. ii. encyclicals of a traveller. i. ii. iii. the village of oberammergau the passion play at oberammergau california and oregon. glimpses of three coasts. i. california and oregon. outdoor industries in southern california. climate is to a country what temperament is to a man,--fate. the figure is not so fanciful as it seems; for temperament, broadly defined, may be said to be that which determines the point of view of a man's mental and spiritual vision,--in other words, the light in which he sees things. and the word "climate" is, primarily, simply a statement of bounds defined according to the obliquity of the sun's course relative to the horizon,--in other words, the slant of the sun. the tropics are tropic because the sun shines down too straight. vegetation leaps into luxuriance under the nearly vertical ray: but human activities languish; intellect is supine; only the passions, human nature's rank weed-growths, thrive. in the temperate zone, again, the sun strikes the earth too much aslant. human activities develop; intellect is keen; the balance of passion and reason is normally adjusted: but vegetation is slow and restricted. as compared with the productiveness of the tropics, the best that the temperate zone can do is scanty. there are a few spots on the globe where the conditions of the country override these laws, and do away with these lines of discrimination in favors. florida, italy, the south of france and of spain, a few islands, and south california complete the list. these places are doubly dowered. they have the wealths of the two zones, without the drawbacks of either. in south california this results from two causes: first, the presence of a temperate current in the ocean, near the coast; second, the configuration of the mountain ranges which intercept and reflect the sun's rays, and shut south california off from the rest of the continent. it is, as it were, climatically insulated,--a sort of island on land. it has just enough of sea to make its atmosphere temperate. its continental position and affinities give it a dryness no island could have; and its climatically insulated position gives it an evenness of temperature much beyond the continental average. it has thus a cool summer and a temperate winter,--conditions which secure the broadest and highest agricultural and horticultural possibilities. it is the only country in the world where dairies and orange orchards will thrive together. it has its own zones of climate; not at all following lines parallel to the equator, but following the trend of its mountains. the california mountains are a big and interesting family of geological children, with great gaps in point of age, the sierra nevada being oldest of all. time was when the sierra nevada fronted directly on the pacific, and its rivers dashed down straight into the sea. but that is ages ago. since then have been born out of the waters the numerous coast ranges, all following more or less closely the shore line. these are supplemented at point conception by east and west ranges, which complete the insulating walls of south, or semi-tropic, california. the coast ranges are the youngest of the children born; but the ocean is still pregnant of others. range after range, far out to sea, they lie, with their attendant valleys, biding their time, popping their heads out here and there in the shape of islands. this colossal furrow system of mountains must have its correlative system of valleys; hence the great valley divisions of the country. there may be said to be four groups or kinds of these: the low and broad valleys, so broad that they are plains; the high mountain valleys; the rounded plateaus of the great basin, as it is called, of which the bernardino mountains are the southern rim; and the river valleys or cañons,--these last running at angles to the mountain and shore lines. when the air in these valleys becomes heated by the sun, it rushes up the slopes of the sierra nevada as up a mighty chimney. to fill the vacuum thus created, the sea air is drawn in through every break in the coast ranges as by a blower. in the upper part of the california coast it sucks in with fury, as through the golden gate, piling up and demolishing high hills of sand every year, and cutting grooves on the granite fronts of mountains. the country may be said to have three distinct industrial belts: the first, along the coast, a narrow one, from one to fifteen miles wide. in this grow some of the deciduous fruits, corn, pumpkins, and grain. dairy and stock interests flourish. the nearness of the sea makes the air cool, with fogs at night. there are many _ciénagas_, or marshy regions, where grass is green all the year round, and water is near the surface everywhere. citrus fruits do not flourish in this belt, except in sheltered spots at the higher levels. the second industrial belt comprises the shorter valleys opening toward the sea; a belt of country averaging perhaps forty miles in width. in this belt all grains will grow without irrigation; all deciduous fruits, including the grape, flourish well without irrigation; the citrus fruits thrive, but need irrigation. the third belt lies back of this, farther from the sea; and the land, without irrigation, is worthless for all purposes except pasturage. that, in years of average rain-fall, is good. the soils of south california are chiefly of the cretaceous and tertiary epochs. the most remarkable thing about them is their great depth. it is not uncommon, in making wells, to find the soil the same to a depth of one hundred feet; the same thing is to be observed in cañons, cuts, and exposed bluffs on the sea-shore. this accounts for the great fertility of much of the land. crops are raised year after year, sometimes for twenty successive years, on the same fields, without the soil's showing exhaustion; and what are called volunteer crops, sowing themselves, give good yields for the first, second, and even third year after the original planting. to provide for a wholesome variety and succession of seasons, in a country where both winter and summer were debarred full reign, was a meteorological problem that might well have puzzled even nature's ingenuity. but next to a vacuum, she abhors monotony; and to avoid it, she has, in california, resorted even to the water-cure,--getting her requisite alternation of seasons by making one wet and the other dry. to define the respective limits of these seasons becomes more and more difficult the longer one stays in california, and the more one studies rain-fall statistics. generally speaking, the wet season may be said to be from the middle of october to the middle of april, corresponding nearly with the outside limits of the north temperate zone season of snows. a good description of the two seasons would be--and it is not so purely humorous and unscientific as it sounds--that the wet season is the season in which it can rain, but may not; and the dry season is the season in which it cannot rain, but occasionally does. sometimes the rains expected and hoped for in october do not begin until march, and the whole country is in anxiety; a drought in the wet season meaning drought for a year, and great losses. there have been such years in california, and the dread of them is well founded. but often the rains, coming later than their wont, are so full and steady that the requisite number of inches fall, and the year's supply is made good. the average rain-fall in san diego county is ten inches; in los angeles, san bernardino, and ventura counties, fifteen; in santa barbara, twenty. these five counties are all that properly come under the name of south california, resting the division on natural and climatic grounds. the political division, if ever made, will be based on other than natural or climatic reasons, and will include two, possibly three, more counties. the pricelessness of water in a land where no rain falls during six months of the year cannot be appreciated by one who has not lived in such a country. there is a saying in south california that if a man buys water he can get his land thrown in. this is only an epigrammatic putting of the literal fact that the value of much of the land depends solely upon the water which it holds or controls. four systems of irrigation are practised: first, flooding the land. this is possible only in flat districts, where there are large heads of water. it is a wasteful method, and is less and less used each year. the second system is by furrows. by this system a large head of water is brought upon the land and distributed in small streams in many narrow furrows. the streams are made as small as will run across the ground, and are allowed to run only twenty-four hours at a time. the third system is by basins dug around tree roots. to these basins water is brought by pipes or ditches; or, in mountain lands, by flumes. the fourth system is by sub-irrigation. this is the most expensive system of all, but is thought to economize water. the water is carried in pipes laid from two to three feet under ground. by opening valves in these pipes the water is let out and up, but never comes above the surface. the appliances of one sort and another belonging to these irrigation systems add much to the picturesqueness of south california landscapes. even the huge, tower-like, round-fanned windmills by which the water is pumped up are sometimes, spite of their clumsiness, made effective by gay colors and by vines growing on them. if they had broad, stretching arms, like the holland windmills, the whole country would seem a-flutter. the history of the industries of south california since the american occupation is interesting in its record of successions,--successions, not the result of human interventions and decisions so much as of climatic fate, which, in epoch after epoch, created different situations. the history begins with the cattle interest; hardly an industry, perhaps, or at any rate an unindustrious one, but belonging in point of time at the head of the list of the ways and means by which money has been made in the country. it dates back to the old mission days; to the two hundred head of cattle which the wise galvez brought, in , for stocking the three missions projected in upper california. from these had grown, in the sixty years of the friars' unhindered rule, herds, of which it is no exaggeration to say that they covered thousands of hills and were beyond counting. it is probable that even the outside estimates of their numbers were short of the truth. the cattle wealth, the reckless ruin of the secularization period, survived, and was the leading wealth of the country at the time of its surrender to the united states. it was most wastefully handled. the cattle were killed, as they had been in the mission days, simply for their hides and tallow. kingdoms full of people might have been fed on the beef which rotted on the ground every year, and the california cattle ranch in which either milk or butter could be found was an exception to the rule. into the calm of this half-barbaric life broke the fierce excitement of the gold discovery in . the swarming hordes of ravenous miners must be fed; beef meant gold. the cattlemen suddenly found in their herds a new source of undreamed-of riches. cattle had been sold as low as two dollars and a half a head. when the gold fever was at its highest, there were days and places in which they sold for three hundred. it is not strange that the rancheros lost their heads, grew careless and profligate. then came the drought of , which killed off cattle by thousands of thousands. by thousands they were driven over steep places into the sea to save pasturage, and to save the country from the stench and the poison of their dying of hunger. in april of that year, fifty thousand head were sold in santa barbara for thirty-seven and a half cents a head. many of the rancheros were ruined; they had to mortgage their lands to live; their stock was gone; they could not farm; values so sank, that splendid estates were not worth over ten cents an acre. then came in a new set of owners. from the north and from the interior poured in the thriftier sheep men, with big flocks; and for a few years the wide belt of good pasturage land along the coast was chiefly a sheep country. slowly farmers followed; settling, in the beginning, around town centres such as los angeles, santa barbara, ventura. grains and vegetables were grown for a resource when cattle and sheep should fail. cows needed water all the year round; corn only a few months. a wheat-field might get time to ripen in a year when by reason of a drought a herd of cattle would die. thus the destiny of the country steadily went on toward its fulfilling, because the inexorable logic of the situation forced itself into the minds of the population. from grains and vegetables to fruits was a short and natural step, in the balmy air, under the sunny sky, and with the traditions and relics of the old friars' opulent fruit growths lingering all through the land. each palm, orange-tree, and vineyard left on the old mission sites was a way-signal to the new peoples; mute, yet so eloquent, the wonder is that so many years should have elapsed before the road began to be thronged. such, in brief, is the chronicle of the development of south california's outdoor industries down to the present time; of the successions through which the country has been making ready to become what it will surely be, the garden of the world,--a garden with which no other country can vie; a garden in which will grow, side by side, the grape and the pumpkin, the pear and the orange, the olive and the apple, the strawberry and the lemon, indian corn and the banana, wheat and the guava. the leading position which the fruit interest will ultimately take has been reached only in los angeles county. there the four chief industries, ranged according to their relative importance, stand as follows: fruit, grain, wool, stock, and dairy. this county may be said to be pre-eminently the garden of the garden. no other of the five counties can compete with it. its fruit harvest is nearly unintermitted all the year round. the main orange crop ripens from january to may, though oranges hang on the trees all the year. the lemon, lime, and citron ripen and hang, like the orange. apricots, pears, peaches, nectarines, strawberries, currants, and figs are plentiful in june; apples, pears, peaches, during july and august. late in july grapes begin, and last till january. september is the best month of all, having grapes, peaches, pomegranates, walnuts, almonds, and a second crop of figs. from late in august till christmas, the vintage does not cease. the county has a sea-coast line of one hundred miles, and contains three millions of acres; two thirds mountain and desert, the remaining million good pasturage and tillable land. what is known as the great los angeles valley has an area of about sixty miles in length by thirty in width, and contains the three rivers of the county,--the los angeles, the santa ana, and the san gabriel. every drop of the water of these rivers and of the numberless little springs and streams ministering to their system is owned, rated, utilized, and, one might almost add, wrangled over. the chapters of these water litigations are many and full; and it behooves every new settler in the county to inform himself on that question first of all, and thoroughly. in the los angeles valley lie several lesser valleys, fertile and beautiful; most notable of these, the san gabriel valley, where was the site of the old san gabriel mission, twelve miles east of the town of los angeles. this valley is now taken up in large ranches, or in colonies of settlers banded together for mutual help and security in matter of water rights. this colony feature is daily becoming more and more an important one in the development of the whole country. small individual proprietors cannot usually afford the purchase of sufficient water to make horticultural enterprises successful or safe. the incorporated colony, therefore, offers advantages to large numbers of settlers of a class that could not otherwise get foothold in the country,--the men of comparatively small means, who expect to work with their hands and await patiently the slow growth of moderate fortunes,--a most useful and abiding class, making a solid basis for prosperity. some of the best results in south california have already been attained in colonies of this sort, such as anaheim, riverside, and pasadena. the method is regarded with increasing favor. it is a rule of give and take, which works equally well for both country and settlers. the south california statistics of fruits, grain, wool, honey, etc., read more like fancy than like fact, and are not readily believed by one unacquainted with the country. the only way to get a real comprehension and intelligent acceptance of them is to study them on the ground. by a single visit to a great ranch one is more enlightened than he would be by committing to memory scores of equalization board reports. one of the very best, if not the best, for this purpose is baldwin's ranch, in the san gabriel valley. it includes a large part of the old lands of the san gabriel mission, and is a principality in itself. there are over a hundred men on its pay-roll, which averages $ , a month. another $ , does not more than meet its running expenses. it has $ , worth of machinery for its grain harvests alone. it has a dairy of forty cows, jersey and durham; one hundred and twenty work-horses and mules, and fifty thoroughbreds. it is divided into four distinct estates: the santa anita, of , acres; puente, , ; merced, , ; and the potrero, , . the puente and merced are sheep ranches, and have , sheep on them. the potrero is rented out to small farmers. the santa anita is the home estate. on it are the homes of the family and of the laborers. it has fifteen hundred acres of oak grove, four thousand acres in grain, five hundred in grass for hay, one hundred and fifty in orange orchards, fifty of almond trees, sixty of walnuts, twenty-five of pears, fifty of peaches, twenty of lemons, and five hundred in vines; also small orchards of chestnuts, hazel-nuts, and apricots; and thousands of acres of good pasturage. from whatever side one approaches santa anita in may, he will drive through a wild garden,--asters, yellow and white; scarlet pentstemons, blue larkspur, monk's-hood; lupines, white and blue; gorgeous golden eschscholtzia, alder, wild lilac, white sage,--all in riotous flowering. entering the ranch by one of the north gates, he will look southward down gentle slopes of orchards and vineyards far across the valley, the tints growing softer and softer, and blending more and more with each mile, till all melt into a blue or purple haze. driving from orchard to orchard, down half-mile avenues through orchards skirting seemingly endless stretches of vineyard, he begins to realize what comes of planting trees and vines by hundreds and tens of hundreds of acres, and the equalization board statistics no longer appear to him even large. it does not seem wonderful that los angeles county should be reported as having sixty-two hundred acres in vines, when here on one man's ranch are five hundred acres. the last equalization board report said the county had , orange and , lemon trees. it would hardly have surprised him to be told that there were as many as that in the santa anita groves alone. the effect on the eye of such huge tracts, planted with a single sort of tree, is to increase enormously the apparent size of the tract; the mind stumbles on the very threshold of the attempt to reckon its distances and numbers, and they become vaster and vaster as they grow vague. the orange orchard is not the unqualifiedly beautiful spectacle one dreams it will be; nor, in fact, is it so beautiful as it ought to be, with its evergreen shining foliage, snowy blossoms, and golden fruit hanging together and lavishly all the year round. i fancy that if travellers told truth, ninety-nine out of a hundred would confess to a grievous disappointment at their first sight of the orange at home. in south california the trees labor under the great disadvantage of being surrounded by bare brown earth. how much this dulls their effect one realizes on finding now and then a neglected grove where grass has been allowed to grow under the trees, to their ruin as fruit-bearers, but incomparably heightening their beauty. another fatal defect in the orange-tree is its contour. it is too round, too stout for its height; almost as bad a thing in a tree as in a human being. the uniformity of this contour of the trees, combined with the regularity of their setting in evenly spaced rows, gives large orange groves a certain tiresome quality, which one recognizes with a guilty sense of being shamefully ungrateful for so much splendor of sheen and color. the exact spherical shape of the fruit possibly helps on this tiresomeness. one wonders if oblong bunches of long-pointed and curving fruit, banana-like, set irregularly among the glossy green leaves, would not look better; which wonder adds to ingratitude an impertinence, of which one suddenly repents on seeing such a tree as i saw in a los angeles garden in the winter of ,--a tree not over thirty feet high, with twenty-five hundred golden oranges hanging on it, among leaves so glossy they glittered in the sun with the glitter of burnished metal. never the hesperides saw a more resplendent sight. but the orange looks its best plucked and massed; it lends itself then to every sort and extent of decoration. at a citrus fair in the riverside colony in march, , in a building one hundred and fifty feet long by sixty wide, built of redwood planks, were five long tables loaded with oranges and lemons; rows, plates, pyramids, baskets; the bright redwood walls hung with great boughs, full as when broken from the tree; and each plate and pyramid decorated with the shining green leaves. the whole place was fairly ablaze, and made one think of the arabian nights' tales. the acme of success in orange culture in california is said to have been attained in this riverside colony, though it is only six years old, and does not yet number two thousand souls. there are in its orchards , orange-trees, of which , are in bearing, , lemon trees, and , limes. the profits of orange culture are slow to begin, but, having once begun, mount up fast. orange orchards at san gabriel have in many instances netted $ an acre annually. the following estimate, the result of sixteen years' experience, is probably a fair one of the outlay and income of a small orange grove:-- acres of land, at $ per acre $ . trees, at $ per hundred . ploughing and harrowing, $ . per acre . digging holes, planting, cents each . irrigating and planting . cultivation after irrigation . subsequent irrigations during the year . subsequent cultivations the first year . --------- total cost, first year $ , . this estimate of cost of land is based on the price of the best lands in the san gabriel valley. fair lands can be bought in other sections at lower prices. second year.--an annual ploughing in january $ . four irrigations during year . six cultivations during year . third year . fourth year . fifth year . interest on investment , . --------- total $ , . if first-class, healthy, thrifty budded trees are planted, they will begin to fruit the second year. the third year, a few boxes may be marketed. the fourth year, there will be an average yield of at least oranges to the tree, which will equal: , , at $ per thousand net $ . the fifth year, per tree, , , at $ per thousand , . --------- total $ , . the orchard is now clear gain, allowing $ , as interest on the investment. the increase in the volume of production will continue, until at the end of the tenth year an average of , oranges to a tree would not be an extraordinary yield. to all these formulas of reckoning should be added one with the algebraic _x_ representing the unknown quantity, and standing for insect enemies at large. each kind of fruit has its own, which must be fought with eternal vigilance. no port, in any country, has more rigid laws of quarantine than are now enforced in california against these insect enemies. grafts, cuttings, fruit, if even suspected, are seized and compelled to go through as severe disinfecting processes as if they were cuban passengers fresh from a yellow fever epidemic. the orange's worst enemy is a curious insect, the scale-bug. it looks more like a mildew than like anything alive; is usually black, sometimes red. nothing but violent treatment with tobacco will eradicate it. worse than the scale-bug, in that he works out of sight underground, is the gopher. he has gnawed every root of a tree bare before a tooth-mark on the trunk suggests his presence, and then it is too late to save the tree. the rabbit also is a pernicious ally in the barking business; he, however, being shy, soon disappears from settled localities; but the gopher stands not in fear of man or men. only persistent strychnine, on his door-sills and thrust down his winding stairs, will save the orchard in which he has founded a community. the almond and the walnut orchards are beautiful features in the landscape all the year round, no less in the winter, when their branches are naked, than in the season of their full leaf and bearing. in fact, the broad spaces of filmy gray made by their acres when leafless are delicious values in contrast with the solid green of the orange orchards. the exquisite revelation of tree systems which stripped boughs give is seen to more perfect advantage against a warm sky than a cold one, and is heightened in effect standing side by side with the flowing green pepper-trees and purple eucalyptus. in the time of blossoms, an almond orchard, seen from a distance, is like nothing so much as a rosy-white cloud, floated off a sunset and spread on the earth. seen nearer, it is a pink snow-storm, arrested and set on stalks, with an orchestra buzz of bees filling the air. it is a pity that the almond-tree should not be more repaying; for it will be a sore loss to the beauty of the country when the orchards are gone, and this is only a question of time. they are being uprooted and cast out. the crop is a disappointing one, of uncertain yield, and troublesome to prepare. the nuts must be five times handled: first picked, then shucked, then dried, then bleached, and then again dried. after the first drying, they are dipped by basketfuls into hot water, then poured into the bleachers,--boxes with perforated bottoms. underneath these is a sulphur fire to which the nuts must be exposed for fifteen or twenty minutes. then they are again spread in a drying-house. the final gathering them up to send to market makes really a sixth handling; and after all is said and done, the nuts are not very good, being flavorless in comparison with those grown in europe. the walnut orchard is a better investment, and no less a delight to the eye. while young, the walnut-tree is graceful; when old, it is stately. it is a sturdy bearer, and if it did not bear at all, would be worth honorable place and room on large estates, simply for its avenues of generous shade. it is planted in the seed, and transplanted at two or three years old, with only twenty-seven trees to an acre. they begin to bear at ten years, reach full bearing at fifteen, and do not give sign of failing at fifty. most interesting of all south california's outdoor industries is the grape culture. to speak of grape culture is to enter upon a subject which needs a volume. its history, its riches, past and prospective, its methods, its beautiful panorama of pictures, each by itself is worth study and exhaustive treatment. since the days of eschol, the vine and the vineyard have been honored in the thoughts and the imaginations of men; they furnished shapes and designs for the earliest sacred decorations in the old dispensation, and suggestions and symbols for divine parables in the new. no age has been without them, and no country whose sun was warm enough to make them thrive. it is safe to predict that so long as the visible frame of the earth endures, "wine to make glad the heart of man" will be made, loved, celebrated, and sung. to form some idea of california's future wealth from the grape culture, it is only necessary to reflect on the extent of her grape-growing country as compared with that of france. in france, before the days of the phylloxera, , , of people were supported entirely by the grape industry, and the annual average of the wine crop was , , , gallons, with a value of $ , , . the annual wine-yield of california is already estimated at about , , gallons. nearly one third of this is made in south california, chiefly in los angeles county, where the grape culture is steadily on the increase, five millions of new vines having been set out in the spring of . the vineyards offer more variety to the eye than the orange orchards. in winter, when leafless, they are grotesque; their stocky, twisted, hunchback stems looking like hindoo idols or deformed imps, no two alike in a square mile, all weird, fantastic, uncanny. their first leafing out does not do away with this; the imps seem simply to have put up green umbrellas; but presently the leaves widen and lap, hiding the uncouth trunks, and spreading over all the vineyard a beautiful, tender green, with lights and shades breaking exquisitely in the hollows and curves of the great leaves. from this on, through all the stages of blossoms and seed-setting, till the clusters are so big and purple that they gleam out everywhere between the leaves,--sometimes forty-five pounds on a single vine, if the vine is irrigated, twelve if it is left to itself. eight tons of grapes off one acre have been taken in the baldwin ranch. there were made there, in , , gallons of wine and , of brandy. the vintage begins late in august, and lasts many weeks, some varieties of grapes ripening later than others. the vineyards are thronged with mexican and indian pickers. the indians come in bands, and pitch their tents just outside the vineyard. they are good workers. the wine-cellars and the great crushing-vats tell the vineyards' story more emphatically even than the statistical figures. a vat that will hold , gallons piled full of grapes, huge wire wheels driving round and round in the spurting, foaming mass, the juice flying off through trough-like shoots on each side into seventy great vats; below, breathless men working the wheels, loads of grapes coming up momently and being poured into the swirling vat, the whole air reeking with winy flavor. the scene makes earth seem young again, old mythologies real; and one would not wonder to see bacchus and his leopards come bowling up, with shouting pan behind. the cellars are still, dark, and fragrant. forty-eight great oval-shaped butts, ten feet in diameter, holding , gallons each, i counted in one cellar. the butts are made of michigan oak, and have a fine yellow color, which contrasts well with the red stream of the wine when it is drawn. notwithstanding the increase of the grape culture, the price of grapes is advancing, some estimates making it forty per cent higher than it was five years ago. it is a quicker and probably a more repaying industry than orange-growing. it is reckoned that a vineyard in its fourth year will produce two tons to the acre; in the seventh year, four; the fourth year it will be profitable, reckoning the cost of the vineyard at sixty dollars an acre, exclusive of the first cost of the land. the annual expense of cultivation, picking, and handling is about twenty-five dollars. the rapid increase of this culture has been marvellous. in there were only , vines in all california; in there were , , ; in , , , , of which at least , , are in full bearing. such facts and figures are distressing to the advocates of total abstinence; but they may take heart in the thought that a by no means insignificant proportion of these grapes will be made into raisins, canned, or eaten fresh. the raisin crop was estimated at , boxes for . many grape-growers believe that in raisin-making will ultimately be found the greatest profit. the americans are a raisin-eating people. from malaga alone are imported annually into the united states about ten tons of raisins, one half the entire crop of the malaga raisin district. this district has an area of only about four hundred square miles. in california an area of at least twenty thousand square miles is adapted to the raisin. a moderate estimate of the entire annual grape crop of california is , tons. "allowing , tons to be used in making wines, , tons to be sent fresh to the eastern states, and , tons to be made into raisins, there would still remain , tons to be eaten fresh or wasted,--more than one hundred pounds for each resident of california, including children."[ ] the california wines are as yet of inferior quality. a variety of still wines and three champagnes are made; but even the best are looked on with distrust and disfavor by connoisseurs, and until they greatly improve they will not command a ready market in america. at present it is to be feared that a large proportion of them are sold under foreign labels. * * * * * prominent among the minor industries is honey-making. from the great variety of flowers and their spicy flavor, especially from the aromatic sages, the honey is said to have a unique and delicious taste, resembling that of the famous honey of hymettus. the crop for , in the four southern counties, was estimated at three millions of pounds; a statistic that must seem surprising to general fremont, who, in his report to congress of explorations on the pacific coast in , stated that the honey-bee could not exist west of the sierra nevadas. the bee ranches are always picturesque; they are usually in cañons or on wooded foot-hills, and their villages of tiny bright-colored hives look like gay lilliputian encampments. it has appeared to me that men becoming guardians of bees acquire a peculiar calm philosophy, and are superior to other farmers and outdoor workers. it would not seem unnatural that the profound respect they are forced to entertain for insects so small and so wholly at their mercy should give them enlarged standards in many things; above all, should breed in them a fine and just humility toward all creatures. a striking instance of this is to be seen in one of the most beautiful cañons of the san gabriel valley, where, living in a three-roomed, redwood log cabin, with a vine-covered booth in front, is an old man kings might envy. he had a soldier's warranty deed for one hundred and sixty acres of land, and he elected to take his estate at the head of a brook-swept gorge, four fifths precipice and rock. in the two miles between his cabin and the mouth of the gorge, the trail and the brook change sides sixteen times. when the brook is at its best, the trail goes under altogether, and there is no getting up or down the cañon. here, with a village of bees for companions, the old man has lived for a dozen years. while the bees are off at work, he sits at home and weaves, out of the gnarled stems and roots of manzanita and laurels, curious baskets, chairs, and brackets, for which he finds ready market in los angeles. he knows every tree and shrub in the cañon, and has a fancy for collecting specimens of all the native woods of the region. these he shapes into paper-cutters, and polishes them till they are like satin. he came from ohio forty years ago, and has lived in a score of states. the only spot he likes as well as this gorge is don yana, on the rio grande river, in mexico. sometimes he hankers to go there and sit under the shadow of big oaks, where the land slopes down to the river; but "the bee business," he says, "is a good business only for a man who has the gift of continuance;" and "it's no use to try to put bees with farms: farms want valleys, bees want mountains." "there are great back-draws to the bee business, the irregularities of the flowers being chief; some years there's no honey in the flowers at all. some explain it on one hypothesis and some on another, and it lasts them to quarrel over." his phrases astonish you; also the quiet courtesy of his manner, so at odds with his backwoodsman's garb. but presently you learn that he began life as a lawyer, has been a judge in his time; and when, to show his assortment of paper-cutters, he lifts down the big book they are kept in, and you see that it is voltaire's "philosophical dictionary," you understand how his speech has been fashioned. he keeps a diary of every hive, the genealogy of every swarm. "no matter what they do,--the least thing,--we note it right down in the book. that's the only way to learn bees," he says. on the outside wall of the cabin is fastened an observation hive, with glass sides. here he sits, watch in hand, observing and noting; he times the bees, in and out, and in each one of their operations. he watches the queen on her bridal tour in the air; once the drone bridegroom fell dead on his note-book. "i declare i couldn't help feeling sort of sorry for him," said the old man. in a shanty behind the house is the great honey-strainer, a marvellous invention, which would drive bees mad with despair if they could understand it. into a wheel, with perforated spokes, is slipped the comb full of honey, the cells being first opened with a hot knife. by the swift turning of this wheel, the honey flies out of the comb, and pours through a cylinder into a can underneath, leaving the comb whole and uninjured, ready to be put back into the hive for the patient robbed bees to fill again. the receiving-can will hold fifteen hundred pounds; two men can fill it in a day; a single comb is so quickly drained that a bee might leave his hive on his foraging expedition, and before he could get his little load of honey and return, the comb could be emptied and put back. it would be vastly interesting to know what is thought and said in bee-hives about these mysterious emptyings of combs. a still more tyrannical circumvention has been devised, to get extra rations of honey from bees: false combs, wonderful imitations of the real ones, are made of wax. apparently the bees know no difference; at any rate, they fill the counterfeit full of real honey. these artificial combs, carefully handled, will last ten or twelve years in continual use. the highest yield his hives had ever given him was one hundred and eighty pounds a hive. "that's a good yield; at that rate, with three or four hundred hives, i'd do very well," said the old man. "but you're at the mercy of speculators in honey as well as everything else. i never count on getting more than four or five cents a pound. they make more than i do." the bee has a full year's work in south california: from march to august inexhaustible forage, and in all the other months plenty to do,--no month without some blossoms to be found. his time of danger is when apricots are ripe and lady-bugs fly. of apricots, bees will eat till they are either drunk or stuffed to death; no one knows which. they do not live to get home. oddly enough, they cannot pierce the skins themselves, but have to wait till the lady-bug has made a hole for them. it must have been an accidental thing in the outset, the first bee's joining a lady-bug at her feast of apricot. the bee, in his turn, is an irresistible treat to the bee-bird and lizard, who pounce upon him when he is on the flower; and to a stealthy moth, who creeps by night into hives and kills hundreds. "nobody need think the bee business is all play," was our old philosopher's last word. "it's just like everything else in life, and harder than some things." * * * * * the sheep industry is, on the whole, decreasing in california. in , the wool crop of the entire state was , tons; in , only , . this is the result, in part, of fluctuations in the price of wool, but more of the growing sense of the greater certainty of increase from agriculture and horticulture. the cost of keeping a sheep averages only $ . a year. its wool sells for $ . , and for each hundred there will be forty-five lambs, worth seventy-five cents each. but there have been droughts in california which have killed over one million sheep in a year; there is always, therefore, the risk of losing in one year the profits of many. the sheep ranches are usually desolate places: a great stretch of seemingly bare lands, with a few fenced corrals, blackened and foul-smelling; the home and out-buildings clustered together in a hollow or on a hill-side where there is water; the less human the neighborhood the better. the loneliness of the life is, of itself, a salient objection to the industry. of this the great owners need know nothing; they can live where they like. but for the small sheepmen, the shepherds, and, above all, the herders, it is a terrible life,--how terrible is shown by the frequency of insanity among herders. sometimes, after only a few months of the life, a herder goes suddenly mad. after learning this fact, it is no longer possible to see the picturesque side of the effective groups one so often comes on suddenly in the wildernesses: sheep peacefully grazing, and the shepherd lying on the ground watching them, or the whole flock racing in a solid, fleecy, billowy scamper up or down a steep hill-side, with the dogs leaping and barking on all sides at once. one scans the shepherd's face alone, with pitying fear lest he may be losing his wits. a shearing at a large sheep ranch is a grand sight. we had the good fortune to see one at baldwin's, at la puente. three thousand sheep had been sheared the day before, and they would shear twenty-five hundred on this day. a shed sixty feet long by twenty-five wide, sides open; small pens full of sheep surrounding it on three sides; eighty men bent over at every possible angle, eighty sheep being tightly held in every possible position, eighty shears flashing, glancing, clipping; bright mexican eyes shining, laughing mexican voices jesting. at first it seemed only a confused scene of phantasmagoria. as our eyes became familiarized, the confusion disentangled itself, and we could note the splendid forms of the men and their marvellous dexterity in using the shears. less than five minutes it took from the time a sheep was grasped, dragged in, thrown down, seized by the shearer's knees, till it was set free, clean shorn, and its three-pound fleece tossed on a table outside. a good shearer shears seventy or eighty sheep in a day; men of extra dexterity shear a hundred. the indians are famous for skill at shearing, and in all their large villages are organized shearing-bands, with captains, that go from ranch to ranch in the shearing-season. there were a half-dozen indians lying on the ground outside this shearing-shed at puente, looking on wistfully. the mexicans had crowded them out for that day, and they could get no chance to work. a pay clerk stood in the centre of the shed with a leathern wallet full of five-cent pieces. as soon as a man had sheared his sheep, he ran to the clerk, fleece in hand, threw down the fleece, and received his five-cent piece. in one corner of the shed was a barrel of beer, which was retailed at five cents a glass; and far too many of the five-cent pieces changed hands again the next minute at the beer barrel. as fast as the fleeces were tossed out from the shed, they were thrown up to a man standing on the top of the roof. this man flung them into an enormous bale-sack, swinging wide-mouthed from a derrick; in the sack stood another man, who jumped on the wool to pack it down tight. as soon as the shearers perceived that their pictures were being drawn by the artist in our party, they were all agog; by twos and threes they left their work and crowded around the carriage, peering, commenting, asking to have their portraits taken, quizzing those whose features they recognized; it was like italy rather than america. one tattered fellow, whose shoeless feet were tied up in bits of gunny-bags, was distressed because his trousers were too short. "would the gentleman kindly make them in the drawing a little farther down his legs? it was an accident they were so short." all were ready to pose and stand, even in the most difficult attitudes, as long as was required. those who had done so asked, like children, if their names could not be put in the book; so i wrote them all down: "juan canero, juan rivera, felipe ybara, josé jesus lopez, and domingo garcia." the space they will fill is a little thing to give; and there is a satisfaction in the good faith of printing them, though the shearers will most assuredly never know it. the faces of the sheep being shorn were piteous; not a struggle, not a bleat, the whole of their unwillingness and terror being written in their upturned eyes. "as a sheep before her shearers is dumb" will always have for me a new significance. the shepherd in charge of the puente ranch is an italian named gaetano. the porch of his shanty was wreathed with vines and blossoms, and opened on a characteristic little garden, half garlic, the other half pinks and geraniums. as i sat there looking out on the scene, he told me of a young man who had come from italy to be herder for him, and who had gone mad and shot himself. "three go crazy last year," he said. "dey come home, not know noting. you see, never got company for speak at all." this young boy grew melancholy almost at once, was filled with abnormal fears of the coyotes, and begged for a pistol to shoot them with. "he want my pistol. i not want give. i say, you little sick; you stay home in house; i send oder man. my wife she go town buy clothes for baptism one baby got. he get pistol in drawer while she gone." they found him lying dead with his catechism in one hand and the pistol in the other. as gaetano finished the story, a great flock of two thousand shorn sheep were suddenly let out from one of the corrals. with a great burst of bleating they dashed off, the colly running after them. gaetano seized his whistle and blew a sharp call on it. the dog halted, looked back, uncertain for a second; one more whistle, and he bounded on. "he know," said gaetano. "he take dem two tousand all right. i like better dat dog as ten men." * * * * * on the list of south california's outdoor industries, grain stands high, and will always continue to do so. wheat takes the lead; but oats, barley, and corn are of importance. barley is always a staple, and averages twenty bushels to the acre. oats average from thirty to forty bushels an acre, and there are records of yields of considerably over a hundred bushels. corn will average forty bushels an acre. on the los angeles river it has grown stalks seventeen feet high and seven inches round. the average yield of wheat is from twenty to twenty-five bushels an acre, about thirty-three per cent more than in the states on the atlantic slope. in grains, as in so many other things, los angeles county is far in advance of the other counties. in there were in the county , acres in wheat; in , not less than , ; and the value of the wheat crop, for was reckoned $ , , . the great san fernando valley, formerly the property of the san fernando mission, is the chief wheat-producing section of the county. the larger part of this valley is in two great ranches. one of them was bought a few years ago for $ , ; and $ , paid down, the remainder to be paid in instalments. the next year was a dry year; crops failed. the purchaser offered the ranch back again to the original owners, with his $ , thrown in, if they would release him from his bargain. they refused. the next winter rains came, the wheat crop was large, prices were high, and the ranch actually paid off the entire debt of $ , still owing on the purchase. from such figures as these, it is easy to see how the california farmer can afford to look with equanimity on occasional droughts. experience has shown that he can lose crops two years out of five, and yet make a fair average profit for the five years. the most beautiful ranch in california is said to be the one about twelve miles west of santa barbara, belonging to elwood cooper. its owner speaks of it humorously as a little "pocket ranch." in comparison with the great ranches whose acres are counted by tens of thousands, it is small, being only two thousand acres in extent; but in any other part of the world except california, it would be thought a wild jest to speak of an estate of two thousand acres as a small one. ten years ago this ranch was a bare, desolate sheep ranch,--not a tree on it, excepting the oaks and sycamores in the cañons. to-day it has twelve hundred acres under high cultivation; and driving from field to field, orchard to orchard, one drives, if he sees the whole of the ranch, over eleven miles of good made road. there are three hundred acres in wheat, one hundred and seventy in barley; thirty-five hundred walnut trees, twelve thousand almond, five thousand olive, two thousand fig and domestic fruit trees, and one hundred and fifty thousand eucalyptus trees, representing twenty-four varieties; one thousand grape-vines; a few orange, lemon, and lime trees. there are on the ranch one hundred head of cattle, fifty horses, and fifteen hundred sheep. these are mere bald figures, wonderful enough as statistics of what may be done in ten years' time on south california soil, but totally inadequate even to suggest the beauty of the place. the first relief to the monotony of the arrow-straight road which it pleased an impatient, inartistic man to make westward from santa barbara, is the sight of high, dark walls of eucalyptus trees on either side of the road. a shaded avenue, three quarters of a mile long, of these represents the frontages of mr. cooper's estate. turning to the right, through a break in this wall, is a road, with dense eucalyptus woods on the left and an almond orchard on the right. it winds and turns, past knolls of walnut grove, long lines of olive orchard, and right-angled walls of eucalyptus trees shutting in wheat-fields. by curves and bends and sharp turns, all the time with new views, and new colors from changes of crop, with exquisite glimpses of the sea shot through here and there, it finally, at the end of a mile, reaches the brink of an oak-canopied cañon. in the mouth of this cañon stands the house, fronting south on a sunny meadow and garden space, walled in on three sides by eucalyptus trees. to describe the oak kingdom of this cañon would be to begin far back of all known kingdoms of the country. the branches are a network of rafters upholding roof canopies of boughs and leaves so solid that the sun's rays pierce them only brokenly, making on the ground a dancing carpet of brown and gold flecks even in winter, and in summer a shade lighted only by starry glints. farther up the cañon are sycamores, no less stately than the oaks, their limbs gnarled and twisted as if they had won their places by splendid wrestle. these oak-and-sycamore-filled cañons are the most beautiful of the south california cañons; though the soft, chaparral-walled cañons would, in some lights, press them hard for supremacy of place. nobody will ever, by pencil or brush or pen, fairly render the beauty of the mysterious, undefined, undefinable chaparral. matted, tangled, twisted, piled, tufted,--everything is chaparral. all botany may be exhausted in describing it in one place, and it will not avail you in another. but in all places, and made up of whatever hundreds of shrubs it may be, it is the most exquisite carpet surface that nature has to show for mountain fronts or cañon sides. not a color that it does not take; not a bloom that it cannot rival; a bank of cloud cannot be softer, or a bed of flowers more varied of hue. some day, between and , when south california is at leisure and has native artists, she will have an artist of cañons, whose life and love and work will be spent in picturing them,--the royal oak canopies; the herculean sycamores; the chameleon, velvety chaparral; and the wild, throe-built, water-quarried rock gorges, with their myriad ferns and flowers. at the head of mr. cooper's cañon are broken and jutting sandstone walls, over three hundred feet high, draped with mosses and ferns and all manner of vines. i saw the dainty thalictrum, with its clover-like leaves, standing in thickets there, fresh and green, its blossoms nearly out on the first day of february. looking down from these heights over the whole of the ranch, one sees for the first time the completeness of its beauty. the eucalyptus belts have been planted in every instance solely with a view to utility,--either as wind-breaks to keep off known special wind-currents from orchard or grain-field, or to make use of gorge sides too steep for other cultivation. yet, had they been planted with sole reference to landscape effects, they could not better have fallen into place. even out to the very ocean edge the groves run, their purples and greens melting into the purples and greens of the sea when it is dark and when it is sunny blue,--making harmonious lines of color, leading up from it to the soft grays of the olive and the bright greens of the walnut orchards and wheat-fields. when the almond trees are in bloom, the eucalyptus belts are perhaps most superb of all, with their dark spears and plumes waving above and around the white and rosy acres. the leading industry of this ranch is to be the making of olive oil. already its oil is known and sought; and to taste it is a revelation to palates accustomed to the compounds of rancid cocoanut and cotton-seed with which the markets are full. the olive industry will no doubt ultimately be one of the great industries of the whole country: vast tracts of land which are not suitable or do not command water enough for orange, grape, or grain culture, affording ample support to the thrifty and unexacting olive. the hill-slopes around san diego, and along the coast line for forty or fifty miles up, will no doubt one day be as thickly planted with olives as is the mediterranean shore. italy's olive crop is worth thirty million dollars annually, and california has as much land suited to the olive as italy has. the tree is propagated from cuttings, begins to bear the fourth year, and is in full bearing by the tenth or twelfth. one hundred and ten can be planted to an acre. their endurance is enormous. some of the orchards planted by the friars at the missions over a hundred years ago are still bearing, spite of scores of years of neglect; and there are records of trees in nice having borne for several centuries. the process of oil-making is an interesting spectacle, under mr. cooper's oak trees. the olives are first dried in trays with slat bottoms, tiers upon tiers of these being piled in a kiln over a furnace fire. then they are ground between stone rollers, worked by huge wheels, turned by horse-power. the oil, thus pressed out, is poured into huge butts or tanks. here it has to stand and settle three or four months. there are faucets at different levels in these butts, so as to draw off different layers of oil. after it has settled sufficiently, it is filtered through six layers of cotton batting, then through one of french paper, before it is bottled. it is then of a delicate straw color, with a slight greenish tint,--not at all of the golden yellow of the ordinary market article. that golden yellow and the thickening in cold are sure proofs of the presence of cotton-seed in oil,--the pure oil remaining limpid in a cold which will turn the adulterated oils white and thick. it is estimated that an acre of olives in full bearing will pay fifteen hundred dollars a year if pickled, and two thousand dollars a year made into oil. in observing the industries of south california and studying their history, one never escapes from an undercurrent of wonder that there should be any industries or industry there. no winter to be prepared for; no fixed time at which anything must be done or not done at all; the air sunny, balmy, dreamy, seductive, making the mere being alive in it a pleasure; all sorts of fruits and grains growing a-riot, and taking care of themselves,--it is easy to understand the character, or, to speak more accurately, the lack of character, of the old mexican and spanish californians. there was a charm in it, however. simply out of sunshine, there had distilled in them an orientalism as fine in its way as that made in the east by generations of prophets, crusaders, and poets. with no more curiosity than was embodied in "who knows?"--with no thought or purpose for a future more defined than "some other time; not to-day,"--without greeds, and with the unlimited generosities of children,--no wonder that to them the restless, inquisitive, insatiable, close-reckoning yankee seemed the most intolerable of all conquerors to whom they could surrender. one can fancy them shuddering, even in heaven, as they look down to-day on his colonies, his railroads, his crops,--their whole land humming and buzzing with his industries. one questions also whether, as the generations move on, the atmosphere of life in the sunny empire they lost will not revert more and more to their type, and be less and less of the type they so disliked. unto the third and fourth generation, perhaps, pulses may keep up the tireless yankee beat; but sooner or later there is certain to come a slacking, a toning down, and a readjusting of standards and habits by a scale in which money and work will not be the highest values. this is "as sure as that the sun shines," for it is the sun that will bring it about. father junipero and his work. a sketch of the foundation, prosperity, and ruin of the franciscan missions in california. i. during the years when saint francis went up and down the streets of assisi, carrying in his delicate unused hands the stones for rebuilding st. damiano, he is said to have been continually singing psalms, breaking forth into ejaculations of gratitude; his face beaming as that of one who saw visions of unspeakable delight. how much of the spirit or instinct of prophecy there might have been in his exultant joy, only he himself knew; but it would have been strange if there had not been vouchsafed to him at least a partial revelation of the splendid results which must of necessity follow the carrying out, in the world, of the divine impulses which had blazed up in his soul like a fire. as columbus, from the trend of imperfectly known shores and tides, from the mysterious indications of vague untracked winds, could deduce the glorious certainty of hitherto undreamed continents of westward land, so might the ardent spiritual discoverer see with inextinguishable faith the hitherto undreamed heights which must be surely reached and won by the path he pointed out. it is certain that very early in his career he had the purpose of founding an order whose members, being unselfish in life, should be fit heralds of god and mighty helpers of men. the absoluteness of self-renunciation which he inculcated and demanded startled even the thirteenth century's standard of religious devotion. cardinals and pope alike doubted its being within the pale of human possibility; and it was not until after much entreaty that the church gave its sanction to the "seraphic saint's" band of "fratri minores," and the organized work of the franciscan order began. this was in . from then till now, the franciscans have been, in the literal sense of the word, benefactors of men. other of the orders in the catholic church have won more distinction, in the way of learning, political power, marvellous suffering of penances and deprivation; but the record of the franciscans is in the main a record of lives and work, like the life and work of their founder; of whom a protestant biographer has written: "so far as can be made out, he thought little of himself, even of his own soul to be saved, all his life. the trouble had been on his mind how sufficiently to work for god and to help men." under the head of helping men, come all enterprises of discovery, development, and civilization which the earth has known; and in many more of these than the world generally suspects, has been an influence dating back to the saint of assisi. america most pre-eminently stands his debtor. of the three to whom belongs the glory of its discovery, one, juan perez de marchena, was a franciscan friar; the other two, queen isabella and columbus, were members of saint francis's third order; and of all the splendid promise and wondrous development on the california coast to-day, franciscan friars were the first founders. in the franciscan college at santa barbara is a daguerreotype, taken from an old portrait which was painted more than a hundred years ago, at the college of san fernando, in mexico. the face is one, once seen, never to be forgotten; full of spirituality and tenderness and unutterable pathos; the mouth and chin so delicately sensitive that one marvels how such a soul could have been capable of heroic endurance of hardship; the forehead and eyes strong, and radiant with quenchless purpose, but filled with that solemn, yearning, almost superhuman sadness, which has in all time been the sign and seal on the faces of men born to die for the sake of their fellows. it is the face of father junipero serra, the first founder of franciscan missions in south california. studying the lineaments of this countenance, one recalls the earliest authentic portrait of saint francis,--the one painted by pisano, which hangs in the sacristy of the assisi church. there seems a notable likeness between the two faces: the small and delicate features, the broad forehead, and the expression of great gentleness are the same in both. but the saint had a joyousness which his illustrious follower never knew. the gayety of the troubadour melodies which francis sung all through his youth never left his soul: but serra's first and only songs were the solemn chants of the church; his first lessons were received in a convent; his earliest desire and hope was to become a priest. serra was born of lowly people in the island of majorca, and while he was yet a little child sang as chorister in the convent of san bernardino. he was but sixteen when he entered the franciscan order, and before he was eighteen he had taken the final vows. this was in the year . his baptismal name, michael joseph, he laid aside on becoming a monk, and took the name of junipero, after that quaintest and drollest of all saint francis's first companions; him of whom the saint said jocosely, "would that i had a whole forest of such junipers!" studying in the majorca convent at the same time with serra, were three other young monks, beloved and intimate companions of his,--palon, verger, and crespí. the friendship thus early begun never waned; and the hearty and loving co-operation of the four had much to do with the success of the great enterprises in which afterward they jointly labored, and to which, even in their student days, they looked forward with passionate longing. new spain was, from the beginning, the goal of their most ardent wishes. all their conversations turned on this theme. long years of delay and monastic routine did not dampen the ardor of the four friends. again and again they petitioned to be sent as missionaries to the new world, and again and again were disappointed. at last, in , there assembled in cadiz a great body of missionaries, destined chiefly for mexico; and serra and palon received permission to join the band. arriving at cadiz, and finding two vacancies still left in the party, they pleaded warmly that crespí and verger be allowed to go also. at the very last moment this permission was given, and the four friends joyfully set sail in the same ship. it is impossible at this distance of time to get any complete realization of the halo of exalted sentiment and rapture which then invested undertakings of this kind. from the highest to the lowest, the oldest to the youngest, it reached. every art was lent to its service, every channel of expression stamped with its sign. even on the rude atlases and charts of the day were pictures of monks embarking in ships of discovery; the virgin herself looking on from the sky, with the motto above, "matre dei montravit via;" and on the ships' sails, "unus non sufficit orbis." in the memoir of father junipero, written by his friend palon, are many interesting details of his voyage to vera cruz. it lasted ninety-nine days: provisions fell short; starvation threatened; terrific storms nearly wrecked the ship; but through all, father junipero's courage never failed. he said, "remembering the end for which they had come," he felt no fear. he performed mass each morning, and with psalms and exhortations cheered the sinking spirits of all on board. for nineteen years after their arrival in mexico, father junipero and his three friends were kept at work there, under the control of the college of san fernando, in founding missions and preaching. on the suppression of the jesuit order, in , and its consequent expulsion from all the spanish dominions, it was decided to send a band of franciscans to california, to take charge of the jesuit missions there. these were all in lower california, no attempt at settlement having been yet made in upper california. once more the friends, glad and exultant, joined a missionary band bound to new wildernesses. they were but three now, verger remaining behind in the college of san fernando. the band numbered sixteen. serra was put in charge of it, and was appointed president of all the california missions. his biographer says he received this appointment "unable to speak a single word for tears." it was not strange, on the realization of a hope so long deferred. he was now fifty-six years old; and from boyhood his longing had been to labor among the indians on the western shores of the new world. it was now the purpose of the spanish government to proceed as soon as possible to the colonization of upper california. the passion of the church allied itself gladly with the purpose of the state; and the state itself had among its statesmen and soldiers many men who were hardly less fervid in religion than were those sworn exclusively to the church's service. such an one was joseph de galvez, who held the office of visitor-general and commander, representing the person of the king, and inspecting the working of the government in every province of the spanish empire. upon him rested the responsibility of the practical organization of the first expedition into upper california. it was he who ordered the carrying of all sorts of seeds of vegetables, grains, and flowers; everything that would grow in old spain he ordered to be planted in new. he ordered that two hundred head of cattle should be taken from the northernmost of the lower california missions, and carried to the new posts. it was he also, as full of interest for chapel as for farm, who selected and packed with his own hands sacred ornaments and vessels for church ceremonies. a curious letter of his to palon is extant, in which he says laughingly that he is a better sacristan than father junipero, having packed the holy vessels and ornaments quicker and better than he. there are also extant some of his original instructions to military and naval commanders which show his religious ardor and wisdom. he declares that the first object of the expedition is "to establish the catholic religion among a numerous heathen people, submerged in the obscure darkness of paganism, to extend the dominion of the king our lord, and to protect this peninsula from the ambitious views of foreign nations." with no clearer knowledge than could be derived from scant records of viscayno's voyage in , he selected the two best and most salient points of the california coast, san diego and monterey, and ordered the founding of a mission at each. he also ordered the selection of a point midway between these two, for another mission to be called buena ventura. his activity, generosity, and enthusiasm were inexhaustible. he seems to have had humor as well; for when discussing the names of the missions to be founded, father junipero said to him, "but is there to be no mission for our father st. francis?" he replied, "if st. francis wants a mission, let him show us his post, and we will put one there for him!" the records of this first expedition into california are full of interest. it was divided into two parts, one to go by sea, and one by land; the sea party in two ships, and the land party in two divisions. every possible precaution and provision was thought of by the wise galvez; but neither precaution nor provision could make the journey other than a terrible one. father junipero, with his characteristic ardor, insisted on accompanying one of the land parties, although he was suffering severely from an inflamed leg, the result of an injury he had received twenty years before in journeying on foot from vera cruz to the city of mexico. galvez tried in vain to detain him; he said he would rather die on the road than not go, but that he should not die, for the lord would carry him through. however, on the second day out, his pain became so great that he could neither sit, stand, nor sleep. portalá, the military commander of the party, implored him to be carried in a litter; but this he could not brook. calling one of the muleteers to him, he said,-- "son, do you not know some remedy for this sore on my leg?" "father," replied the muleteer, "what remedy can i know? i have only cured beasts." "then consider me a beast," answered serra; "consider this sore on my leg a sore back, and give me the same treatment you would apply to a beast." thus adjured, the muleteer took courage, and saying, "i will do it, father, to please you," he proceeded to mix herbs in hot tallow, with which he anointed the wound, and so reduced the inflammation that father junipero slept all night, rose early, said matins and mass, and resumed his journey in comparative comfort. he bore this painful wound to the end of his life; and it was characteristic of the man as well as of the abnormal standards of the age, that he not only sought no measures for a radical cure of the diseased member, but, obstinately accepting the suffering as a cross, allowed the trouble to be aggravated in every way, by going without shoes or stockings and by taking long journeys on foot. a diary kept by father crespí on his toilsome march from velicatá to san diego is full of quaint and curious entries, monotonous in its religious reiterations, but touching in its simplicity and unconscious testimony to his own single-heartedness and patience. the nearest approach to a complaint he makes is to say that "nothing abounds except stones and thorns." when they journey for days with no water except scanty rations from the precious casks they are carrying, he always piously trusts water will be found on the morrow; and when they come to great tracts of impenetrable cactus thickets, through which they are obliged to hew a pathway with axes, as through a forest, and are drenched to the skin in cold rains, and deserted by the christian indians whom they had brought from lower california as guides, he mentions the facts without a murmur, and has even for the deserters only a benediction: "may god guard the misguided ones!" a far more serious grievance to him is that toward the end of the journey he could no longer celebrate full mass because the wafers had given out. sometimes the party found themselves hemmed in by mountains, and were forced to halt for days while scouts went ahead to find a pass. more than once, hoping that at last they had found a direct and easy route, they struck down to the sea-shore, only to discover themselves soon confronted by impassable spurs of the coast range, and forced to toil back again up into the labyrinths of mesas and cactus plains. it was holy thursday, the th of march, when they set out, and it was not until the th of may that they reached the high ground from which they had their first view of the bay of san diego, and saw the masts of the ships lying at anchor there,--"which sight was a great joy and consolation to us all," says the diary. they named this halting-place "espiritu santo." it must have been on, or very near, the ridge where now runs the boundary line between the united states and mexico, as laid down by the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo. it is a grand promontory, ten miles southeast of san diego, thrusting out to sea; bare of trees, but matted thick with the dewy ice-plant, and in early spring carpeted with flowers. an ugly monument of stone stands there, bearing the names of the american and mexican commissioners who established this boundary line in october, . it would seem much more fitting to have there a monument bearing the names of the heroic men--friars and soldiers of spain--who on that spot, on may , , sang the first easter hymn heard on california shores. it was a sore grief for father crespí that the commandant of the party would not wait here for him to say a mass of thanksgiving; but with the port in sight, impatience could not be restrained, and the little band pushed on. as soon as the san diego camp was seen, the soldiers discharged a salute of fire-arms, which was answered instantly from shore and ship. great joy filled every heart. the friars who had come by sea ran to meet and embrace their brothers. the gladness was dampened only by the sad condition of the ships' crews, many of whom were dead or dying. they had been four months, with their poor charts and poorer ships, making their way from la paz up to san diego; and in consequence of insufficient and unwholesome food, the scurvy had broken out among them. it was a melancholy beginning for the new enterprise. when, six weeks later, the second land party with father junipero arrived, eager to proceed to the establishing of the mission, they found that their first duty was to the sick and dying of their own people. in fifteen days twenty-nine of the sailors and soldiers died. the indians, who at first had been gentle and friendly, grew each day more insolent and thievish, even tearing off the clothes of the sick lying helpless in the tents or tule huts on the beach. at last, on the th of july, a cross was set up facing the port, and in a rude booth of branches and reeds, mass was celebrated and the grand hymn of "veni creator" was sung, the pilgrims "supplying the want of an organ by discharging fire-arms," says the old record, and with only the "smoke of muskets for incense." thus was founded the mission of san diego; and thus was laid the corner-stone of the civilization of california on july , . two days before this the indefatigable crespí had set off with another overland party, portalá at its head, to find monterey. on this journey, also, father crespí kept a diary,--little suspecting, probably, with how much interest it would be studied a century later. it was not strange that with only a compass and seventeenth-century charts to guide them along the zigzagging labyrinths of bays, headlands, and sand-hills which make the california shore, they toiled to no purpose seeking the monterey harbor. it is pitiful to read the record of the days when they were close upon it, setting up a cross on one of its hills, and yet could not see it; even querying, so bewildered and lost were they, if it might not have been filled up with sands since viscayno's time. forty leagues north of it they went, and discovered the present bay of san francisco, which they at once recognized by viscayno's description; and recalling the speech of galvez in regard to saint francis pointing out a port if he wanted a mission of his own name, the pious fathers thought it not unlikely that the saint himself had hidden monterey from their sight, and led them to his own harbor. month after month passed, and still they were wandering. they were footsore, weary, hungry, but not disheartened. friendly indians everywhere greeted them kindly, gave them nuts, and shell-fish, and bread made from acorn flour. at one time seventeen of the party were too ill to travel. twice they halted and held council on the question of abandoning the search. some were ready to continue as long as the provisions held out, then to eat their mules, and go back on foot. fathers crespí and gomez volunteered to be left behind alone. at last, on the th of november, it was decided to return by the route by which they had come. on the th, finding that their flour had been stolen by the soldiers, they divided the remainder into equal parts, giving to each person enough to last him two days. on christmas day they had a present of nuts from friendly indians, and on new year's day they had the luck to kill a bear and three cubs, which gave them a feast for which they offered most devout thanksgivings. for the rest, they lived chiefly on mussels, with now and then a wild goose. on the th of january they came out on the table-lands above san diego, six months and ten days from the time of their departure. firing a salute, they were answered instantly by shots from the camp, and saw an eager crowd running to meet them, great anxiety having been felt at their long absence. it is worth while, in studying the history of these franciscan missions, to dwell on the details of the hardships endured in the beginning by their founders. only narrow-minded bigotry can fail to see in them proofs of a spiritual enthusiasm and exaltation of self-sacrifice which are rarely paralleled in the world's history. and to do justice to the results accomplished, it is necessary to understand thoroughly the conditions at the outset of the undertaking. the weary, returned party found their comrades in sorry plight. the scurvy had spread, and many more had died. father junipero himself had been dangerously ill with it; provisions were running low; the indians were only half friendly, and were not to be trusted out of sight. the supply-ships looked for from mexico had not arrived. a situation more helpless, unprotected, discouraging, could not be conceived than that of this little, suffering band, separated by leagues of desert and leagues of ocean from all possible succor. at last an examination showed that there were only provisions sufficient left to subsist the party long enough to make the journey back to velicatá. it seemed madness to remain longer; and governor portalá, spite of father junipero's entreaties, gave orders to prepare for the abandonment of the missions. he fixed the th of march as the last day he would wait for the arrival of the ship. this was saint joseph's day. on the morning of it father junipero, who had been praying night and day for weeks, celebrated to saint joseph a high mass, with special supplications for relief. before noon a sail was seen on the horizon. one does not need to believe in saints and saints' interpositions to feel a thrill at this coincidence, and in fancying the effect the sudden vision of the relief-ship must have produced on the minds of devout men who had been starving. the ship appeared for a few moments, then disappeared; doubtless there were some who scoffed at it as a mere apparition. but portalá believed, and waited; and, four days later, in the ship came!--the "san antonio," bringing bountiful stores of all that was needed. courage and cheer now filled the very air. no time was lost in organizing expeditions to go once more in search of the mysteriously hidden monterey. in less than three weeks two parties had set off,--one by sea in the "san antonio." with this went father junipero, still feeble from illness. father crespí, undaunted by his former six months of wandering, joined the land party, reaching the point of pines, on monterey harbor, seven days before the ship arrived. as soon as she came in sight, bonfires were lighted on the rocks, and the ship answered by firing cannon. it was a great rejoicing. the next day, june st, the officers of the two parties met, and exchanged congratulations; and on the third they took formal possession of the place: first, in the name of the church, by religious ceremonies; secondly, in the name of the king of spain, unfurling the royal standard, and planting it in the ground, side by side with the cross. to one familiar with the beauty of the monterey shore in june, the picture of this scene is vivid. the sand-dunes were ablaze with color; lupines in high, waving masses, white and yellow; and great mats of the glittering ice-plant, with myriads of rose-colored umbels, lying flat on the white sand. many rods inland, the air was sweet with their fragrance, borne by the strong sea-wind. on long cliffs of broken, tempest-piled rocks stood ranks upon ranks of grand old cypress-trees,--gnarled, bent, twisted, defiant, full of both pathos and triumph in their loneliness, in this the only spot on earth to which they are native. the booth of boughs in which the mass was performed was built under a large oak, on the same spot where viscayno had landed and his carmelite monks had said mass one hundred and sixty-seven years before. the ceremonies closed with a ringing te deum,--sailors, soldiers, monks, alike jubilant. when the news of the founding of this second mission reached the city of mexico, there was a furore of excitement. the bells of the city were rung; people ran up and down the streets telling each other; and the viceroy held at his palace a grand reception, to which went all persons of note, eager to congratulate him and galvez. printed proclamations, giving full accounts, were circulated, not only in mexico but throughout spain. no province so remote, no home so lowly, as to fail to hear the good news. it was indeed good news to both state and church. the fact of the occupation of the new country was accomplished; the scheme for the conversion and salvation of the savage race was fairly inaugurated; monterey and san diego being assured, ultimate possession of the whole of the coast line between would follow. little these gladdened people in spain and mexico realized, however, the cost of the triumph over which they rejoiced, or the true condition of the men who had won it. the history of the next fifteen years is a history of struggle, hardship, and heroic achievement. the indefatigable serra was the mainspring and support of it all. there seemed no limit to his endurance, no bound to his desires; nothing daunted his courage or chilled his faith. when, in the sixth year after the founding of the san diego mission, it was attacked by hostile indians, one of the fathers being most cruelly murdered, and the buildings burned to the ground, father junipero exclaimed, "thank god! the seed of the gospel is now watered by the blood of a martyr; that mission is henceforth established;" and in a few months he was on the spot, with money and materials, ready for rebuilding; pressing sailors, neophytes, soldiers, into the service; working with his own hands, also, spite of the fears and protestations of all, and only desisting on positive orders from the military commander. he journeyed, frequently on foot, back and forth through the country, founding a new mission whenever, by his urgent letters to the college of san fernando and to the mexican viceroys, he had gathered together men and money enough to do so. in , when perplexities seemed inextricably thickened and supplies had fallen so short that starvation threatened the missions, he took ship to san blas. with no companion except one indian boy, he toiled on foot from san blas to guadalajara, two hundred and forty miles. here they both fell ill of fever, and sank so low that they were supposed to be dying, and the holy viaticum was administered to them. but they recovered, and while only partly convalescent, pushed on again, reaching the city of mexico in february, . hard-hearted indeed must the mexican viceroy have been to refuse to heed the prayers of an aged man who had given such proofs as this of his earnestness and devotion. the difficulties were cleared up, money and supplies obtained, and father junipero returned to his post with a joyful heart. before leaving, he kissed the feet of the friars in the college, and asked their blessing, saying that they would never behold him more. father junipero's most insatiable passion was for baptizing indians; the saving of one soul thus from death filled him with unspeakable joy. his biographer illustrates this by the narrative of the first infant baptism attempted at the san diego mission. the indians had been prevailed upon to bring an infant to receive the consecration. everything was ready: father junipero had raised his hand to sprinkle the child's face; suddenly heathen terror got the better of the parents, and in the twinkling of an eye they snatched their babe and ran. tears rolled down father junipero's cheeks: he declared that only some unworthiness in himself could have led to such a disaster; and to the day of his death he could never tell the story without tears, thinking it must be owing to his sins that the soul of that particular child had been lost. when he preached he was carried out of himself by the fervor of his desire to impress his hearers. baring his breast, he would beat it violently with a stone, or burn the flesh with a lighted torch, to enhance the effect of his descriptions of the tortures of hell. there is in his memoir a curious engraving, showing him lifted high above a motley group of listeners, holding in his hands the blazing torch and the stone. in the same book is an outline map of california as he knew it. it is of the coast line from san diego to san francisco, and the only objects marked on it are the missions and dotted lines showing the roads leading from one to another. all the rest is a blank. there were nine of these missions, founded by serra, before his death in . they were founded in the following order: san diego, july , ; san carlos de monterey, june , ; san antonio de padua, july , ; san gabriel, sept. , ; san luis obispo, sept. , ; san francisco (dolores), oct. , ; san juan capistrano, nov. , ; santa clara, jan. , ; san buena ventura, march , . the transports into which father junipero was thrown by the beginning of a new mission are graphically told by the companion who went with him to establish the mission of san antonio. with his little train of soldiers, and mules laden with a few weeks' supplies, he wandered off into the unexplored wilderness sixty miles south of monterey, looking eagerly for river valleys promising fertility. as soon as the beautiful oak-shaded plain, with its river swift and full even in july, caught his eye, he ordered a halt, seized the bells, tied them to an oak bough, and fell to ringing them with might and main, crying aloud: "hear, hear, o ye gentiles! come to the holy church! come to the faith of jesus christ!" not a human creature was in sight, save his own band; and his companion remonstrated with him. "let me alone," cried father junipero. "let me unburden my heart, which could wish that this bell should be heard by all the world, or at least by all the gentiles in these mountains;" and he rang on till the echoes answered, and one astonished indian appeared,--the first instance in which a native had been present at the foundation of a mission. not long afterward came a very aged indian woman named agreda, begging to be baptized, saying that she had seen a vision in the skies of a man clad like the friars, and that her father had repeated to her in her youth the same words they now spoke. the history of this san antonio mission justified father junipero's selection. the site proved one of the richest and most repaying, including, finally, seven large farms with a chapel on each, and being famous for the best wheat grown, and the best flour made in the country. the curious mill in which the flour was ground is still to be seen,--a most interesting ruin. it was run by water brought in a stone-walled ditch for many miles, and driven through a funnel-shaped flume so as to strike the side of a large water-wheel, revolving horizontally on a shaft. the building of this aqueduct and the placing of the wheel were the work of an indian named nolberto, who took the idea from the balance-wheel of a watch, and did all the work with his own hands. the walls are broken now; and the sands have so blown in and piled around the entrance, that the old wheel seems buried in a cellar; linnets have builded nests in the dusky corners, and are so seldom disturbed that their bright eyes gaze with placid unconcern at curious intruders. many interesting incidents are recorded in connection with the establishment of these first missions. at san gabriel the indians gathered in great force, and were about to attack the little band of ten soldiers and two friars preparing to plant their cross; but on the unfurling of a banner with a life-size picture of the virgin painted on it, they flung away their bows and arrows, came running toward the banner with gestures of reverence and delight, and threw their beads and other ornaments on the ground before it, as at the feet of a suddenly recognized queen. the san gabriel indians seem to have been a superior race. they spoke a soft, musical language, now nearly lost. their name for god signified "giver of life." they had no belief in a devil or in hell, and persisted always in regarding them as concerning only white men. robbery was unknown among them, murder was punished by death, and marriage between those near of kin was not allowed. they had names for the points of the compass, and knew the north star, calling it runi. they had games at which they decked themselves with flower garlands, which wreathed their heads and hung down to their feet. they had certain usages of politeness, such as that a child, bringing water to an elder, must not taste it on the way; and that to pass between two who were speaking was an offence. they had song contests, often lasting many days, and sometimes handed down to the next generation. to a people of such customs as these, the symbols, shows, and ceremonies of the catholic church must needs have seemed especially beautiful and winning. the records of the founding of these missions are similar in details, but are full of interest to one in sympathy either with their spiritual or their historical significance. the routine was the same in all cases. a cross was set up; a booth of branches was built; the ground and the booth were consecrated by holy water, and christened by the name of a saint; a mass was performed; the neighboring indians, if there were any, were roused and summoned by the ringing of bells swung on limbs of trees; presents of cloth and trinkets were given them to inspire them with trust, and thus a mission was founded. two monks (never, at first, more) were appointed to take charge of this cross and booth, and to win, baptize, convert, and teach all the indians to be reached in the region. they had for guard and help a few soldiers, and sometimes a few already partly civilized and christianized indians; several head of cattle, some tools and seeds, and holy vessels for the church service, completed their store of weapons, spiritual and secular, offensive and defensive, with which to conquer the wilderness and its savages. there needs no work of the imagination to help this picture. taken in its sternest realism, it is vivid and thrilling; contrasting the wretched poverty of these single-handed beginnings with the final splendor and riches attained, the result seems wellnigh miraculous. from the rough booth of boughs and reeds of to the pillars, arched corridors, and domes of the stately stone churches of a half-century later, is a change only a degree less wonderful than the change in the indian, from the naked savage with his one stone tool, grinding acorn-meal in a rock bowl, to the industrious tiller of soil, weaver of cloth, worker in metals, and singer of sacred hymns. the steps of this change were slow at first. in , at the end of five years' work, five missions had been founded, and four hundred and ninety-one indians baptized. there were then, in these five missions, but nineteen friars and sixty soldiers. in , la perouse, a french naval commander, who voyaged along the california coast, leaves it on record that there were but two hundred and eighty-two soldiers, and about one hundred officers and friars, all told, in both upper and lower california, from cape saint lucas to san francisco, a line of eight hundred leagues. at this time there were five thousand one hundred and forty-three indians, in the missions of upper california alone. in the year there were, at the mission of san diego, fifteen hundred and twenty-one indians; and the san diego garrison, three miles away from the mission, numbered only one hundred and sixty-seven souls,--officers, soldiers, servants, women, and children. such figures as these seem sufficient refutation of the idea sometimes advanced, that the indians were converted by force and held in subjection by terror. there is still preserved, in the archives of the franciscan college at santa barbara, a letter written by father junipero to the viceroy of mexico, in , imploring him to send a force of eighty soldiers to be divided among seven missions. he patiently explains that the friars, stationed by twos, at new missions, from sixty to a hundred miles distant from each other, cannot be expected to feel safe without a reasonable military protection; and he asks pertinently what defence could be made, "in case the enemy should tempt the gentiles to attack us." that there was so little active hostility on the part of the savage tribes, that they looked so kindly as they did to the ways and restraints of the new life, is the strongest possible proof that the methods of the friars in dealing with them must have been both wise and humane. during the first six years there was but one serious outbreak,--that at san diego. no retaliation was shown toward the indians for this; on the contrary, the orders of both friars and military commanders were that they should be treated with even greater kindness than before; and in less than two years the mission buildings were rebuilt, under a guard of only a half-score of soldiers with hundreds of indians looking on, and many helping cheerfully in the work. the san carlos mission at monterey was father junipero's own charge. there he spent all his time, when not called away by his duties as president of the missions. there he died, and there he was buried. there, also, his beloved friend and brother, father crespí, labored by his side for thirteen years. crespí was a sanguine, joyous man, sometimes called el beato, from his happy temperament. no doubt his gayety made serra's sunshine in many a dark day; and grief at his death did much to break down the splendid old man's courage and strength. only a few months before it occurred, they had gone together for a short visit to their comrade, father palon, at the san francisco mission. when they took leave of him, crespí said, "farewell forever; you will see me no more." this was late in the autumn of , and on new year's day, , he died, aged sixty years, and having spent half of those years in laboring for the indians. serra lived only two years longer, and is said never to have been afterwards the same as before. for many years he had been a great sufferer from an affection of the heart,--aggravated, if not induced, by his fierce beatings of his breast with a stone while he was preaching. but physical pain seemed to make no impression on his mind. if it did not incapacitate him for action, he held it of no account. only the year before his death, being then seventy years old, and very lame, he had journeyed on foot from san diego to monterey, visiting every mission and turning aside into all the indian settlements on the way. at this time there were on the santa barbara coast alone, within a space of eighty miles, twenty-one villages of indians, roughly estimated as containing between twenty and thirty thousand souls. he is said to have gone weeping from village to village because he could do nothing for them. he reached san carlos in january, , and never again went away. the story of his last hours and death is in the old church records of monterey, written there by the hand of the sorrowing palon, the second day after he had closed his friend's eyes. it is a quaint and touching narrative. up to the day before his death, his indomitable will upholding the failing strength of his dying body, father junipero had read in the church the canonical offices of each day, a service requiring an hour and a half of time. the evening before his death he walked alone to the church to receive the last sacrament. the church was crowded to overflowing with indians and whites, many crying aloud in uncontrollable grief. father junipero knelt before the altar with great fervor of manner, while father palon, with tears rolling down his cheeks, read the services for the dying, gave him absolution, and administered the holy viaticum. then rose from choked and tremulous voices the strains of the grand hymn "tantum ergo,"-- "tantum ergo sacramentum veneremur cernui, et antiquum documentum novo cedat ritui; præstet fides supplementum sensuum defectui. "genitori genitoque laus et jubilatio, salus, honor, virtus quoque sit et benedictio; procedenti ab utroque compar sit laudatio." a startled thrill ran through the church as father junipero's own voice, "high and strong as ever," says the record, joined in the hymn. one by one the voices of his people broke down, stifled by sobs, until at last the dying man's voice, almost alone, finished the hymn. after this he gave thanks, and returning to his cell-like room spent the whole of the night in listening to penitential psalms and litanies, and giving thanks to god; all the time kneeling or sitting on the ground supported by the loving and faithful palon. in the morning, early, he asked for the plenary indulgence, for which he again knelt, and confessed again. at noon the chaplain and the captain of the bark "st. joseph," then lying in port at monterey, came to visit him. he welcomed them, and cordially embracing the chaplain, said, "you have come just in time to cast the earth upon my body." after they took their leave, he asked palon to read to him again the recommendations of the soul. at its conclusion he responded earnestly, in as clear voice as in health, adding, "thank god, i am now without fear." then with a firm step he walked to the kitchen, saying that he would like a cup of broth. as soon as he had taken the broth, he exclaimed, "i feel better now; i will rest;" and lying down he closed his eyes, and without another word or sign of struggle or pain ceased to breathe, entering indeed into a rest of which his last word had been solemnly prophetic. ever since morning the grief-stricken people had been waiting and listening for the tolling death-bell to announce that all was over. at its first note they came in crowds, breathless, weeping, and lamenting. it was with great difficulty that the soldiers could keep them from tearing father junipero's habit piecemeal from his body, so ardent was their desire to possess some relic of him. the corpse was laid at once in a coffin which he himself had ordered made many weeks before. the vessels in port fired a salute of one hundred and one guns, answered by the same from the guns of the presidio at monterey,--an honor given to no one below the rank of general. but the hundred gun salutes were a paltry honor in comparison with the tears of the indian congregation. soldiers kept watch around his coffin night and day till the burial; but they could not hold back the throngs of the poor creatures who pressed to touch the hand of the father they had so much loved, and to bear away something, if only a thread, of the garments he had worn. his ardent and impassioned nature and his untiring labors had won their deepest affection and confidence. it was his habit when at san carlos to spend all his time with them, working by their side in the fields, making adobe, digging, tilling, doing, in short, all that he required of them. day after day he thus labored, only desisting at the hours for performing offices in the church. whenever an indian came to address him, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and spoke to him some words of spiritual injunction or benediction. the arbitrariness--or, as some of his enemies called it, haughty self-will--which brought serra at times into conflict with the military authorities when their purposes or views clashed with his own, never came to the surface in his spiritual functions, or in his relation with the indian converts. he loved them, and yearned over them as brands to be snatched from the burning. he had baptized over one thousand of them with his own hands; his whole life he spent for them, and was ready at any moment to lay it down if that would have benefited them more. absolute single-heartedness like this is never misunderstood by, and never antagonizes equally single-hearted people, either high or low. but to be absolutely single-hearted in a moral purpose is almost inevitably to be doggedly one-ideaed in regard to practical methods; and the single-hearted, one-ideaed man, with a great moral purpose, is sure to be often at swords' points with average men of selfish interests and mixed notions. this is the explanation of the fact that the later years of serra's life were marred by occasional collisions with the military authorities in the country. no doubt the impetuosity of his nature made him sometimes hot in resentment and indiscreet of speech. but in spite of these failings, he yet remains the foremost, grandest figure in the missions' history. if his successors in their administration had been equal to him in spirituality, enthusiasm, and intellect, the mission establishments would never have been so utterly overthrown and ruined. father junipero sleeps on the spot where he labored and died. his grave is under the ruins of the beautiful stone church of his mission,--the church which he saw only in ardent and longing fancy. it was perhaps the most beautiful, though not the grandest of the mission churches; and its ruins have to-day a charm far exceeding all the others. the fine yellow tint of the stone, the grand and unique contour of the arches, the beautiful star-shaped window in the front, the simple yet effective lines of carving on pilaster and pillar and doorway, the symmetrical moorish tower and dome, the worn steps leading up to the belfry,--all make a picture whose beauty, apart from hallowing associations, is enough to hold one spell-bound. reverent nature has rebuilt with grass and blossoms even the crumbling window-sills, across which the wind blows free from the blue ocean just beyond; and on the day we saw the place, golden wheat, fresh reaped, was piled in loose mounds on the south slope below the church's southern wall. it reminded me of the tales i had heard from many aged men and women of a beautiful custom the indians had of scattering their choicest grains on the ground at the friars' feet, as a token of homage. the roof of the church long ago fell in; its doors have stood open for years; and the fierce sea-gales have been sweeping in, piling sands until a great part of the floor is covered with solid earth on which every summer grasses and weeds grow high enough to be cut by sickles. of the thousands of acres which the mission indians once cultivated in the san carlos valley, only nine were finally decreed by the united states government to belong to the church. these were so carelessly surveyed that no avenue of approach was left open to the mission buildings, and a part of the land had to be sold to buy a right of way to the church. the remnant left makes a little farm, by the rental of which a man can be hired to take charge of the whole place, and keep it, if possible, from further desecration and ruin. the present keeper is a devout portuguese, whose broken english becomes eloquent as he speaks of the old friars whose graves he guards. "dem work for civilize," he said, "not work for money. dey work to religion." in clearing away the earth at the altar end of the church, in the winter of , this man came upon stone slabs evidently covering graves. on opening one of these graves, it was found to hold three coffins. from the minute description, in the old records, of father junipero's place of burial, father carenova, the priest now in charge of the monterey parish, became convinced that one of these coffins must be his. on the opposite side of the church is another grave, where are buried two of the earliest governors of california. it is a disgrace to both the catholic church and the state of california that this grand old ruin, with its sacred sepulchres, should be left to crumble away. if nothing is done to protect and save it, one short hundred years more will see it a shapeless, wind-swept mound of sand. it is not in our power to confer honor or bring dishonor on the illustrious dead. we ourselves, alone, are dishonored when we fail in reverence to them. the grave of junipero serra may be buried centuries deep, and its very place forgotten; yet his name will not perish, nor his fame suffer. but for the men of the country whose civilization he founded, and of the church whose faith he so glorified, to permit his burial-place to sink into oblivion, is a shame indeed! ii. if the little grief-stricken band of monks who stood weeping around junipero serra's grave in could have foreseen the events of the next thirty years, their weeping would have been turned into exultant joy; but not the most daring enthusiast among them could have dreamed of the harvest of power destined to be raised from the seed thus sown in weakness. almost with his dying breath father junipero had promised to use "all his influence with god" in behalf of the missions. in the course of the next four months after his death more converts were baptized than in the whole three years previous; and it became at once the common belief that his soul had passed directly into heaven, and that this great wave of conversions was the result of his prayers. prosperity continued steadily to increase. mission after mission was successfully founded, until, in , the occupation of the sea-coast line from san francisco to san diego was complete, there being nineteen mission establishments only an easy day's journey apart from each other. the ten new missions were founded in the following order: santa barbara, dec. , ; la purissima, dec. , ; santa cruz, sept. , ; soledad, oct. , ; san josé, june , ; san juan bautista, june , ; san miguel, july , ; san fernando rey, sept. , ; san luis rey de francia, june , ; santa inez, sept. , . beginnings had also been made on a projected second line, to be from thirty to fifty miles back from the sea; and this inland chain of settlements and development promised to be in no way inferior to the first. the wealth of the mission establishments had grown to an almost incredible degree. in several of them massive stone churches had been built, of an architecture at once so simple and harmonious that, even in ruins, it is to-day the grandest in america; and it will remain, so long as arch, pillar, or dome of it shall stand, a noble and touching monument of the patient indian workers who built, and of the devoted friars who designed, its majestic and graceful proportions. in all of the missions were buildings on a large scale, providing for hundreds of occupants, for all the necessary trades and manufactures, and many of the ornamental arts of civilized life. enormous tracts of land were under high cultivation; the grains and cool fruits of the temperate zone flourishing, in the marvellous california air, side by side with the palm, olive, grape, fig, orange, and pomegranate. from the two hundred head of cattle sent by the wise galvez, had grown herds past numbering; and to these had been added vast flocks of sheep and herds of horses. in these nineteen missions were gathered over twenty thousand indians, leading regular and industrious lives, and conforming to the usages of the catholic religion. a description of the san luis rey mission, written by de mofras, an _attaché_ of the french legation in mexico in , gives a clear idea of the form, and some of the methods, of the mission establishments:-- "the building is a quadrilateral, four hundred and fifty feet square; the church occupies one of its wings; the façade is ornamented with a gallery. the building is two stories in height. the interior is formed by a court ornamented with fountains, and decorated with trees. upon the gallery which runs around it open the dormitories of the monks, of the majors-domo, and of travellers, small workshops, schoolrooms, and storerooms. the hospitals are situated in the most quiet parts of the mission, where also the schools are kept. the young indian girls dwell in halls called monasteries, and are called nuns. placed under the care of indian matrons, who are worthy of confidence, they learn to make cloth of wool, cotton, and flax, and do not leave the monastery until they are old enough to be married. the indian children mingle in schools with those of the white colonists. a certain number chosen among the pupils who display the most intelligence learn music, chanting, the violin, flute, horn, violoncello, or other instruments. those who distinguish themselves in the carpenters' shops, at the forge, or in agricultural labors are appointed alcaldes, or overseers, and charged with the directions of the laborers." surrounding these buildings, or arranged in regular streets upon one side of them, were the homes of the indian families. these were built of adobe, or of reeds, after the native fashion. the daily routine of the indians' life was simple and uniform. they were divided into squads of laborers. at sunrise the angelus bell called them to mass. after the mass they breakfasted, and then dispersed to their various labors. at eleven they were again summoned together for dinner, after which they rested until two, when they went again to work, and worked until the evening angelus, just before sunset. after prayers and supper they were in the habit of dancing and playing games until bedtime. their food was good. they had meat at noon, accompanied by _posale_, a sort of succotash made of corn, beans, and wheat, boiled together. their breakfast and supper were usually of porridge made from different grains, called _atole_ and _pinole_. the men wore linen shirts, pantaloons, and blankets. the overseers and best workmen had suits of cloth like the spaniards. the women received every year two chemises, one gown, and a blanket. de mofras says:-- "when the hides, tallow, grain, wine, and oil were sold at good prices to ships from abroad, the monks distributed handkerchiefs, wearing apparel, tobacco, and trinkets among the indians, and devoted the surplus to the embellishment of the churches, the purchase of musical instruments, pictures, church ornaments, etc.; still they were careful to keep a part of the harvest in the granaries to provide for years of scarcity." the rule of the friars was in the main a kindly one. the vice of drunkenness was severely punished by flogging. quarrelling between husbands and wives was also dealt with summarily, the offending parties being chained together by the leg till they were glad to promise to keep peace. new converts and recruits were secured in many ways: sometimes by sending out parties of those already attached to the new mode of life, and letting them set forth to the savages the advantages and comforts of the christian way; sometimes by luring strangers in with gifts; sometimes, it is said, by capturing them by main force; but of this there is only scanty evidence, and it is not probable that it was often practised. it has also been said that cruel and severe methods were used to compel the indians to work; that they were driven under the lash by their overseers, and goaded with lances by the soldiers. no doubt there were individual instances of cruelty; seeds of it being indigenous in human nature, such absolute control of hundreds of human beings could not exist without some abuses of the power. but that the indians were, on the whole, well treated and cared for, the fact that so many thousands of them chose to remain in the missions is proof. with open wilderness on all sides, and with thousands of savage friends and relatives close at hand, nothing but their own free will could have kept such numbers of them loyal and contented. forbes, in his history of california, written in , says:-- "the best and most unequivocal proof of the good conduct of the fathers is to be found in the unbounded affection and devotion invariably shown toward them by their indian subjects. they venerate them not merely as friends and fathers, but with a degree of devotion approaching to adoration." the picture of life in one of these missions during their period of prosperity is unique and attractive. the whole place was a hive of industry: trades plying indoors and outdoors; tillers, herders, vintagers by hundreds, going to and fro; children in schools; women spinning; bands of young men practising on musical instruments; music, the scores of which, in many instances, they had themselves written out; at evening, all sorts of games of running, leaping, dancing, and ball-throwing, and the picturesque ceremonies of a religion which has always been wise in availing itself of beautiful agencies in color, form, and harmony. at every mission were walled gardens with waving palms, sparkling fountains, groves of olive trees, broad vineyards, and orchards of all manner of fruits; over all, the sunny, delicious, winterless california sky. more than mortal, indeed, must the franciscans have been, to have been able, under these conditions, to preserve intact the fervor and spirit of self-abnegation and deprivation inculcated by the rules of their order. there is a half-comic pathos in the records of occasional efforts made by one and another of the presidents to check the growing disposition toward ease on the part of the friars. at one time several of them were found to be carrying silver watches. the watches were taken away, and sent to guadalajara to be sold, the money to be paid into the church treasury. at another time an order was issued, forbidding the wearing of shoes and stockings in place of sandals, and the occupying of too large and comfortable rooms. and one zealous president, finding that the friars occasionally rode in the carts belonging to their missions, had all the carts burned, to compel the fathers to go about on foot. the friars were forced, by the very facts of their situation, into the exercise of a constant and abounding hospitality; and this of itself inevitably brought about large departures from the ascetic _régime_ of living originally preached and practised. most royally did they discharge the obligations of this hospitality. travellers' rooms were kept always ready in every mission; and there were even set apart fruit orchards called "travellers' orchards." a man might ride from san diego to monterey by easy day's journeys, spending each night as guest in a mission establishment. as soon as he rode up, an indian page would appear to take his horse; another to show him to one of the travellers' rooms. he was served with the best of food and wine as long as he liked to stay, and when he left he might, if he wished, take from the mission herd a fresh horse to carry him on his journey. all the california voyagers and travellers of the time speak in glowing terms of this generous and cordial entertaining by the friars. it was, undoubtedly, part of their policy as representatives of the state, but it was no less a part of their duty as franciscans. some of the highest tributes which have been paid to them, both as men and as administrators of affairs, have come from strangers who, thus sojourning under their roofs, had the best opportunity of knowing their lives. says forbes:-- "their conduct has been marked by a degree of benevolence, humanity, and moderation probably unexampled in any other situation.... i have never heard that they have not acted with the most perfect fidelity, or that they ever betrayed a trust, or acted with inhumanity." this testimony is of the more weight that it comes from a man not in sympathy with either the religious or the secular system on which the friars' labors were based. the tales still told by old people of festal occasions at the missions sound like tales of the old world rather than of the new. there was a strange difference, fifty years ago, between the atmosphere of life on the east and west sides of the american continent: on the atlantic shore, the descendants of the puritans, weighed down by serious purpose, half grudging the time for their one staid yearly thanksgiving, and driving the indians farther and farther into the wilderness every year, fighting and killing them; on the sunny pacific shore, the merry people of mexican and spanish blood, troubling themselves about nothing, dancing away whole days and nights like children, while their priests were gathering the indians by thousands into communities, and feeding and teaching them. the most beautiful woman known in california a half-century ago[ ] still lives in santa barbara, white-haired, bright-eyed, eloquent-tongued to-day. at the time of her marriage, her husband being a brother of the superior of the santa barbara mission, her wedding banquet was spread on tables running the whole length of the outer corridor of the mission. for three days and three nights the feasting and dancing were kept up, and the whole town was bid. on the day after her wedding came the christening or blessing of the right tower of the church. she and her husband, having been chosen godfather and godmother to the tower, walked in solemn procession around it, carrying lighted candles in their hands, preceded by the friar, who sprinkled it with holy water and burned incense. in the four long streets of indians' houses, then running eastward from the mission, booths of green boughs, decorated with flowers, were set up in front of all the doors. companies of indians from other missions came as guests, dancing and singing as they approached. their indian hosts went out to meet them, also singing, and pouring out seeds on the ground for them to walk on. these were descendants of the indians who, when viscayno anchored off santa barbara in , came out in canoes, bringing their king, and rowed three times around viscayno's ship, chanting a chorus of welcome. then the king, going on board the ship, walked three times around the deck, chanting the same song. he then gave to the spaniards gifts of all the simple foods he had, and implored them to land, promising that if they would come and be their brothers, he would give to each man ten wives. with the increase of success, wealth, and power on the part of the missions came increasing complexities in their relation to the military settlements in the country. the original spanish plan of colonization was threefold,--religious, military, and civil. its first two steps were a mission and a presidio, or garrison,--the presidio to be the guard of the mission; later was to come the pueblo,[ ] or town. from indefiniteness in the understanding of property rights, and rights of authority, as vested under these three heads, there very soon arose confusion, which led to collisions,--collisions which have not yet ceased, and never will, so long as there remains a land-title in california to be quarrelled over. the law records of the state are brimful of briefs, counter-briefs, opinions, and counter-opinions regarding property issues, all turning on definitions which nobody has now clear right to make, of old pueblo and presidio titles and bounds. in the beginning there were no grants of land; everything was done by royal decree. in the form of taking possession of the new lands, the church, by right of sacred honor, came first, the religious ceremony always preceding the military. not till the cross was set up, and the ground consecrated and taken possession of, in the name of god, for the church's purposes, did any military commander ever think of planting the royal standard, symbolizing the king's possession. in the early days the relations between the military and the ecclesiastical representatives of the king were comparatively simple: the soldiers were sent avowedly and specifically to protect the friars; moreover, in those earlier days, soldiers and friars were alike devout, and, no doubt, had the mission interests more equally at heart than they did later. but each year's increase of numbers in the garrisons, and of numbers and power in the missions, increased the possibilities of clashing, until finally the relations between the two underwent a singular reversal; and the friars, if disposed to be satirical, might well have said that, however bad a rule might be which would not work both ways, a rule which did was not of necessity a good one, it being now the duty of the missions to support the presidios; the military governors being authorized to draw upon the friars not only for supplies, but for contributions of money and for levies of laborers.[ ] on the other hand, no lands could be set off or assigned for colonists without consent of the friars, and there were many other curious and entangling cross-purpose powers distributed between friars and military governors quite sufficient to make it next to impossible for things to go smoothly. the mission affairs, so far as their own internal interests were concerned, were administered with admirable simplicity and system. the friars in charge of the missions were responsible directly to the president, or prefect, of the missions. he, in turn, was responsible to the president, or guardian, of the franciscan college in san fernando, in mexico. one responsible officer, called procurador, was kept in the city of mexico to buy supplies for the missions from stipends due, and from the drafts given to the friars by the presidio commanders for goods furnished to the presidios. there was also a syndic, or general agent, at san bias, who attended to the shipping and forwarding of supplies. it was a happy combination of the minimum of functionaries with the maximum of responsibility. the income supporting the missions was derived from two sources, the first of which was a fund, called the "pious fund," originally belonging to the jesuit order, but on the suppression of that order, in , taken possession of by the spanish government in trust for the church. this fund, begun early in the eighteenth century, was made up of estates, mines, manufactories, and flocks,--all gifts of rich catholics to the society of jesus. it yielded an income of fifty thousand dollars a year, the whole of which belonged to the church, and was to be used in paying stipends to the friars (to the dominicans in lower as well as to the franciscans in upper california), and in the purchasing of articles needed in the missions. the missions' second source of income was from the sales of their own products: first to the presidios,--these sales paid for by drafts on the spanish or mexican government; second, to trading ships, coming more and more each year to the california coast. as soon as revolutionary troubles began to agitate spain and mexico, the income of the missions from abroad began to fall off. the pious fund was too big a sum to be honestly administered by any government hard pressed for money. spain began to filch from it early, to pay the bills of her wars with portugal and england; and mexico, as soon as she had the chance, followed spain's example vigorously, selling whole estates and pocketing their price, farming the fund out for the benefit of the state treasury, and, finally, in santa anna's time, selling the whole outright to two banking-houses. during these troublous times the friars not only failed frequently to receive their regular stipends allotted from the interest of this pious fund, but their agent was unable to collect the money due them for the supplies furnished to the presidios. the sums of which they were thus robbed by two governments--that, being ostensibly of the catholic faith, should surely have held the church's property sacred--mounted up in a few years to such enormous figures that restitution would have been practically impossible, and, except for their own internal sources of revenue, the missions must have come to bankruptcy and ruin. however, the elements which were to bring about this ruin were already at work,--were, indeed, inherent in the very system on which they had been founded. the spanish government was impatient to see carried out, and to reap the benefit of, the pueblo feature of its colonization plan. with a singular lack of realization of the time needed to make citizens out of savages, it had set ten years as the period at the expiration of which the indian communities attached to the missions were to be formed into pueblos,--the missions to be secularized, that is, turned into curacies, the pueblo being the parish. this was, no doubt, the wise and proper ultimate scheme,--the only one, in fact, which provided either for the entire civilization of the indian or the successful colonization of the country. but five times ten years would have been little enough to allow for getting such a scheme fairly under way, and another five times ten years for the finishing and rounding of the work. it is strange how sure civilized peoples are, when planning and legislating for savages, to forget that it has always taken centuries to graft on or evolve out of savagery anything like civilization. aiming towards this completing of their colonization plan, the spanish government had very early founded the pueblos of los angeles and san josé. a second class of pueblos, called, in the legal phrase of california's later days, "presidial pueblos," had originated in the settlement of the presidios, and gradually grown up around them. there were four of these,--san diego, monterey, santa barbara, and san francisco. it is easy to see how, as these settlements increased, of persons more or less unconnected with the missions, there must have grown up discontent at the church's occupation and control of so large a proportion of the country. ready for alliance with this discontent was the constant jealousy on the part of the military authorities, whose measures were often--and, no doubt, often rightly--opposed by the friars. these fomenting causes of disquiet reacted on the impatience and greed in spain; all together slowly, steadily working against the missions, until, in , the spanish cortes passed an act decreeing their secularization. this was set forth in sounding phrase as an act purely for the benefit of the indians, that they might become citizens of towns. but it was, to say the least of it, as much for spain as for the indians, since, by its provisions, one half of the mission lands were to be sold for the payment of spain's national debt. this act, so manifestly premature, remained a dead letter; but it alarmed the friars, and with reason. it was the tocsin of their doom, of the downfall of their establishments, and the ruin of their work. affairs grew more and more unsettled. spanish viceroys and mexican insurgents took turns at ruling in mexico, and the representatives of each took turns at ruling in california. the waves of every mexican revolution broke on the california shore. the college of san fernando, in mexico, also shared in the general confusion, and many of its members returned to spain. from to great requisitions were made by the government upon the missions. they responded generously. they gave not only food, but money. they submitted to a tax, _per capita_, on all their thousands of indians, to pay the expenses of a deputy to sit in the mexican congress. they allowed troops to be quartered in the mission buildings. at the end of the year the outstanding drafts on the government, in favor of the missions, amounted to four hundred thousand dollars. it is impossible, in studying the records of this time, not to feel that the friars were, in the main, disposed to work in good faith for the best interests of the state. that they opposed the secularization project is true; but it is unjust to assume that their motives in so doing were purely selfish. most certainly, the results of the carrying out of that project were such as to prove all that they claimed of its untimeliness. it is easy saying, as their enemies do, that they would never have advocated it, and were not training the indians with a view to it: but the first assertion is an assumption, and nothing more; and the refutation of the second lies in the fact that even in that short time they had made the savages into "masons, carpenters, plasterers, soap-makers, tanners, shoe-makers, blacksmiths, millers, bakers, cooks, brick-makers, carters and cart-makers, weavers and spinners, saddlers, ship hands, agriculturists, herdsmen, vintagers;--in a word, they filled all the laborious occupations known to civilized society."[ ] moreover, in many of the missions, plots of land had already been given to individual neophytes who seemed to have intelligence and energy enough to begin an independent life for themselves. but it is idle speculating now as to what would or would not have been done under conditions which never existed. so long as spain refused to recognize mexico's independence, the majority of the friars, as was natural, remained loyal to the spanish government, and yielded with reluctance and under protest, in every instance, to mexico's control. for some years president sarria was under arrest for refusing to take the oath of allegiance to the mexican republic. nevertheless, it not being convenient to remove him and fill his place, he performed all his functions as president of the missions through that time. many other friars refused to take the oath, and left the country in consequence. during three years the secularization project was continually agitated, and at intervals measures initiatory to it were decreed and sometimes acted upon. the shifting governors of unfortunate california legislated for or against the mission interests according to the exigencies of their needs or the warmness or lukewarmness of their religious faith. an act of one year, declaring the indians liberated, and ordering the friars to turn over the mission properties to administrators, would be followed a few years later by an act restoring the power of the friars, and giving back to them all that remained to be rescued of the mission properties and converts. all was anarchy and confusion. during the fifty-five years that california was under spanish rule she had but nine governors. during the twenty-four that she was under mexican misrule she had thirteen. it would be interesting to know what the indian populations thought, as they watched these quarrellings and intrigues among the christians who were held up to them as patterns for imitation. in a curious pamphlet left by one of the old friars, father boscana, is told a droll story of the logical inferences some of them drew from the political situations among their supposed betters. it was a band of san diego indians. when they heard that the spanish viceroy in the city of mexico had been killed, and a mexican made emperor in his place, they forthwith made a great feast, burned up their chief, and elected a new one in his stead. to the stringent reproofs of the horrified friars they made answer: "have you not done the same in mexico? you say your king was not good, and you killed him. well, our captain was not good, and we burned him. if the new one turns out bad, we will burn him too,"--a memorable instance of the superiority of example to precept. at last, in , the final blow fell on the missions. the governor of california, in compliance with instructions received from mexico, issued an authoritative edict for their secularization. it was a long document, and had many significant provisions in it. it said that the indians were now to be "emancipated." but the th article said that they "should be obliged to join in such labors of community as are indispensable, in the opinion of the political chief, in the cultivation of the vineyards, gardens, and fields, which for the present remain unapportioned." this was a curious sort of emancipation; and it is not surprising to read, in the political records of the time, such paragraphs as this: "out of one hundred and sixty indian families at san diego, to whom emancipation was offered by governor figueroa, only ten could be induced to accept it." the friars were to hand over all records and inventories to stewards or administrators appointed. boards of magistrates were also appointed for each village. one half of the movable property was to be divided among the "emancipated persons," and to each head of a family was to be given four hundred square yards of land. everything else--lands, movable properties, property of all classes--was to be put into the hands of the administrator, to be held subject to the federal government. out of these properties the administrators were to provide properly for the support of the father or fathers left in charge of the church, the church properties, and the souls of the "emancipated persons." a more complete and ingenious subversion of the previously existing state of things could not have been devised; and it is hard to conceive how any student of the history of the period can see, in its shaping and sudden enforcing, anything except bold and unprincipled greed hiding itself under specious cloaks of right. says dwinelle, in his "colonial history:"-- "beneath these specious pretexts was undoubtedly a perfect understanding between the government of mexico and the leading men in california, that in such a condition of things the supreme government might absorb the pious fund, under the pretence that it was no longer necessary for missionary purposes, and thus had reverted to the state as a quasi escheat, while the co-actors in california should appropriate the local wealth of the missions by the rapid and sure process of administering their temporalities." of the manner in which the project was executed, dwinelle goes on to say:-- "these laws, whose ostensible purpose was to convert the missionary establishments into indian pueblos, their churches into parish churches, and to elevate the christianized indians to the rank of citizens, were after all executed in such a manner that the so-called secularization of the missions resulted in their plunder and complete ruin, and in the demoralization and dispersion of the christianized indians." it is only just to remember, however, that these laws and measures were set in force in a time of revolution, when even the best measures and laws could have small chance of being fairly executed, and that a government which is driven, as mexico was, to recruiting its colonial forces by batches of selected prison convicts, is entitled to pity, if not charity, in our estimates of its conduct. of course, the position of administrator of a mission became at once a political reward and a chance for big gains, and simply, therefore, a source and centre of bribery and corruption. between the governors--who now regarded the mission establishments as state property, taking their cattle or grain as freely as they would any other revenue, and sending orders to a mission for tallow as they would draw checks on the treasury--and the administrators, who equally regarded them as easy places for the filling of pockets, the wealth of the missions disappeared as dew melts in the sun. through all this the indians were the victims. they were, under the administrators, compelled to work far harder than before; they were ill-fed and ill-treated; they were hired out in gangs to work in towns or on farms, under masters who regarded them simply as beasts of burden; their rights to the plots of land which had been set off for them were, almost without exception, ignored. a more pitiable sight has not often been seen on earth than the spectacle of this great body of helpless, dependent creatures, suddenly deprived of their teachers and protectors, thrown on their own resources, and at the mercy of rapacious and unscrupulous communities, in time of revolution. the best comment on their sufferings is to be found in the statistics of the mission establishments after a few years of the administrators' reign. in there were, according to the lowest estimates, from fifteen to twenty thousand indians in the missions. de mofras's statistics give the number as , . in there were left, all told, but six thousand. in many of the missions there were less than one hundred. according to de mofras, the cattle, sheep, horses, and mules, in , numbered , ; in , but , . other estimates put the figures for considerably lower. it is not easy to determine which are true; but the most moderate estimates of all tell the story with sufficient emphasis. there is also verbal testimony on these points still to be heard in california, if one has patience and interest enough in the subject to listen to it. there are still living, wandering about, half blind, half starved, in the neighborhood of the mission sites, old indians who recollect the mission times in the height of their glory. their faces kindle with a sad flicker of recollected happiness, as they tell of the days when they had all they wanted to eat, and the _padres_ were so good and kind: "bueno tiempo! bueno tiempo," they say, with a hopeless sigh and shake of the head. under the new _régime_ the friars suffered hardly less than the indians. some fled the country, unable to bear the humiliations and hardships of their positions under the control of the administrators or majors-domo, and dependent on their caprice for shelter and even for food. among this number was father antonio peyri, who had been for over thirty years in charge of the splendid mission of san luis rey. in , two years after its founding, this mission had indians. in it had , ; it owned over twenty thousand head of cattle, and nearly twenty thousand sheep. it controlled over two hundred thousand acres of land, and there were raised in its fields in one year three thousand bushels of wheat, six thousand of barley, and ten thousand of corn. no other mission had so fine a church. it was one hundred and sixty feet long, fifty wide, and sixty high, with walls four feet thick. a tower at one side held a belfry for eight bells. the corridor on the opposite side had two hundred and fifty-six arches. its gold and silver ornaments are said to have been superb. when father peyri made up his mind to leave the country, he slipped off by night to san diego, hoping to escape without the indians' knowledge. but, missing him in the morning, and knowing only too well what it meant, five hundred of them mounted their ponies in hot haste, and galloped all the way to san diego, forty-five miles, to bring him back by force. they arrived just as the ship, with father peyri on board, was weighing anchor. standing on the deck, with outstretched arms he blessed them, amid their tears and loud cries. some flung themselves into the water and swam after the ship. four reached it, and clinging to its sides, so implored to be taken that the father consented, and carried them with him to rome, where one of them became a priest. there were other touching instances in which the fathers refused to be separated from their indian converts, and remained till the last by their side, sharing all their miseries and deprivations. de mofras, in his visit to the country in , found, at the mission of san luis obispo, father azagonais, a very old man, living in a hut, like the indians, sleeping on a rawhide on the bare ground, with no drinking-vessel but an ox-horn, and no food but some dried meat hanging in the sun. the little he had he shared with the few indians who still lingered there. benevolent persons had offered him asylum; but he refused, saying that he would die at his post. at the san antonio mission de mofras found another aged friar, father gutierrez, living in great misery. the administrator of this mission was a man who had been formerly a menial servant in the establishment; he had refused to provide father gutierrez with the commonest necessaries, and had put him on an allowance of food barely sufficient to keep him alive. at soledad was a still more pitiful case. father sarria, who had labored there for thirty years, refused to leave the spot, even after the mission was so ruined that it was not worth any administrator's while to keep it. he and the handful of indians who remained loyal to their faith and to him lived on there, growing poorer and poorer each day; he sharing his every morsel of food with them, and starving himself, till, one sunday morning, saying mass at the crumbling altar, he fainted, fell forward, and died in their arms, of starvation. this was in . only eight years before, this soledad mission had owned thirty-six thousand cattle, seventy thousand sheep, three hundred yoke of working oxen, more horses than any other mission, and had an aqueduct, fifteen miles long, supplying water enough to irrigate twenty thousand acres of land. for ten years after the passage of the secularization act, affairs went steadily on from bad to worse with the missions. each governor had his own plans and devices for making the most out of them, renting them, dividing them into parcels for the use of colonists, establishing pueblos on them, making them subject to laws of bankruptcy, and finally selling them. the departmental assemblies sometimes indorsed and sometimes annulled the acts of the governors. in governor micheltorena proclaimed that the twelve southern missions should be restored to the church, and that the government would not make another grant of land without the consent of the friars. this led to a revolution, or rather an ebullition, and micheltorena was sent out of the country. to him succeeded pio pico, who remained in power till the occupation of california by the united states forces in . during the reign of pio pico, the ruin of the mission establishments was completed. they were at first sold or rented in batches to the highest bidders. there was first a preliminary farce of proclamation to the indians to return and take possession of the missions if they did not want them sold. these proclamations were posted up in the pueblos for months before the sales. in the indians of dolores, soledad, san miguel, la purissima, and san rafael[ ] were thus summoned to come back to their missions,--a curious bit of half conscience-stricken, half politic recognition of the indians' ownership of the lands, the act of the departmental assembly saying that if they (the indians) did not return before such a date, the government would declare said missions to be "without owners," and dispose of them accordingly. there must have been much bitter speech in those days when news of these proclamations reached the wilds where the mission indians had taken refuge. at last, in march, , an act of the departmental assembly made the missions liable to the laws of bankruptcy, and authorized the governor to sell them to private persons. as by this time all the missions that had any pretence of existence left had been run hopelessly into debt, proceedings in regard to them were much simplified by this act. in the same year the president of mexico issued an order to governor pico to use all means within his power to raise money to defend the country against the united states; and under color of this double authorization the governor forthwith proceeded to sell missions right and left. he sold them at illegal private sales; he sold them for insignificant sums, and for sums not paid at all; whether he was, to use the words of a well-known legal brief in one of the celebrated california land cases, "wilfully ignorant or grossly corrupt," there is no knowing, and it made no difference in the result. one of the last acts of the departmental assembly, before the surrender of the country, was to declare all governor pico's sales of mission property null and void. and one of governor pico's last acts was, as soon as he had made up his mind to run away out of the country, to write to some of his special friends and ask them if there were anything else they would like to have him give them before his departure. on the th of july, , the american flag was raised in monterey, and formal possession of california was taken by the united states. the proclamation of admiral sloat on this memorable occasion included these words: "all persons holding title to real estate, or in quiet possession of lands under color of right, shall have those titles and rights guaranteed to them." "color of right" is a legal phrase, embodying a moral idea, an obligation of equity. if the united states government had kept this guarantee, there would be living in comfortable homesteads in california to-day many hundreds of people that are now homeless and beggared,--mexicans as well as indians. the army officers in charge of different posts in california, in these first days of the united states' occupation of the country, were perplexed and embarrassed by nothing so much as by the confusion existing in regard to the mission properties and lands. everywhere men turned up with bills of sale from governor pico. at the san diego mission the ostensible owner, one estudillo by name, confessed frankly that he "did not think it right to dispose of the indians' property in that way; but as everybody was buying missions, he thought he might as well have one." in many of the missions, squatters, without show or semblance of title, were found; these the officers turned out. finally, general kearney, to save the trouble of cutting any more gordian knots, declared that all titles of missions and mission lands must be held in abeyance till the united states government should pronounce on them. for several years the question remained unsettled, and the mission properties were held by those who had them in possession at the time of the surrender. but in the united states land commission gave, in reply to a claim and petition from the catholic bishop of california, a decision which, considered with reference to the situation of the mission properties at the time of the united states' possession, was perhaps as near to being equitable as the circumstances would admit. but, considered with reference to the status of the mission establishments under the spanish rule, to their original extent, the scope of the work, and the magnificent success of their experiment up to the time of the revolutions, it seems a sadly inadequate return of property once rightfully held. still, it was not the province of the united states to repair the injustices or make good the thefts of spain and mexico; and any attempt to clear up the tangle of confiscations, debts, frauds, and robberies in california, for the last quarter of a century before the surrender, would have been bootless work. the land commissioner's decision was based on the old spanish law which divided church property into two classes, sacred and ecclesiastical, and held it to be inalienable, except in case of necessity, and then only according to provisions of canon law; in the legal term, it was said to be "out of commerce." the sacred property was that which had been in a formal manner consecrated to god,--church buildings, sacred vessels, vestments, etc. ecclesiastical property was land held by the church, and appropriated to the maintenance of divine worship, or the support of the ministry; buildings occupied by the priests, or necessary for their convenience; gardens, etc. following a similar division, the property of the mission establishments was held by the land commission to be of two sorts,--mission property and church property: the mission property, embracing the great tracts of land formerly cultivated for the community's purpose, it was decided, must be considered as government property; the church property, including, with the church buildings, houses of priests, etc., such smaller portions of land as were devoted to the immediate needs of the ministry, it was decided must still rightfully go to the church. how many acres of the old gardens, orchards, vineyards, of the missions could properly be claimed by the church under this head, was of course a question; and it seems to have been decided on very different bases in different missions, as some received much more than others. but all the church buildings, priests' houses, and some acres of land, more or less, with each, were pronounced by this decision to have been "before the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo solemnly dedicated to the use of the church, and therefore withdrawn from commerce;" "such an interest is protected by the provisions of the treaty, and must be held inviolate under our laws." thus were returned at last, into the inalienable possession of the catholic church, all that were left of the old mission churches, and some fragments of the mission lands. many of them are still in operation as curacies; others are in ruins; of some not a trace is left,--not even a stone. at san diego the walls of the old church are still standing, unroofed, and crumbling daily. it was used as a cavalry barracks during the war of , and has been a sheepfold since. opposite it is an olive orchard, of superb hoary trees still in bearing; a cactus wall twenty feet high, and a cluster of date palms, are all that remain of the friars' garden. at san juan capistrano, the next mission to the north, some parts of the buildings are still habitable. service is held regularly in one of the small chapels. the priest lives there, and ekes out his little income by renting some of the mouldering rooms. the church is a splendid ruin. it was of stone, a hundred and fifty feet long by a hundred in width, with walls five feet thick, a dome eighty feet high, and a fine belfry of arches in which four bells rang. it was thrown down by an earthquake in , on the day of the feast of the immaculate conception. morning mass was going on, and the church was thronged; thirty persons were killed, and many more injured. the little hamlet of san juan capistrano lies in harbor, as it were, looking out on its glimpse of sea, between two low spurs of broken and rolling hills, which in june are covered with shining yellow and blue and green, iridescent as a peacock's neck. it is worth going across the continent to come into the village at sunset of a june day. the peace, silence, and beauty of the spot are brooded over and dominated by the grand gray ruin, lifting the whole scene into an ineffable harmony. wandering in room after room, court after court, through corridors with red-tiled roofs and hundreds of broad roman arches, over fallen pillars, and through carved doorways, whose untrodden thresholds have sunk out of sight in summer grasses, one asks himself if he be indeed in america. on the interior walls are still to be seen spaces of brilliant fresco-work, in byzantine patterns of superb red, pale green, gray and blue; and the corridors are paved with tiles, large and square. it was our good fortune to have with us, in san juan capistrano, a white-haired mexican, who in his boyhood had spent a year in the mission. he remembered as if it were yesterday its bustling life of fifty years ago, when the arched corridor ran unbroken around the great courtyard, three hundred feet square, and was often filled with indians, friars, officers, and gay mexican ladies looking on at a bull-fight in the centre. he remembered the splendid library, filled from ceiling to floor with books, extending one whole side of the square: in a corner, where had been the room in which he used to see sixty indian women weaving at looms, we stood ankle-deep in furzy weeds and grass. he showed us the doorway, now closed up, which led into the friars' parlor. to this door, every sunday, after mass, came the indians, in long processions, to get their weekly gifts. each one received something,--a handkerchief, dress, trinket, or money. while their gifts were being distributed, a band of ten or twelve performers, all indians, played lively airs on brass and stringed instruments. in a little baptistery, dusky with cobweb and mould, we found huddled a group of wooden statues of saints, which once stood in niches in the church; on their heads were faded and brittle wreaths, left from the last occasion on which they had done duty. one had lost an eye; another a hand. the gilding and covering of their robes were dimmed and defaced. but they had a dignity which nothing could destroy. the contours were singularly expressive and fine, and the rendering of the drapery was indeed wonderful,--flowing robes and gathered and lifted mantles, all carved in solid wood. there are statues of this sort to be seen in several of the old mission churches. they were all carved by the indians, many of whom showed great talent in that direction. there is also in the office of the justice--or alcalde, as he is still called--of san juan capistrano, a carved chair of noticeably bold and graceful design made by indian workmen. a few tatters of heavy crimson brocade hang on it still, relics of the time when it formed part of a gorgeous paraphernalia and service. even finer than the ruins of san juan capistrano are those of the church at san luis rey. it has a perfectly proportioned dome over the chancel, and beautiful groined arches on either hand and over the altar. four broad pilasters on each side of the church are frescoed in a curious mixing of blues, light and dark, with reds and black, which have faded and blended into a delicious tone. a byzantine pulpit hanging high on the wall, and three old wooden statues in niches, are the only decorations left. piles of dirt and rubbish fill the space in front of the altar, and grass and weeds are growing in the corners; great flocks of wild doves live in the roof, and have made the whole place unclean and foul-aired. an old mexican, eighty years old, a former servant of the mission, has the ruin in charge, and keeps the doors locked still, as if there were treasure to guard. the old man is called "alcalde" by the village people, and seems pleased to be so addressed. his face is like wrinkled parchment, and he walks bent into a parenthesis, but his eyes are bright and young. as he totters along, literally holding his rags together, discoursing warmly of the splendors he recollects, he seems indeed a ghost from the old times. the most desolate ruin of all is that of the la purissima mission. it is in the lompoc valley, two days' easy journey north of santa barbara. nothing is left there but one long, low adobe building, with a few arches of the corridor; the doors stand open, the roof is falling in: it has been so often used as a stable and sheepfold, that even the grasses are killed around it. the painted pulpit hangs half falling on the wall, its stairs are gone, and its sounding-board is slanting awry. inside the broken altar-rail is a pile of stones, earth, and rubbish, thrown up by seekers after buried treasures; in the farther corner another pile and hole, the home of a badger; mud-swallows' nests are thick on the cornice, and cobwebbed rags of the old canvas ceiling hang fluttering overhead. the only trace of the ancient cultivation is a pear-orchard a few rods off, which must have been a splendid sight in its day; it is at least two hundred yards square, with a double row of trees all around, so placed as to leave between them a walk fifty or sixty feet wide. bits of broken aqueduct here and there, and a large, round stone tank overgrown by grass, showed where the life of the orchard used to flow in, it has been many years slowly dying of thirst. many of the trees are gone, and those that remain stretch out gaunt and shrivelled boughs, which, though still bearing fruit, look like arms tossing in vain reproach and entreaty; a few pinched little blossoms seemed to heighten rather than lessen their melancholy look. at san juan bautista there lingers more of the atmosphere of the olden time than is to be found in any other place in california. the mission church is well preserved; its grounds are enclosed and cared for; in its garden are still blooming roses and vines, in the shelter of palms, and with the old stone sun-dial to tell time. in the sacristy are oak chests, full of gorgeous vestments of brocades, with silver and gold laces. on one of these robes is an interesting relic. a lost or worn-out silken tassel had been replaced by the patient indian workers with one of fine-shredded rawhide; the shreds wound with silver wire, and twisted into tiny rosettes and loops, closely imitating the silver device. the church fronts south, on a little green locust walled plaza,--the sleepiest, sunniest, dreamiest place in the world. to the east the land falls off abruptly, so that the paling on that side of the plaza is outlined against the sky, and its little locked gate looks as if it would open into the heavens. the mission buildings used to surround this plaza; after the friars' day came rich men living there; and a charming inn is kept now in one of their old adobe houses. on the east side of the church is a succession of three terraces leading down to a valley. on the upper one is the old graveyard, in which it is said there are sleeping four thousand indians. in there were spoken at this mission thirteen different indian dialects. just behind the church is an orphan girls' school, kept by the sisters of the sacred heart. at six o'clock every morning the bells of the church ring for mass as they used to ring when over a thousand indians flocked at the summons. to-day, at the sound, there comes a procession of little girls and young maidens, the black-robed sisters walking before them with crossed hands and placid faces. one or two mexican women, with shawls over their heads, steal across the faint paths of the plaza, and enter the church. i shall always recollect the morning when i went, too. the silence of the plaza was in itself a memorial service, with locust blossoms swinging incense. it was barely dawn in the church. as the shrill yet sweet childish voices lifted up the strains of the kyrie eleison, i seemed to see the face of father junipero in the dim lighted chancel, and the benediction was as solemn as if he himself had spoken it. why the little town of san juan bautista continues to exist is a marvel. it is shut out and cut off from everything; only two or three hundred souls are left in it; its streets are grass-grown; half its houses are empty. but it has a charm of sun, valley, hill, and seaward off-look unsurpassed in all california. lingering out a peaceful century there are many old men and women, whose memories are like magic glasses, reproducing the pictures of the past. one such we found: a mexican woman eighty-five years old, portly, jolly, keen-tongued, keen-eyed; the widow of one of the soldiers of the old mission guard. she had had twelve children; she had never been ill a week in her life; she is now the village nurse, and almost doctor. sixty years back she remembered. "the indians used to be in san juan bautista like sheep," she said, "by the thousand and thousand." they were always good, and the padres were always kind. fifty oxen were killed for food every eight days, and everybody had all he wanted to eat. there was much more water then than now, plenty of rain, and the streams always full. "i don't know whether you or we were bad, that it has been taken away by god," she said, with a quick glance, half humorous, half antagonistic. the santa barbara mission is still in the charge of franciscans, the only one remaining in their possession. it is now called a college for apostolic missionary work, and there are living within its walls eight members of the order. one of them is very old,--a friar of the ancient _régime_; his benevolent face is well known throughout the country, and there are in many a town and remote hamlet men and women who wait always for his coming before they will make confession. he is like st. francis's first followers: the obligations of poverty and charity still hold to him the literal fulness of the original bond. he gives away garment after garment, leaving himself without protection against cold; and the brothers are forced to lock up and hide from him all provisions, or he would leave the house bare of food. he often kneels from midnight to dawn on the stone floor of the church, praying and chanting psalms; and when a terrible epidemic of small-pox broke out some years ago, he labored day and night, nursing the worst victims of it, shriving them, and burying them with his own hands. he is past eighty, and has not much longer to stay. he has outlived many things beside his own prime: the day of the sort of faith and work to which his spirit is attuned has passed by forever. the mission buildings stand on high ground, three miles from the beach, west of the town and above it, looking to the sea. in the morning the sun's first rays flash full on its front, and at evening they linger late on its western wall. it is an inalienable benediction to the place. the longer one stays there the more he is aware of the influence on his soul, as well as of the importance in the landscape of the benign and stately edifice. on the corridor of the inner court hangs a bell which is rung for the hours of the daily offices and secular duties. it is also struck whenever a friar dies, to announce that all is over. it is the duty of the brother who has watched the last breath of the dying one to go immediately and strike this bell. its sad note has echoed many times through the corridors. one of the brothers said, last year,-- "the first time i rang that bell to announce a death, there were fifteen of us left. now there are only eight." the sentence itself fell on my ear like the note of a passing-bell. it seems a not unfitting last word to this slight and fragmentary sketch of the labors of the franciscan order in california. still more fitting, however, are the words of a historian, who, living in california and thoroughly knowing its history from first to last, has borne the following eloquent testimony to the friars and their work:-- "the results of the mission scheme of christianization and colonization were such as to justify the plans of the wise statesman who devised it, and to gladden the hearts of the pious men who devoted their lives to its execution. "at the end of sixty years the missionaries of upper california found themselves in the possession of twenty-one prosperous missions, planted on a line of about seven hundred miles, running from san diego north to the latitude of sonoma. more than thirty thousand indian converts were lodged in the mission buildings, receiving religious culture, assisting at divine worship, and cheerfully performing their easy tasks.... if we ask where are now the thirty thousand christianized indians who once enjoyed the beneficence and created the wealth of the twenty-one catholic missions of california, and then contemplate the most wretched of all want of systems which has surrounded them under our own government, we shall not withhold our admiration from those good and devoted men who, with such wisdom, sagacity, and self-sacrifice, reared these wonderful institutions in the wilderness of california. they at least would have preserved these indian races if they had been left to pursue unmolested their work of pious beneficence."[ ] note.--the author desires to express her acknowledgments to h. h. bancroft, of san francisco, who kindly put at her disposal all the resources of his invaluable library; also to the superior of the franciscan college in santa barbara, for the loan of important books and manuscripts and the photograph of father junipero. the present condition of the mission indians in southern california. the old laws of the kingdom of the indies are interesting reading, especially those portions of them relating to indians. a certain fine and chivalrous quality of honor toward the helpless and tenderness toward the dependent runs all through their quaint and cumbrous paragraphs. it is not until one studies these laws in connection with the history of the confusions and revolutions of the secularization period, and of the american conquest of california, that it becomes possible to understand how the california mission indians could have been left so absolutely unprotected, as they were, in the matter of ownership of the lands they had cultivated for sixty years. "we command," said the spanish king, "that the sale, grant, and composition of lands be executed with such attention that the indians be left in possession of the full amount of lands belonging to them, either singly or in communities, together with their rivers and waters; and the lands which they shall have drained or otherwise improved, whereby they may by their own industry have rendered them fertile, are reserved, in the first place, and can in no case be sold or aliened. and the judges who have been sent thither shall specify what indians they may have found on the land, and what lands they shall have left in possession of each of the elders of tribes, caciques, governors, or communities." grazing estates for cattle are ordered to be located "apart from the fields and villages of the indians." the king's command is that no such estates shall be granted "in any parts or place where any damage can accrue to the indians." every grant of land must be made "without prejudice to the indians;" and "such as may have been granted to their prejudice and injury" must be "restored to whomever they by right shall belong." "in order to avoid the inconveniences and damages resulting from the sale or gift to spaniards of tracts of land to the prejudice of indians, upon the suspicious testimony of witnesses," the king orders that all sales and gifts are to be made before the attorneys of the royal audiencias, and "always with an eye to the benefit of the indians;" and "the king's solicitors are to be protectors of the indians and plead for them." "after distributing to the indians what they may justly want to cultivate, sow, and raise cattle, confirming to them what they now hold, and granting what they may want besides, all the remaining land may be reserved to us," says the old decree, "clear of any incumbrance, for the purpose of being given as rewards, or disposed of according to our pleasure." in those day's everything in new spain was thus ordered by royal decrees. nobody had grants of land in the sense in which we use the word. when the friars wished to reward an industrious and capable indian, and test his capacity to take care of himself and family, by giving him a little farm of his own, all they had to do, or did, was to mark off the portion of land, put the indian on it and tell him it was his. there would appear to have been little more formality than this in the establishing of the indian pueblos which were formed in the beginning of the secularization period. governor figueroa, in an address in , speaks of three of these, san juan capistrano, san dieguito, and las flores, says that they are flourishing, and that the comparison between the condition of these indians and that of the spanish townsmen in the same region is altogether in favor of the indians. on nov. , , eighty-one "desafiliados"--as the ex-neophytes of missions were called--of the san luis rey mission settled themselves in the san pasqual valley, which was an appanage of that mission. these indian communities appear to have had no documents to show their right, either as communities or individuals, to the land on which they had settled. at any rate, they had nothing which amounted to a protection, or stood in the way of settlers who coveted their lands. it is years since the last trace of the pueblos las flores and san dieguito disappeared; and the san pasqual valley is entirely taken up by white settlers, chiefly on pre-emption claims. san juan capistrano is the only one of the four where are to be found any indians' homes. if those who had banded themselves together and had been set off into pueblos had no recognizable or defensible title, how much more helpless and defenceless were individuals, or small communities without any such semblance of pueblo organization! most of the original mexican grants included tracts of land on which indians were living, sometimes large villages of them. in many of these grants, in accordance with the old spanish law or custom, was incorporated a clause protecting the indians. they were to be left undisturbed in their homes: the portion of the grant occupied by them did not belong to the grantee in any such sense as to entitle him to eject them. the land on which they were living, and the land they were cultivating at the time of the grant, belonged to them as long as they pleased to occupy it. in many of the grants the boundaries of the indians' reserved portion of the property were carefully marked off; and the instances were rare in which mexican grantees disturbed or in any way interfered with indians living on their estates. there was no reason why they should. there was plenty of land and to spare, and it was simply a convenience and an advantage to have the skilled and docile indian laborer on the ground. but when the easy-going, generous, improvident mexican needed or desired to sell his grant, and the sharp american was on hand to buy it, then was brought to light the helplessness of the indians' position. what cared the sharp american for that sentimental clause, "without injury to the indians"? not a farthing. why should he? his government, before him, had decided that all the lands belonging to the old missions, excepting the small portions technically held as church property, and therefore "out of commerce," were government lands. none of the indians living on those lands at the time of the american possession were held to have any right--not even "color of right"--to them. that they and their ancestors had been cultivating them for three quarters of a century made no difference. americans wishing to pre-empt claims on any of these so-called government lands did not regard the presence on them of indian families or communities as any more of a barrier than the presence of so many coyotes or foxes. they would not hesitate to certify to the land office that such lands were "unoccupied." still less, then, need the purchaser of tracts covered by old mexican grants hold himself bound to regard the poor cumberers of the ground, who, having no legal right whatever, had been all their years living on the tolerance of a silly, good-hearted mexican proprietor. the american wanted every rod of his land, every drop of water on it; his schemes were boundless; his greed insatiable; he had no use for indians. his plan did not embrace them, and could not enlarge itself to take them in. they must go. this is, in brief, the summing up of the way in which has come about the present pitiable state of the california mission indians. in a report in regard to these indians was made to the interior department by the hon. b. d. wilson, of los angeles. it is an admirable paper, clear and exhaustive. mr. wilson was an old californian, had known the indians well, and had been eyewitness to much of the cruelty and injustice done them. he says:-- "in the fall of the missions, accomplished by private cupidity and political ambition, philanthropy laments the failure of one of the grandest experiments ever made for the elevation of this unfortunate race." he estimates that there were at that time in the counties of tulare, santa barbara, los angeles, and san diego over fifteen thousand indians who had been connected with the missions in those counties. they were classified as the tulareños, cahuillas, san luiseños, and diegueños, the latter two being practically one nation, speaking one language, and being more generally christianized than the others. they furnished, mr. wilson says, "the majority of the laborers, mechanics, and servants of san diego and los angeles counties." they all spoke the spanish language, and a not inconsiderable number could read and write it. they had built all the houses in the country, had taught the whites how to make brick, mud mortar, how to use asphalt on roofs; they understood irrigation, were good herders, reapers, etc. they were paid only half the wages paid to whites; and being immoderate gamblers, often gambled away on saturday night and sunday all they had earned in the week. at that time in los angeles nearly every other house in town was a grog-shop for indians. in the san pasqual valley there were twenty white vagabonds, all rum-sellers, squatted at one time around the indian pueblo. the los angeles ayuntamiento had passed an edict declaring that "all indians without masters"--significant phrase!--must live outside the town limits; also, that all indians who could not show papers from the alcalde of the pueblo in which they lived, should be treated as "horse thieves and enemies." on sunday nights the squares and streets of los angeles were often to be seen full of indians lying about helpless in every stage of intoxication. they were picked up by scores, unconscious, carried to jail, locked up, and early monday morning hired out to the highest bidders at the jail gates. horrible outrages were committed on indian women and children. in some instances the indians armed to avenge these, and were themselves killed. these are a few out of hundreds of similar items to be gathered from the newspaper records of the time. conditions such as these could have but one outcome. twenty years later, when another special report on the condition of the california mission indians was asked for by the government, not over five thousand indians remained to be reported on. vice and cruelty had reaped large harvests each year. many of the rich valleys, which at the time of mr. wilson's report had been under cultivation by indians, were now filled by white settlers, the indians all gone, no one could tell where. in some instances whole villages of them had been driven off at once by fraudulently procured and fraudulently enforced claims. one of the most heart-rending of these cases was that of the temecula indians. the temecula valley lies in the northeast corner of san diego county. it is watered by two streams and has a good soil. the southern california railroad now crosses it. it was an appanage of the san luis rey mission, and the two hundred indians who were living there were the children and grandchildren of san luis rey neophytes. the greater part of the valley was under cultivation. they had cattle, horses, sheep. in a "special agent" of the united states government held a grand indian convention there. eighteen villages were represented, and the numbers of inhabitants, stock, vineyards, orchards, were reported. the indians were greatly elated at this evidence of the government's good intentions toward them. they set up a tall liberty-pole, and bringing forth a united states flag, which they had kept carefully hidden away ever since the beginning of the civil war, they flung it out to the winds in token of their loyalty. "it is astonishing," says one of the san diego newspapers of the day, "that these indians have behaved so well, considering the pernicious teachings they have had from the secessionists in our midst." there was already anxiety in the minds of the temecula indians as to their title to their lands. all that was in existence to show that they had any, was the protecting clause in an old mexican grant. to be sure, the man was still alive who had assisted in marking off the boundaries of their part of this original temecula grant; but his testimony could establish nothing beyond the letter of the clause as it stood. they earnestly implored the agent to lay the case before the interior department. whether he did or not i do not know, but this is the sequel: on april , , an action was brought in the district court, in san francisco, by five men, against "andrew johnson, thaddeus stevens, horace greeley, and one thousand indians, and other parties whose names are unknown." it was "a bill to quit title," an "action to recover possession of certain real estate bounded thus and thus." it included the temecula valley. it was based on grants made by governor micheltorena in . the defendants cited were to appear in court within twenty days. the indians appealed to the catholic bishop to help them. he wrote to one of the judges an imploring letter, saying, "can you not do something to save these poor indians from being driven out?" but the scheme had been too skilfully plotted. there was no way--or, at any rate, no way was found--of protecting the indians. the day came when a sheriff, bringing a posse of men and a warrant which could not be legally resisted, arrived to eject the indian families from their house and drive them out of the valley. the indians' first impulse was as determined as it could have been if they had been white, to resist the outrage. but on being reasoned with by friends, who sadly and with shame explained to them that by thus resisting, they would simply make it the duty of the sheriff to eject them by force, and, if necessary, shoot down any who opposed the executing of his warrant, they submitted. but they refused to lift hand to the moving. they sat down, men and women, on the ground, and looked on, some wailing and weeping, some dogged and silent, while the sheriff and his men took out of the neat little adobe houses their small stores of furniture, clothes, and food, and piled them on wagons to be carried--where?--anywhere the exiles chose, so long as they did not chance to choose a piece of any white man's land. a mexican woman is now living in that temecula valley who told me the story of this moving. the facts i had learned before from records of one sort and another. but standing on the spot, looking at the ruins of the little adobe houses, and the walled graveyard full of graves, and hearing this woman tell how she kept her doors and windows shut, and could not bear to look out while the deed was being done, i realized forcibly how different a thing is history seen from history written and read. it took three days to move them. procession after procession, with cries and tears, walked slowly behind the wagons carrying their household goods. they took the tule roofs off the little houses, and carried them along. they could be used again. some of these indians, wishing to stay as near as possible to their old home, settled in a small valley, only three miles and a half away to the south. it was a dreary, hot little valley, bare, with low, rocky buttes cropping out on either side, and with scanty growths of bushes; there was not a drop of water in it. here the exiles went to work again; built their huts of reeds and straw; set up a booth of boughs for the priest, when he came, to say mass in; and a rude wooden cross to consecrate their new graveyard on a stony hill-side. they put their huts on barren knolls here and there, where nothing could grow. on the tillable land they planted wheat or barley or orchards,--some patches not ten feet square, the largest not over three or four acres. they hollowed out the base of one of the rocky buttes, sunk a well there, and found water. i think none of us who saw this little refugee village will ever forget it. the whole place was a series of pictures; and knowing its history, we found in each low roof and paling the dignity of heroic achievement. near many of the huts stood great round baskets woven of twigs, reaching half-way up to the eaves and looking like huge birds'-nests. these were their granaries, holding acorns and wheat. women with red pottery jars on their heads and on their backs were going to and from the well; old men were creeping about, bent over, carrying loads of fagots that would have seemed heavy for a donkey; aged women sitting on the ground were diligently plaiting baskets, too busy or too old to give more than a passing look at us. a group of women was at work washing wool in great stone bowls, probably hundreds of years old. the interiors of some of the houses were exquisitely neat and orderly, with touching attempts at adornment,--pretty baskets and shelves hanging on the walls, and over the beds canopies of bright calico. on some of the beds, the sheets and pillow-cases were trimmed with wide hand-wrought lace, made by the indian women themselves. this is one of their arts which date back to the mission days. some of the lace is beautiful and fine, and of patterns like the old church laces. it was pitiful to see the poor creatures in almost every one of the hovels bringing out a yard or two of their lace to sell; and there was hardly a house which had not the lace-maker's frame hanging on the wall, with an unfinished piece of lace stretched in it. the making of this lace requires much time and patience. it is done by first drawing out all the lengthwise threads of a piece of fine linen or cotton; then the threads which are left are sewed over and over into an endless variety of intricate patterns. sometimes the whole design is done in solid button-hole stitch, or solid figures are filled in on an open network made of the threads. the baskets were finely woven, of good shapes, and excellent decorative patterns in brown and black on yellow or white. every face, except those of the very young, was sad beyond description. they were stamped indelibly by generations of suffering, immovable distrust also underlying the sorrow. it was hard to make them smile. to all our expressions of good-will and interest they seemed indifferent, and received in silence the money we paid them for baskets and lace. the word "temecula" is an indian word, signifying "grief" or "mourning." it seems to have had a strangely prophetic fitness for the valley to which it was given. while i am writing these lines, the news comes that, by an executive order of the president, the little valley in which these indians took refuge has been set apart for them as a reservation. no doubt they know how much executive orders creating indian reservations are worth. there have been several such made and revoked in california within their memories. the san pasqual valley was at one time set apart by executive order as a reservation for indians. this was in . there were then living in the valley between two and three hundred indians; some of them had been members of the original pueblo established there in . the comments of the california newspapers on this executive order are amusing, or would be if they did not record such tragedy. it was followed by an outburst of virtuous indignation all along the coast. one paper said: "the iniquity of this scheme is made manifest when we state the fact that the indians of that part of the state are mission indians who are settled in villages and engaged in farming like the white settlers.... it would be gross injustice to the indians themselves as well as to the white settlers in san pasqual.... these indians are as fixed in their habitations as the whites, and have fruit-trees, buildings, and other valuable improvements to make them contented and comfortable. until within the past two or three years they raised more fruit than the white settlers of the southern counties. there is belonging to an indian family there a fig-tree that is the largest in the state, covering a space sixty paces in diameter.... a remonstrance signed by over five hundred citizens and indorsed by every office-holder in the county has gone on to washington against this swindle.... this act on the part of the government is no better than highway robbery, and the persons engaged in it are too base to be called men. there is not a person in either of these valleys that will not be ruined pecuniarily if these orders are enforced." looking through files of newspapers of that time, i found only one that had the moral courage to uphold the measure. that paper said,-- "most of the inhabitants are now indians who desire to be protected in their ancient possessions; and the government is about to give them that protection, after a long delay." one editor, having nearly exhausted the resources of invective and false statement, actually had the hardihood to say that indians could not be induced to live on this reservation because "there are no acorn-bearing trees there, and the acorns furnish their principal food." the congressmen and their clients were successful. the order was revoked. in less than four years the san pasqual indians are heard from again. a justice of the peace in the san pasqual valley writes to the district attorney to know if anything can be done to protect these indians. "last year," he says, "the heart of this rancheria (village) was filed on and pre-empted. the settlers are beginning to plough up the land. the los angeles land office has informed the indians that, not being citizens, they cannot retain any claim. it seems very hard," says the judge, "aside from the danger of difficulties likely to arise from it." about this time a bill introduced in congress to provide homes for the mission indians on the reservation plan was reported unfavorably upon by a senate committee, on the ground that all the mission indians were really american citizens. the year following, the chief of the pala indians, being brought to the county clerk's office to register as a voter, was refused on the ground that, being an indian, he was not a citizen. in a small band of indians living in san diego county were taxed to the amount of six hundred dollars, which they paid, the sheriff said, "without a murmur." the next year they refused. the sheriff wrote to the district attorney, who replied that the tax must be paid. the indians said they had no money. they had only bows, arrows, wigwams, and a few cattle. finally, they were compelled to drive in enough of their cattle to pay the tax. one of the san diego newspapers spoke of the transaction as "a small business to undertake to collect taxes from a parcel of naked indians." the year before these events happened a special agent, john g. ames, had been sent out by the government to investigate and report upon the condition of the mission indians. he had assured them "of the sincere desire of the government to secure their rights and promote their interests, and of its intention to do whatever might be found practicable in this direction." he told them he had been "sent out by the government to hear their story, to examine carefully into their condition, and to recommend such measures as seemed under the circumstances most desirable." mr. ames found in the san pasqual valley a white man who had just built for himself a good house, and claimed to have pre-empted the greater part of the indians' village. he "had actually paid the price of the land to the register of the land office of the district, and was daily expecting the patent from washington. he owned that it was hard to wrest from these well-disposed and industrious creatures the homes they had built up. 'but,' said he, 'if i had not done it, somebody else would; for all agree that the indian has no right to public lands.'" this sketch of the history of the san pasqual and temecula bands of indians is a fair showing of what, with little variation, has been the fate of the mission indians all through southern california. the combination of cruelty and unprincipled greed on the part of the american settlers, with culpable ignorance, indifference, and neglect on the part of the government at washington has resulted in an aggregate of monstrous injustice, which no one can fully realize without studying the facts on the ground. in the winter of i visited this san pasqual valley. i drove over from san diego with the catholic priest, who goes there three or four sundays in a year, to hold service in a little adobe chapel built by the indians in the days of their prosperity. this beautiful valley is from one to three miles wide, and perhaps twelve long. it is walled by high-rolling, soft-contoured hills, which are now one continuous wheat-field. there are, in sight of the chapel, a dozen or so adobe houses, many of which were built by the indians; in all of them except one are now living the robber whites, who have driven the indians out; only one indian still remains in the valley. he earns a meagre living for himself and family by doing day's work for the farmers who have taken his land. the rest of the indians are hidden away in the cañons and rifts of the near hills,--wherever they can find a bit of ground to keep a horse or two and raise a little grain. they have sought the most inaccessible spots, reached often by miles of difficult trail. they have fled into secret lairs like hunted wild beasts. the catholic priest of san diego is much beloved by them. he has been their friend for many years. when he goes to hold service, they gather from their various hiding-places and refuges; sometimes, on a special _fête_ day, over two hundred come. but on the day i was there, the priest being a young man who was a stranger to them, only a few were present. it was a pitiful sight. the dilapidated adobe building, empty and comfortless; the ragged poverty-stricken creatures, kneeling on the bare ground,--a few mexicans, with some gaudiness of attire, setting off the indians' poverty still more. in front of the chapel, on a rough cross-beam supported by two forked posts, set awry in the ground, swung a bell bearing the date of . it was one of the bells of the old san diego mission. standing bareheaded, the priest rang it long and loud: he rang it several times before the leisurely groups that were plainly to be seen in doorways or on roadsides bestirred themselves to make any haste to come. after the service i had a long talk, through an interpreter, with an aged indian, the oldest now living in the county. he is said to be considerably over a hundred, and his looks corroborate the statement. he is almost blind, and has snow-white hair, and a strange voice, a kind of shrill whisper. he says he recollects the rebuilding of the san diego mission; though he was a very little boy then, he helped to carry the mud mortar. this was one hundred and three years ago. instances of much greater longevity than this, however, are not uncommon among the california indians. i asked if he had a good time in the mission. "yes, yes," he said, turning his sightless eyes up to the sky; "much good time," "plenty to eat," "_atole_," "_pozzole_," "meat;" now, "no meat;" "all the time to beg, beg;" "all the time hungry." his wife, who is older than he, is still living, though "her hair is not so white." she was ill, and was with relatives far away in the mountains; he lifted his hand and pointed in the direction of the place. "much sick, much sick; she will never walk any more," he said, with deep feeling in his voice. during the afternoon the indians were continually coming and going at the shop connected with the inn where we had stopped, some four miles from the valley. the keeper of the shop and inn said he always trusted them. they were "good pay." "give them their time and they'll always pay; and if they die their relations will pay the last cent." some of them he would "trust any time as high as twenty dollars." when i asked him how they earned their money, he seemed to have no very distinct idea. some of them had a little stock; they might now and then sell a horse or a cow, he said; they hired as laborers whenever they could get a chance, working at sheep-shearing in the spring and autumn, and at grape-picking in the vintage season. a few of them had a little wheat to sell; sometimes they paid him in wheat. there were not nearly so many of them, however, as there had been when he first opened his shop; not half so many, he thought. where had they gone? he shrugged his shoulders. "who knows?" he said. the most wretched of all the mission indians now, however, are not these who have been thus driven into hill fastnesses and waterless valleys to wrest a living where white men would starve. there is in their fate the climax of misery, but not of degradation. the latter cannot be reached in the wilderness. it takes the neighborhood of the white man to accomplish it. on the outskirts of the town of san diego are to be seen, here and there, huddled groups of what, at a distance, might be taken for piles of refuse and brush, old blankets, old patches of sail-cloth, old calico, dead pine boughs, and sticks all heaped together in shapeless mounds; hollow, one perceives on coming nearer them, and high enough for human beings to creep under. these are the homes of indians. i have seen the poorest huts of the most poverty-stricken wilds in italy, bavaria, norway, and new mexico; but never have i seen anything, in shape of shelter for human creatures, so loathsome as the kennels in which some of the san diego indians are living. most of these indians are miserable, worthless beggars, drunkards of course, and worse. even for its own sake, it would seem that the town would devise some scheme of help and redemption for such outcasts. there is a school in san diego for the indian children; it is supported in part by the government, in part by charity; but work must be practically thrown away on children that are to spend eighteen hours out of the twenty-four surrounded by such filth and vice. coming from the study of the records of the old mission times, with the picture fresh and vivid of the tranquil industry and comfort of the indians' lives in the mission establishments, one gazes with double grief on such a spectacle as this. some of these indian hovels are within a short distance of the beach where the friars first landed, in , and began their work. no doubt, father junipero and father crespí, arm in arm, in ardent converse, full of glowing anticipation of the grand future results of their labors, walked again and again, up and down, on the very spot where these miserable wretches are living to-day. one cannot fancy father junipero's fiery soul, to whatever far sphere it may have been translated, looking down on this ruin without pangs of indignation. there are still left in the mountain ranges of south california a few indian villages which will probably, for some time to come, preserve their independent existence. some of them number as many as two or three hundred inhabitants. each has its chief, or, as he is now called, "capitan." they have their own system of government of the villages; it is autocratic, but in the main it works well. in one of these villages, that of the cahuillas, situated in the san jacinto range, is a school whose teacher is paid by the united states government. she is a widow with one little daughter. she has built for herself a room adjoining the school-house. in this she lives alone, with her child, in the heart of the indian village; there is not a white person within ten miles. she says that the village is as well-ordered, quiet, and peaceable as it is possible for a village to be; and she feels far safer, surrounded by these three hundred cahuillas, than she would feel in most of the california towns. the cahuillas (pronounced kaweeyahs) were one of the fiercest and most powerful of the tribes. the name signifies "master," or "powerful nation." a great number of the neophytes of the san gabriel mission were from this tribe; but a large proportion of them were never attached to any mission. their last great chief, juan antonio, died twenty years ago. at the time of the mexican war he received the title of general from general kearney, and never afterward appeared in the villages of the whites without some fragmentary attempts at military uniform. he must have been a grand character, with all his barbarism. he ruled his band like an emperor, and never rode abroad without an escort of from twenty to thirty men. when he stopped one of his indians ran forward, bent down, took off his spurs, then, kneeling on all-fours, made of his back a stool, on which juan stepped in dismounting and mounting. in an indian of this tribe, having murdered another indian, was taken prisoner by the civil authorities and carried to jurupa to be tried. before the proceedings had begun, juan, with a big following of armed indians, dashed up to the court-house, strode in alone, and demanded that the prisoner be surrendered to him. "i come not here as a child," he said. "i wish to punish my people my own way. if they deserve hanging, i will hang them. if a white man deserves hanging, let the white man hang him. i am done." the prisoner was given up. the indians strapped him on a horse, and rode back to their village, where, in an open grave, the body of the murdered man had been laid. into this grave, on the top of the corpse of his victim, juan antonio, with his own hands, flung the murderer alive, and ordered the grave instantly filled up with earth. there are said to have been other instances of his dealings with offenders nearly as summary and severe as this. he is described as looking like an old african lion, shaggy and fierce; but he was always cordial and affectionate in his relations with the whites. he died in , of small-pox, in a terrible epidemic which carried off thousands of indians. this cahuilla village is in a small valley, high up in the san jacinto range. the indians are very poor, but they are industrious and hard-working. the men raise stock, and go out in bands as sheep-shearers and harvesters. the women make baskets, lace, and from the fibre of the yucca plant, beautiful and durable mats, called "cocas," which are much sought after by california ranchmen as saddle-mats. the yucca fibres are soaked and beaten like flax; some are dyed brown, some bleached white, and the two woven together in a great variety of patterns. in the san jacinto valley, some thirty miles south of these cahuillas, is another indian village called saboba. these indians have occupied and cultivated this ground since the days of the missions. they have good adobe houses, many acres of wheat-fields, little peach and apricot orchards, irrigating ditches, and some fences. in one of the houses i found a neatly laid wooden floor, a sewing-machine, and the walls covered with pictures cut from illustrated newspapers which had been given to them by the school teacher. there is a government school here, numbering from twenty to thirty; the children read as well as average white children of their age, and in manners and in apparent interest in their studies, were far above the average of children in the public schools. one of the colony schemes, so common now in california, has been formed for the opening up and settling of the san jacinto valley. this indian village will be in the colony's way. in fact, the colony must have its lands and its water. it is only a question of a very little time, the driving out of these saboba families as the temeculas and san pasquales were driven,--by force, just as truly as if at the point of the bayonet. in one of the beautiful cañons opening on this valley is the home of victoriano, an aged chief of the band. he is living with his daughter and grandchildren, in a comfortable adobe house at the head of the cañon. the vineyard and peach orchard which his father planted there, are in good bearing. his grandson jesus, a young man twenty years old, in the summer of ploughed up and planted twenty acres of wheat. the boy also studied so faithfully in school that year--his first year at school--that he learned to read well in the "fourth reader;" this in spite of his being absent six weeks, in both spring and autumn, with the sheep-shearing band. a letter of his, written at my request to the secretary of the interior in behalf of his people, is touching in its simple dignity. san jacinto, cal., may , . mr. teller. dear sir,--at the request of my friends, i write you in regard to the land of my people. more than one hundred years ago, my great-grandfather, who was chief of his tribe, settled with his people in the san jacinto valley. the people have always been peaceful, never caring for war, and have welcomed americans into the valley. some years ago a grant of land was given to the estudillos by the mexican government. the first survey did not take in any of the land claimed by the indians; but four years ago a new survey was made, taking in all the little farms, the stream of water, and the village. upon this survey the united states government gave a patent. it seems hard for us to be driven from our homes that we love as much as other people do theirs; and this danger is at our doors now, for the grant is being divided and the village and land will be assigned to some of the present owners of the grant. and now, dear sir, after this statement of facts, i, for my people (i ask nothing for myself), appeal to you for help. cannot you find some way to right this great wrong done to a quiet and industrious people? hoping that we may have justice done us, i am respectfully yours, josÉ jesus castillo. he was at first unwilling to write it, fearing he should be supposed to be begging for himself rather than for his people. his father was a mexican; and he has hoped that on that account their family would be exempt from the fate of the village when the colony comes into the valley. but it is not probable that in a country where water is gold, a stream of water such as runs by victoriano's door will be left long in the possession of any indian family, whatever may be its relations to rich mexican proprietors in the neighborhood. jesus's mother is a tall, superbly formed woman, with a clear skin, hazel nut-brown eyes that thrill one with their limpid brightness, a nose straight and strong, and a mouth like an egyptian priestess. she is past forty, but she is strikingly handsome still; and one does not wonder at hearing the tragedy of her early youth, when, for years, she believed herself the wife of jesus's father, lived in his house as a wife, worked as a wife, and bore him his children. her heart broke when she was sent adrift, a sadder than hagar, with her half-disowned offspring. money and lands did not heal the wound. her face is dark with the sting of it to-day. when i asked her to sell me the lace-trimmed pillow-case and sheet from her bed, her cheeks flushed at first, and she looked away haughtily before replying. but, after a moment, she consented. they needed the money. she knows well that days of trouble are in store for them. since the writing of this paper news has come that the long-expected blow has fallen on this indian village. the colony scheme has been completed; the valley has been divided up; the land on which the village of saboba stands is now the property of a san bernardino merchant. any day he chooses, he can eject these indians as the temecula and the san pasqual bands were ejected, and with far more show of legal right. in the vicinity of the san juan capistrano mission are living a few families of indians, some of them the former neophytes of the mission. an old woman there, named carmen, is a splendid specimen of the best longevity which her race and the california air can produce. we found her in bed, where she spends most of her time,--not lying, but sitting cross-legged, looking brisk and energetic, and always busy making lace. nobody makes finer lace than hers. yet she laughed when we asked if she could see to do such fine work without spectacles. "where could i get spectacles?" she said, her eyes twinkling. then she stretched out her hand for the spectacles of our old mexican friend who had asked her this question for us; took them, turned them over curiously, tried to look through them, shook her head, and handed them back to him with a shrug and a smile. she was twenty years older than he; but her strong, young eyes could not see through his glasses. he recollected her well, fifty years before, an active, handsome woman, taking care of the sacristy, washing the priests' laces, mending vestments, and filling various offices of trust in the mission. a sailor from a french vessel lying in the harbor wished to marry her; but the friars would not give their consent, because the man was a drunkard and dishonest. carmen was well disposed to him, and much flattered by his love-making. he used to write letters to her, which she brought to this mexican boy to read. it was a droll sight to see her face, as he, now white-haired and looking fully as old as she, reminded her of that time and of those letters, tapping her jocosely on her cheek, and saying some things i am sure he did not quite literally translate to us. she fairly colored, buried her face in her hands for a second, then laughed till she shook, and answered in voluble spanish, of which also i suspect we did not get a full translation. she was the happiest indian we saw; indeed, the only one who seemed really gay of heart or even content. a few rods from the old mission church of san gabriel, in a hut made of bundles of the tule reeds lashed to sycamore poles, as the san gabriel indians made them a hundred years ago, live two old indian women, laura and benjamina. laura is one hundred and two years old, benjamina one hundred and seventeen. the record of their baptisms is still to be seen in the church books, so there can be no dispute as to their age. it seems not at all incredible, however. if i had been told that benjamina was a three-thousand-year-old nile mummy, resuscitated by some mysterious process, i should not have demurred much at the tale. the first time i saw them, the two were crouching over a fire on the ground, under a sort of booth porch, in front of their hovel. laura was making a feint of grinding acorn-meal in a stone bowl; benjamina was raking the ashes, with her claw-like old fingers, for hot coals to start the fire afresh; her skin was like an elephant's, shrivelled, black, hanging in folds and welts on her neck and breast and bony arms; it was not like anything human; her shrunken eyes, bright as beads, peered out from under thickets of coarse grizzled gray hair. laura wore a white cloth band around her head, tied on with a strip of scarlet flannel; above that, a tattered black shawl, which gave her the look of an aged imp. old baskets, old pots, old pans, old stone mortars and pestles, broken tiles and bricks, rags, straw, boxes, legless chairs,--in short, all conceivable rubbish,--were strewn about or piled up in the place, making the weirdest of backgrounds for the aged crones' figures. inside the hut were two bedsteads and a few boxes, baskets, and nets; and drying grapes and peppers hung on the walls. a few feet away was another hut, only a trifle better than this; four generations were living in the two. benjamina's step-daughter, aged eighty, was a fine creature. with a white band straight around her forehead close to the eyebrows and a gay plaid handkerchief thrown on above it, falling squarely each side of her face, she looked like an old bedouin sheik. our mexican friend remembered laura as she was fifty years ago. she was then, even at fifty-two, celebrated as one of the swiftest runners and best ball-players in all the san gabriel games. she was a singer, too, in the choir. coaxing her up on her feet, patting her shoulders, entreating and caressing her as one would a child, he succeeded in persuading her to chant for us the lord's prayer and part of the litanies, as she had been wont to do it in the old days. it was a grotesque and incredible sight. the more she stirred and sang and lifted her arms, the less alive she looked. we asked the step-daughter if they were happy and wished to live. laughing, she repeated the question to them. "oh, yes, we wish to live forever," they replied. they were greatly terrified, the daughter said, when the railway cars first ran through san gabriel. they thought it was the devil bringing fire to burn up the world. their chief solace is tobacco. to beg it, benjamina will creep about in the village by the hour, bent double over her staff, tottering at every step. they sit for the most part silent, motionless, on the ground; their knees drawn up, their hands clasped over them, their heads sunk on their breasts. in my drives in the san gabriel valley i often saw them sitting thus, as if they were dead. the sight had an indescribable fascination. it seemed that to be able to penetrate into the recesses of their thoughts would be to lay hold upon secrets as old as the earth. one of the most beautiful appanages of the san luis rey mission, in the time of its prosperity, was the pala valley. it lies about twenty-five miles east of san luis, among broken spurs of the coast range, watered by the san luis river, and also by its own little stream, the pala creek. it was always a favorite home of the indians; and at the time of the secularization, over a thousand of them used to gather at the weekly mass in its chapel. now, on the occasional visits of the san juan capistrano priest, to hold service there, the dilapidated little church is not half filled, and the numbers are growing smaller each year. the buildings are all in decay; the stone steps leading to the belfry have crumbled; the walls of the little graveyard are broken in many places, the paling and the graves are thrown down. on the day we were there, a memorial service for the dead was going on in the chapel; a great square altar was draped with black, decorated with silver lace and ghastly funereal emblems; candles were burning; a row of kneeling black-shawled women were holding lighted candies in their hands; two old indians were chanting a latin mass from a tattered missal bound in rawhide; the whole place was full of chilly gloom, in sharp contrast to the bright valley outside, with its sunlight and silence. this mass was for the soul of an old indian woman named margarita, sister of manuelito, a somewhat famous chief of several bands of the san luiseños. her home was at the potrero,--a mountain meadow, or pasture, as the word signifies,--about ten miles from pala, high up the mountain-side, and reached by an almost impassable road. this farm--or "saeter" it would be called in norway,--was given to margarita by the friars; and by some exceptional good fortune she had a title which, it is said, can be maintained by her heirs. in , in a revolt of some of manuelito's bands, margarita was hung up by her wrists till she was near dying, but was cut down at the last minute and saved. one of her daughters speaks a little english; and finding that we had visited pala solely on account of our interest in the indians, she asked us to come up to the potrero and pass the night. she said timidly that they had plenty of beds, and would do all that they knew how to do to make us comfortable. one might be in many a dear-priced hotel less comfortably lodged and served than we were by these hospitable indians in their mud house, floored with earth. in my bedroom were three beds, all neatly made, with lace-trimmed sheets and pillow-cases and patchwork coverlids. one small square window with a wooden shutter was the only aperture for air, and there was no furniture except one chair and a half-dozen trunks. the indians, like the norwegian peasants, keep their clothes and various properties all neatly packed away in boxes or trunks. as i fell asleep, i wondered if in the morning i should see indian heads on the pillows opposite me; the whole place was swarming with men, women, and babies, and it seemed impossible for them to spare so many beds; but, no, when i waked, there were the beds still undisturbed; a soft-eyed indian girl was on her knees rummaging in one of the trunks; seeing me awake, she murmured a few words in indian, which conveyed her apology as well as if i had understood them. from the very bottom of the trunk she drew out a gilt-edged china mug, darted out of the room, and came back bringing it filled with fresh water. as she set it in the chair, in which she had already put a tin pan of water and a clean coarse towel, she smiled, and made a sign that it was for my teeth. there was a thoughtfulness and delicacy in the attention which lifted it far beyond the level of its literal value. the gilt-edged mug was her most precious possession; and, in remembering water for the teeth, she had provided me with the last superfluity in the way of white man's comfort of which she could think. the food which they gave us was a surprise; it was far better than we had found the night before in the house of an austrian colonel's son, at pala. chicken, deliciously cooked, with rice and chile; soda-biscuits delicately made; good milk and butter, all laid in orderly fashion, with a clean table-cloth, and clean, white stone china. when i said to our hostess that i regretted very much that they had given up their beds in my room, that they ought not to have done it, she answered me with a wave of her hand that "it was nothing; they hoped i had slept well; that they had plenty of other beds." the hospitable lie did not deceive me, for by examination i had convinced myself that the greater part of the family must have slept on the bare earth in the kitchen. they would not have taken pay for our lodging, except that they had just been forced to give so much for the mass for margarita's soul, and it had been hard for them to raise the money. twelve dollars the priest had charged for the mass; and in addition they had to pay for the candles, silver lace, black cloth, etc., nearly as much more. they had earnestly desired to have the mass said at the potrero, but the priest would not come up there for less than twenty dollars, and that, antonia said, with a sigh, they could not possibly pay. we left at six o'clock in the morning; margarita's husband, the "capitan," riding off with us to see us safe on our way. when we had passed the worst gullies and boulders, he whirled his horse, lifted his ragged old sombrero with the grace of a cavalier, smiled, wished us good-day and good luck, and was out of sight in a second, his little wild pony galloping up the rough trail as if it were as smooth as a race-course. between the potrero and pala are two indian villages, the rincon and pauma. the rincon is at the head of the valley, snugged up against the mountains, as its name signifies, in a "corner." here were fences, irrigating ditches, fields of barley, wheat, hay, and peas; a little herd of horses and cows grazing, and several flocks of sheep. the men were all away sheep-shearing; the women were at work in the fields, some hoeing, some clearing out the irrigating ditches, and all the old women plaiting baskets. these rincon indians, we were told, had refused a school offered them by the government; they said they would accept nothing at the hands of the government until it gave them a title to their lands. the most picturesque of all the mission indians' hiding-places which we saw was that on the carmel river, a few miles from the san carlos mission. except by help of a guide it cannot be found. a faint trail turning off from the road in the river-bottom leads down to the river's edge. you follow it into the river and across, supposing it a ford. on the opposite bank there is no trail, no sign of one. whether it is that the indians purposely always go ashore at different points of the bank, so as to leave no trail; or whether they so seldom go out, except on foot, that the trail has faded away, i do not know. but certainly, if we had had no guide, we should have turned back, sure we were wrong. a few rods up from the river-bank, a stealthy narrow footpath appeared; through willow copses, sunk in meadow grasses, across shingly bits of alder-walled beach it creeps, till it comes out in a lovely spot,--half basin, half rocky knoll,--where, tucked away in nooks and hollows, are the little indian houses, eight or ten of them, some of adobe, some of the tule-reeds: small patches of corn, barley, potatoes, and hay; and each little front yard fenced in by palings, with roses, sweet-peas, poppies, and mignonette growing inside. in the first house we reached, a woman was living alone. she was so alarmed at the sight of us that she shook. there could not be a more pitiful comment on the state of perpetual distrust and alarm in which the poor creatures live, than this woman's face and behavior. we tried in vain to reassure her; we bought all the lace she had to sell, chatted with her about it, and asked her to show us how it was made. even then she was so terrified that although she willingly took down her lace-frame to sew a few stitches for us to see, her hands still trembled. in another house we found an old woman evidently past eighty, without glasses working button-holes in fine thread. her daughter-in-law--a beautiful half-breed, with a still more beautiful baby in her arms--asked the old woman, for us, how old she was. she laughed merrily at the silly question. "she never thought about it," she said; "it was written down once in a book at the mission, but the book was lost." there was not a man in the village. they were all away at work, farming or fishing. this little handful of people are living on land to which they have no shadow of title, and from which they may be driven any day,--these carmel mission lands having been rented out, by their present owner, in great dairy farms. the parish priest of monterey told me much of the pitiable condition of these remnants of the san carlos indians. he can do little or nothing for them, though their condition makes his heart ache daily. in that half-foreign english which is always so much more eloquent a language than the english-speaking peoples use, he said: "they have their homes there only by the patience of the thief; it may be that the patience do not last to-morrow." the phrase is worth preserving: it embodies so much history,--history of two races. in mr. wilson's report are many eloquent and strong paragraphs, bearing on the question of the indians' right to the lands they had under cultivation at the time of the secularization. he says:-- "it is not natural rights i speak of, nor merely possessory rights, but rights acquired and contracts made,--acquired and made when the laws of the indies had force here, and never assailed by any laws or executive acts since, till and ; and impregnable to these.... no past maladministration of laws can be suffered to destroy their true intent, while the victims of the maladministration live to complain, and the rewards of wrong have not been consumed." of mr. wilson's report in , of mr. ames's report in , and of the various other reports called for by the government from time to time, nothing came, except the occasional setting off of reservations by executive orders, which, if the lands reserved were worth anything, were speedily revoked at the bidding of california politicians. there are still some reservations left, chiefly of desert and mountainous lands, which nobody wants, and on which the indians could not live. the last report made to the indian bureau by their present agent closes in the following words:-- "the necessity of providing suitable lands for them in the form of one or more reservations has been pressed on the attention of the department in my former reports; and i now, for the third and perhaps the last time, emphasize that necessity by saying that whether government will immediately heed the pleas that have been made in behalf of these people or not, it must sooner or later deal with this question in a practical way, or else see a population of over three thousand indians become homeless wanderers in a desert region." i have shown a few glimpses of the homes, of the industry, the patience, the long-suffering of the people who are in this immediate danger of being driven out from their last footholds of refuge, "homeless wanderers in a desert." if the united states government does not take steps to avert this danger, to give them lands and protect them in their rights, the chapter of the history of the mission indians will be the blackest one in the black record of our dealings with the indian race. it must be done speedily if at all, for there is only a small remnant left to be saved. these are in their present homes "only on the patience of the thief; and it may be that the patience do not last to-morrow." echoes in the city of the angels. the tale of the founding of the city of los angeles is a tale for verse rather than for prose. it reads like a page out of some new "earthly paradise," and would fit well into song such as william morris has sung. it is only a hundred years old, however, and that is not time enough for such song to simmer. it will come later, with the perfume of century-long summers added to its flavor. summers century-long? one might say a stronger thing than that of them, seeing that their blossoming never stops, year in nor year out, and will endure as long as the visible frame of the earth. the twelve devout spanish soldiers who founded the city named it at their leisure with a long name, musical as a chime of bells. it answered well enough, no doubt, for the first fifty years of the city's life, during which not a municipal record of any sort or kind was written,--"nuestra señora reina de los angeles," "our lady the queen of the angels;" and her portrait made a goodly companion flag, unfurled always by the side of the flag of spain. there is a legend, that sounds older than it is, of the ceremonies with which the soldiers took possession of their new home. they were no longer young. they had fought for spain in many parts of the old world, and followed her uncertain fortunes to the new. ten years some of them had been faithfully serving church and king in sight of these fair lands, for which they hankered, and with reason. in those days the soft, rolling, treeless hills and valleys, between which the los angeles river now takes its shilly-shallying course seaward, were forest slopes and meadows, with lakes great and small. this abundance of trees, with shining waters playing among them, added to the limitless bloom of the plains and the splendor of the snow-topped mountains, must have made the whole region indeed a paradise. navarro, villavicencia, rodriguez, quintero, moreno, lara, banegas, rosas, and canero, these were their names: happy soldiers all, honored of their king, and discharged with so royal a gift of lands thus fair. looking out across the los angeles hills and meadows to-day, one easily lives over again the joy they must have felt. twenty-three young children there were in the band, poor little waifs of camp and march. what a "braw flitting" was it for them, away from the drum-beat forever into the shelter of their own sunny home! the legend says not a word of the mothers, except that there were eleven of them, and in the procession they walked with their children behind the men. doubtless they rejoiced the most. the fathers from the san gabriel mission were there, with many indian neophytes, and don felipe, the military governor, with his showy guard of soldiers. the priests and neophytes chanted. the cross was set up, the flag of spain and the banner of our lady the queen of the angels unfurled, and the new town marked out around a square, a little to the north of the present plaza of los angeles. if communities, as well as individuals, are happy when history finds nothing to record of them, the city of the queen of the angels must have been a happy spot during the first fifty years of its life; for not a written record of the period remains, not even a record of grants of land. the kind of grant that these worthy spanish soldiers and their sons contented themselves with, however, hardly deserved recording,--in fact, was not a grant at all, since its continuance depended entirely on the care a man took of his house and the improvement he put on his land. if he left his house unoccupied, or let it fall out of repair, if he left a field uncultivated for two years, any neighbor who saw fit might denounce him, and by so doing acquire a right to the property. this sounds incredible, but all the historical accounts of the time agree on the point. they say,-- "the granting authorities could, and were by law required, upon a proper showing of the abandonment, to grant the property to the informant, who then acquired the same and no better rights than those possessed by his predecessor." this was a premium indeed on staying at home and minding one's business,--a premium which amounted to coercion. one would think that there must have been left from those days teeming records of alienated estates, shifted tenures, and angry feuds between neighbor and neighbor. but no evidence remains of such strifes. life was too simple, and the people were too ignorant. their houses were little more than hovels, built of mud, eight feet high, with flat roofs made of reeds and asphaltum. their fields, with slight cultivation, produced all they needed; and if anything lacked, the rich vineyards, wheat-fields, and orchards of the san gabriel mission lay only twelve miles away. these vineyards, orchards, and granaries, so near at hand, must have been sore temptation to idleness. each head of a family had been presented, by the paternal spanish king, with "two oxen, two mules, two mares, two sheep, two goats, two cows, one calf, an ass, and one hoe." for these they were to pay in such small instalments as they were able to spare out of their pay and rations, which were still continued by the generous king. in a climate in which flowers blossom winter and summer alike, man may bask in sun all the year round if he chooses. why, then, should those happy spanish soldiers work? even the king had thought it unnecessary, it seems, to give them any implements of labor except "one hoe." what could a family do, in the way of work, with "one hoe"? evidently, they did not work, neither they, nor their sons, nor their sons' sons after them; for, half a century later, they were still living a life of almost incredible ignorance, redeemed only by its simplicity and childlike adherence to the old religious observances. many of those were beautiful. as late as it was the custom throughout the town, in all the families of the early settlers, for the oldest member of the family--oftenest it was a grandfather or grandmother--to rise every morning at the rising of the morning star, and at once to strike up a hymn. at the first note every person in the house would rise, or sit up in bed and join in the song. from house to house, street to street, the singing spread; and the volume of musical sound swelled, until it was as if the whole town sang. the hymns were usually invocations to the virgin, to jesus, or to some saint. the opening line of many of them was,-- "rejoice, o mother of god." a manuscript copy of one of these old morning songs i have seen, and had the good fortune to win a literal translation of part of it, in the soft, spanish-voiced, broken english, so pleasant to hear. the first stanza is the chorus, and was repeated after each of the others:-- "come, o sinners, come, and we will sing tender hymns to our refuge. "singers at dawn, from the heavens above, people all regions; gladly we too sing. "singing harmoniously, saying to mary, 'o beautiful queen, princess of heaven! "'your beautiful head crowned we see; the stars are adorning your beautiful hair; "'your eyebrows are arched, your forehead serene; your face turned always looks toward god; "'your eyes' radiance is like beautiful stars; like a white dove, you are true to your spouse.'" each of these stanzas was sung first alone by the aged leader of the family choir. then the rest repeated it; then all joined in the chorus. it is said that there are still to be found, in lonely country regions in california, mexican homes in which these sweet and holy "songs before sunrise" are sung. looking forward to death, the greatest anxiety of these simple souls was to provide themselves with a priest's cast-off robe to be buried in. these were begged or bought as the greatest of treasures; kept in sight, or always at hand, to remind them of approaching death. when their last hour drew near, this robe was flung over their breasts, and they died happy, their stiffening fingers grasping its folds. the dead body was wrapped in it, and laid on the mud floor of the house, a stone being placed under the head to raise it a few inches. thus the body must lie till the time of burial. around it, day and night, squatted, praying and singing, friends who wished not only to show their affection for the deceased, but to win indulgences for themselves; every prayer said thus, by the side of a corpse, having a special and specified value. a strange demarkation between the sexes was enforced in these ceremonies. if it were a woman who lay dead, only women might kneel and pray and watch with her body; if a man, the circle of watchers must be exclusively of men. a rough box, of boards nailed together, was the coffin. the body, rolled in the old robe whose virtues had so comforted its last conscious moments, was carried to the grave on a board, in the centre of a procession of friends chanting and singing. not until the last moment was it laid in the box. the first attempts to introduce more civilized forms of burial met with opposition, and it was only by slow degrees that changes were wrought. a frenchman, who had come from france to los angeles, by way of the sandwich islands, bringing a store of sacred ornaments and trinkets, and had grown rich by sale of them to the devout, owned a spring wagon, the only one in the country. by dint of entreaty, the people were finally prevailed upon to allow their dead to be carried in this wagon to the burial-place. for a long time, however, they refused to have horses put to the wagon, but drew it by hand all the way; women drawing women, and men drawing men, with the same scrupulous partition of the sexes as in the earlier ceremonies. the picture must have been a strange one, and not without pathos,--the wagon, wound and draped with black and white, drawn up and down the steep hills by the band of silent mourners. the next innovation was the introduction of stately catafalques for the dead to repose on, either in house or church, during the interval between their death and burial. there had been brought into the town a few old-fashioned, high-post, canopied bedsteads, and from these the first catafalques were made. gilded, decorated with gold and silver lace, and hung with white and black draperies, they made a by no means insignificant show, which doubtless went far to reconcile people's minds to the new methods. in there was a memorable funeral of a woman over a hundred years old. fourteen old women watched with her body, which lay stretched on the floor, in the ancient fashion, with only a stone beneath the head. the youngest of these watchers was eighty-five. one of them, tomasa camera by name, was herself over a hundred years old. tomasa was infirm of foot; so they propped her with pillows in a little cart, and drew her to the house that she might not miss of the occasion. all night long, the fourteen squatted or sat on rawhides spread on the floor, and sang and prayed and smoked: as fine a wake as was ever seen. they smoked cigarettes, which they rolled on the spot, out of corn-husks slit fine for the purpose, there being at that day in los angeles no paper fit for cigarettes. outside this body-guard of aged women knelt a circle of friends and relatives, also chanting, praying, and smoking. in this outer circle any one might come and go at pleasure; but into the inner ring of the watching none must come, and none must go out of it till the night was spent. with the beginning of the prosperity of the city of the angels, came the end of its primeval peace. spanish viceroys, mexican alcaldes and governors, united states commanders, naval and military, followed on each other's heels, with or without frays, ruling california through a succession of tumultuous years. greedy traders from all parts of the world added their rivalries and interventions to the civil and military disputation. in the general anarchy and confusion, the peaceful and peace-loving catholic fathers were robbed of their lands, their converts were scattered, their industries broken up. nowhere were these uncomfortable years more uncomfortable than in los angeles. revolts, occupations, surrenders, retakings, and resurrenders kept the little town in perpetual ferment. disorders were the order of the day and of the night, in small matters as well as in great. the californian fought as impetuously for his old way of dancing as for his political allegiance. there are comical traditions of the men's determination never to wear long trousers to dances; nor to permit dances to be held in houses or halls, it having been the practice always to give them in outdoor booths or bowers, with lattice-work walls of sycamore poles lashed together by thongs of rawhide. outside these booths the men sat on their horses looking in at the dancing, which was chiefly done by the women. an old man standing in the centre of the enclosure directed the dances. stopping in front of the girl whom he wished to have join the set, he clapped his hands. she then rose and took her place on the floor; if she could not dance, or wished to decline, she made a low bow and resumed her seat. to look in on all this was great sport. sometimes, unable to resist the spell, a man would fling himself off his horse, dash into the enclosure, seize a girl by the waist, whirl around with her through one dance, then out again and into the saddle, where he sat, proudly aware of his vantage. the decorations of masculine attire at this time were such as to make riding a fine show. around the crown of the broad-brimmed sombrero was twisted a coil of gold or silver cord; over the shoulders was flung, with ostentatious carelessness, a short cloak of velvet or brocade; the waistcoats were embroidered in gold, silver, or gay colors; so also were the knee-breeches, leggings, and stockings. long silken garters, with ornamented tassels at the ends, were wound round and round to hold the stockings in place. even the cumbrous wooden stirrups were carved in elaborate designs. no wonder that men accustomed to such braveries as these saw ignominy in the plain american trousers. they seem to have been a variety of centaur, these early californian men. they were seldom off their horses except to eat and sleep. they mounted, with jingling silver spur and glittering bridle, for the shortest distances, even to cross a plaza. they paid long visits on horseback, without dismounting. clattering up to the window or door-sill, halting, throwing one knee over the crupper, the reins lying loose, they sat at ease, far more at ease than in a house. only at church, where the separation was inevitable, would they be parted from their horses. they turned the near neighborhood of a church on sunday into a sort of picket-ground, or horse-trainers' yard, full of horse-posts and horses; and the scene was far more like a horse-fair than like an occasion of holy observance. there seems to have been a curious mixture of reverence and irreverence in their natures. they confessed sins and underwent penances with the simplicity of children; but when, in , the church issued an edict against that "escandalosisima" dance, the waltz, declaring that whoever dared to dance it should be excommunicated, the merry sinners waltzed on only the harder and faster, and laughed in their priests' faces. and when the advocates of decorum, good order, and indoor dancing gave their first ball in a public hall in los angeles, the same merry outdoor party broke every window and door in the building, and put a stop to the festivity. they persisted in taking this same summary vengeance on occasion after occasion, until, finally, any person wishing to give a ball in his own house was forced to surround the house by a cordon of police to protect it. the city of the angels is a prosperous city now. it has business thoroughfares, blocks of fine stone buildings, hotels, shops, banks, and is growing daily. its outlying regions are a great circuit of gardens, orchards, vineyards, and corn-fields, and its suburbs are fast filling up with houses of a showy though cheap architecture. but it has not yet shaken off its past. a certain indefinable, delicious aroma from the old, ignorant, picturesque times lingers still, not only in byways and corners, but in the very centres of its newest activities. mexican women, their heads wrapped in black shawls, and their bright eyes peering out between the close-gathered folds, glide about everywhere; the soft spanish speech is continually heard; long-robed priests hurry to and fro; and at each dawn ancient, jangling bells from the church of the lady of the angels ring out the night and in the day. venders of strange commodities drive in stranger vehicles up and down the streets: antiquated carts piled high with oranges, their golden opulence contrasting weirdly with the shabbiness of their surroundings and the evident poverty of their owner; close following on the gold of one of these, one has sometimes the luck to see another cart, still more antiquated and rickety, piled high with something--he cannot imagine what--terra-cotta red in grotesque shapes; it is fuel,--the same sort which villavicencia, quintero, and the rest probably burned, when they burned any, a hundred years ago. it is the roots and root-shoots of manzanita and other shrubs. the colors are superb,--terra-cotta reds, shading up to flesh pink, and down to dark mahogany; but the forms are grotesque beyond comparison: twists, querls, contortions, a boxful of them is an uncomfortable presence in one's room, and putting them on the fire is like cremating the vertebræ and double teeth of colossal monsters of the pterodactyl period. the present plaza of the city is near the original plaza marked out at the time of the first settlement; the low adobe house of one of the early governors stands yet on its east side, and is still a habitable building. the plaza is a dusty and dismal little place, with a parsimonious fountain in the centre, surrounded by spokes of thin turf, and walled at its outer circumference by a row of tall monterey cypresses, shorn and clipped into the shape of huge croquettes or brad-awls standing broad end down. at all hours of the day idle boys and still idler men are to be seen basking on the fountain's stone rim, or lying, face down, heels in air, in the triangles of shade made by the cypress croquettes. there is in los angeles much of this ancient and ingenious style of shearing and compressing foliage into unnatural and distorted shapes. it comes, no doubt, of lingering reverence for the traditions of what was thought beautiful in spain centuries ago; and it gives to the town a certain quaint and foreign look, in admirable keeping with its irregular levels, zigzag, toppling precipices, and houses in tiers one above another. one comes sometimes abruptly on a picture which seems bewilderingly un-american, of a precipice wall covered with bird-cage cottages, the little, paling-walled yard of one jutting out in a line with the chimney-tops of the next one below, and so on down to the street at the base of the hill. wooden staircases and bits of terrace link and loop the odd little perches together; bright green pepper-trees, sometimes tall enough to shade two or three tiers of roofs, give a graceful plumed draping at the sides, and some of the steep fronts are covered with bloom, in solid curtains, of geranium, sweet alyssum, heliotrope, and ivy. these terraced eyries are not the homes of the rich: the houses are lilliputian in size, and of cheap quality; but they do more for the picturesqueness of the city than all the large, fine, and costly houses put together. moreover, they are the only houses that command the situation, possess distance and a horizon. from some of these little ten-by-twelve flower-beds of homes is a stretch of view which makes each hour of the day a succession of changing splendors,--the snowy peaks of san bernardino and san jacinto in the east and south; to the west, vast open country, billowy green with vineyard and orchard; beyond this, in clear weather, shining glints and threads of ocean, and again beyond, in the farthest outing, hill-crowned islands, misty blue against the sky. no one knows los angeles who does not climb to these sunny outlying heights, and roam and linger on them many a day. nor, even thus lingering, will any one ever know more of los angeles than its lovely outward semblances and mysterious suggestions, unless he have the good fortune to win past the barrier of proud, sensitive, tender reserve, behind which is hid the life of the few remaining survivors of the old spanish and mexican _régime_. once past this, he gets glimpses of the same stintless hospitality and immeasurable courtesy which gave to the old franciscan establishments a world-wide fame, and to the society whose tone and customs they created an atmosphere of simple-hearted joyousness and generosity never known by any other communities on the american continent. in houses whose doors seldom open to english-speaking people, there are rooms full of relics of that fast-vanishing past. strongholds also of a religious faith, almost as obsolete, in its sort and degree, as are the garments of the aged creatures who are peacefully resting their last days on its support. in one of these houses, in a poverty-stricken but gayly decorated little bedroom, hangs a small oil-painting, a portrait of saint francis de paula. it was brought from mexico, fifty-five years ago, by the woman who still owns it, and has knelt before it and prayed to it every day of the fifty-five years. below it is a small altar covered with flowers, candlesticks, vases, and innumerable knick-knacks. a long string under the picture is hung full of tiny gold and silver votive offerings from persons who have been miraculously cured in answer to prayers made to the saint. legs, arms, hands, eyes, hearts, heads, babies, dogs, horses,--no organ, no creature, that could suffer, is unrepresented. the old woman has at her tongue's end the tale of each one of these miracles. she is herself a sad cripple; her feet swollen by inflammation, which for many years has given her incessant torture and made it impossible for her to walk, except with tottering steps, from room to room, by help of a staff. this, she says, is the only thing her saint has not cured. it is her "cross," her "mortification of the flesh," "to take her to heaven." "he knows best." as she speaks, her eyes perpetually seek the picture, resting on it with a look of ineffable adoration. she has seen tears roll down its cheeks more than once, she says; and it often smiles on her when they are alone. when strangers enter the room she can always tell, by its expression, whether the saint is or is not pleased with them, and whether their prayers will be granted. she was good enough to remark that he was very glad to see us; she was sure of it by the smile in his eye. he had wrought many beautiful miracles for her. nothing was too trivial for his sympathy and help. once when she had broken a vase in which she had been in the habit of keeping flowers on the altar, she took the pieces in her hands, and standing before him, said: "you know you will miss this vase. i always put your flowers in it, and i am too poor to buy another. now, do mend this for me. i have nobody but you to help me." and the vase grew together again whole while she was speaking. in the same way he mended for her a high glass flower-case which stood on the altar. thus she jabbered away breathlessly in spanish, almost too fast to be followed. sitting in a high chair, her poor distorted feet propped on a cushion, a black silk handkerchief wound like a turban around her head, a plaid ribosa across her shoulders, contrasting sharply with her shabby wine-colored gown, her hands clasped around a yellow staff, on which she leaned as she bent forward in her eager speaking, she made a study for an artist. she was very beautiful in her youth, she said; her cheeks so red that people thought they were painted; and she was so strong that she was never tired; and when, in the first year of her widowhood, a stranger came to her "with a letter of recommendation" to be her second husband, and before she had time to speak had fallen on his knees at her feet, she seized him by the throat, and toppling him backward, pinned him against the wall till he was black in the face. and her sister came running up in terror, imploring her not to kill him. but all that strength is gone now, she says sadly; her memory also. each day, as soon as she has finished her prayers, she has to put away her rosary in a special place, or else she forgets that the prayers have been said. many priests have desired to possess her precious miracle-working saint; but never till she dies will it leave her bedroom. not a week passes without some one's arriving to implore its aid. sometimes the deeply distressed come on their knees all the way from the gate before the house, up the steps, through the hall, and into her bedroom. such occasions as these are to her full of solemn joy, and no doubt, also, of a secret exultation whose kinship to pride she does not suspect. in another unpretending little adobe house, not far from this saint francis shrine, lives the granddaughter of moreno, one of the twelve spanish soldiers who founded the city. she speaks no word of english; and her soft black eyes are timid, though she is the widow of a general, and in the stormy days of the city of the angels, passed through many a crisis of peril and adventure. her house is full of curious relics, which she shows with a gentle, half-amused courtesy. it is not easy for her to believe that any american can feel real reverence for the symbols, tokens, and relics of the life and customs which his people destroyed. in her mind americans remain to-day as completely foreigners as they were when her husband girded on his sword and went out to fight them, forty years ago. many of her relics have been rescued at one time or another from plunderers of the missions. she has an old bronze kettle which once held holy water at san fernando; an incense cup and spoon, and massive silver candlesticks; cartridge-boxes of leather, with spain's ancient seal stamped on them; a huge copper caldron and scales from san gabriel; a bunch of keys of hammered iron, locks, scissors, reaping-hooks, shovels, carding-brushes for wool and for flax: all made by the indian workmen in the missions. there was also one old lock, in which the key was rusted fast and immovable, which seemed to me fuller of suggestion than anything else there of the sealed and ended past to which it had belonged; and a curious little iron cannon, in shape like an ale-mug, about eight inches high, with a hole in the side and in the top, to be used by setting it on the ground and laying a trail of powder to the opening in the side. this gave the indians great delight. it was fired at the times of church festivals, and in seasons of drought to bring rain. another curious instrument of racket was the matrarca, a strip of board with two small swinging iron handles so set in it that, in swinging back and forth, they hit iron plates. in the time of lent, when all ringing of bells was forbidden, these were rattled to call the indians to church. the noise one of them can make when vigorously shaken is astonishing. in crumpled bundles, their stiffened meshes opening out reluctantly, were two curious rush-woven nets which had been used by indian women fifty years ago in carrying burdens. similar nets, made of twine, are used by them still. fastened to a leather strap or band passing around the forehead, they hang down behind far below the waist, and when filled out to their utmost holding capacity are so heavy that the poor creatures bend nearly double beneath them. but the women stand as uncomplainingly as camels while weight after weight is piled in; then slipping the band over their heads, they adjust the huge burden and set off at a trot. "this is the squaw's horse," said an indian woman in the san jacinto valley one day, tapping her forehead and laughing good-naturedly, when the shopkeeper remonstrated with her husband, who was heaping article after article, and finally a large sack of flour, on her shoulders; "squaw's horse very strong." the original site of the san gabriel mission was a few miles to the east of the city of the angels. its lands are now divided into ranches and colony settlements, only a few acres remaining in the possession of the church. but the old chapel is still standing in a fair state of preservation, used for the daily services of the san gabriel parish; and there are in its near neighborhood a few crumbling adobe hovels left, the only remains of the once splendid and opulent mission. in one of these lives a mexican woman, eighty-two years old, who for more than half a century has washed and mended the priests' laces, repaired the robes, and remodelled the vestments of san gabriel. she is worth crossing the continent to see: all white from head to foot, as if bleached by some strange gramarye; white hair, white skin, blue eyes faded nearly to white; white cotton clothes, ragged and not over clean, yet not a trace of color in them; a white linen handkerchief, delicately embroidered by herself, always tied loosely around her throat. she sits on a low box, leaning against the wall, with three white pillows at her back, her feet on a cushion on the ground; in front of her, another low box, on this a lace-maker's pillow, with knotted fringe stretched on it; at her left hand a battered copper caldron, holding hot coals to warm her fingers and to light her cigarettes. a match she will never use; and she has seldom been without a cigarette in her mouth since she was six years old. on her right hand is a chest filled with her treasures,--rags of damask, silk, velvet, lace, muslin, ribbon, artificial flowers, flosses, worsteds, silks on spools; here she sits, day in, day out, making cotton fringes and, out of shreds of silk, tiny embroidered scapulars, which she sells to all devout and charitable people of the region. she also teaches the children of the parish to read and to pray. the walls of her hovel are papered with tattered pictures, including many gay-colored ones, taken off tin cans, their flaunting signs reading drolly,--"perfection press mackerel, boston, mass.," "charm baking powder," and "knowlton's inks," alternating with "toledo blades" and clipper-ship advertisements. she finds these of great use in both teaching and amusing the children. the ceiling, of canvas, black with smoke, and festooned with cobwebs, sags down in folds, and shows many a rent. when it rains, her poor little place must be drenched in spots. one end of the room is curtained off with calico; this is her bedchamber. at the other end is a raised dais, on which stands an altar, holding a small statuette of the infant jesus. it is a copy in wood of the famous little jesus of atoches in mexico, which is worshipped by all the people in that region. it has been her constant companion and protector for fifty years. over the altar is a canopy of calico, decorated with paper flowers, whirligigs, doves, and little gourds; with votive offerings, also, of gold or silver, from grateful people helped or cured by the little jesus. on the statuette's head is a tiny hat of real gold, and a real gold sceptre in the little hand; the breast of its fine white linen cambric gown is pinned by a gold pin. it has a wardrobe with as many changes as an actor. she keeps these carefully hid away in a small camphor-wood trunk, but she brought them all out to show to us. two of her barefooted, ragged little pupils scampered in as she was unfolding these gay doll's clothes. they crowded close around her knees and looked on, with open-mouthed awe and admiration: a purple velvet cape with white fringe for feast days; capes of satin, of brocade; a dozen shirts of finest linen, embroidered or trimmed with lace; a tiny plume not more than an inch long, of gold exquisitely carved,--this was her chief treasure. it looked beautiful in his hat, she said, but it was too valuable to wear often. hid away here among the image's best clothes were more of the gold votive offerings it had received: one a head cut out of solid gold; several rosaries of carved beads, silver and gold. spite of her apparently unbounded faith in the little jesus' power to protect her and himself, the old woman thought it wiser to keep these valuables concealed from the common gaze. holding up a silken pillow some sixteen inches square, she said, "you could not guess with what that pillow is filled." we could not, indeed. it was her own hair. with pride she asked us to take it in our hands, that we might see how heavy it was. for sixteen years she had been saving it, and it was to be put under her head in her coffin. the friend who had taken us to her home exclaimed on hearing this. "and i can tell you it was beautiful hair. i recollect it forty-five years ago, bright brown, and down to her ankles, and enough of it to roll herself up in." the old woman nodded and laughed, much pleased at this compliment. she did not know why the lord had preserved her life so long, she said; but she was very happy. her nieces had asked her to go and live with them in santa ana; but she could not go away from san gabriel. she told them that there was plenty of water in the ditch close by her door, and that god would take care of the rest, and so he had; she never wants for anything; not only is she never hungry herself, but she always has food to give away. no one would suppose it, but many people come to eat with her in her house. god never forgets her one minute. she is very happy. she is never ill; or if she is, she has two remedies, which, in all her life, have never failed to cure her, and they cost nothing,--saliva and ear-wax. for a pain, the sign of the cross, made with saliva on the spot which is in pain, is instantaneously effective; for an eruption or any skin disorder, the application of ear-wax is a sure cure. she is very glad to live so close to the church; the father has promised her this room as long as she lives; when she dies, it will be no trouble, he says, to pick her up and carry her across the road to the church. in a gay painted box, standing on two chairs, so as to be kept from the dampness of the bare earth floor, she cherishes the few relics of her better days: a shawl and a ribosa of silk, and two gowns, one of black silk, one of dark blue satin. these are of the fashions of twenty years ago; they were given to her by her husband. she wears them now when she goes to church; so it is as if she were "married again," she says, and is "her husband's work still." she seems to be a character well known and held in some regard by the clergy of her church. when the bishop returned a few years ago from a visit to rome, he brought her a little gift, a carved figure of a saint. she asked him if he could not get for her a bit of the relics of saint viviano. "oh, let alone!" he replied; "give you relics? wait a bit; and as soon as you die, i'll have you made into relics yourself." she laughed as heartily, telling this somewhat unecclesiastical rejoinder, as if it had been made at some other person's expense. in the marvellously preserving air of california, added to her own contented temperament, there is no reason why this happy old lady should not last, as some of her indian neighbors have, well into a second century. before she ceases from her peaceful, pitiful little labors, new generations of millionnaires in her country will no doubt have piled up bigger fortunes than this generation ever dreams of, but there will not be a man of them all so rich as she. in the western suburbs of los angeles is a low adobe house, built after the ancient style, on three sides of a square, surrounded by orchards, vineyards, and orange groves, and looking out on an old-fashioned garden, in which southernwood, rue, lavender, mint, marigolds, and gillyflowers hold their own bravely, growing in straight and angular beds among the newer splendors of verbenas, roses, carnations, and geraniums. on two sides of the house runs a broad porch, where stand rows of geraniums and chrysanthemums growing in odd-shaped earthen pots. here may often be seen a beautiful young mexican woman, flitting about among the plants, or sporting with a superb saint bernard dog. her clear olive skin, soft brown eyes, delicate sensitive nostrils, and broad smiling mouth, are all of the spanish madonna type; and when her low brow is bound, as is often her wont, by turban folds of soft brown or green gauze, her face becomes a picture indeed. she is the young wife of a gray-headed mexican señor, of whom--by his own most gracious permission--i shall speak by his familiar name, don antonio. whoever has the fortune to pass as a friend across the threshold of this house finds himself transported, as by a miracle, into the life of a half-century ago. the rooms are ornamented with fans, shells, feather and wax flowers, pictures, saints' images, old laces, and stuffs, in the quaint gay mexican fashion. on the day when i first saw them, they were brilliant with bloom. in every one of the deep window-seats stood a cone of bright flowers, its base made by large white datura blossoms, their creamy whorls all turned outward, making a superb decoration. i went for but a few moments' call. i stayed three hours, and left carrying with me bewildering treasures of pictures of the olden time. don antonio speaks little english; but the señora knows just enough of the language to make her use of it delicious, as she translates for her husband. it is an entrancing sight to watch his dark, weather-beaten face, full of lightning changes as he pours out torrents of his nervous, eloquent spanish speech; watching his wife intently, hearkening to each word she uses, sometimes interrupting her urgently with, "no, no; that is not it,"--for he well understands the tongue he cannot or will not use for himself. he is sixty-five years of age, but he is young: the best waltzer in los angeles to-day; his eye keen, his blood fiery quick; his memory like a burning-glass bringing into sharp light and focus a half-century as if it were a yesterday. full of sentiment, of an intense and poetic nature, he looks back to the lost empire of his race and people on the california shores with a sorrow far too proud for any antagonisms or complaints. he recognizes the inexorableness of the laws under whose workings his nation is slowly, surely giving place to one more representative of the age. intellectually he is in sympathy with progress, with reform, with civilization at its utmost; he would not have had them stayed, or changed, because his people could not keep up, and were not ready. but his heart is none the less saddened and lonely. this is probably the position and point of view of most cultivated mexican men of his age. the suffering involved in it is inevitable. it is part of the great, unreckoned price which must always be paid for the gain the world gets, when the young and strong supersede the old and weak. a sunny little southeast corner room in don antonio's house is full of the relics of the time when he and his father were foremost representatives of ideas and progress in the city of the angels, and taught the first school that was kept in the place. this was nearly a half-century ago. on the walls of the room still hang maps and charts which they used; and carefully preserved, with the tender reverence of which only poetic natures are capable, are still to be seen there the old atlases, primers, catechisms, grammars, reading-books, which meant toil and trouble to the merry, ignorant children of the merry and ignorant people of that time. the leathern covers of the books are thin and frayed by long handling; the edges of the leaves worn down as if mice had gnawed them: tattered, loose, hanging by yellow threads, they look far older than they are, and bear vivid record of the days when books were so rare and precious that each book did doubled and redoubled duty, passing from hand to hand and house to house. it was on the old lancaster system that los angeles set out in educating its children; and here are still preserved the formal and elaborate instructions for teachers and schools on that plan; also volumes of spain's laws for military judges in , and a quaint old volume called "secrets of agriculture, fields and pastures," written by a catholic father in , reprinted in , and held of great value in its day as a sure guide to success with crops. accompanying it was a chart, a perpetual circle, by which might be foretold, with certainty, what years would be barren and what ones fruitful. almanacs, histories, arithmetics, dating back to , drawing-books, multiplication tables, music, and bundles of records of the branding of cattle at the san gabriel mission, are among the curiosities of this room. the music of the first quadrilles ever danced in mexico is here: a ragged pamphlet, which, no doubt, went gleeful rounds in the city of the angels for many a year. it is a merry music, simple in melody, but with an especial quality of light-heartedness, suiting the people who danced to it. there are also in the little room many relics of a more substantial sort than tattered papers and books: a branding-iron and a pair of handcuffs from the san gabriel mission; curiously decorated clubs and sticks used by the indians in their games; boxes of silver rings and balls made for decorations of bridles and on leggings and knee-breeches. the place of honor in the room is given, as well it might be, to a small cannon, the first cannon brought into california. it was made in , and was brought by father junipero serra to san diego in . afterward it was given to the san gabriel mission, but it still bears its old name, "san diego." it is an odd little arm, only about two feet long, and requiring but six ounces of powder. its swivel is made with a rest to set firm in the ground. it has taken many long journeys on the backs of mules, having been in great requisition in the early mission days for the firing of salutes at festivals and feasts. don antonio was but a lad when his father's family removed from the city of mexico to california. they came in one of the many unfortunate colonies sent out by the mexican government during the first years of the secularization period, having had a toilsome and suffering two months, going in wagons from mexico to san blas, then a tedious and uncomfortable voyage of several weeks from san blas to monterey, where they arrived only to find themselves deceived and disappointed in every particular, and surrounded by hostilities, plots, and dangers on all sides. so great was the antagonism to them that it was at times difficult for a colonist to obtain food from a californian. they were arrested on false pretences, thrown into prison, shipped off like convicts from place to place, with no one to protect them or plead their cause. revolution succeeded upon revolution, and it was a most unhappy period for all refined and cultivated persons who had joined the colony enterprises. young men of education and breeding were glad to earn their daily bread by any menial labor that offered. don antonio and several of his young friends, who had all studied medicine together, spent the greater part of a year in making shingles. the one hope and aim of most of them was to earn money enough to get back to mexico. don antonio, however, seems to have had more versatility and capacity than his friends, for he never lost courage; and it was owing to him that at last his whole family gathered in los angeles and established a home there. this was in . there were then only about eight hundred people in the pueblo, and the customs, superstitions, and ignorances of the earliest days still held sway. the missions were still rich and powerful, though the confusions and conflicts of their ruin had begun. at this time the young antonio, being quick at accounts and naturally ingenious at all sorts of mechanical crafts, found profit as well as pleasure in journeying from mission to mission, sometimes spending two or three months in one place, keeping books, or repairing silver and gold ornaments. the blowpipe which he made for himself at that time his wife exhibits now with affectionate pride; and there are few things she enjoys better than translating to an eager listener his graphic stories of the incidents and adventures of that portion of his life. while he was at the san antonio mission, a strange thing happened. it is a good illustration of the stintless hospitality of those old missions, that staying there at that time were a notorious gambler and a celebrated juggler who had come out in the colony from mexico. the juggler threatened to turn the gambler into a crow; the gambler, after watching his tricks for a short time, became frightened, and asked young antonio, in serious good faith, if he did not believe the juggler had made a league with the devil. a few nights afterward, at midnight, a terrible noise was heard in the gambler's room. he was found in convulsions, foaming at the mouth, and crying, "oh, father! father! i have got the devil inside of me! take him away!" the priest dragged him into the chapel, showered him with holy water, and exorcised the devil, first making the gambler promise to leave off his gambling forever. all the rest of the night the rescued sinner spent in the chapel, praying and weeping. in the morning he announced his intention of becoming a priest, and began his studies at once. these he faithfully pursued for a year, leading all the while a life of great devotion. at the end of that time preparations were made for his ordination at san josé. the day was set, the hour came: he was in the sacristy, had put on the sacred vestments, and was just going toward the church door, when he fell to the floor, dead. soon after this the juggler was banished from the county, trouble and disaster having everywhere followed on his presence. on the first breaking out of hostilities between california and the united states, don antonio took command of a company of los angeles volunteers to repel the intruders. by this time he had attained a prominent position in the affairs of the pueblo; had been alcalde and, under governor michelorena, inspector of public works. it was like the fighting of children,--the impetuous attempts that heterogeneous little bands of californians here and there made to hold their country. they were plucky from first to last; for they were everywhere at a disadvantage, and fought on, quite in the dark as to what mexico meant to do about them,--whether she might not any morning deliver them over to the enemy. of all don antonio's graphic narratives of the olden time, none is more interesting than those which describe his adventures during the days of this contest. on one of the first approaches made by the americans to los angeles, he went out with his little haphazard company of men and boys to meet them. he had but one cannon, a small one, tied by ropes on a cart axle. he had but one small keg of powder which was good for anything; all the rest was bad, would merely go off "pouf, pouf," the señora said, and the ball would pop down near the mouth of the cannon. with this bad powder he fired his first shots. the americans laughed; this is child's play, they said, and pushed on closer. then came a good shot, with the good powder, tearing into their ranks and knocking them right and left; another, and another. "then the americans began to think, these are no pouf balls; and when a few more were killed, they ran away and left their flag behind them. and if they had only known it, the californians had only one more charge left of the good powder, and the next minute it would have been the californians that would have had to run away themselves," merrily laughed the señora as she told the tale. this captured flag, with important papers, was intrusted to don antonio to carry to the mexican headquarters at sonora. he set off with an escort of soldiers, his horse decked with silver trappings; his sword, pistols, all of the finest: a proud beginning of a journey destined to end in a different fashion. it was in winter time; cold rains were falling. by night he was drenched to the skin, and stopped at a friendly indian's tent to change his clothes. hardly had he got them off when the sound of horses' hoofs was heard. the indian flung himself down, put his ear to the ground, and exclaimed, "americanos! americanos!" almost in the same second they were at the tent's door. as they halted, don antonio, clad only in his drawers and stockings, crawled out at the back of the tent, and creeping on all fours reached a tree up which he climbed, and sat safe hidden in the darkness among its branches listening, while his pursuers cross-questioned the indian, and at last rode away with his horse. luckily, he had carried into the tent the precious papers and the captured flag: these he intrusted to an indian to take to sonora, it being evidently of no use for him to try to cross the country thus closely pursued by his enemies. all night he lay hidden; the next day he walked twelve miles across the mountains to an indian village where he hoped to get a horse. it was dark when he reached it. cautiously he opened the door of the hut of one whom he knew well. the indian was preparing poisoned arrows: fixing one on the string and aiming at the door, he called out, angrily, "who is there?"--"it is i, antonio."--"don't make a sound," whispered the indian, throwing down his arrow, springing to the door, coming out and closing it softly. he then proceeded to tell him that the americans had offered a reward for his head, and that some of the indians in the rancheria were ready to betray or kill him. while they were yet talking, again came the sound of the americans' horses' hoofs galloping in the distance. this time there seemed no escape. suddenly don antonio, throwing himself on his stomach, wriggled into a cactus patch near by. only one who has seen california cactus thickets can realize the desperateness of this act. but it succeeded. the indian threw over the cactus plants an old blanket and some refuse stalks and reeds; and there once more, within hearing of all his baffled pursuers said, the hunted man lay, safe, thanks to indian friendship. the crafty indian assented to all the americans proposed, said that don antonio would be sure to be caught in a few days, advised them to search in a certain rancheria which he described, a few miles off, and in an opposite direction from the way in which he intended to guide don antonio. as soon as the americans had gone, he bound up antonio's feet in strips of rawhide, gave him a blanket and an old tattered hat, the best his stores afforded, and then led him by a long and difficult trail to a spot high up in the mountains where the old women of the band were gathering acorns. by the time they reached this place, blood was trickling from antonio's feet and legs, and he was well-nigh fainting with fatigue and excitement. tears rolled down the old women's cheeks when they saw him. some of them had been servants in his father's house, and loved him. one brought gruel; another bathed his feet; others ran in search of healing leaves of different sorts. bruising these in a stone mortar, they rubbed him from head to foot with the wet fibre. all his pain and weariness vanished as by magic. his wounds healed, and in a day he was ready to set off for home. there was but one pony in the old women's camp. this was old, vicious, blind of one eye, and with one ear cropped short; but it looked to don antonio far more beautiful than the gay steed on which he had ridden away from los angeles three days before. there was one pair of ragged shoes of enormous size among the old women's possessions. these were strapped on his feet by leathern thongs, and a bit of old sheepskin was tied around the pony's body. thus accoutred and mounted, shivering in his drawers under his single blanket, the captain and flag-bearer turned his face homeward. at the first friend's house he reached he stopped and begged for food. some dried meat was given to him, and a stool on the porch offered to him. it was the house of a dear friend, and the friend's sister was his sweetheart. as he sat there eating his meat, the women eyed him curiously. one said to the other, "how much he looks like antonio!" at last the sweetheart, coming nearer, asked him if he were "any relation of don antonio." "no," he said. just at that moment his friend rode up, gave one glance at the pitiful beggar sitting on his porch, shouted his name, dashed toward him, and seized him in his arms. then was a great laughing and half-weeping, for it had been rumored that he had been taken prisoner by the americans. from this friend he received a welcome gift of a pair of trousers, many inches too short for his legs. at the next house his friend was as much too tall, and his second pair of gift trousers had to be rolled up in thick folds around his ankles. finally he reached los angeles in safety. halting in a grove outside the town, he waited till twilight before entering. having disguised himself in the rags which he had worn from the indian village, he rode boldly up to the porch of his father's house, and in an impudent tone called for brandy. the terrified women began to scream; but his youngest sister, fixing one piercing glance on his face, laughed out gladly, and cried, "you can't fool me; you are antonio." sitting in the little corner room, looking out through the open door on the gay garden and breathing its spring air, gay even in midwinter, and as spicy then as the gardens of other lands are in june, i spent many an afternoon listening to such tales as this. sunset always came long before its time, it seemed, on these days. occasionally, at the last moment, don antonio would take up his guitar, and, in a voice still sympathetic and full of melody, sing an old spanish love-song, brought to his mind by thus living over the events of his youth. never, however, in his most ardent youth, could his eyes have gazed on his fairest sweetheart's face with a look of greater devotion than that with which they now rest on the noble, expressive countenance of his wife, as he sings the ancient and tender strains. of one of them, i once won from her, amid laughs and blushes, a few words of translation:-- "let us hear the sweet echo of your sweet voice that charms me. the one that truly loves you, he says he wishes to love; that the one who with ardent love adores you, will sacrifice himself for you. do not deprive me, owner of me, of that sweet echo of your sweet voice that charms me." near the western end of don antonio's porch is an orange-tree, on which were hanging at this time twenty-five hundred oranges, ripe and golden among the glossy leaves. under this tree my carriage always waited for me. the señora never allowed me to depart without bringing to me, in the carriage, farewell gifts of flowers and fruit: clusters of grapes, dried and fresh; great boughs full of oranges, more than i could lift. as i drove away thus, my lap filled with bloom and golden fruit, canopies of golden fruit over my head, i said to myself often: "fables are prophecies. the hesperides have come true." chance days in oregon. the best things in life seem always snatched on chances. the longer one lives and looks back, the more he realizes this, and the harder he finds it to "make option which of two," in the perpetually recurring cases when "there's not enough for this and that," and he must choose which he will do or take. chancing right in a decision, and seeing clearly what a blunder any other decision would have been, only makes the next such decision harder, and contributes to increased vacillation of purpose and infirmity of will, until one comes to have serious doubts whether there be not a truer philosophy in the "toss up" test than in any other method. "heads we go, tails we stay," will prove right as many times out of ten as the most painstaking pros and cons, weighing, consulting, and slow deciding. it was not exactly by "heads and tails" that we won our glimpse of oregon; but it came so nearly to the same thing that our recollections of the journey are still mingled with that sort of exultant sense of delight with which the human mind always regards a purely fortuitous possession. three days and two nights on the pacific ocean is a round price to pay for a thing, even for oregon, with the columbia river thrown in. there is not so misnamed a piece of water on the globe as the pacific ocean, nor so unexplainable a delusion as the almost universal impression that it is smooth sailing there. it is british channel and north sea and off the hebrides combined,--as many different twists and chops and swells as there are waves. people who have crossed the atlantic again and again without so much as a qualm are desperately ill between san francisco and portland. there is but one comparison for the motion: it is as if one's stomach were being treated as double teeth are handled, when country doctors are forced to officiate as dentists, and know no better way to get a four-pronged tooth out of its socket than to turn it round and round till it is torn loose. three days and two nights! i spent no inconsiderable portion of the time in speculations as to monsieur antoine crozat's probable reasons for giving back to king louis his magnificent grant of pacific coast country. he kept it five years, i believe. in that time he probably voyaged up and down its shores thoroughly. having been an adventurous trader in the indies, he must have been well wonted to seas; and being worth forty millions of livres, he could afford to make himself as comfortable in the matter of a ship as was possible a century and a half ago. his grant was a princely domain, an empire five times larger than france itself. what could he have been thinking of, to hand it back to king louis like a worthless bauble of which he had grown tired? nothing but the terrors of sea-sickness can explain it. if he could have foreseen the steam-engine, and have had a vision of it flying on iron roads across continents and mountains, how differently would he have conducted! the heirs of monsieur antoine, if any such there be to-day, must chafe when they read the terms of our louisiana purchase. three days and two nights--from thursday morning till saturday afternoon--between san francisco and the mouth of the columbia, and then we had to lie at astoria the greater part of sunday night before the tide would let us go on up the river. it was not waste time, however. astoria is a place curious to behold. seen from the water, it seems a tidy little white town nestled on the shore, and well topped off by wooded hills. landing, one finds that it must be ranked as amphibious, being literally half on land and half on water. from astoria proper--the old astoria, which mr. astor founded, and washington irving described--up to the new town, or upper astoria, is a mile and a half, two thirds bridges and piers. long wooden wharves, more streets than wharves, resting on hundreds of piles, are built out to deep water. they fairly fringe the shore; and the street nearest the water is little more than a succession of bridges from wharf to wharf. frequent bays and inlets make up, leaving unsightly muddy wastes when the tide goes out. to see family washing hung out on lines over these tidal flats, and the family infants drawing their go-carts in the mud below, was a droll sight. at least every other building on these strange wharf streets is a salmon cannery, and acres of the wharf surfaces were covered with salmon nets spread out to dry. the streets were crowded with wild-looking men, sailor-like, and yet not sailor-like, all wearing india-rubber boots reaching far above the knee, with queer wing-like flaps projecting all around at top. these were the fishers of salmon, two thousand of them, russians, finns, germans, italians,--"every kind on the earth," an old restaurant-keeper said, in speaking of them; "every kind on the earth, they pour in here, for four months, from may to september. they're a wild set; clear out with the salmon, 'n' don't mind any more 'n the fish do what they leave behind 'em." all day long they kill time in the saloons. the nights they spend on the water, flinging and trolling and drawing in their nets, which often burst with the weight of the captured salmon. it is a strange life, and one sure to foster a man's worst traits rather than his best ones. the fishermen who have homes and families, and are loyal to them, industrious and thrifty, are the exception. the site of mr. astor's original fort is now the terraced yard of a spruce new house on the corner of one of the pleasantest streets in the old town. these streets are little more than narrow terraces rising one above the other on jutting and jagged levels of the river-bank. they command superb off-looks across and up and down the majestic river, which is here far more a bay than a river. the astoria people must be strangely indifferent to these views; for the majority of the finest houses face away from the water, looking straight into the rough wooded hillside. uncouth and quaint vehicles are perpetually plying between the old and the new towns; they jolt along fast over the narrow wooden roads, and the foot-passengers, who have no other place to walk, are perpetually scrambling from under the horses' heels. it is a unique highway: pebbly beaches, marshes, and salt ponds, alder-grown cliffs, hemlock and spruce copses on its inland side; on the water-side, bustling wharves, canneries, fishermen's boarding-houses, great spaces filled in with bare piles waiting to be floored; at every turn shore and sea seem to change sides, and clumps of brakes, fresh-hewn stumps, maple and madrone trees, shift places with canneries and wharves; the sea swashes under the planks of the road at one minute, and the next is an eighth of a mile away, at the end of a close-built lane. even in the thickest settled business part of the town, blocks of water alternate with blocks of brick and stone. the statistics of the salmon-canning business almost pass belief. in six hundred thousand cases of canned salmon were shipped from astoria. we ourselves saw seventy-five hundred cases put on board one steamer. there were forty eight-pound cans in each case; it took five hours' steady work, of forty "long-shore men," to load them. these long-shore men are another shifting and turbulent element in the populations of the river towns. they work day and night, get big wages, go from place to place, and spend money recklessly; a sort of commercial bohemian, difficult to handle and often dangerous. they sometimes elect to take fifty cents an hour and all the beer they can drink, rather than a dollar an hour and no beer. at the time we saw them, they were on beer wages. the foaming beer casks stood at short intervals along the wharf,--a pitcher, pail, and mug at each cask. the scene was a lively one: four cases loaded at a time on each truck, run swiftly to the wharf edge, and slid down the hold; trucks rattling, turning sharp corners; men laughing, wheeling to right and left of each other, tossing off mugs of beer, wiping their mouths with their hands, and flinging the drops in the air with jests,--one half forgave them for taking part wages in the beer, it made it so much merrier. on sunday morning we waked up to find ourselves at sea in the columbia river. a good part of oregon and washington territory seemed also to be at sea there. when a river of the size of the columbia gets thirty feet above low-water mark, towns and townships go to sea unexpectedly. all the way up the columbia to the willamette, and down the willamette to portland, we sailed in and on a freshet, and saw at once more and less of the country than could be seen at any other time. at the town of kalama, facetiously announced as "the water terminus of the northern pacific railroad," the hotel, the railroad station, and its warehouses were entirely surrounded by water, and we sailed, in seemingly deep water, directly over the wharf where landings were usually made. at other towns on the way we ran well up into the fields, and landed passengers or freight on stray sand-spits, or hillocks, from which they could get off again on the other side by small boats. we passed scores of deserted houses, their windows open, the water swashing over their door-sills; gardens with only tops of bushes in sight, one with red roses swaying back and forth, limp and helpless on the tide. it seemed strange that men would build houses and make farms in a place where they are each year liable to be driven out by such freshets. when i expressed this wonder, an oregonian replied lightly, "oh, the river always gives them plenty of time. they've all got boats, and they wait till the last minute always, hoping the water'll go down."--"but it must be unwholesome to the last degree to live on such overflowed lands. when the water recedes, they must get fevers."--"oh, they get used to it. after they've taken about a barrel of quinine, they're pretty well acclimated." other inhabitants of the country asserted roundly that no fevers followed these freshets; that the trade-winds swept away all malarial influences; that the water did no injury whatever to the farms,--on the contrary, made the crops better; and that these farmers along the river bottoms "couldn't be hired to live anywhere else in oregon." the higher shore lines were wooded almost without a break; only at long intervals an oasis of clearing, high up, an emerald spot of barley or wheat, and a tiny farm-house. these were said to be usually lumbermen's homes; it was warmer up there than in the bottom, and crops thrived. in the not far-off day when these kingdoms of forests are overthrown, and the columbia runs unshaded to the sea, these hill shores will be one vast granary. the city of portland is on the willamette river, fourteen miles south of the junction of that river with the columbia. seen from its water approach, portland is a picturesque city, with a near surrounding of hills, wooded with pines and firs, that make a superb sky-line setting to the town, and to the five grand snow-peaks, of which clear days give a sight. these dark forests and spear-top fringes are a more distinctive feature in the beauty of portland's site than even its fine waters and islands. it is to be hoped that the portland people will appreciate their value, and never let their near hills be shorn of trees. not one tree more should be cut. already there are breaks in the forest horizons, which mar the picture greatly; and it would take but a few days of ruthless wood choppers' work to rob the city forever of its backgrounds, turning them into unsightly barrens. the city is on both sides of the river, and is called east and west portland. with the usual perversity in such cases, the higher ground and the sunny eastern frontage belong to the less popular part of the city, the west town having most of the business and all of the fine houses. yet in times of freshet its lower streets are always under water; and the setting-up of back-water into drains, cellars, and empty lots is a yearly source of much illness. when we arrived, two of the principal hotels were surrounded by water; from one of them there was no going out or coming in except by planks laid on trestle-work in the piazzas, and the air in the lower part of the town was foul with bad smells from the stagnant water. portland is only thirty years old, and its population is not over twenty-five thousand; yet it is said to have more wealth per head than any other city in the united states except new haven. wheat and lumber and salmon have made it rich. oregon wheat brings such prices in england that ships can afford to cross the ocean to get it; and last year one hundred and thirty-four vessels sailed out of portland harbor, loaded solely with wheat or flour. the city reminds one strongly of some of the rural towns in new england. the houses are unpretentious, wooden, either white or of light colors, and uniformly surrounded by pleasant grounds, in which trees, shrubs, and flowers grow freely, without any attempt at formal or decorative culture. one of the most delightful things about the town is its surrounding of wild and wooded country. in an hour, driving up on the hills to the west, one finds himself in wildernesses of woods: spruce, maple, cedar, and pine; dogwood, wild syringa, honeysuckle, ferns and brakes fitting in for undergrowth; and below all, white clover matting the ground. by the roadsides are linnæa, red clover, yarrow, may-weed, and dandelion, looking to new england eyes strangely familiar and unfamiliar at once. never in new england woods and roadsides do they have such a luxurious diet of water and rich soil, and such comfortable warm winters. the white clover especially has an air of spendthrifty indulgence about it which is delicious. it riots through the woods, even in their densest, darkest depths, making luxuriant pasturage where one would least look for it. on these wooded heights are scores of dairy farms, which have no clearings except of the space needful for the house and outbuildings. the cows, each with a bell at her neck, go roaming and browsing all day in the forests. out of thickets scarcely penetrable to the eye come everywhere along the road the contented notes of these bells' slow tinkling at the cows' leisure. the milk, cream, and butter from these dairy farms are of the excellent quality to be expected, and we wondered at not seeing "white clover butter" advertised as well as "white clover honey." land in these wooded wilds brings from forty to eighty dollars an acre; cleared, it is admirable farm land. here and there we saw orchards of cherry and apple trees, which were loaded with fruit; the cherry trees so full that they showed red at a distance. the alternation of these farms with long tracts of forest, where spruces and pines stand a hundred and fifty feet high, and myriads of wild things have grown in generations of tangle, gives to the country around portland a charm and flavor peculiarly its own; even into the city itself extends something of the same charm of contrast and antithesis; meandering footpaths, or narrow plank sidewalks with grassy rims, running within stone's-throw of solid brick blocks and business thoroughfares. one of the most interesting places in the town is the bureau of immigration of the northern pacific railroad. in the centre of the room stands a tall case, made of the native oregon woods. it journeyed to the paris and the philadelphia expositions, but nowhere can it have given eloquent mute answer to so many questions as it does in its present place. it now holds jars of all the grains raised in oregon and washington territory; also sheaves of superb stalks of the same grains, arranged in circles,--wheat six feet high, oats ten, red clover over six, and timothy grass eight. to see swedes, norwegians, germans, irish, come in, stand wonderingly before this case, and then begin to ask their jargon of questions, was an experience which did more in an hour to make one realize what the present tide of immigration to the new northwest really is than reading of statistics could do in a year. these immigrants are pouring in, it is estimated, at the rate of at least a hundred and fifty a day,--one hundred by way of san francisco and portland, twenty-five by the puget sound ports, and another twenty-five overland by wagons; no two with the same aim, no two alike in quality or capacity. to listen to their inquiries and their narratives, to give them advice and help, requires almost preternatural patience and sagacity. it might be doubted, perhaps, whether this requisite combination could be found in an american; certainly no one of any nationality could fill the office better than it is filled by the tireless norwegian who occupies the post at present. it was touching to see the brightened faces of his countrymen, as their broken english was answered by him in the familiar words of their own tongue. he could tell well which parts of the new country would best suit the hardanger men, and the men from eide. it must have been hard for them to believe his statements, even when indorsed by the home speech. to the ordinary scandinavian peasant, accustomed to measuring cultivable ground by hand-breadths, and making gardens in pockets in rocks, tales of hundreds of unbroken miles of wheat country, where crops average from thirty-five to forty-five bushels an acre, must sound incredible; and spite of their faith in their countryman, they are no doubt surprised when their first harvest in the willamette or umpqua valley proves that his statements were under, rather than over, the truth. the columbia river steamers set off from portland at dawn, or thereabouts. wise travellers go on board the night before, and their first morning consciousness is a wonder at finding themselves afloat,--afloat on a sea; for it hardly seems like river voyaging when shores are miles apart, and, in many broad vistas, water is all that can be seen. these vistas, in times of high water, when the columbia may be said to be fairly "seas over," are grand. they shine and flicker for miles, right and left, with green feathery fringes of tree-tops, and queer brown stippled points and ridges, which are house gables and roof-trees, not quite gone under. one almost forgets, in the interest of the spectacle, what misery it means to the owners of the gables and roof-trees. at washougal landing, on the morning when we went up the river, all that was to be seen of the warehouse on the wharf at which we should have made landing was the narrow ridge-line of its roof; and this was at least a third of a mile out from shore. the boat stopped, and the passengers were rowed out in boats and canoes, steering around among tree-tops and houses as best they might. the true shore-line of the river we never once saw; but it cannot be so beautiful as was the freshet's shore of upper banks and terraces,--dark forests at top, shifting shades of blue in every rift between the hills, iridescent rainbow colors on the slopes, and gray clouds, white-edged, piled up in masses above them, all floating apace with us, and changing tone and tint oftener than we changed course. as we approached the cascade mountains, the scenery grew grander with every mile. the river cuts through this range in a winding cañon, whose sides for a space of four or five miles are from three to four thousand feet high. but the charm of this pass is not so much in the height and grandeur as in the beauty of its walls. they vary in color and angle, and light and shadow, each second,--perpendicular rock fronts, mossy brown; shelves of velvety greenness and ledges of glistening red or black stone thrown across; great basaltic columns fluted as by a chisel; jutting tables of rock carpeted with yellow and brown lichen; turrets standing out with firs growing on them; bosky points of cottonwood trees; yellow and white blossoms and curtains of ferns, waving out, hanging over; and towering above all these, peaks and summits wrapped in fleecy clouds. looking ahead, we could see sometimes only castellated mountain lines, meeting across the river, like walls; as we advanced they retreated, and opened with new vistas at each opening. shining threads of water spun down in the highest places, sometimes falling sheer to the river, sometimes sinking out of sight in forest depths midway down, like the famed fosses of the norway fjords. long sky-lines of pines and firs, which we knew to be from one hundred to three hundred feet tall, looked in the aerial perspective no more than a mossy border along the wall. a little girl, looking up at them, gave by one artless exclamation a true idea of this effect. "oh," she cried, "they look just as if you could pick a little bunch of them." at intervals along the right-hand shore were to be seen the white-tented encampments of the chinese laborers on the road which the northern pacific railroad company is building to link st. paul with puget sound. a force of three thousand chinamen and two thousand whites is at work on this river division, and the road is being pushed forward with great rapidity. the track looked in places as if it were not one inch out of the water, though it was twenty feet; and tunnels which were a hundred and thirty feet high looked only like oven mouths. it has been a hard road to build, costing in some parts sixty-five thousand dollars a mile. one spot was pointed out to us where twenty tons of powder had been put in, in seven drifts, and one hundred and forty cubic yards of rock and soil blown at one blast into the river. it is an odd thing that huge blasts like this make little noise, only a slight puff; whereas small blasts make the hills ring and echo with their racket. between the lower cascades and the upper cascades is a portage of six miles, past fierce waters, in which a boat could scarcely live. here we took cars; they were overfull, and we felt ourselves much aggrieved at being obliged to make the short journey standing on one of the crowded platforms. it proved to be only another instance of the good things caught on chances. next to me stood an old couple, the man's neck so burnt and wrinkled it looked like fiery red alligator's skin; his clothes, evidently his best, donned for a journey, were of a fashion so long gone by that they had a quaint dignity. the woman wore a checked calico sun-bonnet, and a green merino gown of as quaint a fashion as her husband's coat. with them was a veritable leather stocking,--an old farmer, whose flannel shirt, tied loosely at the throat with a bit of twine, fell open, and showed a broad hairy breast of which a gladiator might have been proud. the cars jolted heavily, making it hard to keep one's footing; and the old man came near being shaken off the step. recovering himself, he said, laughing, to his friend,-- "anyhow, it's easier'n a buckin' cayuse horse." "yes," assented the other. "'t ain't much like ' , is it?" "were you here in ' ?" i asked eagerly. "' !" he repeated scornfully. "i was here in ' . i was seven months comin' across from iowa to oregon city in an ox team; an' we're livin' on that same section we took up then; an' i reckon there hain't nobody got a lien on to it yet. we've raised nine children, an' the youngest on em's twenty-one. my woman's been sick for two or three years; this is the first time i've got her out. thought we'd go down to columbus, an' get a little pleasure, if we can. we used to come up to this portage in boats, an' then pack everything on horses an' ride across." "we wore buckskin clo'es in those days," interrupted leather stocking, "and spurs with bells; needn't do more 'n jingle the bells, 'n' the horse'd start. i'd like to see them times back agen, too. i vow i'm put to 't now to know where to go. this civilyzation," with an indescribably sarcastic emphasis on the third syllable, "is too much for me. i don't want to live where i can't go out 'n' kill a deer before breakfast any mornin' i take a notion to." "were there many indians here in those days?" i asked. "many injuns?" he retorted; "why, 'twas all injuns. all this country 'long here was jest full on 'em." "how did you find them?" "jest 's civil 's any people in the world; never had no trouble with 'em. nobody never did have any thet treated 'em fair. i tell ye, it's jest with them 's 't is with cattle. now there 'll be one man raise cattle, an' be real mean with 'em; an' they'll all hook, an' kick, an' break fences, an' run away. an' there 'll be another, an' his cattle 'll all be kind, an' come ter yer when you call 'em. i don't never want to know anythin' more about a man than the way his stock acts. i hain't got a critter that won't come up by its name an' lick my hand. an' it's jest so with folks. ef a man's mean to you, yer goin' to be mean to him, every time. the great thing with injuns is, never to tell 'em a yarn. if yer deceive 'em once, they won't ever trust yer again, 's long's yer live, an' you can't trust them either. oh, i know injuns, i tell you. i've been among 'em here more 'n thirty year, an' i never had the first trouble yet. there's been troubles, but i wa'n't in 'em. it's been the white people's fault every time." "did you ever know chief joseph?" i asked. "what, old jo! you bet i knew him. he's an a no. injun, he is. he's real honorable. why, i got lost once, an' i came right on his camp before i knowed it, an' the injuns they grabbed me; 't was night, 'n' i was kind o' creepin' along cautious, an' the first thing i knew there was an injun had me on each side, an' they jest marched me up to jo's tent, to know what they should do with me. i wa'n't a mite afraid; i jest looked him right square in the eye. that's another thing with injuns; you've got to look 'em in the eye, or they won't trust ye. well, jo, he took up a torch, a pine knot he had burnin', and he held it close't up to my face, and looked me up an' down, an' down an' up; an' i never flinched; i jest looked him up an' down's good's he did me; 'n' then he set the knot down, 'n' told the men it was all right,--i was 'tum tum;' that meant i was good heart; 'n' they gave me all i could eat, 'n' a guide to show me my way, next day, 'n' i couldn't make jo nor any of 'em take one cent. i had a kind o' comforter o' red yarn, i wore round my neck; an' at last i got jo to take that, jest as a kind o' momento." the old man was greatly indignant to hear that chief joseph was in indian territory. he had been out of the state at the time of the nez percé war, and had not heard of joseph's fate. "well, that was a dirty mean trick!" he exclaimed,--"a dirty mean trick! i don't care who done it." then he told me of another indian chief he had known well,--"ercutch" by name. this chief was always a warm friend of the whites; again and again he had warned them of danger from hostile indians. "why, when he died, there wa'n't a white woman in all this country that didn't mourn 's if she'd lost a friend; they felt safe's long's he was round. when he knew he was dyin' he jest bade all his friends good-by. said he, 'good-by! i'm goin' to the great spirit;' an' then he named over each friend he had, injuns an' whites, each one by name, and said good-by after each name." it was a strange half-hour, rocking and jolting on this crowded car platform, the splendid tossing and foaming river with its rocks and islands on one hand, high cliffs and fir forests on the other; these three weather-beaten, eager, aged faces by my side, with their shrewd old voices telling such reminiscences, and rising shrill above the din of the cars. from the upper cascades to the dalles, by boat again; a splendid forty miles' run, through the mountain-pass, its walls now gradually lowering, and, on the washington territory side of the river, terraces and slopes of cleared lands and occasional settlements. great numbers of drift-logs passed us here, coming down apace, from the rush of the dalles above. every now and then one would get tangled in the bushes and roots on the shore, swing in, and lodge tight to await the next freshet. the "log" of one of these driftwood voyages would be interesting; a tree trunk may be ten years getting down to the sea, or it may swirl down in a week. it is one of the businesses along the river to catch them, and pull them in to shore, and much money is made at it. one lucky fisher of logs, on the snake river fork, once drew ashore six hundred cords in a single year. sometimes a whole boom gets loose from its moorings, and comes down stream, without breaking up. this is a godsend to anybody who can head it off and tow it in shore; for by the law of the river he is entitled to one half the value of the logs. at the dalles is another short portage of twelve miles, past a portion of the river which, though less grand than its plunge through the cascade mountains, is far more unique and wonderful. the waters here are stripped and shred into countless zigzagging torrents, boiling along through labyrinths of black lava rocks and slabs. there is nothing in all nature so gloomy, so weird, as volcanic slag; and the piles, ridges, walls, palisades of it thrown up at this point look like the roof-trees, chimneys, turrets of a half-engulfed pandemonium. dark slaty and gray tints spread over the whole shore, also; it is all volcanic matter, oozed or boiled over, and hardened into rigid shapes of death and destruction. the place is terrible to see. fitting in well with the desolateness of the region was a group of half-naked indians crouching on the rocks, gaunt and wretched, fishing for salmon; the hollows in the rocks about them filled with the bright vermilion-colored salmon spawn, spread out to dry. the twilight was nearly over as we sped by, and the deepening darkness added momently to the gloom of the scene. at celilo, just above the dalles, we took boat again for umatilla, one hundred miles farther up the river. next morning we were still among lava beds: on the washington territory side, low, rolling shores, or slanting slopes with terraces, and tufty brown surfaces broken by ridges and points of the black slag; on the oregon side, high brown cliffs mottled with red and yellow lichens, and great beaches and dunes of sand, which had blown into windrows and curving hillock lines as on the sea-shore. this sand is a terrible enemy for a railroad to fight. in a few hours, sometimes, rods of the track are buried by it as deep as by snow in the fiercest winter storms. the first picture i saw from my state-room windows, this morning, was an indian standing on a narrow plank shelf that was let down by ropes over a perpendicular rock front, some fifty feet high. there he stood, as composed as if he were on _terra firma_, bending over towards the water, and flinging in his salmon net. on the rocks above him sat the women of his family, spreading the salmon to dry. we were within so short a distance of the banks that friendly smiles could be distinctly seen; and one of the younger squaws, laughing back at the lookers-on on deck, picked up a salmon, and waving it in her right hand ran swiftly along towards an outjutting point. she was a gay creature, with scarlet fringed leggings, a pale green blanket, and on her head a twisted handkerchief of a fine old dürer red. as she poised herself, and braced backwards to throw the salmon on deck, she was a superb figure against the sky; she did not throw straight, and the fish fell a few inches short of reaching the boat. as it struck the water she made a petulant little gesture of disappointment, like a child, threw up her hands, turned, and ran back to her work. at umatilla, being forced again to "make option which of two," we reluctantly turned back, leaving the beautiful walla walla region unvisited, for the sake of seeing puget sound. the walla walla region is said to be the finest stretch of wheat country in the world. lava slag, when decomposed, makes the richest of soil,--deep and seemingly of inexhaustible fertility. a failure of harvests is said never to have been known in that country; the average yield of wheat is thirty-five to forty bushels an acre, and oats have yielded a hundred bushels. apples and peaches thrive, and are of a superior quality. the country is well watered, and has fine rolling plateaus from fifteen hundred to three thousand feet high, giving a climate neither too cold in winter nor too hot in summer, and of a bracing quality not found nearer the sea. hearing all the unquestionable tributes to the beauty and value of this walla walla region, i could not but recall some of chief joseph's pleas that a small share of it should be left in the possession of those who once owned it all. from our pilot, on the way down, i heard an indian story, too touching to be forgotten, though too long to tell here except in briefest outline. as we were passing a little village, half under water, he exclaimed, looking earnestly at a small building to whose window-sills the water nearly reached: "well, i declare, lucy's been driven out of her house this time. i was wondering why i didn't see her handkerchief a-waving. she always waves to me when i go by." then he told me lucy's story. she was a california indian, probably of the tulares, and migrated to oregon with her family thirty years ago. she was then a young girl, and said to be the handsomest squaw ever seen in oregon. in those days white men in wildernesses thought it small shame, if any, to take indian women to live with them as wives, and lucy was much sought and wooed. but she seems to have had uncommon virtue or coldness, for she resisted all such approaches for a long time. finally, a man named pomeroy appeared; and, as lucy said afterward, as soon as she looked at him, she knew he was her "tum tum man," and she must go with him. he had a small sloop, and lucy became its mate. they two alone ran it for several years up and down the river. he established a little trading-post, and lucy always took charge of that when he went to buy goods. when gold was discovered at ringgold bar, lucy went there, worked with a rocker like a man, and washed out hundreds of dollars' worth of gold, all which she gave to pomeroy. with it he built a fine schooner and enlarged his business, the faithful lucy working always at his side and bidding. at last, after eight or ten years, he grew weary of her and of the country, and made up his mind to go to california. but he had not the heart to tell lucy he meant to leave her. the pilot who told me this story was at that time captain of a schooner on the river. pomeroy came to him one day, and asked him to move lucy and her effects down to columbus. he said he had told her that she must go and live there with her relatives, while he went to california and looked about, and then he would send for her. the poor creature, who had no idea of treachery, came on board cheerfully and willingly, and he set her off at columbus. this was in the early spring. week after week, month after month, whenever his schooner stopped there, lucy was on the shore, asking if he had heard from pomeroy. for a long time, he said, he couldn't bear to tell her. at last he did; but she would not believe him. winter came on. she had got a few boards together and built herself a sort of hut, near a house where lived an eccentric old bachelor, who finally took compassion on her, and to save her from freezing let her come into his shanty to sleep. he was a mysterious old man, a recluse, with a morbid aversion to women; and at the outset it was a great struggle for him to let even an indian woman cross his threshold. but little by little lucy won her way: first she washed the dishes; then she would timidly help at the cooking. faithful, patient, unpresuming, at last she grew to be really the old man's housekeeper as well as servant. he lost his health, and became blind. lucy took care of him till he died, and followed him to the grave, his only mourner,--the only human being in the country with whom he had any tie. he left her his little house and a few hundred dollars,--all he had; and there she is still, alone, making out to live by doing whatever work she can find in the neighborhood. everybody respects her; she is known as "lucy" up and down the river. "i did my best to hire her to come and keep house for my wife, last year," said the pilot. "i'd rather have her for nurse or cook than any white woman in oregon. but she wouldn't come. i don't know as she's done looking for pomeroy to come back yet, and she's going to stay just where he left her. she never misses a time, waving to me, when she knows what boat i'm on; and there isn't much going on on the river she don't know." it was dusk when the pilot finished telling lucy's story. we were shooting along through wild passages of water called hell gate, just above the dalles. in the dim light the basaltic columnar cliffs looked like grooved ebony. one of the pinnacles has a strange resemblance to the figure of an indian. it is called the chief, and the semblance is startling,--a colossal figure, with a plume-crowned head, turned as if gazing backward over the shoulder; the attitude stately, the drapery graceful, and the whole expression one of profound and dignified sorrow. it seemed a strangely fitting emphasis to the story of the faithful indian woman. it was near midnight when we passed the dalles. our train was late, and dashed on at its swiftest. fitful light came from a wisp of a new moon and one star; they seemed tossing in a tumultuous sea of dark clouds. in this glimmering darkness the lava walls and ridges stood up, inky black; the foaming water looked like molten steel, the whole region more ghastly and terrible than before. there is a village of three thousand inhabitants at the dalles. the houses are set among lava hillocks and ridges. the fields seemed bubbled with lava, their blackened surfaces stippled in with yellow and brown. high up above are wheat-fields in clearings, reaching to the sky-line of the hills. great slopes of crumbling and disintegrating lava rock spread superb purple and slate colors between the greens of forests and wheat-fields. it is one of the memorable pictures on the columbia. to go both up and down a river is a good deal like spending a summer and a winter in a place, so great difference does it make when right hand and left shift sides, and everything is seen from a new stand-point. the columbia river scenery is taken at its best going up, especially the gradual crescendo of the cascade mountain region, which is far tamer entered from above. but we had a compensation in the clearer sky and lifted clouds, which gave us the more distant snow-peaks in all their glory; and our run down from the dalles to portland was the best day of our three on the river. our steamer was steered by hydraulic pressure; and it was a wonderful thing to sit in the pilot-house and see the slight touch of a finger on the shining lever sway the great boat in a second. a baby's hand is strong enough to steer the largest steamboat by this instrument. it could turn the boat, the captain said, in a maelstrom, where four men together could not budge the rudder-wheel. the history of the columbia river navigation would make by itself an interesting chapter. it dates back to , when a boston ship and a boston captain first sailed up the river. a curious bit of history in regard to that ship is to be found in the archives of the old spanish government in california. whenever a royal decree was issued in madrid in regard to the indies or new spain, a copy of it was sent to every viceroy in the spanish dominions; he communicated it to his next subordinate, who in turn sent it to all the governors, and so on, till the decree reached every corner of the king's provinces. in there was sent from madrid, by ship to mexico, and thence by courier to california, and by fages, the california governor, to every port in california, the following order:-- "whenever there may arrive at the port of san francisco a ship named the 'columbia,' said to belong to general washington of the american states, commanded by john kendrick, which sailed from boston in , bound on a voyage of discovery to the russian settlements on the northern coast of the peninsula, you will cause said vessel to be examined with caution and delicacy, using for this purpose a small boat which you have in your possession." two months after this order was promulgated in the santa barbara presidio, captain gray, of the ship "washington," and captain kendrick of the ship "columbia," changed ships in wickmanish harbor. captain gray took the "columbia" to china, and did not sail into san francisco harbor at all, whereby he escaped being "examined with caution and delicacy" by the small boat in possession of the san francisco garrison. not till the th of may, , did he return and sail up the columbia river, then called the oregon. he renamed it, for his ship, "columbia's river;" but the possessive was soon dropped. when one looks at the crowded rows of steamboats at the portland wharves now, it is hard to realize that it is only thirty-two years since the first one was launched there. two were built and launched in one year, the "columbia" and the "lot whitcomb." the "lot whitcomb" was launched on christmas day; there were three days' feasting and dancing, and people gathered from all parts of the territory to celebrate the occasion. it is also hard to realize, when standing on the portland wharves, that it is less than fifty years since there were angry discussions in the united states congress as to whether or not it were worth while to obtain oregon as a possession, and in the eastern states manuals were being freely distributed, bearing such titles as this: "a general circular to all persons of good character wishing to emigrate to the oregon territory." even those statesmen who were most earnest in favor of the securing of oregon did not perceive the true nature of its value. one of benton's most enthusiastic predictions was that an "emporium of asiatic commerce" would be situated at the mouth of the columbia, and that "a stream of asiatic trade would pour into the valley of the mississippi through the channel of oregon." but the future of oregon and washington rests not on any transmission of the riches of other countries, however important an element in their prosperity that may ultimately become. their true riches are their own and inalienable. they are to be among the great feeders of the earth. gold and silver values are unsteady and capricious; intrigues can overthrow them; markets can be glutted, and mines fail. but bread the nations of the earth must have. the bread-yielder controls the situation always. given a soil which can grow wheat year after year with no apparent fatigue or exhaustion, a climate where rains never fail and seed-time and harvest are uniformly certain, and conditions are created under which the future success and wealth of a country may be predicted just as surely as the movements of the planets in the heavens. there are three great valleys in western oregon,--the willamette, the umpqua, and the rogue river. the willamette is the largest, being sixty miles long by one hundred and fifty wide. the umpqua and rogue river together contain over a million of acres. these valleys are natural gardens; fertile to luxuriance, and watered by all the westward drainage of the great cascade range, the andes of north america, a continuation of the sierra nevada. the coast range mountains lie west of these valleys, breaking, but not shutting out, the influence of the sea air and fogs. this valley region between these two ranges contains less than a third of the area of washington and oregon. the country east of the cascade mountains is no less fertile, but has a drier climate, colder winters, and hotter summers. its elevation is from two to four thousand feet,--probably the very best elevations for health. a comparison of statistics of yearly death-rates cannot be made with absolute fairness between old and thick-settled and new and sparsely settled countries. allowance must be made for the probably superior health and strength of the men and women who have had the youth and energy to go forward as pioneers. but, making all due allowance for these, there still remains difference enough to startle one between the death-rates in some of the atlantic states and in these infant empires of the new northwest. the yearly death-rate in massachusetts is one out of fifty-seven; in vermont one out of ninety-seven; in oregon one out of one hundred and seventy-two; and in washington territory one out of two hundred and twenty-eight. as we glided slowly to anchorage in portland harbor, five dazzling snow-white peaks were in sight on the horizon,--mount hood, of peerless shape, strong as if it were a bulwark of the very heavens themselves, yet graceful and sharp-cut as egypt's pyramids; st. helen's, a little lower, yet looking higher, with the marvellous curves of its slender shining cone, bent on and seemingly into the sky, like an intaglio of ice cut in the blue; miles away in the farthest north and east horizons, mounts tacoma and adams and baker, all gleaming white, and all seeming to uphold the skies. these eternal, unalterable snow-peaks will be as eternal and unalterable factors in the history of the country as in its beauty to the eye. their value will not come under any head of things reckonable by census, statistics, or computation, but it will be none the less real for that: it will be an element in the nature and character of every man and woman born within sight of the radiant splendor; and it will be strange if it does not ultimately develop, in the empire of this new northwest, a local patriotism and passionate loyalty to soil as strong and lasting as that which has made generations of swiss mountaineers ready to brave death for a sight of their mountains. footnotes: [ ] john g. hittell's commerce and industries of the pacific coast. [ ] "the term 'pueblo' answers to that of the english word 'town,' in all its vagueness and all its precision. as the word 'town' in english generally embraces every kind of population from the village to the city, and also, used specifically, signifies a town corporate and politic, so the word 'pueblo' in spanish ranges from the hamlet to the city, but, used emphatically, signifies a town corporate and politic."--dwinelle's _colonial history of san francisco_. [ ] in the decade between and the missions furnished to the presidios about eighteen thousand dollars' worth of supplies each year. [ ] special report of the hon. b. d. wilson, of los angeles, cal., to the interior department in . [ ] the missions of san rafael and san francisco de solano were the last founded; the first in , and the latter in ,--too late to attain any great success or importance. [ ] john w. dwinelle's colonial history of san francisco, pp. - . ii. scotland and england. ii. scotland and england. a burns pilgrimage. a shining-beached crescent of country facing to the sunset, and rising higher and higher to the east till it becomes mountain, is the county of ayrshire, fair and famous among the southern scotch highlands. to a sixty-mile measure by air, between its north and south promontories, it stretches a curving coast of ninety; and when robert burns strolled over its breezy uplands, he saw always beautiful and mysterious silver lines of land thrusting themselves out into the mists of the sea, pointing to far-off island peaks, seeming sometimes to bridge and sometimes to wall vistas ending only in sky. these lines are as beautiful, elusive, and luring now as then, and in the inalienable loyalty of nature bear testimony to-day to their lover. this is the greatest crown of the hero and the poet. other great men hold fame by failing records which moth and fire destroy. the places that knew them know them no more when they are dead. marble and canvas and parchment league in vain to keep green the memory of him who did not love and consecrate by his life-blood, in fight or in song, the soil where he trod. but for him who has done this,--who fought well, sang well,--the morning cloud, and the wild rose, and broken blades of grass under men's feet, become immortal witnesses; so imperishable, after all, are what we are in the habit of calling the "perishable things of this earth." more than two hundred years ago, when the followers and holders of the different baronies of ayrshire compared respective dignities and values, they made a proverb which ran:-- "carrick for a man; kyle for a coo; cunningham for butter and cheese; galloway for woo." before the nineteenth century set in, the proverb should have been changed; for kyle is the land through which "bonnie doon" and irvine water run, and there has been never a man in all carrick of whom carrick can be proud as is kyle of robert burns. it has been said that a copy of his poems lies on every scotch cottager's shelf, by the side of the bible. this is probably not very far from the truth. certain it is, that in the villages where he dwelt there seems to be no man, no child, who does not apparently know every detail of the life he lived there, nearly a hundred years ago. "will ye be drivin' over to tarbolton in the morning?" said the pretty young vice-landlady of the king's arms at ayr, when i wrote my name in her visitors' book late one saturday night. "what made you think of that?" i asked, amused. "and did ye not come on account o' burns?" she replied. "there's been a many from your country here by reason of him this summer. i think you love him in america a'most as well as we do oursel's. it's vary seldom the english come to see anythin' aboot him. they've so many poets o' their own, i suppose, is the reason o' their not thinkin' more o' burns." all that there was unflattering in this speech i forgave by reason of the girl's sweet low voice, pretty gray eyes, and gentle, refined hospitality. she might have been the daughter of some country gentleman, welcoming a guest to the house; and she took as much interest in making all the arrangements for my drive to tarbolton the next morning as if it had been a pleasure excursion for herself. it is but a dull life she leads, helping her widowed mother keep the king's arms,--dull, and unprofitable too, i fear; for it takes four men-servants and seven women to keep up the house, and i saw no symptom of any coming or going of customers in it. a stillness as of a church on weekdays reigned throughout the establishment. "at the races and when the yeomanry come," she said, there was something to do; but "in the winter nothing, except at the times of the county balls. you know, ma'am, we've many county families here," she remarked with gentle pride, "and they all stop with us." there is a compensation to the lower orders of a society where rank and castes are fixed, which does not readily occur at first sight to the democratic mind naturally rebelling against such defined distinctions. it is very much to be questioned whether, in a republic, the people who find themselves temporarily lower down in the social scale than they like to be or expect to stay, feel, in their consciousness of the possibility of rising, half so much pride or satisfying pleasure as do the lower classes in england, for instance, in their relations with those whom they serve, whose dignity they seem to share by ministering to it. the way from ayr to tarbolton must be greatly changed since the day when the sorrowful burns family trod it, going from the mount oliphant farm to that of lochlea. now it is for miles a smooth road, on which horses' hoofs ring merrily, and neat little stone houses, with pretty yards, line it on both sides for some distance. the ground rises almost immediately, so that the dwellers in these little suburban houses get fine off-looks seaward and a wholesome breeze in at their windows. the houses are built joined by twos, with a yard in common. they have three rooms besides the kitchen, and they rent for twenty-five pounds a year; so no industrious man of ayr need be badly lodged. where the houses leave off, hedges begin,--thorn and beech, untrimmed and luxuriant, with great outbursts of white honeysuckle and sweet-brier at intervals. as far as the eye could see were waving fields of wheat, oats, and "rye-grass," which last being just ripe was of a glorious red color. the wheat-fields were rich and full, sixty bushels to the acre. oats, which do not take so kindly to the soil and air, produce sometimes only forty-eight. burns was but sixteen when his father moved from mount oliphant to the lochlea farm, in the parish of tarbolton. it was in tarbolton that he first went to dancing-school, joined the freemasons, and organized the club which, no doubt, cost him dear, "the bachelors of tarbolton." in the beginning this club consisted of only five members besides burns and his brother; afterward it was enlarged to sixteen. burns drew up the rules; and the last one--the tenth--is worth remembering, as an unconscious defining on his part of his ideal of human life:-- "every man proper for a member of this society must have a friendly, honest, open heart, above everything dirty or mean, and must be a professed lover of one or more of the sex. the proper person for this society is a cheerful, honest-hearted lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet, is just as happy as this world can make him." walking to-day through the narrow streets of tarbolton, it is wellnigh impossible to conceive of such rollicking good cheer having made abiding-place there. it is a close, packed town, the houses of stone or white plaster,--many of them low, squalid, with thatched roofs and walls awry; those that are not squalid are grim. the streets are winding and tangled; the people look poor and dull. as i drove up to the "crown inn," the place where the tarbolton freemasons meet now, and where some of the relics of burns's freemason days are kept, the "first bells" were ringing in the belfry of the old church opposite, and the landlord of the inn replied with a look of great embarrassment to my request to see the burns relics,-- "it's the sabbath, mem." then he stood still, scratching his head for a few moments, and then set off, at full run, down the street without another word. "he's gone to the head mason," explained the landlady. "it takes three to open the chest. i think ye'll na see it the day." and she turned on her heel with a frown and left me. "they make much account o' the sabbath in this country," said my driver. "another day ye'd do better." thinking of burns's lines to the "unco guid," i strolled over into the churchyard opposite, to await the landlord's return. the bell-ringer had come down, and followed me curiously about among the graves. one very old stone had carved upon it two high-top boots; under these, two low shoes; below these, two kneeling figures, a man and a woman, cut in high relief; no inscription of any sort. "what can it mean?" i asked. the bell-ringer could not tell; it was so old nobody knew anything about it. his mother, now ninety years of age, remembered seeing it when she was a child, and it looked just as old then as now. "there's a many strange things in this graveyard," said he; and then he led me to a corner where, enclosed by swinging chains and stone posts, was a carefully kept square of green turf, on which lay a granite slab. "every year comes the money to pay for keeping that grass green," he said, "and no name to it. it's been going on that way for fifty years." the stone-wall around the graveyard was dilapidated, and in parts was falling down. "i suppose this old wall was here in burns's time," i said. "ay, yes," said the bell-ringer; and pointing to a low, thatched cottage just outside it, "and yon shop--many's the time he's been in it playin' his tricks." the landlord of the inn now came running up, with profuse apologies for the ill success of his mission. he had been to the head mason, hoping he would come over and assist in the opening of the chest, in which were kept a mason's apron worn by burns, some jewels of his, and a book of minutes kept by him. but "bein' 's it's the sabbath," and "he's sick in bed," and it was "against the rules to open the regalia chest unless three masons were present," the kindly landlord, piling up reason after reason, irrespective of their consistency with each other, went on to explain that it would be impossible; but i might see the chair in which burns always sat. this was a huge oaken chair, black with age, and furrowed with names cut deep in the wood. it was shaped and proportioned like a child's high-chair, and had precisely such a rest for the feet as is put on children's high-chairs. to this day the grand mason sits in it at their meetings, and will so long as the st. james lodge exists. "they've been offered hundreds of pounds for that chair, mem, plain as it is. you'd not think it; but there's no money'd buy it from the lodge," said the landlord. the old club-house where the jolly "bachelors of tarbolton" met in burns's day is a low, two-roomed, thatched cottage, half in ruins. the room where the bachelors smoked, drank, and sang is now little more than a cellar filled with rubbish and filth,--nothing left but the old fireplace to show that it was ever inhabited. in the other half of the cottage lives a laborer's family,--father, mother, and a young child: their one room, with its bed built into the wall, and their few delf dishes on the dresser, is probably much like the room in which burns first opened his wondrous eyes. the man was lying on the floor playing with his baby. at the name of burns, he sprang up with a hearty "ay, weel," and ran out in his blue-stocking feet to show me the cellar, of which, it was plainly to be seen, he was far prouder than of his more comfortable side of the house. the name by which the inn was called in burns's day he did not know. but "he's a mason over there; he'll know," he cried; and before i could prevent him, he had darted, still shoeless, across the road, and asked the question of a yet poorer laborer, who was taking his sunday on his door-sill with two bairns between his knees. he had heard, but had "forgotten." "feyther'll know," said the wife, coming forward with the third bairn, a baby, in her arms. "i'll rin an' ask feyther." the old man tottered out, and gazed with a vacant, feeble look at me, while he replied impatiently to his daughter: "manson's inn, 't was called; ye've heard it times eneuch." "i dare say you always drink burns's health at the lodge when you meet," i said to the laborer. "ay, ay, his health's ay dronkit," he said, with a coarse laugh, "weel dronkit." a few rods to the east, and down the very road burns was wont to come and go between lochlea and tarbolton, still stands "willie's mill,"--cottage and mill and shed and barn, all in one low, long, oddly joined (or jointed) building of irregular heights, like a telescope pulled out to its full length; a little brook and a bit of gay garden in front. in the winter the mill goes by water from a lake near by; in the summer by steam,--a great change since the night when burns went "todlin' down on willie's mill," and though he thought he "was na fou, but just had plenty," could not for the life of him make out to count the moon's horns. "to count her horns, wi' a' my power, i set mysel'; but whether she had three or four i could na tell." to go by road from tarbolton to lochlea farm is to go around three sides of a square, east, north, and then west again. certain it is that burns never took so many superfluous steps to do it; and as i drove along i found absorbing interest in looking at the little cluster of farm buildings beyond the fields, and wondering where the light-footed boy used to "cut across" for his nightly frolics. there is nothing left at lochlea now of him or his; nothing save a worn lintel of the old barn. the buildings are all new; and there is a look of thrift and comfort about the place, quite unlike the face it must have worn in . the house stands on a rising knoll, and from the windows looking westward and seaward there must be a fine horizon and headlands to be seen at sunset. nobody was at home on this day except a barefooted servant-girl, who was keeping the house while the family were at church. she came to the door with an expression of almost alarm, at the unwonted apparition of a carriage driving down the lane on sunday, and a stranger coming in the name of a man dead so long ago. she evidently knew nothing of burns except that, for some reason connected with him, the old lintel was kept and shown. she was impatient of the interruption of her sabbath, and all the while she was speaking kept her finger in her book--"footprints of jesus"--at the place where she had been reading, and glanced at it continually, as if it were an amulet which could keep her from harm through the worldly interlude into which she had been forced. "it's a pity ye came on the sabba-day," remarked the driver again, as we drove away from lochlea. "the country people 'ull not speak on the sabbath." it would have been useless to try to explain to him that the spectacle of this scottish "sabba-day" was of itself of almost as much interest as the sight of the fields in which robert burns had walked and worked. the farm of mossgiel, which was burns's next home after lochlea, is about three miles from tarbolton, and only one from mauchline. burns and his brother gilbert had become tenants of it a few months before their father's death in . it was stocked by the joint savings of the whole family; and each member of the family was allowed fair rates of wages for all labor performed on it. the allowance to gilbert and to robert was seven pounds a year each, and it is said that during the four years that robert lived there, his expenses never exceeded this pittance. to mossgiel he came with new resolutions. he had already reaped some bitter harvests from the wild oats sown during the seven years at lochlea. he was no longer a boy. he says of himself at this time,-- "i entered on mossgiel with a full resolution, 'come, go; i will be wise.'" driving up the long, straight road which leads from the highway to the hawthorn fortress in which the mossgiel farm buildings stand, one recalls these words, and fancies the brave young fellow striding up the field, full of new hope and determination. the hawthorn hedge to-day is much higher than a man's head, and completely screens from the road the farm-house and the outbuildings behind it. the present tenants have lived on the farm forty years, the first twenty in the same house which stood there when robert and gilbert burns pledged themselves to pay one hundred and twenty pounds a year for the farm. when the house was rebuilt, twenty years ago, the old walls were used in part, and the windows were left in the same places; but, instead of the low, sloping-roofed, garret-like rooms upstairs, where burns used to sleep and write, are now comfortable chambers of modern fashion. "were you not sorry to have the old house pulled down?" i said to the comely, aged farm-wife. "'deed, then, i was very prood," she replied; "it had na 'coomodation, and the thatch took in the rain an' all that was vile." in the best room of the house hung two autograph letters of burns's plainly framed: one, his letter to the lass of ----, asking her permission to print the poem he had addressed to her; the other, the original copy of the poem. these were "presented to the house by the brother of the lady," the woman said, and they had "a great value now." but when she first came to this part of the country she was "vary soorpreezed" to find the great esteem in which burns's poetry was held. in the north, where she had lived, he was "na thocht weel of." her father had never permitted a copy of his poems to be brought inside his doors, and had forbidden his children to read a word of them. "he thocht them too rough for us to read." it was not until she was a woman grown, and living in her husband's house, that she had ever ventured to disobey this parental command, and she did not now herself think they were "fitted for the reading of young pairsons." "there was much more discreet writin's," she said severely; an opinion which there was no gainsaying. there is a broader horizon to be seen, looking westward from the fields of mossgiel, than from those of lochlea; the lands are higher and nobler of contour. superb trees, which must have been superb a century ago, stand to right and left of the house,--beeches, ashes, oaks, and planes. the fields which are in sight from the house are now all grass-grown. i have heard that twenty years ago, it was confidently told in which field burns, ploughing late in the autumn, broke into the little nest of the "wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie," whom every song-lover has known and pitied from that day to this, and whose misfortunes have answered ever since for a mint of reassuring comparison to all of us, remembering that "the best-laid schemes o' mice an' men" must "gang aft aglee;" and the other field, also near by, where grew that mountain daisy, "wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower," whose name is immortal in our hearts as that of burns. this farm-wife, however, knew nothing about them. the stern air of the north country in which she had been reared still chilled somewhat her thoughts of burns and her interest in his inalienable bond on the fields of her farm. it is but a mile from mossgiel's gate to mauchline, the town of "bonnie jean" and nansie tinnoch and gavin hamilton. surely a strange-assorted trio to be comrades of one man. their houses are still standing: jean's a tumble-down thatched cottage, looking out of place enough between the smart, new houses built on either side of it; gavin hamilton's, a dark, picturesque stone house, joined to the ruins of mauchline castle; and nansie tinnoch's, a black and dilapidated hovel, into which it takes courage to go. it stands snugged up against the wall of the old graveyard, part below it and part above it,--a situation as unwholesome as horrible; a door at the head of the narrow stairway opening out into the graveyard itself, and the slanting old stones leering in at the smoky windows by crowds. in the days when all the "country side" met at the open-air services in this churchyard, "some thinkin' on their sins, an' some on their claes," no doubt nancy tinnoch's was a lighter, whiter, cheerier place than now; else the "jolly beggars" would never have gone there to tipple. it was the nooning between services when i reached mauchline, and church-goers from a distance were taking their beer and crackers decorously in the parlor of the inn. as the intermission was only three quarters of an hour long, this much of involuntary dissipation was plainly forced on them; but they did not abuse it, i can testify. they partook of it as of a passover: young men and maidens as sober and silent as if they had been doing solemn penance for sins, as indeed, from one point of view, it might perhaps be truly said that they were. by dint of some difficult advances i drew one or two of them into conversation about the mossgiel farm and the disappearance of the old relics of burns's life in that region. it was a great pity, i said, that the mossgiel house had to be taken down. "'deed, then, it was na such thing," spoke up an elderly man. "it was na moor than a wreck, an' i'm the mon who did it." he was the landlord of the farm, it appeared. he seemed much amused at hearing of the farm-wife's disapproval of burns's verses, and of her father's prohibition of them. "he was a heepocritical auld radical, if ye knows him," he said angrily. "i hope we'll never have ony worse readin' in our country than robert bur-r-r-ns." the prolongation of the "r" in the scotch way of saying "burns" is something that cannot be typographically represented. it is hardly a rolling of the "r," nor a multiplication of it; but it takes up a great deal more time and room than any one "r" ought to. after the landlady had shown to me the big hall where the freemasons meet, "the burns' mother lodge," and the chest which used to hold the regalia at tarbolton in burns's day, and the little bedroom in which stedman and hawthorne had slept,--coming also to look at burns's fields,--she told me in a mysterious whisper that there was a nephew of burns's in the kitchen, who would like to see me, if i would like to see him. "a nephew of burns's!" i exclaimed. "weel, not exactly," she explained, "but he's a grand-nephew of burns's wife; she thet was jean, ye know," with a deprecating nod and lowering of the eyelid. so fast is the clutch of a scotch neighborhood on its traditions of offended virtue, even to-day poor jean cannot be mentioned by a landlady in her native town without a small stone cast backward at her. jean's grand-nephew proved to be a middle-aged man; not "ower weel-to-do," the landlady said. he had tried his hand at doctoring both in scotland and america,--a rolling stone evidently, with too much of the old fiery blood of his race in his veins for quiet and decorous prosperity. he, too, seemed only half willing to speak of poor "jean,"--his kinswoman; but he led me to the cottage where she had lived, and pointed out the window from which she was said to have leaned out many a night listening to the songs of her lover when he sauntered across from the whiteford arms, johnny pigeon's house, just opposite, "not fou, but having had plenty" to make him merry and affectionate. johnny pigeon's is a "co-operative store" now; and new buildings have altered the line of the street so that "rob mossgiel" would lose his way there to-day. the room in which burns and his "bonnie jean" were at last married in gavin hamilton's house, by hamilton himself, is still shown to visitors. this room i had a greater desire to see than any other spot in mauchline. "we can but try," said the grand-nephew; "but it's a small chance of seeing it the sabba." the sole tenant of this house now is the widow of a son of gavin hamilton's. old, blind, and nearly helpless, she lives there alone with one family servant, nearly as old as herself, but hale, hearty, and rosy as only an old scotchwoman can be. this servant opened the door for us, her cap, calico gown, and white apron all alike bristling with starch, religion, and pride of family. her mistress would not allow the room to be shown on the sabbath, she said. imploringly it was explained to her that no other day had been possible, and that i had come "all the way from america." "ye did na do weel to tak the sabbath," was her only reply, as she turned on her heel to go with the fruitless appeal to her mistress. returning, she said curtly,-- "she winna shew it on the sabbath." at this crisis my companion, who had kept in the background, stepped forward with,-- "you don't know me, elspie, do ye?" "no, sir," she said stiffly, bracing herself up mentally against any further heathenish entreaties. "what, not know ----?" repeating his name in full. presto! as if changed by a magician's trick, the stiff, starched, religious, haughty family retainer disappeared, and there stood, in the same cap, gown, and apron, a limber, rollicking, wellnigh improper old woman, who poked the grand-nephew in the ribs, clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling, ejaculating, questioning, wondering, laughing, all in a breath. reminiscence on reminiscence followed between them. "an' do ye mind barry, too?" she asked. (this was an old man-servant of the house.) "an' many's the quirrel, an' many's the gree we had." barry was dead. dead also was the beautiful girl whom my companion remembered well,--dead of a broken heart before she was eighteen years of age. forbidden to marry her lover, she had drooped and pined. he went to india and died. it was in a december the news of his death came, just at christmas time, and in the next september she followed him. "ay, but she was a bonnie lass," said elspie, the tears rolling down her face. "i dare say she [nodding his head toward the house]--i dare say she's shed many a salt tear over it; but naebody 'ill ever know she repentit," quoth the grand-nephew. "ay, ay," said elspie. "there's a wee bit closet in every hoos." "'twas in that room she died," pointing up to a small ivy-shaded window. "i closed her eyes wi' my hands. she's never spoken of. she was a bonnie lass." the picture of this desolate old woman, sitting there alone in her house, helpless, blind, waiting for death to come and take her to meet that daughter whose young heart was broken by her cruel will, seemed to shadow the very sunshine on the greensward in the court. the broken arches and crumbling walls of the old stone abbey ruins seemed, in their ivy mantles, warmly, joyously venerable by contrast with the silent, ruined, stony old human heart still beating in the house they joined. in spite of my protestations, the grand-nephew urged elspie to show us the room. she evidently now longed to do it; but, casting a fearful glance over her shoulder, said: "i daur na! i daur na! i could na open the door that she'd na hear 't." and she seemed much relieved when i made haste to assure her that on no account would i go into the room without her mistress's permission. so we came away, leaving her gazing regretfully after us, with her hand shading her eyes from the sun. going back from mauchline to ayr, i took another road, farther to the south than the one leading through tarbolton, and much more beautiful, with superb beech-trees meeting overhead, and gentlemen's country-seats, with great parks, on either hand. on this road is montgomerie castle, walled in by grand woods, which burns knew so well. "ye banks and braes and streams around the castle o' montgomery, green be your woods and fair your flowers, your waters never drumlie! there simmer first unfauld her robes, and there the langest tarry, for there i took the last fareweel o' my sweet highland mary." sitting in the sun, on a bench outside the gate-house, with his little granddaughter on his lap, was the white-haired gate-keeper. as the horses' heads turned toward the gate, he arose slowly, without a change of muscle, and set down the child, who accepted her altered situation also without a change of muscle in her sober little face. "is it allowed to go in?" asked the driver. "eh--ye'll not be calling at the hoos?" asked the old man, surprised. "no, i'm a stranger; but i like to see all the fine places in your country," i replied. "i've no orders," looking at the driver reflectively; "i've no orders--but--a decent pairson"--looking again scrutinizingly at me,--"i think there can be no hairm." and he opened the gate. grand trees, rolling tracts of velvety turf, an ugly huge house of weather-beaten stone, with white pillars in front; conservatories joining the wings to the centre; no attempt at decorative landscape art; grass, trees, distances,--these were all; but there were miles of these. it was at least a mile's drive to the other entrance to the estate, where the old stone gateway house was in ruin. i fancy that it was better kept up in the days before an earl of eglinstoune sold it to a plain mr. patterson. at another fine estate nearer ayr, where an old woman was gate-keeper, and also had "no orders" about admitting strangers, the magic word "america" threw open the gates with a sweep, and bent the old dame's knees in a courtesy which made her look three times as broad as she was long. this estate had been "always in the oswald family, an' is likely always to be, please god," said the loyal creature, with another courtesy at the mention, unconsciously devout as that of the catholic when he crosses himself. "an' it's a fine country ye've yersel' in america," she added politely. the oswald estate has acres of beautiful curving uplands, all green and smooth and open; a lack of woods near the house, but great banks of sunshine instead, make a beauty all their own; and the ayr water, running through the grounds, and bridged gracefully here and there, is a possession to be coveted. from all points is a clear sight of sea, and headlands north and south,--ayr harbor lying like a crescent, now silver, now gold, afloat between blue sky and green shore, and dusky gray roof-lines of the town. the most precious thing in all the parish of ayr is the cottage in which burns was born. it is about two miles south from the centre of the town, on the shore of "bonnie doon," and near alloway kirk. you cannot go thither from ayr over any road except the one tam o' shanter took: it has been straightened a little since his day, but many a rod of it is the same that maggie trod; and alloway kirk is as ghostly a place now, even at high noon, as can be found "frae maidenkirk to johnny groat's." there is nothing left of it but the walls and the gable, in which the ancient bell still hangs, intensifying the silence by its suggestion of echoes long dead. the burns cottage is now a sort of inn, kept by an englishman whose fortunes would make a tale by themselves. he fought at balaklava and in our civil war; and side by side on the walls of his dining-room hang, framed, his two commissions in the pennsylvania volunteers and the menu of the balaklava banquet, given in london to the brave fellows that came home alive after that fight. he does not love the scotch people. "i would not give the americans for all the scotch ever born," he says, and is disposed to speak with unjust satire of their apparent love of burns, which he ascribes to a perception of his recognition by the rest of the world and a shamefaced desire not to seem to be behindhand in paying tribute to him. "oh, they let on to think much of him," he said. "it's money in their pockets." the room in which burns was born is still unaltered, except in having one more window let in. originally, it had but one small square window of four panes. the bed is like the beds in all the old scotch cottages, built into the wall, similar to those still seen in norway. stifling enough the air surely must have been in the cupboard bed in which the "waly boy" was born. "the gossip keekit in his loof; quo' scho, 'wha lives will see the proof,-- this waly boy will be nae coof; i think we'll ca' him robin.'" before he was many days old, or, as some traditions have it, on the very night he was born, a violent storm "tirled" away part of the roof of the poor little "clay biggin," and mother and babe were forced to seek shelter in a neighbor's cottage. misfortune and robin early joined company, and never parted. the little bedroom is now the show-room of the inn, and is filled with tables piled with the well-known boxes, pincushions, baskets, paper-cutters, etc., made from sycamore wood grown on the banks of doon and ayr. these articles are all stamped with some pictures of scenery associated with burns or with quotations from his verses. it is impossible to see all this money-making without thinking what a delicious, rollicking bit of verse burns would write about it himself if he came back to-day. there are those who offer for sale articles said to be made out of the old timbers of the mossgiel house; but the balaklava englishman scouts all that as the most barefaced imposture. "there wasn't an inch of that timber," he says,--and he was there when the house was taken down--"which wasn't worm-eaten and rotten; not enough to make a knife-handle of!" one feels disposed to pass over in silence the "burns monument," which was built in , at a cost of over three thousand pounds; "a circular temple supported by nine fluted corinthian columns, emblematic of the nine muses," say the guide-books. it stands in a garden overlooking the doon, and is a painful sight. but in a room in the base of it are to be seen some relics at which no burns lover can look unmoved,--the bibles he gave to highland mary, the ring with which he wedded jean (taken off after her death), and two rings containing some of his hair. it is but a few steps from this monument down to a spot on the "banks o' bonnie doon," from which is a fine view of the "auld brig." this shining, silent water, and the overhanging, silent trees, and the silent bell in the gable of alloway kirk, speak more eloquently of burns than do all nine of the corinthian muse-dedicated pillars in his monument. so do the twa brigs of ayr, which still stand at the foot of high street, silently recriminating each other as of old. "i doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye'r nae sheep-shank when ye are streekit o'er frae bank to bank," sneers the auld; and "will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet, your ruined, formless bulk o' stane and lime, compare wi' bonny brigs o' modern time?" retorts the new; and "the sprites that owre the brigs of ayr preside" never interrupt the quarrel. spite of all its boasting, however, the new bridge cracked badly two years ago, and had to be taken down and entirely rebuilt. the dingy little inn where "tam was glorious, o'er a' the ills o' life victorious," is still called by his name, and still preserves, as its chief claims to distinction, the big wooden mug out of which tam drank, and the chair in which he so many market-nights "gat planted unco richt." the chair is of oak, wellnigh black as ebony, and furrowed thick with names cut upon it. the smart young landlady who now keeps the house commented severely on this desecration of it, and said that for some years the house had been "keepit" by a widow, who was "in no sense up to the beesiness," and "a' people did as they pleased in the hoos in her day." the mug has a metal rim and base; but spite of these it has needed to be clasped together again by three ribs of cane, riveted on. "money couldn't buy it," the landlady said. it belongs to the house, is mentioned always in the terms of lease, and the house has changed hands but four times since tam's day. in a tiny stone cottage in the southern suburbs of ayr, live two nieces of burns, daughters of his youngest sister, isabella. they are vivacious still, and eagerly alive to all that goes on in the world, though they must be well on in the seventies. the day i called they had "just received a newspaper from america," they said. "perhaps i knew it. it was called 'the democrat.'" as i was not able to identify it by that description, the younger sister made haste to fetch it. it proved to be a paper printed in madison, iowa. the old ladies were much interested in the approaching american election, had read all they could find about general garfield, and were much impressed by the wise reticence of general grant. "he must be a vary cautious man; disna say enough to please people," they said, with sagacious nods of approbation. they remembered burns's wife very well, had visited her when she was living, a widow, at dumfries, and told with glee a story which they said she herself used to narrate, with great relish, of a pedler lad who, often coming to the house with wares to sell in the kitchen, finally expressed to the servant his deep desire to see mrs. burns. she accordingly told him to wait, and her mistress would, no doubt, before long come into the room. mrs. burns came in, stood for some moments talking with the lad, bought some trifle of him, and went away. still he sat waiting. at last the servant asked why he did not go. he replied that she had promised he should see mrs. burns. "but ye have seen her; that was she," said the servant. "eh, eh?" said the lad. "na! never tell me now that was 'bonnie jean'!" burns's mother, too (their grandmother), they recollected well, and had often heard her tell of the time when the family lived at lochlea, and robert, spending his evenings at the tarbolton merry-makings with the bachelors' club or the masons, used to come home late in the night, and she used to sit up to let him in. these doings sorely displeased the father; and at last he said grimly, one night, that he would sit up to open the door for robert. trembling with fear, the mother went to bed, and did not close her eyes, listening apprehensively for the angry meeting between father and son. she heard the door open, the old man's stern tone, robert's gay reply; and in a twinkling more the two were sitting together over the fire, the father splitting his sides with half-unwilling laughter at the boy's inimitable descriptions and mimicry of the scenes he had left. nearly two hours they sat there in this way, the mother all the while cramming the bed-clothes into her mouth, lest her own laughter should remind her husband how poorly he was carrying out his threats. after that night "rob" came home at what hour he pleased, and there was nothing more heard of his father's sitting up to reprove him. they believed that burns's intemperate habits had been greatly exaggerated. their mother was a woman twenty-five years old, and the mother of three children when he died, and she had never once seen him the "waur for liquor." "there were vary mony idle people i' the warld, an' a great deal o' talk," they said. after his father's death he assumed the position of the head of the house, and led in family prayers each morning; and everybody said, even the servants, that there were never such beautiful prayers heard. he was a generous soul. after he left home he never came back for a visit, however poor he might be, without bringing a present for every member of the family; always a pound of tea for his mother, "and tea was tea then," the old ladies added. to their mother he gave a copy of thomson's "seasons," which they still have. they have also some letters of his, two of which i read with great interest. they were to his brother, and were full of good advice. in one he says:-- "i intended to have given you a sheetful of counsels, but some business has prevented me. in a word, learn taciturnity. let that be your motto. though you had the wisdom of newton or the wit of swift, garrulousness would lower you in the eyes of your fellow-creatures." in the other, after alluding to some village tragedy, in which great suffering had fallen on a woman, he says,-- "women have a kind of steady sufferance which qualifies them to endure much beyond the common run of men; but perhaps part of that fortitude is owing to their short-sightedness, as they are by no means famous for seeing remote consequences in their real importance." the old ladies said that their mother had liked "jean" on the whole, though "at first not so weel, on account of the connection being what it was." she was kindly, cheery, "never bonny;" but had a good figure, danced well and sang well, and worshipped her husband. she was "not intellectual;" "but there's some say a poet shouldn't have an intellectual wife," one of the ingenuous old spinsters remarked interrogatively. "at any rate, she suited him; an' it was ill speering at her after all that was said and done," the younger niece added, with real feeling in her tone. well might she say so. if there be a touching picture in all the long list of faithful and ill-used women, it is that of "bonnie jean,"--the unwedded mother of children, the forgiving wife of a husband who betrayed others as he had betrayed her,--when she took into her arms and nursed and cared for her husband's child, born of an outcast woman, and bravely answered all curious questioners with, "it's a neebor's bairn i'm bringin' up." she wrought for herself a place and an esteem of which her honest and loving humility little dreamed. there is always something sad in seeking out the spot where a great man has died. it is like living over the days of his death and burial. the more sympathetically we have felt the spell of the scenes in which he lived his life, the more vitalized and vitalizing that life was, the more are we chilled and depressed in the presence of places on which his wearied and suffering gaze rested last. as i drove through the dingy, confused, and ugly streets of dumfries, my chief thought was, "how burns must have hated this place!" looking back on it now, i have a half-regret that i ever saw it, that i can recall vividly the ghastly graveyard of saint michael's, with its twenty-six thousand gravestones and monuments, crowded closer than they would be in a marble-yard, ranged in rows against the walls without any pretence of association with the dust they affect to commemorate. what a ballad burns might have written about such a show! and what would it not have been given to him to say of the "genius of coila, finding her favorite son at the plough, and casting her mantle over him,"--that is, the sculptured monument, or, as the sexton called it, "máwsolem," under which he has had the misfortune to be buried. a great malvern bathwoman, bringing a bathing-sheet to an unwilling patient, might have been the model for the thing. it is hideous beyond description, and in a refinement of ingenuity has been made uglier still by having the spaces between the pillars filled in with glass. the severe scotch weather, it seems, was discoloring the marble. it is a pity that the zealous guardians of its beauty did not hold it precious enough to be boarded up altogether. the house in which burns spent the first eighteen months of his dreary life in dumfries is now a common tenement-house at the lower end of a poor and narrow street. as i was reading the tablet let into the wall, bearing his name, a carpenter went by, carrying his box of tools slung on his shoulder. "he only had three rooms there," said the man, "those three up there," pointing to the windows; "two rooms and a little kitchen at the back." the house which is usually shown to strangers as his is now the home of the master of the industrial school, and is a comfortable little building joining the school. here burns lived for three years; and here, in a small chamber not more than twelve by fifteen feet in size, he died on the st of july, , sadly harassed in his last moments by anxiety about money matters and about the approaching illness of his faithful jean. opening from this room is a tiny closet, lighted by one window. "they say he used to make up his poetry in here," said the servant-girl; "but i dare say it is only a supposeetion; still, it 'ud be a quiet place." "they say there was a great lot o' papers up here when he died," she added, throwing open the narrow door of a ladder-like stairway that led up into the garret, "writin's that had been sent to him from all over the world, but nobody knew what become of them. now that he's so much thought aboot, i wonder his widow did not keep them. but, ye know, the poor thing was just comin' to be ill; that was the last thing he wrote when he knew he was dyin', for some one to come and stay with her; and i dare say she was in such a sewither she did not know about anything." the old stone stairs were winding and narrow,--painted now, and neatly carpeted, but worn into depressions here and there by the plodding of feet. nothing in the house, above or below, spoke to me of burns so much as did they. i stood silent and rapt on the landing, and saw him coming wearily up, that last time; after which he went no more out forever, till he was borne in the arms of men, and laid away in saint michael's graveyard to rest. that night, at my lonely dinner in the king's arms, i had the edinburgh papers. there were in them three editorials headed with quotations from burns's poems, and an account of the sale in edinburgh, that week, of an autograph letter of his for ninety-four pounds! does he think sadly, even in heaven, how differently he might have done by himself and by earth, if earth had done for him then a tithe of what it does now? does he know it? does he care? and does he listen when, in lands he never saw, great poets sing of him in words simple and melodious as his own? "for now he haunts his native land as an immortal youth: his hand guides every plough; he sits beside each ingle-nook, his voice is in each rushing brook, each rustling bough. "his presence haunts this room to-night, a form of mingled mist and light from that far coast. welcome beneath this roof of mine! welcome! this vacant chair is thine, dear guest and ghost!"[ ] glints in auld reekie. as soon as one comes to know edinburgh, he feels a gratitude to that old gentleman of fife who is said to have invented the affectionate phrase "auld reekie." perhaps there never was any such old gentleman; and perhaps he never did, as the legend narrates, regulate the hours of his family prayers, on summer evenings, by the thickening smoke which he could see rising from edinburgh chimneys, when the cooking of suppers began. "it's time now, bairns, to tak the beuks an' gang to our beds; for yonder's auld reekie, i see, putting on her nichtcap," are the words which the harmless little tradition puts into his mouth. they are wisely dated back to the reign of charles ii., a time from which none now speak to contradict; and they serve as well as any others to introduce and emphasize the epithet which, once heard, is not forgotten by a lover of edinburgh, remaining always in his memory, like a pet name of one familiarly known. it is not much the fashion of travellers to become attached to edinburgh. rome for antiquity, london for study and stir, florence for art, venice for art and enchantment combined,--all these have pilgrims who become worshippers, and return again and again to them, as the devout return to shrines. but few return thus to edinburgh. it continually happens that people planning routes of travel are heard to say, "i have seen edinburgh," pronouncing the word "seen" with a stress indicating a finality of completion. nobody ever uses a phrase in that way about rome or venice. it is always, "we have been in," "spent a winter in," "a summer in," or "a month in" rome, or venice, or any of the rest; and the very tone and turn of the phrase tell the desire or purpose of another winter, or summer, or month in the remembered and longed-for place. but edinburgh has no splendors with which to woo and attract. she is "a penniless lass;" "wi' a lang pedigree," however,--as long and as splendid as the best, reaching back to king arthur at least, and some say a thousand years farther, and assert that the rock on which her castle stands was a stronghold when rome was a village. at any rate, there was a fortress there long before edinburgh was a town, and that takes it back midway between the five hundredth and six hundredth year of our lord. from that century down to this it was the centre of as glorious and terrible fighting and suffering as the world has ever seen. kingly besieged and besiegers, prisoners, martyrs, men and women alike heroic, their presences throng each doorway still; and the very stones at a touch seem set ringing again with the echoes of their triumphs and their agonies. to me, the castle is edinburgh. looking from the sunny south windows of prince's street across at its hoary front is like a wizard's miracle, by which dead centuries are rolled back, compressed into minutes. at the foot of its north precipices, where lay the lake in which, in the seventeenth century, royal swans floated and plebeian courtesans were ducked, now stretches a gay gardened meadow, through which flash daily railway trains. their columns of blue smoke scale the rocks, coil after coil, but never reach the citadel summit, being tangled, spent, and lost in the tops of trees, which in their turn seem also to be green-plumed besiegers, ever climbing, climbing. for five days i looked out on this picture etched against a summer sky: in black, by night; in the morning, of soft sepia tints, or gray,--tower, battlement, wall, and roof, all in sky lines; below these the wild crags and precipices, a mosaic of grays, two hundred feet down, to a bright greensward dotted with white daisies. set steadily to the sunrise, by a west wind which never stopped blowing for the whole five days, streamed out the flag. to have read on its folds, "castelh-mynyd-agned," or "castrum puellarum," would not have seemed at any hour a surprise. there is nowhere a relic of antiquity which so dominates its whole environment as does this rock fortress. its actuality is sovereign; its personality majestic. the thousands of modern people thronging up and down prince's street seem perpetrating an impertinent anachronism. the times are the castle's times still; all this nineteenth-century haberdashery and chatter is an inexplicable and insolent freak of interruption. sitting at one's prince's street windows, one sees it not; overlooks it as meaningless and of no consequence. instead, he sees the constable's son, in bruce's day, coming down that two hundred feet of precipice, hand over hand, on a bit of rope ladder, to visit the "wench in town" with whom he was in love; and anon turning this love-lore of his to patriotic account, by leading earl douglas, with his thirty picked scots, up the same precipices, in the same perilous fashion, to surprise the english garrison, which they did to such good purpose that in a few hours they retook the castle, the only one then left which bruce had not recovered. or, when morning and evening mists rise slowly up from the meadow, veil the hill, and float off in hazy wreaths from its summit, he fancies fagots and tar-barrels ablaze on the esplanade, and the beauteous lady glammis, with her white arms crossed on her breast, burning to death there, with eyes fixed on the windows of her husband's prison. scores of other women with "fayre bodies" were burned alive there; men, too, their lovers and sons,--all for a crime of which no human soul ever was or could be guilty. poor, blinded, superstitious earth, which heard and saw and permitted such things! even to-day, when the ground is dug up on that accursed esplanade, there are found the ashes of these martyrs to the witchcraft madness. that grand old master-gunner, too, of cromwell's first following,--each sunset gun from the castle seemed to me in honor of his memory, and recalled his name. "may the devil blaw me into the air, if i lowse a cannon this day!" said he, when charles's men bade him fire a salute in honor of the restoration. every other one of cromwell's men in the garrison had turned false, and done ready service to the king's officers; but not so browne. it was only by main force that he was dragged to his gun, and forced to fire it. whether the gun were old, and its time had come to burst, or whether the splendid old puritan slyly overweighed his charge, it is open to each man's preference to believe; but burst the gun did, and, taking the hero at his word, "shuites his bellie from him, and blew him quyte over the castle wall," says the old record. i make no doubt myself that it was just what the master-gunner intended. thirty years later there were many gunners in edinburgh castle as brave as he, or braver,--men who stood by their guns month after month, starving by inches and freezing; the snow lying knee-deep on the shattered bastions; every roof shelter blown to fragments; no fuel; their last well so low that the water was putrid; raw salt herrings the only food for the men, and for the officers oatmeal, stirred in the putrid water. this was the duke of gordon's doing, when he vowed to hold edinburgh castle for king james, if every other fortress in scotland went over to william. when his last hope failed, and he gave his men permission to abandon the castle and go out to the enemy, if they chose, not a man would go. "three cheers for his grace," they raised, with their poor starved voices, and swore they would stay as long as he did. from december to june they held out, and then surrendered, a handful of fifty ghastly, emaciated, tottering men. pity they could not have known how much grander than victories such defeats as theirs would read by and by! hard by the castle was the duke's house, in blair's close; in this he was shut up prisoner, under strict guard. the steps up which he walked that day, for the first time in his life without his sword, are still there; his coronet, with a deer-hound on either side, in dingy stone carving, above the low door. it is one of the doorways worth haunting, in edinburgh. generations of dukes of gordon have trodden its threshold, from the swordless hero of down to the young lover who, in george the third's day, went courting his duchess, over in hyndford's close, at the bottom of high street. she was a famous beauty, daughter of lady maxwell; and thanks to one gossip and another, we know a good deal about her bringing-up. there was still living in edinburgh, sixty years ago, an aged and courtly gentleman, who recollected well having seen her riding a sow in high street; her sister running behind and thumping the beast with a stick. duchesses are not made of such stuff in these days. it almost passes belief what one reads in old records of the ways and manners of scottish nobility in the first half of the eighteenth century. these maxwells' fine laces were always drying in the narrow passage from their front stair to their drawing-room; and their undergear hanging out on a pole from an upper window in full sight of passers-by, as is still the custom with the poverty-stricken people who live in hyndford's close. on the same stair with the maxwells lived the countess anne of balcarres, mother of eleven children, the eldest of whom wrote "auld robin gray." she was poor and proud, and a fierce jacobite to the last. to be asked to drink tea in countess anne's bedchamber was great honor. the room was so small that the man-servant, john, gorgeous in the balcarres livery, had to stand snugged up to the bedpost. here, with one arm around the post, he stood like a statue, ready to hand the teakettle as it was needed. when the noble ladies differed about a date or a point of genealogy, john was appealed to, and often so far forgot his manners as to swear at the mention of assumers and pretenders to baronetcies. there is an endless fascination in going from house to house, in their old wynds and closes, now. a price has to be paid for it,--bad smells, filth underfoot, and, very likely, volleys of ribald abuse from gin-loosened tongues right and left and high up overhead; but all this only emphasizes the picture, and makes one's mental processions of earls and countesses all the livelier and more vivid. some of these wynds are so narrow and dark that one hesitates about plunging into them. they seem little more than rifts between dungeons: seven, eight, and nine stories high, the black walls stretch up. if there is a tiny courtyard, it is like the bottom of a foul well; and looking to the hand's-breadth of sky visible above, it seems so far up and so dark blue, one half expects to see its stars glimmering at noonday. a single narrow winding stone stair is the only means of going up and down; and each floor being swarming full of wretched human beings, each room a tenement house in itself, of course this common stairway becomes a highway of contentions, the very battle-ground of the house. progress up or down can be stopped at a second's notice; a single pair of elbows is a blockade. how sedan chairs were managed in these corkscrew crevices is a puzzle; yet we read that the ladies of quality went always in sedan chairs to balls and assemblies. in the stamp office close, now the refuge of soot-venders, old-clothes dealers, and hucksters of lowest degree, tramps, beggars, and skulkers of all sorts, still is locked tight every night a big carved door, at foot of the stair down which used to come stately lady eglintoune, the third, with her seven daughters, in fine array. it was one of the sights of the town to see the procession of their eight sedan chairs on the way to a dance. the countess herself was six feet tall, and her daughters not much below her; all strikingly handsome, and of such fine bearing that it went into the traditions of the century as the "eglintoune air." there also went into the traditions of the century some details of the earl's wooing, which might better have been kept a secret between him and his father-in-law. the second lady eglintoune was ailing, and like to die, when sir archibald kennedy arrived in edinburgh, with his stalwart but beautiful daughter susanna. she was much sought immediately; and sir archibald, in his perplexity among the many suitors, one day consulted his old friend eglintoune. "bide a wee, sir archy," replied the earl,--"bide a wee; my wife's very sickly." and so, by waiting, the fair susanna became countess of eglintoune. it would seem as if nature had some intent to punish the earl's impatient faithlessness to his sickly wife; for, year after year, seven years running, came a daughter, and no son, to the house of eglintoune. at last the earl, with a readiness to ignore marital obligations at which his third countess need not have been surprised, bluntly threatened to divorce her if she bore him no heir. promptly the spirited susanna replied that nothing would please her better, provided he would give her back all she brought him. "every penny of it, and welcome!" retorted the earl, supposing she referred to her fortune. "na, na, my lord," replied the lady, "that winna do. return me my youth, beauty, and virginity, and dismiss me when you please;" upon which the matter dropped. in the end, the earl fared better than he deserved, three sons being given him within the next five years. for half a century lady eglintoune was a prominent figure in scottish social life. her comings and goings and doings were all chronicled, and handed down. it is even told that when johnson and boswell visited her at her country-place, she was so delighted with johnson's conversation that she kissed him on parting,--from which we can argue her ladyship's liking for long words. she lived to be ninety-one, and amused herself in her last days by taming rats, of which she had a dozen or more in such subjection that at a tap on the oak wainscoting of her dining-room they came forth, joined her at her meal, and at a word of command retired again into the wainscot. when twenty-first-century travellers go speiring among the dingy ruins of cities which are gay and fine now, they will not find relics and traces of such individualities as these. the eighteenth century left a most entertaining budget, which we of to-day are too busy and too well educated to equal. no chiel among us all has the time to take gossip notes of this century; and even if he did, they would be dull enough in comparison with those of the last. groping and rummaging in hyndford's close, one day, for recognizable traces of lady maxwell's house, we had the good fortune to encounter a thrifty housewife, of the better class, living there. she was coming home, with her market-basket on her arm. seeing our eager scenting of the old carvings on lintels and sills, and overhearing our mention of the name of the duchess of gordon, she made bold to address us. "it waur a strange place for the nobeelity to be livin' in, to be sure," she said. "i'm livin' mysil in ane o' the best of 'im, an' it's na mair space to 't than ud turn a cat. ye're welcome to walk up, if ye like to see what their dwellin's waur like in the auld time. it's a self-contained stair ye see," she added with pride, as she marshalled us up a twisting stone stairway, so narrow that even one person, going alone, must go cautiously to avoid grazing elbows and shins on the stone walls, at every turn. "i couldna abide the place but for the self-contained stair: there's not many has them," she continued. "mind yer heads! mind yer heads! there's a stoop!" she cried; but it was too late. we had reached, unwarned, a point in the winding stair where it was necessary to go bent half double; only a little child could have stood upright. with heads dizzy from the blow and eyes half blinded by the sudden darkness, we stumbled on, and brought out in a passage-way, perhaps three feet wide and ten long, from which opened four rooms: one the kitchen, a totally dark closet, not over six feet square; a tiny grate, a chair, table, and a bunk in the wall, where the servant slept, were all its furniture. the woman lighted a candle to show us how convenient was this bunk for the maid "to lie." standing in the middle of the narrow passage, one could reach his head into kitchen, parlor, and both bedrooms without changing his position. the four rooms together would hardly have made one good-sized chamber. nothing but its exquisite neatness and order saved the place from being insupportable! even those would not save it when herring suppers should be broiling in the closet surnamed kitchen. up a still smaller, narrower crevice in the wall led a second "self-contained stair," dark as midnight, and so low roofed there was no standing upright in it, even at the beginning. this led to what the landlady called the "lodgers' flairt." we had not courage to venture up, though she was exceedingly anxious to show us her seven good bedrooms, three double and four single, which were nightly filled with lodgers, at a shilling a night. only the "verra rayspectable," she said, came to lodge with her. her husband was "verra pairticular." trades-people from the country were the chief of their customers, "an' the same a-comin' for seven year, noo." no doubt she has as lively a pride, and gets as many satisfactions between these narrow walls, as did the lords and ladies of . evidently not the least of her satisfactions was the fact that those lords and ladies had lived there before her. nowhere are auld reekie's antitheses of new and old more emphasized than in the cowgate. in it was an elegant suburb. the city walls even then extended to enclose it, and it was eloquently described, in an old divine's writings, as the place "ubi nihil est humile aut rusticum, sed omnia magnifica." in one of its grassy lanes the earl of galloway built a mansion. his countess often went to pay visits to her neighbors, in great state, driving six horses; and it not infrequently happened that when her ladyship stepped into her coach, the leaders were standing opposite the door at which she intended to alight. here dwelt, in , the famous "tam o' the cowgate," earl of haddington, boon companion of king james, who came often to dine with him, and gave him the familiar nickname of tam. tam was so rich he was vulgarly believed to have the philosopher's stone; but he himself once gave a more probable explanation of his wealth, saying that his only secret lay in two rules,--"never to put off till to-morrow that which could be done to-day," and "never to trust to another what his own hand could execute." to-day there is not in all the world, outside the jewish ghetto of rome, so loathly wretched a street as this same cowgate. even at high noon it is not always safe to walk through it; and there are many of its wynds into which no man would go without protection of the police. simply to drive through it is harrowing. the place is indescribable. it seems a perpetual and insatiable carnival of vice and misery. the misery alone would be terrible enough to see; but the leering, juggling, insolent vice added makes it indeed hellish. every curbstone, door-sill, alley mouth, window, swarms with faces out of which has gone every trace of self-respect or decency; babies' faces as bad as the worst, and the most aged faces worst of all. to pause on the sidewalk is to be surrounded, in a moment, by a dangerous crowd of half-naked boys and girls, whining, begging, elbowing, cursing, and fighting. giving of an alms is like pouring oil on a fire. the whole gang is ablaze with envy and attack: the fierce and unscrupulous pillage of the seventeenth century is re-enacted in miniature in the cowgate every day, when an injudicious stranger, passing through, throws a handful of pennies to the beggars. the general look of hopeless degradation in the spot is heightened by the great number of old-clothes shops along the whole line of the street. in the days when the cowgate was an elegant suburb, the citizens were permitted by law to extend their upper stories seven feet into the street, provided they would build them of wood cut in the borough forest, a forest that harbored robbers dangerous to the town. these projecting upper stories are invaluable now to the old-clothes venders, who hang from them their hideous wares, in double and treble lines, fluttering over the heads and in the faces of passers-by; the wood of the borough forest thus, by a strange irony of fate, still continuing to harbor dangers to public welfare. if these close-packed tiers of dangling rags in the cowgate were run out in a straight single line, they would be miles long; a sad beggars' arras to behold. the preponderance of tattered finery in it adds to its melancholy: shreds of damask; dirty lace; theatrical costumes; artificial flowers so crumpled, broken, and soiled that they would seem to have been trodden in gutters,--there was an indefinable horror in the thought that there could be even in the cowgate a woman creature who could think herself adorned by such mockeries of blossoms. but i saw more than one poor soul look at them with longing eyes, finger them, haggle at the price, and walk away disappointed that she could not buy. the quaint mottoes here and there in the grimy walls, built in when the cowgate people were not only comfortable but pious, must serve often now to point bitter jests among the ungodly. on one wretched, reeking tenement is: "oh, magnify the lord with me, and let us exalt his name together. ." on another, "all my trist is in ye lord." a token i saw in the cowgate of one life there not without hope and the capacity of enjoyment. it was in a small window, nine stories up from the ground, in a wynd so close that hands might be clasped from house to house across it. it was a tiny thing, but my eye fell on it with as much relief as on a rift of blue sky in a storm: it was a little green fern growing in a pot. outside the window it stood, on a perilously narrow ledge. as i watched it i grew frightened, lest the wind should blow it down, or a vicious neighbor stone it off. it seemed the brave signal flying of a forlorn hope, of a dauntless, besieged soul that would never surrender; and i shall recollect it long after every other picture of the cowgate scenes has grown dim. the more respectable of the pawnbrokers' or second-hand-goods shops in edinburgh are interesting places to rummage. if there were no other record of the slow decay and dwindling fortunes of the noble scottish folk, it could be read in the great number of small dealers in relics of the olden time. old buckles and brooches and clan badges; chains, lockets, seals, rings; faded miniatures, on ivory or in mosaics, of women as far back as mary's time, loved then as well as was ever mary herself, but forgotten now as if they had never been; swords rusty, bent, battered, and stained; spoons with forgotten crests; punch-ladles worn smooth with the merry-makings of generations,--all these one may find in scores of little one-roomed shops, kept perhaps by aged dames with the very aroma of the antique puritanism lingering about them still. in such a room as this i found a scotch pebble brooch with a quaint silver setting, reverently and cautiously locked in a glass case. on the back of it had been scratched, apparently with a pin, "margret fleming, from her brother." i bore it away with me triumphantly, sure that it had belonged to an ancestor of pet marjorie. almost as full of old-time atmosphere as the pawnbrokers' shops are the antiquarian bookstores. here one may possess himself, if he likes, of well-thumbed volumes with heraldic crests on titlepages, dating back to the earliest reading done by noble earls and baronets in scotland; even to the time when not to know how to read was no indelible disgrace. in one of these shops, on the day i bought margret fleming's brooch, i found an old torn copy of "pet marjorie." speaking of dr. brown and rab to the bookseller,--himself almost a relic of antiquity,--i was astonished and greatly amused to hear him reply: "it's a' a feection.... he can't write without it.... i knoo that darg.... a verra neece darg he was, but--a--a--a"--with a shake of the head--"it's a verra neece story, verra neece.... he wrote it up, up; not but that rab was a verra neece darg. i knoo the darg wull." not a word of more definite disclaimer or contradiction could i win from the canny old scot. but to have hastily called the whole story a lee, from beginning to end, would hardly have shaken one's confidence in it so much as did the thoughtful deliberation of his "he was a verra neece darg. i knoo the darg wull." one of our "cawdies," during our stay in edinburgh, was a remarkable fellow. after being for twenty years a gentleman's servant, he had turned his back on aristocracy, and betaken himself to the streets for a living; driving cabs, or piloting strangers around the city, as might be. but his earlier habits of good behavior were strong in him still, and came to the surface quickly in associations which revived them. his conversation reminded us forcibly of somebody's excellent saying that scotland would always be scott-land. not a line of scott's novels which this vagabond cawdie did not seemingly know by heart. scottish history, too, he had at his tongue's end, and its most familiar episodes sounded new and entertaining as he phrased them. even the death of queen mary seemed freshly stated, as he put it, when, after summing up the cruelties she had experienced at the hands of elizabeth, he wound up with, "and finally she beheaded her, and that was the last of her,"--a succinctness of close which some of mary's historians would have done well to simulate. of jeanie deans and dumbiedikes he spoke as of old acquaintances. he pointed out a spot in the misty blue distance where was dumbiedikes' house, where jeanie's sweetheart dwelt, and where the road lay on which jeanie went to london. "it was there the old road to london lay; and wouldn't you think it more natural, sir, that it was that way she went, and it was there she met dumbiedikes, and he gave her the purse? i'll always maintain, sir, that it was there she got it." of the two women, jeanie deans and mary queen of scots, jeanie was evidently the vivider and more real in his thoughts. the second day of our stay in edinburgh was a gay day in the castle. the st highlanders had just returned from a twelvemonth's stay at gibraltar. it was people's day. everywhere the bronzed, tired, happy-looking fellows, in their smartened uniforms, were to be encountered, strolling, lounging, sitting with sweethearts or wives,--more of the former than the latter. it struck me also that the women were less good-looking than the men; but they were all beautified by happiness, and the merry sounds of their laughter, and the rumble of skittles playing filled all the place. inside the castle, the room in which the regalia were on exhibition was thronged with country people, gazing reverently on its splendors. "keep yer eye on't, as ye walk by, an' mark the changes o' 't," i heard one old lady say to her husband, whose wandering gaze seemed to her neglectful of the opportunity. a few gay-dressed women, escorted by officers, held themselves apart from the soldiers' sweethearting, and were disposed, i thought, to look a little scornfully on it. the soldiers did not seem to mind the affront, if they saw it; no doubt, they thought their own sweethearts far the better looking, and if they had ever heard of it would have quoted with hearty good-will the old ballad,-- "the lassies o' the cannongate, oh, they are wondrous nice: they winna gie a single kiss, but for a double price. "gar hang them, gar hang them, hie upon a tree; for we'll get better up the gate, for a bawbee!" most picturesque of all the figures to be seen in edinburgh are the newhaven fishwives. with short, full blue cloth petticoats, reaching barely to their ankles; white blouses and gay kerchiefs; big, long-sleeved cloaks of the same blue cloth, fastened at the throat, but flying loose, sleeves and all, as if thrown on in haste; the girls bareheaded; the married women with white caps, standing up stiff and straight in a point on the top of the head; two big wickerwork creels, one above the other, full of fish, packed securely, on their broad shoulders, and held in place by a stout leather strap passing round their foreheads, they pull along at a steady, striding gait, up hill and down, carrying weights that it taxes a man's strength merely to lift. in fact, it is a fishwife's boast that she will run with a weight which it takes two men to put on her back. by reason of this great strength on the part of the women, and their immemorial habit of exercising it; perhaps also from other causes far back in the early days of jutland, where these curious newhaven fishing-folk are said to have originated,--it has come about that the newhaven men are a singularly docile and submissive race. the wives keep all the money which they receive for the fish, and the husbands take what is given them,--a singular reversion of the situation in most communities. i did not believe this when it was told me; so i stopped three fishwives one day, and without mincing matters put the question direct to them. two of them were young, one old. the young women laughed saucily, and the old woman smiled; but they all replied unhesitatingly, that they had the spending of all the money. "it's a' spent i' the hoos," said one, anxious not to be thought too selfish,--"it's a' spent i' the hoos. the men, they cam home an' tak their sleep, an' then they'll be aff agen." "it 'ud never do for the husbands to stoop in tha city, an' be spendin' a' the money," added the old woman, with severe emphasis. i learned afterward that on the present system of buying and selling the fish, the fishermen do receive from their labor an income independent of their wives. they are the first sellers of the fish,--selling them in quantity to the wholesale dealers, who sell in turn at auction to the "retail trade," represented by the wives. this seems an unjust system, and is much resented by both husbands and wives; but it has been established by law, and there is no help for it. it came in with the introduction of the steam trawlers. "they're the deestrooction o' the place," said one of the fish women. "a mon canna go oot wi' his lines an' mak a livin' noo. they just drag everything; they tak a' the broods; they're dooin' a worrld o' harrm. there's somethin' a dooin' aboot it in the house o' commons, noo, but a canna till hoo it wull go. they ull be the deestrooction o' this place, if they're na pit stop to." and she shook her fist vindictively at a puffing trawler which had just pushed away from the wharf. whoever would see the newhaven fishwives at their best must be on the newhaven wharf by seven o'clock in the morning, on a day when the trawlers come in and the fish is sold. the scene is a study for a painter. the fish are in long, narrow boxes, on the wharf, ranged at the base of the sea wall; some sorted out, in piles, each kind by itself: skates, with their long tails, which look vicious, as if they could kick; hake, witches, brill, sole, flounders, huge catfish, crayfish, and herrings, by the ton. the wall is crowded with men, edinburgh fishmongers, come to buy cheap on the spot. the wall is not over two feet wide; and here they stand, lean over, jostle, slip by to right and left of each other, and run up and down in their eager haste to catch the eye of one auctioneer, or to get first speech with another. the wharf is crowded with women,--an army in blue, two hundred, three hundred, at a time; white caps bobbing, elbows thrusting, shrill voices crying, fiery blue eyes shining, it is a sight worth going to scotland for. if one has had an affection for christie johnstone, it is a delightful return of his old admiration for her. a dozen faces which might be christie's own are flashing up from the crowd; one understands on the instant how that best of good stories came to be written. a man with eyes in his head and a pen in his hand could not have done less. such fire, such honesty, such splendor of vitality, kindle the women's faces. to spend a few days among them would be to see christie johnstone dramatized on all sides. on the morning when i drove out from edinburgh to see this scene, a scotch mist was simmering down,--so warm that at first it seemed of no consequence whatever, so cold that all of a sudden one found himself pierced through and through with icy shivers. this is the universal quality of a scotch mist or drizzle. the newhaven wharf is a narrow pier running out to sea. on one side lay the steam trawlers, which had just unloaded their freight; on the other side, on the narrow, rampart-like wall of stone, swarmed the fishmonger men. in this line i took my place, and the chances of the scramble. immediately the jolly fishwives caught sight of me, and began to nod and smile. they knew very well i was there to "speir" at them. "ye'll tak cauld!" cried one motherly old soul, with her white hair blowing wildly about almost enough to lift the cap off her head. "com doon! ye'll tak cauld." i smiled, and pointed to my water-proof cloak, down which, it must be admitted, the "mist" was trickling in streams, while the cloak itself flapped in the wind like a loose sail. she shook her head scornfully. "it's a grat plass to tak cauld!" she cried. "ye'll doo wull to com doon." there were three auctioneers: one, a handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed young fellow, was plainly a favorite with the women. they flocked after him as he passed from one to another of the different lots of fish. they crowded in close circles around him, three and four deep; pushing, struggling, rising on tiptoes to look over each other's shoulders and get sight of the fish. "what's offered for this lot o' fine herrings? one! one and sax! thrippence ha'! going, going, gone!" rang above all the clatter and chatter of the women's tongues. it was so swift that it seemed over before it was fairly begun; and the surging circles had moved along to a new spot and a new trade. the eyes of the women were fixed on the auctioneer's eyes; they beckoned; they shook forefingers at him; now and then a tall, stalwart one, reaching over less able-bodied comrades, took him by the shoulder, and compelled him to turn her way; one, most fearless of all, literally gripped him by the ear and pulled his head around, shrieking out her bid. when the pressure got unbearable, the young fellow would shake himself like a newfoundland dog, and, laughing good-naturedly, whirl his arms wide round to clear a breathing space; the women would fall back a pace or two, but in a moment the rings would close up again, tighter than ever. the efforts of those in the outer ring to break through or see over the inner ones were droll. arms and hands and heads seemed fairly interlinked and interwoven. sometimes a pair of hands would come into sight, pushing their way between two bodies, low down,--just the two hands, nothing more, breaking way for themselves, as if in a thicket of underbrush; presently the arms followed; and then, with a quick thrust of the arms to right and left, the space would be widened enough to let in the head, and when that was fairly through the victory was won. straightening herself with a big leap, the woman bounded in front of the couple she had so skilfully separated, and a buzzing "bicker" of angry words would rise for a moment; but there was no time to waste in bad temper where bargains were to be made or lost in the twinkling of an eye. an old sailor, who stood near me on the wall, twice saved me from going backwards into the sea, in my hasty efforts to better my standpoint. he also seemed to be there simply as a spectator, and i asked him how the women knew what they were buying; buying, as they did, by the pile or the box. "oh, they'll giss, verra near," he said; "they've an eye on the fish sense they're bawn. god knows it's verra little they mak," he added, "an' they'll carry's much's two men o' us can lift. they're extrawnery strang." as a lot of catfish were thrown down at our feet, he looked at them with a shudder and exclaimed,-- "i'd no eat that." "why not?" said i. "are they not good?" "ah, i'd no eat it," he replied, with a look of superstitious terror spreading over his face. "it doesna look richt." a fresh trawler came in just as the auction had nearly ended. the excitement renewed itself fiercely. the crowd surged over to the opposite side of the pier, and a babel of voices arose. the skipper was short and fat, and in his dripping oilskin suit looked like a cross between a catfish and a frog. "here, you rob," shouted the auctioneer, "what do you add to this fine lot o' herrin'?" "herring be d----d!" growled the skipper, out of temper, for some reason of his own; at which a whirring sound of ejaculated disapprobation burst from the women's lips. the fish were in great tanks on the deck. quickly the sailors dipped up pails of the sea-water, dashed it over them, and piled them into baskets, in shining, slippery masses: the whole load was on the pier, sorted, and sold in a few minutes. then the women settled down to the work of assorting and packing up their fish. one after another they shouldered their creels and set off for edinburgh. they seemed to have much paying back and forth of silver among themselves, one small piece of silver that i noticed actually travelling through four different hands in the five minutes during which i watched it. each woman wore under her apron, in front, a sort of apron-like bag, in which she carried her money. there was evidently rivalry among them. they spied closely on each other's loads, and did some trafficking and exchange before they set off. one poor old creature had bought only a few crayfish, and as she lifted her creel to her back, and crawled away, the women standing by looked over into her basket, and laughed and jeered at her; but she gave no sign of hearing a word they said. some of them were greatly discontented with their purchases when they came to examine them closely, especially one woman who had bought a box of flounders. she emptied them on the ground, and sorted the few big ones, which had been artfully laid on the top; then, putting the rest, which were all small, in a pile by themselves, she pointed contemptuously to the contrast, and, with a toss of her head, ran after the auctioneer, and led him by the sleeve back to the spot where her fish lay. she was as fierce as christie herself could have been at the imposition. she had paid the price for big flounders, and had got small ones. the auctioneer opened his book and took out his pencil to correct the entry which had been made against her. "wull, tak aff saxpence," he said. "na! na!" cried she. "they're too dear at seven saxpence." "wull, tak aff a saxpence; it is written noo,--seven shillin'." she nodded, and began packing up the flounders. "will you make something on them at that price?" i asked her. "wull, i'll mak me money back," she replied; but her eyes twinkled, and i fancy she had got a very good bargain, as bargains go in newhaven; it being thought there a good day's work to clear three shillings,--a pitiful sum, when a woman, to earn it, must trudge from newhaven to edinburgh (two miles) with a hundred pounds of fish on her back, and then toil up and down edinburgh hills selling it from door to door. one shilling on every pound is the auctioneer's fee. he has all the women's names in his book, and it is safe to trust them; they never seek to cheat, or even to put off paying. "they'd rather pay than not," the blue-eyed auctioneer said to me. "they're the honestest folks i' the warld." as the last group was dispersing, one old woman, evidently in a state of fierce anger, approached and poured out a torrent of scotch as bewildering and as unintelligible to me as if it had been chinese. her companions gazed at her in astonishment; presently they began to reply, and in a few seconds there was as fine a "rippet" going on as could have been heard in cowgate in tam's day. at last a woman of near her own age sprang forward, and approaching her with a determined face, lifted her right hand with an authoritative gesture, and said in vehement indignation, which reminded me of christie again,-- "keep yersil, an' haud yer tongue, noo!" "what is she saying?" i asked. "what is the matter?" "eh, it is jist nathin' at a'," she replied. "she's thet angry, she doesna knaw hersil." the faces of the newhaven women are full of beauty, even those of the old women: their blue eyes are bright and laughing, long after the sea wind and sun have tanned and shrivelled their skins and bleached their hair. blue eyes and yellow hair are the predominant type; but there are some faces with dark hazel eyes of rare beauty and very dark hair,--still more beautiful,--which, spite of its darkness, shows glints of red in the sun. the dark blue of their gowns and cloaks is the best color-frame and setting their faces could have; the bunched fulness of the petticoat is saved from looking clumsy by being so short, and the cloaks are in themselves graceful garments. the walking in a bent posture, with such heavy loads on the back, has given to all the women an abnormal breadth of hip, which would be hideous in any other dress than their own. this is so noticeable that i thought perhaps they wore under their skirts, to set them out, a roll, such as is worn by some of the bavarian peasants. but when i asked one of the women, she replied,-- "na, na, jist the flannel; a' tuckit." "tucked all the way up to the belt?" said i. "na, na," laughing as if that were a folly never conceived of,--"na, na." and in a twinkling she whipped her petticoat high up, to show me the under petticoat, of the same heavy blue cloth, tucked only a few inches deep. her massive hips alone were responsible for the strange contour of her figure. the last person to leave the wharf was a young man with a creel of fish on his back. my friend the sailor glanced at him with contempt. "there's the only man in all scotland that 'ud be seen carryin' a creel o' fish on his back like a woman," said he. "he's na pride aboot him." "but why shouldn't men carry creels?" i asked. "i'm sure it is very hard work for women." the sailor eyed me for a moment perplexedly, and then as if it were waste of words to undertake to explain self-evident propositions, resumed,-- "he worked at it when he was a boy, with his mother; an' now he's no pride left. there's the whole village been at him to get a barrow; but he'll not do't. he's na pride aboot him." what an interesting addition it would be to the statistics of foods eaten by different peoples to collect the statistics of the different foods with which pride's hunger is satisfied in different countries! its stomach has as many and opposite standards as the human digestive apparatus. it is, like everything else, all and only a question of climate. not a nabob anywhere who gets more daily satisfaction out of despising his neighbors than the newhaven fishermen do out of their conscious superiority to this poor soul, who lugs his fish in a basket on his back like a woman, and has "na pride aboot him." if i had had time and opportunity to probe one layer farther down in newhaven society, no doubt i should have come upon something which even this pariah, the fish-carrying man, would scorn to be seen doing. after the last toiling fishwife had disappeared in the distance, and the wharf and the village had quieted down into sombre stillness, i drove to "the peacock," and ate bread and milk in a room which, if it were not the very one in which christie and her lover supped, at least looked out on the same sea they looked upon. and a very gray, ugly sea it was, too; just such an one as used to stir christie's soul with a heat of desire to spin out into it, and show the boys she was without fear. on the stony beach below the inn a woman was spreading linen to dry. her motions as she raised and bent, and raised and bent, over her task were graceful beyond measure. scuds of rain-drops swept by now and then; and she would stop her work, and straightening herself into a splendid pose, with one hand on her hip, throw back her head, and sweep the whole sky with her look, uncertain whether to keep on with her labor or not; then bend again, and make greater haste than before. as i drove out of the village i found a knot of the women gossiping at a corner. they had gathered around a young wife, who had evidently brought out her baby for the village to admire. it was dressed in very "braw attire" for newhaven,--snowy white, and embroidery, and blue ribbons. it was but four weeks old, and its tiny red face was nearly covered up by the fine clothes. i said to a white-haired woman in the group,-- "do you recollect when it was all open down to the sea here,--before this second line of newer cottages was built?" she shook her head and replied, "i'm na so auld 's i luik; my hair it wentit white--" after a second's pause, and turning her eyes out to sea as she spoke, she added, "a''t once it wentit white." a silence fell on the group, and looks were exchanged between the women. i drove away hastily, feeling as one does who has unawares stepped irreverently on a grave. many grief-stricken queens have trod the scottish shores; the centuries still keep their memory green, and their names haunt one's thoughts in every spot they knew. but more vivid to my memory than all these returns and returns the thought of the obscure fisherwoman whose hair, from a grief of which the world never heard, "a' 't once wentit white." chester streets. if it be true, as some poets think, that every spot on earth is full of poetry, then it is certainly also true that each place has its own distinctive measure; an indigenous metre, so to speak, in which, and in which only, its poetry will be truly set or sung. the more one reflects on this, in connection with the spots and places he has known best in the world, the truer it seems. memories and impressions group themselves in subtle co-ordinations to prove it. there are surely woods which are like stately sonnets, and others of which the truth would best be told in tender lyrics; brooks which are jocund songs, and mountains which are odes to immortality. of cities and towns it is perhaps even truer than of woods and mountains; certainly, no less true. for instance, it would be a bold poet who should attempt to set pictures of rome in any strain less solemn than the epic; and is it too strong a thing to say that only a foolish one would think of framing a venice glimpse or memory in anything save dreamy songs, with dreamiest refrains? endless vistas of reverie open to the imagination once entered on the road of this sort of fancy,--reveries which play strange pranks with both time and place, endow the dreamer with a sort of _post facto_ second sight, and leave him, when suddenly roused, as lost as if he had been asleep for a century. for sensations of this kind chester is a "hede and chefe cyte." simply to walk its streets is to step to time and tune of ballads; the very air about one's ears goes lilting with them; the walls ring; the gates echo; choruses rollic round corners,--ballads, always ballads, or, if not a ballad, a play, none the less lively,--a play with pageants and delightful racket. such are the measure and metre to-day of "the cyte of legyons, that is chestre in the marches of englonde, towards wales, betwegne two armes of the see, that bee named dee and mersee. thys cyte in tyme of britons was hede and chefe cyte of venedocia, that is north wales. thys cyte in brytyshe speech bete carthleon, chestre in englyshe, and cyte of legyons also. for there laye a wynter, the legyons that julius cæsar sent to wyne irlonde. and after, claudius cæsar sent legyons out of the cyte for to wynn the islands that bee called orcades. thys cyte hath plenty of cyne land, of corn, of flesh, and specyally of samon. thys cyte receyveth grate marchandyse and sendeth out also. northumbres destroyed this cyte but elfleda lady of mercia bylded it again and made it mouch more." this is what was written of chester, more than six hundred years ago, by one ranulph higden, a chester abbey monk,--him who wrote those old miracle plays, except for which we very like had never had such a thing as a play at all, and william shakspeare had turned out no better than many another stratford man. all good americans who reach england go to chester. they go to see the cathedral, and to buy old queen anne furniture. the cathedral is very good in its way, the way of all cathedrals, and the old queen anne furniture is now quite well made; but it is a marvel that either cathedral or shop can long hold a person away from chester streets. one cannot go amiss in them; at each step he is, as it were, button-holed by a gable, an arch, a pavement, a door-sill, a sign, or a gate with a story to tell. a story, indeed? a hundred, or more; and if anybody doubts them, or has by reason of old age, or over-occupation with other matters, got them confused in his mind, all he has to do is to step into a public library, which is kept in a very private way, in a by-street, by two aged cestrian citizens and a parish boy. here, if he can convince these venerable cestrians of his respectability, he may go a-junketing by himself in that delicious feast of an old book, the "vale-royale" of england, published in london in , and written, i believe, a half-century or so earlier. never was any bit of country more praised than this beautiful chester county, "pleasant and abounding in plenteousness of all things needful and necessary for man's use, insomuch that it merited and had the name of the vale-royale of england." the old writer continues:-- "the ayr is very wholesome, insomuch that the people of the country are seldome infected with diseases or sicknesses; neither do they use the help of the physicians nothing so much as in other countries. for when any of them are sick they make him a posset and tye a kerchief on his head, and if that will not amend him, then god be merciful to him!" and of the river dee,-- "to which water no man can express how much this ancient city hath been beholden; nay, i suppose if i should call it the mother, the nurse, the maintainer, the advancer and preserver thereof, i should not greatly erre." and again, of the shifting "sands o' dee," this ancient and devout man, taking quite another view than that of the thoughtless or pensive lyrists, later, says,-- "the changing and shifting of the water gave some occasion to the britons in that infancy of the christian religion to attribute some divine honor and estimation to the said water: though i cannot believe that to be any cause of the name of it." his pious deduction from the exceeding beauty of the situation of the city is that it is "worthy, according to the eye, to be called a city guarded with watch of holy and religious men, and through the mercy of our saviour always fenced and fortified with the merciful assistance of the almighty." to keep it thus guarded, the monks of vale-royale did their best. witness the terms in which their grant was couched:-- "all the mannours, churches, lands and tenements aforesaid, in free pure and perpetual alms forever; with homages, rents, demesnes, villenages, services of free holders and bond, with villains and their families, advowsons, wards, reliefs, escheates, woods, plains, meadows, pastures, wayes, pathes, heaths, turfs, forests, waters, ponds, parks, fishing, mills in granges, cottages within borough and without, and in all other places with all easments, liberties, franchises and free customs any way belonging to the aforesaid mannours, churches, lands and tenements." plainly, if the devil or any of his followers were caught in the vale-royale, they could be legally ejected as trespassers. he was not, however, without an eye to worldly state, this devout writer, for he speaks with evident pride of the fine show kept up by the mayor of chester:-- "the estate that the mayor of chester keepeth is great. for he hath both sword bearer and mace bearer sergeants, with their silver maces, in as good and decent order as in any other city in england. his housekeeping accordingly; but not so chargeable as in all other cities, because all thing are better cheap there.... he remaineth, most part of the day at a place called the pendice which is a brave place builded for the purpose at the high crosse under st. peters church, and in the middest of the city, of such a sort that a man may stand therein and see into the markets or four principal streets of the city." nevertheless, there was once a mayor of chester who did not see all he ought to have seen in the principal streets of the city; for his own daughter, out playing ball "with other maids, in the summer time, in pepur street," stole away from her companions, and ran off with her sweetheart, through one of the city gates, at the foot of that street, which gate the enraged mayor ordered closed up forever, as if that would do any good; and some sharp-tongued and sensible cestrian immediately phrased the illogical action in a proverb: "when the daughter is stolen, shut the pepur gate." this saying is to be heard in chester to this day, and is no doubt lineal ancestor of our own broader apothegm, "when the mare's stolen, lock the stable." there are many lively stories about mayors of chester. there was a mayor in who made a very learned speech to king james, when he rode in through east gate, with all the train soldiers of the city standing in order, "each company with their ensigns in seemly sort," the array stretching up both sides of east gate street. this mayor's name was charles fitton. he delivered his speech to the king; presented to him a "standing cup with a cover double gilt, and therein a hundred jacobins of gold;" likewise delivered to him the city's sword, and afterward bore it before him, in the procession. but when king james proposed, in return for all these civilities, to make a knight of him, charles fitton sturdily refused; which was a thing so strange for its day and generation that one is instantly possessed by a fire of curiosity to know what charles fitton's reasons could have been for such contempt of a knight's title. no doubt there is a story hanging thereby,--something to do with a lady-love, not unlikely; and a fine ballad it would make, if one but knew it. the records, however, state only the bare fact. then there was, a hundred years later than this, a man who got to be mayor of chester by a very strange chance. he was a ribbon-weaver, in a small way, kept a shop in shoemaker's row, and lived in a little house backing on the falcon inn. all of a sudden he blossomed out into a rich silk-mercer; bought a fine estate just outside the city, built a grand house, and generally assumed the airs and manners of a dignitary. as is the way of the world now, so then: people soon took him at his surface showing, forgot all about the mystery of his sudden wealth, and presently made him mayor of chester. afterward it came out, though never in such fashion that anything was done about it, how the mayor got his money. just before the mysterious rise in his fortunes, a great london banking-house had been robbed of a large sum of money by one of its clerks, who ran away, came to chester, and went into hiding at the falcon inn. he was tracked and overtaken late one night. hearing his pursuers on the stairs, he sprang from his bed and threw the treasure bags out of the window, plump into the ribbon-weaver's back-yard; where the disappointed constables naturally never thought of looking, and went back to london much chagrined, carrying only the man, and no money. none of the money having been found on the robber, he escaped conviction, but subsequently, for another offence, was tried, convicted, and executed. i take it for granted that it must have been he who told in his last hours what he did with the money bags: for certainly no one else knew,--that is, no one else except mr. samuel jarvis, the ribbon-weaver, who, much astonished, had picked them up before daylight, the morning after they had been thrown into his back-yard. it is certain that he kept his mouth shut, and proceeded to turn the money to the best possible account in the shortest possible time. but an evil fate seemed to attach to the dishonestly gotten riches; jarvis dying without issue, his estate all went to a man named doe, "a gardener, at greg's pit," whose sons and grandsons spent the last penny of it in riotous living. so there is now "nothing to show for" that money, for the stealing of which one man was tried for his life, and another man made mayor of chester; which would all come in capitally in a ballad, if a ballad-monger chose. of the famous chester rows, nobody has ever yet contrived to give a description intelligible to one who had not seen them. the more familiarly they are known, the more fantastic and bewildering they seem, and the less one is sure how to speak of them. whether it is that the sidewalk goes upstairs, or the front second-story bedroom comes down into the street; whether the street itself be in the basement or the cellar, or the sidewalk be on the roofs of the houses;--where any one of them all begins or leaves off, it would be a courageous narrator that tried to explain. they appear to have been as much of a puzzle two hundred years ago as to-day; for the devout old chronicler of the vale-royale, essaying to describe them, wrote the following paragraph, which, delicious as it is to those who know chester, i think must be a stumbling-block and foolishness to those who do not. he says there is "a singular property of praise to this city, whereof i know not the like of any other: there be towards the street fair rooms, both for shops and dwelling-houses, to which there is rather a descent than an equal height with the floor or pavement of the street. yet the principal dwelling-houses and shops for the chiefest trades are mounted a story higher, and before the doors and entries a continued row, on either side the street, for people to pass to and fro all along the said houses, out of all annoyance of rain, or other foul weather, with stairs fairly built, and neatly maintained to step down out of those rowes into the open streets: almost at every second house: and the said rowes built over the head with such of the chambers and rooms for the most part as are the best rooms in every one of the said houses. "it approves itself to be of most excellent use, both for dry and easy passage of all sorts of people upon their necessary occasions, as also for the sending away, of all or the most passengers on foot from the passage of the street, amongst laden and empty carts, loaden and travelling horses, lumbering coaches, beer carts, beasts, sheep, swine, and all annoyances, which what a confused trouble it makes in other cities, especially where great stirring is, there's none that can be ignorant." he also suggests another advantage of this arrangement, which seems by no means unlikely to have been part of its original reason for being; namely, that "when the enemy entered they might avoid the danger of the horsemen, and might annoy the enemies as they passed through the streets." probably in this writer's day the marvel of the construction of the rows was even greater than it is now; in many instances the first story was excavated out of solid rock, so you began by going downstairs at the outset. these first stories of the ancient cestrians are beneath the cellars of the rows to-day; and every now and then, in deepening a vault or cellar-way, workmen come on old roman altars, built there by the "legyons" of julius, or claudius cæsar, dedicated to "nymphs and fountains," or other genii of the day; baths, too, with their pillars and perforated tiles still in place, as they were in the days when cleanly and luxurious roman soldiers took turkish baths there, after hot victories. knowing about these lower strata adds a weird charm to the fascination of strolling along in the balconies above, looking in, now at a jeweller's window, now at a smart haberdashery shop, now at some neat housekeeper's bedroom window, now into a mysterious chink-like passage-way winding off into the heart of the building; and then, perhaps, presto! descending a staircase a few feet, to another tier of similar shop-windows, domiciles, garret alleys, and dormer-window bazars; and the next thing, plump down again, ten feet or so more, into the very street itself. indeed are they, as the "vale-royale" says, "a singular property of praise to this city, whereof i know not the like of any other." one manifest use and enjoyment of this medley of in and out, up and down, above and below, balconies, basements, attics, dormer windows, gables, and casements, the old chronicler failed to mention, but there can never have been a day or a generation which has not discovered it, and that is the convenient overlooking of all that goes on in the street below. what rare and comfortable nooks for the spying on processions, and all manner of shows and spectacles! to sit snug in one's best chamber, ten feet above the street, ten feet out into it, with windows looking up and down the highway,--what vantage it must have been in the days when the miracle plays went wheeling along from street to street, played on double scaffolded carts; the players attiring themselves on the lower scaffold, while the play was progressing on the upper! they began to do this in chester in the year of our lord . there were generally in use at one time twenty-four of the wheeled stages; as soon as one play was over, its stage was wheeled along to the next street, and another took its place. the plays were called mysteries, and were devised for the giving of instruction in the old and new testament, which had been so long sealed books to the people. luther gave them his sanction, saying, "such spectacles often do more good and produce more impression than sermons." the old chronicles are full of quaint and interesting entries in regard to these plays. the different trades and guilds of the city represented different acts in the holy dramas:-- the barkers and tanners, _the fall of lucifer_. drapers and hosiers, _the creation of the world_. drawers of dee and water leaders, _noe and his shippe_. barbers, wax chandlers, and leeches, _abraham and isaac_. cappers, wire drawers, and pinners, _balak and balaam with moses_. wrights, slaters, tylers, daubers, and thatchers, _the nativity_. in these plays were played for the last time. there had been several attempts before to suppress them. one chester mayor, henry hardware by name, being a "godly and zealous man, caused the gyauntes in the mid-somer show to be broken up, not to go; and the devil in his feathers he put awaye, and the caps, and the canes, and dragon and the naked boys." but it was reserved for another mayor, sir john savage, knight, to have the honor of finally putting an end to the pageants. "sir john savage, knight, being mayor of chester, which was the laste time they were played, and we praise god, and praye that we see not the like profanation of holy scriptures, but o, the mercie of god for the time of our ignorance!" says an old history, written in . at intervals between these pious suppressions, carnal and pleasure-loving persons made great efforts to restore the plays; and there are some very curious accounts of expenditures made in chester, under mayors less godly than hardware and savage, for the rehabilitation of some of the old properties of the sacred pageants:-- "for finding all the materials with the workmanship of the four great giants, all to be made new, as neere as may be, lyke as they were before, at five pounds a giant, the least that can be, and four men to carry them at two shillings and sixpence each." these redoubtable giants, which could not be made at less than five pounds apiece, were constructed out of "hoops, deal boards, nails, pasteboard, scale-board, paper of various sorts, buckram size cloth, old sheets for their bodies, sleeves and shirts, tinsille, tinfoil, gold and silver leaf, colors of different kinds, and glue in abundance." last, not least, came the item, "for arsknick to put into the paste to save the giants from being eaten by the rats, one shilling and fourpence." it is at first laughable to think of a set of city fathers summing up such accounts as these for a paper baby show, but upon second thought the question occurs whether city funds are any better administered in these days. the paper giants, feathered devils, and dragons were cheaper than champagne suppers and stationery now-a-days in "hede and chefe" cities. when the mystery plays were finally forbidden, it seemed dull times for a while in chester; but at last the people contrived an ingenious resuscitation of the old amusements under new names, and with new themes, to which nobody could object. they dramatized old stories, legends, histories of kings, and the like. the story of Æneas and queen dido was one of the first played. no doubt all the "gyauntes" and hobble-de-horses which had not been eaten up by rats and moths came in as effectively in the second dispensation as in the first. the only one of the later plays of which an account has been preserved was played in , in honor of the oldest son of james i., by the sheriff of chester, who himself wrote a flaming account of it. he says:-- "zeal produced it, love devized it, boyes performed it, men beheld it, and none but fools dispraised it.... the chiefest part of this people-pleasing spectacle consisted in three bees, that is, boyes, beastes, and bels." allegory, mythology, music, fireworks, and ground and lofty tumbling were jumbled together in a fine way, in the sheriff's show. envy was on horseback with a wreath of snakes around her head; plenty, peace, fame, and joy were personated; mercury came down from heaven with wings, in a cloud; a "wheele of fire burning very cunningly, with other fireworks, mounted the crosse by the assistance of ropes, in the midst of heavenly melody;" and, to top off with, a grotesque figure climbed up to the top of the "crosse," and stood on his head, with his feet in the air, "very dangerously and wonderfully to the view of the beholders, and casting fireworks very delightfull." truly, the sheriff's language seems hardly too strong, when he says that none but fools dispraised his spectacle. these secular shows never attained the popularity of the old mystery plays. that mysterious halo of attraction which always invests the forbidden undoubtedly heightened the reputed charm of the never-more-to-be-seen sacred pageants, and led people to continually depreciate the value of all entertainments offered as substitutes for them. probably in the midst of the heavenly melodies and "fireworks very delightfull," at the sheriff's grand show, old men went about shaking their heads regretfully, and saying, "ah, but you should have seen the gyaunts we used to have forty years ago, and the way they played the fall of lucifer in ; there's never been anything like it since;" and immediately all the young people who had never seen a miracle play began to be full of dissatisfied wonder as to what they were like. but what the shows and pageants lacked in the early days of the seventeenth century, grand processions went a long way towards making up. it is evident that chester people never missed an occasion for turning out in fine array; and there being always somebody who took the trouble to write a full account of the parade, we of to-day know almost as much about it as if we had been on the spot. the old chronicles in the chester public library are running over with quaint and gay stories of such doings as the following: "came to chester, being saturday, the duchess of tremoyle, from france, mother-in-law to the lord strange: and all the gentry of cheshier, flintshier, and denbighshier went to meet her at hoole's heath, with the earl of derby; being at least six hundred horse. all the gentle men of the artelery yard lately erected in chester, met her in cow lane, in very stately manner, all with greate white and blew fethers, and went before her chariot, in march, to the bishop's pallas, and making a yard, let her thro the middest, and then gave her three volleys of shot, and so returned to their yard.... so many knights, esquires, and gentle men never were in chester, no, not to meet king james when he went to chester." this cow lane is now called frodsham street; and on one of its corners is the building in which william penn, in his day, preached more than once, setting forth doctrines which the duchess of tremoyle would have much disrelished in her day, as would also the "artelery gentle men" with their "greate white and blew fethers." king james himself is said to have once dropped in at this quaker meeting-house when penn was preaching, and to have sat, attentive, through the entire discourse. and so we come down through the centuries, from the pasteboard "gyaunt" and glued dragon, winged mercury with fire-wheel, duchess of tremoyle with her plumed horsemen, to the grim but gentle quaker, holding feathers pernicious, plays deadly, and permitting to the people nothing but plain yea and nay. of all this, and worlds more like it, and gayer and wilder,--sadder, too,--is the chester air so brimful that, as i said in the beginning, it seems perpetually to go lilting about one's ears. leaving the library, with its quaint and fascinating old records, and turning aside at intervals from the more ancient landmarks of the streets to observe the ways and conditions of the cestrians now, the traveller is no less repaid. every rod of the sidewalk is a study for its present as well as for its past. the venders are a guild by themselves, as much to-day as they were in the sixteenth century. they build up their stuffs, their old chairs, chests, brooms, crockery and tinware, in stacks of confusion, in shelf-like balconies, on beams hanging overhead and in corners and nooks underfoot, all along the most ancient of the rows. it is a piece of good luck to walk past half a dozen doors there without jostling something on the right or left, and bringing down a clattering pile on one's heels. from shadowy recesses, men and women eager for trade dart out, eying the stranger sharply. they are connoisseurs in customers, if in nothing else, the cestrian dealers of to-day. they know at a glance who will give ten shillings and sixpence for a cream jug without any nose, and with a big crack in one side, on the bare chance of its being old welsh. there is much excuse for their spreading out their goods over the highway, as they do, for the shops themselves are closets,--six by eight, eight by ten; ten by twelve is a spacious mart, in comparison with the average. deprived of the outside nooks between the pillars of the arcade, the dealers would be sorely put to it for room. it is becoming, however, a disputed question whether the renting of these shops includes any right to the covered ways in front of them; and there is great anxiety among the inhabitants of the more dilapidated portions of the rows in consequence. "there's a deespute with the corporation, mem, as to whether we hown the stalls or not," said an energetic furniture-wife (if fish-wife, why not furniture-wife?) to me one day, as i was laughingly steering a cautious passage among her shaky pyramids of fourth or twentieth hand furniture. "it's lasted a while now, an' they've not forced us to give 'em hup as yet; but i'm afeard they may bring it about," she added, with the dogged humility of her class. "they've everything their own way,--the corporation." it is worth while to take a turn down some of the crevice-like alleys in these rows, and see where the people live; see also where the nobility gets part of its wherewithal to eat, drink, and be clothed. often there is to be seen at the far end of these crevices a point of sunlight; like the gleaming point of light seen ahead, in going through a rayless tunnel. this betokens a tiny court-yard in the rear. these court-yards are always well worth seeing. they are paved, sometimes with tiles evidently hundreds of years old. the different properties of the dozens of families living in tenements opening on the court are arranged around its sides, apparently each family keeping scrupulously to its own little hand's-breadth of room; frequently a tiny flower-bed, or a single plant in a pot, gives a gleam of cheer to the place. in such a court-yard as this, i found, one morning, a yellow-haired, blue-eyed little maid, scrubbing away for dear life, with a broom and soap-suds, on the old tiles. she was not over nine years old; her bare legs and feet were pink and chubby, and she had a smile like a sunbeam. "i saw the sun shining in here so brightly that i walked up the alley to see how it got in," i said to her. "yes, mem," she said, with a courtesy. "it do shine in here beautiful." and she looked up at the sky, smiling. "have you lived here long?" i asked. "about nine months, mem. i'm only in service, mem," she continued with a deprecating courtesy, modestly anxious to disclaim the honor of having any proprietary right in the place. "we've five rooms, mem," she went on. "it's a very nice lodging, if you'd like to see it." and she threw open a door into an infinitesimal parlor, out of which opened a still smaller dining-room, lighted only by a window in the parlor door. there were two bedrooms above, reached by a nearly upright stairway, not over two feet wide. the fifth room was a "beautiful washroom," which the little maiden exhibited with even more pride than she had shown the parlor. "it's three families has it together, mem," she explained. "it's a great thing to get a washroom. and we've a coal-hole, too, mem," she said eagerly; "you passed it, coming up." and she stepped a few paces down the alley, and threw open a door into a rayless place possibly five by seven feet in size. "it used to be a bedroom, mem, to the opposite house; but it's empty now, so we gets it for coal." i could not take my eyes from the child's face, as she prattled and pattered along. she looked like an angel. her face shone with loyalty, pride, and happiness. i envied the poverty-stricken dwellers in this court their barefooted handmaiden, and would have taken her then and there, if i could, into my own service for her lifetime. as we stood talking, another door opened, and a grizzled old head popped out. "good-morning, mem," said the child cheerily, making the same respectful courtesy she had made to me. "i'm just showin' the lady what nice lodgin's we've 'ere in the court." "humph," said the old woman gruffly, as she tottered out, leaving her door wide open; "they're nothin' to boast of." her own lodging certainly was not. it was literally little more than a chamber in the wall: it had no window, except one small square pane above the door. you could hardly stand upright in it, and not much more than turn around. the walls were hung full: household utensils, clothes, even her two or three books, were hung up by strings; there being only room for one tiny table, besides the stove. in one corner stood a step-ladder, which led up through a hole in the ceiling to the cranny overhead in which she slept. this was all the old woman had. she lived here alone, and she paid to the duke of westminster two shillings and sixpence a week for the rent of the place. "it's dear at the rent," she said; "but it's a respectable place, an' i think a deal o' that." and she sighed. the name of the duke of westminster and the value of that two and sixpence to his grace meant more to me that morning than it would have done twenty-four hours earlier; for on the previous afternoon we had visited his palace, the famous eaton hall. we had walked there for weary hours over marble floors, under frescoed domes, through long lines of statues, of pictures, of stained-glass windows, hangings, carvings, and rare relics and trophies innumerable. we had seen the duchess's window balcony, one waving mass of yellow musk. "her ladyship is very fond of musk. it is always to be kept flowering at her window," we were told. we had walked also through a glass corridor three hundred and seventy-five yards long, draped with white clematis and heliotrope on one side, and on the other banked high with geraniums, carnations, and all manner of flowers. opening at intervals in these banks of flowers were doors into other conservatories: one was filled chiefly with rare orchids, like an enchanted aviary of hummingbirds, arrested on the wing; gold and white, purple and white, brown and gold, green, snowy white, orange; some of them as large as a fleur-de-lis. another house was filled with ferns and palms, green, luxuriant, like a bit of tropical forest brought across seas for his grace's pleasure. the most superb sight of all was the lotus house. cleopatra herself might have flushed with pleasure at beholding it. a deep tank, sixty feet long, and twenty wide, filled with white and blue and pink blossoms, floating, swaying, lolling on the dark water; while, seemingly to uphold the glass roof canopying this lotus-decked sea, rose slender columns, wreathed with thunbergia vines in full bloom, yellow, orange, and white; the glass walls of the building were set thick and high with maiden-hair and other rare ferns, interspersed at irregular intervals with solid masses of purple or white flowers. the spell of the place, of its warm, languid air, was beyond words: it was bewildering. all this being vivid in my mind, i started at hearing his grace's name from the old woman's lips. "so these houses belong to the duke of westminster, do they?" i replied. "yes, 'ee's the 'ole o' 't," she answered; "an' a power o' money it brings 'im in, considerin' its size. 'ee 's big rents in this town. mebbe ye've bin out t' 'is 'all? it's a gran' sight, i'm told. i've never seen it." i was minded then to tell about the duke's flowers. it would have been only a bit of a fairy story to the little maid, a bright spot in her still bright horizons; but i forebore, for the sake of the old woman's soul, already enough wrung and embittered by the long strain of her hard lot, and its contrast with that of her betters, without having that contrast enforced by a vivid picture of the duke's hothouses. my own memory of them was darkened forever,--unreasonably so, perhaps; but the antithesis came too suddenly and soon for me ever to separate the pictures. the archæologist in chester will frequently be lured from its streets to its still more famous walls. this side rome there is no such piece of roman masonry work, to be seen. here, indeed, is the air full of ballad measures, to which one must step, if he go his way thinking at all. the four great gates, north, south, east, and west,--three kept by earls, and only one owned by the citizens; the lesser posterns, with commoner names, born of their different sorts of traffic, or the fords to which they led; the towers and turrets, fought over, lost and won, and won and lost, trod by centuries of brave fighters whose names live forever; bridgeways and arches in their own successions, of as noble lineage as any lineages of men,--of such are the walls of chester. they surround the old city; are nearly two miles in length, and were originally of the width prescribed in the ancient roman manual of vitruvius, "that two armed men may pass each other without impediment." there are many places, now, however, which would by no means come up to that standard; nature having usurped much space with her various growths, and time having been chipping away at them as well. in fact, on some portions of the wall, there is only a narrow grassy footpath, such as might wind around in a village churchyard. to come up by hoary stone stairs, out of the bustling street, atop of the wall, and out on such a bit of footpath as this, with an outlook over the rood eye meadow and off toward the region of the old welsh castles, is a fine early-morning treat in chester. some of the towers are now sunk to the ignoble uses of heterogeneous museums. old women have the keys, and for a fee admit curious people to the ancient chambers and keeps, where, after having the satisfaction of standing where kings have stood, and looking off over fields where kings' battles were fought, they can gaze at glass cases full of curiosities and relics of one sort and another, sometimes of an incredible worthlessness. in the tower known as king charles's tower, from the fact of charles i. having stood there, on the th of september, , overlooking the to him luckless battle of rowton moor, is the most miscellaneous collection of odds and ends ever offered to public gaze. a very old woman keeps the key of this tower, and is herself by no means the least of the curiosities in it. she was born in chester, and recollects well when all the space outside the old walls, which is now occupied by the modern city, was chiefly woods; she used to go, in her childhood, to play and to gather flowers in them. the fact that king charles once looked through the window of this turret has grown, by a sort of geometrical ratio relative to the number of years she has been reiterating the statement, into a colossally disproportionate place in her mind. "the king, mem, stood just where you're standin' now," she says over and over and over, in a mechanical manner, as long as you remain in the tower. i wondered if she said it all night, in her sleep; and if, if one were to spend a whole day in the tower, she would never stop saying it. she was an enthusiastic show-woman of her little store; undismayed by any amount of indifference on the part of her listeners. "'ere 's a face you know, mem, i dare say," producing from one corner of the glass case a cheap newspaper picture, much soiled, of general grant. "'ee was in this tower last summer, and 'ee was much hinterested." next to general grant's portrait came "a ring snake from kentucky." "it's my brother, mem, brought that over: twenty years ago, 'ee was in hamerica. you must undustand the puttin' of 'em hup better than we do, mem, for 'ere's these salamanders was only put hup two years ago, an' they've quite gone a'ready, in that time." she had a statuette of king charles, cromwell's chaplain's broth bowl, a bit of a bedquilt of queen anne's, a black snake from australia, a fine-tooth comb from africa, a tattered fifty-cent piece of american paper currency, and a string of shell money from the south sea islands, all arranged in close proximity. taking up the bit of american currency, she held it out toward us, saying inquiringly, "hextinct now, mem, i believe?" i think she can hardly have recovered even yet from the bewilderment into which she was thrown by our convulsive laughter and ejaculated reply, "oh, no! would that it were!" in a clear day can be seen from this tower, a dozen or so miles to the south, the ruins of a castle built by earl randel blundeville. he was the earl randel of whom roger lacy, constable of cheshire in , made a famous rescue, once on a time. the earl, it seems, was in a desperate strait, besieged in one of his castles by the welsh; perhaps in this very castle. roger lacy, hearing of the earl's situation, forthwith made a muster of all the tramps, beggars, and rapscallions he could find,--"a tumultuous rout," says the chronicle, "of loose, disorderly, and dissolute persons, players, minstrels, shoemakers and the like,--and marched speedily towards the enemy." the welsh, seeing so great a multitude coming, raised their siege and fled; and the earl, thus delivered, showed his gratitude to constable roger by conferring upon him perpetual authority over the loose, idle persons in cheshire; making the office hereditary in the lacy family. a thankless dignity, one would suppose, at best; by no means a sinecure, at any time, and during the season of the midsummer fairs a terrible responsibility: it being the law of the land that during those fairs the city of chester was for the space of one month a free city of refuge for all criminals, of whatsoever degree; in token of which a glove was hung out at st. peter's church, on the first day of the fairs. there is another good tale of roger lacy's prowess. he seems to have been a roving fighter, for he once held a castle in normandy, for king john, against the french, "with such gallantry that after all his victuals were spent, having been besieged almost a year, and many assaults of the enemy made, but still repulsed by him, he mounts his horse, and issues out of the castle with his troop into the middest of his enemies, chusing rather to die like a soldier, than to starve to death. he slew many of the enemy, but was at last with much difficulty taken prisoner; so he and his soldiers were brought prisoners to the king of france, where, by the command of the king, roger lacy was to be held no strict prisoner, for his great honesty and trust in keeping the castle so gallantly.... king john's letter to roger lacy concerning the keeping of the said castle, you may see among the norman writings put out by andrew du chesne, and printed at paris in ." of all of which, if no ballad have ever been written, it is certain that songs must have been sung by minstrels at the time; and the name of the brave roger's lady-love was well suited to minstrelsy, she being one maud de clare. plain roger lacy and maud de clare! the dullest fancy takes a leap at the sound of the two names. in the same old chronicle which gives these and many other narratives of roger lacy is the history of a singular, half-witted being, who was known in vale-royale, in the fifteenth century, as nixon the prophet. how much that the old records claim for him, in the way of minute and minutely fulfilled prophecies, is to be set down to the score of ignorant superstition, it is hard now to say; but there must have been some foundation in fact for the narrative. robert nixon was the son of a farmer in cheshire county, and was born in the year . his stupidity and ignorance were said to be "invincible." no efforts could make him understand anything save the care of cattle, and even in this he showed at times a brutish and idiotic cruelty. he had a very rough, coarse voice, but said little, sometimes passing whole months without opening his lips to speak. he began very early to foretell events, and with an apparently preternatural accuracy. when he was a lad, he was seen, one day, to abuse an ox belonging to his brother. to a person threatening to inform his brother of this act, robert replied that three days later his brother would not own the ox. sure enough, on the next day a life inheritance came into the estate on which his brother was a tenant, and that very ox was taken for the "heriot bond to the new owner." one of the abbey monks having displeased him, he exclaimed,-- "when you the harrow come on high, soon a raven's nest will be." the couplet was thought at the time to be simple nonsense; but as it turned out, the last abbot of that monastery was named harrow, and when the king suppressed the monastery he gave the domain to sir thomas holcroft, whose crest was a raven. it was also one of nixon's predictions that the two abbeys of vale-royale and norton should meet on orton bridge and the thorn growing in the abbey yard should be its door. when the abbeys were pulled down, in the time of the reformation, stones taken from each of them were used in rebuilding that bridge; and the thorn-tree was cut down, and placed as a barrier across the entrance to the abbey court, to keep the sheep from entering there. the most remarkable of nixon's predictions or revelations was at the time of the battle on bosworth field between richard iii. and henry vii. on that day, as he was driving a pair of oxen, he stopped suddenly, and with his whip pointing now one way, now another, cried aloud, "now, richard," "now, harry!" at last he said, "now, harry, get over that ditch, and you gain the day!" the ploughmen with him were greatly amazed, and related to many persons what had passed. when a courier came through the country announcing the result of the battle, he verified every word nixon had said. this courier, when he returned to court, recounted nixon's predictions; and king henry was so impressed by them that he at once sent orders to have him brought to the palace. before this messenger arrived, nixon ran about like a madman, weeping and crying that the king was about sending for him, and that he must go to court to be starved to death. in a few days the royal messenger appeared. nixon was turning the spit in his brother's kitchen. just before the messenger came in sight, he shrieked out, "he is on the road! he is coming for me! i shall be starved!" lamenting loudly, he was carried away almost by force, and taken into the presence of the king, who tried him with various tests: among others, he hid a diamond ring, and commanded nixon to find it; but all the answer he got from the cunning varlet was, "he that hideth can find." the king caused all he said to be carefully noted and put down in writing; gave him the run of the palace, and commanded that no one should molest or offend him in any way. one day, when the king was setting off on a hunt, nixon ran to him, crying and begging to be allowed to go too; saying that his time had come now, and he would be starved if he were left behind. to humor his whim and ease his fears, the king gave him into the especial charge and keeping of one of the chief officers of the court. the officer, in turn, to make sure that no ill befell the poor fellow, locked him up in one of his private rooms, and with his own hands carried food to him. but after a day or two, a very urgent message from the king calling this officer suddenly away, in the haste of his departure he forgot nixon, and left him locked up in the apartment. no one missed him or discovered him; and when at the end of three days the officer returned, nixon was found dead,--dead, as he had himself foretold, of starvation. it is a strange and pitiful story, a tale suited to its century, and could not be left out were there ever to be written a ballad-history of the vale-royale's olden days. it is a question, in early mornings in chester, whether to take a turn on the ancient walls, listening to echoes such as these from all the fair country in sight in embrace of the dee, or to saunter through the market, and hear the shriller but no less characteristic voice of cestrian life to-day. markets are always good vantage-grounds for studying the life and people of a place or region. the true traveller never feels completely at home in a town till he has been in the markets. many times i have gathered from the chance speech of an ignorant market man or woman information i had been in search of for days. markets are especially interesting in places where caste and class lines are strongly drawn, as in england. the market man or woman whose ancestors have been of the same following, and who has no higher ambition in life than to continue, and if possible enhance, the good will and the good name of the business, is good authority to consult on all matters within his range. there is a self-poise about him, the result of his satisfaction with his own position, which is dignified and pleasing. on my last morning in chester, i spent an hour or two in the markets, and encountered two good specimens of this class. one was a fair, slender girl, so unexceptionably dressed in a plain, well-cut ulster that, as i observed her in the crowd of market-women, i supposed she was a young housekeeper, out for her early marketing; but presently, to my great astonishment, i saw her with her own hands measuring onions into a huckster-woman's basket. on drawing nearer, i discovered that she was the proprietress of a natty vegetable cart, piled full of all sorts of green stuff, which she was selling to the sellers. she could not have been more than eighteen. her manner and speech were prompt, decisive, business-like; she wasted no words in her transactions. her little brother held the sturdy pony's reins, and she stood by the side of the cart, ready to take orders. she said that she lived ten miles out of town; that she and her three brothers had a large market garden, of which they did all the work with their own hands, and she and this lad brought the produce to market daily. "i make more sellin' 'olesale than sellin' standin'," she said; "an' i'm 'ome again by ten o'clock, to be at the work." i observed that all who bought from her addressed her as "miss," and bore themselves toward her with a certain respectfulness of demeanor, showing that they considered her avocation a grade or so above their own. a matronly woman, with pink cheeks and bright hazel eyes, had walked in from her farm, a distance of six miles, because the load of greens, eggs, poultry, and flowers was all that her small pony could draw. beautiful moss roses she had, at "thrippence" a bunch. "no, no, ada, not any more," she said, in a delicious low voice, to a child by her side, who was slyly taking a rose from one of the baskets. "you've enough there. it hurts them to lie in the 'ot sun.--my daughter, mem," she explained, as the little thing shrunk back, covered with confusion, and pretended to be very busy arranging the flowers on a little board laid across two stones, behind which she was squatted,--"my daughter, mem. all the profits of the flowers they sell are their own, mem. they puts it all in the missionary box. they'd eighteen an' six last year, mem, in all, besides what they put in the school box. yes, mem, indeed they had." it struck me that this devout mother took a strange view of the meaning of the word "own," and i did not spend so much money on ada's flowers as i would have done if i had thought ada would have the spending of it herself, in her own childish way. but i bought a big bunch of red and white daisies, and another of columbines, white pinks, ivy, and poppies; and the little maid, barely ten years old, took my silver, made change, and gave me the flowers with a winsome smile and a genuine market-woman's "thank you, mem." it was a pretty scene: the open space in front of the market building, filled with baskets, bags, barrows, piles of fresh green things, chiefly of those endless cabbage species, which england so proudly enumerates when called upon to mention her vegetables; the dealers were principally women, with fresh, fair faces, rosy cheeks, and soft voices; in the outer circle, scores of tiny donkey-carts, in which the vegetables had been brought. one chubby little girl, surely not more than seven, was beginning her market-woman's training by minding the donkey, while her mother attended to trade. as she stood by the donkey's side, her head barely reached to his ears; but he entered very cleverly into the spirit of the farce of being kept in place by such a mite, and to that end employed her busily in feeding him with handfuls of grass. if she stopped, he poked his nose into her neck and rummaged under her chin, till she began again. all had flowers to sell, if it were only a single bunch, or plant in a pot; and there were in the building several fine stalls entirely filled with flowers,--roses, carnations, geraniums, and wonderful pansies. noticing, in one stall, a blossom i had never before seen, i asked the old woman who kept the stand to tell me its name. she clapped her hand to her head tragically. "'deed, mem, it's strange. ye're the second has asked me the name o' that flower; an' it's gone out o' my head. if the young lady that has the next stand was here, she'd tell ye. it was from her i got the roots: she's a great botanist, mem, an' a fine gardener. could i send ye the name o' 't, mem? i'd be pleased to accommodate ye, an' may be ye'd like a root or two o' 't. it's a free grower. we've 'ad a death in the house, mem,--my little grandchild, only a few hours ill,--an' it seems like it 'ad confused the 'ole 'ouse. we've not 'ad 'eart to take pains with the flowers yet." the old woman's artless, garrulous words smote like a sudden bell-note echo from a far past,--an echo that never ceases for hearts that have once known how bell-notes sound when bells toll for beloved dead! the thoughts her words woke seemed to span chester's centuries more vividly than all the old chronicle traditions and legends, than sculptured roman altar, or coin, or graven story in stone. the strange changes they recorded were but things of the surface, conditions of the hour. through and past them all, life remained the same. grief and joy do not alter shape or sort. love and love's losses and hurts are the same yesterday, to-day, and forever. footnote: [ ] longfellow. iii. norway, denmark, and germany. iii. norway, denmark, and germany. bergen days. the hardest way to go to norway is by way of the north sea. it is two days' and two nights' sail from hull to bergen; and two days and two nights on the north sea are nearly as bad as two days and two nights on the english channel would be. but the hardest way is the best way, in this as in so many other things. no possible approach to norway from the continent can give one the sudden characteristic impression of norway sea and shore which he gets as he sails up the stavanger fjord, and sees the town of stavanger looking off from its hillside over the fleets of island and rock that lie moored in its harbor. at first sight it seems as if there were no norway coast at all, only an endless series of islands beyond islands, never stayed by any barrier of mainland; or as if the mainland itself must be being disintegrated from its very centre outwards, breaking up and crumbling into pieces. surely, the waters, when they were commanded to stay from off the earth, yielded the command but a fragmentary obedience so far as this region was concerned. the tradition of the creation of norway seems a natural outgrowth of the place,--the only way, in fact, of accounting for the lay of the land. the legend declares that norway was made last, and in this wise: on the seventh day, while god was resting from his labors, the devil, full of spite at seeing so fair a world, hurled into the ocean a gigantic rock,--a rock so large that it threatened to break the axis of the universe. but the lord seized it, and fixed it firm in place, with its myriad jutting points just above the waters. between these points he scattered all the earth he had left; nothing like enough to cover the rock, or to make a respectable continent,--only just enough to redeem spots here and there, and give man a foothold on it. the fact that forty per cent of the whole surface of norway is over three thousand feet above the sea is certainly a corroboration of this legend. this island fringe gives to the coast of norway an indefinable charm,--the charm of endless maze, vista, expectation, and surprise; lure, also, suggestion, dim hint, and reticent revelation, like a character one cannot fathom, and behavior one can never reckon on. though the ship sail in and out of the labyrinths never so safely and quickly, fancy is always busy at deep-sea soundings; bewildered by the myriad shapes, and half conscious of a sort of rhythm in their swift, perpetual change, as if they, and not the ship, were gliding. the vivid verdure on them in spots has more the expression of something momentarily donned and worn than of a growth. it seems accidental and decorative, flung on suddenly; then, again, soft, thick, inexhaustible, as if the islands might be the tops of drowned forests. stavanger is one of the most ancient towns in norway. it looks as if it were one of the most ancient in the world; its very brightness, with its faded red houses, open windows, and rugged pavements, being like the color and smile one sees sometimes on a cheerful, wrinkled, old face. the houses are packed close together, going up-hill as hard as they can; roofs red tiled; gable ends red tiled also, which gives a droll eyebrow effect to the ends of the houses, and helps wonderfully to show off pretty faces just beneath them, looking out of windows. all the windows open in the middle, outwards, like shutters; and it would not be much risk to say that there is not a window-sill in all stavanger without flowers. certainly, we did not see one in a three hours' ramble. from an old watchtower, which stands on the top of the first sharp hill above the harbor, is a sweeping off-look, seaward and coastward, to north and south: long promontories, green and curving, with low red roofs here and there, shot up into relief by the sharp contrast of color; bays of blue water breaking in between; distant ranges of mountains glittering white; thousands of islands in sight at once. stavanger's approach strikes norway's key-note with a bold hand, and old norway and new norway meet in stavanger's market-place. an old cathedral, the oldest but one in the country, looks down a little inner harbor, where lie sloops loaded with gay pottery of shapes and colors copied from the latest patterns out in staffordshire. these are made by peasants many miles away, on the shores of the fjords: bowls, jars, flower-pots, jugs, and plates, brown, cream-colored, red, and white; painted with flowers, and decorated with grecian and etruscan patterns in simple lines. the sloop decks are piled high with them,--a gay show, and an odd enough freight to be at sea in a storm. the sailors' heads bob up and down among the pots and pans, and the salesman sits flat on the deck, lost from view, until a purchaser appears. miraculously cheap this pottery is, as well as fantastic of shape and color; one could fit out his table off one of these crockery sloops, for next to nothing. along the wharves were market-stands of all sorts: old women selling fuchsias, myrtles, carrots, and cabbages, and blueberries, all together; piles of wooden shoes, too,--clumsy things, hollowed out of a single chunk of wood, shaped like a chinese junk keel, and coarsely daubed with black paint on the outside; no heel to hold them on, and but little toe. the racket made by shuffling along on pavements in them is amazing, and "down at the heel" becomes a phrase of new significance, after one has heard the thing done in norway. just outside the market-place we came upon our first cariole; it was going by like the wind, drawn by a little norwegian pony, which seemed part pincushion, part spaniel, part fat snowbird, and the rest pony, with a shoe-brush, bristles up, for a mane. such good-will in his trot, and such a sense of honor and independence in the wriggle of his head, and such affectionateness all over him, no wonder the norwegians love such a species of grown-up useful pet dogs. hardy they are, and, if they choose, swift; obey voices better than whips, and would rather have bread than hay to eat, at any time of day. the cariole is a kind of compressed sulky, open, without springs; the narrow seat, narrow even for one person, set high up on elastic wooden shafts, which rest on the axle-tree at the back, and on a sort of saddle-piece in front. the horse is harnessed very far forward in the low thills, and has the direct weight on his shoulders. a queerer sight than such a vehicle as this, coming at a norwegian pony's best rate towards you, with a pretty norwegian girl driving, and standing up on the cross-piece behind her a handsome norwegian officer, with his plumed head above hers, bent a little to the right or left, and very close, lovers of human nature in picturesque situations need not wish to see. less picturesque, and no doubt less happy for the time being, but no less characteristic, was the first family we saw in stavanger taking an airing; a square wooden box for a wagon,--nothing more than a vegetable bin on wheels. this held two large milk-cans, several bushels of cabbages, four children, and their mother. the father walked sturdily beside the wagon, his head bent down, like his pony's; serious eyes, a resolute mouth, and a certain look of unjoyous content marked him as a good specimen of the best sort of norwegian peasant. the woman and the children wore the same look of unjoyous and unmirthful content; silent, serious, satisfied, they all sat still among the cabbages. so solemn a thing is it to be born in latitude north. had those cabbages grown in the campagna, the man would have been singing, the woman laughing, and the young ones rolling about in the cart like kittens. from stavanger to bergen is a half-day's sail: in and out among islands, promontories, inlets, rocks; now wide sea on one hand, and rugged shore on the other; now a very archipelago of bits of land and stone flung about in chaotic confusion, on all sides. many of the islands are nothing but low beds of granite, looking as if it were in flaky slices like mica, or else minutely roughened and stippled, as though cooled suddenly from a tremendous boil. some of these islands have oases of green in them; tiny red farm-houses, sunk in hollows, with narrow settings of emerald around them; hand's-breadth patches of grain here and there, left behind as from some harvest, which the hungry sea is following after to glean. no language can describe the fantastic, elusive charm of this islet and rocklet universe: half sadness, half cheer, half lonely, half teeming, altogether brilliant and brimming with beauty; green land, gray rock, and blue water, surging, swaying, blending, parting, dancing together, in stately and contagious pleasure. on the north horizon rise grand snow-topped peaks; broad blue bays make up into the land walled by mountains; snow fjelds and glaciers glitter in the distance; and waterfalls, like silver threads, shine from afar on the misty clouds. at every new turn is a hamlet or house, looking as if it had just crept into shelter; one solitary boat moored at the base of its rock, often the only token of a link kept with the outer world. the half-day's sail from stavanger to bergen is all like this, except that after one turns southward into the bergen fjord the mysterious islanded shores press closer, and the hill shores back of them rise higher, so that expectancy and wonder deepen moment by moment, till the moment of landing on bergen's water rim. "will there be carriages at the wharf?" we had asked of the terrible stewardess who had tyrannized over our ship for two days, like a french revolution fishwoman. "carriages!" she cried, with her arms akimbo. "the streets in bergen are so steep carriages can't drive down them. the horses would tumble back on the carriage,"--a purely gratuitous fiction on her part, for what motive it is hard to conceive. but it much enhanced the interest with which we gazed at the rounding hills, slowly hemming us in closer and closer, and looking quite steep enough to justify the stewardess's assertion. by clocks, it was ten o'clock at night; by sky, about dawn, or just after sunset; by air, atmosphere, light, no time which any human being ever heard named or defined. there is nothing in any known calendar of daylight, twilight, or nightlight which is like this norwegian interval between two lights. it is weird, bewildering, disconcerting. you don't know whether you are glad or sorry, pleased or scared; whether you really can see or not; whether you'd better begin another day's work at once, or make believe it is time to go to bed. if somebody would invent a word which should bear the same interesting, specific, and intelligible relation to light and dark that "amphibious" does to land and water, it would be, in describing norway twilight, of more use than all the rest of the english language put together. perhaps the norwegians have such a word. i think it highly probable they have, and i wish i knew it. in this strange illuminated twilight, we landed on the silent bergen wharf. the quay was in shadow of high warehouses. a few nonchalant and leisurely men and boys were ambling about; custom-house men, speaking the jargon of their race, went through the farce of appearing to ransack our luggage. our party seemed instantaneously to have disintegrated, in the half darkness, into odds and ends of unassorted boxes and people, and it was with gratitude as for a succession of interpositions of a superior and invincible power that we finally found ourselves together again in one hotel, and decided that, on the whole, it was best to go to bed, in spite of the light, because, as it was already near midnight, it would very soon be still lighter, and there would be no going to bed at all. the next day, we began bergen by driving out of it (a good way always, to begin a place). no going out of bergen eastward or westward except straight up skyward, so steep are the slopes. southward the country opens by gentler ascents, and pretty country houses are built along the road for miles,--all of wood, and of light colors, with much fantastic carving about them; summer-houses perched on the terraces, among lime, birch, and ash trees. one which we saw was in octagon shape, and had the roof thick sodded with grass, which waved in the wind. the eight open spaces of the sides were draped with bright scarlet curtains, drawn away tight on each side, making a gothic arch line of red at each opening. it looked like somebody's gay palanquin set down to wait. our driver's name was nils. he matched it: short, sturdy, and good-natured; red cheeks and shining brown eyes. his ponies scrambled along splendidly, and stopped to rest whenever they felt like it,--not often, to be sure, but they had their own way whenever they did, and were allowed to stand still. generally they put their heads down and started off of their own accord in a few seconds; occasionally nils reminded them by a chuckle to go on. there is no need of any society for the prevention of cruelty to animals in norway. the norwegian seems to be instinctively kind to all beasts of bondage. at the foot of steep hills is to be seen everywhere the sign, "do not forget to rest the horses." the noise nils made when he wished to stop his ponies gave us a fright, the first time we heard it. it is the drollest sound ever invented for such a use: a loud call of rolling _r's_; an ingenious human parody on a watchman's rattle; a cross between a bellow and a purr. it is universal in norway, but one can never become accustomed to it unless he has heard it from infancy up. the wild and wooded country through which we drove was like parts of the northern hill country of new england: steep, stony hills; nooks full of ferns; bits of meadow in sunlight and shadow, with clover, and buttercups, and bluebells, and great mossy bowlders; farm-houses snugged down in hollows to escape the wind; lovely dark tarns, with pond-lilies afloat, just too far from the shore for arms to reach them. only when we met people, or when the great blue fjord gleamed through the trees below us, did we know we were away from home. it is a glory when an arm of the sea reaches up into the heart of a hill country, so that men may sail to and from mountain bases. no wonder that the vikings went forth with the passion of conquering, and yet forever returned and returned, with the passion of loving their _gamle norge_. when we came back to the inn, we were invited into the landlady's own parlor, and there were served to us wine and milk and sweet tarts, in a gracious and simple hospitality. the landlady and her sister were beautiful old ladies, well past sixty, with skins like peaches, and bright eyes and quick smiles. high caps of white lace, trimmed with sky-blue ribbons, and blue ostrich feathers laid on them like wreaths above the forehead, gave to their expression a sort of infantile elegance which was bewitching in its unworldliness; small white shawls thrown over their shoulders, and reaching only just below the belt, like those worn by old quaker women, corroborated the simplicity of the blue ribbons, and added to the charm. they had all the freshness and spotlessness of quakers, with color and plumes added; a combination surely unique of its kind. one of these old ladies was as gay a chatterer as if she were only seventeen. she had not one tooth in her mouth; but her mouth was no more made ugly by the absence of teeth, as are most old women's mouths, than a baby's mouth is made ugly by the same lack. the lips were full and soft and red; her face was not wrinkled; and when she talked and laughed and nodded, the blue ostrich feathers bobbing above, she looked like some sort of miraculous baby, that had learned to talk before "teething." her niece, who was our only interpreter, and too shy to use quickly and fluently even the english she knew, was in despair at trying to translate her. "it is too much, too much," she said. "i cannot follow; i am too far behind," and she laughed as heartily as her aunt. the old lady was brimful of stories: she had known bergen, in and out, for half a century, and forgotten nothing. it was a great pleasure to set her going, and get at her narrative by peeps, as one sees a landscape through chinks in a fence, when one is whirling by in a railway train. one of her best stories was of "the man who was brought back from the dead by coffee." it seemed that when she was young there lived in bergen three old women, past whose house an eccentric old bachelor used to walk every day at a certain hour. when he came back from his walk, he always stopped at their house and drank a cup of coffee. this he had done for a great many years. "he was their watch to tell the time by," and when he first passed the house they began to make the coffee, that it should be ready on his return. at last he fell ill and died, and two of these old women were hired to sit up one night and watch the corpse. it is the custom in norway to keep all dead bodies one week before burial, if not in the house where they have died, then in the chapel at the graveyard. "when we do die on a wednesday, we shall not be buried till another wednesday have come," said the niece, explaining this custom. these old women were sitting in the room with the corpse, talking and sipping hot coffee together, and saying how they should miss him; that never more would he go by their house and stop to get his coffee. "at any rate, he shall taste the coffee once more," said one of them, and she put a spoonful of the hot coffee into the corpse's lips, at which the old gentleman stirred, drew a long breath, and began to lift himself up, upon which the women uttered such shrieks that the city watchman, passing by, broke quickly into the house, to see what was the matter. entering the room, he found the watchers senseless on the floor, and the corpse sitting bolt upright in his coffin, looking around him, much bewildered. "and he did live many years after that time,--many, many years. my aunt did know him well," said the niece. other of her stories were of the sort common to the whole world,--stories of the love, sorrow, tragedy, mystery, which are inwoven in the very warp and woof of human life; the same on the bleak north sea coast as on bright southern shores. it seemed, however, a little more desolate to have lived in the sunless north seventy years of such life as had been dealt to one bergen woman, who had but just passed away. seventy years she had lived in bergen, the last thirty alone, with one servant. in her youth she had been beautiful; and when she was still little more than a child had come to love very dearly the eldest son in a neighbor's house. their parents were friends; the young people saw each other without restraint, familiarly, fondly, and a great love grew up between them. they were suffered to become betrothed, but for some unassigned reason their marriage was forbidden. for years they bore with strange patience their parents' apparently capricious decision. at last the blow fell. one of the fathers, lying at the point of death, revealed a terrible secret. this faithful betrothed man and woman were own brother and sister. the shame of two homes, the guilt of two unsuspected wrong-doers, was told; the mystery was cleared up, and more than one heart broken. bitter as was the grief of the two betrothed, who could now never wed, there must have been grief still more terrible in the hearts of those long ago wedded, and so long deceived. the father died as soon as he had confessed the guilty secret. the young man left norway, and died in some far country. the girl lived on,--lived to be seventy,--alone with her sorrow and disgrace. two other bergen lovers had had better fate. spite of fathers and mothers who had forbidden them to meet, it fell out for them to be safely married, one night, in the very teeth of the closest watching. the girl was permitted to go, under the escort of a faithful man-servant, to a wedding dance at a friend's house. the man-servant was ordered to stand guard at the door, till the dance was over; if the lover appeared, the girl was to be instantly taken home. strange oversight, for parents so much in earnest as that, to forget that houses have more than one door! when the mirth was at its height, the girl stole away by the back door, and fled to her lover. at length the dance was over, and the guests were leaving; anxiously the faithful servitor, who had never once left the doorstep, looked for his young mistress. the last guest departed; his mistress did not appear. in great terror he entered; the house was searched in vain; no one knew when she had taken her leave. trembling, he ran back to the father with the unwelcome news; and both going in hot haste to the lover's house, there they found the two young people sitting gay and happy over cake and wine, with the excellent clergyman who had that very hour made them man and wife. the old lady had a firm and unalterable belief in ghosts, as indeed she had some little right to have, one was forced to admit, after hearing her stories. "and could you believe that after a man is dead he should be seen again as if he were alive?" said the niece. "my aunt is so sure, so sure she have seen such; also my aunt's sister, they did both did see him." at one time the two sisters hired a house in bergen, and lived together. in one of the upper halls stood a small trunk, which had been left there by a sailor, in payment of a debt he had owed to the owner of the house. one day, in broad daylight, there suddenly appeared, before the younger sister, the shape of a man in sailor's dress. he walked toward her, holding out a paper. she spoke to him wonderingly, asking what he wanted. at the sound of her voice he vanished into thin air. she fainted, and was for some weeks seriously ill. a few months later, the same figure appeared in the bedroom of the eldest sister (the old lady who told these stories). he came in the night, and approached her bed holding out a white paper in his hands. "my aunt say she could cut the shape in paper like the hat he wore on his head; she did see it so plain to-day as she have seen it then, and it shall be fifty years since he did come by her bed. she was so scared she would not have the trunk of the sailor to stand in the house longer; and after the trunk had gone away he did come no more to their house." another instance of this ghost-seeing was truly remarkable, and not so easily explained by any freak of imagination. walking, one day, in a public garden, with a friend, she saw coming down the path toward them a singular old woman in a white nightcap and short white bedgown,--both very dirty. the old woman was tossing her arms in the air, and behaving so strangely that she thought she must be drunk, and turned laughingly to her friend, about to say, "what can be the matter with this old woman?" when, to her surprise, she saw her friend pale, fainting, ready to fall to the ground. she seized her in her arms, called for help, and carried her to a seat. on returning to consciousness, her friend exclaimed, "it was my mother! it was my mother!" the mother had been dead some months, had always worn in her illness this white cotton nightcap and short bedgown, and had been, it seemed, notoriously untidy. "now my aunt did never see that old woman in all her life," continued the niece. "so what think you it was, in that garden, that both them did see the same thing at one time? and my aunt's friend she get so very sick after that, she were sick in bed for a long time. my aunt will believe always she did see the mother's ghost; and she says she have seen a great many more that she never tells to anybody." all this ghost-seeing has not sobered or saddened the old lady a whit, and she looks the last person in the world to whom sentimental or mischief-making spirits would be likely to address themselves: but there is certainly something uncanny, to say the least of it, in these experiences of hers. one of the most novel pleasures in bergen is old-silver hunting. there are shops where old silver is to be bought in abundance and at dear prices: old belts, rings, slides, buttons, brooches, spoons, of quaint and fantastic styles, some of them hundreds of years old. but the connoisseur in old-silver hunting will not confine his search for treasures to the large shops on the thoroughfares. he will roam the city, keeping a sharp eye for little boxes tucked up on walls of houses, far down narrow lanes and by-ways,--little boxes with glass sides, and a silver spoon or two, or an old buckle or brooch, shining through. this is the sign that somewhere in that house he will come on a family that has tucked away in some closet a little box of old silver that they will sell. often they are workers in silver in a small way; have a counter in the front parlor, and a tiny work-room opening out behind, where they make thin silver spoons with twisted handles, and brooches with dangling disks and crosses, such as all the peasant women wear to-day, and a hundred years hence their grandchildren will be selling to english and american travellers as "old silver." the next century, however, will not gather such treasures as this one; there is no modern silver to compare with the ancient. it is marvellous to see what a wealth of silver the old norwegians wore: buckles and belts which are heavy, buttons which weigh down any cloak, and rings under which nineteenth-century fingers, and even thumbs, would ache. and the farther back we go the weightier become the ornaments. in the museum of northern antiquities in copenhagen are necklaces of solid gold, which it seems certain that noble norwegian women wore in king olaf's time,--necklaces in shape of a single snake, coiled, so heavy that they are not easily lifted in one hand; bracelets, also of the same snake shape, which a modern wrist could not wear half an hour without pain. in these out-of-the-way houses where old silver is to be bought one sees often picturesque sights. climbing up a narrow stairway, perhaps two, you find a door with the upper half glass, through which you look instantly into the bosom of the family,--children playing, old ladies knitting, women cooking; it seems the last place in the world to come shopping; but at the first glimpse of the foreign face and dress through the window, somebody springs to open the door. they know at once what it means. you want no interpreter to carry on your trade: the words "old silver" and "how much?" are all you need. they will not cheat you. as you enter the room, every member of the family who is sitting will rise and greet you. the youngest child will make its little bow or courtesy. the box of old silver will be brought out and emptied on a table, and you may examine its miscellany as long as you like. if an article pleases you, and you ask its price, it is taken into the work-room to be weighed; a few mysterious norsk words come back from the weigher, and the price is fixed. if you hesitate at the sum, they will lower it if they can; if not, they will await your departure quietly, with a dignity of hospitable instinct that would deem it an offence to betray any impatience. i had once the good luck to find in one of these places a young peasant woman, who had come with her lover to bargain for the silver-and-gilt crown without which no virtuous bergen bride will wed. these crowns are dear, costing often from fifty to a hundred dollars. sometimes they are hired for the occasion; but well-to-do families have pride in possessing a crown which is handed down and worn by generation after generation. these lovers were evidently not of the rich class: they wore the plainest of clothes, and it was easy to see that the prices of the crowns disquieted them. i made signs to the girl to try one of them on. she laughed, blushed, and shook her head. i pressed my entreaties as well as i could, being dumb; but "oh, do!" is intelligible in all languages, if it is enforced by gesture and appealing look. the old man who had the silver to sell also warmly seconded my request, lifted the crown himself, and set it on the girl's head. turning redder and redder, she cried, "ne, ne!" but did not resist; and once the crown was on her head she could not leave off looking at herself in the glass. it was a very pretty bit of human nature. the lover stole up close behind her, shy, but glowing with emotion, reached up, and just touched the crown timidly with one finger: so alike are men in love all the world over and all time through. the look that man's face wore has been seen by the eyes of every wife since the beginning of eden, and it will last the world out. i slipped away, and left them standing before the glass, the whole family crowding around with a chorus of approving and flattering exclamations. much i fear she could not afford to buy the crown, however. there was a hopeless regret in her pretty blue eyes. as i left the house i stepped on juniper twigs at the very next door; the sidewalk and the street were strewn thick with them, the symbol of death either in that home or among its friends. this is one of the most simple and touching of the norwegian customs: how much finer in instinct and significance than the gloomy streamer of black crape used by the civilization calling itself superior! the street was full of men and women going to and from the market-place: women with big wooden firkins strapped on their backs, and a firkin under each arm (these firkins were full of milk, and the women think nothing of bringing them in that way five or six miles); men with big sacks of vegetables strapped on in the same way, one above another, almost as high as their heads. one little girl, not nine years old, bore a huge basket of green moss, bigger than herself, lashed on her fragile shoulders. the better class brought their things in little two-wheeled carts, they themselves mounted up on top of sacks, firkins, and all; or, if the cart were too full, plodding along on foot by its side, just as bent as those who were carrying loads on their back. a bergen peasant man or woman who stands upright is a rare thing to see. the long habit of carrying burdens on the back has given them a chronic stoop, which makes them all look far older than they are. the sidewalks were lined with gay displays of fruit, flowers, and wooden utensils. prettiest among these last were the bright wooden trunks and boxes which no norwegian peasant will be without. the trunks are painted bright scarlet, with bands and stripes of gay colors; small boxes to be carried in the hand, called _tines_ (pronounced teeners), are charming. they are oval, with a high perch at each end like a squirrel trap; are painted bright red, with wreaths of gay flowers on them, and mottoes such as "not in every man's garden can such flowers grow," or, "a basket filled by love is light to carry." bowls, wooden plates, and drinking-vessels, all of wood, are also painted in gay colors and designs, many of which seem to have come from algiers. everybody who can sell anything, even the smallest thing, runs, or stands, or squats in the bergen streets to sell it. even spaces under high doorsteps are apparently rented for shops, rigged up with a sort of door, and old women sit crouching in them, selling blueberries and dark bread. one man, clad in sheepskin that looked a hundred years old, i saw trying to sell a bit of sheepskin nearly as old as that he was wearing; another had a basket with three bunches of wild monkshood, pink spiræa, and blue larkspur, and one small saucer full of wild strawberries; boys carrying one pot with a plant growing in it, or a tub of sour milk, or a string of onions, or bunch of juniper boughs; women sitting on a small butter-tub upside down, their butter waiting sale around them in tubs or bits of newspaper, they knitting for dear life, or sewing patches on ragged garments; other groups of women sitting flat on the stones, surrounded by piles of juniper, moss, green heath, and wreaths made of kinni-kinnick vines, green moss, and yellow flowers. these last were for graves. the whole expression of the scene was of dogged and indomitable thriftiness, put to its last wits to turn a penny and squeeze out a living. yet nobody appeared discontented; the women looked friendly, as i passed, and smiled as they saw me taking out my note-book to write them down. the bergen fish-market is something worth seeing. it isn't a market at all; or rather it is a hundred markets afloat and bobbing on water, a hundred or more little boats all crowded in together in an armlet of the sea breaking up between two quays. to see the best of it one must be there betimes in the morning, not later than seven. the quays will be lined with women, each woman carrying a tin coal-scuttle on her arm, to take home her fish in. from every direction women are coming running with tin scuttles swinging on their arms; in bergen, fish is never carried in any other way. the narrow span of water between the quays is packed as close as it can be with little boats shooting among the sloops and _jagts_, all pushing up to the wharf. the steps leading down to the water are crowded with gesticulating women; screaming and gesticulating women hang over the railings above, beckoning to the fishermen, calling to them, reaching over and dealing them sharp whacks with their tin scuttles, if they do not reply. "fisherman! i say, fisherman! do you hear me or not?" they shout. then they point to one particular fish, and insist on having it handed up to them to examine; if it does not please them, they fling it down with a jerk, and ask for another. the boats were full of fish: silver-skinned herring, mackerel, salmon, eels, and a small fish like a perch, but of a gorgeous dark red color; others vermilion and white, or iridescent opal, blue, and black; many of them writhing in death, and changing color each second. every few minutes a new boat would appear darting in, wriggling its way where it had seemed not one boat more could come; then a rush of the women to see what the new boat had brought, a fresh outburst of screams and gesticulations; then a lull and a sinking back to the noisy monotone of the previous chaffering. some of the boats were rowed by women,--splendid creatures, in gay red bodices and white head-dresses, standing with one foot on the seat, and sculling their little craft in and out, dexterously shoving everybody to make way. on the wharf were a few dealers with stands and baskets of fish; these were for the poorer people. "fish that have died do be to be brought there," said my guide, with a shudder and an expressive grimace, "for very little money; it is the poor that take." here were also great tubs of squirming eels, alive in every inch from tip to tip. "too small to cook," said one woman, eying them contemptuously; and in a twinkling she thrust her arm into the squirming mass, grasped a dozen or more at once, lifted them out and flirted them into the seller's face, then letting them fall back with a splash into the tub, "h'm, pretty eels those are!" she said. "put them back into the water with their mothers:" at which a great laugh went up, and the seller muttered something angrily which my guide would not translate for me. on our way home i stopped to look at a group of peasant women in gay costumes. two of them were from the hardanger county, and wore the beautiful white head-dress peculiar to that region: a large triangular piece of fine crimped dimity pinned as closely as a quaker cap around the face; the two corners then rolled under and carried back over a wooden frame projecting several inches on each side the head; the central point hanging down behind, over the shoulders,--by far the most picturesque of all the norwegian head-dresses. a gentleman passing by, seeing my interest in these peasant dresses, spoke to the friend who was with me, whom he knew slightly, and said that if the american lady would like to examine one of those peasant costumes he had one which he would be happy to show to me. the incident is worth mentioning as a fair illustration of the quick, ready, and cordial good-will of which norwegians are full. is there any other country in the world where a man would take that sort and amount of trouble for a chance traveller, of whom he knew nothing? this norwegian led us to his house, and opened two boxes in which were put away the clothes of his wife, who had been dead two years. this peasant costume which he showed to us she had had made to wear to the last ball she had attended. it was a beautiful costume; strictly national and characteristic, and made of exquisite materials. the belt was of silver-gilded links, with jewels set in them; the buttons for wrists and throat of the white blouse were of solid silver, with gold maltese crosses hanging from them; the brooches and vest ornaments the same; the stomacher of velvet, embroidered thick with beads and gold; the long white apron with broad lace let in. all were rich and beautiful. it was strange to see the dead woman's adornments thus brought out for a stranger to admire; but it was done with such simplicity and kindliness that it was only touching, as no shadow of disrespect was in it. i felt instantly, like a friend, reverent toward the relics of the woman i had never seen. one of our pleasantest bergen days was a day that wound up with a sunset picnic on the banks of a stray bit of sea, which had gone so far on its narrow roadway east, among hill and meadow and rock, that it was like an inland lake; and the track by which its tides slipped back and forth looked at sunset like little more than a sunbeam, broader and brighter than the rest which were slanting across. we had come to it by several miles' driving to the north and east, over steep and stony hills, up which the road wound in loops, zigzagging back and forth, with superb views out seaward at every turn; at the top, another great sweep of view away from the sea, past a desolate lake and stony moor, to green hills and white mountains in the east. we seemed above everything except the snow-topped peaks. at our feet, to the west, lay the little sunny fjord; green meadows and trees and a handful of houses around it; daisies and clover and tangles of potentilla by the roadside; clumps of ragged robin also, which goes better named in norway, being called "silken blossom;" mountain ash, larch, maple, and ash trees: bowlders of granite covered with mosses and lichens, bedded on every side,--it was as winning a spot as sun and sea and summer could make anywhere. on the edge of the fjord, lifted a little above it, as on a terrace, was a small white cottage, with a bit of garden, enclosed by white palings, running close to the water. roses, southernwood, currants, lilacs, cherry-trees, potatoes, and primroses filled it full. we leaned over the paling and looked. an old woman, with knitting in her hand, came quickly out, and begged us to come in and take some flowers. no sooner had we entered the garden than a second old woman came hurrying with scissors to cut the flowers; and in a second more a third old woman with a basket to hold them. it was not easy to stay their hands. then, nothing would do but we must go into the house and sit down, and see the brothers: two old men, one a clergyman, the other stone blind. "i can english read in my new testament," said the clergyman, "but i cannot understand." "yes, to be sure," said the blind brother, echoing him. and it was soon evident to us that it was not only sight of which the old man had been bereft; his wits were gone too; all that he could do now was to echo in gentle iteration every word that his brother or sisters said. "yes, to be sure," was his instantaneous comment on every word spoken. "i think they are all just a little crazy. i am more happy now that we are away," said my friend, as we departed with our roses. "i do know i have heard that to be crazy is in that family." crazy or not, they were a very happy family on that sunny terrace, and sane enough to have chosen the loveliest spot to live in within ten miles of bergen. another of our memorable bergen days was marked by a true norwegian dinner in a simple bergen home. "the carriage that shall take you will come at six," the hostess had said. punctual to the hour it came; red-cheeked nils and the cheery little ponies. on the threshold we were met by the host and hostess, both saying, "welcome." as soon as we took our seats at table a toast was offered: "welcome to the table" (_welkommen tilbords_). the meal was, as we had requested, a simple norwegian dinner. first, a soup, with balls made of chicken: the meat scraped fine while it is raw; then pounded to a paste with cream in a marble mortar, the cream added drop by drop, as oil is added to salad dressing; this, delicately seasoned, made into small round balls and cooked in the boiling soup, had a delicious flavor, and a consistency which baffled all our conjecture. next came salmon, garnished with shreds of cucumber, and with clear melted butter for sauce. next, chickens stuffed tight with green parsley, and boiled; with these were brought vegetables, raspberry jam, and stewed plums, all delicious. next, a light omelet, baked in a low oval tin pan, in which it was brought to the table, the pan concealed in a frame of stiff white dimity with a broad frill embroidered in red. cheese and many other dishes are served in this way in norway, adorned with petticoats, or frills of embroidered white stuffs. with this omelet were eaten cherry sweetmeats, with which had been cooked all the kernels from the cracked stones, giving a rare flavor and richness to the syrup. after this, nuts, coffee, and cordials. when the dinner was over, the host and the hostess stood in the doorway, one on either hand; as we passed between them, they bowed to each one, saying, "god be with you." it is the custom of each guest to say, "_tak fur maden_" ("thanks for the meal"). after dinner our hostess played for us norwegian airs, wild and tender, and at ten o'clock came nils and the ponies to take us home. the next day the jagts came in, a sight fine enough to stir one's blood; ten of them sailing into harbor in line, the same as they sailed in olaf's day,--their prows curling upward, as if they stepped high on the waters from pride, and their single great square sail set on their one mast doggedly across their decks, as if they could compel winds' courses to suit them. they had been only four days running down from heligoland, ahead of a fierce north wind, which had not so much as drawn breath even night or day, but blown them down flying. a rare piece of luck for the jagts to hit such a wind as that: when the wind faces them, they are sometimes four weeks on the way; for their one great stolid sail amidships, which is all very well with the wind behind it, is no kind of a sail to tack with, or to make headway on a quartering wind. the vikings must have had a hard time of it, often, manoeuvring their stately craft in mediterranean squalls, and in the bay of biscay. one of these jagts bore a fine scarlet silk flag with a yellow crown on it. it was called the king's jagt, because, a year ago, the king had visited it, spent some time on board, and afterward sent this flag as a gift to the captain. we hired an old boatman to row us alongside, and clambered on board up a swinging ladder; then up another ladder, still longer, to the top of the square mountain of salt codfish which filled three fourths of the deck. most of it was to go to spain, the skipper said,--to spain and the mediterranean. "it was well for norway that there were so many roman catholic countries:" no danger of an overstock of the fish market in europe so long as good catholics keep lent every spring and fridays all the year round. if the catholics were to be converted, norway would be plunged into misery. one tenth of her whole population live off, if not on, fish; the value of the fisheries is reckoned at over ten millions of dollars a year. not a fish goes free on the norway coast. even the shark has to give up his liver for oil, from which item alone the norwegians get about half a million of dollars yearly. the herring, shining, silvery, slippery fellows that they are, are the aristocrats of the norway waters; the cod is stupid, stays quietly at home on his banks, breeds and multiplies, and waits to be caught year after year in the same places. but the herring shoals are off and on, at capricious pleasure, now here, now there, and to be watched for with unremitting vigilance. kings' squadrons might come to norway with less attention than is given to them. flash, flash, flash, by electric telegraph from point to point all along the norway shore, is sent like lightning the news of the arrival of their majesties the herring. our boatman rowed us across the harbor to the landing at the foot of the market-place. climbing the steep hill, so steep that the roadway for vehicles zigzags five times across it between bottom and top, we looked back. four more of the jagts were coming in,--colors flying, sails taut; six more were in sight, it was said, farther out in the fjord. the harbor was crowded with masts; the gay-colored houses and red roofs and gables of the city on the east side of the harbor stood out in relief against the gray, stony background of the high hill to which they cling. the jagts seem to change the atmosphere of the whole scene, and set it three centuries back. in the sunset light, they looked as fine and fierce as if they had just brought sigurd home from jerusalem. another memorable bergen day was a day at valestrand, on the island osteroën. valestrand is a farm which has been in the possession of ole bull's family for several generations, and is still in the possession of ole bull's eldest son. it lies two hours' sail north from bergen,--two hours, or four according to the number of lighters loaded with cotton bales, wood, etc., which the steamer picks up to draw. steamers on norway fjords are like country gentlemen who go into the city every day and come out at night, always doing unexpected errands for people along the road. no steamer captain going out from bergen may say how many times he will stop on his journey, or at what hour he will reach its end: all of which is clear profit for the steamboat company, no doubt, but is worrying to travellers; especially to those who leave bergen of a morning at seven, as we did, invited to breakfast at valestrand at nine, and do not see osteroën's shore till near eleven. people who were not going to valestrand to breakfast that day were eating breakfast on board, all around us: poor people eating cracknels and dry bread out of baskets; well-to-do people eating sausage, eggs, and coffee, neatly served at little tables on deck, and all prepared in a tiny coop below-stairs, hardly big enough for one person to turn around in. it is an enticing sight always for hungry people to see eating going on; up to a certain point it whets appetite, but beyond that it is both insult and injury. the harbor of valestrand is a tiny amphitheatre of shallow water. no big craft can get to the shore. as the steamer comes to a stop opposite it, the old home of ole bull is seen on a slope at the head of the harbor, looking brightly out over a bower of foliage to the southern sun. it appears to be close to the water, but, on landing, one discovers that he is still a half hour's walk away from it. a little pathway of mossy stones, past an old boat-house, on whose thatched roof flowering grasses and a young birch-tree were waving, leads up from the water to the one road on the island. wild pansies, white clover, and dandelions, tinkling water among ferns and mosses, along the roadsides, made the way beautiful; low hills rose on either side, softly wooded with firs and birches feathery as plumes; in the meadows, peasant men and women making hay,--the women in red jackets and white blouses, a delight to the eye. just in front of the house is a small, darkly shaded lake, in which there is a mysterious floating island, which moves up and down at pleasure, changing its moorings often. the house is wooden, and painted of a pale flesh-color. the architecture is of the light and fantastic order of which so much is to be seen in norway,--the instinctive reaction of the norwegian against the sharp, angular, severe lines of his rock-made, rock-bound country; and it is vindicated by the fact that fantastic carvings, which would look trivial and impertinent on houses in countries where nature herself had done more decorating, seem here pleasing and in place. before the house were clumps of rose-bushes in blossom, and great circles of blazing yellow eschscholtzias. in honor of our arrival, every room had been decorated with flowers and ferns; and clumps of wild pansies in bloom had been set along the steps to the porch. ole bull's own chamber and music-room are superb rooms, finished in yellow pine, with rows of twisted and carved pillars, and carved cornices and beams and panels, all done by norwegian workmen. valestrand was his home for many years, abandoned only when he found one still more beautiful on the island of lysoen, sixteen miles southwest of bergen. a norwegian supper of trout freshly caught, and smothered in cream, croquettes, salad, strawberries, goat's-milk cheese, with fine-flavored gooseberry wine, served by a norwegian maid in a white-winged head-dress, scarlet jacket, and stomacher of gay beads, closed our day. as we walked back to the little moss-grown wharf, we found two peasants taking trout from the brook. just where it dashed foaming under a little foot-bridge, a stake-lined box trap had been plunged deep in the water. as we were passing, the men lifted it out, dripping, ten superb trout dashing about wildly in it, in terror and pain; the scarlet spots on their sides shone like garnet crystals in the sun, as the men emptied them on the ground, and killed them, one by one, by knocking their heads against a stone with a sharp, quick stroke, which could not have been so cruel as it looked. on our way back to bergen we passed several little rowboats, creeping slowly along, loaded high with juniper boughs. they looked like little green islands broken loose from their places and drifting out to sea. "for somebody's sorrow!" we said thoughtfully, as we watched them slowly fading from sight in the distance; but we did not dream that in so few days the green boughs would have been strewn for the burial of the beloved musician whose home we had just left. the day of the burial of ole bull is a day that will never be forgotten in bergen. from mothers to children and to children's children will go down the story of the day when from every house in bergen norway's flag floated at half-mast, because ole bull was dead, and the streets of bergen for two miles--all the way from the quay to the cemetery--were strewn with green juniper boughs, for the passage of the procession bearing his body in sad triumph to the grave. it must have been a touching sight. early in the morning a steamer had gone down to lysoen to receive the body. this steamer on entering the bergen fjord was met by fifteen others, all draped in black, to act as its convoy. as the fleet approached the harbor, guns fired from the fort, and answered by the steamers, made peals of echoes rolling away gloriously among the hills. the harbor was crowded with shipping from all parts of the world; every vessel's flag was at half-mast. the quay was covered thick with green juniper, and festoons of green draped its whole front to the very water's edge. every shop and place of business was shut; the whole population of the city stood waiting, silent, reverent, for the landing of the dead body of the artist who had loved norway even as well as he loved the art to which his heart and life had been given. while the body was borne from the boat and placed in the high catafalque, a band played national airs of his arranging. young girls dressed in black bore many of the trophies which had been given to him in foreign countries. his gold crown and orders were carried by distinguished gentlemen of bergen. as the procession passed slowly along, flowers were showered on the coffin, and tears were seen on many faces, but the silence was unbroken. at the grave, norway's greatest orator and poet, björnstjerne björnson, spoke a few words of eloquent love and admiration. the grave was made on a commanding spot in the centre of bergen's old cemetery, in which interments had been forbidden for many years. this spot, however, had been set apart more than thirty years ago, to be reserved for the interment of some great man. it had been refused to the father and framer of the norwegian constitution, christie, whose statue stands in bergen, but it was offered for ole bull; so much more tenderly does the world love artists than statesmen! the grave was lined with flowers and juniper, and juniper and flowers lay thick-strewn on the ground for a great space about. after the coffin had been put in the grave, and the relatives had gone away, there was paid a last tribute to ole bull,--a tribute more touching and of more worth than the king's letter, the gold crown, all the orders, and the flags of the world at half mast; meaning more love than the pine-strewn streets of the silent city and the tears on its people's faces,--a tribute from poor peasants, who had come in from the country far and near, men who knew ole bull's music by heart, who in their lonely, poverty-stricken huts had been proud of the man who had played their "gamle norge" before the kings of the earth. these men were there by hundreds, each bringing a green bough, or a fern, or a flower; they waited humbly till all others had left the grave, then crowded up, and threw in, each man, the only token he had been rich enough to bring. the grave was filled to the brim; and it is not irreverent to say that to ole bull, in heaven, there could come no gladder memory of earth than that the last honors paid him there were wild leaves and flowers of norway, laid on his body by the loving hands of norway peasants. four days with sanna. a pair of eyes too blue for gray, too gray for blue; brown hair as dark as hair can be, being brown and not black; a face fine without beauty, gentle but firm; a look appealing, and yet full of a certain steadfastness, which one can see would be changed to fortitude at once if there were need; a voice soft, low, and of a rich fulness, in which even norwegian _sks_ flow melodiously and broken english becomes music,--this is a little, these are a few features, of the portrait of sanna, all that can be told to any one not knowing sanna herself. and to those who do know her it would not occur to speak of the eyes, or the hair, or the shy, brave look: to speak of her in description would be lost time and a half-way impertinence; she is simply "sanna." when she said she would go with me and show me two of the most beautiful fjords of her country, her beloved norway, i found no words in which to convey my gladness. he who journeys in a foreign country whose language he does not know is in sorrier plight for the time being than one born a deaf-mute. deprived all of a sudden of his two chief channels of communication with his fellows, cut off in an hour from all which he has been wont to gain through his ears and express by his tongue, there is no telling his abject sense of helplessness. the more he has been accustomed to free intercourse, exact replies, ready compliance, and full utterance among his own people, the worse off he feels himself now. it is ceaseless humiliation added to perpetual discomfort. and the more novel the country, and the greater his eagerness to understand all he sees, the greater is his misery: the very things which, if he were not this pitiful deaf-mute, would give him his best pleasures, are turned into his chief torments; even evident friendliness on the part of those he meets becomes as irritating a misery as the sound of waterfalls in the ears of tantalus. nowhere in the world can this misery of unwilling dumbness and deafness be greater, i think, than it is in norway. the evident good-will and readiness to talk of the norwegian people are as peculiarly their own as are their gay costumes and their flower-decked houses. their desire to meet you half-way is so great that they talk on and on, in spite of the palpable fact that not one word of all they say conveys any idea to your mind; and at last, when your despair has become contagious, and they accept the situation as hopeless, they seize your hand in both of theirs, and pressing it warmly let it fall with a smile and a shake of the head, which speak volumes of regret both for their own loss and for yours. it took much planning to contrive what we could best do in the four days which were all that we could have for our journey. the comings and goings of steamboats on the norway fjords, their habits in the matter of arriving and departing, the possibilities and impossibilities of carioles, caleches, peasant carts and horses, the contingencies and uncertainties of beds at inns,--all these things, taken together, make any programme of journeying, in any direction in norway, an aggregate of complications, risks, and hindrances enough to deter any but the most indomitable lovers of nature and adventure. long before it was decided which routes promised us most between a saturday afternoon and the next wednesday night, i had abandoned all effort to grapple understandingly with the problems, and left the planning entirely to my wiser and more resolute companion. each suggestion that i made seemed to involve us in deeper perplexities. one steamer would set off at three in the morning; another would arrive at the same hour; a third would take us over the most beautiful parts of a fjord in the night; on a fourth route nothing in the way of vehicles could be procured, except the peasant's cart, a thing in which no human being not born a norwegian peasant can drive for half a day without being shaken to a jelly; on a fifth we should have to wait three days for a return boat; on another it was unsafe to go without having received beforehand the promise of a bed, the accommodations for travellers being so scanty. the old puzzle of the fox and the goose and the corn is an _a b c_ in comparison with the dilemma we were in. at last, when i thought i had finally arranged a scheme which would enable us to see two of the finest of the fjords within our prescribed time, a scheme which involved spending a day and a night in the little town of gudvangen, in the valley of nerodal, sanna exclaimed, shuddering, "we cannot! we cannot! the mountains are over us. we can sleep at gudvangen; but a whole day? no! you shall not like a whole day at gudvangen. the mountains are so--" and she finished her sentence by another shudder and a gesture of cowering, which were more eloquent than words. so the day at gudvangen was given up, and it was arranged that we were to wait one day at some other point on the road, wherever it might seem good, and upon no account come to gudvangen for anything more than to take the steamer away from it. the heat of a bergen noon is like a passing smile on a stern face. it was cold at ten, and it will be cold again long before sunset; you have your winter wrap on your arm, and you dare not be separated from it, but the mid-day glares at and down on you, and makes the wrap seem not only intolerable but incongruous. as we drove to the steamer at twelve o'clock, with fur-trimmed wraps and heavy rugs filling the front seat of the carriage, and our faces flushed with heat, i said, "what an absurd amount of wraps for a midsummer journey! i have a mind to let nils carry back this heavy rug." "i think you shall be very glad if you have it," remarked sanna. "oh!" she exclaimed with a groan, "there is bob." bob is sanna's dog,--a small black spaniel, part setter, with a beautiful head and eye, and a devotion to his mistress which lovers might envy. never, when in her presence, does he remove his eyes from her for many minutes. he either revolves restlessly about her like an alert scout, or lays himself down with a sentry-like expression at her feet. "oh, what is to do with bob?" she continued, gazing helplessly at me. the rascal was bounding along the road, curvetting, and wagging his tail, and looking up at us with an audacious leer on his handsome face. "he did understand perfectly that he should not come," said sanna; hearing which, bob hung back, behind the carriage. "nils must carry him back," i said. then, relenting, seeing the look of distress on sanna's face, i added, "could we not take him with us?" "oh, no, it must be impossible," she replied. "it is for the lambs. he does drive them and frighten them. he must stay, but we shall have trouble." fast the little norwegian ponies clattered down to the wharf. no bob. as we went on board he was nowhere to be seen. anxiously sanna searched for him, to give him into nils's charge. he was not to be found. the boat began to move. still no bob. we settled ourselves comfortably; already the burdensome rug was welcome. "i really think bob must have missed us in the crowd," i said. "i do not know, i do not think," replied sanna, her face full of perplexity. "oh!" with a cry of dismay. "he is here!" there he was! abject, nearly dragging his body on the deck like a snake, his tail between his legs, fawning, cringing, his eyes fixed on sanna, he crawled to her feet. only his eyes told that he felt any emotion except remorse; they betrayed him; their expression was the drollest i ever saw on a dumb creature's face. it was absurd; it was impossible, incredible, if one had not seen it; as plainly as if words had been spoken, it avowed the whole plot, the distinct exultation in its success. "here i am," it said, "and i know very well that now the steamer has begun to move you are compelled to take me with you. my heart is nearly broken with terror and grief at the thought of your displeasure, but all the same i can hardly contain myself for delight at having outwitted you so completely." all this while he was wriggling closer and closer to her feet, watching her eye, as a child watches its mother's, for the first show of relenting. of course we began to laugh. at the first beginning of a smile in sanna's eyes, he let his tail out from between his legs, and began to flap it on the deck; as the smile broadened, he gradually rose to his feet; and by the time we had fairly burst into uncontrolled laughter, he was erect, gambolling around us like a kid, and joining in the chorus of our merriment by a series of short, sharp yelps of delight, which, being interpreted, would doubtless have been something like, "ha, ha! beat 'em, and they 're not going to thrash me, and i'm booked for the whole journey now, spite of fate! ha, ha!" then he stretched himself at our feet, laid his nose out flat on the deck, and went to sleep as composedly as if he had been on the hearth-rug at home; far more composedly than he would had he dreamed of the experiences in store for him. "poor bob!" said sanna. "it must be that we shall send him back by the steamer." poor bob, indeed! long before we reached our first landing, bob was evidently sea-sick. the beautiful water of the great hardanger fjord was as smooth as an inland lake; changing from dark and translucent green in the narrowing channels, where the bold shores came so near together that we could count the trees, to brilliant and sparkling blue in the wider opens. but little cared bob for the beauty of the water; little did it comfort him that the boat glided as gently as is possible for a boat to move. he had never been on a boat before, and did not know it was smooth. piteously he roamed about, from place to place, looking off; then he would come and stand before sanna, quivering in every fibre, and looking up at her with sorrowful appeal in his eyes. his thoughts were plainly written in his countenance now, as before; but nobody could have had the heart to laugh at him. poor fellow! he was not the first creature that has been bowed down by the curse of a granted prayer. presently there came a new trouble. all along the hardanger fjord are little hamlets and villages and clusters of houses, tucked in in nooks among rocks and on rims of shore at the base of the high, stony walls of mountains, and snugged away at the heads of inlets. many of these are places of summer resort for the bergen people, who go out of town into the country in summer, i fancy, somewhat as the san francisco people do, not to find coolness, but to find warmth; for the air in these sheltered nooks and inlets of the fjords is far softer than it is in bergen, which has the strong sea wind blowing in its teeth all the while. on saturdays the steamers for the hardanger country are crowded with bergen men going out to spend the sunday with their families or friends who are rusticating at these little villages. at many of these spots there is no landing except by small boats; and it was one of the pleasantest features of the sail, the frequent pausing of the steamer off some such nook, and the putting out of the rowboats to fetch or to carry passengers. they would row alongside, half a dozen at a time, bobbing like corks, and the agile norwegians would skip in and out of and across them as deftly as if they were stepping on firm floor. the norwegian peasant is as much at home in a boat as a snail in his shell,--women as well as men; they row, stand, leap, gesticulate, lift burdens, with only a rocking plank between their feet and fathomless water, and never seem to know that they are not on solid ground. in fact, they are far more graceful afloat than on ground: on the land they shuffle and walk in a bent and toil-worn attitude, the result of perpetual carrying of loads on their backs; but they bend to their oars with ease and freedom, and wheel and turn and shoot and back their little skiffs with a dexterity which leaves no room for doubt that they can do anything they choose on water. it would not have astonished me, any day, to see a norwegian coming towards me in two boats at once, one foot in each boat, walking on the water in them, as a man walks on snow in snow-shoes. i never did see it, but i am sure they could do it. when these boats came alongside, bob peered wistfully over the railings, but did not offer to stir. the connection between this new variety of water craft and _terra firma_ he did not comprehend. but at the first landing which we reached, he gazed for a moment intently, and then bounded forward like a shot, across the gangway, in among the crowd on the wharf, in a twinkling. "oh!" shrieked sanna, "bob is on shore!" and she rushed after him, and brought him back, crestfallen. but he had learned the trick of it; and after that, his knack at disappearing some minutes before we came to a wharf--thereby luring us into a temporary forgetfulness of him--and then, when we went to seek him, making himself invisible among the people going on shore, was something so uncanny that my respect for him fast deepened into an awe which made an odd undercurrent of anxiety, mingling with my enjoyment of the beauties of the fjord. it was strange, while looking at grand tiers of hills rising one behind the other, with precipitous fronts, the nearer ones wooded, the farther ones bare and stony, sometimes almost solid rock, walling the beautiful green and blue water as if it had been a way hewn for it to pass; shining waterfalls pouring down from the highest summits, straight as a beam of light, into the fjord, sometimes in full torrents dazzling bright, sometimes in single threads as if of ravelled cloud, sometimes in a broken line of round disks of glittering white on the dark green, the course of the water in the intervals between being marked only by a deeper green and a sunken line in the foliage,--it was strange, side by side with the wonder at all this beauty, to be wondering to one's self also what bob would do next. but so it was hour by hour, all of our way up the hardanger fjord, till we came, in the early twilight at half-past ten o'clock, to eide, our journey's end. the sun had set--if in a norway summer it can ever be truly said to set--two hours before, and in its slow sinking had turned the mountains, first pink, then red, then to an opaline tint, blending both pink and red with silver gray and white; all shifting and changing so fast that the mountains themselves seemed to be quivering beneath. then, of a sudden, they lost color and turned gray and dark blue. belts and downstretching lines of snow shone out sternly on their darkened summits; a shadowy half-moon rose above them in the southeast, and the strange luminous night lit up the little hamlet of eide, almost light like day, as we landed. at first sight eide looked as if the houses, as well as the people, had just run down to the shore to meet the boat: from the front windows of the houses one might easily look into the cabin windows of the boat,--so narrow strips of shore do the mountain walls leave sometimes along these fjords, and such marvellous depth of water do the fjords bring to the mountains' feet. "have you written for rooms? where are you going? there isn't a bed in eide," were the first words that greeted us from some english people who had left bergen days before, and whom we never expected to see again. the disappearing, reappearing, and turning up of one's travelling acquaintances in norway is one of the distinctive experiences of the country. the chief routes of tourist travel are so involved with each other, and so planned for exchange, interchange, and succession of goers and comers, that the perpetual _rencontres_ of chance acquaintances are amusing. it is like a performance of the figures of a country-dance on a colossal scale, so many miles to a figure; and if one sits down quietly at any one of the large inns for a week, the great body of norway tourists for that week will be pretty sure to pass under his inspection. at holt's, in bergen, one sees, say forty travellers, at breakfast, any morning. before supper at eight in the evening these forty have gone their ways, and a second forty have arrived, and so on; and wherever he goes during the following week he will meet detachments of these same bands: each man sure that he has just done the one thing best worth doing, and done it in the best way; each eloquent in praise or dispraise of the inns, the roads, and the people, and ready with his "oh, but you must be sure to see" this, that, or the other. there were those who sat up all night in eide, that night, for want of a bed; but bob and we were well lodged in a pretty bedroom, with two windows white-curtained and two beds white-ruffled to the floor, on which were spread rugs of black-and-white goatskins edged with coarse home-made blue flannel. in the parlor and the dining-room of the little inn, carved book-cases and pipe-cases hung on the walls; ivies trained everywhere; white curtains, a piano, black-worsted-covered high-backed chairs, spotless table linen, and old silver gave an air of old-fashioned refinement to the rooms, which was a surprise. the landlady wore the peasant's costume of the hardanger country: the straight black skirt to the ankles, long white apron, sleeveless scarlet jacket, with a gay beaded stomacher over a full white blouse, shining silver ornaments at throat and wrists, and on her head the elegant and dignified head-dress of fine crimped white lawn, which makes the hardanger wives by far the most picturesque women to be seen in all norway. at seven in the morning a young peasant girl opened our bedroom door cautiously to ask if we would have coffee in bed. bob flew at her with a fierce yelp, which made her retreat hastily, and call for protection. being sharply reproved by sanna, bob stood doggedly defiant in the middle of the floor, turning his reproachful eyes from her to the stranger, and back again, plainly saying, "ungrateful one! how should i know she was not an enemy? that is the way enemies approach." the girl wore the peasant maiden's dress: a short black skirt bound with scarlet braid, sewed to a short sleeveless green jacket, which was little wider than a pair of suspenders between the shoulders behind. her full, long-sleeved white blouse came up high in the throat, and was fastened there by two silver buttons with maltese crosses hanging from them by curiously twisted chains. her yellow hair was braided in two thick braids, and wound tight round her head like a wreath. she had a fair skin, tender, honest blue eyes, and a face serious enough for a madonna. but she laughed when she brought us the eggs for our breakfast, kept warm in many folds of linen napkin held down by a great motherly hen of gray china with a red crest on its head. the house was a small white cottage; at the front door a square porch, large enough to hold two tables and seats for a dozen people; opposite this a vine-wreathed arch and gate led into a garden, at the foot of which ran a noisy little river. an old bent peasant woman was always going back and forth between the house and the river, carrying water in two pails hung from a yoke on her shoulders. a bit of half-mowed meadow joined the garden. it had been mowed at intervals, a little piece at a time, so that the surface was a patchwork of different shades of green. the hay was hung out to dry on short lines of fence here and there. grass is always dried in this way in norway, and can hang on the fences for two weeks and not be hurt, even if it is repeatedly wet by rain. one narrow, straggling street led off up the hillside, and suddenly disappeared as if the mountains had swallowed it. the houses were thatched, with layers of birch bark put under the boards; sods of earth on top; and flowers blooming on them as in a garden. one roof was a bed of wild pansies, and another of a tiny pink flower as fine as a grass; and young shoots of birch waved on them both. the little river which ran past the inn garden had come down from the mountains through terraced meadows, which were about half and half meadow and terrace; stony and swampy, and full of hillocks and hollows. new england has acres of fields like them; only here there were big blue harebells and pink heath, added to clover and buttercups, wild parsley and yarrow. on tiny pebbly bits of island here and there in the brook grew purple thistles, "snow flake," and bushes of birch and ash. bob rollicked in the lush grass, as we picked our way among the moist hollows of this flowery meadow. in sanna's hand dangled a bit of rope, which he eyed suspiciously. she had brought it with her to tie him up, when the hour should come for him to be carried on board the steamer. he could not have known this, for he had never been tied up in his life. but new dangers had roused new wariness in his acute mind: he had distinctly heard the word "steamer" several times that morning, and understood it. i said to him immediately after breakfast, "bob, you have to go home by the steamer this morning." he instantly crept under the sofa, his tail between his legs, and cowered and crouched in the farthest corner; no persuasions could lure him out, and his eyes were piteous beyond description. not until we had walked some distance from the house, in a direction opposite to the steamer wharf, did he follow us. then he came bounding, relieved for the time being from anxiety. at last sanna, in a feint of play, tied the rope around his neck. his bewilderment and terror were tragic. setting all four feet firmly on the ground, he refused to stir, except as he was dragged by main force. it was plain that he would be choked to death before he would obey. the rope project must be abandoned. perhaps he could be lured on board, following sanna. vain hope! long before we reached the wharf, the engine of the boat gave a shrill whistle. at the first sound of it bob darted away like the wind, up the road, past the hotel, out of sight in a minute. we followed him a few rods, and then gave it up. again he had outwitted us. we walked to the steamer, posted a letter, sat down, and waited. the steamer blew five successive signals, and then glided away from the wharf. in less than three minutes, before she was many rods off, lo, bob! back again, prancing around us with glee, evidently keeping his eye on the retreating steamboat, and chuckling to himself at his escape. "o bob, bob!" groaned sanna. "what is to do with you?" we were to set off for vossevangen by carriage at three; at half-past two poor bob was carried, struggling, into the wood-shed, and tied up. his cries were piteous, almost more than we could bear. i am sure he understood the whole plot; but the worst was to come. by somebody's carelessness, the wood-shed door was opened just as we were driving away from the porch. with one convulsive leap and cry, bob tore his rope from the log to which it was tied, and darted out. the stable boys caught him, and held him fast; his cries were human. sanna buried her face in her hands and exclaimed, "oh, say to the driver that he go so fast as he can!" and we drove away, leaving the poor, faithful, loving creature behind, to be sent by express back to bergen on the steamer the next day. it was like leaving a little child alone among strangers, heart-broken and terrified. when we returned to bergen we learned that he had touched neither food nor drink till he reached home, late the next night. to go from eide to vossevangen, one must begin by climbing up out of eide. it is at the bottom of a well, walled by green hills and snow-topped mountains; at the top of the well the country spreads out for a little, only to meet higher hills, higher mountains. here lies a great lake, rimmed by broad borders of reeds, which shook and glistened in the wind and sun like the spears of half-drowned armies as we passed. clumps and groves of ash-trees on the shores of this lake looked like huge clumsy torches set in the ground: their tops had been cut down again and again, till they had grown as broad as they were high. the leaves are used for the feed of sheep, and the boughs for firewood; and as in the frugal norwegian living nothing that can be utilized is left to lie idle, never an ash-tree has the chance to shoot up, become tall and full of leaf. magpies flitted in and out among them. "one is for sorrow, and two are for joy, three must be a marriage, and four do bring good fortune, we do say in norway," said sanna. "but i think we shall have all sorrow and joy, and to be married many times over, if it be true," she added, as the noisy, showy creatures continued to cross our road by twos and threes. high up on the hills, just in the edge of snow patches, sæters were to be seen, their brown roofs looking as much a part of the lonely nature as did the waterfalls and the pine-trees. on all sides shone the water,--trickling fosses down precipices, outbursting fosses from ravines and dells; just before us rose a wall some three thousand feet high, over which leaped a foaming cataract. "we shall go there," said sanna, pointing up to it. sure enough, we did. by loops so oval and narrow they seemed twisted as if to thread their way, as eyes of needles are threaded, the road wound and doubled, and doubled and wound, six times crossing the hill front in fifteen hundred feet. at each double, the valley sank below us; the lake sank; the hills which walled the lake sank; the road was only a broad rift among piled bowlders. in many places these bowlders were higher than our heads; but there was no sense of danger, for the road was a perfect road, smooth as a macadamized turnpike. along its outer edge rows of thickly set rocks, several feet high, and so near each other that no carriage could possibly fall between; in the most dangerous places stout iron bars were set from rock to rock; these loops of chain ladder up the precipice were as safe as a summer pathway in a green meadow. on a stone bridge of three arches we crossed the waterfall: basins of rocks above us, filled with spray; basins and shelves and ledges of rocks below us, filled with spray; the bridge black and slippery wet, and the air thick with spray, like a snow-storm; precipices of water on the right and the left. it was next to being an eagle on wing in a storm to cross that bridge in upper air. at the sixth turn we came out abreast of the top of the waterfall, and in a moment more had left all the stress and storm and tumult of waters behind us, and glided into a sombre, still roadway beside a calm little river deep in a fir forest. only the linnæa had won bloom out of this darkness; its courageous little tendrils wreathed the tree trunks nestled among the savage rocks, and held up myriads of pink cups wet with the ceaseless spray. it was a dreary, lonely place; miles of gaunt swamp, forest, and stony moor; here and there a farm-house, silent as if deserted. "where are all the people? why do we not see any one moving about the houses?" i asked. "in the house, reading, every one," replied sanna. "on a sunday afternoon, if there is no service in church, all norwegian farm people do go into their houses, and spend all afternoon in reading and in religion." at last we reached a more open country,--an off look to the west; new ranges of snow-topped mountains came in sight. we began to descend; another silent river slipping down by our side; two more dark, shining lakes. on the shore of one, a peasant man--the first living creature we had seen for ten miles--was taking his cart out of a little shed by the roadside. this shed was the only sign of human habitation to be seen in the region. his horse stood near by, with a big barrel slung on each side: they were barrels of milk, which had just been brought down in this way from a sæter which we could see, well up in the cloud region, far above the woods on the left. down the steep path from this sæter the man had walked, and the horse bearing the barrels of milk had followed. now the barrels were to be put in the cart, and carried to eide. ten miles more that milk was to be carried before it reached its market; and yet, at the little inn in eide, for a breakfast, at which one may drink all the milk he desires, he will be asked to pay only thirty-five cents. what else beside milk? fresh salmon, trout, two kinds of rye bread and two of white, good butter, six kinds of cheese, herrings done in oil and laurel leaves in tiny wooden barrels, cold sausage, ham, smoked salmon (raw), coffee and tea, and perhaps--wild strawberries: this will be the eide summer-morning breakfast. the cheese feature in the norwegian breakfast is startling at first: all colors, sizes, shapes, and smells known of cheese; it must be owned they are not savory for breakfast, but the norwegian eats them almost as a rite. he has a proverb in regard to cheese as we have of fruit: "gold in the morning, silver at noon, and lead at night;" and he lives up to it more implicitly than we do to ours. as we neared vossevangen, the silent river grew noisier and noisier, and at last let out all its reserves in a great torrent which leaped down into the valley with a roar. this torrent also was bridged at its leap; and the bridge seemed to be in a perpetual quiver from the shock of it. the sides of the rocky gorge below glistened black like ebony; they had been worn into columnar grooves by the centuries of whirling waters; the knotted roots of a fir forest jutted out above them, and long spikes of a beautiful white flower hung out from their crevices in masses of waving snowy bloom. it looked like a variety of the house-leek, but no human hand could reach it to make sure. vossevangen is a little farming hamlet on the west shore of a beautiful lake. the region is one of the best agricultural districts in western norway; the "vos" farmers are held to be fortunate and well to do, and their butter and cheese always bring high prices in market. on the eastern shore of the lake is a chain of mountains, from two to four thousand feet high; to the south, west, and north rise the green hills on which the farms lie; above these, again, rise other hills, higher and more distant, where in the edges of the snow tracts or buried in fir forests are the sæters, the farmers' summer homes. as we drove into the village we met the peasants going home from church: the women in short green or black gowns, with gay jackets and white handkerchiefs made into a flying-buttress sort of head-dress on their heads; the men with knee-breeches, short vests, and jackets thick trimmed with silver buttons. every man bowed and every woman courtesied as we passed. to pass any human being on the highway without a sign or token of greeting would be considered in norway the height of ill manners; any child seen to do it would be sharply reproved. probably few things would astonish the rural norwegian more than to be told that among the highly civilized it is considered a mark of good breeding, if you chance to meet a fellow-man on the highway, to go by him with no more recognition of his presence than you would give to a tree or a stone wall. it is an odd thing that a man should be keeping the vossevangen hotel to-day who served in america's civil war, was for two years in one of the new york regiments, and saw a good deal of active service. he was called back to norway by the death of his father, which made it necessary for him to take charge of the family estate in vossevangen. he has married a vossevangen woman, and is likely to end his days there; but he hankers for chicago, and always will. he keeps a fairly good little hotel, on the shores of the lake, with a row of willow-trees in front; dwarf apple-trees, gooseberry and currant bushes, and thickets of rhubarb in his front yard; roses, too, besides larkspur and phlox; but the rhubarb has the place of honor. the dining-room and the parlor were, like those at eide, adorned with ivies and flowering plants; oleanders in the windows and potted carnations on the table. in one corner of the dining-room was a large round table covered with old silver for sale: tankards, chains, belts, buttons, coins, rings, buckles, brooches, ornaments of all kinds,--hundreds of dollars' worth of things. there they lay, day and night, open to all who came; and they had done this, the landlady said, for years, and not a single article had ever been stolen: from which it is plain that not only is the norwegian honest himself, there must be a contagion in his honesty, which spreads it to all travellers in his country. the next morning, early, we set off in a peasant's cart to visit some of the farm-houses. "now you shall see," said sanna, "that it was not possible if you had all day to ride in this kind of wagon." it did not take long to prove the truth of her remark. a shallow wooden box set on two heavy wheels; a wooden seat raised on two slanting wooden braces, so high that one's feet but just reach the front edge of the box; no dasher, no sides to seat, no anything, apparently, after you are up, except your hard wooden seat and two pounding wheels below,--this is the peasant wagon. the horse, low down between two heavy thills, is without traces, pulls by a breast collar, is guided by rope reins, and keeps his heels half the time under the front edge of the box. the driver stands up in the box behind you, and the rope reins are in your hair, or on your neck, shoulders, ears, as may be. the walloping motion of this kind of box, drawn by a frisky norwegian horse over rough roads, is droll beyond description. but when it comes to going down hills in it, and down hills so steep that the box appears to be on the point of dumping you between the horse's ears at each wallop, it ceases to be droll, and becomes horrible. our driver was a splendid specimen of a man,--six feet tall, strong built, and ruddy. when he found that i was an american, he glowed all over, and began to talk rapidly to sanna. he had six brothers in america. "they do say that they all have it very good there," interpreted sanna; "and he thinks to go there himself so soon as there is money to take all. it must be that america is the best country in the world, to have it so good there that every man can have it good." the roads up the hills were little more than paths. often for many rods there was no trace of wheels on the stony ledges; again the track disappeared in a bit of soft meadow. as we climbed, the valley below us rounded and hollowed, and the lake grew smaller and smaller to the eye; the surrounding hills opened up, showing countless valleys winding here and there among them. it was a surpassingly beautiful view. vast tracts of firs, inky black in the distances, emphasized the glittering of the snow fields above them and the sunny green of the nearer foregrounds below. the first farm which we visited lay about three miles north of the village,--three miles north and up. the buildings were huddled together, some half dozen of them, in a haphazard sort of way, with no attempt at order, no front, no back, and no particular reason for approaching one way rather than another. walls of hewn logs, black with age; roofs either thatched, or covered with huge slabs of slate, laid on irregularly and moss-grown; rough stones or logs for doorsteps; so little difference between the buildings that one was at a loss to know which were meant for dwellings and which for barns,--a more unsightly spot could hardly be imagined. but the owners had as quick an instinct of hospitality as if they dwelt in a palace. no sooner did sanna mention that i was from america, and wished to see some of the norwegian farm-houses, than their faces brightened with welcome and good-will, and they were ready to throw open every room and show me all their simple stores. "there is not a man in all vos," they said, "who has not a relative in america." and they asked eager question after question, in insatiable curiosity, about the unknown country whither their friends had gone. the wives and daughters of the family were all away, up at the sæter with the cows; only the men and the servant maids were left at home to make the hay. would i not go up to the sæter? the mistress would be distressed that an american lady had visited the farm in her absence. i could easily go to the sæter in a day. it was only five hours on horseback, and about a half-hour's walk, at the last, over a path too rough even for riding. very warmly the men urged sanna to induce me to make the trip. they themselves would leave the haying and go with me, if i would only go; and i must never think i had seen norwegian farming unless i had seen the sæter also, they said. the maids were at dinner in the kitchen. it was a large room, with walls not more than eight feet high, black with smoke; and in the centre a square stone trough, above which was built a funnel chimney. in this hollow trough a fire smouldered, and above it hung an enormous black caldron, full of beer, which was being brewed. one of the maids sprang from her dinner, lifted a trap door in the floor, disappeared in the cellar, and presently returned, bringing a curious wooden drinking-vessel shaped like a great bowl, with a prow at each side for handles, and painted in gay colors. this was brimming full of new beer, just brewed. sanna whispered to me that it would be bad manners if we did not drink freely of it. it was passed in turn to each member of the party. the driver, eying me sharply as i forced down a few mouthfuls of the nauseous drink, said something to sanna. "he asks if american ladies do not like beer," said sanna. "he is mortified that you do not drink. it will be best that we drink all we can. it is all what they have. only i do hope that they give us not brandy." there was no window in the kitchen, no ventilation except through the chimney and the door. a bare wooden table, wooden chairs, a few shelves, where were ranged some iron utensils, were all the furniture of the gloomy room. the maids' dinner consisted of a huge plate of fladbröd and jugs of milk; nothing else. they would live on that, sanna said, for weeks, and work in the hay-fields from sunrise till midnight. opposite the kitchen was the living-room,--the same smoky log walls, bare floors, wooden chairs and benches. the expression of poverty was dismal. "i thought you said these people were well to do!" i exclaimed. "so they are," replied sanna. "they are very well off; they do not know that it is not comfort to be like this. they shall have money in banks, these people. all the farmers in vos are rich." above the living-room were two bedrooms and clothes-rooms. here, in gay painted scarlet boxes and hanging from lines, were the clothes of the family and the bed linen of the house. mistress and maid alike must keep their clothes in this common room. the trunks were ranged around the sides of the room, each locked with a key big enough to lock prison doors. on one side of one of the rooms were three bunk beds built in under the eaves. these were filled with loose straw, and had only blankets for covers. into this straw the norwegian burrows by night, rolled in his blankets. the beds can never be moved, for they are built in with the framework of the house. no wonder that the norwegian flea has, by generations of such good lodging and food, become a triumphant bedouin marauder, in comparison with whom the fleas of all other countries are too petty to deserve mention. the good-natured farmer opened his mother's box as well as his wife's, and with awkward and unaccustomed hands shook out their sunday costumes for us to see. from another box, filled with soft blankets and linen, he took out a bottle of brandy, and pouring some into a little silver bowl, with the same prow-shaped handles as the wooden one we had seen in the kitchen, pressed us to drink. one drop of it was like liquid fire. he seemed hurt that we refused more, and poured it down his own throat at a gulp, without change of a muscle. then he hid the brandy bottle again under the blankets, and the little silver cup in the till of his mother's chest, and locked them both up with the huge keys. downstairs we found an aged couple, who had come from another of the buildings, hearing of our presence. these were the grandparents. the old woman was eighty-four, and was knitting briskly without glasses. she took us into the storerooms, where were bins of flour and grain; hams of beef and pork hanging up; wooden utensils of all sorts, curiously carved and stained wooden spoons, among other things,--a cask full of them, put away to be used "when they had a merry-making." here also were stacks of fladbröd. this is the staple of the norwegian's living; it is a coarse bread made of dark flour, in cakes as thin as a wafer and as big round as a barrel. this is baked once a year, in the spring, is piled up in stacks in the storerooms, and keeps good till the spring baking comes round again. it is very sweet and nutritious: one might easily fare worse than to have to make a meal of it with milk. on one of the storeroom shelves i spied an old wooden drinking-bowl, set away with dried peas in it. it had been broken, and riveted together in the bottom, but would no longer hold water, so had been degraded to this use. it had once been gayly painted, and had a motto in old norwegian around the edge: "drink in good-will, and give thanks to god." i coveted the thing, and offered to buy it. it was a study to see the old people consult with each other if they should let it go. it seemed that when they first went to housekeeping it had been given to them by the woman's mother, and was an old bowl even then. it was certainly over a hundred years old, and how much more there was no knowing. after long discussion they decided to sell it to me for four kroner (about one dollar), which the son thought (sanna said) was a shameful price to ask for an old broken bowl. but he stood by in filial submission, and made no loud objection to the barter. the old woman also showed us a fine blanket, which had been spun and woven by her mother a hundred years ago. it was as gay of color and fantastic of design as if it had been made in algiers. this too she was willing to sell for an absurdly small price, but it was too heavy to bring away. at weddings and other festivities these gay blankets are hung on the walls; and it is the custom for neighbors to lend all they can on such occasions. the next farm we visited belonged to the richest people in vos. it lay a half-mile still higher up, and the road leading to it seemed perilously steep. the higher we went, the greater the profusion of flowers: the stony way led us through tracts of bloom, in blue and gold; tall spikes of mullein in clumps like hollyhocks, and "shepherd's bells" in great purple patches. the buildings of this farm were clustered around a sort of court-yard enclosure, roughly flagged by slate. most of the roofs were also slated; one or two were thatched, and these thatched roofs were the only thing that redeemed the gloom of the spot, the sods on these being bright with pansies and grasses and waving raspberry bushes. here also we found the men of the family alone at home, the women being gone on their summering at the sæter. the youngest son showed us freely from room to room, and displayed with some pride the trunks full of blankets and linen, and the rows of women's dresses hanging in the chambers. on two sides of one large room these were hung thick one above another, no variety in them, and no finery; merely a succession of strong, serviceable petticoats, of black, green, or gray woollen. the gay jackets and stomachers were packed away in trunks; huge fur-lined coats, made of the same shape for men and for women, hung in the storeroom. some of the trunks were red, painted in gay colors; some were of polished cedar, finished with fine brass mountings. as soon as a norwegian girl approaches womanhood, one of these trunks is given her, set in its place in the clothes-room, and her accumulations begin. clothes, bedding, and silver ornaments seem to be the only things for which the norwegian peasant spends his money. in neither of these houses was there an article of superfluous furniture, not even of ordinary comfort. in both were the same bunk beds, built in under the eaves; the same loose, tossed straw, with blankets for covering; and only the coarsest wooden chairs and benches for seats. the young man opened his mother's trunk, and took from one corner a beautiful little silver beaker, with curling, prow-shaped handles. in this the old lady had packed away her silver brooches, buttons, and studs for the summer. side by side with them, thrown in loosely among her white head-dresses and blouses, were half a dozen small twisted rolls of white bread. sanna explained this by saying that the norwegians never have this bread except at their most important festivals; it is considered a great luxury, and these had no doubt been put away as a future treat, as we should put away a bit of wedding-cake to keep. very irreverently the son tipped out all his mother's ornaments into the bottom of the trunk, and proceeded to fill the little beaker with fiery brandy from a bottle which had been hid in another corner. from lip to lip it was passed, returning to him wellnigh untasted; but he poured the whole down at a draught, smacked his lips, and tossed the cup back into the trunk, dripping with the brandy. very much that good old norwegian dame, when she comes down in the autumn, will wonder, i fancy, what has happened to her nicely packed trunk of underclothes, dry bread, and old silver. there were several storerooms in these farm buildings, and they were well filled with food, grain, flour, dried meats, fish, and towers of fladbröd. looms with partly finished webs of cloth in them were there set away till winter; baskets full of carved yellow spoons hung on the wall. in one of the rooms, standing on the sill of the open window, were two common black glass bottles, with a few pond-lilies in each,--the only bit of decoration or token of love of the beautiful we had found. seeing that i looked at the lilies with admiration, the young man took them out, wiped their dripping stems on his coat-sleeve, and presented them to me with a bow that a courtier might have envied. the grace, the courtesy, of the norwegian peasant's bow is something that must date centuries back. surely there is nothing in his life and surroundings to-day to create or explain it. it must be a trace of something that olaf tryggveson--that "magnificent, far-shining man"--scattered abroad in his kingdom eight hundred years ago, with his "bright, airy, wise way" of speaking and behaving to women and men. one of the buildings on this farm was known, the young man said, to be at least two hundred years old. the logs are moss-grown and black, but it is good for hundreds of years yet. the first story is used now for a storeroom. from this a ladder led up to a half-chamber overhead, the front railed by a low railing; here, in this strange sort of balcony bedroom, had slept the children of the family, all the time under observation of their elders below. thrust in among the rafters, dark, rusty, bent, was an ancient sword. our guide took it out and handed it to us, with a look of awe on his face. no one knew, he said, how long that sword had been on the farm. in the earliest writings by which the estate had been transferred, that sword had been mentioned, and it was a clause in every lease since that it should never be taken away from the place. however many times the farm might change hands, the sword must go with it, for all time. was there no legend, no tradition, with it? none that his father or his father's father had ever heard; only the mysterious entailed charge, from generation to generation, that the sword must never be removed. the blade was thin and the edge jagged, the handle plain and without ornament; evidently the sword had been for work, and not for show. there was something infinitely solemn in its inalienable estate of safe and reverent keeping at the hands of men all ignorant of its history. it is by no means impossible that it had journeyed in the company of that sigurd who sailed with his splendid fleet of sixty ships for palestine, early in the twelfth century. sigurd jorsalafarer, or traveller to jerusalem, he was called; and no less an authority than thomas carlyle vouches for him as having been "a wise, able, and prudent man," reigning in a "solid and successful way." through the straits of gibraltar to jerusalem, home by way of constantinople and russia, "shining with renown," he sailed, and took a hand in any fighting he found going on by the way. many of his men came from the region of the sogne fjord; and the more i thought of it the surer i felt that this old sword had many a time flashed on the deck of his ships. our second day opened rainy. the lake was blotted out by mist; on the fence under the willows sat half a dozen men, roosting as unconcernedly as if it were warm sunshine. "it does wonder me," said sanna, "that i find here so many men standing idle. when the railroad come, it shall be that the life must be different." a heroic english party, undeterred by weather, were setting off in carioles and on horseback. delays after delays occurred to hinder them. at the last moment their angry courier was obliged to go and fetch the washing, which had not arrived. there is a proverb in norway, "when the norwegian says 'immediately,' look for him in half an hour." finally, at noon, in despair of sunshine, we also set off: rugs, water-proofs; the india-rubber boot of the carriage drawn tight up to the level of our eyes; we set off in pouring sheets of rain for gudvangen. for the first two hours the sole variation of the monotony of our journey was in emptying the boot of water once every five minutes, just in time to save a freshet in our laps. high mountain peaks, black with forests or icy white with snow, gleamed in and out of the clouds on either hand, as we toiled and splashed along. occasional lightings up revealed stretches of barren country, here and there a cluster of farm-houses or a lowly church. on the shores of a small lake we passed one of these lonely churches. only two other buildings were in sight in the vast expanse: one, the wretched little inn where we were to rest our horses for half an hour; the other, the parsonage. this last was a pretty little cottage, picturesquely built of yellow pine, half bowered in vines, looking in that lonely waste as if it had lost itself and strayed away from some civilized spot. the pastor and his sister, who kept house for him, were away; but his servant was so sure that they would like to have us see their home that we allowed her to show it to us. it was a tasteful and cosey little home: parlor, study, and dining-room, all prettily carpeted and furnished; books, flowers, a sewing-machine, and a piano. it did one's heart good to see such an oasis of a home in the wilderness. drawn up on rests in a shed near the house, was an open boat, much like a wherry. the pastor spent hours every day, the maid said, in rowing on the lake. it was his great pleasure. up, up we climbed: past fir forests, swamps, foaming streams,--the wildest, weirdest road storm-driven people ever crossed. spite of the rain, half-naked children came flying out of hovels and cabins to open gates: sometimes there would be six in a row, their thin brown hands all stretched for alms, and their hollow eyes begging piteously; then they would race on ahead to open the next gate. the moors seemed but a succession of enclosed pasture-lands. now and then we passed a little knot of cabins close to the road, and men who looked kindly, but as wild as wild beasts, would come out and speak to the driver; their poverty was direful to see. at last, at the top of a high hill, we halted; the storm stayed; the clouds lifted and blew off. at our feet lay a black chasm; it was like looking down into the bowels of the earth. this was the nerodal valley; into it we were to descend. its walls were three and four thousand feet high. it looked little more than a cleft. the road down this precipitous wall is a marvel of engineering. it is called the stalheimscleft, and was built by a norwegian officer, captain finne. it is made in a series of zigzagging loops, which are so long and so narrow that the descent at no point appears steep; yet as one looks up from any loop to the loop next above, it seems directly over his head. down this precipice into the nerodal valley leap two grand fosses, the stalheimfos and the salvklevfos; roaring in ceaseless thunder, filling the air, and drenching the valley with spray. tiny grass-grown spaces between the bowlders and the loops of the road had all been close mowed; spaces which looked too small for the smallest reaping-hook to swing in were yet close shorn, and the little handfuls of hay hung up drying on hand's-breadths of fence set up for the purpose. even single blades of grass are too precious in norway to be wasted. as we walked slowly down this incredible road, we paused step by step to look first up, then down. the carriage waiting for us below on the bridge looked like a baby wagon. the river made by the meeting of these two great cataracts at the base of the precipice was only a little silver thread flowing down the valley. the cataracts seemed leaping from the sky, and the sky seemed resting on the hill-tops; masses of whirling and floating clouds added to the awesome grandeur of the scene. the stalheimfos fell into a deep, basin-shaped ravine, piled with great bowlders, and full of birch and ash shrubs; in the centre of this, by some strange play of the water, rose a distinct and beautifully shaped cone, thrown up closely in front of the fall, almost blending with it, and thick veiled in the tumultuous spray,--a fountain in a waterfall. it seemed the accident of a moment, but its shape did not alter so long as we watched it; it is a part of the fall. five miles down this cleft, called valley, to gudvangen run the road and the little river and the narrow strips of meadow, dark, thin, and ghastly; long months in utter darkness this nerodal lies, and never, even at summer's best and longest, has it more than a half-day of sun. the mountains rise in sheer black walls on either hand,--bare rock in colossal shafts and peaks, three, four, and even five thousand feet high; snow in the rifts at top; patches of gaunt firs here and there; great spaces of tumbled rocks, where avalanches have slid; pebbly and sandy channels worn from side to side of the valley, where torrents have rushed down and torn a way across; white streams from top to bottom of the precipices, all foam and quiver, like threads spun out on the sward, more than can be counted; they seem to swing down out of the sky as spider threads swing swift and countless in a dewy morning. sanna shuddered. "now you see, one could not spend a whole day in nerodal valley," she said. "it does wonder me that any people will live here. every spring the mountains do fall and people are killed." on a narrow rim of land at base of these walls, just where the fjord meets the river, is the village of gudvangen, a desolate huddle of half a dozen poor houses. a chill as of death filled the air; foul odors arose at every turn. the two little inns were overcrowded with people, who roamed restlessly up and down, waiting for they knew not what. an indescribable gloom settles on gudvangen with nightfall. the black waters of the fjord chafing monotonously at the base of the black mountains; the sky black also, and looking farther off than sky ever looked before, walled into a strip, like the valley beneath it; hemmed in, forsaken, doomed, and left seems gudvangen. what hold life can have on a human being kept in such a spot it is hard to imagine. yet we found three very old women hobnobbing contentedly there in a cave of a hut. ragged, dirty, hideous, hopeless one would have thought them; but they were all agog and cheery, and full of plans for repairing their house. they were in a little log stable, perhaps ten feet square, and hardly high enough to stand upright in: they were cowering round a bit of fire in the centre; their piles of straw and blankets laid in corners; not a chair, not a table. macbeth's witches had seemed full-dressed society women by the side of these. we peered timidly in at the group, and they all came running towards us, chattering, glad to see strangers, and apologizing for their condition, because, as they said, they had just turned in there together for a few days, while their house across the way was being mended. not a light of any description had they, except the fire. the oldest one hobbled away, and returned with a small tallow candle, which she lit and held in her hand, to show us how comfortable they were, after all; plenty of room for three piles of straw on the rough log floor. their "house across the way" was a little better than this; not much. one of the poor old crones had "five children in america." "they wanted her to come out to america and live with them, but she was too old to go away from home," she said. "home was the best place for old people," to which the other two assented eagerly. "oh, yes, home was the best place. america was too far." it seemed a miracle to have comfort in an inn in so poverty-stricken a spot as this, but we did. we slept in straw-filled bunks, set tight into closets under the eaves; only a narrow doorway by which to get in and out of bed; but there were two windows in the room, and no need to stifle. and for supper there was set before us a stew of lamb, delicately flavored with curry, and served with rice, of which no house need be ashamed. that so palatable a dish could have issued from the place which answered for kitchen in that poor little inn was a marvel; it was little more than a small dark tomb. the dishes were all washed out-of-doors in tubs set on planks laid across two broken chairs at the kitchen door; and the food and milk were kept in an above-ground cellar not three steps from the same door. this had been made by an immense slab of rock which had crashed down from the mountain top, one day, and instead of tearing through the house and killing everybody had considerately lodged on top of two other bowlders, roofing the space in, and forming a huge stone refrigerator ready to hand for the innkeeper. the enclosed space was cold as ice, and high enough and large enough for one to walk about in it comfortably. i had the curiosity to ask this innkeeper how much he could make in a year off his inn. when he found that i had no sinister motive in the inquiry, he was freely communicative. at first he feared, sanna said, that it might become known in the town how much money he was making, and that demands might be made on him in consequence. if the season of summer travel were very good, he said he would clear two hundred dollars; but he did not always make so much as that. he earned a little also by keeping a small shop, and in the winter that was his only resource. he had a wife and two children, and his wife was not strong, which made it harder for them, as they were obliged always to keep a servant. even in full sunlight, at nine of the morning, gudvangen looked grim and dangerous, and the nerö fjord water black. as we sailed out, the walls of the valley closed up suddenly behind us, as with a snap which might have craunched poor little gudvangen to death. the fjord is as wild as the pass; in fact, the same thing, only that it has water at bottom instead of land, and you can sail closer than you can drive at base of the rocky walls. soon we came to the mouth of another great fjord, opening up another watery road into the mountains; this was the aurland, and on its farther shore opened again the sognedal fjord, up which we went a little way to leave somebody at a landing. here were green hills and slopes and trees, and a bright yellow church, shaped like a blancmange mould in three pyramid-shaped cones, each smaller than the one below. "here is the finest fruit orchard in all scandinavia," said sanna, pointing to a pretty place just out of the town, where fields rose one above the other in terraces on south-facing slopes, covered thick with orchards. "it belongs to an acquainted with me: but she must sell it. she is a widow, and she cannot take the care to herself." back again across the mouth of the aurland fjord, and then out into the great sogne fjord, zigzagging from side to side of it, and up into numerous little fjords where the boat looked to be steering straight into hills,--we seemed to be adrift, without purpose, rather than on a definite voyage with a fixed aim of getting home. the magnificent labyrinths of walled waters were calm as the heavens they reflected; the clouds above and clouds below kept silent pace with each other, and we seemed gliding between two skies. great snow fjelds came in sight, wheeled, rose, sank, and disappeared, as we passed; sometimes green meadows stretched on either side of us, then terrible gorges and pinnacles of towering rock. picture after picture we saw, of gay-colored little villages, with rims of fields and rocky promontories; snow fjelds above, and fir forests between; glittering waterfalls shooting from the sky line to the water, like white lightning down a black stone front, or leaping out in spaces of feathery snow, like one preternatural blooming of the forests all the way down the black walls rising perpendicularly thousands of feet; tiers of blue mountains in the distance, dark blue on the nearest, and shading off to palest blue at the sky line; the fjord dark purple in the narrows, shading to gray in the opens; illuminated spaces of green, now at the shore, now half-way up, now two-thirds-way up to the sky; tops of hills in sunlight; bars of sunlight streaming through dark clefts. then a storm-sweep across the fjord, far in our wake,--swooping and sweeping, and gone in a half-hour; blotting out the mountains; then turning them into a dark-slate wall, on which white sails and cross-sunbeams made a superb shining. and so, between the sun and the storm, we came to valestrand, and sent off and took on boat-loads of pleasuring people,--the boats with bright flags at prow and stern, and gay-dressed women with fantastic parasols like butterflies poised on their edges,--valestrand, where, as some say, frithiof was born; and as all say, he burnt one of balder's great temples. then ladvik, on a green slope turning to gold in the sun; its white church with a gray stone spire relieved against a bank of purple gloom; the lights sinking lower and the shadows stretching farther every minute; shadows of hills behind which the sun had already gone, thrown sharp and black on hills still glowing in full light; hills before us, shimmering in soft silver gray and pale purple against a clear golden west; hills behind us, folding and folded in masses of rosy vapor; shining fosses leaping down among them; the colors changing like the colors of a prism minute by minute along the tops of the ranges,--this was the way our day on the sogne fjord drew near its ending. industriously knitting, with eyes firm fastened on her needles, sat an english matron near us on the deck. not one glance of her eye did she give to the splendors of sky and water and land about her. "i do think that lady must be in want of stockings very much," remarked sanna quietly; "but she need not to come to norway to knit." far worse, however, than the woman who knitted were the women and the men who talked, loudly, stupidly, vulgarly, around us. it was mortifying that their talk was english, but they were not americans. at last they drove us to another part of the deck, but not before a few phrases of their conversation had been indelibly stamped on my memory. "well, we were in dresden two days: there's only the gallery there; that's time enough for that." "raphaels,--lots of raphaels." "i don't care for raphaels, anyhow. i'll tell you who i like; i like veronese." "well, i'm very fond of tintoretto." "i like titians; they're so delicate, don't you know?" "well, who's that man that's painted such dreadful things,--all mixed up, don't you know? in some places you see a good many of them." "you don't mean rembrandt, do you? there are a lot of rembrandts in munich." "there was one picture i liked. i think it was a christ; but i ain't sure. there were four children on the ground, i remember." when the real sunset came we were threading the rocky labyrinths of the bergen fjord. it is a field of bowlders, with an ocean let in; nothing more. why the bowlders are not submerged, since the water is deep enough for big ships to sail on, is the perpetual marvel; but they are not. they are as firm in their places as continents, myriads of them only a few feet out of water; and when the sun as it sinks sends a flood of gold and red light athwart them, they turn all colors, and glow on the water like great smoke crystals with fire shining through. to sail up this fjord in the sunset is to wind through devious lanes walled with these jewels, and to look off, over and above them, to fields of purple and gray and green, islands on islands on islands, to the right and to the left, with the same jewel-walled lanes running east and west and north and south among them; the sky will stream with glowing colors from horizon to horizon, and the glorious silence will be broken by no harsher sound than the low lapsing of waters and the soft whirr of gray gulls' wings. and so we came to bergen in the bright midnight of the last of our four days. months afterwards sanna sent me a few extracts from descriptions given by a norwegian writer of some of the spots we had seen in the dim upper distances along the fjords,--some of those illuminated spaces of green high up among the crags, which looked such sunny and peaceful homes. her english is so much more graphic than mine that i have begged her permission to give the extracts as she wrote them:-- "grand, glorious, and serious is the sogne fjord. serious in itself, and still more serious we find it when we know where and how people do live there between mountains. and we must wonder or ask, is there really none places left, or no kind of work for those people to get for the maintenance of the life, but to go to such desolate and rather impassable a place?... "more than half of the year are the two families who live on the farm of vetti separated from all other human beings. during the winter can the usual path in the grass not be passed in case of snow, ice, and perpetual slips, which leave behind trace long out in the summer, because the sun only for a short time came over this long enormous abyss, and does not linger there long, so that the snow which has been to ice do melt very slow, and seldom disappear earlier than in july. the short time in the winter when the river utla is frozen may the bottom of the pass well be passed, though not without danger, on account of the mentioned slips, which, with the power of the hurricane, are whizzing down in the deep, and which merely pressure of the air is so strong that it throw all down. "late in the autumn and in the spring is all approach to and from vetti quite stopped; and late in the autumn chiefly with ground and snow slips, which then get loosened by the frequent rain. the farm-houses is situate on a steep slope, so that the one end of the lowest beam is put on the mere ground, and the other end must be put on a wall almost three yards high. the fields are so steep, and so quite near the dreadful precipice, that none unaccustomed to it do venture one's self thither; and when one from here look over the pass, and look the meadows which is more hanging than laying over the deep, and which have its grass mowed down with a short scythe, then one cannot comprehend the desperate courage which risk to set about and occupy one's self here, while the abyss has opened its swallow for receiving the foolhardy. "a little above the dwelling-houses is a quite tolerable plain; and when one ask the man why he has not built his houses there, he answers that owing to the snow-slips it is impossible to build there. "through the valley-streams the afdals river comes from the mountains, run in a distance of only twenty yards from the farm-houses, and about one hundred yards from the same pour out itself with crash of thunder in a mighty foss. the rumble of the same, and that with its hurling out caused pressure of the air, is in the summer so strong that the dwelling-houses seems to shiver, and all what fluids there in open vessels get placed on the table is on an incessant trembling, moving almost as on board a ship in a rough sea. the wall and windows which turns to the river are then always moistened of the whipped foam, which in small particles continually is thrown back from the foss. "by the side of this foss, in the hard granite wall which it moisten, is a mined gut (the author says he can't call it a road, though it is reckoned for that), broad enough that one man, and in the highest one small well-trained horse, however not by each other's side, can walk therein. this gut, which vault is not so high that an full-grown man can walk upright, is the farm's only road which rise to a considerable height. "but as this gut could not get lightened in a suitable height, one has filled up or finished the remaining gap with four timber beams, four or five yards long, which is close to the gut, and with its upper end leans on a higher small mountain peak, which beside this is the fastening for the bridge over the waterfall. in these beams is cut in flukes, just as the steps of a staircase, and when one walks up these flukes one looks between the beams the frothing foss beneath one's self, while one get wrapped up of its exhalation clouds. "the man told me that the pass also is to be passed with horse, the time of the summer, and that all then is to be carried in a pack-saddle to the farm, of his own horse, which is accustomed to this trip. and when one know the small lærdalske horses' easiness, and the extraordinary security wherewith they can go upon the most narrow path on the edge of the most dreadful precipices, in that they place or cast the feet so in front of each other that no path is too narrow for them, then it seems a little less surprising. "from the vetti farm continues the pass in a distance of about twenty-one english miles, so that the whole pass, then, is a little more than twenty-four miles, and shall on the other side of the farm be still more narrow, more difficult, and more dreadful. the farmer himself and his people must often go there to the woods, and for other things for his farm. there belongs to this farm most excellent sæter and mountain fields, wherefore the cattle begetting is here of great importance; and also the most excellent tract of firs belong to this farm. "i was curious to know how one had to behave from here to get the dead buried, when it was impossible that two men could walk by the side of each other through the pass, and i did even not see how one could carry any coffin on horseback. i got the following information: the corpse is to be laid on a thin board, in which there is bored holes in both ends in which there is to be put handles of rope; to this board is the corpse to be tied, wrapped up in its linen cloth. and now one man in the front and one behind carry it through the pass to the farm gjelde, and here it is to be laid into the coffin, and in the common manner brought to the churchyard. if any one die in the winter, and the bottom of the pass must be impassable then as well as in the spring and in the autumn, one must try to keep the corpse in an hard frozen state, which is not difficult, till it can be brought down in the above-mentioned manner. "a still more strange and sad manner was used once at a cottager place called vermelien. this place is lying in the little valley which border to the vetti's field. its situation by the river deep down in the pass is exceedingly horrid, and it has none other road or path than a very steep and narrow foot-path along the mountain wall side with the most dreadful precipice as by the vetti. "since the cottager people here generally had changed, no one had dead there. it happened, then, the first time a boy, on seventeen years old, died. one did not do one's self any hesitation about the manner to bring him to his grave, and they made a coffin in the house. the corpse was put in the coffin, and then the coffin brought outside; and first now one did see with consternation that it was not possible to carry the corpse with them in this manner. what was to do then? "at last they resolved to let the coffin be left as a _memento mori_, and to place the dead upon a horse, his feet tied up under the belly of the horse; against the mane on the horse was fastened a well-stuffed fodder bag, that the corpse may lean to the same, to which again the corpse was tied. and so the dead must ride over the mountain to his resting-place by fortun's church in lyster." the katrina saga. i. "forr english ladies." this was the address on the back of a much-thumbed envelope, resting on top of the key-rack in the dining-room of our bergen hotel. if "for" had been spelled correctly, the letter would not have been half so likely to be read; but that extra outsider of an _r_ was irresistibly attractive. the words of the letter itself were, if not equally original in spelling, at least as unique in arrangement, and altogether the advertisement answered its purposes far better than if it had been written in good english. the _naïveté_ with which the writer went on to say, "i do recommend me," was delicious; and when she herself appeared there was something in her whole personal bearing entirely in keeping with the childlike and unconscious complacency of her phraseology. "i do recommend me" was written all over her face; and, as things turned out, if it had been "i do guarantee me," it had not been too strong an indorsement. a more tireless, willing, thoughtful, helpful, eager, shrewd little creature than katrina never chattered. looking back from the last day to the first of my acquaintance with her, i feel a remorseful twinge as i think how near i came to taking instead of her, as my maid for a month's journeying, a stately young woman, who, appearing in answer to my advertisement, handed me her card with dignity, and begged my pardon for inquiring precisely what it would be that she would have to do for me, besides the turning of english into norwegian and _vice versa_. the contrast between this specific gravity and katrina's hearty and unreflecting "i will do my best to satisfy you in all occasions," did not sufficiently impress me in the outset. but many a time afterward did i recall it, and believe more than ever in the doctrine of lucky stars and good angels. when katrina appeared, punctually to the appointed minute, half an hour before the time for setting off, i saw with pleasure that she was wrapped in a warm cloak of dark cloth. i had seen her before, flitting about in shawls of various sorts, loosely pinned at the throat in a disjointed kind of way, which gave to her appearance an expression that i did not like,--an expression of desultory if not intermittent respectability. but wrapped in this heavy cloak, she was decorum personified. "ah, katrina," i said, "i am very glad to see you are warmly dressed. this summer you keep in norway is so cold, one needs winter clothes all the time." "yes, i must," she replied. "i get fever and ague in new york, and since then it always reminds me. that was six years ago; but it reminds me,--the freezing at my neck," putting her hand to the back of her neck. it was in new york, then, that she had learned so much english. this explained everything,--the curious mixture of volubility and inaccuracy and slang in her speech. she had been for several months a house-servant in new york, "with an irish lady; such a nice lady. her husband, he took care of a bank: kept it clean, don't you see, and all such tings. and we lived in the top in the eight story: we was always going up and down in the elewator." after this she had been a button-hole maker in a great clothing-house, and next, had married one of her own countrymen; a nephew, by the way, of the famous norwegian giant at barnum's museum,--a fact which katrina stated simply, without any apparent boast, adding, "my husband's father were guyant, too. there be many guyants in that part of the country." perhaps it was wicked, seeing that katrina had had such hopes of learning much english in her month with me, not to have told her then and there that _g_ in the english word _giant_ was always soft. but i could not. neither did i once, from first to last, correct her inimitable and delicious pronunciations. i confined my instructions to the endeavor to make her understand clearly the meanings of words, and to teach her true synonymes; but as for meddling with her pronunciations, i would as soon have been caught trying to teach a baby to speak plain. i fear, towards the last, she began to suspect this, and to be half aware of the not wholly disinterested pleasure which i took in listening to her eager prattle; but she did not accuse me, and i let her set off for home not one whit wiser in the matter of the sounds of the english language than she had been when she came away, except so far as she might have unconsciously caught them from hearing me speak. it is just as well: her english is quite good enough as it is, for all practical purposes in norway, and would lose half its charm and value to english-speaking people if she were to learn to say the words as we say them. to set off by boat from bergen means to set off by boats; it would not be an idle addition to the phrase, either, to say, not only by boats, but among boats, in, out, over, and across boats; and one may consider himself lucky if he is not called upon to add,--the whole truth being told,--under boats. arriving at the wharf, he is shown where his steamer lies, midway in the harbor; whether it be at anchor, or hoisted on a raft of small boats, he is at first at a loss to see. however, rowing alongside, he discovers that the raft of small boats is only a crowd, like any other crowd, of movable things or creatures, and can be shoved, jostled, pushed out of the way, and compelled to give room. a norwegian can elbow his boat through a tight-packed mass of boats with as dexterous and irresistible force as another man can elbow his way on foot, on dry land, in a crowd of men. so long as you are sitting quiet in the middle of the boat, merely swayed from side to side by his gyrations, with no sort of responsibility as to their successive direction, and with implicit faith in their being right, it is all very well. but when your norwegian springs up, confident, poises one foot on the edge of his own boat, the other foot on the edge of another boat, plants one of his oars against the gunwale of a third boat, and rests the other oar hard up against the high side of a steamboat, and then authoritatively requests you to rise and make pathway for yourself across and between all these oars and boats, and leap varying chasms of water between them and the ladder up the steamer's side, dismay seizes you, if you are not to the water born. i did not hear of anybody's being drowned in attempting to get on board a bergen steamer. but why somebody is not, every day in the week, i do not know, if it often happens to people to thread and surmount such a labyrinth of small rocking boats as lay around the dampskib "jupiter," in which katrina and i sailed for christiania. the northern nations of europe seem to have hit upon signally appropriate names for that place of torment which in english is called steamboat. there are times when simply to pronounce the words _dampskib_ or _dampbaad_ is soothing to the nerves; and nowhere oftener than in norway can one be called upon to seek such relief. it is an accepted thing in norway that no steamboat can be counted on either to arrive or depart within one, two, or three hours of its advertised time. the guide-books all state this fact; so nobody who, thus forewarned, has chosen to trust himself to the dampskib has any right to complain if the whole plan of his journey is disarranged and frustrated by the thing's not arriving within four hours of the time it had promised. but it is not set down in the guide-books, as it ought to be, that there is something else on which the traveller in norwegian dampskibs can place no dependence whatever; and that is the engaging beforehand of his stateroom. to have engaged a stateroom one week beforehand, positively, explicitly, and then, upon arriving on board, to be confronted by a smiling captain, who states in an off-hand manner, as if it were an every-day occurrence, that "he is very sorry, but it is impossible to let you have it;" and who, when he is pressed for an explanation of the impossibility, has no better reason to give than that two gentlemen wanted the stateroom, and as the two gentlemen could not go in the ladies' cabin, and you, owing to the misfortune of your sex, could, therefore the two gentlemen have the stateroom, and you will take the one remaining untenanted berth in the cabin,--this is what may happen in a norwegian dampskib. if one is resolute enough to halt in the gangway, and, ordering the porters bearing the luggage to halt also, say calmly, "very well; then i must return to my hotel, and wait for another boat, in which i can have a stateroom; it would be quite out of the question, my making the journey in the cabin," the captain will discover some way of disposing of the two gentlemen, and without putting them into the ladies' cabin; but this late concession, not to the justice of your claim, only to your determination in enforcing it, does not in any wise conciliate your respect or your amiability. the fact of the imposition and unfairness is the same. i ought to say, however, that this is the only matter in which i found unfairness in norway. in regard to everything else the norwegian has to provide or to sell, he is just and honest; but when it comes to the question of dampskib accommodations, he seems to take leave of all his sense of obligation to be either. as i crept into the narrow trough called a berth, in my hardly won stateroom, a vision flitted past the door: a tall and graceful figure, in a tight, shabby black gown; a classic head, set with the grace of a lily on a slender neck; pale brown hair, put back, braided, and wound in a knot behind, all save a few short curls, which fell lightly floating and waving over a low forehead; a pair of honest, merry gray eyes, with a swift twinkle at the corners, and a sudden serious tenderness in their depths; a straight nose, with a nostril spirited and fine as an arabian's; a mouth of flawless beauty, unless it might be that the upper lip was a trifle too short, but this fault only added to the piquancy of the face. i lifted myself on my elbow to look at her. she was gone; and i sank back, thinking of the pictures that the world raved over, so few short years ago, of the lovely eugénie. here was a face strangely like hers, but with far more fire and character,--a norwegian girl, evidently poor. i was wondering if i should see her again, and how i could manage to set katrina on her track, and if i could find out who she was, when, lo, there she stood by my side, bending above me, and saying something norwegian over and over in a gentle voice; and katrina behind her, saying, "this is the lady what has care of all. she do say, 'poor lady, poor lady, to be so sick!' she is sorry that you are sick." i gazed at her in stupefied wonder. this radiant creature the stewardess of a steamboat! she was more beautiful near than at a distance. i am sure i have never seen so beautiful a woman. and coming nearer, one could see clearly, almost as radiant as her physical beauty, the beauty of a fine and sweet nature shining through. her smile was transcendent. i am not over-easy to be stirred by women's fair looks. seldom i see a woman's face that gives me unalloyed pleasure. faces are half-terrifying things to one who studies them, such paradoxical masks are they; only one half mask, and the other half bared secrets of a lifetime. their mere physical beauty, however great it may be, is so underlaid and overlaid by tokens and traces and scars of things in which the flesh and blood of it have played part that a fair face can rarely be more than half fair. but here was a face with beauty such as the old greeks put into marble; and shining through it the honesty and innocence of an untaught child, the good-will and content of a faithful working-girl, and the native archness of a healthful maiden. i am not unaware that all this must have the sound of an invention, and there being no man to bear witness to my tale, except such as have sailed in the norwegian dampskib "jupiter," it will not be much believed; nevertheless, i shall tell it. not being the sort of artist to bring the girl's face away in a portfolio, the only thing left for me is to try to set it in the poor portraiture of words. poor enough portraiture it is that words can fashion, even for things less subtle than faces,--a day or a sky, a swift passion or a thought. words seem always to those who work with them more or less failures; but most of all are they impotent and disappointing when a face is to be told. yet i shall not cast away my sketch of the beautiful anna. it is the only one which will ever be made of her. now that i think of it, however, there is one testimony to be added to mine,--a testimony of much weight, too, taken in the connection, for it was of such involuntariness. on the second day of my voyage in the "jupiter," in the course of a conversation with the captain, i took occasion to speak of the good-will and efficiency of his stewardess. he assented warmly to my praise of her; adding that she was born of very poor parents, and had little education herself beyond knowing how to read and write, but was a person of rare goodness. i then said, "and of very rare beauty, also. i have never seen a more beautiful face." "yes," he replied; "there is something very not common about her. her face is quite antic." "antique," he meant, but for the first few seconds i could not imagine what it was he had intended. he also, then, had recognized, as this phrase shows, the truly classic quality of the girl's beauty; and he is the only witness i am able to bring to prove that my description of her face and figure and look and bearing are not an ingenious fable wrought out of nothing. from katrina, also, there came testimonies to anna's rare quality. "i have been in long speech with anna," she said before we had been at sea a day. "i tink she will come to bergen, by my husband and me. she can be trusted; i can tell in one firstest minute vat peoples is to be trusted. she is so polite always, but she passes ghentlemens without speaking, except she has business. i can tell." shrewd katrina! her husband has a sort of restaurant and billiard-room in bergen,--a place not over-creditable, i fear, although keeping within the pale of respectability. it is a sore trial to katrina, his doing this, especially the selling of liquor. she had several times refused her consent to his going into the business, "but dis time," she said, "he had it before i knowed anyting, don't you see? he didn't tell me. i always tink dere is de wifes and children, and maybe de mens don't take home no bread; and den to sit dere and drink, it is shame, don't you see? but if he don't do, some other mans would; so tere it is, don't you see? and tere is money in it, you see." poor katrina had tried in vain to shelter herself and appease her conscience by this old sophistry. her pride and self-respect still so revolted at the trade that she would not go to the place to stay. "he not get me to go tere. he not want me, either. i would not work in such a place." but she had no scruples about endeavoring to engage anna as a waiter-girl for the place. "she will be by my husband and me," she said, "and it is always shut every night at ten o'clock; and my husband is very strict man. he will have all right. she can have all her times after dat; and here she have only four dollars a mont, and my husband gives more tan dat. and i shall teach to her english; i gives her one hour every day. dat is great for her, for she vill go to america next year. if she can english speak, she get twice the money in america. oh, ven i go to america, i did not know de name of one ting; and every night i cry and cry; i tink i never learn; but dat irish lady i live by, she vas so kind to me as my own mother. oh, i like irish peoples; the irish and the americans, dey are what i like best. i don't like de english; and chermans, i don't like dem; dey vill take all out of your pocket. she is intended;[ ] and dat is good. when one are intended one must be careful; and if he is one you love, ten you don't vant to do anyting else; and her sweetheart is a nice young fellow. he is in the engyne in a hamburg boat. she has been speaking by me about him." the dampskib "jupiter" is a roller. it is a marvel how anything not a log can roll at such a rate. the stateroom berths being built across instead of lengthwise, the result is a perpetual tossing of heads _versus_ feet. as katrina expressively put it, "it is first te head, and den te feets up. dat is te worstest. dat makes te difference." ill, helpless, almost as tight-wedged in as a knife-blade shut in its handle, i lay in my trough a day and a night. the swinging port-hole, through which i feebly looked, made a series of ever-changing vignettes of the bits of water, sky, land it showed: moss-crowned hillocks of stone; now and then a red roof, or a sloop scudding by. the shore of norway is a kaleidoscope of land, rock, and water broken up. to call it shore at all seems half a misnomer. i have never heard of a census of the islands on the norway coast, but it would be a matter of great interest to know if it needs the decimals of millions to reckon them. this would not be hard to be believed by one who has sailed two days and two nights in their labyrinths. they are a more distinctive feature in the beauty of norway's seaward face than even her majestic mountain ranges. they have as much and as changing beauty of color as those, and, added to the subtle and exhaustless beauty of changing color, they have the still subtler charm of that mysterious combination of rest and restlessness, stillness and motion, solidity and evanescence, which is the dower of all islands, and most of all of the islands of outer seas. even more than from the stern solemnity of their mountain-walled fjords must the norwegians have drawn their ancient inspirations, i imagine, from the wooing, baffling, luring, forbidding, locking and unlocking, and never-revealing vistas, channels, gates, and barriers of their islands. they are round and soft and mossy as hillocks of sphagnum in a green marsh. you may sink above your ankles in the moist, delicious verdure, which looks from the sea like a mere mantle lightly flung over the rock. or they are bare and gray and unbroken, as if coated in mail of stone; and you might clutch in vain for so much as the help of a crevice or a shrub, if you were cast on their sides. some lie level and low, with oases of vividest green in their hollows; these lift and loom in the noon or the twilight, with a mirage which the desert cannot outdo. some rise up in precipices of sudden wall, countless gibraltars, which no mortal power can scale, and only wild creatures with tireless wings can approach. they are lashed by foaming waves, and the echoes peal like laughter among them; the tide brings them all it has; the morning sun lights them up, top after top, like beacons of its way out to sea, and leaves them again at night, lingeringly, one by one; changing them often into the semblance of jewels by the last red rays of its sinking light. they seem, as you sail swiftly among them, to be sailing too, a flotilla of glittering kingdoms; your escort, your convoy; shifting to right, to left, in gorgeous parade of skilful display, as for a pageant. when you anchor, they too are of a sudden at rest; solid, substantial land again, wooing you to take possession. there are myriads of them still unknown, untrodden, and sure to remain so forever, no matter how long the world may last; as sure as if the old spells were true, and the gods had made them invincible by a charm, or lonely under an eternal curse. at the mouths of the great fjords they seem sometimes to have fallen back and into line, as if to do honor to whomever might come sailing in. they must have greatly helped the splendor of the processions of viking ships, a thousand years ago, in the days when a viking thought nothing of setting sail for the south or the east with six or seven hundred ships in his fleet. if their birch-trees were as plumy then as now, there was nothing finer than they in all that a viking adorned his ships with, not even the gilt dragons at the prow. before the close of the second day of our voyage, the six passengers in the ladies' cabin had reached the end of their journey and left the boat. by way of atonement for his first scheming to rob me of my stateroom, the captain now magnanimously offered to me the whole of the ladies' cabin, for which he had no further use. how gladly i accepted it! how gleefully i watched my broad bed being made on a sofa, lengthwise the rolling "jupiter"! how pleased was katrina, how cheery the beautiful stewardess! "good-night! good-night! sleep well! sleep well!" they both said as they left me. "now it will be different; not te head and feets any more. de oder way is bestest," added katrina, as she lurched out of the room. how triumphantly i locked the door! how well i slept! all of which would be of no consequence here, except that it makes such a background for what followed. out of a sleep sound as only the sleep of one worn out by seasickness can be, i was roused by a dash of water in my face. too bewildered at first to understand what had happened, i sat up in bed quickly, and thereby brought my face considerably nearer the port-hole, directly above my pillow, just in time to receive another full dash of water in my very teeth; and water by no means clean, either, as i instantly perceived. the situation explained itself. the port-hole had not been shut tight; the decks were being washed. swash, swash, it came, with frightful dexterity, aimed, it would seem, at that very port-hole, and nowhere else. i sprang up, seized the handle of the port-hole window, and tried to tighten it. in my ignorance and fright i turned it the wrong way; in poured the dirty water. there stood i, clapping the window to with all my might, but utterly unable either to fasten it or to hold it tight enough to keep out the water. calling for help was useless, even if my voice could have been heard above the noise of the boat; the door of my cabin was locked. swash, swash, in it came, more and more, and dirtier and dirtier; trickling down the back of the red velvet sofa, drenching my pillows and sheets, and spattering me. one of the few things one never ceases being astonished at in this world is the length a minute can seem when one is uncomfortable. it couldn't have been many minutes, but it seemed an hour, before i had succeeded in partially fastening that port-hole, unlocking that cabin door, and bringing anna to the rescue. before she arrived the dirty swashes had left the first port-hole and gone to the second, which, luckily, had been fastened tight, and all danger was over. but if i had been afloat and in danger of drowning, her sympathy could not have been greater. she came running, her feet bare,--very white they were, too, and rosy pink on the outside edges, like a baby's, i noticed,--and her gown but partly on. it was only half-past four, and she had been, no doubt, as sound asleep as i. with comic pantomime of distress, and repeated exclamations of "poor lady, poor lady!" which phrase i already knew by heart, she gathered up the wet bed, made me another in a dry corner, and then vanished; and i heard her telling the tale of my disaster, in excited tones, to katrina, who soon appeared with a look half sympathy, half amusement, on her face. "now, dat is great tings," she said, giving the innocent port-hole another hard twist at the handle. "i tink you vill be glad ven you comes to christiania. dey say it vill be tere at ten, but i tink it is only shtories." it was not. already we were well up in the smoothness and shelter of the beautiful christiania fjord,--a great bay, which is in the beginning like a sea looking southward into an ocean; then reaches up northward, counting its miles by scores, shooting its shining inlets to right and left, narrowing and yielding itself more and more to the embrace of the land, till, suddenly, headed off by a knot of hills, it turns around, and as if seeking the outer sea it has left behind runs due south for miles, making the peninsula of nesodden. on this peninsula is the little town of drobak, where thirty thousand pounds' worth of ice is stored every winter, to be sold in london as "wenham lake ice." this ice was in summer the water of countless little lakes. the region round about the christiania fjord is set full of them, lily-grown and fir-shaded. once they freeze over, they are marked for their destiny; the snow is kept from them; if the surface be too much roughened it is planed; then it is lined off into great squares, cut out by an ice plough, pried up by wedges, loaded on carts, and carried to the ice-houses. there it is packed into solid bulk, with layers of sawdust between to prevent the blocks from freezing together again. the fjord was so glassy smooth, as we sailed up, that even the "jupiter" could not roll, but glided; and seemed to try to hush its jarring sounds, as if holding its breath, with sense of the shame it was to disturb such sunny silence. the shores on either hand were darkly wooded; here and there a country-seat on higher ground, with a gay flag floating out. no norwegian house is complete without its flagstaff. on sundays, on all holidays, on the birthdays of members of the family, and on all days when guests are expected at the house, the flag is run up. this pretty custom gives a festal air to all places, since one can never walk far without coming on a house that keeps either a birthday or a guest-day. there seemed almost a mirage on the western shore of the bay. the captain, noticing this, called my attention to it, and said it was often to be seen on the norway fjords, "but it was always on the head." in reply to my puzzled look, he went on to say, by way of making it perfectly clear, that "the mountains stood always on their heads;" that is, "their heads down to the heads of the other mountains." he then spoke of the strange looming of the water-line often seen in holland, where he had travelled; but where, he said he never wished to go again, they were "such dirty people." this accusation brought against the dutch was indeed startling. i exclaimed in surprise, saying that the world gave the dutch credit for being the cleanliest of people. yes, he said, they did scrub; it was to be admitted that they kept their houses clean; "but they do put the spitkin on the table when they eat." "spitkin," cried i. "what is that? you do not mean spittoon, surely?" "yes, yes, that is it; the spitkin in which to spit. it is high, like what we keep to put flowers in,--so high," holding his hand about twelve inches from the table; "made just like what we put for flowers; and they put it always on the table when they are eating. i have myself seen it. and they do eat and spit, and eat and spit, ugh!" and the captain shook himself with a great shudder, as well he might, at the recollection. "i do never wish to see holland again." i took the opportunity then to praise the norwegian spitkin, which is a most ingenious device; and not only ingenious, but wholesome and cleanly. it is an open brass pan, some four inches in depth, filled with broken twigs of green juniper. these are put in fresh and clean every day,--an invention, no doubt, of poverty in the first place; for the norwegian has been hard pressed for centuries, and has learned to set his fragrant juniper and fir boughs to all manner of uses unknown in other countries; for instance, spreading them down for outside door-mats, in country-houses,--another pretty and cleanly custom. but the juniper-filled spitkin is the triumph of them all, and he would be a benefactor who would introduce its civilization into all countries. the captain seemed pleased with my commendation, and said hesitatingly,-- "there is a tale, that. they do say,--excuse me," bowing apologetically,--"they do say that it is in america spitted everywhere; and that an american who was in norway did see the spitkin on the stove, but did not know it was spitkin." this part of the story i could most easily credit, having myself looked wonderingly for several days at the pretty little oval brass pan, filled with juniper twigs, standing on the hearth of the turret-like stove in my bergen bedroom, and having finally come to the conclusion that the juniper twigs must be kept there for kindlings. "so he did spit everywhere on the stove; it was all around spitted. and when the servant came in he said, 'take away that thing with green stuff; i want to spit in that place.'" the captain told this story with much hesitancy of manner and repeated "excuse me's;" but he was reassured by my hearty laughter, and my confession that my own ignorance of the proper use of the juniper spitkin had been quite equal to my countryman's. christiania looks well, as one approaches it by water; it is snugged in on the lower half of an amphitheatre of high wooded hills, which open as they recede, showing ravines, and suggesting countless delightful ways up and out into the country. many ships lie in the harbor; on either hand are wooded peninsulas and islands; and everywhere are to be seen light or bright-colored country-houses. the first expression of the city itself, as one enters it, is disappointingly modern, if one has his head full of haralds and olafs, and expects to see some traces of the old osloe. the christiania of to-day is new, as newness is reckoned in norway, for it dates back only to the middle of the sixteenth century; but it is as characteristically norwegian as if it were older,--a pleasanter place to stay in than bergen, and a much better starting-point for norway travel. "a cautious guest, when he comes to his hostel, speaketh but little; with his ears he listeneth, with his eyes he looketh: thus the wise learneth," an old norwegian song says. when walking through the labyrinths of the victoria hotel in christiania, and listening with my ears, i heard dripping and plashing water, and when, looking with my eyes, i saw long dark corridors, damp courtyards, and rooms on which no sun ever had shone, i spoke little, but forthwith drove away in search of airier, sunnier, drier quarters. there were many mysterious inside balconies of beautiful gay flowers at the victoria, but they did not redeem it. "i tink dat place is like a prison more tan it is like a hótle," said katrina, as we drove away; in which she was quite right. "i don't see vhy tey need make a hótle like dat; nobody vould stay in prison!" at the hotel scandinavie, a big room with six sides and five windows pleased her better. "dis is vat you like," she said; "here tere is light." light! if there had only been darkness! in the norway summer one comes actually to yearn for a little christian darkness to go to bed by; much as he may crave a stronger sun by day, to keep him warm, he would like to have a reasonable night-time for sleeping. at first there is a stimulus, and a weird sort of triumphant sense of outwitting nature, in finding one's self able to read or to write by the sun's light till nearly midnight of the clock. but presently it becomes clear that the outwitting is on the other side. what avails it that there is light enough for one to write by at ten o'clock at night, if he is tired out, does not want to write, and longs for nothing but to go to sleep? if it were dark, and he longed to write, nothing would be easier than to light candles and write all night, if he chose and could pay for his candles. but neither money nor ingenuity can compass for him a normal darkness to sleep in. the norwegian house is one-half window: in their long winters they need all the sun they can get; not an outside blind, not an inside shutter, not a dark shade, to be seen; streaming, flooding, radiating in and round about the rooms, comes the light, welcome or unwelcome, early and late. and to the words "early" and "late" there are in a norway summer new meanings: the early light of the summer morning sets in about half-past two; the late light of the summer evening fades into a luminous twilight about eleven. enjoyment of this species of perpetual day soon comes to an end. after the traveller has written home to everybody once by broad daylight at ten o'clock, the fun of the thing is over: normal sleepiness begins to hunger for its rights, and dissatisfaction takes the place of wondering amusement. this dissatisfaction reaches its climax in a few days; then, if he is wise, the traveller provides himself with several pieces of dark green cambric, which he pins up at his windows at bedtime, thereby making it possible to get seven or eight hours' rest for his tired eyes. but the green cambric will not shut out sounds: and he is lucky if he is not kept awake until one or two o'clock every night by the unceasing tread and loud chatter of the cheerful norwegians, who have been forced to form the habit of sitting up half their night-time to get in the course of a year their full quota of daytime. "i tink king ring lived not far from dis place," said katrina, stretching her head out of first one and then another of the five windows, and looking up and down the busy streets; "not in christiania, but i tink not very far away. did ever you hear of king ring? oh, dat is our best story in all norway,--te saga of king ring!" "cannot you tell it to me, katrina?" said i, trying to speak as if i had never heard of king ring. "vell, king ring, he loved ingeborg. i cannot tell; i do not remember. my father, you see,--not my right father, but my father the hatter, he whose little home i showed you in bergen,--he used to take books out vere you pay so much for one week, you see; and i only get half an hour, maybe, or few minutes, but i steal de book, and read all vat i can. i vas only little den: oh, it is years ago. but it is our best story in all norway. ingeborg was beauty, you see, and all in te kings' families vat vanted her: many ghentlemens, and ring, he killed three or four i tink; and den after he killed dem three or four, den he lost her, after all, don't you see; and tat was te fun of it." "but i don't think that was funny at all, katrina," i said. "i don't believe king ring thought it so." "no, i don't tink, either; but den, you see, he had all killed for nothing, and den he lost her himself. i tink it was on the ice: it broke. a stranger told dem not to take the ice; but king ring, he would go. i tink dat was te way it was." it was plain that katrina's reminiscences of her stolen childish readings of the frithiof's saga were incorrect as well as fragmentary, but her eager enthusiasm over it was delicious. her face kindled as she repeated, "oh, it is our best story in all norway!" and when i told her that the next day she should go to a circulating library and get a copy of the book and read it to me, her eyes actually flashed with pleasure. early the next morning she set off. a nondescript roving commission she bore: "a copy of the frithiof's saga in norwegian, [how guiltily i feared she might stumble upon it in an english translation!] and anything in the way of fruit or vegetables." these were her instructions. it was an hour before she came back, flushed with victory, sure of her success and of my satisfaction. she burst into the room, brandishing in one hand two turnips and a carrot; in the other she hugged up in front of her a newspaper, bursting and red-stained, full of fresh raspberries; under her left arm, held very tight, a little old copy of the frithiof's saga. breathless, she dropped the raspberries down, newspaper and all, in a rolling pile on the table, exclaiming, "i tink i shall not get tese home, after i get te oders in my oder hand! are tese what you like?" holding the turnips and carrot close up to my face. "i vas asking for oranges," she continued, "but it is one month ago since they leaved christiania." "what!" i exclaimed. "one mont ago since dey were to see in christiania," she repeated impatiently. "it is not mont since i vas eating dem in bergen. i tought in a great place like christiania dere would be more tings as in bergen; but it is all shtories, you see." how well i came to know the look of that little ragged old copy of the grand saga, and of katrina's face, as she bent puzzling over it, every now and then bursting out with some ejaculated bit of translation, beginning always with, "vell, you see!" i kept her hard at work at it, reading it to me, while i lingered over my lonely breakfasts and dinners, or while we sat under fragrant fir-trees on country hills. wherever we went, the little old book and katrina's norwegian and english dictionary, older still, went with us. her english always incalculably wrong and right, in startling alternations, became a thousand times droller when she set herself to deliberate renderings of the lines of the saga. she went often, in one bound, in a single stanza, from the extreme of nonsense to the climax of poetical beauty of phrase; her pronunciation, always as unexpected and irregular as her construction of phrases, grew less and less correct, as she grew excited and absorbed in the tale. the troublesome _th_ sound, which in ordinary conversation she managed to enunciate in perhaps one time out of ten, disappeared entirely from her poetry; and in place of it, came the most refreshing _t_'s and _d_'s. the worse her pronunciation and the more broken her english, the better i liked it, and the more poetical was the translation. many men have tried their hand at translation of the frithiof's saga, but i have read none which gave me so much pleasure as i had from hearing katrina's; neither do i believe that any poet has studied and rewritten it, however cultured he might be, with more enthusiasm and delight than this norwegian girl of the people, to whom many of the mythological allusions were as unintelligible as if they had been written in sanskrit. she had a convenient way of disposing of those when she came to such as she did not understand: "dat's some o' dem old gods, you see,--dem gods vat dey used to worship." it was evident from many of katrina's terms of expression, and from her peculiar delight in the most poetical lines and thoughts in the saga, that she herself was of a highly poetical temperament. i was more and more impressed by this, and began at last to marvel at the fineness of her appreciations. but i was not prepared for her turning the tables suddenly upon me, as she did one day, after i had helped her to a few phrases in a stanza over which she had come to a halt in difficulties. "as sure 's i'm aliv," she exclaimed, "i believe you're a poet your own self, too!" while i was considering what reply to make to this charge, she went on: "dat's what tey call me in my own country. i can make songs. i make a many: all te birtdays and all te extra days in our family, all come to me and say, 'now, katrina, you has to make song.' dey tink i can make song in one minute for all! [what a kinship is there, all the world over, in some sorts of misery!] ven i've went to america, i made a nice song," she added. "i vould like you to see." "indeed, i would like very much to see it, katrina," i replied. "have you it here?" "i got it in my head, here," she said, laughing, tapping her broad forehead. "i keeps it in my head." but it was a long time before i could persuade her to give it to me. she persisted in saying that she could not translate it. "surely, katrina," i said, "it cannot be harder than the frithiof's saga, of which you have read me so much." "dat is very different," was all i could extract from her. i think that she felt a certain pride in not having her own stanzas fail of true appreciation owing to their being put in broken english. at last, however, i got it. she had been hard at work a whole forenoon in her room with her dictionary and pencil. in the afternoon she came to me, holding several sheets of much-scribbled brown paper in her hand, and said shyly, "now i can read it." i wrote it down as she read it, only in one or two instances helping her with a word, and here it is:-- song on my departure from bergen for america. the time of departure is near, and i am no more in my home; but, god, be thou my protector. i don't know how it will go, out on the big ocean, from my father and mother; i don't know for sure where at last my dwelling-place will be on the earth. my thanks to all my dear, to my foster father and mother; in the distant land, as well as the near, your word shall be my guide. it may happen that we never meet on earth, but my wish is that god forever be with you and bless you. don't forget; bring my compliments over to that place where my cradle stood,-- the dear akrehavnske waves, what i lately took leave of. don't mourn, my father and mother, it is to my benefit; my best thanks for all the goodness you have bestowed on me. a last farewell to you all, my dear friends; may the life's fortune, honor, and glory be with you wherever you are! i know you are all standing in deep thoughts when harald haarfager weighs anchor, and i am away from you. a wreath of memory i will twine or twist round my dear native land, and as a lark happy sing this my well-meaned song. oh, that we all may be wreathed with glory, and in the last carry our wreaths of glory in heaven's hall! watching my face keenly, she read my approbation of her simple little song, and nodding her head with satisfaction, said,-- "oh, sometime you see i ain't quite that foolish i look to! i got big book of all my songs. nobody but myself could read dem papers. it is all pulled up, and five six words standing one on top of oder." ii. murray's guide-book, that paradoxical union of the false and the true, says of christiania, "there is not much of interest in the town, and it may be seen in from four to five hours." the person who made that statement did not have katrina with him, and perhaps ought therefore to be forgiven. he had not strolled with her through the market square of a morning, and among the old women, squatted low, with half a dozen flat, open baskets of fruit before them: blueberries, currants, raspberries, plums, pears, and all shades, sizes, and flavors of cherries, from the pale and tasteless yellow up to those wine-red and juicy as a grape; the very cherry, it must have been, which made lucullus think it worth while to carry the tree in triumphal procession into rome. queer little wooden boxes set on four low wheels, with a short pole, by which a strong man or woman can draw them, are the distinctive features of out-door trade in the christiania market-places. a compacter, cheaper device for combining storage, transportation, and exhibition was never hit on. the boxes hold a great deal. they make a good counter; and when there are twenty or thirty of them together, with poles set up at the four corners, a clothes-line fastened from pole to pole and swung full of cheap stuffs of one sort and another, ready-made garments, hats, caps, bonnets, shoes, clothespins, wooden spoons, baskets, and boxes,--the venders sitting behind or among their wares, on firkins bottom side up,--it is a spectacle not to be despised; and when a market-place, filled with such many-colored fluttering merchandise as this, is also flanked by old-clothes stalls which are like nothing except the ghetto, or rag fair in london, it is indeed worth looking at. to have at one's side an alert native, of frugal mind and unsparing tongue, belonging to that class of women who can never see a low-priced article offered for sale without, for the moment, contemplating it as a possible purchase, adds incalculably to the interest of a saunter through such a market. the thrifty katrina never lost sight of the possibility of lighting upon some bargain of value to her home housekeeping; and our rooms filled up from day to day with her acquisitions. she was absolutely without false pride in the matter of carrying odd burdens. one day she came lugging a big twisted door-mat with, "you see dat? for de door. in bergen i give exact double." the climax of her purchases was a fine washboard, which she brought in in her arms, and exclaimed, laughing, "what you tink the porter say to me? he ask if i am going to take in washing up here. i only give two crowns for dat," she said, eying it with the fondest exultation, and setting it in a conspicuous place, leaning against the side of the room; "it is better as i get for four in bergen." good little katrina! her hands were too white and pretty to be spoiled by hard rubbing on a washboard. they were her one vanity, and it was pardonable. "did you ever see hand like mine?" she said one day, spreading her right hand out on the table. "dere was two english ladies, dey say it ought to be made in warx, and send to see in crystal palace. see dem?" she continued, sticking her left forefinger into the four dimples which marked the spots where knuckles are in ordinary hands; "dem is nice." it was true. the hand was not small, but it was a model: plump, solid, dimples for knuckles, all the fingers straight and shapely; done in "warx," it would have been a beautiful thing, and her pleasure in it was just as guileless as her delight in her washboard. as she delved deeper in her frithiof's saga, she discovered that she had been greatly wrong in her childish impressions of the story. "it was not as i tought," she said: "king ring did get ingeborg after; but he had to die, and leaved her." when we went out to oscar's hall, which is a pretty country-seat of the king's, on the beautiful peninsula of ladegaardsöen, she was far more interested in the sculptured cornice which told the story of frithiof and ingeborg, than in any of the more splendid things, or those more suggestive of the life of the king. the rooms are showily decorated: ceilings in white with gold stars, walls panelled with velvet; gay-colored frescos, and throne-like chairs in which "many kings and queens have sat," the old woman who kept the keys said. everywhere were the royal shields with the crown and the lion; at the corners of the doors, at the crossings of ceiling beams, above brackets, looking-glasses, and on chair-backs. "i tink the king get tired looking at his crown all de time," remarked katrina, composedly. "i wonder vere dey could put in one more." the bronze statues of some of the old kings pleased her better. she studied them carefully: olaf and harald haarfager, sverre sigurdson and olaf tryggvesson; they stand leaning upon their spears, as if on guard. the face of harald looks true to the record of him: a fair-haired, blue-eyed man, who stopped at nothing when he wanted his way, and was just as ready to fall in love with six successive women after he had labored hard twelve years for gyda, and won her, as before. "he is de nicest," said katrina, lingering before his statue, and reaching up and fingering the bronze curiously. "ain't it wonderful how dey can make such tings!" she added with a deep-drawn sigh. but when i pointed to the cornice, and said, "katrina, i think that must be the story of the frithiof's saga," she bounded, and threw her head back, like a deer snuffing the wind. "ja, ja," cried the old woman, evidently pleased that i recognized it, and then she began to pour out the tale. is there a peasant in all norway that does not know it, i wonder? the first medallion was of the children, frithiof and ingeborg, playing together. "dere," said katrina, "dat is vat i told you. two trees growed in one place, nicely in the garden; one growed with de strongth of de oak, dat was frithiof; and de rose in the green walley, dat was ingeborg de beauty." very closely she scanned the medallions one after the other, criticising their fidelity to the record. when she came to the one where frithiof is supporting king ring on his knee, fainting, or sleeping, she exclaimed, "dere, if he had been dat bad, he could have killed king ring den, ven he was sleeping; but see, he have thrown his sword away;" and at last, when the sculpture represented king ring dying, and bequeathing his beautiful queen and her children to frithiof, she exclaimed, "dere, dem two boys belongs to king ring; but now frithiof gets her. dat is good, after all dat dem two had gone through with." king oscar makes very little use of this pretty country-house. he comes there sometimes once or twice in the course of a summer, for a day, or part of a day, but never to sleep, the old woman said. all the rest of the time it is empty and desolate, with only this one poor old woman to keep it tidy; a good berth for her, but a pity that nobody should be taking comfort all summer in the superb outlooks and off-looks from its windows and porch, and in the shady walks along the banks of the fjord. one of the old norway kings, hakon, thought the peninsula beautiful enough for a wedding morning gift to his queen; but it seems not to have been held so dear by her as it ought, for she gave it away to the monks who lived on the neighboring island of hovedöen. then, in the time of the reformation, when monks had to scatter and go begging, and monastic properties were lying about loose everywhere, the norwegian kings picked up ladegaardsöen again, and it has been a crown property ever since. one of the most charming of the short drives in what katrina called "the nearance" of christiania is to the "grefsens bad," a water-cure establishment only two miles away, by road, to the north, but lying so much higher up than the town that it seems to lie in another world,--as in fact it does; for, climbing there, one rises to another and so different air that he becomes another man, being born again through his lungs. it is a good pull up a stony and ill-kept road, to reach the place; but it is more than worth while, for the sake of the clear look-out to sea, over a delicious foreground of vivid green fields and woods. "this is the place where all the sick peoples in norway do come when de doctors cannot do nottings more for dem," said katrina; "den dey comes here. here came our last king, king oscar, and den he did die on the dock ven he vas coming away. he had all de climb dis hill vor notting. ven it is the time, one has to go, no matter how much money dey will pay; dere is one"--here she stopped hesitating for a word--"you know all vat i mean: dere is one what has it all his own way, not de way we wish it shall be." this she said devoutly, and was silent for an unwonted length of time afterwards. as we were driving down the steepest part of the hill, a man came running after us, calling so loudly to us to stop that we were alarmed, thinking something must be wrong with our carriage or in the road. not at all. he was a roadside merchant; not precisely a pedler, since he never went out of his own town, but a kind of aristocratic vender in a small circuit, it seemed; we saw him afterwards in other suburbs, bearing with him the same mysterious basket, and i very much fear, poor fellow, the same still more mysterious articles in it. not even on norwegian country-roads, i think, could there be found many souls so dead to all sense of beauty as to buy the hideous and costly combinations which he insisted upon laying in my lap: a sofa-cushion, square, thick, and hard, of wine-colored velvet, with a sprawling tree and bird laid upon it in an appliqué pattern cut out of black and white velvet; a long and narrow strip of the same velvet, with the same black and white velvet foliage and poultry, was trimmed at the ends with heavy fringe, and intended for a sideboard or a bureau; a large square tablecloth to match completed the list of his extraordinary wares. it was so odd a wayside incident that it seemed to loom quite out of its normal proportions as a mere effort at traffic. he insisted on spreading the articles in my lap. he could not be persuaded to take them away. the driver turning round on his seat, and katrina leaning over from hers, both rapt in admiration of the monstrosities, were stolidly oblivious of my indifference. the things seemed to grow bigger and bigger each moment, and more and more hideous, and it was at last only by a sudden effort of sternness, as if shaking off a spell, that i succeeded in compelling the man to lift them from my knees and fold them away in his basket. as soon as he had gone, i was seized with misgivings that i had been ungracious; and these misgivings were much heightened by katrina's soliloquizing as follows:-- "he! i tink he never take dem tings away. his wife are sick; dat is de reason he is on de road instead of her. he was sure you would buy dem." i hope they are sold. i wish i could know. the suburbs of christiania which lie along the road to the grefsens bad are ugly, dusty, and unpleasing. "i tink we go some oder way dan way we came," said katrina. "dere must be better way." so saying, she stopped the driver abruptly, and after some vigorous conversation he took another road. "he ask more money to go by st. john's hill, but i tell him you not pay any more. i can see it is not farther; i ask him if he tink i got eyes in de head," she said scornfully, waving her fat fingers towards the city which lay close at hand. "ah, dat is great day," she continued, "st. john's day. keep you dat in america? here it is fires all round, from one hill to one hill. dat is from de old time. i tink it is from catolics. dey did do so much for dem old saints, you see. i tink dat is it; but i tink dey do not just know in norway to-day what for dey do it. it has been old custom from parents to parents." then i told her about balder and his death, and asked her if she had never seen the country people put a boat on the top of their bonfire on st. john's eve. "yes, i did see dat, once, in stavanger," she replied, "but it was old boat; no use any more. i tink dat be to save wood. it are cheapest wood dey have, old boat. dat were not to give to any god." "no, you are mistaken, katrina," i said. "they have done that for hundreds of years in norway. it is to remind them of balder's great ship, the hringhorn, and to commemorate his death." "may be," she said curtly, "but i don't tink. i only see dat once; and all my life i see de fires, all round bergen, and everywhere, and dere was no boat on dem. i don't tink." we drove into the city through one of the smaller fruit markets, where, late as it was, the old women still lingered with their baskets of cherries, pears, and currants. they were not losing time, for they were all knitting, fast as their fingers could fly; such a thing as a norwegian wasting time is not to be seen, i verily believe, from the north cape to the skager rack, and one would think that they knit stockings enough for the whole continent of europe; old men, old women, little girls, and even little boys, all knitting, knitting, morning, noon, and night, by roadsides, on door-sills, in market-places; wherever they sit down, or stand, to rest, they knit. as our carriage stopped, down went the stockings, balls rolling, yarn tangling, on the sidewalk, and up jumped the old women, all crowding round me, smiling, each holding out a specimen of her fruit for me to taste. "eat, lady, eat. it is good." "eat and you will buy." "no such cherries as these in christiania." "taste of my plums." a chorus of imploring voices and rattling hail of _sks_. hurried and confused talk in the norwegian tongue as spoken by uneducated people is a bewildering racket; it hardly sounds like human voices. if the smiles did not redeem it, it would be something insupportable; but the smiles do redeem it, transfigure it, lift it up to the level of superior harmonies. such graciousness of eye and of smiling lips triumphs over all possible discord of sound, even over the norwegian battery of consonants. katrina fired back to them all. i fear she reproved them; for they subsided suddenly into silence, and left the outstretched withered palms holding the fruit to speak for themselves. "i only tell dem you cannot buy all de market out. you can say vat you like," she said. pears and cherries, and plums too, because the old plum-woman looked poorer than the rest, i bought; and as we drove away the chorus followed us again with good wishes. "dey are like crazy old vomans," remarked katrina; "i never heard such noise of old vomans to once time before." a few minutes after we reached the house she disappeared suddenly, and presently returned with a little cantaloupe melon in her hands. standing before me, with a curious and hesitating look on her face, she said, "is dis vat you like?" "oh, yes," i exclaimed, grateful for the sight. "i was longing for one yesterday. where did you get it?" "i not get it. i borrow it for you to see. i tell the man i bring it back," she replied, still with the same curious expressions of doubt flitting over her queer little face. "why, whose melon is it?" i exclaimed. "what did you bring it for if it were not for sale?" "oh, it is for selled, if you like to buy," she said, still with the hesitant expression. "of course i like to buy it," i said impatiently. "how much does it cost?" "dat is it," replied katrina, sententiously. "it is too dear to buy, i tell the man; but he said i should bring it to you, to see. i tink you vill not buy it;" still with the quizzical look on her face. quite out of patience, i cried, "but why don't you tell me the price of it? i should like it very much. it can't be so very dear." "dat it can," answered katrina, chuckling, at last letting out her suppressed laugh. "he ask six kroner for dat ting; and i tink you not buy it at such price, so i bring to make you laugh." one dollar and sixty-two cents for a tiny cantaloupe! katrina had her reward. "oh, but i am dat glad ven i make you laugh," she said roguishly, picking up her melon, as i cried out with surprise and amusement,-- "i should think not. i never heard of such a price for a melon." "so i tink," said katrina. "i ask de man who buy dem melons, and he say plenty peoples; but i tink it is all shtories." and she ran downstairs laughing so that i heard her, all the way, two flights down to the door. high up on the dark wooded mountain wall which lies to the north and northwest of christiania is a spot of light color. in the early morning it is vivid green; sometimes at sunset it catches a tint of gold; but neither at morn nor at night can it ever be overlooked. it is a perpetual lure to the eye, and stimulus to the imagination. what eyry is it that has cleared for itself this loop-hole in the solid mountain-forest? is it a clearing, or only a bit of varied wooding of a contrasting color to the rest? for several days i looked at it before i asked; and i had grown so impressed by its mystery and charm, that when i found it was a house, the summer home of a rich christiania family, and one of the places always shown to travellers, i felt more than half-way minded not to go near it,--to keep it still nothing more than a far-away, changing, luring oasis of sunny gold or wistful green on the mountain-side. had it been called by any other name, my instinct to leave it unknown might have triumphed; but the words "frogner sæter" were almost as great a lure to the imagination as the green oasis itself. the sæter, high up on some mountain-side, is the fulfilling of the norwegian out-door life, the key-note of the norwegian summer. the gentle kine know it as well as their mistresses who go thither with them. three months in the upper air, in the spicy and fragrant woods,--no matter if it be solitary and if the work be hard, the sæter life must be the best the norwegians know,--must elevate and develop them, and strengthen them for their long, sunless winters. i had looked up from the vossevangen valley, from ringeriket, and from the hardanger country to many such gleaming points of lighter green, tossed up as it were on the billowy forests. they were beyond the reach of any methods of ascent at my command; unwillingly i had accepted again and again the wisdom of the farm people, who said "the road up to the sæter was too hard for those who were not used to it." reluctantly i had put the sæter out of my hopes, as a thing to be known only by imagination and other people's descriptions. therefore the name of the frogner sæter was a lure not to be resisted; a sæter to which one might drive in a comfortable carriage over a good road could not be the ideal sæter of the wild country life, but still it was called "sæter;" we would go, and we would take a day for the going and coming. "dat will be bestest," said katrina. "i tink you like dat high place better as christiania." on the way we called at the office of a homoeopathic physician, whose name had been given to me by a bergen friend. he spoke no english, and for the first time katrina's failed. i saw at once that she did not convey my meanings to him, nor his to me, with accuracy. she was out of her depth. her mortification was droll; it reached the climax when it came to the word "dynamic." poor little child! how should she have known that! "i vill understand! i vill!" she exclaimed; and the good-natured doctor took pains to explain to her at some length; at the end of his explanation she turned to me triumphantly, with a nod: "now i know very well; it is another kind of strongth from the strongth of a machine. it is not such strongth that you can see, or you can make with your hands; but it is strongth all the same,"--a definition which might be commended to the careful attention of all persons in the habit or need of using the word "dynamic." it is five miles from christiania out and up to the frogner sæter, first through pretty suburban streets which are more roads than streets, with picturesque wooden houses, painted in wonderful colors,--lilac, apple-green, white with orange-colored settings to doors and windows, yellow pine left its own color, oiled, and decorated with white or with maroon red. they look like the gay toy-houses sold in boxes for children to play with. there is no one of them, perhaps, which one would not grow very weary of, if he had to see it every day, but the effect of the succession of them along the roadside is surprisingly gay and picturesque. their variety of shape and the pretty little balconies of carved lattice-work add much to this picturesqueness. they are all surrounded by flower-gardens of a simple kind,--old-fashioned flowers growing in clumps and straight borders, and every window-sill full of plants in bloom; windows all opening outward like doors, so that in a warm day, when every window-sash is thrown open, the houses have a strange look of being a-flutter. there is no expression of elegance or of the habits or standards of great wealth about these suburban houses of christiania; but there is a very rare and charming expression of comfort and good cheer, and a childlike simplicity which dotes on flowers and has not outgrown the love of bright colors. i do not know anywhere a region where houses are so instantly and good-naturedly attractive, with a suggestion of good fellowship, and sensible, easy-going good times inside and out. the last three miles of the road to the sæter are steadily up, and all the way through dense woods of fir and spruce,--that grand norway spruce, which spreads its boughs out generously as palms, and loads down each twig so full that by their own weight of shining green the lower branches trail out along the ground, and the upper ones fold a little and slant downwards from the middle, as if avalanches of snow had just slid off on each side and bent them. here were great beds of ferns, clusters of bluebells, and territories of linnæa. in june the mountain-side must be fragrant with its flowers. katrina glowed with pleasure. in her colder, barrener home she had seen no such lavishness as this. "oh, but ven one tinks, how nature is wonderful!" she cried. "here all dese tings grow up, demselves! noting to be done. are dey not wort more dan in gardens? in gardens always must be put in a corn before anyting come up; and all dese nice tings come up alone, demselves." "oh, but see vat god has done; how much better than all vat people can; no matter vat dey make." half-way up the mountain we came to a tiny house, set in a clearing barely big enough to hold the house and let a little sun in on it from above. "oh, i wish-shed i had dat little house!" she exclaimed. "dat house could stand in bergen. i like to carry dat home and dem trees to it; but my husband, he would not like it. he likes bergen house bestest." as we drew near the top, we met carriages coming down. evidently it was the custom to drive to the frogner sæter. "i tink in dat first carriage were chews," said katrina, scornfully. "i do hate dem chews. i can't bear dat kind of people." "why not, katrina?" i asked. "it is not fair to hate people because of their religion." "oh, dat i don't know about deir religion," she replied carelessly. "i don't tink dey got much religion anyhow. i tink dey are kind of thieves. i saw it in new york. ven i went into chew shop, he say a ting are tree dollar; and i say, 'no, dat are too dear.' den he say, 'you can have for two dollar;' and i say, 'no, i cannot take;' and den he say, 'oh, have it for one dollar and half;' and i tink all such tings are not real. i hate dem chews. dey are all de same in all places. dey are chust like dat if dey come in norway. very few chews comes in norway. dat is one good ting." in a small open, part clearing, part natural rocky crest of the hill, stood the sæter: great spaces of pink heather to right and left of it, a fir wood walling it on two sides; to the south and the east, a clear off-look over the two bays of the christiania fjord, past all their islands, out to sea, and the farthest horizon. christiania lay like an insignificant huddle of buildings in the nearer foreground; its only beauty now being in its rich surrounding of farm-lands, which seemed to hold it like a rough brown pebble in an emerald setting. the house itself fronted south. its piazza and front windows commanded this grand view. it was of pine logs, smoothed and mortised into each other at the corners. behind it was a hollow square of the farm buildings: sheds, barns, and the pretty white cottage of the overseer. the overseer's wife came running to meet us, and with cordial good-will took us into the house, and showed us every room. she had the pride of a retainer in the place; and when she found that none of its beauty was lost on me, she warmed and grew communicative. it will not be easy to describe the charm of this log-house: only logs inside as well as out; but the logs are norway pine, yellow and hard and shining, taking a polish for floors and ceiling as fine as ash or maple, and making for the walls belts and stripes of gold color better than paper; all cross beams and partitions are mortised at the joinings, instead of crossing and lapping. this alone gives to these norwegian houses an expression quite unlike that of ordinary log-houses. a little carved work of a simple pattern, at the cornices of the rooms and on the ceiling beams, was the only ornamentation of the house; and a great glass door, of a single pane, opening on the piazza, was the only luxurious thing about it. everything else was simply and beautifully picturesque. old norwegian tapestries hung here and there on the walls, their vivid reds and blues coming out superbly on the yellow pine; curious antique corner cupboards, painted in chaotic colors of fantastic brightness; old fireplaces built out into the room, in the style of the most ancient norwegian farm-houses; old brasses, sconces, placques, and candlesticks; and a long dining-table, with wooden benches of hollowed planks for seats, such as are to be seen to-day in some of the old ruined baronial castles in england. in the second-story rooms were old-fashioned bedsteads: one of carved pine, so high that it needed a step-ladder to mount it; the other built like a cupboard against the wall, and shut by two sliding doors, which on being pushed back disclosed two narrow bunks. this is the style of bed in many of the norwegian farm-houses still. on the sliding door of the upper bunk was a small photograph of the prince imperial; and the woman told us with great pride that he had slept one night in that bed. upstairs again, by narrow winding stairs, and there we found the whole floor left undivided save by the big chimney-stack which came up in the middle; the gable ends of the garret opened out in two great doors like barn-doors; under the eaves, the whole length of each side, was a row of bunk beds, five on each side, separated only by a board partition. this was a great common bedroom, "used for gentlemen at christmas-time," the woman said. "there had as many as fifteen or twenty gentlemen slept in that room." at christmas, it seems, it is the habit of the family owning this unique and charming country-house to come up into the woods for a two weeks' festivity. the snow is deep. the mercury is well down near zero or below; but the road up the mountain is swept level smooth: sledges can go easier in winter than carriages can in summer; and the vast outlook over the glittering white land and shining blue sea full of ice islands must be grander than when the islands and the land are green. pine logs in huge fireplaces can warm any room; and persons of the sort that would think of spending christmas in a fir-wood on a mountain-top could make a house warm even better than pine logs could do it. christmas at the frogner sæter must be a christmas worth having. "the house is as full as ever it can hold," said the woman, "and fifty sit down to dinner sometimes; they think nothing of driving up from christiania and down again at midnight." what a place for sleigh-bells to ring on a frosty night; that rocky hill-crest swung out as it were in clear space of upper air, with the great christiania fjord stretching away beneath, an ice-bound, ice-flaked sea, white and steel-black under the winter moon! i fancied the house blazing like a many-sided beacon out of the darkness of the mountain front at midnight, the bells clanging, the voices of lovers and loved chiming, and laughter and mirth ringing. i think for years to come the picture will be so vivid in my mind that i shall find myself on many a christmas night mentally listening to the swift bells chiming down the mountain from the frogner sæter. the eastern end of the piazza is closed in by a great window, one single pane of glass like the door; so that in this corner, sheltered from the wind, but losing nothing of the view, one can sit in even cold weather. katrina cuddled herself down like a kitten, in the sun, on the piazza steps, and looking up at me, as i sat in this sheltered corner, said approvingly,-- "dis you like. i ask de voman if we could stay here; but she got no room: else she would like to keep us. i tink i stay here all my life: only for my husband, i go back." then she pulled out the saga and read some pages of ingeborg's lament, convulsing me in the beginning by saying that it was "ingeborg's whale." it was long before i grasped that she meant "wail." "what you say ven it is like as if you cry, but you do not cry?" she said. "dat is it. it stands in my dictionary, whale!" and she reiterated it with some impatience at my stupidity in not better understanding my own language. when i explained to her the vast difference between "whale" and "wail," she was convulsed in her turn. "oh, dere are so many words in english which do have same sound and mean so different ting," she said, "i tink i never learn to speak english in dis world." while we were sitting there, a great speckled woodpecker flew out from the depths of the wood, lighted on a fir near the house, and began racing up and down the tree, tapping the bark with his strong bill, like the strokes of a hammer. "there is your gertrude bird, katrina," said i. she looked bewildered. "the woman that christ punished," i said, "and turned her into the gertrude bird; do you not know the old story?" no, she had never heard it. she listened with wide-open eyes while i told her the old norwegian legend, which it was strange that i knew and she did not,--how christ and peter, stopping one day at the door of a woman who was kneading her bread, asked her for a piece. she broke a piece for them; but as she was rolling it out, it grew under her roller till it filled her table. she laid it aside, saying it was too large, broke off another piece, rolled it out with the same result; it grew larger every moment. she laid that aside, and took a third bit, the smallest she could possibly break off: the same result; that too grew under her roller till it covered the table. then her heart was entirely hardened, and she laid this third piece on one side, saying, "go your ways, i cannot spare you any bread to-day." then christ was angry, and opened her eyes to see who he was. she fell on her knees, and implored his forgiveness; but he said, "no. you shall henceforth seek your bread from day to day, between the wood and the bark." and he changed her into a bird,--the gertrude bird, or woodpecker. the legend runs, however, that, relenting, the lord said that when the plumage of the bird should become entirely black, her punishment should be at an end. the gertrude bird grows darker and darker every year, and when it is old, has no white to be seen in its plumage. when the white has all disappeared, then the lord christ takes it for his own, so the legend says; and no norwegian will ever injure a gertrude bird, because he believes it to be under god's protection, doing this penance. "is dat true?" asked katrina, seriously. "dat must have been when de lord was going about on dis earth; ven he was ghost. i never hear dat." i tried to explain to her the idea of a fable. "fable," she said, "fable,--dat is to teach people to be giving ven dey got, and not send peoples away vidout notings. dat's what i see, many times i see. but i do not see dat de peoples dat is all for saving all dey got, gets any richer. i tink if you give all the time to dem dat is poorer, dat is de way to be richer. dere is always some vat is poorer." in the cosey little sitting-room of her white cottage, the farmer's wife gave us a lunch which would not have been any shame to any lady's table,--scrambled eggs, bread, rusks, milk, and a queer sort of election cake, with raisins but no sugar. this katrina eyed with the greed of a child; watched to see if i liked it, and exclaimed, "we only get dat once a year, at christmas time." seeing that i left a large piece on my plate, she finally said, "do you tink it would be shame if i take dat home? it is too good to be leaved." with great glee, on my first word of permission, she crammed it into her omnivorous pocket, which already held a dozen or more green apples that she had persisted in picking up by the roadside as we came. as we drove down the mountain, the glimpses here and there, between the trees, of the fjord and islands were even more beautiful than the great panorama seen from the top. little children ran out to open gates for us, and made their pretty norwegian courtesies, with smiles of gratitude for a penny. we met scores of peasant women going out to their homes, bearing all sorts of burdens swung from a yoke laid across their shoulders. the thing that a norwegian cannot contrive to swing from one side or the other of his shoulder-yoke must be very big indeed. the yokes seem equally adapted to everything, from a butter-firkin to a silk handkerchief full of cabbages. weights which would be far too heavy to carry in any other way the peasants take in this, and trot along between their swinging loads at as round a pace as if they had nothing to carry. we drove a roundabout way to our hotel, to enable katrina to see an old teacher of hers; through street after street of monotonous stucco-walled houses, each with a big open door, a covered way leading into a court behind, and glimpses of clothes-lines, or other walls and doorways, or green yards, beyond. two thirds of the houses in christiania are on this plan; the families live in flats, or parts of flats. sometimes there are eight or ten brass bell-handles, one above another, on the side of one of these big doorways, each door-bell marking a family. the teacher lived in a respectable but plain house of this kind,--she and her sister; they had taught katrina in bergen when she was a child, and she retained a warm and grateful memory of them; one had been married, and her husband was in america, where they were both going to join him soon. everywhere in norway one meets people whose hearts are in america,--sons, husbands, daughters, lovers. everybody would go if it were possible; once fourteen thousand went in one year, i was told. these poor women had been working hard to support themselves by teaching and by embroidering. katrina brought down, to exhibit to me, a dog's head, embroidered in the finest possible silks,--silks that made a hair-stroke like a fine pen; it was a marvellously ingenious thing, but no more interesting than the "lord's prayer written in the circumference of two inches," or any of that class of marvels. "dey take dese to america," katrina said. "did you ever see anyting like dem dere? dey get thirty kroner for one of dem dogs. it is chust like live dog." after we returned, katrina disappeared again on one of her mysterious expeditions, whose returns were usually of great interest to me. this time they brought to both of us disappointment. coming in with a radiant face, and the usual little newspaper bundle in her hand, she cried out, "now i got you de bestest ting yet," and held out her treasures,--a pint of small berries, a little larger than whortleberries, and as black and shining as jet. "dis is de bestest berry in all norway," she exclaimed, whipping one into her own mouth; "see if you like." i incautiously took three or four at once. not since the days of old-fashioned dover's and james's powders have i ever tasted a more nauseous combination of flavors than resided in those glittering black berries. "you not like dem berries?" cried poor katrina, in dismay at my disgust, raising her voice and its inflections at every syllable. "you not like dem berries? i never hear of nobody not liking dem berries. dey is bestest we got! any way, i eat dem myself," she added philosophically, and retreated crestfallen to her room, where i heard her smacking her lips over them for half an hour. i believe she ate the whole at a sitting. they must have been a variety of black currant, and exclusively intended by nature for medicinal purposes; but katrina came out hearty and well as ever the next day, after having swallowed some twelve or sixteen ounces of them. by way of atoning for her mishap with the berries, she ran out early the next morning and bought a little packet of odds and ends of strong-scented leaves and dust of several kinds, and, coming up behind my chair, held it close under my nose, with,-- "ain't dat nice smell? ain't dat better as dem berries? oh, i tink i never stop laughing ven i am at home ven i tink how you eat dem berries. dey are de bestest berries we got." on my approving the scent, she seemed much pleased, and laid the little packet on my table, remarking that i could "chust smell it ven i liked." she added that in the winter-time they kept it in all norwegian houses, and strewed it on the stoves when they were hot, and it "smelled beautiful." they called it "king's smoke," she said, and nobody would be without it. it is easy to see why the norwegians, from the king down, must need some such device as this to make tolerable the air in their stove-heated rooms in winter. it was appalling to look at their four and five storied stoves, and think how scorched the air must be by such a mass of heated iron. the average norwegian stove is as high as the door of the room, or even higher. it is built up of sections of square-cornered hollow iron pipe, somewhat as we build card-houses; back and forth, forward and back, up and across, through these hollow blocks of cast-iron, goes the heated air. it takes hours to get the tower heated from bottom to top; but once it is heated there is a radiating mass of burnt iron, with which it must be terrible to be shut up. the open spaces between the cross sections must be very convenient for many purposes,--to keep all sorts of things hot; and a man given to the habit of tipping back in his chair, and liking to sit with his feet higher than his head, could keep his favorite attitude and warm his feet at the same time,--a thing that couldn't be done with any other sort of stove. one of my last days in christiania was spent on the island of hovedöen, a short half-hour's row from the town. here are the ruins of an old monastery, dating back to the first half of the twelfth century, and of priceless interest to antiquarians, who tell, inch by inch, among the old grass-grown stones, just where the abbot sat, and the monks prayed, and through which arch they walked at vespers. bits of the old carved cornices are standing everywhere, leaning up against the moss-grown walls, which look much less old for being hoary with moss. one thing they had in the monastery of hovedöen,--a well of ice-cold, sparkling water, which might have consoled them for much lack of wine; and if the limes and poplars and birches were half as beautiful in as they are now, the monks were to be envied, when a whole nunneryful of nuns took refuge on their island in the time of the first onslaught on convents. what strolls under those trees! there are several species of flowers growing there now which grow nowhere else in all the region about, and tradition says that these nuns planted them. the paths are edged with heather and thyme and bluebells, and that daintiest of little vetches, the golden yellow, whose blossoms were well named by the devout sisters "mary's golden shoes." as we rowed home at sunset over the amber and silver water, katrina sang norwegian songs; her voice, though untrained and shrill, had sweet notes in it, and she sang with the same childlike heartiness and innocent exultation that she showed in everything else. "old norway" was the refrain of the song she liked most and sang best; and more than one manly norwegian voice joined in with hers with good-will and fervor. at the botanical gardens a victoria regia was on the point of blooming. day after day i had driven out there to see it; each day confident, each day disappointed. the professor, a quaint and learned old man, simple in speech and behavior, as all great scientific men are, glided about in a linen coat, his shears hanging in a big sheath on one side his belt, his pruning-knife on the other, and a big note-book in his breast-pocket. his life seemed to me one of the few ideal ones i had ever seen. his house stands on a high terrace in the garden, looking southward, over the city to the fjord. it is a long, low cottage, with dormer windows sunk deep in the red-tiled roof, shaded by two great horsechestnut trees, which are so old that clumps of grass have grown in their gnarled knots. here he plants and watches and studies; triumphs over the utmost rigors of the norway climate, and points with pride to a dozen varieties of indian corn thriving in his grounds. tropical plants of all climes he has cajoled or coerced into living out-of-doors all winter in norway. one large house full of begonias was his special pride; tier after tier of the splendid velvet leaves, all shades of color in the blossoms: one could not have dreamed that the world held so many varieties of begonia. he was annoyed by his victoria regia's tardiness. there it lay, lolling in its huge lake,--in a sultry heated air which it was almost dangerous for human lungs to breathe. its seven huge leaves spread out in round disks on which a child could stand safe. in the middle, just out of the water, rose the mysterious red bud. it was a plant he had himself raised in one year from seed; and he felt towards it as to a child. "i cannot promise. i did think it should have opened this morning. it has lifted itself one inch since last night," he said. "it is not my fault," he added apologetically, like a parent who cannot make a child obey. then he showed me, by his clasped hands, how it opened; in a series of spasmodic unclosings, as if by throes, at intervals of five or six minutes; each unclosing revealing more and more of the petals, till at last, at the end of a half-hour, the whole snowy blossom is unfolded: one day open, then towards night, by a similar series of throe-like movements, it closes, and the next morning, between nine and eleven, opens again in the same way, but no longer white. in the night it has changed its color. one look, one taste, one day, of life has flushed it rose-red. as the old professor told me this tale, not new, but always wonderful and solemn, his face kindled with delight and awe. no astronomer reckoning the times and colors of a recurring planet could have had a vivider sense of the beauty and grandeur of its law. the last thing i did in christiania was to drive for the third time to see if this flower had unfolded. it had apparently made no movement for twenty-four hours. "i tought you not see dat flower," said katrina, who had looked with some impatience on the repeated bootless journeys. "i tink it is hoombug. i tink it is all shtories." to me there was a half-omen in the flower's delay. norway also had shown me only half its beauty; i was going away wistful and unsatisfied. "you must have another victoria next summer," i said to the quaint old professor, when i bade him good-by; and as katrina ran swiftly off the deck of the steamer, that i might not see any tears in her eyes, bidding me farewell, i said also to her, "next summer, katrina. study the frithiof's saga, and read me the rest of it next summer." i hope she will not study it so well as to improve too much in her renderings. could any good english be so good as this? frithiof and ingeborg. two trees growed bold and silent: never before the north never seen such beauties; they growed nicely in the garden. the one growed up with the strongth of the oak; and the stem was as the handle of the spear, but the crown shaked in the wind like the top on the helmet. but the other one growed like a rose,--like a rose when the winter just is going away; but the spring what stands in its buds still in dreams childly is smiling. the storm shall go round the world. in fight with the storm the oak will stand: the sun in the spring will glow on the heaven. then the rose opens its ripe lips. so they growed in joy and play; and frithiof was the young oak, but the rose in the green walley was named ingeborg the beauty. if you seen dem two in the daylight, you would think of freya's dwelling, where many a little pair is swinging with yellow hair, and vings like roses. but if you saw dem in the moonlight, dancing easy around, you would tink to see an erl-king pair dancing among the wreaths of the walley. how he was glad-- "dem's the nicest vairses, i tink." --how he was glad, how it was dear to him, when he got to write the first letter of her name, and afterwards to learn his ingeborg, that was to frithiof more than the king's honor. how nicely when with the little sail, ven they vent over the surface of the water, how happy with her little white hands she is clapping ven he turns the rudder. how far up it was hanging in the top of the tree, to the bird's-nest, he found up; sure was not either the eagle's nest, when she stand pointing down below. you couldn't find a river, no matter how hard it was, without he could carry her over. it is so beautiful when the waves are roaring to be keeped fast in little white arms. the first flower brought up in the spring, the first strawberry that gets red, the first stem that golden bended down, he happy brought his ingeborg. but the days of childhood goes quickly away. there stands a youth; and in a while the hope, the brave, and the fire is standing in his face. there stands a maiden, with the bosom swelling. very often frithiof went out a-hunting. such a hunting would frighten many; without spear and sword the brave would fetch the bear: they were fighting breast to breast; and after the glory, in an awful state, the hunter went home with what he got. what girl wouldn't like to take that? "ven he had been fighting that way, you see, without any sword or anyting." then dear to the women is the fierce of a man. the strongth is wort the beauty, and they will fit well for another, as well as the helm fits the brain of an hero. but if he in the winter evening, with his soul fierce, by the fire's beam was reading of bright walhalla, a song, a song of the gods-- "veil, dat's the mans; vat's the vomens?" "goddesses?" "vell, dat's it." --a song of the gods and goddesses' joy, he was tinking, yellow is the hair of freya. my ingeborg-- "vat's a big field called when it is all over ripe?" "yellow?" "no,"--a shake of the head. --is like the fields when easy waves the summer wind a golden net round all the flower bundles. iduna's bosom is rich, and beautiful it waves under the green satin. i know a twin satin wave in where light alfs hid themself. and the eyes of frigga are blue as the heavenly whole; still often i looked at two eyes under the vault of heaven: against dem are a spring day dark to look at. how can it be they praise gerda's white cheeks, and the new-come snow in the north light beam? i looked at cheeks, the snow mountain's beam ain't so beautiful in the red of the morning. i know a heart as soft as nanna's, if not so much spoken of. well praised of the skalds you, nanna's happy balder! oh, that i as you could die missed of the soft and honest maiden, your nanna like. i should glad go down to hell's the dark kingdom. but the king's daughter sat and sung a hero song, and weaved glad into the stuff all things the hero have done, the blue sea, the green walley, and rock-rifts. there growed out in snow-white vool the shining shields of-- "ain't there a word you say spinned?" --spinned gold; red as the lightning flew the lances of the war, and stiff of silver was every armor. but as she quickly is weaving and nicely, she gets the heroes frithiof's shape, and as she comes farther into the weave, she gets red, but still she sees them with joy. but frithiof did cut in walley and field many an i and f in the bark of-- "he cut all round. wherever he come, he cut them two." --the trees. these runes is healed with happy and joy, just like the young hearts together. when the daylight stands in its emerald-- here we had a long halt, katrina insisting on saying "smaragd," and declaring that that was an english word; she had seen it often, and "it could not be pronounced in any other way;" she had seen it in "lady montaig in turkey,"--"she had loads of smaragds and all such things." her contrition, when she discovered her mistake, was inimitable. she had read this account of "lady montagu in turkey," in her "hundred lessons," at school so many times she knew it by heart, which she proceeded to prove by long quotations. --and the king of the light with the golden hair, and the mens, is busy wandering, then they did only think one on each other. when the night is standing in its emerald, and the mother of the sleep with dark hair and all are silent, and the stars are wandering, den they only is dreaming of each other. thou earth dat fix thee [or gets new] every spring, and is braiding the flowers into your hair, the beautifullest of them, give me friendly, for a wreath to reward frithiof. thou ocean, dat in thy dark room has pearls in thousands, give me the best, the beautifullest, and the beautifullest neck i will bind them to. thou button on odin's king-chair, thou world's eye golden sun, if you were mine, your shining round i would give frithiof as shield. thou lantern in the all-father's home, the moon with the pale torch, if you were mine, i would give it as an emerald for my beautiful hand-maiden. then hilding said, "foster son, your love wouldn't be any good to you. different lots norna gives out. that maiden is daughter to king bele. to odin hisself in the star-place mounts her family. you, de son of thorstein peasant, must give way, because like thrives best with like." "he have to leave because he vas poor, you see." but frithiof smiled: "very easy my arm will win me king's race. the king of the wood fall, the king of the forest fall in spite of claw and howl; his race i inherit with the skin." the free-born man wouldn't move, because the world belongs to the free. easy, courage can reconcile fortune, and de hope carries a king's crown. most noble is all strongth. because thor-- "he was fader of all dem oder gods, you see." the ancestor lives in thrudvang, he weighs not de burden, but de wort; "look now, all dese be strange words." a mighty wooer is also the sword. i will fight for my young bride. if it so were, vid de god of de tunder; grow safe, grow happy, my white lily, our covenant are fast as the norna's will. this is her translation of the last stanzas of the account of ingeborg's marriage to frithiof:-- in come ingeborg in hermine sack, and bright jewels, followed of a crowd of maids like de stars wid de moon. wid de tears in de beautiful eyes she fall to her brother's heart; but he lead the dear sister up to frithiof's noble breast; and over the god's altar she reach-ched her hand to de childhood's friend, to her heart's beloved. a few days before i left christiania, katrina had come shyly up to my table, one evening, and tossed down on it a paper, saying,-- "dere is anoder. dis one is for you." on looking at it, i found it contained four stanzas of norwegian verse, in which my name occurred often. no persuasions i could bring to bear on her would induce her to translate it. she only laughed, said she could not, and that some of my norwegian friends must read it to me. she read it aloud in the norwegian, and to my ignorant ear the lines had a rhythmical and musical sound. she herself was pleased with it. "it is nice song, dat song," she said; but turn it into english for me she would not. each day, however, she asked if i had had it translated, and finding on the last day that i had not, she darted into her room, shut the door, and in the course of two hours came out, saying, "i got it part done; but dey tell you better, as i tell you." the truth was, the tribute was so flattering, she preferred it should come to me second hand. she shrank from saying directly, in open speech, all that it had pleased her affectionate heart to say in the verses. three of the stanzas i give exactly as she wrote them. the rest is a secret between katrina and me. thanks. the duty command me to honor you, who with me were that kind i set her beside my parents. like a sunbeamed picture for my look, you painted stands. my wishes here translated with you to colorado go. happy days! oh, happy memories be with me on the life's way. let me still after a while find or meet you energisk. i wouldn't forget. god, be thou a true guide for her over the big ocean; keep away from her all torments that she happy may reach her home. take my thanks and my farewell as remembrance along with you home, though a stranger i am placed and as servant for you, the heaven's best reward i pray down for all you did to me. good luck and honor be with you till you die. the last verse seems to me to sound far better in norwegian than in english, and is it not more fitting to end the katrina saga in a few of her words in her own tongue? "modtag takken og farvellet som erindring med dem hjem, sjönt som fremmed jeg er stillet og som tjener kun for dem. himlen's rige lön nedbeder jeg for lidet og for stort, mrs. jackson, held og hæder fölge dem til döden's port." encyclicals of a traveller. i. dear people,--we had a fine send-off from christiania. the landlord of the scandinavie sent up to know if we would do him the honor to drive down to the steamer in his private carriage. katrina delivered the message with exultant eyes. "you see," she said, "he likes to show dat he do not every day get such in de house." we sent word back that we should consider ourselves most honored; and so when we went downstairs, there stood a fine landau open, with bouquets lying on the seats, and a driver in livery; and the landlord himself in the doorway, and the landlord's wife, who had sent us the bouquets, katrina said, peering from behind the curtains. when she saw katrina pointing her out, she threw the curtains back and appeared full in view, smiling and waving her hand; we lifted up our bouquets, and waved them to her, and smiled our thanks. katrina sprang up, with my cloak on her arm, to the coachman's seat. "i tink i go down too," she exclaimed, "i see you all safe;" and so we drove off, with as much smiling and bowing and "fare-welling" as if we had been cousins and aunts of everybody in the scandinavie. how we did hate to leave our great corner rooms, with five windows in them, the fifth window being across the corner, which is not a right-angled corner, but like a huge bay-window! this utilization of the corner is a very noticeable feature in the streets of christiania. in the greater part of the best houses the corner is cut off in this way; the door into the room being across the opposite corner (also cut off), thus making a six-sided room. the improvement in the street-fronts of handsome blocks of buildings made by this shape instead of the usual rectangular corner is greater than would be supposed, and the rooms made in this fashion are delightfully bright, airy, and out of the common. i did not quite fancy sailing in a steamer named "balder,"--one gets superstitious in norway,--but i think we had flowers enough on board to have saved us if loki herself had wished us ill. nothing in all norway is more striking than the norwegian's love of flowers. it is no exaggeration to say that one does not see a house without flowers in the window. in the better houses every window in the front, even up to the little four-paned window in the gable, has its row of flower-pots; and even in the very poorest hovels there will be at least one window flower-filled. this general love and culture of flowers makes it the most natural thing in the world for the norwegian, when he travels, to be carrying along something in the shape of a plant. he is either taking it home or carrying it as a gift to some one he is going to visit. i have not yet been on a steamboat where i did not see at least a dozen potted plants, of one sort or another, being carefully carried along, as hand luggage, by men or women; and as for bouquets, they are almost as common as hats and bonnets. of the potted plants, five out of seven will be green myrtles, and usually the narrow leaf. there is a reason for this,--the norwegian bride, of the better class, wears always a chaplet of green myrtle, and has her white veil trimmed with little knots of it from top to bottom. the chaplet is made in front somewhat after the shape of the high gilded crowns worn by the peasant brides; but at the back it is simply a narrow wreath confining the veil. after i knew this, i looked with more interest at the pots of myrtle i met everywhere, journeying about from place to place; and i observed, after this, what i had not before noticed, that every house had at least one pot of myrtle in its windows. there were a dozen different varieties of carnations in our bouquets. the first thing i saw as we moved off from the wharf was a shabbily dressed little girl with a big bouquet entirely of carnations, in which there must have been many more. in a few minutes a woman, still shabbier than the little girl, came down into the cabin with a great wooden box of the sort that norwegian women carry everything in, from potatoes up to their church fineries: it is an oval box with a little peak at each end like a squirrel cage; the top, which has a hole in the middle, fits down around these peaks so tight that the box is safely lifted by this handle; and, as i say, everything that a norwegian woman wants to carry, she puts into her _tine_ (pronounced, "teener"). some of them are painted in gay colors; others are left plain. setting down the box, she opened it, and proceeded to sprinkle with water one of the most beautiful wreaths i have ever seen,--white lilies, roses, and green myrtle. i think it came from a wedding; but as she knew no english, and i no norwegian, i could not find out. two nights and a day she was going to carry it, however, and she sprinkled it several times a day. an hour later, when i went down into the cabin, there was a row of bouquets filling the table under the looking-glass; five pots of flowers standing on the floor, and in several staterooms whose doors were standing open i saw still more of both bouquets and plants. this is only a common illustration of the universal custom. it is a beautiful one, and in thorough keeping with the affectionate simplicity of the norwegian character. christiania looked beautiful as we sailed away. it lies in the hollow, or rather on the shore rim of the fine amphitheatre of hills which makes the head of the christiania fjord. _fjord_ is a much more picturesque word than _bay_; and i suppose when a bay travels up into the heart of a country scores of miles, slips under several narrow strips of land one after the other, making lakes between them, it is entitled to be called something more than plain _bay_; but i wish it had been a word easier to pronounce. i never could say "fjord," when i read the word in america; and all that i have gained on the pronouncing of it by coming to norway is to become still more distinctly aware that i always pronounce it wrong. i do not think cadmus ever intended that _j_ should be _y_, or that one should be called on to pronounce _f_ before it. the christiania fjord has nothing of grandeur about it, like the wilder fjords on the west coast of norway. it is smiling and gracious, with beautifully rounded and interlocking hills,--intervals of pine woods, with green meadows and fields, pretty villages and hamlets, farm-houses and country-seats, and islands unnumbered, which deceive the eye continually, seeming to be themselves the shore. we left christiania at two o'clock; at that hour the light on a norway summer day is like high noon in other parts of the world,--in fact, it's noon till four o'clock in the afternoon, and then it is afternoon till ten, and then a good, long, very light twilight to go to bed by at eleven or twelve, and if you want to get up again at three o'clock in the morning you can wake without any trouble, for it is broad daylight: all of which is funny for once or twice, or perhaps for ten times, but not for very long. it was not till four or five o'clock that we began to see the full beauty of the fjord; then the sun had gone far enough over to cast a shadow,--soften all the forest tops on the west side, and cast shadows on the east side. the little oases of bright green farm-lands, with their clusters of houses, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into their dark pine-tree settings,--the fjord grew wider and wider, and was as smooth as a lake: now and then we drew up by a little village and half stopped,--it seemed no more than that,--and somebody would climb on or off the steamer by little cockles of boats that bobbed alongside. sometimes we came to a full stop, and lay several minutes at a wharf, loading or unloading bags of grain. i think we took on just as many as we took off,--like a game of bean-bags between the villages. the sailors carried them off and on their backs, one set standing still in their places to lift the bags up on their comrades' backs; they lifted with a will, and then folded their arms and waited till the bag-carriers came back to be loaded up again. if i could have spoken norwegian, i should have asked whether those sets of men took turn and turn about, or whether one set always lifted up the loads and the others lugged them,--probably the latter. that's the way it is in life; but i never saw a more striking example of it than in the picture these sailors made standing with folded arms doing nothing, waiting till their fellows came back again to be loaded down like beasts of burden. it was at "moss" we saw this,--a pretty name for a little town with a handful of gay-colored houses, red, yellow, and white, set in green fields and woods. women came on board here with trays of apples and pears to sell,--little wizened pears red high up on one side, like some old spinsters' cheeks in new england. children came too, with cherries tied up in bunches of about ten to a bunch; they looked dear, but it was only a few hundredths of a quarter of a dollar that they cost. since i have found out that a kroner is only about twenty-seven cents, and that it takes one hundred ore to make a kroner, all the things that cost only a few ore seem to me so ridiculously cheap as not to be worth talking about. these children with the cherries were all barefoot, and they were so shy that they curled and mauled their little brown toes all the time they were selling their cherries, just as children one shade less shy twist and untwist their fingers. we left moss by a short cut, not overland exactly, but next door to it,--through land. the first thing we knew we were sailing through a bridge right into the town, in a narrow canal,--we could have thrown an apple into the windows of some of the houses as we glided by; then in a few moments out we were again into the broad open fjord. at six o'clock we went down to our first danish supper. the "balder" is a danish boat, and sailed by a danish captain, and conducted on danish methods; and they pleased us greatly. the ordinary norwegian supper is a mongrel meal of nobody knows how many kinds of sausage, raw ham, raw smoked salmon, sardines, and all varieties of cheese. the danish we found much better, having the addition of hot fish, and cutlets, and the delicious danish butter. one good result of denmark's lying low, she gets splendid pasturage for her cows, and makes a delicious butter, which brings the highest prices in the english and other markets. when we came up from supper we found ourselves in a vast open sea; dim shores to be seen in the east and west,--in the east pink and gray, in the west dark with woods. the setting sun was sinking behind them, and its yellow light etched every tree-top on the clear sky. here and there a sail gleamed in the sun, or stood out white in the farther horizon. a pink halo slowly spread around the whole outer circumference of the water; and while we were looking at this, all of a sudden we were not in an open sea at all, but in among islands again, and slowly coming to a stop between two stretches of lovely shore,--big solid green fields like america's on one side, and a low promontory of mossy rocks on the other. a handful of houses, with one large and conspicuous one in the centre, stood between the green fields and the shore. a sign was printed on this house in big letters; and as i was trying to spell it out, a polite norwegian at my elbow said, "shoddy factory! we make shoddy there; we call it so after the english," bowing flatteringly as if it were a compliment to the english. _kradsuld_ is norwegian for shoddy, and sounds worlds more respectable, i am sure. the roof of this shoddy factory had four dormer windows in it, with their tiled roofs running up full width to the ridge-pole, which gave the roof the drollest expression of being laid in box-plaits. i wish somebody would make a series of photographs of roofs in norway and denmark. they are the most picturesque part of the scenery; and as for their "sky-line," it is the very poetry of etching. i thought i had seen the perfection of the beauty of irregularity in the sky-line in edinburgh; but edinburgh roofs are monotonous and straight in comparison with the huddling of corners and angles in scandinavian gables and ridges and chimneys and attics. add to this freaky and fantastic and shifting shape the beauty of color and of fine regularity of small curves in the red tile, and you have got as it were a mid-air world of beauty by itself. as i was studying out the points where these box-plaited dormer windows set into their roof, the same polite norwegian voice said to a friend by his side, "i have read it over twenty-five ones." he pronounced the word _read_ as for the present indicative, which made his adverbs of time at the end still droller. really one of the great pleasures of foreign travel is the english one hears spoken; and it is a pleasure for which we no doubt render a full equivalent in turn when we try speaking in any tongue except our own. but it is hard to conceive of any intelligible english french or german being so droll as german or french english can be and yet be perfectly intelligible. polite creatures that they all are, never to smile when we speak their language! as the sun sank, the rosy horizon-halo gathered itself up and floated about in pink fleeces; the sky turned pale green, like the sky before dawn. latitude plays strange pranks with sunsets and sunrises. norway, i think, must be the only place in the world where you could mistake one for the other; but it is literally true that in norway it would be very easy to do so if you happened not to know which end of the day it was. when we went down into our staterooms sorrow awaited us. to the eye the staterooms had been most alluring. one and all, we had exclaimed that never had we seen so fine staterooms in a norwegian steamboat. all the time we were undressing we eyed with complacency the two fine red sofas, on one of which we were to sleep. strangely enough, no one of us observed the shape of the sofa, or thought to try the consistency of it. our experiences, therefore, were nearly simultaneous, and unanimous to a degree, as we discovered afterwards on comparing notes. the first thing we did on lying down on our bed was to roll off it. then we got up and on again, and tried to get farther back on it. as it was only about the width of a good-sized pocket-handkerchief, and rounded up in the middle, this proved to be impossible. then we got up and tried to pull it out from the wall. vain! it was upholstered to the board as immovable as the stack-pipe of the boat. then we tried once more to adjust ourselves to it. presently we discovered that it was not only narrow and rounding, but harder than it would have seemed possible that anything in shape of tufted upholstered velvet could be. we began to ache in spots; the ache spread: we ached all over; we could neither toss, twist, nor turn on the summit of this narrow tumulus. misery set in; indignation and restlessness followed; seasickness, in addition, seemed for once a trifle. the most indefatigable member of the party, being also the most fatigued, succeeded at last in procuring a half-dozen small square pillows,--one shade less hard than the sofa, she thought when she first lay down on them, but long before morning she began to wonder whether they were not even harder. such a night lingers long in one's memory; it was a closing chapter to our experience of norwegian beds,--a fitting climax, if anything so small could be properly called a climax. how it has ever come about that the norwegian notion of a bed should be so restricted, i am at a loss to imagine. they are simply child's cribs,--no more; as short as narrow, and in many instances so narrow that it is impossible to turn over quickly in them without danger. i have again and again been suddenly waked, finding myself just going over the edge. the making of them is as queer as the size. a sort of _bulkhead_ small mattress is slipped in under the head, lifting it up at an angle admirably suited to an asthmatic patient who can't breathe lying down, or to a small boy who likes to coast down-hill in his bed of a morning. the single pillow is placed on this; the short, narrow sheet flung loosely over it; blanket, ditto; coverlet, ditto--it may or may not be straight or smooth. the whole expression of the bed is as if it had been just hastily smoothed up temporarily till there should be time enough to make it. in perfect good faith i sent for a chambermaid one night, in the early days of my norway journey, and made signs to her that i would like to have my bed made, when the poor thing had already made it to the very best of her ability, and entirely in keeping with the customs of her country. it is very needless to say that we all were up early the next morning; and there was something ludicrous enough in the tone in which each inquired eagerly of each, "did you ever know such beds?" at ten we were anchored off the little town of frederikssund; and here the boat lay five mortal hours, doing nothing but unloading and taking on bags of bran. another big steamer was lying alongside, doing the same thing. this was our first glimpse of denmark. very flat it looked,--just out of water, and no more,--like holland. the sailors who were carrying the bags of bran wore queer pointed hoods on their heads, with long, tail-like pieces coming down behind, which made them look like elves,--at least it did for the first hour; after that they no longer looked queer. if we had gone on shore, we could have seen the royal estate of iaegerspriis, which has belonged to kings of denmark ever since the year , and has a fine park, and a house decorated by sculptures by wiedewelt,--a danish sculptor of the last century,--and an old sepulchre which dates back to the stone age, and, best of all, a great old oak, called the king's oak, which is the largest in denmark, and dates back farther than anybody will know till it dies. a tree is the only living thing which can keep the secret of its own age, is it not? nobody can tell within a hundred or two of years anything about it so long as the tree can hold its head up. the circumference of this tree is said to be forty-two feet four feet from the ground,--a pretty respectable tree, considering the size of denmark itself. now we begin to see where the old vikings got the oak to build their ships. they carried it up from denmark, which must have been in those days a great forest of beech and oak to have kept so many till now. it is only a few miles from frederikssund, also, to havelse, which is celebrated for its "kitchen middings,"--the archæological name for kitchen refuse which got buried up hundreds of years ago. even potato parings become highly important if you keep them long enough! they will at least establish the fact that somebody ate potatoes at that date; and all things hang together so in this queer world that there is no telling how much any one fact may prove or disprove. for myself, i don't care so much for what they ate in those days as for what they wore,--next to what they did in the way of fighting and making love. i saw the other day, in christiania, a whole trayful of things which were taken from a burial mound opened in norway last spring. a viking had been buried there in his ship. the hull was entire, and i have stood in it; but not even the old blackened hull, nor the oars, stirred me so much as the ornaments he and his horses had worn,--the bosses of the shields, and queer little carved bits of iron and silver which had held the harnesses together; one exquisitely wrought horse's head, only about two inches long, which must have been a beautiful ornament wherever it was placed. if there had been a fish-bone found left from his last dinner or from the funeral feast which the relations had at his wake, i should not have cared half so much for it. but tastes differ. an afternoon more of sailing and another awful night on the red velvet ridges, and we came to copenhagen itself, at five of the morning. at four we had thought it must be near,--long strips of green shore, with trees and houses,--so flat that it looked narrow, and seemed to unroll like a ribbon as we sailed by; but when we slipped into the harbor we saw the difference,--wharves and crowds of masts and warehouses, just like any other city, and the same tiresome farce of making believe examine your luggage. i should respect customs and custom-houses more if they did as they say they will do. as it is, to smuggle seems to me the easiest thing in the world as well as the most alluring. i have never smuggled because i have never had the means necessary to do it; but i _could_ have smuggled thousands of dollars worth of goods, if i had had them, through every custom-house i have ever seen. a commissionnaire with a shining beaver hat stood on the shore to meet us, we having been passed on with "recommendations" from the kindly people of the scandinavie in christiania to the king of denmark hotel people in copenhagen. nothing is so comfortable in travelling as to be waited for by your landlord. the difference between arriving unlooked for and arriving as an expected customer is about like the difference between arriving at the house of a friend and arriving at that of an enemy. the commissionaire had that pathetic air of having seen better days which is so universal in his class. one would think that the last vocation in the world which a "decayed" gentleman would choose would be that of showing other gentlemen their way about cities; it is only to be explained by the same morbid liking to be tantalized which makes hungry beggars stand by the hour with their noses against the outside of the panes of a pastry-cook's window,--which they all do, if they can! spite of our flaming "recommendations," which had preceded us from our last employer, the landlord of the scandinavie, satisfactory rooms were not awaiting us. sara bernhardt was in town, and every hotel was crowded with people who had come for a night or two to see and hear her. it is wonderful how much room a person of her sort can take up in a city; and if they add, as she does, the aroma of a distinct and avowed disreputability, they take up twice as much room! since her visit to england i wonder she does not add to her open avowal of disregard of all the laws and moralities which decent people hold in esteem, "by permission of the queen," or "to the royal family." but this is not telling you about copenhagen. it was five o'clock when we landed, and before seven i had driven with the commissionnaire to each one of the four first-class hotels in copenhagen in search of _sunny_ rooms. none to be had! all four of the hotels were fully occupied, as i said, by sara bernhardt in some shape or other. so we made the best of the best we could do,--breakfasted, slept, lunched, and at two o'clock were ready to begin to see copenhagen. at first we were disappointed, as in christiania, by its modern look. it is a dreadful pity that old cities will burn down and be rebuilt, and that all cities must have such a monotony of repetitions of blocks of houses. by the end of another century there won't be an old city left anywhere in the world. there are acres of blocks of houses in copenhagen to-day that might have been built anywhere else, and fit in anywhere else just as well as here. when you look at them a little more closely, you see that there are bits of terra-cotta work in friezes and pilasters and brackets here and there, which would not have been done anywhere except in the home of thorwaldsen. if he had done nothing else for art than to stamp a refined and graceful expression on all the minor architectural decorations of his native city, that would have been worth while. there is not an architectural monstrosity in the city,--not one; and many of the buildings have an excellent tone of quiet, conventional decoration which is pleasing to the eye. the brick-work particularly is well done; and simple variations of design are effectively used. you see often recurring over doorways and windows terra-cotta reproductions of some of thorwaldsen's popular figures; and they are never marred by anything fantastic or bizarre in cornice or moulding above or around them. among the most noticeable of the modern blocks are some built for the dwellings of poor people. they are in short streets leading to the reservoir, and having therefore a good sweep of air through them. they are but two stories and a half high, pale yellow brick, neatly finished; and each house has a tiny dooryard filled with flowers. there are three tenements to a house, each having three rooms. the expression of these rows of gay little yellow houses with red roofs and flower-filled dooryards and windows, and each doorway bearing its two or three signs of trade or artisanry, was enough to do one's heart good. the rents are low, bringing the tenements within easy reach of poor people's purses. yet there is evidently an obligation--a certain sort of social standard--involved in the neighborhood which will keep it always from squalor or untidiness. i doubt if anybody would dare to live in those rows and not have flowers in his front yard and windows. for myself, i would far rather live in one of these little houses than in either of the four great palaces which make the royal square, amalienborg, and look as much like great penitentiaries as like anything else,--high, bulky, unadorned gray piles, flat and straight walls, and tiresome, dingy windows, and the pavements up to their door-sills. they may be splendid the other side the walls,--probably are; but they are dreary objects to look at as you come home of an evening. the horse-cars are the most unique thing in the modern parts of copenhagen. how two horses can draw them i don't see: but they do; and if two horses can draw two-story horse-cars, why don't we have them in america, and save such overcrowding? the horse-cars here not only have a double row of seats on top as they have in london, but they have a roof over those seats, which nearly doubles the apparent height. as they come towards you they look like a great square-cornered boat, with a long pilot-house on top. of course they carry just double the number. women never ride on the top; but men do not mind going upstairs outside a horse-car and sitting in mid-air above the heads of the crowd; and if two horses really are able to draw so many, it is a gain. the one splendid sight in copenhagen is its great dragon spire. this, one could stand and gaze at by the day. it is made of four dragons twisted together, heads down, tails up; heads pointing to the four corners of the earth; tails tapering and twisting, and twisting and tapering, till they taper out into an iron rod, which mounts still higher, with three gilded balls, and three wrought gilded circles on it, and finally ends in a huge gilded open-work weather-cock. this is on an old brick building now used as the exchange. it was built early in by christian iv., who seems to me to have done everything best worth doing that was ever done in denmark. his monogram (c) is forever cropping out on all the splendid old things. they are enlarging this exchange now; and the new red brick and glaring white marble make a very unpleasing contrast to the old part of the building, although every effort has been made to copy the style of it exactly. it is long, and not high, the wall divided into spaces by carved pilasters between every two windows. each pilaster begins as a man or a woman,--arms cut off at the shoulders, breasts and shoulders looking from a distance grotesquely like four humps. where the legs should begin, the trunk ends in a great gargoyle,--a lion's head, or a man's, or a bull's,--some grotesque, some beautiful; below this, a conventional tapering support. in the pointed arch of each of the lower windows, also a carved head, no two of them alike, many of them beautiful. it is a grand old building, and one might study it and draw from it by the week. passing this and crossing an arm of the sea,--which, by the way, you are perpetually doing in copenhagen to go anywhere, the sea never having fully made up its mind to abandon the situation,--you come to another quaint old building in the suburbs, called christianshaven. this is vor frelser's church (our saviour's church), built only fifty years later than the exchange. it is a dark red brick church, with tiny flat dormer windows let in and painted green on a shining tile roof; a square belfry; clock face painted red, black, and blue; above this, a spire, first six-sided and then round, feet high, covered with copper, which is bright green in places, and wound round and round by a glittering gilded staircase, which goes to the very top and ends under a huge gilt ball, under which twelve people can stand. this also is a fine kind of spire to have at hand at sunset; it flames out like a ladder into the sky. one more old church has a way up, which is worth telling, though you can't see it from the outside. this is another of that same christian iv.'s buildings,--it was built for an observatory, and used for that for two hundred years, but then joined to a church. the tower is round, feet high, feet in diameter, and made of two hollow cylinders. between these is the way up, a winding stone road, smooth and broad; and if you'll believe it, in that rascal catherine of russia actually drove up to the top of it in a coach and four, peter going ahead on horseback. i walked up two of the turns of this stone roadway, and it made me dizzy to think what a clatter the five horses' hoofs must have made, with stone above, below, and around them; and what a place it would have been to have knocked brains out if the horses had been frightened! in this inside cylinder all the university treasures were hidden when the english bombarded the city in , and a very safe place it must have been. opposite this church is still another of christian iv.'s good works,--a large brick building put up for the accommodation of poor students at the university. one hundred poor students still have free lodgings in this building, but part of it looks as if its roof would fall in before long. along the arms of the sea which stretch into or across the city--for some of them go way through, come out, and join the outer waters again--are rows of high warehouses for grain, some seven and eight stories high. these have two-storied dormer windows, and terraced roofs, and a great beak like a ship's prow projecting from the ridge-pole of the dormer window. from this the grain is lowered and hoisted to and from the ships below. the ships lie crowded in these narrow arms, as in a harbor, and make picturesque lanes of mast-tops through the city. on many of them are hung great strings of flounders drying, festooned on cords, from rope to rope, scores of them on a single sloop. they look better than they smell; you could not spare them out of the picture. the last thing we saw this afternoon was the statue of hans christian andersen, which has just been put up in the great garden of rosenborg castle. this garden is generally called kongen's have ("the king's garden"). it was planned by the good christian, but contains now very little of his original design. two splendid avenues of horse-chestnut trees and a couple of old bronze lions are all that is left as he saw it. it is a great place of resort for the middle classes with their children. a yearly tax of two kroners (about fifty cents) permits a family to take its children there every day; and i am sure there must have been two hundred children in sight as i walked up the dark dense shaded avenue of linden trees at the upper end of which sits the beloved hans christian, with the sunlight falling on his head. "the children come here every day," said the commissionnaire; "and that is the reason they put him here, so they can see him." he looked as if he also saw them. a more benignant, lifelike, tender look was never wrought in bronze. he sits, half wrapped in a cloak, his left hand holding a book carelessly on his knee, the right hand lifted as if in benediction of the children. the statue is raised a few feet on a plain pedestal, in a large oval bed of flowers: on one side the pedestal is carved the "child and the stork;" on the other, the group of ducks, with the "ugly" one in the middle,--pictures that every little child will understand and love to see; on the front is his name and a wreath of the bay he so well earned. written above is,-- "put up by the danish people;" and i thought as i stood there that he was more to be envied than christian iv. with his splendors of art and architecture, or than the whole danish dynasty, with their priceless treasures and their jewelled orders. and so ended our first day in copenhagen. the next morning, sunday, i drove out to church in the island of amager, of which that paradoxical compound of truth and falsehood, murray, says: "it offers absolutely nothing of interest." i always find it very safe to go to places of which that is said. amager is copenhagen's vegetable garden. it is an island four miles square, and absolutely flat,--as flat as a piece of pasteboard; in fact, while i was driving on it, it seemed to me to bear the same relation to flatness that the irishman's gun did to recoiling,--"if it recoiled at all, it recoiled forrards,"--so it was a very safe gun. if amager is anything more or less than flat, it is bent inwards; for actually when i looked off to the water it seemed to be higher than the land, and the ships looked as if they might any minute come sailing down among the cabbages. early in the sixteenth century it was filled up by dutch people; and there they are to this day, wearing the same clothes and raising cabbages just as they did three hundred years ago. to reach amager from copenhagen, you cross several arms of the sea and go through one or two suburbs called by different names; but you would never know that you were not driving in copenhagen all the time until you come out into the greenery of amager itself. it was good luck to go of a sunday. all the dutch dames were out and about in their best, driving in carts and walking, or sitting in their doorways. the women were "sights to behold." the poorer ones wore shirred sunbonnets on their heads, made of calico, coming out like an old poke-bonnet in front, and with full capes which set out at a fly-away angle behind. they seemed to have got the conception of the cape from the arms of their own windmills (of which, by the way, there are several on the island; and their revolving arms add to the island's expression of being insecurely at sea!). next below the sunbonnet came a gay handkerchief crossed on the breast, over a black gown with tight sleeves; a full bright blue apron, reaching half-way round the waist and coming down to within two inches of the bottom of the overskirt, completed their rig. it was droller than it sounds. some of them wore three-cornered handkerchiefs pinned outside their poke-bonnets, pinned under their chins, and the point falling over the neck behind. these were sometimes plain colors, sometimes white, embroidered or trimmed with lace. the men looked exactly like any countrymen in england or scotland or america. if we haven't an international anything else, we have very nearly an international costume for the masculine human creature; and it is as ugly and unpicturesque a thing as malignity itself could devise. the better class of women wore a plain black bonnet, made in the same poke shape as the sunbonnets, but without any cape at all on the back, only a little full crown tucked in, and the fronts coming round very narrow in the back of the neck, and tied there with narrow black ribbons. don't fancy these were the only strings that held the roof in its place,--not at all. two very broad strings, of bright blue, or red, or purple, as it might be, came from somewhere high up inside the front, and tied under the chin in a huge bow, so that their faces looked as if they had first been tied up in broad ribbon for the toothache, and then the huge bonnet put on outside of all. strangely enough, the effect on the faces was not ugly. old faces were sheltered and softened, double chins and scraggy necks were hid, and younger faces peered out prettily from under the scoop and among the folds of ribbon; and the absolute plainness of the bonnet itself, having no trimming save a straight band across the middle, gave the charm of simplicity to the outline, and vindicated the worth of that most emphatically when set side by side in the church pews with the modern bonnets,--all bunches and bows, and angles and tilts of feathers and flowers and rubbish generally. the houses were all comfortable, and some of them very pretty. low, long, chiefly of a light yellow straw, latticed off by dark lines of wood-work, some of them entirely matted with ivy, like cottages in the english lake district, all of them with either red-tiled or thatched roofs, and the greater part surrounded by hedges. the thatched roofs were delightful. the thatch is held on and fastened down at the ridge-pole by long bits of crooked wood, one on each side, the two crossing and lapping at the ridge-pole and held together there by pins. the effect of a long, low roof set thick with these cross-pieces at the top is almost as if dozens of slender fishes were set there with forked tails up in the air; and when half a dozen sparrows are flitting and alighting on these projecting points of board, the effect is of a still odder trimming. some of the red-tiled roofs have a set pattern in white painted along the ridge-pole, corners, and eaves. these are very gay; and some of the thatched roofs are grown thick with a dark olive-green moss, which in a cross sunlight is as fine a color as was ever wrought into an old tapestry, and looks more like ancient velvet. the church in amager is new, brick, and ugly of exterior. but the inside is good; the wood-work, choir, pulpit, sounding-board, railings, pews, all carved in a simple conventional pattern, and painted dark-olive brown, relieved by claret and green,--in a combination borrowed no doubt from some old wood-work centuries back. in the centre a candelabra, hanging by a red cord, marked off by six gilded balls at intervals; the candelabra itself being simply a great gilded ball, with the simplest possible candle-holders projecting from it. two high candle-holders inside the railing had each three brass candlesticks in the shape of a bird, with his long tail curled under his feet to stand on,--a fantastic design, but singularly graceful, considering its absurdity. the minister wore a long black gown and high, full ruff, exactly like those we see in the pictures of the divines of the reformation times. he had a fine and serious face, of oval contour; therefore the ruff suited him. on short necks and below round faces it is simply grotesque, and no more dignified than a turkey-cock's ruffled feathers. he preached with great fervor and warmth of manner; but as i could not understand a word he said, i should have found the sermon long if i had not been very busy in studying the bonnets and faces, and choir of little girls in the gallery. more than half the congregation were in the ordinary modern dress, and would have passed unnoticed anywhere. all the men looked like well-to-do new england farmers, coloring and all; for the blue-eyed, fair-haired type prevails. but the women who had had the sense and sensibility to stick to their own national clothes were as pretty as pictures, as their faces showed above the dark olive-brown pews, framed in their front porches of bonnets,--for that is really what they are like, the faces are so far back in them. some were lined with bright lavender satin, full-puffed; some with purple; some with blue. the strings never matched the lining, but were of a violent contrast,--light blue in the purple, gay plaid in the lavender, and so on. the aprons were all of the same shade of vivid blue,--as blue as the sky, and darker. they were all shirred down about two inches below the waist; some of them trimmed down the sides at the back with lace or velvet, but none of them on the bottom. one old woman who sat in front of me wore a conical and pointed cap of black velvet and plush, held on her head by broad gray silk strings, tied with a big bow under her chin, covering her ears and cheeks. the cap was shaped like a funnel carried out to a point, which projected far behind her, stiff and rigid; yet it was not an ungraceful thing on the head. these, i am told, are rarely seen now. when the sermon was done, the minister disappeared for a moment, and came back in gorgeous claret velvet and white robes, with a great gilt cross on his back. the candles on the altar were lighted, and the sacrament was administered to a dozen or more kneeling outside the railing. this part of the ceremony seemed to me not very lutheran; but i suppose that is precisely the thing it was,--luther-an,--one of the relics he kept when he threw overboard the rest of the superstitions. before this ceremony the sexton came and unlocked the pew we occupied, and i discovered for the first time that i and the commissionnaire had been all that time locked in. after church the sexton told us that there would be a baptismal service there in an hour,--eleven babies to be baptized. that was something not to be lost; so i drove away for half an hour, went to a farm-house and begged milk, and then, after i had got my inch, asked for my habitual ell,--that is, to see the house. the woman was, like all housekeepers, full of apologies, but showed me her five rooms with good-will,--five in a row, all opening together, the kitchen in the middle, and the front door in the back yard by the hen-coop and water-barrel! the kitchen was like the norwegian farm-house kitchens,--a bare shed-like place, with a table, and wall-shelves, and a great stone platform with a funnel roof overhead; sunken hollows to make the fire in; no oven, no lids, no arrangement for doing anything except boiling or frying. a huge kettle of boiling porridge was standing over a few blazing sticks. _havremels grod_--which is norwegian, and danish also, for oatmeal pudding--is half their living. all the bread they have they buy at the baker's. the other rooms were clean. every one had in it a two-storied bed curtained with calico, neat corner cupboards, and bureaus. there were prints on the wall, and a splendid brass coffee-pot and urn under pink mosquito netting. but the woman herself had no stockings on her feet, and her wooden shoes stood just outside the door. when we reached the church again, the babies were all there. a wail as of bleating lambs reached us at the very door. a strange custom in denmark explained this bleating: the poor babies were in the hands of godmothers, and not their own mothers. the mothers do not go with their babies to the christening; the fathers, godfathers, and godmothers go,--two godmothers and one godfather to each baby. the women and the babies sat together, and rocked and trotted and shook and dandled and screamed, in a perfect babel of motion and sound. seven out of those eleven babies were crying at the top of their lungs. the twenty-two godmothers looked as if they would go crazy. never, no, never, did i see or hear such a scene! the twenty-two fathers and godfathers sat together on the other side of the aisle, stolid and unconcerned. i tried to read in their faces which men owned the babies, but i could not. they all looked alike indifferent to the racket. presently the sexton marshalled the women with their babies in a row outside the outer railing. he had in his hand a paper with the list of the poor little things' names on it, which he took round, and called the roll, apparently so as to make sure all was right. then the minister came in, and went the round, saying something over each baby and making the sign of the cross on its head and breast. i thought he was through when he had once been round doing this; but no,--he had to begin back again at the first baby and sprinkle them. oh, how the poor little things did scream! i think all eleven were crying by this time, and i couldn't stand it; so at the third baby i signed to my commissionnaire that we would go, and we slipped out as quietly as we could. "will there be much more of the service?" i asked him. "oh, yes," he said. "he will preach now to the fathers and to the godfathers and godmothers." i doubt if the godmothers knew one word he said. the babies all wore little round woollen hoods, most of them bright blue, with three white buttons in a row on the back. their dresses were white, but short; and each baby had a long white apron on to make a show with in front. this was as long as a handsome infant's robe would be made anywhere; but it was undisguisedly an apron, open all the way behind, and in the case of these poor little screaming creatures flying in all directions at every kick and writhing struggle. i was glad enough to escape the church; but twenty-two women must have come out gladder still a little later. on the way home i passed a windmill which i could have stayed a day to paint if i had been an artist. it was six-sided; the sails were on red beams; a red balcony all round it, with red beams sloping down as supports, resting on the lower story; the first story was on piles, and the spaces between filled up solid with sticks of wood,--the place where they kept their winter fuel. next to this came a narrow belt painted light yellow; then a black belt, with windows in it rimmed with white; then the red balcony; then a drab or gray space,--this made of plain boards; then the rest to the top shingled like a roof; in this part one window, with red rims in each side. a long, low warehouse of light yellow stuccoed walls, lined off with dark brown, joined the mill by a covered way; and the mill-owner's house was close on the other side, also with light yellow stuccoed walls and a red-tiled roof, and hedges and vines and an orchard in front. paint this, somebody; do! this is the tale of the first two days in copenhagen. in my next i will tell you about the museums if i come out of them alive; it sounds as if nobody could. one ought to be here at least two weeks to really study the superb collections of one sort and another. i will close this first section of my notions of denmark with a brief tribute to the danish flea. i considered myself proof against fleas. i had wintered them in rome, had lived familiarly with them in norway, and my contempt for them was in direct proportion to my familiarity. i defied them by day, and ignored them by night. but the danish flea is as david to saul! he is a cross between a bedbug and a wasp. he is the original of the famous idea of the dragon, symbolized in all the worships of the world. i bow before him in terror, and trust most devoutly he never leaves the shores of denmark. good-by. bless you all! ii. dear people,--i promised to tell you about the museums in copenhagen. it was a very rash promise: and there was a rash promise which i made to myself back of that,--that is, to _see_ the copenhagen museums. i had looked forward to them as the chief interest of our visit; they are said to be among the finest in the world, in some respects unequalled. one would suppose that the dane's first desire and impulse would be to make it easy for strangers to see these unrivalled collections, the pride of his capital; on the contrary, he has done, it would seem, all that lay in his power to make it quite out of the power of travellers to do anything like justice to them. to really see the three great museums of copenhagen--the ethnographic, the museum of northern antiquities, and the rosenborg castle collection--one would need to stay in copenhagen at least two weeks, and even then he would have had but fourteen hours for each museum. the ethnographic is open only on monday, wednesday, friday, and sunday, and open only two hours at a time,--on sunday, from twelve to two; on the week days, from ten to twelve. there are in this museum over thirty large rooms, and nearly six hundred cases of labelled and numbered objects. all the rooms are of great interest; one could easily spend the whole two hours of the allotted time in any one of them. to attempt even to walk through the whole museum in the two hours is undertaking too much. the museum of northern antiquities is open on thursdays, saturdays, and sundays, from twelve to two; on tuesdays, from five to seven. on sundays, you see, it is at the same hour as the ethnographic! in this museum are eighteen large rooms filled with objects of the greatest interest, from the old "dust heaps" of the lake dwellers down to tycho brahe's watch. the rosenborg castle collection is probably, to travellers in general, the most interesting of all the collections. it is called a "chronological collection of the kings of denmark,"--which, being interpreted, means that it is a collection of dresses, weapons, ornaments, etc., the greater proportion of which have belonged to danish kings, from the old days of christian iv. ( ) down to the present time. these are most admirably arranged in chronological order, so that you see in each room or division a graphic picture of the royal life and luxury of that period. the whole of the great rosenborg castle, three floors, is devoted to this collection. how many rooms there are, i do not know,--certainly twenty; and there is not one of them in which i would not like to spend a half-day. now, how do you think the danish government (for this is a national property) arranges for the exhibition of this collection? you may see it, on any day, by applying for a ticket the day beforehand; the hour at which you can be admitted will be marked on your ticket; you will arrive, with perhaps twelve others (that being the outside number for whom tickets are issued for any one hour); you will be walked through that whole museum in _one hour_, by one of the government inspectors of the museum; he will give you a rapid enumeration of the chief objects of interest as you pass; and you will have no clearer idea of any one thing than if you had been _fired_ through the rooms out of a cannon. have i spoken unjustly when i say that the dane appears to have done all in his power to shut up from the general public of travellers these choicest collections of his country? now i will tell you all i know of the rosenborg collection, and how it happens that i know anything; and my history begins like so many of the old danish histories, with a fight. in the outset i paid for a full ticket, as there happened to be no one else who had applied to go in that afternoon. later, two englishmen wishing to see the museum, their commissionnaire came to know if i would not like to have them go at the same time, which would reduce the price of the tickets by two thirds. this i declined to do, preferring to have the entire time of the museum inspector for my own benefit in way of explanations, etc. with the guide all to myself, i thought i should be able far better to understand and study the museum. equipped with my note-book and pen and catalogue, and with the faithful harriet by my side, i entered, cheerful, confident, and full of enthusiasm, especially about any and all relics of the famous old christian iv., whose impress on his city and country is so noticeable to this day. the first scene of my drama opens with the arrival of the inspector whose duty it was on that occasion to exhibit the museum. there are three of these inspectors, who take turns in the exhibition. he was a singularly handsome man,--a keen blue eye; hair about white, whiter than it should have been by age, for he could not have been more than fifty or fifty-five; a finely cut face, with great mobility, almost a passionateness of vivacity in its expression; a tall and graceful figure: his whole look and bearing gave me a great and sudden pleasure as he approached. and when he began to speak in english, my delight was kindled anew; i warmed at once in anticipation of my afternoon. mistaken dream! i said to him, "i am very sorry, indeed, that we have so short a time in which to see these beautiful and interesting collections. two hours is nothing." "oh, i shall explain to you everything," he said hastily, and proceeded to throw open the doors of mysterious wall-closets in the room which was called the presence chamber of christian iv. the walls of this room are of solid oak, divided off into panels by beautiful carved pillars, with paintings between. the ceiling is like the walls, and the floor is of marble. in the south wall are four closets filled with more rare and exquisite things than i could describe in a hundred pages; all these in one side of the first room! the first thing which my noble dane pointed out was the famous old oldenborg horn, of which i had before read, and wished much to see,--an old drinking-horn of silver, solid chased, from brim to tip. the legend is that it was given to count otto of oldenborg by a mountain nymph in a forest one day in the year . as he pointed out this horn, i opened my catalogue to find the place where it was mentioned there, that i might make on the margin some notes of points which i wished to recollect. i think i might have been looking for this perhaps half of a minute, possibly one whole minute, when thundering from the mouth of my splendid dane came, "do you prefer that you read it in the catalogue than that i tell you?" i am not sure, but my impression is that i actually jumped at his tone. i know i was frightened enough to do so. i then explained to him that i was not looking for it in the catalogue to read then and there, only to associate what i saw with its place and with the illustrations in the catalogue, and to make notes for future use. he hardly heard a word i said. putting out his hand and waving my poor catalogue away, he said, "it is all there. you shall find everything there, as i tell you; will you listen?" quite cowed, i tried to listen; but i found that unless i carried out my plan of following his explanations by the list in the catalogue, and made little marginal notes, i should remember nothing; moreover, that it was impossible to look at half the things, as he rapidly enumerated them. i opened my catalogue again, and began to note some of the more interesting things. the very sight of the catalogue open in my hands seemed to act upon him like a scarlet flag on a bull. instantly he burst out upon me again; and when i attempted to explain, he interrupted me,--did not give me time to finish one sentence,--did not apparently comprehend what i meant, or what it was that i wished to do, except that it reflected in some way on him as a guide and explainer. in vain i tried to stem the tide of his angry words; and the angrier he got, the less intelligible became his english. "perhaps you take me for a servant in this museum," he said. "perhaps my name is as good in my country as yours is in your own!" "oh, do--do listen to me one minute," i said. "if you will only hear me, i think i can make you understand. i do implore you not to be so angry." "i am not angry. i have listen to you every time,--too many time. i have not time to listen any more!" this he said so angrily that i felt the tears coming into my eyes. i was in despair. i turned to harriet and said, "very well, harriet, we will go." "you shall not go!" he exclaimed. "twenty years i have shown this museum, and never yet was any one before dissatisfied with what i tell them. i have myself written this catalogue you carry," he cried, tapping my poor book with his fingers. "now i will nothing say, and you can ask if you wish i should explain anything." and thereupon he folded his arms, and stepped back, the very picture of a splendid man in a sulk. could anything be imagined droller, more unnecessary? i hesitated what to do. if i had not had a very strong desire to see the museum, i would have gone away, for he had really been almost unpardonably rude; yet i sympathized fully in his hot and hasty temper. i saw clearly wherein his mistake lay, and that on his theory of the situation he was right and i was wrong; and i thought perhaps if he watched me for a few minutes quietly he would see that i was very much in earnest in studying the collection, and that nothing had been further from my mind than any distrust of his knowledge. so i gulped down my wounded feelings, and went on looking silently at the cases and making my notes. presently he began to cool down, to see his mistake, and before we had gone through the second room was telling me courteously about everything, waiting while i made my notes, and pointing out objects of especial interest. in less than half an hour he had ceased to be hostile, and before the end of the hour he had become friendly, and more,--seized both my hands in his, exclaiming, "we shall be good friends,--good!" he was as vivacious, imperious, and overwhelming in his friendliness as in his anger. "you must come again to rosenborg; you must see it all. i will myself show you every room. no matter who sends to come in, they shall not be admitted. i go alone with you." in vain i explained to him that i had only one more day in copenhagen, and that i must spend that in going to elsinore. "no, you are not to go to elsinore. it is not necessary. you shall not leave copenhagen without seeing rosenborg. promise me that you will come again to rosenborg. promise! take any hour you please, and i will come. you shall have four--five hours. promise! promise!" and he seized my hand in both of his, and held it, repeating, "promise me! promise! oh, we shall be very good friends,--very good." "ah," i said, "i knew, if you only understood, you would be friendly; but i really cannot come again." he pulled out his watch, made a gesture of despair. "i have to leave town in one little half-hour; and there are yet seventeen rooms you have not seen. you shall not leave copenhagen till you have seen. do you promise?" i believe if i had not promised i should be still standing in the halls of the rosenborg. when i finally said, "yes, i promise," he wrung my hand again, and said,-- "now we are good friends, we shall be all good friends. i will show to you all rosenborg. do you promise?" "yes," i said, "i promise," and drove away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, his steel blue eyes flashing with determination and fire, and a smile on his face which i shall not forget. never before did i see such passionate, fierce fulness of life in a man whose hair was white. i promised, but i did not go. from the rosenborg i drove to the museum of northern antiquities,--from five to seven of that day being my only chance of seeing it at all. by the time i had spent two hours in the hurried attempt to see the most interesting things in this second collection, my brain was in a state of chaos, and i went back to my hotel with a sense of loathing of museums, only to be compared to the feeling one would have about dinners if he had eaten ten hearty ones in one day. one does not sleep off such an indigestion in one night. the next morning, nothing save actual terror could have driven me into a museum; and as my noble dane was not present to cow me into obedience, i had energy enough to write him a note of farewell and regret. the regret was indeed heartfelt, not so much for the museum as for him. i would have liked to see those blue eyes flash out from under the gray eyebrows once more. i too felt that we would be "good friends,--good." now i will try to tell you a little of the little i remember of the rosenborg. i only got as far as frederick iv.'s time, . many of the most beautiful things in the museum i did not see, and of many that i did see i recollect nothing, especially of all which i looked at while i was in disgrace with the guide; i might as well not have seen them at all. one little unpretending thing interested me greatly: it was a plain gold ring, with a small uncut sapphire in it; round the circle is engraved, "ave maria gr. [gratiosissima]." it was given by king christian to his wife, elizabeth, on their wedding-day, aug. , ,--three hundred years and two weeks before the day i saw it. it lay near the great oldenborg drinking-horn, and few people would care much for it by the side of the other, i suppose. then there was another bridal ornament of a dead queen,--it had belonged to dorothea, wife of christian iii.,--a gold plate, four or five inches square, with an eagle in the centre, bearing an escutcheon with the date : on the eagle's breast a large uncut sapphire; over the eagle, an emerald and a sapphire; and under it, a sapphire and an amethyst, all very large. there are also pearls set here and there in the plate. this was given to the city of copenhagen by the queen, to be worn by the daughters of the richest and most honored of the danish people on their wedding-day. it was for many generations kept and used in this way, but finally the custom fell into disuse; and now the copenhagen brides think no more of queen dorothea at their weddings, than of any other old gone-by queen,--which is a pity, it seems to me, for it surely was a lovely thought of hers to ally her memory to the bridals of young maidens in her land for all time. there was in this room, also, frederick ii.'s order of the elephant, the oldest in existence, and held in great veneration by people who esteem ornaments of that sort. it is much less beautiful than some other orders of less distinction. the elephant is a clumsy beast, carve him never so finely, enamel him all you will, and call him what you like. there is also here the order of the garter, of that same king--twenty-six enamelled red roses on blue shields held together by twists of gold cord; diamonds and pearls make it splendid, and that bit of gospel truth "evil to him that evil thinks," is written on it in rubies, as it deserves to be written everywhere. this frederick must have been a gay fellow; for here stands a glass goblet, five inches in diameter, and fifteen high, out of which he and his set of boon companions fell to drinking one day on wagers to see who could drink the most, and scratched their names on the glass as they drank, each man his mark and record, little thinking that the glass would outlive them three centuries and more, as it has; and is likely now, unless rosenborg burns down, to last the world out. the thing i would rather own, of all this frederick's possessions, would be one--i would be quite content with one--of the plates which germany sent to him as a present. they are red in the middle, with gold escutcheons enamelled on them; the borders are of plain clear amber, rimmed with silver,--one big circle of amber! the piece from which it was cut was big enough to have made the whole plate, if they had chosen, but it was more beautiful to set it simply as a rim. nothing could be dreamed of more beautiful in the way of a plate than this. i told you in my last letter what a stamp christian iv. had left on the capital of his kingdom. i fancy, without knowing anything about it, that he must have been one of the greatest kings denmark ever had; at any rate, he built well, planned well for poor people, worked with a free hand for art and science, fought like a tiger, and loved--well, he loved like a king, i suppose; for he had concubines from every country in europe, and no end of illegitimate princes and princesses whom he brought up, maintained, and educated in the most royal fashion. he lived many years in this rosenborg; and when he found he must die, was brought back here, and died in a little room we should think small to-day for a man to lie mortally ill in; but he lived only one week after he was brought back, and it was in winter-time, so the open fireplace ventilated the room. the upper half of the walls is covered with dark green moire silk, with gold flowers on it; the lower half is covered with paintings, many portraits among them; and in places of honor among the portraits, the king's favorite dogs, wild-brat and tyrk. here are his silver compasses and his ship hand-lantern; the silver scales in which he weighed out his gold and silver; a little hand printing-press, dusty and worn, with the brass stamp with his monogram on it,--his occupation in rainy days of leisure. here, also, are the tokens of his idle moments,--a silver goblet made out of money won by him from four courtiers, who had all betted with him, on one th of february, which would be first drunk before easter. these were the things that i cared most for,--more than for the splendors, of which there were closets full, glass cases full, tables full: goblets of lapis lazuli, jasper, agate, and crystal, gold and silver; lamps of crystal; cabinets of ebony; orders and rings and bracelets and seals and note-books and clocks and weapons, all of the costliest and most beautiful workmanship; rubies and diamonds and pearls, set and sewed wherever they could be; a medicine spoon, with gold for its handle and a hollowed sapphire for its bowl, for instance,--the sapphire nearly one inch across. one might swallow even allopathic medicine out of such a spoon as that: and i dare say that it was when she was very ill, and had a lot of nasty doses to take, that madame kirstin--one of the left-handed wives--got from the sympathizing king this dainty little gift. "c" and "k" are wrought into a monogram on the handle, which is three inches long, of embossed gold. another sapphire, clear as a drop of ocean water with sunlight piercing it, and one inch square, is in the same case with the medicine spoon. a chalice, with wafer-box, paten, and cup, all of the finest gold, engraved, enamelled, and set thick with precious stones, has a gold death's-head and cross-bones on the stem of the chalice; and the eyes of the death's-head are two great rose diamonds, which gleam out frightfully. another gold chalice has on its under side a twisted network of arabesque, with sixty-six enamelled rosettes, all openwork on it. in the room called christian's workroom is a set of caparisons for a horse,--saddle, saddle-cloth, housing, and holsters, all of black velvet, sewn thick, even solid, with pearls and gold, rubies, sapphires, and rose diamonds. the sight of them flashing in sunlight on a horse's back must have been dazzling. these were a wedding present from king christian to his son. in this room also are several suits of christian's clothes,--jerkin, trousers, and mantle, in the fashion of that day, dashing enough, even when made of common stuffs; but these are of cloth of gold, silver moire, black brabant lace, trimmed in the most lavish way with gold and silver laces, and embroidered with pearls and gold. there is a suit of dirty and blood-stained linen hanging in one of the locked cabinets which does him more credit than these. it is the suit he wore at the great naval battle where he lost his eye. a shell exploding on the deck, a fragment of it flew into his face and instantly destroyed his right eye. his men thought all was lost; but he, seizing his handkerchief, clapped it into the bleeding socket, and fought on. one reads of such heroic deeds as this with only a vague thrill of wonder and admiration; but to see and touch the very garments the hero wore is another thing. this old blood-stained velvet jerkin is worth more to the danish people than all the scores of bejewelled robes in the rosenborg; and i think there are literally scores of them. next to christian iv. came frederick iii.; and in his reign the rococo style ruled everything. three rooms in the rosenborg are devoted to the relics of this king's reign; and a great deal of hideous magnificence they hold, it must be confessed,--cabinets and tables and candlesticks and ceilings and walls, which are as jarring to the eye as the chinese gong is to the ear, and appear to be just about as civilized. but the rococo had not yet spoiled everything. the jewelled cups and boxes and spoons and miniatures are as beautiful as ever; a set of glass spoons with handles of gold and of agate and of crystal; the gold knives and forks that frederick iii. and his queen used to travel with. in those days when you were asked to tea you carried your own implements; ivory cups, gold goblets, and goblets of crystal, a goblet made out of one solid topaz, and a great tankard made of amber,--these are a few of the little necessaries of every-day life to frederick's court. his motto was "dominus providebit;" it is on half of his splendid possessions,--on his mosaic tables and his jewelled canes and pomade boxes; everywhere it looms up, in unwitting but delicious satire on the habit frederick had of providing for himself, and most lavishly too, all sorts of superfluities, which the lord never would think of providing for any human being!--such, for instance, as a jewel box of silver, with fifteen splendidly cut crystals let into the sides, so that one can look through into the box and see on the bottom a fine bit of embossed work, the picture of the judgment of paris. around these crystals sixty-two large garnets are set, and these again are surrounded by wreaths of flowers and leaves in embossed work, set thick with more diamonds than could be counted. a very pretty thing in its way, to stand on a dressing-table and hold the kind of rings worn at this time by the kind of persons who reigned in denmark! another pretty little thing he had,--not so useful as the jewel-box, but in far more perfect taste,--was a crystal goblet, in shape of a shell, resting on the back of a bending cupid. eight beautiful heads are cut on the sides of this cup, and there is standing on its curling base a winged boy. its translucent shades and shadows are beautiful beyond words. it is said to be the most beautiful specimen in the world of work in pure crystal. the topaz goblet and the amber tankard, however, would outrival it in most eyes. i longed to see the topaz cup held up to the sun, filled with pale wine. i believe you could _hear_ it shine! the third of the rooms devoted to frederick and his reign is called the marble chamber, and is a superb icy place; floor and walls all marble. in cabinets in this room are some of frederick's clothes,--every-day clothes, such as dark brown cloth, ornamented down every seam with gold and silver lace; and a dress of his queen's, the only dress of a woman which has come down from that age. it is one solid mass of embroidery in gold and gay colors on silk, stiff as old tapestry; loops of faded pink ribbon down the front, and a long jabot of old point lace all the way down the front. there are also a sword and sword-belt, and a gun bearing the initials of this lady. the gun has a medallion of ivory let in at the butt end, with her initials, "s. a.," and her motto, "in god is my hope." there is something uncommonly droll in these mottoes of faith in god's providing, inscribed on so many articles of luxury by people who must have certainly spent a good part of their time in providing for themselves. in the last part of the seventeenth century things in denmark were more and more stamped by the french influence. christian v., who succeeded to frederick iii., had spent some time in the court of louis xiv., and wanted to make his own court as much like it as possible. so we find, in the rooms devoted to christian v.'s reign, tapestries and cabinets which might all have come from france. one of the saloons is hung with superb tapestry, all with a red ground; and the tables and mirrors and chairs are all gilded and carved in the last degree of fantastic decoration. this red room used to be christian's dining-room; and the plate-warmers still stand before the fireplace,--two feet high, round, solid silver, every inch engraved. caskets of amber, of ivory; drinking-horns,--one-third horn and two-thirds embossed silver,--bowls and globes of wrought silver, hunting-cups of solid silver made to fit into deer's antlers and with coral knobs for handles; closets full of fowling-pieces, pistols, silver-sheathed hunting-knives, falcon hoods set with real pearls and embroidered in gold,--orders of all sorts known to denmark; elephants and st. georges in silver and crystal and cameo; gold jugs, gold beakers, bowls of green jade, with twisted snakes for handles and dragons' heads at bottom; goblets of solid crystal, of countless shapes and sizes,--one in shape of a flying-fish borne by two dolphins; onyx and jasper and agate and porcelain, made into no end of shapes and uses;--these are a few of the things which "god provided" for this danish king and queen. one of these rooms is hung with tapestries of lilac silk and gold moire, embroidered with gold and silver threads and colors. these were provided by frederick himself, who brought them from italy. but you don't care a fig who brought the things, or when they were brought; and perhaps you don't care very much about the things anyhow. i dare say they do not sound half as superb as they were; but i must tell you of a few more. what do you think of a room with walls, ceiling, and a large space in the centre of the floor all of plate glass, the rest of the floor being of exquisite mosaic in wood; and of a coat of crimson velvet embroidered thick with silver thread, to be worn with a pale blue waistcoat, also embroidered stiff with silver thread; and of cups cut out of rubies; and a great bowl of obsidian set with rubies and garnets; and of topazes big enough to cut heads on in fine relief? there are hundreds and hundreds more of things i have not mentioned, and hundreds of things i did not see even, in the rooms i walked through; and there were seventeen rooms more into which i did not even go. if i had, i should have seen twelve superb tapestries, feet in height, by to feet broad, each giving a picture of a battle, and all strictly historical; the royal font, of solid embossed silver, inside which is placed at every christening another dish of gold; one whole room full of the costliest and rarest porcelain from all parts of the world,--here is the splendid and famous "flora danica" service. i saw at a porcelain shop a reproduction of this service, every article bearing some danish flower most exquisitely painted. a great platter heaped full of wild roses was as lovely as a day in june. here also are the danish regalia, kept in a room hung with oriental carpets, and with a floor of black and white marble. "in the middle of the floor a pyramid arises behind clear thick plate glass, from the flat sides of which, covered with red velvet, the rays of gold and precious stones flash upon us, whilst the summit is adorned by a magnificent and costly crown." this sentence is from the catalogue written by my friend the noble dane, and is a very favorable specimen of his english. bless him, how i do wish i had gone back to that museum! at this distance of time it seems incomprehensible to me that i did not. but that day i felt as if one more look at the simple door of a museum would make a maniac of me. so this is all i can tell you about the famous rosenborg. and with the others i will not bore you much, for i have made this so long; only i must tell you that in the ethnographic, which is in some respects, i suppose, the most valuable of them all, having five rooms full of _prehistoric_ antiquities from the stone, bronze, and early iron ages in every part of the world, and twenty or thirty rooms more full of characteristic things,--dresses, implements, ornaments, weapons, of the uncultivated savage or semi-savage races, also of the chinese, persians, arabians, turks, east indians, etc.;--in this museum i found a most important place assigned to the north american indian; and dr. steinhauer, the director of the museum, a man whose ethnographical studies and researches have made him known to all antiquarians in the world was full of interest in them, and appreciation of their noble qualities, of their skill and taste in decoration, and still more of the important links between them and the old civilizations. here were portraits of all the most distinguished of our indian chiefs; a whole corridor filled with glass cases full of their robes, implements, weapons, decorations; several life-size figures in full war-dress: and their trappings were by no means put to shame, in point of design and color, by the handsomest trappings in rosenborg; in fact, they were far more wonderful, being wrought by an uncivilized race, living in wildernesses, with only rude paints, porcupine quills, and glass beads to work with. my eyes filled with tears, i confess, to find at last in little denmark one spot in the world where there will be kept a complete pictorial record of the race of men that we have done our best to wipe out from the face of the earth,--where historical justice will be done to them in the far future, as a race of splendid possibilities, and attainments marvellous, considering the time in which they were made. here was a superb life-size figure of a blackfeet warrior on his horse; the saddle, trappings, etc., are exactly the same in shape and style as an old arab saddle used hundreds of years ago. on the warrior's breast is a round disk of lines radiating from a centre, in gay colors, of straw and beads, of a device identical with a rich moorish ornament; the same device dr. steinhauer pointed out to me on a medicine-bag of the blackfeet tribe. here was a figure of a chief of the sacs and foxes, in full array; by his side the portrait of his father, with the totem of the tribe tattooed on his breast. with enthusiasm dr. steinhauer pointed out to me how in one generation the progress had been so great that on the robe of the son was set in a fine and skilful embroidery the same totem which the father had rudely tattooed on his breast. here were specimens of the handiwork of every tribe,--of their dresses, of their weapons; those of each tribe carefully assorted by themselves. dr. steinhauer knew more, i venture to say, about the different tribes, their race affinities and connections, than any man in america knows to-day. when i told him a little about the scorn and hatred which are felt in america towards the indians, the indifference with which their fate is regarded by the masses of the people, and the cruel injustice of our government towards them, he listened to me with undisguised astonishment, and repeated again and again and again, "it is inexplicable; i cannot understand." you can imagine what a thrilling pleasure all this was to me. but it was marred by the keenest sense of shame of my country, that it should have been left for denmark alone to keep a place in historical archives for a fair showing and true appreciation of the "wards of the united states government." i might fill another letter with accounts of the "collection of northern antiquities;" but don't be frightened: i won't, only to tell you that it is far the largest and most complete in europe. and you may see there a specimen of everything that has been made, wrought, and worn in the way of stone, bronze, iron, or gold and silver, in the north countries, from the rude stone chisel with which the prehistoric man pried open his oyster and clam shells at picnics on the shore, and went away and left his shells and "openers" in a careless pile behind him, so that we could dig them all up together some thousands of years later, down to the superb gold bracelets worn by the strong-armed women who queened it in norway ten centuries ago. it is a great thing for us that those old fellows had such a way of flinging their ornaments into lakes as offerings to gods, and burying them by the wheelbarrow-full in graves. it wasn't a safe thing to do, even as long ago as that, however; for there are traces in many of these burial-mounds of their having been opened and robbed at some period far back. in one of the rooms of this museum are several huge oak coffins, with the mummied or half-petrified bodies lying in them, just as they were buried sixteen hundred years ago. the coffins were made of whole trunks of trees, hollowed out so as to make a sort of trough with a lid; and in this the body was laid, with all its usual garments on. there is an indescribable and uncanny fascination in the sight of one of these old mummies,--the eyeless sockets, the painful cheekbone, the tight-drawn forehead; they look so human and unhuman at once, so awfully dead and yet somehow so suggestive of having been alive, that it stimulates a far greater curiosity to know what they did and thought and felt, than it is possible to feel about neighbors to-day. i never see half a dozen of these mummies together without wishing they would sit up and take up the thread of their gossip where they left it off,--so different from the feeling one has about live gossips, and so utterly unreasonable too; for gossip is gossip all the same, and nothing but an abomination in any age, whether that of pharaoh or ulysses grant. if i did not feel a dreadful misgiving that you had had enough museum already, and would be bored by more, i really would like to tell you about a few more of these things: a necklace, found in a peat bog by a poor devil who had begged leave to cut a bit of turf there to burn, and to be sure he found eleven beautiful gold things of one sort and another. the necklace is very heavy to lift. i asked permission to take it in my hands. i laid it around my neck, and it would have hurt to wear it ten minutes. it was a great snake coil of solid gold, the body half as big as my wrist! if queen thyra wore it, she must have been a giantess, or else have had a wadded "chest protector" underneath her necklaces. she and her husband, king gorm, were buried in two enormous mounds in jutland, some fourteen hundred years ago. the mounds were so high that they nearly overtopped the little village church; and yet, at some time or other, robbers had burrowed into them, and carried off a lot of things, so that when the mounds were scientifically excavated, few relics were found. stealing from that sort of grave seems to make the modern methods of body-snatching quite insignificant. even a. t. stewart's body would have been safe if it had been in a mound as high as the church steeple. now i must tell you a little more about harriet. she leaves me to-morrow, and i shall grieve at parting with the garrulous old soul. niobe, i call her in my own mind; for she melts into tears at the least emotion. i am afraid nobody has ever been very good to her; for the smallest kindness touches her to the quick, and she cannot refrain from perpetually breaking out into expressions of fondness for me, and gratitude, which are sometimes tiresome. the explanation of her good english is that her parents were english, though she was born in copenhagen, has lived there all her life, and married a dane when she was quite young. he was a tradesman, and they lived in comparative comfort, though, as she said, "we never could lay up a penny, because we always sent the children to the best schools; and for ten children, ma'am, it does take a heap of schooling!" of the ten children, six are still living; and harriet, at sixty-four, has thirty-six grandchildren. when she first came to me she looked ten years older than she does now. good food, freedom from care, and her enjoyment of her journey have almost worked miracles on her face. every morning she has come out looking better than she did the night before. i see that she must have been a very handsome woman in her day,--delicate features, and a soft dark brown eye, with very great native refinement and gentleness of manner. poor soul! her hardest days are before her, i fear; for the daughter with whom she lives, and for whom she works night and day, is the wife of that worthless fellow, our commissionnaire. he is a drunkard, and not much more than four fifths "witted." harriet is pew-opener at the english church, and gets a little money from that; the clergyman is very kind to her, and she has the promise of a place at last in a sort of "old lady's home" in copenhagen. this is her outlook! i must send you the verses she presented to me yesterday. i had left her alone for the greater part of the forenoon, and she took to her pen for company. that was the way katrina used to amuse herself when i left her alone. i always found her sitting with her elbows on the table, a pile of scribbled sheets in front of her, her hair pushed off her forehead, and a general expression of fine frenzy about her. katrina's english did not compare with harriet's at all; that is, it was not so good. i liked it far better. it was one perpetual fund of amusement to me; but i think katrina had more nearly a vein of genius about her, and she was not sentimental; whereas harriet is a sentimentalist of the first water,--no, of the "seventy thousandth"! paris, september . i kept my letter and brought it here to tell you about ole bull's funeral, full accounts of which reached the h----'s just before we left munich on the th. it was a splendid tribute to the dear old man; i shall always regret that i did not see it. his home is on a beautiful island about sixteen miles from bergen. if it were only possible to make you understand how much more the word _island_ means in norway than anywhere else! but it is not. to those of you who know the sort of mountain pasture in which great hillocks of moss and stone are thrown up, piled up, crowded in, in such labyrinths that you go leaping from one to the other, winding in and out in crevice-like paths, never knowing where moss leaves off and stone begins,--where you will strike firm footing, and where you will plunge your foot down suddenly into moss above your ankles; and to those of you who love the country and the spring in the country so well that you know just the look of a feathery young birch-tree on the first day of june, and of slender young spruce-trees all the year round, it is enough to say that if you take a dozen miles or so of such a pasture, and make the hillocks many feet high, and then set in here and there little hollows full of the birches, and a ravine or two full of the young spruces, and then launch your hillocks and birches and spruces straight out into deep blue sea, you'll have something such an island as there are thousands of on the norway coast. ole bull's home was on such an island as this, and he had made it an ideally beautiful place. eighteen miles of pathway he had made in the labyrinths of the island; had brought soil from the shore, and set gardens in hollows here and there. the house is a picturesque and delightful one; and in the great music-room, nearly a hundred feet long, there he lay dead, two days, in state like a king, with steamers full of sorrowing friends and mourning strangers coming to take their last look at his face. the king sent a letter of condolence to mrs. bull, and the peasants came weeping to the side of his bed; from highest to lowest, norway mourned. on the day of the funeral, after some short services at the house, the body was carried on board a steamer, to be taken to bergen. the steamer was draped with black and strewn with green. i believe i have told you of the beautiful custom the norwegians have of strewing green juniper twigs in the street in front of their houses whenever they have lost a friend. no matter how far away the friend may have lived, when they hear of his death they strew the juniper around their house to show that a death has given them sorrow. it was a commentary on human life (and death!) that i never went out in bergen without seeing in some street, and often in many, the juniper-strewn sidewalks. as the steamer with ole bull's body approached the entrance of bergen harbor, sixteen steamers, all draped in black, with flags at half-mast, sailed out to meet it, turned, and fell into line on either side to convoy it to shore. bands were playing his music all the way. at the wharf they were met by nearly all bergen; and the body was borne in grand procession through the streets, which were strewn thick with juniper from the wharf to the cemetery, at least two or three miles. the houses were all draped with black, and many of the people had put on black. the golden wreath which was given him in san francisco was borne in the procession by one of his friends, and a procession of little girls bore wreaths and bouquets of flowers. the grave was hidden and half filled with flowers; and last of all, after the body had been laid there,--last and most touching of all, came the peasants, crowds of them, gathering close, and each one flinging in a fern leaf or a juniper bough or a bunch of flowers. every one had brought something, and the grave was nearly filled up with their offerings. it is worth while to be loved like that by a people. whatever scientific critics may say of ole bull's playing, he played so that he swayed the hearts of the common people; and his own nation loved him and were proud of him, just as the danes loved hans christian andersen, with a love that asked no indorsement and admitted no question from the outside world. the school of music to which ole bull belonged has passed away; but what scientific art has gained the people have lost. it will never be seen that one of these modern violinists can make uneducated people smile and weep as he did. the flowers that are dying on his coffin are all immortelles. such blossoms as these will never again be strewn by peasant hands in a player's grave. it took two days to come from munich to paris,--two hard days, from seven in the morning till six at night. we broke the journey by sleeping at strasburg, where we had just one hour to see the wonderful cathedral and its clock. the clock i didn't care so much about, though the trick of it is a marvel; but the twilight of the cathedral, lit up by its great roses of topaz and amethyst, i shall never forget as long as i live. in my next letter i will tell you about it. but now i have only time to copy harriet's verses, and send off this letter. here they are:-- denmark. when again in your own bright land you are, and with all that dearly you love, and at times you look up at the northern star that stands on the sky above, remember, then, that near forgot, here, near the gothic strand, there is on the globe a little spot,-- 't is denmark, a beautiful land. now at harvest time from there you flew, like the birds from its tranquil shore; they return at springtime, kind and true: may, like them, you return once more! dear mrs. jakson, i remain your humble and thankful servant, harriet. poor thing! when she bade me good-by she began to shed tears, and i had to be almost stern with her to stop their flow. "tell your husband," she said, "that there's a little creature in denmark that you've made very happy, that'll never forget you," and she was gone. in about ten minutes a tap at the door; there was harriet again, with a big paper of grapes and a deprecating face. "excuse me, ma'am, but they were only one mark and a half a pound, and they 're much better than you'd get them in the hotel. oh, i'll not lose my train, ma'am; i've plenty of time." and with another kiss on my hand she ran out of the room. faithful creature! i shall never see her again in this world, but i shall remember her with gratitude as long as i live. surely nowhere except in norway and denmark could it have happened to a person to find in the sudden exigency of the moment two such devoted servants as katrina and harriet; and that they should have both been rhymers was a doubling up of coincidences truly droll. paris is as detestable as ever,--literally a howling and waste place! of all the yells and shrieks that ever made air discordant, surely the cries of paris are the loudest and worst. my room looks on the street; and i should say that at least three different indian tribes in distress and one in drunken hilarity were wailing and shouting under my windows all the time! as for the fiacre-men,--how like _fiasco_, _fiacre_ looks written!--they drive as if their souls' salvation depended on just grazing the wheel of every vehicle they pass. when two of them yell out at once, as they go by each other, it is enough to deafen one. iii. dear people,--i couldn't give you a better illustration of what happens to you in foreign countries when you pin your faith on people who are said to "speak english here," than by giving you the tale of how i went from copenhagen to lubeck. to begin with, i explained to the porter of the könig von denmark hotel, who is one of the english-speaking _attachés_ of that very good hotel, that i wished, in going to lubeck, to avoid water as much as possible. i endeavored to convey to him that my horror of it was in fact hydrophobic, and that i could go miles out of my way to escape it. he understood me perfectly, he said; and he explained to me a fine route by which i was to cross island after island by rail, have only short intervals of water between, and come comfortably to lubeck by eight in the evening, provided i would leave copenhagen at . in the morning, which i was only too happy to do for the sake of escaping a long steamboat journey. so i arranged everything to that end; explained to the one waiter who spoke english that i must have breakfast on the table at . , as i was to leave the house at . . he understood perfectly, he said. (i also commissioned him to buy a pound of grapes for my lunch-basket; the relevancy of this will appear later.) i then carefully explained to the worthy old lady who had promised for a small consideration to take me to munich, that she must be on the spot at six, with her luggage; and that she was on no account to bring anything to lift in her hands, because my own hand-luggage would be all she could well handle. then i asked for my bill, that it might be settled the night beforehand, to have nothing on hand in the morning but to get off. this was doubly important, as the landlord had promised to change my danish money into german money for me,--the danish bankers having no german money. they so hate germany that they consider it a disgrace, i believe, even to handle marks and pfennigs. the clerk, who also "speaks english," said he understood me perfectly; so i went upstairs cheerful and at ease in my mind. in half an hour my bill arrived; and i sent down by the waiter, who spoke "a leetle" english, five hundred danish crowns to pay my bill, and have four hundred crowns returned to me in marks. waited one hour, no money; rang, same waiter appeared. "where is my money?" "yees, it have gone out; it will soon return. he is not here." waited half an hour longer; rang again. "where is my money?" "yees, strachs. he shall all right, strachs." "but i am very tired; i wish to go to bed." "yees, it shall be kommen." waited another half-hour,--it was now quarter of eleven; wrote on a bit of paper, "i have gone to bed; cannot take the money to-night. have it ready for me at six in the morning." rang, and gave it to the waiter, ejaculating, "bureau;" and pointing downstairs, shut the door on him and went to bed. the last thing i heard from him, as i shut the door, was, "strachs, strachs!" that means "immediately;" and there is a norwegian proverb that "when the norwegian says 'strachs,' he will be with you in half an hour." at twenty-five minutes before six i was in the dining-room, bonneted, all ready; no sign or symptom of breakfast. i went to the little room beyond, where the waiters are to be found. there was the one who speaks least english. "oh, goodness!" said i, "where _is_ wilhelm?" wilhelm being the one mainstay of the establishment in the matter of english, and the one who had waited upon me during all my stay. "ya, ya. wilhelm here; soon will be kommen." "but i must have my breakfast; i leave the house in half an hour." "ya, ya. wilhelm is not yet. he sleeps." and the good-natured little fellow darted off to call him. poor wilhelm had indeed overslept; but he appeared in a miraculously short time, got my breakfast together by bits, got the money from the clerk, and did his best to explain to me how it was that a given sum of money was at once more and less in marks than it was in kroner. i crammed it all into my pocket, and ran downstairs to find--no old lady; her "knapsack" on the driver's seat, but she herself not there. four different people said something to me about it, and i could not understand one word they said; so i stepped into the carriage, sat down, and resigned myself to whatever was coming next. after about ten minutes she appeared, breathless, coming down the stairs of the hotel. she had mounted to my room, and, unmindful of the significant fact that the door was wide open and all my luggage gone, had been waiting there for me. this augured well for the journey! however, there was no time for misgivings; and we drove off at a tearing rate, late for the train. suddenly i spied a most disreputable-looking parcel on the seat,--large, clumsy, done up in an old dirty calico curtain, from which a few brass rings were still hanging. "what is that?" i exclaimed. "only my best gown, ma'am, and my velvet cloak. i couldn't disgrace you, ma'am." "disgrace me!" thought i. "i was never before disgraced by such a bundle." "but i told you to bring nothing whatever to carry in your hands," i said; "you must put that into your knapsack. my roll and basket are all you can possibly lift." "oh, ma'am, it would ruin it to put it in the knapsack. i'm not a rich lady, like you, ma'am; it's all i've got: but i'd not like to disgrace you. i was out last night trying to hire a small trunk to bring; but you wouldn't believe it, ma'am, they wanted eight kroner down for the deposit for the value of it. but i'll not disgrace you, ma'am, and i'll forget nothing. i've a good head at counting. you'll see i'll not overlook anything." "never mind," i said; "you must wear your cloak [she had on only a little thin, clinging, black crape shawl,--the most pitiful of garments, and no more protection than a pocket-handkerchief against cold], and the dress must go into the knapsack at lubeck. i will put it into my own roll as soon as we are in the cars." at the station--luckily, as i thought--the ticket-seller spoke english, and replied readily to my inquiry for a ticket to lubeck, _by rail_, "yes, by kiel." then there came a man who wanted three kroner more because my trunk was heavy, and another who wanted a few pfennigs for having helped the first one lift it. i tried for a minute to count out the sum he had mentioned, and then i said, "oh, good gracious, take it all!" emptying the few little coppers and tiny silver bits--which i knew must be, all told, not a quarter of a dollar--into his hand. he said something which, in my innocence, i supposed was thanks, but brita told me afterwards that he was a "fearfully rough man, and what he said was to call me a 'damned german devil!' you see, ma'am, they all hate the germans so, and hearing me speak english, he thought it was german. the french, too, ma'am,--they hate the germans too. they say that sara bernhardt,--i dare say you've seen her, ma'am,--they say she nearly starved herself all in her travelling through germany, because she wouldn't eat the german food." at the train to see me off were two dear warm-hearted danish women,--mother and daughter,--to whom i had brought a letter from friends in america. with barely time to thank them and say good-by, i and my old lady and her bundle and my own three parcels were all hustled into a carriage, the door slammed and locked, and we were off. then i sank back and considered the situation. i had fancied that all that was necessary was to have a person who could speak,--that if i had but a tongue at my command, it would answer my purposes almost as well in another person's head as in my own. but i was fast learning my mistake. this good old woman, who had never been out of denmark in her life, had no more idea which way to turn or what to do in a railway station than a baby. the first five minutes of our journey had shown that. she stood, bundles in hand, her bonnet falling off the back of her head, her crape shawl clinging limp to her figure; her face full of nervous uncertainty,--the very ideal of a bewildered old woman, such as one always sees at railway stations. the thought of being taken charge of, all the way from copenhagen to munich, by this type of elderly female, was, at the outset, awful; but very soon the comical side of it came over me so thoroughly that i began to think it would, on the whole, be more entertaining. when she had told me the day before, as we were driving about in copenhagen, that she had never in her life been out of denmark, though she was sixty-four years old, i said, "really that is a strange thing,--for you to be taking your first journey at that age." "oh, well, ma'am," she said, "i'm such a child of nature that i shall enjoy it as much as if i were younger, and i've all the danish history, ma'am, at my tongue's end, ma'am. there's nothing i can't tell you, ma'am. though we've been very hard-working, i've always been one that was for making all i could: and i've been with my children at their lessons always,--we gave them all good schooling; and i've a volume of danish poetry i've written, ma'am,--a volume _that_ thick," marking off at least two inches on her finger. "danish?" said i. "why did you not write it in english?" "well, ma'am, being raised here, the danish tongue is more my own, much as i spoke english always till my parents died; but i'll write some in english for you, ma'am, before we part." so i had for the third time alighted on a poet. "birds of a feather," thought i to myself; but it really is extraordinary. norwegian, dane--i wonder, if i take a german maid to carry me to oberammergau, if she also will turn out "a child of nature" and a scribbler of verses. the way from copenhagen southward and westward by land is delightful. it plunges immediately into a rich farming-country, level as an illinois prairie, and with comfortable farm-houses set in enclosures of trees, as they are there; and i presume for the same reason,--to break the force of the winds which might sweep from one end of denmark to the other, without so much as a hillock to stay them: no fences, only hedges, and great tracts without even a hedge, marked off and divided by differing colors from the different crops. the second crop of clover was in full flower; acres of wheat or barley, just being sheaved; wagons piled full, rolling down shaded roads with long lines of trees on each side. roeskilde, ringsted, soro,--three towns, but seemingly only one great farm, for seventeen miles out of copenhagen. then we began to smell the salt water, and to get a fresh breeze in at the windows; and presently we came to kosör, where we were to take boat. a big man in uniform stood at the door of the station, looked at our tickets, said "kiel," and waved his hand toward a little steamer lying at the dock. "they say they fear it will be rough, ma'am, as the wind is from the southeast," said the old lady. "oh, well," said i, "it is only an hour and a half across. we cross the big belt to nyborg." she accepted my statement as confidingly as a child, and we made ourselves comfortable on the upper deck. it was half-past nine o'clock. i took out my guide-book and studied up the descriptions of the different towns we were to pass through after our next landing. a green dome-like island came into sight, with a lighthouse on top, looking like the stick at the top of a haystack. "that's in the middle of the belt, ma'am," said brita. "in the winter many's the time the passengers across here have to land there and stay a day, or maybe two; and sometimes they come on the ice-boats. very dangerous they are; they pull them on the ice, and if the ice breaks, jump in and row them." it seemed to me that we were bearing strangely to the south: land was disappearing from view; the waves grew bigger and higher; spray dashed on the deck; white-caps tossed in all directions. "i believe we are going out to sea," said i. "it does look like it, ma'am," replied the "child of nature." "shall i go and ask?" "yes," i replied, "go and ask." she returned with consternation in every line of her aged face. "oh, ma'am, it's strange they should have told you so wrong. we're on this boat till four in the afternoon." and so we were, and a half-hour to boot, owing to the southeast wind which was dead ahead all the way. everybody was ill,--my poor old protectress most of all, and for the first time in her life. "oh, ma'am, i did not think it could be like this," she gasped. "i never did feel so awful." i sat grimly still in one spot on the deck all that day. what a day it was! about noon it occurred to me that some grapes would be a relief to my misery. opening the basket and taking out the bag in which the english-speaking waiter had told me were my grapes, i put in my hand and drew out--a hard, corky, tasteless pear! thanks to the southeast wind, we came a half-hour late to kiel, and thereby missed the train to lubeck which we should have taken, waited two hours and a half in the station, and then had to take three different trains one after the other, and pay an extra fare on each one; how we ever stumbled through i don't know, but we did, and at half-past eleven we were in lubeck, safe and sound, and not more than three quarters dead! and i shall laugh whenever i think of it as long as i live. lubeck is an old town, well worth several days' study; and the stadt hamburg is a comfortable house to sleep and be fed in. you can have a mutton-chop there, and that is a thing hard to find in germany; and you can have your mutton-chop brought to you by an "english-speaking" waiter who speaks english; and you may have it delicately served in your own room, or in a pretty dining-room, or on a front porch, walled in thick by oleander-trees, ten and fifteen feet high,--a lustrous wall of green, through which you have glimpses of such old gables and high peaked roofs, red-tiled, and scooped into queer curves, as i do not know elsewhere except in nuremberg. it all dates back to and , and thereabouts,--which does not sound so very old to you when you have just come from norway, where a thing is not ancient unless it dates back to somewhere near christ's time; but for a mediæval town, lubeck has a fine flavor of antiquity about it. it has some splendid old gateways, and plenty of old houses, two-thirds roof, one-third gable, and four-fifths dormer-window, with door-posts and corners carved in the leisurely way peculiar to that time. really, one would think a man must have his house ordered before he was born, to have got it done in time to die in, in those days. i have speculated very much about this problem, and it puzzles me yet. so many of these old houses look as if it must have taken at least the years of one generation to have made the carvings on them; perhaps the building and ornamentation of the house was a thing handed down from father to son and to son's son, like famous games of chess. nothing less than this seems to me to explain the elaboration of fine hand-wrought decorations in the way of carving and tapestries, which were the chief splendors of splendid living in those old times. there is a room in the merchants' exchange in lubeck, which is entirely walled and ceiled with carved wood-work taken out of an ancient house belonging to one of lubeck's early burgomasters. these carvings were done in by "an unknown master," and were recently transferred to this room to preserve them. the panels of wood alternate with panels of exquisitely wrought alabaster; two rows of these around the room. there were old cupboard doors, now firmly fastened on the wall, never to swing again; and one panel, with a group of wood-carvers at work, said--or guessed--to be the portraits of the carver and his assistants. the old shutters are there,--each decorated with a group, or single figure,--every face as expressive as if it were painted in oil by a master's hand. every inch of the wall is wrought into some form of decorations; the ceiling is carved into great squares, with alabaster knobs at the intersections; a superb chandelier of ancient venetian glass hangs in the middle; and the new room stands to-day exactly as the old one stood in the grand old burgomaster's day. it is kept insured by the merchants' guild for $ , , but twice that sum could not replace it. the merchants' guild of lubeck must contain true art-lovers; a large room opening from this one has also finely carved walls, and a frieze of the old burgomasters' portraits, and another fine venetian glass chandelier, two centuries old. through the window i caught a glimpse of a spiral stair outside the building; it wound in short turns, and the iron balustrade was a wall of green vines; it looked like the stair to the chamber of a princess, but it was only the outside way to another room where the merchants held their sittings. the largest of the lubeck churches is the church of saint mary. this was built so big, it is said, simply to outdo the cathedral in size, the lubeck citizens being determined to have their church bigger than the bishop's. the result is three hundred and thirty-five feet of a succession of frightful rococo things, enough to drive the thought of worship out of any head that has eyes in it. the exterior is fine, being of the best style of twelfth-century brick-work, and there are some fine and interesting things to be seen inside; but the general effect of the interior is indescribably hideous, with huge grotesque carvings in black and white marble and painted wood, at every pillar of the arches. in one of the chapels is a series of paintings, ascribed to holbein,--"the dance of death." it is a ghastly picture, with a certain morbid fascination about it,--a series of fantastic figures, alternating with grim skeleton figures of death. the emperor, the pope, the king and queen, the law-giver, the merchant, the peasant, the miser,--all are there, hand in hand with the grim, grappling, leaping skeleton, who will draw them away. under each figure is a stanza of verse representing his excuse for delay, his reply to death,--all in vain. this chapel had the most uncanny fascination to my companion. "oh, ma'am! oh, indeed, ma'am, it is too true!" she exclaimed, walking about, and peering through her spectacles at each motto. "it is all the same for the pope and the emperor. death calls us all; and we all would like to stay a little longer." by a fine bronze reclining statue of one of the old bishops she lingered. "is it not wonderful, ma'am, the pride there is in this poor world?" she said. the reflection seemed to me a very just one, as i too looked at the old man lying there in his mitre, with the sacred wafer ostentatiously held in one hand, and his crosier in the other; every inch of him, and of the great bronze slab on which he lay, wrought as exquisitely as the finest etching. at twelve o'clock every day a crowd gathers in this church to see a procession of little figures come out of the huge clock; the lubeck people, it seems, never tire of this small miracle. it must be acknowledged that it is a droll sight: but one would think, seeing that there are only forty thousand people in the town, that there would now and then be a day without a crowd; yet the sacristan said, that, rain or shine, every day, the little chapel was full at the striking of the first stroke of twelve. the show is on the back of the clock, which detracts very much from its effect. at the instant of twelve a tiny white statue lifted its arm, struck a hammer on the bell twelve times; at the first stroke a door opened, and out came a procession of eight figures, called the emperor and the electors; each glided around the circle, paused in the middle, made a jerky bow to the figure of christ in the centre, and then disappeared in a door in the other side, which closed after them. the figures seemed only a few inches tall at that great height; and the whole thing like part of a punch and judy show, and quite in keeping with the rococo ornaments on the pillars. but the crowd gazed as devoutly as if it had been the elevation of the host itself; and i hurried away, fearing that they might resent the irreverent look on my countenance. there are some carved brass tablets which are superb, and a curious old altar-piece, with doors opening after doors, like a succession of wardrobes, one inside the other, the first doors painted on the inside, the second also painted, and disclosing, on being opened, a series of wonderful wood carvings of scriptural scenes, these opening out again and showing still others; a fine canopy of wrought wood above them, as delicate as filigree. these are disfigured, as so many of the exquisite wood carvings of this time are, by being painted in grotesque colors; but the carving is marvellous. the thing that interested me most in this church was a tiny little stone mouse carved at the base of one of the pillars. you might go all your life to that church and never see it. i searched for it long before i found it. it is a tiny black mouse gnawing at the root of an oak; and some old stone-worker put it in there six hundred years ago, because it was the ancient emblem of the city. there was also a line of old saints and apostles carved on the ends of the pews, that were fine; a saint christopher with the child on his shoulder that i would have liked to filch and carry away. in the jacobi kirche--a church not quite so old--is a remarkable old altar, which a rich burgomaster hit on the device of bestowing on the church and immortalizing his own family in it at the same time. to make it all right for the church, he had the scene of the crucifixion carved in stone for the centre; then on the doors, which must be thrown back to show this stone carving, he had himself and his family painted. and i venture to say that the event justifies his expectations; for one looks ten minutes at the burgomaster's sons and daughters and wife for one at the stone carving inside. it is a family group not to be forgotten,--the burgomaster and his five sons behind him on one door, and his wife with her five daughters in front of her on the other door. they are all kneeling, so as to seem to be adoring the central figures,--all but the burgomaster's wife, who stands tall and stately, stiff in gold brocade, with a missal in one hand and a long feather in the other; a high cap of the same brocade, flying sleeves at the shoulder, and a long bodice in front complete the dame's array. three of the daughters wear high foolscaps of white; white robes trimmed with ermine, falling from the back of the neck, thrown open to show fine scarlet gowns, with bodices laced over white, and coming down nearly to their knees in front. two little things in long-sleeved dark-green gowns--"not out" yet, i suppose--kneel modestly in front; and a nun and a saint or a virgin mary are thrown into the group to make it holy. the burgomaster is in a black fur-trimmed robe, kneeling with a book open before him,--the very model of a pharisee at family prayers,--his five sons kneeling behind him in scarlet robes trimmed with dark fur. the sacristan said something in german to brita, which she instantly translated to me as "oh, ma'am, to think of it! they're all buried here under our very feet, ma'am,--the whole family! and they'd to leave all that finery behind them, didn't they, ma'am?" the thought of their actual dust being under our feet at that moment seemed to make the family portraits much more real. i dare say that burgomaster never did anything worthy of being remembered in all his life; but he has hit on a device which will secure him and his race a place in the knowledge of men for centuries to come. in the rathhaus--which is one of the quaintest buildings in lubeck--there is an odd old chimney-piece. it is downstairs, in what one would call vaults, except that they are used for the rooms of a restaurant. it has been for centuries a lubeck custom that when a couple have been married in the church of saint mary (which adjoins the rathhaus), they should come into this room to drink their first winecup together; and, by way of giving a pleasant turn to things for the bridegroom, the satirical old wood-carvers wrought a chimney-piece for this room with a cock on one side, a hen on the other, the israelitish spies bearing the huge bunch of the over-rated grapes of eshcol between them, and in the centre below it this motto: "many a man sings loudly when they bring him his bride. if he knew what they brought him, he might well weep." it is an odd thing how universally, when this sort of slur upon marriage is aimed at, it is the man's disappointment which is set forth or predicted, and not the woman's. it is a very poor rule, no doubt; but it may at least be said to "work both ways." there used to be an underground passage-way by which they came from the church into this room, but it is shut up now. while we sat waiting in the outer hall upstairs for the janitor to come and show us this room, a bridal couple came down and passed out to their carriage,--plain people of the working class. she wore a black alpaca gown, and had no bridal sign or symptom about her, except the green myrtle wreath on her head. but few brides look happier than she did. the rathhaus makes one side of the market-place, which was, like all market-places, picturesque at eleven in the morning, dirty and dismal at four in the afternoon. i drove through it several times in the course of the forenoon; and at last the women came to know me, and nodded and smiled as we passed. their hats were wonderful to see,--cocked up on top of a neat white cap, with its frill all at the back and none in front; the hats shaped--well, nobody could say how they were shaped--like _half_ a washbowl bent up, with the little round centre rim left in behind! i wonder if that gives an idea to anybody who has not seen the hat. the real wonder, however, was not in the shape, but in the material. they are made of wood,--actually of wood,--split up into the finest threads, and sewed like straw; and the women make them themselves. all the vegetable women had theirs bound with bright green, with long green loops hanging down behind; but the fishwomen had theirs bound with narrow black binding round the edge, lined with purple calico, and with black ribbon at the back. finally, after staring a dozen of the good souls out of countenance looking at their heads, i bought one of the bonnets outright! it was the cleanest creature ever seen that sold it to me. she pulled it off her head, and sold it as readily as she would have sold me a dozen eels out of her basket; and i carried it on my arm all the way from lubeck to cassel, and from cassel to munich, to the great bewilderment of many railway officials and travellers. before i had concluded my bargain there was a crowd ten deep all around the carriage. everybody--men, women, children--left their baskets and stalls, and came to look on. i believe i could have bought the entire wardrobe of the whole crowd, if i had so wished,--so eager and pleased did they look, talking volubly with each other, and looking at me. it was a great occasion for brita, who harangued them all by instalments from the front seat, and explained to them that the bonnet was going all the way to america, and that her "lady" had a great liking for all "national" things, which touched one old lady's patriotism so deeply that she pulled off her white cap and offered it to me, making signs that my wooden bonnet was incomplete without the cap, as it certainly was. on brita's delicately calling her attention to the fact that her cap was far from clean, she said she would go home and wash it and flute it afresh, if the lady would only buy it; and three hours later she actually appeared with it most exquisitely done up, and not at all dear for the half-dollar she asked for it. after buying this bonnet i drove back to the hotel with it, ate my lunch in the oleander-shaded porch, and then set off again to see the cathedral. this proved to me a far more interesting church than saint mary's, though the guide-books say that saint mary's is far the finer church of the two. there is enough ugliness in both of them, for that matter, to sink them. but in the cathedral there are some superb bronzes and brasses, and a twisted iron railing around the pulpit, which is so marvellous in its knottings and twistings that a legend has arisen that the devil made it. "how very much they seem to have made of the devil in the olden time, ma'am, do they not?" remarked brita, entirely unconscious of the fact that she was philosophizing; "wherever we have been, there have been so many things named in his honor!" the clock in this church has not been deemed worthy of mention in the guide-books; but it seemed to me far more wonderful than the one at saint mary's. i shall never forget it as long as i live; in fact, i fear i shall live to wish i could. the centre of the dial plate is a huge face of gilt, with gilt rays streaming out from it; two enormous eyes in this turn from side to side as the clock ticks, right, left, right, left, so far each time that it is a squint,--a horrible, malignant, diabolical squint. it seems almost irreverent even to tell you that this is to symbolize the never-closing eye of god. the uncanny fascination of these rolling eyes cannot be described. it is too hideous to look at, yet you cannot look away. i sat spellbound in a pew under it for a long time. on the right hand of the clock stands a figure representing the "genius of time." this figure holds a gold hammer in its hand, and strikes the quarter-hours. on the other side stands death,--a naked skeleton,--with an hour-glass. at each hour he turns his hour-glass, shakes his head, and with a hammer in his right hand strikes the hour. i heard him strike "three," and i confess a superstitious horror affected me. the thought of a congregation of people sitting sunday after sunday looking at those rolling eyes, and seeing that skeleton strike the hour and turn his hour-glass, is monstrous. surely there was an epidemic in those middle ages of hideous and fantastic inventions. i am not at all sure that it has not stamped its impress on the physiognomy of the german nation. i never see a crowd of germans at a railway station without seeing in dozens of faces resemblance to ugly gargoyles. and why should it not have told on them? the women of old greece brought forth beautiful sons and daughters, it is said, because they looked always on beautiful statues and pictures. the german women have been for a thousand years looking at grotesque and leering or coarse and malignant gargoyles carved everywhere,--on the gateways of their cities, in their churches, on the very lintels of their houses. why should not the german face have been slowly moulded by these prenatal influences? above this malevolent clock was a huge scaffold beam, crossing the entire width of the church, and supporting four huge figures, carved with some skill; the most immodest adam and eve i ever beheld; a bishop and a saint john and a mary,--these latter kneeling in adoration of a crucifixion above. the whole combination--the guilty adam and eve, the pompous bishop, the repulsive crucifixion, the puppet clock with its restless eyes and skeleton, and the loud tick-tock, tick-tock, of the pendulum,--all made up a scene of grotesqueness and irreverence mingled with superstition and devotion, such as could not be found anywhere except in a german church of the twelfth century. it was a relief to turn from it and go into the little chapel, where stands the altar-piece made sacred as well as famous by the hands of that tender spiritual painter, memling. these altar-pieces look at first sight so much like decorated wardrobes that it is jarring. i wish they had fashioned them otherwise. in this one, for instance, it is almost a pain to see on the outside doors of what apparently is a cupboard one of memling's angels (the gabriel) and the mary listening to his message. throwing these doors back, you see life-size figures of four saints,--john, jerome, blasius, and Ægidius. the latter is a grand dark figure, with a head and face to haunt one. opening these doors again, you come to the last,--a landscape with the crucifixion in the foreground, and other scenes from the passion of the saviour. this is less distinctively memling-like; in fact, the only ones of them all which one would be willing to say positively no man's hand but memling's had touched, are the two tender angels in white on the outside shutters. we left lubeck very early in the morning. as we drove to the station, the milkmen and milkwomen were coming in, in their pretty carts, full of white wooden firkins, brass bound, with queer long spouts out on one side; brass measures of different sizes, and brass dippers, all shining as if they had been fresh scoured that very morning, made the carts a pretty spectacle. and the last thing of all which i stopped to look at in lubeck was the best of all,--an old house with a turreted bay-window on the corner, and this inscription on the front between the first and second stories of the house:-- "north and south, the world is wide: east and west, home is best." it was in platt deutsch; and oddly enough, the servant of the house, who was at the door, did not know what it meant; and the first two men we asked did not know what it meant,--stared at it stupidly, shrugged their shoulders, and shook their heads. it was a lovely motto for a house, but not a good one for wanderers away from home to look at. it brought a sudden sense of homesickness, like an odor of a flower or a bar of music which has an indissoluble link with home. it took a whole day to go from lubeck to cassel, but the day did not seem long. it was a series of pictures, and poor brita's raptures over it all were at once amusing and pathetic. as soon as we began to see elevated ground, she became excited. "oh, oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, "talk about scenery in denmark! it is too flat. i am so used to the flat country, the least hill is beautiful." "do you not call this grand?" she would say, at the sight of a hill a hundred or two feet high. it was a good lesson of the meaning of the word _relative_. after all, one can hardly conceive what it must be to live sixty-four years on a dead level of flatness. a genuine mountain would probably be a terror to a person who had led such a life. brita's face, when i told her that i lived at the foot of mountains more than twelve times as high as any she had seen, was a study for incredulity and wonder. i think she thought i was lying. it was the hay harvest. all the way from lubeck to cassel were men and women, all hard at work in the fields; the women swung their scythes as well as the men, but looked more graceful while raking. some wore scarlet handkerchiefs over their heads, some white; all had bare legs well in sight. at noon we saw them in groups on the ground, and towards night walking swiftly along the roads, with their rakes over their shoulders. i do not understand why travellers make such a to-do always about the way women work in the fields in germany. i am sure they are far less to be pitied than the women who work in narrow, dark, foul streets of cities; and they look a thousand times healthier. our road lay for many hours through a beautiful farm country: red brick houses and barns with high thatched roofs, three quarters of the whole building being thatched roof; great sweeps of meadow, tracts of soft pines, kingdoms of beeches,--the whole forest looking like a rich yellow brown moss in the distance, and their mottled trunks fairly shining out in the cross sunbeams, as if painted; wide stretches of brown opens, with worn paths leading off across them; hedges everywhere, and never a fence or a wall; mountain-ash trees, scarlet full; horse-chestnuts by orchards; towns every few minutes, and our train halting at them all long enough for the whole town to make up their minds whether they could go or not, pack their bags, and come on board; bits of marsh, with labyrinths of blue water in and out in it, so like tongues of the sea that, forgetting where i was, i said, "i wonder if that is fresh water." "it must be, ma'am," replied the observant brita, "inasmuch as the white lilies are floating beautiful and large in it." "oh," she suddenly ejaculated, "how strange it was! napoleon iii. he thought he would get a good bit of this beautiful germany for a birthday present, and be in berlin on his birthday; and instead of that the prussians were in berlin on his birthday." at lüneburg we came into the heather. i thought i knew heather, but i was to discover my mistake. all the heather of my life heretofore--english, scotch, norwegian--had been no more than a single sprig by the side of this. "the dreary lüneburg heath," the discriminating baedeker calls it. the man who wrote that phrase must have been not only color-blind, he must have been color-dead! if a mountain is "dreary" when it turns purple pink or pink purple five minutes before the rising sun is going to flash full on its eastern front, then the lüneburg heath is "dreary." acres of heather, miles of heather; miles after miles, hour after hour, of swift railroad riding, and still heather! the purple and the pink and the browns into which the purple and pink blended and melted, shifted every second, and deepened and paled in the light and the shadow, as if the earth itself were gently undulating. two or three times, down vistas among the low birches, i saw men up to their knees in the purple, apparently reaping it with a sickle. a german lady in the car explained that they cut it to strew in the sheep-stalls for the sheep to sleep on, and that the sheep ate it: bed, bed-blanket, and breakfast all in one! who would not be a sheep? here and there were little pine groves in this heath; the pine and the birch being the only trees which can keep any footing against heather when it sets out to usurp a territory, and even they cannot grow large or freely. three storks rose from these downs as we passed, and flew slowly away, their great yellow feet shining as if they had on gold slippers. "the country people reckon it a great blessing, ma'am, if a stork will build its nest on their roof," said brita. "i dare say it is thought so in america the same." "no, brita, we have no storks in america," i said. "i dare say some other bird, then, you hold the same," she replied, in a tone so taking it for granted that no nation of people could be without its sacred domestic bird that i was fain to fall back on the marten as our nearest approach to such a bird; and i said boastfully that we built houses for them in our yards, that they never built on roofs. at celle, when she caught sight of the castle where poor caroline matilda died, she exclaimed, "oh, ma'am, that is where our poor queen died. it was the nasty queen dowager did it; it was, indeed, ma'am. and the king had opened the ball with her that very night that he signed the order to send her away. they took her in her ball-dress, just as she was. if they had waited till morning the danes would have torn her out of the wagon, for they worshipped her. she screamed for her baby, and they just tossed it to her in the wagon; and she was only twenty." pages of guide-book could not have so emphasized the tragedy of that old gray castle as did brita's words and her tearful eyes, and "nasty old queen dowager." i suppose the truth will never be known about that poor young queen; history whiffles round so from century to century that it seems hardly worth while to mind about it. at any rate, it can't matter much to either caroline or struensee, her lover, now. cassel at nine o'clock. friendly faces and voices and hands, and the very air of america in every room. it was like a dream; and like a dream vanished, after twenty-four hours of almost unceasing talk and reminiscence and interchange. "blessings brighten," even more than "when they take their flight," when they pause in their flight long enough for us to come up with them and take another look at them. cassel is the healthiest town in all germany; and when you see it you do not wonder. high and dry and clear, and several hundred feet up above the plain, it has off-looks to wide horizons in all directions. to the east and south are beautiful curves of high hills, called mountains here; thickly wooded, so that they make solid spaces of color, dark green or purple or blue, according to the time calendar of colors of mountains at a distance. (they have their time-tables as fixed as railway trains, and much more to be depended on.) there is no town in germany which can compare with cassel as a home for people wishing to educate children cheaply and well, and not wishing to live in the fashions and ways and close air of cities. it has a picture-gallery second to only one in germany; it has admirable museums of all sorts; it has a first-rate theatre; good masters in all branches of study are to be had at low rates; living is cheap and comfortable (for germany). the water is good; the climate also (for germany); and last, not least, the surrounding country is full of picturesque scenery,--woods, high hills, streams; just such a region as a lover of nature finds most repaying and enjoyable. in the matter of society, also, cassel is especially favored, having taken its tone from the days of the electors, and keeping still much of the old fine breeding of culture and courtesy. it is a misfortune to want to go from cassel to munich in one day. it can be done; but it takes fourteen hours of very hard work,--three changes,--an hour's waiting at one place, and half an hour at another, and the road for the last half of the day so rough that it could honestly be compared to nothing except horseback riding over bowlders at a rapid rate. this is from gemunden to munich: if there is any other way of getting there, i think nobody would go by this; so i infer that there is not. you must set off, also, at the unearthly hour of a.m.,--an hour at which all virtues ooze out of one; even honesty out of cabmen, as i found at cassel, when a man to whom i had paid four marks--more than twice the regular fare--for bringing us a five minutes' distance to the railway station, absolutely had the face to ask three marks more. never did i so long for a command of the german tongue. i only hope that the docile brita translated for me literally what i said, as i handed him twelve cents more, with, "i gave one dollar because you had to get up so early in the morning. you know very well that even half that sum is more than the price at ordinary times. i will give you this fifty pfennigs for yourself, and not another pfennig do you get!" i wish that the man that invented the word _pfennig_ had to "do a pour of it for one tousand year," as dear old dr. pröhl said of the teapot that would not pour without spilling. i think it is the test-word of the german language. the nearest direction i could give for pronouncing it would be: fill your mouth with hasty-pudding, then say _purr-f-f-f-f-f_, and then gulp the pudding and choke when you come to the _g_,--that's a _pfennig_; and the idea of such a name as that for a contemptible thing of which it takes one hundred to make a quarter of a dollar! they do them up in big nickel pieces too,--heavy, and so large that in the dark you always mistake them for something else. ten hundredths of a quarter!--you could starve with your purse loaded down with them. in the station, trudging about as cheerily as if they were at home, was a poor family,--father, mother, and five little children,--evidently about to emigrate. each carried a big bundle; even the smallest toddler had her parcel tied up in black cloth with a big cord. the mother carried the biggest bundle of all,--a baby done up in a bedquilt, thick as a comforter; the child's head was pinned in tight as its feet,--not one breath of air could reach it. "going to america, ma'am," said brita, "i think they must be. oh, ma'am, there was five hundred sailed in one ship for america, last summer,--all to be mormons; and the big fellow that took them, with his gold spectacles, i could have killed him. they'll be wretched enough when they come to find what they've done. brigham young's dead, but there must be somebody in his place that's carrying it on the same. they'd not be allowed to stay in denmark, ma'am,--oh, no, they've got to go out of the country." all day again we journeyed through the hay harvest,--the same picturesque farm-houses, with their high roofs thatched or dark-tiled, their low walls white or red or pink, marked off into odd-shaped intervals by lattice-work of wood; no fences, no walls; only the coloring to mark divisions of crops. town after town snugged round its church; the churches looked like hens with their broods gathered close around them, just ready to go under the wings. we had been told that we need not change cars all the way to munich; so, of course, we had to change three times,--bundled out at short notice, at the last minute, to gather ourselves up as we might. in one of these hurried changes i dropped my stylographic pen. angry as i get with the thing when i am writing with it, my very heart was wrung with sorrow at its loss. without much hope of ever seeing it again, i telegraphed for it. the station-master who did the telegraphing was profoundly impressed by brita's description of the "wonderful instrument" i had lost. "a self-writing pen,"--she called it. i only wish it were! "you shall hear at the next station if it has been found," he said. sure enough, at the very next station the guard came to the door. "found and will be sent," he said; and from that on he regarded me with a sort of awe-stricken look whenever he entered the car. i believe he considered me a kind of female necromancer from america! and no wonder, with two self-writing pens in my possession, for luckily i had my no. in my travelling-bag to show as sample of what i had lost. at elm we came into a fine hilly region,--hills that had to be tunnelled or climbed over by zigzags; between them were beautiful glimpses of valleys and streams. brita was nearly beside herself, poor soul! her "oh's" became something tragic. "oh, ma'am, it needs no judge to see that god has been here!" she cried. "we must think on the building-master when we see such scenery as this." as we came out on the broader plains, the coloring of the villages grew colder; unlatticed white walls, and a colder gray to the roofs, the groups of houses no longer looked like crowds of furry creatures nestled close for protection. some rollicking school girls, with long hair flying, got into our carriage, and chattered, and ate cake, and giggled; the cars rocked us to and fro on our seats as if we were in a saddle on a run-away horse in a colorado cañon. all the rough roads i have ever been on have been smooth gliding in comparison with this. at nine o'clock, munich, and a note from the dear old "fraulein" to say that her house was full, but she had rooms engaged for me near by. the next day i went to see her, and found her the same old inimitable dear as ever,--the eyes and the smile not a day older, and the drollery and the mimicry all there; but, alas! old age has come creeping too close not to hurt in some ways, and an ugly rheumatism prevents her from walking and gives her much pain. i had hoped she could go to oberammergau with me; but it is out of the question. at night she sent over to me the loveliest basket of roses and forget-me-nots and mignonette, with a card, "good-night, my dear lady,--i kiss you;" and i am not too proud to confess that i read it with tears in my eyes. the dear, faithful, loving soul! the village of oberammergau. mountains and valleys and rivers are in league with the sun and summer--and, for that matter, with winter too--to do their best in the bavarian highlands. lofty ranges, ever green at base, ever white at top, are there tied with luminous bands of meadow into knots and loops, and knots and loops again, tightening and loosening, opening and shutting in labyrinths, of which only rivers know the secret and no man can speak the charm. villages which find place in lands like these take rank and relation at once with the divine organic architecture already builded; seem to become a part of nature; appear to have existed as long as the hills or the streams, and to have the same surety of continuance. how much this natural correlation may have had to do with the long, unchanging simplicities of peoples born and bred in these mountain haunts, it would be worth while to analyze. certain it is that in all peasantry of the hill countries in europe, there are to be seen traits of countenance and demeanor,--peculiarities of body, habits, customs, and beliefs which are indigenous and lasting, like plants and rocks. mere lapse of time hardly touches them; they have defied many centuries; only now in the mad restlessness of progress of this the nineteenth do they begin to falter. but they have excuse when alps have come to be tunnelled and glaciers are melted and measured. best known of all the villages that have had the good fortune to be born in the bavarian highlands is oberammergau, the town of the famous passion play. but for the passion play the great world had never found oberammergau out, perhaps; yet it might well be sought for itself. it lies , feet above the sea, at the head of a long stretch of meadow lands, which the river ammer keeps green for half the year,--at the head of these, and in the gateway of one of the most beautiful walled valleys of the alps. the ammer is at once its friend and foe; in summer a friend, but malicious in spring, rising suddenly after great rains or thaws, and filling the valley with a swift sea, by which everything is in danger of being swept away. in it tore through the village with a flood like a tidal wave, and left only twelve houses standing. high up on one of the mountain-sides, northeast of the village, is a tiny spot of greensward, near the course of one of the mountain torrents which swell the ammer. this green spot is the oberammergauers' safety-gauge. so long as that is green and clear the valley will not be flooded; as soon as the water is seen shining over that spot it is certain that floods will be on in less than an hour, and the whole village is astir to forestall the danger. the high peaks, also, which stand on either side the town, are friend and foe alternately. white with snow till july, they keep stores of a grateful coolness for summer heats; but in winter the sun cannot climb above them till nine o'clock, and is lost in their fastnesses again at one. terrible hail-storms sometimes whirl down from their summits. on the th of may, , there were three of these hail-storms in one day, which killed every green blade and leaf in the fields. one month later, just as vegetation had fairly started again, came another avalanche of hail, and killed everything a second time. on the th of june, , snow lay so deep that men drove in sledges through the valley. this was a year never to be forgotten. in there was a storm of rain, thunder, and lightning, in which the electric fire shot down like javelins into the town, set a score of houses on fire, and destroyed the church. one had need of goodly devotion to keep a composed mind and contented spirit in a dwelling-place surrounded by such dangers. the very elements, however, it seems, are becoming tamed by the inroads of civilization; for it is more than fifty years since oberammergau has seen such hail or such lightning. the village is, like all tyrolean villages, built without apparent plan,--no two houses on a line, no two streets at right angles, everybody's house slanting across or against somebody else's house, the confusion really attaining the dignity of a fine art. if a child were to set out a toy village on the floor, decide hastily to put it back in its box, sweep it all together between his two hands, then change his mind, and let the houses remain exactly as they had fallen, with no change except to set them right side up, i think it would make a good map of oberammergau. the houses are low, white-plastered, or else left of the natural color of the wood, which, as it grows old, is of a rich dark brown. the roofs project far over the eaves, and are held down by rows of heavy stones to keep them from blowing off in wind-storms. tiny open-work balconies are twined in and out capriciously, sometimes filled with gay flowers, sometimes with hay and dried herbs, sometimes with the firewood for winter. oberammergau knows in such matters no law but each man's pleasure. it is at each man's pleasure, also, where he will keep his manure-heap; and usually he elects to keep it close to the street, joining his barn or his house, or his neighbor's barn or house, at convenience. except that there are many small sluices and rivulets and canals of spring water wandering about the village to carry off the liquidation, this would be intolerable, and surely would create pestilences. as it is, the odors are abominable, and are a perpetual drawback to the delight one would otherwise take in the picturesque little place. there are many minute gardens and bits of orchard of all possible shapes,--as many and as many-sided as the figures in the first pages of euclid. i saw one, certainly not containing more than eight square feet, which was seven-sided, fenced and joined to two houses. purple phlox, dahlias, and lilacs are the favorite out-door flowers. of these there were clumps and beds which might have been transported from new england. in the balconies and window-sills were scarlet geranium, white alyssum, and pansies. the most striking natural feature of oberammergau is the great mountain-peak to the southwest, called the kofel. this is a bare, rocky peak of singularly bold contour. on its summit is set a large cross, which stands out always against the sky with a clearness almost solemn. the people regard this kofel as the guardian angel of their village; and it is said that the reply was once made to persons who were urging the passion play actors to perform their play in england or america,-- "we would do so if it were possible; but to do that, it would be needful to take the entire village and our guardian spirit, the kofel." i arrived in oberammergau on a wednesday, and counted on finding myself much welcomed, three days in advance of the day of the play. never was a greater mistake. a country cousin coming uninvited to make a visit in the middle of a busy housewife's spring house-cleaning would be as welcome. as i drove into the village the expression of things gave me alarm. every fence, post, roof, bush, had sheets, pillow-cases, or towels drying on it; the porches and grass-plots were strewn with pillows and mattresses; a general fumigation and purification of a quarantined town could not have produced a greater look of being turned wrong side out. this is what the cleanly oberammergau women do every week during the passion play season. it takes all the time intervening between the weekly representations of the play to make ready their bedrooms and beds. i was destined to greater alarms and surprises, however. the frau rutz, to whom i had written for lodgings, and to whose house i drove all confident, had never heard of my name. it became instantaneously apparent to me that i probably represented to her mind perhaps the eleven hundred and thirty-seventh person who had stopped at her door with the same expectation. half of her house was being re-roofed, "to be done by sunday;" all her bed-linen was damp in baskets in the kitchen; and she and her sister were even then ironing for dear life to be done in time to begin baking and brewing on the next day. evidently taking time by the forelock was a good way to come to a dead-lock in oberammergau. to house after house i drove,--to frau zwink's bird-cage, perched on the brink of a narrow canal, and half over it, it seemed. just before me stood a post-carriage, at frau zwink's door; and as i stepped out two english ladies with bags, bundles, and umbrellas disappeared within frau zwink's door, having secured the only two available perches in the cage. the frau came running with urgent solicitations that i should examine a closet she had, which she thought might answer. "oh, is she the lady of the house, and she barefoot?" exclaimed my danish maid, aghast at the spectacle. yet i afterwards heard that the frau zwink's was one of the notably comfortable lodging-places in the town. in another house were shown to us two small dark rooms, to reach which one must climb a ladder out of the common living-room of the family. from house after house came the response, "no rooms; all promised for saturday." at intervals i drove back to frau rutz's for further suggestions. at last she became gradually impressed with a sense of responsibility for our fortunes; and the mystery of her knowing nothing about my letter was cleared up. her nephew had charge of the correspondence; she never saw the letters; he had not yet had time to answer one half of the letters he had received. most probably my letter might be in his pocket now. friendship grew up between my heart and the heart of the frau rutz as we talked. who shall fathom or sound these bonds which create themselves so quickly with one, so slowly with another? she was an oberammergau peasant, who knew no word of my tongue; i a woman of another race, life, plane, who could not speak one word she could comprehend, and our interpreter was only a servant; but i think i do not exaggerate when i say that the frau and i became friends. i know i am hers; and i think if i were in oberammergau in need, i should find that she was mine. by some unexplained accident (if there be such things) the best room in all oberammergau was still left free,--a great sunny room, with a south window and east windows, a white porcelain stove, an old-fashioned spinnet, a glass-doored corner-cupboard full of trinkets, old-fashioned looking-glasses, tables, and two good beds; and of this i took possession in incredulous haste. it was in the house of george lang, merchant, the richest man in the town. the history of the family of which he is now the leading representative is identified with the fortunes of oberammergau for a century past. it is an odd thing that this little village should have had its line of merchant princes,--a line dating back a hundred years, marked by the same curious points of heredity as that of the vanderbilts or astors in america, and the rothschilds in europe; men as shrewd, sharp, foreseeing, fore-planning, and executive in their smaller way, and perhaps as arbitrary in their monopolies, as some of our millionnaires. in there lived in the service of the monastery at ettal a man named joseph lang. he was a trusted man, a sort of steward and general supervisor. when the monastery was suppressed, joseph lang's occupation was gone. he was a handy man, both with tools and with colors, and wandering down to oberammergau, halted for a little to see if he could work himself in with the industry already established there of toy-making. at first he made simply frames, and of the plainest sort; soon--perhaps from a reverent bias for still ministering to the glory of the church, but probably quite as much from his trader's perception of the value of an assured market--he began to paint wooden figures of saints, apostles, holy virgins, and christs. these figures at first he imported from the tyrol, painted them, and sent them back there to be sold. before long he had a large majority of the oberammergau villagers working under his direction as both carvers and colorers in this business,--a great enlargement of their previous trade of mere toy-making. this man had eleven sons. ten of them were carvers in wood, one was a painter and gilder. all these sons worked together in the continuing and building up of their father's business. one of them, george lang, perceiving the advantage of widening business connections, struck out for the world at large, established agencies for his house in many countries, chiefly in russia, and came home to die. he had six sons and four or five daughters, it is not certainly known which; for, as the present george lang said, telling this genealogical history in his delightful english: "the archives went up in fire once, so they did not know exactly." all six of these sons followed the trades of carving, painting, and gilding. one of them, the youngest, johann, continued the business, succeeding to his father's position in . he was perhaps the cleverest man of the line. he went from country to country, all over europe, and had his agents in america, england, australia, russia. he was on terms of acquaintance with people in high position everywhere, and was sometimes called "the king of oberammergau." again and again the villagers wished to make him burgomaster or magistrate, but he would not accept the position. nevertheless it finally came to pass that all legal writings of the town, leases, conveyances, etc., made, were signed by his name as well as by the names of the recognized officials. first, "the magistracy of oberammergau," then, "johann lang, agent," as he persisted in calling himself, ran in the records of the parties to transactions in oberammergau at that time. in the village began to be in great trouble. a large part of it was burned; sickness swept it; whole families were homeless, or without father or brother to support them. now shone out the virtues of this "king of oberammergau," who would not be its burgomaster. he supported the village: to those who could work he gave work, whether the work had present value to him or not; to those who could not work he gave food, shelter, clothes. he was a rich man in , when the troubles began. in he was poor, simply from his lavish giving. he had only two sons, to both of whom he gave an education in the law. thus the spell of the succession of the craft of wood-workers was broken. no doubt ambition had entered into the heart of the "king of oberammergau" to place his sons higher in the social scale than any success in mere trade could lift them. one of these sons is now burgomaster of the village; he is better known to the outside world as the caiaphas of the passion play. to one knowing the antecedents of his house, the dramatic power with which he assumes and renders the jewish high-priest's haughty scorn, impatience of opposition, contempt for the nazarene, will be seen to have a basis in his own pride of birth and inherited habit of authority. the other son, having been only moderately successful in making his way in the world as a lawyer, returned to oberammergau, succeeded to his father's business in , but lived only a short time, dying in . he left a widow and six children,--three sons and three daughters. for a time the widow and a sister-in-law carried on the business. as the sons grew up, two of them gradually assumed more and more the lead in affairs, and now bid fair to revive and restore the old traditions of the family power and success. one of them is in charge of a branch of the business in england, the other in oberammergau. the third son is an officer in the bavarian army. the aunt is still the accountant and manager of the house, and the young people evidently defer to her advice and authority. the daughters have been educated in munich and at convents, and are gentle, pleasing, refined young women. at the time of the passion play in they did the honors of their house to hundreds of strangers, who were at once bewildered and delighted to find, standing behind their chairs at dinner, young women speaking both english and french, and as courteously attentive to their guests' every wish as if they had been extending the hospitality of the "king of oberammergau," a half-century back. their house is in itself a record. it stands fronting an irregular open, where five straggling roadways meet, making common centre of a big spring, from which water runs ceaselessly day and night into three large tanks. the house thus commands the village, and it would seem no less than natural that all post and postal service should centre in it. it is the largest and far the best house in the place. its two huge carved doors stand wide open from morning till night, like those of an inn. on the right-hand side of the hall is the post-office, combined with which is the usual universal shop of a country village, holding everything conceivable, from a norway dried herring down to french sewing-silk. on the left-hand side are the warerooms of wood-carvings: the first two rooms for their sale; behind these, rooms for storing and for packing the goods, to send away; there are four of these rooms, and their piled-up cases bear testimony to the extent of the business they represent. a broad, dark, winding stairway leads up to the second floor. here are the living-rooms of the family; spacious, sunny, comfortable. at the farther end of this hall a great iron door leads into the barn; whenever it is opened, a whiff of the odor of hay sweeps through; and to put out your head from your chamber-door of a morning, and looking down the hall, to see straight into a big haymow, is an odd experience the first time it happens. the house faces southeast, and has a dozen windows, all the time blazing in sunlight,--a goodly thing in oberammergau, where shadow and shade mean reeking damp and chill. on the south side of the house is an old garden, chiefly apple-orchard; under these trees, in sunny weather, the family take their meals, and at the time of the passion play more than fifty people often sat down at outdoor tables there. these trees were like one great aviary, so full were they of little sparrow-like birds, with breasts of cinnamon brown color, and black crests on their heads. they chatted and chattered like magpies, and i hardly ever knew them to be quiet except for a few minutes every morning, when, at half-past five, the village herd of fifty cows went by, each cow with a bell at her neck; and all fifty bells half ringing, half tolling, a broken, drowsy, sleepy, delicious chime, as if some old sacristan, but half awake, was trying to ring a peal. at the first note of this the birds always stopped,--half envious, i fancied. as the chime died away, they broke out again as shrill as ever, and even the sunrise did not interrupt them. the open square in front of the house is a perpetual stage of tableaux. the people come and go, and linger there around the great water-tanks as at a sort of bethesda, sunk to profaner uses of every-day cleansing. the commonest labors become picturesque performed in open air, with a background of mountains, by men and women with bare heads and bare legs and feet. whenever i looked out of my windows i saw a picture worth painting. for instance, a woman washing her windows in the tanks, holding each window under the running stream, tipping it and turning it so quickly in the sunshine that the waters gliding off it took millions of prismatic hues, till she seemed to be scrubbing with rainbows; another with two tubs full of clothes, which she had brought there to wash, her petticoat tucked up to her knees, her arms bare to the shoulder, a bright red handkerchief knotted round her head, and her eyes flashing as she beat and lifted, wringing and tossing the clothes, and flinging out a sharp or a laughing word to every passer; another coming home at night with a big bundle of green grass under one arm, her rake over her shoulder, a free, open glance, and a smile and a bow to a gay postilion watering his horses; another who had brought, apparently, her whole stock of kitchen utensils there to be made clean,--jugs and crocks, and brass pans. how they glittered as she splashed them in and out! she did not wipe them, only set them down on the ground to dry, which seemed likely to leave them but half clean, after all. then there came a dashing young fellow from the tyrol, with three kinds of feathers in his green hat, short brown breeches, bare knees, gray yarn stockings with a pattern of green wreath knit in at the top, a happy-go-lucky look on his face, stooping down to take a mouthful of the swift-running water from the spout, and getting well splashed by missing aim with his mouth, to the uproarious delight of two women just coming in from their hay-making in the meadows, one of them balancing a hay-rake and pitchfork on her shoulder with one hand, and with the other holding her dark-blue petticoat carefully gathered up in front, full of hay; the other drawing behind her (not wheeling it) a low, scoop-shaped wheelbarrow full of green grass and clover,--these are a few of any day's pictures. and thither came every day issa kattan, from bethlehem of judæa,--a brown-skinned, deer-eyed syrian, who had come all the way from the holy land to offer to the passion play pilgrims mother-of-pearl trinkets wrought in jerusalem; rosaries of pearl, of olive-wood, of seeds, scarlet, yellow, and black, wonderfully smooth, hard, and shining. he wore a brilliant red fez, and told his gentle lies in a voice as soft as the murmuring of wind in pines. he carried his wares in a small tray, hung, like a muff, by a cord round his neck, the rosaries and some strips of bright stuffs hanging down at each side and swinging back and forth in time to his slow tread. issa paced the streets patiently from morn till night, but took good care to be at this watering-place many times in the course of the day, chiefly at the morning, and when the laborers were coming home at sunset. another vender, as industrious as he, but less picturesque, also haunted the spot: a man who, knowing how dusty the passion play pilgrims would be, had brought brushes to sell,--brushes big, little, round, square, thick, thin, long, short, cheap, dear, good, bad, and indifferent; no brush ever made that was not to be found hanging on that man's body, if you turned him round times enough. that was the way he carried his wares,--in tiers, strings, strata, all tied together and on himself in some inexplicable way. one would think he must have slipped himself into a dozen "cat's-cradles" of twine to begin with, and then had the brushes netted in and out on this foundation. all that remained to be seen of him was his head, above this bristling ball, and his feet shuffling below. to cap the climax of his grotesqueness, he wore on his back a wooden box, shaped like an indian pappoose frame; and in this stood three or four lofty long-handled brushes for sweeping, which rose far above his head. another peasant woman--a hay-maker--i remember, who came one night; never again, though i watched longingly for her, or one like her. she wore a petticoat of umber-brown, a white blouse, a blue apron, a pink-and-white handkerchief over her head, pinned under her chin; under one arm she carried a big bunch of tall green grasses, with the tasselled heads hanging loose far behind her. on the other shoulder rested her pitchfork, and in the hand that poised the pitchfork she held a bunch of dahlias, red, white, and yellow. but the daintiest and most memorable figure of all that flitted or tarried here, was a little brown-eyed, golden-haired maiden, not more than three years old. she lived near by, and often ran away from home. i saw her sometimes led by the hand, but oftenest without guide or protector,--never alone, however; for, rain or shine, early or late, she carried always in her arms a huge puppet, with a face bigger than her own. it wore a shawl and a knit hood, the child herself being always bareheaded. it was some time before i could fathom the mystery of this doll, which seemed shapeless yet bulky, and heavier than the child could well lift, though she tugged at it faithfully and with an expression of care, as we often see poor babies in cities lugging about babies a little younger than themselves. at last i caught the puppet out one day without its shawl, and the mystery was revealed. it was a milliner's bonnet-block, on which a face had been painted. no wonder it seemed heavy and shapeless; below the face was nothing but a rough base of wood. it appeared that as soon as the thing was given to the child, she conceived for it a most inconvenient and unmanageable affection,--would go nowhere without it, would not go to sleep without it, could hardly be induced to put it for one moment out of her tired little arms, which could hardly clasp it round. it seemed but a fitting reward to perpetuate some token of such faithfulness; and after a good deal of pleading i induced the child's aunt, in whose charge she lived, to bring her to be photographed with her doll in her arms. it was not an easy thing to compass this; for the only photographer of the town, being one of the singers in the chorus, had small leisure for the practice of his trade in the passion play year; but, won over by the novelty of the subject, he found an odd hour for us, and made the picture. the little thing was so frightened at the sight of the strange room and instruments that she utterly refused to stand alone for a second, which was not so much of a misfortune as i thought at first, for it gave me the aunt's face also; and a very characteristic oberammergau face it is. at the same time i also secured a photograph of the good frau rutz. it was an illustration of the inborn dramatic sense in the oberammergau people, that when i explained to frau rutz that i wished her to sit for a picture of an oberammergau woman at her carving, she took the idea instantly, and appeared prompt to the minute, with a vase of her own carving, her glue-pot, and all her tools, to lay on the table by her side. "do you not think it would be better with these?" she said simply; then she took up her vase and tool, as if to work, seated herself at the table in a pose which could not be improved, and looked up with, "is this right?" the photographer nodded his head, and, presto! in five seconds it was done; and frau rutz had really been artist of her own picture. the likeness did her less than justice. her face is even more like an old memling portrait than is the picture. weather-beaten, wrinkled, thin,--as old at forty-five as it should be by rights at sixty,--hers is still a noble and beautiful countenance. nothing would so surprise frau rutz as to be told this. she laughed and shook her head when, on giving her one of the photographs, i said how much i liked it. "if it had another head on it, it might be very good," she said. she is one of the few women in oberammergau who do delicate carving. in the previous winter she had made thirty vases of this pattern, besides doing much other work. very well i came to know frau rutz's chiselled and expressive old face before i left oberammergau. the front door of her house stood always open; and in a tiny kitchen opposite it,--a sort of closet in the middle of the house, lighted only by one small window opening into the hall, and by its door, which was never shut,--she was generally to be seen stirring or skimming, or scouring her bright saucepans. whenever she saw us, she ran out with a smile, and the inquiry if there was anything she could do for us. on the day before the passion play she opened her little shop. it was about the size of a steamboat stateroom, built over a bit of the sidewalk,--oberammergau fashion,--and joined at a slant to the house; it was a set of shelves roofed over, and with a door to lock at night, not much more: eight people crowded it tight; but it was packed from sill to roof with carvings, a large part of which had been made by herself, her husband and sons, or workmen in their employ, and most of which, i think, were sold by virtue of the frau's smile, if it proved as potent a lure to other buyers as to me. if i drove or walked past her house without seeing it, i felt as if i had left something behind for which i ought to go back; and when she waved her hand to us, and stood looking after us as our horses dashed round the corner, i felt that good luck was invoked on the drive and the day. driving out of oberammergau, there are two roads to choose from,--one up the ammer, by way of a higher valley, and into closer knots of mountains, and so on into the tyrol; the other down the ammer, through meadows, doubling and climbing some of the outpost mountains of the range, and so on out to the plains. on the first road lies ettal, and on the other unterammergau, both within so short a distance of oberammergau that they are to be counted in among its pleasures. ettal is one of the twelve beautiful houses which the ecclesiastics formerly owned in this part of bavaria. these old monks had a quick eye for beauty of landscape, as well as a shrewd one for all other advantages of locality; and in the days of their power and prosperity they so crowded into these south bavarian highlands that the region came to be called "pfaffenwinkel," or "the priest's corner." abbeys, priories, and convents--a dozen of them, all rich and powerful--stood within a day's journey of one another. of these, ettal was pre-eminent for beauty and splendor. it was founded early in the fourteenth century by a german emperor, who, being ill, was ready to promise anything to be well again, and being approached at this moment by a crafty benedictine, promised to found a benedictine monastery in the valley of the ammer, if the holy virgin would restore him to health. an old tradition says that as the emperor came riding up the steep ettaler berg, at the summit of which the monastery stands, his horse fell three times on his knees, and refused to go farther. this was construed to be a sign from heaven to point out the site of the monastery. but to all unforewarned travellers who have approached oberammergau by way of ettal, and been compelled to walk up the ettaler berg, there will seem small occasion for any suggestion of a supernatural cause for the emperor's horse tumbling on his knees. a more unmitigated two miles of severe climb was never built into a road; the marvel is that it should have occurred to mortal man to do it, and that there is as yet but one votive tablet by the roadside in commemoration of death by apoplexy in the attempt to walk up. it was alois pfaurler who did thus die in july, ,--and before he was half-way up, too. therefore this tablet on the spot of his death has a depressing effect on people for the latter half of their struggle, and no doubt makes them go slower. how much the benedictines of ettal had to do with the passion play which has made oberammergau so famous, it is now not possible to know. those who know most about it disagree. in , the year in which the play was first performed, it is certain that the oberammergau community must have been under the pastoral charge of some one of the great ecclesiastical establishments in that region; and it is more than probable that the monks, who were themselves much in the way of writing and performing in religious plays, first suggested to the villagers this mode of working for the glory and profit of the church. their venerable pastor, daisenberger, to whom they owe the present version of the passion play, was an ettal monk; and one of the many plays which he has arranged or written for their dramatic training is "the founding of the monastery of ettal." the closing stanzas of this well express the feeling of the oberammergauer to-day, and no doubt of the ettal monk centuries ago, in regard to the incomparable ammer thal region:-- "let god be praised! he hath this vale created to show to man the glory of his name! and these wide hills the lord hath consecrated where he his love incessant may proclaim. "ne'er shall decay the valley's greatest treasure, madonna, thou the pledge of heaven's grace! her blessings will the queen of heaven outmeasure to her quiet ettal and bavaria's race." most travellers who visit oberammergau know nothing of unterammergau, except that the white and brown lines of its roofs and spires make a charming dotted picture on the ammer meadows, as seen from the higher seats in the passion play theatre. the little hamlet is not talked about, not even in guide-books. it sits, a sort of cinderella, and meekly does its best to take care of the strangers who come grumbling to sleep there, once in ten years, only because beds are not to be had in its more favored sister village farther up the stream. yet it is no less picturesque, and a good deal cleaner, than is oberammergau; gets hours more of sunshine, a freer sweep of wind, and has compassing it about a fine stretch of meadow-lands, beautiful to look at, and rich to reap. its houses are, like those in oberammergau, chiefly white stucco over stone, or else dark and painted wood, often the lower story of white stucco and the upper one of dark wood, with a fringe of balconies, dried herbs, and wood-piles where the two stories join. many of the stuccoed houses are gay with scripture frescos, more than one hundred years old, and not faded yet. there are also many of the curious ancient windows, made of tiny round panes set in lead. when these are broken, square panes have to be set in. nobody can make the round ones any more. on the inside of the brown wooden shutters are paintings of bright flowers; over the windows, and above the doors, are also scripture frescos. one old house is covered with them. one scene is saint francis lying on his back, with his cross by his side; and another, the coronation of the virgin mary, in which god the father is represented as a venerable man wrapped in a red and yellow robe, with a long white beard, resting his hand on the round globe, while christ, in a red mantle, is putting the crown on the head of mary, who is resplendent in bright blue and red. on another wall is saint joseph, holding the infant christ on his knee. there must have been a marvellous secret in the coloring of these old frescos, that they have so long withstood the snows, rains, and winds of the ammer valley. the greater part of them were painted by one franz zwink, in the middle of the last century. the peasants called him the "wind painter," because he worked with such preternatural rapidity. many legends attest this; among others, a droll one of his finding a woman at her churning one day and asking her for some butter. she refused. "if you'll give me that butter," said zwink, "i'll paint a mother of god for you above your door." "very well; it is a bargain," said the woman, "provided the picture is done as soon as the butter," whereupon zwink mounted to the wall, and, his brushes flying as fast as her churn dasher, lo! when the butter was done, there shone out the fresh madonna over the door, and the butter had been fairly earned. zwink was an athletic fellow, and walked as swiftly as he painted; gay, moreover, for there is a tradition of his having run all the way to munich once for a dance. being too poor to hire a horse, he ran thither in one day, danced all night, and the next day ran back to oberammergau, fresh and merry. he was originally only a color-rubber in the studio of one of the old rococo painters; but certain it is that he either stole or invented a most triumphant system of coloring, whose secret is unknown to-day. it is said that in every house in both ober and unter ammergau was painted in this way. but repeated fires have destroyed many of the most valuable frescos, and many others have been ruthlessly covered up by whitewash. an old history of the valley says that when the inhabitants saw flames consuming these sacred images, they wept aloud in terror and grief, not so much for the loss of their dwellings as for the irreparable loss of the guardian pictures. the effect of these on a race for three generations,--one after another growing up in the habit, from earliest infancy, of gazing on the visible representations of god and christ and the mother of god, placed as if in token of perpetual presence and protection on the very walls and roofs of their homes--must be incalculably great. such a people would be religious by nature, as inherently and organically as they were hardy of frame by reason of the stern necessities of their existence. it is a poor proof of the superiority of enlightened, emancipated, and cultivated intellect, with all its fine analyses of what god is not, if it tends to hold in scorn or dares to hold in pity the ignorance which is yet so full of spirituality that it believes it can even see what god is, and feels safer by night and day with a cross at each gable of the roof. one of the unterammergau women, seeing me closely studying the frescos on her house, asked me to come in, and with half-shy hospitality, and a sort of childlike glee at my interest, showed me every room. the house is one of some note, as note is reckoned in unterammergau: it was built in , is well covered with zwink's frescos, and bears an inscription stating that it was the birthplace of one "max anrich, canon of st. zeno." it is the dwelling now of only humble people, but has traces of better days in the square-blocked wooden ceilings and curious old gayly-painted cupboards. around three sides of the living-room ran a wooden bench, which made chairs a superfluous luxury. in one corner, on a raised stone platform, stood a square stove, surrounded by a broad bench; two steps led up to this bench, and from the bench, two steps more to the lower round of a ladder-like stair leading to the chamber overhead. the kitchen had a brick floor, worn and sunken in hollows; the stove was raised up on a high stone platform, with a similar bench around it, and the woman explained that to sit on this bench with your back to the fire was a very good thing to do in winter. every nook, every utensil, was shining clean. in one corner stood a great box full of whetstones, scythe-sharpeners; the making of these was the industry by which the brothers earned the most of their money, she said; surely very little money, then, must come into the house. there were four brothers, three sisters, and the old mother, who sat at a window smiling foolishly all the time, aged, imbecile, but very happy. as we drove away, one of the sisters came running with a few little blossoms she had picked from her balcony; she halted, disappointed, and too shy to offer them, but her whole face lighted up with pleasure as i ordered the driver to halt that i might take her gift. she little knew that i was thinking how much the hospitality of her people shamed the cold indifference of so-called finer breeding. a few rods on, we came to a barn, in whose open doorway stood two women threshing wheat with ringing flails. red handkerchiefs twisted tight round their heads and down to their eyebrows, barefooted, bare-legged, bare-armed to the shoulders, swinging their flails lustily, and laughing as they saw me stop my horses to have a better look at them; they made one of the vividest pictures i saw in the ammer valley. women often are hired there for this work of threshing, and they are expected to swing flails with that lusty stroke all day long for one mark. the passion play at oberammergau. the stir the passion play brings does not begin in oberammergau till the friday afternoon before the sabbath of the play. then, gradually, as a hum begins and swells in a disturbed hive of bees, begins and swells the bustle of the incoming of strangers into the little place. by sunset the crooked lanes and streets are swarming with people who have all fancied they were coming in good season before the crowd. the open space in front of george lang's house was a scene for a painter as the sun went down on friday, sept. , . the village herd of cows was straggling past on its easy homeward way, the fifty bells tinkling even more sleepily than in the morning; a little goat-herd, with bright brown eyes, and bright brown partridge feathers in his hat, was worrying his little flock of goats along in the jam; vehicles of all sorts,--einspanners, diligences, landaus,--all pulling, twisting, turning, despairing, were trying to go the drivers did not know where, and were asking the way helplessly of each other. to heighten the confusion, a load of hay upset in the middle of the crowd. twenty shoulders were under it in a twinkling, and the cart was rolled on, limping, on three wheels, friendly hands holding up the corner. thirty-four vehicles, one after another, halted in front of george lang's door. out of many of them the occupants jumped confidently, looking much satisfied at sight of so comfortable a house, and presenting little slips of white paper consigning them to mr. lang's care. much crestfallen, they re-entered their vehicles, to be driven to the quarters reserved for them elsewhere. some argued; some grumbled; some entreated: all in vain. the decrees of the house of lang are like those of the medes and persians. it was long after midnight before the sound of wheels and voices and the cracks of postilions' whips ceased under my windows; and it began again before daylight the next morning. all was hurry and stir,--crowds going to the early mass; still greater crowds, with anxious faces, besieging the doors of the building where were to be issued the numbered tickets for seats at the play; more crowds coming in, chiefly pedestrians; peasant men and women in all varieties and colors of costume; englishmen in natty travelling-clothes, with white veils streaming from their hats; roman catholic priests in squads, their square-brimmed hats and high black coats white with dust. eager, intent, swift, by hundreds and hundreds they poured in. without seeing it, one can never realize what a spectacle is produced by this rushing in of six thousand people into a little town in the space of thirty-six hours. there can be nothing like it except in the movements of armies. being in the streets was like being in a chorus or village-fair scene on an opera stage a mile big, and crowded full from corner to corner. the only thing to do was to abandon one's self to currents, like a ship afloat, and drift, now down this street and now down that, now whirl into an eddy and come to a stop, and now hurry purposelessly on, just as the preponderating push might determine. mingled up in it all, in everybody's way and under all the horses' feet, were dozens of little mites of oberammergauers, looking five, six, seven years of age, like lost children, offering for sale "books of the passion play." every creature above the age of an infant is busy at this time in other ways in oberammergau; so it is left for the babies to hawk the librettos round the streets, and very shrewdly they do it. little tots that are trusted with only one book at a time,--all they can carry,--as soon as it is sold, grab the pennies in chubby hands and toddle home after another. as the day wore on, the crowd and the hum of it increased into a jam and a racket. by four o'clock it was a din of wheels, cracking whips, and postilions' cries. great diligences, loaded down till they squeaked and groaned on their axles; hay-wagons of all sizes, rigged with white cloth stretched on poles for a cover, and rough planks fastened to the sides for seats, came in procession, all packed with the country people; hundreds of shabby einspanners, bringing two or three, and sometimes a fourth holding on behind with dangling feet; fine travelling-carriages of rich people, their postilions decked in blue and silver, with shining black hats, and brass horns swung over their shoulders by green and white cords and tassels,--on they came into the twist and tangle, making it worse, minute by minute. most remarkable among all the remarkable costumes to be seen was that of an old woman from dachau. she was only a peasant, but she was a peasant of some estate and degree. she had come as escort and maid for four young women belonging to a roman catholic institution, and wearing its plain uniform. the contrast between the young ladies' conventional garb of black and white and the blazing toilet of their guide and protector was ludicrous. she wore a jacket of brocade stiff with red, green, and silver embroidery; the sleeves puffed out big at the shoulder, straight and tight below to the wrist. it came down behind only a little lower than her shoulder-blades, and it was open in front from the throat to the waist-belt, showing beneath a solid mass of gold and silver braid. nine enormous silver buttons were sewed on each side the fronts; a scarf of soft black silk was fastened tight round her throat by a superb silver ornament, all twists and chains and disks. her black woollen petticoat was laid in small, close flutings, straight from belt to hem, edged with scarlet, and apparently was stiff enough to stand alone. it was held out from her body, just below the belt, by a stiff rope coil underneath it, making a tight, hard, round ridge just below her waist, and nearly doubling her apparent size. all the women in dachau must be as "thick" as that, she said; and "lovers must have long arms to reach round them!" the jacket, petticoat, and scarf, and all her ornaments, had belonged to her grandmother. what a comment on the quality of the fabrics and the perpetuity of a fashion! she was as elegant to-day as her ancestor had been nearly a century before her. on her head she wore a structure of brocaded black ribbon, built up into high projecting horns or towers, and floating in streamers behind. as she herself was nearly six feet tall, this shining brocade fortress on the top of her head moved about above the heads of the crowd like something carried aloft for show in a procession. another interesting sight was the peasants who had come bringing edelweiss and blue gentians to sell,--great bunches of the lovely dark blue chalices, drooping a little, but wonderfully fresh to have come two days, or even three, from home; the edelweiss blossoms were there by sheaves, and ten pfennigs a flower seemed none too much to pay to a man who had climbed among dangerous glaciers to pick it, and had walked three whole days to bring it to market. the very poor people, who had walked, were the most interesting. they came in groups, evidently families, two women to one man; carrying their provisions in baskets, bundles, or knapsacks; worn and haggard with dust and fatigue, but wearing a noticeable look of earnestness, almost of exaltation. many of them had walked forty or fifty miles; they had brought only black bread to eat; they would sleep the two nights on hay in some barn,--those of them who had had the great good fortune to secure such a luxury; the rest--and that meant hundreds--would sit on the ground anywhere where they could find a spot clear and a rest for their heads; and after two nights and a day of this, they trudged back again their forty miles or fifty, refreshed, glad, and satisfied for the rest of their lives. this is what the passion play means to the devout, ignorant catholic peasant of bavaria to-day, and this is what it has meant to his race for hundreds of years. the antagonism and enlightenment of the reformation did not reach the bavarian peasant,--did not so much as disturb his reverence for the tangible tokens and presentations of his religion. he did not so much as know when miracle plays were cast out and forbidden in other countries. but it was sixty-one years later than this that the oberammergau people, stricken with terror at a plague in their village, knew no better device to stay it than to vow to god the performance of a play of the divine passion of christ. it is as holy a thing to the masses of them now as it was then; and no one can do justice to the play, even as a dramatic spectacle, who does not look at it with recognition of this fact. the early history of the play itself is not known. the oldest text-book of it now extant bears the date ,--nearly a generation later than the first performance of it in oberammergau. this manuscript is still in possession of the lang family, and is greatly amusing in parts. the prologue gives an account of the new testament plan of salvation, and exhorts all people to avail themselves of it with gratitude and devotion. at this juncture in rushes a demon messenger from the devil, bearing a letter, which he unfolds and reads. in this letter the devil requests all the people not to yield to the influence of this play, asks them to make all the discordant noises they can while it is going on, and promises to reward them well if they will do so. the letter is signed: "i, lucifer, dog of hell, in my hellish house, where the fire pours out of the windows." the demon, having read the letter aloud, folds it up and addresses the audience, saying: "now you have heard what my master wishes. he is a very good master, and will reward you! hie, devil! up and away!" with which he leaps off the stage, and the play at once begins, opening with a scene laid in bethany,--a meeting between christ and his disciples. these grotesque fancies, quips, and cranks were gradually banished from the play. every year it was more or less altered, priest after priest revising or rewriting it, down to the time of the now venerable daisenberger, who spent his youth in the monastery of ettal, and first saw the passion play acted at oberammergau in . in the oberammergau people, in unanimous enthusiasm, demanded to have daisenberger appointed as their pastor. he at once identified himself warmly with the dramatic as well as the spiritual life of the community; and it is to his learning and skill that the final admirable form of the passion play, and the villagers' wonderful success in rendering it, are due. he has written many biblical dramas and historical plays founded on incidents in the history of bavaria. chief among these are: "the founding of the monastery of ettal," "theolinda," "king heinrich and duke arnold of bavaria," "otto von wittelsbach at the veronese hermitage," "the bavarians in the peasants' war," "luitberge, duchess of bavaria." he has also dramatized some of the legends of the saints, and has translated the "antigone" of sophocles and arranged it for the oberammergau stage. a half-century's training under the guidance of so learned and dramatic a writer, who added to his learning and fine dramatic faculty a profound spirituality and passionate adherence to the faiths and dogmas of the church, might well create, in a simple religious community, a capacity and a fervor even greater than have been shown by the oberammergau people. to understand the extent and the method of their attainment, it is needful to realize all this; but no amount of study of the details of the long process can fully convey or set forth the subtle influences which must have pervaded the very air of the place during these years. the acting of plays has been not only the one recreation of their life, otherwise hard-worked, sombre, and stern,--it has been their one channel for the two greatest passions of the human heart,--love of approbation and the instinct of religious worship; for the oberammergau peasant, both these passions have centred on and in his chance to win fame, please his priest, and honor god, by playing well some worthy part in the passion play. the hope and the ambition for this have been the earliest emotions roused in the oberammergau child's breast. in the tableaux of the play even very young children take part, and it is said that it has always been the reward held up to them as soon as they could know what the words meant: "if thou art good, thou mayest possibly have the honor of being selected to play in the passion play when the year comes round." not to be considered fit to take any part in the play is held, in oberammergau, to be disgrace; while to be regarded as worthy to render the part of the christus is the greatest honor which a man can receive in this world. to take away from an actor a part he has once played is a shame that can hardly be borne; and it is on record that once a man to whom this had happened sank into a melancholy which became madness. when the time approaches for the choice of the actors and the assignment of the parts, the whole village is in a turmoil. the selections and assignments are made by a committee of forty-five, presided over by the priest and by the venerable "geistlicher rath" daisenberger, who, now in his eightieth year, still takes the keenest interest in all the dramatic performances of his pupils. the election day is in the last week of december of the year before the play; and the members of the committee, before going to this meeting, attend a mass in the church. the deciding as to the players for took three days' time, and great heart-burnings were experienced in the community. in regard to the half-dozen prominent parts there is rarely much disagreement; but as there are some seven hundred actors required for the play, there must inevitably be antagonisms and jealousies among the minor characters. however, when the result of the discussions and votes of the committee is made public, all dissension ceases. one of the older actors is appointed to take charge of the rehearsals, and from his authority there is no appeal. each player is required to rehearse his part four times a week; and as early in the spring as the snow is out of the theatre the final rehearsals begin. thus each passion play year is a year of very hard work for the oberammergauers. except for their constant familiarity with stage routine and unbroken habit of stage representation through the intervening years, they would never be able to endure the strain of the passion play summers; and as it is, they look wan and worn before the season is ended. it is a thankless return that they have received at the hands of some travellers, who have seen in the passion play little more than a show of mountebanks acting for money. the truth is that the individual performers receive an incredibly small share of the profits of the play. there is not another village in the world whose members would work so hard, and at so great personal sacrifice, for the good of their community and their church. every dollar of the money received goes into the hands of a committee selected by the people. after all the costs are paid, the profits are divided into four portions: one quarter is set aside to be expended for the church, for the school, and for the poor; another for the improvement of the village, for repairs of highways, public buildings, etc.; a third is divided among the tax-paying citizens of the town who have incurred the expense of preparing for the play, buying the costumes, etc. the remaining quarter is apportioned among the players, according to the importance of their respective parts; as there are seven hundred of them, it is easy to see that the individual gains cannot be very great. the music of the play, as now performed, was written in , by rochus dedler, an oberammergau schoolmaster. it has for many years been made a _sine qua non_ of this position in oberammergau that the master must be a musician, and, if possible, a composer; and dedler is not the only composer who has been content in the humble position of schoolmaster in this village of peasants. every day the children are drilled in chorus singing and in recitative; with masses and other church music they are early made familiar. thus is every avenue of training made to minister to the development of material for the perfection of the passion play. dedler is said to have been a man of almost inspired nature. he wrote often by night, and with preternatural rapidity. the music of the passion play was begun on the evening of trinity sunday; he called his six children together, made them kneel in a circle around him, and saying, "now i begin," ordered them all to devote themselves to earnest prayer for him that he might write music worthy of the good themes of the play. the last notes were written on the following christmas day, and they are indeed worthy of the story for which they are at once the expression and the setting. the harmonies are dignified, simple, and tender, with movements at times much resembling some of mozart's masses. many of the chorals are full of solemn beauty. a daughter of dedler's is still living in munich; and to her the grateful and honest-minded oberammergau people have sent, after each performance of the passion play, a sum of money in token of their sense of indebtedness to her father's work. the passion play cannot be considered solely as a drama; neither is it to be considered simply as a historical panorama, presenting the salient points in the earthly career of jesus called christ. to consider it in either of these ways, or to behold it in the spirit born of either of these two views, is to do only partial justice to it. whatever there might have been in the beginning of theatrical show and diversion and fantastic conceit about it, has been long ago eliminated. generation after generation of devout and holy men have looked upon it more and more as a vehicle for the profoundest truths of their religion, and have added to it, scene by scene, speech by speech, everything which in their esteem could enhance its solemnity and make clear its teaching. however much one may disagree with its doctrines, reject its assumptions, or question its interpretations, that is no reason for overlooking its significance as a tangible and rounded presentation of that scheme of the redemption of the world in which to-day millions of men and women have full faith. it is by no means distinctively a roman catholic presentation of this scheme; it is christian. the holy virgin of the roman catholic church is, in this play, from first to last, only the mother of jesus,--the mother whom all lovers and followers of jesus, wherever they place him or her, however they define his nature and her relations to him, yet hold blessed among the women who have given birth to leaders and saviors of men. this presentation of the scheme of redemption seeks to portray not only the scenes of the life of jesus on earth, but the typical foreshadowing of it in the old testament narratives,--its prophecy as well as its fulfilment. to this end there are given, before each act of the play, tableaux of old testament events, supposed to be directly typical, and intended to be prophetic, of the scenes in christ's life which are depicted in the act following. these are selected with skill, and rendered with marvellous effect. for instance, a tableau of the plotting of joseph's brethren to sell him into egypt, is given before the act in which the jewish priests in the full council of the sanhedrim plot the death of jesus; a tableau of the miraculous fall of manna for the israelites in the wilderness, before the act in which is given christ's last supper with his disciples; the sale of joseph to the midianites before the bargain of judas with the priests for the betrayal of jesus; the death of abel, and cain's despair, before the act in which judas, driven mad by remorse, throws down at the feet of the priests the "price of blood," and rushes out to hang himself; daniel defending himself to darius, before the act in which jesus is brought into the presence of pilate for trial; the sacrifice of isaac, before the scourging of jesus and his crowning with the thorns: these are a few of the best and most relevant ones. the play is divided into eighteen acts, and covers the time from christ's entry into jerusalem at the time of his driving the money-changers out of the temple till his ascension. the salient points, both historical and graphic, are admirably chosen for a continuous representation. in the second act is seen the high council of the jewish sanhedrim plotting measures for the ruin and death of jesus. this is followed by his departure from bethany, the last journey to jerusalem, the last supper, the final interview between judas and the sanhedrim, the betrayal in the garden of gethsemane. the performance of the play up to this point consumes four hours; and as there is here a natural break in the action, an interval of an hour's rest is taken. it comes none too soon, either to actors or spectators, after so long a strain of unbroken attention and deep emotion. the next act is the bringing of jesus before the high-priest annas; annas orders him taken before caiaphas, and this is the ninth act of the play. then follow: the despair of judas and his bitter reproaches to the sanhedrim, the interview between jesus and pilate, his appearance before herod, his scourging and crowning with thorns, the pronouncing of his death sentence by pilate, the ascent to golgotha, the crucifixion and burial, the resurrection and ascension. the whole lesson of christ's life, the whole lesson of christ's death, are thus shown, taught, impressed with a vividness which one must be callous not to feel. the quality or condition of mind which can remain to the end either unmoved or antagonistic is not to be envied. but, setting aside all and every consideration of the moral quality of the play, looking at it simply as a dramatic spectacle, as a matter of acting, of pictorial effects, it is impossible to deny to it a place among the masterly theatrical representations of the world. one's natural incredulity as to the possibility of true dramatic skill on the part of comparatively unlettered peasants melts and disappears at sight of the first act, the entry of christ into jerusalem. the stage, open to the sky, with a background so ingeniously arranged as to give a good representation of several streets of the city, is crowded in a few moments by five hundred men and women and children, all waving palm branches, singing hosannas, and crowding around the central figure of jesus riding on an ass. the verisimilitude of the scene is bewildering. the splendor of the colors is dazzling. watching this crowd of five hundred actors closely, one finds not a single man, woman, or little child performing his part mechanically or absently. the whole five hundred are acting as if each one regarded his part as the central and prominent one; in fact, they are so acting that it does not seem acting: this is characteristic of the acting throughout the play. there is not a moment's slighting or tameness anywhere. the most insignificant part is rendered as honestly as the most important, and with the same abandon and fervor. there are myriads of little by-plays and touches, which one hardly recognizes in the first seeing of it, the interest is so intense and the movement so rapid; but, seeing it a second time, one is almost more impressed by these perfections in minor points than by the rendering of the chief parts. the scribes who sit quietly writing in the foreground of the sanhedrim court; the disciples who have nothing to do but to appear to listen while jesus speaks; the money-changers picking up their coins; the messengers who come with only a word or two to speak; the soldiers drawing lots among themselves in a group for jesus' garments, at a moment when all attention might be supposed to be concentrated on the central figures of the crucifixion,--every one of these acts with an enthusiasm and absorption only to be explained by the mingling of a certain element of religious fervor with native and long-trained dramatic instinct. this dramatic instinct is shown almost as much in the tableaux as in the acting. the poses and grouping are wonderful, and the power of remaining a long time motionless is certainly a trait which the oberammergau people possess to a well-nigh superhuman extent. the curtain remained up, during many of these tableaux, five and seven minutes; and there was not a trace of unsteadiness to be seen in one of the characters. even through a powerful glass i could not detect so much as the twitching of a muscle. this is especially noticeable in the tableau of the fall of manna in the wilderness, which is one of the finest of the play. there are in it more than four hundred persons; one hundred and fifty of them are children, some not over three years of age. these children are conspicuously grouped in the foreground; many of them are in attitudes which must be difficult to keep,--bent on one knee or with outstretched hand or with uplifted face,--but not one of the little creatures stirs head or foot or eye. neither is there to be seen, as the curtain begins to fall, any tremor of preparation to move. motionless as death they stand till the curtain shuts even their feet from view. too much praise cannot be bestowed on the fidelity, accuracy, and beauty of the costumes. they are gorgeous in color and fabric, and have been studied carefully from the best authorities extant, and are not the least among the surprises which the play affords to all who go to see it expecting it to be on the plane of ordinary theatrical representations. the splendor of some of the more crowded scenes is rarely equalled: such a combination of severe simplicity of outlines and contours, classic models of drapery, with brilliancy of coloring, is not to be seen in any other play now acted. the high-water mark of the acting in the play seems to me to be reached, not in the christus, but by judas. this part is played by an old man, gregory lechner. he is over sixty years of age, and his snowy beard and his hair have to be dyed to the red hue which is desired for the crafty judas's face. from the time when, in simon's house, he stands by, grumbling at the waste of the precious ointment poured by mary magdalene on the feet of jesus, to the last moment of his wretched existence, when he is seen wandering in a desolate wilderness, about to take his own life in his remorse and despair, judas' acting is superb. face, attitudes, voice, action,--all are grandly true to the character, and marvellously full of life. it would be considered splendid acting on any stage in the world. nothing could surpass its subtlety and fineness of conception, or the fire of its rendering. it is a conception quite unlike those ordinarily held of the character of judas; ascribes the betrayal neither to a wilful, malignant treachery, nor, as is sometimes done, to a secret purpose of forcing jesus to vindicate his claims to divine nature by working a miracle of discomfiture to his enemies, but to pure, unrestrained avarice,--the deadliest passion which can get possession of the human soul. this theory is tenable at every point of judas' career as recorded in the bible, and affords far broader scope for dramatic delineation than any other theory of his character and conduct. it is, in fact, the only theory which seems compatible with the entire belief in the supernatural nature of jesus. expecting up to the last minute that supernatural agencies would hinder the accomplishment of the jews' utmost malice, he thought to realize the full benefit of the price of the betrayal, and yet not seriously imperil either the ultimate ends or the personal safety of jesus. the struggle between the insatiable demon of avarice in his heart and all the nobler impulses restraining it is a struggle which is to be seen going on in his thoughts and repeated in his face in every scene in which he appears; and his final despair and remorse are but the natural culmination of the deed which he did only under the temporary control of a passion against which he was all the time struggling, and which he himself held in detestation and scorn. the gesture and look with which he at last flings down the bag of silver in the presence of the assembled sanhedrim, exclaiming,-- "ye have made me a betrayer! release again the innocent one! my hands shall be clean," are a triumph of dramatic art never to be forgotten. his last words as he wanders distraught in the dark wastes among barren trees, are one of the finest monologues of the play. it was written by the priest daisenberger. "oh, were the master there! oh, could i see his face once more! i'd cast me at his feet, and cling to him, my only saving hope. but now he lieth in prison,--is, perhaps, already murdered by his raging foe,-- alas, through my own guilt, through my own guilt! i am the outcast villain who hath brought my benefactor to these bonds and death! the scum of men! there is no help for me! for me no hope! my crime is much too great! the tearful crime no penance can make good! too late! too late! for he is dead--and i-- i am his murderer! thrice unhappy hour in which my mother gave me to the world! how long must i drag on this life of shame, and bear these tortures in my outcast breast? as one pest-stricken, flee the haunts of men, and be despised and shunned by all the world? not one step farther! here, o life accursed,-- here will i end thee!" the character of christ is, of necessity, far the most difficult part in the play. looking at it either as a rendering of the supernatural or a portraying of the human christ, there is apparent at once the well-nigh insurmountable difficulty in the way of actualizing it in any man's conception. only the very profoundest religious fervor could carry any man through the effort of embodying it on the theory of christ's divinity; and no amount of atheistic indifference could carry a man through the ghastly mockery of acting it on any other theory. joseph maier, who played the part in , , and , is one of the best-skilled carvers in the village, and, it is said, has never carved anything but figures of christ. he is a man of gentle and religious nature, and is, as any devout oberammergauer would be, deeply pervaded by a sense of the solemnity of the function he performs in the play. in the main, he acts the part with wonderful dignity and pathos. the only drawback is a certain undercurrent of self-consciousness which seems ever apparent in him. perhaps this is only one of the limitations inevitably resulting from the over-demand which the part, once being accepted and regarded as a supernatural one, must perforce make on human powers. the dignity and dramatic unity of the play are much heightened by the admirable manner in which a chorus is introduced, somewhat like the chorus of the old greek plays. it consists of eighteen singers, with a leader styled the _choragus_. the appearance and functions of these _schutzgeister_, or guardian angels, as they are called, has been thus admirably described by a writer who has given the best detailed account ever written of the passion play:-- "they have dresses of various colors, over which a white tunic with gold fringe and a colored mantle are worn. their appearance on the stage is majestic and solemn. they advance from the recesses on either side of the proscenium, and take up their position across the whole extent of the theatre, forming a slightly concave line. after the chorus has assumed its position, the choragus gives out in a dramatic manner the opening address or prologue which introduces each act; the tone is immediately taken up by the whole chorus, which continues either in solo, alternately, or in chorus, until the curtain is raised in order to reveal a _tableau vivant_. at this moment the choragus retires a few steps backward, and forms with one half of the band a division on the left of the stage, while the other half withdraws in like manner to the right. they thus leave the centre of the stage completely free, and the spectators have a full view of the tableau thus revealed. a few seconds having been granted for the contemplation of this picture, made more solemn by the musical recitation of the expounders, the curtain falls again, and the two divisions of the chorus coming forward resume their first position, and present a front to the audience, observing the same grace in all their motions as when they parted. the chanting still continues, and points out the connection between the picture which has just vanished and the dramatic scene which is forthwith to succeed. the singers then make their exit. the task of these spirit-singers is resumed in the few following points: they have to prepare the audience for the approaching scenes. while gratifying the ear by delicious harmonies, they explain and interpret the relation which shadow bears to substance,--the connection between the type and its fulfilment. and as their name implies, they must be ever present as guardian spirits, as heavenly monitors, during the entire performance. the addresses of the choragus are all written by the geistlicher rath daisenberger. they are written in the form of the ancient strophe and anti-strophe, with the difference that while in the greek theatre they were spoken by the different members of the chorus, they are delivered in the passion play by the choragus alone." it is impossible for any description, however accurate and minute, to give a just idea of the effects produced by this chorus. the handling of it is perhaps the one thing which, more than any other, lifts the play to its high plane of dignity and beauty. the costumes are brilliant in color, and strictly classic in contour,--a full white tunic, edged with gold at hem and at throat, and simply confined at the waist by a loose girdle. over these are worn flowing mantles of either pale blue, crimson, dull red, grayish purple, green, or scarlet. these mantles or robes are held in place carelessly by a band of gold across the breast. crowns or tiaras of gold on the head complete the dress, which, for simplicity and grace of outline and beauty of coloring, could not be surpassed. the rhythmic precision with which the singers enter, take place, open their lines, and fall back on the right and left, is a marvel, until one learns that a diagram of their movement is marked out on the floor, and that the mysterious exactness and uniformity of their positions are simply the result of following each time the constantly marked lines on the stage. their motions are slow and solemn, their expressions exalted and rapt; they also are actors in the grand scheme of the play. on the morning of the play the whole village is astir before light; in fact, the village proper can hardly be said to have slept at all, for seven hundred out of its twelve hundred inhabitants are actors in the play, and are to be ready to attend a solemn mass at daylight. before eight o'clock every seat in the theatre is filled. there is no confusion, no noise. the proportion of those who have come to the play with as solemn a feeling as they would have followed the steps of the living christ in judæa is so large that the contagion of their devout atmosphere spreads even to the most indifferent spectators, commanding quiet and serious demeanor. the firing of a cannon announces the moment of beginning. slow, swelling strains come from the orchestra; the stately chorus enters on the stage; the music stops; the leader gives a few words of prologue or argument, and immediately the chorus breaks into song. from this moment to the end, eight long hours, with only one hour's rest at noon, the movement of this play is continuous. it is a wonderful instance of endurance on the part of the actors; the stage being entirely uncovered, sun and rain alike beat on their unprotected heads. the greater part of the auditorium also is uncovered, and there have been several instances in which the play has been performed in a violent storm of rain, thousands of spectators sitting drenched from beginning to end of the performance. how incomparably the effects are, in sunny weather, heightened by this background of mountain and sky, fine distances, and vistas of mountain and meadow, and the canopy of heaven overhead, it is impossible to express; one only wonders, on seeing it, that outdoor theatres have not become a common summer pleasure for the whole world. when birds fly over, they cast fluttering shadows of their wings on the front of pilate's and caiaphas' homes, as naturally as did judæan sparrows two thousand years ago. even butterflies flitting past cast their tiny shadows on the stage; one bird paused, hovered, as if pondering what it all could mean, circled two or three times over the heads of the multitude, and then alighted on one of the wall-posts and watched for some time. great banks of white cumulus clouds gathered and rested, dissolved and floated away, as the morning grew to noonday, and the noonday wore on toward night. this closeness of nature is an accessory of illimitable effect; the visible presence of the sky seems a witness to invisible presences beyond it, and a direct bond with them. there must be many a soul, i am sure, who has felt closer to the world of spiritual existences, while listening to the music of the oberammergau passion play, than in any other hour of his life; and who can never, so long as he lives, read without emotion the closing words of the venerable daisenberger's little "history of oberammergau:"-- "may the strangers who come to this holy passion play become, by reading this book, more friendly with ammergau; and may it sometimes, after they have returned to their homes, renew in them the memory of this quiet mountain valley." university press: john wilson & son, cambridge. footnote: [ ] betrothed. _messrs. roberts brothers' publications._ ramona: a story. by helen jackson (h. h.). mo cloth. price $ . _the atlantic monthly_ says of the author that she is "a murillo in literature," and that the story "is one of the most artistic creations of american literature." says a lady: "to me it is the most distinctive piece of work we have had in this country since 'uncle tom's cabin,' and its exquisite finish of style is beyond that classic." "the book is truly an american novel," says the _boston advertiser_. "ramona is one of the most charming creations of modern fiction," says charles d warner. "the romance of the story is irresistibly fascinating," says _the independent_. "the best novel written by a woman since george eliot died, as it seems to me, is mrs. jackson's 'ramona.' what action is there! what motion! how _entrainant_ it is! it carries us along as if mounted on a swift horse's back, from beginning to end, and it is only when we return for a second reading that we can appreciate the fine handling of the characters, and especially the spanish mother, drawn with a stroke as keen and firm as that which portrayed george eliot's 'dorothea.'"--_t. w. higginson._ unsolicited tribute of a stranger, a lady in wisconsin:-- "i beg leave to thank you with an intense heartiness for your public espousal of the cause of the indian. in your 'century of dishonor' you showed to the country its own disgrace. in 'ramona' you have dealt most tenderly with the indians as men and women. you have shown that their stoicism is not indifference, that their squalor is not always of their own choosing. you have shown the tender grandeur of their love, the endurance of their constancy. while, by 'ramona,' you have made your name immortal, you have done something which is far greater. you are but one: they are many. you have helped those who cannot help themselves. as a novel, 'ramona' must stand beside 'romola,' both as regards literary excellence and the portrayal of life's deepest, most vital, most solemn interests. i think nothing in literature since goldsmith's 'vicar of wakefield' equals your description of the flight of ramona and alessandro. such delicate pathos and tender joy, such pure conception of life's realities, and such loftiness of self-abnegating love! how much richer and happier the world is with 'ramona' in it!" _sold by all booksellers. mailed, post-paid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . contents chapter i. popular talk of the excursion--programme of the trip--duly ticketed for the excursion--defection of the celebrities chapter ii. grand preparations--an imposing dignitary--the european exodus --mr. blucher's opinion--stateroom no. --the assembling of the clans --at sea at last chapter iii. "averaging" the passengers--far, far at sea.--tribulation among the patriarchs--seeking amusement under difficulties--five captains in the ship chapter iv. the pilgrims becoming domesticated--pilgrim life at sea --"horse-billiards"--the "synagogue"--the writing school--jack's "journal" --the "q. c. club"--the magic lantern--state ball on deck--mock trials --charades--pilgrim solemnity--slow music--the executive officer delivers an opinion chapter v. summer in mid-atlantic--an eccentric moon--mr. blucher loses confidence --the mystery of "ship time"--the denizens of the deep--"land hoh" --the first landing on a foreign shore--sensation among the natives --something about the azores islands--blucher's disastrous dinner --the happy result chapter vi. solid information--a fossil community--curious ways and customs --jesuithumbuggery--fantastic pilgrimizing--origin of the russ pavement --squaring accounts with the fossils--at sea again chapter vii. a tempest at night--spain and africa on exhibition--greeting a majestic stranger--the pillars of hercules--the rock of gibraltar--tiresome repetition--"the queen's chair"--serenity conquered--curiosities of the secret caverns--personnel of gibraltar--some odd characters --a private frolic in africa--bearding a moorish garrison (without loss of life)--vanity rebuked--disembarking in the empire of morocco chapter viii. the ancient city of tangier, morocco--strange sights--a cradle of antiquity--we become wealthy--how they rob the mail in africa--the danger of being opulent in morocco chapter ix. a pilgrim--in deadly peril--how they mended the clock--moorish punishments for crime--marriage customs--looking several ways for sunday --shrewd, practice of mohammedan pilgrims--reverence for cats--bliss of being a consul-general chapter x. fourth of july at sea--mediterranean sunset--the "oracle" is delivered of an opinion--celebration ceremonies--the captain's speech--france in sight--the ignorant native--in marseilles--another blunder--lost in the great city--found again--a frenchy scene chapter xi. getting used to it--no soap--bill of fare, table d'hote--"an american sir"--a curious discovery--the "pilgrim" bird--strange companionship --a grave of the living--a long captivity--some of dumas' heroes--dungeon of the famous "iron mask." chaptxr xii. a holiday flight through france--summer garb of the landscape--abroad on the great plains--peculiarities of french cars--french politeness american railway officials--"twenty mnutes to dinner!"--why there are no accidents--the "old travellers"--still on the wing--paris at last----french order and quiet--place of the bastile--seeing the sights --a barbarous atrocity--absurd billiards chapter xiii. more trouble--monsieur billfinger--re-christening the frenchman--in the clutches of a paris guide--the international exposition--fine military review--glimpse of the emperor napoleon and the sultan of turkey chapter xiv. the venerable cathedral of notre-dame--jean sanspeur's addition --treasures and sacred relics--the legend of the cross--the morgue--the outrageious 'can-can'--blondin aflame--the louvre palace--the great park --showy pageantry--preservation of noted things chapter xv. french national burying--ground--among the great dead--the shrine of disappointed love--the story of abelard and heloise--"english spoken here"--"american drinks compounded here"--imperial honors to an american--the over-estimated grisette--departure from paris--a deliberate opinion concerning the comeliness of american women chapter xvi. versailles--paradise regained--a wonderful park--paradise lost --napoleonic strategy chapter xvii. war--the american forces victorious--" home again"--italy in sight the "city of palaces"--beauty of the genoese women--the "stub-hunters" --among the palaces--gifted guide--church magnificence--"women not admitted"--how the genoese live--massive architecture--a scrap of ancient history--graves for , chapter xviii. flying through italy--marengo--first glimpse of the famous cathedral --description of some of its wonders--a horror carved in stone----an unpleasant adventure--a good man--a sermon from the tomb--tons of gold and silver--some more holy relics--solomon's temple chapter xix "do you wiz zo haut can be?"--la scala--petrarch and laura--lucrezia borgia--ingenious frescoes--ancient roman amphitheatre--a clever delusion--distressing billiards--the chief charm of european life--an italian bath--wanted: soap--crippled french--mutilated english--the most celebrated painting in the world--amateur raptures--uninspired critics --anecdote--a wonderful echo--a kiss for a franc chapter xx rural italy by rail--fumigated, according to law--the sorrowing englishman--night by the lake of como--the famous lake--its scenery --como compared with tahoe--meeting a shipmate chapter xxi. the pretty lago di lecco--a carriage drive in the country--astonishing sociability in a coachman--sleepy land--bloody shrines--the heart and home of priestcraft--a thrilling mediaeval romance--the birthplace of harlequin--approaching venice chapter xxii. night in venice--the "gay gondolier"--the grand fete by moonlight --the notable sights of venice--the mother of the republics desolate chanter xxiii. the famous gondola--the gondola in an unromantic aspect--the great square of st. mark and the winged lion--snobs, at home and abroad--sepulchres of the great dead--a tilt at the "old masters"--a contraband guide --the conspiracy--moving again chapter xxiv. down through italy by rail--idling in florence--dante and galileo--an ungrateful city--dazzling generosity--wonderful mosaics--the historical arno--lost again--found again, but no fatted calf ready--the leaning tower of pisa--the ancient duomo--the old original first pendulum that ever swung--an enchanting echo--a new holy sepulchre--a relic of antiquity--a fallen republic--at leghorn--at home again, and satisfied, on board the ship--our vessel an object of grave suspicion--garibaldi visited--threats of quarantine chapter xxv. the works of bankruptcy--railway grandeur--how to fill an empty treasury--the sumptuousness of mother church--ecclesiastical splendor --magnificence and misery--general execration--more magnificence a good word for the priests--civita vecchia the dismal--off for rome chapter xxvi. the modern roman on his travels--the grandeur of st. peter's--holy relics --grand view from the dome--the holy inquisition--interesting old monkish frauds--the ruined coliseum--the coliseum in the days of its prime --ancient playbill of a coliseum performance--a roman newspaper criticism years old chapter xxvii. "butchered to make a roman holiday"--the man who never complained --an exasperating subject--asinine guides--the roman catacombs the saint whose fervor burst his ribs--the miracle of the bleeding heart --the legend of ara coeli chapter xxviii. picturesque horrors--the legend of brother thomas--sorrow scientifically analyzed--a festive company of the dead--the great vatican museum artist sins of omission--the rape of the sabines--papal protection of art--high price of "old masters"--improved scripture--scale of rank of the holy personages in rome--scale of honors accorded them --fossilizing--away for naples chapter xxix. naples--in quarantine at last--annunciation--ascent of mount vesuvius--a two cent community--the black side of neapolitan character--monkish miracles--ascent of mount vesuvius continued--the stranger and the hackman--night view of naples from the mountain-side---ascent of mount vesuvius continued chapter xxx. ascent of mount vesuvius continued--beautiful view at dawn--less beautiful in the back streets--ascent of vesuvius continued--dwellings a hundred feet high--a motley procession--bill of fare for a peddler's breakfast--princely salaries--ascent of vesuvius continued--an average of prices--the wonderful "blue grotto"--visit to celebrated localities in the bay of naples--the poisoned "grotto of the dog"--a petrified sea of lava--ascent of mount vesuvius continued--the summit reached--description of the crater--descent of vesuvius chapter xxxi. the buried city of pompeii--how dwellings appear that have been unoccupied for eighteen hundred years--the judgment seat--desolation--the footprints of the departed--"no women admitted"--theatres, bakeshops, schools--skeletons preserved by the ashes and cinders--the brave martyr to duty--rip van winkle--the perishable nature of fame chapter xxxii. at sea once more--the pilgrims all well--superb stromboli--sicily by moonlight--scylla and charybdis--the "oracle" at fault--skirting the isles of greece ancient athens--blockaded by quarantine and refused permission to enter--running the blockade--a bloodless midnight adventure--turning robbers from necessity--attempt to carry the acropolis by storm--we fail--among the glories of the past--a world of ruined sculpture--a fairy vision--famous localities--retreating in good order --captured by the guards--travelling in military state--safe on board again chapter xxxiii. modern greece--fallen greatness--sailing through the archipelago and the dardanelles--footprints of history--the first shoddy contractor of whom history gives any account--anchored before constantinople--fantastic fashions--the ingenious goose-rancher--marvelous cripples--the great mosque--the thousand and one columns--the grand bazaar of stamboul chapter xxxiv. scarcity of morals and whiskey--slave-girl market report--commercial morality at a discount--the slandered dogs of constantinople --questionable delights of newspaperdom in turkey--ingenious italian journalism--no more turkish lunches desired--the turkish bath fraud --the narghileh fraud--jackplaned by a native--the turkish coffee fraud chapter xxxv. sailing through the bosporus and the black sea--"far-away moses" --melancholy sebastopol--hospitably received in russia--pleasant english people--desperate fighting--relic hunting--how travellers form "cabinets" chapter xxxvi. nine thousand miles east--imitation american town in russia--gratitude that came too late--to visit the autocrat of all the russias chapter xxxvii. summer home of royalty--practising for the dread ordeal--committee on imperial address--reception by the emperor and family--dresses of the imperial party--concentrated power--counting the spoons--at the grand duke's--a charming villa--a knightly figure--the grand duchess--a grand ducal breakfast--baker's boy, the famine-breeder--theatrical monarchs a fraud--saved as by fire--the governor--general's visit to the ship --official "style"--aristocratic visitors--"munchausenizing" with them --closing ceremonies chapter xxxviii. return to constantinople--we sail for asia--the sailors burlesque the imperial visitors--ancient smyrna--the "oriental splendor" fraud --the "biblical crown of life"--pilgrim prophecy-savans--sociable armenian girls--a sweet reminiscence--"the camels are coming, ha-ha!" chapter xxxix. smyrna's lions--the martyr polycarp--the "seven churches"--remains of the six smyrnas--mysterious oyster mine oysters--seeking scenery--a millerite tradition--a railroad out of its sphere chapter xl. journeying toward ancient ephesus--ancient ayassalook--the villanous donkey--a fantastic procession--bygone magnificence--fragments of history--the legend of the seven sleepers chapter xli. vandalism prohibited--angry pilgrims--approaching holy land!--the "shrill note of preparation"--distress about dragomans and transportation --the "long route" adopted--in syria--something about beirout--a choice specimen of a greek "ferguson"--outfits--hideous horseflesh--pilgrim "style"--what of aladdin's lamp? chapter xlii. "jacksonville," in the mountains of lebanon--breakfasting above a grand panorama--the vanished city--the peculiar steed, "jericho"--the pilgrims progress--bible scenes--mount hermon, joshua's battle fields, etc. --the tomb of noah--a most unfortunate people chapter xliii. patriarchal customs--magnificent baalbec--description of the ruins --scribbling smiths and joneses--pilgrim fidelity to the letter of the law --the revered fountain of baalam's ass chapter xliv. extracts from note-book--mahomet's paradise and the bible's--beautiful damascus the oldest city on earth--oriental scenes within the curious old city--damascus street car--the story of st. paul--the "street called straight"--mahomet's tomb and st. george's--the christian massacre --mohammedan dread of pollution--the house of naaman --the horrors of leprosy chapter xlv. the cholera by way of variety--hot--another outlandish procession--pen and-ink photograph of "jonesborough," syria--tomb of nimrod, the mighty hunter--the stateliest ruin of all--stepping over the borders of holy-land--bathing in the sources of jordan--more "specimen" hunting --ruins of cesarea--philippi--"on this rock will i build my church"--the people the disciples knew--the noble steed "baalbec"--sentimental horse idolatry of the arabs chapter xlvi. dan--bashan--genessaret--a notable panorama--smallness of palestine --scraps of history--character of the country--bedouin shepherds--glimpses of the hoary past--mr. grimes's bedouins--a battle--ground of joshua --that soldier's manner of fighting--barak's battle--the necessity of unlearning some things--desolation chapter xlvii. "jack's adventure"--joseph's pit--the story of joseph--joseph's magnanimity and esau's--the sacred lake of genessaret--enthusiasm of the pilgrims--why we did not sail on galilee--about capernaum--concerning the saviour's brothers and sisters--journeying toward magdela chapter xlviii. curious specimens of art and architecture--public reception of the pilgrims--mary magdalen's house--tiberias and its queer inhabitants --the sacred sea of galilee--galilee by night chapter xlix. the ancient baths--ye apparition--a distinguished panorama--the last battle of the crusades--the story of the lord of kerak--mount tabor --what one sees from its top--memory of a wonderful garden--the house of deborah the prophetess chapter l. toward nazareth--bitten by a camel--grotto of the annunciation, nazareth --noted grottoes in general--joseph's workshop--a sacred bowlder --the fountain of the virgin--questionable female beauty --literary curiosities chapter li. boyhood of the saviour--unseemly antics of sober pilgrims--home of the witch of endor--nain--profanation--a popular oriental picture--biblical metaphors becoming steadily more intelligible--the shuuem miracle --the "free son of the desert"--ancient jezrael--jehu's achievements --samaria and its famous siege chapter lii curious remnant of the past--shechem--the oldest "first family" on earth --the oldest manuscript extant--the genuine tomb of joseph--jacob's well --shiloh--camping with the arabs--jacob's ladder--more desolation --ramah, beroth, the tomb of samuel, the fountain of beira--impatience --approaching jerusalem--the holy city in sight--noting its prominent features--domiciled within the sacred walls chapter liii. "the joy of the whole earth"--description of jerusalem--church of the holy sepulchre--the stone of unction--the grave of jesus--graves of nicodemus and joseph of armattea--places of the apparition--the finding of the there crosses----the legend--monkish impostures--the pillar of flagellation--the place of a relic--godfrey's sword--"the bonds of christ"--"the center of the earth"--place whence the dust was taken of which adam was made--grave of adam--the martyred soldier--the copper plate that was on the cross--the good st. helena--place of the division of the garments--st. dimas, the penitent thief--the late emperor maximilian's contribution--grotto wherein the crosses were found, and the nails, and the crown of thorns--chapel of the mocking--tomb of melchizedek--graves of two renowned crusaders--the place of the crucifixion chapter liv. the "sorrowful way"--the legend of st. veronica's handkerchief --an illustrious stone--house of the wandering jew--the tradition of the wanderer--solomon's temple--mosque of omar--moslem traditions--"women not admitted"--the fate of a gossip--turkish sacred relics--judgment seat of david and saul--genuine precious remains of solomon's temple--surfeited with sights--the pool of siloam--the garden of gethsemane and other sacred localities chapter lv. rebellion in the camp--charms of nomadic life--dismal rumors--en route for jericho and the dead sea--pilgrim strategy--bethany and the dwelling of lazarus--"bedouins!"--ancient jericho--misery--the night march --the dead sea--an idea of what a "wilderness" in palestine is--the holy hermits of mars saba--good st. saba--women not admitted--buried from the world for all time--unselfish catholic benevolence--gazelles--the plain of the shepherds--birthplace of the saviour, bethlehem--church of the nativity--its hundred holy places--the famous "milk" grotto--tradition --return to jerusalem--exhausted chapter lvi. departure from jerusalem--samson--the plain of sharon--arrival at joppa --horse of simon the tanner--the long pilgrimage ended--character of palestine scenery--the curse chapter lvii. the happiness of being at sea once more--"home" as it is in a pleasure ship--"shaking hands" with the vessel--jack in costume--his father's parting advice--approaching egypt--ashore in alexandria--a deserved compliment for the donkeys--invasion of the lost tribes of america--end of the celebrated "jaffa colony"--scenes in grand cairo--shepheard's hotel contrasted with a certain american hotel--preparing for the pyramids chapter lviii. "recherche" donkeys--a wild ride--specimens of egyptian modesty--moses in the bulrushes--place where the holy family sojourned--distant view of the pyramids--a nearer view--the ascent--superb view from the top of the pyramid--"backsheesh! backsheesh!"--an arab exploit--in the bowels of the pyramid--strategy--reminiscence of "holiday's hill"--boyish exploit--the majestic sphynx--things the author will not tell--grand old egypt chapter lix. going home--a demoralized note-book--a boy's diary--mere mention of old spain--departure from cadiz--a deserved rebuke--the beautiful madeiras --tabooed--in the delightful bermudas--an english welcome--good-by to "our friends the bermudians"--packing trunks for home--our first accident--the long cruise drawing to a close--at home--amen chapter lx. thankless devotion--a newspaper valedictory--conclusion preface this book is a record of a pleasure trip. if it were a record of a solemn scientific expedition, it would have about it that gravity, that profundity, and that impressive incomprehensibility which are so proper to works of that kind, and withal so attractive. yet notwithstanding it is only a record of a pic-nic, it has a purpose, which is to suggest to the reader how he would be likely to see europe and the east if he looked at them with his own eyes instead of the eyes of those who traveled in those countries before him. i make small pretense of showing anyone how he ought to look at objects of interest beyond the sea--other books do that, and therefore, even if i were competent to do it, there is no need. i offer no apologies for any departures from the usual style of travel-writing that may be charged against me--for i think i have seen with impartial eyes, and i am sure i have written at least honestly, whether wisely or not. in this volume i have used portions of letters which i wrote for the daily alta california, of san francisco, the proprietors of that journal having waived their rights and given me the necessary permission. i have also inserted portions of several letters written for the new york tribune and the new york herald. the author. san francisco. chapter i. for months the great pleasure excursion to europe and the holy land was chatted about in the newspapers everywhere in america and discussed at countless firesides. it was a novelty in the way of excursions--its like had not been thought of before, and it compelled that interest which attractive novelties always command. it was to be a picnic on a gigantic scale. the participants in it, instead of freighting an ungainly steam ferry--boat with youth and beauty and pies and doughnuts, and paddling up some obscure creek to disembark upon a grassy lawn and wear themselves out with a long summer day's laborious frolicking under the impression that it was fun, were to sail away in a great steamship with flags flying and cannon pealing, and take a royal holiday beyond the broad ocean in many a strange clime and in many a land renowned in history! they were to sail for months over the breezy atlantic and the sunny mediterranean; they were to scamper about the decks by day, filling the ship with shouts and laughter--or read novels and poetry in the shade of the smokestacks, or watch for the jelly-fish and the nautilus over the side, and the shark, the whale, and other strange monsters of the deep; and at night they were to dance in the open air, on the upper deck, in the midst of a ballroom that stretched from horizon to horizon, and was domed by the bending heavens and lighted by no meaner lamps than the stars and the magnificent moon--dance, and promenade, and smoke, and sing, and make love, and search the skies for constellations that never associate with the "big dipper" they were so tired of; and they were to see the ships of twenty navies--the customs and costumes of twenty curious peoples--the great cities of half a world--they were to hob-nob with nobility and hold friendly converse with kings and princes, grand moguls, and the anointed lords of mighty empires! it was a brave conception; it was the offspring of a most ingenious brain. it was well advertised, but it hardly needed it: the bold originality, the extraordinary character, the seductive nature, and the vastness of the enterprise provoked comment everywhere and advertised it in every household in the land. who could read the program of the excursion without longing to make one of the party? i will insert it here. it is almost as good as a map. as a text for this book, nothing could be better: excursion to the holy land, egypt, the crimea, greece, and intermediate points of interest. brooklyn, february st, the undersigned will make an excursion as above during the coming season, and begs to submit to you the following programme: a first-class steamer, to be under his own command, and capable of accommodating at least one hundred and fifty cabin passengers, will be selected, in which will be taken a select company, numbering not more than three-fourths of the ship's capacity. there is good reason to believe that this company can be easily made up in this immediate vicinity, of mutual friends and acquaintances. the steamer will be provided with every necessary comfort, including library and musical instruments. an experienced physician will be on board. leaving new york about june st, a middle and pleasant route will be taken across the atlantic, and passing through the group of azores, st. michael will be reached in about ten days. a day or two will be spent here, enjoying the fruit and wild scenery of these islands, and the voyage continued, and gibraltar reached in three or four days. a day or two will be spent here in looking over the wonderful subterraneous fortifications, permission to visit these galleries being readily obtained. from gibraltar, running along the coasts of spain and france, marseilles will be reached in three days. here ample time will be given not only to look over the city, which was founded six hundred years before the christian era, and its artificial port, the finest of the kind in the mediterranean, but to visit paris during the great exhibition; and the beautiful city of lyons, lying intermediate, from the heights of which, on a clear day, mont blanc and the alps can be distinctly seen. passengers who may wish to extend the time at paris can do so, and, passing down through switzerland, rejoin the steamer at genoa. from marseilles to genoa is a run of one night. the excursionists will have an opportunity to look over this, the "magnificent city of palaces," and visit the birthplace of columbus, twelve miles off, over a beautiful road built by napoleon i. from this point, excursions may be made to milan, lakes como and maggiore, or to milan, verona (famous for its extraordinary fortifications), padua, and venice. or, if passengers desire to visit parma (famous for correggio's frescoes) and bologna, they can by rail go on to florence, and rejoin the steamer at leghorn, thus spending about three weeks amid the cities most famous for art in italy. from genoa the run to leghorn will be made along the coast in one night, and time appropriated to this point in which to visit florence, its palaces and galleries; pisa, its cathedral and "leaning tower," and lucca and its baths, and roman amphitheater; florence, the most remote, being distant by rail about sixty miles. from leghorn to naples (calling at civita vecchia to land any who may prefer to go to rome from that point), the distance will be made in about thirty-six hours; the route will lay along the coast of italy, close by caprera, elba, and corsica. arrangements have been made to take on board at leghorn a pilot for caprera, and, if practicable, a call will be made there to visit the home of garibaldi. rome [by rail], herculaneum, pompeii, vesuvius, vergil's tomb, and possibly the ruins of paestum can be visited, as well as the beautiful surroundings of naples and its charming bay. the next point of interest will be palermo, the most beautiful city of sicily, which will be reached in one night from naples. a day will be spent here, and leaving in the evening, the course will be taken towards athens. skirting along the north coast of sicily, passing through the group of aeolian isles, in sight of stromboli and vulcania, both active volcanoes, through the straits of messina, with "scylla" on the one hand and "charybdis" on the other, along the east coast of sicily, and in sight of mount etna, along the south coast of italy, the west and south coast of greece, in sight of ancient crete, up athens gulf, and into the piraeus, athens will be reached in two and a half or three days. after tarrying here awhile, the bay of salamis will be crossed, and a day given to corinth, whence the voyage will be continued to constantinople, passing on the way through the grecian archipelago, the dardanelles, the sea of marmora, and the mouth of the golden horn, and arriving in about forty-eight hours from athens. after leaving constantinople, the way will be taken out through the beautiful bosphorus, across the black sea to sebastopol and balaklava, a run of about twenty-four hours. here it is proposed to remain two days, visiting the harbors, fortifications, and battlefields of the crimea; thence back through the bosphorus, touching at constantinople to take in any who may have preferred to remain there; down through the sea of marmora and the dardanelles, along the coasts of ancient troy and lydia in asia, to smyrna, which will be reached in two or two and a half days from constantinople. a sufficient stay will be made here to give opportunity of visiting ephesus, fifty miles distant by rail. from smyrna towards the holy land the course will lay through the grecian archipelago, close by the isle of patmos, along the coast of asia, ancient pamphylia, and the isle of cyprus. beirut will be reached in three days. at beirut time will be given to visit damascus; after which the steamer will proceed to joppa. from joppa, jerusalem, the river jordan, the sea of tiberias, nazareth, bethany, bethlehem, and other points of interest in the holy land can be visited, and here those who may have preferred to make the journey from beirut through the country, passing through damascus, galilee, capernaum, samaria, and by the river jordan and sea of tiberias, can rejoin the steamer. leaving joppa, the next point of interest to visit will be alexandria, which will be reached in twenty-four hours. the ruins of caesar's palace, pompey's pillar, cleopatra's needle, the catacombs, and ruins of ancient alexandria will be found worth the visit. the journey to cairo, one hundred and thirty miles by rail, can be made in a few hours, and from which can be visited the site of ancient memphis, joseph's granaries, and the pyramids. from alexandria the route will be taken homeward, calling at malta, cagliari (in sardinia), and palma (in majorca), all magnificent harbors, with charming scenery, and abounding in fruits. a day or two will be spent at each place, and leaving parma in the evening, valencia in spain will be reached the next morning. a few days will be spent in this, the finest city of spain. from valencia, the homeward course will be continued, skirting along the coast of spain. alicant, carthagena, palos, and malaga will be passed but a mile or two distant, and gibraltar reached in about twenty-four hours. a stay of one day will be made here, and the voyage continued to madeira, which will be reached in about three days. captain marryatt writes: "i do not know a spot on the globe which so much astonishes and delights upon first arrival as madeira." a stay of one or two days will be made here, which, if time permits, may be extended, and passing on through the islands, and probably in sight of the peak of teneriffe, a southern track will be taken, and the atlantic crossed within the latitudes of the northeast trade winds, where mild and pleasant weather, and a smooth sea, can always be expected. a call will be made at bermuda, which lies directly in this route homeward, and will be reached in about ten days from madeira, and after spending a short time with our friends the bermudians, the final departure will be made for home, which will be reached in about three days. already, applications have been received from parties in europe wishing to join the excursion there. the ship will at all times be a home, where the excursionists, if sick, will be surrounded by kind friends, and have all possible comfort and sympathy. should contagious sickness exist in any of the ports named in the program, such ports will be passed, and others of interest substituted. the price of passage is fixed at $ , , currency, for each adult passenger. choice of rooms and of seats at the tables apportioned in the order in which passages are engaged; and no passage considered engaged until ten percent of the passage money is deposited with the treasurer. passengers can remain on board of the steamer, at all ports, if they desire, without additional expense, and all boating at the expense of the ship. all passages must be paid for when taken, in order that the most perfect arrangements be made for starting at the appointed time. applications for passage must be approved by the committee before tickets are issued, and can be made to the undersigned. articles of interest or curiosity, procured by the passengers during the voyage, may be brought home in the steamer free of charge. five dollars per day, in gold, it is believed, will be a fair calculation to make for all traveling expenses onshore and at the various points where passengers may wish to leave the steamer for days at a time. the trip can be extended, and the route changed, by unanimous vote of the passengers. chas. c. duncan, wall street, new york r. r. g******, treasurer committee on applications j. t. h*****, esq. r. r. g*****, esq. c. c. duncan committee on selecting steamer capt. w. w. s* * * *, surveyor for board of underwriters c. w. c******, consulting engineer for u.s. and canada j. t. h*****, esq. c. c. duncan p.s.--the very beautiful and substantial side-wheel steamship "quaker city" has been chartered for the occasion, and will leave new york june th. letters have been issued by the government commending the party to courtesies abroad. what was there lacking about that program to make it perfectly irresistible? nothing that any finite mind could discover. paris, england, scotland, switzerland, italy--garibaldi! the grecian archipelago! vesuvius! constantinople! smyrna! the holy land! egypt and "our friends the bermudians"! people in europe desiring to join the excursion--contagious sickness to be avoided--boating at the expense of the ship--physician on board--the circuit of the globe to be made if the passengers unanimously desired it--the company to be rigidly selected by a pitiless "committee on applications"--the vessel to be as rigidly selected by as pitiless a "committee on selecting steamer." human nature could not withstand these bewildering temptations. i hurried to the treasurer's office and deposited my ten percent. i rejoiced to know that a few vacant staterooms were still left. i did avoid a critical personal examination into my character by that bowelless committee, but i referred to all the people of high standing i could think of in the community who would be least likely to know anything about me. shortly a supplementary program was issued which set forth that the plymouth collection of hymns would be used on board the ship. i then paid the balance of my passage money. i was provided with a receipt and duly and officially accepted as an excursionist. there was happiness in that but it was tame compared to the novelty of being "select." this supplementary program also instructed the excursionists to provide themselves with light musical instruments for amusement in the ship, with saddles for syrian travel, green spectacles and umbrellas, veils for egypt, and substantial clothing to use in rough pilgrimizing in the holy land. furthermore, it was suggested that although the ship's library would afford a fair amount of reading matter, it would still be well if each passenger would provide himself with a few guidebooks, a bible, and some standard works of travel. a list was appended, which consisted chiefly of books relating to the holy land, since the holy land was part of the excursion and seemed to be its main feature. reverend henry ward beecher was to have accompanied the expedition, but urgent duties obliged him to give up the idea. there were other passengers who could have been spared better and would have been spared more willingly. lieutenant general sherman was to have been of the party also, but the indian war compelled his presence on the plains. a popular actress had entered her name on the ship's books, but something interfered and she couldn't go. the "drummer boy of the potomac" deserted, and lo, we had never a celebrity left! however, we were to have a "battery of guns" from the navy department (as per advertisement) to be used in answering royal salutes; and the document furnished by the secretary of the navy, which was to make "general sherman and party" welcome guests in the courts and camps of the old world, was still left to us, though both document and battery, i think, were shorn of somewhat of their original august proportions. however, had not we the seductive program still, with its paris, its constantinople, smyrna, jerusalem, jericho, and "our friends the bermudians?" what did we care? chapter ii. occasionally, during the following month, i dropped in at wall street to inquire how the repairing and refurnishing of the vessel was coming on, how additions to the passenger list were averaging, how many people the committee were decreeing not "select" every day and banishing in sorrow and tribulation. i was glad to know that we were to have a little printing press on board and issue a daily newspaper of our own. i was glad to learn that our piano, our parlor organ, and our melodeon were to be the best instruments of the kind that could be had in the market. i was proud to observe that among our excursionists were three ministers of the gospel, eight doctors, sixteen or eighteen ladies, several military and naval chieftains with sounding titles, an ample crop of "professors" of various kinds, and a gentleman who had "commissioner of the united states of america to europe, asia, and africa" thundering after his name in one awful blast! i had carefully prepared myself to take rather a back seat in that ship because of the uncommonly select material that would alone be permitted to pass through the camel's eye of that committee on credentials; i had schooled myself to expect an imposing array of military and naval heroes and to have to set that back seat still further back in consequence of it maybe; but i state frankly that i was all unprepared for this crusher. i fell under that titular avalanche a torn and blighted thing. i said that if that potentate must go over in our ship, why, i supposed he must --but that to my thinking, when the united states considered it necessary to send a dignitary of that tonnage across the ocean, it would be in better taste, and safer, to take him apart and cart him over in sections in several ships. ah, if i had only known then that he was only a common mortal, and that his mission had nothing more overpowering about it than the collecting of seeds and uncommon yams and extraordinary cabbages and peculiar bullfrogs for that poor, useless, innocent, mildewed old fossil the smithsonian institute, i would have felt so much relieved. during that memorable month i basked in the happiness of being for once in my life drifting with the tide of a great popular movement. everybody was going to europe--i, too, was going to europe. everybody was going to the famous paris exposition--i, too, was going to the paris exposition. the steamship lines were carrying americans out of the various ports of the country at the rate of four or five thousand a week in the aggregate. if i met a dozen individuals during that month who were not going to europe shortly, i have no distinct remembrance of it now. i walked about the city a good deal with a young mr. blucher, who was booked for the excursion. he was confiding, good-natured, unsophisticated, companionable; but he was not a man to set the river on fire. he had the most extraordinary notions about this european exodus and came at last to consider the whole nation as packing up for emigration to france. we stepped into a store on broadway one day, where he bought a handkerchief, and when the man could not make change, mr. b. said: "never mind, i'll hand it to you in paris." "but i am not going to paris." "how is--what did i understand you to say?" "i said i am not going to paris." "not going to paris! not g---- well, then, where in the nation are you going to?" "nowhere at all." "not anywhere whatsoever?--not any place on earth but this?" "not any place at all but just this--stay here all summer." my comrade took his purchase and walked out of the store without a word --walked out with an injured look upon his countenance. up the street apiece he broke silence and said impressively: "it was a lie--that is my opinion of it!" in the fullness of time the ship was ready to receive her passengers. i was introduced to the young gentleman who was to be my roommate, and found him to be intelligent, cheerful of spirit, unselfish, full of generous impulses, patient, considerate, and wonderfully good-natured. not any passenger that sailed in the quaker city will withhold his endorsement of what i have just said. we selected a stateroom forward of the wheel, on the starboard side, "below decks." it bad two berths in it, a dismal dead-light, a sink with a washbowl in it, and a long, sumptuously cushioned locker, which was to do service as a sofa--partly --and partly as a hiding place for our things. notwithstanding all this furniture, there was still room to turn around in, but not to swing a cat in, at least with entire security to the cat. however, the room was large, for a ship's stateroom, and was in every way satisfactory. the vessel was appointed to sail on a certain saturday early in june. a little after noon on that distinguished saturday i reached the ship and went on board. all was bustle and confusion. [i have seen that remark before somewhere.] the pier was crowded with carriages and men; passengers were arriving and hurrying on board; the vessel's decks were encumbered with trunks and valises; groups of excursionists, arrayed in unattractive traveling costumes, were moping about in a drizzling rain and looking as droopy and woebegone as so many molting chickens. the gallant flag was up, but it was under the spell, too, and hung limp and disheartened by the mast. altogether, it was the bluest, bluest spectacle! it was a pleasure excursion--there was no gainsaying that, because the program said so--it was so nominated in the bond--but it surely hadn't the general aspect of one. finally, above the banging, and rumbling, and shouting, and hissing of steam rang the order to "cast off!"--a sudden rush to the gangways--a scampering ashore of visitors-a revolution of the wheels, and we were off--the pic-nic was begun! two very mild cheers went up from the dripping crowd on the pier; we answered them gently from the slippery decks; the flag made an effort to wave, and failed; the "battery of guns" spake not--the ammunition was out. we steamed down to the foot of the harbor and came to anchor. it was still raining. and not only raining, but storming. "outside" we could see, ourselves, that there was a tremendous sea on. we must lie still, in the calm harbor, till the storm should abate. our passengers hailed from fifteen states; only a few of them had ever been to sea before; manifestly it would not do to pit them against a full-blown tempest until they had got their sea-legs on. toward evening the two steam tugs that had accompanied us with a rollicking champagne-party of young new yorkers on board who wished to bid farewell to one of our number in due and ancient form departed, and we were alone on the deep. on deep five fathoms, and anchored fast to the bottom. and out in the solemn rain, at that. this was pleasuring with a vengeance. it was an appropriate relief when the gong sounded for prayer meeting. the first saturday night of any other pleasure excursion might have been devoted to whist and dancing; but i submit it to the unprejudiced mind if it would have been in good taste for us to engage in such frivolities, considering what we had gone through and the frame of mind we were in. we would have shone at a wake, but not at anything more festive. however, there is always a cheering influence about the sea; and in my berth that night, rocked by the measured swell of the waves and lulled by the murmur of the distant surf, i soon passed tranquilly out of all consciousness of the dreary experiences of the day and damaging premonitions of the future. chapter iii. all day sunday at anchor. the storm had gone down a great deal, but the sea had not. it was still piling its frothy hills high in air "outside," as we could plainly see with the glasses. we could not properly begin a pleasure excursion on sunday; we could not offer untried stomachs to so pitiless a sea as that. we must lie still till monday. and we did. but we had repetitions of church and prayer-meetings; and so, of course, we were just as eligibly situated as we could have been any where. i was up early that sabbath morning and was early to breakfast. i felt a perfectly natural desire to have a good, long, unprejudiced look at the passengers at a time when they should be free from self-consciousness --which is at breakfast, when such a moment occurs in the lives of human beings at all. i was greatly surprised to see so many elderly people--i might almost say, so many venerable people. a glance at the long lines of heads was apt to make one think it was all gray. but it was not. there was a tolerably fair sprinkling of young folks, and another fair sprinkling of gentlemen and ladies who were non-committal as to age, being neither actually old or absolutely young. the next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea. it was a great happiness to get away after this dragging, dispiriting delay. i thought there never was such gladness in the air before, such brightness in the sun, such beauty in the sea. i was satisfied with the picnic then and with all its belongings. all my malicious instincts were dead within me; and as america faded out of sight, i think a spirit of charity rose up in their place that was as boundless, for the time being, as the broad ocean that was heaving its billows about us. i wished to express my feelings --i wished to lift up my voice and sing; but i did not know anything to sing, and so i was obliged to give up the idea. it was no loss to the ship, though, perhaps. it was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough. one could not promenade without risking his neck; at one moment the bowsprit was taking a deadly aim at the sun in midheaven, and at the next it was trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean. what a weird sensation it is to feel the stem of a ship sinking swiftly from under you and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds! one's safest course that day was to clasp a railing and hang on; walking was too precarious a pastime. by some happy fortune i was not seasick.--that was a thing to be proud of. i had not always escaped before. if there is one thing in the world that will make a man peculiarly and insufferably self-conceited, it is to have his stomach behave itself, the first day it sea, when nearly all his comrades are seasick. soon a venerable fossil, shawled to the chin and bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and the next lurch of the ship shot him into my arms. i said: "good-morning, sir. it is a fine day." he put his hand on his stomach and said, "oh, my!" and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a skylight. presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door with great violence. i said: "calm yourself, sir--there is no hurry. it is a fine day, sir." he, also, put his hand on his stomach and said "oh, my!" and reeled away. in a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving support. i said: "good morning, sir. it is a fine day for pleasuring. you were about to say--" "oh, my!" i thought so. i anticipated him, anyhow. i stayed there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour, perhaps; and all i got out of any of them was "oh, my!" i went away then in a thoughtful mood. i said, this is a good pleasure excursion. i like it. the passengers are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. i like those old people, but somehow they all seem to have the "oh, my" rather bad. i knew what was the matter with them. they were seasick. and i was glad of it. we all like to see people seasick when we are not, ourselves. playing whist by the cabin lamps when it is storming outside is pleasant; walking the quarterdeck in the moonlight is pleasant; smoking in the breezy foretop is pleasant when one is not afraid to go up there; but these are all feeble and commonplace compared with the joy of seeing people suffering the miseries of seasickness. i picked up a good deal of information during the afternoon. at one time i was climbing up the quarterdeck when the vessel's stem was in the sky; i was smoking a cigar and feeling passably comfortable. somebody ejaculated: "come, now, that won't answer. read the sign up there--no smoking abaft the wheel!" it was captain duncan, chief of the expedition. i went forward, of course. i saw a long spyglass lying on a desk in one of the upper-deck state-rooms back of the pilot-house and reached after it--there was a ship in the distance. "ah, ah--hands off! come out of that!" i came out of that. i said to a deck-sweep--but in a low voice: "who is that overgrown pirate with the whiskers and the discordant voice?" "it's captain bursley--executive officer--sailing master." i loitered about awhile, and then, for want of something better to do, fell to carving a railing with my knife. somebody said, in an insinuating, admonitory voice: "now, say--my friend--don't you know any better than to be whittling the ship all to pieces that way? you ought to know better than that." i went back and found the deck sweep. "who is that smooth-faced, animated outrage yonder in the fine clothes?" "that's captain l****, the owner of the ship--he's one of the main bosses." in the course of time i brought up on the starboard side of the pilot-house and found a sextant lying on a bench. now, i said, they "take the sun" through this thing; i should think i might see that vessel through it. i had hardly got it to my eye when someone touched me on the shoulder and said deprecatingly: "i'll have to get you to give that to me, sir. if there's anything you'd like to know about taking the sun, i'd as soon tell you as not--but i don't like to trust anybody with that instrument. if you want any figuring done--aye, aye, sir!" he was gone to answer a call from the other side. i sought the deck-sweep. "who is that spider-legged gorilla yonder with the sanctimonious countenance?" "it's captain jones, sir--the chief mate." "well. this goes clear away ahead of anything i ever heard of before. do you--now i ask you as a man and a brother--do you think i could venture to throw a rock here in any given direction without hitting a captain of this ship?" "well, sir, i don't know--i think likely you'd fetch the captain of the watch may be, because he's a-standing right yonder in the way." i went below--meditating and a little downhearted. i thought, if five cooks can spoil a broth, what may not five captains do with a pleasure excursion. chapter iv. we plowed along bravely for a week or more, and without any conflict of jurisdiction among the captains worth mentioning. the passengers soon learned to accommodate themselves to their new circumstances, and life in the ship became nearly as systematically monotonous as the routine of a barrack. i do not mean that it was dull, for it was not entirely so by any means--but there was a good deal of sameness about it. as is always the fashion at sea, the passengers shortly began to pick up sailor terms --a sign that they were beginning to feel at home. half-past six was no longer half-past six to these pilgrims from new england, the south, and the mississippi valley, it was "seven bells"; eight, twelve, and four o'clock were "eight bells"; the captain did not take the longitude at nine o'clock, but at "two bells." they spoke glibly of the "after cabin," the "for'rard cabin," "port and starboard" and the "fo'castle." at seven bells the first gong rang; at eight there was breakfast, for such as were not too seasick to eat it. after that all the well people walked arm-in-arm up and down the long promenade deck, enjoying the fine summer mornings, and the seasick ones crawled out and propped themselves up in the lee of the paddle-boxes and ate their dismal tea and toast, and looked wretched. from eleven o'clock until luncheon, and from luncheon until dinner at six in the evening, the employments and amusements were various. some reading was done, and much smoking and sewing, though not by the same parties; there were the monsters of the deep to be looked after and wondered at; strange ships had to be scrutinized through opera-glasses, and sage decisions arrived at concerning them; and more than that, everybody took a personal interest in seeing that the flag was run up and politely dipped three times in response to the salutes of those strangers; in the smoking room there were always parties of gentlemen playing euchre, draughts and dominoes, especially dominoes, that delightfully harmless game; and down on the main deck, "for'rard" --for'rard of the chicken-coops and the cattle--we had what was called "horse billiards." horse billiards is a fine game. it affords good, active exercise, hilarity, and consuming excitement. it is a mixture of "hop-scotch" and shuffleboard played with a crutch. a large hop-scotch diagram is marked out on the deck with chalk, and each compartment numbered. you stand off three or four steps, with some broad wooden disks before you on the deck, and these you send forward with a vigorous thrust of a long crutch. if a disk stops on a chalk line, it does not count anything. if it stops in division no. , it counts ; in , it counts , and so on. the game is , and four can play at a time. that game would be very simple played on a stationary floor, but with us, to play it well required science. we had to allow for the reeling of the ship to the right or the left. very often one made calculations for a heel to the right and the ship did not go that way. the consequence was that that disk missed the whole hopscotch plan a yard or two, and then there was humiliation on one side and laughter on the other. when it rained the passengers had to stay in the house, of course--or at least the cabins--and amuse themselves with games, reading, looking out of the windows at the very familiar billows, and talking gossip. by o'clock in the evening, dinner was about over; an hour's promenade on the upper deck followed; then the gong sounded and a large majority of the party repaired to the after cabin (upper), a handsome saloon fifty or sixty feet long, for prayers. the unregenerated called this saloon the "synagogue." the devotions consisted only of two hymns from the plymouth collection and a short prayer, and seldom occupied more than fifteen minutes. the hymns were accompanied by parlor-organ music when the sea was smooth enough to allow a performer to sit at the instrument without being lashed to his chair. after prayers the synagogue shortly took the semblance of a writing school. the like of that picture was never seen in a ship before. behind the long dining tables on either side of the saloon, and scattered from one end to the other of the latter, some twenty or thirty gentlemen and ladies sat them down under the swaying lamps and for two or three hours wrote diligently in their journals. alas! that journals so voluminously begun should come to so lame and impotent a conclusion as most of them did! i doubt if there is a single pilgrim of all that host but can show a hundred fair pages of journal concerning the first twenty days' voyaging in the quaker city, and i am morally certain that not ten of the party can show twenty pages of journal for the succeeding twenty thousand miles of voyaging! at certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. but if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty's sake, and invincible determination may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat. one of our favorite youths, jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense, and a pair of legs that were a wonder to look upon in the way of length and straightness and slimness, used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way, and say: "oh, i'm coming along bully!" (he was a little given to slang in his happier moods.) "i wrote ten pages in my journal last night--and you know i wrote nine the night before and twelve the night before that. why, it's only fun!" "what do you find to put in it, jack?" "oh, everything. latitude and longitude, noon every day; and how many miles we made last twenty-four hours; and all the domino games i beat and horse billiards; and whales and sharks and porpoises; and the text of the sermon sundays (because that'll tell at home, you know); and the ships we saluted and what nation they were; and which way the wind was, and whether there was a heavy sea, and what sail we carried, though we don't ever carry any, principally, going against a head wind always--wonder what is the reason of that?--and how many lies moult has told--oh, every thing! i've got everything down. my father told me to keep that journal. father wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it when i get it done." "no, jack; it will be worth more than a thousand dollars--when you get it done." "do you?--no, but do you think it will, though? "yes, it will be worth at least as much as a thousand dollars--when you get it done. may be more." "well, i about half think so, myself. it ain't no slouch of a journal." but it shortly became a most lamentable "slouch of a journal." one night in paris, after a hard day's toil in sightseeing, i said: "now i'll go and stroll around the cafes awhile, jack, and give you a chance to write up your journal, old fellow." his countenance lost its fire. he said: "well, no, you needn't mind. i think i won't run that journal anymore. it is awful tedious. do you know--i reckon i'm as much as four thousand pages behind hand. i haven't got any france in it at all. first i thought i'd leave france out and start fresh. but that wouldn't do, would it? the governor would say, 'hello, here--didn't see anything in france? that cat wouldn't fight, you know. first i thought i'd copy france out of the guide-book, like old badger in the for'rard cabin, who's writing a book, but there's more than three hundred pages of it. oh, i don't think a journal's any use--do you? they're only a bother, ain't they?" "yes, a journal that is incomplete isn't of much use, but a journal properly kept is worth a thousand dollars--when you've got it done." "a thousand!--well, i should think so. i wouldn't finish it for a million." his experience was only the experience of the majority of that industrious night school in the cabin. if you wish to inflict a heartless and malignant punishment upon a young person, pledge him to keep a journal a year. a good many expedients were resorted to to keep the excursionists amused and satisfied. a club was formed, of all the passengers, which met in the writing school after prayers and read aloud about the countries we were approaching and discussed the information so obtained. several times the photographer of the expedition brought out his transparent pictures and gave us a handsome magic-lantern exhibition. his views were nearly all of foreign scenes, but there were one or two home pictures among them. he advertised that he would "open his performance in the after cabin at 'two bells' (nine p.m.) and show the passengers where they shall eventually arrive"--which was all very well, but by a funny accident the first picture that flamed out upon the canvas was a view of greenwood cemetery! on several starlight nights we danced on the upper deck, under the awnings, and made something of a ball-room display of brilliancy by hanging a number of ship's lanterns to the stanchions. our music consisted of the well-mixed strains of a melodeon which was a little asthmatic and apt to catch its breath where it ought to come out strong, a clarinet which was a little unreliable on the high keys and rather melancholy on the low ones, and a disreputable accordion that had a leak somewhere and breathed louder than it squawked--a more elegant term does not occur to me just now. however, the dancing was infinitely worse than the music. when the ship rolled to starboard the whole platoon of dancers came charging down to starboard with it, and brought up in mass at the rail; and when it rolled to port they went floundering down to port with the same unanimity of sentiment. waltzers spun around precariously for a matter of fifteen seconds and then went scurrying down to the rail as if they meant to go overboard. the virginia reel, as performed on board the quaker city, had more genuine reel about it than any reel i ever saw before, and was as full of interest to the spectator as it was full of desperate chances and hairbreadth escapes to the participant. we gave up dancing, finally. we celebrated a lady's birthday anniversary with toasts, speeches, a poem, and so forth. we also had a mock trial. no ship ever went to sea that hadn't a mock trial on board. the purser was accused of stealing an overcoat from stateroom no. . a judge was appointed; also clerks, a crier of the court, constables, sheriffs; counsel for the state and for the defendant; witnesses were subpoenaed, and a jury empaneled after much challenging. the witnesses were stupid and unreliable and contradictory, as witnesses always are. the counsel were eloquent, argumentative, and vindictively abusive of each other, as was characteristic and proper. the case was at last submitted and duly finished by the judge with an absurd decision and a ridiculous sentence. the acting of charades was tried on several evenings by the young gentlemen and ladies, in the cabins, and proved the most distinguished success of all the amusement experiments. an attempt was made to organize a debating club, but it was a failure. there was no oratorical talent in the ship. we all enjoyed ourselves--i think i can safely say that, but it was in a rather quiet way. we very, very seldom played the piano; we played the flute and the clarinet together, and made good music, too, what there was of it, but we always played the same old tune; it was a very pretty tune --how well i remember it--i wonder when i shall ever get rid of it. we never played either the melodeon or the organ except at devotions--but i am too fast: young albert did know part of a tune something about "o something-or-other how sweet it is to know that he's his what's-his-name" (i do not remember the exact title of it, but it was very plaintive and full of sentiment); albert played that pretty much all the time until we contracted with him to restrain himself. but nobody ever sang by moonlight on the upper deck, and the congregational singing at church and prayers was not of a superior order of architecture. i put up with it as long as i could and then joined in and tried to improve it, but this encouraged young george to join in too, and that made a failure of it; because george's voice was just "turning," and when he was singing a dismal sort of bass it was apt to fly off the handle and startle everybody with a most discordant cackle on the upper notes. george didn't know the tunes, either, which was also a drawback to his performances. i said: "come, now, george, don't improvise. it looks too egotistical. it will provoke remark. just stick to 'coronation,' like the others. it is a good tune--you can't improve it any, just off-hand, in this way." "why, i'm not trying to improve it--and i am singing like the others --just as it is in the notes." and he honestly thought he was, too; and so he had no one to blame but himself when his voice caught on the center occasionally and gave him the lockjaw. there were those among the unregenerated who attributed the unceasing head-winds to our distressing choir-music. there were those who said openly that it was taking chances enough to have such ghastly music going on, even when it was at its best; and that to exaggerate the crime by letting george help was simply flying in the face of providence. these said that the choir would keep up their lacerating attempts at melody until they would bring down a storm some day that would sink the ship. there were even grumblers at the prayers. the executive officer said the pilgrims had no charity: "there they are, down there every night at eight bells, praying for fair winds--when they know as well as i do that this is the only ship going east this time of the year, but there's a thousand coming west--what's a fair wind for us is a head wind to them--the almighty's blowing a fair wind for a thousand vessels, and this tribe wants him to turn it clear around so as to accommodate one--and she a steamship at that! it ain't good sense, it ain't good reason, it ain't good christianity, it ain't common human charity. avast with such nonsense!" chapter v. taking it "by and large," as the sailors say, we had a pleasant ten days' run from new york to the azores islands--not a fast run, for the distance is only twenty-four hundred miles, but a right pleasant one in the main. true, we had head winds all the time, and several stormy experiences which sent fifty percent of the passengers to bed sick and made the ship look dismal and deserted--stormy experiences that all will remember who weathered them on the tumbling deck and caught the vast sheets of spray that every now and then sprang high in air from the weather bow and swept the ship like a thunder-shower; but for the most part we had balmy summer weather and nights that were even finer than the days. we had the phenomenon of a full moon located just in the same spot in the heavens at the same hour every night. the reason of this singular conduct on the part of the moon did not occur to us at first, but it did afterward when we reflected that we were gaining about twenty minutes every day because we were going east so fast--we gained just about enough every day to keep along with the moon. it was becoming an old moon to the friends we had left behind us, but to us joshuas it stood still in the same place and remained always the same. young mr. blucher, who is from the far west and is on his first voyage, was a good deal worried by the constantly changing "ship time." he was proud of his new watch at first and used to drag it out promptly when eight bells struck at noon, but he came to look after a while as if he were losing confidence in it. seven days out from new york he came on deck and said with great decision: "this thing's a swindle!" "what's a swindle?" "why, this watch. i bought her out in illinois--gave $ for her--and i thought she was good. and, by george, she is good onshore, but somehow she don't keep up her lick here on the water--gets seasick may be. she skips; she runs along regular enough till half-past eleven, and then, all of a sudden, she lets down. i've set that old regulator up faster and faster, till i've shoved it clear around, but it don't do any good; she just distances every watch in the ship, and clatters along in a way that's astonishing till it is noon, but them eight bells always gets in about ten minutes ahead of her anyway. i don't know what to do with her now. she's doing all she can--she's going her best gait, but it won't save her. now, don't you know, there ain't a watch in the ship that's making better time than she is, but what does it signify? when you hear them eight bells you'll find her just about ten minutes short of her score sure." the ship was gaining a full hour every three days, and this fellow was trying to make his watch go fast enough to keep up to her. but, as he had said, he had pushed the regulator up as far as it would go, and the watch was "on its best gait," and so nothing was left him but to fold his hands and see the ship beat the race. we sent him to the captain, and he explained to him the mystery of "ship time" and set his troubled mind at rest. this young man asked a great many questions about seasickness before we left, and wanted to know what its characteristics were and how he was to tell when he had it. he found out. we saw the usual sharks, blackfish, porpoises, &c., of course, and by and by large schools of portuguese men-of-war were added to the regular list of sea wonders. some of them were white and some of a brilliant carmine color. the nautilus is nothing but a transparent web of jelly that spreads itself to catch the wind, and has fleshy-looking strings a foot or two long dangling from it to keep it steady in the water. it is an accomplished sailor and has good sailor judgment. it reefs its sail when a storm threatens or the wind blows pretty hard, and furls it entirely and goes down when a gale blows. ordinarily it keeps its sail wet and in good sailing order by turning over and dipping it in the water for a moment. seamen say the nautilus is only found in these waters between the th and th parallels of latitude. at three o'clock on the morning of the twenty-first of june, we were awakened and notified that the azores islands were in sight. i said i did not take any interest in islands at three o'clock in the morning. but another persecutor came, and then another and another, and finally believing that the general enthusiasm would permit no one to slumber in peace, i got up and went sleepily on deck. it was five and a half o'clock now, and a raw, blustering morning. the passengers were huddled about the smoke-stacks and fortified behind ventilators, and all were wrapped in wintry costumes and looking sleepy and unhappy in the pitiless gale and the drenching spray. the island in sight was flores. it seemed only a mountain of mud standing up out of the dull mists of the sea. but as we bore down upon it the sun came out and made it a beautiful picture--a mass of green farms and meadows that swelled up to a height of fifteen hundred feet and mingled its upper outlines with the clouds. it was ribbed with sharp, steep ridges and cloven with narrow canyons, and here and there on the heights, rocky upheavals shaped themselves into mimic battlements and castles; and out of rifted clouds came broad shafts of sunlight, that painted summit, and slope and glen, with bands of fire, and left belts of somber shade between. it was the aurora borealis of the frozen pole exiled to a summer land! we skirted around two-thirds of the island, four miles from shore, and all the opera glasses in the ship were called into requisition to settle disputes as to whether mossy spots on the uplands were groves of trees or groves of weeds, or whether the white villages down by the sea were really villages or only the clustering tombstones of cemeteries. finally we stood to sea and bore away for san miguel, and flores shortly became a dome of mud again and sank down among the mists, and disappeared. but to many a seasick passenger it was good to see the green hills again, and all were more cheerful after this episode than anybody could have expected them to be, considering how sinfully early they had gotten up. but we had to change our purpose about san miguel, for a storm came up about noon that so tossed and pitched the vessel that common sense dictated a run for shelter. therefore we steered for the nearest island of the group--fayal (the people there pronounce it fy-all, and put the accent on the first syllable). we anchored in the open roadstead of horta, half a mile from the shore. the town has eight thousand to ten thousand inhabitants. its snow-white houses nestle cosily in a sea of fresh green vegetation, and no village could look prettier or more attractive. it sits in the lap of an amphitheater of hills which are three hundred to seven hundred feet high, and carefully cultivated clear to their summits--not a foot of soil left idle. every farm and every acre is cut up into little square inclosures by stone walls, whose duty it is to protect the growing products from the destructive gales that blow there. these hundreds of green squares, marked by their black lava walls, make the hills look like vast checkerboards. the islands belong to portugal, and everything in fayal has portuguese characteristics about it. but more of that anon. a swarm of swarthy, noisy, lying, shoulder-shrugging, gesticulating portuguese boatmen, with brass rings in their ears and fraud in their hearts, climbed the ship's sides, and various parties of us contracted with them to take us ashore at so much a head, silver coin of any country. we landed under the walls of a little fort, armed with batteries of twelve-and-thirty-two-pounders, which horta considered a most formidable institution, but if we were ever to get after it with one of our turreted monitors, they would have to move it out in the country if they wanted it where they could go and find it again when they needed it. the group on the pier was a rusty one--men and women, and boys and girls, all ragged and barefoot, uncombed and unclean, and by instinct, education, and profession beggars. they trooped after us, and never more while we tarried in fayal did we get rid of them. we walked up the middle of the principal street, and these vermin surrounded us on all sides and glared upon us; and every moment excited couples shot ahead of the procession to get a good look back, just as village boys do when they accompany the elephant on his advertising trip from street to street. it was very flattering to me to be part of the material for such a sensation. here and there in the doorways we saw women with fashionable portuguese hoods on. this hood is of thick blue cloth, attached to a cloak of the same stuff, and is a marvel of ugliness. it stands up high and spreads far abroad, and is unfathomably deep. it fits like a circus tent, and a woman's head is hidden away in it like the man's who prompts the singers from his tin shed in the stage of an opera. there is no particle of trimming about this monstrous capote, as they call it--it is just a plain, ugly dead-blue mass of sail, and a woman can't go within eight points of the wind with one of them on; she has to go before the wind or not at all. the general style of the capote is the same in all the islands, and will remain so for the next ten thousand years, but each island shapes its capotes just enough differently from the others to enable an observer to tell at a glance what particular island a lady hails from. the portuguese pennies, or reis (pronounced rays), are prodigious. it takes one thousand reis to make a dollar, and all financial estimates are made in reis. we did not know this until after we had found it out through blucher. blucher said he was so happy and so grateful to be on solid land once more that he wanted to give a feast--said he had heard it was a cheap land, and he was bound to have a grand banquet. he invited nine of us, and we ate an excellent dinner at the principal hotel. in the midst of the jollity produced by good cigars, good wine, and passable anecdotes, the landlord presented his bill. blucher glanced at it and his countenance fell. he took another look to assure himself that his senses had not deceived him and then read the items aloud, in a faltering voice, while the roses in his cheeks turned to ashes: "'ten dinners, at reis, , reis!' ruin and desolation! "'twenty-five cigars, at reis, , reis!' oh, my sainted mother! "'eleven bottles of wine, at , reis, , reis!' be with us all! "'total, twenty-one thousand seven hundred reis!' the suffering moses! there ain't money enough in the ship to pay that bill! go--leave me to my misery, boys, i am a ruined community." i think it was the blankest-looking party i ever saw. nobody could say a word. it was as if every soul had been stricken dumb. wine glasses descended slowly to the table, their contents untasted. cigars dropped unnoticed from nerveless fingers. each man sought his neighbor's eye, but found in it no ray of hope, no encouragement. at last the fearful silence was broken. the shadow of a desperate resolve settled upon blucher's countenance like a cloud, and he rose up and said: "landlord, this is a low, mean swindle, and i'll never, never stand it. here's a hundred and fifty dollars, sir, and it's all you'll get--i'll swim in blood before i'll pay a cent more." our spirits rose and the landlord's fell--at least we thought so; he was confused, at any rate, notwithstanding he had not understood a word that had been said. he glanced from the little pile of gold pieces to blucher several times and then went out. he must have visited an american, for when he returned, he brought back his bill translated into a language that a christian could understand--thus: dinners, , reis, or . . .$ . cigars, , reis, or . . . . bottles wine, , reis, or . total , reis, or . . . . $ . happiness reigned once more in blucher's dinner party. more refreshments were ordered. chapter vi. i think the azores must be very little known in america. out of our whole ship's company there was not a solitary individual who knew anything whatever about them. some of the party, well read concerning most other lands, had no other information about the azores than that they were a group of nine or ten small islands far out in the atlantic, something more than halfway between new york and gibraltar. that was all. these considerations move me to put in a paragraph of dry facts just here. the community is eminently portuguese--that is to say, it is slow, poor, shiftless, sleepy, and lazy. there is a civil governor, appointed by the king of portugal, and also a military governor, who can assume supreme control and suspend the civil government at his pleasure. the islands contain a population of about , , almost entirely portuguese. everything is staid and settled, for the country was one hundred years old when columbus discovered america. the principal crop is corn, and they raise it and grind it just as their great-great-great-grandfathers did. they plow with a board slightly shod with iron; their trifling little harrows are drawn by men and women; small windmills grind the corn, ten bushels a day, and there is one assistant superintendent to feed the mill and a general superintendent to stand by and keep him from going to sleep. when the wind changes they hitch on some donkeys and actually turn the whole upper half of the mill around until the sails are in proper position, instead of fixing the concern so that the sails could be moved instead of the mill. oxen tread the wheat from the ear, after the fashion prevalent in the time of methuselah. there is not a wheelbarrow in the land--they carry everything on their heads, or on donkeys, or in a wicker-bodied cart, whose wheels are solid blocks of wood and whose axles turn with the wheel. there is not a modern plow in the islands or a threshing machine. all attempts to introduce them have failed. the good catholic portuguese crossed himself and prayed god to shield him from all blasphemous desire to know more than his father did before him. the climate is mild; they never have snow or ice, and i saw no chimneys in the town. the donkeys and the men, women, and children of a family all eat and sleep in the same room, and are unclean, are ravaged by vermin, and are truly happy. the people lie, and cheat the stranger, and are desperately ignorant, and have hardly any reverence for their dead. the latter trait shows how little better they are than the donkeys they eat and sleep with. the only well-dressed portuguese in the camp are the half a dozen well-to-do families, the jesuit priests, and the soldiers of the little garrison. the wages of a laborer are twenty to twenty-four cents a day, and those of a good mechanic about twice as much. they count it in reis at a thousand to the dollar, and this makes them rich and contented. fine grapes used to grow in the islands, and an excellent wine was made and exported. but a disease killed all the vines fifteen years ago, and since that time no wine has been made. the islands being wholly of volcanic origin, the soil is necessarily very rich. nearly every foot of ground is under cultivation, and two or three crops a year of each article are produced, but nothing is exported save a few oranges--chiefly to england. nobody comes here, and nobody goes away. news is a thing unknown in fayal. a thirst for it is a passion equally unknown. a portuguese of average intelligence inquired if our civil war was over. because, he said, somebody had told him it was--or at least it ran in his mind that somebody had told him something like that! and when a passenger gave an officer of the garrison copies of the tribune, the herald, and times, he was surprised to find later news in them from lisbon than he had just received by the little monthly steamer. he was told that it came by cable. he said he knew they had tried to lay a cable ten years ago, but it had been in his mind somehow that they hadn't succeeded! it is in communities like this that jesuit humbuggery flourishes. we visited a jesuit cathedral nearly two hundred years old and found in it a piece of the veritable cross upon which our saviour was crucified. it was polished and hard, and in as excellent a state of preservation as if the dread tragedy on calvary had occurred yesterday instead of eighteen centuries ago. but these confiding people believe in that piece of wood unhesitatingly. in a chapel of the cathedral is an altar with facings of solid silver--at least they call it so, and i think myself it would go a couple of hundred to the ton (to speak after the fashion of the silver miners)--and before it is kept forever burning a small lamp. a devout lady who died, left money and contracted for unlimited masses for the repose of her soul, and also stipulated that this lamp should be kept lighted always, day and night. she did all this before she died, you understand. it is a very small lamp and a very dim one, and it could not work her much damage, i think, if it went out altogether. the great altar of the cathedral and also three or four minor ones are a perfect mass of gilt gimcracks and gingerbread. and they have a swarm of rusty, dusty, battered apostles standing around the filagree work, some on one leg and some with one eye out but a gamey look in the other, and some with two or three fingers gone, and some with not enough nose left to blow--all of them crippled and discouraged, and fitter subjects for the hospital than the cathedral. the walls of the chancel are of porcelain, all pictured over with figures of almost life size, very elegantly wrought and dressed in the fanciful costumes of two centuries ago. the design was a history of something or somebody, but none of us were learned enough to read the story. the old father, reposing under a stone close by, dated , might have told us if he could have risen. but he didn't. as we came down through the town we encountered a squad of little donkeys ready saddled for use. the saddles were peculiar, to say the least. they consisted of a sort of saw-buck with a small mattress on it, and this furniture covered about half the donkey. there were no stirrups, but really such supports were not needed--to use such a saddle was the next thing to riding a dinner table--there was ample support clear out to one's knee joints. a pack of ragged portuguese muleteers crowded around us, offering their beasts at half a dollar an hour--more rascality to the stranger, for the market price is sixteen cents. half a dozen of us mounted the ungainly affairs and submitted to the indignity of making a ridiculous spectacle of ourselves through the principal streets of a town of , inhabitants. we started. it was not a trot, a gallop, or a canter, but a stampede, and made up of all possible or conceivable gaits. no spurs were necessary. there was a muleteer to every donkey and a dozen volunteers beside, and they banged the donkeys with their goad sticks, and pricked them with their spikes, and shouted something that sounded like "sekki-yah!" and kept up a din and a racket that was worse than bedlam itself. these rascals were all on foot, but no matter, they were always up to time--they can outrun and outlast a donkey. altogether, ours was a lively and a picturesque procession, and drew crowded audiences to the balconies wherever we went. blucher could do nothing at all with his donkey. the beast scampered zigzag across the road and the others ran into him; he scraped blucher against carts and the corners of houses; the road was fenced in with high stone walls, and the donkey gave him a polishing first on one side and then on the other, but never once took the middle; he finally came to the house he was born in and darted into the parlor, scraping blucher off at the doorway. after remounting, blucher said to the muleteer, "now, that's enough, you know; you go slow hereafter." but the fellow knew no english and did not understand, so he simply said, "sekki-yah!" and the donkey was off again like a shot. he turned a comer suddenly, and blucher went over his head. and, to speak truly, every mule stumbled over the two, and the whole cavalcade was piled up in a heap. no harm done. a fall from one of those donkeys is of little more consequence than rolling off a sofa. the donkeys all stood still after the catastrophe and waited for their dismembered saddles to be patched up and put on by the noisy muleteers. blucher was pretty angry and wanted to swear, but every time he opened his mouth his animal did so also and let off a series of brays that drowned all other sounds. it was fun, scurrying around the breezy hills and through the beautiful canyons. there was that rare thing, novelty, about it; it was a fresh, new, exhilarating sensation, this donkey riding, and worth a hundred worn and threadbare home pleasures. the roads were a wonder, and well they might be. here was an island with only a handful of people in it-- , --and yet such fine roads do not exist in the united states outside of central park. everywhere you go, in any direction, you find either a hard, smooth, level thoroughfare, just sprinkled with black lava sand, and bordered with little gutters neatly paved with small smooth pebbles, or compactly paved ones like broadway. they talk much of the russ pavement in new york, and call it a new invention--yet here they have been using it in this remote little isle of the sea for two hundred years! every street in horta is handsomely paved with the heavy russ blocks, and the surface is neat and true as a floor--not marred by holes like broadway. and every road is fenced in by tall, solid lava walls, which will last a thousand years in this land where frost is unknown. they are very thick, and are often plastered and whitewashed and capped with projecting slabs of cut stone. trees from gardens above hang their swaying tendrils down, and contrast their bright green with the whitewash or the black lava of the walls and make them beautiful. the trees and vines stretch across these narrow roadways sometimes and so shut out the sun that you seem to be riding through a tunnel. the pavements, the roads, and the bridges are all government work. the bridges are of a single span--a single arch--of cut stone, without a support, and paved on top with flags of lava and ornamental pebblework. everywhere are walls, walls, walls, and all of them tasteful and handsome--and eternally substantial; and everywhere are those marvelous pavements, so neat, so smooth, and so indestructible. and if ever roads and streets and the outsides of houses were perfectly free from any sign or semblance of dirt, or dust, or mud, or uncleanliness of any kind, it is horta, it is fayal. the lower classes of the people, in their persons and their domiciles, are not clean--but there it stops--the town and the island are miracles of cleanliness. we arrived home again finally, after a ten-mile excursion, and the irrepressible muleteers scampered at our heels through the main street, goading the donkeys, shouting the everlasting "sekki-yah," and singing "john brown's body" in ruinous english. when we were dismounted and it came to settling, the shouting and jawing and swearing and quarreling among the muleteers and with us was nearly deafening. one fellow would demand a dollar an hour for the use of his donkey; another claimed half a dollar for pricking him up, another a quarter for helping in that service, and about fourteen guides presented bills for showing us the way through the town and its environs; and every vagrant of them was more vociferous, and more vehement and more frantic in gesture than his neighbor. we paid one guide and paid for one muleteer to each donkey. the mountains on some of the islands are very high. we sailed along the shore of the island of pico, under a stately green pyramid that rose up with one unbroken sweep from our very feet to an altitude of , feet, and thrust its summit above the white clouds like an island adrift in a fog! we got plenty of fresh oranges, lemons, figs, apricots, etc., in these azores, of course. but i will desist. i am not here to write patent office reports. we are on our way to gibraltar, and shall reach there five or six days out from the azores. chapter vii. a week of buffeting a tempestuous and relentless sea; a week of seasickness and deserted cabins; of lonely quarterdecks drenched with spray--spray so ambitious that it even coated the smokestacks thick with a white crust of salt to their very tops; a week of shivering in the shelter of the lifeboats and deckhouses by day and blowing suffocating "clouds" and boisterously performing at dominoes in the smoking room at night. and the last night of the seven was the stormiest of all. there was no thunder, no noise but the pounding bows of the ship, the keen whistling of the gale through the cordage, and the rush of the seething waters. but the vessel climbed aloft as if she would climb to heaven--then paused an instant that seemed a century and plunged headlong down again, as from a precipice. the sheeted sprays drenched the decks like rain. the blackness of darkness was everywhere. at long intervals a flash of lightning clove it with a quivering line of fire that revealed a heaving world of water where was nothing before, kindled the dusky cordage to glittering silver, and lit up the faces of the men with a ghastly luster! fear drove many on deck that were used to avoiding the night winds and the spray. some thought the vessel could not live through the night, and it seemed less dreadful to stand out in the midst of the wild tempest and see the peril that threatened than to be shut up in the sepulchral cabins, under the dim lamps, and imagine the horrors that were abroad on the ocean. and once out--once where they could see the ship struggling in the strong grasp of the storm--once where they could hear the shriek of the winds and face the driving spray and look out upon the majestic picture the lightnings disclosed, they were prisoners to a fierce fascination they could not resist, and so remained. it was a wild night --and a very, very long one. everybody was sent scampering to the deck at seven o'clock this lovely morning of the thirtieth of june with the glad news that land was in sight! it was a rare thing and a joyful, to see all the ship's family abroad once more, albeit the happiness that sat upon every countenance could only partly conceal the ravages which that long siege of storms had wrought there. but dull eyes soon sparkled with pleasure, pallid cheeks flushed again, and frames weakened by sickness gathered new life from the quickening influences of the bright, fresh morning. yea, and from a still more potent influence: the worn castaways were to see the blessed land again!--and to see it was to bring back that motherland that was in all their thoughts. within the hour we were fairly within the straits of gibraltar, the tall yellow-splotched hills of africa on our right, with their bases veiled in a blue haze and their summits swathed in clouds--the same being according to scripture, which says that "clouds and darkness are over the land." the words were spoken of this particular portion of africa, i believe. on our left were the granite-ribbed domes of old spain. the strait is only thirteen miles wide in its narrowest part. at short intervals along the spanish shore were quaint-looking old stone towers--moorish, we thought--but learned better afterwards. in former times the morocco rascals used to coast along the spanish main in their boats till a safe opportunity seemed to present itself, and then dart in and capture a spanish village and carry off all the pretty women they could find. it was a pleasant business, and was very popular. the spaniards built these watchtowers on the hills to enable them to keep a sharper lookout on the moroccan speculators. the picture on the other hand was very beautiful to eyes weary of the changeless sea, and by and by the ship's company grew wonderfully cheerful. but while we stood admiring the cloud-capped peaks and the lowlands robed in misty gloom a finer picture burst upon us and chained every eye like a magnet--a stately ship, with canvas piled on canvas till she was one towering mass of bellying sail! she came speeding over the sea like a great bird. africa and spain were forgotten. all homage was for the beautiful stranger. while everybody gazed she swept superbly by and flung the stars and stripes to the breeze! quicker than thought, hats and handkerchiefs flashed in the air, and a cheer went up! she was beautiful before--she was radiant now. many a one on our decks knew then for the first time how tame a sight his country's flag is at home compared to what it is in a foreign land. to see it is to see a vision of home itself and all its idols, and feel a thrill that would stir a very river of sluggish blood! we were approaching the famed pillars of hercules, and already the african one, "ape's hill," a grand old mountain with summit streaked with granite ledges, was in sight. the other, the great rock of gibraltar, was yet to come. the ancients considered the pillars of hercules the head of navigation and the end of the world. the information the ancients didn't have was very voluminous. even the prophets wrote book after book and epistle after epistle, yet never once hinted at the existence of a great continent on our side of the water; yet they must have known it was there, i should think. in a few moments a lonely and enormous mass of rock, standing seemingly in the center of the wide strait and apparently washed on all sides by the sea, swung magnificently into view, and we needed no tedious traveled parrot to tell us it was gibraltar. there could not be two rocks like that in one kingdom. the rock of gibraltar is about a mile and a half long, i should say, by , to , feet high, and a quarter of a mile wide at its base. one side and one end of it come about as straight up out of the sea as the side of a house, the other end is irregular and the other side is a steep slant which an army would find very difficult to climb. at the foot of this slant is the walled town of gibraltar--or rather the town occupies part of the slant. everywhere--on hillside, in the precipice, by the sea, on the heights--everywhere you choose to look, gibraltar is clad with masonry and bristling with guns. it makes a striking and lively picture from whatsoever point you contemplate it. it is pushed out into the sea on the end of a flat, narrow strip of land, and is suggestive of a "gob" of mud on the end of a shingle. a few hundred yards of this flat ground at its base belongs to the english, and then, extending across the strip from the atlantic to the mediterranean, a distance of a quarter of a mile, comes the "neutral ground," a space two or three hundred yards wide, which is free to both parties. "are you going through spain to paris?" that question was bandied about the ship day and night from fayal to gibraltar, and i thought i never could get so tired of hearing any one combination of words again or more tired of answering, "i don't know." at the last moment six or seven had sufficient decision of character to make up their minds to go, and did go, and i felt a sense of relief at once--it was forever too late now and i could make up my mind at my leisure not to go. i must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up. but behold how annoyances repeat themselves. we had no sooner gotten rid of the spain distress than the gibraltar guides started another--a tiresome repetition of a legend that had nothing very astonishing about it, even in the first place: "that high hill yonder is called the queen's chair; it is because one of the queens of spain placed her chair there when the french and spanish troops were besieging gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot till the english flag was lowered from the fortresses. if the english hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day, she'd have had to break her oath or die up there." we rode on asses and mules up the steep, narrow streets and entered the subterranean galleries the english have blasted out in the rock. these galleries are like spacious railway tunnels, and at short intervals in them great guns frown out upon sea and town through portholes five or six hundred feet above the ocean. there is a mile or so of this subterranean work, and it must have cost a vast deal of money and labor. the gallery guns command the peninsula and the harbors of both oceans, but they might as well not be there, i should think, for an army could hardly climb the perpendicular wall of the rock anyhow. those lofty portholes afford superb views of the sea, though. at one place, where a jutting crag was hollowed out into a great chamber whose furniture was huge cannon and whose windows were portholes, a glimpse was caught of a hill not far away, and a soldier said: "that high hill yonder is called the queen's chair; it is because a queen of spain placed her chair there once when the french and spanish troops were besieging gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot till the english flag was lowered from the fortresses. if the english hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day, she'd have had to break her oath or die up there." on the topmost pinnacle of gibraltar we halted a good while, and no doubt the mules were tired. they had a right to be. the military road was good, but rather steep, and there was a good deal of it. the view from the narrow ledge was magnificent; from it vessels seeming like the tiniest little toy boats were turned into noble ships by the telescopes, and other vessels that were fifty miles away and even sixty, they said, and invisible to the naked eye, could be clearly distinguished through those same telescopes. below, on one side, we looked down upon an endless mass of batteries and on the other straight down to the sea. while i was resting ever so comfortably on a rampart, and cooling my baking head in the delicious breeze, an officious guide belonging to another party came up and said: "senor, that high hill yonder is called the queen's chair--" "sir, i am a helpless orphan in a foreign land. have pity on me. don't --now don't inflict that most in-fernal old legend on me anymore today!" there--i had used strong language after promising i would never do so again; but the provocation was more than human nature could bear. if you had been bored so, when you had the noble panorama of spain and africa and the blue mediterranean spread abroad at your feet, and wanted to gaze and enjoy and surfeit yourself in its beauty in silence, you might have even burst into stronger language than i did. gibraltar has stood several protracted sieges, one of them of nearly four years' duration (it failed), and the english only captured it by stratagem. the wonder is that anybody should ever dream of trying so impossible a project as the taking it by assault--and yet it has been tried more than once. the moors held the place twelve hundred years ago, and a staunch old castle of theirs of that date still frowns from the middle of the town, with moss-grown battlements and sides well scarred by shots fired in battles and sieges that are forgotten now. a secret chamber in the rock behind it was discovered some time ago, which contained a sword of exquisite workmanship, and some quaint old armor of a fashion that antiquaries are not acquainted with, though it is supposed to be roman. roman armor and roman relics of various kinds have been found in a cave in the sea extremity of gibraltar; history says rome held this part of the country about the christian era, and these things seem to confirm the statement. in that cave also are found human bones, crusted with a very thick, stony coating, and wise men have ventured to say that those men not only lived before the flood, but as much as ten thousand years before it. it may be true--it looks reasonable enough--but as long as those parties can't vote anymore, the matter can be of no great public interest. in this cave likewise are found skeletons and fossils of animals that exist in every part of africa, yet within memory and tradition have never existed in any portion of spain save this lone peak of gibraltar! so the theory is that the channel between gibraltar and africa was once dry land, and that the low, neutral neck between gibraltar and the spanish hills behind it was once ocean, and of course that these african animals, being over at gibraltar (after rock, perhaps--there is plenty there), got closed out when the great change occurred. the hills in africa, across the channel, are full of apes, and there are now and always have been apes on the rock of gibraltar--but not elsewhere in spain! the subject is an interesting one. there is an english garrison at gibraltar of , or , men, and so uniforms of flaming red are plenty; and red and blue, and undress costumes of snowy white, and also the queer uniform of the bare-kneed highlander; and one sees soft-eyed spanish girls from san roque, and veiled moorish beauties (i suppose they are beauties) from tarifa, and turbaned, sashed, and trousered moorish merchants from fez, and long-robed, bare-legged, ragged muhammadan vagabonds from tetuan and tangier, some brown, some yellow and some as black as virgin ink--and jews from all around, in gabardine, skullcap, and slippers, just as they are in pictures and theaters, and just as they were three thousand years ago, no doubt. you can easily understand that a tribe (somehow our pilgrims suggest that expression, because they march in a straggling procession through these foreign places with such an indian-like air of complacency and independence about them) like ours, made up from fifteen or sixteen states of the union, found enough to stare at in this shifting panorama of fashion today. speaking of our pilgrims reminds me that we have one or two people among us who are sometimes an annoyance. however, i do not count the oracle in that list. i will explain that the oracle is an innocent old ass who eats for four and looks wiser than the whole academy of france would have any right to look, and never uses a one-syllable word when he can think of a longer one, and never by any possible chance knows the meaning of any long word he uses or ever gets it in the right place; yet he will serenely venture an opinion on the most abstruse subject and back it up complacently with quotations from authors who never existed, and finally when cornered will slide to the other side of the question, say he has been there all the time, and come back at you with your own spoken arguments, only with the big words all tangled, and play them in your very teeth as original with himself. he reads a chapter in the guidebooks, mixes the facts all up, with his bad memory, and then goes off to inflict the whole mess on somebody as wisdom which has been festering in his brain for years and which he gathered in college from erudite authors who are dead now and out of print. this morning at breakfast he pointed out of the window and said: "do you see that there hill out there on that african coast? it's one of them pillows of herkewls, i should say--and there's the ultimate one alongside of it." "the ultimate one--that is a good word--but the pillars are not both on the same side of the strait." (i saw he had been deceived by a carelessly written sentence in the guidebook.) "well, it ain't for you to say, nor for me. some authors states it that way, and some states it different. old gibbons don't say nothing about it--just shirks it complete--gibbons always done that when he got stuck --but there is rolampton, what does he say? why, be says that they was both on the same side, and trinculian, and sobaster, and syraccus, and langomarganbl----" "oh, that will do--that's enough. if you have got your hand in for inventing authors and testimony, i have nothing more to say--let them be on the same side." we don't mind the oracle. we rather like him. we can tolerate the oracle very easily, but we have a poet and a good-natured enterprising idiot on board, and they do distress the company. the one gives copies of his verses to consuls, commanders, hotel keepers, arabs, dutch--to anybody, in fact, who will submit to a grievous infliction most kindly meant. his poetry is all very well on shipboard, notwithstanding when he wrote an "ode to the ocean in a storm" in one half hour, and an "apostrophe to the rooster in the waist of the ship" in the next, the transition was considered to be rather abrupt; but when he sends an invoice of rhymes to the governor of fayal and another to the commander in chief and other dignitaries in gibraltar with the compliments of the laureate of the ship, it is not popular with the passengers. the other personage i have mentioned is young and green, and not bright, not learned, and not wise. he will be, though, someday if he recollects the answers to all his questions. he is known about the ship as the "interrogation point," and this by constant use has become shortened to "interrogation." he has distinguished himself twice already. in fayal they pointed out a hill and told him it was feet high and , feet long. and they told him there was a tunnel , feet long and , feet high running through the hill, from end to end. he believed it. he repeated it to everybody, discussed it, and read it from his notes. finally, he took a useful hint from this remark, which a thoughtful old pilgrim made: "well, yes, it is a little remarkable--singular tunnel altogether--stands up out of the top of the hill about two hundred feet, and one end of it sticks out of the hill about nine hundred!" here in gibraltar he corners these educated british officers and badgers them with braggadocio about america and the wonders she can perform! he told one of them a couple of our gunboats could come here and knock gibraltar into the mediterranean sea! at this present moment half a dozen of us are taking a private pleasure excursion of our own devising. we form rather more than half the list of white passengers on board a small steamer bound for the venerable moorish town of tangier, africa. nothing could be more absolutely certain than that we are enjoying ourselves. one can not do otherwise who speeds over these sparkling waters and breathes the soft atmosphere of this sunny land. care cannot assail us here. we are out of its jurisdiction. we even steamed recklessly by the frowning fortress of malabat (a stronghold of the emperor of morocco) without a twinge of fear. the whole garrison turned out under arms and assumed a threatening attitude--yet still we did not fear. the entire garrison marched and counter-marched within the rampart, in full view--yet notwithstanding even this, we never flinched. i suppose we really do not know what fear is. i inquired the name of the garrison of the fortress of malabat, and they said it was mehemet ali ben sancom. i said it would be a good idea to get some more garrisons to help him; but they said no, he had nothing to do but hold the place, and he was competent to do that, had done it two years already. that was evidence which one could not well refute. there is nothing like reputation. every now and then my glove purchase in gibraltar last night intrudes itself upon me. dan and the ship's surgeon and i had been up to the great square, listening to the music of the fine military bands and contemplating english and spanish female loveliness and fashion, and at nine o'clock were on our way to the theater, when we met the general, the judge, the commodore, the colonel, and the commissioner of the united states of america to europe, asia, and africa, who had been to the club house to register their several titles and impoverish the bill of fare; and they told us to go over to the little variety store near the hall of justice and buy some kid gloves. they said they were elegant and very moderate in price. it seemed a stylish thing to go to the theater in kid gloves, and we acted upon the hint. a very handsome young lady in the store offered me a pair of blue gloves. i did not want blue, but she said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine. the remark touched me tenderly. i glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem rather a comely member. i tried a glove on my left and blushed a little. manifestly the size was too small for me. but i felt gratified when she said: "oh, it is just right!" yet i knew it was no such thing. i tugged at it diligently, but it was discouraging work. she said: "ah! i see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves--but some gentlemen are so awkward about putting them on." it was the last compliment i had expected. i only understand putting on the buckskin article perfectly. i made another effort and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand--and tried to hide the rent. she kept up her compliments, and i kept up my determination to deserve them or die: "ah, you have had experience! [a rip down the back of the hand.] they are just right for you--your hand is very small--if they tear you need not pay for them. [a rent across the middle.] i can always tell when a gentleman understands putting on kid gloves. there is a grace about it that only comes with long practice." the whole after-guard of the glove "fetched away," as the sailors say, the fabric parted across the knuckles, and nothing was left but a melancholy ruin. i was too much flattered to make an exposure and throw the merchandise on the angel's hands. i was hot, vexed, confused, but still happy; but i hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings. i wished they were in jericho. i felt exquisitely mean when i said cheerfully: "this one does very well; it fits elegantly. i like a glove that fits. no, never mind, ma'am, never mind; i'll put the other on in the street. it is warm here." it was warm. it was the warmest place i ever was in. i paid the bill, and as i passed out with a fascinating bow i thought i detected a light in the woman's eye that was gently ironical; and when i looked back from the street, and she was laughing all to herself about something or other, i said to myself with withering sarcasm, "oh, certainly; you know how to put on kid gloves, don't you? a self-complacent ass, ready to be flattered out of your senses by every petticoat that chooses to take the trouble to do it!" the silence of the boys annoyed me. finally dan said musingly: "some gentlemen don't know how to put on kid gloves at all, but some do." and the doctor said (to the moon, i thought): "but it is always easy to tell when a gentleman is used to putting on kid gloves." dan soliloquized after a pause: "ah, yes; there is a grace about it that only comes with long, very long practice." "yes, indeed, i've noticed that when a man hauls on a kid glove like he was dragging a cat out of an ash hole by the tail, he understands putting on kid gloves; he's had ex--" "boys, enough of a thing's enough! you think you are very smart, i suppose, but i don't. and if you go and tell any of those old gossips in the ship about this thing, i'll never forgive you for it; that's all." they let me alone then for the time being. we always let each other alone in time to prevent ill feeling from spoiling a joke. but they had bought gloves, too, as i did. we threw all the purchases away together this morning. they were coarse, unsubstantial, freckled all over with broad yellow splotches, and could neither stand wear nor public exhibition. we had entertained an angel unawares, but we did not take her in. she did that for us. tangier! a tribe of stalwart moors are wading into the sea to carry us ashore on their backs from the small boats. chapter viii. this is royal! let those who went up through spain make the best of it --these dominions of the emperor of morocco suit our little party well enough. we have had enough of spain at gibraltar for the present. tangier is the spot we have been longing for all the time. elsewhere we have found foreign-looking things and foreign-looking people, but always with things and people intermixed that we were familiar with before, and so the novelty of the situation lost a deal of its force. we wanted something thoroughly and uncompromisingly foreign--foreign from top to bottom--foreign from center to circumference--foreign inside and outside and all around--nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreignness --nothing to remind us of any other people or any other land under the sun. and lo! in tangier we have found it. here is not the slightest thing that ever we have seen save in pictures--and we always mistrusted the pictures before. we cannot anymore. the pictures used to seem exaggerations--they seemed too weird and fanciful for reality. but behold, they were not wild enough--they were not fanciful enough--they have not told half the story. tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save the arabian nights. here are no white men visible, yet swarms of humanity are all about us. here is a packed and jammed city enclosed in a massive stone wall which is more than a thousand years old. all the houses nearly are one-and two-story, made of thick walls of stone, plastered outside, square as a dry-goods box, flat as a floor on top, no cornices, whitewashed all over--a crowded city of snowy tombs! and the doors are arched with the peculiar arch we see in moorish pictures; the floors are laid in varicolored diamond flags; in tesselated, many-colored porcelain squares wrought in the furnaces of fez; in red tiles and broad bricks that time cannot wear; there is no furniture in the rooms (of jewish dwellings) save divans--what there is in moorish ones no man may know; within their sacred walls no christian dog can enter. and the streets are oriental--some of them three feet wide, some six, but only two that are over a dozen; a man can blockade the most of them by extending his body across them. isn't it an oriental picture? there are stalwart bedouins of the desert here, and stately moors proud of a history that goes back to the night of time; and jews whose fathers fled hither centuries upon centuries ago; and swarthy riffians from the mountains--born cut-throats--and original, genuine negroes as black as moses; and howling dervishes and a hundred breeds of arabs--all sorts and descriptions of people that are foreign and curious to look upon. and their dresses are strange beyond all description. here is a bronzed moor in a prodigious white turban, curiously embroidered jacket, gold and crimson sash, of many folds, wrapped round and round his waist, trousers that only come a little below his knee and yet have twenty yards of stuff in them, ornamented scimitar, bare shins, stockingless feet, yellow slippers, and gun of preposterous length--a mere soldier!--i thought he was the emperor at least. and here are aged moors with flowing white beards and long white robes with vast cowls; and bedouins with long, cowled, striped cloaks; and negroes and riffians with heads clean-shaven except a kinky scalp lock back of the ear or, rather, upon the after corner of the skull; and all sorts of barbarians in all sorts of weird costumes, and all more or less ragged. and here are moorish women who are enveloped from head to foot in coarse white robes, and whose sex can only be determined by the fact that they only leave one eye visible and never look at men of their own race, or are looked at by them in public. here are five thousand jews in blue gabardines, sashes about their waists, slippers upon their feet, little skullcaps upon the backs of their heads, hair combed down on the forehead, and cut straight across the middle of it from side to side--the selfsame fashion their tangier ancestors have worn for i don't know how many bewildering centuries. their feet and ankles are bare. their noses are all hooked, and hooked alike. they all resemble each other so much that one could almost believe they were of one family. their women are plump and pretty, and do smile upon a christian in a way which is in the last degree comforting. what a funny old town it is! it seems like profanation to laugh and jest and bandy the frivolous chat of our day amid its hoary relics. only the stately phraseology and the measured speech of the sons of the prophet are suited to a venerable antiquity like this. here is a crumbling wall that was old when columbus discovered america; was old when peter the hermit roused the knightly men of the middle ages to arm for the first crusade; was old when charlemagne and his paladins beleaguered enchanted castles and battled with giants and genii in the fabled days of the olden time; was old when christ and his disciples walked the earth; stood where it stands today when the lips of memnon were vocal and men bought and sold in the streets of ancient thebes! the phoenicians, the carthagenians, the english, moors, romans, all have battled for tangier--all have won it and lost it. here is a ragged, oriental-looking negro from some desert place in interior africa, filling his goatskin with water from a stained and battered fountain built by the romans twelve hundred years ago. yonder is a ruined arch of a bridge built by julius caesar nineteen hundred years ago. men who had seen the infant saviour in the virgin's arms have stood upon it, maybe. near it are the ruins of a dockyard where caesar repaired his ships and loaded them with grain when he invaded britain, fifty years before the christian era. here, under the quiet stars, these old streets seem thronged with the phantoms of forgotten ages. my eyes are resting upon a spot where stood a monument which was seen and described by roman historians less than two thousand years ago, whereon was inscribed: "we are the canaanites. we are they that have been driven out of the land of canaan by the jewish robber, joshua." joshua drove them out, and they came here. not many leagues from here is a tribe of jews whose ancestors fled thither after an unsuccessful revolt against king david, and these their descendants are still under a ban and keep to themselves. tangier has been mentioned in history for three thousand years. and it was a town, though a queer one, when hercules, clad in his lion skin, landed here, four thousand years ago. in these streets he met anitus, the king of the country, and brained him with his club, which was the fashion among gentlemen in those days. the people of tangier (called tingis then) lived in the rudest possible huts and dressed in skins and carried clubs, and were as savage as the wild beasts they were constantly obliged to war with. but they were a gentlemanly race and did no work. they lived on the natural products of the land. their king's country residence was at the famous garden of hesperides, seventy miles down the coast from here. the garden, with its golden apples (oranges), is gone now--no vestige of it remains. antiquarians concede that such a personage as hercules did exist in ancient times and agree that he was an enterprising and energetic man, but decline to believe him a good, bona-fide god, because that would be unconstitutional. down here at cape spartel is the celebrated cave of hercules, where that hero took refuge when he was vanquished and driven out of the tangier country. it is full of inscriptions in the dead languages, which fact makes me think hercules could not have traveled much, else he would not have kept a journal. five days' journey from here--say two hundred miles--are the ruins of an ancient city, of whose history there is neither record nor tradition. and yet its arches, its columns, and its statues proclaim it to have been built by an enlightened race. the general size of a store in tangier is about that of an ordinary shower bath in a civilized land. the muhammadan merchant, tinman, shoemaker, or vendor of trifles sits cross-legged on the floor and reaches after any article you may want to buy. you can rent a whole block of these pigeonholes for fifty dollars a month. the market people crowd the marketplace with their baskets of figs, dates, melons, apricots, etc., and among them file trains of laden asses, not much larger, if any, than a newfoundland dog. the scene is lively, is picturesque, and smells like a police court. the jewish money-changers have their dens close at hand, and all day long are counting bronze coins and transferring them from one bushel basket to another. they don't coin much money nowadays, i think. i saw none but what was dated four or five hundred years back, and was badly worn and battered. these coins are not very valuable. jack went out to get a napoleon changed, so as to have money suited to the general cheapness of things, and came back and said he had "swamped the bank, had bought eleven quarts of coin, and the head of the firm had gone on the street to negotiate for the balance of the change." i bought nearly half a pint of their money for a shilling myself. i am not proud on account of having so much money, though. i care nothing for wealth. the moors have some small silver coins and also some silver slugs worth a dollar each. the latter are exceedingly scarce--so much so that when poor ragged arabs see one they beg to be allowed to kiss it. they have also a small gold coin worth two dollars. and that reminds me of something. when morocco is in a state of war, arab couriers carry letters through the country and charge a liberal postage. every now and then they fall into the hands of marauding bands and get robbed. therefore, warned by experience, as soon as they have collected two dollars' worth of money they exchange it for one of those little gold pieces, and when robbers come upon them, swallow it. the stratagem was good while it was unsuspected, but after that the marauders simply gave the sagacious united states mail an emetic and sat down to wait. the emperor of morocco is a soulless despot, and the great officers under him are despots on a smaller scale. there is no regular system of taxation, but when the emperor or the bashaw want money, they levy on some rich man, and he has to furnish the cash or go to prison. therefore, few men in morocco dare to be rich. it is too dangerous a luxury. vanity occasionally leads a man to display wealth, but sooner or later the emperor trumps up a charge against him--any sort of one will do--and confiscates his property. of course, there are many rich men in the empire, but their money is buried, and they dress in rags and counterfeit poverty. every now and then the emperor imprisons a man who is suspected of the crime of being rich, and makes things so uncomfortable for him that he is forced to discover where he has hidden his money. moors and jews sometimes place themselves under the protection of the foreign consuls, and then they can flout their riches in the emperor's face with impunity. chapter ix. about the first adventure we had yesterday afternoon, after landing here, came near finishing that heedless blucher. we had just mounted some mules and asses and started out under the guardianship of the stately, the princely, the magnificent hadji muhammad lamarty (may his tribe increase!) when we came upon a fine moorish mosque, with tall tower, rich with checker-work of many-colored porcelain, and every part and portion of the edifice adorned with the quaint architecture of the alhambra, and blucher started to ride into the open doorway. a startling "hi-hi!" from our camp followers and a loud "halt!" from an english gentleman in the party checked the adventurer, and then we were informed that so dire a profanation is it for a christian dog to set foot upon the sacred threshold of a moorish mosque that no amount of purification can ever make it fit for the faithful to pray in again. had blucher succeeded in entering the place, he would no doubt have been chased through the town and stoned; and the time has been, and not many years ago, either, when a christian would have been most ruthlessly slaughtered if captured in a mosque. we caught a glimpse of the handsome tessellated pavements within and of the devotees performing their ablutions at the fountains, but even that we took that glimpse was a thing not relished by the moorish bystanders. some years ago the clock in the tower of the mosque got out of order. the moors of tangier have so degenerated that it has been long since there was an artificer among them capable of curing so delicate a patient as a debilitated clock. the great men of the city met in solemn conclave to consider how the difficulty was to be met. they discussed the matter thoroughly but arrived at no solution. finally, a patriarch arose and said: "oh, children of the prophet, it is known unto you that a portuguee dog of a christian clock mender pollutes the city of tangier with his presence. ye know, also, that when mosques are builded, asses bear the stones and the cement, and cross the sacred threshold. now, therefore, send the christian dog on all fours, and barefoot, into the holy place to mend the clock, and let him go as an ass!" and in that way it was done. therefore, if blucher ever sees the inside of a mosque, he will have to cast aside his humanity and go in his natural character. we visited the jail and found moorish prisoners making mats and baskets. (this thing of utilizing crime savors of civilization.) murder is punished with death. a short time ago three murderers were taken beyond the city walls and shot. moorish guns are not good, and neither are moorish marksmen. in this instance they set up the poor criminals at long range, like so many targets, and practiced on them--kept them hopping about and dodging bullets for half an hour before they managed to drive the center. when a man steals cattle, they cut off his right hand and left leg and nail them up in the marketplace as a warning to everybody. their surgery is not artistic. they slice around the bone a little, then break off the limb. sometimes the patient gets well; but, as a general thing, he don't. however, the moorish heart is stout. the moors were always brave. these criminals undergo the fearful operation without a wince, without a tremor of any kind, without a groan! no amount of suffering can bring down the pride of a moor or make him shame his dignity with a cry. here, marriage is contracted by the parents of the parties to it. there are no valentines, no stolen interviews, no riding out, no courting in dim parlors, no lovers' quarrels and reconciliations--no nothing that is proper to approaching matrimony. the young man takes the girl his father selects for him, marries her, and after that she is unveiled, and he sees her for the first time. if after due acquaintance she suits him, he retains her; but if he suspects her purity, he bundles her back to her father; if he finds her diseased, the same; or if, after just and reasonable time is allowed her, she neglects to bear children, back she goes to the home of her childhood. muhammadans here who can afford it keep a good many wives on hand. they are called wives, though i believe the koran only allows four genuine wives--the rest are concubines. the emperor of morocco don't know how many wives he has, but thinks he has five hundred. however, that is near enough--a dozen or so, one way or the other, don't matter. even the jews in the interior have a plurality of wives. i have caught a glimpse of the faces of several moorish women (for they are only human, and will expose their faces for the admiration of a christian dog when no male moor is by), and i am full of veneration for the wisdom that leads them to cover up such atrocious ugliness. they carry their children at their backs, in a sack, like other savages the world over. many of the negroes are held in slavery by the moors. but the moment a female slave becomes her master's concubine her bonds are broken, and as soon as a male slave can read the first chapter of the koran (which contains the creed) he can no longer be held in bondage. they have three sundays a week in tangier. the muhammadans' comes on friday, the jews' on saturday, and that of the christian consuls on sunday. the jews are the most radical. the moor goes to his mosque about noon on his sabbath, as on any other day, removes his shoes at the door, performs his ablutions, makes his salaams, pressing his forehead to the pavement time and again, says his prayers, and goes back to his work. but the jew shuts up shop; will not touch copper or bronze money at all; soils his fingers with nothing meaner than silver and gold; attends the synagogue devoutly; will not cook or have anything to do with fire; and religiously refrains from embarking in any enterprise. the moor who has made a pilgrimage to mecca is entitled to high distinction. men call him hadji, and he is thenceforward a great personage. hundreds of moors come to tangier every year and embark for mecca. they go part of the way in english steamers, and the ten or twelve dollars they pay for passage is about all the trip costs. they take with them a quantity of food, and when the commissary department fails they "skirmish," as jack terms it in his sinful, slangy way. from the time they leave till they get home again, they never wash, either on land or sea. they are usually gone from five to seven months, and as they do not change their clothes during all that time, they are totally unfit for the drawing room when they get back. many of them have to rake and scrape a long time to gather together the ten dollars their steamer passage costs, and when one of them gets back he is a bankrupt forever after. few moors can ever build up their fortunes again in one short lifetime after so reckless an outlay. in order to confine the dignity of hadji to gentlemen of patrician blood and possessions, the emperor decreed that no man should make the pilgrimage save bloated aristocrats who were worth a hundred dollars in specie. but behold how iniquity can circumvent the law! for a consideration, the jewish money-changer lends the pilgrim one hundred dollars long enough for him to swear himself through, and then receives it back before the ship sails out of the harbor! spain is the only nation the moors fear. the reason is that spain sends her heaviest ships of war and her loudest guns to astonish these muslims, while america and other nations send only a little contemptible tub of a gunboat occasionally. the moors, like other savages, learn by what they see, not what they hear or read. we have great fleets in the mediterranean, but they seldom touch at african ports. the moors have a small opinion of england, france, and america, and put their representatives to a deal of red-tape circumlocution before they grant them their common rights, let alone a favor. but the moment the spanish minister makes a demand, it is acceded to at once, whether it be just or not. spain chastised the moors five or six years ago, about a disputed piece of property opposite gibraltar, and captured the city of tetouan. she compromised on an augmentation of her territory, twenty million dollars' indemnity in money, and peace. and then she gave up the city. but she never gave it up until the spanish soldiers had eaten up all the cats. they would not compromise as long as the cats held out. spaniards are very fond of cats. on the contrary, the moors reverence cats as something sacred. so the spaniards touched them on a tender point that time. their unfeline conduct in eating up all the tetouan cats aroused a hatred toward them in the breasts of the moors, to which even the driving them out of spain was tame and passionless. moors and spaniards are foes forever now. france had a minister here once who embittered the nation against him in the most innocent way. he killed a couple of battalions of cats (tangier is full of them) and made a parlor carpet out of their hides. he made his carpet in circles--first a circle of old gray tomcats, with their tails all pointing toward the center; then a circle of yellow cats; next a circle of black cats and a circle of white ones; then a circle of all sorts of cats; and, finally, a centerpiece of assorted kittens. it was very beautiful, but the moors curse his memory to this day. when we went to call on our american consul general today i noticed that all possible games for parlor amusement seemed to be represented on his center tables. i thought that hinted at lonesomeness. the idea was correct. his is the only american family in tangier. there are many foreign consuls in this place, but much visiting is not indulged in. tangier is clear out of the world, and what is the use of visiting when people have nothing on earth to talk about? there is none. so each consul's family stays at home chiefly and amuses itself as best it can. tangier is full of interest for one day, but after that it is a weary prison. the consul general has been here five years, and has got enough of it to do him for a century, and is going home shortly. his family seize upon their letters and papers when the mail arrives, read them over and over again for two days or three, talk them over and over again for two or three more till they wear them out, and after that for days together they eat and drink and sleep, and ride out over the same old road, and see the same old tiresome things that even decades of centuries have scarcely changed, and say never a single word! they have literally nothing whatever to talk about. the arrival of an american man-of-war is a godsend to them. "o solitude, where are the charms which sages have seen in thy face?" it is the completest exile that i can conceive of. i would seriously recommend to the government of the united states that when a man commits a crime so heinous that the law provides no adequate punishment for it, they make him consul general to tangier. i am glad to have seen tangier--the second-oldest town in the world. but i am ready to bid it good-bye, i believe. we shall go hence to gibraltar this evening or in the morning, and doubtless the quaker city will sail from that port within the next forty-eight hours. chapter x. we passed the fourth of july on board the quaker city, in mid-ocean. it was in all respects a characteristic mediterranean day--faultlessly beautiful. a cloudless sky; a refreshing summer wind; a radiant sunshine that glinted cheerily from dancing wavelets instead of crested mountains of water; a sea beneath us that was so wonderfully blue, so richly, brilliantly blue, that it overcame the dullest sensibilities with the spell of its fascination. they even have fine sunsets on the mediterranean--a thing that is certainly rare in most quarters of the globe. the evening we sailed away from gibraltar, that hard-featured rock was swimming in a creamy mist so rich, so soft, so enchantingly vague and dreamy, that even the oracle, that serene, that inspired, that overpowering humbug, scorned the dinner gong and tarried to worship! he said: "well, that's gorgis, ain't it! they don't have none of them things in our parts, do they? i consider that them effects is on account of the superior refragability, as you may say, of the sun's diramic combination with the lymphatic forces of the perihelion of jubiter. what should you think?" "oh, go to bed!" dan said that, and went away. "oh, yes, it's all very well to say go to bed when a man makes an argument which another man can't answer. dan don't never stand any chance in an argument with me. and he knows it, too. what should you say, jack?" "now, doctor, don't you come bothering around me with that dictionary bosh. i don't do you any harm, do i? then you let me alone." "he's gone, too. well, them fellows have all tackled the old oracle, as they say, but the old man's most too many for 'em. maybe the poet lariat ain't satisfied with them deductions?" the poet replied with a barbarous rhyme and went below. "'pears that he can't qualify, neither. well, i didn't expect nothing out of him. i never see one of them poets yet that knowed anything. he'll go down now and grind out about four reams of the awfullest slush about that old rock and give it to a consul, or a pilot, or a nigger, or anybody he comes across first which he can impose on. pity but somebody'd take that poor old lunatic and dig all that poetry rubbage out of him. why can't a man put his intellect onto things that's some value? gibbons, and hippocratus, and sarcophagus, and all them old ancient philosophers was down on poets--" "doctor," i said, "you are going to invent authorities now and i'll leave you, too. i always enjoy your conversation, notwithstanding the luxuriance of your syllables, when the philosophy you offer rests on your own responsibility; but when you begin to soar--when you begin to support it with the evidence of authorities who are the creations of your own fancy--i lose confidence." that was the way to flatter the doctor. he considered it a sort of acknowledgment on my part of a fear to argue with him. he was always persecuting the passengers with abstruse propositions framed in language that no man could understand, and they endured the exquisite torture a minute or two and then abandoned the field. a triumph like this, over half a dozen antagonists was sufficient for one day; from that time forward he would patrol the decks beaming blandly upon all comers, and so tranquilly, blissfully happy! but i digress. the thunder of our two brave cannon announced the fourth of july, at daylight, to all who were awake. but many of us got our information at a later hour, from the almanac. all the flags were sent aloft except half a dozen that were needed to decorate portions of the ship below, and in a short time the vessel assumed a holiday appearance. during the morning, meetings were held and all manner of committees set to work on the celebration ceremonies. in the afternoon the ship's company assembled aft, on deck, under the awnings; the flute, the asthmatic melodeon, and the consumptive clarinet crippled "the star-spangled banner," the choir chased it to cover, and george came in with a peculiarly lacerating screech on the final note and slaughtered it. nobody mourned. we carried out the corpse on three cheers (that joke was not intentional and i do not endorse it), and then the president, throned behind a cable locker with a national flag spread over it, announced the "reader," who rose up and read that same old declaration of independence which we have all listened to so often without paying any attention to what it said; and after that the president piped the orator of the day to quarters and he made that same old speech about our national greatness which we so religiously believe and so fervently applaud. now came the choir into court again, with the complaining instruments, and assaulted "hail columbia"; and when victory hung wavering in the scale, george returned with his dreadful wild-goose stop turned on and the choir won, of course. a minister pronounced the benediction, and the patriotic little gathering disbanded. the fourth of july was safe, as far as the mediterranean was concerned. at dinner in the evening, a well-written original poem was recited with spirit by one of the ship's captains, and thirteen regular toasts were washed down with several baskets of champagne. the speeches were bad --execrable almost without exception. in fact, without any exception but one. captain duncan made a good speech; he made the only good speech of the evening. he said: "ladies and gentlemen:--may we all live to a green old age and be prosperous and happy. steward, bring up another basket of champagne." it was regarded as a very able effort. the festivities, so to speak, closed with another of those miraculous balls on the promenade deck. we were not used to dancing on an even keel, though, and it was only a questionable success. but take it all together, it was a bright, cheerful, pleasant fourth. toward nightfall the next evening, we steamed into the great artificial harbor of this noble city of marseilles, and saw the dying sunlight gild its clustering spires and ramparts, and flood its leagues of environing verdure with a mellow radiance that touched with an added charm the white villas that flecked the landscape far and near. [copyright secured according to law.] there were no stages out, and we could not get on the pier from the ship. it was annoying. we were full of enthusiasm--we wanted to see france! just at nightfall our party of three contracted with a waterman for the privilege of using his boat as a bridge--its stern was at our companion ladder and its bow touched the pier. we got in and the fellow backed out into the harbor. i told him in french that all we wanted was to walk over his thwarts and step ashore, and asked him what he went away out there for. he said he could not understand me. i repeated. still he could not understand. he appeared to be very ignorant of french. the doctor tried him, but he could not understand the doctor. i asked this boatman to explain his conduct, which he did; and then i couldn't understand him. dan said: "oh, go to the pier, you old fool--that's where we want to go!" we reasoned calmly with dan that it was useless to speak to this foreigner in english--that he had better let us conduct this business in the french language and not let the stranger see how uncultivated he was. "well, go on, go on," he said, "don't mind me. i don't wish to interfere. only, if you go on telling him in your kind of french, he never will find out where we want to go to. that is what i think about it." we rebuked him severely for this remark and said we never knew an ignorant person yet but was prejudiced. the frenchman spoke again, and the doctor said: "there now, dan, he says he is going to allez to the douain. means he is going to the hotel. oh, certainly--we don't know the french language." this was a crusher, as jack would say. it silenced further criticism from the disaffected member. we coasted past the sharp bows of a navy of great steamships and stopped at last at a government building on a stone pier. it was easy to remember then that the douain was the customhouse and not the hotel. we did not mention it, however. with winning french politeness the officers merely opened and closed our satchels, declined to examine our passports, and sent us on our way. we stopped at the first cafe we came to and entered. an old woman seated us at a table and waited for orders. the doctor said: "avez-vous du vin?" the dame looked perplexed. the doctor said again, with elaborate distinctness of articulation: "avez-vous du--vin!" the dame looked more perplexed than before. i said: "doctor, there is a flaw in your pronunciation somewhere. let me try her. madame, avez-vous du vin?--it isn't any use, doctor--take the witness." "madame, avez-vous du vin--du fromage--pain--pickled pigs' feet--beurre --des oeufs--du boeuf--horseradish, sauerkraut, hog and hominy--anything, anything in the world that can stay a christian stomach!" she said: "bless you, why didn't you speak english before? i don't know anything about your plagued french!" the humiliating taunts of the disaffected member spoiled the supper, and we dispatched it in angry silence and got away as soon as we could. here we were in beautiful france--in a vast stone house of quaint architecture--surrounded by all manner of curiously worded french signs --stared at by strangely habited, bearded french people--everything gradually and surely forcing upon us the coveted consciousness that at last, and beyond all question, we were in beautiful france and absorbing its nature to the forgetfulness of everything else, and coming to feel the happy romance of the thing in all its enchanting delightfulness--and to think of this skinny veteran intruding with her vile english, at such a moment, to blow the fair vision to the winds! it was exasperating. we set out to find the centre of the city, inquiring the direction every now and then. we never did succeed in making anybody understand just exactly what we wanted, and neither did we ever succeed in comprehending just exactly what they said in reply, but then they always pointed--they always did that--and we bowed politely and said, "merci, monsieur," and so it was a blighting triumph over the disaffected member anyway. he was restive under these victories and often asked: "what did that pirate say?" "why, he told us which way to go to find the grand casino." "yes, but what did he say?" "oh, it don't matter what he said--we understood him. these are educated people--not like that absurd boatman." "well, i wish they were educated enough to tell a man a direction that goes some where--for we've been going around in a circle for an hour. i've passed this same old drugstore seven times." we said it was a low, disreputable falsehood (but we knew it was not). it was plain that it would not do to pass that drugstore again, though --we might go on asking directions, but we must cease from following finger-pointings if we hoped to check the suspicions of the disaffected member. a long walk through smooth, asphaltum-paved streets bordered by blocks of vast new mercantile houses of cream-colored stone every house and every block precisely like all the other houses and all the other blocks for a mile, and all brilliantly lighted--brought us at last to the principal thoroughfare. on every hand were bright colors, flashing constellations of gas burners, gaily dressed men and women thronging the sidewalks --hurry, life, activity, cheerfulness, conversation, and laughter everywhere! we found the grand hotel du louvre et de la paix, and wrote down who we were, where we were born, what our occupations were, the place we came from last, whether we were married or single, how we liked it, how old we were, where we were bound for and when we expected to get there, and a great deal of information of similar importance--all for the benefit of the landlord and the secret police. we hired a guide and began the business of sightseeing immediately. that first night on french soil was a stirring one. i cannot think of half the places we went to or what we particularly saw; we had no disposition to examine carefully into anything at all--we only wanted to glance and go--to move, keep moving! the spirit of the country was upon us. we sat down, finally, at a late hour, in the great casino, and called for unstinted champagne. it is so easy to be bloated aristocrats where it costs nothing of consequence! there were about five hundred people in that dazzling place, i suppose, though the walls being papered entirely with mirrors, so to speak, one could not really tell but that there were a hundred thousand. young, daintily dressed exquisites and young, stylishly dressed women, and also old gentlemen and old ladies, sat in couples and groups about innumerable marble-topped tables and ate fancy suppers, drank wine, and kept up a chattering din of conversation that was dazing to the senses. there was a stage at the far end and a large orchestra; and every now and then actors and actresses in preposterous comic dresses came out and sang the most extravagantly funny songs, to judge by their absurd actions; but that audience merely suspended its chatter, stared cynically, and never once smiled, never once applauded! i had always thought that frenchmen were ready to laugh at any thing. innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . chapter l. we descended from mount tabor, crossed a deep ravine, followed a hilly, rocky road to nazareth--distant two hours. all distances in the east are measured by hours, not miles. a good horse will walk three miles an hour over nearly any kind of a road; therefore, an hour, here, always stands for three miles. this method of computation is bothersome and annoying; and until one gets thoroughly accustomed to it, it carries no intelligence to his mind until he has stopped and translated the pagan hours into christian miles, just as people do with the spoken words of a foreign language they are acquainted with, but not familiarly enough to catch the meaning in a moment. distances traveled by human feet are also estimated by hours and minutes, though i do not know what the base of the calculation is. in constantinople you ask, "how far is it to the consulate?" and they answer, "about ten minutes." "how far is it to the lloyds' agency?" "quarter of an hour." "how far is it to the lower bridge?" "four minutes." i can not be positive about it, but i think that there, when a man orders a pair of pantaloons, he says he wants them a quarter of a minute in the legs and nine seconds around the waist. two hours from tabor to nazareth--and as it was an uncommonly narrow, crooked trail, we necessarily met all the camel trains and jackass caravans between jericho and jacksonville in that particular place and nowhere else. the donkeys do not matter so much, because they are so small that you can jump your horse over them if he is an animal of spirit, but a camel is not jumpable. a camel is as tall as any ordinary dwelling-house in syria--which is to say a camel is from one to two, and sometimes nearly three feet taller than a good-sized man. in this part of the country his load is oftenest in the shape of colossal sacks--one on each side. he and his cargo take up as much room as a carriage. think of meeting this style of obstruction in a narrow trail. the camel would not turn out for a king. he stalks serenely along, bringing his cushioned stilts forward with the long, regular swing of a pendulum, and whatever is in the way must get out of the way peaceably, or be wiped out forcibly by the bulky sacks. it was a tiresome ride to us, and perfectly exhausting to the horses. we were compelled to jump over upwards of eighteen hundred donkeys, and only one person in the party was unseated less than sixty times by the camels. this seems like a powerful statement, but the poet has said, "things are not what they seem." i can not think of any thing, now, more certain to make one shudder, than to have a soft-footed camel sneak up behind him and touch him on the ear with its cold, flabby under-lip. a camel did this for one of the boys, who was drooping over his saddle in a brown study. he glanced up and saw the majestic apparition hovering above him, and made frantic efforts to get out of the way, but the camel reached out and bit him on the shoulder before he accomplished it. this was the only pleasant incident of the journey. at nazareth we camped in an olive grove near the virgin mary's fountain, and that wonderful arab "guard" came to collect some bucksheesh for his "services" in following us from tiberias and warding off invisible dangers with the terrors of his armament. the dragoman had paid his master, but that counted as nothing--if you hire a man to sneeze for you, here, and another man chooses to help him, you have got to pay both. they do nothing whatever without pay. how it must have surprised these people to hear the way of salvation offered to them "without money and without price." if the manners, the people or the customs of this country have changed since the saviour's time, the figures and metaphors of the bible are not the evidences to prove it by. we entered the great latin convent which is built over the traditional dwelling-place of the holy family. we went down a flight of fifteen steps below the ground level, and stood in a small chapel tricked out with tapestry hangings, silver lamps, and oil paintings. a spot marked by a cross, in the marble floor, under the altar, was exhibited as the place made forever holy by the feet of the virgin when she stood up to receive the message of the angel. so simple, so unpretending a locality, to be the scene of so mighty an event! the very scene of the annunciation--an event which has been commemorated by splendid shrines and august temples all over the civilized world, and one which the princes of art have made it their loftiest ambition to picture worthily on their canvas; a spot whose history is familiar to the very children of every house, and city, and obscure hamlet of the furthest lands of christendom; a spot which myriads of men would toil across the breadth of a world to see, would consider it a priceless privilege to look upon. it was easy to think these thoughts. but it was not easy to bring myself up to the magnitude of the situation. i could sit off several thousand miles and imagine the angel appearing, with shadowy wings and lustrous countenance, and note the glory that streamed downward upon the virgin's head while the message from the throne of god fell upon her ears--any one can do that, beyond the ocean, but few can do it here. i saw the little recess from which the angel stepped, but could not fill its void. the angels that i know are creatures of unstable fancy--they will not fit in niches of substantial stone. imagination labors best in distant fields. i doubt if any man can stand in the grotto of the annunciation and people with the phantom images of his mind its too tangible walls of stone. they showed us a broken granite pillar, depending from the roof, which they said was hacked in two by the moslem conquerors of nazareth, in the vain hope of pulling down the sanctuary. but the pillar remained miraculously suspended in the air, and, unsupported itself, supported then and still supports the roof. by dividing this statement up among eight, it was found not difficult to believe it. these gifted latin monks never do any thing by halves. if they were to show you the brazen serpent that was elevated in the wilderness, you could depend upon it that they had on hand the pole it was elevated on also, and even the hole it stood in. they have got the "grotto" of the annunciation here; and just as convenient to it as one's throat is to his mouth, they have also the virgin's kitchen, and even her sitting-room, where she and joseph watched the infant saviour play with hebrew toys eighteen hundred years ago. all under one roof, and all clean, spacious, comfortable "grottoes." it seems curious that personages intimately connected with the holy family always lived in grottoes--in nazareth, in bethlehem, in imperial ephesus--and yet nobody else in their day and generation thought of doing any thing of the kind. if they ever did, their grottoes are all gone, and i suppose we ought to wonder at the peculiar marvel of the preservation of these i speak of. when the virgin fled from herod's wrath, she hid in a grotto in bethlehem, and the same is there to this day. the slaughter of the innocents in bethlehem was done in a grotto; the saviour was born in a grotto--both are shown to pilgrims yet. it is exceedingly strange that these tremendous events all happened in grottoes--and exceedingly fortunate, likewise, because the strongest houses must crumble to ruin in time, but a grotto in the living rock will last forever. it is an imposture--this grotto stuff--but it is one that all men ought to thank the catholics for. wherever they ferret out a lost locality made holy by some scriptural event, they straightway build a massive--almost imperishable--church there, and preserve the memory of that locality for the gratification of future generations. if it had been left to protestants to do this most worthy work, we would not even know where jerusalem is to-day, and the man who could go and put his finger on nazareth would be too wise for this world. the world owes the catholics its good will even for the happy rascality of hewing out these bogus grottoes in the rock; for it is infinitely more satisfactory to look at a grotto, where people have faithfully believed for centuries that the virgin once lived, than to have to imagine a dwelling-place for her somewhere, any where, nowhere, loose and at large all over this town of nazareth. there is too large a scope of country. the imagination can not work. there is no one particular spot to chain your eye, rivet your interest, and make you think. the memory of the pilgrims can not perish while plymouth rock remains to us. the old monks are wise. they know how to drive a stake through a pleasant tradition that will hold it to its place forever. we visited the places where jesus worked for fifteen years as a carpenter, and where he attempted to teach in the synagogue and was driven out by a mob. catholic chapels stand upon these sites and protect the little fragments of the ancient walls which remain. our pilgrims broke off specimens. we visited, also, a new chapel, in the midst of the town, which is built around a boulder some twelve feet long by four feet thick; the priests discovered, a few years ago, that the disciples had sat upon this rock to rest, once, when they had walked up from capernaum. they hastened to preserve the relic. relics are very good property. travelers are expected to pay for seeing them, and they do it cheerfully. we like the idea. one's conscience can never be the worse for the knowledge that he has paid his way like a man. our pilgrims would have liked very well to get out their lampblack and stencil-plates and paint their names on that rock, together with the names of the villages they hail from in america, but the priests permit nothing of that kind. to speak the strict truth, however, our party seldom offend in that way, though we have men in the ship who never lose an opportunity to do it. our pilgrims' chief sin is their lust for "specimens." i suppose that by this time they know the dimensions of that rock to an inch, and its weight to a ton; and i do not hesitate to charge that they will go back there to-night and try to carry it off. this "fountain of the virgin" is the one which tradition says mary used to get water from, twenty times a day, when she was a girl, and bear it away in a jar upon her head. the water streams through faucets in the face of a wall of ancient masonry which stands removed from the houses of the village. the young girls of nazareth still collect about it by the dozen and keep up a riotous laughter and sky-larking. the nazarene girls are homely. some of them have large, lustrous eyes, but none of them have pretty faces. these girls wear a single garment, usually, and it is loose, shapeless, of undecided color; it is generally out of repair, too. they wear, from crown to jaw, curious strings of old coins, after the manner of the belles of tiberias, and brass jewelry upon their wrists and in their ears. they wear no shoes and stockings. they are the most human girls we have found in the country yet, and the best natured. but there is no question that these picturesque maidens sadly lack comeliness. a pilgrim--the "enthusiast"--said: "see that tall, graceful girl! look at the madonna-like beauty of her countenance!" another pilgrim came along presently and said: "observe that tall, graceful girl; what queenly madonna-like gracefulness of beauty is in her countenance." i said: "she is not tall, she is short; she is not beautiful, she is homely; she is graceful enough, i grant, but she is rather boisterous." the third and last pilgrim moved by, before long, and he said: "ah, what a tall, graceful girl! what madonna-like gracefulness of queenly beauty!" the verdicts were all in. it was time, now, to look up the authorities for all these opinions. i found this paragraph, which follows. written by whom? wm. c. grimes: "after we were in the saddle, we rode down to the spring to have a last look at the women of nazareth, who were, as a class, much the prettiest that we had seen in the east. as we approached the crowd a tall girl of nineteen advanced toward miriam and offered her a cup of water. her movement was graceful and queenly. we exclaimed on the spot at the madonna-like beauty of her countenance. whitely was suddenly thirsty, and begged for water, and drank it slowly, with his eyes over the top of the cup, fixed on her large black eyes, which gazed on him quite as curiously as he on her. then moreright wanted water. she gave it to him and he managed to spill it so as to ask for another cup, and by the time she came to me she saw through the operation; her eyes were full of fun as she looked at me. i laughed outright, and she joined me in as gay a shout as ever country maiden in old orange county. i wished for a picture of her. a madonna, whose face was a portrait of that beautiful nazareth girl, would be a 'thing of beauty' and 'a joy forever.'" that is the kind of gruel which has been served out from palestine for ages. commend me to fennimore cooper to find beauty in the indians, and to grimes to find it in the arabs. arab men are often fine looking, but arab women are not. we can all believe that the virgin mary was beautiful; it is not natural to think otherwise; but does it follow that it is our duty to find beauty in these present women of nazareth? i love to quote from grimes, because he is so dramatic. and because he is so romantic. and because he seems to care but little whether he tells the truth or not, so he scares the reader or excites his envy or his admiration. he went through this peaceful land with one hand forever on his revolver, and the other on his pocket-handkerchief. always, when he was not on the point of crying over a holy place, he was on the point of killing an arab. more surprising things happened to him in palestine than ever happened to any traveler here or elsewhere since munchausen died. at beit jin, where nobody had interfered with him, he crept out of his tent at dead of night and shot at what he took to be an arab lying on a rock, some distance away, planning evil. the ball killed a wolf. just before he fired, he makes a dramatic picture of himself--as usual, to scare the reader: "was it imagination, or did i see a moving object on the surface of the rock? if it were a man, why did he not now drop me? he had a beautiful shot as i stood out in my black boornoose against the white tent. i had the sensation of an entering bullet in my throat, breast, brain." reckless creature! riding toward genessaret, they saw two bedouins, and "we looked to our pistols and loosened them quietly in our shawls," etc. always cool. in samaria, he charged up a hill, in the face of a volley of stones; he fired into the crowd of men who threw them. he says: "i never lost an opportunity of impressing the arabs with the perfection of american and english weapons, and the danger of attacking any one of the armed franks. i think the lesson of that ball not lost." at beit jin he gave his whole band of arab muleteers a piece of his mind, and then-- "i contented myself with a solemn assurance that if there occurred another instance of disobedience to orders i would thrash the responsible party as he never dreamed of being thrashed, and if i could not find who was responsible, i would whip them all, from first to last, whether there was a governor at hand to do it or i had to do it myself" perfectly fearless, this man. he rode down the perpendicular path in the rocks, from the castle of banias to the oak grove, at a flying gallop, his horse striding "thirty feet" at every bound. i stand prepared to bring thirty reliable witnesses to prove that putnam's famous feat at horseneck was insignificant compared to this. behold him--always theatrical--looking at jerusalem--this time, by an oversight, with his hand off his pistol for once. "i stood in the road, my hand on my horse's neck, and with my dim eyes sought to trace the outlines of the holy places which i had long before fixed in my mind, but the fast-flowing tears forbade my succeeding. there were our mohammedan servants, a latin monk, two armenians and a jew in our cortege, and all alike gazed with overflowing eyes." if latin monks and arabs cried, i know to a moral certainty that the horses cried also, and so the picture is complete. but when necessity demanded, he could be firm as adamant. in the lebanon valley an arab youth--a christian; he is particular to explain that mohammedans do not steal--robbed him of a paltry ten dollars' worth of powder and shot. he convicted him before a sheik and looked on while he was punished by the terrible bastinado. hear him: "he (mousa) was on his back in a twinkling, howling, shouting, screaming, but he was carried out to the piazza before the door, where we could see the operation, and laid face down. one man sat on his back and one on his legs, the latter holding up his feet, while a third laid on the bare soles a rhinoceros-hide koorbash --["a koorbash is arabic for cowhide, the cow being a rhinoceros. it is the most cruel whip known to fame. heavy as lead, and flexible as india-rubber, usually about forty inches long and tapering gradually from an inch in diameter to a point, it administers a blow which leaves its mark for time."--scow life in egypt, by the same author.]--that whizzed through the air at every stroke. poor moreright was in agony, and nama and nama the second (mother and sister of mousa,) were on their faces begging and wailing, now embracing my knees and now whitely's, while the brother, outside, made the air ring with cries louder than mousa's. even yusef came and asked me on his knees to relent, and last of all, betuni--the rascal had lost a feed-bag in their house and had been loudest in his denunciations that morning--besought the howajji to have mercy on the fellow." but not he! the punishment was "suspended," at the fifteenth blow to hear the confession. then grimes and his party rode away, and left the entire christian family to be fined and as severely punished as the mohammedan sheik should deem proper. "as i mounted, yusef once more begged me to interfere and have mercy on them, but i looked around at the dark faces of the crowd, and i couldn't find one drop of pity in my heart for them." he closes his picture with a rollicking burst of humor which contrasts finely with the grief of the mother and her children. one more paragraph: "then once more i bowed my head. it is no shame to have wept in palestine. i wept, when i saw jerusalem, i wept when i lay in the starlight at bethlehem. i wept on the blessed shores of galilee. my hand was no less firm on the rein, my anger did not tremble on the trigger of my pistol when i rode with it in my right hand along the shore of the blue sea" (weeping.) "my eye was not dimmed by those tears nor my heart in aught weakened. let him who would sneer at my emotion close this volume here, for he will find little to his taste in my journeyings through holy land." he never bored but he struck water. i am aware that this is a pretty voluminous notice of mr. grimes' book. however, it is proper and legitimate to speak of it, for "nomadic life in palestine" is a representative book--the representative of a class of palestine books--and a criticism upon it will serve for a criticism upon them all. and since i am treating it in the comprehensive capacity of a representative book, i have taken the liberty of giving to both book and author fictitious names. perhaps it is in better taste, any how, to do this. chapter li. nazareth is wonderfully interesting because the town has an air about it of being precisely as jesus left it, and one finds himself saying, all the time, "the boy jesus has stood in this doorway--has played in that street--has touched these stones with his hands--has rambled over these chalky hills." whoever shall write the boyhood of jesus ingeniously will make a book which will possess a vivid interest for young and old alike. i judge so from the greater interest we found in nazareth than any of our speculations upon capernaum and the sea of galilee gave rise to. it was not possible, standing by the sea of galilee, to frame more than a vague, far-away idea of the majestic personage who walked upon the crested waves as if they had been solid earth, and who touched the dead and they rose up and spoke. i read among my notes, now, with a new interest, some sentences from an edition of of the apocryphal new testament. [extract.] "christ, kissed by a bride made dumb by sorcerers, cures her. a leprous girl cured by the water in which the infant christ was washed, and becomes the servant of joseph and mary. the leprous son of a prince cured in like manner. "a young man who had been bewitched and turned into a mule, miraculously cured by the infant savior being put on his back, and is married to the girl who had been cured of leprosy. whereupon the bystanders praise god. "chapter . christ miraculously widens or contracts gates, milk-pails, sieves or boxes, not properly made by joseph, he not being skillful at his carpenter's trade. the king of jerusalem gives joseph an order for a throne. joseph works on it for two years and makes it two spans too short. the king being angry with him, jesus comforts him--commands him to pull one side of the throne while he pulls the other, and brings it to its proper dimensions. "chapter . jesus, charged with throwing a boy from the roof of a house, miraculously causes the dead boy to speak and acquit him; fetches water for his mother, breaks the pitcher and miraculously gathers the water in his mantle and brings it home. "sent to a schoolmaster, refuses to tell his letters, and the schoolmaster going to whip him, his hand withers." further on in this quaint volume of rejected gospels is an epistle of st. clement to the corinthians, which was used in the churches and considered genuine fourteen or fifteen hundred years ago. in it this account of the fabled phoenix occurs: " . let us consider that wonderful type of the resurrection, which is seen in the eastern countries, that is to say, in arabia. " . there is a certain bird called a phoenix. of this there is never but one at a time, and that lives five hundred years. and when the time of its dissolution draws near, that it must die, it makes itself a nest of frankincense, and myrrh, and other spices, into which, when its time is fulfilled, it enters and dies. " . but its flesh, putrefying, breeds a certain worm, which, being nourished by the juice of the dead bird, brings forth feathers; and when it is grown to a perfect state, it takes up the nest in which the bones of its parent lie, and carries it from arabia into egypt, to a city called heliopolis: " . and flying in open day in the sight of all men, lays it upon the altar of the sun, and so returns from whence it came. " . the priests then search into the records of the time, and find that it returned precisely at the end of five hundred years." business is business, and there is nothing like punctuality, especially in a phoenix. the few chapters relating to the infancy of the saviour contain many things which seem frivolous and not worth preserving. a large part of the remaining portions of the book read like good scripture, however. there is one verse that ought not to have been rejected, because it so evidently prophetically refers to the general run of congresses of the united states: " . they carry themselves high, and as prudent men; and though they are fools, yet would seem to be teachers." i have set these extracts down, as i found them. everywhere among the cathedrals of france and italy, one finds traditions of personages that do not figure in the bible, and of miracles that are not mentioned in its pages. but they are all in this apocryphal new testament, and though they have been ruled out of our modern bible, it is claimed that they were accepted gospel twelve or fifteen centuries ago, and ranked as high in credit as any. one needs to read this book before he visits those venerable cathedrals, with their treasures of tabooed and forgotten tradition. they imposed another pirate upon us at nazareth--another invincible arab guard. we took our last look at the city, clinging like a whitewashed wasp's nest to the hill-side, and at eight o'clock in the morning departed. we dismounted and drove the horses down a bridle-path which i think was fully as crooked as a corkscrew, which i know to be as steep as the downward sweep of a rainbow, and which i believe to be the worst piece of road in the geography, except one in the sandwich islands, which i remember painfully, and possibly one or two mountain trails in the sierra nevadas. often, in this narrow path the horse had to poise himself nicely on a rude stone step and then drop his fore-feet over the edge and down something more than half his own height. this brought his nose near the ground, while his tail pointed up toward the sky somewhere, and gave him the appearance of preparing to stand on his head. a horse cannot look dignified in this position. we accomplished the long descent at last, and trotted across the great plain of esdraelon. some of us will be shot before we finish this pilgrimage. the pilgrims read "nomadic life" and keep themselves in a constant state of quixotic heroism. they have their hands on their pistols all the time, and every now and then, when you least expect it, they snatch them out and take aim at bedouins who are not visible, and draw their knives and make savage passes at other bedouins who do not exist. i am in deadly peril always, for these spasms are sudden and irregular, and of course i cannot tell when to be getting out of the way. if i am accidentally murdered, some time, during one of these romantic frenzies of the pilgrims, mr. grimes must be rigidly held to answer as an accessory before the fact. if the pilgrims would take deliberate aim and shoot at a man, it would be all right and proper--because that man would not be in any danger; but these random assaults are what i object to. i do not wish to see any more places like esdraelon, where the ground is level and people can gallop. it puts melodramatic nonsense into the pilgrims' heads. all at once, when one is jogging along stupidly in the sun, and thinking about something ever so far away, here they come, at a stormy gallop, spurring and whooping at those ridgy old sore-backed plugs till their heels fly higher than their heads, and as they whiz by, out comes a little potato-gun of a revolver, there is a startling little pop, and a small pellet goes singing through the air. now that i have begun this pilgrimage, i intend to go through with it, though sooth to say, nothing but the most desperate valor has kept me to my purpose up to the present time. i do not mind bedouins,--i am not afraid of them; because neither bedouins nor ordinary arabs have shown any disposition to harm us, but i do feel afraid of my own comrades. arriving at the furthest verge of the plain, we rode a little way up a hill and found ourselves at endor, famous for its witch. her descendants are there yet. they were the wildest horde of half-naked savages we have found thus far. they swarmed out of mud bee-hives; out of hovels of the dry-goods box pattern; out of gaping caves under shelving rocks; out of crevices in the earth. in five minutes the dead solitude and silence of the place were no more, and a begging, screeching, shouting mob were struggling about the horses' feet and blocking the way. "bucksheesh! bucksheesh! bucksheesh! howajji, bucksheesh!" it was magdala over again, only here the glare from the infidel eyes was fierce and full of hate. the population numbers two hundred and fifty, and more than half the citizens live in caves in the rock. dirt, degradation and savagery are endor's specialty. we say no more about magdala and deburieh now. endor heads the list. it is worse than any indian 'campoodie'. the hill is barren, rocky, and forbidding. no sprig of grass is visible, and only one tree. this is a fig-tree, which maintains a precarious footing among the rocks at the mouth of the dismal cavern once occupied by the veritable witch of endor. in this cavern, tradition says, saul, the king, sat at midnight, and stared and trembled, while the earth shook, the thunders crashed among the hills, and out of the midst of fire and smoke the spirit of the dead prophet rose up and confronted him. saul had crept to this place in the darkness, while his army slept, to learn what fate awaited him in the morrow's battle. he went away a sad man, to meet disgrace and death. a spring trickles out of the rock in the gloomy recesses of the cavern, and we were thirsty. the citizens of endor objected to our going in there. they do not mind dirt; they do not mind rags; they do not mind vermin; they do not mind barbarous ignorance and savagery; they do not mind a reasonable degree of starvation, but they do like to be pure and holy before their god, whoever he may be, and therefore they shudder and grow almost pale at the idea of christian lips polluting a spring whose waters must descend into their sanctified gullets. we had no wanton desire to wound even their feelings or trample upon their prejudices, but we were out of water, thus early in the day, and were burning up with thirst. it was at this time, and under these circumstances, that i framed an aphorism which has already become celebrated. i said: "necessity knows no law." we went in and drank. we got away from the noisy wretches, finally, dropping them in squads and couples as we filed over the hills--the aged first, the infants next, the young girls further on; the strong men ran beside us a mile, and only left when they had secured the last possible piastre in the way of bucksheesh. in an hour, we reached nain, where christ raised the widow's son to life. nain is magdala on a small scale. it has no population of any consequence. within a hundred yards of it is the original graveyard, for aught i know; the tombstones lie flat on the ground, which is jewish fashion in syria. i believe the moslems do not allow them to have upright tombstones. a moslem grave is usually roughly plastered over and whitewashed, and has at one end an upright projection which is shaped into exceedingly rude attempts at ornamentation. in the cities, there is often no appearance of a grave at all; a tall, slender marble tombstone, elaborately lettred, gilded and painted, marks the burial place, and this is surmounted by a turban, so carved and shaped as to signify the dead man's rank in life. they showed a fragment of ancient wall which they said was one side of the gate out of which the widow's dead son was being brought so many centuries ago when jesus met the procession: "now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her. "and when the lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said, weep not. "and he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. and he said, young man, i say unto thee, arise. "and he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. and he delivered him to his mother. "and there came a fear on all. and they glorified god, saying, that a great prophet is risen up among us; and that god hath visited his people." a little mosque stands upon the spot which tradition says was occupied by the widow's dwelling. two or three aged arabs sat about its door. we entered, and the pilgrims broke specimens from the foundation walls, though they had to touch, and even step, upon the "praying carpets" to do it. it was almost the same as breaking pieces from the hearts of those old arabs. to step rudely upon the sacred praying mats, with booted feet--a thing not done by any arab--was to inflict pain upon men who had not offended us in any way. suppose a party of armed foreigners were to enter a village church in america and break ornaments from the altar railings for curiosities, and climb up and walk upon the bible and the pulpit cushions? however, the cases are different. one is the profanation of a temple of our faith--the other only the profanation of a pagan one. we descended to the plain again, and halted a moment at a well--of abraham's time, no doubt. it was in a desert place. it was walled three feet above ground with squared and heavy blocks of stone, after the manner of bible pictures. around it some camels stood, and others knelt. there was a group of sober little donkeys with naked, dusky children clambering about them, or sitting astride their rumps, or pulling their tails. tawny, black-eyed, barefooted maids, arrayed in rags and adorned with brazen armlets and pinchbeck ear-rings, were poising water-jars upon their heads, or drawing water from the well. a flock of sheep stood by, waiting for the shepherds to fill the hollowed stones with water, so that they might drink--stones which, like those that walled the well, were worn smooth and deeply creased by the chafing chins of a hundred generations of thirsty animals. picturesque arabs sat upon the ground, in groups, and solemnly smoked their long-stemmed chibouks. other arabs were filling black hog-skins with water--skins which, well filled, and distended with water till the short legs projected painfully out of the proper line, looked like the corpses of hogs bloated by drowning. here was a grand oriental picture which i had worshiped a thousand times in soft, rich steel engravings! but in the engraving there was no desolation; no dirt; no rags; no fleas; no ugly features; no sore eyes; no feasting flies; no besotted ignorance in the countenances; no raw places on the donkeys' backs; no disagreeable jabbering in unknown tongues; no stench of camels; no suggestion that a couple of tons of powder placed under the party and touched off would heighten the effect and give to the scene a genuine interest and a charm which it would always be pleasant to recall, even though a man lived a thousand years. oriental scenes look best in steel engravings. i cannot be imposed upon any more by that picture of the queen of sheba visiting solomon. i shall say to myself, you look fine, madam but your feet are not clean and you smell like a camel. presently a wild arab in charge of a camel train recognized an old friend in ferguson, and they ran and fell upon each other's necks and kissed each other's grimy, bearded faces upon both cheeks. it explained instantly a something which had always seemed to me only a farfetched oriental figure of speech. i refer to the circumstance of christ's rebuking a pharisee, or some such character, and reminding him that from him he had received no "kiss of welcome." it did not seem reasonable to me that men should kiss each other, but i am aware, now, that they did. there was reason in it, too. the custom was natural and proper; because people must kiss, and a man would not be likely to kiss one of the women of this country of his own free will and accord. one must travel, to learn. every day, now, old scriptural phrases that never possessed any significance for me before, take to themselves a meaning. we journeyed around the base of the mountain--"little hermon,"--past the old crusaders' castle of el fuleh, and arrived at shunem. this was another magdala, to a fraction, frescoes and all. here, tradition says, the prophet samuel was born, and here the shunamite woman built a little house upon the city wall for the accommodation of the prophet elisha. elisha asked her what she expected in return. it was a perfectly natural question, for these people are and were in the habit of proffering favors and services and then expecting and begging for pay. elisha knew them well. he could not comprehend that any body should build for him that humble little chamber for the mere sake of old friendship, and with no selfish motive whatever. it used to seem a very impolite, not to say a rude, question, for elisha to ask the woman, but it does not seem so to me now. the woman said she expected nothing. then for her goodness and her unselfishness, he rejoiced her heart with the news that she should bear a son. it was a high reward--but she would not have thanked him for a daughter--daughters have always been unpopular here. the son was born, grew, waxed strong, died. elisha restored him to life in shunem. we found here a grove of lemon trees--cool, shady, hung with fruit. one is apt to overestimate beauty when it is rare, but to me this grove seemed very beautiful. it was beautiful. i do not overestimate it. i must always remember shunem gratefully, as a place which gave to us this leafy shelter after our long, hot ride. we lunched, rested, chatted, smoked our pipes an hour, and then mounted and moved on. as we trotted across the plain of jezreel, we met half a dozen digger indians (bedouins) with very long spears in their hands, cavorting around on old crowbait horses, and spearing imaginary enemies; whooping, and fluttering their rags in the wind, and carrying on in every respect like a pack of hopeless lunatics. at last, here were the "wild, free sons of the desert, speeding over the plain like the wind, on their beautiful arabian mares" we had read so much about and longed so much to see! here were the "picturesque costumes!" this was the "gallant spectacle!" tatterdemalion vagrants--cheap braggadocio--"arabian mares" spined and necked like the ichthyosaurus in the museum, and humped and cornered like a dromedary! to glance at the genuine son of the desert is to take the romance out of him forever--to behold his steed is to long in charity to strip his harness off and let him fall to pieces. presently we came to a ruinous old town on a hill, the same being the ancient jezreel. ahab, king of samaria, (this was a very vast kingdom, for those days, and was very nearly half as large as rhode island) dwelt in the city of jezreel, which was his capital. near him lived a man by the name of naboth, who had a vineyard. the king asked him for it, and when he would not give it, offered to buy it. but naboth refused to sell it. in those days it was considered a sort of crime to part with one's inheritance at any price--and even if a man did part with it, it reverted to himself or his heirs again at the next jubilee year. so this spoiled child of a king went and lay down on the bed with his face to the wall, and grieved sorely. the queen, a notorious character in those days, and whose name is a by-word and a reproach even in these, came in and asked him wherefore he sorrowed, and he told her. jezebel said she could secure the vineyard; and she went forth and forged letters to the nobles and wise men, in the king's name, and ordered them to proclaim a fast and set naboth on high before the people, and suborn two witnesses to swear that he had blasphemed. they did it, and the people stoned the accused by the city wall, and he died. then jezebel came and told the king, and said, behold, naboth is no more--rise up and seize the vineyard. so ahab seized the vineyard, and went into it to possess it. but the prophet elijah came to him there and read his fate to him, and the fate of jezebel; and said that in the place where dogs licked the blood of naboth, dogs should also lick his blood--and he said, likewise, the dogs should eat jezebel by the wall of jezreel. in the course of time, the king was killed in battle, and when his chariot wheels were washed in the pool of samaria, the dogs licked the blood. in after years, jehu, who was king of israel, marched down against jezreel, by order of one of the prophets, and administered one of those convincing rebukes so common among the people of those days: he killed many kings and their subjects, and as he came along he saw jezebel, painted and finely dressed, looking out of a window, and ordered that she be thrown down to him. a servant did it, and jehu's horse trampled her under foot. then jehu went in and sat down to dinner; and presently he said, go and bury this cursed woman, for she is a king's daughter. the spirit of charity came upon him too late, however, for the prophecy had already been fulfilled--the dogs had eaten her, and they "found no more of her than the skull, and the feet, and the palms of her hands." ahab, the late king, had left a helpless family behind him, and jehu killed seventy of the orphan sons. then he killed all the relatives, and teachers, and servants and friends of the family, and rested from his labors, until he was come near to samaria, where he met forty-two persons and asked them who they were; they said they were brothers of the king of judah. he killed them. when he got to samaria, he said he would show his zeal for the lord; so he gathered all the priests and people together that worshiped baal, pretending that he was going to adopt that worship and offer up a great sacrifice; and when they were all shut up where they could not defend themselves, he caused every person of them to be killed. then jehu, the good missionary, rested from his labors once more. we went back to the valley, and rode to the fountain of ain jelud. they call it the fountain of jezreel, usually. it is a pond about one hundred feet square and four feet deep, with a stream of water trickling into it from under an overhanging ledge of rocks. it is in the midst of a great solitude. here gideon pitched his camp in the old times; behind shunem lay the "midianites, the amalekites, and the children of the east," who were "as grasshoppers for multitude; both they and their camels were without number, as the sand by the sea-side for multitude." which means that there were one hundred and thirty-five thousand men, and that they had transportation service accordingly. gideon, with only three hundred men, surprised them in the night, and stood by and looked on while they butchered each other until a hundred and twenty thousand lay dead on the field. we camped at jenin before night, and got up and started again at one o'clock in the morning. somewhere towards daylight we passed the locality where the best authenticated tradition locates the pit into which joseph's brethren threw him, and about noon, after passing over a succession of mountain tops, clad with groves of fig and olive trees, with the mediterranean in sight some forty miles away, and going by many ancient biblical cities whose inhabitants glowered savagely upon our christian procession, and were seemingly inclined to practice on it with stones, we came to the singularly terraced and unlovely hills that betrayed that we were out of galilee and into samaria at last. we climbed a high hill to visit the city of samaria, where the woman may have hailed from who conversed with christ at jacob's well, and from whence, no doubt, came also the celebrated good samaritan. herod the great is said to have made a magnificent city of this place, and a great number of coarse limestone columns, twenty feet high and two feet through, that are almost guiltless of architectural grace of shape and ornament, are pointed out by many authors as evidence of the fact. they would not have been considered handsome in ancient greece, however. the inhabitants of this camp are particularly vicious, and stoned two parties of our pilgrims a day or two ago who brought about the difficulty by showing their revolvers when they did not intend to use them--a thing which is deemed bad judgment in the far west, and ought certainly to be so considered any where. in the new territories, when a man puts his hand on a weapon, he knows that he must use it; he must use it instantly or expect to be shot down where he stands. those pilgrims had been reading grimes. there was nothing for us to do in samaria but buy handfuls of old roman coins at a franc a dozen, and look at a dilapidated church of the crusaders and a vault in it which once contained the body of john the baptist. this relic was long ago carried away to genoa. samaria stood a disastrous siege, once, in the days of elisha, at the hands of the king of syria. provisions reached such a figure that "an ass' head was sold for eighty pieces of silver and the fourth part of a cab of dove's dung for five pieces of silver." an incident recorded of that heavy time will give one a very good idea of the distress that prevailed within these crumbling walls. as the king was walking upon the battlements one day, "a woman cried out, saying, help, my lord, o king! and the king said, what aileth thee? and she answered, this woman said unto me, give thy son, that we may eat him to-day, and we will eat my son to-morrow. so we boiled my son, and did eat him; and i said unto her on the next day, give thy son that we may eat him; and she hath hid her son." the prophet elisha declared that within four and twenty hours the prices of food should go down to nothing, almost, and it was so. the syrian army broke camp and fled, for some cause or other, the famine was relieved from without, and many a shoddy speculator in dove's dung and ass's meat was ruined. we were glad to leave this hot and dusty old village and hurry on. at two o'clock we stopped to lunch and rest at ancient shechem, between the historic mounts of gerizim and ebal, where in the old times the books of the law, the curses and the blessings, were read from the heights to the jewish multitudes below. chapter lii. the narrow canon in which nablous, or shechem, is situated, is under high cultivation, and the soil is exceedingly black and fertile. it is well watered, and its affluent vegetation gains effect by contrast with the barren hills that tower on either side. one of these hills is the ancient mount of blessings and the other the mount of curses and wise men who seek for fulfillments of prophecy think they find here a wonder of this kind--to wit, that the mount of blessings is strangely fertile and its mate as strangely unproductive. we could not see that there was really much difference between them in this respect, however. shechem is distinguished as one of the residences of the patriarch jacob, and as the seat of those tribes that cut themselves loose from their brethren of israel and propagated doctrines not in conformity with those of the original jewish creed. for thousands of years this clan have dwelt in shechem under strict tabu, and having little commerce or fellowship with their fellow men of any religion or nationality. for generations they have not numbered more than one or two hundred, but they still adhere to their ancient faith and maintain their ancient rites and ceremonies. talk of family and old descent! princes and nobles pride themselves upon lineages they can trace back some hundreds of years. what is this trifle to this handful of old first families of shechem who can name their fathers straight back without a flaw for thousands --straight back to a period so remote that men reared in a country where the days of two hundred years ago are called "ancient" times grow dazed and bewildered when they try to comprehend it! here is respectability for you--here is "family"--here is high descent worth talking about. this sad, proud remnant of a once mighty community still hold themselves aloof from all the world; they still live as their fathers lived, labor as their fathers labored, think as they did, feel as they did, worship in the same place, in sight of the same landmarks, and in the same quaint, patriarchal way their ancestors did more than thirty centuries ago. i found myself gazing at any straggling scion of this strange race with a riveted fascination, just as one would stare at a living mastodon, or a megatherium that had moved in the grey dawn of creation and seen the wonders of that mysterious world that was before the flood. carefully preserved among the sacred archives of this curious community is a mss. copy of the ancient jewish law, which is said to be the oldest document on earth. it is written on vellum, and is some four or five thousand years old. nothing but bucksheesh can purchase a sight. its fame is somewhat dimmed in these latter days, because of the doubts so many authors of palestine travels have felt themselves privileged to cast upon it. speaking of this mss. reminds me that i procured from the high-priest of this ancient samaritan community, at great expense, a secret document of still higher antiquity and far more extraordinary interest, which i propose to publish as soon as i have finished translating it. joshua gave his dying injunction to the children of israel at shechem, and buried a valuable treasure secretly under an oak tree there about the same time. the superstitious samaritans have always been afraid to hunt for it. they believe it is guarded by fierce spirits invisible to men. about a mile and a half from shechem we halted at the base of mount ebal before a little square area, inclosed by a high stone wall, neatly whitewashed. across one end of this inclosure is a tomb built after the manner of the moslems. it is the tomb of joseph. no truth is better authenticated than this. when joseph was dying he prophesied that exodus of the israelites from egypt which occurred four hundred years afterwards. at the same time he exacted of his people an oath that when they journeyed to the land of canaan they would bear his bones with them and bury them in the ancient inheritance of his fathers. the oath was kept. "and the bones of joseph, which the children of israel brought up out of egypt, buried they in shechem, in a parcel of ground which jacob bought of the sons of hamor the father of shechem for a hundred pieces of silver." few tombs on earth command the veneration of so many races and men of divers creeds as this of joseph. "samaritan and jew, moslem and christian alike, revere it, and honor it with their visits. the tomb of joseph, the dutiful son, the affectionate, forgiving brother, the virtuous man, the wise prince and ruler. egypt felt his influence--the world knows his history." in this same "parcel of ground" which jacob bought of the sons of hamor for a hundred pieces of silver, is jacob's celebrated well. it is cut in the solid rock, and is nine feet square and ninety feet deep. the name of this unpretending hole in the ground, which one might pass by and take no notice of, is as familiar as household words to even the children and the peasants of many a far-off country. it is more famous than the parthenon; it is older than the pyramids. it was by this well that jesus sat and talked with a woman of that strange, antiquated samaritan community i have been speaking of, and told her of the mysterious water of life. as descendants of old english nobles still cherish in the traditions of their houses how that this king or that king tarried a day with some favored ancestor three hundred years ago, no doubt the descendants of the woman of samaria, living there in shechem, still refer with pardonable vanity to this conversation of their ancestor, held some little time gone by, with the messiah of the christians. it is not likely that they undervalue a distinction such as this. samaritan nature is human nature, and human nature remembers contact with the illustrious, always. for an offense done to the family honor, the sons of jacob exterminated all shechem once. we left jacob's well and traveled till eight in the evening, but rather slowly, for we had been in the saddle nineteen hours, and the horses were cruelly tired. we got so far ahead of the tents that we had to camp in an arab village, and sleep on the ground. we could have slept in the largest of the houses; but there were some little drawbacks: it was populous with vermin, it had a dirt floor, it was in no respect cleanly, and there was a family of goats in the only bedroom, and two donkeys in the parlor. outside there were no inconveniences, except that the dusky, ragged, earnest-eyed villagers of both sexes and all ages grouped themselves on their haunches all around us, and discussed us and criticised us with noisy tongues till midnight. we did not mind the noise, being tired, but, doubtless, the reader is aware that it is almost an impossible thing to go to sleep when you know that people are looking at you. we went to bed at ten, and got up again at two and started once more. thus are people persecuted by dragomen, whose sole ambition in life is to get ahead of each other. about daylight we passed shiloh, where the ark of the covenant rested three hundred years, and at whose gates good old eli fell down and "brake his neck" when the messenger, riding hard from the battle, told him of the defeat of his people, the death of his sons, and, more than all, the capture of israel's pride, her hope, her refuge, the ancient ark her forefathers brought with them out of egypt. it is little wonder that under circumstances like these he fell down and brake his neck. but shiloh had no charms for us. we were so cold that there was no comfort but in motion, and so drowsy we could hardly sit upon the horses. after a while we came to a shapeless mass of ruins, which still bears the name of bethel. it was here that jacob lay down and had that superb vision of angels flitting up and down a ladder that reached from the clouds to earth, and caught glimpses of their blessed home through the open gates of heaven. the pilgrims took what was left of the hallowed ruin, and we pressed on toward the goal of our crusade, renowned jerusalem. the further we went the hotter the sun got, and the more rocky and bare, repulsive and dreary the landscape became. there could not have been more fragments of stone strewn broadcast over this part of the world, if every ten square feet of the land had been occupied by a separate and distinct stonecutter's establishment for an age. there was hardly a tree or a shrub any where. even the olive and the cactus, those fast friends of a worthless soil, had almost deserted the country. no landscape exists that is more tiresome to the eye than that which bounds the approaches to jerusalem. the only difference between the roads and the surrounding country, perhaps, is that there are rather more rocks in the roads than in the surrounding country. we passed ramah, and beroth, and on the right saw the tomb of the prophet samuel, perched high upon a commanding eminence. still no jerusalem came in sight. we hurried on impatiently. we halted a moment at the ancient fountain of beira, but its stones, worn deeply by the chins of thirsty animals that are dead and gone centuries ago, had no interest for us--we longed to see jerusalem. we spurred up hill after hill, and usually began to stretch our necks minutes before we got to the top--but disappointment always followed:--more stupid hills beyond--more unsightly landscape--no holy city. at last, away in the middle of the day, ancient bite of wall and crumbling arches began to line the way--we toiled up one more hill, and every pilgrim and every sinner swung his hat on high! jerusalem! perched on its eternal hills, white and domed and solid, massed together and hooped with high gray walls, the venerable city gleamed in the sun. so small! why, it was no larger than an american village of four thousand inhabitants, and no larger than an ordinary syrian city of thirty thousand. jerusalem numbers only fourteen thousand people. we dismounted and looked, without speaking a dozen sentences, across the wide intervening valley for an hour or more; and noted those prominent features of the city that pictures make familiar to all men from their school days till their death. we could recognize the tower of hippicus, the mosque of omar, the damascus gate, the mount of olives, the valley of jehoshaphat, the tower of david, and the garden of gethsemane--and dating from these landmarks could tell very nearly the localities of many others we were not able to distinguish. i record it here as a notable but not discreditable fact that not even our pilgrims wept. i think there was no individual in the party whose brain was not teeming with thoughts and images and memories invoked by the grand history of the venerable city that lay before us, but still among them all was no "voice of them that wept." there was no call for tears. tears would have been out of place. the thoughts jerusalem suggests are full of poetry, sublimity, and more than all, dignity. such thoughts do not find their appropriate expression in the emotions of the nursery. just after noon we entered these narrow, crooked streets, by the ancient and the famed damascus gate, and now for several hours i have been trying to comprehend that i am actually in the illustrious old city where solomon dwelt, where abraham held converse with the deity, and where walls still stand that witnessed the spectacle of the crucifixion. chapter liii. a fast walker could go outside the walls of jerusalem and walk entirely around the city in an hour. i do not know how else to make one understand how small it is. the appearance of the city is peculiar. it is as knobby with countless little domes as a prison door is with bolt-heads. every house has from one to half a dozen of these white plastered domes of stone, broad and low, sitting in the centre of, or in a cluster upon, the flat roof. wherefore, when one looks down from an eminence, upon the compact mass of houses (so closely crowded together, in fact, that there is no appearance of streets at all, and so the city looks solid,) he sees the knobbiest town in the world, except constantinople. it looks as if it might be roofed, from centre to circumference, with inverted saucers. the monotony of the view is interrupted only by the great mosque of omar, the tower of hippicus, and one or two other buildings that rise into commanding prominence. the houses are generally two stories high, built strongly of masonry, whitewashed or plastered outside, and have a cage of wooden lattice-work projecting in front of every window. to reproduce a jerusalem street, it would only be necessary to up-end a chicken-coop and hang it before each window in an alley of american houses. the streets are roughly and badly paved with stone, and are tolerably crooked--enough so to make each street appear to close together constantly and come to an end about a hundred yards ahead of a pilgrim as long as he chooses to walk in it. projecting from the top of the lower story of many of the houses is a very narrow porch-roof or shed, without supports from below; and i have several times seen cats jump across the street from one shed to the other when they were out calling. the cats could have jumped double the distance without extraordinary exertion. i mention these things to give an idea of how narrow the streets are. since a cat can jump across them without the least inconvenience, it is hardly necessary to state that such streets are too narrow for carriages. these vehicles cannot navigate the holy city. the population of jerusalem is composed of moslems, jews, greeks, latins, armenians, syrians, copts, abyssinians, greek catholics, and a handful of protestants. one hundred of the latter sect are all that dwell now in this birthplace of christianity. the nice shades of nationality comprised in the above list, and the languages spoken by them, are altogether too numerous to mention. it seems to me that all the races and colors and tongues of the earth must be represented among the fourteen thousand souls that dwell in jerusalem. rags, wretchedness, poverty and dirt, those signs and symbols that indicate the presence of moslem rule more surely than the crescent-flag itself, abound. lepers, cripples, the blind, and the idiotic, assail you on every hand, and they know but one word of but one language apparently--the eternal "bucksheesh." to see the numbers of maimed, malformed and diseased humanity that throng the holy places and obstruct the gates, one might suppose that the ancient days had come again, and that the angel of the lord was expected to descend at any moment to stir the waters of bethesda. jerusalem is mournful, and dreary, and lifeless. i would not desire to live here. one naturally goes first to the holy sepulchre. it is right in the city, near the western gate; it and the place of the crucifixion, and, in fact, every other place intimately connected with that tremendous event, are ingeniously massed together and covered by one roof--the dome of the church of the holy sepulchre. entering the building, through the midst of the usual assemblage of beggars, one sees on his left a few turkish guards--for christians of different sects will not only quarrel, but fight, also, in this sacred place, if allowed to do it. before you is a marble slab, which covers the stone of unction, whereon the saviour's body was laid to prepare it for burial. it was found necessary to conceal the real stone in this way in order to save it from destruction. pilgrims were too much given to chipping off pieces of it to carry home. near by is a circular railing which marks the spot where the virgin stood when the lord's body was anointed. entering the great rotunda, we stand before the most sacred locality in christendom--the grave of jesus. it is in the centre of the church, and immediately under the great dome. it is inclosed in a sort of little temple of yellow and white stone, of fanciful design. within the little temple is a portion of the very stone which was rolled away from the door of the sepulchre, and on which the angel was sitting when mary came thither "at early dawn." stooping low, we enter the vault--the sepulchre itself. it is only about six feet by seven, and the stone couch on which the dead saviour lay extends from end to end of the apartment and occupies half its width. it is covered with a marble slab which has been much worn by the lips of pilgrims. this slab serves as an altar, now. over it hang some fifty gold and silver lamps, which are kept always burning, and the place is otherwise scandalized by trumpery, gewgaws, and tawdry ornamentation. all sects of christians (except protestants,) have chapels under the roof of the church of the holy sepulchre, and each must keep to itself and not venture upon another's ground. it has been proven conclusively that they can not worship together around the grave of the saviour of the world in peace. the chapel of the syrians is not handsome; that of the copts is the humblest of them all. it is nothing but a dismal cavern, roughly hewn in the living rock of the hill of calvary. in one side of it two ancient tombs are hewn, which are claimed to be those in which nicodemus and joseph of aramathea were buried. as we moved among the great piers and pillars of another part of the church, we came upon a party of black-robed, animal-looking italian monks, with candles in their hands, who were chanting something in latin, and going through some kind of religious performance around a disk of white marble let into the floor. it was there that the risen saviour appeared to mary magdalen in the likeness of a gardener. near by was a similar stone, shaped like a star--here the magdalen herself stood, at the same time. monks were performing in this place also. they perform everywhere--all over the vast building, and at all hours. their candles are always flitting about in the gloom, and making the dim old church more dismal than there is any necessity that it should be, even though it is a tomb. we were shown the place where our lord appeared to his mother after the resurrection. here, also, a marble slab marks the place where st. helena, the mother of the emperor constantine, found the crosses about three hundred years after the crucifixion. according to the legend, this great discovery elicited extravagant demonstrations of joy. but they were of short duration. the question intruded itself: "which bore the blessed saviour, and which the thieves?" to be in doubt, in so mighty a matter as this--to be uncertain which one to adore--was a grievous misfortune. it turned the public joy to sorrow. but when lived there a holy priest who could not set so simple a trouble as this at rest? one of these soon hit upon a plan that would be a certain test. a noble lady lay very ill in jerusalem. the wise priests ordered that the three crosses be taken to her bedside one at a time. it was done. when her eyes fell upon the first one, she uttered a scream that was heard beyond the damascus gate, and even upon the mount of olives, it was said, and then fell back in a deadly swoon. they recovered her and brought the second cross. instantly she went into fearful convulsions, and it was with the greatest difficulty that six strong men could hold her. they were afraid, now, to bring in the third cross. they began to fear that possibly they had fallen upon the wrong crosses, and that the true cross was not with this number at all. however, as the woman seemed likely to die with the convulsions that were tearing her, they concluded that the third could do no more than put her out of her misery with a happy dispatch. so they brought it, and behold, a miracle! the woman sprang from her bed, smiling and joyful, and perfectly restored to health. when we listen to evidence like this, we cannot but believe. we would be ashamed to doubt, and properly, too. even the very part of jerusalem where this all occurred is there yet. so there is really no room for doubt. the priests tried to show us, through a small screen, a fragment of the genuine pillar of flagellation, to which christ was bound when they scourged him. but we could not see it, because it was dark inside the screen. however, a baton is kept here, which the pilgrim thrusts through a hole in the screen, and then he no longer doubts that the true pillar of flagellation is in there. he can not have any excuse to doubt it, for he can feel it with the stick. he can feel it as distinctly as he could feel any thing. not far from here was a niche where they used to preserve a piece of the true cross, but it is gone, now. this piece of the cross was discovered in the sixteenth century. the latin priests say it was stolen away, long ago, by priests of another sect. that seems like a hard statement to make, but we know very well that it was stolen, because we have seen it ourselves in several of the cathedrals of italy and france. but the relic that touched us most was the plain old sword of that stout crusader, godfrey of bulloigne--king godfrey of jerusalem. no blade in christendom wields such enchantment as this--no blade of all that rust in the ancestral halls of europe is able to invoke such visions of romance in the brain of him who looks upon it--none that can prate of such chivalric deeds or tell such brave tales of the warrior days of old. it stirs within a man every memory of the holy wars that has been sleeping in his brain for years, and peoples his thoughts with mail-clad images, with marching armies, with battles and with sieges. it speaks to him of baldwin, and tancred, the princely saladin, and great richard of the lion heart. it was with just such blades as these that these splendid heroes of romance used to segregate a man, so to speak, and leave the half of him to fall one way and the other half the other. this very sword has cloven hundreds of saracen knights from crown to chin in those old times when godfrey wielded it. it was enchanted, then, by a genius that was under the command of king solomon. when danger approached its master's tent it always struck the shield and clanged out a fierce alarm upon the startled ear of night. in times of doubt, or in fog or darkness, if it were drawn from its sheath it would point instantly toward the foe, and thus reveal the way--and it would also attempt to start after them of its own accord. a christian could not be so disguised that it would not know him and refuse to hurt him--nor a moslem so disguised that it would not leap from its scabbard and take his life. these statements are all well authenticated in many legends that are among the most trustworthy legends the good old catholic monks preserve. i can never forget old godfrey's sword, now. i tried it on a moslem, and clove him in twain like a doughnut. the spirit of grimes was upon me, and if i had had a graveyard i would have destroyed all the infidels in jerusalem. i wiped the blood off the old sword and handed it back to the priest--i did not want the fresh gore to obliterate those sacred spots that crimsoned its brightness one day six hundred years ago and thus gave godfrey warning that before the sun went down his journey of life would end. still moving through the gloom of the church of the holy sepulchre we came to a small chapel, hewn out of the rock--a place which has been known as "the prison of our lord" for many centuries. tradition says that here the saviour was confined just previously to the crucifixion. under an altar by the door was a pair of stone stocks for human legs. these things are called the "bonds of christ," and the use they were once put to has given them the name they now bear. the greek chapel is the most roomy, the richest and the showiest chapel in the church of the holy sepulchre. its altar, like that of all the greek churches, is a lofty screen that extends clear across the chapel, and is gorgeous with gilding and pictures. the numerous lamps that hang before it are of gold and silver, and cost great sums. but the feature of the place is a short column that rises from the middle of the marble pavement of the chapel, and marks the exact centre of the earth. the most reliable traditions tell us that this was known to be the earth's centre, ages ago, and that when christ was upon earth he set all doubts upon the subject at rest forever, by stating with his own lips that the tradition was correct. remember, he said that that particular column stood upon the centre of the world. if the centre of the world changes, the column changes its position accordingly. this column has moved three different times of its own accord. this is because, in great convulsions of nature, at three different times, masses of the earth --whole ranges of mountains, probably--have flown off into space, thus lessening the diameter of the earth, and changing the exact locality of its centre by a point or two. this is a very curious and interesting circumstance, and is a withering rebuke to those philosophers who would make us believe that it is not possible for any portion of the earth to fly off into space. to satisfy himself that this spot was really the centre of the earth, a sceptic once paid well for the privilege of ascending to the dome of the church to see if the sun gave him a shadow at noon. he came down perfectly convinced. the day was very cloudy and the sun threw no shadows at all; but the man was satisfied that if the sun had come out and made shadows it could not have made any for him. proofs like these are not to be set aside by the idle tongues of cavilers. to such as are not bigoted, and are willing to be convinced, they carry a conviction that nothing can ever shake. if even greater proofs than those i have mentioned are wanted, to satisfy the headstrong and the foolish that this is the genuine centre of the earth, they are here. the greatest of them lies in the fact that from under this very column was taken the dust from which adam was made. this can surely be regarded in the light of a settler. it is not likely that the original first man would have been made from an inferior quality of earth when it was entirely convenient to get first quality from the world's centre. this will strike any reflecting mind forcibly. that adam was formed of dirt procured in this very spot is amply proven by the fact that in six thousand years no man has ever been able to prove that the dirt was not procured here whereof he was made. it is a singular circumstance that right under the roof of this same great church, and not far away from that illustrious column, adam himself, the father of the human race, lies buried. there is no question that he is actually buried in the grave which is pointed out as his --there can be none--because it has never yet been proven that that grave is not the grave in which he is buried. the tomb of adam! how touching it was, here in a land of strangers, far away from home, and friends, and all who cared for me, thus to discover the grave of a blood relation. true, a distant one, but still a relation. the unerring instinct of nature thrilled its recognition. the fountain of my filial affection was stirred to its profoundest depths, and i gave way to tumultuous emotion. i leaned upon a pillar and burst into tears. i deem it no shame to have wept over the grave of my poor dead relative. let him who would sneer at my emotion close this volume here, for he will find little to his taste in my journeyings through holy land. noble old man--he did not live to see me--he did not live to see his child. and i--i--alas, i did not live to see him. weighed down by sorrow and disappointment, he died before i was born--six thousand brief summers before i was born. but let us try to bear it with fortitude. let us trust that he is better off where he is. let us take comfort in the thought that his loss is our eternal gain. the next place the guide took us to in the holy church was an altar dedicated to the roman soldier who was of the military guard that attended at the crucifixion to keep order, and who--when the vail of the temple was rent in the awful darkness that followed; when the rock of golgotha was split asunder by an earthquake; when the artillery of heaven thundered, and in the baleful glare of the lightnings the shrouded dead flitted about the streets of jerusalem--shook with fear and said, "surely this was the son of god!" where this altar stands now, that roman soldier stood then, in full view of the crucified saviour--in full sight and hearing of all the marvels that were transpiring far and wide about the circumference of the hill of calvary. and in this self-same spot the priests of the temple beheaded him for those blasphemous words he had spoken. in this altar they used to keep one of the most curious relics that human eyes ever looked upon--a thing that had power to fascinate the beholder in some mysterious way and keep him gazing for hours together. it was nothing less than the copper plate pilate put upon the saviour's cross, and upon which he wrote, "this is the king of the jews." i think st. helena, the mother of constantine, found this wonderful memento when she was here in the third century. she traveled all over palestine, and was always fortunate. whenever the good old enthusiast found a thing mentioned in her bible, old or new, she would go and search for that thing, and never stop until she found it. if it was adam, she would find adam; if it was the ark, she would find the ark; if it was goliath, or joshua, she would find them. she found the inscription here that i was speaking of, i think. she found it in this very spot, close to where the martyred roman soldier stood. that copper plate is in one of the churches in rome, now. any one can see it there. the inscription is very distinct. we passed along a few steps and saw the altar built over the very spot where the good catholic priests say the soldiers divided the raiment of the saviour. then we went down into a cavern which cavilers say was once a cistern. it is a chapel, now, however--the chapel of st. helena. it is fifty-one feet long by forty-three wide. in it is a marble chair which helena used to sit in while she superintended her workmen when they were digging and delving for the true cross. in this place is an altar dedicated to st. dimas, the penitent thief. a new bronze statue is here--a statue of st. helena. it reminded us of poor maximilian, so lately shot. he presented it to this chapel when he was about to leave for his throne in mexico. from the cistern we descended twelve steps into a large roughly-shaped grotto, carved wholly out of the living rock. helena blasted it out when she was searching for the true cross. she had a laborious piece of work, here, but it was richly rewarded. out of this place she got the crown of thorns, the nails of the cross, the true cross itself, and the cross of the penitent thief. when she thought she had found every thing and was about to stop, she was told in a dream to continue a day longer. it was very fortunate. she did so, and found the cross of the other thief. the walls and roof of this grotto still weep bitter tears in memory of the event that transpired on calvary, and devout pilgrims groan and sob when these sad tears fall upon them from the dripping rock. the monks call this apartment the "chapel of the invention of the cross"--a name which is unfortunate, because it leads the ignorant to imagine that a tacit acknowledgment is thus made that the tradition that helena found the true cross here is a fiction--an invention. it is a happiness to know, however, that intelligent people do not doubt the story in any of its particulars. priests of any of the chapels and denominations in the church of the holy sepulchre can visit this sacred grotto to weep and pray and worship the gentle redeemer. two different congregations are not allowed to enter at the same time, however, because they always fight. still marching through the venerable church of the holy sepulchre, among chanting priests in coarse long robes and sandals; pilgrims of all colors and many nationalities, in all sorts of strange costumes; under dusky arches and by dingy piers and columns; through a sombre cathedral gloom freighted with smoke and incense, and faintly starred with scores of candles that appeared suddenly and as suddenly disappeared, or drifted mysteriously hither and thither about the distant aisles like ghostly jack-o'-lanterns--we came at last to a small chapel which is called the "chapel of the mocking." under the altar was a fragment of a marble column; this was the seat christ sat on when he was reviled, and mockingly made king, crowned with a crown of thorns and sceptred with a reed. it was here that they blindfolded him and struck him, and said in derision, "prophesy who it is that smote thee." the tradition that this is the identical spot of the mocking is a very ancient one. the guide said that saewulf was the first to mention it. i do not know saewulf, but still, i cannot well refuse to receive his evidence--none of us can. they showed us where the great godfrey and his brother baldwin, the first christian kings of jerusalem, once lay buried by that sacred sepulchre they had fought so long and so valiantly to wrest from the hands of the infidel. but the niches that had contained the ashes of these renowned crusaders were empty. even the coverings of their tombs were gone --destroyed by devout members of the greek church, because godfrey and baldwin were latin princes, and had been reared in a christian faith whose creed differed in some unimportant respects from theirs. we passed on, and halted before the tomb of melchisedek! you will remember melchisedek, no doubt; he was the king who came out and levied a tribute on abraham the time that he pursued lot's captors to dan, and took all their property from them. that was about four thousand years ago, and melchisedek died shortly afterward. however, his tomb is in a good state of preservation. when one enters the church of the holy sepulchre, the sepulchre itself is the first thing he desires to see, and really is almost the first thing he does see. the next thing he has a strong yearning to see is the spot where the saviour was crucified. but this they exhibit last. it is the crowning glory of the place. one is grave and thoughtful when he stands in the little tomb of the saviour--he could not well be otherwise in such a place--but he has not the slightest possible belief that ever the lord lay there, and so the interest he feels in the spot is very, very greatly marred by that reflection. he looks at the place where mary stood, in another part of the church, and where john stood, and mary magdalen; where the mob derided the lord; where the angel sat; where the crown of thorns was found, and the true cross; where the risen saviour appeared --he looks at all these places with interest, but with the same conviction he felt in the case of the sepulchre, that there is nothing genuine about them, and that they are imaginary holy places created by the monks. but the place of the crucifixion affects him differently. he fully believes that he is looking upon the very spot where the savior gave up his life. he remembers that christ was very celebrated, long before he came to jerusalem; he knows that his fame was so great that crowds followed him all the time; he is aware that his entry into the city produced a stirring sensation, and that his reception was a kind of ovation; he can not overlook the fact that when he was crucified there were very many in jerusalem who believed that he was the true son of god. to publicly execute such a personage was sufficient in itself to make the locality of the execution a memorable place for ages; added to this, the storm, the darkness, the earthquake, the rending of the vail of the temple, and the untimely waking of the dead, were events calculated to fix the execution and the scene of it in the memory of even the most thoughtless witness. fathers would tell their sons about the strange affair, and point out the spot; the sons would transmit the story to their children, and thus a period of three hundred years would easily be spanned--[the thought is mr. prime's, not mine, and is full of good sense. i borrowed it from his "tent life."--m. t.]--at which time helena came and built a church upon calvary to commemorate the death and burial of the lord and preserve the sacred place in the memories of men; since that time there has always been a church there. it is not possible that there can be any mistake about the locality of the crucifixion. not half a dozen persons knew where they buried the saviour, perhaps, and a burial is not a startling event, any how; therefore, we can be pardoned for unbelief in the sepulchre, but not in the place of the crucifixion. five hundred years hence there will be no vestige of bunker hill monument left, but america will still know where the battle was fought and where warren fell. the crucifixion of christ was too notable an event in jerusalem, and the hill of calvary made too celebrated by it, to be forgotten in the short space of three hundred years. i climbed the stairway in the church which brings one to the top of the small inclosed pinnacle of rock, and looked upon the place where the true cross once stood, with a far more absorbing interest than i had ever felt in any thing earthly before. i could not believe that the three holes in the top of the rock were the actual ones the crosses stood in, but i felt satisfied that those crosses had stood so near the place now occupied by them, that the few feet of possible difference were a matter of no consequence. when one stands where the saviour was crucified, he finds it all he can do to keep it strictly before his mind that christ was not crucified in a catholic church. he must remind himself every now and then that the great event transpired in the open air, and not in a gloomy, candle-lighted cell in a little corner of a vast church, up-stairs --a small cell all bejeweled and bespangled with flashy ornamentation, in execrable taste. under a marble altar like a table, is a circular hole in the marble floor, corresponding with the one just under it in which the true cross stood. the first thing every one does is to kneel down and take a candle and examine this hole. he does this strange prospecting with an amount of gravity that can never be estimated or appreciated by a man who has not seen the operation. then he holds his candle before a richly engraved picture of the saviour, done on a messy slab of gold, and wonderfully rayed and starred with diamonds, which hangs above the hole within the altar, and his solemnity changes to lively admiration. he rises and faces the finely wrought figures of the saviour and the malefactors uplifted upon their crosses behind the altar, and bright with a metallic lustre of many colors. he turns next to the figures close to them of the virgin and mary magdalen; next to the rift in the living rock made by the earthquake at the time of the crucifixion, and an extension of which he had seen before in the wall of one of the grottoes below; he looks next at the show-case with a figure of the virgin in it, and is amazed at the princely fortune in precious gems and jewelry that hangs so thickly about the form as to hide it like a garment almost. all about the apartment the gaudy trappings of the greek church offend the eye and keep the mind on the rack to remember that this is the place of the crucifixion--golgotha--the mount of calvary. and the last thing he looks at is that which was also the first--the place where the true cross stood. that will chain him to the spot and compel him to look once more, and once again, after he has satisfied all curiosity and lost all interest concerning the other matters pertaining to the locality. and so i close my chapter on the church of the holy sepulchre--the most sacred locality on earth to millions and millions of men, and women, and children, the noble and the humble, bond and free. in its history from the first, and in its tremendous associations, it is the most illustrious edifice in christendom. with all its clap-trap side-shows and unseemly impostures of every kind, it is still grand, reverend, venerable--for a god died there; for fifteen hundred years its shrines have been wet with the tears of pilgrims from the earth's remotest confines; for more than two hundred, the most gallant knights that ever wielded sword wasted their lives away in a struggle to seize it and hold it sacred from infidel pollution. even in our own day a war, that cost millions of treasure and rivers of blood, was fought because two rival nations claimed the sole right to put a new dome upon it. history is full of this old church of the holy sepulchre--full of blood that was shed because of the respect and the veneration in which men held the last resting-place of the meek and lowly, the mild and gentle, prince of peace! chapter liv. we were standing in a narrow street, by the tower of antonio. "on these stones that are crumbling away," the guide said, "the saviour sat and rested before taking up the cross. this is the beginning of the sorrowful way, or the way of grief." the party took note of the sacred spot, and moved on. we passed under the "ecce homo arch," and saw the very window from which pilate's wife warned her husband to have nothing to do with the persecution of the just man. this window is in an excellent state of preservation, considering its great age. they showed us where jesus rested the second time, and where the mob refused to give him up, and said, "let his blood be upon our heads, and upon our children's children forever." the french catholics are building a church on this spot, and with their usual veneration for historical relics, are incorporating into the new such scraps of ancient walls as they have found there. further on, we saw the spot where the fainting saviour fell under the weight of his cross. a great granite column of some ancient temple lay there at the time, and the heavy cross struck it such a blow that it broke in two in the middle. such was the guide's story when he halted us before the broken column. we crossed a street, and came presently to the former residence of st. veronica. when the saviour passed there, she came out, full of womanly compassion, and spoke pitying words to him, undaunted by the hootings and the threatenings of the mob, and wiped the perspiration from his face with her handkerchief. we had heard so much of st. veronica, and seen her picture by so many masters, that it was like meeting an old friend unexpectedly to come upon her ancient home in jerusalem. the strangest thing about the incident that has made her name so famous, is, that when she wiped the perspiration away, the print of the saviour's face remained upon the handkerchief, a perfect portrait, and so remains unto this day. we knew this, because we saw this handkerchief in a cathedral in paris, in another in spain, and in two others in italy. in the milan cathedral it costs five francs to see it, and at st. peter's, at rome, it is almost impossible to see it at any price. no tradition is so amply verified as this of st. veronica and her handkerchief. at the next corner we saw a deep indention in the hard stone masonry of the corner of a house, but might have gone heedlessly by it but that the guide said it was made by the elbow of the saviour, who stumbled here and fell. presently we came to just such another indention in a stone wall. the guide said the saviour fell here, also, and made this depression with his elbow. there were other places where the lord fell, and others where he rested; but one of the most curious landmarks of ancient history we found on this morning walk through the crooked lanes that lead toward calvary, was a certain stone built into a house--a stone that was so seamed and scarred that it bore a sort of grotesque resemblance to the human face. the projections that answered for cheeks were worn smooth by the passionate kisses of generations of pilgrims from distant lands. we asked "why?" the guide said it was because this was one of "the very stones of jerusalem" that christ mentioned when he was reproved for permitting the people to cry "hosannah!" when he made his memorable entry into the city upon an ass. one of the pilgrims said, "but there is no evidence that the stones did cry out--christ said that if the people stopped from shouting hosannah, the very stones would do it." the guide was perfectly serene. he said, calmly, "this is one of the stones that would have cried out. "it was of little use to try to shake this fellow's simple faith--it was easy to see that. and so we came at last to another wonder, of deep and abiding interest --the veritable house where the unhappy wretch once lived who has been celebrated in song and story for more than eighteen hundred years as the wandering jew. on the memorable day of the crucifixion he stood in this old doorway with his arms akimbo, looking out upon the struggling mob that was approaching, and when the weary saviour would have sat down and rested him a moment, pushed him rudely away and said, "move on!" the lord said, "move on, thou, likewise," and the command has never been revoked from that day to this. all men know how that the miscreant upon whose head that just curse fell has roamed up and down the wide world, for ages and ages, seeking rest and never finding it--courting death but always in vain--longing to stop, in city, in wilderness, in desert solitudes, yet hearing always that relentless warning to march--march on! they say--do these hoary traditions--that when titus sacked jerusalem and slaughtered eleven hundred thousand jews in her streets and by-ways, the wandering jew was seen always in the thickest of the fight, and that when battle-axes gleamed in the air, he bowed his head beneath them; when swords flashed their deadly lightnings, he sprang in their way; he bared his breast to whizzing javelins, to hissing arrows, to any and to every weapon that promised death and forgetfulness, and rest. but it was useless--he walked forth out of the carnage without a wound. and it is said that five hundred years afterward he followed mahomet when he carried destruction to the cities of arabia, and then turned against him, hoping in this way to win the death of a traitor. his calculations were wrong again. no quarter was given to any living creature but one, and that was the only one of all the host that did not want it. he sought death five hundred years later, in the wars of the crusades, and offered himself to famine and pestilence at ascalon. he escaped again--he could not die. these repeated annoyances could have at last but one effect --they shook his confidence. since then the wandering jew has carried on a kind of desultory toying with the most promising of the aids and implements of destruction, but with small hope, as a general thing. he has speculated some in cholera and railroads, and has taken almost a lively interest in infernal machines and patent medicines. he is old, now, and grave, as becomes an age like his; he indulges in no light amusements save that he goes sometimes to executions, and is fond of funerals. there is one thing he can not avoid; go where he will about the world, he must never fail to report in jerusalem every fiftieth year. only a year or two ago he was here for the thirty-seventh time since jesus was crucified on calvary. they say that many old people, who are here now, saw him then, and had seen him before. he looks always the same--old, and withered, and hollow-eyed, and listless, save that there is about him something which seems to suggest that he is looking for some one, expecting some one--the friends of his youth, perhaps. but the most of them are dead, now. he always pokes about the old streets looking lonesome, making his mark on a wall here and there, and eyeing the oldest buildings with a sort of friendly half interest; and he sheds a few tears at the threshold of his ancient dwelling, and bitter, bitter tears they are. then he collects his rent and leaves again. he has been seen standing near the church of the holy sepulchre on many a starlight night, for he has cherished an idea for many centuries that if he could only enter there, he could rest. but when he approaches, the doors slam to with a crash, the earth trembles, and all the lights in jerusalem burn a ghastly blue! he does this every fifty years, just the same. it is hopeless, but then it is hard to break habits one has been eighteen hundred years accustomed to. the old tourist is far away on his wanderings, now. how he must smile to see a pack of blockheads like us, galloping about the world, and looking wise, and imagining we are finding out a good deal about it! he must have a consuming contempt for the ignorant, complacent asses that go skurrying about the world in these railroading days and call it traveling. when the guide pointed out where the wandering jew had left his familiar mark upon a wall, i was filled with astonishment. it read: "s. t.-- --x." all i have revealed about the wandering jew can be amply proven by reference to our guide. the mighty mosque of omar, and the paved court around it, occupy a fourth part of jerusalem. they are upon mount moriah, where king solomon's temple stood. this mosque is the holiest place the mohammedan knows, outside of mecca. up to within a year or two past, no christian could gain admission to it or its court for love or money. but the prohibition has been removed, and we entered freely for bucksheesh. i need not speak of the wonderful beauty and the exquisite grace and symmetry that have made this mosque so celebrated--because i did not see them. one can not see such things at an instant glance--one frequently only finds out how really beautiful a really beautiful woman is after considerable acquaintance with her; and the rule applies to niagara falls, to majestic mountains and to mosques--especially to mosques. the great feature of the mosque of omar is the prodigious rock in the centre of its rotunda. it was upon this rock that abraham came so near offering up his son isaac--this, at least, is authentic--it is very much more to be relied on than most of the traditions, at any rate. on this rock, also, the angel stood and threatened jerusalem, and david persuaded him to spare the city. mahomet was well acquainted with this stone. from it he ascended to heaven. the stone tried to follow him, and if the angel gabriel had not happened by the merest good luck to be there to seize it, it would have done it. very few people have a grip like gabriel--the prints of his monstrous fingers, two inches deep, are to be seen in that rock to-day. this rock, large as it is, is suspended in the air. it does not touch any thing at all. the guide said so. this is very wonderful. in the place on it where mahomet stood, he left his foot-prints in the solid stone. i should judge that he wore about eighteens. but what i was going to say, when i spoke of the rock being suspended, was, that in the floor of the cavern under it they showed us a slab which they said covered a hole which was a thing of extraordinary interest to all mohammedans, because that hole leads down to perdition, and every soul that is transferred from thence to heaven must pass up through this orifice. mahomet stands there and lifts them out by the hair. all mohammedans shave their heads, but they are careful to leave a lock of hair for the prophet to take hold of. our guide observed that a good mohammedan would consider himself doomed to stay with the damned forever if he were to lose his scalp-lock and die before it grew again. the most of them that i have seen ought to stay with the damned, any how, without reference to how they were barbered. for several ages no woman has been allowed to enter the cavern where that important hole is. the reason is that one of the sex was once caught there blabbing every thing she knew about what was going on above ground, to the rapscallions in the infernal regions down below. she carried her gossiping to such an extreme that nothing could be kept private--nothing could be done or said on earth but every body in perdition knew all about it before the sun went down. it was about time to suppress this woman's telegraph, and it was promptly done. her breath subsided about the same time. the inside of the great mosque is very showy with variegated marble walls and with windows and inscriptions of elaborate mosaic. the turks have their sacred relics, like the catholics. the guide showed us the veritable armor worn by the great son-in-law and successor of mahomet, and also the buckler of mahomet's uncle. the great iron railing which surrounds the rock was ornamented in one place with a thousand rags tied to its open work. these are to remind mahomet not to forget the worshipers who placed them there. it is considered the next best thing to tying threads around his finger by way of reminders. just outside the mosque is a miniature temple, which marks the spot where david and goliah used to sit and judge the people.--[a pilgrim informs me that it was not david and goliah, but david and saul. i stick to my own statement--the guide told me, and he ought to know.] every where about the mosque of omar are portions of pillars, curiously wrought altars, and fragments of elegantly carved marble--precious remains of solomon's temple. these have been dug from all depths in the soil and rubbish of mount moriah, and the moslems have always shown a disposition to preserve them with the utmost care. at that portion of the ancient wall of solomon's temple which is called the jew's place of wailing, and where the hebrews assemble every friday to kiss the venerated stones and weep over the fallen greatness of zion, any one can see a part of the unquestioned and undisputed temple of solomon, the same consisting of three or four stones lying one upon the other, each of which is about twice as long as a seven-octave piano, and about as thick as such a piano is high. but, as i have remarked before, it is only a year or two ago that the ancient edict prohibiting christian rubbish like ourselves to enter the mosque of omar and see the costly marbles that once adorned the inner temple was annulled. the designs wrought upon these fragments are all quaint and peculiar, and so the charm of novelty is added to the deep interest they naturally inspire. one meets with these venerable scraps at every turn, especially in the neighboring mosque el aksa, into whose inner walls a very large number of them are carefully built for preservation. these pieces of stone, stained and dusty with age, dimly hint at a grandeur we have all been taught to regard as the princeliest ever seen on earth; and they call up pictures of a pageant that is familiar to all imaginations--camels laden with spices and treasure--beautiful slaves, presents for solomon's harem--a long cavalcade of richly caparisoned beasts and warriors--and sheba's queen in the van of this vision of "oriental magnificence." these elegant fragments bear a richer interest than the solemn vastness of the stones the jews kiss in the place of wailing can ever have for the heedless sinner. down in the hollow ground, underneath the olives and the orange-trees that flourish in the court of the great mosque, is a wilderness of pillars--remains of the ancient temple; they supported it. there are ponderous archways down there, also, over which the destroying "plough" of prophecy passed harmless. it is pleasant to know we are disappointed, in that we never dreamed we might see portions of the actual temple of solomon, and yet experience no shadow of suspicion that they were a monkish humbug and a fraud. we are surfeited with sights. nothing has any fascination for us, now, but the church of the holy sepulchre. we have been there every day, and have not grown tired of it; but we are weary of every thing else. the sights are too many. they swarm about you at every step; no single foot of ground in all jerusalem or within its neighborhood seems to be without a stirring and important history of its own. it is a very relief to steal a walk of a hundred yards without a guide along to talk unceasingly about every stone you step upon and drag you back ages and ages to the day when it achieved celebrity. it seems hardly real when i find myself leaning for a moment on a ruined wall and looking listlessly down into the historic pool of bethesda. i did not think such things could be so crowded together as to diminish their interest. but in serious truth, we have been drifting about, for several days, using our eyes and our ears more from a sense of duty than any higher and worthier reason. and too often we have been glad when it was time to go home and be distressed no more about illustrious localities. our pilgrims compress too much into one day. one can gorge sights to repletion as well as sweetmeats. since we breakfasted, this morning, we have seen enough to have furnished us food for a year's reflection if we could have seen the various objects in comfort and looked upon them deliberately. we visited the pool of hezekiah, where david saw uriah's wife coming from the bath and fell in love with her. we went out of the city by the jaffa gate, and of course were told many things about its tower of hippicus. we rode across the valley of hinnom, between two of the pools of gihon, and by an aqueduct built by solomon, which still conveys water to the city. we ascended the hill of evil counsel, where judas received his thirty pieces of silver, and we also lingered a moment under the tree a venerable tradition says he hanged himself on. we descended to the canon again, and then the guide began to give name and history to every bank and boulder we came to: "this was the field of blood; these cuttings in the rocks were shrines and temples of moloch; here they sacrificed children; yonder is the zion gate; the tyropean valley, the hill of ophel; here is the junction of the valley of jehoshaphat--on your right is the well of job." we turned up jehoshaphat. the recital went on. "this is the mount of olives; this is the hill of offense; the nest of huts is the village of siloam; here, yonder, every where, is the king's garden; under this great tree zacharias, the high priest, was murdered; yonder is mount moriah and the temple wall; the tomb of absalom; the tomb of st. james; the tomb of zacharias; beyond, are the garden of gethsemane and the tomb of the virgin mary; here is the pool of siloam, and----" we said we would dismount, and quench our thirst, and rest. we were burning up with the heat. we were failing under the accumulated fatigue of days and days of ceaseless marching. all were willing. the pool is a deep, walled ditch, through which a clear stream of water runs, that comes from under jerusalem somewhere, and passing through the fountain of the virgin, or being supplied from it, reaches this place by way of a tunnel of heavy masonry. the famous pool looked exactly as it looked in solomon's time, no doubt, and the same dusky, oriental women, came down in their old oriental way, and carried off jars of the water on their heads, just as they did three thousand years ago, and just as they will do fifty thousand years hence if any of them are still left on earth. we went away from there and stopped at the fountain of the virgin. but the water was not good, and there was no comfort or peace any where, on account of the regiment of boys and girls and beggars that persecuted us all the time for bucksheesh. the guide wanted us to give them some money, and we did it; but when he went on to say that they were starving to death we could not but feel that we had done a great sin in throwing obstacles in the way of such a desirable consummation, and so we tried to collect it back, but it could not be done. we entered the garden of gethsemane, and we visited the tomb of the virgin, both of which we had seen before. it is not meet that i should speak of them now. a more fitting time will come. i can not speak now of the mount of olives or its view of jerusalem, the dead sea and the mountains of moab; nor of the damascus gate or the tree that was planted by king godfrey of jerusalem. one ought to feel pleasantly when he talks of these things. i can not say any thing about the stone column that projects over jehoshaphat from the temple wall like a cannon, except that the moslems believe mahomet will sit astride of it when he comes to judge the world. it is a pity he could not judge it from some roost of his own in mecca, without trespassing on our holy ground. close by is the golden gate, in the temple wall--a gate that was an elegant piece of sculpture in the time of the temple, and is even so yet. from it, in ancient times, the jewish high priest turned loose the scapegoat and let him flee to the wilderness and bear away his twelve-month load of the sins of the people. if they were to turn one loose now, he would not get as far as the garden of gethsemane, till these miserable vagabonds here would gobble him up,--[favorite pilgrim expression.]--sins and all. they wouldn't care. mutton-chops and sin is good enough living for them. the moslems watch the golden gate with a jealous eye, and an anxious one, for they have an honored tradition that when it falls, islamism will fall and with it the ottoman empire. it did not grieve me any to notice that the old gate was getting a little shaky. we are at home again. we are exhausted. the sun has roasted us, almost. we have full comfort in one reflection, however. our experiences in europe have taught us that in time this fatigue will be forgotten; the heat will be forgotten; the thirst, the tiresome volubility of the guide, the persecutions of the beggars--and then, all that will be left will be pleasant memories of jerusalem, memories we shall call up with always increasing interest as the years go by, memories which some day will become all beautiful when the last annoyance that incumbers them shall have faded out of our minds never again to return. school-boy days are no happier than the days of after life, but we look back upon them regretfully because we have forgotten our punishments at school, and how we grieved when our marbles were lost and our kites destroyed--because we have forgotten all the sorrows and privations of that canonized epoch and remember only its orchard robberies, its wooden sword pageants and its fishing holydays. we are satisfied. we can wait. our reward will come. to us, jerusalem and to-day's experiences will be an enchanted memory a year hence--memory which money could not buy from us. chapter lv. we cast up the account. it footed up pretty fairly. there was nothing more at jerusalem to be seen, except the traditional houses of dives and lazarus of the parable, the tombs of the kings, and those of the judges; the spot where they stoned one of the disciples to death, and beheaded another; the room and the table made celebrated by the last supper; the fig-tree that jesus withered; a number of historical places about gethsemane and the mount of olives, and fifteen or twenty others in different portions of the city itself. we were approaching the end. human nature asserted itself, now. overwork and consequent exhaustion began to have their natural effect. they began to master the energies and dull the ardor of the party. perfectly secure now, against failing to accomplish any detail of the pilgrimage, they felt like drawing in advance upon the holiday soon to be placed to their credit. they grew a little lazy. they were late to breakfast and sat long at dinner. thirty or forty pilgrims had arrived from the ship, by the short routes, and much swapping of gossip had to be indulged in. and in hot afternoons, they showed a strong disposition to lie on the cool divans in the hotel and smoke and talk about pleasant experiences of a month or so gone by--for even thus early do episodes of travel which were sometimes annoying, sometimes exasperating and full as often of no consequence at all when they transpired, begin to rise above the dead level of monotonous reminiscences and become shapely landmarks in one's memory. the fog-whistle, smothered among a million of trifling sounds, is not noticed a block away, in the city, but the sailor hears it far at sea, whither none of those thousands of trifling sounds can reach. when one is in rome, all the domes are alike; but when he has gone away twelve miles, the city fades utterly from sight and leaves st. peter's swelling above the level plain like an anchored balloon. when one is traveling in europe, the daily incidents seem all alike; but when he has placed them all two months and two thousand miles behind him, those that were worthy of being remembered are prominent, and those that were really insignificant have vanished. this disposition to smoke, and idle and talk, was not well. it was plain that it must not be allowed to gain ground. a diversion must be tried, or demoralization would ensue. the jordan, jericho and the dead sea were suggested. the remainder of jerusalem must be left unvisited, for a little while. the journey was approved at once. new life stirred in every pulse. in the saddle --abroad on the plains--sleeping in beds bounded only by the horizon: fancy was at work with these things in a moment.--it was painful to note how readily these town-bred men had taken to the free life of the camp and the desert the nomadic instinct is a human instinct; it was born with adam and transmitted through the patriarchs, and after thirty centuries of steady effort, civilization has not educated it entirely out of us yet. it has a charm which, once tasted, a man will yearn to taste again. the nomadic instinct can not be educated out of an indian at all. the jordan journey being approved, our dragoman was notified. at nine in the morning the caravan was before the hotel door and we were at breakfast. there was a commotion about the place. rumors of war and bloodshed were flying every where. the lawless bedouins in the valley of the jordan and the deserts down by the dead sea were up in arms, and were going to destroy all comers. they had had a battle with a troop of turkish cavalry and defeated them; several men killed. they had shut up the inhabitants of a village and a turkish garrison in an old fort near jericho, and were besieging them. they had marched upon a camp of our excursionists by the jordan, and the pilgrims only saved their lives by stealing away and flying to jerusalem under whip and spur in the darkness of the night. another of our parties had been fired on from an ambush and then attacked in the open day. shots were fired on both sides. fortunately there was no bloodshed. we spoke with the very pilgrim who had fired one of the shots, and learned from his own lips how, in this imminent deadly peril, only the cool courage of the pilgrims, their strength of numbers and imposing display of war material, had saved them from utter destruction. it was reported that the consul had requested that no more of our pilgrims should go to the jordan while this state of things lasted; and further, that he was unwilling that any more should go, at least without an unusually strong military guard. here was trouble. but with the horses at the door and every body aware of what they were there for, what would you have done? acknowledged that you were afraid, and backed shamefully out? hardly. it would not be human nature, where there were so many women. you would have done as we did: said you were not afraid of a million bedouins--and made your will and proposed quietly to yourself to take up an unostentatious position in the rear of the procession. i think we must all have determined upon the same line of tactics, for it did seem as if we never would get to jericho. i had a notoriously slow horse, but somehow i could not keep him in the rear, to save my neck. he was forever turning up in the lead. in such cases i trembled a little, and got down to fix my saddle. but it was not of any use. the others all got down to fix their saddles, too. i never saw such a time with saddles. it was the first time any of them had got out of order in three weeks, and now they had all broken down at once. i tried walking, for exercise--i had not had enough in jerusalem searching for holy places. but it was a failure. the whole mob were suffering for exercise, and it was not fifteen minutes till they were all on foot and i had the lead again. it was very discouraging. this was all after we got beyond bethany. we stopped at the village of bethany, an hour out from jerusalem. they showed us the tomb of lazarus. i had rather live in it than in any house in the town. and they showed us also a large "fountain of lazarus," and in the centre of the village the ancient dwelling of lazarus. lazarus appears to have been a man of property. the legends of the sunday schools do him great injustice; they give one the impression that he was poor. it is because they get him confused with that lazarus who had no merit but his virtue, and virtue never has been as respectable as money. the house of lazarus is a three-story edifice, of stone masonry, but the accumulated rubbish of ages has buried all of it but the upper story. we took candles and descended to the dismal cell-like chambers where jesus sat at meat with martha and mary, and conversed with them about their brother. we could not but look upon these old dingy apartments with a more than common interest. we had had a glimpse, from a mountain top, of the dead sea, lying like a blue shield in the plain of the jordan, and now we were marching down a close, flaming, rugged, desolate defile, where no living creature could enjoy life, except, perhaps, a salamander. it was such a dreary, repulsive, horrible solitude! it was the "wilderness" where john preached, with camel's hair about his loins--raiment enough--but he never could have got his locusts and wild honey here. we were moping along down through this dreadful place, every man in the rear. our guards--two gorgeous young arab sheiks, with cargoes of swords, guns, pistols and daggers on board--were loafing ahead. "bedouins!" every man shrunk up and disappeared in his clothes like a mud-turtle. my first impulse was to dash forward and destroy the bedouins. my second was to dash to the rear to see if there were any coming in that direction. i acted on the latter impulse. so did all the others. if any bedouins had approached us, then, from that point of the compass, they would have paid dearly for their rashness. we all remarked that, afterwards. there would have been scenes of riot and bloodshed there that no pen could describe. i know that, because each man told what he would have done, individually; and such a medley of strange and unheard-of inventions of cruelty you could not conceive of. one man said he had calmly made up his mind to perish where he stood, if need be, but never yield an inch; he was going to wait, with deadly patience, till he could count the stripes upon the first bedouin's jacket, and then count them and let him have it. another was going to sit still till the first lance reached within an inch of his breast, and then dodge it and seize it. i forbear to tell what he was going to do to that bedouin that owned it. it makes my blood run cold to think of it. another was going to scalp such bedouins as fell to his share, and take his bald-headed sons of the desert home with him alive for trophies. but the wild-eyed pilgrim rhapsodist was silent. his orbs gleamed with a deadly light, but his lips moved not. anxiety grew, and he was questioned. if he had got a bedouin, what would he have done with him --shot him? he smiled a smile of grim contempt and shook his head. would he have stabbed him? another shake. would he have quartered him --flayed him? more shakes. oh! horror what would he have done? "eat him!" such was the awful sentence that thundered from his lips. what was grammar to a desperado like that? i was glad in my heart that i had been spared these scenes of malignant carnage. no bedouins attacked our terrible rear. and none attacked the front. the new-comers were only a reinforcement of cadaverous arabs, in shirts and bare legs, sent far ahead of us to brandish rusty guns, and shout and brag, and carry on like lunatics, and thus scare away all bands of marauding bedouins that might lurk about our path. what a shame it is that armed white christians must travel under guard of vermin like this as a protection against the prowling vagabonds of the desert--those sanguinary outlaws who are always going to do something desperate, but never do it. i may as well mention here that on our whole trip we saw no bedouins, and had no more use for an arab guard than we could have had for patent leather boots and white kid gloves. the bedouins that attacked the other parties of pilgrims so fiercely were provided for the occasion by the arab guards of those parties, and shipped from jerusalem for temporary service as bedouins. they met together in full view of the pilgrims, after the battle, and took lunch, divided the bucksheesh extorted in the season of danger, and then accompanied the cavalcade home to the city! the nuisance of an arab guard is one which is created by the sheiks and the bedouins together, for mutual profit, it is said, and no doubt there is a good deal of truth in it. we visited the fountain the prophet elisha sweetened (it is sweet yet,) where he remained some time and was fed by the ravens. ancient jericho is not very picturesque as a ruin. when joshua marched around it seven times, some three thousand years ago, and blew it down with his trumpet, he did the work so well and so completely that he hardly left enough of the city to cast a shadow. the curse pronounced against the rebuilding of it, has never been removed. one king, holding the curse in light estimation, made the attempt, but was stricken sorely for his presumption. its site will always remain unoccupied; and yet it is one of the very best locations for a town we have seen in all palestine. at two in the morning they routed us out of bed--another piece of unwarranted cruelty--another stupid effort of our dragoman to get ahead of a rival. it was not two hours to the jordan. however, we were dressed and under way before any one thought of looking to see what time it was, and so we drowsed on through the chill night air and dreamed of camp fires, warm beds, and other comfortable things. there was no conversation. people do not talk when they are cold, and wretched, and sleepy. we nodded in the saddle, at times, and woke up with a start to find that the procession had disappeared in the gloom. then there was energy and attention to business until its dusky outlines came in sight again. occasionally the order was passed in a low voice down the line: "close up--close up! bedouins lurk here, every where!" what an exquisite shudder it sent shivering along one's spine! we reached the famous river before four o'clock, and the night was so black that we could have ridden into it without seeing it. some of us were in an unhappy frame of mind. we waited and waited for daylight, but it did not come. finally we went away in the dark and slept an hour on the ground, in the bushes, and caught cold. it was a costly nap, on that account, but otherwise it was a paying investment because it brought unconsciousness of the dreary minutes and put us in a somewhat fitter mood for a first glimpse of the sacred river. with the first suspicion of dawn, every pilgrim took off his clothes and waded into the dark torrent, singing: "on jordan's stormy banks i stand, and cast a wistful eye to canaan's fair and happy land, where my possessions lie." but they did not sing long. the water was so fearfully cold that they were obliged to stop singing and scamper out again. then they stood on the bank shivering, and so chagrined and so grieved, that they merited holiest compassion. because another dream, another cherished hope, had failed. they had promised themselves all along that they would cross the jordan where the israelites crossed it when they entered canaan from their long pilgrimage in the desert. they would cross where the twelve stones were placed in memory of that great event. while they did it they would picture to themselves that vast army of pilgrims marching through the cloven waters, bearing the hallowed ark of the covenant and shouting hosannahs, and singing songs of thanksgiving and praise. each had promised himself that he would be the first to cross. they were at the goal of their hopes at last, but the current was too swift, the water was too cold! it was then that jack did them a service. with that engaging recklessness of consequences which is natural to youth, and so proper and so seemly, as well, he went and led the way across the jordan, and all was happiness again. every individual waded over, then, and stood upon the further bank. the water was not quite breast deep, any where. if it had been more, we could hardly have accomplished the feat, for the strong current would have swept us down the stream, and we would have been exhausted and drowned before reaching a place where we could make a landing. the main object compassed, the drooping, miserable party sat down to wait for the sun again, for all wanted to see the water as well as feel it. but it was too cold a pastime. some cans were filled from the holy river, some canes cut from its banks, and then we mounted and rode reluctantly away to keep from freezing to death. so we saw the jordan very dimly. the thickets of bushes that bordered its banks threw their shadows across its shallow, turbulent waters ("stormy," the hymn makes them, which is rather a complimentary stretch of fancy,) and we could not judge of the width of the stream by the eye. we knew by our wading experience, however, that many streets in america are double as wide as the jordan. daylight came, soon after we got under way, and in the course of an hour or two we reached the dead sea. nothing grows in the flat, burning desert around it but weeds and the dead sea apple the poets say is beautiful to the eye, but crumbles to ashes and dust when you break it. such as we found were not handsome, but they were bitter to the taste. they yielded no dust. it was because they were not ripe, perhaps. the desert and the barren hills gleam painfully in the sun, around the dead sea, and there is no pleasant thing or living creature upon it or about its borders to cheer the eye. it is a scorching, arid, repulsive solitude. a silence broods over the scene that is depressing to the spirits. it makes one think of funerals and death. the dead sea is small. its waters are very clear, and it has a pebbly bottom and is shallow for some distance out from the shores. it yields quantities of asphaltum; fragments of it lie all about its banks; this stuff gives the place something of an unpleasant smell. all our reading had taught us to expect that the first plunge into the dead sea would be attended with distressing results--our bodies would feel as if they were suddenly pierced by millions of red-hot needles; the dreadful smarting would continue for hours; we might even look to be blistered from head to foot, and suffer miserably for many days. we were disappointed. our eight sprang in at the same time that another party of pilgrims did, and nobody screamed once. none of them ever did complain of any thing more than a slight pricking sensation in places where their skin was abraded, and then only for a short time. my face smarted for a couple of hours, but it was partly because i got it badly sun-burned while i was bathing, and staid in so long that it became plastered over with salt. no, the water did not blister us; it did not cover us with a slimy ooze and confer upon us an atrocious fragrance; it was not very slimy; and i could not discover that we smelt really any worse than we have always smelt since we have been in palestine. it was only a different kind of smell, but not conspicuous on that account, because we have a great deal of variety in that respect. we didn't smell, there on the jordan, the same as we do in jerusalem; and we don't smell in jerusalem just as we did in nazareth, or tiberias, or cesarea philippi, or any of those other ruinous ancient towns in galilee. no, we change all the time, and generally for the worse. we do our own washing. it was a funny bath. we could not sink. one could stretch himself at full length on his back, with his arms on his breast, and all of his body above a line drawn from the corner of his jaw past the middle of his side, the middle of his leg and through his ancle bone, would remain out of water. he could lift his head clear out, if he chose. no position can be retained long; you lose your balance and whirl over, first on your back and then on your face, and so on. you can lie comfortably, on your back, with your head out, and your legs out from your knees down, by steadying yourself with your hands. you can sit, with your knees drawn up to your chin and your arms clasped around them, but you are bound to turn over presently, because you are top-heavy in that position. you can stand up straight in water that is over your head, and from the middle of your breast upward you will not be wet. but you can not remain so. the water will soon float your feet to the surface. you can not swim on your back and make any progress of any consequence, because your feet stick away above the surface, and there is nothing to propel yourself with but your heels. if you swim on your face, you kick up the water like a stern-wheel boat. you make no headway. a horse is so top-heavy that he can neither swim nor stand up in the dead sea. he turns over on his side at once. some of us bathed for more than an hour, and then came out coated with salt till we shone like icicles. we scrubbed it off with a coarse towel and rode off with a splendid brand-new smell, though it was one which was not any more disagreeable than those we have been for several weeks enjoying. it was the variegated villainy and novelty of it that charmed us. salt crystals glitter in the sun about the shores of the lake. in places they coat the ground like a brilliant crust of ice. when i was a boy i somehow got the impression that the river jordan was four thousand miles long and thirty-five miles wide. it is only ninety miles long, and so crooked that a man does not know which side of it he is on half the time. in going ninety miles it does not get over more than fifty miles of ground. it is not any wider than broadway in new york. there is the sea of galilee and this dead sea--neither of them twenty miles long or thirteen wide. and yet when i was in sunday school i thought they were sixty thousand miles in diameter. travel and experience mar the grandest pictures and rob us of the most cherished traditions of our boyhood. well, let them go. i have already seen the empire of king solomon diminish to the size of the state of pennsylvania; i suppose i can bear the reduction of the seas and the river. we looked every where, as we passed along, but never saw grain or crystal of lot's wife. it was a great disappointment. for many and many a year we had known her sad story, and taken that interest in her which misfortune always inspires. but she was gone. her picturesque form no longer looms above the desert of the dead sea to remind the tourist of the doom that fell upon the lost cities. i can not describe the hideous afternoon's ride from the dead sea to mars saba. it oppresses me yet, to think of it. the sun so pelted us that the tears ran down our cheeks once or twice. the ghastly, treeless, grassless, breathless canons smothered us as if we had been in an oven. the sun had positive weight to it, i think. not a man could sit erect under it. all drooped low in the saddles. john preached in this "wilderness!" it must have been exhausting work. what a very heaven the messy towers and ramparts of vast mars saba looked to us when we caught a first glimpse of them! we staid at this great convent all night, guests of the hospitable priests. mars saba, perched upon a crag, a human nest stock high up against a perpendicular mountain wall, is a world of grand masonry that rises, terrace upon terrace away above your head, like the terraced and retreating colonnades one sees in fanciful pictures of belshazzar's feast and the palaces of the ancient pharaohs. no other human dwelling is near. it was founded many ages ago by a holy recluse who lived at first in a cave in the rock--a cave which is inclosed in the convent walls, now, and was reverently shown to us by the priests. this recluse, by his rigorous torturing of his flesh, his diet of bread and water, his utter withdrawal from all society and from the vanities of the world, and his constant prayer and saintly contemplation of a skull, inspired an emulation that brought about him many disciples. the precipice on the opposite side of the canyon is well perforated with the small holes they dug in the rock to live in. the present occupants of mars saba, about seventy in number, are all hermits. they wear a coarse robe, an ugly, brimless stove-pipe of a hat, and go without shoes. they eat nothing whatever but bread and salt; they drink nothing but water. as long as they live they can never go outside the walls, or look upon a woman--for no woman is permitted to enter mars saba, upon any pretext whatsoever. some of those men have been shut up there for thirty years. in all that dreary time they have not heard the laughter of a child or the blessed voice of a woman; they have seen no human tears, no human smiles; they have known no human joys, no wholesome human sorrows. in their hearts are no memories of the past, in their brains no dreams of the future. all that is lovable, beautiful, worthy, they have put far away from them; against all things that are pleasant to look upon, and all sounds that are music to the ear, they have barred their massive doors and reared their relentless walls of stone forever. they have banished the tender grace of life and left only the sapped and skinny mockery. their lips are lips that never kiss and never sing; their hearts are hearts that never hate and never love; their breasts are breasts that never swell with the sentiment, "i have a country and a flag." they are dead men who walk. i set down these first thoughts because they are natural--not because they are just or because it is right to set them down. it is easy for book-makers to say "i thought so and so as i looked upon such and such a scene"--when the truth is, they thought all those fine things afterwards. one's first thought is not likely to be strictly accurate, yet it is no crime to think it and none to write it down, subject to modification by later experience. these hermits are dead men, in several respects, but not in all; and it is not proper, that, thinking ill of them at first, i should go on doing so, or, speaking ill of them i should reiterate the words and stick to them. no, they treated us too kindly for that. there is something human about them somewhere. they knew we were foreigners and protestants, and not likely to feel admiration or much friendliness toward them. but their large charity was above considering such things. they simply saw in us men who were hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and that was sufficient. they opened their doors and gave us welcome. they asked no questions, and they made no self-righteous display of their hospitality. they fished for no compliments. they moved quietly about, setting the table for us, making the beds, and bringing water to wash in, and paid no heed when we said it was wrong for them to do that when we had men whose business it was to perform such offices. we fared most comfortably, and sat late at dinner. we walked all over the building with the hermits afterward, and then sat on the lofty battlements and smoked while we enjoyed the cool air, the wild scenery and the sunset. one or two chose cosy bed-rooms to sleep in, but the nomadic instinct prompted the rest to sleep on the broad divan that extended around the great hall, because it seemed like sleeping out of doors, and so was more cheery and inviting. it was a royal rest we had. when we got up to breakfast in the morning, we were new men. for all this hospitality no strict charge was made. we could give something if we chose; we need give nothing, if we were poor or if we were stingy. the pauper and the miser are as free as any in the catholic convents of palestine. i have been educated to enmity toward every thing that is catholic, and sometimes, in consequence of this, i find it much easier to discover catholic faults than catholic merits. but there is one thing i feel no disposition to overlook, and no disposition to forget: and that is, the honest gratitude i and all pilgrims owe, to the convent fathers in palestine. their doors are always open, and there is always a welcome for any worthy man who comes, whether he comes in rags or clad in purple. the catholic convents are a priceless blessing to the poor. a pilgrim without money, whether he be a protestant or a catholic, can travel the length and breadth of palestine, and in the midst of her desert wastes find wholesome food and a clean bed every night, in these buildings. pilgrims in better circumstances are often stricken down by the sun and the fevers of the country, and then their saving refuge is the convent. without these hospitable retreats, travel in palestine would be a pleasure which none but the strongest men could dare to undertake. our party, pilgrims and all, will always be ready and always willing, to touch glasses and drink health, prosperity and long life to the convent fathers of palestine. so, rested and refreshed, we fell into line and filed away over the barren mountains of judea, and along rocky ridges and through sterile gorges, where eternal silence and solitude reigned. even the scattering groups of armed shepherds we met the afternoon before, tending their flocks of long-haired goats, were wanting here. we saw but two living creatures. they were gazelles, of "soft-eyed" notoriety. they looked like very young kids, but they annihilated distance like an express train. i have not seen animals that moved faster, unless i might say it of the antelopes of our own great plains. at nine or ten in the morning we reached the plain of the shepherds, and stood in a walled garden of olives where the shepherds were watching their flocks by night, eighteen centuries ago, when the multitude of angels brought them the tidings that the saviour was born. a quarter of a mile away was bethlehem of judea, and the pilgrims took some of the stone wall and hurried on. the plain of the shepherds is a desert, paved with loose stones, void of vegetation, glaring in the fierce sun. only the music of the angels it knew once could charm its shrubs and flowers to life again and restore its vanished beauty. no less potent enchantment could avail to work this miracle. in the huge church of the nativity, in bethlehem, built fifteen hundred years ago by the inveterate st. helena, they took us below ground, and into a grotto cut in the living rock. this was the "manger" where christ was born. a silver star set in the floor bears a latin inscription to that effect. it is polished with the kisses of many generations of worshiping pilgrims. the grotto was tricked out in the usual tasteless style observable in all the holy places of palestine. as in the church of the holy sepulchre, envy and uncharitableness were apparent here. the priests and the members of the greek and latin churches can not come by the same corridor to kneel in the sacred birthplace of the redeemer, but are compelled to approach and retire by different avenues, lest they quarrel and fight on this holiest ground on earth. i have no "meditations," suggested by this spot where the very first "merry christmas!" was uttered in all the world, and from whence the friend of my childhood, santa claus, departed on his first journey, to gladden and continue to gladden roaring firesides on wintry mornings in many a distant land forever and forever. i touch, with reverent finger, the actual spot where the infant jesus lay, but i think--nothing. you can not think in this place any more than you can in any other in palestine that would be likely to inspire reflection. beggars, cripples and monks compass you about, and make you think only of bucksheesh when you would rather think of something more in keeping with the character of the spot. i was glad to get away, and glad when we had walked through the grottoes where eusebius wrote, and jerome fasted, and joseph prepared for the flight into egypt, and the dozen other distinguished grottoes, and knew we were done. the church of the nativity is almost as well packed with exceeding holy places as the church of the holy sepulchre itself. they even have in it a grotto wherein twenty thousand children were slaughtered by herod when he was seeking the life of the infant saviour. we went to the milk grotto, of course--a cavern where mary hid herself for a while before the flight into egypt. its walls were black before she entered, but in suckling the child, a drop of her milk fell upon the floor and instantly changed the darkness of the walls to its own snowy hue. we took many little fragments of stone from here, because it is well known in all the east that a barren woman hath need only to touch her lips to one of these and her failing will depart from her. we took many specimens, to the end that we might confer happiness upon certain households that we wot of. we got away from bethlehem and its troops of beggars and relic-peddlers in the afternoon, and after spending some little time at rachel's tomb, hurried to jerusalem as fast as possible. i never was so glad to get home again before. i never have enjoyed rest as i have enjoyed it during these last few hours. the journey to the dead sea, the jordan and bethlehem was short, but it was an exhausting one. such roasting heat, such oppressive solitude, and such dismal desolation can not surely exist elsewhere on earth. and such fatigue! the commonest sagacity warns me that i ought to tell the customary pleasant lie, and say i tore myself reluctantly away from every noted place in palestine. every body tells that, but with as little ostentation as i may, i doubt the word of every he who tells it. i could take a dreadful oath that i have never heard any one of our forty pilgrims say any thing of the sort, and they are as worthy and as sincerely devout as any that come here. they will say it when they get home, fast enough, but why should they not? they do not wish to array themselves against all the lamartines and grimeses in the world. it does not stand to reason that men are reluctant to leave places where the very life is almost badgered out of them by importunate swarms of beggars and peddlers who hang in strings to one's sleeves and coat-tails and shriek and shout in his ears and horrify his vision with the ghastly sores and malformations they exhibit. one is glad to get away. i have heard shameless people say they were glad to get away from ladies' festivals where they were importuned to buy by bevies of lovely young ladies. transform those houris into dusky hags and ragged savages, and replace their rounded forms with shrunken and knotted distortions, their soft hands with scarred and hideous deformities, and the persuasive music of their voices with the discordant din of a hated language, and then see how much lingering reluctance to leave could be mustered. no, it is the neat thing to say you were reluctant, and then append the profound thoughts that "struggled for utterance," in your brain; but it is the true thing to say you were not reluctant, and found it impossible to think at all--though in good sooth it is not respectable to say it, and not poetical, either. we do not think, in the holy places; we think in bed, afterwards, when the glare, and the noise, and the confusion are gone, and in fancy we revisit alone, the solemn monuments of the past, and summon the phantom pageants of an age that has passed away. chapter lvi. we visited all the holy places about jerusalem which we had left unvisited when we journeyed to the jordan and then, about three o'clock one afternoon, we fell into procession and marched out at the stately damascus gate, and the walls of jerusalem shut us out forever. we paused on the summit of a distant hill and took a final look and made a final farewell to the venerable city which had been such a good home to us. for about four hours we traveled down hill constantly. we followed a narrow bridle-path which traversed the beds of the mountain gorges, and when we could we got out of the way of the long trains of laden camels and asses, and when we could not we suffered the misery of being mashed up against perpendicular walls of rock and having our legs bruised by the passing freight. jack was caught two or three times, and dan and moult as often. one horse had a heavy fall on the slippery rocks, and the others had narrow escapes. however, this was as good a road as we had found in palestine, and possibly even the best, and so there was not much grumbling. sometimes, in the glens, we came upon luxuriant orchards of figs, apricots, pomegranates, and such things, but oftener the scenery was rugged, mountainous, verdureless and forbidding. here and there, towers were perched high up on acclivities which seemed almost inaccessible. this fashion is as old as palestine itself and was adopted in ancient times for security against enemies. we crossed the brook which furnished david the stone that killed goliah, and no doubt we looked upon the very ground whereon that noted battle was fought. we passed by a picturesque old gothic ruin whose stone pavements had rung to the armed heels of many a valorous crusader, and we rode through a piece of country which we were told once knew samson as a citizen. we staid all night with the good monks at the convent of ramleh, and in the morning got up and galloped the horses a good part of the distance from there to jaffa, or joppa, for the plain was as level as a floor and free from stones, and besides this was our last march in holy land. these two or three hours finished, we and the tired horses could have rest and sleep as long as we wanted it. this was the plain of which joshua spoke when he said, "sun, stand thou still on gibeon, and thou moon in the valley of ajalon." as we drew near to jaffa, the boys spurred up the horses and indulged in the excitement of an actual race --an experience we had hardly had since we raced on donkeys in the azores islands. we came finally to the noble grove of orange-trees in which the oriental city of jaffa lies buried; we passed through the walls, and rode again down narrow streets and among swarms of animated rags, and saw other sights and had other experiences we had long been familiar with. we dismounted, for the last time, and out in the offing, riding at anchor, we saw the ship! i put an exclamation point there because we felt one when we saw the vessel. the long pilgrimage was ended, and somehow we seemed to feel glad of it. [for description of jaffa, see universal gazetteer.] simon the tanner formerly lived here. we went to his house. all the pilgrims visit simon the tanner's house. peter saw the vision of the beasts let down in a sheet when he lay upon the roof of simon the tanner's house. it was from jaffa that jonah sailed when he was told to go and prophesy against nineveh, and no doubt it was not far from the town that the whale threw him up when he discovered that he had no ticket. jonah was disobedient, and of a fault-finding, complaining disposition, and deserves to be lightly spoken of, almost. the timbers used in the construction of solomon's temple were floated to jaffa in rafts, and the narrow opening in the reef through which they passed to the shore is not an inch wider or a shade less dangerous to navigate than it was then. such is the sleepy nature of the population palestine's only good seaport has now and always had. jaffa has a history and a stirring one. it will not be discovered any where in this book. if the reader will call at the circulating library and mention my name, he will be furnished with books which will afford him the fullest information concerning jaffa. so ends the pilgrimage. we ought to be glad that we did not make it for the purpose of feasting our eyes upon fascinating aspects of nature, for we should have been disappointed--at least at this season of the year. a writer in "life in the holy land" observes: "monotonous and uninviting as much of the holy land will appear to persons accustomed to the almost constant verdure of flowers, ample streams and varied surface of our own country, we must remember that its aspect to the israelites after the weary march of forty years through the desert must have been very different." which all of us will freely grant. but it truly is "monotonous and uninviting," and there is no sufficient reason for describing it as being otherwise. of all the lands there are for dismal scenery, i think palestine must be the prince. the hills are barren, they are dull of color, they are unpicturesque in shape. the valleys are unsightly deserts fringed with a feeble vegetation that has an expression about it of being sorrowful and despondent. the dead sea and the sea of galilee sleep in the midst of a vast stretch of hill and plain wherein the eye rests upon no pleasant tint, no striking object, no soft picture dreaming in a purple haze or mottled with the shadows of the clouds. every outline is harsh, every feature is distinct, there is no perspective--distance works no enchantment here. it is a hopeless, dreary, heart-broken land. small shreds and patches of it must be very beautiful in the full flush of spring, however, and all the more beautiful by contrast with the far-reaching desolation that surrounds them on every side. i would like much to see the fringes of the jordan in spring-time, and shechem, esdraelon, ajalon and the borders of galilee--but even then these spots would seem mere toy gardens set at wide intervals in the waste of a limitless desolation. palestine sits in sackcloth and ashes. over it broods the spell of a curse that has withered its fields and fettered its energies. where sodom and gomorrah reared their domes and towers, that solemn sea now floods the plain, in whose bitter waters no living thing exists--over whose waveless surface the blistering air hangs motionless and dead --about whose borders nothing grows but weeds, and scattering tufts of cane, and that treacherous fruit that promises refreshment to parching lips, but turns to ashes at the touch. nazareth is forlorn; about that ford of jordan where the hosts of israel entered the promised land with songs of rejoicing, one finds only a squalid camp of fantastic bedouins of the desert; jericho the accursed, lies a moldering ruin, to-day, even as joshua's miracle left it more than three thousand years ago; bethlehem and bethany, in their poverty and their humiliation, have nothing about them now to remind one that they once knew the high honor of the saviour's presence; the hallowed spot where the shepherds watched their flocks by night, and where the angels sang peace on earth, good will to men, is untenanted by any living creature, and unblessed by any feature that is pleasant to the eye. renowned jerusalem itself, the stateliest name in history, has lost all its ancient grandeur, and is become a pauper village; the riches of solomon are no longer there to compel the admiration of visiting oriental queens; the wonderful temple which was the pride and the glory of israel, is gone, and the ottoman crescent is lifted above the spot where, on that most memorable day in the annals of the world, they reared the holy cross. the noted sea of galilee, where roman fleets once rode at anchor and the disciples of the saviour sailed in their ships, was long ago deserted by the devotees of war and commerce, and its borders are a silent wilderness; capernaum is a shapeless ruin; magdala is the home of beggared arabs; bethsaida and chorazin have vanished from the earth, and the "desert places" round about them where thousands of men once listened to the saviour's voice and ate the miraculous bread, sleep in the hush of a solitude that is inhabited only by birds of prey and skulking foxes. palestine is desolate and unlovely. and why should it be otherwise? can the curse of the deity beautify a land? palestine is no more of this work-day world. it is sacred to poetry and tradition--it is dream-land. chapter lvii. it was worth a kingdom to be at sea again. it was a relief to drop all anxiety whatsoever--all questions as to where we should go; how long we should stay; whether it were worth while to go or not; all anxieties about the condition of the horses; all such questions as "shall we ever get to water?" "shall we ever lunch?" "ferguson, how many more million miles have we got to creep under this awful sun before we camp?" it was a relief to cast all these torturing little anxieties far away--ropes of steel they were, and every one with a separate and distinct strain on it --and feel the temporary contentment that is born of the banishment of all care and responsibility. we did not look at the compass: we did not care, now, where the ship went to, so that she went out of sight of land as quickly as possible. when i travel again, i wish to go in a pleasure ship. no amount of money could have purchased for us, in a strange vessel and among unfamiliar faces, the perfect satisfaction and the sense of being at home again which we experienced when we stepped on board the "quaker city,"--our own ship--after this wearisome pilgrimage. it is a something we have felt always when we returned to her, and a something we had no desire to sell. we took off our blue woollen shirts, our spurs, and heavy boots, our sanguinary revolvers and our buckskin-seated pantaloons, and got shaved and came out in christian costume once more. all but jack, who changed all other articles of his dress, but clung to his traveling pantaloons. they still preserved their ample buckskin seat intact; and so his short pea jacket and his long, thin legs assisted to make him a picturesque object whenever he stood on the forecastle looking abroad upon the ocean over the bows. at such times his father's last injunction suggested itself to me. he said: "jack, my boy, you are about to go among a brilliant company of gentlemen and ladies, who are refined and cultivated, and thoroughly accomplished in the manners and customs of good society. listen to their conversation, study their habits of life, and learn. be polite and obliging to all, and considerate towards every one's opinions, failings and prejudices. command the just respect of all your fellow-voyagers, even though you fail to win their friendly regard. and jack--don't you ever dare, while you live, appear in public on those decks in fair weather, in a costume unbecoming your mother's drawing-room!" it would have been worth any price if the father of this hopeful youth could have stepped on board some time, and seen him standing high on the fore-castle, pea jacket, tasseled red fez, buckskin patch and all, placidly contemplating the ocean--a rare spectacle for any body's drawing-room. after a pleasant voyage and a good rest, we drew near to egypt and out of the mellowest of sunsets we saw the domes and minarets of alexandria rise into view. as soon as the anchor was down, jack and i got a boat and went ashore. it was night by this time, and the other passengers were content to remain at home and visit ancient egypt after breakfast. it was the way they did at constantinople. they took a lively interest in new countries, but their school-boy impatience had worn off, and they had learned that it was wisdom to take things easy and go along comfortably --these old countries do not go away in the night; they stay till after breakfast. when we reached the pier we found an army of egyptian boys with donkeys no larger than themselves, waiting for passengers--for donkeys are the omnibuses of egypt. we preferred to walk, but we could not have our own way. the boys crowded about us, clamored around us, and slewed their donkeys exactly across our path, no matter which way we turned. they were good-natured rascals, and so were the donkeys. we mounted, and the boys ran behind us and kept the donkeys in a furious gallop, as is the fashion at damascus. i believe i would rather ride a donkey than any beast in the world. he goes briskly, he puts on no airs, he is docile, though opinionated. satan himself could not scare him, and he is convenient--very convenient. when you are tired riding you can rest your feet on the ground and let him gallop from under you. we found the hotel and secured rooms, and were happy to know that the prince of wales had stopped there once. they had it every where on signs. no other princes had stopped there since, till jack and i came. we went abroad through the town, then, and found it a city of huge commercial buildings, and broad, handsome streets brilliant with gas-light. by night it was a sort of reminiscence of paris. but finally jack found an ice-cream saloon, and that closed investigations for that evening. the weather was very hot, it had been many a day since jack had seen ice-cream, and so it was useless to talk of leaving the saloon till it shut up. in the morning the lost tribes of america came ashore and infested the hotels and took possession of all the donkeys and other open barouches that offered. they went in picturesque procession to the american consul's; to the great gardens; to cleopatra's needles; to pompey's pillar; to the palace of the viceroy of egypt; to the nile; to the superb groves of date-palms. one of our most inveterate relic-hunters had his hammer with him, and tried to break a fragment off the upright needle and could not do it; he tried the prostrate one and failed; he borrowed a heavy sledge hammer from a mason and tried again. he tried pompey's pillar, and this baffled him. scattered all about the mighty monolith were sphinxes of noble countenance, carved out of egyptian granite as hard as blue steel, and whose shapely features the wear of five thousand years had failed to mark or mar. the relic-hunter battered at these persistently, and sweated profusely over his work. he might as well have attempted to deface the moon. they regarded him serenely with the stately smile they had worn so long, and which seemed to say, "peck away, poor insect; we were not made to fear such as you; in ten-score dragging ages we have seen more of your kind than there are sands at your feet: have they left a blemish upon us?" but i am forgetting the jaffa colonists. at jaffa we had taken on board some forty members of a very celebrated community. they were male and female; babies, young boys and young girls; young married people, and some who had passed a shade beyond the prime of life. i refer to the "adams jaffa colony." others had deserted before. we left in jaffa mr. adams, his wife, and fifteen unfortunates who not only had no money but did not know where to turn or whither to go. such was the statement made to us. our forty were miserable enough in the first place, and they lay about the decks seasick all the voyage, which about completed their misery, i take it. however, one or two young men remained upright, and by constant persecution we wormed out of them some little information. they gave it reluctantly and in a very fragmentary condition, for, having been shamefully humbugged by their prophet, they felt humiliated and unhappy. in such circumstances people do not like to talk. the colony was a complete fiasco. i have already said that such as could get away did so, from time to time. the prophet adams--once an actor, then several other things, afterward a mormon and a missionary, always an adventurer--remains at jaffa with his handful of sorrowful subjects. the forty we brought away with us were chiefly destitute, though not all of them. they wished to get to egypt. what might become of them then they did not know and probably did not care--any thing to get away from hated jaffa. they had little to hope for. because after many appeals to the sympathies of new england, made by strangers of boston, through the newspapers, and after the establishment of an office there for the reception of moneyed contributions for the jaffa colonists, one dollar was subscribed. the consul-general for egypt showed me the newspaper paragraph which mentioned the circumstance and mentioned also the discontinuance of the effort and the closing of the office. it was evident that practical new england was not sorry to be rid of such visionaries and was not in the least inclined to hire any body to bring them back to her. still, to get to egypt, was something, in the eyes of the unfortunate colonists, hopeless as the prospect seemed of ever getting further. thus circumstanced, they landed at alexandria from our ship. one of our passengers, mr. moses s. beach, of the new york sun, inquired of the consul-general what it would cost to send these people to their home in maine by the way of liverpool, and he said fifteen hundred dollars in gold would do it. mr. beach gave his check for the money and so the troubles of the jaffa colonists were at an end.--[it was an unselfish act of benevolence; it was done without any ostentation, and has never been mentioned in any newspaper, i think. therefore it is refreshing to learn now, several months after the above narrative was written, that another man received all the credit of this rescue of the colonists. such is life.] alexandria was too much like a european city to be novel, and we soon tired of it. we took the cars and came up here to ancient cairo, which is an oriental city and of the completest pattern. there is little about it to disabuse one's mind of the error if he should take it into his head that he was in the heart of arabia. stately camels and dromedaries, swarthy egyptians, and likewise turks and black ethiopians, turbaned, sashed, and blazing in a rich variety of oriental costumes of all shades of flashy colors, are what one sees on every hand crowding the narrow streets and the honeycombed bazaars. we are stopping at shepherd's hotel, which is the worst on earth except the one i stopped at once in a small town in the united states. it is pleasant to read this sketch in my note-book, now, and know that i can stand shepherd's hotel, sure, because i have been in one just like it in america and survived: i stopped at the benton house. it used to be a good hotel, but that proves nothing--i used to be a good boy, for that matter. both of us have lost character of late years. the benton is not a good hotel. the benton lacks a very great deal of being a good hotel. perdition is full of better hotels than the benton. it was late at night when i got there, and i told the clerk i would like plenty of lights, because i wanted to read an hour or two. when i reached no. with the porter (we came along a dim hall that was clad in ancient carpeting, faded, worn out in many places, and patched with old scraps of oil cloth--a hall that sank under one's feet, and creaked dismally to every footstep,) he struck a light -- two inches of sallow, sorrowful, consumptive tallow candle, that burned blue, and sputtered, and got discouraged and went out. the porter lit it again, and i asked if that was all the light the clerk sent. he said, "oh no, i've got another one here," and he produced another couple of inches of tallow candle. i said, "light them both --i'll have to have one to see the other by." he did it, but the result was drearier than darkness itself. he was a cheery, accommodating rascal. he said he would go "somewheres" and steal a lamp. i abetted and encouraged him in his criminal design. i heard the landlord get after him in the hall ten minutes afterward. "where are you going with that lamp?" "fifteen wants it, sir." "fifteen! why he's got a double lot of candles--does the man want to illuminate the house?--does he want to get up a torch-light procession?--what is he up to, any how?" "he don't like them candles--says he wants a lamp." "why what in the nation does----why i never heard of such a thing? what on earth can he want with that lamp?" "well, he only wants to read--that's what he says." "wants to read, does he?--ain't satisfied with a thousand candles, but has to have a lamp!--i do wonder what the devil that fellow wants that lamp for? take him another candle, and then if----" "but he wants the lamp--says he'll burn the d--d old house down if he don't get a lamp!" (a remark which i never made.) "i'd like to see him at it once. well, you take it along--but i swear it beats my time, though--and see if you can't find out what in the very nation he wants with that lamp." and he went off growling to himself and still wondering and wondering over the unaccountable conduct of no. . the lamp was a good one, but it revealed some disagreeable things--a bed in the suburbs of a desert of room--a bed that had hills and valleys in it, and you'd have to accommodate your body to the impression left in it by the man that slept there last, before you could lie comfortably; a carpet that had seen better days; a melancholy washstand in a remote corner, and a dejected pitcher on it sorrowing over a broken nose; a looking-glass split across the centre, which chopped your head off at the chin and made you look like some dreadful unfinished monster or other; the paper peeling in shreds from the walls. i sighed and said: "this is charming; and now don't you think you could get me something to read?" the porter said, "oh, certainly; the old man's got dead loads of books;" and he was gone before i could tell him what sort of literature i would rather have. and yet his countenance expressed the utmost confidence in his ability to execute the commission with credit to himself. the old man made a descent on him. "what are you going to do with that pile of books?" "fifteen wants 'em, sir." "fifteen, is it? he'll want a warming-pan, next--he'll want a nurse! take him every thing there is in the house--take him the bar-keeper--take him the baggage-wagon--take him a chamber-maid! confound me, i never saw any thing like it. what did he say he wants with those books?" "wants to read 'em, like enough; it ain't likely he wants to eat 'em, i don't reckon." "wants to read 'em--wants to read 'em this time of night, the infernal lunatic! well, he can't have them." "but he says he's mor'ly bound to have 'em; he says he'll just go a-rairin' and a-chargin' through this house and raise more--well, there's no tellin' what he won't do if he don't get 'em; because he's drunk and crazy and desperate, and nothing'll soothe him down but them cussed books." [i had not made any threats, and was not in the condition ascribed to me by the porter.] "well, go on; but i will be around when he goes to rairing and charging, and the first rair he makes i'll make him rair out of the window." and then the old gentleman went off, growling as before. the genius of that porter was something wonderful. he put an armful of books on the bed and said "good night" as confidently as if he knew perfectly well that those books were exactly my style of reading matter. and well he might. his selection covered the whole range of legitimate literature. it comprised "the great consummation," by rev. dr. cummings--theology; "revised statutes of the state of missouri"--law; "the complete horse-doctor"--medicine; "the toilers of the sea," by victor hugo--romance; "the works of william shakspeare"--poetry. i shall never cease to admire the tact and the intelligence of that gifted porter. but all the donkeys in christendom, and most of the egyptian boys, i think, are at the door, and there is some noise going on, not to put it in stronger language.--we are about starting to the illustrious pyramids of egypt, and the donkeys for the voyage are under inspection. i will go and select one before the choice animals are all taken. chapter lviii. the donkeys were all good, all handsome, all strong and in good condition, all fast and all willing to prove it. they were the best we had found any where, and the most 'recherche'. i do not know what 'recherche' is, but that is what these donkeys were, anyhow. some were of a soft mouse-color, and the others were white, black, and vari-colored. some were close-shaven, all over, except that a tuft like a paint-brush was left on the end of the tail. others were so shaven in fanciful landscape garden patterns, as to mark their bodies with curving lines, which were bounded on one side by hair and on the other by the close plush left by the shears. they had all been newly barbered, and were exceedingly stylish. several of the white ones were barred like zebras with rainbow stripes of blue and red and yellow paint. these were indescribably gorgeous. dan and jack selected from this lot because they brought back italian reminiscences of the "old masters." the saddles were the high, stuffy, frog-shaped things we had known in ephesus and smyrna. the donkey-boys were lively young egyptian rascals who could follow a donkey and keep him in a canter half a day without tiring. we had plenty of spectators when we mounted, for the hotel was full of english people bound overland to india and officers getting ready for the african campaign against the abyssinian king theodorus. we were not a very large party, but as we charged through the streets of the great metropolis, we made noise for five hundred, and displayed activity and created excitement in proportion. nobody can steer a donkey, and some collided with camels, dervishes, effendis, asses, beggars and every thing else that offered to the donkeys a reasonable chance for a collision. when we turned into the broad avenue that leads out of the city toward old cairo, there was plenty of room. the walls of stately date-palms that fenced the gardens and bordered the way, threw their shadows down and made the air cool and bracing. we rose to the spirit of the time and the race became a wild rout, a stampede, a terrific panic. i wish to live to enjoy it again. somewhere along this route we had a few startling exhibitions of oriental simplicity. a girl apparently thirteen years of age came along the great thoroughfare dressed like eve before the fall. we would have called her thirteen at home; but here girls who look thirteen are often not more than nine, in reality. occasionally we saw stark-naked men of superb build, bathing, and making no attempt at concealment. however, an hour's acquaintance with this cheerful custom reconciled the pilgrims to it, and then it ceased to occasion remark. thus easily do even the most startling novelties grow tame and spiritless to these sight-surfeited wanderers. arrived at old cairo, the camp-followers took up the donkeys and tumbled them bodily aboard a small boat with a lateen sail, and we followed and got under way. the deck was closely packed with donkeys and men; the two sailors had to climb over and under and through the wedged mass to work the sails, and the steersman had to crowd four or five donkeys out of the way when he wished to swing his tiller and put his helm hard-down. but what were their troubles to us? we had nothing to do; nothing to do but enjoy the trip; nothing to do but shove the donkeys off our corns and look at the charming scenery of the nile. on the island at our right was the machine they call the nilometer, a stone-column whose business it is to mark the rise of the river and prophecy whether it will reach only thirty-two feet and produce a famine, or whether it will properly flood the land at forty and produce plenty, or whether it will rise to forty-three and bring death and destruction to flocks and crops--but how it does all this they could not explain to us so that we could understand. on the same island is still shown the spot where pharaoh's daughter found moses in the bulrushes. near the spot we sailed from, the holy family dwelt when they sojourned in egypt till herod should complete his slaughter of the innocents. the same tree they rested under when they first arrived, was there a short time ago, but the viceroy of egypt sent it to the empress eugenie lately. he was just in time, otherwise our pilgrims would have had it. the nile at this point is muddy, swift and turbid, and does not lack a great deal of being as wide as the mississippi. we scrambled up the steep bank at the shabby town of ghizeh, mounted the donkeys again, and scampered away. for four or five miles the route lay along a high embankment which they say is to be the bed of a railway the sultan means to build for no other reason than that when the empress of the french comes to visit him she can go to the pyramids in comfort. this is true oriental hospitality. i am very glad it is our privilege to have donkeys instead of cars. at the distance of a few miles the pyramids rising above the palms, looked very clean-cut, very grand and imposing, and very soft and filmy, as well. they swam in a rich haze that took from them all suggestions of unfeeling stone, and made them seem only the airy nothings of a dream --structures which might blossom into tiers of vague arches, or ornate colonnades, may be, and change and change again, into all graceful forms of architecture, while we looked, and then melt deliciously away and blend with the tremulous atmosphere. at the end of the levee we left the mules and went in a sailboat across an arm of the nile or an overflow, and landed where the sands of the great sahara left their embankment, as straight as a wall, along the verge of the alluvial plain of the river. a laborious walk in the flaming sun brought us to the foot of the great pyramid of cheops. it was a fairy vision no longer. it was a corrugated, unsightly mountain of stone. each of its monstrous sides was a wide stairway which rose upward, step above step, narrowing as it went, till it tapered to a point far aloft in the air. insect men and women--pilgrims from the quaker city--were creeping about its dizzy perches, and one little black swarm were waving postage stamps from the airy summit--handkerchiefs will be understood. of course we were besieged by a rabble of muscular egyptians and arabs who wanted the contract of dragging us to the top--all tourists are. of course you could not hear your own voice for the din that was around you. of course the sheiks said they were the only responsible parties; that all contracts must be made with them, all moneys paid over to them, and none exacted from us by any but themselves alone. of course they contracted that the varlets who dragged us up should not mention bucksheesh once. for such is the usual routine. of course we contracted with them, paid them, were delivered into the hands of the draggers, dragged up the pyramids, and harried and be-deviled for bucksheesh from the foundation clear to the summit. we paid it, too, for we were purposely spread very far apart over the vast side of the pyramid. there was no help near if we called, and the herculeses who dragged us had a way of asking sweetly and flatteringly for bucksheesh, which was seductive, and of looking fierce and threatening to throw us down the precipice, which was persuasive and convincing. each step being full as high as a dinner-table; there being very, very many of the steps; an arab having hold of each of our arms and springing upward from step to step and snatching us with them, forcing us to lift our feet as high as our breasts every time, and do it rapidly and keep it up till we were ready to faint, who shall say it is not lively, exhilarating, lacerating, muscle-straining, bone-wrenching and perfectly excruciating and exhausting pastime, climbing the pyramids? i beseeched the varlets not to twist all my joints asunder; i iterated, reiterated, even swore to them that i did not wish to beat any body to the top; did all i could to convince them that if i got there the last of all i would feel blessed above men and grateful to them forever; i begged them, prayed them, pleaded with them to let me stop and rest a moment--only one little moment: and they only answered with some more frightful springs, and an unenlisted volunteer behind opened a bombardment of determined boosts with his head which threatened to batter my whole political economy to wreck and ruin. twice, for one minute, they let me rest while they extorted bucksheesh, and then continued their maniac flight up the pyramid. they wished to beat the other parties. it was nothing to them that i, a stranger, must be sacrificed upon the altar of their unholy ambition. but in the midst of sorrow, joy blooms. even in this dark hour i had a sweet consolation. for i knew that except these mohammedans repented they would go straight to perdition some day. and they never repent--they never forsake their paganism. this thought calmed me, cheered me, and i sank down, limp and exhausted, upon the summit, but happy, so happy and serene within. on the one hand, a mighty sea of yellow sand stretched away toward the ends of the earth, solemn, silent, shorn of vegetation, its solitude uncheered by any forms of creature life; on the other, the eden of egypt was spread below us--a broad green floor, cloven by the sinuous river, dotted with villages, its vast distances measured and marked by the diminishing stature of receding clusters of palms. it lay asleep in an enchanted atmosphere. there was no sound, no motion. above the date-plumes in the middle distance, swelled a domed and pinnacled mass, glimmering through a tinted, exquisite mist; away toward the horizon a dozen shapely pyramids watched over ruined memphis: and at our feet the bland impassible sphynx looked out upon the picture from her throne in the sands as placidly and pensively as she had looked upon its like full fifty lagging centuries ago. we suffered torture no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for bucksheesh that gleamed from arab eyes and poured incessantly from arab lips. why try to call up the traditions of vanished egyptian grandeur; why try to fancy egypt following dead rameses to his tomb in the pyramid, or the long multitude of israel departing over the desert yonder? why try to think at all? the thing was impossible. one must bring his meditations cut and dried, or else cut and dry them afterward. the traditional arab proposed, in the traditional way, to run down cheops, cross the eighth of a mile of sand intervening between it and the tall pyramid of cephron, ascend to cephron's summit and return to us on the top of cheops--all in nine minutes by the watch, and the whole service to be rendered for a single dollar. in the first flush of irritation, i said let the arab and his exploits go to the mischief. but stay. the upper third of cephron was coated with dressed marble, smooth as glass. a blessed thought entered my brain. he must infallibly break his neck. close the contract with dispatch, i said, and let him go. he started. we watched. he went bounding down the vast broadside, spring after spring, like an ibex. he grew small and smaller till he became a bobbing pigmy, away down toward the bottom--then disappeared. we turned and peered over the other side--forty seconds--eighty seconds --a hundred--happiness, he is dead already!--two minutes--and a quarter --"there he goes!" too true--it was too true. he was very small, now. gradually, but surely, he overcame the level ground. he began to spring and climb again. up, up, up--at last he reached the smooth coating--now for it. but he clung to it with toes and fingers, like a fly. he crawled this way and that--away to the right, slanting upward--away to the left, still slanting upward--and stood at last, a black peg on the summit, and waved his pigmy scarf! then he crept downward to the raw steps again, then picked up his agile heels and flew. we lost him presently. but presently again we saw him under us, mounting with undiminished energy. shortly he bounded into our midst with a gallant war-whoop. time, eight minutes, forty-one seconds. he had won. his bones were intact. it was a failure. i reflected. i said to myself, he is tired, and must grow dizzy. i will risk another dollar on him. he started again. made the trip again. slipped on the smooth coating --i almost had him. but an infamous crevice saved him. he was with us once more--perfectly sound. time, eight minutes, forty-six seconds. i said to dan, "lend me a dollar--i can beat this game, yet." worse and worse. he won again. time, eight minutes, forty-eight seconds. i was out of all patience, now. i was desperate.--money was no longer of any consequence. i said, "sirrah, i will give you a hundred dollars to jump off this pyramid head first. if you do not like the terms, name your bet. i scorn to stand on expenses now. i will stay right here and risk money on you as long as dan has got a cent." i was in a fair way to win, now, for it was a dazzling opportunity for an arab. he pondered a moment, and would have done it, i think, but his mother arrived, then, and interfered. her tears moved me--i never can look upon the tears of woman with indifference--and i said i would give her a hundred to jump off, too. but it was a failure. the arabs are too high-priced in egypt. they put on airs unbecoming to such savages. we descended, hot and out of humor. the dragoman lit candles, and we all entered a hole near the base of the pyramid, attended by a crazy rabble of arabs who thrust their services upon us uninvited. they dragged us up a long inclined chute, and dripped candle-grease all over us. this chute was not more than twice as wide and high as a saratoga trunk, and was walled, roofed and floored with solid blocks of egyptian granite as wide as a wardrobe, twice as thick and three times as long. we kept on climbing, through the oppressive gloom, till i thought we ought to be nearing the top of the pyramid again, and then came to the "queen's chamber," and shortly to the chamber of the king. these large apartments were tombs. the walls were built of monstrous masses of smoothed granite, neatly joined together. some of them were nearly as large square as an ordinary parlor. a great stone sarcophagus like a bath-tub stood in the centre of the king's chamber. around it were gathered a picturesque group of arab savages and soiled and tattered pilgrims, who held their candles aloft in the gloom while they chattered, and the winking blurs of light shed a dim glory down upon one of the irrepressible memento-seekers who was pecking at the venerable sarcophagus with his sacrilegious hammer. we struggled out to the open air and the bright sunshine, and for the space of thirty minutes received ragged arabs by couples, dozens and platoons, and paid them bucksheesh for services they swore and proved by each other that they had rendered, but which we had not been aware of before--and as each party was paid, they dropped into the rear of the procession and in due time arrived again with a newly-invented delinquent list for liquidation. we lunched in the shade of the pyramid, and in the midst of this encroaching and unwelcome company, and then dan and jack and i started away for a walk. a howling swarm of beggars followed us--surrounded us --almost headed us off. a sheik, in flowing white bournous and gaudy head-gear, was with them. he wanted more bucksheesh. but we had adopted a new code--it was millions for defense, but not a cent for bucksheesh. i asked him if he could persuade the others to depart if we paid him. he said yes--for ten francs. we accepted the contract, and said-- "now persuade your vassals to fall back." he swung his long staff round his head and three arabs bit the dust. he capered among the mob like a very maniac. his blows fell like hail, and wherever one fell a subject went down. we had to hurry to the rescue and tell him it was only necessary to damage them a little, he need not kill them.--in two minutes we were alone with the sheik, and remained so. the persuasive powers of this illiterate savage were remarkable. each side of the pyramid of cheops is about as long as the capitol at washington, or the sultan's new palace on the bosporus, and is longer than the greatest depth of st. peter's at rome--which is to say that each side of cheops extends seven hundred and some odd feet. it is about seventy-five feet higher than the cross on st. peter's. the first time i ever went down the mississippi, i thought the highest bluff on the river between st. louis and new orleans--it was near selma, missouri--was probably the highest mountain in the world. it is four hundred and thirteen feet high. it still looms in my memory with undiminished grandeur. i can still see the trees and bushes growing smaller and smaller as i followed them up its huge slant with my eye, till they became a feathery fringe on the distant summit. this symmetrical pyramid of cheops--this solid mountain of stone reared by the patient hands of men--this mighty tomb of a forgotten monarch--dwarfs my cherished mountain. for it is four hundred and eighty feet high. in still earlier years than those i have been recalling, holliday's hill, in our town, was to me the noblest work of god. it appeared to pierce the skies. it was nearly three hundred feet high. in those days i pondered the subject much, but i never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows. i had heard that such was the custom of great mountains in other parts of the world. i remembered how i worked with another boy, at odd afternoons stolen from study and paid for with stripes, to undermine and start from its bed an immense boulder that rested upon the edge of that hilltop; i remembered how, one saturday afternoon, we gave three hours of honest effort to the task, and saw at last that our reward was at hand; i remembered how we sat down, then, and wiped the perspiration away, and waited to let a picnic party get out of the way in the road below--and then we started the boulder. it was splendid. it went crashing down the hillside, tearing up saplings, mowing bushes down like grass, ripping and crushing and smashing every thing in its path--eternally splintered and scattered a wood pile at the foot of the hill, and then sprang from the high bank clear over a dray in the road--the negro glanced up once and dodged--and the next second it made infinitesimal mince-meat of a frame cooper-shop, and the coopers swarmed out like bees. then we said it was perfectly magnificent, and left. because the coopers were starting up the hill to inquire. still, that mountain, prodigious as it was, was nothing to the pyramid of cheops. i could conjure up no comparison that would convey to my mind a satisfactory comprehension of the magnitude of a pile of monstrous stones that covered thirteen acres of ground and stretched upward four hundred and eighty tiresome feet, and so i gave it up and walked down to the sphynx. after years of waiting, it was before me at last. the great face was so sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient. there was a dignity not of earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as never any thing human wore. it was stone, but it seemed sentient. if ever image of stone thought, it was thinking. it was looking toward the verge of the landscape, yet looking at nothing--nothing but distance and vacancy. it was looking over and beyond every thing of the present, and far into the past. it was gazing out over the ocean of time--over lines of century-waves which, further and further receding, closed nearer and nearer together, and blended at last into one unbroken tide, away toward the horizon of remote antiquity. it was thinking of the wars of departed ages; of the empires it had seen created and destroyed; of the nations whose birth it had witnessed, whose progress it had watched, whose annihilation it had noted; of the joy and sorrow, the life and death, the grandeur and decay, of five thousand slow revolving years. it was the type of an attribute of man--of a faculty of his heart and brain. it was memory--retrospection--wrought into visible, tangible form. all who know what pathos there is in memories of days that are accomplished and faces that have vanished--albeit only a trifling score of years gone by--will have some appreciation of the pathos that dwells in these grave eyes that look so steadfastly back upon the things they knew before history was born--before tradition had being--things that were, and forms that moved, in a vague era which even poetry and romance scarce know of--and passed one by one away and left the stony dreamer solitary in the midst of a strange new age, and uncomprehended scenes. the sphynx is grand in its loneliness; it is imposing in its magnitude; it is impressive in the mystery that hangs over its story. and there is that in the overshadowing majesty of this eternal figure of stone, with its accusing memory of the deeds of all ages, which reveals to one something of what he shall feel when he shall stand at last in the awful presence of god. there are some things which, for the credit of america, should be left unsaid, perhaps; but these very things happen sometimes to be the very things which, for the real benefit of americans, ought to have prominent notice. while we stood looking, a wart, or an excrescence of some kind, appeared on the jaw of the sphynx. we heard the familiar clink of a hammer, and understood the case at once. one of our well meaning reptiles--i mean relic-hunters--had crawled up there and was trying to break a "specimen" from the face of this the most majestic creation the hand of man has wrought. but the great image contemplated the dead ages as calmly as ever, unconscious of the small insect that was fretting at its jaw. egyptian granite that has defied the storms and earthquakes of all time has nothing to fear from the tack-hammers of ignorant excursionists--highwaymen like this specimen. he failed in his enterprise. we sent a sheik to arrest him if he had the authority, or to warn him, if he had not, that by the laws of egypt the crime he was attempting to commit was punishable with imprisonment or the bastinado. then he desisted and went away. the sphynx: a hundred and twenty-five feet long, sixty feet high, and a hundred and two feet around the head, if i remember rightly--carved out of one solid block of stone harder than any iron. the block must have been as large as the fifth avenue hotel before the usual waste (by the necessities of sculpture) of a fourth or a half of the original mass was begun. i only set down these figures and these remarks to suggest the prodigious labor the carving of it so elegantly, so symmetrically, so faultlessly, must have cost. this species of stone is so hard that figures cut in it remain sharp and unmarred after exposure to the weather for two or three thousand years. now did it take a hundred years of patient toil to carve the sphynx? it seems probable. something interfered, and we did not visit the red sea and walk upon the sands of arabia. i shall not describe the great mosque of mehemet ali, whose entire inner walls are built of polished and glistening alabaster; i shall not tell how the little birds have built their nests in the globes of the great chandeliers that hang in the mosque, and how they fill the whole place with their music and are not afraid of any body because their audacity is pardoned, their rights are respected, and nobody is allowed to interfere with them, even though the mosque be thus doomed to go unlighted; i certainly shall not tell the hackneyed story of the massacre of the mamelukes, because i am glad the lawless rascals were massacred, and i do not wish to get up any sympathy in their behalf; i shall not tell how that one solitary mameluke jumped his horse a hundred feet down from the battlements of the citadel and escaped, because i do not think much of that--i could have done it myself; i shall not tell of joseph's well which he dug in the solid rock of the citadel hill and which is still as good as new, nor how the same mules he bought to draw up the water (with an endless chain) are still at it yet and are getting tired of it, too; i shall not tell about joseph's granaries which he built to store the grain in, what time the egyptian brokers were "selling short," unwitting that there would be no corn in all the land when it should be time for them to deliver; i shall not tell any thing about the strange, strange city of cairo, because it is only a repetition, a good deal intensified and exaggerated, of the oriental cities i have already spoken of; i shall not tell of the great caravan which leaves for mecca every year, for i did not see it; nor of the fashion the people have of prostrating themselves and so forming a long human pavement to be ridden over by the chief of the expedition on its return, to the end that their salvation may be thus secured, for i did not see that either; i shall not speak of the railway, for it is like any other railway--i shall only say that the fuel they use for the locomotive is composed of mummies three thousand years old, purchased by the ton or by the graveyard for that purpose, and that sometimes one hears the profane engineer call out pettishly, "d--n these plebeians, they don't burn worth a cent--pass out a king;"--[stated to me for a fact. i only tell it as i got it. i am willing to believe it. i can believe any thing.]--i shall not tell of the groups of mud cones stuck like wasps' nests upon a thousand mounds above high water-mark the length and breadth of egypt--villages of the lower classes; i shall not speak of the boundless sweep of level plain, green with luxuriant grain, that gladdens the eye as far as it can pierce through the soft, rich atmosphere of egypt; i shall not speak of the vision of the pyramids seen at a distance of five and twenty miles, for the picture is too ethereal to be limned by an uninspired pen; i shall not tell of the crowds of dusky women who flocked to the cars when they stopped a moment at a station, to sell us a drink of water or a ruddy, juicy pomegranate; i shall not tell of the motley multitudes and wild costumes that graced a fair we found in full blast at another barbarous station; i shall not tell how we feasted on fresh dates and enjoyed the pleasant landscape all through the flying journey; nor how we thundered into alexandria, at last, swarmed out of the cars, rowed aboard the ship, left a comrade behind, (who was to return to europe, thence home,) raised the anchor, and turned our bows homeward finally and forever from the long voyage; nor how, as the mellow sun went down upon the oldest land on earth, jack and moult assembled in solemn state in the smoking-room and mourned over the lost comrade the whole night long, and would not be comforted. i shall not speak a word of any of these things, or write a line. they shall be as a sealed book. i do not know what a sealed book is, because i never saw one, but a sealed book is the expression to use in this connection, because it is popular. we were glad to have seen the land which was the mother of civilization --which taught greece her letters, and through greece rome, and through rome the world; the land which could have humanized and civilized the hapless children of israel, but allowed them to depart out of her borders little better than savages. we were glad to have seen that land which had an enlightened religion with future eternal rewards and punishment in it, while even israel's religion contained no promise of a hereafter. we were glad to have seen that land which had glass three thousand years before england had it, and could paint upon it as none of us can paint now; that land which knew, three thousand years ago, well nigh all of medicine and surgery which science has discovered lately; which had all those curious surgical instruments which science has invented recently; which had in high excellence a thousand luxuries and necessities of an advanced civilization which we have gradually contrived and accumulated in modern times and claimed as things that were new under the sun; that had paper untold centuries before we dreampt of it--and waterfalls before our women thought of them; that had a perfect system of common schools so long before we boasted of our achievements in that direction that it seems forever and forever ago; that so embalmed the dead that flesh was made almost immortal--which we can not do; that built temples which mock at destroying time and smile grimly upon our lauded little prodigies of architecture; that old land that knew all which we know now, perchance, and more; that walked in the broad highway of civilization in the gray dawn of creation, ages and ages before we were born; that left the impress of exalted, cultivated mind upon the eternal front of the sphynx to confound all scoffers who, when all her other proofs had passed away, might seek to persuade the world that imperial egypt, in the days of her high renown, had groped in darkness. chapter lix. we were at sea now, for a very long voyage--we were to pass through the entire length of the levant; through the entire length of the mediterranean proper, also, and then cross the full width of the atlantic--a voyage of several weeks. we naturally settled down into a very slow, stay-at-home manner of life, and resolved to be quiet, exemplary people, and roam no more for twenty or thirty days. no more, at least, than from stem to stern of the ship. it was a very comfortable prospect, though, for we were tired and needed a long rest. we were all lazy and satisfied, now, as the meager entries in my note-book (that sure index, to me, of my condition), prove. what a stupid thing a note-book gets to be at sea, any way. please observe the style: "sunday--services, as usual, at four bells. services at night, also. no cards. "monday--beautiful day, but rained hard. the cattle purchased at alexandria for beef ought to be shingled. or else fattened. the water stands in deep puddles in the depressions forward of their after shoulders. also here and there all over their backs. it is well they are not cows--it would soak in and ruin the milk. the poor devil eagle--[afterwards presented to the central park.]--from syria looks miserable and droopy in the rain, perched on the forward capstan. he appears to have his own opinion of a sea voyage, and if it were put into language and the language solidified, it would probably essentially dam the widest river in the world. "tuesday--somewhere in the neighborhood of the island of malta. can not stop there. cholera. weather very stormy. many passengers seasick and invisible. "wednesday--weather still very savage. storm blew two land birds to sea, and they came on board. a hawk was blown off, also. he circled round and round the ship, wanting to light, but afraid of the people. he was so tired, though, that he had to light, at last, or perish. he stopped in the foretop, repeatedly, and was as often blown away by the wind. at last harry caught him. sea full of flying-fish. they rise in flocks of three hundred and flash along above the tops of the waves a distance of two or three hundred feet, then fall and disappear. "thursday--anchored off algiers, africa. beautiful city, beautiful green hilly landscape behind it. staid half a day and left. not permitted to land, though we showed a clean bill of health. they were afraid of egyptian plague and cholera. "friday--morning, dominoes. afternoon, dominoes. evening, promenading the deck. afterwards, charades. "saturday--morning, dominoes. afternoon, dominoes. evening, promenading the decks. afterwards, dominoes. "sunday--morning service, four bells. evening service, eight bells. monotony till midnight.--whereupon, dominoes. "monday--morning, dominoes. afternoon, dominoes. evening, promenading the decks. afterward, charades and a lecture from dr. c. dominoes. "no date--anchored off the picturesque city of cagliari, sardinia. staid till midnight, but not permitted to land by these infamous foreigners. they smell inodorously--they do not wash--they dare not risk cholera. "thursday--anchored off the beautiful cathedral city of malaga, spain.--went ashore in the captain's boat--not ashore, either, for they would not let us land. quarantine. shipped my newspaper correspondence, which they took with tongs, dipped it in sea water, clipped it full of holes, and then fumigated it with villainous vapors till it smelt like a spaniard. inquired about chances to run to blockade and visit the alhambra at granada. too risky--they might hang a body. set sail--middle of afternoon. "and so on, and so on, and so forth, for several days. finally, anchored off gibraltar, which looks familiar and home-like." it reminds me of the journal i opened with the new year, once, when i was a boy and a confiding and a willing prey to those impossible schemes of reform which well-meaning old maids and grandmothers set for the feet of unwary youths at that season of the year--setting oversized tasks for them, which, necessarily failing, as infallibly weaken the boy's strength of will, diminish his confidence in himself and injure his chances of success in life. please accept of an extract: "monday--got up, washed, went to bed. "tuesday--got up, washed, went to bed. "wednesday--got up, washed, went to bed. "thursday--got up, washed, went to bed. "friday--got up, washed, went to bed. "next friday--got up, washed, went to bed. "friday fortnight--got up, washed, went to bed. "following month--got up, washed, went to bed." i stopped, then, discouraged. startling events appeared to be too rare, in my career, to render a diary necessary. i still reflect with pride, however, that even at that early age i washed when i got up. that journal finished me. i never have had the nerve to keep one since. my loss of confidence in myself in that line was permanent. the ship had to stay a week or more at gibraltar to take in coal for the home voyage. it would be very tiresome staying here, and so four of us ran the quarantine blockade and spent seven delightful days in seville, cordova, cadiz, and wandering through the pleasant rural scenery of andalusia, the garden of old spain. the experiences of that cheery week were too varied and numerous for a short chapter and i have not room for a long one. therefore i shall leave them all out. chapter lx. ten or eleven o'clock found us coming down to breakfast one morning in cadiz. they told us the ship had been lying at anchor in the harbor two or three hours. it was time for us to bestir ourselves. the ship could wait only a little while because of the quarantine. we were soon on board, and within the hour the white city and the pleasant shores of spain sank down behind the waves and passed out of sight. we had seen no land fade from view so regretfully. it had long ago been decided in a noisy public meeting in the main cabin that we could not go to lisbon, because we must surely be quarantined there. we did every thing by mass-meeting, in the good old national way, from swapping off one empire for another on the programme of the voyage down to complaining of the cookery and the scarcity of napkins. i am reminded, now, of one of these complaints of the cookery made by a passenger. the coffee had been steadily growing more and more execrable for the space of three weeks, till at last it had ceased to be coffee altogether and had assumed the nature of mere discolored water--so this person said. he said it was so weak that it was transparent an inch in depth around the edge of the cup. as he approached the table one morning he saw the transparent edge--by means of his extraordinary vision long before he got to his seat. he went back and complained in a high-handed way to capt. duncan. he said the coffee was disgraceful. the captain showed his. it seemed tolerably good. the incipient mutineer was more outraged than ever, then, at what he denounced as the partiality shown the captain's table over the other tables in the ship. he flourished back and got his cup and set it down triumphantly, and said: "just try that mixture once, captain duncan." he smelt it--tasted it--smiled benignantly--then said: "it is inferior--for coffee--but it is pretty fair tea." the humbled mutineer smelt it, tasted it, and returned to his seat. he had made an egregious ass of himself before the whole ship. he did it no more. after that he took things as they came. that was me. the old-fashioned ship-life had returned, now that we were no longer in sight of land. for days and days it continued just the same, one day being exactly like another, and, to me, every one of them pleasant. at last we anchored in the open roadstead of funchal, in the beautiful islands we call the madeiras. the mountains looked surpassingly lovely, clad as they were in living, green; ribbed with lava ridges; flecked with white cottages; riven by deep chasms purple with shade; the great slopes dashed with sunshine and mottled with shadows flung from the drifting squadrons of the sky, and the superb picture fitly crowned by towering peaks whose fronts were swept by the trailing fringes of the clouds. but we could not land. we staid all day and looked, we abused the man who invented quarantine, we held half a dozen mass-meetings and crammed them full of interrupted speeches, motions that fell still-born, amendments that came to nought and resolutions that died from sheer exhaustion in trying to get before the house. at night we set sail. we averaged four mass-meetings a week for the voyage--we seemed always in labor in this way, and yet so often fallaciously that whenever at long intervals we were safely delivered of a resolution, it was cause for public rejoicing, and we hoisted the flag and fired a salute. days passed--and nights; and then the beautiful bermudas rose out of the sea, we entered the tortuous channel, steamed hither and thither among the bright summer islands, and rested at last under the flag of england and were welcome. we were not a nightmare here, where were civilization and intelligence in place of spanish and italian superstition, dirt and dread of cholera. a few days among the breezy groves, the flower gardens, the coral caves, and the lovely vistas of blue water that went curving in and out, disappearing and anon again appearing through jungle walls of brilliant foliage, restored the energies dulled by long drowsing on the ocean, and fitted us for our final cruise--our little run of a thousand miles to new york--america--home. we bade good-bye to "our friends the bermudians," as our programme hath it--the majority of those we were most intimate with were negroes--and courted the great deep again. i said the majority. we knew more negroes than white people, because we had a deal of washing to be done, but we made some most excellent friends among the whites, whom it will be a pleasant duty to hold long in grateful remembrance. we sailed, and from that hour all idling ceased. such another system of overhauling, general littering of cabins and packing of trunks we had not seen since we let go the anchor in the harbor of beirout. every body was busy. lists of all purchases had to be made out, and values attached, to facilitate matters at the custom-house. purchases bought by bulk in partnership had to be equitably divided, outstanding debts canceled, accounts compared, and trunks, boxes and packages labeled. all day long the bustle and confusion continued. and now came our first accident. a passenger was running through a gangway, between decks, one stormy night, when he caught his foot in the iron staple of a door that had been heedlessly left off a hatchway, and the bones of his leg broke at the ancle. it was our first serious misfortune. we had traveled much more than twenty thousand miles, by land and sea, in many trying climates, without a single hurt, without a serious case of sickness and without a death among five and sixty passengers. our good fortune had been wonderful. a sailor had jumped overboard at constantinople one night, and was seen no more, but it was suspected that his object was to desert, and there was a slim chance, at least, that he reached the shore. but the passenger list was complete. there was no name missing from the register. at last, one pleasant morning, we steamed up the harbor of new york, all on deck, all dressed in christian garb--by special order, for there was a latent disposition in some quarters to come out as turks--and amid a waving of handkerchiefs from welcoming friends, the glad pilgrims noted the shiver of the decks that told that ship and pier had joined hands again and the long, strange cruise was over. amen. chapter lxi. in this place i will print an article which i wrote for the new york herald the night we arrived. i do it partly because my contract with my publishers makes it compulsory; partly because it is a proper, tolerably accurate, and exhaustive summing up of the cruise of the ship and the performances of the pilgrims in foreign lands; and partly because some of the passengers have abused me for writing it, and i wish the public to see how thankless a task it is to put one's self to trouble to glorify unappreciative people. i was charged with "rushing into print" with these compliments. i did not rush. i had written news letters to the herald sometimes, but yet when i visited the office that day i did not say any thing about writing a valedictory. i did go to the tribune office to see if such an article was wanted, because i belonged on the regular staff of that paper and it was simply a duty to do it. the managing editor was absent, and so i thought no more about it. at night when the herald's request came for an article, i did not "rush." in fact, i demurred for a while, because i did not feel like writing compliments then, and therefore was afraid to speak of the cruise lest i might be betrayed into using other than complimentary language. however, i reflected that it would be a just and righteous thing to go down and write a kind word for the hadjis--hadjis are people who have made the pilgrimage--because parties not interested could not do it so feelingly as i, a fellow-hadji, and so i penned the valedictory. i have read it, and read it again; and if there is a sentence in it that is not fulsomely complimentary to captain, ship and passengers, i can not find it. if it is not a chapter that any company might be proud to have a body write about them, my judgment is fit for nothing. with these remarks i confidently submit it to the unprejudiced judgment of the reader: return of the holy land excursionists--the story of the cruise. to the editor of the herald: the steamer quaker city has accomplished at last her extraordinary voyage and returned to her old pier at the foot of wall street. the expedition was a success in some respects, in some it was not. originally it was advertised as a "pleasure excursion." well, perhaps, it was a pleasure excursion, but certainly it did not look like one; certainly it did not act like one. any body's and every body's notion of a pleasure excursion is that the parties to it will of a necessity be young and giddy and somewhat boisterous. they will dance a good deal, sing a good deal, make love, but sermonize very little. any body's and every body's notion of a well conducted funeral is that there must be a hearse and a corpse, and chief mourners and mourners by courtesy, many old people, much solemnity, no levity, and a prayer and a sermon withal. three-fourths of the quaker city's passengers were between forty and seventy years of age! there was a picnic crowd for you! it may be supposed that the other fourth was composed of young girls. but it was not. it was chiefly composed of rusty old bachelors and a child of six years. let us average the ages of the quaker city's pilgrims and set the figure down as fifty years. is any man insane enough to imagine that this picnic of patriarchs sang, made love, danced, laughed, told anecdotes, dealt in ungodly levity? in my experience they sinned little in these matters. no doubt it was presumed here at home that these frolicsome veterans laughed and sang and romped all day, and day after day, and kept up a noisy excitement from one end of the ship to the other; and that they played blind-man's buff or danced quadrilles and waltzes on moonlight evenings on the quarter-deck; and that at odd moments of unoccupied time they jotted a laconic item or two in the journals they opened on such an elaborate plan when they left home, and then skurried off to their whist and euchre labors under the cabin lamps. if these things were presumed, the presumption was at fault. the venerable excursionists were not gay and frisky. they played no blind-man's buff; they dealt not in whist; they shirked not the irksome journal, for alas! most of them were even writing books. they never romped, they talked but little, they never sang, save in the nightly prayer-meeting. the pleasure ship was a synagogue, and the pleasure trip was a funeral excursion without a corpse. (there is nothing exhilarating about a funeral excursion without a corpse.) a free, hearty laugh was a sound that was not heard oftener than once in seven days about those decks or in those cabins, and when it was heard it met with precious little sympathy. the excursionists danced, on three separate evenings, long, long ago, (it seems an age.) quadrilles, of a single set, made up of three ladies and five gentlemen, (the latter with handkerchiefs around their arms to signify their sex) who timed their feet to the solemn wheezing of a melodeon; but even this melancholy orgie was voted to be sinful, and dancing was discontinued. the pilgrims played dominoes when too much josephus or robinson's holy land researches, or book-writing, made recreation necessary -- for dominoes is about as mild and sinless a game as any in the world, perhaps, excepting always the ineffably insipid diversion they call croquet, which is a game where you don't pocket any balls and don't carom on any thing of any consequence, and when you are done nobody has to pay, and there are no refreshments to saw off, and, consequently, there isn't any satisfaction whatever about it -- they played dominoes till they were rested, and then they blackguarded each other privately till prayer-time. when they were not seasick they were uncommonly prompt when the dinner-gong sounded. such was our daily life on board the ship--solemnity, decorum, dinner, dominoes, devotions, slander. it was not lively enough for a pleasure trip; but if we had only had a corpse it would have made a noble funeral excursion. it is all over now; but when i look back, the idea of these venerable fossils skipping forth on a six months' picnic, seems exquisitely refreshing. the advertised title of the expedition--"the grand holy land pleasure excursion" -- was a misnomer. "the grand holy land funeral procession" would have been better--much better. wherever we went, in europe, asia, or africa, we made a sensation, and, i suppose i may add, created a famine. none of us had ever been any where before; we all hailed from the interior; travel was a wild novelty to us, and we conducted ourselves in accordance with the natural instincts that were in us, and trammeled ourselves with no ceremonies, no conventionalities. we always took care to make it understood that we were americans--americans! when we found that a good many foreigners had hardly ever heard of america, and that a good many more knew it only as a barbarous province away off somewhere, that had lately been at war with somebody, we pitied the ignorance of the old world, but abated no jot of our importance. many and many a simple community in the eastern hemisphere will remember for years the incursion of the strange horde in the year of our lord , that called themselves americans, and seemed to imagine in some unaccountable way that they had a right to be proud of it. we generally created a famine, partly because the coffee on the quaker city was unendurable, and sometimes the more substantial fare was not strictly first class; and partly because one naturally tires of sitting long at the same board and eating from the same dishes. the people of those foreign countries are very, very ignorant. they looked curiously at the costumes we had brought from the wilds of america. they observed that we talked loudly at table sometimes. they noticed that we looked out for expenses, and got what we conveniently could out of a franc, and wondered where in the mischief we came from. in paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in french! we never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language. one of our passengers said to a shopkeeper, in reference to a proposed return to buy a pair of gloves, "allong restay trankeel--may be ve coom moonday;" and would you believe it, that shopkeeper, a born frenchman, had to ask what it was that had been said. sometimes it seems to me, somehow, that there must be a difference between parisian french and quaker city french. the people stared at us every where, and we stared at them. we generally made them feel rather small, too, before we got done with them, because we bore down on them with america's greatness until we crushed them. and yet we took kindly to the manners and customs, and especially to the fashions of the various people we visited. when we left the azores, we wore awful capotes and used fine tooth combs--successfully. when we came back from tangier, in africa, we were topped with fezzes of the bloodiest hue, hung with tassels like an indian's scalp-lock. in france and spain we attracted some attention in these costumes. in italy they naturally took us for distempered garibaldians, and set a gunboat to look for any thing significant in our changes of uniform. we made rome howl. we could have made any place howl when we had all our clothes on. we got no fresh raiment in greece--they had but little there of any kind. but at constantinople, how we turned out! turbans, scimetars, fezzes, horse-pistols, tunics, sashes, baggy trowsers, yellow slippers--oh, we were gorgeous! the illustrious dogs of constantinople barked their under jaws off, and even then failed to do us justice. they are all dead by this time. they could not go through such a run of business as we gave them and survive. and then we went to see the emperor of russia. we just called on him as comfortably as if we had known him a century or so, and when we had finished our visit we variegated ourselves with selections from russian costumes and sailed away again more picturesque than ever. in smyrna we picked up camel's hair shawls and other dressy things from persia; but in palestine--ah, in palestine--our splendid career ended. they didn't wear any clothes there to speak of. we were satisfied, and stopped. we made no experiments. we did not try their costume. but we astonished the natives of that country. we astonished them with such eccentricities of dress as we could muster. we prowled through the holy land, from cesarea philippi to jerusalem and the dead sea, a weird procession of pilgrims, gotten up regardless of expense, solemn, gorgeous, green-spectacled, drowsing under blue umbrellas, and astride of a sorrier lot of horses, camels and asses than those that came out of noah's ark, after eleven months of seasickness and short rations. if ever those children of israel in palestine forget when gideon's band went through there from america, they ought to be cursed once more and finished. it was the rarest spectacle that ever astounded mortal eyes, perhaps. well, we were at home in palestine. it was easy to see that that was the grand feature of the expedition. we had cared nothing much about europe. we galloped through the louvre, the pitti, the ufizzi, the vatican--all the galleries--and through the pictured and frescoed churches of venice, naples, and the cathedrals of spain; some of us said that certain of the great works of the old masters were glorious creations of genius, (we found it out in the guide-book, though we got hold of the wrong picture sometimes,) and the others said they were disgraceful old daubs. we examined modern and ancient statuary with a critical eye in florence, rome, or any where we found it, and praised it if we saw fit, and if we didn't we said we preferred the wooden indians in front of the cigar stores of america. but the holy land brought out all our enthusiasm. we fell into raptures by the barren shores of galilee; we pondered at tabor and at nazareth; we exploded into poetry over the questionable loveliness of esdraelon; we meditated at jezreel and samaria over the missionary zeal of jehu; we rioted--fairly rioted among the holy places of jerusalem; we bathed in jordan and the dead sea, reckless whether our accident-insurance policies were extra-hazardous or not, and brought away so many jugs of precious water from both places that all the country from jericho to the mountains of moab will suffer from drouth this year, i think. yet, the pilgrimage part of the excursion was its pet feature--there is no question about that. after dismal, smileless palestine, beautiful egypt had few charms for us. we merely glanced at it and were ready for home. they wouldn't let us land at malta--quarantine; they would not let us land in sardinia; nor at algiers, africa; nor at malaga, spain, nor cadiz, nor at the madeira islands. so we got offended at all foreigners and turned our backs upon them and came home. i suppose we only stopped at the bermudas because they were in the programme. we did not care any thing about any place at all. we wanted to go home. homesickness was abroad in the ship--it was epidemic. if the authorities of new york had known how badly we had it, they would have quarantined us here. the grand pilgrimage is over. good-bye to it, and a pleasant memory to it, i am able to say in all kindness. i bear no malice, no ill-will toward any individual that was connected with it, either as passenger or officer. things i did not like at all yesterday i like very well to-day, now that i am at home, and always hereafter i shall be able to poke fun at the whole gang if the spirit so moves me to do, without ever saying a malicious word. the expedition accomplished all that its programme promised that it should accomplish, and we ought all to be satisfied with the management of the matter, certainly. bye-bye! mark twain. i call that complimentary. it is complimentary; and yet i never have received a word of thanks for it from the hadjis; on the contrary i speak nothing but the serious truth when i say that many of them even took exceptions to the article. in endeavoring to please them i slaved over that sketch for two hours, and had my labor for my pains. i never will do a generous deed again. conclusion. nearly one year has flown since this notable pilgrimage was ended; and as i sit here at home in san francisco thinking, i am moved to confess that day by day the mass of my memories of the excursion have grown more and more pleasant as the disagreeable incidents of travel which encumbered them flitted one by one out of my mind--and now, if the quaker city were weighing her anchor to sail away on the very same cruise again, nothing could gratify me more than to be a passenger. with the same captain and even the same pilgrims, the same sinners. i was on excellent terms with eight or nine of the excursionists (they are my staunch friends yet), and was even on speaking terms with the rest of the sixty-five. i have been at sea quite enough to know that that was a very good average. because a long sea-voyage not only brings out all the mean traits one has, and exaggerates them, but raises up others which he never suspected he possessed, and even creates new ones. a twelve months' voyage at sea would make of an ordinary man a very miracle of meanness. on the other hand, if a man has good qualities, the spirit seldom moves him to exhibit them on shipboard, at least with any sort of emphasis. now i am satisfied that our pilgrims are pleasant old people on shore; i am also satisfied that at sea on a second voyage they would be pleasanter, somewhat, than they were on our grand excursion, and so i say without hesitation that i would be glad enough to sail with them again. i could at least enjoy life with my handful of old friends. they could enjoy life with their cliques as well--passengers invariably divide up into cliques, on all ships. and i will say, here, that i would rather travel with an excursion party of methuselahs than have to be changing ships and comrades constantly, as people do who travel in the ordinary way. those latter are always grieving over some other ship they have known and lost, and over other comrades whom diverging routes have separated from them. they learn to love a ship just in time to change it for another, and they become attached to a pleasant traveling companion only to lose him. they have that most dismal experience of being in a strange vessel, among strange people who care nothing about them, and of undergoing the customary bullying by strange officers and the insolence of strange servants, repeated over and over again within the compass of every month. they have also that other misery of packing and unpacking trunks--of running the distressing gauntlet of custom-houses--of the anxieties attendant upon getting a mass of baggage from point to point on land in safety. i had rather sail with a whole brigade of patriarchs than suffer so. we never packed our trunks but twice--when we sailed from new york, and when we returned to it. whenever we made a land journey, we estimated how many days we should be gone and what amount of clothing we should need, figured it down to a mathematical nicety, packed a valise or two accordingly, and left the trunks on board. we chose our comrades from among our old, tried friends, and started. we were never dependent upon strangers for companionship. we often had occasion to pity americans whom we found traveling drearily among strangers with no friends to exchange pains and pleasures with. whenever we were coming back from a land journey, our eyes sought one thing in the distance first--the ship --and when we saw it riding at anchor with the flag apeak, we felt as a returning wanderer feels when he sees his home. when we stepped on board, our cares vanished, our troubles were at an end--for the ship was home to us. we always had the same familiar old state-room to go to, and feel safe and at peace and comfortable again. i have no fault to find with the manner in which our excursion was conducted. its programme was faithfully carried out--a thing which surprised me, for great enterprises usually promise vastly more than they perform. it would be well if such an excursion could be gotten up every year and the system regularly inaugurated. travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things can not be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime. the excursion is ended, and has passed to its place among the things that were. but its varied scenes and its manifold incidents will linger pleasantly in our memories for many a year to come. always on the wing, as we were, and merely pausing a moment to catch fitful glimpses of the wonders of half a world, we could not hope to receive or retain vivid impressions of all it was our fortune to see. yet our holyday flight has not been in vain--for above the confusion of vague recollections, certain of its best prized pictures lift themselves and will still continue perfect in tint and outline after their surroundings shall have faded away. we shall remember something of pleasant france; and something also of paris, though it flashed upon us a splendid meteor, and was gone again, we hardly knew how or where. we shall remember, always, how we saw majestic gibraltar glorified with the rich coloring of a spanish sunset and swimming in a sea of rainbows. in fancy we shall see milan again, and her stately cathedral with its marble wilderness of graceful spires. and padua--verona--como, jeweled with stars; and patrician venice, afloat on her stagnant flood--silent, desolate, haughty--scornful of her humbled state--wrapping herself in memories of her lost fleets, of battle and triumph, and all the pageantry of a glory that is departed. we can not forget florence--naples--nor the foretaste of heaven that is in the delicious atmosphere of greece--and surely not athens and the broken temples of the acropolis. surely not venerable rome--nor the green plain that compasses her round about, contrasting its brightness with her gray decay--nor the ruined arches that stand apart in the plain and clothe their looped and windowed raggedness with vines. we shall remember st. peter's: not as one sees it when he walks the streets of rome and fancies all her domes are just alike, but as he sees it leagues away, when every meaner edifice has faded out of sight and that one dome looms superbly up in the flush of sunset, full of dignity and grace, strongly outlined as a mountain. we shall remember constantinople and the bosporus--the colossal magnificence of baalbec--the pyramids of egypt--the prodigious form, the benignant countenance of the sphynx--oriental smyrna--sacred jerusalem --damascus, the "pearl of the east," the pride of syria, the fabled garden of eden, the home of princes and genii of the arabian nights, the oldest metropolis on earth, the one city in all the world that has kept its name and held its place and looked serenely on while the kingdoms and empires of four thousand years have risen to life, enjoyed their little season of pride and pomp, and then vanished and been forgotten! innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . chapter xxi. we voyaged by steamer down the lago di lecco, through wild mountain scenery, and by hamlets and villas, and disembarked at the town of lecco. they said it was two hours, by carriage to the ancient city of bergamo, and that we would arrive there in good season for the railway train. we got an open barouche and a wild, boisterous driver, and set out. it was delightful. we had a fast team and a perfectly smooth road. there were towering cliffs on our left, and the pretty lago di lecco on our right, and every now and then it rained on us. just before starting, the driver picked up, in the street, a stump of a cigar an inch long, and put it in his mouth. when he had carried it thus about an hour, i thought it would be only christian charity to give him a light. i handed him my cigar, which i had just lit, and he put it in his mouth and returned his stump to his pocket! i never saw a more sociable man. at least i never saw a man who was more sociable on a short acquaintance. we saw interior italy, now. the houses were of solid stone, and not often in good repair. the peasants and their children were idle, as a general thing, and the donkeys and chickens made themselves at home in drawing-room and bed-chamber and were not molested. the drivers of each and every one of the slow-moving market-carts we met were stretched in the sun upon their merchandise, sound a sleep. every three or four hundred yards, it seemed to me, we came upon the shrine of some saint or other--a rude picture of him built into a huge cross or a stone pillar by the road-side.--some of the pictures of the saviour were curiosities in their way. they represented him stretched upon the cross, his countenance distorted with agony. from the wounds of the crown of thorns; from the pierced side; from the mutilated hands and feet; from the scourged body--from every hand-breadth of his person streams of blood were flowing! such a gory, ghastly spectacle would frighten the children out of their senses, i should think. there were some unique auxiliaries to the painting which added to its spirited effect. these were genuine wooden and iron implements, and were prominently disposed round about the figure: a bundle of nails; the hammer to drive them; the sponge; the reed that supported it; the cup of vinegar; the ladder for the ascent of the cross; the spear that pierced the saviour's side. the crown of thorns was made of real thorns, and was nailed to the sacred head. in some italian church-paintings, even by the old masters, the saviour and the virgin wear silver or gilded crowns that are fastened to the pictured head with nails. the effect is as grotesque as it is incongruous. here and there, on the fronts of roadside inns, we found huge, coarse frescoes of suffering martyrs like those in the shrines. it could not have diminished their sufferings any to be so uncouthly represented. we were in the heart and home of priest craft--of a happy, cheerful, contented ignorance, superstition, degradation, poverty, indolence, and everlasting unaspiring worthlessness. and we said fervently: it suits these people precisely; let them enjoy it, along with the other animals, and heaven forbid that they be molested. we feel no malice toward these fumigators. we passed through the strangest, funniest, undreampt-of old towns, wedded to the customs and steeped in the dreams of the elder ages, and perfectly unaware that the world turns round! and perfectly indifferent, too, as to whether it turns around or stands still. they have nothing to do but eat and sleep and sleep and eat, and toil a little when they can get a friend to stand by and keep them awake. they are not paid for thinking --they are not paid to fret about the world's concerns. they were not respectable people--they were not worthy people--they were not learned and wise and brilliant people--but in their breasts, all their stupid lives long, resteth a peace that passeth understanding! how can men, calling themselves men, consent to be so degraded and happy. we whisked by many a gray old medieval castle, clad thick with ivy that swung its green banners down from towers and turrets where once some old crusader's flag had floated. the driver pointed to one of these ancient fortresses, and said, (i translate): "do you see that great iron hook that projects from the wall just under the highest window in the ruined tower?" we said we could not see it at such a distance, but had no doubt it was there. "well," he said; "there is a legend connected with that iron hook. nearly seven hundred years ago, that castle was the property of the noble count luigi gennaro guido alphonso di genova----" "what was his other name?" said dan. "he had no other name. the name i have spoken was all the name he had. he was the son of----" "poor but honest parents--that is all right--never mind the particulars --go on with the legend." the legend. well, then, all the world, at that time, was in a wild excitement about the holy sepulchre. all the great feudal lords in europe were pledging their lands and pawning their plate to fit out men-at-arms so that they might join the grand armies of christendom and win renown in the holy wars. the count luigi raised money, like the rest, and one mild september morning, armed with battle-ax, portcullis and thundering culverin, he rode through the greaves and bucklers of his donjon-keep with as gallant a troop of christian bandits as ever stepped in italy. he had his sword, excalibur, with him. his beautiful countess and her young daughter waved him a tearful adieu from the battering-rams and buttresses of the fortress, and he galloped away with a happy heart. he made a raid on a neighboring baron and completed his outfit with the booty secured. he then razed the castle to the ground, massacred the family and moved on. they were hardy fellows in the grand old days of chivalry. alas! those days will never come again. count luigi grew high in fame in holy land. he plunged into the carnage of a hundred battles, but his good excalibur always brought him out alive, albeit often sorely wounded. his face became browned by exposure to the syrian sun in long marches; he suffered hunger and thirst; he pined in prisons, he languished in loathsome plague-hospitals. and many and many a time he thought of his loved ones at home, and wondered if all was well with them. but his heart said, peace, is not thy brother watching over thy household? * * * * * * * forty-two years waxed and waned; the good fight was won; godfrey reigned in jerusalem--the christian hosts reared the banner of the cross above the holy sepulchre! twilight was approaching. fifty harlequins, in flowing robes, approached this castle wearily, for they were on foot, and the dust upon their garments betokened that they had traveled far. they overtook a peasant, and asked him if it were likely they could get food and a hospitable bed there, for love of christian charity, and if perchance, a moral parlor entertainment might meet with generous countenance--"for," said they, "this exhibition hath no feature that could offend the most fastidious taste." "marry," quoth the peasant, "an' it please your worships, ye had better journey many a good rood hence with your juggling circus than trust your bones in yonder castle." "how now, sirrah!" exclaimed the chief monk, "explain thy ribald speech, or by'r lady it shall go hard with thee." "peace, good mountebank, i did but utter the truth that was in my heart. san paolo be my witness that did ye but find the stout count leonardo in his cups, sheer from the castle's topmost battlements would he hurl ye all! alack-a-day, the good lord luigi reigns not here in these sad times." "the good lord luigi?" "aye, none other, please your worship. in his day, the poor rejoiced in plenty and the rich he did oppress; taxes were not known, the fathers of the church waxed fat upon his bounty; travelers went and came, with none to interfere; and whosoever would, might tarry in his halls in cordial welcome, and eat his bread and drink his wine, withal. but woe is me! some two and forty years agone the good count rode hence to fight for holy cross, and many a year hath flown since word or token have we had of him. men say his bones lie bleaching in the fields of palestine." "and now?" "now! god 'a mercy, the cruel leonardo lords it in the castle. he wrings taxes from the poor; he robs all travelers that journey by his gates; he spends his days in feuds and murders, and his nights in revel and debauch; he roasts the fathers of the church upon his kitchen spits, and enjoyeth the same, calling it pastime. these thirty years luigi's countess hath not been seen by any [he] in all this land, and many whisper that she pines in the dungeons of the castle for that she will not wed with leonardo, saying her dear lord still liveth and that she will die ere she prove false to him. they whisper likewise that her daughter is a prisoner as well. nay, good jugglers, seek ye refreshment other wheres. 'twere better that ye perished in a christian way than that ye plunged from off yon dizzy tower. give ye good-day." "god keep ye, gentle knave--farewell." but heedless of the peasant's warning, the players moved straightway toward the castle. word was brought to count leonardo that a company of mountebanks besought his hospitality. "'tis well. dispose of them in the customary manner. yet stay! i have need of them. let them come hither. later, cast them from the battlements--or--how many priests have ye on hand?" "the day's results are meagre, good my lord. an abbot and a dozen beggarly friars is all we have." "hell and furies! is the estate going to seed? send hither the mountebanks. afterward, broil them with the priests." the robed and close-cowled harlequins entered. the grim leonardo sate in state at the head of his council board. ranged up and down the hall on either hand stood near a hundred men-at-arms. "ha, villains!" quoth the count, "what can ye do to earn the hospitality ye crave." "dread lord and mighty, crowded audiences have greeted our humble efforts with rapturous applause. among our body count we the versatile and talented ugolino; the justly celebrated rodolpho; the gifted and accomplished roderigo; the management have spared neither pains nor expense--" "s'death! what can ye do? curb thy prating tongue." "good my lord, in acrobatic feats, in practice with the dumb-bells, in balancing and ground and lofty tumbling are we versed--and sith your highness asketh me, i venture here to publish that in the truly marvelous and entertaining zampillaerostation--" "gag him! throttle him! body of bacchus! am i a dog that i am to be assailed with polysyllabled blasphemy like to this? but hold! lucretia, isabel, stand forth! sirrah, behold this dame, this weeping wench. the first i marry, within the hour; the other shall dry her tears or feed the vultures. thou and thy vagabonds shall crown the wedding with thy merry-makings. fetch hither the priest!" the dame sprang toward the chief player. "o, save me!" she cried; "save me from a fate far worse than death! behold these sad eyes, these sunken cheeks, this withered frame! see thou the wreck this fiend hath made, and let thy heart be moved with pity! look upon this damosel; note her wasted form, her halting step, her bloomless cheeks where youth should blush and happiness exult in smiles! hear us and have compassion. this monster was my husband's brother. he who should have been our shield against all harm, hath kept us shut within the noisome caverns of his donjon-keep for lo these thirty years. and for what crime? none other than that i would not belie my troth, root out my strong love for him who marches with the legions of the cross in holy land, (for o, he is not dead!) and wed with him! save us, o, save thy persecuted suppliants!" she flung herself at his feet and clasped his knees. "ha!-ha!-ha!" shouted the brutal leonardo. "priest, to thy work!" and he dragged the weeping dame from her refuge. "say, once for all, will you be mine?--for by my halidome, that breath that uttereth thy refusal shall be thy last on earth!" "ne-ver?" "then die!" and the sword leaped from its scabbard. quicker than thought, quicker than the lightning's flash, fifty monkish habits disappeared, and fifty knights in splendid armor stood revealed! fifty falchions gleamed in air above the men-at-arms, and brighter, fiercer than them all, flamed excalibur aloft, and cleaving downward struck the brutal leonardo's weapon from his grasp! "a luigi to the rescue! whoop!" "a leonardo! 'tare an ouns!'" "oh, god, oh, god, my husband!" "oh, god, oh, god, my wife!" "my father!" "my precious!" [tableau.] count luigi bound his usurping brother hand and foot. the practiced knights from palestine made holyday sport of carving the awkward men-at-arms into chops and steaks. the victory was complete. happiness reigned. the knights all married the daughter. joy! wassail! finis! "but what did they do with the wicked brother?" "oh nothing--only hanged him on that iron hook i was speaking of. by the chin." "as how?" "passed it up through his gills into his mouth." "leave him there?" "couple of years." "ah--is--is he dead?" "six hundred and fifty years ago, or such a matter." "splendid legend--splendid lie--drive on." we reached the quaint old fortified city of bergamo, the renowned in history, some three-quarters of an hour before the train was ready to start. the place has thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and is remarkable for being the birthplace of harlequin. when we discovered that, that legend of our driver took to itself a new interest in our eyes. rested and refreshed, we took the rail happy and contented. i shall not tarry to speak of the handsome lago di gardi; its stately castle that holds in its stony bosom the secrets of an age so remote that even tradition goeth not back to it; the imposing mountain scenery that ennobles the landscape thereabouts; nor yet of ancient padua or haughty verona; nor of their montagues and capulets, their famous balconies and tombs of juliet and romeo et al., but hurry straight to the ancient city of the sea, the widowed bride of the adriatic. it was a long, long ride. but toward evening, as we sat silent and hardly conscious of where we were--subdued into that meditative calm that comes so surely after a conversational storm--some one shouted-- "venice!" and sure enough, afloat on the placid sea a league away, lay a great city, with its towers and domes and steeples drowsing in a golden mist of sunset. chapter xxii. this venice, which was a haughty, invincible, magnificent republic for nearly fourteen hundred years; whose armies compelled the world's applause whenever and wherever they battled; whose navies well nigh held dominion of the seas, and whose merchant fleets whitened the remotest oceans with their sails and loaded these piers with the products of every clime, is fallen a prey to poverty, neglect and melancholy decay. six hundred years ago, venice was the autocrat of commerce; her mart was the great commercial centre, the distributing-house from whence the enormous trade of the orient was spread abroad over the western world. to-day her piers are deserted, her warehouses are empty, her merchant fleets are vanished, her armies and her navies are but memories. her glory is departed, and with her crumbling grandeur of wharves and palaces about her she sits among her stagnant lagoons, forlorn and beggared, forgotten of the world. she that in her palmy days commanded the commerce of a hemisphere and made the weal or woe of nations with a beck of her puissant finger, is become the humblest among the peoples of the earth, --a peddler of glass beads for women, and trifling toys and trinkets for school-girls and children. the venerable mother of the republics is scarce a fit subject for flippant speech or the idle gossipping of tourists. it seems a sort of sacrilege to disturb the glamour of old romance that pictures her to us softly from afar off as through a tinted mist, and curtains her ruin and her desolation from our view. one ought, indeed, to turn away from her rags, her poverty and her humiliation, and think of her only as she was when she sunk the fleets of charlemagne; when she humbled frederick barbarossa or waved her victorious banners above the battlements of constantinople. we reached venice at eight in the evening, and entered a hearse belonging to the grand hotel d'europe. at any rate, it was more like a hearse than any thing else, though to speak by the card, it was a gondola. and this was the storied gondola of venice!--the fairy boat in which the princely cavaliers of the olden time were wont to cleave the waters of the moonlit canals and look the eloquence of love into the soft eyes of patrician beauties, while the gay gondolier in silken doublet touched his guitar and sang as only gondoliers can sing! this the famed gondola and this the gorgeous gondolier!--the one an inky, rusty old canoe with a sable hearse-body clapped on to the middle of it, and the other a mangy, barefooted guttersnipe with a portion of his raiment on exhibition which should have been sacred from public scrutiny. presently, as he turned a corner and shot his hearse into a dismal ditch between two long rows of towering, untenanted buildings, the gay gondolier began to sing, true to the traditions of his race. i stood it a little while. then i said: "now, here, roderigo gonzales michael angelo, i'm a pilgrim, and i'm a stranger, but i am not going to have my feelings lacerated by any such caterwauling as that. if that goes on, one of us has got to take water. it is enough that my cherished dreams of venice have been blighted forever as to the romantic gondola and the gorgeous gondolier; this system of destruction shall go no farther; i will accept the hearse, under protest, and you may fly your flag of truce in peace, but here i register a dark and bloody oath that you shan't sing. another yelp, and overboard you go." i began to feel that the old venice of song and story had departed forever. but i was too hasty. in a few minutes we swept gracefully out into the grand canal, and under the mellow moonlight the venice of poetry and romance stood revealed. right from the water's edge rose long lines of stately palaces of marble; gondolas were gliding swiftly hither and thither and disappearing suddenly through unsuspected gates and alleys; ponderous stone bridges threw their shadows athwart the glittering waves. there was life and motion everywhere, and yet everywhere there was a hush, a stealthy sort of stillness, that was suggestive of secret enterprises of bravoes and of lovers; and clad half in moonbeams and half in mysterious shadows, the grim old mansions of the republic seemed to have an expression about them of having an eye out for just such enterprises as these at that same moment. music came floating over the waters--venice was complete. it was a beautiful picture--very soft and dreamy and beautiful. but what was this venice to compare with the venice of midnight? nothing. there was a fete--a grand fete in honor of some saint who had been instrumental in checking the cholera three hundred years ago, and all venice was abroad on the water. it was no common affair, for the venetians did not know how soon they might need the saint's services again, now that the cholera was spreading every where. so in one vast space--say a third of a mile wide and two miles long--were collected two thousand gondolas, and every one of them had from two to ten, twenty and even thirty colored lanterns suspended about it, and from four to a dozen occupants. just as far as the eye could reach, these painted lights were massed together --like a vast garden of many-colored flowers, except that these blossoms were never still; they were ceaselessly gliding in and out, and mingling together, and seducing you into bewildering attempts to follow their mazy evolutions. here and there a strong red, green, or blue glare from a rocket that was struggling to get away, splendidly illuminated all the boats around it. every gondola that swam by us, with its crescents and pyramids and circles of colored lamps hung aloft, and lighting up the faces of the young and the sweet-scented and lovely below, was a picture; and the reflections of those lights, so long, so slender, so numberless, so many-colored and so distorted and wrinkled by the waves, was a picture likewise, and one that was enchantingly beautiful. many and many a party of young ladies and gentlemen had their state gondolas handsomely decorated, and ate supper on board, bringing their swallow-tailed, white-cravatted varlets to wait upon them, and having their tables tricked out as if for a bridal supper. they had brought along the costly globe lamps from their drawing-rooms, and the lace and silken curtains from the same places, i suppose. and they had also brought pianos and guitars, and they played and sang operas, while the plebeian paper-lanterned gondolas from the suburbs and the back alleys crowded around to stare and listen. there was music every where--choruses, string bands, brass bands, flutes, every thing. i was so surrounded, walled in, with music, magnificence and loveliness, that i became inspired with the spirit of the scene, and sang one tune myself. however, when i observed that the other gondolas had sailed away, and my gondolier was preparing to go overboard, i stopped. the fete was magnificent. they kept it up the whole night long, and i never enjoyed myself better than i did while it lasted. what a funny old city this queen of the adriatic is! narrow streets, vast, gloomy marble palaces, black with the corroding damps of centuries, and all partly submerged; no dry land visible any where, and no sidewalks worth mentioning; if you want to go to church, to the theatre, or to the restaurant, you must call a gondola. it must be a paradise for cripples, for verily a man has no use for legs here. for a day or two the place looked so like an overflowed arkansas town, because of its currentless waters laving the very doorsteps of all the houses, and the cluster of boats made fast under the windows, or skimming in and out of the alleys and by-ways, that i could not get rid of the impression that there was nothing the matter here but a spring freshet, and that the river would fall in a few weeks and leave a dirty high-water mark on the houses, and the streets full of mud and rubbish. in the glare of day, there is little poetry about venice, but under the charitable moon her stained palaces are white again, their battered sculptures are hidden in shadows, and the old city seems crowned once more with the grandeur that was hers five hundred years ago. it is easy, then, in fancy, to people these silent canals with plumed gallants and fair ladies--with shylocks in gaberdine and sandals, venturing loans upon the rich argosies of venetian commerce--with othellos and desdemonas, with iagos and roderigos--with noble fleets and victorious legions returning from the wars. in the treacherous sunlight we see venice decayed, forlorn, poverty-stricken, and commerceless--forgotten and utterly insignificant. but in the moonlight, her fourteen centuries of greatness fling their glories about her, and once more is she the princeliest among the nations of the earth. "there is a glorious city in the sea; the sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, ebbing and flowing; and the salt-sea weed clings to the marble of her palaces. no track of men, no footsteps to and fro, lead to her gates! the path lies o'er the sea, invisible: and from the land we went, as to a floating city--steering in, and gliding up her streets, as in a dream, so smoothly, silently--by many a dome, mosque-like, and many a stately portico, the statues ranged along an azure sky; by many a pile, in more than eastern pride, of old the residence of merchant kings; the fronts of some, tho' time had shatter'd them, still glowing with the richest hues of art, as tho' the wealth within them had run o'er." what would one naturally wish to see first in venice? the bridge of sighs, of course--and next the church and the great square of st. mark, the bronze horses, and the famous lion of st. mark. we intended to go to the bridge of sighs, but happened into the ducal palace first--a building which necessarily figures largely in venetian poetry and tradition. in the senate chamber of the ancient republic we wearied our eyes with staring at acres of historical paintings by tintoretto and paul veronese, but nothing struck us forcibly except the one thing that strikes all strangers forcibly--a black square in the midst of a gallery of portraits. in one long row, around the great hall, were painted the portraits of the doges of venice (venerable fellows, with flowing white beards, for of the three hundred senators eligible to the office, the oldest was usually chosen doge,) and each had its complimentary inscription attached--till you came to the place that should have had marino faliero's picture in it, and that was blank and black--blank, except that it bore a terse inscription, saying that the conspirator had died for his crime. it seemed cruel to keep that pitiless inscription still staring from the walls after the unhappy wretch had been in his grave five hundred years. at the head of the giant's staircase, where marino faliero was beheaded, and where the doges were crowned in ancient times, two small slits in the stone wall were pointed out--two harmless, insignificant orifices that would never attract a stranger's attention--yet these were the terrible lions' mouths! the heads were gone (knocked off by the french during their occupation of venice,) but these were the throats, down which went the anonymous accusation, thrust in secretly at dead of night by an enemy, that doomed many an innocent man to walk the bridge of sighs and descend into the dungeon which none entered and hoped to see the sun again. this was in the old days when the patricians alone governed venice--the common herd had no vote and no voice. there were one thousand five hundred patricians; from these, three hundred senators were chosen; from the senators a doge and a council of ten were selected, and by secret ballot the ten chose from their own number a council of three. all these were government spies, then, and every spy was under surveillance himself--men spoke in whispers in venice, and no man trusted his neighbor--not always his own brother. no man knew who the council of three were--not even the senate, not even the doge; the members of that dread tribunal met at night in a chamber to themselves, masked, and robed from head to foot in scarlet cloaks, and did not even know each other, unless by voice. it was their duty to judge heinous political crimes, and from their sentence there was no appeal. a nod to the executioner was sufficient. the doomed man was marched down a hall and out at a door-way into the covered bridge of sighs, through it and into the dungeon and unto his death. at no time in his transit was he visible to any save his conductor. if a man had an enemy in those old days, the cleverest thing he could do was to slip a note for the council of three into the lion's mouth, saying "this man is plotting against the government." if the awful three found no proof, ten to one they would drown him anyhow, because he was a deep rascal, since his plots were unsolvable. masked judges and masked executioners, with unlimited power, and no appeal from their judgements, in that hard, cruel age, were not likely to be lenient with men they suspected yet could not convict. we walked through the hall of the council of ten, and presently entered the infernal den of the council of three. the table around which they had sat was there still, and likewise the stations where the masked inquisitors and executioners formerly stood, frozen, upright and silent, till they received a bloody order, and then, without a word, moved off like the inexorable machines they were, to carry it out. the frescoes on the walls were startlingly suited to the place. in all the other saloons, the halls, the great state chambers of the palace, the walls and ceilings were bright with gilding, rich with elaborate carving, and resplendent with gallant pictures of venetian victories in war, and venetian display in foreign courts, and hallowed with portraits of the virgin, the saviour of men, and the holy saints that preached the gospel of peace upon earth--but here, in dismal contrast, were none but pictures of death and dreadful suffering!--not a living figure but was writhing in torture, not a dead one but was smeared with blood, gashed with wounds, and distorted with the agonies that had taken away its life! from the palace to the gloomy prison is but a step--one might almost jump across the narrow canal that intervenes. the ponderous stone bridge of sighs crosses it at the second story--a bridge that is a covered tunnel --you can not be seen when you walk in it. it is partitioned lengthwise, and through one compartment walked such as bore light sentences in ancient times, and through the other marched sadly the wretches whom the three had doomed to lingering misery and utter oblivion in the dungeons, or to sudden and mysterious death. down below the level of the water, by the light of smoking torches, we were shown the damp, thick-walled cells where many a proud patrician's life was eaten away by the long-drawn miseries of solitary imprisonment--without light, air, books; naked, unshaven, uncombed, covered with vermin; his useless tongue forgetting its office, with none to speak to; the days and nights of his life no longer marked, but merged into one eternal eventless night; far away from all cheerful sounds, buried in the silence of a tomb; forgotten by his helpless friends, and his fate a dark mystery to them forever; losing his own memory at last, and knowing no more who he was or how he came there; devouring the loaf of bread and drinking the water that were thrust into the cell by unseen hands, and troubling his worn spirit no more with hopes and fears and doubts and longings to be free; ceasing to scratch vain prayers and complainings on walls where none, not even himself, could see them, and resigning himself to hopeless apathy, driveling childishness, lunacy! many and many a sorrowful story like this these stony walls could tell if they could but speak. in a little narrow corridor, near by, they showed us where many a prisoner, after lying in the dungeons until he was forgotten by all save his persecutors, was brought by masked executioners and garroted, or sewed up in a sack, passed through a little window to a boat, at dead of night, and taken to some remote spot and drowned. they used to show to visitors the implements of torture wherewith the three were wont to worm secrets out of the accused--villainous machines for crushing thumbs; the stocks where a prisoner sat immovable while water fell drop by drop upon his head till the torture was more than humanity could bear; and a devilish contrivance of steel, which inclosed a prisoner's head like a shell, and crushed it slowly by means of a screw. it bore the stains of blood that had trickled through its joints long ago, and on one side it had a projection whereon the torturer rested his elbow comfortably and bent down his ear to catch the moanings of the sufferer perishing within. of course we went to see the venerable relic of the ancient glory of venice, with its pavements worn and broken by the passing feet of a thousand years of plebeians and patricians--the cathedral of st. mark. it is built entirely of precious marbles, brought from the orient --nothing in its composition is domestic. its hoary traditions make it an object of absorbing interest to even the most careless stranger, and thus far it had interest for me; but no further. i could not go into ecstasies over its coarse mosaics, its unlovely byzantine architecture, or its five hundred curious interior columns from as many distant quarries. every thing was worn out--every block of stone was smooth and almost shapeless with the polishing hands and shoulders of loungers who devoutly idled here in by-gone centuries and have died and gone to the dev--no, simply died, i mean. under the altar repose the ashes of st. mark--and matthew, luke and john, too, for all i know. venice reveres those relics above all things earthly. for fourteen hundred years st. mark has been her patron saint. every thing about the city seems to be named after him or so named as to refer to him in some way--so named, or some purchase rigged in some way to scrape a sort of hurrahing acquaintance with him. that seems to be the idea. to be on good terms with st. mark, seems to be the very summit of venetian ambition. they say st. mark had a tame lion, and used to travel with him--and every where that st. mark went, the lion was sure to go. it was his protector, his friend, his librarian. and so the winged lion of st. mark, with the open bible under his paw, is a favorite emblem in the grand old city. it casts its shadow from the most ancient pillar in venice, in the grand square of st. mark, upon the throngs of free citizens below, and has so done for many a long century. the winged lion is found every where--and doubtless here, where the winged lion is, no harm can come. st. mark died at alexandria, in egypt. he was martyred, i think. however, that has nothing to do with my legend. about the founding of the city of venice--say four hundred and fifty years after christ--(for venice is much younger than any other italian city,) a priest dreamed that an angel told him that until the remains of st. mark were brought to venice, the city could never rise to high distinction among the nations; that the body must be captured, brought to the city, and a magnificent church built over it; and that if ever the venetians allowed the saint to be removed from his new resting-place, in that day venice would perish from off the face of the earth. the priest proclaimed his dream, and forthwith venice set about procuring the corpse of st. mark. one expedition after another tried and failed, but the project was never abandoned during four hundred years. at last it was secured by stratagem, in the year eight hundred and something. the commander of a venetian expedition disguised himself, stole the bones, separated them, and packed them in vessels filled with lard. the religion of mahomet causes its devotees to abhor anything that is in the nature of pork, and so when the christian was stopped by the officers at the gates of the city, they only glanced once into his precious baskets, then turned up their noses at the unholy lard, and let him go. the bones were buried in the vaults of the grand cathedral, which had been waiting long years to receive them, and thus the safety and the greatness of venice were secured. and to this day there be those in venice who believe that if those holy ashes were stolen away, the ancient city would vanish like a dream, and its foundations be buried forever in the unremembering sea. chapter xxiii. the venetian gondola is as free and graceful, in its gliding movement, as a serpent. it is twenty or thirty feet long, and is narrow and deep, like a canoe; its sharp bow and stern sweep upward from the water like the horns of a crescent with the abruptness of the curve slightly modified. the bow is ornamented with a steel comb with a battle-ax attachment which threatens to cut passing boats in two occasionally, but never does. the gondola is painted black because in the zenith of venetian magnificence the gondolas became too gorgeous altogether, and the senate decreed that all such display must cease, and a solemn, unembellished black be substituted. if the truth were known, it would doubtless appear that rich plebeians grew too prominent in their affectation of patrician show on the grand canal, and required a wholesome snubbing. reverence for the hallowed past and its traditions keeps the dismal fashion in force now that the compulsion exists no longer. so let it remain. it is the color of mourning. venice mourns. the stern of the boat is decked over and the gondolier stands there. he uses a single oar--a long blade, of course, for he stands nearly erect. a wooden peg, a foot and a half high, with two slight crooks or curves in one side of it and one in the other, projects above the starboard gunwale. against that peg the gondolier takes a purchase with his oar, changing it at intervals to the other side of the peg or dropping it into another of the crooks, as the steering of the craft may demand--and how in the world he can back and fill, shoot straight ahead, or flirt suddenly around a corner, and make the oar stay in those insignificant notches, is a problem to me and a never diminishing matter of interest. i am afraid i study the gondolier's marvelous skill more than i do the sculptured palaces we glide among. he cuts a corner so closely, now and then, or misses another gondola by such an imperceptible hair-breadth that i feel myself "scrooching," as the children say, just as one does when a buggy wheel grazes his elbow. but he makes all his calculations with the nicest precision, and goes darting in and out among a broadway confusion of busy craft with the easy confidence of the educated hackman. he never makes a mistake. sometimes we go flying down the great canals at such a gait that we can get only the merest glimpses into front doors, and again, in obscure alleys in the suburbs, we put on a solemnity suited to the silence, the mildew, the stagnant waters, the clinging weeds, the deserted houses and the general lifelessness of the place, and move to the spirit of grave meditation. the gondolier is a picturesque rascal for all he wears no satin harness, no plumed bonnet, no silken tights. his attitude is stately; he is lithe and supple; all his movements are full of grace. when his long canoe, and his fine figure, towering from its high perch on the stern, are cut against the evening sky, they make a picture that is very novel and striking to a foreign eye. we sit in the cushioned carriage-body of a cabin, with the curtains drawn, and smoke, or read, or look out upon the passing boats, the houses, the bridges, the people, and enjoy ourselves much more than we could in a buggy jolting over our cobble-stone pavements at home. this is the gentlest, pleasantest locomotion we have ever known. but it seems queer--ever so queer--to see a boat doing duty as a private carriage. we see business men come to the front door, step into a gondola, instead of a street car, and go off down town to the counting-room. we see visiting young ladies stand on the stoop, and laugh, and kiss good-bye, and flirt their fans and say "come soon--now do--you've been just as mean as ever you can be--mother's dying to see you--and we've moved into the new house, o such a love of a place!--so convenient to the post office and the church, and the young men's christian association; and we do have such fishing, and such carrying on, and such swimming-matches in the back yard--oh, you must come--no distance at all, and if you go down through by st. mark's and the bridge of sighs, and cut through the alley and come up by the church of santa maria dei frari, and into the grand canal, there isn't a bit of current--now do come, sally maria--by-bye!" and then the little humbug trips down the steps, jumps into the gondola, says, under her breath, "disagreeable old thing, i hope she won't!" goes skimming away, round the corner; and the other girl slams the street door and says, "well, that infliction's over, any way, --but i suppose i've got to go and see her--tiresome stuck-up thing!" human nature appears to be just the same, all over the world. we see the diffident young man, mild of moustache, affluent of hair, indigent of brain, elegant of costume, drive up to her father's mansion, tell his hackman to bail out and wait, start fearfully up the steps and meet "the old gentleman" right on the threshold!--hear him ask what street the new british bank is in--as if that were what he came for--and then bounce into his boat and skurry away with his coward heart in his boots!--see him come sneaking around the corner again, directly, with a crack of the curtain open toward the old gentleman's disappearing gondola, and out scampers his susan with a flock of little italian endearments fluttering from her lips, and goes to drive with him in the watery avenues down toward the rialto. we see the ladies go out shopping, in the most natural way, and flit from street to street and from store to store, just in the good old fashion, except that they leave the gondola, instead of a private carriage, waiting at the curbstone a couple of hours for them,--waiting while they make the nice young clerks pull down tons and tons of silks and velvets and moire antiques and those things; and then they buy a paper of pins and go paddling away to confer the rest of their disastrous patronage on some other firm. and they always have their purchases sent home just in the good old way. human nature is very much the same all over the world; and it is so like my dear native home to see a venetian lady go into a store and buy ten cents' worth of blue ribbon and have it sent home in a scow. ah, it is these little touches of nature that move one to tears in these far-off foreign lands. we see little girls and boys go out in gondolas with their nurses, for an airing. we see staid families, with prayer-book and beads, enter the gondola dressed in their sunday best, and float away to church. and at midnight we see the theatre break up and discharge its swarm of hilarious youth and beauty; we hear the cries of the hackman-gondoliers, and behold the struggling crowd jump aboard, and the black multitude of boats go skimming down the moonlit avenues; we see them separate here and there, and disappear up divergent streets; we hear the faint sounds of laughter and of shouted farewells floating up out of the distance; and then, the strange pageant being gone, we have lonely stretches of glittering water --of stately buildings--of blotting shadows--of weird stone faces creeping into the moonlight--of deserted bridges--of motionless boats at anchor. and over all broods that mysterious stillness, that stealthy quiet, that befits so well this old dreaming venice. we have been pretty much every where in our gondola. we have bought beads and photographs in the stores, and wax matches in the great square of st. mark. the last remark suggests a digression. every body goes to this vast square in the evening. the military bands play in the centre of it and countless couples of ladies and gentlemen promenade up and down on either side, and platoons of them are constantly drifting away toward the old cathedral, and by the venerable column with the winged lion of st. mark on its top, and out to where the boats lie moored; and other platoons are as constantly arriving from the gondolas and joining the great throng. between the promenaders and the side-walks are seated hundreds and hundreds of people at small tables, smoking and taking granita, (a first cousin to ice-cream;) on the side-walks are more employing themselves in the same way. the shops in the first floor of the tall rows of buildings that wall in three sides of the square are brilliantly lighted, the air is filled with music and merry voices, and altogether the scene is as bright and spirited and full of cheerfulness as any man could desire. we enjoy it thoroughly. very many of the young women are exceedingly pretty and dress with rare good taste. we are gradually and laboriously learning the ill-manners of staring them unflinchingly in the face--not because such conduct is agreeable to us, but because it is the custom of the country and they say the girls like it. we wish to learn all the curious, outlandish ways of all the different countries, so that we can "show off" and astonish people when we get home. we wish to excite the envy of our untraveled friends with our strange foreign fashions which we can't shake off. all our passengers are paying strict attention to this thing, with the end in view which i have mentioned. the gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become, until he goes abroad. i speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. if the case be otherwise, i beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother. i shall always delight to meet an ass after my own heart when i shall have finished my travels. on this subject let me remark that there are americans abroad in italy who have actually forgotten their mother tongue in three months--forgot it in france. they can not even write their address in english in a hotel register. i append these evidences, which i copied verbatim from the register of a hotel in a certain italian city: "john p. whitcomb, etats unis. "wm. l. ainsworth, travailleur (he meant traveler, i suppose,) etats unis. "george p. morton et fils, d'amerique. "lloyd b. williams, et trois amis, ville de boston, amerique. "j. ellsworth baker, tout de suite de france, place de naissance amerique, destination la grand bretagne." i love this sort of people. a lady passenger of ours tells of a fellow-citizen of hers who spent eight weeks in paris and then returned home and addressed his dearest old bosom friend herbert as mr. "er-bare!" he apologized, though, and said, "'pon my soul it is aggravating, but i cahn't help it--i have got so used to speaking nothing but french, my dear erbare--damme there it goes again!--got so used to french pronunciation that i cahn't get rid of it--it is positively annoying, i assure you." this entertaining idiot, whose name was gordon, allowed himself to be hailed three times in the street before he paid any attention, and then begged a thousand pardons and said he had grown so accustomed to hearing himself addressed as "m'sieu gor-r-dong," with a roll to the r, that he had forgotten the legitimate sound of his name! he wore a rose in his button-hole; he gave the french salutation--two flips of the hand in front of the face; he called paris pairree in ordinary english conversation; he carried envelopes bearing foreign postmarks protruding from his breast-pocket; he cultivated a moustache and imperial, and did what else he could to suggest to the beholder his pet fancy that he resembled louis napoleon--and in a spirit of thankfulness which is entirely unaccountable, considering the slim foundation there was for it, he praised his maker that he was as he was, and went on enjoying his little life just the same as if he really had been deliberately designed and erected by the great architect of the universe. think of our whitcombs, and our ainsworths and our williamses writing themselves down in dilapidated french in foreign hotel registers! we laugh at englishmen, when we are at home, for sticking so sturdily to their national ways and customs, but we look back upon it from abroad very forgivingly. it is not pleasant to see an american thrusting his nationality forward obtrusively in a foreign land, but oh, it is pitiable to see him making of himself a thing that is neither male nor female, neither fish, flesh, nor fowl--a poor, miserable, hermaphrodite frenchman! among a long list of churches, art galleries, and such things, visited by us in venice, i shall mention only one--the church of santa maria dei frari. it is about five hundred years old, i believe, and stands on twelve hundred thousand piles. in it lie the body of canova and the heart of titian, under magnificent monuments. titian died at the age of almost one hundred years. a plague which swept away fifty thousand lives was raging at the time, and there is notable evidence of the reverence in which the great painter was held, in the fact that to him alone the state permitted a public funeral in all that season of terror and death. in this church, also, is a monument to the doge foscari, whose name a once resident of venice, lord byron, has made permanently famous. the monument to the doge giovanni pesaro, in this church, is a curiosity in the way of mortuary adornment. it is eighty feet high and is fronted like some fantastic pagan temple. against it stand four colossal nubians, as black as night, dressed in white marble garments. the black legs are bare, and through rents in sleeves and breeches, the skin, of shiny black marble, shows. the artist was as ingenious as his funeral designs were absurd. there are two bronze skeletons bearing scrolls, and two great dragons uphold the sarcophagus. on high, amid all this grotesqueness, sits the departed doge. in the conventual buildings attached to this church are the state archives of venice. we did not see them, but they are said to number millions of documents. "they are the records of centuries of the most watchful, observant and suspicious government that ever existed--in which every thing was written down and nothing spoken out." they fill nearly three hundred rooms. among them are manuscripts from the archives of nearly two thousand families, monasteries and convents. the secret history of venice for a thousand years is here--its plots, its hidden trials, its assassinations, its commissions of hireling spies and masked bravoes--food, ready to hand, for a world of dark and mysterious romances. yes, i think we have seen all of venice. we have seen, in these old churches, a profusion of costly and elaborate sepulchre ornamentation such as we never dreampt of before. we have stood in the dim religious light of these hoary sanctuaries, in the midst of long ranks of dusty monuments and effigies of the great dead of venice, until we seemed drifting back, back, back, into the solemn past, and looking upon the scenes and mingling with the peoples of a remote antiquity. we have been in a half-waking sort of dream all the time. i do not know how else to describe the feeling. a part of our being has remained still in the nineteenth century, while another part of it has seemed in some unaccountable way walking among the phantoms of the tenth. we have seen famous pictures until our eyes are weary with looking at them and refuse to find interest in them any longer. and what wonder, when there are twelve hundred pictures by palma the younger in venice and fifteen hundred by tintoretto? and behold there are titians and the works of other artists in proportion. we have seen titian's celebrated cain and abel, his david and goliah, his abraham's sacrifice. we have seen tintoretto's monster picture, which is seventy-four feet long and i do not know how many feet high, and thought it a very commodious picture. we have seen pictures of martyrs enough, and saints enough, to regenerate the world. i ought not to confess it, but still, since one has no opportunity in america to acquire a critical judgment in art, and since i could not hope to become educated in it in europe in a few short weeks, i may therefore as well acknowledge with such apologies as may be due, that to me it seemed that when i had seen one of these martyrs i had seen them all. they all have a marked family resemblance to each other, they dress alike, in coarse monkish robes and sandals, they are all bald headed, they all stand in about the same attitude, and without exception they are gazing heavenward with countenances which the ainsworths, the mortons and the williamses, et fils, inform me are full of "expression." to me there is nothing tangible about these imaginary portraits, nothing that i can grasp and take a living interest in. if great titian had only been gifted with prophecy, and had skipped a martyr, and gone over to england and painted a portrait of shakspeare, even as a youth, which we could all have confidence in now, the world down to the latest generations would have forgiven him the lost martyr in the rescued seer. i think posterity could have spared one more martyr for the sake of a great historical picture of titian's time and painted by his brush--such as columbus returning in chains from the discovery of a world, for instance. the old masters did paint some venetian historical pictures, and these we did not tire of looking at, notwithstanding representations of the formal introduction of defunct doges to the virgin mary in regions beyond the clouds clashed rather harshly with the proprieties, it seemed to us. but humble as we are, and unpretending, in the matter of art, our researches among the painted monks and martyrs have not been wholly in vain. we have striven hard to learn. we have had some success. we have mastered some things, possibly of trifling import in the eyes of the learned, but to us they give pleasure, and we take as much pride in our little acquirements as do others who have learned far more, and we love to display them full as well. when we see a monk going about with a lion and looking tranquilly up to heaven, we know that that is st. mark. when we see a monk with a book and a pen, looking tranquilly up to heaven, trying to think of a word, we know that that is st. matthew. when we see a monk sitting on a rock, looking tranquilly up to heaven, with a human skull beside him, and without other baggage, we know that that is st. jerome. because we know that he always went flying light in the matter of baggage. when we see a party looking tranquilly up to heaven, unconscious that his body is shot through and through with arrows, we know that that is st. sebastian. when we see other monks looking tranquilly up to heaven, but having no trade-mark, we always ask who those parties are. we do this because we humbly wish to learn. we have seen thirteen thousand st. jeromes, and twenty-two thousand st. marks, and sixteen thousand st. matthews, and sixty thousand st. sebastians, and four millions of assorted monks, undesignated, and we feel encouraged to believe that when we have seen some more of these various pictures, and had a larger experience, we shall begin to take an absorbing interest in them like our cultivated countrymen from amerique. now it does give me real pain to speak in this almost unappreciative way of the old masters and their martyrs, because good friends of mine in the ship--friends who do thoroughly and conscientiously appreciate them and are in every way competent to discriminate between good pictures and inferior ones--have urged me for my own sake not to make public the fact that i lack this appreciation and this critical discrimination myself. i believe that what i have written and may still write about pictures will give them pain, and i am honestly sorry for it. i even promised that i would hide my uncouth sentiments in my own breast. but alas! i never could keep a promise. i do not blame myself for this weakness, because the fault must lie in my physical organization. it is likely that such a very liberal amount of space was given to the organ which enables me to make promises, that the organ which should enable me to keep them was crowded out. but i grieve not. i like no half-way things. i had rather have one faculty nobly developed than two faculties of mere ordinary capacity. i certainly meant to keep that promise, but i find i can not do it. it is impossible to travel through italy without speaking of pictures, and can i see them through others' eyes? if i did not so delight in the grand pictures that are spread before me every day of my life by that monarch of all the old masters, nature, i should come to believe, sometimes, that i had in me no appreciation of the beautiful, whatsoever. it seems to me that whenever i glory to think that for once i have discovered an ancient painting that is beautiful and worthy of all praise, the pleasure it gives me is an infallible proof that it is not a beautiful picture and not in any wise worthy of commendation. this very thing has occurred more times than i can mention, in venice. in every single instance the guide has crushed out my swelling enthusiasm with the remark: "it is nothing--it is of the renaissance." i did not know what in the mischief the renaissance was, and so always i had to simply say, "ah! so it is--i had not observed it before." i could not bear to be ignorant before a cultivated negro, the offspring of a south carolina slave. but it occurred too often for even my self-complacency, did that exasperating "it is nothing--it is of the renaissance." i said at last: "who is this renaissance? where did he come from? who gave him permission to cram the republic with his execrable daubs?" we learned, then, that renaissance was not a man; that renaissance was a term used to signify what was at best but an imperfect rejuvenation of art. the guide said that after titian's time and the time of the other great names we had grown so familiar with, high art declined; then it partially rose again--an inferior sort of painters sprang up, and these shabby pictures were the work of their hands. then i said, in my heat, that i "wished to goodness high art had declined five hundred years sooner." the renaissance pictures suit me very well, though sooth to say its school were too much given to painting real men and did not indulge enough in martyrs. the guide i have spoken of is the only one we have had yet who knew any thing. he was born in south carolina, of slave parents. they came to venice while he was an infant. he has grown up here. he is well educated. he reads, writes, and speaks english, italian, spanish, and french, with perfect facility; is a worshipper of art and thoroughly conversant with it; knows the history of venice by heart and never tires of talking of her illustrious career. he dresses better than any of us, i think, and is daintily polite. negroes are deemed as good as white people, in venice, and so this man feels no desire to go back to his native land. his judgment is correct. i have had another shave. i was writing in our front room this afternoon and trying hard to keep my attention on my work and refrain from looking out upon the canal. i was resisting the soft influences of the climate as well as i could, and endeavoring to overcome the desire to be indolent and happy. the boys sent for a barber. they asked me if i would be shaved. i reminded them of my tortures in genoa, milan, como; of my declaration that i would suffer no more on italian soil. i said "not any for me, if you please." i wrote on. the barber began on the doctor. i heard him say: "dan, this is the easiest shave i have had since we left the ship." he said again, presently: "why dan, a man could go to sleep with this man shaving him." dan took the chair. then he said: "why this is titian. this is one of the old masters." i wrote on. directly dan said: "doctor, it is perfect luxury. the ship's barber isn't any thing to him." my rough beard was distressing me beyond measure. the barber was rolling up his apparatus. the temptation was too strong. i said: "hold on, please. shave me also." i sat down in the chair and closed my eyes. the barber soaped my face, and then took his razor and gave me a rake that well nigh threw me into convulsions. i jumped out of the chair: dan and the doctor were both wiping blood off their faces and laughing. i said it was a mean, disgraceful fraud. they said that the misery of this shave had gone so far beyond any thing they had ever experienced before, that they could not bear the idea of losing such a chance of hearing a cordial opinion from me on the subject. it was shameful. but there was no help for it. the skinning was begun and had to be finished. the tears flowed with every rake, and so did the fervent execrations. the barber grew confused, and brought blood every time. i think the boys enjoyed it better than any thing they have seen or heard since they left home. we have seen the campanile, and byron's house and balbi's the geographer, and the palaces of all the ancient dukes and doges of venice, and we have seen their effeminate descendants airing their nobility in fashionable french attire in the grand square of st. mark, and eating ices and drinking cheap wines, instead of wearing gallant coats of mail and destroying fleets and armies as their great ancestors did in the days of venetian glory. we have seen no bravoes with poisoned stilettos, no masks, no wild carnival; but we have seen the ancient pride of venice, the grim bronze horses that figure in a thousand legends. venice may well cherish them, for they are the only horses she ever had. it is said there are hundreds of people in this curious city who never have seen a living horse in their lives. it is entirely true, no doubt. and so, having satisfied ourselves, we depart to-morrow, and leave the venerable queen of the republics to summon her vanished ships, and marshal her shadowy armies, and know again in dreams the pride of her old renown. chapter xxiv. some of the quaker city's passengers had arrived in venice from switzerland and other lands before we left there, and others were expected every day. we heard of no casualties among them, and no sickness. we were a little fatigued with sight seeing, and so we rattled through a good deal of country by rail without caring to stop. i took few notes. i find no mention of bologna in my memorandum book, except that we arrived there in good season, but saw none of the sausages for which the place is so justly celebrated. pistoia awoke but a passing interest. florence pleased us for a while. i think we appreciated the great figure of david in the grand square, and the sculptured group they call the rape of the sabines. we wandered through the endless collections of paintings and statues of the pitti and ufizzi galleries, of course. i make that statement in self-defense; there let it stop. i could not rest under the imputation that i visited florence and did not traverse its weary miles of picture galleries. we tried indolently to recollect something about the guelphs and ghibelines and the other historical cut-throats whose quarrels and assassinations make up so large a share of florentine history, but the subject was not attractive. we had been robbed of all the fine mountain scenery on our little journey by a system of railroading that had three miles of tunnel to a hundred yards of daylight, and we were not inclined to be sociable with florence. we had seen the spot, outside the city somewhere, where these people had allowed the bones of galileo to rest in unconsecrated ground for an age because his great discovery that the world turned around was regarded as a damning heresy by the church; and we know that long after the world had accepted his theory and raised his name high in the list of its great men, they had still let him rot there. that we had lived to see his dust in honored sepulture in the church of santa croce we owed to a society of literati, and not to florence or her rulers. we saw dante's tomb in that church, also, but we were glad to know that his body was not in it; that the ungrateful city that had exiled him and persecuted him would give much to have it there, but need not hope to ever secure that high honor to herself. medicis are good enough for florence. let her plant medicis and build grand monuments over them to testify how gratefully she was wont to lick the hand that scourged her. magnanimous florence! her jewelry marts are filled with artists in mosaic. florentine mosaics are the choicest in all the world. florence loves to have that said. florence is proud of it. florence would foster this specialty of hers. she is grateful to the artists that bring to her this high credit and fill her coffers with foreign money, and so she encourages them with pensions. with pensions! think of the lavishness of it. she knows that people who piece together the beautiful trifles die early, because the labor is so confining, and so exhausting to hand and brain, and so she has decreed that all these people who reach the age of sixty shall have a pension after that! i have not heard that any of them have called for their dividends yet. one man did fight along till he was sixty, and started after his pension, but it appeared that there had been a mistake of a year in his family record, and so he gave it up and died. these artists will take particles of stone or glass no larger than a mustard seed, and piece them together on a sleeve button or a shirt stud, so smoothly and with such nice adjustment of the delicate shades of color the pieces bear, as to form a pigmy rose with stem, thorn, leaves, petals complete, and all as softly and as truthfully tinted as though nature had builded it herself. they will counterfeit a fly, or a high-toned bug, or the ruined coliseum, within the cramped circle of a breastpin, and do it so deftly and so neatly that any man might think a master painted it. i saw a little table in the great mosaic school in florence--a little trifle of a centre table--whose top was made of some sort of precious polished stone, and in the stone was inlaid the figure of a flute, with bell-mouth and a mazy complication of keys. no painting in the world could have been softer or richer; no shading out of one tint into another could have been more perfect; no work of art of any kind could have been more faultless than this flute, and yet to count the multitude of little fragments of stone of which they swore it was formed would bankrupt any man's arithmetic! i do not think one could have seen where two particles joined each other with eyes of ordinary shrewdness. certainly we could detect no such blemish. this table-top cost the labor of one man for ten long years, so they said, and it was for sale for thirty-five thousand dollars. we went to the church of santa croce, from time to time, in florence, to weep over the tombs of michael angelo, raphael and machiavelli, (i suppose they are buried there, but it may be that they reside elsewhere and rent their tombs to other parties--such being the fashion in italy,) and between times we used to go and stand on the bridges and admire the arno. it is popular to admire the arno. it is a great historical creek with four feet in the channel and some scows floating around. it would be a very plausible river if they would pump some water into it. they all call it a river, and they honestly think it is a river, do these dark and bloody florentines. they even help out the delusion by building bridges over it. i do not see why they are too good to wade. how the fatigues and annoyances of travel fill one with bitter prejudices sometimes! i might enter florence under happier auspices a month hence and find it all beautiful, all attractive. but i do not care to think of it now, at all, nor of its roomy shops filled to the ceiling with snowy marble and alabaster copies of all the celebrated sculptures in europe --copies so enchanting to the eye that i wonder how they can really be shaped like the dingy petrified nightmares they are the portraits of. i got lost in florence at nine o'clock, one night, and staid lost in that labyrinth of narrow streets and long rows of vast buildings that look all alike, until toward three o'clock in the morning. it was a pleasant night and at first there were a good many people abroad, and there were cheerful lights about. later, i grew accustomed to prowling about mysterious drifts and tunnels and astonishing and interesting myself with coming around corners expecting to find the hotel staring me in the face, and not finding it doing any thing of the kind. later still, i felt tired. i soon felt remarkably tired. but there was no one abroad, now --not even a policeman. i walked till i was out of all patience, and very hot and thirsty. at last, somewhere after one o'clock, i came unexpectedly to one of the city gates. i knew then that i was very far from the hotel. the soldiers thought i wanted to leave the city, and they sprang up and barred the way with their muskets. i said: "hotel d'europe!" it was all the italian i knew, and i was not certain whether that was italian or french. the soldiers looked stupidly at each other and at me, and shook their heads and took me into custody. i said i wanted to go home. they did not understand me. they took me into the guard-house and searched me, but they found no sedition on me. they found a small piece of soap (we carry soap with us, now,) and i made them a present of it, seeing that they regarded it as a curiosity. i continued to say hotel d'europe, and they continued to shake their heads, until at last a young soldier nodding in the corner roused up and said something. he said he knew where the hotel was, i suppose, for the officer of the guard sent him away with me. we walked a hundred or a hundred and fifty miles, it appeared to me, and then he got lost. he turned this way and that, and finally gave it up and signified that he was going to spend the remainder of the morning trying to find the city gate again. at that moment it struck me that there was something familiar about the house over the way. it was the hotel! it was a happy thing for me that there happened to be a soldier there that knew even as much as he did; for they say that the policy of the government is to change the soldiery from one place to another constantly and from country to city, so that they can not become acquainted with the people and grow lax in their duties and enter into plots and conspiracies with friends. my experiences of florence were chiefly unpleasant. i will change the subject. at pisa we climbed up to the top of the strangest structure the world has any knowledge of--the leaning tower. as every one knows, it is in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty feet high--and i beg to observe that one hundred and eighty feet reach to about the hight of four ordinary three-story buildings piled one on top of the other, and is a very considerable altitude for a tower of uniform thickness to aspire to, even when it stands upright--yet this one leans more than thirteen feet out of the perpendicular. it is seven hundred years old, but neither history or tradition say whether it was built as it is, purposely, or whether one of its sides has settled. there is no record that it ever stood straight up. it is built of marble. it is an airy and a beautiful structure, and each of its eight stories is encircled by fluted columns, some of marble and some of granite, with corinthian capitals that were handsome when they were new. it is a bell tower, and in its top hangs a chime of ancient bells. the winding staircase within is dark, but one always knows which side of the tower he is on because of his naturally gravitating from one side to the other of the staircase with the rise or dip of the tower. some of the stone steps are foot-worn only on one end; others only on the other end; others only in the middle. to look down into the tower from the top is like looking down into a tilted well. a rope that hangs from the centre of the top touches the wall before it reaches the bottom. standing on the summit, one does not feel altogether comfortable when he looks down from the high side; but to crawl on your breast to the verge on the lower side and try to stretch your neck out far enough to see the base of the tower, makes your flesh creep, and convinces you for a single moment in spite of all your philosophy, that the building is falling. you handle yourself very carefully, all the time, under the silly impression that if it is not falling, your trifling weight will start it unless you are particular not to "bear down" on it. the duomo, close at hand, is one of the finest cathedrals in europe. it is eight hundred years old. its grandeur has outlived the high commercial prosperity and the political importance that made it a necessity, or rather a possibility. surrounded by poverty, decay and ruin, it conveys to us a more tangible impression of the former greatness of pisa than books could give us. the baptistery, which is a few years older than the leaning tower, is a stately rotunda, of huge dimensions, and was a costly structure. in it hangs the lamp whose measured swing suggested to galileo the pendulum. it looked an insignificant thing to have conferred upon the world of science and mechanics such a mighty extension of their dominions as it has. pondering, in its suggestive presence, i seemed to see a crazy universe of swinging disks, the toiling children of this sedate parent. he appeared to have an intelligent expression about him of knowing that he was not a lamp at all; that he was a pendulum; a pendulum disguised, for prodigious and inscrutable purposes of his own deep devising, and not a common pendulum either, but the old original patriarchal pendulum--the abraham pendulum of the world. this baptistery is endowed with the most pleasing echo of all the echoes we have read of. the guide sounded two sonorous notes, about half an octave apart; the echo answered with the most enchanting, the most melodious, the richest blending of sweet sounds that one can imagine. it was like a long-drawn chord of a church organ, infinitely softened by distance. i may be extravagant in this matter, but if this be the case my ear is to blame--not my pen. i am describing a memory--and one that will remain long with me. the peculiar devotional spirit of the olden time, which placed a higher confidence in outward forms of worship than in the watchful guarding of the heart against sinful thoughts and the hands against sinful deeds, and which believed in the protecting virtues of inanimate objects made holy by contact with holy things, is illustrated in a striking manner in one of the cemeteries of pisa. the tombs are set in soil brought in ships from the holy land ages ago. to be buried in such ground was regarded by the ancient pisans as being more potent for salvation than many masses purchased of the church and the vowing of many candles to the virgin. pisa is believed to be about three thousand years old. it was one of the twelve great cities of ancient etruria, that commonwealth which has left so many monuments in testimony of its extraordinary advancement, and so little history of itself that is tangible and comprehensible. a pisan antiquarian gave me an ancient tear-jug which he averred was full four thousand years old. it was found among the ruins of one of the oldest of the etruscan cities. he said it came from a tomb, and was used by some bereaved family in that remote age when even the pyramids of egypt were young, damascus a village, abraham a prattling infant and ancient troy not yet [dreampt] of, to receive the tears wept for some lost idol of a household. it spoke to us in a language of its own; and with a pathos more tender than any words might bring, its mute eloquence swept down the long roll of the centuries with its tale of a vacant chair, a familiar footstep missed from the threshold, a pleasant voice gone from the chorus, a vanished form!--a tale which is always so new to us, so startling, so terrible, so benumbing to the senses, and behold how threadbare and old it is! no shrewdly-worded history could have brought the myths and shadows of that old dreamy age before us clothed with human flesh and warmed with human sympathies so vividly as did this poor little unsentient vessel of pottery. pisa was a republic in the middle ages, with a government of her own, armies and navies of her own and a great commerce. she was a warlike power, and inscribed upon her banners many a brilliant fight with genoese and turks. it is said that the city once numbered a population of four hundred thousand; but her sceptre has passed from her grasp, now, her ships and her armies are gone, her commerce is dead. her battle-flags bear the mold and the dust of centuries, her marts are deserted, she has shrunken far within her crumbling walls, and her great population has diminished to twenty thousand souls. she has but one thing left to boast of, and that is not much, viz: she is the second city of tuscany. we reached leghorn in time to see all we wished to see of it long before the city gates were closed for the evening, and then came on board the ship. we felt as though we had been away from home an age. we never entirely appreciated, before, what a very pleasant den our state-room is; nor how jolly it is to sit at dinner in one's own seat in one's own cabin, and hold familiar conversation with friends in one's own language. oh, the rare happiness of comprehending every single word that is said, and knowing that every word one says in return will be understood as well! we would talk ourselves to death, now, only there are only about ten passengers out of the sixty-five to talk to. the others are wandering, we hardly know where. we shall not go ashore in leghorn. we are surfeited with italian cities for the present, and much prefer to walk the familiar quarterdeck and view this one from a distance. the stupid magnates of this leghorn government can not understand that so large a steamer as ours could cross the broad atlantic with no other purpose than to indulge a party of ladies and gentlemen in a pleasure excursion. it looks too improbable. it is suspicious, they think. something more important must be hidden behind it all. they can not understand it, and they scorn the evidence of the ship's papers. they have decided at last that we are a battalion of incendiary, blood-thirsty garibaldians in disguise! and in all seriousness they have set a gun-boat to watch the vessel night and day, with orders to close down on any revolutionary movement in a twinkling! police boats are on patrol duty about us all the time, and it is as much as a sailor's liberty is worth to show himself in a red shirt. these policemen follow the executive officer's boat from shore to ship and from ship to shore and watch his dark maneuvres with a vigilant eye. they will arrest him yet unless he assumes an expression of countenance that shall have less of carnage, insurrection and sedition in it. a visit paid in a friendly way to general garibaldi yesterday (by cordial invitation,) by some of our passengers, has gone far to confirm the dread suspicions the government harbors toward us. it is thought the friendly visit was only the cloak of a bloody conspiracy. these people draw near and watch us when we bathe in the sea from the ship's side. do they think we are communing with a reserve force of rascals at the bottom? it is said that we shall probably be quarantined at naples. two or three of us prefer not to run this risk. therefore, when we are rested, we propose to go in a french steamer to civita and from thence to rome, and by rail to naples. they do not quarantine the cars, no matter where they got their passengers from. chapter xxv. there are a good many things about this italy which i do not understand --and more especially i can not understand how a bankrupt government can have such palatial railroad depots and such marvels of turnpikes. why, these latter are as hard as adamant, as straight as a line, as smooth as a floor, and as white as snow. when it is too dark to see any other object, one can still see the white turnpikes of france and italy; and they are clean enough to eat from, without a table-cloth. and yet no tolls are charged. as for the railways--we have none like them. the cars slide as smoothly along as if they were on runners. the depots are vast palaces of cut marble, with stately colonnades of the same royal stone traversing them from end to end, and with ample walls and ceilings richly decorated with frescoes. the lofty gateways are graced with statues, and the broad floors are all laid in polished flags of marble. these things win me more than italy's hundred galleries of priceless art treasures, because i can understand the one and am not competent to appreciate the other. in the turnpikes, the railways, the depots, and the new boulevards of uniform houses in florence and other cities here, i see the genius of louis napoleon, or rather, i see the works of that statesman imitated. but louis has taken care that in france there shall be a foundation for these improvements--money. he has always the wherewithal to back up his projects; they strengthen france and never weaken her. her material prosperity is genuine. but here the case is different. this country is bankrupt. there is no real foundation for these great works. the prosperity they would seem to indicate is a pretence. there is no money in the treasury, and so they enfeeble her instead of strengthening. italy has achieved the dearest wish of her heart and become an independent state--and in so doing she has drawn an elephant in the political lottery. she has nothing to feed it on. inexperienced in government, she plunged into all manner of useless expenditure, and swamped her treasury almost in a day. she squandered millions of francs on a navy which she did not need, and the first time she took her new toy into action she got it knocked higher than gilderoy's kite--to use the language of the pilgrims. but it is an ill-wind that blows nobody good. a year ago, when italy saw utter ruin staring her in the face and her greenbacks hardly worth the paper they were printed on, her parliament ventured upon a 'coup de main' that would have appalled the stoutest of her statesmen under less desperate circumstances. they, in a manner, confiscated the domains of the church! this in priest-ridden italy! this in a land which has groped in the midnight of priestly superstition for sixteen hundred years! it was a rare good fortune for italy, the stress of weather that drove her to break from this prison-house. they do not call it confiscating the church property. that would sound too harshly yet. but it amounts to that. there are thousands of churches in italy, each with untold millions of treasures stored away in its closets, and each with its battalion of priests to be supported. and then there are the estates of the church--league on league of the richest lands and the noblest forests in all italy--all yielding immense revenues to the church, and none paying a cent in taxes to the state. in some great districts the church owns all the property--lands, watercourses, woods, mills and factories. they buy, they sell, they manufacture, and since they pay no taxes, who can hope to compete with them? well, the government has seized all this in effect, and will yet seize it in rigid and unpoetical reality, no doubt. something must be done to feed a starving treasury, and there is no other resource in all italy --none but the riches of the church. so the government intends to take to itself a great portion of the revenues arising from priestly farms, factories, etc., and also intends to take possession of the churches and carry them on, after its own fashion and upon its own responsibility. in a few instances it will leave the establishments of great pet churches undisturbed, but in all others only a handful of priests will be retained to preach and pray, a few will be pensioned, and the balance turned adrift. pray glance at some of these churches and their embellishments, and see whether the government is doing a righteous thing or not. in venice, today, a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, there are twelve hundred priests. heaven only knows how many there were before the parliament reduced their numbers. there was the great jesuit church. under the old regime it required sixty priests to engineer it--the government does it with five, now, and the others are discharged from service. all about that church wretchedness and poverty abound. at its door a dozen hats and bonnets were doffed to us, as many heads were humbly bowed, and as many hands extended, appealing for pennies--appealing with foreign words we could not understand, but appealing mutely, with sad eyes, and sunken cheeks, and ragged raiment, that no words were needed to translate. then we passed within the great doors, and it seemed that the riches of the world were before us! huge columns carved out of single masses of marble, and inlaid from top to bottom with a hundred intricate figures wrought in costly verde antique; pulpits of the same rich materials, whose draperies hung down in many a pictured fold, the stony fabric counterfeiting the delicate work of the loom; the grand altar brilliant with polished facings and balustrades of oriental agate, jasper, verde antique, and other precious stones, whose names, even, we seldom hear --and slabs of priceless lapis lazuli lavished every where as recklessly as if the church had owned a quarry of it. in the midst of all this magnificence, the solid gold and silver furniture of the altar seemed cheap and trivial. even the floors and ceilings cost a princely fortune. now, where is the use of allowing all those riches to lie idle, while half of that community hardly know, from day to day, how they are going to keep body and soul together? and, where is the wisdom in permitting hundreds upon hundreds of millions of francs to be locked up in the useless trumpery of churches all over italy, and the people ground to death with taxation to uphold a perishing government? as far as i can see, italy, for fifteen hundred years, has turned all her energies, all her finances, and all her industry to the building up of a vast array of wonderful church edifices, and starving half her citizens to accomplish it. she is to-day one vast museum of magnificence and misery. all the churches in an ordinary american city put together could hardly buy the jeweled frippery in one of her hundred cathedrals. and for every beggar in america, italy can show a hundred--and rags and vermin to match. it is the wretchedest, princeliest land on earth. look at the grand duomo of florence--a vast pile that has been sapping the purses of her citizens for five hundred years, and is not nearly finished yet. like all other men, i fell down and worshipped it, but when the filthy beggars swarmed around me the contrast was too striking, too suggestive, and i said, "o, sons of classic italy, is the spirit of enterprise, of self-reliance, of noble endeavor, utterly dead within ye? curse your indolent worthlessness, why don't you rob your church?" three hundred happy, comfortable priests are employed in that cathedral. and now that my temper is up, i may as well go on and abuse every body i can think of. they have a grand mausoleum in florence, which they built to bury our lord and saviour and the medici family in. it sounds blasphemous, but it is true, and here they act blasphemy. the dead and damned medicis who cruelly tyrannized over florence and were her curse for over two hundred years, are salted away in a circle of costly vaults, and in their midst the holy sepulchre was to have been set up. the expedition sent to jerusalem to seize it got into trouble and could not accomplish the burglary, and so the centre of the mausoleum is vacant now. they say the entire mausoleum was intended for the holy sepulchre, and was only turned into a family burying place after the jerusalem expedition failed--but you will excuse me. some of those medicis would have smuggled themselves in sure.--what they had not the effrontery to do, was not worth doing. why, they had their trivial, forgotten exploits on land and sea pictured out in grand frescoes (as did also the ancient doges of venice) with the saviour and the virgin throwing bouquets to them out of the clouds, and the deity himself applauding from his throne in heaven! and who painted these things? why, titian, tintoretto, paul veronese, raphael--none other than the world's idols, the "old masters." andrea del sarto glorified his princes in pictures that must save them for ever from the oblivion they merited, and they let him starve. served him right. raphael pictured such infernal villains as catherine and marie de medicis seated in heaven and conversing familiarly with the virgin mary and the angels, (to say nothing of higher personages,) and yet my friends abuse me because i am a little prejudiced against the old masters--because i fail sometimes to see the beauty that is in their productions. i can not help but see it, now and then, but i keep on protesting against the groveling spirit that could persuade those masters to prostitute their noble talents to the adulation of such monsters as the french, venetian and florentine princes of two and three hundred years ago, all the same. i am told that the old masters had to do these shameful things for bread, the princes and potentates being the only patrons of art. if a grandly gifted man may drag his pride and his manhood in the dirt for bread rather than starve with the nobility that is in him untainted, the excuse is a valid one. it would excuse theft in washingtons and wellingtons, and unchastity in women as well. but somehow, i can not keep that medici mausoleum out of my memory. it is as large as a church; its pavement is rich enough for the pavement of a king's palace; its great dome is gorgeous with frescoes; its walls are made of--what? marble?--plaster?--wood?--paper? no. red porphyry --verde antique--jasper--oriental agate--alabaster--mother-of-pearl --chalcedony--red coral--lapis lazuli! all the vast walls are made wholly of these precious stones, worked in, and in and in together in elaborate patterns and figures, and polished till they glow like great mirrors with the pictured splendors reflected from the dome overhead. and before a statue of one of those dead medicis reposes a crown that blazes with diamonds and emeralds enough to buy a ship-of-the-line, almost. these are the things the government has its evil eye upon, and a happy thing it will be for italy when they melt away in the public treasury. and now----. however, another beggar approaches. i will go out and destroy him, and then come back and write another chapter of vituperation. having eaten the friendless orphan--having driven away his comrades --having grown calm and reflective at length--i now feel in a kindlier mood. i feel that after talking so freely about the priests and the churches, justice demands that if i know any thing good about either i ought to say it. i have heard of many things that redound to the credit of the priesthood, but the most notable matter that occurs to me now is the devotion one of the mendicant orders showed during the prevalence of the cholera last year. i speak of the dominican friars--men who wear a coarse, heavy brown robe and a cowl, in this hot climate, and go barefoot. they live on alms altogether, i believe. they must unquestionably love their religion, to suffer so much for it. when the cholera was raging in naples; when the people were dying by hundreds and hundreds every day; when every concern for the public welfare was swallowed up in selfish private interest, and every citizen made the taking care of himself his sole object, these men banded themselves together and went about nursing the sick and burying the dead. their noble efforts cost many of them their lives. they laid them down cheerfully, and well they might. creeds mathematically precise, and hair-splitting niceties of doctrine, are absolutely necessary for the salvation of some kinds of souls, but surely the charity, the purity, the unselfishness that are in the hearts of men like these would save their souls though they were bankrupt in the true religion--which is ours. one of these fat bare-footed rascals came here to civita vecchia with us in the little french steamer. there were only half a dozen of us in the cabin. he belonged in the steerage. he was the life of the ship, the bloody-minded son of the inquisition! he and the leader of the marine band of a french man-of-war played on the piano and sang opera turn about; they sang duets together; they rigged impromptu theatrical costumes and gave us extravagant farces and pantomimes. we got along first-rate with the friar, and were excessively conversational, albeit he could not understand what we said, and certainly he never uttered a word that we could guess the meaning of. this civita vecchia is the finest nest of dirt, vermin and ignorance we have found yet, except that african perdition they call tangier, which is just like it. the people here live in alleys two yards wide, which have a smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining. it is well the alleys are not wider, because they hold as much smell now as a person can stand, and of course, if they were wider they would hold more, and then the people would die. these alleys are paved with stone, and carpeted with deceased cats, and decayed rags, and decomposed vegetable-tops, and remnants of old boots, all soaked with dish-water, and the people sit around on stools and enjoy it. they are indolent, as a general thing, and yet have few pastimes. they work two or three hours at a time, but not hard, and then they knock off and catch flies. this does not require any talent, because they only have to grab--if they do not get the one they are after, they get another. it is all the same to them. they have no partialities. whichever one they get is the one they want. they have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant. they are very quiet, unpretending people. they have more of these kind of things than other communities, but they do not boast. they are very uncleanly--these people--in face, in person and dress. when they see any body with a clean shirt on, it arouses their scorn. the women wash clothes, half the day, at the public tanks in the streets, but they are probably somebody else's. or may be they keep one set to wear and another to wash; because they never put on any that have ever been washed. when they get done washing, they sit in the alleys and nurse their cubs. they nurse one ash-cat at a time, and the others scratch their backs against the door-post and are happy. all this country belongs to the papal states. they do not appear to have any schools here, and only one billiard table. their education is at a very low stage. one portion of the men go into the military, another into the priesthood, and the rest into the shoe-making business. they keep up the passport system here, but so they do in turkey. this shows that the papal states are as far advanced as turkey. this fact will be alone sufficient to silence the tongues of malignant calumniators. i had to get my passport vised for rome in florence, and then they would not let me come ashore here until a policeman had examined it on the wharf and sent me a permit. they did not even dare to let me take my passport in my hands for twelve hours, i looked so formidable. they judged it best to let me cool down. they thought i wanted to take the town, likely. little did they know me. i wouldn't have it. they examined my baggage at the depot. they took one of my ablest jokes and read it over carefully twice and then read it backwards. but it was too deep for them. they passed it around, and every body speculated on it awhile, but it mastered them all. it was no common joke. at length a veteran officer spelled it over deliberately and shook his head three or four times and said that in his opinion it was seditious. that was the first time i felt alarmed. i immediately said i would explain the document, and they crowded around. and so i explained and explained and explained, and they took notes of all i said, but the more i explained the more they could not understand it, and when they desisted at last, i could not even understand it myself. they said they believed it was an incendiary document, leveled at the government. i declared solemnly that it was not, but they only shook their heads and would not be satisfied. then they consulted a good while; and finally they confiscated it. i was very sorry for this, because i had worked a long time on that joke, and took a good deal of pride in it, and now i suppose i shall never see it any more. i suppose it will be sent up and filed away among the criminal archives of rome, and will always be regarded as a mysterious infernal machine which would have blown up like a mine and scattered the good pope all around, but for a miraculous providential interference. and i suppose that all the time i am in rome the police will dog me about from place to place because they think i am a dangerous character. it is fearfully hot in civita vecchia. the streets are made very narrow and the houses built very solid and heavy and high, as a protection against the heat. this is the first italian town i have seen which does not appear to have a patron saint. i suppose no saint but the one that went up in the chariot of fire could stand the climate. there is nothing here to see. they have not even a cathedral, with eleven tons of solid silver archbishops in the back room; and they do not show you any moldy buildings that are seven thousand years old; nor any smoke-dried old fire-screens which are chef d'oeuvres of reubens or simpson, or titian or ferguson, or any of those parties; and they haven't any bottled fragments of saints, and not even a nail from the true cross. we are going to rome. there is nothing to see here. chapter xxvi. what is it that confers the noblest delight? what is that which swells a man's breast with pride above that which any other experience can bring to him? discovery! to know that you are walking where none others have walked; that you are beholding what human eye has not seen before; that you are breathing a virgin atmosphere. to give birth to an idea--to discover a great thought--an intellectual nugget, right under the dust of a field that many a brain--plow had gone over before. to find a new planet, to invent a new hinge, to find the way to make the lightnings carry your messages. to be the first--that is the idea. to do something, say something, see something, before any body else--these are the things that confer a pleasure compared with which other pleasures are tame and commonplace, other ecstasies cheap and trivial. morse, with his first message, brought by his servant, the lightning; fulton, in that long-drawn century of suspense, when he placed his hand upon the throttle-valve and lo, the steamboat moved; jenner, when his patient with the cow's virus in his blood, walked through the smallpox hospitals unscathed; howe, when the idea shot through his brain that for a hundred and twenty generations the eye had been bored through the wrong end of the needle; the nameless lord of art who laid down his chisel in some old age that is forgotten, now, and gloated upon the finished laocoon; daguerre, when he commanded the sun, riding in the zenith, to print the landscape upon his insignificant silvered plate, and he obeyed; columbus, in the pinta's shrouds, when he swung his hat above a fabled sea and gazed abroad upon an unknown world! these are the men who have really lived--who have actually comprehended what pleasure is--who have crowded long lifetimes of ecstasy into a single moment. what is there in rome for me to see that others have not seen before me? what is there for me to touch that others have not touched? what is there for me to feel, to learn, to hear, to know, that shall thrill me before it pass to others? what can i discover?--nothing. nothing whatsoever. one charm of travel dies here. but if i were only a roman! --if, added to my own i could be gifted with modern roman sloth, modern roman superstition, and modern roman boundlessness of ignorance, what bewildering worlds of unsuspected wonders i would discover! ah, if i were only a habitant of the campagna five and twenty miles from rome! then i would travel. i would go to america, and see, and learn, and return to the campagna and stand before my countrymen an illustrious discoverer. i would say: "i saw there a country which has no overshadowing mother church, and yet the people survive. i saw a government which never was protected by foreign soldiers at a cost greater than that required to carry on the government itself. i saw common men and common women who could read; i even saw small children of common country people reading from books; if i dared think you would believe it, i would say they could write, also. "in the cities i saw people drinking a delicious beverage made of chalk and water, but never once saw goats driven through their broadway or their pennsylvania avenue or their montgomery street and milked at the doors of the houses. i saw real glass windows in the houses of even the commonest people. some of the houses are not of stone, nor yet of bricks; i solemnly swear they are made of wood. houses there will take fire and burn, sometimes--actually burn entirely down, and not leave a single vestige behind. i could state that for a truth, upon my death-bed. and as a proof that the circumstance is not rare, i aver that they have a thing which they call a fire-engine, which vomits forth great streams of water, and is kept always in readiness, by night and by day, to rush to houses that are burning. you would think one engine would be sufficient, but some great cities have a hundred; they keep men hired, and pay them by the month to do nothing but put out fires. for a certain sum of money other men will insure that your house shall not burn down; and if it burns they will pay you for it. there are hundreds and thousands of schools, and any body may go and learn to be wise, like a priest. in that singular country if a rich man dies a sinner, he is damned; he can not buy salvation with money for masses. there is really not much use in being rich, there. not much use as far as the other world is concerned, but much, very much use, as concerns this; because there, if a man be rich, he is very greatly honored, and can become a legislator, a governor, a general, a senator, no matter how ignorant an ass he is--just as in our beloved italy the nobles hold all the great places, even though sometimes they are born noble idiots. there, if a man be rich, they give him costly presents, they ask him to feasts, they invite him to drink complicated beverages; but if he be poor and in debt, they require him to do that which they term to "settle." the women put on a different dress almost every day; the dress is usually fine, but absurd in shape; the very shape and fashion of it changes twice in a hundred years; and did i but covet to be called an extravagant falsifier, i would say it changed even oftener. hair does not grow upon the american women's heads; it is made for them by cunning workmen in the shops, and is curled and frizzled into scandalous and ungodly forms. some persons wear eyes of glass which they see through with facility perhaps, else they would not use them; and in the mouths of some are teeth made by the sacrilegious hand of man. the dress of the men is laughably grotesque. they carry no musket in ordinary life, nor no long-pointed pole; they wear no wide green-lined cloak; they wear no peaked black felt hat, no leathern gaiters reaching to the knee, no goat-skin breeches with the hair side out, no hob-nailed shoes, no prodigious spurs. they wear a conical hat termed a "nail-kag;" a coat of saddest black; a shirt which shows dirt so easily that it has to be changed every month, and is very troublesome; things called pantaloons, which are held up by shoulder straps, and on their feet they wear boots which are ridiculous in pattern and can stand no wear. yet dressed in this fantastic garb, these people laughed at my costume. in that country, books are so common that it is really no curiosity to see one. newspapers also. they have a great machine which prints such things by thousands every hour. "i saw common men, there--men who were neither priests nor princes--who yet absolutely owned the land they tilled. it was not rented from the church, nor from the nobles. i am ready to take my oath of this. in that country you might fall from a third story window three several times, and not mash either a soldier or a priest.--the scarcity of such people is astonishing. in the cities you will see a dozen civilians for every soldier, and as many for every priest or preacher. jews, there, are treated just like human beings, instead of dogs. they can work at any business they please; they can sell brand new goods if they want to; they can keep drug-stores; they can practice medicine among christians; they can even shake hands with christians if they choose; they can associate with them, just the same as one human being does with another human being; they don't have to stay shut up in one corner of the towns; they can live in any part of a town they like best; it is said they even have the privilege of buying land and houses, and owning them themselves, though i doubt that, myself; they never have had to run races naked through the public streets, against jackasses, to please the people in carnival time; there they never have been driven by the soldiers into a church every sunday for hundreds of years to hear themselves and their religion especially and particularly cursed; at this very day, in that curious country, a jew is allowed to vote, hold office, yea, get up on a rostrum in the public street and express his opinion of the government if the government don't suit him! ah, it is wonderful. the common people there know a great deal; they even have the effrontery to complain if they are not properly governed, and to take hold and help conduct the government themselves; if they had laws like ours, which give one dollar of every three a crop produces to the government for taxes, they would have that law altered: instead of paying thirty-three dollars in taxes, out of every one hundred they receive, they complain if they have to pay seven. they are curious people. they do not know when they are well off. mendicant priests do not prowl among them with baskets begging for the church and eating up their substance. one hardly ever sees a minister of the gospel going around there in his bare feet, with a basket, begging for subsistence. in that country the preachers are not like our mendicant orders of friars--they have two or three suits of clothing, and they wash sometimes. in that land are mountains far higher than the alban mountains; the vast roman campagna, a hundred miles long and full forty broad, is really small compared to the united states of america; the tiber, that celebrated river of ours, which stretches its mighty course almost two hundred miles, and which a lad can scarcely throw a stone across at rome, is not so long, nor yet so wide, as the american mississippi--nor yet the ohio, nor even the hudson. in america the people are absolutely wiser and know much more than their grandfathers did. they do not plow with a sharpened stick, nor yet with a three-cornered block of wood that merely scratches the top of the ground. we do that because our fathers did, three thousand years ago, i suppose. but those people have no holy reverence for their ancestors. they plow with a plow that is a sharp, curved blade of iron, and it cuts into the earth full five inches. and this is not all. they cut their grain with a horrid machine that mows down whole fields in a day. if i dared, i would say that sometimes they use a blasphemous plow that works by fire and vapor and tears up an acre of ground in a single hour--but --but--i see by your looks that you do not believe the things i am telling you. alas, my character is ruined, and i am a branded speaker of untruths!" of course we have been to the monster church of st. peter, frequently. i knew its dimensions. i knew it was a prodigious structure. i knew it was just about the length of the capitol at washington--say seven hundred and thirty feet. i knew it was three hundred and sixty-four feet wide, and consequently wider than the capitol. i knew that the cross on the top of the dome of the church was four hundred and thirty-eight feet above the ground, and therefore about a hundred or may be a hundred and twenty-five feet higher than the dome of the capitol.--thus i had one gauge. i wished to come as near forming a correct idea of how it was going to look, as possible; i had a curiosity to see how much i would err. i erred considerably. st. peter's did not look nearly so large as the capitol, and certainly not a twentieth part as beautiful, from the outside. when we reached the door, and stood fairly within the church, it was impossible to comprehend that it was a very large building. i had to cipher a comprehension of it. i had to ransack my memory for some more similes. st. peter's is bulky. its height and size would represent two of the washington capitol set one on top of the other--if the capitol were wider; or two blocks or two blocks and a half of ordinary buildings set one on top of the other. st. peter's was that large, but it could and would not look so. the trouble was that every thing in it and about it was on such a scale of uniform vastness that there were no contrasts to judge by--none but the people, and i had not noticed them. they were insects. the statues of children holding vases of holy water were immense, according to the tables of figures, but so was every thing else around them. the mosaic pictures in the dome were huge, and were made of thousands and thousands of cubes of glass as large as the end of my little finger, but those pictures looked smooth, and gaudy of color, and in good proportion to the dome. evidently they would not answer to measure by. away down toward the far end of the church (i thought it was really clear at the far end, but discovered afterward that it was in the centre, under the dome,) stood the thing they call the baldacchino--a great bronze pyramidal frame-work like that which upholds a mosquito bar. it only looked like a considerably magnified bedstead--nothing more. yet i knew it was a good deal more than half as high as niagara falls. it was overshadowed by a dome so mighty that its own height was snubbed. the four great square piers or pillars that stand equidistant from each other in the church, and support the roof, i could not work up to their real dimensions by any method of comparison. i knew that the faces of each were about the width of a very large dwelling-house front, (fifty or sixty feet,) and that they were twice as high as an ordinary three-story dwelling, but still they looked small. i tried all the different ways i could think of to compel myself to understand how large st. peter's was, but with small success. the mosaic portrait of an apostle who was writing with a pen six feet long seemed only an ordinary apostle. but the people attracted my attention after a while. to stand in the door of st. peter's and look at men down toward its further extremity, two blocks away, has a diminishing effect on them; surrounded by the prodigious pictures and statues, and lost in the vast spaces, they look very much smaller than they would if they stood two blocks away in the open air. i "averaged" a man as he passed me and watched him as he drifted far down by the baldacchino and beyond--watched him dwindle to an insignificant school-boy, and then, in the midst of the silent throng of human pigmies gliding about him, i lost him. the church had lately been decorated, on the occasion of a great ceremony in honor of st. peter, and men were engaged, now, in removing the flowers and gilt paper from the walls and pillars. as no ladders could reach the great heights, the men swung themselves down from balustrades and the capitals of pilasters by ropes, to do this work. the upper gallery which encircles the inner sweep of the dome is two hundred and forty feet above the floor of the church--very few steeples in america could reach up to it. visitors always go up there to look down into the church because one gets the best idea of some of the heights and distances from that point. while we stood on the floor one of the workmen swung loose from that gallery at the end of a long rope. i had not supposed, before, that a man could look so much like a spider. he was insignificant in size, and his rope seemed only a thread. seeing that he took up so little space, i could believe the story, then, that ten thousand troops went to st. peter's, once, to hear mass, and their commanding officer came afterward, and not finding them, supposed they had not yet arrived. but they were in the church, nevertheless--they were in one of the transepts. nearly fifty thousand persons assembled in st. peter's to hear the publishing of the dogma of the immaculate conception. it is estimated that the floor of the church affords standing room for--for a large number of people; i have forgotten the exact figures. but it is no matter--it is near enough. they have twelve small pillars, in st. peter's, which came from solomon's temple. they have, also--which was far more interesting to me--a piece of the true cross, and some nails, and a part of the crown of thorns. of course we ascended to the summit of the dome, and of course we also went up into the gilt copper ball which is above it.--there was room there for a dozen persons, with a little crowding, and it was as close and hot as an oven. some of those people who are so fond of writing their names in prominent places had been there before us--a million or two, i should think. from the dome of st. peter's one can see every notable object in rome, from the castle of st. angelo to the coliseum. he can discern the seven hills upon which rome is built. he can see the tiber, and the locality of the bridge which horatius kept "in the brave days of old" when lars porsena attempted to cross it with his invading host. he can see the spot where the horatii and the curatii fought their famous battle. he can see the broad green campagna, stretching away toward the mountains, with its scattered arches and broken aqueducts of the olden time, so picturesque in their gray ruin, and so daintily festooned with vines. he can see the alban mountains, the appenines, the sabine hills, and the blue mediterranean. he can see a panorama that is varied, extensive, beautiful to the eye, and more illustrious in history than any other in europe.--about his feet is spread the remnant of a city that once had a population of four million souls; and among its massed edifices stand the ruins of temples, columns, and triumphal arches that knew the caesars, and the noonday of roman splendor; and close by them, in unimpaired strength, is a drain of arched and heavy masonry that belonged to that older city which stood here before romulus and remus were born or rome thought of. the appian way is here yet, and looking much as it did, perhaps, when the triumphal processions of the emperors moved over it in other days bringing fettered princes from the confines of the earth. we can not see the long array of chariots and mail-clad men laden with the spoils of conquest, but we can imagine the pageant, after a fashion. we look out upon many objects of interest from the dome of st. peter's; and last of all, almost at our feet, our eyes rest upon the building which was once the inquisition. how times changed, between the older ages and the new! some seventeen or eighteen centuries ago, the ignorant men of rome were wont to put christians in the arena of the coliseum yonder, and turn the wild beasts in upon them for a show. it was for a lesson as well. it was to teach the people to abhor and fear the new doctrine the followers of christ were teaching. the beasts tore the victims limb from limb and made poor mangled corpses of them in the twinkling of an eye. but when the christians came into power, when the holy mother church became mistress of the barbarians, she taught them the error of their ways by no such means. no, she put them in this pleasant inquisition and pointed to the blessed redeemer, who was so gentle and so merciful toward all men, and they urged the barbarians to love him; and they did all they could to persuade them to love and honor him--first by twisting their thumbs out of joint with a screw; then by nipping their flesh with pincers--red-hot ones, because they are the most comfortable in cold weather; then by skinning them alive a little, and finally by roasting them in public. they always convinced those barbarians. the true religion, properly administered, as the good mother church used to administer it, is very, very soothing. it is wonderfully persuasive, also. there is a great difference between feeding parties to wild beasts and stirring up their finer feelings in an inquisition. one is the system of degraded barbarians, the other of enlightened, civilized people. it is a great pity the playful inquisition is no more. i prefer not to describe st. peter's. it has been done before. the ashes of peter, the disciple of the saviour, repose in a crypt under the baldacchino. we stood reverently in that place; so did we also in the mamertine prison, where he was confined, where he converted the soldiers, and where tradition says he caused a spring of water to flow in order that he might baptize them. but when they showed us the print of peter's face in the hard stone of the prison wall and said he made that by falling up against it, we doubted. and when, also, the monk at the church of san sebastian showed us a paving-stone with two great footprints in it and said that peter's feet made those, we lacked confidence again. such things do not impress one. the monk said that angels came and liberated peter from prison by night, and he started away from rome by the appian way. the saviour met him and told him to go back, which he did. peter left those footprints in the stone upon which he stood at the time. it was not stated how it was ever discovered whose footprints they were, seeing the interview occurred secretly and at night. the print of the face in the prison was that of a man of common size; the footprints were those of a man ten or twelve feet high. the discrepancy confirmed our unbelief. we necessarily visited the forum, where caesar was assassinated, and also the tarpeian rock. we saw the dying gladiator at the capitol, and i think that even we appreciated that wonder of art; as much, perhaps, as we did that fearful story wrought in marble, in the vatican--the laocoon. and then the coliseum. every body knows the picture of the coliseum; every body recognizes at once that "looped and windowed" band-box with a side bitten out. being rather isolated, it shows to better advantage than any other of the monuments of ancient rome. even the beautiful pantheon, whose pagan altars uphold the cross, now, and whose venus, tricked out in consecrated gimcracks, does reluctant duty as a virgin mary to-day, is built about with shabby houses and its stateliness sadly marred. but the monarch of all european ruins, the coliseum, maintains that reserve and that royal seclusion which is proper to majesty. weeds and flowers spring from its massy arches and its circling seats, and vines hang their fringes from its lofty walls. an impressive silence broods over the monstrous structure where such multitudes of men and women were wont to assemble in other days. the butterflies have taken the places of the queens of fashion and beauty of eighteen centuries ago, and the lizards sun themselves in the sacred seat of the emperor. more vividly than all the written histories, the coliseum tells the story of rome's grandeur and rome's decay. it is the worthiest type of both that exists. moving about the rome of to-day, we might find it hard to believe in her old magnificence and her millions of population; but with this stubborn evidence before us that she was obliged to have a theatre with sitting room for eighty thousand persons and standing room for twenty thousand more, to accommodate such of her citizens as required amusement, we find belief less difficult. the coliseum is over one thousand six hundred feet long, seven hundred and fifty wide, and one hundred and sixty-five high. its shape is oval. in america we make convicts useful at the same time that we punish them for their crimes. we farm them out and compel them to earn money for the state by making barrels and building roads. thus we combine business with retribution, and all things are lovely. but in ancient rome they combined religious duty with pleasure. since it was necessary that the new sect called christians should be exterminated, the people judged it wise to make this work profitable to the state at the same time, and entertaining to the public. in addition to the gladiatorial combats and other shows, they sometimes threw members of the hated sect into the arena of the coliseum and turned wild beasts in upon them. it is estimated that seventy thousand christians suffered martyrdom in this place. this has made the coliseum holy ground, in the eyes of the followers of the saviour. and well it might; for if the chain that bound a saint, and the footprints a saint has left upon a stone he chanced to stand upon, be holy, surely the spot where a man gave up his life for his faith is holy. seventeen or eighteen centuries ago this coliseum was the theatre of rome, and rome was mistress of the world. splendid pageants were exhibited here, in presence of the emperor, the great ministers of state, the nobles, and vast audiences of citizens of smaller consequence. gladiators fought with gladiators and at times with warrior prisoners from many a distant land. it was the theatre of rome--of the world--and the man of fashion who could not let fall in a casual and unintentional manner something about "my private box at the coliseum" could not move in the first circles. when the clothing-store merchant wished to consume the corner grocery man with envy, he bought secured seats in the front row and let the thing be known. when the irresistible dry goods clerk wished to blight and destroy, according to his native instinct, he got himself up regardless of expense and took some other fellow's young lady to the coliseum, and then accented the affront by cramming her with ice cream between the acts, or by approaching the cage and stirring up the martyrs with his whalebone cane for her edification. the roman swell was in his true element only when he stood up against a pillar and fingered his moustache unconscious of the ladies; when he viewed the bloody combats through an opera-glass two inches long; when he excited the envy of provincials by criticisms which showed that he had been to the coliseum many and many a time and was long ago over the novelty of it; when he turned away with a yawn at last and said, "he a star! handles his sword like an apprentice brigand! he'll do for the country, may be, but he don't answer for the metropolis!" glad was the contraband that had a seat in the pit at the saturday matinee, and happy the roman street-boy who ate his peanuts and guyed the gladiators from the dizzy gallery. for me was reserved the high honor of discovering among the rubbish of the ruined coliseum the only playbill of that establishment now extant. there was a suggestive smell of mint-drops about it still, a corner of it had evidently been chewed, and on the margin, in choice latin, these words were written in a delicate female hand: "meet me on the tarpeian rock tomorrow evening, dear, at sharp seven. mother will be absent on a visit to her friends in the sabine hills. claudia." ah, where is that lucky youth to-day, and where the little hand that wrote those dainty lines? dust and ashes these seventeen hundred years! thus reads the bill: roman coliseum. unparalleled attraction! new properties! new lions! new gladiators! engagement of the renowned marcus marcellus valerian! for six nights only! the management beg leave to offer to the public an entertainment surpassing in magnificence any thing that has heretofore been attempted on any stage. no expense has been spared to make the opening season one which shall be worthy the generous patronage which the management feel sure will crown their efforts. the management beg leave to state that they have succeeded in securing the services of a galaxy of talent! such as has not been beheld in rome before. the performance will commence this evening with a grand broadsword combat! between two young and promising amateurs and a celebrated parthian gladiator who has just arrived a prisoner from the camp of verus. this will be followed by a grand moral battle-ax engagement! between the renowned valerian (with one hand tied behind him,) and two gigantic savages from britain. after which the renowned valerian (if he survive,) will fight with the broad-sword, left handed! against six sophomores and a freshman from the gladiatorial college! a long series of brilliant engagements will follow, in which the finest talent of the empire will take part after which the celebrated infant prodigy known as "the young achilles," will engage four tiger whelps in combat, armed with no other weapon than his little spear! the whole to conclude with a chaste and elegant general slaughter! in which thirteen african lions and twenty-two barbarian prisoners will war with each other until all are exterminated. box office now open. dress circle one dollar; children and servants half price. an efficient police force will be on hand to preserve order and keep the wild beasts from leaping the railings and discommoding the audience. doors open at ; performance begins at . positively no free list. diodorus job press. it was as singular as it was gratifying that i was also so fortunate as to find among the rubbish of the arena, a stained and mutilated copy of the roman daily battle-ax, containing a critique upon this very performance. it comes to hand too late by many centuries to rank as news, and therefore i translate and publish it simply to show how very little the general style and phraseology of dramatic criticism has altered in the ages that have dragged their slow length along since the carriers laid this one damp and fresh before their roman patrons: "the opening season.--coliseum.--notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, quite a respectable number of the rank and fashion of the city assembled last night to witness the debut upon metropolitan boards of the young tragedian who has of late been winning such golden opinions in the amphitheatres of the provinces. some sixty thousand persons were present, and but for the fact that the streets were almost impassable, it is fair to presume that the house would have been full. his august majesty, the emperor aurelius, occupied the imperial box, and was the cynosure of all eyes. many illustrious nobles and generals of the empire graced the occasion with their presence, and not the least among them was the young patrician lieutenant whose laurels, won in the ranks of the "thundering legion," are still so green upon his brow. the cheer which greeted his entrance was heard beyond the tiber! "the late repairs and decorations add both to the comeliness and the comfort of the coliseum. the new cushions are a great improvement upon the hard marble seats we have been so long accustomed to. the present management deserve well of the public. they have restored to the coliseum the gilding, the rich upholstery and the uniform magnificence which old coliseum frequenters tell us rome was so proud of fifty years ago. "the opening scene last night--the broadsword combat between two young amateurs and a famous parthian gladiator who was sent here a prisoner--was very fine. the elder of the two young gentlemen handled his weapon with a grace that marked the possession of extraordinary talent. his feint of thrusting, followed instantly by a happily delivered blow which unhelmeted the parthian, was received with hearty applause. he was not thoroughly up in the backhanded stroke, but it was very gratifying to his numerous friends to know that, in time, practice would have overcome this defect. however, he was killed. his sisters, who were present, expressed considerable regret. his mother left the coliseum. the other youth maintained the contest with such spirit as to call forth enthusiastic bursts of applause. when at last he fell a corpse, his aged mother ran screaming, with hair disheveled and tears streaming from her eyes, and swooned away just as her hands were clutching at the railings of the arena. she was promptly removed by the police. under the circumstances the woman's conduct was pardonable, perhaps, but we suggest that such exhibitions interfere with the decorum which should be preserved during the performances, and are highly improper in the presence of the emperor. the parthian prisoner fought bravely and well; and well he might, for he was fighting for both life and liberty. his wife and children were there to nerve his arm with their love, and to remind him of the old home he should see again if he conquered. when his second assailant fell, the woman clasped her children to her breast and wept for joy. but it was only a transient happiness. the captive staggered toward her and she saw that the liberty he had earned was earned too late. he was wounded unto death. thus the first act closed in a manner which was entirely satisfactory. the manager was called before the curtain and returned his thanks for the honor done him, in a speech which was replete with wit and humor, and closed by hoping that his humble efforts to afford cheerful and instructive entertainment would continue to meet with the approbation of the roman public "the star now appeared, and was received with vociferous applause and the simultaneous waving of sixty thousand handkerchiefs. marcus marcellus valerian (stage name--his real name is smith,) is a splendid specimen of physical development, and an artist of rare merit. his management of the battle-ax is wonderful. his gayety and his playfulness are irresistible, in his comic parts, and yet they are inferior to his sublime conceptions in the grave realm of tragedy. when his ax was describing fiery circles about the heads of the bewildered barbarians, in exact time with his springing body and his prancing legs, the audience gave way to uncontrollable bursts of laughter; but when the back of his weapon broke the skull of one and almost in the same instant its edge clove the other's body in twain, the howl of enthusiastic applause that shook the building, was the acknowledgment of a critical assemblage that he was a master of the noblest department of his profession. if he has a fault, (and we are sorry to even intimate that he has,) it is that of glancing at the audience, in the midst of the most exciting moments of the performance, as if seeking admiration. the pausing in a fight to bow when bouquets are thrown to him is also in bad taste. in the great left-handed combat he appeared to be looking at the audience half the time, instead of carving his adversaries; and when he had slain all the sophomores and was dallying with the freshman, he stooped and snatched a bouquet as it fell, and offered it to his adversary at a time when a blow was descending which promised favorably to be his death-warrant. such levity is proper enough in the provinces, we make no doubt, but it ill suits the dignity of the metropolis. we trust our young friend will take these remarks in good part, for we mean them solely for his benefit. all who know us are aware that although we are at times justly severe upon tigers and martyrs, we never intentionally offend gladiators. "the infant prodigy performed wonders. he overcame his four tiger whelps with ease, and with no other hurt than the loss of a portion of his scalp. the general slaughter was rendered with a faithfulness to details which reflects the highest credit upon the late participants in it. "upon the whole, last night's performances shed honor not only upon the management but upon the city that encourages and sustains such wholesome and instructive entertainments. we would simply suggest that the practice of vulgar young boys in the gallery of shying peanuts and paper pellets at the tigers, and saying "hi-yi!" and manifesting approbation or dissatisfaction by such observations as "bully for the lion!" "go it, gladdy!" "boots!" "speech!" "take a walk round the block!" and so on, are extremely reprehensible, when the emperor is present, and ought to be stopped by the police. several times last night, when the supernumeraries entered the arena to drag out the bodies, the young ruffians in the gallery shouted, "supe! supe!" and also, "oh, what a coat!" and "why don't you pad them shanks?" and made use of various other remarks expressive of derision. these things are very annoying to the audience. "a matinee for the little folks is promised for this afternoon, on which occasion several martyrs will be eaten by the tigers. the regular performance will continue every night till further notice. material change of programme every evening. benefit of valerian, tuesday, th, if he lives." i have been a dramatic critic myself, in my time, and i was often surprised to notice how much more i knew about hamlet than forrest did; and it gratifies me to observe, now, how much better my brethren of ancient times knew how a broad sword battle ought to be fought than the gladiators. chapter xxvii. so far, good. if any man has a right to feel proud of himself, and satisfied, surely it is i. for i have written about the coliseum, and the gladiators, the martyrs, and the lions, and yet have never once used the phrase "butchered to make a roman holiday." i am the only free white man of mature age, who has accomplished this since byron originated the expression. butchered to make a roman holiday sounds well for the first seventeen or eighteen hundred thousand times one sees it in print, but after that it begins to grow tiresome. i find it in all the books concerning rome--and here latterly it reminds me of judge oliver. oliver was a young lawyer, fresh from the schools, who had gone out to the deserts of nevada to begin life. he found that country, and our ways of life, there, in those early days, different from life in new england or paris. but he put on a woollen shirt and strapped a navy revolver to his person, took to the bacon and beans of the country, and determined to do in nevada as nevada did. oliver accepted the situation so completely that although he must have sorrowed over many of his trials, he never complained--that is, he never complained but once. he, two others, and myself, started to the new silver mines in the humboldt mountains--he to be probate judge of humboldt county, and we to mine. the distance was two hundred miles. it was dead of winter. we bought a two-horse wagon and put eighteen hundred pounds of bacon, flour, beans, blasting-powder, picks and shovels in it; we bought two sorry-looking mexican "plugs," with the hair turned the wrong way and more corners on their bodies than there are on the mosque of omar; we hitched up and started. it was a dreadful trip. but oliver did not complain. the horses dragged the wagon two miles from town and then gave out. then we three pushed the wagon seven miles, and oliver moved ahead and pulled the horses after him by the bits. we complained, but oliver did not. the ground was frozen, and it froze our backs while we slept; the wind swept across our faces and froze our noses. oliver did not complain. five days of pushing the wagon by day and freezing by night brought us to the bad part of the journey--the forty mile desert, or the great american desert, if you please. still, this mildest-mannered man that ever was, had not complained. we started across at eight in the morning, pushing through sand that had no bottom; toiling all day long by the wrecks of a thousand wagons, the skeletons of ten thousand oxen; by wagon-tires enough to hoop the washington monument to the top, and ox-chains enough to girdle long island; by human graves; with our throats parched always, with thirst; lips bleeding from the alkali dust; hungry, perspiring, and very, very weary--so weary that when we dropped in the sand every fifty yards to rest the horses, we could hardly keep from going to sleep--no complaints from oliver: none the next morning at three o'clock, when we got across, tired to death. awakened two or three nights afterward at midnight, in a narrow canon, by the snow falling on our faces, and appalled at the imminent danger of being "snowed in," we harnessed up and pushed on till eight in the morning, passed the "divide" and knew we were saved. no complaints. fifteen days of hardship and fatigue brought us to the end of the two hundred miles, and the judge had not complained. we wondered if any thing could exasperate him. we built a humboldt house. it is done in this way. you dig a square in the steep base of the mountain, and set up two uprights and top them with two joists. then you stretch a great sheet of "cotton domestic" from the point where the joists join the hill-side down over the joists to the ground; this makes the roof and the front of the mansion; the sides and back are the dirt walls your digging has left. a chimney is easily made by turning up one corner of the roof. oliver was sitting alone in this dismal den, one night, by a sage-brush fire, writing poetry; he was very fond of digging poetry out of himself --or blasting it out when it came hard. he heard an animal's footsteps close to the roof; a stone or two and some dirt came through and fell by him. he grew uneasy and said "hi!--clear out from there, can't you!" --from time to time. but by and by he fell asleep where he sat, and pretty soon a mule fell down the chimney! the fire flew in every direction, and oliver went over backwards. about ten nights after that, he recovered confidence enough to go to writing poetry again. again he dozed off to sleep, and again a mule fell down the chimney. this time, about half of that side of the house came in with the mule. struggling to get up, the mule kicked the candle out and smashed most of the kitchen furniture, and raised considerable dust. these violent awakenings must have been annoying to oliver, but he never complained. he moved to a mansion on the opposite side of the canon, because he had noticed the mules did not go there. one night about eight o'clock he was endeavoring to finish his poem, when a stone rolled in--then a hoof appeared below the canvas--then part of a cow--the after part. he leaned back in dread, and shouted "hooy! hooy! get out of this!" and the cow struggled manfully--lost ground steadily--dirt and dust streamed down, and before oliver could get well away, the entire cow crashed through on to the table and made a shapeless wreck of every thing! then, for the first time in his life, i think, oliver complained. he said, "this thing is growing monotonous!" then he resigned his judgeship and left humboldt county. "butchered to make a roman holyday" has grown monotonous to me. in this connection i wish to say one word about michael angelo buonarotti. i used to worship the mighty genius of michael angelo--that man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture--great in every thing he undertook. but i do not want michael angelo for breakfast--for luncheon--for dinner--for tea--for supper--for between meals. i like a change, occasionally. in genoa, he designed every thing; in milan he or his pupils designed every thing; he designed the lake of como; in padua, verona, venice, bologna, who did we ever hear of, from guides, but michael angelo? in florence, he painted every thing, designed every thing, nearly, and what he did not design he used to sit on a favorite stone and look at, and they showed us the stone. in pisa he designed every thing but the old shot-tower, and they would have attributed that to him if it had not been so awfully out of the perpendicular. he designed the piers of leghorn and the custom house regulations of civita vecchia. but, here--here it is frightful. he designed st. peter's; he designed the pope; he designed the pantheon, the uniform of the pope's soldiers, the tiber, the vatican, the coliseum, the capitol, the tarpeian rock, the barberini palace, st. john lateran, the campagna, the appian way, the seven hills, the baths of caracalla, the claudian aqueduct, the cloaca maxima--the eternal bore designed the eternal city, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted every thing in it! dan said the other day to the guide, "enough, enough, enough! say no more! lump the whole thing! say that the creator made italy from designs by michael angelo!" i never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled with a blessed peace, as i did yesterday when i learned that michael angelo was dead. but we have taken it out of this guide. he has marched us through miles of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the vatican; and through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has shown us the great picture in the sistine chapel, and frescoes enough to frescoe the heavens--pretty much all done by michael angelo. so with him we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for us --imbecility and idiotic questions. these creatures never suspect--they have no idea of a sarcasm. he shows us a figure and says: "statoo brunzo." (bronze statue.) we look at it indifferently and the doctor asks: "by michael angelo?" "no--not know who." then he shows us the ancient roman forum. the doctor asks: "michael angelo?" a stare from the guide. "no--thousan' year before he is born." then an egyptian obelisk. again: "michael angelo?" "oh, mon dieu, genteelmen! zis is two thousan' year before he is born!" he grows so tired of that unceasing question sometimes, that he dreads to show us any thing at all. the wretch has tried all the ways he can think of to make us comprehend that michael angelo is only responsible for the creation of a part of the world, but somehow he has not succeeded yet. relief for overtasked eyes and brain from study and sightseeing is necessary, or we shall become idiotic sure enough. therefore this guide must continue to suffer. if he does not enjoy it, so much the worse for him. we do. in this place i may as well jot down a chapter concerning those necessary nuisances, european guides. many a man has wished in his heart he could do without his guide; but knowing he could not, has wished he could get some amusement out of him as a remuneration for the affliction of his society. we accomplished this latter matter, and if our experience can be made useful to others they are welcome to it. guides know about enough english to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head or tail of it. they know their story by heart--the history of every statue, painting, cathedral or other wonder they show you. they know it and tell it as a parrot would--and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. all their lives long, they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. it is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. it is what prompts children to say "smart" things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways "show off" when company is present. it is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstasies of admiration! he gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. after we discovered this, we never went into ecstasies any more--we never admired any thing--we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. we had found their weak point. we have made good use of it ever since. we have made some of those people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity. the doctor asks the questions, generally, because he can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. it comes natural to him. the guides in genoa are delighted to secure an american party, because americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of columbus. our guide there fidgeted about as if he had swallowed a spring mattress. he was full of animation--full of impatience. he said: "come wis me, genteelmen!--come! i show you ze letter writing by christopher colombo!--write it himself!--write it wis his own hand! --come!" he took us to the municipal palace. after much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. the guide's eyes sparkled. he danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger: "what i tell you, genteelmen! is it not so? see! handwriting christopher colombo!--write it himself!" we looked indifferent--unconcerned. the doctor examined the document very deliberately, during a painful pause.--then he said, without any show of interest: "ah--ferguson--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?" "christopher colombo! ze great christopher colombo!" another deliberate examination. "ah--did he write it himself; or--or how?" "he write it himself!--christopher colombo! he's own hand-writing, write by himself!" then the doctor laid the document down and said: "why, i have seen boys in america only fourteen years old that could write better than that." "but zis is ze great christo--" "i don't care who it is! it's the worst writing i ever saw. now you musn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. we are not fools, by a good deal. if you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!" we drove on. the guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. he had something which he thought would overcome us. he said: "ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! i show you beautiful, o, magnificent bust christopher colombo!--splendid, grand, magnificent!" he brought us before the beautiful bust--for it was beautiful--and sprang back and struck an attitude: "ah, look, genteelmen!--beautiful, grand,--bust christopher colombo! --beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!" the doctor put up his eye-glass--procured for such occasions: "ah--what did you say this gentleman's name was?" "christopher colombo!--ze great christopher colombo!" "christopher colombo--the great christopher colombo. well, what did he do?" "discover america!--discover america, oh, ze devil!" "discover america. no--that statement will hardly wash. we are just from america ourselves. we heard nothing about it. christopher colombo --pleasant name--is--is he dead?" "oh, corpo di baccho!--three hundred year!" "what did he die of?" "i do not know!--i can not tell." "small-pox, think?" "i do not know, genteelmen!--i do not know what he die of!" "measles, likely?" "may be--may be--i do not know--i think he die of somethings." "parents living?" "im-poseeeble!" "ah--which is the bust and which is the pedestal?" "santa maria!--zis ze bust!--zis ze pedestal!" "ah, i see, i see--happy combination--very happy combination, indeed. is--is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust?" that joke was lost on the foreigner--guides can not master the subtleties of the american joke. we have made it interesting for this roman guide. yesterday we spent three or four hours in the vatican, again, that wonderful world of curiosities. we came very near expressing interest, sometimes--even admiration--it was very hard to keep from it. we succeeded though. nobody else ever did, in the vatican museums. the guide was bewildered --non-plussed. he walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure; we never showed any interest in any thing. he had reserved what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last--a royal egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the world, perhaps. he took us there. he felt so sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him: "see, genteelmen!--mummy! mummy!" the eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. "ah,--ferguson--what did i understand you to say the gentleman's name was?" "name?--he got no name!--mummy!--'gyptian mummy!" "yes, yes. born here?" "no! 'gyptian mummy!" "ah, just so. frenchman, i presume?" "no!--not frenchman, not roman!--born in egypta!" "born in egypta. never heard of egypta before. foreign locality, likely. mummy--mummy. how calm he is--how self-possessed. is, ah--is he dead?" "oh, sacre bleu, been dead three thousan' year!" the doctor turned on him savagely: "here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this! playing us for chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn! trying to impose your vile second-hand carcasses on us!--thunder and lightning, i've a notion to--to--if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!--or by george we'll brain you!" we make it exceedingly interesting for this frenchman. however, he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. he came to the hotel this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored as well as he could to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. he finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. the observation was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide to say. there is one remark (already mentioned,) which never yet has failed to disgust these guides. we use it always, when we can think of nothing else to say. after they have exhausted their enthusiasm pointing out to us and praising the beauties of some ancient bronze image or broken-legged statue, we look at it stupidly and in silence for five, ten, fifteen minutes--as long as we can hold out, in fact--and then ask: "is--is he dead?" that conquers the serenest of them. it is not what they are looking for --especially a new guide. our roman ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering subject we have had yet. we shall be sorry to part with him. we have enjoyed his society very much. we trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are harassed with doubts. we have been in the catacombs. it was like going down into a very deep cellar, only it was a cellar which had no end to it. the narrow passages are roughly hewn in the rock, and on each hand as you pass along, the hollowed shelves are carved out, from three to fourteen deep; each held a corpse once. there are names, and christian symbols, and prayers, or sentences expressive of christian hopes, carved upon nearly every sarcophagus. the dates belong away back in the dawn of the christian era, of course. here, in these holes in the ground, the first christians sometimes burrowed to escape persecution. they crawled out at night to get food, but remained under cover in the day time. the priest told us that st. sebastian lived under ground for some time while he was being hunted; he went out one day, and the soldiery discovered and shot him to death with arrows. five or six of the early popes--those who reigned about sixteen hundred years ago--held their papal courts and advised with their clergy in the bowels of the earth. during seventeen years--from a.d. to a.d. --the popes did not appear above ground. four were raised to the great office during that period. four years apiece, or thereabouts. it is very suggestive of the unhealthiness of underground graveyards as places of residence. one pope afterward spent his entire pontificate in the catacombs--eight years. another was discovered in them and murdered in the episcopal chair. there was no satisfaction in being a pope in those days. there were too many annoyances. there are one hundred and sixty catacombs under rome, each with its maze of narrow passages crossing and recrossing each other and each passage walled to the top with scooped graves its entire length. a careful estimate makes the length of the passages of all the catacombs combined foot up nine hundred miles, and their graves number seven millions. we did not go through all the passages of all the catacombs. we were very anxious to do it, and made the necessary arrangements, but our too limited time obliged us to give up the idea. so we only groped through the dismal labyrinth of st. callixtus, under the church of st. sebastian. in the various catacombs are small chapels rudely hewn in the stones, and here the early christians often held their religious services by dim, ghostly lights. think of mass and a sermon away down in those tangled caverns under ground! in the catacombs were buried st. cecilia, st. agnes, and several other of the most celebrated of the saints. in the catacomb of st. callixtus, st. bridget used to remain long hours in holy contemplation, and st. charles borromeo was wont to spend whole nights in prayer there. it was also the scene of a very marvelous thing. "here the heart of st. philip neri was so inflamed with divine love as to burst his ribs." i find that grave statement in a book published in new york in , and written by "rev. william h. neligan, ll.d., m. a., trinity college, dublin; member of the archaeological society of great britain." therefore, i believe it. otherwise, i could not. under other circumstances i should have felt a curiosity to know what philip had for dinner. this author puts my credulity on its mettle every now and then. he tells of one st. joseph calasanctius whose house in rome he visited; he visited only the house--the priest has been dead two hundred years. he says the virgin mary appeared to this saint. then he continues: "his tongue and his heart, which were found after nearly a century to be whole, when the body was disinterred before his canonization, are still preserved in a glass case, and after two centuries the heart is still whole. when the french troops came to rome, and when pius vii. was carried away prisoner, blood dropped from it." to read that in a book written by a monk far back in the middle ages, would surprise no one; it would sound natural and proper; but when it is seriously stated in the middle of the nineteenth century, by a man of finished education, an ll.d., m. a., and an archaeological magnate, it sounds strangely enough. still, i would gladly change my unbelief for neligan's faith, and let him make the conditions as hard as he pleased. the old gentleman's undoubting, unquestioning simplicity has a rare freshness about it in these matter-of-fact railroading and telegraphing days. hear him, concerning the church of ara coeli: "in the roof of the church, directly above the high altar, is engraved, 'regina coeli laetare alleluia." in the sixth century rome was visited by a fearful pestilence. gregory the great urged the people to do penance, and a general procession was formed. it was to proceed from ara coeli to st. peter's. as it passed before the mole of adrian, now the castle of st. angelo, the sound of heavenly voices was heard singing (it was easter morn,) regina coeli, laetare! alleluia! quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia! resurrexit sicut dixit; alleluia!" the pontiff, carrying in his hands the portrait of the virgin, (which is over the high altar and is said to have been painted by st. luke,) answered, with the astonished people, 'ora pro nobis deum, alleluia!' at the same time an angel was seen to put up a sword in a scabbard, and the pestilence ceased on the same day. there are four circumstances which 'confirm'--[the italics are mine--m. t.]--this miracle: the annual procession which takes place in the western church on the feast of st mark; the statue of st. michael, placed on the mole of adrian, which has since that time been called the castle of st. angelo; the antiphon regina coeli which the catholic church sings during paschal time; and the inscription in the church." chapter xxviii. from the sanguinary sports of the holy inquisition; the slaughter of the coliseum; and the dismal tombs of the catacombs, i naturally pass to the picturesque horrors of the capuchin convent. we stopped a moment in a small chapel in the church to admire a picture of st. michael vanquishing satan--a picture which is so beautiful that i can not but think it belongs to the reviled "renaissance," notwithstanding i believe they told us one of the ancient old masters painted it--and then we descended into the vast vault underneath. here was a spectacle for sensitive nerves! evidently the old masters had been at work in this place. there were six divisions in the apartment, and each division was ornamented with a style of decoration peculiar to itself--and these decorations were in every instance formed of human bones! there were shapely arches, built wholly of thigh bones; there were startling pyramids, built wholly of grinning skulls; there were quaint architectural structures of various kinds, built of shin bones and the bones of the arm; on the wall were elaborate frescoes, whose curving vines were made of knotted human vertebrae; whose delicate tendrils were made of sinews and tendons; whose flowers were formed of knee-caps and toe-nails. every lasting portion of the human frame was represented in these intricate designs (they were by michael angelo, i think,) and there was a careful finish about the work, and an attention to details that betrayed the artist's love of his labors as well as his schooled ability. i asked the good-natured monk who accompanied us, who did this? and he said, "we did it"--meaning himself and his brethren up stairs. i could see that the old friar took a high pride in his curious show. we made him talkative by exhibiting an interest we never betrayed to guides. "who were these people?" "we--up stairs--monks of the capuchin order--my brethren." "how many departed monks were required to upholster these six parlors?" "these are the bones of four thousand." "it took a long time to get enough?" "many, many centuries." "their different parts are well separated--skulls in one room, legs in another, ribs in another--there would be stirring times here for a while if the last trump should blow. some of the brethren might get hold of the wrong leg, in the confusion, and the wrong skull, and find themselves limping, and looking through eyes that were wider apart or closer together than they were used to. you can not tell any of these parties apart, i suppose?" "oh, yes, i know many of them." he put his finger on a skull. "this was brother anselmo--dead three hundred years--a good man." he touched another. "this was brother alexander--dead two hundred and eighty years. this was brother carlo--dead about as long." then he took a skull and held it in his hand, and looked reflectively upon it, after the manner of the grave-digger when he discourses of yorick. "this," he said, "was brother thomas. he was a young prince, the scion of a proud house that traced its lineage back to the grand old days of rome well nigh two thousand years ago. he loved beneath his estate. his family persecuted him; persecuted the girl, as well. they drove her from rome; he followed; he sought her far and wide; he found no trace of her. he came back and offered his broken heart at our altar and his weary life to the service of god. but look you. shortly his father died, and likewise his mother. the girl returned, rejoicing. she sought every where for him whose eyes had used to look tenderly into hers out of this poor skull, but she could not find him. at last, in this coarse garb we wear, she recognized him in the street. he knew her. it was too late. he fell where he stood. they took him up and brought him here. he never spoke afterward. within the week he died. you can see the color of his hair--faded, somewhat--by this thin shred that clings still to the temple. this, [taking up a thigh bone,] was his. the veins of this leaf in the decorations over your head, were his finger-joints, a hundred and fifty years ago." this business-like way of illustrating a touching story of the heart by laying the several fragments of the lover before us and naming them, was as grotesque a performance, and as ghastly, as any i ever witnessed. i hardly knew whether to smile or shudder. there are nerves and muscles in our frames whose functions and whose methods of working it seems a sort of sacrilege to describe by cold physiological names and surgical technicalities, and the monk's talk suggested to me something of this kind. fancy a surgeon, with his nippers lifting tendons, muscles and such things into view, out of the complex machinery of a corpse, and observing, "now this little nerve quivers--the vibration is imparted to this muscle--from here it is passed to this fibrous substance; here its ingredients are separated by the chemical action of the blood--one part goes to the heart and thrills it with what is popularly termed emotion, another part follows this nerve to the brain and communicates intelligence of a startling character--the third part glides along this passage and touches the spring connected with the fluid receptacles that lie in the rear of the eye. thus, by this simple and beautiful process, the party is informed that his mother is dead, and he weeps." horrible! i asked the monk if all the brethren up stairs expected to be put in this place when they died. he answered quietly: "we must all lie here at last." see what one can accustom himself to.--the reflection that he must some day be taken apart like an engine or a clock, or like a house whose owner is gone, and worked up into arches and pyramids and hideous frescoes, did not distress this monk in the least. i thought he even looked as if he were thinking, with complacent vanity, that his own skull would look well on top of the heap and his own ribs add a charm to the frescoes which possibly they lacked at present. here and there, in ornamental alcoves, stretched upon beds of bones, lay dead and dried-up monks, with lank frames dressed in the black robes one sees ordinarily upon priests. we examined one closely. the skinny hands were clasped upon the breast; two lustreless tufts of hair stuck to the skull; the skin was brown and sunken; it stretched tightly over the cheek bones and made them stand out sharply; the crisp dead eyes were deep in the sockets; the nostrils were painfully prominent, the end of the nose being gone; the lips had shriveled away from the yellow teeth: and brought down to us through the circling years, and petrified there, was a weird laugh a full century old! it was the jolliest laugh, but yet the most dreadful, that one can imagine. surely, i thought, it must have been a most extraordinary joke this veteran produced with his latest breath, that he has not got done laughing at it yet. at this moment i saw that the old instinct was strong upon the boys, and i said we had better hurry to st. peter's. they were trying to keep from asking, "is--is he dead?" it makes me dizzy, to think of the vatican--of its wilderness of statues, paintings, and curiosities of every description and every age. the "old masters" (especially in sculpture,) fairly swarm, there. i can not write about the vatican. i think i shall never remember any thing i saw there distinctly but the mummies, and the transfiguration, by raphael, and some other things it is not necessary to mention now. i shall remember the transfiguration partly because it was placed in a room almost by itself; partly because it is acknowledged by all to be the first oil painting in the world; and partly because it was wonderfully beautiful. the colors are fresh and rich, the "expression," i am told, is fine, the "feeling" is lively, the "tone" is good, the "depth" is profound, and the width is about four and a half feet, i should judge. it is a picture that really holds one's attention; its beauty is fascinating. it is fine enough to be a renaissance. a remark i made a while ago suggests a thought--and a hope. is it not possible that the reason i find such charms in this picture is because it is out of the crazy chaos of the galleries? if some of the others were set apart, might not they be beautiful? if this were set in the midst of the tempest of pictures one finds in the vast galleries of the roman palaces, would i think it so handsome? if, up to this time, i had seen only one "old master" in each palace, instead of acres and acres of walls and ceilings fairly papered with them, might i not have a more civilized opinion of the old masters than i have now? i think so. when i was a school-boy and was to have a new knife, i could not make up my mind as to which was the prettiest in the show-case, and i did not think any of them were particularly pretty; and so i chose with a heavy heart. but when i looked at my purchase, at home, where no glittering blades came into competition with it, i was astonished to see how handsome it was. to this day my new hats look better out of the shop than they did in it with other new hats. it begins to dawn upon me, now, that possibly, what i have been taking for uniform ugliness in the galleries may be uniform beauty after all. i honestly hope it is, to others, but certainly it is not to me. perhaps the reason i used to enjoy going to the academy of fine arts in new york was because there were but a few hundred paintings in it, and it did not surfeit me to go through the list. i suppose the academy was bacon and beans in the forty-mile desert, and a european gallery is a state dinner of thirteen courses. one leaves no sign after him of the one dish, but the thirteen frighten away his appetite and give him no satisfaction. there is one thing i am certain of, though. with all the michael angelos, the raphaels, the guidos and the other old masters, the sublime history of rome remains unpainted! they painted virgins enough, and popes enough and saintly scarecrows enough, to people paradise, almost, and these things are all they did paint. "nero fiddling o'er burning rome," the assassination of caesar, the stirring spectacle of a hundred thousand people bending forward with rapt interest, in the coliseum, to see two skillful gladiators hacking away each others' lives, a tiger springing upon a kneeling martyr--these and a thousand other matters which we read of with a living interest, must be sought for only in books--not among the rubbish left by the old masters--who are no more, i have the satisfaction of informing the public. they did paint, and they did carve in marble, one historical scene, and one only, (of any great historical consequence.) and what was it and why did they choose it, particularly? it was the rape of the sabines, and they chose it for the legs and busts. i like to look at statues, however, and i like to look at pictures, also --even of monks looking up in sacred ecstacy, and monks looking down in meditation, and monks skirmishing for something to eat--and therefore i drop ill nature to thank the papal government for so jealously guarding and so industriously gathering up these things; and for permitting me, a stranger and not an entirely friendly one, to roam at will and unmolested among them, charging me nothing, and only requiring that i shall behave myself simply as well as i ought to behave in any other man's house. i thank the holy father right heartily, and i wish him long life and plenty of happiness. the popes have long been the patrons and preservers of art, just as our new, practical republic is the encourager and upholder of mechanics. in their vatican is stored up all that is curious and beautiful in art; in our patent office is hoarded all that is curious or useful in mechanics. when a man invents a new style of horse-collar or discovers a new and superior method of telegraphing, our government issues a patent to him that is worth a fortune; when a man digs up an ancient statue in the campagna, the pope gives him a fortune in gold coin. we can make something of a guess at a man's character by the style of nose he carries on his face. the vatican and the patent office are governmental noses, and they bear a deal of character about them. the guide showed us a colossal statue of jupiter, in the vatican, which he said looked so damaged and rusty--so like the god of the vagabonds --because it had but recently been dug up in the campagna. he asked how much we supposed this jupiter was worth? i replied, with intelligent promptness, that he was probably worth about four dollars--may be four and a half. "a hundred thousand dollars!" ferguson said. ferguson said, further, that the pope permits no ancient work of this kind to leave his dominions. he appoints a commission to examine discoveries like this and report upon the value; then the pope pays the discoverer one-half of that assessed value and takes the statue. he said this jupiter was dug from a field which had just been bought for thirty-six thousand dollars, so the first crop was a good one for the new farmer. i do not know whether ferguson always tells the truth or not, but i suppose he does. i know that an exorbitant export duty is exacted upon all pictures painted by the old masters, in order to discourage the sale of those in the private collections. i am satisfied, also, that genuine old masters hardly exist at all, in america, because the cheapest and most insignificant of them are valued at the price of a fine farm. i proposed to buy a small trifle of a raphael, myself, but the price of it was eighty thousand dollars, the export duty would have made it considerably over a hundred, and so i studied on it awhile and concluded not to take it. i wish here to mention an inscription i have seen, before i forget it: "glory to god in the highest, peace on earth to men of good will!" it is not good scripture, but it is sound catholic and human nature. this is in letters of gold around the apsis of a mosaic group at the side of the 'scala santa', church of st. john lateran, the mother and mistress of all the catholic churches of the world. the group represents the saviour, st. peter, pope leo, st. silvester, constantine and charlemagne. peter is giving the pallium to the pope, and a standard to charlemagne. the saviour is giving the keys to st. silvester, and a standard to constantine. no prayer is offered to the saviour, who seems to be of little importance any where in rome; but an inscription below says, "blessed peter, give life to pope leo and victory to king charles." it does not say, "intercede for us, through the saviour, with the father, for this boon," but "blessed peter, give it us." in all seriousness--without meaning to be frivolous--without meaning to be irreverent, and more than all, without meaning to be blasphemous,--i state as my simple deduction from the things i have seen and the things i have heard, that the holy personages rank thus in rome: first--"the mother of god"--otherwise the virgin mary. second--the deity. third--peter. fourth--some twelve or fifteen canonized popes and martyrs. fifth--jesus christ the saviour--(but always as an infant in arms.) i may be wrong in this--my judgment errs often, just as is the case with other men's--but it is my judgment, be it good or bad. just here i will mention something that seems curious to me. there are no "christ's churches" in rome, and no "churches of the holy ghost," that i can discover. there are some four hundred churches, but about a fourth of them seem to be named for the madonna and st. peter. there are so many named for mary that they have to be distinguished by all sorts of affixes, if i understand the matter rightly. then we have churches of st. louis; st. augustine; st. agnes; st. calixtus; st. lorenzo in lucina; st. lorenzo in damaso; st. cecilia; st. athanasius; st. philip neri; st. catherine, st. dominico, and a multitude of lesser saints whose names are not familiar in the world--and away down, clear out of the list of the churches, comes a couple of hospitals: one of them is named for the saviour and the other for the holy ghost! day after day and night after night we have wandered among the crumbling wonders of rome; day after day and night after night we have fed upon the dust and decay of five-and-twenty centuries--have brooded over them by day and dreampt of them by night till sometimes we seemed moldering away ourselves, and growing defaced and cornerless, and liable at any moment to fall a prey to some antiquary and be patched in the legs, and "restored" with an unseemly nose, and labeled wrong and dated wrong, and set up in the vatican for poets to drivel about and vandals to scribble their names on forever and forevermore. but the surest way to stop writing about rome is to stop. i wished to write a real "guide-book" chapter on this fascinating city, but i could not do it, because i have felt all the time like a boy in a candy-shop --there was every thing to choose from, and yet no choice. i have drifted along hopelessly for a hundred pages of manuscript without knowing where to commence. i will not commence at all. our passports have been examined. we will go to naples. chapter xxix. the ship is lying here in the harbor of naples--quarantined. she has been here several days and will remain several more. we that came by rail from rome have escaped this misfortune. of course no one is allowed to go on board the ship, or come ashore from her. she is a prison, now. the passengers probably spend the long, blazing days looking out from under the awnings at vesuvius and the beautiful city--and in swearing. think of ten days of this sort of pastime!--we go out every day in a boat and request them to come ashore. it soothes them. we lie ten steps from the ship and tell them how splendid the city is; and how much better the hotel fare is here than any where else in europe; and how cool it is; and what frozen continents of ice cream there are; and what a time we are having cavorting about the country and sailing to the islands in the bay. this tranquilizes them. ascent of vesuvius. i shall remember our trip to vesuvius for many a day--partly because of its sight-seeing experiences, but chiefly on account of the fatigue of the journey. two or three of us had been resting ourselves among the tranquil and beautiful scenery of the island of ischia, eighteen miles out in the harbor, for two days; we called it "resting," but i do not remember now what the resting consisted of, for when we got back to naples we had not slept for forty-eight hours. we were just about to go to bed early in the evening, and catch up on some of the sleep we had lost, when we heard of this vesuvius expedition. there was to be eight of us in the party, and we were to leave naples at midnight. we laid in some provisions for the trip, engaged carriages to take us to annunciation, and then moved about the city, to keep awake, till twelve. we got away punctually, and in the course of an hour and a half arrived at the town of annunciation. annunciation is the very last place under the sun. in other towns in italy the people lie around quietly and wait for you to ask them a question or do some overt act that can be charged for--but in annunciation they have lost even that fragment of delicacy; they seize a lady's shawl from a chair and hand it to her and charge a penny; they open a carriage door, and charge for it--shut it when you get out, and charge for it; they help you to take off a duster--two cents; brush your clothes and make them worse than they were before--two cents; smile upon you--two cents; bow, with a lick-spittle smirk, hat in hand --two cents; they volunteer all information, such as that the mules will arrive presently--two cents--warm day, sir--two cents--take you four hours to make the ascent--two cents. and so they go. they crowd you --infest you--swarm about you, and sweat and smell offensively, and look sneaking and mean, and obsequious. there is no office too degrading for them to perform, for money. i have had no opportunity to find out any thing about the upper classes by my own observation, but from what i hear said about them i judge that what they lack in one or two of the bad traits the canaille have, they make up in one or two others that are worse. how the people beg!--many of them very well dressed, too. i said i knew nothing against the upper classes by personal observation. i must recall it! i had forgotten. what i saw their bravest and their fairest do last night, the lowest multitude that could be scraped up out of the purlieus of christendom would blush to do, i think. they assembled by hundreds, and even thousands, in the great theatre of san carlo, to do--what? why, simply, to make fun of an old woman--to deride, to hiss, to jeer at an actress they once worshipped, but whose beauty is faded now and whose voice has lost its former richness. every body spoke of the rare sport there was to be. they said the theatre would be crammed, because frezzolini was going to sing. it was said she could not sing well, now, but then the people liked to see her, anyhow. and so we went. and every time the woman sang they hissed and laughed--the whole magnificent house--and as soon as she left the stage they called her on again with applause. once or twice she was encored five and six times in succession, and received with hisses when she appeared, and discharged with hisses and laughter when she had finished--then instantly encored and insulted again! and how the high-born knaves enjoyed it! white-kidded gentlemen and ladies laughed till the tears came, and clapped their hands in very ecstacy when that unhappy old woman would come meekly out for the sixth time, with uncomplaining patience, to meet a storm of hisses! it was the cruelest exhibition--the most wanton, the most unfeeling. the singer would have conquered an audience of american rowdies by her brave, unflinching tranquillity (for she answered encore after encore, and smiled and bowed pleasantly, and sang the best she possibly could, and went bowing off, through all the jeers and hisses, without ever losing countenance or temper:) and surely in any other land than italy her sex and her helplessness must have been an ample protection to her--she could have needed no other. think what a multitude of small souls were crowded into that theatre last night. if the manager could have filled his theatre with neapolitan souls alone, without the bodies, he could not have cleared less than ninety millions of dollars. what traits of character must a man have to enable him to help three thousand miscreants to hiss, and jeer, and laugh at one friendless old woman, and shamefully humiliate her? he must have all the vile, mean traits there are. my observation persuades me (i do not like to venture beyond my own personal observation,) that the upper classes of naples possess those traits of character. otherwise they may be very good people; i can not say. ascent of vesuvius--continued. in this city of naples, they believe in and support one of the wretchedest of all the religious impostures one can find in italy--the miraculous liquefaction of the blood of st. januarius. twice a year the priests assemble all the people at the cathedral, and get out this vial of clotted blood and let them see it slowly dissolve and become liquid --and every day for eight days, this dismal farce is repeated, while the priests go among the crowd and collect money for the exhibition. the first day, the blood liquefies in forty-seven minutes--the church is crammed, then, and time must be allowed the collectors to get around: after that it liquefies a little quicker and a little quicker, every day, as the houses grow smaller, till on the eighth day, with only a few dozens present to see the miracle, it liquefies in four minutes. and here, also, they used to have a grand procession, of priests, citizens, soldiers, sailors, and the high dignitaries of the city government, once a year, to shave the head of a made-up madonna--a stuffed and painted image, like a milliner's dummy--whose hair miraculously grew and restored itself every twelve months. they still kept up this shaving procession as late as four or five years ago. it was a source of great profit to the church that possessed the remarkable effigy, and the ceremony of the public barbering of her was always carried out with the greatest possible eclat and display--the more the better, because the more excitement there was about it the larger the crowds it drew and the heavier the revenues it produced--but at last a day came when the pope and his servants were unpopular in naples, and the city government stopped the madonna's annual show. there we have two specimens of these neapolitans--two of the silliest possible frauds, which half the population religiously and faithfully believed, and the other half either believed also or else said nothing about, and thus lent themselves to the support of the imposture. i am very well satisfied to think the whole population believed in those poor, cheap miracles--a people who want two cents every time they bow to you, and who abuse a woman, are capable of it, i think. ascent of vesuvius--continued. these neapolitans always ask four times as much money as they intend to take, but if you give them what they first demand, they feel ashamed of themselves for aiming so low, and immediately ask more. when money is to be paid and received, there is always some vehement jawing and gesticulating about it. one can not buy and pay for two cents' worth of clams without trouble and a quarrel. one "course," in a two-horse carriage, costs a franc--that is law--but the hackman always demands more, on some pretence or other, and if he gets it he makes a new demand. it is said that a stranger took a one-horse carriage for a course --tariff, half a franc. he gave the man five francs, by way of experiment. he demanded more, and received another franc. again he demanded more, and got a franc--demanded more, and it was refused. he grew vehement --was again refused, and became noisy. the stranger said, "well, give me the seven francs again, and i will see what i can do"--and when he got them, he handed the hackman half a franc, and he immediately asked for two cents to buy a drink with. it may be thought that i am prejudiced. perhaps i am. i would be ashamed of myself if i were not. ascent of vesuvius--continued. well, as i was saying, we got our mules and horses, after an hour and a half of bargaining with the population of annunciation, and started sleepily up the mountain, with a vagrant at each mule's tail who pretended to be driving the brute along, but was really holding on and getting himself dragged up instead. i made slow headway at first, but i began to get dissatisfied at the idea of paying my minion five francs to hold my mule back by the tail and keep him from going up the hill, and so i discharged him. i got along faster then. we had one magnificent picture of naples from a high point on the mountain side. we saw nothing but the gas lamps, of course--two-thirds of a circle, skirting the great bay--a necklace of diamonds glinting up through the darkness from the remote distance--less brilliant than the stars overhead, but more softly, richly beautiful--and over all the great city the lights crossed and recrossed each other in many and many a sparkling line and curve. and back of the town, far around and abroad over the miles of level campagna, were scattered rows, and circles, and clusters of lights, all glowing like so many gems, and marking where a score of villages were sleeping. about this time, the fellow who was hanging on to the tail of the horse in front of me and practicing all sorts of unnecessary cruelty upon the animal, got kicked some fourteen rods, and this incident, together with the fairy spectacle of the lights far in the distance, made me serenely happy, and i was glad i started to vesuvius. ascent of mount vesuvius--continued. this subject will be excellent matter for a chapter, and tomorrow or next day i will write it. chapter xxx. ascent of vesuvius--continued. "see naples and die." well, i do not know that one would necessarily die after merely seeing it, but to attempt to live there might turn out a little differently. to see naples as we saw it in the early dawn from far up on the side of vesuvius, is to see a picture of wonderful beauty. at that distance its dingy buildings looked white--and so, rank on rank of balconies, windows and roofs, they piled themselves up from the blue ocean till the colossal castle of st. elmo topped the grand white pyramid and gave the picture symmetry, emphasis and completeness. and when its lilies turned to roses--when it blushed under the sun's first kiss--it was beautiful beyond all description. one might well say, then, "see naples and die." the frame of the picture was charming, itself. in front, the smooth sea--a vast mosaic of many colors; the lofty islands swimming in a dreamy haze in the distance; at our end of the city the stately double peak of vesuvius, and its strong black ribs and seams of lava stretching down to the limitless level campagna--a green carpet that enchants the eye and leads it on and on, past clusters of trees, and isolated houses, and snowy villages, until it shreds out in a fringe of mist and general vagueness far away. it is from the hermitage, there on the side of vesuvius, that one should "see naples and die." but do not go within the walls and look at it in detail. that takes away some of the romance of the thing. the people are filthy in their habits, and this makes filthy streets and breeds disagreeable sights and smells. there never was a community so prejudiced against the cholera as these neapolitans are. but they have good reason to be. the cholera generally vanquishes a neapolitan when it seizes him, because, you understand, before the doctor can dig through the dirt and get at the disease the man dies. the upper classes take a sea-bath every day, and are pretty decent. the streets are generally about wide enough for one wagon, and how they do swarm with people! it is broadway repeated in every street, in every court, in every alley! such masses, such throngs, such multitudes of hurrying, bustling, struggling humanity! we never saw the like of it, hardly even in new york, i think. there are seldom any sidewalks, and when there are, they are not often wide enough to pass a man on without caroming on him. so everybody walks in the street--and where the street is wide enough, carriages are forever dashing along. why a thousand people are not run over and crippled every day is a mystery that no man can solve. but if there is an eighth wonder in the world, it must be the dwelling-houses of naples. i honestly believe a good majority of them are a hundred feet high! and the solid brick walls are seven feet through. you go up nine flights of stairs before you get to the "first" floor. no, not nine, but there or thereabouts. there is a little bird-cage of an iron railing in front of every window clear away up, up, up, among the eternal clouds, where the roof is, and there is always somebody looking out of every window--people of ordinary size looking out from the first floor, people a shade smaller from the second, people that look a little smaller yet from the third--and from thence upward they grow smaller and smaller by a regularly graduated diminution, till the folks in the topmost windows seem more like birds in an uncommonly tall martin-box than any thing else. the perspective of one of these narrow cracks of streets, with its rows of tall houses stretching away till they come together in the distance like railway tracks; its clothes-lines crossing over at all altitudes and waving their bannered raggedness over the swarms of people below; and the white-dressed women perched in balcony railings all the way from the pavement up to the heavens--a perspective like that is really worth going into neapolitan details to see. ascent of vesuvius--continued. naples, with its immediate suburbs, contains six hundred and twenty-five thousand inhabitants, but i am satisfied it covers no more ground than an american city of one hundred and fifty thousand. it reaches up into the air infinitely higher than three american cities, though, and there is where the secret of it lies. i will observe here, in passing, that the contrasts between opulence and poverty, and magnificence and misery, are more frequent and more striking in naples than in paris even. one must go to the bois de boulogne to see fashionable dressing, splendid equipages and stunning liveries, and to the faubourg st. antoine to see vice, misery, hunger, rags, dirt--but in the thoroughfares of naples these things are all mixed together. naked boys of nine years and the fancy-dressed children of luxury; shreds and tatters, and brilliant uniforms; jackass-carts and state-carriages; beggars, princes and bishops, jostle each other in every street. at six o'clock every evening, all naples turns out to drive on the 'riviere di chiaja', (whatever that may mean;) and for two hours one may stand there and see the motliest and the worst mixed procession go by that ever eyes beheld. princes (there are more princes than policemen in naples--the city is infested with them)--princes who live up seven flights of stairs and don't own any principalities, will keep a carriage and go hungry; and clerks, mechanics, milliners and strumpets will go without their dinners and squander the money on a hack-ride in the chiaja; the rag-tag and rubbish of the city stack themselves up, to the number of twenty or thirty, on a rickety little go-cart hauled by a donkey not much bigger than a cat, and they drive in the chiaja; dukes and bankers, in sumptuous carriages and with gorgeous drivers and footmen, turn out, also, and so the furious procession goes. for two hours rank and wealth, and obscurity and poverty clatter along side by side in the wild procession, and then go home serene, happy, covered with glory! i was looking at a magnificent marble staircase in the king's palace, the other day, which, it was said, cost five million francs, and i suppose it did cost half a million, may be. i felt as if it must be a fine thing to live in a country where there was such comfort and such luxury as this. and then i stepped out musing, and almost walked over a vagabond who was eating his dinner on the curbstone--a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes. when i found that this mustang was clerking in a fruit establishment (he had the establishment along with him in a basket,) at two cents a day, and that he had no palace at home where he lived, i lost some of my enthusiasm concerning the happiness of living in italy. this naturally suggests to me a thought about wages here. lieutenants in the army get about a dollar a day, and common soldiers a couple of cents. i only know one clerk--he gets four dollars a month. printers get six dollars and a half a month, but i have heard of a foreman who gets thirteen. to be growing suddenly and violently rich, as this man is, naturally makes him a bloated aristocrat. the airs he puts on are insufferable. and, speaking of wages, reminds me of prices of merchandise. in paris you pay twelve dollars a dozen for jouvin's best kid gloves; gloves of about as good quality sell here at three or four dollars a dozen. you pay five and six dollars apiece for fine linen shirts in paris; here and in leghorn you pay two and a half. in marseilles you pay forty dollars for a first-class dress coat made by a good tailor, but in leghorn you can get a full dress suit for the same money. here you get handsome business suits at from ten to twenty dollars, and in leghorn you can get an overcoat for fifteen dollars that would cost you seventy in new york. fine kid boots are worth eight dollars in marseilles and four dollars here. lyons velvets rank higher in america than those of genoa. yet the bulk of lyons velvets you buy in the states are made in genoa and imported into lyons, where they receive the lyons stamp and are then exported to america. you can buy enough velvet in genoa for twenty-five dollars to make a five hundred dollar cloak in new york--so the ladies tell me. of course these things bring me back, by a natural and easy transition, to the ascent of vesuvius--continued. and thus the wonderful blue grotto is suggested to me. it is situated on the island of capri, twenty-two miles from naples. we chartered a little steamer and went out there. of course, the police boarded us and put us through a health examination, and inquired into our politics, before they would let us land. the airs these little insect governments put on are in the last degree ridiculous. they even put a policeman on board of our boat to keep an eye on us as long as we were in the capri dominions. they thought we wanted to steal the grotto, i suppose. it was worth stealing. the entrance to the cave is four feet high and four feet wide, and is in the face of a lofty perpendicular cliff--the sea-wall. you enter in small boats--and a tight squeeze it is, too. you can not go in at all when the tide is up. once within, you find yourself in an arched cavern about one hundred and sixty feet long, one hundred and twenty wide, and about seventy high. how deep it is no man knows. it goes down to the bottom of the ocean. the waters of this placid subterranean lake are the brightest, loveliest blue that can be imagined. they are as transparent as plate glass, and their coloring would shame the richest sky that ever bent over italy. no tint could be more ravishing, no lustre more superb. throw a stone into the water, and the myriad of tiny bubbles that are created flash out a brilliant glare like blue theatrical fires. dip an oar, and its blade turns to splendid frosted silver, tinted with blue. let a man jump in, and instantly he is cased in an armor more gorgeous than ever kingly crusader wore. then we went to ischia, but i had already been to that island and tired myself to death "resting" a couple of days and studying human villainy, with the landlord of the grande sentinelle for a model. so we went to procida, and from thence to pozzuoli, where st. paul landed after he sailed from samos. i landed at precisely the same spot where st. paul landed, and so did dan and the others. it was a remarkable coincidence. st. paul preached to these people seven days before he started to rome. nero's baths, the ruins of baiae, the temple of serapis; cumae, where the cumaen sybil interpreted the oracles, the lake agnano, with its ancient submerged city still visible far down in its depths--these and a hundred other points of interest we examined with critical imbecility, but the grotto of the dog claimed our chief attention, because we had heard and read so much about it. every body has written about the grotto del cane and its poisonous vapors, from pliny down to smith, and every tourist has held a dog over its floor by the legs to test the capabilities of the place. the dog dies in a minute and a half--a chicken instantly. as a general thing, strangers who crawl in there to sleep do not get up until they are called. and then they don't either. the stranger that ventures to sleep there takes a permanent contract. i longed to see this grotto. i resolved to take a dog and hold him myself; suffocate him a little, and time him; suffocate him some more and then finish him. we reached the grotto at about three in the afternoon, and proceeded at once to make the experiments. but now, an important difficulty presented itself. we had no dog. ascent of vesuvius--continued. at the hermitage we were about fifteen or eighteen hundred feet above the sea, and thus far a portion of the ascent had been pretty abrupt. for the next two miles the road was a mixture--sometimes the ascent was abrupt and sometimes it was not: but one characteristic it possessed all the time, without failure--without modification--it was all uncompromisingly and unspeakably infamous. it was a rough, narrow trail, and led over an old lava flow--a black ocean which was tumbled into a thousand fantastic shapes--a wild chaos of ruin, desolation, and barrenness--a wilderness of billowy upheavals, of furious whirlpools, of miniature mountains rent asunder--of gnarled and knotted, wrinkled and twisted masses of blackness that mimicked branching roots, great vines, trunks of trees, all interlaced and mingled together: and all these weird shapes, all this turbulent panorama, all this stormy, far-stretching waste of blackness, with its thrilling suggestiveness of life, of action, of boiling, surging, furious motion, was petrified!--all stricken dead and cold in the instant of its maddest rioting!--fettered, paralyzed, and left to glower at heaven in impotent rage for evermore! finally we stood in a level, narrow valley (a valley that had been created by the terrific march of some old time irruption) and on either hand towered the two steep peaks of vesuvius. the one we had to climb --the one that contains the active volcano--seemed about eight hundred or one thousand feet high, and looked almost too straight-up-and-down for any man to climb, and certainly no mule could climb it with a man on his back. four of these native pirates will carry you to the top in a sedan chair, if you wish it, but suppose they were to slip and let you fall, --is it likely that you would ever stop rolling? not this side of eternity, perhaps. we left the mules, sharpened our finger-nails, and began the ascent i have been writing about so long, at twenty minutes to six in the morning. the path led straight up a rugged sweep of loose chunks of pumice-stone, and for about every two steps forward we took, we slid back one. it was so excessively steep that we had to stop, every fifty or sixty steps, and rest a moment. to see our comrades, we had to look very nearly straight up at those above us, and very nearly straight down at those below. we stood on the summit at last--it had taken an hour and fifteen minutes to make the trip. what we saw there was simply a circular crater--a circular ditch, if you please--about two hundred feet deep, and four or five hundred feet wide, whose inner wall was about half a mile in circumference. in the centre of the great circus ring thus formed, was a torn and ragged upheaval a hundred feet high, all snowed over with a sulphur crust of many and many a brilliant and beautiful color, and the ditch inclosed this like the moat of a castle, or surrounded it as a little river does a little island, if the simile is better. the sulphur coating of that island was gaudy in the extreme--all mingled together in the richest confusion were red, blue, brown, black, yellow, white--i do not know that there was a color, or shade of a color, or combination of colors, unrepresented--and when the sun burst through the morning mists and fired this tinted magnificence, it topped imperial vesuvius like a jeweled crown! the crater itself--the ditch--was not so variegated in coloring, but yet, in its softness, richness, and unpretentious elegance, it was more charming, more fascinating to the eye. there was nothing "loud" about its well-bred and well-creased look. beautiful? one could stand and look down upon it for a week without getting tired of it. it had the semblance of a pleasant meadow, whose slender grasses and whose velvety mosses were frosted with a shining dust, and tinted with palest green that deepened gradually to the darkest hue of the orange leaf, and deepened yet again into gravest brown, then faded into orange, then into brightest gold, and culminated in the delicate pink of a new-blown rose. where portions of the meadow had sunk, and where other portions had been broken up like an ice-floe, the cavernous openings of the one, and the ragged upturned edges exposed by the other, were hung with a lace-work of soft-tinted crystals of sulphur that changed their deformities into quaint shapes and figures that were full of grace and beauty. the walls of the ditch were brilliant with yellow banks of sulphur and with lava and pumice-stone of many colors. no fire was visible any where, but gusts of sulphurous steam issued silently and invisibly from a thousand little cracks and fissures in the crater, and were wafted to our noses with every breeze. but so long as we kept our nostrils buried in our handkerchiefs, there was small danger of suffocation. some of the boys thrust long slips of paper down into holes and set them on fire, and so achieved the glory of lighting their cigars by the flames of vesuvius, and others cooked eggs over fissures in the rocks and were happy. the view from the summit would have been superb but for the fact that the sun could only pierce the mists at long intervals. thus the glimpses we had of the grand panorama below were only fitful and unsatisfactory. the descent. the descent of the mountain was a labor of only four minutes. instead of stalking down the rugged path we ascended, we chose one which was bedded knee-deep in loose ashes, and ploughed our way with prodigious strides that would almost have shamed the performance of him of the seven-league boots. the vesuvius of today is a very poor affair compared to the mighty volcano of kilauea, in the sandwich islands, but i am glad i visited it. it was well worth it. it is said that during one of the grand eruptions of vesuvius it discharged massy rocks weighing many tons a thousand feet into the air, its vast jets of smoke and steam ascended thirty miles toward the firmament, and clouds of its ashes were wafted abroad and fell upon the decks of ships seven hundred and fifty miles at sea! i will take the ashes at a moderate discount, if any one will take the thirty miles of smoke, but i do not feel able to take a commanding interest in the whole story by myself. innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . chapter xi. we are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility. we are getting reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors and no carpets--floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing. we are getting used to tidy, noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and always polite--never otherwise than polite. that is the strangest curiosity yet--a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot. we are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. we are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles --the only kind of ice they have here. we are getting used to all these things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap. we are sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, but this thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us and not pleasant at all. we think of it just after we get our heads and faces thoroughly wet or just when we think we have been in the bathtub long enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows. these marseillaises make marseillaise hymns and marseilles vests and marseilles soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their vests or wash with their soap themselves. we have learned to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction. we take soup, then wait a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas; change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties (i prefer grasshoppers); change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.; finally coffee. wine with every course, of course, being in france. with such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit long in the cool chambers and smoke--and read french newspapers, which have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get to the "nub" of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate, and that story is ruined. an embankment fell on some frenchmen yesterday, and the papers are full of it today--but whether those sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more than i can possibly make out, and yet i would just give anything to know. we were troubled a little at dinner today by the conduct of an american, who talked very loudly and coarsely and laughed boisterously where all others were so quiet and well behaved. he ordered wine with a royal flourish and said: "i never dine without wine, sir" (which was a pitiful falsehood), and looked around upon the company to bask in the admiration he expected to find in their faces. all these airs in a land where they would as soon expect to leave the soup out of the bill of fare as the wine!--in a land where wine is nearly as common among all ranks as water! this fellow said: "i am a free-born sovereign, sir, an american, sir, and i want everybody to know it!" he did not mention that he was a lineal descendant of balaam's ass, but everybody knew that without his telling it. we have driven in the prado--that superb avenue bordered with patrician mansions and noble shade trees--and have visited the chateau boarely and its curious museum. they showed us a miniature cemetery there--a copy of the first graveyard that was ever in marseilles, no doubt. the delicate little skeletons were lying in broken vaults and had their household gods and kitchen utensils with them. the original of this cemetery was dug up in the principal street of the city a few years ago. it had remained there, only twelve feet underground, for a matter of twenty-five hundred years or thereabouts. romulus was here before he built rome, and thought something of founding a city on this spot, but gave up the idea. he may have been personally acquainted with some of these phoenicians whose skeletons we have been examining. in the great zoological gardens we found specimens of all the animals the world produces, i think, including a dromedary, a monkey ornamented with tufts of brilliant blue and carmine hair--a very gorgeous monkey he was --a hippopotamus from the nile, and a sort of tall, long-legged bird with a beak like a powder horn and close-fitting wings like the tails of a dress coat. this fellow stood up with his eyes shut and his shoulders stooped forward a little, and looked as if he had his hands under his coat tails. such tranquil stupidity, such supernatural gravity, such self-righteousness, and such ineffable self-complacency as were in the countenance and attitude of that gray-bodied, dark-winged, bald-headed, and preposterously uncomely bird! he was so ungainly, so pimply about the head, so scaly about the legs, yet so serene, so unspeakably satisfied! he was the most comical-looking creature that can be imagined. it was good to hear dan and the doctor laugh--such natural and such enjoyable laughter had not been heard among our excursionists since our ship sailed away from america. this bird was a godsend to us, and i should be an ingrate if i forgot to make honorable mention of him in these pages. ours was a pleasure excursion; therefore we stayed with that bird an hour and made the most of him. we stirred him up occasionally, but he only unclosed an eye and slowly closed it again, abating no jot of his stately piety of demeanor or his tremendous seriousness. he only seemed to say, "defile not heaven's anointed with unsanctified hands." we did not know his name, and so we called him "the pilgrim." dan said: "all he wants now is a plymouth collection." the boon companion of the colossal elephant was a common cat! this cat had a fashion of climbing up the elephant's hind legs and roosting on his back. she would sit up there, with her paws curved under her breast, and sleep in the sun half the afternoon. it used to annoy the elephant at first, and he would reach up and take her down, but she would go aft and climb up again. she persisted until she finally conquered the elephant's prejudices, and now they are inseparable friends. the cat plays about her comrade's forefeet or his trunk often, until dogs approach, and then she goes aloft out of danger. the elephant has annihilated several dogs lately that pressed his companion too closely. we hired a sailboat and a guide and made an excursion to one of the small islands in the harbor to visit the castle d'if. this ancient fortress has a melancholy history. it has been used as a prison for political offenders for two or three hundred years, and its dungeon walls are scarred with the rudely carved names of many and many a captive who fretted his life away here and left no record of himself but these sad epitaphs wrought with his own hands. how thick the names were! and their long-departed owners seemed to throng the gloomy cells and corridors with their phantom shapes. we loitered through dungeon after dungeon, away down into the living rock below the level of the sea, it seemed. names everywhere!--some plebeian, some noble, some even princely. plebeian, prince, and noble had one solicitude in common--they would not be forgotten! they could suffer solitude, inactivity, and the horrors of a silence that no sound ever disturbed, but they could not bear the thought of being utterly forgotten by the world. hence the carved names. in one cell, where a little light penetrated, a man had lived twenty-seven years without seeing the face of a human being--lived in filth and wretchedness, with no companionship but his own thoughts, and they were sorrowful enough and hopeless enough, no doubt. whatever his jailers considered that he needed was conveyed to his cell by night through a wicket. this man carved the walls of his prison house from floor to roof with all manner of figures of men and animals grouped in intricate designs. he had toiled there year after year, at his self-appointed task, while infants grew to boyhood--to vigorous youth--idled through school and college--acquired a profession--claimed man's mature estate--married and looked back to infancy as to a thing of some vague, ancient time, almost. but who shall tell how many ages it seemed to this prisoner? with the one, time flew sometimes; with the other, never--it crawled always. to the one, nights spent in dancing had seemed made of minutes instead of hours; to the other, those selfsame nights had been like all other nights of dungeon life and seemed made of slow, dragging weeks instead of hours and minutes. one prisoner of fifteen years had scratched verses upon his walls, and brief prose sentences--brief, but full of pathos. these spoke not of himself and his hard estate, but only of the shrine where his spirit fled the prison to worship--of home and the idols that were templed there. he never lived to see them. the walls of these dungeons are as thick as some bed-chambers at home are wide--fifteen feet. we saw the damp, dismal cells in which two of dumas' heroes passed their confinement--heroes of "monte cristo." it was here that the brave abbe wrote a book with his own blood, with a pen made of a piece of iron hoop, and by the light of a lamp made out of shreds of cloth soaked in grease obtained from his food; and then dug through the thick wall with some trifling instrument which he wrought himself out of a stray piece of iron or table cutlery and freed dantes from his chains. it was a pity that so many weeks of dreary labor should have come to naught at last. they showed us the noisome cell where the celebrated "iron mask"--that ill-starred brother of a hardhearted king of france--was confined for a season before he was sent to hide the strange mystery of his life from the curious in the dungeons of ste. marguerite. the place had a far greater interest for us than it could have had if we had known beyond all question who the iron mask was, and what his history had been, and why this most unusual punishment had been meted out to him. mystery! that was the charm. that speechless tongue, those prisoned features, that heart so freighted with unspoken troubles, and that breast so oppressed with its piteous secret had been here. these dank walls had known the man whose dolorous story is a sealed book forever! there was fascination in the spot. chapter xii. we have come five hundred miles by rail through the heart of france. what a bewitching land it is! what a garden! surely the leagues of bright green lawns are swept and brushed and watered every day and their grasses trimmed by the barber. surely the hedges are shaped and measured and their symmetry preserved by the most architectural of gardeners. surely the long straight rows of stately poplars that divide the beautiful landscape like the squares of a checker-board are set with line and plummet, and their uniform height determined with a spirit level. surely the straight, smooth, pure white turnpikes are jack-planed and sandpapered every day. how else are these marvels of symmetry, cleanliness, and order attained? it is wonderful. there are no unsightly stone walls and never a fence of any kind. there is no dirt, no decay, no rubbish anywhere--nothing that even hints at untidiness --nothing that ever suggests neglect. all is orderly and beautiful--every thing is charming to the eye. we had such glimpses of the rhone gliding along between its grassy banks; of cosy cottages buried in flowers and shrubbery; of quaint old red-tiled villages with mossy medieval cathedrals looming out of their midst; of wooded hills with ivy-grown towers and turrets of feudal castles projecting above the foliage; such glimpses of paradise, it seemed to us, such visions of fabled fairyland! we knew then what the poet meant when he sang of: "--thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, o pleasant land of france!" and it is a pleasant land. no word describes it so felicitously as that one. they say there is no word for "home" in the french language. well, considering that they have the article itself in such an attractive aspect, they ought to manage to get along without the word. let us not waste too much pity on "homeless" france. i have observed that frenchmen abroad seldom wholly give up the idea of going back to france some time or other. i am not surprised at it now. we are not infatuated with these french railway cars, though. we took first-class passage, not because we wished to attract attention by doing a thing which is uncommon in europe but because we could make our journey quicker by so doing. it is hard to make railroading pleasant in any country. it is too tedious. stagecoaching is infinitely more delightful. once i crossed the plains and deserts and mountains of the west in a stagecoach, from the missouri line to california, and since then all my pleasure trips must be measured to that rare holiday frolic. two thousand miles of ceaseless rush and rattle and clatter, by night and by day, and never a weary moment, never a lapse of interest! the first seven hundred miles a level continent, its grassy carpet greener and softer and smoother than any sea and figured with designs fitted to its magnitude--the shadows of the clouds. here were no scenes but summer scenes, and no disposition inspired by them but to lie at full length on the mail sacks in the grateful breeze and dreamily smoke the pipe of peace--what other, where all was repose and contentment? in cool mornings, before the sun was fairly up, it was worth a lifetime of city toiling and moiling to perch in the foretop with the driver and see the six mustangs scamper under the sharp snapping of the whip that never touched them; to scan the blue distances of a world that knew no lords but us; to cleave the wind with uncovered head and feel the sluggish pulses rousing to the spirit of a speed that pretended to the resistless rush of a typhoon! then thirteen hundred miles of desert solitudes; of limitless panoramas of bewildering perspective; of mimic cities, of pinnacled cathedrals, of massive fortresses, counterfeited in the eternal rocks and splendid with the crimson and gold of the setting sun; of dizzy altitudes among fog-wreathed peaks and never-melting snows, where thunders and lightnings and tempests warred magnificently at our feet and the storm clouds above swung their shredded banners in our very faces! but i forgot. i am in elegant france now, and not scurrying through the great south pass and the wind river mountains, among antelopes and buffaloes and painted indians on the warpath. it is not meet that i should make too disparaging comparisons between humdrum travel on a railway and that royal summer flight across a continent in a stagecoach. i meant in the beginning to say that railway journeying is tedious and tiresome, and so it is--though at the time i was thinking particularly of a dismal fifty-hour pilgrimage between new york and st. louis. of course our trip through france was not really tedious because all its scenes and experiences were new and strange; but as dan says, it had its "discrepancies." the cars are built in compartments that hold eight persons each. each compartment is partially subdivided, and so there are two tolerably distinct parties of four in it. four face the other four. the seats and backs are thickly padded and cushioned and are very comfortable; you can smoke if you wish; there are no bothersome peddlers; you are saved the infliction of a multitude of disagreeable fellow passengers. so far, so well. but then the conductor locks you in when the train starts; there is no water to drink in the car; there is no heating apparatus for night travel; if a drunken rowdy should get in, you could not remove a matter of twenty seats from him or enter another car; but above all, if you are worn out and must sleep, you must sit up and do it in naps, with cramped legs and in a torturing misery that leaves you withered and lifeless the next day--for behold they have not that culmination of all charity and human kindness, a sleeping car, in all france. i prefer the american system. it has not so many grievous "discrepancies." in france, all is clockwork, all is order. they make no mistakes. every third man wears a uniform, and whether he be a marshal of the empire or a brakeman, he is ready and perfectly willing to answer all your questions with tireless politeness, ready to tell you which car to take, yea, and ready to go and put you into it to make sure that you shall not go astray. you cannot pass into the waiting room of the depot till you have secured your ticket, and you cannot pass from its only exit till the train is at its threshold to receive you. once on board, the train will not start till your ticket has been examined--till every passenger's ticket has been inspected. this is chiefly for your own good. if by any possibility you have managed to take the wrong train, you will be handed over to a polite official who will take you whither you belong and bestow you with many an affable bow. your ticket will be inspected every now and then along the route, and when it is time to change cars you will know it. you are in the hands of officials who zealously study your welfare and your interest, instead of turning their talents to the invention of new methods of discommoding and snubbing you, as is very often the main employment of that exceedingly self-satisfied monarch, the railroad conductor of america. but the happiest regulation in french railway government is--thirty minutes to dinner! no five-minute boltings of flabby rolls, muddy coffee, questionable eggs, gutta-percha beef, and pies whose conception and execution are a dark and bloody mystery to all save the cook that created them! no, we sat calmly down--it was in old dijon, which is so easy to spell and so impossible to pronounce except when you civilize it and call it demijohn--and poured out rich burgundian wines and munched calmly through a long table d'hote bill of fare, snail patties, delicious fruits and all, then paid the trifle it cost and stepped happily aboard the train again, without once cursing the railroad company. a rare experience and one to be treasured forever. they say they do not have accidents on these french roads, and i think it must be true. if i remember rightly, we passed high above wagon roads or through tunnels under them, but never crossed them on their own level. about every quarter of a mile, it seemed to me, a man came out and held up a club till the train went by, to signify that everything was safe ahead. switches were changed a mile in advance by pulling a wire rope that passed along the ground by the rail, from station to station. signals for the day and signals for the night gave constant and timely notice of the position of switches. no, they have no railroad accidents to speak of in france. but why? because when one occurs, somebody has to hang for it! not hang, maybe, but be punished at least with such vigor of emphasis as to make negligence a thing to be shuddered at by railroad officials for many a day thereafter. "no blame attached to the officers"--that lying and disaster-breeding verdict so common to our softhearted juries is seldom rendered in france. if the trouble occurred in the conductor's department, that officer must suffer if his subordinate cannot be proven guilty; if in the engineer's department and the case be similar, the engineer must answer. the old travelers--those delightful parrots who have "been here before" and know more about the country than louis napoleon knows now or ever will know--tell us these things, and we believe them because they are pleasant things to believe and because they are plausible and savor of the rigid subjection to law and order which we behold about us everywhere. but we love the old travelers. we love to hear them prate and drivel and lie. we can tell them the moment we see them. they always throw out a few feelers; they never cast themselves adrift till they have sounded every individual and know that he has not traveled. then they open their throttle valves, and how they do brag, and sneer, and swell, and soar, and blaspheme the sacred name of truth! their central idea, their grand aim, is to subjugate you, keep you down, make you feel insignificant and humble in the blaze of their cosmopolitan glory! they will not let you know anything. they sneer at your most inoffensive suggestions; they laugh unfeelingly at your treasured dreams of foreign lands; they brand the statements of your traveled aunts and uncles as the stupidest absurdities; they deride your most trusted authors and demolish the fair images they have set up for your willing worship with the pitiless ferocity of the fanatic iconoclast! but still i love the old travelers. i love them for their witless platitudes, for their supernatural ability to bore, for their delightful asinine vanity, for their luxuriant fertility of imagination, for their startling, their brilliant, their overwhelming mendacity! by lyons and the saone (where we saw the lady of lyons and thought little of her comeliness), by villa franca, tonnere, venerable sens, melun, fontainebleau, and scores of other beautiful cities, we swept, always noting the absence of hog-wallows, broken fences, cow lots, unpainted houses, and mud, and always noting, as well, the presence of cleanliness, grace, taste in adorning and beautifying, even to the disposition of a tree or the turning of a hedge, the marvel of roads in perfect repair, void of ruts and guiltless of even an inequality of surface--we bowled along, hour after hour, that brilliant summer day, and as nightfall approached we entered a wilderness of odorous flowers and shrubbery, sped through it, and then, excited, delighted, and half persuaded that we were only the sport of a beautiful dream, lo, we stood in magnificent paris! what excellent order they kept about that vast depot! there was no frantic crowding and jostling, no shouting and swearing, and no swaggering intrusion of services by rowdy hackmen. these latter gentry stood outside--stood quietly by their long line of vehicles and said never a word. a kind of hackman general seemed to have the whole matter of transportation in his hands. he politely received the passengers and ushered them to the kind of conveyance they wanted, and told the driver where to deliver them. there was no "talking back," no dissatisfaction about overcharging, no grumbling about anything. in a little while we were speeding through the streets of paris and delightfully recognizing certain names and places with which books had long ago made us familiar. it was like meeting an old friend when we read rue de rivoli on the street corner; we knew the genuine vast palace of the louvre as well as we knew its picture; when we passed by the column of july we needed no one to tell us what it was or to remind us that on its site once stood the grim bastille, that grave of human hopes and happiness, that dismal prison house within whose dungeons so many young faces put on the wrinkles of age, so many proud spirits grew humble, so many brave hearts broke. we secured rooms at the hotel, or rather, we had three beds put into one room, so that we might be together, and then we went out to a restaurant, just after lamplighting, and ate a comfortable, satisfactory, lingering dinner. it was a pleasure to eat where everything was so tidy, the food so well cooked, the waiters so polite, and the coming and departing company so moustached, so frisky, so affable, so fearfully and wonderfully frenchy! all the surroundings were gay and enlivening. two hundred people sat at little tables on the sidewalk, sipping wine and coffee; the streets were thronged with light vehicles and with joyous pleasure-seekers; there was music in the air, life and action all about us, and a conflagration of gaslight everywhere! after dinner we felt like seeing such parisian specialties as we might see without distressing exertion, and so we sauntered through the brilliant streets and looked at the dainty trifles in variety stores and jewelry shops. occasionally, merely for the pleasure of being cruel, we put unoffending frenchmen on the rack with questions framed in the incomprehensible jargon of their native language, and while they writhed we impaled them, we peppered them, we scarified them, with their own vile verbs and participles. we noticed that in the jewelry stores they had some of the articles marked "gold" and some labeled "imitation." we wondered at this extravagance of honesty and inquired into the matter. we were informed that inasmuch as most people are not able to tell false gold from the genuine article, the government compels jewelers to have their gold work assayed and stamped officially according to its fineness and their imitation work duly labeled with the sign of its falsity. they told us the jewelers would not dare to violate this law, and that whatever a stranger bought in one of their stores might be depended upon as being strictly what it was represented to be. verily, a wonderful land is france! then we hunted for a barber-shop. from earliest infancy it had been a cherished ambition of mine to be shaved some day in a palatial barber-shop in paris. i wished to recline at full length in a cushioned invalid chair, with pictures about me and sumptuous furniture; with frescoed walls and gilded arches above me and vistas of corinthian columns stretching far before me; with perfumes of araby to intoxicate my senses and the slumbrous drone of distant noises to soothe me to sleep. at the end of an hour i would wake up regretfully and find my face as smooth and as soft as an infant's. departing, i would lift my hands above that barber's head and say, "heaven bless you, my son!" so we searched high and low, for a matter of two hours, but never a barber-shop could we see. we saw only wig-making establishments, with shocks of dead and repulsive hair bound upon the heads of painted waxen brigands who stared out from glass boxes upon the passer-by with their stony eyes and scared him with the ghostly white of their countenances. we shunned these signs for a time, but finally we concluded that the wig-makers must of necessity be the barbers as well, since we could find no single legitimate representative of the fraternity. we entered and asked, and found that it was even so. i said i wanted to be shaved. the barber inquired where my room was. i said never mind where my room was, i wanted to be shaved--there, on the spot. the doctor said he would be shaved also. then there was an excitement among those two barbers! there was a wild consultation, and afterwards a hurrying to and fro and a feverish gathering up of razors from obscure places and a ransacking for soap. next they took us into a little mean, shabby back room; they got two ordinary sitting-room chairs and placed us in them with our coats on. my old, old dream of bliss vanished into thin air! i sat bolt upright, silent, sad, and solemn. one of the wig-making villains lathered my face for ten terrible minutes and finished by plastering a mass of suds into my mouth. i expelled the nasty stuff with a strong english expletive and said, "foreigner, beware!" then this outlaw strapped his razor on his boot, hovered over me ominously for six fearful seconds, and then swooped down upon me like the genius of destruction. the first rake of his razor loosened the very hide from my face and lifted me out of the chair. i stormed and raved, and the other boys enjoyed it. their beards are not strong and thick. let us draw the curtain over this harrowing scene. suffice it that i submitted and went through with the cruel infliction of a shave by a french barber; tears of exquisite agony coursed down my cheeks now and then, but i survived. then the incipient assassin held a basin of water under my chin and slopped its contents over my face, and into my bosom, and down the back of my neck, with a mean pretense of washing away the soap and blood. he dried my features with a towel and was going to comb my hair, but i asked to be excused. i said, with withering irony, that it was sufficient to be skinned--i declined to be scalped. i went away from there with my handkerchief about my face, and never, never, never desired to dream of palatial parisian barber-shops anymore. the truth is, as i believe i have since found out, that they have no barber shops worthy of the name in paris--and no barbers, either, for that matter. the impostor who does duty as a barber brings his pans and napkins and implements of torture to your residence and deliberately skins you in your private apartments. ah, i have suffered, suffered, suffered, here in paris, but never mind--the time is coming when i shall have a dark and bloody revenge. someday a parisian barber will come to my room to skin me, and from that day forth that barber will never be heard of more. at eleven o'clock we alighted upon a sign which manifestly referred to billiards. joy! we had played billiards in the azores with balls that were not round and on an ancient table that was very little smoother than a brick pavement--one of those wretched old things with dead cushions, and with patches in the faded cloth and invisible obstructions that made the balls describe the most astonishing and unsuspected angles and perform feats in the way of unlooked-for and almost impossible "scratches" that were perfectly bewildering. we had played at gibraltar with balls the size of a walnut, on a table like a public square--and in both instances we achieved far more aggravation than amusement. we expected to fare better here, but we were mistaken. the cushions were a good deal higher than the balls, and as the balls had a fashion of always stopping under the cushions, we accomplished very little in the way of caroms. the cushions were hard and unelastic, and the cues were so crooked that in making a shot you had to allow for the curve or you would infallibly put the "english" on the wrong side of the hall. dan was to mark while the doctor and i played. at the end of an hour neither of us had made a count, and so dan was tired of keeping tally with nothing to tally, and we were heated and angry and disgusted. we paid the heavy bill--about six cents--and said we would call around sometime when we had a week to spend, and finish the game. we adjourned to one of those pretty cafes and took supper and tested the wines of the country, as we had been instructed to do, and found them harmless and unexciting. they might have been exciting, however, if we had chosen to drink a sufficiency of them. to close our first day in paris cheerfully and pleasantly, we now sought our grand room in the grand hotel du louvre and climbed into our sumptuous bed to read and smoke--but alas! it was pitiful, in a whole city-full, gas we had none. no gas to read by--nothing but dismal candles. it was a shame. we tried to map out excursions for the morrow; we puzzled over french "guides to paris"; we talked disjointedly in a vain endeavor to make head or tail of the wild chaos of the day's sights and experiences; we subsided to indolent smoking; we gaped and yawned and stretched--then feebly wondered if we were really and truly in renowned paris, and drifted drowsily away into that vast mysterious void which men call sleep. chapter xiii. the next morning we were up and dressed at ten o'clock. we went to the 'commissionaire' of the hotel--i don't know what a 'commissionaire' is, but that is the man we went to--and told him we wanted a guide. he said the national exposition had drawn such multitudes of englishmen and americans to paris that it would be next to impossible to find a good guide unemployed. he said he usually kept a dozen or two on hand, but he only had three now. he called them. one looked so like a very pirate that we let him go at once. the next one spoke with a simpering precision of pronunciation that was irritating and said: "if ze zhentlemans will to me make ze grande honneur to me rattain in hees serveece, i shall show to him every sing zat is magnifique to look upon in ze beautiful parree. i speaky ze angleesh pairfaitemaw." he would have done well to have stopped there, because he had that much by heart and said it right off without making a mistake. but his self-complacency seduced him into attempting a flight into regions of unexplored english, and the reckless experiment was his ruin. within ten seconds he was so tangled up in a maze of mutilated verbs and torn and bleeding forms of speech that no human ingenuity could ever have gotten him out of it with credit. it was plain enough that he could not "speaky" the english quite as "pairfaitemaw" as he had pretended he could. the third man captured us. he was plainly dressed, but he had a noticeable air of neatness about him. he wore a high silk hat which was a little old, but had been carefully brushed. he wore second-hand kid gloves, in good repair, and carried a small rattan cane with a curved handle--a female leg--of ivory. he stepped as gently and as daintily as a cat crossing a muddy street; and oh, he was urbanity; he was quiet, unobtrusive self-possession; he was deference itself! he spoke softly and guardedly; and when he was about to make a statement on his sole responsibility or offer a suggestion, he weighed it by drachms and scruples first, with the crook of his little stick placed meditatively to his teeth. his opening speech was perfect. it was perfect in construction, in phraseology, in grammar, in emphasis, in pronunciation --everything. he spoke little and guardedly after that. we were charmed. we were more than charmed--we were overjoyed. we hired him at once. we never even asked him his price. this man--our lackey, our servant, our unquestioning slave though he was--was still a gentleman--we could see that--while of the other two one was coarse and awkward and the other was a born pirate. we asked our man friday's name. he drew from his pocketbook a snowy little card and passed it to us with a profound bow: a. billfinger, guide to paris, france, germany, spain, &c., &c. grande hotel du louvre. "billfinger! oh, carry me home to die!" that was an "aside" from dan. the atrocious name grated harshly on my ear, too. the most of us can learn to forgive, and even to like, a countenance that strikes us unpleasantly at first, but few of us, i fancy, become reconciled to a jarring name so easily. i was almost sorry we had hired this man, his name was so unbearable. however, no matter. we were impatient to start. billfinger stepped to the door to call a carriage, and then the doctor said: "well, the guide goes with the barbershop, with the billiard-table, with the gasless room, and may be with many another pretty romance of paris. i expected to have a guide named henri de montmorency, or armand de la chartreuse, or something that would sound grand in letters to the villagers at home, but to think of a frenchman by the name of billfinger! oh! this is absurd, you know. this will never do. we can't say billfinger; it is nauseating. name him over again; what had we better call him? alexis du caulaincourt?" "alphonse henri gustave de hauteville," i suggested. "call him ferguson," said dan. that was practical, unromantic good sense. without debate, we expunged billfinger as billfinger, and called him ferguson. the carriage--an open barouche--was ready. ferguson mounted beside the driver, and we whirled away to breakfast. as was proper, mr. ferguson stood by to transmit our orders and answer questions. by and by, he mentioned casually--the artful adventurer--that he would go and get his breakfast as soon as we had finished ours. he knew we could not get along without him and that we would not want to loiter about and wait for him. we asked him to sit down and eat with us. he begged, with many a bow, to be excused. it was not proper, he said; he would sit at another table. we ordered him peremptorily to sit down with us. here endeth the first lesson. it was a mistake. as long as we had that fellow after that, he was always hungry; he was always thirsty. he came early; he stayed late; he could not pass a restaurant; he looked with a lecherous eye upon every wine shop. suggestions to stop, excuses to eat and to drink, were forever on his lips. we tried all we could to fill him so full that he would have no room to spare for a fortnight, but it was a failure. he did not hold enough to smother the cravings of his superhuman appetite. he had another "discrepancy" about him. he was always wanting us to buy things. on the shallowest pretenses he would inveigle us into shirt stores, boot stores, tailor shops, glove shops--anywhere under the broad sweep of the heavens that there seemed a chance of our buying anything. anyone could have guessed that the shopkeepers paid him a percentage on the sales, but in our blessed innocence we didn't until this feature of his conduct grew unbearably prominent. one day dan happened to mention that he thought of buying three or four silk dress patterns for presents. ferguson's hungry eye was upon him in an instant. in the course of twenty minutes the carriage stopped. "what's this?" "zis is ze finest silk magazin in paris--ze most celebrate." "what did you come here for? we told you to take us to the palace of the louvre." "i suppose ze gentleman say he wish to buy some silk." "you are not required to 'suppose' things for the party, ferguson. we do not wish to tax your energies too much. we will bear some of the burden and heat of the day ourselves. we will endeavor to do such 'supposing' as is really necessary to be done. drive on." so spake the doctor. within fifteen minutes the carriage halted again, and before another silk store. the doctor said: "ah, the palace of the louvre--beautiful, beautiful edifice! does the emperor napoleon live here now, ferguson?" "ah, doctor! you do jest; zis is not ze palace; we come there directly. but since we pass right by zis store, where is such beautiful silk--" "ah! i see, i see. i meant to have told you that we did not wish to purchase any silks to-day, but in my absent-mindedness i forgot it. i also meant to tell you we wished to go directly to the louvre, but i forgot that also. however, we will go there now. pardon my seeming carelessness, ferguson. drive on." within the half hour we stopped again--in front of another silk store. we were angry; but the doctor was always serene, always smooth-voiced. he said: "at last! how imposing the louvre is, and yet how small! how exquisitely fashioned! how charmingly situated!--venerable, venerable pile--" "pairdon, doctor, zis is not ze louvre--it is--" "what is it?" "i have ze idea--it come to me in a moment--zat ze silk in zis magazin--" "ferguson, how heedless i am. i fully intended to tell you that we did not wish to buy any silks to-day, and i also intended to tell you that we yearned to go immediately to the palace of the louvre, but enjoying the happiness of seeing you devour four breakfasts this morning has so filled me with pleasurable emotions that i neglect the commonest interests of the time. however, we will proceed now to the louvre, ferguson." "but, doctor," (excitedly,) "it will take not a minute--not but one small minute! ze gentleman need not to buy if he not wish to--but only look at ze silk--look at ze beautiful fabric. [then pleadingly.] sair--just only one leetle moment!" dan said, "confound the idiot! i don't want to see any silks today, and i won't look at them. drive on." and the doctor: "we need no silks now, ferguson. our hearts yearn for the louvre. let us journey on--let us journey on." "but doctor! it is only one moment--one leetle moment. and ze time will be save--entirely save! because zere is nothing to see now--it is too late. it want ten minute to four and ze louvre close at four--only one leetle moment, doctor!" the treacherous miscreant! after four breakfasts and a gallon of champagne, to serve us such a scurvy trick. we got no sight of the countless treasures of art in the louvre galleries that day, and our only poor little satisfaction was in the reflection that ferguson sold not a solitary silk dress pattern. i am writing this chapter partly for the satisfaction of abusing that accomplished knave billfinger, and partly to show whosoever shall read this how americans fare at the hands of the paris guides and what sort of people paris guides are. it need not be supposed that we were a stupider or an easier prey than our countrymen generally are, for we were not. the guides deceive and defraud every american who goes to paris for the first time and sees its sights alone or in company with others as little experienced as himself. i shall visit paris again someday, and then let the guides beware! i shall go in my war paint--i shall carry my tomahawk along. i think we have lost but little time in paris. we have gone to bed every night tired out. of course we visited the renowned international exposition. all the world did that. we went there on our third day in paris--and we stayed there nearly two hours. that was our first and last visit. to tell the truth, we saw at a glance that one would have to spend weeks--yea, even months--in that monstrous establishment to get an intelligible idea of it. it was a wonderful show, but the moving masses of people of all nations we saw there were a still more wonderful show. i discovered that if i were to stay there a month, i should still find myself looking at the people instead of the inanimate objects on exhibition. i got a little interested in some curious old tapestries of the thirteenth century, but a party of arabs came by, and their dusky faces and quaint costumes called my attention away at once. i watched a silver swan, which had a living grace about his movements and a living intelligence in his eyes--watched him swimming about as comfortably and as unconcernedly as if he had been born in a morass instead of a jeweler's shop--watched him seize a silver fish from under the water and hold up his head and go through all the customary and elaborate motions of swallowing it--but the moment it disappeared down his throat some tattooed south sea islanders approached and i yielded to their attractions. presently i found a revolving pistol several hundred years old which looked strangely like a modern colt, but just then i heard that the empress of the french was in another part of the building, and hastened away to see what she might look like. we heard martial music--we saw an unusual number of soldiers walking hurriedly about--there was a general movement among the people. we inquired what it was all about and learned that the emperor of the french and the sultan of turkey were about to review twenty-five thousand troops at the arc de l'etoile. we immediately departed. i had a greater anxiety to see these men than i could have had to see twenty expositions. we drove away and took up a position in an open space opposite the american minister's house. a speculator bridged a couple of barrels with a board and we hired standing places on it. presently there was a sound of distant music; in another minute a pillar of dust came moving slowly toward us; a moment more and then, with colors flying and a grand crash of military music, a gallant array of cavalrymen emerged from the dust and came down the street on a gentle trot. after them came a long line of artillery; then more cavalry, in splendid uniforms; and then their imperial majesties napoleon iii and abdul aziz. the vast concourse of people swung their hats and shouted--the windows and housetops in the wide vicinity burst into a snowstorm of waving handkerchiefs, and the wavers of the same mingled their cheers with those of the masses below. it was a stirring spectacle. but the two central figures claimed all my attention. was ever such a contrast set up before a multitude till then? napoleon in military uniform--a long-bodied, short-legged man, fiercely moustached, old, wrinkled, with eyes half closed, and such a deep, crafty, scheming expression about them!--napoleon, bowing ever so gently to the loud plaudits, and watching everything and everybody with his cat eyes from under his depressed hat brim, as if to discover any sign that those cheers were not heartfelt and cordial. abdul aziz, absolute lord of the ottoman empire--clad in dark green european clothes, almost without ornament or insignia of rank; a red turkish fez on his head; a short, stout, dark man, black-bearded, black-eyed, stupid, unprepossessing--a man whose whole appearance somehow suggested that if he only had a cleaver in his hand and a white apron on, one would not be at all surprised to hear him say: "a mutton roast today, or will you have a nice porterhouse steak?" napoleon iii, the representative of the highest modern civilization, progress, and refinement; abdul-aziz, the representative of a people by nature and training filthy, brutish, ignorant, unprogressive, superstitious--and a government whose three graces are tyranny, rapacity, blood. here in brilliant paris, under this majestic arch of triumph, the first century greets the nineteenth! napoleon iii., emperor of france! surrounded by shouting thousands, by military pomp, by the splendors of his capital city, and companioned by kings and princes--this is the man who was sneered at and reviled and called bastard--yet who was dreaming of a crown and an empire all the while; who was driven into exile--but carried his dreams with him; who associated with the common herd in america and ran foot races for a wager--but still sat upon a throne in fancy; who braved every danger to go to his dying mother--and grieved that she could not be spared to see him cast aside his plebeian vestments for the purple of royalty; who kept his faithful watch and walked his weary beat a common policeman of london--but dreamed the while of a coming night when he should tread the long-drawn corridors of the tuileries; who made the miserable fiasco of strasbourg; saw his poor, shabby eagle, forgetful of its lesson, refuse to perch upon his shoulder; delivered his carefully prepared, sententious burst of eloquence upon unsympathetic ears; found himself a prisoner, the butt of small wits, a mark for the pitiless ridicule of all the world --yet went on dreaming of coronations and splendid pageants as before; who lay a forgotten captive in the dungeons of ham--and still schemed and planned and pondered over future glory and future power; president of france at last! a coup d'etat, and surrounded by applauding armies, welcomed by the thunders of cannon, he mounts a throne and waves before an astounded world the sceptre of a mighty empire! who talks of the marvels of fiction? who speaks of the wonders of romance? who prates of the tame achievements of aladdin and the magii of arabia? abdul-aziz, sultan of turkey, lord of the ottoman empire! born to a throne; weak, stupid, ignorant, almost, as his meanest slave; chief of a vast royalty, yet the puppet of his premier and the obedient child of a tyrannical mother; a man who sits upon a throne--the beck of whose finger moves navies and armies--who holds in his hands the power of life and death over millions--yet who sleeps, sleeps, eats, eats, idles with his eight hundred concubines, and when he is surfeited with eating and sleeping and idling, and would rouse up and take the reins of government and threaten to be a sultan, is charmed from his purpose by wary fuad pacha with a pretty plan for a new palace or a new ship--charmed away with a new toy, like any other restless child; a man who sees his people robbed and oppressed by soulless tax-gatherers, but speaks no word to save them; who believes in gnomes and genii and the wild fables of the arabian nights, but has small regard for the mighty magicians of to-day, and is nervous in the presence of their mysterious railroads and steamboats and telegraphs; who would see undone in egypt all that great mehemet ali achieved, and would prefer rather to forget than emulate him; a man who found his great empire a blot upon the earth--a degraded, poverty-stricken, miserable, infamous agglomeration of ignorance, crime, and brutality--and will idle away the allotted days of his trivial life and then pass to the dust and the worms and leave it so! napoleon has augmented the commercial prosperity of france in ten years to such a degree that figures can hardly compute it. he has rebuilt paris and has partly rebuilt every city in the state. he condemns a whole street at a time, assesses the damages, pays them, and rebuilds superbly. then speculators buy up the ground and sell, but the original owner is given the first choice by the government at a stated price before the speculator is permitted to purchase. but above all things, he has taken the sole control of the empire of france into his hands and made it a tolerably free land--for people who will not attempt to go too far in meddling with government affairs. no country offers greater security to life and property than france, and one has all the freedom he wants, but no license--no license to interfere with anybody or make anyone uncomfortable. as for the sultan, one could set a trap any where and catch a dozen abler men in a night. the bands struck up, and the brilliant adventurer, napoleon iii., the genius of energy, persistence, enterprise; and the feeble abdul-aziz, the genius of ignorance, bigotry, and indolence, prepared for the forward --march! we saw the splendid review, we saw the white-moustached old crimean soldier, canrobert, marshal of france, we saw--well, we saw every thing, and then we went home satisfied. chapter xiv. we went to see the cathedral of notre dame. we had heard of it before. it surprises me sometimes to think how much we do know and how intelligent we are. we recognized the brown old gothic pile in a moment; it was like the pictures. we stood at a little distance and changed from one point of observation to another and gazed long at its lofty square towers and its rich front, clustered thick with stony, mutilated saints who had been looking calmly down from their perches for ages. the patriarch of jerusalem stood under them in the old days of chivalry and romance, and preached the third crusade, more than six hundred years ago; and since that day they have stood there and looked quietly down upon the most thrilling scenes, the grandest pageants, the most extraordinary spectacles that have grieved or delighted paris. these battered and broken-nosed old fellows saw many and many a cavalcade of mail-clad knights come marching home from holy land; they heard the bells above them toll the signal for the st. bartholomew's massacre, and they saw the slaughter that followed; later they saw the reign of terror, the carnage of the revolution, the overthrow of a king, the coronation of two napoleons, the christening of the young prince that lords it over a regiment of servants in the tuileries to-day--and they may possibly continue to stand there until they see the napoleon dynasty swept away and the banners of a great republic floating above its ruins. i wish these old parties could speak. they could tell a tale worth the listening to. they say that a pagan temple stood where notre dame now stands, in the old roman days, eighteen or twenty centuries ago--remains of it are still preserved in paris; and that a christian church took its place about a.d. ; another took the place of that in a.d. ; and that the foundations of the present cathedral were laid about a.d. . the ground ought to be measurably sacred by this time, one would think. one portion of this noble old edifice is suggestive of the quaint fashions of ancient times. it was built by jean sans-peur, duke of burgundy, to set his conscience at rest--he had assassinated the duke of orleans. alas! those good old times are gone when a murderer could wipe the stain from his name and soothe his troubles to sleep simply by getting out his bricks and mortar and building an addition to a church. the portals of the great western front are bisected by square pillars. they took the central one away in , on the occasion of thanksgivings for the reinstitution of the presidential power--but precious soon they had occasion to reconsider that motion and put it back again! and they did. we loitered through the grand aisles for an hour or two, staring up at the rich stained-glass windows embellished with blue and yellow and crimson saints and martyrs, and trying to admire the numberless great pictures in the chapels, and then we were admitted to the sacristy and shown the magnificent robes which the pope wore when he crowned napoleon i; a wagon-load of solid gold and silver utensils used in the great public processions and ceremonies of the church; some nails of the true cross, a fragment of the cross itself, a part of the crown of thorns. we had already seen a large piece of the true cross in a church in the azores, but no nails. they showed us likewise the bloody robe which that archbishop of paris wore who exposed his sacred person and braved the wrath of the insurgents of , to mount the barricades and hold aloft the olive branch of peace in the hope of stopping the slaughter. his noble effort cost him his life. he was shot dead. they showed us a cast of his face taken after death, the bullet that killed him, and the two vertebrae in which it lodged. these people have a somewhat singular taste in the matter of relics. ferguson told us that the silver cross which the good archbishop wore at his girdle was seized and thrown into the seine, where it lay embedded in the mud for fifteen years, and then an angel appeared to a priest and told him where to dive for it; he did dive for it and got it, and now it is there on exhibition at notre dame, to be inspected by anybody who feels an interest in inanimate objects of miraculous intervention. next we went to visit the morgue, that horrible receptacle for the dead who die mysteriously and leave the manner of their taking off a dismal secret. we stood before a grating and looked through into a room which was hung all about with the clothing of dead men; coarse blouses, water-soaked; the delicate garments of women and children; patrician vestments, hacked and stabbed and stained with red; a hat that was crushed and bloody. on a slanting stone lay a drowned man, naked, swollen, purple; clasping the fragment of a broken bush with a grip which death had so petrified that human strength could not unloose it --mute witness of the last despairing effort to save the life that was doomed beyond all help. a stream of water trickled ceaselessly over the hideous face. we knew that the body and the clothing were there for identification by friends, but still we wondered if anybody could love that repulsive object or grieve for its loss. we grew meditative and wondered if, some forty years ago, when the mother of that ghastly thing was dandling it upon her knee, and kissing it and petting it and displaying it with satisfied pride to the passers-by, a prophetic vision of this dread ending ever flitted through her brain. i half feared that the mother, or the wife or a brother of the dead man might come while we stood there, but nothing of the kind occurred. men and women came, and some looked eagerly in and pressed their faces against the bars; others glanced carelessly at the body and turned away with a disappointed look --people, i thought, who live upon strong excitements and who attend the exhibitions of the morgue regularly, just as other people go to see theatrical spectacles every night. when one of these looked in and passed on, i could not help thinking-- "now this don't afford you any satisfaction--a party with his head shot off is what you need." one night we went to the celebrated jardin mabille, but only staid a little while. we wanted to see some of this kind of paris life, however, and therefore the next night we went to a similar place of entertainment in a great garden in the suburb of asnieres. we went to the railroad depot, toward evening, and ferguson got tickets for a second-class carriage. such a perfect jam of people i have not often seen--but there was no noise, no disorder, no rowdyism. some of the women and young girls that entered the train we knew to be of the demi-monde, but others we were not at all sure about. the girls and women in our carriage behaved themselves modestly and becomingly all the way out, except that they smoked. when we arrived at the garden in asnieres, we paid a franc or two admission and entered a place which had flower beds in it, and grass plots, and long, curving rows of ornamental shrubbery, with here and there a secluded bower convenient for eating ice cream in. we moved along the sinuous gravel walks, with the great concourse of girls and young men, and suddenly a domed and filigreed white temple, starred over and over and over again with brilliant gas jets, burst upon us like a fallen sun. nearby was a large, handsome house with its ample front illuminated in the same way, and above its roof floated the star-spangled banner of america. "well!" i said. "how is this?" it nearly took my breath away. ferguson said an american--a new yorker--kept the place, and was carrying on quite a stirring opposition to the jardin mabille. crowds composed of both sexes and nearly all ages were frisking about the garden or sitting in the open air in front of the flagstaff and the temple, drinking wine and coffee or smoking. the dancing had not begun yet. ferguson said there was to be an exhibition. the famous blondin was going to perform on a tightrope in another part of the garden. we went thither. here the light was dim, and the masses of people were pretty closely packed together. and now i made a mistake which any donkey might make, but a sensible man never. i committed an error which i find myself repeating every day of my life. standing right before a young lady, i said: "dan, just look at this girl, how beautiful she is!" "i thank you more for the evident sincerity of the compliment, sir, than for the extraordinary publicity you have given to it!" this in good, pure english. we took a walk, but my spirits were very, very sadly dampened. i did not feel right comfortable for some time afterward. why will people be so stupid as to suppose themselves the only foreigners among a crowd of ten thousand persons? but blondin came out shortly. he appeared on a stretched cable, far away above the sea of tossing hats and handkerchiefs, and in the glare of the hundreds of rockets that whizzed heavenward by him he looked like a wee insect. he balanced his pole and walked the length of his rope--two or three hundred feet; he came back and got a man and carried him across; he returned to the center and danced a jig; next he performed some gymnastic and balancing feats too perilous to afford a pleasant spectacle; and he finished by fastening to his person a thousand roman candles, catherine wheels, serpents and rockets of all manner of brilliant colors, setting them on fire all at once and walking and waltzing across his rope again in a blinding blaze of glory that lit up the garden and the people's faces like a great conflagration at midnight. the dance had begun, and we adjourned to the temple. within it was a drinking saloon, and all around it was a broad circular platform for the dancers. i backed up against the wall of the temple, and waited. twenty sets formed, the music struck up, and then--i placed my hands before my face for very shame. but i looked through my fingers. they were dancing the renowned "can-can." a handsome girl in the set before me tripped forward lightly to meet the opposite gentleman, tripped back again, grasped her dresses vigorously on both sides with her hands, raised them pretty high, danced an extraordinary jig that had more activity and exposure about it than any jig i ever saw before, and then, drawing her clothes still higher, she advanced gaily to the center and launched a vicious kick full at her vis-a-vis that must infallibly have removed his nose if he had been seven feet high. it was a mercy he was only six. that is the can-can. the idea of it is to dance as wildly, as noisily, as furiously as you can; expose yourself as much as possible if you are a woman; and kick as high as you can, no matter which sex you belong to. there is no word of exaggeration in this. any of the staid, respectable, aged people who were there that night can testify to the truth of that statement. there were a good many such people present. i suppose french morality is not of that straight-laced description which is shocked at trifles. i moved aside and took a general view of the can-can. shouts, laughter, furious music, a bewildering chaos of darting and intermingling forms, stormy jerking and snatching of gay dresses, bobbing beads, flying arms, lightning flashes of white-stockinged calves and dainty slippers in the air, and then a grand final rush, riot, a terrific hubbub, and a wild stampede! heavens! nothing like it has been seen on earth since trembling tam o'shanter saw the devil and the witches at their orgies that stormy night in "alloway's auld haunted kirk." we visited the louvre, at a time when we had no silk purchases in view, and looked at its miles of paintings by the old masters. some of them were beautiful, but at the same time they carried such evidences about them of the cringing spirit of those great men that we found small pleasure in examining them. their nauseous adulation of princely patrons was more prominent to me and chained my attention more surely than the charms of color and expression which are claimed to be in the pictures. gratitude for kindnesses is well, but it seems to me that some of those artists carried it so far that it ceased to be gratitude and became worship. if there is a plausible excuse for the worship of men, then by all means let us forgive rubens and his brethren. but i will drop the subject, lest i say something about the old masters that might as well be left unsaid. of course we drove in the bois de boulogne, that limitless park, with its forests, its lakes, its cascades, and its broad avenues. there were thousands upon thousands of vehicles abroad, and the scene was full of life and gaiety. there were very common hacks, with father and mother and all the children in them; conspicuous little open carriages with celebrated ladies of questionable reputation in them; there were dukes and duchesses abroad, with gorgeous footmen perched behind, and equally gorgeous outriders perched on each of the six horses; there were blue and silver, and green and gold, and pink and black, and all sorts and descriptions of stunning and startling liveries out, and i almost yearned to be a flunkey myself, for the sake of the fine clothes. but presently the emperor came along and he outshone them all. he was preceded by a bodyguard of gentlemen on horseback in showy uniforms, his carriage-horses (there appeared to be somewhere in the remote neighborhood of a thousand of them,) were bestridden by gallant-looking fellows, also in stylish uniforms, and after the carriage followed another detachment of bodyguards. everybody got out of the way; everybody bowed to the emperor and his friend the sultan; and they went by on a swinging trot and disappeared. i will not describe the bois de boulogne. i can not do it. it is simply a beautiful, cultivated, endless, wonderful wilderness. it is an enchanting place. it is in paris now, one may say, but a crumbling old cross in one portion of it reminds one that it was not always so. the cross marks the spot where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and murdered in the fourteenth century. it was in this park that that fellow with an unpronounceable name made the attempt upon the russian czar's life last spring with a pistol. the bullet struck a tree. ferguson showed us the place. now in america that interesting tree would be chopped down or forgotten within the next five years, but it will be treasured here. the guides will point it out to visitors for the next eight hundred years, and when it decays and falls down they will put up another there and go on with the same old story just the same. chapter xv. one of our pleasantest visits was to pere la chaise, the national burying-ground of france, the honored resting-place of some of her greatest and best children, the last home of scores of illustrious men and women who were born to no titles, but achieved fame by their own energy and their own genius. it is a solemn city of winding streets and of miniature marble temples and mansions of the dead gleaming white from out a wilderness of foliage and fresh flowers. not every city is so well peopled as this, or has so ample an area within its walls. few palaces exist in any city that are so exquisite in design, so rich in art, so costly in material, so graceful, so beautiful. we had stood in the ancient church of st. denis, where the marble effigies of thirty generations of kings and queens lay stretched at length upon the tombs, and the sensations invoked were startling and novel; the curious armor, the obsolete costumes, the placid faces, the hands placed palm to palm in eloquent supplication--it was a vision of gray antiquity. it seemed curious enough to be standing face to face, as it were, with old dagobert i., and clovis and charlemagne, those vague, colossal heroes, those shadows, those myths of a thousand years ago! i touched their dust-covered faces with my finger, but dagobert was deader than the sixteen centuries that have passed over him, clovis slept well after his labor for christ, and old charlemagne went on dreaming of his paladins, of bloody roncesvalles, and gave no heed to me. the great names of pere la chaise impress one, too, but differently. there the suggestion brought constantly to his mind is, that this place is sacred to a nobler royalty--the royalty of heart and brain. every faculty of mind, every noble trait of human nature, every high occupation which men engage in, seems represented by a famous name. the effect is a curious medley. davoust and massena, who wrought in many a battle tragedy, are here, and so also is rachel, of equal renown in mimic tragedy on the stage. the abbe sicard sleeps here--the first great teacher of the deaf and dumb--a man whose heart went out to every unfortunate, and whose life was given to kindly offices in their service; and not far off, in repose and peace at last, lies marshal ney, whose stormy spirit knew no music like the bugle call to arms. the man who originated public gas-lighting, and that other benefactor who introduced the cultivation of the potato and thus blessed millions of his starving countrymen, lie with the prince of masserano, and with exiled queens and princes of further india. gay-lussac the chemist, laplace the astronomer, larrey the surgeon, de suze the advocate, are here, and with them are talma, bellini, rubini; de balzac, beaumarchais, beranger; moliere and lafontaine, and scores of other men whose names and whose worthy labors are as familiar in the remote by-places of civilization as are the historic deeds of the kings and princes that sleep in the marble vaults of st. denis. but among the thousands and thousands of tombs in pere la chaise, there is one that no man, no woman, no youth of either sex, ever passes by without stopping to examine. every visitor has a sort of indistinct idea of the history of its dead and comprehends that homage is due there, but not one in twenty thousand clearly remembers the story of that tomb and its romantic occupants. this is the grave of abelard and heloise--a grave which has been more revered, more widely known, more written and sung about and wept over, for seven hundred years, than any other in christendom save only that of the saviour. all visitors linger pensively about it; all young people capture and carry away keepsakes and mementoes of it; all parisian youths and maidens who are disappointed in love come there to bail out when they are full of tears; yea, many stricken lovers make pilgrimages to this shrine from distant provinces to weep and wail and "grit" their teeth over their heavy sorrows, and to purchase the sympathies of the chastened spirits of that tomb with offerings of immortelles and budding flowers. go when you will, you find somebody snuffling over that tomb. go when you will, you find it furnished with those bouquets and immortelles. go when you will, you find a gravel-train from marseilles arriving to supply the deficiencies caused by memento-cabbaging vandals whose affections have miscarried. yet who really knows the story of abelard and heloise? precious few people. the names are perfectly familiar to every body, and that is about all. with infinite pains i have acquired a knowledge of that history, and i propose to narrate it here, partly for the honest information of the public and partly to show that public that they have been wasting a good deal of marketable sentiment very unnecessarily. story of abelard and heloise heloise was born seven hundred and sixty-six years ago. she may have had parents. there is no telling. she lived with her uncle fulbert, a canon of the cathedral of paris. i do not know what a canon of a cathedral is, but that is what he was. he was nothing more than a sort of a mountain howitzer, likely, because they had no heavy artillery in those days. suffice it, then, that heloise lived with her uncle the howitzer and was happy. she spent the most of her childhood in the convent of argenteuil --never heard of argenteuil before, but suppose there was really such a place. she then returned to her uncle, the old gun, or son of a gun, as the case may be, and he taught her to write and speak latin, which was the language of literature and polite society at that period. just at this time, pierre abelard, who had already made himself widely famous as a rhetorician, came to found a school of rhetoric in paris. the originality of his principles, his eloquence, and his great physical strength and beauty created a profound sensation. he saw heloise, and was captivated by her blooming youth, her beauty, and her charming disposition. he wrote to her; she answered. he wrote again; she answered again. he was now in love. he longed to know her--to speak to her face to face. his school was near fulbert's house. he asked fulbert to allow him to call. the good old swivel saw here a rare opportunity: his niece, whom he so much loved, would absorb knowledge from this man, and it would not cost him a cent. such was fulbert--penurious. fulbert's first name is not mentioned by any author, which is unfortunate. however, george w. fulbert will answer for him as well as any other. we will let him go at that. he asked abelard to teach her. abelard was glad enough of the opportunity. he came often and staid long. a letter of his shows in its very first sentence that he came under that friendly roof like a cold-hearted villain as he was, with the deliberate intention of debauching a confiding, innocent girl. this is the letter: "i cannot cease to be astonished at the simplicity of fulbert; i was as much surprised as if he had placed a lamb in the power of a hungry wolf. heloise and i, under pretext of study, gave ourselves up wholly to love, and the solitude that love seeks our studies procured for us. books were open before us, but we spoke oftener of love than philosophy, and kisses came more readily from our lips than words." and so, exulting over an honorable confidence which to his degraded instinct was a ludicrous "simplicity," this unmanly abelard seduced the niece of the man whose guest he was. paris found it out. fulbert was told of it--told often--but refused to believe it. he could not comprehend how a man could be so depraved as to use the sacred protection and security of hospitality as a means for the commission of such a crime as that. but when he heard the rowdies in the streets singing the love-songs of abelard to heloise, the case was too plain--love-songs come not properly within the teachings of rhetoric and philosophy. he drove abelard from his house. abelard returned secretly and carried heloise away to palais, in brittany, his native country. here, shortly afterward, she bore a son, who, from his rare beauty, was surnamed astrolabe--william g. the girl's flight enraged fulbert, and he longed for vengeance, but feared to strike lest retaliation visit heloise--for he still loved her tenderly. at length abelard offered to marry heloise --but on a shameful condition: that the marriage should be kept secret from the world, to the end that (while her good name remained a wreck, as before,) his priestly reputation might be kept untarnished. it was like that miscreant. fulbert saw his opportunity and consented. he would see the parties married, and then violate the confidence of the man who had taught him that trick; he would divulge the secret and so remove somewhat of the obloquy that attached to his niece's fame. but the niece suspected his scheme. she refused the marriage at first; she said fulbert would betray the secret to save her, and besides, she did not wish to drag down a lover who was so gifted, so honored by the world, and who had such a splendid career before him. it was noble, self-sacrificing love, and characteristic of the pure-souled heloise, but it was not good sense. but she was overruled, and the private marriage took place. now for fulbert! the heart so wounded should be healed at last; the proud spirit so tortured should find rest again; the humbled head should be lifted up once more. he proclaimed the marriage in the high places of the city and rejoiced that dishonor had departed from his house. but lo! abelard denied the marriage! heloise denied it! the people, knowing the former circumstances, might have believed fulbert had only abelard denied it, but when the person chiefly interested--the girl herself--denied it, they laughed, despairing fulbert to scorn. the poor canon of the cathedral of paris was spiked again. the last hope of repairing the wrong that had been done his house was gone. what next? human nature suggested revenge. he compassed it. the historian says: "ruffians, hired by fulbert, fell upon abelard by night, and inflicted upon him a terrible and nameless mutilation." i am seeking the last resting place of those "ruffians." when i find it i shall shed some tears on it, and stack up some bouquets and immortelles, and cart away from it some gravel whereby to remember that howsoever blotted by crime their lives may have been, these ruffians did one just deed, at any rate, albeit it was not warranted by the strict letter of the law. heloise entered a convent and gave good-bye to the world and its pleasures for all time. for twelve years she never heard of abelard --never even heard his name mentioned. she had become prioress of argenteuil and led a life of complete seclusion. she happened one day to see a letter written by him, in which he narrated his own history. she cried over it and wrote him. he answered, addressing her as his "sister in christ." they continued to correspond, she in the unweighed language of unwavering affection, he in the chilly phraseology of the polished rhetorician. she poured out her heart in passionate, disjointed sentences; he replied with finished essays, divided deliberately into heads and sub-heads, premises and argument. she showered upon him the tenderest epithets that love could devise, he addressed her from the north pole of his frozen heart as the "spouse of christ!" the abandoned villain! on account of her too easy government of her nuns, some disreputable irregularities were discovered among them, and the abbot of st. denis broke up her establishment. abelard was the official head of the monastery of st. gildas de ruys, at that time, and when he heard of her homeless condition a sentiment of pity was aroused in his breast (it is a wonder the unfamiliar emotion did not blow his head off,) and he placed her and her troop in the little oratory of the paraclete, a religious establishment which he had founded. she had many privations and sufferings to undergo at first, but her worth and her gentle disposition won influential friends for her, and she built up a wealthy and flourishing nunnery. she became a great favorite with the heads of the church, and also the people, though she seldom appeared in public. she rapidly advanced in esteem, in good report, and in usefulness, and abelard as rapidly lost ground. the pope so honored her that he made her the head of her order. abelard, a man of splendid talents, and ranking as the first debater of his time, became timid, irresolute, and distrustful of his powers. he only needed a great misfortune to topple him from the high position he held in the world of intellectual excellence, and it came. urged by kings and princes to meet the subtle st. bernard in debate and crush him, he stood up in the presence of a royal and illustrious assemblage, and when his antagonist had finished he looked about him and stammered a commencement; but his courage failed him, the cunning of his tongue was gone: with his speech unspoken, he trembled and sat down, a disgraced and vanquished champion. he died a nobody, and was buried at cluny, a.d., . they removed his body to the paraclete afterward, and when heloise died, twenty years later, they buried her with him, in accordance with her last wish. he died at the ripe age of , and she at . after the bodies had remained entombed three hundred years, they were removed once more. they were removed again in , and finally, seventeen years afterward, they were taken up and transferred to pere la chaise, where they will remain in peace and quiet until it comes time for them to get up and move again. history is silent concerning the last acts of the mountain howitzer. let the world say what it will about him, i, at least, shall always respect the memory and sorrow for the abused trust and the broken heart and the troubled spirit of the old smooth-bore. rest and repose be his! such is the story of abelard and heloise. such is the history that lamartine has shed such cataracts of tears over. but that man never could come within the influence of a subject in the least pathetic without overflowing his banks. he ought to be dammed--or leveed, i should more properly say. such is the history--not as it is usually told, but as it is when stripped of the nauseous sentimentality that would enshrine for our loving worship a dastardly seducer like pierre abelard. i have not a word to say against the misused, faithful girl, and would not withhold from her grave a single one of those simple tributes which blighted youths and maidens offer to her memory, but i am sorry enough that i have not time and opportunity to write four or five volumes of my opinion of her friend the founder of the parachute, or the paraclete, or whatever it was. the tons of sentiment i have wasted on that unprincipled humbug in my ignorance! i shall throttle down my emotions hereafter, about this sort of people, until i have read them up and know whether they are entitled to any tearful attentions or not. i wish i had my immortelles back, now, and that bunch of radishes. in paris we often saw in shop windows the sign "english spoken here," just as one sees in the windows at home the sign "ici on parle francaise." we always invaded these places at once--and invariably received the information, framed in faultless french, that the clerk who did the english for the establishment had just gone to dinner and would be back in an hour--would monsieur buy something? we wondered why those parties happened to take their dinners at such erratic and extraordinary hours, for we never called at a time when an exemplary christian would be in the least likely to be abroad on such an errand. the truth was, it was a base fraud--a snare to trap the unwary--chaff to catch fledglings with. they had no english-murdering clerk. they trusted to the sign to inveigle foreigners into their lairs, and trusted to their own blandishments to keep them there till they bought something. we ferreted out another french imposition--a frequent sign to this effect: "all manner of american drinks artistically prepared here." we procured the services of a gentleman experienced in the nomenclature of the american bar, and moved upon the works of one of these impostors. a bowing, aproned frenchman skipped forward and said: "que voulez les messieurs?" i do not know what "que voulez les messieurs?" means, but such was his remark. our general said, "we will take a whiskey straight." [a stare from the frenchman.] "well, if you don't know what that is, give us a champagne cock-tail." [a stare and a shrug.] "well, then, give us a sherry cobbler." the frenchman was checkmated. this was all greek to him. "give us a brandy smash!" the frenchman began to back away, suspicious of the ominous vigor of the last order--began to back away, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands apologetically. the general followed him up and gained a complete victory. the uneducated foreigner could not even furnish a santa cruz punch, an eye-opener, a stone-fence, or an earthquake. it was plain that he was a wicked impostor. an acquaintance of mine said the other day that he was doubtless the only american visitor to the exposition who had had the high honor of being escorted by the emperor's bodyguard. i said with unobtrusive frankness that i was astonished that such a long-legged, lantern-jawed, unprepossessing-looking specter as he should be singled out for a distinction like that, and asked how it came about. he said he had attended a great military review in the champ de mars some time ago, and while the multitude about him was growing thicker and thicker every moment he observed an open space inside the railing. he left his carriage and went into it. he was the only person there, and so he had plenty of room, and the situation being central, he could see all the preparations going on about the field. by and by there was a sound of music, and soon the emperor of the french and the emperor of austria, escorted by the famous cent gardes, entered the enclosure. they seemed not to observe him, but directly, in response to a sign from the commander of the guard, a young lieutenant came toward him with a file of his men following, halted, raised his hand, and gave the military salute, and then said in a low voice that he was sorry to have to disturb a stranger and a gentleman, but the place was sacred to royalty. then this new jersey phantom rose up and bowed and begged pardon, then with the officer beside him, the file of men marching behind him, and with every mark of respect, he was escorted to his carriage by the imperial cent gardes! the officer saluted again and fell back, the new jersey sprite bowed in return and had presence of mind enough to pretend that he had simply called on a matter of private business with those emperors, and so waved them an adieu and drove from the field! imagine a poor frenchman ignorantly intruding upon a public rostrum sacred to some six-penny dignitary in america. the police would scare him to death first with a storm of their elegant blasphemy, and then pull him to pieces getting him away from there. we are measurably superior to the french in some things, but they are immeasurably our betters in others. enough of paris for the present. we have done our whole duty by it. we have seen the tuileries, the napoleon column, the madeleine, that wonder of wonders the tomb of napoleon, all the great churches and museums, libraries, imperial palaces, and sculpture and picture galleries, the pantheon, jardin des plantes, the opera, the circus, the legislative body, the billiard rooms, the barbers, the grisettes-- ah, the grisettes! i had almost forgotten. they are another romantic fraud. they were (if you let the books of travel tell it) always so beautiful--so neat and trim, so graceful--so naive and trusting--so gentle, so winning--so faithful to their shop duties, so irresistible to buyers in their prattling importunity--so devoted to their poverty-stricken students of the latin quarter--so lighthearted and happy on their sunday picnics in the suburbs--and oh, so charmingly, so delightfully immoral! stuff! for three or four days i was constantly saying: "quick, ferguson! is that a grisette?" and he always said, "no." he comprehended at last that i wanted to see a grisette. then he showed me dozens of them. they were like nearly all the frenchwomen i ever saw --homely. they had large hands, large feet, large mouths; they had pug noses as a general thing, and moustaches that not even good breeding could overlook; they combed their hair straight back without parting; they were ill-shaped, they were not winning, they were not graceful; i knew by their looks that they ate garlic and onions; and lastly and finally, to my thinking it would be base flattery to call them immoral. aroint thee, wench! i sorrow for the vagabond student of the latin quarter now, even more than formerly i envied him. thus topples to earth another idol of my infancy. we have seen every thing, and tomorrow we go to versailles. we shall see paris only for a little while as we come back to take up our line of march for the ship, and so i may as well bid the beautiful city a regretful farewell. we shall travel many thousands of miles after we leave here and visit many great cities, but we shall find none so enchanting as this. some of our party have gone to england, intending to take a roundabout course and rejoin the vessel at leghorn or naples several weeks hence. we came near going to geneva, but have concluded to return to marseilles and go up through italy from genoa. i will conclude this chapter with a remark that i am sincerely proud to be able to make--and glad, as well, that my comrades cordially endorse it, to wit: by far the handsomest women we have seen in france were born and reared in america. i feel now like a man who has redeemed a failing reputation and shed luster upon a dimmed escutcheon, by a single just deed done at the eleventh hour. let the curtain fall, to slow music. chapter xvi. versailles! it is wonderfully beautiful! you gaze and stare and try to understand that it is real, that it is on the earth, that it is not the garden of eden--but your brain grows giddy, stupefied by the world of beauty around you, and you half believe you are the dupe of an exquisite dream. the scene thrills one like military music! a noble palace, stretching its ornamented front, block upon block away, till it seemed that it would never end; a grand promenade before it, whereon the armies of an empire might parade; all about it rainbows of flowers, and colossal statues that were almost numberless and yet seemed only scattered over the ample space; broad flights of stone steps leading down from the promenade to lower grounds of the park--stairways that whole regiments might stand to arms upon and have room to spare; vast fountains whose great bronze effigies discharged rivers of sparkling water into the air and mingled a hundred curving jets together in forms of matchless beauty; wide grass-carpeted avenues that branched hither and thither in every direction and wandered to seemingly interminable distances, walled all the way on either side with compact ranks of leafy trees whose branches met above and formed arches as faultless and as symmetrical as ever were carved in stone; and here and there were glimpses of sylvan lakes with miniature ships glassed in their surfaces. and every where--on the palace steps, and the great promenade, around the fountains, among the trees, and far under the arches of the endless avenues--hundreds and hundreds of people in gay costumes walked or ran or danced, and gave to the fairy picture the life and animation which was all of perfection it could have lacked. it was worth a pilgrimage to see. everything is on so gigantic a scale. nothing is small--nothing is cheap. the statues are all large; the palace is grand; the park covers a fair-sized county; the avenues are interminable. all the distances and all the dimensions about versailles are vast. i used to think the pictures exaggerated these distances and these dimensions beyond all reason, and that they made versailles more beautiful than it was possible for any place in the world to be. i know now that the pictures never came up to the subject in any respect, and that no painter could represent versailles on canvas as beautiful as it is in reality. i used to abuse louis xiv for spending two hundred millions of dollars in creating this marvelous park, when bread was so scarce with some of his subjects; but i have forgiven him now. he took a tract of land sixty miles in circumference and set to work to make this park and build this palace and a road to it from paris. he kept , men employed daily on it, and the labor was so unhealthy that they used to die and be hauled off by cartloads every night. the wife of a nobleman of the time speaks of this as an "inconvenience," but naively remarks that "it does not seem worthy of attention in the happy state of tranquillity we now enjoy." i always thought ill of people at home who trimmed their shrubbery into pyramids and squares and spires and all manner of unnatural shapes, and when i saw the same thing being practiced in this great park i began to feel dissatisfied. but i soon saw the idea of the thing and the wisdom of it. they seek the general effect. we distort a dozen sickly trees into unaccustomed shapes in a little yard no bigger than a dining room, and then surely they look absurd enough. but here they take two hundred thousand tall forest trees and set them in a double row; allow no sign of leaf or branch to grow on the trunk lower down than six feet above the ground; from that point the boughs begin to project, and very gradually they extend outward further and further till they meet overhead, and a faultless tunnel of foliage is formed. the arch is mathematically precise. the effect is then very fine. they make trees take fifty different shapes, and so these quaint effects are infinitely varied and picturesque. the trees in no two avenues are shaped alike, and consequently the eye is not fatigued with anything in the nature of monotonous uniformity. i will drop this subject now, leaving it to others to determine how these people manage to make endless ranks of lofty forest trees grow to just a certain thickness of trunk (say a foot and two-thirds); how they make them spring to precisely the same height for miles; how they make them grow so close together; how they compel one huge limb to spring from the same identical spot on each tree and form the main sweep of the arch; and how all these things are kept exactly in the same condition and in the same exquisite shapeliness and symmetry month after month and year after year--for i have tried to reason out the problem and have failed. we walked through the great hall of sculpture and the one hundred and fifty galleries of paintings in the palace of versailles, and felt that to be in such a place was useless unless one had a whole year at his disposal. these pictures are all battle scenes, and only one solitary little canvas among them all treats of anything but great french victories. we wandered, also, through the grand trianon and the petit trianon, those monuments of royal prodigality, and with histories so mournful--filled, as it is, with souvenirs of napoleon the first, and three dead kings and as many queens. in one sumptuous bed they had all slept in succession, but no one occupies it now. in a large dining room stood the table at which louis xiv and his mistress madame maintenon, and after them louis xv, and pompadour, had sat at their meals naked and unattended--for the table stood upon a trapdoor, which descended with it to regions below when it was necessary to replenish its dishes. in a room of the petit trianon stood the furniture, just as poor marie antoinette left it when the mob came and dragged her and the king to paris, never to return. near at hand, in the stables, were prodigious carriages that showed no color but gold--carriages used by former kings of france on state occasions, and never used now save when a kingly head is to be crowned or an imperial infant christened. and with them were some curious sleighs, whose bodies were shaped like lions, swans, tigers, etc.--vehicles that had once been handsome with pictured designs and fine workmanship, but were dusty and decaying now. they had their history. when louis xiv had finished the grand trianon, he told maintenon he had created a paradise for her, and asked if she could think of anything now to wish for. he said he wished the trianon to be perfection--nothing less. she said she could think of but one thing--it was summer, and it was balmy france--yet she would like well to sleigh ride in the leafy avenues of versailles! the next morning found miles and miles of grassy avenues spread thick with snowy salt and sugar, and a procession of those quaint sleighs waiting to receive the chief concubine of the gaiest and most unprincipled court that france has ever seen! from sumptuous versailles, with its palaces, its statues, its gardens, and its fountains, we journeyed back to paris and sought its antipodes --the faubourg st. antoine. little, narrow streets; dirty children blockading them; greasy, slovenly women capturing and spanking them; filthy dens on first floors, with rag stores in them (the heaviest business in the faubourg is the chiffonier's); other filthy dens where whole suits of second and third-hand clothing are sold at prices that would ruin any proprietor who did not steal his stock; still other filthy dens where they sold groceries--sold them by the half-pennyworth--five dollars would buy the man out, goodwill and all. up these little crooked streets they will murder a man for seven dollars and dump the body in the seine. and up some other of these streets--most of them, i should say --live lorettes. all through this faubourg st. antoine, misery, poverty, vice, and crime go hand in hand, and the evidences of it stare one in the face from every side. here the people live who begin the revolutions. whenever there is anything of that kind to be done, they are always ready. they take as much genuine pleasure in building a barricade as they do in cutting a throat or shoving a friend into the seine. it is these savage-looking ruffians who storm the splendid halls of the tuileries occasionally, and swarm into versailles when a king is to be called to account. but they will build no more barricades, they will break no more soldiers' heads with paving-stones. louis napoleon has taken care of all that. he is annihilating the crooked streets and building in their stead noble boulevards as straight as an arrow--avenues which a cannon ball could traverse from end to end without meeting an obstruction more irresistible than the flesh and bones of men--boulevards whose stately edifices will never afford refuges and plotting places for starving, discontented revolution breeders. five of these great thoroughfares radiate from one ample centre--a centre which is exceedingly well adapted to the accommodation of heavy artillery. the mobs used to riot there, but they must seek another rallying-place in future. and this ingenious napoleon paves the streets of his great cities with a smooth, compact composition of asphaltum and sand. no more barricades of flagstones--no more assaulting his majesty's troops with cobbles. i cannot feel friendly toward my quondam fellow-american, napoleon iii., especially at this time,--[july, .]--when in fancy i see his credulous victim, maximilian, lying stark and stiff in mexico, and his maniac widow watching eagerly from her french asylum for the form that will never come--but i do admire his nerve, his calm self-reliance, his shrewd good sense. chapter xvii. we had a pleasant journey of it seaward again. we found that for the three past nights our ship had been in a state of war. the first night the sailors of a british ship, being happy with grog, came down on the pier and challenged our sailors to a free fight. they accepted with alacrity, repaired to the pier, and gained--their share of a drawn battle. several bruised and bloody members of both parties were carried off by the police and imprisoned until the following morning. the next night the british boys came again to renew the fight, but our men had had strict orders to remain on board and out of sight. they did so, and the besieging party grew noisy and more and more abusive as the fact became apparent (to them) that our men were afraid to come out. they went away finally with a closing burst of ridicule and offensive epithets. the third night they came again and were more obstreperous than ever. they swaggered up and down the almost deserted pier, and hurled curses, obscenity, and stinging sarcasms at our crew. it was more than human nature could bear. the executive officer ordered our men ashore--with instructions not to fight. they charged the british and gained a brilliant victory. i probably would not have mentioned this war had it ended differently. but i travel to learn, and i still remember that they picture no french defeats in the battle-galleries of versailles. it was like home to us to step on board the comfortable ship again and smoke and lounge about her breezy decks. and yet it was not altogether like home, either, because so many members of the family were away. we missed some pleasant faces which we would rather have found at dinner, and at night there were gaps in the euchre-parties which could not be satisfactorily filled. "moult" was in england, jack in switzerland, charley in spain. blucher was gone, none could tell where. but we were at sea again, and we had the stars and the ocean to look at, and plenty of room to meditate in. in due time the shores of italy were sighted, and as we stood gazing from the decks, early in the bright summer morning, the stately city of genoa rose up out of the sea and flung back the sunlight from her hundred palaces. here we rest for the present--or rather, here we have been trying to rest, for some little time, but we run about too much to accomplish a great deal in that line. i would like to remain here. i had rather not go any further. there may be prettier women in europe, but i doubt it. the population of genoa is , ; two-thirds of these are women, i think, and at least two-thirds of the women are beautiful. they are as dressy and as tasteful and as graceful as they could possibly be without being angels. however, angels are not very dressy, i believe. at least the angels in pictures are not --they wear nothing but wings. but these genoese women do look so charming. most of the young demoiselles are robed in a cloud of white from head to foot, though many trick themselves out more elaborately. nine-tenths of them wear nothing on their heads but a filmy sort of veil, which falls down their backs like a white mist. they are very fair, and many of them have blue eyes, but black and dreamy dark brown ones are met with oftenest. the ladies and gentlemen of genoa have a pleasant fashion of promenading in a large park on the top of a hill in the center of the city, from six till nine in the evening, and then eating ices in a neighboring garden an hour or two longer. we went to the park on sunday evening. two thousand persons were present, chiefly young ladies and gentlemen. the gentlemen were dressed in the very latest paris fashions, and the robes of the ladies glinted among the trees like so many snowflakes. the multitude moved round and round the park in a great procession. the bands played, and so did the fountains; the moon and the gas lamps lit up the scene, and altogether it was a brilliant and an animated picture. i scanned every female face that passed, and it seemed to me that all were handsome. i never saw such a freshet of loveliness before. i did not see how a man of only ordinary decision of character could marry here, because before he could get his mind made up he would fall in love with somebody else. never smoke any italian tobacco. never do it on any account. it makes me shudder to think what it must be made of. you cannot throw an old cigar "stub" down anywhere, but some vagabond will pounce upon it on the instant. i like to smoke a good deal, but it wounds my sensibilities to see one of these stub-hunters watching me out of the corners of his hungry eyes and calculating how long my cigar will be likely to last. it reminded me too painfully of that san francisco undertaker who used to go to sick-beds with his watch in his hand and time the corpse. one of these stub-hunters followed us all over the park last night, and we never had a smoke that was worth anything. we were always moved to appease him with the stub before the cigar was half gone, because he looked so viciously anxious. he regarded us as his own legitimate prey, by right of discovery, i think, because he drove off several other professionals who wanted to take stock in us. now, they surely must chew up those old stubs, and dry and sell them for smoking-tobacco. therefore, give your custom to other than italian brands of the article. "the superb" and the "city of palaces" are names which genoa has held for centuries. she is full of palaces, certainly, and the palaces are sumptuous inside, but they are very rusty without and make no pretensions to architectural magnificence. "genoa the superb" would be a felicitous title if it referred to the women. we have visited several of the palaces--immense thick-walled piles, with great stone staircases, tesselated marble pavements on the floors, (sometimes they make a mosaic work, of intricate designs, wrought in pebbles or little fragments of marble laid in cement,) and grand salons hung with pictures by rubens, guido, titian, paul veronese, and so on, and portraits of heads of the family, in plumed helmets and gallant coats of mail, and patrician ladies in stunning costumes of centuries ago. but, of course, the folks were all out in the country for the summer, and might not have known enough to ask us to dinner if they had been at home, and so all the grand empty salons, with their resounding pavements, their grim pictures of dead ancestors, and tattered banners with the dust of bygone centuries upon them, seemed to brood solemnly of death and the grave, and our spirits ebbed away, and our cheerfulness passed from us. we never went up to the eleventh story. we always began to suspect ghosts. there was always an undertaker-looking servant along, too, who handed us a program, pointed to the picture that began the list of the salon he was in, and then stood stiff and stark and unsmiling in his petrified livery till we were ready to move on to the next chamber, whereupon he marched sadly ahead and took up another malignantly respectful position as before. i wasted so much time praying that the roof would fall in on these dispiriting flunkies that i had but little left to bestow upon palace and pictures. and besides, as in paris, we had a guide. perdition catch all the guides. this one said he was the most gifted linguist in genoa, as far as english was concerned, and that only two persons in the city beside himself could talk the language at all. he showed us the birthplace of christopher columbus, and after we had reflected in silent awe before it for fifteen minutes, he said it was not the birthplace of columbus, but of columbus' grandmother! when we demanded an explanation of his conduct he only shrugged his shoulders and answered in barbarous italian. i shall speak further of this guide in a future chapter. all the information we got out of him we shall be able to carry along with us, i think. i have not been to church so often in a long time as i have in the last few weeks. the people in these old lands seem to make churches their specialty. especially does this seem to be the case with the citizens of genoa. i think there is a church every three or four hundred yards all over town. the streets are sprinkled from end to end with shovel-hatted, long-robed, well-fed priests, and the church bells by dozens are pealing all the day long, nearly. every now and then one comes across a friar of orders gray, with shaven head, long, coarse robe, rope girdle and beads, and with feet cased in sandals or entirely bare. these worthies suffer in the flesh and do penance all their lives, i suppose, but they look like consummate famine-breeders. they are all fat and serene. the old cathedral of san lorenzo is about as notable a building as we have found in genoa. it is vast, and has colonnades of noble pillars, and a great organ, and the customary pomp of gilded moldings, pictures, frescoed ceilings, and so forth. i cannot describe it, of course--it would require a good many pages to do that. but it is a curious place. they said that half of it--from the front door halfway down to the altar --was a jewish synagogue before the saviour was born, and that no alteration had been made in it since that time. we doubted the statement, but did it reluctantly. we would much rather have believed it. the place looked in too perfect repair to be so ancient. the main point of interest about the cathedral is the little chapel of st. john the baptist. they only allow women to enter it on one day in the year, on account of the animosity they still cherish against the sex because of the murder of the saint to gratify a caprice of herodias. in this chapel is a marble chest, in which, they told us, were the ashes of st. john; and around it was wound a chain, which, they said, had confined him when he was in prison. we did not desire to disbelieve these statements, and yet we could not feel certain that they were correct --partly because we could have broken that chain, and so could st. john, and partly because we had seen st. john's ashes before, in another church. we could not bring ourselves to think st. john had two sets of ashes. they also showed us a portrait of the madonna which was painted by st. luke, and it did not look half as old and smoky as some of the pictures by rubens. we could not help admiring the apostle's modesty in never once mentioning in his writings that he could paint. but isn't this relic matter a little overdone? we find a piece of the true cross in every old church we go into, and some of the nails that held it together. i would not like to be positive, but i think we have seen as much as a keg of these nails. then there is the crown of thorns; they have part of one in sainte chapelle, in paris, and part of one also in notre dame. and as for bones of st. denis, i feel certain we have seen enough of them to duplicate him if necessary. i only meant to write about the churches, but i keep wandering from the subject. i could say that the church of the annunciation is a wilderness of beautiful columns, of statues, gilded moldings, and pictures almost countless, but that would give no one an entirely perfect idea of the thing, and so where is the use? one family built the whole edifice, and have got money left. there is where the mystery lies. we had an idea at first that only a mint could have survived the expense. these people here live in the heaviest, highest, broadest, darkest, solidest houses one can imagine. each one might "laugh a siege to scorn." a hundred feet front and a hundred high is about the style, and you go up three flights of stairs before you begin to come upon signs of occupancy. everything is stone, and stone of the heaviest--floors, stairways, mantels, benches--everything. the walls are four to five feet thick. the streets generally are four or five to eight feet wide and as crooked as a corkscrew. you go along one of these gloomy cracks, and look up and behold the sky like a mere ribbon of light, far above your head, where the tops of the tall houses on either side of the street bend almost together. you feel as if you were at the bottom of some tremendous abyss, with all the world far above you. you wind in and out and here and there, in the most mysterious way, and have no more idea of the points of the compass than if you were a blind man. you can never persuade yourself that these are actually streets, and the frowning, dingy, monstrous houses dwellings, till you see one of these beautiful, prettily dressed women emerge from them--see her emerge from a dark, dreary-looking den that looks dungeon all over, from the ground away halfway up to heaven. and then you wonder that such a charming moth could come from such a forbidding shell as that. the streets are wisely made narrow and the houses heavy and thick and stony, in order that the people may be cool in this roasting climate. and they are cool, and stay so. and while i think of it--the men wear hats and have very dark complexions, but the women wear no headgear but a flimsy veil like a gossamer's web, and yet are exceedingly fair as a general thing. singular, isn't it? the huge palaces of genoa are each supposed to be occupied by one family, but they could accommodate a hundred, i should think. they are relics of the grandeur of genoa's palmy days--the days when she was a great commercial and maritime power several centuries ago. these houses, solid marble palaces though they be, are in many cases of a dull pinkish color, outside, and from pavement to eaves are pictured with genoese battle scenes, with monstrous jupiters and cupids, and with familiar illustrations from grecian mythology. where the paint has yielded to age and exposure and is peeling off in flakes and patches, the effect is not happy. a noseless cupid or a jupiter with an eye out or a venus with a fly-blister on her breast, are not attractive features in a picture. some of these painted walls reminded me somewhat of the tall van, plastered with fanciful bills and posters, that follows the bandwagon of a circus about a country village. i have not read or heard that the outsides of the houses of any other european city are frescoed in this way. i can not conceive of such a thing as genoa in ruins. such massive arches, such ponderous substructions as support these towering broad-winged edifices, we have seldom seen before; and surely the great blocks of stone of which these edifices are built can never decay; walls that are as thick as an ordinary american doorway is high cannot crumble. the republics of genoa and pisa were very powerful in the middle ages. their ships filled the mediterranean, and they carried on an extensive commerce with constantinople and syria. their warehouses were the great distributing depots from whence the costly merchandise of the east was sent abroad over europe. they were warlike little nations and defied, in those days, governments that overshadow them now as mountains overshadow molehills. the saracens captured and pillaged genoa nine hundred years ago, but during the following century genoa and pisa entered into an offensive and defensive alliance and besieged the saracen colonies in sardinia and the balearic isles with an obstinacy that maintained its pristine vigor and held to its purpose for forty long years. they were victorious at last and divided their conquests equably among their great patrician families. descendants of some of those proud families still inhabit the palaces of genoa, and trace in their own features a resemblance to the grim knights whose portraits hang in their stately halls, and to pictured beauties with pouting lips and merry eyes whose originals have been dust and ashes for many a dead and forgotten century. the hotel we live in belonged to one of those great orders of knights of the cross in the times of the crusades, and its mailed sentinels once kept watch and ward in its massive turrets and woke the echoes of these halls and corridors with their iron heels. but genoa's greatness has degenerated into an unostentatious commerce in velvets and silver filagree-work. they say that each european town has its specialty. these filagree things are genoa's specialty. her smiths take silver ingots and work them up into all manner of graceful and beautiful forms. they make bunches of flowers, from flakes and wires of silver, that counterfeit the delicate creations the frost weaves upon a windowpane; and we were shown a miniature silver temple whose fluted columns, whose corinthian capitals and rich entablatures, whose spire, statues, bells, and ornate lavishness of sculpture were wrought in polished silver, and with such matchless art that every detail was a fascinating study and the finished edifice a wonder of beauty. we are ready to move again, though we are not really tired yet of the narrow passages of this old marble cave. cave is a good word--when speaking of genoa under the stars. when we have been prowling at midnight through the gloomy crevices they call streets, where no footfalls but ours were echoing, where only ourselves were abroad, and lights appeared only at long intervals and at a distance, and mysteriously disappeared again, and the houses at our elbows seemed to stretch upward farther than ever toward the heavens, the memory of a cave i used to know at home was always in my mind, with its lofty passages, its silence and solitude, its shrouding gloom, its sepulchral echoes, its flitting lights, and more than all, its sudden revelations of branching crevices and corridors where we least expected them. we are not tired of the endless processions of cheerful, chattering gossipers that throng these courts and streets all day long, either; nor of the coarse-robed monks; nor of the "asti" wines, which that old doctor (whom we call the oracle,) with customary felicity in the matter of getting everything wrong, misterms "nasty." but we must go, nevertheless. our last sight was the cemetery (a burial place intended to accommodate , bodies,) and we shall continue to remember it after we shall have forgotten the palaces. it is a vast marble collonaded corridor extending around a great unoccupied square of ground; its broad floor is marble, and on every slab is an inscription--for every slab covers a corpse. on either side, as one walks down the middle of the passage, are monuments, tombs, and sculptured figures that are exquisitely wrought and are full of grace and beauty. they are new and snowy; every outline is perfect, every feature guiltless of mutilation, flaw, or blemish; and therefore, to us these far-reaching ranks of bewitching forms are a hundred fold more lovely than the damaged and dingy statuary they have saved from the wreck of ancient art and set up in the galleries of paris for the worship of the world. well provided with cigars and other necessaries of life, we are now ready to take the cars for milan. chapter xviii. all day long we sped through a mountainous country whose peaks were bright with sunshine, whose hillsides were dotted with pretty villas sitting in the midst of gardens and shrubbery, and whose deep ravines were cool and shady and looked ever so inviting from where we and the birds were winging our flight through the sultry upper air. we had plenty of chilly tunnels wherein to check our perspiration, though. we timed one of them. we were twenty minutes passing through it, going at the rate of thirty to thirty-five miles an hour. beyond alessandria we passed the battle-field of marengo. toward dusk we drew near milan and caught glimpses of the city and the blue mountain peaks beyond. but we were not caring for these things --they did not interest us in the least. we were in a fever of impatience; we were dying to see the renowned cathedral! we watched--in this direction and that--all around--everywhere. we needed no one to point it out--we did not wish any one to point it out--we would recognize it even in the desert of the great sahara. at last, a forest of graceful needles, shimmering in the amber sunlight, rose slowly above the pygmy housetops, as one sometimes sees, in the far horizon, a gilded and pinnacled mass of cloud lift itself above the waste of waves, at sea,--the cathedral! we knew it in a moment. half of that night, and all of the next day, this architectural autocrat was our sole object of interest. what a wonder it is! so grand, so solemn, so vast! and yet so delicate, so airy, so graceful! a very world of solid weight, and yet it seems in the soft moonlight only a fairy delusion of frost-work that might vanish with a breath! how sharply its pinnacled angles and its wilderness of spires were cut against the sky, and how richly their shadows fell upon its snowy roof! it was a vision!--a miracle!--an anthem sung in stone, a poem wrought in marble! howsoever you look at the great cathedral, it is noble, it is beautiful! wherever you stand in milan or within seven miles of milan, it is visible and when it is visible, no other object can chain your whole attention. leave your eyes unfettered by your will but a single instant and they will surely turn to seek it. it is the first thing you look for when you rise in the morning, and the last your lingering gaze rests upon at night. surely it must be the princeliest creation that ever brain of man conceived. at nine o'clock in the morning we went and stood before this marble colossus. the central one of its five great doors is bordered with a bas-relief of birds and fruits and beasts and insects, which have been so ingeniously carved out of the marble that they seem like living creatures--and the figures are so numerous and the design so complex that one might study it a week without exhausting its interest. on the great steeple--surmounting the myriad of spires--inside of the spires--over the doors, the windows--in nooks and corners--every where that a niche or a perch can be found about the enormous building, from summit to base, there is a marble statue, and every statue is a study in itself! raphael, angelo, canova--giants like these gave birth to the designs, and their own pupils carved them. every face is eloquent with expression, and every attitude is full of grace. away above, on the lofty roof, rank on rank of carved and fretted spires spring high in the air, and through their rich tracery one sees the sky beyond. in their midst the central steeple towers proudly up like the mainmast of some great indiaman among a fleet of coasters. we wished to go aloft. the sacristan showed us a marble stairway (of course it was marble, and of the purest and whitest--there is no other stone, no brick, no wood, among its building materials) and told us to go up one hundred and eighty-two steps and stop till he came. it was not necessary to say stop--we should have done that any how. we were tired by the time we got there. this was the roof. here, springing from its broad marble flagstones, were the long files of spires, looking very tall close at hand, but diminishing in the distance like the pipes of an organ. we could see now that the statue on the top of each was the size of a large man, though they all looked like dolls from the street. we could see, also, that from the inside of each and every one of these hollow spires, from sixteen to thirty-one beautiful marble statues looked out upon the world below. from the eaves to the comb of the roof stretched in endless succession great curved marble beams, like the fore-and-aft braces of a steamboat, and along each beam from end to end stood up a row of richly carved flowers and fruits--each separate and distinct in kind, and over , species represented. at a little distance these rows seem to close together like the ties of a railroad track, and then the mingling together of the buds and blossoms of this marble garden forms a picture that is very charming to the eye. we descended and entered. within the church, long rows of fluted columns, like huge monuments, divided the building into broad aisles, and on the figured pavement fell many a soft blush from the painted windows above. i knew the church was very large, but i could not fully appreciate its great size until i noticed that the men standing far down by the altar looked like boys, and seemed to glide, rather than walk. we loitered about gazing aloft at the monster windows all aglow with brilliantly colored scenes in the lives of the saviour and his followers. some of these pictures are mosaics, and so artistically are their thousand particles of tinted glass or stone put together that the work has all the smoothness and finish of a painting. we counted sixty panes of glass in one window, and each pane was adorned with one of these master achievements of genius and patience. the guide showed us a coffee-colored piece of sculpture which he said was considered to have come from the hand of phidias, since it was not possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature with such faultless accuracy. the figure was that of a man without a skin; with every vein, artery, muscle, every fiber and tendon and tissue of the human frame represented in minute detail. it looked natural, because somehow it looked as if it were in pain. a skinned man would be likely to look that way unless his attention were occupied with some other matter. it was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination about it some where. i am very sorry i saw it, because i shall always see it now. i shall dream of it sometimes. i shall dream that it is resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its dead eyes; i shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs. it is hard to forget repulsive things. i remember yet how i ran off from school once, when i was a boy, and then, pretty late at night, concluded to climb into the window of my father's office and sleep on a lounge, because i had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed. as i lay on the lounge and my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, i fancied i could see a long, dusky, shapeless thing stretched upon the floor. a cold shiver went through me. i turned my face to the wall. that did not answer. i was afraid that that thing would creep over and seize me in the dark. i turned back and stared at it for minutes and minutes--they seemed hours. it appeared to me that the lagging moonlight never, never would get to it. i turned to the wall and counted twenty, to pass the feverish time away. i looked--the pale square was nearer. i turned again and counted fifty--it was almost touching it. with desperate will i turned again and counted one hundred, and faced about, all in a tremble. a white human hand lay in the moonlight! such an awful sinking at the heart--such a sudden gasp for breath! i felt--i cannot tell what i felt. when i recovered strength enough, i faced the wall again. but no boy could have remained so with that mysterious hand behind him. i counted again and looked--the most of a naked arm was exposed. i put my hands over my eyes and counted till i could stand it no longer, and then --the pallid face of a man was there, with the corners of the mouth drawn down, and the eyes fixed and glassy in death! i raised to a sitting posture and glowered on that corpse till the light crept down the bare breastline by line--inch by inch--past the nipple--and then it disclosed a ghastly stab! i went away from there. i do not say that i went away in any sort of a hurry, but i simply went--that is sufficient. i went out at the window, and i carried the sash along with me. i did not need the sash, but it was handier to take it than it was to leave it, and so i took it.--i was not scared, but i was considerably agitated. when i reached home, they whipped me, but i enjoyed it. it seemed perfectly delightful. that man had been stabbed near the office that afternoon, and they carried him in there to doctor him, but he only lived an hour. i have slept in the same room with him often since then--in my dreams. now we will descend into the crypt, under the grand altar of milan cathedral, and receive an impressive sermon from lips that have been silent and hands that have been gestureless for three hundred years. the priest stopped in a small dungeon and held up his candle. this was the last resting-place of a good man, a warm-hearted, unselfish man; a man whose whole life was given to succoring the poor, encouraging the faint-hearted, visiting the sick; in relieving distress, whenever and wherever he found it. his heart, his hand, and his purse were always open. with his story in one's mind he can almost see his benignant countenance moving calmly among the haggard faces of milan in the days when the plague swept the city, brave where all others were cowards, full of compassion where pity had been crushed out of all other breasts by the instinct of self-preservation gone mad with terror, cheering all, praying with all, helping all, with hand and brain and purse, at a time when parents forsook their children, the friend deserted the friend, and the brother turned away from the sister while her pleadings were still wailing in his ears. this was good st. charles borromeo, bishop of milan. the people idolized him; princes lavished uncounted treasures upon him. we stood in his tomb. near by was the sarcophagus, lighted by the dripping candles. the walls were faced with bas-reliefs representing scenes in his life done in massive silver. the priest put on a short white lace garment over his black robe, crossed himself, bowed reverently, and began to turn a windlass slowly. the sarcophagus separated in two parts, lengthwise, and the lower part sank down and disclosed a coffin of rock crystal as clear as the atmosphere. within lay the body, robed in costly habiliments covered with gold embroidery and starred with scintillating gems. the decaying head was black with age, the dry skin was drawn tight to the bones, the eyes were gone, there was a hole in the temple and another in the cheek, and the skinny lips were parted as in a ghastly smile! over this dreadful face, its dust and decay and its mocking grin, hung a crown sown thick with flashing brilliants; and upon the breast lay crosses and croziers of solid gold that were splendid with emeralds and diamonds. how poor, and cheap, and trivial these gew-gaws seemed in presence of the solemnity, the grandeur, the awful majesty of death! think of milton, shakespeare, washington, standing before a reverent world tricked out in the glass beads, the brass ear-rings and tin trumpery of the savages of the plains! dead bartolomeo preached his pregnant sermon, and its burden was: you that worship the vanities of earth--you that long for worldly honor, worldly wealth, worldly fame--behold their worth! to us it seemed that so good a man, so kind a heart, so simple a nature, deserved rest and peace in a grave sacred from the intrusion of prying eyes, and believed that he himself would have preferred to have it so, but peradventure our wisdom was at fault in this regard. as we came out upon the floor of the church again, another priest volunteered to show us the treasures of the church. what, more? the furniture of the narrow chamber of death we had just visited weighed six millions of francs in ounces and carats alone, without a penny thrown into the account for the costly workmanship bestowed upon them! but we followed into a large room filled with tall wooden presses like wardrobes. he threw them open, and behold, the cargoes of "crude bullion" of the assay offices of nevada faded out of my memory. there were virgins and bishops there, above their natural size, made of solid silver, each worth, by weight, from eight hundred thousand to two millions of francs, and bearing gemmed books in their hands worth eighty thousand; there were bas-reliefs that weighed six hundred pounds, carved in solid silver; croziers and crosses, and candlesticks six and eight feet high, all of virgin gold, and brilliant with precious stones; and beside these were all manner of cups and vases, and such things, rich in proportion. it was an aladdin's palace. the treasures here, by simple weight, without counting workmanship, were valued at fifty millions of francs! if i could get the custody of them for a while, i fear me the market price of silver bishops would advance shortly, on account of their exceeding scarcity in the cathedral of milan. the priests showed us two of st. paul's fingers, and one of st. peter's; a bone of judas iscariot, (it was black,) and also bones of all the other disciples; a handkerchief in which the saviour had left the impression of his face. among the most precious of the relics were a stone from the holy sepulchre, part of the crown of thorns, (they have a whole one at notre dame,) a fragment of the purple robe worn by the saviour, a nail from the cross, and a picture of the virgin and child painted by the veritable hand of st. luke. this is the second of st. luke's virgins we have seen. once a year all these holy relics are carried in procession through the streets of milan. i like to revel in the dryest details of the great cathedral. the building is five hundred feet long by one hundred and eighty wide, and the principal steeple is in the neighborhood of four hundred feet high. it has , marble statues, and will have upwards of three thousand more when it is finished. in addition it has one thousand five hundred bas-reliefs. it has one hundred and thirty-six spires--twenty-one more are to be added. each spire is surmounted by a statue six and a half feet high. every thing about the church is marble, and all from the same quarry; it was bequeathed to the archbishopric for this purpose centuries ago. so nothing but the mere workmanship costs; still that is expensive --the bill foots up six hundred and eighty-four millions of francs thus far (considerably over a hundred millions of dollars,) and it is estimated that it will take a hundred and twenty years yet to finish the cathedral. it looks complete, but is far from being so. we saw a new statue put in its niche yesterday, alongside of one which had been standing these four hundred years, they said. there are four staircases leading up to the main steeple, each of which cost a hundred thousand dollars, with the four hundred and eight statues which adorn them. marco compioni was the architect who designed the wonderful structure more than five hundred years ago, and it took him forty-six years to work out the plan and get it ready to hand over to the builders. he is dead now. the building was begun a little less than five hundred years ago, and the third generation hence will not see it completed. the building looks best by moonlight, because the older portions of it, being stained with age, contrast unpleasantly with the newer and whiter portions. it seems somewhat too broad for its height, but may be familiarity with it might dissipate this impression. they say that the cathedral of milan is second only to st. peter's at rome. i cannot understand how it can be second to anything made by human hands. we bid it good-bye, now--possibly for all time. how surely, in some future day, when the memory of it shall have lost its vividness, shall we half believe we have seen it in a wonderful dream, but never with waking eyes! chapter xix. "do you wis zo haut can be?" that was what the guide asked when we were looking up at the bronze horses on the arch of peace. it meant, do you wish to go up there? i give it as a specimen of guide-english. these are the people that make life a burthen to the tourist. their tongues are never still. they talk forever and forever, and that is the kind of billingsgate they use. inspiration itself could hardly comprehend them. if they would only show you a masterpiece of art, or a venerable tomb, or a prison-house, or a battle-field, hallowed by touching memories or historical reminiscences, or grand traditions, and then step aside and hold still for ten minutes and let you think, it would not be so bad. but they interrupt every dream, every pleasant train of thought, with their tiresome cackling. sometimes when i have been standing before some cherished old idol of mine that i remembered years and years ago in pictures in the geography at school, i have thought i would give a whole world if the human parrot at my side would suddenly perish where he stood and leave me to gaze, and ponder, and worship. no, we did not "wis zo haut can be." we wished to go to la scala, the largest theater in the world, i think they call it. we did so. it was a large place. seven separate and distinct masses of humanity--six great circles and a monster parquette. we wished to go to the ambrosian library, and we did that also. we saw a manuscript of virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man's laura, and lavished upon her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material. it was sound sentiment, but bad judgment. it brought both parties fame, and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that is running yet. but who says a word in behalf of poor mr. laura? (i do not know his other name.) who glorifies him? who bedews him with tears? who writes poetry about him? nobody. how do you suppose he liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure? how did he enjoy having another man following his wife every where and making her name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in italy with his sonnets to her pre-empted eyebrows? they got fame and sympathy--he got neither. this is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice. it is all very fine; but it does not chime with my notions of right. it is too one-sided--too ungenerous. let the world go on fretting about laura and petrarch if it will; but as for me, my tears and my lamentations shall be lavished upon the unsung defendant. we saw also an autograph letter of lucrezia borgia, a lady for whom i have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the corpses ready for it. we saw one single coarse yellow hair from lucrezia's head, likewise. it awoke emotions, but we still live. in this same library we saw some drawings by michael angelo (these italians call him mickel angelo,) and leonardo da vinci. (they spell it vinci and pronounce it vinchy; foreigners always spell better than they pronounce.) we reserve our opinion of these sketches. in another building they showed us a fresco representing some lions and other beasts drawing chariots; and they seemed to project so far from the wall that we took them to be sculptures. the artist had shrewdly heightened the delusion by painting dust on the creatures' backs, as if it had fallen there naturally and properly. smart fellow--if it be smart to deceive strangers. elsewhere we saw a huge roman amphitheatre, with its stone seats still in good preservation. modernized, it is now the scene of more peaceful recreations than the exhibition of a party of wild beasts with christians for dinner. part of the time, the milanese use it for a race track, and at other seasons they flood it with water and have spirited yachting regattas there. the guide told us these things, and he would hardly try so hazardous an experiment as the telling of a falsehood, when it is all he can do to speak the truth in english without getting the lock-jaw. in another place we were shown a sort of summer arbor, with a fence before it. we said that was nothing. we looked again, and saw, through the arbor, an endless stretch of garden, and shrubbery, and grassy lawn. we were perfectly willing to go in there and rest, but it could not be done. it was only another delusion--a painting by some ingenious artist with little charity in his heart for tired folk. the deception was perfect. no one could have imagined the park was not real. we even thought we smelled the flowers at first. we got a carriage at twilight and drove in the shaded avenues with the other nobility, and after dinner we took wine and ices in a fine garden with the great public. the music was excellent, the flowers and shrubbery were pleasant to the eye, the scene was vivacious, everybody was genteel and well-behaved, and the ladies were slightly moustached, and handsomely dressed, but very homely. we adjourned to a cafe and played billiards an hour, and i made six or seven points by the doctor pocketing his ball, and he made as many by my pocketing my ball. we came near making a carom sometimes, but not the one we were trying to make. the table was of the usual european style --cushions dead and twice as high as the balls; the cues in bad repair. the natives play only a sort of pool on them. we have never seen any body playing the french three-ball game yet, and i doubt if there is any such game known in france, or that there lives any man mad enough to try to play it on one of these european tables. we had to stop playing finally because dan got to sleeping fifteen minutes between the counts and paying no attention to his marking. afterward we walked up and down one of the most popular streets for some time, enjoying other people's comfort and wishing we could export some of it to our restless, driving, vitality-consuming marts at home. just in this one matter lies the main charm of life in europe--comfort. in america, we hurry--which is well; but when the day's work is done, we go on thinking of losses and gains, we plan for the morrow, we even carry our business cares to bed with us, and toss and worry over them when we ought to be restoring our racked bodies and brains with sleep. we burn up our energies with these excitements, and either die early or drop into a lean and mean old age at a time of life which they call a man's prime in europe. when an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in--the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery allowed to cool for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord. we bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves. what a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges! i do envy these europeans the comfort they take. when the work of the day is done, they forget it. some of them go, with wife and children, to a beer hall and sit quietly and genteelly drinking a mug or two of ale and listening to music; others walk the streets, others drive in the avenues; others assemble in the great ornamental squares in the early evening to enjoy the sight and the fragrance of flowers and to hear the military bands play--no european city being without its fine military music at eventide; and yet others of the populace sit in the open air in front of the refreshment houses and eat ices and drink mild beverages that could not harm a child. they go to bed moderately early, and sleep well. they are always quiet, always orderly, always cheerful, comfortable, and appreciative of life and its manifold blessings. one never sees a drunken man among them. the change that has come over our little party is surprising. day by day we lose some of our restlessness and absorb some of the spirit of quietude and ease that is in the tranquil atmosphere about us and in the demeanor of the people. we grow wise apace. we begin to comprehend what life is for. we have had a bath in milan, in a public bath-house. they were going to put all three of us in one bath-tub, but we objected. each of us had an italian farm on his back. we could have felt affluent if we had been officially surveyed and fenced in. we chose to have three bathtubs, and large ones--tubs suited to the dignity of aristocrats who had real estate, and brought it with them. after we were stripped and had taken the first chilly dash, we discovered that haunting atrocity that has embittered our lives in so many cities and villages of italy and france --there was no soap. i called. a woman answered, and i barely had time to throw myself against the door--she would have been in, in another second. i said: "beware, woman! go away from here--go away, now, or it will be the worse for you. i am an unprotected male, but i will preserve my honor at the peril of my life!" these words must have frightened her, for she skurried away very fast. dan's voice rose on the air: "oh, bring some soap, why don't you!" the reply was italian. dan resumed: "soap, you know--soap. that is what i want--soap. s-o-a-p, soap; s-o-p-e, soap; s-o-u-p, soap. hurry up! i don't know how you irish spell it, but i want it. spell it to suit yourself, but fetch it. i'm freezing." i heard the doctor say impressively: "dan, how often have we told you that these foreigners cannot understand english? why will you not depend upon us? why will you not tell us what you want, and let us ask for it in the language of the country? it would save us a great deal of the humiliation your reprehensible ignorance causes us. i will address this person in his mother tongue: 'here, cospetto! corpo di bacco! sacramento! solferino!--soap, you son of a gun!' dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your ignorant vulgarity." even this fluent discharge of italian did not bring the soap at once, but there was a good reason for it. there was not such an article about the establishment. it is my belief that there never had been. they had to send far up town, and to several different places before they finally got it, so they said. we had to wait twenty or thirty minutes. the same thing had occurred the evening before, at the hotel. i think i have divined the reason for this state of things at last. the english know how to travel comfortably, and they carry soap with them; other foreigners do not use the article. at every hotel we stop at we always have to send out for soap, at the last moment, when we are grooming ourselves for dinner, and they put it in the bill along with the candles and other nonsense. in marseilles they make half the fancy toilet soap we consume in america, but the marseillaise only have a vague theoretical idea of its use, which they have obtained from books of travel, just as they have acquired an uncertain notion of clean shirts, and the peculiarities of the gorilla, and other curious matters. this reminds me of poor blucher's note to the landlord in paris: paris, le juillet. monsieur le landlord--sir: pourquoi don't you mettez some savon in your bed-chambers? est-ce que vous pensez i will steal it? la nuit passee you charged me pour deux chandelles when i only had one; hier vous avez charged me avec glace when i had none at all; tout les jours you are coming some fresh game or other on me, mais vous ne pouvez pas play this savon dodge on me twice. savon is a necessary de la vie to any body but a frenchman, et je l'aurai hors de cet hotel or make trouble. you hear me. allons. blucher. i remonstrated against the sending of this note, because it was so mixed up that the landlord would never be able to make head or tail of it; but blucher said he guessed the old man could read the french of it and average the rest. blucher's french is bad enough, but it is not much worse than the english one finds in advertisements all over italy every day. for instance, observe the printed card of the hotel we shall probably stop at on the shores of lake como: "notish." "this hotel which the best it is in italy and most superb, is handsome locate on the best situation of the lake, with the most splendid view near the villas melzy, to the king of belgian, and serbelloni. this hotel have recently enlarge, do offer all commodities on moderate price, at the strangers gentlemen who whish spend the seasons on the lake come." how is that, for a specimen? in the hotel is a handsome little chapel where an english clergyman is employed to preach to such of the guests of the house as hail from england and america, and this fact is also set forth in barbarous english in the same advertisement. wouldn't you have supposed that the adventurous linguist who framed the card would have known enough to submit it to that clergyman before he sent it to the printer? here in milan, in an ancient tumble-down ruin of a church, is the mournful wreck of the most celebrated painting in the world--"the last supper," by leonardo da vinci. we are not infallible judges of pictures, but of course we went there to see this wonderful painting, once so beautiful, always so worshipped by masters in art, and forever to be famous in song and story. and the first thing that occurred was the infliction on us of a placard fairly reeking with wretched english. take a morsel of it: "bartholomew (that is the first figure on the left hand side at the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by himself at christ and by no others." good, isn't it? and then peter is described as "argumenting in a threatening and angrily condition at judas iscariot." this paragraph recalls the picture. "the last supper" is painted on the dilapidated wall of what was a little chapel attached to the main church in ancient times, i suppose. it is battered and scarred in every direction, and stained and discolored by time, and napoleon's horses kicked the legs off most the disciples when they (the horses, not the disciples,) were stabled there more than half a century ago. i recognized the old picture in a moment--the saviour with bowed head seated at the centre of a long, rough table with scattering fruits and dishes upon it, and six disciples on either side in their long robes, talking to each other--the picture from which all engravings and all copies have been made for three centuries. perhaps no living man has ever known an attempt to paint the lord's supper differently. the world seems to have become settled in the belief, long ago, that it is not possible for human genius to outdo this creation of da vinci's. i suppose painters will go on copying it as long as any of the original is left visible to the eye. there were a dozen easels in the room, and as many artists transferring the great picture to their canvases. fifty proofs of steel engravings and lithographs were scattered around, too. and as usual, i could not help noticing how superior the copies were to the original, that is, to my inexperienced eye. wherever you find a raphael, a rubens, a michelangelo, a carracci, or a da vinci (and we see them every day,) you find artists copying them, and the copies are always the handsomest. maybe the originals were handsome when they were new, but they are not now. this picture is about thirty feet long, and ten or twelve high, i should think, and the figures are at least life size. it is one of the largest paintings in europe. the colors are dimmed with age; the countenances are scaled and marred, and nearly all expression is gone from them; the hair is a dead blur upon the wall, and there is no life in the eyes. only the attitudes are certain. people come here from all parts of the world, and glorify this masterpiece. they stand entranced before it with bated breath and parted lips, and when they speak, it is only in the catchy ejaculations of rapture: "oh, wonderful!" "such expression!" "such grace of attitude!" "such dignity!" "such faultless drawing!" "such matchless coloring!" "such feeling!" "what delicacy of touch!" "what sublimity of conception!" "a vision! a vision!" i only envy these people; i envy them their honest admiration, if it be honest--their delight, if they feel delight. i harbor no animosity toward any of them. but at the same time the thought will intrude itself upon me, how can they see what is not visible? what would you think of a man who looked at some decayed, blind, toothless, pock-marked cleopatra, and said: "what matchless beauty! what soul! what expression!" what would you think of a man who gazed upon a dingy, foggy sunset, and said: "what sublimity! what feeling! what richness of coloring!" what would you think of a man who stared in ecstasy upon a desert of stumps and said: "oh, my soul, my beating heart, what a noble forest is here!" you would think that those men had an astonishing talent for seeing things that had already passed away. it was what i thought when i stood before "the last supper" and heard men apostrophizing wonders, and beauties and perfections which had faded out of the picture and gone, a hundred years before they were born. we can imagine the beauty that was once in an aged face; we can imagine the forest if we see the stumps; but we can not absolutely see these things when they are not there. i am willing to believe that the eye of the practiced artist can rest upon the last supper and renew a lustre where only a hint of it is left, supply a tint that has faded away, restore an expression that is gone; patch, and color, and add, to the dull canvas until at last its figures shall stand before him aglow with the life, the feeling, the freshness, yea, with all the noble beauty that was theirs when first they came from the hand of the master. but i can not work this miracle. can those other uninspired visitors do it, or do they only happily imagine they do? after reading so much about it, i am satisfied that the last supper was a very miracle of art once. but it was three hundred years ago. it vexes me to hear people talk so glibly of "feeling," "expression," "tone," and those other easily acquired and inexpensive technicalities of art that make such a fine show in conversations concerning pictures. there is not one man in seventy-five hundred that can tell what a pictured face is intended to express. there is not one man in five hundred that can go into a court-room and be sure that he will not mistake some harmless innocent of a juryman for the black-hearted assassin on trial. yet such people talk of "character" and presume to interpret "expression" in pictures. there is an old story that matthews, the actor, was once lauding the ability of the human face to express the passions and emotions hidden in the breast. he said the countenance could disclose what was passing in the heart plainer than the tongue could. "now," he said, "observe my face--what does it express?" "despair!" "bah, it expresses peaceful resignation! what does this express?" "rage!" "stuff! it means terror! this!" "imbecility!" "fool! it is smothered ferocity! now this!" "joy!" "oh, perdition! any ass can see it means insanity!" expression! people coolly pretend to read it who would think themselves presumptuous if they pretended to interpret the hieroglyphics on the obelisks of luxor--yet they are fully as competent to do the one thing as the other. i have heard two very intelligent critics speak of murillo's immaculate conception (now in the museum at seville,) within the past few days. one said: "oh, the virgin's face is full of the ecstasy of a joy that is complete --that leaves nothing more to be desired on earth!" the other said: "ah, that wonderful face is so humble, so pleading--it says as plainly as words could say it: 'i fear; i tremble; i am unworthy. but thy will be done; sustain thou thy servant!'" the reader can see the picture in any drawing-room; it can be easily recognized: the virgin (the only young and really beautiful virgin that was ever painted by one of the old masters, some of us think,) stands in the crescent of the new moon, with a multitude of cherubs hovering about her, and more coming; her hands are crossed upon her breast, and upon her uplifted countenance falls a glory out of the heavens. the reader may amuse himself, if he chooses, in trying to determine which of these gentlemen read the virgin's "expression" aright, or if either of them did it. any one who is acquainted with the old masters will comprehend how much "the last supper" is damaged when i say that the spectator can not really tell, now, whether the disciples are hebrews or italians. these ancient painters never succeeded in denationalizing themselves. the italian artists painted italian virgins, the dutch painted dutch virgins, the virgins of the french painters were frenchwomen--none of them ever put into the face of the madonna that indescribable something which proclaims the jewess, whether you find her in new york, in constantinople, in paris, jerusalem, or in the empire of morocco. i saw in the sandwich islands, once, a picture copied by a talented german artist from an engraving in one of the american illustrated papers. it was an allegory, representing mr. davis in the act of signing a secession act or some such document. over him hovered the ghost of washington in warning attitude, and in the background a troop of shadowy soldiers in continental uniform were limping with shoeless, bandaged feet through a driving snow-storm. valley forge was suggested, of course. the copy seemed accurate, and yet there was a discrepancy somewhere. after a long examination i discovered what it was--the shadowy soldiers were all germans! jeff davis was a german! even the hovering ghost was a german ghost! the artist had unconsciously worked his nationality into the picture. to tell the truth, i am getting a little perplexed about john the baptist and his portraits. in france i finally grew reconciled to him as a frenchman; here he is unquestionably an italian. what next? can it be possible that the painters make john the baptist a spaniard in madrid and an irishman in dublin? we took an open barouche and drove two miles out of milan to "see ze echo," as the guide expressed it. the road was smooth, it was bordered by trees, fields, and grassy meadows, and the soft air was filled with the odor of flowers. troops of picturesque peasant girls, coming from work, hooted at us, shouted at us, made all manner of game of us, and entirely delighted me. my long-cherished judgment was confirmed. i always did think those frowsy, romantic, unwashed peasant girls i had read so much about in poetry were a glaring fraud. we enjoyed our jaunt. it was an exhilarating relief from tiresome sight-seeing. we distressed ourselves very little about the astonishing echo the guide talked so much about. we were growing accustomed to encomiums on wonders that too often proved no wonders at all. and so we were most happily disappointed to find in the sequel that the guide had even failed to rise to the magnitude of his subject. we arrived at a tumble-down old rookery called the palazzo simonetti--a massive hewn-stone affair occupied by a family of ragged italians. a good-looking young girl conducted us to a window on the second floor which looked out on a court walled on three sides by tall buildings. she put her head out at the window and shouted. the echo answered more times than we could count. she took a speaking trumpet and through it she shouted, sharp and quick, a single "ha!" the echo answered: "ha!--ha!----ha!--ha!--ha!-ha! ha! h-a-a-a-a-a!" and finally went off into a rollicking convulsion of the jolliest laughter that could be imagined. it was so joyful--so long continued--so perfectly cordial and hearty, that every body was forced to join in. there was no resisting it. then the girl took a gun and fired it. we stood ready to count the astonishing clatter of reverberations. we could not say one, two, three, fast enough, but we could dot our notebooks with our pencil points almost rapidly enough to take down a sort of short-hand report of the result. my page revealed the following account. i could not keep up, but i did as well as i could. i set down fifty-two distinct repetitions, and then the echo got the advantage of me. the doctor set down sixty-four, and thenceforth the echo moved too fast for him, also. after the separate concussions could no longer be noted, the reverberations dwindled to a wild, long-sustained clatter of sounds such as a watchman's rattle produces. it is likely that this is the most remarkable echo in the world. the doctor, in jest, offered to kiss the young girl, and was taken a little aback when she said he might for a franc! the commonest gallantry compelled him to stand by his offer, and so he paid the franc and took the kiss. she was a philosopher. she said a franc was a good thing to have, and she did not care any thing for one paltry kiss, because she had a million left. then our comrade, always a shrewd businessman, offered to take the whole cargo at thirty days, but that little financial scheme was a failure. chapter xx. we left milan by rail. the cathedral six or seven miles behind us; vast, dreamy, bluish, snow-clad mountains twenty miles in front of us,--these were the accented points in the scenery. the more immediate scenery consisted of fields and farm-houses outside the car and a monster-headed dwarf and a moustached woman inside it. these latter were not show-people. alas, deformity and female beards are too common in italy to attract attention. we passed through a range of wild, picturesque hills, steep, wooded, cone-shaped, with rugged crags projecting here and there, and with dwellings and ruinous castles perched away up toward the drifting clouds. we lunched at the curious old town of como, at the foot of the lake, and then took the small steamer and had an afternoon's pleasure excursion to this place,--bellaggio. when we walked ashore, a party of policemen (people whose cocked hats and showy uniforms would shame the finest uniform in the military service of the united states,) put us into a little stone cell and locked us in. we had the whole passenger list for company, but their room would have been preferable, for there was no light, there were no windows, no ventilation. it was close and hot. we were much crowded. it was the black hole of calcutta on a small scale. presently a smoke rose about our feet--a smoke that smelled of all the dead things of earth, of all the putrefaction and corruption imaginable. we were there five minutes, and when we got out it was hard to tell which of us carried the vilest fragrance. these miserable outcasts called that "fumigating" us, and the term was a tame one indeed. they fumigated us to guard themselves against the cholera, though we hailed from no infected port. we had left the cholera far behind us all the time. however, they must keep epidemics away somehow or other, and fumigation is cheaper than soap. they must either wash themselves or fumigate other people. some of the lower classes had rather die than wash, but the fumigation of strangers causes them no pangs. they need no fumigation themselves. their habits make it unnecessary. they carry their preventive with them; they sweat and fumigate all the day long. i trust i am a humble and a consistent christian. i try to do what is right. i know it is my duty to "pray for them that despitefully use me;" and therefore, hard as it is, i shall still try to pray for these fumigating, maccaroni-stuffing organ-grinders. our hotel sits at the water's edge--at least its front garden does--and we walk among the shrubbery and smoke at twilight; we look afar off at switzerland and the alps, and feel an indolent willingness to look no closer; we go down the steps and swim in the lake; we take a shapely little boat and sail abroad among the reflections of the stars; lie on the thwarts and listen to the distant laughter, the singing, the soft melody of flutes and guitars that comes floating across the water from pleasuring gondolas; we close the evening with exasperating billiards on one of those same old execrable tables. a midnight luncheon in our ample bed-chamber; a final smoke in its contracted veranda facing the water, the gardens, and the mountains; a summing up of the day's events. then to bed, with drowsy brains harassed with a mad panorama that mixes up pictures of france, of italy, of the ship, of the ocean, of home, in grotesque and bewildering disorder. then a melting away of familiar faces, of cities, and of tossing waves, into a great calm of forgetfulness and peace. after which, the nightmare. breakfast in the morning, and then the lake. i did not like it yesterday. i thought lake tahoe was much finer. i have to confess now, however, that my judgment erred somewhat, though not extravagantly. i always had an idea that como was a vast basin of water, like tahoe, shut in by great mountains. well, the border of huge mountains is here, but the lake itself is not a basin. it is as crooked as any brook, and only from one-quarter to two-thirds as wide as the mississippi. there is not a yard of low ground on either side of it --nothing but endless chains of mountains that spring abruptly from the water's edge and tower to altitudes varying from a thousand to two thousand feet. their craggy sides are clothed with vegetation, and white specks of houses peep out from the luxuriant foliage everywhere; they are even perched upon jutting and picturesque pinnacles a thousand feet above your head. again, for miles along the shores, handsome country seats, surrounded by gardens and groves, sit fairly in the water, sometimes in nooks carved by nature out of the vine-hung precipices, and with no ingress or egress save by boats. some have great broad stone staircases leading down to the water, with heavy stone balustrades ornamented with statuary and fancifully adorned with creeping vines and bright-colored flowers--for all the world like a drop curtain in a theatre, and lacking nothing but long-waisted, high-heeled women and plumed gallants in silken tights coming down to go serenading in the splendid gondola in waiting. a great feature of como's attractiveness is the multitude of pretty houses and gardens that cluster upon its shores and on its mountain sides. they look so snug and so homelike, and at eventide when every thing seems to slumber, and the music of the vesper bells comes stealing over the water, one almost believes that nowhere else than on the lake of como can there be found such a paradise of tranquil repose. from my window here in bellaggio, i have a view of the other side of the lake now, which is as beautiful as a picture. a scarred and wrinkled precipice rises to a height of eighteen hundred feet; on a tiny bench half way up its vast wall, sits a little snowflake of a church, no bigger than a martin-box, apparently; skirting the base of the cliff are a hundred orange groves and gardens, flecked with glimpses of the white dwellings that are buried in them; in front, three or four gondolas lie idle upon the water--and in the burnished mirror of the lake, mountain, chapel, houses, groves and boats are counterfeited so brightly and so clearly that one scarce knows where the reality leaves off and the reflection begins! the surroundings of this picture are fine. a mile away, a grove-plumed promontory juts far into the lake and glasses its palace in the blue depths; in midstream a boat is cutting the shining surface and leaving a long track behind, like a ray of light; the mountains beyond are veiled in a dreamy purple haze; far in the opposite direction a tumbled mass of domes and verdant slopes and valleys bars the lake, and here indeed does distance lend enchantment to the view--for on this broad canvas, sun and clouds and the richest of atmospheres have blended a thousand tints together, and over its surface the filmy lights and shadows drift, hour after hour, and glorify it with a beauty that seems reflected out of heaven itself. beyond all question, this is the most voluptuous scene we have yet looked upon. last night the scenery was striking and picturesque. on the other side crags and trees and snowy houses were reflected in the lake with a wonderful distinctness, and streams of light from many a distant window shot far abroad over the still waters. on this side, near at hand, great mansions, white with moonlight, glared out from the midst of masses of foliage that lay black and shapeless in the shadows that fell from the cliff above--and down in the margin of the lake every feature of the weird vision was faithfully repeated. today we have idled through a wonder of a garden attached to a ducal estate--but enough of description is enough, i judge. i suspect that this was the same place the gardener's son deceived the lady of lyons with, but i do not know. you may have heard of the passage somewhere: "a deep vale, shut out by alpine hills from the rude world, near a clear lake margined by fruits of gold and whispering myrtles: glassing softest skies, cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows; a palace, lifting to eternal heaven its marbled walls, from out a glossy bower of coolest foliage musical with birds." that is all very well, except the "clear" part of the lake. it certainly is clearer than a great many lakes, but how dull its waters are compared with the wonderful transparence of lake tahoe! i speak of the north shore of tahoe, where one can count the scales on a trout at a depth of a hundred and eighty feet. i have tried to get this statement off at par here, but with no success; so i have been obliged to negotiate it at fifty percent discount. at this rate i find some takers; perhaps the reader will receive it on the same terms--ninety feet instead of one hundred and eighty. but let it be remembered that those are forced terms--sheriff's sale prices. as far as i am privately concerned, i abate not a jot of the original assertion that in those strangely magnifying waters one may count the scales on a trout (a trout of the large kind,) at a depth of a hundred and eighty feet--may see every pebble on the bottom--might even count a paper of dray-pins. people talk of the transparent waters of the mexican bay of acapulco, but in my own experience i know they cannot compare with those i am speaking of. i have fished for trout, in tahoe, and at a measured depth of eighty-four feet i have seen them put their noses to the bait and i could see their gills open and shut. i could hardly have seen the trout themselves at that distance in the open air. as i go back in spirit and recall that noble sea, reposing among the snow-peaks six thousand feet above the ocean, the conviction comes strong upon me again that como would only seem a bedizened little courtier in that august presence. sorrow and misfortune overtake the legislature that still from year to year permits tahoe to retain its unmusical cognomen! tahoe! it suggests no crystal waters, no picturesque shores, no sublimity. tahoe for a sea in the clouds: a sea that has character and asserts it in solemn calms at times, at times in savage storms; a sea whose royal seclusion is guarded by a cordon of sentinel peaks that lift their frosty fronts nine thousand feet above the level world; a sea whose every aspect is impressive, whose belongings are all beautiful, whose lonely majesty types the deity! tahoe means grasshoppers. it means grasshopper soup. it is indian, and suggestive of indians. they say it is pi-ute--possibly it is digger. i am satisfied it was named by the diggers--those degraded savages who roast their dead relatives, then mix the human grease and ashes of bones with tar, and "gaum" it thick all over their heads and foreheads and ears, and go caterwauling about the hills and call it mourning. these are the gentry that named the lake. people say that tahoe means "silver lake"--"limpid water"--"falling leaf." bosh. it means grasshopper soup, the favorite dish of the digger tribe,--and of the pi-utes as well. it isn't worth while, in these practical times, for people to talk about indian poetry--there never was any in them--except in the fenimore cooper indians. but they are an extinct tribe that never existed. i know the noble red man. i have camped with the indians; i have been on the warpath with them, taken part in the chase with them--for grasshoppers; helped them steal cattle; i have roamed with them, scalped them, had them for breakfast. i would gladly eat the whole race if i had a chance. but i am growing unreliable. i will return to my comparison of the lakes. como is a little deeper than tahoe, if people here tell the truth. they say it is eighteen hundred feet deep at this point, but it does not look a dead enough blue for that. tahoe is one thousand five hundred and twenty-five feet deep in the centre, by the state geologist's measurement. they say the great peak opposite this town is five thousand feet high: but i feel sure that three thousand feet of that statement is a good honest lie. the lake is a mile wide, here, and maintains about that width from this point to its northern extremity--which is distant sixteen miles: from here to its southern extremity--say fifteen miles--it is not over half a mile wide in any place, i should think. its snow-clad mountains one hears so much about are only seen occasionally, and then in the distance, the alps. tahoe is from ten to eighteen miles wide, and its mountains shut it in like a wall. their summits are never free from snow the year round. one thing about it is very strange: it never has even a skim of ice upon its surface, although lakes in the same range of mountains, lying in a lower and warmer temperature, freeze over in winter. it is cheerful to meet a shipmate in these out-of-the-way places and compare notes with him. we have found one of ours here--an old soldier of the war, who is seeking bloodless adventures and rest from his campaigns in these sunny lands.--[colonel j. heron foster, editor of a pittsburgh journal, and a most estimable gentleman. as these sheets are being prepared for the press i am pained to learn of his decease shortly after his return home--m.t.] innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . chapter xxxi. the buried city of pompeii they pronounce it pom-pay-e. i always had an idea that you went down into pompeii with torches, by the way of damp, dark stairways, just as you do in silver mines, and traversed gloomy tunnels with lava overhead and something on either hand like dilapidated prisons gouged out of the solid earth, that faintly resembled houses. but you do nothing the kind. fully one-half of the buried city, perhaps, is completely exhumed and thrown open freely to the light of day; and there stand the long rows of solidly-built brick houses (roofless) just as they stood eighteen hundred years ago, hot with the flaming sun; and there lie their floors, clean-swept, and not a bright fragment tarnished or waiting of the labored mosaics that pictured them with the beasts, and birds, and flowers which we copy in perishable carpets to-day; and here are the venuses, and bacchuses, and adonises, making love and getting drunk in many-hued frescoes on the walls of saloon and bed-chamber; and there are the narrow streets and narrower sidewalks, paved with flags of good hard lava, the one deeply rutted with the chariot-wheels, and the other with the passing feet of the pompeiians of by-gone centuries; and there are the bake-shops, the temples, the halls of justice, the baths, the theatres--all clean-scraped and neat, and suggesting nothing of the nature of a silver mine away down in the bowels of the earth. the broken pillars lying about, the doorless doorways and the crumbled tops of the wilderness of walls, were wonderfully suggestive of the "burnt district" in one of our cities, and if there had been any charred timbers, shattered windows, heaps of debris, and general blackness and smokiness about the place, the resemblance would have been perfect. but no--the sun shines as brightly down on old pompeii to-day as it did when christ was born in bethlehem, and its streets are cleaner a hundred times than ever pompeiian saw them in her prime. i know whereof i speak--for in the great, chief thoroughfares (merchant street and the street of fortune) have i not seen with my own eyes how for two hundred years at least the pavements were not repaired!--how ruts five and even ten inches deep were worn into the thick flagstones by the chariot-wheels of generations of swindled tax-payers? and do i not know by these signs that street commissioners of pompeii never attended to their business, and that if they never mended the pavements they never cleaned them? and, besides, is it not the inborn nature of street commissioners to avoid their duty whenever they get a chance? i wish i knew the name of the last one that held office in pompeii so that i could give him a blast. i speak with feeling on this subject, because i caught my foot in one of those ruts, and the sadness that came over me when i saw the first poor skeleton, with ashes and lava sticking to it, was tempered by the reflection that may be that party was the street commissioner. no--pompeii is no longer a buried city. it is a city of hundreds and hundreds of roofless houses, and a tangled maze of streets where one could easily get lost, without a guide, and have to sleep in some ghostly palace that had known no living tenant since that awful november night of eighteen centuries ago. we passed through the gate which faces the mediterranean, (called the "marine gate,") and by the rusty, broken image of minerva, still keeping tireless watch and ward over the possessions it was powerless to save, and went up a long street and stood in the broad court of the forum of justice. the floor was level and clean, and up and down either side was a noble colonnade of broken pillars, with their beautiful ionic and corinthian columns scattered about them. at the upper end were the vacant seats of the judges, and behind them we descended into a dungeon where the ashes and cinders had found two prisoners chained on that memorable november night, and tortured them to death. how they must have tugged at the pitiless fetters as the fierce fires surged around them! then we lounged through many and many a sumptuous private mansion which we could not have entered without a formal invitation in incomprehensible latin, in the olden time, when the owners lived there--and we probably wouldn't have got it. these people built their houses a good deal alike. the floors were laid in fanciful figures wrought in mosaics of many-colored marbles. at the threshold your eyes fall upon a latin sentence of welcome, sometimes, or a picture of a dog, with the legend "beware of the dog," and sometimes a picture of a bear or a faun with no inscription at all. then you enter a sort of vestibule, where they used to keep the hat-rack, i suppose; next a room with a large marble basin in the midst and the pipes of a fountain; on either side are bedrooms; beyond the fountain is a reception-room, then a little garden, dining-room, and so forth and so on. the floors were all mosaic, the walls were stuccoed, or frescoed, or ornamented with bas-reliefs, and here and there were statues, large and small, and little fish-pools, and cascades of sparkling water that sprang from secret places in the colonnade of handsome pillars that surrounded the court, and kept the flower-beds fresh and the air cool. those pompeiians were very luxurious in their tastes and habits. the most exquisite bronzes we have seen in europe, came from the exhumed cities of herculaneum and pompeii, and also the finest cameos and the most delicate engravings on precious stones; their pictures, eighteen or nineteen centuries old, are often much more pleasing than the celebrated rubbish of the old masters of three centuries ago. they were well up in art. from the creation of these works of the first, clear up to the eleventh century, art seems hardly to have existed at all--at least no remnants of it are left--and it was curious to see how far (in some things, at any rate,) these old time pagans excelled the remote generations of masters that came after them. the pride of the world in sculptures seem to be the laocoon and the dying gladiator, in rome. they are as old as pompeii, were dug from the earth like pompeii; but their exact age or who made them can only be conjectured. but worn, and cracked, without a history, and with the blemishing stains of numberless centuries upon them, they still mutely mock at all efforts to rival their perfections. it was a quaint and curious pastime, wandering through this old silent city of the dead--lounging through utterly deserted streets where thousands and thousands of human beings once bought and sold, and walked and rode, and made the place resound with the noise and confusion of traffic and pleasure. they were not lazy. they hurried in those days. we had evidence of that. there was a temple on one corner, and it was a shorter cut to go between the columns of that temple from one street to the other than to go around--and behold that pathway had been worn deep into the heavy flagstone floor of the building by generations of time-saving feet! they would not go around when it was quicker to go through. we do that way in our cities. every where, you see things that make you wonder how old these old houses were before the night of destruction came--things, too, which bring back those long dead inhabitants and place the living before your eyes. for instance: the steps (two feet thick--lava blocks) that lead up out of the school, and the same kind of steps that lead up into the dress circle of the principal theatre, are almost worn through! for ages the boys hurried out of that school, and for ages their parents hurried into that theatre, and the nervous feet that have been dust and ashes for eighteen centuries have left their record for us to read to-day. i imagined i could see crowds of gentlemen and ladies thronging into the theatre, with tickets for secured seats in their hands, and on the wall, i read the imaginary placard, in infamous grammar, "positively no free list, except members of the press!" hanging about the doorway (i fancied,) were slouchy pompeiian street-boys uttering slang and profanity, and keeping a wary eye out for checks. i entered the theatre, and sat down in one of the long rows of stone benches in the dress circle, and looked at the place for the orchestra, and the ruined stage, and around at the wide sweep of empty boxes, and thought to myself, "this house won't pay." i tried to imagine the music in full blast, the leader of the orchestra beating time, and the "versatile" so-and-so (who had "just returned from a most successful tour in the provinces to play his last and farewell engagement of positively six nights only, in pompeii, previous to his departure for herculaneum,") charging around the stage and piling the agony mountains high--but i could not do it with such a "house" as that; those empty benches tied my fancy down to dull reality. i said, these people that ought to be here have been dead, and still, and moldering to dust for ages and ages, and will never care for the trifles and follies of life any more for ever--"owing to circumstances, etc., etc., there will not be any performance to-night." close down the curtain. put out the lights. and so i turned away and went through shop after shop and store after store, far down the long street of the merchants, and called for the wares of rome and the east, but the tradesmen were gone, the marts were silent, and nothing was left but the broken jars all set in cement of cinders and ashes: the wine and the oil that once had filled them were gone with their owners. in a bake-shop was a mill for grinding the grain, and the furnaces for baking the bread: and they say that here, in the same furnaces, the exhumers of pompeii found nice, well baked loaves which the baker had not found time to remove from the ovens the last time he left his shop, because circumstances compelled him to leave in such a hurry. in one house (the only building in pompeii which no woman is now allowed to enter,) were the small rooms and short beds of solid masonry, just as they were in the old times, and on the walls were pictures which looked almost as fresh as if they were painted yesterday, but which no pen could have the hardihood to describe; and here and there were latin inscriptions--obscene scintillations of wit, scratched by hands that possibly were uplifted to heaven for succor in the midst of a driving storm of fire before the night was done. in one of the principal streets was a ponderous stone tank, and a water-spout that supplied it, and where the tired, heated toilers from the campagna used to rest their right hands when they bent over to put their lips to the spout, the thick stone was worn down to a broad groove an inch or two deep. think of the countless thousands of hands that had pressed that spot in the ages that are gone, to so reduce a stone that is as hard as iron! they had a great public bulletin board in pompeii--a place where announcements for gladiatorial combats, elections, and such things, were posted--not on perishable paper, but carved in enduring stone. one lady, who, i take it, was rich and well brought up, advertised a dwelling or so to rent, with baths and all the modern improvements, and several hundred shops, stipulating that the dwellings should not be put to immoral purposes. you can find out who lived in many a house in pompeii by the carved stone door-plates affixed to them: and in the same way you can tell who they were that occupy the tombs. every where around are things that reveal to you something of the customs and history of this forgotten people. but what would a volcano leave of an american city, if it once rained its cinders on it? hardly a sign or a symbol to tell its story. in one of these long pompeiian halls the skeleton of a man was found, with ten pieces of gold in one hand and a large key in the other. he had seized his money and started toward the door, but the fiery tempest caught him at the very threshold, and he sank down and died. one more minute of precious time would have saved him. i saw the skeletons of a man, a woman, and two young girls. the woman had her hands spread wide apart, as if in mortal terror, and i imagined i could still trace upon her shapeless face something of the expression of wild despair that distorted it when the heavens rained fire in these streets, so many ages ago. the girls and the man lay with their faces upon their arms, as if they had tried to shield them from the enveloping cinders. in one apartment eighteen skeletons were found, all in sitting postures, and blackened places on the walls still mark their shapes and show their attitudes, like shadows. one of them, a woman, still wore upon her skeleton throat a necklace, with her name engraved upon it--julie di diomede. but perhaps the most poetical thing pompeii has yielded to modern research, was that grand figure of a roman soldier, clad in complete armor; who, true to his duty, true to his proud name of a soldier of rome, and full of the stern courage which had given to that name its glory, stood to his post by the city gate, erect and unflinching, till the hell that raged around him burned out the dauntless spirit it could not conquer. we never read of pompeii but we think of that soldier; we can not write of pompeii without the natural impulse to grant to him the mention he so well deserves. let us remember that he was a soldier--not a policeman --and so, praise him. being a soldier, he staid,--because the warrior instinct forbade him to fly. had he been a policeman he would have staid, also--because he would have been asleep. there are not half a dozen flights of stairs in pompeii, and no other evidences that the houses were more than one story high. the people did not live in the clouds, as do the venetians, the genoese and neapolitans of to-day. we came out from under the solemn mysteries of this city of the venerable past--this city which perished, with all its old ways and its quaint old fashions about it, remote centuries ago, when the disciples were preaching the new religion, which is as old as the hills to us now--and went dreaming among the trees that grow over acres and acres of its still buried streets and squares, till a shrill whistle and the cry of "all aboard--last train for naples!" woke me up and reminded me that i belonged in the nineteenth century, and was not a dusty mummy, caked with ashes and cinders, eighteen hundred years old. the transition was startling. the idea of a railroad train actually running to old dead pompeii, and whistling irreverently, and calling for passengers in the most bustling and business-like way, was as strange a thing as one could imagine, and as unpoetical and disagreeable as it was strange. compare the cheerful life and the sunshine of this day with the horrors the younger pliny saw here, the th of november, a.d. , when he was so bravely striving to remove his mother out of reach of harm, while she begged him, with all a mother's unselfishness, to leave her to perish and save himself. "by this time the murky darkness had so increased that one might have believed himself abroad in a black and moonless night, or in a chamber where all the lights had been extinguished. on every hand was heard the complaints of women, the wailing of children, and the cries of men. one called his father, another his son, and another his wife, and only by their voices could they know each other. many in their despair begged that death would come and end their distress. "some implored the gods to succor them, and some believed that this night was the last, the eternal night which should engulf the universe! "even so it seemed to me--and i consoled myself for the coming death with the reflection: behold, the world is passing away!" * * * * * * * * after browsing among the stately ruins of rome, of baiae, of pompeii, and after glancing down the long marble ranks of battered and nameless imperial heads that stretch down the corridors of the vatican, one thing strikes me with a force it never had before: the unsubstantial, unlasting character of fame. men lived long lives, in the olden time, and struggled feverishly through them, toiling like slaves, in oratory, in generalship, or in literature, and then laid them down and died, happy in the possession of an enduring history and a deathless name. well, twenty little centuries flutter away, and what is left of these things? a crazy inscription on a block of stone, which snuffy antiquaries bother over and tangle up and make nothing out of but a bare name (which they spell wrong)--no history, no tradition, no poetry--nothing that can give it even a passing interest. what may be left of general grant's great name forty centuries hence? this--in the encyclopedia for a. d. , possibly: "uriah s. (or z.) graunt--popular poet of ancient times in the aztec provinces of the united states of british america. some authors say flourished about a. d. ; but the learned ah-ah foo-foo states that he was a contemporary of scharkspyre, the english poet, and flourished about a. d. , some three centuries after the trojan war instead of before it. he wrote 'rock me to sleep, mother.'" these thoughts sadden me. i will to bed. chapter xxxii. home, again! for the first time, in many weeks, the ship's entire family met and shook hands on the quarter-deck. they had gathered from many points of the compass and from many lands, but not one was missing; there was no tale of sickness or death among the flock to dampen the pleasure of the reunion. once more there was a full audience on deck to listen to the sailors' chorus as they got the anchor up, and to wave an adieu to the land as we sped away from naples. the seats were full at dinner again, the domino parties were complete, and the life and bustle on the upper deck in the fine moonlight at night was like old times--old times that had been gone weeks only, but yet they were weeks so crowded with incident, adventure and excitement, that they seemed almost like years. there was no lack of cheerfulness on board the quaker city. for once, her title was a misnomer. at seven in the evening, with the western horizon all golden from the sunken sun, and specked with distant ships, the full moon sailing high over head, the dark blue of the sea under foot, and a strange sort of twilight affected by all these different lights and colors around us and about us, we sighted superb stromboli. with what majesty the monarch held his lonely state above the level sea! distance clothed him in a purple gloom, and added a veil of shimmering mist that so softened his rugged features that we seemed to see him through a web of silver gauze. his torch was out; his fires were smoldering; a tall column of smoke that rose up and lost itself in the growing moonlight was all the sign he gave that he was a living autocrat of the sea and not the spectre of a dead one. at two in the morning we swept through the straits of messina, and so bright was the moonlight that italy on the one hand and sicily on the other seemed almost as distinctly visible as though we looked at them from the middle of a street we were traversing. the city of messina, milk-white, and starred and spangled all over with gaslights, was a fairy spectacle. a great party of us were on deck smoking and making a noise, and waiting to see famous scylla and charybdis. and presently the oracle stepped out with his eternal spy-glass and squared himself on the deck like another colossus of rhodes. it was a surprise to see him abroad at such an hour. nobody supposed he cared anything about an old fable like that of scylla and charybdis. one of the boys said: "hello, doctor, what are you doing up here at this time of night?--what do you want to see this place for?" "what do i want to see this place for? young man, little do you know me, or you wouldn't ask such a question. i wish to see all the places that's mentioned in the bible." "stuff--this place isn't mentioned in the bible." "it ain't mentioned in the bible!--this place ain't--well now, what place is this, since you know so much about it?" "why it's scylla and charybdis." "scylla and cha--confound it, i thought it was sodom and gomorrah!" and he closed up his glass and went below. the above is the ship story. its plausibility is marred a little by the fact that the oracle was not a biblical student, and did not spend much of his time instructing himself about scriptural localities.--they say the oracle complains, in this hot weather, lately, that the only beverage in the ship that is passable, is the butter. he did not mean butter, of course, but inasmuch as that article remains in a melted state now since we are out of ice, it is fair to give him the credit of getting one long word in the right place, anyhow, for once in his life. he said, in rome, that the pope was a noble-looking old man, but he never did think much of his iliad. we spent one pleasant day skirting along the isles of greece. they are very mountainous. their prevailing tints are gray and brown, approaching to red. little white villages surrounded by trees, nestle in the valleys or roost upon the lofty perpendicular sea-walls. we had one fine sunset--a rich carmine flush that suffused the western sky and cast a ruddy glow far over the sea.--fine sunsets seem to be rare in this part of the world--or at least, striking ones. they are soft, sensuous, lovely--they are exquisite refined, effeminate, but we have seen no sunsets here yet like the gorgeous conflagrations that flame in the track of the sinking sun in our high northern latitudes. but what were sunsets to us, with the wild excitement upon us of approaching the most renowned of cities! what cared we for outward visions, when agamemnon, achilles, and a thousand other heroes of the great past were marching in ghostly procession through our fancies? what were sunsets to us, who were about to live and breathe and walk in actual athens; yea, and go far down into the dead centuries and bid in person for the slaves, diogenes and plato, in the public market-place, or gossip with the neighbors about the siege of troy or the splendid deeds of marathon? we scorned to consider sunsets. we arrived, and entered the ancient harbor of the piraeus at last. we dropped anchor within half a mile of the village. away off, across the undulating plain of attica, could be seen a little square-topped hill with a something on it, which our glasses soon discovered to be the ruined edifices of the citadel of the athenians, and most prominent among them loomed the venerable parthenon. so exquisitely clear and pure is this wonderful atmosphere that every column of the noble structure was discernible through the telescope, and even the smaller ruins about it assumed some semblance of shape. this at a distance of five or six miles. in the valley, near the acropolis, (the square-topped hill before spoken of,) athens itself could be vaguely made out with an ordinary lorgnette. every body was anxious to get ashore and visit these classic localities as quickly as possible. no land we had yet seen had aroused such universal interest among the passengers. but bad news came. the commandant of the piraeus came in his boat, and said we must either depart or else get outside the harbor and remain imprisoned in our ship, under rigid quarantine, for eleven days! so we took up the anchor and moved outside, to lie a dozen hours or so, taking in supplies, and then sail for constantinople. it was the bitterest disappointment we had yet experienced. to lie a whole day in sight of the acropolis, and yet be obliged to go away without visiting athens! disappointment was hardly a strong enough word to describe the circumstances. all hands were on deck, all the afternoon, with books and maps and glasses, trying to determine which "narrow rocky ridge" was the areopagus, which sloping hill the pnyx, which elevation the museum hill, and so on. and we got things confused. discussion became heated, and party spirit ran high. church members were gazing with emotion upon a hill which they said was the one st. paul preached from, and another faction claimed that that hill was hymettus, and another that it was pentelicon! after all the trouble, we could be certain of only one thing--the square-topped hill was the acropolis, and the grand ruin that crowned it was the parthenon, whose picture we knew in infancy in the school books. we inquired of every body who came near the ship, whether there were guards in the piraeus, whether they were strict, what the chances were of capture should any of us slip ashore, and in case any of us made the venture and were caught, what would be probably done to us? the answers were discouraging: there was a strong guard or police force; the piraeus was a small town, and any stranger seen in it would surely attract attention--capture would be certain. the commandant said the punishment would be "heavy;" when asked "how heavy?" he said it would be "very severe"--that was all we could get out of him. at eleven o'clock at night, when most of the ship's company were abed, four of us stole softly ashore in a small boat, a clouded moon favoring the enterprise, and started two and two, and far apart, over a low hill, intending to go clear around the piraeus, out of the range of its police. picking our way so stealthily over that rocky, nettle-grown eminence, made me feel a good deal as if i were on my way somewhere to steal something. my immediate comrade and i talked in an undertone about quarantine laws and their penalties, but we found nothing cheering in the subject. i was posted. only a few days before, i was talking with our captain, and he mentioned the case of a man who swam ashore from a quarantined ship somewhere, and got imprisoned six months for it; and when he was in genoa a few years ago, a captain of a quarantined ship went in his boat to a departing ship, which was already outside of the harbor, and put a letter on board to be taken to his family, and the authorities imprisoned him three months for it, and then conducted him and his ship fairly to sea, and warned him never to show himself in that port again while he lived. this kind of conversation did no good, further than to give a sort of dismal interest to our quarantine-breaking expedition, and so we dropped it. we made the entire circuit of the town without seeing any body but one man, who stared at us curiously, but said nothing, and a dozen persons asleep on the ground before their doors, whom we walked among and never woke--but we woke up dogs enough, in all conscience--we always had one or two barking at our heels, and several times we had as many as ten and twelve at once. they made such a preposterous din that persons aboard our ship said they could tell how we were progressing for a long time, and where we were, by the barking of the dogs. the clouded moon still favored us. when we had made the whole circuit, and were passing among the houses on the further side of the town, the moon came out splendidly, but we no longer feared the light. as we approached a well, near a house, to get a drink, the owner merely glanced at us and went within. he left the quiet, slumbering town at our mercy. i record it here proudly, that we didn't do any thing to it. seeing no road, we took a tall hill to the left of the distant acropolis for a mark, and steered straight for it over all obstructions, and over a little rougher piece of country than exists any where else outside of the state of nevada, perhaps. part of the way it was covered with small, loose stones--we trod on six at a time, and they all rolled. another part of it was dry, loose, newly-ploughed ground. still another part of it was a long stretch of low grape-vines, which were tanglesome and troublesome, and which we took to be brambles. the attic plain, barring the grape-vines, was a barren, desolate, unpoetical waste--i wonder what it was in greece's age of glory, five hundred years before christ? in the neighborhood of one o'clock in the morning, when we were heated with fast walking and parched with thirst, denny exclaimed, "why, these weeds are grape-vines!" and in five minutes we had a score of bunches of large, white, delicious grapes, and were reaching down for more when a dark shape rose mysteriously up out of the shadows beside us and said "ho!" and so we left. in ten minutes more we struck into a beautiful road, and unlike some others we had stumbled upon at intervals, it led in the right direction. we followed it. it was broad, and smooth, and white--handsome and in perfect repair, and shaded on both sides for a mile or so with single ranks of trees, and also with luxuriant vineyards. twice we entered and stole grapes, and the second time somebody shouted at us from some invisible place. whereupon we left again. we speculated in grapes no more on that side of athens. shortly we came upon an ancient stone aqueduct, built upon arches, and from that time forth we had ruins all about us--we were approaching our journey's end. we could not see the acropolis now or the high hill, either, and i wanted to follow the road till we were abreast of them, but the others overruled me, and we toiled laboriously up the stony hill immediately in our front--and from its summit saw another--climbed it and saw another! it was an hour of exhausting work. soon we came upon a row of open graves, cut in the solid rock--(for a while one of them served socrates for a prison)--we passed around the shoulder of the hill, and the citadel, in all its ruined magnificence, burst upon us! we hurried across the ravine and up a winding road, and stood on the old acropolis, with the prodigious walls of the citadel towering above our heads. we did not stop to inspect their massive blocks of marble, or measure their height, or guess at their extraordinary thickness, but passed at once through a great arched passage like a railway tunnel, and went straight to the gate that leads to the ancient temples. it was locked! so, after all, it seemed that we were not to see the great parthenon face to face. we sat down and held a council of war. result: the gate was only a flimsy structure of wood--we would break it down. it seemed like desecration, but then we had traveled far, and our necessities were urgent. we could not hunt up guides and keepers--we must be on the ship before daylight. so we argued. this was all very fine, but when we came to break the gate, we could not do it. we moved around an angle of the wall and found a low bastion--eight feet high without--ten or twelve within. denny prepared to scale it, and we got ready to follow. by dint of hard scrambling he finally straddled the top, but some loose stones crumbled away and fell with a crash into the court within. there was instantly a banging of doors and a shout. denny dropped from the wall in a twinkling, and we retreated in disorder to the gate. xerxes took that mighty citadel four hundred and eighty years before christ, when his five millions of soldiers and camp-followers followed him to greece, and if we four americans could have remained unmolested five minutes longer, we would have taken it too. the garrison had turned out--four greeks. we clamored at the gate, and they admitted us. [bribery and corruption.] we crossed a large court, entered a great door, and stood upon a pavement of purest white marble, deeply worn by footprints. before us, in the flooding moonlight, rose the noblest ruins we had ever looked upon--the propylae; a small temple of minerva; the temple of hercules, and the grand parthenon. [we got these names from the greek guide, who didn't seem to know more than seven men ought to know.] these edifices were all built of the whitest pentelic marble, but have a pinkish stain upon them now. where any part is broken, however, the fracture looks like fine loaf sugar. six caryatides, or marble women, clad in flowing robes, support the portico of the temple of hercules, but the porticos and colonnades of the other structures are formed of massive doric and ionic pillars, whose flutings and capitals are still measurably perfect, notwithstanding the centuries that have gone over them and the sieges they have suffered. the parthenon, originally, was two hundred and twenty-six feet long, one hundred wide, and seventy high, and had two rows of great columns, eight in each, at either end, and single rows of seventeen each down the sides, and was one of the most graceful and beautiful edifices ever erected. most of the parthenon's imposing columns are still standing, but the roof is gone. it was a perfect building two hundred and fifty years ago, when a shell dropped into the venetian magazine stored here, and the explosion which followed wrecked and unroofed it. i remember but little about the parthenon, and i have put in one or two facts and figures for the use of other people with short memories. got them from the guide-book. as we wandered thoughtfully down the marble-paved length of this stately temple, the scene about us was strangely impressive. here and there, in lavish profusion, were gleaming white statues of men and women, propped against blocks of marble, some of them armless, some without legs, others headless--but all looking mournful in the moonlight, and startlingly human! they rose up and confronted the midnight intruder on every side --they stared at him with stony eyes from unlooked-for nooks and recesses; they peered at him over fragmentary heaps far down the desolate corridors; they barred his way in the midst of the broad forum, and solemnly pointed with handless arms the way from the sacred fane; and through the roofless temple the moon looked down, and banded the floor and darkened the scattered fragments and broken statues with the slanting shadows of the columns. what a world of ruined sculpture was about us! set up in rows--stacked up in piles--scattered broadcast over the wide area of the acropolis --were hundreds of crippled statues of all sizes and of the most exquisite workmanship; and vast fragments of marble that once belonged to the entablatures, covered with bas-reliefs representing battles and sieges, ships of war with three and four tiers of oars, pageants and processions --every thing one could think of. history says that the temples of the acropolis were filled with the noblest works of praxiteles and phidias, and of many a great master in sculpture besides--and surely these elegant fragments attest it. we walked out into the grass-grown, fragment-strewn court beyond the parthenon. it startled us, every now and then, to see a stony white face stare suddenly up at us out of the grass with its dead eyes. the place seemed alive with ghosts. i half expected to see the athenian heroes of twenty centuries ago glide out of the shadows and steal into the old temple they knew so well and regarded with such boundless pride. the full moon was riding high in the cloudless heavens, now. we sauntered carelessly and unthinkingly to the edge of the lofty battlements of the citadel, and looked down--a vision! and such a vision! athens by moonlight! the prophet that thought the splendors of the new jerusalem were revealed to him, surely saw this instead! it lay in the level plain right under our feet--all spread abroad like a picture--and we looked down upon it as we might have looked from a balloon. we saw no semblance of a street, but every house, every window, every clinging vine, every projection was as distinct and sharply marked as if the time were noon-day; and yet there was no glare, no glitter, nothing harsh or repulsive--the noiseless city was flooded with the mellowest light that ever streamed from the moon, and seemed like some living creature wrapped in peaceful slumber. on its further side was a little temple, whose delicate pillars and ornate front glowed with a rich lustre that chained the eye like a spell; and nearer by, the palace of the king reared its creamy walls out of the midst of a great garden of shrubbery that was flecked all over with a random shower of amber lights --a spray of golden sparks that lost their brightness in the glory of the moon, and glinted softly upon the sea of dark foliage like the pallid stars of the milky-way. overhead the stately columns, majestic still in their ruin--under foot the dreaming city--in the distance the silver sea --not on the broad earth is there an other picture half so beautiful! as we turned and moved again through the temple, i wished that the illustrious men who had sat in it in the remote ages could visit it again and reveal themselves to our curious eyes--plato, aristotle, demosthenes, socrates, phocion, pythagoras, euclid, pindar, xenophon, herodotus, praxiteles and phidias, zeuxis the painter. what a constellation of celebrated names! but more than all, i wished that old diogenes, groping so patiently with his lantern, searching so zealously for one solitary honest man in all the world, might meander along and stumble on our party. i ought not to say it, may be, but still i suppose he would have put out his light. we left the parthenon to keep its watch over old athens, as it had kept it for twenty-three hundred years, and went and stood outside the walls of the citadel. in the distance was the ancient, but still almost perfect temple of theseus, and close by, looking to the west, was the bema, from whence demosthenes thundered his philippics and fired the wavering patriotism of his countrymen. to the right was mars hill, where the areopagus sat in ancient times and where st. paul defined his position, and below was the market-place where he "disputed daily" with the gossip-loving athenians. we climbed the stone steps st. paul ascended, and stood in the square-cut place he stood in, and tried to recollect the bible account of the matter--but for certain reasons, i could not recall the words. i have found them since: "now while paul waited for them at athens, his spirit was stirred in him, when he saw the city wholly given up to idolatry. "therefore disputed he in the synagogue with the jews, and with the devout persons, and in the market daily with them that met with him. * * * * * * * * * "and they took him and brought him unto areopagus, saying, may we know what this new doctrine whereof thou speakest is? * * * * * * * * * "then paul stood in the midst of mars hill, and said, ye men of athens, i perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious; "for as i passed by and beheld your devotions, i found an altar with this inscription: to the unknown god. whom, therefore, ye ignorantly worship, him declare i unto you."--acts, ch. xvii." it occurred to us, after a while, that if we wanted to get home before daylight betrayed us, we had better be moving. so we hurried away. when far on our road, we had a parting view of the parthenon, with the moonlight streaming through its open colonnades and touching its capitals with silver. as it looked then, solemn, grand, and beautiful it will always remain in our memories. as we marched along, we began to get over our fears, and ceased to care much about quarantine scouts or any body else. we grew bold and reckless; and once, in a sudden burst of courage, i even threw a stone at a dog. it was a pleasant reflection, though, that i did not hit him, because his master might just possibly have been a policeman. inspired by this happy failure, my valor became utterly uncontrollable, and at intervals i absolutely whistled, though on a moderate key. but boldness breeds boldness, and shortly i plunged into a vineyard, in the full light of the moon, and captured a gallon of superb grapes, not even minding the presence of a peasant who rode by on a mule. denny and birch followed my example. now i had grapes enough for a dozen, but then jackson was all swollen up with courage, too, and he was obliged to enter a vineyard presently. the first bunch he seized brought trouble. a frowsy, bearded brigand sprang into the road with a shout, and flourished a musket in the light of the moon! we sidled toward the piraeus--not running you understand, but only advancing with celerity. the brigand shouted again, but still we advanced. it was getting late, and we had no time to fool away on every ass that wanted to drivel greek platitudes to us. we would just as soon have talked with him as not if we had not been in a hurry. presently denny said, "those fellows are following us!" we turned, and, sure enough, there they were--three fantastic pirates armed with guns. we slackened our pace to let them come up, and in the meantime i got out my cargo of grapes and dropped them firmly but reluctantly into the shadows by the wayside. but i was not afraid. i only felt that it was not right to steal grapes. and all the more so when the owner was around--and not only around, but with his friends around also. the villains came up and searched a bundle dr. birch had in his hand, and scowled upon him when they found it had nothing in it but some holy rocks from mars hill, and these were not contraband. they evidently suspected him of playing some wretched fraud upon them, and seemed half inclined to scalp the party. but finally they dismissed us with a warning, couched in excellent greek, i suppose, and dropped tranquilly in our wake. when they had gone three hundred yards they stopped, and we went on rejoiced. but behold, another armed rascal came out of the shadows and took their place, and followed us two hundred yards. then he delivered us over to another miscreant, who emerged from some mysterious place, and he in turn to another! for a mile and a half our rear was guarded all the while by armed men. i never traveled in so much state before in all my life. it was a good while after that before we ventured to steal any more grapes, and when we did we stirred up another troublesome brigand, and then we ceased all further speculation in that line. i suppose that fellow that rode by on the mule posted all the sentinels, from athens to the piraeus, about us. every field on that long route was watched by an armed sentinel, some of whom had fallen asleep, no doubt, but were on hand, nevertheless. this shows what sort of a country modern attica is--a community of questionable characters. these men were not there to guard their possessions against strangers, but against each other; for strangers seldom visit athens and the piraeus, and when they do, they go in daylight, and can buy all the grapes they want for a trifle. the modern inhabitants are confiscators and falsifiers of high repute, if gossip speaks truly concerning them, and i freely believe it does. just as the earliest tinges of the dawn flushed the eastern sky and turned the pillared parthenon to a broken harp hung in the pearly horizon, we closed our thirteenth mile of weary, round-about marching, and emerged upon the sea-shore abreast the ships, with our usual escort of fifteen hundred piraean dogs howling at our heels. we hailed a boat that was two or three hundred yards from shore, and discovered in a moment that it was a police-boat on the lookout for any quarantine-breakers that might chance to be abroad. so we dodged--we were used to that by this time--and when the scouts reached the spot we had so lately occupied, we were absent. they cruised along the shore, but in the wrong direction, and shortly our own boat issued from the gloom and took us aboard. they had heard our signal on the ship. we rowed noiselessly away, and before the police-boat came in sight again, we were safe at home once more. four more of our passengers were anxious to visit athens, and started half an hour after we returned; but they had not been ashore five minutes till the police discovered and chased them so hotly that they barely escaped to their boat again, and that was all. they pursued the enterprise no further. we set sail for constantinople to-day, but some of us little care for that. we have seen all there was to see in the old city that had its birth sixteen hundred years before christ was born, and was an old town before the foundations of troy were laid--and saw it in its most attractive aspect. wherefore, why should we worry? two other passengers ran the blockade successfully last night. so we learned this morning. they slipped away so quietly that they were not missed from the ship for several hours. they had the hardihood to march into the piraeus in the early dusk and hire a carriage. they ran some danger of adding two or three months' imprisonment to the other novelties of their holy land pleasure excursion. i admire "cheek."--[quotation from the pilgrims.]--but they went and came safely, and never walked a step. chapter xxxiii. from athens all through the islands of the grecian archipelago, we saw little but forbidding sea-walls and barren hills, sometimes surmounted by three or four graceful columns of some ancient temple, lonely and deserted--a fitting symbol of the desolation that has come upon all greece in these latter ages. we saw no ploughed fields, very few villages, no trees or grass or vegetation of any kind, scarcely, and hardly ever an isolated house. greece is a bleak, unsmiling desert, without agriculture, manufactures or commerce, apparently. what supports its poverty-stricken people or its government, is a mystery. i suppose that ancient greece and modern greece compared, furnish the most extravagant contrast to be found in history. george i., an infant of eighteen, and a scraggy nest of foreign office holders, sit in the places of themistocles, pericles, and the illustrious scholars and generals of the golden age of greece. the fleets that were the wonder of the world when the parthenon was new, are a beggarly handful of fishing-smacks now, and the manly people that performed such miracles of valor at marathon are only a tribe of unconsidered slaves to-day. the classic illyssus has gone dry, and so have all the sources of grecian wealth and greatness. the nation numbers only eight hundred thousand souls, and there is poverty and misery and mendacity enough among them to furnish forty millions and be liberal about it. under king otho the revenues of the state were five millions of dollars--raised from a tax of one-tenth of all the agricultural products of the land (which tenth the farmer had to bring to the royal granaries on pack-mules any distance not exceeding six leagues) and from extravagant taxes on trade and commerce. out of that five millions the small tyrant tried to keep an army of ten thousand men, pay all the hundreds of useless grand equerries in waiting, first grooms of the bedchamber, lord high chancellors of the exploded exchequer, and all the other absurdities which these puppy-kingdoms indulge in, in imitation of the great monarchies; and in addition he set about building a white marble palace to cost about five millions itself. the result was, simply: ten into five goes no times and none over. all these things could not be done with five millions, and otho fell into trouble. the greek throne, with its unpromising adjuncts of a ragged population of ingenious rascals who were out of employment eight months in the year because there was little for them to borrow and less to confiscate, and a waste of barren hills and weed-grown deserts, went begging for a good while. it was offered to one of victoria's sons, and afterwards to various other younger sons of royalty who had no thrones and were out of business, but they all had the charity to decline the dreary honor, and veneration enough for greece's ancient greatness to refuse to mock her sorrowful rags and dirt with a tinsel throne in this day of her humiliation--till they came to this young danish george, and he took it. he has finished the splendid palace i saw in the radiant moonlight the other night, and is doing many other things for the salvation of greece, they say. we sailed through the barren archipelago, and into the narrow channel they sometimes call the dardanelles and sometimes the hellespont. this part of the country is rich in historic reminiscences, and poor as sahara in every thing else. for instance, as we approached the dardanelles, we coasted along the plains of troy and past the mouth of the scamander; we saw where troy had stood (in the distance,) and where it does not stand now--a city that perished when the world was young. the poor trojans are all dead, now. they were born too late to see noah's ark, and died too soon to see our menagerie. we saw where agamemnon's fleets rendezvoused, and away inland a mountain which the map said was mount ida. within the hellespont we saw where the original first shoddy contract mentioned in history was carried out, and the "parties of the second part" gently rebuked by xerxes. i speak of the famous bridge of boats which xerxes ordered to be built over the narrowest part of the hellespont (where it is only two or three miles wide.) a moderate gale destroyed the flimsy structure, and the king, thinking that to publicly rebuke the contractors might have a good effect on the next set, called them out before the army and had them beheaded. in the next ten minutes he let a new contract for the bridge. it has been observed by ancient writers that the second bridge was a very good bridge. xerxes crossed his host of five millions of men on it, and if it had not been purposely destroyed, it would probably have been there yet. if our government would rebuke some of our shoddy contractors occasionally, it might work much good. in the hellespont we saw where leander and lord byron swam across, the one to see her upon whom his soul's affections were fixed with a devotion that only death could impair, and the other merely for a flyer, as jack says. we had two noted tombs near us, too. on one shore slept ajax, and on the other hecuba. we had water batteries and forts on both sides of the hellespont, flying the crimson flag of turkey, with its white crescent, and occasionally a village, and sometimes a train of camels; we had all these to look at till we entered the broad sea of marmora, and then the land soon fading from view, we resumed euchre and whist once more. we dropped anchor in the mouth of the golden horn at daylight in the morning. only three or four of us were up to see the great ottoman capital. the passengers do not turn out at unseasonable hours, as they used to, to get the earliest possible glimpse of strange foreign cities. they are well over that. if we were lying in sight of the pyramids of egypt, they would not come on deck until after breakfast, now-a-days. the golden horn is a narrow arm of the sea, which branches from the bosporus (a sort of broad river which connects the marmora and black seas,) and, curving around, divides the city in the middle. galata and pera are on one side of the bosporus, and the golden horn; stamboul (ancient byzantium) is upon the other. on the other bank of the bosporus is scutari and other suburbs of constantinople. this great city contains a million inhabitants, but so narrow are its streets, and so crowded together are its houses, that it does not cover much more than half as much ground as new york city. seen from the anchorage or from a mile or so up the bosporus, it is by far the handsomest city we have seen. its dense array of houses swells upward from the water's edge, and spreads over the domes of many hills; and the gardens that peep out here and there, the great globes of the mosques, and the countless minarets that meet the eye every where, invest the metropolis with the quaint oriental aspect one dreams of when he reads books of eastern travel. constantinople makes a noble picture. but its attractiveness begins and ends with its picturesqueness. from the time one starts ashore till he gets back again, he execrates it. the boat he goes in is admirably miscalculated for the service it is built for. it is handsomely and neatly fitted up, but no man could handle it well in the turbulent currents that sweep down the bosporus from the black sea, and few men could row it satisfactorily even in still water. it is a long, light canoe (caique,) large at one end and tapering to a knife blade at the other. they make that long sharp end the bow, and you can imagine how these boiling currents spin it about. it has two oars, and sometimes four, and no rudder. you start to go to a given point and you run in fifty different directions before you get there. first one oar is backing water, and then the other; it is seldom that both are going ahead at once. this kind of boating is calculated to drive an impatient man mad in a week. the boatmen are the awkwardest, the stupidest, and the most unscientific on earth, without question. ashore, it was--well, it was an eternal circus. people were thicker than bees, in those narrow streets, and the men were dressed in all the outrageous, outlandish, idolatrous, extravagant, thunder-and-lightning costumes that ever a tailor with the delirium tremens and seven devils could conceive of. there was no freak in dress too crazy to be indulged in; no absurdity too absurd to be tolerated; no frenzy in ragged diabolism too fantastic to be attempted. no two men were dressed alike. it was a wild masquerade of all imaginable costumes--every struggling throng in every street was a dissolving view of stunning contrasts. some patriarchs wore awful turbans, but the grand mass of the infidel horde wore the fiery red skull-cap they call a fez. all the remainder of the raiment they indulged in was utterly indescribable. the shops here are mere coops, mere boxes, bath-rooms, closets--any thing you please to call them--on the first floor. the turks sit cross-legged in them, and work and trade and smoke long pipes, and smell like--like turks. that covers the ground. crowding the narrow streets in front of them are beggars, who beg forever, yet never collect any thing; and wonderful cripples, distorted out of all semblance of humanity, almost; vagabonds driving laden asses; porters carrying dry-goods boxes as large as cottages on their backs; peddlers of grapes, hot corn, pumpkin seeds, and a hundred other things, yelling like fiends; and sleeping happily, comfortably, serenely, among the hurrying feet, are the famed dogs of constantinople; drifting noiselessly about are squads of turkish women, draped from chin to feet in flowing robes, and with snowy veils bound about their heads, that disclose only the eyes and a vague, shadowy notion of their features. seen moving about, far away in the dim, arched aisles of the great bazaar, they look as the shrouded dead must have looked when they walked forth from their graves amid the storms and thunders and earthquakes that burst upon calvary that awful night of the crucifixion. a street in constantinople is a picture which one ought to see once--not oftener. and then there was the goose-rancher--a fellow who drove a hundred geese before him about the city, and tried to sell them. he had a pole ten feet long, with a crook in the end of it, and occasionally a goose would branch out from the flock and make a lively break around the corner, with wings half lifted and neck stretched to its utmost. did the goose-merchant get excited? no. he took his pole and reached after that goose with unspeakable sang froid--took a hitch round his neck, and "yanked" him back to his place in the flock without an effort. he steered his geese with that stick as easily as another man would steer a yawl. a few hours afterward we saw him sitting on a stone at a corner, in the midst of the turmoil, sound asleep in the sun, with his geese squatting around him, or dodging out of the way of asses and men. we came by again, within the hour, and he was taking account of stock, to see whether any of his flock had strayed or been stolen. the way he did it was unique. he put the end of his stick within six or eight inches of a stone wall, and made the geese march in single file between it and the wall. he counted them as they went by. there was no dodging that arrangement. if you want dwarfs--i mean just a few dwarfs for a curiosity--go to genoa. if you wish to buy them by the gross, for retail, go to milan. there are plenty of dwarfs all over italy, but it did seem to me that in milan the crop was luxuriant. if you would see a fair average style of assorted cripples, go to naples, or travel through the roman states. but if you would see the very heart and home of cripples and human monsters, both, go straight to constantinople. a beggar in naples who can show a foot which has all run into one horrible toe, with one shapeless nail on it, has a fortune--but such an exhibition as that would not provoke any notice in constantinople. the man would starve. who would pay any attention to attractions like his among the rare monsters that throng the bridges of the golden horn and display their deformities in the gutters of stamboul? o, wretched impostor! how could he stand against the three-legged woman, and the man with his eye in his cheek? how would he blush in presence of the man with fingers on his elbow? where would he hide himself when the dwarf with seven fingers on each hand, no upper lip, and his under-jaw gone, came down in his majesty? bismillah! the cripples of europe are a delusion and a fraud. the truly gifted flourish only in the by-ways of pera and stamboul. that three-legged woman lay on the bridge, with her stock in trade so disposed as to command the most striking effect--one natural leg, and two long, slender, twisted ones with feet on them like somebody else's fore-arm. then there was a man further along who had no eyes, and whose face was the color of a fly-blown beefsteak, and wrinkled and twisted like a lava-flow--and verily so tumbled and distorted were his features that no man could tell the wart that served him for a nose from his cheek-bones. in stamboul was a man with a prodigious head, an uncommonly long body, legs eight inches long and feet like snow-shoes. he traveled on those feet and his hands, and was as sway-backed as if the colossus of rhodes had been riding him. ah, a beggar has to have exceedingly good points to make a living in constantinople. a blue-faced man, who had nothing to offer except that he had been blown up in a mine, would be regarded as a rank impostor, and a mere damaged soldier on crutches would never make a cent. it would pay him to get apiece of his head taken off, and cultivate a wen like a carpet sack. the mosque of st. sophia is the chief lion of constantinople. you must get a firman and hurry there the first thing. we did that. we did not get a firman, but we took along four or five francs apiece, which is much the same thing. i do not think much of the mosque of st. sophia. i suppose i lack appreciation. we will let it go at that. it is the rustiest old barn in heathendom. i believe all the interest that attaches to it comes from the fact that it was built for a christian church and then turned into a mosque, without much alteration, by the mohammedan conquerors of the land. they made me take off my boots and walk into the place in my stocking-feet. i caught cold, and got myself so stuck up with a complication of gums, slime and general corruption, that i wore out more than two thousand pair of boot-jacks getting my boots off that night, and even then some christian hide peeled off with them. i abate not a single boot-jack. st. sophia is a colossal church, thirteen or fourteen hundred years old, and unsightly enough to be very, very much older. its immense dome is said to be more wonderful than st. peter's, but its dirt is much more wonderful than its dome, though they never mention it. the church has a hundred and seventy pillars in it, each a single piece, and all of costly marbles of various kinds, but they came from ancient temples at baalbec, heliopolis, athens and ephesus, and are battered, ugly and repulsive. they were a thousand years old when this church was new, and then the contrast must have been ghastly--if justinian's architects did not trim them any. the inside of the dome is figured all over with a monstrous inscription in turkish characters, wrought in gold mosaic, that looks as glaring as a circus bill; the pavements and the marble balustrades are all battered and dirty; the perspective is marred every where by a web of ropes that depend from the dizzy height of the dome, and suspend countless dingy, coarse oil lamps, and ostrich-eggs, six or seven feet above the floor. squatting and sitting in groups, here and there and far and near, were ragged turks reading books, hearing sermons, or receiving lessons like children. and in fifty places were more of the same sort bowing and straightening up, bowing again and getting down to kiss the earth, muttering prayers the while, and keeping up their gymnastics till they ought to have been tired, if they were not. every where was dirt, and dust, and dinginess, and gloom; every where were signs of a hoary antiquity, but with nothing touching or beautiful about it; every where were those groups of fantastic pagans; overhead the gaudy mosaics and the web of lamp-ropes--nowhere was there any thing to win one's love or challenge his admiration. the people who go into ecstasies over st. sophia must surely get them out of the guide-book (where every church is spoken of as being "considered by good judges to be the most marvelous structure, in many respects, that the world has ever seen.") or else they are those old connoisseurs from the wilds of new jersey who laboriously learn the difference between a fresco and a fire-plug and from that day forward feel privileged to void their critical bathos on painting, sculpture and architecture forever more. we visited the dancing dervishes. there were twenty-one of them. they wore a long, light-colored loose robe that hung to their heels. each in his turn went up to the priest (they were all within a large circular railing) and bowed profoundly and then went spinning away deliriously and took his appointed place in the circle, and continued to spin. when all had spun themselves to their places, they were about five or six feet apart--and so situated, the entire circle of spinning pagans spun itself three separate times around the room. it took twenty-five minutes to do it. they spun on the left foot, and kept themselves going by passing the right rapidly before it and digging it against the waxed floor. some of them made incredible "time." most of them spun around forty times in a minute, and one artist averaged about sixty-one times a minute, and kept it up during the whole twenty-five. his robe filled with air and stood out all around him like a balloon. they made no noise of any kind, and most of them tilted their heads back and closed their eyes, entranced with a sort of devotional ecstacy. there was a rude kind of music, part of the time, but the musicians were not visible. none but spinners were allowed within the circle. a man had to either spin or stay outside. it was about as barbarous an exhibition as we have witnessed yet. then sick persons came and lay down, and beside them women laid their sick children (one a babe at the breast,) and the patriarch of the dervishes walked upon their bodies. he was supposed to cure their diseases by trampling upon their breasts or backs or standing on the back of their necks. this is well enough for a people who think all their affairs are made or marred by viewless spirits of the air--by giants, gnomes, and genii--and who still believe, to this day, all the wild tales in the arabian nights. even so an intelligent missionary tells me. we visited the thousand and one columns. i do not know what it was originally intended for, but they said it was built for a reservoir. it is situated in the centre of constantinople. you go down a flight of stone steps in the middle of a barren place, and there you are. you are forty feet under ground, and in the midst of a perfect wilderness of tall, slender, granite columns, of byzantine architecture. stand where you would, or change your position as often as you pleased, you were always a centre from which radiated a dozen long archways and colonnades that lost themselves in distance and the sombre twilight of the place. this old dried-up reservoir is occupied by a few ghostly silk-spinners now, and one of them showed me a cross cut high up in one of the pillars. i suppose he meant me to understand that the institution was there before the turkish occupation, and i thought he made a remark to that effect; but he must have had an impediment in his speech, for i did not understand him. we took off our shoes and went into the marble mausoleum of the sultan mahmoud, the neatest piece of architecture, inside, that i have seen lately. mahmoud's tomb was covered with a black velvet pall, which was elaborately embroidered with silver; it stood within a fancy silver railing; at the sides and corners were silver candlesticks that would weigh more than a hundred pounds, and they supported candles as large as a man's leg; on the top of the sarcophagus was a fez, with a handsome diamond ornament upon it, which an attendant said cost a hundred thousand pounds, and lied like a turk when he said it. mahmoud's whole family were comfortably planted around him. we went to the great bazaar in stamboul, of course, and i shall not describe it further than to say it is a monstrous hive of little shops --thousands, i should say--all under one roof, and cut up into innumerable little blocks by narrow streets which are arched overhead. one street is devoted to a particular kind of merchandise, another to another, and so on. when you wish to buy a pair of shoes you have the swing of the whole street--you do not have to walk yourself down hunting stores in different localities. it is the same with silks, antiquities, shawls, etc. the place is crowded with people all the time, and as the gay-colored eastern fabrics are lavishly displayed before every shop, the great bazaar of stamboul is one of the sights that are worth seeing. it is full of life, and stir, and business, dirt, beggars, asses, yelling peddlers, porters, dervishes, high-born turkish female shoppers, greeks, and weird-looking and weirdly dressed mohammedans from the mountains and the far provinces --and the only solitary thing one does not smell when he is in the great bazaar, is something which smells good. chapter xxxiv. mosques are plenty, churches are plenty, graveyards are plenty, but morals and whiskey are scarce. the koran does not permit mohammedans to drink. their natural instincts do not permit them to be moral. they say the sultan has eight hundred wives. this almost amounts to bigamy. it makes our cheeks burn with shame to see such a thing permitted here in turkey. we do not mind it so much in salt lake, however. circassian and georgian girls are still sold in constantinople by their parents, but not publicly. the great slave marts we have all read so much about--where tender young girls were stripped for inspection, and criticised and discussed just as if they were horses at an agricultural fair--no longer exist. the exhibition and the sales are private now. stocks are up, just at present, partly because of a brisk demand created by the recent return of the sultan's suite from the courts of europe; partly on account of an unusual abundance of bread-stuffs, which leaves holders untortured by hunger and enables them to hold back for high prices; and partly because buyers are too weak to bear the market, while sellers are amply prepared to bull it. under these circumstances, if the american metropolitan newspapers were published here in constantinople, their next commercial report would read about as follows, i suppose: slave girl market report. "best brands circassians, crop of , l ; , l ; , l . best brands georgian, none in market; second quality, , l . nineteen fair to middling wallachian girls offered at l @ , but no takers; sixteen prime a sold in small lots to close out--terms private. "sales of one lot circassians, prime to good, to , at l @ , buyer ; one forty-niner--damaged--at l , seller ten, no deposit. several georgians, fancy brands, , changed hands to fill orders. the georgians now on hand are mostly last year's crop, which was unusually poor. the new crop is a little backward, but will be coming in shortly. as regards its quantity and quality, the accounts are most encouraging. in this connection we can safely say, also, that the new crop of circassians is looking extremely well. his majesty the sultan has already sent in large orders for his new harem, which will be finished within a fortnight, and this has naturally strengthened the market and given circassian stock a strong upward tendency. taking advantage of the inflated market, many of our shrewdest operators are selling short. there are hints of a "corner" on wallachians. "there is nothing new in nubians. slow sale. "eunuchs--none offering; however, large cargoes are expected from egypt today." i think the above would be about the style of the commercial report. prices are pretty high now, and holders firm; but, two or three years ago, parents in a starving condition brought their young daughters down here and sold them for even twenty and thirty dollars, when they could do no better, simply to save themselves and the girls from dying of want. it is sad to think of so distressing a thing as this, and i for one am sincerely glad the prices are up again. commercial morals, especially, are bad. there is no gainsaying that. greek, turkish and armenian morals consist only in attending church regularly on the appointed sabbaths, and in breaking the ten commandments all the balance of the week. it comes natural to them to lie and cheat in the first place, and then they go on and improve on nature until they arrive at perfection. in recommending his son to a merchant as a valuable salesman, a father does not say he is a nice, moral, upright boy, and goes to sunday school and is honest, but he says, "this boy is worth his weight in broad pieces of a hundred--for behold, he will cheat whomsoever hath dealings with him, and from the euxine to the waters of marmora there abideth not so gifted a liar!" how is that for a recommendation? the missionaries tell me that they hear encomiums like that passed upon people every day. they say of a person they admire, "ah, he is a charming swindler, and a most exquisite liar!" every body lies and cheats--every body who is in business, at any rate. even foreigners soon have to come down to the custom of the country, and they do not buy and sell long in constantinople till they lie and cheat like a greek. i say like a greek, because the greeks are called the worst transgressors in this line. several americans long resident in constantinople contend that most turks are pretty trustworthy, but few claim that the greeks have any virtues that a man can discover--at least without a fire assay. i am half willing to believe that the celebrated dogs of constantinople have been misrepresented--slandered. i have always been led to suppose that they were so thick in the streets that they blocked the way; that they moved about in organized companies, platoons and regiments, and took what they wanted by determined and ferocious assault; and that at night they drowned all other sounds with their terrible howlings. the dogs i see here can not be those i have read of. i find them every where, but not in strong force. the most i have found together has been about ten or twenty. and night or day a fair proportion of them were sound asleep. those that were not asleep always looked as if they wanted to be. i never saw such utterly wretched, starving, sad-visaged, broken-hearted looking curs in my life. it seemed a grim satire to accuse such brutes as these of taking things by force of arms. they hardly seemed to have strength enough or ambition enough to walk across the street--i do not know that i have seen one walk that far yet. they are mangy and bruised and mutilated, and often you see one with the hair singed off him in such wide and well defined tracts that he looks like a map of the new territories. they are the sorriest beasts that breathe--the most abject--the most pitiful. in their faces is a settled expression of melancholy, an air of hopeless despondency. the hairless patches on a scalded dog are preferred by the fleas of constantinople to a wider range on a healthier dog; and the exposed places suit the fleas exactly. i saw a dog of this kind start to nibble at a flea--a fly attracted his attention, and he made a snatch at him; the flea called for him once more, and that forever unsettled him; he looked sadly at his flea-pasture, then sadly looked at his bald spot. then he heaved a sigh and dropped his head resignedly upon his paws. he was not equal to the situation. the dogs sleep in the streets, all over the city. from one end of the street to the other, i suppose they will average about eight or ten to a block. sometimes, of course, there are fifteen or twenty to a block. they do not belong to any body, and they seem to have no close personal friendships among each other. but they district the city themselves, and the dogs of each district, whether it be half a block in extent, or ten blocks, have to remain within its bounds. woe to a dog if he crosses the line! his neighbors would snatch the balance of his hair off in a second. so it is said. but they don't look it. they sleep in the streets these days. they are my compass--my guide. when i see the dogs sleep placidly on, while men, sheep, geese, and all moving things turn out and go around them, i know i am not in the great street where the hotel is, and must go further. in the grand rue the dogs have a sort of air of being on the lookout--an air born of being obliged to get out of the way of many carriages every day--and that expression one recognizes in a moment. it does not exist upon the face of any dog without the confines of that street. all others sleep placidly and keep no watch. they would not move, though the sultan himself passed by. in one narrow street (but none of them are wide) i saw three dogs lying coiled up, about a foot or two apart. end to end they lay, and so they just bridged the street neatly, from gutter to gutter. a drove of a hundred sheep came along. they stepped right over the dogs, the rear crowding the front, impatient to get on. the dogs looked lazily up, flinched a little when the impatient feet of the sheep touched their raw backs--sighed, and lay peacefully down again. no talk could be plainer than that. so some of the sheep jumped over them and others scrambled between, occasionally chipping a leg with their sharp hoofs, and when the whole flock had made the trip, the dogs sneezed a little, in the cloud of dust, but never budged their bodies an inch. i thought i was lazy, but i am a steam-engine compared to a constantinople dog. but was not that a singular scene for a city of a million inhabitants? these dogs are the scavengers of the city. that is their official position, and a hard one it is. however, it is their protection. but for their usefulness in partially cleansing these terrible streets, they would not be tolerated long. they eat any thing and every thing that comes in their way, from melon rinds and spoiled grapes up through all the grades and species of dirt and refuse to their own dead friends and relatives--and yet they are always lean, always hungry, always despondent. the people are loath to kill them--do not kill them, in fact. the turks have an innate antipathy to taking the life of any dumb animal, it is said. but they do worse. they hang and kick and stone and scald these wretched creatures to the very verge of death, and then leave them to live and suffer. once a sultan proposed to kill off all the dogs here, and did begin the work--but the populace raised such a howl of horror about it that the massacre was stayed. after a while, he proposed to remove them all to an island in the sea of marmora. no objection was offered, and a ship-load or so was taken away. but when it came to be known that somehow or other the dogs never got to the island, but always fell overboard in the night and perished, another howl was raised and the transportation scheme was dropped. so the dogs remain in peaceable possession of the streets. i do not say that they do not howl at night, nor that they do not attack people who have not a red fez on their heads. i only say that it would be mean for me to accuse them of these unseemly things who have not seen them do them with my own eyes or heard them with my own ears. i was a little surprised to see turks and greeks playing newsboy right here in the mysterious land where the giants and genii of the arabian nights once dwelt--where winged horses and hydra-headed dragons guarded enchanted castles--where princes and princesses flew through the air on carpets that obeyed a mystic talisman--where cities whose houses were made of precious stones sprang up in a night under the hand of the magician, and where busy marts were suddenly stricken with a spell and each citizen lay or sat, or stood with weapon raised or foot advanced, just as he was, speechless and motionless, till time had told a hundred years! it was curious to see newsboys selling papers in so dreamy a land as that. and, to say truly, it is comparatively a new thing here. the selling of newspapers had its birth in constantinople about a year ago, and was a child of the prussian and austrian war. there is one paper published here in the english language--the levant herald--and there are generally a number of greek and a few french papers rising and falling, struggling up and falling again. newspapers are not popular with the sultan's government. they do not understand journalism. the proverb says, "the unknown is always great." to the court, the newspaper is a mysterious and rascally institution. they know what a pestilence is, because they have one occasionally that thins the people out at the rate of two thousand a day, and they regard a newspaper as a mild form of pestilence. when it goes astray, they suppress it--pounce upon it without warning, and throttle it. when it don't go astray for a long time, they get suspicious and throttle it anyhow, because they think it is hatching deviltry. imagine the grand vizier in solemn council with the magnates of the realm, spelling his way through the hated newspaper, and finally delivering his profound decision: "this thing means mischief --it is too darkly, too suspiciously inoffensive--suppress it! warn the publisher that we can not have this sort of thing: put the editor in prison!" the newspaper business has its inconveniences in constantinople. two greek papers and one french one were suppressed here within a few days of each other. no victories of the cretans are allowed to be printed. from time to time the grand vizier sends a notice to the various editors that the cretan insurrection is entirely suppressed, and although that editor knows better, he still has to print the notice. the levant herald is too fond of speaking praisefully of americans to be popular with the sultan, who does not relish our sympathy with the cretans, and therefore that paper has to be particularly circumspect in order to keep out of trouble. once the editor, forgetting the official notice in his paper that the cretans were crushed out, printed a letter of a very different tenor, from the american consul in crete, and was fined two hundred and fifty dollars for it. shortly he printed another from the same source and was imprisoned three months for his pains. i think i could get the assistant editorship of the levant herald, but i am going to try to worry along without it. to suppress a paper here involves the ruin of the publisher, almost. but in naples i think they speculate on misfortunes of that kind. papers are suppressed there every day, and spring up the next day under a new name. during the ten days or a fortnight we staid there one paper was murdered and resurrected twice. the newsboys are smart there, just as they are elsewhere. they take advantage of popular weaknesses. when they find they are not likely to sell out, they approach a citizen mysteriously, and say in a low voice--"last copy, sir: double price; paper just been suppressed!" the man buys it, of course, and finds nothing in it. they do say--i do not vouch for it--but they do say that men sometimes print a vast edition of a paper, with a ferociously seditious article in it, distribute it quickly among the newsboys, and clear out till the government's indignation cools. it pays well. confiscation don't amount to any thing. the type and presses are not worth taking care of. there is only one english newspaper in naples. it has seventy subscribers. the publisher is getting rich very deliberately--very deliberately indeed. i never shall want another turkish lunch. the cooking apparatus was in the little lunch room, near the bazaar, and it was all open to the street. the cook was slovenly, and so was the table, and it had no cloth on it. the fellow took a mass of sausage meat and coated it round a wire and laid it on a charcoal fire to cook. when it was done, he laid it aside and a dog walked sadly in and nipped it. he smelt it first, and probably recognized the remains of a friend. the cook took it away from him and laid it before us. jack said, "i pass"--he plays euchre sometimes--and we all passed in turn. then the cook baked a broad, flat, wheaten cake, greased it well with the sausage, and started towards us with it. it dropped in the dirt, and he picked it up and polished it on his breeches, and laid it before us. jack said, "i pass." we all passed. he put some eggs in a frying pan, and stood pensively prying slabs of meat from between his teeth with a fork. then he used the fork to turn the eggs with--and brought them along. jack said "pass again." all followed suit. we did not know what to do, and so we ordered a new ration of sausage. the cook got out his wire, apportioned a proper amount of sausage-meat, spat it on his hands and fell to work! this time, with one accord, we all passed out. we paid and left. that is all i learned about turkish lunches. a turkish lunch is good, no doubt, but it has its little drawbacks. when i think how i have been swindled by books of oriental travel, i want a tourist for breakfast. for years and years i have dreamed of the wonders of the turkish bath; for years and years i have promised myself that i would yet enjoy one. many and many a time, in fancy, i have lain in the marble bath, and breathed the slumbrous fragrance of eastern spices that filled the air; then passed through a weird and complicated system of pulling and hauling, and drenching and scrubbing, by a gang of naked savages who loomed vast and vaguely through the steaming mists, like demons; then rested for a while on a divan fit for a king; then passed through another complex ordeal, and one more fearful than the first; and, finally, swathed in soft fabrics, been conveyed to a princely saloon and laid on a bed of eider down, where eunuchs, gorgeous of costume, fanned me while i drowsed and dreamed, or contentedly gazed at the rich hangings of the apartment, the soft carpets, the sumptuous furniture, the pictures, and drank delicious coffee, smoked the soothing narghili, and dropped, at the last, into tranquil repose, lulled by sensuous odors from unseen censers, by the gentle influence of the narghili's persian tobacco, and by the music of fountains that counterfeited the pattering of summer rain. that was the picture, just as i got it from incendiary books of travel. it was a poor, miserable imposture. the reality is no more like it than the five points are like the garden of eden. they received me in a great court, paved with marble slabs; around it were broad galleries, one above another, carpeted with seedy matting, railed with unpainted balustrades, and furnished with huge rickety chairs, cushioned with rusty old mattresses, indented with impressions left by the forms of nine successive generations of men who had reposed upon them. the place was vast, naked, dreary; its court a barn, its galleries stalls for human horses. the cadaverous, half nude varlets that served in the establishment had nothing of poetry in their appearance, nothing of romance, nothing of oriental splendor. they shed no entrancing odors --just the contrary. their hungry eyes and their lank forms continually suggested one glaring, unsentimental fact--they wanted what they term in california "a square meal." i went into one of the racks and undressed. an unclean starveling wrapped a gaudy table-cloth about his loins, and hung a white rag over my shoulders. if i had had a tub then, it would have come natural to me to take in washing. i was then conducted down stairs into the wet, slippery court, and the first things that attracted my attention were my heels. my fall excited no comment. they expected it, no doubt. it belonged in the list of softening, sensuous influences peculiar to this home of eastern luxury. it was softening enough, certainly, but its application was not happy. they now gave me a pair of wooden clogs--benches in miniature, with leather straps over them to confine my feet (which they would have done, only i do not wear no. s.) these things dangled uncomfortably by the straps when i lifted up my feet, and came down in awkward and unexpected places when i put them on the floor again, and sometimes turned sideways and wrenched my ankles out of joint. however, it was all oriental luxury, and i did what i could to enjoy it. they put me in another part of the barn and laid me on a stuffy sort of pallet, which was not made of cloth of gold, or persian shawls, but was merely the unpretending sort of thing i have seen in the negro quarters of arkansas. there was nothing whatever in this dim marble prison but five more of these biers. it was a very solemn place. i expected that the spiced odors of araby were going to steal over my senses now, but they did not. a copper-colored skeleton, with a rag around him, brought me a glass decanter of water, with a lighted tobacco pipe in the top of it, and a pliant stem a yard long, with a brass mouth-piece to it. it was the famous "narghili" of the east--the thing the grand turk smokes in the pictures. this began to look like luxury. i took one blast at it, and it was sufficient; the smoke went in a great volume down into my stomach, my lungs, even into the uttermost parts of my frame. i exploded one mighty cough, and it was as if vesuvius had let go. for the next five minutes i smoked at every pore, like a frame house that is on fire on the inside. not any more narghili for me. the smoke had a vile taste, and the taste of a thousand infidel tongues that remained on that brass mouthpiece was viler still. i was getting discouraged. whenever, hereafter, i see the cross-legged grand turk smoking his narghili, in pretended bliss, on the outside of a paper of connecticut tobacco, i shall know him for the shameless humbug he is. this prison was filled with hot air. when i had got warmed up sufficiently to prepare me for a still warmer temperature, they took me where it was--into a marble room, wet, slippery and steamy, and laid me out on a raised platform in the centre. it was very warm. presently my man sat me down by a tank of hot water, drenched me well, gloved his hand with a coarse mitten, and began to polish me all over with it. i began to smell disagreeably. the more he polished the worse i smelt. it was alarming. i said to him: "i perceive that i am pretty far gone. it is plain that i ought to be buried without any unnecessary delay. perhaps you had better go after my friends at once, because the weather is warm, and i can not 'keep' long." he went on scrubbing, and paid no attention. i soon saw that he was reducing my size. he bore hard on his mitten, and from under it rolled little cylinders, like maccaroni. it could not be dirt, for it was too white. he pared me down in this way for a long time. finally i said: "it is a tedious process. it will take hours to trim me to the size you want me; i will wait; go and borrow a jack-plane." he paid no attention at all. after a while he brought a basin, some soap, and something that seemed to be the tail of a horse. he made up a prodigious quantity of soap-suds, deluged me with them from head to foot, without warning me to shut my eyes, and then swabbed me viciously with the horse-tail. then he left me there, a snowy statue of lather, and went away. when i got tired of waiting i went and hunted him up. he was propped against the wall, in another room, asleep. i woke him. he was not disconcerted. he took me back and flooded me with hot water, then turbaned my head, swathed me with dry table-cloths, and conducted me to a latticed chicken-coop in one of the galleries, and pointed to one of those arkansas beds. i mounted it, and vaguely expected the odors of araby a gain. they did not come. the blank, unornamented coop had nothing about it of that oriental voluptuousness one reads of so much. it was more suggestive of the county hospital than any thing else. the skinny servitor brought a narghili, and i got him to take it out again without wasting any time about it. then he brought the world-renowned turkish coffee that poets have sung so rapturously for many generations, and i seized upon it as the last hope that was left of my old dreams of eastern luxury. it was another fraud. of all the unchristian beverages that ever passed my lips, turkish coffee is the worst. the cup is small, it is smeared with grounds; the coffee is black, thick, unsavory of smell, and execrable in taste. the bottom of the cup has a muddy sediment in it half an inch deep. this goes down your throat, and portions of it lodge by the way, and produce a tickling aggravation that keeps you barking and coughing for an hour. here endeth my experience of the celebrated turkish bath, and here also endeth my dream of the bliss the mortal revels in who passes through it. it is a malignant swindle. the man who enjoys it is qualified to enjoy any thing that is repulsive to sight or sense, and he that can invest it with a charm of poetry is able to do the same with any thing else in the world that is tedious, and wretched, and dismal, and nasty. chapter xxxv. we left a dozen passengers in constantinople, and sailed through the beautiful bosporus and far up into the black sea. we left them in the clutches of the celebrated turkish guide, "far-away moses," who will seduce them into buying a ship-load of ottar of roses, splendid turkish vestments, and ail manner of curious things they can never have any use for. murray's invaluable guide-books have mentioned 'far-away moses' name, and he is a made man. he rejoices daily in the fact that he is a recognized celebrity. however, we can not alter our established customs to please the whims of guides; we can not show partialities this late in the day. therefore, ignoring this fellow's brilliant fame, and ignoring the fanciful name he takes such pride in, we called him ferguson, just as we had done with all other guides. it has kept him in a state of smothered exasperation all the time. yet we meant him no harm. after he has gotten himself up regardless of expense, in showy, baggy trowsers, yellow, pointed slippers, fiery fez, silken jacket of blue, voluminous waist-sash of fancy persian stuff filled with a battery of silver-mounted horse-pistols, and has strapped on his terrible scimitar, he considers it an unspeakable humiliation to be called ferguson. it can not be helped. all guides are fergusons to us. we can not master their dreadful foreign names. sebastopol is probably the worst battered town in russia or any where else. but we ought to be pleased with it, nevertheless, for we have been in no country yet where we have been so kindly received, and where we felt that to be americans was a sufficient visa for our passports. the moment the anchor was down, the governor of the town immediately dispatched an officer on board to inquire if he could be of any assistance to us, and to invite us to make ourselves at home in sebastopol! if you know russia, you know that this was a wild stretch of hospitality. they are usually so suspicious of strangers that they worry them excessively with the delays and aggravations incident to a complicated passport system. had we come from any other country we could not have had permission to enter sebastopol and leave again under three days--but as it was, we were at liberty to go and come when and where we pleased. every body in constantinople warned us to be very careful about our passports, see that they were strictly 'en regle', and never to mislay them for a moment: and they told us of numerous instances of englishmen and others who were delayed days, weeks, and even months, in sebastopol, on account of trifling informalities in their passports, and for which they were not to blame. i had lost my passport, and was traveling under my room-mate's, who stayed behind in constantinople to await our return. to read the description of him in that passport and then look at me, any man could see that i was no more like him than i am like hercules. so i went into the harbor of sebastopol with fear and trembling--full of a vague, horrible apprehension that i was going to be found out and hanged. but all that time my true passport had been floating gallantly overhead--and behold it was only our flag. they never asked us for any other. we have had a great many russian and english gentlemen and ladies on board to-day, and the time has passed cheerfully away. they were all happy-spirited people, and i never heard our mother tongue sound so pleasantly as it did when it fell from those english lips in this far-off land. i talked to the russians a good deal, just to be friendly, and they talked to me from the same motive; i am sure that both enjoyed the conversation, but never a word of it either of us understood. i did most of my talking to those english people though, and i am sorry we can not carry some of them along with us. we have gone whithersoever we chose, to-day, and have met with nothing but the kindest attentions. nobody inquired whether we had any passports or not. several of the officers of the government have suggested that we take the ship to a little watering-place thirty miles from here, and pay the emperor of russia a visit. he is rusticating there. these officers said they would take it upon themselves to insure us a cordial reception. they said if we would go, they would not only telegraph the emperor, but send a special courier overland to announce our coming. our time is so short, though, and more especially our coal is so nearly out, that we judged it best to forego the rare pleasure of holding social intercourse with an emperor. ruined pompeii is in good condition compared to sebastopol. here, you may look in whatsoever direction you please, and your eye encounters scarcely any thing but ruin, ruin, ruin!--fragments of houses, crumbled walls, torn and ragged hills, devastation every where! it is as if a mighty earthquake had spent all its terrible forces upon this one little spot. for eighteen long months the storms of war beat upon the helpless town, and left it at last the saddest wreck that ever the sun has looked upon. not one solitary house escaped unscathed--not one remained habitable, even. such utter and complete ruin one could hardly conceive of. the houses had all been solid, dressed stone structures; most of them were ploughed through and through by cannon balls--unroofed and sliced down from eaves to foundation--and now a row of them, half a mile long, looks merely like an endless procession of battered chimneys. no semblance of a house remains in such as these. some of the larger buildings had corners knocked off; pillars cut in two; cornices smashed; holes driven straight through the walls. many of these holes are as round and as cleanly cut as if they had been made with an auger. others are half pierced through, and the clean impression is there in the rock, as smooth and as shapely as if it were done in putty. here and there a ball still sticks in a wall, and from it iron tears trickle down and discolor the stone. the battle-fields were pretty close together. the malakoff tower is on a hill which is right in the edge of the town. the redan was within rifle-shot of the malakoff; inkerman was a mile away; and balaklava removed but an hour's ride. the french trenches, by which they approached and invested the malakoff were carried so close under its sloping sides that one might have stood by the russian guns and tossed a stone into them. repeatedly, during three terrible days, they swarmed up the little malakoff hill, and were beaten back with terrible slaughter. finally, they captured the place, and drove the russians out, who then tried to retreat into the town, but the english had taken the redan, and shut them off with a wall of flame; there was nothing for them to do but go back and retake the malakoff or die under its guns. they did go back; they took the malakoff and retook it two or three times, but their desperate valor could not avail, and they had to give up at last. these fearful fields, where such tempests of death used to rage, are peaceful enough now; no sound is heard, hardly a living thing moves about them, they are lonely and silent--their desolation is complete. there was nothing else to do, and so every body went to hunting relics. they have stocked the ship with them. they brought them from the malakoff, from the redan, inkerman, balaklava--every where. they have brought cannon balls, broken ramrods, fragments of shell--iron enough to freight a sloop. some have even brought bones--brought them laboriously from great distances, and were grieved to hear the surgeon pronounce them only bones of mules and oxen. i knew blucher would not lose an opportunity like this. he brought a sack full on board and was going for another. i prevailed upon him not to go. he has already turned his state-room into a museum of worthless trumpery, which he has gathered up in his travels. he is labeling his trophies, now. i picked up one a while ago, and found it marked "fragment of a russian general." i carried it out to get a better light upon it--it was nothing but a couple of teeth and part of the jaw-bone of a horse. i said with some asperity: "fragment of a russian general! this is absurd. are you never going to learn any sense?" he only said: "go slow--the old woman won't know any different." [his aunt.] this person gathers mementoes with a perfect recklessness, now-a-days; mixes them all up together, and then serenely labels them without any regard to truth, propriety, or even plausibility. i have found him breaking a stone in two, and labeling half of it "chunk busted from the pulpit of demosthenes," and the other half "darnick from the tomb of abelard and heloise." i have known him to gather up a handful of pebbles by the roadside, and bring them on board ship and label them as coming from twenty celebrated localities five hundred miles apart. i remonstrate against these outrages upon reason and truth, of course, but it does no good. i get the same tranquil, unanswerable reply every time: "it don't signify--the old woman won't know any different." ever since we three or four fortunate ones made the midnight trip to athens, it has afforded him genuine satisfaction to give every body in the ship a pebble from the mars-hill where st. paul preached. he got all those pebbles on the sea shore, abreast the ship, but professes to have gathered them from one of our party. however, it is not of any use for me to expose the deception--it affords him pleasure, and does no harm to any body. he says he never expects to run out of mementoes of st. paul as long as he is in reach of a sand-bank. well, he is no worse than others. i notice that all travelers supply deficiencies in their collections in the same way. i shall never have any confidence in such things again while i live. chapter xxxvi. we have got so far east, now--a hundred and fifty-five degrees of longitude from san francisco--that my watch can not "keep the hang" of the time any more. it has grown discouraged, and stopped. i think it did a wise thing. the difference in time between sebastopol and the pacific coast is enormous. when it is six o'clock in the morning here, it is somewhere about week before last in california. we are excusable for getting a little tangled as to time. these distractions and distresses about the time have worried me so much that i was afraid my mind was so much affected that i never would have any appreciation of time again; but when i noticed how handy i was yet about comprehending when it was dinner-time, a blessed tranquillity settled down upon me, and i am tortured with doubts and fears no more. odessa is about twenty hours' run from sebastopol, and is the most northerly port in the black sea. we came here to get coal, principally. the city has a population of one hundred and thirty-three thousand, and is growing faster than any other small city out of america. it is a free port, and is the great grain mart of this particular part of the world. its roadstead is full of ships. engineers are at work, now, turning the open roadstead into a spacious artificial harbor. it is to be almost inclosed by massive stone piers, one of which will extend into the sea over three thousand feet in a straight line. i have not felt so much at home for a long time as i did when i "raised the hill" and stood in odessa for the first time. it looked just like an american city; fine, broad streets, and straight as well; low houses, (two or three stories,) wide, neat, and free from any quaintness of architectural ornamentation; locust trees bordering the sidewalks (they call them acacias;) a stirring, business-look about the streets and the stores; fast walkers; a familiar new look about the houses and every thing; yea, and a driving and smothering cloud of dust that was so like a message from our own dear native land that we could hardly refrain from shedding a few grateful tears and execrations in the old time-honored american way. look up the street or down the street, this way or that way, we saw only america! there was not one thing to remind us that we were in russia. we walked for some little distance, reveling in this home vision, and then we came upon a church and a hack-driver, and presto! the illusion vanished! the church had a slender-spired dome that rounded inward at its base, and looked like a turnip turned upside down, and the hackman seemed to be dressed in a long petticoat with out any hoops. these things were essentially foreign, and so were the carriages --but every body knows about these things, and there is no occasion for my describing them. we were only to stay here a day and a night and take in coal; we consulted the guide-books and were rejoiced to know that there were no sights in odessa to see; and so we had one good, untrammeled holyday on our hands, with nothing to do but idle about the city and enjoy ourselves. we sauntered through the markets and criticised the fearful and wonderful costumes from the back country; examined the populace as far as eyes could do it; and closed the entertainment with an ice-cream debauch. we do not get ice-cream every where, and so, when we do, we are apt to dissipate to excess. we never cared any thing about ice-cream at home, but we look upon it with a sort of idolatry now that it is so scarce in these red-hot climates of the east. we only found two pieces of statuary, and this was another blessing. one was a bronze image of the duc de richelieu, grand-nephew of the splendid cardinal. it stood in a spacious, handsome promenade, overlooking the sea, and from its base a vast flight of stone steps led down to the harbor--two hundred of them, fifty feet long, and a wide landing at the bottom of every twenty. it is a noble staircase, and from a distance the people toiling up it looked like insects. i mention this statue and this stairway because they have their story. richelieu founded odessa --watched over it with paternal care--labored with a fertile brain and a wise understanding for its best interests--spent his fortune freely to the same end--endowed it with a sound prosperity, and one which will yet make it one of the great cities of the old world--built this noble stairway with money from his own private purse--and--. well, the people for whom he had done so much, let him walk down these same steps, one day, unattended, old, poor, without a second coat to his back; and when, years afterwards, he died in sebastopol in poverty and neglect, they called a meeting, subscribed liberally, and immediately erected this tasteful monument to his memory, and named a great street after him. it reminds me of what robert burns' mother said when they erected a stately monument to his memory: "ah, robbie, ye asked them for bread and they hae gi'en ye a stane." the people of odessa have warmly recommended us to go and call on the emperor, as did the sebastopolians. they have telegraphed his majesty, and he has signified his willingness to grant us an audience. so we are getting up the anchors and preparing to sail to his watering-place. what a scratching around there will be, now! what a holding of important meetings and appointing of solemn committees!--and what a furbishing up of claw-hammer coats and white silk neck-ties! as this fearful ordeal we are about to pass through pictures itself to my fancy in all its dread sublimity, i begin to feel my fierce desire to converse with a genuine emperor cooling down and passing away. what am i to do with my hands? what am i to do with my feet? what in the world am i to do with myself? chapter xxxvii. we anchored here at yalta, russia, two or three days ago. to me the place was a vision of the sierras. the tall, gray mountains that back it, their sides bristling with pines--cloven with ravines--here and there a hoary rock towering into view--long, straight streaks sweeping down from the summit to the sea, marking the passage of some avalanche of former times--all these were as like what one sees in the sierras as if the one were a portrait of the other. the little village of yalta nestles at the foot of an amphitheatre which slopes backward and upward to the wall of hills, and looks as if it might have sunk quietly down to its present position from a higher elevation. this depression is covered with the great parks and gardens of noblemen, and through the mass of green foliage the bright colors of their palaces bud out here and there like flowers. it is a beautiful spot. we had the united states consul on board--the odessa consul. we assembled in the cabin and commanded him to tell us what we must do to be saved, and tell us quickly. he made a speech. the first thing he said fell like a blight on every hopeful spirit: he had never seen a court reception. (three groans for the consul.) but he said he had seen receptions at the governor general's in odessa, and had often listened to people's experiences of receptions at the russian and other courts, and believed he knew very well what sort of ordeal we were about to essay. (hope budded again.) he said we were many; the summer palace was small --a mere mansion; doubtless we should be received in summer fashion--in the garden; we would stand in a row, all the gentlemen in swallow-tail coats, white kids, and white neck-ties, and the ladies in light-colored silks, or something of that kind; at the proper moment-- meridian--the emperor, attended by his suite arrayed in splendid uniforms, would appear and walk slowly along the line, bowing to some, and saying two or three words to others. at the moment his majesty appeared, a universal, delighted, enthusiastic smile ought to break out like a rash among the passengers--a smile of love, of gratification, of admiration--and with one accord, the party must begin to bow--not obsequiously, but respectfully, and with dignity; at the end of fifteen minutes the emperor would go in the house, and we could run along home again. we felt immensely relieved. it seemed, in a manner, easy. there was not a man in the party but believed that with a little practice he could stand in a row, especially if there were others along; there was not a man but believed he could bow without tripping on his coat tail and breaking his neck; in a word, we came to believe we were equal to any item in the performance except that complicated smile. the consul also said we ought to draft a little address to the emperor, and present it to one of his aides-de-camp, who would forward it to him at the proper time. therefore, five gentlemen were appointed to prepare the document, and the fifty others went sadly smiling about the ship--practicing. during the next twelve hours we had the general appearance, somehow, of being at a funeral, where every body was sorry the death had occurred, but glad it was over--where every body was smiling, and yet broken-hearted. a committee went ashore to wait on his excellency the governor-general, and learn our fate. at the end of three hours of boding suspense, they came back and said the emperor would receive us at noon the next day --would send carriages for us--would hear the address in person. the grand duke michael had sent to invite us to his palace also. any man could see that there was an intention here to show that russia's friendship for america was so genuine as to render even her private citizens objects worthy of kindly attentions. at the appointed hour we drove out three miles, and assembled in the handsome garden in front of the emperor's palace. we formed a circle under the trees before the door, for there was no one room in the house able to accommodate our three-score persons comfortably, and in a few minutes the imperial family came out bowing and smiling, and stood in our midst. a number of great dignitaries of the empire, in undress unit forms, came with them. with every bow, his majesty said a word of welcome. i copy these speeches. there is character in them--russian character--which is politeness itself, and the genuine article. the french are polite, but it is often mere ceremonious politeness. a russian imbues his polite things with a heartiness, both of phrase and expression, that compels belief in their sincerity. as i was saying, the czar punctuated his speeches with bows: "good morning--i am glad to see you--i am gratified--i am delighted--i am happy to receive you!" all took off their hats, and the consul inflicted the address on him. he bore it with unflinching fortitude; then took the rusty-looking document and handed it to some great officer or other, to be filed away among the archives of russia--in the stove. he thanked us for the address, and said he was very much pleased to see us, especially as such friendly relations existed between russia and the united states. the empress said the americans were favorites in russia, and she hoped the russians were similarly regarded in america. these were all the speeches that were made, and i recommend them to parties who present policemen with gold watches, as models of brevity and point. after this the empress went and talked sociably (for an empress) with various ladies around the circle; several gentlemen entered into a disjointed general conversation with the emperor; the dukes and princes, admirals and maids of honor dropped into free-and-easy chat with first one and then another of our party, and whoever chose stepped forward and spoke with the modest little grand duchess marie, the czar's daughter. she is fourteen years old, light-haired, blue-eyed, unassuming and pretty. every body talks english. the emperor wore a cap, frock coat and pantaloons, all of some kind of plain white drilling--cotton or linen and sported no jewelry or any insignia whatever of rank. no costume could be less ostentatious. he is very tall and spare, and a determined-looking man, though a very pleasant-looking one nevertheless. it is easy to see that he is kind and affectionate there is something very noble in his expression when his cap is off. there is none of that cunning in his eye that all of us noticed in louis napoleon's. the empress and the little grand duchess wore simple suits of foulard (or foulard silk, i don't know which is proper,) with a small blue spot in it; the dresses were trimmed with blue; both ladies wore broad blue sashes about their waists; linen collars and clerical ties of muslin; low-crowned straw-hats trimmed with blue velvet; parasols and flesh-colored gloves. the grand duchess had no heels on her shoes. i do not know this of my own knowledge, but one of our ladies told me so. i was not looking at her shoes. i was glad to observe that she wore her own hair, plaited in thick braids against the back of her head, instead of the uncomely thing they call a waterfall, which is about as much like a waterfall as a canvas-covered ham is like a cataract. taking the kind expression that is in the emperor's face and the gentleness that is in his young daughter's into consideration, i wondered if it would not tax the czar's firmness to the utmost to condemn a supplicating wretch to misery in the wastes of siberia if she pleaded for him. every time their eyes met, i saw more and more what a tremendous power that weak, diffident school-girl could wield if she chose to do it. many and many a time she might rule the autocrat of russia, whose lightest word is law to seventy millions of human beings! she was only a girl, and she looked like a thousand others i have seen, but never a girl provoked such a novel and peculiar interest in me before. a strange, new sensation is a rare thing in this hum-drum life, and i had it here. there was nothing stale or worn out about the thoughts and feelings the situation and the circumstances created. it seemed strange--stranger than i can tell--to think that the central figure in the cluster of men and women, chatting here under the trees like the most ordinary individual in the land, was a man who could open his lips and ships would fly through the waves, locomotives would speed over the plains, couriers would hurry from village to village, a hundred telegraphs would flash the word to the four corners of an empire that stretches its vast proportions over a seventh part of the habitable globe, and a countless multitude of men would spring to do his bidding. i had a sort of vague desire to examine his hands and see if they were of flesh and blood, like other men's. here was a man who could do this wonderful thing, and yet if i chose i could knock him down. the case was plain, but it seemed preposterous, nevertheless--as preposterous as trying to knock down a mountain or wipe out a continent. if this man sprained his ankle, a million miles of telegraph would carry the news over mountains --valleys--uninhabited deserts--under the trackless sea--and ten thousand newspapers would prate of it; if he were grievously ill, all the nations would know it before the sun rose again; if he dropped lifeless where he stood, his fall might shake the thrones of half a world! if i could have stolen his coat, i would have done it. when i meet a man like that, i want something to remember him by. as a general thing, we have been shown through palaces by some plush-legged filagreed flunkey or other, who charged a franc for it; but after talking with the company half an hour, the emperor of russia and his family conducted us all through their mansion themselves. they made no charge. they seemed to take a real pleasure in it. we spent half an hour idling through the palace, admiring the cosy apartments and the rich but eminently home-like appointments of the place, and then the imperial family bade our party a kind good-bye, and proceeded to count the spoons. an invitation was extended to us to visit the palace of the eldest son, the crown prince of russia, which was near at hand. the young man was absent, but the dukes and countesses and princes went over the premises with us as leisurely as was the case at the emperor's, and conversation continued as lively as ever. it was a little after one o'clock, now. we drove to the grand duke michael's, a mile away, in response to his invitation, previously given. we arrived in twenty minutes from the emperor's. it is a lovely place. the beautiful palace nestles among the grand old groves of the park, the park sits in the lap of the picturesque crags and hills, and both look out upon the breezy ocean. in the park are rustic seats, here and there, in secluded nooks that are dark with shade; there are rivulets of crystal water; there are lakelets, with inviting, grassy banks; there are glimpses of sparkling cascades through openings in the wilderness of foliage; there are streams of clear water gushing from mimic knots on the trunks of forest trees; there are miniature marble temples perched upon gray old crags; there are airy lookouts whence one may gaze upon a broad expanse of landscape and ocean. the palace is modeled after the choicest forms of grecian architecture, and its wide colonnades surround a central court that is banked with rare flowers that fill the place with their fragrance, and in their midst springs a fountain that cools the summer air, and may possibly breed mosquitoes, but i do not think it does. the grand duke and his duchess came out, and the presentation ceremonies were as simple as they had been at the emperor's. in a few minutes, conversation was under way, as before. the empress appeared in the verandah, and the little grand duchess came out into the crowd. they had beaten us there. in a few minutes, the emperor came himself on horseback. it was very pleasant. you can appreciate it if you have ever visited royalty and felt occasionally that possibly you might be wearing out your welcome--though as a general thing, i believe, royalty is not scrupulous about discharging you when it is done with you. the grand duke is the third brother of the emperor, is about thirty-seven years old, perhaps, and is the princeliest figure in russia. he is even taller than the czar, as straight as an indian, and bears himself like one of those gorgeous knights we read about in romances of the crusades. he looks like a great-hearted fellow who would pitch an enemy into the river in a moment, and then jump in and risk his life fishing him out again. the stories they tell of him show him to be of a brave and generous nature. he must have been desirous of proving that americans were welcome guests in the imperial palaces of russia, because he rode all the way to yalta and escorted our procession to the emperor's himself, and kept his aids scurrying about, clearing the road and offering assistance wherever it could be needed. we were rather familiar with him then, because we did not know who he was. we recognized him now, and appreciated the friendly spirit that prompted him to do us a favor that any other grand duke in the world would have doubtless declined to do. he had plenty of servitors whom he could have sent, but he chose to attend to the matter himself. the grand duke was dressed in the handsome and showy uniform of a cossack officer. the grand duchess had on a white alpaca robe, with the seams and gores trimmed with black barb lace, and a little gray hat with a feather of the same color. she is young, rather pretty modest and unpretending, and full of winning politeness. our party walked all through the house, and then the nobility escorted them all over the grounds, and finally brought them back to the palace about half-past two o'clock to breakfast. they called it breakfast, but we would have called it luncheon. it consisted of two kinds of wine; tea, bread, cheese, and cold meats, and was served on the centre-tables in the reception room and the verandahs--anywhere that was convenient; there was no ceremony. it was a sort of picnic. i had heard before that we were to breakfast there, but blucher said he believed baker's boy had suggested it to his imperial highness. i think not--though it would be like him. baker's boy is the famine-breeder of the ship. he is always hungry. they say he goes about the state-rooms when the passengers are out, and eats up all the soap. and they say he eats oakum. they say he will eat any thing he can get between meals, but he prefers oakum. he does not like oakum for dinner, but he likes it for a lunch, at odd hours, or any thing that way. it makes him very disagreeable, because it makes his breath bad, and keeps his teeth all stuck up with tar. baker's boy may have suggested the breakfast, but i hope he did not. it went off well, anyhow. the illustrious host moved about from place to place, and helped to destroy the provisions and keep the conversation lively, and the grand duchess talked with the verandah parties and such as had satisfied their appetites and straggled out from the reception room. the grand duke's tea was delicious. they give one a lemon to squeeze into it, or iced milk, if he prefers it. the former is best. this tea is brought overland from china. it injures the article to transport it by sea. when it was time to go, we bade our distinguished hosts good-bye, and they retired happy and contented to their apartments to count their spoons. we had spent the best part of half a day in the home of royalty, and had been as cheerful and comfortable all the time as we could have been in the ship. i would as soon have thought of being cheerful in abraham's bosom as in the palace of an emperor. i supposed that emperors were terrible people. i thought they never did any thing but wear magnificent crowns and red velvet dressing-gowns with dabs of wool sewed on them in spots, and sit on thrones and scowl at the flunkies and the people in the parquette, and order dukes and duchesses off to execution. i find, however, that when one is so fortunate as to get behind the scenes and see them at home and in the privacy of their firesides, they are strangely like common mortals. they are pleasanter to look upon then than they are in their theatrical aspect. it seems to come as natural to them to dress and act like other people as it is to put a friend's cedar pencil in your pocket when you are done using it. but i can never have any confidence in the tinsel kings of the theatre after this. it will be a great loss. i used to take such a thrilling pleasure in them. but, hereafter, i will turn me sadly away and say; "this does not answer--this isn't the style of king that i am acquainted with." when they swagger around the stage in jeweled crowns and splendid robes, i shall feel bound to observe that all the emperors that ever i was personally acquainted with wore the commonest sort of clothes, and did not swagger. and when they come on the stage attended by a vast body-guard of supes in helmets and tin breastplates, it will be my duty as well as my pleasure to inform the ignorant that no crowned head of my acquaintance has a soldier any where about his house or his person. possibly it may be thought that our party tarried too long, or did other improper things, but such was not the case. the company felt that they were occupying an unusually responsible position--they were representing the people of america, not the government--and therefore they were careful to do their best to perform their high mission with credit. on the other hand, the imperial families, no doubt, considered that in entertaining us they were more especially entertaining the people of america than they could by showering attentions on a whole platoon of ministers plenipotentiary and therefore they gave to the event its fullest significance, as an expression of good will and friendly feeling toward the entire country. we took the kindnesses we received as attentions thus directed, of course, and not to ourselves as a party. that we felt a personal pride in being received as the representatives of a nation, we do not deny; that we felt a national pride in the warm cordiality of that reception, can not be doubted. our poet has been rigidly suppressed, from the time we let go the anchor. when it was announced that we were going to visit the emperor of russia, the fountains of his great deep were broken up, and he rained ineffable bosh for four-and-twenty hours. our original anxiety as to what we were going to do with ourselves, was suddenly transformed into anxiety about what we were going to do with our poet. the problem was solved at last. two alternatives were offered him--he must either swear a dreadful oath that he would not issue a line of his poetry while he was in the czar's dominions, or else remain under guard on board the ship until we were safe at constantinople again. he fought the dilemma long, but yielded at last. it was a great deliverance. perhaps the savage reader would like a specimen of his style. i do not mean this term to be offensive. i only use it because "the gentle reader" has been used so often that any change from it can not but be refreshing: "save us and sanctify us, and finally, then, see good provisions we enjoy while we journey to jerusalem. for so man proposes, which it is most true and time will wait for none, nor for us too." the sea has been unusually rough all day. however, we have had a lively time of it, anyhow. we have had quite a run of visitors. the governor-general came, and we received him with a salute of nine guns. he brought his family with him. i observed that carpets were spread from the pier-head to his carriage for him to walk on, though i have seen him walk there without any carpet when he was not on business. i thought may be he had what the accidental insurance people might call an extra-hazardous polish ("policy" joke, but not above mediocrity,) on his boots, and wished to protect them, but i examined and could not see that they were blacked any better than usual. it may have been that he had forgotten his carpet, before, but he did not have it with him, anyhow. he was an exceedingly pleasant old gentleman; we all liked him, especially blucher. when he went away, blucher invited him to come again and fetch his carpet along. prince dolgorouki and a grand admiral or two, whom we had seen yesterday at the reception, came on board also. i was a little distant with these parties, at first, because when i have been visiting emperors i do not like to be too familiar with people i only know by reputation, and whose moral characters and standing in society i can not be thoroughly acquainted with. i judged it best to be a little offish, at first. i said to myself, princes and counts and grand admirals are very well, but they are not emperors, and one can not be too particular about who he associates with. baron wrangel came, also. he used to be russian ambassador at washington. i told him i had an uncle who fell down a shaft and broke himself in two, as much as a year before that. that was a falsehood, but then i was not going to let any man eclipse me on surprising adventures, merely for the want of a little invention. the baron is a fine man, and is said to stand high in the emperor's confidence and esteem. baron ungern-sternberg, a boisterous, whole-souled old nobleman, came with the rest. he is a man of progress and enterprise--a representative man of the age. he is the chief director of the railway system of russia--a sort of railroad king. in his line he is making things move along in this country he has traveled extensively in america. he says he has tried convict labor on his railroads, and with perfect success. he says the convicts work well, and are quiet and peaceable. he observed that he employs nearly ten thousand of them now. this appeared to be another call on my resources. i was equal to the emergency. i said we had eighty thousand convicts employed on the railways in america--all of them under sentence of death for murder in the first degree. that closed him out. we had general todtleben (the famous defender of sebastopol, during the siege,) and many inferior army and also navy officers, and a number of unofficial russian ladies and gentlemen. naturally, a champagne luncheon was in order, and was accomplished without loss of life. toasts and jokes were discharged freely, but no speeches were made save one thanking the emperor and the grand duke, through the governor-general, for our hospitable reception, and one by the governor-general in reply, in which he returned the emperor's thanks for the speech, etc., etc. chapter xxxviii. we returned to constantinople, and after a day or two spent in exhausting marches about the city and voyages up the golden horn in caiques, we steamed away again. we passed through the sea of marmora and the dardanelles, and steered for a new land--a new one to us, at least--asia. we had as yet only acquired a bowing acquaintance with it, through pleasure excursions to scutari and the regions round about. we passed between lemnos and mytilene, and saw them as we had seen elba and the balearic isles--mere bulky shapes, with the softening mists of distance upon them--whales in a fog, as it were. then we held our course southward, and began to "read up" celebrated smyrna. at all hours of the day and night the sailors in the forecastle amused themselves and aggravated us by burlesquing our visit to royalty. the opening paragraph of our address to the emperor was framed as follows: "we are a handful of private citizens of america, traveling simply for recreation--and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial state--and, therefore, we have no excuse to tender for presenting ourselves before your majesty, save the desire of offering our grateful acknowledgments to the lord of a realm, which, through good and through evil report, has been the steadfast friend of the land we love so well." the third cook, crowned with a resplendent tin basin and wrapped royally in a table-cloth mottled with grease-spots and coffee stains, and bearing a sceptre that looked strangely like a belaying-pin, walked upon a dilapidated carpet and perched himself on the capstan, careless of the flying spray; his tarred and weather-beaten chamberlains, dukes and lord high admirals surrounded him, arrayed in all the pomp that spare tarpaulins and remnants of old sails could furnish. then the visiting "watch below," transformed into graceless ladies and uncouth pilgrims, by rude travesties upon waterfalls, hoopskirts, white kid gloves and swallow-tail coats, moved solemnly up the companion way, and bowing low, began a system of complicated and extraordinary smiling which few monarchs could look upon and live. then the mock consul, a slush-plastered deck-sweep, drew out a soiled fragment of paper and proceeded to read, laboriously: "to his imperial majesty, alexander ii., emperor of russia: "we are a handful of private citizens of america, traveling simply for recreation,--and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial state--and therefore, we have no excuse to tender for presenting ourselves before your majesty--" the emperor--"then what the devil did you come for?" --"save the desire of offering our grateful acknowledgments to the lord of a realm which--" the emperor--" oh, d--n the address!--read it to the police. chamberlain, take these people over to my brother, the grand duke's, and give them a square meal. adieu! i am happy--i am gratified--i am delighted--i am bored. adieu, adieu--vamos the ranch! the first groom of the palace will proceed to count the portable articles of value belonging to the premises." the farce then closed, to be repeated again with every change of the watches, and embellished with new and still more extravagant inventions of pomp and conversation. at all times of the day and night the phraseology of that tiresome address fell upon our ears. grimy sailors came down out of the foretop placidly announcing themselves as "a handful of private citizens of america, traveling simply for recreation and unostentatiously," etc.; the coal passers moved to their duties in the profound depths of the ship, explaining the blackness of their faces and their uncouthness of dress, with the reminder that they were "a handful of private citizens, traveling simply for recreation," etc., and when the cry rang through the vessel at midnight: "eight bells!--larboard watch, turn out!" the larboard watch came gaping and stretching out of their den, with the everlasting formula: "aye-aye, sir! we are a handful of private citizens of america, traveling simply for recreation, and unostentatiously, as becomes our unofficial state!" as i was a member of the committee, and helped to frame the address, these sarcasms came home to me. i never heard a sailor proclaiming himself as a handful of american citizens traveling for recreation, but i wished he might trip and fall overboard, and so reduce his handful by one individual, at least. i never was so tired of any one phrase as the sailors made me of the opening sentence of the address to the emperor of russia. this seaport of smyrna, our first notable acquaintance in asia, is a closely packed city of one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants, and, like constantinople, it has no outskirts. it is as closely packed at its outer edges as it is in the centre, and then the habitations leave suddenly off and the plain beyond seems houseless. it is just like any other oriental city. that is to say, its moslem houses are heavy and dark, and as comfortless as so many tombs; its streets are crooked, rudely and roughly paved, and as narrow as an ordinary staircase; the streets uniformly carry a man to any other place than the one he wants to go to, and surprise him by landing him in the most unexpected localities; business is chiefly carried on in great covered bazaars, celled like a honeycomb with innumerable shops no larger than a common closet, and the whole hive cut up into a maze of alleys about wide enough to accommodate a laden camel, and well calculated to confuse a stranger and eventually lose him; every where there is dirt, every where there are fleas, every where there are lean, broken-hearted dogs; every alley is thronged with people; wherever you look, your eye rests upon a wild masquerade of extravagant costumes; the workshops are all open to the streets, and the workmen visible; all manner of sounds assail the ear, and over them all rings out the muezzin's cry from some tall minaret, calling the faithful vagabonds to prayer; and superior to the call to prayer, the noises in the streets, the interest of the costumes--superior to every thing, and claiming the bulk of attention first, last, and all the time--is a combination of mohammedan stenches, to which the smell of even a chinese quarter would be as pleasant as the roasting odors of the fatted calf to the nostrils of the returning prodigal. such is oriental luxury--such is oriental splendor! we read about it all our days, but we comprehend it not until we see it. smyrna is a very old city. its name occurs several times in the bible, one or two of the disciples of christ visited it, and here was located one of the original seven apocalyptic churches spoken of in revelations. these churches were symbolized in the scriptures as candlesticks, and on certain conditions there was a sort of implied promise that smyrna should be endowed with a "crown of life." she was to "be faithful unto death"--those were the terms. she has not kept up her faith straight along, but the pilgrims that wander hither consider that she has come near enough to it to save her, and so they point to the fact that smyrna to-day wears her crown of life, and is a great city, with a great commerce and full of energy, while the cities wherein were located the other six churches, and to which no crown of life was promised, have vanished from the earth. so smyrna really still possesses her crown of life, in a business point of view. her career, for eighteen centuries, has been a chequered one, and she has been under the rule of princes of many creeds, yet there has been no season during all that time, as far as we know, (and during such seasons as she was inhabited at all,) that she has been without her little community of christians "faithful unto death." hers was the only church against which no threats were implied in the revelations, and the only one which survived. with ephesus, forty miles from here, where was located another of the seven churches, the case was different. the "candlestick" has been removed from ephesus. her light has been put out. pilgrims, always prone to find prophecies in the bible, and often where none exist, speak cheerfully and complacently of poor, ruined ephesus as the victim of prophecy. and yet there is no sentence that promises, without due qualification, the destruction of the city. the words are: "remember, therefore, from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works; or else i will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent." that is all; the other verses are singularly complimentary to ephesus. the threat is qualified. there is no history to show that she did not repent. but the cruelest habit the modern prophecy-savans have, is that one of coolly and arbitrarily fitting the prophetic shirt on to the wrong man. they do it without regard to rhyme or reason. both the cases i have just mentioned are instances in point. those "prophecies" are distinctly leveled at the "churches of ephesus, smyrna," etc., and yet the pilgrims invariably make them refer to the cities instead. no crown of life is promised to the town of smyrna and its commerce, but to the handful of christians who formed its "church." if they were "faithful unto death," they have their crown now--but no amount of faithfulness and legal shrewdness combined could legitimately drag the city into a participation in the promises of the prophecy. the stately language of the bible refers to a crown of life whose lustre will reflect the day-beams of the endless ages of eternity, not the butterfly existence of a city built by men's hands, which must pass to dust with the builders and be forgotten even in the mere handful of centuries vouchsafed to the solid world itself between its cradle and its grave. the fashion of delving out fulfillments of prophecy where that prophecy consists of mere "ifs," trenches upon the absurd. suppose, a thousand years from now, a malarious swamp builds itself up in the shallow harbor of smyrna, or something else kills the town; and suppose, also, that within that time the swamp that has filled the renowned harbor of ephesus and rendered her ancient site deadly and uninhabitable to-day, becomes hard and healthy ground; suppose the natural consequence ensues, to wit: that smyrna becomes a melancholy ruin, and ephesus is rebuilt. what would the prophecy-savans say? they would coolly skip over our age of the world, and say: "smyrna was not faithful unto death, and so her crown of life was denied her; ephesus repented, and lo! her candle-stick was not removed. behold these evidences! how wonderful is prophecy!" smyrna has been utterly destroyed six times. if her crown of life had been an insurance policy, she would have had an opportunity to collect on it the first time she fell. but she holds it on sufferance and by a complimentary construction of language which does not refer to her. six different times, however, i suppose some infatuated prophecy-enthusiast blundered along and said, to the infinite disgust of smyrna and the smyrniotes: "in sooth, here is astounding fulfillment of prophecy! smyrna hath not been faithful unto death, and behold her crown of life is vanished from her head. verily, these things be astonishing!" such things have a bad influence. they provoke worldly men into using light conversation concerning sacred subjects. thick-headed commentators upon the bible, and stupid preachers and teachers, work more damage to religion than sensible, cool-brained clergymen can fight away again, toil as they may. it is not good judgment to fit a crown of life upon a city which has been destroyed six times. that other class of wiseacres who twist prophecy in such a manner as to make it promise the destruction and desolation of the same city, use judgment just as bad, since the city is in a very flourishing condition now, unhappily for them. these things put arguments into the mouth of infidelity. a portion of the city is pretty exclusively turkish; the jews have a quarter to themselves; the franks another quarter; so, also, with the armenians. the armenians, of course, are christians. their houses are large, clean, airy, handsomely paved with black and white squares of marble, and in the centre of many of them is a square court, which has in it a luxuriant flower-garden and a sparkling fountain; the doors of all the rooms open on this. a very wide hall leads to the street door, and in this the women sit, the most of the day. in the cool of the evening they dress up in their best raiment and show themselves at the door. they are all comely of countenance, and exceedingly neat and cleanly; they look as if they were just out of a band-box. some of the young ladies--many of them, i may say--are even very beautiful; they average a shade better than american girls--which treasonable words i pray may be forgiven me. they are very sociable, and will smile back when a stranger smiles at them, bow back when he bows, and talk back if he speaks to them. no introduction is required. an hour's chat at the door with a pretty girl one never saw before, is easily obtained, and is very pleasant. i have tried it. i could not talk anything but english, and the girl knew nothing but greek, or armenian, or some such barbarous tongue, but we got along very well. i find that in cases like these, the fact that you can not comprehend each other isn't much of a drawback. in that russian town of yalta i danced an astonishing sort of dance an hour long, and one i had not heard of before, with a very pretty girl, and we talked incessantly, and laughed exhaustingly, and neither one ever knew what the other was driving at. but it was splendid. there were twenty people in the set, and the dance was very lively and complicated. it was complicated enough without me--with me it was more so. i threw in a figure now and then that surprised those russians. but i have never ceased to think of that girl. i have written to her, but i can not direct the epistle because her name is one of those nine-jointed russian affairs, and there are not letters enough in our alphabet to hold out. i am not reckless enough to try to pronounce it when i am awake, but i make a stagger at it in my dreams, and get up with the lockjaw in the morning. i am fading. i do not take my meals now, with any sort of regularity. her dear name haunts me still in my dreams. it is awful on teeth. it never comes out of my mouth but it fetches an old snag along with it. and then the lockjaw closes down and nips off a couple of the last syllables--but they taste good. coming through the dardanelles, we saw camel trains on shore with the glasses, but we were never close to one till we got to smyrna. these camels are very much larger than the scrawny specimens one sees in the menagerie. they stride along these streets, in single file, a dozen in a train, with heavy loads on their backs, and a fancy-looking negro in turkish costume, or an arab, preceding them on a little donkey and completely overshadowed and rendered insignificant by the huge beasts. to see a camel train laden with the spices of arabia and the rare fabrics of persia come marching through the narrow alleys of the bazaar, among porters with their burdens, money-changers, lamp-merchants, al-naschars in the glassware business, portly cross-legged turks smoking the famous narghili; and the crowds drifting to and fro in the fanciful costumes of the east, is a genuine revelation of the orient. the picture lacks nothing. it casts you back at once into your forgotten boyhood, and again you dream over the wonders of the arabian nights; again your companions are princes, your lord is the caliph haroun al raschid, and your servants are terrific giants and genii that come with smoke and lightning and thunder, and go as a storm goes when they depart! chapter xxxix. we inquired, and learned that the lions of smyrna consisted of the ruins of the ancient citadel, whose broken and prodigious battlements frown upon the city from a lofty hill just in the edge of the town--the mount pagus of scripture, they call it; the site of that one of the seven apocalyptic churches of asia which was located here in the first century of the christian era; and the grave and the place of martyrdom of the venerable polycarp, who suffered in smyrna for his religion some eighteen hundred years ago. we took little donkeys and started. we saw polycarp's tomb, and then hurried on. the "seven churches"--thus they abbreviate it--came next on the list. we rode there--about a mile and a half in the sweltering sun--and visited a little greek church which they said was built upon the ancient site; and we paid a small fee, and the holy attendant gave each of us a little wax candle as a remembrancer of the place, and i put mine in my hat and the sun melted it and the grease all ran down the back of my neck; and so now i have not any thing left but the wick, and it is a sorry and a wilted-looking wick at that. several of us argued as well as we could that the "church" mentioned in the bible meant a party of christians, and not a building; that the bible spoke of them as being very poor--so poor, i thought, and so subject to persecution (as per polycarp's martyrdom) that in the first place they probably could not have afforded a church edifice, and in the second would not have dared to build it in the open light of day if they could; and finally, that if they had had the privilege of building it, common judgment would have suggested that they build it somewhere near the town. but the elders of the ship's family ruled us down and scouted our evidences. however, retribution came to them afterward. they found that they had been led astray and had gone to the wrong place; they discovered that the accepted site is in the city. riding through the town, we could see marks of the six smyrnas that have existed here and been burned up by fire or knocked down by earthquakes. the hills and the rocks are rent asunder in places, excavations expose great blocks of building-stone that have lain buried for ages, and all the mean houses and walls of modern smyrna along the way are spotted white with broken pillars, capitals and fragments of sculptured marble that once adorned the lordly palaces that were the glory of the city in the olden time. the ascent of the hill of the citadel is very steep, and we proceeded rather slowly. but there were matters of interest about us. in one place, five hundred feet above the sea, the perpendicular bank on the upper side of the road was ten or fifteen feet high, and the cut exposed three veins of oyster shells, just as we have seen quartz veins exposed in the cutting of a road in nevada or montana. the veins were about eighteen inches thick and two or three feet apart, and they slanted along downward for a distance of thirty feet or more, and then disappeared where the cut joined the road. heaven only knows how far a man might trace them by "stripping." they were clean, nice oyster shells, large, and just like any other oyster shells. they were thickly massed together, and none were scattered above or below the veins. each one was a well-defined lead by itself, and without a spur. my first instinct was to set up the usual-- notice: "we, the undersigned, claim five claims of two hundred feet each, (and one for discovery,) on this ledge or lode of oyster-shells, with all its dips, spurs, angles, variations and sinuosities, and fifty feet on each side of the same, to work it, etc., etc., according to the mining laws of smyrna." they were such perfectly natural-looking leads that i could hardly keep from "taking them up." among the oyster-shells were mixed many fragments of ancient, broken crockery ware. now how did those masses of oyster-shells get there? i can not determine. broken crockery and oyster-shells are suggestive of restaurants--but then they could have had no such places away up there on that mountain side in our time, because nobody has lived up there. a restaurant would not pay in such a stony, forbidding, desolate place. and besides, there were no champagne corks among the shells. if there ever was a restaurant there, it must have been in smyrna's palmy days, when the hills were covered with palaces. i could believe in one restaurant, on those terms; but then how about the three? did they have restaurants there at three different periods of the world?--because there are two or three feet of solid earth between the oyster leads. evidently, the restaurant solution will not answer. the hill might have been the bottom of the sea, once, and been lifted up, with its oyster-beds, by an earthquake--but, then, how about the crockery? and moreover, how about three oyster beds, one above another, and thick strata of good honest earth between? that theory will not do. it is just possible that this hill is mount ararat, and that noah's ark rested here, and he ate oysters and threw the shells overboard. but that will not do, either. there are the three layers again and the solid earth between--and, besides, there were only eight in noah's family, and they could not have eaten all these oysters in the two or three months they staid on top of that mountain. the beasts--however, it is simply absurd to suppose he did not know any more than to feed the beasts on oyster suppers. it is painful--it is even humiliating--but i am reduced at last to one slender theory: that the oysters climbed up there of their own accord. but what object could they have had in view?--what did they want up there? what could any oyster want to climb a hill for? to climb a hill must necessarily be fatiguing and annoying exercise for an oyster. the most natural conclusion would be that the oysters climbed up there to look at the scenery. yet when one comes to reflect upon the nature of an oyster, it seems plain that he does not care for scenery. an oyster has no taste for such things; he cares nothing for the beautiful. an oyster is of a retiring disposition, and not lively--not even cheerful above the average, and never enterprising. but above all, an oyster does not take any interest in scenery--he scorns it. what have i arrived at now? simply at the point i started from, namely, those oyster shells are there, in regular layers, five hundred feet above the sea, and no man knows how they got there. i have hunted up the guide-books, and the gist of what they say is this: "they are there, but how they got there is a mystery." twenty-five years ago, a multitude of people in america put on their ascension robes, took a tearful leave of their friends, and made ready to fly up into heaven at the first blast of the trumpet. but the angel did not blow it. miller's resurrection day was a failure. the millerites were disgusted. i did not suspect that there were millers in asia minor, but a gentleman tells me that they had it all set for the world to come to an end in smyrna one day about three years ago. there was much buzzing and preparation for a long time previously, and it culminated in a wild excitement at the appointed time. a vast number of the populace ascended the citadel hill early in the morning, to get out of the way of the general destruction, and many of the infatuated closed up their shops and retired from all earthly business. but the strange part of it was that about three in the afternoon, while this gentleman and his friends were at dinner in the hotel, a terrific storm of rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning, broke forth and continued with dire fury for two or three hours. it was a thing unprecedented in smyrna at that time of the year, and scared some of the most skeptical. the streets ran rivers and the hotel floor was flooded with water. the dinner had to be suspended. when the storm finished and left every body drenched through and through, and melancholy and half-drowned, the ascensionists came down from the mountain as dry as so many charity-sermons! they had been looking down upon the fearful storm going on below, and really believed that their proposed destruction of the world was proving a grand success. a railway here in asia--in the dreamy realm of the orient--in the fabled land of the arabian nights--is a strange thing to think of. and yet they have one already, and are building another. the present one is well built and well conducted, by an english company, but is not doing an immense amount of business. the first year it carried a good many passengers, but its freight list only comprised eight hundred pounds of figs! it runs almost to the very gates of ephesus--a town great in all ages of the world--a city familiar to readers of the bible, and one which was as old as the very hills when the disciples of christ preached in its streets. it dates back to the shadowy ages of tradition, and was the birthplace of gods renowned in grecian mythology. the idea of a locomotive tearing through such a place as this, and waking the phantoms of its old days of romance out of their dreams of dead and gone centuries, is curious enough. we journey thither tomorrow to see the celebrated ruins. chapter xl. this has been a stirring day. the superintendent of the railway put a train at our disposal, and did us the further kindness of accompanying us to ephesus and giving to us his watchful care. we brought sixty scarcely perceptible donkeys in the freight cars, for we had much ground to go over. we have seen some of the most grotesque costumes, along the line of the railroad, that can be imagined. i am glad that no possible combination of words could describe them, for i might then be foolish enough to attempt it. at ancient ayassalook, in the midst of a forbidding desert, we came upon long lines of ruined aqueducts, and other remnants of architectural grandeur, that told us plainly enough we were nearing what had been a metropolis, once. we left the train and mounted the donkeys, along with our invited guests--pleasant young gentlemen from the officers' list of an american man-of-war. the little donkeys had saddles upon them which were made very high in order that the rider's feet might not drag the ground. the preventative did not work well in the cases of our tallest pilgrims, however. there were no bridles--nothing but a single rope, tied to the bit. it was purely ornamental, for the donkey cared nothing for it. if he were drifting to starboard, you might put your helm down hard the other way, if it were any satisfaction to you to do it, but he would continue to drift to starboard all the same. there was only one process which could be depended on, and it was to get down and lift his rear around until his head pointed in the right direction, or take him under your arm and carry him to a part of the road which he could not get out of without climbing. the sun flamed down as hot as a furnace, and neck-scarfs, veils and umbrellas seemed hardly any protection; they served only to make the long procession look more than ever fantastic--for be it known the ladies were all riding astride because they could not stay on the shapeless saddles sidewise, the men were perspiring and out of temper, their feet were banging against the rocks, the donkeys were capering in every direction but the right one and being belabored with clubs for it, and every now and then a broad umbrella would suddenly go down out of the cavalcade, announcing to all that one more pilgrim had bitten the dust. it was a wilder picture than those solitudes had seen for many a day. no donkeys ever existed that were as hard to navigate as these, i think, or that had so many vile, exasperating instincts. occasionally we grew so tired and breathless with fighting them that we had to desist,--and immediately the donkey would come down to a deliberate walk. this, with the fatigue, and the sun, would put a man asleep; and soon as the man was asleep, the donkey would lie down. my donkey shall never see his boyhood's home again. he has lain down once too often. he must die. we all stood in the vast theatre of ancient ephesus,--the stone-benched amphitheatre i mean--and had our picture taken. we looked as proper there as we would look any where, i suppose. we do not embellish the general desolation of a desert much. we add what dignity we can to a stately ruin with our green umbrellas and jackasses, but it is little. however, we mean well. i wish to say a brief word of the aspect of ephesus. on a high, steep hill, toward the sea, is a gray ruin of ponderous blocks of marble, wherein, tradition says, st. paul was imprisoned eighteen centuries ago. from these old walls you have the finest view of the desolate scene where once stood ephesus, the proudest city of ancient times, and whose temple of diana was so noble in design, and so exquisite of workmanship, that it ranked high in the list of the seven wonders of the world. behind you is the sea; in front is a level green valley, (a marsh, in fact,) extending far away among the mountains; to the right of the front view is the old citadel of ayassalook, on a high hill; the ruined mosque of the sultan selim stands near it in the plain, (this is built over the grave of st. john, and was formerly a christian church;) further toward you is the hill of pion, around whose front is clustered all that remains of the ruins of ephesus that still stand; divided from it by a narrow valley is the long, rocky, rugged mountain of coressus. the scene is a pretty one, and yet desolate--for in that wide plain no man can live, and in it is no human habitation. but for the crumbling arches and monstrous piers and broken walls that rise from the foot of the hill of pion, one could not believe that in this place once stood a city whose renown is older than tradition itself. it is incredible to reflect that things as familiar all over the world to-day as household words, belong in the history and in the shadowy legends of this silent, mournful solitude. we speak of apollo and of diana--they were born here; of the metamorphosis of syrinx into a reed--it was done here; of the great god pan--he dwelt in the caves of this hill of coressus; of the amazons--this was their best prized home; of bacchus and hercules both fought the warlike women here; of the cyclops--they laid the ponderous marble blocks of some of the ruins yonder; of homer--this was one of his many birthplaces; of cirmon of athens; of alcibiades, lysander, agesilaus --they visited here; so did alexander the great; so did hannibal and antiochus, scipio, lucullus and sylla; brutus, cassius, pompey, cicero, and augustus; antony was a judge in this place, and left his seat in the open court, while the advocates were speaking, to run after cleopatra, who passed the door; from this city these two sailed on pleasure excursions, in galleys with silver oars and perfumed sails, and with companies of beautiful girls to serve them, and actors and musicians to amuse them; in days that seem almost modern, so remote are they from the early history of this city, paul the apostle preached the new religion here, and so did john, and here it is supposed the former was pitted against wild beasts, for in corinthians, xv. he says: "if after the manner of men i have fought with beasts at ephesus," &c., when many men still lived who had seen the christ; here mary magdalen died, and here the virgin mary ended her days with john, albeit rome has since judged it best to locate her grave elsewhere; six or seven hundred years ago--almost yesterday, as it were--troops of mail-clad crusaders thronged the streets; and to come down to trifles, we speak of meandering streams, and find a new interest in a common word when we discover that the crooked river meander, in yonder valley, gave it to our dictionary. it makes me feel as old as these dreary hills to look down upon these moss-hung ruins, this historic desolation. one may read the scriptures and believe, but he can not go and stand yonder in the ruined theatre and in imagination people it again with the vanished multitudes who mobbed paul's comrades there and shouted, with one voice, "great is diana of the ephesians!" the idea of a shout in such a solitude as this almost makes one shudder. it was a wonderful city, this ephesus. go where you will about these broad plains, you find the most exquisitely sculptured marble fragments scattered thick among the dust and weeds; and protruding from the ground, or lying prone upon it, are beautiful fluted columns of porphyry and all precious marbles; and at every step you find elegantly carved capitals and massive bases, and polished tablets engraved with greek inscriptions. it is a world of precious relics, a wilderness of marred and mutilated gems. and yet what are these things to the wonders that lie buried here under the ground? at constantinople, at pisa, in the cities of spain, are great mosques and cathedrals, whose grandest columns came from the temples and palaces of ephesus, and yet one has only to scratch the ground here to match them. we shall never know what magnificence is, until this imperial city is laid bare to the sun. the finest piece of sculpture we have yet seen and the one that impressed us most, (for we do not know much about art and can not easily work up ourselves into ecstasies over it,) is one that lies in this old theatre of ephesus which st. paul's riot has made so celebrated. it is only the headless body of a man, clad in a coat of mail, with a medusa head upon the breast-plate, but we feel persuaded that such dignity and such majesty were never thrown into a form of stone before. what builders they were, these men of antiquity! the massive arches of some of these ruins rest upon piers that are fifteen feet square and built entirely of solid blocks of marble, some of which are as large as a saratoga trunk, and some the size of a boarding-house sofa. they are not shells or shafts of stone filled inside with rubbish, but the whole pier is a mass of solid masonry. vast arches, that may have been the gates of the city, are built in the same way. they have braved the storms and sieges of three thousand years, and have been shaken by many an earthquake, but still they stand. when they dig alongside of them, they find ranges of ponderous masonry that are as perfect in every detail as they were the day those old cyclopian giants finished them. an english company is going to excavate ephesus--and then! and now am i reminded of-- the legend of the seven sleepers. in the mount of pion, yonder, is the cave of the seven sleepers. once upon a time, about fifteen hundred years ago, seven young men lived near each other in ephesus, who belonged to the despised sect of the christians. it came to pass that the good king maximilianus, (i am telling this story for nice little boys and girls,) it came to pass, i say, that the good king maximilianus fell to persecuting the christians, and as time rolled on he made it very warm for them. so the seven young men said one to the other, let us get up and travel. and they got up and traveled. they tarried not to bid their fathers and mothers good-bye, or any friend they knew. they only took certain moneys which their parents had, and garments that belonged unto their friends, whereby they might remember them when far away; and they took also the dog ketmehr, which was the property of their neighbor malchus, because the beast did run his head into a noose which one of the young men was carrying carelessly, and they had not time to release him; and they took also certain chickens that seemed lonely in the neighboring coops, and likewise some bottles of curious liquors that stood near the grocer's window; and then they departed from the city. by-and-by they came to a marvelous cave in the hill of pion and entered into it and feasted, and presently they hurried on again. but they forgot the bottles of curious liquors, and left them behind. they traveled in many lands, and had many strange adventures. they were virtuous young men, and lost no opportunity that fell in their way to make their livelihood. their motto was in these words, namely, "procrastination is the thief of time." and so, whenever they did come upon a man who was alone, they said, behold, this person hath the wherewithal--let us go through him. and they went through him. at the end of five years they had waxed tired of travel and adventure, and longed to revisit their old home again and hear the voices and see the faces that were dear unto their youth. therefore they went through such parties as fell in their way where they sojourned at that time, and journeyed back toward ephesus again. for the good king maximilianus was become converted unto the new faith, and the christians rejoiced because they were no longer persecuted. one day as the sun went down, they came to the cave in the mount of pion, and they said, each to his fellow, let us sleep here, and go and feast and make merry with our friends when the morning cometh. and each of the seven lifted up his voice and said, it is a whiz. so they went in, and lo, where they had put them, there lay the bottles of strange liquors, and they judged that age had not impaired their excellence. wherein the wanderers were right, and the heads of the same were level. so each of the young men drank six bottles, and behold they felt very tired, then, and lay down and slept soundly. when they awoke, one of them, johannes--surnamed smithianus--said, we are naked. and it was so. their raiment was all gone, and the money which they had gotten from a stranger whom they had proceeded through as they approached the city, was lying upon the ground, corroded and rusted and defaced. likewise the dog ketmehr was gone, and nothing save the brass that was upon his collar remained. they wondered much at these things. but they took the money, and they wrapped about their bodies some leaves, and came up to the top of the hill. then were they perplexed. the wonderful temple of diana was gone; many grand edifices they had never seen before stood in the city; men in strange garbs moved about the streets, and every thing was changed. johannes said, it hardly seems like ephesus. yet here is the great gymnasium; here is the mighty theatre, wherein i have seen seventy thousand men assembled; here is the agora; there is the font where the sainted john the baptist immersed the converts; yonder is the prison of the good st. paul, where we all did use to go to touch the ancient chains that bound him and be cured of our distempers; i see the tomb of the disciple luke, and afar off is the church wherein repose the ashes of the holy john, where the christians of ephesus go twice a year to gather the dust from the tomb, which is able to make bodies whole again that are corrupted by disease, and cleanse the soul from sin; but see how the wharves encroach upon the sea, and what multitudes of ships are anchored in the bay; see, also, how the city hath stretched abroad, far over the valley behind pion, and even unto the walls of ayassalook; and lo, all the hills are white with palaces and ribbed with colonnades of marble. how mighty is ephesus become! and wondering at what their eyes had seen, they went down into the city and purchased garments and clothed themselves. and when they would have passed on, the merchant bit the coins which they had given him, with his teeth, and turned them about and looked curiously upon them, and cast them upon his counter, and listened if they rang; and then he said, these be bogus. and they said, depart thou to hades, and went their way. when they were come to their houses, they recognized them, albeit they seemed old and mean; and they rejoiced, and were glad. they ran to the doors, and knocked, and strangers opened, and looked inquiringly upon them. and they said, with great excitement, while their hearts beat high, and the color in their faces came and went, where is my father? where is my mother? where are dionysius and serapion, and pericles, and decius? and the strangers that opened said, we know not these. the seven said, how, you know them not? how long have ye dwelt here, and whither are they gone that dwelt here before ye? and the strangers said, ye play upon us with a jest, young men; we and our fathers have sojourned under these roofs these six generations; the names ye utter rot upon the tombs, and they that bore them have run their brief race, have laughed and sung, have borne the sorrows and the weariness that were allotted them, and are at rest; for nine-score years the summers have come and gone, and the autumn leaves have fallen, since the roses faded out of their cheeks and they laid them to sleep with the dead. then the seven young men turned them away from their homes, and the strangers shut the doors upon them. the wanderers marveled greatly, and looked into the faces of all they met, as hoping to find one that they knew; but all were strange, and passed them by and spake no friendly word. they were sore distressed and sad. presently they spake unto a citizen and said, who is king in ephesus? and the citizen answered and said, whence come ye that ye know not that great laertius reigns in ephesus? they looked one at the other, greatly perplexed, and presently asked again, where, then, is the good king maximilianus? the citizen moved him apart, as one who is afraid, and said, verily these men be mad, and dream dreams, else would they know that the king whereof they speak is dead above two hundred years agone. then the scales fell from the eyes of the seven, and one said, alas, that we drank of the curious liquors. they have made us weary, and in dreamless sleep these two long centuries have we lain. our homes are desolate, our friends are dead. behold, the jig is up--let us die. and that same day went they forth and laid them down and died. and in that self-same day, likewise, the seven-up did cease in ephesus, for that the seven that were up were down again, and departed and dead withal. and the names that be upon their tombs, even unto this time, are johannes smithianus, trumps, gift, high, and low, jack, and the game. and with the sleepers lie also the bottles wherein were once the curious liquors: and upon them is writ, in ancient letters, such words as these--dames of heathen gods of olden time, perchance: rumpunch, jinsling, egnog. such is the story of the seven sleepers, (with slight variations,) and i know it is true, because i have seen the cave myself. really, so firm a faith had the ancients in this legend, that as late as eight or nine hundred years ago, learned travelers held it in superstitious fear. two of them record that they ventured into it, but ran quickly out again, not daring to tarry lest they should fall asleep and outlive their great grand-children a century or so. even at this day the ignorant denizens of the neighboring country prefer not to sleep in it. innocents abroad by mark twain [from an -- st edition] part . chapter xli. when i last made a memorandum, we were at ephesus. we are in syria, now, encamped in the mountains of lebanon. the interregnum has been long, both as to time and distance. we brought not a relic from ephesus! after gathering up fragments of sculptured marbles and breaking ornaments from the interior work of the mosques; and after bringing them at a cost of infinite trouble and fatigue, five miles on muleback to the railway depot, a government officer compelled all who had such things to disgorge! he had an order from constantinople to look out for our party, and see that we carried nothing off. it was a wise, a just, and a well-deserved rebuke, but it created a sensation. i never resist a temptation to plunder a stranger's premises without feeling insufferably vain about it. this time i felt proud beyond expression. i was serene in the midst of the scoldings that were heaped upon the ottoman government for its affront offered to a pleasuring party of entirely respectable gentlemen and ladies i said, "we that have free souls, it touches us not." the shoe not only pinched our party, but it pinched hard; a principal sufferer discovered that the imperial order was inclosed in an envelop bearing the seal of the british embassy at constantinople, and therefore must have been inspired by the representative of the queen. this was bad--very bad. coming solely from the ottomans, it might have signified only ottoman hatred of christians, and a vulgar ignorance as to genteel methods of expressing it; but coming from the christianized, educated, politic british legation, it simply intimated that we were a sort of gentlemen and ladies who would bear watching! so the party regarded it, and were incensed accordingly. the truth doubtless was, that the same precautions would have been taken against any travelers, because the english company who have acquired the right to excavate ephesus, and have paid a great sum for that right, need to be protected, and deserve to be. they can not afford to run the risk of having their hospitality abused by travelers, especially since travelers are such notorious scorners of honest behavior. we sailed from smyrna, in the wildest spirit of expectancy, for the chief feature, the grand goal of the expedition, was near at hand--we were approaching the holy land! such a burrowing into the hold for trunks that had lain buried for weeks, yes for months; such a hurrying to and fro above decks and below; such a riotous system of packing and unpacking; such a littering up of the cabins with shirts and skirts, and indescribable and unclassable odds and ends; such a making up of bundles, and setting apart of umbrellas, green spectacles and thick veils; such a critical inspection of saddles and bridles that had never yet touched horses; such a cleaning and loading of revolvers and examining of bowie-knives; such a half-soling of the seats of pantaloons with serviceable buckskin; then such a poring over ancient maps; such a reading up of bibles and palestine travels; such a marking out of routes; such exasperating efforts to divide up the company into little bands of congenial spirits who might make the long and arduous journey without quarreling; and morning, noon and night, such mass-meetings in the cabins, such speech-making, such sage suggesting, such worrying and quarreling, and such a general raising of the very mischief, was never seen in the ship before! but it is all over now. we are cut up into parties of six or eight, and by this time are scattered far and wide. ours is the only one, however, that is venturing on what is called "the long trip"--that is, out into syria, by baalbec to damascus, and thence down through the full length of palestine. it would be a tedious, and also a too risky journey, at this hot season of the year, for any but strong, healthy men, accustomed somewhat to fatigue and rough life in the open air. the other parties will take shorter journeys. for the last two months we have been in a worry about one portion of this holy land pilgrimage. i refer to transportation service. we knew very well that palestine was a country which did not do a large passenger business, and every man we came across who knew any thing about it gave us to understand that not half of our party would be able to get dragomen and animals. at constantinople every body fell to telegraphing the american consuls at alexandria and beirout to give notice that we wanted dragomen and transportation. we were desperate--would take horses, jackasses, cameleopards, kangaroos--any thing. at smyrna, more telegraphing was done, to the same end. also fearing for the worst, we telegraphed for a large number of seats in the diligence for damascus, and horses for the ruins of baalbec. as might have been expected, a notion got abroad in syria and egypt that the whole population of the province of america (the turks consider us a trifling little province in some unvisited corner of the world,) were coming to the holy land--and so, when we got to beirout yesterday, we found the place full of dragomen and their outfits. we had all intended to go by diligence to damascus, and switch off to baalbec as we went along--because we expected to rejoin the ship, go to mount carmel, and take to the woods from there. however, when our own private party of eight found that it was possible, and proper enough, to make the "long trip," we adopted that programme. we have never been much trouble to a consul before, but we have been a fearful nuisance to our consul at beirout. i mention this because i can not help admiring his patience, his industry, and his accommodating spirit. i mention it also, because i think some of our ship's company did not give him as full credit for his excellent services as he deserved. well, out of our eight, three were selected to attend to all business connected with the expedition. the rest of us had nothing to do but look at the beautiful city of beirout, with its bright, new houses nestled among a wilderness of green shrubbery spread abroad over an upland that sloped gently down to the sea; and also at the mountains of lebanon that environ it; and likewise to bathe in the transparent blue water that rolled its billows about the ship (we did not know there were sharks there.) we had also to range up and down through the town and look at the costumes. these are picturesque and fanciful, but not so varied as at constantinople and smyrna; the women of beirout add an agony--in the two former cities the sex wear a thin veil which one can see through (and they often expose their ancles,) but at beirout they cover their entire faces with dark-colored or black veils, so that they look like mummies, and then expose their breasts to the public. a young gentleman (i believe he was a greek,) volunteered to show us around the city, and said it would afford him great pleasure, because he was studying english and wanted practice in that language. when we had finished the rounds, however, he called for remuneration--said he hoped the gentlemen would give him a trifle in the way of a few piastres (equivalent to a few five cent pieces.) we did so. the consul was surprised when he heard it, and said he knew the young fellow's family very well, and that they were an old and highly respectable family and worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! some people, so situated, would have been ashamed of the berth he had with us and his manner of crawling into it. at the appointed time our business committee reported, and said all things were in readiness--that we were to start to-day, with horses, pack animals, and tents, and go to baalbec, damascus, the sea of tiberias, and thence southward by the way of the scene of jacob's dream and other notable bible localities to jerusalem--from thence probably to the dead sea, but possibly not--and then strike for the ocean and rejoin the ship three or four weeks hence at joppa; terms, five dollars a day apiece, in gold, and every thing to be furnished by the dragoman. they said we would lie as well as at a hotel. i had read something like that before, and did not shame my judgment by believing a word of it. i said nothing, however, but packed up a blanket and a shawl to sleep in, pipes and tobacco, two or three woollen shirts, a portfolio, a guide-book, and a bible. i also took along a towel and a cake of soap, to inspire respect in the arabs, who would take me for a king in disguise. we were to select our horses at p.m. at that hour abraham, the dragoman, marshaled them before us. with all solemnity i set it down here, that those horses were the hardest lot i ever did come across, and their accoutrements were in exquisite keeping with their style. one brute had an eye out; another had his tail sawed off close, like a rabbit, and was proud of it; another had a bony ridge running from his neck to his tail, like one of those ruined aqueducts one sees about rome, and had a neck on him like a bowsprit; they all limped, and had sore backs, and likewise raw places and old scales scattered about their persons like brass nails in a hair trunk; their gaits were marvelous to contemplate, and replete with variety under way the procession looked like a fleet in a storm. it was fearful. blucher shook his head and said: "that dragon is going to get himself into trouble fetching these old crates out of the hospital the way they are, unless he has got a permit." i said nothing. the display was exactly according to the guide-book, and were we not traveling by the guide-book? i selected a certain horse because i thought i saw him shy, and i thought that a horse that had spirit enough to shy was not to be despised. at o'clock p.m., we came to a halt here on the breezy summit of a shapely mountain overlooking the sea, and the handsome valley where dwelt some of those enterprising phoenicians of ancient times we read so much about; all around us are what were once the dominions of hiram, king of tyre, who furnished timber from the cedars of these lebanon hills to build portions of king solomon's temple with. shortly after six, our pack train arrived. i had not seen it before, and a good right i had to be astonished. we had nineteen serving men and twenty-six pack mules! it was a perfect caravan. it looked like one, too, as it wound among the rocks. i wondered what in the very mischief we wanted with such a vast turn-out as that, for eight men. i wondered awhile, but soon i began to long for a tin plate, and some bacon and beans. i had camped out many and many a time before, and knew just what was coming. i went off, without waiting for serving men, and unsaddled my horse, and washed such portions of his ribs and his spine as projected through his hide, and when i came back, behold five stately circus tents were up--tents that were brilliant, within, with blue, and gold, and crimson, and all manner of splendid adornment! i was speechless. then they brought eight little iron bedsteads, and set them up in the tents; they put a soft mattress and pillows and good blankets and two snow-white sheets on each bed. next, they rigged a table about the centre-pole, and on it placed pewter pitchers, basins, soap, and the whitest of towels --one set for each man; they pointed to pockets in the tent, and said we could put our small trifles in them for convenience, and if we needed pins or such things, they were sticking every where. then came the finishing touch--they spread carpets on the floor! i simply said, "if you call this camping out, all right--but it isn't the style i am used to; my little baggage that i brought along is at a discount." it grew dark, and they put candles on the tables--candles set in bright, new, brazen candlesticks. and soon the bell--a genuine, simon-pure bell --rang, and we were invited to "the saloon." i had thought before that we had a tent or so too many, but now here was one, at least, provided for; it was to be used for nothing but an eating-saloon. like the others, it was high enough for a family of giraffes to live in, and was very handsome and clean and bright-colored within. it was a gem of a place. a table for eight, and eight canvas chairs; a table-cloth and napkins whose whiteness and whose fineness laughed to scorn the things we were used to in the great excursion steamer; knives and forks, soup-plates, dinner-plates--every thing, in the handsomest kind of style. it was wonderful! and they call this camping out. those stately fellows in baggy trowsers and turbaned fezzes brought in a dinner which consisted of roast mutton, roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes, bread, tea, pudding, apples, and delicious grapes; the viands were better cooked than any we had eaten for weeks, and the table made a finer appearance, with its large german silver candlesticks and other finery, than any table we had sat down to for a good while, and yet that polite dragoman, abraham, came bowing in and apologizing for the whole affair, on account of the unavoidable confusion of getting under way for a very long trip, and promising to do a great deal better in future! it is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the morning. they call this camping out. at this rate it is a glorious privilege to be a pilgrim to the holy land. chapter xlii. we are camped near temnin-el-foka--a name which the boys have simplified a good deal, for the sake of convenience in spelling. they call it jacksonville. it sounds a little strangely, here in the valley of lebanon, but it has the merit of being easier to remember than the arabic name. "come like spirits, so depart." "the night shall be filled with music, and the cares that infest the day shall fold their tents like the arabs, and as silently steal away." i slept very soundly last night, yet when the dragoman's bell rang at half-past five this morning and the cry went abroad of "ten minutes to dress for breakfast!" i heard both. it surprised me, because i have not heard the breakfast gong in the ship for a month, and whenever we have had occasion to fire a salute at daylight, i have only found it out in the course of conversation afterward. however, camping out, even though it be in a gorgeous tent, makes one fresh and lively in the morning --especially if the air you are breathing is the cool, fresh air of the mountains. i was dressed within the ten minutes, and came out. the saloon tent had been stripped of its sides, and had nothing left but its roof; so when we sat down to table we could look out over a noble panorama of mountain, sea and hazy valley. and sitting thus, the sun rose slowly up and suffused the picture with a world of rich coloring. hot mutton chops, fried chicken, omelettes, fried potatoes and coffee --all excellent. this was the bill of fare. it was sauced with a savage appetite purchased by hard riding the day before, and refreshing sleep in a pure atmosphere. as i called for a second cup of coffee, i glanced over my shoulder, and behold our white village was gone--the splendid tents had vanished like magic! it was wonderful how quickly those arabs had "folded their tents;" and it was wonderful, also, how quickly they had gathered the thousand odds and ends of the camp together and disappeared with them. by half-past six we were under way, and all the syrian world seemed to be under way also. the road was filled with mule trains and long processions of camels. this reminds me that we have been trying for some time to think what a camel looks like, and now we have made it out. when he is down on all his knees, flat on his breast to receive his load, he looks something like a goose swimming; and when he is upright he looks like an ostrich with an extra set of legs. camels are not beautiful, and their long under lip gives them an exceedingly "gallus"--[excuse the slang, no other word will describe it]--expression. they have immense, flat, forked cushions of feet, that make a track in the dust like a pie with a slice cut out of it. they are not particular about their diet. they would eat a tombstone if they could bite it. a thistle grows about here which has needles on it that would pierce through leather, i think; if one touches you, you can find relief in nothing but profanity. the camels eat these. they show by their actions that they enjoy them. i suppose it would be a real treat to a camel to have a keg of nails for supper. while i am speaking of animals, i will mention that i have a horse now by the name of "jericho." he is a mare. i have seen remarkable horses before, but none so remarkable as this. i wanted a horse that could shy, and this one fills the bill. i had an idea that shying indicated spirit. if i was correct, i have got the most spirited horse on earth. he shies at every thing he comes across, with the utmost impartiality. he appears to have a mortal dread of telegraph poles, especially; and it is fortunate that these are on both sides of the road, because as it is now, i never fall off twice in succession on the same side. if i fell on the same side always, it would get to be monotonous after a while. this creature has scared at every thing he has seen to-day, except a haystack. he walked up to that with an intrepidity and a recklessness that were astonishing. and it would fill any one with admiration to see how he preserves his self-possession in the presence of a barley sack. this dare-devil bravery will be the death of this horse some day. he is not particularly fast, but i think he will get me through the holy land. he has only one fault. his tail has been chopped off or else he has sat down on it too hard, some time or other, and he has to fight the flies with his heels. this is all very well, but when he tries to kick a fly off the top of his head with his hind foot, it is too much variety. he is going to get himself into trouble that way some day. he reaches around and bites my legs too. i do not care particularly about that, only i do not like to see a horse too sociable. i think the owner of this prize had a wrong opinion about him. he had an idea that he was one of those fiery, untamed steeds, but he is not of that character. i know the arab had this idea, because when he brought the horse out for inspection in beirout, he kept jerking at the bridle and shouting in arabic, "ho! will you? do you want to run away, you ferocious beast, and break your neck?" when all the time the horse was not doing anything in the world, and only looked like he wanted to lean up against something and think. whenever he is not shying at things, or reaching after a fly, he wants to do that yet. how it would surprise his owner to know this. we have been in a historical section of country all day. at noon we camped three hours and took luncheon at mekseh, near the junction of the lebanon mountains and the jebel el kuneiyiseh, and looked down into the immense, level, garden-like valley of lebanon. to-night we are camping near the same valley, and have a very wide sweep of it in view. we can see the long, whale-backed ridge of mount hermon projecting above the eastern hills. the "dews of hermon" are falling upon us now, and the tents are almost soaked with them. over the way from us, and higher up the valley, we can discern, through the glasses, the faint outlines of the wonderful ruins of baalbec, the supposed baal-gad of scripture. joshua, and another person, were the two spies who were sent into this land of canaan by the children of israel to report upon its character--i mean they were the spies who reported favorably. they took back with them some specimens of the grapes of this country, and in the children's picture-books they are always represented as bearing one monstrous bunch swung to a pole between them, a respectable load for a pack-train. the sunday-school books exaggerated it a little. the grapes are most excellent to this day, but the bunches are not as large as those in the pictures. i was surprised and hurt when i saw them, because those colossal bunches of grapes were one of my most cherished juvenile traditions. joshua reported favorably, and the children of israel journeyed on, with moses at the head of the general government, and joshua in command of the army of six hundred thousand fighting men. of women and children and civilians there was a countless swarm. of all that mighty host, none but the two faithful spies ever lived to set their feet in the promised land. they and their descendants wandered forty years in the desert, and then moses, the gifted warrior, poet, statesman and philosopher, went up into pisgah and met his mysterious fate. where he was buried no man knows --for "* * * no man dug that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er -- for the sons of god upturned the sod and laid the dead man there!" then joshua began his terrible raid, and from jericho clear to this baal-gad, he swept the land like the genius of destruction. he slaughtered the people, laid waste their soil, and razed their cities to the ground. he wasted thirty-one kings also. one may call it that, though really it can hardly be called wasting them, because there were always plenty of kings in those days, and to spare. at any rate, he destroyed thirty-one kings, and divided up their realms among his israelites. he divided up this valley stretched out here before us, and so it was once jewish territory. the jews have long since disappeared from it, however. back yonder, an hour's journey from here, we passed through an arab village of stone dry-goods boxes (they look like that,) where noah's tomb lies under lock and key. [noah built the ark.] over these old hills and valleys the ark that contained all that was left of a vanished world once floated. i make no apology for detailing the above information. it will be news to some of my readers, at any rate. noah's tomb is built of stone, and is covered with a long stone building. bucksheesh let us in. the building had to be long, because the grave of the honored old navigator is two hundred and ten feet long itself! it is only about four feet high, though. he must have cast a shadow like a lightning-rod. the proof that this is the genuine spot where noah was buried can only be doubted by uncommonly incredulous people. the evidence is pretty straight. shem, the son of noah, was present at the burial, and showed the place to his descendants, who transmitted the knowledge to their descendants, and the lineal descendants of these introduced themselves to us to-day. it was pleasant to make the acquaintance of members of so respectable a family. it was a thing to be proud of. it was the next thing to being acquainted with noah himself. noah's memorable voyage will always possess a living interest for me, henceforward. if ever an oppressed race existed, it is this one we see fettered around us under the inhuman tyranny of the ottoman empire. i wish europe would let russia annihilate turkey a little--not much, but enough to make it difficult to find the place again without a divining-rod or a diving-bell. the syrians are very poor, and yet they are ground down by a system of taxation that would drive any other nation frantic. last year their taxes were heavy enough, in all conscience--but this year they have been increased by the addition of taxes that were forgiven them in times of famine in former years. on top of this the government has levied a tax of one-tenth of the whole proceeds of the land. this is only half the story. the pacha of a pachalic does not trouble himself with appointing tax-collectors. he figures up what all these taxes ought to amount to in a certain district. then he farms the collection out. he calls the rich men together, the highest bidder gets the speculation, pays the pacha on the spot, and then sells out to smaller fry, who sell in turn to a piratical horde of still smaller fry. these latter compel the peasant to bring his little trifle of grain to the village, at his own cost. it must be weighed, the various taxes set apart, and the remainder returned to the producer. but the collector delays this duty day after day, while the producer's family are perishing for bread; at last the poor wretch, who can not but understand the game, says, "take a quarter--take half--take two-thirds if you will, and let me go!" it is a most outrageous state of things. these people are naturally good-hearted and intelligent, and with education and liberty, would be a happy and contented race. they often appeal to the stranger to know if the great world will not some day come to their relief and save them. the sultan has been lavishing money like water in england and paris, but his subjects are suffering for it now. this fashion of camping out bewilders me. we have boot-jacks and a bath-tub, now, and yet all the mysteries the pack-mules carry are not revealed. what next? chapter xliii. we had a tedious ride of about five hours, in the sun, across the valley of lebanon. it proved to be not quite so much of a garden as it had seemed from the hill-sides. it was a desert, weed-grown waste, littered thickly with stones the size of a man's fist. here and there the natives had scratched the ground and reared a sickly crop of grain, but for the most part the valley was given up to a handful of shepherds, whose flocks were doing what they honestly could to get a living, but the chances were against them. we saw rude piles of stones standing near the roadside, at intervals, and recognized the custom of marking boundaries which obtained in jacob's time. there were no walls, no fences, no hedges--nothing to secure a man's possessions but these random heaps of stones. the israelites held them sacred in the old patriarchal times, and these other arabs, their lineal descendants, do so likewise. an american, of ordinary intelligence, would soon widely extend his property, at an outlay of mere manual labor, performed at night, under so loose a system of fencing as this. the plows these people use are simply a sharpened stick, such as abraham plowed with, and they still winnow their wheat as he did--they pile it on the house-top, and then toss it by shovel-fulls into the air until the wind has blown all the chaff away. they never invent any thing, never learn any thing. we had a fine race, of a mile, with an arab perched on a camel. some of the horses were fast, and made very good time, but the camel scampered by them without any very great effort. the yelling and shouting, and whipping and galloping, of all parties interested, made it an exhilarating, exciting, and particularly boisterous race. at eleven o'clock, our eyes fell upon the walls and columns of baalbec, a noble ruin whose history is a sealed book. it has stood there for thousands of years, the wonder and admiration of travelers; but who built it, or when it was built, are questions that may never be answered. one thing is very sure, though. such grandeur of design, and such grace of execution, as one sees in the temples of baalbec, have not been equaled or even approached in any work of men's hands that has been built within twenty centuries past. the great temple of the sun, the temple of jupiter, and several smaller temples, are clustered together in the midst of one of these miserable syrian villages, and look strangely enough in such plebeian company. these temples are built upon massive substructions that might support a world, almost; the materials used are blocks of stone as large as an omnibus--very few, if any of them, are smaller than a carpenter's tool chest--and these substructions are traversed by tunnels of masonry through which a train of cars might pass. with such foundations as these, it is little wonder that baalbec has lasted so long. the temple of the sun is nearly three hundred feet long and one hundred and sixty feet wide. it had fifty-four columns around it, but only six are standing now--the others lie broken at its base, a confused and picturesque heap. the six columns are their bases, corinthian capitals and entablature--and six more shapely columns do not exist. the columns and the entablature together are ninety feet high--a prodigious altitude for shafts of stone to reach, truly--and yet one only thinks of their beauty and symmetry when looking at them; the pillars look slender and delicate, the entablature, with its elaborate sculpture, looks like rich stucco-work. but when you have gazed aloft till your eyes are weary, you glance at the great fragments of pillars among which you are standing, and find that they are eight feet through; and with them lie beautiful capitals apparently as large as a small cottage; and also single slabs of stone, superbly sculptured, that are four or five feet thick, and would completely cover the floor of any ordinary parlor. you wonder where these monstrous things came from, and it takes some little time to satisfy yourself that the airy and graceful fabric that towers above your head is made up of their mates. it seems too preposterous. the temple of jupiter is a smaller ruin than the one i have been speaking of, and yet is immense. it is in a tolerable state of preservation. one row of nine columns stands almost uninjured. they are sixty-five feet high and support a sort of porch or roof, which connects them with the roof of the building. this porch-roof is composed of tremendous slabs of stone, which are so finely sculptured on the under side that the work looks like a fresco from below. one or two of these slabs had fallen, and again i wondered if the gigantic masses of carved stone that lay about me were no larger than those above my head. within the temple, the ornamentation was elaborate and colossal. what a wonder of architectural beauty and grandeur this edifice must have been when it was new! and what a noble picture it and its statelier companion, with the chaos of mighty fragments scattered about them, yet makes in the moonlight! i can not conceive how those immense blocks of stone were ever hauled from the quarries, or how they were ever raised to the dizzy heights they occupy in the temples. and yet these sculptured blocks are trifles in size compared with the rough-hewn blocks that form the wide verandah or platform which surrounds the great temple. one stretch of that platform, two hundred feet long, is composed of blocks of stone as large, and some of them larger, than a street-car. they surmount a wall about ten or twelve feet high. i thought those were large rocks, but they sank into insignificance compared with those which formed another section of the platform. these were three in number, and i thought that each of them was about as long as three street cars placed end to end, though of course they are a third wider and a third higher than a street car. perhaps two railway freight cars of the largest pattern, placed end to end, might better represent their size. in combined length these three stones stretch nearly two hundred feet; they are thirteen feet square; two of them are sixty-four feet long each, and the third is sixty-nine. they are built into the massive wall some twenty feet above the ground. they are there, but how they got there is the question. i have seen the hull of a steamboat that was smaller than one of those stones. all these great walls are as exact and shapely as the flimsy things we build of bricks in these days. a race of gods or of giants must have inhabited baalbec many a century ago. men like the men of our day could hardly rear such temples as these. we went to the quarry from whence the stones of baalbec were taken. it was about a quarter of a mile off, and down hill. in a great pit lay the mate of the largest stone in the ruins. it lay there just as the giants of that old forgotten time had left it when they were called hence--just as they had left it, to remain for thousands of years, an eloquent rebuke unto such as are prone to think slightingly of the men who lived before them. this enormous block lies there, squared and ready for the builders' hands--a solid mass fourteen feet by seventeen, and but a few inches less than seventy feet long! two buggies could be driven abreast of each other, on its surface, from one end of it to the other, and leave room enough for a man or two to walk on either side. one might swear that all the john smiths and george wilkinsons, and all the other pitiful nobodies between kingdom come and baalbec would inscribe their poor little names upon the walls of baalbec's magnificent ruins, and would add the town, the county and the state they came from --and swearing thus, be infallibly correct. it is a pity some great ruin does not fall in and flatten out some of these reptiles, and scare their kind out of ever giving their names to fame upon any walls or monuments again, forever. properly, with the sorry relics we bestrode, it was a three days' journey to damascus. it was necessary that we should do it in less than two. it was necessary because our three pilgrims would not travel on the sabbath day. we were all perfectly willing to keep the sabbath day, but there are times when to keep the letter of a sacred law whose spirit is righteous, becomes a sin, and this was a case in point. we pleaded for the tired, ill-treated horses, and tried to show that their faithful service deserved kindness in return, and their hard lot compassion. but when did ever self-righteousness know the sentiment of pity? what were a few long hours added to the hardships of some over-taxed brutes when weighed against the peril of those human souls? it was not the most promising party to travel with and hope to gain a higher veneration for religion through the example of its devotees. we said the saviour who pitied dumb beasts and taught that the ox must be rescued from the mire even on the sabbath day, would not have counseled a forced march like this. we said the "long trip" was exhausting and therefore dangerous in the blistering heats of summer, even when the ordinary days' stages were traversed, and if we persisted in this hard march, some of us might be stricken down with the fevers of the country in consequence of it. nothing could move the pilgrims. they must press on. men might die, horses might die, but they must enter upon holy soil next week, with no sabbath-breaking stain upon them. thus they were willing to commit a sin against the spirit of religious law, in order that they might preserve the letter of it. it was not worth while to tell them "the letter kills." i am talking now about personal friends; men whom i like; men who are good citizens; who are honorable, upright, conscientious; but whose idea of the saviour's religion seems to me distorted. they lecture our shortcomings unsparingly, and every night they call us together and read to us chapters from the testament that are full of gentleness, of charity, and of tender mercy; and then all the next day they stick to their saddles clear up to the summits of these rugged mountains, and clear down again. apply the testament's gentleness, and charity, and tender mercy to a toiling, worn and weary horse?--nonsense--these are for god's human creatures, not his dumb ones. what the pilgrims choose to do, respect for their almost sacred character demands that i should allow to pass--but i would so like to catch any other member of the party riding his horse up one of these exhausting hills once! we have given the pilgrims a good many examples that might benefit them, but it is virtue thrown away. they have never heard a cross word out of our lips toward each other--but they have quarreled once or twice. we love to hear them at it, after they have been lecturing us. the very first thing they did, coming ashore at beirout, was to quarrel in the boat. i have said i like them, and i do like them--but every time they read me a scorcher of a lecture i mean to talk back in print. not content with doubling the legitimate stages, they switched off the main road and went away out of the way to visit an absurd fountain called figia, because baalam's ass had drank there once. so we journeyed on, through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun, and then far into the night, seeking the honored pool of baalam's ass, the patron saint of all pilgrims like us. i find no entry but this in my note-book: "rode to-day, altogether, thirteen hours, through deserts, partly, and partly over barren, unsightly hills, and latterly through wild, rocky scenery, and camped at about eleven o'clock at night on the banks of a limpid stream, near a syrian village. do not know its name--do not wish to know it--want to go to bed. two horses lame (mine and jack's) and the others worn out. jack and i walked three or four miles, over the hills, and led the horses. fun--but of a mild type." twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle, even in a christian land and a christian climate, and on a good horse, is a tiresome journey; but in an oven like syria, in a ragged spoon of a saddle that slips fore-and-aft, and "thort-ships," and every way, and on a horse that is tired and lame, and yet must be whipped and spurred with hardly a moment's cessation all day long, till the blood comes from his side, and your conscience hurts you every time you strike if you are half a man,--it is a journey to be remembered in bitterness of spirit and execrated with emphasis for a liberal division of a man's lifetime. chapter xliv. the next day was an outrage upon men and horses both. it was another thirteen-hour stretch (including an hour's "nooning.") it was over the barrenest chalk-hills and through the baldest canons that even syria can show. the heat quivered in the air every where. in the canons we almost smothered in the baking atmosphere. on high ground, the reflection from the chalk-hills was blinding. it was cruel to urge the crippled horses, but it had to be done in order to make damascus saturday night. we saw ancient tombs and temples of fanciful architecture carved out of the solid rock high up in the face of precipices above our heads, but we had neither time nor strength to climb up there and examine them. the terse language of my note-book will answer for the rest of this day's experiences: "broke camp at a.m., and made a ghastly trip through the zeb dana valley and the rough mountains--horses limping and that arab screech-owl that does most of the singing and carries the water-skins, always a thousand miles ahead, of course, and no water to drink--will he never die? beautiful stream in a chasm, lined thick with pomegranate, fig, olive and quince orchards, and nooned an hour at the celebrated baalam's ass fountain of figia, second in size in syria, and the coldest water out of siberia--guide-books do not say baalam's ass ever drank there--somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be. bathed in it--jack and i. only a second--ice-water. it is the principal source of the abana river --only one-half mile down to where it joins. beautiful place--giant trees all around--so shady and cool, if one could keep awake--vast stream gushes straight out from under the mountain in a torrent. over it is a very ancient ruin, with no known history --supposed to have been for the worship of the deity of the fountain or baalam's ass or somebody. wretched nest of human vermin about the fountain--rags, dirt, sunken cheeks, pallor of sickness, sores, projecting bones, dull, aching misery in their eyes and ravenous hunger speaking from every eloquent fibre and muscle from head to foot. how they sprang upon a bone, how they crunched the bread we gave them! such as these to swarm about one and watch every bite he takes, with greedy looks, and swallow unconsciously every time he swallows, as if they half fancied the precious morsel went down their own throats --hurry up the caravan!--i never shall enjoy a meal in this distressful country. to think of eating three times every day under such circumstances for three weeks yet--it is worse punishment than riding all day in the sun. there are sixteen starving babies from one to six years old in the party, and their legs are no larger than broom handles. left the fountain at p.m. (the fountain took us at least two hours out of our way,) and reached mahomet's lookout perch, over damascus, in time to get a good long look before it was necessary to move on. tired? ask of the winds that far away with fragments strewed the sea." as the glare of day mellowed into twilight, we looked down upon a picture which is celebrated all over the world. i think i have read about four hundred times that when mahomet was a simple camel-driver he reached this point and looked down upon damascus for the first time, and then made a certain renowned remark. he said man could enter only one paradise; he preferred to go to the one above. so he sat down there and feasted his eyes upon the earthly paradise of damascus, and then went away without entering its gates. they have erected a tower on the hill to mark the spot where he stood. damascus is beautiful from the mountain. it is beautiful even to foreigners accustomed to luxuriant vegetation, and i can easily understand how unspeakably beautiful it must be to eyes that are only used to the god-forsaken barrenness and desolation of syria. i should think a syrian would go wild with ecstacy when such a picture bursts upon him for the first time. from his high perch, one sees before him and below him, a wall of dreary mountains, shorn of vegetation, glaring fiercely in the sun; it fences in a level desert of yellow sand, smooth as velvet and threaded far away with fine lines that stand for roads, and dotted with creeping mites we know are camel-trains and journeying men; right in the midst of the desert is spread a billowy expanse of green foliage; and nestling in its heart sits the great white city, like an island of pearls and opals gleaming out of a sea of emeralds. this is the picture you see spread far below you, with distance to soften it, the sun to glorify it, strong contrasts to heighten the effects, and over it and about it a drowsing air of repose to spiritualize it and make it seem rather a beautiful estray from the mysterious worlds we visit in dreams than a substantial tenant of our coarse, dull globe. and when you think of the leagues of blighted, blasted, sandy, rocky, sun-burnt, ugly, dreary, infamous country you have ridden over to get here, you think it is the most beautiful, beautiful picture that ever human eyes rested upon in all the broad universe! if i were to go to damascus again, i would camp on mahomet's hill about a week, and then go away. there is no need to go inside the walls. the prophet was wise without knowing it when he decided not to go down into the paradise of damascus. there is an honored old tradition that the immense garden which damascus stands in was the garden of eden, and modern writers have gathered up many chapters of evidence tending to show that it really was the garden of eden, and that the rivers pharpar and abana are the "two rivers" that watered adam's paradise. it may be so, but it is not paradise now, and one would be as happy outside of it as he would be likely to be within. it is so crooked and cramped and dirty that one can not realize that he is in the splendid city he saw from the hill-top. the gardens are hidden by high mud-walls, and the paradise is become a very sink of pollution and uncomeliness. damascus has plenty of clear, pure water in it, though, and this is enough, of itself, to make an arab think it beautiful and blessed. water is scarce in blistered syria. we run railways by our large cities in america; in syria they curve the roads so as to make them run by the meagre little puddles they call "fountains," and which are not found oftener on a journey than every four hours. but the "rivers" of pharpar and abana of scripture (mere creeks,) run through damascus, and so every house and every garden have their sparkling fountains and rivulets of water. with her forest of foliage and her abundance of water, damascus must be a wonder of wonders to the bedouin from the deserts. damascus is simply an oasis--that is what it is. for four thousand years its waters have not gone dry or its fertility failed. now we can understand why the city has existed so long. it could not die. so long as its waters remain to it away out there in the midst of that howling desert, so long will damascus live to bless the sight of the tired and thirsty wayfarer. "though old as history itself, thou art fresh as the breath of spring, blooming as thine own rose-bud, and fragrant as thine own orange flower, o damascus, pearl of the east!" damascus dates back anterior to the days of abraham, and is the oldest city in the world. it was founded by uz, the grandson of noah. "the early history of damascus is shrouded in the mists of a hoary antiquity." leave the matters written of in the first eleven chapters of the old testament out, and no recorded event has occurred in the world but damascus was in existence to receive the news of it. go back as far as you will into the vague past, there was always a damascus. in the writings of every century for more than four thousand years, its name has been mentioned and its praises sung. to damascus, years are only moments, decades are only flitting trifles of time. she measures time, not by days and months and years, but by the empires she has seen rise, and prosper and crumble to ruin. she is a type of immortality. she saw the foundations of baalbec, and thebes, and ephesus laid; she saw these villages grow into mighty cities, and amaze the world with their grandeur--and she has lived to see them desolate, deserted, and given over to the owls and the bats. she saw the israelitish empire exalted, and she saw it annihilated. she saw greece rise, and flourish two thousand years, and die. in her old age she saw rome built; she saw it overshadow the world with its power; she saw it perish. the few hundreds of years of genoese and venetian might and splendor were, to grave old damascus, only a trifling scintillation hardly worth remembering. damascus has seen all that has ever occurred on earth, and still she lives. she has looked upon the dry bones of a thousand empires, and will see the tombs of a thousand more before she dies. though another claims the name, old damascus is by right the eternal city. we reached the city gates just at sundown. they do say that one can get into any walled city of syria, after night, for bucksheesh, except damascus. but damascus, with its four thousand years of respectability in the world, has many old fogy notions. there are no street lamps there, and the law compels all who go abroad at night to carry lanterns, just as was the case in old days, when heroes and heroines of the arabian nights walked the streets of damascus, or flew away toward bagdad on enchanted carpets. it was fairly dark a few minutes after we got within the wall, and we rode long distances through wonderfully crooked streets, eight to ten feet wide, and shut in on either side by the high mud-walls of the gardens. at last we got to where lanterns could be seen flitting about here and there, and knew we were in the midst of the curious old city. in a little narrow street, crowded with our pack-mules and with a swarm of uncouth arabs, we alighted, and through a kind of a hole in the wall entered the hotel. we stood in a great flagged court, with flowers and citron trees about us, and a huge tank in the centre that was receiving the waters of many pipes. we crossed the court and entered the rooms prepared to receive four of us. in a large marble-paved recess between the two rooms was a tank of clear, cool water, which was kept running over all the time by the streams that were pouring into it from half a dozen pipes. nothing, in this scorching, desolate land could look so refreshing as this pure water flashing in the lamp-light; nothing could look so beautiful, nothing could sound so delicious as this mimic rain to ears long unaccustomed to sounds of such a nature. our rooms were large, comfortably furnished, and even had their floors clothed with soft, cheerful-tinted carpets. it was a pleasant thing to see a carpet again, for if there is any thing drearier than the tomb-like, stone-paved parlors and bed-rooms of europe and asia, i do not know what it is. they make one think of the grave all the time. a very broad, gaily caparisoned divan, some twelve or fourteen feet long, extended across one side of each room, and opposite were single beds with spring mattresses. there were great looking-glasses and marble-top tables. all this luxury was as grateful to systems and senses worn out with an exhausting day's travel, as it was unexpected--for one can not tell what to expect in a turkish city of even a quarter of a million inhabitants. i do not know, but i think they used that tank between the rooms to draw drinking water from; that did not occur to me, however, until i had dipped my baking head far down into its cool depths. i thought of it then, and superb as the bath was, i was sorry i had taken it, and was about to go and explain to the landlord. but a finely curled and scented poodle dog frisked up and nipped the calf of my leg just then, and before i had time to think, i had soused him to the bottom of the tank, and when i saw a servant coming with a pitcher i went off and left the pup trying to climb out and not succeeding very well. satisfied revenge was all i needed to make me perfectly happy, and when i walked in to supper that first night in damascus i was in that condition. we lay on those divans a long time, after supper, smoking narghilies and long-stemmed chibouks, and talking about the dreadful ride of the day, and i knew then what i had sometimes known before--that it is worth while to get tired out, because one so enjoys resting afterward. in the morning we sent for donkeys. it is worthy of note that we had to send for these things. i said damascus was an old fossil, and she is. any where else we would have been assailed by a clamorous army of donkey-drivers, guides, peddlers and beggars--but in damascus they so hate the very sight of a foreign christian that they want no intercourse whatever with him; only a year or two ago, his person was not always safe in damascus streets. it is the most fanatical mohammedan purgatory out of arabia. where you see one green turban of a hadji elsewhere (the honored sign that my lord has made the pilgrimage to mecca,) i think you will see a dozen in damascus. the damascenes are the ugliest, wickedest looking villains we have seen. all the veiled women we had seen yet, nearly, left their eyes exposed, but numbers of these in damascus completely hid the face under a close-drawn black veil that made the woman look like a mummy. if ever we caught an eye exposed it was quickly hidden from our contaminating christian vision; the beggars actually passed us by without demanding bucksheesh; the merchants in the bazaars did not hold up their goods and cry out eagerly, "hey, john!" or "look this, howajji!" on the contrary, they only scowled at us and said never a word. the narrow streets swarmed like a hive with men and women in strange oriental costumes, and our small donkeys knocked them right and left as we plowed through them, urged on by the merciless donkey-boys. these persecutors run after the animals, shouting and goading them for hours together; they keep the donkey in a gallop always, yet never get tired themselves or fall behind. the donkeys fell down and spilt us over their heads occasionally, but there was nothing for it but to mount and hurry on again. we were banged against sharp corners, loaded porters, camels, and citizens generally; and we were so taken up with looking out for collisions and casualties that we had no chance to look about us at all. we rode half through the city and through the famous "street which is called straight" without seeing any thing, hardly. our bones were nearly knocked out of joint, we were wild with excitement, and our sides ached with the jolting we had suffered. i do not like riding in the damascus street-cars. we were on our way to the reputed houses of judas and ananias. about eighteen or nineteen hundred years ago, saul, a native of tarsus, was particularly bitter against the new sect called christians, and he left jerusalem and started across the country on a furious crusade against them. he went forth "breathing threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the lord." "and as he journeyed, he came near damascus, and suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: "and he fell to the earth and heard a voice saying unto him, 'saul, saul, why persecutest thou me?' "and when he knew that it was jesus that spoke to him he trembled, and was astonished, and said, 'lord, what wilt thou have me to do?'" he was told to arise and go into the ancient city and one would tell him what to do. in the meantime his soldiers stood speechless and awe-stricken, for they heard the mysterious voice but saw no man. saul rose up and found that that fierce supernatural light had destroyed his sight, and he was blind, so "they led him by the hand and brought him to damascus." he was converted. paul lay three days, blind, in the house of judas, and during that time he neither ate nor drank. there came a voice to a citizen of damascus, named ananias, saying, "arise, and go into the street which is called straight, and inquire at the house of judas, for one called saul, of tarsus; for behold, he prayeth." ananias did not wish to go at first, for he had heard of saul before, and he had his doubts about that style of a "chosen vessel" to preach the gospel of peace. however, in obedience to orders, he went into the "street called straight" (how he found his way into it, and after he did, how he ever found his way out of it again, are mysteries only to be accounted for by the fact that he was acting under divine inspiration.) he found paul and restored him, and ordained him a preacher; and from this old house we had hunted up in the street which is miscalled straight, he had started out on that bold missionary career which he prosecuted till his death. it was not the house of the disciple who sold the master for thirty pieces of silver. i make this explanation in justice to judas, who was a far different sort of man from the person just referred to. a very different style of man, and lived in a very good house. it is a pity we do not know more about him. i have given, in the above paragraphs, some more information for people who will not read bible history until they are defrauded into it by some such method as this. i hope that no friend of progress and education will obstruct or interfere with my peculiar mission. the street called straight is straighter than a corkscrew, but not as straight as a rainbow. st. luke is careful not to commit himself; he does not say it is the street which is straight, but the "street which is called straight." it is a fine piece of irony; it is the only facetious remark in the bible, i believe. we traversed the street called straight a good way, and then turned off and called at the reputed house of ananias. there is small question that a part of the original house is there still; it is an old room twelve or fifteen feet under ground, and its masonry is evidently ancient. if ananias did not live there in st. paul's time, somebody else did, which is just as well. i took a drink out of ananias' well, and singularly enough, the water was just as fresh as if the well had been dug yesterday. we went out toward the north end of the city to see the place where the disciples let paul down over the damascus wall at dead of night--for he preached christ so fearlessly in damascus that the people sought to kill him, just as they would to-day for the same offense, and he had to escape and flee to jerusalem. then we called at the tomb of mahomet's children and at a tomb which purported to be that of st. george who killed the dragon, and so on out to the hollow place under a rock where paul hid during his flight till his pursuers gave him up; and to the mausoleum of the five thousand christians who were massacred in damascus in by the turks. they say those narrow streets ran blood for several days, and that men, women and children were butchered indiscriminately and left to rot by hundreds all through the christian quarter; they say, further, that the stench was dreadful. all the christians who could get away fled from the city, and the mohammedans would not defile their hands by burying the "infidel dogs." the thirst for blood extended to the high lands of hermon and anti-lebanon, and in a short time twenty-five thousand more christians were massacred and their possessions laid waste. how they hate a christian in damascus!--and pretty much all over turkeydom as well. and how they will pay for it when russia turns her guns upon them again! it is soothing to the heart to abuse england and france for interposing to save the ottoman empire from the destruction it has so richly deserved for a thousand years. it hurts my vanity to see these pagans refuse to eat of food that has been cooked for us; or to eat from a dish we have eaten from; or to drink from a goatskin which we have polluted with our christian lips, except by filtering the water through a rag which they put over the mouth of it or through a sponge! i never disliked a chinaman as i do these degraded turks and arabs, and when russia is ready to war with them again, i hope england and france will not find it good breeding or good judgment to interfere. in damascus they think there are no such rivers in all the world as their little abana and pharpar. the damascenes have always thought that way. in kings, chapter v., naaman boasts extravagantly about them. that was three thousand years ago. he says: "are not abana and pharpar rivers of damascus, better than all the waters of israel? may i not wash in them and be clean?" but some of my readers have forgotten who naaman was, long ago. naaman was the commander of the syrian armies. he was the favorite of the king and lived in great state. "he was a mighty man of valor, but he was a leper." strangely enough, the house they point out to you now as his, has been turned into a leper hospital, and the inmates expose their horrid deformities and hold up their hands and beg for bucksheesh when a stranger enters. one can not appreciate the horror of this disease until he looks upon it in all its ghastliness, in naaman's ancient dwelling in damascus. bones all twisted out of shape, great knots protruding from face and body, joints decaying and dropping away--horrible! chapter xlv. the last twenty-four hours we staid in damascus i lay prostrate with a violent attack of cholera, or cholera morbus, and therefore had a good chance and a good excuse to lie there on that wide divan and take an honest rest. i had nothing to do but listen to the pattering of the fountains and take medicine and throw it up again. it was dangerous recreation, but it was pleasanter than traveling in syria. i had plenty of snow from mount hermon, and as it would not stay on my stomach, there was nothing to interfere with my eating it--there was always room for more. i enjoyed myself very well. syrian travel has its interesting features, like travel in any other part of the world, and yet to break your leg or have the cholera adds a welcome variety to it. we left damascus at noon and rode across the plain a couple of hours, and then the party stopped a while in the shade of some fig-trees to give me a chance to rest. it was the hottest day we had seen yet--the sun-flames shot down like the shafts of fire that stream out before a blow-pipe--the rays seemed to fall in a steady deluge on the head and pass downward like rain from a roof. i imagined i could distinguish between the floods of rays--i thought i could tell when each flood struck my head, when it reached my shoulders, and when the next one came. it was terrible. all the desert glared so fiercely that my eyes were swimming in tears all the time. the boys had white umbrellas heavily lined with dark green. they were a priceless blessing. i thanked fortune that i had one, too, notwithstanding it was packed up with the baggage and was ten miles ahead. it is madness to travel in syria without an umbrella. they told me in beirout (these people who always gorge you with advice) that it was madness to travel in syria without an umbrella. it was on this account that i got one. but, honestly, i think an umbrella is a nuisance any where when its business is to keep the sun off. no arab wears a brim to his fez, or uses an umbrella, or any thing to shade his eyes or his face, and he always looks comfortable and proper in the sun. but of all the ridiculous sights i ever have seen, our party of eight is the most so --they do cut such an outlandish figure. they travel single file; they all wear the endless white rag of constantinople wrapped round and round their hats and dangling down their backs; they all wear thick green spectacles, with side-glasses to them; they all hold white umbrellas, lined with green, over their heads; without exception their stirrups are too short--they are the very worst gang of horsemen on earth, their animals to a horse trot fearfully hard--and when they get strung out one after the other; glaring straight ahead and breathless; bouncing high and out of turn, all along the line; knees well up and stiff, elbows flapping like a rooster's that is going to crow, and the long file of umbrellas popping convulsively up and down--when one sees this outrageous picture exposed to the light of day, he is amazed that the gods don't get out their thunderbolts and destroy them off the face of the earth! i do--i wonder at it. i wouldn't let any such caravan go through a country of mine. and when the sun drops below the horizon and the boys close their umbrellas and put them under their arms, it is only a variation of the picture, not a modification of its absurdity. but may be you can not see the wild extravagance of my panorama. you could if you were here. here, you feel all the time just as if you were living about the year before christ--or back to the patriarchs--or forward to the new era. the scenery of the bible is about you--the customs of the patriarchs are around you--the same people, in the same flowing robes, and in sandals, cross your path--the same long trains of stately camels go and come--the same impressive religious solemnity and silence rest upon the desert and the mountains that were upon them in the remote ages of antiquity, and behold, intruding upon a scene like this, comes this fantastic mob of green-spectacled yanks, with their flapping elbows and bobbing umbrellas! it is daniel in the lion's den with a green cotton umbrella under his arm, all over again. my umbrella is with the baggage, and so are my green spectacles--and there they shall stay. i will not use them. i will show some respect for the eternal fitness of things. it will be bad enough to get sun-struck, without looking ridiculous into the bargain. if i fall, let me fall bearing about me the semblance of a christian, at least. three or four hours out from damascus we passed the spot where saul was so abruptly converted, and from this place we looked back over the scorching desert, and had our last glimpse of beautiful damascus, decked in its robes of shining green. after nightfall we reached our tents, just outside of the nasty arab village of jonesborough. of course the real name of the place is el something or other, but the boys still refuse to recognize the arab names or try to pronounce them. when i say that that village is of the usual style, i mean to insinuate that all syrian villages within fifty miles of damascus are alike--so much alike that it would require more than human intelligence to tell wherein one differed from another. a syrian village is a hive of huts one story high (the height of a man,) and as square as a dry-goods box; it is mud-plastered all over, flat roof and all, and generally whitewashed after a fashion. the same roof often extends over half the town, covering many of the streets, which are generally about a yard wide. when you ride through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet a melancholy dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won't run over him, but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet a young boy without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says "bucksheesh!" --he don't really expect a cent, but then he learned to say that before he learned to say mother, and now he can not break himself of it; next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely over her face, and her bust exposed; finally, you come to several sore-eyed children and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a poor devil whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape-vines. these are all the people you are likely to see. the balance of the population are asleep within doors, or abroad tending goats in the plains and on the hill-sides. the village is built on some consumptive little water-course, and about it is a little fresh-looking vegetation. beyond this charmed circle, for miles on every side, stretches a weary desert of sand and gravel, which produces a gray bunchy shrub like sage-brush. a syrian village is the sorriest sight in the world, and its surroundings are eminently in keeping with it. i would not have gone into this dissertation upon syrian villages but for the fact that nimrod, the mighty hunter of scriptural notoriety, is buried in jonesborough, and i wished the public to know about how he is located. like homer, he is said to be buried in many other places, but this is the only true and genuine place his ashes inhabit. when the original tribes were dispersed, more than four thousand years ago, nimrod and a large party traveled three or four hundred miles, and settled where the great city of babylon afterwards stood. nimrod built that city. he also began to build the famous tower of babel, but circumstances over which he had no control put it out of his power to finish it. he ran it up eight stories high, however, and two of them still stand, at this day--a colossal mass of brickwork, rent down the centre by earthquakes, and seared and vitrified by the lightnings of an angry god. but the vast ruin will still stand for ages, to shame the puny labors of these modern generations of men. its huge compartments are tenanted by owls and lions, and old nimrod lies neglected in this wretched village, far from the scene of his grand enterprise. we left jonesborough very early in the morning, and rode forever and forever and forever, it seemed to me, over parched deserts and rocky hills, hungry, and with no water to drink. we had drained the goat-skins dry in a little while. at noon we halted before the wretched arab town of el yuba dam, perched on the side of a mountain, but the dragoman said if we applied there for water we would be attacked by the whole tribe, for they did not love christians. we had to journey on. two hours later we reached the foot of a tall isolated mountain, which is crowned by the crumbling castle of banias, the stateliest ruin of that kind on earth, no doubt. it is a thousand feet long and two hundred wide, all of the most symmetrical, and at the same time the most ponderous masonry. the massive towers and bastions are more than thirty feet high, and have been sixty. from the mountain's peak its broken turrets rise above the groves of ancient oaks and olives, and look wonderfully picturesque. it is of such high antiquity that no man knows who built it or when it was built. it is utterly inaccessible, except in one place, where a bridle-path winds upward among the solid rocks to the old portcullis. the horses' hoofs have bored holes in these rocks to the depth of six inches during the hundreds and hundreds of years that the castle was garrisoned. we wandered for three hours among the chambers and crypts and dungeons of the fortress, and trod where the mailed heels of many a knightly crusader had rang, and where phenician heroes had walked ages before them. we wondered how such a solid mass of masonry could be affected even by an earthquake, and could not understand what agency had made banias a ruin; but we found the destroyer, after a while, and then our wonder was increased tenfold. seeds had fallen in crevices in the vast walls; the seeds had sprouted; the tender, insignificant sprouts had hardened; they grew larger and larger, and by a steady, imperceptible pressure forced the great stones apart, and now are bringing sure destruction upon a giant work that has even mocked the earthquakes to scorn! gnarled and twisted trees spring from the old walls every where, and beautify and overshadow the gray battlements with a wild luxuriance of foliage. from these old towers we looked down upon a broad, far-reaching green plain, glittering with the pools and rivulets which are the sources of the sacred river jordan. it was a grateful vision, after so much desert. and as the evening drew near, we clambered down the mountain, through groves of the biblical oaks of bashan, (for we were just stepping over the border and entering the long-sought holy land,) and at its extreme foot, toward the wide valley, we entered this little execrable village of banias and camped in a great grove of olive trees near a torrent of sparkling water whose banks are arrayed in fig-trees, pomegranates and oleanders in full leaf. barring the proximity of the village, it is a sort of paradise. the very first thing one feels like doing when he gets into camp, all burning up and dusty, is to hunt up a bath. we followed the stream up to where it gushes out of the mountain side, three hundred yards from the tents, and took a bath that was so icy that if i did not know this was the main source of the sacred river, i would expect harm to come of it. it was bathing at noonday in the chilly source of the abana, "river of damascus," that gave me the cholera, so dr. b. said. however, it generally does give me the cholera to take a bath. the incorrigible pilgrims have come in with their pockets full of specimens broken from the ruins. i wish this vandalism could be stopped. they broke off fragments from noah's tomb; from the exquisite sculptures of the temples of baalbec; from the houses of judas and ananias, in damascus; from the tomb of nimrod the mighty hunter in jonesborough; from the worn greek and roman inscriptions set in the hoary walls of the castle of banias; and now they have been hacking and chipping these old arches here that jesus looked upon in the flesh. heaven protect the sepulchre when this tribe invades jerusalem! the ruins here are not very interesting. there are the massive walls of a great square building that was once the citadel; there are many ponderous old arches that are so smothered with debris that they barely project above the ground; there are heavy-walled sewers through which the crystal brook of which jordan is born still runs; in the hill-side are the substructions of a costly marble temple that herod the great built here--patches of its handsome mosaic floors still remain; there is a quaint old stone bridge that was here before herod's time, may be; scattered every where, in the paths and in the woods, are corinthian capitals, broken porphyry pillars, and little fragments of sculpture; and up yonder in the precipice where the fountain gushes out, are well-worn greek inscriptions over niches in the rock where in ancient times the greeks, and after them the romans, worshipped the sylvan god pan. but trees and bushes grow above many of these ruins now; the miserable huts of a little crew of filthy arabs are perched upon the broken masonry of antiquity, the whole place has a sleepy, stupid, rural look about it, and one can hardly bring himself to believe that a busy, substantially built city once existed here, even two thousand years ago. the place was nevertheless the scene of an event whose effects have added page after page and volume after volume to the world's history. for in this place christ stood when he said to peter: "thou art peter; and upon this rock will i build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. and i will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." on those little sentences have been built up the mighty edifice of the church of rome; in them lie the authority for the imperial power of the popes over temporal affairs, and their godlike power to curse a soul or wash it white from sin. to sustain the position of "the only true church," which rome claims was thus conferred upon her, she has fought and labored and struggled for many a century, and will continue to keep herself busy in the same work to the end of time. the memorable words i have quoted give to this ruined city about all the interest it possesses to people of the present day. it seems curious enough to us to be standing on ground that was once actually pressed by the feet of the saviour. the situation is suggestive of a reality and a tangibility that seem at variance with the vagueness and mystery and ghostliness that one naturally attaches to the character of a god. i can not comprehend yet that i am sitting where a god has stood, and looking upon the brook and the mountains which that god looked upon, and am surrounded by dusky men and women whose ancestors saw him, and even talked with him, face to face, and carelessly, just as they would have done with any other stranger. i can not comprehend this; the gods of my understanding have been always hidden in clouds and very far away. this morning, during breakfast, the usual assemblage of squalid humanity sat patiently without the charmed circle of the camp and waited for such crumbs as pity might bestow upon their misery. there were old and young, brown-skinned and yellow. some of the men were tall and stalwart, (for one hardly sees any where such splendid-looking men as here in the east,) but all the women and children looked worn and sad, and distressed with hunger. they reminded me much of indians, did these people. they had but little clothing, but such as they had was fanciful in character and fantastic in its arrangement. any little absurd gewgaw or gimcrack they had they disposed in such a way as to make it attract attention most readily. they sat in silence, and with tireless patience watched our every motion with that vile, uncomplaining impoliteness which is so truly indian, and which makes a white man so nervous and uncomfortable and savage that he wants to exterminate the whole tribe. these people about us had other peculiarities, which i have noticed in the noble red man, too: they were infested with vermin, and the dirt had caked on them till it amounted to bark. the little children were in a pitiable condition--they all had sore eyes, and were otherwise afflicted in various ways. they say that hardly a native child in all the east is free from sore eyes, and that thousands of them go blind of one eye or both every year. i think this must be so, for i see plenty of blind people every day, and i do not remember seeing any children that hadn't sore eyes. and, would you suppose that an american mother could sit for an hour, with her child in her arms, and let a hundred flies roost upon its eyes all that time undisturbed? i see that every day. it makes my flesh creep. yesterday we met a woman riding on a little jackass, and she had a little child in her arms --honestly, i thought the child had goggles on as we approached, and i wondered how its mother could afford so much style. but when we drew near, we saw that the goggles were nothing but a camp meeting of flies assembled around each of the child's eyes, and at the same time there was a detachment prospecting its nose. the flies were happy, the child was contented, and so the mother did not interfere. as soon as the tribe found out that we had a doctor in our party, they began to flock in from all quarters. dr. b., in the charity of his nature, had taken a child from a woman who sat near by, and put some sort of a wash upon its diseased eyes. that woman went off and started the whole nation, and it was a sight to see them swarm! the lame, the halt, the blind, the leprous--all the distempers that are bred of indolence, dirt, and iniquity--were represented in the congress in ten minutes, and still they came! every woman that had a sick baby brought it along, and every woman that hadn't, borrowed one. what reverent and what worshiping looks they bent upon that dread, mysterious power, the doctor! they watched him take his phials out; they watched him measure the particles of white powder; they watched him add drops of one precious liquid, and drops of another; they lost not the slightest movement; their eyes were riveted upon him with a fascination that nothing could distract. i believe they thought he was gifted like a god. when each individual got his portion of medicine, his eyes were radiant with joy --notwithstanding by nature they are a thankless and impassive race--and upon his face was written the unquestioning faith that nothing on earth could prevent the patient from getting well now. christ knew how to preach to these simple, superstitious, disease-tortured creatures: he healed the sick. they flocked to our poor human doctor this morning when the fame of what he had done to the sick child went abroad in the land, and they worshiped him with their eyes while they did not know as yet whether there was virtue in his simples or not. the ancestors of these--people precisely like them in color, dress, manners, customs, simplicity--flocked in vast multitudes after christ, and when they saw him make the afflicted whole with a word, it is no wonder they worshiped him. no wonder his deeds were the talk of the nation. no wonder the multitude that followed him was so great that at one time--thirty miles from here--they had to let a sick man down through the roof because no approach could be made to the door; no wonder his audiences were so great at galilee that he had to preach from a ship removed a little distance from the shore; no wonder that even in the desert places about bethsaida, five thousand invaded his solitude, and he had to feed them by a miracle or else see them suffer for their confiding faith and devotion; no wonder when there was a great commotion in a city in those days, one neighbor explained it to another in words to this effect: "they say that jesus of nazareth is come!" well, as i was saying, the doctor distributed medicine as long as he had any to distribute, and his reputation is mighty in galilee this day. among his patients was the child of the shiek's daughter--for even this poor, ragged handful of sores and sin has its royal shiek--a poor old mummy that looked as if he would be more at home in a poor-house than in the chief magistracy of this tribe of hopeless, shirtless savages. the princess--i mean the shiek's daughter--was only thirteen or fourteen years old, and had a very sweet face and a pretty one. she was the only syrian female we have seen yet who was not so sinfully ugly that she couldn't smile after ten o'clock saturday night without breaking the sabbath. her child was a hard specimen, though--there wasn't enough of it to make a pie, and the poor little thing looked so pleadingly up at all who came near it (as if it had an idea that now was its chance or never,) that we were filled with compassion which was genuine and not put on. but this last new horse i have got is trying to break his neck over the tent-ropes, and i shall have to go out and anchor him. jericho and i have parted company. the new horse is not much to boast of, i think. one of his hind legs bends the wrong way, and the other one is as straight and stiff as a tent-pole. most of his teeth are gone, and he is as blind as a bat. his nose has been broken at some time or other, and is arched like a culvert now. his under lip hangs down like a camel's, and his ears are chopped off close to his head. i had some trouble at first to find a name for him, but i finally concluded to call him baalbec, because he is such a magnificent ruin. i can not keep from talking about my horses, because i have a very long and tedious journey before me, and they naturally occupy my thoughts about as much as matters of apparently much greater importance. we satisfied our pilgrims by making those hard rides from baalbec to damascus, but dan's horse and jack's were so crippled we had to leave them behind and get fresh animals for them. the dragoman says jack's horse died. i swapped horses with mohammed, the kingly-looking egyptian who is our ferguson's lieutenant. by ferguson i mean our dragoman abraham, of course. i did not take this horse on account of his personal appearance, but because i have not seen his back. i do not wish to see it. i have seen the backs of all the other horses, and found most of them covered with dreadful saddle-boils which i know have not been washed or doctored for years. the idea of riding all day long over such ghastly inquisitions of torture is sickening. my horse must be like the others, but i have at least the consolation of not knowing it to be so. i hope that in future i may be spared any more sentimental praises of the arab's idolatry of his horse. in boyhood i longed to be an arab of the desert and have a beautiful mare, and call her selim or benjamin or mohammed, and feed her with my own hands, and let her come into the tent, and teach her to caress me and look fondly upon me with her great tender eyes; and i wished that a stranger might come at such a time and offer me a hundred thousand dollars for her, so that i could do like the other arabs--hesitate, yearn for the money, but overcome by my love for my mare, at last say, "part with thee, my beautiful one! never with my life! away, tempter, i scorn thy gold!" and then bound into the saddle and speed over the desert like the wind! but i recall those aspirations. if these arabs be like the other arabs, their love for their beautiful mares is a fraud. these of my acquaintance have no love for their horses, no sentiment of pity for them, and no knowledge of how to treat them or care for them. the syrian saddle-blanket is a quilted mattress two or three inches thick. it is never removed from the horse, day or night. it gets full of dirt and hair, and becomes soaked with sweat. it is bound to breed sores. these pirates never think of washing a horse's back. they do not shelter the horses in the tents, either--they must stay out and take the weather as it comes. look at poor cropped and dilapidated "baalbec," and weep for the sentiment that has been wasted upon the selims of romance! chapter xlvi. about an hour's ride over a rough, rocky road, half flooded with water, and through a forest of oaks of bashan, brought us to dan. from a little mound here in the plain issues a broad stream of limpid water and forms a large shallow pool, and then rushes furiously onward, augmented in volume. this puddle is an important source of the jordan. its banks, and those of the brook are respectably adorned with blooming oleanders, but the unutterable beauty of the spot will not throw a well-balanced man into convulsions, as the syrian books of travel would lead one to suppose. from the spot i am speaking of, a cannon-ball would carry beyond the confines of holy land and light upon profane ground three miles away. we were only one little hour's travel within the borders of holy land--we had hardly begun to appreciate yet that we were standing upon any different sort of earth than that we had always been used to, and see how the historic names began already to cluster! dan--bashan--lake huleh --the sources of jordan--the sea of galilee. they were all in sight but the last, and it was not far away. the little township of bashan was once the kingdom so famous in scripture for its bulls and its oaks. lake huleh is the biblical "waters of merom." dan was the northern and beersheba the southern limit of palestine--hence the expression "from dan to beersheba." it is equivalent to our phrases "from maine to texas" --"from baltimore to san francisco." our expression and that of the israelites both mean the same--great distance. with their slow camels and asses, it was about a seven days' journey from dan to beersheba---say a hundred and fifty or sixty miles--it was the entire length of their country, and was not to be undertaken without great preparation and much ceremony. when the prodigal traveled to "a far country," it is not likely that he went more than eighty or ninety miles. palestine is only from forty to sixty miles wide. the state of missouri could be split into three palestines, and there would then be enough material left for part of another--possibly a whole one. from baltimore to san francisco is several thousand miles, but it will be only a seven days' journey in the cars when i am two or three years older.--[the railroad has been completed since the above was written.]--if i live i shall necessarily have to go across the continent every now and then in those cars, but one journey from dan to beersheba will be sufficient, no doubt. it must be the most trying of the two. therefore, if we chance to discover that from dan to beersheba seemed a mighty stretch of country to the israelites, let us not be airy with them, but reflect that it was and is a mighty stretch when one can not traverse it by rail. the small mound i have mentioned a while ago was once occupied by the phenician city of laish. a party of filibusters from zorah and eschol captured the place, and lived there in a free and easy way, worshiping gods of their own manufacture and stealing idols from their neighbors whenever they wore their own out. jeroboam set up a golden calf here to fascinate his people and keep them from making dangerous trips to jerusalem to worship, which might result in a return to their rightful allegiance. with all respect for those ancient israelites, i can not overlook the fact that they were not always virtuous enough to withstand the seductions of a golden calf. human nature has not changed much since then. some forty centuries ago the city of sodom was pillaged by the arab princes of mesopotamia, and among other prisoners they seized upon the patriarch lot and brought him here on their way to their own possessions. they brought him to dan, and father abraham, who was pursuing them, crept softly in at dead of night, among the whispering oleanders and under the shadows of the stately oaks, and fell upon the slumbering victors and startled them from their dreams with the clash of steel. he recaptured lot and all the other plunder. we moved on. we were now in a green valley, five or six miles wide and fifteen long. the streams which are called the sources of the jordan flow through it to lake huleh, a shallow pond three miles in diameter, and from the southern extremity of the lake the concentrated jordan flows out. the lake is surrounded by a broad marsh, grown with reeds. between the marsh and the mountains which wall the valley is a respectable strip of fertile land; at the end of the valley, toward dan, as much as half the land is solid and fertile, and watered by jordan's sources. there is enough of it to make a farm. it almost warrants the enthusiasm of the spies of that rabble of adventurers who captured dan. they said: "we have seen the land, and behold it is very good. * * * a place where there is no want of any thing that is in the earth." their enthusiasm was at least warranted by the fact that they had never seen a country as good as this. there was enough of it for the ample support of their six hundred men and their families, too. when we got fairly down on the level part of the danite farm, we came to places where we could actually run our horses. it was a notable circumstance. we had been painfully clambering over interminable hills and rocks for days together, and when we suddenly came upon this astonishing piece of rockless plain, every man drove the spurs into his horse and sped away with a velocity he could surely enjoy to the utmost, but could never hope to comprehend in syria. here were evidences of cultivation--a rare sight in this country--an acre or two of rich soil studded with last season's dead corn-stalks of the thickness of your thumb and very wide apart. but in such a land it was a thrilling spectacle. close to it was a stream, and on its banks a great herd of curious-looking syrian goats and sheep were gratefully eating gravel. i do not state this as a petrified fact--i only suppose they were eating gravel, because there did not appear to be any thing else for them to eat. the shepherds that tended them were the very pictures of joseph and his brethren i have no doubt in the world. they were tall, muscular, and very dark-skinned bedouins, with inky black beards. they had firm lips, unquailing eyes, and a kingly stateliness of bearing. they wore the parti-colored half bonnet, half hood, with fringed ends falling upon their shoulders, and the full, flowing robe barred with broad black stripes--the dress one sees in all pictures of the swarthy sons of the desert. these chaps would sell their younger brothers if they had a chance, i think. they have the manners, the customs, the dress, the occupation and the loose principles of the ancient stock. [they attacked our camp last night, and i bear them no good will.] they had with them the pigmy jackasses one sees all over syria and remembers in all pictures of the "flight into egypt," where mary and the young child are riding and joseph is walking alongside, towering high above the little donkey's shoulders. but really, here the man rides and carries the child, as a general thing, and the woman walks. the customs have not changed since joseph's time. we would not have in our houses a picture representing joseph riding and mary walking; we would see profanation in it, but a syrian christian would not. i know that hereafter the picture i first spoke of will look odd to me. we could not stop to rest two or three hours out from our camp, of course, albeit the brook was beside us. so we went on an hour longer. we saw water, then, but nowhere in all the waste around was there a foot of shade, and we were scorching to death. "like unto the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." nothing in the bible is more beautiful than that, and surely there is no place we have wandered to that is able to give it such touching expression as this blistering, naked, treeless land. here you do not stop just when you please, but when you can. we found water, but no shade. we traveled on and found a tree at last, but no water. we rested and lunched, and came on to this place, ain mellahah (the boys call it baldwinsville.) it was a very short day's run, but the dragoman does not want to go further, and has invented a plausible lie about the country beyond this being infested by ferocious arabs, who would make sleeping in their midst a dangerous pastime. well, they ought to be dangerous. they carry a rusty old weather-beaten flint-lock gun, with a barrel that is longer than themselves; it has no sights on it, it will not carry farther than a brickbat, and is not half so certain. and the great sash they wear in many a fold around their waists has two or three absurd old horse-pistols in it that are rusty from eternal disuse --weapons that would hang fire just about long enough for you to walk out of range, and then burst and blow the arab's head off. exceedingly dangerous these sons of the desert are. it used to make my blood run cold to read wm. c. grimes' hairbreadth escapes from bedouins, but i think i could read them now without a tremor. he never said he was attacked by bedouins, i believe, or was ever treated uncivilly, but then in about every other chapter he discovered them approaching, any how, and he had a blood-curdling fashion of working up the peril; and of wondering how his relations far away would feel could they see their poor wandering boy, with his weary feet and his dim eyes, in such fearful danger; and of thinking for the last time of the old homestead, and the dear old church, and the cow, and those things; and of finally straightening his form to its utmost height in the saddle, drawing his trusty revolver, and then dashing the spurs into "mohammed" and sweeping down upon the ferocious enemy determined to sell his life as dearly as possible. true the bedouins never did any thing to him when he arrived, and never had any intention of doing any thing to him in the first place, and wondered what in the mischief he was making all that to-do about; but still i could not divest myself of the idea, somehow, that a frightful peril had been escaped through that man's dare-devil bravery, and so i never could read about wm. c. grimes' bedouins and sleep comfortably afterward. but i believe the bedouins to be a fraud, now. i have seen the monster, and i can outrun him. i shall never be afraid of his daring to stand behind his own gun and discharge it. about fifteen hundred years before christ, this camp-ground of ours by the waters of merom was the scene of one of joshua's exterminating battles. jabin, king of hazor, (up yonder above dan,) called all the sheiks about him together, with their hosts, to make ready for israel's terrible general who was approaching. "and when all these kings were met together, they came and pitched together by the waters of merom, to fight against israel. and they went out, they and all their hosts with them, much people, even as the sand that is upon the sea-shore for multitude," etc. but joshua fell upon them and utterly destroyed them, root and branch. that was his usual policy in war. he never left any chance for newspaper controversies about who won the battle. he made this valley, so quiet now, a reeking slaughter-pen. somewhere in this part of the country--i do not know exactly where --israel fought another bloody battle a hundred years later. deborah, the prophetess, told barak to take ten thousand men and sally forth against another king jabin who had been doing something. barak came down from mount tabor, twenty or twenty-five miles from here, and gave battle to jabin's forces, who were in command of sisera. barak won the fight, and while he was making the victory complete by the usual method of exterminating the remnant of the defeated host, sisera fled away on foot, and when he was nearly exhausted by fatigue and thirst, one jael, a woman he seems to have been acquainted with, invited him to come into her tent and rest himself. the weary soldier acceded readily enough, and jael put him to bed. he said he was very thirsty, and asked his generous preserver to get him a cup of water. she brought him some milk, and he drank of it gratefully and lay down again, to forget in pleasant dreams his lost battle and his humbled pride. presently when he was asleep she came softly in with a hammer and drove a hideous tent-pen down through his brain! "for he was fast asleep and weary. so he died." such is the touching language of the bible. "the song of deborah and barak" praises jael for the memorable service she had rendered, in an exultant strain: "blessed above women shall jael the wife of heber the kenite be, blessed shall she be above women in the tent. "he asked for water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish. "she put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workman's hammer; and with the hammer she smote sisera, she smote off his head when she had pierced and stricken through his temples. "at her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead." stirring scenes like these occur in this valley no more. there is not a solitary village throughout its whole extent--not for thirty miles in either direction. there are two or three small clusters of bedouin tents, but not a single permanent habitation. one may ride ten miles, hereabouts, and not see ten human beings. to this region one of the prophecies is applied: "i will bring the land into desolation; and your enemies which dwell therein shall be astonished at it. and i will scatter you among the heathen, and i will draw out a sword after you; and your land shall be desolate and your cities waste." no man can stand here by deserted ain mellahah and say the prophecy has not been fulfilled. in a verse from the bible which i have quoted above, occurs the phrase "all these kings." it attracted my attention in a moment, because it carries to my mind such a vastly different significance from what it always did at home. i can see easily enough that if i wish to profit by this tour and come to a correct understanding of the matters of interest connected with it, i must studiously and faithfully unlearn a great many things i have somehow absorbed concerning palestine. i must begin a system of reduction. like my grapes which the spies bore out of the promised land, i have got every thing in palestine on too large a scale. some of my ideas were wild enough. the word palestine always brought to my mind a vague suggestion of a country as large as the united states. i do not know why, but such was the case. i suppose it was because i could not conceive of a small country having so large a history. i think i was a little surprised to find that the grand sultan of turkey was a man of only ordinary size. i must try to reduce my ideas of palestine to a more reasonable shape. one gets large impressions in boyhood, sometimes, which he has to fight against all his life. "all these kings." when i used to read that in sunday school, it suggested to me the several kings of such countries as england, france, spain, germany, russia, etc., arrayed in splendid robes ablaze with jewels, marching in grave procession, with sceptres of gold in their hands and flashing crowns upon their heads. but here in ain mellahah, after coming through syria, and after giving serious study to the character and customs of the country, the phrase "all these kings" loses its grandeur. it suggests only a parcel of petty chiefs--ill-clad and ill-conditioned savages much like our indians, who lived in full sight of each other and whose "kingdoms" were large when they were five miles square and contained two thousand souls. the combined monarchies of the thirty "kings" destroyed by joshua on one of his famous campaigns, only covered an area about equal to four of our counties of ordinary size. the poor old sheik we saw at cesarea philippi with his ragged band of a hundred followers, would have been called a "king" in those ancient times. it is seven in the morning, and as we are in the country, the grass ought to be sparkling with dew, the flowers enriching the air with their fragrance, and the birds singing in the trees. but alas, there is no dew here, nor flowers, nor birds, nor trees. there is a plain and an unshaded lake, and beyond them some barren mountains. the tents are tumbling, the arabs are quarreling like dogs and cats, as usual, the campground is strewn with packages and bundles, the labor of packing them upon the backs of the mules is progressing with great activity, the horses are saddled, the umbrellas are out, and in ten minutes we shall mount and the long procession will move again. the white city of the mellahah, resurrected for a moment out of the dead centuries, will have disappeared again and left no sign. chapter xlvii. we traversed some miles of desolate country whose soil is rich enough, but is given over wholly to weeds--a silent, mournful expanse, wherein we saw only three persons--arabs, with nothing on but a long coarse shirt like the "tow-linen" shirts which used to form the only summer garment of little negro boys on southern plantations. shepherds they were, and they charmed their flocks with the traditional shepherd's pipe--a reed instrument that made music as exquisitely infernal as these same arabs create when they sing. in their pipes lingered no echo of the wonderful music the shepherd forefathers heard in the plains of bethlehem what time the angels sang "peace on earth, good will to men." part of the ground we came over was not ground at all, but rocks--cream-colored rocks, worn smooth, as if by water; with seldom an edge or a corner on them, but scooped out, honey-combed, bored out with eye-holes, and thus wrought into all manner of quaint shapes, among which the uncouth imitation of skulls was frequent. over this part of the route were occasional remains of an old roman road like the appian way, whose paving-stones still clung to their places with roman tenacity. gray lizards, those heirs of ruin, of sepulchres and desolation, glided in and out among the rocks or lay still and sunned themselves. where prosperity has reigned, and fallen; where glory has flamed, and gone out; where beauty has dwelt, and passed away; where gladness was, and sorrow is; where the pomp of life has been, and silence and death brood in its high places, there this reptile makes his home, and mocks at human vanity. his coat is the color of ashes: and ashes are the symbol of hopes that have perished, of aspirations that came to nought, of loves that are buried. if he could speak, he would say, build temples: i will lord it in their ruins; build palaces: i will inhabit them; erect empires: i will inherit them; bury your beautiful: i will watch the worms at their work; and you, who stand here and moralize over me: i will crawl over your corpse at the last. a few ants were in this desert place, but merely to spend the summer. they brought their provisions from ain mellahah--eleven miles. jack is not very well to-day, it is easy to see; but boy as he is, he is too much of a man to speak of it. he exposed himself to the sun too much yesterday, but since it came of his earnest desire to learn, and to make this journey as useful as the opportunities will allow, no one seeks to discourage him by fault-finding. we missed him an hour from the camp, and then found him some distance away, by the edge of a brook, and with no umbrella to protect him from the fierce sun. if he had been used to going without his umbrella, it would have been well enough, of course; but he was not. he was just in the act of throwing a clod at a mud-turtle which was sunning itself on a small log in the brook. we said: "don't do that, jack. what do you want to harm him for? what has he done?" "well, then, i won't kill him, but i ought to, because he is a fraud." we asked him why, but he said it was no matter. we asked him why, once or twice, as we walked back to the camp but he still said it was no matter. but late at night, when he was sitting in a thoughtful mood on the bed, we asked him again and he said: "well, it don't matter; i don't mind it now, but i did not like it today, you know, because i don't tell any thing that isn't so, and i don't think the colonel ought to, either. but he did; he told us at prayers in the pilgrims' tent, last night, and he seemed as if he was reading it out of the bible, too, about this country flowing with milk and honey, and about the voice of the turtle being heard in the land. i thought that was drawing it a little strong, about the turtles, any how, but i asked mr. church if it was so, and he said it was, and what mr. church tells me, i believe. but i sat there and watched that turtle nearly an hour today, and i almost burned up in the sun; but i never heard him sing. i believe i sweated a double handful of sweat---i know i did--because it got in my eyes, and it was running down over my nose all the time; and you know my pants are tighter than any body else's--paris foolishness--and the buckskin seat of them got wet with sweat, and then got dry again and began to draw up and pinch and tear loose--it was awful--but i never heard him sing. finally i said, this is a fraud--that is what it is, it is a fraud--and if i had had any sense i might have known a cursed mud-turtle couldn't sing. and then i said, i don't wish to be hard on this fellow, and i will just give him ten minutes to commence; ten minutes --and then if he don't, down goes his building. but he didn't commence, you know. i had staid there all that time, thinking may be he might, pretty soon, because he kept on raising his head up and letting it down, and drawing the skin over his eyes for a minute and then opening them out again, as if he was trying to study up something to sing, but just as the ten minutes were up and i was all beat out and blistered, he laid his blamed head down on a knot and went fast asleep." "it was a little hard, after you had waited so long." "i should think so. i said, well, if you won't sing, you shan't sleep, any way; and if you fellows had let me alone i would have made him shin out of galilee quicker than any turtle ever did yet. but it isn't any matter now--let it go. the skin is all off the back of my neck." about ten in the morning we halted at joseph's pit. this is a ruined khan of the middle ages, in one of whose side courts is a great walled and arched pit with water in it, and this pit, one tradition says, is the one joseph's brethren cast him into. a more authentic tradition, aided by the geography of the country, places the pit in dothan, some two days' journey from here. however, since there are many who believe in this present pit as the true one, it has its interest. it is hard to make a choice of the most beautiful passage in a book which is so gemmed with beautiful passages as the bible; but it is certain that not many things within its lids may take rank above the exquisite story of joseph. who taught those ancient writers their simplicity of language, their felicity of expression, their pathos, and above all, their faculty of sinking themselves entirely out of sight of the reader and making the narrative stand out alone and seem to tell itself? shakspeare is always present when one reads his book; macaulay is present when we follow the march of his stately sentences; but the old testament writers are hidden from view. if the pit i have been speaking of is the right one, a scene transpired there, long ages ago, which is familiar to us all in pictures. the sons of jacob had been pasturing their flocks near there. their father grew uneasy at their long absence, and sent joseph, his favorite, to see if any thing had gone wrong with them. he traveled six or seven days' journey; he was only seventeen years old, and, boy like, he toiled through that long stretch of the vilest, rockiest, dustiest country in asia, arrayed in the pride of his heart, his beautiful claw-hammer coat of many colors. joseph was the favorite, and that was one crime in the eyes of his brethren; he had dreamed dreams, and interpreted them to foreshadow his elevation far above all his family in the far future, and that was another; he was dressed well and had doubtless displayed the harmless vanity of youth in keeping the fact prominently before his brothers. these were crimes his elders fretted over among themselves and proposed to punish when the opportunity should offer. when they saw him coming up from the sea of galilee, they recognized him and were glad. they said, "lo, here is this dreamer--let us kill him." but reuben pleaded for his life, and they spared it. but they seized the boy, and stripped the hated coat from his back and pushed him into the pit. they intended to let him die there, but reuben intended to liberate him secretly. however, while reuben was away for a little while, the brethren sold joseph to some ishmaelitish merchants who were journeying towards egypt. such is the history of the pit. and the self-same pit is there in that place, even to this day; and there it will remain until the next detachment of image-breakers and tomb desecraters arrives from the quaker city excursion, and they will infallibly dig it up and carry it away with them. for behold in them is no reverence for the solemn monuments of the past, and whithersoever they go they destroy and spare not. joseph became rich, distinguished, powerful--as the bible expresses it, "lord over all the land of egypt." joseph was the real king, the strength, the brain of the monarchy, though pharaoh held the title. joseph is one of the truly great men of the old testament. and he was the noblest and the manliest, save esau. why shall we not say a good word for the princely bedouin? the only crime that can be brought against him is that he was unfortunate. why must every body praise joseph's great-hearted generosity to his cruel brethren, without stint of fervent language, and fling only a reluctant bone of praise to esau for his still sublimer generosity to the brother who had wronged him? jacob took advantage of esau's consuming hunger to rob him of his birthright and the great honor and consideration that belonged to the position; by treachery and falsehood he robbed him of his father's blessing; he made of him a stranger in his home, and a wanderer. yet after twenty years had passed away and jacob met esau and fell at his feet quaking with fear and begging piteously to be spared the punishment he knew he deserved, what did that magnificent savage do? he fell upon his neck and embraced him! when jacob--who was incapable of comprehending nobility of character--still doubting, still fearing, insisted upon "finding grace with my lord" by the bribe of a present of cattle, what did the gorgeous son of the desert say? "nay, i have enough, my brother; keep that thou hast unto thyself!" esau found jacob rich, beloved by wives and children, and traveling in state, with servants, herds of cattle and trains of camels--but he himself was still the uncourted outcast this brother had made him. after thirteen years of romantic mystery, the brethren who had wronged joseph, came, strangers in a strange land, hungry and humble, to buy "a little food"; and being summoned to a palace, charged with crime, they beheld in its owner their wronged brother; they were trembling beggars--he, the lord of a mighty empire! what joseph that ever lived would have thrown away such a chance to "show off?" who stands first--outcast esau forgiving jacob in prosperity, or joseph on a king's throne forgiving the ragged tremblers whose happy rascality placed him there? just before we came to joseph's pit, we had "raised" a hill, and there, a few miles before us, with not a tree or a shrub to interrupt the view, lay a vision which millions of worshipers in the far lands of the earth would give half their possessions to see--the sacred sea of galilee! therefore we tarried only a short time at the pit. we rested the horses and ourselves, and felt for a few minutes the blessed shade of the ancient buildings. we were out of water, but the two or three scowling arabs, with their long guns, who were idling about the place, said they had none and that there was none in the vicinity. they knew there was a little brackish water in the pit, but they venerated a place made sacred by their ancestor's imprisonment too much to be willing to see christian dogs drink from it. but ferguson tied rags and handkerchiefs together till he made a rope long enough to lower a vessel to the bottom, and we drank and then rode on; and in a short time we dismounted on those shores which the feet of the saviour have made holy ground. at noon we took a swim in the sea of galilee--a blessed privilege in this roasting climate--and then lunched under a neglected old fig-tree at the fountain they call ain-et-tin, a hundred yards from ruined capernaum. every rivulet that gurgles out of the rocks and sands of this part of the world is dubbed with the title of "fountain," and people familiar with the hudson, the great lakes and the mississippi fall into transports of admiration over them, and exhaust their powers of composition in writing their praises. if all the poetry and nonsense that have been discharged upon the fountains and the bland scenery of this region were collected in a book, it would make a most valuable volume to burn. during luncheon, the pilgrim enthusiasts of our party, who had been so light-hearted and so happy ever since they touched holy ground that they did little but mutter incoherent rhapsodies, could scarcely eat, so anxious were they to "take shipping" and sail in very person upon the waters that had borne the vessels of the apostles. their anxiety grew and their excitement augmented with every fleeting moment, until my fears were aroused and i began to have misgivings that in their present condition they might break recklessly loose from all considerations of prudence and buy a whole fleet of ships to sail in instead of hiring a single one for an hour, as quiet folk are wont to do. i trembled to think of the ruined purses this day's performances might result in. i could not help reflecting bodingly upon the intemperate zeal with which middle-aged men are apt to surfeit themselves upon a seductive folly which they have tasted for the first time. and yet i did not feel that i had a right to be surprised at the state of things which was giving me so much concern. these men had been taught from infancy to revere, almost to worship, the holy places whereon their happy eyes were resting now. for many and many a year this very picture had visited their thoughts by day and floated through their dreams by night. to stand before it in the flesh--to see it as they saw it now--to sail upon the hallowed sea, and kiss the holy soil that compassed it about: these were aspirations they had cherished while a generation dragged its lagging seasons by and left its furrows in their faces and its frosts upon their hair. to look upon this picture, and sail upon this sea, they had forsaken home and its idols and journeyed thousands and thousands of miles, in weariness and tribulation. what wonder that the sordid lights of work-day prudence should pale before the glory of a hope like theirs in the full splendor of its fruition? let them squander millions! i said--who speaks of money at a time like this? in this frame of mind i followed, as fast as i could, the eager footsteps of the pilgrims, and stood upon the shore of the lake, and swelled, with hat and voice, the frantic hail they sent after the "ship" that was speeding by. it was a success. the toilers of the sea ran in and beached their barque. joy sat upon every countenance. "how much?--ask him how much, ferguson!--how much to take us all--eight of us, and you--to bethsaida, yonder, and to the mouth of jordan, and to the place where the swine ran down into the sea--quick!--and we want to coast around every where--every where!--all day long!--i could sail a year in these waters!--and tell him we'll stop at magdala and finish at tiberias!--ask him how much?--any thing--any thing whatever!--tell him we don't care what the expense is!" [i said to myself, i knew how it would be.] ferguson--(interpreting)--"he says two napoleons--eight dollars." one or two countenances fell. then a pause. "too much!--we'll give him one!" i never shall know how it was--i shudder yet when i think how the place is given to miracles--but in a single instant of time, as it seemed to me, that ship was twenty paces from the shore, and speeding away like a frightened thing! eight crestfallen creatures stood upon the shore, and o, to think of it! this--this--after all that overmastering ecstacy! oh, shameful, shameful ending, after such unseemly boasting! it was too much like "ho! let me at him!" followed by a prudent "two of you hold him--one can hold me!" instantly there was wailing and gnashing of teeth in the camp. the two napoleons were offered--more if necessary--and pilgrims and dragoman shouted themselves hoarse with pleadings to the retreating boatmen to come back. but they sailed serenely away and paid no further heed to pilgrims who had dreamed all their lives of some day skimming over the sacred waters of galilee and listening to its hallowed story in the whisperings of its waves, and had journeyed countless leagues to do it, and--and then concluded that the fare was too high. impertinent mohammedan arabs, to think such things of gentlemen of another faith! well, there was nothing to do but just submit and forego the privilege of voyaging on genessaret, after coming half around the globe to taste that pleasure. there was a time, when the saviour taught here, that boats were plenty among the fishermen of the coasts--but boats and fishermen both are gone, now; and old josephus had a fleet of men-of-war in these waters eighteen centuries ago--a hundred and thirty bold canoes--but they, also, have passed away and left no sign. they battle here no more by sea, and the commercial marine of galilee numbers only two small ships, just of a pattern with the little skiffs the disciples knew. one was lost to us for good--the other was miles away and far out of hail. so we mounted the horses and rode grimly on toward magdala, cantering along in the edge of the water for want of the means of passing over it. how the pilgrims abused each other! each said it was the other's fault, and each in turn denied it. no word was spoken by the sinners--even the mildest sarcasm might have been dangerous at such a time. sinners that have been kept down and had examples held up to them, and suffered frequent lectures, and been so put upon in a moral way and in the matter of going slow and being serious and bottling up slang, and so crowded in regard to the matter of being proper and always and forever behaving, that their lives have become a burden to them, would not lag behind pilgrims at such a time as this, and wink furtively, and be joyful, and commit other such crimes--because it would not occur to them to do it. otherwise they would. but they did do it, though--and it did them a world of good to hear the pilgrims abuse each other, too. we took an unworthy satisfaction in seeing them fall out, now and then, because it showed that they were only poor human people like us, after all. so we all rode down to magdala, while the gnashing of teeth waxed and waned by turns, and harsh words troubled the holy calm of galilee. lest any man think i mean to be ill-natured when i talk about our pilgrims as i have been talking, i wish to say in all sincerity that i do not. i would not listen to lectures from men i did not like and could not respect; and none of these can say i ever took their lectures unkindly, or was restive under the infliction, or failed to try to profit by what they said to me. they are better men than i am; i can say that honestly; they are good friends of mine, too--and besides, if they did not wish to be stirred up occasionally in print, why in the mischief did they travel with me? they knew me. they knew my liberal way--that i like to give and take--when it is for me to give and other people to take. when one of them threatened to leave me in damascus when i had the cholera, he had no real idea of doing it--i know his passionate nature and the good impulses that underlie it. and did i not overhear church, another pilgrim, say he did not care who went or who staid, he would stand by me till i walked out of damascus on my own feet or was carried out in a coffin, if it was a year? and do i not include church every time i abuse the pilgrims--and would i be likely to speak ill-naturedly of him? i wish to stir them up and make them healthy; that is all. we had left capernaum behind us. it was only a shapeless ruin. it bore no semblance to a town, and had nothing about it to suggest that it had ever been a town. but all desolate and unpeopled as it was, it was illustrious ground. from it sprang that tree of christianity whose broad arms overshadow so many distant lands to-day. after christ was tempted of the devil in the desert, he came here and began his teachings; and during the three or four years he lived afterward, this place was his home almost altogether. he began to heal the sick, and his fame soon spread so widely that sufferers came from syria and beyond jordan, and even from jerusalem, several days' journey away, to be cured of their diseases. here he healed the centurion's servant and peter's mother-in-law, and multitudes of the lame and the blind and persons possessed of devils; and here, also, he raised jairus's daughter from the dead. he went into a ship with his disciples, and when they roused him from sleep in the midst of a storm, he quieted the winds and lulled the troubled sea to rest with his voice. he passed over to the other side, a few miles away and relieved two men of devils, which passed into some swine. after his return he called matthew from the receipt of customs, performed some cures, and created scandal by eating with publicans and sinners. then he went healing and teaching through galilee, and even journeyed to tyre and sidon. he chose the twelve disciples, and sent them abroad to preach the new gospel. he worked miracles in bethsaida and chorazin--villages two or three miles from capernaum. it was near one of them that the miraculous draft of fishes is supposed to have been taken, and it was in the desert places near the other that he fed the thousands by the miracles of the loaves and fishes. he cursed them both, and capernaum also, for not repenting, after all the great works he had done in their midst, and prophesied against them. they are all in ruins, now--which is gratifying to the pilgrims, for, as usual, they fit the eternal words of gods to the evanescent things of this earth; christ, it is more probable, referred to the people, not their shabby villages of wigwams: he said it would be sad for them at "the day of judgment"--and what business have mud-hovels at the day of judgment? it would not affect the prophecy in the least --it would neither prove it or disprove it--if these towns were splendid cities now instead of the almost vanished ruins they are. christ visited magdala, which is near by capernaum, and he also visited cesarea philippi. he went up to his old home at nazareth, and saw his brothers joses, and judas, and james, and simon--those persons who, being own brothers to jesus christ, one would expect to hear mentioned sometimes, yet who ever saw their names in a newspaper or heard them from a pulpit? who ever inquires what manner of youths they were; and whether they slept with jesus, played with him and romped about him; quarreled with him concerning toys and trifles; struck him in anger, not suspecting what he was? who ever wonders what they thought when they saw him come back to nazareth a celebrity, and looked long at his unfamiliar face to make sure, and then said, "it is jesus?" who wonders what passed in their minds when they saw this brother, (who was only a brother to them, however much he might be to others a mysterious stranger who was a god and had stood face to face with god above the clouds,) doing strange miracles with crowds of astonished people for witnesses? who wonders if the brothers of jesus asked him to come home with them, and said his mother and his sisters were grieved at his long absence, and would be wild with delight to see his face again? who ever gives a thought to the sisters of jesus at all?--yet he had sisters; and memories of them must have stolen into his mind often when he was ill-treated among strangers; when he was homeless and said he had not where to lay his head; when all deserted him, even peter, and he stood alone among his enemies. christ did few miracles in nazareth, and staid but a little while. the people said, "this the son of god! why, his father is nothing but a carpenter. we know the family. we see them every day. are not his brothers named so and so, and his sisters so and so, and is not his mother the person they call mary? this is absurd." he did not curse his home, but he shook its dust from his feet and went away. capernaum lies close to the edge of the little sea, in a small plain some five miles long and a mile or two wide, which is mildly adorned with oleanders which look all the better contrasted with the bald hills and the howling deserts which surround them, but they are not as deliriously beautiful as the books paint them. if one be calm and resolute he can look upon their comeliness and live. one of the most astonishing things that have yet fallen under our observation is the exceedingly small portion of the earth from which sprang the now flourishing plant of christianity. the longest journey our saviour ever performed was from here to jerusalem--about one hundred to one hundred and twenty miles. the next longest was from here to sidon--say about sixty or seventy miles. instead of being wide apart--as american appreciation of distances would naturally suggest--the places made most particularly celebrated by the presence of christ are nearly all right here in full view, and within cannon-shot of capernaum. leaving out two or three short journeys of the saviour, he spent his life, preached his gospel, and performed his miracles within a compass no larger than an ordinary county in the united states. it is as much as i can do to comprehend this stupefying fact. how it wears a man out to have to read up a hundred pages of history every two or three miles--for verily the celebrated localities of palestine occur that close together. how wearily, how bewilderingly they swarm about your path! in due time we reached the ancient village of magdala. chapter xlviii. magdala is not a beautiful place. it is thoroughly syrian, and that is to say that it is thoroughly ugly, and cramped, squalid, uncomfortable, and filthy--just the style of cities that have adorned the country since adam's time, as all writers have labored hard to prove, and have succeeded. the streets of magdala are any where from three to six feet wide, and reeking with uncleanliness. the houses are from five to seven feet high, and all built upon one arbitrary plan--the ungraceful form of a dry-goods box. the sides are daubed with a smooth white plaster, and tastefully frescoed aloft and alow with disks of camel-dung placed there to dry. this gives the edifice the romantic appearance of having been riddled with cannon-balls, and imparts to it a very warlike aspect. when the artist has arranged his materials with an eye to just proportion --the small and the large flakes in alternate rows, and separated by carefully-considered intervals--i know of nothing more cheerful to look upon than a spirited syrian fresco. the flat, plastered roof is garnished by picturesque stacks of fresco materials, which, having become thoroughly dried and cured, are placed there where it will be convenient. it is used for fuel. there is no timber of any consequence in palestine--none at all to waste upon fires--and neither are there any mines of coal. if my description has been intelligible, you will perceive, now, that a square, flat-roofed hovel, neatly frescoed, with its wall-tops gallantly bastioned and turreted with dried camel-refuse, gives to a landscape a feature that is exceedingly festive and picturesque, especially if one is careful to remember to stick in a cat wherever, about the premises, there is room for a cat to sit. there are no windows to a syrian hut, and no chimneys. when i used to read that they let a bed-ridden man down through the roof of a house in capernaum to get him into the presence of the saviour, i generally had a three-story brick in my mind, and marveled that they did not break his neck with the strange experiment. i perceive now, however, that they might have taken him by the heels and thrown him clear over the house without discommoding him very much. palestine is not changed any since those days, in manners, customs, architecture, or people. as we rode into magdala not a soul was visible. but the ring of the horses' hoofs roused the stupid population, and they all came trooping out--old men and old women, boys and girls, the blind, the crazy, and the crippled, all in ragged, soiled and scanty raiment, and all abject beggars by nature, instinct and education. how the vermin-tortured vagabonds did swarm! how they showed their scars and sores, and piteously pointed to their maimed and crooked limbs, and begged with their pleading eyes for charity! we had invoked a spirit we could not lay. they hung to the horses's tails, clung to their manes and the stirrups, closed in on every aide in scorn of dangerous hoofs--and out of their infidel throats, with one accord, burst an agonizing and most infernal chorus: "howajji, bucksheesh! howajji, bucksheesh! howajji, bucksheesh! bucksheesh! bucksheesh!" i never was in a storm like that before. as we paid the bucksheesh out to sore-eyed children and brown, buxom girls with repulsively tattooed lips and chins, we filed through the town and by many an exquisite fresco, till we came to a bramble-infested inclosure and a roman-looking ruin which had been the veritable dwelling of st. mary magdalene, the friend and follower of jesus. the guide believed it, and so did i. i could not well do otherwise, with the house right there before my eyes as plain as day. the pilgrims took down portions of the front wall for specimens, as is their honored custom, and then we departed. we are camped in this place, now, just within the city walls of tiberias. we went into the town before nightfall and looked at its people--we cared nothing about its houses. its people are best examined at a distance. they are particularly uncomely jews, arabs, and negroes. squalor and poverty are the pride of tiberias. the young women wear their dower strung upon a strong wire that curves downward from the top of the head to the jaw--turkish silver coins which they have raked together or inherited. most of these maidens were not wealthy, but some few had been very kindly dealt with by fortune. i saw heiresses there worth, in their own right--worth, well, i suppose i might venture to say, as much as nine dollars and a half. but such cases are rare. when you come across one of these, she naturally puts on airs. she will not ask for bucksheesh. she will not even permit of undue familiarity. she assumes a crushing dignity and goes on serenely practicing with her fine-tooth comb and quoting poetry just the same as if you were not present at all. some people can not stand prosperity. they say that the long-nosed, lanky, dyspeptic-looking body-snatchers, with the indescribable hats on, and a long curl dangling down in front of each ear, are the old, familiar, self-righteous pharisees we read of in the scriptures. verily, they look it. judging merely by their general style, and without other evidence, one might easily suspect that self-righteousness was their specialty. from various authorities i have culled information concerning tiberias. it was built by herod antipas, the murderer of john the baptist, and named after the emperor tiberius. it is believed that it stands upon the site of what must have been, ages ago, a city of considerable architectural pretensions, judging by the fine porphyry pillars that are scattered through tiberias and down the lake shore southward. these were fluted, once, and yet, although the stone is about as hard as iron, the flutings are almost worn away. these pillars are small, and doubtless the edifices they adorned were distinguished more for elegance than grandeur. this modern town--tiberias--is only mentioned in the new testament; never in the old. the sanhedrim met here last, and for three hundred years tiberias was the metropolis of the jews in palestine. it is one of the four holy cities of the israelites, and is to them what mecca is to the mohammedan and jerusalem to the christian. it has been the abiding place of many learned and famous jewish rabbins. they lie buried here, and near them lie also twenty-five thousand of their faith who traveled far to be near them while they lived and lie with them when they died. the great rabbi ben israel spent three years here in the early part of the third century. he is dead, now. the celebrated sea of galilee is not so large a sea as lake tahoe --[i measure all lakes by tahoe, partly because i am far more familiar with it than with any other, and partly because i have such a high admiration for it and such a world of pleasant recollections of it, that it is very nearly impossible for me to speak of lakes and not mention it.]--by a good deal--it is just about two-thirds as large. and when we come to speak of beauty, this sea is no more to be compared to tahoe than a meridian of longitude is to a rainbow. the dim waters of this pool can not suggest the limpid brilliancy of tahoe; these low, shaven, yellow hillocks of rocks and sand, so devoid of perspective, can not suggest the grand peaks that compass tahoe like a wall, and whose ribbed and chasmed fronts are clad with stately pines that seem to grow small and smaller as they climb, till one might fancy them reduced to weeds and shrubs far upward, where they join the everlasting snows. silence and solitude brood over tahoe; and silence and solitude brood also over this lake of genessaret. but the solitude of the one is as cheerful and fascinating as the solitude of the other is dismal and repellant. in the early morning one watches the silent battle of dawn and darkness upon the waters of tahoe with a placid interest; but when the shadows sulk away and one by one the hidden beauties of the shore unfold themselves in the full splendor of noon; when the still surface is belted like a rainbow with broad bars of blue and green and white, half the distance from circumference to centre; when, in the lazy summer afternoon, he lies in a boat, far out to where the dead blue of the deep water begins, and smokes the pipe of peace and idly winks at the distant crags and patches of snow from under his cap-brim; when the boat drifts shoreward to the white water, and he lolls over the gunwale and gazes by the hour down through the crystal depths and notes the colors of the pebbles and reviews the finny armies gliding in procession a hundred feet below; when at night he sees moon and stars, mountain ridges feathered with pines, jutting white capes, bold promontories, grand sweeps of rugged scenery topped with bald, glimmering peaks, all magnificently pictured in the polished mirror of the lake, in richest, softest detail, the tranquil interest that was born with the morning deepens and deepens, by sure degrees, till it culminates at last in resistless fascination! it is solitude, for birds and squirrels on the shore and fishes in the water are all the creatures that are near to make it otherwise, but it is not the sort of solitude to make one dreary. come to galilee for that. if these unpeopled deserts, these rusty mounds of barrenness, that never, never, never do shake the glare from their harsh outlines, and fade and faint into vague perspective; that melancholy ruin of capernaum; this stupid village of tiberias, slumbering under its six funereal plumes of palms; yonder desolate declivity where the swine of the miracle ran down into the sea, and doubtless thought it was better to swallow a devil or two and get drowned into the bargain than have to live longer in such a place; this cloudless, blistering sky; this solemn, sailless, tintless lake, reposing within its rim of yellow hills and low, steep banks, and looking just as expressionless and unpoetical (when we leave its sublime history out of the question,) as any metropolitan reservoir in christendom--if these things are not food for rock me to sleep, mother, none exist, i think. but i should not offer the evidence for the prosecution and leave the defense unheard. wm. c. grimes deposes as follows:-- "we had taken ship to go over to the other side. the sea was not more than six miles wide. of the beauty of the scene, however, i can not say enough, nor can i imagine where those travelers carried their eyes who have described the scenery of the lake as tame or uninteresting. the first great characteristic of it is the deep basin in which it lies. this is from three to four hundred feet deep on all sides except at the lower end, and the sharp slope of the banks, which are all of the richest green, is broken and diversified by the wadys and water-courses which work their way down through the sides of the basin, forming dark chasms or light sunny valleys. near tiberias these banks are rocky, and ancient sepulchres open in them, with their doors toward the water. they selected grand spots, as did the egyptians of old, for burial places, as if they designed that when the voice of god should reach the sleepers, they should walk forth and open their eyes on scenes of glorious beauty. on the east, the wild and desolate mountains contrast finely with the deep blue lake; and toward the north, sublime and majestic, hermon looks down on the sea, lifting his white crown to heaven with the pride of a hill that has seen the departing footsteps of a hundred generations. on the north-east shore of the sea was a single tree, and this is the only tree of any size visible from the water of the lake, except a few lonely palms in the city of tiberias, and by its solitary position attracts more attention than would a forest. the whole appearance of the scene is precisely what we would expect and desire the scenery of genessaret to be, grand beauty, but quiet calm. the very mountains are calm." it is an ingeniously written description, and well calculated to deceive. but if the paint and the ribbons and the flowers be stripped from it, a skeleton will be found beneath. so stripped, there remains a lake six miles wide and neutral in color; with steep green banks, unrelieved by shrubbery; at one end bare, unsightly rocks, with (almost invisible) holes in them of no consequence to the picture; eastward, "wild and desolate mountains;" (low, desolate hills, he should have said;) in the north, a mountain called hermon, with snow on it; peculiarity of the picture, "calmness;" its prominent feature, one tree. no ingenuity could make such a picture beautiful--to one's actual vision. i claim the right to correct misstatements, and have so corrected the color of the water in the above recapitulation. the waters of genessaret are of an exceedingly mild blue, even from a high elevation and a distance of five miles. close at hand (the witness was sailing on the lake,) it is hardly proper to call them blue at all, much less "deep" blue. i wish to state, also, not as a correction, but as matter of opinion, that mount hermon is not a striking or picturesque mountain by any means, being too near the height of its immediate neighbors to be so. that is all. i do not object to the witness dragging a mountain forty-five miles to help the scenery under consideration, because it is entirely proper to do it, and besides, the picture needs it. "c. w. e.," (of "life in the holy land,") deposes as follows:-- "a beautiful sea lies unbosomed among the galilean hills, in the midst of that land once possessed by zebulon and naphtali, asher and dan. the azure of the sky penetrates the depths of the lake, and the waters are sweet and cool. on the west, stretch broad fertile plains; on the north the rocky shores rise step by step until in the far distance tower the snowy heights of hermon; on the east through a misty veil are seen the high plains of perea, which stretch away in rugged mountains leading the mind by varied paths toward jerusalem the holy. flowers bloom in this terrestrial paradise, once beautiful and verdant with waving trees; singing birds enchant the ear; the turtle-dove soothes with its soft note; the crested lark sends up its song toward heaven, and the grave and stately stork inspires the mind with thought, and leads it on to meditation and repose. life here was once idyllic, charming; here were once no rich, no poor, no high, no low. it was a world of ease, simplicity, and beauty; now it is a scene of desolation and misery." this is not an ingenious picture. it is the worst i ever saw. it describes in elaborate detail what it terms a "terrestrial paradise," and closes with the startling information that this paradise is "a scene of desolation and misery." i have given two fair, average specimens of the character of the testimony offered by the majority of the writers who visit this region. one says, "of the beauty of the scene i can not say enough," and then proceeds to cover up with a woof of glittering sentences a thing which, when stripped for inspection, proves to be only an unobtrusive basin of water, some mountainous desolation, and one tree. the other, after a conscientious effort to build a terrestrial paradise out of the same materials, with the addition of a "grave and stately stork," spoils it all by blundering upon the ghastly truth at the last. nearly every book concerning galilee and its lake describes the scenery as beautiful. no--not always so straightforward as that. sometimes the impression intentionally conveyed is that it is beautiful, at the same time that the author is careful not to say that it is, in plain saxon. but a careful analysis of these descriptions will show that the materials of which they are formed are not individually beautiful and can not be wrought into combinations that are beautiful. the veneration and the affection which some of these men felt for the scenes they were speaking of, heated their fancies and biased their judgment; but the pleasant falsities they wrote were full of honest sincerity, at any rate. others wrote as they did, because they feared it would be unpopular to write otherwise. others were hypocrites and deliberately meant to deceive. any of them would say in a moment, if asked, that it was always right and always best to tell the truth. they would say that, at any rate, if they did not perceive the drift of the question. but why should not the truth be spoken of this region? is the truth harmful? has it ever needed to hide its face? god made the sea of galilee and its surroundings as they are. is it the province of mr. grimes to improve upon the work? i am sure, from the tenor of books i have read, that many who have visited this land in years gone by, were presbyterians, and came seeking evidences in support of their particular creed; they found a presbyterian palestine, and they had already made up their minds to find no other, though possibly they did not know it, being blinded by their zeal. others were baptists, seeking baptist evidences and a baptist palestine. others were catholics, methodists, episcopalians, seeking evidences indorsing their several creeds, and a catholic, a methodist, an episcopalian palestine. honest as these men's intentions may have been, they were full of partialities and prejudices, they entered the country with their verdicts already prepared, and they could no more write dispassionately and impartially about it than they could about their own wives and children. our pilgrims have brought their verdicts with them. they have shown it in their conversation ever since we left beirout. i can almost tell, in set phrase, what they will say when they see tabor, nazareth, jericho and jerusalem--because i have the books they will "smouch" their ideas from. these authors write pictures and frame rhapsodies, and lesser men follow and see with the author's eyes instead of their own, and speak with his tongue. what the pilgrims said at cesarea philippi surprised me with its wisdom. i found it afterwards in robinson. what they said when genessaret burst upon their vision, charmed me with its grace. i find it in mr. thompson's "land and the book." they have spoken often, in happily worded language which never varied, of how they mean to lay their weary heads upon a stone at bethel, as jacob did, and close their dim eyes, and dream, perchance, of angels descending out of heaven on a ladder. it was very pretty. but i have recognized the weary head and the dim eyes, finally. they borrowed the idea--and the words--and the construction--and the punctuation--from grimes. the pilgrims will tell of palestine, when they get home, not as it appeared to them, but as it appeared to thompson and robinson and grimes--with the tints varied to suit each pilgrim's creed. pilgrims, sinners and arabs are all abed, now, and the camp is still. labor in loneliness is irksome. since i made my last few notes, i have been sitting outside the tent for half an hour. night is the time to see galilee. genessaret under these lustrous stars has nothing repulsive about it. genessaret with the glittering reflections of the constellations flecking its surface, almost makes me regret that i ever saw the rude glare of the day upon it. its history and its associations are its chiefest charm, in any eyes, and the spells they weave are feeble in the searching light of the sun. then, we scarcely feel the fetters. our thoughts wander constantly to the practical concerns of life, and refuse to dwell upon things that seem vague and unreal. but when the day is done, even the most unimpressible must yield to the dreamy influences of this tranquil starlight. the old traditions of the place steal upon his memory and haunt his reveries, and then his fancy clothes all sights and sounds with the supernatural. in the lapping of the waves upon the beach, he hears the dip of ghostly oars; in the secret noises of the night he hears spirit voices; in the soft sweep of the breeze, the rush of invisible wings. phantom ships are on the sea, the dead of twenty centuries come forth from the tombs, and in the dirges of the night wind the songs of old forgotten ages find utterance again. in the starlight, galilee has no boundaries but the broad compass of the heavens, and is a theatre meet for great events; meet for the birth of a religion able to save a world; and meet for the stately figure appointed to stand upon its stage and proclaim its high decrees. but in the sunlight, one says: is it for the deeds which were done and the words which were spoken in this little acre of rocks and sand eighteen centuries gone, that the bells are ringing to-day in the remote islands of the sea and far and wide over continents that clasp the circumference of the huge globe? one can comprehend it only when night has hidden all incongruities and created a theatre proper for so grand a drama. chapter xlix. we took another swim in the sea of galilee at twilight yesterday, and another at sunrise this morning. we have not sailed, but three swims are equal to a sail, are they not? there were plenty of fish visible in the water, but we have no outside aids in this pilgrimage but "tent life in the holy land," "the land and the book," and other literature of like description--no fishing-tackle. there were no fish to be had in the village of tiberias. true, we saw two or three vagabonds mending their nets, but never trying to catch any thing with them. we did not go to the ancient warm baths two miles below tiberias. i had no desire in the world to go there. this seemed a little strange, and prompted me to try to discover what the cause of this unreasonable indifference was. it turned out to be simply because pliny mentions them. i have conceived a sort of unwarrantable unfriendliness toward pliny and st. paul, because it seems as if i can never ferret out a place that i can have to myself. it always and eternally transpires that st. paul has been to that place, and pliny has "mentioned" it. in the early morning we mounted and started. and then a weird apparition marched forth at the head of the procession--a pirate, i thought, if ever a pirate dwelt upon land. it was a tall arab, as swarthy as an indian; young--say thirty years of age. on his head he had closely bound a gorgeous yellow and red striped silk scarf, whose ends, lavishly fringed with tassels, hung down between his shoulders and dallied with the wind. from his neck to his knees, in ample folds, a robe swept down that was a very star-spangled banner of curved and sinuous bars of black and white. out of his back, somewhere, apparently, the long stem of a chibouk projected, and reached far above his right shoulder. athwart his back, diagonally, and extending high above his left shoulder, was an arab gum of saladin's time, that was splendid with silver plating from stock clear up to the end of its measureless stretch of barrel. about his waist was bound many and many a yard of elaborately figured but sadly tarnished stuff that came from sumptuous persia, and among the baggy folds in front the sunbeams glinted from a formidable battery of old brass-mounted horse-pistols and the gilded hilts of blood-thirsty knives. there were holsters for more pistols appended to the wonderful stack of long-haired goat-skins and persian carpets, which the man had been taught to regard in the light of a saddle; and down among the pendulous rank of vast tassels that swung from that saddle, and clanging against the iron shovel of a stirrup that propped the warrior's knees up toward his chin, was a crooked, silver-clad scimitar of such awful dimensions and such implacable expression that no man might hope to look upon it and not shudder. the fringed and bedizened prince whose privilege it is to ride the pony and lead the elephant into a country village is poor and naked compared to this chaos of paraphernalia, and the happy vanity of the one is the very poverty of satisfaction compared to the majestic serenity, the overwhelming complacency of the other. "who is this? what is this?" that was the trembling inquiry all down the line. "our guard! from galilee to the birthplace of the savior, the country is infested with fierce bedouins, whose sole happiness it is, in this life, to cut and stab and mangle and murder unoffending christians. allah be with us!" "then hire a regiment! would you send us out among these desperate hordes, with no salvation in our utmost need but this old turret?" the dragoman laughed--not at the facetiousness of the simile, for verily, that guide or that courier or that dragoman never yet lived upon earth who had in him the faintest appreciation of a joke, even though that joke were so broad and so ponderous that if it fell on him it would flatten him out like a postage stamp--the dragoman laughed, and then, emboldened by some thought that was in his brain, no doubt, proceeded to extremities and winked. in straits like these, when a man laughs, it is encouraging when he winks, it is positively reassuring. he finally intimated that one guard would be sufficient to protect us, but that that one was an absolute necessity. it was because of the moral weight his awful panoply would have with the bedouins. then i said we didn't want any guard at all. if one fantastic vagabond could protect eight armed christians and a pack of arab servants from all harm, surely that detachment could protect themselves. he shook his head doubtfully. then i said, just think of how it looks--think of how it would read, to self-reliant americans, that we went sneaking through this deserted wilderness under the protection of this masquerading arab, who would break his neck getting out of the country if a man that was a man ever started after him. it was a mean, low, degrading position. why were we ever told to bring navy revolvers with us if we had to be protected at last by this infamous star-spangled scum of the desert? these appeals were vain--the dragoman only smiled and shook his head. i rode to the front and struck up an acquaintance with king solomon-in-all-his-glory, and got him to show me his lingering eternity of a gun. it had a rusty flint lock; it was ringed and barred and plated with silver from end to end, but it was as desperately out of the perpendicular as are the billiard cues of ' that one finds yet in service in the ancient mining camps of california. the muzzle was eaten by the rust of centuries into a ragged filigree-work, like the end of a burnt-out stove-pipe. i shut one eye and peered within--it was flaked with iron rust like an old steamboat boiler. i borrowed the ponderous pistols and snapped them. they were rusty inside, too--had not been loaded for a generation. i went back, full of encouragement, and reported to the guide, and asked him to discharge this dismantled fortress. it came out, then. this fellow was a retainer of the sheik of tiberias. he was a source of government revenue. he was to the empire of tiberias what the customs are to america. the sheik imposed guards upon travelers and charged them for it. it is a lucrative source of emolument, and sometimes brings into the national treasury as much as thirty-five or forty dollars a year. i knew the warrior's secret now; i knew the hollow vanity of his rusty trumpery, and despised his asinine complacency. i told on him, and with reckless daring the cavalcade straight ahead into the perilous solitudes of the desert, and scorned his frantic warnings of the mutilation and death that hovered about them on every side. arrived at an elevation of twelve hundred feet above the lake, (i ought to mention that the lake lies six hundred feet below the level of the mediterranean--no traveler ever neglects to flourish that fragment of news in his letters,) as bald and unthrilling a panorama as any land can afford, perhaps, was spread out before us. yet it was so crowded with historical interest, that if all the pages that have been written about it were spread upon its surface, they would flag it from horizon to horizon like a pavement. among the localities comprised in this view, were mount hermon; the hills that border cesarea philippi, dan, the sources of the jordan and the waters of merom; tiberias; the sea of galilee; joseph's pit; capernaum; bethsaida; the supposed scenes of the sermon on the mount, the feeding of the multitudes and the miraculous draught of fishes; the declivity down which the swine ran to the sea; the entrance and the exit of the jordan; safed, "the city set upon a hill," one of the four holy cities of the jews, and the place where they believe the real messiah will appear when he comes to redeem the world; part of the battle-field of hattin, where the knightly crusaders fought their last fight, and in a blaze of glory passed from the stage and ended their splendid career forever; mount tabor, the traditional scene of the lord's transfiguration. and down toward the southeast lay a landscape that suggested to my mind a quotation (imperfectly remembered, no doubt:) "the ephraimites, not being called upon to share in the rich spoils of the ammonitish war, assembled a mighty host to fight against jeptha, judge of israel; who, being apprised of their approach, gathered together the men of israel and gave them battle and put them to flight. to make his victory the more secure, he stationed guards at the different fords and passages of the jordan, with instructions to let none pass who could not say shibboleth. the ephraimites, being of a different tribe, could not frame to pronounce the word right, but called it sibboleth, which proved them enemies and cost them their lives; wherefore, forty and two thousand fell at the different fords and passages of the jordan that day." we jogged along peacefully over the great caravan route from damascus to jerusalem and egypt, past lubia and other syrian hamlets, perched, in the unvarying style, upon the summit of steep mounds and hills, and fenced round about with giant cactuses, (the sign of worthless land,) with prickly pears upon them like hams, and came at last to the battle-field of hattin. it is a grand, irregular plateau, and looks as if it might have been created for a battle-field. here the peerless saladin met the christian host some seven hundred years ago, and broke their power in palestine for all time to come. there had long been a truce between the opposing forces, but according to the guide-book, raynauld of chatillon, lord of kerak, broke it by plundering a damascus caravan, and refusing to give up either the merchants or their goods when saladin demanded them. this conduct of an insolent petty chieftain stung the sultan to the quick, and he swore that he would slaughter raynauld with his own hand, no matter how, or when, or where he found him. both armies prepared for war. under the weak king of jerusalem was the very flower of the christian chivalry. he foolishly compelled them to undergo a long, exhausting march, in the scorching sun, and then, without water or other refreshment, ordered them to encamp in this open plain. the splendidly mounted masses of moslem soldiers swept round the north end of genessaret, burning and destroying as they came, and pitched their camp in front of the opposing lines. at dawn the terrific fight began. surrounded on all sides by the sultan's swarming battalions, the christian knights fought on without a hope for their lives. they fought with desperate valor, but to no purpose; the odds of heat and numbers, and consuming thirst, were too great against them. towards the middle of the day the bravest of their band cut their way through the moslem ranks and gained the summit of a little hill, and there, hour after hour, they closed around the banner of the cross, and beat back the charging squadrons of the enemy. but the doom of the christian power was sealed. sunset found saladin lord of palestine, the christian chivalry strewn in heaps upon the field, and the king of jerusalem, the grand master of the templars, and raynauld of chatillon, captives in the sultan's tent. saladin treated two of the prisoners with princely courtesy, and ordered refreshments to be set before them. when the king handed an iced sherbet to chatillon, the sultan said," it is thou that givest it to him, not i." he remembered his oath, and slaughtered the hapless knight of chatillon with his own hand. it was hard to realize that this silent plain had once resounded with martial music and trembled to the tramp of armed men. it was hard to people this solitude with rushing columns of cavalry, and stir its torpid pulses with the shouts of victors, the shrieks of the wounded, and the flash of banner and steel above the surging billows of war. a desolation is here that not even imagination can grace with the pomp of life and action. we reached tabor safely, and considerably in advance of that old iron-clad swindle of a guard. we never saw a human being on the whole route, much less lawless hordes of bedouins. tabor stands solitary and alone, a giant sentinel above the plain of esdraelon. it rises some fourteen hundred feet above the surrounding level, a green, wooden cone, symmetrical and full of grace--a prominent landmark, and one that is exceedingly pleasant to eyes surfeited with the repulsive monotony of desert syria. we climbed the steep path to its summit, through breezy glades of thorn and oak. the view presented from its highest peak was almost beautiful. below, was the broad, level plain of esdraelon, checkered with fields like a chess-board, and full as smooth and level, seemingly; dotted about its borders with white, compact villages, and faintly penciled, far and near, with the curving lines of roads and trails. when it is robed in the fresh verdure of spring, it must form a charming picture, even by itself. skirting its southern border rises "little hermon," over whose summit a glimpse of gilboa is caught. nain, famous for the raising of the widow's son, and endor, as famous for the performances of her witch are in view. to the eastward lies the valley of the jordan and beyond it the mountains of gilead. westward is mount carmel. hermon in the north--the table-lands of bashan--safed, the holy city, gleaming white upon a tall spur of the mountains of lebanon --a steel-blue corner of the sea of galilee--saddle-peaked hattin, traditional "mount of beatitudes" and mute witness brave fights of the crusading host for holy cross--these fill up the picture. to glance at the salient features of this landscape through the picturesque framework of a ragged and ruined stone window--arch of the time of christ, thus hiding from sight all that is unattractive, is to secure to yourself a pleasure worth climbing the mountain to enjoy. one must stand on his head to get the best effect in a fine sunset, and set a landscape in a bold, strong framework that is very close at hand, to bring out all its beauty. one learns this latter truth never more to forget it, in that mimic land of enchantment, the wonderful garden of my lord the count pallavicini, near genoa. you go wandering for hours among hills and wooded glens, artfully contrived to leave the impression that nature shaped them and not man; following winding paths and coming suddenly upon leaping cascades and rustic bridges; finding sylvan lakes where you expected them not; loitering through battered mediaeval castles in miniature that seem hoary with age and yet were built a dozen years ago; meditating over ancient crumbling tombs, whose marble columns were marred and broken purposely by the modern artist that made them; stumbling unawares upon toy palaces, wrought of rare and costly materials, and again upon a peasant's hut, whose dilapidated furniture would never suggest that it was made so to order; sweeping round and round in the midst of a forest on an enchanted wooden horse that is moved by some invisible agency; traversing roman roads and passing under majestic triumphal arches; resting in quaint bowers where unseen spirits discharge jets of water on you from every possible direction, and where even the flowers you touch assail you with a shower; boating on a subterranean lake among caverns and arches royally draped with clustering stalactites, and passing out into open day upon another lake, which is bordered with sloping banks of grass and gay with patrician barges that swim at anchor in the shadow of a miniature marble temple that rises out of the clear water and glasses its white statues, its rich capitals and fluted columns in the tranquil depths. so, from marvel to marvel you have drifted on, thinking all the time that the one last seen must be the chiefest. and, verily, the chiefest wonder is reserved until the last, but you do not see it until you step ashore, and passing through a wilderness of rare flowers, collected from every corner of the earth, you stand at the door of one more mimic temple. right in this place the artist taxed his genius to the utmost, and fairly opened the gates of fairy land. you look through an unpretending pane of glass, stained yellow--the first thing you see is a mass of quivering foliage, ten short steps before you, in the midst of which is a ragged opening like a gateway--a thing that is common enough in nature, and not apt to excite suspicions of a deep human design--and above the bottom of the gateway, project, in the most careless way! a few broad tropic leaves and brilliant flowers. all of a sudden, through this bright, bold gateway, you catch a glimpse of the faintest, softest, richest picture that ever graced the dream of a dying saint, since john saw the new jerusalem glimmering above the clouds of heaven. a broad sweep of sea, flecked with careening sails; a sharp, jutting cape, and a lofty lighthouse on it; a sloping lawn behind it; beyond, a portion of the old "city of palaces," with its parks and hills and stately mansions; beyond these, a prodigious mountain, with its strong outlines sharply cut against ocean and sky; and over all, vagrant shreds and flakes of cloud, floating in a sea of gold. the ocean is gold, the city is gold, the meadow, the mountain, the sky--every thing is golden--rich, and mellow, and dreamy as a vision of paradise. no artist could put upon canvas, its entrancing beauty, and yet, without the yellow glass, and the carefully contrived accident of a framework that cast it into enchanted distance and shut out from it all unattractive features, it was not a picture to fall into ecstasies over. such is life, and the trail of the serpent is over us all. there is nothing for it now but to come back to old tabor, though the subject is tiresome enough, and i can not stick to it for wandering off to scenes that are pleasanter to remember. i think i will skip, any how. there is nothing about tabor (except we concede that it was the scene of the transfiguration,) but some gray old ruins, stacked up there in all ages of the world from the days of stout gideon and parties that flourished thirty centuries ago to the fresh yesterday of crusading times. it has its greek convent, and the coffee there is good, but never a splinter of the true cross or bone of a hallowed saint to arrest the idle thoughts of worldlings and turn them into graver channels. a catholic church is nothing to me that has no relics. the plain of esdraelon--"the battle-field of the nations"--only sets one to dreaming of joshua, and benhadad, and saul, and gideon; tamerlane, tancred, coeur de lion, and saladin; the warrior kings of persia, egypt's heroes, and napoleon--for they all fought here. if the magic of the moonlight could summon from the graves of forgotten centuries and many lands the countless myriads that have battled on this wide, far-reaching floor, and array them in the thousand strange costumes of their hundred nationalities, and send the vast host sweeping down the plain, splendid with plumes and banners and glittering lances, i could stay here an age to see the phantom pageant. but the magic of the moonlight is a vanity and a fraud; and whoso putteth his trust in it shall suffer sorrow and disappointment. down at the foot of tabor, and just at the edge of the storied plain of esdraelon, is the insignificant village of deburieh, where deborah, prophetess of israel, lived. it is just like magdala. [transcriber's note: footnotes have been numbered and moved to the end.] letters of a traveller; or, notes of things seen in europe and america by william cullen bryant. . to the reader. the letters composing this volume were written at various times, during the last sixteen years, and during journeys made in different countries. they contain, however, no regular account of any tour or journey made by the writer, but are merely occasional sketches of what most attracted his attention. the greater part of them have already appeared in print. the author is sensible that the highest merit such a work can claim, if ever so well executed, is but slight. he might have made these letters more interesting to readers in general, if he had spoken of distinguished men to whose society he was admitted; but the limits within which this may be done, with propriety and without offense, are so narrow, and so easily overstepped, that he has preferred to abstain altogether from that class of topics. he offers his book to the public, with expectations which will be satisfied by a very moderate success. new york, _april_, . contents. to the reader letter i.--first impressions of an american in france.--tokens of antiquity: churches, old towns, cottages, colleges, costumes, donkeys, shepherds and their flocks, magpies, chateaux, formal gardens, vineyards, fig-trees.--first sight of paris; its gothic churches, statues, triumphal arches, monumental columns.--parisian gaiety, public cemeteries, burial places of the poor letter ii.--journey from paris to florence.--serenity of the italian climate.--dreary country between paris and chalons on the saone.--autun. --chalons.--lyons.--valley of the rhine.--avignon.--marseilles; its growth and prosperity.--banking in france.--journey along the mediterranean.-- american and european institutions letter iii.--tuscan scenery and climate.--florence in autumn.-- deformities of cultivation.--exhibition of the academy of the fine arts.--respect of the italians for works of art letter iv.--a day in florence.--bustle and animation of the place.--sights seen on the bridges.--morning in florence.--brethren of mercy.--drive on the cascine.--evening in florence.--anecdote of the passport system.--mildness of the climate of pisa letter v.--practices of the italian courts.--mildness of the penal code in tuscany.--a royal murderer.--ceremonies on the birth of an heir to the dukedom of tuscany.--wealth of the grand duke letter vi.--venice.--its peculiar architecture.--arsenal and navy yard.--the lagoons.--ceneda.--serravalle.--lago morto.--alpine scenery.--a june snow-storm in the tyrol.--splendor of the scenery in the sunshine.--landro.--a tyrolese holiday.--devotional character of the people.--numerous chapels.--sterzing.--bruneck.--the brenner.--innsbruck. --bronze tomb of maximilian i.--entrance into bavaria letter vii.--an excursion to rock river in illinois.--birds and quadrupeds of the prairies.--dad joe's grove.--beautiful landscape.--traces of the indian tribes.--lost rocks.--dixon.--rock river; beauty of its banks.--a horse-thief.--an association of felons.--a prairie rattlesnake.--the prairie-wolf; its habits.--the wild parsnip letter viii.--examples of lynch law.--practices of horse-thieves in illinois.--regulators.--a murder.--seizure of the assassins, their trial and execution.--one of the accomplices lurking in the woods.--another horse-thief shot letter ix.--an example of senatorial decorum.--the national museum at washington.--mount vernon.--virginia plantations.--beauty of richmond.--islands of james river.--an old church.--inspection of tobacco.--tobacco factory.--work and psalmody.--howden's statue of washington. letter x.--journey from richmond to charleston.--pine forests of north carolina.--collection of turpentine.--harbor of charleston.--aspect of the city. letter xi.--interior of south carolina.--pine woods.--plantations.--swamps. --birds.--a corn-shucking.--negro songs.--a negro military parade.-- character of the blacks.--winter climate of south carolina. letter xii.--picolata.--beauty of the season.--the st. john's.--a hammock.--voyage from charleston to savannah.--city of savannah.--quoit club.--a negro burial-place.--curious epitaphs.--bonaventure.--majestic avenues of live-oaks.--alligators.--black creek. letter xiii.--woods of florida.--anecdotes of the florida war.--aspect of st. augustine.--its streets.--former appearance of the city.--orange groves.--fort of st. mark.--palm sunday.--a frenchman preaching in spanish. letter xiv.--climate of st. augustine.--tampa bay.--melons in january.--insects in southern florida.--healthfulness of east florida.--a sugar plantation.--island of st. anastasia.--quarries of shell-rock.--customs of the mahonese.--a mahonese or minorcan hymn. letter xv.--florida the "poor man's country."--settlement of the peninsula.--the indian war.--its causes.--causes of the peace.--the everglades.--st. mary's in georgia.--plague of sand-flies.--alligator shooting.--tobacco chewing. letter xvi.--the champlain canal.--beauty of its banks.--whitehall.-- canadian french.--a family setting out for the west.--the michigan lay.-- vermont scenery. letter xvii.--grasshoppers.--white clover.--domestic arrangements of two unmarried ladies.--canadian french laborers.--quakers.--a pretty mantua maker.--anecdote told by a quakeress.--walpole.--keene.--a family of healthy young women. letter xviii.--a voyage to liverpool.--mountains of wales.--growth of liverpool.--aspect of the place.--zoological gardens.--cemetery among the rocks.--ornamental cultivation.--prince's park.--chester.--manchester. --calico printing. letter xix.--edale in derbyshire.--a commercial traveller.--chapel-en-le-frith.--the winnets.--mam tor.--heathy hills.--the lark.--caverns of the peak of derbyshire.--castle of the peverils.--people of derbyshire.--matlock.--derby. letter xx.--works of art.--power's greek slave.--exhibition of the royal academy.--turner's late pictures.--webster.--thorburn.--new houses of parliament.--artists in water-colors. letter xxi.--the parks of london.--their extent.--want of parks in new york.--sweeping of the streets.--safety from housebreaking.--beggars.-- increase of poverty. letter xxii.--edinburg.--the old town.--the castle.--solid architecture of the new town.--views from the different eminences.--poverty in the wynds and alleys.--houses of refuge for the destitute.--night asylums for the houseless.--the free church.--the maynooth grant.--effect of endowments. letter xxiii.--fishwomen of newhaven.--frith of forth.--stirling.-- callander.--the trosachs.--loch achray.--loch katrine.--loch lomond. --glenfalloch.--dumbarton.--the leven. letter xxiv.--glasgow.--its annual fair.--its public statues.--the free church.--free church college.--odd subject of a sermon.--alloway.--burns's monument.--the doon.--the sea.--burns's birthplace.--the river ayr. letter xxv.--voyage to ireland.--ailsa craig.--county of down.--county of lowth.--difference in the appearance of the inhabitants.-- peat-diggers.--a park.--samples of different races of men.--round towers.--valley of the boyne.--dublin.--its parks.--o'connell.--the repeal question.--wall, the artist.--exhibition of the royal hibernian society. letter xxvi.--lunatic asylum at hanwell.--humanity and skill.--quiet demeanor of the patients.--anecdotes of the inmates.--the corn-law question.--coleman's improvement on the piano. letter xxvii.--changes in paris.--asphaltum pavements.--new and showy buildings.--suppression of gaming-houses.--sunday amusements.--physical degeneracy.--vanderlyn's picture of the landing of columbus. letter xxviii.--a journey through the netherlands.--brussels.--waterloo. --walloons and flemings.--antwerp.--character of flemish art.--the scheldt.--rotterdam.--country of holland.--the hague.--scheveling.-- amsterdam.--broek saardam.--utrecht. letter xxix.--american artists abroad.--düsseldorf: leutze.--german painters.--florence: greenough, powers, gray, g. l. brown.--rome: h. k. brown, rossiter, lang. letter xxx.--buffalo.--the new fort.--leopold de meyer.--cleveland.-- detroit. letter xxxi.--trip from detroit to mackinaw.--the chippewa tribe.--the river st. clair.--anecdote.--chippewa village.--forts huron and saranac.--bob low island.--mackinaw. letter xxxii.--journey from detroit to princeton.--sheboygan.--milwaukie. --chicago.--a plunge in the canal.--aspect of the country. letter xxxiii.--return to chicago.--prairie-hens.--prairie lands of lee county.--rock river district. letter xxxiv.--voyage to sault ste. marie.--little fort.--indian women gathering rice.--southport.--island of st. joseph.--muddy lake.--girdled trees. letter xxxv.--falls of the st. mary.--masses of copper and silver.--drunken indians.--descent of the rapids.--warehouses of the hudson bay company.--canadian half-breeds.--la maison de pierre.--tanner the murderer. letter xxxvi.--indians at the sanlt.--madeleine island.--indian dancing-girls.--methodist indians.--indian families.--return to mackinaw. letter xxxvii.--the straits of mackinaw.--american fur company.--peculiar boats.--british landing.--battle-field.--old mission church.--arched rock. letter xxxviii.--excursion to southern new jersey.--easton.--the delaware.--the water gap.--bite of a copper-head snake. letter xxxix.--the banks of the pocano.--deer in the laurel swamps.--cherry hollow.--the wind gap.--nazareth.--moravian burying grounds.--a pennsylvania german. letter xl.--paint on brick houses.--the new city of lawrence.--oak grove. letter xli.--islands of casco bay.--the building of ships.--a seal in the kennebeck.--augusta.--multitude of lakes.--appearances of thrift. letter xlii.--the willey house.--mount washington.--scenery of the white mountains.--a hen mother of puppies. letter xliii.--passage to savannah.--passengers in the steamer.--old times in connecticut.--cape hatteras.--savannah.--bonaventure.--charleston.-- augusta. letter xliv.--southern cotton mills.--factory girls.--somerville. letter xlv.--the florida coast.--key west.--dangerous navigation.--a hurricane and flood.--havana. letter xlvi.--women of cuba.--airy rooms.--devotion of the women.--good friday.--cascarilla.--cemetery of havana.--funerals.--cock-fighting.-- valla de gallos.--a masked ball. letter xlvii.--scenery of cuba.--its trees.--sweet-potato plantation.--san antonio de los barios.--black and red soil of cuba.--a coffee estate.-- attire of the cubans. letter xlviii.--matanzas.--valley of yumuri.--cumbre.--sugar estate.--process of its manufacture. letter xlix.--negroes in cuba.--execution by the garrote.--slave market.--african, indian, and asiatic slaves.--free blacks in cuba.--annexation of cuba to the united states. letter l.--english exhibitions of works of art.--the society of arts.--royal academy.--jews in parliament. letter li.--a visit to the shetland isles.--highland fishermen.--lerwick. --church-goers in shetland.--habitations of the islanders.--the noup of the noss.--sheep and ponies.--pictish castle.--the zetlanders.--a gale in the north sea.--cathedral of st. magnus.--wick. letter lii.--europe under the bayonet.--uses of the state of siege.--the hungarians.--bavaria.--st. gall.--zurich.--target-shooting.--france.-- french expedition to rome. letter liii.--volterra; its desolation.--the balza.--etruscan remains.--fortress of volterra. letters of a traveller. letter i. first impressions of an american in france. paris, _august_ , . since we first landed in france, every step of our journey has reminded us that we were in an old country. every thing we saw spoke of the past, of an antiquity without limit; everywhere our eyes rested on the handiwork of those who had been dead for ages, and we were in the midst of customs which they had bequeathed to their descendants. the churches were so vast, so solid, so venerable, and time-eaten; the dwellings so gray, and of such antique architecture, and in the large towns, like rouen, rose so high, and overhung with such quaint projections the narrow and cavernous streets; the thatched cots were so mossy and so green with grass! the very hills about them looked scarcely as old, for there was youth in their vegetation--their shrubs and flowers. the countrywomen wore such high caps, such long waists, and such short petticoats!--the fashion of bonnets is an innovation of yesterday, which they regard with scorn. we passed females riding on donkeys, the old testament beast of burden, with panniers on each side, as was the custom hundreds of years since. we saw ancient dames sitting at their doors with distaffs, twisting the thread by twirling the spindle between the thumb and finger, as they did in the days of homer. a flock of sheep was grazing on the side of a hill; they were attended by a shepherd, and a brace of prick-eared dogs, which kept them from straying, as was done thousands of years ago. speckled birds were hopping by the sides of the road; it was the magpie, the bird of ancient fable. flocks of what i at first took for the crow of our country were stalking in the fields, or sailing in the air over the old elms; it was the rook, the bird made as classical by addison as his cousin the raven by the latin poets. then there were the old chateaus on the hills, built with an appearance of military strength, their towers and battlements telling of feudal times. the groves by which they were surrounded were for the most part clipped into regular walls, and pierced with regularly arched passages, leading in various directions, and the trees compelled by the shears to take the shape of obelisks and pyramids, or other fantastic figures, according to the taste of the middle ages. as we drew nearer to paris, we saw the plant which noah first committed to the earth after the deluge--you know what that was i hope--trained on low stakes, and growing thickly and luxuriantly on the slopes by the side of the highway. here, too, was the tree which was the subject of the first christian miracle, the fig, its branches heavy with the bursting fruit just beginning to ripen for the market. but when we entered paris, and passed the barrière d'etoile, with its lofty triumphal arch; when we swept through the arch of neuilly, and came in front of the hotel des invalides, where the aged or maimed soldiers, the living monuments of so many battles, were walking or sitting under the elms of its broad esplanade; when we saw the colossal statues of statesmen and warriors frowning from their pedestals on the bridges which bestride the muddy and narrow channel of the seine; when we came in sight of the gray pinnacles of the tuilleries, and the gothic towers of notre-dame, and the roman ones of st. sulpice, and the dome of the pantheon, under which lie the remains of so many of the great men of france, and the dark column of place vendòme, wrought with figures in relief, and the obelisk brought from egypt to ornament the place louis quatorze, the associations with antiquity which the country presents, from being general, became particular and historical. they were recollections of power, and magnificence, and extended empire; of valor and skill in war which had held the world in fear; of dynasties that had risen and passed away; of battles and victories which had left no other fruits than their monuments. the solemnity of these recollections does not seem to press with much weight upon the minds of the people. it has been said that the french have become a graver nation than formerly; if so, what must have been their gayety a hundred years ago? to me they seem as light-hearted and as easily amused as if they had done nothing but make love and quiz their priests since the days of louis xiv.--as if their streets had never flowed with the blood of frenchmen shed by their brethren--as if they had never won and lost a mighty empire. i can not imagine the present generation to be less gay than that which listened to the comedies of molière at their first representation; particularly when i perceive that even molière's pieces are too much burdened with thought for a frenchman of the present day, and that he prefers the lighter and more frivolous vaudeville. the parisian has his amusements as regularly as his meals, the theatre, music, the dance, a walk in the tuilleries, a refection in the café, to which ladies resort as commonly as the other sex. perpetual business, perpetual labor, is a thing of which he seems to have no idea. i wake in the middle of the night, and i hear the fiddle going, and the sound of feet keeping time, in some of the dependencies of the large building near the tuilleries, in which i have my lodgings. when a generation of frenchmen "have played, and laughed, and danced, and drank their fill"-- when they have seen their allotted number of vaudevilles and swallowed their destined allowance of weak wine and bottled small-beer, they are swept off to the cemetery of montmartre, or of père la chaise, or some other of the great burial-places which lie just without the city. i went to visit the latter of these the other day. you are reminded of your approach to it by the rows of stone-cutters' shops on each side of the street, with a glittering display of polished marble monuments. the place of the dead is almost a gayer-looking spot than the ordinary haunts of parisian life. it is traversed with shady walks of elms and limes, and its inmates lie amidst thickets of ornamental shrubs and plantations of the most gaudy flowers. their monuments are hung with wreaths of artificial flowers, or of those natural ones which do not lose their color and shape in drying, like the amaranth and the ever-lasting. parts of the cemetery seem like a city in miniature; the sepulchral chapels, through the windows of which you see crucifixes and tapers, stand close to each other beside the path, intermingled with statues and busts. there is one part of this repository of the dead which is little visited, that in which the poor are buried, where those who have dwelt apart from their more fortunate fellow-creatures in life lie apart in death. here are no walks, no shade of trees, no planted shrubbery, but ridges of raw earth, and tufts of coarse herbage show where the bodies are thrown together under a thin covering of soil. i was about to walk over the spot, but was repelled by the sickening exhalations that rose from it. letter ii. a journey to florence. florence, _sept_ , . i have now been in this city a fortnight, and have established myself in a suite of apartments lately occupied, as the landlord told me, in hopes i presume of getting a higher rent, by a russian prince. the arno flows, or rather stands still, under my windows, for the water is low, and near the western wall of the city is frugally dammed up to preserve it for the public baths. beyond, this stream so renowned in history and poetry, is at this season but a feeble rill, almost lost among the pebbles of its bed, and scarcely sufficing to give drink to the pheasants and hares of the grand duke's cascine on its banks. opposite my lodgings, at the south end of the _ponte alla carraia_, is a little oratory, before the door of which every good catholic who passes takes off his hat with a gesture of homage; and at this moment a swarthy, weasel-faced man, with a tin box in his hand, is gathering contributions to pay for the services of the chapel, rattling his coin to attract the attention of the pedestrians, and calling out to those who seem disposed to pass without paying. to the north and west, the peaks of the appenines are in full sight, rising over the spires of the city and the groves of the cascine. every evening i see them through the soft, delicately-colored haze of an italian sunset, looking as if they had caught something of the transparency of the sky, and appearing like mountains of fairy-land, instead of the bleak and barren ridges of rock which they really are. the weather since my arrival in tuscany has been continually serene, the sky wholly cloudless, and the temperature uniform--oppressively warm in the streets at noon, delightful at morning and evening, with a long, beautiful, golden twilight, occasioned by the reflection of light from the orange-colored haze which invests the atmosphere. every night i am reminded that i am in the land of song, for until two o'clock in the morning i hear "all manner of tunes" chanted by people in the streets in all manner of voices. i believe i have given you no account of our journey from paris to this place. that part of it which lay between paris and chalons, on the saone, may be described in a very few words. monotonous plains, covered with vineyards and wheat-fields, with very few trees, and those spoiled by being lopped for fuel--sunburnt women driving carts or at work in the fields--gloomy, cheerless-looking towns, with narrow, filthy streets--troops of beggars surrounding your carriage whenever you stop, or whenever the nature of the roads obliges the horses to walk, and chanting their requests in the most doleful whine imaginable--such are the sights and sounds that meet you for the greater part of two hundred and fifty miles. there are, however, some exceptions as to the aspect of the country. autun, one of the most ancient towns of france, and yet retaining some remains of roman architecture, lies in a beautiful and picturesque region. a little beyond that town we ascended a hill by a road winding along a glen, the rocky sides of which were clothed with an unpruned wood, and a clear stream ran dashing over the stones, now on one side of the road and then on the other--the first instance of a brook left to follow its natural channel which i had seen in france. two young frenchmen, who were our fellow-passengers, were wild with delight at this glimpse of unspoiled nature. they followed the meanderings of the stream, leaping from rock to rock, and shouting till the woods rang again. of chalons i have nothing to tell you. abelard died there, and his tomb was erected with that of eloise in the church of st. marcel; but the church is destroyed, and the monument has been transported to the cemetery of père la chaise, and with it all the poetry of the place is vanished. but if you would make yourself supremely uncomfortable, travel as i did in a steamboat down the saone from chalons to lyons, on a rainy day. crowded into a narrow, dirty cabin, with benches on each side and a long table in the middle, at which a set of frenchmen with their hats on are playing cards and eating _déjeuners à la fourchette_ all day long, and deafening you with their noise, while waiters are running against your legs and treading on your toes every moment, and the water is dropping on your head through the cracks of the deck-floor, you would be forced to admit the superlative misery of such a mode of travelling. the approach to lyons, however, made some amends for these inconveniences. the shores of the river, hitherto low and level, began to rise into hills, broken with precipices and crowned by castles, some in ruins and others entire, and seemingly a part of the very rocks on which they stood, so old and mossy and strong did they seem. what struck me most in lyons was the superiority of its people in looks and features to the inhabitants of paris--the clatter and jar of silk-looms with which its streets resounded--and the picturesque beauty of its situation, placed as it is among steeps and rocks, with the quiet saone on one side, and the swiftly-running rhone on the other. in our journey from lyons to marseilles we travelled by land instead of taking the steamboat, as is commonly done as far as avignon. the common books of travels will tell you how numerous are the ruins of feudal times perched upon the heights all along the rhone, remnants of fortresses and castles, overlooking a vast extent of country and once serving as places of refuge to the cultivators of the soil who dwelt in their vicinity--how frequently also are to be met with the earlier yet scarcely less fresh traces of roman colonization and dominion, in gateways, triumphal arches, walls, and monuments--how on entering provence you find yourself among a people of a different physiognomy from those of the northern provinces, speaking a language which rather resembles italian than french--how the beauty of the women of avignon still does credit to the taste of the clergy, who made that city for more than half a century the seat of the papal power--and how, as you approach the shores of the mediterranean, the mountains which rise from the fruitful valleys shoot up in wilder forms, until their summits become mere pinnacles of rock wholly bare of vegetation. marseilles is seated in the midst of a semicircle of mountains of whitish rock, the steep and naked sides of which scarce afford "a footing for the goat." stretching into the mediterranean they inclose a commodious harbor, in front of which are two or three rocky islands anchored in a sea of more vivid blue than any water i had ever before seen. the country immediately surrounding the city is an arid and dusty valley, intersected here and there with the bed of a brook or torrent, dry during the summer. it is carefully cultivated, however, and planted with vineyards, and orchards of olive, fig, and pomegranate trees. the trees being small and low, the foliage of the olive thin and pale, the leaves of the fig broad and few, and the soil appearing everywhere at their roots, as well as between the rows of vines, the vegetation, when viewed from a little distance, has a meagre and ragged appearance. the whiteness of the hills, which the eye can hardly bear to rest upon at noon, the intense blue of the sea, the peculiar forms of the foliage, and the deficiency of shade and verdure, made me almost fancy myself in a tropical region. the greeks judged well of the commercial advantages of marseilles when they made it the seat of one of their early colonies. i found its streets animated with a bustle which i had not seen since i left new york, and its port thronged with vessels from all the nations whose coasts border upon the great midland sea of europe. marseilles is the most flourishing seaport in france; it has already become to the mediterranean what new york is to the united states, and its trade is regularly increasing. the old town is ugly, but the lower or new part is nobly built of the light-colored stone so commonly used in france, and so easily wrought--with broad streets and, what is rare in french towns, convenient sidewalks. new streets are laid out, gardens are converted into building-lots, the process of leveling hills and filling up hollows is going on as in new york, the city is extending itself on every side, and large fortunes have been made by the rise in the value of landed property. in a conversation with an intelligent gentleman resident at marseilles and largely engaged in commercial and moneyed transactions, the subject of the united states bank was mentioned. opinions in france, on this question of our domestic politics, differ according as the opportunities of information possessed by the individual are more or less ample, or as he is more or less in favor of chartered banks. the gentleman remarked that without any reference to the question of the united states bank, he hoped the day would never come when such an institution would be established in france. the project he said had some advocates, but they had not yet succeeded, and he hoped never would succeed in the introduction of that system of paper currency which prevailed in the united states. he deprecated the dangerous and uncertain facilities of obtaining credit which are the fruit of that system, which produce the most ruinous fluctuations in commerce, encourage speculation and extravagance of all kinds, and involve the prudent and laborious in the ruin which falls upon the rash and reckless. he declared himself satisfied with the state of the currency of france, with which, if fortunes were not suddenly built up they were not suddenly overthrown, and periods of apparent prosperity were not followed by seasons of real distress. i made the journey from marseilles to florence by land. how grand and wild are the mountains that overlook the mediterranean; how intense was the heat as we wound our way along the galleries of rock cut to form a road; how excellent are the fruits, and how thick the mosquitoes at nice; how sumptuous are the palaces, how narrow and dark the streets, and how pallid the dames of genoa; and how beautiful we found our path among the trees overrun with vines as we approached southern italy, are matters which i will take some other opportunity of relating. on the th of september our _vetturino_ set us down safe at the _hotel de l'europe_ in florence. i think i shall return to america even a better patriot than when i left it. a citizen of the united states travelling on the continent of europe, finds the contrast between a government of power and a government of opinion forced upon him at every step. he finds himself delayed at every large town and at every frontier of a kingdom or principality, to submit to a strict examination of the passport with which the jealousy of the rulers of these countries has compelled him to furnish himself. he sees everywhere guards and sentinels armed to the teeth, stationed in the midst of a population engaged in their ordinary occupations in a time of profound peace; and to supply the place of the young and robust thus withdrawn from the labors of agriculture he beholds women performing the work of the fields. he sees the many retained in a state of hopeless dependence and poverty, the effect of institutions forged by the ruling class to accumulate wealth in their own hands. the want of self-respect in the inferior class engendered by this state of things, shows itself in the acts of rapacity and fraud which the traveller meets with throughout france and italy, and, worse still, in the shameless corruption of the italian custom-houses, the officers of which regularly solicit a paltry bribe from every passenger as the consideration of leaving his baggage unexamined. i am told that in this place the custom of giving presents extends even to the courts of justice, the officers of which, from the highest to the lowest, are in the constant practice of receiving them. no american can see how much jealousy and force on the one hand, and necessity and fear on the other, have to do with keeping up the existing governments of europe, without thanking heaven that such is not the condition of his own country. letter iii. tuscan scenery and climate. florence, _october_ , . the bridge over the arno, immediately under my window, is the spot from which cole's fine landscape, which you perhaps remember seeing in the exhibition of our academy, was taken. it gives, you may recollect, a view of the arno travelling off towards the west, its banks overhung with trees, the mountain-ridges rising in the distance, and above them the sky flushed with the colors of sunset. the same rich hues i behold every evening in the quarter where they were seen by the artist when he made them permanent on his canvas. there is a great deal of prattle about italian skies: the skies and clouds of italy, so far as i have had an opportunity of judging, do not present so great a variety of beautiful appearances as our own; but the italian atmosphere is far more uniformly fine than ours. not to speak of its astonishing clearness, it is pervaded by a certain warmth of color which enriches every object. this is more remarkable about the time of sunset, when the mountains put on an aerial aspect, as if they belonged to another and fairer world; and a little after the sun has gone down, the air is flushed with a glory which seems to transfigure all that it incloses. many of the fine old palaces of florence, you know, are built in a gloomy though grand style of architecture, of a dark-colored stone, massive and lofty, and overlooking narrow streets that lie in almost perpetual shade. but at the hour of which i am speaking, the bright warm radiance reflected from the sky to the earth, fills the darkest lanes, streams into the most shadowy nooks, and makes the prison-like structures glitter as with a brightness of their own. it is now nearly the middle of october, and we have had no frost. the strong summer heats which prevailed when i came hither, have by the slowest gradations subsided into an agreeable autumnal temperature. the trees keep their verdure, but i perceive their foliage growing thinner, and when i walk in the cascine on the other side of the arno, the rustling of the lizards, as they run among the heaps of crisp leaves, reminds me that the autumn is wearing away, though the ivy which clothes the old elms has put forth a profuse array of blossoms, and the walks murmur with bees like our orchards in spring. as i look along the declivities of the appenines, i see the raw earth every day more visible between the ranks of olive-trees and the well-pruned maples which support the vines. if i have found my expectations of italian scenery, in some respects, below the reality, in other respects they have been disappointed. the forms of the mountains are wonderfully picturesque, and their effect is heightened by the rich atmosphere through which they are seen, and by the buildings, imposing from their architecture or venerable from time, which crown the eminences. but if the hand of man has done something to embellish this region, it has done more to deform it. not a tree is suffered to retain its natural shape, not a brook to flow in its natural channel. an exterminating war is carried on against the natural herbage of the soil. the country is without woods and green fields; and to him who views the vale of the arno "from the top of fiesole," or any of the neighboring heights, grand as he will allow the circle of the mountains to be, and magnificent the edifices with which the region is adorned, it appears, at any time after midsummer, a huge valley of dust, planted with low rows of the pallid and thin-leaved olive, or the more dwarfish maple on which the vines are trained. the simplicity of nature, so far as can be done, is destroyed; there is no fine sweep of forest, no broad expanse of meadow or pasture ground, no ancient and towering trees clustered about the villas, no rows of natural shrubbery following the course of the brooks and rivers. the streams, which are often but the beds of torrents dry during the summer, are confined in straight channels by stone walls and embankments; the slopes are broken up and disfigured by terraces; and the trees are kept down by constant pruning and lopping, until half way up the sides of the appenines, where the limit of cultivation is reached, and thence to the summit is a barren steep of rock, without herbage or soil. the grander features of the landscape, however, are fortunately beyond the power of man to injure; the lofty mountain-summits, bare precipices cleft with chasms, and pinnacles of rock piercing the sky, betokening, far more than any thing i have seen elsewhere, a breaking up of the crust of the globe in some early period of its existence. i am told that in may and june the country is much more beautiful than at present, and that owing to a drought it now appears under a particular disadvantage. the academy of the fine arts has had its exhibition since i arrived. in its rooms, which were gratuitously open to the public, i found a large crowd of gazers at the pictures and statues. many had come to look at some work ordered by an acquaintance; others made the place a morning lounge. in the collection were some landscapes by morghen, the son of the celebrated engraver, very fresh and clear; a few pieces sent by bezzoli, one of the most eminent italian painters of his time; a statue of galileo, not without merit, by costoli, for there is always a galileo or two, i believe, at every exhibition of the kind in florence; portraits good, bad, and indifferent, in great abundance, and many square feet of canvas spoiled by attempts at historical painting. let me remark, by the way, that a work of art is a sacred thing in the eyes of italians of all classes, never to be defaced, never to be touched, a thing to be looked at merely. a statue may stand for ages in a public square, within the reach of any one who passes, and with no sentinel to guard it, and yet it shall not only be safe from mutilation, but the surface of the marble shall never be scratched, or even irreverently scored with a lead pencil. so general is this reverence for art, that the most perfect confidence is reposed in it. i remember that in paris, as i was looking at a colossal plaster cast of napoleon at the hotel des invalides, a fellow armed with a musket who stood by it bolt upright, in the stiff attitude to which the soldier is drilled, gruffly reminded me that i was too near, though i was not within four feet of it. in florence it is taken for granted that you will do no mischief, and therefore you are not watched. letter iv. a day in florence. pisa, _december_ , . it is gratifying to be able to communicate a piece of political intelligence from so quiet a nook of the world as this. don miguel arrived here the other day from genoa, where you know there was a story that he and the duchess of berri, a hopeful couple, were laying their heads together. he went to pay his respects to the grand duke of tuscany, who is now at pisa, and it was said by the gossips of the place that he was coldly received, and was given to understand that he could not be allowed to remain in the tuscan territory. there was probably nothing in all this. don miguel has now departed for rome, and the talk of to-day is that he will return before the end of the winter. he is doubtless wandering about to observe in what manner he is received at the petty courts which are influenced by the austrian policy, and in the mean time lying in wait for some favorable opportunity of renewing his pretensions to the crown of spain. pisa offers a greater contrast to florence than i had imagined could exist between two italian cities. this is the very seat of idleness and slumber; while florence, from being the residence of the court, and from the vast number of foreigners who throng to it, presents during several months of the year an appearance of great bustle and animation. four thousand english, an american friend tells me, visit florence every winter, to say nothing of the occasional residents from france, germany, and russia. the number of visitors from the latter country is every year increasing, and the echoes of the florence gallery have been taught to repeat the strange accents of the sclavonic. let me give you the history of a fine day in october, passed at the window of my lodgings on the lung' arno, close to the bridge _alla carraja_. waked by the jangling of all the bells in florence and by the noise of carriages departing loaded with travellers, for rome and other places in the south of italy, i rise, dress myself, and take my place at the window. i see crowds of men and women from the country, the former in brown velvet jackets, and the latter in broad-brimmed straw hats, driving donkeys loaded with panniers or trundling hand-carts before them, heaped with grapes, figs, and all the fruits of the orchard, the garden, and the field. they have hardly passed, when large flocks of sheep and goats make their appearance, attended by shepherds and their families, driven by the approach of winter from the appenines, and seeking the pastures of the maremma, a rich, but, in the summer, an unhealthy tract on the coast; the men and boys are dressed in knee-breeches, the women in bodices, and both sexes wear capotes with pointed hoods, and felt hats with conical crowns; they carry long staves in their hands, and their arms are loaded with kids and lambs too young to keep pace with their mothers. after the long procession of sheep and goats and dogs and men and women and children, come horses loaded with cloths and poles for tents, kitchen utensils, and the rest of the younglings of the flock. a little after sunrise i see well-fed donkeys, in coverings of red cloth, driven over the bridge to be milked for invalids. maid-servants, bareheaded, with huge high carved combs in their hair, waiters of coffee-houses carrying the morning cup of coffee or chocolate to their customers, baker's boys with a dozen loaves on a board balanced on their heads, milkmen with rush baskets filled with flasks of milk, are crossing the streets in all directions. a little later the bell of the small chapel opposite to my window rings furiously for a quarter of an hour, and then i hear mass chanted in a deep strong nasal tone. as the day advances, the english, in white hats and white pantaloons, come out of their lodgings, accompanied sometimes by their hale and square-built spouses, and saunter stiffly along the arno, or take their way to the public galleries and museums. their massive, clean, and brightly-polished carriages also begin to rattle through the streets, setting out on excursions to some part of the environs of florence--to fiesole, to the pratolino, to the bello sguardo, to the poggio imperiale. sights of a different kind now present themselves. sometimes it is a troop of stout franciscan friars, in sandals and brown robes, each carrying his staff and wearing a brown broad-brimmed hat with a hemispherical crown. sometimes it is a band of young theological students, in purple cassocks with red collars and cuffs, let out on a holiday, attended by their clerical instructors, to ramble in the cascine. there is a priest coming over the bridge, a man of venerable age and great reputation for sanctity--the common people crowd around him to kiss his hand, and obtain a kind word from him as he passes. but what is that procession of men in black gowns, black gaiters, and black masks, moving swiftly along, and bearing on their shoulders a litter covered with black cloth? these are the _brethren of mercy_, who have assembled at the sound of the cathedral bell, and are conveying some sick or wounded person to the hospital. as the day begins to decline, the numbers of carriages in the streets, filled with gaily-dressed people attended by servants in livery, increases. the grand duke's equipage, an elegant carriage drawn by six horses, with coachmen, footmen, and outriders in drab-colored livery, comes from the pitti palace, and crosses the arno, either by the bridge close to my lodgings, or by that called _alla santa trinità_, which is in full sight from the windows. the florentine nobility, with their families, and the english residents, now throng to the cascine, to drive at a slow pace through its thickly-planted walks of elms, oaks, and ilexes. as the sun is sinking i perceive the quay, on the other side of the arno, filled with a moving crowd of well-dressed people, walking to and fro, and enjoying the beauty of the evening. travellers now arrive from all quarters, in cabriolets, in calashes, in the shabby _vettura_, and in the elegant private carriage drawn by post-horses, and driven by postillions in the tightest possible deer-skin breeches, the smallest red coats, and the hugest jack-boots. the streets about the doors of the hotels resound with the cracking of whips and the stamping of horses, and are encumbered with carriages, heaps of baggage, porters, postillions, couriers, and travellers. night at length arrives--the time of spectacles and funerals. the carriages rattle towards the opera-houses. trains of people, sometimes in white robes and sometimes in black, carrying blazing torches and a cross elevated on a high pole before a coffin, pass through the streets chanting the service for the dead. the brethren of mercy may also be seen engaged in their office. the rapidity of their pace, the flare of their torches, the gleam of their eyes through their masks, and their sable garb, give them a kind of supernatural appearance. i return to bed, and fall asleep amidst the shouts of people returning from the opera, singing as they go snatches of the music with which they had been entertained during the evening. such is a picture of what passes every day at florence--in pisa, on the contrary, all is stagnation and repose--even the presence of the sovereign, who usually passes a part of the winter here, is incompetent to give a momentary liveliness to the place. the city is nearly as large as florence, with not a third of its population; the number of strangers is few; most of them are invalids, and the rest are the quietest people in the world. the rattle of carriages is rarely heard in the streets; in some of which there prevails a stillness so complete that you might imagine them deserted of their inhabitants. i have now been here three weeks, and on one occasion only have i seen the people of the place awakened to something like animation. it was the feast of the conception of the blessed virgin; the lung' arno was strewn with boughs of laurel and myrtle, and the pisan gentry promenaded for an hour under my window. on my leaving florence an incident occurred, which will illustrate the manner of doing public business in this country. i had obtained my passport from the police office, _viséd_ for pisa. it was then friday, and i was told that it would answer until ten o'clock on tuesday morning. unluckily i did not present myself at the leghorn gate of florence until eleven o'clock on that day. a young man in a military hat, sword, and blue uniform, came to the carriage and asked for my passport, which i handed him. in a short time he appeared again and desired me to get out and go with him to the apartment in the side of the gate. i went and saw a middle-aged man dressed in the same manner, sitting at the table with my passport before him. "i am sorry," said he, "to say that your passport is not regular, and that my duty compels me to detain you." "what is the matter with the passport?" "the _visé_ is of more than three days standing." i exerted all my eloquence to persuade him that an hour was of no consequence, and that the public welfare would not suffer by letting me pass, but he remained firm. "the law," he said, "is positive; i am compelled to execute it. if i were to suffer you to depart, and my superiors were to know it, i should lose my office and incur the penalty of five days' imprisonment." i happened to have a few coins in my pocket, and putting in my hand, i caused them to jingle a little against each other. "your case is a hard one," said the officer, "i suppose you are desirous to get on." "yes--my preparations are all made, and it will be a great inconvenience for me to remain." "what say you," he called out to his companion who stood in the door looking into the street, "shall we let them pass? they seem to be decent people." the young man mumbled some sort of answer. "here," said the officer, holding out to me my passport, but still keeping it between his thumb and finger, "i give you back your passport, and consent to your leaving florence, but i wish you particularly to consider that in so doing, i risk the loss of my place and an imprisonment of five days." he then put the paper into my hand, and i put into his the expected gratuity. as i went to the carriage, he followed and begged me to say nothing of the matter to any one. i was admitted into pisa with less difficulty. it was already dark; i expected that my baggage would undergo a long examination as usual; and i knew that i had some dutiable articles. to my astonishment, however, my trunks were allowed to pass without being opened, or even the payment of the customary gratuity. i was told afterwards that my italian servant had effected this by telling the custom-house officers some lie about my being the american minister. pisa has a delightful winter climate, though madame de staël has left on record a condemnation of it, having passed here a season of unusually bad weather. orange and lemon trees grow in the open air, and are now loaded with ripe fruit. the fields in the environs are green with grass nourished by abundant rains, and are spotted with daisies in blossom. crops of flax and various kinds of pulse are showing themselves above the ground, a circumstance sufficient to show that the cultivators expect nothing like what we call winter. letter v. practices of the italian courts. florence, _may_ , . night before last, a man-child was born to the grand duke of tuscany, and yesterday was a day of great rejoicing in consequence. the five hundred bells of florence kept up a horrid ringing through the day, and in the evening the public edifices and many private houses were illuminated. to-day and to-morrow the rejoicings continue, and in the mean time the galleries and museums are closed, lest idle people should amuse themselves rationally. the tuscans are pleased with the birth of an heir to the dukedom, first because the succession is likely to be kept in a good sort of a family, and secondly because for want of male children it would have reverted to the house of austria, and the province would have been governed by a foreigner. i am glad of it, also, for the sake of the poor tuscans, who are a mild people, and if they must be under a despotism, deserve to live under a good-natured one. an austrian prince, if he were to govern tuscany as the emperor governs the lombardo-venetian territory, would introduce a more just and efficient system of administering the laws between man and man, but at the same time a more barbarous severity to political offenders. i saw at volterra, last spring, four persons who were condemned at florence for an alleged conspiracy against the state. they were walking with instruments of music in their hands, on the top of the fortress, which commands an extensive view of mountain, vale, and sea, including the lower val d'arno, and reaching to leghorn, and even to corsica. they were well-dressed, and i was assured their personal comfort was attended to. a different treatment is the fate of the state prisoners who languish in the dungeons of austria. in tuscany no man's life is taken for any offense whatever, and banishment is a common sentence against those who are deemed dangerous or intractable subjects. in all the other provinces a harsher system prevails. in sardinia capital executions for political causes are frequent, and long and mysterious detentions are resorted to, as in lombardy, with a view to strike terror into the minds of a discontented people. the royal family of naples kill people by way of amusement. prince charles, a brother of the king, sometime in the month of april last, found an old man cutting myrtle twigs on some of the royal hunting-grounds, of which he has the superintendence. he directed his attendants to seize the offender and tie him to a tree, and when they had done this ordered them to shoot him. this they refused, upon which he took a loaded musket from the hands of one of them, and with the greatest deliberation shot him dead upon the spot. his royal highness soon after set out for rome to amuse himself with the ceremonies of the holy week, and to figure at the balls given by torlonia and other roman nobles, where he signalized himself by his attentions to the english ladies. of the truth of the story i have related i have been assured by several respectable persons in naples. about the middle of may i was at the spot where the murder was said to have been committed. it was on the borders of the lake of agnano. we reached it by a hollow winding road, cut deep through the hills and rocks thousands of years ago. it was a pretty and solitary spot; a neat pavilion of the royal family stood on the shore, and the air was fragrant with the blossoms of the white clover and the innumerable flowers which the soil of italy, for a short season before the summer heats and drought, pours forth so profusely. the lake is evidently the crater of an old volcano: it lies in a perfect bowl of hills, and the perpetual escape of gas, bubbling up through the water, shows that the process of chemical decomposition in the earth below has not yet ceased. close by, in the side of the circular hill that surrounds the lake, stands the famous _grotto del cane_, closed with a door to enable the keeper to get a little money from the foreigners who come to visit it. you may be sure i was careful not to trim any of the myrtles with my penknife. but to return to tuscany--it is after all little better than an austrian province, like the other countries of italy. the grand duke is a near relative of the emperor; he has the rank of colonel in the austrian service, and a treaty of offense and defense obliges him to take part in the wars of austria to the extent of furnishing ten thousand soldiers. it is well understood that he is watched by the agents of the austrian government here, who form a sort of high police, to which he and his cabinet are subject, and that he would not venture upon any measure of national policy, nor even displace or appoint a minister, without the consent of metternich. the birth of a son to the grand duke has been signalized, i have just learned, by a display of princely munificence. five thousand crowns have been presented to the archbishop who performed the ceremony of christening the child; the servants of the ducal household have received two months' wages, in addition to their usual salary; five hundred young women have received marriage portions of thirty crowns each; all the articles of property at the great pawnbroking establishments managed by goverment, pledged for a less sum than four livres, have been restored to the owners without payment; and finally, all persons confined for larceny and other offences of a less degree than homicide and other enormous crimes, have been liberated and turned loose upon society again. the grand duke can well afford to be generous, for from a million and three hundred thousand people he draws, by taxation, four millions of crowns annually, of which a million only is computed to be expended in the military and civil expenses of his government. the remainder is of course applied to keeping up the state of a prince and to the enriching of his family. he passes, you know, for one of the richest potentates in europe. letter vi. venice.--the tyrol. munich, _august_ , . since my last letter i have visited venice, a city which realizes the old mythological fable of beauty born of the sea. i must confess, however, that my first feeling on entering it was that of disappointment. as we passed in our gondola out of the lagoons, up one of the numerous canals, which, permeate the city in every direction in such a manner that it seems as if you could only pass your time either within doors or in a boat, the place appeared to me a vast assemblage of prisons surrounded with their moats, and i thought how weary i should soon grow of my island prison, and how glad to escape again to the main-land. but this feeling quickly gave way to delight and admiration, when i landed and surveyed the clean though narrow streets, never incommoded by dust nor disturbed by the noise and jostling of carriages and horses, by which you may pass to every part of the city--when i looked again at the rows of superb buildings, with their marble steps ascending out of the water of the canals, in which the gondolas were shooting by each other--when i stood in the immense square of st. mark, surrounded by palaces resting on arcades, under which the shops rival in splendor those of paris, and crowds of the gay inhabitants of both sexes assemble towards evening and sit in groups before the doors of the coffee-houses--and when i gazed on the barbaric magnificence of the church of st. mark and the doge's palace, surrounded by the old emblems of the power of venice, and overlooking the adriatic, once the empire of the republic. the architecture of venice has to my eyes, something watery and oceanic in its aspect. under the hands of palladio, the grecian orders seemed to borrow the lightness and airiness of the gothic. as you look at the numerous windows and the multitude of columns which give a striated appearance to the fronts of the palaces, you think of stalactites and icicles, such as you might imagine to ornament the abodes of the water-gods and sea-nymphs. the only thing needed to complete the poetic illusion is transparency or brilliancy of color, and this is wholly wanting; for at venice the whitest marble is soon clouded and blackened by the corrosion of the sea-air. it is not my intention, however, to do so hackneyed a thing as to give a description of venice. one thing, i must confess, seemed to me extraordinary: how this city, deprived as it is of the commerce which built it up from the shallows of the adriatic, and upheld it so long and so proudly, should not have decayed even more rapidly than it has done. trieste has drawn from it almost all its trade, and flourishes by its decline. i walked through the arsenal of venice, which comprehends the navy yard, an enormous structure, with ranges of broad lofty roofs supported by massive portions of wall, and spacious dock-yards; the whole large enough to build and fit out a navy for the british empire. the pleasure-boats of napoleon and his empress, and that of the present viceroy, are there: but the ships of war belonging to the republic have mouldered away with the bucentaur. i saw, however, two austrian vessels, the same which had conveyed the polish exiles to new york, lying under shelter in the docks, as if placed there to show who were the present masters of the place. it was melancholy to wander through the vast unoccupied spaces of this noble edifice, and to think what must have been the riches, the power, the prosperity, and the hopes of venice at the time it was built, and what they are at the present moment. it seems almost impossible that any thing should take place to arrest the ruin which is gradually consuming this renowned city. some writers have asserted that the lagoons around it are annually growing shallower by the depositions of earth brought down by streams from the land, that they must finally become marshes, and that their consequent insalubrity will drive the inhabitants from venice. i do not know how this may be; but the other causes i have mentioned seem likely to produce nearly the same effect. i remembered, as these ideas passed through my mind, a passage in which one of the sacred poets foretells the desertion and desolation of tyre, "the city that made itself glorious in the midst of the seas," "thy riches and thy fairs, thy merchandise, thy mariners and thy pilots, thy calkers and the occupiers of thy merchandise, and all thy men of war that are in thee, shall fall into the midst of the seas in the day of thy ruin." i left this most pleasing of the italian cities which i had seen, on the th of june, and took the road for the tyrol. we passed through a level fertile country, formerly the territory of venice, watered by the piave, which ran blood in one of bonaparte's battles. at evening we arrived at ceneda, where our italian poet da ponte was born, situated just at the base of the alps, the rocky peaks and irregular spires of which, beautifully green with the showery season, rose in the background. ceneda seems to have something of german cleanliness about it, and the floors of a very comfortable inn at which we stopped were of wood, the first we had seen in italy, though common throughout the tyrol and the rest of germany. a troop of barelegged boys, just broke loose from school, whooping and swinging their books and slates in the air, passed under my window. such a sight you will not see in southern italy. the education of the people is neglected, except in those provinces which are under the government of austria. it is a government severe and despotic enough in all conscience, but by providing the means of education for all classes, it is doing more than it is aware of to prepare them for the enjoyment of free institutions. in the lombardo-venetian kingdom, as it is called, there are few children who do not attend the public schools. on leaving ceneda, we entered a pass in the mountains, the gorge of which was occupied by the ancient town of serravalle, resting on arcades, the architecture of which denoted that it was built during the middle ages. near it i remarked an old castle, which formerly commanded the pass, one of the finest ruins of the kind i had ever seen. it had a considerable extent of battlemented wall in perfect preservation, and both that and its circular tower were so luxuriantly loaded with ivy that they seemed almost to have been cut out of the living verdure. as we proceeded we became aware how worthy this region was to be the birthplace of a poet. a rapid stream, a branch of the piave, tinged of a light and somewhat turbid blue by the soil of the mountains, came tumbling and roaring down the narrow valley; perpendicular precipices rose on each side; and beyond, the gigantic brotherhood of the alps, in two long files of steep pointed summits, divided by deep ravines, stretched away in the sunshine to the northeast. in the face of one the precipices by the way-side, a marble slab is fixed, informing the traveller that the road was opened by the late emperor of germany in the year . we followed this romantic valley for a considerable distance, passing several little blue lakes lying in their granite basins, one of which is called the _lago morto_ or dead lake, from having no outlet for its waters. at length we began to ascend, by a winding road, the steep sides of the alps--the prospect enlarging as we went, the mountain summits rising to sight around us, one behind another, some of them white with snow, over which the wind blew with a wintery keenness--deep valleys opening below us, and gulfs yawning between rocks over which old bridges were thrown--and solemn fir forests clothing the broad declivities. the farm-houses placed on these heights, instead of being of brick or stone, as in the plains and valleys below, were principally built of wood; the second story, which served for a barn, being encircled by a long gallery, and covered with a projecting roof of plank held down with large stones. we stopped at venas, a wretched place with a wretched inn, the hostess of which showed us a chin swollen with the _goitre_, and ushered us into dirty comfortless rooms where we passed the night. when we awoke the rain was beating against the windows, and, on looking out, the forest and sides of the neighboring mountains, at a little height above us, appeared hoary with snow. we set out in the rain, but had not proceeded far before we heard the sleet striking against the windows of the carriage, and soon came to where the snow covered the ground to the depth of one or two inches. continuing to ascend, we passed out of italy and entered the tyrol. the storm had ceased before we went through the first tyrolese village, and we could not help being struck with the change in the appearance of the inhabitants--the different costume, the less erect figures, the awkward gait, the lighter complexions, the neatly-kept habitations, and the absence of beggars. as we advanced, the clouds began to roll off from the landscape, disclosing here and there, through openings in their broad skirts as they swept along, glimpses of the profound valleys below us, and of the white sides and summits of mountains in the mid-sky above. at length the sun appeared, and revealed a prospect of such wildness, grandeur, and splendor as i had never before seen. lofty peaks of the most fantastic shapes, with deep clefts between, sharp needles of rocks, and overhanging crags, infinite in multitude, shot up everywhere around us, glistening in the new-fallen snow, with thin wreaths of mist creeping along their sides. at intervals, swollen torrents, looking at a distance like long trains of foam, came thundering down the mountains, and crossing the road, plunged into the verdant valleys which winded beneath. beside the highway were fields of young grain, pressed to the ground with the snow; and in the meadows, ranunculuses of the size of roses, large yellow violets, and a thousand other alpine flowers of the most brilliant hues, were peeping through their white covering. we stopped to breakfast at a place called landro, a solitary inn, in the midst of this grand scenery, with a little chapel beside it. the water from the dissolving snow was dropping merrily from the roof in a bright june sun. we needed not to be told that we were in germany, for we saw it plainly enough in the nicely-washed floor of the apartment into which we were shown, in the neat cupboard with the old prayer-book lying upon it, and in the general appearance of housewifery, a quality unknown in italy; to say nothing of the evidence we had in the beer and tobacco-smoke of the travellers' room, and the guttural dialect and quiet tones of the guests. from landro we descended gradually into the beautiful valleys of the tyrol, leaving the snow behind, though the white peaks of the mountains were continually in sight. at bruneck, in an inn resplendent with neatness--so at least it seemed to our eyes accustomed to the negligence and dirt of italian housekeeping--we had the first specimen of a german bed. it is narrow and short, and made so high at the head, by a number of huge square bolsters and pillows, that you rather sit than lie. the principal covering is a bag of down, very properly denominated the upper bed, and between this and the feather-bed below, the traveller is expected to pass the night. an asthmatic patient on a cold winter night might perhaps find such a couch tolerably comfortable, if he could prevent the narrow covering from slipping off on one side or the other. the next day we were afforded an opportunity of observing more closely the inhabitants of this singular region, by a festival, or holiday of some sort, which brought them into the roads in great numbers, arrayed in their best dresses--the men in short jackets and small-clothes, with broad gay-colored suspenders over their waistcoats, and leathern belts ornamented with gold or silver leaf--the women in short petticoats composed of horizontal bands of different colors--and both sexes, for the most part, wearing broad-brimmed hats with hemispherical crowns, though there was a sugar-loaf variety much affected by the men, adorned with a band of lace and sometimes a knot of flowers. they are a robust, healthy-looking race, though they have an awkward stoop in the shoulders. but what struck me most forcibly was the devotional habits of the people. the tyrolese might be cited as an illustration of the remark, that mountaineers are more habitually and profoundly religious than others. persons of all sexes, young and old, whom we meet in the road, were repeating their prayers audibly. we passed a troop of old women, all in broad-brimmed hats and short gray petticoats, carrying long staves, one of whom held a bead-roll and gave out the prayers, to which the others made the responses in chorus. they looked at us so solemnly from under their broad brims, and marched along with so grave and deliberate a pace, that i could hardly help fancying that the wicked austrians had caught a dozen elders of the respectable society of friends, and put them in petticoats to punish them for their heresy. we afterward saw persons going to the labors of the day, or returning, telling their rosaries and saying their prayers as they went, as if their devotions had been their favorite amusement. at regular intervals of about half a mile, we saw wooden crucifixes erected by the way-side, covered from the weather with little sheds, bearing the image of the saviour, crowned with thorns and frightfully dashed with streaks and drops of red paint, to represent the blood that flowed from his wounds. the outer walls of the better kind of houses were ornamented with paintings in fresco, and the subjects of these were mostly sacred, such as the virgin and child, the crucifixion, and the ascension. the number of houses of worship was surprising; i do not mean spacious or stately churches such as we meet with in italy, but most commonly little chapels dispersed so as best to accommodate the population. of these the smallest neighborhood has one for the morning devotions of its inhabitants, and even the solitary inn has its little consecrated building with its miniature spire, for the convenience of pious wayfarers. at sterzing, a little village beautifully situated at the base of the mountain called the brenner, and containing, as i should judge, not more than two or three thousand inhabitants, we counted seven churches and chapels within the compass of a square mile. the observances of the roman catholic church are nowhere more rigidly complied with than in the tyrol. when we stopped at bruneck on friday evening, i happened to drop a word about a little meat for dinner in a conversation with the spruce-looking landlady, who appeared so shocked that i gave up the point, on the promise of some excellent and remarkably well-flavored trout from the stream that flowed through the village--a promise that was literally fulfilled. at the post-house on the brenner, where we stopped on saturday evening, we were absolutely refused any thing but soup-maigre and fish; the postmaster telling us that the priest had positively forbidden meat to be given to travellers. think of that!--that we who had eaten wild-boar and pheasants on good friday, at rome, under the very nostrils of the pope himself and his whole conclave of cardinals, should be refused a morsel of flesh on an ordinary saturday, at a tavern on a lonely mountain in the tyrol, by the orders of a parish priest! before getting our soup-maigre, we witnessed another example of tyrolese devotion. eight or ten travellers, apparently laboring men, took possession of the entrance hall of the inn, and kneeling, poured forth their orisons in the german language for half an hour with no small appearance of fervency. in the morning when we were ready to set out, we inquired for our coachman, an italian, and found that he too, although not remarkably religious, had caught something of the spirit of the place, and was at the _gotteshaus_, as the waiter called the tavern chapel, offering his morning prayers. we descended the brenner on the th of june in a snow-storm, the wind whirling the light flakes in the air as it does with us in winter. it changed to rain, however, as we approached the beautiful and picturesque valley watered by the river inn, on the banks of wrhich stands the fine old town of innsbruck, the capital of the tyrol. here we visited the church of the holy cross, in which is the bronze tomb of maximilian i. and twenty or thirty bronze statues ranged on each side of the nave, representing fierce warrior chiefs, and gowned prelates, and stately damsels of the middle ages. these are all curious for the costume; the warriors are cased in various kinds of ancient armor, and brandish various ancient weapons, and the robes of the females are flowing and by no means ungraceful. almost every one of the statues has its hands and fingers in some constrained and awkward position; as if the artist knew as little what to do with them as some awkward and bashful people know what to do with their own. such a crowd of figures in that ancient garb, occupying the floor in the midst of the living worshipers of the present day, has an effect which at first is startling. from innsbruck we climbed and crossed another mountain-ridge, scarcely less wild and majestic in its scenery than those we had left behind. on descending, we observed that the crucifixes had disappeared from the roads, and the broad-brimmed and sugar-loaf hats from the heads of the peasantry; the men wore hats contracted in the middle of the crown like an hour-glass, and the women caps edged with a broad band of black fur, the frescoes on the outside of the houses became less frequent; in short it was apparent that we had entered a different region, even if the custom-house and police officers on the frontier had not signified to us that we were now in the kingdom of bavaria. we passed through extensive forests of fir, here and there checkered with farms, and finally came to the broad elevated plain bathed by the isar, in which munich is situated. letter vii. an excursion to rock river. princeton, illinois, _june_ , . i have just returned from an excursion to rock river, one of the most beautiful of our western streams. we left princeton on the th of the month, and after passing a belt of forest which conceals one of the branches of the bureau river, found ourselves upon the wide, unfenced prairie, spreading away on every side until it met the horizon. flocks of turtle-doves rose from our path scared at our approach; quails and rabbits were seen running before us; the prairie-squirrel, a little striped animal of the marmot kind, crossed the road; we started plovers by the dozen, and now and then a prairie-hen, which flew off heavily into the grassy wilderness. with these animals the open country is populous, but they have their pursuers and destroyers; not the settlers of the region, for they do not shoot often except at a deer or a wild turkey, or a noxious animal; but the prairie-hawk, the bald-eagle, the mink, and the prairie-wolf, which make merciless havoc among them and their brood. about fifteen miles we came to dad joe's grove, in the shadow of which, thirteen years ago, a settler named joe smith, who had fought in the battle of the thames, one of the first white inhabitants of this region, seated himself, and planted his corn, and gathered his crops quietly, through the whole indian war, without being molested by the savages, though he was careful to lead his wife and family to a place of security. as smith was a settler of such long standing, he was looked to as a kind of patriarch in the county, and to distinguish him from other joe smiths, he received the venerable appellation of dad. he has since removed to another part of the state, but his well-known, hospitable cabin, inhabited by another inmate, is still there, and his grove of tall trees, standing on a ridge amidst the immense savannahs, yet retains his name. as we descended into the prairie we were struck with the novelty and beauty of the prospect which lay before us. the ground sank gradually and gently into a low but immense basin, in the midst of which lies the marshy tract called the winnebago swamp. to the northeast the sight was intercepted by a forest in the midst of the basin, but to the northwest the prairies were seen swelling up again in the smoothest slopes to their usual height, and stretching away to a distance so vast that it seemed boldness in the eye to follow them. the winnebagoes and other indian tribes which formerly possessed this country have left few memorials of their existence, except the names of places. now and then, as at indiantown, near princeton, you are shown the holes in the ground where they stored their maize, and sometimes on the borders of the rivers you see the trunks of trees which they felled, evidently hacked by their tomahawks, but perhaps the most remarkable of their remains are the paths across the prairies or beside the large streams, called indian trails--narrow and well-beaten ways, sometimes a foot in depth, and many of them doubtless trodden for hundreds of years. as we went down the ridge upon which stands dad joe's grove, we saw many boulders of rock lying on the surface of the soil of the prairies. the western people, naturally puzzled to tell how they came there, give them the expressive name of "lost rocks." we entered a forest of scattered oaks, and after travelling for half an hour reached the winnebago swamp, a tract covered with tall and luxuriant water-grass, which we crossed on a causey built by a settler who keeps a toll-gate, and at the end of the causey we forded a small stream called winnebago inlet. crossing another vast prairie we reached the neighborhood of dixon, the approach to which was denoted by groves, farm-houses, herds of cattle, and inclosed corn fields, checkering the broad green prairie. dixon, named after an ancient settler of the place still living, is a country town situated on a high bank of rock river. five years ago two log-cabins only stood on the solitary shore, and now it is a considerable village, with many neat dwellings, a commodious court-house, several places of worship for the good people, and a jail for the rogues, built with a triple wall of massive logs, but i was glad to see that it had no inmate. rock river flows through high prairies, and not, like most streams of the west, through an alluvial country. the current is rapid, and the pellucid waters glide over a bottom of sand and pebbles. its admirers declare that its shores unite the beauties of the hudson and of the connecticut. the banks on either side are high and bold; sometimes they are perpendicular precipices, the base of which stands in the running water; sometimes they are steep grassy or rocky bluffs, with a space of dry alluvial land between them and the stream; sometimes they rise by a gradual and easy ascent to the general level of the region, and sometimes this ascent is interrupted by a broad natural terrace. majestic trees grow solitary or in clumps on the grassy acclivities, or scattered in natural parks along the lower lands upon the river, or in thick groves along the edge of the high country. back of the bluffs, extends a fine agricultural region, rich prairies with an undulating surface, interspersed with groves. at the foot of the bluffs break forth copious springs of clear water, which hasten in little brooks to the river. in a drive which i took up the left bank of the river, i saw three of these in the space of as many miles. one of these is the spring which supplies the town of dixon with water; the next is a beautiful fountain rushing out from the rocks in the midst of a clump of trees, as merrily and in as great a hurry as a boy let out of school; the third is so remarkable as to have received a name. it is a little rivulet issuing from a cavern six or seven feet high, and about twenty from the entrance to the further end, at the foot of a perpendicular precipice covered with forest-trees and fringed with bushes. in the neighborhood of dixon, a class of emigrants have established themselves, more opulent and more luxurious in their tastes than most of the settlers of the western country. some of these have built elegant mansions on the left bank of the river, amidst the noble trees which seem to have grown up for that very purpose. indeed, when i looked at them, i could hardly persuade myself that they had not been planted to overshadow older habitations. from the door of one of these dwellings i surveyed a prospect of exceeding beauty. the windings of the river allowed us a sight of its waters and its beautifully diversified banks to a great distance each way, and in one direction a high prairie region was seen above the woods that fringed the course of this river, of a lighter green than they, and touched with the golden light of the setting sun. i am told that the character of rock river is, throughout its course, much as i have described it in the neighborhood of dixon, that its banks are high and free from marshes, and its waters rapid and clear, from its source in wisconsin to where it enters the mississippi amidst rocky islands. what should make its shores unhealthy i can not see, yet they who inhabit them are much subject to intermittent fevers. they tell you very quietly that every body who comes to live there must take a seasoning. i suppose that when this country becomes settled this will no longer be the case. rock river is not much subject to inundations, nor do its waters become very low in summer. a project is on foot, i am told, to navigate it with steam-vessels of a light draught. when i arrived at dixon i was told that the day before a man named bridge, living at washington grove, in ogle county, came into town and complained that he had received notice from a certain association that he must leave the county before the seventeenth of the month, or that he would be looked upon as a proper subject for lynch law. he asked for assistance to defend his person and dwelling against the lawless violence of these men. the people of dixon county came together and passed a resolution to the effect, that they approved fully of what the inhabitants of ogle county had done, and that they allowed mr. bridge the term of four hours to depart from the town of dixon. he went away immediately, and in great trepidation. this bridge is a notorious confederate and harborer of horse-thieves and counterfeiters. the thinly-settled portions of illinois are much exposed to the depredations of horse-thieves, who have a kind of centre of operations in ogle county, where it is said that they have a justice of the peace and a constable among their own associates, and where they contrive to secure a friend on the jury whenever any one of their number is tried. trial after trial has taken place, and it has been found impossible to obtain a conviction on the clearest evidence, until last april, when two horse-thieves being on trial eleven of the jury threatened the twelfth with a taste of the cowskin unless he would bring in a verdict of guilty. he did so, and the men were condemned. before they were removed to the state-prison, the court-house was burnt down and the jail was in flames, but luckily they were extinguished without the liberation of the prisoners. such at length became the general feeling of insecurity, that three hundred citizens of ogle county, as i understand, have formed themselves into a company of volunteers for the purpose of clearing the county of these men. two horse-thieves have been seized and flogged, and bridge, their patron, has been ordered to remove or abide the consequences. as we were returning from dixon on the morning of the th, we heard a kind of humming noise in the grass, which one of the company said proceeded from a rattlesnake. we dismounted and found in fact it was made by a prairie-rattlesnake, which lay coiled around a tuft of herbage, and which we soon dispatched. the indians call this small variety of the rattlesnake, the massasauger. horses are frequently bitten by it and come to the doors of their owners with their heads horribly swelled but they are recovered by the application of hartshorn. a little further on, one of the party raised the cry of wolf, and looking we saw a prairie-wolf in the path before us, a prick-eared animal of a reddish-gray color, standing and gazing at us with great composure. as we approached, he trotted off into the grass, with his nose near the ground, not deigning to hasten his pace for our shouts, and shortly afterward we saw two others running in a different direction. the prairie-wolf is not so formidable an animal as the name of wolf would seem to denote; he is quite as great a coward as robber, but he is exceedingly mischievous. he never takes full-grown sheep unless he goes with a strong troop of his friends, but seizes young lambs, carries off sucking-pigs, robs the henroost, devours sweet corn in the gardens, and plunders the water-melon patch. a herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians. it is their way to gnaw a hole immediately into the first melon they lay hold of. if it happens to be ripe, the inside is devoured at once, if not, it is dropped and another is sought out, and a quarrel is picked with the discoverer of a ripe one, and loud and shrill is the barking, and fierce the growling and snapping which is heard on these occasions. it is surprising, i am told, with what dexterity a wolf will make the most of a melon; absorbing every remnant of the pulp, and hollowing it out as clean as it could be scraped by a spoon. this is when the allowance of melons is scarce, but when they are abundant he is as careless and wasteful as a government agent. enough of natural history. i will finish my letter another day. _june th_. let me caution all emigrants to illinois not to handle too familiarly the "wild parsnip," as it is commonly called, an umbelliferous plant growing in the moist prairies of this region. i have handled it and have paid dearly for it, having such a swelled face that i could scarcely see for several days. the regulators of ogle county removed bridge's family on monday last and demolished his house. he made preparations to defend himself, and kept twenty armed men about him for two days, but thinking, at last, that the regulators did not mean to carry their threats into effect, he dismissed them. he has taken refuge with his friends, the aikin family, who live, i believe, in jefferson grove, in the same county, and who, it is said, have also received notice to quit. letter viii. examples of lynch law. princeton, illinois, _july , ._ in my last letter i mentioned that the regulators in ogle county, on rock river, in this state, had pulled down the house of one bridge, living at washington grove, a well-known confederate of the horse-thieves and coiners with which this region is infested. horse-thieves are numerous in this part of the country. a great number of horses are bred here; you see large herds of them feeding in the open prairies, and at this season of the year every full-grown mare has a colt running by her side. most of the thefts are committed early in the spring, when the grass begins to shoot, and the horses are turned out on the prairie, and the thieves, having had little or no employment during the winter, are needy; or else in the autumn, when the animals are kept near the dwellings of their owners to be fed with indian corn and are in excellent order. the thieves select the best from the drove, and these are passed from one station to another till they arrive at some distant market where they are sold. it is said that they have their regular lines of communication from wisconsin to st. louis, and from the wabash to the mississippi. in ogle county they seem to have been bolder than elsewhere, and more successful, notwithstanding the notoriety of their crimes, in avoiding punishment. the impossibility of punishing them by process of law, the burning of the court-house at oregon city last april, and the threats of deadly vengeance thrown out by them against such as should attempt to bring them to justice, led to the formation of a company of citizens, "regulators" they call themselves, who resolved to take the law into their own hands and drive the felons from the neighborhood. this is not the first instance of the kind which has happened in illinois. some twenty years since the southern counties contained a gang of horse-thieves, so numerous and well-organized as to defy punishment by legal means, and they were expelled by the same method which is now adopted in ogle county. i have just learned, since i wrote the last sentence, that the society of regulators includes, not only the county of ogle, but those of de kalb and winnebago, where the depredations of the horse-thieves and the perfect impunity with which they manage to exercise their calling, have exhausted the patience of the inhabitants. in those counties, as well as in ogle, their patrons live at some of the finest groves, where they own large farms. ten or twenty stolen horses will be brought to one of these places of a night, and before sunrise the desperadoes employed to take them are again mounted and on their way to some other station. in breaking up these haunts, the regulators, i understand, have proceeded with some of the formalities commonly used in administering justice. the accused party has been allowed to make his defense, and witnesses have been examined, both for and against him. these proceedings, however, have lately suffered a most tragical interruption. not long after bridge's house was pulled down, two men, mounted and carrying rifles, called at the dwelling of a mr campbell, living at whiterock grove, in ogle county, who belonged to the company of regulators, and who had acted as the messenger to convey to bridge the order to leave the county. meeting mrs. campbell without the house, they told her that they wished to speak to her husband. campbell made his appearance at the door and immediately both the men fired. he fell mortally wounded and lived but a few minutes. "you have killed my husband," said mrs. campbell to one of the murderers whose name was driscoll. upon this they rode off at full speed. as soon as the event was known the whole country was roused, and every man who was not an associate of the horse-thieves, shouldered his rifle to go in pursuit of the murderers. they apprehended the father of driscoll, a man nearly seventy years of age, and one of his sons, william driscoll, the former a reputed horse-thief, and the latter, a man who had hitherto borne a tolerably fair character, and subjected them to a separate examination. the father was wary in his answers, and put on the appearance of perfect innocence, but william driscoll was greatly agitated, and confessed that he, with his father and others, had planned the murder of campbell, and that david driscoll, his brother, together with another associate, was employed to execute it. the father and son were then sentenced to death; they were bound and made to kneel; about fifty men took aim at each, and, in three hours from the time they were taken, they were dead men. a pit was dug on the spot where they fell, in the midst of a prairie near their dwelling; their corpses, pierced with bullet-holes in every part, were thrown in, and the earth was heaped over them. the pursuit of david driscoll and the fellow who was with him when campbell was killed, is still going on with great activity. more than a hundred men are traversing the country in different directions, determined that no lurking-place shall hide them. in the mean time various persons who have the reputation of being confederates of horse-thieves, not only in ogle county, but in the adjoining ones, even in this, have received notice from the regulators that they cannot be allowed to remain in this part of the state. several suspicious-looking men, supposed to be fugitives from ogle county, have been seen, within a few days past, lurking in the woods not far from this place. one of them who was seen the day before yesterday evidently thought himself pursued and slunk from sight; he was followed, but escaped in the thickets leaving a bundle of clothing behind him. samonok, kane county, illinois, _july th._ i have just heard that another of the driscolls has been shot by the regulators. whether it was david, who fired at campbell, or one of his brothers, i can not learn. letter ix. richmond in virginia. richmond, virginia, _march , ._ i arrived at this place last night from washington, where i had observed little worth describing. the statue of our first president, by greenough, was, of course, one of the things which i took an early opportunity of looking at, and although the bad light in which it is placed prevents the spectator from properly appreciating the features, i could not help seeing with satisfaction, that no position, however unfavorable, could impair the majesty of that noble work, or, at all events, destroy its grand general effect. the house of representatives i had not seen since , and i perceived that the proceedings were conducted with less apparent decorum than formerly, and that the members no longer sat with their hats on. whether they had come to the conclusion that it was well to sit uncovered, in order to make up, by this token of mutual respect, for the too frequent want of decorum in their proceedings, or whether the change has been made because it so often happens that all the members are talking together, the rule being that the person speaking must be bareheaded, or whether, finally, it was found, during the late long summer sessions, that a hat made the wearer really uncomfortable, are questions which i asked on the spot, but to which i got no satisfactory answer. i visited the senate chamber, and saw a member of that dignified body, as somebody calls it, in preparing to make a speech, blow his nose with his thumb and finger without the intervention of a pocket-handkerchief. the speech, after this graceful preliminary, did not, i confess, disappoint me. whoever goes to washington should by all means see the museum at the patent office, enriched by the collections lately brought back by the expedition sent out to explore the pacific. i was surprised at the extent and variety of these collections. dresses, weapons, and domestic implements of savage nations, in such abundance as to leave, one would almost think, their little tribes disfurnished; birds of strange shape and plumage; fishes of remote waters; whole groves of different kinds of coral; sea-shells of rare form and singular beauty from the most distant shores; mummies from the caves of peru; curious minerals and plants: whoever is interested by such objects as these should give the museum a more leisurely examination than i had time to do. the persons engaged in arranging and putting up these collections were still at their task when i was at washington, and i learned that what i saw was by no means the whole. the night before we set out, snow fell to the depth of three inches, and as the steamboat passed down the potomac, we saw, at sunrise, the grounds of mount vernon lying in a covering of the purest white, the snow, scattered in patches on the thick foliage of cedars that skirt the river, looking like clusters of blossoms. about twelve, the steamboat came to land, and the railway took us through a gorge of the woody hills that skirt the potomac. in about an hour, we were at fredericksburg, on the rappahannock. the day was bright and cold, and the wind keen and cutting. a crowd of negroes came about the cars, with cakes, fruit, and other refreshments. the poor fellows seemed collapsed with the unusual cold; their faces and lips were of the color which drapers call blue-black. as we proceeded southward in virginia, the snow gradually became thinner and finally disappeared altogether. it was impossible to mistake the region in which we were. broad inclosures were around us, with signs of extensive and superficial cultivation; large dwellings were seen at a distance from each other, and each with its group of smaller buildings, looking as solitary and chilly as french chateaus; and, now and then, we saw a gang of negroes at work in the fields, though oftener we passed miles without the sight of a living creature. at six in the afternoon, we arrived at richmond. a beautiful city is richmond, seated on the hills that overlook the james river. the dwellings have a pleasant appearance, often standing by themselves in the midst of gardens. in front of several, i saw large magnolias, their dark, glazed leaves glittering in the march sunshine. the river, as yellow as the tiber, its waters now stained with the earth of the upper country, runs by the upper part of the town in noisy rapids, embracing several islands, shaded with the plane-tree, the hackberry, and the elm, and prolific, in spring and summer, of wild-flowers. i went upon one of these islands, by means of a foot-bridge, and was pointed to another, the resort of a quoit-club comprising some of the most distinguished men of richmond, among whom in his lifetime was judge marshall, who sometimes joined in this athletic sport. we descended one of the hills on which the town is built, and went up another to the east, where stands an ancient house of religious worship, the oldest episcopal church in the state. it is in the midst of a burying-ground, where sleep some of the founders of the colony, whose old graves are greenly overgrown with the trailing and matted periwinkle. in this church, patrick henry, at the commencement of the american revolution, made that celebrated speech, which so vehemently moved all who heard him, ending with the sentence: "give me liberty or give me death." we looked in at one of the windows; it is a low, plain room, with small, square pews, and a sounding board over the little pulpit. from the hill on which this church stands, you have a beautiful view of the surrounding country, a gently undulating surface, closed in by hills on the west; and the james river is seen wandering through it, by distant plantations, and between borders of trees. a place was pointed out to us, a little way down the river, which bears the name of powhatan; and here, i was told, a flat rock is still shown as the one on which captain smith was placed by his captors, in order to be put to death, when the intercession of pocahontas saved his life. i went with an acquaintance to see the inspection and sale of tobacco. huge, upright columns of dried leaves, firmly packed and of a greenish hue, stood in rows, under the roof of a broad, low building, open on all sides--these were the hogsheads of tobacco, stripped of the staves. the inspector, a portly man, with a bourbon face, his white hair gathered in a tie behind, went very quietly and expeditiously through his task of determining the quality, after which the vast bulks were disposed of, in a very short time, with surprisingly little noise, to the tobacco merchants. tobacco, to the value of three millions of dollars annually, is sent by the planters to richmond, and thence distributed to different nations, whose merchants frequent this mart. in the sales it is always sure to bring cash, which, to those who detest the weed, is a little difficult to understand. i went afterwards to a tobacco factory, the sight of which amused me, though the narcotic fumes made me cough. in one room a black man was taking apart the small bundles of leaves of which a hogshead of tobacco is composed, and carefully separating leaf from leaf; others were assorting the leaves according to the quality, and others again were arranging the leaves in layers and sprinkling each layer with the extract of liquorice. in another room were about eighty negroes, boys they are called, from the age of twelve years up to manhood, who received the leaves thus prepared, rolled them into long even rolls, and then cut them into plugs of about four inches in length, which were afterwards passed through a press, and thus became ready for market. as we entered the room we heard a murmur of psalmody running through the sable assembly, which now and then swelled into a strain of very tolerable music. "verse sweetens toil--" says the stanza which dr. johnson was so fond of quoting, and really it is so good that i will transcribe the whole of it-- "verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound-- all at her work the village maiden sings, nor, while she turns the giddy wheel around, revolves the sad vicissitudes of things." verse it seems can sweeten the toil of slaves in a tobacco factory. "we encourage their singing as much as we can," said the brother of the proprietor, himself a diligent masticator of the weed, who attended us, and politely explained to us the process of making plug tobacco; "we encourage it as much as we can, for the boys work better while singing. sometimes they will sing all day long with great spirit; at other times you will not hear a single note. they must sing wholly of their own accord, it is of no use to bid them do it." "what is remarkable," he continued, "their tunes are all psalm tunes, and the words are from hymn-books; their taste is exclusively for sacred music; they will sing nothing else. almost all these persons are church-members; we have not a dozen about the factory who are not so. most of them are of the baptist persuasion; a few are methodists." i saw in the course of the day the baptist church in which these people worship, a low, plain, but spacious brick building, the same in which the sages of virginia, a generation of great men, debated the provisions of the constitution. it has a congregation of twenty-seven hundred persons, and the best choir, i heard somebody say, in all richmond. near it is the monumental church, erected on the site of the richmond theatre, after the terrible fire which carried mourning into so many families. in passing through an old part of main-street, i was shown an ancient stone cottage of rude architecture and humble dimensions, which was once the best hotel in richmond. here, i was told, there are those in richmond who remember dining with general washington, judge marshall, and their cotemporaries. i could not help comparing it with the palace-like building put up at richmond within two or three years past, named the exchange hotel, with its spacious parlors, its long dining-rooms, its airy dormitories, and its ample halls and passages, echoing to the steps of busy waiters, and guests coming and departing. the exchange hotel is one of the finest buildings for its purpose in the united states, and is extremely well-kept. i paid a visit to the capitol, nobly situated on an eminence which overlooks the city, and is planted with trees. the statue of washington, executed by houdon for the state of virginia, in , is here. it is of the size of life, representing gen. washington in the costume of his day, and in an ordinary standing posture. it gratifies curiosity, but raises no particular moral emotion. compared with the statue by greenough, it presents a good example of the difference between the work of a mere sculptor--skillful indeed, but still a mere sculptor--and the work of a man of genius. i shall shortly set out for charleston, south carolina. letter x. a journey from richmond to charleston. charleston, _march_ , . i left richmond, on the afternoon of a keen march day, in the railway train for petersburg, where we arrived after dark, and, therefore, could form no judgment of the appearance of the town. here we were transferred to another train of cars. among the passengers was a lecturer on mesmerism with his wife, and a young woman who accompanied them as a mesmeric subject. the young woman, accustomed to be easily put to sleep, seemed to get through the night very comfortably; but the spouse of the operator appeared to be much disturbed by the frequent and capricious opening of the door by the other passengers, which let in torrents of intensely cold air from without, and chid the offenders with a wholesome sharpness. about two o'clock in the morning, we reached blakely on the roanoke, where we were made to get out of the cars, and were marched in long procession for about a quarter of a mile down to the river. a negro walked before us to light our way, bearing a blazing pine torch, which scattered sparks like a steam-engine, and a crowd of negroes followed us, bearing our baggage. we went down a steep path to the roanoke, where we found a little old steamboat ready for us, and in about fifteen minutes were struggling upward against the muddy and rapid current. in little more than an hour, we had proceeded two miles and a half up the river, and were landed at a place called weldon. here we took the cars for wilmington, in north carolina, and shabby vehicles they were, denoting our arrival in a milder climate, by being extremely uncomfortable for cold weather. as morning dawned, we saw ourselves in the midst of the pine forests of north carolina. vast tracts of level sand, overgrown with the long-leaved pine, a tall, stately tree, with sparse and thick twigs, ending in long brushes of leaves, murmuring in the strong cold wind, extended everywhere around us. at great distances from each other, we passed log-houses, and sometimes a dwelling of more pretensions, with a piazza, and here and there fields in which cotton or maize had been planted last year, or an orchard with a few small mossy trees. the pools beside the roads were covered with ice just formed, and the negroes, who like a good fire at almost any season of the year, and who find an abundant supply of the finest fuel in these forests, had made blazing fires of the resinous wood of the pine, wherever they were at work. the tracts of sandy soil, we perceived, were interspersed with marshes, crowded with cypress-trees, and verdant at their borders with a growth of evergreens, such as the swamp-bay, the gallberry, the holly, and various kinds of evergreen creepers, which are unknown to our northern climate, and which became more frequent as we proceeded. we passed through extensive forests of pine, which had been _boxed_, as it is called, for the collection of turpentine. every tree had been scored by the axe upon one of its sides, some of them as high as the arm could reach down to the roots, and the broad wound was covered with the turpentine, which seems to saturate every fibre of the long-leaved pine. sometimes we saw large flakes or crusts of the turpentine of a light-yellow color, which had fallen, and lay beside the tree on the ground. the collection of turpentine is a work of destruction; it strips acre after acre of these noble trees, and, if it goes on, the time is not far distant when the long-leaved pine will become nearly extinct in this region, which is so sterile as hardly to be fitted for producing any thing else. we saw large tracts covered with the standing trunks of trees already killed by it; and other tracts beside them had been freshly attacked by the spoiler. i am told that the tree which grows up when the long-leaved pine is destroyed, is the loblolly pine, or, as it is sometimes called, the short-leaved pine, a tree of very inferior quality and in little esteem. about half-past two in the afternoon, we came to wilmington, a little town built upon the white sands of cape fear, some of the houses standing where not a blade of grass or other plant can grow. a few evergreen oaks, in places, pleasantly overhang the water. here we took the steamer for charleston. i may as well mention here a fraud which is sometimes practiced upon those who go by this route to charleston. advertisements are distributed at new york and elsewhere, informing the public that the fare from baltimore to charleston, by the railway through washington and richmond, is but twenty-two dollars. i took the railway, paying from place to place as i went, and found that this was a falsehood; i was made to pay seven or eight dollars more. in the course of my journey, i was told that, to protect myself from this imposition, i should have purchased at baltimore a "through ticket," as it is called; that is, should have paid in advance for the whole distance; but the advertisement did not inform me that this was necessary. no wonder that "tricks upon travellers" should have become a proverbial expression, for they are a much-enduring race, more or less plundered in every part of the world. the next morning, at eight o'clock, we found ourselves entering charleston harbor; sullivan's island, with fort moultrie, breathing recollections of the revolution, on our right; james island on our left; in front, the stately dwellings of the town, and all around, on the land side, the horizon bounded by an apparent belt of evergreens--the live-oak, the water-oak, the palmetto, the pine, and, planted about the dwellings, the magnolia and the wild orange--giving to the scene a summer aspect. the city of charleston strikes the visitor from the north most agreeably. he perceives at once that he is in a different climate. the spacious houses are surrounded with broad piazzas, often a piazza to each story, for the sake of shade and coolness, and each house generally stands by itself in a garden planted with trees and shrubs, many of which preserve their verdure through the winter. we saw early flowers already opening; the peach and plum-tree were in full bloom; and the wild orange, as they call the cherry-laurel, was just putting forth its blossoms. the buildings--some with stuccoed walls, some built of large dark-red bricks, and some of wood--are not kept fresh with paint like ours, but are allowed to become weather-stained by the humid climate, like those of the european towns. the streets are broad and quiet, unpaved in some parts, but in none, as with us, offensive both to sight and smell. the public buildings are numerous for the size of the city, and well-built in general, with sufficient space about them to give them a noble aspect, and all the advantage which they could derive from their architecture. the inhabitants, judging from what i have seen of them, which is not much, i confess, do not appear undeserving of the character which has been given them, of possessing the most polished and agreeable manners of all the american cities. i may shortly write you again from the interior of south carolina. letter xi. the interior of south carolina. a corn-shucking. barnwell district, south carolina, _march , ._ since i last wrote, i have passed three weeks in the interior of south carolina; visited columbia, the capital of the state, a pretty town; roamed over a considerable part of barnwell district, with some part of the neighboring one of orangeburg; enjoyed the hospitality of the planters--very agreeable and intelligent men; been out in a racoon hunt; been present at a corn-shucking; listened to negro ballads, negro jokes, and the banjo; witnessed negro dances; seen two alligators at least, and eaten bushels of hominy. whoever comes out on the railroad to this district, a distance of seventy miles or more, if he were to judge only by what he sees in his passage, might naturally take south carolina for a vast pine-forest, with here and there a clearing made by some enterprising settler, and would wonder where the cotton which clothes so many millions of the human race, is produced. the railway keeps on a tract of sterile sand, overgrown with pines; passing, here and there, along the edge of a morass, or crossing a stream of yellow water. a lonely log-house under these old trees, is a sight for sore eyes; and only two or three plantations, properly so called, meet the eye in the whole distance. the cultivated and more productive lands lie apart from this tract, near streams, and interspersed with more frequent ponds and marshes. here you find plantations comprising several thousands of acres, a considerable part of which always lies in forest; cotton and corn fields of vast extent, and a negro village on every plantation, at a respectful distance from the habitation of the proprietor. evergreen trees of the oak family and others, which i mentioned in my last letter, are generally planted about the mansions. some of them are surrounded with dreary clearings, full of the standing trunks of dead pines; others are pleasantly situated in the edge of woods, intersected by winding paths. a ramble, or a ride--a ride on a hand-gallop it should be--in these pine woods, on a fine march day, when the weather has all the spirit of our march days without its severity, is one of the most delightful recreations in the world. the paths are upon a white sand, which, when not frequently travelled, is very firm under foot; on all sides you are surrounded by noble stems of trees, towering to an immense height, from whose summits, far above you, the wind is drawing deep and grand harmonies; and often your way is beside a marsh, verdant with magnolias, where the yellow jessamine, now in flower, fills the air with fragrance, and the bamboo-briar, an evergreen creeper, twines itself with various other plants, which never shed their leaves in winter. these woods abound in game, which, you will believe me when i say, i had rather start than shoot,--flocks of turtle-doves, rabbits rising and scudding before you; bevies of quails, partridges they call them here, chirping almost under your horse's feet; wild ducks swimming in the pools, and wild turkeys, which are frequently shot by the practiced sportsman. but you must hear of the corn-shucking. the one at which i was present was given on purpose that i might witness the humors of the carolina negroes. a huge fire of _light-wood_ was made near the corn-house. light-wood is the wood of the long-leaved pine, and is so called, not because it is light, for it is almost the heaviest wood in the world, but because it gives more light than any other fuel. in clearing land, the pines are girdled and suffered to stand; the outer portion of the wood decays and falls off; the inner part, which is saturated with turpentine, remains upright for years, and constitutes the planter's provision of fuel. when a supply is wanted, one of these dead trunks is felled by the axe. the abundance of light-wood is one of the boasts of south carolina. wherever you are, if you happen to be chilly, you may have a fire extempore; a bit of light-wood and a coal give you a bright blaze and a strong heat in an instant. the negroes make fires of it in the fields where they work; and, when the mornings are wet and chilly, in the pens where they are milking the cows. at a plantation, where i passed a frosty night, i saw fires in a small inclosure, and was told by the lady of the house that she had ordered them to be made to warm the cattle. the light-wood fire was made, and the negroes dropped in from the neighboring plantations, singing as they came. the driver of the plantation, a colored man, brought out baskets of corn in the husk, and piled it in a heap; and the negroes began to strip the husks from the ears, singing with great glee as they worked, keeping time to the music, and now and then throwing in a joke and an extravagant burst of laughter. the songs were generally of a comic character; but one of them was set to a singularly wild and plaintive air, which some of our musicians would do well to reduce to notation. these are the words: johnny come down de hollow. oh hollow! johnny come down de hollow. oh hollow! de nigger-trader got me. oh hollow! de speculator bought me. oh hollow! i'm sold for silver dollars. oh hollow! boys, go catch de pony. oh hollow! bring him round de corner. oh hollow! i'm goin' away to georgia. oh hollow! boys, good-by forever! oh hollow! the song of "jenny gone away," was also given, and another, called the monkey-song, probably of african origin, in which the principal singer personated a monkey, with all sorts of odd gesticulations, and the other negroes bore part in the chorus, "dan, dan, who's de dandy?" one of the songs, commonly sung on these occasions, represents the various animals of the woods as belonging to some profession or trade. for example-- de cooter is de boatman-- the cooter is the terrapin, and a very expert boatman he is. de cooter is de boatman. john john crow. de red-bird de soger. john john crow. de mocking-bird de lawyer. john john crow. de alligator sawyer. john john crow. the alligator's back is furnished with a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw, which explains the last line. when the work of the evening was over the negroes adjourned to a spacious kitchen. one of them took his place as musician, whistling, and beating time with two sticks upon the floor. several of the men came forward and executed various dances, capering, prancing, and drumming with heel and toe upon the floor, with astonishing agility and perseverance, though all of them had performed their daily tasks and had worked all the evening, and some had walked from four to seven miles to attend the corn-shucking. from the dances a transition was made to a mock military parade, a sort of burlesque of our militia trainings, in which the words of command and the evolutions were extremely ludicrous. it became necessary for the commander to make a speech, and confessing his incapacity for public speaking, he called upon a huge black man named toby to address the company in his stead. toby, a man of powerful frame, six feet high, his face ornamented with a beard of fashionable cut, had hitherto stood leaning against the wall, looking upon the frolic with an air of superiority. he consented, came forward, demanded a bit of paper to hold in his hand, and harangued the soldiery. it was evident that toby had listened to stump-speeches in his day. he spoke of "de majority of sous carolina," "de interests of de state," "de honor of ole ba'nwell district," and these phrases he connected by various expletives, and sounds of which we could make nothing. a length he began to falter, when the captain with admirable presence of mind came to his relief, and interrupted and closed the harangue with an hurrah from the company. toby was allowed by all the spectators, black and white, to have made an excellent speech. the blacks of this region are a cheerful, careless, dirty race, not hard worked, and in many respects indulgently treated. it is, of course, the desire of the master that his slaves shall be laborious; on the other hand it is the determination of the slave to lead as easy a life as he can. the master has power of punishment on his side; the slave, on his, has invincible inclination, and a thousand expedients learned by long practice. the result is a compromise in which each party yields something, and a good-natured though imperfect and slovenly obedience on one side, is purchased by good treatment on the other. i have been told by planters that the slave brought from africa is much more serviceable, though more high-spirited and dangerous than the slave born in this country, and early trained to his condition. i have been impatiently waiting the approach of spring, since i came to this state, but the weather here is still what the inhabitants call winter. the season, i am told, is more than three weeks later than usual. fields of indian corn which were planted in the beginning of march, must be replanted, for the seed has perished in the ground, and the cotton planting is deferred for fine weather. the peach and plum trees have stood in blossom for weeks, and the forest trees, which at this time are usually in full foliage, are as bare as in december. cattle are dying in the fields for want of pasture. i have thus had a sample of the winter climate of south carolina. if never more severe or stormy than i have already experienced, it must be an agreeable one. the custom of sitting with open doors, however, i found a little difficult to like at first. a door in south carolina, except perhaps the outer door of a house, is not made to shut. it is merely a sort of flapper, an ornamental appendage to the opening by which you enter a room, a kind of moveable screen made to swing to and fro, but never to be secured by a latch, unless for some purpose of strict privacy. a door is the ventilator to the room; the windows are not raised except in warm weather, but the door is kept open at all seasons. on cold days you have a bright fire of pine-wood blazing before you, and a draught of cold air at your back. the reason given for this practice is, that fresh air is wholesome, and that close rooms occasion colds and consumptions. letter xii. savannah. picolata, east florida, _april , ._ as i landed at this place, a few hours since, i stepped into the midst of summer. yesterday morning when i left savannah, people were complaining that the winter was not over. the temperature which, at this time of the year, is usually warm and genial, continued to be what they called chilly, though i found it agreeable enough, and the showy trees, called the _pride of india_, which are planted all over the city, and are generally in bloom at this season, were still leafless. here i find every thing green, fresh, and fragrant, trees and shrubs in full foliage, and wild roses in flower. the dark waters of the st. john's, one of the noblest streams of the country, in depth and width like the st. lawrence, draining almost the whole extent of the peninsula, are flowing under my window. on the opposite shore are forests of tall trees, bright in the new verdure of the season. a hunter who has ranged them the whole day, has just arrived in a canoe, bringing with him a deer, which he has killed. i have this moment returned from a ramble with my host through a hammock, he looking for his cows, and i, unsuccessfully, for a thicket of orange-trees. he is something of a florist, and gathered for me, as we went, some of the forest plants, which were in bloom. "we have flowers here," said he, "every month in the year." i have used the word hammock, which here, in florida, has a peculiar meaning. a hammock is a spot covered with a growth of trees which require a richer soil than the pine, such as the oak, the mulberry, the gum-tree, the hickory, &c. the greater part of east florida consists of pine barrens--a sandy level, producing the long leaved pine and the dwarf palmetto, a low plant, with fan-like leaves, and roots of a prodigious size. the hammock is a kind of oasis, a verdant and luxuriant island in the midst of these sterile sands, which make about nine-tenths of the soil of east florida. in the hammocks grow the wild lime, the native orange, both sour and bitter-sweet, and the various vines and gigantic creepers of the country. the hammocks are chosen for plantations; here the cane is cultivated, and groves of the sweet orange planted. but i shall say more of florida hereafter, when i have seen more of it. meantime let me speak of my journey hither. i left charleston on the th of march, in one of the steamers which ply between that city and savannah. these steamers are among the very best that float--quiet, commodious, clean, fresh as if just built, and furnished with civil and ready-handed waiters. we passed along the narrow and winding channels which divide the broad islands of south carolina from the main-land--islands famed for the rice culture, and particularly for the excellent cotton with long fibres, named the sea-island cotton. our fellow-passengers were mostly planters of these islands, and their families, persons of remarkably courteous, frank, and agreeable manners. the shores on either side had little of the picturesque to show us. extensive marshes waving with coarse water-grass, sometimes a cane-brake, sometimes a pine grove or a clump of cabbage-leaved palmettoes; here and there a pleasant bank bordered with live-oaks streaming with moss, and at wide intervals the distant habitation of a planter--these were the elements of the scenery. the next morning early we were passing up the savannah river, and the city was in sight, standing among its trees on a high bank of the stream. savannah is beautifully laid out; its broad streets are thickly planted with the pride of india, and its frequent open squares shaded with trees of various kinds. oglethorpe seems to have understood how a city should be built in a warm climate, and the people of the place are fond of reminding the stranger that the original plan of the founder has never been departed from. the town, so charmingly embowered, reminded me of new haven, though the variety of trees is greater. in my walks about the place i passed a large stuccoed building of a dull-yellow color, with broad arched windows, and a stately portico, on each side of which stood a stiff looking palmetto, as if keeping guard. the grim aspect of the building led me to ask what it was, and i was answered that it was "the old united states bank," it was the building in which the savannah branch of that bank transacted business, and is now shut up until the time shall come when that great institution shall be revived. meantime i was pained to see that there exists so little reverence for its memory, and so little gratitude for its benefits, that the boys have taken to smashing the windows, so that those who have the care of the building have been obliged to cover them with plank. in another part of the city i was shown an african church, a neat, spacious wooden building, railed in, and kept in excellent order, with a piazza extending along its entire front. it is one of the four places of worship for the blacks of the town, and was built by negro workmen with materials purchased by the contributions of the whites. south of the town extends an uninclosed space, on one side of which is a pleasant grove of pines, in the shade of which the members of a quoit-club practice their athletic sport. here on a saturday afternoon, for that is their stated time of assembling, i was introduced to some of the most distinguished citizens of savannah, and witnessed the skill with which they threw the discus. no apprentices were they in the art; there was no striking far from the stake, no sending the discus rolling over the green; they heaped the quoits as snugly around the stakes as if the amusement had been their profession. in the same neighborhood, just without the town, lies the public cemetery surrounded by an ancient wall, built before the revolution, which in some places shows the marks of shot fired against it in the skirmishes of that period. i entered it, hoping to find some monuments of those who founded the city a hundred and ten years ago, but the inscriptions are of comparatively recent date. most of them commemorate the death of persons born in europe, or the northern states. i was told that the remains of the early inhabitants lie in the brick tombs, of which there are many without any inscription whatever. at a little distance, near a forest, lies the burial-place of the black population. a few trees, trailing with long moss, rise above hundreds of nameless graves, overgrown with weeds; but here and there are scattered memorials of the dead, some of a very humble kind, with a few of marble, and half a dozen spacious brick tombs like those in the cemetery of the whites. some of them are erected by masters and mistresses to the memory of favorite slaves. one of them commemorates the death of a young woman who perished in the catastrophe of the steamer pulaski, of whom it is recorded, that during the whole time that she was in the service of her mistress, which was many years, she never committed a theft, nor uttered a falsehood. a brick monument, in the shape of a little tomb, with a marble slab inserted in front, has this inscription: "in memory of henrietta gatlin, the infant stranger, born in east florida, aged year months." a graveyard is hardly the place to be merry in, but i could not help smiling at some of the inscriptions. a fair upright marble slab commemorates the death of york fleming, a cooper, who was killed by the explosion of a powder-magazine, while tightening the hoops of a keg of powder. it closes with this curious sentence: "this stone was erected by the members of the axe company, coopers and committee of the nd african church of savannah for the purpose of having a herse for benevolent purposes, of which he was the first sexton." a poor fellow, who went to the other world by water, has a wooden slab to mark his grave, inscribed with these words: "sacred to the memory of robert spencer who came to his death by a boat, july th, , aged years. reader as you am now so once i and as i am now so mus you be shortly. amen." another monument, after giving the name of the dead, has this sentence: "go home mother dry up your weeping tears. gods will be done." another, erected to sarah morel, aged six months, has this ejaculation: "sweet withered lilly farewell." one of the monuments is erected to andrew bryan, a black preacher, of the baptist persuasion. a long inscription states that he was once imprisoned "for preaching the gospel, and, without ceremony, severely whipped;" and that, while undergoing the punishment, "he told his persecutors that he not only rejoiced to be whipped, but was willing to suffer death for the cause of christ." he died in , at the age of ninety-six; his funeral, the inscription takes care to state, was attended by a large concourse of people, and adds: "an address was delivered at his death by the rev. mr. johnson, dr. kollock, thomas williams, and henry cunningham." while in savannah, i paid a visit to bonaventure, formerly a country seat of governor tatnall, but now abandoned. a pleasant drive of a mile or two, through a budding forest, took us to the place, which is now itself almost grown up into forest. cedars and other shrubs hide the old terraces of the garden, which is finely situated on the high bank of a river. trees of various kinds have also nearly filled the space between the noble avenues of live-oaks which were planted around the mansion. but these oaks--never saw finer trees--certainly i never saw so many majestic and venerable trees together. i looked far down the immense arches that overshadowed the broad passages, as high as the nave of a gothic cathedral, apparently as old, and stretching to a greater distance. the huge boughs were clothed with gray moss, yards in length, which clung to them like mist, or hung in still festoons on every side, and gave them the appearance of the vault of a vast vapory cavern. the cawing of the crow and the scream of the jay, however, reminded us that we were in the forest. of the mansion there are no remains; but in the thicket of magnolias and other trees, among rosebushes and creeping plants, we found a burial-place with monuments of some persons to whom the seat had belonged. savannah is more healthy of late years than it formerly was. an arrangement has been made with the owners of the plantations in the immediate vicinity by which the culture of rice has been abandoned, and the lands are no longer allowed to be overflowed within a mile from the city. the place has since become much less subject to fevers than in former years. i left, with a feeling of regret, the agreeable society of savannah. the steamboat took us to st. mary's, through passages between the sea-islands and the main-land, similar to those by which we had arrived at savannah. in the course of the day, we passed a channel in which we saw several huge alligators basking on the bank. the grim creatures slid slowly into the water at our approach. we passed st. mary's in the night, and in the morning we were in the main ocean, approaching the st. john's, where we saw a row of pelicans standing, like creatures who had nothing to do, on the sand. we entered the majestic river, the vast current of which is dark with the infusion of the swamp turf, from which it is drained. we passed jacksonville, a little town of great activity, which has sprung up on the sandy bank within two or three years. beyond, we swept by the mouth of the black creek, the water of which, probably from the color of the mud which forms the bed of its channel, has to the eye an ebony blackness, and reflects objects with all the distinctness of the kind of looking-glass called a black mirror. a few hours brought us to picolata, lately a military station, but now a place with only two houses. letter xiii. st. augustine. st. augustine, east florida, _april , ._ when we left picolata, on the th of april, we found ourselves journeying through a vast forest. a road of eighteen miles in length, over the level sands, brings you to this place. tall pines, a thin growth, stood wherever we turned our eyes, and the ground was covered with the dwarf palmetto, and the whortleberry, which is here an evergreen. yet there were not wanting sights to interest us, even in this dreary and sterile region. as we passed a clearing, in which we saw a young white woman and a boy dropping corn, and some negroes covering it with their hoes, we beheld a large flock of white cranes which rose in the air, and hovered over the forest, and wheeled, and wheeled again, their spotless plumage glistening in the sun like new-fallen snow. we crossed the track of a recent hurricane, which had broken off the huge pines midway from the ground, and whirled the summits to a distance from their trunks. from time to time we forded little streams of a deep-red color, flowing from the swamps, tinged, as we were told, with the roots of the red bay, a species of magnolia. as the horses waded into the transparent crimson, we thought of the butcheries committed by the indians, on that road, and could almost fancy that the water was still colored with the blood they had shed. the driver of our wagon told us many narratives of these murders, and pointed out the places where they were committed. he showed us where the father of this young woman was shot dead in his wagon as he was going from st. augustine to his plantation, and the boy whom we had seen, was wounded and scalped by them, and left for dead. in another place he showed us the spot where a party of players, on their way to st. augustine, were surprised and killed. the indians took possession of the stage dresses, one of them arraying himself in the garb of othello, another in that of richard the third, and another taking the costume of falstaff. i think it was wild cat's gang who engaged in this affair, and i was told that after the capture of this chief and some of his warriors, they recounted the circumstances with great glee. at another place we passed a small thicket in which several armed indians, as they afterward related, lay concealed while an officer of the united states army rode several times around it, without any suspicion of their presence. the same men committed, immediately afterward, several murders and robberies on the road. at length we emerged upon a shrubby plain, and finally came in sight of this oldest city of the united states, seated among its trees on a sandy swell of land where it has stood for three hundred years. i was struck with its ancient and homely aspect, even at a distance, and could not help likening it to pictures which i had seen of dutch towns, though it wanted a windmill or two, to make the resemblance perfect. we drove into a green square, in the midst of which was a monument erected to commemorate the spanish constitution of , and thence through the narrow streets of the city to our hotel. i have called the streets narrow. in few places are they wide enough to allow two carriages to pass abreast. i was told that they were not originally intended for carriages, and that in the time when the town belonged to spain, many of them were floored with an artificial stone, composed of shells and mortar, which in this climate takes and keeps the hardness of rock, and that no other vehicle than a hand-barrow was allowed to pass over them. in some places you see remnants of this ancient pavement, but for the most part it has been ground into dust under the wheels of the carts and carriages, introduced by the new inhabitants. the old houses, built of a kind of stone which is seemingly a pure concretion of small shells, overhang the streets with their wooden balconies, and the gardens between the houses are fenced on the side of the street with high walls of stone. peeping over these walls you see branches of the pomegranate and of the orange-tree, now fragrant with flowers, and, rising yet higher, the leaning boughs of the fig, with its broad luxuriant leaves. occasionally you pass the ruins of houses--walls of stone, with arches and staircases of the same material, which once belonged to stately dwellings. you meet in the streets with men of swarthy complexions and foreign physiognomy, and you hear them speaking to each other in a strange language. you are told that these are the remains of those who inhabited the country under the spanish dominion, and that the dialect you have heard is that of the island of minorca. "twelve years ago," said an acquaintance of mine, "when i first visited st. augustine, it was a fine old spanish town. a large proportion of the houses, which you now see roofed like barns, were then flat-roofed, they were all of shell-rock, and these modern wooden buildings were not yet erected. that old fort, which they are now repairing, to fit it for receiving a garrison, was a sort of ruin, for the outworks had partly fallen, and it stood unoccupied by the military, a venerable monument of the spanish dominion. but the orange-groves were the ornament and wealth of st. augustine, and their produce maintained the inhabitants in comfort. orange-trees, of the size and height of the pear-tree, often rising higher than the roofs of the houses, embowered the town in perpetual verdure. they stood so close in the groves that they excluded the sun and the atmosphere was at all times aromatic with their leaves and fruit, and in spring the fragrance of the flowers was almost oppressive." these groves have now lost their beauty. a few years since, a severe frost killed the trees to the ground, and when they sprouted again from the roots, a new enemy made its appearance--an insect of the _coccus_ family, with a kind of shell on its back, which enables it to withstand all the common applications for destroying insects, and the ravages of which are shown by the leaves becoming black and sere, and the twigs perishing. in october last, a gale drove in the spray from the ocean, stripping the trees, except in sheltered situations, of their leaves, and destroying the upper branches. the trunks are now putting out new sprouts and new leaves, but there is no hope of fruit for this year at least. the old fort of st. mark, now called fort marion, a foolish change of name, is a noble work, frowning over the matanzas, which flows between st. augustine and the island of st. anastasia, and it is worth making a long journey to see. no record remains of its original construction, but it is supposed to have been erected about a hundred and fifty years since, and the shell-rock of which it is built is dark with time. we saw where it had been struck with cannon-balls, which, instead of splitting the rock, became imbedded and clogged among the loosened fragments of shell. this rock is, therefore, one of the best materials for a fortification in the world. we were taken into the ancient prisons of the fort--dungeons, one of which was dimly lighted by a grated window, and another entirely without light; and by the flame of a torch we were shown the half-obliterated inscriptions scrawled on the walls long ago by prisoners. but in another corner of the fort, we were taken to look at two secret cells, which were discovered a few years since, in consequence of the sinking of the earth over a narrow apartment between them. these cells are deep under ground, vaulted overhead, and without windows. in one of them a wooden machine was found, which some supposed might have been a rack, and in the other a quantity of human bones. the doors of these cells had been walled up and concealed with stucco, before the fort passed into the hands of the americans. "if the inquisition," said the gentleman who accompanied us, "was established in florida, as it was in the other american colonies of spain, these were its secret chambers." yesterday was palm sunday, and in the morning i attended the services in the catholic church. one of the ceremonies was that of pronouncing the benediction over a large pile of leaves of the cabbage-palm, or palmetto, gathered in the woods. after the blessing had been pronounced, the priest called upon the congregation to come and receive them. the men came forward first, in the order of their age, and then the women; and as the congregation consisted mostly of the descendants of minorcans, greeks, and spaniards, i had a good opportunity of observing their personal appearance. the younger portion of the congregation had, in general, expressive countenances. their forms, it appeared to me, were generally slighter than those of our people; and if the cheeks of the young women were dark, they had regular features and brilliant eyes, and finely formed hands. there is spirit, also, in this class, for one of them has since been pointed out to me in the streets, as having drawn a dirk upon a young officer who presumed upon some improper freedoms of behavior. the services were closed by a plain and sensible discourse in english, from the priest, mr. rampon, a worthy and useful french ecclesiastic, on the obligation of temperance; for the temperance reform has penetrated even hither, and cold water is all the rage. i went again, the other evening, into the same church, and heard a person declaiming, in a language which, at first, i took to be minorcan, for i could make nothing else of it. after listening for a few minutes, i found that it was a frenchman preaching in spanish, with a french mode of pronunciation which was odd enough. i asked one of the old spanish inhabitants how he was edified by this discourse, and he acknowledged that he understood about an eighth part of it. i have much more to write about this place, but must reserve it for another letter. letter xiv. st. augustine. st. augustine, _april , _ you can not be in st. augustine a day without hearing some of its inhabitants speak of its agreeable climate. during the sixteen days of my residence here, the weather has certainly been as delightful as i could imagine. we have the temperature of early june, as june is known in new york. the mornings are sometimes a little sultry, but after two or three hours, a fresh breeze comes in from the sea, sweeping through the broad piazzas and breathing in at the windows. at this season it comes laden with the fragrance of the flowers of the pride of india, and sometimes of the orange-tree, and sometimes brings the scent of roses, now in full bloom. the nights are gratefully cool, and i have been told, by a person who has lived here many years, that there are very few nights in the summer when you can sleep without a blanket. an acquaintance of mine, an invalid, who has tried various climates and has kept up a kind of running fight with death for many years, retreating from country to country as he pursued, declares to me that the winter climate of st. augustine is to be preferred to that of any part of europe, even that of sicily, and that it is better than the climate of the west indies. he finds it genial and equable, at the same time that it is not enfeebling. the summer heats are prevented from being intense by the sea-breeze, of which i have spoken. i have looked over the work of dr. forry on the climate of the united states, and have been surprised to see the uniformity of climate which he ascribes to key west. as appears by the observations he has collected, the seasons at that place glide into each other by the softest gradations, and the heat never, even in midsummer, reaches that extreme which is felt in higher latitudes of the american continent. the climate of florida is in fact an insular climate; the atlantic on the east and the gulf of mexico on the west, temper the airs that blow over it, making them cooler in summer and warmer in winter. i do not wonder, therefore, that it is so much the resort of invalids; it would be more so if the softness of its atmosphere and the beauty and serenity of its seasons were generally known. nor should it be supposed that accommodations for persons in delicate health are wanting; they are in fact becoming better with every year, as the demand for them increases. among the acquaintances whom i have made here, i remember many who, having come hither for the benefit of their health, are detained for life by the amenity of the climate. "it seems to me," said an intelligent gentleman of this class, the other day, "as if i could not exist out of florida. when i go to the north, i feel most sensibly the severe extremes of the weather; the climate of charleston itself, appears harsh to me." here at st. augustine we have occasional frosts in the winter, but at tampa bay, on the western shore of the peninsula, no further from this place than from new york to albany, the dew is never congealed on the grass, nor is a snow-flake ever seen floating in the air. those who have passed the winter in that place, speak with a kind of rapture of the benignity of the climate. in that country grow the cocoa and the banana, and other productions of the west indies. persons who have explored florida to the south of this, during the past winter, speak of having refreshed themselves with melons in january, growing where they had been self-sown, and of having seen the sugar-cane where it had been planted by the indians, towering uncropped, almost to the height of the forest trees. i must tell you, however, what was said to me by a person who had passed a considerable time in florida, and had journeyed, as he told me, in the southern as well as the northern part of the peninsula, "that the climate is mild and agreeable," said he, "i admit, but the annoyance to which you are exposed from insects, counterbalances all the enjoyment of the climate. you are bitten by mosquitoes and gallinippers, driven mad by clouds of sand-flies, and stung by scorpions and centipedes. it is not safe to go to bed in southern florida without looking between the sheets, to see if there be not a scorpion waiting to be your bed-fellow, nor to put on a garment that has been hanging up in your room, without turning it wrong side out, to see if a scorpion has not found a lodging in it." i have not, however, been incommoded at st. augustine with these "varmint," as they call them at the south. only the sand-flies, a small black midge, i have sometimes found a little importunate, when walking out in a very calm evening. of the salubrity of east florida i must speak less positively, although it is certain that in st. augustine emigrants from the north enjoy good health. the owners of the plantations in the neighborhood, prefer to pass the hot season in this city, not caring to trust their constitutions to the experiment of a summer residence in the country. of course they are settled on the richest soils, and these are the least healthy. the pine barrens are safer; when not interspersed with marshes, the sandy lands that bear the pine are esteemed healthy all over the south. yet there are plantations on the st. john's where emigrants from the north reside throughout the year. the opinion seems everywhere to prevail, and i believe there is good reason for it, that florida, notwithstanding its low and level surface, is much more healthy than the low country of south carolina and georgia. the other day i went out with a friend to a sugar plantation in the neighborhood of st. augustine. as we rode into the inclosure we breathed the fragrance of young orange-trees in flower, the glossy leaves of which, green at all seasons, were trembling in the wind. a troop of negro children were at play at a little distance from the cabins, and one of them ran along with us to show us a grove of sour oranges which we were looking for. he pointed us to a copse in the middle of a field, to which we proceeded. the trees, which were of considerable size, were full of flowers, and the golden fruit was thick on the branches, and lay scattered on the ground below. i gathered a few of the oranges, and found them almost as acid as the lemon. we stopped to look at the buildings in which the sugar was manufactured. in one of them was the mill where the cane was crushed with iron rollers, in another stood the huge cauldrons, one after another, in which the juice was boiled down to the proper consistence; in another were barrels of sugar, of syrup--a favorite article of consumption in this city--of molasses, and a kind of spirits resembling jamaica rum, distilled from the refuse of the molasses. the proprietor was absent, but three negroes, well-clad young men, of a very respectable appearance and intelligent physiognomy, one of whom was a distiller, were occupied about the buildings, and showed them to us. near by in the open air lay a pile of sugar cane, of the ribbon variety, striped with red and white, which had been plucked up by the roots, and reserved for planting. the negroes of st. augustine are a good-looking specimen of the race, and have the appearance of being very well treated. you rarely see a negro in ragged clothing, and the colored children, though slaves, are often dressed with great neatness. in the colored people whom i saw in the catholic church, i remarked a more agreeable, open, and gentle physiognomy than i have been accustomed to see in that class. the spanish race blends more kindly with the african, than does the english, and produces handsomer men and women. i have been to see the quarries of coquina, or shell-rock, on the island of st. anastasia, which lies between st. augustine and the main ocean. we landed on the island, and after a walk of some distance on a sandy road through the thick shrubs, we arrived at some huts built of a frame-work of poles thatched with the radiated leaves of the dwarf palmetto, which had a very picturesque appearance. here we found a circular hollow in the earth, the place of an old excavation, now shaded with red-cedars, and the palmetto-royal bristling with long pointed leaves, which bent over and embowered it, and at the bottom was a spring within a square curb of stone, where we refreshed ourselves with a draught of cold water. the quarries were at a little distance from this. the rock lies in the ridges, a little below the surface, forming a stratum of no great depth. the blocks are cut out with crowbars thrust into the rock. it is of a delicate cream color, and is composed of mere shells and fragments of shells, apparently cemented by the fresh water percolating through them and depositing calcareous matter brought from the shells above. whenever there is any mixture of sand with the shells, rock is not formed. of this material the old fort of st. mark and the greater part of the city are built. it is said to become harder when exposed to the air and the rain, but to disintegrate when frequently moistened with sea-water. large blocks were lying on the shore ready to be conveyed to the fort, which is undergoing repairs. it is some consolation to know that this fine old work will undergo as little change in the original plan as is consistent with the modern improvements in fortification. lieutenant benham, who has the charge of the repairs, has strong antiquarian tastes, and will preserve as much as possible of its original aspect. it must lose its battlements, however, its fine mural crown. battlements are now obsolete, except when they are of no use, as on the roofs of churches and gothic cottages. in another part of the same island, which we visited afterward, is a dwelling-house situated amid orange-groves. closely planted rows of the sour orange, the native tree of the country, intersect and shelter orchards of the sweet orange, the lemon, and the lime. the trees were all young, having been planted since the great frost of , and many of them still show the ravages of the gale of last october, which stripped them of their leaves. "come this way," said a friend who accompanied me. he forced a passage through a tall hedge of the sour orange, and we found ourselves in a little fragrant inclosure, in the midst of which was a tomb, formed of the artificial stone of which i have heretofore spoken. it was the resting-place of the former proprietor, who sleeps in this little circle of perpetual verdure. it bore no inscription. not far from this spot, i was shown the root of an ancient palm-tree, the species that produces the date, which formerly towered over the island, and served as a sea-mark to vessels approaching the shore. some of the accounts of st. augustine speak of dates as among its fruits; but i believe that only the male tree of the date-palm has been introduced into the country. on our return to the city, in crossing the matanzas sound, so named probably from some sanguinary battle with the aborigines on its shores; we passed two minorcans in a boat, taking home fuel from the island. these people are a mild, harmless race, of civil manners and abstemious habits. mingled with them are many greek families, with names that denote their origin, such as geopoli, cercopoli, &c., and with a cast of features equally expressive of their descent. the minorcan language, the dialect of mahon, _el mahones_, as they call it, is spoken by more than half of the inhabitants who remained here when the country was ceded to the united states, and all of them, i believe, speak spanish besides. their children, however, are growing up in disuse of these languages, and in another generation the last traces of the majestic speech of castile, will have been effaced from a country which the spaniards held for more than two hundred years. some old customs which the minorcans brought with them from their native country are still kept up. on the evening before easter sunday, about eleven o'clock, i heard the sound of a serenade in the streets. going out, i found a party of young men, with instruments of music, grouped about the window of one of the dwellings, singing a hymn in honor of the virgin in the mahonese dialect. they began, as i was told, with tapping on the shutter. an answering knock within had told them that their visit was welcome, and they immediately began the serenade. if no reply had been heard they would have passed on to another dwelling. i give the hymn as it was kindly taken down for me in writing by a native of st. augustine. i presume this is the first time that it has been put in print, but i fear the copy has several corruptions, occasioned by the unskillfulness of the copyist. the letter _e_, which i have put in italics, represents the guttural french _e_, or perhaps more nearly the sound of _u_ in the word but. the _sh_ of our language is represented by _sc_ followed by an _i_ or an _e_; the _g_ both hard and soft has the same sound as in our language. disciarem lu dol, cantarem anb' alagria, y n'arem a dá las pascuas a maria. o maria! sant grabiel, qui portaba la anbasciada; des nostre rey del cel estarau vos preñada. ya omiliada, tu o vais aqui serventa, fia del deu contenta, para fe lo que el vol. disciarem lu dol, &c. y a milla nit, pariguero vos regina; a un deu infinit, dintra una establina. y a millo dia, que los angles van cantant pau y abondant de la gloria de deu sol. disciarem lu dol, &c. y a libalam, allá la terra santa, nu nat jesus, anb' alagria tanta. infant petit que tot lu mon salvaria; y ningu y bastaria, nu mes un deu tot sol. disciarem lu dol, &c. cuant d'orien lus tres reys la stralla veran, deu omnipotent, adorá lo vingaran. un present inferan, de mil encens y or, a lu beneit señó, que conesce cual se vol. disciarem lu dol, &c. tot fu gayant para cumpli lu prumas; y lu esperit sant de un angel fan gramas. gran foc ences, que crama lu curagia; deu nos da lenguagia, para fe lo que deu vol. disciarem lu dol, &c. cuant trespasá de quest mon nostra señora, al cel s'empugiá sun fil la matescia ora. o emperadora, que del cel sou eligida! lu rosa florida, mé resplanden que un sol. disciarem lu dol, &c. y el tercer giorn que jesus resuntá, deu y aboroma, que la mort triumfá. de alli se ballá para perldrá lucife, an tot a seu peudá, que de nostro ser el sol. disciarem lu dol, &c[ ] after this hymn, the following stanzas, soliciting the customary gift of cakes or eggs, are sung: ce set sois que vain cantant, regina celastial! dunus pan y alagria, y bonas festas tingau. yo vos dou sus bonas festas, danaus dinés de sus nous; sempre tarem lus mans llestas para recibí un grapat de ous. y el giorn de pascua florida alagramos y giuntament; as qui es mort par darnos vida ya viú gloriosament. aquesta casa está empedrada, bien halla que la empedró; sun amo de aquesta casa baldria duná un do. furmagiada, o empanada, cucutta o flaó; cual se vol cosa me grada, sol que no me digas que no[ ]. the shutters are then opened by the people within, and a supply of cheese-cakes, or other pastry, or eggs, is dropped into a bag carried by one of the party, who acknowledge the gift in the following lines, and then depart: aquesta casa está empedrada, empedrada de cuatro vens; sun amo de aquesta casa, _es_ omo de compliment[ ]. if nothing is given, the last line reads thus: no _es_ omo de compliment. letter xv. a voyage from st. augustine to savannah. savannah, _april_ , . on the morning of the th, we took leave of our good friends in st. augustine, and embarked in the steamer for savannah. never were softer or more genial airs breathed out of the heavens than those which played around us as we ploughed the waters of the matanzas sound, passing under the dark walls of the old fort, and leaving it behind us, stood for the passage to the main ocean. it is a common saying in st. augustine, that "florida is the best poor man's country in the world," and, truly, i believe that those who live on the shores of this sound find it so. its green waters teem with life, and produce abundance of the finest fish, "------ of shell or fin, and exquisitest name." clams are dug up on the pure sands along the beach, where the fishermen drag their boats ashore, and wherever the salt water dashes, there is an oyster, if he can find aught upon which to anchor his habitation. along the edge of the marshes, next to the water, you see a row--a wall i should rather say--of oysters, apparently sprouting one out of another, as high as the tide flows. they are called here, though i do not know why, ratoon oysters. the abundance of fish solves the problem which has puzzled many, how the minorcan population of st. augustine live, now that their orange-trees, upon which they formerly depended, are unproductive. in the steamboat were two or three persons who had visited florida with a view of purchasing land. now that the indian war is ended, colonization has revived, and people are thronging into the country to take advantage of the law which assigns a hundred and sixty acres to every actual settler. in another year, the influx of population will probably be still greater, though the confusion and uncertainty which exists in regard to the title of the lands, will somewhat obstruct the settlement of the country. before the spanish government ceded it to the united states, they made numerous grants to individuals, intended to cover all the best land of the territory. many of the lands granted have never been surveyed, and their situation and limits are very uncertain. the settler, therefore, if he is not very careful, may find his farm overlaid by an old spanish claim. i have said that the war is ended. although the seminole chief, sam jones, and about seventy of his people remain, the country is in profound peace from one end to the other, and you may traverse the parts most distant from the white settlements without the least danger or molestation from the indians. "how is it," i asked one day of a gentleman who had long resided in st. augustine, "that, after what has happened, you can think it safe to let these people remain?" "it is perfectly safe," he answered. "sam jones professes, and i believe truly, to have had less to do with the murders which have been committed than the other chiefs, though it is certain that dr. perrine, whose death we so much lament, was shot at indian key by his men. besides, he has a quarrel with one of the seminole chiefs, whose relative he has killed, and if he were to follow them to their new country, he would certainly be put to death. it is his interest, therefore, to propitiate the favor of the whites by the most unexceptionable behavior, for his life depends upon being allowed to remain. "there is yet another reason, which you will understand from what i am about to say. before the war broke out, the indians of this country, those very men who suddenly became so bloodthirsty and so formidable, were a quiet and inoffensive race, badly treated for the most part by the whites, and passively submitting to ill treatment without any appearance of feeling or spirit. when they at length resolved upon war, they concealed their families in the islands of the everglades, whither they supposed the whites would never be able to follow them. their rule of warfare was this, never to endanger the life of one of their warriors for the sake of gaining the greatest advantage over their enemies; they struck only when they felt themselves in perfect safety. if they saw an opportunity of destroying twenty white men by the sacrifice of a single indian, the whites were allowed to escape. acting on this principle, if their retreat had been as inaccessible as they supposed it, they would have kept up the warfare until they had driven the whites out of the territory. "when, however, general worth introduced a new method of prosecuting the war, following up the indians with a close and perpetual pursuit, chasing them into their great shallow lake, the everglades, and to its most secret islands, they saw at once that they were conquered. they saw that further hostilities were hopeless, and returned to their former submissive and quiet demeanor. "it is well, perhaps," added my friend in a kind of postscript, "that a few indians should remain in florida. they are the best hunters of runaway slaves in the world, and may save us from a maroon war." the indian name of the everglades, i am told, signifies grass-water, a term which well expresses its appearance. it is a vast lake, broader by thousands of acres in a wet than in a dry season, and so shallow that the grass everywhere grows from the bottom and overtops its surface the bottom is of hard sand, so firm that it can be forded almost everywhere on horseback, and here and there are deep channels which the traveller crosses by swimming his horse. general worth's success in quelling the insurrection of the seminoles, has made him very popular in florida, where the energy and sagacity with which the closing campaign of the war was conducted are spoken of in the highest terms. he has lately fixed his head-quarters at st augustine. in the afternoon, our steamer put in between two sandy points of land and we arrived at st mary's, formerly a buccaneer settlement, but now so zealous for good order that our captain told us the inhabitants objected to his taking in wood for his steamboat on sunday. the place is full of groves of the orange and lime--young trees which have grown up since , and which, not having suffered, like those of st. augustine, by the gale, i found beautifully luxuriant. in this place, it was my fate to experience the plague of sand-flies. clouds of them came into the steamboat alighting on our faces and hands and stinging wherever they alighted. the little creatures got into our hair and into our eyes, and crawled up our sleeves and down our necks, giving us no rest, until late in the night the vessel left the wharf and stood out into the river, where the current of air swept most of our tormentors away. the next morning, as we were threading the narrow channels by which the inland passage is made from st. mary's to savannah, we saw, from time to time, alligators basking on the banks. some of our fellow-passengers took rifles and shot at them as we went by. the smaller ones were often killed, the larger generally took the rifle-balls upon their impenetrable backs, and walked, apparently unhurt, into the water. one of these monstrous creatures i saw receive his death-wound, having been fired at twice, the balls probably entering at the eyes. in his agony he dashed swiftly through the water for a little distance, and turning rushed with equal rapidity in the opposite direction, the strokes of his strong arms throwing half his length above the surface. the next moment he had turned over and lay lifeless, with his great claws upward. a sallow-complexioned man from burke county, in georgia, who spoke a kind of negro dialect, was one of the most active in this sport, and often said to the bystanders. "i hit the 'gator that time, i did." we passed where two of these huge reptiles were lying on the bank among the rank sedges, one of them with his head towards us. a rifle-ball from the steamer, struck the ground just before his face, and he immediately made for the water, dragging, with his awkward legs, a huge body of about fifteen feet in length. a shower of balls fell about him as he reached the river, but he paddled along with as little apparent concern as the steamboat we were in. the tail of the alligator is said to be no bad eating, and the negroes are fond of it. i have heard, however, that the wife of a south carolina cracker once declared her dislike of it in the following terms: "coon and collards is pretty good fixins, but 'gator and turnips i can't go, no how." collards, you will understand, are a kind of cabbage. in this country, you will often hear of long collards, a favorite dish of the planter. among the marksmen who were engaged in shooting alligators, were two or three expert chewers of the indian weed--frank and careless spitters--who had never been disciplined by the fear of woman into any hypocritical concealment of their talent, or unmanly reserve in its exhibition. i perceived, from a remark which one of them let fall, that somehow they connected this accomplishment with high breeding. he was speaking of four negroes who were hanged in georgia on a charge of murdering their owner. "one of them," said he, "was innocent. they made no confession, but held up their heads, chawed their tobacco, and spit about like any gentlemen." you have here the last of my letters from the south. savannah, which i left wearing almost a wintry aspect, is now in the full verdure of summer. the locust-trees are in blossom; the water-oaks, which were shedding their winter foliage, are now thick with young and glossy leaves; the pride of india is ready to burst into flower, and the gardens are full of roses in bloom. letter xvi. an excursion to vermont and new hampshire. addison county, vermont, _july_ , . i do not recollect that i ever heard the canal connecting the hudson with lake champlain praised for its beauty, yet it is actually beautiful--that part of it at least which lies between dunham's basin and the lake, a distance of twenty-one miles, for of the rest i can not speak. to form the canal, two or three streams have been diverted a little from their original course, and led along a certain level in the valley through which they flowed to pour themselves into champlain. in order to keep this level, a perpetually winding course has been taken, never, even for a few rods, approaching a straight line. on one side is the path beaten by the feet of the horses who drag the boats, but the other is an irregular bank, covered sometimes with grass and sometimes with shrubs or trees, and sometimes steep with rocks. i was delighted, on my journey to this place, to exchange a seat in a stage-coach, driven over the sandy and dusty road north of saratoga by a sulky and careless driver, for a station on the top of the canal-packet. the weather was the finest imaginable; the air that blew over the fields was sweet with the odor of clover blossoms, and of shrubs in flower. a canal, they say, is but a ditch; but this was as unlike a ditch as possible; it was rather a gentle stream, winding in the most apparently natural meanders. goldsmith could find no more picturesque epithet for the canals of holland, than "slow;" "the slow canal, the yellow blossomed vale--" but if the canals of that country had been like this, i am sure he would have known how to say something better for them. on the left bank, grassed over to the water's edge, i saw ripe strawberries peeping out among the clover, and shortly afterward a young man belonging to the packet leaped on board from the other side with a large basket of very fine strawberries. "i gathered them," said he "down in the swamp; the swamp is full of them." we had them afterward with our tea. proceeding still further, the scenery became more bold. steep hills rose by the side of the canal, with farm-houses scattered at their feet; we passed close to perpendicular precipices, and rocky shelves sprouting with shrubs, and under impending woods. at length, a steep broad mountain rose before us, its sides shaded with scattered trees and streaked with long horizontal lines of rock, and at its foot a cluster of white houses. this was whitehall; and here the waters of the canal plunge noisily through a rocky gorge into the deep basin which holds the long and narrow lake champlain. there was a young man on board who spoke english imperfectly, and whose accent i could not with certainty refer to any country or language with which i was acquainted. as we landed, he leaped on shore, and was surrounded at once by half a dozen persons chattering canadian french. the french population of canada has scattered itself along the shores of lake champlain for a third of the distance between the northern boundary of this state and the city of new york, and since the late troubles in canada, more numerously than ever. in the hotel where i passed the night, most of the servants seemed to be emigrants from canada. speaking of foreigners reminds me of an incident which occurred on the road between saratoga springs and dunham's basin. as the public coach stopped at a place called emerson, our attention was attracted by a wagon-load of persons who had stopped at the inn, and were just resuming their journey. the father was a robust, healthy-looking man of some forty years of age; the mother a buxom dame; the children, some six or seven, of various ages, with flaxen hair, light-blue eyes, and broad ruddy cheeks. "they are irish," said one of my fellow-passengers. i maintained on the contrary that they were americans. "git ap," said the man to his horses, pronouncing the last word very long. "git ap; go 'lang." my antagonist in the dispute immediately acknowledged that i was right, for "git ap," and "go 'lang" could never have been uttered with such purity of accent by an irishman. we learned on inquiry that they were emigrants from the neighborhood, proceeding to the western canal, to take passage for michigan, where the residence of a year or two will probably take somewhat from the florid ruddiness of their complexions. i looked down into the basin which contains the waters of the champlain, lying considerably below the level on which whitehall is built, and could not help thinking that it was scooped to contain a wider and deeper collection of waters. craggy mountains, standing one behind the other, surround it on all sides, from whose feet it seems as if the water had retired; and here and there, are marshy recesses between the hills, which might once have been the bays of the lake. the burlington, one of the model steamboats for the whole world, which navigates the champlain, was lying moored below. my journey, however, was to be by land. at seven o'clock in the morning we set out from whitehall, in a strong wagon, to cross the mountainous country lying east of the lake. "git ap," said our good-natured driver to his cattle, and we climbed and descended one rugged hill after another, passing by cottages which we were told were inhabited by canadian french. we had a passenger from essex county, on the west side of the lake, a lady who, in her enthusiastic love of a mountainous country, seemed to wish that the hills were higher; and another from the prairies of the western states, who, accustomed for many years to the easy and noiseless gliding of carriages over the smooth summer roads of that region, could hardly restrain herself from exclaiming at every step against the ruggedness of the country, and the roughness of the ways. a third passenger was an emigrant from vermont to chatauque county, in the state of new york, who was now returning on a visit to his native county, the hills of vermont, and who entertained us by singing some stanzas of what he called the michigan song, much in vogue, as he said, in these parts before he emigrated, eight years ago. here is a sample: "they talk about vermont, they say no state's like that: 'tis true the girls are handsome, the cattle too are fat. but who amongst its mountains of cold and ice would stay, when he can buy paraira in michigan-_i-a_?" by "paraira" you must understand prairie. "it is a most splendid song," continued the singer. "it touches off one state after another. connecticut, for example:" "connecticut has blue laws, and when the beer, on sunday, gets working in the barrel, they flog it well on monday." at benson, in vermont, we emerged upon a smoother country, a country of rich pastures, fields heavy with grass almost ready for the scythe, and thick-leaved groves of the sugar-maple and the birch. benson is a small, but rather neat little village, with three white churches, all of which appear to be newly built. the surrounding country is chiefly fitted for the grazing of flocks, whose fleeces, however, just at present, hardly pay for the shearing. letter xvii. an excursion to vermont and new hampshire. keene, new hampshire, _july_ , . i resume my journey where i stopped short in my last, namely, on reaching benson, in vermont, among the highlands west of lake champlain. we went on through a pastoral country of the freshest verdure, where we saw large flocks of sheep grazing. from time to time we had glimpses of the summits of a long blue ridge of mountains to the east of us, and now and then the more varied and airy peaks of the mountains which lie to the west of the lake. they told me that of late years this part of the country had suffered much from the grasshoppers, and that last summer, in particular, these insects had made their appearance in immense armies, devouring the plants of the ground and leaving it bare of herbage. "they passed across the country," said one person to me, "like hail storms, ravaging it in broad stripes, with intervals between in which they were less numerous." at present, however, whether it was the long and severe winter which did not fairly end till the close of april, or whether it was the uncommonly showery weather of the season hitherto, that destroyed these insects, in some early stage of their existence, i was told that there is now scarce a grasshopper in all these meadows and pastures. everywhere the herbage was uncommonly luxuriant, and everywhere i saw the turf thickly sprinkled with the blossoms of the white clover, on the hill, in the valley, among rocks, by streams, by the road-side, and whenever the thinner shade of the woods allowed the plants of the field to take root. we might say of the white clover, with even more truth than montgomery says of the daisy:-- "but this bold floweret climbs the hill, hides in the forest, haunts the glen, plays on the margin of the rill, peeps o'er the fox's den." all with whom i spoke had taken notice of the uncommon abundance of the white clover this year, and the idea seemed to prevail that it has its regular periods of appearing and disappearing,--remaining in the fields until it has taken up its nutriment in the soil, and then giving place to other plants, until they likewise had exhausted the qualities of the soil by which they were nourished. however this may be, its appearance this season in such profusion, throughout every part of the country which i have seen, is very remarkable. all over the highlands of vermont and new hampshire, in their valleys, in the gorges of their mountains, on the sandy banks of the connecticut, the atmosphere for many a league is perfumed with the odor of its blossoms. i passed a few days in the valley of one of those streams of northern yermont, which find their way into champlain. if i were permitted to draw aside the veil of private life, i would briefly give you the singular, and to me most interesting history of two maiden ladies who dwell in this valley. i would tell you how, in their youthful days, they took each other as companions for life, and how this union, no less sacred to them than the tie of marriage, has subsisted, in uninterrupted harmony, for forty years, during which they have shared each other's occupations and pleasures and works of charity while in health, and watched over each other tenderly in sicknesss; for sickness has made long and frequent visits to their dwelling. i could tell you how they slept on the same pillow and had a common purse, and adopted each other's relations, and how one of them, more enterprising and spirited in her temper than the other, might be said to represent the male head of the family, and took upon herself their transactions with the world without, until at length her health failed, and she was tended by her gentle companion, as a fond wife attends her invalid husband. i would tell you of their dwelling, encircled with roses, which now in the days of their broken health, bloom wild without their tendance, and i would speak of the friendly attentions which their neighbors, people of kind hearts and simple manners, seem to take pleasure in bestowing upon them, but i have already said more than i fear they will forgive me for, if this should ever meet their eyes, and i must leave the subject. one day i had taken a walk with a farmer of the place, over his extensive and luxuriant pastures, and was returning by the road, when a well-made young fellow in a cap, with thick curly hair, carrying his coat on his arm, wearing a red sash round his waist, and walking at a brisk pace, overtook us. "etes-vous canadien?"--are you a canadian? said my companion. "un peu"--a little--was the dry answer. "where are you going?" asked the farmer again, in english. "to middlebury," replied he, and immediately climbed a fence and struck across a field to save an angle in the road, as if perfectly familiar with the country "these canadian french," said the farmer, "come swarming upon us in the summer, when we are about to begin the hay-harvest, and of late years they are more numerous than formerly. every farmer here has his french laborer at this season, and some two or three. they are hardy, and capable of long and severe labor; but many of them do not understand a word of our language, and they are not so much to be relied upon as our own countrymen; they, therefore, receive lower wages." "what do you pay them?" "eight dollars a month, is the common rate. when they leave your service, they make up their packs, and bring them for your inspection, that you may see that they have taken nothing which does not belong to them. i have heard of thefts committed by some of them, for i do not suppose that the best of the canadians leave their homes for work, but i have always declined to examine their baggage when they quit my house." a shower drove us to take shelter in a farm-house by the road. the family spoke with great sympathy of john, a young french canadian, "a gentlemanly young fellow," they called him, who had been much in their family, and who had just come from the north, looking quite ill. he had been in their service every summer since he was a boy. at the approach of the warm weather, he annually made his appearance in rags, and in autumn he was dismissed, a sprucely-dressed lad, for his home. on sunday, as i went to church, i saw companies of these young frenchmen, in the shade of barns or passing along the road; fellows of small but active persons, with thick locks and a lively physiognomy. the french have become so numerous in that region, that for them and the irish, a roman catholic church has been erected in middlebury, which, you know, is not a very large village. on monday morning, we took the stage-coach at middlebury for this place. an old quaker, in a broad-brimmed hat and a coat of the ancient cut, shaped somewhat like the upper shell of the tortoise, came to hand in his granddaughter, a middle-aged woman, whom he had that morning accompanied from lincoln, a place about eighteen miles distant, where there is a quaker neighborhood and a quaker meeting-house. the denomination of quakers seems to be dying out in the united states, like the indian race; not that the families become extinct, but pass into other denominations. it is very common to meet with neighborhoods formerly inhabited by quakers, in which there is not a trace of them left. not far from middlebury, is a village on a fine stream, called quaker village, with not a quaker in it. everywhere they are laying aside their peculiarities of costume, and in many instances, also, their peculiarities of speech, which are barbarous enough as they actually exist, though, if they would but speak with grammatical propriety, their forms of discourse are as commodious as venerable, and i would be content to see them generally adopted. i hope they will be slow to lay aside their better characteristics: their abhorrence of violence, and the peaceful and wholesome subjection in which, of all religious denominations, they seem to have best succeeded in holding the passions. in such remote and secluded neighborhoods as lincoln, their sect will probably make the longest stand against the encroachments of the world. i perceived, however, that the old gentleman's son, who was with him, and, as i learned, was also a quaker, had nothing peculiar in his garb. before sunset we were in sight of those magnificent mountain summits, the pico, killington peak, and shrewsbury peak, rising in a deep ultra-marine blue among the clouds that rolled about them, for the day was showery. we were set down at rutland, where we passed the night, and the next morning crossed the mountains by the passes of clarendon and shrewsbury. the clouds were clinging to the summits, and we travelled under a curtain of mist, upheld on each side by mountain-walls. a young woman of uncommon beauty, whose forefinger on the right hand was dotted all over with punctures of the needle, and who was probably a mantua-maker, took a seat in the coach for a short distance. we made some inquiries about the country, but received very brief, though good-natured answers, for the young lady was a confirmed stammerer. i thought of an epigram i had somewhere read, in which the poet complimented a lady who had this defect, by saying that the words which she wished to utter were reluctant to leave so beautiful a mouth, and lingered long about the pearly teeth and rosy lips. we passed through a tract covered with loose stones, and the quaker's granddaughter, who proved to be a chatty person, told us a story which you may possibly have heard before. "where did you get all the stones with which you have made these substantial fences?" said a visitor to his host, on whose grounds there appeared no lack of such materials. "look about you in the fields, and you will see," was the answer. "i have looked," rejoined the questioner, "and do not perceive where a single stone is missing, and that is what has puzzled me." soon after reaching the highest elevation on the road, we entered the state of new hampshire. our way led us into a long valley formed by a stream, sometimes contracted between rough woody mountains, and sometimes spreading out, for a short distance, into pleasant meadows; and we followed its gradual descent until we reached the borders of the connecticut. we crossed this beautiful river at bellows falls, where a neat and thriving village has its seat among craggy mountains, which, at a little distance, seem to impend over it. here the connecticut struggles and foams through a narrow passage of black rocks, spanned by a bridge. i believe this is the place spoken of in peters's history of connecticut, where he relates that the water of the river is so compressed in its passage between rocks, that an iron bar can not be driven into it. a few miles below we entered the village of walpole, pleasantly situated on the knolls to the east of the meadows which border the river. walpole was once a place of some literary note, as the residence of dennie, who, forty years since, or more, before he became the editor of the port folio, here published the farmer's museum, a weekly sheet, the literary department of which was amply and entertainingly filled. keene, which ended our journey in the stage-coach, is a flourishing village on the rich meadows of the ashuelot, with hills at a moderate distance swelling upward on all sides. it is a village after the new england pattern, and a beautiful specimen of its kind--broad streets planted with rock-maples and elms, neat white houses, white palings, and shrubs in the front inclosures. during this visit to new hampshire, i found myself in a hilly and rocky region, to the east of this place, and in sight of the summit of monadnock, which, at no great distance from where i was, begins to upheave its huge dark mass above the surrounding country. i arrived, late in the evening, at a dwelling, the door of which was opened to me by two damsels, all health and smiles. in the morning i saw a third sister of the same florid bloom and healthful proportions. they were none of those slight, frail figures, copies of the monthly plates of fashion, with waists of artificial slenderness, which almost force you to wonder how the different parts of the body are kept together--no pallid faces, nor narrow chests, nor lean hands, but forms which might have satisfied an ancient statuary, with a well-formed bust, faces glowing with health, rounded arms, and plump fingers. they are such women, in short, as our mothers, fifty years ago, might have been. i had not observed any particular appearance of health in the females of the country through which i had passed; on the contrary, i had been disappointed in their general pallidness and look of debility. i inquired of my host if there was any cause to which this difference could be traced. "i have no doubt of the cause," replied he. "these girls are healthy, because i have avoided three great errors. they have neither been brought up on unwholesome diet, nor subjected to unwholesome modes of dress, nor kept from daily exercise in the open air. they have never drunk tea or coffee, nor lived upon any other than plain and simple food. their dress--you know that even the pressure of the easiest costume impedes the play of the lungs somewhat--their dress has never been so tight as to hinder free respiration and the proper expansion of the chest. finally, they have taken exercise every day in the open air, assisting me in tending my fruit trees and in those other rural occupations in which their sex may best take part. their parents have never enjoyed very good health; nor were the children particularly robust in their infancy, yet by a rational physical education, they have been made such as you see them." i took much pleasure in wandering through the woods in this region, where the stems of the primeval forest still stand--straight trunks of the beech, the maple, the ash, and the linden, towering to a vast height. the hollows are traversed by clear, rapid brooks. the mowing fields at that time were full of strawberries of large size and admirable flavor, which you could scarce avoid crushing by dozens as you walked. i would gladly have lingered, during a few more of these glorious summer days, in this wild country, but my engagements did not permit it, and here i am, about to take the stage-coach for worcester and the western railroad. letter xviii. liverpool.--manchester. manchester, england, _may_ , . i suppose a smoother passage was never made across the atlantic, than ours in the good ship liverpool. for two-thirds of the way, we slid along over a placid sea, before the gentlest zephyrs that ever swept the ocean, and when at length the winds became contrary, they only impeded our progress, without making it unpleasant. the liverpool is one of the strongest, safest, and steadiest of the packet-ships; her commander prudent, skillful, always on the watch, and as it almost seemed to me, in every part of the vessel at once; the passengers were good-tempered and quiet, like the sea on which we were sailing; and with all these advantages in our favor, i was not disposed to repine that we were a week longer in crossing the atlantic, than some vessels which left new york nearly the same time. it was matter of rejoicing to all of us, however, when we saw the irish coast like a faint cloud upon the horizon, and still more were we delighted, when after beating about for several days in what is called the chops of the channel, we beheld the mountains of wales. i could hardly believe that what i saw were actually mountain summits, so dimly were their outlines defined in the vapory atmosphere of this region, the nearer and lower steeps only being fully visible, and the higher and remoter ones half lost in the haze. it seemed to me as if i were looking at the reflection of mountains in a dull mirror, and i was ready to take out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe the dust and smoke from its surface. about thirty miles from liverpool we took on board a pilot, whose fair complexion, unbronzed by the sun, was remarked by the ladies, and soon after a steamer arrived and took us in tow. at twelve o'clock in the night, the liverpool by the aid of the high tide cleared the sand-bar at the mouth of the port, and was dragged into the dock, and the next morning when i awoke, i found myself in liverpool in the midst of fog and rain. "liverpool," said one of its inhabitants to me, "is more like an american than an english city; it is new, bustling, and prosperous." i saw some evidences of this after i had got my baggage through the custom-house, which was attended with considerable delay, the officers prying very closely into the contents of certain packages which i was taking for friends of mine to their friends in england, cutting the packthread, breaking the seals, and tearing the wrappers without mercy. i saw the streets crowded with huge drays, carrying merchandise to and fro, and admired the solid construction of the docks, in which lay thousands of vessels from all parts of the globe. the walls of these docks are built of large blocks of red sandstone, with broad gateways opening to the river mersey, and when the tide is at its height, which i believe is about thirty feet from low water, the gates are open, and vessels allowed to enter and depart. when the tide begins to retire, the gates are closed, and the water and the vessels locked in together. along the river for miles, the banks are flanked with this massive masonry, which in some places i should judge to be nearly forty feet in height. meantime the town is spreading into the interior; new streets are opened; in one field you may see the brickmakers occupied in their calling, and in the opposite one the bricklayers building rows of houses. new churches and new public buildings of various kinds are going up in these neighborhoods. the streets which contain the shops have for the most part a gay and showy appearance; the buildings are generally of stucco, and show more of architectural decoration than in our cities. the greater part of the houses, however, are built of brick which has a rough surface, and soon acquires in this climate a dark color, giving a gloomy aspect to the streets. the public buildings, which are rather numerous, are of a drab-colored freestone, and those which have been built for forty or fifty years, the town hall, for example, and some of the churches, appear almost of a sooty hue. i went through the rooms of the town hall and was shown the statue of canning, by chantry, an impressive work as it seemed to me. one of the rooms contains a portrait of him by lawrence, looking very much like a feeble old gentleman whom i remember as not long since an appraiser in the new york custom-house. we were shown a lofty saloon in which the common council of liverpool enjoy their dinners, and very good dinners the woman who showed us the rooms assured us they were. but the spirit of corporation reform has broken in upon the old order of things, and those good dinners which a year or two since were eaten weekly, are now eaten but once a fortnight, and money is saved. i strolled to the zoological gardens, a very pretty little place, where a few acres of uneven surface have been ornamented with plantations of flowering shrubs, many of which are now in full bloom, artificial ponds of water, rocks, and bridges, and picturesque buildings for the animals. winding roads are made through the green turf, which is now sprinkled with daisies. it seems to be a favorite place of resort for the people of the town. they were amused by the tricks of an elephant, the performances of a band of music, which among other airs sang and played "jim along josey," and the feats of a young fellow who gave an illustration of the centrifugal force by descending a _montagne russe_ in a little car, which by the help of a spiral curve in the railway, was made to turn a somerset in the middle of its passage, and brought him out at the end with his cap off, and his hair on end. one of the most remarkable places in liverpool, is st. james's cemetery. in the midst of the populous and bustling city, is a chasm among the black rocks, with a narrow green level at the bottom. it is overlooked by a little chapel. you enter it by an arched passage cut through the living rock, which brings you by a steep descent to the narrow level of which i have spoken, where you find yourself among graves set with flowers and half concealed by shrubbery, while along the rocky sides of the hollow in which you stand, you see tombs or blank arches for tombs which are yet to be excavated. we found the thickets within and around this valley of the dead, musical with innumerable birds, which build here undisturbed. among the monuments is one erected to huskisson, a mausoleum with a glass door through which you see his statue from the chisel of gibson. on returning by the passage through the rock, we found preparations making for a funeral service in the chapel, which we entered. four men came staggering in under the weight of a huge coffin, accompanied by a clergyman of imposing stature, white hair, and florid complexion. four other coffins were soon after brought in and placed in the church, attended by another clergyman of less pre-possessing appearance, who, to my disappointment, read the service. he did it in the most detestable manner, with much grimace, and with the addition of a supernumerary syllable after almost every word ending with a consonant. the clerk delivered the responses in such a mumbling tone, and with so much of the lancashire dialect, as to be almost unintelligible. the other clergyman looked, i thought, as if, like myself, he was sorry to hear the beautiful funeral service of his church so profaned. in a drive which we took into the country, we had occasion to admire the much talked of verdure and ornamental cultivation of england. green hedges, rich fields of grass sprinkled with flowers, beautiful residences, were on every side, and the wheels of our carriage rolled over the smoothest roads in the world. the lawns before the houses are kept smoothly shaven, and carefully leveled by the roller. at one of these english houses, to which i was admitted by the hospitality of its opulent owner, i admired the variety of shrubs in full flower, which here grow in the open air, rhododendrons of various species, flushed with bloom, azaleas of different hues, one of which i recognized as american, and others of various families and names. in a neighboring field stood a plot of rye-grass two feet in height, notwithstanding the season was yet so early; and a part of it had been already mown for the food of cattle. yet the people here complain of their climate. "you must get thick shoes and wrap yourself in flannel," said one of them to me. "the english climate makes us subject to frequent and severe colds, and here in lancashire you have the worst climate of england, perpetually damp, with strong and chilly winds." it is true that i have found the climate miserably chilly since i landed, but i am told the season is a late one. the apple-trees are just in bloom, though there are but few of them to be seen, and the blossoms of the hawthorn are only just beginning to open. the foliage of some of the trees, rich as it is, bears the appearance in some places of having felt the late frosts, and certain kinds of trees are not yet in leaf. among the ornaments of liverpool is the new park called prince's park, which a wealthy individual, mr. robert yates, has purchased and laid out with a view of making it a place for private residences. it has a pretty little lake, plantations of trees and shrubs which have just began to strike root, pleasant nooks and hollows, eminences which command extensive views, and the whole is traversed with roads which are never allowed to proceed from place to place in a straight line. the trees are too newly planted to allow me to call the place beautiful, but within a few years it will be eminently so. i have followed the usual practice of travellers in visiting the ancient town of chester, one of the old walled towns of england, distant about fifteen miles from liverpool--rambled through the long galleries open to the street, above the ground-story of the houses, entered its crumbling old churches of red freestone, one of which is the church of st. john, of norman architecture, with round arches and low massive pillars, and looked at the grotesque old carvings representing events in scripture history which ornament some of the houses in watergate-street. the walls are said to have been erected as early as the time of william the conqueror, and here and there are towers rising above them. they are still kept in repair and afford a walk from which you enjoy a prospect of the surrounding country; but no ancient monument is allowed to stand in the way of modern improvements as they are called, and i found workmen at one corner tumbling down the stones and digging up the foundation to let in a railway. the river dee winds pleasantly at the foot of the city walls. i was amused by an instance of the english fondness for hedges which i saw here. in a large green field a hawthorn hedge was planted, all along the city wall, as if merely for the purpose of hiding the hewn stone with a screen of verdure. yesterday we took the railway for manchester. the arrangements for railway travelling in this country are much more perfect than with us. the cars of the first class are fitted up in the most sumptuous manner, cushioned at the back and sides, with a resting-place for your elbows, so that you sit in what is equivalent to the most luxurious armchair. some of the cars intended for night travelling are so contrived that the seat can be turned into a kind of bed. the arrangement of springs and other contrivances to prevent shocks, and to secure an equable motion, are admirable and perfectly effectual. in one hour we had passed over the thirty-one miles which separate manchester from liverpool; shooting rapidly over chat moss, a black blot in the green landscape, overgrown with heath, which, at this season of the year, has an almost sooty hue, crossing bridge after bridge of the most solid and elegant construction, and finally entered manchester by a viaduct, built on massive arches, at a level with the roofs of the houses and churches. huge chimneys surrounded us on every side, towering above the house-tops and the viaduct, and vomiting smoke like a hundred volcanoes. we descended and entered market-street, broad and well-built, and in one of the narrowest streets leading into it, we were taken to our comfortable hotel. at manchester we walked through the different rooms of a large calico-printing establishment. in one were strong-bodied men standing over huge caldrons ranged along a furnace, preparing and stirring up the colors; in another were the red-hot cylinders that singe the down from the cloth before it is stamped; in another the machines that stamp the colors and the heated rollers that dry the fabric after it is stamped. one of the machines which we were shown applies three different colors by a single operation. in another part of the establishment was the apparatus for steaming the calicoes to fasten the colors; huge hollow iron wheels into which and out of which the water was continually running and revolving in another part to wash the superfluous dye from the stamped cloths; the operation of drying and pressing them came next and in a large room, a group of young women, noisy, drab-like, and dirty, were engaged in measuring and folding them. this morning we take the coach for the peak of derbyshire. letter xix. edale in derbyshire. derby, england, _june_ , . i have passed a few pleasant days in derbyshire, the chronicle of which i will give you. on the morning of the th of may, we took places at manchester in the stage-coach for chapel-en-le-frith. we waited for some time before the door of the three angels in market-street, the finest street in manchester, broad and well-built, while the porters were busy in fastening to the vehicle the huge loads of luggage with which the english commonly travel. as i looked on the passers by, i was again struck with what i had observed almost immediately on entering the town--the portly figures and florid complexions of some, and the very diminutive stature and sallow countenances of others. among the crowds about the coach, was a ruddy round-faced man in a box-coat and a huge woollen cravat, walking about and occasionally giving a look at the porters, whom we took to be the coachman, so well did his appearance agree with the description usually given of that class. we were not mistaken, for in a short time we saw him buttoning his coat, and deliberately disentangling the lash from the handle of a long coach whip. we took our seats with him on the outside of the coach, and were rolled along smoothly through a level country of farms and hedge-rows, and fields yellow with buttercups, until at the distance of seven miles we reached stockport, another populous manufacturing town lying in the smoke of its tall chimneys. at nearly the same distance beyond stockport, the country began to swell into hills, divided by brooks and valleys, and the hedge-rows gave place to stone fences, which seamed the green region, bare of trees in every direction, separating it into innumerable little inclosures. a few miles further, brought us into that part of derbyshire which is called the peak, where the hills become mountains. among our fellow-passengers, was a powerfully made man, who had the appearance of being a commercial traveller, and was very communicative on the subject of the peak, its caverns, its mines, and the old ruined castle of the peverils, built, it is said, by one of the norman invaders of england. he spoke in the derbyshire dialect, with a strong provincial accent. when he was asked whether the castle was not the one spoken of by scott, in his peveril of the peak, he replied, "scott? scott? i dunna know him." chapel-en-le-frith is a manufacturing village at the bottom of a narrow valley, clean-looking, but closely built upon narrow lanes; the houses are of stone, and have the same color as the highway. we were set down, with our derbyshire friend, at the prince's arms, kept by john clark, a jolly-looking man in knee-breeches, who claimed our fellow passenger as an old acquaintance. "i were at school with him," said he; "we are both peakerels." john clark, however, was the more learned man of the two, he knew something of walter scott; in the days when he was a coachman, he had driven the coach that brought him to the peak, and knew that the ruined castle in the neighborhood was once the abode of scott's peveril of the peak. we procured here an odd vehicle called a car, with seats on the sides where the passengers sit facing each other, as in an omnibus, to take us to edale, one of the valleys of derbyshire. our new acquaintance, who was about to proceed on foot to one of the neighboring villages, was persuaded to take a seat with us as far as his road was the same with ours. we climbed out of the valley up the bare green hills, and here our driver, who was from cheshire, and whose mode of speaking english made him unintelligible to us, pointed to a house on a distant road, and made an attempt to communicate something which he appeared to think interesting. our derbyshire friend translated him. "the water," said he, "that fall on one side of the roof of that 'ouse go into the 'umber, and the water that fall on the other side go into the mersey. last winter that 'ouse were covered owre wi' snow, and they made a _h_archway to go in and out. we 'ad a _h_eighteen month's storm last winter." by an "eighteen month's storm" we learned, on inquiry, that he meant eighteen weeks of continued cold weather, the last winter having been remarkable for its severity. our kind interpreter now left us, and took his way across the fields, down a path which led through a chasm between high tower-like rocks, called the winnets, which etymoloists say is a corruption of windgates, a name given to this mountain-pass from the currents of air which are always blowing through it. turning out of the main road, we began to ascend a steep green declivity. to the right of us rose a peaked summit, the name of which our driver told us was mam tor. we left the vehicle and climbed to its top, where a wide and beautiful prospect was out-spread before us. to the north lay edale, a deep and almost circular valley, surrounded by a wavy outline of pastoral hills, bare of trees, but clothed in living green to their summits, except on the northern side of the valley, where, half-way down, they were black with a thick growth of heath. at the bottom of the valley winded a little stream, with a fringe of trees, some of which on account of the lateness of the season were not yet in leaf, and near this stream were scattered, for the most part, the habitations. in another direction lay the valley of hopedale, with its two villages, hope and castleton, its ancient castle of the peverils seated on a rock over the entrance of the peak cavern, and its lead mines worked ever since the time of the saxons, the odin mines as they are called, the white cinders of which lay in heaps at their entrance. we left the driver to take our baggage to its destination, and pursued our way across the fields. descending a little distance from the summit, we came upon what appeared to be an ancient trench, thickly overgrown with grass, which seemed to encircle the upper part of the hill. it was a roman circumvallation. the grass was gemmed with wild pansies, yellow, "freaked with jet," and fragrant, some of which we gathered for a memorial of the spot. in descending to the valley, we came upon a little rivulet among hazels and hollies and young oaks, as wild and merry as a mountain brook of our own country. cowslips and wild hyacinths were in flower upon its banks, and blue violets as scentless as our own. we followed it until it fell into the larger stream, when we crossed a bridge and arrived at a white house, among trees just putting out their leaves with plots of flowers in the lawn before it. here we received a cordial welcome from a hospitable and warmhearted scotchman. after dinner our host took us up the side of the mountain which forms the northern barrier of edale. we walked through a wretched little village, consisting of low cottages built of stone, one or two of which were alehouses; passed the parsonage, pleasantly situated on the edge of a little brook, and then the parson himself, a young man just from cambridge, who was occupied in sketching one of the picturesque points in the scenery about his new habitation. a few minutes active climbing brought us among the heath, formming a thick elastic carpet under our feet, on which we were glad to seat ourselves for a moment's rest. we heard the cuckoo upon every side, and when we rose to pursue our walk we frequently startled the moor-fowl, singly or in flocks. the time allowed by the game laws for shooting them had not yet arrived, but in the mean time they had been unmercifully hunted by the hawks, for we often found the remains of such as had been slain by these winged sportsmen, lying in our path as we ascended. we found on the top of the hill, a level of several rods in width, covered to a considerable depth with peat, the produce of the decayed roots of the heath, which has sprung and perished for centuries. it was now soft with the abundant rains which had fallen, and seamed with deep muddy cracks, over which we made our way with difficulty. at length we came to a spot from which we could look down into another valley. "that," said our host, "is the woodlands." we looked and saw a green hollow among the hills like edale, but still more bare of trees, though like edale it had its little stream at the bottom. the next day we crossed the mam tor a second time, on a visit to the derbyshire mines. on our way, i heard the lark for the first time. the little bird, so frequently named in english poetry, rose singing from the grass almost perpendicularly, until nearly lost to the sight in the clouds, floated away, first in one direction, then in another, descended towards the earth, arose again, pouring forth a perpetual, uninterrupted stream of melody, until at length, after the space of somewhat more than a quarter of an hour, he reached the ground, and closed his flight and his song together. the caverns which contain the derbyshire spars of various kinds, have been the frequent theme of tourists, and it is hardly worth while to describe them for the thousandth time. imagine a fissure in the limestone rock, descending obliquely five hundred feet into the bowels of the earth, with a floor of fallen fragments of rock and sand; jagged walls, which seem as if they would fit closely into each other if they could be brought together, sheeted, in many places, with a glittering, calcareous deposit, and gradually approaching each other overhead--imagine this, and you will have an idea of the blue john mine, into which we descended. the fluor-spar taken from this mine is of a rich blue color, and is wrought into vases and cups, which were extremely beautiful. the entrance to the peak cavern, as it is called, is very grand. a black opening, of prodigious extent, yawns in the midst of a precipice nearly three hundred feet in height, and you proceed for several rods in this vast portico, before the cave begins to contract to narrower dimensions. at a little distance from this opening, a fine stream rushes rapidly from under the limestone, and flows through the village. above, and almost impending over the precipice, is the castle of the peverils, the walls of which, built of a kind of stone which retains the chisel marks made eight hundred years since, are almost entire, though the roof has long ago fallen in, and trees are growing in the corners. "here lived the english noblemen," said our friend, "when they were robbers--before they became gentlemen." the castle is three stories in height, and the space within its thick and strong walls is about twenty-five feet square. these would be thought narrow quarters by the present nobility, the race of gentlemen who have succeeded to the race of robbers. the next day we attended the parish church. the young clergyman gave us a discourse on the subject of the trinity, and a tolerably clever one, though it was only sixteen minutes long. the congregation were a healthy, though not a very intelligent looking set of men and women. the derbyshire people have a saying-- "darbyshire born, and darbyshire bred, strong o' the yarm and weak o' the yead." the latter line, translated into english, would be-- "strong of the arm, and weak of the head;" and i was assured that, like most proverbs, it had a good deal of truth in it. the laboring people of edale and its neighborhood, so far as i could learn, are not remarkable for good morals, and indifferent, or worse than indifferent, to the education of their children. they are, however, more fortunate in regard to the wages of their labor, than in many other agricultural districts. a manufactory for preparing cotton thread for the lace-makers, has been established in edale, and the women and girls of the place, who are employed in it, are paid from seven to eight shillings a week. the farm laborers receive from twelve to thirteen shillings a week, which is a third more than is paid to the same class in some other counties. the people of the peak, judging from the psalmody i heard at church, are not without an ear for music. "i was at a funeral, not long since," said our host, "a young man, born deaf and dumb, went mad and cut his throat. the people came from far and near to the burial. hot ale was handed about and drunk in silence, and a candle stood on the table, at which the company lighted their pipes. the only sound to be heard was the passionate sobbing of the father. at last the funeral service commenced, and the hymn being given out, they set it to a tune in the minor key, and i never heard any music performed in a manner more pathetic." on monday we left edale, and a beautiful drive we had along the banks of the derwent, woody and rocky, and wild enough in some places to be thought a river of our own country. of our visit to chatsworth, the seat of the duke of devonshire, one of the proudest of the modern english nobility, and to haddon hall, the finest specimen remaining of the residences of their ancestors, i will say nothing, for these have already been described till people are tired of reading them. we passed the night at matlock in sight of the rock called the high tor. in the hot season it swarms with cockneys, and to gratify their taste, the place, beautiful as it is with precipices and woods, has been spoiled by mock ruins and fantastic names. there is a piece of scene-painting, for example, placed conspicuously among the trees on the hill-side, representing an ancient tower, and another representing an old church. one place of retreat is called the romantic rocks, and another the lover's walk. to-day we arrived at derby, and hastened to see its arboretum. this is an inclosure of eleven acres, given by the late mr. josiah strutt to the town, and beautifully laid out by london, author of the work on rural architecture. it is planted with every kind of tree and shrub which will grow in the open air of this climate, and opened to the public for a perpetual place of resort. shall we never see an example of the like munificence in new york? letter xx. works of art. london, _june_ , . i have now been in london a fortnight. of course you will not expect me to give you what you will find in the guide-books and the "pictures of london." the town is yet talking of a statue of a greek slave, by our countryman powers, which was to be seen a few days since at a print-shop in pall mall. i went to look at it. the statue represents a greek girl exposed naked for sale in the slave-market. her hands are fettered, the drapery of her nation lies at her feet, and she is shrinking from the public gaze. i looked at it with surprise and delight; i was dazzled with the soft fullness of the outlines, the grace of the attitude, the noble, yet sad expression of the countenance, and the exquisite perfection of the workmanship. i could not help acknowledging a certain literal truth in the expression of byron, concerning a beautiful statue, that it "----fills the air around with beauty." it has fixed the reputation of powers, and made his fortune. the possessor of the statue, a mr. grant, has refused to dispose of it, except to a public institution. the value which is set upon it, may be inferred from this circumstance, that one of the richest noblemen in england told the person who had charge of the statue, that if mr. grant would accept two thousand pounds sterling for it, he should be glad to send him a check for the amount. some whispers of criticism have been uttered, but they appear to have been drowned and silenced in the general voice of involuntary admiration. i hear that since the exhibition of the statue, orders have been sent to powers from england, for works of sculpture which will keep him employed for years to come. the exhibition of paintings by the royal academy is now open. i see nothing in it to astonish one who has visited the exhibitions of our academy of the arts of design in new york, except that some of the worst pictures were hung in the most conspicuous places. this is the case with four or five pictures by turner--a great artist, and a man of genius, but who paints very strangely of late years. to my unlearned eyes, they were mere blotches of white paint, with streaks of yellow and red, and without any intelligible design. to use a phrase very common in england, they are the most extraordinary pictures i ever saw. haydon also has spoiled several yards of good canvas with a most hideous picture of uriel and satan, and to this is assigned one of the very best places in the collection. there is more uniformity of style and coloring than with us; more appearance of an attempt to conform to a certain general model, so that of course there are fewer unpleasant contrasts of manner: but this is no advantage, inasmuch as it prevents the artist from seeking to attain excellence in the way for which he is best fitted. the number of paintings is far greater than in our exhibitions; but the proportion of good ones is really far smaller. there are some extremely clever things by webster, who appears to be a favorite with the public; some fine miniatures by thorburn, a young scotch artist who has suddenly become eminent, and several beautiful landscapes by stanfield, an artist of high promise. we observed in the catalogue, the names of three or four of our american artists; but on looking for their works, we found them all hung so high as to be out of sight, except one, and that was in what is called the condemned room, where only a glimmer of light enters, and where the hanging committee are in the practice of thrusting any such pictures as they can not help exhibiting, but wish to keep in the dark. my english friends apologize for the wretchedness of the collection, its rows of indifferent portraits and its multitude of feeble imitations in historical and landscape painting, by saying that the more eminent artists are preparing themselves to paint the walls and ceilings of the new houses of parliament in fresco. the pinnacles and turrets of that vast and magnificent structure, built of a cream-colored stone, and florid with gothic tracery, copied from the ancient chapel of st. stephen, the greater part of which was not long ago destroyed by fire, are rising from day to day above the city roofs. we walked through its broad and long passages and looked into its unfinished halls, swarming with stone-cutters and masons, and thought that if half of them were to be painted in fresco, the best artists of england have the work of years before them. with the exhibition of drawings in water-colors, which is a separate affair from the paintings in oil, i was much better pleased. the late improvement in this branch of art, is, i believe, entirely due to english artists. they have given to their drawings of this class a richness, a force of effect, a depth of shadow and strength of light, and a truth of representation which astonishes those who are accustomed only to the meagreness and tenuity of the old manner. i have hardly seen any landscapes which exceeded, in the perfectness of the illusion, one or two which i saw in the collection i visited, and i could hardly persuade myself that a flower-piece on which i looked, representing a bunch of hollyhocks, was not the real thing after all, so crisp were the leaves, so juicy the stalks, and with such skillful relief was flower heaped upon flower and leaf upon leaf. letter xxi the parks of london.--the police. london, _june_ , . nothing can be more striking to one who is accustomed to the little inclosures called public parks in our american cities, than the spacious, open grounds of london. i doubt, in fact, whether any person fully comprehends their extent, from any of the ordinary descriptions of them, until he has seen them or tried to walk over them. you begin at the east end of st. james's park, and proceed along its graveled walks, and its colonnades of old trees, among its thickets of ornamental shrubs carefully inclosed, its grass-plots maintained in perpetual freshness and verdure by the moist climate and the ever-dropping skies, its artificial sheets of water covered with aquatic birds of the most beautiful species, until you begin almost to wonder whether the park has a western extremity. you reach it at last, and proceed between the green fields of constitution hill, when you find yourself at the corner of hyde park, a much more spacious pleasure-ground. you proceed westward in hyde park until you are weary, when you find yourself on the verge of kensington gardens, a vast extent of ancient woods and intervening lawns, to which the eye sees no limit, and in whose walks it seems as if the whole population of london might lose itself. north of hyde park, after passing a few streets, you reach the great square of regent's park, where, as you stand at one boundary the other is almost undistinguishable in the dull london atmosphere. north of this park rises primrose hill, a bare, grassy eminence, which i hear has been purchased for a public ground and will be planted with trees. all round these immense inclosures, presses the densest population of the civilized world. within, such is their extent, is a fresh and pure atmosphere, and the odors of plants and flowers, and the twittering of innumerable birds more musical than those of our own woods, which build and rear their young here, and the hum of insects in the sunshine. without are close and crowded streets, swarming with foot-passengers, and choked with drays and carriages. these parks have been called the lungs of london, and so important are they regarded to the public health and the happiness of the people, that i believe a proposal to dispense with some part of their extent, and cover it with streets and houses, would be regarded in much the same manner as a proposal to hang every tenth man in london. they will probably remain public grounds as long as london has an existence. the population of your city, increasing with such prodigious rapidity; your sultry summers, and the corrupt atmosphere generated in hot and crowded streets, make it a cause of regret that in laying out new york, no preparation was made, while it was yet practicable, for a range of parks and public gardens along the central part of the island or elsewhere, to remain perpetually for the refreshment and recreation of the citizens during the torrid heats of the warm season. there are yet unoccupied lands on the island which might, i suppose, be procured for the purpose, and which, on account of their rocky and uneven surface, might be laid out into surpassingly beautiful pleasure-grounds; but while we are discussing the subject the advancing population of the city is sweeping over them and covering them from our reach. if we go out of the parks into the streets we find the causes of a corrupt atmosphere much more carefully removed than with us. the streets of london are always clean. every day, early in the morning, they are swept; and some of them, i believe, at other hours also, by a machine drawn by one of the powerful dray-horses of this country. whenever an unusually large and fine horse of this breed is produced in the country, he is sent to the london market, and remarkable animals they are, of a height and stature almost elephantine, large-limbed, slow-paced, shaggy-footed, sweeping the ground with their fetlocks, each huge foot armed with a shoe weighing from five to six pounds. one of these strong creatures is harnessed to a street-cleaning machine, which consists of brushes turning over a cylinder and sweeping the dust of the streets into a kind of box. whether it be wet or dry dust, or mud, the work is thoroughly performed; it is all drawn into the receptacle provided for it, and the huge horse stalks backward and forward along the street until it is almost as clean as a drawing-room. i called the other day on a friend, an american, who told me that he had that morning spoken with his landlady about her carelessness in leaving the shutters of her lower rooms unclosed during the night. she answered that she never took the trouble to close them, that so secure was the city from ordinary burglaries, under the arrangements of the new police, that it was not worth the trouble. the windows of the parlor next to my sleeping-room open upon a rather low balcony over the street door, and they are unprovided with any fastenings, which in new york we should think a great piece of negligence. indeed, i am told that these night robberies are no longer practiced, except when the thief is assisted by an accessary in the house. all classes of the people appear to be satisfied with the new police. the officers are men of respectable appearance and respectable manners. if i lose my way, or stand in need of any local information, i apply to a person in the uniform of a police officer. they are sometimes more stupid in regard to these matters than there is any occasion for, but it is one of the duties of their office to assist strangers with local information. begging is repressed by the new police regulations, and want skulks in holes and corners, and prefers its petitions where it can not be overheard by men armed with the authority of the law. "there is a great deal of famine in london," said a friend to me the other day, "but the police regulations drive it out of sight." i was going through oxford-street lately, when i saw an elderly man of small stature, poorly dressed, with a mahogany complexion, walking slowly before me. as i passed him he said in my ear, with a hollow voice, "i am starving to death with hunger," and these words and that hollow voice sounded in my ear all day. walking in hampstead heath a day or two since, with an english friend, we were accosted by two laborers, who were sitting on a bank, and who said that they had came to that neighborhood in search of employment in hay-making, but had not been able to get either work or food. my friend appeared to distrust their story. but in the evening, as we were walking home, we passed a company of some four or five laborers in frocks, with bludgeons in their hands, who asked us for something to eat. "you see how it is, gentlemen," said one of them, "we are hungry; we have come for work, and nobody will hire us; we have had nothing to eat all day." their tone was dissatisfied, almost menacing; and the englishman who was with us, referred to it several times afterward, with an expression of anxiety and alarm. i hear it often remarked here, that the difference of condition between the poorer and the richer classes becomes greater every day, and what the end will be the wisest pretend not to foresee. letter xxii. edinburgh. edinburgh, _july_ , . i had been often told, since i arrived in england, that in edinburgh, i should see the finest city i ever saw. i confess that i did not feel quite sure of this, but it required scarcely more than a single look to show me that it was perfectly true. it is hardly possible to imagine a nobler site for a town than that of edinburgh, and it is built as nobly. you stand on the edge of the deep gulf which separates the old and the new town, and before you on the opposite bank rise the picturesque buildings of the ancient city-- "piled deep and massy, close and high," looking, in their venerable and enduring aspect, as if they were parts of the steep bank on which they stand, an original growth of the rocks; as if, when the vast beds of stone crystallized from the waters, or cooled from their fusion by fire, they formed themselves by some freak of nature into this fantastic resemblance of the habitations of men. to the right your eyes rest upon a crag crowned with a grand old castle of the middle ages, on which guards are marching to and fro; and near you to the left, rises the rocky summit of carlton hill, with its monuments of the great men of scotland. behind you stretch the broad streets of the new town, overlooked by massive structures, built of the stone of the edinburgh quarries, which have the look of palaces. "streets of palaces and walks of slate," form the new town. not a house of brick or wood exists in edinburgh; all are constructed of the excellent and lasting stone which the earth supplies almost close to their foundations. high and solid bridges of this material, with broad arches, connect the old town with the new, and cross the deep ravine of the cowgate in the old town, at the bottom of which you see a street between prodigiously high buildings, swarming with the poorer population of edinburgh. from almost any of the eminences of the town you see spread below you its magnificent bay, the frith of forth, with its rocky islands; and close to the old town rise the lofty summits of arthur's seat and salisbury crag, a solitary, silent, mountainous district, without habitations or inclosures, grazed by flocks of sheep. to the west flows leith-water in its deep valley, spanned by a noble bridge, and the winds of this chilly climate that strike the stately buildings of the new town, along the cliffs that border this glen, come from the very clouds. beyond the frith lie the hills of fifeshire; a glimpse of the blue grampian ridges is seen where the frith contracts in the northwest to a narrow channel, and to the southwest lie the pentland hills, whose springs supply edinburgh with water. all around you are places the names of which are familiar names of history, poetry, and romance. from this magnificence of nature and art, the transition was painful to what i saw of the poorer population. on saturday evening i found myself at the market, which is then held in high-street and the netherbow, just as you enter the canongate, and where the old wooden effigy of john knox, with staring black eyes, freshly painted every year, stands in its pulpit, and still seems preaching to the crowd. hither a throng of sickly-looking, dirty people, bringing with them their unhealthy children, had crawled from the narrow wynds or alleys on each side of the street. we entered several of these wynds, and passed down one of them, between houses of vast height, story piled upon story, till we came to the deep hollow of the cowgate. children were swarming in the way, all of them, bred in that close and impure atmosphere, of a sickly appearance, and the aspect of premature age in some of them, which were carried in arms, was absolutely frightful. "here is misery," said a scotch gentleman, who was my conductor. i asked him how large a proportion of the people of edinbugh belonged to that wretched and squalid class which i saw before me. "more than half," was his reply. i will not vouch for the accuracy of his statistics. of course his estimate was but a conjecture. in the midst of this population is a house of refuge for the destitute, established by charitable individuals for the relief of those who may be found in a state of absolute destitution of the necessaries of life. here they are employed in menial services, lodged and fed until they can be sent to their friends, or employment found for them. we went over the building, a spacious structure, in the canongate, of the plainest puritan architecture, with wide low rooms, which, at the time of the union of scotland with england, served as the mansion of the duke of queensbury. the accommodations of course are of the humblest kind. we were shown into the sewing-room, were we saw several healthy-looking young women at work, some of them barefooted. such of the inmates as can afford it, pay for their board from three and sixpence to five shillings a week, besides their labor. in this part of the city also are the night asylums for the houseless. here, those who find themselves without a shelter for the night, are received into an antechamber, provided with benches, where they first get a bowl of soup, and are then introduced into a bathing-room, where they are stripped and scoured. they are next furnished with clean garments and accommodated with a lodging on an inclined plane of planks, a little raised from the floor, and divided into proper compartments by strips of board. their own clothes are, in the mean time, washed, and returned to them when they leave the place. it was a very different spectacle from the crowd in the saturday evening market, that met my eyes the next morning in the clean and beautiful streets of the new town; the throng of well-dressed church-goers passing each other in all directions. the women, it appeared to me, were rather gaily dressed, and a large number of them prettier than i had seen in some of the more southern cities. i attended worship in one of the free churches, as they are called, in which dr. candlish officiates. in the course of his sermon, he read long portions of an address from the general assembly of the free church of scotland, appointing the following thursday as a day of fasting and prayer, on account of the peculiar circumstances of the time, and more especially the dangers flowing from the influence of popery, alluding to the grant of money lately made by parliament to the roman catholic college at maynooth. the address proposed no definite opposition, but protested against the measure in general, and, as it seemed to me, rather vague terms. in the course of the address the title of national church was claimed for the free church, notwithstanding its separation from the government, and the era of that separation was referred to in phrases similar to those in which we speak of our own declaration of national independence. there were one or two allusions to the persecutions which the free church had suffered, and something was said about her children being hunted like partridges upon the mountains; but it is clear that if her ministers have been hunted, they have been hunted into fine churches; and if persecuted, they have been persecuted into comfortable livings. this free church, as far as i can learn, is extremely prosperous. dr. candlish is a fervid preacher, and his church was crowded. in the afternoon i attended at one of the churches of the established or endowed presbyterian church, where a quiet kind of a preacher held forth, and the congregation was thin. this maynooth grant has occasioned great dissatisfaction in england and scotland. if the question had been left to be decided by the public opinion of these parts of the kingdom, the grant would never have been made. an immense majority, of all classes and almost all denominations, disapprove of it. a dissenting clergyman of one of the evangelical persuasions, as they are called, said to me--"the dissenters claim nothing from the government; they hold that it is not the business of the state to interfere in religious matters, and they object to bestowing the public money upon the seminaries of any religious denomination." in a conversation which i had with an eminent man of letters, and a warm friend of the english church, he said: "the government is giving offense to many who have hitherto been its firmest supporters. there was no necessity for the maynooth grant; the catholics would have been as well satisfied without it as they are with it; for you see they are already clamoring for the right to appoint through their bishops the professors in the new irish colleges. the catholics were already establishing their schools, and building their churches with their own means: and this act of applying the money of the nation to the education of their priests is a gratuitous offense offered by the government to its best friends." in a sermon which i heard from the dean of york, in the magnificent old minster of that city, he commended the liberality of the motives which had induced the government to make the grant, but spoke of the measure as one which the friends of the english church viewed with apprehension and anxiety. "they may dismiss their fears," said a shrewd friend of mine, with whom i was discussing the subject. "endowments are a cause of lukewarmness and weakness. our presbyterian friends here, instead of protesting so vehemently against what sir robert peel has done, should thank him for endowing the catholic church, for in doing it he has deprived it of some part of its hold upon the minds of men." there is much truth, doubtless, in this remark. the support of religion to be effectual should depend upon individual zeal. the history of the endowed chapels of dissenting denominations in england is a curious example of this. congregations have fallen away and come to nothing, and it is a general remark that nothing is so fatal to a sect as a liberal endowment, which provides for the celebration of public worship without individual contributions. letter xxiii. the scottish lakes. glasgow, _july_ , . i must not leave scotland without writing you another letter. on the th of this month i embarked at newhaven, in the environs of edinburgh, on board the little steamer prince albert, for stirling. on our way we saw several samples of the newhaven fishwives, a peculiar race, distinguished by a costume of their own; fresh-colored women, who walk the streets of edinburgh with a large wicker-basket on their shoulders, a short blue cloak of coarse cloth under the basket, short blue petticoats, thick blue stockings, and a white cap. i was told that they were the descendants of a little flemish colony, which long ago settled at newhaven, and that they are celebrated for the readiness and point of their jokes, which, like those of their sisters of billingsgate, are not always of the most delicate kind. several of these have been related to me, but on running them over in my mind, i find, to my dismay, that none of them will look well on paper. the wit of the newhaven fishwives seems to me, however, like that of our western boatmen, to consist mainly in the ready application of quaint sayings already current among themselves. it was a wet day, with occasional showers, and sometimes a sprinkling of scotch mist. i tried the cabin, but the air was too close. the steamboats in this country have but one deck, and that deck has no shelter, so i was content to stand in the rain for the sake of the air and scenery. after passing an island or two, the frith, which forms the bay of edinburgh, contracts into the river forth. we swept by country seats, one of which was pointed out as the residence of the late dugald stewart, and another that of the earl of elgin, the plunderer of the parthenon; and castles, towers, and churches, some of them in ruins ever since the time of john knox, and hills half seen in the fog, until we came opposite to the ochil mountains, whose grand rocky buttresses advanced from the haze almost to the river. here, in the windings of the forth, our steamer went many times backward and forward, first towards the mountains and then towards the level country to the south, in almost parallel courses, like the track of a ploughman in a field. at length we passed a ruined tower and some fragments of massy wall which once formed a part of cambus kenneth abbey, seated on the rich lands of the forth, for the monks, in great britain at least, seem always to have chosen for the site of their monasteries, the banks of a stream which would supply them with trout and salmon for fridays. we were now in the presence of the rocky hills of stirling, with the town on its declivity, and the ancient castle, the residence of the former kings of scotland, on its summit. we went up through the little town to the castle, which is still kept in perfect order, and the ramparts of which frown as grimly over the surrounding country as they did centuries ago. no troops however are now stationed here; a few old gunners alone remain, and major somebody, i forget his name, takes his dinners in the banqueting-room and sleeps in the bed-chamber of the stuarts. i wish i could communicate the impression which this castle and the surrounding region made upon me, with its vestiges of power and magnificence, and its present silence and desertion. the passages to the dungeons where pined the victims of state, in the very building where the court held its revels, lie open, and the chapel in which princes and princesses were christened, and worshiped, and were crowned and wed, is turned into an armory. from its windows we were shown, within the inclosure of the castle, a green knoll, grazed by cattle, where the disloyal nobles of scotland were beheaded. close to the castle is a green field, intersected with paths, which we were told was the tilting-ground, or place of tournaments, and beside it rises a rock, where the ladies of the court sat to witness the combats, and which is still called the ladies' rock. at the foot of the hill, to the right of the castle, stretches what was once the royal park; it is shorn of its trees, part is converted into a race-course, part into a pasture for cows, and the old wall which marked its limits is fallen down. near it you see a cluster of grassy embankments of a curious form, circles and octagons and parallelograms, which bear the name of king james's knot, and once formed a part of the royal-gardens, where the sovereign used to divert himself with his courtiers. the cows now have the spot to themselves, and have made their own paths and alleys all over it. "yonder, to the southwest of the castle," said a sentinel who stood at the gate, "you see where a large field has been lately ploughed, and beyond it another, which looks very green. that green field is the spot where the battle of bannockburn was fought, and the armies of england were defeated by bruce." i looked, and so fresh and bright was the verdure, that it seemed to me as if the earth was still fertilized with the blood of those who fell in that desperate struggle for the crown of scotland. not far from this, the spot was shown us where wallace was defeated at the battle of falkirk. this region is now the scene of another and an unbloody warfare; the warfare between the free church and the government church. close to the church of the establishment, at the foot of the rock of stirling, the soldiers of the free church have erected their place of worship, and the sound of hammers from the unfinished interior could be heard almost up to the castle. we took places the same day in the coach for callander, in the highlands. in a short time we came into a country of hillocks and pastures brown and barren, half covered with ferns, the breckan of the scotch, where the broom flowered gaudily by the road-side, and harebells now in bloom, in little companies, were swinging, heavy with the rain, on their slender stems. crossing the teith we found ourselves in doune, a highland village, just before entering which we passed a throng of strapping lasses, who had just finished their daily task at a manufactory on the teith, and were returning to their homes. between doune and callander we passed the woods of cambus-more, full of broad beeches, which delight in the tenacious mountain soil of this district. this was the seat of a friend of the scott family, and here sir walter in his youth passed several summers, and became familiar with the scenes which he has so well described in his lady of the lake. at callander we halted for the night among a crowd of tourists, scotch, english, american, and german, more numerous than the inn at which we stopped could hold. i went out into the street to get a look at the place, but a genuine scotch mist covering me with water soon compelled me to return. i heard the people, a well-limbed brawny race of men, with red hair and beards, talking to each other in gaelic, and saw through the fogs only a glimpse of the sides of the mountains and crags which surrounded the village. the next morning was uncommonly bright and clear, and we set out early for the trosachs. we now saw that the village of callander lay under a dark crag, on the banks of the teith, winding pleasantly among its alders, and overlooked by the grand summit of benledi, which rises to the height of three thousand feet. a short time brought us to the stream "which, daughter of three mighty lakes, from vennachar in silver breaks," and we skirted the lake for nearly its whole length. loch vennachar lies between hills of comparatively gentle declivity, pastured by flocks, and tufted with patches of the prickly gorse and coarse ferns. on its north bank lies lanrick mead, a little grassy level where scott makes the tribe of clan alpine assemble at the command of roderick dhu. at a little distance from vennachar lies loch achray, which we reached by a road winding among shrubs and low trees, birches, and wild roses in blossom, with which the air was fragrant. crossing a little stone bridge, which our driver told us was the bridge of turk, we were on the edge of loch achray, a little sheet of water surrounded by wild rocky hills, with here and there an interval of level grassy margin, or a grove beside the water. turning from loch achray we reached an inn with a gaelic name, which i have forgotten how to spell, and which if i were to spell it, you could not pronounce. this was on the edge of the trosachs, and here we breakfasted. it is the fashion, i believe, for all tourists to pass through the trosachs on foot. the mob of travellers, with whom i found myself on the occasion--there were some twenty of them--did so, to a man; even the ladies, who made about a third of the number, walked. the distance to loch katrine is about a mile and a half, between lofty mountains, along a glen filled with masses of rock, which seem to have been shaken by some convulsion of nature from the high steeps on either side, and in whose shelves and crevices time had planted a thick wood of the birch and ash. but i will not describe the trosachs after walter scott. head what he says of them in the first canto of his poem. loch katrine, when we reached it, was crisped into little waves, by a fresh wind from the northwest, and a boat, with four brawny highlanders, was waiting to convey us to the head of the lake. we launched upon the dark deep water, between craggy and shrubby steeps, the summits of which rose on every side of us; and one of the rowers, an intelligent-looking man, took upon himself the task of pointing out to us the places mentioned by the poet. "there," said he, as we receded from the shore, "is the spot in the trosachs where fitz james lost his gallant gray." he then repeated, in a sort of recitation, dwelling strongly on the rhyme, the lines in the lady of the lake which relate that incident. "yonder is the island where douglass concealed his daughter. under that broad oak, whose boughs almost dip into the water, was the place where her skiff was moored. on that rock, covered with heath, fitz james stood and wound his bugle. near it, but out of sight, is the silver strand where the skiff received him on board." further on, he pointed out, on the south side of the lake, half way up among the rocks of the mountain, the place of the goblin cave, and still beyond it "the wild pass, where birches wave, of beal-a-nam-bo." on the north shore, the hills had a gentler slope, and on their skirts, which spread into something like a meadow, we saw a solitary dwelling. "in that," said he, "rob roy was born." in about two hours, our strong-armed rowers had brought us to the head of the lake. before we reached it, we saw the dark crest of ben lomond, loftier than any of the mountains around us, peering over the hills which formed the southern rampart of loch katrine. we landed, and proceeded--the men on foot and the women on ponies --through a wild craggy valley, overgrown with low shrubs, to inversnaid, on loch lomond, where a stream freshly swollen by rains tumbled down a pretty cascade into the lake. as we descended the steep bank, we saw a man and woman sitting on the grass weaving baskets; the woman, as we passed, stopped her work to beg; and the children, chubby and ruddy, came running after us with "please give me a penny to buy a scone." at iversnaid we embarked in a steamboat which took us to the northern extremity of the lake, where it narrows into a channel like a river. here we stopped to wait the arrival of a coach, and, in the mean time, the passengers had an hour to wander in the grassy valley of glenfalloch, closed in by high mountains. i heard the roar of mountain-streams, and passing northward, found myself in sight of two torrents, one from the east, and the other from the west side of the valley, throwing themselves, foaming and white, from precipice to precipice, till their waters, which were gathered in the summit of the mountains, reached the meadows, and stole through the grass to mingle with those of the lake. the coach at length arrived, and we were again taken on board the steamer, and conveyed the whole length of loch lomond to its southern extremity. we passed island after island, one of which showed among its thick trees the remains of a fortress, erected in the days of feudal warfare and robbery, and another was filled with deer. towards the southern end of the lake, the towering mountains, peak beyond peak, which overlook the lake, subside into hills, between which the stream called leven-water flows out through a rich and fertile valley. coaches were waiting at balloch, where we landed, to take us to dumbarton. near the lake we passed a magnificent park, in the midst of which stood a castle, a veritable castle, a spacious massive building of stone, with a tower and battlements, on which a flag was flying. "it belongs to a dry-goods merchant in glasgow," said the captain of the steamboat, who was in the coach with us; "and the flag is put up by his boys. the merchants are getting finer seats than the nobility." i am sorry to say that i have forgotten both the name of the merchant and that of his castle. he was, as i was told, a liberal, as well as an opulent man; had built a school-house in the neighborhood, and being of the free church party, was then engaged in building a church. near renton, on the banks of the leven, i saw a little neighborhood, embosomed in old trees. "there," said our captain, "smollet was born." a column has been erected to his memory in the town of renton, which we saw as we passed. the forked rock, on which stands dumbarton castle, was now in sight overlooking the clyde; we were whirled into the town, and in a few minutes were on board a steamer which, as evening set in, landed us at glasgow. i must reserve what i have to tell of glasgow and ayrshire for yet another letter. letter xxiv. glasgow.--ayr.--alloway. dublin, _july_ , . i promised another letter concerning scotland, but i had not time to write it until the irish channel lay between me and the scottish coast. when we reached glasgow on the th of july, the streets were swarming with people. i inquired the occasion, and was told that this was the annual fair. the artizans were all out with their families, and great numbers of country people were sauntering about. this fair was once, what its name imports, an annual market for the sale of merchandise; but it is now a mere holiday in which the principal sales, as it appeared to me, were of gingerbread and whisky. i strolled the next morning to the green, a spacious open ground that stretches along the clyde. one part of it was occupied with the booths and temporary theatres and wagons of showmen, around and among which a vast throng was assembled, who seemed to delight in being deafened with the cries of the showmen and the music of their instruments. in one place a band was playing, in another a gong was thundering, and from one of the balconies a fellow in regal robes and a pasteboard crown, surrounded by several persons of both sexes in tawdry stage-dresses, who seemed to have just got out of bed and were yawning and rubbing their eyes, was vociferating to the crowd in praise of the entertainment which was shortly to be offered them, while not far off the stentor of a rival company, under a flag which announced a new pantomime for a penny, was declaiming with equal vehemence. i made my way with difficulty through the crowd to the ancient street called the salt market, in which scott places the habitation of baillie jarvie. it was obstructed with little stalls, where toys and other inconsiderable articles were sold. here at the corner of one of the streets stands the old tower of the tolbooth where rob roy was confined, a solid piece of ancient architecture. the main building has been removed and a modern house supplies its place; the tower has been pierced below for a thoroughfare, and its clock still reports the time of day to the people of glasgow. the crowd through which i passed had that squalid appearance which marks extreme poverty and uncertain means of subsistence, and i was able to form some idea of the prodigious number of this class in a populous city of great britain like glasgow. for populous she is, and prosperous as a city, increasing with a rapidity almost equal to that of new york, and already she numbers, it is estimated, three hundred thousand inhabitants. of these it is said that full one-third are irish by birth or born of irish parents. the next day, which was sunday, before going to church, i walked towards the west part of the city; where the streets are broad and the houses extremely well-built, of the same noble material as the new town of edinburgh; and many of the dwellings have fine gardens. their sites in many places overlook the pleasant valley of the clyde, and i could not help acknowledging that glasgow was not without claim to the epithet of beautiful, which i should have denied her if i had formed my judgment from the commercial streets only. the people of glasgow also have shown their good sense in erecting the statues which adorn their public squares, only to men who have some just claim to distinction. here are no statues, for example, of the profligate charles ii., or the worthless duke of york, or the silly duke of cambridge, as you will see in other cities; but here the marble effigy of walter scott looks from a lofty column in the principal square, and not far from it is that of the inventor watt; while the statues erected to military men are to those who, like wellington, have acquired a just renown in arms. the streets were full of well-dressed persons going to church, the women for the most part, i must say, far from beautiful. i turned with the throng and followed it as far as st. enoch's church, in buchanan-street, where i heard a long discourse from a sensible preacher, dr. barr, a minister of the established kirk of scotland. in the afternoon i climbed one of the steep streets to the north of my hotel, and found three places of worship, built with considerable attention to architectural effect, and fresh, as it seemed, from the hands of the mason. they all, as i was told, belonged to the free kirk, which has lately been rent from the establishment, and threatens to leave it a mere shadow of a church, like the episcopal church in ireland. "nothing," said an intelligent glasgow friend of mine, "can exceed the zeal of the friends of the free church. one of our glasgow merchants has just given fifteen hundred pounds towards the fund for providing _manses_, or parsonages, for the ministers of that church, and i know of several who have subscribed a thousand. in all the colleges of scotland, the professors are obliged, by way of test, to declare their attachment to the presbyterian church as by law established. parliament has just refused to repeal this test, and the friends of the free church are determined to found a college of their own. twenty thousand pounds had already been subscribed before the government refused to dispense with this test, and the project will now be supported with more zeal than ever." i went into one of these free churches, and listened to a sermon from dr. lindsay, a comfortable-looking professor in some new theological school. it was quite common-place, though not so long as the scotch ministers are in the habit of giving; for excessive brevity is by no means their besetting infirmity. at the close of the exercises, he announced that a third service would be held in the evening. "the subject," continued he, "will be the thoughts and exercises of jonah in the whale's belly." in returning to my hotel, i passed by another new church, with an uncommonly beautiful steeple and elaborate carvings. i inquired its name; it was the new st. john's, and was another of the buildings of the free church. on monday we made an excursion to the birthplace of burns. the railway between glasgow and ayr took us through paisley, worthy of note as having produced our eminent ornithologist, alexander wilson, and along the banks of castle semple loch, full of swans, a beautiful sheet of water, sleeping among green fields which shelve gently to its edge. we passed by irvine, where burns learned the art of dressing flax, and traversing a sandy tract, close to the sea, were set down at ayr, near the new bridge. you recollect burns's dialogue between the "auld brig" of ayr and the new, in which the former predicted that vain as her rival might be of her new and fresh appearance, the time would shortly come when she would be as much dilapidated as herself. the prediction is fulfilled; the bridge has begun to give way, and workmen are busy in repairing its arches. we followed a pleasant road, sometimes agreeably shaded by trees, to alloway. as we went out of ayr we heard a great hammering and clicking of chisels, and looking to the right we saw workmen busy in building another of the free churches, with considerable elaborateness of architecture, in the early norman style. the day was very fine, the sun bright, and the sky above us perfectly clear; but, as is generally the case in this country with an east wind, the atmosphere was thick with a kind of dry haze which veils distant objects from the sight. the sea was to our right, but we could not discern where it ended and the horizon began, and the mountains of the island of arran and the lone and lofty rock of ailsa craig looked at first like faint shadows in the thick air, and were soon altogether undistinguishable. we came at length to the little old painted kirk of alloway, in the midst of a burying ground, roofless, but with gable-ends still standing, and its interior occupied by tombs. a solid upright marble slab, before the church, marks the place where william burns, the father of the poet, lies buried. a little distance beyond flows the doon under the old bridge crossed by tam o'shanter on the night of his adventure with the witches. this little stream well deserves the epithet of "bonnie," which burns has given it. its clear but dark current, flows rapidly between banks often shaded with ashes, alders, and other trees, and sometimes overhung by precipices of a reddish-colored rock. a little below the bridge it falls into the sea, but the tide comes not up to embitter its waters. from the west bank of the stream the land rises to hills of considerable height, with a heathy summit and wooded slopes, called brown carrick hill. two high cliffs near it impend over the sea, which are commonly called the heads of ayr, and not far from these stands a fragment of an ancient castle. i have sometimes wondered that born as burns was in the neighborhood of the sea, which i was told is often swelled into prodigious waves by the strong west winds that beat on this coast, he should yet have taken little if any of his poetic imagery from the ocean, either in its wilder or its gentler moods. but his occupations were among the fields, and his thoughts were of those who dwelt among them, and his imagination never wandered where his feelings went not. the monument erected to burns, near the bridge, is an ostentatious thing, with a gilt tripod on its summit. i was only interested to see some of the relics of burns which it contains, among which is the bible given by him to his highland mary. a road from the monument leads along the stream among the trees to a mill, at a little distance above the bridge, where the water passes under steep rocks, and i followed it. the wild rose and the woodbine were in full bloom in the hedges, and these to me were a better memorial of burns than any thing which the chisel could execute. a barefoot lassie came down the grassy bank among the trees with a pail, and after washing her feet in the swift current filled the pail and bore it again over the bank. we saw many visitors sauntering about the bridge or entering the monument; some of them seemed to be country people,--young men with their sisters and sweethearts, and others in white cravats with a certain sleekness of appearance i took to be of the profession of divinity. at the inn beside the doon, a young woman, with a face and head so round as almost to form a perfect globe, gave us a dish of excellent strawberries and cream, and we set off for the house in which burns was born. it is a clay-built cottage of the humblest class, and now serves, with the addition of two new rooms of a better architecture, for an ale-house. mrs. hastings, the landlady, showed us the register, in which we remarked that a very great number of the visitors had taken the pains to write themselves down as shoemakers. major burns, one of the sons of the poet, had lately visited the place with his two daughters and a younger brother, and they had inscribed their names in the book. we returned to ayr by a different road from that by which we went to alloway. the haymakers were at work in the fields, and the vegetation was everywhere in its highest luxuriance. you may smile at the idea, but i affirm that a potato field in great britain, at this season, is a prettier sight than a vineyard in italy. in this climate, the plant throws out an abundance of blossoms, pink and white, and just now the potato fields are as fine as so many flower gardens. we crossed the old bridge of ayr, which is yet in good preservation, though carriages are not allowed to pass over it. looking up the stream, we saw solitary slopes and groves on its left bank, and i fancied that i had in my eye the sequestered spot on the banks of the ayr, where burns and his highland mary held the meeting described in his letters, and parted to meet no more. letter xxv. ireland.--dublin. dublin, _july_ , . we left glasgow on the morning of the d, and taking the railway to ardrossan were soon at the beach. one of those iron steamers which navigate the british waters, far inferior to our own in commodious and comfortable arrangements, but strong and safe, received us on board, and at ten o'clock we were on our way to belfast. the coast of ayr, with the cliff near the birthplace of burns, continued long in sight; we passed near the mountains of arran, high and bare steeps swelling out of the sea, which had a look of almost complete solitude; and at length ailsa craig began faintly to show itself, high above the horizon, through the thick atmosphere. we passed this lonely rock, about which flocks of sea-birds, the solan goose, and the gannet, on long white wings with jetty tips, were continually wheeling, and with a glass we could discern them sitting by thousands on the shelves of the rock, where they breed. the upper part of ailsa, above the cliffs, which reach more than half-way to the summit, appears not to be destitute of soil, for it was tinged with a faint verdure. in about nine hours--we were promised by a lying advertisement it should be six--we had crossed the channel, over smooth water, and were making our way, between green shores almost without a tree, up the bay, at the bottom of which stands, or rather lies, for its site is low, the town of belfast. we had yet enough of daylight left to explore a part at least of the city. "it looks like albany," said my companion, and really the place bears some resemblance to the streets of albany which are situated near the river, nor is it without an appearance of commercial activity. the people of belfast, you know, are of scotch origin, with some infusion of the original race of ireland. i heard english spoken with a scotch accent, but i was obliged to own that the severity of the scottish physiognomy had been softened by the migration and the mingling of breeds. i presented one of my letters of introduction, and met with so cordial a reception, that i could not but regret the necessity of leaving belfast the next morning. at an early hour the next day we were in our seats on the outside of the mail-coach. we passed through a well-cultivated country, interspersed with towns which had an appearance of activity and thrift. the dwellings of the cottagers looked more comfortable than those of the same class in scotland, and we were struck with the good looks of the people, men and women, whom we passed in great numbers going to their work. at length, having traversed the county of down, we entered lowth, when an immediate change was visible. we were among wretched and dirty hovels, squalid-looking men and women, and ragged children--the stature of the people seemed dwarfed by the poverty in which they have so long lived, and the jet-black hair and broad faces which i saw around me, instead of the light hair and oval countenances so general a few miles back, showed me that i was among the pure celtic race. shortly after entering the county of lowth, and close on the confines of armagh, perhaps partly within it, we traversed, near the village of jonesborough, a valley full of the habitations of peat-diggers. its aspect was most remarkable, the barren hills that inclose it were dark with heath and gorse and with ledges of brown rock, and their lower declivities, as well as the level of the valley, black with peat, which had been cut from the ground and laid in rows. the men were at work with spades cutting it from the soil, and the women were pressing the water from the portions thus separated, and exposing it to the air to dry. their dwellings were of the most wretched kind, low windowless hovels, no higher than the heaps of peat, with swarms of dirty children around them. it is the property of peat earth to absorb a large quantity of water, and to part with it slowly. the springs, therefore, in a region abounding with peat make no brooks; the water passes into the spongy soil and remains there, forming morasses even on the slopes of the hills. as we passed out of this black valley we entered a kind of glen, and the guard, a man in a laced hat and scarlet coat, pointed to the left, and said, "there is a pretty place." it was a beautiful park along a hill-side, groves and lawns, a broad domain, jealously inclosed by a thick and high wall, beyond which we had, through the trees, a glimpse of a stately mansion. our guard was a genuine irishman, strongly resembling the late actor power in physiognomy, with the very brogue which power sometimes gave to his personages. he was a man of pithy speech, communicative, and acquainted apparently with every body, of every class, whom we passed on the road. besides him we had for fellow-passengers three very intelligent irishmen, on their way to dublin. one of them was a tall, handsome gentleman, with dark hair and hazel eyes, and a rich south-irish brogue. he was fond of his joke, but next to him sat a graver personage, in spectacles, equally tall, with fair hair and light-blue eyes, speaking with a decided scotch accent. by my side was a square-built, fresh-colored personage, who had travelled in america, and whose accent was almost english. i thought i could not be mistaken in supposing them to be samples of the three different races by which ireland is peopled. we now entered a fertile district, meadows heavy with grass, in which the haymakers were at work, and fields of wheat and barley as fine as i had ever seen, but the habitations of the peasantry had the same wretched look, and their inmates the same appearance of poverty. wherever the coach stopped we were beset with swarms of beggars, the wittiest beggars in the world, and the raggedest, except those of italy. one or two green mounds stood close to the road, and we saw others at a distance. "they are danish forts," said the guard. "every thing we do not know the history of, we put upon the danes," added the south of ireland man. these grassy mounds, which are from ten to twenty feet in height, are now supposed to have been the burial places of the ancient celts. the peasantry can with difficulty be persuaded to open any of them, on account of a prevalent superstition that it will bring bad luck. a little before we arrived at drogheda, i saw a tower to the right, apparently a hundred feet in height, with a doorway at a great distance from the ground, and a summit somewhat dilapidated. "that is one of the round towers of ireland, concerning which there is so much discussion," said my english-looking fellow-traveller. these round towers, as the dublin antiquarians tell me, were probably built by the early christian missionaries from italy, about the seventh century, and were used as places of retreat and defense against the pagans. not far from drogheda, i saw at a distance a quiet-looking valley. "that," said the english-looking passenger, "is the valley of the boyne, and in that spot was fought the famous battle of the boyne." "which the irish are fighting about yet, in america," added the south of ireland man. they pointed out near the spot, a cluster of trees on an eminence, where james beheld the defeat of his followers. we crossed the boyne, entered drogheda, dismounted among a crowd of beggars, took our places in the most elegant railway wagon we had ever seen, and in an hour were set down in dublin. i will not weary you with a description of dublin. scores of travellers have said that its public buildings are magnificent, and its rows of private houses, in many of the streets, are so many ranges of palaces. scores of travellers have said that if you pass out of these fine streets, into the ancient lanes of the city, you see mud-houses that scarcely afford a shelter, and are yet inhabited. "some of these," said a dublin acquaintance to me, "which are now roofless and no longer keep out the weather, yet show by their elaborate cornices and their elegant chimney-pieces, that the time has been, and that not very long since, when they were inhabited by the opulent class." he led me back of dublin castle to show me the house in which swift was born. it stands in a narrow, dirty lane called holy's court, close to the well-built part of the town: its windows are broken out, and its shutters falling to pieces, and the houses on each side are in the same condition, yet they are swarming with dirty and ragged inmates. i have seen no loftier nor more spacious dwellings than those which overlook st. stephen's green, a noble park, planted with trees, under which the showery sky and mild temperature maintain a verdure all the year, even in midwinter. about merrion square, another park, the houses have scarcely a less stately appearance, and one of these with a strong broad balcony, from which to address the people in the street, is inhabited by o'connell. the park of the university, in the midst of the city, is of great extent, and the beautiful public grounds called phenix park, have a circumference of eight miles. "do not suppose," said a friend to me, "that these spacious houses which you see about you, are always furnished with a magnificence corresponding to that of their exterior. it is often the case that a few rooms only of these great ranges of apartments are provided with furniture, and the rest left empty and unoccupied. the irishman of the higher class, as well as of the humbler, is naturally improvident, generous, fond of enjoying the moment, and does not allow his income to accumulate, either for the purpose of hoarding or the purpose of display." i went into conciliation hall, which resembles a new york lecture-room, and was shown the chair where the autocrat of ireland, the liberator, as they call him, sits near the chairman at the repeal meetings. conciliation hall was at that time silent, for o'connell was making a journey through several of the western counties, i think, of ireland, for the purpose of addressing and encouraging his followers. i inquired of an intelligent dissenter what was the state of the public feeling in ireland, with regard to the repeal question, and whether the popularity of o'connell was still as great as ever. "as to o'connell," he answered, "i do not know whether his influence is increasing, but i am certain that it is not declining. with regard to the question of repealing the union, there is a very strong leaning among intelligent men in ireland to the scheme of a federal government, in other words to the creation of an irish parliament for local legislation, leaving matters which concern ireland in common with the rest of the empire to be decided by the british parliament." i mentioned an extraordinary declaration which i had heard made by john o'connell on the floor of parliament, in answer to a speech of mr. wyse, an irish catholic member, who supported the new-colleges bill. this younger o'connell denounced wyse as no catholic, as an apostate from his religion, for supporting the bill, and declared that for himself, after the catholic bishops of ireland had expressed their disapproval of the bill, he inquired no further, but felt himself bound as a faithful member of the catholic church to oppose it. "it is that declaration," said the gentleman, "which has caused a panic among those of the irish protestants who were well-affected to the cause of repeal. if the union should be repealed, they fear that o'connell, whose devotion to the catholic church appears to grow stronger and stronger, and whose influence over the catholic population is almost without limit, will so direct the legislation of the irish parliament as only to change the religious oppression that exists from one party to the other. there is much greater liberality at present among the catholics than among their adversaries in ireland, but i can not say how much of it is owing to the oppression they endure. the fact that o'connell has been backward to assist in any church reforms in ireland has given occasion to the suspicion that he only desires to see the revenues and the legal authority of the episcopal church transferred to the catholic church. if that should happen, and if the principle avowed by john o'connell should be the rule of legislation, scarcely any body but a catholic will be able to live in ireland." mr. wall, to whom our country is indebted for the hudson river portfolio, and who resided in the united states for twenty-two years, is here, and is, i should think, quite successful in his profession. some of his later landscapes are superior to any of his productions that i remember. among them is a view on lough corrib, in which the ruined castle on the island of that lake is a conspicuous object. it is an oil painting, and is a work of great merit. the dublin art union made it their first purchase from the exhibition in which it appeared. mr. wall remembers america with much pleasure, and nothing can exceed his kindness to such of the americans as he meets in ireland. he took us to the exhibition of the royal hibernian society. among its pictures is a portrait of a lady by burton, in water-colors, most surprising for its perfection of execution and expression, its strength of coloring and absolute nature. burton is a native of dublin, and is but twenty-five years old. the irish connoisseurs claim for him the praise of being the first artist in water-colors in the world. he paints with the left hand. there are several other fine things by him in the exhibition. maclise, another irish artist, has a picture in the exhibition, representing a dramatic author offering his piece to an actor. the story is told in gil blas. it is a miracle of execution, though it has the fault of hardness and too equal a distribution of light. i have no time to speak more at large of this exhibition, and my letter is already too long. this afternoon we sail for liverpool. letter xxvi. the lunatic asylum at hanwell. london, _july_ , . since we came to england we have visited the lunatic asylum at hanwell, in the neighborhood of london. it is a large building, divided into numerous apartments, with the plainest accommodations, for the insane poor of the county of middlesex. it is superintended by dr. conolly, who is most admirably fitted for the place he fills, by his great humanity, sagacity, and ingenuity. i put these qualities together as necessary to each other. mere humanity, without tact and skill, would fail deplorably. the rude and coarse methods of government which consist in severity, are the most obvious ones; they suggest themselves to the dullest minds, and cost nothing but bodily strength to put them in execution; the gentler methods require reflection, knowledge, and dexterity. it is these which dr. conolly applies with perfect success. he has taken great pains to make himself acquainted, by personal observation, with the treatment of the insane in different hospitals, not only in england, but on the continent. he found that to be the most efficacious which interferes least with their personal liberty, and on this principle, the truth of which an experience of several years has now confirmed, he founded the system of treatment at hanwell. we had letters to dr. conolly, with the kindness and gentleness of whose manners we were much struck. he conducted us over the several wards of the asylum. we found in it a thousand persons of both sexes, not one of whom was in seclusion, that is to say confined because it was dangerous to allow him to go at large; nor were they subjected to any apparent restraint whatever. some were engaged in reading, some in exercises and games of skill; of the females some were occupied in sewing, others at work in the kitchen or the laundry; melancholic patients were walking about in silence or sitting gloomily by themselves; idiots were rocking their bodies backward and forward as they sat, but all were peaceable in their demeanor, and the greatest quiet prevailed. no chastisement of any kind is inflicted; the lunatic is always treated as a patient, and never as an offender. when he becomes so outrageous and violent that his presence can be endured no longer, he is put into a room with padded walls and floors where he can do himself no mischief, and where his rage is allowed to exhale. even the straight jacket is unknown here. i said that the demeanor of all the patients with whom the asylum was swarming was peaceable. there was one exception. on entering one of the wards, a girl of an earnest and determined aspect, as soon as she saw dr. conolly began to scream violently, and sprang towards him, thrusting aside the bystanders by main force. two of the female attendants came immediately up and strove to appease her, holding her back without severity, as a mother would restrain her infant. i saw them struggling with her for some time; how they finally disposed of her i did not observe, but her screams had ceased before we left the ward. among the patients was one who, we were told, was remarkable for his extravagant love of finery, and whose cell was plastered over with glaring colored prints and patches of colored paper ornamentally disposed. he wore on his hat a broad strip of tarnished lace, and had decorated his waistcoat with several perpendicular rows of pearl buttons. "you have made your room very fine here," said the doctor. "yes," said he, smiling and evidently delighted, "but, my dear sir, all is vanity--all is vanity, sir, and vexation of spirit. there is but one thing that we ought to strive for, and that is the kingdom of heaven." as there was no disputing this proposition, we passed on to another cell, at the door of which stood a tall, erect personage, who was busy with a pot of paint and a brush, inscribing the pannels with mottoes and scraps of verse. the walls of his room were covered with poetry and pithy sentences. some of the latter appeared to be of his own composition, and, were not badly turned; their purport generally was this: that birth is but a trivial accident, and that virtue and talent are the only true nobility. this man was found wandering about in chiswick, full of a plan for educating the prince of wales in a manner to enable him to fill the throne with credit and usefulness. as his name could not be learned, the appellation of "chiswick" was given him, which he had himself adopted, styling himself mr. "chiswick" in his mottoes, but always taking care to put the name between inverted commas. as we proceeded, a man rose from his seat, and laying both hands on a table before him, so as to display his fingers, ornamented with rings made of black ribbon, in which glass buttons were set for jewels, addressed dr. conolly with great respect, formally setting forth that he was in great want of a new coat for sundays, the one he had on being positively unfit to appear in, and that a better had been promised him. the doctor stopped, inquired into the case, and the poor fellow was gratified by the assurance that the promised coat should be speedily forthcoming. in his progress through the wards dr. conolly listened with great patience to the various complaints of the inmates. one of them came up and told us that he did not think the methods of the institution judicious. "the patients," said he, "are many of them growing worse. one in particular, who has been here for several weeks, i can see is growing worse every day." dr. conolly asked the name of this patient--"i can not tell," said the man, "but i can bring him to you." "bring him then," said the doctor; and after a moment's absence he returned, leading up one of the healthiest and quietest looking men in the ward. "he looks better to be sure," said the man, "but he is really worse." a burst of laughter from the patients who stood by followed this saying, and one of them looking at me knowingly, touched his forehead to intimate that the objector was not exactly in his senses. in one of the female wards we were introduced, as gentlemen from america, to a respectable-looking old lady in black, who sat with a crutch by her side. "are you not lawyers?" she asked, and when we assured her that we were only yankees, she rebuked us mildly for assuming such a disguise, when she knew very well that we were a couple of attorneys. "and you, doctor," she added, "i am surprised that you should have any thing to do with such a deception." the doctor answered that he was very sorry she had so bad an opinion of him, as she must be sensible that he had never said any thing to her which was not true. "ah, doctor," she rejoined, "but you are the dupe of these people." it was in the same ward, i think, that a well-dressed woman, in a bonnet and shawl, was promenading the room, carrying a bible and two smaller volumes, apparently prayer or hymn books. "have you heard the very reverend mr. ----, in ---- chapel?" she asked of my fellow-traveller. i have unfortunately forgotten the name of the preacher and his chapel. on being answered in the negative, "then go and hear him," she added, "when you return to london." she went on to say that the second coming of the saviour was to take place, and the world to be destroyed in a very few days, and that she had a commission to proclaim the approach of that event. "these poor people," said she, "think that i am here on the same account as themselves, when i am only here to prepare the way for the second coming." "i'm thinking, please yer honor, that it is quite time i was let out of this place," said a voice as we entered one of the wards. dr. conolly told me that he had several irish patients in the asylum, and that they gave him the most trouble on account of the hurry in which they were to be discharged. we heard the same request eagerly made in the same brogue by various other patients of both sexes. as i left this multitude of lunatics, promiscuously gathered from the poor and the reduced class, comprising all varieties of mental disease, from idiocy to madness, yet all of them held in such admirable order by the law of kindness, that to the casual observer most of them betrayed no symptoms of insanity, and of the rest, many appeared to be only very odd people, quietly pursuing their own harmless whims, i could not but feel the highest veneration for the enlightened humanity by which the establishment was directed. i considered, also, if the feeling of personal liberty, the absence of physical restraint, and the power of moral motives, had such power to hold together in perfect peace and order, even a promiscuous band of lunatics, how much greater must be their influence over the minds of men in a state of sanity, and on how false a foundation rest all the governments of force! the true basis of human polity, appointed by god in our nature, is the power of moral motives, which is but another term for public opinion. of the political controversies which at present agitate the country, the corn-law question is that which calls forth the most feeling; i mean on the part of those who oppose the restrictions on the introduction of foreign grain--for, on the other side, it appears to me that the battle is languidly fought. nothing can exceed the enthusiasm of the adversaries of the corn-laws. with some of them the repeal of the tax on bread is the remedy for all political evils. "free trade, free trade," is the burden of their conversation, and although a friend of free trade myself, to the last and uttermost limit, i have been in circles in england, in which i had a little too much of it. yet this is an example to prove what a strong hold the question has taken of the minds of men, and how completely the thoughts of many are absorbed by it. against such a feeling as that which has been kindled in great britain, on the corn-law question, no law in our country could stand. so far as i can judge, it is spreading, as well as growing stronger. i am told that many of the farmers have become proselytes of the league. the league is a powerful and prodigiously numerous association, with ample and increasing funds, publishing able tracts, supporting well-conducted journals, and holding crowded public meetings, which are addressed by some of the ablest speakers in the united kingdom. i attended one of these at covent garden. stage, pit, boxes, and gallery of that large building were filled with one of the most respectable-looking audiences, men and women, i have ever seen. among the speakers of the evening were cobden and fox. cobden in physiognomy and appearance might almost pass for an american, and has a certain new england sharpness and shrewdness in his way of dealing with a subject. his address was argumentative, yet there was a certain popular clearness about it, a fertility of familiar illustration, and an earnest feeling, which made it uncommonly impressive. fox is one of the most fluent and ingenious speakers i ever heard in a popular assembly. both were listened to by an audience which seemed to hang on every word that fell from their lips. the musical world here are talking about colman's improvement in the piano. i have seen the instrument which the inventor brought out from america. it is furnished with a row of brass reeds, like those of the instrument called the seraphine. these take up the sound made by the string of the piano, and prolong it to any degree which is desired. it is a splicing of the sounds of one instrument upon another. yet if the invention were to be left where it is, in colman's instrument, it could not succeed with the public. the notes of the reeds are too harsh and nasal, and want the sweetness and mellowness of tone which belong to the string of the piano. at present the invention is in the hands of mr. rand, the portrait painter, a countryman of ours, who is one of the most ingenious mechanicians in the world. he has improved the tones of the reeds till they rival, in softness and fullness, those of the strings, and, in fact, can hardly be distinguished from them, so that the sounds of the two instruments run into one another without any apparent difference. mr. rand has contrived three or four different machines for making the reeds with dispatch and precision; and if the difficulty of keeping the strings, which are undergoing a constant relaxation, in perfect unison with the reeds can be overcome, i see nothing to prevent the most complete and brilliant success. letter xxvii. changes in paris. paris, _august_ , . my last letter was dated at london, in my passage across england. i have been nearly a fortnight in paris. in ten years i find a considerable change in the external aspect of this great capital. the streets are cleaner, in many of them sidewalks have been made, not always the widest to be sure, but smoothly floored with the asphaltum of seyssel, which answers the purpose admirably; the gutters have been removed from the middle of the street to the edge of the curbstone, and lately the curbstone has been made to project over them, so that the foot-passengers may escape the bespattering from carriage-wheels which he would otherwise be sure to get in a rainy day, and there are many such days in this climate--it has rained every day but one since i entered france. new passages have been cut from street to street, old streets have been made wider, new streets have been made, with broad sidewalks, and stately rows of houses hewn from the easily wrought cream-colored stone of the quarries of the seine. the sidewalks of the boulevards, and all the public squares, wherever carriages do not pass, have been covered with this smooth asphaltic pavement, and in the boulevards have been erected some magnificent buildings, with richly carved pilasters and other ornaments in relief, and statues in niches, and balconies supported by stone brackets wrought into bunches of foliage. new columns and statues have been set up, and new fountains pour out their waters. among these is the fountain of molière, in the rue richelieu, where the effigy of the comic author, chiseled from black marble, with flowing periwig and broad-skirted coat, presides over a group of naked allegorical figures in white marble, at whose feet the water is gushing out. in external morality also, there is some improvement; public gaming-houses no longer exist, and there are fewer of those uncleanly nuisances which offend against the code of what addison calls the lesser morals. the police have had orders to suppress them on the boulevards and the public squares. the parisians are, however, the same gay people as ever, and as easily amused as when i saw them last. they crowd in as great numbers to the opera and the theatres; the boulevards, though better paved, are the same lively places; the guingettes are as thronged; the public gardens are as full of dancers. in these, as at the new tivoli, lately opened at chateau rouge in the suburbs, a broad space made smooth for the purpose is left between tents, where the young grisettes of paris, married and unmarried, or in that equivocal state which lies somewhere between, dance on sunday evening till midnight. at an earlier hour on the same day, as well as on other days, at old franconi's hippodrome, among the trees, just beyond the triumphal arch of neuilly, imitations of the steeple chase, with female riders who leap over hedges, and of the ancient chariot-races with charioteers helmeted and mailed, and standing in gilt tubs on wheels, are performed in a vast amphiteatre, to a crowd that could scarcely have been contained in the colosseum of home. i have heard since i came here, two or three people lamenting the physical degeneracy of the parisians. one of them quoted a saying from a report of marshal soult, that the parisian recruits for the army of late years were neither men nor soldiers. this seems to imply a moral as well as a physical deterioration. "they are growing smaller and smaller in stature," said the gentleman who made this quotation, "and it is difficult to find among them men who are of the proper height to serve as soldiers. the principal cause no doubt is in the prevailing licentiousness. among that class who make the greater part of the population of paris, the women of the finest persons rarely become mothers." whatever may be the cause, i witnessed a remarkable example of the smallness of the parisian stature on the day of my arrival, which was the last of the three days kept in memory of the revolution of july. i went immediately to the champs elysées, to see the people engaged in their amusements. some twenty boys, not fully grown, as it seemed to me at first, were dancing and capering with great agility, to the music of an instrument. looking at them nearer, i saw that those who had seemed to me boys of fourteen or fifteen, were mature young men, some of them with very fierce mustaches. since my arrival i have seen the picture which vanderlyn is painting for the rotunda at washington. it represents the landing of columbus on the shores of the new world. the great discoverer, accompanied by his lieutenant and others, is represented as taking possession of the newly found country. some of the crew are seen scrambling for what they imagine to be gold dust in the sands of the shore, and at a little distance among the trees are the naked natives, in attitudes of wonder and worship. the grouping is happy, the expression and action skillfully varied--the coloring, so far as i could judge in the present state of the picture, agreeable. "eight or ten weeks hard work," said the artist, "will complete it." it is vanderlyn's intention to finish it, and take it to the united states in the course of the autumn. letter xxviii. a journey through the netherlands. arnheim, guelderland, _august_ , . after writing my last i was early asleep, that i might set out early the next morning in the diligence for brussels. this i did, and passing through compeigne, where joan of arc was made prisoner--a town lying in the midst of extensive forests, with here and there a noble group of trees; and through noyon, where calvin was born, and in the old gothic church of which he doubtless worshiped; and through cambray, where fenelon lived; and through fields of grain and poppy and clover, where women were at work, reaping the wheat, or mowing and stacking the ripe poppies, or digging with spades in their wet clothes, for it had rained every day but one during the thirteen we were in france, we arrived in the afternoon of the second day at the french frontier. from this a railway took us in a few hours to brussels. imagine a rather clean-looking city, of large light-colored buildings mostly covered with stucco, situated on an irregular declivity, with a shady park in the highest part surrounded by palaces, and a little lower down a fine old gothic cathedral, and still lower down, the old town hall, also of gothic architecture, and scarcely less venerable, standing in a noble paved square, around which are white and stately edifices, built in the era of the spanish dominion;--imagine handsome shops and a good-looking people, with a liberal sprinkling of priests, in their long-skirted garments, and throw in the usual proportion of dirt and misery, and mendicancy, in the corners and by-places, and you have brussels before you. it still rained, but we got a tilbury and drove out to see the battle-ground of waterloo. it was a dreary drive beside the wood of soignes and through a part of it,--that melancholy-looking forest of tall-stemmed beeches--beech, beech, nothing but beech--and through the walloon villages--waterloo is one of them--and through fields where wet women were at work, and over roads where dirty children by dozens were dabbling like ducks in the puddles. at last we stopped at the village of mont st. jean, whence we walked through the slippery mud to the mound erected in the midst of the battle-field, and climbed to its top, overlooking a country of gentle declivities and hollows. here the various positions of the french and allied armies during the battle which decided the fate of an empire, were pointed out to us by a young walloon who sold wine and drams in a shed beside the monument. the two races which make up the population of belgium are still remarkably distinct, notwithstanding the centuries which have elapsed since they occupied the same country together. the flemings of teutonic origin, keep their blue eyes and fair hair, and their ancient language--the same nearly as the dutch of the sixteenth century. the walloons, a celtic race, or celtic mixed with roman, are still known by their dark hair and black eyes, and speak a dialect derived from the latin, resembling that of some of the french provinces. both languages are uncultivated, and the french has been adopted as the language of commerce and literature in belgium. if you would see a city wholly flemish in its character, you should visit antwerp, to which the railway takes you in an hour and a half. the population here is almost without walloon intermixture, and there is little to remind you of what you have seen in france, except the french books in the booksellers' windows. the arts themselves have a character of their own which never came across the alps. the churches, the interior of which is always carefully kept fresh with paint and gilding, are crowded with statues in wood, carved with wonderful skill and spirit by flemish artists, in centuries gone by--oaken saints looking down from pedestals, and adam and eve in the remorse of their first transgression supporting, by the help of the tree of knowledge and the serpent, a curiously wrought pulpit. the walls are hung with pictures by the flemish masters, wherever space can be found for them. in the cathedral, is the descent from the cross, by rubens, which proves, what one might almost doubt who had only seen his pictures in the louvre, that he was a true artist and a man of genius in the noblest sense of the term. we passed two nights in antwerp, and then went down the scheldt in a steamer, which, in ten hours, brought us to rotterdam, sometimes crossing an arm of the sea, and sometimes threading a broad canal. the houses on each side of these channels, after we entered holland, were for the most part freshly painted; the flat plains on each side protected by embankments, and streaked by long wide ditches full of water, and rows of pollard willows. windmills by scores, some grinding corn, but most of them pumping water out of the meadows and pouring it into the channel, stood on the bank and were swinging their long arms madly in a high wind. on arriving at rotterdam, you perceive at once that you are in holland. the city has as many canals as streets, the canals are generally overhung with rows of elms, and the streets kept scrupulously clean with the water of the canals, which is salt. every morning there is a vigorous splashing and mopping performed before every door by plump servant girls, in white caps and thick wooden shoes. our hotel stood fronting a broad sheet of water like the lagoons at venice, where a solid and straight stone wharf was shaded with a row of elms, and before our door lay several huge vessels fastened to the wharf, which looked as if they were sent thither to enjoy a vacation, for they were neither loading nor unloading, nor did any person appear to be busy about them. rotterdam was at that time in the midst of a fair which filled the open squares and the wider streets of the city with booths, and attracted crowds of people from the country. there were damsels from north holland, fair as snow, and some of them pretty, in long-eared lace caps, with their plump arms bare; and there were maidens from another province, the name of which i did not learn, equally good-looking, with arms as bare, and faces in white muslin caps drawn to a point on each cheek. olycoeks were frying, and waffles baking in temporary kitchens on each side of the streets. the country about rotterdam is little better than a marsh. the soil serves only for pasture, and the fields are still covered with "yellow blossoms," as in the time of goldsmith, and still tufted with willows. i saw houses in the city standing in pools of dull blue water, reached by a bridge from the street: i suppose, however, there might be gardens behind them. many of the houses decline very much from the perpendicular; they are, however, apparently well-built and are spacious. we made no long stay in rotterdam, but after looking at its bronze statue of erasmus, and its cathedral, which is not remarkable in any other respect than that it is a gothic building of brick, stone being scarce in holland, we took the stage-coach for the hague the next day. green meadows spotted with buttercups and dandelions, flat and low, lower than the canals with which the country is intersected, and which bring in between them, at high tide, the waters of the distant sea, stretched on every side. they were striped with long lines of water which is constantly pumped out by the windmills, and sent with the ebb tide through the canals to the ocean. herds of cattle were feeding among the bright verdure. from time to time, we passed some pleasant country-seat, the walls bright with paint, and the grounds surrounded by a ditch, call it a moat if you please, the surface of which was green with duck-weed. but within this watery inclosure, were little artificial elevations covered with a closely-shaven turf, and plantations of shrubbery, and in the more extensive and ostentatious of them, were what might be called groves and forests. before one of these houses was a fountain with figures, mouths of lions and other animals, gushing profusely with water, which must have been pumped up for the purpose, into a reservoir, by one of the windmills. passing through schiedam, still famous for its gin, and delft, once famous for its crockery, we reached in a couple of hours the hague, the cleanest of cities, paved with yellow brick, and as full of canals as rotterdam. i called on an old acquaintance, who received me with a warm embrace and a kiss on each cheek. he was in his morning-gown, which he immediately exchanged for an elegant frock coat of the latest parisian cut, and took us to see baron vorstolk's collection of pictures, which contains some beautiful things by the flemish artists, and next, to the public collection called the museum. from this we drove to the chateau du bois, a residence of the dutch stadtholders two hundred years ago, when holland was a republic, and a powerful and formidable one. it is pleasantly situated in the edge of a wood, which is said to be part of an original forest of the country. i could believe this, for here the soil rises above the marshy level of holland, and trees of various kinds grow irregularly intermingled, as in the natural woods of our own country. the chateau du bois is principally remarkable for a large room with a dome, the interior of which is covered with large paintings by rubens, jordaens, and other artists. our friend took leave of us, and we drove out to scheveling, where charles ii. embarked for england, when he returned to take possession of his throne. here dwell a people who supply the fish-market of the hague, speak among themselves a dialect which is not understood elsewhere in holland, and wear the same costume which they wore centuries ago. we passed several of the women going to market or returning, with large baskets on their heads, placed on the crown of a broad-brimmed straw bonnet, tied at the sides under the chin, and strapping creatures they were, striding along in their striped black and white petticoats. in the streets of scheveling, i saw the tallest woman i think i ever met with, a very giantess, considerably more than six feet high, straddling about the street of the little village, and scouring and scrubbing the pavement with great energy. close at hand was the shore; a strong west wind was driving the surges of the north sea against it. a hundred fishing vessels rocking in the surf, moored and lashed together with ropes, formed a line along the beach; the men of scheveling, in knit woollen caps, short blue jackets, and short trowsers of prodigious width, were walking about on the shore, but the wind was too high and the sea too wild for them to venture out. along this coast, the north sea has heaped a high range of sand-hills, which protect the low lands within from its own inundations; but to the north and south the shore is guarded by embankments, raised by the hand of man with great cost, and watched and kept in constant repair. we left the hague, and taking the railway, in a little more than two hours were at amsterdam, a great commercial city in decay, where nearly half of the inhabitants live on the charity of the rest. the next morning was sunday, and taking advantage of an interval of fair weather, for it still continued to rain every day, i went to the oudekerk, or old church, as the ancient cathedral is called, which might have been an impressive building in its original construction, but is now spoiled by cross-beams, paint, galleries, partitions, pews, and every sort of architectural enormity. but there is a noble organ, with a massive and lofty front of white marble richly sculptured, occupying the west end of the chancel. i listened to a sermon in dutch, the delivery of which, owing partly to the disagreeable voice of the speaker and partly no doubt to my ignorance of the language, seemed to me a kind of barking. the men all wore their hats during the service, but half the women were without bonnets. when the sermon and prayer were over, the rich tones of the organ broke forth and flooded the place with melody. every body visits broek, near amsterdam, the pride of dutch villages, and to broek i went accordingly. it stands like the rest, among dykes and canals, but consists altogether of the habitations of persons in comfortable circumstances, and is remarkable, as you know, for its scrupulous cleanliness. the common streets and footways, are kept in the same order as the private garden-walks. they are paved with yellow bricks, and as a fair was to open in the place that afternoon, the most public parts of them were sanded for the occasion, but elsewhere, they appeared as if just washed and mopped. i have never seen any collection of human habitations so free from any thing offensive to the senses. saardam, where peter the great began his apprenticeship as a shipwright, is among the sights of holland, and we went the next day to look at it. this also is situated on a dyke, and is an extremely neat little village, but has not the same appearance of opulence in the dwellings. we were shown the chamber in which the emperor of russia lodged, and the hole in the wall where he slept, for in the old dutch houses, as in the modern ones of the farmers, the bed is a sort of high closet, or, more properly speaking, a shelf within the wall, from which a door opens into the room. i should have mentioned that, in going to broek, i stopped to look at one of the farm-houses of the country, and at saardam i visited another. they were dairy houses, in which the milk of large herds is made into butter. the lower story of the dwelling, paved with bricks, is used in winter as a stable for the cattle; in the summer, it is carefully cleansed and painted, so that not a trace of its former use remains, and it then becomes both the dairy and the abode of the family. the story above is as neat as the hands of dutch housewives can make it; the parlor, the dining-room, the little boxes in the wall which hold the beds, are resplendent with cleanliness. in going from amsterdam by railway to utrecht, we perceived the canals by which the plains were intersected became fewer and fewer, and finally we began to see crops of grain and potatoes, a sign that we had emerged from the marshes. we stopped to take a brief survey of utrecht. a part of its old cathedral has been converted into a beautiful gothic church, the rest having been levelled many years ago by a whirlwind. but what i found most remarkable in the city was its public walks. the old walls by which utrecht was once inclosed having been thrown down, the rubbish has formed hillocks and slopes which almost surround the entire city and border one of its principal canals. on these hillocks and slopes, trees and shrubs have been planted, and walks laid out through the green turf, until it has become one of the most varied and charming pleasure-grounds i ever saw--swelling into little eminences, sinking into little valleys, descending in some places smoothly to the water, and in others impending over it. we fell in with a music-master, of whom we asked a question or two. he happened to know a little german, by the help of which he pieced out his dutch so as to make it tolerably intelligible to me. he insisted upon showing us every thing remarkable in utrecht, and finally walked us tired. the same evening the diligence brought us to arnheim, a neat-looking town with about eighteen hundred inhabitants, in the province of guelderland, where the region retains not a trace of the peculiarities of holland. the country west of the town rises into commanding eminences, overlooking the noble rhine, and i feel already that i am in germany, though i have yet to cross the frontier. letter xxix. american artists abroad. rome, _october_, . you would perhaps like to hear what the american artists on the continent are doing. i met with leutze at düsseldorf. after a sojourn of some days in holland, in which i was obliged to talk to the dutchmen in german and get my answers in dutch, with but a dim apprehension of each other's meaning, as you may suppose, on both sides; after being smoked through and through like a herring, with the fumes of bad tobacco in the railway wagons, and in the diligence which took us over the long and monotonous road on the plains of the rhine between arnheim and düsseldorf--after dodging as well as we were able, the english travellers, generally the most disagreeable of the travelling tribe, who swarm along the rhine in the summer season, it was a refreshment to stop a day at düsseldorf and take breath, and meet an american face or two. we found leutze engaged upon a picture, the subject of which is john knox reproving queen mary. it promises to be a capital work. the stern gravity of knox, the embarrassment of the queen, and the scorn with which the french damsels of her court regard the saucy reformer, are extremely well expressed, and tell the story impressively. at düsseldorf, which is the residence of so many eminent painters, we expected to find some collection, or at least some of the best specimens, of the works of the modern german school. it was not so, however--fine pictures are painted at düsseldorf, but they are immediately carried elsewhere. we visited the studio of schröter--a man with humor in every line of his face, who had nothing to show us but a sketch, just prepared for the easel, of the scene in goëthe's faust, where mephistophiles, in auerbach's cellar, bores the edge of the table with a gimlet, and a stream of champagne gushes out. köhler, an eminent artist, allowed us to see a clever painting on his easel, in a state of considerable forwardness, representing the rejoicings of the hebrew maidens at the victory of david over goliath. at lessing's--a painter whose name stands in the first rank, and whom we did not find at home--we saw a sketch on which he was engaged, representing the burning of john huss; yet it was but a sketch, a painting in embryo. but i am wandering from the american artists. at cologne, whither we were accompanied by leutze, he procured us the sight of his picture of columbus before the council of salamanca, one of his best. leutze ranks high in germany, as a young man of promise, devoting himself with great energy and earnestness to his art. at florence we found greenough just returned from a year's residence at graefenberg, whence he had brought back his wife, a patient of priessnitz and the water cure, in florid health. he is now applying himself to the completion of the group which he has engaged to execute for the capitol at washington. it represents an american settler, an athletic man, in a hunting shirt and cap, a graceful garb, by the way, rescuing a female and her infant from a savage who has just raised his tomahawk to murder them. part of the group, the hunter and the indian, is already in marble, and certainly the effect is wonderfully fine and noble. the hunter has approached his enemy unexpectedly from behind, and grasped both his arms, holding them back, in such a manner that he has no command of their muscles, even for the purpose of freeing himself. besides the particular incident represented by the group, it may pass for an image of the aboriginal race of america overpowered and rendered helpless by the civilized race. greenough's statue of washington is not as popular as it deserves to be; but the work on which he is now engaged i am very sure will meet with a different reception. in a letter from london, i spoke of the beautiful figure of the greek slave, by powers. at florence i saw in his studio, the original model, from which his workmen were cutting two copies in marble. at the same place i saw his proserpine, an ideal bust of great sweetness and beauty, the fair chest swelling out from a circle of leaves of the acanthus. about this also the workmen were busy, and i learned that seven copies of it had been recently ordered from the hand of the artist. by its side stood the unfinished statue of eve, with the fatal apple in her hand, an earlier work, which the world has just begun to admire. i find that connoisseurs are divided in opinion concerning the merit of powers as a sculptor. all allow him the highest degree of skill in execution, but some deny that he has shown equal ability in his conceptions. "he is confessedly," said one of them to me, who, however, had not seen his greek slave, "the greatest sculptor of busts in the world--equal, in fact, to any that the world ever saw; the finest heads of antiquity are not of a higher order than his." he then went on to express his regret that powers had not confined his labors to a department in which he was so pre-eminent. i have heard that powers, who possesses great mechanical skill, has devised several methods of his own for giving precision and perfection to the execution of his works. it may be that my unlearned eyes are dazzled by this perfection, but really i can not imagine any thing more beautiful of its kind than his statue of the greek slave. gray is at this moment in florence, though he is soon coming to rome. he has made some copies from titian, one of which i saw. it was a madonna and child, in which the original painting was rendered with all the fidelity of a mirror. so indisputably was it a titian, and so free from the stiffness of a copy, that, as i looked at it, i fully sympathized with the satisfaction expressed by the artist at having attained the method of giving with ease the peculiarity of coloring which belongs to titian's pictures. an american landscape painter of high merit is g. l. brown, now residing at florence. he possesses great knowledge of detail, which he knows how to keep in its place, subduing it, and rendering it subservient to the general effect. i saw in his studio two or three pictures, in which i admired his skill in copying the various forms of foliage and other objects, nor was i less pleased to see that he was not content with this sort of merit, but, in going back from the foreground, had the art of passing into that appearance of an infinity of forms and outlines which the eye meets with in nature. i could not help regretting that one who copied nature so well, should not prefer to represent her as she appears in our own fresh and glorious land, instead of living in italy and painting italian landscapes. to refer again to foreign artists--before i left florence i visited the annual exhibition which had been opened in the academy of the fine arts. there were one or two landscapes reminding me somewhat of cole's manner, but greatly inferior, and one or two good portraits, and two or three indifferent historical pictures. the rest appeared to me decidedly bad; wretched landscapes; portraits, some of which were absolutely hideous, stiff, ill-colored, and full of grimace. here at rome, we have an american sculptor of great ability, henry k. brown, who is just beginning to be talked about. he is executing a statue of ruth gleaning in the field of boaz, of which the model has been ready for some months, and is also modelling a figure of rebecca at the well. when i first saw his ruth i was greatly struck with it, but after visiting the studios of wyatt and gibson, and observing their sleek imitations of grecian art, their learned and faultless statues, nymphs or goddesses or gods of the greek mythology, it was with infinite pleasure that my eyes rested again on the figure and face of ruth, perhaps not inferior in perfection of form, but certainly informed with a deep human feeling which i found not in their elaborate works. the artist has chosen the moment in which ruth is addressed by boaz as she stands among the gleaners. he quoted to me the lines of keats, on the song of the nightingale-- "perchance the self-same song that found a path to the sad heart of ruth, when sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien's corn." she is not in tears, but her aspect is that of one who listens in sadness; her eyes are cast down, and her thoughts are of the home of her youth, in the land of moab. over her left arm hangs a handful of ears of wheat, which she has gathered from the ground, and her right rests on the drapery about her bosom. nothing can be more graceful than her attitude or more expressive of melancholy sweetness and modesty than her physiognomy. one of the copies which the artist was executing--there were two of them--is designed for a gentleman in albany. brown will shortly, or i am greatly mistaken, achieve a high reputation among the sculptors of the time. rosseter, an american painter, who has passed six years in italy, is engaged on a large picture, the subject of which is taken from the same portion of scripture history, and which is intended for the gallery of an american gentleman. it represents naomi with her two daughters-in-law, when "orpah kissed her, but ruth clave unto her." the principal figures are those of the hebrew matron and ruth, who have made their simple preparations for their journey to the land of israel, while orpah is turning sorrowfully away to join a caravan of her country people. this group is well composed, and there is a fine effect of the rays of the rising sun on the mountains and rocks of moab. at the studio of lang, a philadelphia artist, i saw two agreeable pictures, one of which represents a young woman whom her attendants and companions are arraying for her bridal. as a companion piece to this, but not yet finished, he had upon the easel a picture of a beautiful girl, decked for espousals of a different kind, about to take the veil, and kneeling in the midst of a crowd of friends and priests, while one of them is cutting off her glossy and flowing hair. both pictures are designed for a boston gentleman, but a duplicate of the first has already been painted for the king of wirtemberg. letter xxx. buffalo.--cleveland.--detroit. steamer oregon, lake huron, off thunder bay, _july_ , . as i approached the city of buffalo the other morning, from the east, i found myself obliged to confess that much of the beauty of a country is owing to the season. for twenty or thirty miles before we reached lake erie, the fields of this fertile region looked more and more arid and sun-scorched, and i could not but contrast their appearance with that of the neighborhood of new york, where in a district comparatively sterile, an uncommonly showery season has kept the herbage fresh and deep, and made the trees heavy with leaves. here, on the contrary, i saw meadows tinged by the drought with a reddish hue, pastures grazed to the roots of the grass, and trees spreading what seemed to me a meagre shade. yet the harvests of wheat, and even of hay, in western new york, are said to be by no means scanty. buffalo continues to extend on every side, but the late additions to the city do not much improve its beauty. its nucleus of well-built streets does not seem to have grown much broader within the last five years, but the suburbs are rapidly spreading--small wooden houses, scattered or in clusters, built hastily for emigrants along unpaved and powdery streets. i saw, however, on a little excursion which i made into the surrounding country, that pleasant little neighborhoods are rising up at no great distance, with their neat houses, their young trees, and their new shrubbery. they have a fine building material at buffalo--a sort of brown stone, easily wrought--but i was sorry to see that most of the houses built of it, both in the town and country, seemed to have stood for several years. we visited the new fort which the government is erecting on the lake, a little to the north of the town, commanding the entrance of niagara river. it is small, but of wonderful apparent strength, with walls of prodigious thickness, and so sturdy in its defences that it seemed to me one might as well think of cannonading the cliffs of weehawken. it is curious to see how, as we grow more ingenious in the means of attack, we devise more effectual means of defence. a castle of the middle ages, in which a grim warrior of that time would hold his enemies at bay for years, would now be battered down before breakfast. the finest old forts of the last century are now found to be unsafe against attack. that which we have at st. augustine was an uncommonly good sample of its kind, but when i was in florida, three or four years since, an engineer of the united states was engaged in reconstructing it. do mankind gain any thing by these improvements, as they are called, in the art of war? do not these more dreadful engines of attack on the one side, and these more perfect means of protection on the other, leave the balance just where it was before? on tuesday evening, at seven o'clock, we took passage in the steamer oregon, for chicago, and soon lost sight of the roofs and spires of buffalo. a lady of buffalo on her way to cleveland placed herself at the piano, and sang several songs with such uncommon sweetness and expression that i saw no occasion to be surprised at what i heard of the concert of leopold de meyer, at buffalo, the night before. the concert room was crowded with people clinging to each other like bees when they swarm, and the whole affair seemed an outbreak of popular enthusiasm. a veteran teacher of music in buffalo, famous for being hard to be pleased by any public musical entertainment, found himself unable to sit still during the first piece played by de meyer, but rose, in the fullness of his delight, and continued standing. when the music ceased, he ran to him and shook both of his hands, again and again, with most uncomfortable energy. at the end of the next performance he sprang again on the platform and hugged the artist so rapturously that the room rang with laughter. de meyer was to give another concert on tuesday evening at niagara falls, and the people of buffalo were preparing to follow him. the tastes of our people are certainly much changed within the last twenty years. a friend of ours used to relate, as a good joke, the conversation of two men, who came to the conclusion that paganini was the greatest man in the world. they were only a little in advance of their age. if such are the honors reaped by de meyer, we shall not be astonished if sivori, when he comes over, passes for the greatest man of his time. the next morning found us with the southern shore of lake erie in sight--a long line of woods, with here and there a cluster of habitations on the shore. "that village where you see the light-house," said one of the passengers, who came from the hills of maine, "is grand river, and from that place to cleveland, which is thirty miles distant, you have the most beautiful country under the sun--perfectly beautiful, sir; not a hill the whole way, and the finest farms that were ever seen; you can buy a good farm there for two thousand dollars." in two or three hours afterward we were at cleveland, and i hastened on shore. it is situated beyond a steep bank of the lake, nearly as elevated as the shore at brooklyn, which we call brooklyn heights. as i stood on the edge of this bank and looked over the broad lake below me, stretching beyond the sight and quivering in the summer wind, i was reminded of the lines of southey: --"along the bending line of shore such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, embathed in emerald glory." but it was not only along the line of the shore that these hues prevailed; the whole lake glowed with soft amethystine and emerald tinges, in irregular masses, like the shades of watered silk. cleveland stands in that beautiful country without a hill, of which my fellow-passenger spoke--a thriving village yet to grow into a proud city of the lake country. it is built upon broad dusty ways, in which not a pebble is seen in the fat dark earth of the lake shore, and which are shaded with locust-trees, the variety called seed-locust, with crowded twigs and clustered foliage--a tree chosen, doubtless, for its rapid growth, as the best means of getting up a shade at the shortest notice. here and there were gardens filled with young fruit-trees; among the largest and hardiest in appearance was the peach-tree, which here spreads broad and sturdy branches, escapes the diseases that make it a short-lived tree in the atlantic states, and produces fruit of great size and richness. one of my fellow-passengers could hardly find adequate expressions to signify his high sense of the deliciousness of the cleveland peaches. i made my way to a street of shops: it had a busy appearance, more so than usual, i was told, for a company of circus-riders, whose tents i had seen from a distance on the lake, was in town, and this had attracted a throng of people from the country. i saw a fruit-stall tended by a man who had the coarsest red hair i think i ever saw, and of whom i bought two or three enormous "bough apples," as he called them. he apologized for the price he demanded. "the farmers," said he, "know that just now there is a call for their early fruit, while the circus people are in town, and they make me pay a 'igh price for it." i told him i perceived he was no yankee. "i am a londoner," he replied; "and i left london twelve years ago to slave and be a poor man in ohio." he acknowledged, however, that he had two or three times got together some property, "but the lord," he said, "laid his hand on it." on returning to the steamer, i found a party of country people, mostly young persons of both sexes, thin and lank figures, by no means equal, as productions of the country, to their bough apples. they passed through the fine spacious cabin on the upper deck, extending between the state-rooms the whole length of the steamer. at length they came to a large mirror, which stood at the stern, and seemed by its reflection to double the length of the cabin. they walked on, as if they would extend their promenade into the mirror, when suddenly observing the reflection of their own persons advancing, and thinking it another party, they politely made way to let it pass. the party in the mirror at the same moment turned to the same side, which first showed them the mistake they had made. the passengers had some mirth at their expense, but i must do our visitors the justice to say that they joined in the laugh with a very good grace. the same evening, at twelve o'clock, we were at detroit. "you must lock your state-rooms in the night," said one of the persons employed about the vessel, "for detroit is full of thieves." we followed the advice, slept soundly, and saw nothing of the thieves, nor of detroit either, for the steamboat was again on her passage through lake st. clair at three this morning, and when i awoke we were moving over the flats, as they are called, at the upper end of the lake. the steamer was threading her way in a fog between large patches of sedge of a pea-green color. we had waited several hours at detroit, because this passage is not safe at night, and steamers of a larger size are sometimes grounded here in the day-time. i had hoped, when i began, to bring down the narrative of my voyage to this moment, but my sheet is full, and i shall give you the remainder in another letter. letter xxxi. a trip from detroit to mackinaw. steamer oregon, lake michigan, _july_ , . soon after passing the flats described in my last letter, and entering the river st. clair, the steamer stopped to take in wood on the canadian side. here i went on shore. all that we could see of the country was a road along the bank, a row of cottages at a considerable distance from each other along the road, a narrow belt of cleared fields behind them, and beyond the fields the original forest standing like a long lofty wall, with its crowded stems of enormous size and immense height, rooted in the strong soil--ashes and maples and elms, the largest of their species. scattered in the foreground were numbers of leafless elms, so huge that the settlers, as if in despair of bringing them to the ground by the ax, had girdled them and left them to decay and fall at their leisure. we went up to one of the houses, before which stood several of the family attracted to the door by the sight of our steamer. among them was an intelligent-looking man, originally from the state of new york, who gave quick and shrewd answers to our inquiries. he told us of an indian settlement about twenty miles further up the st. clair. here dwell a remnant of the chippewa tribe, collected by the canadian government, which has built for them comfortable log-houses with chimneys, furnished them with horses and neat cattle, and utensils of agriculture, erected a house of worship, and given them a missionary. "the design of planting them here," saidth esettler, "was to encourage them to cultivate the soil." "and what has been the success of the plan?" i asked. "it has met with no success at all," he answered. "the worst thing that the government could do for these people is to give them every thing as it has done, and leave them under no necessity to provide for themselves. they chop over a little land, an acre or two to a family; their squaws plant a little corn and a few beans, and this is the extent of their agriculture. they pass their time in hunting and fishing, or in idleness. they find deer and bears in the woods behind them, and fish in the st. clair before their doors, and they squander their yearly pensions. in one respect they are just like white men, they will not work if they can live without." "what fish do they find in the st. clair?" "various sorts. trout and white-fish are the finest, but they are not so abundant at this season. sturgeon and pike are just now in season, and the pike are excellent." one of us happening to observe that the river might easily be crossed by swimming, the settler answered: "not so easily as you might think. the river is as cold as a well, and the swimmer would soon be chilled through, and perhaps taken with the cramp. it is this coldness of the water which makes the fish so fine at this season." this mention of sturgeons tempts me to relate an anecdote which i heard as i was coming up the hudson. a gentleman who lived east of the river, a little back of tivoli, caught last spring one of these fish, which weighed about a hundred and sixty pounds. he carried it to a large pond near his house, the longest diameter of which is about a mile, and without taking it out of the net in which he had caught it, he knotted part of the meshes closely around it, and attaching them to a pair of lines like reins, put the creature into the water. to the end of the lines he had taken care to attach a buoy, to mark the place of the fish in the pond. he keeps a small boat, and when he has a mind to make a water-excursion, he rows to the place where the buoy is floating, ties the lines to the boat and, pulling them so as to disturb the fish, is drawn backward and forward with great rapidity over the surface. the pond, in its deepest part, has only seven feet water, so that there is no danger of being dragged under. we now proceeded up the river, and in about two hours came to a neat little village on the british side, with a windmill, a little church, and two or three little cottages, prettily screened by young trees. immediately beyond this was the beginning of the chippewa settlement of which we had been told. log-houses, at the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile from each other, stood in a long row beside the river, with scattered trees about them, the largest of the forest, some girdled and leafless, some untouched and green, the smallest trees between having been cut away. here and there an indian woman, in a blue dress and bare-headed, was walking along the road; cows and horses were grazing near the houses; patches of maize were seen, tended in a slovenly manner and by no means clear of bushes, but nobody was at work in the fields. two females came down to the bank, with paddles, and put off into the river in a birch-bark canoe, the ends of which were carved in the peculiar indian fashion. a little beyond stood a group of boys and girls on the water's edge, the boys in shirts and leggins, silently watching the steamer as it shot by them. still further on a group of children of both sexes, seven in number, came running with shrill cries down the bank. it was then about twelve o'clock, and the weather was extremely sultry. the boys in an instant threw off their shirts and leggins, and plunged into the water with shouts, but the girls were in before them, for they wore only a kind of petticoat which they did not take off, but cast themselves into the river at once and slid through the clear water like seals. this little indian colony on the edge of the forest extends for several miles along the river, where its banks are highest and best adapted to the purpose of settlement. it ends at last just below the village which bears the name of fort saranae, in the neighborhood of which i was shown an odd-looking wooden building, and was told that this was the house of worship provided for the indians by the government. at fort huron, a village on the american side, opposite to fort saranae, we stopped to land passengers. three indians made their appearance on the shore, one of whom, a very large man, wore a kind of turban, and a white blanket made into a sort of frock, with bars of black in several places, altogether a striking costume. one of this party, a well-dressed young man, stopped to speak with somebody in the crowd on the wharf, but the giant in the turban, with his companion, strode rapidly by, apparently not deigning to look at us, and disappeared in the village. he was scarcely out of sight when i perceived a boat approaching the shore with a curiously mottled sail. as it came nearer i saw that it was a quilt of patchwork taken from a bed. in the bottom of the boat lay a barrel, apparently of flour, a stout young fellow pulled a pair of oars, and a slender-waisted damsel, neatly dressed, sat in the stern, plying a paddle with a dexterity which she might have learned from the chippewa ladies, and guiding the course of the boat which passed with great speed over the water. we were soon upon the broad waters of lake huron, and when the evening closed upon us we were already out of sight of land. the next morning i was awakened by the sound of rain on the hurricane deck. a cool east wind was blowing. i opened the outer door of my state-room, and snuffed the air which was strongly impregnated with the odor of burnt leaves or grass, proceeding, doubtless, from the burning of woods or prairies somewhere on the shores of the lake. for mile after mile, for hour after hour, as we flew through the mist, the same odor was perceptible: the atmosphere of the lake was full of it. "will it rain all day?" i asked of a fellow-passenger, a salem man, in a white cravat. "the clouds are thin," he answered; "the sun will soon burn them off." in fact, the sun soon melted away the clouds, and before ten o'clock i was shown, to the north of us, the dim shore of the great manitoulin island, with the faintly descried opening called the west strait, through which a throng of speculators in copper mines are this summer constantly passing to the sault de ste. marie. on the other side was the sandy isle of bois blanc, the name of which is commonly corrupted into bob low island, thickly covered with pines, and showing a tall light-house on the point nearest us. beyond another point lay like a cloud the island of mackinaw. i had seen it once before, but now the hazy atmosphere magnified it into a lofty mountain; its limestone cliffs impending over the water seemed larger; the white fort--white as snow--built from the quarries of the island, looked more commanding, and the rocky crest above it seemed almost to rise to the clouds. there was a good deal of illusion in all this, as we were convinced as we came nearer, but mackinaw with its rocks rising from the most transparent waters that the earth pours out from her springs, is a stately object in any condition of the atmosphere. the captain of our steamer allowed us but a moment at mackinaw; a moment to gaze into the clear waters, and count the fish as they played about without fear twenty or thirty feet below our steamer, as plainly seen as if they lay in the air; a moment to look at the fort on the heights, dazzling the eyes with its new whiteness; a moment to observe the habitations of this ancient village, some of which show you roofs and walls of red-cedar bark confined by horizontal strips of wood, a kind of architecture between the wigwam and the settler's cabin. a few baskets of fish were lifted on board, in which i saw trout of enormous size, trout a yard in length, and white-fish smaller, but held perhaps in higher esteem, and we turned our course to the straits which lead into lake michigan. i remember hearing a lady say that she was tired of improvements, and only wanted to find a place that was finished, where she might live in peace. i think i shall recommend mackinaw to her. i saw no change in the place since my visit to it five years ago. it is so lucky as to have no _back-country_, it offers no advantages to speculation of any sort; it produces, it is true, the finest potatoes in the world, but none for exportation. it may, however, on account of its very cool summer climate, become a fashionable watering-place, in which case it must yield to the common fate of american villages and improve, as the phrase is. letter xxxii. journey from detroit to princeton. princeton, illinois, _july_ , . soon after leaving the island of mackinaw we entered the straits and passed into lake michigan. the odor of burnt leaves continued to accompany us, and from the western shore of the lake, thickly covered with wood, we saw large columns of smoke, several miles apart, rising into the hazy sky. the steamer turned towards the eastern shore, and about an hour before sunset stopped to take in wood at the upper maneto island, where we landed and strolled into the forest. part of the island is high, but this, where we went on shore, consists of hillocks and hollows of sand, like the waves of the lake in one of its storms, and looking as if successive storms had swept them up from the bottom. they were covered with an enormous growth of trees which must have stood for centuries. we admired the astonishing transparency of the water on this shore, the clean sands without any intermixture of mud, the pebbles of almost chalky whiteness, and the stones in the edge of the lake, to which adhered no slime, nor green moss, nor aquatic weed. in the light-green depths, far down, but distinctly seen, shoals of fish, some of them of large size, came quietly playing about the huge hull of our steamer. on the shore were two log-houses inhabited by woodmen, one of whom drew a pail of water for the refreshment of some of the passengers, from a well dug in the sand by his door. "it is not so good as the lake water," said i, for i saw it was not so clear. "it is colder, though," answered the man; "but i must say that there is no purer or sweeter water in the world than that of our lake." next morning we were coasting the western shore of lake michigan, a high bank presenting a long line of forest. this was broken by the little town of sheboygan, with its light-house among the shrubs of the bank, its cluster of houses just built, among which were two hotels, and its single schooner lying at the mouth of a river. you probably never heard of sheboygan before; it has just sprung up in the forests of wisconsin; the leaves have hardly withered on the trees that were felled to make room for its houses; but it will make a noise in the world yet. "it is the prettiest place on the lake," said a passenger, whom we left there, with three chubby and healthy children, a lady who had already lived long enough at sheboygan to be proud of it. further on we came to milwaukie, which is rapidly becoming one of the great cities of the west. it lies within a semicircle of green pastoral declivities sprinkled with scattered trees, where the future streets are to be built. we landed at a kind of wharf, formed by a long platform of planks laid on piles, under which the water flows, and extending to some distance into the lake, and along which a car, running on a railway, took the passengers and their baggage, and a part of the freight of the steamer to the shore. "will you go up to town, sir?" was the question with which i was saluted by the drivers of a throng of vehicles of all sorts, as soon as i reached the land. they were ranged along a firm sandy beach between the lake and the river of milwaukie. on one side the light-green waters of the lake, of crystalline clearness, came rolling in before the wind, and on the other the dark thick waters of the river lay still and stagnant in the sun. we did not go up to the town, but we could see that it was compactly built, and in one quarter nobly. a year or two since that quarter had been destroyed by fire, and on the spot several large and lofty warehouses had been erected, with an hotel of the largest class. they were of a fine light-brown color, and when i learned that they were of brick, i inquired of a by-stander if that was the natural color of the material. "they are milwaukie brick," he answered, "and neither painted nor stained; and are better brick besides than are made at the eastward." milwaukie is said to contain, at present, about ten thousand inhabitants. here the belt of forest that borders the lake stretches back for several miles to the prairies of wisconsin. "the germans," said a passenger, "are already in the woods hacking at the trees, and will soon open the country to the prairies." we made a short stop at racine, prettily situated on the bank among the scattered trees of an oak opening, and another at southport, a rival town eleven miles further south. it is surprising how many persons travel, as way-passengers, from place to place on the shores of these lakes. five years ago the number was very few, now they comprise, at least, half the number on board a steamboat plying between buffalo and chicago. when all who travel from chicago to buffalo shall cross the peninsula of michigan by the more expeditious route of the railway, the chicago and buffalo line of steamers, which its owners claim to be the finest line in the world, will still be crowded with people taken up or to be set down at some of the intermediate towns. when we awoke the next morning our steamer was at chicago. any one who had seen this place, as i had done five years ago, when it contained less than five thousand people, would find some difficulty in recognizing it now when its population is more than fifteen thousand. it has its long rows of warehouses and shops, its bustling streets; its huge steamers, and crowds of lake-craft, lying at the wharves; its villas embowered with trees; and its suburbs, consisting of the cottages of german and irish laborers, stretching northward along the lake, and westward into the prairies, and widening every day. the slovenly and raw appearance of a new settlement begins in many parts to disappear. the germans have already a garden in a little grove for their holidays, as in their towns in the old country, and the roman catholics have just finished a college for the education of those who are to proselyte the west. the day was extremely hot, and at sunset we took a little drive along the belt of firm sand which forms the border of the lake. light-green waves came to the shore in long lines, with a crest of foam, like a miniature surf, rolling in from that inland ocean, and as they dashed against the legs of the horses, and the wheels of our carriage, the air that played over them was exceedingly refreshing. when we set out the following day in the stage-coach for peru, i was surprised to see how the settlement of chicago had extended westward into the open country. "three years ago," said a traveller in the coach, "it was thought that this prairie could neither be inhabited nor cultivated. it is so level and so little elevated, that for weeks its surface would remain covered with water; but we have found that as it is intersected with roads, the water either runs off in the ditches of the highways, or is absorbed into the sand which lies below this surface of dark vegetable mould, and it is now, as you perceive, beginning to be covered with habitations." if you ever go by the stage-coach from chicago to peru, on the illinois river, do not believe the glozing tongue of the agent who tells you that you will make the journey in sixteen hours. double the number, and you will be nearer the truth. a violent rain fell in the course of the morning; the coach was heavily loaded, nine passengers within, and three without, besides the driver; the day was hot, and the horses dragged us slowly through the black mud, which seemed to possess the consistency and tenacity of sticking-plaster. we had a dinner of grouse, which here in certain seasons, are sold for three cents apiece, at a little tavern on the road; we had passed the long green mound which bears the name of mount joliet, and now, a little before sunset, having travelled somewhat less than fifty miles, we were about to cross the channel of the illinois canal for the second or third time. there had once been a bridge at the crossing-place, but the water had risen in the canal, and the timbers and planks had floated away, leaving only the stones which formed its foundation. in attempting to ford the channel the blundering driver came too near the bridge; the coach-wheels on one side rose upon the stones, and on the other sank deep into the mud, and we were overturned in an instant. the outside passengers were pitched head-fore-most into the canal, and four of those within were lying under water. we extricated ourselves as well as we could, the men waded out, the women were carried, and when we got on shore it was found that, although drenched with water and plastered with mud, nobody was either drowned or hurt. a farm wagon passing at the moment, forded the canal without the least difficulty, and taking the female passengers, conveyed them to the next farm-house, about a mile distant. we got out the baggage, which was completely soaked with water, set up the carriage on its wheels, in doing which we had to stand waist high in the mud and water, and reached the hospitable farm-house about half-past nine o'clock. its owner was an emigrant from kinderhook, on the hudson, who claimed to be a dutchman and a christian, and i have no reason to doubt that he was either. his kind family made us free of their house, and we passed the night in drying ourselves, and getting our baggage ready to proceed the next day. we travelled in a vehicle built after the fashion of the english post-coach, set high upon springs, which is the most absurd kind of carriage for the roads of this country that could be devised. those stage-wagons which ply on long island, in one of which you sometimes see about a score of quakers and quakeresses, present a much better model. besides being tumbled into the canal, we narrowly escaped being overturned in a dozen other places, where the mud was deep or the roads uneven. in my journey the next day, i was struck with the difference which five years had made in the aspect of the country. frame or brick houses in many places had taken the places of log-cabins; the road for long distances now passed between fences, the broad prairie, inclosed, was turned into immense fields of maize, oats, and wheat, and was spotted here and there with young orchards, or little groves, and clumps of bright-green locust-trees, and where the prairie remained open, it was now depastured by large herds of cattle, its herbage shortened, and its flowers less numerous. the wheat harvest this year is said to have failed in northern illinois. the rust has attacked the fields which promised the fairest, and they are left unreaped, to feed the quails and the prairie-hens. another tedious day's journey, over a specially bad road, brought us to peru a little before midnight, and we passed the rest of the night at an inn just below the bank, on the margin of the river, in listening to the mosquitoes. a massachusetts acquaintance the next morning furnished us with a comfortable conveyance to this pleasant neighborhood. letter xxxiii. return to chicago. chicago, _august_ , . you may be certain that in returning to this place from princeton i did not take the stage coach. i had no fancy for another plunge into the illinois canal, nor for being overturned upon the prairies in one of those vehicles which seem to be set high in the air in order they may more easily lose their balance. we procured a private conveyance and made the journey in three days--three days of extreme heat, which compelled us to travel slowly. the quails, which had repaired for shade to the fences by the side of the road, ran from them into the open fields, as we passed, with their beaks open, as if panting with the excessive heat. the number of these birds at the present time is very great. they swarm in the stubble fields and in the prairies, and manifest little alarm at the approach of man. still more numerous, it appears to me, are the grouse, or prairie-hens, as they call them here, which we frequently saw walking leisurely, at our approach, into the grass from the road, whither they resorted for the sake of scattered grains of oats or wheat that had fallen from the loaded wagons going to chicago. at this season they are full fed and fearless, and fly heavily when they are started. we frequently saw them feeding at a very short distance from people at work in the fields. in some neighborhoods they seem almost as numerous as fowls in a poultry-yard. a settler goes out with his gun, and in a quarter of an hour brings in half a dozen birds which in the new york market would cost two dollars a pair. at one place where we stopped to dine, they gave us a kind of pie which seemed to me an appropriate dessert for a dinner of prairie-hens. it was made of the fruit of the western crab-apple, and was not unpalatable. the wild apple of this country is a small tree growing in thickets, natural orchards. in spring it is profusely covered with light-pink blossoms, which have the odor of violets, and at this season it is thickly hung with fruit of the color of its leaves. another wild fruit of the country is the plum, which grows in thickets, plum-patches, as they are called, where they are produced in great abundance, and sometimes, i am told, of excellent quality. in a drive which i took the other day from princeton to the alluvial lands of the bureau river, i passed by a declivity where the shrubs were red with the fruit, just beginning to ripen. the slope was sprinkled by them with crimson spots, and the odor of the fruit was quite agreeable. i have eaten worse plums than these from our markets, but i hear that there is a later variety, larger and of a yellow color, which is finer. i spoke in my last of the change caused in the aspect of the country by cultivation. now and then, however, you meet with views which seem to have lost nothing of their original beauty. one such we stopped to look at from an eminence in a broad prairie in lee county, between knox grove and pawpaw grove. the road passes directly over the eminence, which is round and regular in form, with a small level on the summit, and bears the name of the mound. on each side the view extends to a prodigious distance; the prairies sink into basins of immense breadth and rise into swells of vast extent; dark groves stand in the light-green waste of grass, and a dim blue border, apparently of distant woods, encircles the horizon. to give a pastoral air to the scene, large herds of cattle were grazing at no great distance from us. i mentioned in my last letter that the wheat crop of northern illinois has partially failed this year. but this is not the greatest calamity which has befallen this part of the country. the season is uncommonly sickly. we passed the first night of our journey at pawpaw grove--so named from the number of pawpaw-trees which grow in it, but which here scarcely find the summer long enough to perfect their fruit. the place has not had the reputation of being unhealthy, but now there was scarce a family in the neighborhood in which one or more was not ill with an intermittent or a bilious fever. at the inn where we stopped, the landlady, a stout pennsylvania woman, was just so far recovered as to be able, as she informed us, "to poke about;" and her daughter, a strapping lass, went out to pass the night at the bedside of one of the numerous sick neighbors. the sickness was ascribed by the settlers to the extremely dry and hot weather following a rainy june. at almost every place where we stopped we heard similar accounts. pale and hollow-eyed people were lounging about. "is the place unhealthy," i asked one of them. "_i_ reckon so," he answered; and his looks showed that he had sufficient reason. at aurora, where we passed the second night, a busy little village, with mills and manufactories, on the fox river, which here rushes swiftly over a stony bed, they confessed to the fever and ague. at naperville, pleasantly situated among numerous groves and little prairies swelling into hills, we heard that the season was the most sickly the inhabitants had known. here, at chicago, which boasts, and with good reason, i believe, of its healthy site, dysenteries and bilious attacks are just now very common, with occasional cases of fever. it is a common remark in this country, that the first cultivation of the earth renders any neighborhood more or less unhealthy. "nature," said a western man to me, some years since, "resents the violence done her, and punishes those who first break the surface of the earth with the plough." the beautiful rock river district, with its rapid stream, its noble groves, its banks disposed in natural terraces, with fresh springs gushing at their foot, and airy prairies stretching away from their summits, was esteemed one of the most healthy countries in the world as long as it had but few inhabitants. with the breaking up of the soil came in bilious fever and intermittents. a few years of cultivation will render the country more healthy, and these diseases will probably disappear, as they have done in some parts of western new york. i can remember the time when the "genesee country," as it was called, was thought quite a sickly region--a land just in the skirts of the shadow of death. it is now as healthy, i believe, as any part of the state. letter xxxiv. voyage to sault ste. marie. sault ste. marie, _august_ , . when we left chicago in the steamer, the other morning, all the vessels in the port had their flags displayed at half-mast in token of dissatisfaction with the fate of the harbor bill. you may not recollect that the bill set apart half a million of dollars for the construction or improvement of various harbors of the lakes, and authorized the deepening of the passages through the st. clair flats, now intricate and not quite safe, by which these bulky steamers make their way from the lower lakes to the upper. the people of the lake region had watched the progress of the bill through congress with much interest and anxiety, and congratulated each other when at length it received a majority of votes in both houses. the president's veto has turned these congratulations into expressions of disappointment which are heard on all sides, sometimes expressed with a good deal of energy. but, although the news of the veto reached chicago two or three days before we left the place, nobody had seen the message in which it was contained. perhaps the force of the president's reasonings will reconcile the minds of people here to the disappointment of their hopes. it was a hot august morning as the steamer wisconsin, an unwieldy bulk, dipping and bobbing upon the small waves, and trembling at every stroke of the engine, swept out into the lake. the southwest wind during the warmer portion of the summer months is a sort of sirocco in illinois. it blows with considerable strength, but passing over an immense extent of heated plains it brings no coolness. it was such an air that accompanied us on our way north from chicago; and as the passengers huddled into the shady places outside of the state-rooms on the upper deck, i thought of the flocks of quails i had seen gasping in the shadow of the rail-fences on the prairies. people here expose themselves to a draught of air with much less scruple than they do in the atlantic states. "we do not take cold by it," they said to me, when i saw them sitting in a current of wind, after perspiring freely. if they do not take cold, it is odds but they take something else, a fever perhaps, or what is called a bilious attack. the vicissitudes of climate at chicago and its neighborhood are more sudden and extreme than with us, but the inhabitants say that they are not often the cause of catarrhs, as in the atlantic states. whatever may be the cause, i have met with no person since i came to the west, who appeared to have a catarrh. from this region perhaps will hereafter proceed singers with the clearest pipes. some forty miles beyond chicago we stopped for half an hour at little fort, one of those flourishing little towns which are springing up on the lake shore, to besiege future congresses for money to build their harbors. this settlement has started up in the woods within the last three or four years, and its cluster of roofs, two of the broadest of which cover respectable-looking hotels, already makes a considerable figure when viewed from the lake. we passed to the shore over a long platform of planks framed upon two rows of posts or piles planted in the sandy shallows. "we make a port in this manner on any part of the western shore of the lake," said a passenger, "and convenient ports they are, except in very high winds. on the eastern shore, the coast of michigan, they have not this advantage; the ice and the northwest winds would rend such a wharf as this in pieces. on this side too, the water of the lake, except when an east wind blows, is smoother than on the michigan coast, and the steamers therefore keep under the shelter of this bank." at southport, still further north, in the new state of wisconsin, we procured a kind of omnibus and were driven over the town, which, for a new settlement, is uncommonly pretty. we crossed a narrow inlet of the lake, a _creek_ in the proper sense of the term, a winding channel, with water in the midst, and a rough growth of water-flags and sedges on the sides. among them grew the wild rice, its bending spikes, heavy with grain, almost ready for the harvest. "in the northern marshes of wisconsin," said one of our party, "i have seen the indian women gathering this grain. two of them take their places in a canoe; one of them seated in the stern pushes it with her paddle through the shallows of standing water, while the other, sitting forward, bends the heads of the rice-plant over the sides of the canoe, strikes them with a little stick and causes the grain to fall within it. in this way are collected large quantities, which serve as the winter food of the menomonies, and some other tribes." the grain of the wild rice, i was told, is of a dark color, but palatable as food. the gentleman who gave me this account had made several attempts to procure it in a fit state to be sown, for judge buel, of albany, who was desirous of trying its cultivation on the grassy shallows of our eastern rivers. he was not successfull at first, because, as soon as the grain is collected, it is kiln-dried by the indians, which destroys the vegetative principle. at length, however, he obtained and sent on a small quantity of the fresh rice, but it reached judge buel only a short time before his death, and the experiment probably has not been made. on one side of the creek was a sloping bank of some height, where tall old forest trees were growing. among these stood three houses, just built, and the space between them and the water was formed into gardens with regular terraces faced with turf. another turn of our vehicle brought us into a public square, where the oaks of the original forest were left standing, a miniature of the _champs elysées_, surrounding which, among the trees, stand many neat houses, some of them built of a drab-colored brick. back of the town, we had a glimpse of a prairie approaching within half a mile of the river. we were next driven through a street of shops, and thence to our steamer. the streets of southport are beds of sand, and one of the passengers who professed to speak from some experience, described the place as haunted by myriads of fleas. it was not till about one o'clock of the second night after leaving chicago, that we landed at mackinaw, and after an infinite deal of trouble in getting our baggage together, and keeping it together, we were driven to the mission house, a plain, comfortable old wooden house, built thirty or forty years since, by a missionary society, and now turned into an hotel. beside the road, close to the water's edge, stood several wigwams of the potawottamies, pyramids of poles wrapped around with rush matting, each containing a family asleep. the place was crowded with people on their way to the mining region of lake superior, or returning from it, and we were obliged to content ourselves with narrow accommodations for the night. at half-past seven the next morning we were on our way to the sault ste. marie, in the little steamer general scott. the wind was blowing fresh, and a score of persons who had intended to visit the sault were withheld by the fear of seasickness, so that half a dozen of us had the steamer to ourselves. in three or four hours we found ourselves gliding out of the lake, through smooth water, between two low points of land covered with firs and pines into the west strait. we passed drummond's island, and then coasted st. joseph's island, on the woody shore of which i was shown a solitary house. there i was told lives a long-nosed englishman, a half-pay officer, with two wives, sisters, each the mother of a numerous offspring. this english polygamist has been more successful in seeking solitude than in avoiding notoriety. the very loneliness of his habitation on the shore causes it to be remarked, and there is not a passenger who makes the voyage to the sault, to whom his house is not pointed out, and his story related. it was hinted to me that he had a third wife in toronto, but i have my private doubts of this part of the story, and suspect that it was thrown in to increase my wonder. beyond the island of st. joseph we passed several islets of rock with fir-trees growing from the clefts. here, in summer, i was told, the indians often set up their wigwams, and subsist by fishing. there were none in sight as we passed, but we frequently saw on either shore the skeletons of the chippewa habitations. these consist, not like those of the potawottamies, of a circle of sticks placed in the form of a cone, but of slender poles bent into circles, so as to make an almost regular hemisphere, over which, while it serves as a dwelling, birch-bark and mats of bulrushes are thrown. on the western side of the passage, opposite to st. joseph's island, stretches the long coast of sugar island, luxuriant with an extensive forest of the sugar-maple. here the indians manufacture maple-sugar in the spring. i inquired concerning their agriculture. "they plant no corn nor squashes," said a passenger, who had resided for some time at the sault; "they will not ripen in this climate; but they plant potatoes in the sugar-bush, and dig them when the spring opens. they have no other agriculture; they plant no beans as i believe the indians do elsewhere." a violent squall of wind and rain fell upon the water just as we entered that broad part of the passage which bears the name of muddy lake. in ordinary weather the waters are here perfectly pure and translucent, but now their agitation brought up the loose earth from the shallow bottom, and made them as turbid as the missouri, with the exception of a narrow channel in the midst where the current runs deep. rocky hills now began to show themselves to the east of us; we passed the sheet of water known by the name of lake george, and came to a little river which appeared to have its source at the foot of a precipitous ridge on the british side. it is called garden river, and a little beyond it, on the same side, lies garden village, inhabited by the indians. it was now deserted, the indians having gone to attend a great assemblage of their race, held on one of the manitoulin islands, where they are to receive their annual payments from the british government. here were log-houses, and skeletons of wigwams, from which the coverings had been taken. an indian, when he travels, takes with him his family and his furniture, the matting for his wigwam, his implements for hunting and fishing, his dogs and cats, and finds a home wherever he finds poles for a dwelling. a tornado had recently passed over the garden village. the numerous girdled-trees which stood on its little clearing, had been twisted off midway or near the ground by the wind, and the roofs had, in some instances, been lifted from the cabins. at length, after a winding voyage of sixty miles, between wild banks of forest, in some places smoking with fires, in some looking as if never violated either by fire or steel, with huge carcasses of trees mouldering on the ground, and venerable trees standing over them, bearded with streaming moss, we came in sight of the white rapids of the sault sainte marie. we passed the humble cabins of the half-breeds on either shore, with here and there a round wigwam near the water; we glided by a white chimney standing behind a screen of fir-trees, which, we were told, had belonged to the dwelling of tanner, who himself set fire to his house the other day, before murdering mr. schoolcraft, and in a few minutes were at the wharf of this remotest settlement of the northwest. letter xxxv. falls of the st. mary. sault ste. marie, _august_ , . a crowd had assembled on the wharf of the american village at the sault sainte marie, popularly called the _soo_, to witness our landing; men of all ages and complexions, in hats and caps of every form and fashion, with beards of every length and color, among which i discovered two or three pairs of mustaches. it was a party of copper-mine speculators, just flitting from copper harbor and eagle river, mixed with a few indian and half-breed inhabitants of the place. among them i saw a face or two quite familiar in wall-street. i had a conversation with an intelligent geologist, who had just returned from an examination of the copper mines of lake superior. he had pitched his tent in the fields near the village, choosing to pass the night in this manner, as he had done for several weeks past, rather than in a crowded inn. in regard to the mines, he told me that the external tokens, the surface indications, as he called them, were more favorable than those of any copper mines in the world. they are still, however, mere surface indications; the veins had not been worked to that depth which was necessary to determine their value with any certainty. the mixture of silver with the copper he regarded as not giving any additional value to the mines, inasmuch as it is only occasional and rare. sometimes, he told me, a mass of metal would be discovered of the size of a man's fist, or smaller, composed of copper and silver, both metals closely united, yet both perfectly pure and unalloyed with each other. the masses of virgin copper found in beds of gravel are, however, the most remarkable feature of these mines. one of them which has been discovered this summer, but which has not been raised, is estimated to weigh twenty tons. i saw in the propeller independence, by which this party from the copper mines was brought down to the sault, one of these masses, weighing seventeen hundred and fifty pounds, with the appearance of having once been fluid with heat. it was so pure that it might have been cut in pieces by cold steel and stamped at once into coin. two or three years ago this settlement of the sault de ste. marie, was but a military post of the united states, in the midst of a village of indians and half-breeds. there were, perhaps, a dozen white residents in the place, including the family of the baptist missionary and the agent of the american fur company, which had removed its station hither from mackinaw, and built its warehouse on this river. but since the world has begun to talk of the copper mines of lake superior, settlers flock into the place; carpenters are busy in knocking up houses with all haste on the government lands, and large warehouses have been built upon piles driven into the shallows of the st. mary. five years hence, the primitive character of the place will be altogether lost, and it will have become a bustling yankee town, resembling the other new settlements of the west. here the navigation from lake to lake is interrupted by the falls or rapids of the river st. mary, from which the place receives its name. the crystalline waters of lake superior on their way through the channel of this river to lake huron, here rush, and foam, and roar, for about three quarters of a mile, over rocks and large stones. close to the rapids, with birchen-canoes moored in little inlets, is a village of the indians, consisting of log-cabins and round wigwams, on a shrubby level, reserved to them by the government. the morning after our arrival, we went through this village in search of a canoe and a couple of indians, to make the descent of the rapids, which is one of the first things that a visitor to the sault must think of. in the first wigwam that we entered were three men and two women as drunk as men and women could well be. the squaws were speechless and motionless, too far gone, as it seemed, to raise either hand or foot; the men though apparently unable to rise were noisy, and one of them, who called himself a half-breed and spoke a few words of english, seemed disposed to quarrel. before the next door was a woman busy in washing, who spoke a little english. "the old man out there," she said, in answer to our questions, "can paddle canoe, but he is very drunk, he can not do it to-day." "is there nobody else," we asked, "who will take us down the falls?" "i don't know; the indians all drunk to-day." "why is that? why are they all drunk to-day?" "oh, the whisky," answered the woman, giving us to understand, that when an indian could get whisky, he got drunk as a matter of course. by this time the man had come up, and after addressing us with the customary "_bon jour_" manifested a curiosity to know the nature of our errand. the woman explained it to him in english. "oh, messieurs, je vous servirai," said he, for he spoke canadian french; "i go, i go." we told him that we doubted whether he was quite sober enough. "oh, messieurs, je suis parfaitement capable--first rate, first rate." we shook him off as soon as we could, but not till after he had time to propose that we should wait till the next day, and to utter the maxim, "whisky, good--too much whisky, no good." in a log-cabin, which some half-breeds were engaged in building, we found two men who were easily persuaded to leave their work and pilot us over the rapids. they took one of the canoes which lay in a little inlet close at hand, and entering it, pushed it with their long poles up the stream in the edge of the rapids. arriving at the head of the rapids, they took in our party, which consisted of five, and we began the descent. at each end of the canoe sat a half-breed, with a paddle, to guide it while the current drew us rapidly down among the agitated waters. it was surprising with what dexterity they kept us in the smoothest part of the water, seeming to know the way down as well as if it had been a beaten path in the fields. at one time we would seem to be directly approaching a rock against which the waves were dashing, at another to be descending into a hollow of the waters in which our canoe would be inevitably filled, but a single stroke of the paddle given by the man at the prow put us safely by the seeming danger. so rapid was the descent, that almost as soon as we descried the apparent peril, it was passed. in less than ten minutes, as it seemed to me, we had left the roar of the rapids behind us, and were gliding over the smooth water at their foot. in the afternoon we engaged a half-breed and his brother to take us over to the canadian shore. his wife, a slender young woman with a lively physiognomy, not easily to be distinguished from a french woman of her class, accompanied us in the canoe with her little boy. the birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art. we were in one of the finest that float on st. mary's river, and when i looked at its delicate ribs, mere shavings of white cedar, yet firm enough for the purpose--the thin broad laths of the same wood with which these are inclosed, and the broad sheets of birch-bark, impervious to water, which sheathed the outside, all firmly sewed together by the tough slender roots of the fir-tree, and when i considered its extreme lightness and the grace of its form, i could not but wonder at the ingenuity of those who had invented so beautiful a combination of ship-building and basket-work. "it cost me twenty dollars," said the half-breed, "and i would not take thirty for it." we were ferried over the waves where they dance at the foot of the rapids. at this place large quantities of white-fish, one of the most delicate kinds known on our continent, are caught by the indians, in their season, with scoop-nets. the whites are about to interfere with this occupation of the indians, and i saw the other day a seine of prodigious length constructing, with which it is intended to sweep nearly half the river at once. "they will take a hundred barrels a day," said an inhabitant of the place. on the british side, the rapids divide themselves into half a dozen noisy brooks, which roar round little islands, and in the boiling pools of which the speckled trout is caught with the rod and line. we landed at the warehouses of the hudson bay company, where the goods intended for the indian trade are deposited, and the furs brought from the northwest are collected. they are surrounded by a massive stockade, within which lives the agent of the company, the walks are graveled and well-kept, and the whole bears the marks of british solidity and precision. a quantity of furs had been brought in the day before, but they were locked up in the warehouse, and all was now quiet and silent. the agent was absent; a half-breed nurse stood at the door with his child, and a scotch servant, apparently with nothing to do, was lounging in the court inclosed by the stockade; in short, there was less bustle about this centre of one of the most powerful trading-companies in the world, than about one of our farm-houses. crossing the bay, at the bottom of which these buildings stand, we landed at a canadian village of half-breeds. here were one or two wigwams and a score of log-cabins, some of which we entered. in one of them we were received with great appearance of deference by a woman of decidedly indian features, but light-complexioned, barefoot, with blue embroidered leggings falling over her ankles and sweeping the floor, the only peculiarity of indian costume about her. the house was as clean as scouring could make it, and her two little children, with little french physiognomies, were fairer than many children of the european race. these people are descended from the french voyageurs and settlers on one side; they speak canadian french more or less, but generally employ the chippewa language in their intercourse with each other. near at hand was a burial ground, with graves of the indians and half-breeds, which we entered. some of the graves were covered with a low roof of cedar-bark, others with a wooden box; over others was placed a little house like a dog-kennel, except that it had no door, others were covered with little log-cabins. one of these was of such a size that a small indian family would have found it amply large for their accommodation. it is a practice among the savages to protect the graves of the dead from the wolves, by stakes driven into the ground and meeting at the top like the rafters of a roof; and perhaps when the indian or half-breed exchanged his wigwam for a log-cabin, his respect for the dead led him to make the same improvement in the architecture of their narrow houses. at the head of most of these monuments stood wooden crosses, for the population here is principally roman catholic, some of them inscribed with the names of the dead, not always accurately spelled. not far from the church stands a building, regarded by the half-breeds as a wonder of architecture, the stone house, _la maison de pierre_, as they call it, a large mansion built of stone by a former agent of the northwest or hudson bay company, who lived here in a kind of grand manorial style, with his servants and horses and hounds, and gave hospitable dinners in those days when it was the fashion for the host to do his best to drink his guests under the table. the old splendor of the place has departed, its gardens are overgrown with grass, the barn has been blown down, the kitchen in which so many grand dinners were cooked consumed by fire, and the mansion, with its broken and patched windows, is now occupied by a scotch farmer of the name of wilson. we climbed a ridge of hills back of the house to the church of the episcopal mission, built a few years ago as a place of worship for the chippewas, who have since been removed by the government. it stands remote from any habitation, with three or four indian graves near it, and we found it filled with hay. the view from its door is uncommonly beautiful; the broad st. mary lying below, with its bordering villages and woody valley, its white rapids and its rocky islands, picturesque with the pointed summits of the fir-tree. to the northwest the sight followed the river to the horizon, where it issued from lake superior, and i was told that in clear weather one might discover, from the spot on which i stood, the promontory of gros cap, which guards the outlet of that mighty lake. the country around was smoking in a dozen places with fires in the woods. when i returned i asked who kindled them. "it is old tanner," said one, "the man who murdered schoolcraft." there is great fear here of tanner, who is thought to be lurking yet in the neighborhood. i was going the other day to look at a view of the place from an eminence, reached by a road passing through a swamp, full of larches and firs. "are you not afraid of tanner?" i was asked. mrs. schoolcraft, since the assassination of her husband, has come to live in the fort, which consists of barracks protected by a high stockade. it is rumored that tanner has been seen skulking about within a day or two, and yesterday a place was discovered which is supposed to have served for his retreat. it was a hollow, thickly surrounded by shrubs, which some person had evidently made his habitation for a considerable time. there is a dispute whether this man is insane or not, but there is no dispute as to his malignity. he has threatened to take the life of mr. bingham, the venerable baptist missionary at this place, and as long as it is not certain that he has left the neighborhood a feeling of insecurity prevails. nevertheless, as i know no reason why this man should take it into his head to shoot me, i go whither i list, without the fear of tanner before my eyes. letter xxxvi. indians at the sault. mackinaw, _august_ , . we were detained two days longer than we expected at the sault de ste. marie, by the failure of the steamer general scott to depart at the proper time. if we could have found a steamer going up lake superior, we should most certainly have quieted our impatience at this delay, by embarking on board of her. but the only steamer in the river st. mary, above the falls, which is a sort of arm or harbor of lake superior, was the julia palmer, and she was lying aground in the pebbles and sand of the shore. she had just been dragged over the portage which passes round the falls, where a broad path, with hillocks flattened, and trunks hewn off close to the surface, gave tokens of the vast bulk that had been moved over it. the moment she touched the water, she stuck fast, and the engineer was obliged to go to cleveland for additional machinery to move her forward. he had just arrived with the proper apparatus, and the steamer had begun to work its way slowly into the deep water; but some days must yet elapse before she can float, and after that the engine must be put together. had the julia palmer been ready to proceed up the lake, i should certainly have seized the occasion to be present at an immense assemblage of indians on madeleine island. this island lies far in the lake, near its remoter extremity. on one of its capes, called la pointe, is a missionary station and an indian village, and here the savages are gathering in vast numbers to receive their annual payments from the united states. "there were already two thousand of them at la pointe when i left the place," said an intelligent gentleman who had just returned from the lake, "and they were starving. if an indian family has a stock of provisions on hand sufficient for a month, it is sure to eat it up in a week, and the indians at la pointe had already consumed all they had provided, and were living on what they could shoot in the woods, or get by fishing in the lake." i inquired of him the probable number of indians the occasion would bring together. "seven thousand," he answered. "among them are some of the wildest tribes on the continent, whose habits have been least changed by the neighborhood of the white man. a new tribe will come in who never before would have any transactions with the government. they are called the pillagers, a fierce and warlike race, proud of their independence, and, next to the blackfeet and the camanches, the most ferocious and formidable tribe within the territory of the united states. they inhabit the country about red river and the head-waters of the mississippi." i was further told that some of the indian traders had expressed their determination to disregard the law, set up their tents at la pointe, and sell spirits to the savages. "if they do, knives will be drawn," was the common saying at the sault; and at the fort, i learned that a requisition had arrived from la pointe for twenty men to enforce the law and prevent disorder. "we can not send half the number," said the officer who commanded at the fort, "we have but twelve men in all; the rest of the garrison have been ordered to the mexican frontier, and it is necessary that somebody should remain to guard the public property." the call for troops has since been transferred to the garrison at mackinaw, from which they will be sent. i learned afterward from an intelligent lady of the half-caste at the sault, that letters had arrived, from which it appeared that more than four thousand indians were already assembled at la pointe, and that their stock of provisions was exhausted. "they expected," said the lady, "to be paid off on the th of august, but the government has changed the time to nearly a month later. this is unfortunate for the indians, for now is the time of their harvest, the season for gathering wild rice in the marshes, and they must, in consequence, not only suffer with hunger now, but in the winter also." in a stroll which we made through the indian village, situated close to the rapids, we fell in with a half-breed, a sensible-looking man, living in a log cabin, whose boys, the offspring of a squaw of the pure indian race, were practicing with their bows and arrows. "you do not go to la pointe?" we asked. "it is too far to go for a blanket," was his answer--he spoke tolerable english. this man seemed to have inherited from the white side of his ancestry somewhat of the love of a constant habitation, for a genuine indian has no particular dislike to a distant journey. he takes his habitation with him, and is at home wherever there is game and fish, and poles with which to construct his lodge. in a further conversation with the half-breed, he spoke of the sault as a delightful abode, and expatiated on the pleasures of the place. "it is the greatest place in the world for fun," said he; "we dance all winter; our women are all good dancers; our little girls can dance single and double jigs as good as any body in the states. that little girl there," pointing to a long-haired girl at the door, "will dance as good as any body." the fusion of the two races in this neighborhood is remarkable; the mixed breed running by gradual shades into the aboriginal on the one hand, and into the white on the other; children with a tinge of the copper hue in the families of white men, and children scarcely less fair sometimes seen in the wigwams. some of the half-caste ladies at the falls of st. mary, who have been educated in the atlantic states, are persons of graceful and dignified manners and agreeable conversation. i attended worship at the fort, at the sault, on sunday. the services were conducted by the chaplain, who is of the methodist persuasion and a missionary at the place, assisted by the baptist missionary. i looked about me for some evidence of the success of their labors, but among the worshipers i saw not one male of indian descent. of the females, half a dozen, perhaps, were of the half-caste; and as two of these walked away from the church, i perceived that they wore a fringed clothing for the ankles, as if they took a certain pride in this badge of their indian extraction. in the afternoon we drove down the west bank of the river to attend religious service at an indian village, called the little rapids, about two miles and a half from the sault. here the methodists have built a mission-house, maintain a missionary, and instruct a fragment of the chippewa tribe. we found the missionary, mr. speight, a kentuckian, who has wandered to this northern region, quite ill, and there was consequently no service. we walked through the village, which is prettily situated on a swift and deep channel of the st. mary, where the green waters rush between the main-land and a wooded island. it stands on rich meadows of the river, with a path running before it, parallel with the bank, along the velvet sward, and backed at no great distance by the thick original forest, which not far below closes upon the river on both sides. the inhabitants at the doors and windows of their log-cabins had a demure and subdued aspect; they were dressed in their clean sunday clothes, and the peace and quiet of the place formed a strong contrast to the debaucheries we had witnessed at the village by the falls. we fell in with an indian, a quiet little man, of very decent appearance, who answered our questions with great civility. we asked to whom belonged the meadows lying back of the cabins, on which we saw patches of rye, oats, and potatoes. "oh, they belong to the mission; the indians work them." "are they good people, these indians?" "oh yes, good people." "do they never drink too much whisky?" "well, i guess they drink too much whisky sometimes." there was a single wigwam in the village, apparently a supplement to one of the log-cabins. we looked in and saw two indian looms, from which two unfinished mats were depending. mrs. speight, the wife of the missionary, told us that, a few days before, the village had been full of these lodges; that the indians delighted in them greatly, and always put them up during the mosquito season; "for a mosquito," said the good lady, "will never enter a wigwam;" and that lately, the mosquitoes having disappeared, and the nights having grown cooler, they had taken down all but the one we saw. we passed a few minutes in the house of the missionary, to which mrs. speight kindly invited us. she gave a rather favorable account of the indians under her husband's charge, but manifestly an honest one, and without any wish to extenuate the defects of their character. "there are many excellent persons among them," she said; "they are a kind, simple, honest people, and some of them are eminently pious." "do they follow any regular industry?" "many of them are as regularly industrious as the whites, rising early and continuing at their work in the fields all day. they are not so attentive as we could wish to the education of their children. it is difficult to make them send their children regularly to school; they think they confer a favor in allowing us to instruct them, and if they happen to take a little offense their children are kept at home. the great evil against which we have to guard is the love of strong drink. when this is offered to an indian, it seems as if it was not in his nature to resist the temptation. i have known whole congregations of indians, good indians, ruined and brought to nothing by the opportunity of obtaining whisky as often as they pleased." we inquired whether the numbers of the people at the mission were diminishing. she could not speak with much certainty as to this point, having been only a year and a half at the mission, but she thought there was a gradual decrease. "the families of the indians," she said, in answer to one of my questions, "are small. in one family at the village are six children, and it is the talk of all the indians, far and near, as something extraordinary. generally the number is much smaller, and more than half the children die in infancy. their means would not allow them to rear many children, even if the number of births was greater." such appears to be the destiny of the red race while in the presence of the white--decay and gradual extinction, even under circumstances apparently the most favorable to its preservation. on monday we left the falls of st. mary, in the steamer general scott, on our return to mackinaw. there were about forty passengers on board, men in search of copper-mines, and men in search of health, and travellers from curiosity, virginians, new yorkers, wanderers from illinois, indiana, massachusetts, and i believe several other states. on reaching mackinaw in the evening, our party took quarters in the mansion house, the obliging host of which stretched his means to the utmost for our accommodation. mackinaw is at the present moment crowded with strangers; attracted by the cool healthful climate and the extreme beauty of the place. we were packed for the night almost as closely as the potawottamies, whose lodges were on the beach before us. parlors and garrets were turned into sleeping-rooms; beds were made on the floors and in the passages, and double-bedded rooms were made to receive four beds. it is no difficult feat to sleep at mackinaw, even in an august night, and we soon forgot, in a refreshing slumber, the narrowness of our quarters. letter xxxvii. the island of mackinaw. steamer st. louis, lake huron, _august_ , . yesterday evening we left the beautiful island of mackinaw, after a visit of two days delightfully passed. we had climbed its cliffs, rambled on its shores, threaded the walks among its thickets, driven out in the roads that wind through its woods--roads paved by nature with limestone pebbles, a sort of natural macadamization, and the time of our departure seemed to arrive several days too soon. the fort which crowns the heights near the shore commands an extensive prospect, but a still wider one is to be seen from the old fort, fort holmes, as it is called, among whose ruined intrenchments the half-breed boys and girls now gather gooseberries. it stands on the very crest of the island, overlooking all the rest. the air, when we ascended it, was loaded with the smoke of burning forests, but from this spot, in clear weather, i was told a magnificent view might be had of the straits of mackinaw, the wooded islands, and the shores and capes of the great mainland, places known to history for the past two centuries. for when you are at mackinaw you are at no new settlement. in looking for samples of indian embroidery with porcupine quills, we found ourselves one day in the warehouse of the american fur company, at mackinaw. here, on the shelves, were piles of blankets, white and blue, red scarfs, and white boots; snow-shoes were hanging on the walls, and wolf-traps, rifles, and hatchets, were slung to the ceiling--an assortment of goods destined for the indians and half-breeds of the northwest. the person who attended at the counter spoke english with a foreign accent. i asked him how long he had been in the northwestern country. "to say the truth," he answered, "i have been here sixty years and some days." "you were born here, then." "i am a native of mackinaw, french by the mother's side; my father was an englishman." "was the place as considerable sixty years ago as it now is?" "more so. there was more trade here, and quite as many inhabitants. all the houses, or nearly all, were then built; two or three only have been put up since." i could easily imagine that mackinaw must have been a place of consequence when here was the centre of the fur trade, now removed further up the country. i was shown the large house in which the heads of the companies of _voyageurs_ engaged in the trade were lodged, and the barracks, a long low building, in which the _voyageurs_ themselves, seven hundred in number, made their quarters from the end of june till the beginning of october, when they went out again on their journeys. this interval of three months was a merry time with those light-hearted frenchmen. when a boat made its appearance approaching mackinaw, they fell to conjecturing to what company of _voyageurs_ it belonged; as the dispute grew warm the conjectures became bets, till finally, unable to restrain their impatience, the boldest of them dashed into the waters, swam out to the boat, and climbing on board, shook hands with their brethren, amidst the shouts of those who stood on the beach. they talk, on the new england coast, of chebacco boats, built after a peculiar pattern, and called after chebacco, an ancient settlement of sea-faring men, who have foolishly changed the old indian name of their place to ipswich. the mackinaw navigators have also given their name to a boat of peculiar form, sharp at both ends, swelled at the sides, and flat-bottomed, an excellent sea-boat, it is said, as it must be to live in the wild storms that surprise the mariner on lake superior. we took yesterday a drive to the western shore. the road twined through a wood of over-arching beeches and maples, interspersed with the white-cedar and fir. the driver stopped before a cliff sprouting with beeches and cedars, with a small cavity at the foot. this he told us was the skull cave. it is only remarkable on account of human bones having been found in it. further on a white paling gleamed through the trees; it inclosed the solitary burial ground of the garrison, with half a dozen graves. "there are few buried here," said a gentleman of our party; "the soldiers who come to mackinaw sick get well soon." the road we travelled was cut through the woods by captain scott, who commanded at the fort a few years since. he is the marksman whose aim was so sure that the western people say of him, that a raccoon on a tree once offered to come down and surrender without giving him the trouble to fire. we passed a farm surrounded with beautiful groves. in one of its meadows was fought the battle between colonel croghan and the british officer holmes in the war of . three luxuriant beeches stand in the edge of the wood, north of the meadow; one of them is the monument of holmes; he lies buried at its root. another quarter of a mile led us to a little bay on the solitary shore of the lake looking to the northwest. it is called the british landing, because the british troops landed here in the late war to take possession of the island. we wandered about awhile, and then sat down upon the embankment of pebbles which the waves of the lake, heaving for centuries, have heaped around the shore of the island--pebbles so clean that they would no more soil a lady's white muslin gown than if they had been of newly polished alabaster. the water at our feet was as transparent as the air around us. on the main-land opposite stood a church with its spire, and several roofs were visible, with a background of woods behind them. "there," said one of our party, "is the old mission church. it was built by the catholics in , and has been a place of worship ever since. the name of the spot is point st. ignace, and there lives an indian of the full caste, who was sent to rome and educated to be a priest, but he preferred the life of a layman, and there he lives on that wild shore, with a library in his lodge, a learned savage, occupied with reading and study." you may well suppose that i felt a strong desire to see point st. ignace, its venerable mission church, its indian village, so long under the care of catholic pastors, and its learned savage who talks italian, but the time of my departure was already fixed. my companions were pointing out on that shore, the mouth of carp river, which comes down through the forest roaring over rocks, and in any of the pools of which you have only to throw a line, with any sort of bait, to be sure of a trout, when the driver of our vehicle called out, "your boat is coming." we looked and saw the st. louis steamer, not one of the largest, but one of the finest boats in the line between buffalo and chicago, making rapidly for the island, with a train of black smoke hanging in the air behind her. we hastened to return through the woods, and in an hour and a half we were in our clean and comfortable quarters in this well-ordered little steamer. but i should mention that before leaving mackinaw, we did not fail to visit the principal curiosities of the place, the sugar loaf rock, a remarkable rock in the middle of the island, of a sharp conical form, rising above the trees by which it is surrounded, and lifting the stunted birches on its shoulders higher than they, like a tall fellow holding up a little boy to overlook a crowd of men--and the arched rock on the shore. the atmosphere was thick with smoke, and through the opening spanned by the arch of the rock i saw the long waves, rolled up by a fresh wind, come one after another out of the obscurity, and break with roaring on the beach. the path along the brow of the precipice and among the evergreens, by which this rock is reached, is singularly wild, but another which leads to it along the shore is no less picturesque--passing under impending cliffs and overshadowing cedars, and between huge blocks and pinnacles of rock. i spoke in one of my former letters of the manifest fate of mackinaw, which is to be a watering-place. i can not see how it is to escape this destiny. people already begin to repair to it for health and refreshment from the southern borders of lake michigan. its climate during the summer months is delightful; there is no air more pure and elastic, and the winds of the south and southwest, which are so hot on the prairies, arrive here tempered to a grateful coolness by the waters over which they have swept. the nights are always, in the hottest season, agreeably cool, and the health of the place is proverbial. the world has not many islands so beautiful as mackinaw, as you may judge from the description i have already given of parts of it. the surface is singularly irregular, with summits of rock and pleasant hollows, open glades of pasturage and shady nooks. to some, the savage visitors, who occasionally set up their lodges on its beach, as well as on that of the surrounding islands, and paddle their canoes in its waters, will be an additional attraction. i can not but think with a kind of regret on the time which, i suppose is near at hand, when its wild and lonely woods will be intersected with highways, and filled with cottages and boarding-houses. letter xxxviii. an excursion to the water gap. stroudsberg, monroe co., penn. _october_ , . i reached this place last evening, having taken easton in my way. did it ever occur to you, in passing through new jersey, how much the northern part of the state is, in some respects, like new york, and how much the southern part resembles pennsylvania? for twenty miles before reaching easton, you see spacious dwelling-houses, often of stone, substantially built, and barns of the size of churches, and large farms with extensive woods of tall trees, as in pennsylvania, where the right of soil has not undergone so many subdivisions as with us. i was shown in warren county, in a region apparently of great fertility, a farm which was said to be two miles square. it belonged to a farmer of german origin, whose comfortable mansion stood by the way, and who came into the state many years ago, a young man. "i have heard him say," said a passenger, "that when his father brought him out with his young wife into warren county, and set him down upon what then appeared a barren little farm, now a part of his large and productive estate, his heart failed him. however he went to work industriously, practicing the strictest economy, and by applying lime copiously to the soil made it highly fertile. it is lime which makes this region the richest land in new jersey; the farmers find limestone close at hand, burn it in their kilns, and scatter it on the surface. the person of whom i speak took off large crops from his little farm, and as soon as he had any money beforehand, he added a few acres more, so that it gradually grew to its present size. rich as he is, he is a worthy man; his sons, who are numerous, are all fine fellows, not a scape-grace among them, and he has settled them all on farms around him." easton, which we entered soon after dark, is a pretty little town of seven thousand inhabitants, much more substantially built than towns of the same size in this country. many of the houses are of stone, and to the sides of some of them you see the ivy clinging and hiding the masonry with a veil of evergreen foliage. the middle of the streets is unpaved and very dusty, but the broad flagging on the sides, under the windows of the houses, is sedulously swept. the situation of the place is uncommonly picturesque. if ever the little borough of easton shall grow into a great town, it will stand on one of the most commanding sites in the world, unless its inhabitants shall have spoiled it by improvements. the delaware, which forms the eastern bound of the borough, approaches it from the north through high wooded banks, and flows away to join the susquehanna between craggy precipices. on the south side, the lehigh comes down through a deep, verdant hollow, and on the north the bushkill winds through a glen shaded with trees, on the rocky banks of which is one of the finest drives in the world. in the midst of the borough rises a crag as lofty as that on which stirling castle is built--in europe, it would most certainly have been crowned with its castle; steep and grassy on one side, and precipitous and rocky on the other, where it overhangs the bushkill. the college stands on a lofty eminence, overlooking the dwellings and streets, but it is an ugly building, and has not a tree to conceal even in part its ugliness. besides these, are various other eminences in the immediate vicinity of this compact little town, which add greatly to its beauty. we set out the next morning for the delaware water gap, following the road along the delaware, which is here uncommonly beautiful. the steep bank is mostly covered with trees sprouting from the rocky shelves, and below is a fringe of trees between the road and the river. a little way from the town, the driver pointed out, in the midst of the stream, a long island of loose stones and pebbles, without a leaf or stem of herbage. "it was there," said he, "that gaetter, six years ago, was hanged for the murder of his wife." the high and steep bank of the river, the rocks and the trees, he proceeded to tell us, were covered on that day with eager spectators from all the surrounding country, every one of whom, looking immediately down on the island, could enjoy a perfect view of the process by which the poor wretch in the hands of the hangman was turned off. about five miles from easton we stopped to water our horses at an inn, a large handsome stone house, with a chatty landlord, who spoke with a strong german accent, complaining pathetically of the potato disease, which had got into the fields of the neighborhood, but glorying in the abundant crops of maize and wheat which had been gathered. two miles further on, we turned away from the river and ascended to the table-land above, which we found green with extensive fields of wheat, just springing under the autumnal sun. in one of the little villages nestling in the hollows of that region, we stopped for a few moments, and fell into conversation with a tolerably intelligent man, though speaking english with some peculiarities that indicated the race to which he belonged. a sample of his dialect may amuse you. we asked him what the people in that part of the country thought of the new tariff. "oh," said he, "there are different obinions, some likes it and some not." "how do the democrats take it?" "the democratic in brinciple likes it." "did it have any effect on the election?" "it brevented a goot many democrats from voting for their candidate for congress, mr. brodhead, because he is for the old tariff. this is a very strong democratic district, and mr. brodhead's majority is only about a sousand." a little beyond this village we came in sight of the water gap, where the blue ridge has been cloven down to its base to form a passage for the delaware. two lofty summits, black with precipices of rock, form the gates through which the river issues into the open country. here it runs noisily over the shallows, as if boasting aloud of the victory it had achieved in breaking its way through such mighty barriers; but within the gap it sleeps in quiet pools, or flows in deep glassy currents. by the side of these you see large rafts composed of enormous trunks of trees that have floated down with the spring floods from the new york forests, and here wait for their turn in the saw-mills along the shore. it was a bright morning, with a keen autumnal air, and we dismounted from our vehicle and walked through the gap. it will give your readers an idea of the water gap, to say that it consists of a succession of lofty peaks, like the highlands of the hudson, with a winding and irregular space between them a few rods wide, to give passage to the river. they are unlike the highlands, however, in one respect, that their sides are covered with large loose blocks detached from the main precipices. among these grows the original forest, which descends to their foot, fringes the river, and embowers the road. the present autumn is, i must say, in regard to the coloring of the forests, one of the shabbiest and least brilliant i remember to have seen in this country, almost as sallow and dingy in its hues as an autumn in europe. but here in the water gap it was not without some of its accustomed brightness of tints--the sugar-maple with its golden leaves, and the water-maple with its foliage of scarlet, contrasted with the intense green of the hemlock-fir, the pine, the rosebay-laurel, and the mountain-laurel, which here grow in the same thicket, while the ground below was carpeted with humbler evergreens, the aromatic wintergreen, and the trailing arbutus. the water gap is about a mile in length, and near its northern entrance an excellent hotel, the resort of summer visitors, stands on a cliff which rises more than a hundred feet almost perpendicularly from the river. from this place the eye follows the water gap to where mountains shut in one behind another, like the teeth of a saw, and between them the delaware twines out of sight. before the hotel a fine little boy of about two years of age was at play. the landlord showed us on the calf of the child's leg two small lurid spots, about a quarter of an inch apart. "that," said he, "is the bite of a copper-head snake." we asked when this happened. "it was last summer," answered he; "the child was playing on the side of the road, when he was heard to cry, and seen to make for the house. as soon as he came, my wife called my attention to what she called a scratch on his leg. i examined it, the spot was already purple and hard, and the child was crying violently. i knew it to be the bite of a copper-head, and immediately cut it open with a sharp knife, making the blood to flow freely and washing the part with water. at the same time we got a yerb" (such was his pronunciation) "on the hills, which some call lion-heart, and others snake-head. we steeped this yerb in milk which we made him drink. the doctor had been sent for, and when he came applied hartshorn; but i believe that opening the wound and letting the blood flow was the most effectual remedy. the leg was terribly swollen, and for ten days we thought the little fellow in great danger, but after that he became better and finally recovered." "how do you know that it was a copper-head that bit him?" "we sent to the place where he was at play, found the snake, and killed it. a violent rain had fallen just before, and it had probably washed him down from the mountain-side." "the boy appears very healthy now." "much better than before; he was formerly delicate, and troubled with an eruption, but that has disappeared, and he has become hardy and fond of the open air." we dined at the hotel and left the water gap. as we passed out of its jaws we met a man in a little wagon, carrying behind him the carcass of a deer he had just killed. they are hunted, at this time of the year, and killed in considerable numbers in the extensive forests to the north of this place. a drive of four miles over hill and valley brought us to stroudsburg, on the banks of the pocano--a place of which i shall speak in my next letter. letter xlii. an excursion to the water gap. easton, penn., _october_ , . my yesterday's letter left me at stroudsburg, about four miles west of the delaware. it is a pleasant village, situated on the banks of the pocano. from this stream the inhabitants have diverted a considerable portion of the water, bringing the current through this village in a canal, making it to dive under the road and rise again on the opposite side, after which it hastens to turn a cluster of mills. to the north is seen the summit of the pocano mountain, where this stream has its springs, with woods stretching down its sides and covering the adjacent country. here, about nine miles to the north of the village, deer haunt and are hunted. i heard of one man who had already killed nine of these animals within two or three weeks. a traveller from wyoming county, whom i met at our inn, gave me some account of the winter life of the deer. "they inhabit," he said, "the swamps of mountain-laurel thickets, through which a man would find it almost impossible to make his way. the laurel-bushes, and the hemlocks scattered among them, intercept the snow as it falls, and form a thick roof, under the shelter of which, near some pool or rivulet, the animals remain until spring opens, as snugly protected from the severity of the weather as sheep under the sheds of a farm-yard. here they feed upon the leaves of the laurel and other evergreens. it is contrary to the law to kill them after the christmas holidays, but sometimes their retreat is invaded, and a deer or two killed; their flesh, however, is not wholesome, on account of the laurel leaves on which they feed, and their skin is nearly worthless." i expressed my surprise that the leaves of the mountain laurel, the _kalmia latifolia_, which are so deadly to sheep, should be the winter food of the deer. "it is because the deer has no gall," answered the man, "that the pison don't take effect. but their meat will not do to eat, except in a small quantity, and cooked with pork, which i think helps take the pison out of it." "the deer," he went on to say, "are now passing out of the blue into the gray. after the holidays, when their hair becomes long, and their winter coat is quite grown, their hide is soft and tender, and tears easily when dressed, and it would be folly to kill them, even if there were no law against it." he went on to find a parallel to the case of the deer-skins in the hides of neat-cattle, which, when brought from a hot country, like south america, are firmer and tougher than when obtained in a colder climate like ours. the wyoming traveller gave a bad account of the health, just at present, of the beautiful valley in which he lived. "we have never before," said he, "known what it was to have the fever and ague among us, but now it is very common, as well as other fevers. the season has neither been uncommonly wet nor uncommonly dry, but it has been uncommonly hot." i heard the same account of various other districts in pennsylvania. mifflin county, for example, was sickly this season, as well as other parts of the state which, hitherto have been almost uniformly healthy. here, however, in stroudsburg and its neighborhood, they boasted that the fever and ague had never yet made its appearance. i was glad to hear a good account of the pecuniary circumstances of the pennsylvania farmers. they got in debt like every body else during the prosperous years of and , and have been ever since working themselves gradually out of it. "i have never," said an intelligent gentleman of stroudsburg, "known the owners of the farms so free from debt, and so generally easy and prosperous in their condition, as at this moment." it is to be hoped that having been so successful in paying their private debts, they will now try what can be done with the debt of the state. we left stroudsburg this morning--one of the finest mornings of this autumnal season--and soon climbed an eminence which looked down upon cherry hollow. this place reminded me, with the exception of its forests, of the valleys in the peak of derbyshire, the same rounded summits, the same green, basin-like hollows. but here, on the hill-sides, were tall groves of oak and chestnut, instead of the brown heath; and the large stone houses of the german householders were very unlike the derbyshire cottages. the valley is four miles in length, and its eastern extremity is washed by the delaware. climbing out of this valley and passing for some miles through yellow woods and fields of springing corn, not indian corn, we found ourselves at length travelling on the side of another long valley, which terminates at its southern extremity in the wind gap. the wind gap is an opening in the same mountain ridge which is cloven by the water gap, but, unlike that, it extends only about half-way down to the base. through this opening, bordered on each side by large loose blocks of stone, the road passes. after you have reached the open country beyond, you look back and see the ridge stretching away eastward towards the water gap, and in the other direction towards the southwest till it sinks out of sight, a rocky wall of uniform height, with this opening in the midst, which looks as if part of the mountain had here fallen into an abyss below. beyond the wind gap we came to the village of windham, lying in the shelter of this mountain barrier, and here, about twelve o'clock, our driver stopped a moment at an inn to give water to his horses. the bar-room was full of fresh-colored young men in military uniforms, talking pennsylvania german rather rapidly and vociferously. they surrounded a thick-set man, in a cap and shirt-sleeves, whom they called tscho, or joe, and insisted that he should give them a tune on his fiddle. "spiel, tscho, spiel, spiel," was shouted on every side, and at last tscho took the floor with a fiddle and began to play. about a dozen of the young men stood up on the floor, in couples, facing each other, and hammered out the tune with their feet, giving a tread or tap on the floor to correspond with every note of the instrument, and occasionally crossing from side to side. i have never seen dancing more diligently performed. when the player had drawn the final squeak from his violin, we got into our vehicle, and in somewhat more than an hour were entering the little village of nazareth, pleasantly situated among fields the autumnal verdure of which indicated their fertility. nazareth is a moravian village, of four or five hundred inhabitants, looking prodigiously like a little town of the old world, except that it is more neatly kept. the houses are square and solid, of stone or brick, built immediately on the street; a pavement of broad flags runs under their windows, and between the flags and the carriage-way is a row of trees. in the centre of the village is a square with an arcade for a market, and a little aside from the main street, in a hollow covered with bright green grass, is another square, in the midst of which stands a large white church. near it is an avenue, with two immense lime-trees growing at the gate, leading to the field in which they bury their dead. looking upon this square is a large building, three or four stories high, where a school for boys is kept, to which pupils are sent from various parts of the country, and which enjoys a very good reputation. we entered the garden of this school, an inclosure thickly overshadowed with tall forest and exotic trees of various kinds, with shrubs below, and winding walks and summer-houses and benches. the boys of the school were amusing themselves under the trees, and the arched walks were ringing with their shrill voices. we visited also the burying place, which is situated on a little eminence, backed with a wood, and commands a view of the village. the moravian grave is simple in its decorations; a small flat stone, of a square shape, lying in the midst, between the head and foot, is inscribed with the name of the dead, the time and place of his birth, and the time when, to use their own language, he "departed," and this is the sole epitaph. but innovations have been recently made on this simplicity; a rhyming couplet or quatrain is now sometimes added, or a word in praise of the dead one recent grave was loaded with a thick tablet of white marble, which covered it entirely, and bore an inscription as voluminous as those in the burial places of other denominations. the graves, as in all moravian burying grounds, are arranged in regular rows, with paths at right angles between them, and sometimes a rose-tree is planted at the head of the sleeper. as we were leaving nazareth, the innkeeper came to us, and asked if we would allow a man who was travelling to easton to take a seat in our carriage with the driver. we consented, and a respectable-looking, well-clad, middle-aged person, made his appearance. when we had proceeded a little way, we asked him some questions, to which he made no other reply than to shake his head, and we soon found that he understood no english. i tried him with german, which brought a ready reply in the same language. he was a native of pennsylvania, he told me, born at snow hill, in lehigh county, not very many miles from nazareth. in turn, he asked me where i came from, and when i bid him guess, he assigned my birthplace to germany, which showed at least that he was not very accurately instructed in the diversities with which his mother tongue is spoken. as we entered easton, the yellow woods on the hills and peaks that surround the place, were lit up with a glowing autumnal sunset. soon afterward we crossed the lehigh, and took a walk along its bank in south easton, where a little town has recently grown up; the sidewalks along its dusty streets were freshly swept for saturday night. as it began to grow dark, we found ourselves strolling in front of a row of iron mills, with the canal on one side and the lehigh on the other. one of these was a rolling mill, into which we could look from the bank where we stood, and observe the whole process of the manufacture, which is very striking. the whole interior of the building is lighted at night only by the mouths of several furnaces, which are kindled to a white heat. out of one of these a thick bar of iron, about six feet in length and heated to a perfect whiteness, is drawn, and one end of it presented to the cylinders of the mill, which seize it and draw it through between them, rolled out to three or four times its original size. a sooty workman grasps the opposite end of the bar with pincers as soon as it is fairly through, and returns it again to the cylinders, which deliver it again on the opposite side. in this way it passes backward and forward till it is rolled into an enormous length, and shoots across the black floor with a twining motion like a serpent of fire. at last, when pressed to the proper thinness and length, it is coiled up into a circle by the help of a machine contrived for the purpose, which rolls it up as a shopkeeper rolls up a ribbon. we found a man near where we stood, begrimed by the soot of the furnaces, handling the clumsy masses of iron which bear the name of bloom. the rolling mill, he said, belonged to rodenbough, stewart & co., who had very extensive contracts for furnishing iron to the nailmakers and wire manufacturers. "will they stop the mill for the new tariff?" said i. "they will stop for nothing," replied the man. "the new tariff is a good tariff, if people would but think so. it costs the iron-masters fifteen dollars a ton to make their iron, and they sell it for forty dollars a ton. if the new tariff obliges them to sell it for considerable less they will still make money." so revolves the cycle of opinion. twenty years ago a pennsylvanian who questioned the policy of the protective system would have been looked upon as a sort of curiosity. now the bloomers and stable-boys begin to talk free trade. what will they talk twenty years hence? letter xl. boston.--lawrence.--portland. portland, _july_ , . i left boston for this place, a few days since, by one of the railways. i never come to boston or go out of it without being agreeably struck with the civility and respectable appearance of the hackney-coachmen, the porters, and others for whose services the traveller has occasion. you feel, generally, in your intercourse with these persons that you are dealing with men who have a character to maintain. there is a sober substantial look about the dwellings of boston, which pleases me more than the gayer aspect of our own city. in new york we are careful to keep the outside of our houses fresh with paint, a practice which does not exist here, and which i suppose we inherited from the hollanders, who learned it i know not where--could it have been from the chinese? the country houses of holland, along the canals, are bright with paint, often of several different colors, and are as gay as pagodas. in their moist climate, where mould and moss so speedily gather, the practice may be founded in better reasons than it is with us. "boston," said a friend to whom i spoke of the appearance of comfort and thrift in that city, "is a much more crowded place than you imagine, and where people are crowded there can not be comfort. in many of the neighborhoods, back of those houses which present so respectable an aspect, are buildings rising close to each other, inhabited by the poorer class, whose families are huddled together without sufficient space and air, and here it is that boston poverty hides itself. you are more fortunate on your island, that your population can extend itself horizontally, instead of heaping itself up, as we have begun to do here." the first place which we could call pleasant after leaving boston was andover, where stuart and woods, now venerable with years, instruct the young orthodox ministers and missionaries of new england. it is prettily situated among green declivities. a little beyond, at north andover, we came in sight of the roofs and spires of the new city of lawrence, which already begin to show proudly on the sandy and sterile banks of the merrimac, a rapid and shallow river. a year ago last february, the building of the city was begun; it has now five or six thousand inhabitants, and new colonists are daily thronging in. brick kilns are smoking all over the country to supply materials for the walls of the dwellings. the place, i was told, astonishes visitors with its bustle and confusion. the streets are encumbered with heaps of fresh earth, and piles of stone, brick, beams, and boards, and people can with difficulty hear each other speak, for the constant thundering of hammers, and the shouts of cartmen and wagoners urging their oxen and horses with their loads through the deep sand of the ways. "before the last shower," said a passenger, "you could hardly see the city from this spot, on account of the cloud of dust that hung perpetually over it." "rome," says the old adage, "was not built in a day," but here is a city which, in respect of its growth, puts rome to shame. the romulus of this new city, who like the latian of old, gives his name to the community of which he is the founder, is mr. abbot lawrence, of boston, a rich manufacturer, money-making and munificent, and more fortunate in building cities and endowing schools, than in foretelling political events. he is the modern amphion, to the sound of whose music, the pleasant chink of dollars gathered in many a goodly dividend, all the stones which form the foundation of this thebes dance into their places, "and half the mountain rolls into a wall." beyond lawrence, in the state of new hampshire, the train stopped a moment at exeter, which those who delight in such comparisons might call the eton of new england. it is celebrated for its academy, where bancroft, everett, and i know not how many more of the new england scholars and men of letters, received the first rudiments of their education. it lies in a gentle depression of the surface of the country, not deep enough to be called a valley, on the banks of a little stream, and has a pleasant retired aspect. at durham, some ten miles further on, we found a long train of freight-cars crowded with the children of a sunday-school, just ready to set out on a pic-nic party, the boys shouting, and the girls, of whom the number was prodigious, showing us their smiling faces. a few middle-aged men, and a still greater number of matrons, were dispersed among them to keep them in order. at dover, where are several cotton mills, we saw a similar train, with a still larger crowd, and when we crossed the boundary of new hampshire and entered south berwick in maine, we passed through a solitary forest of oaks, where long tables and benches had been erected for their reception, and the birds were twittering in the branches over them. at length the sight of numerous groups gathering blue-berries, in an extensive tract of shrubby pasture, indicated that we were approaching a town, and in a few minutes we had arrived at portland. the conductor, whom we found intelligent and communicative, recommended that we should take quarters, during our stay, at a place called the veranda, or oak grove, on the water, about two miles from the town, and we followed his advice. we drove through portland, which is nobly situated on an eminence overlooking casco bay, its maze of channels, and almost innumerable islands, with their green slopes, cultivated fields, and rocky shores. we passed one arm of the sea after another on bridges, and at length found ourselves on a fine bold promontory, between presumpscot river and the waters of casco bay. here a house of entertainment has just been opened--the beginning of a new watering-place, which i am sure will become a favorite one in the hot months of our summers. the surrounding country is so intersected with straits, that, let the wind come from what quarter it may, it breathes cool over the waters; and the tide, rising twelve feet, can not ebb and flow without pushing forward the air and drawing it back again, and thus causing a motion of the atmosphere in the stillest weather. we passed twenty-four hours in this pleasant retreat, among the oaks of its grove, and along its rocky shores, enjoying the agreeable coolness of the fresh and bracing atmosphere. to tell the truth we have found it quite cool enough ever since we reached boston, five days ago; sometimes, in fact, a little too cool for the thin garments we are accustomed to wear at this season. returning to portland, we took passage in the steamer huntress, for augusta, up the kennebeck. i thought to give you, in this letter, an amount of this part of my journey, but i find i must reserve it for my next. letter xli. the kennebeck. keene, new hampshire, _august , _. we left portland early in the afternoon, on board the steamer huntress, and swept out of the harbor, among the numerous green islands which here break the swell of the atlantic, and keep the water almost as smooth as that of the hudson. "it is said," remarked a passenger, "that there are as many of these islands as there are days in the year, but i do not know that any body has ever counted them." two of the loftiest, rock-bound, with verdant summits, and standing out beyond the rest, overlooking the main ocean, bore light-houses, and near these we entered the mouth of the kennebeck, which here comes into the sea between banks of massive rock. at the mouth of the river were forests of stakes, for the support of the nets in which salmon, shad, and alewives are taken. the shad fishery, they told me, was not yet over, though the month of august was already come. we passed some small villages where we saw the keels of large unfinished vessels lying high upon the stocks; at bath, one of the most considerable of these places, but a small village still, were five or six, on which the ship-builders were busy. these, i was told, when once launched would never be seen again in the place where they were built, but would convey merchandise between the great ports of the world. "the activity of ship-building in the state of maine," said a gentleman whom i afterward met, "is at this moment far greater than you can form any idea of, without travelling along our coast. in solitary places where a stream or creek large enough to float a ship is found, our builders lay the keels of their vessels. it is not necessary that the channel should be wide enough for the ship to turn round; it is enough if it will contain her lengthwise. they choose a bend in the river from which they can launch her with her head down stream, and, aided by the tide, float her out to sea, after which she proceeds to boston or new york, or some other of our large seaports to do her part in carrying on the commerce of the world." i learned that the ship-builders of maine purchase large tracts of forest in virginia and other states of the south, for their supply of timber. they obtain their oaks from the virginia shore, their hard pine from north carolina; the coverings of the deck and the smaller timbers of the large vessels are furnished by maine. they take to the south cargoes of lime and other products of maine, and bring back the huge trunks produced in that region. the larger trees on the banks of the navigable rivers of maine were long ago wrought into the keels of vessels. it was not far from bath, and a considerable distance from the open sea, that we saw a large seal on a rock in the river. he turned his head slowly from side to side as we passed, without allowing himself to be disturbed by the noise we made, and kept his place as long as the eye could distinguish him. the presence of an animal always associated in the imagination with uninhabited coasts of the ocean, made us feel that we were advancing into a thinly or at least a newly peopled country. above bath, the channel of the kennebeck widens into what is called merrymeeting bay. here the great androscoggin brings in its waters from the southwest, and various other small streams from different quarters enter the bay, making it a kind of congress of rivers. it is full of wooded islands and rocky promontories projecting into the water and overshading it with their trees. as we passed up we saw, from time to time, farms pleasantly situated on the islands or the borders of the river, where a soil more genial or more easily tilled had tempted the settler to fix himself. at length we approached gardiner, a flourishing village, beautifully situated among the hills on the right bank of the kennebeck. all traces of sterility had already disappeared from the country; the shores of the river were no longer rock-bound, but disposed in green terraces, with woody eminences behind them. leaving gardiner behind us, we went on to hallowell, a village bearing similar marks of prosperity, where we landed, and were taken in carriages to augusta, the seat of government, three or four miles beyond. augusta is a pretty village, seated on green and apparently fertile eminences that overlook the kennebeck, and itself overlooked by still higher summits, covered with woods, the houses are neat, and shaded with trees, as is the case with all new england villages in the agricultural districts. i found the legislature in session; the senate, a small quiet body, deliberating for aught i could see, with as much grave and tranquil dignity as the senate of the united states. the house of representatives was just at the moment occupied by some railway question, which i was told excited more feeling than any subject that had been debated in the whole session, but even this occasioned no unseemly agitation; the surface was gently rippled, nothing more. while at augusta, we crossed the river and visited the insane asylum, a state institution, lying on the pleasant declivities of the opposite shore. it is a handsome stone building. one of the medical attendants accompanied us over a part of the building, and showed us some of the wards in which there were then scarcely any patients, and which appeared to be in excellent order, with the best arrangements for the comfort of the inmates, and a scrupulous attention to cleanliness. when we expressed a desire to see the patients, and to learn something of the manner in which they were treated, he replied, "we do not make a show of our patients; we only show the building." our visit was, of course, soon dispatched. we learned afterward that this was either insolence or laziness on the part of the officer in question, whose business it properly was to satisfy any reasonable curiosity expressed by visitors. it had been our intention to cross the country from augusta directly to the white hills in new hampshire, and we took seats in the stage-coach with that view. back of augusta the country swells into hills of considerable height with deep hollows between, in which lie a multitude of lakes. we passed several of these, beautifully embosomed among woods, meadows, and pastures, and were told that if we continued on the course we had taken we should scarcely ever find ourselves without some sheet of water in sight till we arrived at fryeburg on the boundary between maine and new hampshire. one of them, in the township of winthrop, struck us as particularly beautiful. its shores are clean and bold, with little promontories running far into the water, and several small islands. at winthrop we found that the coach in which we set out would proceed to portland, and that if we intended to go on to fryeburg, we must take seats in a shabby wagon, without the least protection for our baggage. it was already beginning to rain, and this circumstance decided us; we remained in the coach and proceeded on our return to portland. i have scarcely ever travelled in a country which presented a finer appearance of agricultural thrift and prosperity than the portions of the counties of kennebeck and cumberland, through which our road carried us. the dwellings are large, neatly painted, surrounded with fruit-trees and shrubs, and the farms in excellent order, and apparently productive. we descended at length into the low country, crossed the androscoggin to the county of york, where, as we proceeded, the country became more sandy and sterile, and the houses had a neglected aspect. at length, after a journey of fifty or sixty miles in the rain, we were again set down in the pleasant town of portland. letter xlii. the white mountains. springfield, mass., _august_ , . i had not space in my last letter, which was written from keene, in new hampshire, to speak of a visit i had just made to the white mountains. do not think i am going to bore you with a set description of my journey and ascent of mount washington; a few notes of the excursion may possibly amuse you. from conway, where the stage-coach sets you down for the night, in sight of the summits of the mountains, the road to the old notch is a very picturesque one. you follow the path of the saco along a wide valley, sometimes in the woods that overhang its bank, and sometimes on the edge of rich grassy meadows, till at length, as you leave behind you one summit after another, you find yourself in a little plain, apparently inclosed on every side by mountains. further on you enter the deep gorge which leads gradually upward to the notch. in the midst of it is situated the willey house, near which the willey family were overtaken by an avalanche and perished as they were making their escape. it is now enlarged into a house of accommodation for visitors to the mountains. nothing can exceed the aspect of desolation presented by the lofty mountain-ridges which rise on each side. they are streaked with the paths of landslides, occurring at different periods, which have left the rocky ribs of the mountains bare from their bald tops to the forests at their feet, and have filled the sides of the valley with heaps of earth, gravel, stones, and trunks of trees. from the willey house you ascend, for about two miles, a declivity, by no means steep, with these dark ridges frowning over you, your path here and there crossed by streams which have made for themselves passages in the granite sides of the mountains like narrow staircases, down which they come tumbling from one vast block to another. i afterward made acquaintance with two of these, and followed them upward from one clear pool and one white cascade to another till i was tired. the road at length passes through what may be compared to a natural gateway, a narrow chasm between tall cliffs, and through which the saco, now a mere brook, finds its way. you find yourself in a green opening, looking like the bottom of a drained lake with mountain summits around you. here is one of the houses of accommodation from which you ascend mount washington. if you should ever think of ascending mount washington, do not allow any of the hotel-keepers to cheat you in regard to the distance. it is about ten miles from either the hotels to the summit, and very little less from any of them. they keep a set of worn-out horses, which they hire for the season, and which are trained to climb the mountain, in a walk, by the worst bridle-paths in the world. the poor hacks are generally tolerably sure-footed, but there are exceptions to this. guides are sent with the visitors, who generally go on foot, strong-legged men, carrying long staves, and watching the ladies lest any accident should occur; some of these, especially those from the house in the notch, commonly called tom crawford's, are unmannerly fellows enough. the scenery of these mountains has not been sufficiently praised. but for the glaciers, but for the peaks white with perpetual snow, it would be scarcely worth while to see switzerland after seeing the white mountains. the depth of the valleys, the steepness of the mountain-sides, the variety of aspect shown by their summits, the deep gulfs of forest below, seamed with the open courses of rivers, the vast extent of the mountain region seen north and south of us, gleaming with many lakes, took me with surprise and astonishment. imagine the forests to be shorn from half the broad declivities--imagine scattered habitations on the thick green turf and footpaths leading from one to the other, and herds and flocks browzing, and you have switzerland before you. i admit, however, that these accessories add to the variety and interest of the landscape, and perhaps heighten the idea of its vastness. i have been told, however, that the white mountains in autumn present an aspect more glorious than even the splendors of the perpetual ice of the alps. all this mighty multitude of mountains, rising from valleys filled with dense forests, have then put on their hues of gold and scarlet, and, seen more distinctly on account of their brightness of color, seem to tower higher in the clear blue of the sky. at that season of the year they are little visited, and only awaken the wonder of the occasional traveller. it is not necessary to ascend mount washington, to enjoy the finest views. some of the lower peaks offer grander though not so extensive ones; the height of the main summit seems to diminish the size of the objects beheld from it. the sense of solitude and immensity is however most strongly felt on that great cone, overlooking all the rest, and formed of loose rocks, which seem as if broken into fragments by the power which upheaved these ridges from the depths of the earth below. at some distance on the northern side of one of the summits, i saw a large snow-drift lying in the august sunshine. the franconia notch, which we afterwards visited, is almost as remarkable for the two beautiful little lakes within it, as for the savage grandeur of the mountain-walls between which it passes. at this place i was shown a hen clucking over a brood of young puppies. they were littered near the nest where she was sitting, when she immediately abandoned her eggs and adopted them as her offspring. she had a battle with the mother, and proved victorious; after which, however, a compromise took place, the slut nursing the puppies and the hen covering them as well as she could with her wings. she was strutting among them when i saw her, with an appearance of pride at having produced so gigantic a brood. from franconia we proceeded to bath, on or near the connecticut, and entered the lovely valley of that river, which is as beautiful in new hampshire, as in any part of its course. hanover, the seat of dartmouth college, is a pleasant spot, but the traveller will find there the worst hotels on the river. windsor, on the vermont side, is a still finer village, with trim gardens and streets shaded by old trees; bellows falls is one of the most striking places for its scenery in all new england. the coach brought us to the railway station in the pleasant village of greenfield. we took seats in the train, and leaving on our left the quiet old streets of deerfield under their ancient trees, and passing a dozen or more of the villages on the meadows of the connecticut, found ourselves in less than two hours in this flourishing place, which is rapidly rising to be one of the most important towns in new england. letter xliii. a passage to savannah. augusta, georgia, _march , _. a quiet passage by sea from new york to savannah would seem to afford little matter for a letter, yet those who take the trouble to read what i am about to write, will, i hope, admit that there are some things to be observed, even on such a voyage. it was indeed a remarkably quiet one, and worthy of note on that account, if on no other. we had a quiet vessel, quiet weather, a quiet, good-natured captain, a quiet crew, and remarkably quiet passengers. when we left the wharf at new york last week, in the good steamship tennessee, we were not conscious, at first, as we sat in the cabin, that she was in motion and proceeding down the harbor. there was no beating or churning of the sea, no struggling to get forward; her paddles played in the water as smoothly as those of a terrapin, without jar or noise. the tennessee is one of the tightest and strongest boats that navigate our coast; the very flooring of her deck is composed of timbers instead of planks, and helps to keep her massive frame more compactly and solidly together. it was her first voyage; her fifty-one passengers lolled on sofas fresh from the upholsterer's, and slept on mattresses which had never been pressed by the human form before, in state-rooms where foul air had never collected. nor is it possible that the air should become impure in them to any great degree, for the tennessee is the best-ventilated ship i ever was in; the main cabin and the state-rooms are connected with each other and with the deck, by numerous openings and pipes which keep up a constant circulation of air in every part. i have spoken of the passengers as remarkably quiet persons. several of them, i believe, never spoke during the passage, at least so it seemed to me. the silence would have been almost irksome, but for two lively little girls who amused us by their prattle, and two young women, apparently just married, too happy to do any thing but laugh, even when suffering from seasickness, and whom we now and then heard shouting and squealing from their state-rooms. there were two dark-haired, long-limbed gentlemen, who lay the greater part of the first and second day at full length on the sofas in the after-cabin, each with a spittoon before him, chewing tobacco with great rapidity and industry, and apparently absorbed in the endeavor to fill it within a given time. there was another, with that atrabilious complexion peculiar to marshy countries, and circles of a still deeper hue about his eyes, who sat on deck, speechless and motionless, wholly indifferent to the sound of the dinner-bell, his countenance fixed in an expression which seemed to indicate an utter disgust of life. yet we had some snatches of good talk on the voyage. a robust old gentleman, a native of norwalk, in connecticut, told us that he had been reading a history of that place by the rev. mr. hall. "i find," said he, "that in his account of the remarkable people of norwalk, he has omitted to speak of two of the most remarkable, two spinsters, sarah and phebe comstock, relatives of mine and friends of my youth, of whom i retain a vivid recollection. they were in opulent circumstances for the neighborhood in which they lived, possessing a farm of about two hundred acres; they were industrious, frugal, and extremely charitable; but they never relieved a poor family without visiting it, and inquiring carefully into its circumstances. sarah was the housekeeper, and phebe the farmer. phebe knew nothing of kitchen matters, but she knew at what time of the year greensward should be broken up, and corn planted, and potatoes dug. she dropped indian corn and sowed english grain with her own hands. in the time of planting or of harvest, it was sarah who visited and relieved the poor. "i remember that they had various ways of employing the young people who called upon them. if it was late in the autumn, there was a chopping-board and chopping-knife ready, with the feet of neat-cattle, from which the oily parts had been extracted by boiling. 'you do not want to be idle,' they would say, 'chop this meat, and you shall have your share of the mince-pies that we are going to make.' at other times a supply of old woollen stockings were ready for unraveling. 'we know you do not care to be idle' they would say, 'here are some stockings which you would oblige us by unraveling.' if you asked what use they made of the spools of woollen thread obtained by this process, they would answer: 'we use it as the weft of the linsey-woolsey with which we clothe our negroes.' they had negro slaves in those times, and old tone, a faithful black servant of theirs, who has seen more than a hundred years, is alive yet. "they practiced one very peculiar piece of economy. the white hickory you know, yields the purest and sweetest of saccharine juices. they had their hickory fuel cut into short billets, which before placing on the fire they laid on the andirons, a little in front of the blaze, so as to subject it to a pretty strong heat. this caused the syrup in the wood to drop from each end of the billet, where it was caught in a cup, and in this way a gallon or two was collected in the course of a fortnight. with this they flavored their finest cakes. "they died about thirty years since, one at the age of eighty-nine, and the other at the age of ninety. on the tomb-stone of one of them, it was recorded that she had been a member of the church for seventy years. their father was a remarkable man in his way. he was a rich man in his time, and kept a park of deer, one of the last known in connecticut, for the purpose of supplying his table with venison. he prided himself on the strict and literal fulfillment of his word. on one occasion he had a law-suit with one of his neighbors, before a justice of the peace, in which he was cast and ordered to pay ten shillings damages, and a shilling as the fees of court. he paid the ten shillings, and asked the justice whether he would allow him to pay the remaining shilling when he next passed his door. the magistrate readily consented, but from that time old comstock never went by his house. whenever he had occasion to go to church, or to any other place, the direct road to which led by the justice's door, he was careful to take a lane which passed behind the dwelling, and at some distance from it. the shilling remained unpaid up to the day of his death, and it was found that in his last will he had directed that his corpse should be carried by that lane to the place of interment." when we left the quarantine ground on thursday morning, after lying moored all night with a heavy rain beating on the deck, the sky was beginning to clear with a strong northwest wind and the decks were slippery with ice. when the sun rose it threw a cold white light upon the waters, and the passengers who appeared on deck were muffled to the eyes. as we proceeded southwardly, the temperature grew milder, and the day closed with a calm and pleasant sunset. the next day the weather was still milder, until about noon, when we arrived off cape hatteras a strong wind set in from the northeast, clouds gathered with a showery aspect, and every thing seemed to betoken an impending storm. at this moment the captain shifted the direction of the voyage, from south to southwest; we ran before the wind leaving the storm, if there was any, behind us, and the day closed with another quiet and brilliant sunset. the next day, the third of our voyage, broke upon us like a day in summer, with amber-colored sunshine and the blandest breezes that ever blew. an awning was stretched over the deck to protect us from the beams of the sun, and all the passengers gathered under it; the two dark-complexioned gentlemen left the task of filling the spittoons below, and came up to chew their tobacco on deck; the atrabilious passenger was seen to interest himself in the direction of the compass, and once was thought to smile, and the hale old gentleman repeated the history of his norwalk relatives. on the fourth morning we landed at savannah. it was delightful to eyes which had seen only russet fields and leafless trees for months, to gaze on the new and delicate green of the trees and the herbage. the weeping willows drooped in full leaf, the later oaks were putting forth their new foliage, the locust-trees had hung out their tender sprays and their clusters of blossoms not yet unfolded, the chinese wistaria covered the sides of houses with its festoons of blue blossoms, and roses were nodding at us in the wind, from the tops of the brick walls which surround the gardens. yet winter had been here, i saw. the orange-trees which, since the great frost seven or eight years ago, had sprung from the ground and grown to the height of fifteen or twenty feet, had a few days before my arrival felt another severe frost, and stood covered with sere dry leaves in the gardens, some of them yet covered with fruit. the trees were not killed, however, as formerly, though they will produce no fruit this season, and new leaf-buds were beginning to sprout on their boughs. the dwarf-orange, a hardier tree, had escaped entirely, and its blossoms were beginning to open. i visited bonaventure, which i formerly described in one of my letters. it has lost the interest of utter solitude and desertion which it then had. a gothic cottage has been built on the place, and the avenues of live-oaks have been surrounded with an inclosure, for the purpose of making a cemetery on the spot. yet there they stand, as solemn as ever, lifting and stretching their long irregular branches overhead, hung with masses and festoons of gray moss. it almost seemed, when i looked up to them, as if the clouds had come nearer to the earth than is their wont, and formed themselves into the shadowy ribs of the vault above me. the drive to bonaventure at this season of the year is very beautiful, though the roads are sandy; it is partly along an avenue of tall trees, and partly through the woods, where the dog-wood and azalea and thorn-trees are in blossom, and the ground is sprinkled with flowers. here and there are dwellings beside the road. "they are unsafe the greater part of the year," said the gentleman who drove me out, and who spoke from professional knowledge, "a summer residence in them is sure to bring dangerous fevers." savannah is a healthy city, but it is like rome, imprisoned by malaria. the city of savannah, since i saw it six years ago, has enlarged considerably, and the additions made to it increase its beauty. the streets have been extended on the south side, on the same plan as those of the rest of the city, with small parks at short distances from each other, planted with trees; and the new houses are handsome and well-built. the communications opened with the interior by long lines of railway have, no doubt, been the principal occasion of this prosperity. these and the savannah river send enormous quantities of cotton to the savannah market. one should see, with the bodily eye, the multitude of bales of this commodity accumulating in the warehouses and elsewhere, in order to form an idea of the extent to which it is produced in the southern states--long trains of cars heaped with bales, steamer after steamer loaded high with bales coming down the rivers, acres of bales on the wharves, acres of bales at the railway stations--one should see all this, and then carry his thoughts to the millions of the civilized world who are clothed by this great staple of our country. i came to this place by steamer to charleston and then by railway. the line of the railway, one hundred and thirty-seven miles in length, passes through the most unproductive district of south carolina. it is in fact nothing but a waste of forest, with here and there an open field, half a dozen glimpses of plantations, and about as many villages, none of which are considerable, and some of which consist of not more than half a dozen houses. aiken, however, sixteen miles before you reach the savannah river, has a pleasant aspect. it is situated on a comparatively high tract of country, sandy and barren, but healthy, and hither the planters resort in the hot months from their homes in the less salubrious districts. pretty cottages stand dispersed among the oaks and pines, and immediately west of the place the country descends in pleasant undulations towards the valley of the savannah. the appearance of augusta struck me very agreeably as i reached it, on a most delightful afternoon, which seemed to me more like june than march. i was delighted to see turf again, regular greensward of sweet grasses and clover, such as you see in may in the northern states, and do not meet on the coast in the southern states. the city lies on a broad rich plain on the savannah river, with woody declivities to the north and west. i have seen several things here since my arrival which interested me much, and if i can command time i will speak of them in another letter. letter xliv. southern cotton mills. barnwell district, south carolina, _march_ , . i promised to say something more of augusta if i had time before departing from cuba, and i find that i have a few moments to spare for a hasty letter. the people of augusta boast of the beauty of their place, and not without some reason. the streets are broad, and in some parts overshadowed with rows of fine trees. the banks of the river on which it stands are high and firm, and slopes half covered with forest, of a pleasant aspect, overlook it from the west and from the carolina side. to the south stretches a broad champaign country, on which are some of the finest plantations of georgia. i visited one of these, consisting of ten thousand acres, kept throughout in as perfect order as a small farm at the north, though large enough for a german principality. but what interested me most, was a visit to a cotton mill in the neighborhood,--a sample of a class of manufacturing establishments, where the poor white people of this state and of south carolina find occupation. it is a large manufactory, and the machinery is in as perfect order as in any of the mills at the north. "here," said a gentleman who accompanied us, as we entered the long apartment in the second story, "you will see a sample of the brunettes of the piny woods." the girls of various ages, who are employed at the spindles, had, for the most part, a sallow, sickly complexion, and in many of their faces, i remarked that look of mingled distrust and dejection which often accompanies the condition of extreme, hopeless poverty. "these poor girls," said one of our party, "think themselves extremely fortunate to be employed here, and accept work gladly. they come from the most barren parts of carolina and georgia, where their families live wretchedly, often upon unwholesome food, and as idly as wretchedly, for hitherto there has been no manual occupation provided for them from which they do not shrink as disgraceful, on account of its being the occupation of slaves. in these factories negroes are not employed as operatives, and this gives the calling of the factory girl a certain dignity. you would be surprised to see the change which a short time effects in these poor people. they come barefooted, dirty, and in rags; they are scoured, put into shoes and stockings, set at work and sent regularly to the sunday-schools, where they are taught what none of them have been taught before--to read and write. in a short time they became expert at their work; they lose their sullen shyness, and their physiognomy becomes comparatively open and cheerful. their families are relieved from the temptations to theft and other shameful courses which accompany the condition of poverty without occupation." "they have a good deal of the poke-easy manner of the piny woods about them yet," said one of our party, a georgian. it was true, i perceived that they had not yet acquired all that alacrity and quickness in their work which you see in the work-people of the new england mills. in one of the upper stories i saw a girl of a clearer complexion than the rest, with two long curls swinging behind each ear, as she stepped about with the air of a duchess. "that girl is from the north," said our conductor; "at first we placed an expert operative from the north in each story of the building as an instructor and pattern to the rest." i have since learned that some attempts were made at first to induce the poor white people to work side by side with the blacks in these mills. these utterly failed, and the question then became with the proprietors whether they should employ blacks only or whites only; whether they should give these poor people an occupation which, while it tended to elevate their condition, secured a more expert class of work-people than the negroes could be expected to become, or whether they should rely upon the less intelligent and more negligent services of slaves. they decided at length upon banishing the labor of blacks from their mills. at graniteville, in south carolina, about ten miles from the savannah river, a neat little manufacturing village has lately been built up, where the families of the _crackers_, as they are called, reclaimed from their idle lives in the woods, are settled, and white labor only is employed. the enterprise is said to be in a most prosperous condition. only coarse cloths are made in these mills--strong, thick fabrics, suitable for negro shirting--and the demand for this kind of goods, i am told, is greater than the supply. every yard made in this manufactory at augusta, is taken off as soon as it leaves the loom. i fell in with a northern man in the course of the day, who told me that these mills had driven the northern manufacturer of coarse cottons out of the southern market. "the buildings are erected here more cheaply," he continued, "there is far less expense in fuel, and the wages of the workpeople are less. at first the boys and girls of the cracker families were engaged for little more than their board; their wages are now better, but they are still low. i am about to go to the north, and i shall do my best to persuade some of my friends, who have been almost ruined by this southern competition, to come to augusta and set up cotton mills." there is water-power at augusta sufficient to turn the machinery of many large establishments. a canal from the savannah river brings in a large volume of water, which passes from level to level, and might be made to turn the spindles and drive the looms of a populous manufacturing town. such it will become, if any faith is to be placed in present indications, and a considerable manufacturing population will be settled at this place, drawn from the half-wild inhabitants of the most barren parts of the southern states. i look upon the introduction of manufactures at the south as an event of the most favorable promise for that part of the country, since it both condenses a class of population too thinly scattered to have the benefit of the institutions of civilized life, of education and religion--and restores one branch of labor, at least, to its proper dignity, in a region where manual labor has been the badge of servitude and dependence. one of the pleasantest spots in the neighborhood of augusta is somerville, a sandy eminence, covered with woods, the shade of which is carefully cherished, and in the midst of which are numerous cottages and country seats, closely embowered in trees, with pleasant paths leading to them from the highway. here the evenings in summer are not so oppressively hot as in the town below, and dense as the shade is, the air is dry and elastic. hither many families retire during the hot season, and many reside here the year round. we drove through it as the sun was setting, and called at the dwellings of several of the hospitable inhabitants. the next morning the railway train brought us to barnwell district, in south carolina, where i write this. i intended to send you some notes of the agricultural changes which i have observed in this part of south carolina since i was last here, but i have hardly time to do it. the culture of wheat has been introduced, many planters now raising enough for their own consumption. the sugar cane is also planted, and quantities of sugar and molasses are often made sufficient to supply the plantations on which it is cultivated. spinning-wheels and looms have come into use, and a strong and durable cotton cloth is woven by the negro women for the wear of the slaves. all this shows a desire to make the most of the recources of the country, and to protect the planter against the embarrassments which often arise from the fluctuating prices of the great staple of the south--cotton. but i have no time to dwell upon this subject. to-morrow i sail for cuba. letter xlv. the florida coast.--key west. havana, _april_ , . it was a most agreeable voyage which i made in the steamer isabel, to this port, the wind in our favor the whole distance, fine bright weather, the temperature passing gradually from what we have it in new york at the end of may, to what it is in the middle of june. the isabel is a noble sea-boat, of great strength, not so well ventilated as the tennessee, in which we came to savannah, with spacious and comfortable cabins, and, i am sorry to say, rather dirty state-rooms. we stopped off savannah near the close of the first day of our voyage, to leave some of our passengers and take in others; and on the second, which was also the second of the month, we were running rapidly down the florida coast, with the trade-wind fresh on our beam, sweeping before it a long swell from the east, in which our vessel rocked too much for the stomachs of most of the passengers. the next day the sea was smoother; we had changed our direction somewhat and were going before the wind, the florida reefs full in sight, with their long streak of white surf, beyond which, along the line of the shore, lay a belt of water, of bright translucent green, and in front the waves wore an amethystine tint. we sat the greater part of the day under an awning. a long line, with a baited hook at the end, was let down into the water from the stern of our vessel, and after being dragged there an hour or two, it was seized by a king-fish, which was immediately hauled on board. it was an elegantly shaped fish, weighing nearly twenty pounds, with a long head, and scales shining with blue and purple. it was served up for dinner, and its flavor much commended by the amateurs. the waters around us were full of sails, gleaming in the sunshine. "they belong," said our charleston pilot, "to the wreckers who live at key west. every morning they come out and cruise among the reefs, to discover if there are any vessels wrecked or in distress--the night brings them back to the harbor on their island." your readers know, i presume, that at key west is a town containing nearly three thousand inhabitants, who subsist solely by the occupation of relieving vessels in distress navigating this dangerous coast, and bringing in such as are wrecked. the population, of course, increases with the commerce of the country, and every vessel that sails from our ports to the gulf of mexico, or comes from the gulf to the north, every addition to the intercourse of the atlantic ports with mobile, new orleans, the west indies, or central america, adds to their chances of gain. these people neither plant nor sow; their isle is a low barren spot, surrounded by a beach of white sand, formed of disintegrated porous limestone, and a covering of the same sand, spread thinly over the rock, forms its soil. "it is a scandal," said the pilot, "that this coast is not better lighted. a few light-houses would make its navigation much safer, and they would be built, if florida had any man in congress to represent the matter properly to the government. i have long been familiar with this coast--sixty times, at least, i have made the voyage from charleston to havana, and i am sure that there is no such dangerous navigation on the coast of the united states. in going to havana, or to new orleans, or to other ports on the gulf, commanders of vessels try to avoid the current of the gulf-stream which would carry them to the north, and they, therefore, shave the florida coast, and keep near the reefs which you see yonder. they often strike the reefs inadvertently, or are driven against them by storms. in returning northward the navigation is safer; we give a good offing to the reefs and strike out into the gulf-stream, the current of which carries us in the direction of our voyage." a little before nine o'clock we had entered the little harbor of key west, and were moored in its still waters. it was a bright moonlight evening, and we rambled two or three hours about the town and the island. the hull of a dismasted vessel lay close by our landing-place; it had no name on bow or stern, and had just been found abandoned at sea, and brought in by the wreckers; its cargo, consisting of logwood, had been taken out and lay in piles on the wharf. this town has principally grown up since the florida war. the habitations have a comfortable appearance; some of them are quite neat, but the sterility of the place is attested by the want of gardens. in some of the inclosures before the houses, however, there were tropical shrubs in flower, and here the cocoanut-tree was growing, and other trees of the palm kind, which rustled with a sharp dry sound in the fresh wind from the sea. they were the first palms i had seen growing in the open air, and they gave a tropical aspect to the place. we fell in with a man who had lived thirteen years at key west. he told us that its three thousand inhabitants had four places of worship--an episcopal, a catholic, a methodist, and a baptist church; and the drinking-houses which we saw open, with such an elaborate display of bottles and decanters, were not resorted to by the people of the place, but were the haunt of english and american sailors, whom the disasters, or the regular voyages of their vessels had brought hither. he gave us an account of the hurricane of september, , which overflowed and laid waste the island. "here where we stand," said he, "the water was four feet deep at least. i saved my family in a boat, and carried them to a higher part of the island. two houses which i owned were swept away by the flood, and i was ruined. most of the houses were unroofed by the wind; every vessel belonging to the place was lost; dismasted hulks were floating about, and nobody knew to whom they belonged, and dead bodies of men and women lay scattered along the beach. it was the worst hurricane ever known at key west; before it came, we used to have a hurricane regularly once in two years, but we have had none since." a bell was rung about this time, and we asked the reason. "it is to signify that the negroes must be at their homes," answered the man. we inquired if there were many blacks in the place. "till lately," he replied, "there were about eighty, but since the united states government has begun to build the fort yonder, their number has increased. several broken-down planters, who have no employment for their slaves, have sent them to key west to be employed by the government. we do not want them here, and wish that the government would leave them on the hands of their masters." on the fourth morning when we went on deck, the coast of cuba, a ridge of dim hills, was in sight, and our vessel was rolling in the unsteady waves of the gulf stream, which here beat against the northern shore of the island. it was a hot morning, as the mornings in this climate always are till the periodical breeze springs up, about ten o'clock, and refreshes all the islands that lie in the embrace of the gulf. in a short time, the cream-colored walls of the moro, the strong castle which guards the entrance to the harbor of havana, appeared rising from the waters. we passed close to the cliffs on which it is built, were hailed in english, a gun was fired, our steamer darted through a narrow entrance into the harbor, and anchored in the midst of what appeared a still inland lake. the city of havana has a cheerful appearance seen from the harbor. its massive houses, built for the most part of the porous rock of the island, are covered with stucco, generally of a white or cream color, but often stained sky-blue or bright yellow. above these rise the dark towers and domes of the churches, apparently built of a more durable material, and looking more venerable for the gay color of the dwellings amidst which they stand. the extensive fortifications of cabañas crown the heights on that side of the harbor which lies opposite to the town; and south of the city a green, fertile valley, in which stand scattered palm-trees, stretches towards the pleasant village of cerro. we lay idly in the stream for two hours, till the authorities of the port could find time to visit us. they arrived at last, and without coming on board, subjected the captain to a long questioning, and searched the newspapers he brought for intelligence relating to the health of the port from which he sailed. at last they gave us leave to land, without undergoing a quarantine, and withdrew, taking with them our passports. we went on shore, and after three hours further delay got our baggage through the custom-house. letter xlvi. havana. havana, _april_ , . i find that it requires a greater effort of resolution to sit down to the writing of a long letter in this soft climate, than in the country i have left. i feel a temptation to sit idly, and let the grateful wind from the sea, coming in at the broad windows, flow around me, or read, or talk, as i happen to have a book or a companion. that there is something in a tropical climate which indisposes one to vigorous exertion i can well believe, from what i experience in myself, and what i see around me. the ladies do not seem to take the least exercise, except an occasional drive on the paseo, or public park; they never walk out, and when they are shopping, which is no less the vocation of their sex here than in other civilized countries, they never descend from their _volantes_, but the goods are brought out by the obsequious shopkeeper, and the lady makes her choice and discusses the price as she sits in her carriage. yet the women of cuba show no tokens of delicate health. freshness of color does not belong to a latitude so near the equator, but they have plump figures, placid, unwrinkled countenances, a well-developed bust, and eyes, the brilliant languor of which is not the languor of illness. the girls as well as the young men, have rather narrow shoulders, but as they advance in life, the chest, in the women particularly, seems to expand from year to year, till it attains an amplitude by no means common in our country. i fully believe that this effect, and their general health, in spite of the inaction in which they pass their lives, is owing to the free circulation of air through their apartments. for in cuba, the women as well as the men may be said to live in the open air. they know nothing of close rooms, in all the island, and nothing of foul air, and to this, i have no doubt, quite as much as to the mildness of the temperature, the friendly effect of its climate upon invalids from the north is to be ascribed. their ceilings are extremely lofty, and the wide windows, extending from the top of the room to the floor and guarded by long perpendicular bars of iron, are without glass, and when closed are generally only closed with blinds which, while they break the force of the wind when it is too strong, do not exclude the air. since i have been on the island, i may be said to have breakfasted and dined and supped and slept in the open air, in an atmosphere which is never in repose except for a short time in the morning after sunrise. at other times a breeze is always stirring, in the day-time bringing in the air from the ocean, and at night drawing it out again to the sea. in walking through the streets of the towns in cuba, i have been entertained by the glimpses i had through the ample windows, of what was going on in the parlors. sometimes a curtain hanging before them allowed me only a sight of the small hands which clasped the bars of the grate, and the dusky faces and dark eyes peeping into the street and scanning the passers by. at other times, the whole room was seen, with its furniture, and its female forms sitting in languid postures, courting the breeze as it entered from without. in the evening, as i passed along the narrow sidewalk of the narrow streets, i have been startled at finding myself almost in the midst of a merry party gathered about the window of a brilliantly lighted room, and chattering the soft spanish of the island in voices that sounded strangely near to me. i have spoken of their languid postures: they love to recline on sofas; their houses are filled with rocking-chairs imported from the united states; they are fond of sitting in chairs tilted against the wall, as we sometimes do at home. indeed they go beyond us in this respect; for in cuba they have invented a kind of chair which, by lowering the back and raising the knees, places the sitter precisely in the posture he would take if he sat in a chair leaning backward against a wall. it is a luxurious attitude, i must own, and i do not wonder that it is a favorite with lazy people, for it relieves one of all the trouble of keeping the body upright. it is the women who form the large majority of the worshipers in the churches. i landed here in passion week, and the next day was holy thursday, when not a vehicle on wheels of any sort is allowed to be seen in the streets; and the ladies, contrary to their custom during the rest of the year, are obliged to resort to the churches on foot. negro servants of both sexes were seen passing to and fro, carrying mats on which their mistresses were to kneel in the morning service. all the white female population, young and old, were dressed in black, with black lace veils. in the afternoon, three wooden or waxen images of the size of life, representing christ in the different stages of his passion, were placed in the spacious church of st. catharine, which was so thronged that i found it difficult to enter. near the door was a figure of the saviour sinking under the weight of his cross, and the worshipers were kneeling to kiss his feet. aged negro men and women, half-naked negro children, ladies richly attired, little girls in parisian dresses, with lustrous black eyes and a profusion of ringlets, cast themselves down before the image, and pressed their lips to its feet in a passion of devotion. mothers led up their little ones, and showed them how to perform this act of adoration. i saw matrons and young women rise from it with their eyes red with tears. the next day, which was good friday, about twilight, a long procession came trailing slowly through the streets under my window, bearing an image of the dead christ, lying upon a cloth of gold. it was accompanied by a body of soldiery, holding their muskets reversed, and a band playing plaintive tunes; the crowd uncovered their heads as it passed. on saturday morning, at ten o'clock, the solemnities of holy week were over; the bells rang a merry peal; hundreds of volantes and drays, which had stood ready harnessed, rushed into the streets; the city became suddenly noisy with the rattle of wheels and the tramp of horses; the shops which had been shut for the last two days, were opened; and the ladies, in white or light-colored muslins, were proceeding in their volantes to purchase at the shops their costumes for the easter festivities. i passed the evening on the _plaza de armas_, a public square in front of the governor's house, planted with palms and other trees, paved with broad flags, and bordered with a row of benches. it was crowded with people in their best dresses, the ladies mostly in white, and without bonnets, for the bonnet in this country is only worn while travelling. chairs had been placed for them in a double row around the edge of the square, and a row of volantes surrounded the square, in each of which sat two or more ladies, the ample folds of their muslin dresses flowing out on each side over the steps of the carriage. the governor's band played various airs, martial and civic, with great beauty of execution. the music continued for two hours, and the throng, with only occasional intervals of conversation, seemed to give themselves up wholly to the enjoyment of listening to it. it was a bright moonlight night, so bright that one might almost see to read, and the temperature the finest i can conceive, a gentle breeze rustling among the palms overhead. i was surprised at seeing around me so many fair brows and snowy necks. it is the moonlight, said i to myself, or perhaps it is the effect of the white dresses, for the complexions of these ladies seem to differ several shades from those which i saw yesterday at the churches. a female acquaintance has since given me another solution of the matter. "the reason," she said, "of the difference you perceived is this, that during the ceremonies of holy week they take off the _cascarilla_ from their faces, and appear in their natural complexions." i asked the meaning of the word _cascarilla_, which i did not remember to have heard before. "it is the favorite cosmetic of the island, and is made of egg-shells finely pulverized. they often fairly plaster their faces with it. i have seen a dark-skinned lady as white almost as marble at a ball. they will sometimes, at a morning call or an evening party, withdraw to repair the _cascarilla_ on their faces." i do not vouch for this tale, but tell it "as it was told to me." perhaps, after all, it was the moonlight which had produced this transformation, though i had noticed something of the same improvement of complexion just before sunset, on the paseo isabel, a public park without the city walls, planted with rows of trees, where, every afternoon, the gentry of havana drive backward and forward in their volantes, with each a glittering harness, and a liveried negro bestriding, in large jack-boots, the single horse which draws the vehicle. i had also the same afternoon visited the receptacle into which the population of the city are swept when the game of life is played out--the campo santo, as it is called, or public cemetery of havana. going out of the city at the gate nearest the sea, i passed through a street of the wretchedest houses i had seen; the ocean was roaring at my right on the coral rocks which form the coast. the dingy habitations were soon left behind, and i saw the waves, pushed forward by a fresh wind, flinging their spray almost into the road; i next entered a short avenue of trees, and in a few minutes the volante stopped at the gate of the cemetery. in a little inclosure before the entrance, a few starvling flowers of europe were cultivated, but the wild plants of the country flourished luxuriantly on the rich soil within. a thick wall surrounded the cemetery, in which were rows of openings for coffins, one above the other, where the more opulent of the dead were entombed. the coffin is thrust in endwise, and the opening closed with a marble slab bearing an inscription. most of these niches were already occupied, but in the earth below, by far the greater part of those who die at havana, are buried without a monument or a grave which they are allowed to hold a longer time than is necessary for their bodies to be consumed in the quicklime which is thrown upon them. every day fresh trenches are dug in which their bodies are thrown, generally without coffins. two of these, one near each wall of the cemetery, were waiting for the funerals. i saw where the spade had divided the bones of those who were buried there last, and thrown up the broken fragments, mingled with masses of lime, locks of hair, and bits of clothing. without the walls was a receptacle in which the skulls and other larger bones, dark with the mould of the grave, were heaped. two or three persons were walking about the cemetery when we first entered, but it was now at length the cool of the day, and the funerals began to arrive. they brought in first a rude black coffin, broadest at the extremity which contained the head, and placing it at the end of one of the trenches, hurriedly produced a hammer and nails to fasten the lid before letting it down, when it was found that the box was too shallow at the narrower extremity. the lid was removed for a moment and showed the figure of an old man in a threadbare black coat, white pantaloons, and boots. the negroes who bore it beat out the bottom with the hammer, so as to allow the lid to be fastened over the feet. it was then nailed down firmly with coarse nails, the coffin was swung into the trench, and the earth shoveled upon it. a middle-aged man, wrho seemed to be some relative of the dead, led up a little boy close to the grave and watched the process of filling it. they spoke to each other and smiled, stood till the pit was filled to the surface, and the bearers had departed, and then retired in their turn. this was one of the more respectable class of funerals. commonly the dead are piled without coffins, one above the other, in the trenches. the funerals now multiplied. the corpse of a little child was brought in, uncoffined; and another, a young man who, i was told, had cut his throat for love, was borne towards one of the niches in the wall. i heard loud voices, which seemed to proceed from the eastern side of the cemetery, and which, i thought at first, might be the recitation of a funeral service; but no funeral service is said at these graves; and, after a time, i perceived that they came from the windows of a long building which overlooked one side of the burial ground. it was a mad-house. the inmates, exasperated at the spectacle before them, were gesticulating from the windows--the women screaming and the men shouting, but no attention was paid to their uproar. a lady, however, a stranger to the island, who visited the campo santo that afternoon, was so affected by the sights and sounds of the place, that she was borne out weeping and almost in convulsions. as we left the place, we found a crowd of volantes about the gate; a pompous bier, with rich black hangings, drew up; a little beyond, we met one of another kind--a long box, with glass sides and ends, in which lay the corpse of a woman, dressed in white, with a black veil thrown over the face. the next day the festivities, which were to indemnify the people for the austerities of lent and of passion week, began. the cock-pits were opened during the day, and masked balls were given in the evening at the theatres. you know, probably, that cock-fighting is the principal diversion of the island, having entirely supplanted the national spectacle of bull-baiting. cuba, in fact, seemed to me a great poultry-yard. i heard the crowing of cocks in all quarters, for the game-cock is the noisiest and most boastful of birds, and is perpetually uttering his notes of defiance. in the villages i saw the veterans of the pit, a strong-legged race, with their combs cropped smooth to the head, the feathers plucked from every part of the body except their wings, and the tail docked like that of a coach horse, picking up their food in the lanes among the chickens. one old cripple i remember to have seen in the little town of guines, stiff with wounds received in combat, who had probably got a furlough for life, and who, while limping among his female companions, maintained a sort of strut in his gait, and now and then stopped to crow defiance to the world. the peasants breed game-cocks and bring them to market; amateurs in the town train them for their private amusement. dealers in game-cocks are as common as horse-jockies with us, and every village has its cock-pit. i went on monday to the _valla de gallos_, situated in that part of havana which lies without the walls. here, in a spacious inclosure, were two amphitheatres of benches, roofed, but without walls, with a circular area in the midst. each was crowded with people, who were looking at a cock-fight, and half of whom seemed vociferating with all their might. i mounted one of the outer benches, and saw one of the birds laid dead by the other in a few minutes. then was heard the chink of gold and silver pieces, as the betters stepped into the area and paid their wagers; the slain bird was carried out and thrown on the ground, and the victor, taken into the hands of the owner, crowed loudly in celebration of his victory. two other birds were brought in, and the cries of those who offered wagers were heard on all sides. they ceased at last, and the cocks were put down to begin the combat. they fought warily at first, but at length began to strike in earnest, the blood flowed, and the bystanders were heard to vociferate, "_ahí están pelezando_"[ ]--"_mata! mata! mata!_"[ ] gesticulating at the same time with great violence, and new wagers were laid as the interest of the combat increased. in ten minutes one of the birds was dispatched, for the combat never ends till one of them has his death-wound. in the mean time several other combats had begun in smaller pits, which lay within the same inclosure, but were not surrounded with circles of benches. i looked upon the throng engaged in this brutal sport, with eager gestures and loud cries, and could not help thinking how soon this noisy crowd would lie in heaps in the pits of the campo santo. in the evening was a masked ball in the tacon theatre, a spacious building, one of the largest of its kind in the world. the pit, floored over, with the whole depth of the stage open to the back wall of the edifice, furnished a ball-room of immense size. people in grotesque masks, in hoods or fancy dresses, were mingled with a throng clad in the ordinary costume, and spanish dances were performed to the music of a numerous band. a well-dressed crowd filled the first and second tier of boxes. the creole smokes everywhere, and seemed astonished when the soldier who stood at the door ordered him to throw away his lighted segar before entering. once upon the floor, however, he lighted another segar in defiance of the prohibition. the spanish dances, with their graceful movements, resembling the undulations of the sea in its gentlest moods, are nowhere more gracefully performed than in cuba, by the young women born on the island. i could not help thinking, however, as i looked on that gay crowd, on the quaint maskers, and the dancers whose flexible limbs seemed swayed to and fro by the breath of the music, that all this was soon to end at the campo santo, and i asked myself how many of all this crowd would be huddled uncoffined, when their sports were over, into the foul trenches of the public cemetery. letter xlvii. scenery of cuba.--coffee plantations. matanzas, _april , _. my expectations of the scenery of the island of cuba and of the magnificence of its vegetation, have not been quite fulfilled. this place is but sixty miles to the east of havana, but the railway which brings you hither, takes you over a sweep of a hundred and thirty miles, through one of the most fertile districts in the interior of the island. i made an excursion from havana to san antonio de los baños, a pleasant little town at nine leagues distance, in a southeast direction from the capital, in what is called the vuelta abajo. i have also just returned from a visit to some fine sugar estates to the southeast of matanzas, so that i may claim to have seen something of the face of the country of which i speak. at this season the hills about havana, and the pastures everywhere, have an arid look, a russet hue, like sandy fields with us, when scorched by a long drought, on like our meadows in winter. this, however, is the dry season; and when i was told that but two showers of rain have fallen since october, i could only wonder that so much vegetation was left, and that the verbenas and other herbage which clothed the ground, should yet retain, as i perceived they did, when i saw them nearer, an unextinguished life. i have, therefore, the disadvantage of seeing cuba not only in the dry season, but near the close of an uncommonly dry season. next month the rainy season commences, when the whole island, i am told, even the barrenest parts, flushes into a deep verdure, creeping plants climb over all the rocks and ascend the trees, and the mighty palms put out their new foliage. shade, however, is the great luxury of a warm climate, and why the people of cuba do not surround their habitations in the country, in the villages, and in the environs of the large towns, with a dense umbrage of trees, i confess i do not exactly understand. in their rich soil, and in their perpetually genial climate, trees grow with great rapidity, and they have many noble ones both for size and foliage. the royal palm, with its tall straight columnar trunk of a whitish hue, only uplifts a corinthian capital of leaves, and casts but a narrow shadow; but it mingles finely with other trees, and planted in avenues, forms a colonnade nobler than any of the porticoes to the ancient egyptian temples. there is no thicker foliage or fresher green than that of the mango, which daily drops its abundant fruit for several months in the year, and the mamey and the sapote, fruit-trees also, are in leaf during the whole of the dry season; even the indian fig, which clasps and kills the largest trees of the forest, and at last takes their place, a stately tree with a stout trunk of its own, has its unfading leaf of vivid green. it is impossible to avoid an expression of impatience that these trees have not been formed into groups, embowering the dwellings, and into groves, through which the beams of the sun, here so fierce at noonday, could not reach the ground beneath. there is in fact nothing of ornamental cultivation in cuba, except of the most formal kind. some private gardens there are, carefully kept, but all of the stiffest pattern; there is nothing which brings out the larger vegetation of the region in that grandeur and magnificence which might belong to it. in the quinta del obispo, or bishop's garden, which is open to the public, you find shade which you find nowhere else, but the trees are planted in straight alleys, and the water-roses, a species of water-lily of immense size, fragrant and pink-colored, grow in a square tank, fed by a straight canal, with sides of hewn stone. let me say, however, that when i asked for trees, i was referred to the hurricanes which have recently ravaged the island. one of these swept over cuba in , uprooting the palms and the orange groves, and laying prostrate the avenues of trees on the coffee plantations. the paseo isabel, a public promenade, between the walls of havana and the streets of the new town, was formerly over-canopied with lofty and spreading trees, which this tempest leveled to the ground; it has now been planted with rows of young trees, which yield a meagre shade. in came another hurricane, still more terrific, destroying much of the beauty which the first had spared. of late years, also, such of the orange-trees as were not uprooted, or have recently been planted, have been attacked by the insect which a few years since was so destructive to the same tree in florida. the effect upon the tree resembles that of a blight, the leaves grow sere, and the branches die. you may imagine, therefore, that i was somewhat disappointed not to find the air, as it is at this season in the south of italy, fragrant with the odor of orange and lemon blossoms. oranges are scarce, and not so fine, at this moment, in havana and matanzas, as in the fruit-shops of new york. i hear, however, that there are portions of the island which were spared by these hurricanes, and that there are others where the ravages of the insect in the orange groves have nearly ceased, as i have been told is also the case in florida. i have mentioned my excursion to san antonio. i went thither by railway, in a car built at newark, drawn by an engine made in new york, and worked by an american engineer. for some distance we passed through fields of the sweet-potato, which here never requires a second planting, and propagates itself perpetually in the soil, patches of maize, low groves of bananas with their dark stems, and of plantains with their green ones, and large tracts producing the pineapple growing in rows like carrots. then came plantations of the sugar-cane, with its sedge-like blades of pale-green, then extensive tracts of pasturage with scattered shrubs and tall dead weeds, the growth of the last summer, and a thin herbage bitten close to the soil. here and there was an abandoned coffee-plantation, where cattle were browzing among the half-perished shrubs and broken rows of trees; and the neglected hedges of the wild pine, _piña raton_, as the cubans call it, were interrupted with broad gaps. sometimes we passed the cottages of the _monteros_, or peasants, built often of palm-leaves, the walls formed of the broad sheath of the leaf, fastened to posts of bamboo, and the roof thatched with the long plume-like leaf itself. the door was sometimes hung with a kind of curtain to exclude the sun, which the dusky complexioned women and children put aside to gaze at us as we passed. these dwellings were often picturesque in their appearance, with a grove of plantains behind, a thicket of bamboo by its side, waving its willow-like sprays in the wind; a pair of mango-trees near, hung with fruit just ripening and reddish blossoms just opening, and a cocoa-tree or two lifting high above the rest its immense feathery leaves and its clusters of green nuts. we now and then met the _monteros_ themselves scudding along on their little horses, in that pace which we call a rack. their dress was a panama hat, a shirt worn over a pair of pantaloons, a pair of rough cowskin shoes, one of which was armed with a spur, and a sword lashed to the left side by a belt of cotton cloth. they are men of manly bearing, of thin make, but often of a good figure, with well-spread shoulders, which, however, have a stoop in them, contracted, i suppose, by riding always with a short stirrup. forests, too, we passed. you, doubtless, suppose that a forest in a soil and climate like this, must be a dense growth of trees with colossal stems and leafy summits. a forest in cuba--all that i have seen are such--is a thicket of shrubs and creeping plants, through which, one would suppose that even the wild cats of the country would find it impossible to make their way. above this impassable jungle rises here and there the palm, or the gigantic ceyba or cotton-tree, but more often trees of far less beauty, thinly scattered and with few branches, disposed without symmetry, and at this season often leafless. we reached san antonio at nine o'clock in the morning, and went to the inn of la punta, where we breakfasted on rice and fresh eggs, and a dish of meat so highly flavored with garlic, that it was impossible to distinguish to what animal it belonged. adjoining the inn was a cockpit, with cells for the birds surrounding the inclosure, in which they were crowing lustily. two or three persons seemed to have nothing to do but to tend them; and one, in particular, with a gray beard, a grave aspect, and a solid gait, went about the work with a deliberation and solemnity which to me, who had lately seen the hurried burials at the campo santo, in havana, was highly edifying. a man was training a game-cock in the pit; he was giving it lessons in the virtue of perseverance. he held another cock before it, which he was teaching it to pursue, and striking it occasionally over the head to provoke it, with the wing of the bird in his hand, he made it run after him about the area for half an hour together. i had heard much of the beauty of the coffee estates of cuba, and in the neighborhood of san antonio are some which have been reputed very fine ones. a young man, in a checked blue and white shirt, worn like a frock over checked pantaloons, with a spur on one heel, offered to procure us a _volante_, and we engaged him. he brought us one with two horses, a negro postillion sitting on one, and the shafts of the vehicle borne by the other. we set off, passing through fields guarded by stiff-leaved hedges of the ratoon-pine, over ways so bad that if the motion of the volante were not the easiest in the world, we should have taken an unpleasant jolting. the lands of cuba fit for cultivation, are divided into red and black; we were in the midst of the red lands, consisting of a fine earth of a deep brick color, resting on a bed of soft, porous, chalky limestone. in the dry season the surface is easily dispersed into dust, and stains your clothes of a dull red. a drive of four miles, through a country full of palm and cocoanut trees, brought us to the gate of a coffee plantation, which our friend in the checked shirt, by whom we were accompanied, opened for us. we passed up to the house through what had been an avenue of palms, but was now two rows of trees at very unequal distances, with here and there a sickly orange-tree. on each side grew the coffee shrubs, hung with flowers of snowy white, but unpruned and full of dry and leafless twigs. in every direction were ranks of trees, prized for ornament or for their fruit, and shrubs, among which were magnificent oleanders loaded with flowers, planted in such a manner as to break the force of the wind, and partially to shelter the plants from the too fierce rays of the sun. the coffee estate is, in fact, a kind of forest, with the trees and shrubs arranged in straight lines. the _mayoral_, or steward of the estate, a handsome cuban, with white teeth, a pleasant smile, and a distinct utterance of his native language, received us with great courtesy, and offered us _cigarillos_, though he never used tobacco; and spirit of cane, though he never drank. he wore a sword, and carried a large flexible whip, doubled for convenience in the hand. he showed us the coffee plants, the broad platforms with smooth surfaces of cement and raised borders, where the berries were dried in the sun, and the mills where the negroes were at work separating the kernel from the pulp in which it is inclosed. "these coffee estates," said he, "are already ruined, and the planters are abandoning them as fast as they can; in four years more there will not be a single coffee plantation on the island. they can not afford to raise coffee for the price they get in the market." i inquired the reason. "it is," replied he, "the extreme dryness of the season when the plant is in flower. if we have rain at this time of the year, we are sure of a good crop; if it does not rain, the harvest is small; and the failure of rain is so common a circumstance that we must leave the cultivation of coffee to the people of st. domingo and brazil." i asked if the plantation could not be converted into a sugar estate. "not this," he answered; "it has been cultivated too long. the land was originally rich, but it is exhausted"--tired out, was the expression he used--"we may cultivate maize or rice, for the dry culture of rice succeeds well here, or we may abandon it to grazing. at present we keep a few negroes here, just to gather the berries which ripen, without taking any trouble to preserve the plants, or replace those which die." i could easily believe from what i saw on this estate, that there must be a great deal of beauty of vegetation in a well-kept coffee plantation, but the formal pattern in which it is disposed, the straight alleys and rows of trees, the squares and parallelograms, showed me that there was no beauty of arrangement. we fell in, before we returned to our inn, with the proprietor, a delicate-looking person, with thin white hands, who had been educated at boston, and spoke english as if he had never lived anywhere else. his manners, compared with those of his steward, were exceedingly frosty and forbidding, and when we told him of the civility which had been shown us, his looks seemed to say he wished it had been otherwise. returning to our inn, we dined, and as the sun grew low, we strolled out to look at the town. it is situated on a clear little stream, over which several bathing-houses are built, their posts standing in the midst of the current. above the town, it flows between rocky banks, bordered with shrubs, many of them in flower. below the town, after winding a little way, it enters a cavern yawning in the limestone rock, immediately over which a huge ceyba rises, and stretches its leafy arms in mid-heaven. down this opening the river throws itself, and is never seen again. this is not a singular instance in cuba. the island is full of caverns and openings in the rocks, and i am told that many of the streams find subterranean passages to the sea. there is a well at the inn of la punta, in which a roaring of water is constantly heard. it is the sound of a subterranean stream rushing along a passage in the rocks, and the well is an opening into its roof. in passing through the town, i was struck with the neat attire of those who inhabited the humblest dwellings. at the door of one of the cottages, i saw a group of children, of different ages, all quite pretty, with oval faces and glittering black eyes, in clean fresh dresses, which, one would think, could scarcely have been kept a moment without being soiled, in that dwelling, with its mud floor. the people of cuba are sparing in their ablutions; the men do not wash their faces and hands till nearly mid-day, for fear of spasms; and of the women, i am told that many do not wash at all, contenting themselves with rubbing their cheeks and necks with a little aguardiente; but the passion for clean linen, and, among the men, for clean white pantaloons, is universal. the _montero_ himself, on a holiday or any public occasion, will sport a shirt of the finest linen, smoothly ironed, and stiffly starched throughout, from the collar downward. the next day, at half-past eleven, we left our inn, which was also what we call in the united states a country store, where the clerks who had just performed their ablutions and combed their hair, were making segars behind the counter from the tobacco of the vuelta abajo, and returned by the railway to havana. we procured travelling licenses at the cost of four dollars and a half each, for it is the pleasure of the government to levy this tax on strangers who travel, and early the following morning took the train for matanzas. letter xlviii. matanzas.--valley of yumuri. los guines, _april_ , . in the long circuit of railway which leads from havana to matanzas, i saw nothing remarkably different from what i observed on my excursion to san antonio. there was the same smooth country, of great apparent fertility, sometimes varied with gentle undulations, and sometimes rising, in the distance, into hills covered with thickets. we swept by dark-green fields planted with the yuca, an esculent root, of which the cassava bread is made, pale-green fields of the cane, brown tracts of pasturage, partly formed of abandoned coffee estates where the palms and scattered fruit-trees were yet standing, and forests of shrubs and twining plants growing for the most part among rocks. some of these rocky tracts have a peculiar appearance; they consist of rough projections of rock a foot or two in height, of irregular shape and full of holes; they are called _diente de perro_, or dog's teeth. here the trees and creepers find openings filled with soil, by which they are nourished. we passed two or three country cemeteries, where that foulest of birds, the turkey-vulture, was seen sitting on the white stuccoed walls, or hovering on his ragged wings in circles over them. in passing over the neighborhood of the town in which i am now writing, i found myself on the black lands of the island. here the rich dark earth of the plain lies on a bed of chalk as white as snow, as was apparent where the earth had been excavated to a little depth, on each side of the railway, to form the causey on which it ran. streams of clear water, diverted from a river to the left, traversed the plain with a swift current, almost even with the surface of the soil, which they keep in perpetual freshness. as we approached matanzas, we saw more extensive tracts of cane clothing the broad slopes with their dense blades, as if the coarse sedge of a river had been transplanted to the uplands. at length the bay of matanzas opened before us; a long tract of water stretching to the northeast, into which several rivers empty themselves. the town lay at the southwestern extremity, sheltered by hills, where the san juan and the yumuri pour themselves into the brine. it is a small but prosperous town, with a considerable trade, as was indicated by the vessels at anchor in the harbor. as we passed along the harbor i remarked an extensive, healthy-looking orchard of plantains growing on one of those tracts which they call _diente de perro_. i could see nothing but the jagged teeth of whitish rock, and the green swelling stems of the plantain, from ten to fifteen feet in height, and as large as a man's leg, or larger. the stalks of the plantain are juicy and herbaceous, and of so yielding a texture, that with a sickle you might entirely sever the largest of them at a single stroke. how such a multitude of succulent plants could find nourishment on what seemed to the eye little else than barren rock, i could not imagine. the day after arriving at matanzas we made an excursion on horseback to the summit of the hill, immediately overlooking the town, called the cumbre. light hardy horses of the country were brought us, with high pommels to the saddles, which are also raised behind in a manner making it difficult to throw the rider from his seat. a negro fitted a spur to my right heel, and mounting by the short stirrups, i crossed the river yumuri with my companions, and began to climb the cumbre. they boast at matanzas of the perpetual coolness of temperature enjoyed upon the broad summit of this hill, where many of the opulent merchants of the town have their country houses, to which the mosquitoes and the intermittents that infest the town below, never come, and where, as one of them told me, you may play at billiards in august without any inconvenient perspiration. from the cumbre you behold the entire extent of the harbor; the town lies below you with its thicket of masts, and its dusty _paseo_, where rows of the cuba pine stand rooted in the red soil. on the opposite shore your eye is attracted to a chasm between high rocks, where the river canimar comes forth through banks of romantic beauty--so they are described to me--and mingles with the sea. but the view to the west was much finer; there lay the valley of the yumuri, and a sight of it is worth a voyage to the island. in regard to this my expectations suffered no disappointment. before me lay a deep valley, surrounded on all sides by hills and mountains, with the little river yumuri twining at the bottom. smooth round hillocks rose from the side next to me, covered with clusters of palms, and the steeps of the southeastern corner of the valley were clothed with a wood of intense green, where i could almost see the leaves glisten in the sunshine. the broad fields below were waving with cane and maize, and cottages of the _monteros_ were scattered among them, each with its tuft of bamboos and its little grove of plantains. in some parts the cliffs almost seemed to impend over the valley; but to the west, in a soft golden haze, rose summit behind summit, and over them all, loftiest and most remote, towered the mountain called the _pan de matanzas_. we stopped for a few moments at a country seat on the top of the cumbre, where this beautiful view lay ever before the eye. round it, in a garden, were cultivated the most showy plants of the tropics, but my attention was attracted to a little plantation of damask roses blooming profusely. they were scentless; the climate which supplies the orange blossom with intense odors exhausts the fragrance of the rose. at nightfall--the night falls suddenly in this latitude--we were again at our hotel. we passed our sunday on a sugar estate at the hospitable mansion of a planter from the united states about fifteen miles from matanzas. the house stands on an eminence, once embowered in trees which the hurricanes have leveled, overlooking a broad valley, where palms were scattered in every direction; for the estate had formerly been a coffee plantation. in the huge buildings containing the machinery and other apparatus for making sugar, which stood at the foot of the eminence, the power of steam, which had been toiling all the week, was now at rest. as the hour of sunset approached, a smoke was seen rising from its chimney, presently pufis of vapor issued from the engine, its motion began to be heard, and the negroes, men and women, were summoned to begin the work of the week. some feed the fire under the boiler with coal; others were seen rushing to the mill with their arms full of the stalks of the cane, freshly cut, which they took from a huge pile near the building; others lighted fires under a row of huge cauldrons, with the dry stalks of cane from which the juice had been crushed by the mill. it was a spectacle of activity such as i had not seen in cuba. the sound of the engine was heard all night, for the work of grinding the cane, once begun, proceeds day and night, with the exception of sundays and some other holidays. i was early next morning at the mill. a current of cane juice was flowing from the mill in a long trunk to a vat in which it was clarified with lime; it was then made to pass successively from one seething cauldron to another, as it obtained a thicker consistence by boiling. the negroes, with huge ladles turning on pivots, swept it from cauldron to cauldron, and finally passed it into a trunk, which conveyed it to shallow tanks in another apartment, where it cooled into sugar. from these another set of workmen scooped it up in moist masses, carried it in buckets up a low flight of stairs, and poured it into rows of hogsheads pierced with holes at the bottom. these are placed over a large tank, into which the moisture dripping from the hogsheads is collected and forms molasses. this is the method of making the sugar called muscovado. it is drained a few days, and then the railways take it to matanzas or to havana. we visited afterward a plantation in the neighborhood, in which clayed sugar is made. our host furnished us with horses to make the excursion, and we took a winding road, over hill and valley, by plantations and forests, till we stopped at the gate of an extensive pasture-ground. an old negro, whose hut was at hand, opened it for us, and bowed low as we passed. a ride of half a mile further brought us in sight of the cane-fields of the plantation called saratoga, belonging to the house of drake & company, of havana, and reputed one of the finest of the island. it had a different aspect from any plantation we had seen. trees and shrubs there were none, but the canes, except where they had been newly cropped for the mill, clothed the slopes and hollows with their light-green blades, like the herbage of a prairie. we were kindly received by the administrator of the estate, an intelligent biscayan, who showed us the whole process of making clayed sugar. it does not differ from that of making the muscovado, so far as concerns the grinding and boiling. when, however, the sugar is nearly cool, it is poured into iron vessels of conical shape, with the point downward, at which is an opening. the top of the sugar is then covered with a sort of black thick mud, which they call clay, and which is several times renewed as it becomes dry. the moisture from the clay passes through the sugar, carrying with it the cruder portions, which form molasses. in a few days the draining is complete. we saw the work-people of the saratoga estate preparing for the market the sugar thus cleansed, if we may apply the word to such a process. with a rude iron blade they cleft the large loaf of sugar just taken from the mould into three parts, called first, second, and third quality, according to their whiteness. these are dried in the sun on separate platforms of wood with a raised edge; the women standing and walking over the fragments with their bare dirty feet, and beating them smaller with wooden mallets and clubs. the sugar of the first quality is then scraped up and put into boxes; that of the second and third, being moister, is handled a third time and carried into the drying-room, where it is exposed to the heat of a stove, and when sufficiently dry, is boxed up for market like the other. the sight of these processes was not of a nature to make one think with much satisfaction of clayed sugar as an ingredient of food, but the inhabitants of the island are superior to such prejudices, and use it with as little scruple as they who do not know in what manner it is made. in the afternoon we returned to the dwelling of our american host, and taking the train at _caobas_, or mahogany trees--so called from the former growth of that tree on the spot--we were at matanzas an hour afterward. the next morning the train brought us to this little town, situated half-way between matanzas and havana, but a considerable distance to the south of either. letter xlix. negroes in cuba.--indian slaves. havana, _april_ , . the other day when we were at guines, we heard that a negro was to suffer death early the next morning by the _garrote_, an instrument by which the neck of the criminal is broken and life extinguished in an instant. i asked our landlady for what crime the man had been condemned. "he has killed his master," she replied, "an old man, in his bed." "had he received any provocation?" "not that i have heard; but another slave is to be put to death by the _garrote_ in about a fortnight, whose offense had some palliation. his master was a man of harsh temper, and treated his slaves with extreme severity; the negro watched his opportunity, and shot him as he sat at table." we went to the place of execution a little before eight o'clock, and found the preparations already made. a platform had been erected, on which stood a seat for the prisoner, and back of the seat a post was fixed, with a sort of iron collar for his neck. a screw, with a long transverse handle on the side of the post opposite to the collar, was so contrived that, when it was turned, it would push forward an iron bolt against the back of the neck and crush the spine at once. sentinels in uniform were walking to and fro, keeping the spectators at a distance from the platform. the heat of the sun was intense, for the sea-breeze had not yet sprung up, but the crowd had begun to assemble. as near to the platform as they could come, stood a group of young girls, two of whom were dressed in white and one was pretty, with no other shade for their dusky faces than their black veils, chatting and laughing and stealing occasional glances at the new-comers. in another quarter were six or eight monteros on horseback, in their invariable costume of panama hats, shirts and pantaloons, with holsters to their saddles, and most of them with swords lashed to their sides. about half-past eight a numerous crowd made its appearance coming from the town. among them walked with a firm step, a large black man, dressed in a long white frock, white pantaloons, and a white cap with a long peak which fell backward on his shoulders. he was the murderer; his hands were tied together by the wrists; in one of them he held a crucifix; the rope by which they were fastened was knotted around his waist, and the end of it was held by another athletic negro, dressed in blue cotton with white facings, who walked behind him. on the left of the criminal walked an officer of justice; on his right an ecclesiastic, slender and stooping, in a black gown and a black cap, the top of which was formed into a sort of coronet, exhorting the criminal, in a loud voice and with many gesticulations, to repent and trust in the mercy of god. when they reached the platform, the negro was made to place himself on his knees before it, the priest continuing his exhortations, and now and then clapping him, in an encouraging manner, on the shoulder. i saw the man shake his head once or twice, and then kiss the crucifix. in the mean time a multitude, of all ages and both sexes, took possession of the places from which the spectacle could be best seen. a stone-fence, such as is common in our country, formed of loose stones taken from the surface of the ground, upheld a long row of spectators. a well-dressed couple, a gentleman in white pantaloons, and a lady elegantly attired, with a black lace veil and a parasol, bringing their two children and two colored servants, took their station by my side--the elder child found a place on the top of the fence, and the younger, about four years of age, was lifted in the arms of one of the servants, that it might have the full benefit of the spectacle. the criminal was then raised from the ground, and going up the platform took the seat ready for him. the priest here renewed his exhortations, and, at length, turning to the audience, said, in a loud voice, "i believe in god almighty and in jesus christ his only son, and it grieves me to the heart to have offended them." these words, i suppose, were meant, as the confession of the criminal, to be repeated after the priest, but i heard no response from his lips. again and again the priest repeated them, the third time with a louder voice than ever; the signal was then given to the executioner. the iron collar was adjusted to the neck of the victim, and fastened under the chin. the athletic negro in blue, standing behind the post, took the handle of the screw and turned it deliberately. after a few turns, the criminal gave a sudden shrug of the shoulders; another turn of the screw, and a shudder ran over his whole frame, his eyes rolled wildly, his hands, still tied with the rope, were convulsively jerked upward, and then dropped back to their place motionless forever. the priest advanced and turned the peak of the white cap over the face to hide it from the sight of the multitude. i had never seen, and never intended to see an execution, but the strangeness of this manner of inflicting death, and the desire to witness the behavior of an assembly of the people of cuba on such an occasion, had overcome my previous determination. the horror of the spectacle now caused me to regret that i made one of a crowd drawn to look at it by an idle curiosity. the negro in blue then stepped forward and felt the limbs of the dead man one by one, to ascertain whether life were wholly extinct, and then returning to the screw, gave it two or three turns more, as if to make his work sure. in the mean time my attention was attracted by a sound like that of a light buffet and a whimpering voice near me. i looked, and two men were standing by me, with a little white boy at their side, and a black boy of nearly the same age before them, holding his hat in his hand, and crying. they were endeavoring to direct his attention to what they considered the wholesome spectacle before him. "_mira, mira, no te hardá daño_"[ ] said the men, but the boy steadily refused to look in that direction, though he was evidently terrified by some threat of punishment and his eyes filled with tears. finding him obstinate, they desisted from their purpose, and i was quite edified to see the little fellow continue to look away from the spectacle which attracted all other eyes but his. the white boy now came forward, touched the hat of the little black, and goodnaturedly saying "_pontelo, pontelo_"[ ] made him put it on his head. the crowd now began to disperse, and in twenty minutes the place was nearly solitary, except the sentinels pacing backward and forward. two hours afterward the sentinels were pacing there yet, and the dead man, in his white dress and iron collar, was still in his seat on the platform. it is generally the natives of africa by whom these murders are committed; the negroes born in the country are of a more yielding temper. they have better learned the art of avoiding punishment, and submit to it more patiently when inflicted, having understood from their birth that it is one of the conditions of their existence. the whip is always in sight. "nothing can be done without it," said an englishman to me, who had lived eleven years on the island, "you can not make the negroes work by the mild methods which are used by slaveholders in the united states; the blacks there are far more intelligent and more easily governed by moral means." africans, the living witnesses of the present existence of the slave-trade, are seen everywhere; at every step you meet blacks whose cheeks are scarred with parallel slashes, with which they were marked in the african slave-market, and who can not even speak the mutilated spanish current in the mouths of the cuba negroes. one day i stood upon the quay at matanzas and saw the slaves unloading the large lighters which brought goods from the spanish ships lying in the harbor--casks of wine, jars of oil, bags of nuts, barrels of flour. the men were naked to the hips; their only garment being a pair of trowsers. i admired their ample chests, their massive shoulders, the full and muscular proportions of their arms, and the ease with which they shifted the heavy articles from place to place, or carried them on their heads. "some of these are africans?" i said to a gentleman who resided on the island. "they are all africans," he answered, "africans to a man; the negro born in cuba is of a lighter make." when i was at guines, i went out to look at a sugar estate in the neighborhood, where the mill was turned by water, which a long aqueduct, from one of the streams that traverse the plain, conveyed over arches of stone so broad and massive that i could not help thinking of the aqueducts of rome. a gang of black women were standing in the _secadero_ or drying-place, among the lumps of clayed sugar, beating them small with mallets; before them, walked to and fro the major-domo, with a cutlass by his side and a whip in his hand, i asked him how a planter could increase his stock of slaves. "there is no difficulty," he replied, "slaves are still brought to the island from africa. the other day five hundred were landed on the sea-shore to the south of this; for you must know, señor, that we are but three or four leagues from the coast." "was it done openly?" i inquired. "_publicamente_, señor, _publicamente_;[ ] they were landed on the sugar estate of _el pastor_, and one hundred and seven more died on the passage from africa." "did the government know of it?" he shrugged his shoulders. "of course the government knows it," said he; "every body else knows it." the truth is, that the slave-trade is now fully revived; the government conniving at it, making a profit on the slaves imported from africa, and screening from the pursuit of the english the pirates who bring them. there could scarcely be any arrangement of coast more favorable for smuggling slaves into a country, than the islands and long peninsulas, and many channels of the southern shore of cuba. here the mangrove thickets, sending down roots into the brine from their long branches that stretch over the water, form dense screens on each side of the passages from the main ocean to the inland, and render it easy for the slaver and his boats to lurk undiscovered by the english men-of-war. during the comparative cessation of the slave-trade a few years since, the negroes, i have been told, were much better treated than before. they rose in value, and when they died, it was found not easy to supply their places; they were therefore made much of, and every thing was done which it was thought would tend to preserve their health, and maintain them in bodily vigor. if the slave-trade should make them cheap again, their lives of course will be of less consequence to their owners, and they will be subject again to be overtasked, as it has been said they were before. there is certainly great temptation to wear them out in the sugar mills, which are kept in motion day and night, during half the year, namely, through the dry season. "if this was not the healthiest employment in the world," said an overseer to me on one of the sugar estates, "it would kill us all who are engaged in it, both black and white." perhaps you may not know that more than half of the island of cuba has never been reduced to tillage. immense tracts of the rich black or red mould of the island, accumulated on the coral rock, are yet waiting the hand of the planter to be converted into profitable sugar estates. there is a demand, therefore, for laborers on the part of those who wish to become planters, and this demand is supplied not only from the coast of africa, but from the american continent and southwestern asia. in one of the afternoons of holy week, i saw amid the crowd on the _plaza de armas_, in havana, several men of low stature, of a deep-olive complexion, beardless, with high cheek-bones and straight black hair, dressed in white pantaloons of cotton, and shirts of the same material worn over them. they were indians, natives of yucatan, who had been taken prisoners of war by the whites of the country and sold to white men in cuba, under a pretended contract to serve for a certain number of years. i afterward learned, that the dealers in this sort of merchandise were also bringing in the natives of asia, chinese they call them here, though i doubt whether they belong to that nation, and disposing of their services to the planters. there are six hundred of these people, i have been told, in this city. yesterday appeared in the havana papers an ordinance concerning the "indians and asiatics imported into the country under a contract to labor." it directs how much indian corn, how many plantains, how much jerked-pork and rice they shall receive daily, and how many lashes the master may inflict for misbehavior. twelve stripes with the cowskin he may administer for the smaller offenses, and twenty-four for transgressions of more importance; but if any more become necessary, he must apply to a magistrate for permission to lay them on. such is the manner in which the government of cuba sanctions the barbarity of making slaves of the freeborn men of yucatan. the ordinance, however, betrays great concern for the salvation of the souls of those whom it thus delivers over to the lash of the slave-driver. it speaks of the indians from america, as christians already, but while it allows the slaves imported from asia to be flogged, it directs that they shall be carefully instructed in the doctrines of our holy religion. yet the policy of the government favors emancipation. the laws of cuba permit any slave to purchase his freedom on paying a price fixed by three persons, one appointed by his master and two by a magistrate. he may, also, if he pleases, compel his master to sell him a certain portion of his time, which he may employ to earn the means of purchasing his entire freedom. it is owing to this, i suppose, that the number of free blacks is so large in the island, and it is manifest that if the slave-trade could be checked, and these laws remain unaltered, the negroes would gradually emancipate themselves--all at least who would be worth keeping as servants. the population of cuba is now about a million and a quarter, rather more than half of whom are colored persons, and one out of every four of the colored population is free. the mulattoes emancipate themselves as a matter of course, and some of them become rich by the occupations they follow. the prejudice of color is by no means so strong here as in the united states. five or six years since the negroes were shouting and betting in the cockpits with the whites; but since the mulatto insurrection, as it is called, in , the law forbids their presence at such amusements. i am told there is little difficulty in smuggling people of mixed blood, by the help of legal forms, into the white race, and if they are rich, into good society, provided their hair is not frizzled. you hear something said now and then in the united states concerning the annexation of cuba to our confederacy; you may be curious, perhaps, to know what they say of it here. a european who had long resided in the island, gave me this account: "the creoles, no doubt, would be very glad to see cuba annexed to the united states, and many of them ardently desire it. it would relieve them from many great burdens they now bear, open their commerce to the world, rid them of a tyrannical government, and allow them to manage their own affairs in their own way. but spain derives from the possession of cuba advantages too great to be relinquished. she extracts from cuba a revenue of twelve millions of dollars; her government sends its needy nobility, and all for whom it would provide, to fill lucrative offices in cuba--the priests, the military officers, the civil authorities, every man who fills a judicial post or holds a clerkship is from old spain. the spanish government dares not give up cuba if it were inclined. "nor will the people of cuba make any effort to emancipate themselves by taking up arms. the struggle with the power of spain would be bloody and uncertain, even if the white population were united, but the mutual distrust with which the planters and the peasantry regard each other, would make the issue of such an enterprise still more doubtful. at present it would not be safe for a cuba planter to speak publicly of annexation to the united states. he would run the risk of being imprisoned or exiled." of course, if cuba were to be annexed to the united states, the slave trade with africa would cease to be carried on as now, though its perfect suppression might be found difficult. negroes would be imported in large numbers from the united states, and planters would emigrate with them. institutions of education would be introduced, commerce and religion would both be made free, and the character of the islanders would be elevated by the responsibilities which a free government would throw upon them. the planters, however, would doubtless adopt regulations insuring the perpetuity of slavery; they would unquestionably, as soon as they were allowed to frame ordinances for the island, take away the facilities which the present laws give the slave for effecting his own emancipation. letter l. english exhibitions of works of art. london, _july_ , . i have just been to visit a gallery of drawings in water-colors, now open for exhibition. the english may be almost said to have created this branch of art. till within a few years, delineations in water-colors, on drawing paper, have been so feeble and meagre as to be held in little esteem, but the english artists have shown that as much, though in a somewhat different way, may be done on drawing-paper as on canvas; that as high a degree of expression may be reached, as much strength given to the coloring, and as much boldness to the lights and shadows. in the collection of which i speak, are about four hundred drawings not before exhibited. those which appeared to me the most remarkable, though not in the highest department of art, were still-life pieces by hunt. it seems to me impossible to carry pictorial illusion to a higher pitch than he has attained. a sprig of hawthorn flowers, freshly plucked, lies before you, and you are half-tempted to take it up and inhale its fragrance; those speckled eggs in the bird's nest, you are sure you might, if you pleased, take into your hand; that tuft of ivy leaves and buds is so complete an optical deception, that you can hardly believe that it has not been attached by some process to the paper on which you see it. a servant girl, in a calico gown, with a broom, by the same artist, and a young woman standing at a window, at which the light is streaming in, are as fine in their way, and as perfect imitations of every-day nature, as you see in the works of the best flemish painters. it is to landscape, however, that the artists in water-colors have principally devoted their attention. there are several very fine ones in the collection by copley fielding, the foregrounds drawn with much strength, the distant objects softly blending with the atmosphere as in nature, and a surprising depth and transparency given to the sky. alfred fripp and george fripp have also produced some very fine landscapes--mills, waters in foam or sleeping in pellucid pools, and the darkness of the tempest in contrast with gleams of sunshine. oakley has some spirited groups of gipsies and country people, and there are several of a similar kind by taylor, who designs and executes with great force. one of the earliest of the new school of artists in water-colors is prout, whose drawings are principally architectural, and who has shown how admirably suited this new style of art is to the delineation of the rich carvings of gothic churches. most of the finer pieces, i observed, were marked 'sold;' they brought prices varying from thirty to fifty guineas. there is an exhibition now open of the paintings of etty, who stands high in the world of art as an historical painter. the "society of the arts"--i believe that is its name--every year gets up an exhibition of the works of some eminent painter, with the proceeds of which it buys one of his pictures, and places it in the national gallery. this is a very effectual plan of forming in time a various and valuable collection of the works of british artists. the greatest work of etty is the series representing the death of holofernes by the hand of judith. it consists of three paintings, the first of which shows judith in prayer before the execution of her attempt; in the next, and the finest, she is seen standing by the conch of the heathen warrior, with the sword raised to heaven, to which she turns her eyes, as if imploring supernatural assistance; and in the third, she appears issuing from the tent, bearing the head of the ravager of her country, which she conceals from the armed attendants who stand on guard at the entrance, and exhibits to her astonished handmaid, who has been waiting the result. the subject is an old one, but etty has treated it in a new way, and given it a moral interest, which the old painters seem not to have thought of. in the delineation of the naked human figure, etty is allowed to surpass all the english living artists, and his manner of painting flesh is thought to be next to that of rubens. his reputation for these qualities has influenced his choice of subjects in a remarkable manner. the walls of the exhibition were covered writh venuses and eves, cupids and psyches, and nymphs innocent of drapery, reclining on couches, or admiring their own beauty reflected in clear fountains. i almost thought myself in the midst of a collection made for the grand seignior. the annual exhibition of the royal academy is now open. its general character is mediocrity, unrelieved by any works of extraordinary or striking merit. there are some clever landscapes by the younger danbys, and one by the father, which is by no means among his happiest--a dark picture, which in half a dozen years will be one mass of black paint. cooper, almost equal to paul potter as a cattle painter, contributes some good pieces of that kind, and one of them, in which the cattle are from his pencil, and the landscape from that of lee, appeared to me the finest thing in the collection. there is, however, a picture by leslie, which his friends insist is the best in the exhibition. it represents the chaplain of the duke leaving the table in a rage, after an harangue by don quixote in praise of knight-errantry. the suppressed mirth of the duke and duchess, the sly looks of the servants, the stormy anger of the ecclesiastic, and the serene gravity of the knight, are well expressed; but there is a stiffness in some of the figures which makes them look as if copied from the wooden models in the artist's study, and a raw and crude appearance in the handling, so that you are reminded of the brush every time you look at the painting. to do leslie justice, however, his paintings ripen wonderfully, and seem to acquire a finish with years. if one wishes to form an idea of the vast numbers of indifferent paintings which are annually produced in england, he should visit, as i did, another exhibition, a large gallery lighted from above, in which each artist, most of them of the younger or obscurer class, takes a certain number of feet on the wall and exhibits just what he pleases. every man is his own hanging committee, and if his pictures are not placed in the most advantageous position, it is his own fault. here acres of canvas are exhibited, most of which is spoiled of course, though here and there a good picture is to be seen, and others which give promise of future merit. enough of pictures. the principal subject of political discussion since i have been in england, has been the expediency of allowing jews to sit in parliament. you have seen by what a large majority baron rothschild has been again returned from the city of london, after his resignation, in spite of the zealous opposition of the conservatives. it is allowed, i think, on all hands, that the majority of the nation are in favor of allowing jews to hold seats in parliament, but the other side urge the inconsistency of maintaining a christian church as a state institution, and admitting the enemies of christianity to a share in its administration. public opinion, however, is so strongly against political disabilities on account of religious faith, that with the aid of the ministry, it will, no doubt, triumph, and we shall see another class of adversaries of the establishment making war upon it in the house of commons. nor will it be at all surprising if, after a little while, we hear of jewish barons, earls, and marquises in the house of peers. rothschild himself may become the founder of a noble line, opulent beyond the proudest of them all. the protectionist party here are laboring to persuade the people that the government have committed a great error, in granting such liberal conditions to the trade of other nations, to the prejudice of british industry. they do not, however, seem to make much impression on the public mind. the necessaries of life are obtained at a cheaper rate than formerly, and that satisfies the people. peel has been making a speech in parliament on the free-trade question, which i often hear referred to as a very able argument for the free-trade policy. neither on this question nor on that of the jewish disabilities, do the opposition seem to have the country with them. letter li. a visit to the shetland isles. aberdeen, _july_ , . two days ago i was in the orkneys; the day before i was in the shetland isles, the "farthest thule" of the romans, where i climbed the noup of the noss, as the famous headland of the island of noss is called, from which you look out upon the sea that lies between shetland and norway. from wick, a considerable fishing town in caithness, on the northern coast of scotland, a steamer, named the queen, departs once a week, in the summer months, for kirkwall, in the orkneys, and lerwick, in shetland. we went on board of her about ten o'clock on the th of july. the herring fishery had just begun, and the artificial port of wick, constructed with massive walls of stone, was crowded with fishing vessels which had returned that morning from the labors of the night; for in the herring fishery it is only in the night that the nets are spread and drawn. many of the vessels had landed their cargo; in others the fishermen were busily disengaging the herrings from the black nets and throwing them in heaps; and now and then a boat later than the rest, was entering from the sea. the green heights all around the bay were covered with groups of women, sitting or walking, dressed for the most part in caps and white short gowns, waiting for the arrival of the boats manned by their husbands and brothers, or belonging to the families of those who had come to seek occupation as fishermen. i had seen two or three of the principal streets of wick that morning, swarming with strapping fellows, in blue highland bonnets, with blue jackets and pantaloons, and coarse blue flannel shirts. a shopkeeper, standing at his door, instructed me who they were. "they are men of the celtic race," he said--the term celtic has grown to be quite fashionable, i find, when applied to the highlanders. "they came from the hebrides and other parts of western scotland, to get employment in the herring fishery. these people have travelled perhaps three hundred miles, most of them on foot, to be employed six or seven weeks, for which they will receive about six pounds wages. those whom you see are not the best of their class; the more enterprising and industrious have boats of their own, and carry on the fishery on their own account." we found the queen a strong steamboat, with a good cabin and convenient state-rooms, but dirty, and smelling of fish from stem to stern. it has seemed to me that the further north i went, the more dirt i found. our captain was an old aberdeen seaman, with a stoop in his shoulders, and looked as if he was continually watching for land, an occupation for which the foggy climate of these latitudes gives him full scope. we left wick between eleven and twelve o'clock in the forenoon, and glided over a calm sea, with a cloudless sky above us, and a thin haze on the surface of the waters. the haze thickened to a fog, which grew more and more dense, and finally closed overhead. after about three hours sail, the captain began to grow uneasy, and was seen walking about on the bridge between the wheel-houses, anxiously peering into the mist, on the look-out for the coast of the orkneys. at length he gave up the search, and stopped the engine. the passengers amused themselves with fishing. several coal-fish, a large fish of slender shape, were caught, and one fine cod was hauled up by a gentleman who united in his person, as he gave me to understand, the two capacities of portrait-painter and preacher of the gospel, and who held that the universal church of christendom had gone sadly astray from the true primitive doctrine, in regard to the time when the millennium is to take place. the fog cleared away in the evening; our steamer was again in motion: we landed at kirkwall in the middle of the night, and when i went on deck the next morning, we were smoothly passing the shores of fair isle--high and steep rocks, impending over the waters with a covering of green turf. before they were out of sight we saw the shetland coast, the dark rock of sumburgh head, and behind it, half shrouded in mist, the promontory of fitfiel head,--fitful head, as it is called by scott, in his novel of the pirate. beyond, to the east, black rocky promontories came in sight, one after the other, beetling over the sea. at ten o'clock, we were passing through a channel between the islands leading to lerwick, the capital of shetland, on the principal island bearing the name of mainland. fields, yellow with flowers, among which stood here and there a cottage, sloped softly down to the water, and beyond them rose the bare declivities and summits of the hills, dark with heath, with here and there still darker spots, of an almost inky hue, where peat had been cut for fuel. not a tree, not a shrub was to be seen, and the greater part of the soil appeared never to have been reduced to cultivation. about one o'clock we cast anchor before lerwick, a fishing village, built on the shore of bressay sound, which here forms one of the finest harbors in the world. it has two passages to the sea, so that when the wind blows a storm on one side of the islands, the shetlander in his boat passes out in the other direction, and finds himself in comparatively smooth water. it was sunday, and the man who landed us at the quay and took our baggage to our lodging, said as he left us-- "it's the sabbath, and i'll no tak' my pay now, but i'll call the morrow. my name is jim sinclair, pilot, and if ye'll be wanting to go anywhere, i'll be glad to tak' ye in my boat." in a few minutes we were snugly established at our lodgings. there is no inn throughout all the shetland islands, which contain about thirty thousand inhabitants, but if any of my friends should have occasion to visit lerwick, i can cheerfully recommend to them the comfortable lodging-house of mrs. walker, who keeps a little shop in the principal street, not far from queen's lane. we made haste to get ready for church, and sallied out to find the place of worship frequented by our landlady, which was not a difficult matter. the little town of lerwick consists of two-story houses, built mostly of unhewn stone, rough-cast, with steep roofs and a chimney at each end. they are arranged along a winding street parallel with the shore, and along narrow lanes running upward to the top of the hill. the main street is flagged with smooth stones, like the streets in venice, for no vehicle runs on wheels in the shetland islands. we went up queen's lane and soon found the building occupied by the free church of scotland, until a temple of fairer proportions, on which the masons are now at work, on the top of the hill, shall be completed for their reception. it was crowded with attentive worshipers, one of whom obligingly came forward and found a seat for us. the minister, mr. frazer, had begun the evening service, and was at prayer. when i entered, he was speaking of "our father the devil;" but the prayer was followed by an earnest, practical discourse, though somewhat crude in the composition, and reminding me of an expression i once heard used by a distinguished scotchman, who complained that the clergy of his country, in composing their sermons, too often "mak' rough wark of it." i looked about among these descendants of the norwegians, but could not see any thing singular in their physiognomy; and but for the harsh accent of the preacher, i might almost have thought myself in the midst of a country congregation in the united states. they are mostly of a light complexion, with an appearance of health and strength, though of a sparer make than the people of the more southern british isles. after the service was over, we returned to our lodgings, by a way which led to the top of the hill, and made the circuit of the little town. the paths leading into the interior of the island, were full of people returning homeward; the women in their best attire, a few in silks, with wind-tanned faces. we saw them disappearing, one after another, in the hollows, or over the dark bare hill-tops. with a population of less than three thousand souls, lerwick has four places of worship--a church of the establishment, a free church, a church for the seceders, and one for the methodists. the road we took commanded a fine view of the harbor, surrounded and sheltered by hills. within it lay a numerous group of idle fishing-vessels, with one great steamer in the midst; and more formidable in appearance, a dutch man-of-war, sent to protect the dutch fisheries, with the flag of holland flying at the mast-head. above the town, on tall poles, were floating the flags of four or five different nations, to mark the habitation of their consuls. on the side opposite to the harbor, lay the small fresh-water lake of cleikimin, with the remains of a pictish castle in the midst; one of those circular buildings of unhewn, uncemented stone, skillfully laid, forming apartments and galleries of such small dimensions as to lead sir walter scott to infer that the picts were a people of a stature considerably below the ordinary standard of the human race. a deep sabbath silence reigned over the scene, except the sound of the wind, which here never ceases to blow from one quarter or another, as it swept the herbage and beat against the stone walls surrounding the fields. the ground under our feet was thick with daisies and the blossoms of the crow-foot and other flowers; for in the brief summer of these islands, nature, which has no groves to embellish, makes amends by pranking the ground, particularly in the uncultivated parts, with a great profusion and variety of flowers. the next morning we were rowed, by two of jim sinclair's boys, to the island of bressay, and one of them acted as our guide to the remarkable precipice called the noup of the noss. we ascended its smooth slopes and pastures, and passed through one or two hamlets, where we observed the construction of the dwellings of the zetland peasantry. they are built of unhewn stone, with roofs of turf held down by ropes of straw neatly twisted; the floors are of earth; the cow, pony, and pig live under the same roof with the family, and the manure pond, a receptacle for refuse and filth, is close to the door. a little higher up we came upon the uncultivated grounds, abandoned to heath, and only used to supply fuel by the cutting of peat. here and there women were busy piling the square pieces of peat in stacks, that they might dry in the wind. "we carry home these pits in a basket on our showlders, when they are dry," said one of them to me; but those who can afford to keep a pony, make him do this work for them. in the hollows of this part of the island we saw several fresh-water ponds, which were enlarged with dykes and made to turn grist mills. we peeped into one or two of these mills, little stone buildings, in which we could hardly stand upright, inclosing two small stones turned by a perpendicular shaft, in which are half a dozen cogs; the paddles are fixed below, and there struck by the water, turn the upper stone. a steep descent brought us to the little strait, bordered with rocks, which divides brassey from the island called the noss. a strong south wind was driving in the billows from the sea with noise and foam, but they were broken and checked by a bar of rocks in the middle of the strait, and we crossed to the north of it in smooth water. the ferryman told us that when the wind was northerly he crossed to the south of the bar. as we climbed the hill of the noss the mist began to drift thinly around us from the sea, and flocks of sea-birds rose screaming from the ground at our approach. at length we stood upon the brink of a precipice of fearful height, from which we had a full view of the still higher precipices of the neighboring summit, a wall of rock was before us six hundred feet in height, descending almost perpendicularly to the sea, which roared and foamed at its base among huge masses of rock, and plunged into great caverns, hollowed out by the beating of the surges for centuries. midway on the rock, and above the reach of the spray, were thousands of sea-birds, sitting in ranks on the numerous shelves, or alighting, or taking wing, and screaming as they flew. a cloud of them were constantly in the air in front of the rock and over our heads. here they make their nests and rear their young, but not entirely safe from the pursuit of the zetlander, who causes himself to be let down by a rope from the summit and plunders their nests. the face of the rock, above the portion which is the haunt of the birds, was fairly tapestried with herbage and flowers which the perpetual moisture of the atmosphere keeps always fresh--daisies nodding in the wind, and the crimson phlox, seeming to set the cliffs on flame; yellow buttercups, and a variety of other plants in bloom, of which i do not know the name. magnificent as this spectacle was, we were not satisfied without climbing to the summit. as we passed upward, we saw where the rabbits had made their burrows in the elastic peat-like soil close to the very edge of the precipice. we now found ourselves involved in the cold streams of mist which the strong sea-wind was drifting over us; they were in fact the lower skirts of the clouds. at times they would clear away and give us a prospect of the green island summits around us, with their bold headlands, the winding straits between, and the black rocks standing out in the sea. when we arrived at the summit we could hardly stand against the wind, but it was almost more difficult to muster courage to look down that dizzy depth over which the zetlanders suspend themselves with ropes, in quest of the eggs of the sea-fowl. my friend captured a young gull on the summit of the noup. the bird had risen at his approach, and essayed to fly towards the sea, but the strength of the wind drove him back to the land. he rose again, but could not sustain a long flight, and coming to the ground again, was caught, after a spirited chase, amidst a wild clamor of of the sea-fowl over our heads. not far from the noup is the holm, or, as it is sometimes called, the cradle or basket, of the noss. it is a perpendicular mass of rock, two or three hundred feet high, with a broad flat summit, richly covered with grass, and is separated from the island by a narrow chasm, through which the sea flows. two strong ropes are stretched from the main island to the top of the holm, and on these is slung the cradle or basket, a sort of open box made of deal boards, in which the shepherds pass with their sheep to the top of the holm. we found the cradle strongly secured by lock and key to the stakes on the side of the noss, in order, no doubt, to prevent any person from crossing for his own amusement. as we descended the smooth pastures of the noss, we fell in with a herd of ponies, of a size somewhat larger than is common on the islands. i asked our guide, a lad of fourteen years of age, what was the average price of a sheltie. his answer deserves to be written in letters of gold-- "it's jist as they're bug an' smal'." from the ferryman, at the strait below, i got more specific information. they vary in price from three to ten pounds, but the latter sum is only paid for the finest of these animals, in the respects of shape and color. it is not a little remarkable, that the same causes which, in shetland, have made the horse the smallest of ponies, have almost equally reduced the size of the cow. the sheep, also--a pretty creature, i might call it--from the fine wool of which the shetland women knot the thin webs known by the name of shetland shawls, is much smaller than any breed i have ever seen. whether the cause be the perpetual chilliness of the atmosphere, or the insufficiency of nourishment--for, though the long zetland winters are temperate, and snow never lies long on the ground, there is scarce any growth of herbage in that season--i will not undertake to say, but the people of the islands ascribe it to the insufficiency of nourishment. it is, at all events, remarkable, that the traditions of the country should ascribe to the picts, the early inhabitants of shetland, the same dwarfish stature, and that the numerous remains of their habitations which still exist, should seem to confirm the tradition. the race which at present possesses the shetlands is, however, of what the french call "an advantageous stature," and well limbed. if it be the want of a proper and genial warmth, which prevents the due growth of the domestic animals, it is a want to which the zetlanders are not subject. their hills afford the man apparently inexhaustible supply of peat, which costs the poorest man nothing but the trouble of cutting it and bringing it home; and their cottages, i was told, are always well warmed in winter. in crossing the narrow strait which separates the noss from bressay, i observed on the bressay side, overlooking the water, a round hillock, of very regular shape, in which the green turf was intermixed with stones. "that," said the ferryman, "is what we call a pictish castle. i mind when it was opened; it was full of rooms, so that ye could go over every part of it." i climbed the hillock, and found, by inspecting several openings, which had been made by the peasantry to take away the stones, that below the turf it was a regular work of pictish masonry, but the spiral galleries, which these openings revealed, had been completely choked up, in taking away the materials of which they were built. although plenty of stone may be found everywhere in the islands, there seems to be a disposition to plunder these remarkable remains, for the sake of building cottages, or making those inclosures for their cabbages, which the islanders call _crubs_. they have been pulling down the pictish castle, on the little island in the fresh-water loch called cleikimin, near lerwick, described with such minuteness by scott in his journal, till very few traces of its original construction are left. if the inclosing of lands for pasturage and cultivation proceeds as it has begun, these curious monuments of a race which has long perished, will disappear. now that we were out of hearing of the cries of the sea-birds, we were regaled with more agreeable sounds. we had set out, as we climbed the island of bressay, amid a perfect chorus of larks, answering each other in the sky, and sometimes, apparently, from the clouds; and now we heard them again overhead, pouring out their sweet notes so fast and so ceaselessly, that it seemed as if the little creatures imagined they had more to utter, than they had time to utter it in. in no part of the british islands have i seen the larks so numerous or so merry, as in the shetlands. we waited awhile at the wharf by the minister's house in bressay, for jim sinclair, who at length appeared in his boat to convey us to lerwick. "he is a noisy fallow," said our good landlady, and truly we found him voluble enough, but quite amusing. as he rowed us to town he gave us a sample of his historical knowledge, talking of sir walter raleigh and the settlement of north america, and told us that his greatest pleasure was to read historical books in the long winter nights. his children, he said, could all read and write. we dined on a leg of shetland mutton, with a tart made "of the only fruit of the island" as a scotchman called it, the stalks of the rhubarb plant, and went on board of our steamer about six o'clock in the afternoon. it was matter of some regret to us that we were obliged to leave shetland so soon. two or three days more might have been pleasantly passed among its grand precipices, its winding straits, its remains of a remote and rude antiquity, its little horses, little cows, and little sheep, its sea-fowl, its larks, its flowers, and its hardy and active people. there was an amusing novelty also in going to bed, as we did, by daylight, for at this season of the year, the daylight is never out of the sky, and the flush of early sunset only passes along the horizon from the northwest to the northeast, where it brightens into sunrise. the zetlanders, i was told by a scotch clergyman, who had lived among them forty years, are naturally shrewd and quick of apprehension; "as to their morals," he added, "if ye stay among them any time ye'll be able to judge for yourself." so, on the point of morals, i am in the dark. more attention, i hear, is paid to the education of their children than formerly, and all have the opportunity of learning to read and write in the parochial schools. their agriculture is still very rude, they are very unwilling to adopt the instruments of husbandry used in england, but on the whole they are making some progress. a shetland gentleman, who, as he remarked to me, had "had the advantage of seeing some other countries" besides his own, complained that the peasantry were spending too much of their earnings for tea, tobacco, and spirits. last winter a terrible famine came upon the islands; their fisheries had been unproductive, and the potato crop had been cut off by the blight. the communication with scotland by steamboat had ceased, as it always does in winter, and it was long before the sufferings of the shetlanders were known in great britain, but as soon as the intelligence was received, contributions were made and the poor creatures were relieved. their climate, inhospitable as it seems, is healthy, and they live to a good old age. a native of the island, a baronet, who has a great white house on a bare field in sight of lerwick, and was a passenger on board the steamer in which we made our passage to the island, remarked that if it was not the healthiest climate in the world, the extremely dirty habits of the peasantry would engender disease, which, however, was not the case. "it is, probably, the effect of the saline particles in the air," he added. his opinion seemed to be that the dirt was salted by the sea-winds, and preserved from further decomposition. i was somewhat amused, in hearing him boast of the climate of shetland in winter. "have you never observed" said he, turning to the old scotch clergyman of whom i have already spoken, "how much larger the proportion of sunny days is in our islands than at the south?" "i have never observed it," was the dry answer of the minister. the people of shetland speak a kind of scottish, but not with the scottish accent. four hundred years ago, when the islands were transferred from norway to the british crown, their language was norse, but that tongue, although some of its words have been preserved in the present dialect, has become extinct. "i have heard," said an intelligent shetlander to me, "that there are yet, perhaps, half a dozen persons in one of our remotest neighborhoods, who are able to speak it, but i never met with one who could." in returning from lerwick to the orkneys, we had a sample of the weather which is often encountered in these latitudes. the wind blew a gale in the night, and our steamer was tossed about on the waves like an egg-shell, much to the discomfort of the passengers. we had on board a cargo of ponies, the smallest of which were from the shetlands, some of them not much larger than sheep, and nearly as shaggy; the others, of larger size, had been brought from the faro isles. in the morning, when the gale had blown itself to rest, i went on deck and saw one of the faro island ponies, which had given out during the night, stretched dead upon the deck. i inquired if the body was to be committed to the deep. "it is to be skinned first," was the answer. we stopped at kirkwall in the orkneys, long enough to allow us to look at the old cathedral of st. magnus, built early in the twelfth century--a venerable pile, in perfect preservation, and the finest specimen of the architecture once called saxon, then norman, and lately romanesque, that i have ever seen. the round arch is everywhere used, except in two or three windows of later addition. the nave is narrow, and the central groined arches are lofty; so that an idea of vast extent is given, though the cathedral is small, compared with the great minsters in england. the work of completing certain parts of the building which were left unfinished, is now going on at the expense of the government. all the old flooring, and the pews, which made it a parish church, have been taken away, and the original proportions and symmetry of the building are seen as they ought to be. the general effect of the building is wonderfully grand and solemn. on our return to scotland, we stopped for a few hours at wick. it was late in the afternoon, and the fishermen, in their vessels, were going out of the harbor to their nightly toil. vessel after vessel, each manned with four stout rowers, came out of the port--and after rowing a short distance, raised their sails and steered for the open sea, till all the waters, from the land to the horizon, were full of them. i counted them, hundreds after hundreds, till i grew tired of the task. a sail of ten or twelve hours brought us to aberdeen, with its old cathedral, encumbered by pews and wooden partitions, and its old college, the tower of which is surmounted by a cluster of flying buttresses, formed into the resemblance of a crown. this letter, you perceive, is dated at aberdeen. it was begun there, but i have written portions of it at different times since i left that city, and i beg that you will imagine it to be of the latest date. it is now long enough, i fear, to tire your readers, and i therefore lay down my pen. letter lii. europe under the bayonet. paris, _september_ , . whoever should visit the principal countries of europe at the present moment, might take them for conquered provinces, held in subjection by their victorious masters, at the point of the sword. such was the aspect which france presented when i came to paris a few weeks since. the city was then in what is called, by a convenient fiction, a state of siege; soldiers filled the streets, were posted in every public square and at every corner, were seen marching before the churches, the cornices of which bore the inscription of liberty, equality, and fraternity, keeping their brethren quiet by the bayonet. i have since made a journey to bavaria and switzerland, and on returning i find the siege raised, and these demonstrations of fraternity less formal, but the show and the menace of military force are scarcely less apparent. those who maintain that france is not fit for liberty, need not afflict themseves with the idea that there is at present more liberty in france than her people know how to enjoy. on my journey, i found the cities along the rhine crowded with soldiers; the sound of the drum was heard among the hills covered with vines; women were trundling loaded wheel-barrows, and carrying panniers like asses, to earn the taxes which are extorted to support the men who stalk about in uniform. i entered heidelberg with anticipations of pleasure; they were dashed in a moment; the city was in a state of siege, occupied by prussian troops which had been sent to take the part of the grand duke of baden against his people. i could hardly believe that this was the same peaceful and friendly city which i had known in better times. every other man in the streets was a soldier; the beautiful walks about the old castle were full of soldiers; in the evening they were reeling through the streets. "this invention," said a german who had been a member of the diet of the confederation lately broken up, "this invention of declaring a city, which has unconditionally submitted, to be still in a state of siege, is but a device to practice the most unbounded oppression. any man who is suspected, or feared, or disliked, or supposed not to approve of the proceedings of the victorious party, is arrested and imprisoned at pleasure. he may be guiltless of any offense which could be made a pretext for condemning him, but his trial is arbitrarily postponed, and when at last he is released, he has suffered the penalty of a long confinement, and is taught how dangerous it is to become obnoxious to the government." from heidelberg, thus transformed, i was glad to take my departure as soon as possible. our way from that city to heilbronn, was through a most charming country along the valley of the neckar. here were low hills and valleys rich with harvests, a road embowered in fruit-trees, the branches of which were propped with stakes to prevent them from breaking with their load, and groves lying pleasantly in the morning sunshine, where ravens were croaking. birds of worse omen than these were abroad, straggling groups, and sometimes entire companies of soldiers, on their way from one part of the duchy to another; while in the fields, women, prematurely old with labor, were wielding the hoe and the mattock, and the younger and stronger of their sex were swinging the scythe. in all the villages through which we passed, in the very smallest, troops were posted, and men in military uniform were standing at the doors, or looking from the windows of every inn and beer-house. at heilbronn we took the railway for stuttgart, the capital of wurtemberg. there was a considerable proportion of men in military trappings among the passengers, but at one of the stations they came upon us like a cloud, and we entered stuttgart with a little army. that city, too, looked as if in a state of siege, so numerous were the soldiery, though the vine-covered hills, among which it is situated, could have given them a better occupation. the railway, beyond stuttgart, wound through a deep valley and ended at geisslingen, an ancient swabian town, in a gorge of the mountains, with tall old houses, not one of which, i might safely affirm, has been built within the last two hundred years. from this place to ulm, on the danube, the road was fairly lined with soldiers, walking or resting by the wayside, or closely packed in the peasants' wagons, which they had hired to carry them short distances. at ulm we were obliged to content ourselves with straitened accommodations, the hotels being occupied by the gentry in epaulettes. i hoped to see fewer of this class at the capital of bavaria, but it was not so; they were everywhere placed in sight as if to keep the people in awe. "these fellows," said a german to me, "are always too numerous, but in ordinary times they are kept in the capitals and barracks, and the nuisance is out of sight. now, however, the occasion is supposed to make their presence necessary in the midst of the people, and they swarm everywhere." another, it was our host of the goldener hirsch, said to my friend, "i think i shall emigrate to america, i am tired of living under the bayonet." i was in munich when the news arrived of the surrender of the hungarian troops under görgey, and the fall of the hungarian republic. all along my journey i had observed tokens of the intense interest which the german people took in the result of the struggle between austria and the magyars, and of the warmth of their hopes in favor of the latter. the intelligence was received with the deepest sorrow. "so perishes," said a bavarian, "the last hope of european liberty." our journey to switzerland led us through the southern part of bavaria, among the old towns which formed a part of ancient swabia. the country here, in some respects, resembles new england; here are broad woods, large orchards of the apple and pear, and scattered farm-houses--of a different architecture, it is true, from that of the yankees, and somewhat resembling, with their far-projecting eaves, those of switzerland. yet there was a further difference--everywhere, men were seen under arms, and women at the plough. so weary had i grown of the perpetual sight of the military uniform, that i longed to escape into switzerland, where i hoped to see less of it, and it was with great delight that i found myself at lindau, a border town of bavaria, on the bodensee, or lake of constance, on the shores of which the boundaries of four sovereignties meet. a steamer took us across the lake, from a wharf covered with soldiers, to roorschach, in switzerland, where not a soldier was to be seen. nobody asked for our passports, nobody required us to submit our baggage to search. i could almost have kneeled and kissed the shore of the hospitable republic; and really it was beautiful enough for such a demonstration of affection, for nothing could be lovelier than the declivities of that shore with its woods and orchards, and grassy meadows, and green hollows running upward to the mountain-tops, all fresh with a shower which had just passed and now glittering in the sunshine, and interspersed with large swiss houses, bearing quaintly-carved galleries, and broad overhanging roofs, while to the east rose the glorious summits of the alps, mingling with the clouds. in three or four hours we had climbed up to st. gall--st. gallen, the germans call it--situated in a high valley, among steep green hills, which send down spurs of woodland to the meadows below. in walking out to look at the town, we heard a brisk and continued discharge of musketry, and, proceeding in the direction of the sound, came to a large field, evidently set apart as a parade-ground, on which several hundred youths were practicing the art of war in a sham fight, and keeping up a spirited fire at each other with blank cartridges. on inquiry, we were told that these were the boys of the schools of st. gall, from twelve to sixteen years of age, with whom military exercises were a part of their education. i was still, therefore, among soldiers, but of a different class from those of whom i had seen so much. here, it was the people who were armed for self-protection; there, it was a body of mercenaries armed to keep the people in subjection. another day's journey brought us to the picturesque town of zurich, and the next morning about four o'clock i was awakened by the roll of drums under my window. looking out, i saw a regiment of boys of a tender age, in a uniform of brown linen, with little light muskets on their shoulders, and miniature knapsacks on their backs, completely equipped and furnished for war, led on by their little officers in regular military order, marching and wheeling to the sound of martial music with all the precision of veterans. in switzerland arms are in every man's hands; he is educated to be a soldier, and taught that the liberties of his country depend on his skill and valor. the worst effect, perhaps of this military education is, that the swiss, when other means of subsistence are not easily found, become military adventurers and sell their services to the first purchaser. meantime, nobody is regarded as properly fitted for his duties as a member of the state, who is not skilled in the use of arms. target-shooting, _freischiessen_, is the national amusement of switzerland, and has been so ever since the days of tell; occasions of target-shooting are prescribed and superintended by the public authorities. they were practicing it at the stately city of berne when we visited it; they were practicing it at various other places as we passed. every town is provided with a public shooting-ground near its gates. it was at one of the most remarkable of these towns; it was at freiburg, catholic freiburg, full of catholic seminaries and convents, in the churches of which you may hear the shrill voices of the nuns chanting matins, themselves unseen; it was at freiburg, grandly seated on the craggy banks of her rivers, flowing in deep gulfs, spanned by the loftiest and longest chain-bridges in the world, that i saw another evidence of the fact that switzerland is the only place on the continent where freedom is understood, or allowed to have an existence. a proclamation of the authorities of the canton was pasted on the walls and gates, ordaining the th of september as a day of religious thanksgiving. after recounting the motives of gratitude to providence; after speaking of the abundance of the harvests, the health enjoyed throughout switzerland, at the threshold of which the cholera had a second time been stayed; the subsidence of political animosities, and the quiet enjoyment of the benefits of the new constitution upon which the country had entered, the proclamation mentioned, as a special reason of gratitude to almighty god, that switzerland, in this day of revolutions, had been enabled to offer, among her mountains, a safe and unmolested asylum to the thousands of fugitives who had suffered defeat in the battles of freedom. i could not help contrasting this with the cruel treatment shown by france to the political refugees from baden and other parts of germany. a few days before, it had been announced that the french government required of these poor fellows that they should either enlist at once in the regiments destined for service in algiers, or immediately leave the country--offering them the alternative of military slavery, or banishment from the country in which they had hoped to find a shelter. i have spoken of the practice of switzerland in regard to passports, an example which it does not suit the purpose the french politicians to follow. here, and all over the continent, the passport system is as strictly and vexatiously enforced as ever. it is remarkable that none of the reformers occupied in the late remodelling of european institutions, seems to have thought of abolishing this invention of despotism--this restraint upon the liberty of passing from place to place, which makes europe one great prison. if the people had been accustomed to perfect freedom in this respect, though but a short time, it might have been found difficult, at least in france, to reimpose the old restraints. the truth is, however, that france is not quite so free at present as she was under louis philippe. the only advantage of her present condition is, that the constitution places in the hands of the people the means of peaceably perfecting their liberties, whenever they are enlightened enough to claim them. on my way from geneva to lyons i sat in _banquette_ of the diligence among the plebeians. the conversation happened to turn on politics, and the expressions of hatred against the present government of france, which broke from the conductor, the coachman, and the two passengers by my side, were probably significant of the feeling which prevails among the people. "the only law now," said one, "is the law of the sabre." "the soldiers and the _gens d'armes_ have every thing their own way now," said another, "but by and by they will be glad to, hide in the sewers." the others were no less emphatic in their expressions of anger and detestation. the expedition to rome is unpopular throughout france, more especially so in the southern part of the republic, where the intercourse with rome has been more frequent, and the sympathy with her people is stronger. "i have never," said an american friend, who has resided some time in paris, "heard a single frenchman defend it." it is unpopular, even among the troops sent on the expedition, as is acknowledged by the government journals themselves. to propitiate public opinion, the government has changed its course, and after making war upon the romans to establish the pontifical throne, now tells the pope that he must submit to place the government in the hands of the laity. this change of policy has occasioned a good deal of surprise and an infinite deal of discussion. whatever may be its consequences, there is one consequence which it can not have, that of recovering to the president and his ministry the popularity they have lost. letter liii. volterra. [this letter was casually omitted from its proper place near the beginning of the volume.] rome, _april_ , . towards the end of march i went from pisa to volterra. this you know is a very ancient city, one of the strongholds of etruria when rome was in its cradle; and, in more modern times, in the age of italian republics, large enough to form an independent community of considerable importance. it is now a decayed town, containing about four thousand inhabitants, some of whom are families of the poor and proud nobility common enough over all italy, who are said to quarrel with each other more fiercely in volterra than almost anywhere else. it is the old feud of the montagues and the capulets on a humbler scale, and the disputes of the volterra nobility are the more violent and implacable for being hereditary. poor creatures! too proud to engage in business, too indolent for literature, excluded from political employments by the nature of the government, there is nothing left for them but to starve, intrigue, and quarrel. you may judge how miserably poor they are, when you are told they can not afford even to cultivate the favorite art of modern italy; the art best suited to the genius of a soft and effeminate people. there is, i was told, but one pianoforte in the whole town, and that is owned by a florentine lady who has recently come to reside here. for several miles before reaching volterra, our attention was fixed by the extraordinary aspect of the country through which we were passing. the road gradually ascended, and we found ourselves among deep ravines and steep, high, broken banks, principally of clay, barren, and in most places wholly bare of herbage, a scene of complete desolation, were it not for a cottage here and there perched upon the heights, a few sheep attended by a boy and a dog grazing on the brink of one of the precipices, or a solitary patch of bright green wheat in some spot where the rains had not yet carried away the vegetable mould. imagine to yourself an elevated country like the highlands of pennsylvania or the western part of massachusetts; imagine vast beds of loam and clay in place of the ledges of rock, and then fancy the whole region to be torn by water-spouts and torrents into gulleys too profound to be passed, with sharp ridges between--stripped of its trees and its grass--and you will have some idea of the country near volterra. i could not help fancying, while i looked at it, that as the earth grew old, the ribs of rock which once upheld the mountains, had become changed into the bare heaps of earth which i saw about me, that time and the elements had destroyed the cohesion of the particles of which they were formed, and that now the rains were sweeping them down to the mediterranean, to fill its bed and cause its waters to encroach upon the land. it was impossible for me to prevent the apprehension from passing through my mind, that such might be the fate of other quarters of the globe in ages yet to come, that their rocks must crumble and their mountains be levelled, until the waters shall again cover the face of the earth, unless new mountains shall be thrown up by eruptions of internal fire. they told me in volterra, that this frightful region had once been productive and under cultivation, but that after a plague which, four or five hundred years since, had depopulated the country, it was abandoned and neglected, and the rains had reduced it to its present state. in the midst of this desolate tract, which is, however, here and there interspersed with fertile spots, rises the mountain on which volterra is situated, where the inhabitants breathe a pure and keen atmosphere, almost perpetually cool, and only die of pleurisies and apoplexies; while below, on the banks of the cecina, which in full sigjit winds its way to the sea, they die of fevers. one of the ravines of which i have spoken,--the _balza_ they call it at volterra--has ploughed a deep chasm on the north side of this mountain, and is every year rapidly approaching the city on its summit. i stood on its edge and looked down a bank of soft red earth five hundred feet in height. a few rods in front of me i saw where a road had crossed the spot in which the gulf now yawned; the tracks of the last year's carriages were seen reaching to the edge on both sides. the ruins of a convent were close at hand, the inmates of which, two or three years since, had been removed by the government to the town for safety. these will soon be undermined by the advancing chasm, together with a fine piece of old etruscan wall, once inclosing the city, built of enormous uncemented parallelograms of stone, and looking as if it might be the work of the giants who lived before the flood; a neighboring church will next fall into the gulf, which finally, if means be not taken to prevent its progress, will reach and sap the present walls of the city, swallowing up what time has so long spared. "a few hundred crowns," said an inhabitant of volterra to me, "would stop all this mischief. a wall at the bottom of the chasm, and a heap of branches of trees or other rubbish, to check the fall of the earth, are all that would be necessary." i asked why these means were not used. "because," he replied, "those to whom the charge of these matters belongs, will not take the trouble. somebody must devise a plan for the purpose, and somebody must take upon himself the labor of seeing it executed. they find it easier to put it off." the antiquities of volterra consist of an etruscan burial-ground, in which the tombs still remain, pieces of the old and incredibly massive etruscan wall, including a far larger circuit than the present city, two etruscan gates of immemorial antiquity, older doubtless than any thing at rome, built of enormous stones, one of them serving even yet as an entrance to the town, and a multitude of cinerary vessels, mostly of alabaster, sculptured with numerous figures in _alto relievo_. these figures are sometimes allegorical representations, and sometimes embody the fables of the greek mythology. among them are some in the most perfect style of grecian art, the subjects of which are taken from the poems of homer; groups representing the besiegers of troy and its defenders, or ulysses with his companions and his ships. i gazed with exceeding delight on these works of forgotten artists, who had the verses of homer by heart--works just drawn from the tombs where they had been buried for thousands of years, and looking as if fresh from the chisel. we had letters to the commandant of the fortress, an ancient-looking stronghold, built by the medici family, over which we were conducted by his adjutant, a courteous gentleman with a red nose, who walked as if keeping time to military music. from the summit of the tower we had an extensive and most remarkable prospect. it was the th day of march, and below us, the sides of the mountain, scooped into irregular dells, were covered with fruit-trees just breaking into leaf and flower. beyond stretched the region of barrenness i have already described, to the west of which lay the green pastures of the maremma, the air of which, in summer, is deadly, and still further west were spread the waters of the mediterranean, out of which were seen rising the mountains of corsica. to the north and northeast were the appenines, capped with snow, embosoming the fertile lower valley of the arno, with the cities of pisa and leghorn in sight. to the south we traced the windings of the cecina, and saw ascending into the air the smoke of a hot-water lake, agitated perpetually with the escape of gas, which we were told was visited by dante, and from which he drew images for his description of hell. some frenchman has now converted it into a borax manufactory, the natural heat of the water serving to extract the salt. the fortress is used as a prison for persons guilty of offenses against the state. on the top of the tower we passed four prisoners of state, well-dressed young men, who appeared to have been entertaining themselves with music, having guitars and other instruments in their hands. they saluted the adjutant as he went by them, who, in return, took off his hat. they had been condemned for a conspiracy against the government. the commandant gave us a hospitable reception. in showing us the fortress he congratulated us that we had no occasion for such engines of government in america. we went to his house in the evening, where we saw his wife, a handsome young lady, whom he had lately brought from florence, the very lady of the pianoforte whom i have already mentioned, and the mother of two young children, whose ruddy cheeks and chubby figures did credit to the wholesome air of volterra. the commandant made tea for us in tumblers, and the lady gave us music. the tea was so strong a decoction that i seemed to hear the music all night, and had no need of being waked from sleep, when our _vetturino_, at an early hour the next morning, came to take us on our journey to sienna. the end. footnotes [ ] the following is a spanish translation of this hymn as taken down in writing from the mouth of one of the mahonese, as they call themselves, a native of st. augustine. the author does not hold himself responsible for the purity of the castilian. dejaremos el duelo, cantaremos con alegria, e iremos á dar las pascuas á maria. o maria. san gabriel acá portó la embajada. de nuestro rey del ciel estareis preñada. ya humillada tu que vais aqui servente, hija de dios contenta para hacer lo que el quiere. dejaremos el duelo, &a. y á media noche, paristeis reyna a un dios infinite dentro de un establo. y a media dia, los angeles van cantando paz y abundancia de la gloria de dios solo. dejaremos el duelo, &a. y a belem, allá en la tierra santa, nos nació gesus con alegria tanta. niño chiquito, que todo el mundo salvaria; y ningun bastaria sino un dios todo solo. dejaremos el duelo, &a. cuando del oriente los tres reyes la estrella vieron, dios omnipotente, para adorarlo ivinieron. un regalo inferieron, de mil inciensos y oro, al bendito señor que sabe qualquiera cosa. dejaremos el duelo, &a. todo fu pronto para cumplir la promesa; del espiritu santo un angel fue mandado. gran fuego encendido que quema el corage; dios nos de lenguage para hacer lo que quiere. dejaremos el duelo, &a. cuando se fué de este mundo nuestra señora, al ciel se empujó su hijo la misme hora. o emperadora, que del ciel sois elijida! la rosa florida, mas resplandesciente que un sol! dejaremos el duelo, &a. y el tercer dia que gesus resuscitó, dios y veronica de la morte triunfó. de alli se bajó para perder á lucifer, con todo el suo poder, que dienuestro ser el sol. dejaremos el duelo, &a. [ ] thus in the spanish translation furnished me: estos seis versos que cantamos regina celestial! dadnos paz y alegria, y buenas fiestas tengais. yo vos doy sus buenas fiestas; dadnos dinero de nuestras nueces. siempre tendremos las manos prestas. para recibir un cuatro de huevos. y el dia de pascua florida, alegremonos juntamente; el que mori para darnos vida ya vive gloriosamente. aquesta casa está empredrada, bien halla que la empedró; el amo de aquesta casa, quisiera darnos un don. quesadilla, o empanada, cucuta, o flaon, qualquiera cosa me agrada, solo que no me digas que no, [ ] thus in the spanish: aquesta casa está empedrada, empedrada de cuatro vientos; el amo de aquesta casa es hombre de cortesia. [ ] "now they are fighting!" [ ] "kill! kill! kill!" [ ] "look, look, it will do you no harm." [ ] "put it on, put it on." [ ] "publicly, sir, publicly." transcriber's note: some illustrations have been moved higher in the book to allow uninterrupted flow of the text. punch library of humour edited by j. a. hammerton designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "punch," from its beginning in to the present day. mr. punch on the continong [illustration] [illustration: the steam-launch in venice ("sic transit gloria mundi") _'andsome 'arriet._ "ow my! if it 'yn't that bloomin' old temple bar, as they did aw'y with out o' fleet street!" _mr. belleville_ (_referring to guide-book_). "now, it 'yn't! it's the fymous bridge o' _sighs_, as _byron_ went and stood on; 'im as wrote _our boys_, yer know!" _'andsome 'arriet._ "well, i _never!_ it 'yn't _much_ of a _size_, any'ow!" _mr. belleville._ "'ear! 'ear fustryte!"] mr. punch on the continong _with illustrations_ by phil may, george du maurier, john leech, charles keene, l. ravenhill, j. bernard partridge, e. t. reed, reginald cleaver, and other humorous artists [illustration] published by arrangement with the proprietors of "punch" the amalgamated press, ltd. punch library of humour _crown vo. pages, fully illustrated, pictorial cover, s. net._ mr. punch at the seaside mr. punch's railway book mr. punch on the continong mr. punch's book of love mr. punch afloat mr. punch in the highlands others to follow [illustration: before the battle] [illustration: after the battle] off to the continong! (_a foreword_) [illustration: fancy and---- the kind of figure you see on posters inviting you to french seaside resorts. ] nothing is more calculated to give englishmen a good conceit of themselves in the matter of international courtesy than a careful examination of the archives of mr. punch, such as was necessary in the preparation of the present volume. to anyone familiar with the anti-british attitude of the french comic press before these happier days of the _entente cordiale_, and of the german press at all times, the complete absence of all manner of ill-feeling from mr. punch's jokes about our neighbours across the channel is little short of wonderful. even in the days when the english people were the unfailing subject for every french satirist when he suffered from an unusual attack of spleen, our national jester seems never to have lost the good-humour with which he has usually surveyed the life of the continent. indeed, as the pages here brought together will readily prove, mr. punch has seldom, if ever, laid himself open to the charge of insularity in his point of view. instead of showing a tendency to ridicule our neighbours on the continent, he has been more inclined to pillory the follies of his own countrymen, and to contrast their behaviour on the continent rather unfavourably with that of the natives. but, even so, there is nothing in these humorous chronicles of "mr. punch on the continong" which will not amuse equally the travelling or the stay-at-home briton and the foreigner, since each will find many of his national characteristics "touched off" in a way that is no less kindly than amusing. the fact that a considerable proportion of these pages are from the pen of george du maurier, himself a frenchman by birth, is a reminder that long before the governments of france and great britain had come into their present relationship of intimate friendliness, mr. punch had maintained his own _entente cordiale!_ [illustration: fact! the kind of figure which comes nearest to the ideal you have formed. ] [illustration: where second thoughts are better scene--_boulevards, paris_ _professional beggar_ (_whining_). "ayez pitié, mon bon m'sieu. ayez pitié! j'ai froid--j'ai bien froid!" _le bon monsieur_ (_irritably_). "allez au di----" (_suddenly thinking that sunshine might be preferable_) "aux champs elysées!"] [illustration: "look on this picture----] and on this!"] [illustration: on the boulogne pier (two asides) _young england._ "rummy style of 'at!" _la jeune france._ "drôle de chapeau!"] mr. punch on the continong tips (_to a friendly adviser_) when starting off on foreign trips, i've felt secure if someone gave me invaluable hints and tips; time, trouble, money, these would save me. i'm off; you've told me all you know. forewarned, forearmed, i start, instructed how much to spend, and where to go; yet free, not like some folks "conducted." now i shall face, serene and calm, those persons, often rather pressing for little gifts, with outstretched palm. to some of them i'll give my blessing. to others--"_service_" being paid-- _buona mano_, _pourboire_, _trinkgeld;_ they fancy englishmen are made of money, made of (so they think) _geld_. the _garçon_, ready with each dish, his brisk "_voilà, monsieur_" replying to anything that one may wish; his claim admits of no denying. the _portier_, who never rests, who speaks six languages together to clamorous, inquiring guests, on letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather. the _femme de chambre_, who fills my _bain;_ the _ouvreuse_, where i see the _acteur_. a cigarette to _chef de train_, a franc to energetic _facteur_. i give each _cocher_ what is right; i know, without profound researches, what i must pay for each new sight-- cathedrals, castles, convents, churches. or climbing up to see a view, from _campanile_, roof, or steeple, those verbal tips i had from you save money tips to other people. save all those florins, marks or francs-- or _pfennige_, _sous_, _kreutzer_, is it?-- the change they give me at the banks, according to the towns i visit. i seem to owe you these, and yet will money do? my feeling's deeper. i'll owe you an eternal debt-- a debt of gratitude, that's cheaper. [illustration: _the cleaner_ (_showing tourists round the church_). "voilà le maître-autel, m'sieu' et 'dame." _british matron_. "oh, to be sure, yes. you remember, george, we had french beans, _à la maître autel_ for dinner yesterday!"] breaking the bank at monte carlo (_a note from one who has all but done it_) dear mr. punch.--now that so many of my countrymen (the word includes both sexes) patronise monte carlo, it is well that they should be provided with an infallible system. some people think that a lucky pig charm or a piece of newgate rope produces luck. but this impression is caused by a feeling of superstition--neither more nor less. what one wants in front of the table is a really scientific mathematical system. this i am prepared to give. take a napoleon as a unit, making up your mind to lose up to a certain sum, and do not exceed that sum. now back the colour twenty consecutive times. don't double, but simply keep to the unit. when you have lost to the full extent of your limit, double your stake. keep to this sum for another twenty turns. by this time it is a mathematical certainty that you must either have won--or lost. of course, if you have won you will be pleased. if you have lost, keep up your heart and double your stakes again. this time you will be backing the colour with a stake four times as large as your original fancy. again go for twenty turns, and see what comes of it. of course, if you still lose it will be unfortunate, but you cannot have everything. and with this truism, i sign myself, one who wishes to benefit mankind. [illustration: foreigners in france _first foreigner_. "this is what they call _à la russe_, isn't it!" _second foreigner_. "_alleroose_ is it? well there! i could a' sworn it warn't beef nor mutton."] the british bather (_by a dipper in brittany_) [apropos of a correspondence in the _daily graphic_] mrs. grundy rules the waves, with britons for her slaves-- they're fearful to disport themselves, unless the sexes sort themselves and take their bathing, sadly, for french gaiety depraves (!) 'tis time no more were seen the out-of-date "machine"; away with that monstrosity of prudish ponderosity-- why can't we have the bathing tent or else the trim _cabine?_ i think we should advance if we took a hint from france, and mingled (quite decorously) on beaches that before us lie all round our coasts--we do abroad whene'er we get the chance! o'er here in st. maló the thing's quite _comme il faut;_ why not in higher latitude? i can't make out the attitude of those who make the british dip so "shocking," dull and slow! [illustration: notes from mr. punch's foreign sketch-book feeding the pigeons at st. mark's square, venice] [illustration: l'anglais fin-de-siÈcle _first tripper_ (_in french picture gallery_). "what o! 'erb! what price this?" _gardien_ (_who quite understands him_). "pardon, m'sieur, eet is not 'watteau,' and eet is not for sale!"] [illustration: _tourist expostulates_: "oh--h, come! them seegar is poor le--le--le--foomigaseong de mor-mem--yer fool!"] a roman holiday _on the appian way_ we are with a guide, voluble after the fashion of guides all the world over, and capable of speaking many languages execrably. his english, no doubt, is typical of the rest. "datt-e building dere," he says, "is de barze of caracalla." "the _what?_" says my companion. "de barze of caracalla--vere de ancient romans bayze demselfs in de water--same as ve go to casino, zey take a barze, morning, afternoon, ven zey like." "it must have been a large building," i venture, ineptly. "in dem dere barze," he retorts, impressively, "sixteen honderd peoples all could chomp in de water same time!" "jolly good splash they must have made," says a. the guide pays no attention, but continues:-- "dem dere barze not de biggest. in de barze of diocletian four tousand peoples all could chomp in de water same time. in all de barze in rome forrrty tousand could chomp in same time." "i wonder," says a., "how they got 'em all together and started them jumping?" "vell, dey not all chomp togesser every day same peoples, but ven de barze all full den forrrty tousand chomp in same time." _at the bosco sacro._ "now," remarks the guide, "i tell you fonny story--make you laugh. ven dem eight honderd robbers foundated rome dey live on a 'ill and dey haf no religion. den come de king numa pompilio: he say 'dey most haf religion,' so he can goffern dem better. den 'e go to diss _bosco_, and ven he come back he tell dem robbers he haf seen de naimp _egeea_----" "the nymph _egeria_," a. intervenes, with superiority. "vell, i say de naimp _egeea_. he say he haf seen her, dat she haf appareeted to him, and so dey get deir religion." a. laughs dubiously. "yes," concludes the guide, "dat iss a fonny story." _by the circus of maxentius_. "diss is de circus of massenzio. he build 'im ven his son romulus die. no, diss is not de same romulus who foundated rome, but anosser one, a leetle boy, de son of de emperor massenzio. he die ven he vos a leetle boy. in dem days it not permitted to make sacrifice of men, so dey build a race-course instead: it is de same ting, for some of de charioteers alvays get dem killed, and massenzio tink dey go play wiz romulus." _in the catacombs._ "ven de _martiri_ condemnated to dess and dey kill dem, dey safe some drops blood in a leetle bottle and dey put dem bottles in de valls. dere iss a bit, you see. san sebastiano 'e vos condemnated to de arrows--dey shotted 'im--and afterward dey smash his head on a column. dere is de column." "what was that you were telling us about caracalla just now?" "caracalla he no like 'is brozzer geta--so he kill 'im. den he make 'im a god and tell peoples to vorship him, and 'e say 'i did not like my brozzer ven he vos a man, but i like him very moch ven he is a god.' dat is anosser funny story." * * * at boulogne.--_mrs. sweetly_ (_on her honeymoon_). "isn't it funny, archibald, to see so many foreigners about? and all talking french!" [illustration: from "la cÔte d'azur" _fritz the waiter_ (_to lady and gent just arrived, and a little at sea as to the sort of a kind of a place it is_). "yes, madame, dere is such a lot of _swift_ people here. more dan half de peoples what is here is _swift_."] [illustration: o flattery, thy name is frenchwoman! john henry jones thinks he will do a little bit of marketing for himself, and asks the price of tomatoes. with a killing glance and a winning smile, the vendor replies that for him they will be a franc apiece, but that he mustn't mention it. the modest j. h. j. blushes, and buys, in spite of some misgiving that for anybody else they would be about sixpence a dozen.] [illustration: our compatriots abroad scene--_a table d'hôte_ _aristocratic english lady_ (_full of diplomatic relations_). "a--can you tell me if there is a resident british minister here?" _scotch tourist._ "well, i'm not just quite sure--but i'm told there's an excellent presbyterian service every sunday!"] wonders of the world abroad wonder if there be an inn upon the continent where you are furnished gratis with a cake of soap and bed candle. wonder how many able-bodied english waiters it would take to do the daily work of half a dozen french ones. wonder why it is that great (and little) britons are so constantly heard grumbling at the half a score of dishes in a foreign bill of fare, while at home they have so frequently to feed upon cold mutton. wonder what amount of beer a german tourist daily drinks, and how many half-pint glasses a waiter at vienna can carry at a time without spilling a drop out of them. wonder how it is that, although one knows full well that many paris people are most miserably poor, one never sees such ragged scarecrows in its streets as are visible in london. wonder how many successive ages must elapse ere travellers abroad enjoy the luxury of salt-spoons. wonder why so many tourists, and particularly ladies, will persist in speaking french, with a true britannic accent, when the waiter so considerately answers them in english. wonder when our foreign friends, who are in most things so ingenious, will direct their ingenuity to the art of drainage coupled with deodorising fluids. wonder if there be a watering-place in france where there is no casino, and where frenchmen may be seen engaged in any game more active than dominoes or billiards. wonder when it will be possible to get through seven courses at a foreign _table d'hôte_ without running any risk of seeing one's fair neighbour either eating with her knife or wiping her plate clean by sopping bread into the gravy. wonder what would be the yearly increase of deafness in great britain, if our horses all had bells to jangle on their harness, and our drivers all were seized with the mania for whip-cracking, which possesses in such fury all the coachmen on the continent. wonder in what century the historian will relate that a frenchman was seen walking in the country for amusement. wonder why it is that when one calls a paris waiter, he always answers, "v'la, m'sieu," and then invariably vanishes. wonder when swiss tourists will abstain from buying alpenstocks which they don't know how to use, and which are branded with the names of mountains they would never dare to dream of trying to do more than timidly look up to. wonder in what age of progress a sponge-bath will be readily obtainable abroad, in places most remote, and where britons least do congregate. wonder if french ladies, who are as elegant in their manners as they are in their millinery, will ever acquire the habit of eating with their lips shut. wonder when it will be possible to travel on the rhine, without hearing feeble jokelets made about the "rhino." [illustration: _mrs. vanoof_ (_shopping in paris_). "now let me see what you've got extra special." _salesman._ "madam, we 'ave some ver' fine louis treize." _mr. vanoof._ "trays, man! what do we want with trays!" _mrs. vanoof._ "better try one or two; they're only a louis."] [illustration: l'axong d'albiong "oh--er--pardong, mossoo--may kelly le shmang kilfoker j'ally poor ally allycol militair?" "monsieur, je ne comprends pas l'anglais, malheureusement!" [_our british friend is asking for the way to the École militaire._ ] [illustration: breaking the ice scene--_public drawing-room of hotel in the engadine._ _the hon. mrs. snobbington (to fair stranger)._ "english people are so unsociable, and never speak to each other without an introduction. i always make a point of being friendly with people staying at the same hotel. one need never know them afterwards!"] [illustration: "tip" not good enough the delamere-browns, who have been spending their honeymoon trip in france, have just taken their seats on the steamer, agreeably conscious of smart clothes and general well-being, when to them enters breathlessly, françoise, the "bonne" from the hotel, holding on high a very dirty comb with most of its teeth missing. _françoise (dashing forward with her sweetest smile)._ "tiens! j'arrive juste à point! voilà un peigne que madame a laissé dans sa chambre!" [_tableau!_ ] [illustration: 'arry in 'olland _'arry._ "i say, bill, ain't he a rum lookin' cove?"] [illustration: a bath at boulogne appalling position of mr. and mrs. tompkins, who had a jib horse when the tide was coming in.] [illustration: "strangers yet" _first compatriot_ (_in belgian café_). "i beg your pardon, sirr. are ye an irishman?" _second compatriot._ "i am!" [_silence._ _first compatriot._ "i'd as soon meet a crocodile as an irishman 'foreign parts. i beg ye'll not address yer conversation to me, sirr!!"] [illustration] an idyllic island when we came to amsterdam, we determined, pashley, shirtliff and i, that we would take the earliest opportunity of seeing marken. wonderful place, by all accounts. little island, only two miles from mainland, full of absolutely unsophisticated inhabitants. most of them have never left marken--no idea of the world beyond it! everybody contented and equal; costumes quaint; manners simple and dignified. sort of arcadia, with dash of utopia. and here we are--actually at marken, just landed by sailing-boat from monnickendam. all is peaceful and picturesque. scattered groups of little black cottages with scarlet roofs, on mounds. fishermen strolling about in baggy black knickerbockers, woollen stockings, and wooden shoes. women and girls all dressed alike, in crimson bodice and embroidered skirt; little cap with one long brown curl dangling coquettishly in front of each ear. small children--miniature replicas of their elders--wander lovingly, hand in hand. a few urchins dart off at our approach, like startled fawns, and disappear amongst the cottages. otherwise, our arrival attracts no attention. the women go on with their outdoor work, cleaning their brilliant brass and copper, washing and hanging out their bright-hued cotton and linen garments, with no more than an occasional shy side-glance at us from under their tow-coloured fringes. "perfectly unconscious," as shirtliff observes, enthusiastically, "of how unique and picturesque they are!" all the more wonderful, because excursion steamers run every day during the season from amsterdam. we walk up and down rough steps and along narrow, winding alleys. shirtliff says he "feels such a bounder, going about staring at everything as if he was at earl's court." thinks the markeners must hate being treated like a show. _we_ shouldn't like it ourselves! that may be, but, as pashley retorts, it's the markeners' own fault. they shouldn't be so beastly picturesque. fine buxom girl approaches, carrying pail. on closer view, not precisely a girl--in fact, a matron of mature years. these long, brown side-curls deceptive at a distance; impression, as she passes, of a kind of dutch "little toddlekins"; view of broad back and extensive tract of fat, bare neck under small cap. she turns round and intimates by expressive pantomime that her cottage is close by, and if we would care to inspect the interior, we are heartily welcome. uncommonly friendly of her. pashley and i are inclined to accept, but shirtliff dubious--we may have misunderstood her. we really can't go crowding in like a parcel of trippers! little toddlekins, however, quite keen about it; sees us hesitate, puts down pail and beckons us on round corner with crooked forefinger, like an elderly siren. how different this simple, hearty hospitality from the sort of reception foreigners would get from an english fishwife! we can't refuse, or we shall hurt her feelings. "but whatever we do," urges shirtliff, "we mustn't dream of offering her money. she'd be most tremendously insulted." [illustration] of course, we quite understand _that_. it would be simply an outrage. we uncover, and enter, apologetically. inside, an elderly fisherman is sitting by the hearth mending a net; a girl is leaning in graceful, negligent attitude against table by window. neither of them takes the slightest notice of us, which is embarrassing. afraid we really _are_ intruding. however, our hostess--good old soul--has a natural tact and kindliness that soon put us at our ease. shows us everything. curtained recesses in wall, where they go to bed. "very curious--so comfortable!" delft plates and painted shelves and cupboards. "most decorative!" caps and bodices worn by females of the family. "charming; such artistic colour!" school copybooks with children's exercises. "capital; so neatly written!" what is she trying to make us understand? oh, in winter, the sea comes in above the level of the wainscot. "really! how very convenient!" we don't mean this, but we are so anxious to please and be pleased, that our enthusiasm is degenerating into drivel. girl by the window contemplates us with growing contempt; and no wonder. high time we went. little toddlekins at the end of her tether; looks at us as if to imply that she has done _her_ part. next move must come from us. pashley consults us in an undertone. "perhaps, after all she _does_ expect, eh? what do _we_ think? would half a gulden---- what?" personally, i think it _might_, but shirtliff won't hear of it, "certainly not. on no account! at all events _he_'ll be no party to it. he will simply thank her, shake hands, and walk out." which he does. i do the same. he may be right, and anyhow, if one of us is to run the risk of offending this matron's delicacy by the offer of a gratuity, pashley will do it better than i. [illustration] pashley overtakes us presently, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "did he tip her?" "yes, he _tipped_ her." "and she flung it after you!" cries shirtliff, in triumph. "i knew she would! _now_ i hope you're satisfied!" "if i am, it's more than _she_ was," says pashley. "she stuck to it all right, but she let me see it was nothing like what she'd expected for the three of us." shirtliff silent but unconvinced. however, as we go on, we see a beckoning forefinger at almost every door and window. every markener anxious that we should walk into his little parlour--and pay for the privilege. all of them, as pashley disgustedly observes, "on the make"; got some treasured heirloom that has been in the family without intermission for six months, and that they would be willing to part with, if pressed, for a consideration. we don't press them; in fact, we are obliged at last to decline their artless invitations--to their unconcealed disgust. nice people, very, but can't afford to know too many of them. "at least the _children_ are unspoilt," says shirtliff, as we come upon a couple of chubby infants, walking solemnly hand in hand as usual. he protests, when pashley insists on presenting them with a cent, or one-fifth of an english penny, apiece. "why demoralise them, why instil the love of money into their innocent minds?" shirtliff wants to know. he is delighted when they exhibit no sort of emotion on being thus enriched. it shows, he says, that, as yet, they have no conception what money means. the pair have toddled off towards a gathering of older children, and pashley, who has brought a kodak, wonders if he can induce them to stay as they are while he takes a snapshot. shirtliff protests again. only spoil them, make them conceited and self-conscious, he maintains. but the children have seen the kodak, and are eager to be taken. one of them produces a baby from neighbouring cottage, and they arrange themselves instinctively in effective group by a fence. pashley delighted. "awfully intelligent little beggars!" he says. "they seem to know exactly what i want." they also know exactly what _they_ want, for the moment they hear the camera click, they make a rush at us, sternly demanding five cents a head for their services. shirtliff very severe with them; not one copper shall they have from _him;_ not a matter of pence, but principle, and they had better go away at once. they don't; they hustle him, and some of the taller girls nudge him viciously in the ribs with sharp elbows, as a hint that "an immediate settlement is requested." pashley and i do the best we can, but we soon come to the end of our dutch coins. however, no doubt english pennies will---- not a bit of it! even the chubby infants don't consider them legal tender here, and reject them with open scorn. fancy we have compromised all claims at last. no; marken infantry still harassing our rear. what _more_ do they want? it appears that we have not paid the baby, which is an important extra on these occasions, and which they carry after us in state as an unsatisfied creditor and a powerful appeal to our consciences. adult markeners come out, and seem to be exchanging remarks (with especial reference to shirtliff, who is regarded as the chief culprit) on the meanness that is capable of bilking an innocent baby. "what i like about marken," says pashley, when we are safely on board our sailing boat, to which we have effected a rather ignominious retreat, "what i like about marken is the beautiful simplicity and unworldliness of the natives. didn't that strike _you_, shirtliff?" we gather from shirtliff's reply that he failed to observe these characteristics. * * * at munich.--_mr. joddletop_ (_to travelling companion at bierhalle_). what they call this larger beer for i'm blessed if i know! why, it's thinner than the bass i drink at home! * * * _mrs. tripper_ (_examining official notice on the walls of boulogne_). what's that mean, tripper, "pas de calais"? _tripper (who is proud of his superior acquaintance with a foreign language)._ it means--"nothing to do with calais," my dear. these rival ports are dreadfully jealous of one another! * * * very much abroad.--_brown._ i say, smith, you've been here before. tell me where i can get a first dish of _tête de veau?_ _smith._ _tête de veau?_ let's see, that's "calf's head," isn't it? well, i heard of a place where they ought to have it good, as they call it the _hôtel de veal_. [illustration: _he._ "you climed ze matterhorn? zat was a great foot." _she._ "great feat, you mean, count." _he._ "ah! zen you climed him more as once!"] courtesy À la suisse ["the recent complaints of the rudeness shown to english travellers in switzerland by the natives has been officially denied by the authorities of lucerne."--_daily paper._] _you are an idiot, a fool, and a rascal._ (_official explanation._) terms of endearment denoting feeling of the utmost friendship. _why do you come here? why don't you stay at home?_ (_official explanation._) merely questions asked to stimulate pleasant conversation. _you are a rosbif, a boule dogue, and plum-pudding._ (_official interpretation._) fine names intended to express the greatest possible admiration for british institutions. _if you speak we will knock you down._ (_official interpretation._) merely a kindly expression of concern calculated to produce repose. _you are one brutal, ugly-faced foreigner._ (_official interpretation._) a jocular salutation. _you sell your wife at smithfield--long live the boers!_ (_official interpretation._) a polite attempt to commence a courteous conversation. _are you english?_ (_official interpretation._) the highest praise imaginable. [illustration: perfect translation _youthful north briton_ (_on honeymoon tour, proud of his french_). "gassong! la--le--le--cart----" _garçon._ "oui, m'sieu', tout de suite!" _admiring bride._ "losh! sandy, what did he say?" _youthful north briton_ (_rather taken aback_). "aweel, jeannie, dear, he kens i'm scotch, an' he asked me to 'tak' a seat.'"] [illustration: dieppe--mossoo learning to float] [illustration: our friend, 'arry belville, is so knocked all of a heap by the beauty of the foreign fish girls, that he offers his 'and and 'art to the lovely pauline.] [illustration: a sketch at troudeauville after the bath, the count and countess de st. camembert have a little chat with their friends before dressing; and monsieur roucouly, the famous baritone, smokes a quiet cigarette, ere he plunges into the sandy ripple.] the damsels of dieppe _or, the legend of lionel_ "newhaven to dieppe," he cried, but, on the voyage there, he felt appalling qualms of what the french call _mal de mer;_ while, when the steward was not near, he struck byronic attitudes, and made himself most popular by pretty little platitudes. and, while he wobbled on the waves, be sure they never slep', while waiting for their lionel, the damsels of dieppe. he landed with a jaunty air, but feeling rather weak, while all the french and english girls cried out "_c'est magnifique!_" they reck'd not of his bilious hue, but murmur'd quite ecstatical, "blue coat, brass buttons, and straw hat--c'est _tout-à-fait_ piratical!" he hadn't got his land-legs, and he walked with faltering step, but still they thought it _comme-il-faut_, those damsels of dieppe. the douane found him circled round by all the fairest fair, the while he said, in lofty tones, he'd nothing to declare; he turned to one girl who stood near, and softly whisper'd "fly, o nell!" but all the others wildly cried, "give us a chance, o lionel!" and thus he came to shore from all the woes of father nep., with fatal fascinations for the damsels of dieppe. he went to the casino, whither mostly people go, and lost his tin at baccarat and eke _petits chevaux;_ and still the maidens flocked around, and vowed he was amusing 'em; and borrowed five-franc pieces, just for fear he should be losing 'em; and then he'd sandwiches and bocks, which brought on bad dyspep- -sia for lionel beloved by damsels of dieppe. as bees will swarm around a hive, the maids of _la belle france_ went mad about our lionel and thirsted for his glance; in short they were reduced unto a state of used-up coffee lees by this mild, melancholic, maudlin, mournful mephistopheles. he rallied them in french, in which he had the gift of rep- -artee, and sunnily they smiled, the damsels of dieppe. at last one day he had to go; they came upon the pier; the french girls sobbed, "_mon cher!_" and then the english sighed, "my dear!" he looked at all the threatening waves, and cried, the while embracing 'em, (i mean the girls, not waves,) "oh no! i don't feel quite like facing 'em!" and all the young things murmured, "stay, and you will find sweet rep- aration for the folks at home in damsels of dieppe." and day by day, and year by year, whene'er he sought the sea, the waves were running mountains high, the wind was blowing free. at last he died, and o'er his bier his sweethearts sang doxology, and vowed they saw his ghost, which came from dabbling in psychology. and to this hour that spook is seen upon the pier. if scep- tical, ask ancient ladies, once the damsels of dieppe. * * * to intending tourists.--"where shall we go?" all depends on the "coin of 'vantage." switzerland? question of money. motto.--"_point d'argent point de suisse._" * * * at interlachen.--_cockney tourist to perfect stranger_. must 'ave been a 'ard frost 'ere last night, sir. _perfect stranger_ (_startled_). dear me! why? _cockney tourist._ why, look at the top of that there 'ill, sir (_points to the jung frau_). ain't it covered with snow! [illustration: "no place like home!" _smith_ (_meeting the browns at the station on their return from the continent_). "delighted to see you back, my boy! but--well, and how did you like italy?" _mrs. b._ (_who is "artistic"_). "oh, charming, you know, the pictures and statues and all that! but charles had typhoid for six weeks at feverenze (our hotel was close to that glorious melfizzi palazzo, y'know), and after that i caught the roman fever, and so," &c., &c. [_they think they go to ramsgate next year._] [illustration: study at a quiet french watering-place "now, then, mossoo, your form is of the manliest beauty, and you are altogether a most attractive object; but you've stood there long enough. so jump in and have done with it!"] [illustration: strange vagaries of a pair of moustaches. sketched in holland on a windy day.] [illustration: sir gorgius on the "continong" _sir g. midas_ (_to his younger son_). "there's a glass o' champagne for yer, 'enry! down with it, my lad--and thank 'eaven you're an englishman, and can afford to drink it!"] venezia la bella [according to a correspondent of the _times_, it is proposed to erect bridges connecting venice with the mainland.] one afternoon in the autumn of , when the express from milan arrived at venice an englishman stepped out, handed his luggage ticket to a porter, and said, "_hotel tiziano_." "_adesso hotel moderno, signore_," remarked the porter. "they've changed the name, i suppose. all right. _hotel moderno, gondola._" "_che cosa, signore?_" asked the porter, apparently confused, "_gon--, gondo--, non capisco. hotel moderno, non è vero?_" and he led the way to the outside, where the englishman perceived a wide, asphalted street. "_ecco là, signore, la stazione sotterranea del tubo dei quattro soldi; ecco qui la tramvia elettrica, e l'omnibus dell' hotel._" "_gondola_," repeated the englishman. the porter stared at him again. then he shook his head and answered, "_non capisco, signore, non parlo inglese_." so the englishman entered the motor omnibus, started at once, for there were no other travellers, and in a few minutes arrived at the hotel, designed by an american architect and fifteen stories in height. the gorgeous marble and alabaster entrance-hall was entirely deserted. having engaged a room, the englishman asked for a guide. the hall porter, who spoke ten languages fluently and simultaneously, murmured some words into a telephone, and almost immediately a dapper little man presented himself with an obsequious bow. "i want to go round the principal buildings," said the englishman. "you speak english, of course." "secure, sir," answered the guide, with another bow; "alls the ciceronians speaks her fine language, but her speak i as one english. lets us go to visit the grand central station of the tube." "oh, no," said the englishman, "not that sort of thing! i'm not an engineer. i should like to see the doge's palace." "lo, sir! the palace is now the _stazione centrale elettrica_." "then it's no good going to see that. i will go to st. mark's." "san marco is shutted, sir. the _vibrazione_ of the elettrical mechanism has done fall the mosaics. the to visit is become too periculous." "oh, indeed! well, we can go up the grand canal." "the _canal grande_, sir, is now the _via marconi_. is all changed, and covered, as all the olds canals of venezia, with arches of steel and a street of _asfalto_. is fine, fine, _è bella, bella, una via maravigliosa"!_ "you don't mean to say there isn't a canal left? where are the gondolas then?" "_an, una gondola!_ the sir is _archeologo_. _ebbene!_ we shalls go to the _museo_. there she shall see one gondola, much curious, and old, ah, so old!" "not a canal, not a gondola--except in the museum! what is there to see?" "there is much, sir. there is the tube of the four halfpennies, _tutto all' inglese_, as at london. he is on the arches of steel below the news streets. there is the bridge from the city to murano, one span of steel all covered of stone much thin, as the _ponte della torre_, the bridge of the tower, at london. is marvellous, the our bridge! is one bridge, and not of less not appear to be one bridge, but one castle of the middle age in the middle air. _È bellissimo, e anche tutto all' inglese._ and then----" "stop," cried the englishman. "does anybody ever come to your city now? any artists, for instance?" "ah, no, sir! _pittori, scultori, perche?_ but there are voyagers some time. the month past all the society of the engineers of japan are comed, and the hotels were fulls, and all those sirs were much contenteds and sayed the city was marvellous. she shall go now, sir, to visit the bridge?" "no," said the englishman, emphatically, "not i! let me pay my bill here and your fee, whatever it is, and take me back to the railway station as fast as you can. there are plenty of bridges in london. i am going back there." * * * at brussels.--_mrs. trickleby_ (_pointing to announcement in grocer's window, and spelling it out_). _jambon d' yorck._ what's that mean, mr. t.? _mr. t._ (_who is by way of being a linguist_). why, good yorkshire preserves, of course. what did you suppose it was--dundee marmalade? [illustration: 'arry in 'olland "these 'ere cigars at three a 'na'penny 'as just as delicate a flavour as them as we pays a penny a piece for at 'ome!"] [illustration: l'embarras des richesses. at the cafÉ des ambassadeurs _the garsong_ (_to jones and brown, from clapham_). "but your dinner, gentlemans! he go to make 'imself cold, if you eat 'im not!"] 'arry in switzerland dear charlie,--you heard as i'd left good old england agen, i'll be bound. not for parry alone, mate, this time--i've bin doing the reglar swiss round. mong blong, mare de glass, and all that, charlie--guess it's a sight you'd enjoy to see 'arry, the hislington masher, togged out as a merry swiss boy. 'tis a bit of a stretch from the "hangel," a jolly long journey by rail. but i made myself haffable like; i'd got hup on the toppingest scale; shammy-hunter at ashley's not in it with me, i can tell yer, old chap; and the way as the passengers stared at me showed i wos fair on the rap. talk of hups and downs, charlie! north devon i found pooty steep, as you know. but wot's lynton roads to the halps, or the torrs to that blessed young frow? i got 'andy with halpenstocks, charlie, and never came _much_ of a spill; but i think, arter all, that, for comfort, i rayther prefer primrose 'ill. but that's _ontry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'arry never let on to them swiss as he felt on the swivel--no fear! when i slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, i _did_ do a bit of a 'owl, on them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, charlie--guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, 'cos i would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered a halt. awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their place not a mite, and i'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos i looked sich a sight. * * * at ostend.--_biffles_ (_to tiffles_). in this bloomin' country everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort, so i've just shoved you down in the visitors' book as lord harthur macossian, and me as the dook of fitzdazzlem! _tiffles._ well, now, that is a lark! what'd our missuses say? [_and what did their "missuses" say when b. and t., held in pawn by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to write home to peckham rye for considerable advances from the family treasuries?_ [illustration: "'e dunno oÙ il est!" _passenger from london_ (_as the train runs into the gare du nord, paris_). "oh--er--i say--er--garsong! kel ay le nomme du set plass?"] sur la plage [illustration: an old fashioned watering-place] _sur la plage!_ and here are dresses, shining eyes, and golden tresses, which the cynic sometimes guesses are not quite devoid of art; there's much polyglottic chatter 'mid the folks that group and scatter, and men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart. 'tis a seaside place that's breton, with the rocks the children get on, and the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand; wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily art-reviewer would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from brett's hand. and disporting in the waters are the fairest of eve's daughters, each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of france, while they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation, and the high feats of natation at fair dinard on the rance. there are gay casino dances, where, with atalanta glances that ensnare a young man's fancies, come the ladies one by one; every look is doubly thrilling in the mazes of quadrilling, and, like _barkis_, we are willing, ere the magic waltz is done. and at night throng fashion's forces where the merry little horses run their aggravating courses throughout all the season's height; is the sea a play-provoker?--for the bard is not a joker when he vows the game of poker goeth on from morn till night. there st. malo walls are frowning,--'twas immortalised by browning, when he wrote the ballad crowning with the laurel hervé riel; with ozone each nerve that braces, pleasant strolls, and pretty faces, sure, of all fair seaside places, breton dinard bears the bell! * * * compensation,--"ullo, jones! you in _paris!_" "yes, i've just run over for a holiday." "where's your wife?" "couldn't come, poor dear. had to stop at home on account of the baby!" "why, your holiday will be half spoiled!" "yes. mean to stay twice as long, to make up!" [illustration: 'arry in st. petersburg he tries to make a droski-driver understand that he could have gone the same distance in a hansom for less money.] at paris.--_professed linguist._ look here! moi et un otrer mossoo--a friend of mine--desirong der go par ler seven o'clock train à cologne. si nous leaverong the hotel at six o'clock et ung demy, shall nous catcherong le train all right? comprenny voo? voo parly français, don't you? you understand french, eh? _polite frenchman_ (_who speaks the english_). i understand the french? ah yase! sometimes, monsieur! [illustration: a little duologue on the quay at boulogne-sur-mer] [illustration: harry's son's holiday reminiscences--switzerland (drorn all by himself, and signed "harry's son")] what tourists note (_supplementary facts--omitted from the times list_) that everything is so much better on the continent. that the proverbially polite frenchman never smokes before ladies in a railway carriage. that not for worlds would he shut the window in your face and glare at you if you ask for a little air. that no official ever seen through a pigeon-hole at a post bureau is dyspeptic and insolent. that sanitary improvements in italy do not mean typhoid fever. that where your bed-room walls are of paper, and somebody on one side of you retires in good spirits at two, and somebody else on the other gets up lively at four, you have a refreshing night's rest. that rambling parties of cook's tourists add immensely to the national _prestige_. that the discovery of what it is you eat in a _vol-au-vent_ at a "_diner à trois francs_," will please but not surprise you. that it is such fun being caged-up in a railway waiting-room, and then being allowed to scamper for your life to the carriages. that perpetual fighting to get into over-crowded hotels, crammed with vulgar specimens of your own fellow-countrymen, is really enjoyable and exhilarating work. that a couple of journeys across the channel, especially if it is blowing both ways, are at least always something pleasant to look back upon. that when you once get home again, england, spite some trivial advantages, being without belgian postmen, french omnibuses, and swiss police-regulations, strikes you as almost unendurable. * * * at monte carlo.--_angelina_ (_sentimentally_). look, edwin, how the dear palms are opening themselves instinctively to the golden air. _edwin_ (_brutally remembering his losses at the table and the long hotel bill_). if you can show me any palm in the place, human or vegetable, which doesn't open itself instinctively to the golden air, i'll eat my hat! [_angelina sighed profoundly, and edwin opened his purse strings._ [illustration: a scene at the "lucullus" _mrs. blunderby._ "now, my dear monty, let me order the luncheon ar-la-fraingsy. gassong! i wish to begin--as we always do in paris, my dears--with some _chef-d'[oe]uvres_--you understand--some _chef-d'[oe]uvres_." [_emile, the waiter, is in despair. it occurs to him, however, presently that the lady probably means "hors d'[oe]uvres," and acts accordingly._ ] [illustration: 'arry and 'arriet in france "what's 'rots'?" "game."] beauties of bologna not those, along the route prescribed to see them in a hurry, church, palace, gallery, described by worthy mr. murray. nor those detailed as well by whom but baedeker, the german; the choir, the nave, the font, the tomb, the pulpit for the sermon. no tourist traps which tire you out, a never-ending worry; most interesting things, no doubt, described by mr. murray. nor yet, o gastronomic mind-- in cookery a boss, sage in recipes--you will not find, i mean bologna sausage. not beauties, which, perhaps, you class with your own special curry; not beauties, which we must not pass if led by mr. murray. i sing--alas, how very ill!-- those beauties of the city, the praise of whose dark eyes might fill a much more worthy ditty. o, ladies of bologna, who the coldest heart might flurry, i much prefer to study you than baedeker or murray. those guide-book sights no longer please; three hours still, _tre ore_, i have to lounge and look at these _bellissime signore_. then slow express--south western goes much faster into surrey-- will take me off to other shows described by mr. murray. but still, _signore_, there will be, by your sweet faces smitten, one englishman who came to see what baedeker has written. let baedeker then see the lot in frantic hurry-scurry. i've found some beauties which are not described by mr. murray. * * * overheard at chamonix.--_stout british matron_ (_in a broad british accent, to a slim diligence driver_). Êtes-vous la diligence? _driver._ non, madame, mais j'en suis le cocher. _matron_ (_with conviction_). c'est la même chose; gardez pour moi trois places dans votre intérieur demain. [illustration: un bon mauvais quart d'heure (waiting for one's bathing tent at the dieppe casino)] [illustration: "in sunny normandy" _first tourist._ "i say, old chap, it smells pretty bad about here; it's the river, i suppose?" _second tourist._ "yes--seine _inférieure_."] [illustration: pop! pop! (scene--_restaurant in switzerland_) _tourist_ (_to manager, who knows english_). "there are two bottles of wine in our bill. we had only one bottle." _manager._ "ach, he is a new waiter, and zee confounded echo of zee mountain must have deceived zee garçon."] [illustration: successful sanitation _anxious tourist._ "since your town has been newly drained, i suppose there is less fever here?" _hotel-keeper_ (_reassuringly_). "ach, yes, sir! ze teefoose (typhus) is now quite _ze exception!_"] [illustration: a continental trip _first man_ (_tasting beer_). "hullo! i ordered lager. this isn't lager!" _second man_ (_tasting_). "no; but it's jolly good, all the same!" _third man_ (_tasting_). "c'est magnifique! mais ce n'est pas lager-r-r!"] mrs. r. on boulogne-sur-mer mrs. ramsbotham, who has been staying at boulogne for a short time, writes as follows:-- [illustration] "bullown-some-air is, i am informed, not what it used to be, though the smells must be pretty much as always, which is not the scent of rheumatic spices. it's called bullown-some-air because if the sea-breeze wasn't too powerful for the smells, living would be impossible. many of the visitors to the hotels on the key told me the bedrooms were full of musketeers, who came in when the candle went out, and bit them all over. such a sight as one poor gentleman was! he reminded me of the spotted nobleman at the agrarian in westminster. then, on the sunday i was there, a day as i had always been given to understand the french were 'tray gay,' there was actually no music, no band, no concert, and in fact no amusement whatever at the _establishmong day bangs_ (so called because there's a shooting-gallery next it, where they bang away all day at so much a head), which might as well have been closed, as there was no race-game (of which i had heard so much), no tom bowling[a] (they wouldn't get up a tom bowling unless there were nine persons present, which mr. hackson says is much the same as when magistrates meet and there isn't a sufficient number to make a jorum), and only one gentleman trying to produce another to play billiards with him. "there was a theatre open. not being a samaritan myself, though as strict as anyone as to my own regular religious diversions at church, i let mr. hackson take myself and lavinia to see _the clogs of cornwall_, which, i think, was the name of the opera, though, as i hadn't a bill, and didn't understand one quarter of what they were saying--not but what i was annoyed by lavvy and mr. hackson always turning round to explain the jokes to me--i confess i did not see what either _cornwall_ or _clogs_ had to do with the story. the singing and the acting was worse than anything i'd ever met with at an english seaside theatre, because a place like bullown ought to have a theatre as good as the one at brighton. the customs worn by the actors were ugly, and when the lover, who was intended for a sailor--though his dress wasn't at all _de rigger_--said, confidentially, to the audience, alluding to an unfortunately plain young person who played the part of the herring, "she is lovely!" there was a loud laugh, or, as mr. hackson, who speaks french perfectly, called it, a _levy de reedo_, all over the house, and this emulating from people who, i always thought, were remarkable for their politeness, was about the rudest thing i ever heard done to a public character in a playhouse. "the place was hot, and the seats uncomfortable; so that after two acts, which was more like being in a penitentiary than a place of recrimination, we left, and went to our hotel, where, there being nothing more to do than there was anywhere else, lavinia and myself retired to rest--that is, such rest as the musketeers would allow us. she slept in a back cupboard, called a _cabinet de twilight_, because it was so dark and scarcely any veneration, there being no fireplace, and only such a window, as it was healthier to keep shut than open: but she had the advantage over me in not being troubled by any musketeers. there was only one of them in my room, and when i heard him singing away like a couple of gnats, i hid under the bedclothes, and he couldn't find me till i came up again for air, like a fish, and then he bit me on the forehead. "next morning we went to breakfast '_à la four sheets_' they call it, on account of the size of the table-napkins, at the _rest-wrongs_ on the pier. the time they kept us! as there was only one _gossoon_ to about twenty persons. the best thing we had there was our own appetite, which we brought with us. "after this there was nothing doing in the place till dinner-time (called _table doat_ because they're so fond of it), and after that there was a dull concert at the _establishmong_, and as mr. hackson told us, who went there, a dull dance and poor fireworks at the artillery gardens in the _oat veal_. the '_oat veal_' is french for the high part of the town, but, judging from the smells on and about the key, i should say that our hotel was situated in quite the highest part of the town. "less than a week at bullown was quite enough and too much for us. if sunday here were only lively, it would be a nice change from london, or dover, or folkestone, or ramsgate, as i do not know a pleasanter and easier way to go than starting by the london, chatting and dover train at a.m. from victoria or holborn viaduct, arriving at dover at twelve. then by one of the comfortablest boats i was ever in, called the _inflicter_ or _invigorator_, i couldn't catch which, but mr. hackson told me it was latin for 'unconquered,' which takes you, if it's a fine day and wind and tide favourable, in an hour and a quarter to callous (or kally in french), and if you are only going on to bullown, you have your luggage examined (as if you were a smuggling brigadier!), and you have more than an hour for lunch before you start again. the luncheon at the kallyous buffy is excellent, and the buffers, who speak english with hardly any accident, are most attentive. then, when you've finished, you start for bullown by the . train, and are at your hotel by . or thereabouts, which is what i call doing it uxuriously. "but bullown, as mr. hackson said to me, requires some _ongterprenner_, which means 'an undertaker,' to look after it, as it has become so deadly-lively. i think this must be a joke of mr. hackson's, one of his _caramboles_, as they call them in french, as what bullown wants is waking up. as it is now, bullown is a second-class place, and will soon be a third-class one, which, as mr. hackson says, 'arry and an inferior dummy-mong will have all to themselves. "yours truly, "m. a. r." [footnote a: we fancy mrs. r. means "_tombola_."] [illustration: english as she is written during his recent tour in switzerland, tomkins, who is rather nervous, had a most terrifying experience.] lines on (and off) an italian mule [illustration] o dubious hybrid, what your patronymic or pedigree may be, does not much matter; but if my own attire you mean to mimic, and flaunt the fact that you, too, have a hatter-- well then, in self-defence i'll pick with you a bone or two. perchance you have a motive, deep, ulterior, in donning head-gear borrowed from banditti? you wish to show an intellect superior, (and hide a profile which is not too pretty? or is it, simply, you prefer to go incognito? a transmigrated balaam's self you may be, but still i bar your method of progression; for while i sit, as helpless as a baby, and scale each precipice in steep succession, you scorn the mule-track, and pursue the edge of ev'ry ledge. how can i scan with rapt enthusiasm these alpine heights, when balanced _à la_ blondin, while you survey with bird's-eye view each chasm? i cry _eyupp! avanti!_--_you_ respond in attempts straightway to improvise a "chute" for me, you brute! _basta! per bacco!_ i'll no longer straddle (with cramp in each adductor and extensor) this seat of torture that they call a saddle! _va via!_ in plain english, get thee hence, or---- on second thoughts, to leave unsaid the rest, i think, were best! [illustration: "astonishing the natives" _first alpine tourist._ "i say, will, are you asleep?" _second tourist._ "asleep? no, i should think not! hang it, how they bite!" _first tourist._ "try my dodge. light your pipe, and blow a cloud under the clothes! they let go directly. there's a lot perched on the foot-bar of my bed now--coughing like mad!"] [illustration: _tommy_ (_who has just begun learning french, on his first visit to boulogne_). "i say, daddy, did you call that man 'garçon'?" _daddy_ (_with pride_). "yes, my boy." _tommy_ (_after reflection_). "i say, daddy, what a big _garçon_ he'll be when he's out of jackets and turn-downs, and gets into tails and stick-ups!"] [illustration: (_you may speak to anyone in france, even to a bold gendarme--if you are only decently polite_) "i implore your pardon for having deranged you, mister the gendarme, but _might_ i dare to ask you to have the goodness to do me the honour to indicate to me the way for to render myself to the street of the cross of the little-fields?"] _in re_ the rigi from a recent letter in the _times_ it would seem that tourists visiting the hotels on the rigi have to secure entertainment at the point (or rather the knuckle) of the fist. if the fashion is permitted to become chronic (by the patient endurance of the british public), the diary kept by the visitor to the rigi is likely to appear in the following form:-- _tuesday_, a.m.--just seen the sun rise. rather cloudy in the valley, but on the whole magnificent. will stay until to-morrow, as i am sure the air is excellent. a.m.--going back to the hotel. the night porter is shouting at me. a.m.--just finished a three hours' fight with the night porter. he scored "first blood" to my "first knock-down blow." i was able to polish him off in forty-seven rounds, and consequently have an excellent appetite for breakfast. a.m.--after some desperate struggling with half-a-dozen waiters, have secured a cup of coffee and a small plate of cold meat. a.m.--have been asleep on a bench outside the hotel for the last two hours and a half, recovering from my recent exertions. p.m.--have fraternised with five english tourists armed with alpenstocks. one of our party has opened negotiations with the hotel-keeper as to the possibility of obtaining some lunch. p.m.--our ambassador has returned with his coat torn into tatters, and one of his eyes severely bruised. p.m.--by a _coup de main_ we have seized the _salle-à-manger_, and now are feasting merrily on bread and honey. p.m.--just driven from our vantage-ground by eight boots, ten waiters, the landlord and auxiliaries from the kitchen. p.m.--have spent the last two hours in consultation. p.m.--a spy from our party (assuming the character of an english duke) is just leaving us for the front. p.m.--our spy has just returned, and reports that when he asked for a room the enemy attacked him with brooms and candlesticks. p.m.--have just matured our plan of attack. p.m.--glorious news! a triumphant victory! our party, in single file, made a descent upon the _table-d'hôte_, seized a large number of _hors d'[oe]uvres_, and, after an hour's desperate fighting, secured a large room on the top floor, where we are now safely barricaded for the night! hurrah! * * * at dieppe.--_edwin._ awfully jolly here! awfully jolly band! awfully jolly waltz! awfully jolly, isn't it? _angelina._ quite too awfully nice! _edwin._ waltz over. awfully nice moon! awfully jolly to be a poet, i should think. say heaps of civil things about the moon, don't you know! rather jolly, eh? tennyson, and that sort of thing, don't you know? _angelina._ yes, isn't he a perfect love? _edwin._ yes--great fun. next dance--square. awfully stupid things--squares, eh? you're not engaged? _angelina_ (_archly_). not yet! _edwin._ then let's sit it out. [illustration: provincial mossoos in their sunday best] muddy milan once i thought that you could boast such a perfect southern sky, flecked with summer clouds at most; always sunny, always dry, warm enough, perhaps, to grill an englishman, o muddy milan! now i find you soaking wet, underneath an english sky; pavements, mediæval yet, whence mud splashes ever fly; and, to make one damp and ill, an endless downpour, muddy milan! though you boast such works of art, where is that unclouded sky? muddy milan, we must part, i shall gladly say good-bye, pack, and pay my little bill--an artless thing--and leave you, milan. * * * at boulogne.--_ted_ (_to 'arry_). what's the meaning of "avis" on those placards? _'arry._ there's a question from a feller as 'as studied latin with me at the board school! 'ave you forgotten all about the black swan? it's a notice about birds, of course! [illustration: _she._ "so, dear baron, you are just come down from the mountains. what lovely views you get there, do you not?" _herr baron._ "most lofly!" _she._ "and what delicious water they give you to drink there!" _herr baron._ "ach, yes. that also haf i _seen_."] [illustration: a choice of idioms _mr. brown._ "i say, maria, what's the meaning of '_sarner fairy hang_,' which i hear you say in all the french shops, when they haven't got what you want--which they never have?" _mrs. b._ "oh, it only means '_it's of no consequence_.'" _mr. b._ "how odd! now _i_ always say '_nimport_'! but i dare say it comes to the same in the end."] then and now _before the holidays_ (_an anticipation_) really nothing so pleasant as packing. such fun to see how many things you can get into a portmanteau. won't take any books as the "continong" will be enough for amusement. capital carriages to dover. everything first-rate. civil guards. time-table not a dead letter. splendid boats, smooth sea, and a first-rate _buffet_ at calais. dear paris! just the place for the inside of a week. boulevards full of novelties. theatres in full swing. evenings outside the _cafés_ perfect happiness. splendid! _en route._ swiss scenery, as ever, lovely. mountains glorious, passes, lakes. delightful. nothing can compare with a jaunt through the land of tell. italy--dear old italy. oh, the blue sky and the _tables d'hôte!_ what more glorious than the ruins of rome? what more precious than the pictures of florence? what more restful than the gondolas of venice? and the people even! the french the pink of politeness. the swiss homely and kindly. the italians inheriting the nobility of the cæsars. and all this to take the place of hard work. well, it is to come. bless everybody! _after the holidays_ (_a retrospect_) what can be worse than packing? and after all the trouble of shoving things in anywhere, you find you have left half your belongings behind! and of course the books you half read during your weary travels are stopped at the custom house. beastly journey from paris to calais, and as for the crossing afterwards--well, as long as i live i shall never forget it! dear paris! emphatically "dear," with the accent on the expense. glad to be out of it. boulevards deserted. theatres playing "_relâche_." _cafés_ deathtraps in the service of the influenza. _en route!_ who cares for switzerland--always the same! eternal mountains--yet coming up promising year after year! sloppy passes, misty views. beastly monotonous. the cantons played out. italy! who says italy? blue sky not equal to wandsworth. rome unhealthy. art treasures at florence not equal to collection in south kensington. mosquitoes at venice. and the people! cheeky french, swindling swiss, and dirty italians! and yet this is all to be supplemented by the same hard work. in the collar again. oh! hang everybody! [illustration: altogether satisfactory _aunt fanny._ "i do like these french watering-places. the bathing costume is so sensible!" _hilda._ "oh, yes, auntie! and so becoming!"] [illustration: a mountaineering incident _voice from above._ "for heaven's sake be more careful, smith. remember, _you_'ve got the whiskey!"] [illustration: touring in algiers _arab_ (_as mr. and mrs. smith appear_). "sh! you vant a guide! i am ze best guide in alger! for five franc i take you to arab café vare inglees not 'lowed. for ten franc i show you ze street vare it is dangerous for ze inglees for to go. and for twenty franc--sh!--i stand you on ze blace vare ze last inglees tourist vos got shot!" [_mr. and mrs. smith wish they were back in england._] [illustration: mr. 'arry belville, on the continent generally _'arry belville._ "yes! i like it extremely. i like the _lazy ally_ sort of feeling. i like sitting at the door of a _caffy_ to smoke my cigar; and above all (_onter noo_) it's a great comfort to wear one's beard without bein' larfed at!"] [illustration: monsieur, madame, et bÉbe] advice to englishmen abroad excepting for their money, english tourists are perhaps not highly valued on the continent. we would therefore offer a few practical suggestions, which, now that the tourist season has returned, will be found, no doubt, invaluable to britons when abroad:-- . when you begin inspecting a foreign town or city, it is wise to stalk along the middle of the streets, and make facetious comments on whatever you think funny. laugh loudly at queer names which you see above shop-windows, especially if their owners, as is frequently the case, are lounging by the doorposts. . when you go into a church, strut and stare about as though you were examining a picture exhibition. display contemptuous pity for the worshippers assembled, and make in a loud voice whatever critical remarks you happen to think proper. . if, while you take your walks abroad, you encounter an unfledged and enthusiastic traveller, who daringly attempts to enter into conversation with you, do your best to snub him in recital of his exploits, and render him dissatisfied with his most active feats. interrupt his narrative with pitying exclamations, such as "ah, i see! you went by the wrong route;" or, "o, then you _just_ missed _the_ very finest point of view." you may discover, very likely, he has seen much more than you have: but by judicious reticence you may conceal this awkward secret, and render him well-nigh as discontented as yourself. . when you are forced to start upon some mountain expedition, let everybody learn what an early bird you are, and awaken them to take a lively interest in your movements. stamp about your room in your very thickest boots, and, if you have a friend who sleeps a few doors off, keep bellowing down the passage at the tiptop of your voice, although there may be invalids in plenty within earshot. . should you gallantly be acting as a _courrier des dames_, mind that your lady friends are called an hour sooner than they need to be. a pleasant agitation will be thus caused near their bedrooms. they will amuse those sleeping next them with an incessant small talk, and, as their maid will be dispatched on endless little errands, their door will be heard creaking and banging-to incessantly until they clatter downstairs. . when you come into a drawing-room or _salon de lecture_, make your triumphal entry with all the noise you can, so as to attract the general attention. keep your hat upon your head and glare fiercely at the quiet people who are reading, as though, like gessler, you expected them to kneel down and pay homage to it. . should your neighbour at the _table d'hôte_ attempt to broach a conversation with you, turn your deaf ear, if you have one, to his insolent intrusion. if in kindliness of spirit he will still persist in talking, freeze the current of his speech by your iciness of manner, or else awe him into silence by your majesty of bearing. . if, despite your english efforts to remain an island, you find yourself invaded by aggressive foes to silence, strive to awe them by the mention of your friend lord snobley, or of any other nobleman with whom you may by accident have ever come in contact. for aught they care to know, you may be his lordship's hairdresser; but the title of a lord is always pleasant hearing in the company of britons, although benighted foreigners have not such respect for it. . never give yourself the trouble to order wine beforehand for the _table d'hôte_, but growl and grumble savagely at waiters for not bringing it the instant you _have_ ordered it, even though you happen to have entered the room late, and find a hundred people waiting to be served before you. . in all hotels where service is included in the bill, be sure you always give a something extra to the servants. this leads them to expect it as a thing of course, and to be insolent to those who can't so well afford to give it. * * * unpleasantly suggestive names of "cure" places abroad.--_bad gastein._ which must be worse than the first day's sniff at bad-eggs-la-chapelle. [illustration: recollections from abroad (free translation) row in a belgian estaminet (in three tableaux) "now then! you be off!!" | "what!! you _won't!_" | "then stay where "i shan't!" | "_no!!_" | you are!!" ] [illustration: the dutch peasant is not without his simple notions of chivalry. as we see by the above, he believes in letting the lady _have the pull_.] an alpine railway abominable work of man, defacing nature where he can with engineering; on plain or hill he never fails to run his execrable rails; coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails, at once appearing. to alpine summits daily go the locomotives to and fro. what desecration! where playful kids once blithely skipped, where rustic goatherds gaily tripped, where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped, he builds a station. up there, where once upon a time determined mountaineers would climb to some far _châlet;_ up there, above the carved wood toys, above the beggars, and the boys who play the _ranz des vaches_--such noise down in the _thal_, eh? up there at sunset, rosy red, and sunrise--if you're out of bed-- you see the summit, majestic, high above the vale. it is not difficult to scale-- the fattest folk can go by rail to overcome it. for nothing, one may often hear, is sacred to the engineer; he's much too clever. well, i must hurry on again, that mountain summit to attain. good-bye. i'm going by the train. i climb it? never! * * * at monte carlo.--_first briton._ one never sees any young girls here. _second briton (brutally inclined)._ no! the ladies are obliged to be _trente et quarante_ to match the tables. [illustration: why we are so beloved on the continent _provincial tourist_ (_to "kellner" who offers him sausages_). "i say, old feller, any 'osses died about 'ere lately! _chevals morts_, you know!!" [_and the worst of it is, that though his compatriots did not laugh, as he expected, the "vulgarian" wasn't a bit abashed._ ] roundabout readings ostend must be a glorious place. from an advertisement which has appeared in an evening contemporary i gather that "the multitude, anxious to spend an elegant and fashionable sojourn in the country, has rendered itself this year at ostend. it is a long time since such an opulent clientele has been united in a seaside resort. at the fall of day the vast terraces of the fashionable restaurants, situated along the sea-bank, present a fairy aspect. there is quite a confusion of dazzling costumes upon which sparkle thousand gems, and all this handsome cosmopolitan society passes through the saloons of the kursaal club, in which one hears spoken all known languages as at babel and monte carlo, and of which the attractions are identical to those of the latter place." this is the first time i have heard of a similarity to babel being mentioned as an attraction. but no doubt an opulent clientele has peculiar tastes of its own, especially when its dazzling costumes sparkle with thousand gems. in a small belgian town (naturally not ostend) i once saw the following notice hung over the door of a washerwoman's establishment:-- anglish linge tooke here from sou shert, cols, soaks, sleep-shert, pokets. i eet my hatt. the last sentence puzzled me for a long time. finally i came to the conclusion that it was not intended so much to be a statement of actual fact as an enticement to english people, who would of course take all their washing to a lady commanding so gay and accurate a knowledge of an english catch-phrase. * * * my third example of english as she is spoke is from a notice issued by an out-of-the-way hotel in italy, which had changed its management:-- "the nobles and noblesses traveller are beg to tell that the direction of this splendid hotel have bettered himself. and the strangers will also find high comforting luxuries, hot cold water coffee bath and all things of perfect establishment and at prices fixed. table d'hôte best of italy france everywere. onclean linens is quick wash and every journals is buy for readers. beds hard or soaft at the taste of traveller. soaps everywere plenty. very cheaper than other hotel. no mosquits no parrot no rat." [illustration: consequences of the tower of babel scene--_a table d'hôte abroad._ _he._ "parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?" _she._ "no, sir." _he._ "sprechen sie deutsch, fraülein?" _she._ "no." _he._ "habla usted español, señorita?" _she._ "no." _he._ "parlate italiano, signorina?" _she._ "no!" (_sighs._) [_pause._] _she._ "do you speak english, sir?" _he._ "hélas! non, mademoiselle!" (_sighs deeply._)] [illustration: our countrywomen in paris (_the extra half-franc_) _aunt jemima_ (_blue ribbon_). "there, coshay. this is pour voomaym--sankont sonteems! but it's a _peurmanger_, you know--not a _pour boire!_!"] english as she is writ intending english visitors to spa, who may wish to become, temporarily, members of the _cercle des Étrangers_, will be pleased with the following courteous circular:-- "_casino de spa, cercle des Étrangers._ "m.,--in polite replying of your esteemed letter of the ---- i will hasten to send you a statute of the 'cercle des Étrangers' with a formulary at this annexed. "please to send us the formulary back, as soon as possible, the formalities for the reception as member wanting two days time. "we dare inform you that only those persons are allowed to go into the drawing-rooms of the casino, which previously have fulfilled the prescribed formalities of admittance. "with the greatest respects "in order of the directorship of the casino "the chief secretary." "_casino de spa, cercle des Étrangers._" "under-signed, having been acquainted with the statutes of the 'cercle des Étrangers,' wishes to fulfill the prescribed formalities in order to have inlet and therefore gives following indications:" (_space for particulars as to name, forename, title, or trade, "spot and datum," with signature, here follows; and so this most interesting document concludes._) * * * quantity not quality.--_brown, senior._ well, fred, what did you see during your trip abroad? _brown, junior._--aw--'pon m' word, 'don't know what i saw 'xactly, 'only know i did more by three countries, eight towns, and four mountains, than smith did in the same time! * * * the love of nature.--_first chappie._ lovely place, monte carlo, isn't it! such beautiful scenery! _second chappie._ beautiful!--such splendid air, too! _first chappie._ splendid!--a--(_pause_)--let's go into the casino! [_exeunt to the tables, where they remain for the rest of the day._ [illustration: scene--_bureau of the chiefs of the douanes_ _french official._ "you have passport?" _english gent._ "nong, mossoo." _official._ "your name." _gent._ "belleville." _official._ "christian nom?" _gent._ "'arry!" _official._ "profession?" _gent._ "banker!"] [illustration: on the riviera _she._ "i wonder what makes the mediterranean look so blue?" _he._ "you'd look blue if you had to wash the shores of italy!"] [illustration: scene--_a café in paris_ _london gent._ "garcong! tas de corfee!" _garçon._ "bien, m'sieu'--vould you like to see zee _times?_" _london gent._ "hang the feller! now, i wonder how the doose he found out i was an englishman!"] [illustration: the time-honoured british threat _indignant anglo-saxon_ (_to provincial french innkeeper, who is bowing his thanks for the final settlement of his exorbitant and much-disputed account_). "oh, oui, mossoo! pour le matière de ça, je _paye!_ mais juste vous regardez ici, mon ami! et juste--vous--marquez--mes--_mots!_ je _paye_--_mais je mette le dans la 'times!_'"] tongues for tourists the long vacation is drawing to a close, and parents and guardians may like to know how reading tours have aided in advancing the education of their respective scions. should any doting fathers be interested in the absorption of foreign languages into their sons' systems, the following mems from the diary of a university man, who has just returned from a tour abroad, whither he had gone expressly to perfect himself in european tongues, may be productive of some reflection. _july._ left dover for our tour. met american colonel x. y. zachary at calais. glorious brick. knew french, and talked for us all. gave us quite a twang, and left us devoted to yankees. put up at grand hotel. english waiter. saved us lots of trouble. went to english tavern. excellent beefsteak for dinner. cheese direct from cheshire. went to open-air music hall in the shongs eliza, what they call a coffee concert. two english clowns and a man who sang "_tommy, make room for your uncle._" english family on both sides of us. dropped their h's freely. met two college chums in the yard of the grand when we came back. went out to buy german dictionary, french grammar, and italian dialogues. bought a copy of _punch_ instead--great fun. started for italy. capital guard with the train: knew english thoroughly. queen's messenger in the carriage; splendid linguist. what's the use of trying to speak a foreign language, if you don't begin in your cradle! arrived at turin. met the larkspur girls at the station. went everywhere with them. they are all awfully jolly. quite gorgeous at slang. must buy that italian grammar and dialogues. learnt the italian for "yes" to-day. on to venice. how well our gondolier talks english. lovely weather for cricket or lawn tennis. nothing so jolly here. old bricks, and dirty punts they call gondowlers. _august._ start for rome. fancy a roman train. what was it? all gaul, or all the train, was divided _in tres partes_. sang comic songs all the way. bother rome! it reminds one of virgil and horace, and all those nuisances. by the way, we must not forget the italian dialogues. hotel commissioner, such a good fellow. has lived in the langham for the last six years. told us a capital american story. left the others to go round the monuments while i played a game of billiards with captain crawley. by jingo! he does play well. _he_ never learnt italian or french, but i have heard he is a greek. speaks english like a briton. meant to have begun italian to-day; but too hot, really. go back by vienna and trieste. better buy a german dictionary. charlie's voice downstairs, by jove! hurrah! off to vienna. go over the tyrol by night. sleep all the way. vienna. awfully good beer. english parson in same hotel. knows the governor. wants me to take him round, and as he hears i am studying german, will i interpret for him? see him further first. _september._ leave vienna, to escape parson. the german tongue most attractive when made into sausages. lingo simply horrible. couldn't learn it if i tried. arrived at munich. drove round the english garden. nothing english in it except weeds and ourselves. saw _richard the third_ played at the theatre. call that shakspeare? well! i am particularly etcetrad. and in german, too! why don't they learn english? home in time for some partridges. by the way, wonder what became of the "coach" who went out with me? never bought the grammars and dictionaries, after all. there's nothing like english if you want to be understood. * * * at baden-baden.--_captain rook._ yes, my dear sir, although they have closed the public tables, still, if you really want a little amusement, i think i can introduce you to a very good set indeed. where they play low, you know--only to pass the time. _young mr. pidgeon._ oh, thank you. i should like it very much indeed. but i am giving you a great deal of trouble? _captain rook._ not at all! [illustration: at bullong _paterfamilias_ (_who_ will _do the parleyvooing himself instead of leaving it to his daughters_). "oh--er--j'ai bezwang d'oon bootail de--de--de----here, you girls! what's the french for _eau de cologne?_"] a correspondent reports the following advertisement, written in chalk on the box of a swiss shoeblack:-- "english spoken. american understood." * * * scene--_boulevard café._ _first irate frenchman._ imbécile! _second i. f._ canaille!! _first i. f._ cochon!!! _second i. f._ chamberlaing!!!! [illustration: french as she is spoke "you like ostende, monsieur simpkin?" "oh, yes, orfly! it's so 'richurch,' don'tcherknow. just come up to the 'curse hall,' will you?"] [illustration: "such a change, yer know, from alwis torkin' yer own langwidge!"] [illustration: knocked 'em in the old ghent road (_a sketch in belgium_)] florence in the future (_a very distant future, let us hope_) _tourist._ can you speak english? _guide._ yes, sir. i lived in london for many years. _tourist._ it is a very long time since i was in florence. what is there to see in your city now? _guide._ the city has been entirely improved, sir. there is the new palazzo municipale. it is superb. _tourist._ i don't think i should care for that. what else is there? _guide._ there are the new boulevards, the piazza umberto and the ponte nuovo. they are all magnificent, and the american visitors admire them very much. so do the english visitors, but there are very few of them. it is curious, for florence has been made quite new and handsome. _tourist._ i don't wish to see new buildings. isn't there anything old? _guide._ oh, yes, sir, of course. there is the piazzo vittorio emmanuele. that is more than thirty years old. _tourist._ i remember the hideous square. but where are the old buildings? how about the baptistery? _guide._ oh, that was pulled down six years ago to make more room for the tramways. it was a dark, ugly old place. there is a beautiful new battistero now, made of glass and iron, like the crystal palace near london, put up in place of the old cathedral which nobody liked. _tourist._ what? you don't mean to say giotto's tower has gone? _guide._ there was some old _campanile_. i think it was sold to the hawaii territory world's fair syndicate. _tourist._ anyhow, there's the ponte vecchio. _guide._ oh, yes, sir. but nobody goes to see that. it was pulled down a great many years ago, and some old-fashioned, artistic florentines made a great fuss, so it was put up again on dry land at the end of the cascine. the municipality used to do that years ago. pull down an old building, and put it up again in quite a different place, and then say it was just the same. it hardly seemed worth the trouble. happily they did not put up a memorial to every old building, as the english did to temple bar. as for the ponte vecchio, it was turned into a switchback railway at last, but it never paid. there is the ponte nuovo---- _tourist._ no, thank you. but look here. there must be something. where are the pictures? _guide._ they were taken to rome, sir, when the palazzo pitti and the palazzo degli uffizi were pulled down. _tourist._ how about statues? i remember old statues everywhere, and some vile modern ones. _guide._ yes, sir, years ago, but the old ones were all cleared away to make more room for the electric tramways. but there's a magnificent statue of italy on the piazza at fiesole. the figure is two hundred feet high, made of cast iron, painted to look like marble. she holds an electric light in her hand, which you can see at night from miles away. _tourist._ but i'd rather not. how about the churches? where is santa maria novella? _guide._ excuse me, sir; santa maria novellissima. there was an old church once, but the present one is quite new. it is made of steel, with thin stone stuck all over it, to look like a stone building, just like the tower bridge in london. you know, sir, we get many artistic ideas from england. it is a very clever imitation, and much admired. _tourist._ no doubt. i'll ask you one final question. which is the oldest building now standing in florence? _guide._ well, really, sir, i'm not quite sure. i should think the gasometer on the left bank of the arno is about as old as anything. the stazione centrale was very ancient, but of course the new railway station---- _tourist._ that'll do. i arrived at that station this morning. you take me back there, and i'll leave this unhappy place for ever. i'm off to turin. it may be a rectangular, monotonous city, but it's now the oldest town in italy. * * * at lucerne.--_member of parliament_ (_ending a long explanation of a pet measure_). and so you see, my dear, by the law of supply and demand, capital _must_ be benefited without injury to labour. i hope i make myself clearly understood? perhaps you might give me your view of the subject. the suggestions of fresh minds are frequently very valuable. i have noticed that you have been pondering over something for the last half-hour. you were thinking, perhaps, that greater liberty might be given to the framers of the initial contract? _mrs. m.p._ no, dear. the fact is, i have been considering all the morning which of my dresses i ought to wear to-night at the _table d'hôte!_ [illustration: our countrymen abroad sketch of a bench on the boulevards, occupied by four english people who only know each other by sight. [illustration: after the fÈtes! _first citizen._ "say then! was it not a fine change to cry 'vive l'empereur' for nearly a whole week, instead of 'vive la république'?" _second citizen._ "ah, my brave, it was truly magnificent! and so new! i'm horribly bored with always calling out 'vive la république'!" [_they smoke and consider._] objections to places (_by a stay-at-home cynic_) _antwerp._--too many pictures. _boulogne._--too many english. _calais._--barred by the channel passage. _dieppe._--journey there literally a "toss-up." _ems._--in the sere and yellow leaf. _florence._--paintings anticipated by photography. _geneva._--can get watches nowadays elsewhere. _heidelberg._--castle too "personally conducted." _interlaken._--jungfrau monotonous. _jerusalem._--looks better on paper. _kissingen._--fallen off since sheridan's days. _lucerne._--lion in stone too irritating. _madrid._--bull-fights can be supplied by biograph. _naples._--no longer an _ante mortem_ necessity. _paris._--used up. _quebec._--after the jubilee, too colonial. _rouen._--preliminary journey impossible. _saumur._--not to be tempted by the vintage. _turin._--out of date more than a quarter of a century. _utrecht._--nothing, with or without its velvet. _wiesbaden._--for ages superseded by monte carlo. _xeres._--can get sherry without going there. _yokohama._--products purchasable at the stores. _zurich._--"fair waters" disappointing. * * * at antwerp.--_artist_ (_amateur_). "_the descent from the cross._" hem! not a bad bit of colouring, but out of date, sir,--out of date! _artist_ (_professional_). you think so! well, perhaps you are right. splendid subject--splendid work; but it mightn't have sold nowadays. in , rubens would have painted portraits of fat mayors and sketches from the nursery. _artist_ (_amateur_). talking of sketches from the nursery, you should have seen my "_coronation of henry the eighth!_"--the picture, you know, that they were afraid to accept at the royal academy! afraid, sir!--that's the word--afraid! _artist_ (_professional_). quite so! [illustration: at a french hotel "tell him to clean your boots, john--and mine too." "all right. er--garçong, nettoyez may bot, si voo play--et aussee mah fam!"] [illustration: a french circe _landlady_ (_to jones, who is bargaining for apartment_). "non, monsieur! c'est mon dernier prix, à prendre ou à laisser--et encore si je vous le cède à ce prix-là, c'est parceque la physionomie ouverte de monsieur m'est si sympathique que je voudrais avoir monsieur pour locataire!" [_we will not insult our readers by translating._ ] talk for travellers ["the german officials at the frontier, since the relaxation of the passport regulations, have been ordered to treat foreign passengers with every politeness."--_daily papers._] mein herr, will you do us the honour to descend from the railway-carriage? it will be merely a matter of form. we need not disturb those gracious ladies, your wife and daughters. this is the best way to the customs. you will notice that we have swept the path that leads to the door. certainly, these arm-chairs are for the use of passengers. we have placed them there ourselves, and can recommend them. is it asking too great a favour to beg you to lend me the keys of your boxes? a hundred thousand thanks. your explanation is absolutely satisfactory. you are bringing these sixteen unopened boxes of cigars home for your grandmother. it is a most proper thing to do, and, under the circumstances, the duty will be remitted. and these three hundred yards of lace of various makes and ages? an heir-loom! indeed! then, of course, the packet must pass duty-free. as we have found nothing of consequence in this portmanteau of yours, it will be unnecessary to search the nineteen boxes of that gracious lady, your wife. no doubt she has obeyed your instruction not to smuggle. we are absolutely satisfied with your explanations, and are greatly obliged to you for your kindness and condescension. this is the way to the carriage. we have placed steps before the door, as without a platform it is difficult to ascend. no, mein herr, it is utterly impossible? we are forbidden by the emperor himself to accept a gratuity. yes, madam, it is indeed without charge. do not tempt us. instant dismissal is the penalty. certainly, mein herr, you could get the same politeness before the emperor issued his imperial instructions. but then the charge was a thaler! [illustration: our countrymen abroad "ulloa! garçong, _here_ you are! dayjernay, se voo play?" "yes, sare! vat vil you 'av, sare?" "oh! oofs!" "yes, sare! [oe]ufs à la _coque_, sare?" "oh, nong! hang it! _hen's_ eggs for _me_, please!"] [illustration: _gallant scavenger._ "very much the good day,[a] madame! and how fares mister your husband, this fine weather?" _polite applewoman._ "much better, i thank you, monsieur! recall me, i pray you, to the amiable recollection of madame your spouse!" _gallant scavenger._ "with pleasure, madame. very much the good evening!" _polite applewoman._ "good evening, monsieur, and good night!" [footnote a: in the original, "_bien le bon jour, madame_."]] into spain (_with a conversation-book_) [illustration] _cannes._--read that the weather is dismal and cloudy in england. shall stay in the sunny south a little longer. cannes is a charming place. but might as well see something different. where to go? consult map. good idea. spain. consult time-tables. easiest thing in the world. tarascon to barcelona. what is there to see in barcelona? nuts probably. also spanish manners and customs, dark eyes, fans, _mantillas_, and so forth. shall certainly go, after a few days. good idea to learn a few words of spanish. must be very easy. italian and french mixed, with some latin added. amiable frenchman in hotel supports this view. he says, airily, "_vous quittez paris dans le 'sleeping,' vous achetez des journaux espagnols à irun, et, arrivé à madrid vous parlez espagnol._" cannot hope to rival that linguistic feat, but may be able to learn a few phrases between cannes and barcelona. buy a conversation-book in french and spanish. _port bou._--across the frontier. custom-house station. now is the time to begin spanish. have read some of that conversation-book on the way. begin to doubt its utility. usual sort of thing. "has thy brother bought a boot-jack?" "i wish these six volumes of molière's plays to be bound in half calf." and so forth. this one is the same, only in french. custom-house officer, in beautiful uniform and bright green gloves, very strict in his examination of my luggage. the green gloves travel all over my property, and bring out a small cardboard box. triumphant expression on official's face. he has caught me. open box, and show him it contains a few white ties. his face now shows only doubt and amazement. cannot explain to him verbally. evidently useless to mention the binding of molière's plays. the green gloves beckon another custom-house officer, also wearing bright green gloves. together they examine my harmless white ties. it seems to me the green gloved hands are held up in pious horror. try them in french, in italian, in english. no good. should perhaps tip them in spanish. but why waste _pesetas?_ so refrain. they shake their heads still more suspiciously. the only thing remaining for me to do is to ask if the brother of one of them has bought a boot-jack. does not seem very appropriate, but, if said politely, might imply that i wish to change the subject. am just about to begin the note of interrogation upside down, which gives such an uncanny air to a spanish question, when they cease looking at my ties, and i pass on. _barcelona._--shall have no difficulty here. have been told that french is spoken everywhere. if not, then english or italian. everyone in the hotel speaks french. to the bank. manager speaks english beautifully. buy some cigarettes. old woman in the shop speaks italian. shall get on capitally. need not trouble to carry the conversation-book in my pocket. in the evening to the opera. walk out between the acts, seeing spaniards also walking out, and enter a café. order coffee. waiter brings a huge glass of water, and a cup, filled to the brim with sugar, on which the _verseur_ is about to pour my drink. stop him. explain in french that i take no sugar. the two, and another waiter, stand round me, with dazed faces. by jove, they speak only spanish! wish i had the conversation-book. but should probably have found something like "_nous ne voulons pas faire une excursion en mer, parce qu'il fait trop de vent_," or "_ces bottines sont un peu étroites, veuillez les élargir_." no good trying talking. turn out eight or ten lumps of sugar, and so get my coffee. then return to the opera. four polite officials at the entrance gaze wonderingly at the counterfoil of my ticket, which i concluded served for readmission, no pass ticket being offered. ask each one, in turn, if he speaks french. he does not. oh for the conversation-book! if only i could say "_tous les tableaux dans le salon carré du louvre sont des chefs-d'[oe]uvre_," or "_est-ce que mademoiselle votre s[oe]ur joue du piano?_" i should have shown myself to be an individual with innocent and refined tastes, and not a socialist or a brigand. the second phrase would have been singularly appropriate in the opera house. alas, i cannot! so address them in french, with bows and smiles. and they respond in spanish, evidently with great courtesy, also with bows and smiles, and let me pass in, probably because they cannot make me understand that i ought to stop out. for the future i must carry that conversation-book everywhere. [illustration: overheard near bergen _norwegian host_ (_whose english is not perfect--to british tourist_). "what that i tell you, sarr, it is quite true. nansen killed his last dog to save the others!"] [illustration: (the ideal) the merry swiss boy (the real)] [illustration: (the ideal) the merry swiss girl (the real)] the tourist's book of fate if you dream of it means _antwerp_ that you will be bored to death by rubens. _boulogne_ that you will lose a small fortune in tenth-rate gambling. _calais_ that you will soon tire of your continental trip, and stop prematurely. _dieppe_ that you will have about as much change and comfort as at brighton in november. _etretat_ that you will be fortunate if you can secure comfortable lodgings. _florence_ that you will never enter another picture-gallery for years. _geneva_ that you will want to go away before you have fairly arrived. _heidelberg_ that you can never have been abroad before. _interlaken_ that you will hear the opinions of a number of mr. cook's tourists on the jungfrau. _jerusalem_ that if you have been advised to go there by your friends, you must be very unpopular. _karlsbad_ that if you intend taking the waters, you had better insure your life before commencing the operation. _lucerne_ that if you want to ascend either the righi or mont pilatus, if you are judicious you will purchase a railway ticket. _milan_ that you will find little difference between the passage victor emanuel and the burlington arcade. _naples_ that you had better keep a sharp look out on the returns of the cholera. _ouchy_ that you are likely to have a good time of it at the hôtel beau rivage if "perambulating parsons" have let it alone. _paris_ that you are quite subservient to the wishes and dress-requirements of your wife. _quebec_ that you can see what some of the colonists have exchanged for the indiscriminating hospitality of the mother country. _rome_ that you wish to do a good turn to the doctors by choosing such a time for your visit. _sedan_ that you will develop a taste for the collection of brummagem relics. _turin_ that you will want a good rest after doing mont cénis. _unter den_ that you will be lured to visit a city _linden_ well worth seeing by the unearned fame of one of its smallest attractions. _vevey_ that you had better stay there than go over the simplon into tourist-teeming italy. _wiesbaden_ that if you can't get "trente et quarante" or "rouge et noir" at the kursaal, you may yet play at chess. _zurich_ that by the date you get there it will be time to think of coming home again. [illustration: going to the battle of flowers at nice] [illustration: sudden interruption of the battle of flowers at nice. "sauve qui peut!"] [illustration: "l'entente cordiale" a sketch on the normandy coast.] regrets _en route_ (_by our blasé contributor_) that i missed so many chances of doing something more or less novel on the continent. that i did not try a cup of coffee on dover pier _before_ starting for calais. that i avoided the smoke-room when the steamboat passed through a choppy sea mid-channel. that i did not "declare" something to the _douane_, to see what would come of it. that i did not stay a day at st. pol, and then take the slow train to boulogne, stopping an hour or so at each of the interim stations. that i did not go to a third-rate hotel on the wrong side of the seine to find out what it was like. that i didn't do the bois de boulogne in a fog. that i left paris without seeing père-la-chaise in a scotch mist. that i did not ride a horse in venice. that i neglected to spend a couple of days in the catacombs in rome. that i refused to picnic on the top of the tower of pisa under an umbrella. that i neglected to return to marseilles by a cargo-boat. that i followed no system at monte carlo. that i went out in summer clothing at nice. that i took the train up the rhine instead of one of the lumbering steam-boats. that i overslept myself at the summit of the rigi, instead of catching cold under a blanket. that i followed the system of mark tapley without attempting cheerfulness. finally, that when i was in japan, i did not save myself further boredom by personally patronising "the happy despatch." * * * mems for travellers on the continent. --first-class abroad is patronised by princes, millionaires, fools, _and_ wise men. a sight-seeing trip would be far pleasanter without the sight-seeing. * * * english as she is written at zermatt.-- on the back of the business card of a zermatt shoemaker is the following notice:-- "pay attention to this visitors are kindly invited to brought your boots self to the schoemaker, then they are frequently nagled by the portier and that is very dammageable for boots and kosts the same price." [illustration: a reminder "well, good-bye, old man. we've had a high old time in dear old paris, haven't we! to me it all seems like a dream!" "so it would to me, old man, if you didn't owe me thirteen francs!"] holiday hints (_by the expert wrinkler_) where to spend saturday to monday is, of course, the prevailing and stubborn problem in many of the stately homes of england. what then must be the difficulty when the question to be answered is where to spend the easter holidays? the reply depends, of course, very much upon the time that can be expended upon the vacation. if, to take an example, a gentleman has only a week at his disposal, it is little use his thinking very seriously of india or the cape; but paris is, of course, well within his power. given a fortnight he might get as far as rome if he wished to, although for my part i prefer monte. on this favourite resort, however, i need not dwell at present, as my readers will remember a paragraph on monte and suitable costume there which i wrote some two or three years ago on the occasion of one of the infrequent breakings of the bank. [illustration: scene--_south of france winter resort_ _aunt._ "kitty, if you don't behave yourself properly, i'll tell your mamma. when i was your age, i was a good girl." _kitty._ "and are you very wicked now, aunt?"] [illustration: an innocent offender what is all this about? why, it is against the law to carry plants of any kind, alive or dead, into italy, and the officials at the italian dogana (custom-house) near mentone have just been told that an english gentleman, with a rose in his button hole, has strolled by, towards ventimiglia. so they are after the unsuspecting criminal!] [illustration: 'arry's and 'arriet's 'oliday trip] [illustration: scene--_hotel in cologne_ _fidgety english party._ "there seems to be quite a commotion in the hotel, kellner!" _kellner._ "ja wohl! de _drain_ has chust gom in, kvite full!" [_fidgety party, who is not yet accustomed to the german way of pronouncing english, is aghast._ ] the ideal equipment any gentleman who really wishes to acquire a reputation as a citizen of the world must be supplied with a large number of travelling outfits which he can pack at a moment's notice. a compendious bag fitted with requirements for the moors is always handy under my bed; and i am ready to start for the riviera, the normandy coast, paris, switzerland, the bavarian alps, the rhine, norway, palestine, iceland, at ten minutes' notice, according as the invitation may be worded. no gentleman at all in demand can afford to dispense with such preparations. but to make travel really pleasant, remember that you must not only do in rome as rome does, but you must dress as rome (or paris) expects you to. the needs of paris paris being the favourite easter resort, i cannot do better, even at the risk of repeating myself, than give a few hints as to costume in the gay city. a strong light suit of tweed dittoes, of a pronounced check pattern, should be the basis of one's wardrobe. by way of headgear a deer-stalker, a cloth, or best of all, a pith helmet, is _de rigueur_ in the english visitor, and if you are not provided by nature with side-whiskers and long projecting front teeth, you must call in the resources of art to make good these deficiencies. a sensible swiss outfit for a swiss tour i should recommend the following outfit, a dome-shaped celluloid hat for resisting the impact of avalanches; two climbing suits of stout welsh homespun or irish frieze (do not make the mistake of wounding the susceptibilities of the local _fauna_ by choosing chamois leather, otherwise an excellent substance); hot-water tube puttees and purpoise-hide brogues. a good supply of alpenstocks and blue veils is indispensable. for hotel life, i recommend tourists to take their own mosquito curtains, a pianola, and a portable swimming-bath. the changes of temperature in switzerland are so sudden that one must be prepared for every emergency. if the noontide glare has to be faced, bombazine bloomers will be found most refreshing. but if the matterhorn is to be scaled by moonlight you cannot be too warmly clad. national costume what i would impress on any intending traveller, then, is to be prepared within certain limits to accommodate his dress to that of the country he proposes to visit. it is quite a mistake to suppose that this will involve any serious outlay. foreigners, though sensitive, are considerate, and will not expect strangers to adopt every detail of their national costume. for instance, i have found that the alterations needful for a visit to vienna are very few indeed. the absolute minimum is a butterfly tie, but i should also recommend a bottle of _pommade hongroise_ and a tall hat with a flat brim. the ordinary brim can be made to lie flat with a little coaxing, and can be curled up afterwards by any good hatter. high heels also create a favourable impression on the foreign mind, and if you take a black coat be sure that it is heavily braided. the tyrol and italy. i knew a man who said that you would be welcomed anywhere in the tyrol if you could only jodel. personally, though i think that a little _tul-lul-liety!_ may be a passport to the affections of the tyrolese peasant, it has no influence whatever with hotel-keepers. for italy, a velvet or velveteen coat will make you feel at home, and if this should prove beyond the resources of your purse, then i strongly recommend earrings as the irreducible minimum. the preliminary operation, i admit, is a little painful, but it soon passes off. earrings, with a red garibaldi shirt and a byron tie, give a man a very stylish and thoroughly peninsular appearance. * * * what they take abroad.--_what she takes._--three black silk dresses (princesse, watteau, and duchesse); one green satin robe, with bows; one fancy silk, with embroidered apron; two black grenadines (one square cut); two white grenadines, with lace trimmings; four white tops (two warranted to wash); one violet skirt, with apron and jacket; four dinner dresses (violet, pink, pink and black, and blue); three polonaises (yellow, green, and red); one white worked top, with cardinal bows; two sealskin, one black silk, and three black cloth jackets; long fur cloak, ulster, and grey travelling polonaise; four hats (gainsborough, brigand, shovel, and pork-pie); four bonnets (black, blue, violet, and red); linen ( cwt.); boots, slippers, &c. ( cwt.); extras, toilet, &c. ( lb.). _what he takes._--linen ( lb.); two flannel shirts; an extra pair of boots; his sponge, combs, and brushes; and a wideawake hat. [illustration: a staggerer! _custom-house officer._ "now, then, got anything contraband about ye?" _mate._ "'got 'bout bot'l and half brandy; but i'll defy ye to take it fro' me!" ] where to go [illustration] _antwerp_--if you are not tired of exhibitions. _boulogne_--if you don't mind the mud of the port. _cologne_--if you are not particular about the comfort of your nose. _dieppe_--if you like bathing in the foreign fashion. _etretat_--if solitude has commanding charms. _florence_--if you are partial to ° in the shade. _genoa_--if you have no objection to mosquitoes. _heidelberg_--if you are not tired of the everlasting castle. _interlaken_--if the jungfrau has the advantage of novelty. _java_--if you wish to eat its jelly on the spot. _kandahar_--if you are not afraid of afghan treachery. _lyons_--if you are fond of riots and _émeutes_. _marseilles_--if you are determined to do the château d'if. _naples_--if you are anxious to perform an _ante mortem_ duty. _ouchy_--if you like it better than lausanne. _paris_--if you have not been there for at least a fortnight. _quebec_--if you are qualifying for admission to a lunatic asylum. _rome_--if you have never had the local fever and want to try it. _strasbourg_--if you are hard up for an appropriate destination. _turin_--if it is the only town you have not seen in italy. _uig_--if you affect the isle of skye in a thunderstorm. _venice_--if you scorn stings and evil odours. _wiesbaden_--if you can enjoy scenery minus gambling. _yokohama_--if you are willing to risk assault and battery. _zurich_--if you can think of no other place to visit. n.b.--the above places are where to go on the keep-moving-tourist plan. but when you want to know "where to stay,"--we reply, "at home." [illustration: the "merry swiss boy"] the real swiss boy a new version of the well-known ballad (_respectfully dedicated by mr. punch to the alpine tourist, on his return home_) mr. punch _singeth to swiss landlord_-- come, carouse thee, carouse thee, my knowing swiss boy, sack thy gains, and from labour away. stick the tongue in the cheek, and sing "_la république_ (like _l'empire_, as we know) _c'est la paye!_" the season's done, with purses low, the weary tourists homeward flow-- then carouse thee, carouse thee, my knowing swiss boy, sack thy gains, and from labour away! _swiss landlord respondeth_-- am not i, am not i, say, a merry swiss boy, when i hie from the mountain away? _les milords_ they may climb, without reason or rhyme, but, _beigott_, for their climb they shall pay. my shutters up, no thieves to fear, till back the tourists come next year, then will i, then will i, as the merry swiss boy, take purses upon the highway! by the nose, by the nose, sir, the knowing swiss boy the _milords_ and _miladis_ can lead; through the nose, through the nose, too, the knowing swiss boy the _milords_ and _miladis_ can bleed: hotels so high high charges grow; _point d argent, point de suisse_, you know. so with _vivent les anglais!_ locks the merry swiss boy the francs in his strong-box away! * * * venice unpreserved [_"steamers have been started on the grand canal at venice."--globe._] i stood in venice on the bridge of sighs, a palace and a prison on each hand. i saw from out the wave black funnels rise whence clouds of densest smoke i saw expand, and common steamboats, at a penny a mile, o'er the canal--saw many a person land upon the piers. o anguish! it does rile the bard to see all this--and what a smell of ile! * * * the merry swiss landlord to the traveller who has been plundered briton, assuage this futile rage! your curses are in vain. you vow you'll go, but well i know you'll cut to come again! [illustration: the return of the tourist] [illustration: advantages of a classical education _mr. mould._ "let it remain here, and i'll come back for it!" _chef de gare._ "je n'comprends pas, m'sieur!" _mrs. mould._ "try him in _latin_, my love." _mr. mould._ "all right. look here, mossoo--_requiescat in pace--resurgam!_" _chef de gare._ "ah! parfaitement! que ça reste ici, et puis vous reviendrez!"] first impressions [illustration] there is no doubt that one's first impressions are always the brightest and the best; therefore i resolve to record the first impressions of a first visit to the italian lakes. "_british bellagio_,"-- "hôtel victoria, prince de galles et des iles britanniques," or some such name, is usually, as _baedeke_r says, "frequented by the english." they are here certainly, and one hears one's native language everywhere. there are the honeymoon couples, silent and reserved, who glare fiercely at anyone who might be supposed to imagine for a moment that they are newly married; there are people who converse in low monotonous voices about the weather, which changes every hour; there is an old lady, who gives one startling information, telling one, for instance, that paul veronese was born at verona; and there are two or three british menservants, gazing with superb disdain at the poor foreigners. the hotel is very quiet. the evening of a week-day is like sunday evening, and sunday evening is----!!! if only the weather were not also english, or even worse. on the last day of september the only warm place is by the fire in the _fumoir_. so let us hurry off from this wintry climate to somewhere, to anywhere. by the first boat we go. still english everywhere. at bellagio a great crowd, and heaps of luggage. at cadenabbia a greater crowd, and more heaps of luggage. here they come, struggling along the gangway in the wind. there is a sad-faced englishman, his hands full of packages, his pockets stuffed with others, carrying under his arm a little old picture wrapped loosely in pink tissue paper, which the wind blows here and there. he is a forgetful man, for he wanders to and fro collecting his possessions. with him is another forgetful englishman in very shabby clothes, who also carries packages in paper, and who drags after him an immensely fat bull-dog at the end of a cord five yards long, which winds round posts and human legs and other obstacles. at last they are all on board--the forgetful englishmen have darted back for the last time to fetch in an ice-axe and an old umbrella--and on we go over the grey water, past the grey hills, under the grey sky, towards como. at cernobbio the shabby englishman lands, dragging his bull-dog at the end of the cord, and carrying in his arms two rolls of rugs, a bag, and other trifles. his sad-faced companion, still holding his tiny old master in the ever-diminishing pink paper, wanders in and out seeking forgotten treasures, an ice-axe, a bag, another paper parcel. finally all are landed, the gangway is withdrawn, the steamer begins to move. suddenly there is a shout. the shabby englishman has forgotten something. the sympathetic passengers look round. there is a solitary umbrella on a seat no doubt that is his. a friendly stranger cries, "is this yours?" and tosses it to him on the quay. then there is another shout. "_ach himmel_, dat is mine!" the frantic german waves his arms, the umbrella is tossed back, he catches it and is happy. but meanwhile another english man, the most egregious ass that ever lived, has discovered yet another solitary umbrella, which he casts wildly into space. for one moment the captain, the passengers, the people on the quay, gaze breathless as it whirls through the air. it falls just short of the landing-stage, and sinks into the grey waters of that chilly lake, never more to be recovered, in any sense of the word. in those immeasurable depths its neat silk covering will decay, its slender frame will fall to pieces. it has gone for ever. beneath this grey italian sky some italian gamp must keep off these italian showers. then the captain, the passengers, and the people smile and laugh. i, who write this, am the only one on whose face there is not a grin, for that umbrella was mine. a first impressionist. * * * the belfry of bruges overlooked ["a more silent city than bruges does not exist."--_standard._] what? bruges a silent city! now, nay a thousand times! if deaf, accept our pity; if not,--oh dear! those chimes! [illustration: six of one, half-a-dozen of the other _three of our countrywomen abroad._ "_well, i never!_ to turn round, and stare at one like that!"] [illustration: a view on the french coast] a view on the french coast talk about lazy time!-- come to this sunny clime-- life is flowing rhyme-- pleasant its cadence zephyrs are blowing free over the summer sea, sprinkling deliciously merry mermaidens! despite the torrid heat, toilettes are quite complete; white are the little feet, fair are the tresses: maidens here swim or sink, clad in blue serge--i think some are in mauve or pink-- gay are the dresses! if you know etretât, you'll know _m'sieu là_-- oh, such a strong papa!-- ever out boating. you'll know his babies too, toto and lolalou, all the long morning through diving and floating. oh what a merry crew! fresh from the water blue, rosy and laughing too-- daring and dripping! look at each merry mite, held up a dizzy height, laughing from sheer delight-- fearless of slipping! he hath a figure grand-- note, as he takes his stand, poised upon either hand, merry young mer-pets: drop them! you strong papa, swim back to etretât! here comes their dear mamma, seeking for _her_ pets! * * * [illustration: 'arry's 'oliday; b'logne and back] [illustration: harry's son's holiday reminiscences--holland (_drorn all by himself, and signed "harry's son"_)] [illustration: 'arry on the boulevards] on the cheap (_from the journal of a travelling economist_) ["on the other hand, however, we must avow some apprehension that too minute attention to the possibility of cheap travel may render a continental tour a continual vexation and trouble. plain living and high thinking are, as mr. capper says, crying wants of these days; but the latter condition is hardly to be attained by the self-imposed necessity of striking a bargain with a landlord at the end of each day's journey."--_times._] a.m.--roused for the seventeenth time since midnight. vow i will never go to a fourth-class hotel again. try to get a little sleep on four chairs and a sliding bureau. can't. begin a letter to the _times_ in my head. a.m.--get up and look for ink. wake the others. order five breakfasts for seven of us, and explain to the landlord that we have to catch the . cheap "omnibus" train for farthingheim. a.m.--row with landlord about _bougies_. will charge for them, though we all went to bed in the dark. explain this. he snaps his fingers in my face, calls me "_ein schwindlinder beleidiger!_" refuses to split the breakfasts, and seizes my portmanteau. a.m.--row still proceeding. cheap train hopelessly missed. look out "_beleidiger_" in a dictionary, and go upstairs and collect all the _bougies_ in a carpet-bag. pay bill in full, threaten to write to _bradshaw_, and go off, carrying all our own luggage to station, followed by a jeering crowd. a.m.--sit down on it, and, with the assistance of a phrase-book, tell the crowd in german that "this isn't the sort of treatment a parcel of foreigners would experience, under similar circumstances, in the tottenham court road." pelted. make up our minds to catch the . (fast), if we can. a.m.--miss it. nothing till the . express. station-master refuses to take our luggage before . . start with it to the town. crowd increasing. a.m.--visit the dom. descend into shrine of st. berthold. very interesting. guide well-informed and intelligent. give him nothing on principle. follows us to the alten schloss, shouting at the top of his voice, and shaking his fists. a.m.--go all over the schloss. capital state of preservation. are shown the "reserved apartments." refuse to give anything to the _concierge_. he comes out after us with a horse-whip. the guide still there shouting. we ask the way to tomb of gustavus the ninth. crowd follows us with brickbats. a.m.--get in by the assistance of a very civil commissionaire. striking. are shown the boots of charlemagne, and the spot where rudolph the eighteenth was assassinated. sign our names in visitors' book. give nobody anything. commissionaire walks by our side, calling us "brigands!" crowd enormous. symptoms of riot commencing. reach station exhausted. noon.--prepared to pay anything to escape. take seven first-class tickets (express), and are charged nineteen thalers for excess of luggage. get off in a storm of execration, after having to give up all the _bougies_ to a gendarme. start, threatening feebly to write to the _times_, have hysterics, and go to sleep. p.m.--still hysterical. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--still hysterical. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--arrive. refuse to hire a _voiture_. tell the omnibus conductor, with the aid of the phrase-book, that his tariff of fares is "utterly ridiculous." set out on foot in search of a _gasthaus_ of moderate pretensions, where no english have been to demoralise the landlord and raise the prices. . p.m.--still searching. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--ditto. p.m.--find what we want at last, in a dark alley, turning out of a side street, running precipitously to the river. dine at the late _table d'hôte_ with one commercial traveller, on pickled cherries, raw bacon, cabbage, sugar biscuits, horseflesh, and petrified figs. midnight.--retire, and have nightmare. a.m.--endeavour to sleep on three chairs and a washhand-stand. can't. determine to write to the _times_. a.m.--left writing. [illustration: a declaration indeed! "avez-vous quelquechose à déclarer, madame?" "oh, wee! je declar que noos avong pairdew too no baggarge!"] [illustration: le pied anglais _bathing woman_ (_to english lady_). "voilà, madame, une belle paire de chaussons." (_noticing disapproval in visitor's face._) "ah, madame n'en veut pas? je suis désolée, mais, pour le moment, il ne me reste pas de plus grands."] [illustration: at the paris exhibition _he._ "there is madame chose flirting with a nigger! why, she is only quite recently a widow." _she._ "ah, that accounts for her choice. she is in mourning, and the black suits her!"] toasts for travellers (_by our continental cynic_) amiens--and may the cathedral compensate for the break of the journey. boulogne--and may the bathing on the sands never land you in a hole. calais--and may the luncheon at the buffet wipe away the recollection of a dusty passage. dieppe--and may the comforts of an english hotel counterbalance the thraldom of foreign fashions. evian-les-bains--and may the waters be worthy of their reputation. florence--and may the pictures soothe the irritation caused by an indifferent _table d'hôte_. genoa--and may the view wash away the recollection of italian uncleanliness. heidelberg--and may the popular ruins survive the vulgarity of the personally conducted. interlaken--and may sunset on the mountain be not disappointing. jura--and may the pass satisfy general expectation. kissingen--and may it be worth the bother of getting to it. lucerne--and may its advertised "loveliness" not cause it to become impossible. mannheim--and may its distance from anywhere not be a drawback to its few additional attractions. nuremberg--and may its toys be worth the journey and the seeing. naples--and may it not become necessary, owing to epidemics, to die there immediately after its inspection. ouchy--and may it be a pleasant surprise after lausanne. rome--and may its monuments be seen without contracting its fever. st. malo--and may it be reached without running aground in the neighbourhood of the channel islands. turin--and may its departed glory revived reward the end of a tedious journey. venice--and may it be seen before it is spoilt by the modern improver. zurich--and may it be appreciated in spite of its inferiority to all neighbouring continental attractions. [illustration: finis] bradbury, agnew & co., ld., printers, london and tonbridge transcriber's note: sundry missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired. page : ' p.m.' corrected to ' a.m.' to match context. [this plain-text file, containing only the captions to richard doyle's drawings, is included for completeness. the html version includes all drawings and decorative text. except for "the review" and some decorative headers, the entire book was printed in capital letters. it has been reformatted for readability; capitalization decisions are the transcriber's. text shown in +marks+ was printed in decorative blackletter type.] the foreign tour of messrs brown, jones, and robinson. being the history of what they saw, and did in belgium, germany, switzerland & italy. by richard doyle. london. bradbury & evans. whitefriars. * * * * * * * * * [london.] the mail train to dover. brown, jones, and robinson starting on their travels. [ostend.] after a rough passage, brown, jones, and robinson are here seen landed at ostend, surrounded, and a little bewildered, by the natives, who overwhelm them with attentions--seize the luggage, thrust cards into their hands, drag them in several directions at once, all talking together (which prevented their directions being so clear as they otherwise would have been)--and, finally, all expecting money! they are at the douane, waiting for the officials to search the luggage. robinson and jones (alarmed by expression of brown's countenance). --"what's the matter now?" brown (in a voice of agony). --"i've left the key of my bag at home!" [ostend to cologne.] a sketch made at malines. how they saw belgium. [cologne.] the arrival at cologne. travellers passing their examination. in the foreground is jones's portmanteau undergoing the "ordeal by touch." manner and custom of the people, as seen from the railway by brown, and made a note of. b. j. and r., who took their places on the roof the better to command the view, are seen at the moment when the idea occurred to the two former that they might possibly not "fit" under the archway. robinson is so wrapped up in thought, and a cigar, that he is unconscious of all else. this represents the cologne omnibus on its journey from the station into the city, when stopped by the military, and made to "stand and deliver" the passports. arrival at the hotel, and first coming in sight of that amiable and obliging race, the german waiter. he is small in stature (scarcely the size of life, as jones remarked), and remains always a boy. "speise-saal" hotel, cologne-- enter brown, jones, and robinson, fatigued, and somewhat disordered by travel, and "so hungry." how an agent of jean maria farina addressed them, who was kind enough to put some of the celebrated "eau" upon their handkerchiefs, and to receive orders for the same. the real eau de cologne, and its effect upon the noses of three illustrious individuals. "kellner" presents the bill. they "do" cologne cathedral. [cologne to bonn.] the railway from cologne to bonn. --b. j. and r. "just in time." first glimpse of rhine scenery. [bonn.] jones's little all is contained in this small portmanteau. robinson, on the contrary, finds it quite impossible to move with less than this. this scene represents the rhine boat about to start from bonn, and passengers from the railway embarking. in the foreground an accident has occurred, a porter having upset the luggage of an english family, the head of which is saluting him with the national "damn," while the courier of the party expresses the same idea in german. [the rhine.] brown's first impression of the rhine. _from an original sketch in the possession of his family._ heads of the natives. _a leaf from brown's sketch book._ company on board the rhine boat. amongst them was a travelling tutor, and three young gentlemen, his pupils. he stood in the midst of them smiling blandly, an open volume in his hand, (probably a classic author,) between which, and his pupils, and the scenery, he divided his attention in about equal parts. there was a specimen of the english grumbler, big, burly, and as if in danger of choking from the tightness of his cravat. every one knows him, his pleasant ways, and his constant flow of good humour and cheerfulness; that is he, sitting to the right. there were besides, numerous young gentlemen from the universities, from the army, from the bar, all with more or less hair on their upper lips; and there was a cavalry officer of the russian guard, and a professor, on his way to heidelberg, and loose, dishevelled, hairy, smoky young germans, with long beards, and longer pipes. and there was a british nobleman, and a british alderman, and a british alderwoman; and there were british ladies whom i can't describe, because they wore those "ugly" things which prevent them being seen; intelligent young americans on their way all over the world; nuns, with their quiet, happy faces; red republicans from frankfort, and snobs from london. the great briton. as he stood contemplating the rhine-land, wondering if it would be possible to live in that country; and considering (supposing he had one of those castles, now) how many thousands a-year one could do it with. the scenery would do; and with english institutions it might be made a good thing of. n.b. --he little thinks what brown is doing. even the nun was not safe from brown. he is here seen taking her off, in a rapid act of sketching. b. j. and r. had just begun to enjoy the scenery, when, to their consternation, who should appear on board but the "bore," who instantly was down upon them. for three mortal hours he entertained them with fashionable intelligence, anecdotes of the aristocracy, the court circular, births, deaths, marriages, &c. this was supposed to be an m.p. travelling in search of "facts." he is giving brown his views; and also the statistics of everything. a view on the rhine. the london gent up the rhine. he is taken at the moment when expressing his opinion that the whole concern is a "do" and a "sell." british farmer and son in foreign parts. they both wore a perpetual grin and stare of surprise, jones thought that they had taken leave of england and their senses at once, owing to the withdrawal of protection. the rhine boat. brown may be seen seated there upon the paddle-box, rapidly sketching every church, ruined castle, town, or other object of interest on either bank of the river. those are jones and robinson, leaning over the side of the boat below him. observe, also, the stout party who has called for brandy-and-water, and whose countenance almost lapses into a smile as "kellner" approaches with the beverage. the tutor, it is pleasant to see, has at last put his "classic" in his pocket, and gives himself up to the undivided enjoyment of the scene, while his "young charge" is wrapped in contemplation of mechanical science as exemplified in the structure of the wheel. and that must surely be the gent who has such a low opinion of the beauty of the rhine-land, seated at the stern of the boat with his legs dangling over the river. let us hope that he is happy now! the english "milord" upon the rhine. how happy he looks! he dislikes the hum of men, and sits all day shut up in his carriage reading the literature of his country. how rude of those germans to be laughing and joking so near his lordship! perfect enjoyment. [coblentz.] indignation of robinson, at sight of inadequate washing apparatus. he rang the bell with such violence, that all the waiters rushed in, thinking that the hotel was on fire, or that a revolution had broken out. there he stood, pointing to the water, about half a pint in a basin the size of a breakfast cup; and in a voice of suppressed emotion, demanding to know if "das ist, etc." jones's night thoughts. "man wants but little here below," _but_ "wants that little long." if you should forget the number of your key and room (_as brown did on returning late from the theatre_), what are you to do? +an incident in the life of jones's dog.+ how this animal seemed to have imbibed communistic principles, and how he stole a sausage, and how the population rose like one man, and hunted him through the town. the dog having outstripped the populace, proceeds to eat the sausage. having done so, he looks stouter than he did, and is inclined to rest. the inhabitants, eager for vengeance, surround him, but are kept at bay by the expression of his countenance. one burly peasant having the hardihood to approach too near, he is made as example of. _exeunt omnes._ [the rhine.] brown, with noble perseverance, sits upon the paddle-box, regardless of the storm, and sketches the castles and towns, as the steam-boat passes them. --till in a moment of grief his hat and several sketches were carried off for ever: and then he thought it time to go below. how a citizen of the united states addressed brown; and how he put the following questions during the first five minutes of their acquaintance. . "where are you going?" . "what place do you hail from?" . "conclude you go toe frankfort?" . "you're mr. brown, i reckon?" . "what names do your friends go by?" statements made during the same period. . "this here rhine ain't much by the side of our mississippi." . "old europe is 'tarnally chawed up." brown's hat. robinson was very merry about this incident, and both he and jones kept poking fun at brown during the rest of the day. they parodied the well known song of "my heart's on the rhine," substituting "my hat's in the rhine;"--(it was very poor stuff, we have been assured by brown)--and they made pointed allusions to the name of "wide-awake." the above drawing is from a rude sketch by jones. the scenery becomes mysterious. they now became enveloped in what seemed a combination of fog (london november) and mist (scotch). only think of those two national institutions going up the rhine with the rest of the fashionable world. at first it obscured the hill tops, with the ruins thereon; then the villages and vineyards below; and finally both banks of the river entirely disappeared. the company on board the steamboat did not, at this period, present the most cheerful aspect. [mayence to frankfort.] how robinson's favourite portmanteau, which he had forgotten to lock, was dropped accidentally by a porter while conveying it to the omnibus. jones hints to robinson that it is time to get up. [frankfort.] how they visited a "quarter" of the city of frankfort, and what they saw there! robinson here wrote his celebrated letter to the "times," on the subject of the deficiency of soap and water, from which, as we have seen in a former page, he suffered so grievously. it was conceived in terms of indignant eloquence; and drew a terrible picture of the state of social, political, and religious degradation into which a country must have sunk, where such things could be tolerated. as they walked through the town, bent upon seeing the ariadne, and unconscious of danger, suddenly an object appeared in sight that filled them with terror. it was the "bore!" stepping jauntily along on the other side of the street. to hesitate was to be lost! so they plunged into the nearest shop for protection, and stood there breathless with expectation and fear. presently jones--putting his head very gradually out--reconnoitred, and finding all safe they resumed their way. robinson thinks it "the thing" to encourage native industry wherever he goes, and so buys a german pipe. [heidelberg.] "kellner!" while brown, jones, and robinson supped, a party of philosophers carry on an æsthetical discussion, with an accompaniment of pipes and beer. "* * * the night was beautiful, so we determined after supper to have a look at the celebrated castle--jones and i did, that is to say, for robinson was so fatigued with travel that he declined moving, muttering something about 'castle can wait.' we ascended; the moon shone brightly through the ruins, and bathed the landscape in its silvery light, the beautiful neckar flowing at our feet. under us lay the town, a thousand lights twinkling in the stillness." *  * "suddenly, to our horror, there appeared upon the terrace 'the bore!'" --_extract from brown's journal._ "at last he left us. but not before he had taken from his pocket a letter received that morning from green ('you know green, of course,' he said, 'everybody does'), and read it aloud from beginning to end. it told of a 'good thing' said at the club by smith; and of two marriages, and a duel likely to come off, besides several interesting particulars regarding the winner of the st. leger." --_ibid._ when jones and brown were left once more alone, they wandered and pondered amongst the ruins, and moralised over the instability of things--they were even becoming sentimental--when, suddenly, a terrific sound was heard--like the barking of a dog--and the next moment the animal himself was seen emerging from the darkness, and making towards them at the top of his speed. they turned and fled! meeting by moonlight. robinson, after the departure of jones and brown, seated himself before the fire and fell fast asleep. he continued in that state, notwithstanding that the philosophers became very noisy, and even warlike. --and although--after the latter had retired (fortunately without coming to blows)--his chair toppled over, he quietly assumed a horizontal position. fancy the feelings of jones and brown on returning, and finding their friend lying on his back upon the floor, snoring! they lifted him up, and carried him off to bed. next morning they entertained robinson with a thrilling account of the dangers of their expedition, in which that dreadful dog filled a very large space. the above will give some faint idea of what they pictured to themselves (and to robinson). [the review.] brown, jones, and robinson have arrived at ----, the capital of ----, a small german state (we won't say which, as it would be giving it an undue distinction, and might offend the others). they have been received with distinguished consideration, the "local" paper having announced their arrival as count robinson, sir brown, and the rev. jones. they have been invited to be present at a grand review, and robinson--who amongst other necessaries in those portmanteaus of his, carried a uniform as captain of yeomanry--thought that this was just the proper occasion to appear in it. accordingly, he rode on to the ground upon a charger (hired), in the character of a warrior, with a solemnity of countenance befitting the scene and his country, and accompanied by jones (also mounted), but in the costume of an ordinary individual of the period. brown preferred going on foot. that is robinson in the centre. just at the time when he ought to be riding up the line, inspecting the troops with the grand duke and his staff--his horse (a "disgusting brute," as robinson afterwards described him, "who could not have been in the habit of carrying gentlemen") suddenly stood on his hind legs, in the very middle of the field, so that his rider was forced to cling on to him in an absurd manner, in full view of the army, the people, and the court. r. at that moment earnestly desired that the earth might open and swallow him. key to the cartoon. . robinson. . the grand duke. . the crown prince. . the rest of the serene family. . mr. jones. . the population. . mr. jones's dog. . mr. brown. . the army. . distant view of the capital. . foreign visitors. . monument to late duke. [baden.] a scene at baden. the right of search. +of the adventure that befel jones.+ i. jones's dog having come upon a sentinel, and struck, perhaps, by his small size compared with the sentinels he is used to, commences to say, "bow!--wow!--wow!--wew--u--u!" the soldier, offended by these remarks, presents for the animal's consideration, the point of his bayonet. ii. jones expostulates, with that freedom of speech which is the birthright of every englishman. iii. but obtaining no satisfaction, calls on the miserable foreigner to "come on." iv. first (and last) round. --the soldier did "come on," frowning. jones received him, smiling. --the soldier made play with his musket: jones put in his left. they closed, and a terrific struggle ensued, in the course of which jones got his adversary's "nob" into "chancery." v. the soldier, at this point, unable to use his arms, took to his legs, and administered a series of kicks upon the shins of jones, who in return seized him, lifted him in the air, and threw him. vi. then, considering that justice and the honour of his country were alike satisfied, he retired, leaving the body of his antagonist on the field. vii. shows the "body," on discovering that life was not extinct, attempting to rise. p.s. --he was last seen making frantic efforts to regain his feet, and seemingly prevented from doing so by the weight of his knapsack, and other accoutrements. viii. jones was late at breakfast; he found robinson reading "galignani," and brown looking out of window, and after giving them an amusing account of the fun he had had, was just sitting down to the table, when brown shouted out, "by jove, there is a regiment of soldiers coming down the street!" ix. at first jones was incredulous; but presently brown, his hair standing on end, rushed towards him, and in a voice of agony, cried, "as sure as we are alive they have stopped in front of the house, and the _officer is coming in!_" x. it was too true. the soldiers had come to look after the englishman who had attacked and beaten their comrade. xi. after a few moments of breathless suspense, the officer enters--jones stands like a man about to struggle with adversity. xii. nevertheless he is arrested and marched off. xiii. robinson, in agony, calls for his coat and hat, "for," as he cried out to brown, "not a moment is to be lost in endeavouring to see the british minister." xiv. they gain an audience of his excellency the british minister, and ask his interference in behalf of a persecuted countryman. we are happy to add that the interference was quite successful. jones was liberated immediately, and shortly afterwards the british minister for foreign affairs, in a despatch to the german minister for the same, expressed his conviction that "the whole civilised world reprobated, with one voice, a system at once tyrannical and cruel, a remnant of the darkest ages of man's history, and utterly unworthy of the present era of progress and enlightenment." our friends were advised, however, to leave the country as soon and as quietly as possible. they departed accordingly. [baden to basle.] head-dresses of peasantry. a sketch on the road to basle. how brown and jones went in a third class carriage (robinson would not; it did not seem "respectable"), that they might see the natives, and how b. drew the portrait of one, to her evident dissatisfaction. the omnibus besieged and taken by storm. [basle.] "the height of the omnibusses is quite disgusting." --_extract from unpublished documents in possession of robinson, who himself fell in the mud, while climbing from the roof of one of those vehicles._ scene from the road, near basle. storks' nest, basle. [switzerland.] boat station on the lake of lucerne; as sketched by brown from the steamer. according to the guide-book, the paintings on the wall represent furst, stauffach, and melchthal, swearing to liberate their country; but jones said he believed them to be portraits of a medieval swiss brown, jones, and robinson, in the act of vowing eternal friendship. the safest way of coming down a mountain. "we got out of the diligence (at a time when it was obliged to go very slowly), in order to make an excursion on foot in search of the picturesque, being told that we might meet the carriage at a certain point, about a mile further on. we saw many magnificent views, and did a great deal of what might be called rough walking; but perhaps the thing that struck us most was, that on emerging at the appointed spot for rejoining the diligence, we beheld it a speck in the distance, just departing out of sight." --_extract from jones's journal._ the seven ages of robinson's beard. what are they to do now? descent of the st. gothard. having taken their places on the outside of the diligence, brown, jones, and robinson can the better enjoy the grandeur of the scenery. they see italy in the distance. a meeting on the mountain. pilgrims coming _down_ the "hill of difficulty." [italy.] breakfast at bellinzona. it was their first day in italy, and how they did enjoy it! the repast was served in a stone summer-house attached to the hotel. the sun was so bright, and so hot; the sky was so blue, the vegetation so green, the mountains so purple, the grapes so large, and everything so beautiful, that brown and jones both decided that the scene fully realised all their imaginings of italy. robinson was enthusiastic, too, at first, and was beginning to say something about "italia, o italia," when his eye lit upon a green lizard running up the wall. from that moment he was more subdued. how they got robinson up the hills. [italian lakes.] they land upon austrian territory en route for milan. while the "proper officer" takes possession of their passports, the whole available population pounces upon the luggage, and, after apportioning it into "small allotments," carries it off to the custom house. the official here is seen "pointing" on the scent (as he thinks) of contraband goods in one of robinson's portmanteaus. he did not "find," but in the hunt, tossed r.'s "things" dreadfully. brown revenged the wrongs of self and friends, by taking a full length, on the spot, of that imposing administrator, who stands over there, with the passports in his hand. "excelsior!" an italian view. "buon giorno." evening on the lago maggiore. "'knowest thou the land' where the grapes are as plentiful as blackberries in england; and where one has only to stop a minute at the roadside, and pull no end of 'em. o 'tis there! 'tis there! etc." --_robinson's letters to his kinsfolk._ marie. oh! marie of the lago d'orta, maid of the inn, and most beautiful of waitresses, how well do i remember thee! how graceful were all thy movements; what natural ease, together with what a dignified reserve; --how truly a lady wert thou! you did not know it, but when you waited upon us, i always felt inclined to jump up from my chair, and open the door for you-- to take the dishes from your hands, to ask you respectfully to be seated, to wait upon you in fact. and o! how i did detest that wicked old landlady, your mistress, who used to bully and scold you. and i wonder whether you remember me. --_from a ms., very rare, in possession of brown._ this picture represents brown as he appeared, his feelings being "too many for him," on hearing that elderly she-dragon, the landlady, venting her ill-humour upon the gentle marie. he stole out of the dining-room, looked over into the yard, and there beheld the furious old female shaking her fist, and pouring forth a torrent of abuse. brown was not naturally of a savage temperament, but at that moment he felt that he could have--but it is best not to say what he could have done--it was too terrible for publication in these pages. a boat at orta. a mountain walk. robinson, with warmth, and some distance behind,-- "what is the use of going on at that rate?" poor jones! who would have thought he could ever be tired! pleasant. the accident that befell robinson. --no. . the accident that befell robinson. --no. . [orta.] robinson retires for the night. to prevent anxiety, we had better state that he is tired--nothing else. "now do, robinson, jump up like a good fellow; we ought to be starting now--and think how pleasant it will be, once you are up!" [varallo.] the inn. how brown, returning from sketching, was beset by beggars in a lonely place. [milan.] they pay a visit to the marionette theatre. a snob they saw writing his name upon roof of milan cathedral. enlightened behaviour in a foreign church. we are happy to say, that b. j. and r. had no connection with the above party. robinson's determination to let his beard grow "naturally," had an absurd result, the hair growing in violent and abrupt crops in some places, and not at all in others; so that jones, who was sensitive about appearances, (and whose own moustache was doing beautifully,) insisted at last upon r.'s being shaved, which event accordingly took place in the city of milan. it was well that robinson consented, for the barber eyed him eagerly, and as if he would spring upon him and shave him by force. cafÉ milan.--sudden and unexpected arrival of distinguished foreigners. the moment we seated ourselves in a café, an awful group of beggars stood before us--so suddenly that they appeared to have come up through a trap-door--and demanded alms. they would not go without money, and when they got it they took it as a right. it would not do for one of us to "settle" with them for the whole party, for no sooner had i given them a coin than they turned to jones, and when done with him, coolly set upon robinson. the instant one tribe departed, a fresh relais arrived, so that there was a constant supply (of beggars) and demand (on our purses). no place seemed safe: in the most magnificent and luxuriously-decorated cafés they had perfect right of way, the contrast between the rich gilding, glass, fountains, etc., of the one, and the rags, dirt, and dramatically got-up horrors of the other being picturesque, but certainly not pleasant; and yet, as jones remarked, they say this country has not free institutions. [verona.] the amphitheatre, verona. jones asks robinson, whether he "sees before him the gladiator die?" but robinson maintains a dignified silence. austrian detective stops brown to examine his sketching stool. it puzzles him. there is an air of mystery about it. it might possibly be a weapon to be used for political purposes, or an infernal machine! who knows? on the whole, he thinks he had better detain it. scene--discovers brown sketching. enter the austrian army. they advance upon him, they think he is taking the fortifications. robinson, who is much given to quotation, is, at the very moment, languidly reciting the lines:-- "am i in italy? is this the mincius? and those the distant turrets of verona? and shall i sup where juliet at the masque saw her loved montague?" --etc., etc. not being familiar with the german, or the croatian language, brown is helpless. he protests his innocence, but the military don't understand him. they see treason in his hat, which is of an illegal shape, and they arrest him. jones and robinson appear, to the surprise of the military, and relief of brown. brown, quite resigned, walks quietly to meet his fate. jones plunges violently, but is finally overcome. robinson resists passively, and is accordingly dragged along. sketches found upon brown. they are brought before the governor. that is he seated at the table, the soldiers showing him the libellous representations of the croats found in brown's portfolio. the latter expects to be ordered for instant execution; but jones assumes an air of great dignity, and says, "_civis romanus sum_." the governor, field-marshal lieutenant count brown, of the imperial service, discovers in his prisoner a near relation of his own; and our friend is instantly locked in the embrace of that distinguished warrior. jones remarked "all's well that ends well;" and robinson, greatly relieved, broke out with:-- "thus may each" nephew "whom chance directs, find an" uncle "when he least expects." [venice.] examination of passports. hotel. modern venetian troubadours. an evening scene before the café florian, piazza san marco. brown at this period undertook, at the urgent request of jones and robinson, to settle the accounts of the party, which had become complicated owing to that perplexing "medium," to those unused to it, the austrian paper money. this is a faithful picture of the unfortunate man as he sat, in the solitude of his chamber, until a late hour of the night, drawing up the "financial" statement. robinson (_solo_). --"i stood in venice," etc.; jones and brown, having heard something like it before, have walked on a little way. _reflection made by brown._ --why do people when repeating poetry always look unhappy? enjoyment! a scene upon the grand canal. the theatre malibran. the entertainment commenced at p.m., and lasted till . it consisted of a melodrama, full of awful crimes, and the most pathetic sentiment. the audience, chiefly composed of "the people," was, from beginning to end, in an extraordinary state of excitement, fizzing, like the perpetual going off of soda-water. the theatre was lighted (?) by about four oil lamps; and such was the darkness, that our travellers--who may be seen, perhaps, through the "dim obscure," up in a private box--could scarcely discern anything but the white uniform and glittering bayonet of an austrian sentinel in the pit. [a night in venice.] brown retired to rest. misery. note.-- if the musquitos appear rather large in this and the following scenes, let it be remembered that in the "heroic" it was a principle of many of the great painters to exaggerate the "parts." desperation. momentary relief. madness! bell!! boots!! despair!!!! [venice.] the accademia. gondola on the lagoon. sentiment spoken by robinson, with marks of adhesion from brown and jones. "oh, if there be an elysium on earth, it is this, it is this!!" +the accademia.+ scene i. brown (soliloquy). --"this is pleasant! to be quite alone here (dab), surrounded by these magnificent works (dab, dab, dab), and everything so quiet too--nothing to disturb one." (dab) after a pause. "i wonder what jones and robinson are doing (dab, splash)--lying at full length in a gondola, i dare say--smoking (dab), i think i could spend my life in this place" (dab, dab). "it is difficult to say which is the greatest pleasure, (another dab,) copying these splendid pictures, or painting from nature, those beautiful blue skies and crumbling old picturesque palaces, outside." (sings) --"'how happy could i be with either.'" (prolonged pause, and great play with brush) --"oh! that sunset last evening! as we lay out in our gondola upon the perfectly calm waters, by the armenian convent, and watched the sun slowly going down behind the distant towers and spires of the 'city of the sea'--one mass of gold spreading all over the west!" *  * "oh! those clouds! (another pause) ah! that was happiness. one such hour is worth--let me see--how many years of one's life? *  * and yet this is--" scene ii. he is set upon and surrounded by an english family, and the following dialogue ensues:-- the mamma. --"what a delightful occupation, to be sure." young lady (in a whisper). --"he is copying the tintoret." youthful son and heir (with confidence). --"no, he ain't; he's doing that stunning big one with the rainbow, and three river gods." second young lady. --"it's sweetly pretty, isn't it!" papa (a british merchant, and of a practical turn). --"very good--v-e-r-y good. ahem! now i wonder what one could make a year by that kind of thing." young man (with glass in his eye). --"slow, i should think." at this point brown's attention was attracted to a scuffle going on behind him amongst the junior members of the party. two of the little innocents had taken a fancy to the same drawing (a copy of his favourite john bellino), and after a brief, but fierce struggle for possession, had settled the difficulty by tearing it in two. (party retires rather precipitately.) [trieste to vienna.] sketch made by brown at trieste. note.--if any one doubts the fact, jones and robinson are ready to make affidavit of it. robinson searched and indignant. such things never happen anywhere else. [vienna.] arrived at vienna, they visit the theatre. a gentleman there, unobtrusively pays them great attention. scene--shop, vienna. jones to brown-- "what do you say?" brown (who sees that robinson is bent upon making a "magnificent addition" to himself, and that it is useless to expostulate). --"oh, i think it is splendid; and if you will only appear in it in pall mall, when we get home again, you will make a sensation." they visit the picture galleries. that man in the doorway seems to take a great interest in their movements. the promenade. brown thinks it is the same man! what can he want? the public garden. there he was again! jones suggested that perhaps it was a government official, who took them for liberty, equality, and fraternity. no sooner did they take their places at the table d'hote to dine, than brown fell back in his chair. there could be no doubt about it--he was better dressed than before--but it was the same man! he must be a spy! jones at the opera abroad. how unlike jones at the opera at home. [vienna to prague.] "just ten minutes to dress, breakfast, and get to the train." [prague.] wallenstein's horse. "the head, neck, legs, and part of the body have been repaired--all the rest is the real horse." --_from speech of the young woman who showed the animal._ a "kneipe" at prague. robinson is so confused with rapid travelling, that he addresses a waiter in three languages at once. "kellner!-- mittags-essen pour trois-- presto presto-- and-- waiter!-- soda water-- col cognac-- geschwind!" table d'hote, prague. [prague to cologne.] "passports!" --"that's the sixth time we have been woke up," groaned robinson. [rhineland again.] dusseldorf. brown _loq._ --i have left my bag behind! minden. here is the bag. how brown was seated between two soldiers, and how they would examine each other's swords, and how those fearful weapons were flashing about, often within an inch of b.'s nose: and how (being of a mild and peaceful disposition), b. was kept thereby in a constant state of uneasiness. [belgium.] eye of the government; as kept upon the travellers, during their stay in the austrian dominions. --_drawn from the haunted imagination of brown._ their last repast in foreign parts. time and train wait for no man. articles purchased by robinson. . eau de cologne. . pipe; (never smoked.) . hat; (never worn, and found decidedly in the way.) . cigars; (stopped at custom house.) . tauchnitz editions; (also seized.) . cornet à pistons; (bought in germany with the intention of learning to play upon it some day.) . gloves; (purchased at venice, a great bargain, and found utterly worthless.) [old england.] +sic(k) transit+ +gloria mundi!+ * * * * * * * * * bradbury and evans, printers extraordinary to the queen, whitefriars. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * errors and iconsistencies (noted by transcriber): they both wore a perpetual grin and stare of surprise, [comma in original: error for period (full stop)?] . "conclude you go toe frankfort?" [text unchanged] an evening scene before the café florain [error for florian] if the musquitos appear rather large [variant spelling unchanged] +of the adventure that befel jones.+ the accident that befell robinson. [inconsistent spelling unchanged] [illustration: jean with a pigeon on each shoulder was perfectly happy. _frontispiece_] [illustration] the corner series the four corners abroad by amy e. blanchard george w. jacobs & company philadelphia. copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company _published august, _ _all rights reserved_ printed in u. s. a. contents i. the fourth in paris ii. the day of bastille iii. housekeeping iv. a glimpse of spain v. a fiesta vi. spanish hospitality vii. across the channel viii. in london town ix. work x. a night adventure xi. settling down xii. all saints xiii. the fairy play and its consequences xiv. "stille nacht" xv. in the mountains xvi. herr green-cap xvii. good-bye munich xviii. jack as champion xix. a youthful guide xx. toward the toe illustrations jean with a pigeon on each shoulder was perfectly happy _frontispiece_ nan volunteered to go for supplies _facing page_ mary lee was snapping her fingers and taking her steps " " jo managed to get next to the driver " " the children stood in awe and delight at the krippen " " [illustration: chapter i the fourth in paris] chapter i the fourth in paris it was at passy that a little party of american girls were discussing the afternoon's plans one day in july. the three older girls were most interested; the two younger were too much engrossed in a game of diabolo to notice very much what the others were talking about. "you see it's raining," said nan corner, a tall girl with dark hair, "so we can't go in the bois as we intended." "neither do we want to follow aunt helen's example and go hunting for antiques," put in nan's sister, mary lee. "what do you say we do, jo?" jo keyes was drumming on the window-pane and looking out at the rather unpromising weather. "i see an american flag, girls," she said. "hail to you, old glory!--goodness me!" she turned around. "do you all know what day it is? of course we must do something patriotic." "it's the fourth of july!" exclaimed nan, "and we never thought of it. for pity's sake! isn't it ridiculous? we never made very much of it at home, but over here i feel so american when i remember bunker hill and yorktown and our own virginia washington, that i could paint myself red, white and blue, and cry 'give me liberty or give me death,' from out the front window." "i beg you'll do no such thing," said mary lee, the literal. nan laughed. the twins stopped their play and began to take an interest in what was being said. "do paint your face red, white and blue and lean out the front window, nan," said jack; "it would be so funny." "let mary lee do it," said nan, putting her arm around her little sister; "she's already red, white and blue." "let me see, mary lee, let me see," said jack, eagerly. the others laughed. "blue eyes, white nose, red lips," said nan, touching with her finger these features of mary lee's. "you fooled me," said jack disgustedly. "i thought she might have lovely stripes or something on her face." "foolish child," returned nan, giving her a squeeze. "we must do something, girls, and look 'how it do rain,' as mitty would say." "can't we have torpedoes or firecrackers or some kind of fireworks?" asked jean. "the gendarmes might come and rush us all off to the police court if we did," jo told her. "they're so terribly particular here in paris, that if a cab or an auto runs over you, you have to pay damages for getting in the way." "thank heaven we're americans," said nan fervently. "i am more eager than ever to flaunt my colors. of all unjust things i ever heard it is to run you down and make you pay for it. they needn't talk to me about their _liberté_, _fraternité_, and _egalité_. i'll give a centime to the first one who thinks a happy thought for celebrating, myself included." jo was the first with a suggestion. "let's have a tea and invite the grown-ups, your mother and miss helen. we might ask that nice miss joyce, too. we can have red, white and blue decorations and dress ourselves in the national colors, and it will be fine." "the centime is yours," cried nan. "you always were a good fellow with ideas, jo. now let's set our wits to work. who dares brave the elements with me? i shall have to go foraging in the neighborhood." "i'll go," cried jack. "i'd love to go foraging," said jean. "if you want any assistance in carrying bundles, i'm your man," said jo. "then you twinnies would better stay at home with mary lee," said nan. "but we do want to go, too," begged the two. "i don't see why you want to get yourselves all drabbled, and very likely you'd take cold," remarked mary lee. "for my part i'd much rather stay in." this quite satisfied jean, but jack still pouted until nan suggested that she help mary lee arrange the room and think up their costumes; then the two oldest girls with umbrellas, rubbers and waterproofs set out. mrs. corner and miss helen had gone to the city to attend to some business at their banker's and would not return till later, therefore, the girls concluded, it would be an excellent time to try their ingenuity; they had been accustomed to do such things before now and their imaginations, never rusty at any time, were in good working order. "i know what i shall do," said mary lee, as soon as the door closed after nan and jo. "i shall sew red stripes on one of my white frocks. i have some turkey red i was going to make into a bag; i'll use that." "what can we do?" queried jean. "we shall have to get the room ready first," mary lee told her, "and then we'll think of our dresses. go into aunt helen's room, jack, and get all the red baedekers you can find, and if you see any blue books, bring them, too. jean, go into all our rooms and bring any red-border towels you see." "what are you going to do with them?" asked jean, pausing at the door. "you'll see. trot along, for we haven't any too much time." jean ran off and presently came back with a lot of towels hanging over her arm. these mary lee disposed over the largest sofa pillow so as to give the effect of a series of red and white stripes, setting a blue covered cushion above the first. when jack returned with the books, which she managed to drop at intervals between the door and the lounge, mary lee made neat piles on the table of the red and blue covered volumes, the white edges giving the required combination of color. "there are a great many more red than blue ones," remarked jack, watching the effect of mary lee's work. "i know what we can do, mary lee, we can cover some of the books. i saw some blue wrapping-paper in aunt helen's room." "a good idea. great head. bring it along, jack." and again jack scampered off to return in a few minutes with the blue paper which mary lee used to cover the books needed. "that does very well," she commented, surveying her work with pleased eyes. "now we'll have to wait till nan comes before we can finish up here. fortunately aunt helen has blue and white tea things, and they will need only to be set on a red covered tray. i won't do that yet before i see what nan and jo bring back with them. now, i'm going to sew the stripes on my skirt. we will see about you chicks when nan comes." she went off bent upon carrying out her design of wearing a red striped frock and blue tie. "i've a lovely idea," jack whispered to her twin. "let's go into mother's room and i'll show you." and the two disappeared closing the door behind them. half an hour later nan and jo returned. mary lee met them, red striped skirt in hand. "well," she exclaimed eagerly, "did you manage to get anything?" "indeed we did," jo replied. "look at these flowers. aren't they just the thing? we found an old woman around the corner with a cart full of flowers and we took our pick." she held up a bunch of red and white carnations with some blue corn-flowers. "perfect," agreed mary lee. "what else did you get?" "some red candies." nan produced them. "we shall put them in that little blue and white japanese dish of mother's. we have a beautiful sugary white cake, and i am going to make a little american flag to stand up in the middle of it. we have some lady-fingers which we shall tie up with red, white and blue ribbons, and with bread and butter i think that will do. my, mary lee! you've done beautifully. it looks fine. who thought of the red baedekers and the blue books?" "i did, or at least jack helped out the idea with the blue paper covers." "where are the kiddies?" "in mother's room getting ready. i've been basting these red stripes on this skirt. i've the last one nearly finished. what are you going to wear, nan?" "i'd copy-cat your red stripes if i had time, but i can cut out some stars and paste them on a blue belt, maybe, and wear a white shirt-waist and a red skirt. jo has a striped red and white waist she can wear with a blue tie. we must hurry up, for time is flying and i have still the flag to make." they skurried around and soon had everything arranged to their taste. "now i'll make the flag," said nan, "though i'll never get as many stars as i need on such a tiny blue ground, for there are such a number of states. perhaps i can find a scrap of that dark blue challis with the tiny white stars on it; that would do very well to paste in one corner." mary lee and jo followed her to the room which the three shared in common. the twins had a little room adjoining and from this issued a murmur of voices. "who has taken my paint box?" cried nan diving down into her trunk. "i've looked everywhere for it. i was sure i left it on this table." "i'll bet that scamp jack has it," declared mary lee. nan opened the door leading to the next room and there beheld the two sitting on the floor, the color box between them. a mug of water stood near. jack had just painted a series of ragged stripes across her white shoes and was regarding this decoration with much complacency. jean was about to emulate her twin by similarly adorning the white stockings upon her slim little legs. she had carefully begun at the very top and had just made her first brush mark. "do you think there should be thirteen stripes?" she was asking jack when nan opened the door. "you wretches!" cried the latter. "what are you doing with my paints?" "we're just fixing up for fourth of july," responded jack thrusting out a brilliantly striped foot for nan's inspection, and in consequence upsetting the mug of water over the color box. "i should think you were just fixing up," returned nan. "just look at my color box. you've nearly used up a whole pan of vermilion, and now look what you have done. get a towel, jean, and sop it up. you've spoiled your shoes, jack. they'll never be fit to wear again." jack looked ruefully at the feet in which she had taken such pride. "mayn't i stripe my stockings, nan?" asked jean looking up from her task of mopping up the water. "no, chickie, i think you'd better not." "but jack has such beautiful stripes," said jean regretfully. "i'll tell you what you can have," said nan. "i've a lot of red ribbons and i'll wind your sweet little pipe-stems with those." jean was so pleased with this idea that she did not mind the aspersions cast upon her slim legs. "that will be lovely," she agreed, "and it will save the trouble of painting. i saw it was going to be crite hard to have exactly thirteen stripes and all the same width." nan picked up the sloppy looking color box. "i've got to make a little flag," she said, "and as soon as that is done i'll get the ribbons for you." she bore off the colors into the next room and proceeded hastily to make her flag, sticking a bit of the starred challis in one corner for the field. when it was completed she looked around for a proper staff, and finally settled on one of her paint brushes whose pointed handle served excellently well to stick in the centre of the cake. having put it in place, nan stood off to see the effect. "it doesn't look quite right," she observed. "what is the matter with it, girls?" "you've made thirteen red stripes instead of having thirteen in all, red and white included," mary lee told her. she was always an exact person. "dear me, that's just the thing," said nan. "why didn't i know enough to do it right?" "never mind," said jo. "nobody will notice it, and i am sure it looks very well. isn't the table lovely? i wish they would come." "oh, but i don't," returned nan. "i've yet to dike, and i promised jean to wind her legs for her. they will look like barbers' poles, but she'll never think of that, so please don't any one suggest it. it is so late i'll have to fling on any red, white and blue doings i can find." "i'll wind the legs," volunteered jo. "i'm all ready as you see, and you've had the most to do." "good for you," responded nan. "i'll get the ribbons." "don't you think," said jo, "that we ought to have speeches or something?" jo was always great at that sort of thing. "it wouldn't be bad." nan was quick to accept the suggestion. "you get up a speech, jo. we'll sing yankee doodle and dixie to comb accompaniments, and i'll recite that poem of emerson's about the firing of the shot heard round the world. what will you do, mary lee?" "i might give a cake-walk," she replied; "that would be truly american." "let's all do a cake-walk," nan suggested. "we have the cake, you see, and you can dance a breakdown, mary lee, and sing a plantation song." "the programme is rolling up splendidly," said jo. "go along, nan, and get dressed. if you stand here talking the guests will be here before you are ready." nan rushed off and, in her usual direct and expeditious manner, soon had herself arrayed. her blue skirt, white shirt-waist and red sash gave the foundation of her costume which was further enlivened by a red, white and blue cockade, made hastily of tissue-paper snatched out of various places. this she wore in her dark hair while she had put on a pair of red stockings with white shoes, the latter made resplendent by huge blue bows. "your get-up is fine," cried jo, regarding her admiringly. "you always outdo every one else, nan, and with the least fussing and the slightest amount of material. here i've taken the trouble to put these white stars on a blue belt, and mary lee has basted all those stripes around her skirt, yet look at you with that dandy little cockade and those fetching blue bows which didn't take you five minutes to make." "there they come," cried mary lee. "start the teakettle, somebody, while i go tell miss joyce. i hope she has not gone out." she rushed off leaving the others to begin the tea-making. on the way from miss joyce's room, where she fortunately found the young lady, nan encountered mrs. corner and miss helen. "happy fourth of july," cried the girl. "get your things off, please, and come right in to tea; it's all ready." "good child," answered miss helen. "we are ready for tea, for we are both tired out. there was so much red tape connected with this morning's business. we'll be right in, nan." "you didn't get wet?" "fortunately we didn't, for we had a cab." "good! then you won't have to change your gowns. don't stop to prink, mother dear, and come as soon as you can." she stopped to snatch a kiss from her mother and hurried back. her costume had indicated that something out of the ordinary was going on, but the grown-ups were not prepared for what met their eyes when they entered the little sitting-room. "well, if this isn't just like you children," exclaimed mrs. corner when she saw the array. "is it just like them?" miss joyce turned with an appreciative smile. "then all i have to say is that you have the dearest children in the world." the entertainment began with jo's patriotic speech which was given while the ladies drank their tea. there were sly hits at the rights and wrongs of foot passengers in paris, references to the difficulties of the french language, to the law forbidding anything to be placed on the window-sills, to the lack of sweet potatoes and green corn, to the small portions of ice-cream served, and the whole oration was full of such humor as brought much laughter and applause. jo was always happiest in such impromptu speeches. next each girl provided with a comb covered with tissue-paper gave a shrill rendering of yankee doodle and dixie, then followed mary lee's breakdown, and next nan's recitation. after this the twins, not to be outdone, sang a ridiculous negro song, patting juba as they did it. the whole performance ended with a cake-walk in which nan and jack surpassed themselves, taking the cake amid much laughter and applause. "i haven't laughed so much for a year," said miss joyce, wiping her eyes. "i must confess to having felt rather blue this gloomy day, but you dear things have driven my homesickness so far away that i don't believe there is any danger of its coming back for a long time, certainly not while you are in the house. how did you think of all this?" "oh, we often do such things on the spur of the moment," nan told her. "it's much more fun than to plan a long time ahead. we never realized what day it was till jo chanced to see an american flag hanging from a window near by. you know down in virginia we don't make much ado over the fourth, but here in paris somehow it seemed quite different, and we suddenly felt wildly patriotic, so we had to let off the steam in some way, and this idea of jo's was very easy to carry out." "it's been an immense success," miss joyce assured her. "the decorations are so original, and such costumes, i don't see how you managed to get them up in such a short time." nan looked down at her flaunting blue bows. "it's nothing when you're used to depending upon whatever comes handy. this blue paper happened to came around a package, and one can pinch up a couple of bows in no time; as for the other things, it just means a little ingenuity. when we were out in california we used to have a different kind of tea every week, and it was lots of fun to think up something new." "we like to encourage our girls to exercise imagination and invention," miss helen remarked. "nowadays when children are not encouraged to read the old-fashioned fairy tales, and have so many toys that they never have a chance to invent any plays for themselves, there is danger of certain fine qualities of mind being left out of the composition of the coming generation." "i quite agree with you," said miss joyce. "creatures of 'fire and dew and spirit' must feed on different mental food from the ordinary, and i'm sure your girls will always possess individuality." "that is what we are aiming for," returned miss helen. jack's intention was so good, that she was spared a scolding on account of the shoes, and the afternoon ended happily though it continued to rain dismally. jack, it may be said in passing, seldom allowed an occasion to go by without getting into some sort of scrape, and that she had done nothing worse than spoil a pair of inexpensive white shoes was really to her credit. jean admired her own red strappings so unreservedly that she continued to wear the decorations till bedtime, while nan's cockade still adorned her head at the dinner table. "we shall pass but one more national holiday over here," she remarked, "and what's the sense of being in a foreign country if you can't remember your own sometimes! to be sure the tri-color is french, too, but it means the united states to us." so ended this fourth of july which was a day long remembered. [illustration: chapter ii the day of bastille] chapter ii the day of bastille madame lemercier smiled indulgently when the afternoon's celebration was described to her. "ah, but you will be here on our great day," she said. "and then, my friends, you will see. paris is gay like that upon our holiday. if you have your forrs july, and your great vashington, we have our fourteen july, our day of bastille. we must zen see ze city, ze illumination, ze dance, ze pyrotechnic at night. you will allow, madame," she turned to mrs. corner, "that your demoiselles have ze freedom not encouraged at ozzer time. ve are a free peoples more as before, upon zat day. each does as he will, but we do not abuse, no, we do not take advantage of ze liberte, for zough we rejoice we do not forget our native politeness. it will be perfectly safe, zough a gentleman escort or two will not be of objection." "what does bastille mean, anyway?" whispered jack to jean as they left the dining-room together. "is it anything like pastilles, those funny sweet-smelling things we had in california? maybe she said pastille, though it sounded more like bas than pas." "i don't know which it was," confessed jean. "i wasn't thinking much about anything she was saying. you'd better ask nan; she'll know." "did madame say bas or pas?" jack put her question. "she said bastille," nan told her, "and it isn't a bit like the pastilles you have in mind. in fact there isn't any more bastille at all. do you remember when we went to mt. vernon that we saw the big key there?" "i believe i do remember something like a big key. what was it the key of? i forget." "the bastille was a great big fortress or castle, and was where they used to imprison nobles and other people who had offended the government or whom the kings wanted to get rid of. it was a very massive and strong place. its walls were ten feet thick, and it had eight great towers. it was a terrible place, and when the revolution began one of the first things the revolutionists wanted to destroy was the great fortress, so they cried, 'down with the bastille!' then they had a tremendous fight over it, for to the mass of people it represented the power of the monarchy, and to the monarchy and the nobles it meant their greatest stronghold. at last the revolutionists got in, and it was destroyed, blown to pieces. the fight took place on the fourteenth of july and that is why they celebrate the day as we do our fourth. it will be good fun to see what they do, i think." "but it is ten days off. what are we going to do till then?" "lawsee, you silly child, there will be plenty to do. we're going to versailles and to st. cloud, to the museé de cluny, to père le chaise, to the louvre, and dozens of other places." "i want to go up the tour eiffel," said jack, who delighted in such performances, the higher up the better. "i suppose you'll not rest till you get there," returned nan laughing. indeed, there was enough to do in the next ten days to keep every one busy, for each had some special wish to be fulfilled and where there were five youngsters to satisfy, there was little danger of time hanging heavily on their hands. mary lee loved the jardin des plantes, jo never tired of the boulevards, and delighted in riding on the tops of the omnibuses. nan reveled in the louvre and the museé de cluny, jean liked the luxembourg gardens, the tuilleries and the river, jack wanted to climb to the top of every accessible steeple and tower in the city. whenever a church was being discussed her first inquiry was always, "has it a tower?" paris was too full of opportunities for jack to miss anything that was in the least feasible, and she was always so innocently unconscious of doing anything out of the way that it was hard to make her realize that she must be censured. as miss helen said, it was all the point of view, and from jack's standpoint, if you did but tell the truth, did no one harm, and pursued what seemed a rational and agreeable course, why stand on the manner of doing it? she and jean were allowed to play in the bois within certain limits, for it was very near to their _pension_, and they could be found readily by one of their elders if they were wanted. "but," said mrs. corner, "you must not go further without some older person with you." this order the children always fulfilled to the letter and mrs. corner felt perfectly safe about them. but one morning, jean chose to go back to the house for something she wanted, and on her return jack was nowhere in sight. jean waited patiently for a while, and then not daring to go beyond bounds, she returned to the house to report. nan immediately left her practicing to go in search of her little sister. she ventured, herself, further than ever before, but after a long and fruitless hunt came back to where jean had been left as sentry, this being the spot where she had parted from her twin. nan was not easily scared about jack, but this time she felt there was cause for anxiety. suppose she had fallen into the lake; suppose she had been beguiled away by some beggar who would strip her of her clothes and hold her for a ransom. nan had heard of such things. "i hate to go back and tell mother," she murmured. jean began to cry. "oh, nan, do you think she could have been run over by an automobile?" she asked. nan shook her head gravely. "i'm sure i don't know, jean. she always manages to turn up all right, and has the most plausible reasons for doing as she does, but this time i cannot imagine where she could have gone. mother and aunt helen are both at home and so are jo and mary lee, so she could not have gone anywhere with one of them." she again looked anxiously up the road. "oh, there she is," suddenly cried jean in joyful tones. "where? where?" cried nan grasping jean's shoulder. "in that cab coming this way. don't you see her?" nan waited till the cab stopped, then she rushed forward to see jack clamber down from the side of the red-faced _cocher_, shake hands with two gaudily dressed women of the bourgeois class, and walk calmly off while the cab drove on. "jack corner!" cried nan, not refraining from giving the child a little shake, "where have you been? do you know you have scared jean and me nearly to death? poor little jean has been crying her eyes out about you." "what for?" asked jack with a look of surprise. "because she was afraid you had been run over or had fallen in the lake. where have you been?" "just taking a ride around," said jack nonchalantly. "you might have known, nan," she went on in a tone of injured innocence, "that i wouldn't go anywhere without an older person when mother said we were not to, and there were three older persons with me." "but didn't you realize that jean wouldn't know where you had gone, and that she would be frightened about you?" "i didn't think we would be gone so long," returned jack. "you see i know the _cocher_ quite well. he has a dear little dog he lets me play with sometimes. aunt helen always tries to have this man when she can, so to-day when he asked me if i didn't want to ride back with him, he was going back to the stand, you see, i said, _oui, monsieur, de tout mon c[oe]ur_, and so i got up. then just as we were going to start those two ladies came along." "ladies!" exclaimed nan contemptuously. "one of them had beautiful feathers in her hat," returned jack defiantly. "well, never mind. go on." "they wanted to take a drive, but they wanted to pay very little for it, and finally the _cocher_ said if i could go, too, he would take them for a franc and a half. so they went and they stopped quite a time; we had to wait, the _cocher_ and i." "where was the place?" "i don't know. it was somewhere that you get things to eat and drink. they didn't ask me to take any of what they were having." "i should hope not. so then you waited, and the _cocher_ brought you back?" jack nodded. "hm, hm. he was going to take the ladies further, so when i saw you and jean i said i would get down, and here i am all safe and sound," she added cheerfully. "you ought to be spanked and put to bed," said nan severely. jack looked at her with wide-eyed reproach. "why, nan," she said, "i didn't do a thing to make you say that. he is a very nice _cocher_; his name is françois, and i am sure i minded mother. it would have been quite different if i had gone off anywhere alone. mother said an older person, and françois is very old; he must be forty." "well," returned nan, "mother will tell you that you are not to go anywhere with strange _cochers_, or strange any other persons, and that will be the last of that sort of performance." jack gave a deep sigh, as of one misunderstood. it was very hard to keep up with the exactions of her family who were continually hedging her about with some new condition. after this the days passed quietly till the fourteenth came around. madame lemercier pronounced the city deserted, while miss joyce declared it might be by parisians, but was taken possession of by american tourists. the corners, however, wondered whether it could be possible that it ever held any more than those who crowded the streets that evening when they all set out to see the sights. along the seine they concluded they would be able to see more than elsewhere, so they made the louvre and the palais royal their destination. the streets were full of a good-natured, jostling throng. every now and then the party would come upon some dancers footing it gaily in some "place" or at some street corner. the cafés were thronged, and there were venders of all sorts driving a thriving trade. from the bridges ascended splendid fireworks which were continually cheered by the gaping spectators. illuminations brightened the entire way. no one forbade joking, singing students to walk abreast so they would take up the entire sidewalk, for no one minded walking around them. "one can scarcely imagine what it must have been during that dreadful reign of terror," said nan to her aunt when they reached the "place de la concorde." "this jolly, contented crowd of people is very different from the bloodthirsty mob that gloried in the guillotine then. just over there the guillotine was set up, wasn't it? and, somewhere near, those horrible fishwives sat knitting and telling of the number of the poor victims. i think this 'place de la concorde' is one of the most splendid spots in paris, but i can never pass it without a shudder." "too much imagination on this occasion, nan," said her aunt. "you must not let your mind dwell upon such things when you are trying to have a good time. one could be miserable anywhere, remembering past history. i am sure to-night doesn't suggest an angry mob. don't let us lose our party. we must keep an eye on them. i thought i saw jack wriggle ahead, through the crowd, by herself." "i'll dash on and get her," said nan, "and stand still till you all come up." she managed to get hold of jack before the child was wholly swallowed up in the crowd, and cautioned her to keep close to the others if she would not lose them. but jack was always resourceful and independent. "it wouldn't make any difference if i did lose you all," she declared. "i could find my way back, and the _concierge_ would let me in." "that cross old creature? i shouldn't like to bother him," returned nan. "he is an old beast." "oh, no, he isn't always. if you call him _monsieur_ often enough he gets quite pleasant," jack assured her. "i'll be bound for you," nan answered. "we must stand here, jack, till the others come up. don't you think it is fun? i can't imagine where so many people came from, all sorts and conditions." "i think it is very nice," returned jack, "but i wish carter were here with his automobile, and i wish he were here anyhow, so he could dance with me. i'd love to go dance out in the street with the rest of the people. won't you come dance with me, nan?" "i'd look pretty, a great long-legged girl like me in a crowd of french '_bonnes_' and '_blanchisseuse_,' wouldn't i? suppose we should be seen by some of our friends, what would they think to see me twirling around in the midst of such a gang as this?" but in spite of this scoffing on nan's part, jack was not easily rid of her desire, and looked with longing eyes upon each company of dancers they passed. nan managed to keep a pretty strict lookout for her little sister, but finally she escaped in an unguarded moment, and was suddenly missed. "she is the most trying child," said mary lee, who had experienced no difficulty in keeping the tractable jean in tow. "jack gets so carried away by things of the moment," said nan, always ready to make excuses for her little sister. "she gets perfectly lost to everything but what is interesting her at the time, and forgets to keep her mind on anything else. i'll go ahead as i did before, and probably i shall find her." but no jack was to be discovered. mary lee scolded, jean began to cry and mrs. corner looked worried. "we can't leave the child by herself in the streets of paris on such a night as this," she said anxiously. "there is no telling what might happen to her." "don't bother, mother dear," said nan. "i'm sure she can't be a great way off. you and some of the others stand here, and i'll go ahead with aunt helen. we'll come back to you in a few minutes." "i verily believe i caught a glimpse of her," suddenly exclaimed jo. "where?" asked nan, craning her neck. "over there where you hear the music." "she's possessed about the dancing in the streets, and very likely she is watching the dancing." they all moved over in the direction from which the music came, and there, sure enough, in the centre of a company of dancers, was jack with a round black-whiskered frenchman, whirling merrily to the strains of a violin. nan and her aunt helen edged their way to the outskirts of the circle of onlookers, and then nan forced herself nearer. "jack," she called. "jack, come right here." jack cast a glance over her shoulder, gave several more twirls, and was finally surrendered to her proper guardians by the rotund frenchman who made a low bow with heels together as he bade adieu to his little partner. "i did it, nan, i did it," announced jack joyfully. "he was a nice man and he called me _la petite americaine_. he has a brother in new york and was so pleased when i told him i had been there. he is a barber and he gave me a flower." she produced a rose proudly. "come right over here to mother," said nan, paying small attention to what jack was saying. "she is worried to death about you." "why?" asked jack in her usual tone of surprise when such a condition of affairs was mentioned. "madame lemercier said on bastille day every one could do just what she wanted, and i am sure i was only doing what dozens and hundreds of other people were doing. what was there wrong about it, aunt helen?" she looked so aggrieved and innocent, that miss helen, between smiles and frowns, could only ejaculate, "oh, jack, jack, there is no doing anything with you." even after she had joined her mother and had been told how alarmed mrs. corner had been, jack could not see the least indiscretion in joining in the dance. "anybody could do it," she said, "and you didn't have to pay a cent." "it is the question of jack's point of view again," said miss helen to mrs. corner. "jack has been told that every one in paris does as he or she chooses upon the fourteenth of july, and why not she with the rest? she could understand nan's not caring to dance because she objected to being conspicuous; as to any other reason, it never entered the child's head." so, as usual, jack got off with a mild reproof, and the party went on their way without further trouble, miss helen and nan keeping jack between them, and nan never letting go for one instant her hold upon jack's arm. to the two youngest of the company there was a great excitement in being up so late in the paris streets, and when they stopped at a café, less crowded than most, and in a quiet street, to have _limonade gaseuze_, their satisfaction was complete. after this there was less sightseeing, for miss helen and mrs. corner had shopping to do, and nan had an object in making the most of her time in paris, as she was anxious to add to her knowledge of french, intending to specialize in languages when she entered college. mary lee, with not so correct an ear, acquired facility less easily, and jo declared that it would be impossible for herself ever to get rid of her american accent. but it was jack who soon picked up a surprising vocabulary which she used to the utmost advantage, jabbering away with whomsoever she came in contact, be it some _cocher_ or the learned professor who sat next her at table, the chambermaids or madame lemercier herself, with whom the girls had lessons. jack had not the least self-consciousness, and never feared ridicule. jean, more timid, would have learned little, if her twin had not urged her to exert herself, forcing her to speak when they encountered some little french girls in the bois. these little girls came every day for an orderly walk with their governess, and for a discreet hour of play. jack liked their looks, and was determined to make their acquaintance. she accordingly smiled most beguilingly upon them but for some time could win no more than shy smiles in return. "i mean to make them speak to me," she told jean. "how are you going to do it?" asked jean. "maybe their governess won't let them speak to strangers. she looks very prim." "i reckon she only looks that way because she is french," returned jack, nothing daunted. "i saw her watch me playing diabolo, and i know she thinks i do it well." "you're awfully stuck up about it," replied jean, herself less expert. "no, i'm not. i can play much better than some of those great big girls, and i know i can, so what is the use of pretending i don't?" however, it was not this which won the response jack hoped for, but it was because chance gave her the opportunity of returning a book which the governess left on a bench one day. jack saw it after the demure little girls had gone, and she pounced upon it, carrying it triumphantly home and presenting it the next day to the owner with a polite little speech. the thanks she received made a sufficient wedge for jack and she was soon talking affably to the little girls as well as to the governess. jack could be the most entertaining of persons, and it was no time before she had an absorbed audience. after this it was a common occurrence for the twins to meet paulette and clemence in the bois, and the little french girls were never refused permission to play with the two americans. [illustration: chapter iii housekeeping] chapter iii housekeeping "it is certainly a question which is hard to settle," said mrs. corner one morning to her sister-in-law. "i've just been talking to madame, and she thinks she must go." "go where? what's a hard question?" asked nan looking up from a page of translating. "i am afraid we shall have to make a change," her mother told her. "madame lemercier has decided that she must close her house for the remainder of the summer and go to her sister who has taken a villa in switzerland, filled it with demoiselles and has now fallen ill." "there are loads and loads of _pensions_," returned nan. "yes, but we want just the right one. this suits us in so many particulars that i am afraid we shall never chance upon its like again. here we have pleasant, airy rooms, an adequate table, and good service. we are near the bois, and the trams, yet we escape the noise of the city. to be sure it would be more convenient to be nearer the shops and some other things, but, take it all in all, i am afraid we are going to find it hard to select. i do so hate to go the rounds; it is so very exhausting." "aunt helen and i will do it. mother must not think of wearing herself out in that way, must she, aunt helen?" "of course not," replied miss helen. "there is one thing you must consider, mary, and that is your health before anything else, and we shall all raise a protest against your doing any tiring thing like hunting up _pensions_." "you make me feel that i am a very worthless, doless creature," returned mrs. corner. "we want to keep you right along with us wherever we are," nan remarked. "i, for one, have no idea of having you rush off to lausanne or some such place and leave us to our own devices here in paris, and that is what it will amount to if you don't take care of yourself." "hear the child," exclaimed mrs. corner. "you would think she was the mother and i the daughter. i dare say you are right, nan, and i meekly accept the situation, in spite of your superior manner." "nan's had so much responsibility with the younger children," put in miss helen, "that it comes quite natural to her to bring any one to task." "was i superior?" asked nan, going over to her mother and caressing her. "i didn't mean to be. you are so precious, you see, that i have to think about what you ought and what you oughtn't to do." "i quite understand, dear child, though it does make me feel ashamed of myself to have to give up my duties." "your duty is to coddle yourself all that is necessary," miss helen told her, "and this matter of changing our _pension_ is to be left to nan and me." "bravo!" cried nan. "when you use that authoritative manner, aunt helen, we all of us have to give in, don't we, mother?" "i know i do," laughed mrs. corner. "how should you like to take a furnished apartment?" asked miss helen after a moment's thought. "i shouldn't be at all surprised but that my friend, miss selby, could tell us of one. you could have a maid who would relieve you of all care, and paris is full of french teachers, so the children could go on with their lessons. we have not much more shopping to do, so you could sit back and rest." "i believe i should like that plan," answered mrs. corner. "it has been so long since we had anything like a home that it would be a very pleasant change." "i think it would be perfectly lovely," declared nan. "i've always longed for an apartment in paris, since i heard miss dolores tell about the way her cousins used to live here. by the way, we ought to be hearing from mr. st. nick. and what about england, aunt helen?" "we'll get this other matter settled first, and then we'll see what is to be done next. your mother declares she wants no more of england after her last rainy, chilly experience there, and i am not sure it would be best for her to venture. she is tired, and i think a rest is desirable for her." mrs. corner had left the room to speak again to madame lemercier. "shall we go at once to see miss selby?" asked nan. "she has such a dear little studio, and has been in paris so long that i am sure she can help us out, aunt helen." "we may as well start at once," agreed miss helen. "go get on your things, and i will be ready in a few minutes." "i was thinking," said nan when she returned, a little later, "that miss joyce might like to come and help to overlook the children, when we older ones are not on hand. she will be adrift after madame goes, and she is not well off, you know. she speaks french like a native, and she might relieve mother of some care. she is fond of the kiddies and if we should happen to take that trip to england, we would feel more comfortable about leaving mother here." "that isn't a bad idea," returned miss helen, "and we may be able to follow it up if the apartment becomes a fixed fact." the two started off, and were gone all morning, not even appearing at the midday meal. early in the afternoon they came back looking rather tired, but triumphant. "we've found it," cried nan; "the dearest place." "what have you found?" asked mary lee, who, with jo and mrs. corner, was in the sitting-room. "haven't you told her, mother?" said nan. "good! then i'll have all the fun of breaking the news. we're going from here. madame lemercier's going. we are all going." "are you trying to conjugate is going?" asked mary lee. "no. wait a minute and i'll tell you. madame lemercier has to close this house because her sister is ill in switzerland. result, the corners are thrown out upon the wide wide world. aunt helen and i have been to see miss selby--you know miss selby, mary lee, the one who has that pretty studio, and is so entertaining--well, my child, listen; she knew of exactly what we want in the apartment-house where she is. another artist has an apartment there, a big one, and he is very eager to rent it because he wants to go to brittany. we looked at it and it will be all right, i think, though it has one bedroom short. however, we can eat in the living-room, and put up a cot in the dining-room for me or somebody. there is a _femme de menage_ who goes with the apartment, and we can rent everything, even the table linen, the huttons say. it's awfully cheap, too." "where is it?" asked mrs. corner. "over in the luxembourg quarter, mother mine, convenient to everything. do let's go." "it sounds all right," said mrs. corner. "what did you think of it, helen?" "it seemed just the thing to me, and we were most lucky to find it, i think. the huttons go out on monday, and we can move right in, bag and baggage, as soon after as we choose. of course it is very artistic with sketches and studies on the walls, but it looked comfortable, and mrs. hutton seems to be a good housekeeper." "it would be better if we could remain this side the river," said mrs. corner doubtfully. "i am afraid it will be rather hot over there." "it is quite near the luxembourg gardens, and i noticed the rooms appeared airy and well ventilated. we are hardly likely to have warmer weather than that of the past week." "true. july is the hottest month. i'll go to-morrow and look at the place, if you can go with me, helen. we may as well settle it at once if it is satisfactory." "i shall be delighted to go with you, my dear," returned miss helen. jo, listening, looked rather subdued and thoughtful. "won't it be fun?" said nan in an aside. "for you, yes." "and why not for miss josephine keyes, pray?" "i shall have to rejoin miss barnes and her girls. you know it was just because we rearranged the schedule so i'd have the chance to stay longer and give more time to french and german, that i was allowed to slip out of the party while they were doing holland and belgium." "but it will be some time before they come to snatch you, and you surely will not desert us." jo brightened visibly. "oh, would you really take me in, too? i thought maybe i would have to do something else; go into a school or something. i'm here for study, you see." "you don't mean to say that you thought we would leave a single lamb to the ravening wolves of paris?" said nan. "i thought better of you, jo." [illustration: nan volunteered to go for supplies.] "but i would be perfectly safe in a convent or somewhere." "_naturellement_, but you don't go there unless you have a distinct yearning to do it. you are in mother's charge and she means to keep you under her eye." "then i must be the one to sleep in the dining-room." "i've staked out that claim myself. you are to room with mary lee; we have settled it all." the visit to the apartment was made by mrs. corner the next day, and resulted as nan hoped it would, so the following monday saw them move in with their belongings. miss joyce, upon being interviewed, was delighted to accept the proposition made her, but as there was not room in the apartment for her, miss selby, across the hall, offered her spare room for the time being, and so miss joyce became one of them, going on with her own studies and assisting the others in theirs. "it is the greatest help in the world to me," she confided to the always sympathetic miss helen, "for i have to pinch and screw to make both ends meet. madame lemercier let me have my little room with her in consideration of my helping her with beginners, and with the prospect of being deprived of that source of supply, i was feeling rather blue, and pictured myself subsisting upon crusts in a garret. you dear people are so intuitive and have come to my rescue in such a sweet way, as if the favor were all on your side." the _femme de menage_ failed to appear at the appointed hour, not quite understanding when she was expected, and nan, who delighted in rising to occasions, volunteered to go forth for supplies. "there is a fascinating market not far off," she said. "we passed it the other day when we were coming here. and as for _crêmeres_ and _boulângeries_, and all those, there is no end to them. i'll interview miss selby and get her to tell me the best places to order regularly. who'll go to market with me?" "i will, i will," came the chorus. "jack spoke first," said nan, "so come on, sinner. don't tell me what to get, mother. if i forget anything i'll go again, or the maid can when she comes. i am just longing for some of the things we can't get at a _pension_ table. i am going to carry a net, just as the working people do. i don't care a snap who sees; it is only for once, anyhow. there is a nice smiling _concierge_ lady down-stairs, very different from that vinegar jug at madame lemercier's. you might give a list of groceries, mother. i am not so well up on those, and i can order them from potin's." she and jack started out gleefully, returning with their supplies after some time. then the three older girls set to work to cook the second breakfast on the gas-range. the kitchen was a tiny one and the three quite filled it, but they managed very well and their efforts were received with great applause. "of all things," cried mrs. corner; "fried eggplant; my favorite dish." "and sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise," said miss helen. "how delicious." "strawberries and cream! strawberries and cream!" sang out jean delightedly. "and actually liver and bacon, a real home dish," said miss joyce. "nan, you are a jewel." "it's the best little market," said nan. "there is everything under the shining sun to be found there. i never saw so many kinds of fruits and vegetables, and they are really very cheap. some of the things, the eggplants, for instance, look different from ours; they are a different shape and much smaller, but i saw most of the vegetables we are used to having at home, except green corn and sweet potatoes. as for the fruits, there are not only the home varieties but others, such as figs and some other queer things i don't know the name of. i bought the most delicious sort of canteloupe for to-morrow's breakfast, but it was more expensive than those we have at home." "i almost wish we were to have no maid," said mrs. corner. nan laughed. "if you could see the array of pots and pans there are to wash you wouldn't wish. i hope marie or hortense or whatever her name may be, will soon appear, for i am tired." she fanned her hot face with a newspaper. "you poor child; you have worked too hard," said her mother sympathetically. "we will have the _concierge_ lady, as you call her, come in and do the dishes. that is one of the advantages of being here; there is never any trouble in getting a person in to do whatever you may wish to have done. this is delicious bread, nan, better than we had at passy." "miss selby told me where to get it. they call these lovely yard long two-inch-diametered sticks, _baguettes_. aren't they nice and crusty?" mrs. corner ate her meal with more relish than she had shown for some time and nan was satisfied that the move was a good one. the maid did not appear till the next morning, so the whole party dined at a queer little restaurant near by, staying to listen to the music and to watch the people come and go. nan prepared the morning coffee which was pronounced the best since the home days, and as the baker had not failed to leave an adequate number of _baguettes_, and the milk and cream were promptly served, there was no need to go forth for the early meal. jack sighed over leaving her friend, the _cocher_, and the two little playmates, clemence and pauline, but she soon became interested in a beautiful cat, called mousse, which lived in the drug store below, and who played a number of clever tricks, these being displayed by his master with great pride. jack discovered, too, that the _concierge_ had a parrot, so the child found her entertainment here as easily as she had done elsewhere. jean was satisfied with dolls and books in any place, and moreover, being very fond of good things, thought the change from madame lemercier's rather frugal table one to be approved. mary lee and jo found plenty to do in watching the life which went on in the streets, while nan liked to go further afield to the market which she declared was as amusing as a farce. "i wish you could see the bartering for a piece of meat," she told the family. "there is one butcher i could watch all day. i never saw such expressive contortions, such gesturings, such rollings of eyes and puffings out of cheeks, and then to see a scrap of a frenchwoman wriggle her fingers contemptuously under his very nose, while he looks fierce enough to bite them off, is as funny a performance as i ever beheld. then after they have squabbled, and shrieked and abused each other long enough they end up with such smiles and polite airs as you never saw. you should hear hortense answer the market people. she always has just the smartest and sauciest things to say, and how they do enjoy that sort of thing. besides the market itself is really a sight to see. even a stall with nothing but artichokes on it will be made attractive by a fringe of ferns, and as to the hand-carts piled with flowers, they ought to be a joy to any artist. i counted twenty different varieties of vegetables to-day, and as many kinds of fruit. we can scarcely do better than that in america at the same time of year. oh, no, i wouldn't miss going to market for anything. i feel so important with hortense walking respectfully behind me, ready with advice and polite attentions." tall, slight, dark-haired nan was nearly sixteen. "my girl is growing up," sighed her mother. "she has the nest-building instinct, helen. we shall not have her as a little girl much longer." "she has still some years left," returned miss helen. "she has many childish ways at times, in spite of her being the eldest, and of having had more responsibility than the others. when she enters college it will be time enough to think that womanhood is not far off." nan, mary lee and jo had just set to work at their french history. nan was discoursing fluently, flourishing her book as she talked. "and here in these very streets it went on," she said. "can you realize, girls? fancy the louvre seeing so many wonderful historical events. it was from there that the order went forth for the massacre of the huguenots on that dreadful night of st. bartholomew, and----" "i don't want to fancy," jo interrupted. "it is bad enough if you don't try to. it's too grewsome, nan, to talk about." "but it impresses it on one so vividly to talk about it, and we shall remember it so much better; besides i like to imagine." "i don't see the good of it when it is all over and gone," said mary lee. "there is no use shedding tears over people who have been dead and in their graves a hundred years. that is just like you, nan, to get all worked up over things that are past and forgotten." "they never will be forgotten," maintained nan, "unless you forget them, which you are very liable to do, if you take no more interest. well, then, if you must be slicked up and smoothed down by something sweet and agreeable, pick it out for yourself; i am going to study to learn and not because i want to feel comfortable." "there's the _facteur_," interrupted jo. "let's see who has letters." she rushed to the door to be the first to receive the postman's sheaf of mail. "one for you, nan," she sang out; "another for mrs. corner; one for me,--that's good,--and actually one for jack. two for you, nan, for here's another." nan had already torn open the envelope of her first letter and was eagerly scanning the contents. "just wait a minute," she said. "this is exciting. please put the other letter somewhere, jo, till i get through with this. oh, i do wonder----" "what is it, nan?" asked mary lee, seeing nan's excitement. "wait one minute. it's----" "you're so exasperating," said mary lee. "you just jerk out a word and then stop without giving a body an inkling of what you mean." "i'll tell you in one minute. i must finish reading." seeing there was no getting at facts till nan had come to the end of her letter, mary lee gave up in despair and went off to deliver the other mail. but before she returned nan had rushed wildly to her mother, and mary lee found the two in lively conversation. "oh, but can't we?" she heard as she opened the door of her mother's room. "can't we? what we?" she asked. "you and i, anyhow," returned nan. "it is a letter from mr. st. nick. he and miss dolores are at san sebastian. tell her, mother. oh, do say we can go." "there, nan, dear, don't be so impatient," returned mrs. corner. "just wait till we can talk it over. it cannot be decided all in one minute, besides, i have not had time to read my own letter yet. i see it is from mr. pinckney, and i have no doubt but that it is upon the same subject." "i wish you would tell me what it is all about," said mary lee despairingly. nan thrust her letter into her sister's hand. "there," she said, "read it for yourself." this mary lee proceeded to do while nan hovered near, trying to gather from her mother's expression what she thought of the proposition which mr. pinckney had made. "it is out of the question for us all to go," said mrs. corner as she laid down her letter. "we have taken this apartment and have made all our arrangements, and to allow even you and mary lee to take that long journey alone is something i could not think of." "oh, mother!" nan's voice expressed bitter disappointment. "if there is any one country above another that i do want to see, it is spain," said mary lee sighing as she handed back the letter she had been reading. "i am sorry, but i don't see how it can be managed," returned mrs. corner. "however, i will talk to your aunt helen about it and----" "if there can be a way managed you'll let us go, won't you?" nan put in impatiently. "if we should happen to find any one going that way who would chaperon us it would be all right, wouldn't it? mr. st. nick said he would meet us anywhere the other side of bordeaux. he suggested biarritz and there must be thousands of people going there." "there may be thousands, and doubtless are, but if we don't know any one of them it would not do any good." "we surely must know one," replied nan still hopeful. "let's go and watch for aunt helen," said mary lee, as eager as nan for once. she adored miss dolores and had looked forward to meeting her with her grandfather, so now to have the opportunity thrown at them, as nan said, and not to be able to take advantage of it seemed a cruel thing. they went back to the living-room to pour out their enthusiasm to jo, who looked a little wistful though she was greatly interested. "i should miss you awfully," she said, "though miss barnes and the other girls will be coming along soon, and i should have to go anyhow, i suppose." "it won't be so very long even if we do go," nan assured her; "not more than a month." "oh, i shall keep busy improving each shining hour," said jo cheerfully, "and it will be so good to have you back again." "that's one way of looking at it," laughed nan. "oh, i do hope we can go." "go where?" asked jack who had just come in. "to spain," nan told her. "mr. st. nick has written to say that he will not take no for an answer. he wanted the whole corner family to come, but mother says it is out of the question, so it has dwindled down to mary lee and i, if any one goes at all. who's your letter from?" "carter." "carter? well, he is nice not to forget us. what does he say?" "read it." jack handed over her letter which nan must have found not only interesting but amusing, as she laughed many times before she had finished reading. "cart is a nice boy," she said as she folded up the sheet. "i shall be glad to see him again." "it will be many a long day before you do," remarked mary lee. "not so long as you think, maybe," returned nan. "he may come abroad in the spring, and says perhaps we can meet in italy if we are there then." "we're pretty sure to be, for we shall not leave munich before march, aunt helen says." "there's aunt helen now," exclaimed jack who was watching from the window. and the appearance of miss corner put an end to all thoughts of carter barnwell for the time being. nan projected herself so suddenly upon the little figure that it staggered under the onslaught. "oh, aunt helen," she cried, "blessed and always helpful godmother, the fairest of fairy godmothers, we do so want to go to spain and you must use your fairy wand to create a chaperon for us. make her out of anything, old rags, toads, anything, anything, so we get her. please do." "what are you talking about, you catapult. you have nearly knocked the breath out of me, you great big newfoundland dog trying to be a terrier pup. you forget i am not your superior in size if i am in years. let me get off my hat and give me breathing space, then tell me what the excitement is." nan released her aunt and allowed her to collect her senses before she told her tale which was listened to attentively. "i'd love to have you go," said miss helen. "of course you would. you are always that sort of dear thing." "but just at present i don't see how it is to be managed. however, i will put on my thinking-cap and perhaps the next twenty-four hours will bring me an idea." "when aunt helen puts on her thinking-cap a thing is as good as done," declared nan to mary lee, and both felt quite sure that the journey to spain would be undertaken. [illustration: chapter iv a glimpse of spain] chapter iv a glimpse of spain sure enough the faith nan had in her aunt was not without foundation, for that very evening miss helen learned from her friend, miss selby, that the next week an acquaintance was going as far as poitiers, and that there would probably be no difficulty in arranging to have her act as chaperon to nan and mary lee as far as that city. "and really," miss selby assured miss corner, "it will be perfectly safe to allow them to go on alone as far as biarritz, for it is not a long journey, and their friend will meet them. they can both speak french fluently enough to get along perfectly, and i have several safe addresses which i can give them in case their train should be delayed, or in case their friend fails to arrive on time. i have an acquaintance at bordeaux and another at biarritz, so in case of delay all they will have to do will be to take a cab to either address. i will give them notes of introduction so they will have no trouble whatever." miss helen was enough of a traveler herself to feel that this would be sufficient precaution, but mrs. corner demurred, and at first could not be persuaded to give her consent to the girls traveling any of the distance alone, but at last she yielded and wrote to mr. pinckney that he might expect her two elder daughters to arrive at biarritz on a certain day, and the two set off in high spirits. "it's such fun to go bobbing along the streets of paris in a cab," said nan, "to take your luggage along with you and not to have to bother about street-cars or anything. i wish we had such nice cheap cab service at home, don't you, aunt helen?" "that is one of the advantages upon which i am afraid i do set a higher value than my friends at home would have me. there are several things on this side the water which i claim are advances upon our system at home, and because i say so my friends often think i am unpatriotic. but never mind. there is the gare d'orsay where we are to find miss cameron. look out for your pocketbook, nan, and be sure not to lose your ticket." miss cameron was found promptly and in a few minutes the girls were established in their train. they were glad to be able to whisper together for miss cameron had a friend who was going as far as orleans, and who shared the compartment with them, therefore, mary lee and nan were not called upon to take part in the conversation. it was still light when they reached the pretty town of poitiers which, set upon a hill, looked picturesque and interesting as the travelers left the train and were borne up a steep incline to their hotel. "it is a perfectly dear place," decided nan enthusiastically. "we must get some post-cards, mary lee, and send them off to mother and the rest of the family." "we mustn't forget poor old jo," said mary lee. "i know she is missing us this blessed minute." "who is jo?" asked miss cameron. "one of our school friends who came over with us. she won the prize of a trip to europe and has been with us right along." nan gave the information. "tell us something about poitiers, miss cameron." there was nothing miss cameron would like better to do. she was a teacher who was spending her vacation abroad and was enjoying it hugely. she was neither young nor beautiful, but had a way with her, nan confided to mary lee, and both girls liked her. "i should like to go to her school," nan said to her sister. "so should i," mary lee whispered in return. so they asked many things about the school which was in washington, and by the time they had learned all they wanted to know, the top of the hill was reached and they turned into a winding street which led to the quiet hotel where they were to stay over night. "when we have had dinner," said miss cameron, "we can go to the parc de blossac where we shall see the people and hear the band. i'd like you to see something of the town before we leave to-morrow. there are two or three nice old churches and the little baptistry of st. jean is said to be the oldest christian edifice still existing in france." "i am sure i shall like to see that," declared nan, who loved things old and romantic. "i like the looks of this place, anyhow," she went on. "it is perched so high and has an interesting air as if it had looked out of its windows and had seen things. then the people are nice, wholesome appearing men and women, quite different from those you see in paris. their faces are more earnest and good, somehow." miss cameron looked pleased. "you are quite a critical observer, nan," she said. "i quite agree with you, for i haven't a doubt but that your impressions are correct. but here we are. we will not make toilettes, but will only brush off the dust and have our dinners." the dining-room was airy and pleasant, and the dinner good; after it was over there was still daylight enough for them to find the way easily to the parc de blossac. they discovered this to be a pretty, restful spot, as they hoped it would be, and the hour they spent there added to their pleasant impression of the little city. they were up betimes the next morning for they wanted to make the most of the few hours they should have. to the consternation of all three it was ascertained that miss cameron, who was going in a different direction, would be obliged to take an earlier train than the girls would. "i am so sorry," she said. "i was sure there would be a train south before so late in the day, but as my friends, who are to meet me, will have to drive some distance, i don't see very well how i can fail to keep my promise of arriving on time." "we shall do very well," nan assured her. "we will ask very particularly before we get on the train if it is the one for biarritz, and there will not be a bit of trouble, i am sure. we have very little luggage, you know." "and i am sure i can see that it gets on all right," said mary lee. "i am so sorry," repeated miss cameron looking quite worried. "it never seemed within the bounds of possibility that there should be no train before that hour. if my friends were near telegraph offices and such things i could wire them, but a french _chateau_ near only to a small village is too unget-at-able for words." the girls continued to protest that they would have no difficulty at all, and finally miss cameron yielded to their protests that she must leave them to take care of themselves, and at last waved them a farewell from her car window. "be sure you send me a card that i may know you have arrived safely," were her last words, and they promised. but it must be confessed that when they faced each other, two strangers far from home and mother, they felt a little sinking at heart. "do you think we need sit here in this station for a mortal hour and a half?" asked mary lee. "couldn't we walk about a little?" "i suppose so," nan responded a little doubtfully, "but we must be sure to come back in time. we've seen the cathedral and the baptistry. we have seen the outside of st. hilaire-le grand, and the inside of st. radegunde and notre-dame la-grande. we have been to the parc de blossac and up and down a number of the streets. i wonder what else there is to see that we could do in an hour." "it is an awful walk up that hill and it is warm." "i should say it was in a noonday sun. we might go a little way very slowly. i have been longing to go up on that nice craggy place and look down. when we get back we will buy some post-cards and send them off; that will pass away the time." they mounted the steep hill for a short distance, stood for a while looking up and looking down, then returned to the station and started toward the little stand where they had seen some post-cards. as nan opened the small bag she carried, she gave an exclamation of dismay. "mary lee," she cried, "have you my pocketbook?" "no," was the answer. "it's gone." nan looked hurriedly through her larger bag which held their toilet articles, mary lee watching her anxiously. "it's gone," she repeated, "clean gone, and there is no time to go back and look for it." "do you think you could have left it at the hotel?" mary lee asked. "we could write and get them to send it if it is found." "no, i am sure it is not there. i had it when we stopped to buy the chocolate. i paid for that, you know. after we left that shop i remember that the catch of my little wrist bag came unfastened; it caught in something. i shut it up without looking, but the pocketbook must have fallen out then, for it was right on top. of course some one picked it up and there is no use hunting for it; we haven't time. thank fortune! the tickets are safe, and the bulletin, or whatever they call it, for the baggage." "had you much money in it?" "about twenty-five francs and some loose change. mother said i'd better not carry more. i have a check which i am to get mr. pinckney to have cashed for us, and if we need more it is to be sent, though mother thought the amount of the check would be ample. how much have you, mary lee?" mary lee opened her purse and counted. "about ten francs and a few centimes." "that ought to take us through, if we don't have any delays or accidents," said nan, though she looked a little worried. "fortunately we have paid our hotel bill here, and we have those notes of introduction that miss selby gave us. i have no doubt but that at one of those places they would cash our check even if mr. pinckney should fail to meet us, so it isn't quite as bad as it might be." she spoke reassuringly, though she was in some doubt about the matter. "i am glad we have that chocolate," she went on. "we won't get the post-cards, for we have already sent one to mother from the hotel. when we get to bordeaux, instead of having a hearty meal, we can get some rolls or something and save the money in case of an emergency." mary lee said nothing, though she felt that nan had been careless. it was very like her not to look in her bag to see if all were safe after it became unfastened. she was always so absorbed in what was going on around her, and had not the exact and precise ways of her younger sister. mary lee would never have budged till she was certain that every article she carried was in place. nan was grateful for her sister's silence, for mary lee was not given to holding her tongue on such occasions. "i think that must be our train," remarked the latter. "i am sure one is coming." she looked sharply to see that the umbrellas and bags were not left, and followed the trunks till she saw them safely on the train, then she climbed into place by nan's side, breathing a sigh of relief. the two girls were silent for some time after the train began to move. they felt rather depressed. all sorts of possibilities loomed up before them. presently nan said, "i wonder if we have to change cars. i saw that this train was marked bordeaux, but i didn't see any biarritz on it." "we'd better ask at the next stop. you do it, nan; you are so much more glib with your french than i am." nan made her inquiry in due course of time and found that the change must be made. "but it is in the same station," she told mary lee, "and our baggage is booked through, so there will be no trouble, the guard says." "i hope it won't be dark when we get to biarritz," said mary lee after a while. "i am afraid it will be, but i am sure mr. st. nick will be on hand. you know miss cameron telegraphed to him as soon as we knew what train we should take. i had no idea that the train would take so many hours, though, and neither did she. however, he will be there all right." but in spite of her show of confidence, the elder girl did have her misgivings, and the two were rather quiet as the daylight faded. they ate their chocolate and rolls pensively, feeling rather ashamed at having so frugal a meal till they saw two of their fellow passengers, well-dressed personages, cheerfully supping upon like fare which they, too, had providently carried with them. "i don't believe it makes a bit of difference about doing such things in france, at least," nan whispered. "you know the french are very frugal, and even well-to-do people practice economies we would never think of." it was dark indeed when they left their train at biarritz and mary lee kept very close to her tall sister as they stood waiting on the platform. "suppose he isn't here," she said tremulously. "then we will take a cab to that address miss selby gave us," said nan bravely, though feeling a sinking of heart as she thought of doing even that. but at that moment a portly form approached and a hearty voice called out, "there you are, you poor little chicks. i _am_ glad to see you." "you aren't half as glad to see us as we are to see you," returned mary lee fervently. "your train was an hour late," mr. pinckney told them; "but what can you expect in this country?" he added. "oh, they are never late in ours, are they?" laughed nan. "it is good to see you, mr. st. nick. when i beheld your dear big round self coming toward us i could have shouted with joy, for we were feeling a little bit scared." "tut, tut, how was that? you don't mean to say you came from paris alone?" "oh, no, mother would never have allowed that, and she would never have allowed us to venture anyhow, if she had known how things really did turn out." she gave him an account of their journey ending with the tale of her lost pocketbook. "and so, you see," she said, "we were a little bit afraid we might not have enough to get through on, and we hated to go to a strange _pension_ and not have enough money to pay our way." "too bad, too bad," said mr. pinckney. "i ought to have come all the way to get you." "but that wasn't necessary," nan told him, "and it is all over now. it was only a scare and not a real danger, you see, for we had a most quiet and uneventful journey from poitiers. an infant in arms could have taken it with perfect propriety." "especially if it had been in arms," put in mary lee. "that sounds just like miss propriety, prunes and prisms," said mr. pinckney. "well, my dears, your rooms are all ready, and you have nothing more to bother about from this time on." "and is miss dolores with you?" asked mary lee. "left her at san sebastian. it is nothing of a run there, you know. you will see her to-morrow." after this there was no more trouble, and the girls gave themselves up to listening to the plans made for their pleasure. they were too tired to lie awake long, but they awoke in the morning full of enthusiasm, ready to enjoy the dainty breakfast prepared for them and served in loveliest of gardens. mr. pinckney would not hurry them away before they had seen the beautiful coast of the famous watering-place, and insisted upon their having a little drive around before their train should leave. "and this is where the young king of spain used to come to see the queen when she was princess ena," nan told mary lee. "i wish they were here now," returned mary lee. "you may have a chance to see them before you leave spain," mr. pinckney told her, "for they travel about a good deal." "before we leave spain! doesn't that sound fascinating?" cried mary lee. "what! you think it will be fascinating to leave us?" said mr. pinckney in pretended surprise. "oh, dear, it did sound so. no, indeed. i never want to be long away from you and dear miss dolores, mr. st. nick," mary lee hastened to say. "that sounds more like it," he answered. "are we going to stay right in san sebastian?" asked nan. "for only a few days, then we are going further up the coast. oh, you will like it, you two. it is real typical spanish life that you will see and such scenery! well, of course, we are not backward in boasting of our own scenery, but we can't match these spaniards. they are the most frankly self-appreciative people i ever saw. talk about american self-esteem, it is nowhere. you'd think there was never a mountain, a river, a valley, a field, a church or a house, a man, woman, or even a donkey that quite came up to those on spanish soil. it is amusing, generally speaking, and i suppose it is what they mean by spanish pride, but i get a trifle tired sometimes of the everlasting bombast, and have to do a little boasting on my own account that they may understand they have a few half-way decent things on the other side of the water. i like them, too. hospitable, just like you virginians. kind-hearted, courteous--again like you people from the old dominion. all dolores' kith and kin are prepared to take you in and give you as good a time as can be had. there is nothing they won't do for you, and do it gladly." it was when they had arrived at san sebastian that they first realized that they were really in spain. "see that dear donkey with panniers at his sides," said mary lee. "and that queer ox-cart," continued nan; "no, it is cow-carts they have in spain. don't they look like pictures of the old roman carts?" "they are practically the same," mr. pinckney told her. "you will find that spain retains many ancient methods and customs." "and there is a woman wearing a mantilla, the first we have seen," nan went on. "now, i know we are in spain. what a beautiful blue, blue sea, and how gay it looks on the esplanade, do they call it? oh, mr. st. nick, it is a beautiful place. i am glad we are to be here for a few days." miss dolores came running to meet them, and bore them away to their room next to hers in the pleasant hotel where they were to stop. and then began the happiest of times, for if they were not driving around the pretty town, they were walking on the esplanade watching the crowds of people from everywhere, or they sat on the piazza and saw the gaily dressed guests come and go. so passed the rest of the week, and then they left this favorite spanish watering-place to go to a less well-known, but no less interesting spot further along the coast. there was wonderful scenery to be seen from the car windows the entire way; great mountains towered above them, picturesque villages lay in valleys below. corn-fields either side the road reminded them of their own virginia. "it does me good to look at them," declared nan. "i'd almost believe myself near my own home if i didn't see a donkey or a cow-cart every little while." "do you see that gray building perched away up there?" mr. pinckney directed her attention to a monastery crowning a hill. "that was built in the tenth century. it is nearly a thousand years old." "dear, dear, how very young i feel," laughed nan. "it makes me feel very young myself," declared mr. pinckney. "i am a mere infant compared to this old civilization." "there's the sea, the sea! and the mountains go almost down to meet it," cried nan. "this surely is grand scenery; i don't wonder they boast of it. now, it is like waltzing with willy; we go round, around, around. ah, we are going up again. there is another tunnel ahead. we stop at bilbao to-night, you said. what is it like?" "a nice clean little commercial city. nothing very remarkable to see there, but it is pleasant and cheerful as well as comfortable, a well-ordered town. you will notice all the spanish features there; cow-carts and donkeys, women carrying trays of fish or bread on their heads. sometimes there will be a pair of wooden shoes on top of the fish and an umbrella on top of the shoes. everything is carried up there, it seems, and they walk along quite unconsciously. our rooms look out on the arenal, so you will have a chance to see the street life of the cities before we go off into the provincial districts." they reached bilbao by dark, but from their windows they could look down upon the brightly lighted streets, could hear the band play in the little park opposite, and could realize that they were really in the land of don quixote. the next afternoon found them arrived in a pretty little village nestled at the foot of the mountains. the great house into which they were ushered was called the _palacio_, and was centuries old. a high wall surrounded the garden where flowers blossomed the year round. the bare floors were of oaken planks hewn by hand. outside the windows the balconies bore hanging vines or boxes of pinks, the spaniard's favorite flower. in the _patio_ pigeons strutted about, the little house dog rested in the shade of the orange trees, and a thrush sang sweetly from its cage hung in the doorway. "it is something like california," whispered mary lee to her sister. "of course," returned nan. "california was spanish not so many years ago." it was but a few minutes before a girl a little older than nan came down to meet them. "e ahm glahd to zee you," she said smiling and putting out her hand. miss dolores laughed. "mercedes has been practicing that sentence for days. it is the only english she knows. this is my cousin, mercedes cabrales," she went on, "and these," she spoke in spanish, "are my friends, nan and mary lee corner. you must all call each other by your first name; we do so in spain." mercedes led the way up the front stairs and took the girls into a lofty room, rather scantily furnished but comfortable. there she left them with a parting nod and smile. nan went to the window. "i see mountains everywhere," she said, "and the sea is just over that hill, mr. st. nick says. that dismal creak is not the hum of a large variety of mosquito, mary lee, but it is a cow-cart. in these country places they wouldn't do away with the creak for anything because otherwise how would they know when to wait on the widest part of a narrow road till the cart coming in the opposite direction had passed? isn't it all queer and different from anywhere else? there are two parrots next door; i hear them, and that must be a chapel where the little bell is hanging in the belfry. i love these balconies. the big ones are _gallerias_ and the little ones _miradores_. there are lovely gardens behind all those stone walls, and the roads lead on up, up the mountains. mr. st. nick has been telling me all about it." and then miss dolores tapped at the door and they all went down to meet doña teresa and her son don antonio. [illustration: chapter v a fiesta] chapter v a fiesta although mercedes could not speak english she knew french very well, and therefore through this medium the girls were able to become well acquainted. they found this new friend a simple-hearted, gentle spanish girl with an eager mind, and such accomplishments as gave a denial to the impression that spanish girls must not be expected to be in the least intellectual. she and her sister had a french governess for several years and were to have an english one the following year. "so," said mercedes, "the next time you come i shall speak to you in english." "it makes me quite ashamed of myself to hear how well she speaks french," said nan, "and to know that she expects to master english and german, to say nothing of italian. i feel now that i must work harder than ever at languages. what stupid things we are compared to her. she speaks french like a native, is quite at home with italian, and has a reading knowledge of german. when shall i know so much as all that? don't you like her, mary lee? she has such lovely dark eyes and such pretty soft hair, then she is so ready to do things for you and to think of things to please you." "i think she is a dear," agreed mary lee. "i am wild to see her in her _aldeana_ costume. she is to wear it to-morrow, and she is teaching me the _jota_. we must both learn it, nan, and you must get the music for it. it would be fun to have costumes and do the dance when we go home." "that would be great," declared nan. "i wonder why they call them _aldeana_ costumes?" "oh, don't you know? _aldeana_ simply means peasant, or as we would say, country costumes. i asked miss dolores. mercedes will wear the peasant costume of this part of asturias, you see." "i understand. there come two of those funny squeaking cow-carts. what a noise they make. i am glad it is the haying season, for i think those carts piled up with hay and led by a tall man or a peasant woman carrying a long pole across the shoulders are such picturesque things." "everything is picturesque," agreed mary lee. "i love those dear little soft-nosed burros, only i wish the people treated them better. i saw a girl on one this morning. she was making it go very fast, and i wondered why it was going at such a gait till i saw she was sticking a long pin into it every few steps." "they are cruel to the donkeys," acknowledged nan, "but i think they are very good to the other animals. the poor burros get the worst of it, and seem to be creatures made only for ridicule and abuse. oh, mary lee, i do believe that is a band of gipsies coming, real spanish gipsies. aren't they interesting? i suppose they are coming for the _fiesta_. look at those two children with scarcely a rag on. did you ever see such wild-looking, impish little things? and the man with the velveteen coat and red sash, do see his big _sombrero_. i hope we shall see them again." she turned from the window to greet mercedes who came in to bid them come down to the _patio_ to practice the _jota_. her pretty peasant dress was all ready for the morning, for it was quite the thing for others than the mere peasants to adopt the local dress on such occasions. she would wear a short red skirt with bands of black velvet around it, and smocked at the belt. her brocade bodice trimmed with jet would partly cover her white chemisette. around her neck she would wear a long chain with a handsome old reliquary attached to it. very long filagree earrings would be fastened upon her ears, and upon her head she would wear a gay silk handkerchief tied in a peculiar way. a fancy apron of yellow silk completed the costume. miss dolores had consented to wear a _manta de manila_ or soft shawl wound gracefully around her, and in her hair a red _clavel_. "you, too, must wear a _clavel_," said mercedes, "for you are to dance the _jota_, and if you will, you can also wear _mantas de manila_. you shall have antonio for a partner and when not him, i will dance with you." the little village where the _fiesta_ was to take place was but a short distance away. the entire cabrales family, which included doña teresa, her son antonio, mercedes and the two younger daughters, maria isabel and consuelo, went with their guests, so theirs was quite a large party which arrived in front of the old church in time to hear the rocket-bombs, and to see the great _ramas_, or pyramids of bread, carried inside. then all entered the ancient, low-arched edifice, where glimmering candles at the altar gave the only light. upon the bare floor were many kneeling figures of women wearing black _mantillas_. the men occupied the gallery above the rear of the church, or stood at the back near the door. "isn't it solemn?" whispered nan to her sister. just then with the chanting of the priests was mingled the song of a canary, then another chirped up, and a third joined in, so that all through the service the little songsters did their part. "you will see the _danza prima_ here," miss dolores had told them. "it is the most ancient and primitive of the spanish religious dances. it can hardly be called a dance, in fact. and the _ramas_? they are huge pyramids on which are hung circular loaves of bread, and which are adorned with flowers and branches of green; that is why they are called _ramas_. they indicate the fruits of the harvest." so when the moment came for the young men of the village to bear forth the _ramas_, the girls watched eagerly to see the body of maidens, in _aldeana_ dress, taking a peculiar step backward, always backward, and beating their tambourines and drums while they sang a monotonous chant. the figure of the virgin, in dazzling array, preceded the _ramas_, and as the procession issued into the open air again the rocket-bombs went up again. women carrying tall lighted candles brought up the rear of the procession which moved around the church. the _ramas_ were set up again outside while the virgin was carried back to her shrine and then the real _fiesta_ began. "almost all the _fiestas_ have some special feature, some religious dance to distinguish them from one another," miss dolores told the girls. "at llanes they have a very old dance called the _danza peregrino_, or dance of the pilgrims which is supposed to date back, no one knows how many centuries, to the days of the pilgrims, and the cockle-shells and staves are still conspicuous in the dress the children wear when they give the dance. at ribadasella they have a procession of boats upon the water, which is quite pretty." "i'd like to see that," said nan. "perhaps we shall be able to. now, we will wander about a while to see the people and the booths before the dancing begins." "why, it's just like a fair," remarked mary lee. and indeed, to see the stands where cakes, beer and wine were offered for sale, to see the women squatting on the ground in front of baskets of nuts or fruit, to see the merry-go-round and the merry crowd made one think that it might be anything but a religious occasion. "the dancing has begun," cried mercedes. "you must come." she urged the girls forward to where upon the grass two lines had formed, the men opposite the girls. a man with a violin and a woman with a drum were beginning the music of the _jota_, and presently nan found herself opposite don antonio while mary lee had mercedes for her _vis-à-vis_. don antonio was a tall, serious-looking lad of nineteen, but when with arms aloft, he snapped his fingers, and took graceful steps, he seemed quite a different person from the grave young man who had ventured but a few remarks to the american girls. nan soon caught the spirit of the dance, while mary lee, under the teaching of mercedes, was presently snapping her fingers and taking her steps with the best. it was energetic exercise and they were rather tired when the last notes of the _jota_ ended. "now let us go and have some cider and cakes," proposed mercedes. "cider? do you have cider here?" asked nan. "oh, yes," was the reply. "in asturias we raise many apples, and cider is a favorite drink. i see antonio has supplied us with cakes. we will go over there under the trees and have our feast and then we will walk down by the sea." "i am so glad to see so many in peasant dress. why don't the men wear it?" mary lee put the question. "so few young men are here. most of them have gone away and will come back _americanos_ when they have made money." [illustration: mary lee was snapping her fingers and taking her steps.] "_americanos?_" "yes. they go to buenos ayres, to mexico, to venezuela, and when they come back they do not wear any more the _aldeana_ dress, and they are always called _americanos_." "and what are we?" nan put the question, a little puzzled to know how she and her sister would be distinguished. if they were not americans what could they be? "oh, you are _inglesas_," mercedes told her. "because we speak english, i suppose." nan was not quite sure that she liked this method of classification. "oh, yes, that is why, certainly," returned mercedes. "see there is a man over there wearing the asturian cap, the old man with a long peaked cap which hangs down one side." "and so you don't call us _americanos_," mary lee returned to the subject, after looking at the man with the peaked cap. mercedes smiled and shook her head. "i always forget there is any america but the united states," said mary lee, "but of course south americans have just as much right to be called so as we have. dear me, do see that poor deformed creature, and there is another." she stood appalled and again mercedes smiled. "they always come to the _fiestas_, and they are not so deformed as they appear though they must be truly so, and must show that they are else they might be taken for impostors." she stopped to give each of the supplicants a copper coin. "the big coppers are _perronos_ or the big dogs," she explained, "the little ones, _perrinas_, or little dogs," and each of the corner girls took a _perrono_ from her purse to put into the outstretched hands. "ah, there are the gallegos; you will like them." and mercedes hurried them forward to join a crowd gathered around two women, one with a guitar, the other with a tambourine. they were saucy, mirthful looking creatures who turned knowing eyes upon the strangers and after whispering to one or two of the nearest bystanders, broke forth into a fresh song which caused much amusement. "what are they saying?" asked nan, as she saw all eyes turned in her direction. mercedes laughed. "they are singing about you. they say you are like a _clavel_ with your pink cheeks, and that mary lee is a golden bird. they say you should be in the queen's court and that your husbands will be sure to occupy high places." "oh, dear!" nan looked this way and that, feeling very conscious, to the delight of the audience. to be made the subject of improvisation seemed to the girls a very unusual experience, but presently they realized that it was a very common thing here in spain, that it was meant as a compliment, so when the tambourine was passed around each girl dropped in her offering and the gallegos smilingly started in a new direction. more dancing and more feasting. the grass was trodden into the dust; the piles of cakes were perceptibly diminished; more people were arriving. the train brought numbers from the nearest towns and villages; carriages drove up with occupants dressed in their best. there were two sets of couples for the next _jota_ in which even small children in the _aldeana_ dress joined, all being perfectly familiar with the step. an andalusian with a sweet worn voice trolled out his ballads in a minor key at one end of the grounds; at the other end a blind violinist drew his bow raspingly and in cracked tones sang a wild asturian melody. the lame beggars hopped hither and thither, the paralyzed ones crawled nearer, the maimed accosted each newcomer. soon the bright daylight began to fade. long shadows crept across the grass, the ancient church, ten centuries old, grew grayer in the failing light. "one more look at the sea and then we go," said mercedes. so they wandered down to the rocky shore where great crags rose on every side. beyond these sparkled the cantabrian sea which, softening the air, made it possible for chestnuts and orange trees, palms and apple trees, to live in neighborly fashion. "we have flowers in our garden the year around," mercedes told them, "and even when there is snow on the mountains it is not so very cold here." "i know it is perfectly beautiful now," responded nan. "august and no great heat, the sea so near and no sharp winds. it is perfect. the kind of weather that is just right, and that you don't have to think about one way or the other." "what wonderful caves there seem to be about here," said mary lee looking off toward the rocks. "there are a great many, and the old folks tell you that they are inhabited by fairy folk, the _inxanos_, we call them, tiny little people who live underground and build these rocky houses for themselves." "oh, i'd love to hear about them." the subject appealed to nan's fancy. "do people really think there are such fairies?" "some of the peasants do, and they have great tales to tell. then there are the _xanos_ who are water fairies and live in the streams and fountains. you must see the great caves near our village. i will take you to them to-morrow. we must go up the mountain, too, and there is a place not so very far away, from which you can see a great distance. we shall drive home to-day and you can see the peaks of europe, our highest peaks anywhere about." the corners never did forget the drive home over the best of hard roads, above mountain streams and green valleys, the great peaks of europe glistening far off, and the nearer mountains bathed in sunset glory. they encountered a band of gipsies with their donkeys, traveling along the white road which wound around a high hill, and these seemed more than ever picturesque, the orange and red of their costumes showing vividly against the gray background of rock. there were more _fiestas_ after this, but none that gave the girls greater enjoyment. they saw later the quaint little town of ribadasella decked in the spanish colors, and they enjoyed the procession of blossom-adorned boats when santa marina took place. they saw, too, the feast of "our lady of the hay" when the great hay harvest was over and honor was done to the virgin of a little chapel in the woods. there was a long day spent at llanes which was very gay upon this feast of san roque. it ended with a dance which kept up till very late. to this the girls did not go, though, at different times during the night, they heard revelers returning home. mary lee and nan had picked up a little spanish when they were in california, and now continued to add constantly to their stock of words. in consequence they were soon able to carry on conversations, haltingly, to be sure, with doña teresa and don antonio, and managed to understand something of what was said to them. "i wish you had been here for our day of san juan," mercedes said to them. "what did you do then?" asked mary lee. "we had a _fiesta_ at the house of our good doctor whose name is juan. as it was his feast day we went very early to hang garlands about the gateway and the windows. we set up a tree in his _patio_, and many persons from far and near brought presents to him. he provided cakes and other things for the feast and we danced till dark in front of the house. from all the neighboring villages the young people came dancing the dance of san juan all the way, singing as they came. it was very pretty." "oh, what awfully nice things you do here," said nan. "i think it is lovely to celebrate days like that." mercedes nodded. "yes, we think it is. we enjoy our _fiestas_ and we have many of them. if you were to be here you would see. i think you should stay a year that you might understand what goes on at every season. could you not stay a year?" "dear me!" nan smiled. "what a darling thing you are, mercedes. we'd love to stay but we must study. we go to germany in the fall." "oh, you could study here with the english governess and you could learn spanish. would it not do as well as german?" nan gave her a hug. "i should love to do it, but we must do as our mother says." "of course. i understand that, but i should like you to stay and so would mother, my brother also." "it is perfectly lovely for you to say so, but i suppose we must be thankful to have as much as a month here, and as we speak french all the time i am losing none of my knowledge of that language, while i am also learning a little spanish. i hope some day you will come to our country and then you will visit us in our home." "i should like much to do that. my cousin dolores says i shall come if my mother permits, and my mother says when i have learned to speak english it will be time enough to talk of going, so i shall work very hard, and when you see me in your country i shall be saying more than 'e ahm very glad to zee you.'" she laughed merrily. "you will come, of course you will. i shall speak often to miss dolores about it so she will remember to write to your mother so often that she will not forget about it." "we shall have to do all we can to have you see our asturias, as much as is possible, while you are here for this short month." and with this intention to be carried out it was to be expected that the days did not hang heavily. if there was not a _fiesta_ or a _feria_ there was an excursion to the seashore, or to some neighboring town; there was maybe a fishing party or a long drive to some mountain village, and the longer they stayed the more attached did the girls become to sweet mercedes, and the more interesting did they find the beautiful province of asturias. [illustration: chapter vi spanish hospitality] chapter vi spanish hospitality the great caves which stood each side the little beach to which the girls often went were remarkable for more than one reason. they served as bath houses, they were unique in construction and they suggested tales of folk-lore in which nan delighted. through one of these caverns, as through an arched passage, one could go to get a better view of the stretch of sea beyond, while from the rocky hill above a still better view was to be had. the way to the sea was rather rough, and only the younger ones of the household cared to travel it often. mr. pinckney declared it was too great an effort for his portly person, and doña teresa said it was out of the question for her to attempt it, so often but the three girls, nan, mary lee and mercedes, would find their way there. they must first pass through one of the winding streets, or roads, of the little village, then over a stony way leading past the small chapel of nuestra señora del henar, in the woods, and on through shady paths till the sea was at hand. a daily dip in the salt water was desirable, however, for miss dolores who was not very strong, and therefore one morning the family was surprised by the arrival of a stout little donkey and cart which mr. pinckney explained he had bought for the use of the family. so in the jouncing, bouncing cart thereafter the four went, the little donkey not seeming to mind the load in the least. often, nevertheless, nan or mary lee would insist upon getting out and walking up-hill to spare master neddy, as they called him. it goes without saying that the lines of this special donkey fell in pleasant places when mr. pinckney became his purchaser. in spite of the donkey, the girls often preferred to take long walks, sometimes stopping at the house of a peasant to see something quaint and old of which mercedes had told them. "would you like to see an old, a very old loom, and some one weaving linen?" she asked one day. "we should be delighted," responded nan. "then we will go. it is not far and perhaps my cousin dolores would like also to go. the old woman i know well, and she will be pleased to welcome us. the house, too, is old, oh, so old, i do not know how many years, hundreds, i think, and i am sure you will like to see it." so the four started off up the long white _carretera_, passing on the way first a creaking cow-cart loaded with hay, then a _viajante_ in his wagon lolling back and singing a strange song ending in a weird note, next a little shepherdess tending her two sheep which cropped the herbage at the side of the road, then an old woman bending under a mass of hay so great that the wizened face and bright eyes could scarcely be discerned. all these gave a cheerful "_adios_" or "_buenas tardes_" as they passed. as the girls turned off the _carretera_ and entered a narrow winding road, mercedes said, "i want you to see the little chapel of nuestra señora de soledad. it is such a quiet little spot where it is. when i am sad or unhappy i go there, for it seems as if it were nearer heaven than some other places." she led the way to where the tiny chapel stood at the meeting of two paths. truly "our lady of solitude" could have no more fitting title. the rustling of leaves on the great trees, the murmur of a little stream, the song of a bird, the occasional creaking of a distant cow-cart were the only sounds heard. the girls stepped up on the small porch, without which is never a church or chapel in spain, and looked in through the iron grating at the unpretentious little figure in her shrine, then they sat down on the porch to rest. "how still it is," whispered mary lee to miss dolores. "i wonder how long the 'lady of solitude' has been here." "many, many years, no doubt. the chapel is very old, as you see. many of these small churches and chapels were demolished, or at least abused by the french in , but this one has evidently escaped. it is charming. i think i shall make a sketch of it for my cousin teresa. she will like it, for she has known and loved it always." they left the little chapel and mounted higher, then making another turn they came to an old gray house set in a _patio_. there was an entrance to the lower floor from below, but a long flight of crooked stone steps led up outside to the upper floor. a great tree overshadowed the house; under it some white hens were picking around industriously. above, in the small windows, were set boxes of pinks and geraniums--no house so poor but had its _clavel_. mercedes mounted the crooked steps, the others waiting below till an answer to the knock should come. "manuela is in," mercedes announced. "will you come up or will you wait till she comes down to open the lower door? the loom is below." miss dolores decided that they would wait, although nan and mary lee were hoping they could see the inside of the old stone house. "perhaps we can go later," whispered mary lee to her sister. mercedes joined them, saying, "you will find it very dark and dingy, but clean." here manuela opened the door and they stepped into a room whose blackened rafters were very near their heads. the earthen floor was beaten down hard by the tread of those who had gone in and out for centuries. a tiny window gave the only light, and under this was set the great unwieldy loom which manuela started going. the clumsy shuttle clacked noisily as the weaving proceeded. a pile of coarse linen lay near; it was such as the peasants had for household use, and was literal homespun. manuela, though quite overpowered by the sight of these strange visitors, was, nevertheless, dignified and gracious, and at mercedes' suggestion offered to show the rest of the house. up through the narrowest of crooked stairs they groped their way to the kitchen, a dark little place, but clean and orderly. there was no stove in the great fireplace but only a stone platform which the girls decided looked like an ancient altar, for it was on the top of this the fire was kindled. in this primitive way all the cooking was done, and so it was in most houses, even in those of the well-to-do. a shining array of copper and brass utensils hung near the fireplace, and some old blue and white plates stood a-row on a shelf. in the next room there was but little furniture; a bed, a settle, an old chest, a small mirror, a picture of "our lady of covadonga," a few gaudily colored prints of various saints. though the rooms seemed small and dark they were tidy and manuela, in her black frock and with black handkerchief tied over her head, was not an inartistic figure in the midst of the setting. she offered them flowers, a pink _clavel_ and geranium to each, and they took their leave. as they passed out of the _patio_ two women, bent under their loads of hay, came through the gateway to deposit their burdens in the loft back of the kitchen. "now," said mercedes, "if you can stand the walk, i should like to show you my favorite view. it is a long climb, cousin dolores, but antonio said he would meet us with the cart at the foot of the last hill and he will help you up to the top." with this prospect miss dolores decided to undertake the walk. it was a long one, but it was worth the effort to see from the top of the high hill seven villages nestled at the foot of the mountains on one side, and a semicircle of sea on the other. "i never beheld anything more glorious," cried nan enthusiastically. "we have, of course, some greater and more magnificent scenery on our pacific coast, but this is unique. to see half the world mountains and half sea from the top of a hill not a mile from home is not vouchsafed everybody." "i knew you would like," said mercedes well pleased. "i think there is no finer view in all asturias." at the foot of the hill they found neddy and the cart, and went home joyously, taking turns in the cart to spare neddy. it was rather late when they passed by the _plaza_ in the centre of the village, and here they saw that something was going on, for a man was setting up two poles, and some paraphernalia near by suggested that he had intentions in other directions. "a _comedia_!" cried antonio. nan looked at mercedes questioningly. "a _comedia_, a little drama on the _plaza_ to-night. we must all come to it, all of us." "is there a tent, or what?" "it is in the open air. these are strolling players." nan marveled, but was very curious and eager to see the performance. supper was always a late meal, sometimes it was not served before ten o'clock, but there was always a _merienda_, chocolate, tea or coffee at five, so one did not mind. this evening the meal was hurried a little so it was over by nine, yet even then the play had not begun, though the performers were drumming up custom, as the roll of the drum proclaimed some time before the party reached the spot. this kept up for another half an hour, the crowd gathering slowly. but at last a ring was formed around the centre of the _plaza_, some brought chairs, others sat on the steps of surrounding houses, some squatted on the ground, some stood up. in all the windows and balconies overlooking the spot, spectators were gathered. the two american girls were perhaps the most eager ones in the audience, for this was a rare treat to them, and they were curious enough to see the performance begin. it seemed long delayed, but at last two men came out and did some acrobatic feats; these were followed by a little play of which nan and mary lee understood very little. then a small girl and a tiny boy walked a tight rope. next came a mock bull-fight in which the tiny boy took the part of a _toreador_, and ran so precipitately from the pretended bull at each onslaught that he brought forth shouts of laughter. at last the mock bull amiably presented himself to be killed and the victorious _toreador_ retired amid great applause. "that is the only bull-fight i want to see," whispered mary lee to nan. "but i am glad to know how they do it. nobody was hurt and the youngster was too funny for words." the next act on the programme was a pretty dance given by the little girl, after which came a second farce in which a donkey appeared, and then the hat was passed around. mr. pinckney declared that a _peseta_ apiece was none too much for such a novel performance, and thereupon dropped a gold piece into the hat to the surprise and joy of the actors. "you have seen real old-time play-acting," he told the corners. "it is the primitive method of performing dramas. so shakespeare gave his plays, and so the old spanish dramatists, lope de vega and calderon, saw theirs played." "it was great fun," the girls declared, "and we shall not forget it in a hurry." "what a country of surprises it is," said nan. "it isn't a bit like any other, and i am so glad we could come." the crowd had dispersed, seeming actually to melt away, so quickly the _plaza_ was deserted by all but two or three persons. among these was the little girl who had taken part in the show. it seemed to be a family affair in which mamma beat the drum, papa and another younger man took the principal parts, and the children fitted in wherever a place could be made for them. nan stood watching the child, who, with a candle, was searching for something. "what have you lost?" asked nan in her best spanish. "my slippers," said the child, and nan could see that she had been crying. "she has lost her slippers," said nan to mercedes. "let us help her look for them. i wonder if that is why she has been crying." mercedes put some questions. "it is not that," she told nan, "but she had to walk the tight rope, which is really a wire, without them, and it cut her poor little feet badly." "dear me!" nan was all sympathy and rushed off to tell the tale to mr. pinckney, who, as usual, was moved to a better condition by a poultice of money. he slipped a gold piece into the child's hand and she went off happily, since she had now more than enough to make good the loss of the slippers. "rather an expensive performance for you, grandfather," said miss dolores smiling. "not so very," he replied, "when you consider what we pay for opera in new york, and this was much more of a novelty." "that is just like you, mr. st. nick," said mary lee. "you play santa claus all the year round." the time flew by till there were but three days left. one of these was given to covadonga which all were eager to see. "i love the story of pelayo," miss dolores told the girls. "who was pelayo, anyhow?" asked mary lee. "he was the son of favila, a goth of royal lineage. he commanded the body-guard of witiza, and his enthusiasm and influence roused his compatriots to fight. the different tribes by this time, the fair goths, the iberians of lofty stature, as well as the descendants of the romans, had become asturians all and made common cause against the arabs. in those long ago days, when the moors were trying to become victors all over spain, the asturian mountains became the refuge of the tribes who united against the moors. they were headed by pelayo. the berbers sent al-kaman to vanquish these spirited and defiant people. pelayo drew them into the great gorges at covadonga and there they were slain by thousands. pelayo was then made king by his victorious people. this was in , and so you see asturias was the cradle of the spanish monarchy. you must see the cave where pelayo and his followers took refuge, and if you could stay till the early part of next month you would be here when the great pilgrimage takes place. the figure of our 'lady of covadonga' is much venerated." "i have seen a number of pictures of it in the houses of the people here," said mary lee. "i should like to read about pelayo," said nan. "is there anything special that tells of him?" "there is a wild poem and many legends. you can see pelayo's tomb and that of alfonso i and his queen when you go to covadonga. there is much romantic history of this part of spain." "i would love to read it all," nan declared, "and when i get a chance i am going to study spanish so as to get hold of what i should like to know. one hears much more about granada and andalusia, but i am glad we came here first." the trip to covadonga was the last one undertaken, and then the girls set out upon their return trip which mr. pinckney and miss dolores were to take with them, going on from paris to switzerland. mercedes actually shed tears at the thought of parting from her new friends, and the reserved don antonio looked very solemn. he presented each of the girls with a huge bouquet of flowers, while doña teresa gave them a box of chocolate and a bottle of _anisado_, the latter as a remedy against any ills which might befall digestion during the journey. the two younger girls, maria isabel and consuelo, gathered ripe figs from their own tree to present to the travelers, and would have added more flowers to those the girls already had, but were told by mercedes that no more could be carried. mercedes bestowed her favorite antique reliquary upon her cousin dolores, gave mary lee a tiny silver cross with a figure of san roque upon it, while nan received a tambourine. mercedes would have given them her entire _aldeana_ costume as well, if they had not protested that they would not be able to pack so much in their trunks. "i have always heard," said nan to her sister, "that you have but to admire anything in spain, be it great or small, to have it offered to you, though one must not accept it." "i am sure that mercedes was quite sincere in wanting us to accept her dress," returned mary lee. "i am sure she was, and i think the people usually are. i never saw such generosity as they all show, from the peasants up. i am sure i know exactly how the dresses are made, and we have the photographs of mercedes in hers to remind us, so i think we shall have no trouble if we ever want to make them for ourselves." "and perhaps mercedes will come over to see her cousin. we must be sure to make her have a good time, nan." "indeed we will do that. isn't it nice to have a spanish girl friend? won't the girls at home be interested when we tell them about her?" "they will think we are great on having unusual friends," said mary lee. "you remember how excited they were over daniella at school last year." "indeed i do. how long ago that seems, and how much we have seen since then." "and how much more we shall see before we get back." "so far i like spain best," decided nan. "i, too," returned mary lee. back again they traveled, leaving behind the creaking cow-carts, the panniered donkeys, the towering mountains, the blue sea, and above all the warm-hearted spanish family with whom their month's stay had been all too short. "we shall never forget you," nan assured mercedes, "and some day we shall meet again; i am sure of it." mercedes, with swimming eyes, declared she hoped so, and the whole family having gone to the train with their guests, they waved farewells from the platform of the station, the last thing they saw being neddy's gray ears as mercedes and maria isabel drove him around the corner. "some day," remarked mary lee, as she settled back in her seat, "i mean to come back to spain. i shall take that nice little house that mercedes told me could be rented for forty dollars a year, for then i shall be old enough to keep house. i shall hire a servant for two dollars a month and i shall live on figs and chestnuts." miss dolores laughed. "you would certainly need many doses of _anisado_ if you were to do that," she said. "for all there is so much corn in this part of the country," remarked nan, "we didn't see any of our old home corn bread." "no, and you never would see. the meal used by the peasants is poor stuff compared to ours," mr. pinckney told her. "they make it into a thick solid mass which is as unappetizing as it is unwholesome. look over there, nan; there is that old monastery you are so fond of, and the church attached to it. pretty soon mary lee will see the town where her san roque was honored in _fiesta_." "that was a great _fiesta_," said nan reminiscently. "how jack would have enjoyed those funny fire balloons they sent up, the pigs and such things, the _perigrinos_, too." "and those great giant figures dancing the _jota_ all the time the procession was moving," said mary lee. "there was nothing very solemn about it, as there was at celorio," nan went on. "to be sure, san roque had a very serious expression, but everything and everybody else were as gay as larks." with such chat they beguiled their way till night brought them again to bilbao and the next afternoon saw them leaving san sebastian and saying farewell to spain. "_adios, españa!_" cried nan. "you may say _adios_, if you choose," said mary lee, "but i shall say only _hasta mañana_; for i mean to come back." miss dolores smiled down at her, for she well knew that part of this enthusiasm for spain was due to mary lee's love for this señiorita for whom she had always held a worshipful feeling. there was no stop this time on the french side of the line, for they took the express to paris and arrived there after a heavy rain when the french girls with their high heels and fluffy skirts were daintily stepping across the puddles, and before the hour when the students of the latin quarter were ready to go forth to the restaurants and cafés for the evening meal. a quick drive from the railway station and the girls were again under their mother's wing, eager to tell of their adventures in spain. [illustration: chapter vii across the channel] chapter vii across the channel "there doesn't seem to be anything to do but to bob about from place to place," said miss helen a few days after the girls had returned from spain, "and as long as we are all over here together we may as well make the most of our opportunities, for once you girls are in college there is no knowing what we may have to do. now, i vote for england for the next move, and, jo keyes, i appoint myself a committee of one to invite you to go along." "me?" jo jumped to her feet. though miss barnes was now in paris with her party of girls, jo had not failed to be on hand when nan and mary lee returned. "yes," miss helen responded, "you are here for study, and surely nothing will give you a better groundwork for your english literature than a flight to england. i am sure miss barnes will not object to your spreading out your prize a little thinner so it will last longer, for i promise you shall be at no great expense. miss barnes will so soon be returning, that i have not the least doubt but that she will consent to your remaining in our company if i talk the matter over with her. you remember that she does not take her party anywhere except on the continent, and this chance for seeing england is one i know she will not want you to miss." "how good you are, miss helen," jo answered heartily. "i should so love to go." "perhaps you can go to munich with us, too," said mary lee. "i don't see why you shouldn't go along; as you have been allowed to leave miss barnes' party, anyhow, and have been with us most of the time, why not keep right on? i am sure it would be cheaper than going back to the wadsworth school. i hope you have written about it to your father, so you won't have to go back when miss barnes does. you know we talked it over before we went to spain." "yes, i have written all that you have said, and i am expecting an answer any day, for if i do stay with you miss barnes must know, otherwise, i shall have to be ready to take passage when she does. i really have great hopes, though i am deadly afraid to talk about them for fear they will not be gratified." "when do we start for england, aunt helen?" asked nan. "let me see. the huttons are coming back next week so we shall have to give up the apartment then." "it doesn't seem possible that we have had it two months," remarked nan. "that is because you were not here during a whole month of our stay. i think we may as well start off at once, so as not to have to make two removes. we shall want to get to munich as near the first of october as we can, so you girls may arrange for school work as promptly as possible. "what do you say, mary?" she turned to mrs. corner who had been listening, but had taken no part in the conversation. "i know you are rather afraid of the english climate, and i don't wonder, but september will not be as dubious as april, i am sure. often the weather then is the very loveliest. will you go with us, or shall we leave you and the twinnies here?" "oh, oh!" came mournful wails of protest from the twins. "don't leave us behind, aunt helen." "if you get tired," went on miss helen, still addressing mrs. corner, "we can leave you with one or two of your brood in some quiet place while we make short migrations." "you put it so alluringly," said mrs. corner, "that i would be very ungracious if i didn't fall in with your plan. i think i can stand it for a short time, for i could rush down to torquay, or some such place if it turned suddenly chilly. i have a weakness for tagging along with these girls, strange as my taste might appear to outsiders. i think they should see london, and since you agree to leave me behind whenever the energies of the party become too much for my powers, i agree to go." "good! good!" cried the twins. "then since we are all agreed," said miss helen, "we may as well make out our line of march. nan, just hand me my baedekers, those two on great britain and london." nan hastened to obey. "i always get so excited when it comes to the point of making out the route," she said. "what do you propose, aunt helen?" "i thought it would be rather fun to let each one choose the place she wants most to see, and if her reason is good and sufficient, and the place is within a reasonable route we'll take it in." "that's a fine plan," declared nan. "who's to begin?" "your mother, i think." all eyes were turned on mrs. corner. "i vote for canterbury," she said. "we crossed from dieppe last time and did not take it in. there are three interests for me there: first, the cathedral, second, the huguenot church in the crypt, and third, the association with the canterbury pilgrims." "good child," cried miss helen. "go up head. your reasons are excellent. moreover, if we cross from calais to dover we shall be exactly on the line to london when we take in canterbury. by all means canterbury, and incidentally dover, which has a wonderfully fine old castle. now you, nan." "no, you, aunt helen." "then i choose oxford which is always interesting to me and will be to you. so far it stands dover, canterbury, london, oxford. what next? your turn, nan." "i'd love the lake district above all things, if it is within the limits. you know i made a special study of that region last year when i was getting up my theme. i should so like to see that little dove cottage where wordsworth and his sister dorothy lived, and there are dozens of spots that the poems refer to that i should love to see. next to the lakes i should like the lorna doone country." "we certainly must manage one of them, the lakes if it is possible, for yours is a most worthy reason. now, jo, you have the next say." "stratford-on-avon is mine, please. i don't think i have to give any reason for wanting to go to the shakespeare country." "no, it is quite obvious. it works up beautifully, for it is not far from oxford. now, mary lee, what do you choose?" "if you say oxford i will take cambridge, though london is what i most want to see, so leave out cambridge if it is an out-of-the-way place. i am crazy to see the zoo in london, and after that anything will suit me." miss helen smiled. mary lee's fondness for animals was always evident. "you shall certainly see the zoo," her aunt told her, "and when we get to london we will follow the same plan of choosing what we like best; then every one will be suited. we may have to leave out cambridge, but we shall see later. what is your choice, jack?" jack had been thinking very hard. "i'd like to see the white peacock on that castle wall," she said. "rather vague," nan murmured to her mother. "what castle, chickadee? where did you hear about white peacocks?" "mr. st. nick told me. he saw them." "oh, i know; she means warwick, aunt helen. i remember that mr. st. nick and miss dolores were there. isn't it warwick, jack?" "i think so." "that will not be out of our way at all," said miss helen. "we can include that in our shakespeare country, for it is practically the same. now, jean." this young person's desires were divided between a wish to eat clotted cream in devonshire and to see southdown lambs which would grow up to be sheep. the good things of life were generally uppermost in jean's mind. she had read of clotted cream in one of her favorite story-books, and had heard mr. st. nick discourse upon the southdowns. "what a choice," cried the others. "well," began jean in an aggrieved voice, "i'm sure everybody feels crite as i do, only they don't say so." "i think there will be no difficulty about indulging your yearning for clotted cream in london," her aunt told her. "as for the southdowns, we can perhaps come back by way of new haven and dieppe when you will be able to see the southdowns of sussex, so probably both your desires can be fulfilled." "i wish i had made two wishes," said jack regretfully. it was always a grievance when one twin had anything the other did not. "suppose you were to make another, what would it be?" asked her aunt. jack considered. "i think," she decided, "i should like to see the moping owl." "you ridiculous child," cried mary lee, "to go to england to see owls and peacocks that you can see any time at home." "well, i never did see a white peacock nor a moping owl," said jack, "and i'm sure you want to go to the zoo yourself. i've seen hooty owls, but not the moping kind. uncle landy showed me a hooty owl that used to live in our barn and catch mice." "have you an idea what she is talking about?" jo asked nan. "of course i have," returned nan, putting her arm around her little sister. "i remember the creature that unc' landy used to call a hooty owl, and jack has heard me repeat gray's elegy too often for me not to know about the moping one. i'm afraid, dearie," she turned to jack, "that you wouldn't see the moping owl if you went to--what is the name of the place, aunt helen, stoke poges? thank you. i don't know how long owls live but i fancy that special owl must have died years ago; if not, he must be ready now to drop off with old age, so he couldn't possibly fly to the 'ivied tower.'" "we can take a day for windsor castle and stoke poges, perhaps," said miss helen, "even though we can't be sure of the owl. let us see how our itinerary reads now. from calais to dover, to canterbury, to london, to oxford, to cambridge--that means retracing our steps a little if we go to the latter." "oh, but you know i gave up cambridge," said mary lee. "i really am not so very keen about it; i'd rather see oxford, anyhow." "how very english that keen sounds," laughed nan. "i know where you picked that up; from those english girls we met at madame lemercier's." "now let me see what we can do," said miss helen still absorbed in her plans. "we shall probably have to leave out cambridge, for it is a pretty long list to cover in so short a time. we will say oxford, stratford-on-avon and warwick. we will try for the lakes and let jean eat her clotted cream in london, so that will leave out devonshire, and if we come back by way of dieppe we shall sail from newhaven and that will give us a glimpse of sussex. that will be the better way and i think we can do it all without too great a rush. now, off with you, and begin to pack up." the girls scudded to their different rooms, and began to chatter over the new plans. "i wish we could go to scotland," said nan, "but we are trying to do a great deal in a very short time, which mother thinks is always a mistake. you see we gave up so much time to spain that we have very little left for england, but i am awfully glad you are to have a whack at it, jo." "it is beyond my wildest hopes, for i thought france and germany would be my limit. it is all due to that blessed aunt of yours. i believe half the reason she suggested the trip was on my account." "don't you believe it. she thinks it will be great for us all, though i know she included you when she first thought of the advantage of it. once we settle down in munich there will be five solid months of german." "and that is no cinch," declared jo. "it is a fearsome language," agreed nan, "though they do say ours is about as hard. i don't believe that, however, for i am sure getting the pronunciation of english is much easier than to conquer that fearful german grammar; ours is mere child's play compared to it. you are not going to take all those things, are you, jo? we shall be gone only a month, and the bulk of our luggage will be left in storage here for us to pick up on our way back." "who's getting english expressions now?" queried mary lee from the depth of a trunk. "why don't you say baggage?" "because they won't know what i mean in england. i say but we'll have a lot of boxes, shan't we?" she went on with a strong english accent. "my word, but i'm a silly ass to think i can get all this in one box. how is that, jo? shall i be taken for an english girl, do you think? there, i believe i have chosen judiciously. i must go and ask mother. perhaps she will think i shall not need that extra frock." another week saw the travelers on their way. after a short crossing from calais, which every one dreaded, but which no one minded in the least, they set foot on the pier at dover. "if any one mentions the white cliffs of dover to me," said miss helen at starting, "i'll cut out her special choice of places from the trip." and in merry defiance the girls skirted the subject, saying everything but the exact words, till miss helen threatened to abandon them at the first stopping-place. mrs. corner declined the steep walk to the castle, but the girls were all eager to take it, and were not disappointed in what the place had to offer. nan's romantic soul delighted in the banquet hall, the little gallery where the minstrels used to sit and the small room where the ladies retired apart. "i can fancy it all," said the girl. "never have i had those old times brought before me so vividly." "old times," said mary lee. "this isn't nearly so old as things we saw in spain." "but i don't read spanish romances and i do read english ones," retorted nan. the magnificent array of armor greatly interested jo, who examined coats of mail, helmets and shields to her heart's content. jack was awe-stricken by the well three hundred feet deep, but jean was most interested in the birds outside the castle and the flowers in the crannied wall. the way to canterbury was short and here they arrived before night, to be established in a quaint little hotel but a stone's throw from the great cathedral. "i am glad the town still looks so old," said nan. "one doesn't need so much imagination to fancy the pilgrims, and as for the cathedral,--well,--words fail." a daily visit to the cathedral seemed a necessity to them all. they would wander around the beautiful close, admiring this fine ruin, that old porch until it was time for afternoon service when all would go to spend an hour in the beautiful interior while the service went on. it was on one of these occasions that jack was found to be missing. "she was here a minute ago," said nan. "you all go in and i will try to hunt her up. very likely she is watching the rooks; she is crazy about them." but search as she would no jack did she find, and finally decided to join the others in the church. she had scarcely seated herself, when, looking across to the seats in the choir, she saw jack smiling from the archbishop's pew, quite happily settled by no less personage than the gracious wife of the archbishop himself. "how did you dare to go there?" asked nan severely when she encountered her waiting at one of the great doors after service. "a lady invited me," said jack coolly, not at all appreciating the fact that she had been in the seats of the mighty. "i was standing in the doorway looking around for you all, and that nice pleasant lady came along and asked if i were alone. i said yes, but that i was looking for my family. where do strangers sit? i said, and she told me to come with her, so i went." "she was the archbishop's wife," nan told her, "and you have been quite honored. i suppose you were out watching the rooks and that was why we couldn't find you." "yes, and i am glad i was, for i wouldn't have sat in the archbishop's pew if i had gone in with you," returned jack complacently. she always comforted herself by deriving such benefit as she could from any of her escapades, and if truth must be told she usually did come off with flying colors. mrs. corner, who was interested in getting some records for a friend at home, determined upon a visit to the pastor of the huguenot church, and took mary lee with her as the others had planned to go to st. martin's. "you can tell us about your visit and we will tell you about ours," said mary lee to the others. "time is too short for everybody to do everything." "it was fine," cried nan when she met mary lee later in the day. "he is the dearest man," responded mary lee, "and he told us such interesting things, how queen elizabeth let the huguenot refugees have their services in the crypt of the cathedral, and how there have been uninterrupted services held there ever since. there used to be a great many huguenots in canterbury, and there are still a number of french names, though a great many have become anglicized. baker used to be boulanger, and white used to be blanc. now the congregation is very small, and there is very little money to pay the minister, but he is full of faith, and is so enthusiastic and simple-hearted. he believes that everything will come out all right. just think, nan, if it were not for him the services would have to stop, and after all these years it would be a shame. if i were very rich i would send him a big fat check, for i don't know any one who would use it more unselfishly. he lives in the tiniest little house, and 'does for himself' as they say in england. he had been working in his garden when we got there, and apologized for his appearance, but i just loved his simple ways, and--oh dear----" she paused to take breath. "go on," said nan. "i am tremendously interested." "he is so dear," continued mary lee, "and brought out some of the very old books he has, for as he said, 'i will show you the so many interesting things that i have.' he left his parish in canada to come over here to take up this work because there was no one else who would do it, and he is so eager for the honor of this early church. he doesn't seem to care at all about himself. he ought to have a nice big rectory instead of that box of a house, and he believes that some day he will have, if it is best, but he thinks more of its being a dishonor to the church than of his own discomfort to live as he does. we are all going to the service in the crypt to-morrow afternoon. do you know who beza was? we are going to hear some of the old hymns that are in the old beza hymn-book, and they will sing them just as their fore-fathers did, the pastor promised us." "good!" cried nan. "i want to go, too. we haven't had a bad time, either, mary lee. you know st. martin's was a christian church before saxon days and before st. augustine came to great britain. it was fixed up as a chapel for queen bertha; she was the wife of ethelbert. we saw the old font where he was baptized. there are some curious slits in the thick walls, and they are called 'leper's squints,' for you see the lepers couldn't go inside but stood outside and peeped in. the verger saw we were more interested than most visitors are and he told us a lot. he showed us where the old wall began and where the authentic roman bricks are. there is a beautiful view of the town and the cathedral from the churchyard. i brought you an ivy-leaf that had fallen from the vine over the church, and we got some post-cards and a little pamphlet on our way home. aunt helen says it is called the mother church of england, and that though at glastonbury abbey the church had its actual beginnings, that it is now in ruins. i should love to go to glastonbury, but i am afraid we cannot do it on this trip." "you know aunt helen has promised that some time we shall come over and spend a whole summer in england, and then we can go." "i'd like to spend weeks in canterbury, and come to know every brick and stone by heart. aunt helen and i are making a list of the places we love best and, as you say, some day we are coming back and we mean to stay a long time in each of those places we do love. at least that is what we say we will do, and it is nice to think that we may." "hasn't it been an interesting day? i never expected to get so enthusiastic, but somehow that dear french pastor stirred me up so i couldn't help being wild about everything he was interested in." "only one more day and then london," said nan, half regretfully. "that will be fascinating enough, dear knows. who could have believed it, nan, when you were playing your tunes on a log for a make-believe piano and i was running around with phil, that in a couple of years we should be flying all over europe." nan looked thoughtful. those days did seem very far distant now, yet they were dear days, and even with lack of means they had enjoyed life in that old virginia home. "shall we ever be content to settle down again, i wonder?" she said. "there is still so much ahead; school, college, and then----" "the then is a long way off still," said mary lee laughing. "i don't believe we need to bother about it yet." "sensible as ever, mary lee," said nan with an answering laugh. [illustration: chapter viii in london town] chapter viii in london town the bells were ringing out the noon hour when the corners arrived in london, yet it seemed a quiet and dignified place after paris. miss helen had chosen a neat little hotel for their stopping-place to which they drove directly. the party had amused themselves during the journey from canterbury by choosing what they most wanted to see. mrs. corner selected westminster abbey, nan the national gallery, jo the british museum, mary lee the zoo, jack the tower, and jean kensington gardens. "gracious! but there is a lot to see," jo remarked as she turned over the leaves of a copy of baedeker's london. "it would take weeks to do it all, and i suppose the longer you stay the more you find to see; that's the way it generally is." "it is particularly so with london," miss helen acknowledged. "we shall have time only to skim off the cream this trip, but we can see the most important things." it was jo, perhaps, who was most impressed by westminster abbey. many of the things and places in europe were but words to her for she had "scrambled up" as she said, and the time she had passed at miss barnes' school had been her only opportunity for real culture, but she was so bright and wide-awake, so eager to absorb information that miss helen congratulated herself that she had asked the western girl to join the party. "i can't realize it," whispered jo, after standing a few moments in mute awe before the monuments in the poet's corner. "of course i knew there was a westminster abbey, but i hadn't an idea what it was like. now, i shall never forget. it seems a stupendous thought that all this great number of celebrities should be buried here, and that you have them all in a bunch before you, so to speak. i feel now as if they had really lived and not as if they were names at the end of poems." the visit to the abbey took up most of the morning, but as mrs. corner was tired, and the twins soon wearied of looking at pictures, it was decided that miss helen should take the three elder girls only to the national gallery while the others returned to the hotel. nan would fain have gone at once to the pictures and could scarcely be dragged away to the nearest restaurant for a hasty lunch. bath buns and crumpets were ordered, the girls saying that these things were so often mentioned in stories of english life, but when jo asked for lemonade she was told there was none, but she could have a "lemon squash" which proved to be the same thing. "i shall soon catch on to the englishisms," said jo, "and you will hear me asking for a grilled bone and skittles and winkles with a lot of other queer things before i leave here." "i like the national gallery much better than the louvre," decided nan, as, foot-weary, miss helen declared they must not try to see more that day. "we can come back," she said, "for it is a remarkably choice collection. there are so many of the best examples of the best artists that one gets an idea of nearly every school of painting through many of the world's famous pictures here." "i am going to begin a collection of photographs and things like that for a sort of history of art," nan decided. "it will be a lovely way to study, and there are so many good reproductions one can get." "that is an excellent idea," agreed miss helen, "and i am sure miss barnes would greatly approve of your spending some of your prize money in that way." [illustration: jo managed to get next to the driver.] "what shall you buy with the rest of it, nan?" asked jo. "i haven't quite decided, but i think i shall spend it all in books and pictures. don't you think, aunt helen, it would be nice to buy books at the places associated with the authors? for example i could get a set of shakespeare at stratford-on-avon, wordsworth in grasmere, gray at stoke poges, and so on. you see then they would serve a double purpose." "i think it would be an admirable plan," said miss helen, "and just the kind of thing you will enjoy, nan. don't spend more than half your money in england, however, for you will see things in germany and italy that you will want, not to mention paris." "i think i will make my fullest collection of rossetti, for you know he was the subject of my theme that won the prize." "that would be quite right and proper, and you will find some charming pictures here." "don't you think we shall have time for the portrait gallery to-day?" asked nan wistfully. "surely not to-day, dear. there is nothing more wearying than picture galleries, delightful as they are. you will have mental indigestion if you try anything more. perhaps you and i can slip off sometimes and come here while the others are doing things we don't care so much about." "i'd like to see the zoo well enough, but i would much rather see pictures." "then we might let the rest go to the zoo while you and i do pictures all day. there are the wallace collection and the tate gallery still to see." "oh, aunt helen, do you think we shall be able to see both as well as the portrait gallery?" "we can go to at least one of them, i think. they are some distance apart so we cannot attempt them both in one day. to-morrow we have decided to go to the tower, and as we shall then not be so very far from st. paul's we must see that. perhaps day after to-morrow will give us a chance for one or another of the galleries." nan gave her aunt's arm a squeeze; the two were walking ahead of mary lee and jo. aunt helen was always so ready to respond to nan's desires, for they were great chums. they waited for a 'bus which would take them to their hotel, all clambering on top that they might better see the life of the london streets. jo managed to get next to the driver and extracted a deal of information at the expense of a threepenny tip. in consequence the way was made so intensely interesting that they were carried beyond their destination, and walked back chattering like magpies. they found jean complacent at having tasted clotted cream, and jack in the dumps because she could not go out into the nearest square. "it is the stupidest old place i ever saw," she complained. "they lock their gates and won't let you in unless you have a key. at home and in paris all the squares are free. stingy old english! they keep their gardens all walled up, too, so you can't get so much as a peep at them. they are just the meanest people i ever saw." "there are plenty of places that are free," nan tried to console her by saying. "where?" asked jack. "oh, hampstead heath, kensington gardens and hyde park," said nan. jack whispered the names to herself as she stood looking out of the window. "nan," she said presently, "won't you go with me to hyde park or somewhere? it is horrid to stay in the house." "dear chickabiddy, i am so tired. i didn't realize how tired i was till i reached home. i have been on my feet the entire day. perhaps some other time we can go." "is it very far?" asked jack. "not so very, but it is far for a tired body like me to go there to-day." jack was silent a few moments. "london is an awfully big place, isn't it?" she said presently. "the biggest city in the world." "would you be afraid we'd get lost if we went alone?" "well, i don't know. i would carry a map, and if we did stray into unknown regions, i'd ask a bobby to set us right." "what is a bobby?" "a policeman. they have such nice, big, kind policemen here; they are always so ready to help one." jack made no comment and presently left the room. "where is jack?" asked mrs. corner as they were about to go to dinner. no one knew. nan had been the one who saw her last. "she wanted me to go to hyde park with her," she told her mother, "but i said i was too tired." "do you suppose the little monkey could have gone off by herself?" asked mary lee. "i am sure i don't know. i verily believe that is what she has done, the minx!" exclaimed nan. "she asked me whether i would be afraid of getting lost in such a big city, and i very innocently told her i would trust a policeman to set me right, so no doubt she has serenely gone off to follow out my suggestion." mrs. corner looked alarmed. "that child alone in this great city! almost anything could happen to her." "trust jack," said nan. "she will come out of it all right. see if she doesn't." and true enough they had not sat down to the table before jack appeared jubilant. she had found her way to hyde park, had been greatly entertained by watching the people, and had been piloted home by a series of bobbies who proved very acceptable company. "one of them has a little girl just my age though she's 'arf an 'ead taller, he told me," jack informed her family, "and she knows this part of london like a book." "jack," said her mother, "if you are going to keep on doing things of this kind i shall not have an easy moment. some dreadful thing might have happened to you. have you forgotten what i told you when you went off with the _cocher_ in paris?" "no, i didn't forget, but that was paris, and you never said i mustn't go here where every one speaks english. i sat quite still after i got to the park," jack went on in an injured tone. "i didn't run about a bit, and there were bobbies with me all the way back." "nevertheless, i cannot allow you to rush off by yourself. you have often been told that you must never go without some older person." "the bobbies were much older," argued jack plaintively. "i did remember that you had said that, mother, and i didn't ask any children, only the bobbies." "jack, you are perfectly incorrigible," returned her mother. "please to remember that hereafter, in whatever place we may be, that you must always come to me to ask permission before going anywhere at all. if you disobey this order i shall have to send you to a school where they will be very strict with you." jack sighed and looked much aggrieved. as usual her point of view seemed a very reasonable one to her, and she could not understand why she should be dealt with so hardly when her intentions had been good. she kept very close to the party the next day, however, and lagged behind only once. nan ran back to see her standing gazing curiously at one of the beef-eaters, stationed at the point from which they had just made their exit. "do come on, jack," said nan. "what are you loitering here for?" "i wish you all wouldn't be in such a hurry, nan," said jack. "i was just going to ask the beef-eater whether he liked beefsteak or roast beef best, and whether he eats anything but beef." "you are such a goose, jack," laughed nan, and hurried her little sister along to where the others were waiting to go to the white tower. "now that we have seen the place where so many sad scenes in english history took place, i think it would be an excellent plan for us all to lunch at crosby hall," said miss helen as they came away from the tower. "what is crosby hall?" asked jo. "it is a famous old building which, i am sorry to say, they threaten to pull down, so this will probably be our last chance of seeing it," miss helen answered. "it was built in ." "before america was discovered," ejaculated jo. "yes, and it was considered the finest house in london at that time. it was once occupied by the duke of gloucester before he became richard iii, and no doubt he hatched many of his plots under its roof; it was very convenient to the tower, you will see." "where is it?" nan asked. "on threadneedle street or bishopsgate within, i am not quite sure which, but we shall soon see." "what dear quaint names," said nan. "i love these funny old streets." "tell us some more about crosby hall, aunt helen," said mary lee. "it has had a variety of experiences," miss helen went on. "for after being a private residence it became a prison, then it was turned into a meeting-house, later into a warehouse, next into a concert hall. now it is a restaurant and a very good one. i think you all will enjoy a meal in the hall where shakespeare was sometimes a guest. he mentions the place in his richard iii." "it is an awfully nice surprise to spring on us, miss helen," said jo. "i think it will be great to go there." "what are we going to have for lunch?" asked jean. and every one laughed. "i think for one thing we must have some chops, such as one can get only in england," her aunt told her. "there is a fine grill at crosby hall where they cook a chop to perfection. while they are doing the chops we can look around, and you will find yourself in a very interesting place." "i should think it was interesting," said nan later. "dear me, i feel so queer to be sitting here where shakespeare dined and where richard iii ordered his chops." "are you trying to make a pun?" asked jo. "no. why, may i ask?" "you surely remember the conundrum about a cold chop and a hot steak." nan smiled, but immediately looked grave. "we are entirely too near the tower to make ghastly puns," she said. "poor dear 'lady jane grey,' and poor dear little princes. i wonder if that wicked old uncle planned that horror within these walls." "one can imagine almost anything," said mrs. corner, "but i think we would better not try to imagine too much, for here come the chops, and they are solid facts indeed. look at the size of them." "what a number of nice-looking englishmen are here taking their lunch," nan remarked to jo. "see their mugs of ale. doesn't it make you think of dickens and thackeray and all those? i'd like mighty well to stay in london long enough to prowl around all those old dickens places. i'd like to see the charterhouse, and the prison where little dorrit was, and oh, dear me, london is too big to be seen in a hurry. why can't we stay here instead of going to germany so soon?" "you forget about that summer when we have promised ourselves to come back. london will keep, nan," her aunt reminded her. they lingered over their meal, content with their surroundings till miss helen mentioned that if they started at once there would be time to see the old church of st. helen's, adjoining, before they should go to st. paul's. "you're a saint, isn't she, aunt helen?" said jean. "of course we ought to go." "we'll not go for that reason particularly," her aunt returned, "but because shakespeare was a parishioner of the church when he lived in london, and because it is a quaint little place in the very heart of what londoners call 'the city.' this is one of the most interesting sections of london, and scores of famous names are connected with it. if we had time we could see the church of 'st. botolph without bishopsgate' where john keats was baptized, and could go to leadenhall street to see the old house of the east india company, where charles lamb was a clerk for so many years. alexander pope was born not very far from here, and samuel pepys is buried in the church of st. olaves. then, too, the old huguenot church used to be on threadneedle street, and many a poor emigré was given a helping hand by the little body of french protestants who used to gather there." "oh, yes, that dear pastor of the french church at canterbury told us about it," said mary lee. "the new french protestant church is at soho square," remarked mrs. corner, "though i am told the old dutch protestant church is still in austin friars, and that the congregation refuse to part with their property valuable as it is." "i'd love to go there," said mary lee. "we can't, we simply can't," cried miss helen. "we shall have to give up referring to interesting places or we shall become unhappy because we haven't time to give to all. that summer to come we will do nothing but wander around london, and after we have seen it all if there is any time left we will give it all to england." "oh, dear, but i shall not be here," sighed jo. "who can tell?" said miss helen cheerfully. "one never knows what will happen." "that is true," returned jo brightening. "if any one had told us that day we met daniella boggs on the mountain that she would one day go to boarding-school with us, and that she would be ten times better off than we were then, i am sure we would have laughed them to scorn," said mary lee. "so, miss jo, don't you say you will not be here, for maybe you will." "it is nice to think there can even come a maybe," said jo, "and indeed we could go further, and continue the daniella story by saying that if any one had foreseen that one jo keyes would be over here because of a prize given by daniella's uncle you all would have laughed more scornfully than before." after st. helen's came st. paul's, the whispering gallery, the crypt and the many parts that all visitors must see. then there was another ride home on the top of an omnibus, this time jack being the one who secured a seat by the driver, and if he did not earn his threepence in answering questions, it was not jack's fault. the following day all but miss helen and nan set out for the zoo. the latter had a quiet day browsing around the galleries, and enjoying one of the times the two delighted in. there was always a peculiar bond of intimacy between them. no one understood nan as well as her aunt helen and there was no one to whom she more readily showed her inner self. since miss helen was nan's godmother as well as her aunt, nan had a feeling of proprietorship which she claimed whenever occasions like this offered. she had a fine time spending some of her prize money on photographs, having miss helen's undivided attention when they came to select. "you see," said nan, "when all the others are along, there is no use in trying to do anything like this, and i do want to think calmly, for to me it is a very important question, whatever it may be to the others. i must have those two browning portraits, aunt helen, for they were londoners before they became florentines." "i should certainly get those," miss helen approved the choice. "and dickens and thackeray." "without doubt." "and would you get wordsworth and rossetti here or trust to finding copies at grasmere?" "i think i would take them while you are sure of getting just what you want." "who else? keats, of course, and, oh, dear, it is going to be harder than i thought." "wouldn't it be a better plan to select what you're sure you want to-day and come again after you have made a list?" "oh, but can we find time to come again?" "we'll make time, even if we have to stay a day longer to do it." "bless you, my bestest aunt." they pored over the photographs for a half hour longer and then nan declared she was satisfied for that day, and they went off, nan carrying her precious package and feeling very rich in her new possessions. the british museum occupied the greater part of the following day, which was ended up in kensington gardens, and then came a trip to windsor castle which included a further journey to stoke poges where, if jack did not see her moping owl, nan found a charming little photograph of the old churchyard, and on the way home bought a pretty copy of the elegy in which to put it. there was a second visit to the national portrait gallery, taken one day when the rest were out shopping, and this time nan completed her purchase of all photographs she intended to buy in london, and spent so much time poring over her collection that she was in danger of not getting her trunk packed in time the next day when they made their start for oxford. "i feel very much as if i had been faring on guide-books," said nan, as they settled themselves in the train. "and as for aunt helen, i know she feels like one. if she had a red cover i would take her for a baedeker." "i am sure jean knows every item on the list at the pastry cook's, and mary lee dreamed last night that she was a monkey and began climbing over me," said jo. "now, jo," began mary lee. "well, didn't you?" "i had a sort of funny dream about monkeys," mary lee admitted. "as for jack," jo went on, "i defy any 'bus driver in london to keep up with her questions." "i know where you come," cried nan. "you would have turned into a mummy if you had gone to the british museum once more." "she is anything but one now," said miss helen, looking at jo's plump figure and saucy nose. "as for me," put in mrs. corner, "i feel as if i had met many old friends from whom i am now parting with regret." the train started and soon the smoke of london was but a gray cloud in the distance. [illustration: chapter ix work] chapter ix work "get up, lazybones, get up. don't you know you are to see the whole of oxford to-day and go to stratford to-morrow?" cried nan, shaking jo from her slumbers. "hm, hm," answered jo sleepily turning over. nan gave her another shake. "don't you know that the toast is getting colder, the black tea is getting blacker, the eggs getting harder and the slabs of bacon getting slabbier and flabbier? i am going to breakfast." "dear me, nan, is it as late as that?" said jo sitting up suddenly. "yes, and there is honey instead of the marmalade you don't like," replied nan over her shoulder. "mother got some yesterday." jo, thoroughly aroused, sprang from her bed to rush through her toilet and join the others down-stairs. "we thought maybe you didn't care to see oxford," said miss helen smiling as jo came in hurriedly. "well, no," drawled jo. "i've seen harvard, you know, and what are colleges anyhow? i never expect to take a degree and why should i be interested in oxford? of course i will go with you all if you insist, but if it were earl's court, for example, where there is a maze, a water toboggan and such things, i might be more enthusiastic." it was like jo to turn off things in this way, and every one laughed. "you know," said miss helen, "that hawthorne called high street the noblest old street in england, so that is one of the things we must be sure to see." "and addison's walk," put in nan. "to be sure, and you girls will find the bodleian library very fascinating. as for the colleges themselves, with their chapels and quadrangles, if you do not think them beautiful as well as interesting i am much mistaken." "again we sigh for that entire summer which cannot be ours," said nan. "yet----" miss helen began. "oh, i know what you are going to say," interrupted nan, "and we know all about that possible future. when do we start out?" "as soon as i can gather the brood together. don't dawdle, any of you, if you love me." her appeal was not without effect, for the whole party appeared in a very short time, and they set forth to go from college to college, to walk up high street, to turn into addison's walk and to return at night tired out. "we fairly skipped through," remarked mary lee. "i have a confused jumble of colleges in my brain, and can't for the life of me tell brasenose from oriel or lincoln from queen's." "study your post-cards, my dear," said nan, "and they will tell you." "not everything." "what they don't tell baedeker does, so i wouldn't bother my dear little brain with trying to remember so exactly. as for myself, oxford represents a mass of beautiful ivy-clad buildings, more or less resembling each other, lovely gardens, chapels and cloisters, a cathedral, a library and one long fine street. that is all the impression my mind has received. after a while i shall try to separate the conglomeration by looking over my post-cards, but just now i am capable of seeing it only as a whole, an impressionistic picture, as it were." "shall we have another day of it, miss helen?" asked jo. "i think another morning, so we can take the train for warwick in the afternoon. it is not so very far and we need not start very early." "then, ho for stratford-on-avon, where we shall become shakespeare mad, and for warwick where jack can see her white peacocks," cried jo. yet the glories of warwick castle were less attractive to the twins than the little tea-garden on mill street, which, indeed, pleased them all. "i never saw such a dear little place," said jack with satisfaction. "that cunning cottage with vines all over it," said jean. "and that lovely tangled garden down to the very water's edge," nan put in. "and the ducks, look at the ducks!" cried mary lee. "is this little stream really the avon?" asked jo. "what a fine view of the castle from here." "it is the loveliest place to rest in," said mrs. corner sinking into a seat by one of the little tables. "are we going to have plum-cake?" whispered jean. "pig!" exclaimed jack scornfully. "how did you happen upon such a charming spot, helen?" asked mrs. corner. "i have been here before, and it was one of my pleasantest memories of warwick. mother and i came more than once when we were here." nan's thoughts flew back to her stately grandmother, whom she had known but such a short time, and she fancied her sitting at one of the tables sipping her tea and looking up at the great castle walls. the girl turned to her aunt helen. "i am glad you told us that," she said in a low voice and miss helen gave her an appreciative smile, for she understood what was in her niece's thoughts. "there comes a boat full of young folks," cried jo. "isn't that interesting? it is just like an illustrated story, isn't it? they are going to stop here for tea. aren't the men fine looking, and the girls are exactly like those you hear about. i can't say that they have the style of the americans, but they have lovely complexions." "come, let's feed the ducks," suggested jack when the others were still sipping their tea. "it will be such fun, jean, and i am sure they are expecting it." jean was not quite sure that she was willing to sacrifice any of her plum-cake to the ducks but concluded she would give them some bread. "no doubt they will like it just as well," she told jack. they lingered so long in the charming little garden that the melodious cathedral chimes were ringing for six o'clock when they reached the hotel, enthusiastic in their praises of the castle and of the little tea garden on mill street. stratford-on-avon, with a walk across the pleasant country to anne hathaway's cottage took them an hour when it had to be decided whether the lakes or devonshire should be included in the next move. finally, miss helen proposed that she and the three eldest girls should take a flying trip to the lakes, leaving mrs. corner and the twins at warwick, a place where they were delighted to stay, with a promise of the tea-garden every afternoon and a sight of the peacocks on the wall of warwick castle between whiles. mary lee declared she much preferred grasmere to cambridge, and so nan had her wish, for she beheld dove cottage, helm crag and all the rest of the places made familiar to her by her last year's study of wordsworth. the limits of the trip were reached at the lakes, and then they turned their faces southward to catch a glimpse of the sussex downs on their way to newhaven. once more in paris to gather up trunks and to make ready for a long stay in munich with a glimpse of switzerland on the way. there had been a meeting with miss barnes and her party of schoolgirls and great doings for two or three days before the corners should separate from the others. jo, to her great joy, had received permission to stay behind. daniella had bidden them all a reluctant farewell. the summer had been a sort of fairy-tale to the little mountain girl, and if she had not received altogether correct impressions, and had often been bewildered, yet she had made great progress and could scarcely be recognized as the same girl who had so fearfully entered miss barnes's school the year before. now she did not dread going back, for the same company with whom she had been traveling all summer would be hers for another year. yet she bade a wistful farewell to her first friends, the corners, whispering, "i wish you were coming, too," as she took her place in the train which should bear them all to cherbourg. so while these traveled west, the corner party journeyed east, and at last they reached the clean, pretty city where they would settle down for days of study. the two younger girls were to be day-boarders in a small school, while the three elder ones were to give most of their time to particular studies. all would have lessons in german while nan wanted to make a special point of music. "you're going to stay with us, mother, aren't you?" said jean wistfully. "you're not going to leave us here all alone like we were last year?" mrs. corner smiled at the aggrieved tone. "i shall stay here till after christmas anyhow," she promised, "and then if i must go away for the coldest months we shall all be together in italy by the first of april." jean sighed. after so much freedom it was hard to adjust one's self to school routine, and as yet she had not settled down to the new conditions. "shall we have to wear funny hats and do our hair in braids up over the tops of our heads or around our ears like the german girls do?" asked the little girl whose looks were something of a matter of pride to her. "i think you will do as you have always done in that direction," her mother told her. "you are not a german girl, you know." "but fräulein is very particular," spoke up jack. "to-day one of the german girls came with her hair done like ours, and fräulein marched her out of the room and slicked up her hair and braided it so tight her eyes almost popped out of her head. she came back looking so scared." "and, oh, dear," groaned jean, "we have to walk along so soberly when we go out for exercise. we don't dare turn our heads, and the girls look so creer in those funny little flat hats, as if they had crackers on their heads. i feel like a craker, or something, myself." "do you mean a cracker or a quaker?" asked jack mischievously. "i mean a craker that you spell with a cu," replied jean with dignity. "look here," said nan laughing, "you youngsters mustn't begin to whine the minute we get here. goodness! do you suppose there are not thousands of girls who would give their eyes to be in this beautiful place and have the chances you have? we have been junketing around for so long that we don't want to do anything else. every mother's daughter of us has got to work; that is what we came to munich for, and between times we shall have more to see than you would get in any other dozen cities rolled into one." "it's all very well for you to talk," said jack. "you are going to operas and grown-up things like that, and we can't." "but you can do other things, and the operas and concerts are a part of my musical education; they would bore you to death. there are ever so many things for you to do." "tell me," said jack, getting into her eldest sister's lap. nan always made things pleasant for her. "well there is the englischer garden, a beautiful park that isn't walled in like some of those in england. there is a playground for children there and fine walks and drives. then just now the october fest is going on; it is something like our county fair at home." "are there merry-go-rounds and side-shows?" "yes, ever so many." "good!" jack brought her hands smartly together. "and then there are the museums full of all sorts of interesting things that you will like to see. on saturdays we can make lovely excursions to starnberger see or the isarthal, and on some other days there is music played by military bands in different places. i believe it is every day at the guardhouse on the marienplatz, and every other day at the feldhernhalle on the odeonsplatz, but we can find out exactly. those are amusements of the present; in winter there will be other things." "what?" "well, there will be lots of skating." "i can't skate very well." "it will be a fine chance to learn here. about christmas time there is always a fairy play for children, and at other times there is the marionette theatre that you and jean will adore. then, too, we shall probably go to the mountains for the holidays where you can see all sorts of funny doings." "what kind?" "oh, _ski-ing_, and _rodeling_ and all that." "they're funny words, and i haven't the least idea what they mean." "_ski_ is spelled with a k, but it is pronounced as if it were _she_, and _rodeling_ means simply tobogganing on a small sled. _skis_ are great long things something like snow-shoes. i am crazy to learn to _ski_, for it must be something like flying. then there will be the carnival that begins in january, though i don't suppose we shall see much of that. besides, jack," she went on, "the munich streets are lovely. there are so many pretty squares and parks and fountains, not to mention the shops, so i don't think we could get very lonely or bored. after all i have told you i am sure you will think it is a nice place to be in, and that we shall have a good time here." "i know i shall when you are around, you dear old nan," said jack, rubbing her cheek against her sister's. "even aunt helen is going to study," nan said. "she knows french mighty well but her german isn't up to the scratch, she thinks, and she says while studying is in the air she will take advantage of it." "we aren't going to stay in this hotel, are we?" "no, we are going to a _pension_ aunt helen knows of. there isn't room for us there now, but next week there will be, and we shall probably stay there till we go to italy. aunt helen says it is nice and homelike, and we can be left there in perfect safety if mother and she have to go away." "will there be any other little girls?" "i don't know. very likely there will be. now i must go and practice that dreadful bach thing that i am getting ready for to-morrow." she gave jack a hug and went off. "nan's such a nice old comfort," said jack to her mother. "she always smooths out the wrinkles for me. i hope she won't get married before i do." "i don't think i would begin to worry about that just yet," said mrs. corner smiling. "oh, i'm not worrying; i'm just taking time by the oar-lock." mrs. corner laughed outright while jack wondered why. "mayn't we go out into that pretty square where the big fountain is?" she asked. "i don't like you to go alone." "but it is so near. you can look out of the window and see it, and i am asking permission," said jack as if the mere matter of asking were all sufficient. "but you know over here in europe little girls don't run about as freely as they do at home. get one of your older sisters to go with you." "nan can't; she has to practice and mary lee has gone somewhere with jo, and aunt helen went to see about lessons or books or something." "then i will go with you and sit by the fountain while you amuse yourselves." this arrangement pleased the twins mightily. the big wittelsbacher fountain in the maximilianplatz was a thing to be admired and they were never tired of watching, what jack called, its big splash of water. "i feel so satisfied when i look at it," she told her mother. "i never saw a fountain with so much water all going at once." "i wish we could have brought over our dear little doggie," said jean as she watched numberless little _dachshunds_ trotting by. "we couldn't very well do it," mrs. corner told her, "for we should have had to carry him around everywhere, and there is a law in some countries which makes it very hard for travelers to bring in their dogs. he is much better off where he is." "i am afraid he will forget me," said jack, whose dog the little creature really was. "i don't doubt but that he will be quite ready to make friends again," her mother told her. "i never saw such a crauntity of dogs as there are in munich," said jean. "i think everybody must own a dog, and there are more _dachshunds_ than any other kind." "i like them best," jack declared. "with their little short legs and long bodies they look so funny, and they have such serious faces as if they had something to do and it was very important that they should get it done." "there come aunt helen and the girls," cried jean. miss helen with mary lee on one side and jo on the other mounted the little incline which led past the bench where the three were sitting. "why," cried miss helen, "what are you doing here?" "mother came over with us to sit by the fountain. isn't it a beauty, aunt helen? we like it so much." "i like it, too, and we are so pleasantly near it. indeed, i think this is a very convenient part of the city, for we are within walking distance of almost everything. where is nan?" "she said she had to get that music into her fingers before to-morrow, so she is the only one who didn't come out-of-doors." miss helen sank down on the bench by the side of mrs. corner. "i am tired," she said, "and in this thoroughly democratic place where one can do exactly as she pleases, i don't mind sitting openly in a square where the public passes by. that is one of the things i like about munich. nobody seems to mind wandering about deliberately. men and women take time to stare into the shop-windows, and no one pays the least attention to them. you can wear your old clothes and not feel that you are dressed worse than half your neighbors. people here seem to live for something more than to change the fashion of their sleeves and to rush for ferry-boats and trains. they take time to enjoy themselves, as few do at home. i wonder if it is too late for a cup of tea. i feel the need of one." mrs. corner consulted her watch. "it is just a little after five." "then, jack," said miss helen, "go tell nan she has practiced long enough and i want her to come with you to join us at the _conditorei_ on the promenadeplatz. we will go there and you can meet us; it is only a little way from here." jack scampered off to obey, for this would be a new entertainment and nan must not miss it. "what is a _conditorei_?" asked jean. "it means a confectioner's as near as i can make out, though this one seems to be a tea-room as well. it is a very pleasant place to go. you can choose your cakes at the counter and take them to the table with you, or else you can order them brought. i generally like to pick out what i would like best." "that is what i should like," said jean with much satisfaction, "for then you get them sooner. i am very glad you came along, aunt helen, for we mightn't have gone to the tea place if you hadn't." jack and nan soon appeared, and the girls found it a very agreeable thing to sit in the pleasant little place watching the persons who came and went. there were many americans among them, and the germans were noticeable from taking their pet dogs with them here, as to other shops. "you always see a collection of the dear things outside the big department stores," said mary lee. "i've counted a dozen sometimes, and even outside the churches you see them sometimes waiting for their masters. i like the way they are made to belong to the family and taken out as a matter of course; only sometimes they get so tired and look so bored and unhappy, though no doubt they would rather go than be left at home." "i like those magnificent horses," said nan. "i never believed there were horses with such noble arched necks, except in pictures or in statuary. they are the biggest things i ever saw, such great massive splendid specimens." "they come from the north of germany," miss helen told her. "they are used for draught horses, and you always see them harnessed to the big wagons. the oxen here are very large, too, and you will often see them hauling a load of bricks or stones through the streets." "i have noticed a rather curious thing," remarked mrs. corner. "sometimes you will see a wagon with a horse harnessed to one side the pole and not in shafts; it has a most curious effect, a very one-sided look." "i saw something funnier than that," said jack: "a man and a dog pulling a cart piled up with all sorts of stuff, old chairs and bits of stovepipe and things like that. the dog was pulling just as hard as the man and when the man stopped the dog lay down and seemed so pleased to think he had been helping. i liked that dog earning his living. i hope he gets well paid for it in nice food with plenty of bones to gnaw." here jean heaved a long sigh having eaten the last morsel of her cake. "it was so good," she said. "may i have another piece, mother?" "my dear child, i think one slice of that rich prinz-regenten cake is quite enough for one afternoon. another time, but not now," and jean mournfully accepted the decree. "speaking of prinz-regenten," said miss helen, "i am sorry we had to miss the wagner festival at the prinz-regenten theatre, but we had to give that up or the trip to england." "i really don't think we have been unwise in taking england instead," said mrs. corner, "for we shall be here long enough to enjoy all the opera necessary. the prices at the festival are so very high, five dollars for a single performance, and i am told it is chiefly tourists who patronize the opera then. sensible people wait till they can hear the same singers later on at a lower price." "nan is wild to hear herr knote," said jo. "she already has ten post-card pictures of him and is always on the lookout for more." "of course," returned nan. "he is the greatest german tenor, and why shouldn't i want to hear him; besides he isn't like some of the others, for everybody in munich respects him and that speaks well, for he lives here." "how do you know so much?" asked her mother. "my music teacher told me." "so that is what you talk about." "it is one of the things. i am supposed to get history of music as well as the theory and practice, and he belongs to the history, i am sure." "without doubt," her aunt assured her, rising to go. "well, nan, i hope you will not be disappointed when you hear him." "i know i shall not be," said nan with conviction. "frau burg-schmidt says his voice is simply great." they wandered out into the street and across the fine maximilianplatz to their hotel, feeling that they had chosen well in settling in munich for six months. [illustration: chapter x a night adventure] chapter x a night adventure nan was going to the grand opera for the first time in her life and she was in a state of wild excitement over it. as yet the corners had not learned the mysterious workings attending ticket buying in munich, and it seemed to them the most difficult of undertakings. "from all i can learn," said miss helen, "there are three places in which you can buy tickets. the programme is generally announced at the end of each week for the following week, and the tickets are for sale on sunday morning. you can rise before six o'clock and go stand in line till nine, when the office of the hof-theatre is open. if you are lucky you may not have to stand more than an hour after that, and if it is not a subscription performance, or as they call it, an _abonnement_, you may get a good place for a small sum. missing your chance at the hof-theatre, you can rush off to the old academia to take the same chances. if the academia fails you there is still the kiosk in the maximilianplatz. the trouble is, however, that you seldom know until the day of the performance who is going to sing." "it seems to me a most unsatisfactory arrangement," returned mrs. corner. "i could never stand in line for hours, helen, and surely you should not and we cannot let either of the girls do it." "perhaps we shall find an easier way after a while," miss helen replied. "when we get to the _pension_ no doubt we shall learn the ropes from fräulein bauer. we will wait till then. i have heard that sometimes when the ring is to be given, the students take their blankets and camp out by eight of the evening before the tickets are to be sold. a friend told me that one student hired a _dienstmann_ to stand in line for him, paying him six marks, and by the time his turn came in the morning all the tickets had been sold, though i believe that was for a subscription night." to hear all this was a disappointment to nan who had hoped that opera would be one of the first pleasures she should have, and she resolved that as soon as they were settled in their _pension_ she would interview fräulein bauer on her own account and see if there were really as many difficulties as reported, or if it was merely a matter of knowing how. it was, however, upon the very day that they arrived bag and baggage at fräulein bauer's that nan came home from her music lesson in a turmoil of excitement. "frau burg-schmidt wants me to go to the opera with her to hear lohengrin," she cried. "she says i should hear lohengrin the first of the wagner operas. lohengrin and knote of all things! oh, mother, say i can go. quick, please, please." "my dear, don't get so excited. i don't see why you shouldn't go. i suppose frau burg-schmidt will bring you home." "of course. at least she said we could take the car from the hof-theatre right to our nearest corner. i am to telephone if i can go and she will meet me in front of the theatre, or if i miss her there i have the number of the seat and she will wait in the corridor by the _garderobe_ place nearest. it is _dritte rang, loge ii vorderplatz_ and ." "it is all dutch to me," said mrs. corner smiling. "but, nan, you must not go out alone after night even to meet her." "but it won't be after night. it begins at six o'clock when it is broad daylight or nearly so." "six o'clock?" "yes, all the operas begin at six or seven and sometimes the very long ones begin as early as four or five. i shall be home early, you will see." "what a queer idea, and when shall you get your supper?" "i'll take a bite before i go and nibble something after i get back. you can save me a _brodchin_ from supper, mother, and a bit of ham or sausage; that will be enough." "it certainly is a peculiar arrangement, to have next to nothing before one starts out and probably be so hungry that there must be a hearty meal just before going to bed." "but i may go? it is such a chance, for frau burg-schmidt will explain the motifs to me, and tell me when to look for them. she just happened to have the ticket because her husband was called away on business." "you may go, since it seems an unusual opportunity which i couldn't deprive you of." "then i will go telephone." "you'd better get fräulein bauer to do it for you." "all right." nan was not long in concluding her arrangements and next turned her attention to her dress. "i suppose i ought to wear something rather nice," she said to her mother. "yes, i think you should. one of your prettiest white frocks will do." "and my white coat and gloves." "yes, the coat will be warm enough, i am sure." "i don't suppose i ought to wear a hat." nan was doubtful. "probably not. you can put your pink liberty scarf over your head and you may take my opera glasses." nan felt very grand indeed when she was ready to start out, opera bag on arm and spotless gloves on her hands. at the last moment her mother demurred in the matter of going without a hat on the street. "i think you would better wear one," she decided, "and you can leave it at the wardrobe with your coat if necessary, for it does look queer to see you going forth without a hat while it is yet light." so nan laid aside the scarf and put on a light hat. "i think myself that i feel more comfortable this way," she said. "i will keep my eyes open and see what other persons do, so as to know the next time." "you have money with you? in case it rains you must come home in a cab and send frau burg-schmidt in it after you have been dropped at your own door. be sure to pay the _cocher_ for both courses and give him a tip, so frau burg-schmidt will be at no expense on your account." "yes, mother." "and you know the way perfectly? perhaps you would better go in a cab anyhow to make sure. i don't feel quite comfortable to see you start out alone." "oh, no, mother, i'd much rather walk; it is really no distance at all and frau burg-schmidt says lots of girls go alone and that it is perfectly safe. munich isn't like paris." "then have a good time, dearie. good-bye." nan put up her mouth for a kiss and started off, her mother watching her from the window and feeling a little uneasy still. miss helen was out and so were the other girls. "perhaps i should have gone with her," said mrs. corner to herself, "for even though i am tired we could have taken a cab, but it was all so unexpected and nan was in such a hurry to get off i didn't think of it. i hope she is all right." when miss helen returned she assured her sister that she need have no fears for nan. "she will find her way without difficulty, i am sure," she said, "and even if the frau isn't there she knows enough german to inquire her way to the seats. i have seen numbers of girls going about alone and nan knows perfectly well how to take care of herself." indeed nan had no difficulty at all in reaching the hof-theatre, nor in distinguishing the plainly dressed figure standing at the foot of the steps waiting for her. she trembled with excitement at the sound of the first note of the orchestra, and for the remainder of the time was utterly lost in the fortunes of lohengrin and elsa, in the wonderful music, and between acts in the strange surroundings. it pleased frau burg-schmidt to see the intent look on the girl's face, and the tensely clasped hands. "she has temperament," she told herself, as nan's old teacher at home had said before. "oh, it is over," sighed the girl when the curtain went down after the last act. "it was so short." frau burg-schmidt laughed. "not so short; it has been several hours." "so long as that? i can scarcely believe it." "and it is not quite over, for see, they call out the singers over and over again." nan watched with pleased smiles while from the galleries came continued applause, tempestuous clappings of hands with cries for "knote! knote! knote! bravo! bravo!" "it is an enthusiastic audience. these müncheners do always so," said nan's companion. "we do not fear to applaud when we like a thing." at last the outer curtain was dropped, but even then the calls and clappings went on, but that was the last of it for the tenor would not appear again. nan went home in a dream. she followed frau burg-schmidt mechanically into the car, and sat down, her vision still filled with the picture of lohengrin disappearing from view in his swan boat. she scarcely heard when frau burg-schmidt said good-night to her. "here is your corner, my dear," she told her. "you are but a few steps from your door and you have your key, so i will not wait for i must change here and my car comes." nan had but a few steps to go before she stood in front of the great door of the building in which was her _pension_. she felt in her bag for her key. fräulein bauer had said there would be a light burning and a candle set for her. she fumbled around for some minutes but could not find her keys. she tried the handle of the door; it would not turn. in munich evidently everything was closed up early. she stood wondering whether she should ring the hausmann's bell or the one of the _pension_ when some one passing saw the white figure standing there and halted, then passed on, but presently returned. nan shrank into the shadow of the big door. suppose the young man should speak to her, for a young man she could see it was from the single swift glance she gave. what could he think of a girl alone in the street after ten o'clock? suddenly the lohengrin vision faded and she was only nan corner in a strange city in a foreign land trying to get into her boarding-house. she pressed the electric button under the name of the _pension_, and again began to search in her bag for the keys, turning toward the light as she did so, the better to see. the young man who was standing a few paces off suddenly came forward. "nan, nan corner," he exclaimed. "what are you doing wandering about munich alone?" a friendly voice and a solicitous one. nan looked up. "dr. paul," she cried, "of all people. oh, i am so glad to see you." she explained the situation, ending with: "i know the keys must be somewhere, but they are not in my bag." again she searched nervously. "let me hold your bag," said dr. paul. "and you look in your pocket, if you have any." nan gave a little laugh, and put her hand in her coat pocket but the keys were not there. suddenly her hand went up to the chain around her neck and then down to her belt. "i remember," she said, a little abashed, "i took the keys from the bag and put them on the chain so as to be sure not to lose them, and i was so perfectly carried away by the music i forgot i had done it. here they are, dr. paul. i am glad i didn't ring again for evidently the maids weren't roused by the first ring." dr. paul turned the key in the lock and they stepped inside, the great door closing with a clang after them. all was dark and silent. "goodness!" cried nan, "and they said they would have a light for me. imagine coming home at ten o'clock at night anywhere in america and finding it like this." "they certainly drive their thrift beyond the point of necessity, it seems to me. i have some matches in my pocket; i will strike a light and we will look for the stairs." "we only came to the _pension_ to-day and that is why i don't remember exactly in the dark," said nan. "how long have you been here, dr. paul?" "i came to town yesterday. my _pension_ is a block further on. i am with a german family whom some friends recommended to me, and i think i shall be very comfortable. they speak north german, which is an advantage. i was going to look you all up to-morrow. your aunt sarah told me i should probably find you here." "and shall you stay long?" "several months. i am here for some special courses, and for hospital work." "then we shall see you often." "you can count on that. here are the stairs and i see a glimmer of light on the next floor. we'll follow it up and probably will find your candle." they stumbled up the winding stairs which grew lighter as they mounted. at the top they found a night lamp on a table and a row of candles set in line. each candlestick bore a slip of paper. the pair examined these gravely. "_zimmer_ ten, _pension bauer_," read nan. "i suppose that must be mine. ours is the next flight up. we are on the second floor, or what they call second over here; we would say third." "i'll go up with you to keep off the bugaboos," said the doctor taking the lighted candle from her hand and following her up. at the head of the stairs nan turned. "how will you get out?" she asked. "i am sure the front door shut with a spring lock. i will go back with you." "then i'll have to see you to your door again." "and we might keep that up indefinitely." they both laughed softly. "give me your key," said the doctor, "and i'll let myself out. i will bring it to you in the morning. you will not want it till then?" "no, indeed, but i hate to think of your going down in the dark." "do you think i'm afraid of the dark, nan corner?" "of course not, but----" "you are, i verily believe." "not exactly, only it would have been sort of boogy and spooky if i had to come through that court and up that first flight by myself." "and it would not have been the proper thing for you to do." "nobody ever imagined that in this age such a necessity would arise. we will all petition for a light at the very entrance. i know mother and aunt helen will be horrified at this outer darkness. i was so thankful to see you, though at first----" "own up you were scared." "yes, i was, and with good reason. i saw you stop and i tried to climb in through the keyhole or the crack of the door, but couldn't. oh, but i was thankful it was you, and i remember it isn't the first time you've proved a friend in need. i don't forget last year. be sure to come early to-morrow. i am wild to hear all about aunt sarah and the boys, not to mention all the other dear people at home. good-night. won't you take my candle, even if you don't the candlestick?" "no, i would dribble the grease all over myself. good-night and thanks for the key." nan stood holding the candle over the baluster until the last footfall had ceased and then she unlocked the door which led into fräulein bauer's apartment. she found her mother and her aunt helen waiting for her. a tray on the table held rolls and butter, some slices of cold ham, a glass of milk and a compote of apples. "i am so glad you waited up for me," said the girl as she came in. "it isn't very late," said her aunt, "so it is nothing of a favor." "i know it isn't, but it seems as if i had been away days." "has it been as great as all that?" asked her mother. "i am glad to see you back safe and sound. fräulein bauer said she would have a candle below for you, so i knew you would find your way in." "yes, but it is as dark as pitch on the ground floor, and it isn't like it is in paris where the _concierge_ is right at hand to let you in if necessary. i suppose there is a hausmann, but there are no signs of his having rooms anywhere about." "and you say there is no light at the entrance?" "not a glimmer; it is as black as a wolf's mouth." "that will never do," said mrs. corner decidedly. "we can never in the world stay here under such conditions. suppose we have callers in the evening, what is to be done?" "give it up," returned nan. "and for ourselves, a party of ladies coming in after dark to be obliged to enter a dark court and come up as dark a stairway is not to be thought of. that must be remedied at once. i shall see to it to-morrow." "so the opera was great, was it, nan?" said her aunt. "i should think it was. i will tell you all about it presently. at first i didn't believe i could ever think of anything else for days, but i had an adventure and----" "what do you mean, nan?" asked her mother in alarm. then nan told about the missing key, the meeting with dr. paul woods and the journey up-stairs. "i was scared to death at first," she admitted. "i was right in my misgivings about letting you go off alone," said her mother. "i cannot understand how frau burg-schmidt should have left you to come in by yourself." "she didn't think anything of it, for there were ever so many girls coming home by themselves. frau burg-schmidt did get out with me, of course, and would have come all the way, but she had to change cars and her car happened to come along right away, so as she knew i had a key and that i was but a few steps from the door she left me. if i hadn't been so stupid as to forget about changing the keys from the bag to the chain it would have been all right. no, it wouldn't have been quite all right, for i should have had to grope my way up that dark stairway alone. oh, but i was glad to see dr. paul. he always was a dear. wasn't it strange that it should happen to be he who came along at just the right moment?" "it certainly was most fortunate," acknowledged her mother. "is he to be here for any length of time?" "oh, my yes. he is going to do some studying and we shall see him often. now i will tell you about the opera. it was heavenly, and the stage setting was perfectly fine. i shall never forget that beautiful blue and silver lohengrin and i was so mad with elsa for doubting him, yet i was sorry for her, too, because it was all that wicked ortrud's fault. the music was divine. such an orchestra! and knote sang like an angel; you never heard a more beautiful voice, and oh, mother, it was so perfectly fine to have frau burg-schmidt explain the different motives to me and tell me when they came in. you have no idea how much more interesting it made it. she is going over the score with me and wants me to learn to distinguish for myself. i think i can pick out several already. she is so enthusiastic and rouses your ambition so you want to do your very best." "but i cannot excuse her leaving you in the street like that, and i am afraid i cannot allow you to go out with her, if there is a chance of such a thing occurring again." "oh, mother, please don't say that, and please don't say anything to her about it, for i think she is very sensitive and high-strung, and it really was my fault for being so stupid as to forget where i put the keys." "that may have been a part of the trouble, but a woman of frau burg-schmidt's experience should know better than to desert a young girl like you at this time of night in a foreign city." then seeing nan's look of distress, she added, "however, we will not talk any more about it now, but provide against such a contingency next time. did you have good places?" "very good; that is, it was a fine place for hearing the music, and all the musical people prefer it to the parquet or the balcony where the seats are much higher priced. and, mother, i might have gone in my school dress for all it mattered. people wear anything; flannel blouses, queer reform frocks which look perfectly dreadful on the fat women--all sorts of funny rigs are worn. they sit around and munch chocolate or take rolls from their bags and nibble those between the acts or eat pretzels. it is the most free and easy place i ever saw. for all that, there was perfect order, not a whisper while the music was going on. of course the lights are turned down during the performance and are only turned up when the curtain drops. every one was so absorbed and didn't dream of talking or looking bored as i have seen them do at home at plays." "i must confess there is that advantage on the part of a german audience," remarked miss helen. "they go for the pure purpose of hearing the music, not to show their clothes nor to chatter with their friends nor because it is fashionable, and i think we may well take pattern from them in our big cities." "and the enthusiasm," nan went on; "it made me wild to hear them call and call for knote and for morena. oh, i did enjoy it. i shall never forget this night." "but you are forgetting to eat anything," said her mother. "i'll drink the milk, but i really don't feel hungry, for i am too excited; besides frau burg-schmidt had some chocolate with her and i ate a piece of that. i must go to bed, for dr. paul is coming early to see us and to return the key. i have had such a glorious time, mother dear, so please forget the adventure part of it." "don't lie awake thinking about lohengrin," said her mother kissing her good-night. "i'll try not." "i hope it hasn't been too much for that excitable brain of hers," said mrs. corner as nan went out. "nan will always be intense," replied miss helen. "we can't deprive her of such joy as she finds in music because of that." "no, but she does enjoy things with such a vengeance." "and suffers in proportion. that is the way she is built, mary." "like her father, very like." "dear jack. yes, she is like him." the two sat lost in thought for a while. presently miss helen spoke. "how old is this dr. paul woods?" she asked. "i have almost forgotten. he was away at college while we were at uplands." "he is not more than twenty-three or four. a very bright young man and a fine one. i've known him since he was born. his father has always been our family physician, you know, helen, and mrs. woods is one of my dearest friends." "yes, i remember that. mother always preferred dr. harley, so i never saw much of the woods," said miss helen folding up her newspaper and rising. "it is bedtime, mary." "i know. i am going." but mrs. corner sat for another half hour, her book unnoticed before her. [illustration: chapter xi settling down] chapter xi settling down the problem of getting opera tickets was solved the next day when dr. woods made his visit. "i have promised myself to stand in line every week," he said, "and if you will commit the buying of the tickets to my charge i promise to do my best for you. it is just as easy to buy four or five tickets as one. i shall probably not treat myself to anything more expensive than places in the _dritte rang_, but i can get yours anywhere you say, provided there is a chance of doing it." "that relieves us of a great responsibility," said miss helen, "though it seems rather an imposition upon you." "not a bit of it. i should be very unhappy to know that any of you ladies were on your feet out there in the cold when there was a man around to do the standing for you." "spoken like a true american and a virginia gentleman at that," said miss helen. "nan proposed to be our opera ticket buyer, as she is the most interested, but her mother objected." the doctor gave a quick glance at the slender dark-haired girl, almost too tall for her years. "as her medical man i sternly forbid it, too," he said. "it is not the thing for any delicately bred woman to do. some of these sturdy germans may be equal to it, but none of your race. no, miss helen, i insist upon your letting that duty fall upon me." "then please accept our united thanks. we do want nan to have as much opera as is good for her, but we don't feel that we always shall want to pay for the highest priced seats, if we can get any at all at lower rates." "i shall frequently make a rush for stehplatz," declared the doctor, "for i am putting all my spare cash into my work and my amusements must be of the cheap kind. however, there couldn't be a better place to find such. one can listen to a first-class concert for the meagre price of fifteen or twenty cents, if you don't mind going to a concert hall where people sit around little tables and drink beer. it is always most quiet and orderly and you see a good class of persons at such places, for they want to hear the music and do not want the least noise." "every one in munich drinks beer," remarked nan. "even the _münchen kindel_ is often pictured with a glass of beer in one hand and a bunch of radishes in the other." "who is the _münchen kindel_?" asked the doctor. "have you been in the city twenty-four hours and have not made its acquaintance? why, it is everywhere, on calendars, cards, liqueur glasses, all sorts of souvenirs, bonbon boxes, signs, and i have even seen the little monkish hood and cloak imitated in a covering for my lady's pet dog. here," she picked up a guide-book from the table and handed it to him. "oh, that? yes, i have seen the little fellow, but i didn't know what it meant except that it seemed a sign and seal of something münchener. do you know its origin?" "i know something, though no one appears exactly to know why it happens to be a child. you probably know that munich originally belonged to the monks who lived in a monastery on the tegernsee. their place was called münchen. there are a number of stories about how the little _kindel_ happened to be used, but aunt helen says it was probably adopted as the seal of those way back monks. some one told me that there is a legend which says our lord came in the form of a little child in monkish dress to bless the town and the good work of the monks, and that ever since the münchen _kindel_ has been honored. others say that it is simply because as time has gone on different artists and sculptors have tried to improve on the original design and it has become what it is now. i like the legend best though perhaps the other is truer. i have become very fond of the little monk's smiling countenance. sometimes he has a book in one hand and two fingers of the other are outstretched in benediction, but when he is very hilarious, he waves a stein of beer in one hand and a bunch of radishes in the other." "wise nan," said the doctor. "whenever i want archaic information about the city i shall come to you." "nan may be able to tell you all about those funny old things," broke in jack, "but what i want to hear about, dr. paul, is home. did you see phil and gordon? how was aunt sarah when you left? is mitty there? are the cats looking all right? what was old pete mule doing when you saw him last?" every one laughed and then every one turned eagerly to the doctor, for what did not jack's questions bring before them? the old brown house, with the garden behind it wandering up-hill, aunt sarah bustling around, phil with trouble at his heels running across the field between his own home and the corners', old pete standing by an angle of the fence, wagging his long ears as he looked up and down the road. "do tell us about everything," said mrs. corner drawing her chair a little nearer. "miss sarah was very well and getting ready for her boys who hadn't come when i left," responded the doctor. "i saw a pair of black legs scudding across the garden and i fancy they must have been mitty's. as for pete, i am afraid i don't remember about him, and i did not see any of the cats. yes, i did; a big gray angora came out and blinked at me as i was saying good-bye to miss sarah." "that must have been lady grey," remarked jack. "the lewis's are all well. miss polly is to be married at christmas, as i suppose you all know." "oh, dear, and we shan't be there," sighed mary lee. at that moment the glories of travel, the novelties of foreign lands were as nothing compared to the bond which linked them to old virginia. "and your own family?" said mrs. corner. "your mother and father?" "mother is well and so is father, better than usual. a new doctor has settled in town, an enterprising young fellow with the acquirements of foreign study still clinging to him. father said that if i meant to hold my own in the town i must study abroad, too, and if eventually i concluded to step aside and let hastings have the field i would need some work over here wherever i might settle. he thinks he can keep up our end for six months and then i shall go back and make up my mind whether father shall retire in my behalf, or whether he will keep a few of his oldest patients and transfer the rest to dr. hastings." "you are not going to desert us, dr. paul?" said mrs. corner. "i am not sure. at all events we shall see when i get back. you all have deserted your old neighbors, why shouldn't i follow your example?" "but not for always," said nan eagerly. "we shall go back to stay some day, shan't we, mother?" "are you sure you will want to, nan?" "i am sure i would like to feel that i could come away sometimes, but there is no place like home. i want to live most of my life there, and i surely want to die just where i was born." "it isn't a very big world, that little town of ours," said dr. paul smiling at her ardor. "it is big enough. after we have seen the great outside world it will be the most delightful thing to go back and think about it all." "and your music, your college career and all that?" said miss helen. "don't you think it will give as much pleasure there, the music, i mean, as anywhere? and i am sure our university has brains enough in it to keep my poor supply guessing. nobody need rust out where our university is." nan spoke proudly. "good for you, nan!" cried the doctor. "you are loyal to the core. that is the way to talk. i am going to sit down this very night and write to father about what you have said. it will do him good to know how you feel. he thinks a lot of miss nancy corner." "must you go?" said mrs. corner as he rose to take his leave. "yes, i must. i am not fairly in harness yet, but i have a lot to do." "you will come in and see us often, i hope." "won't i? mother is depending on it, i can tell you. the fact of you all being here made it easier for her to see me go. and mrs. corner, remember, i am yours to command. you must not fail to call upon me for anything in the wide world that i can do for you, just as you would on tom lewis or any of the boys at home. i want the privilege of being your right hand man, as i am the only one of your townsmen here." "you are a dear boy," said mrs. corner laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder, "and i shall be delighted to take you at your word whenever occasion requires on condition that you write to your mother that i say she needn't worry over her son while mary corner is on hand to have an eye to him." "i'll do it and it will be no end of comfort to her. she expects me to come home with forty slashes on my face and an insatiable thirst for beer." "are you going to wear a green or a blue cap or what color?" asked jean. "i'll wear my own american headgear, if you please." "and you won't have those sword cuts all over your face?" said jack. "not if my present stock of vanity holds out. i am afraid you would never be my sweetheart if i allowed myself to be hacked up in that style, jack." "oh, but i shall never be your sweetheart," returned jack calmly. "i am carter's. i used to be clarence's, but i most forget him, and he doesn't write to me, but carter does." "i see. well, anyhow, i shall not submit to having my noble countenance marred. now, i must go, mrs. corner. it is so good to see you all and such a temptation to stand and talk. i'll come soon again, if i may." "as often as you please. i've neither music nor german to absorb me, for i intend to spare myself all i can, so when the others are busy you will find at least one at leisure," mrs. corner assured him and he went off leaving all with a feeling of nearness to home which his presence had given. a new arrival at the _pension_ that day filled the last of fräulein bauer's rooms, and decided who was to complete the house party. a pleasant american woman with her son and daughter took rooms opposite the corners. the family now consisted of the six corners with jo keyes, mrs. hoyt, son maurice and daughter juliet, a stout russian lady and her son, "the herr professor," as the fräulein called him, a jovial german, and a severe looking dame whose nationality no one seemed to know. nan insisted that this last person was a nihilist, while jo declared she was an american refugee. mary lee thought she must be italian, because she liked macaroni and asked for more olive oil on her salad. she did not seem to be very fluent with german, though no one had heard her speak any other language. she sat at the extreme end of the table, and bowed with great stateliness to the others whenever she came in or went out. it was miss helen who at last discovered the lady's nationality, and announced with great glee that she knew. "i am positive she is russian or polish or something like that," declared nan. "i am sure she has a bomb concealed in her room and has designs upon the prince regent." "i am convinced she is italian," mary lee differed from her sister. "she has such black eyes and hair, and i saw her with a letter in her hand that had an italian stamp on it, and it was addressed to signorina something or other." this seemed fairly good proof, but still miss helen shook her head. "she might be spanish," ventured jo, "for, as you say, mary lee, she is very dark. if she were russian why doesn't she talk to the other russians at the table?" "i hadn't thought of that," said nan, "though maybe she doesn't want them to know she is russian for fear they will find out her plots." miss helen laughed aloud. "you are away off, nan," she said. "perhaps she is a greek." jack thought up this. "or a-a-austrian," jean ventured. "then she'd speak better german," objected nan. "what do you say, mary?" asked miss helen. "no one so far has guessed right. you must have a chance." "she might be french, perhaps canadian french." "but the italian letter," spoke up mary lee. "i had one from italy myself this morning addressed to signora corner," mrs. corner told her. "then that falls through," said jo. "give it up, miss helen." "my dears, she's plain, dyed-in-the-wool, united states american, from chelsea, massachusetts." "oh, oh," came a chorus of laughing exclamations. "the very idea! how did you find it out?" "i encountered her on my way down-stairs this morning, and she asked me if i knew where she could find a second-hand book-shop. i happened to know of one and i told her. we were going in the same direction and we walked together a little way." "is she any kind of an anything?" asked jack. "that is rather a vague question," said miss helen. "couldn't you be a little more exact, jack dear?" "i mean is she a doctor or a teacher or anything like that? she looks like she might be something besides just a plain woman." "she certainly is a plain enough woman," remarked nan with a laugh. "she didn't mention that she had a profession, though i think she is here for a special purpose, perhaps," miss helen told them. "american," said jo reminiscently; "that's the limit. it shows that one can never tell. why, we might have discussed our most intimate affairs before her, and never have dreamed she could understand a word of what we said." "which goes to show that one must be very careful about one's speech when traveling abroad," said mrs. corner. "what do you think of the new girl and boy?" jo asked nan that same day. "they're rather nice, i think. the boy seems a jolly sort of somebody and the girl is very friendly. they are going to school and seem to have a number of friends here, which will make it pleasant for us. mother likes mrs. hoyt. they know some of the same people at home and spent an hour reminiscing after dinner. i am glad on mother's account, and aunt helen's, too, that she is so nice." the american part of the _pension_ soon resolved itself into a very congenial party. nan struck up a friendship with juliet hoyt, while maurice dangled after jo and mary lee. maurice was a merry, gentlemanly lad with dancing brown eyes, and a frank mouth. he was always ready for fun, and as both mary lee and jo were very fond of outdoor sports the three had long walks together and promised themselves later that they would skate and _rodel_ and _ski_ as often as they could. it was not long before maurice's schoolmates found out that mrs. hoyt's sitting-room was a very pleasant place, and that she herself was a sympathetic person into whose ears they could pour their woes or whom they could come to in hours of homesickness to be comforted, therefore there was scarcely a day passed but some one of dr. mann's schoolboys wandered into _pension_ bauer for cheer. nan and mary lee had always been thrown a great deal with their boy cousins, and jo was so full of life that she naturally attracted boys, so it must be confessed that mrs. hoyt was not the one chiefly sought. "but there is safety in numbers," she said to mrs. corner, "and i want my children to have good honest friendships among both boys and girls, so do please let your young people frolic with mine; it won't hurt them one bit. moreover i think it is much the better plan to allow them to have their friends here where i can overlook them and take part in what goes on. it seems to me that the surest way of keeping the confidence of both my boy and girl is not to be too severely critical, and to make whatever place stands for home as happy as possible." mrs. corner quite agreed with her, and though half a dozen boys vied with one another to see which could nearest match in socks and neckties the color of jo's winter suit, the sunday after she appeared in it, and though maurice insisted upon sending daily notes to mary lee these were all very harmless matters. it was something to make even their elders laugh to see the six boys in green socks and neckties as near of a color as possible, and when mrs. corner read the little jokes which passed for notes she saw what very innocent nonsense it all was. so the young folks had the best of times and afforded much amusement to their families. "winter is at hand," said nan one day as she came in from her lessons. "they are covering up our beautiful fountain that we all love so, and they are beginning to pack up the rosebushes and plants in the parks. i wish you would see how beautifully they do it. they have loads and loads of evergreen stuff that they put around the bushes, so when they are done up, instead of looking like scarecrows wrapped in straw they are nice, neat, well-shaped cubes and cylinders of green that don't offend the eye in the least. of course they can't do the fountain that way, for it is too big, and it has to have an actual house of boards built over it. i am thankful for one thing, for though they cover up so much else they can't do anything to the frauenkirche." "i am glad of that myself," returned miss helen. "i love the way those two big towers dominate the city." "it is such a nice orderly place," nan went on. "if a pile of boards and building materials must be in the street, it is piled up as carefully as possible so as to take up the least room; it isn't pitched helter-skelter all over the place as it is so often at home." "they certainly do things of that kind very carefully; i suppose because they take more time. we are always in such a rush at home." "another thing i like," nan went on, "is the number of big landmarks there are. somehow, although it is really quite a large city, it doesn't seem so. there is plenty of space, and buildings are set so you can see them easily. they aren't crowded in little narrow streets so they make no show at all. when i see the big fountain i know i am nearly home. the neue rathaus is another landmark, the isarthor is another, the odeonsplatz still another, while if you catch sight of the frauenkirche no matter where you are you can tell in exactly what direction you ought to go." "i am glad you are so contented, my dear," said miss helen, "as long as you are to be here for the winter. i think the others are, too." "yes, i am sure they are. jack was delighted because she happened to be with you when the figures came out on the clock in the tower of the neue rathaus." "yes, we happened to be just in time." "it certainly is a fine building. indeed, it seems to me that munich has nothing but fine buildings wherever you go; fine gateways and arches and parks. i like those old painted houses, too. in fact i think munich is delightful beyond words, and if italy surpasses it i shall not be able to stay in my skin." "it doesn't exactly surpass it. each has its own attraction. to me there is no place quite like italy; it has an indescribable charm. i am afraid we shall not find the sunshine here that we should get there." "i am sure it has been lovely for a whole month, scarcely a rainy day. think how beautiful and sunny it was that day we went to the starnberger see." "yes, but i am told in winter the sun shines seldom. you see munich is on a plain where the mists gather and remain. while the sun may be shining brightly on the mountains above, here it will be dull and gray for weeks at a time. you remember that even at the isarthal it was clear and bright, yet we found munich wrapped in mist when we came back. it is said to be healthful nevertheless." "i don't like the not seeing the sun, but maybe we won't miss it so very much so long as it doesn't rain much. there is one thing that is very funny to me, aunt helen, and that is to see how the women work. it looks ridiculous to see a woman in an absurd tyrolese hat with a feather sticking up straight behind, turning the tram switches, and to see them carrying heavy loads of wood on their backs or pushing a big cart through the streets is something i cannot get used to. look at our little anna here at the _pension_, she goes down into the bowels of the earth somewhere and brings up coal, great buckets of it, over two long flights. imagine expecting a servant to do that at home." "the german point of view is quite different from ours in more than one direction, you will find." "i have noticed that. the other day when we all went out to the isarthal with fräulein bauer and her brother, although he was as polite as a dancing-master in most ways, he never offered to help her or any one up those hundreds of steps one must climb to get to the station at höllriegelsgreuth-grünwald." miss helen laughed. "how did you ever remember that long name, nan?" "oh, i made a point of it because it was so nice and long. as i was saying herr bauer seemed quite a pig by the side of dr. paul who is always so lovely and courteous to every one. fräulein bauer was quite overcome when he rushed back to help her. i don't believe a man ever did such a thing before for her." "as we were just saying their standards are very different from ours, although you will not find so great differences in the upper classes. generally speaking, a woman must be a good _hausfrau_ and make the men comfortable to reach the proper ideal; failing this she is a worthless creature in the estimation of most of the men." "give me my own, my native land," sang nan, "and above all, give me the blessed men from our own part of the country. there are none like them in the whole wide world." [illustration: chapter xii all saints] chapter xii all saints sunday was always an interesting day, for there were many things to do. the little american church near the odeonsplatz was a homelike place where once a week, at least, one could imagine himself at home, so familiar was the service in one's own tongue, and here the family generally went. after church it was the custom to promenade up and down the parada, and with the rest of the citizens to listen to the music of the band which played upon the balcony of the feldernhalle. but there was one sunday when the morning service was unattended by any from _pension_ bauer, for all took their way to the cemetery. this was the day of all saints, and every grave, even the humblest, was decorated, lights were set to burn, and the whole place looked like a great garden of blossoms. there were many persons walking quietly around, old women were stationed to watch the tall candles or to replenish the swinging lamps. "it is very solemn and very beautiful," said nan to dr. woods, with whom she was walking. "i never imagined anything quite like this, but i think it is a beautiful custom." "the royal tombs are decorated to-day, too," said dr. woods. "we ought to go to st. michael's, for in the crypt there king ludwig ii and a number of others are buried. a great many persons visit the place every year, for this is the only day upon which the place is opened to the public. if you all are not too tired we might go there from here." nan agreed and they passed on to where jean and jack were standing whispering together. "look, nan," said jack, "at that little girl over there. she is putting that one little candle and that tiny bunch of flowers on a grave. she looks so poor. i wonder whose grave it is? i hope it is not her mother's." "see, she is coming away," said nan. "don't watch her so closely, dear; it doesn't seem kind." the two children turned quickly away, but could not forbear watching the little girl as she slowly passed out the gate. "i wish i knew about her," said jack following the departing figure with sympathetic glances. "let's go, nan," said jean; "it is so sad here." "i don't think you twinnies ought to have come," nan told them. "oh, yes, we ought. we like the flowers and the lights, but we don't like little girls like that to be so poor as not to have more flowers and candles," jack returned. they now came up to the rest of the party and proposed the walk to see the royal tombs, but mrs. corner decided that she was too tired to go and, therefore, the twins went home with her while the others continued to the church. here a long procession of persons passed steadily in and out of the crypt, where masses of flowers and brilliant lights surrounded the tombs of dead royalty. "i'd like to know more about king ludwig ii," said nan to her companion. "the bavarian succession is so mixed up in my mind i never do get it straight." "there is a little history of bavaria that i saw somewhere. i shall be glad to bring it to you, if you would care to look it over. you will find this a most interesting kingdom, full of romance as well as of solid fact. the unfortunate ludwig ii was son of maximilian ii and grandson of ludwig i. the present prince regent is a son of ludwig i and a brother of maximilian ii. he is, therefore, uncle of ludwig ii and of the poor mad king otto, the actual king." "i will write that all down, and then i can remember it better," said nan. this she proceeded to do. "i should like very much to see the history, thank you, and get all these ludwigs and maximilians straightened out. it will make the places named after them so much more interesting. i did get a sort of half idea from all those wonderful castles we have been making trips to see, but i am not yet quite exact." "i think you will like the legend called 'weibtreue' which tells of an event away back in the twelfth century." "tell me it." "the story goes that welf vi with his wife and followers were besieged by konrad, the hohenstaufen. after a long time they said they would yield, but konrad was so angry at the long resistance that he declared that every man should be killed, though he consented to allow the women to go out first, each being allowed to take with her the thing she valued the most. finally when the city gates were flung open out came a long train of women, and what do you think they had on their backs?" nan's eyes were bright as stars. she loved this sort of legend. "what?" she asked. "the countess ida, welf's wife, came first and on her back she carried her husband. each of the women following carried either a husband, father, lover, son or brother." "good!" nan's hands came together. "and what did konrad do?" "his soldiers were furious at the trick, but konrad himself was so struck by the women's devotion that he forgave them every one." nan laughed. "now i know why the women of germany have such mighty strong backs. they began their training away back in the twelfth century and evidently have kept it up ever since, for they carry such loads as i never saw." dr. paul laughed, and the two, having passed through the karlsthor and up the wide lenbach-platz, waited for the others who had lagged a little behind. mrs. hoyt's sitting-room was more of a rendezvous on a rainy sunday afternoon than at any other time, and when the chill mists had resolved themselves into a persistent drizzle, the young people gathered in the cheery place to forget outside conditions and to get rid of the blues. here, after dinner, nan found mary lee and jo with the hoyt family and two or three of maurice's schoolfellows. mrs. hoyt was dispensing toasted buns, lebkücken and chocolate, and it was the coziest of companies. "just in time," mrs. hoyt told her. "sit right down wherever you can find a place, nan. we have none too many chairs, as you see." maurice jumped to his feet and gave nan his place while he took a position on the floor by jo, who was seated on a sofa cushion by the window. "this is nice," said nan in a satisfied tone. "it is so much like home, and one does get tired of foreign doings once in a while." "i thought we'd better stay in this drizzly afternoon," remarked mrs. hoyt. "juliet, for one, should not go out, for she has already taken cold." "if she has taken cold give her quinine; if she has taken anything else, give her thirty days," advised maurice, between bites of lebkücken. and of course everybody laughed, as he meant they should. "this is the best lebkücken i ever ate," said nan. "it is much better than any we have had." "that is because it is the real nuremburg article," mrs. hoyt told her. "there is none quite so good. have you been to nuremburg, nan?" "no, but perhaps we shall go before it gets too cold. aunt helen was speaking of it only yesterday. i want so much to see the hans sachs house, the old streets and the burg." "there is really a great deal to see there, and it is a convenient point from which to go to rothenburg, which, if anything, is even more picturesque. if you like an old mediæval town you will have it there." "then i hope we can go to both places. i particularly want to see nuremburg on account of its being the scene of the meistersinger. i love that street scene, and i hope the real thing looks just like it," replied nan, who by this time had heard several operas. "it is quite exact," mrs. hoyt told her. "boys, stop demolishing those cushions; this is not a dormitory for a pillow fight. do be sensible." "we would be if we could, mrs. hoyt," replied henry olcott, whom the boys dubbed heinz, as a german contraction of heinrich. "i don't see what mr. mann does with such a lot of animal spirits," continued mrs. hoyt. "there are fifty-seven varieties," remarked jo, "and they are all pickles." "not all, please, miss jo," said henry prostrating himself at jo's feet. "thy servant is a baked bean with tomato sauce; try heinz." "i can vouch for the sauce," retorted jo. "get up, silly, i am not a heathen idol." just as henry was rising to make a dignified salaam, one of the other boys gave him a push and down he went again on his knees, to the detriment of his new trousers. "i say, this is too much rough-house," exclaimed henry. "mrs. hoyt, call these fellows to order." "come, boys," cried mrs. hoyt, "you are getting too obstreperous. we shall have to sing hymns to sober you down." in a few minutes they were all standing at the piano singing "onward christian soldiers" with all the vim their youthful voices possessed, nan accompanying. they sang for an hour, the boys coming out strong on the hymn of the st. andrew's brotherhood, and all those with any sort of martial spirit. as a fitting close, mrs. hoyt selected "for all the saints who from their labors rest," since this was all saints day. the lads had entirely quieted down by the time this was ended, and dick langham, the most exuberant of them all, had actual tears in his eyes as he whispered to mrs. hoyt at parting, "i just wish my mother were here, mrs hoyt; i'd like to play baby and get in her lap. those old hymns took me right back home." "come to us whenever you want to be mothered," mrs. hoyt responded. "i won't promise to take you on my lap, dick, but i will do my best to cheer you up." "thank you, i'll come," said dick, bending low and kissing her hand. the boys trooped out as darkness settled down on the outer world. the electric lights showed shining reflections on the wet street. maximilianplatz looked quiet and empty. the "honk-honk" of an automobile once in a while speeding along, and the noise of a passing tram-car alone interrupted the quiet till the bells of the frauenkirche pealed out the angelus. the rain continued with greater force the next day, and jean, who had taken cold through staying too long in the cemetery, was kept at home from school. she found it rather dreary, for there were none of the accustomed pets which at home helped to beguile the hours, nor had she her favorite story-books. she was usually a patient little body and able to amuse herself, but to-day time hung heavily and she looked many times at the clock, saying mournfully, "it is such a long morning; i wish jack would come. what can i do, mother, to pass away the time?" at last having exhausted all her resources, mrs. corner was obliged to think up some new entertainment. "you can stand there by the window," she said, "and tell me what things you see that you don't see at home." this struck jean's fancy at once and she stationed herself where she could look up and down the street. "i see four _dienst_--do you say _mannen_?" "no, i think it would be _dienstmänner_." "then i see four _dienstmänner_ with red caps on." "that is one thing. write it down. here is a paper and pencil." "_dienstmänner_ on corner," wrote jean. "i see two soldiers not a bit like ours." "that makes two things." "and a man wearing a cloak, a man on a wheel, and the cloak flies out behind in the funniest way. nobody wears cloaks at home and all the men, women and children do here." she wrote this down carefully and then looked out again. "what do you see, sister anne?" asked her mother after a while. "i didn't see anything creer for a few minutes, but now i see something: the man and the dog pulling the cart together. that will be a fine thing to write down. now i see two of those great big horses nan likes so much; they are pulling a long wagon piled up with beer kegs, and there's another horse harnessed to one side the pole like you were talking about the other day. that is crite different from the things they do at home. oh, and there is an old woman with a load of wood on her back. she carries it in a sort of rack. it looks like a lot for such an old woman to carry; she is all bent over with the weight of it." "that you would scarcely see at home." jean was silent for a time. "there are a great many dogs," she said after a while, "_dachshunds_ more than any other kind; but those you see at home, though not so many. i reckon i won't put them down. now i see something," she began after a pause. "it is the woman that turns the switch there by the car track; she has that funny hat on, and a cloak. there goes a man and a little boy and both are dressed differently from any one we see at home. the man has on a _jäger_ costume, and i suppose the little boy's is meant to be the same. he has black velvet trousers embroidered with green, and a little jacket. his stockings come below the knees so the knees are bare. he has a hat on with a long feather sticking up in the back, and some _edelweiss_ at the side." she wrote this all down carefully and surveyed her work with pride. "i think that is a great deal to see," she told her mother, "and i suppose if i stayed long enough i would see crauntities of other things. i am going to take this home with me and show it to my friends." she watched for some time, but saw nothing more of unusual interest. "suppose we vary it a little," said her mother, seeing the amusement was beginning to lose its zest. "see how many things you know the german names of; that will be an excellent exercise, and will be an interesting way of studying." jean found that she knew much more than she supposed, though she did not always know how to spell the words, and soon became rather weary of looking them up in the dictionary, but she had really passed a long time at the window, and was relieved to find that very soon it would be time for jack to come in. so she sat down to watch for her. but jack seemed unusually late, and jean became actually impatient before she saw the little figure in red coat skipping across the street with her aunt helen, who had gone to the school for her. jack came in with her usual impetuosity. she carried a small package, and this she thrust into jean's hand. "it is for you," she said. "we stopped to get it, and that is why we were so late. we got it at that lovely toy shop on the karlsplatz." the windows of the toy shops were a never failing source of entertainment to even the older girls, for they held miracles of ingenuity in the way of toys. to jack and jean it seemed that such a kitchen as one window displayed, or such a wedding-party as another showed, it would be the height of bliss to possess. jean especially admired the tiny dishes which contained make-believe articles of food of every kind and description, all so natural that it seemed hard to believe they were not good to eat. jack liked the kitchen with its array of cooking utensils, its dust-pan and brush, and its basket of marketing which stood ready for the cook's attention. jean opened her package with pleased anticipation on her face, and found a pretty little doll and two of the tiny plates of make-believe food. the doll was one she had admired the last time she and jack had stood before the shop-window. "it is a darling," she said, "and i just love the little dishes. did you buy them yourself, jack, with your own money? it was lovely of you, if you did." "i bought the doll and aunt helen the dishes. oh, jean, what do you think we did? we stopped at the kiosk on our way home and aunt helen bought tickets for the loveliest fairy play that we are all going to next week. it is for children and it is called 'the princess herzlieb'; that means the princess heartlove. isn't it a lovely name?" "it is lovely and i do hope i can go," returned jean ecstatically. she loved fairy stories above everything. "of course you can go. it isn't for about ten days, and you are not really ill, you know." "i'm sort of ill," said jean putting on a lackadaisical expression; "mother thought i had fever last night." it would never do to have her condition underrated, of course. "well, you will surely be well in ten days." jean admitted that she might be well by that time, and after deciding to call the doll princess herzlieb, the two went off together to play. "i saw that little girl again this morning," jack remarked when they were established in a corner. "the little girl we saw yesterday in the cemetery, the poor little girl." "oh, and did you speak to her?" "no, i only smiled. i am thinking, jean, that it would be nice to do something for her at christmas. we have always done something for somebody then, you know." "but you don't know where she lives nor anything about her." "no, but maybe i shall see her again. i will watch for her. i saw her this morning as i was going to school." "what was she doing? just walking along?" "she was talking to the woman who turns the switch near our school." "then maybe the woman would know." "i thought of that, and if we don't see the little girl again before christmas we might ask the woman or get some one else to do it. i know nan would." "did she look very poor?" asked jean trying to settle the doll before a table of books she had built. "poorer than ever, for she hadn't her sunday clothes on." "maybe mother will let us give her some of our things." "maybe she will. i don't suppose she will have any christmas tree, do you?" "i don't suppose she will." "i heard mrs. hoyt say that everybody does have a tree in germany." "everybody?" "oh, i suppose there are some who are too poor. maybe the switch woman is the little girl's mother, and it was her father she was putting the candle and flowers for." "i am going to ask her when we know her." "oh, jean!" "yes, i am. i don't think it would be anything at all. jack, we ought to be saving up for christmas, and here you've been spending money for me." "because you had to stay in and have a stupid time." there was nothing worse to jack than to be deprived of her time out-of-doors. "it wasn't very stupid. mother made up some nice creer plays. i'll show you what i did." she produced her paper and informed her sister that she intended to add to her list of unusual things and to play the same play on rainy days in every new city she chanced to visit. jack quite approved of the play, and at first wanted to copy the paper, but finally decided that she would rather pick out the things herself. "i think i will get a little blank book," she said, "and then i can keep them all together." jean thought this a good plan, and they concluded that some of their next allowance should be spent in this way. by this time it was getting too dark to continue their play, and the princess herzlieb had finished her meal so they bore her into the sitting-room, where nan had just finished practicing, and where jo and mary lee were struggling over their german grammar. [illustration: chapter xiii the fairy play and its consequences] chapter xiii the fairy play and its consequences as the time for the fairy play approached the children grew more and more eager. even the elder members of the party were going; the hoyts, too, had taken tickets. "do let us have our own tickets, mother," begged jack before they started. "it seems so nice to really own them, and so much more important than if some one else gave them in. we will take good care of them. i'll put mine in my pocketbook, and i'll promise not to lose it." "it will be to your own sorrow if you do," her mother told her. "here it is. perhaps it is a good plan to let you have this much responsibility, for it will give you a chance of depending upon your own wits." jack stowed away her ticket safely, giving only stealthy peeps at it once in a while during the time they were on the street-cars which would take them to the gärtnerplatz theatre. at the last moment before they entered she looked to see if it were there, and held it tightly as she was about to follow the others. miss helen was in front, the older girls came next, jean was just ahead of jack. suddenly jack's eye fell upon a forlorn little figure by the door, wistfully watching the faces of the many happy children who were entering the door. jack paused, and gave a long look at the child to make sure she was the same they had seen in the cemetery on all saints day. she had not met her since the morning she saw her talking to the switch-tender, but she was very sure that she was not mistaken in believing her to be the one in whom she and jean were interested. she stood smiling at the little girl and received a timid smile in return. "_gehen zie_ in theatre?" asked jack in her best german. "_nein_," answered the child. "_warum?_" inquired jack. "_ich habe kein billet._" jack hesitated but a moment before she thrust her ticket into the hand of the child who looked astounded. "here," said jack, and then she rushed tumultuously away leaving the child gazing from the ticket to the fast disappearing figure of the little girl who hurried off. jack had a good bump of locality and knew exactly what car to take in order to return home, and thither she went, not without some regrets at her impetuous generosity, it must be confessed, but on the whole quite satisfied with herself. it seemed a very long afternoon, but she went bravely through it, occupying the time by writing to her friend carter barnwell, and by doing such things as were not encouraged when her elders were at home. it was a fine opportunity to pick out tunes on the piano, for example, and to leap from chair to chair pretending that there was only water between. she could also rummage and dress up, choosing nan's frocks for the latter performance, since these would trail further on the ground. she put a suit of mary lee's on a pillow and pretended it was another person while she, herself, was the princess herzlieb, so after all the time did not go slowly. she was standing by the window watching when the family returned. "jack corner, you are the most surprising child i ever saw," began nan. "oh, but you missed it," cried jean. "you never saw anything so lovely." "hush, jean," said mrs. corner. "jack, dear, i want to know how it happened the little girl had your place." "we were so surprised when she came in," said mary lee. "we thought you were right behind us, and that the little girl had taken the wrong seat for there were two empty just the other side, though they were filled later, but no indeed, there was the number all right. you never saw such an amazed child as she was in all your life. i don't suppose she had ever been in such a place before." "tell us about it, jack," said her mother taking the child's hands in hers. "i saw her standing on the steps watching the people go in, and she looked so poor and miserable, and i thought of the candle and the flowers and that maybe she never did have any good times, so i asked her if she were going in and she said no, she hadn't any ticket, so i said here, and i gave her mine and ran." "you impulsive little child," said her mother. "why, dearie, rather than have had you give, up the play i would gladly have let you take my place. indeed, as soon as we had inquired of the little girl how she came to have the ticket i did go out to find you, but you were nowhere to be seen." jack looked a little regretful. "what did the little girl say?" she asked. "what did you all talk to her about?" "your aunt helen asked if she had found the ticket, for she thought you must have dropped it. but the little girl said, no, a _mädchen_, a _gnädiges fräulein_ gave it to her, and then we knew." jack turned eagerly to jean. "did you ask her name, jean, and where she lived?" "i forgot. i was so excited about the play, but aunt helen asked, didn't she, mother?" "yes, her name is bertha metzger, and she lives over the other side of the market. did i understand you to say, jack, that you had seen her before?" "why, yes, didn't jean tell you? she is the little girl we saw in the cemetery that sunday, the one who had only a little candle and such a measly tiny bunch of flowers." "and that is why you felt like doing this for her, i see." "of course that was it." "oh, jack," exclaimed jean again rapturously, "it was so lovely. the princess herzlieb was bee-yutiful, and the prince so handsome. it was like a real fairy-land with roses and things, and the fairy godmother lived in a cunning house, and had the dearest boy pigeons to carry her messages. they would flap their wings just like real pigeons, only they were people dressed up to look like pigeons. then there was a funny fat old cook that made everybody laugh; you ought to have seen him, he was so ridiculous." "i don't care," said jack with pretended indifference. "and the brother of the princess was changed into stone because he was a very bad boy, and the princess could break the spell only by going into the king's kitchen and working like a servant for a year, and in all that time she couldn't speak a word; if she did there would be no chance of her freeing her brother from the spell. oh, it was so exciting i was so afraid she would have to speak." "i don't care," said jack, not quite so bravely. "and," jean went on still intent upon her tale, "there was a great big christmas tree at the last and the king and the king's brother--he was the prince who loved the princess--and a lot of the court were all there, then afterward the prince found the princess and she had served her time as a servant so she could free her brother, so she did, and oh, it was fine. there were so many lovely things. there was a fairy who appeared and disappeared like magic, and--oh, yes, i forgot, there was such a funny dance----" "i--don't care," said jack in a broken voice and rushing from the room. after all, her sacrifice had not seemed to mean much. every one had been entertained and had not missed her greatly. even jean, her own twin, had not said she was sorry that her little sister was not there, but seemed, on the contrary, rather to triumph over her. they had not said much about bertha, and--well the tears began to run down her cheeks as she stood alone in the dark by the window of the room where she and jean slept. presently the door opened softly and some one came in. "is that you here in the dark, jacksie?" it was nan who spoke. "i am so sorry you missed the play. i couldn't half enjoy it for thinking about you. but, honey, you did the loveliest thing for little bertha, and you are a real little princess herzlieb yourself, because poor bertha is shut out from everything, from all the lovely things and the comforts you have and you broke the spell by making a sacrifice, just as the princess herzlieb did in the play." "oh, nan, did i?" "of course, for you gave her such a wonderful pleasure. i wish you could have seen her great eyes and her happy little face. she will remember this afternoon all her life, i am sure. aunt helen and i talked to her as we were coming out, and we are going to find out more about her. her mother is dead and she doesn't know where her father is. she lives with an aunt who has a great many children and i think must be very poor." "maybe she is the switch woman." "very likely. at any rate we shall find out soon, and we are going to see about a jolly good christmas for them all. do you remember last year and little christine? you did that, too, little princess heartlove. your old nan understands, doesn't she? i know you can't help being half sorry, but when you see how it will all turn out for bertha, you will be glad you served without speaking." "you are so nice, nan," said jack, giving her sister a close hug. "you always do understand, and you never think i am half as bad as other people think." "you are anything but bad. sometimes you do thoughtless things, but you don't really mean to be naughty." "i forget." "i know you do, and after a while you will learn to remember. you don't do half as many wrong things as you used to. i know something else; i know if you hadn't spent your money for jean's doll you would have had enough to buy a ticket for bertha and could have kept your own." "how did you know?" said jack a little embarrassed. "because i know what your allowance is, and i know you had only a tiny bit left after you bought the doll." "i had just car fare to take me home." "exactly what i thought. any one of us older ones would have been glad to help you out, but like the reckless little body that you are, you rushed off and didn't give us a chance. if you had waited a few minutes you might have known we'd come out to hunt you up." "i wanted bertha to have the ticket and i thought i'd better go, so she wouldn't try to give it back to me." "oh, of course, i know exactly why you did it, but next time give the rest of us a chance too. we could all have chipped in and have bought her a ticket, that is supposing there were any to be had. they were very cheap, anyhow, so you could both have had your fun." jack gave a little sigh. she realized that she had rather overstepped the mark in her effort to be generous, but now she did not regret it, for jean had only seen a princess herzlieb, and nan had said she was one herself; that was much better, and nan had missed her, whether any one else did or not. it was worth while to have done something that no one else had thought of doing, and for which nan had praised her. true to their word miss helen and nan did go to hunt up bertha metzger, and found that she really did live with the switch-tender in a little back street. the place was poor but respectable enough. frau pfeffer, the aunt, worked very hard to support her five small children and bertha, too, and it was hard to earn enough for food and clothing for all. bertha's father had suddenly disappeared, and had not been heard of for a long time. he had been nearly crazed by the loss of his wife, and about the same time had lost his place in a factory. frau pfeffer, herself, had come from the country after the death of her husband and had tried to find her brother, whom she believed to be in munich, but had not been able to learn anything about him. he had gone away to look for work, his neighbors said, and had promised to return for his little girl whom he had sent to her aunt. there was nothing of the whining beggar about frau pfeffer. she told her tale simply as a matter of course, and did not hint at her needs. she worked hard, but not so hard as many others, for she could sit down much of the time, and though it was often cold, still that was nothing when one was used to it, and she considered herself very fortunate to have the work to do. bertha could help a great deal. she was to be relied upon, and did not let the children get into any harm. the father's name was hans metzger, and she was sure if he were alive he would come back. the conversation was not carried on without some difficulty, for frau pfeffer's bavarian dialect was hard to understand, and miss helen was not very proficient in german. nan had a better command of the language and was very quick, but even she found herself at a loss for a word very often, and oftener still, could not distinguish what frau pfeffer was saying. miss helen and nan walked home together after their visit, coming through an old part of the city, and happening upon various curious corners where old painted houses faced them, and where the crooked streets would have misled them if they had not carried a map. as they went along they planned what they should do for the pfeffer family. every christmas for several years the corners had tried to help some one who needed assistance, and they had been most fortunate in their efforts. the sad little picture of a forlorn child offering one meagre candle and a few broken flowers as a decoration for her mother's grave on all saints day had moved them, although it was jack who had really done the most to awaken the interest of the others. jack, whom one would never suspect of such things, and who had given her family more anxiety and care than all the rest put together, yet it was she who, the year before, had given her christmas stocking to a little lame girl in new york, for with all her thoughtlessness and her capacity for getting into scrapes, hers was the warmest heart of all. that same day dr. woods came in, and was told the story which was at the moment the most interesting theme of conversation. he, too, thought it a case which should be given attention. "what we want to do," nan told him, "is to find the father. frau pfeffer is quite sure he will return, but he may not be alive, though she firmly believes he is." "perhaps i can help there," said the doctor. "what is his name?" "hans metzger." "where was he last seen?" dr. woods took out his note-book. "he left munich to find work." "do you know where he intended to go?" "no, but perhaps his neighbors would know." "i will inquire. can you tell me what was his last address?" "i can give you his sister's. no doubt she will know where he lived last." "that will do. all right. i will start up a line of investigation at once. perhaps among us all, we may get hold of a clue. and how goes the german, nan?" "it is a fearsome language," said nan solemnly. "i wish you could have heard me trying to make frau pfeffer understand me, though i think i struggled harder, if anything, to understand her. such a dialect! i don't see how they make it out themselves, and i don't see, either, how they master the german pure and--no, i can't say simple, for it is exactly the opposite." "i admit it is pretty hard, and if i hadn't tackled it early, i would be in a regular fuddle now. but i took my grasp young, and have managed to hold on, as you will do." "i don't know. i like french, or any of the latin languages better." "yet there is a sort of rugged dignity about german which is very attractive. its literature is very rich." "i suppose so, and i may find its attractions later, but not when i am stumbling into pitfalls caused by declensions and constructions." "if i can help you out at any time, don't fail to press me into service." "i may keep you to that offer." the other girls, including juliet hoyt, considered dr. paul much too elderly to be interesting, and at his appearance generally betook themselves to the hoyts' rooms, where the more frivolous company of schoolboys suited their tastes. nan, therefore, was often left to do the honors if her mother and aunt were not at hand, and nan, be it said, did not consider it a hardship, for she liked dr. paul, and often when mrs. corner and miss helen returned from an early concert they would find the two laughing and talking together most happily. nan liked the hoyts and enjoyed the nonsense which went on in their sitting-room where there were seldom less than two or three boys, but her love of music was too real for her not wanting to escape from a series of dances banged out to rag-time measure. "it is more than i can stand," she told dr. paul. "a little rag-time is jolly enough, and i am not so superior as to despise it altogether, but a whole evening of it is more than i can stand." "yet even that is better than some other kinds," responded dr. paul. "there happens to be a man at our _pension_ who at home has the reputation of being an accomplished musician because he professes to play classical music. he comes from some small town, and his companions are evidently not among the elect. he does play execrably. i wish you could hear him." "i don't," interrupted nan laughing. "i know the kind. i suppose he will keep right on for the rest of his life as he has begun, varying his performance sometimes by bringing in a bit of improvisation, terrible improvisation which has no rhyme, reason, melody or anything else. i know such a person who blandly told me she sometimes altered chopin and beethoven to suit herself. fancy! oh, i know your man will cheerfully keep on, not knowing the difference between good music and bad, and because he has always associated with rag-time people who think any one who plays anything heavier than hiawatha must have a standard so high that ordinary mortals cannot venture to criticise the performance." "i perceive you are acquainted with the species. yet, after all, i sometimes think it is a pity to know too much about music, for one certainly has a narrower range of enjoyment." "but think of the quality of it." "i wonder if it is really more than that of a man i used to know at college who would say, 'give me a bag of peanuts and an interesting book and i'll enjoy myself.' why, i read half of 'les miserables' at one sitting." "for peanuts read candy, and you will have about the speech of a schoolmate of mine." "are you going to take up counterpoint and thorough-bass?" asked the doctor. "dear me, no. i don't aspire to composition. if i overcome technique and get in a little harmony i shall be doing well. i am doing intricate bach things now, but i have an inspiring teacher and i don't mind the hard work. you should hear her play. talk of temperament! i never saw anything like her." "and i fancy miss nan corner is not lacking in that particular." "i believe mr. harmer used to think so, but i feel like a very automaton compared to frau burg-schmidt." "i haven't heard you play since you were at home last winter, but----" "then you wouldn't let me practice; you told me to frivol, i remember." "you needed to frivol then. that is where it was a time to quench the fires of genius." "i believe i have felt years older since that experience," said nan thoughtfully, "and i am sure it is why mother does not want to leave us alone again. i believe you had something to say to that, too, dr. paul." "you mustn't expect me to give away the secrets of my profession." "then it is about the only thing you aren't willing to give away," returned nan laughing. "do you like stingy people?" "ask a virginian that? dear me, what are you thinking of? no, i suppose i am lacking in a proper admiration for thrift when i say that i would rather that a person were too extravagant than parsimonious." "i shall never be a rich man, i am afraid," said the doctor with a half sigh. "comfort yourself with thinking about the deceitfulness of riches, and keep on being the generous man your father is, and you will be all right. listen to my grandmotherly advice and remember that i have three younger sisters to deal with." "and i have none." "then consider that nan corner is ready to be as sisterly as she knows how, for any better big brother than you are to us all, i do not care to see. here come mother and aunt helen." "and you have not played for me." "you must wait till my joints are so limber that i can make my fingers form a right angle with the back of my hand; that is what i am aiming at now." then mrs. corner and miss helen came in and the doctor went forward to meet them. [illustration: chapter xiv "stille nacht"] chapter xiv "stille nacht" that christmas was very near at hand was apparent by more than one outward and visible sign. "though they don't begin to prepare for it nearly as early as we do," remarked mary lee. "i think it is nicer not to," said jack, "for there they begin so soon that it fools you into thinking it is very near when it is weeks off, and you get so used to seeing christmas things that you forget they aren't there all the time." "the first thing we must do to make us feel that christmas is coming is to see the _krippen_," said miss helen. "what are _krippen_?" asked jean. "they are representations of the nativity, generally, though sometimes they represent other religious subjects such as the flight into egypt, or the heralding angels appearing to the shepherds. they are often very elaborate, and the best display of them is at the national museum, where you can see fac-similes not only of german _krippen_ but of italian and sicilian ones. the different churches also have them. there is one of the advent now at the theatinerkirche. you twins will be delighted with the little figures which are sometimes really wonderful." [illustration: the children stood in awe and delight at the krippen.] they all started out the very next day to view the _krippen_, stopping first at st. cajetans-hofkirche on the theatinerstrasse, where the children stood in awe and delight before the scene of john the baptist preaching the coming of our lord. the tiny figures were very perfect, the centurion soldiers and listening multitude were artistically grouped, a little brook of running water made a pleasant murmur as it wound its way along. it was not more than four inches wide, but it added much to the scene. the whole was lighted and stood out in strong contrast to the dim church in which it was enshrined. as miss helen dropped some _pfennige_ into the cup ready for contributions a sepulchral voice in some dark corner murmured: "_gott sei dank._" through the lower rooms of the museum, where it was impossible not to linger a little to see the many curious and interesting things, the party took its way to the upper floor, where through a dark labyrinthine way they passed to find the lighted _krippen_ set up on each side. there were a great many, and it took a long time to make the rounds. some were quite simple; others were very elaborate. there were street scenes with every conceivable sort of figure, wonderful interiors and exteriors where the wise men were shown in all the pomp of eastern magnificence; there were gardens and palaces, temples and churches, processions, and, above all, the rude stable with the manger and the holy family. "they are the most marvellous things i ever saw," said first one and then another of the girls. "such perfect little figures, such fascinating landscapes, such variety of expression and action, such typical costumes." "the sicilian ones are the best," decided nan, "though those of southern italy are about as good." "i wouldn't have missed it for anything," declared jo, as they came to the last one. "you are a duck, miss helen, to think of bringing us here. i am going to haunt the churches from now on to see how many _krippen_ i can discover." "oh, can't we go back and do it all over?" asked jean. "dear me," said miss helen, "i thought we had made a very careful examination of them all." "but i do like them so much and i can't remember them all by seeing them just once." "perhaps we can come again," her mother comforted her by saying. "i think this must do for now, and there will be others in the churches." "they will be changed quite often at the theatinerkirche, i am told," said miss helen. "i believe there is a new _krippe_ each week." "oh, there comes a new word. i suppose _krippe_ is the singular and _krippen_ the plural," said mary lee. "naturally. the word i find means literally a manger. we can see a very interesting display of _krippen,_ christmas ornaments and such things down on sonnenstrasse and the sendlingeethorplatz. the peasants make the little _krippen_ and bring them in for sale just before christmas." "oh, do they have them anywhere but in the churches?" "yes, indeed. a great many private houses have them and they are considered quite as much an institution in some families as the christmas tree, though of course, these would be the roman catholic families. you can see them of all sorts and sizes. munich is roman catholic, you know, although there are many protestants here and many protestant churches." "i should love to have a _krippe_ to take home even if i am not a roman catholic, mother," said jean. "couldn't we have one?" "i don't see any reason for not having one, although it would be rather hard to pack. we will see about it." "and may we go this afternoon to look at them?" "haven't you had enough _krippen_ for one day? i think we'd better wait especially as the choice will be better a little later on," her aunt told her. the christmas trees were arriving, and as the party proceeded homeward they saw them being set up in their little stands, in every square and open space. "they do everything here in such a nice pleasant way," said nan, as she and her aunt walked through the forest of trees standing erect all along the maximilianplatz. "at home now, they throw the trees in a pile or crowd them together in any old place. here each tree looks as if it were really growing, and that this were an avenue of them growing just for christmas. you can so easily see exactly how they look and can pick out what you like without any trouble. how good and christmassy it smells, and what quantities of trees there are, then there are more coming. can they sell so many, i wonder? the whole city seems to be full of them." "when you consider that nearly every family in munich will probably have a tree, you can imagine the number will be somewhat lessened by christmas eve." and true enough, as it proved, there was scarcely a tree left, at least on the maximilianplatz, by the day before christmas. more than one of the number went to the _pension_ bauer, and one was purchased for the family of frau pfeffer. before this, however, there was the expedition to sonnenstrasse to see the collection of christmas-tree ornaments, _krippen_ and such things which the country folk had brought for sale, and which were set out in small booths all along the street. jean's fancy fell upon a tiny _krippe_ which she and jack bore away in triumph. the days were very short and sunless, so that nightfall came very early, but in spite of that the streets were full of people who filled the big shops, or loitered along the streets, stopping leisurely before the windows to look in, and because it seemed the general custom for every one to go out as soon as it got dark, the corner family followed suit. "i suppose they do it to save candles," said miss helen. "there is german thrift for you." "i think it is great fun," said nan. "why shouldn't they come out and look at the pretty things? the shop-windows are very attractive especially now, and some of the things are very cheap. i saw a fascinating silver chain on sonnenstrasse, and it was ever so much cheaper than in other shops in more fashionable parts of the city. it is much handsomer, too. jo and i gloated over that window." "that was the one from which we had such difficulty in dragging you, wasn't it?" "yes, we saw so many pretty cheap things there, and we wanted to buy them every one. i'd love to give jo that chain." "how about giving it to nan?" "oh, it's too expensive to give myself when all i can rake and scrape must go toward buying other things. if i can't get that special chain for jo, there is another that i think will come within my limit and which she likes quite as well. don't you love the way the men come sauntering along and stand before the windows? it gives one such a sense of leisure and real enjoyment of life to see them go dawdling about. that one we just passed is going to give his wife furs for christmas, i know. he is looking at every piece in that window with a critical eye. oh, aunt helen, do look. did you ever see anything quite like that? a huge sausage dressed up with a huge satin bow, red satin at that, and there is a boiled ham pranked out with blue ribbons and artificial flowers. truly _schinken_ and _wurst_ are dear to the german heart." they were coming around by the karlsthor to enter one of the big department stores where nan had seen a certain book she wanted to get. "i would like you to see if you don't think it would be a good thing to give to dr. paul," she said to her aunt. "he has been so kind and good in so many ways, just like a big brother. i must give him something, and as he is very fond of dogs i thought i would get that funny book of _dachshunds_ for him." miss helen agreed that this would answer admirably. "there are some dear little pieces of peasant pottery out on turkenstrasse," nan went on. "i think they are lovely. on the next street to the pottery shop are some queer wooden boxes which are made by the peasants, too. i want two or three of them. one i shall give to juliet hoyt, and a little jar to mrs. hoyt. i haven't decided what i shall give to maurice." "you certainly are finding out all the odd corners and out-of-the-way shops," said her aunt. "i snoop around when i am coming home from my lessons, and frau burg-schmidt told me about the boxes." "i should like to see them, myself." they decided that they would have time to hunt up the two shops, and continued their walk, coming home with mysterious packages which they refused to show to any one, and which they promptly stowed away with their other christmas purchases. from this out there was much whispering and many remarks, such as: "nan and i are going out together this afternoon; you needn't come, jean." or, "mother, would you mind not going with us to-day?" but there were other times when all must go together to select what was intended for bertha metzger and her little cousins. after talking the matter over mrs. corner and miss helen decided that it would be better for the girls to contribute from their regular christmas money, and not receive any extra amount. "they will be much happier knowing the joy of sacrifice," mrs. corner said. "they are perfectly willing to go without a tree for themselves if we will furnish one for the pfeffers, and each has agreed to be entirely satisfied with a modest present from her sisters, so as to have more to spend for bertha." "you are a wise mother, mary," said miss helen. "i am sure the girls will enjoy their christmas much more for having to exercise a little self-denial. i don't suppose i need be limited in making my gifts, need i?" she asked laughing. "you don't want to discipline me, do you?" "i don't believe you need it," returned mrs. corner affectionately. there were many interviews with frau pfeffer, and on the morning before christmas eve all five of the little pfeffers with bertha were sent to spend the day with a neighbor, and then the corners took possession. the tree was set up and each had a hand in the trimming, the twins feeling very important, as this was the first time in their lives that they had been allowed to take part in such a performance. when it was finished they all stood off to see the effect of their handiwork. "it's perfectly lovely," cried jack ecstatically. "i'm glad we made up our minds to have this instead of one of our own, for it is much more fun to trim it for some one else." "the little angel on top is beautiful," said jean, "and that star on the very tip is so bright. yes, i am glad they have the tree instead of us, but i am glad we can have our stockings, jack." jack agreed that she would not like to give up the fun of hanging up her stocking, and they stood looking at the tree while nan, mary lee and jo were arranging the christmas packages. besides the warm clothes for each member of the family, there were toys and a basket of substantial food. "do put in something sweet and unwholesome," nan had begged when her mother and aunt were packing the basket. "need it be unwholesome because it is sweet?" said mrs. corner laughing. "if they don't eat too much at once, i am sure it need not be." "and please don't say we have given foolish things to the children," nan went on. "the clothes are very important, but after what you and mrs. hoyt have given we think they ought to have toys. they are so cheap that they can have a lot. we have only one apiece from each of us." "i don't think that will be too many," mrs. corner decided. "they will enjoy a few much more than an overabundance." so the foolish toys were added, and stood in proper array with the more sensible gifts. railway switches must be turned even on christmas day, but frau pfeffer had a substitute on christmas eve, and could joyfully celebrate that holiday dear to the german nation. it was scarcely less dear to the party of americans who gathered in _pension_ bauer. that they might have more to spend on the pfeffers they had agreed not to invest more than fifty _pfennige_ on any but the pfeffers, outside their own families, and it had been great fun to see what could be had for the small sum of twelve cents. but munich was full of cheap and pretty articles, and the assortment was varied, nan's peasant boxes and jars showing up finely. these presents were to be distributed on christmas eve, german fashion, while the family were to have their own celebration on christmas morning, as they always did at home. "you can't come into the sitting-room," said miss helen speaking through a crack in the door as the children returned from their morning at frau pfeffer's. "you can't come in here," called mrs. hoyt poking her head out of the room on the opposite side of the hallway. "dear me! where can we go? what secrets!" cried they all, only too glad there were such. "i suppose we can go into our own rooms," said nan. "come on, girls." the odor of _küchen_ filled the air, and there was an excitement in the frequent scurryings to and fro of the maids. "who all are coming to-night to help you celebrate?" asked juliet hoyt who joined the others in nan's room after the work of tying up packages was finished, and it was nearing supper time. "dr. woods; i think that is all," mary lee told her. "you see we are quite a party in ourselves, seven in all, and he will make eight." "four of maurice's friends are coming," juliet said, "so we shall be seven; that makes fifteen in all. not a small number of americans to get together. of course fräulein bauer will have a tree. she has asked us all to come and see it, and she has been baking wonderful things, the maids say. those silly boys, i know, have been spending every penny of their allowances on us." "they shouldn't do it," said nan severely. "we have only fifty _pfennige_ presents for them." "they would do it. mamma tried to reason with them, but it was no use, and i suppose we shall be deluged with candy, flowers and books. mamma laid down the law and told them we would positively accept no other kind of gift, and that she would countenance no extravagance." "i am glad she did," said nan. "it would be very embarrassing if they gave any of us handsome gifts." "it is sort of fun to be in here talking about boys," remarked jo. "it reminds me of our boarding-school days. i declare i could eat something good and homey this minute. it seems hours since we had dinner, and i have had a long walk since." nan jumped down from the bed, where she was sitting with her feet curled under her, and fumbled among some packages in a drawer, presently bringing out a bag which she tossed over to jo. "there," she said, "that's all you'll get. you must save up for this evening for we are going to have an extra fine supper." jo opened the bag, fished out a pretzel and began to nibble it. "just the thing to keep me occupied," she said, "and yet not too sustaining. shouldn't you like to see the little pfeffers when they discover the tree?" "and bertha," put in jack. "bertha, of course; she counts in with the rest." "frau pfeffer was so excited that i am sure she has been sending cars off on the wrong track all day," said mary lee. "she is to leave at six and it is that now," said nan. "dear me, it seems much later for it has been dark so long. i wonder what she will do first, look at her presents or light up the tree." "the first thing she will probably get something to eat, for she will be hungry, and so will the children. i suppose bertha and the five will be standing waiting outside when she gets there," mary lee decided. "but will she let them in till the tree is lighted?" said jack. "it would be so much more of a surprise." "we shall find out to-morrow, for i am sure we shall see some of them," said nan. "it is really christmas eve for it is as dark as a pocket. don't let's have any light. froliche weihnacht, girls! now let's be cozy and do something to suit the season till we are called to supper. jo, you're nearest the stove, just put a shovel or two of coal on that fire, so we can be good and warm. i don't think it has died down entirely." jo opened the door of the great tiled affair which stood in the corner, and peeped in. "i think there is enough left to start up again," she said as she threw on a few shovelfuls of coal. "i used to stand in such awe of these great porcelain stoves, or ovens, as they call them here, but they are not so bad, and when i get home i shall deny the report that one cannot keep warm in winter anywhere in europe. i'm sure we have been warm enough. there, it is going ahead splendidly. what shall we do to be in keeping with christmas eve?" "suppose we sing stille nacht," suggested juliet. and they began the good old german christmas hymn, their young voices sounding sweetly to those busy in the next room. then, as if answering, from the street below a band struck up the same air. the hymn was scarcely finished before anna came along the corridor, knocking at each door to say: "_zu tisch, bitte_," and they trooped out to the feast of good things which the fräulein had prepared for this special occasion, and which was served earlier than usual since a second supper would be ready about nine o'clock. the severe miss smart from chelsea had departed to spend the holiday in the mountains, thither, too, the herr doctor and his mother had gone, and the jovial german was taking supper with friends, so only the american contingency appeared at table. herr eckler was to return later, fräulein bauer told them. "when can we go to the sitting-room?" asked the twins as they arose from the table. "in a few minutes," mrs. corner told them. "you must visit us when you have exhausted your own surprises," said mrs. hoyt, "and then we will all go and look at the fräulein's tree." the corner children and jo gathered around their door on one side the hallway; juliet and maurice with the four boys, who came in a bunch, on the other waited till at the word "ready!" all rushed into the rooms opened to them. "a tree after all!" cried the twins. "yes, it was the good fräulein who sent it in all trimmed," mrs. corner told them, "and she has given us each one of these." "these" proved to be wonderful gingerbread figures such as all had seen in bakeshop windows for the past fortnight, and which were really marvels of the baker's art. then came the little presents from the hoyts and their boy friends. for nan a small glass with a münchen kindel upon it; a little can with the inscription "i hope you will enjoy your can o' tea (_k-no-te_)," this from maurice, and from juliet a photograph of nan's favorite tenor. for the others were various gifts: wooden peasant boxes, little steins, queer figures, odd pictures. jean had a whole german dinner in imitation, sausages, cabbage, cheese, fruit and cakes all set on the tiniest of plates and looking really good enough to eat. the schoolboys sent in a huge box of candies with a ridiculous little piano for nan, a tiny _dachshund_ for mary lee, a nest of the funny figures they called the "spazieren-gehen family" for jo. an invitation to a christmas play at the gärtnerplatz theatre signed by the four boys, fell to jack's share, while for each, including mrs. corner and miss helen, were flowers. a rap at the door interrupted the chatter. juliet put in her head. "come over and see our show as soon as you can," she said. "we don't want to put out the candles till you come." and all the children followed her leaving their elders to extinguish the candles on their own tree. another tree was lighted in the hoyts' room, and other gingerbread figures stood prominently forth; the fräulein had treated the hoyts as generously as the corners. more candy and flowers from the boys, a delightfully funny calendar for juliet and a second nest of spazieren-gehen figures. the boys were having a great time over their own gifts. nan and mary lee had set their wits to work upon a square wooden box, in the centre of which they had grouped four tiny max and moritz figures. these were securely glued on, and from each corner of the lid was a deeply grooved line burnt in the white wood. the inscription read: "from the four corners to the four schoolboys." inside the box were four rolls of the christmas dainty known as mazapan which the girls had wrapped up in this brown paper to imitate sausages. this special sweet had been lately discovered, and the boys had all expressed a wish to taste it. "such clever people," said henry olcott. "we're going to toss up for the box and the fellow who gets it will be in luck, so he will have to treat the rest." by the time the candles had burned down came a summons to the dining-room. another tree met the sight of the children, and a table set out with cakes and a light punch. herr eckler had arrived and pretty soon all were dancing, jack spinning around with the portly herr in the roundest of round waltzes to the music pounded out by the fräulein's brother. dr. woods arrived late, but joined in the dance, and later the whole party, except mrs. corner and the twins, went to the solemn and beautiful service at the frauenkirche, a fitting close to a german christmas eve. [illustration: chapter xv in the mountains] chapter xv in the mountains "i like my opera-glasses and bag better than anything, and my lovely chain next," said nan sitting up in bed to examine her presents. mrs. corner and miss helen always breakfasted in their own rooms, and on this occasion the girls concluded to do the same, since cocoa and rolls were not difficult to dispose of before the gifts were unwrapped. "i like my fairy-tale book," came a small voice from the next room. "what do you like, you jo keyes over there?" nan called out. no reply came from the head buried in the pillow. "here, you josephine schlüssel, are you asleep? why don't you speak up?" nan picked up a worsted slipper and threw it across the room. the slipper landed on jo's head and she responded by raising rather a teary face. "you've all been so perfectly lovely to me," she said, "so much lovelier than they ever are at home. instead of just giving me fifty _pfennige_ presents as you ought to have done, you've treated me just as if i were one of you." "well, you needn't cry about it," said nan roughly, herself quite overcome by this evidence of feeling on jo's part. "you are one of us, of course. tell what you like best, old girl, or i'll throw this other slipper at you, and then i can't get up to-day, for i am never going to set my feet on these cold boards." "oh, my kodak, of course," returned jo. "it was so dear of your aunt helen to give it to me, and it is such a beauty. i have always so longed for one. then that dear chain, nan, you----" "time to hear from you, mary lee," cried nan interrupting further remarks from jo. "what's your particular wanity?" mary lee hesitated a moment. "i think i like the picture of miss dolores in her _manta de manila._" "i knew you'd say that," responded nan. "i was just waiting to hear. hallo, jack, in there, why don't you let us hear from you?" "i'm coming in to tell you." the answer was prompt, and presently jack in red wrapper and slippers appeared, stocking in hand. "i'll tell you, nan, but i won't tell any one else," she said. she came close to the bed and whispered something in nan's ear. nan laughed. it was her own present to her little sister which was the one preferred. it was a cunning figure of an owl which nan had marked: "the moping owl doth to the moon complain." it was like jack to prefer this. the owl was of the porcelain ware for which bavaria is well known, and when the head was removed jack discovered the owl was filled with chocolates, though it was not this fact which made her favor it above the rest of her gifts. "come in here with me," said nan. "there is room enough for two, if we cuddle." she moved over that jack might snuggle down by her side. "i think you're mean to leave me," came a plaintive voice from the next room. "come get in with me," called mary lee; "though you won't have long to stay for we must get up soon if we are going to church." jean pattered across the floor and crept in with mary lee, to turn out the contents of her stocking for her sister's inspection. "did you know you were going to get the chain, nan?" asked jack. "no, indeed, and it is the very one i liked so much. i don't see how aunt helen knew." "she asked jo; didn't she, jo?" "she mought and then again she moughtn't," returned jo non-committally. "what did dr. paul give you?" jack asked. "oh, didn't you see that lovely great book?" said nan. "it is called 'werkes altes meister,' and is full of illustrations of all the finest pictures. it is perfectly splendid, but i am afraid he spent more for it than he ought." "is he very poor?" asked jack. "he doesn't look like it." "oh, he's not a pauper. old dr. woods is quite well off, but it is expensive for dr. paul to take this course over here, and naturally he is not earning anything, and has a proper pride about not calling upon his father for more than is necessary." "will he be rich some day?" "i don't know. i hope he will always have enough, but he is too generous to be very rich." "i think carter will have plenty for both of us, don't you?" said jack innocently. "i wonder if they have christmas trees in california." "you silly-billy," replied nan laughing. "it is time to get up, goosey-lucy, owly-powly. we shall have to hurry or we won't get to church to-day. 'a hitch of your heel and a hitch of your toe' and out you go." she gave jack a swing out on the floor, and herself sprang from bed. the three elder girls occupied the largest room in which were three beds, while the two younger had a little room next. they found mrs. corner and miss helen ready for church when the five appeared in hats and coats. "we've been making holiday plans," said miss helen, "and we'll talk about them on the way. what do you all say to a few days in the mountains to look at the winter sports and get a bit more sunshine than we do here?" "fine!" exclaimed the corners, jo looking a little dubious. "it's not far to partenkirchen," mrs. corner told them, "and a change will do us all good. mrs. hoyt has just stopped in to say that she and her youngsters have decided to go, and some of the boys will go with them. we had some talk about it last night, but hadn't come to any definite decision then. i think a little play won't hurt you, and you will get back to work in season." "but, mrs. corner," said jo, "could i possibly afford it?" "oh, yes, i think you could; the larger the party the better terms we shall be able to make, and it will not be very expensive for a few days. i really think you ought to go, for you might want to write a theme upon the winter sports of germany, and it might give you a scholarship at smith college." jo smiled. she longed to be one of the party, but could not be sure that she ought. miss helen took her arm when they reached the street and the two walked off talking in low tones. by the time they reached the church jo looked back at nan and her mother. "i'm going," she said. it was when they returned from church that they found a row of little pfeffers, headed by bertha metzger, standing waiting for them. each one following bertha's example--having been evidently well drilled--bobbed a curtsey and kissed, one after another, the hands of the "_gnädiges fräulein_" wishing them _froliche weihnacht_, and murmuring a blessing in chorus. this proceeding so amused the twins that they giggled outright, but the others, though embarrassed, took the matter more seriously. jack would fain have carried off bertha to see their own tree, but the watchful guardian of the pfeffers could not be induced to leave her charges for a second, and after answering the questions put to her, marshaled her cousins in order, according to size, and marched them off with a distinct feeling that they had admirably performed their duty. they all looked very comfortable in their new outfits, and were apparently very proud of themselves. it was a merry crowd which boarded the train the next day for partenkirchen, and it required the combined efforts of the elder ladies to keep the young people in order. there was much talk of _ski-ing_ and _rodeling_, and all the young folks were very enthusiastic about trying these amusements. "_skis_ are rather expensive," remarked jo, "and i, for one, shan't buy any, that's certain." "you can hire them," nan told her, "and that is what we are all going to do, for who can tell whether we shall like the sport or not? as we are to be over here for only one winter it will not be worth while to tote those great long things all over creation with us." they had left munich in a gray mist which shut out all suggestion of sunlight, but when they reached the pretty mountain town of partenkirchen, at the foot of the zugspitze, the skies were as blue as summer and the sun was shining brilliantly on the snowy mountainsides. the ride through the bavarian highlands had been beautiful indeed, and the spirits of the party, far from lessening, became wilder as they approached the greater heights, so it was a laughing, excited crowd which finally left the train to go to the small hotel where they had engaged board. many had arrived before them, and were already testing the toboggan runs, or were flitting along, like birds, upon their _skis_. the boys, naturally, were eager to try these new sports, and were soon equipped, to receive many a humiliating tumble before they could become adepts. juliet was scarcely less ambitious than the boys and was not long in persuading mary lee and jo to fasten on the long _skis_ in order to make a first venture. nan and the twins contented themselves with sleds upon safe inclines at first, but were so exhilarated by the keen air that they were soon trying longer slopes. even mrs. hoyt came out to join them leaving mrs. corner and miss helen to enjoy the bright sunlight streaming in at their windows. in a few days nan had become as enthusiastic an advocate of _ski-ing_ as the rest. "it is like flying," she declared. "i wish we could do it at home." "it seems such an impossible and dangerous thing to me," said miss helen who had been persuaded to come out to watch the sport. "it isn't when you know how," replied nan as she flitted off. it was a gay company at the little hotel. the mountain air exhilarated every one and though the unusual exercise tired them out, after a hearty supper they were ready for any kind of fun. on new year's eve came the climax when the peasants arrived to show their dances and to ask the guests to join in. jo was nothing loth to accept the young son of mine host as partner, and as he, in embroidered velvet breeches, short tyrolean jacket and red tie, led off, she was quick enough to imitate the others and made a better dancer than might have been expected in such a wild and rollicking dance as it was. once she was fairly lifted off her feet, whirled around and set down again before she knew what was happening to her. with the snowy mountains looking down upon them they welcomed in the new year and slept the last sleep they should have at partenkirchen, for the morrow would take them back to munich. dr. paul made his appearance the evening of their return. he had been to dresden for a week, looking into hospital work there and staying with a friend. he was welcomed joyfully and was given an enthusiastic account of winter in the mountains of bavaria. "you'd better have gone with us," mrs. corner told him. "i am sure it would have done you more good than doing extra work." "it wasn't all work," returned the doctor, "and besides being deeply interested in what i was doing, i was glad to be with my friend bob morgan. he is an old pal of mine, and we have had many a run together. by the way, nan," he turned toward this person, "i think i may have a clue to your hans metzger." every one looked interested. "tell us about it," said nan. "of course it is by no means an unusual name," the doctor went on, "and there may be dozens of them in the community, but as i was in bob's room at the hospital one day, i picked up a german book, rather a curious old volume on husbandry which was lying on the table. in it i saw the name, hans metzger. 'hallo,' i said, 'where did you get that?' "'it was left by one of the patients,' said bob, 'a nice sort of young german whom i attended. i was looking at the book one day, and spoke of its being something of a curiosity because of its age, so when he was discharged he presented it to me out of gratitude.' 'was his name hans metzger?' i asked. "'yes,' bob told me. 'where was he from?' 'from his dialect i should say he was a bavarian.'" "that looks like a proof," said nan eagerly. "so i thought. bob promised to learn what he could of the man and to let me know. i told him of our search and he was much interested." "wouldn't it be the queerest thing if your going to dresden should be the means of finding him?" said nan. "when do you think you will hear, dr. paul?" asked jack. "i'm afraid i can't tell you that. it was only day before yesterday that i saw the book." "did you get a description of the man?" asked miss helen. "yes." the doctor took out his note-book. "he was rather tall, dark, had a scar on his left cheek." "we must go to-morrow and interview frau pfeffer," said nan. "she can tell if that answers to the description of her brother. i am surprised, dr. paul, to see how many germans are dark. i have always thought of them as a fair-haired, blue-eyed race." "you will find a great many quite the opposite in this part of germany particularly. it is so near italy that there are many intermarriages with the darker race, just as you find in venice and other parts of italy that intermarriages with the austrians and germans have produced fair-haired italians." the interview with frau pfeffer the next day seemed to establish the fact of hans metzger's identity with the patient of the dresden hospital, as the description tallied exactly with that of frau pfeffer's brother. "do you know anything about the old book?" nan asked. frau pfeffer did not know, but it was like her brother to have such. he was fond of reading, of husbandry, of outdoor life, and he could very well have come into possession of such a volume. a few days later dr. paul had another report to make. "i've heard from bob morgan," he said. "the man hans metzger has gone to america." "to america!" all looked at one another quite taken aback. "do you think, dr. paul, that he has then deserted his little daughter?" asked miss helen. "i can tell better when we get particulars. bob morgan had only time for a line. this is what he writes: 'have followed up the hans metzger matter. find the man sailed for america from bremen on dec. . will write details later.'" "it's as good as a sherlock holmes story," said nan. "i wonder if your dr. morgan saw hans' footprint on the gangplank or the print of his thumb in a booking-office, or what." "it does become rather exciting," admitted the doctor, "and i am curious myself to learn particulars." "you'll be sure to let us know as soon as you find out, won't you?" begged the girls. "i'll fly to you on the wings of the morning or evening, whichever comes handiest," promised the doctor. a few days later the expected letter came from dr. morgan. he wrote: "i took up the metzger case as soon as you left. inquired if any of the patients knew him. found a man from augsburg who had been here for some time and had made friends with metzger, as both were bavarians. metzger had come to see augsburg man before leaving the city. had a good position promised him with an american who was going home and wanted an overseer for a place in new york, so augsburg man said, though you can't tell about the last. they think new york covers half the u. s., and is synonymous. later happened upon dr. streit who gave me further particulars. streit is a munich man and took an interest in metzger. it was through him metzger found place with american. no doubt your man will write to his people as soon as he gets settled, for i think it is pretty clear he is your man." "do you think we may really count upon his being the right man?" said miss helen. "i think there is every chance of his being. he may have written to his sister, but as you say she left the village soon after he last saw her, it is quite possible the letter never reached her. these peasants are very stupid sometimes, and very likely the letter never was forwarded." "_dumm_ is such a good, expressive german word," remarked nan, "and just fits the case." "exactly," returned the doctor, "and we know if our own country postmasters are so often stupid what must some of these germans be? bob says he will try to get the address of the man with whom metzger went, so his sister can write and make sure we are on the right track." "i think your dr. morgan is very good to take so much trouble," said nan. "oh, he is glad to do it. he is a virginia boy, too, nan, and you know he is not going to think it any trouble to help out in a case of this kind. beyond this, he has a personal interest in metzger, and wants to do all he can on that account." in due course of time the address came and frau pfeffer sent off a letter. so there was nothing to do but to wait for a reply which would decide conclusively whether it were really bertha's father whom they were following up. about this time the carnival season began, and although the family saw little of the gaieties which entertained so many of the müncheners, the girls did so far participate in them as to go to a mask party which dr. mann gave for his boys, and as it was their first experience of this kind they were in a great state of excitement. of course the twins were not included in the party, but the three older girls and juliet had many conferences as to costumes. "we can't be expected to carry fancy costumes all over europe with us," said nan, "and we shall have to think up something that we can wear afterward, or which we shall not mind leaving behind, it seems to me." "we could take them with us, nan," said mary lee, "and they would do to wear when we get home." "if we haven't outgrown them by that time," returned nan. "we couldn't outgrow all the things." "well, i know this child spends no fortune on costumes," put in jo. "cheap and easy is my motto for this occasion." "mamma tried to hire something for us," said juliet, "but everything we saw that would fit was so mussy and soiled that it wouldn't do at all. we did manage to rig out maurice, but i am still looking." "mary lee would make a perfect little dresden shepherdess," said jo, "and i don't think it would be a hard costume to get up. she could copy some of the figures we have seen and it would be lovely." "good!" cried nan. "i approve of that myself. although it is not strictly original it will be very becoming and just suit my fair sister's style." "i am going to talk to mother about it," said mary lee leaving the group. "i'd like to know what a long, lanky thing like me can wear," said nan. "i might go as a bean-pole, and twine a vine up my length." "you may be long but you're not what i should call lanky," corrected jo. "i think nan would look fine in one of those costumes on those quaint post-cards we all liked so much at christmas time," said juliet. "i have one of the prettiest left. i'll go get it and you might copy that." she ran off, presently returning with the card which all examined with much interest. "the dress wouldn't be hard," nan decided, "and i have the scarf. i would need something different from anything in the combined wardrobes of the family to make the bonnet of." juliet was busy thinking. "mother has just the thing, i do believe," she said after a moment: "a big leghorn hat that can be bent into any shape. she will be delighted to lend it to you. i think you will look dear in such a bonnet, nan, with bunches of pink roses against your dark hair." "i can easily make a little bag like that to carry on my arm," decided nan. "i think it is a costume of the period of as nearly as i remember." "one of the boys is to have a costume that will match it," said juliet. "i shall not tell which one, but i know he will look dandy in it. the boys sometimes spend a lot on these costumes, and come in such magnificence as you wouldn't believe. of course some are much better off than others, and some of the girls will be gotten up regardless, but i think the main thing is to look picturesque and to wear something which will be becoming when we unmask. when the boys don't want to spend much they go as pierrots. there will be several in that character, i can promise you." "i might go as a switch-tender, and borrow frau pfeffer's get-up," remarked jo. "how you would look," cried nan, "and what would she do that day, pray?" "she could go to bed early," said jo calmly. it was finally decided that jo should go in spanish dress, the girls suddenly remembering what they had brought from spain with them, which supplemented would do very well to represent an _aldeana_ costume. juliet eventually went as a peacock, a spreading tail of feathers adorning the back of a greenish gold frock, and upon her head a clever arrangement of feathers and beak to represent the bird's head. her bodice was of peacock blue and the whole effect was quite dazzling, and strange to say very becoming. of the four girls it must be said that mary lee looked the best, her fair skin, blue eyes and neat features being exactly as they should be for a dresden shepherdess. a fluffy white wig and a coquettish hat made the finishing touches to her dress, and she was very much pleased with herself as well she might be. nan, though not so striking, was a quaint figure. her bonnet was a great success, trimmed outside with long white plumes and some old-fashioned apple-green ribbons, and inside with bunches of pink roses which lay against the clusters of curls in which she had arranged her dark hair. the dress was a green silk with little bunches of pink flowers upon it, and her pink scarf drooping negligently was of the color of the roses in her bonnet. the whole party set off in an automobile and had that kind of good time which youth and high spirits can generally give us on such occasions. that they did not lack in partners for either games or dances goes without saying, and that it was an event long after referred to can be taken for granted. after this there were not any great merry-makings, the gatherings in mrs. hoyt's sitting-room being quite sufficient for ordinary fun, and all worked hard between times. january did not bring anything but dark and sunless weather, so mrs. corner felt that she must pitch her tent elsewhere as she was feeling the effects of the lack of sunshine. she therefore decided to go to the riviera for a couple of months. "i shall not be so very far away," she said to nan, who always felt the separation more than any of the others. "it is scarcely more than a day's journey, and if i am needed i can fly to you in less time than it would take to go to boston from virginia." "will aunt helen go with you?" asked nan. "i don't know," said mrs. corner. "things didn't go altogether happily with you last winter, nan, dear, and i hate to leave you in a foreign city with the responsibility of your younger sisters upon you. mrs. hoyt has very kindly offered to chaperon you and the fräulein is quite to be relied upon, but still i do not like to go off and leave you to be the acting head of the family." "it is quite different from last year," nan told her, "for this is not a boarding-school, and you will not be the other side of the ocean as you were then. for my part, _motherdel_--that is a newly coined south german diminutive. i am your _mädel_; you are my _motherdel_ instead of _mutterchin_--as i was saying, for my part, i would much rather aunt helen should be with you. we shall be perfectly comfortable, and i can't bear the idea of your going off alone. if you should be ill----" "there are always good doctors and nurses to be had," her mother hastened to say. "but not to have any of one's very own. no, _mutterdel_, aunt helen must go, too, and we will behave like the best of cornelia's jewels." "i am not afraid of you older girls, except in your case when you sacrifice yourself for jack." "oh, but jack is much more sensible. she is developing a better sense of proportion, and of right and wrong. she is terribly impetuous, but she does mean all right at heart." "i am sure of that. she couldn't be her father's child and be lacking in principle." "she couldn't be her mother's child and not turn out a dear, good woman," said nan, fondling her mother's hand. "i'll promise you, mother, i'll not do anything rash. if any problems arise i will suspend action till i can hear from you, and if it is something in which i have to act at once i will take the case to mrs. hoyt." "there might be cases that you wouldn't want to consult even mrs. hoyt about," said mrs. corner thoughtfully. "then i'll pour out my woes to dr. paul." mrs. corner nodded. "yes, you can trust him, for he has known you all since you were babies. with him as well as mrs. hoyt i think i can feel safe about you. all right, nan. i'll talk it over with helen." [illustration: chapter xvi herr green-cap] chapter xvi herr green-cap although nan's responsibilities did seem heavier after the departure of her mother and aunt, the fact that they were shared in a measure by mrs. hoyt and fräulein bauer as well as by dr. paul, made them seem less. to dr. paul nan poured out her confidences in the most artless manner, and he responded as any considerate older brother might have done. there was plenty of work for all to do, for beyond the demand of music, nan had her german and other studies in which mary lee shared. jo, though doing well in most directions, floundered terribly when it came to german accent and pronunciation. fortunately fräulein bauer was herself north german, and so was the teacher under whom jo studied, so she did not fall into a very pronounced dialect, and she comforted herself by saying: "my exams will be written and not spoken, so i think i shall pass all right." jack cheerfully plunged in with a reckless disregard of anything but making herself understood, and consequently gained a large vocabulary, while jean, more timid and self-conscious, depended upon her twin when it came to an emergency. jo, who had been the life of miss barnes's boarding-school, was much more subdued here in germany. it seemed to be borne in upon her that this was the opportunity of her life, and she must make the most of it. she had never studied very hard before, but being naturally bright, had depended upon a good memory and sudden inspiration to cope with the occasion. the girls had received christmas letters from all their late schoolmates, telling of the little events which they knew would interest them on the other side of the water. charlotte loring's was the longest; daniella's the most vividly interesting, for the latter had a picturesque way of presenting things, born of her early free life in the virginia mountains. there had been, too, letters from home, from cousin polly lewis, telling of her approaching marriage, from gordon and his brother, from phil, and last of all from aunt sarah, giving the intimate details of home life which brought the brown house and its inmates very distinctly before them. and now there were three months of hard study before them, interspersed with such pleasures as skating in the englischer garten, visits to some specially interesting place, like the great foundry where had been cast such famous works as the great doors of the capitol at washington, and numerous world-renowned statues. for nan there were always opera and concerts as often as practicable, and if fräulein bauer could not go with her, mrs. hoyt was generally ready. failing her, dr. paul would be called up, and it was seldom that he could not set aside all else in order to act as escort. there were merry doings, too, in mrs. hoyt's sitting-room, walks on the parada to hear the band, expeditions to the isarthal, or the beautiful starnberger see when a brisk walk over snowy paths brought them all back ready to attack a supper which, even when _wurst_ appeared as its principal dish, seldom failed to satisfy. strange to say, it was not jack nor jean about whom nan finally felt a certain anxiety, but it was jo. had it been one of her own sisters, if she could not have laid the matter before mrs. hoyt, nan could have consulted dr. paul, but she felt a certain hesitancy in discussing jo with any one but mary lee who was the first to discover that all was not right and who came to her sister in great perplexity. "nan," she said, "i think we ought to do something about jo." nan, who was puzzling out a difficult passage in her translation, stopped short. "what do you mean, mary lee?" she said. "where are the twinnies?" asked mary lee, looking around. "gone with mrs. hoyt to the englischer garten. jo isn't here either." "i know that well enough. she is skating at another place with that horrid boy." "what horrid boy?" nan looked amazed. "some one she met on the ice last week one day when you weren't there. he is a student, and he came up and asked jo to skate with him. you know how free and easy she is. he is a good skater, waltzes on the ice and does that sort of thing, so off jo went before i could say a word. ever since then he has been trying to get chances to meet her. he followed her home and found out where she lived. jo is the most unconventional girl in the world, and she didn't hesitate to tell him her name, so he wrote to her and asked her to meet him on the ice the next day. we all went together, all but you, and in that crowd mrs. hoyt couldn't keep track of us all. jo has skated with him every day since, but often they go to another skating pond. she has been answering his notes and all that. he speaks english and says he is the son of a countess." "dear me, i wonder if that is so, but, even if it is, that amounts to nothing. there are plenty of disreputable counts and countesses over here and we don't know a thing about him. it is too bad that my music lesson comes in the afternoon, or i would go oftener with you all. i really don't have time to go more than twice a week, and opera nights i can't go at all." "do you think we ought to tell mrs. hoyt?" nan considered the question for a moment. "oh, i don't know," she replied, presently. "it seems mean to tattle--yet--i'll tell you, mary lee, we'll see if we can't get her to stop, and if she won't we'll think of what is best to do." "she won't stop. she thinks it is the greatest piece of fun, and can't, or won't see that there is any harm in it." "why couldn't she be satisfied with the nice boys she already knows?" "that's what i asked her, and she said that none of them was a count and that it was much more of a lark to carry on with a foreigner. she could know all the americans she wanted at home. you know how jo talks." "did the other boys see her skating with this fellow?" "yes, and she told them he was a friend of hers. i suppose mrs. hoyt thinks so, too, now that she has seen the two together. he is rather nice-looking, and i have no doubt mrs. hoyt thinks we know all about him and that it is all right. she doesn't know that when jo isn't with us she is off skating at some other place." "i'll try talking to her," said nan, "though it may not do any good. probably she thinks i am not old enough to give advice. of course we are not exactly responsible for her in one way, but she is of our party and that does give us some rights. if mother were here she would soon settle it in the nicest sort of way. i will try talking and if that does no good i will write to mother and get her advice. jo is very fond of both mother and aunt helen and would hate to displease them or lose their respect." "i feel differently about jo than about most girls," said mary lee, "for you know she hasn't had much comfort at home, and as she says, has 'tumbled up.' before her father married a second time she was left to the care of servants, and now there are all those little children, she is out of it. all the training she has ever had has been at miss barnes's. she really doesn't realize, nan, for out west where she has always lived they are much more ready to make friends with every one than we are. you know how full of fun and nonsense she is. the boys all like her and i suppose this one never met a girl like her before." "i hope he doesn't think all american girls are ready to make chance acquaintances in that way. all you say is quite true, mary lee, and for that very reason i don't want to discuss it with any one but mother or aunt helen. they know all about jo and can make allowances. i will write to-night." "i thought you had a lot of work to do and that was why you couldn't go this afternoon with us." nan sighed. "yes, i have a lot, but i can get up early and finish it." "it is pitch dark till nearly eight in the morning." "i can get a lamp and go into the sitting-room." mary lee was so used to leaving such matters to her elder sister that she didn't at once think of protesting. moreover she was not quite so unselfish as nan; she did love her morning nap and was not ready to give up an evening's fun with the hoyts. but at last she said, a little reluctantly: "couldn't i write the letter, nan?" "no, thanks, i reckon i'd better do it," said nan lightly, and mary lee felt relieved not only that she had made the offer but that it had not been accepted. but after all, nan did not have to write the letter that evening, for dr. paul came in early. he generally stopped for a few minutes every day to see that all was right with his wards, as he called the girls. jo had come home late, when the others were already seated at the supper table. she gave mary lee a top-loftical glance but carried on a conversation principally with juliet and maurice. "she doesn't like it because i wouldn't stay with her and meet that creature," mary lee whispered to nan as they left the dining-room. "i'm glad you had the good sense not to," said nan. "did he come home with her?" "i suppose so, though i don't know any more about it than you do." jo had not tarried with the girls, but had gone directly to the hoyts' room, to which mary lee declared her intention of going also. "that letter has got to be written, i plainly see," said nan. she was about to settle herself to her task, the others having congregated around mrs. hoyt, when dr. paul came in. nan greeted him in a preoccupied way. "am i interrupting some important study?" he asked. "no," replied nan. "i was just beginning a letter to mother; that was all." "everything all right?" "ye-es." she spoke a little doubtfully, the shadow of jo's affair still upon her. dr. paul looked at her fixedly, his keen eye noticing the trouble in her face. "look here, nan," he said. "i don't believe everything is all right." nan recovered herself and smiled. "oh, yes, it is. you'll not find a corner who hasn't a clear conscience and a clean bill of health." "that's good. then i've no prescriptions to write, no advice to give you this time?" nan shook her head. "no, you'll have to look out for other patients." "then i'll not keep you from that letter. i know how precious time is just now. where are the rest?" "where they generally are; over in mrs. hoyt's room 'ca'y'in on' as mitty would say." the doctor picked up his hat. "after all, it was only that the girl was thinking about her work," he told himself. he knew she was practicing for a musicale which was to be given by frau burg-schmidt's pupils, and that she had much to do. he was about to go when he turned back. "listen, nan," he said. "who is the german youth with the green cap i saw skating with your friend jo, this afternoon?" "were you out there? oh, he is a friend of jo's." she tried to speak lightly. "do you know him?" nan was silent, but the question was too direct to avoid. "no," she answered truthfully, then hurriedly, "why do you ask?" "because i don't believe he is the kind you all want to know." "what makes you think so?" "well, i'll tell you the whole thing. i was standing with a fellow student watching the skaters when miss jo swung along with green-cap. she saw me and i bowed. i don't think she saw my friend who was just behind me. 'who is that?' said he. 'a young compatriot of ours,' i told him. 'nice girl.' 'humph!' he said. 'i wonder where she picked up that fellow.' 'what's the matter with him?' i asked. 'he is a bad lot,' said my friend. 'i shouldn't like a sister of mine to be seen with him.' later on i happened to be coming home directly behind the couple. they were laughing and talking in great shape. i noticed that none of you were along, and i wondered; that's all." nan stood leaning on the back of a chair, listening thoughtfully. "sit down, dr. paul," she said. "i don't believe i shall have to write that letter to-night, for you happen to bring up the very subject i was going to write about. no, we don't know that young man. he is a chance acquaintance whom jo has picked up without realizing it was anything out of the way. he asked if he might skate with her, and she, thinking it the custom, accepted his invitation. mary lee, whom you know is always a most proper and discreet young person, came away and left jo. mrs. hoyt believing him to be a friend of ours hasn't inquired about him. she is an awfully jolly sort of somebody, and is really particular, but i think she doesn't want to appear fussy, and of course doesn't dream but that we all know this person. so, jo has been going her own gait, and i am awfully bothered about it. i don't want to tell tales to mrs. hoyt, and have her annoyed with jo. i don't want to tell fräulein bauer, for fear she would say jo could not stay here, for the fräulein is a great stickler of proprieties, and i could see nothing to do but to write to mother, though i hate to bother her." the doctor looked down at her with a sympathetic expression in his dark eyes. "you are always shouldering somebody's burdens, nan," he said. "i haven't forgotten last year." "oh, that was quite a different thing." "if i remember right, miss jo was mixed up in that." "yes, in a way," nan admitted. "though she hadn't the least idea that she was, and as soon as she found out, you know she went straight to miss barnes and told her all about it." "and this time she is going into an affair with her eyes open." "not exactly. you know she is a western girl who has not had much care at home. her mother died before jo was big enough to remember her, and though the stepmother is a kind enough sort of person, she has no thought beyond her family of little children and jo has had to hoe her own row always. her father is away from home a good deal and absorbed in business so jo has not had much chance." "i see, and you think that all the more she should be warned. have you said anything to her on the subject?" "no, but mary lee has, and she thinks she is prudish." "well, i tell you you are not to think of this any more. i will settle it. you must leave it all to me." "but you will not----" nan began in alarm. the doctor smiled. "i am not going to do anything rash, and miss jo shall not know that i know anything about her cuttings up. i have a scheme which i hope will work out all right and rid you all of the undesirable acquaintance. do you trust me?" "indeed i do. you are always such a rock of defense, dr. paul," said nan gratefully. "i don't know what i should do without you." "i'd be a pretty sort of cad if i didn't look out for you," he said vehemently. "i'd like to bring young bingham with me to call, if i may. he is a nice fellow, i can assure you. your fräulein will not object?" "oh, no, though she is a very good watchdog. so long as he comes with you he will be admitted. i am not so sure but that she would growl and show her teeth if he came alone." "all right, i will stop in or will telephone to-morrow and tell you when to expect us. now, remember, no more anxiety over miss jo and herr green-cap. you promise?" "i promise." nan held out her hand, and as the door closed after the doctor she felt a distinct sense of relief that he should have taken her burden on his own shoulders. she could not resist going over to call mary lee out into the hall for a whispered conversation before going back to her studies, for which, after all, she would not have to rise before daylight. just what the doctor meant to do the girls could not imagine, and they were very curious to discover. true to his word, he called nan up over the telephone the next day and said that he and mr. bingham would call that evening, if convenient. "i'll ask the fräulein," said nan, and presently that lady herself came to the 'phone. of course any friend of the herr doctor would be acceptable. yes, she would be pleased to receive them. therefore when evening came she was established in the place of honor, the sofa, some time before the two visitors arrived. the hoyts were out, the twins had gone to bed, therefore there was no excuse for jo not to be present. she had rather avoided being alone with the girls, and was relieved when company came. she felt the unspoken disapproval in the manner of both mary lee and nan, and resented it, though, in her heart of hearts, she could not help knowing there was reason for it. mr. bingham was a pleasant, ruddy-faced young man, who, as he hailed from the west, was looked upon with favor by jo. as was natural the talk fell upon student life. mr. bingham, being a university man, was good authority, for he had been in munich two years. "do you know many of the students?" he asked nan. "not one," she replied, "unless you can call dr. woods a student. we know a number of dr. mann's schoolboys, but you're the first real student we have met. i am glad you haven't let them slash your face." "there is a law against dueling," mr. bingham told her. "but in some way the men manage to avoid it." "they are very proud of their scars, i am told," remarked jo. "yes, one of the men just out of the hospital told me proudly this morning that he had forty scars." "silly creature!" said mary lee scornfully. "i never saw so many colored caps in all my life, but i suppose you don't sport one of those either," said jo. "no, i'm not a german, you see, and i don't join any of the societies which are strictly local affairs." "do you make friends with many of the german students?" asked mary lee; "and are they nice?" "i know a number of very nice fellows. of course there are all sorts, and as is the case everywhere there are some the better men don't care to know. some of them are a pretty tough set. there is one in particular i happen to know about, who is sure to be sent up if he doesn't look out." "sent up where? this is interesting," said jo. "well, you see there are certain rules, and if a man breaks them and gets found out he is liable to imprisonment for ten days. the university attends to all its own cases without recourse to the police." "oh, dear! tell us some more. do you know the man? is he very wicked?" mary lee asked. "he is simply a worthless, reckless nobody. he calls himself the son of a countess, and likes people to believe he will inherit a title himself. his mother did marry a count for her second husband, though her first husband, this fellow's father, was little more than a peasant. she herself is a mere adventuress from whom the count parted years ago, having found out her character. she is a handsome woman, they say, and quite fascinating; the son resembles her, i am told, not only in looks but in character." the corner girls did not dare to look at jo, whose face was scarlet. all three were listening intently. "go on," said nan with more than usual eagerness. "tell us some more about him. it is quite like a story-book." "his mother managed to get him into the university," mr. bingham went on, "but i imagine he has about run his career, for his escapades are becoming known to the faculty, and, moreover, his reputation has become such that none of the decent fellows want to be seen with him. he is tricky at cards and has done a number of shady things." "i suppose you couldn't tell his name," said nan. "we want to avoid him, you see," she added with a slight laugh. "oh, every one knows him. i am divulging no secret," replied mr. bingham. "his name is karl hofer." dr. paul's scheme had worked well so far as jo was concerned. she went from red to white and sat looking straight ahead. a sudden silence fell, broken presently by dr. paul, who had been talking to fräulein bauer and who now joined the others. "have you dared to sit on a sofa lately?" he asked nan. he turned to mr. bingham. "miss nan made the fatal error of taking her place on a sofa the very first time she called on a german household." "yes," said nan glad of the change of subject, "and you should have seen the awful glance an old german dowager gave me. she came in just behind me. it was her proper place, of course. she quite forgave me, however, when she learned that i was a barbarous american and didn't know the customs. since that time i have always taken the most unassuming chair in the room. but come, let's get fräulein bauer to tell us some german tales. she is very entertaining, really, mr. bingham, and she looks quite out in the cold sitting over there by herself with her knitting. she doesn't speak english, you know, but we can all understand enough german to get on all right." they moved the chairs nearer the seat of state and the subject of students was left behind. but after the visitors had departed and the girls were in bed with the lights all out from the corner where jo's bed stood came a voice: "girls, i have been making a perfectly silly ass of myself, but i've had my lesson. please never mention green caps to me again, and do say that you do not utterly despise me." "of course we don't, jo," came promptly from the other beds. and there the matter ended so far as jo was concerned, though nan had a word with the doctor later. "oh, you sly boots," she said. "how well you managed, and jo never suspected. there you sat talking so sweetly to fräulein and all the time----" they both laughed. "bingham and i thought it was worth a little man[oe]uvering," said the doctor, "even at the risk of offending miss jo, but she took it just as we hoped she would, and no one is the wiser except ourselves. bingham is the soul of honor and as chivalrous as an american gentleman should be, so our secret is safe." [illustration: chapter xvii good-bye munich] chapter xvii good-bye munich for the rest of the time things went smoothly enough, the greatest excitement being the letter which was finally received from hans metzger. frau pfeffer gave nan the news one day when she stopped to make inquiries of the switch-tender. the man had written to his sister before leaving the country, had told her of his illness in dresden, but this letter frau pfeffer had never received. now he wrote that he had a good place, better than he had ever dared think he could have, and would soon be able to send for his family. "his family," exclaimed mary lee when nan told her. "is the whole outfit going? frau pfeffer and all those children?" "i imagine so. frau pfeffer could not remember the name of the place where he is, but she says she will send the letter to us to read." bertha appeared the next day, her little thin face beaming. she looked very neat and clean, her cheeks fairly shining from soap and water, and her light hair drawn tightly back in two braids. the gracious ladies would please read the letter and she would wait to take it back again, for it was very precious. nan and mary lee sat down, their heads together. nan was more proficient in deciphering german script than her sister and was the first to recognize a certain name which was prominent on the page. she gave a little scream of surprise. "of all things! mary lee, do see." "what?" mary lee did not quite take in what was meant. "why, look here, the man with whom hans went over to america is mr. pinckney's superintendent, mr. wheeler. you know he came over to consult mr. pinckney on business matters and it is mr. pinckney's big place in new jersey that hans has gone to. did you ever know anything so strange?" "i truly never did. are you sure, nan, that it is the same?" "why of course it is. there is the name of the place at the head of the paper." she turned over the sheet and pointed out the heading. "i didn't think to look at it at first. mr. st. nick's place is named 'the cedars' and there is the same post-office address. i know perfectly well, for we wrote to miss dolores when she was there one time. i should think you would remember that, mary lee." "i do remember, of course, only i couldn't make out the name in that queer writing. it can't help being the same place. we must write to mr. st. nick and tell him all about it. he will be so interested, and i shouldn't wonder but he would ship the whole family right off; you know how he did about christine and her grandfather. let's tell bertha." they explained as well as they could, telling the little girl that her father was in a fine place and that they would all meet in america. as they had expected, mr. pinckney was greatly interested and there came a day not long after when frau pfeffer turned her last switch, discarded her green hat, picked up her feather bed and with her children set sail for america to the great satisfaction of the corners, jack and jean being specially pleased that they had a hand in the matter. a last walk in the englischer garten, a last look in the windows of the toy shops, a final farewell to the pigeons on the odeonsplatz, one more promenade on the parada and they said good-bye to munich, to kind fräulein bauer, to the hoyts, to the flock of schoolboys with whom they had had so many jolly times. dr. paul took the five damsels as far as innsbruck and there delivered them into the hands of miss helen, who came thus far to meet them. mrs. corner had gone on to verona, where they would make their next stop. the hoyts, with a perfect phalanx of boys, stood on the platform to see them off, the boys sending a wild mountain cry after them to the scandal of the gatekeeper who frowned at the savage americans. innsbruck was a fascinating enough place to call for a stop of twenty-four hours and dr. paul lingered with them during that time. "i don't know how we are going to get along without you," declared nan when he had put them all on the train for verona and the time had come to part. "aunt helen, he has been such a comfort; just like a nice big brother, he is always looking out for us. we shall certainly miss you, dr. paul." "perhaps you don't think i shall miss you all," he said, "but i shall keep telling myself that it will not be so very long before we all shall meet again. why couldn't we be fellow passengers across the sea? i shall be sailing from genoa and you from naples about the same time. have you taken passage yet, miss helen?" "yes, we sail from naples on the first of june by the north german lloyd. our steamer is the _könig albert_, i believe." "i'll look up my own passage then and see if i can book for the same trip, and we'll call this simply _auf wiedersehn_." so they parted, he to return to munich, which would seem sadly empty now, and they to go on to the delights of italy. at the hotel in verona there was a glad meeting with their _mutter_, from whom they had been separated for all these weeks. there was so much to tell, that at first there was no desire to go out sightseeing, but the second day they began to wake up to the fact that the city held sights for them, and then they went forth to behold them. "what is there to see here, miss helen?" jo asked. "a number of things. the piazza delle erbe, where used to be the old forum, is one of the most picturesque squares in italy. you know that it was this city which received dante after he was banished from florence. you will see here many of the pictures of pablo caltari, the last really great master of the venetian school; you all will know him better as paul veronese. and of course you know this was the home of romeo and juliet. a tomb is shown which is said to be juliet's, though it is doubtful if it really is, and the house of her parents is pointed out." "were they real people? i never knew that," said jo. "the play is said to be founded on fact, and we are told that it was in the fourteenth century that the two lovers lived and died. it may not be absolutely true, but tradition says that there were actual happenings in verona which resembled those of which shakespeare wrote. i think we can spend a couple of days here very pleasantly, for it is a handsome city as well as an interesting one." "and then for san marco and the gondolas," cried nan. "where shall we go in venice, to a hotel or a _pension_?" mary lee asked. "we are going to a pleasant place on the riva degli schiavoni where we shall have rooms and breakfast with whatever other meals we choose to have served. we shall sometimes be at too great a distance to get back promptly to meals, so we can always have our midday meal, at least, wherever we choose." "i like that way of doing things," declared jo. "one doesn't have to break one's neck in order to get back in time and there is a sort of excitement in the uncertainty of what you are going to get and the kind of place you will strike." for two days they wandered about verona, looking at the old painted houses, the palaces, the churches, and then the expectant hearts of at least three of the girls beat high as they neared venice. "i see a red sail," cried mary lee, looking from the car window. "and there is a yellow one," announced jean. "oh, look, there are lots and lots of boats and more colored sails." "are we going in a gondola first thing?" asked jack. "if the streets are all water we shall have to, shan't we?" "yes," her mother told her. "the gondolas are the cabs of venice and will take us anywhere we want to go." "i'm just crivering," said jean as they stepped aboard the black craft which mrs. corner had selected. "sit down with your crivers," directed nan. "isn't it too delicious for anything? i foresee where all my spending money goes; hiring gondolas and just drifting up and down between these old palaces." "but you must buy beads. you promised half a dozen girls to bring them some," mary lee reminded her. "don't talk to me of beads yet. look at that red cloth hanging out from that balcony, jo. now i know we are in venice. it looks exactly like the pictures. i am sure that church we are coming to is the santa maria della salute." "where are the pigeons?" asked jean. "they are on the piazza san marco; we haven't come to that yet," nan told her. "do we turn off here? what is that place over there, aunt helen?" "that is the little island and church of san giorgio maggiore, and next to it across that broad canal is the island of giudecca. the canal has the same name; the church is called the redentore." the gondola turned out of the grand canal into the canal of san marco and soon its passengers alighted in front of a house on the riva degli schiavoni where they were expected and where they found letters waiting for them. "when can we go to the glass factory? when can we go to the bead shop? how soon are you going to take us to feed the pigeons? when shall we be ready for another ride in a gondola?" were the questions showered on miss helen by her nieces as soon as they had looked their rooms over and had decided where they would put their belongings. "we can't do all those things at once, you badgering youngsters. let me see what time it is. no bead shop and no glass factory, anyhow, to-day. if it isn't too late we will walk over to the piazza and if the pigeons are there they shall be fed. as for the gondola, we'll see about that later." the light had not left the sky when they stood on the piazza san marco. the rich mosaics of the beautiful church caught the rays of the setting sun, the pigeons were wheeling about overhead, and settling down in crowds upon the pavement. "it beats anything i have ever seen yet," said jo admiringly. "just look at those great horses over the church door. where did they come from? tell us, miss helen." miss helen turned over the leaves of her baedeker. "they are five feet high and are among the finest of ancient bronzes. they probably once adorned the triumphal arch of nero and after of trajan. constantine sent them to constantinople. the doge dandolo brought them to venice in . in napoleon carried them to paris where later they adorned the triumphal arch in the place du carousel. in they were restored to venice and set up where you now see them." the older girls listened attentively while the younger ones were absorbed in watching the pigeons who had not yet gone to roost under the arches of the church. "i am glad they were brought back here," said nan, "and i hope they will never be taken away again. they give such an air to the church, a triumphal note, and are quite a different decoration from those you usually see on churches. are we going inside, aunt helen?" "i think we'd better wait till morning to do that. we shall probably want to come here many times. just now we will enjoy the outside of the church and the piazza, for it is the centre of interest here, and there is always something to see." "i should think there was," said jack, whose attention had been drawn from the pigeons to the clock tower where the two bronze giants were preparing to strike the hours. jean with a pigeon on each shoulder and one pecking at the peas in her hand was perfectly happy, but at jack's words turned her eyes toward the tower at which they were all looking. "there do seem to be a lot of people here," said jo when the last stroke of the giants' hammers had ceased. "but i thought the rialto was the great meeting-place. don't you know the common expression, 'i'll meet you on the rialto'?" then after a pause, "what is the rialto, anyhow, miss helen?" "what we mean by the rialto now is the great bridge which for many years was the only connecting one between the east and west sections of the city. formerly it meant the section of the city where ancient venice was built, and baedeker says it was this section and not the bridge which is referred to in 'the merchant of venice,' and the expression to which you just referred is from the play." "dear me," said jo, "when you get at the core of things how much more interesting they are." "of course we shall go to the rialto," said nan. "how do you get there, aunt helen?" "from where we are we can go under the clock tower and walk up the merceria, which is the principal business street of venice, and has a number of good shops on it." "is it a real street? do we have to go from shop to shop in a gondola?" jo asked. "no, indeed, we walk along comfortably on dry ground." "but i thought venice was all water." "there is a part of it which is quite like any other city, and where you will find no suggestion of water for quite a distance. this part is where the ancient city was founded, and is an island which was known as rivoalto. you will read about it in a history of venice." "then i suppose rialto is a contraction of the name of the island, rivoalto," remarked nan. "exactly. over by the bridge there is a market which you will like to see, for you will find many venetian types there, and moreover can buy excellent fruit. there are some odd sorts of shops, too, that are interesting to look into." "well," said jo after a pause, "i am flabbergasted. i had such a very different idea of the city. i thought it was all like the grand canal, and that what shops there were must be reached by skipping over bridges, unless one went in a gondola. i am quite curious to see that part you speak of." "we shall go there more than once before we get through, and you will find that there will be some little bridges to cross even in that part of the city. you will want to go to santa maria formosa to see the st. barbara, which is one of nan's favorites. she has always admired the photograph which i have of it and now she can see the original." nan beamed. "oh, i am so glad i am here. i believe, now i think of it, that i have always wanted to see venice more than any other place, and i am actually here." "what is the matter with jean?" said mary lee, for jean had given a sudden cry of pleasure, had scattered her dried peas to right and left and had flown off in the direction of the clock tower. all turned to look and were surprised to see mary lee, too, following jean's example. "if it isn't mr. st. nick and miss dolores," cried nan, who being the tallest had first caught sight of the couple toward whom the other two were making their way. all hurried forward to greet these good friends. "when did you come? and where are you staying, and why didn't you let us know?" the questions came thick and fast. it turned out that the pinckneys had been in venice for two days, were stopping at a hotel near the palace of the doges. they had written to the corners, but the letter had probably arrived in munich after the girls had left. "well, well, this is more fun than a barrel of monkeys!" mr. pinckney's jolly laugh rang out. "just stay long enough on the piazza and you're sure to meet every one you know, i was just saying to dolores. now, what's on for this evening? it is going to be a glorious night. why can't we all go out and take it easy in a gondola or so? it is plenty warm enough and will be no exertion, either, that's what pleases me. there'll be music; we can listen to it when we choose and when we don't choose we can talk. what do you all say?" "please, please, please," came a chorus of entreaty from the girls. "i think it is a lovely plan," agreed miss helen. "what do you say, mary?" mrs. corner did not object. there would be nothing wearisome about it but quite the contrary. so they parted to meet later at the steps of the ducal palace. it was the softest of spring nights with a faint afterglow in the sky and a rising moon when they set out. long beams of light trembled on the dark waters, light from the windows of palaces, from prows of gondolas, from the moonlit skies. the party divided since they were too many for one gondola. mary lee and jean elected to go with mrs. corner and miss dolores; the others chose miss helen and mr. pinckney as companions. it was a new and exciting experience but to none more than to nan and jo. mary lee was absorbed in miss dolores; jack in chatting to mr. pinckney. "isn't it wonderful?" nan whispered to her aunt. "i feel as if i were living a hundred years ago, and that these old palaces were not melancholy places given over for _pensions_ and tourists." "they're not all that, nan." "no, of course not, but the old glory has passed. yet, how beautiful it still is here." "it is beautiful under any circumstances, and what a history the place has had. with how many different nations has venice been connected, and what changes she has seen!" "when was she at the height of her glory?" "in the fifteenth century, and a great republic she was then, but her magnificence began to wane in the sixteenth century. she has since twice belonged to austria, has belonged to italy, has been a republic, and at last was again united to italy." "i don't like to think of her as anything but italian." "she has had many oriental influences which are still very evident and make her different from other italian cities. she used to be the centre where the traffic of both the east and west met and under her doges held many eastern possessions. we must get some books, nan, and read up so you will become better acquainted with the past of the queen of the adriatic." "indeed, i do want to do that. i should love to have seen that ceremony of wedding her to the sea." "we live in too late an age for all the old romances and poetry except what still lingers through association and imagination. so quiet, jo? it isn't like you not to have a word to say." "i'm listening, miss helen, and am having such a good time that i am hugging myself for want of a better way to express my delight. i do love all this so much better than i expected to. i'm afraid i hadn't given much thought to the places over here till i actually came. they were names that i ticked off something like this: paris--gay streets and shops; good place to get smart clothes. london--fogs, omnibuses, dickens' stories; munich--beer, picture-galleries. venice--gondolas; all water." miss helen laughed. "that is the way those places appear in the minds of a good many persons, i'm afraid. you are glad you came, jo, aren't you? i remember nan said you were not very enthusiastic at first." "you bet i'm glad." jo spoke with more force than elegance. "i could bat my head against the wall when i think of what a goose i was about coming. what an ignoramus i was not to study up more before i came. nan enjoys things and gets so excited over them lots of times when i don't know what in the world she is driving at. then by the time i have learned a little history and stuff it is time to leave, and there is not any chance for my enthusiasm to break out. i can't imagine how daniella kept up with her party. you all are way ahead of me when it comes to literature and pictures and things, and what must she have been?" "at least she got a taste of the sweets," said miss helen, "and i have not a doubt but that it will awaken her ambition as nothing else could do." "she always had plenty of ambition," said nan, "but she knew scarcely anything of what was outside a very small world." "and the way she will work to keep up with her new self will be a caution," said jo. "dear me," she sighed, "there's the trouble; when you don't know and haven't seen you feel twice as complacent. you have a few rather nice ideas and some little knowledge, jo keyes, i patted myself on the head and said, but now, gracious! i feel as if i didn't know as much as one of the san marco pigeons." "so much the better," miss helen told her. "there is nothing so hopeless as self-complacency. you will forge ahead now, jo, with twice the ardor you did before." just then a sudden hail from a passing gondola startled them all. some one was standing up waving his hat violently. "hallo, nan corner! hallo, jack!" came a voice as the gondola swung alongside. jack peered into the neighboring bark and cried out, "carter! it's carter, nan. i know it is." "is that you, carter barnwell?" asked nan leaning forward. "of all things!" "that's just who," was the reply; "and another friend of yours." "who?" nan again leaned forward. "howdy, miss nan," came a second greeting. "it's harold kirk, my cousin, you know," carter said. "well, i declare! aunt helen, it is carter and mr. kirk." "i wish there were room in here for you boys," said miss helen. "can't we divide up?" asked carter. "one of us will get in there with you and some of you can come in here with us." "rather a difficult proceeding," said miss helen laughing. "i didn't mean that exactly," said carter laughing, too. "who all are in there?" "nan, miss jo keys and jack, besides mr. pinckney and myself," miss helen told him. mr. pinckney had given but a word of formal greeting. "suppose i get in," proposed carter, with a look at his companion. "who will change with me?" "i'm willing to," nan offered, "if aunt helen will come with me." so it was arranged. the gondolas were brought together and the exchange made. the third gondola was lagging a considerable distance in the rear of the others, so that its occupants were not yet seen. as mr. pinckney and his party were about to start ahead, mr. pinckney peremptorily ordered the gondolier to take second place, so it was mr. kirk and his friends who led the way. [illustration: chapter xviii jack as champion] chapter xviii jack as champion miss helen had not met mr. kirk before, but she had heard all about him, of how he had come upon jean in the lobby of a theatre in new york when she was looking for her friends--she had escaped from them in order to visit the fairy queen of a little play to which mr. pinckney had taken the corner girls--of how jean had been taken under the young man's wing, and how she had dined with him and had finally been brought back safely to mr. pinckney's house. because of all this mr. pinckney had invited the young man to christmas dinner and so his acquaintance with them all began. miss helen did not know, however, neither did the corners, that it was partly on account of this young marylander that mr. pinckney had brought his granddaughter abroad, and that it was because of his presence that he had kept the first and third gondolas apart. for, kind-hearted though he was, and devoted though he might be to his granddaughter, when it became apparent that young harold kirk had more than a passing interest in the lovely dolores, mr. pinckney straightway bore her off to europe, hoping that it would be "out of sight, out of mind" on both sides. to be sure he was only carrying out a plan which he had determined upon some time before, when he took his granddaughter abroad, and he hoped she would not discover any other than the original intention. he meant to stay long enough to "put a stop to any foolishness," so he told himself. some day in the indefinite future she might marry, but not yet. he had no special objection to harold kirk, in fact he rather liked him, but he wanted no man to step in to take his place in the affections of the granddaughter he had lately discovered. when, therefore, the young man made his appearance upon the scene, mr. pinckney was annoyed, to say the least. he had promised himself a good time here in venice with the corner children, of whom he was very fond, but now all his plans were upset. he would leave at once. so he sat silently meditating upon the turn of affairs while the gondolas slipped through the water, and jack and jo chatted to carter barnwell. jack adored carter, and she was a great favorite of his. they had been fast comrades in california and were ready to resume the comradeship on the old footing. after the first few questions which mr. pinckney put to carter about mrs. roberts, mr. pinckney's daughter, with whom carter had been making his home, the old gentleman let the young people have it all their own way, seldom making a remark unless in answer to some question put directly to him. meanwhile those in the gondola, which was in the lead, were talking of many things. harold kirk put a few polite questions about the movements of the party, but at first made no reference to the pinckneys. miss helen was a stranger to him, and his own affairs were to be set aside while he entertained the two with him. "what i want to know," said nan after a while, "is how you happened to come across carter. you know his mother is an old school friend of aunt helen's, and we met him in california. he and jack are the greatest cronies." "he has talked to me a great deal about jack. he is a cousin of mine, you know." "i didn't know. oh, you must be his cousin hal we have heard him speak of. i didn't recognize the abbreviation." nan was just at the age when she rather liked to use big words. "his mother and mine are sisters." mr. kirk gave the information. "then you are byrd carter's son," exclaimed miss helen. "i have met her, for you know your aunt, mrs. barnwell, is a great friend of mine." this put them all on a closer footing. there were questions to ask and to answer about families and friends, and at last nan came back to the original subject of how he and carter happened to come over together. "carter looked me up in new york," mr. kirk told them. "his father has given him this trip, and the doctor said he was so much better that it would do him no harm, so long as he avoided harsh climates. he will get back home before the november winds become too much for him. i think in time the boy will outgrow that early tendency to lung trouble which took him to california. yet he likes it out there, and will probably settle down for good. well, he urged me to come with him, said he hated to make the trip alone, said he would meet the corner family somewhere--and--well, the temptation was too great, so i came to spend my summer holiday here instead of going to maine or the catskills." "had you met the pinckneys here in venice before you came across us?" asked nan innocently. "no." "why, we are all together, you know. mr. pinckney is in that next gondola, and miss dolores is with mother and mary lee in the one behind that." mr. kirk was silent for a moment. "do you know how long they are going to stay?" he asked after a moment. "oh, for some time." nan was positive. "as long as we do and we shall be here at least a week or ten days, shan't we, aunt helen?" miss helen assured her that they would stay not less time than that. "then we shall all have jolly times together," said nan delightedly. "now, don't you want to see mother and miss dolores and jean? suppose we tell our gondolier to turn back and go alongside, shall we, mr. kirk?" the young man agreed very readily. there were many gondolas out upon the canal, and in the process of turning others came between them and the one in which mr. pinckney sat, so he did not observe but that mr. kirk's was still in the lead, and was not in the least aware that mr. kirk had greeted miss dolores and the rest of the way was sitting by her side while nan and her aunt drifted on solely in each other's company. "where is hal?" asked carter as the gondola in which he was at last stopped at the riva della schiavoni to discharge its passengers. "i thought he was just ahead," he added looking around. mr. pinckney frowned, for no gondola was near, but after a few minutes up came two. from the first stepped mr. kirk who helped mrs. corner ashore, then jean, then miss dolores. mr. pinckney's frown grew deeper, and it was quite light enough for jack to catch the expression. "oh, how cross you look," she cried. "i never saw you look so cross. don't you like the gondolier, mr. st. nick? did he cheat you?" "no," growled mr. pinckney, "but some one else did." jack wondered who it could be. maybe it was one of the old men they called "rampini," who drew the gondolas ashore with his iron hook. it was clearly her duty to put mr. st. nick in a good humor. she had deserted him for carter and maybe he didn't like it. so she caught hold of his hand and smiled up into his face. "i think you are awfully nice, even when you frown, mr. st. nick," she said, "and i should like carter to look just like you when he grows old." "you should, should you?" mr. pinckney had to look a little more pleasant for miss dolores was walking with mary lee and carter, while mr. kirk was escorting miss helen and mrs. corner. "then i suppose you expect to see him around then just as you do now." "of course," replied jack. "i am going to marry him, you know." "you are? well, all i have to say is that you are looking pretty far ahead." "i like to look ahead," jack informed him. "i like to think of next christmas and of my birthday and of our getting back home and all the nice things. don't you like to look ahead, mr. st. nick?" "no, i can't say that i do. i prefer to enjoy the present moment." "are you enjoying the present moment?" "you little outrageous coquette! here you've been talking to that boy all the evening, and now you're trying to make up with me. i see through your wiles." jack looked very serious. "but you see," she began by way of excuse, "i hadn't seen carter for such a long while; not since we were in california, you know. he has written to me lots of times, but that isn't like seeing a person. let's talk about what we're going to do to-morrow," she said after a moment, and setting aside what was a uselessly unpleasant subject. "i think we shall have a lovely time to-morrow. will you go with us to feed the pigeons the first thing?" mr. pinckney was silent for a little. "we shall probably not be here," he said presently. "not be here?" jack dropped his hand in her surprise. "why, mr. st. nick, i think that is awfully mean when we have just come. where are you going?" "i am not prepared to say exactly." jack looked up at him earnestly. she was a shrewd little body, strong in her intuitions. early in the evening there had been plenty of plans discussed. what should suddenly decide mr. st. nick to go? at all events she would do her best to persuade him to stay. "but you're not going right after breakfast, are you?" she asked. "probably." "and you won't do any of the things you said you would? you won't take us to the bead shop nor the glass factory nor anywhere?" this was the more astonishing that mr. st. nick was the one who always delighted in doing anything and everything he could for the children's entertainment. but there was no time for a reply just then as they had reached their lodgings and the good-nights must be said. jack noticed that neither carter nor mr. kirk accompanied mr. pinckney and miss dolores, but that mr. st. nick hurried miss dolores away, leaving the young people still making their farewells. she kept her counsel, however, until she and her sisters were in their rooms; then she whispered to nan, "i want to tell you something. may i get in bed with you?" nan consented and for half an hour there was much whispering going on, then jack crept into the other bed where jean was already sound asleep. it was all very puzzling and provoking, but perhaps mr. st. nick would change his mind before the next day. nan and the twins occupied one room, mary lee and jo the other adjoining, but mary lee and nan were talking earnestly in the larger room when jack opened her eyes the following morning. they were talking about miss dolores, she soon ascertained. "i think it is a shame," said mary lee. "i know she likes him and i know he came over because she was here, and did you see how cross he looked?" jack wondered who these various hes could be. who was it that had come on miss dolores' account? she knew well enough who it was who had looked cross, and mary lee had noticed the frown, too. "and don't you think it is horrid for him to jerk her away just as he has come?" said nan. "he told jack they were going to-day, and didn't say where." "he did?" more hes and hers and a puzzling mix up of pronouns. jack listened more eagerly. of course she could easily make out that it was mr. st. nick who had told of going away. "i don't see what makes him act so," mary lee went on. "he never was like this before in all the time we have known him. i'm sure mr. kirk is just as nice as can be, and in the beginning he treated him so cordially and now just because he and miss dolores are in love with each other you would suppose the poor fellow had committed a crime." so that was it; miss dolores and mr. kirk were in love with each other and mr. st. nick was cross about it. why couldn't he let them marry and all of them live together? jack was sure it was a beautiful plan, and one that he had probably never thought of. he was supposing that mr. kirk would want to take miss dolores away. there wasn't the slightest need of that she could tell him and so she would. she decided not to delay the matter. jack always wanted to rush a thing through as soon as an idea came into her head. she jumped up, not noticing the "sh!" with which nan warned mary lee that she was not to continue the subject, and was not long in making herself ready for the day. the hotel where the pinckneys were stopping was not far away, and to it jack hastened, not staying to notice the effect of the morning light upon the water, the sun-touched buildings on the islands opposite, nor the boatmen out early. she was bent upon her errand. it was a direct way along the riva della schiavoni, as jack well remembered, for her bump of locality did not often lead her astray. as at all large hotels over the continent, english was spoken, the little girl was nothing daunted when she walked in and asked for mr. pinckney. she knew the señorita preferred to take her chocolate and rolls in her own room, but that mr. pinckney had not taken kindly to this habit, and would follow the custom of going to the breakfast-room. she would be asked to join him, no doubt, and it was with some pleasure that she considered the prospect. she would take an orange, jam for her bread, and some weak, very much sweetened coffee, also a very hard-boiled egg. she did not have to wait long before the old gentleman came trotting into the room where she was waiting, fresh and rosy from his toilet. he was always immaculate, and since the discovery of his granddaughter he was more than ever particular about his personal appearance; his beard was more closely trimmed, his neckties and waistcoats more carefully chosen. "well, well, well!" he exclaimed, "this is a surprise. come to have breakfast with me? let's go right in. this is an attention i didn't expect." "you see," began jack diplomatically, "i thought if you were going away to-day i shouldn't have any time at all to see you if i didn't come early." mr. pinckney seated himself and began drumming thoughtfully on the table while the waiter stood expectant. presently the old gentleman smiled across at jack. "now, what will you have?" he asked. "this is nice, to be sure. instead of eating a solitary breakfast, i have one of my best friends to join me." jack's mind was already made up so she did not hesitate long in giving her order. mr. pinckney added his and the waiter went off. "by the way," said mr. pinckney, "did you happen to leave word where you had gone so early? i know your way of skipping off, and i am not going to have the family set by the ears, or have them lose their appetites on my account. i can send some one to telephone them where you are if they don't know." "oh, they know," said jack calmly. "i wrote a note to nan." "what did you say?" there was a little twinkle in mr. pinckney's eye. he knew jack well. "i said: 'i am going to see mr. st. nick. you know why. don't come for me.'" mr. pinckney looked puzzled and glanced at jack's plate by the side of which the waiter was just setting the dishes she had ordered. he wondered if she had craftily desired some special dainty which her own boarding place did not furnish, and if she had taken this way of getting it, but jack's order was a modest one, he perceived, so she could not have come merely because of the breakfast. "she knew why?" he said, "and what is the why?" jack added a fourth lump of sugar to her coffee and looked at him gravely. "you know i said if you were going away this morning i shouldn't have any time to see you if i didn't come early, and i had something very particular to say to you." "you had? out with it." mr. pinckney was amused. jack always entertained him. "well," said jack, covering a small piece of bread with a large amount of jam, "i s'pose you're thinking that mr. kirk is in love with miss dolores, and that he will want to take her off somewhere away from you, and that is why you looked so cross last night." mr. pinckney laid down his knife and fork and looked at the child, amazed that she should put her finger with such directness upon the point of his annoyance. "cæsar's ghost!" he exclaimed, "what a youngster." "yes," jack went on, "i think that is just it. now, i don't suppose it ever came into your head to think how awfully nice it would be for them to get married and live with you. lots and lots of times i've heard you say that if you only had a son or a grandson he would be such a comfort and help, and here when there is one standing around just dying to be your grandson you get cross about it. i don't want to hurt your feelings, mr. st. nick, when you are having your breakfast, because there isn't anything that makes you not enjoy your breakfast and dinner like hurt feelings, i know because i've had them often, but you know--your son--miss dolores' father--you know about his getting married when you didn't want him too, and how awfully----" she stopped short, for mr. pinckney was looking at her so sternly now that she hastily gulped a large mouthful of coffee before she went on. "don't you love miss dolores?" she asked. "mercy, child," her friend murmured, "of course i do. life has been a different matter since i found her." "then don't you want her to be happy? mother and aunt helen and nan and mary lee always tell us that if we love a person very much we will do the things to make them happy, and not the things to make them unhappy." jack had a little severe air quite like mary lee when she was lecturing her younger sisters. mr. pinckney looked actually confused, picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, took a sip of coffee, looked at his chop but did not touch it. then he frowned. "it seems to me," he said, "that you're talking about something you don't know anything about." "if i don't know anything about it," said jack, "won't you please tell me? isn't mr. kirk an awfully nice young man, or what is the matter? if he is poor that won't make any difference when you have so much money, though i don't think he can be so very poor, for he is carter's cousin, and carter has plenty, enough to buy a house with; he told me so." mr. pinckney stirred his coffee silently. "oh, i suppose he is nice enough," he said presently, "but little girls like you don't know anything about such things." "i don't suppose we do very much," returned jack nothing daunted, "but you always tell me about things i don't know about, when no one else will." this was quite true, and mr. pinckney was aware that he had encouraged jack to talk as freely to him as she would to one of her own age, but he had not expected such results to come from the encouragement. jack still persisted, though she received no answer to her last remark. "won't you tell me, please, just why you want to take miss dolores away, and why you don't want her to see mr. kirk, if it isn't because you're afraid he will marry her?" "heavens!" ejaculated mr. pinckney, "am i on the witness stand or not?" yet he felt uncomfortable under jack's cross-questioning. this came of allowing her to ply him with questions on any subject. he had always scorned the old saw that children should be seen and not heard, but at this present moment, he heartily wished he had been less indulgent. jack had fixed innocent questioning eyes upon him and presently he blurted out, "no, i don't want her to marry him." "why not?" persisted jack. "because i don't want to lose her just as i've found her." "but didn't i tell you it would be awfully nice to have them both live with you?" "perhaps i don't think it would." "but you like mr. kirk. you did at first. you kept saying he was fine, and you invited him to your house, and used to have him take lunch with you at your club and all that. what made you get mad with him? was it because he liked miss dolores so much?" "that may be one reason." "but don't you want her to be happy?" "of course, of course, but i don't want another man to be taking up all her time and attention, and absorbing all the interest and affection i have just won." "but he wouldn't be taking up all her time; he couldn't when he has to be at his office all day. do you mean that you think she couldn't love you both? why, i love nan and jean bushels and bushels, but i love mother most. there was nan, too, she has always loved mother and has loved me more than anything, yet when aunt helen came all of a sudden, she loved her awfully hard, and it didn't make a bit of difference about her loving us first. are you afraid miss dolores hasn't enough love to go around?" "dear me, child, i never knew such heart-searching questions. you ought to have been a lawyer or a methodist exhorter. now, i will ask you something. how do you know this mr. kirk wants to marry my granddaughter? has he ever told you so?" "no," returned jack doubtfully. "of course he wouldn't tell a little girl like me, but if he doesn't, then what in the world is the use of your going off in such a hurry as soon as he comes when you meant to stay here just as long as we do?" then mr. pinckney laughed. "child," he said, "you're too much for me. there haven't been generations of lawyers in your family for nothing. i think, after all, we won't go to-day." and he fell to eating his breakfast without noticing that it was nearly cold. [illustration: chapter xix a youthful guide] chapter xix a youthful guide as the days passed mr. pinckney seemed to have forgotten entirely his original intention of deserting his friends in venice, and of bearing miss dolores away beyond the attentions of harold kirk. he was his old jolly, generous self, so that every one had the best of times in consequence of his enthusiasm and eagerness for fun. sometimes he would take the twins off for a frolic leaving the others to follow some fancy of their own; again he would have the whole party to dinner at some pleasant outdoor restaurant, where queer italian dishes were served. there were excursions to murano to see the glass-works, to burano to see the lace-makers, to torcello, to chioggia on a feast day, and oftener than anywhere to the lido, a place which the younger girls adored. there seemed to be good feeling on the part of mr. pinckney toward both carter and his cousin, and there were no more frowns, though once or twice when mr. pinckney caught jack looking at him speculatively, he gave her a quizzical glance in return, but he never allowed the subject they had discussed at the breakfast table to be brought up again. at last came a day when miss helen and mrs. corner decided that they must leave venice if they were to see anything of other places. so again they packed up in order to start for florence. this decision of theirs was the signal for the rest to make a move and all traveled in company. "if i only had my motor car here we could get another, and go through italy in that way," said carter. "what jolly good times we had in california traveling around together." "we'll do it again some time," miss helen assured him. "it is too delightful a thing not to make a separate and distinct tour of. now you have started, carter, no doubt you will come over often." "maybe," he said, "though one mustn't do too much junketing, once he is settled down to the real business of life. dad thought i had been pretty diligent in some ways, and he said i deserved a bit of a change, though if mr. and mrs. roberts hadn't made up their minds to have a houseful of company this summer, i doubt if i should have left them." "but you did want to see us, didn't you, carter?" asked jack who was never far away when carter was on hand. "of course i did, and that is precisely why i came, though under different circumstances i might have felt that i ought to stay behind. we often can't do the things we want to, jack, my honey, and often we must do things we don't like to." jack did not apply this quite as it was intended as was apparent by what followed, for she nodded to mr. pinckney and said: "do you hear that, mr. st. nick?" "what's that?" he asked looking up from his time-table. jack repeated what carter had said, and mr. pinckney's jolly laugh followed. "oh, but you are a rogue," he said. "come over here." jack obeyed. "look over there," said mr. pinckney, "and say if i am not a devoted and long-suffering grandfather." jack looked to see miss dolores and mr. kirk slowly walking together, evidently absorbed in a deeply interesting conversation. they were all at the moment making a last visit to the lido and the next day would start for florence. to this city nan had looked forward with great expectancy, and though at first she was disappointed, after being possessed with the beauty of venice, in a day or two she was quite satisfied that florence held its own delights which were even more satisfying to her than those of venice. its galleries, its churches, its history, its environs opened, one after another, a series of interests which appealed to the girl strongly. she did not despise its lighter charms either, for she reveled in the gay shops along the lungarno, and the displays of the goldsmiths on the ponte vecchio. the cascine, the boboli gardens and the gardens of san miniato were places for which the twins clamored to be taken often, and there was generally some one in the party to indulge them; if not miss helen or mrs. corner, then mr. pinckney or carter would offer escort. so while the others prowled around picture galleries and discussed churches the twins were off on some excursion which better pleased their youthful tastes. all this while miss dolores seemed unconscious of the interest her love affair was exciting. she knew very well, however, that her grandfather did not approve of it in the beginning, but feeling that she owed everything to him she had docilely accepted his decisions. she realized that it would be hard to part from mr. kirk, and she knew the separation might mean the giving up of her lover entirely, but whatever she felt she kept within her own heart. so it was a surprise to her when her grandfather suddenly accepted mr. kirk as a member of the happy party and included him in invitations and plans which she shared. it was intended to spend easter at rome, but at the last moment the grown-ups decided to remain in florence because rome was so crowded that good rooms for so large a number of persons would be difficult to get, and because the children would enjoy _lo scoppio del carro_ quite as much as anything they might see in rome where the carnival had lost many of its pleasant features. "you don't want our girls in that rabble on the corso," said mr. pinckney. "we'd better stay here and see the columbina." so stay they did, and on the saturday before easter gathered with the rest of the crowd before the cathedral, their carriages joining the line of others, to watch for the great car filled with fireworks. hundreds of country people had assembled, for this was a great occasion to them, much depending, in their superstitious minds, upon the voyage of the dove. jack and jean, as interested as the italian spectators, craned their necks to see the famous columbina. "what does it look like?" asked jean. "is it a real dove?" "no," her aunt helen told her, "it is only a contrivance in the shape of one." "how does it get here?" "it is lighted at the high altar during the gloria and is run along a string or wire to the car." this was not so very mysterious, but was sufficiently interesting to be looked for eagerly, and its progress to and from the altar became a more exciting thing to watch than the fireworks themselves. at last the fireworks ceased. there was a movement in the crowd. something else was to follow. "oh, see the white oxen," cried jack. every one looked to see the mild-eyed creatures who, with slow tread, dragged the car to the via del proconsolo. the corner party followed, their driver taking a short cut so they would be in time to see the arrival of the car, and to watch the remainder of the fireworks which were set off at the canto de' pazzi. as they drove home they stopped at the flower market in the arcades of the uffizi, and bore home their easter flowers. "such a lot of them and so cheap," said mary lee. "no wonder they call the city florence, for what could be more flowery at this time of year?" the carriages were dismissed at the flower market and all walked along the lungarno to their hotel, stopping once in a while to look in the shop-windows or to interchange remarks. "we shall go to the boboli garden to-morrow," announced the twins. "mr. st. nick is going to take us. we think it is the prettiest thing in florence." "what do you like best, nan?" jack asked. "oh, the galleries, the uffizi and the pitti, of course." "what do you like best, jo?" jack continued her inquiries. jo confessed to a weakness for the shops on the ponte vecchio; mary lee liked the foundling hospital with its medallions by della robbia; carter admired the cathedral. what mr. kirk and miss dolores liked best in florence jack did not ask. she whispered to nan to know if she should put the question to them. nan glanced at the two who were standing absorbed in something of mutual interest. "i can tell you what they like," she whispered back. "what?" again in a whisper. "each other," returned nan. jack's giggle showed that she appreciated the answer. easter sunday with all the pomp and ceremony of a celebration at the cathedral. easter monday, a last visit to the gardens, to the shops, and they were off again, this time for rome. nan and carter sat poring over the latter's baedeker during the journey. "dear me, it would take a lifetime, wouldn't it, carter?" said nan. "how can we see it all?" "we can't," he replied. "we shall have to begin by picking out the most important things. i say the forum first." "oh, dear, yes, and then st. peter's." "of course again--and----" "st. peter's includes the vatican." "which means days of looking if we are to see all." "we must drive out the appian way." "and see the catacombs." "yes, that comes in with the drive. we must go up the capitoline hill to the museum." "and the pincio." "and, oh, carter, of all things, we have forgotten the coliseum." "so we have, and naturally that is one of the most important things." "i am quite dizzy over it already. don't let's write down any more till after we have seen these. isn't it overpowering? london is nowhere. paris is a mere nothing. i am perfectly wild with anticipation. it's rome we are to see, that wonderful, wonderful city. the more i read about it the more enthusiastically bewildered i get. hallo, jo, what do you think of it? do you know where we are going?" "don't speak to me," said jo from the other end of the seat. "i am goose-flesh from top to toe. from this time out i expect to go about with my mouth agape and my eyes popping out. oh, nan, what would frances powers give to have this chance?" "poor frances," returned nan with a sigh. "you always say that, and yet you are the one who has least reason to be sorry for her." "maybe that is just it," replied nan. "i have so much reason to feel the other way that the pendulum has swung back. she has the worst of it." "the girls are all home for the easter holidays now," said jo reflectively. "i think it will be rather good fun to go back there after all, and after this year's travel. think what a sensation i shall make and what an authority i shall be, yet it will be rather hard to get into the traces again, and to subsist on the everlasting baked apples and baked beans." "our holiday has been a tremendously long one," said nan, "for though we have done some studying, there is much of the time we have taken our mental nourishment in other ways than from books. i am glad miss barnes agreed that travel would count as study and that we should not lose by giving up school-books for part of the time. who was caracalla, carter? i see something about the thermæ of caracalla here in the book." "he was a roman emperor of about b. c." "that's enough," cried jo. "anything b. c. gets beyond my assimilation. i can't digest it till i have taken a course of treatment, fish or brain food of some kind. i think while i am in rome i must consult a physician and get him to recommend a diet that will increase my supply of gray matter." "you certainly do talk funny, jo keyes," said mary lee. "you are always trying to make out that you haven't any brains, and yet you are always the one who rises to the occasion and who comes up smiling whatever the rest of us do. when nan and i get completely snowed under by dates and chronological events you glibly reel them off and tell us that so-and-so was the daughter of king this-and-that, and that emperor xyz married princess tutti-frutti. why even that mixy up bavarian history you had all smoothed out fine before we came away." jo blew mary lee a kiss from the tips of her fingers. "thanks for the bouquets," she said. "just because i know a little arithmetic you think i am smart. when it comes to real literature i am floored." she began to gather up her traps for they were approaching the station and soon their feet would be treading the streets of the eternal city. a few moments in the station, a swift drive to their hotel and they were established in rome. there was such a variety of wishes displayed the next morning that the party split up into three sections. mr. pinckney, miss dolores, mary lee and mr. kirk, as a matter of course, yearned to see st. peter's. nan, carter and jo voted for the forum, so miss helen agreed to join them. this left mrs. corner and the twins to decide upon what they should see. jack was divided between a desire to be of the party with carter and to go to the coliseum, a place upon which jean had set her heart. at last jean's references to the early martyrs and to the dens and chambers for the wild beasts so fired jack's imagination that she concluded to go with her mother and jean. "it is too large a party anyhow," declared miss helen. "we shall all get along much more comfortably this way." "of course mary lee would go with miss dolores," remarked nan, "and of course jean and jack wanted to be harrowed by a view of the spot where the early christians were martyred. i suppose jack will be in tears over it while jean will be interested in seeing where they used to keep the lions and tigers, and will placidly tell jack that it all happened so long ago that there is no use in one's feeling badly about it." this described the temperaments of the two so well that all laughed. "will there be a moon?" asked nan abruptly just before they reached the car which would take them to their destination. miss helen laughed. "are you dreaming, nan? it isn't night." nan laughed, too. "i was thinking of the coliseum. the guide-book says it is best seen at moonlight, and i was wondering if we would have a chance to do that." "i think we shall, but not till the latter part of our stay." "as long as we get it in, that will be all right." arriving at the point from which the forum could be best viewed from above, the four stood looking toward it silently, each impressed by the sight of the historic columns, the triumphal arches, the ruined temples. "to think," murmured miss helen, "that it is comparatively but a short time ago that all this was buried under rubbish, that it was a spot which for a long time was practically hidden from view until the nineteenth century." "why was that, miss helen?" asked jo. "because in warring against paganism the temples were destroyed, the stones were carried away to build into churches and castles, and the very name forum was forgotten. you can read all about it in baedeker, my dear," said miss helen with a smile at jo's look of admiration at her knowledge. "let's read up, nan, as soon as we get home," said jo enthusiastically. their talk was at this moment broken in upon by a queer little figure which approached. a little fellow of about twelve or thirteen was taking as long strides as he was capable of toward them. he was dressed in manly attire, long trousers, sack coat and derby hat. "want a guide?" he asked. "i show you alla, evrasing, verra sheep." the four looked at one another and grinned. his was such a comical appearance, for he was small for his age, and had such a serious air. even miss helen smiled. "i spika engglis," continued the boy. he struck an attitude. "frienda roma, contra-manna. i coma bury cæsar," he began. the three younger ones of the party turned away their heads, and broke into suppressed giggles. the boy was so ridiculous with his little pompous manner. miss helen bit her lip, but managed to ask, "what do you know about being a guide, a little boy like you?" "i know alla as big manna. he sharge molto, mucha, me, no. me, verra clever." he smote his breast with an air of assured self-importance. "do let's have him," whispered nan to her aunt. "even if he isn't any good he is so funny." "what is your charge?" asked miss helen, turning to the boy. he named a moderate enough price with all the gravity possible. "it's worth it," murmured carter, "just to see the little rat and his airs." "very well," agreed miss helen, "you may come with us. i don't suppose he knows a thing or will do anything right," she said to the others, "but i have my baedeker with me, and he is funny." the boy strode ahead, taking as mighty steps as his short legs would permit, and presently began his lecture, waving a small hand in the direction of the temple of saturn, and naming the buildings correctly enough. when he thought his party had exhausted the resources above he turned abruptly. "come along," he said peremptorily, and with long strides marched ahead. "he takes the cook guides for his pattern," laughed miss helen. the boy did not hear, but with the same air of importance led his party over the ground. at the slightest word of appreciation, he would smite his breast and say, "me verra clever." before he had finished with them he had taken them to the capitoline hill, had procured them post-cards at a figure less than that usually charged, had marched them to the church of santa maria in arcoeli that they might view the wonder-working bambino laden with jewels, and in his queer jargon of broken english told them many things with such an air of gravity as convulsed them. jo once in a while managed to reach the boy in him, and his merry laugh, in strong contrast to his costume and his general manner, was the more contagious. he had really fulfilled his promise so well, and as carter said, was "such an amusing little rat" that the others of the party employed him later and as a matter of course jack brought him out wonderfully, and was able to learn more from him than any one else. at the close of the first day, each was so enthusiastic about what he or she had seen that the different parties followed the example of one another the next day, a sort of ladies' change, jo said, though after this they divided up in various ways. sometimes it was mr. pinckney who carried off all four corners; again it would be two of these who would go in one direction and two in another. at another time the whole company of eleven would take carriages for an afternoon's drive or sightseeing, finally having supper at some out-of-door restaurant, and coming home through the lighted streets, happy though tired. nan had her sight of the coliseum by moonlight, and was stirred to the depths by the grandeur and solemnity of the scene. it was an evening not to be forgotten by any of them, and it may be remarked in passing that it was a specially happy one to miss dolores and mr. kirk. so day after day passed until one morning mrs. corner remarked, "if we expect to reach naples before it is too hot, we shall have to think of getting there, for may is passing." "leave rome?" exclaimed the girls. "don't you want to see naples?" "of course, but why can't we----" began mary lee. "do what?" "i don't know. make time stand still, i suppose." "rome will remain, dear child, and you can come back some day." "i know, and of course we have been here over two weeks now. well, mother, i suppose we shall have to go." "don't say it so mournfully, my child. you will be delighted with naples, with sorrento, amalfi, capri, pompeii." "oh, i know it. this earth has more in it than one can well see in a short lifetime. i can't understand how people can ever be bored." "like that awful mrs. ritchie on the steamer," said nan; "she didn't know what places there were left to visit for she and her daughter had been everywhere. shall you ever forget her blasé look and set smile?" "her name just suited her," declared jo. "she was just rich and nothing else. i was so pleased when miss helen drew her out, and found that she had been only to the big cities and that she didn't know anything but shops, theatres and restaurants." "there is no danger of this crowd ever getting bored," remarked nan. "the trouble is we are too enthusiastic, for we like the little simple things as much as the big ones, and when we have exhausted our vocabularies over some small matter we have no words left to express what we feel for the great ones. is go the word, mother?" "yes, i think it must be if we are to see anything of southern italy before we sail for----" "home, home, sweet home," broke in a chorus of voices. "and that is another thing to be enthusiastic about," said nan at the close of the outburst. "there is the getting back and the seeing all the dear old places and the darling people." [illustration: chapter xx toward the toe] chapter xx toward the toe "heel and toe, and away we go," sang jack on the morning they were to start for naples. "we've come down all through the boot leg, jean, and now we're going toward the toe." "it isn't really the toe when we stop," returned jean. "aunt helen showed me on the map, and it isn't any further down than the ankle." "well, but it's toward the toe." "yes," admitted jack. "there are more donkeys there than anywhere we have been," she went on, "and there are goats that walk up-stairs to be milked." "we saw them milk goats in the streets of paris. don't you remember the man who used to come by early in the morning playing on the pipes, and how we used to get up and look out of the window to see him milk the goats?" "yes, but those goats didn't walk up-stairs. carter told me about the ones in naples and i am going to look out for them." "carter told me a lot of things, too," returned jack, not to be outdone. "he told me more than he did you. he said there was a cave that was bright blue inside, and that we should go there, and he said there was a great big aquarium, the finest in the world, and--that we'd see the smoke coming out of vesuvius, and we'd eat oranges off the trees just as we did in california." "i don't care," said jean. "i reckon he told me just as much, only i don't remember it all." "here, here, you children, stop your bickering," cried nan, "and look around to see if you have left nothing behind. we must start pretty soon." "i'm all ready," declared jean. "so am i," echoed jack. but at the last moment there was discovered a hair ribbon and a handkerchief of hers which had to be poked into her mother's bag. "to think this is the end of our travels, and that the next thing will be to take the steamer for home," said jo in a woebegone voice when they were settled in the train. "what next, i wonder." "there is a great deal of talk over all of us," said nan, "but no one seems exactly to know about next year." "i think mother and aunt helen intend to give themselves up to the subject on the steamer," remarked mary lee. "they're saving it up to keep them from getting seasick," said nan. "it will be so absorbing, you see, that they won't be able to think of anything else." "well," said jo, "there is one thing; i hope wherever you go that i can go, too." "even if it is back to the wadsworth school?" said mary lee. "sure." jo still clung to her slang on occasions. "the wadsworth school might be worse, and without frances is much better, so charley writes." "daniella says it would be much better still if we were all there," remarked nan. "_natürlich_," returned jo calmly. "what are you girls talking about?" asked carter sauntering up to the door of the compartment. "of how extremely desirable we are as companions," replied nan. "i found that out long ago," answered carter. "why don't you talk about something not quite so obvious as that?" "bah!" exclaimed nan. "don't hand us out any more bouquets, carter, we have not places to put them when we are traveling. what are they all doing next door?" the train being rather crowded, the party had to divide, carter and mr. kirk finding place in another carriage, the twins with their mother, miss helen and the pinckneys being next to the three older girls, who were established on a seat opposite three quiet german women. "the twins are eating chocolate, i believe," carter said, "at least jean was. your mother is talking to mr. pinckney and your aunt to miss dolores. hal and i have had a smoke, and i left hal scribbling things in his note-book with a far-away look in his eyes; so, seeing i was not of any special use, i wandered here to cast myself on your tender mercies. what shall i do when you all leave me? i've half a mind to go back, too." "and not go to sicily and greece? oh, carter," nan protested. "well, i am a sociable beast and can't see much fun in traveling alone. if i can find a decent fellow to travel with me, well and good. hal can't stay. he took his holiday early that he might come with me. i don't see why you all have to leave so soon when you could spend the summer over here as well as not. you don't have to get back before school begins, do you?" "yes, we shall have to. at least, so far as we are concerned, it wouldn't matter, but mother wants to go back to see about things on the place, and we don't want her to go without us. she is too precious to be parted from. we had enough of that business last year. now we all, mother included, have made up our minds that we are not going to be parted unless it is absolutely necessary. we shall trot around together from this on." "suppose you were in my shoes, and had to live away from your mother and family," said carter soberly. "we'd have to do as you do; grin and bear it." carter looked a little wistful, for his life was spent apart from his people, as his health did not permit him to live in richmond where his parents were. "i wish you would all come out to california again," he said. "perhaps we shall, some time, but i don't think it will be next winter. mother may go to florida or asheville after christmas to bridge over the worst of the year, but the rest of us have got to buckle down to hard study." here mr. kirk sauntered down the corridor to join his cousin, and they stood talking for a few minutes before returning to their places. a little later they appeared again. "it will soon be time to get our first glimpse of vesuvius," said carter, "so don't miss it." from this time on the girls were wildly enthusiastic. first vesuvius' "misty rim" appeared, and not long after they were all driving through the picturesque, if dirty streets of the city. exclamations of delight accented the drive. it was, "oh, look at that!" and "oh, see there!" all the way to the very door of the hotel, and then as they stood looking off at the magnificent sweep of bay before them, with capri and ischia in the distance, no one made a movement to go in but stood murmuring, "how beautiful!" with natural youthful energy, the young people were not to be persuaded from starting off at once to explore, and that very evening did indeed climb as far as the villa floridiana, from which they could look down upon the town with its beautiful surroundings. the climb served as an outlet to superfluous energies, and they came back ready to make plans while they had dinner. they all trooped to the aquarium first thing the next morning where jean and jack were so entertained they could hardly be dragged away. "it's like being really in the waters under the earth," said jack. "i think the octopus is so horrible." she stood regarding it with fascinated eyes. "if you think it is so horrible what makes you stand and gaze at it?" asked mary lee. "because i can't help it," returned jack transfixed. "it's a place i'd like to come to every day," admitted mary lee. "everything is so wonderfully arranged, and as jack says you feel as if you were really in a room under the water. i love the living coral." "and those creer, creer crabs are so interesting," put in jean. "creer, creer crabs does sound rather interesting," said mr. kirk laughing. "did you ever see such wonderfully colored creatures as some of these are?" said nan, peering through the glass into the watery home of some of the beautiful mediterranean fish. "what's jo doing, carter?" "she is amusing herself with the electric fish. she seems to find it more alluring than some of these beauties." "shocking!" exclaimed nan, "though it's hard to shock jo," she went on with an attempt at a pun. carter groaned. "if that's the way it's going to affect you we'd better get out as soon as possible." "come over here and see these lovely medusæ," said miss helen. "it's a great place, isn't it?" said carter joining her. "i'd no idea it would be so tremendously interesting." "it is the greatest place of its kind in the world, i suppose. its equipments are very complete, and it is resorted to for study by marine biologists all over the world. the mediterranean is a marvelous source of supply, and the specimens are constantly being added to." "wouldn't have missed it for a good deal," remarked mr. pinckney trotting up. "we'll have to come here often, youngsters," he nodded to the twins. "when the others are off looking at their old churches and dried up specimens we'll come here and see these fine wet ones, won't we?" and the twins were only too ready to agree to this. the young men were possessed with a desire to see the castles of san martino and st. elmo that afternoon, but started off alone, while the others took carriages and drove about the city, watching the life in the narrow little streets where gay colored flowers on the balconies, and bits of scarlet or blue clothing, hung from the windows, added to the charm of color. "i think the cool way in which they carry on their household affairs, their trades or anything at all in the streets, is too funny for words," said jo. "do look at that old woman cooking macaroni over a handful of charcoal, nan. doesn't she remind you of one of the witches in macbeth?" "and see that baby with scarce a stitch to cover his dear fat little brown body. and oh, the flowers, the flowers!" "nan, nan, see there's a street with steps all the way up the middle and the donkeys are going up the steps just as easy," cried jack. "i see a man mending shoes right out on the pavement." "and a girl with something to sell, something to eat," said jean. "i wonder what it is." "nothing you would like, probably," nan told her. "oh, there is a funeral procession. what a queer looking lot of people, and what a gorgeous coffin." "it is probably empty," miss helen told her. "they seldom bear the body in procession, for it is generally taken to the cemetery beforehand." "who are the men wearing the white things with holes for their eyes? it looks like a sheet and pillow-case party," declared jo. "those are probably members of the brotherhood to which the dead man belonged," miss helen returned. "it is certainly a great show, like some of the old pictures you see in the galleries," said nan. they watched the curious procession move on and then turned their attention to such passing scenes as a man with a tray of selected cigar ends which he had picked up in the streets and which he was offering to buyers, or to a row of booths where fish, meat and macaroni were being cooked and finding a ready sale. in between the moving throng the patient panniered donkeys threaded their way, those laden with vegetables of different hues adding more color to the scene. it was a lively show, sometimes amusing, sometimes pathetic, always interesting, as every one declared. a morning at the museum, an afternoon prowling around the shops, looking up souvenirs, a tour of the principal churches for some of the party while the others went again to the aquarium, took them to their third day which was set apart for an excursion to pompeii. "the education i am receiving!" remarked jo to nan when they passed in through the entrance of the ancient city. "i have always had a very hazy idea of what pompeii was like, though i have lately learned when it existed. in fact i was hazy about so many things that are now clear facts in my mind, that i expect to overpower my family completely when i get back. i hope my father won't consider that i have completed my education entirely. perhaps i'd better refrain from showing off, or he may jerk me out of school for the rest of time. isn't it fun to get your history lessons in this way?" "don't mention it," returned nan. "our history lessons are so full of illustrations that we'd be idiots if we didn't absorb facts with every breath. let me see, how long was the place covered up?" "oh, for a mere matter of fifteen centuries i believe. it was first mentioned in history in b. c., so baedeker says. nice old place, eh?" "don't speak of it in that flippant way," returned nan. "see, jo, we are going to have that nice-looking guide. keep your ears open and don't break in upon my efforts to gain fresh knowledge." for the rest of the morning the party followed their intelligent guide, a young man who spoke english well, and who informed them that he was from sorrento, but had been in america for several years. "it's the most uncanny thing to be walking through these streets and go poking into the houses of a dead city," remarked nan to her aunt. "i'm glad you told us to be sure to read 'the last days of pompeii,' for i can see it all in my mind's eye much more vividly. i fancy nydia feeling her way through these places and i can imagine just what went on in these houses now i have read bulwer's descriptions." "impressive, very impressive," asserted mr. pinckney gazing at the great amphitheatre. "one doesn't feel in the least old, my dear mrs. corner, when he is brought face to face with such antiquity. why, i am a mere infant compared to it." he chuckled mirthfully. jean and jack amused themselves by skipping back and forth over the stepping-stones set across some of the narrow streets, and were charmed with the little lizards which darted out from between the old stones, the sole residents of that ancient and populous town. mary lee looked down at the ruts made by the chariot wheels and remarked, "just think of all the poor animals that must have perished in that dreadful time." "as for the rest," as jo said, "they were walking exclamation points. to come upon a town buried for centuries, and then to walk into its kitchens to see its pots and pans, to come upon those great baths and to go poking around the carefully retired courts and bedrooms, dear me, it does set one to conjecturing and exclaiming." "i love the color, the decorations, the statues and all that," said nan. "i'm glad they had tried to make it look something as it used to, and have reëstablished gardens so as to give you an idea of what it was like in the long ago." believing that the luncheon hour would not find them ready to leave the ruins they had provided themselves with lunch so they could stay as late as they cared to, the evening light giving an added fascination to the silent city. "it's been a great day," said carter as they started for the railway station. "haven't we had a good time?" said jack cordially. "what are you going to do this evening, carter?" "don't know, jaquita. i may go to the opera, if we get back in time. i know very well what you will do." "what?" "tumble into your little bed and go to sleep in about two minutes," returned carter laughing. they were all so tired that opera was not to be thought of, and it was decided to put off that pleasure till the next evening when all went except mrs. corner and the twins. "i suppose nan will be snippy and will say it's not worth listening to because the music is not wagner's," said mary lee as they started out through the gay streets. "indeed i shall not," returned nan indignantly. "i like wagner best, of course, but i can enjoy anything good, i hope." "i've never reached the place where i can appreciate wagner," confessed jo. "you're not studying music," nan explained. "if you were you would feel differently. i didn't care so much for it either till frau burg-schmidt introduced me to the mysteries. now that i can understand it i think it is the greatest ever." "old rossini and donizetti and those fellows are good enough for me," declared carter. nan had her own ideas, but she only whispered to her aunt, "he has never heard knote sing siegfried or tannhauser." she was not going to spoil the evening by futile argument. it was by no means spoiled, however, for the great opera house of san carlo provided them with a fine caste for the light music they heard. it was a very different and less attentive audience from that with which nan had grown so familiar in munich, but as she gravely explained, "the character of the music is so very different," a remark which caused miss helen to smile and jo to laugh outright, so very superior was nan's tone. a flood of sunshine, blue italian skies, dancing blue waters in the lovely bay greeted them the next morning. "this is the day that was made for our trip to capri and the blue grotto," announced miss helen when they were taking breakfast. "so get ready, girls. pack your bags, for we shall stop off at sorrento for a few days." off flew the girls, for there was but a short time before the steamer would start on its daily trip. there was bustle enough for the next fifteen minutes, and then one after another appeared, ready to go. "this will be the best of all," said mary lee. "i feel it." "what do you do when you get there?" asked jean. "get where?" "to wherever we are going. i don't know exactly where it is. one of you says capri, another talks about sorrento, and jack declares it is the blue grotto." "it is all three," mary lee told her. "we stop at the blue grotto first, then we go to capri and have our lunch, and after that we go to sorrento." "oh!" jean understood. she was somewhat fearful of the blue grotto, and was rather scared when the little boat shot into the small opening, and the wonderful blue cave was before her. she buried her face in her mother's lap and would not look up at first, but a call from jack, who was in the next boat with carter, caused her to be braver. "i wasn't scared a bit, was i, carter?" sang out jack. this part of the trip was soon over and they went on to capri, where they were ready to linger longer than the time allowed. "capri is too charming for words. must we leave it?" the girls said to their elders. "my dears, if we stopped at all the charming places we should never get home," mrs. corner told them. "you will have to be satisfied with a little stop at sorrento this time." "capri will be here for ages yet," said carter, "and when we get to be tottering old people, jack, we will come here to celebrate our golden wedding." "silly!" was all the answer jack vouchsafed. a babble of clamoring voices surrounded their steamer which suddenly came to a standstill. "what in the world is the matter?" said mary lee jumping up. "come along, girls," mr. pinckney called to them, and they found they must leave the steamer for one of the small rowboats rocking on the water alongside. the clamor of voices calling out the names of the various hotels of sorrento issued from these. mr. pinckney shouted out the name of the one they had selected, and one after another descended to reëmbark and to be rowed shoreward to an ancient pier at the foot of the lofty crags. "now," said jean settling herself, "we are going to eat oranges for three whole days." not only oranges, but all manner of good things did their hotel afford. roses rioted in its gardens, beautiful views were seen from their windows, a fair orange grove became their happy retreat. their three days in this loveliest of spots seemed all too short, so, throwing all other plans aside, they lingered too happy and content to care for anything further. if it was a glad time to the corners, to at least two of the party it seemed a paradise, the world forgot. it was jack who first learned what every one else suspected. she had been walking with mr. pinckney in the orange grove the last evening of their stay at sorrento. they stopped to sit down on one of the old stone seats from which they could look out at the glorious view of naples, vesuvius, capri and ischia which was spread out before them. presently mr. pinckney gave a long sigh. "are you sighing because it is so beautiful?" asked jack solicitously, "or because you ate too much supper?" in spite of himself mr. pinckney could not help from laughing, his jolly old chuckle, but almost immediately became serious again. "it is something else, jack," he said. "i'm going to lose my little girl." "you don't mean me, do you?" said jack after a moment's pause. she could not imagine any other whom he would call his little girl. "no, not you. i hope we shall not lose you for a great many years. i mean, my dear, that i am doing as you told me to do there in venice. i am trying not to be a selfish old fellow and am consenting to give up miss dolores because it will make her happy." jack's arms went around his neck and she imprinted a hearty kiss upon his cheek. "you darling!" she exclaimed. "i think you are too sweet for words." this was too much for him and he again broke into a laugh. "i'm glad you approve," he said, "but while you are so glad for that granddaughter of mine, you haven't a word of sympathy for me. what is to become of me?" "why, of course you will be happy, too. aren't they going to live with you?" "yes, that dear dolly of mine wouldn't say yes otherwise." "of course she wouldn't. well, then, won't you have her and mr. kirk both, and nan and mary lee and jean and me besides?" another mighty hug and kiss. "bless your heart, when i get to feeling down-hearted i'll send for you. i'll make a bargain with your mother this very night." "i think sometimes you might come and see us where we are," returned jack, "though, of course, i shall always like to go to see you," she added hastily. "it's a bargain," he said. "when you can't come to me then i will go to you, whenever i feel that i am in the way at home." "oh, but you were never in the way," jack hastened to assure him, then she added mirthfully, "except that first time i saw you when i ran into you." the recollection of this put mr. pinckney into a happier humor, and the two went up to the house to tell their news to the family. and so when, a week later, they all turned away from the beautiful land where they had enjoyed so many good times, to set out upon the journey home, it was not only to school and their native town that they looked forward, but to the christmas wedding of their dear and lovely friend miss dolores, when for the first time each of the four corners would perform the office of bridesmaid. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "joe" changed to "jo" twice (jo asked nan that) (and jo were very fond of) page , illustration caption, "kippen" changed to "krippen" (delight at the krippen) page , "fraunces" changed to "frances" (nan, what would frances) produced from images generously made available by gallica (bibliothèque nationale de france) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. observations and reflections made in the course of a journey through _france, italy, and germany_. by hester lynch piozzi. in two volumes vol. i. london: printed for a. strahan; and t. cadell in the strand, mdcclxxxix. preface. i was made to observe at rome some vestiges of an ancient custom very proper in those days--it was the parading of the streets by a set of people called _preciæ_, who went some minutes before the _flamen dialis_ to bid the inhabitants leave work or play, and attend wholly to the procession; but if ill omens prevented the pageants from passing, or if the occasion of the show was deemed scarcely worthy its celebration, these _preciæ_ stood a chance of being ill-treated by the spectators. a prefatory introduction to a work like this, can hope little better usage from the public than they had; it proclaims the approach of what has often passed by before, adorned most certainly with greater splendour, perhaps conducted too with greater regularity and skill: yet will i not despair of giving at least a momentary amusement to my countrymen in general, while their entertainment shall serve as a vehicle for conveying expressions of particular kindness to those foreign individuals, whose tenderness softened the sorrows of absence, and who eagerly endeavoured by unmerited attentions to supply the loss of their company on whom nature and habit had given me stronger claims. that i should make some reflections, or write down some observations, in the course of a long journey, is not strange; that i should present them before the public is i hope not too daring: the presumption grew up out of their acknowledged favour, and if too kind culture has encouraged a coarse plant till it runs to seed, a little coldness from the same quarter will soon prove sufficient to kill it. the flattering partiality of private partisans sometimes induces authors to venture forth, and stand a public decision; but it is often found to betray them too; not to be tossed by waves of perpetual contention, but rather to sink in the silence of total neglect. what wonder! he who swims in oil must be buoyant indeed, if he escapes falling certainly, though gently, to the bottom; while he who commits his safety to the bosom of the wide-embracing ocean, is sure to be strongly supported, or at worst thrown upon the shore. on this principle it has been still my study to obtain from a humane and generous public that shelter their protection best affords from the poisoned arrows of private malignity; for though it is not difficult to despise the attempts of petty malice, i will not say with the philosopher, that i mean to build a monument to my fame with the stones thrown at me to break my bones; nor yet pretend to the art of swift's german wonder-doer, who promised to make them fall about his head like so many pillows. ink, as it resembles styx in its colour, should resemble it a little in its operation too; whoever has been once _dipt_ should become _invulnerable_: but it is not so; the irritability of authors has long been enrolled among the comforts of ill-nature, and the triumphs of stupidity; such let it long remain! let me at least take care in the worst storms that may arise in public or in private life, to say with lear, --i'm one more sinn'd against, than sinning. for the book--i have not thrown my thoughts into the form of private letters; because a work of which truth is the best recommendation, should not above all others begin with a lie. my old acquaintance rather chose to amuse themselves with conjectures, than to flatter me with tender inquiries during my absence; our correspondence then would not have been any amusement to the public, whose treatment of me deserves every possible acknowledgment; and more than those acknowledgments will i not add--to a work, which, such as it is, i submit to their candour, resolving to think as little of the event as i can help; for the labours of the press resemble those of the toilette, both should be attended to, and finished with care; but once complete, should take up no more of our attention; unless we are disposed at evening to destroy all effect of our morning's study. observations and reflections made in a journey through france, italy, and germany. * * * * * france. calais. september , . of all pleasure, i see much may be destroyed by eagerness of anticipation: i had told my female companion, to whom travelling was new, how she would be surprized and astonished, at the difference found in crossing the narrow sea from england to france, and now she is not astonished at all; why should she? we have lingered and loitered six and twenty hours from port to port, while sickness and fatigue made her feel as if much more time still had elapsed since she quitted the opposite shore. the truth is, we wanted wind exceedingly; and the flights of shaggs, and shoals of maycril, both beautiful enough, and both uncommon too at this season, made us very little amends for the tediousness of a night passed on ship-board. seeing the sun rise and set, however, upon an unobstructed horizon, was a new idea gained to me, who never till now had the opportunity. it confirmed the truth of that maxim which tells us, that the human mind must have something left to supply for itself on the sight of all sublunary objects. when my eyes have watched the rising or setting sun through a thick crowd of intervening trees, or seen it sink gradually behind a hill which obstructed my closer observation, fancy has always painted the full view finer than at last i found it; and if the sun itself cannot satisfy the cravings of a thirsty imagination, let it at least convince us that nothing on this side heaven can satisfy them, and _set our affections_ accordingly. pious reflections remind one of monks and nuns; i enquired of the franciscan friar who attended us at the inn, what was become of father felix, who did the duties of the quête; as it is called, about a dozen years ago, when i recollect minding that his manners and story struck dr. johnson exceedingly, who said that so complete a character could scarcely be found in romance. he had been a soldier, it seems, and was no incompetent or mean scholar: the books we found open in his cell, shewed he had not neglected modern or colloquial knowledge; there was a translation of addison's spectators, and rapin's dissertation on the contending parties of england called whig and tory. he had likewise a violin, and some printed music, for his entertainment. i was glad to hear he was well, and travelling to barcelona on foot by orders of the superior. after dinner we set out to see miss grey, at her convent of dominican nuns; who, i hoped, would have remembered me, as many of the ladies there had seized much of my attention when last abroad; they had however all forgotten me, nor could call to mind how much they had once admired the beauty of my eldest daughter, then a child, which i thought impossible to forget: one is always more important in one's own eyes than in those of others; but no one is of importance to a nun, who is and ought to be employed in other speculations. when the great mogul showed his splendour to a travelling dervise, who expressed his little admiration of it--"shall you not often be thinking of me in future?" said the monarch. "perhaps i might," replied the religieux, "if i were not always thinking upon god." the women spinning at their doors here, or making lace, or employing themselves in some manner, is particularly consolatory to a british eye; yet i do not recollect it struck me last time i was over: industry without bustle, and some appearance of gain without fraud, comfort one's heart; while all the profits of commerce scarcely can be said to make immediate compensation to a delicate mind, for the noise and brutality observed in an english port. i looked again for the chapel, where the model of a ship, elegantly constructed, hung from the top, and found it in good preservation: some scrupulous man had made the ship, it seems, and thought, perhaps justly too, that he had spent a greater portion of time and care on the workmanship than he ought to have done; so resolving no longer to indulge his vanity or fondness, fairly hung it up in the convent chapel, and made a solemn vow to look on it no more. i remember a much stronger instance of self-denial practised by a pretty young lady of paris once, who was enjoined by her confessor to wring off the neck of her favourite bullfinch, as a penance for having passed too much time in teaching him to pipe tunes, peck from her hand, &c.--she obeyed; but never could be prevailed on to see the priest again. we are going now to leave calais, where the women in long white camblet clokes, soldiers with whiskers, girls in neat slippers, and short petticoats contrived to show them, who wait upon you at the inn;--postillions with greasy night-caps, and vast jack-boots, driving your carriage harnessed with ropes, and adorned with sheep-skins, can never fail to strike an englishman at his first going abroad:--but what is our difference of manners, compared to that prodigious effect produced by the much shorter passage from spain to africa; where an hour's time, and sixteen miles space only, carries you from europe, from civilization, from christianity. a gentleman's description of his feelings on that occasion rushes now on my mind, and makes me half ashamed to sit here, in dessein's parlour, writing remarks, in good time!--upon places as well known as westminster-bridge to almost all those who cross it at this moment; while the custom-house officers intrusion puts me the less out of humour, from the consciousness that, if i am disturbed, i am disturbed from doing _nothing_. chantilly. our way to this place lay through boulogne; the situation of which is pleasing, and the fish there excellent. i was glad to see boulogne, though i can scarcely tell why; but one is always glad to see something new, and talk of something old: for example, the story i once heard of miss ashe, speaking of poor dr. james, who loved profligate conversation dearly,--"that man should set up his quarters across the water," said she; "why boulogne would be a seraglio to him." the country, as far as montreuil, is a coarse one; _thin herbage in the plains and fruitless fields_. the cattle too are miserably poor and lean; but where there is no grass, we can scarcely expect them to be fat: they must not feed on wheat, i suppose, and cannot digest tobacco. herds of swine, not flocks of sheep, meet one's eye upon the hills; and the very few gentlemen's feats that we have passed by, seem out of repair, and deserted. the french do not reside much in private houses, as the english do; but while those of narrower fortunes flock to the country towns within their reach, those of ampler purses repair to paris, where the rent of their estate supplies them with pleasures at no very enormous expence. the road is magnificent, like our old-fashioned avenue in a nobleman's park, but wider, and paved in the middle: this convenience continued on for many hundred miles, and all at the king's expence. every man you meet, politely pulls off his hat _en passant_; and the gentlemen have commonly a good horse under them, but certainly a dressed one. sporting season is not come in yet, but, i believe the idea of sporting seldom enters any head except an english one: here is prodigious plenty of game, but the familiarity with which they walk about and sit by our road-side, shews they feel no apprehensions. harvest, even in france, is extremely backward this year, i see; no crops are yet got in, nor will reaping be likely to pay its own charges. but though summer is come too late for profit, the pleasure it brings is perhaps enhanced by delay: like a life, the early part of which has been wasted in sickness, the possessor finds too little time remaining for work, when health _does_ come; and spends all that he has left, naturally enough, in enjoyment. the pert vivacity of _la fille_ at montreuil was all we could find there worth remarking: it filled up my notions of french flippancy agreeably enough; as no english wench would so have answered one to be sure. she had complained of our avant-coureur's behaviour. "_il parle sur le bant ton, mademoiselle_" (said i), "_mais il à le coeur bon_[a]:" "_ouydà_" (replied she, smartly), "_mais c'est le ton qui fait le chanson_[b]." footnotes: [footnote a: he sets his talk to a sounding tune, my dear, but he is an honest fellow.] [footnote b: but i always thought it was the tune which made the musick.] the cathedral at amiens made ample amends for the country we passed through to see it; the _nef d'amiens_ deserves the fame of a first-rate structure: and the ornaments of its high altar seem particularly well chosen, of an excellent taste, and very capital execution. the vineyards from thence hither shew, that either the climate, or season, or both, improve upon one: the grapes climbing up some not very tall golden-pippin trees, and mingling their fruits at the top, have a mighty pleasing effect; and i observe the rage for lombardy poplars is in equal force here as about london: no tolerable house have i passed without seeing long rows of them; all young plantations, as one may perceive by their size. refined countries always are panting for speedy enjoyment: the maxim of _carpe diem_[footnote: seize the present moment.] came into rome when luxury triumphed there; and poets and philosophers lent their assistance to decorate and dignify her gaudy car. till then we read of no such haste to be happy; and on the same principle, while americans contentedly wait the slow growth of their columnal chesnut, our hot-bed inhabitants measure the slender poplar with canes, anxiously admiring its quick growth and early elegance; yet are often cut down themselves, before their youthful favourite can afford them either pleasure or advantage. this charming palace and gardens were new to neither of us, yet lovely to both: the tame fish, i remember so well to have fed from my hand eleven or twelve years ago, are turned almost all white; can it be with age i wonder? the naturalists must tell. i once saw a carp which weighed six pounds and an half taken out of a pond in hertfordshire, where the owners knew it had resided forty years at least; and it was not white, but of the common colour: quere, how long will they live? and when will they begin to change? the stables struck me as more magnificent this time than the last i saw them; the hounds were always dirtily and ill kept; but hunting is not the taste of any nation now but ours; none but a young english heir says to his estate as goliah did to david, _come to me, and i will give thee to the beasts of the field, and to the fowls of the air_; as some of our old books of piety reproach us. every trick that money can play with the most lavish abundance of water is here exhibited; nor is the sight of a _jet d'eau_, or the murmur of an artificial cascade, undelightful in a hot day, let the nature-mongers say what they please. the prince's cabinet, for a private collection, is not a mean one; but i was sorry to see his quadrant rusted to the globe almost, and the poor planetarium out of all repair. the great stuffed dog is a curiosity however; i never saw any of the canine species so large, and withal so beautiful, living or dead. the theatre belonging to the house is a lovely one; and the truly princely possessor, when he heard once that an english gentleman, travelling for amusement, had called at chantilly too late to enjoy the diversion, instantly, though past twelve o'clock at night, ordered a new representation, that his curiosity might be gratified. this is the same prince of condè, who going from paris to his country-seat here for a month or two, when his eldest son was nine years old, left him fifty louis d'ors as an allowance during his absence. at his return to town, the boy produced his purse, crying "_papa! here's all the money safe, i have never touched it once_"--the prince, in reply, took him gravely to the window, and opening it, very quietly poured all the louis d'ors into the street; saying, "now, if you have neither virtue enough to give away your money, nor spirit enough to spend it, always _do this_ for the future, do you hear; that the poor may at least have a _chance for it_." paris. the fine paved road to this town has many inconveniencies, and jars the nerves terribly with its perpetual rattle; the approach however always strikes one as very fine, i think, and the boulevards and guingettes look always pretty too: as wine, beer, and spirits are not permitted to be sold there, one sees what england does not even pretend to exhibit, which is gaiety without noise, and a crowd without a riot. i was pleased to go over the churches again too, and re-experience that particular sensation which the disposition of st. rocque's altars and ornaments alone can give. in the evening we looked at the new square called the palais royal, whence the due de chartres has removed a vast number of noble trees, which it was a sin and shame to profane with an axe, after they had adorned that spot for so many centuries.--the people were accordingly as angry, i believe, as frenchmen can be, when the folly was first committed: the court, however, had wit enough to convert the place into a sort of vauxhall, with tents, fountains, shops, full of frippery, brilliant at once and worthless, to attract them; with coffeehouses surrounding it on every side; and now they are all again _merry_ and _happy_, synonymous terms at paris, though often disunited in london; and _vive le duc de chartres_! the french are really a contented race of mortals;--precluded almost from possibility of adventure, the low parisian leads a gentle humble life, nor envies that greatness he never can obtain; but either wonders delightedly, or diverts himself philosophically with the sight of splendours which seldom fail to excite serious envy in an englishman, and sometimes occasion even suicide, from disappointed hopes, which never could take root in the heart of these unaspiring people. reflections of this cast are suggested to one here in every shop, where the behaviour of the matter at first sight contradicts all that our satirists tell us of the _supple gaul_, &c. a mercer in this town shews you a few silks, and those he scarcely opens; _vous devez choisir_[footnote: chuse what you like.], is all he thinks of saying, to invite your custom; then takes out his snuff-box, and yawns in your face, fatigued by your inquiries. for my own part, i find my natural disgust of such behaviour greatly repelled, by the recollection that the man i am speaking to is no inhabitant of a happy land, where circulating pow'r flows thro' each member of th'embodied state-- s. johnson. and i feel well-inclined to respect the peaceful tenor of a life, which likes not to be broken in upon, for the sake of obtaining riches, which when gotten must end only in the pleasure of counting them. a frenchman who should make his fortune by trade tomorrow, would be no nearer advancement in society or situation: why then should he solicit, by arts he is too lazy to delight in the practice of, that opulence which would afford so slight an improvement to his comforts? he lives as well as he wishes already; he goes to the boulevards every night, treats his wife with a glass of lemonade or ice, and holds up his babies by turns, to hear the jokes of _jean pottage_. were he to recommend his goods, like the londoner, with studied eloquence and attentive flattery, he could not hope like him that the eloquence he now bestows on the decorations of a hat, or the varnish of an equipage, may one day serve to torment a minister, and obtain a post of honour for his son; he could not hope that on some future day his flattery might be listened to by some lady of more birth than beauty, or riches perhaps, when happily employed upon a very different subject, and be the means of lifting himself into a state of distinction, his children too into public notoriety. emulation, ambition, avarice, however, must in all arbitrary governments be confined to the great; the _other_ set of mortals, for there are none there of _middling_ rank, live, as it should seem, like eunuchs in a seraglio; feel themselves irrevocably doomed to promote the pleasure of their superiors, nor ever dream of sighing for enjoyments from which an irremeable boundary divides them. they see at the beginning of their lives how that life must necessarily end, and trot with a quiet, contented, and unaltered pace down their long, straight, and shaded avenue; while we, with anxious solicitude, and restless hurry, watch the quick turnings of our serpentine walk; which still presents, either to sight or expectation, some changes of variety in the ever-shifting prospect, till the unthought-of, unexpected end comes suddenly upon us, and finishes at once the fluctuating scene. reflections must now give way to facts for a moment, though few english people want to be told that every hotel here, belonging to people of condition, is shut out from the street like our burlington-house, which gives a general gloom to the look of this city so famed for its gaiety: the streets are narrow too, and ill-paved; and very noisy, from the echo made by stone buildings drawn up to a prodigious height, many of the houses having seven, and some of them even eight stories from the bottom. the contradictions one meets with every moment likewise strike even a cursory observer--a countess in a morning, her hair dressed, with diamonds too perhaps, a dirty black handkerchief about her neck, and a flat silver ring on her finger, like our ale-wives; a _femme publique_, dressed avowedly for the purposes of alluring the men, with not a very small crucifix hanging at her bosom;--and the virgin mary's sign at an alehouse door, with these words, je suis la mere de mon dieu, et la gardienne de ce lieu[c]. [footnote c: the mother of my god am i, and keep this house right carefully. ] i have, however, borrowed bocage's remarks upon the english nation, which serve to damp my spirit of criticism exceedingly: she had more opportunities than i for observation, not less quickness of discernment surely; and her stay in london was longer than mine in paris.--yet, how was she deceived in many points! i will tell nothing that i did not _see_; and among the objects one would certainly avoid seeing if it were possible, is the deformity of the poor.--such various modes of warping the human figure could hardly be observed in england by a surgeon in high practice, as meet me about this country incessantly.--i have seen them in the galleries and outer-courts even of the palace itself, and am glad to turn my eyes for relief on the duke of orleans's pictures; a glorious collection! the italian noblemen, in whose company we saw it, acknowledged with candour the good taste of the selection; and i was glad to see again what had delighted me so many years before: particularly, the three marys, by annibale caracci; and rubens's odd conceit of making juno's peacock peck paris's leg, for having refused the apple to his mistress. the manufacture at the gobelins seems exceedingly improved; the colouring less inharmonious, the drawing more correct; but our parisians are not just now thinking about such matters; they are all wild for love of a new comedy, written by mons. de beaumarchais, and called, "le mariage de figaro," full of such wit as we were fond of in the reign of charles the second, indecent merriment, and gross immorality; mixed, however, with much acrimonious satire, as if sir george etherege and johnny gay had clubbed their powers of ingenuity at once to divert and to corrupt their auditors; who now carry the verses of this favourite piece upon their fans, pocket-handkerchiefs, &c. as our women once did those of the beggar's opera. we have enjoyed some very agreeable society here in the company of comte turconi, a milanese nobleman who, desirous to escape all the frivolous, and petty distinction which birth alone bestows, has long fixed his residence in paris, where talents find their influence, and where a great city affords that unobserved freedom of thought and action which can scarcely be expected by a man of high rank in a smaller circle; but which, when once tasted, will not seldom be preferred to the attentive watchfulness of more confined society. the famous venetian too, who has written so many successful comedies, and is now employed upon his own memoirs, at the age of eighty-four, was a delightful addition to our coterie, _goldoni_. he is garrulous, good-humoured, and gay; resembling the late james harris of salisbury in person not manner, and seems justly esteemed, and highly, by his countrymen. the conversation of the marquis trotti and the abate bucchetti is likewise particularly pleasing; especially to me, who am naturally desirous to live as much as possible among italians of general knowledge, good taste, and polished manners, before i enter their country, where the language will be so very indispensable. mean time i have stolen a day to visit my old acquaintance the english austin nuns at the fossée, and found the whole community alive and cheerful; they are many of them agreeable women, and having seen dr. johnson with me when i was last abroad, enquired much for him: mrs. fermor, the prioress, niece to belinda in the rape of the lock, taking occasion to tell me, comically enough, "that she believed there was but little comfort to be found in a house that harboured _poets_; for that she remembered mr. pope's praise made her aunt very troublesome and conceited, while his numberless caprices would have employed ten servants to wait on him; and he gave one" (said she) "no amends by his talk neither, for he only sate dozing all day, when the sweet wine was out, and made his verses chiefly in the night; during which season he kept himself awake by drinking coffee, which it was one of the maids business to make for him, and they took it by turns." these ladies really live here as comfortably for aught i see as peace, quietness, and the certainty of a good dinner every day can make them. just so much happier than as many old maids who inhabit milman street and chapel row, as they are sure not to be robbed by a treacherous, or insulted by a favoured, servant in the decline of life, when protection is grown hopeless and resistance vain; and as they enjoy at least a moral certainty of never living worse than they do to-day: while the little knot of unmarried females turned fifty round red lion square _may_ always be ruined by a runaway agent, a bankrupted banker, or a roguish steward; and even the petty pleasures of six-penny quadrille may become by that misfortune too costly for their income.--_aureste_, as the french say, the difference is small: both coteries sit separate in the morning, go to prayers at noon, and read the chapters for the day: change their neat dress, eat their little dinner, and play at small games for small sums in the evening; when recollection tires, and chat runs low. but more adventurous characters claim my present attention. all paris i think, myself among the rest, assembled to see the valiant brothers, robert and charles, mount yesterday into the air, in company with a certain pilâtre de rosier, who conducted them in the new-invented flying chariot fastened to an air-balloon. it was from the middle of the tuilleries that they set out, a place very favourable and well-contrived for such public purposes. but all was so nicely managed, so cleverly carried on somehow, that the order and decorum of us who remained on firm ground, struck me more than even the very strange sight of human creatures floating in the wind: but i have really been witness to ten times as much bustle and confusion at a crowded theatre in london, than what these peaceable parisians made when the whole city was gathered together. nobody was hurt, nobody was frighted, nobody could even pretend to feel themselves incommoded. such are among the few comforts that result from a despotic government. my republican spirit, however, boiled up a little last monday, when i had to petition mons. de calonne for the restoration of some trifles detained in the custom-house at calais. his politeness, indeed, and the sight of others performing like acts of humiliation, reconciled me in some measure to the drudgery of running from subaltern to subaltern, intreating, in pathetic terms, the remission of a law which is at last either just or unjust; if just, no felicitation should, methinks, be permitted to change it; if unjust, what can be so grating as the obligation to solicit? we mean to quit paris to-morrow; i therefore enquired this evening, what was become of our aërial travellers. a very grave man replied, "_je crois, madame, qu'ils sont dejá arrivès ces messieurs là, au lieu ou les vents se forment_[d]." [footnote d: i fancy, ma'am, the gentlemen are gone to see the place where all the winds blow from.] lyons. sept. , . we left the capital at our intended time, and put into the carriage, for amusement, a book seriously recommended by mr. goldoni; but which diverted me only by the fanfaronades that it contained. the author has, however, got the premium by this performance, which the academy of berlin promised to whoever wrote best this year on any belles lettres subject. this gentleman judiciously chose to give reasons for the universality of the french language, and has been so gaily insolent to every other european nation in his flimsy pamphlet, that some will probably praise, many reply to, all read, and all forget it. i will confess myself so seized on by his sprightly impertinence, that i wished for leisure to translate, and wit to answer him at first, but the want of one solid thought by which to recollect his existence has cured me; and i now find that he was deliciously cool and sharp, like the ordinary wine of the country we are passing through, which having _no body_, can neither keep its little power long, nor even use it while fresh to any sensible effect. the country is really beautiful; but descriptions are _so_ fallacious, one half despairs of communicating one's ideas as they are: for either well-chosen words do not present themselves, or being well-chosen they detain the reader, and fix his mind on _them_, instead of the things described. certain it is that i had formed no adequate notion of the fine river called the yonne, with cattle grazing on its fertile banks: those banks not clothed indeed with our soft verdure, but with royal purple, proceeding from an autumnal daisy of that colour that enamels every meadow at this season. here small enclosures seem unknown to the inhabitants, who are strewed up and down expansive views of a most productive country; where vineyards swell upon the rising grounds, and young wheat ornaments the valleys below: while clusters of aspiring poplars, or a single walnut-tree of greater size and dignity unite in attracting attention, and inspiring poetical ideas. here is no tedious uniformity to fatigue the eye, nor rugged asperities to disgust it; but ceaseless variety of colouring among the plants, while the cærulean willow, the yellow walnut, the gloomy beech, and silver theophrastus, seem scattered by the open hand of lavish nature over a landscape of respectable extent, uniting that sublimity which a wide expanse always conveys to the mind, with that distinctness so desired by the eye; which cultivation alone can offer and fertility bestow. every town that should adorn these lovely plains, however, exhibits, upon a nearer approach, misery; the more mortifying, as it is less expected by a spectator, who requires at least some days experience to convince him that the squallid scenes of wretchedness and dirt in which he is obliged to pass the night, will prove more than equivalent to the pleasures he has enjoyed in the day-time, derived from an appearance of elegance and wealth--elegance, the work of nature, not of man; and opulence, the immediate gift of god, and not the result of commerce. he who should fix his residence in france, lives like sir gawaine in our old romance, whose wife was bound by an enchantment, that obliged her at evening to lay down the various beauties which had charmed admiring multitudes all day, and become an object of odium and disgust. the french do seem indeed an idle race; and poverty, perhaps for that reason, forces her way among them, through a climate that might tempt other mortals to improve its blessings; but, as the motto to the arms they are so proud of expresses it--"they _toil not, neither do they spin_." content, the bane of industry, as mandeville calls it, renders them happy with what heaven has unsolicited shaken into their lap; and who knows but the spirit of blaming such behaviour may be less pleasing to god that gives, than is the behaviour itself? let us not, mean time, be forward to suppose, that whatever one sees done, is done upon principle, as such fancies will for ever mislead one: much must be left to chance, when we are judging the conduct either of nations or individuals. and surely i never knew till now, that so little religion could exist in any christian country as in this, where they drive their carts, and keep their little shops open on a sunday, forbearing neither pleasure nor business, as i see, on account of observing that day upon which their redeemer rose again. they have a tradition among the meaner people, that when christ was crucified, he turned his head towards france, over which he pronounced his last blessing; but we must accuse them, if so, of being very ungrateful favourites. this stately city, lyons, is very happily and finely situated; the rhone, which flows by its side, inviting mills, manufactures, &c. seems resolved to contradict and wash away all i have been saying; but we must remember, it is five days journey from paris hither, and i have been speaking only of the little places we passed through in coming along. the avenue here, which leads to one of the greatest objects in the nation, is most worthy of that object's dignity indeed: the marriage of two rivers, which having their sources at a prodigious distance from each other, meet here, and together roll their beneficial tribute to the sea. howell's remark, "that the saone resembles a spaniard in the slowness of its current, and that the rhone is emblematic of french rapidity," cannot be kept a moment out of one's head: it is equally observable, that the junction adds little in appearance to their strength and grandeur, and that each makes a better figure _separate_ than _united_. la montagne d'or is a lovely hill above the town, and i am told that many english families reside upon it, but we have no time to make minute enquiries. l'hotel de la croix de malthe affords excellent accommodations within, and a delightful prospect without. the baths too have attracted my notice much, and will, i hope, repair my strength, so as to make me no troublesome fellow-traveller. how little do those ladies consult their own interest, who make impatience of petty inconveniences their best supplement for conversation!--fancy themselves more important as less contented; and imagine all delicacy to consist in the difficulty of being pleased! surely a dip in this delightful river will restore my health, and enable me to pass the mountains, of which our present companions give me a very formidable account. the manufacturers here, at lyons, deserve a volume, and i shall scarcely give them a page; though nothing i ever saw at london or paris can compare with the beauty of these velvets, or with the art necessary to produce such an effect, while the wrong side is smooth, not struck through. the hangings for the empress of russia's bed-chamber are wonderfully executed; the design elegant, the colouring brilliant: a screen too for the grand signor is finely finished here; he would, i trust, have been contented with magnificence in the choice of his furniture, but mr. pernon has added taste to it, and contrived in appearance to sink an urn or vase of crimson velvet in a back ground of gold tissue with surprising ingenuity. it is observable, that the further people advance in elegance, the less they value splendour; distinction being at last the positive thing which mortals elevated above competency naturally pant after. necessity must first be supplied we know, convenience then requires to be contented; but as soon as men can find means after that period to make themselves eminent for taste, they learn to despise those paltry distinctions which riches alone can bestow. talking of taste leads one to speak of gardening; and having passed yesterday between two villas belonging to some of the most opulent merchants of lyons, i gained an opportunity of observing the disposal of those grounds that are appropriated to pleasure; where the shade of straight long-drawn alleys, formed by a close junction of ancient elm trees, kept a dazzling sun from incommoding our sight, and rendering the turf so mossy and comfortable to one's tread, that my heart never felt one longing wish for the beauties of a lawn and shrubbery--though i should certainly think such a manner of laying out a lancashire gentleman's seat in the north of england a mad one, where the heat of the sun ought to be invited in, not shut out; and where a large lake of water is wanted for his beams to sparkle upon, instead of a fountain to trickle and to murmur, and to refresh one with the idea of coolness which it excites. here, however, where the rhone is navigable up to the very house, i see not but it is rational enough to form jet d'eaux of the superfluous water, and to content one's self with a bird cage walk, when we are sure at the end of it to find ourselves surrounded by an horizon, of extent enough to give the eye full employment, and of a bright colouring which affords it but little relief. that among the gems of europe our island holds the rank of an _emerald_, was once suggested to me, and i could never part with the idea; surely france must in the same scale be rated as the _ruby_; for here is no grass, no verdure to repose the sight upon, except that of high forest trees, the vineyards being short cut, and supported by white sticks, the size of those which in our flower gardens support a favourite carnation; and these placed close together by thousands on a hill rather perplex than please a spectator of the country, who must wait till he recollects the superiority of their produce, before he prefers them to a herefordshire orchard or a kentish hop-ground. well! well! it is better to waste no more words on places however, where the people have done so much to engage and to deserve our attention. such was the hospitality i have here been witness to, and such the luxuries of the lyonnois at table, that i counted six and thirty dishes where we dined, and twenty-four where we supped. every thing was served up in silver at both places, and all was uniformly magnificent, except the linen, which might have been finer. we were not a very numerous company--from eighteen to twenty-two, as i remember, morning and evening; but the ladies played upon the pedal harp, the gentlemen sung gaily, if not sweetly after supper: i never received more kindness for my own part in any fortnight of my life, nor ever heard that kindness more pleasingly or less coarsely expressed. these are merchants, i am told, with whom i have been living; and perhaps my heart more readily receives and repays their caresses for having heard so. let princes dispute, and soldiers reciprocally support their quarrels; but let the wealthy traders of every nation unite to pour the oil of commerce over the too agitated ocean of human life, and smooth down those asperities which obstruct fraternal concord. the duke and duchess of cumberland lodge here at our hotel; i saw them treated with distinguished respect to-night at the theatre, where _a force de danser_[footnote: by dint of dancing alone], i actually was moved to shed many tears over the distresses of _sophie de brabant_. surely these pantomimes will very soon supplant all poetry, when, as gratiano says, "our words will suddenly become superfluous, and discourse grow commendable in none but parrots." some conversation here, however, struck me as curious; the more so as i had heard the subject slightly touched upon at paris; but faintly there, as the last sounds of an echo, while here they are all loud, all in earnest, and all their heads seemed turned, i think, about something, or nothing, which they call _animal magnetism_. i cannot imagine how it has seized them so: a man who undertakes to cure disorders by the touch, is no new thing; our philosophical transactions make mention of gretrex the stroaker, in charles the second's reign. the present mountebank, it is true, seems more hardy in his experiments, and boasts of being able to cause disorders in the human frame, as well as to remove them. a gentleman at yesterday's dinner-party mentioned, that he took pupils; and, before i had expressed the astonishment i felt, professed himself a disciple; and was happy to assure us, he said, that though he had not yet attained the desirable power of putting a person into a catalepsy at pleasure, he could throw a woman into a deep swoon, from which no arts but his own could recover her. how difficult is it to restrain one's contempt and indignation from a buffoonery so mean, or a practice so diabolical!--this folly may possibly find its way into england--i should be very sorry. to-morrow we leave lyons. i should have liked to pass through switzerland, the derbyshire of europe; but i am told the season is too far advanced, as we mean to spend christmas at milan. italy turin. october , . we have at length passed the alps, and are safely arrived at this lovely little city, whence i look back on the majestic boundaries of italy, with amazement at his courage who first profaned them: surely the immediate sensation conveyed to the mind by the sight of such tremendous appearances must be in every traveller the same, a sensation of fulness never experienced before, a satisfaction that there is something great to be seen on earth--some object capable of contenting even fancy. who he was who first of all people pervaded these fortifications, raised by nature for the defence of her european paradise, is not ascertained; but the great duke of savoy has wisely left his name engraved on a monument upon the first considerable ascent from pont bonvoisin, as being author of a beautiful road cut through the solid stone for a great length of way, and having by this means encouraged others to assist in facilitating a passage so truly desirable, till one of the great wonders now to be observed among the alps, is the ease with which even a delicate traveller may cross them. in these prospects, colouring is carried to its utmost point of perfection, particularly at the time i found it, variegated with golden touches of autumnal tints; immense cascades mean time bursting from naked mountains on the one side; cultivated fields, rich with vineyards, on the other, and tufted with elegant shrubs that invite one to pluck and carry them away to where they would be treated with much more respect. little towns flicking in the clefts, where one would imagine it was impossible to clamber; light clouds often sailing under the feet of the high-perched inhabitants, while the sound of a deep and rapid though narrow river, dashing with violence among the insolently impeding rocks at the bottom, and bells in thickly-scattered spires calling the quiet savoyards to church upon the steep sides of every hill--fill one's mind with such mutable, such various ideas, as no other place can ever possibly afford. i had the satisfaction of seeing a chamois at a distance, and spoke with a fellow who had killed five hungry bears that made depredation on his pastures: we looked on him with reverence as a monster-tamer of antiquity, hercules or cadmus; he had the skin of a beast wrapt round his middle, which confirmed the fancy--but our servants, who borrowed from no fictitious records the few ideas that adorned their talk, told us he reminded _them_ of _john the baptist_. i had scarce recovered the shock of this too sublime comparison, when we approached his cottage, and found the felons nailed against the wall, like foxes heads or spread kites in england. here are many goats, but neither white nor large, like those which browze upon the steeps of snowdon, or clamber among the cliffs of plinlimmon. i chatted with a peasant in the haute morienne, concerning the endemial swelling of the throat, which is found in seven out of every ten persons here: he told me what i had always heard, but do not yet believe, that it was produced by drinking the snow water. certain it is, these places are not wholesome to live in; most of the inhabitants are troubled with weak and sore eyes: and i recollect sir richard jebb telling me, more than seven years ago, that when he passed through savoy, the various applications made to him, either for the cure or prevention of blindness by numberless unfortunate wretches that crowded round him, hastened his quitting a province where such horrible complaints prevailed. one has heard it related that the goîstre or gozzo of the throat is reckoned a beauty by those who possess it; but i spoke with many, and all agreed to lament it as a misfortune. that it does really proceed merely from living in a snowy country, would be well confirmed by accounts of a similar sickness being endemial in canada; but of an american goîstre i have never yet heard--and wales, methinks, is snowy enough, and mountainous enough, god knows; yet were such an excrescence to be seen _there_, the people would never have done wondering, and blessing themselves. the mines of derbyshire, however, do not very unfrequently exhibit something of the same appearance among those who work in _them_; and as savoy is impregnated with many minerals, i should be apter to attribute this extension of the gland to their influence over the constitution, than to that of snow water, which can scarcely be efficacious in a degree of power equal to the producing so very violent an effect. the wolves do certainly come down from these mountains in large troops, just as thomson describes them: burning for blood; boney, and gaunt, and grim.-- but it is now the fashionable philosophy every where to consider this creature as the original of our domestic friend, the dog. it was a long time before my heart assented to its truth, yet surely their hunting thus in packs confirms it; and the jackall's willingness to connect with either race, shews one that the species cannot be far removed, and that he makes the shade between the wolf and rough haired shepherd's cur. of the longevity of man this district affords us no pleasing examples. the peasants here are apparently unhealthy, and they say--short-lived. we are told by travellers of former days, that there is a region of the air so subtle as to extinguish the two powers of taste and smell; and those who have crossed the cordilleras of the andes say, that situations have been explored among their points in south america, where those senses have been found to suffer a temporary suspension. our _voyageurs aeriens_[footnote: our aerostatic travellers] may now be useful to settle that question among others, and pambamarca's heights may remain untrodden. as for mount cenis, i never felt myself more hungry, or better enjoyed a good dinner, than i did upon it's top: but the trout in the lake there have been over praised; their pale colour allured me but little in the first place, nor is their flavour equal to that of trout found in running water. going down the italian side of the alps is, after all, an astonishing journey; and affords the most magnificent scenery in nature, which varying at every step, gives new impression to the mind each moment of one's passage; while the portion of terror excited either by real or fancied dangers on the way, is just sufficient to mingle with the pleasure, and make one feel the full effect of sublimity. to the chairmen who carry one though, nothing can be new; it is observable that the glories of these objects have never faded--i heard them speak to each other of their beauties, and the change of light since they had passed by last time, while a fellow who spoke english as well as a native told us, that having lived in a gentleman's service twenty years between london and dublin, he at length begged his discharge, chusing to retire and finish his days a peasant upon these mountains, where he first opened his eyes upon scenes that made all other views of nature insipid to his taste. if impressions of beauty remain, however, those of danger die away by frequent reiteration; the men who carried me seemed amazed that i should feel any emotions of fear. _qu'est ce donc, madame_?[footnote: what's the matter, my lady?] was the coldly-asked question to my repeated injunction of _prenez garde_[footnote: take care.]: not very apparently unnecessary neither, where the least slip must have been fatal both to them and me. novalesa is the town we stopped at, upon entering piedmont; where the hollow sound of a heavy dashing torrent that has accompanied us hitherto, first grows faint, and the ideas of common life catch hold of one again; as the noise of it is heard from a greater distance, its stream grows wider, and its course more tranquil. for compensation of danger, ease should be administered; but one's quiet is here so disturbed by insects, and polluted by dirt, that one recollects the conduct of the lapland rein-deer, who seeks the summit of the hill at the hazard of his life, to avoid those gnats which sting him to madness in the valley. suza shewed nothing that i took much interest in, except its name; and nobody tells me why it is honoured with that old asiatick appellation. at the next town, called st. andrè, or st. ambroise, i forget which, we got an admirable dinner; and saw our room decorated with a large map of london, which i looked on with sensations different from those ever before excited by the same object, amsterdam and constantinople covered the other sides of the wall; and over the door of the chamber itself was written, as our people write the lamb or the lion, "_les trois villes heretiques_[footnote: the three heretical cities]." the avenue to turin, most magnificently planted, and drawn in a wide straight line, shaded like the bird-cage walk in st. james's park, for twelve miles in length, is a dull work, but very useful and convenient in so hot a country; it has been completed by the taste, and at the sole expence, of his sardinian majesty, that he may enjoy a cool shady drive from one of his palaces to the other. the town to which this long approach conveys one does not disgrace its entrance. it is built in form of a star, with a large stone in its centre, on which you are desired to stand, and see the streets all branch regularly from it, each street terminating with a beautiful view of the surrounding country, like spots of ground seen in many of the old-fashioned parks in england, when the etoile and vista were the mode. i think there is[ ] still one subsisting even now, if i remember right, in kensington gardens. such symmetry is really a soft repose for the eye, wearied with following a soaring falcon through the half-sightless regions of the air, or darting down immeasurable precipices, to examine if the human figure could be discerned at such a depth below one. model of elegance, exact turin! where italian hospitality first consoled, and italian arts first repaid, the fatigues of my journey: how shall i bear to leave my new-obtained acquaintance? how shall i consent to quit this lovely city? where, from the box put into my possession by the prince de la cisterna, i first saw an italian opera acted in an italian theatre; where the wonders of porporati's hand shewed me that our bartolozzi was not without a competitor; and where every pleasure which politeness can invent, and kindness can bestow, was held out for my acceptance. should we be seduced, however, to waste time here, we should have reason in a future day to repent our choice; like one who, enamoured of lord pembroke's great hall at wilton, should fail to afford himself leisure for looking over the better-furnished apartments. this charming town is the _salon_ of italy; but it is a finely-proportioned and well-ornamented _salon_ happily constructed to call in the fresh air at the end of every street, through which a rapid stream is directed, that _ought_ to carry off all nuisances, which here have no apology from want of any convenience purchasable by money; and which must for that reason be the choice of inhabitants, who would perhaps be too happy, had they a natural taste for that neatness which might here be enjoyed in its purity. the arches formed to defend passengers from the rain and sun, which here might have even serious effects from their violence, deserve much praise; while their architecture, uniting our ideas of comfort and beauty together, form a traveller's taste, and teach him to admire that perfection, of which a miniature may certainly be found at turin, when once a police shall be established there to prevent such places being used for the very grossest purposes, and polluted with smells that poison all one's pleasure. it is said, that few european palaces exceed in splendour that of sardinia's king; i found it very fine indeed, and the pictures dazzling. the death of a dropsical woman well known among all our connoisseurs detained my attention longest: the value set on it here is ten thousand pounds. the horse cut out of a block of marble at the stairs-foot attracted me not a little; but we are told that the impression it makes will soon be effaced by the sight of greater wonders. mean time i go about like stephano and his ignorant companions, who longed for all the glittering furniture of prospero's cell in the tempest, while those who know the place better are vindicated in crying, "_let it alone, thou fool, it is but trash_." some letters from home directed me to enquire in this town for doctor charles allioni, who kindly received, and permitted me to examine the rarities, of which he has a very capital collection. his fossil fish in slate--blue slate, are surprisingly well preserved; but there is in the world, it seems, a chrystalized trout, not flat, nor the flesh eaten away, as i understand, but round; and, as it were, cased in chrystal like our _aspiques_, or _fruit in jelly_: the colour still so perfect that you may plainly perceive the spots upon it, he says. to my enquiries after this wonderful petrefaction, he replied, "that it might be bought for a thousand pounds;" and added, "that if he were a _ricco inglese_[footnote: rich englishman], he would not hesitate for the price:" "where may i see it, sir?" said i; but to that question no intreaties could produce an answer, after he once found i had no mind to buy. that fresh-water fish have been known to remain locked in the flinty bosom of monte uda in carnia, the academical discourse of cyrillo de cremona, pronounced there in the year , might have informed us; and we are all familiar, i suppose, with the anchor named in the fifteenth book of ovid's metamorphoses. strabo mentions pieces of a galley found three thousand stadii from any sea; and dr. allioni tells me, that monte bolca has been long acknowledged to contain the fossils, now diligently digging out under the patronage of some learned naturalists at verona.--the trout, however, is of value much beyond these productions certainly, as it is closed round as if in a transparent case we find, hermetically sealed by the soft hand of nature, who spoiled none of her own ornaments in preserving them for the inspection of her favourite students. the amiable old professor from whom these particulars were obtained, and who endured my teizing him in bad italian for intelligence he cared not to communicate, with infinite sweetness and patience grew kinder to me as i became more troublesome to him: and shewing me the book upon botany to which he had just then put the last line; turned his dim eyes from me, and said, as they filled with tears, "you, madam, are the last visitor i shall ever more admit to talk upon earthly subjects; my work is done; i finished it as you were entering:--my business now is but to wait the will of god, and die; do you, who i hope will live long and happily, seek out your own salvation, and pray for mine." poor dear doctor allioni! my enquiries concerning this truly venerable mortal ended in being told that his relations and heirs teized him cruelly to sell his manuscripts, insects, &c. and divide the money amongst _them_ before he died. an english scholar of the same abilities would be apt enough to despise such admonitions, and dispose at his own liking and leisure of what his industry alone had gained, his learning only collected; but there seems to be much more family fondness on the continent than in our island; more attention to parents, more care for uncles, and nephews, and sisters, and aunts, than in a commercial country like ours, where, for the most part, each one makes his own way separate; and having received little assistance at the beginning of life, considers himself as little indebted at the close of it. whoever takes a long journey, however he may at his first commencement be tempted to accumulate schemes of convenience and combinations of travelling niceties, will cast them off in the course of his travels as incumbrances; and whoever sets out in life, i believe, with a crowd of relations round him, will, on the same principle, feel disposed to drop one or two of them at every turn, as they hang about and impede his progress, and make his own game single-handed. i speak of _englishmen_, whose religion and government inspire rather a spirit of public benevolence, than contract the social affections to a point; and co-operate, besides, to prompt that genius for adventure, and taste of general knowledge, which has small chance to spring up in the inhabitants of a feudal state; where each considers his family as himself, and having derived all the comfort he has ever enjoyed from his relations, resolves to return their favours at the end of a life, which they make happy, in proportion as it _is_ so: and this accounts for the equality required in continental marriages, which are avowedly made here without regard to inclination, as the keeping up a family, not the choice of a companion, is considered as important; while the lady bred up in the same notions, complies with her _first_ duties, and considers the _second_ as infinitely more dispensable. genoa. nov. , . it was on the twenty-first of last month that we passed from turin to monte casale; and i wondered, as i do still, to see the face of nature yet without a wrinkle, though the season is so far advanced. like a parisian female of forty years old, dressed for court, and stored with such variety of well-arranged allurements, that the men say to each other as she passes.--"des qu'elle à cessée d'estre jolie, elle n'en devient que plus belle, ce me semble[e]." [footnote e: she's grown handsomer, i think, since she has left off being pretty.] the prospect from st. salvadore's hill derives new beauties from the yellow autumn; and exhibits such glowing proofs of opulence and fertility, as words can with difficulty communicate. the animals, however, do not seem benefited in proportion to the apparent riches of the country: asses, indeed, grow to a considerable size, but the oxen are very small, among pastures that might suffice for bakewell's bulls; and these are all little, and almost all _white_; a colour which gives unfavourable ideas either of strength or duration. the blanche rose among vegetables scatters a less powerful perfume than the red one; whilst in the mineral kingdom silver holds but the second place to gold, which imbibing the bright hues of its parent-sun, becomes the first and greatest of all metallic productions. one may observe too, that yellow is the earliest colour to salute the rising year, the last to leave it: crocuses, primroses, and cowslips give the first earnest of resuscitating summer; while the lemon-coloured butterfly, whose name i have forgotten, ventures out, before any others of her kind can brave the parting breath of winter's last storms; stoutest to resist cold, and steadiest in her manner of flying. the present season is yellow indeed, and nothing is to be seen now but sun-flowers and african marygolds around us; _one_ bough besides, on every tree we pass--_one_ bough at least is tinged with the golden hue; and if it does put one in mind of that presented to proserpine, we may add the original line too, and say, uno avulfo, non deficit alter[f]. [footnote f: pluck one away, another still remains. ] the sure-footed and docile mule, with which in england i was but little acquainted, here claims no small attention, from his superior size and beauty: the disagreeable noise they make so frequently, however, hinders one from wishing to ride them--it is not braying somehow, but worse; it is neighing out of tune. i have put nothing down about eating since we arrived in italy, where no wretched hut have i yet entered that does not afford soup, better than one often tastes in england even at magnificent tables. game of all sorts--woodcocks in particular. porporati, the so justly-famed engraver, produced upon his hospitable board, one of the pleasant days we passed with him, a couple so exceedingly large, that i hesitated, and looked again, to see whether they were really woodcocks, till the long bill convinced me. one reads of the luxurious emperors that made fine dishes of the little birds brains, phenicopter's tongues, &c. and of the actor who regaled his guests with nightingale-pie, with just detestation of such curiosity and expence: but thrushes, larks, and blackbirds, are so _very_ frequent between turin and novi, i think they might serve to feed all the fantastical appetites to which vitellius himself could give encouragement and example. the italians retain their tastes for small birds in full force; and consider beccafichi, ortolani, &c. as the most agreeable dainties: it must be confessed that they dress them incomparably. the sheep here are all lean and dirty-looking, few in number too; but the better the soil the worse the mutton we know, and here is no land to throw away, where every inch turns to profit in the olive-yards, vines, or something of much higher value than letting out to feed sheep. population seems much as in france, i think: but the families are not, in either nation, disposed according to british notions of propriety; all stuffed together into little towns and large houses, _entessées_, as the french call it; one upon another, in such a strange way, that were it not for the quantity of grapes on which the poor people live, with other acescent food enjoined by the church, and doubtless suggested by the climate, i think putrid fevers must necessarily carry off crowds of them at once. the head-dress of the women in this drive through some of the northern states of italy varied at every post; from the velvet cap, commonly a crimson one, worn by the girls in savoia, to the piedmontese plait round the bodkin at turin, and the odd kind of white wrapper used in the exterior provinces of the genoese dominions. uniformity of almost any sort gives a certain pleasure to the eye, and it seems an invariable rule in these countries that all the women of every district should dress just alike. it is the best way of making the men's task easy in judging which is handsomest; for taste so varies the human figure in france and england, that it is impossible to have an idea how many pretty faces and agreeable forms would lose and how many gain admirers in those nations, were a sudden edict to be published that all should dress exactly alike for a year. mean time, since we left deffeins, no such delightful place by way of inn have we yet seen as here at novi. my chief amusement at alexandria was to look out upon the _huddled_ marketplace, as a great dramatic writer of our day has called it; and who could help longing there for zoffani's pencil to paint the lively scene? passing the po by moon-light near casale exhibited an entertainment of a very different nature, not unmixed with ill-concealed fear indeed; though the contrivance of crossing it is not worse managed than a ferry at kew or richmond used to be before our bridges were built. bridges over the rapid po would, however, be truly ridiculous; when swelled by the mountain snows it tears down all before it in its fury, and inundates the country round. the drive from novi on to genoa is so beautiful, so grand, so replete with imagery, that fancy itself can add little to its charms: yet, after every elegance and every ornament have been justly admired, from the cloud which veils the hill, to the wild shrubs which perfume the valley; from the precipices which alarm the imagination, to the tufts of wood which flatter and sooth it; the sea suddenly appearing at the end of the bocchetta terminates our view, and takes from one even the hope of expressing our delight in words adequate to the things described. genoa la superba stands proudly on the margin of a gulph crowded with ships, and resounding with voices, which never fail to animate a british hearer--the tailor's shout, the mariner's call, swelled by successful commerce, or strengthened by newly-acquired fame. after a long journey by land, such scenes are peculiarly delightful; but description tangles, not communicates, the sensations imbibed upon the spot. here are so many things to describe! such churches! such palaces! such pictures! one would imagine the genoese possessed the empire of the ocean, were it not well known that they call but fix galleys their own, and seventy years ago suffered all the horrors of a bombardment. the dorian palace is exceedingly fine; the durazzo palace, for ought i know, is finer; and marble here seems like what one reads of silver in king solomon's time, which, says the scripture, "_was nothing counted on in the days of solomon_" casa brignoli too is splendid and commodious; the terraces and gardens on the house-tops, and the fresco paintings outside, give one new ideas of human life; and exhibits a degree of luxury unthought-on in colder climates. but here we live on green pease and figs the first day of november, while orange and lemon trees flaunt over the walls more common than pears in england. the balbi mansion, filled with pictures, detained us from the churches filled with more. i have heard some of the italians confess that genoa even pretends to vie with rome herself in ecclesiastical splendour. in devotion i should think she would be with difficulty outdone: the people drop down on their knees in the street, and crowd to the church doors while the benediction is pronouncing, with a zeal which one might hope would draw down stores of grace upon their heads. yet i hear from the inhabitants of other provinces, that they have a bad character among their neighbours, who love not the _base ligurian_ and accuse them of many immoralities. they tell one too of a disreputable saying here, how there are at genoa men without honesty, women without modesty, a sea with no fish, and a wood with no birds. birds, however, here certainly are by the million, and we have eaten fish since we came every day; but i am informed they are neither cheap nor plentiful, nor considered as excellent in their kinds. here is macaroni enough however!--the people bring in such a vast dish of it at a time, it disgusts one. the streets of the town are much too narrow for beauty or convenience--impracticable to coaches, and so beset with beggars that it is dreadful. a chair is therefore, above all things, necessary to be carried in, even a dozen steps, if you are likely to feel shocked at having your knees suddenly clasped by a figure hardly human; who perhaps holding you forcibly for a minute, conjures you loudly, by the sacred wounds of our lord jesus christ, to have compassion upon _his_; shewing you at the same time such undeniable and horrid proofs of the anguish he is suffering, that one must be a monster to quit him unrelieved. such pathetic misery, such disgusting distress, did i never see before, as i have been witness to in this gaudy city--and that not occasionally or by accident, but all day long, and in such numbers that humanity shrinks from the description. sure, charity is not the virtue that they pray for, when begging a blessing at the church-door. one should not however speak unkindly of a people whose affectionate regard for our country shewed itself so clearly during the late war: a few days residence with the english consul here at his country seat gave me an opportunity of hearing many instances of the republic's generous attachment to great britain, whose triumphs at gibraltar over the united forces of france and spain were honestly enjoyed by the friendly genoese, who gave many proofs of their sincerity, more solid than those clamorous ones of huzzaing our minister about wherever he went, and crying _viva il general_ eliott; while many young gentlemen of high station offered themselves to go volunteers aboard our fleet, and were with difficulty restrained. we have been shewed some beautiful villas belonging to the noblemen of this city, among which lomellino's pleased me best; as the water there was so particularly beautiful, that he had generously left it at full liberty to roll unconducted, and murmur through his tasteful pleasure grounds, much in the manner of our lovely leasowes; happily uniting with english simplicity, the glowing charms that result from an italian sky. my eyes were so wearied with square edged basons of marble, and jets d'eaux, surrounded by water nymphs and dolphins, that i felt vast relief from lomellino's garden, who, like me, tir'd with the joys parterres and fountains yield, finds out at last he better likes a field. such felicity of situation i never saw till now, when one looks upon the painted front of this gay mansion, commanding from its fine balcony a rich and extensive view at once of the sea, the city, and the snow-topt mountains; while from the windows on the other side the house, one's eye sinks into groves of cedar, ilex, and orange trees, not apparently cultivated with incessant care, or placed in pots, artfully sunk under ground to conceal them from one's sight, but rising into height truly respectable. the sea air, except in particular places where the land lies in some direction that counteracts its influence, is naturally inimical to timber; though the green coasts of devonshire are finely fringed with wood; and here, at lomellino's villa, in the genoese state, i found two plane trees, of a size and serious dignity, that recalled to my mind the solemn oak before our duke of dorset's seat at knowle--and chesnuts, which would not disgrace the forests of america. a rural theatre, cut in turf, with a concealed orchestra and sod seats for the audience, with a mossy stage, not incommodious neither, and an admirable contrivance for shifting the scenes, and savouring the exits, entrances, &c. of the performers, gave me a perfect idea of that refined luxury which hot countries alone inspire--while another elegantly constructed spot, meant and often used for the entertainment of tenants and dependants who come to rejoice on the birth or wedding day of a kind landlord, make one suppress one's sighs after a free country--at least suspend them; and fill one's heart with tenderness towards men, who have skill to soften authority with indulgence, and virtue to reward obedience with protection. a family coming last night to visit at a house where i had the honour of being admitted as an intimate, gave me another proof of my present state of remoteness from english manners. the party consisted of an old nobleman, who could trace his genealogy unblemished up to one of the old roman emperors, but whose fortune is now in a hopeless state of decay:--his lady, not inferior to himself in birth or haughtiness of air and carriage, but much impaired by age, ill health, and pecuniary distress; these had however no way lessened her ideas of her own dignity, or the respect of her cavalier servente and her son, who waited on her with an unremitted attention; presenting her their little dirty tin snuff-boxes upon one knee by turns; which ceremony the less surprised me, as having seen her train made of a dyed and watered lutestring, borne gravely after her up stairs by a footman, the express image of edgar in the storm-scene of king lear--who, as the fool says, "_wisely reserv'd a blanket, else had we all been 'shamed_." our conversation was meagre, but serious. there was music; and the door being left at jar, as we call it, i watched the wretched servant who staid in the antichamber, and found that he was listening in spight of sorrow and starving. with this slight sketch of national manners i finish my chapter, and proceed to the description of, or rather observations and reflections made during a winter's residence at milan. for we did not stay at pavia to see any thing: it rained so, that no pleasure could have been obtained by the sight of a botanical garden; and as to the university, i have the promise of seeing it upon a future day, in company of some literary friends. truth to tell, our weather is suddenly become so wet, the roads so heavy with incessant rain, that king william's departure from his own foggy country, or his welcome to our gloomy one, where this month is melancholy even, to a proverb, could not have been clouded with a thicker atmosphere surely, than was mine to milan upon the fourth day of dismal november, . italians, by what i can observe, suffer their minds to be much under the dominion of the sky; and attribute every change in their health, or even humour, as seriously to its influence, as if there were no nearer causes of alteration than the state of the air, and as if no doubt remained of its immediate power, though they are willing enough here to poison it with the scent of wood-ashes within doors, while fires in the grate seem to run rather low, and a brazier full of that pernicious stuff is substituted in its place, and driven under the table during dinner. it is surprising how very elegant, not to say magnificent, those dinners are in gentlemen's or noblemen's houses; such numbers of dishes at once; not large joints, but infinite variety: and i think their cooking excellent. fashion keeps most of the fine people out of town yet; we have therefore had leisure to establish our own household for the winter, and have done so as commodiously as if our habitation was fixed here for life. this i am delighted with, as one may chance to gain that insight into every day behaviour, and common occurrences, which can alone be called knowing something of a country: counting churches, pictures, palaces, may be done by those who run from town to town, with no impression made but on their bones. i ought to learn that which before us lies in daily life, if proper use were made of my demi-naturalization; yet impediments to knowledge spring up round the very tree itself--for surely if there was much wrong, i would not tell it of those who seem inclined to find all right in me; nor can i think that a fame for minute observation, and skill to discern folly with a microscopic eye, is in any wise able to compensate for the corrosions of conscience, where such discoveries have been attained by breach of confidence, and treachery towards unguarded, because unsuspecting innocence of conduct. we are always laughing at one another for running over none but the visible objects in every city, and for avoiding the conversation of the natives, except on general subjects of literature--returning home only to tell again what has already been told. by the candid inhabitants of italian states, however, much honour is given to our british travellers, who, as they say, _viaggiono con profitto_[footnote: travel for improvement], and scarce ever fail to carry home with them from other nations, every thing which can benefit or adorn their own. candour, and a good humoured willingness to receive and reciprocate pleasure, seems indeed one of the standing virtues of italy; i have as yet seen no fastidious contempt, or affected rejection of any thing for being what we call _low_; and i have a notion there is much less of those distinctions at milan than at london, where birth does so little for a man, that if he depends on _that_, and forbears other methods of distinguishing himself from his footman, he will stand a chance of being treated no better than him by the world. _here_ a person's rank is ascertained, and his society settled, at his immediate entrance into life; a gentleman and lady will always be regarded as such, let what will be their behaviour.--it is therefore highly commendable when they seek to adorn their minds by culture, or pluck out those weeds, which in hot countries will spring up among the riches of the harvest, and afford a sure, but no immediately pleasing proof of the soil's natural fertility. but my country-women would rather hear a little of our _interieur_, or, as we call it, family management; which appears arranged in a manner totally new to me; who find the lady of every house as unacquainted with her own, and her husband's affairs, as i who apply to her for information.--no house account, no weekly bills perplex _her_ peace; if eight servants are kept, we will say, six of these are men, and two of those men out of livery. the pay of these principal figures in the family, when at the highest rate, is fifteen pence english a day, out of which they find clothes and eating--for fifteen pence includes board-wages; and most of these fellows are married too, and have four or five children each. the dinners drest at home are, for this reason, more exactly contrived than in england to suit the number of guests, and there are always half a dozen; for dining _alone_ or the master and mistress _tête-à-tête_ as _we_ do, is unknown to them, who make society very easy, and resolve to live much together. no odd sensation then, something like shame, such as _we_ feel when too many dishes are taken empty from table, touches them at all; the common courses are eleven, and eleven small plates, and it is their sport and pleasure, if possible, to clear all away. a footman's wages is a shilling a day, like our common labourers, and paid him, as they are paid, every saturday night. his livery, mean time, changed at least _twice a year_, makes him as rich a man as the butler and valet--but when evening comes, it is the comicallest sight in the world to see them all go gravely home, and you may die in the night for want of help, though surrounded by showy attendants all day. till the hour of departure, however, it is expected that two or three of them at least sit in the antichamber, as it is called, to answer the bell, which, if we confess the truth, is no light service or hardship; for the stairs, high and wide as those of windsor palace, all stone too, run up from the door immediately to that apartment, which is very large, and very cold, with bricks to set their feet on only, and a brazier filled with warm wood ashes, to keep their fingers from freezing, which in summer they employ with cards, and seem but little inclined to lay them down when ladies pass through to the receiving room. the strange familiarity this class of people think proper to assume, half joining in the conversation, and crying _oibò_[footnote: oh dear!], when the master affirms something they do not quite assent to, is apt to shock one at beginning, the more when one reflects upon the equally offensive humility they show on being first accepted into the family; when it is exposed that they receive the new master, or lady's hand, in a half kneeling posture, and kiss it, as women under the rank of countess do the queen of england's when presented at our court.--this obsequiousness, however, vanishes completely upon acquaintance, and the footman, if not very seriously admonished indeed, yawns, spits, and displays what one of our travel-writers emphatically terms his flag of abomination behind the chair of a woman of quality, without the slightest sensation of its impropriety. there is, however, a sort of odd farcical drollery mingled with this grossness, which tends greatly to disarm one's wrath; and i felt more inclined to laugh than be angry one day, when, from the head of my own table, i saw the servant of a nobleman who dined with us cramming some chicken pattés down his throat behind the door; our own folks humorously trying to choak him, by pretending that his lord called him, while his mouth was full. of a thousand comical things in the same way, i will relate one:--mr. piozzi's valet was dressing my hair at paris one morning, while some man sate at an opposite window of the same inn, singing and playing upon the violoncello: i had not observed the circumstance, but my perrucchiere's distress was evident; he writhed and twisted about like a man pinched with the cholic, and pulled a hundred queer faces: at last--what is the matter, ercolani, said i, are you not well? mistress, replies the fellow, if that beast don't leave off soon, i shall run mad with rage, or else die; and so you'll see an honest venetian lad killed by a french dog's howling. the phrase of _mistress_ is here not confined to servants at all; gentlemen, when they address one, cry, _mia padrona_[footnote: my mistress], mighty sweetly, and in a peculiarly pleasing tone. nothing, to speak truth, can exceed the agreeableness of a well-bred italian's address when speaking to a lady, whom they alone know how to flatter, so as to retain her dignity, and not lose their own; respectful, yet tender; attentive, not officious; the politeness of a man of fashion _here_ is _true_ politeness, free from all affectation, and honestly expressive of what he really feels, a true value for the person spoken to, without the smallest desire of shining himself; equally removed from foppery on one side, or indifference on the other. the manners of the men here are certainly pleasing to a very eminent degree, and in their conversation there is a mixture, not unfrequent too, of classical allusions, which strike one with a sort of literary pleasure i cannot easily describe. yet is there no pedantry in their use of expressions, which with us would be laughable or liable to censure: but roman notions here are not quite extinct; and even the house-maid, or _donna di gros_, as they call her, swears by _diana_ so comically, there is no telling. they christen their boys _fabius_, their daughters _claudia_, very commonly. when they mention a thing known, as we say, to _tom o'styles and john o'nokes_, they use the words, _tizio and sempronio_. a lady tells me, she was at a loss about the dance yesterday evening, because she had not been instructed in the _programma_; and a gentleman, talking of the pleasures he enjoyed supping last night at a friend's house, exclaims, _eramo pur jeri sera in appolline[g]!_ alluding to lucullus's entertainment given to pompey and cicero, as i remember, in the chamber of apollo. but here is enough of this--more of it, in their own pretty phrase, _seccarebbe pur nettunno_[h]. it was long ago that ausonius said of them more than i can say, and mr. addison has translated the lines in their praise better than i could have done. footnotes: [footnote g: we passed yester evening as if we had been in the apollo.] [footnote h: would dry up old neptune himself.] "et mediolani mira omnia copia rerum: innumeræ cultæque domus facunda virorum ingenia et mores læti." milan with plenty and with wealth overflows, and numerous streets and cleanly dwellings shows; the people, bless'd by nature's happy force, are eloquent and cheerful in discourse. what i have said this moment will, however, account in some measure for a thing which he treats with infinite contempt, not unjustly perhaps; yet does it not deserve the ridicule handed down from his time by all who have touched the subject. it is about the author, who before his theatrical representation prefixes an odd declaration, that though he names pluto, and neptune, and i know not who, upon the stage, yet he believes none of those fables, but considers himself as a christian, a catholick, &c. all this _does_ appear very absurdly superfluous to _us_; but as i observed, _they_ live nearer the original feats of paganism; many old customs are yet retained, and the names not lost among them, or laid up merely for literary purposes as in england. they swear _per bacco_ perpetually in common discourse; and once i saw a gentleman in the heat of conversation blush at the recollection that he had said _barba fove_, where he meant god almighty. it is likewise unkind enough in mr. addison, perhaps unjust too, to speak with scorn of the libraries, or state of literature, at milan. the collection of books at brera is prodigious, and has been lately much increased by the pertusanian and firmian libraries falling into it: a more magnificent repository for learning, a more comfortable situation for students, so complete and perfect a disposition of the books, will scarcely be found in any other city not professedly a university, i believe; and here are professors worthy of the highest literary stations, that do honour to learning herself. i will not indulge myself by naming any one, where all deserve the highest praise; and it is so difficult to restrain one's pen upon so favourite a subject, that i shall only name some rarities which particularly struck me, and avoid further temptations, where the sense of obligation, and the recollection of partial kindness, inspire an inclination to praises which appear tedious to those readers who could not enter into my feelings, and of course would scarcely excuse them. thirteen volumes of ms. psalms, written with wonderful elegance and manual nicety, struck me as very curious: they were done by the certosini monks lately eradicated, and with beautiful illuminations to almost every page. a livy, printed here in , fresh and perfect; and a pliny, of the parma press, dated ; are extremely valuable. but the pleasure i received from observing that the learned librarian had not denied a place to tillotson's works, was counteracted by finding bolingbroke's philosophy upon the same shelf, and enjoying exactly the same reputation as to the truth of the doctrine contained in either; for both were english, and of course _heretical_. but i must not live longer at milan without mentioning the duomo, first in all europe of the gothic race; whose solemn sadness and gloomy dignity make it a most magnificent cathedral; while the rich treasures it conceals below exceeded my belief or expectation. we came here just before the season of commemorating the virtues of the immortal carlo borromeo, to whose excellence all italy bears testimony, and milan _most_; while the lazaretto erected by him remains a standing monument of his piety, charity, and peculiar regard to this city, which he made his residence during the dreadful plague that so devasted it; tenderly giving to its helpless inhabitants the consolation of seeing their priest, provider, and protector, all united under one incomparable character, who fearless of death remained among them, and comforted their sorrows with his constant presence. it would be endless to enumerate the schools, hospitals, infirmaries, erected by this surprising man. the peculiar excellence of his lazaretto, however, depends on each habitation being nicely separated from every other, so as to keep infection aloof; while uniformity of architecture is still preserved, being built in a regular quadrangle, with a chapel in the middle, and a fresh stream flowing round, so as to benefit every particular house, and keep out all necessity of connection between the sick. i am become better acquainted with these matters, as this is the precise time when the immortal carlo borromeo's actions are rehearsed, and his praises celebrated, by people appointed in every church to preach his example and record his excellence. a statue of solid silver, large as life, and resembling, as they hope, his person, decorated with rings, &c. of immense value, is now exposed in church for people to venerate; and the subterranean chapel, where his body lies, is all wainscoted, as i may say, with silver; every separate compartment chased, like our old-fashioned watch-cases, with some story out of his life, which lasted but forty-seven years, after having done more good than any other person in ninety-four; as a capuchin friar said this morning, who mounted the pulpit to praise him, and seemed to be well thought on by his auditors. the chanting tone in which he spoke displeased me, however, who can be at last no competent judge of eloquence in any language but my own. there is a national rhetoric in every country, dependant on national manners; and those gesticulations of body, or depressions of voice, which produce pity and commiseration in one place, may, without censure of the orator or of his hearers, excite contempt and oscitancy in another. the sentiments of the preacher i heard were just and vigorous; and if that suffices not to content a foreign ear, woe be to me, who now live among those to whom i am myself a foreigner; and who at best can but be expected to forgive, for the sake of the things said, that accent and manner with which i am obliged to express them. by the indulgence of private friendship, i have now enjoyed the uncommon amusement of seeing a theatrical exhibition performed by friars in a convent for their own diversion, and that of some select friends. the monks of st. victor had, it seems, obtained permission, this carnival, to represent a little odd sort of play, written by one of their community chiefly in the milanese dialect, though the upper characters spoke tuscan. the subject of this drama was taken, naturally enough, from some events, real or fictitious, which were supposed to have happened in, the environs of milan, about a hundred years ago, when the torriani and visconti families disputed for superiority. its construction was compounded of comic and distressful scenes, of which the last gave me most delight; and much was i amazed, indeed, to feel my cheeks wet with tears at a friar's play, founded on ideas of parental tenderness. the comic part, however, was intolerably gross; the jokes coarse, and incapable of diverting any but babies, or men who, by a kind of intellectual privation, contrive to perpetuate babyhood, in the vain hope of preferring innocence: nor could i shelter myself by saying how little i understood of the dialect it was written in, as the action was nothing less than equivocal; and in the burletta which was tacked to it by way of farce, i saw the soprano fingers who played the women's parts, and who see more of the world than these friars, blush for shame, two or three times, while the company, most of them grave ecclesiastics, applauded with rapturous delight. the wearisome length of the whole would, however, have surfeited me, had the amusement been more eligible; but these dear monks do not get a holiday often, i trust; so in the manner of school-boys, or rather school-girls in england (for our boys are soon above such stuff), they were never tired of this dull buffoonery, and kept us listening to it till one o'clock in the morning. pleasure, when it does come, always bursts up in an unexpected place; i derived much from observing in the faces of these cheerful friars, that intelligent shrewdness and arch penetration so visible in the countenances of our welch farmers, and curates of country villages in flintshire, caernarvonshire, &c. which howel (best judge in such a case) observes in his letters, and learnedly accounts for; but which i had wholly forgotten till the monks of st. victor brought it back to my remembrance. the brothers who remained unemployed, and clear from stage occupations, formed the orchestra; those that were left _then_ without any immediate business upon their hands, chatted gaily with the company, producing plenty of refreshments; and i was really very angry with myself for feeling so cynically disposed, when every thing possible was done to please me. can one help however sighing, to think that the monastic life, so capable of being used for the noblest purposes, and originally suggested by the purest motives, should, from the vast diversity of orders, the increase of wealth and general corruption of mankind, degenerate into a state either of mental apathy, as among the sequestered monks, or of vicious luxury, as among the more free and open societies? yet must one still behold both with regret and indignation, that rage for innovation which delights to throw down places once the retreats of piety and learning--piety, who fought in vain to wall and fortify herself against those seductions which since have sapped the venerable fabric that they feared to batter; and learning, who first opened the eyes of men, that now ungratefully begin to turn them only on the defeats of their benefactress. the christmas functions here were showy, and i thought well-contrived; the public ones are what i speak of: but i was present lately at a private merrymaking, where all distinctions seemed pleasingly thrown down by a spirit of innocent gaiety. the marquis's daughter mingled in country-dances with the apothecary's prentice, while her truly noble parents looked on with generous pleasure, and encouraged the mirth of the moment. priests, ladies, gentlemen of the very first quality, romped with the girls of the house in high good-humour, and tripped it away without the incumbrance of petty pride, or the mean vanity of giving what they expressively call _foggezzione_, to those who were proud of their company and protection. a new-married wench, whose little fortune of a hundred crowns had been given her by the subscription of many in the room, seemed as free with them all, as the most equal distribution of birth or riches could have made her: she laughed aloud, and rattled in the ears of the gentlemen; replied with sarcastic coarseness when they joked her, and apparently delighted to promote such conversation as they would not otherwise have tried at. the ladies shouted for joy, encouraged the girl with less delicacy than desire of merriment, and promoted a general banishment of decorum; though i do believe with full as much or more purity of intention, than may be often met with in a polished circle at paris itself. such society, however, can please a stranger only as it is odd and as it is new; when ceremony ceases, hilarity is left in a state too natural not to offend people accustomed to scenes of high civilization; and i suppose few of us could return, after twenty-five years old, to the coarse comforts of _a roll and treacle._ another style of amusement, very different from this last, called us out, two or three days ago, to hear the famous passione de metastasio sung in st. celso's church. the building is spacious, the architecture elegant, and the ornaments rich. a custom too was on this occasion omitted, which i dislike exceedingly; that of deforming the beautiful edifices dedicated to god's service with damask hangings and gold lace on the capitals of all the pillars upon days of gala, so very perversely, that the effect of proportion is lost to the eye, while the church conveys no idea to the mind but of a tattered theatre; and when the frippery decorations fade, nothing can exclude the recollection of an old clothes shop. st. celso was however left clear from these disgraceful ornaments: there assembled together a numerous and brilliant, if not an attentive audience; and st. peter's part in the oratorio was sung by a soprano voice, with no appearance of peculiar propriety to be sure; but a satirical nobleman near me said, that "nothing could possibly be more happily imagined, as the mutilation of poor st. peter was continuing daily, and in full force;" alluding to the emperor's rough reformations: and he does not certainly spare the coat any more than jack in our tale of a tub, when he is rending away the embroidery. here, however, the parallel must end; for jack, though zealous, was never accused of burning the lace, if i remember right, and putting the gold in his pocket. it happened oddly, that chatting freely one day before dinner with some literary friends on the subject of coat armour, we had talked about the visconti serpent, which is the arms of milan; and the spread eagle of austria, which we laughingly agreed ought to _eat double _ because it had _two necks_: when the conversation insensibly turned on the oppressions of the present hour; and i, to put all away with a joke, proposed the _fortes homericæ_ to decide on their future destiny. somebody in company insisted that _i_ should open the book--i did so, at the omen in the twelfth book of the iliad, and read these words: jove's bird on sounding pinions beat the skies; a bleeding serpent of enormous size his talons trussed; alive and curling round she stung the bird, whose throat receiv'd the wound. mad with the smart he drops the fatal prey, in airy circles wings his painful way, floats on the winds, and rends the heavens with cries: amid the hosts the fallen serpent lies; they, pale with terror, mark its spires unroll'd, and jove's portent with beating hearts behold. it is now time to talk a little of the theatre; and surely a receptacle so capacious to contain four thousand people, a place of entrance so commodious to receive them, a show so princely, so very magnificent to entertain them, must be sought in vain out of italy. the centre front box, richly adorned with gilding, arms, and trophies, is appropriated to the court, whose canopy is carried up to what we call the first gallery in england; the crescent of boxes ending with the stage, consist of nineteen on a side, _small boudoirs_, for such they seem; and are as such fitted up with silk hangings, girandoles, &c. and placed so judiciously as to catch every sound of the fingers, if they do but whisper: i will not say it is equally advantageous to the figure, as to the voice; no performers looking adequate to the place they recite upon, so very stately is the building itself, being all of stone, with an immense portico, and stairs which for width you might without hyperbole drive your chariot up. an immense sideboard at the first lobby, lighted and furnished with luxurious and elegant plenty, as many people send for suppers to their box, and entertain a knot of friends there with infinite convenience and splendour. a silk curtain, the colour of your hangings, defends the closet from intrusive eyes, if you think proper to drop it; and when drawn up, gives gaiety and show to the general appearance of the whole: while across the corridor leading to these boxes, another small chamber, numbered like _that_ it belongs to, is appropriated to the use of your servants, and furnished with every conveniency to make chocolate, serve lemonade, &c. can one wonder at the contempt shewn by foreigners when they see english women of fashion squeezed into holes lined with dirty torn red paper, and the walls of it covered with a wretched crimson fluff? well! but this theatre is built in place of a church founded by the famous beatrice de scala, in consequence of a vow she made to erect one if god would be pleased to send her a son. the church was pulled down and the playhouse erected. the arch-duke lost a son that year; and the pious folks cried, "a judgment!" but nobody minded them, i believe; many, however, that are scrupulous will not go. meantime it is a beautiful theatre to be sure; the finest fabric raised in modern days, i do believe, for the purposes of entertainment; but we must not be partial. while london has twelve capital rooms for the professed amusement of the public, milan has but one; there is in it, however, a ridotto chamber for cards, of a noble size, where some little gaming goes on in carnival time; but though the inhabitants complain of the enormities committed there, i suppose more money is lost and won at one club in st. james's street during a week, than here at milan in the whole winter. every nation complains of the wickedness of its own inhabitants, and considers them as the worst people in the world, till they have seen others no better; and then, like individuals with their private sorrows, they find change produces no alleviation. the mount of miseries, in the spectator, where all the people change with their neighbours, lay down an undutiful son, and carry away with them a hump-back, or whatever had been the source of disquiet to another, whom he had blamed for bearing so ill a misfortune thought trifling till he took it on himself, is an admirably well constructed fable, and is applicable to public as well as private complaints. a gentleman who had long practised as a solicitor, and was retired from business, stored with a perfect knowledge of mankind so far as his experience could inform him, told me once, that whoever died before sixty years old, if he had made his own fortune, was likely to leave it according as friendship, gratitude, and public spirit dictated: either to those who had served, or those who had pleased him; or, not unfrequently, to benefit some charity, set up some school, or the like: "but let a man once turn sixty," said he, "and his natural heirs _are sure of him_:" for having seen many people, he has likewise been disgusted by many; and though he does not love his relations better than he did, the discovery that others are but little superior to them in those excellencies he has sought about the world in vain for, he begins to enquire for his nephew's little boy, whom as he never saw, never could have offended him; and if he does not break the chain of a favourite watch, or any other such boyish trick, the estate is his for ever, upon no principle but this in the testator. so it is by those who travel a good deal; by what i have seen, every country has so much in it to be justly complained of, that most men finish by preferring their own. that neither complaints nor rejoicings here at milan, however, proceed from affectation, is a choice comfort: the lombards possess the skill to please you without feigning; and so artless are their manners, you cannot even suspect them of insincerity. they have, perhaps for that very reason, few comedies, and fewer novels among them: for the worst of every man's character is already well known to the rest; but be his conduct what it will, the heart is commonly right enough--_il luon cuor lombardo_ is famed throughout all italy, and nothing can become proverbial without an excellent reason. little opportunity is therefore given to writers who carry the dark lanthorn of life into its deepest recesses--unwind the hidden wickedness of a maskwell or a monkton, develope the folds of vice, and spy out the internal worthlessness of apparent virtue; which from these discerning eyes cannot be cloked even by that early-taught affectation which renders it a real ingenuity to discover, if in a highly polished capital a man or woman has or has not good parts or principles--so completely are the first overlaid with literature, and the last perverted by refinement. * * * * * april , . the cold weather continues still, and we have heavy snows; but so admirable is the police of this well-regulated town, that when over-night it has fallen to the height of four feet, no very uncommon occurrence, no one can see in the morning that even a flake has been there, so completely do the poor and the prisoners rid us of it all, by throwing immense loads of it into a navigable canal that runs quite round the city, and carries every nuisance with it clearly away--so that no inconveniencies can arise. italians seem to me to have no feeling of cold; they open the casements--for windows we have none (now in winter), and cry, _che bel freschetto_![footnote: what a fresh breeze!] while i am starving outright. if there is a flash of a few faggots in the chimney that just scorches one a little, no lady goes near it, but sits at the other end of a high-roofed room, the wind whistling round her ears, and her feet upon a perforated brass box, filled with wood embers, which the _cavalier fervente_ pulls out from time to time, and replenishes with hotter ashes raked out from between the andirons. how sitting with these fumes under their petticoats improves their beauty of complexion i know not; certain it is, they pity _us_ exceedingly for our manner of managing ourselves, and enquire of their countrymen who have lived here a-while, how their health endured the burning _fossils_ in the chambers at london. i have heard two or three italians say, _vorrei anch' io veder quell' inghilterra, ma questo carbone fossile_![footnote: i would go see this same england myself i think, but that fuel made of minerals frights me!] to church, however, and to the theatre, ladies have a great green velvet bag carried for them, adorned with gold tassels, and lined with fur, to keep their feet from freezing, as carpets are not in use here. poor women run about the streets with a little earthen pipkin hanging on their arm, filled with fire, even if they are sent on an errand; while men of all ranks walk wrapped up in an odd sort of white riding coat, not buttoned together, but folded round their body after the fashion of the old roman dress that one has seen in statues, and this they call _gaban_, retaining many spanish words since the time that they were under spanish government. _buscar_, to seek, is quite familiar here as at madrid, and instead of ragazzo, i have heard the milanese say _mozzo_ di stalla, which is originally a castilian word i believe, and spelt by them with the _c con cedilla_, moço. they have likewise latin phrases oddly mingled among their own: a gentleman said yesterday, that he was going to casa _sororis_, to his sister's; and the strange word _minga_, which meets one at every turn, is corrupted, i believe, from _mica_, a crumb. _piaz minga_, i have not a crumb of pleasure in it, &c. the uniformity of dress here pleases the eye, and their custom of going veiled to church, and always without a hat, which they consider as profanation of the _temple_ as they call it, delights me much; it has an air of decency in the individuals, of general respect for the place, and of a resolution not to let external images intrude on devout thoughts. the hanging churches, and even public pillars, set up in the streets or squares for purposes of adoration, with black, when any person of consequence dies, displeases me more; it is so very dismal, so paltry a piece of pride and expiring vanity, and so dirty a custom, calling bugs and spiders, and all manner of vermin about one so in those black trappings, it is terrible; but if they remind us of our end, and set us about preparing for it, the benefit is greater than the evil. the equipages on the corso here are very numerous, in proportion to the size of the city, and excessively showy: the horses are long-tailed, heavy, and for the most part black, with high rising forehands, while the sinking of the back is artfully concealed by the harness of red morocco leather richly ornamented, and white reins. to this magnificence much is added by large leopard, panther, or tyger skins, beautifully striped or spotted by nature's hand, and held fast on the horses by heavy shining tassels of gold, coloured lace, &c. wonderfully handsome; while the driver, clothed in a bright scarlet dress, adorned and trimmed with bear's skin, makes a noble figure on the box at this season upon days of gala. the carnival, however, exhibits a variety unspeakable; boats and barges painted of a thousand colours, drawn upon wheels, and filled with masks and merry-makers, who throw sugar-plums at each other, to the infinite delight of the town, whose populousness that show evinces to perfection, for every window and balcony is crowded to excess; the streets are fuller than one can express of gazers, and general mirth and gaiety prevail. when the flashing season is over, and you are no longer to be dazzled with finery or stunned with noise, the nobility of milan--for gentry there are none--fairly slip a check case over the hammock, as we do to our best chairs in england, clap a coarse leather cover on the carriage top, the coachman wearing a vast brown great coat, which he spreads on each side him over the corners of his coach-box, and looks as somebody was saying--like a sitting hen. the paving of our streets here at milan is worth mentioning, only because it is directly contrary to the london method of performing the same operation. they lay the large flag stones at this place in two rows, for the coach wheels to roll smoothly over, leaving walkers to accommodate themselves, and bear the sharp pebbles to their tread as they may. in every thing great, and every thing little, the diversity of government must perpetually occur; where that is despotic, small care will be taken of the common people; where that is popular, little attention will be paid to the great ones. i never in my whole life heard so much of birth and family as since i came to this town; where blood enjoys a thousand exclusive privileges, where cavalier and dama are words of the first, nay of the only importance; where wit and beauty are considered as useless without a long pedigree; and virtue, talents, wealth, and wisdom, are thought on only as medals to hang upon the branch of a genealogical tree, as we tie trinkets to a watch in england. i went to church, twenty yards from our own door, with a servant to wait on me, three or four mornings ago; there was a lady particularly well dressed, very handsome, two footmen attending on her at a distance, took my attention. peter, said i, to my own man, as we came out, _chi è quella dama? who is that lady? non è dama_, replies the fellow, contemptuously smiling at my simplicity--_she is no lady_. i thought she might be somebody's kept mistress, and asked him whose? _dio ne liberi_, returns peter, in a kinder accent--for there _heart_ came in, and he would not injure her character--god forbid: _è moglie d'un ricco banchiere_--she is a rich banker's wife. you may see, added he, that she is no lady if you look--the servants carry no velvet stool for her to kneel upon, and they have no coat armour in the lace to their liveries: _she_ a lady! repeated he again with infinite contempt. i am told that the arch-duke is very desirous to close this breach of distinction, and to draw merchants and traders with their wives up into higher notice than they were wont to remain in. i do not _think_ he will by that means conciliate the affection of any rank. the prejudices in favour of nobility are too strong to be shaken here, much less rooted out so: the very servants would rather starve in the house of a man of family, than eat after a person of inferior quality, whom they consider as their equal, and almost treat him as such to his face. shall we then be able to refuse our particular veneration to those characters of high rank here, who add the charm of a cultivated mind to that situation which, united even with ignorance, would ensure them respect? when scholarship is found among the great in italy, it has the additional merit of having grown up in their own bosoms, without encouragement from emulation, or the least interested motive. his companions do not think much the more of him--for _that_ kind of superiority. i suppose, says a friend of his, he must be fond of study; for _chi pensa di una maniera, chi pensa d' un altra, per me sono stato sempre ignorantissimo_[i]. [footnote i: one man is of one mind, another of another: i was always a sheer dunce for my own part.] these voluntary confessions of many a quality, which, whether possessed or not by english people, would certainly never be avowed, spring from that native sincerity i have been praising--for though family connections are prized so highly here, no man seems ashamed that he has no family to boast: all feigning would indeed be useless and impracticable; yet it struck me with astonishment too, to hear a well-bred clergyman who visits at many genteel houses, say gravely to his friend, no longer ago than yesterday--that friend a man too eminent both for talents and fortune--"yes, there is a grand invitation at such a place to-night, but i don't go, because _i am not a gentleman--perche non sono cavaliere_; and the master desired i would let you know that _it was for no other reason_ that you had not a card too, my good friend; for it is an invitation of none but _people of fashion you see_." at all this nobody stares, nobody laughs, and nobody's throat is cut in consequence of their sincere declarations. the women are not behind-hand in openness of confidence and comical sincerity. we have all heard much of italian cicisbeism; i had a mind to know how matters really stood; and took the nearest way to information by asking a mighty beautiful and apparently artless young creature, _not noble_, how that affair was managed, for there is no harm done _i am sure_, said i: "why no," replied she, "no great _harm_ to be sure: except wearisome attentions from a man one cares little about: for my own part," continued she, "i detest the custom, as i happen to love my husband excessively, and desire nobody's company in the world but his. we are not _people of fashion_ though you know, nor at all rich; so how should we set fashions for our betters? they would only say, see how jealous he is! if _mr. such-a-one_ sat much with me at home, or went with me to the corso; and i _must_ go with some gentleman you know: and the men are such ungenerous creatures, and have such ways with them: i want money often, and this _cavaliere servente_ pays the bills, and so the connection draws closer--_that's all_." and your husband! said i--"oh, why he likes to see me well dressed; he is very good natured, and very charming; i love him to my heart." and your confessor! cried i.--"oh, why he is _used to it_"--in the milanese dialect--_è assuefaà_. well! we will not send people to milan to study delicacy or very refined morality to be sure; but were the crust of british affectation lifted off many a character at home, i know not whether better, that is _honester_, hearts would be found under it than that of this pretty girl, god forbid that i should prove an advocate for vice; but let us remember, that the banishment of all hypocrisy and deceit is a vast compensation for the want of _one great virtue_.--the certainty that the worst, whatever that worst may be, meets your immediate inspection, gives great repose to the mind: you know there is no latent poison lurking out of sight; no colours to come out stronger by throwing water suddenly against them, as you do to old fresco paintings: and talking freely with women in this country, though you may have a chance to light on ignorance, you are never teized by folly. the mind of an italian, whether man or woman, seldom fails, for ought i see, to make up in _extent_ what is wanted in _cultivation_; and that they possess the art of pleasing in an eminent degree, the constancy with which they are mutually beloved by each other is the best proof. ladies of distinction bring with them when they marry, besides fortune, as many clothes as will last them seven years; for fashions do not change here as often as at london or paris; yet is pin-money allowed, and an attention paid to the wife that no englishwoman can form an idea of: in every family her duties are few; for, as i have observed, household management falls to the master's share of course, when all the servants are men almost, and those all paid by the week or day. children are very seldom seen by those who visit great houses: if they _do_ come down for five minutes after dinner, the parents are talked of as _doting_ on them, and nothing can equal the pious and tender return made to fathers and mothers in this country, for even an apparently moderate share of fondness shewn to them in a state of infancy. i saw an old marchioness the other day, who had i believe been exquisitely beautiful, lying in bed in a spacious apartment, just like ours in the old palaces, with the tester touching the top almost: she had her three grown-up sons standing round her, with an affectionate desire of pleasing, and shewing her whatever could sooth or amuse her--so that it charmed me; and i was told, and observed indeed, that when they quitted her presence a half kneeling bow, and a kind kiss of her still white hand, was the ceremony used. i knew myself brought thither only that she might be entertained with the sight of the foreigner--and was equally struck at her appearance--more so i should imagine than she could be at mine; when these dear men assisted in moving her pillows with emulative attention, and rejoiced with each other apart, that their mother looked so well to-day. two or three servants out of livery brought us refreshments i remember; but her maid attended in the antichamber, and answered the bell at her bed's head, which was exceedingly magnificent in the old style of grandeur--crimson damask, if i recollect right, with family arms at the back; and she lay on nine or eleven pillows, laced with ribbon, and two large bows to each, very elegant and expensive in any country:--with all this, to prove that the italians have little sensation of cold, here was no fire, but a suffocating brazier, which stood near the door that opened, and was kept open, into the maid's apartment. a woman here in every stage of life has really a degree of attention shewn her that is surprising:--if conjugal disputes arise in a family, so as to make them become what we call town-talk, the public voice is sure to run against the husband; if separation ensues, all possible countenance is given to the wife, while the gentleman is somewhat less willingly received; and all the stories of past disgusts are related to _his_ prejudice: nor will the lady whom he wishes to serve look very kindly on a man who treats his own wife with unpoliteness. _che cuore deve avere!_ says she: what a heart he must have! _io non mene fido sicuro_: i shall take care not to trust him sure. national character is a great matter: i did not know there had been such a difference in the ways of thinking, merely from custom and climate, as i see there is; though one has always read of it: it was however entertaining enough to hear a travelled gentleman haranguing away three nights ago at our house in praise of english cleanliness, and telling his auditors how all the men in london, _that were noble_, put on a clean shirt every day, and the women washed the street before his house-door every morning. "_che schiavitù mai!_" exclaimed a lady of quality, who was listening: "_ma natural mente farà per commando del principe_."--"_what a land of slavery!_" says donna louisa, i heard her; "_but it is all done by command of the sovereign, i suppose_." their ideas of justice are no less singular than of delicacy: but those are more easily accounted for; so is their amiable carriage towards inferiors, calling their own and their friends servants by tender names, and speaking to all below themselves with a graciousness not often used by english men or women even to their equals. the pleasure too which the high people here express when the low ones are diverted, is charming.--we think it vulgar to be merry when the mob is so; but if rolling down a hill, like greenwich, was the custom here, as with us, all milan would run to see the sport, and rejoice in the felicity of their fellow-creatures. when i express my admiration of such condescending sweetness, they reply--_è un uomo come un altro;--è battezzato come noi_; and the like--why he is a man of the same nature as we: he has been christened as well as ourselves, they reply. yet do i not for this reason condemn the english as naturally haughty above their continental neighbours. our government has left so narrow a space between the upper and under ranks of people in great britain--while our charitable and truly christian religion is still so constantly employed in raising the depressed, by giving them means of changing their situation, that if our persons of condition fail even for a moment to watch their post, maintaining by dignity what they or their fathers have acquired by merit, they are instantly and suddenly broken in upon by the well-employed talents, or swiftly-acquired riches, of men born on the other side the thin partition; whilst in italy the gulph is totally impassable, and birth alone can entitle man or woman to the society of gentlemen and ladies. this firmly-fixed idea of subordination (which i once heard a venetian say, he believed must exist in heaven from one angel to another) accounts immediately for a little conversation which i am now going to relate. here were two men taken up last week, one for murdering his fellow-servant in cold blood, while the undefended creature had the lemonade tray in his hand going in to serve company; the other for breaking the new lamps lately set up with intention to light this town in the manner of the streets at paris. "i hope," said i, "that they will hang the murderer." "i rather hope," replied a very sensible lady who sate near me, "that they will hang the person who broke the lamps: for," added she, "the first committed his crime only out of revenge, poor fellow! because the other had got his mistress from him by treachery; but this creature has had the impudence to break our fine new lamps, all for the sake of spiting _the arch-duke_." the arch-duke meantime hangs nobody at all; but sets his prisoners to work upon the roads, public buildings, &c. where they labour in their chains; and where, strange to tell! they often insult passengers who refuse them alms when asked as they go by; and, stranger still! they are not punished for it when they do. here is certainly much despotic power in italy, but, i fancy, very little oppression; perhaps authority, once acknowledged, does not delight itself always by the fatigue of exertion. _sat est prostrasse leoni_ is an old adage, with which perhaps i may be the better acquainted, as it is the motto to my own coat of arms; and unless sovereignty is hungry, for ought i see, he does not certainly _devour_. the certainty of their irrevocable doom, softened by kind usage from their superiors, makes, in the mean time, an odd sort of humorous drollery spring up among the common people, who are much happier here at milan than i expected to find them: every great house giving meat, broth, &c. to poor dependents with liberal good-nature enough, so that mighty little wandering misery is seen in the streets; unlike those of genoa, who seem mocked with the word _liberty_, while sorrow, sickness, and the most pinching want, pine at the doors of marble palaces, whose owners are unfeeling as their walls. our ordinary people here in lombardy are well clothed, fat, stout, and merry; and desirous to divert themselves, and their protectors, whom they love at their hearts. there is however a degree of effrontery among the women that amazes me, and of which i had no idea, till a friend shewed me one evening from my own box at the opera, fifty or a hundred low shop-keepers wives, dispersed about the pit at the theatre, dressed in men's clothes, _per disimpegno_ as they call it; that they might be more _at liberty_ forsooth to clap and hiss, and quarrel and jostle, &c. i felt shocked. "_one who comes from a free government need not wonder so_," said he: "on the contrary, sir," replied i, "where every body has hopes, at least possibility, of bettering his station, and advancing nearer to the limits of upper life, none except the most abandoned of their species will wholly lose sight of such decorous conduct as alone can grace them when they have reached their wish: whereas your people know their destiny, future as well as present, and think no more of deserving a higher post, than they think of obtaining it." let me add, however, that if these women _were_ a little riotous during the easter holidays, they are _dilletantes_ only. in this city no female _professors_ of immorality and open libertinage, disgraceful at once, and pernicious to society, are permitted to range the streets in quest of prey; to the horror of all thinking people, and the ruin of all heedless ones. with which observation, to continue the tour of italy, we this day leave, for a twelvemonth at least, milano il grande, after having spent, though not quite finished the winter in it; as there fell a very heavy snow last saturday, which hindered our setting out a week ago, though this is the sixth of april; and exactly five months have now since last november been passed among those who have i hope approved our conduct and esteemed our manners. that they should trouble themselves to examine our income, report our phrases, and listen, perhaps with some little mixture of envy, after every instance of unshakable attachment shewn to each other, would be less pleasing; but that i verily believe they have at last dismissed us with general good wishes, proceeding from innate goodness of heart, and the hope of seeing again, in a year's time or so, two people who have supplied so many tables here with materials for conversation, when the fountain of talk was stopt by deficiencies, and the little stream of prattle ceased to murmur for want of a few pebbles to break its course. we are going to venice by the way of cremona, and hope for amusement from external objects: let us at least not deserve or invite disappointment by seeking for pleasure beyond the limits of innocence. from milan to padua. the first evening's drive carried us no farther than lodi, a place renowned through all europe for its excellent cheese, as out well-known ballad bears testimony: let lodi or parmesan bring up the rear. those verses were imitated, i fancy, from a french song written by monsieur des yveteaux, of whose extraordinary life and death much has been said by his cotemporary wits, particularly how some of them found him playing at shepherd and shepherdess in his own garden with a pretty savoyard wench, at seventy-eight years old, _en habit de berger, avec un chapeau couleur de rose_[footnote: in a pastoral habit, and a hat turned up with pink], &c. when he shewed them the famous lines, _avoir peu de parens, moins de train que de rente_, &c. which do certainly bear a very near affinity to our old man's wish, published in dryden's miscellanies; who, among other luxuries, resolves to eat lodi cheese, i remember. the town, however, bringing no other ideas either new or old to our minds, we went to the opera, and heard morichelli sing: after which they gave us a new dramatic dance, made upon the story of don john, or the libertine; a tale which, whether true or false, fact or fable, has furnished every christian country in the world, i believe, with some subject of representation. it makes me no sport, however; the idea of an impenitent sinner going to hell is too seriously terrifying to make amusement out of. let mythology, which is now grown good for little else, be danced upon the stage; where mr. vestris may bounce and struggle in the character of alcides on his funeral pile, with no very glaring impropriety; and such baubles serve beside to keep old classical stories in the heads of our young people; who, if they _must_ have torches to blaze in their eyes, may divert themselves with pluto catching up ceres's daughter, and driving her away to tartarus; but let don john alone. i have at least _half a notion_ that the horrible history is _half true_; if so, it is surely very gross to represent it by dancing. should such false foolish taste prevail in england (but i hope it will not), we might perhaps go happily through the whole book of god's revenge against murder, or the annals of newgate, on the stage, as a variety of pretty stories may be found there of the same cast; while statues of hercules and minerva, with their insignia as heathen deities, might be placed, with equal attention to religion, costume, and general fitness, as decorations for the monuments of _westminster abbey_. the country we came through to cremona is rich and fertile, the roads deep and miry of course; very few of the lombardy poplars, of which i expected to see so many: but phaeton's sisters seem to have danced all away from the odoriferous banks of the po, to the green sides of the thames, i think; meantime here is no other timber in the country but a few straggling ash, and willows without end. the old eridanus, however, makes a majestic figure at cremona, and frights the inhabitants when it overflows. there are not many to be frighted though, for the town is thinly peopled; but exquisitely clean, perhaps for that very reason; and the cathedral, of a mixed grecian and gothic architecture, has a respectable appearance; while two enormous lions, of red marble, frown at its door, and the crucifixion, painted by pordenone, with a rough but powerful pencil, strikes one at the entrance: i have seen nothing finer than the figure of the centurion upon the fore-ground, who seems to cry out, with soldier-like courage and apostolic fervour, truly this is the son of god. the great clock here too is very curious: having, besides the twenty-four hours, a minute and second finger, like a stop watch, and shews the phases of the moon, with her triple rotation clearly to all who walk across the piazza. yet i trust the dwellers at cremona are no better astronomers than those who live in other places; to what purpose then all these representations with which italy is crowded; processions, paintings, &c. besides the moral dances, as they call them now? one word of solid instruction to the ear, conveys more knowledge to the mind at last, than all these marionettes presented to the eye. the tower of cremona is of a surprising height and elegant form; we climbed, not without some difficulty, to its top, and saw the flat plains of lombardy stretched out all round us. prospects, however, and high towers have i seen; that in mr. hoare's grounds, dedicated to king alfred, is a much finer structure than this, and the view from it much more variegated certainly; i think of greater extent; though there is more dignity in these objects, while the po twists through them, and distant mountains mingle with the sky at the end of a lengthened horizon. what i have never seen till now, we were made to observe in the octagon gallery which crowns this pretty structure, where in every compartment there are channels cut in the stone to guide the eye or rest the telescope, that so a spectator need not be fruitlessly teized, as one almost always is, by those who shew one a prospect, with _look there! see there!_ &c. at this place nothing needs be done but lay the glass or put the eye even with the lines which point to bergamo, mantua, or where you please; and _look there_ becomes superfluous as offensive. the bells in the tower amused us in another way: an old man who has the care of them, delighted much in telling us how he rung tunes upon them before the duke of parma, who presented him with money, and bid him ring again: and not a little was the good man amazed, when one of our company sate down and played on them himself: a thing he had never before been witness to, he said, except once, when a surprising musician arrived from england, and performed the like seat: by his description of the person, and the time of his passing through cremona, we conjectured he meant dr. burney. the most dreadful of all roads carried us next morning to mantua, where we had letters for an agreeable friend, who neglected nothing that could entertain or instruct us. he shewed me the field where it is supposed the house stood in which virgil was born, and told me what he knew of the evidence that he was born there: certain it is that much care is taken to keep the place fenced, from an idea of its being the identical spot, and i hope it is so. the theatres here are beautiful beyond all telling: it is a shame not to take the model of the small one, and build a place of entertainment on the plan. there cannot surely be any plan more elegant. we had a concert of admirable music at the house of our new acquaintance, in the evening, and were introduced by his means to many people of fashion; the ladies were pretty, and dressed with much taste; no caps at all, but flowers in their heads, and earrings of silver fillagree finely worked; long, light, and thin: i never saw such before, but it would be an exceeding pretty fashion. they hung down quite low upon the neck and shoulders, and had a pleasing effect. mantua stands in the middle of a deep swampy marsh, that sends up a thick foggy vapour all winter, a stench intolerable during the summer months. its inhabitants lament the want of population; and indeed i counted but five carriages in the streets while we remained in the town. seven thousand jews occupy a third part of the city, founded by old tiresias's daughter, where they have a synagogue, and live after their own fashion. the dialect here is closer to that italian which foreigners learn, and the ladies speak more tuscan, i think, than at milan, but it is a _lady's_ town as i told them. "ille etiam patriis agmen ciet ocnus ab oris fatidicæ _mantûs_ et tusci filius amnis, qui muros matrisque dedit tibi. _mantua_ nomen." ocnus was next, who led his native train of hardy warriors thro' the wat'ry plain, the son of manto by the tuscan stream, from whence the _mantuan_ town derives its name. dryden. the annual fair is what contributes most to keeping their folks alive though, for such are the roads it is scarce possible any strangers should come near them, and our people complain that the inns are very extortionate: here is one building, however, that promises wonders from its prodigious size and magnificence; i only wonder such accommodation should be thought necessary. the gentleman who shewed us the ducal palace, seemed himself much struck with its convenience and splendour; but i had seen versailles, turin, and genoa. what can be seen here, and here alone, are the numerous and incomparable works of giulio romano; of which no words that i can use would give my readers any adequate idea.--for such excellence language has no praise, and of such performances taste will admit no criticism. the giants could scarcely have been more amazed at jupiter's thunder, than i was at their painted fall. if rome is to exhibit any thing beyond this, i shall really be more dazzled than delighted; for imagination will stretch no further, and admiration will endure no more. * * * * * sunday, april . here is no appearance of spring yet, though so late in the year; what must it be in england? one almond and one plum tree have i seen in blossom; but no green leaf out of the bud: so cheerless has been the road between mantua and verona, which, however, makes amends for all on our arrival. how beautiful the entrance is of this charming city, how grand the gate, how handsome the drive forward, may all be read here in a printed book called _verona illustrata_: but my felicity in finding the amphitheatre so well preserved, can only be found in my own heart, which began sensibly to dilate at the seeing an old roman colisseum kept so nicely, and repaired so well. it is said that the arena here is absolutely perfect; and if the galleries are a little deficient, there can be no dispute concerning the _podium_, or lower seats, which remain exactly as they were in old times: while i have heard that the building of the same kind now existing at nismes, shews the manner of entering exceeding well; and the great one built by vespasian has every thing else: so that an exact idea of the old circus may be obtained among them all. that something should always be left to conjecture, is however not unpleasing; various opinions animate the arguments on both sides, and bring out fire by collision with the understanding of others engaged in the same researches. a bull-feast given here to divert the emperor as he passed through, must have excited many pleasing sensations, while the inhabitants sate on seats once occupied by the masters of the world; and what is more worth wonder, fate at the feet of a transalpine _cæsar_, for so the sovereign of germany is even now called by his milanese subjects in common discourse; and when one looks upon the arms of austria, a spread eagle, and recollects that when the roman empire was divided, the old eagle was split, one face looking toward the east, the other toward the west, in token of shared possession, it affects one; and calls up classic imagery to the mind. the collection of antiquities belonging to the philharmonic society is very respectable; they reminded me of the arundel marbles at oxford, and i said so. "_oh!_" replied the man who shewed these, "_that collection was very valuable to be sure, but the bad air, and the smoke of coal fires in england, have ruined them long ago_." i suspected that my gentleman talked by rote, and examining the book called _verona illustrata_, found the remark there; but that is _malasede_, and a very ridiculous prejudice. i will confess however, if they please, that our original treaty between mardonius and the persian army, at the end of which the greek general aristides, although himself a sabian, attested the fun as witness, in compliance with their religion who worshipped that luminary, at least held it in the highest veneration, as the residence of oromasdes the good principle, who was considered by the magians as for ever clothed with light: i will consider _that_, i say, if they insist upon it, as a marble of less consequence than the last will and testament of an old inhabitant of sparta which is shewn at verona, and which _they say_ disposes of the iron money used during the first of many years that the laws of lycurgus lasted. here is a very fine palace belonging to the bevi-l'acqua family, besides the casa verzi, as famous for its elegant doric architecture, as the charming mistress of it for her attic wit. st. zeno is the church which struck me most: the eternal and all-seeing eye placed over the door; fortune's wheel too, composed of six figures curiously disposed, and not unlike our man alphabet, two mounting, two sitting, and two tumbling, over against it: on the outside of the wheel this distich, en ego fortuna moderor mortalibus usum, elevo, depono, bona cunctis vel mala dono[j]-- this other on the inside of the wheel, less plainly to be read: induo nudatos, denudo veste paratos, in me confidit, si quis derisus abibit[k]. footnotes: [footnote j: here i madam fortune my favours bestow, some good and some ill to the high and the low. ] [footnote k: the naked i clothe, and the pompous i strip; if in me you confide, i may give you the slip. ] this is a town full of beauties, wits, and rarities: numberless persons of the first eminence have always adorned it, and the present inhabitants have no mind to degenerate; while the nobleman that is immediately descended from that house which giambattista della torre made famous for his skill in astronomy, employs himself in a much more useful, if not a nobler study; and is completing for the press a new system of education. it was very petulantly, and very spitefully said by voltaire, that italy was now no more than _la boutique_[footnote: the old clothes shop.], and the italians, _les merchands fripiers de l'europe_[footnote: the slop-sellers of europe]. the greek remains here have still an air of youthful elegance about them, which strikes one very forcibly where so good opportunity offers of comparing them with the fabrics formed by their destructive successors, the goths; who have left some fine old black-looking monuments (which look as if they had stood in our _coal smoke_ for centuries) to the memory of the scaligers; and surely the great critic of that name could not have taken a more certain method of proving his descent from these his barbarous ancestors, than that which his relationship to them naturally, i suppose, inspired him with--the avowed preference of birth to talents, of long-drawn genealogy to hardly-acquired literature. we will however grow less prejudiced ourselves; and since there are still whole nations of people existing, who consider the counting up many generations back as a felicity not to be exchanged for any other without manifest loss, we may possibly reconcile the opinion to common sense, by reflecting that one preconception of the sovereign good is, that it should certainly be _indeprivable_ and except birth, what is there earthly after all that may not drop, or else be torn from its possessor by accident, folly, force, or malice? james harris says, that virtue answers to the character of indeprivability, but one is left only to wish that his position were true; the continuance of virtue depends on the continuance of reason, from which a blow on the head, a sudden fit of terror, or twenty other accidents may separate us in a moment. nothing can make us not one's father's child however, and the advantages of _blood_, such as they are, may surely be deemed _indeprivable_. gothic and grecian architecture resembles gothic and grecian manners, which naturally do give their colour to such arts as are naturally the result of them. tyranny and gloomy suspicion are the characteristics of the one, openness and sociability strongly mark the other--when to the gay portico succeeded the sullen drawbridge, and to the lively corridor, a secret passage and a winding staircase. it is difficult, if not impossible however, to withhold one's respect from those barbarians who could thus change the face of art, almost of nature; who could overwhelm courage and counteract learning; who not only devoured the works of wisdom and the labours of strength, but left behind them too a settled system of feudatorial life and aristocratic power, still undestroyed in europe, though hourly attacked, battered by commerce, and sapped by civilization. when smeathman told us about twelve years ago, how an immense body of african ants, which appeared, as they moved forwards, like the whole earth in agitation--covered and suddenly arrested a solemn elephant, as he grazed unsuspiciously on the plain; he told us too that in eight hours time no trace was left either of the devasters or devasted, excepting the skeleton of the noble creature neatly picked; a standing proof of the power of numbers against single force. these northern emigrants the goths, however, have done more; they have fixed a mode of carrying on human affairs, that i think will never be so far exterminated as to leave no vestiges behind: and even while one contemplates the mischief they have made--even while one's pen engraves one's indignation at their success; the old baron in his castle, preceded and surrounded by loyal dependants, who desired only to live under his protection and die in his defence, inspires a notion of dignity unattainable by those who, seeking the beautiful, are by so far removed from the sublime of life, and affords to the mind momentary images of surly magnificence, ill exchanged perhaps by _fancy_, though _truth_ has happily substituted a succession of soft ideas and social comforts: knowledge, virtue, riches, happiness. let it be remembered however, that if the theme is superior to the song, we always find those poets who live in the second class, celebrating the days past by those who had their existence in the first. these reflections are forced upon me by the view of lombard manners, and the accounts i daily pick up concerning the brescian and bergamase nobility; who still exert the gothic power of protecting murderers who profess themselves their vassals; and who still exercise those virtues and vices natural to man in his semi-barbarous state: fervent devotion, constant love, heroic friendship, on the one part; gross superstition, indulgence of brutal appetite, and diabolical revenge, on the other. in all hot countries, however, flowers and weeds shoot up to enormous growth: in colder climes, where poison can scarce be feared, perfumes can seldom be boasted. verona is the gayest looking town i ever lived in; beautifully situated, the hills around it elegant, the mountains at a distance venerable: the silver adige rolling through the valley, while such a glow of blossoms now ornament the rising grounds, and such cheerfulness smiles in the sweet countenances of its inhabitants, that one is tempted to think it the birth-place of euphrosyne, where zephyr with aurora playing, as he met her once a maying, &c. fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, so buxom, blythe, and debonair-- as milton says. here are vines, mulberries, olives; of course, wine, silk, and oil: every thing that can seduce, every thing that ought to satisfy desiring man. here then in consequence do actually delight to reside mirth and good-humour in their holiday dress. _a verona mezzi matti_[footnote: the people at verona are half out of their wits], say the italians themselves of them, and i see nothing seemingly go forward here but improvisatori, reciting stories or verses to entertain the populace; boys flying kites, cut square like a diamond on the cards, and called stelle; men amusing themselves at a game called pallamajo, something like our cricket, only that they throw the ball with a hollow stick, not with the hand, but it requires no small corporal strength; and i know not why our english people have such a notion of italian effeminacy: games of very strong exertion are in use among them; and i have not yet felt one hot day since i left france. they shewed us an agreeable garden here belonging to some man of fashion, whose name i know not; it was cut in a rock, yet the grotto disappointed me: they had not taken such advantages of the situation as lomellino would have done, and i recollected the tasteful creations in my own country, _pains hill_ and _stour head_. the veronese nobleman shewed however the spirit of _his_ country, if we let loose the genius of _ours_. the emperor had visited his improvements it seems, and on the spot where he kissed the children of the house, their father set up a stone to record the honour. our attendant related a tender story to _me_ more interesting, which happened in this garden, of an english gentleman, who having hired the house, &c. one season, found his favourite servant ill there, and like to die: the poor creature expressed his concern at the intolerant cruelty of that fact which denies christians of any other denomination but their own a place in consecrated ground, and lamented his distance from home with an anxious earnestness that hastened his end: when the humanity of his master sent him to the landlord, who kindly gave permission that he might lie undisturbed under his turf, as one places one's lap-dog in england; and _there_, as our laquais de place observed, _he did no harm_, though _he was a heretic_; and the english gentleman wept over his grave. i never saw cypress trees of such a growth as in this spot--but then there are no other trees; _inter viburna cypressi_ came of course into one's head: and this noble plant, rich in foliage, and bright, not dusky in colour, looked from its manner of growing like a vast evergreen poplar. our equipages here are strangely inferior to those we left behind at milan. oil is burned in the conversation rooms too, and smells very offensively--but they _lament our suffocation in england, and black smoke_, while what proceeds from these lamps would ruin the finest furniture in the world before five weeks were expired; i saw no such used at turin, genoa, or milan. the horses here are not equal to those i have admired on the corso at other great towns; but it is pleasing to observe the contrast between the high bred, airy, elegant english hunter, and the majestic, docile, and well-broken war horse of lombardy. shall we fancy there is gothic and grecian to be found even among the animals? or is not that _too_ fanciful? that every thing useful, and every thing ornamental, first revived in italy, is well known; but i was never aware till now, though we talk of italian book-keeping, that the little cant words employed in compting-houses, took their original from the lombard language, unless perhaps that of ditto, which every moment recurs, meaning detto or sudetto, as that which was already said before: but this place has afforded me an opportunity of discovering what the people meant, who called a large portion of ground in southwark some years ago a _plant_, above all things. the ground was destined to the purposes of extensive commerce, but the appellation of a _plant_ gave me much disturbance, from my inability to fathom the meaning of it. i have here found out, that the lombards call many things a _plant_; and say of their cities, palaces, &c. in familiar discourse--_che la pianta è buona, la pianta è cattiva_[footnote: the _plant_ is a good or a bad one], &c. thus do words which carry a forcible expression in one language, appear ridiculous enough in another, till the true derivation is known. another reflection too occurs as curious; that after the overthrow of all business, all knowledge, and all pleasure resulting from either, by the goths, italy should be the first to cherish and revive those money-getting occupations, which now thrive better in more northern climates: but the chymists say justly, that fermentation acts with a sort of creative power, and that while the mass of matter is fermenting, no certain judgment can be made what spirit it will at last throw up: so perhaps we ought not to wonder at all, that the first idea of banking came originally from this now uncommercial country; that the very name of _bankrupt_ was brought over from their money-changers, who sat in the market-place with a bench or _banca_ before them, receiving and paying; till, unable sometimes to make the due returns, the enraged creditors broke their little board, which was called making _bancarotta_, a phrase but too well known in the purlieus, which because they first settled there in london was called _lombard street_, where the word is still in full force i believe. --oh word of fear! unpleasing to commercial ear. a visit to the collection of signor vincenzo bozza best assisted me in changing, or at least turning the course of my ideas. nothing in natural history appears more worthy the consideration of the learned world, than does this repository of petrefactions, so uncommon that scarcely any thing except the testimony of one's own eyes could convince one that flying fish, natives, and intending to remain inhabitants, of the pacific ocean, are daily dug out of the bowels of monte bolca near verona, where they must doubtless have been driven by the deluge, as no less than omnipotent power and general concussion could have sufficed to seize and fix them for centuries in the hollow cavities of a rock at least seventy-two miles from the nearest sea. their learned proprietor, however, who was obligingly desirous to shew me every attention, answering a hundred troublesome questions with much civility, told us, that few of his numerous visitants gave that plain account of the phenomenon, shewing greater disposition to conjure up more difficult causes, and attribute the whole to the world's eternity: a notion not less contrary to found philosophy and common sense, than it is repugnant to faith, and the doctrines of revelation; which prophesied long ago, that in the last days should come _scoffers, walking after their own lusts_, and saying, _where is now the promise of his coming? for since the time that our fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation._ well! these are unpleasant reflections: i would rather, before leaving the plains of lombardy, give my country-women one reason for detaining them so long there: it cannot be an uninteresting reason to us, when we ref left that our first head-dresses were made by _milaners_; that a court gown was early known in england by the name of a _mantua_, from _manto,_ the daughter of teresias, who founded the city so called; and that some of the best materials for making these mantuas is still named from the town it is manufactured in--a _padua_ soy. we are going thither immediately through vicenza; where the works of palladio's immortal hand appear in full perfection; and nothing sure can add to the elegancies of architecture displayed in its environs. i fatigued myself to death almost by walking three miles out of town, to see the famous villa from whence merriworth castle in kent was modelled; and drew incessant censures on his taste who built at the bottom of a deep valley the imitation of a house calculated for a hill. here i pleased my eyes by glancing them over an extensive prospect, bounded by mountains on the one side, on another by the sea, at so prodigious a distance however as to be wholly undiscoverable by the naked eye; nor could i, or any other unaccustomed spectator, have seen, as my italian companions did, the effect produced by marine vapours upon the intermediate atmosphere, which they made me remark from the windows of the palace, inferior in every thing _but_ situation to merriworth, and with that patriotic consolation i leave vincenza. padua la dotta afforded me much pleasure, from the politeness of the countess ferres, born a german; of the house of starenberg: she thought proper to shew me a thousand civilities, in consequence of a kind letter which we carried her from count wiltseck, the austrian minister at milan; called the literati of the town about us, and gave me the pleasure of conversing with the abate cefarotti, who translated offian; and the professor statico, whose attentions i ought never to forget. i was surprised at length to hear kind inquiries after english acquaintance made in my native language by the botanical professor, who spoke much of doctor johnson, and with great regard: he had, it seems, spent much time in our island about thirty years before. when we were shewn the physic garden, nicely kept and excellently furnished, the countess took occasion to observe, that transplanted trees never throve, and strongly expressed her unfaded attachment to her native soil: though she had more good sense than to neglect every opportunity of cultivating that in which fortune had placed her. the tomb of antenor, supposed to be preserved in this town, has, i find, but slight evidence to boast with regard to its authenticity: whosever tomb it is, the antiquity of the monument, and dignity of the remains, are scarcely questionable; and i see not but it _may_ be antenor's. there is no place assigned for it but the open street, because it could not (say they) have contained a baptized body, as there are proofs innumerable of its being fabricated many and many years before the birth of jesus christ: yet i never pass by without being hurt that it should have no better situation assigned it, till i recollect that the old romans always buried people by the highway, which made the _siste viator_[footnote: stop traveller] proper for their tomb-stones, as mr. addison somewhere remarks; which are foolishly enough engraven upon ours: and till i consider too that the archbishop of canterbury, or the patriarch of antioch, where christians were first called such, would lie no nearer a christian church than old antenor does, were they unfortunate enough to die, and be put under ground at padua. the shrine of st. antonio is however sufficiently venerated; and the riches of his church really amazed me: such silver lamps! such votive offerings! such glorious sculpture! the bas relievos, representing his life and miracles, are beyond any thing we have yet seen; one compartment particularly, the workmanship, i think, of sansovino, where an old woman is represented to a degree of finished nicety and curiosity of perfection which i knew not that marble could express. the hall of justice, which they oppose to our westminster-hall, but between which there is no resemblance, is two hundred and fifty-six feet long, and eighty-six broad; the form, of it a _rhomboid_: the walls richly ornamented by pietro d'abano, who originally designed, and began to paint the figures round the sides: they have however been retouched by giotto, who added the signs of the zodiac to peter's mysterious performances, which meant to explain the planetary influences, as he was a man deeply dipped in judicial astrology; and there is his own portrait among them, dressed like a zoroastrian priest, with a planet in the corner. at the bottom of the hall hangs the famous crucifixion, for the purpose of doing which completely well, it is told that giotto fastened up a real man, and justly incurred the pope's displeasure, who coming one day unawares to see his painter work, caught the unhappy wretch struggling in the closet, and threatened immediately to sign the artist's death; who with italian promptness ran to the picture, and daubed it over with his brush and colours;--by this method obliging his sovereign to delay execution till the work was repaired, which no one but himself could finish; mean time the man recovers of his wounds, and the tale ends, whether true or false, according to the hearer's wish. the debtor's stone at the opposite end of the hall has likewise many entertaining stories annexed to it: the bankrupt is obliged to sit there in presence of his creditors and judges, in a very disgraceful state; and many accounts are told one, of the various effects such distresses have had on the mind: but suicide is a crime rarely committed out of england, and the italians look with just horror on our people for being so easily incited to a sin, which takes from him that commits it all power and possibility of repentance. a frenchman whom i sent for once at bath to dress my hair, gave me an excellent trait of his own national character, speaking upon that subject, when he meant to satirise ours. "you have lived some years in england, friend, said i, do you like it?"--"mais non, madame, pas parfaitement bien[l]"--"you have travelled much in italy, do you like that better?"--"ah, dieu ne plaise, madame, je n'aime guères messieurs les italiens[m]." "what do they do to make you hate them so?"--"mais c'est que les italiens se tuent l'un l'autre (replied the fellow), et les anglois se font un plaisir de se tuer eux mesmes: pardi je ne me sens rien moins qu'un vrai gout pour ces gentillesses la, et j'aimerois mieux me trouver a _paris, pour rire un peu_."[n] footnotes: [footnote l: why no truly ma'am, not much.] [footnote m: oh, god forbid--no, i cannot endure those italians.] [footnote n: why, really, the italians have such a passion for murdering each other, ma'am, and the english such an odd delight in killing themselves, that i, who have acquired no taste for such agreeable amusements, grow somewhat impatient to return to paris, and get a good laugh among my old acquaintance.] the lucrezia padovana, who has a monument erected here in this justice hall to her memory, is the only instance of self-murder i have been told yet; and her's was a very glorious one, and necessary to the preservation of her honour, which was endangered by the magistrate, who made that the barter for her husband's life, in defence of which she was pleading; much like the story of isabella, angelo, and claudio, in shakespear's measure for measure. this lady, whole family name i have forgotten, stabbed herself in presence of the monster who reduced her to such necessity, and by that means preserved her husband's life, by suddenly converting the heart of her hateful lover, who from that dreadful day devoted himself to penitence and prayer. the chastity of the patavian ladies is celebrated by some old latin poet, but i cannot recollect which. lucrezia, however, was a christian. i could not much regard the monument of livy though, for looking at her's, which attracted and detained my attention more particularly. the university of padua is a noble institution; and those who have excelled among the students, are recorded on tablets, for the most part brass, hung round the walls, made venerable by their arms and characters. it was pleasing to see so many british names among them--scotchmen for the most part; though i enquired in vain for the admirable crichton. sir richard blackmore was there, but not one native of france. we were spiteful enough to fancy, that was the reason that abbè richard says nothing of the establishment. besides the civilities shewn us here by mr. bonaldi and his agreeable lady, signora annetta, we were recommended by letters from the venetian resident at milan, to abate toaldo, professor of astronomy; who wished to do all in his power to oblige and entertain us. his observatory is a good one; but the learned amiable scholar, who resides in the first floor of it, complained to us that he was sickly, old, and poor; three bad qualifications, as he observed, for the amusement of travellers, who commonly arrive hungry for novelty, and thirsty for information. his quadrant was very fine, the planetarium or orrery quite out of repair; and his references of course were obliged to be made to a sort of map or chart of the heavenly bodies (a solar system at least with comets) that hung up in his room as a substitute. he had little reverence for the petrefactions of monte bolca i perceived, which he considered as mere _lufus naturæ_. he shewed me poor petrarch's tomb from his observatory, bid me look on sir isaac's full-length picture in the room, and said, the world would see no more such men. of our maskelyne, however, no man could speak with more esteem, or expressions of generous friendship. his sitting chamber was a pleasant one; and i should not have left it so soon, but in compassion to his health, which our company was more likely to injure than assist. he asked me, if i did not find _padua la dotta_ a very stinking nasty town? but added, that literature and dirt had long been intimately acquainted, and that this city was commonly called among the italians, _"porcil de padua," padua the pig-stye._ fire is supposed to be the greatest purifier, and padua has gone through that operation twice completely, being burned the first time by attila; after which, narses the famous eunuch rebuilt and settled it in the year , if my information is good: but after her protector's death, the longobards burned her again, and she lay in ashes till charlemagne restored her to more than original beauty. under otho she, like many other cities of italy, was governed by her own laws, and remained a republic till the year , when she received the german yoke, afterwards broken by the scaligers; nor was their treacherous assassination followed by less than the loss both of verona and this city, which was found in possession of the emperor maximilian some years after: but when the state of venice recovered their dominion over it in , they fortified it so strongly that the confederate princes united in the league of cambray assaulted it in vain. santa giustina's church is the most beautiful place of worship i have ever yet seen; so regularly, so uniformly noble, uncrowded with figures too: the entrance strikes you with its simple grandeur, while the small chapels to the right and left hand are kept back behind a colonade of pillars, and do not distract attention and create confusion of ideas, as do the numerous cupolas of st. anthony's more magnificent but less pleasing structure. the high altar here at santa giustina's church stands at the end, and greatly increases the effect on entering, which always suffers when the length is broken. nothing, however, is to be perfect in this world, and paul veronese's fine view of the suffering martyr has not size enough for the place; and is beside crowded with small unconsequential figures, which cannot be distinguished at a distance. some carvings round the altar, representing, in wooden bas-reliefs, the history of the old and new testament, are admirable in their kind; and i am told that the organ on which bertoni, a blind nephew of ferdinand, our well-known composer, played to entertain us, is one of the first in italy: but an ordinary instrument would have charmed us had he touched it. i must not leave the terra firma, as they call it, without mentioning once more some of the animals it produces; among which the asses are so justly renowned for their size and beauty, that _come un afino di padua_ is proverbial when speaking of strength among the italians: how should it be otherwise indeed, where every herb and every shrub breathes fragrance; and where the quantity as well as quality of their food naturally so increases their milk, that i should think some of them. might yield as much as an ordinary cow? when i was at genoa, i remember remarking something like this to doctor batt, an english physician settled there; and expressed my surprise that our consumptive country-folks, with whom the italians never cease to reproach us, do not, when they come here for health, rely much on the beneficial produce of these asses for a cure; which, if it is hastened by their assistance in our island, must surely be performed much quicker in this. the answer would have been better recollected, i fancy, had it appeared to me more satisfactory; but he knew what he was talking of, and i did not; so conclude he despised me accordingly. the carinthian bulls too, that do all the heavy work in this rich and heavy land, how wonderfully handsome they are! such symmetry and beauty have i never seen in any cattle, scarcely in those of derbyshire, where so much attention has been bestowed upon their breeding. the colour here is so elegant; they are almost all blue roans, like lord grosvenor's horses in london, or those of the duke of cestos at milan: the horns longer, and much more finely shaped, than those of our bulls, and white as polished ivory, tapering off to a point, with a bright black tip at the end, resembling an ermine's tail. as this creature is not a native, but only a neighbour of italy, we will say no more about him. a transplanted hollander, carried thither originally from china, seems to thrive particularly well in this part of the world; the little pug dog, or dutch mastiff, which our english ladies were once so fond of, that poor garrick thought it worth his while to ridicule them for it in the famous dramatic satire called lethe, has quitted london for padua, i perceive; where he is restored happily to his former honours, and every carriage i meet here has a _pug_ in it. that breed of dogs is now so near extirpated among us, that i recoiled: only lord penryn who possesses such an animal; and i doubt not but many of the under-classes among brutes do in the same manner extinguish and revive by chance, caprice, or accident perpetually, through many tracts of the inhabited world, so as to remain out of sight in certain districts for centuries together. this town, as abbé toaldo observed, is old, and dirty, and melancholy-looking, _in itself_; but terence told us long ago, and truly, "that it was not the walls, but the company, made every place delightful:" and these inhabitants, though few in number, are so exceedingly cheerful, so charming, their language is so mellifluous, their manners so soothing, i can scarcely bear to leave them without tears. verona was the first place i felt reluctance to quit; but the venetian state certainly possesses uncommon, and to me almost unaccountable, attractions. be that as it will, we leave these sweet paduans to-morrow; the coach is disposed of, and we are to set out upon our watry journey to their wonderfully-situated metropolis, or as they call it prettily, _la bella dominante_. venice. we went down the brenta in a barge that brought us in eight hours to venice, the first appearance of which revived all the ideas inspired by canaletti, whose views of this town are most scrupulously exact; those especially which one sees at the queen of england's house in st. james's park; to such a degree indeed, that we knew all the famous towers, steeples, &c. before we reached them. it was wonderfully entertaining to find thus realized all the pleasures that excellent painter had given us so many times reason to expect; and i do believe that venice, like other italian beauties, will be observed to possess features so striking, so prominent, and so discriminated, that her portrait, like theirs, will not be found difficult to take, nor the impression she has once made easy to erase. british charms captivate less powerfully, less certainly, less suddenly: but being of a softer sort increase upon acquaintance; and after the connexion has continued for some years, will be relinquished with pain, perhaps even in exchange for warmer colouring and stronger expression. st. mark's place, after all i had read and all i had heard of it, exceeded expectation: such a cluster of excellence, such a constellation of artificial beauties, my mind had never ventured to excite the idea of within herself; though assisted with all the powers of doing so which painters can bestow, and with all the advantages derived from verbal and written description. it was half an hour before i could think of looking for the bronze horses, of which one has heard so much; and from which when one has once begun to look, there is no possibility of withdrawing one's attention. the general effect produced by such architecture, such painting, such pillars; illuminated as i saw them last night by the moon at full, rising out of the sea, produced an effect like enchantment; and indeed the more than magical sweetness of venetian planners, dialect, and address, confirms one's notion, and realizes the scenes laid by fenelon in their once tributary island of cyprus. the pole set up as commemorative of their past dominion over it, grieves one the more, when every hour shews how congenial that place must have been to them, if every thing one reads of it has any foundation in truth. the ducal palace is so beautiful, it were worth while almost to cross the alps to see that, and return home again: and st. mark's church, whose mosaic paintings on the outside are surpassed by no work of art, delights one no less on entering, with its numberless rarities; the flooring first, which is all paved with precious stones of the second rank, in small squares, not bigger than a playing card, and sometimes less. by the second rank in gems i mean, carnelion, agate, jasper, serpentine, and verd antique; on which you place your feet without remorse, but not without a very odd sensation, when you find the ground undulated beneath them, to represent the waves of the sea, and perpetuate marine ideas, which prevail in every thing at venice. we were not shewn the treasury, and it was impossible to get a sight of the manuscript in st. mark's own hand-writing, carefully preserved here, and justly esteemed even beyond the jewels given as votive offerings to his shrine, which are of immense value. the pictures in the doge's house are a magnificent collection; and the noah's ark by bassano would doubtless afford an actual study for natural historians as well as painters, and is considered as a model of perfection from which succeeding artists may learn to draw animal life: scarcely a creature can be recollected which has not its proper place in the picture; but the pensive cat upon the fore-ground took most of my attention, and held it away from the meeting of the pope and doge by the other brother bassano, who here proves that his pencil is not divested of dignity, as the connoisseurs sometimes tell us that he is. but it is not one picture, or two, or twenty, that seizes one's mind here; it is the accumulation of various objects, each worthy to detain it. wonderful indeed, and sweetly-satisfying to the intellectual appetite, is the variety, the plenty of pleasures which serve to enchain the imagination, and fascinate the traveller's eye, keeping it ever on this _little spot_; for though i have heard some of the inhabitants talk of its vastness, it is scarcely bigger than our portman square, i think, not larger at the very most than lincoln's-inn-fields. it is indeed observable that few people know how to commend a thing so as to make their praises enhance its value. one hears a pretty woman not unfrequently admired for her wit, a woman of talents wondered at for her beauty; while i can think on no reason for such perversion of language, unless it is that a small share of elegance will content those whose delight is to hear declamation; and that the most hackeyed sentiments will seem new, when uttered by a pair of rosy lips, and seconded by the expression of eyes from which every thing may be expected. to return to st. mark's place, whence _we have never strayed_: i must mention those pictures which represent his miracles, and the carrying his body away from alexandria: events attested so as to bring them credit from many wise men, and which have more authenticity of their truth, than many stories told one up and down here. so great is the devotion of the common people here to their tutelar saint, that when they cry out, as we do _old england for ever_! they do not say, _viva venezia_! but _viva san marco_! and i doubt much if that was not once the way with _us_; in one of shakespear's plays an expiring prince being near to give all up for gone, is animated by his son in these words, "_courage father_, cry _st. george_!" we had an opportunity of seeing _his_ day celebrated with a very grand procession the other morning, april , when a live boy personated the hero of the show; but fate so still upon his painted courser, that it was long before i perceived him to breathe. the streets were vastly crowded with spectators, that in every place make the principal part of the _spectacle_. it is odd that a custom which in contemplation seems so unlikely to please, should when put in practice appear highly necessary, and productive of an effect which can be obtained no other way. were the houses in parliament street to hang damask curtains, worked carpets, pieces of various coloured silks, with fringe or lace round them, out of every window when the king of england goes to the house, with numberless well-dressed ladies leaning out to see him pass, it would give one an idea of the continental towns upon a gala day. but our people would be apt to cry out, _monmouth street!_ and look ashamed if their neighbours saw the same deckerwork counterpane or crimson curtain produced at easter, which made a figure at christmas the december before; so that no end would be put to expence in our country, were such a fancy to take place. the rainy weather beside would spoil all our finery at once; and _here_, though it is still cold enough to be sure, and the women wear sattins, yet still one shivers over a bad fire only because there is no place to walk and warm one's self; for i have not seen a drop of rain. the truth is, this town cannot be a wholesome one, for there is scarcely a possibility of taking exercise; nor have i been once able to circulate my blood by motion since our arrival, except perhaps by climbing the beautiful tower which stands (as every thing else does) in st. mark's place. and you may drive a garden-chair up _that_, so easy is the ascent, so broad and luminous the way. from the top is presented to one's sight the most striking of all prospects, water bounded by land--not land by water.--the curious and elegant islets upon which, and into which, the piles of venice are driven, exhibiting clusters of houses, churches, palaces, every thing--started up in the midst of the sea, so as to excite amazement. but the horses have not been spoken of, though one pair drew apollo's car at delphos. the other, which we call modern, and laugh while we call them so, were made however before the days of constantine the great. they are of bright yellow brass, not black bronze, as i expected to find them, and grace the glorious church i am never weary of admiring; where i went one day on purpose to find out the red marble on which pope alexander iii. sate, and placed his foot upon the neck of the emperor: the stone has this inscription half legible round it, _super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis_[footnote: thou shalt tread on the asp and the basilisk]. how does this lovely piazza di san marco render a newly-arrived spectator breathless with delight! while not a span of it is unoccupied by actual beauty; though the whole appears uncrowded, as in the works of nature, not of art. it was upon the day appointed for making a new chancellor, however, that one ought to have looked at this lovely city; when every shop, adorned with its own peculiar produce, was disposed to hail the passage of its favourite, in a manner so lively, so luxuriant, and at the same time so tasteful--there's no telling. milliners crowned the new dignitary's picture with flowers, while columns of gauze, twisted round with ribband, in the most elegant style, supported the figure on each side, and made the prettiest appearance possible. the furrier formed his skins into representations of the animal they had once belonged to; so the lion was seen dandling the kid at one door, while the fox stood courting a badger out of his hole at the other. the poulterers and fruiterers were by many thought the most beautiful shops in town, from the variety of fancies displayed in the disposal of their goods; and i admired at the truly italian ingenuity of a gunsmith, who had found the art of turning his instruments of terror into objects of delight, by his judicious manner of placing and arranging them. every shop was illuminated with a large glass chandelier before it, besides the wax candles and coloured lamps interspersed among the ornaments within. the senators have much the appearance of our lawyers going robed to westminster hall, but the _gentiluomini_, as they are called, wear red dresses, and remind me of the doctors of the ecclesiastical courts in doctors commons. it is observable that all long robes denote peaceful occupations, and that the short cut coat is the emblem of a military profession, once the disgrace of humanity, now unfortunately become its false and cruel pride. when the enemies of king david meant to declare war against him, they cut the skirts of his ambassador's clothes off, to shew him he must prepare for battle; and the orientals still consider short dresses as a disgraceful preparation for hostile proceedings; nor could any thing have reconciled europe to the custom, except our horror of turkish manners, and desire of being distinguished from the saracens at the time of the holy war. i have said nothing yet about the gondolas, which every body knows are black, and give an air of melancholy at first sight, yet are nothing less than sorrowful; it is like painting the lively mrs. cholmondeley in the character of milton's pensive nun, devout and pure, sober, stedfast, and demure-- as i once saw her drawn by a famous hand, to shew a venetian lady in her gondola and zendaletto, which is black like the gondola, but wholly calculated like that for the purposes of refined gallantry. so is the nightly rendezvous, the coffee-house, and casino; for whilst palladio's palaces serve to adorn the grand canal, and strike those who enter venice with surprise at its magnificence; those snug retreats are intended for the relaxation of those who inhabit the more splendid apartments, and are fatigued with exertions of dignity, and necessity of no small expence. they breathe the true spirit of our luxurious lady mary, who probably learned it here, or of the still more dissolute turks, our present neighbours; who would have thought not unworthy a testa veneziana, her famous stanza, beginning, but when the long hours of public are past, and we meet with champagne and a chicken at last; surely she had then present to her warm imagination a favourite casino in the piazza st. marco. that her learned and highly-accomplished son imbibed her taste and talents for sensual delights, has been long known in england; it is not so perhaps that there is a showy monument erected to his memory at padua, setting forth his variety and compass of knowledge in a long latin inscription. the good old monk who shewed it me seemed generously and reasonably shocked, that such a man should at last expire with somewhat more firm persuasions of the truth of the mahometan religion than any other; but that he doubted greatly of all, and had not for many years professed himself a christian of any sect or denomination whatever. so have i seen some youth set out, half protestant, half papist; and wand'ring long the world about, some new religion to find out, turn infidel or atheist. we have been told much of the suspicious temper of venetian laws; and have heard often that every discourse is suffered, except such as tends to political conversation, in this city; and that whatever nobleman, native of venice, is seen speaking familiarly with a foreign minister, runs a risque of punishments too terrible to be thought on. how far that manner of proceeding may be wise or just, i know not; certain it is that they have preserved their laws inviolate, their city unattempted, and their republic respectable, through all the concussions that have shaken the rest of europe. surrounded by envious powers, it becomes them to be vigilant; conscious of the value of their unconquered state, it is no wonder that they love her; and surely the true _amor patriæ_ never glowed more warmly in old roman bosoms than in theirs, who draw, as many families here do, their pedigree from the consuls of the commonwealth. love without jealousy is seldom to be met with, especially in these warm climates--let us then permit them to be jealous of a constitution which all the other states of italy look on with envy not unmixed with malice, and propagate strange stories to its disadvantage. that suspicion should be concealed under the mask of gaiety is neither very new nor very strange: the reign of our charles the second was equally famous for plots, perjuries, and cruel chastisements, as for wanton levity and indecent frolics: but here at venice there are no unpermitted frolics; her rulers love to see her gay and cheerful; they are the fathers of their country, and if they _indulge_, take care not to _spoil_ her. with regard to common chat, i have heard many a liberal and eloquent disquisition upon the state of europe in general, and of venice in particular, from several agreeable friends at their own casino, who did not appear to have more fears upon them than myself, and i know not why they should. chevalier emo is deservedly a favourite with them, and we used to talk whole evenings of him and of general elliott; the bombarding of tunis, and defence of gibraltar. the news-papers spoke of some fireworks exhibited in england in honour of their hero; they were "vrayment _feux de joye_" said an agreeable venetian, they were not _feux d'artifice._ the deep secrecy of their councils, however, and unrelenting steadiness of their resolutions, cannot be better explained than by telling a little story, which will illustrate the private virtue as well as the public authority of these extraordinary people; for though the tale is now in abler hands (intending as i am told, to form a tragedy upon its basis), the summary may serve to adorn my little work; as a landscape painter refuses not to throw the story of phaeton's petition for apollo's car into his picture, for the purpose of illuminating the back ground, though ovid has written the story and titian has painted it. some years ago then, perhaps a hundred, one of the many spies who ply this town by night, ran to the state inquisitor, with information that such a nobleman (naming him) had connections with the french ambassador, and went privately to his house every night at a certain hour. the _messergrando_, as they call him, could not believe, nor would proceed, without better and stronger proof, against a man for whom he had an intimate personal friendship, and on whose virtue he counted with very particular reliance. another spy was therefore set, and brought back the same intelligence, adding the description of his disguise; on which the worthy magistrate put on his mask and bauta, and went out himself; when his eyes confirming the report of his informants, and the reflection on his duty stifling all remorse, he sent publicly for _foscarini_ in the morning, whom the populace attended all weeping to his door. nothing but resolute denial of the crime alleged could however be forced from the firm-minded citizen, who, sensible of the discovery, prepared for that punishment he knew to be inevitable, and submitted to the fate his friend was obliged to inflict: no less than a dungeon for life, that dungeon so horrible that i have heard mr. howard was not permitted to see it. the people lamented, but their lamentations were vain. the magistrate who condemned him never recovered the shock: but foscarini was heard of no more, till an old lady died forty years after in paris, whose last confession declared she was visited with amorous intentions by a nobleman of venice whose name she never knew, while she resided there as companion to the ambassadress. so was foscarini lost! so died he a martyr to love, and tenderness for female reputation! is it not therefore a story fit to be celebrated by that lady's pen, who has chosen it as the basis of her future tragedy?--but i will anticipate no further. well! this is the first place i have seen which has been capable in any degree of obliterating the idea of genoa la superba, which has till now pursued me, nor could the gloomy dignity of the cathedral at milan, or the striking view of the arena at verona, nor the sala de giustizia at lettered padua, banish her beautiful image from my mind: nor can i now acknowledge without shame, that i have ceased to regret the mountains, the chesnut groves, and slanting orange trees, which climbed my chamber window _there_, and at _this_ time too! when young-ey'd spring profusely throws from her green lap the pink and rose. but whoever sees st. mark's place lighted up of an evening, adorned with every excellence of human art, and pregnant with pleasure, expressed by intelligent countenances sparkling with every grace of nature; the sea washing its walls, the moon-beams dancing on its subjugated waves, sport and laughter resounding from the coffee-houses, girls with guitars skipping about the square, masks and merry-makers singing as they pass you, unless a barge with a band of music is heard at some distance upon the water, and calls attention to sounds made sweeter by the element over which they are brought--whoever is led suddenly i say to this scene of seemingly perennial gaiety, will be apt to cry out of venice, as eve says to adam in milton, with thee conversing i _forget all time_, all _seasons_, and their _change_--all please _alike_. for it is sure there are in this town many astonishing privations of all that are used to make other places delightful: and as poor omai the savage said, when about to return to otaheite--_no horse there! no ass! no cow, no golden pippins, no dish of tea!--ah, missey! i go without every thing--i always so content there though_. it is really just so one lives at this lovely venice: one has heard of a horse being exhibited for a show there, and yesterday i watched the poor people paying a penny a piece for the sight of a _stuffed one_, and am more than persuaded of the truth of what i am told here, that numberless inhabitants live and die in this great capital, nor ever find out or think of enquiring how the milk brought from terra firma is originally produced. when such fancies cross me i wish to exclaim, ah, happy england! whence ignorance is banished by the diffusion of literature, and narrowness of notions is ridiculed even in the lowest class of life. candour must however confess, that while the possessor of a northern coal-mine riots in that variety of adulation which talents deserve and riches contrive to obtain, those who labour in it are often natives of the dismal region; where many have been known to be born, and work, and die, without having ever seen the sun, or other light than such as a candle can bestow. let such dark recollections give place to more cheerful imagery. we have just now been carried to see the so justly-renowned arsenal, and unluckily missed the ship-launch we went thither chiefly to see. it is no great matter though! one comes to italy to look at buildings, statues, pictures, people! the ships and guns of england have been such as supported her greatness, established her dominion, and extended her commerce in such a manner as to excite the admiration and terror of europe, whose kingdoms vainly as perfidiously combined with her own colonies against that power which _they_ maintained, in spite of the united efforts of half the globe. i shall hardly see finer ships and guns till i go home again, though the keeping all together on one island so--that island walled in too completely with only a single door to come in and out at--is a construction of peculiar happiness and convenience; while dock, armoury, rope-walk, all is contained in this space, exactly two miles round i think. what pleased me best, besides the _whole_, which is best worth being pleased with, was the small arms: there are so many turkish instruments of destruction among them quite new to me, and the picture commemorating the cruel death of their noble gallant leader bragadin, so inhumanly treated by the saracens in . with infinite gratitude to his amiable descendant, who shewed me unmerited civility, dining with us often, and inviting us to his house, &c. i leave this repository of the republic's stores with one observation, that however suspicious the venetians are said to be, i found it much more easy for englishmen to look over _their_ docks, than for a foreigner to find his way into ours. another reflection occurs on examination of this spot; it is, that the renown attached to it in general conversation, is a proof that the world prefers convenience to splendour; for here are no superfluous ornaments, and i am apt to think many go away from it praising beauties by which they have been but little struck, and utilities they have but little understood. from this show you are commonly carried to the glass manufactory at murano; once the retreat of piety and freedom, when the altinati fled the fury of the huns: a beautiful spot it is, and delightfully as oddly situated; but these are _gems which inlay the bosom of the deep_, as milton says--and this perhaps, the prettiest among them, is walked over by travellers with that curiosity which is naturally excited, in one person by the veneration of religious antiquity; in another, by the attention justly claimed by human industry and art. here may be seen a valuable library of books, and here may be seen glasses of all colours, all sorts, and all prices, i believe: but whoever has looked much upon the london work in this way, will not be easily dazzled by the lustre of venetian crystal; and whoever has seen the paris mirrors, will not he astonished at any breadth into which glass can be spread. we will return to venice, the view of which from the zueca, a word contracted from giudecca, as i am told, would invite one never more to stray from it--farther at least than to st. george's church, on another little opposite island, whence the prospect is surely wonderful; and one sits longing for a pencil to repeat what has been so often exquisitely painted by canaletti, just as foolishly as one snatches up a pen to tell what has been so much better told already by doctor moore. it was to this church i was sent, however, for the purpose of seeing a famous picture painted by paul veronese, of the marriage at cana in galilee--where our saviour's first miracle was performed; in which immense work the artist is well known to have commemorated his own likeness, and that of many of his family, which adds value to the piece, when we consider it as a collection of portraits, besides the history it represents. when we arrived, the picture was kept in a refectory belonging to friars (of what order i have forgotten), and no woman could be admitted. my disappointment was so great that i was deprived even of the powers of solicitation by the extreme ill-humour it occasioned; and my few intreaties for admission were completely disregarded by the good old monk, who remained outside with me, while the gentlemen visited the convent without molestation. at my return to venice i met little comfort, as every body told me it was my own fault, for i might put on men's clothes and see it whenever i pleased, as nobody then would stop, though perhaps all of them would know me. if such slight gratifications however as seeing a favourite picture, can be purchased no cheaper than by violating truth in one's own person, and encouraging the violation of it in others, it were better surely die without having ever procured to one's self such frivolous enjoyments; and i hope always to reject the temptation of deceiving mistaken piety, or insulting harmless error. but it is almost time to talk of the rialto, said to be the finest single arch in europe, and i suppose it is so; very beautiful too when looked on from the water, but so dirtily kept, and deformed with mean shops, that passing over it, disgust gets the better of every other sensation. the truth is, our dear venetians are nothing less than cleanly; st. mark's place is all covered over in a morning with chicken-coops, which stink one to death; as nobody i believe thinks of changing their baskets: and all about the ducal palace is made so very offensive by the resort of human creatures for every purpose most unworthy of so charming a place, that all enjoyment of its beauties is rendered difficult to a person of any delicacy; and poisoned so provokingly, that i do never cease to wonder that so little police and proper regulation are established in a city so particularly lovely, to render her sweet and wholesome. it was at the rialto that the first stone of this fair town was laid, upon the twenty-fifth of march, as i am told here, with ideal reference to the vernal equinox, the moment when philosophers have supposed that the sun first shone upon our earth, and when christians believe that the redemption of it was first announced to _her_ within whose womb it was conceived. the name of _venice_ has been variously accounted for; but i believe our ordinary people in england are nearest to the right, who call it _venus_ in their common discourse; as that goddess was, like her best beloved seat of residence, born of the sea's light froth, according to old fables, and partook of her native element, the gay and gentle, not rough and boisterous qualities. it is said too, and i fear with too much truth, that there are in this town some permitted professors of the inveigling arts, who still continue to cry _veni etiam_, as their ancestors did when flying from the goths they sought these sands for refuge, and gave their lion wings. till once well fixed, they kindly called their continental neighbours round to share their liberty, and to accept that happiness they were willing to bestow and to diffuse; and from this call--this _veni etiam_ it is, that the learned men among them derive the word _venetia_. i have asked several friends about the truth of what one has been always hearing of in england, that the venetian gondoliers sing tasso and ariosto's verses in the streets at night; sometimes quarrelling with each other concerning the merit of their favourite poets; but what i have been told since i came here, of their attachment to their respective masters, and secrecy when trusted by them in love affairs, seems far more probable; as they are proud to excess when they serve a nobleman of high birth, and will tell you with an air of importance, that the house of memmo, monsenigo, or gratterola, has been served by their ancestors for these eighty or perhaps a hundred years; transmitting family pride thus from generation to generation; even when that pride is but reflected only like the mock rainbow of a summer sky.--but hark! while i am writing this peevish reflection in my room, i hear some voices under my window answering each other upon the grand canal. it is, it _is_ the gondolieri sure enough; they are at this moment singing to an odd sort of tune, but in no unmusical manner, the flight of erminia from tasso's jerusalem. oh, how pretty! how pleasing! this wonderful city realizes the most romantic ideas ever formed of it, and defies imagination to escape her various powers of enslaving it. apropos to singing;--we were this evening carried to a well-known conservatory called the mendicanti; who performed an oratorio in the church with great, and i dare say deserved applause. it was difficult for me to persuade myself that all the performers were women, till, watching carefully, our eyes convinced us, as they were but slightly grated. the sight of girls, however, handling the double bass, and blowing into the bassoon, did not much please _me_; and the deep-toned voice of her who sung the part of saul, seemed an odd unnatural thing enough. what i found most curious and pretty, was to hear latin verses, of the old leonine race broken into eight and six, and sung in rhyme by these women, as if they were airs of metastasio; all in their dulcified pronunciation too, for the _patois_ runs equally through every language when spoken by a venetian. well! these pretty syrens were delighted to seize upon us, and pressed our visit to their parlour with a sweetness that i know not who would have resisted. we had no such intent; and amply did their performance repay my curiosity, for visiting venetian beauties, so justly celebrated for their seducing manners and soft address. they accompanied their voices with the forte-piano, and sung a thousand buffo songs, with all that gay voluptuousness for which their country is renowned. the school, however is running to ruin apace; and perhaps the conduct of the married women here may contribute to make such _conservatorios_ useless and neglected. when the duchess of montespan asked the famous louison d'arquien, by way of insult, as she pressed too near her, "_comment alloit le metier_[o]?" "_depuis que les dames sen mélent_" (replied the courtesan with no improper spirit,) "_il ne vaut plus rien_[p]." it may be these syrens have suffered in the same cause; i thought the ardency of their manners an additional proof of their hunger for fresh prey. footnotes: [footnote o: how goes the profession?] [footnote p: why since the _quality_ has taken to it ma'am, it brings _us_ in very little indeed.] will naples, the original seat of ulysses's seducers, shew us any thing stronger than this? i hardly expect or wish it. the state of music in italy, if one may believe those who ought to know it best, is not what it was. the _manner of singing_ is much changed, i am told; and some affectations have been suffered to encroach upon their natural graces. among the persons who exhibited their talents at the countess of rosenberg's last week, our country-woman's performance was most applauded; but when i name lady clarges, no one will wonder. it is said that painting is now but little cultivated among them; rome will however be the place for such enquiries. angelica kauffman being settled there, seems a proof of their taste for living merit; and if one thing more than another evinces italian candour and true good-nature, it is perhaps their generous willingness to be ever happy in acknowledging foreign excellence, and their delight in bringing forward the eminent qualities of every other nation; never insolently vaunting or bragging of their own. unlike to this is the national spirit and confined ideas of perfection inherent in a gallic mind, whose sole politeness is an _appliquè_ stuck _upon_ the coat, but never _embroidered into it_. the observation made here last night by a parisian lady, gave me a proof of this i little wanted. we met at the casino of the senator angelo quirini, where a sort of literary coterïe assemble every evening, and form a society so instructive and amusing, so sure to be filled with the first company in venice, and so hospitably open to all travellers of character, that nothing can _now_ be to me a higher intellectual gratification than my admittance among them; as _in future_ no place will ever be recollected with more pleasure, no hours with more gratitude, than those passed most delightfully by me in that most agreeable apartment. i expressed to the french lady my admiration of st. mark's place. "_c'est que vous n'avez jamais vue la foire st. ovide_," said she; "_je vous assure que cela surpasse beaucoup ces trifles palais qu'on vantetant_[q]." and _this could_ only have been arrogance, for she was a very sensible and a very accomplished woman; and when talked to about the literary merits of her own countrymen, spoke with great acuteness and judgment. footnotes: [footnote q: you admire it, says she, only because you never saw the fair at st. ovid's in paris; i assure you there is no comparison between those gay illuminations and these dismal palaces the venetians are so fond of.] general knowledge, however, it must be confessed (meaning that general stock that every one recurs to for the common intercourse of conversation), will be found more frequently in france, than even in england; where, though all cultivate the arts of table eloquence and assembly-room rhetoric, few, from mere shyness, venture to gather in the profits of their plentiful harvest; but rather cloud their countenances with mock importance, while their hearts feel no hope beat higher in them, than the humble one of escaping without being ridiculed; or than in italy, where nobody dreams of cultivating conversation at all--_as an art_; or studies for any other than the natural reason, of informing or diverting themselves, without the most distant idea of gaining admiration, or shining in company, by the quantity of science they have accumulated in solitude. _here_ no man lies awake in the night for vexation that he missed recollecting the last line of a latin epigram till the moment of application was lost; nor any lady changes colour with trepidation at the severity visible in her husband's countenance when the chickens are over-roasted, or the ice-creams melt with the room's excessive heat. among the noble senators of venice, meantime, many good scholars, many belles lettres conversers, and what is more valuable, many thinking men, may be found, and found hourly, who employ their powers wholly in care for the state; and make their pleasure, like true patriots, out of _her felicity_. the ladies indeed appear to study but _one_ science; and where the lesson taught is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? like all sensualists, however, they fail of the end proposed, from hurry to obtain it; and consume those charms which alone can procure them continuance or change of admirers; they injure their health too irreparably, and _that_ in their earliest youth; for few remain unmarried till fifteen, and at thirty have a wan and faded look. _on ne goute pas ses plaisirs icy, on les avale_[footnote: they do not taste their pleasures here, they swallow them whole.], said madame la presidente yesterday, very judiciously; yet it is only speaking popularly that one can be supposed to mean, what however no one much refuses to assert, that the venetian ladies are amorously inclined: the truth is, no check being put upon inclination, each acts according to immediate impulse; and there are more devotees, perhaps, and more doating mothers at venice than any where else, for the same reason as there are more females who practise gallantry, only because there are more women there who _do their own way_, and follow unrestrained where passion, appetite, or imagination lead them. to try venetian dames by english rules, would be worse than all the tyranny complained of when some east indian was condemned upon the coventry act for slitting his wife's nose; a common practice in _his_ country, and perfectly agreeable to custom and the _usage du pays_. here is no struggle for female education as with us, no resources in study, no duties of family-management; no bill of fare to be looked over in the morning, no account-book to be settled at noon; no necessity of reading, to supply without disgrace the evening's chat; no laughing at the card-table, or tittering in the corner if a _lapsus linguæ_ has produced a mistake, which malice never fails to record. a lady in italy is _sure_ of applause, so she takes little pains to obtain it. a venetian lady has in particular so sweet a manner naturally, that she really charms without any settled intent to do so, merely from that irresistible good-humour and mellifluous tone of voice which seize the soul, and detain it in despite of juno-like majesty, or minerva-like wit. nor ever was there prince or shepherd, paris i think was both, who would not have bestowed his apple _here_. mean while my countryman howel laments that the women at venice are so little. but why so? the diminutive progeny of _vulcan_, the _cabirs_, mysteriously adored of old, were of a size below that of the least living woman, if we believe herodotus; and they were worshipped with more constant as well as more fervent devotion, than the symmetrical goddess of beauty herself. a custom which prevails here, of wearing little or no rouge, and increasing the native paleness of their skins, by scarce lightly wiping the very white powder from their faces, is a method no frenchwoman of quality would like to adopt; yet surely the venetians are not behind-hand in the art of gaining admirers; and they do not, like their painters, depend upon _colouring_ to ensure it. nothing can be a greater proof of the little consequence which dress gives to a woman, than the reflection one must make on a venetian lady's mode of appearance in her zendalet, without which nobody stirs out of their house in a morning. it consists of a full black silk petticoat, sloped just to train, a very little on the ground, and flounced with gauze of the same colour. a skeleton wire upon the head, such as we use to make up hats, throwing loosely over it a large piece of black mode or persian, so as to shade the face like a curtain, the front being trimmed with a very deep black lace, or souflet gauze infinitely becoming. the thin silk that remains to be disposed of, they roll back so as to discover the bosom; fasten it with a puff before at the top of their stomacher, and once more rolling it back from the shape, tie it gracefully behind, and let it hang in two long ends. the evening ornament is a silk hat, shaped like a man's, and of the same colour, with a white or worked lining at most, and sometimes _one feather_; a great black silk cloak, lined with white, and perhaps a narrow border down before, with a vast heavy round handkerchief of black lace, which lies over neck and shoulders, and conceals shape and all completely. here is surely little appearance of art, no craping or frizzing the hair, which is flat at the top, and all of one length, hanging in long curls about the back or sides as it happens. no brown powder, and no rouge at all. thus without variety does a venetian lady contrive to delight the eye, and without much instruction too to charm, the ear. a source of thought fairly cut off beside, in giving her no room to shew taste in dress, or invent new fancies and disposition of ornaments for to-morrow. the government takes all that trouble off her hands, knows every pin she wears, and where to find her at any moment of the day or night. mean time nothing conveys to a british observer a stronger notion of loose living and licentious dissoluteness, than the sight of one's servants, gondoliers, and other attendants, on the scenes and circles of pleasure, where you find them, though never drunk, dead with sleep upon the stairs, or in their boats, or in the open street, for that matter, like over-swilled voters at an election in england. one may trample on them if one will, they hardly _can_ be awakened; and their companions, who have more life left, set the others literally on their feet, to make them capable of obeying their master or lady's call. with all this appearance of levity, however, there is an unremitted attention to the affairs of state; nor is any senator seen to come late or negligently to council next day, however he may have amused himself all night. the sight of the bucentoro prepared for gala, and the glories of venice upon ascention-day, must now put an end to other observations. we had the honour and comfort of seeing all from a galley belonging to a noble venetian bragadin, whose civilities to us were singularly kind as well as extremely polite. his attentions did not cease with the morning show, which we shared in common with numbers of fashionable people that filled his ship, and partook of his profuse elegant refreshments; but he followed us after dinner to the house of our english friends, and took six of us together in a gay bark, adorned with his arms, and rowed by eight gondoliers in superb liveries, made up for the occasion to match the boat, which was like them white, blue and silver, a flag of the same colours flying from the stern, till we arrived at the corso; so they call the place of contention where the rowers exert their skill and ingenuity; and numberless oars dashing the waves at once, make the only agitation of which the sea seems capable; while ladies, now no longer dressed in black, but ornamented with all their jewels, flowers, &c. display their beauties unveiled upon the water; and covering the lagoons with gaiety and splendour, bring to one's mind the games in virgil, and the galley of cleopatra, by turns. never was locality so subservient to the purposes of pleasure as in this city; where pleasure has set up her airy standard, and which on this occasion looked like what one reads in poetry of amphitrite's court; and i ventured to tell a nobleman who was kindly attentive in shewing us every possible politeness, that had venus risen from the adriatic sea, she would scarcely have been tempted to quit it for olympus. i was upon the whole more struck with the evening's gaiety, than with the magnificence in which the morning began to shine. the truth is, we had been long prepared for seeing the bucentoro; had heard and read every thing i fancy that could have been thought or said upon the subject, from the sullen englishmen who rank it with a company's barge floating up the thames upon my lord mayor's day, to the old writers who compare it with theseus's ship; in imitation of which, it is said, this calls itself the very identical vessel wherein pope alexander performed the original ceremony in the year ; and though, perhaps, not a whole plank of that old galley can be now remaining in this, so often careened, repaired, and adorned since that time, i see nothing ridiculous in declaring that it is the same ship; any more than in saying the oak i planted an acorn thirty years ago, is the same tree i saw spring up then a little twig, which not even a moderate sceptic will deny; though he takes so much pains to persuade plain folks out of their own existence, by laughing us out of the dull notion that he who dies a withered old fellow at fourscore, should ever be considered as the same person whom his mother brought forth a pretty little plump baby eighty years before--when, says he cunningly, you are forced yourself to confess, that his mother, who died four months afterwards, would not know him again now; though while she lived, he was never out of her arms. vain wisdom all! and false philosophy, which finds no end, in wandering mazes lost. and better is it to travel, as dr. johnson says browne did, from one place where he saw little, to another where he saw no more--than write books to confound common sense, and make men raise up doubts of a being to whom they must one day give an account. we will return to the bucentoro, which, as its name imports, holds two hundred people, and is heavy besides with statues, columns, &c. the top covered with crimson velvet, and the sides enlivened by twenty-one oars on each hand. musical performers attend in another barge, while foreigners in gilded pajots increase the general show. mean time, the vessel that contains the doge, &c. carries him slowly out to sea, where in presence of his senators he drops a plain gold ring into the water, with these words, _desponfamus te mare, in fignum veri perpetuique dominii_.[footnote: we espouse thee, o sea! in sign of true and perpetual dominion.] our weather was favourable, and the people all seemed happy: when the ceremony is put off from day to day, it naturally damps their spirits, and produces superstitious presages of an unlucky year: nor is that strange, for the season of storms ought surely to be past in a climate so celebrated for mildness and equanimity. the praises of italian weather, though wearisomely frequent among us, seem however much confined to this island for aught i see; who am often tired with hearing their complaints of their own sky, now that they are under it: always too cold or too hot, or a seiroc wind, or a rainy day, or a hard frost, _che gela fin ai pensieri_[footnote: which freezes even one's fancy.]; or something to murmur about, while their only great nuisances pass unnoticed, the heaps of dirt, and crowds of beggars, who infest the streets, and poison the pleasures of society. while ladies are eating ice at a coffee-house door, while decent people are hearing mass at the altar, while strangers are surveying the beauties of the place--no peace, no enjoyment can one obtain for the beggars; numerous beyond credibility, fancy and airy, and odd in their manners; and exhibiting such various lamenesses and horrible deformities in their figure, that i can sometimes hardly believe my eyes--but am willing to be told, what is not very improbable, that many of them come from a great distance to pass the season of ascension here at venice. i never indeed saw any thing so gently endured, which it appeared so little difficult to remedy; but though i hope it would be hard to find a place where more alms are asked, or less are given, than in venice; yet i never saw refusals so pleasingly softened, as by the manners of the high italians towards the low. ladies in particular are so soft-mouthed, so tender in replying to those who have their lot cast far below them, that one feels one's own harsher disposition corrected by their sweetness; and when they called my maid _sister_, in good time--pressing her hand with affectionate kindness, it melted me; though i feared from time to time there must be hypocrisy at bottom of such sugared words, till i caught a lady of condition yesterday turning to the window, and praying fervently for the girl's conversion to christianity, all from a tender and pious emotion of her gentle heart: as notwithstanding their caresses, no man is more firmly persuaded of a mathematical truth than they are of mine, and my maid's living in a state of certain and eternal reprobation--_ma fanno veramente vergogna a noi altri_[footnote: but they really shame _even us_.], say they, quite in the spirit of the old romans, who thought all nations _barbarous_ except their own. a woman of quality, near whom i sate at the fine ball bragadin made two nights ago in honour of this gay season, enquired how i had passed the morning. i named several churches i had looked into, particularly that which they esteem beyond the rest as a favourite work of palladio, and called the redentore. "you do very right," says she, "to look at our churches, as you have none in england, i know--but then you have so many other fine things--such charming _steel buttons_ for example;" pressing my hand to shew that she meant no offence; for, added she, _chi pensa d'una maniera, chi pensa d'un altra_[footnote: one person is of one mind you know, another of another.]. here are many theatres, the worst infinitely superior to ours; the best, as far below those of milan and turin: but then here are other diversions, and every one's dependance for pleasure is not placed upon the opera. they have now thrown up a sort of temporary wall of painted canvass, in an oval form, within st. mark's place, profusely illuminated round the new-formed walk, which is covered in at top, and adorned with shops round the right hand side, with pillars to support the canopy; the lamps, &c. on the left hand. this open ranelagh, so suited to the climate, is exceedingly pleasing:--here is room to sit, to chat, to saunter up and down, from two o'clock in the morning, when the opera ends, till a hot sun sends us all home to rest--for late hours must be complied with at venice, or you can have no diversion at all, as the earliest casino belonging to your soberest friends has not a candle lighted in it till past midnight. but i am called from my book to see the public library; not a large one i find, but ornamented with pieces of sculpture, whose eminence has not, i am sure, waited for my description: the jupiter and leda particularly, said to be the work of phidias, whose ganymede in the same collection they tell us is equally excellent. having heard that guarini's manuscript of the pastor fido, written in his own hand, was safely kept at this place, i asked for it, and was entertained to see his numberless corrections and variations from the original thought, like those of pope's homer preserved in the british museum; some of which i copied over for doctor johnson to print, at the time he published his lives of the english poets. my curiosity led me to look in the pastor fido for the famous passage of _legge humana_, _inhumana_, _&c._ and it was observable enough that he had written it three different ways before he pitched on that peculiar expression which caused his book to be prohibited. seeing the manuscript i took notice, however, of the beautiful penmanship with which it was written: our english hand-writing cotemporary to his was coarse, if i recollect, and very angular;--but _italian hand_ was the first to become elegant, and still retains some privileges amongst us. once more, every thing small, and every thing great, revived after the dark ages--in italy. looking at the mint was an hour's time spent with less amusement. the depuration of gold may be performed many ways, and the proofs of its purity given by various methods: i was gratified well enough upon the whole however, in watching the neatness of their process, in weighing the gold, &c. and keeping it more free from alloy than any other coin of any other state:--a zecchine will bend between your fingers from the malleability of the metal--we may try in vain at a guinea, or louis d'or. the operation of separating silver ore from gold by the powers of aqua fortis, precipitating the first-named metal by suspension of a copper plate in the liquid, and called _quartation_; was i believe wholly unknown to the ancients, who got much earlier at the art of weighing gold in water, testified by the old story of _king hiero's crown_. talking of kings, and crowns, and gold, reminds me of my regret for not seeing the treasure kept in st. mark's church here, with the motto engraven on the chest which contains it: quando questo scrinio s'aprirà, tutto il mondo tremerà[r]. [footnote r: when this scrutoire shall open'd be, the world shall all with wonder flee. ] of this it was said in our charles the first's time, that there was enough in it to pay six kings' ransoms: when pacheco, the spanish ambassador, hearing so much of it, asked in derision, if the chest had any _bottom_? and being answered in the affirmative, made reply, that _there_ was the difference between his master's treasures and those of the venetian republic, for the mines of mexico and potosi had _no_ bottom.--strange! if all these precious stones, metals, &c. have been all spent since then, and nothing left except a few relics of no intrinsic value. it is well enough known, that in the year , one of the natives of the island of candia, who have never been men of much character, made a sort of mine, or airshaft, or rather perhaps a burrow, like those constructed by rabbits, down which he went and got quite under the church, stealing out gems, money, &c. to a vast amount; but being discovered by the treachery of his companion, was caught and hanged between the two columns that face the sea on the piazzetta. it strikes a person who has lived some months in other parts of italy, to see so very few clergymen at venice, and none hardly who have much the look or air of a man of fashion. milan, though such heavy complaints are daily made there of encroachments on church power and depredations on church opulence, still swarms with ecclesiastics; and in an assembly of thirty people, there are never fewer than ten or twelve at the very least. but here it should seem as if the political cry of _fuori i preti_[footnote: out with the clergy.], which is said loudly in the council-chamber before any vote is suffered to pass into a law, were carried in the conversation rooms too, for a priest is here less frequent than a clergyman at london; and those one sees about, are almost all ordinary men, decent and humble in their appearance, of a bashful distant carriage, like the parson of the parish in north wales, or _le curé du village_ in the south of france; and seems no way related to an _abate of milan or turin_ still less to _monsieur l' abbé at paris_. though this republic has long maintained a sort of independency from the court of rome, having shewn themselves weary of the jesuits two hundred years before any other potentate dismissed them; while many of the venetian populace followed them about, crying _andate, andate, niente pigliate, emai ritornate_[footnote: begone, begone; nothing take, nor turn anon.]; and although there is a patriarch here who takes care of church matters, and is attentive to keep his clergy from ever meddling with or even mentioning affairs of state, as in such a case the republic would not scruple punishing them as laymen; yet has venice kept, as they call it, st. peter's boat from sinking more than once, when she saw the pope's territories endangered, or his sovereignty insulted: nor is there any city more eminent for the decency with which divine service is administered, or for the devout and decorous behaviour of individuals at the time any sacred office is performing. she has ever behaved like a true christian potentate, keeping her faith firm, and her honour scrupulously clear, in all treaties and conventions with other states--fewer instances being given of venetian falsehood or treachery towards neighbouring nations, than of any other european power, excepting only britain, her truly-beloved ally; with whom she never had a difference, and whose cause was so warmly espoused last war by the inhabitants of this friendly state, that numbers of young nobility were willing to run a-volunteering in her defence, but that the laws of venice forbid her nobles ranging from home without leave given from the state. it was therefore not an ill saying, though an old one perhaps, that the government of venice was rich and consolatory like its treacle, being compounded nicely of all the other forms: a grain of monarchy, a scruple of democracy, a dram of oligarchy, and an ounce of aristocracy; as the _teriaca_ so much esteemed, is said to be a composition of the four principal drugs--but can never be got genuine except _here_, at the original _dispensary_. indeed the longevity of this incomparable commonwealth is a certain proof of its temperance, exercise, and cheerfulness, the great preservatives in every body, _politic_ as well _natural_. nor should the love of peace be left out of her eulogium, who has so often reconciled contending princes, that thuanus gave her, some centuries ago, due praise for her pacific disposition, so necessary to the health of a commercial state, and called her city _civilis prudentiæ officina_. another reason may be found for the long-continued prosperity of venice, in her constant adherence to a precept, the neglect of which must at length shake, or rather loosen the foundations of every state; for it is a maxim here, handed down from generation to generation, that change breeds more mischief from its novelty, than advantage from its utility:--quoting the axiom in latin, it runs thus: _ipsa mutatio consuetudinis magis perturbat novitate, quam adjuvat utilitate_. and when henry the fourth of france solicited the abrogation of one of the senate's decrees, her ambassador replied, that _li decreti di venezia rassomigli avano poca i gridi di parigi_[footnote: the decrees of venice little resemble the _edicts_ of paris.], meaning the declaratory publications of the grand monarque,--proclaimed to-day perhaps, repealed to-morrow--"for sire," added he, "our senate deliberates long before it decrees, but what is once decreed there is seldom or ever recalled." the patriotism inherent in the breads of individuals makes another strong cause of this state's exemption from decay: they say themselves, that the soul of old rome has transmigrated to venice, and that every galley which goes into action considers itself as charged with the fate of the commonwealth. _dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_, seems a sentence grown obsolete in other italian states, but is still in full force here; and i doubt not but the high-born and high-fouled ladies of this day, would willingly, as did their generous ancestors in , part with their rings, bracelets, every ornament, to make ropes for those ships which defend their dearer country. the perpetual state of warfare maintained by this nation against the turks, has never lessened nor cooled: yet have their mahometan neighbours and natural enemies no perfidy to charge them with in the time of peace or of hostility: nor can venice be charged with the mean vice of sheltering a desire of depredation, under the hypocritical cant of protecting that religion which teaches universal benevolence and charity to all mankind. their vicinity to turkey has, however, made them contract some similarity of manners; for what, except being imbued with turkish notions, can account for the people's rage here, young and old, rich and poor, to pour down such quantities of coffee? i have already had seven cups to-day, and feel frighted lest we should some of us be killed with so strange an abuse of it. on the opposite shore, across the adriatic, opium is taken to counteract its effects; but these dear venetians have no notion of sleep being necessary to their existence i believe, as some or other of them seem constantly in motion; and there is really no hour of the four and twenty in which the town seems perfectly still and quiet; no moment in which it can be said, that night! fable goddess! from her ebon throne, in rayless majesty here stretches forth her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. accordingly i never did meet with any description of night in the venetian poets, so common with other authors; and i am persuaded if one were to live here (which could not be _long_ i think) he should forget the use of sleep; for what with the market folks bringing up the boats from terra firma loaded with every produce of nature, neatly arranged in these flat-bottomed conveyances, the coming up of which begins about three o'clock in a morning and ends about six;--the gondoliers rowing home their masters and ladies about that hour, and so on till eight;--the common business of the town, which it is then time to begin;--the state affairs and _pregai_, which often like our house of commons sit late, and detain many gentlemen from the circles of morning amusements--that i find very entertaining;--particularly the street orators and mountebanks in piazza st. marco;--the shops and stalls where chickens, ducks, &c. are sold by auction, comically enough, to the highest bidder;--a flourishing fellow, with a hammer in his hand, shining away in character of auctioneer;--the crowds which fill the courts of judicature, when any cause of consequence is to be tried;--the clamorous voices, keen observations, poignant sarcasms, and acute contentions carried on by the advocates, who seem more awake, or in their own phrase _svelti_ than all the rest:--all these things take up so much time, that twenty-four hours do not suffice for the business and diversions of venice; where dinner must be eaten as in other places, though i can scarcely find a minute to spare for it, while such fish wait one's knife and fork as i most certainly did never see before, and as i suppose are not to be seen in any sea but this, in such perfection. fresh sturgeon, _ton_ as they call it, and fresh anchovies, large as herrings, and dressed like sprats in london, incomparable; turbots, like those of torbay exactly, and plentiful as there, with enormous pipers, are what one principally eats here. the fried liver, without which an italian can hardly go on from day to day, is so charmingly dressed at milan, that i grew to like it as well as they; but at venice it is sad stuff, and they call it _fegao_. well! the ladies, who never hardly dine at all, rise about seven in the evening, when the gentlemen are just got ready to attend them; and sit sipping their chocolate on a chair at the coffee-house door with great tranquillity, chatting over the common topics of the times: nor do they appear half so shy of each other as the milanese ladies, who seldom seem to have any pleasure in the soft converse of a female friend. but though certainly no women can be more charming than these venetian dames, they have forgotten the old mythological fable, _that the youngest of the graces was married to sleep._ by which it was intended we should consider that state as necessary to the reparation not only of beauty but of youth, and every power of pleasing. there are men here however who, because they are not quite in the gay world, keep themselves awake whole nights at study; and much has been told me, of a collection of books belonging to a private scholar, pinelli, who goes very little out, as worthy attentive examination. all literary topics are pleasingly discussed at quirini's casino, where every thing may be learned by the conversation of the company, as doctor johnson said of his literary club; but more agreeably, because women are always half the number of persons admitted here. one evening our society was amused by the entrance of a foreign nobleman, exactly what we should in london emphatically call a _character_,--learned, loud, and overbearing; though of a carriage that impressed great esteem. i have not often listened to so well-furnished a talker; nor one more capable of giving great information. he had seen the pyramids of egypt, he told us; had climbed mount horeb, and visited damascus; but possessed the art of detaining our attention more on himself, than on the things or places he harangued about; for conversation that can scarcely be called, where one man holds the company suspended on his account of matters pompously though instructively related. he staid here a very little while among us; is a native of france, a grandee of spain, a man of uncommon talents, and a traveller. i should be sorry never to meet him more. the abate arteaga, a spanish ecclesiastic of the same agreeable coterie, seemed of a very different and far more pleasing character;--full of general knowledge, eminent in particular scholarship, elegant in his sentiments, and sound in his learning. i liked his company exceedingly, and respected his opinions. zingarelli, the great musical composer, was another occasional member of this charming society: his wit and repartie are famous, and his bons mots are repeated wherever one runs to. i cannot translate any of them, but will write one down, which will make such of my readers laugh as understand italian.--the emperor was at milan, and asked zingarelli his opinion of a favourite singer? "_io penso maestà che non è cattivo suddito del principi,_" replied the master, "_quantunque farà gran nemico di giove._" "how so?" enquired the king.--"_maestà,_" answered our lively neapolitan, "_ella sà naturalmente che giove_ tuona, _ma questo_ stuona." this we see at once was _humour_ not _wit_; and sallies of humour are scarcely ever capable of translation. an odd thing to which i was this morning witness, has called my thoughts away to a curious train of reflections upon the animal race; and how far they may be made companionable and intelligent. the famous ferdinand bertoni, so well known in london by his long residence among us, and from the undisputed merit of his compositions, now inhabits this his native city, and being fond of _dumb creatures_, as we call them, took to petting a pigeon, one of the few animals which can live at venice, where, as i observed, scarcely any quadrupeds can be admitted, or would exist with any degree of comfort to themselves. this creature has, however, by keeping his master company, i trust, obtained so perfect an ear and taste for music, that no one who sees his behaviour, can doubt for a moment of the pleasure he takes in hearing mr. bertoni play and sing: for as soon as he sits down to the instrument, columbo begins shaking his wings, perches on the piano-forte, and expresses the most indubitable emotions of delight. if however he or any one else strike a note false, or make any kind of discord upon the keys, the dove never fails to shew evident tokens of anger and distress; and if teized too long, grows quite enraged; pecking the offender's legs and fingers in such a manner, as to leave nothing less doubtful than the sincerity of his resentment. signora cecilia giuliani, a scholar of bertoni's, who has received some overtures from the london theatre lately, will, if she ever arrives there, bear testimony to the truth of an assertion very difficult to believe, and to which i should hardly myself give credit, were i not witness to it every morning that i chuse to call and confirm my own belief. a friend present protested he should feel afraid to touch the harpsichord before so nice a critic; and though we all laughed at the assertion, bertoni declared he never knew the bird's judgment fail; and that he often kept him out of the room, for fear of his affronting of tormenting those who came to take musical instructions. with regard to other actions of life, i saw nothing particular in the pigeon, but his tameness, and strong attachment to his master: for though never winged, and only clipped a very little, he never seeks to range away from the house or quit his master's service, any more than the dove of anacreon: while his better lot bestows sweet repast and soft repose; and when feast and frolic tire, drops asleep upon his lyre. all the difficulty will be indeed for us _other_ two-legged creatures to leave the sweet societies of charming venice; but they begin to grow fatiguing now, as the weather increases in warmth. i do think the turkish sailor gave an admirable account of a carnival, when he told his mahometan friends at his return, that those poor christians were all disordered in their senses, and nearly in a state of actual madness, while he remained among them, till one day, on a sudden, they luckily found out a certain grey powder that cured such symptoms; and laying it on their heads one wednesday morning, the wits of all the inhabitants were happily restored at _a stroke_: the people grew sober, quiet, and composed; and went about their business just like other folks. he meant the ashes strewed on the heads of all one meets in the streets through many a catholic country; when all masquerading, money-making, &c. subside for forty days, and give, from the force of the contrast, a greater appearance of devotion and decorous behaviour in venice, than almost any where else during lent. i do not for my own part think well of all that violence, that strong light and shadow in matters of religion; which requires rather an even tenour of good works, proceeding from sound faith, than any of these staring testimonials of repentance, as if it were a work to be done _once a year only_. but neither do i think any christian has a right to condemn another for his opinions or practice; when st. paul expressly says, that "_one man esteemeth one day above another, another man esteemeth every day alike; let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. but who art thou, that judgest another man's servant[footnote: romans, chap. xiv.]?_" the venetians, to confess the truth, are not quite so strenuously bent on the unattainable felicity of finding every man in the same mind, as others of the italians are; and one great reason why they are more gay and less malignant, have fewer strong prejudices than others of their countrymen, is merely because they are happier. most of the second rank, and i believe _all_ of the first rank among them, have some share in governing the rest; it is therefore necessary to exclude ignorance, and natural to encourage social pleasures. each individual feels his own importance, and scorns to contribute to the degradation of the whole, by indulging a gross depravity of manners, or at least of principles. every person listed one degree from the lowest, finds it his interest as well as duty to love his country, and lend his little support to the general fabric of a state they all know how to respect; while the very vulgar willingly perform the condition exacted, and punctually pay obedience for protection. they have an unlimited confidence in their rulers, who live amongst them; and can desire only their utmost good. _how_ they are governed, comes seldom into their heads to enquire; "_che ne pensa lù_[footnote: let _him_ look to that.]," says a low venetian, if you ask him, and humourously points at a clarissimo passing by while you talk. they have indeed all the reason to be certain, that where the power is divided among such numbers, one will be sure to counteract another if mischief towards the whole be intended. of all aristocracies surely this is the most rationally and happily, as well as most respectably founded; for though one's heart revolts against the names of baron and vassal, while the petty tyrants live scattered far from each other, as in poland, russia, and many parts of germany, like lions in the desert, or eagles in the rock, secure in their distance from equals or superiors; yet _here_ at venice, where every nobleman is a baron, and all together inhabit one city, no subject can suffer from the tyranny of the rest, though all may benefit from the general protection: as each is separately in awe of his neighbour, and desires to secure his client's tenderness by indulgence, instead of wishing to disgust him by oppression: unlike the state so powerfully delineated by our incomparable poet in his paulina, where dwelt in haughty wretchedness a lord, whose rage was justice, and whose law his word: who saw unmov'd the vassal perish near, the widow's anguish, and the orphan's tear; insensible to pity--stern he stood, like some rude rock amid the caspian flood, where shipwreck'd sailors unassisted lie, and as they curse its barren bosom, die. and it is, i trust, for no deeper reason that the subjects of this republic resident in the capital, are less savage and more happy than those who live upon the terra firma; where many outrages are still committed, disgraceful to the state, from the mere facility offenders find, either in escaping to the dominion of other princes, or of finding shelter at home from the madly-bestowed protection these old barons on the continent cease not yet to give, to ruffians who profess their service, and acknowledge dependence upon _them_. in the _town_, however, little is known of these enormities, and less is talked on; and what information has come to my ears of the murders done at brescia and bergamo, was given me at _milan_; where blainville's accounts of that country, though written so long ago, did not fail to receive confirmation from the lips of those who knew perfectly well what they were talking about. and i am told that _labbia_, giovanni labbia, the new podestà sent to brescia, has worked wonderful reformation among the inhabitants of that territory; where i am ashamed to relate the computation of subjects lost to the state, by being killed in cold blood during the years and . the following sonnet, addressed to the new magistrate, by the elegant and learned abbé bettolini, will entertain such of my readers as understand italian: no, brenne, il popol tuo non è spietato, colpa non è di clima, o fuol nemico: ma gli inulti delitti, e'l vezzo antico d'impune andar coi ferro e fuoco a lato, ira noi finor nudriro un branco irato d'orsi e di lupi, il malaccorto amico ti svenava un fellon sgherro mendico, e per cauto timor n'era onorato. al primiero spuntar d'un fausto lume tutto cangiò: curvansi in falci i teh, mille pluto perdè vittime usate. viva l'eroe, il comun padre, il nume gridan le gentè a si bei dì ferbate. e sia ché ardisca dir che siam crudelé. _imitation_. no, brennus, no longer thy sons shall retain of their founder ferocious, th'original stain; it cannot be natural cruelty sure, the reproaches for which from all men we endure; nor climate nor soil shall henceforth bear the blame, 'tis custom alone, and that custom our shame: while arm'd at all points men were suffer'd to rove, and brandish the steel in defence of their love; what wonder that conduct or caution should fail, and horrid lycanthropy's terrors prevail? now justice resumes her insignia, we find new light breaking in on each nebulous mind; while commission'd from heaven, a parent, a friend sees our swords at his nod into reaping-hooks bend, and souls snatch'd from death round the hero attend. from these verses, written by a native of brescia, one may see how matters stood there very, _very_ little while ago: but here at venice the people are of a particularly sweet and gentle disposition, good-humoured with each other, and kind to strangers; little disposed to public affrays (which would indeed be punished and put a sudden end to in an instant), nor yet to any secret or hidden treachery. they watch the hour of a regatta with impatience, to make some merit with the woman of their choice, and boast of their families who have won in the manly contest forty or fifty years ago, perhaps when honoured with the badge and livery of some noble house; for here almost every thing is hereditary, as in england almost every thing is elective; nor had i an idea how much state affairs influence the private life of individuals in a country, till i left trusting to books, and looked a little about me. the low venetian, however, knows that he works for the commonwealth, and is happy; for things go round, says he, _il turco magna st. marco; st. marco magna mi, mi magna ti, e ti tu magna un'altro_[s]. [footnote s: the turk feeds on st. mark, st. mark devours me; i eat thee, neighbour, and thou subsistest on somebody else.] apropos to this custom of calling venice (when they speak of it) san marco; i heard so comical a story yesterday that i cannot refuse the pleasure of inserting it; and if my readers do not find it as pleasant as i did, they may certainly leave it out, without the smallest prejudice either to the book, the author, or themselves. the procurator tron was at padua, it seems, and had a fancy to drive forward to vicenza that afternoon, but being particularly fond of a favourite pair of horses which drew his chariot that day, would by no means venture if it happened to rain; and took the trouble to enquire of abate toaldo, "whether he thought such a thing likely to happen, from the appearance of the sky?" the professor, not knowing why the question was asked, said, "he rather thought it would _not_ rain for four hours at most." in consequence of this information our senator ordered his equipage directly, got into it, and bid the driver make haste to vicenza: but before he was half-way on his journey, such torrents came down from a black cloud that burst directly over their heads, that his horses were drenched in wet, and their mortified master turned immediately back to padua, that they might suffer no further inconvenience. to pass away the evening, which he did not mean to have spent there, and to quiet his agitated spirits by thinking on something else, he walked under the portico to a neighbouring coffee-house, where fate the abate toaldo in company of a few friends; wholly unconscious that he had been the cause of vexing the procuratore; who, after a short pause, cried out, in a true venetian spirit of anger and humour oddly blended together, "_mi dica signor professore toaldo, chi è il più gran minchion di tutti i fanti in paradiso?_" pray tell me doctor (we should say), who is the greatest blockhead among all the saints of heaven? the abbé looked astonished, but hearing the question repeated in a more peevish accent still, replied gravely, "_eccelenza non fon fatto io per rispondere a tale dimande_"--my lord, i have no answer ready for such extraordinary questions. why then, replies the procuratore tron, i will answer this question myself.--_st. marco ved'ella--"e'l vero minchion: mentre mantiene tanti professori per studiare (che so to mi) delle stelle; roba astronomica che non vale un fico; è loro non sanno dirli nemmeno s'hà da piovere o nò._"--"why it is st. mark, do you see, that is the true blockhead and dupe, in keeping so many professors to study the stars and stuff; when with all their astronomy they cannot tell him whether it will rain or no." well, _pax tibi, marce!_ i see that i have said more about venice, where i have lived five weeks, than about milan, where i stayed five months; but si placeat varios hominum cognoscere vultus, area longa patet, sancto contermina marco, celsus ubi adriacas, venetus leo despicit undas, hic circum gentes cunctis e partibus orbis, Æthiopes, turcos, slavos, arabésque, syrósque, inveniésque cypri, cretæ, macedumque colonos, innumerósque alios varia regione profectos: sæpe etiam nec visa prius, nec cognita cernes, quæ si cuncta velim tenui describere versu, heic omnes citiùs nautas celeresque phaselos, et simul adriaci pisces numerabo profundi. _imitated loosely_. if change of faces please your roving sight, or various characters your mind delight, to gay st. mark's with eagerness repair; for curiosity may pasture there. venetia's lion bending o'er the waves, there sees reflected--tyrants, freemen, slaves. the swarthy moor, the soft circassian dame, the british sailor not unknown to fame; innumerous nations crowd the lofty door, innumerous footsteps print the sandy shore; while verse might easier name the scaly tribe, } that in her seas their nourishment imbibe, } than venice and her various charms describe. } it is really pity ever to quit the sweet seducements of a place so pleasing; which attracts the inclination and flatters the vanity of one, who, like myself, has received the most polite attentions, and been diverted with every amusement that could be devised. kind, friendly, lovely venetians! who appear to feel real fondness for the inhabitants of great britain, while cavalier pindemonte writes such verses in its praise. yet _must_ the journey go forward, no staying to pick every flower upon the road. on saturday next then am i to forsake--but i hope not for ever--this gay, this gallant city, so often described, so certainly admired; seen with rapture, quitted with regret: seat of enchantment! head-quarters of pleasure, farewell! leave us as we ought to be, leave the britons rough and free. it was on the twenty-first of may then that we returned up the brenta in a barge to _padua_, stopping from time to time to give refreshment to our conductors and their horse, which draws on the side, as one sees them at richmond; where the banks are scarcely more beautifully adorned by art, than here by nature; though the brenta is a much narrower river than the thames at richmond, and its villas, so justly celebrated, far less frequent. the sublimity of their architecture however, the magnificence of their orangeries, the happy construction of the cool arcades, and general air of festivity which breathes upon the banks of this truly _wizard stream_, planted with _dancing_, not _weeping_ willows, to which on a bright evening the lads and lasses run for shelter from the sun beams, et fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri[t]; [footnote t: while tripping to the wood my wanton hies, she wishes to be seen before she flies. ] are i suppose peculiar to itself, and best described by monsieur de voltaire, whose pococurante the venetian senator in candide that possesses all delights in his villa upon the banks of the brenta, is a very lively portrait, and would be natural too; but that voltaire, as a frenchman, could not forbear making his character speak in a very unitalian manner, boasting of his felicity in a style they never use, for they are really no puffers, no vaunters of that which they possess; make no disgraceful comparisons between their own rarities and the want of them in other countries, nor offend you as the french do, with false pity and hateful consolations. if any thing in england seem to excite their wonder and ill-placed compassion, it is our coal fires, which they persist in thinking strangely unwholesome--and a melancholy proof that we are grievously devoid of wood, before we can prevail upon ourselves to dig the bowels of old earth for fewel, at the hazard of our precious health, if not of its certain loss; nor could i convince the wisest man i tried at, that wood burned to chark is a real poison, while it would be difficult by any process of chemistry to force much evil out of coal. they are steadily of opinion, that consumptions are occasioned by these fires, and that all the subjects of great britain are consumptively disposed, merely because those who are so, go into italy for change of air: though i never heard that the wood smoke helped their breath, or a brazierfull of ashes under the table their appetite. mean time, whoever seeks to convince instead of persuade an italian, will find he has been employed in a sisyphean labour; the stone may roll to the top, but is sure to return, and rest at his feet who had courage to try the experiment. logic is a science they love not, and i think steadily refuse to cultivate; nor is argument a style of conversation they naturally affect--as lady macbeth says, "_question enrageth him_;" and the dialogues of socrates would to them be as disgusting as the violence of xantippe. well, here we are at padua again! where i will run, and see once more the places i was before so pleased with. the beautiful church of santa giustina, the ancient church adorned by cimabue, giotto, &c. where you fancy yourself on a sudden transported to dante's paradiso, and with for barry the painter, to point your admiration of its sublime and extraordinary merits; but not the shrine of st. anthony, or the tomb of antenor, one rich with gold, the other venerable with rust, can keep my attention fixed on _them_, while an italian _may_ offers to every sense, the sweets of nature in elegant perfection. one view of a smiling landschape, lively in verdure, enamelled with flowers, and exhilarating with the sound of music under every tree, where many a youth and many a maid dances in the chequer'd shade; and young and old come forth to play, on a sun-shine holiday; drives palladio and sansovino from one's head; and leaves nothing very strongly impressed upon one's heart but the recollection of kindness received and esteem reciprocated. those pleasures have indeed pursued me hither; the amiable countess ferris has not forgotten us; her attentions are numerous, tender, and polite. i went to the play with her, where i was unlucky enough to miss the representation of romeo and juliet, which was acted the night before with great applause, under the name of _tragedia veronese_. monsieur de voltaire was then premature in his declarations, that shakespear was unknown, or known only to be censured, except in his native country. count kinigl at milan took occasion to tell me that they acted hamlet and lear when he was last at vienna; and i know not how it is, but to an english traveller each place presents ideas originally suggested by shakespear, of whom nature and truth are the perpetual mirrors: other authors remind one of things which one has seen in life--but the scenes of life itself remind one of shakespear. when i first looked on the rialto, with what immediate images did it supply me? oh, the old long-cherished images of the pensive merchant, the generous friend, the gay companion, and their final triumph over the practices of a cruel jew. anthonio, gratiano, met me at every turn; and when i confessed some of these feelings before the professor of natural history here, who had spent some time in london; he observed, that no native of our island could sit three hours, and not speak of shakespear: he added many kind expressions of partial liking to our nation, and our poets: and l'abate cesarotti good-humouredly confessed his little skill in the english language when he translated their so much-admired ossian; but he had studied it pretty hard since, he said, and his version of gray's elegy is charming. gray and young are the favourite writers among us, as far as i have yet heard them talked over upon the continent; the first has secured them by his residence at florence, and his latin verses i believe; the second, by his piety and brilliant thoughts. even romanists are disposed to think dear dr. young very _near_ to christianity--an idea which must either make one laugh or cry, while sweet peace, and heavenly hope, and humble joy, divinely beam on _his_ exalted soul. but i must tell what i have been seeing at the theatre, and should tell it much better had not the charms of countess ferris's conversation engaged my mind, which would otherwise perhaps have been more seized on than it _was_, by the sight of an old pantomime, or wretched farce (for there was speaking in it, i remember), exploded long since from our very lowest places of diversion, and now exhibited here at padua before a very polite and a very literary audience; and in a better theatre by far than our newly-adorned opera-house in the hay-market. its subject was no other than the birth of harlequin; but the place and circumstances combined to make me look on it in a light which shewed it to uncommon advantage. the storm, for example, the thunder, darkness, &c. which is so solemnly made to precede an incantation, apparently not meant to be ridiculous, after which, a huge egg is somehow miraculously produced upon the stage, put me in mind of the very old mythologists, who thus desired to represent the chaotic state of things, when night, ocean, and tartarus disputed in perpetual confusion; till _love_ and _music_ separated the elements, and as dryden says, then hot and cold, and moist and dry, in order to their stations leap, and music's power obey. for _cupid_, advancing to a slow tune, steadies with his wand the rolling mass upon the stage, that then begins to teem with its _motley inhabitant_, and just representative of the _created world_, active, wicked, gay, amusing, which gains your heart, but never your esteem: tricking, shifting, and worthless as it is--but after all its _frisks_, all its _escapes_, is condemned at last to burn in _fire, and pass entirely away_. such was, i trust, the idea of the person, whoever he was, that had the honour first to compose this curious exhibition, and model this mythological device into a pantomime! for the _mundane_, or as proclus calls it, the _orphick_ egg, is possibly the earliest of all methods taken to explain the rise, progress, and final conclusion of our earth and atmosphere; and was the original _theory_ brought from egypt into greece by orpheus. nor has that prodigious genius, dr. thomas burnet, scorned to adopt it seriously in his _telluris theoria sacra_, written less than a century ago, adapting it with wonderful ingenuity to the christian system and mosaical account of things; to which it certainly does accommodate itself the better, as the form of an egg well resembles that of our habitable globe; and the internal divisions, our four elements, leaving the central fire for the yolk. i therefore regarded our pantomime here at padua with a degree of reverence i should have found difficult to excite in myself at sadler's wells; where ideas of antiquity would have been little likely to cross my fancy. sure i am, however, that the original inventor of this old pantomime had his head very full at the time of some very ancient learning. now then i must leave this lovely state of venice, where if the paupers in every town of it did not crowd about one, tormenting passengers with unextinguishable clamour, and surrounding them with sights of horror unfit to be surveyed by any eyes except those of the surgeon, who should alleviate their anguish, or at least conceal their truly unspeakable distresses--one should break one's heart almost at the thoughts of quitting people who show such tenderness towards their friends, that less than ocular conviction would scarce persuade me to believe such wandering misery could remain disregarded among the most amiable and pleasing people in the world. his excellency bragadin half promised me that some steps should be taken at venice at least, to remove a nuisance so disgraceful; and said, that when i came again, i should walk about the town in white sattin slippers, and never see a beggar from one end of it to the other. on the twenty-sixth of may then, with the senator quirini's letters to corilla, with the countess of starenberg's letters to some tuscan friends of her's; and with the light of a full moon, if we should want it, we set out again in quest of new adventures, and mean to sleep this night under the pope's protection:--may god but grant us his! ferrera. we have crossed the po, which i expected to have found more magnificent, considering the respectable state i left it in at cremona; but scarcely any thing answers that expectation which fancy has long been fermenting in one's mind. i took a young woman once with me to the coast of sussex, who, at twenty-seven years old and a native of england, had never seen the sea; nor any thing else indeed ten miles out of london:--and well, child! said i, are not you much surprised?--"it is a fine sight, to be sure," replied she coldly, "but,"--but what? you are not disappointed are you?--"no, not disappointed, but it is not quite what i expected when i saw the ocean." tell me then, pray good girl, and tell me quickly, what did you expect to see? "_why i expected_," with a hesitating accent, "_i expected to see a great deal of water_." this answer set me _then_ into a fit of laughter, but i have _now_ found out that i am not a whit wiser than peggy: for what did i figure to myself that i should find the po? only a great deal of water to be sure; and a very great deal of water it certainly is, and much more, god knows, than i ever saw before, except between the shores of calais and dover; yet i did feel something like disappointment too; when my imagination wandering over all that the poets had said about it, and finding earth too little to contain their fables, recollected that they had thought eridanus worthy of a place among the constellations, i wished to see such a river as was worthy all these praises, and even then, says i, o'er golden sands let rich pactolus flow. and trees weep amber on the banks of po. but are we sure after all it was upon the _banks_ these trees, not now existing, were ever to be found? they grew in the electrides if i remember right, and even there lucian laughingly said, that he spread his garments in vain to catch the valuable distillation which poetry had taught him to expect; and strabo (worse news still!) said that there were no electrides neither; so as we knew before--fiction is false: and had i not discovered it by any other means, i might have recollected a comical contest enough between a literary lady once, and doctor johnson, to which i was myself a witness;--when she, maintaining the happiness and purity of a country life and rural manners, with her best eloquence, and she had a great deal; added as corroborative and almost incontestable authority, that the _poets_ said so: "and didst thou not know then," replied he, my darling dear, that the _poets lye_? when they tell us, however, that great rivers have horns, which twisted off become cornua copiæ, dispensing pleasure and plenty, they entertain us it must be confessed; and never was allegory more nearly allied with truth, than in the lines of virgil; gemina auratus taurino cornua vultu, eridanus, quo non alius per pinguia culta, in mare purpureuin violentior influit amnis[u]; [footnote u: whence bull-fac'd, so adorn'd with gilded horns, than whom no river through such level meads, down to the sea in swifter torrents speeds. ] so accurately translated by doctor warton, who would not reject the epithet _bull-faced_, because he knew it was given in imitation of the thessalian river achelous, that fought for dejanira; and servius, who makes him father to the syrens, says that many streams, in compliment to this original one, were represented with horns, because of their winding course. whether monsieur varillas, or our immortal addison, mention their being so perpetuated on medals now existing, i know not; but in this land of rarities we shall soon hear or see. mean time let us leave looking for these weeping heliades, and enquire what became of the swan, that poor phaeton's friend and cousin turned into, for very grief and fear at seeing him tumble in the water. for my part i believe that not only now he eligit contraria flumina flammis, but that the whole country is grown disagreeably hot to him, and the sight of the sun's chariot so near frightens him still; for he certainly lives more to his taste, and sings sweeter i believe on the banks of the thames, than in italy, where we have never yet seen but _one_; and that was kept in a small marble bason of water at the durazzo palace at genoa, and seemed miserably out of condition. i enquired why they gave him no companion? and received for answer, "that it would be wholly useless, as they were creatures who never bred _out if their own country_." but any reply serves any common italian, who is little disposed to investigate matters; and if you tease him with too much ratiocination, is apt to cry out, "_cosa serve sosistieare cosi? ci farà andare tutti matti_[v]." they have indeed so many external amusements in the mere face of the country, that one is better inclined to pardon _them_, than one would be to forgive inhabitants of less happy climates, should they suffer _their_ intellectual powers to pine for want of exercise, not food: for here is enough to think upon, god knows, were they disposed so to employ their time; where one may justly affirm that, [footnote v: what signifies all this minuteness of inquiry?--it will drive us mad.] on every thorn delightful wisdom grows, and in each rill, some sweet instruction flows; but some untaught o'erhear the murmuring rill, in spite of sacred leisure--blockheads still. the road from padua hither is not a good one; but so adorned, one cares not much whether it is good or no: so sweetly are the mulberry-trees planted on each side, with vines richly festooning up and down them, as if for the decoration of a dance at the opera. one really expects the flower-girls with baskets, or garlands, and scarcely can persuade one's self that all is real. never sure was any thing more rejoicing to the heart, than this lovely season in this lovely country. the city of ferrara too is a fine one; ferrara _la civile_, the italians call it, but it seems rather to merit the epithet _solenne_; so stately are its buildings, so wide and uniform its streets. my pen was just upon the point of praising its cleanliness too, till i reflected there was nobody to dirty it. i looked half an hour before i could find one beggar, a bad account of poor ferrara; but it brought to my mind how unreasonably my daughter and myself had laughed seven years ago, at reading in an extract from some of the foreign gazettes, how the famous improvisatore talassi, who was in england about the year , and entertained with his justly-admired talents the literati at london; had published an account of his visit to mr. thrale, at a villa eight miles from westminster-bridge, during that time, when he had the good fortune, he said, to meet many celebrated characters at his country-seat; and the mortification which nearly overbalanced it, to miss seeing the immortal garrick then confined by illness. in all this, however, there was nothing ridiculous; but we fancied his description of streatham village truly so; when we read that he called it _luogo assai popolato ed ameno_[footnote: a populous and delightful place.], an expression apparently pompous, and inadequate to the subject: but the jest disappeared when i got into _his_ town; a place which perhaps may be said to possess every other excellence but that of being _popolato ed ameno_; and i sincerely believe that no ferrara-man could have missed making the same or a like observation; as in this finely-constructed city, the grass literally grows in the street; nor do i hear that the state of the air and water is such as is likely to tempt new inhabitants. how much then, and how reasonably must he have wondered, and how easily must he have been led to express his wonder, at seeing a village no bigger than that of streatham, contain a number of people equal, as i doubt not but it does, to all the dwellers in ferrara! mr. talassi is reckoned in his own country a man of great genius; in ours he was, as i recollect, received with much attention, as a person able and willing to give us demonstration that improviso verses might be made, and sung extemporaneously to some well-known tune, generally one which admits of and requires very long lines; that so alternate rhymes may not be improper, as they give more time to think forward, and gain a moment for composition. of this power, many, till they saw it done, did not believe the existence; and many, after they had seen it done, persisted in _saying_, perhaps in _thinking_, that it could be done only in italian. i cannot however believe that they possess any exclusive privileges or supernatural gifts; though it will be hard to find one who thinks better of them than i do: but spaniards can sing sequedillas under their mistresses window well enough; and our welch people can make the harper sit down in the church-yard after service is over, and placing themselves round him, command the instrument to go over some old song-tune: when having listened a while, one of the company forms a stanza of verses, which run to it in well-adapted measure; and as he ends, another begins: continuing the tale, or retorting the satire, according to the style in which the first began it. all this too in a language less perhaps than any other melodious to the ear, though howell found out a resemblance between their prosody and that of the italian writer in early days, when they held agnominations, or the inforcement of consonant words and syllables one upon the other, to be elegant in a more eminent degree than they do now. for example, in welch, _tewgris, todykris, ty'r derrin, gwillt_, &c. in italian, _donne, o danno che selo affronto affronta: in selva salvo a me_, with a thousand more. the whole secret of improvisation, however, seems to consist in this; that extempore verses are never written down, and one may easily conceive that much may go off well with a good voice in singing, which no one would read if they were once registered by the pen. i have already asserted that the italians are not a laughing nation: were ridicule to step in among them, many innocent pleasures would soon be lost; and this among the first. for who would risque the making impromptu poems at paris? _pour s'attirer persiflage_ in every _coterie comme il faut_[footnote: to draw upon one's self the ridicule of every polite assembly.]? or in london, at the hazard of being _taken off, and held up for a laughing-stock at every print-seller's window_? a man must have good courage in england, before he ventures at diverting a little company by such devices: while one would yawn, and one would whisper, a third would walk gravely out of the room, and say to his friend upon the stairs, "why sure we had better read our old poets at home, than be called together, like fools, to hear what comes uppermost in such-a-one's head, about his _daphne_! in good time! why i have been tired of _daphne_ since i was fourteen years old." but the best jest of all would be, to see an ordinary fellow, a strolling player for example, set seriously to make or repeat verses in our streets or squares concerning his sweetheart's _cruelty_; when he would be in more danger from that of the mob and the magistrates; who, if the first did not throw dirt at him, and drive him home quickly, would come themselves, and examine into his sanity, and if they found him not _statutably mad_, commit him for a vagrant. different amusements, like different sorts of food, suit different countries; and this is among the efforts of those who have learned to refine their _pleasures_ without so refining their _ideas_ as to be able no longer to hit on any pleasure subtle enough to escape their own power of ridiculing it. this city of ferrara has produced some curious and opposite characters in times past, however empty it may now be thought: one painter too, and one singer, both super-eminent in their professions, have dropped their own names, and are best known to fame by that of _il_ and _la ferrarese_. nor can i leave it without some reflections on the extraordinary life of renée de france, daughter of louis xii surnamed the just, and anne de bretagne, his first wife. this lady having married the famous hercules d'este, one of the handsomest men in europe, lived with him here in much apparent felicity as duchess of ferrara; but took such an aversion to the church and court of rome, from the superstitions she saw practised in italy, that though she resolved to dissemble her opinions during the life of her husband, whom she wished not to disgust, at the instant of his death she quitted all her dignities; and retiring to france, was protected by her father in the open profession of calvinism, living a life of privacy and purity among the huguenots in the southern provinces. this _louis le juste_ was he who gave the french what little pretensions they have ever obtained on which to fix the foundations of future liberty: he first established a parliament at rouen, another at aix; but while thus gentle to his subjects, he was a scourge to italy, made his public entry into genoa as sovereign, and tore the milanese from the sforza family, somewhat before the year . the well-known franciscus ferrariensis, whose name was silvester, is a character very opposite to that of fair renée: he wrote the best apology for the romanists against luther, and gained applause from both sides for his controversial powers; while the strictness of his life gave weight to his doctrine, and ornamented the sect which he delighted to defend. by a native of ferrara too were first collected the books that were earliest placed in the ambrosian library at milan, barnardine ferrarius, whose deep erudition and simple manners gained him the favour of frederick borromeo, who sent him to spain to pick up literary rarities, which he bestowed with pleasure on the place where he had received his education. his treatise on the rites of sepulture used by the ancients is in good estimation; and sir thomas brown, in his _urn burial_, owes him much obligation. the custom of wearing swords here seems to proceed from some connection they have had with the spaniards; and dr. moore has given us an admirable account of why the highland broad-sword is still called an _andrew ferrara_. the venetians, not often or easily intimidated by papal power, having taken this city in the year , were obliged to restore it, for fear of the consequences of pope boniface the eighth's excommunications; his displeasure having before then produced dreadful effects in the conspiracy of bajamonti tiepulo; which was suppressed, and he killed, by a woman, out of a flaming zeal for the honour and tranquillity of her country: and so disinterested too was her spirit of patriotism, that the only reward she required for a service so essential, was that a constant memorial of it might be preserved in the dress of the doge; who from that moment obliged himself to wear a woman's cap under the state diadem, and so his successors still continue to do. but ferrara has other distinctions.--bonarelli here, at the academy of gl'intrepidi, read his able defence of that pastoral comedy so much applauded and censured, called _filli di sciro_; and here the great ariosto lived and died. nothing leads however to a less gloomy train of thought, than the tomb of a celebrated man; where virtue, wit, or valour triumph over death, and wait the consummation of all sublunary things, before the remembrance of such superiority shall be lost. italy must be shaken from her deepest foundation, and england made a scene of general ruin, when shakespear and ariosto shall be forgotten, and their names confounded among deedless nobility, and worthless wasters of treasure, long ago passed from hand to hand, perhaps from the dwellers in one continent to the inhabitants of another. it has been equally the fate of these two heroes of modern literature, that they have pleased their countrymen more than foreigners; but is that any diminution of their merit? or should it serve as a reason for making disgraceful comparisons between ariosto and virgil, whom he scorned to imitate? a dead language is like common ground;--all have a right to pasture, and all a claim to give or to withhold admiration. virgil is the old original trough at the corner of the road, where every passer-by pays, drinks, and goes on his journey well refreshed. but the clear spring in the meadow sure, though private property, and lately dug, deserves attention: and confers delight not only on the actual master of the ground, but on all his visitants who can climb the style, and lift the silver cup to their lips which hangs by the fountain-side. i am glad, however, to be gone from a place where they are thinking less of all these worthies just at present, than of a circumstance which cannot redound to their honour, as it might have happened to any other town, and could do great good to none: no less than the happy arrival of joseph, and leopold, and maximilian of austria, on the thirtieth of may ; and this wonderful event have they recorded in a pompous inscription upon a stone set at the inn door. but princes can make poets, and scatter felicity with little exertion on their own parts. at tuillemont, an english gentleman once told me he had the misfortune to sleep one night where all the people's heads were full of the emperor, who had dined there the day before; and some _wise_ fellow of the place wrote these lines under his picture: ingreditur magnus magno de cæsare cæsar, thenas, sub signo cervi, sua prandia sumit. he immediately set down this distich under them: our poor little town has no little to brag, the emperor was here, and he dined at the stag. the people of the inn concluding that this must be a high-strained compliment, it produced him many thanks from all, and a better breakfast than he would otherwise have obtained at tuillemont. to-morrow we go forward to bologna. bologna seems at first sight a very sorrowful town, and has a general air of melancholy that surprises one, as it is very handsomely and regularly built; and set in a country so particularly beautiful, that it is not easy to express the nature of its beauty, and to express it so that those who inhabit other countries can understand me. the territory belonging to bologna la grassa concenters all its charms in a happy _embonpoint_, which leaves no wrinkle unfilled up, no bone to be discerned; like the fat figure of gunhilda at fonthill, painted by chevalier cafali, with a face full of woe, but with a sleekness of skin that denotes nothing less than affliction. from the top of the only eminence, one looks down here upon a country which to me has a new and singular appearance; the whole horizon appearing one thick carpet of the softest and most vivid green, from the vicinity of the broad-leaved mulberry trees, i trust, drawn still closer and closer together by their amicable and pacific companions the vines, which keep cluttering round, and connect them so intimately that no object can be separately or distinctly viewed, any more than the habitations formed by animals who live in moss, when a large portion of it is presented to the philosopher for speculation. one would not therefore, on a flight and cursory inspection, suspect this of being a painter's country, where no prominence of features arrests the sight, no expression of latent meaning employs the mind, and no abruptness of transition tempts fancy to follow, or imagination to supply, the sudden loss of what it contemplated before. here however the great caraccis kept their school; here then was every idea of dignity and majestic beauty to be met with; and if _i_ meet with nothing in nature near this place to excite such ideas, it is _my_ fault, not bologna's. if vain the toil, we ought to blame the culture,--not the soil. wonderful indeed! yet not at all distracting is the variety of excellence that one contemplates here; such matters! and such scholars! the sweetly playful pencil of albano, i would compare to waller among our english poets; domenichino to otway, and guido rheni to rowe; if such liberties might be permitted on the old notion of _ut pictura poesis_. but there is an idea about the world, that one ought in delicacy to declare one's utter incapacity of understanding pictures, unless immediately of the profession.--and why so? no man protests, that he cannot read poetry, he can make no pleasure out of milton or shakespear, or shudder at the ingratitude of lear's daughters on the stage. why then should people pretend insensibility, when divine guercino exerts his unrivalled powers of the pathetic in the fine picture at zampieri palace, of hagar's dismission into the desert with her son? while none else could have touched with such truth of expression the countenances of each; leaving him most to be pitied, perhaps, who issues the command against his will; accompanying it however with innumerable benedictions, and alleviating its severity with the softest tenderness. he only among our poets could have planned such a picture, who penned the eloisa, and knew the agonies of a soul struggling against unpermitted passions, and conquering from the noblest motives of faith and of obedience. glorious exertion of excellence! this is the first time my heart has been made really alive to the powers of this magical art. candid italians! let me again exclaim; they shewed us a vandyke in the same palace, surrounded by the works of their own incomparable countrymen; and _there_ say they, "_quasi quasi si può circondarla_[footnote: you may almost run round her.]." you may almost run round it, was the expression. the picture was a very fine one; a single figure of the madona, highly painted, and happily placed among those who knew, because they possessed his perfections who drew it. were homer alive, and acquainted with our language, he would admire that shakespear whom voltaire condemns. twice in this town has guido shewed those powers which critics have denied him: the power of grouping his figures with propriety, and distributing his light and shadow to advantage: as he has shewn it _but twice_, however, it is certain the connoisseurs are not very wrong, and even in those very performances one may read their justification: for job, though surrounded by a crowd of people, has a strangely insulated look, and the sweet sufferer on the fore-ground of his herodian cruelty seems wholly uninterested in the general distress, and occupies herself and every spectator completely and solely with her own particular grief. the boasted raphael here does not in my eyes triumph over the wonders of this caracci school. at rome, i am told, his superiority is more visible. _nous verrons_[footnote: we shall see.]. the reserved picture of st. peter and st. paul, kept in the last chamber of the zampieri palace, and covered with a silk curtain, is valued beyond any specimen of the painting art which can be moved from italy to england. we are taught to hope it will soon come among us; and many say the sale cannot be now long delayed. why guido should never draw another picture like that, or at all in the same style, who can tell? it certainly does unite every perfection, and every possible excellence, except choice of subject, which cannot be happy i think, when the subject itself is left disputable. i will mention only one other picture: it is in an obscure church, not an unfrequented one by these pious bolognese, who are the most devout people i ever lived amongst, but i think not much visited by travellers. it is painted by albano, and represents the redeemer of mankind as a boy scarce thirteen years old: ingenuous modesty, and meek resignation, beaming from each intelligent feature of a face divinely beautiful, and throwing out luminous rays round his sacred head, while the blessed virgin and st. joseph, placed on each side him, adore his goodness with transport not unmixed with wonder: the instruments of his future passion cast at his feet, directing us to consider him as in that awful moment voluntarily devoting himself for the sins of the whole world. this picture, from the sublimity of the subject, the lively colouring, and clear expression, has few equals; the pyramidal group drops in as of itself, unsought for, from the raised ground on which our saviour stands; and among numberless wild conceits and extravagant fancies of painters, not only permitted but encouraged in this country, to deviate into what _we_ justly think profane representations of the deity:--this is the most pleasing and inoffensive device i have seen. the august creator too is likewise more wisely concealed by albano than by other artists, who daringly presume to exhibit that of which no mortal man can give or receive a just idea. but we will have done for a while with connoisseurship. this fat bologna has a tristful look, from the numberless priests, friars, and women all dressed in black, who fill the streets, and stop on a sudden to pray, when i see nothing done to call forth immediate addresses to heaven. extremes do certainly meet however, and my lord peter in this place is so like his fanatical brother jack, that i know not what is come to him. to-morrow is the day of _corpus domini_; why it should be preceded by such dismal ceremonies i know not; there is nothing melancholy in the idea, but we shall be sure of a magnificent procession. so it was too, and wonderfully well attended: noblemen and ladies, with tapers in their hands, and their trains borne by well-dressed pages, had a fine effect. all still in black. black, but such as in esteem prince memnon's sister might beseem; with sable stole of cypress lawn, o'er their decent shoulders drawn. i never saw a spectacle so stately, so solemn a show in my life before, and was much less tired of the long continued march, than were my roman catholic companions. our inn is not a good one; the pellegrino is engaged for the king of naples and his train: the place we are housed in, is full of bugs, and every odious vermin: no wonder, surely, where such oven-like porticoes catch and retain the heat as if constructed on set purpose so to do. the montagnola at night was something of relief, but contrary to every other resort of company: the less it is frequented the gayer it appears; for nature there has been lavish of her bounties, which seem disregarded by the bolognese, who unluckily find out that there is a burying-ground within view, though at no small distance really; and planting themselves over against that, they stand or kneel for many minutes together in whole rows, praying, as i understand, for the souls which once animated the bodies of the people whom they believe to lie interred there; all this too even at the hours dedicated to amusement. cardinal buon compagni, the legate, sent from rome here, is gone home; and the vice-legate officiated in his place, much to the consolation of the inhabitants, who observed with little delight or gratitude his endeavours to improve their trade, or his care to maintain their privileges; while his natural disinclination to hypocritical manners, or what we so emphatically call _cant_, gave them an aversion to his person and dislike of his government, which he might have prevented by formality of look, and very trifling compliances. but every thing helps to prove, that if you would please people, it must be done _their_ way, not your own. here are some charming manufactures in this town, and i fear it requires much self-denial in an englishwoman not to long at least for the fine crapes, tiffanies, &c. which might here be bought i know not how cheap, and would make one _so_ happy in london or at bath. but these customhouse officers! these _rats de cave_, as the french comically call them, will not let a ribbon pass. such is the restless jealousy of little states, and such their unremitted attention to keep the goods made in one place out of the gates of another. few things upon a journey contribute to torment and disgust one more than the teasing enquiries at the door of every city, who one is, what one's name is? what one's rank in life or employment is; that so all may be written down and carried to the chief magistrate for his information, who immediately dispatches a proper person to examine whether you gave in a true report; where you lodge, why you came, how long you mean to stay; with twenty more inquisitive speeches, which to a subject of more liberal governments must necessarily appear impertinent as frivolous, and make all my hopes of bringing home the most trifling presents for a friend abortive. so there is an end of that felicity, and we must sit like the girl at the fair, described by gay, where the coy nymph knives, combs, and scissars spies, and looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. the specola, so they call their museum here, of natural and artificial rarities, is very fine indeed; the inscription too denoting its universality, is sublimely generous: i thought of our bath hospital in england; more usefully, if not more magnificently so; but durst not tell the professor, who shewed the place. at our going in he was apparently much out of humour, and unwilling to talk, but grew gradually kinder, and more communicative; and i had at last a thousand thanks to pay for an attention that rendered the sight of all more valuable. nothing can surpass the neatness and precision with which this elegant repository is kept, and the curiosities contained in it have specimens very uncommon. the native gold shewed here is supposed to be the largest and most perfect lump in europe; wonderfully beautiful it certainly is, and the coral here is such as can be seen nowhere else; they shewed me some which looked like an actual tree. it might reasonably lower the spirits of philosophy, and tend to restraining the genius of remote enquiry, did we reflect that the very first substance given into our hand as an amusement, or subject of speculation, as soon as we arrive in this great world of wonders, never gets fully understood by those who study hardest, or live longest in it. coral is a substance, concerning which the natural historians have had many disputes, and settled nothing yet; knowing, as it should seem, but little more of its original, than they did when they sucked it first. of gold we have found perhaps but too many uses; but when the professor told us here at bologna, that silver in the mine was commonly found mixed with _arsenick_, a corroding poison, or _lead_, a narcotic one; who could help being led forward to a train of thought on the nature and use and abuse of money and minerals in general. _suivez_ (as rousseau says), _la chaine de tout cela_[footnote: follow this clue, and see where it will lead you to.]. the astronomical apparatus at this place is a splendid one; but the models of architecture, fortifications, &c. are only more numerous; not so exact or elegant i think as those the king of england has for his own private use at the queen's house in st. james's park. the specimens of a human figure in wax are the work of a woman, whose picture is accordingly set up in the school: they are reckoned incomparable of their kind, and bring to one's fancy milton's fine description of our first parents: two of far nobler kind--erect and tall. this university has been particularly civil to women; many very learned ladies of france and germany have been and are still members of it;--and la dottoressa laura bassi gave lectures not many years ago in this very spot, upon the mathematics and natural philosophy, till she grew very old and infirm; but her pupils always handed her very respectfully to and from the doctor's chair, _che brava donnetta ch'era!_[footnote: ah, what a fine woman was that!] says the gentleman who shewed me the academy, as we came out at the door; over which a marble tablet, with an inscription more pious than pompous, is placed to her memory; but turning away his eyes--while they filled with tears--_tutli muosono_[footnote: all must die.], added he, and i followed; as nothing either of energy or pathos could be added to a reflection so just, so tender, and so true: we parted sadly therefore with our agreeable companion and instructor just where her cenotaph (for the body lies buried in a neighbouring church) was erected; and shall probably meet no more; for as he said and sighed--_tutti muosono_[footnote: all must die.]. the great cassini too, who though of an italian family, was born at nice i think, and died at paris, drew his meridian line through the church of st. petronius in this city, across the pavement, where it still remains a monument to his memory, who discovered the third and fifth satellites of jupiter. such was in his time the reputation of a mineral spring near bologna, that pope alexander the seventh set him to analyse the waters of it; and so satisfactory were his proofs of its very slight importance to health, that the same pope called him to rome to examine the waters round that capital; but dying soon after his arrival, he had no time to recompence cassini's labours, though a very elegantly-minded man, and a great encourager of learning in all its branches. the successor to this sovereign, rospigliosi, had different employment found for _him_, in helping the venetians to regain candia from the turks, his disappointment in not being able to accomplish which design broke his heart; and cassini, returning to bologna, found it less pleasing than it was before he left it, so went to paris, and died there at ninety or ninety-one years old, as i remember, early in this present century, but not till after he had enjoyed the pleasure of hearing that count marsigli had founded an academy at the place where he had studied whilst his faculties were strong. another church, situated on the only hill one can observe for miles, is dedicated to the madonna st. luc, as it is called; and a very beautiful and curiously covered way is made to it up the hill, for three miles in length, and at a prodigious expence, to guard the figure from the rain as it is carried in procession. the ascent is so gentle that one hardly feels it. pillars support the roof, which defends you from a sun-stroke, while the air and prospect are let in between them on the right hand as you go. the left side is closed up by a wall, adorned from time to time with fresco paintings, representing the birth and most distinguished passages in the life of the blessed virgin. round these paintings a little chapel is railed in, open, airy, and elegantly, not very pompously, adorned; there are either seven or twelve of them, i forget which, that serve to rest the procession as it passes, on days particularly dedicated to her service. when you arrive at the top, a church of a most beautiful construction recompenses your long but not tedious walk, and there are some admirable pictures in it, particularly one of st. william laying down his armour, and taking up the habit of a carthusian, very fine--but the figure of the madonna is the prize they value, and before this i did see some men kneel with a truly idolatrous devotion. that it was painted by st. luke is believed by them all. but if it _was_ painted by st. luke, said i, what then? do you think _he_, or the still more excellent person it was done for, would approve of your worshipping any thing but god? to this no answer was made; and i thought one man looked as if he had grace enough to be ashamed of himself. the girls, who sit in clusters at the chapel doors as one goes up, singing hymns in praise of the virgin mary, pleased me much, as it was a mode of veneration inoffensive to religion, and agreeable to the fancy; but seeing them bow down to that black figure, in open defiance of the decalogue, shocked me. why all the _very very_ early pictures of the virgin, and many of our blessed saviour himself, done in the first ages of christianity should be _black_, or at least tawny, is to me wholly incomprehensible, nor could i ever yet obtain an explanation of its cause from men of learning or from connoisseurs. we have in england a black madonna, very ancient of course, and of immense value, in the cathedral of wells in somersetshire; it is painted on glass, and stands in the middle pane of the upper window i think, is a profile face, and eminently handsome. my mind tells me that i have seen another somewhere in great britain, but cannot recollect the spot, unless it were arundel castle in sussex, but i am not sure: none was ever painted so since the days of pietro perugino i believe, so their antiquity is unquestionable: he and his few contemporaries drew her white, as sir joshua reynolds and pompeio battoni. whilst i perambulated the palaces of the bolognese nobility, gloomy though spacious, and melancholy though splendid, i could not but admire at richardson's judgment when he makes his beautiful bigot, his interesting clementina, an inhabitant of superstitious bologna. the unconquerable attachment she shews to original prejudices, and the horror of what she has been taught to consider as heresy, could scarcely have been attributed so happily to the dweller in any town but this: where i hear nothing but the sound of people saying their rosaries, and see nothing in the street but people telling their beads. the porretta palace is hourly presenting itself to my imagination, which delights in the assurance that genius cannot be confined by place. dear richardson at salisbury court fleet street, and parson's green fulham, felt all within him that travelling can tell, or experience confirm: he had seen little, and johnson has often told me that he had read little; but what he did read never forsook a memory that was not contented with retaining, but fermented all that fell into it, and made a new creation from the fertility of his own rich mind.--these are the men for whom monuments need not be erected. they in our pleasure and astonishment, do build themselves a live long monument; as milton says of a much greater writer still. but the king of naples is arrived, and that attention which wits and scholars can retain for centuries, may not be unjustly paid to princes while they last. our bolognese have hit upon an odd method of entertaining him however: no other than making a representation of mount vesuvius on the montagnuola, or place of evening resort, hoping at least to treat him with something new i trow. were the king of england to visit these _cari bolognese_, surely they would shew him westminster bridge, with a view of the archbishop's palace at lambeth on one side the river, and somerset-house on the other. a pretty throne, or state-box, was soon got in order, _that it was_; and the motion excited by carrying the fire-works to have them prepared for the evening's show, gave life to the morning, which hung less heavily than usual; nor did the people recollect the church-yard at a distance, while the merry king of naples was near them. his majesty appeared perfectly contented and good-humoured, and happy with whatever was done for his amusement. i remember his behaviour at milan though, too well to be surprised at his pleasantness of disposition, when my maid was delighted to see him dance among the girls at a festa di ballo, from whence i retired early myself, and sent her back to enjoy it all in my domino. he played at cards too when at milan i recollect, in the common ridotto chamber at the theatre, and played for common sums, so as to charm every one with his kindness and affability. i am glad however that we shall now be soon released from this upon the whole disagreeable town, where there is the best possible food too for body and mind; but where the inhabitants seem to think only of the next world, and do little to amuse those who have not yet quite done with this. if they are sincere mean time, god will bless them with a long continuance of the appellation they so justly deserve; and those travellers who pass through will find some amends in the rich cream and incomparable dinners every day, for the insects that devour them every night; and will, if they are wise, seek compensation from the company of the half animated pictures that crowd the palaces and churches, for the half dead inhabitants who kneel in the streets of bologna. florence. we slept no-where, except perhaps in the carriage, between our last residence at bologna and this delightful city, to which we passed apparently through a new region of the earth, or even air; clambering up mountains covered with snow, and viewing with amazement the little vallies between, where, after quitting the summer season, all glowing with heat and spread into verdure, we found cherry-trees in blossom, oaks and walnuts scarcely beginning to bud. these mountains are however much below those of savoy for dignity and beauty of appearance, though high enough to be troublesome, and barren enough to be desolate. these appenines have been called by some the back bone of italy, as varenius and others style the mountains of the moon in africa, back bone of the world; and these, as they do, run in a long chain down the middle of the peninsula they are placed in; but being rounded at top are supposed to be aquatick, while the alps, andes, &c. are of late acknowledged by philosophers to be volcanic, as the most lofty of _them_ terminate in points of granite, wholly devoid of horizontal strata, and without petrifactions contained in them, _here_ the tracts around display how impetuous ocean's sway once with wasteful fury spread the wild waves o'er each mountain's head. parsons. but the offspring of fire somehow _should_ be more striking than that of water, however violent might have been the concussion that produced them; and there is no comparison between the sensations felt in passing the roche melon, and these more neatly-moulded appenines; upon whose tops i am told too no lakes have been formed, as on mount cenis, or even on snowdon in north wales, where a very beautiful lake adorns the summit of the rock; which affords trout precisely such as you eat before you go down to novalesa, but not so large. sir william hamilton, however, is the man to be referred to in all these matters; no man has examined the peculiar properties and general nature of mountains, those which vomit fire in particular, with half as much application, inspired by half as much genius, as he has done. we arrived late at our inn, an english one they say it is; and many of the last miles were passed very pleasantly by my maid and myself, in anticipating the comforts we should receive by finding ourselves among our own country folks. in good time! and by once more eating, sleeping, &c. _all in the english way_, as her phrase is. accordingly, here are small low beds again, soft and clean, and down pillows; here are currant tarts, which the italians scorn to touch, but which we are happy and delighted to pay not ten but twenty times their value for, because a currant tart is so much _in the english way_: and here are beans and bacon in a climate where it is impossible that bacon should be either wholesome or agreeable; and one eats infinitely worse than one did at milan, venice, or bologna: and infinitely dearer too; but that makes it still more completely _in the english way_. mean time here we are however in arno's vale; the full moon shining over fiesole, which i see from my windows. milton's verses every moment in one's mouth, and galileo's house twenty yards from one's door, whence her bright orb the tuscan artist view'd, at evening from the top of fesole; or in val d'arno to descry new lands, rivers or mountains on her spotty globe. our apartments here are better than we hoped for, situated most sweetly on the banks of this classical stream; a noble terrace underneath our window, broad as the south parade at bath i think, and the fine ponte della santa trinità within sight. many people have asserted that this is the first among all bridges in the world; but architecture triumphs in the art of building bridges, and, though this is a most exquisitely beautiful fabric, i can scarcely venture to call it an unrivalled one: it shall, if the fine statues at the corners can assist its power over the fancy, and if cleanliness can compensate for stately magnificence, or for the fire of original and unassisted genius, it shall obliterate from my mind the rialto at venice, and the fine arch thrown over the conway at llanwrst in our north wales. i wrote to a lady at venice this morning though, to say, however i might be charmed by the sweets of arno's side, i could not forbear regretting the grand canal. count manucci, a nobleman of this city, formerly intimate with mr. thrale in london and mr. piozzi at paris, came early to our apartments, and politely introduced us to the desirable society of his sisters and his friends. we have in his company and that of cavalier d'elci, a learned and accomplished man, of high birth, deep erudition, and polished manners, seen much, and with every possible advantage. this morning they shewed us la capella st. lorenzo, where i could but think how surprisingly mr. addison's prediction was verified, that these slow florentines would not perhaps be able to finish the burial-place of their favourite family, before the family itself should be extinct. this reflection felt like one naturally suggested to me by the place; doctor moore however has the original merit of it, as i afterwards found it in his book: but it is the peculiar property of natural thoughts well expressed, to sink into one's mind and incorporate themselves with it, so as to make one forget they were not all one's own. _poets, as well as jesters, do oft prove prophets:_ prior's happy prediction for the female wits in one of his epilogues is come true already, when he says, your time, poor souls! we'll take your very money, female _third nights_ shall come so thick upon ye, &c. and every hour gives one reason to hope that mr. pope's glorious prophecy in favour of the negroes will not now remain long unaccomplished, but that liberty will extend her happy influence over the world; till the _freed indians_, in their native groves, reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves. i will not extend myself in describing the heaps of splendid ruin in which the rich chapel of st. lorenzo now lies: since the elegant lord corke's letters were written, little can be said about florence not better said by him; who has been particularly copious in describing a city which every body wishes to see copiously described. the libraries here are exceedingly magnificent; and we were called just now to that which goes under magliabechi's name, to hear an eulogium finely pronounced upon our circumnavigator captain cook; whose character has attracted the attention, and extorted the esteem of every european nation: far less was the wonder that it forced my tears; they flowed from a thousand causes: my distance from england! my pleasure in hearing an englishman thus lamented in a language with which he had no acquaintance! by strangers honoured, and by strangers mourn'd! every thing contributed to soften my heart, though not to lower my spirits. for when a florentine asked me, how i came to cry so? i answered, in the words of their divine mestastasio: "che questo pianto mio tutto non è dolor; e meraviglia, e amore, e riverenza, e speme, son mille affetti assieme tutti raccolti al cor." 'tis not grief alone, or fear, swells the heart, or prompts the tear; reverence, wonder, hope, and joy, thousand thoughts my soul employ, struggling images, which less than falling tears can ne'er express. giannetti, who pronounced the panegyric, is the justly-celebrated improvisatore so famous for making latin verses _impromptu_, as others do italian ones: the speech has been translated into english by mr. merry, with whom i had the honour here first to make acquaintance, having met him at mr. greatheed's, who is our fellow-lodger, and with whom and his amiable family the time passes in reciprocations of confidential friendship and mutual esteem. lord and lady cowper too contribute to make the society at this place more pleasing than can be imagined; while english hospitality softens down the stateliness of tuscan manners. sir horace mann is sick and old; but there are conversations at his house of a saturday evening, and sometimes a dinner, to which we have been almost always asked. the fruits in this place begin to astonish me; such cherries did i never yet see, or even hear tell of, as when i caught the laquais de place weighing two of them in a scale to see if they came to an ounce. these are, in the london street phrase, _cherries like plums_, in size at least, but in flavour they far exceed them, being exactly of the kind that we call bleeding-hearts, hard to the bite, and parting easily from the stone, which is proportionately small. figs too are here in such perfection, that it is not easy for an english gardener to guess at their excellence; for it is not by superior size, but taste and colour, that _they_ are distinguished; small, and green on the outside, a bright full crimson within, and we eat them with raw ham, and truly delicious is the dainty. by raw ham, i mean ham cured, not boiled or roasted. it is no wonder though that fruits should mature in such a sun as this is; which, to give a just notion of its penetrating fire, i will take leave to tell my countrywomen is so violent, that i use no other method of heating the pinching-irons to curl my hair, than that of poking them out at a south window, with the handles shut in, and the glasses darkened to keep us from being actually fired in his beams. before i leave off speaking about the fruit, i must add, that both fig and cherry are produced by standards; that the strawberries here are small and high-flavoured, like our _woods_, and that there are no other. england affords greater variety in _that_ kind of fruit than any nation; and as to peaches, nectarines, or green-gage plums, i have seen none yet. lady cowper has made us a present of a small pine-apple, but the italians have no taste to it. here is sun enough to ripen them without hot-houses i am sure, though they repeatedly told us at milan and venice, that _this_ was the coolest place to pass the summer in, because of the appenine mountains shading us from the heat, which they confessed to be intolerable with _them_. _here_ however, they inform us, that it is madness to retire into the country as english people do during the hot season; for as there is no shade from high timber trees, one is bit to death by animals, gnats in particular, which here are excessively troublesome, even in the town, notwithstanding we scatter vinegar, and use all the arts in our power; but the ground-floor is coolest, and every body struggles to get themselves a _terreno_ as they call it. florence is full just now, and mr. jean figliazzi, an intelligent gentleman who lives here, and is well acquainted with both nations, says, that all the genteel people come to take refuge _from_ the country to florence in july and august, as the subjects of great britain run _to_ the country from the heats of london or bath. the flowers too! how rich they are in scent here! how brilliant in colour! how magnificent in size! wall-flowers perfuming every street, and even every passage; while pinks and single carnations grow beside them, with no more soil than they require themselves; and from the tops of houses, where you least expect it, an aromatic flavour highly gratifying is diffused. the jessamine is large, broad-leaved, and beautiful as an orange-flower; but i have seen no roses equal to those at lichfield, where on one tree i recollect counting eighty-four within my own reach; it grew against the house of doctor darwin. such a profusion of sweets made me enquire yesterday morning for some scented pomatum, and they brought me accordingly one pot impelling strong of garden mint, the other of rue and tansy. thus do the inhabitants of every place forfeit or fling away those pleasures, which the inhabitants of another place think _they_ would use in a much wiser manner, had providence bestowed the blessing upon _them_. a young milanese once, whom i met in london, saw me treat a hatter that lives in pallmall with the respect due to his merit: when the man was gone, "pray, madam," says the italian, "is this a _gran riccone[footnote: heavy-pursed fellow.]?"_ "he is perhaps," replied i, "worth twenty or thirty thousand pounds; i do not know what ideas you annex to a _gran riccone_" "_oh santissima vergine!_" exclaims the youth, "_s'avessi io mai settanta mila zecchini! non so pur troppo cosa nesarei; ma questo é chiaro--non venderei mai cappelli_"--"oh dear me! had i once seventy thousand sequins in my pocket, i would--dear--i cannot think myself _what_ i should do with them all: but this at least is certain, i would not _sell hats_" i have been carried to the laurentian library, where the librarian bandi shewed me all possible, and many unmerited civilities; which, for want of deeper erudition, i could not make the use i wished of. we asked however to see some famous manuscripts. the virgil has had a _fac simile_ made of it, and a printed copy besides; so that it cannot now escape being known all over europe. the bible in chaldaic characters, spoken of by langius as inestimable, and brought hither, with many other valuable treasures of the same nature, by lascaris, after the death of lorenzo de medici, who had sent him for the second time to constantinople for the purpose of collecting greek and oriental books, but died before his return, is in admirable preservation. the old geographical maps, made out in a very early age, afforded me much amusement; and the latin letters of petrarch, with the portrait of his laura, were interesting to me perhaps more than many other things rated much higher by the learned, among those rarities which adorn a library so comprehensive. every great nation except ours, which was immersed in barbarism, and engaged in civil broils, seems to have courted the residence of lascaris, but the university of paris fixed his regard: and though leo x. treated with favour, and even friendship, the man whom he had encouraged to intimacy when cardinal john of medicis; though he made him superintendant of a greek college at rome; it is said he always wished to die in france, whither he returned in the reign of francis the first; and wrote his latin epigrams, which i have heard doctor johnson prefer even to the greek ones preserved in anthologia; and of which our queen elizabeth, inspired by roger ascham, desired to see the author; but he was then upon a visit to rome, where he died of the gout at ninety-three years old. * * * * * june , . st. john the baptist is the tutelary saint of this city, and upon this day of course all possible rejoicings are made. after attending divine service in the morning, we were carried to a house whence we could conveniently see the procession pass by. it was not solemn and stately as that i saw at bologna, neither was it gaudy and jocund like the show made at venice upon st. george's day; but consisted chiefly in vast heavy pageants, or a sort of temporary building set on wheels, and drawn by oxen some, and some by horses; others carried upon things made not unlike a chairman's horse in london, and supported by men, while priests, in various coloured dresses, according to their several stations in the church, and to distinguish the parishes, &c. to which they belong, follow singing in praise of the saint. here is much emulation shewed too, i am told, in these countries, where religion makes the great and almost the sole amusement of men's lives, who shall make most figure on st. john the baptist's day, produce most music, and go to most expence. for all these purposes subscriptions are set on foot, for ornamenting and venerating such a picture, statue, &c. which are then added to the procession by the managers, and called a confraternity, in honour of the blessed virgin mary, the angel raphael, or who comes in their heads. the lady of the house where we went to partake the diversion, was not wanting in her part; there could not be fewer than a hundred and fifty people assembled in her rooms, but not crowded as we should have been in england; for the apartments in italy are all high and large, and run in suits like wanstead house in essex, or devonshire house in london exactly, but larger still: and with immense balconies and windows, not sashes, which move all away, and give good room and air. the ices, refreshments, &c. were all excellent in their kinds, and liberally dispensed. the lady seemed to do the honours of her house with perfect good-humour; and every body being full-dressed, though so early in a morning, added much to the general effect of the whole. here i had the honour of being introduced to cardinal corsini, who put me a little out of countenance by saying suddenly, "_well, madam! you never saw one of us red-legged partridges before i believe; but you are going to rome i hear, where you will find such fellows as me no rarities_" the truth is, i had seen the amiable prince d'orini at milan, who was a cardinal; and who had taken delight in showing me prodigious civilities: nothing ever struck me more than his abrupt entrance one night at our house, when we had a little music, and every body stood up the moment he appeared: the prince however walked forward to the harpsichord, and blessed my husband in a manner the most graceful and affecting: then sate the amusement out, and returned the next morning to breakfast with us, when he indulged us with two hours conversation at least; adding the kindest and most pressing invitations to his country-seat among the mountains of brianza, when we should return from our tour of italy in spring . florence therefore was not the first place that shewed me a cardinal. in the afternoon we all looked out of our windows which faced the street,--not mine, as they happily command a view of the river, the caseine woods, &c. and from them enjoyed a complete sight of an italian horse-race. for after the coaches have paraded up and down some time to shew the equipages, liveries, &c. all have on a sudden notice to quit the scene of action; and all _do_ quit it, in such a manner as is surprising. the street is now covered with sawdust, and made fast at both ends: the starting-post is adorned with elegant booths, lined with red velvet, for the court and first nobility: at the other end a piece of tapestry is hung, to prevent the creatures from dashing their brains out when they reach the goal. thousands and ten thousands of people on foot fill the course, that it is standing wonder to me still that numbers are not killed. the prizes are now exhibited to view, quite in the old classical style; a piece of crimson damask for the winner perhaps; a small silver bason and ewer for the second; and so on, leaving no performer unrewarded. at last come out the _concurrenti_ without riders, but with a narrow leathern strap hung across their backs, which has a lump of ivory fastened to the end of it, all set full of sharp spikes like a hedge-hog, and this goads them along while galloping, worse than any spurs could do; because the faster they run, the more this odd machine keeps jumping up and down, and pricking their sides ridiculously enough; and it makes one laugh to see that some of them are not provoked by it not to run at all, but set about plunging, in order to rid themselves of the inconvenience, instead of driving forward to divert the mob; who leap and shout and caper with delight, and lash the laggers along with great indignation indeed, and with the most comical gestures. i never saw horses in so droll a state of degradation before, for they are all striped or spotted, or painted of some colour to distinguish them each from other; and nine or ten often start at a time, to the great danger of lookers-on i think, but exceedingly to my entertainment, who have the comfort of mrs. greatheed's company, and the advantage of seeing all safely from her well-situated _terreno_, or ground-floor. the chariot-race was more splendid, but less diverting: this was performed in the piazza, or square, an unpaved open place not bigger than covent garden i believe, and the ground strangely uneven. the cars were light and elegant; one driver and two horses to each: the first very much upon the principle of the antique chariots described by old poets, and the last trapped showily in various colours, adapted to the carriages, that people might make their betts accordingly upon the pink, the blue, the green, &c. i was exceedingly amused with seeing what so completely revived all classic images, and seemed so little altered from the classic times. cavalier d'elci, in reply to my expressions of delight, told me that the same spirit still subsisted exactly; but that in order to prevent accidents arising from the disputants' endeavours to overturn or circumvent each other, it was now sunk into a mere appearance of contest; for that all the chariots belonged to one man, who would doubtless be careful enough that his coachmen should not go to sparring at the hazard of their horses. the farce was carried on to the end however, and the winner spread his velvet in triumph, and drove round the course to enjoy the acclamations and caresses of the crowd. that st. john the baptist's birth-day should be celebrated by a horse or chariot race, appears to have little claim to the praise of propriety; but mankind seems agreed that there must be some excuse for merriment; and surely if any saint is to be venerated, he stands foremost whom christ himself declared to be the greatest man ever born of a woman. the old romans had an institution in this month of games to neptune equester, as they called their sea god, with no great appearance of good sense neither; but the horse he produced at the naming of athens was the cause assigned--these games are perhaps half transmitted ones from those in the ancient mythology. the evening concluded, and the night began with fire-works; the church, or duomo, as a cathedral is always called in italy, was illuminated on the outside, and very beautiful, and very very magnificent was the appearance. the reflection of the cupola's lights in the river gave us back a faint image of what we had been admiring; and when i looked at them from my window, as we were retiring to rest; such, thought i, and fainter still are the images which can be given of a show in written or verbal description; yet my english friends shall not want an account of what i have seen; for italy, at last, is only a fine well-known academy figure, from which we all sit down to make drawings according as the light falls; and our seat affords opportunity. every man sees that, and indeed most things, with the eyes of his then present humour, and begins describing away so as to convey a dignified or despicable idea of the object in question, just as his disposition led him to interpret its appearance. readers now are grown wiser, however, than very much to mind us: they want no further telling that one traveller was in pain, and one in love when the tour of italy was made by them; and so they pick out their intelligence accordingly, from various books, written like two letters in the tatler, giving an account of a rejoicing night; one endeavouring to excite majestic ideas, the other ludicrous ones of the very same thing. well 'tis true enough, however, and has been often enough laughed at, that the italian horses run without riders, and scamper down a long street with untrimmed heels, hundreds of people hooking them along, as naughty boys do a poor dog, that has a bone tied to his tail in england. this diversion was too good to end with the day. dulness, dear queen, repeats the jest again. we had another, and another just such a race for three or four evenings together, and they got an english _cock-tailed nag_, and set _him_ to the business, as they said _he was trained to it_; but i don't recollect his making a more brilliant figure than his painted and chalked neighbours of the continent. we will not be prejudiced, however; that the florentines know how to manage horses is certain, if they would take the trouble. last night's theatre exhibited a proof of skill, which might shame astley and all his rivals. count pazzi having been prevailed on to lend his four beautiful chesnut favourites from his own carriage to draw a pageant upon the stage, i saw them yesterday evening harnessed all abreast, their own master in a dancer's habit i was told, guiding them himself, and personating the cid, which was the name of the ballet, if i remember right, making his horses go clear round the stage, and turning at the lamps of the orchestra with such dexterity, docility, and grace, that they seemed rather to enjoy than feel disturbance at the deafening noise of instruments, the repeated bursts of applause, and hollow sound of their own hoofs upon the boards of a theatre. i had no notion of such discipline, and thought the praises, though very loud, not ill bestowed: as it is surely one of man's earliest privileges to replenish the earth with animal life, and to subdue it. i have, for my own part, generally speaking, little delight in the obstreperous clamours of these heroic pantomimes;--their battles are so noisy, and the acclamations of the spectators so distressing to weak nerves, i dread an italian theatre--it distracts me.--and always the same thing so, every and every night! how tedious it is! this want of variety in the common pleasures of italy though, and that surprising content with which a nation so sprightly looks on the same stuff, and laughs at the same joke for months and months together, is perhaps less despicable to a thinking mind, than the affectation of weariness and disgust, where probably it is not felt at all; and where a gay heart often lurks under a clouded countenance, put on to deceive spectators into a notion of his philosophy who wears it; and what is worse, who wears it chiefly as a mark of distinction cheaply obtained; for neither science, wit, nor courage are _now_ found necessary to form a man of fashion, or the _ton_, to which may be said as justly as ever mr. pope affirmed it of silence, that routed reason finds her sure retreat in thee. affectation is certainly that faint and sickly weed which is the curse of cultivated,--not naturally fertile and extensive countries; an insect that infests our forcing stoves and hot-house plants: and as the naturalists tell us all animals may be bred _down_ to a state very different from that in which they were originally placed; that _carriers_, and _fantails_, and _croppers_, are produced by early caging, and minutely attending to the common blue pigeon, flights of which cover the ploughed fields in distant provinces of england, and shew the rich and changeable plumage of their fine neck to the summer sun; so from the warm and generous briton of ancient days may be produced, and happily bred _down_, the clay-cold coxcomb of st. james's-street. in italy, so far at least as i have gone, there is no impertinent desire of appearing what one is _not_: no searching for talk, and torturing expression to vary its phrases with something new and something fine; or else sinking into silence from despair of diverting the company, and taking up the opposite method, contriving to impress them with an idea of bright intelligence, concealed by modest doubts of our own powers, and stifled by deep thought upon abstruse and difficult topics. to get quit of all these deep-laid systems of enjoyment, where to take our breakfast we project a scheme, nor drink our tea without a stratagem, like the lady in doctor young; the surest method is to drop into italy; where a conversazione at venice or florence, after the society of london, or _les petit soupers de paris_, where, in their own phrase, _un tableau n'attend pas l'autre_[footnote: one picture don't wait for another.], is like taking a walk in ham gardens, or the leasowes, after _les parterres de versailles ed i terrazzi di genoa_. we are affected in the house, but natural in the gardens. italians are natural in society, affected and constrained in the disposition of their grounds. no one, however, is good or bad, or wise or foolish without a reason why. restraint is made for man, and where religious and political liberty is enjoyed to its full extent, as in great britain, the people will forge shackles for themselves, and lay the yoke heavy on society, to which, on the contrary, italians give a loose, as compensation for their want of freedom in affairs of church or state. it is, i think, observable of uncontradicted, homebred, and, as we say, spoiled children, that when a dozen of them get together for the purpose of passing a day in mutual amusement, they will make to themselves the strictest laws for their game, and rigidly punish whatever breach of rule has been made while the time allotted for diversion lasts: but in a school of girls, strictly kept, at _their_ hours of permitted recreation no distinct sounds can be heard through the general clamour of joy and confusion; nor does any thing come less into their heads than the notion of imposing regulations on themselves, or making sport out of the harsh sounds of _rule and government_. ridicule too points her arrows only among highly-polished societies--_paris_ and _london_, in the first of which all wit is comprised in the power of ridiculing one's neighbours, and in the other every artifice is put in practice to escape it. in italy no such terrors restrain conversation; no public censure pursues that fantastical behaviour which leads to no public offence; and as it is only fear which can beget falsehood, these people seek such behavior as naturally suits them; and in our theatrical phrase, they let the character come to them, they do not go to the character. let us not fail to remember after all, that such severity as we use, quickens the desire of pleasing, and deadens the diffusion of immoral sentiments, or indelicate language, in england; where, i must add, for the honour of my country, that if such liberties were taken upon the stage as are frequent in the first ranks of italian society, they would be hissed by those who paid only a shilling for their entrance: so that affectation and a forced refinement may be considered as the bad leaden statues still left in our delicately-neat and highly-ornamented gardens; of which elegance and science are the white and red roses: but to be possessed of their _sweets_, one must venture a little through the _thorns_.--_thorns_, though figurative, remind one of the _cicala_, a creature which leaves nothing else untouched here. surely their clamours and depredations have no equal. i used to walk in the boboli gardens, defying the heat, till they had eaten up the little shade some hedges there afforded me; and till, by their incessant noise, all thought is disturbed, and no line presented itself to my memory but sole sob ardenti resonant arbusta cicadis[w]; [footnote w: while in the scorching sun i trace in vain thy flying footsteps o'er the burning plain, the creaking locusts with my voice conspire, they fried with heat, and i with fierce desire. dryden. ] till mr. merry's sweet ode to summer here at florence made one less discontented, to hear the light cicala's ceaseless din, that vibrates shrill; or the near-weeping brook that feebly winds along, and mourns his channel shrunk. merry. this animal has four wings, four eyes, and two membranes like parchment under the hard scales he is covered with; and these, it is said, create the uncommon noise he makes, by blowing them somewhat like bellows, to sharpen the sound; which, whatever it proceeds from, is louder than can be guessed at by those who have not heard it in tuscany. he is of the locust kind, an inch and a half long, and wonderfully light in proportion; though no small feeder, i should imagine, by the total destruction his noisy tribe make amongst the leaves, which are now wholly stript by them of all their verdure, the fibres only being left; and i observed yesterday evening, as we returned from airing, another strange deprivation practised on the mulberry leaves round the city, which being all forcibly torn away for the use of the silk-worms, make an odd fort of artificial winter near the town walls; and remind one of the wretched geese in lincolnshire, plucked once a year for their feathers by their truly unfeeling proprietors. i am told indeed, that both revegetate, though i trust neither tree nor bird can fail to experience fatal effects one day or other in consequence of so unnatural an operation. here is some ivy of uncommon growth, but i have seen larger both at beaumaris castle in north wales, and at the abbey of glastonbury in somersetshire: but the great pines in the caseine woods have, i suppose, no rival nearer than the castagno a cento cavalli, mentioned by mr. brydone. they afford little shade or shelter from heat however, as their umbrella-like covering is strangely small in proportion to their height and size; some of them being ten, and some twelve feet in diameter. these venerable, these glorious productions of nature are all now marked for destruction however; all going to be put in wicker baskets, and feed the grand duke's fires. i saw a fellow hewing one down to-day, and the rest are all to follow;--the feeble florentines had much ado to master it; seemed the harmful hatchet to fear, and to wound holy eld would forbear, as spenser says: i did half hope they could not get it down; but the loyal tuscans (evermore awed by the name _principe_) told us it was right to get rid of them, as one of the cones, of which they bore vast quantities, might chance to drop upon the head of a _principettino_, or little prince, as he passed along. i was observing that restraint was necessary to man; i have now learned a notion that noise is necessary too. the clatter made here in the piazza del duomo, where you sit in your carriage at a coffee-house door, and chat with your friends according to italian custom, while _one_ eats ice, and _another_ calls for lemonade, to while away the time after dinner, the noise made then and there, i say, is beyond endurance. our florentines have nothing on earth to do; yet a dozen fellows crying _ciambelli_, little cakes, about the square, assisted by beggars, who lie upon the church steps, and pray or rather promise to pray as loud as their lungs will let them, for the _anime sante di purgatorio_[footnote: holy souls in purgatory.]; ballad-singers meantime endeavouring to drown these clamours in their own, and gentlemen's servants disputing at the doors, whose master shall be first served; ripping up the pedigrees of each to prove superior claims for a biscuit or macaroon; do make such an intolerable clatter among them, that one cannot, for one's life, hear one another speak: and i did say just now, that it were as good live at brest or portsmouth when the rival fleets were fitting out, as here; where real tranquillity subsists under a bustle merely imaginary. our grand duke lives with little state for aught i can observe here; but where there is least pomp, there is commonly most power; for a man must have _something pour se de dommages_[footnote: to make himself amends.], as the french express it; and this gentleman possessing the _solide_ has no care for the _clinquant_, i trow. he tells his subjects when to go to bed, and who to dance with, till the hour he chuses they should retire to rest, with exactly that sort of old-fashioned paternal authority that fathers used to exercise over their families in england before commerce had run her levelling plough over all ranks, and annihilated even the name of subordination. if he hear of any person living long in florence without being able to give a good account of his business there, the duke warns him to go away; and if he loiter after such warning given, sends him out. does any nobleman shine in pompous equipage or splendid table; the grand duke enquires soon into his pretensions, and scruples not to give personal advice, and add grave reproofs with regard to the management of each individual's private affairs, the establishment of their sons, marriage of their sisters, &c. when they appeared to complain of this behaviour to _me_, i know not, replied i, what to answer: one has always read and heard that the sovereigns ought to behave in despotic governments like the _fathers of their family_: and the archbishop of cambray inculcates no other conduct than this, when advising his pupil, heir to the crown of france. "yes, madam," replied one of my auditors, with an acuteness truly italian; "but this prince is _our father-in-law_." the truth is, much of an english traveller's pleasure is taken off at florence by the incessant complaints of a government he does not understand, and of oppressions he cannot remedy. tis so dull to hear people lament the want of liberty, to which i question whether they have any pretensions; and without ever knowing whether it is the tyranny or the tyrant they complain of. tedious however and most uninteresting are their accounts of grievances, which a subject of great britain has much ado to comprehend, and more to pity; as they are now all heart-broken, because they must say their prayers in their own language and not in latin, which, how it can be construed into misfortune, a tuscan alone can tell. lord corke has given us many pleasing anecdotes of those who were formerly princes in this land. had they a sovereign of the old medici family, they would go to bed when _he_ bid them quietly enough i believe, and say their prayers in what language _he_ would have them: 'tis in our parliamentary phrase, the _men_, not the _measures_ that offend them; and while they pretend to whine as if despotism displeased them, they detest every republican state, feel envy towards venice, and contempt for lucca. i would rather talk of their gallery than their government: and surely nothing made by man ever so completely answered a raised expectation, as the apparent contest between titian's recumbent beauty, glowing with colour and animated by the warmest expression, and the greek statue of symmetrical perfection and fineness of form inimitable, where sculpture supplies all that fancy can desire, and all that imagination can suggest. these two models of excellence seem placed near each other, at once to mock all human praise, and defy all future imitation. the listening slave appears disturbed by the blows of the wrestlers in the same room, and hearkens with an attentive impatience, such as one has often felt when unable to distinguish the words one wishes to repeat. you really then do not seem as if you were alone in this tribune, so animated is every figure, so full of life and soul: yet i commend not the representing of st catharine with leering eyes, as she is here painted by titian; that it is meant for a portrait, i find no excuse; some character more suited to the expression should have been chosen; and if it were only the picture of a saint, that expression was strangely out of character. an anachronism may be found in the tobit over the door too, by acute observers, who will deem it ill-managed to paint the cross in the clouds, where it is an old testament story, and that story apocryphal beside; might i add, that guido's meek madonna, so divinely contrasted to the other women in the room, loses something of dignity by the affected position of the thumbs. i think i might leave the tribune without a word said of the st. john by raphael, which no words are worthy to extol: 'tis all sublimity; and when i look on it i feel nothing but veneration pushed to astonishment. unlike the elegant figure of the baptist at padua, covered with glass, and belonging to a convent of friars, who told me, and truly, that it had no equal; it is painted by guido with every perfection of form and every grace of expression. i agree with them it has no equal; but in the tribune at florence maybe found its superior. we were next conducted to the niobe, who has an apartment to herself: and now, thought i, dear mrs. siddons has never seen this figure: but those who can see it or her, without emotions equally impossible to contain or to suppress, deserve the fate of niobe, and have already half-suffered it. their hearts and eyes are stone. nothing is worth speaking of after this niobe! her beauty! her maternal anguish! her closely-clasped chloris! her half-raised head, scarcely daring to deprecate that vengeance of which she already feels such dreadful effects! what can one do but drop the shady curtain on the scene, and run to see the portraits of those artists who have exalted one's ideas of human nature, and shewn what man can perform. among these worthies a british eye soon distinguishes sir joshua reynolds; a citizen of the world fastens his to leonardo da vinci. i have been out to dinner in the country near prato, and what a charming, what a delightful thing is a nobleman's seat near florence! how cheerful the society! how splendid the climate! how wonderful the prospects in this glorious country! the arno rolling before his house, the appenines rising behind it! a sight of fertility enjoyed by its inhabitants, and a view of such defences to their property as nature alone can bestow. a peasantry so rich too, that the wives and daughters of the farmer go dressed in jewels; and those of no small value. a pair of one-drop ear-rings, a broadish necklace, with a long piece hanging down the bosom, and terminated with a cross, all of set garnets clear and perfect, is a common, a _very_ common treasure to the females about this country; and on every sunday or holiday, when they dress and mean to look pretty, their elegantly-disposed ornaments attract attention strongly; though i do not think them as handsome as the lombard lasses, and our venetian friends protest that the farmers at crema in _their_ state are still richer. la contadinella toscana however, in a very rich white silk petticoat, exceedingly full and short, to shew her neat pink slipper and pretty ancle, her pink _corps de robe_ and straps, with white silk lacing down the stomacher, puffed shirt sleeves, with heavy lace robbins ending at the elbow, and fastened at the shoulders with at least eight or nine bows of narrow pink ribbon, a lawn handkerchief trimmed with broad lace, put on somewhat coquettishly, and finishing in front with a nosegay, must make a lovely figure at any rate: though the hair is drawn away from the face in a way rather too tight to be becoming, under a red velvet cushion edged with gold, which helps to wear it off i think, but gives the small leghorn hat, lined with green, a pretty perking air, which is infinitely nymphish and smart. a tolerably pretty girl so dressed may surely more than vie with a _fille d' opera_ upon the paris stage, even were she not set off as these are with a very rich suit of pearls or set garnets, that in france or england would not be purchased for less than forty or fifty pounds: and i am now speaking of the women perpetually under one's eye; not one or two picked from the crowd, like mrs. vanini, an inn-keeper's wife in florence, who, when she was dressed for the masquerade two nights ago, submitted her finery to mrs. greatheed's inspection and my own; who agreed she could not be so adorned in england for less than a thousand pounds. it is true the nobility are proud of letting you see how comfortably their dependants live in tuscany; but can any pride be more rational or generous, or any desire more patriotick? oh may they never look with less delight on the happiness of their inferiors! and then they will not murmur at their prince, whose protection of _this_ rank among his subjects is eminently tender and attentive. returning home from our splendid dinner and agreeable day passed at conte mannucci's country-seat, while our noble friends amused me with various chat, i thought some unaccountable sparks of fire seemed to strike up and down the hedges as if in perpetual motion, but checked the fancy concluding it a trick of the imagination only; till the evening, which shuts in strangely quick here in tuscany, grew dark, and exhibited an appearance wholly new to me; whose surprise that no flame followed these wandering fires was not small, when i recollected the state of desiccation that nature suffered, and had done for some months. my dislike of interrupting an agreeable conversation kept me long from enquiring into the cause of this appearance, which however i doubted not was electrick, till they told me it was the _lucciola_, or fire-fly; of which a very good account is given in twenty books, but i had forgotten them all. as the florence miscellany has never been published, i will copy out what is said of it _there_, because the abate fontana was consulted when that description was given. "this insect then differs from every other of the luminous tribe, because its light is by no means continual, but emitted by flashes, suddenly striking out as it flies; when crushed it leaves a lustre on the spot for a considerable time, from whence one may conclude its nature is phosphorick." oh vagrant insect, type of our short life, 'tis thus we shine, and vanish from the view; for the cold season comes, and all our lustre's o'er. merry's ode to summer. it is said i think, that no animal affords an acid except ants, which are therefore most quickly destroyed by lime, pot-ash, &c. or any strong alkali of course; yet acid must the lucciola be proved, or she can never be phosphorick surely; as upon its analysis that strangest of all compositions appears to be a union of violent acid with inflammable matter, whence it may be termed an animal sulphur, and is actually found to burn successfully under a common glass-bell; and to afford flowers too, which, by attracting the humidity of the air, become a liquor like _oleum sulphuris per campanam_[footnote: oil of sulphur by the bell.]. the colour of the sky viewed, when one dares to look at it, through this pure atmosphere is particularly beautiful; of a much more brilliant and celestial blue i think, than it appeared from the tower of st. mark's place, venice. were i to affirm that the sea is of a more peculiar transparent brightness upon the coast of north wales than elsewhere, it would seem prejudice perhaps, and yet is strictly true: i am not less persuaded that the sky appears of a finer tint in tuscany than any other country i have visited:--naples is however the vaunted climate, and that yet remains to be examined. i have been shewed, at the horse-race, the theatre, &c. the unfortunate grandson of king james the second. he goes much into publick still, though old and sickly; gives the english arms and livery, and wears the garter, which he has likewise bestowed upon his natural daughter. the princess of stoldberg, his consort, whom he always called queen, has left him to end a life of disappointment and sorrow by _himself_, with the sad reflection, that even conjugal attachment, and of course domestic comfort, was denied to _him_, and fled--in defiance of poetry and fiction--fled with the crown, to its powerful and triumphant possessors. the duomo, or cathedral, has engaged my attention all to-day: its prodigious size, perfect proportions, and exquisite taste, ought to have detained me longer. though the outside does not please me as well as if it had been less rich and less magnificent. superfluity always defeats its own purpose, of striking you with awe at its superior greatness; while simplicity looks on, and laughs at its vain attempts. this wonderful church, built of striped marbles, white, black, and red alternately, has scarcely the air of being so composed, but looks like painted ivory to _me_, who am obliged to think, and think again, before i can be sure it is of so ponderous and massy, as well as so inestimable a substance: nor can i, without more than equal difficulty, persuade myself to give its sudden view the decided preference over st. paul's in london, which never, never misses its immediate effect on a spectator, but stands sublime in simplest majesty. the battisterio is another structure close to the church, and of surprising beauty; michael angelo said the gates of it deserved to be those which open paradise: and that speech was more the speech of a good workman, than of a man whose mind was exalted by his profession. the gates are of brass, divided into ninety-six compartments each, and carved with such variety of invention, such elaboration of art and ingenuity, that no praise except that which he gave them could have been too high. the font has not been used since the days when immersion in baptism was deemed necessary to salvation; a ceremony still considered by the greek church as indispensable. why the disputes concerning _this_ sacrament were carried on with more decency and less lasting rancour among christians, than those which related to the other great pledge of our pardon, the communicating with our saviour christ in his last supper, i know not, nor can imagine. every page of ecclesiastical history exhibits the tenaciousness with which the smallest attendant circumstance on this last-mentioned sacrament has been held fast by the romanists, who dropped the immersion at baptism of themselves; and in so warm a climate too! it moves my wonder; when nothing is more obvious to the meanest understanding, than that if the first sacrament is not rightly and duly administered, we never shall arrive at receiving the other at all. i hope it is impossible for any one less than myself to wish the continuance or revival of contentions so disgraceful to humanity in general; so peculiarly repugnant to the true spirit of christianity, which consists chiefly in charity, and that brotherly love we know to have been cemented by the blood of our blessed lord: yet very strange it is to think, that while other innovations have been resisted even to death, scarcely any among the many sects we have divided into, retain the original form in that ceremony so emphatically called _christening_. these observations suggested by the sight of the old font at florence shall now be succeeded by lighter subjects of reflection; among which the first that presents itself is the superior elegance of the language; for till we arrive _here_, all is dialect; though by this word i would not have any one mistake me, or understand it as meant in the limited sense of a provincial jargon, such as yorkshire, derbyshire, or cornwall, present us with; where every sound is corruption, barbarism, and vulgarity. the states of italy being all under different rulers, are kept separate from each other, and speak a different dialect; that of milan full of consonants and harsh to the ear, but abounding with classical expressions that rejoice one's heart, and fill one with the oddest but most pleasing sensations imaginable. i heard a lady there call a runaway nobleman _profugo_ mighty prettily; and added, that his conduct had put all the town into _orgasmo grande_. all this, however, the tuscans may possibly have in common with them. my knowledge of the language must remain ever too imperfect for me to depend on my own skill in it; all i can assert is, that the florentines _appear_, as far as i have been competent to observe, to depend more on their own copious and beautiful language for expression, than the milanese do; who run to spanish, greek, or latin for assistance, while half their tongue is avowedly borrowed from the french, whose pronunciation, in the letter _u_, they even profess to retain. at venice, the sweetness of the patois is irresistible; their lips, incapable of uttering any but the sweetest sounds, reject all consonants they can get quit of; and make their mouths drop honey more completely than it can be said by any eloquence less mellifluous than their own. the bolognese dialect is detested by the other italians, as gross and disagreeable in its sounds: but every nation has the good word of its own inhabitants; and the language which abbate bianconi praises as nervous and expressive, i would advise no person, less learned than himself, to censure as disgusting, or condemn as dull. i staid very little at bologna; saw nothing but their pictures, and heard nothing but their prayers: those were superior, i fancy, to all rivals. language can be never spoken of by a foreigner to any effect of conviction. i have heard our countryman. mr. greatheed himself, who perhaps possesses more italian than almost any englishman, and studies it more closely, refuse to decide in critical disputations among his literary friends here, though the sonnets he writes in the tuscan language are praised by the natives, who best understand it, and have been by some of them preferred to those written by milton himself. mean time this is acknowledged to be the prime city for purity of phrase and delicacy of expression, which, at last, is so disguised to me by the guttural manner in which many sounds are pronounced, that i feel half weary of running about from town to town so, and never arriving at any, where i can understand the conversation without putting all the attention possible to their discourse. i am now told that less efforts will be necessary at rome. nothing can be prettier, however, than the slow and tranquil manners of a florentine; nothing more polished than his general address and behaviour: ever in the third person, though to a blackguard in the street, if he has not the honour of his particular acquaintance, while intimacy produces _voi_ in those of the highest rank, who call one another carlo and angelo very sweetly; the ladies taking up the same notion, and saying louisa, or maddalena, without any addition at all. the don and donna of milan were offensive to me somehow, as they conveyed an idea of spain, not italy. here signora is the term, which better pleases one's ear, and signora contessa, signora principessa, if the person is of higher quality, resembles our manners more when we say my lady dutchess, &c. what strikes me as most observable, is the uniformity of style in all the great towns. at venice the men of literature and fashion speak with the same accent, and i believe the same quick turns of expression as their gondolier; and the coachman at milan talks no broader than the countess; who, if she does not speak always in french to a foreigner, as she would willingly do, tries in vain to talk italian; and having asked you thus, _alla capi?_ which means _ha ella capita?_ laughs at herself for trying to _toscaneggiare_, as she calls it, and gives the point up with _no cor altr._ that comes in at the end of every sentence, and means _non occorre altro_; there is no more occurs upon the subject. the laquais de place who attended us at bologna was one of the few persons i had met then, who spoke a language perfectly intelligible to me. "are you a florentine, pray friend, said i?" "no, madam, but the _combinations_ of this world having led me to talk much with strangers, i contrive to _tuscanize_ it all i can for _their_ advantage, and doubt not but it will tend to my own at last." such a sentiment, so expressed by a footman, would set a plain man in london a laughing, and make a fanciful lady imagine he was a nobleman disguised. here nobody laughs, nor nobody stares, nor wonders that their valet speaks just as good language, or utters as well-turned sentences as themselves. their cold answer to my amazement is as comical as the fellow's fine style--_è battizzato_[footnote: he has been baptized.], say they, _come noi altri_[footnote: as well as we.]. but we are called away to hear the fair fantastici, a young woman who makes improviso verses, and sings them, as they tell me, with infinite learning and taste. she is successor to the celebrated corilla, who no longer exhibits the power she once held without a rival: yet to _her_ conversations every one still strives for admittance, though she is now ill, and old, and hoarse with repeated colds. she spares, however, now by no labour or fatigue to obtain and keep that superiority and admiration which one day perhaps gave her almost equal trouble to receive and to repay. but who can bear to lay their laurels by? corilla is gay by nature, and witty, if i may say so, by habit; replete with fancy, and powerful to combine images apparently distant. mankind is at last more just to people of talents than is universally allowed, i think. corilla, without pretensions either to immaculate character (in the english sense), deep erudition, or high birth, which an italian esteems above all earthly things, has so made her way in the world, that all the nobility of both sexes crowd to her house; that no prince passes through florence without waiting on corilla; that the capitol will long recollect her being crowned there, and that many sovereigns have not only sought her company, but have been obliged to put up with slights from her independent spirit, and from her airy, rather than haughty behaviour. she is, however, (i cannot guess why) not rich, and keeps no carriage; but enjoying all the effect of money, convenience, company, and general attention, is probably very happy; as she does not much suffer her thoughts of the next world to disturb her felicity in _this_, i believe, while willing to turn every thing into mirth, and make all admire _her wit_, even at the expence of _their own virtue_. the following epigram, made by her, will explain my meaning, and give a specimen of her present powers of improvisation, undecayed by ill health; and i might add, _undismayed_ by it. an old gentleman here, one gaetano testa grossa had a young wife, whose name was mary, and who brought him a son when he was more than seventy years old. corilla led him gaily into the circle of company with these words: "miei signori io vi presento il buon uomo gaetano; che non sà che cosa sia il misterio sovr'umano del figliuolo di maria." let not the infidels triumph however, or rank among them the truly-illustrious corilla! 'twas but the rage, i hope, of keeping at any rate the fame she has gained, when the sweet voice is gone, which once enchanted all who heard it--like the daughters of pierius in ovid. and though i was exceedingly entertained by the present improvisatrice, the charming fantastici, whose youth, beauty, erudition, and fidelity to her husband, give her every claim upon one's heart, and every just pretension to applause, i could not, in the midst of that delight, which classick learning and musical excellence combined to produce, forbear a grateful recollection of the civilities i had received from corilla, and half-regretting that her rival should be so successful; for tho' the treacherous tapster, thomas, hangs a new angel ten doors from us, we hold it both a shame and sin to quit the true old angel inn. well! if some people have too little appearance of respect for religion, there are others who offend one by having too much, and so the balance is kept even. we were a walking last night in the gardens of porto st. gallo, and met two or three well-looking women of the second rank, with a baby, four or five years old at most, dressed in the habit of a dominican friar, bestowing the benediction as he walked along like an officiating priest. i felt a shock given to all my nerves at once, and asked cavalier d'elci the meaning of so strange a device. his reply to me was, "_e divozione mal intesa, signora_[footnote: 'tis ill-understood devotion, madam.];" and turning round to the other gentlemen, "now this folly," said he, "a hundred years ago would have been the object of profound veneration and prodigious applause. fifty years hence it would be censured as hypocritical; it is now passed by wholly unnoticed, except by this foreign lady, who, i believe, thought it was done for a joke. i have had a little fever since i came hither from the intense heat i trust; but my maid has a worse still. doctor bicchierei, with that liberality which ever is found to attend real learning, prescribed james's powders to _her_, and bid me attend to buchan's domestick medicine, and i should do well enough he said. mr. greatheed, mr. parsons, mr. biddulph, and mr. piozzi, have been together on a party of pleasure to see the renowned vallombrosa, and came home contradicting milton, who says the devils lay bestrewn thick as autumnal leaves in vallombrosa: whereas, say they, the trees are all evergreen in those woods. milton, it seems, was right notwithstanding: for the botanists tell me, that nothing makes more litter than the shedding of leaves, which, replace themselves by others, as on the plants stiled ever-green, which change like every tree, but only do not change all at once, and remain stript till spring. they spoke highly of their very kind and hospitable reception at the convent, where safe from pangs the worldling knows, here secure in calm repose, far from life's perplexing maze, the pious fathers pass their days; while the bell's shrill-tinkling sound regulates their constant round. and here the traveller elate finds an ever-open gate: all his wants find quick supply, while welcome beams from every eye. parsons. this pious foundation of retired benedictines, situated in the appenines, about eighteen miles from florence, owes its original to giovanni gualberto, a tuscan nobleman, whose brother hugo having been killed by a relation in the year , he resolved to avenge his death; but happening to meet the assassin alone and in a solitary place, whither he appeared to have been driven by a sense of guilt, and seeing him suddenly drop down at his feet, and without uttering a word produce from his bosom a crucifix, holding it up in a supplicating gesture, with look submissively imploring, he felt the force of this silent rhetoric, and generously gave his enemy free pardon. on further reflection upon the striking scene, gualberto felt still more affected; and from seeing the dangers and temptations which surround a bustling life, resolved to quit the too much mixed society of mankind, and settle in a state of perpetual retirement. for this purpose he chose vallombrosa, and there founded the famous convent so justly admired by all who visit it. such stories lead one forward to the tombs of michael angelo and the great galileo, which last i looked on to-day with reverence, pity, and wonder; to think that a change so surprising should be made in worldly affairs since his time; that the man who no longer ago than the year , was by the torments and terrors of the inquisition obliged formally to renounce, as heretical, accursed, and contrary to religion, the revived doctrines of copernicus, should now have a monument erected to his memory, in the very city where he was born, whence he was cruelly torn away to answer at rome for the supposed offence; to which he returned; and strange to tell, in which he lived on, by his own desire, with the wife who, by her discovery of his sentiments, and information given to the priests accordingly, had caused his ruin; and who, after his death, in a fit of mad mistaken zeal, flung into the fire, in company with her confessor, all the papers she could find in his study. how wonderful are these events! and how sweet must the science of astronomy have been to that poor man, who suffered all but actual martyrdom in its cause! how odd too, that ever galileo's son, by such a mother as we have just described, should apply himself to the same studies, and be the inventor of the simple pendulum so necessary to every kind of clock-work! religious prejudices however, and their effects--and thanks be to god their almost final conclusion too--may be found nearer home than galileo's tomb; while milton has a monument in the same cathedral with dr. south, who perhaps would have given credit to no _human_ information, which should have told him that event would take place. we are now going soon to leave florence, seat of the arts and residence of literature! i shall be sincerely sorry to quit a city where not a step can be taken without a new or a revived idea being added to our store;--where such statues as would in england have colleges founded, or palaces built for their reception, stand in the open street; the centaur, the sabine woman, and the justice: where the madonna della seggiola reigns triumphant over all pictures for brilliancy of colouring and vigour of pencil. it was the portrait of raphaelle's favourite mistress, and his own child by her sate for the bambino:--is it then wonderful that it should want that heavenly expression of dignity divine, and grace unutterable, which breathes through the school of caracci? connoisseurs will have all excellence united in one picture, and quarrel unkindly if merit of any kind be wanting: surely the madonna della seggiola has nature to recommend it, and much more need not be desired. if the young and tender and playful innocence of early infancy is what chiefly delights and detains one's attention, it may be found to its utmost possible perfection in a painter far inferior to raphael, carlo marratt. if softness in the female character, and meek humility of countenance, be all that are wanted for the head of a madonna, we must go to elisabetta sirani and sassoferrata i think; but it is ever so. the cordelia of mrs. cibber was beyond all comparison softer and sweeter than that of her powerful successor siddons; yet who will say that the actresses were equal? but i must bid adieu to beautiful florence, where the streets are kept so clean one is afraid to dirty _them_, and not _one's self_, by walking in them: where the public walks are all nicely weeded, as in england, and the gardens have a homeish and bath-like look, that is excessively cheering to an english eye:--where, when i dined at prince corsini's table, i heard the cardinal say grace, and thought of the ceremonies at queen's college, oxford; where i had the honour of entertaining, at my own dinner on the th of july, many of the tuscan, and many of the english nobility; and nardini kindly played a solo in the evening at a concert we gave in meghitt's great room:--where we have compiled the little book amongst us, known by the name of the florence miscellany; as a memorial of that friendship which does me so much honour, and which i earnestly hope may long subsist among us:--where in short we have lived exceeding comfortably, but where dear mrs. greatheed and myself have encouraged each other, in saying it would be particularly sad to _die_, not of the gnats, or more properly musquitoes, for they do not sting one quite to death, though their venom has swelled my arm so as to oblige me to carry it for this last week in a sling; but of the _mal di petto_, which is endemial in this country, and much resembling our pleurisy in its effects. blindness too seems no uncommon misfortune at florence, from the strong reverberation of the sun's rays on houses of the cleanest and most brilliant whiteness; kept so elegantly nice too, that i should despair of seeing more delicacy at amsterdam. apoplexies are likewise frequent enough: i saw a man carried out stone dead from st. pancrazio's church one morning about noon-day; but nobody seemed disturbed at the event i think, except myself. though this is no good town to take one's last leave of life in neither; as the body one has been so long taking care of, would in twenty-four hours be hoisted up upon a common cart, with those of all the people who died the same day, and being fairly carried out of porto san gallo towards the dusk of evening, would be shot into a hole dug away from the city, properly enough, to protect florence, and keep it clear of putrid disorders and disagreeable smells. all this with little ceremony to be sure, and less distinction; for the grand duke suffers the pride of birth to last no longer than life however, and demolishes every hope of the woman of quality lying in a separate grave from the distressed object who begged at her carriage door when she was last on an airing. let me add, that his liberality of sentiment extends to virtue on the one hand, if hardness of heart may be complained of on the other. he suffers no difference of opinions to operate on his philosophy, and i believe we heretics here should sleep among the best of his tuscan nobles. but there is no comfort in the possibility of being buried alive by the excessive haste with which people are catched up and hurried away, before it can be known almost whether all sparks of life are extinct or no. such management, and the lamentations one hears made by the great, that they should thus be forced to keep _bad company_ after death, remind me for ever of an old french epigram, the sentiment of which i perfectly recollect, but have forgotten the verses, of which however these lines are no unfaithful translation; i dreamt that in my house of clay, a beggar buried by me lay; rascal! go stink apart, i cry'd, nor thus disgrace my noble side. heyday! cries he, what's here to do? i'm on my dunghill sure, as well as you. of elegant florence then, so ornamented and so lovely, so neat that it is said she should be seen only on holidays; dedicated of old to flora, and still the residence of sweetness, grace, and the fine arts particularly; of these kind friends too, so amiable, so hospitable, where i had the choice of four boxes every night at the theatre, and a certainty of charming society in each, we must at last unwillingly take leave; and on to-morrow, the twelfth day of september , once more commit ourselves to our coach, which has hitherto met with no accident that could affect us, and in which, with god's protection, i fear not my journey through what is left of italy; though such tremendous tales are told in many of our travelling books, of terrible roads and wicked postillions, and ladies labouring through the mire on foot, to arrive at bad inns where nothing eatable could be found. all which however is less despicable than tournefort, the great french botanist; who, while his works swell with learning, and sparkle with general knowledge; while he enlarges _your_ stock of ideas, and displays _his own_; laments pathetically that he could not get down the partridges caught for him in one of the archipelagon islands, because they were not larded--_à la mode de paris_. lucca. from the head-quarters of painting, sculpture, and architecture then, where art is at her acme, and from a people polished into brilliancy, perhaps a little into weakness, we drove through the celebrated vale of arno; thick hedges on each side us, which in spring must have been covered with blossoms and fragrant with perfume; now loaded with uncultivated fruits; the wild grape, raspberry, and azaroli, inviting to every sense, and promising every joy. this beautiful and fertile, this highly-adorned and truly delicious country carried us forward to lucca, where the panther sits at the gate, and liberty is written up on every wall and door. it is so long since i have seen the word, that even the letters of it rejoice my heart; but how the panther came to be its emblem, who can tell? unless the philosophy we learn from old lilly in our childhood were true, _nec vult panthera domari_[footnote: that the panther will never be tamed.]. that this fairy commonwealth should so long have maintained its independency is strange; but howel attributes her freedom to the active and industrious spirit of the inhabitants, who, he says, resemble a hive of bees, for order and for diligence. i never did see a place so populous for the size of it: one is actually thronged running up and down the streets of lucca, though it is a little town enough for a capital city to be sure; larger than salisbury though, and prettier than nottingham, the beauties of both which places it unites with all the charms peculiar to itself. the territory they claim, and of which no power dares attempt to dispossess them, is much about the size of _rutlandshire_ i fancy; surrounded and apparently fenced in on every side, by the appenines as by a wall, that wall a hot one, on the southern side, and wholly planted over with vines, while the soft shadows which fall upon the declivity of the mountains make it inexpressibly pretty; and form, by the particular disposition of their light and shadow, a variety which no other prospect so confined can possibly enjoy. this is the ilam gardens of europe; and whoever has seen that singular spot in derbyshire belonging to mr. port, has seen little lucca in a convex mirror. some writer calls it a ring upon the finger of the emperor, under whose protection it has been hitherto preserved safe from the grand duke of tuscany till these days, in which the interests of those two sovereigns, united by intimacy as by blood and resemblance of character, are become almost exactly the same. a doge, whom they call the _principe_, is elected every two months; and is assisted by ten senators in the administration of justice. their armoury is the prettiest plaything i ever yet saw, neatly kept, and capable of furnishing twenty-five thousand men with arms. their revenues are about equal to the duke of bedford's i believe, eighty or eighty-five thousand pounds sterling a year; every spot of ground belonging to these people being cultivated to the highest pitch of perfection that agriculture, or rather gardening (for one cannot call these enclosures fields), will admit: and though it is holiday time just now, i see no neglect of necessary duty. they were watering away this morning at seven o'clock, just as we do in a nursery-ground about london, a hundred men at once, or more, before they came home to make themselves smart, and go to hear music in their best church, in honour of some saint, i have forgotten who; but he is the patron of lucca, and cannot be accused of neglecting his charge, that is certain. this city seems really under admirable regulations; here are fewer beggars than even at florence, where however one for fifty in the states of genoa or venice do not meet your eyes: and either the word liberty has bewitched me, or i see an air of plenty without insolence, and business without noise, that greatly delight me. here is much cheerfulness too, and gay good-humour; but this is the season of devotion at lucca, and in these countries the ideas of devotion and diversion are so blended, that all religious worship seems connected with, and to me now regularly implies, _a festive show_. well, as the italians say, "_il mondo è bello perche è variabile_[footnote: the world is pleasant because it is various.]." we english dress our clergymen in black, and go ourselves to the theatre in colours. here matters are reversed, the church at noon looked like a flower-garden, so gaily adorned were the priests, confrairies, &c. while the opera-house at night had more the air of a funeral, as every body was dressed in black: a circumstance i had forgotten the meaning of, till reminded that such was once the emulation of finery among the persons of fashion in this city, that it was found convenient to restrain the spirit of expence, by obliging them to wear constant mourning: a very rational and well-devised rule in a town so small, where every body is known to every body; and where, when this silly excitement to envy is wisely removed, i know not what should hinder the inhabitants from living like those one reads of in the golden age; which, above all others, this climate most resembles, where pleasure contributes to sooth life, commerce to quicken it, and faith extends its prospects to eternity. such is, or such at least appears to me this lovely territory of lucca: where cheap living, free government, and genteel society, may be enjoyed with a tranquillity unknown to larger states: where there are delicious and salutary baths a few miles out of town, for the nobility to make _villeggiatura_ at; and where, if those nobility were at all disposed to cultivate and communicate learning, every opportunity for study is afforded. some drawbacks will however always be found from human felicity. i once mentioned this place with warm expectations of delight, to a milanese lady of extensive knowledge, and every elegant accomplishment worthy her high birth, _the contessa melzi resla_. "why yes," said she, "if you would find out the place where common sense stagnates, and every topic of conversation dwindles and perishes away by too frequent or too unskilful touching and handling, you must go to lucca. my ill-health sent me to their beautiful baths one summer; where all the faculties of my body were restored, thank god, but those of my soul were stupified to such a degree, that at last i was fit to keep no other company but _dame lucchesi_ i think; and _our_ talk was soon ended, heaven knows, for when they had once asked me of an evening, what i had for dinner? and told me how many pair of stockings their neighbours sent to the wash, we had done." this was a young, a charming, a lively lady of quality; full of curiosity to know the world, and of spirits to bustle through it; but had she been battered through the various societies of london and paris for eighteen or twenty years together, she would have loved lucca better, and despised it less. "we must not look for whales in the euxine sea," says an old writer; and we must not look for great men or great things in little nations to be sure, but let us respect the innocence of childhood, and regard with tenderness the territory of lucca: where no man has been murdered during the life or memory of any of its peaceful inhabitants; where one robbery alone has been committed for sixteen years; and the thief hanged by a florentine executioner borrowed for the purpose, no lucchese being able or willing to undertake so horrible an office, with terrifying circumstances of penitence and public reprehension: where the governed are so few in proportion to the governors; all power being circulated among four hundred and fifty nobles, and the whole country producing scarcely ninety thousand souls. a great boarding-school in england is really an infinitely more licentious place; and grosser immoralities are every day connived at in it, than are known to pollute this delicate and curious commonwealth; which keeps a council always subsisting, called the _discoli_, to examine the lives and conduct, professions, and even _health_ of their subjects: and once o'year they sweep the town of vagabonds, which till then are caught up and detained in a house of correction, and made to work, if hot disabled by lameness, till the hour of their release and dismission. i wondered there were so few beggars about, but the reason is now apparent: these we see are neighbours, come hither only for the three days gala. i was wonderfully solicitous to obtain some of their coin, which carries on it the image of no _earthly_ prince; but his head only who came to redeem us from general slavery on the one side, _jesus christ_; on the other, the word _libertas_. our peasant-girls here are in a new dress to me; no more jewels to be seen, no more pearls; the finery of which so dazzled me in tuscany: these wenches are prohibited such ornaments it seems. a muslin handkerchief, folded in a most becoming manner, and starched exactly enough to make it wear clean four days, is the head-dress of lucchese lasses; it is put on turban-wise, and they button their gowns close, with long sleeves _à la savoyarde_; but it is made often of a stiff brocaded silk, and green lapels, with cuffs of the same colour; nor do they wear any hats at all, to defend them from a sun which does undoubtedly mature the fig and ripen the vine, but which, by the same excess of power, exalts the venom of the viper, and gives the scorpion means to keep me in perpetual torture for fear of his poison, of which, though they assure us death is seldom the consequence among _them_, i know his sting would finish me at once, because the gnats at florence were sufficient to lame me for a considerable time. the dialect has lost much of the guttural sound that hurt one's ear at the last place of residence; but here is an odd squeaking accent, that distinguishes the tuscan of lucca. the place appropriated for airing, showing fine equipages, &c. is beautiful beyond all telling; from the peculiar shadows on the mountains. they make the bastions of the town their corso, but none except the nobles can go and drive upon one part of it. i know not how many yards of ground is thus let apart, sacred to sovereignty; but it makes one laugh. our inn here is an excellent one, as far as i am concerned; and the sallad-oil green, like irish usquebaugh, nothing was ever so excellent. i asked the french valet who dresses our hair, "_si ce n'etait pas une republique mignonne?_[x]"--"_ma foy, madame, je la trouve plus tôt la republique des rats et des souris[y];_" replies the fellow, who had not slept all night, i afterwards understood, for the noise those troublesome animals made in his room. footnotes: [footnote x: if it were not a dear little pretty commonwealth--this?] [footnote y: faith, madam, i call it the republic of the rats and mice.] pisa. this town has been so often described that it is as well known in england as in italy almost; where i, like others, have seen the magnificent cathedral; have examined the two pillars which support its entrance, and which once adorned diana's temple at ephesus, one of the seven wonders of the world. their carving is indeed beyond all idea of workmanship; and the possession of them is inestimable. i have seen the old stones with inscriptions on them, bearing date the reign of antoninus pius, stuck casually, some with the letters reversed, some sloping, according to accident merely, as it appears to me, in the body of the great church: and i have seen the leaning tower that lord chesterfield so comically describes our english travellers eagerness to see. it is a beautiful building though after all, and a strange thing that it should lean so. the cylindrical form, and marble pillars that support each story, may rationally enough attract a stranger's notice, and one is sorry the lower stories have sunk from their foundations, originally defective ones i trust they were, though, god knows, if the italians do not build towers well, it is not for want either of skill or of experience; for there is a tower to every town i think, and commonly fabricated with elaborate nicety and well-fixed bases. but as earthquakes and subterranean fires here are scarcely a wonder, one need not marvel much at seeing the ground retreat just _here_. it is nearer our hand, and quite as well worth our while to enquire, why the tower at _bridgnorth_ in shropshire leans exactly in the same direction, and is full as much out of the perpendicular as this at pisa. the brazen gates here, carved by john of bologna, at least begun by him, are a wonderful work; and the marbles in the baptistery beat those of florence for value and for variety. a good lapidary might find perpetual amusement in adjusting the claims of superiority to these precious columns of jasper, granite, alabaster, &c. the different animals which support the font being equally admirable for their composition as for their workmanship. the campo santo is an extraordinary place, and, for aught i know, unparalleled for its power over the mind in exciting serious contemplations upon the body's decay, and suggesting consolatory thoughts concerning the soul's immortality. here in three days, owing to quick-lime mixed among the earth, vanishes every vestige, every trace of the human being carried thither seventy hours before, and here round the walls giotto and cimabue have exhausted their invention to impress the passers-by with deep and pensive melancholy. the four stages of man's short life, infancy, childhood, maturity, and decrepit age, not ill represented by one of the ancient artists, shew the sad but not slow progress we make to this dark abode; while the last judgment, hell, and paradise inform us what events of the utmost consequence are to follow our journey. all this a modern traveller finds out to be _vastly ridiculous!_ though doctor smollet _(whose book i think he has read)_ confesses, that the spacious corridor round the campo santo di pisa would make the noblest walk in the world perhaps for a contemplative philosopher. the tomb of algarotti produces softer ideas when one looks at the sepulchre of a man who, having deserved and obtained such solid and extensive praise, modestly contented himself with desiring that his epitaph might be so worded, as to record, upon a simple but lasting monument, that he had the honour of being disciple to the immortal _newton_. the battle of the bridge here at pisa drew a great many spectators this year, as it has not been performed for a considerable time before: the waiters at our inn here give a better account of it than one should have got perhaps from cavalier or dama, who would have felt less interested in the business, and seen it from a greater distance. the armies of sant' antonio, and i think san giovanni battista, but i will not be positive as to the last, disputed the possession of the bridge, and fought gallantly i fancy; but the first remained conqueror, as our very conversible _camerieres_ took care to inform us, as it was on that side it seems that they had exerted their valour. calling theatres, and ships, and running horses, and mock fights, and almost every thing so by the names of saints, whom we venerate in silence, and they themselves publicly worship, has a most profane and offensive sound with it to be sure; and shocks delicate ears very dreadfully: and i used to reprimand my maids at milan for bringing up the blessed virgin mary's name on every trivial, almost on every ludicrous occasion, with a degree of sharpness they were not accustomed to, because it kept me in a constant shivering. yet let us reflect a moment on our own conduct in england, and we shall be forced candidly to confess that the puritans alone keep their lips unpolluted by breach of the third commandment, while the common exclamation of _good god!_ scrupled by few people on the slightest occurrences, and apparently without any temptation in the world, is no less than gross irreverence of his sacred name, whom we acknowledge to be father of all, in _every_ age in _every_ clime ador'd; by saint, by savage, and by sage, jehovah, jove, or lord. nor have the ladies at a london card-table italian ignorance to plead in their excuse; as not instruction but docility is wanted among almost all ranks of people in great britain, where, if the christian religion were practised as it is understood, little could be wished for its eternal, as little is left out among the blessings of its temporal welfare. i have been this morning to look at the grand duke's camels, which he keeps in his park as we do deer in england. there were a hundred and sixteen of them, pretty creatures! and they breed very well here, and live quite at their ease, only housing them the winter months: they are perfectly docile and gentle the man told me, apparently less tender of their young than mares, but more approachable by human creatures than even such horses as have been long at grass. that dun hue one sees them of, is, it seems, not totally and invariably the same, though i doubt not but it is so in their native deserts. let it once become a fashion for sovereigns and other great men to keep and to caress them, we shall see camels as variegated as cats, which in the woods are all of the uniformly-streaked tabby--the males inclining to the brown shade--the females to blue among them;--but being bred _down_, become tortoise-shell, and red, and every variety of colour, which domestication alone can bestow. the misery of tuscany is, that _all animals_ thrive so happily under this productive sun; so that if you scorn the zanzariere, you are half-devoured before morning, and so disfigured, that i defy one's nearest friends to recollect one's countenance; while the spiders sting as much as any of their insects; and one of them bit me this very day till the blood came. with all this not ill-founded complaint of these our active companions, my constant wonder is, that the grapes hang untouched this th of september, in vast heavy clusters covered with bloom; and unmolested by insects, which, with a quarter of this heat in england, are encouraged to destroy all our fruit in spite of the gardener's diligence to blow up nests, cover the walls with netting, and hang them about with bottles of syrup, to court the creatures in, who otherwise so damage every fig and grape and plum of ours, that nothing but the skins are left remaining _by now. here_ no such contrivances are either wanted or thought on; and while our islanders are sedulously bent to guard, and studious to invent new devices to protect their half dozen peaches from their half dozen wasps, the standard trees of italy are loaded with high-flavoured and delicious fruits. here figs sky-dy'd a purple hue disclose, green looks the olive, the pomegranate glows; here dangling pears exalted scents unfold, and yellow apples ripen into gold. the roadside is indeed hedged with festoons of vines, crawling from olive to olive, which they plant in the ditches of tuscany as we do willows in britain: mulberry trees too by the thousand, and some pollarded poplars serve for support to the glorious grapes that will now soon be gathered. what least contributes to the beauty of the country however, is perhaps most subservient to its profits. i am ashamed to write down the returns of money gained by the oil alone in this territory and that of lucca, where i was much struck with the colour as well as the excellence of this useful commodity. nor can i tell why none of that green cast comes over to england, unless it is, that, like essential oil of chamomile, it loses the tint by exposure to the air. an olive tree, however, is no elegantly-growing or happily-coloured plant: straggling and dusky, one is forced to think of its produce, before one can be pleased with its merits, as in a deformed and ugly friend or companion. the fogs now begin to fall pretty heavily in a morning, and rising about the middle of the day, leave the sun at liberty to exert his violence very powerfully. at night come forth the inhabitants, like dor-beetles at sunset on the coast of sussex; then is their season to walk and chat, and sing and make love, and run about the street with a girl and a guittar; to eat ice and drink lemonade; but never to be seen drunk or quarrelsome, or riotous. though night is the true season of italian felicity, they place not their happiness in brutal frolics, any more than in malicious titterings; they are idle and they are merry: it is, i think, the worst we can say of them; they are idle because there is little for them to do, and merry because they have little given them to think about. to the busy englishman they might well apply these verses of his own milton in the masque of comus: what have we with day to do? sons of care! 'twas made for you. leghorn. here we are by the sea-side once more, in a trading town too; and i should think myself in england almost, but for the difference of dresses that pass under my balcony: for here we were immediately addressed by a young english gentleman, who politely put us in possession of his apartments, the best situated in the town; and with him we talked of the dear coast of devonshire, agreed upon the resemblance between that and these environs, but gave the preference to home, on account of its undulated shore, finely fringed with woodlands, which here are wanting: nor is this verdure equal to ours in vivid colouring, or variegated with so much taste as those lovely hills which are adorned by the antiquities of powderham castle, and the fine disposition of lord lisburne's park. but here is an english consul at leghorn. yes indeed! an english chapel too; our own king's arms over the door, and in the desk and pulpit an english clergyman; high in character, eminent for learning, genteel in his address, and charitable in every sense of the word: as such, truly loved and honoured by those of his own persuasion, exceedingly respected by those of every other, which fill this extraordinary city: a place so populous, that cheapside alone can surpass it. it is not a large place however; one very long straight street, and one very large wide square, not less than lincoln's-inn-fields, but i think bigger, form the whole of leghorn; which i can compare to nothing but a _camera obscura,_ or magic lanthron, exhibiting prodigious variety of different, and not uninteresting figures, that pass and re-pass to my incessant delight, and give that sort of empty amusement which is _à la portée de chacun_[footnote: within every one's reach.] so completely, that for the present it really serves to drive every thing else from my head, and makes me little desirous to quit for any other diversion the windows or balcony, whence i look down now upon a levantine jew, dressed in long robes, a sort of odd turban, and immense beard: now upon a tuscan contadinella, with the little straw hat, nosegay and jewels, i have been so often struck with. here an armenian christian, with long hair, long gown, long beard, all black as a raven; who calls upon an old grey franciscan friar for a walk; while a greek woman, obliged to cross the street on some occasion, throws a vast white veil all over her person, lest she should undergo the disgrace of being seen at all. sometimes a group goes by, composed of a broad dutch sailor, a dry-starched puritan, and an old french officer; whose knowledge of the world and habitual politeness contrive to conceal the contempt he has of his companions. the geometricians tell us that the figure which has most angles bears the nearest resemblance to that which has no angles at all; so here at leghorn, where you can hardly find forty men of a mind, dispute and contention grow vain, a comfortable though temporary union takes place, while nature and opinion bend to interest and necessity. the _contorni_ of leghorn are really very pretty; the appenine mountains degenerate into hills as they run round the bay, but gain in beauty what in sublimity they lose. to enjoy an open sea view, one must drive further; and it really affords a noble prospect from that rising ground where i understand that the rich jews hold their summer habitations. they have a synagogue in the town, where i went one evening, and heard the hebrew service, and thought of what dr. burney says of their singing. it is however no credit to the tuscans to tell, that of all the people gathered together here, they are the worst-looking--i speak of the _men_--but it is so. when compared with the german soldiery, the english sailors, the venetian traders, the neapolitan peasants, for i have seen some of _them_ here, how feeble a fellow is a genuine florentine! and when one recollects the cottagers of lombardy, that handsome hardy race; bright in their expression, and muscular in their strength; it is still stranger, what can have weakened these too delicate tuscans so. as they are very rich, and might be very happy under the protection of a prince who lets slip no opportunity of preferring his plebeian to his patrician subjects; yet here at leghorn they have a tender frame and an unhealthy look, occasioned possibly by the stagnant waters, which tender the environs unwholesome enough i believe; and the millions of live creatures they produce are enough to distract a person not accustomed to such buzzing company. we went out for air yesterday morning three or four miles beyond the town-walls, where i looked steadily at the sea, till i half thought myself at home. the ocean being peculiarly british property favoured the idea, and for a moment i felt as if on our southern coast; we walked forward towards the shore, and i stepped upon some rocks that broke the waves as they rolled in, and was wishing for a good bathing house that one might enjoy the benefit of salt-water so long withheld; till i saw our _laquais de place_ crossing himself at the carriage door, and wondering, as i afterwards found out, at my matchless intrepidity. the mind however took another train of thought, and we returned to the coach, which when we arrived at i refused to enter; not without screaming i fear, as a vast hornet had taken possession in our absence, and the very notion of such a companion threw me into an agony. our attendant's speech to the coachman however, made me more than amends: "_ora si vede amico_" (says he), "_cos'è la donna; del mare istesso non hà paura è pur và in convulsioni per via d'una mosca_[z]." this truly tuscan and highly contemptuous harangue, uttered with the utmost deliberation, and added to the absence of the hornet, sent me laughing into the carriage, with great esteem of our philosophical _rosso_, for so the fellow was called, because he had red hair. footnotes: [footnote z: now, my friend, do but observe what a thing is a woman! she is not afraid even of the roaring ocean, and yet goes into fits almost at the sight of a fly.] in a very clear day, it is said, one may see corsica from hence, though not less than forty or fifty miles off: the pretty island gorgona however, whence our best anchovies are brought to england, lies constantly in view, assurgit ponti medio circumflua gorgon. rutelius's itinerary. how she came by that extraordinary name though, is not i believe well known; perhaps her likeness to one of the cape verd islands, the original hesperides, might be the cause; for it was _there_ the daughters of phorcus fixed their habitation: or may be, as medusa was called _gorgon par eminence_, because she applied herself to the enriching of ground, this fertile islet owes its appellation from being particularly manured and fructified. here is an extraordinary good opera-house; admirable dancers, who performed a mighty pretty pantomime comedie _larmoyante_ without words; i liked it vastly. the famous soprano singer bedini was at lucca; but here is our old london favourite signora giorgi, improved into a degree of perfection seldom found, and from her little expected. mr. udney the british consul is alone now; his lady has been obliged to leave him, and take her children home for health's sake; but we saw his fine collection of pictures, among which is a danae that once belonged to queen christina of sweden, and fell from her possession into that of some nobleman, who being tormented by scruples of morality upon his death-bed, resolved to part with all his undraped figures, but not liking to lose the face of this danae, put the picture into a painter's hands to cut and clothe her: the man, instead of obeying orders he considered as barbarous, copied the whole, and dressed the copy decently, sending it to his sick friend, who never discerned the trick; and kept the original to dispose of, where fewer scruples impeded an advantageous sale. the gentleman who bought it then, died; when mr. udney purchased danae, and highly values her; though some connoisseurs say she is too young and ungrown a female for the character. there is a titian too in the same collection, of cupid riding on a lion's back, to which some very remarkable story is annexed; but one's belief is so assailed by such various tales, told of all the striking pictures in italy, that one grows more tenacious of it every day i think; so that at last the danger will be of believing too little, instead of too much perhaps. happy for travellers would it be, were that disposition of mind confined to _painting_ only: but if it should prove extended to more serious subjects, we can only hope that the violent excess of the temptation may prove some excuse, or at least in a slight degree extenuate the offence: a wise man cannot believe half he hears in italy to be sure, but a pious man will be cautious not to discredit it all. our evening's walk was directed towards the burying-ground appointed here to receive the bodies of our countrymen, and consecrated according to the rites of the anglican church: for _here_, under protection of a factory, we enjoy that which is vainly sought for under the auspices of a king's ambassador.--_here_ we have a churchyard of our own, and are not condemned as at other towns in italy, to be stuffed into a hole like dogs, after having spent our money among them like princes. prejudice however is not banished from leghorn, though convenience keeps all in good-humour with each other. the italians fail not to class the subjects of great britain among the pagan inhabitants of the town, and to distinguish themselves, say, "_noi altri christiani_[footnote: we that are christians.]:" their aversion to a protestant, conceal it as they may, is ever implacable; and the last day only will convince them that it is criminal. _coelum non animum mutant_[footnote: one changes one's sky but not one's soul.], is an old observation; i passed this afternoon in confirming the truth of it among the english traders settled here: whose conversation, manners, ideas, and language, were so truly _londonish_, so little changed by transmigration, that i thought some enchantment had suddenly operated, and carried me to drink tea in the regions of _bucklersbury_. well! it is a great delight to see such a society subsisting in italy after all; established where distress may run for refuge, and sickness retire to prepare for lasting repose; whence narrowness of mind is banished by principles of universal benevolence, and prejudice precluded by christian charity: where the purse of the british merchant, ever open to the poor, is certain to succour and to soothe affliction; and where it is agreed that more alms are given by the natives of our island alone, than by all the rest of leghorn, and the palaces of pisa put together. i have here finished that work which chiefly brought me hither; the anecdotes of dr. johnson's life. it is from this port they take their flight for england, while we retire for refreshment to the bagni di pisa. but not only the waters here are admirable, every look from every window gives images unentertained before; sublimity happily wedded with elegance, and majestick greatness enlivened, yet softened by taste. the haughty mountain st. juliano lifting its brown head over our house on one side, the extensive plain stretched out before us on the other; a gravel walk neatly planted by the side of a peaceful river, which winds through a valley richly cultivated with olive yards and vines; and sprinkled, though rarely, with dwellings, either magnificent or pleasing: this lovely prospect, bounded only by the sea, makes a variety incessant as the changes of the sky; exhibiting early tranquillity, and evening splendour by turns. it was perhaps particularly delightful to me, to obtain once more a cottage in the country, after running so from one great city to another; and for the first week i did nothing but rejoice in a solitude so new, so salutiferous, so total. i therefore begged my husband not to hurry us to rome, but take the house we lived in for a longer term, as i would now play the english housewife in italy i said; and accordingly began calling the chickens and ducks under my window, tasted the new wine as it ran purple from the cask, caressed the meek oxen that drew it to our door; and felt sensations so unaffectedly pastoral, that nothing in romance ever exceeded my felicity. the cold bath here is the most delicate imaginable; of a moderate degree of coldness though, not three degrees below matlock surely; but omitting, simply enough, to carry a thermometer, one can measure the heat of nothing. our hot water here seems about the temperature of the queen's bath in somersetshire; it is purgative, not corroborant, they tell me; and its taste resembles cheltenham water exactly. these springs are much frequented by the court i find, and here are very tolerable accommodations; but it is not the season now, and our solitude is perfect in a place which beggars all description, where the mountains are mountains of marble, and the bushes on them bushes of myrtle; large as our hawthorns, and white with blossoms, as _they_ are at the same time of year in devonshire; where the waters are salubrious, the herbage odoriferous, every trodden step breathing immediate fragrance from the crushed sweets of thyme, and marjoram, and winter savoury: while the birds and the butterflies frolick around, and flutter among the loaded lemon, and orange, and olive trees, till imagination is fatigued with following the charms that surround one. i am come home this moment from a long but not tedious walk, among the crags of this glorious mountain; the base of which nearly reaches, within half a mile perhaps, to the territories of lucca. some country girls passed me with baskets of fruit, chickens, &c. on their heads. i addressed them as natives of the last-named place, saying i knew them to be such by their dress and air; one of them instantly replied, "_oh si, siamo lucchesi, noi altri; già si può vedere subito una reppubblicana, e credo bene ch'ella fe n' é accorta benissimo che siamo del paese della libertà_[aa]." [footnote aa: oh yes, we are lucca people sure enough, and i am persuaded that you soon saw in our faces that we come from a land of liberty.] i will add that these females wear no ornaments at all; are always proud and gay, and sometimes a little fancy too. the tuscan damsels, loaded with gold and pearls, have a less assured look, and appear disconcerted when in company with their freer neighbours--let them tell why. mean time my fairy dream of fantastic delight seems fading away apace. mr. piozzi has been ill, and of a putrid complaint in his throat, which above all things i should dread in this hot climate. this accident, assisted by other concurring circumstances, has convinced me that we are not shut up in measureless content as shakespeare calls it, even under st. julian's hill: for here was no help to be got in the first place, except the useless conversation of a medical gentleman whose accent and language might have pleased a disengaged mind, but had little chance to tranquilize an affrighted one. what is worse, here was no rest to be had, for the multitudes of vermin up stairs and below. when we first hired the house, i remember my maid jumping up on one of the kitchen chairs while a ragged lad cleared _that_ apartment for her of scorpions to the number of seventeen. but now the biters and stingers drive me _quite wild_, because one must keep the windows open for air, and a sick man can enjoy none of that, being closed up in the zanzariere, and obliged to respire the same breath over and over again; which, with a sore throat and fever, is most melancholy: but i keep it wet with vinegar, and defy the hornets how i can. what is more surprising than all, however, is to hear that no lemons can be procured for less than two pence english a-piece; and now i am almost ready to join myself in the general cry against italian imposition, and recollect the proverb which teaches us chi hà da far con tosco, non bisogna esser losco[ab]; [footnote ab: who has to do with tuscan wight, of both his eyes will need the light. ] as i am confident they cannot be worth even two pence a hundred here, where they hang like apples in our cyder countries; but the rogues know that my husband is sick, and upon poor me they have no mercy. i have sent our folks out to gather fruit at a venture: and now this misery will soon be ended with his illness; driven away by deluges of lemonade, i think, made in defiance of wasps, flies, and a kind of volant beetle, wonderfully beautiful and very pertinacious in his attacks; and who makes dreadful depredations on my sugar and currant-jelly, so necessary on this occasion of illness, and so attractive to all these detestable inhabitants of a place so lovely. my patient, however, complaining that although i kept these harpies at a distance, no sleep could yet be obtained;--i resolved when he was risen, and had changed his room, to examine into the true cause: and with my maid's assistance, unript the mattress, which was without exaggeration or hyperbole _all alive_ with creatures wholly unknown to me. non-descripts in nastiness i believe they are, like maggots with horns and tails; such a race as i never saw or heard of, and as would have disgusted mr. leeuenhoeck himself. my willingness to quit this place and its hundred-footed inhabitants was quickened three nights after by a thunder storm, such as no dweller in more northern latitudes can form an idea of; which, afflicted by some few slight shocks of an earthquake, frighted us all from our beds, sick and well, and gave me an opportunity of viewing such flashes of lightning as i had never contemplated till now, and such as it appeared impossible to escape from with life. the tremendous claps of thunder re-echoing among these appenines, which double every sound, were truly dreadful. i really and sincerely thought st. julian's mountain was rent by one violent stroke, accompanied with a rough concussion, and that the rock would fall upon our heads by morning; while the agonies of my english maid and the french valet, became equally insupportable to themselves and me; who could only repeat the same unheeded consolations, and protest our resolution of releasing them from this theatre of distraction the moment our departure should become practicable. mean time the rain fell, and such a torrent came tumbling down the sides of st. juliano, as i am persuaded no female courage could have calmly looked on. i therefore waited its abatement in a darkened room, packed up our coach without waiting to copy over the verses my admiration of the place had prompted, and drove forward to sienna, through pisa again, where our friends told us of the damages done by the tempest; and shewed us a pretty little church just out of town, where the officiating priest at the altar was saved almost by miracle, as the lightning melted one of the chalices completely, and twisted the brazen-gilt crucifix quite round in a very astonishing manner. here, however, is the proper place, if any, to introduce the poem of seventy-three short lines, calling itself an ode to society written in a state of perfect solitude, secluded from all mortal tread, as was our habitation at the bagni di pisa. ode to society. i. society! gregarious dame! who knows thy favour'd haunts to name? whether at paris you prepare the supper and the chat to share, while fix'd in artificial row, laughter displays its teeth of snow: grimace with raillery rejoices, and song of many mingled voices, till young coquetry's artful wile some foreign novice shall beguile, who home return'd, still prates of thee, light, flippant, french society. ii. or whether, with your zone unbound, you ramble gaudy venice round, resolv'd the inviting sweets to prove, of friendship warm, and willing love; where softly roll th' obedient seas, sacred to luxury and ease, in coffee-house or casino gay till the too quick return of day, th' enchanted votary who sighs for sentiments without disguise, clear, unaffected, fond, and free, in venice finds society. iii. or if to wiser britain led, your vagrant feet desire to tread with measur'd step and anxious care, the precincts pure of portman square; while wit with elegance combin'd, and polish'd manners there you'll find; the taste correct--and fertile mind: remember vigilance lurks near, and silence with unnotic'd sneer, who watches but to tell again your foibles with to-morrow's pen; till titt'ring malice smiles to see your wonder--grave society. iv. far from your busy crowded court, tranquillity makes her report; where 'mid cold staffa's columns rude, resides majestic solitude; or where in some sad brachman's cell, meek innocence delights to dwell, weeping with unexperienc'd eye, the death of a departed fly: or in _hetruria_'s heights sublime, where science self might fear to climb, but that she seeks a smile from thee, and wooes thy praise, society. v. thence let me view the plains below, from rough st. julian's rugged brow; hear the loud torrents swift descending, or mark the beauteous rainbow bending, till heaven regains its favourite hue, Æther divine! celestial blue! then bosom'd high in myrtle bower, view letter'd pisa's pendent tower; the sea's wide scene, the port's loud throng, of rude and gentle, right and wrong; a motley groupe which yet agree to call themselves society. vi. oh! thou still sought by wealth and fame, dispenser of applause and blame: while flatt'ry ever at thy side, with slander can thy smiles divide; far from thy haunts, oh! let me stray, but grant one friend to cheer my way, whose converse bland, whose music's art, may cheer my soul, and heal my heart; let soft content our steps pursue, and bliss eternal bound our view: pow'r i'll resign, and pomp, and glee, thy best-lov'd sweets--society. sienna. th october . we arrived here last night, having driven through the sweetest country in the world; and here are a few timber trees at last, such as i have not seen for a long time, the tuscan spirit of mutilation being so great, that every thing till now has been pollarded that would have passed twenty feet in height: this is done to support the vines, and not suffer their rambling produce to run out of the way, and escape the gripe of the gatherers. i have eaten too many of these delicious grapes however, and it is now my turn to be sick--no wonder, i know few who would resist a like temptation, especially as the inn afforded but a sorry dinner, whilst every hedge provided so noble a dessert. _paffera pur la malattia_[footnote: the disorder will die away though.], as these soft-mouthed people tell me; the sooner perhaps, as we are not here annoyed by insects, which poison the pleasure of other places in italy; here are only _lizards_, lovely creatures! who being of a beautiful light green colour upon the back and legs, reside in whole families at the foot of every tree, and turn their scarlet bosoms to the sun, as if to display the glories of colouring which his beams alone can bestow. the pleasing tales told of this pretty animal's amical disposition towards man are strictly true, i hear; and it is no longer ago than yesterday i was told an odd anecdote of a young farmer, who, carrying a basket of figs to his mistress, lay down in the field as he crossed it, quite overcome with the weather, and fell fast asleep. a serpent, attracted by the scent, twined round the basket, and would have bit the fellow as well as robbed him, had not a friendly lizard waked, and given him warning of the danger. swift says, that in the course of life he meets many asses, but they have not _lucky names_. i have met many _vipers, and so few lizards_, it is surprising! but they will not live in london. all the stories one has ever heard of sweetness in language and delicacy in pronunciation, fall short of siennese converse. the girls who wait on us at the inn here, would be treasures in england, could one get them thither; and they need move nothing but their tongues to make their fortunes. i told rosetta so, and said i would steal from them a poor girl of eight years old, whom they kept out of charity, and called olympia, to be my language mistress, "_battezata com' è, la lascieremo christiana_[ac]," was the answer. it is impossible, without their manners, to express their elegance, their superior delicacy, graceful without diffusion, and terse without laconicism. you ask the way to the town of a peasant girl, and she replies, "_passato'l ponte, o pur barcato'l fiume, eccola a sienna_[ad]." and as we drove towards the city in the evening, our postillion sung improviso verses on his sweetheart, a widow who lived down at pistoja, they told me. i was ashamed to think that no desk or study was likely to have produced better on so trite a subject. candour must confess, however, that no thought was new, though the language made them for a moment seem so. footnotes: [footnote ac: being baptized as she is, we will leave her a christian.] [footnote ad: the bridge once passed, or the river crossed, sienna lies before you.] this town is neat and cleanly, and comfortable and airy. the prospect from the public walks wants no beauty but water; and here is a suppressed convent on the neighbouring hill, where we half-longed to build a pretty cottage, as the ground is now to be disposed of vastly cheap; and half one's work is already done in the apartments once occupied by friars. with half a word's persuasion i should fix for life here. the air is so pure, the language so pleasing, the place so inviting;--_but we drive on_. there is, mean time, resident in the neighbourhood an english gentleman, his name greenfield, who has formed to himself a mighty sweet habitation in the english taste, but not extensive, as his property don't reach far: he is however a sort of little oracle in the country i am told; gives money, and dispenses james's powders to the poor, is happy in the esteem of numberless people of fashion, and the comfort of his country people's lives beside; who, travelling to sienna, as many do for the advantage of studying italian to perfection, find a friend and companion where perhaps it is least expected. the cathedral here at sienna deserves a volume, and i shall scarcely give it a page. the pavement of it is the just pride of italy, and may challenge the world to produce its equal. st. mark's at venice floored with precious stones dies away upon the comparison; this being all inlaid with dove-coloured and white marbles representing historical subjects not ill told. were this operation performed in mosaic work, others of rival excellence might be found. the pavement of sienna's dome is so disposed by an effort of art one never saw but here, that it produces an effect most resembling that of a very fine and beautiful damask table-cloth, where the large patterns are correctly drawn. _rome_ however is to be our next stage, and many of our english gentlemen now here, are with ourselves impatiently waiting for the numberless pleasures it is expected to afford us. i will here close this chapter upon our various desires; one wishing to see st. peters; one setting his heart upon entering the capitol: to-morrow's sun will light us all upon our search. rome. the first sleeping place between sienna and this capital shall not escape mentioning; its name is radicosani, its title an inn, and its situation the summit of an exhausted volcano. such a place did i never see. the violence of the mountain, when living, has split it in a variety of places, and driven it to a breadth of base beyond credibility, its height being no longer formidable. whichever way you turn your eyes, nothing but portions of this black rock appear therefore; so here is extent without sublimity, and here is terror mingled with disgust. the inside of the house is worthy of the prospect seen from its windows; wild, spacious, and scantily provided. never had place so much the appearance of a haunted hall, where sir rowland or sir bertrand might feel proud of their courage when the knight advancing strikes the fatal door, and hollow chambers send a sullen roar. merry to this truly dismal reposing place is however kindly added a little chapel; and few persons can imagine what a comfortable feel it gave me on entering it in the morning after hearing the winds howl all night in the black mountain. here too we first made acquaintance with signor giovanni ricci, a mighty agreeable gentleman, who was kindly assistant to us in a hundred little difficulties, afterwards occasioned by horses, postillions, &c. which at last brought us through a bad country enough to viterbo, where we slept. the melancholy appearance of the campagna has been remarked and described by every traveller with displeasure, by all with truth. the ill look of the very few and very unhealthy inhabitants confirms their descriptions; and beside the pale and swelled faces which shock one's sight, here is a brassy scent in the air as of verdigris, which offends one's smell; the running water is of an odd colour too, like that in which copper has been steeped. these are sad desolated scenes indeed, though this is not the season for _mal' aria_ neither, which, it is said, begins in may, and ends with september. the present sovereign is mending matters as fast as he can, we hear; and the road now cutting, will greatly facilitate access to his capital, but cannot be done without a prodigious expence. the first view of rome is wonderfully striking. ye awful wrecks of ancient times! proud monuments of ages past now mould'ring in decay. merry. but mingled with every crowding, every classical idea, comes to one's recollection an old picture painted by r. wilson about thirty years ago, which i am now sure must have been a very excellent representation. well, then! here we are, admirably lodged at strofani's in the piazza di spagna, and have only to chuse what we will see and talk on first among this galaxy of rarities which dazzles, diverts, confounds, and nearly fatigues one. i will speak of the oldest things first, as i was earnest to see something of rome in its very early days, if possible; for example the sublician bridge, defended by cocles when the infant republic, like their favourite hercules in his cradle, strangled the serpent despotism: and of this bridge some portion may yet be seen when the water is very low. the prison is more ancient still however; it was built by the kings; and by the solidity of its walls, and depth of its dungeon, seems built for eternity. was it not this place to which juvenal alludes, when he says, felicia dicas tempora quæ quondam sub regibus atque tribunis viderunt uno contentam carcere romam. and it is in this horrible spot they shew you the miraculous mark of st. peter's head struck against the wall in going down, with the fountain which burst out of the ground for his refreshment. antiquaries, however, assure us, that he could not have ever been confined there, as it was a place for state prisoners only, and those of the highest rank: they likewise tell us that jugurtha passed seven months there, which is as difficult to believe as any miracle ever wrought; for the world was at least somewhat civilized in those days, and how it should be contented with looking quietly on whilst a prince of jugurtha's consequence should be so kept, appears incredible at the distance of years. that christians should be treated still worse, if worse could be found for them, is less strange, when every step one treads is upon the bones of martyrs; and who dares say that the surrounding campagna, so often drenched in innocent blood, may not have been cursed with pestilence and sterility to all succeeding ages? i have examined the place where sylla massacred fellow-citizens at once, and find that it produces no herb but thistles, a weed almost unknown in any other part of italy; and one of the first punishments bestowed on sinful man. marcellus's theatre, an old fountain erected by camillus when dictator, and the tarpeian rock, attract attention powerfully: the last particularly, where brave manlius stood, and hurl'd indignant decads down, and redden'd tyber's flood. greatheed. people have never done contradicting burnet, who says, in his travels, that a man might jump down it now and not do himself much harm: the truth is, its present appearance is not formidable; but i believe it is not less than forty feet high at this moment, though the ground is greatly raised. of all things at rome the cloaca is acknowledged most ancient; a very great and a very useful work it is, of ancus martius, fourth king of rome. the just and zealous detestation of christians towards pontius pilate, is here comically expressed by their placing his palace just at its exit into the tyber; and one who pretended to doubt of its being his residence, would be thought the worse of among them. i recollect nothing else built before the days of the emperors, who, for the most part, were such disgracers of human nature and human reason, that one would almost wish their names expunged, and all their deeds obliterated from the face of the globe, which could ever tamely submit to such truly wretched rulers. the capitol, built by tarquin, stood till the days of marius and sylla it seems; that last-named dictator erected a new one, which was overthrown in the contests about vitellius; vespasian set it up again, but his performance was burned soon after its author's death; and this we contemplate now, is one of the works of domitian, and celebrated by martial of course. adrian however added one room to it, dedicated to egyptian deities alone: as a matter of mere taste i fancy, like our introducing chinese temples into the garden; but many hold that it was very serious and superstitious regard, inspired by the victory canopus won over the persian divinity of fire, by the subtlety of the egyptian priests, who, to defend their idol from that all-subduing element, wisely set upon his head a vessel filled with water, and having previously made the figure of terra cotta hollow, and full of water, with holes bored at the bottom stopped only by wax to keep it in, a seeming miracle extinguished the flames, as soon as approached by canopus; whose triumph was of course proclaimed, and he respected accordingly. the figure was a monkey, whose sitting attitude favoured the imposture: our antiquaries tell us the story after _suidas_. as cruelty is more detestable than fraud, one feels greater disgust at the sight of captive monarchs without hands and arms, than even these idolatrous brutalities inspire; and no greater proof can be obtained of roman barbarity, than the statues one is shewn here of kings and generals over whom they triumphed; being made on purpose for them without hands and arms, of which they were deprived immediately on their arrival at rome. enormous heads and feet, to which the other parts are wanting, let one see, or at least guess; what colossal figures were once belonging to them; yet somehow these celebrated artists seem to me to have a little confounded the ideas of _big_ and _great_ like my countryman fluellyn in shakespear's play: while the two famous demi-gods castor and pollux, each his horse in his hand, stand one on each side the stairs which lead to the capitol, and are of a prodigious size--fifteen feet, as i remember. the knowing people tell us they are portraits, and bid us observe that one has pupils to his eyes, the other _not_; but our _laquais de place_, who was a very sensible fellow too, as he saw me stand looking at them, cried out, "why now to be sure here are a vast many miracles in this holy city--that there are:" and i heard one of our own folks telling an englishman the other day, how these two monstrous statues, horses and all i believe, _came out of an egg_: a very extraordinary thing certainly; but it is our business to believe, not to enquire. he saw my countenance express something he did not like, and continued, "_eh basta! sarà stato un uovo strepitoso, è cosi sinisce l'istoria_[ae]." [footnote ae: well, well! it was a famous egg we'll say, and there's an end.] in this repository of wonders, this glorious _campidoglio_, one is first shewn as the most valuable curiosity, the two pigeons mentioned by pliny in old mosaic; and of prodigious nicety is the workmanship, though done at such a distant period: and here is the very wolf which bears the very mark of the lightning mentioned by cicero:--and here is the beautiful antinous again; _he_ meets one at every turn, i think, and always hangs his head as if ashamed: here too is the dying gladiator; wonderfully fine! savage valour! mean extraction! horrible anguish! all marking, all strongly characteristical expressions--_all there_; yet all swallowed up, in that which does inevitably and certainly swallow up all things--approaching death. the collection of pictures here would put any thing but these statues out of one's head: guido's fortune flying over the globe, scattering her gifts; of which she gave him _one_, the most precious, the most desirable. how elegantly gay and airy is this picture! but st. sebastian stands opposite, to shew that he could likewise excel in the pathetic. titian's famous magdalen, of which the king of france boasts one copy, a noble family at venice another, is protested by the roman connoisseurs to reside here only; but why should not the artist be fond of repeating so fine an idea? guercino's sybil however, intelligently pensive, and sweetly sensible, is the single figure i should prefer to them all. before we quit the capitol, it is pity not to name marforio; broken, old, and now almost forgotten: though once companion, or rather respondent to pasquin, and once, a thousand years before those days, a statue of the river _nar_, as his recumbent posture testifies; not _mars in the forum_, as has been by some supposed. the late pope moved him from the street, and shut him up with his betters in the capitol. of trajan and antonine's pillars what can one say? that st. peter and st. paul stand on the tops of each, setting forth that uncertainty of human affairs which they preached in their life-time, and shewing that _they_, who were once the objects of contempt and abhorrence, are now become literally _the head stones of the corner_; being but too profoundly venerated in that very city, which once cruelly persecuted, and unjustly put them to death. let us then who look on them recollect their advice, and set our affections on a place of greater stability. the columns are of very unequal excellence, that of trajan's confessedly the best; one grieves to think he never saw it himself, as few princes were less puffed up by well-deserved praise than he; but dying at seleucia of a dysenteric fever, his ashes were brought home, and kept on the top of his own pillar in a gilt vase; which sextus quintus with more zeal than taste took down, i fear destroyed, and placed st. peter there. apollodorus was the architect of the elegant structure, on which, says ammianus marcellinus, the gods themselves gazed with wonder, seeing that nothing but heaven itself was finer. "_singularem sub omni cælo structuram etiam numinum ascensione mirabilem_." i know not whether this is the proper place to mention that the good pope gregory, who added to the possession of every cardinal virtue the exertion of every christian one, having looked one day with peculiar stedfastness at this column, and being naturally led to reflect on his character to whose honour it was erected, felt just admiration of a mind so noble; and retiring to his devotions in a church not far off, began praying earnestly for trajan's soul: till a preternatural voice, accompanied with rays of light round the altar he knelt at, commanded his forbearance of further solicitation; assuring him that trajan's soul was secure in the care of his creator. strange! that those who record, and give credit to such a story, can yet continue as a duty their intercessions for the dead! but i have seen the coliseo, which would swallow that of pretty verona; it is four times as large i am told, and would hold fourscore thousand spectators. after all the depredations of all the goths, and afterwards of the farnese family, the ruin is gloriously beautiful; possibly more beautiful than when it was quite whole; there is enough left now for truth to repose upon, and a perch for fancy beside, to fly out from, and fetch in more. the orders of its architecture are easily discerned, though the height of the upper story is truly tremendous; i climbed it once, not to the top indeed, but till i was afraid to look down from the place i was in, and penetrated many of its recesses. the modern italians have not lost their taste of a prodigious theatre; were they once more a single nation, they would rebuild _this_ i fancy; for here are all the conveniencies in _grande_, as they call it, that amaze one even in _piccolo_ at milan and turin: here were supper-rooms, and taverns, and shops, and i believe baths; certainly long galleries big enough to drive a coach round, and places where slaves waited to receive the commands of masters and ladies, who perhaps if they did not wait to please them, would scarcely scruple to detain them in the cage of offenders, and keep them to make sport upon a future day. the cruelties then exercised on servants at rome were truly dreadful; and we all remember reading that in augustus's time, when he did a private friend the honour to dine with him, one of the waiters broke a glass he was about to present full of liquor to the king; at which offence the master being enraged, suddenly caused him to be seized by the rest, and thrown instantly out of the window to feed his lampreys, which lived in a pond on which the apartment looked. augustus said nothing at the moment; to punish the nobleman's inhumanity however, he sent his officers next morning to break every glass in the house: a curious chastisement enough, and worthy of a nation who, being powerful to erect, populous to fill, and elegantly-skilful to adorn such a fabric as this coliseum which i have just been contemplating, were yet contented and even happy to view from its well-arranged seats, exhibitions capable of giving nothing but disgust and horror;--lions rending unarmed wretches in pieces; or, to the still deeper disgrace of poor humanity, those wretches armed unwillingly against each other, and dying to divert a brutal populace. these reflections upon pagan days and classical cruelties do not disturb however the peace of an old hermit, who has chosen one of these close-concealed recesses for his habitation, and accordingly dwells, dismally enough, in a hole seldom visited by travellers, and certainly never enquired about by the natives. i stumbled on his strange apartment by mere chance, and asked him why he had chosen it? he had been led in early youth, he said, to reflect upon the miseries suffered by the original professors of christianity; the tortures inflicted on them in this horrible amphitheatre, and the various vicissitudes of rome since: that he had dedicated himself to these meditations: that he had left the world seventeen years, never stirring from his cell but to buy food, which he eat alone and sparingly, and to pay his devotions in the _via crucis_, for so the old arena is now called; a simple plain wooden cross occupying the middle of it, and round the circus twelve neat, not splendid chapels; a picture to each, representing the various stages of our saviour's passion. such are the meek triumphs of our meek religion! and that such substitutes should have replaced the african savages, tigers, hyænas, &c. and roman gladiators, not less ferocious than their four-legged antagonists, i am quite as willing to rejoice at as the hermit: they must be better antiquarians too than i am, who regret that a nunnery now covers the spot where ambitious tullia drove over the bleeding body of her murdered parent, pressit et inductis membra paterna rotis: that nunnery, supported by the arch of nerva, which is all that is now left standing of that emperor's forum. i must not however quit the coliseum, without repeating what passed between the king of sweden and his roman _laquais de place_ when he was here; and the fellow, in the true cant of his ciceroneship, exclaimed as they looked up, "_ah maesta!_ what cursed goths those were that tore away so many fine things here, and pulled down such magnificent pillars, &c." "hold, hold friend," replies the king of sweden; "i am one of those cursed goths myself you know: but what were your roman nobles a-doing, i would ask, when they laboured to destroy an edifice like this, and build their palaces with its materials?" the baths of livia are still elegantly designed round her small apartments; and one has copies sold of them upon fans; the curiosity of the original is to see how well the gilding stands; in many places it appears just finished. these baths are difficult of access somehow; i never could quite understand how we got in or out of them, but they did belong to the imperial palace, which covered this whole palatine hill, and here was nero's golden house, by what i could gather, but of that i thank heaven there is no trace left, except some little portion of the wall, which was feet high, and some marbles in shades, like women's worsted work upon canvass, very curious, and very wonderful; as all are natural marbles, and no dye used: the expence must have surpassed credibility. the temple of vesta, supposed to be the _very_ temple to which horace alludes in his second ode, is a pretty rotunda, and has twenty pillars fluted of parian marble: it is now a church, as are most of the heathen temples. such adaptations do not please one, but then it must be allowed and recollected that one is very hard to please: finding fault is so easy, and doing right so difficult! the good pope gregory, who feared (by sacred inspiration one would think) all which should come to pass, broke many beautiful antique statues, "lest," said he, "induced by change of dress or name perhaps our christians may be tempted to adore them:" and we say he was a blockhead, and burned livy's decads, and so he did; but he refused all titles of earthly dignity; he censured the oriental patriarchs for substituting temporal splendours in the place of primitive simplicity; which he said ought _alone_ to distinguish the followers of jesus christ. he required a strict attention to morality from all his inferior clergy; observed that those who strove to be first, would end in being last; and took himself the title of servant to the servants of god. well! sabinian, his successor, once his favourite nuncio, flung his books in the fire as soon as he was dead; so his injunctions were obeyed but while he lived to enforce them; and every day now shews us how necessary they were: when, even in these enlightened times, there stands an old figure that every abate in the town knows to have been originally made for the fabulous god of physic, esculapius, is prayed to by many old women and devotees of all ages indeed, just at the via sacra's entrance, and called st. bartolomeo. a beautiful diana too, with her trussed-up robes, the crescent alone wanting, stands on the high altar to receive homage in the character of st. agnes, in a pretty church dedicated to her _fuor delle porte_, where it is supposed she suffered martyrdom; and why? why for not venerating that _very goddess diana_, and for refusing to walk in her procession at the _new moon_, like a good christian girl. "_such contradictions put one from one's self_" as shakespear says. we are this moment returned home from tivoli; have walked round adrian's villa, and viewed his hippodrome, which would yet make an admirable open manège. i have seen the cascatelle, so sweetly elegant, so rural, so romantic; and i have looked with due respect on the places once inhabited, and ever justly celebrated by genius, wit, and learning; have shuddered at revisiting the spot i hastened down to examine, while curiosity was yet keen enough to make me venture a very dangerous and scarcely-trodden path to neptune's grotto; where, as you descend, the cicerone shews you a wheel of some coarse carriage visibly stuck fast in the rock till it is become a part of it; distinguished from every other stone only by its shape, its projecting forward, and its shewing the hollow places in its fellies, where nails were originally driven. this truly-curious, though little venerable piece of antiquity, serves to assist the wise men in puzzling out the world's age, by computing how many centuries go to the petrifying a cart wheel. a violent roar of dashing waters at the bottom, and a fall of the river at this place from the height of feet, were however by no means favourable to my arithmetical studies; and i returned perfectly disposed to think the world's age a less profitable, a less diverting contemplation, than its folly. we looked at the temple of the old goddess that cured coughs, now a christian church, dedicated to _la madonna della tosse_; it is exactly all it ever was, i believe; and we dined in the temple of sibylla tiburtina, a beautiful edifice, of which mr. jenkins has sent the model to london in cork, which gives a more exact representation after all than the best-chosen words in the world. i would rather make use of _them_ to praise mr. jenkins's general kindness and hospitality to all his country-folks, who find a certain friend in him; and if they please, a very competent instructor. in order however to understand the meaning of some spherical _pots_ observed in the circus of caracalla, i chose above all men to consult mr. greatheed, whose correct taste, deep research, and knowledge of architecture, led me to prefer his account to every other, of their use and necessity: it shall be given in his own words, which i am proud of his permission to copy. "of those _pots_ you mention, there are not any remaining in the circus maxiouis, as the walls, seats and apodium of that have entirely disappeared. they are to be seen in the circus of caracalla, on the appian way; of this, and of this alone, enough still exists to ascertain the form, structure, and parts of a roman course. it was surrounded by two parallel walls which supported the seats of the spectators. the exterior wall rose to the summit of the gallery; the interior one was much lower, terminated with the lowest rows, and formed the apodium. this rough section may serve to elucidate my description. from wall to wall an arch was turned which formed a quadrant, and on this the seats immediately rested: but as the upper rows were considerably distant from the crown of the arch, it was necessary to fill the intermediate space with materials sufficiently strong to support the upper stone benches and the multitude. had these been of solid substance, they would have pressed prodigious and disproportionate weight on the summit of the arch, a place least able to endure it from its horizontal position. to remedy this defect, the architect caused _spherical pots_ to be baked; of these each formed of itself an arch sufficiently powerful to sustain its share of the incumbent weight, and the whole was rendered much less ponderous by the innumerable vacuities. [illustration] "a similiar expedient was likewise used to diminish the pressure of their domes, by employing the scoriæ of lava brought for that purpose from the lipari islands. the numberless bubbles of this volcanic substance give it the appearance of a honeycomb, and answer the same purpose as the pots in caracalla's circus, so much so, that though very hard, it is of less specific gravity than wood, and consequently floats in water." before i quit the circus of caracalla, i must not forbear mentioning his bust, which so perfectly resembles hogarth's idle 'prentice; but why should they not be alike? for black-guards are black-guards in every degree, i suppose, and the people here who shew one things, always take delight to souce an englishman's hat upon his head, as if they thought so too. this morning's ramble let us to see the old grotto, sacred to numa's famous nymph, Ægeria, not far from rome even now. i wonder that it should escape being built round when rome was so extensive as to contain the crowds which we are told were lodged in it. that the city spread chiefly the other way, is scarce an answer. london spreads chiefly the marybone way perhaps, yet is much nearer to rumford than it was fifty or sixty years ago. the same remark may be made of the temple of mars without the walls, near the porta capena: a rotunda it was on the road side _then_: it is on the road side _now_, and a very little way from the gate. caius cestius's sepulchre however, without the walls, on the other side, is one of the most perfect remains of antiquity we have here. aurelian made use of that as a boundary we know: it stands at present half without and half within the limit that emperor set to the city; and is a very beautiful pyramid a hundred and ten feet high, admirably represented in piranesi's prints, with an inscription on the white marble of which it is composed, importing the name and office and condition of its wealthy proprietor: _c. cestius, septem vir epulonum_. he must have lived therefore since julius caesar's time it is plain, as he first increased the number of epulones to seven, from three their original institution. it was probably a very lucrative office for a man to be jupiter's caterer; who, as he never troubled himself with looking over the bills, they were such commonly, i doubt not, as made ample profits result to him who went to market; and caius cestius was one of the rich contractors of those days, who neglected no opportunity of acquiring wealth for himself, while he consulted the honour of jupiter in providing for his master's table very plentiful and elegant banquets. that such officers were in use too among the persians during the time their monarchy lasted, is plain from the apocryphal story of bel and the dragon in our bibles, where, to the joy of every child that reads it, daniel detects the fraud of the priests by scattering ashes or saw-dust in the temple. but i fear the critics will reprove me for saying that julius caesar only increased the number to seven, while many are of opinion he added three more, and made them a decemvirate: mean time livy tells us the institution began in the year of rome , during the consulate of fulvius purpurio and marcellus, upon a motion of romuleius if i remember. they had the privilege granted afterwards of edging the gown with purple like the pontiffs, when increased to seven in number; and they were always known by the name _septemviratus,_ or _septemviri epulonum_, to the latest hours of paganism. the tomb of caius cestius is supposed to have cost twelve thousand pounds sterling of our money in those days; and little did he dream that it should be made in the course of time a repository for the bones of _divisos orbe britannos_: for such it is now appointed to be by government. all of us who die at rome, sleep with this purveyor of the gods; and from his monument shall at the last day rise the re-animated body of our learned and incomparable sir james macdonald: whose numerous and splendid acquirements, though by the time he had reached twenty-four years old astonished all who knew him, never overwhelmed one little domestic virtue. his filial piety however; his hereditary courage, his extensive knowledge, his complicated excellencies, have now, i fear, no other register to record their worth, than a low stone near the stately pyramid of jupiter's caterer. the tomb of cæcilia metella, wife of the rich and famous crassus, claims our next attention; it is a beautiful structure, and still called _capo di bove_ by the italians, on account of its being ornamented with the _oxhead and flowers_ which now flourish over every door in the new-built streets of london; but the original of which, as livy tells us, and i believe plutarch too, was this. that coratius, a sabine farmer, who possessed a particularly fine cow, was advised by a soothsayer to sacrifice her to diana upon the aventine hill; telling him, that the city where _she_ now presided--_diana_--should become mistress of the world, and he who presented her with that cow should become master over that city. the poor sabine went away to wash in the tyber, and purify himself for these approaching honours[af]; but in the mean time, a boy having heard the discourse, and reported it to _servius tullius_, he hastened to the spot, killed coratius's cow for him, sacrificed her to diana, and hung her head with the horns on, and the garland just as she died, upon the temple door as an ornament. from that time, it seems, the ornament called _caput bovis_ was in a manner consecrated to diana, and her particular votaries used it on their tombs. nor could one easily account for the decorations of many roman sarcophagi, till one recollects that they were probably adapted to that divinity in whose temple they were to be placed, rather than to the particular person occupying the tomb, or than to our general ideas of death, time, and eternity. it is probably for this reason that the immense sarcophagus lately dug up from under the temple of bacchus without the walls, cut out of one solid piece of red porphyry, has such gay ornaments round it, relative to the sacrifices of bacchus, &c.; and i fancy these stone coffins, if we may call them so, were often made ready and sold to any person who wished to bury their friend, and who chose some story representing the triumph of whatever deity they devoted themselves to. were the modern inhabitants of rome who venerate st. lorenzo, st. sebastiano, &c. to place, not uncharacteristically at all--a gridiron, or an arrow on their tombstone, it might puzzle succeeding antiquarians, and yet be nothing out of the way in the least. [footnote af: a circumstance alluded to and parodied by ben johnson in his alchemist. see the conduct of dapper, &c.] of the egyptian obelisks at rome i will not strive to give any account, or even any idea. they are too numerous, too wonderful, too learned for me to talk about; but i must not forbear to mention the broken thing which lies down somewhere in a heap of rubbish, and is said to be the greatest rarity in rome, column, or _obelisk_ and the greatest antiquity surely, if years before the birth of christ be its date; as that was but two centuries after the invention of letters by _memnon_, and just about the time that joseph the favourite of pharaoh died. there is a sphinx upon it, however, mighty clearly expressed; and some one said, how strange it was, if the world was no older than we think it, that they should, in so early a stage of existence, represent, or even imagine to themselves a compound animal[ag]: though the chimæra came in play when the world was pretty young too, and the prophet isaiah speaks of centaurs; but that was long after even hesiod's time. [footnote ag: the ornaments of the ark and tabernacle exhibit much improvement in the arts of engraving, carving, &c. nor did it seem to cost aaron any trouble to make a cast of apis in the wilderness for the israelites' amusement, years before christ; while the dog anubis was probably another figure with which moses was not unacquainted, and that was certainly composite: a cynopephalus i believe.] a modern traveller has however, with much ingenuity of conjecture, given us an excellent reason why the sphinx was peculiar to egypt, as the nile was observed to overflow when the sun was in those signs of the zodiack: the lion virgin sphinx, which shows what time the rich nile overflows. and sure i think, as people lived longer then than they do now; as moses was contemporary with cecrops, so that monarchy and a settled form of government had begun to obtain footing in greece, and apparently migrated a little westward even then; that this column might have employed the artists of those days, without any such exceeding stretch of probability as our modern aristotelians study to make out, from their zeal to establish his doctrine of the world's eternity. while, if conjecture were once as liberally permitted to believers as it is generously afforded to scepticks, i know not whether a hint concerning sphinx's original might not be deduced from old israel's last blessing to his sons; _the lion of judah_, with the _head of a virgin_, in whose offspring that lion was one day to sink and be lost, except his hinder parts; might naturally enough grow into a favourite emblem among the inhabitants of a nation who owed their existence to one of the family; and who would be still more inclined to commemorate the mystical blessing, if they observed the fructifying inundation to happen regularly, as mr. savary says, when the sun left leo for virgo. the broken pillar has however carried me too far perhaps, though every day passed in the pope's musæum confirms my belief, nay certainty, that they did mingle the veneration of joseph with that of their own gods: the bushel or measure of corn on the egyptian jupiter's head is a proof of it, and the name _serapis_, a further corroboration: the dream which he explained for pharaoh relative to the event that fixed his favour in that country, was expressed by _cattle_; and _for apis_, the _ox's head_, was perfectly applicable to him for every reason. but we will quit mythology for the corso. this is the first town in italy i have arrived at yet, where the ladies fairly drive up and down a long street by way of shewing their dress, equipages, &c. without even a pretence of taking fresh air. at turin the view from the place destined to this amusement, would tempt one out merely for its own sake; and at milan they drive along a planted walk, at least a stone's throw beyond the gates. bologna calls its serious inhabitants to a little rising ground, whence the prospect is luxuriantly verdant and smiling. the lucca bastions are beyond all in a peculiar style of miniature beauty; and even the florentines, though lazy enough, creep out to porto st. gallo. but here at roma la santa, the street is all our corso; a fine one doubtless, and called the _strada del popolo_, with infinite propriety, for except in that strada there is little populousness enough god knows. twelve men to a woman even there, and as many ecclesiastics to a lay-man: all this however is fair, when celibacy is once enjoined as a duty in one profession, encouraged as a virtue in all. where females are superfluous, and half prohibited, it were as foolish to complain of the decay of population, as it was comical in omai the south american savage, when he lamented that no cattle bred upon their island; and one of our people replying, that they left some beasts on purpose to furnish them; he answered, "yes, but the idol worshipped at bola-bola, another of the islands, insisted on the males and females living separate: so they had sent _him_ the cows, and kept only the bulls at home." _au reste_, as the french say, we must not be too sure that all who dress like abates are such. many gentlemen wear black as the court garb; many because it is not costly, and many for reasons of mere convenience and dislike of change. i see not here the attractive beauty which caught my eye at venice; but the women at rome have a most juno-like carriage, and fill up one's idea of livia and agrippina well enough. the men have rounder faces than one sees in other towns i think; bright, black, and somewhat prominent eyes, with the finest teeth in europe. a story told me this morning struck my fancy much; of an herb-woman, who kept a stall here in the market, and who, when the people ran out flocking to see the queen of naples as she passed, began exclaiming to her neighbours--"_ah, povera roma! tempo fù quando passò qui prigioniera la regina zenobia; altra cosa amica, robba tutta diversa di questa_ reginuccia[ah]!" [footnote ah: "ah, poor degraded rome! time was, my dear, when the great zenobia passed through these streets in chains; anotherguess figure from this little queeney, in good time!"] a characteristic speech enough; but in this town, unlike to every other, the _things_ take my attention all away from the _people_; while, in every other, the people have had much more of my mind employed upon them, than the things. the arch of constantine, however, must be spoken of; the sooner, because there is a contrivance at the top of it to conceal musicians, which added, as it passed, to the noise and gaiety of the triumph. lord scarsdale's back front at keddlestone exhibits an imitation of this structure; a motto, expressive of hospitality, filling up the part which, in the original, is adorned with the siege of verona, that to me seems well done; but michael angelo carried off trajan's head they tell us, which had before been carried thither from the arch of trajan himself. the arch of titus vespasian struck me more than all the others we have named though; less for its being the first building in which the composite order of architecture is made use of, among the numberless fabrics that surround one, than for the evident completion of the prophecies which it exhibits. nothing can appear less injured by time than the bas-reliefs, on one side representing the ark, and golden candlesticks; on the other, titus himself, delight of human kind, drawn by four horses, his look at once serene and sublime. the jews cannot endure, i am told, to pass under this arch, so lively is the _annihilation_ of their government, and utter _extinction_ of their religion, carved upon it. when reflecting on the continued captivity they have suffered ever since this arch was erected here at rome, and which they still suffer, being strictly confined to their own miserable ghetto, which they dare not leave without a mark upon their hat to distinguish them, and are never permitted to stir without the walls, except in custody of some one whose business it is to bring them back; when reflecting, i say, on their sorrows and punishments, one's heart half inclines to pity their wretchedness; the dreadful recollection immediately crosses one, that these are the direct and lineal progeny of those very jews who cried out aloud--"_let his blood be upon us, and upon our children!_"--unhappy race! how sweetly does st. austin say of them--"_librarii nostri facti sunt, quemadmodum solent libros post dominos ferre_." the _arca degli orefici_ is a curious thing too, and worth observing: the goldsmiths set it up in honour of caracalla and geta; but one plainly discerns where poor geta's head has been carried off in one place, his figure broken in another, apparently by caracalla's order. the building is of itself of little consequence, but as a confirmation of historical truth. the fountains of rome should have been spoken of long ago; the number of them is known to all though, and of their magnificence words can give no idea. one print of the trevi is worth all the words of all the describers together. moses striking the rock, at another fountain, where water in torrents tumble forth at the touch of the rod, has a glorious effect, from the happiness of the thought, and an expression so suitable to the subject. when i was told the story of queen christina admiring the two prodigious fountains before st. peter's church, and begging that they might leave off playing, because she thought them occasional, and in honour of her arrival, not constant and perpetual; who could help recollecting a similar tale told about the prince of monaco, who was said to have expressed his concern, when he saw the roads lighted up round london, that our king should put himself to so great an expence on his account--in good time!--thinking it a temporary illumination made to receive him with distinguished splendour. these anecdotes are very pretty now, if they are strictly true; because they shew the mind's petty but natural disposition, of reducing and attributing all _to self_: but if they are only inventions, to raise the reputation of london lamps, or roman cascades, one scorns them;--i really do hope, and half believe, that they are true. but i have been to see the two auroras of guido and guercino. villa ludovisi contains the last, of which i will speak first for forty reasons--the true one because i like it best. it is so sensible, so poetical, so beautiful. the light increases, and the figure advances to the fancy: one expects night to be waked before one looks at her again, if ever one can be prevailed upon to take one's eyes away. the bat and owl are going soon to rest, and the lamp burns more faintly as when day begins to approach. the personification of night is wonderfully hit off. but guercino is _such_ a painter! we were driving last night to look at the colisseo by moon-light--there were a few clouds just to break the expanse of azure and shew the gilding. i thought how like a sky of guercino's it was; other painters remind one of nature, but nature when most lovely makes one think of guercino and his works. the ruspigliosi palace boasts the aurora of guido--both are ceilings, but this is not rightly named sure. we should call it the phoebus, for aurora holds only the second place at best: the fun is driving over her almost; it is a more luminous, a more graceful, a more showy picture than the other, more universal too, exciting louder and oftener repeated praises; yet the other is so discriminated, so tasteful, so classical! we must go see what domenichino has done with the same subject. i forget the name of the palace where it is to be admired: but had we not seen the others, one should have said this was divine. it is a phoebus again, _this_ is; not a bit of an aurora: and truth is springing up from the arms of time to rejoice in the sun's broad light. her expression of transport at being set free from obscurity, is happy in an eminent degree; but there are faults in her form, and the apollo has scarcely dignity enough in _his_. the horses are best in guide's picture: aurora at the villa ludovisi has but two; they are very spirited, but it is the spirit of three, not six o'clock in a summer morning. surely thomson had been living under these two roofs when he wrote such descriptions as seem to have been made on purpose for them; could any one give a more perfect account of guercino's performance than these words afford? the meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, at first faint-gleaming in the dappled east till far o'er æther spreads the widening glow, and from before the lustre of her face white break the clouds away: with quicken'd step brown night retires, young day pours in apace and opens all the lawny prospect wide. as for the ruspigliosi palace i left these lines in the room, written by the same author, and think them more capable than any description i could make, of giving some idea of guido's phoebus. while yonder comes the powerful king of day rejoicing in the east; the lessening cloud, the kindling azure, and the mountains brow illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach betoken glad; lo, now apparent all he looks in boundless majesty abroad, and sheds the shining day. so charming thomson wrote from his lodgings at a milliner's in bond-street, whence he seldom rose early enough to see the sun do more than glisten on the opposing windows of the street: but genius, like truth, cannot be kept down. so he wrote, and so they painted! _ut pictura poesis_. the music is not in a state so capital as we left it in the north of italy; we regret nardini of florence, alessandri of venice, and ronzi of milan; and who that has heard signior marchesi sing, could ever hear a successor (for rival he has none), without feeling total indifference to all their best endeavours? the conversations of cardinal de bernis and madame de boccapaduli are what my countrywomen talk most of; but the roman ladies cannot endure perfumes, and faint away even at an artificial rose. i went but once among them, when memmo the venetian ambassador did me the honour to introduce me _somewhere_, but the conversation was soon over, not so my shame; when i perceived all the company shrink from me very oddly, and stop their noses with rue, which a servant brought to their assistance on open salvers. i was by this time more like to faint away than they--from confusion and distress; my kind protector informed me of the cause; said i had some grains of marechale powder in my hair perhaps, and led me out of the assembly; to which no intreaties could prevail on me ever to return, or make further attempts to associate with a delicacy so very susceptible of offence. mean time the weather is exceedingly bad, heavy, thick, and foggy as our own, for aught i see; but so it was at milan too i well remember: one's eye would not reach many mornings across the naviglio that ran directly under our windows. for fine bright novembers we must go to constantinople i fancy; certain it is that rome will not supply them. what however can make these roman ladies fly from _odori_ so, that a drop of lavenderwater in one's handkerchief, or a carnation in one's stomacher, is to throw them all into, convulsions thus? sure this is the only instance in which they forbear to _fabbricare fu l'antico_[footnote: build upon the old foundations.], in their own phrase: the dames, of whom juvenal delights to tell, liked perfumes well enough if i remember; and horace and martial cry "_carpe rosas_" perpetually. are the modern inhabitants still more refined than _they_ in their researches after pleasure? and are the present race of ladies capable of increasing, beyond that of their ancestors, the keenness of any corporeal sense? i should think not. here are however amusements enough at rome without trying for their conversations. the barberini palace, whither i carried a distracting tooth-ach, amused even that torture by the variety of its wonders. the sleeping faun, praised on from century to century, and never yet praised enough; so drunk, so fast asleep, so like a human body! modesty reproving vanity, by leonardo da vinci, so totally beyond my expectation or comprehension, great! wise! and fine! raphael's mistress, painted by himself, and copied by julio romano; this picture gives little satisfaction though except from curiosity gratified, the woman is too coarse. guido's magdalen up stairs, the famous magdalen, effacing every beauty, of softness mingled with distress. a st. john too, by dear guercino, transcendent! but such was my anguish the very rooms turned round: i must come again when less ill i believe. nothing can equal the nastiness at one's entrance to this magazine of perfection: but the roman nobles are not disgusted with _all sorts_ of scents it is plain; these are not what we should call perfumes indeed, but certainly _odori_: of the same nature as those one is obliged to wade through before trajan's pillar can be climbed. that the general appearance of a city which contains such treasures should be mean and disgusting, while one literally often walks upon granite, and tramples red porphyry under one's feet, is one of the greatest wonders to me, in a town of which the wonders seem innumerable: that it should be nasty beyond all telling, all endurance, with such perennial streams of the purest water liberally dispersed, and triumphantly scattered all over it, is another unfathomable wonder: that so many poor should be suffered to beg in the streets, when not a hand can be got to work in the fields, and that those poor should be permitted to exhibit sights of deformity and degradations of our species to me unseen till now, at the most solemn moments, and in churches where silver and gold, and richly-arrayed priests, scarcely suffice to call off attention from their squallid miseries, i do not try to comprehend. that the palaces which taste and expence combine to decorate should look quietly on, while common passengers use their noble vestibules, nay flairs, for every nauseous purpose; that princes whose incomes equal those of our dukes of bedford and marlborough, should suffer their servants to dress other men's dinners for hire, or lend out their equipages for a day's pleasuring, and hang wet rags out of their palace windows to dry, as at the mean habitation of a pauper; while looking in at those very windows, nothing is to be seen but proofs of opulence, and scenes of splendour, i will not undertake to explain; sure i am, that whoever knows rome, will not condemn this _ebauche_ of it. when i spoke of their beggars, many not unlike salvator rosa's job at the santa croce palace, i ought not to have omitted their eloquence, and various talents. we talked to a lame man one day at our own door, whose account of his illness would not have disgraced a medical professor; so judicious were his sentiments, so scientific was his discourse. the accent here too is perfectly pleasing, intelligible, and expressive; and i like their _cantilena_ vastly. the excessive lenity of all italian states makes it dangerous to live among them; a seeming paradox, yet certainly most true; and whatever is evil in this way at any other town, is worst at rome; where those who deserve hanging, enjoy almost a moral certainty of never being hanged; so unwilling is everybody to detect the offender, and so numerous the churches to afford him protection if found out. a man asked importunately in our antichamber this morning for the _padrone,_ naming no names, and our servants turned him out. he went however only five doors, further, found a sick old gentleman sitting in his lodging attended by a feeble servant, whom he bound, stuck a knife in the master, rifled the apartments, and walked coolly out again at noon-day: nor should we have ever heard of _such a trifle_, but that it happened just by so; for here are no newspapers to tell who is murdered, and nobody's pity is excited, unless for the malefactor when they hear he is caught. but the palazzo farnese is a more pleasing speculation; the hercules faces us entering; guglielmo della porta made his legs i hear, and when the real ones were found, _his were better:_ and michael angelo said, it was not worth risquing the statue to try at restoring the old ones. there is another hercules stands near, as a foil to glycon's, i suppose; and the italians tell you of our mr. sharp's acuteness in finding some fault till then undiscovered, a very slight one though, with some of the neck muscles: they tell it approvingly however, and make one admire their candour, even beyond their flora, who carries that in her countenance which they possess in their hearts. under a shed on the right hand you find the famous groupe called toro farnese. it has been touched and repaired, they tell you, till much of the spirit is lost; but i did not miss it. the bull and the brothers are greatness itself; but dirce draws no compassion by her looks somehow, and the lady who comes to her relief, seems too cold a spectatress of the scene. there were several broken statues in the place, and while my companions were examining the groupe after i had done, the wench's conversation who shewed it made my amusement: as we looked together at an egyptian _isis_, or, as many call her, _the ephesian diana_, with a hundred breasts, very hideous, and swathed about the legs like a mummy at cairo, or a baby at rome, i said to the girl, "_they worshipped these filthy things formerly before jesus christ came; but he taught us better_," added i, "_and we are wiser now: how foolish was not it to pray to this ugly stone_?"--"the people were _wickeder_ then, very likely;" replied my friend the wench, "but i do not see that it _was foolish at all."_ who says the modern romans are degenerated? i swear i think them so like their ancestors, that it is my delight to contemplate the resemblance. a statue of a peasant carrying game at this very palace, is habited precisely in the modern dress, and shews how very little change has yet been made. the shoes of the low fellows too particularly attract my notice: they exactly resemble the ancient ones, and when persius mentions his ploughman _peronatus arator_, one sees he would say so to-day. the dorian palace calls however, and people must give way to things where the miraculous powers of benvenuto garofani are concerned; where lodovico caracci exhibits a _testa del redentore_ beyond all praise, uniting every excellence, and expressing every perfection; where, in the deluge represented by bonati, one sees the eagle drooping from a weight of rain, majestic in his distress, and looking up to the luminous part of the picture as if hoping to discover some ray of that sun he never shall see again. how characteristic! how tasteful is the expression! the famous virgin and child too, so often engraved and copied. i will run away from this doria; it is too full of beauty--it dazzles: and i will let them shew the pale green gaspar pouffins, so valuable, so curious, to whom they please, while nature and claude content my fancy and fill up every idea. at the colonna palace what have i remarked? that it possesses the gayest gallery belonging to any subject upon earth: one hundred and thirty-nine feet long, thirty-four broad, and seventy high: profusely ornamented with pillars, pictures, statues, to a degree of magnificence difficult to express. the herodias here by guido, is the perfection of dancing grace. no frenchman enters the room that does not bear testimony to its peculiar excellence. but here's guercino's sweet returning prodigal, and here is a _madonna disperata_ bursting as from a cavern to embrace the body of her dead son and saviour.--such a sky too! but it is treating too theatrically a subject which impresses one more at last in the simple _pietà_[ai] d'annibale caracci at palazzo doria. [footnote ai: the christ in his mother's lap, after crucifixion, is always called in italy a _pietà_.] one wonderfully-imagined picture by andrea sacchi, of cain flying from the sight of his murdered brother, shall alone detain me from mentioning here at rome what certainly would never have been thought on by englishmen had it remained at windsor; no other than our old king charles's cabinet, sold to the colonna family by cromwell, and set about in the old-fashioned way with gems, cameos, &c. one of which has been stolen. and now to the borghese, which i am told is for a time to finish my fatigues, as after three days more we go to naples. news perfectly agreeable to me, who never have been well here for two hours together. all the great churches remain yet unvisited: they are to be taken at our return in spring; mean while i will go see mons sacer in spite of connoisseurship, though the place it seems is nothing, and the prospect from it dull; but it produces thoughts, or what is next to thought,--recollection of books read, and events related in one's early youth, when names and stories make impression on a mind not yet hardened by age, or contracted by necessary duty, so as no longer to receive with equal relish the _tales of other times._ the lake too, with the floating islands, should be mentioned; the colour of which is even blue with venom, and left a brassy taste in my mouth for a whole day, after only observing how it boiled with rage on dropping in a stone, and incrusted a stick with its tartar in two minutes. one of our companions indeed leaped upon the little spots of ground which float in it, and deserved to feel some effect of his rashness; but it is sufficient to stand near, i think; one scarcely can escape contagion. the sudden and violent powers observable in this lake should at least check the computists from thinking they can gather the world's age from its petrefactions. but we are called to the vatican, where the apollo, laocoon, antinous, and meleager, with others of less distinguished merit, suffer one to think on nothing but themselves, and of the artists who framed such models of perfection. laocoon's agonies torment one. i was forced to recollect the observation dr. moore says was first made by mr. locke, in order to harden my heart against him who appears to feel only for himself, when two such youths are expiring close beside him. but though painting can do much, and sculpture perhaps more, at least one learns to think so here at rome, the comfort is, that poetry beats them both. virgil knew, and shakespeare would have known, how to heighten even this distress, by adding paternal anguish:--here is distress enough however. let us once more acknowledge the modesty and candour of italians, when we repeat what has been so often recorded, that michael angelo refused adding the arm that was wanting to this chef d'oeuvre; and when bernini undertook the task, he begged it might remain always a different colour, that he might not be suspected of hoping that his work could ever lie confounded with that of the greek artist. such is not the spirit of the french: they have been always adding to don quixote! a personage whose adventures were little likely to cross one's fancy in the vatican; but perfection is perfection. here stands the apollo though, in whom alone no fault has yet been found. they tell you, he has just killed the serpent python. "let us beg of him," says one of the company, "just to turn round and demolish those cursed snakes which are devouring the poor old man and his boys yonder." this was like the speech of _marchez donc_ to the fine bronze horse under the heavenly statue of marcus aurelius at the capitol, and made me hope that story might be true. it is the fashion for every body to go see apollo by torch light: he looks like _phoebus_ then, the sun's bright deity, and seems to say to his admirers, as that divinity does to the presumptuous hero in homer, oh son of tydeus, cease! be wise, and see how vast the difference 'twixt the gods and thee. indeed every body finds the remark obvious, that this statue is of beauty and dignity beyond what human nature now can boast; and the meleager just at hand, with the antinous, confirm it; for all elegance and all expression, unpossessed by the apollo, _they have_, while none can miss the inferiority of their general appearance to his. the musæum clementinum is altogether such though, that these singularly excellent productions of art are only proper and well-adapted ornaments of a gallery, so stately as, on the other hand, that noble edifice seems but the due repository of such inhabitants. never were place and decorations so adapted: never perhaps was so refined a taste engaged on subjects so worthy its exertion. the statues are disposed with a propriety that charms one; the situation of the pillars so contrived, the colours of them so chosen to carry the eye forward--not fatigue it; the rooms so illuminated: hagley park is not laid out with more judicious attention to diversify, and relieve with various objects a mind delighting in the contemplation of ornamented nature; than is the pope's musæum calculated to enchain admiration, and fix it in those apartments where sublimity and beauty have established their residence; and those would be worse than goths, who could think of moving even an old torso from the place where pius sextus has commanded it to remain. the other parts of this prodigious structure would take up one's life almost to see completely, to remember distinctly, and to describe accurately. when the reader recollects that st. peter's, with all its appurtenances, palace, library, musæum, every thing that we include in the word _vatican_, is said by the romans to occupy an equal quantity of space, to that covered by the city of turin: the assertion need not any longer be thought hyperbolical. i will say no more about it till at our return from naples we visit all the churches. vopiscus said, that the statues in his time at rome out-numbered the people; and i trust the remark is now almost doubly true, as every day and hour digs up dead worthies, and the unwholesome weather must surely send many of the living ones to their ancestors: upon the whole, the men and women of porphyry, &c. please me best, as they do not handle long knives to so good an effect as the others do, "_qui aime bien a s'ègorger encore[footnote: who have still a taste to be cut-throats.],"_ says a french gentleman of them the other day. there is however an air of cheerfulness in the streets at a night among the poor, who fry fish, and eat roots, sausages, &c. as they walk about gaily enough, and though they quarrel too often, never get drunk at least. the two houses belonging to the borghese family shall conclude my first journey to rome, and with that the first volume of my observations and reflexions. their town palace is a suite of rooms constructed like those at wanstead exactly; and where you turn at the end to come back by another suite, you find two alabaster fountains of superior beauty, and two glass lustres made in london, but never wiped since they left fleet-street certainly. they do not however _want_ cleaning as the fountains do; which, by the extraordinary use made of them, give the whole palace an offensive smell. among the pictures here, the entombing our blessed saviour by rafaelle is most praised: it is supposed indeed wholly inestimable, and i believe is so, while venus, binding cupid's eyes, by titian, engraved by strange, is possibly one of the pleasantest pictures in rome. the christ disputing with the doctors is inimitable, one of the wonderful works of leonardo da vinci: but here is domenichino's diana among her nymphs, very laboured, and very learned. why did it put me in mind of hogarth's strolling actresses dressing in a barn? villa borghese presents more to one's mind at once than it will bear, from the bas relief of curtius over the door that faces you going in, to the last gate of the garden you drive out at;--large as the saloon is however, the figure of curtius seems too near you; and the horse's hind quarters are heavy, and ill-suited to the forehand; but here are men and women enough, and odd things that are neither, at this house; so we may let the horse of curtius alone. nothing can be gayer or more happily expressed in its way than the centaur, which dr. moore, like dr. young, finds _not_ fabulous; while the brute runs away with the man, and cupid keeps urging him forward. the fawn nursing bacchus when a baby, is another semi-human figure of just and high estimation; and that very famous composition for which cavalier bernini has executed a mattress infinitely softer to the eye than any real one i ever found in _his_ country, has here an apartment appropriated to itself. from monsters the eye turns of its own accord towards nero, and here is an incomparable one of about ten years old, in whose face i vainly looked for the seeds of parricide, and murderous tyranny; but saw only a sturdy boy, who might have been made an honest man perhaps, had not the rod been spared by his old tutor, whose lenity is repaid by death here in the next room. it is a relief to look upon the smiling zingara; her lively character is exquisitely touched, her face the only one perhaps where bernini could not go beyond the proper idea of arch waggery and roguish cunning, adorned with beauty that must have rendered its possessor, while living, irresistible. his david is scarcely young enough for a ruddy shepherd swain; he seems too muscular, and confident of his own strength; _this_ fellow could have worn saul's armour well enough. Æneas carrying his father, i understand, is by the other bernini; but the famous groupe of apollo and daphne is the work of our chevalier himself. there is a miss hillisberg, a dancer on the stage, who reminds every body of this graceful statue, when theatrical distress drives her to force expression: i mean the stage in germany, not rome, whence females are excluded. but the vases in this borghese villa! the tables! the walls! the cameos stuck in the walls! the frames of the doors, all agate, porphyry, onyx, or verd antique! the enormous riches contained in every chamber, actually takes away my breath and leaves me stunned. nor are the gardens unbecoming or inadequate to the house, where on the outside appear such bas-reliefs as would be treasured up by the sovereigns of france or england, and shewn as valuable rarities. the rape of europa first; it is a beautiful antique. up stairs you see the rooms constantly inhabited; in the princess's apartment, her chimney-piece is one elegant but solid amethyst: over the prince's bed, which changes with the seasons, hangs a ganymede painted by titian, to which the connoisseurs tell you no rival has yet been found. the furniture is suitably magnificent in every part of the house, and our english friends assured me, that they met the lady of it last night, when one gentleman observing how pretty she was, another replied he could not see her face for the dazzling lustre of her innumerable diamonds, that actually by their sparkling confounded his sight, and surrounded her countenance so that he could not find it. among all the curiosities however belonging to this wealthy and illustrious family, the single one most prized is a well-known statue, called in catalogues by the name of the fighting gladiator, but considered here at rome as deserving of a higher appellation. they now dispute only what hero it can be, as every limb and feature is expressive of a loftier character than the ancients ever bestowed in sculpture upon those degraded mortals whom pliny contemptuously calls _hordiarij_, and says they were kept on barley bread, with ashes given in their drink to strengthen them. indeed the statue of the expiring gladiator at the capitol, his rope about his neck, and his unpitied fate, marked strongly in his vulgar features, exhibits quite a separate class in the variety of human beings; and though faustina's favourite found in the same collection was probably the showiest fellow then among them, we see no marks of intelligent beauty or heroic courage in his form or face, where an undaunted steadiness and rustic strength make up the little merit of the figure. this charming statue of the prince borghese is on the other hand the first in rome perhaps, for the distinguished excellencies of animated grace and active manliness: his head raised, the body's attitude, not studied surely, but the apparent and seemingly sudden effect of patriotic daring. such one's fancy forms young isadas the spartan; who, hearing the enemy's approach while at the baths, starts off unmindful of his own defenceless state, snatches a spear and shield from one he meets, flies at the foe, performs prodigies of valour, is looked on by both armies as a descended god, and returns home at last unhurt, to be fined by the ephori for breach of discipline, at the same time that a statue was ordered to commemorate his exploits, and erected at the state's expence. monsignor ennio visconti, who saw that the figure reminded me of this story, half persuaded himself for a moment that this was the very isadas; and that jason, for whom he had long thought it intended, was not young enough, and less likely to fight undefended by armour against bulls, of whose fury he had been well apprised. mr. jenkins recollected an antique ring which confirmed our new hypothesis, and i remained flattered, whether they were convinced or no. end of the first volume. generously made available by the internet archive/canadian libraries) the journal of c. r. cockerell, r.a. [illustration: c. r. cockerell] travels in southern europe and the levant, - . the journal of c. r. cockerell, r.a. edited by his son samuel pepys cockerell with a portrait longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york and bombay all rights reserved preface my father, charles robert cockerell, whose travels the following pages record, was the second son of samuel pepys cockerell, a man of some means, architect to the east india company and to one or more london estates. he was born on the th of april, , and at a suitable age he went to westminster, a fashionable school in those days. there he remained until he was sixteen. he was then set to study architecture, at first in his father's office, and later in that of mr. robert smirke. his father must have had a great faith in the educational advantage of travel, as already in , when he was only eighteen, he was sent a tour to study the chief architectural objects of the west of england and wales. the sketches in the diary of this journey show him already the possessor of so light and graceful a touch in drawing that it is evident that he must have practised it from very early years. this no doubt was followed by other similar excursions, but his father's desire was that he should see foreign countries. unfortunately, in most of the continent was closed to englishmen. turkey, which included greece, was, however, open. as it chanced, this was a happy exception. the current of taste for the moment was running strongly in the direction of greek architecture; smirke himself had but lately returned thence. when a scheme for making a tour there came to be discussed, mr. william hamilton, then under-secretary for foreign affairs, an intimate friend of the family, who had himself travelled in those parts, took a great interest in it, and offered to send him out as king's messenger with despatches for the fleet at cadiz, malta, and constantinople. such an offer was too good to refuse. no definite tour had been or could be marked out in the then existing conditions of european politics. the traveller was to be guided by circumstances; but nothing approaching the length of absence, which extended itself to seven and a quarter years, was contemplated at the time of starting. as far as possible i have used my father's own words in the following account of his journeys; but the letters and memoranda of a youth of twenty-two, who disliked and had no talent for writing, naturally require a great deal of editing. his beautiful sketches form what may be called his real diary. i should add that accounts of some of the episodes recorded in this journal have seen the light already. for instance, the discovery of the Ægina marbles and of the phigaleian marbles is narrated in my father's book, 'the temples of Ægina and bassæ,' and in hughes's 'travels' as well. stackelberg gives his own account of the excavations at bassæ in 'der apollotempel zu bassæ &c.' so that i cannot flatter myself that the matter is either quite new or well presented. but in spite of these drawbacks i have thought the journal in its entirety worth publishing. sympathetic readers will find between the lines a fairly distinct picture of what travel was like in the early years of the last century, and also the portrait of a not uninteresting personality. samuel pepys cockerell. contents chapter i page leaves london for plymouth--the despatch vessel--they take a french prize--the prisoners--an alarm--cadiz--malta--life on board--the dardanelles--takes boat for constantinople chapter ii constantinople--capture of the _black joke_--life in constantinople--its dangers--friends--audience of caimacam--trip up the bosphorus chapter iii constantinople continued--dangers of sketching--turkish architecture--a turkish acquaintance--society in constantinople--visit to the princes' islands chapter iv leaves constantinople--by troy, salonica, mycone, delos, to athens--life in athens--acquaintances--byron, &c. chapter v trip to Ægina--discovery and transportation of the marbles to athens--efforts to sell them chapter vi life in athens--eleusis--transportation of Ægina marbles to zante chapter vii zante--colonel church--leaves zante to make tour of the morea--olympia--bassæ--discovery of bas-reliefs--forced to desist from excavations chapter viii andritzena--caritzena--megalopolis--benighted--kalamata chapter ix trip to maina--its relative prosperity--return to kalamata-- second trip to maina--murginos--sparta--napoli to athens chapter x Ægina marbles called for by british government ships--leaves athens for crete and egypt with hon. francis north--canea--condition of crete--by land--retimo--kalipo christo--candia--audience of the pasha--his band--the archbishop--the military commandant--turkish society--life in candia chapter xi expedition to the labyrinth--delli yani--the interior--the return to candia--life there--rejoins mr. north--bad weather--expedition to egypt abandoned--scio--leaves mr. north to go to smyrna--storms--danger and cold--arrives at smyrna chapter xii life in smyrna--trip to trios--foster falls in love--cockerell starts alone for town of seven churches--pergamo--knifnich-- sumeh--commerce all in the hands of greeks--karasman oglu--turcomans --sardis--allah sheri--crosses from valley of hermus to that of the meander--hierapolis--danger of the country--turns westwards chapter xiii back into civilisation--nasli bazar--nysa--guzul--hissar (magnesia)--the plague--aisaluck (ephesus)--scala nuova--a storm --samos--priene--canna--geronta--knidos--rhodes--mr. north again--sails for patara--castel rosso--cacava--myra--the shrine of st. nicolas--troubles with natives--a water snake--finica--carosi-- olympus--volcanic fire--phaselis--falls in with the _frederiksteen_ chapter xiv adalia--satalia (sidé)--alaia--hostility of natives--selinty--cape anemurium--visit of a pasha--chelindreh--porto cavaliero--seleucia--a privateer--natives hostile--pompeiopolis--tarsous--a poor reception--explores a lake--castle of ayas--captain beaufort wounded by natives--sails for malta chapter xv malta--attacked by bilious fever--sails to palermo--segeste--leaves for girgenti--immigrant albanians--selinunto--travelling with sicilians--girgenti--restores the temple of the giants--leaves for syracuse--occupations in syracuse--sale of the Ægina marbles--leaves for zante chapter xvi athens--the excavation of marbles at bassæ--bronstedt's mishap--fate of the corinthian capital of bassæ--severe illness--stackelberg's mishap --trip to albania with hughes and parker--thebes--livadia--the five emissaries--state of the country--merchants of livadia--delphi--salona --galaxidi--patras--previsa--nicopolis--arta--the plague--janina chapter xvii ali pasha--psallida--euphrosyne--mukhtar--starts for a trip to suli--cassiopeia--unable to ford river--turns back to janina--leaves to return to athens--crosses the pindus through the snow--malakash --a robber--meteora--turkish rule--the monastery--by trikhala, phersala, zituni, thermopylæ and livadia to athens chapter xviii athens--to zante for sale of phigaleian marbles--returns to athens--fever--spencer stanhope--trip to marathon, &c.--ramazan --living out in the country--a picnic at salamis--presented with a block of panathenaic frieze--trip to Ægina--leaves athens for italy chapter xix naples--pompeii--rome--the german rester got rid of--social success in rome--leaves for florence--bartholdy and the niobe group--lady dillon--the wellington palace--pisa--tour in the north--meets stackelberg again--returns to florence and rome--homeward bound--conclusion frontispiece portrait of c. r. cockerell, _after a pencil drawing by_ j. d. ingres. travels in southern europe and the levant chapter i leaves london for plymouth--the despatch vessel--they take a french prize--the prisoners--an alarm--cadiz--malta--life on board--the dardanelles--takes boat for constantinople. "i started from london on saturday, april the th, , with l. in my pocket to pay expenses. by the favour of mr. hamilton i was to carry out despatches to mr. adair, our ambassador at constantinople, so i had in prospect a free passage in fair security to the furthest point of my intended journey. as my good friend and master in art, mr. r. smirke, accompanied me to salisbury, we loitered there a little, but for the rest of my journey, night and day, i lost not one moment. nevertheless i had forgotten that when on government duty one has no business to stop at all anywhere, and when i was cross-examined as to my journey by the admiral of the port at plymouth, i felt extremely awkward. on the morning following my arrival, viz. april th, i embarked on board the vessel which was to carry me. she was a lugger-rigged despatch boat, hired by government, named the _black joke_. she was very old, as she had been at the battle of camperdown in , but i was charmed with her neatness and tidiness. we had ten guns, thirty-five men, one sheep, two pigs and fowls. the commander's name was mr. cannady, and we were taking out two young midshipmen to join the squadron off cadiz. we did not set sail till the th. once out in the open sea the two young midshipmen were very ill and so was our commander. on the third day out, sunday, april nd, while we were at dinner the boatswain suddenly sang out, 'sail ahead!' we ran up to see what it might be, and the ship was pronounced to be a merchant brig. at the same time, to be prepared in case of deception, all things were cleared for action. it was not long before we came up with her, and the master went aboard. presently we heard the report of two pistols. great was our astonishment, and the expression of suspense on every face was a study till it was relieved by the voice of the master bawling through a trumpet that she was a british merchantman, the _frances_, from fiale (_sic_), laden with cotton, figs, and other things, that she had been captured by a french privateer, and was now our prize. at these words the joy of the sailors was such as you cannot conceive. when the master came aboard again we learnt that the two shots came from a brace of pistols which were handed to him by the captain of the _frances_ when she was boarded, and which he discharged for fear of accidents. the french crew of eight men, all very ragged, was brought on board. as they manifested some unwillingness at first, cannady thought fit to receive them with drawn cutlasses; but they made no sort of resistance. with them came an english boy, son of the owner of the _frances_, and from him we got an interesting account of her being taken. as his father had but a short time before lost another ship, the boy showed a joy at this recovery which was delightful to see, but he behaved very nicely about recommending the frenchmen to us. they had treated him very well, he said, and were good sailors. it was settled that the prize master should be sent with three or four men, the master's mate at their head, to plymouth. i took the opportunity of sending a few words home, and off she went. with a fair wind she was out of sight in an hour. as i was the only man in our ship who could speak a word of french, i was made interpreter in examining the prisoners. if the account they give is correct, our sailors, who are entitled to an eighth part of the salvage, will share , l. s. d. i took an early opportunity, when cannady talked of our luck and anticipated more, to assure him that the only good fortune i desired was a safe and quick passage to constantinople, for fear he should think i was looking out for prize-money. i don't know what my share would be, if indeed i have any, but if i find i have, i shall consider how to dispose of it in a handsome way. the poor frenchmen were very miserable, and i, partly out of pity, and more because i wanted to practise speaking, rather made friends with them. they are very different from our men. they lounge about anyhow in a disorderly fashion, are much dirtier--in fact filthy, so that our sailors complain of them loudly in this respect--and are much livelier. i saw three of them sitting yesterday all of a heap reading 'télémaque' (fancy that!) with the utmost avidity, and when they see me drawing, they seem to crawl all over me to watch the operation. my special friend is one esprit augin, who appears to be superior to the rest and to speak better. we talk together every day till i am tired. in spite of his grief at being a prisoner--and he appeared to feel his position more than any of them--he began the very next day to talk to me of balls, masquerades, promenades, and so on with inexpressible delight, and i even thought at one moment that we should have had a pas seul on the deck. he sang me no end of songs. he was as vain as he was lively. i told him i should like to make a drawing of a youth named jean requette, a handsome, clever-looking boy of the party; at which he sighed deeply and said, 'moi je ne suis pas joli.' amongst other things, augin told us that he had great hopes of being set free again, for that there were two french privateer frigates off ferrol; and when we came off that point on sunday the th, and i heard the boatswain sing out 'two sail ahead,' we made sure we had met them. all glasses were out in an instant, and sure enough there were two privateers. too proud to alter it, we held quietly on our course, and they came quickly up with us. we made the private signals to them, but as the sun was low and just behind them we could not make out the answer or what colours they flew. thereupon orders were given to clear for action. in a moment all was activity. the sailors stripped to their shirts. the guns were run out. greville and i loaded the muskets and pistols. every man had his place. mine was at the stern in charge of the despatches, ready tied to a cannon shot, to sink them in case of necessity, and with orders to make the best use i could of the muskets. we were all ready by the time the first of the privateers came within speaking distance of us. there was a dead silence on both sides for a moment, a moment of intense suspense, then our commander spoke them, and the answer, to our delight, came in english. they were the _iris_ and _matchless_ privateers from guernsey on the look-out for the isle de france men going into bordeaux. a boat came aboard us, and i was not sorry that they should see our deck and that i knew how to take care of despatches. it is wonderful how the animation of preparations for fighting takes away from the natural fear. if i had had to look on without anything to do, i should have been in a dreadful fright. after this false alarm we went on to cadiz without any event, beyond meeting with occasional merchantmen, whom we always thought proper to board. i could not go ashore at cadiz, and i shall never cease to regret it; but the orders of the naval authorities were peremptory that the lugger should proceed immediately with her despatches to malta.[ ] we deposited our prisoners with the fleet." the next place the _black joke_ touched at was gibraltar, where she delivered letters and despatches. she could only stay four or five hours, but cockerell was able to go ashore. as it was a market day, the scene gibraltar, and this was the first time he had ever been in a foreign country, it is not to be wondered at that he was intoxicated with delight. he gushes over it in the style of the very young traveller. "i like watching the sailors. many of them are very fine fellows, and i have nearly filled my book with drawings of them and the frenchmen. self-consciousness had the most ludicrous effect upon them when i was doing their portraits, and great rough fellows who you might think would eat horseflesh would simper with downcast eyes, like a coquettish miss. their ways of killing time are wonderful. sometimes you see one whittling a piece of hard wood for some trifling purpose for hours and hours together. at another time, if an unfortunate little bird comes on to the vessel, they run about the rigging damning its eyes till they are tired out. there are some great singers amongst them, who treat us in the evenings. their taste is to sing about two hundred verses to the same tune. i am told we have one highly accomplished, who can sing a song of three hundred. i only hope we shall never hear him. we arrived at malta overnight and awaited despatches, which we have received this morning. everywhere the authorities are so solicitous that no time should be lost that we are sent on without mercy. i am told the despatches we brought here were of consequence; but, like all postmen, we know nothing of the contents of the letters we bring. only we see that all rejoice and wish the commandant, general oakes,[ ] joy. i also hear that the french are advancing on sicily. the harbour here is full of prizes. a frigate came in this morning full of shot holes. she had cut out a brig from taranto in the face of two brigs, a schooner, and a frigate." from malta it took the _black joke_ over a month to get to constantinople. most of the letters written home during the time were sent back by the _black joke_ on her return voyage. it will be seen why they never reached their destination. meanwhile some notes were despatched by other means, and from them i extract the following: "we took a pilot from malta, a decayed ragusan captain. had i made but the first steps in italian as i had in french, i might have profited by this opportunity as i did by the french prisoners; for the man spoke no other language, and was to direct us through a dangerous sea by signs and grimace as the only means of communication between us. at first we had a fair wind, but as we got nearer the morea it became less favourable and blew us nearly up to zante. some ancient writer records the saying in his day, 'let him who is to sail round taenarus (matapan) take a last farewell of his relations;' and it is still dangerous, on account of the eddies of wind about taygetus for one thing, and on account of the cruel mainiote pirates for another. we passed it securely; but the story of an english brig of war having been boarded and taken by them while the captain and crew were at dinner, and that not long ago, put us on our guard. we had nettings up at night, and a sharp look-out at all hours. i shall never forget how we made our entrance into the hellespont with sixteen sail of greek and turkish fruit-boats, all going up to constantinople. no yachting match could be so pretty as these boats, tacking and changing their figures, with their white sails, painted sides, and elegant forms, as compared with our northern sea boats. our superior sailing, however, was soon confessed, and we went past them. as we did so, several goodnaturedly threw cucumbers and other fruits on board. we cast anchor not far from the second castle near the northern side, and put ashore to water where we saw a spring. it was evening, and under the shade of a fine plane tree, by a pool lined and edged with marble, before a fountain of elegant architecture, sat on variegated carpets some majestic turks. they were armed and richly dressed. their composed, placid countenances seemed unmoved at our approach. one of them spoke and made me a sign to draw nearer. i did so, and with an air at once courteous and commanding he signed to me to sit near him and offered me a long pipe to smoke. after some pause he put questions, and smiled when i could not answer them. by their gestures and the word inglis i saw they were aware of our nationality. they looked approbation and admired the quality of my grey cloth coat. after some minutes i rose and left them with a bow, enchanted with their politeness, and fancying myself in a scene of the 'arabian nights.' shortly after we were visited by our consul and his son. we learnt later that they were jews, but their handsome appearance imposed completely on us, and, in spite of the mixture of jewish obsequiousness, their turkish dignity made us conceive a prodigious opinion of them. the consul understood quickly that i was a milordo, and taking from his pocket an antique intaglio he begged my acceptance of it with a manner i in my innocence thought i could not refuse. i was anxious to show my sense of his courtesy by the offer of a pound of best dartford powder, which, after some pressing, he accepted; but at the same time added, so far as i understood through the interpreter, that he hoped i did not mean to pay him for his intaglio. i was overcome with confusion, shocked at my own indelicacy in giving so coarse an expression to my gratitude, and i would have given worlds to have undone the whole affair. of course my embarrassment was perfectly needless. a little experience of them taught me that this was only the shallow _finesse_ of the orientals, and looking back i have laughed to think of my ingenuous greenness at that time. the following day captain cannady and myself, with my despatches and baggage, the _black joke_ not being allowed to approach the capital,[ ] embarked in a turkish rowboat with a reis and twelve men, to go up to constantinople. now for the first time i felt myself thoroughly divided from england. the wind and current were against us, and we were forced to put ashore early in the evening of the first day. i pitched my tent on the shore opposite abydos. it soon attracted the notice of an aga who appeared on a fine arab horse, and sent a message to know who and what we were. we made a fire and stayed there all night sitting round it, and i felt as if i was at the theatre, passing my first night on foreign soil among strange bearded faces and curious costumes lit up by the flames. i refused a bed and slept on a rug, but next day i thought i should have dropped with faintness and fatigue. i soon got accustomed to lying on hard ground, and, in after times, i have slept for many a three months running without even taking off my clothes except to bathe, or having any other bed than my pamplona or my pelisse. the second night we slept at gallipoli, and altogether, owing to the strong wind, we were no less than five days getting to constantinople. our turks were obliging and cheerful, but had very little air of discipline, and the work they did they seemed to do by courtesy. the reis was a grave, mild old man, who sang us turkish songs. we approached constantinople as the sun rose, and as it shone on its glorious piles of mosques and minarets, golden points and crescents, painted houses, kiosks and gardens, our turks pulled harder at their oars, shouting '_stamboul, guzel azem stamboul_!' the scene grew more and more brilliant as we drew nearer, till it became overwhelming as we entered the crowded port. nothing but my despatches under my arm recalled me from a sense of being in a dream. in forty days, spent as it were, in the main, in the sameness of shipboard, i had jumped from sombre london to this fantastic paradise. i left my boat and walked at once to the english palace with my despatches, which i then and there delivered." footnotes: [ ] the british fleet was at this time co-operating with the spaniards in defending cadiz against the french. [ ] afterwards sir hildebrand oakes, bart., g.c.b. served with distinction in india, egypt, america, and elsewhere. [ ] no ships of war were ever allowed up to constantinople in those days, and, indeed, much later. chapter ii constantinople--capture of the _black joke_--life in constantinople--its dangers--friends--audience of caimacam--trip up the bosphorus. "my first few days were spent in writing, executing commissions, and fitting out my good cannady, who was to return with the answers to the despatches; all as it turned out to no purpose, for off algiers the poor old _black joke_ was taken by two french privateers, one of ten, the other of eight guns. becalmed off that place, she was attacked on either side by these lighter vessels, which, with oars and a superior number of men, had an irresistible advantage. after being gallantly defended by cannady, she was taken with the loss of several fine fellows, and her guns dismounted in the discharging them, for she was a very old vessel. with her were taken a number of little turkish purses and trifles, souvenirs to friends at home, and two fine carpets i paid l. for, which were to have made a figure at westbourne[ ]--i had made a present of the same kind also to our commander--and all my letters home and sketches made up till then. mr. adair[ ] and canning[ ] have been very polite, and i have dined frequently at the palace, and although this is not the sort of society i very much covet, i find it so extremely useful that i cannot be too careful to keep up my acquaintance there. mr. canning, of whose kindness on all occasions i cannot speak too highly, has obliged me exceedingly in lending me a large collection of fairly faithful drawings of the interiors of mosques, some of them never drawn before, as well as other curious buildings here, made by a greek of this place. in copying them i have been closely employed, as when mr. adair leaves, which will be shortly, they will be sent off to england. i had a scheme of drawing from windows, but it has failed. i find no jew or christian who is bold enough to admit me into his house for that purpose, so i have to work from memory. after having made a memorandum, i develop it at home, and then return again and again to make more notes, till at length the drawing gets finished. in arriving here just in time to take advantage of mr. adair's firman to see the mosques i was most fortunate. it is a favour granted to ambassadors only once, and mr. adair thinks himself lucky to get it before going away; but i will tell you in confidence that i regret very little the impossibility of drawing in them. they seem to me to be ill-built and barbarous. lord byron and mr. hobhouse[ ] were of the party." the djerid, a mimic fight with javelins on horseback, now, i believe, entirely disused in turkey, was still the favourite pastime of young turks, and cockerell speaks of it as being constantly played on the high open ground or park above pera, and of his going to watch it. "one day i was persuaded by an english traveller of my acquaintance to go a walk through constantinople without our usual protection of a janissary, but the adventures which befell us in consequence made me very much repent of it, and put me a good deal out of conceit with the turks. we walked to the gate of the seraglio, in front of which there is a piazza with a very beautiful fountain in it. this lovely object was so attractive that i could not resist going up to it and examining the marble sculpture, painting, and gilding. hereupon an old turk who guarded the gate of the seraglio, offended, i suppose, at my presuming to come so near, strode up with a long knotted stick and a volley of language which i could not understand, but which it was easy to see the drift of. i should have been glad to run away, but in the presence of turks and other bystanders i resolved to fall a martyr rather than compromise my nation. so, waving my hand in token of assent to his desire for my withdrawal, i slowly paced my way back with as much dignity as i could assume. i heard my turk behind coming on faster and more noisy, and i shall never forget the screwing up of the sinews of my back for the expected blow. it did not fall, or there would have ended my travels; for, either astonished at my coolness or satisfied with my assent, he desisted. a little further on, in passing through the court of a mosque, i was gazing at some of the architectural enrichments of it, when i felt a violent blow on the neck. i looked down, and there was a sturdy little figure, with a face full of fury, preparing to repeat the dose. he was of such indescribably droll proportions that in spite of the annoyance i could hardly help laughing. i held out my hand to stop him, and at the same time some turks luckily came up and appeased my assailant. he was an idiot, one of those to whom it is the custom among the turks to give their liberty, and who are generally, it appears, to be found hanging about the mosques. one more unpleasantness occurred in the same unfortunate walk. as we were looking at some carpets, i observed my servant dimitri growing pale; he said he was so weak he could hardly stand, and he thought he must have caught the plague. i supported him out of the bazaar, but afterwards kept him at arm's length till we got home, sent him to bed, changed from top to toe, and smoked. i was to have dined at the palace, but sent and made my excuses. meeting the english consul, good old morier, i refused to shake hands with him. he, however, would have none of it, laughed at me and carried me home to dinner quietly with him. dimitri reappeared later on, and all was well; but the day is memorable as having been odious." the usual sights of constantinople in were the same as now--viz. the dancing dervishes, the howling dervishes, the turkish bath, and the sultan's visit to the mosque. they are what every traveller has seen and every young one thought it his duty to give an account of, and i shall not transcribe cockerell's description of them. only the last can have been at all different from what may be seen now. it was remarkable for the startling costumes of the janissaries, and for the fact that instead of a fez, the universal and mean headdress of to-day, every turk wore a turban, which made a crowd worth seeing. the janissaries wore a singular cap, from the centre of which sprang a tree of feathers which, rising to a certain height, fell again like a weeping willow and occupied an enormous space. on these occasions about fifty of them surrounded the sultan with wands in their hands, and no doubt had a very striking effect. "i have made several useful friends. one is a brother artist, the greek who did the mosques for canning. we have paid each other several visits, and become fairly intimate by dint of dragoman, mutual admiration, and what was a superb present from me, a little indian ink and two english pencils. he has been specially attentive in his visits here, hoping, as he confessed, to find out some secret in the art from such a connoisseur as myself. another is an old gentleman in a long grey beard, who a few days ago walked into my room, telling me he had been induced to call upon me by hearing of my great reputation. he is an artist, and i showed him my colours and instruments, with which he was greatly delighted. i have not yet returned his visit, but i am shortly to do so, and he is to introduce me to some houses out of which i can draw. i have found a most elegant and useful friend in the sicilian ambassador, who has many beautiful books and drawings. the young men i chiefly live with are sir william ingilby; foster, an english architect, and a most amusing youth; and a mr. charnaud, son of a consul at salonica. we meet at dinner very often, but they are all, even architect foster, too idle to be companions any further than that. if i chose i could make numbers of acquaintance among the greeks and armenians, who all speak french. their ladies are very agreeable, but the information i should glean amongst them would not pay for the time. canning is very much liked here among the merchants, though they say they will never get such another man as adair. for me he is rather too grand to be agreeable. this is a most interesting time among the turks. all is bustle and the sound of arms in every street. the grand signor is going to the russian war next week. his procession will, of course, be a grand sight, but they despond throughout. the turks have a prophecy that the empire will expire with the last of the line of mahomet, and the present sultan has no children. the number of troops passing to adrianople is incredible, and such barbarousness and total absence of discipline could, one would think, never have been known even in the crusades; but they are unbelievably picturesque. a warrior disposed to defend his country (for none are compelled; only, happily for the empire, the turks are naturally inclined that way) goes to the government and demands whatever he thinks will fit him out for the purpose. he gets or piastres, which is to find him in arms and ammunition. these will consist of a brace of pistols, a broadsword, and a musket, more often chosen for its silver inlay than for its efficiency. he is confined to no particular dress. he wears what he likes, and goes when and how he likes. the government finds him in provisions. one may see them everywhere about, reposing in small parties in the shade or near a fountain and looking like banditti, which, indeed, if they catch you out of sight of the town, they are. they commit the most wanton cruelties and robberies in their march, and at present there is no such thing as travelling in the country. as you meet these independent ruffians in the street they look at you with the most supercilious contempt and always expect you to make way for them. even yet the turks have not lost the air of invaders, and look upon the greeks as conquered slaves, while these feel it as strongly as if they had just lost their country. the other day i went to sketch some antiquities under the walls. in the garden of a poor greek we gathered some fruit for which we meant to pay, but with the greatest kindness he pressed us to eat more, and filled our pockets with cucumbers, saying we were christians, and he would take no money. the english have the best reputation of any franks in this country. in walking out the other day our guide was insulted by a drunken janissary. on the man's answering him the janissary came up, threatening him with his sword. at this our man said he was surprised at such behaviour to an englishman; but the janissary declared he was a frenchman, and that unless he came and swept the street where he (the janissary) sat we should not pass. fortunately another janissary came up, who was not drunk, and dragged him off, or there is no knowing how the dispute would have ended. i hear a great deal of sir sidney smith, who, on account of his gallant co-operation with the turks at acre, has gained the english much credit. any turk who has ever seen him is proud of it, and whenever we meet a soldier the next question to whether we are english is whether we know sir sidney smith. i always say 'yes,' to which they say 'buono.' the other day we overheard a turk saying that there were but two generals in the world--sir sidney smith and the one-eyed captain (lord nelson). the turks are so fond of sir sidney for his wearing a turkish dress, as well as for his gallantry, that he might do what he pleased with them. on july the th canning had his audience of the caimacam, who is substitute for the grand vizir while the latter is away with the army. i thought it my duty as an englishman to attend him to the audience, and therefore went to his secretary to inquire if i was right in thinking so, although no other of the english travellers did, and i suppose canning thought i had done rightly, for he did me the great honour of ordering that of the pelisses presented to the english gentlemen at the audience, i should receive one of the four handsomest, the others being of very inferior quality.[ ] we rode through the streets as before, much admired by the populace, who seemed, in these narrow streets, as though they would have fallen on us from the roofs on which they stood. on our way we met quantities of soldiers straggling about the town, waiting for the departure of the grand signor. one of them, who took care to let himself be well seen, in bravado had run his sword through the fleshy part of his shoulder, and held the hilt in the hand of the same arm. when we saw it, it had been done some hours, for the blood which had escaped from the wound was clotted and dried. we proceeded, not to the sublime porte, for that has been burnt, but to a palace which the caimacam inhabits at present. here we scrambled up a wide staircase in a crowd of turks and other intruders who had no business in our train. the ceremony of the audience was very short. the caimacam appeared amidst cries of 'marshalla! marshalla!' then canning and he sat face to face and delivered their speeches. i thought canning delivered his with a very manly good manner. after the answer had been given, coffee, sweetmeats, and essence were brought to our minister only, and when we had each put on our cloaks we returned, as before, to pera. i afterwards dined at the palace. i have this moment heard that of sixteen fine sail of the line i lately saw in the bosphorus three are returned disabled. the russians had but five, and two corvettes, yet they got the best of the engagement. it only shows what the naval discipline of the turks is like. _buyukdere._--here are the country residences of all the foreign ambassadors and merchants, and hard by, at therapia, are the palaces (such as they are, for the turks allow them no colour but black) of the greek princes. i have taken a ride to see the scenes described by lady m. w. montagu[ ] about belgrade, and in a gush of patriotic pride i sat down and made a careful sketch and plan of what i was told was her house. when i had done it i found to my disgust that it had been built by her husband's successor, sir richard worsley,[ ] a very dull man, whose house could interest nobody. i had foster with me as companion. we went in a boat up to the mouth of the black sea, where it was very rough, and in landing on one of the rocks i was in great danger." footnotes: [ ] his father's home, westbourne house, paddington, a country residence on the site of the present westbourne park. [ ] the british ambassador, afterwards sir robert adair. [ ] stratford canning ( - ), afterwards viscount stratford de redcliffe. secretary to the embassy at this time, and later the well known ambassador to the porte. [ ] john cam hobhouse ( - ), afterwards baron broughton best man at lord byron's wedding. he was more than once a member of the government. [ ] in every present from a turk to a christian there is something insulting implied. when a foreign minister is to be introduced at the ottoman court the embassy is stopped in the outer apartment of the serai, and when announced to the despot his literal expression is: "feed and clothe these christian dogs and then bring them into my presence." such is the real meaning of the dinner and pelisses given to ambassadors and their suites.--_beaufort._ [ ] lady mary wortley montagu ( - ), authoress of the famous "letters." her husband, edward wortley montagu, went to constantinople as british ambassador in . [ ] - . traveller and collector of antiquities. chapter iii constantinople continued--dangers of sketching--turkish architecture--a turkish acquaintance--society in constantinople--visit to the princes' islands. cockerell's mother had wished him to take out an english manservant with him, but the common sense of the rest of the family had overruled this scheme. he writes, therefore, speaking of a man he had engaged at constantinople: "as a servant i think dimitri will suit me very well. he is well informed, willing, and civil, knows all the countries i propose to visit, is not extravagant, and does not seem afraid of danger. i must confess he is very small, but so much the more is he subject to my fist. the wages he asks are enormous-- l. a year--but i think i shall get him for l. or l., and at that figure it will, i think, be worth while to engage him; at any rate, he will be better than such an english lubber as my mother proposed i should take, who would have cost me more and have been of no use. i find i am living now for rather over s. d. a day, servant included. everything is at least as dear as in london. the drawings i told you of are finished, and i am now doing a set of palaces, serais, &c., but the difficulty and really the danger i have had to incur to do them you would not believe. as for insult, a christian has always to put up with that. perhaps the turks, pressed as they are by the russians, were never in a more sensitive or inflammatory condition than at present, nor the country under less discipline and order. in consequence they are more insolent to, and more suspicious of foreigners than usual. the other day i was in the upper part of a shop making some memoranda of a curious fountain while my servant waited below in a coffee-house. he assured me that no less than forty turks came in, one after another, to ask who was that infidel, and what he might be doing there. again, i offered some bostangis from five to ten piastres to admit me into a kiosk of the grand signors, now never used. the poor men trembled at the risk, but they took us, and we were obliged to steal along as they did, more as if we were going to commit a burglary than visit a deserted palace. as we were rowing to it we saw a soldier armed at all points, with his arms bare--a savage figure--rowing by the greek and armenian houses at the water's edge. my servant knew his occupation well. he was searching after some open door through which he could get into a house, and, if he found the master of it, he would demand a hundred or two piastres, saying he had occasion for the money as he was going to the wars. the poor man would have had to submit; to kill such a robber, even if he could, would be to incur the vengeance of all his regiment, with the risk of getting his house and half the neighbourhood burnt down. the greek tavern-keepers dare not open their doors now, for these scoundrels swagger in and eat and drink and refuse to pay. the turks themselves, however, are enthusiastic about the army. i saw the other day, as a colonel of one of the regiments was passing through tophana, the people rushing forward to bless him, and kissing the hem of his garment. they like fighting and, i may add, blood, and cruelties to their fellow-men; although to animals they are remarkably humane. the number of people with slit or otherwise injured noses is a thing one cannot help remarking. the other day i saw one man who had patched his, which was still unhealed, with cotton, and he was fanning away the flies from it. when i walked up to the gate of the seraglio to see the five tails[ ] hanging up, there was the block of stone on which the heads of offenders are put, and the blood still there. to architecture in the highest sense, viz. elegant construction in stone, the turks have no pretension. the mosques are always copies of santa sophia with trifling variations, and have no claim to originality. the bazaars are large buildings, but hardly architectural. the imarets, or hospitals, are next in size (there are about fifty of them in constantinople, in which d'ohson says , people daily are fed), but neither have they anything artistic about them. the aqueducts, finally, are either reparations or imitations of old roman work. these are all the buildings of a permanent character. the dwelling-houses have the air of temporary habitations. they are constructed mainly of wood, and are divided into very few chambers. turks eat and drink, live and sleep in one room. the sofa is their seat and their bed, and when that is full they lay quilts, which are kept in every room in cupboards, on the floor, and sleep about in them half dressed. as ornaments to the walls they hang up their arms. they live in this way even in the highest ranks. the men have no desire for privacy, and the women's apartments are altogether separated off. the space covered by each house is what we should consider immense. it has usually only one storey--never more than two. the ground floor, used for stables, storage, and offices, stands open on columns. a staircase, often outside, leads up to an open balcony, out of which the effendi's apartments open. these seldom consist of more than three--one for audience and for living in; another for business, the secretary, &c.; and the third for upper servants, the preparation of coffee, pipes, &c. the harem, as i said, is parted off by a high wall with a separate court, garden, and, often, exit to the street; but all one sees of a house outside is generally a high wall and a capacious door into a court with a hoodwink shade over it, and the gentlemen's apartments hanging over one end of the premises. sometimes there is a kiosk leading out of the gallery to a rather higher level when there is a view to be got by it, but externally there is nothing pretending to architectural effect in the private house of a turk. the really ornamental buildings in which anything that may be called turkish architecture is displayed, are the fountains and the grand kiosks or summer residences. the fountains are commonly square reservoirs, the four sides enriched with marble, carved, panelled, and gilt, with all the resources of genuine turkish taste. the forms are generally flowers and fruits and texts from the koran, with perhaps an inscription in memory of the founder, such as 'drink of my limpid waters and pray for the soul of achmet.' the tank is covered with a dome and gilt cullices with great eaves which cast a broad shade over anyone who comes for water or repose. but the most charming things are the kiosks. you can imagine nothing slighter than their architecture is. they are entirely of wood, and even the most extensive are finished in about two months. they display the customs of the sultans, and they are such as you might imagine from reading the 'arabian nights'--golden halls with cupolas, domes and cullices hanging over pools of water, with fountains and little falls of water, all in the genuine turkish taste. moreover, although it is a subject no one has hitherto condescended to treat of, they do show an artistic taste in the cheerful disposition of their apartments, gardens, courts, and fountains, which is worth attention. the rooms are all so contrived as to have windows on two sides at least, and sometimes on three, and the windows are so large that the effect is like that of a glass-house. the turks seem to be the only people who properly appreciate broad sunshine and the pleasure of a fine view. unfortunately, the turkish, which is something like the persian style, only appears in the architecture. as to decoration, i was bitterly disappointed to find that now they have no manner peculiar to themselves of ornamenting these fanciful interiors. they are done in the old french crinkum-crankum [? louis xv.--_ed._] style by rascally renegades, and very badly. on a green lawn, in a shady valley partly surrounded by fine trees, partly hanging over the bosphorus to catch the cool of the sea-breeze, there stands one of the kiosks of the sultan, a real summer-house consisting of one room only, with several small entering rooms for the sultan, one for his suite and some small ones for service. this is known as the chebuble kiosk. in the valley near are various marble columns put up to commemorate shots made by the grand signor in practising at a mark. another we saw was the serai of the sultan's sister. it was at the peril of the poor gardener's head, and i was obliged to bribe him well for the sight. i was able to make a running sketch of the place, and to glance at the furnishing, which was all newly done up for the sultana's reception. the sofas were all splendidly embroidered by native work-people, and there was a magnificent profusion of lyons silk, the colours and the gilding on the ceilings and walls as brilliant as you can imagine. one room was entirely, as i was told, of gold plaque. there was frosted and embossed work as a relief to the colours, and the effect, if very gaudy, was striking. generally this sort of splendour in turkey is expended on the carved ceilings, but in this case the sofas and window frames were as rich as the rest, and the niches with shelves for flowers on either side of the entrance. the baths, which form a principal feature in every serai, are very elegant here. the pavement, the fountains, and the pillars are all marble, and carved and gilded and painted besides. but the apartment which gave me most pleasure is the reception hall. it has something the form of a cross, with a great oval centre which is feet by feet, and to the extremities, looking, one on the garden, the other on the port, the range is feet by feet. i do assure you the effect of the room, with its gorgeous ceiling and the suspended chandelier, is enchanting--quite one's ideal of what ought to be found in the oriental style. i am told that the sultana entertains her brother here by displaying all the beauties of her household. the most lovely girls are assembled here to dance, and the sultan watches them from a window with a gold grating. when sébastiani[ ] assisted in the defence of constantinople, at the time of admiral duckworth's forcing of the dardanelles, the sultana invited his wife here and received her with the greatest honours. on landing from her boat she was passed through a crowd of eunuchs richly dressed in gold and silk, and on entering the house she found the staircase lined with the most beautiful young women, who handed her up to the presence of the sultana, where she was entertained with sweetmeats, dancing, &c., as was lady mary wortley montagu. near this serai, and communicating with it, is the palace of the pasha to whom this sultana was married; and his living here is an extraordinary exception to the rule, which is that the husband of a sultana should never be allowed to live within twenty miles of the capital--for political reasons, no doubt. when it is her pleasure to see him she sends him a note in a pocket handkerchief, the corners of which are folded over with a seal, so that it makes a bag. sometimes the invitation is conveyed by a hint: a slave is sent by the passage of communication to open the door of his apartment, which the pasha would perfectly understand. the other parts of the palace are entirely for the use of slaves. there are, as appears to be usual in turkish palaces, several escapes, and to these i looked with peculiar interest; since, if we had been caught, there is no knowing what might have happened to the poor gardener, or, for the matter of that, to myself. however, we were not interrupted, i paid him piastres and we slunk away together. we had not got home, however, before we met the boats of the sultana, which, if we had stayed there ten minutes longer, might have surprised us. it is not easy to get into any intimacy with turks; but if i have not seen much of their society, i have seen more than any of my fellow-travellers have. with those who have no manners at all it is not difficult to get acquainted. for instance, an imam (priest), a neighbour of ours, often drops in at the dinner hour, taking compassion on me when i am alone. he plays at billiards, drinks and swears, and is very troublesome; but he has a great respect for my art, and my plans above all things excite his astonishment. i scraped acquaintance, too, with a turk architect, in the hope of getting to see more palaces; but he also is too great a rogue to keep company with, for he gets drunk and stabs his friends; and as for his art he is not worth cultivating for that, for it is confined to the chisel and mallet. and his promises are false promises; for with all my hopes i have never got him to show me anything. my specimen friend hitherto is beki-beki effendi, who seems to be a real turkish gentleman. he had been brought up in the seraglio as one of the attendants on the grand signor, and his manners struck me as very fine, having a cheerfulness and regard for his visitors, mixed with great dignity. my host, who has already shown me great kindnesses, presented me to him and explained my mission. he expressed himself much pleased to be made acquainted with an english traveller, hoped i was well, liked constantinople, &c., and presented me with a little bottle of oil of aloes, the scent of which was nice. we smoked, ate sweetmeats, and conversed by interpreter, and after two mortal hours' stay (conceive such a visit!) were preparing to go when his father-in-law arrived. i was told it would be grossly impolite to persist in going, so we stopped on. beki sent his slaves forward to usher in the new arrival, and then stood in a particular spot and position to receive him, and touched his garment with his hand, which he then kissed. he then paid him the highest marks of attention, inquired after his health, &c. the father then walked upstairs, attended by two slaves, one on each side holding him under the arm, as if assisting him, although he was not at all old. we stayed another half-hour, and then at last tore ourselves away. in return for taking me to see a certain palace, beki begged me show him the english embassy. he accordingly called on me on an appointed day at ten o'clock. taking a hint from my host i had a breakfast prepared which we should call a solid dinner; and a parasite living in the inn, a common animal in these countries, assisted my party. my visitors made a big day of it, and got very merry over their fare, drinking copiously of rum punch, which, as it is not wine, is not forbidden to the mussulman, and at the end paid me a string of compliments. i presented my visitor with one of those new phosphoric contrivances [? a tinder-box.--ed.], and never was an effendi more delighted. 'if you had given me a casket of jewels,' said he, 'i should not have been better pleased.' we walked up to the embassy and sauntered about the rooms. what best pleased beki were the pictures of the king and queen, which he pronounced very beautiful (_chouk guzul_), and the cut-glass chandeliers; but the few windows seemed dull to his turkish taste. we got home and regaled again, and on his proposal to retire, i returned him his compliment and begged him to stay and sleep, which i am happy to say he refused, for where we should have stowed him i know not. so passed an idle, odious day. i was worn out with trying to do the agreeable through an interpreter, but--i had seen a turkish gentleman. and when i reflect upon him, i cannot help feeling that, as a contrast to what i am accustomed to, there was something very fascinating about him. i have been used to see men slaves to their affairs, still wearing themselves with work when they possess every requisite of life, and not knowing how to enjoy the blessings their exertions have procured them. whereas here was a man who calmly enjoyed what he had, doing his best to make himself and those around him happy. with any but absolute paupers contentment is the common frame of mind in this country. the poor tradesman in the bazaar works his hours of business, and then sits cross-legged on his shop-board and enjoys his pipe like an emperor. there is no mean cringeing for patronage. the very porters in their services have an air of condescension, and never seem to feel inferiority. the climate, of course, has a great deal to do with it. one may sleep in the open air most of the year, and if one does little work, a bit of water-melon and slice of bread dipped in salt and water is an excellent repast. temperance is hardly a virtue where rich food could only make one unwell. whatever be the attraction--the tenets of the faith, or the leisurely life, or the desire to live in turkey without the inconveniences of nonconformity--conversion to mahommedanism is a very common thing. i have met several french renegades, and some english have been pointed out to me. our frigates have frequent quarrels with the turks on this head; and even of the spaniards, who are supposed to be so bigoted, an incredible number turned turks at the time that their ships of war first came up here. as for society amongst the foreigners, diplomatic and others, although there is a complete frank quarter, and it is said to have been at one time very pleasant, there is hardly any now. for one thing, in these times of general war, the ministers of countries at variance at home now hold no communication, nor do their families; in the case of the french this is by a peremptory order of their government. so there is little meeting and next to no entertainment, and for lack of other amusement a vast deal of scandal, of mining and countermining of each other's reputations, with the result that they come to be nearly as mean in character as they try to make each other out to be; and another reason is that among the merchants who formerly vied in magnificence with the ministers, there is now great distress, and hardly one could give a decent dinner. their ships lie rotting in the ports, and the hands, ragusans mostly, hang about gnawing their fingers with hunger. among the few families one could visit was that of the charnowskis, poles, the ladies of which are the admired of all the english here, and especially of my two companions, sir w. ingilby and foster, who have fallen completely under the thumbs of these beautiful sirens. i saw enough of them to feel compassion for my friends and almost to need it myself. another family we know, of the name of hubsch, who are amusing. the baron, as he styles himself, is a sort of minister of a number of little powers which have no earthly relation with the turks, as denmark, prussia, norway, &c., and as he hoists all their flags over his house, the turks believe him to be a very mighty person. he affects to be in the secrets of all the cabinets of europe, and assumes an air of prodigious mystery in politics. he is banker and manager of all things and all persons who will be imposed upon by him. i imagine him to be a regular adventurer; but adventurers are common in constantinople. it seems to be one of their last resorts." from notes in a sketch-book it appears that in the interval between the writing of this letter and the next, which is dated from salonica, my father made an expedition to the princes' islands, in the sea of marmora, in company with foster and a mr. hume,[ ] who had lately returned from egypt. his object in going was chiefly to visit the scene of the death of his cousin, george belli, r.n., lieutenant of the _royal george_, who was killed with four sailors of admiral duckworth's fleet in attacking a monastery held by some turks on the island of chalcis. an entry made on the same day gives one some idea of turkish misgovernment. "on the princes' islands they have lately discovered an excellent earth for making crockery; but they dare not use it, for fear the authorities should get ear of it and heavily tax them. with such encouragement to industry, no wonder that turkey should be bankrupt." a man's career is immensely influenced by his personal appearance. my father's passport, made out at this time at constantinople for his voyage in the levant, gives, as was usual in those days, for identification, a description under several printed heads, as "stature," "face," "eyes," &c., of the bearer. it is a large form printed in italian, beginning "noi stratford canning ministro plenipotenziario di sua maestà il re della gran bretagna," and so on presently to cockerell's name and the date, september, . at the bottom is the description--"statura, mezzana; viso, triangolare; occhi, negri e splendenti; naso, fino; bocca di vermiglia; fronte, di marmo," and below "in somma apollo lui stesso." this was canning's jocose extravagance. nevertheless it indicates that the bearer possessed a fortunate exterior, which had probably something to do with the good reception he generally met with in society throughout his life. footnotes: [ ] horse-tail standards, the symbols of the sultan's rank. [ ] françois horace bastien sébastiani ( - ), a corsican adherent of napoleon, under whom he rose to be general of division. in he was sent as ambassador to constantinople. later he fought in spain, austria, russia, germany, and france in . after the fall of napoleon he took service under the bourbons, was minister of marine and minister for foreign affairs under louis philippe, ambassador to england, - , and was made finally a marshal of france. [ ] joseph hume ( - ), a scotchman of humble origin. having made money in india, he took to political life, sat in parliament for various constituencies, and for thirty years was leader of the radical party. chapter iv leaves constantinople--by troy, salonica, mycone, delos, to athens--life in athens--acquaintances--byron, etc. about the middle of september, cockerell, with ingilby[ ] and foster, set sail for greece. they stopped on their way to pay a visit to the plain of troy. the facilities for travelling nowadays have made us calmly familiar with the scenes of the past, but in to stand upon classic ground was to plant one's feet in a fairyland of romance, and a traveller who had got so unusually far might well permit his enthusiasm to find vent. when cockerell was pointed out the tomb of patroclus, he took off his clothes and, in imitation of achilles, ran three times round it, naked. thence they went by tenedos and lemnos to salonica. nothing in the notes of this journey is worth recording except perhaps the mention he makes of tenedos as being still in a state of desolation from the cruel russian attack upon it in the year . "i ought to give you a notion of the political state of this part of the country. ali pasha of yanina rules over the morea, albania, and thessaly nearly up to salonica, while the pasha of serres has salonica and macedonia nearly up to constantinople, and both are practically independent of the porte, obeying it or assisting it only as far as they please. now, ali pasha has sent his son veli with , men to join the sultan's army against the russians, but he on his way has encamped near salonica and threatens to take possession of it. the bey accordingly pays every sort of court to him, and sends out presents and provisions to mollify him. in the meanwhile the sultan has given to another pasha a firman to take the morea in veli pasha's absence, and he (veli) is now waiting for his father ali's advice as to whether he should proceed to the war, recover the morea, or take salonica. fancy, what a state for a country to be in! the sultan is a puppet in the hands of the janissaries, who on their side are powerless outside the city, so that the country without and within is in a state of anarchy." the party took a passage from salonica to athens in a greek merchantman. "we passed zagora, until lately a rich and prosperous commercial town, but it has been taken by ali pasha and he has reduced it to utter ruin. off scopolo a boat came out and fired a gun for us to heave to. the crew told me she was a pirate, but when we fired a gun in return to show that we also were armed, the crew of the boat merely wished us a happy journey. the wind falling light, we anchored in a small bay and landed, and there we made fire in a cave and cooked our dinner. it was most romantic. after touching at scyros, we put into andros. while our ship was lying here in the port our sailors became mutinous. they began by stealing a pig from the land, and then went on to ransack our baggage and steal from it knives, clothes, and other things. all this happened while we ourselves were on shore, but our servants remonstrated, whereupon the scoundrels threatened to throw them overboard. there was nothing for us to do but apply to the english consul for protection. he sent for the chief instigator of the troubles, but he, as soon as he got ashore, ran away and was lost sight of. under the circumstances, what we did was to deduct from the captain's pay the value of our losses and shift our goods from on board his vessel into another boat, a small one, in which we set sail for the island of tinos. we slept at san nicolo on the bare ground, having made ourselves a fire in a tiny chapel. fop, my dog, fell into a well and was rescued with great difficulty. one of the peasants, who had never seen anything like a skye terrier before, when he saw him pulled out took him for a fiend or a goblin, and crossed himself devoutly. we sailed in the open boat all through a very stormy day, and arrived at last at tinos (the town), thoroughly chilled and wet. the island, once highly prosperous, is now poor and depopulated. from tinos we sailed across to great delos (rhenea), slept in a hut, and next day went on to little delos. here there was nothing to sleep in but the sail of the boat, and nothing to eat at all. everything on the island had been bought up by an english frigate a few days before. we were obliged to send across to great delos for a kid, which was killed and roasted by us in the temple of apollo. i spent my time sketching and measuring everything i could see in the way of architectural remains, and copying every inscription. i had to work hard, but without house or food we could not stop where we were, and in the evening we sailed to mycone. next day i went back to delos, and after much consideration resolved to try to dig there. i had to sleep in the open air, for the company of the diggers in the hut was too much for me. first i made out the columns of the temple and drew a restoration of the plan. then we went on digging, but discovered next to nothing--a beautiful fragment of a hand, a dial, some glass, copper, lead, &c., and vast masses of marble chips, as though it had once been a marble-mason's shop. at last it seemed to promise so little that i gave it up and went back to mycone; but on the th, not liking to be beaten, i went back alone to have a last look. but i could discover no indications to make further digging hopeful, so i came away." from mycone the travellers sailed to syra, and from thence to zea, where they stayed some days at least; for there is in bronstedt's "voyages et recherches en grèce" a drawing by my father of a colossal lion which must have been made at this time. ingilby had left them, but my father and foster must have arrived in athens about the beginning of december . not long after he made acquaintance with a brother craftsman, baron haller von hallerstein, a studious and accomplished artist, about fourteen years his senior, and a gentleman by birth and nature; altogether a valuable companion. the two struck up a great intimacy, and henceforth were inseparable. they could be of service to each other. haller was travelling on a very small allowance from his patron, prince louis of bavaria; and my father, while he profited by the company of a man of greater learning and experience, was able in return to add to his comfort by getting commissions for him to do drawings for some of his english friends,[ ] and in other ways supplementing his means. he had come to athens from rome with one linckh, a painter from cannstadt, baron stackelberg,[ ] an esthonian from revel, bronstedt,[ ] a dane, and koes, another dane, all of them accomplished men, seriously engaged in antiquarian studies. together they formed a society suited to my father's tastes and pursuits. in the way of englishmen there were messrs. graham and haygarth and lord byron, all three young cambridge men of fortune, with whom, especially the two first, he was intimate. his only other friends, except greeks, were fauvel, the french consul, who had taste and information, and was owner of a good collection of greek antiquities; and lusieri,[ ] the italian draughtsman to lord elgin, an individual of indifferent character. athens was a small place. there was a khan, of course, but nothing in the shape of an hotel. the better class of travellers lived in lodgings, the best known of which were those of madame makri, a greek lady, the widow of a scotchman of the name of macree, who had been british consul in athens in his day. she had three pretty daughters known to travellers as "les consulines" or "les trois grâces," of whom the eldest was immortalised as "the maid of athens" in a much overrated lyric by lord byron, who was one of their lodgers. as they were going to stop some time in the town, instead of going into an apartment, foster and my father took a house together. "there is hardly anything that can be called society among the greeks. i know a few families, but i very rarely visit them, for such society as theirs is hateful. as for the greek men, in their slavery they have become utterly contemptible, bigoted, narrow-minded, lying, and treacherous. they have nothing to do but pull their neighbours' characters to pieces. retired as i am, you would hardly believe there is not a thing i do that is not known and worse represented. apropos of an act of insolence of the disdar aga's (which i made him repair before the waiwode, the governor of the town), i heard that it was reported that i had been bastinadoed. this report i had to answer by spreading another, viz. that i should promptly shoot anyone, turk or christian, who should venture to lay a hand upon me. this had its effect, and i heard no more of bastinadoing. i do not think we are in much danger here. the franks are highly esteemed by the governor, and the english especially. the other day we witnessed the departure of the old waiwode and the arrival of the new. just as the former was leaving, the heroes from the russian war arrived, brown and dusty. the leading man carried a banner. as they came into the court they were received with discharge of pistols, and embraced by their old friends with great demonstrations. i was very much affected. i heard afterwards that the rogues had never been further than sofia, and had never smelt any powder but that which had gone to the killing of one of them by his companion in a brawl. so much for my feelings. the outgoing waiwode was escorted by the new one with great ceremony as far as the sacred wood. march is the turkish new year's day, and is a great festival with them. the women go out to asomatos and dance on the grass. men are not admitted to the party, but greek women are. linckh, haller, and i went to see them from a distance, taking with us a glass, the better to see them. we were discovered, and some turkish boys, many of whom were armed, came in great force towards us, and began to throw stones at us from some way off. instead of retreating, we stood up to receive them, which rather intimidated them, and they stopped throwing and came up. we laughed with them, which in some measure assuaged them, and when some one said 'bakshish' we gave them some to scramble for, and so by degrees retired. some of the greek and turkish women laughed at us for being driven off by boys; but it was a dangerous thing so to offend national prejudices, and i was very well pleased to be out of it. at best ours was an inglorious position. foster has received a love letter: a para with a hole in it, a morsel of charcoal, and a piece of the silk such as the women tie their hair with. this last signifies that the sender is reduced to the last extremities of love, and the idea is that a sympathetic passion will arise in the receiver and make him discover the sender within nine days." these love letters are common to all the east, not to turkey only. lady mary wortley montagu gives an account of one consisting of some dozen or twenty symbols, but she says she believes there are a million of recognised ones. common people, however, were probably contented with very few. according to her, hair (and i suppose that which ties the hair) means, crown of my head; coal, may i die and all my years be yours; gold wire, i die, come quickly. so foster's letter reads, "crown of my head, i am yours; come quickly." "_april th._--lord byron embarked to-day on board the transport (which is carrying lord elgin's marbles) for malta. he takes this letter with him, and will send it on to you, i trust, immediately on his arrival in england. i must close, as he is just off for the piræus." the ship did not leave the port, however, for some days, as we shall see below; and besides this delay, lord byron was laid up when he got to malta and only arrived in england in july, so the letter was long on its way. footnotes: [ ] sir william amcotte ingilby, bart. (died ), of ripley castle, yorks. [ ] lord byron writes that he is having some views done by a famous bavarian artist.--letter . life by t. moore. [ ] baron otto magnus von stackelberg ( - ), antiquarian; author of _der apollotempel zu bassae_ and other works. [ ] peter oluf bronstedt ( - ), danish archæologist. was made chevalier bronstedt and sent by his government as minister to rome. [ ] lusieri, a neapolitan, painter to the king of naples; engaged as draughtsman by lord elgin. he was still in athens in . chapter v trip to Ægina--discovery and transportation of the marbles to athens--efforts to sell them. "i told you we were going to make a tour in the morea, but before doing so we determined to see the remains of the temple at Ægina, opposite athens, a three hours' sail. our party was to be haller, linckh, foster, and myself. at the moment of our starting an absurd incident occurred. there had been for some time a smouldering war between our servants and our janissary. when the latter heard that he was not to go with us, it broke out into a blaze. he said it was because the servants had been undermining his character, which they equally angrily denied. but he was in a fury, went home, got drunk, and then came out into the street and fired off his pistols, bawling out that no one but he was the legitimate protector of the english. for fear he should hurt some one with his shooting, i went out to him and expostulated. he was very drunk, and professed to love us greatly and that he would defend us against six or seven or even eight turks; but as for the servants, 'why, my soul,' he said, 'have they thus treated me?' i contrived, however, to prevent his loading his pistols again, and as he worked the wine off, calm was at length restored; but the whole affair delayed us so long that we did not walk down to the piræus till night. as we were sailing out of the port in our open boat we overtook the ship with lord byron on board. passing under her stern we sang a favourite song of his, on which he looked out of the windows and invited us in. there we drank a glass of port with him, colonel travers, and two of the english officers, and talked of the three english frigates that had attacked five turkish ones and a sloop of war off corfu, and had taken and burnt three of them. we did not stay long, but bade them 'bon voyage' and slipped over the side. we slept very well in the boat, and next morning reached Ægina. the port is very picturesque. we went on at once from the town to the temple of jupiter, which stands at some distance above it; and having got together workmen to help us in turning stones, &c., we pitched our tents for ourselves, and took possession of a cave at the north-east angle of the platform on which the temple stands--which had once been, perhaps, the cave of a sacred oracle--as a lodging for the servants and the janissary. the seas hereabouts are still infested with pirates, as they always have been. one of the workmen pointed me out the pirate boats off sunium, which is one of their favourite haunts, and which one can see from the temple platform. but they never molested us during the twenty days and nights we camped out there, for our party, with servants and janissary, was too strong to be meddled with. we got our provisions and labourers from the town, our fuel was the wild thyme, there were abundance of partridges to eat, and we bought kids of the shepherds; and when work was over for the day, there was a grand roasting of them over a blazing fire with an accompaniment of native music, singing and dancing. on the platform was growing a crop of barley, but on the actual ruins and fallen fragments of the temple itself no great amount of vegetable earth had collected, so that without very much labour we were able to find and examine all the stones necessary for a complete architectural analysis and restoration. at the end of a few days we had learnt all we could wish to know of the construction, from the stylobate to the tiles, and had done all we came to do. but meanwhile a startling incident had occurred which wrought us all to the highest pitch of excitement. on the second day one of the excavators, working in the interior portico, struck on a piece of parian marble which, as the building itself is of stone, arrested his attention. it turned out to be the head of a helmeted warrior, perfect in every feature. it lay with the face turned upwards, and as the features came out by degrees you can imagine nothing like the state of rapture and excitement to which we were wrought. here was an altogether new interest, which set us to work with a will. soon another head was turned up, then a leg and a foot, and finally, to make a long story short, we found under the fallen portions of the tympanum and the cornice of the eastern and western pediments no less than sixteen statues and thirteen heads, legs, arms, &c. (another account says seventeen and fragments of at least ten more), all in the highest preservation, not feet below the surface of the ground.[ ] it seems incredible, considering the number of travellers who have visited the temple, that they should have remained so long undisturbed. it is evident that they were brought down with the pediment on the top of them by an earthquake, and all got broken in the fall; but we have found all the pieces and have now put together, as i say, sixteen entire figures. the unusual bustle about the temple rapidly increased as the news of our operations spread. many more men than we wanted began to congregate round us and gave me a good deal of trouble. greek workmen have pretty ways. they bring you bunches of roses in the morning with pretty wishes for your good health; but they can be uncommonly insolent when there is no janissary to keep them in order. once while foster, being away at athens, had taken the janissary with him, i had the greatest pother with them. a number that i did not want would hang about the diggings, now and then taking a hand themselves, but generally interfering with those who were labouring, and preventing any orderly and businesslike work. so at last i had to speak to them. i said we only required ten men, who should each receive one piastre per day, and that that was all i had to spend; and if more than ten chose to work, no matter how many they might be, there would still be only the ten piastres to divide amongst them. they must settle amongst themselves what they would choose to do. upon this what did the idlers do? one of them produced a fiddle; they settled into a ring and were preparing to dance. this was more than i could put up with. we should get no work done at all. so i interfered and stopped it, declaring that only those who worked, and worked hard, should get paid anything whatever. this threat was made more efficacious by my evident anger, and gradually the superfluous men left us in peace, and we got to work again. it was not to be expected that we should be allowed to carry away what we had found without opposition. however much people may neglect their own possessions, as soon as they see them coveted by others they begin to value them. the primates of the island came to us in a body and read a statement made by the council of the island in which they begged us to desist from our operations, for that heaven only knew what misfortunes might not fall on the island in general, and the immediately surrounding land in particular, if we continued them. such a rubbishy pretence of superstitious fear was obviously a mere excuse to extort money, and as we felt that it was only fair that we should pay, we sent our dragoman with them to the village to treat about the sum; and meanwhile a boat which we had ordered from athens having arrived, we embarked the marbles without delay and sent them off under the care of foster and linckh, with the janissary, to the piræus, and from thence they were carried up to athens by night to avoid exciting attention. haller and i remained to carry on the digging, which we did with all possible vigour. the marbles being gone, the primates came to be easier to deal with. we completed our bargain with them to pay them piastres, about l., for the antiquities we had found, with leave to continue the digging till we had explored the whole site. altogether it took us sixteen days of very hard work, for besides watching and directing and generally managing the workmen, we had done a good deal of digging and handling of the marbles ourselves; all heads and specially delicate parts we were obliged to take out of the ground ourselves for fear of the workmen ruining them. on the whole we have been fortunate. very few have been broken by carelessness. besides all this, which was outside our own real business, we had been taking measurements and making careful drawings of every part and arrangement of the architecture till every detail of the construction and, as far as we could fathom it, of the art of the building itself was clearly understood by us. meanwhile, after one or two days' absence, foster and linckh came back; and it then occurred to us that the receipt for the piastres had only been given to the names of foster and myself (who had paid it), and linckh and haller desired that theirs should be added. linckh therefore went off to the town to get the matter rectified. but this was not so easy. the lawyer was a crafty rogue, and pretending to be drunk as soon as he had got back the receipt into his hands, refused to give it up, and did not do so until after a great deal of persuasion and threatening. when we fell in with him at dinner two days later he met us with the air of the most candid unconcern. it was at the table of a certain chiouk aga who had been sent from constantinople to receive the rayah tax. linckh had met him in the town when he went about the receipt, and the chiouk had paid us a visit at the temple next day and dined with us, eating and especially drinking a great deal. a compliment he paid us was to drink our healths firing off a pistol. i had to do the same in return. the man had been to england, and even to oxford, and had come back with an odd jumble of ideas which amused us but are not worth repeating. next day, as i have said, we dined with him and the rogue of a lawyer. he was very hospitable. dinner consisted mainly of a whole lamb, off which with his fingers he tore entire limbs and threw them into our plates, which we, equally with our fingers, _à la turque_, ate as best we could. we finished the evening with the albanian dance, and walked up home to our tent." the whole party with their treasures got back to athens on the th or th of may , and on the th he writes: "we are now hard at work joining the broken pieces, and have taken a large house for the purpose. some of the figures are already restored, and have a magnificent effect. our council of artists here considers them as not inferior to the remains of the parthenon, and certainly only in the second rank after the torso of the vatican and other _chefs d'oeuvre_. we conduct all our affairs with respect to them in the utmost secrecy, for fear the turk should either reclaim them or put difficulties in the way of our exporting them. the few friends we have and consult are dying with jealousy, and one[ ] who had meant to have farmed Ægina of the captain pasha has literally made himself quite ill with fretting. fauvel, the french consul, was also a good deal disappointed; but he is too good a fellow to let envy affect his actions, and he has given excellent help and advice. the finding of such a treasure has tried every character concerned with it. he saw that this would be the case, and for fear it should operate to the prejudice of our beautiful collection, he proposed our signing a contract of honour that no one should take any measures to sell or divide it without the consent of the other three parties. this was done. it is not to be divided. it is a collection which a king or great nobleman who had the arts of his country at heart should spare no effort to secure; for it would be a school of art as well as an ornament to any country. the germans have accordingly written to their ministers, and i have written to canning; while fauvel, who has a general order for the purpose from his minister, will make an offer to us on the french account. i had hoped that lord sligo would have offered for it; but our germans, who calculate by the price of marbles in rome, have named such a monstrous figure that it has frightened him. they talk of from , l. to , l.; but as we are eager that they should go to our museum, foster and i have undertaken to present our shares if the marbles go to england, and i have written to canning to say so. it would make a sensible deduction. the whole matter is still full of uncertainties, for the turks may give us a good deal of trouble. but one thing seems clear--that these marbles may detain me here much longer than i proposed to stop; and though we have agreed not to divide the collection, it may come to that if we cannot get away without; and if we can get them to england, even foster's and my portions would make a noble acquisition to the museum. we have been very busy getting the marbles into order, that lord sligo might be able to see them before leaving. he takes this letter with him." it was shortly after this, viz. on june , that messrs. gaily-knight[ ] and fazakerly arrived in athens from egypt and made an offer, which was to buy out messrs. haller and linckh's shares in the marbles for , l., and then, in conjunction with mr. foster and my father, to present the whole to the british museum. the offer unfortunately could not be accepted, as it did not come up to the price demanded by the germans. footnotes: [ ] only fifteen statues were pieced together by thorwaldsen and wagner, but there were numerous fragments besides those used by them, which are still the subject of conjectural restorations. [ ] i suppose lusieri.--ed. [ ] henry gally-knight ( - ), m.p., writer of several works on architecture. chapter vi life in athens--eleusis--transportation of Ægina marbles to zante. my father was now in for a long stay in the country, and seeing something more of it than the usual tourist, even of those days. one or two entries from his diary give one a slight insight into the barbarous condition of the country at this time. "the pasha of negropont has sent a demand of a certain number of purses of the people of athens. logotheti, greek archon of athens, excited the people to go to the cadi and present a protest, which he promised he would support. the people went as far as the house, when logotheti stepped aside into a neighbouring house, whence he could see the cadi's countenance and judge how to speak to him. he saw he took it well, and then he spoke in support of the protest. this pasha of negropont, however, is a redoubtable person. it was expected that he would send troops to attack athens, but it seems that was too strong a measure even for him. instead, he has intercepted some poor albanian cheese merchants, and detains them until some or all of the money has been paid him.[ ] one day i went to the waiwode on business. we had a long talk consisting mainly of questions about england, in which he displayed his ignorance to great advantage. after inquiring after his great friend elfi bey [? lord elgin], he asked what on earth we came here for, so far and at so much trouble, if not for money. did it give us a preference in obtaining public situations, or were we paid? it was useless to assure him that we considered it part of education to travel, and that athens was a very ancient place and much revered by us. he only thought the more that our object must be one we wished to conceal. i told him of the fuss made in london over the persian ambassador, and that if he went all the world would wonder at him. at this he got very excited, and said he wished he had a good carico of oil which he could take to england, thereby paying his journey, and that once he was there he would make everyone pay to see him. all that he knew about england was that there were beautiful gardens there, especially one named marcellias (marseilles)! the man's one idea was money, and he kept on repeating that he was very poor. no wonder greece is miserable under such rulers. veli pasha, governor of the morea, passed through athens a short time ago in a palankin of gold, while the country is in misery. the greeks, cringeing blackguards as they are, have often a sort of pride of their own. one of our servants, who received a piastre a day ( s.), has just left us. his amorosa, who lived close by, saw him carrying water and performing other menial offices and chaffed him, so he said he could stand it no longer and threw up a place the like of which he will not find again in athens. i went into the council of the greek primates. there i saw the french proclamation on the birth of the roi des romains: 'the immortal son of buonaparte is born! rejoice, ye people, our wishes are accomplished!' the primates, however, soberly objected that none but god was [greek: athanatos]. what took me there was to back an englishman who had got into a quarrel with a neighbour, a greek widow, about 'ancient lights' which were blocked by a new building he was putting up. the woman maintained her cause with much spirit and choice expressions: 'you rascal, who came to athens with your mouth full of dung! i'll send you out without a shoe to your foot.' our man retorted 'putana,' equally irrelevantly, and the affair ended in his favour. one morning by agreement we rose at daybreak and walked to eleusis, intending to dig, but we found the labourers very idle and insolent; and after a few days, discovering no trace of the temple, we gave it up. the better sort of greeks have some respect for the superior knowledge of franks as evinced in my drawings; one man, a papa or priest, asked me whether i thought the ancients, whom they revere, can have been franks or romaics. an awkward incident occurred during our stay. we had in our service a handsome greek lad to whom the cadi took a fancy and insisted on his taking service with him. the boy, much terrified, came and wept to us and papa nicola, with whom we lodged. we started off at once to the cadi, and gave him a piece of our mind, which considerably astonished and enraged him. he was afraid to touch us, but vowed to take it out of old nicola, and the next day went off to athens. one night, the last of our stay, arrived a man from the zabeti, or police, of athens to take up nicola to answer certain accusations brought against him by the cadi. this soldier, who was a fine type of the genuine athenian blackguard, swaggered in and partook freely of our wine, having already got drunk at the cadi's. he offered wine to passers-by as if it was his own, boasted, called himself [greek: 'palikar,'] roared out songs, and generally made himself most objectionable. he began to quiz a respectable albanian who came in; and when the latter, who was very civil and called him 'aga,' attempted to retort, flew into a rage, said he was a palikar again, and handled his sword and shook his pistols. i could stand it no longer at last, and said this was my house and no one was aga there but myself; that i should be glad to see him put his pistols down and let me have no more of his swaggering; otherwise i had pistols too, which i showed him, and would be ready to use them. i then treated our poor albanian with great attention and him with contumely. this finished him and reduced the brute to absolute cringeing as far as his conduct to me went. the wretched papa he bullied as before, and when he got up to go he and all the rest were up in an instant; one prepared his papouches, another supported him, a third opened the door, and a fourth held a lamp to light him out. but he had not yet finished his evening. soon i heard a noise of singing and roaring from another house hard by, and received a message from him to beg i would sup with him, for now he had a table of his own and could invite me. the table was provided by some wretched greek he was tyrannising over. of course i did not go, but i moralised over the state of the country. next day he carried off nicola. another instance of the tyranny of these scoundrels was told me as having occurred only a few days before. a zabetis man had arrived and pretended to have lost on the way a purse containing piastres. all the inhabitants were sent to search for it, and if they did not find it he said it must be repaid by the town--and it was. among the people we met at eleusis was a greek merchant, a great beau from hydra, at this time the most prosperous place in greece; but away from his own town he had to cringe to the turks like everyone else. on our way back to athens we overtook him carrying an umbrella to shade his face, and with an albanian boy behind him. when he saw our janissary mahomet the umbrella was immediately lowered. the population of greece is so small now[ ] that large spaces are left uncultivated and rights to land are very undefined. in the neighbourhood of towns there is always a considerable amount of cultivated ground, but although the cultivator of each patch hopes to reap it, there is nothing but fear of him to prevent another's doing it, so far as i can see. a field is ploughed and sown by an undefined set of people, and an equally or even less defined set may reap it. and in point of fact people do go and cut corn where they please or dare. we met a lot of athenians on our way back, going to cut corn at thebes." by the middle of july the Æginetan marbles had been thoroughly overhauled and pieced together, and it was pressing that something should be done about them. the schemes of selling them to lord sligo and messrs. knight and fazakerly had fallen through, and it had come to be seen that the only fair way for all parties was to sell them by public auction. to do this they must first be got out of the country, and various schemes for effecting it were considered and abandoned. as the proprietors meanwhile were in daily fear of their being pounced upon by the turkish authorities, they agreed at length to put the whole matter into the hands of one gropius, a common acquaintance. he was half a german, but born and bred amongst orientals, and being conversant with their ways and languages, and a sharp fellow besides, they felt he was more likely than themselves, unassisted, to carry the business through successfully. they accordingly appointed him their agent, and settled that the collection should be got to zante, as the nearest place of security. eight days were spent in packing, and on july the first batch, on horses and mules, was sent off at night to a spot indicated on the gulf of corinth, near a town and castle [? livadostro.--ed.]. cockerell followed two days afterwards with the rest, and sleeping two nights at condoura, on the third day reached the rendezvous. there they found the first batch all laid out on the beach, and congratulated themselves on having got so far unmolested. gropius went into the town to hire a vessel while the rest sketched and rested. the weather was furiously hot, and cockerell, who was very fond of the water, went out for a long swim in the bay, but some fishermen he came up with frightened him back by telling him that they had seen sharks about. gropius returned in the evening with a boat, and all set to work to get the packages aboard. it took them nearly the whole night to do it. when finally he had seen them all stowed, cockerell, tired out, lay down to sleep. when he woke they were already gliding out of the bay. they sailed along prosperously, and had long passed corinth and sicyon when, as evening came on, they heard the sound of firing ahead. "our first idea was pirates, and when we presently came up with a large ship, which summoned us to come to, we were rather anxious. our felucca was sent aboard. she turned out to be a zantiote merchantman, and had been attacked by four boats which had put out from the shore to examine the cargo in the name of ali pasha. she had refused to submit to overhauling, and when asked what her cargo consisted of had replied 'bullets.' when the captain understood we had four milordi on board, he begged pardon for detaining us, and let us go on. next day we made patras, where we went ashore to see strani, the consul, and get from him passports and letters for zante. in the town we fell in with bronstedt and the rest of that party, who were, of course, much interested and astonished to hear all our news and present business, and when we set sail in the evening gave us a grand salute of pistols as we went out of port. we had a spanking breeze. a storm was brewing behind calydon, and when at length it came upon us it burst the sail of a boat near us. we were a lot of boats sailing together, but when the rest saw this accident they took in their sails. our skipper, however, insisted on carrying on, so we soon parted company with the others; and after a fair wind all night we arrived in the morning at zante." footnotes: [ ] in the end the city had to pay him , piastres, and they had spent , in putting themselves in a state of defence. [ ] according to de pouqueville, , , in ; it is now over , , . chapter vii zante--colonel church--leaves zante to make tour of the morea--olympia --bassÆ--discovery of bas-reliefs--forced to desist from excavations. "hitherto we had had an anxious time, but once they were landed we felt at ease about the marbles. henceforth the business is in gropius' hands. the auction has been announced in english and continental papers to take place in zante on november , . it took us some time to install them, and altogether we passed an odious fortnight on the island. the zantiotes, as they have been more under western influence--for zante belonged to venice for about three centuries--are detestable. they are much less ignorant than the rest of the greeks, but their half-knowledge only makes them the more hateful. until the island was taken in hand by the english, murder was of constant occurrence, and so long as a small sum of money was paid to the proveditor no notice was taken of it. for accomplishing it without bloodshed they had a special method of their own. it was to fill a long narrow bag with sand, with which, with a blow on the back scientifically delivered, there could be given, without fuss or noise, a shock certain sooner or later to prove fatal. socially they have all the faults of the west as well as those of the east without the virtues of either. but their crowning defect in my eyes is that they have not the picturesque costumes or appearance of the mainland greeks. the most interesting thing in zante for the moment is major church's[ ] greek contingent. he has enrolled and disciplined a number of refugee greeks, part patriots, part criminals, and generally both, and has taken an immense deal of pains with them. he flatters them by calling them hellenes, shows them the heads of their heroes and philosophers painted on every wall in his house, and endeavours generally to rouse their enthusiasm. he himself adopts the albanian costume, to which he has added a helmet which he fancies is like that of the ancient greeks, although it is certainly very unlike those of the heroes we brought into zante. altogether, with a great deal of good management and more fustian, he has contrived to attach to himself some thousand excellent troops which under his command would really be capable of doing great things. [ ]at last, on the evening of the th of august, we considered ourselves fortunate in being able to get away, and we started to make the tour of the morea. gropius, haller, foster, linckh, and i left zante in a small boat and arrived next morning at pyrgi, the port of pyrgo, from which it is distant two hours and a half. we obtained horses at a monastery not far from where we landed, and rode through a low marshy country, well cultivated, chiefly in corn and melon grounds, and fairly well peopled up to the town. pyrgo itself lies just above the marshes which border the alpheus, and, as it happened to our subsequent cost, there was a good deal of water out at this moment. we ordered horses, and while they were being brought in we entered the house of an old greek, a primate of the place. i had been so disgusted with the thinly veneered civilisation of the zantiotes and bored with the affectations of our garrison officers there, that i was congratulating myself on having got back to the frank barbarism of the morea, when my admiration for it received a check. the old greek in whose house we were waiting seemed anxious to be rid of us, and, the better to do so, assured me that meraca, or olympia, was only ½ hours distant, equal at the ordinary rate of turkish travelling, which is miles an hour, to ½ miles. the horses were so long in coming, on account of their being out among the marshes and the men having to go up to their knees to get them, that haller and i got impatient and resolved to go on foot as the distance was so little. it turned out, however, to be hours instead of ½, and at nightfall we arrived dead-beat at a marsh, through which in a pitch darkness, i may thank my stars, although invisible, for having struggled safely. we wandered about, lost our way, waded in pools to our knees, and finally took hours instead of ½ to get to our destination. it was two o'clock in the morning when we got to meraca, utterly tired out, and with our lodging still to seek. we were directed to a tower in which lived an albanian aga. the entrance was at the top of a staircase running up the side of the house and ending in a drawbridge which led to the door on the first floor. once inside we went up two other flights of stairs to a room in which we found two albanians, by whom we were kindly received. when they heard how tired we were they offered us some rasky. besides that there was some miserable bread, but no coffee or meat to refresh us. we had to lie down and go to sleep without. there are few visible remains of the once famous olympia,[ ] and not a trace of stadium or theatre that i could make out. the general opinion is that the alpheus has silted up and buried many of the buildings to a depth of or feet, and our small researches point in the same direction. we dug in the temple, but what we could do amounted to next to nothing. to do it completely would be a work for a king. i had had some difficulty with the greek labourers at Ægina, but the turks here were much worse. in the first place, instead of one piastre apiece per day they asked ½, and in the next they had no proper tools. the earth was as hard as brick, and when with extreme difficulty it had been broken up they had no proper shovels; and when the earth, which they piled along the trench as they dug it out, ran into the hole again, they scooped it out with their hands. the thing was too ludicrous. worst of all, as soon as we turned our backs for a moment they either did nothing or went away. this happened when we left them to cross the river and try for a better view of the place. we got over in a caique, which the aga himself, from the village across the water, punted over to us; but the view over there was disappointing, and we came back to find, as i say, our workmen all idling. the long and short of our excavations was that we measured the columns of the temple to be feet in diameter, and we found some attached columns and other fragments of marble from the interior, the whole of which i suppose was of marble, that of the pavement being of various colours. such stone as is used is of a rough kind, made up entirely of small shells and covered with a very white and fine plaster. and that is about all the information we got for a largish outlay. from meraca we rode through romantic scenery to andritzena, a charming village in a very beautiful and romantic situation; and next morning we settled to go on to the temple of bassæ--the stylæ or columns, the natives call it. but before we started the primates of andritzena came in, and after turning over our things and examining and asking the price of our arms, they began to try and frighten us with tremendous stories of a certain barulli, captain of a company of klephts or robbers who haunted the neighbourhood of the stylæ. they begged us to come back the same evening, and to take a guard with us. as for the first, we flatly refused; and for the second, we reflected that our guards must be greeks, while the klephts might be turks, and if so the former would never stand against them, so it was as well for us to take the risk alone. we did, however, take one of their suggestions, and that was to take with us two men of the country who would know who was who, and act as guides and go-betweens; for they assured us that it is not only the professional klephts who rob, but that all the inhabitants of the villages thereabouts are dilettante brigands on occasion. our janissary mahomet also did not at all fancy the notion of living up in the mountain, and added what he could to dissuade us. however, we turned a deaf ear to all objections and set out. our way lay over some high ground, and rising almost all the way, for ½ hours. it is impossible to give an idea of the romantic beauty of the situation of the temple. it stands on a high ridge looking over lofty barren mountains and an extensive country below them. the ground is rocky, thinly patched with vegetation, and spotted with splendid ilexes. the view gives one ithome, the stronghold and last defence of the messenians against sparta, to the south-west; arcadia, with its many hills, to the east; and to the south the range of taygetus, with still beyond them the sea. haller had engagements, which i had got him, to make four drawings for english travellers. i made some on my own account, and there were measurements to be taken and a few stones moved for the purpose, all of which took time. we spent altogether ten days there, living on sheep and butter, the only good butter i have tasted since leaving england, sold to us by the few albanian shepherds who lived near. of an evening we used to sit and smoke by a fire, talking to the shepherds till we were ready for sleep, when we turned into our tent, which, though not exactly comfortable, protected us from weather and from wolves. for there are wolves--one of them one night tore a sheep to pieces close to us. we pitched our tent under the north front. on the next day after our arrival, the th, one of the primates of andritzena came begging us to desist from digging or moving stones, for that it might bring harm on the town. this was very much what happened at Ægina. he did not specify what harm, but asked who we were. we in reply said that we had firmans, that it was not civil, therefore, to ask who we were, and that we were not going to carry away the columns. when he heard of the firmans he said he would do anything he could to help us. all the same, he seemed to have given some orders to our guide against digging; for the shepherds we engaged kept talking of the fear they were in, and at last went away, one of them saying the work was distasteful to him. they were no great loss, for they were so stupid that i was obliged to be always with them and work too, in doing which i tore my hand and got exceedingly fatigued. i was repaid by getting some important measurements. in looking about i found two very beautiful bas-reliefs under some stones, which i took care to conceal again immediately." this incident is described in greater detail by stackelberg in the preface to his book.[ ] the interior of the temple--that is to say, the space inside the columns--was a mass of fallen blocks of some depth. while haller and cockerell with the labourers were scrambling about among the ruins to get their measurements, a fox that had made its home deep down amongst the stones, disturbed by the unusual noise, got up and ran away. it is not quite a pleasant task to crawl down among such insecure and ponderous masses of stone with the possibility of finding another fox at the bottom; but cockerell ventured in, and on scraping away the accumulations where the fox had its lair, he saw by the light which came down a crack among the stones, a bas-relief. i have heard this story also from his own lips. stackelberg further says that the particular relief was that numbered in the phigaleian marbles at the british museum, and naïvely adds, "indeed one may still trace on the marble the injuries done by the fox's claws." he managed to make a rough sketch of the slab and carefully covered it over again. from the position in which it lay it was inferable that the whole frieze would probably be found under the dilapidations. "early one morning some armed shepherds came looking about for a lost sheep. they eventually found it dead not far from our tent, and torn to pieces by a wolf--as i mentioned before. the day being sunday we saw some grand specimens of the arcadian shepherds. they stalk about with a gun over their shoulders and a long pistol in the waist, looking very savage and wild--and so they are: but, wild as they may be, they still retain the names which poetry has connected with all that is idyllic and peaceful. alexis is one of the commonest. as our labourers had left us, there was nothing for it but to work ourselves. we were doing so and had just lit upon some beautiful caissons, when a man on horseback, greek or turk (they dress so much alike there is no distinguishing them), rode up accompanied by four albanians all armed. he told us he was the owner of the land, and, although he was very civil about it, he forbade our digging any more. we asked him to eat with us, but being a fast day in the greek church, he declined. finally, after writing to andritzena, he left us. after so many objections being made to our excavations we felt it would be too dangerous to go on at present, and promised ourselves to come again next year in a stronger party and armed with more peremptory and explicit authority to dig, and in the meantime there was nothing to do but to get through our drawings and studies as quickly as we could. the uneasiness of our janissary mahomet, since our camping out began, gave us serious doubts of his courage, and a plan was invented for testing it. this was to raise an alarm at night that we were attacked by klephts. our arcadian shepherds entered into the joke with surprising alacrity and kept it up well. just after supper a cry was heard from the mountain above that robbers were near. in an instant we all sprang up, seized pistols and swords, and made a feint as though we would go up the hill. our janissary, thunderstruck, was following, when we proposed that he should go on alone. but he would not do that. in the first place he was ill; in the next place, would it not be better to go to andritzena? he begged we might go to andritzena." footnotes: [ ] afterwards sir richard church, and commander-in-chief of the greek forces up to his death in . [ ] an epitome of the following appears in hughes's _travels in sicily, greece, and albania_, p. . [ ] olympia was thoroughly excavated by the germans in - , when the hermes of praxiteles and the victory of pæonios were discovered. [ ] _der apollotempel zu bassae._ chapter viii andritzena--caritzena--megalopolis--benighted--kalamata. "we left the stylæ and went down to andritzena by a shorter road. in going up, the drivers, to be able to charge us more, had taken us round a longer way. andritzena is not only beautiful in its situation, the people who live in it are charming. everyone seemed to think it the proper thing to show some attention to the strangers. the girls--and some of them were very pretty--brought us each as a present a fruit of some kind, pears or figs, and did it in the prettiest and most engaging manner; so that we had more than we could carry home with us. disinterested urbanity is so unusual a feature in greek character that we were surprised, and i must confess that it was the only time such a thing ever occurred to us in greece. the turks tax these poor wretches unmercifully. to begin with, they have to pay the government one-fourth of their produce. then there is the karatch or poll tax, which seems to be rather variable in amount, and the chrea or local tax levied for the local government, which together make up about another fourth; so that the taxes amount to half the yearly produce. of course the people complain. i can't tell you how often i have been asked 'when will the english come and deliver us from the turks, who eat out our souls?' 'and why do they delay?' one greek told me he prayed daily that the franks might come; and while i am on the subject i may as well mention here, though it was said a few weeks later, when we were near corinth, by a shepherd, 'i pray to god i may live to see the morea filled with such franks.' they like us better than they do the french, because they have heard from zante and elsewhere that we treat our dependencies more honourably than they do. we were five days at andritzena. haller made drawings of the village, and i finished up my memoranda of phigaleia. besides that, as i thought we ought not to leave the neighbourhood without making a final effort to complete our explorations at the stylæ, and that, the pasha veli being absent from the morea, we might perhaps get leave from the waiwode of fanari, foster and i rode over to see him. we found him exceedingly courteous, perfectly a man of the world; and although his house and the two old cushions in the corner of a dilapidated gallery on which he was propped when he received us did not bespeak great affluence, his manner was not that of a man to whom one could offer a bribe. he said he regretted very much having had to write the letter we had received forbidding us to go on digging, but that it was absolutely necessary that we should cease, and there was an end of the matter. at the same time he hoped there had been no expression in it to offend us. 'veli,' said he, 'is very peremptory about no bouyuruldu or permission being given by anyone but himself; for he insists on knowing all about travellers who move about in his pashalik, and upon periodically inspecting them and their firman and approving it. the mere fact of my having allowed your party to remain ten days at phigaleia, no matter whether you dug or not, was enough to ruin me; for these albanians [that is, ali pasha and his sons] ask but few questions [listen to no excuses].' so we had to go back to andritzena without having effected anything beyond seeing an albanian turkish wedding on our way. when we came upon them they were gorgeously dressed, playing the djerid and brandishing their swords. i never saw anything so picturesque. the party were on their way to fetch the bride from fanari. they had an albanian red and white banner, with a silk handkerchief tied to the top of it, which was the token sent by the bride to her lover as an invitation to him to come and fetch her. after sunset she is taken to his house on horseback, closely veiled. hearing of some columns in an old castle not far off, as the account was a tolerably rational one, i resolved, although i ought to have had experience enough of greek lies to warn me, to go and see them. there was the hope of making some discovery of interest; for my informant insisted that no milords had ever been there before. so i girt myself with sword and pistol, and walked ½ hours to a hill or mountain called sultané. i only found a few miserable columns, a considerable fortress and cyclopean walls, and i made two sketches on the road. i was very tired when i got back. the greek shoemaker, our landlord, came and supped with us, and got very maudlin over the wine. we went next to caritzena. the waiwode insisted on our putting up with him, and gave up a room to us, begging that we would order whatever best pleased us; that his servants would prepare anything, and we should purchase nothing. 'our king at stamboul is rich enough to receive our friends and allies, the english,' he said. we were preparing to go out and draw when a message came to say the waiwode would pay us a visit. haller, however, would not stop for anybody. foster had to ride back to a place where he had changed his coat and in so doing had dropped a ring he valued, and which, by the by, he managed to find. so linckh and i, though i felt very unwell with a bilious attack, had to stop in and receive our visitor. he was very polite, and his manners really very fine. he told us he had been with the ambassador at vienna and at berlin, and spoke a few words of german, which enchanted linckh. he presently remarked that i seemed unwell, and i told him that i was bilious, and had a pain in my head; whereupon he took hold of my temples in his right hand, while an old turk who sat near doubled down his little finger and repeated a charm, which he began in a whisper and finished aloud, leaning forward and pronouncing something like 'osman odoo--o--o.' then he asked me if i was better; because if i was not he would double down his next finger and the next till he came to the thumb, which he said was infallible. this prospect seemed more than i could quite bear; so i thought best to sacrifice my principles, and said 'yes, i was,' to get rid of the matter, but i was not. some greeks came and joined in our conversation. really, if one had not some pity for their condition, one could not suffer them, their manners are so odious. nevertheless, as they seem to have all the power here and elect their own governor and give him an allowance, the waiwode would not join me in criticising them. the waiwode continued to be as civil as ever, but i could not help thinking he looked anxiously for presents, and we had none to give him. all i could do was to offer him one of the common little brass english boxes with a head of king george on it, filled with bark. he took it with every expression of delight, but i could see it was put on. we could only thank him heartily, fee the servants handsomely, and bow ourselves out with the best grace we could assume. he especially coveted a miniature foster wore of a lady, and this foster promised to have copied for him and sent him from england; but he could not part with the original. he gave us strong letters of recommendation for kalamata. we left early next day. there was an awkward little episode of a box of instruments belonging to foster, which he missed off a certain sofa. the boluk bashi had admired them very much. presently, when the inquiry was made, an officer of the boluk bashi came in and searched near the sofa, and then suddenly went out. we did the same, and lo! there was the case. and the boluk bashi looked very disconcerted as we bade him adieu. we followed the course of the gyrtinas. these are mountains which on all hands are celebrated among the modern greeks for the exploits of the colocotroni[ ] and other captains who lived among the hills and maintained a sort of independence of the turks ever since they have held the morea. the peasants delight to sing the ballads composed on these heroes, and, exulting in their bravery, forget the horrible barbarities they committed. when smirke was here the country must really have been in a fearful state of anarchy; and whatever we may say against him, it must be laid at any rate to the credit of veli pasha that he has cleared the morea of banditti. the colocotroni and the rest of them have had to fly the country and enlist in church's contingent at zante. we spent some time at megalopolis, and with pausanias in our hands were able to identify remnants of almost everything he mentions, in especial the spring near the theatre, which only runs part of the year. at lycosura the ruins are disappointingly modern, and there is not much of them; nothing left of the ancient temple at all. the situation is very fine. two and a half hours' journey up a stream through woods brought us to dervine, the boundary of messenia. then we crossed the plain of messenia, admiring, even in the rain, the mountains, ithome especially, and at dusk got to a village two hours short of kalamata. our agroati did not know the road on, and it was too late to get a guide; but as they told us the road was quite straight we went on in the dark. at the end of an hour we had lost the track; it was pitch black, raining still, and we on the edge of a river in a marsh. there i thought we should have stayed. for four hours we groped about, looking first for the lost path, and then for any path to any shelter. first we tried giving haller's horse, who had been to kalamata before, a loose rein and letting him lead the way. at first it promised well, for the horse went ahead willingly; but the agroati took upon him to change his course, and then we were as lost as ever. we could hardly see each other. then we sent off the agroati to try and reach a light we could see. he came back with awful accounts of bogs and ditches he had met in his path. finally, after standing still for a time in the pelting rain, we resolved to reach the light; and so we did, over hedge and ditch and through bogs, and indian corn above our heads as we sat on horseback, and at length, wet through and wearied, reached a cottage in which were some greeks. they, however, refused to lead us to any house; for, said they, 'we know not what men ye are.' at last one good man took us into his house and gave us a room, and figs and brandy for supper. we were thankful for anything. he was a poor peasant with a pretty wife and a perfectly lovely daughter. we got to kalamata next day, meeting on the way numbers of mainiotes coming to buy figs &c. in the messenian plain, all armed. our baggage had arrived very late overnight. we went to the so-called consul, an agent of the consul at patras, and sent the letter of recommendation of the waiwode of caritzena to the waiwode of kalamata; but he took no notice of it, and did nothing whatever for us, so we had to find a house for ourselves. we pitched upon a lofty turkish tower commanding the city, with a very rotten floor which threatened at any moment to let us through from the second storey to the base. the only way up to our room was by a crazy ladder. the shutters were riddled with bullets. some time before there had been a grand engagement between this tower and the cupola of a neighbouring church, where some mainiotes in the service of one of their great captains, a certain benachi, had defended themselves. kalamata seems to be a constant scene of fights between the party of the bey appointed by the porte, or rather the capitan pasha, and the party who want to appoint a bey of their own, and this is the way they fight, each party from its own tower. from our tower we made panoramic sketches of the city, but were much interrupted by visitors. among them came a young mainiote albanian officer from church's contingent, who was here recruiting. he was accompanied by two armed mainiotes, and said he had twenty more concealed about the town in case of danger. he invited us to come with him into maina as far as dolus, where his family lived, a proposal we eagerly closed with, and appointed the next morning." footnote: [ ] one colocotronis, a chief of klephts, attained great influence in the war of independence. chapter ix trip to maina--its relative prosperity--return to kalamata. second trip to maina--murginos--sparta--napoli to athens. "the mainiote border comes to within half a mile of kalamata, and the neighbourhood of its ferocious population, who are as savage and even braver than the turks, makes the latter much meeker here than in other parts of the country--that is, in a general way, for they can be very fierce still on occasions. a ghastly thing happened during our stay. we heard one evening the report of a pistol in the house of the albanian guard which stood just under our windows. it seemed one of the brutes had shot his brother in a quarrel. here was a gruesome example under our eyes; and besides i was told all sorts of hideous stories of mainiote and albanian cruelties which made my blood run cold, and still spoils all my pleasure in thinking of this barbarous region. early in the morning we embarked on a zantiote felucca, lent us for the occasion, and in an hour and a half reached the opposite coast of the bay, near the ruins of a village, of which we were told that it was destroyed and its inhabitants carried off for slaves by the barbary pirates. ever since this event the villages have been built farther from the coast. the village of dolus, to which we were going, is an hour's walk from the shore. our friend's brother and a number of other men, all armed to the teeth, met us on the beach and saluted us, as soon as we were recognised, with a discharge of guns and pistols. then we landed, and set off for the village. a difference in the appearance of the country struck me at once. instead of the deserted languid air of other parts of greece, here was a vigorous prosperity. not an inch of available ground but was tilled and planted with careful husbandry, poor and rocky as the soil was. the villages were neater and less poverty-stricken, and the population evidently much thicker than in the rest of greece. the faces of the men were cheerful and open; the women handsomer, and their costume more becoming. liberty seemed to have changed the whole countenance and manner of the people to gaiety and happiness. everyone saluted us as we passed along, and when we arrived at dolus the mother of our entertainer came out with the greatest frankness to meet us. others came, and with very engaging manners wished us many years, a rare civility in greece. the boys crowded round, and said englishmen were fine fellows, but why had we no arms? how could we defend ourselves? then they shook their fists at the turkish shore, saying those ruffians dared not come amongst mainiotes. our host's family had cooked us some chickens. while we were sitting eating them a multitude of visitors, women especially, who had never seen franks before, came in, gazed, and asked questions. there was a great deal of laughing and talking, but every man was heavily armed. after dinner we went out for a walk and visited some remarkably pretty villages. the name of one was malta, the others i could not make out; all more in the interior. the churches were very pretty. each had a tall steeple in the gothic style with bells, which a boy, proud of his freedom and anxious to show it, running on, would ring as we came up; for, as you know, neither bells nor steeples are allowed by the turks. we saw a new tower, the tower of the beyzesday, or captain of the mainiotes, armed with two thirty-pounders which had been given him, and though not very solidly built, standing in a fine position. we were told that all these towers are provisioned for a siege, and one of those near kalamata has food for five years--not that i believe it. all slept together, ten of us covering the whole floor of a tiny room. we went back in the morning to kalamata, leaving behind us our host. he had been warned by letter from kalamata not to go back there, for reports had been circulated by the turks that he was gone to maina to raise recruits and he would probably be arrested if he landed. we had been so interested with our glimpse of the free greeks--the greeks who had always been free from the days of sparta, who had maintained their independence against rome, byzantium, the franks, venetians, and turks--that we longed to see more of them; and the reports we heard of a temple near cape matapan gave us hopes of a return for the expense of an excursion. we therefore agreed with a certain captain basili of dolus, owner of a boat, that he should take us to cyparissa and protect us into the interior. meanwhile we went home to get our baggage &c. as we rowed along the shore a storm hung on mount elias, rolling in huge coils among the high perched villages, and the awful grandeur and air of savage romance it gave to the whole country whetted our appetites to the utmost. when we landed at kalamata, however, a dispute about payment for the present trip led us to refer to the consul for a settlement, and incidentally to our telling him our plans. as soon as he heard them he objected vigorously. the man we had engaged was, he said, a notorious murderer; it was well known that he had assassinated a certain greek doctor for his money when he was bringing him from coron, and he might do the same for us on the way to cyparissa. it would be better if we insisted on going into maina to write to a certain captain murgino at scardamula and put ourselves under his protection. as he was one of the heads of the mainiote clans, and a man of power, he would be able to guarantee our safety. as this advice was supported by a french gentleman of cervu, a monsieur shauvere, who seemed to be reliable, we took it, and wrote that same evening to murgino; but the first engagement had to be got rid of, and that was not so easy. whatever his intentions had been, the boatman from dolus thought he had made a profitable engagement, for he demanded piastres indemnity, first for expenses incurred and next for the slight. he threatened to attack us on the way if we ventured to engage another boat. finally we agreed to refer the dispute for settlement to the albanian mainiote, our late host. we received an answer from murgino to say that we should be very welcome, and that he would send a guard to meet us four hours from his house. we accordingly set off in the evening to go by land, and arrived at night at a village called mandinié; and there we had to sleep, for the road was too breakneck for us to go on in the dark. our host was exceedingly hospitable, and gave one a good impression of the free greeks. early in the morning we went on to malta, and met four of murgino's men come to meet us. we also fell in with the young captain or chieftain of mainiotes on his way to kalamata. he had a guard of eight or ten men, all armed and handsomely dressed, their hair trailing down their backs like true descendants of the spartans, who combed their long hair before going into battle. as regarding the origin of the name malta, it may be called to mind that the venetians during their occupation mortgaged part of the morea to the knights of st. john, and this may have been one of their fortresses. having hired mules to carry our luggage, as the road is too bad for horses, we proceeded to scardamula, a distance of ½ hour. there we were rejoined by my servant dimitri, whom i had sent on to arrange the affair of captain basili, the dolus boatman. he had found the man in a state of exasperation, refusing to accept any accommodation, saying it was an affair of honour, and vowing that we should pay in another way. the wife and mother of the albanian officer, dreading his resentment, had hung terrified on his (dimitri's) arm, assuring him that we should be assassinated on the road. he himself arrived hardly able to speak with terror and pale as paper. we did all we could to inspire him with a little courage, both natural and dutch. first we appealed to him as a man to show a good face, and for the second we gave him a good and ample dinner, and, relying on our guard and on ourselves, set out. but before starting we begged our albanian friend to come, if he could, next day to scardamula, bringing captain basili with him, and the dispute should be referred to captain murgino for arbitration. the path to scardamula--for there was nothing in the shape of a road--was now so difficult that we had to get off; and, even so, it was to me perfectly wonderful how the mules ever got along. there was nothing but rock, and that all fissured and jagged limestone, but they climbed over it like goats. the situation of scardamula is infinitely striking. at the gate of his castle captain murgino waited to receive us--a fat, handsome old man. at the first our rather strange appearance seemed to put him a little out of countenance, and he received us awkwardly although kindly; but after a time he appeared to regain confidence and became very cordial. 'eat a good supper, _ingles archi mas_' ('my little englishman'), he said to me, and gave me the example. he talked freely on the political state of maina. he owned and regretted that the greeks had no leader, and said he trusted that would not long be wanting, and that shortly the great object of his desires would be realised; but what that object was he would not explain. it might be an invasion of the morea by the english, seconded by a native insurrection which he would take a leading part in--or what not; but he was careful to give me no hint.[ ] his son was absent at a council of the [greek] chiefs at marathonisi. the next morning we walked about his lands, which were indescribably picturesque. his castle stands on a rock in the bed of a river, about a quarter of a mile from the bank. it consists of a courtyard and a church surrounded by various towers. there is a stone bench at his door, where he sits surrounded by his vassals and his relations, who all stand unless invited to sit. the village people bring him presents, tribute as it were, of fruits, fowls, &c. on a lofty rock close by is a watch-tower, where watch is kept night and day. the whole gave us a picture of feudal life new and hardly credible to a nineteenth-century englishman. behind the tower the mountains rise precipitously, and culminate in the pentedactylon--a prodigious mountain of the taygetus range. murgino made us an estimate of his dependents. he has about , men, over whom he has absolute authority to call them out or to punish them as he thinks fit. a few days before we came he had had an obstreperous subject, who refused to obey orders, executed. moreover, he showed a well in which he said he put those from whom he desired to extort money. when times are hard and the olives fail he makes war upon his neighbours, and either robs or blackmails them. the old man assured me that one winter they brought back from , to , piastres, from l. to l., a day. such was our host and his surroundings. as i told you, our object was to examine some remains we had heard rumours of, especially of a doric temple said to exist in the southern part of maina, and, by all we could hear, in a tolerable state of preservation; but when we saw the tremendous preparations made by our good captain we found the enterprise beyond all our calculations or means. he declared he could not ensure our safety without his own attendance with a guard of forty men at the least. at this we thought it best, however regrettable, to retire before the expenses we should incur should embarrass us in our return to athens. so we only stayed two days with murgino, and then returned to kalamata. as you may suppose, i was very sorry to lose an opportunity of perhaps making another discovery of importance, but even as it was i did not regret to have made the visit into maina. in no part of europe at any rate, if indeed of the world, could one find such singular scenes or come upon a state of society so exactly like that of our ancient barons. the character of murgino himself was a study. he was very hardy, bold, vigorous in mind and body, used from a boy to battle with all kinds of reverses. his father was driven out of his home by the turks, who brought several frigates and regularly laid siege to scardamula. he escaped, but he was afterwards taken and hanged at tripolizza. murgino himself escaped to coron, where, however, he was discovered and put in chains. a friendly priest brought him a file, wherewith he effected his escape to the house of the english consul, and was by him protected. he then took service on board a french privateer, and wandered into various parts of the levant. after some time he reappeared at scardamula, took possession of his father's castle, and became one of the captains or leaders of the mainiotes. then the turks returned and surrounded him a second time. with a few followers he cut his way through and escaped to zante. some months later he came back once more, to find a neighbour had seized his possessions. he collected friends and laid siege to him. his rival was, fortunately for him, killed by a stroke of lightning during the siege, and murgino came into his own again. but he did not hold it long in peace. he was again attacked by the turks in force. this time he shut himself in the castle with greeks, who swore to die rather than yield. for forty days they held the place with muskets against artillery, till all his powder was spent and his towers in ruins. then he sent a message to the enemy to say that if they would give him two cannon and some powder he would hold the castle a year. having soothed his mind with this taunt, he prepared to escape to the mountains. first he sent his wife off by night, and then followed with the few survivors of his men, and contrived again to get to zante. it is characteristic of the man that when he learnt that his son was hanged he called, as he told me, for another glass of rum, saying 'che serve la melancolia?' among the ruffianly crew who loafed about the place he pointed me out one or two of the poor fellows who had remained hidden in the hills when he went to zante. some had lost a toe or a finger in the frost; others had been maimed in the siege. one youth in particular he indicated, saying 'this fellow's father was a fine fellow; he was crushed in the falling of one of the towers!' every one had a history. somehow, before we parted, i had got to feel a sort of affection for this ruthless cateran. he had an uncommonly open frank manner, he was certainly clean, and he had an air of natural superiority which it was difficult to resist. i should not have written so much about this if i had not thought it the most interesting part of the tour--but it had not, i admit, much architectural instruction to offer. from kalamata we went to sparta, over a rugged and picturesque road, along the brink of precipices and over the taygetus. some time ago it was infested by banditti,[ ] and so it still is on the borders of maina. we arrived late at a small village near mistra. the road, which passed among overhanging rocks and a wild and fantastic scenery, the effect of which was heightened by the moonlight, was so stony and rugged that we were obliged to walk by far the greater part of the way. sometimes the shepherds on precipices above us would call out, 'what men are ye?' and we answered, 'good men.' there was no step of the road that had not its annals of murder or robbery. one of our party, to cheer us, sang us the great deeds of a certain captain zaccani, who had been something between a highwayman and a patriot not many years back, infesting this part of the country. sparta, i need not tell you, was strong only in its inhabitants. it stood, as no other greek city did, in a plain. there are no remains. its present inhabitants, far from being independent, are the most oppressed, the meanest and the stupidest of the greeks. we stayed only three days for haller, who had various drawings to make, and then rode from mistra to tripolizza in one day. haller had had a fall from his horse on the way which had strained him a good deal, so we had to stop three days there also. it is the capital of the morea, and has a caimacam, whom we went to call upon one evening. it chanced to be during the ramazan. he was very civil and gave us a bouyuruldu, an order which provided us horses gratis to athens. the details of the visit were very much the same as those of other official visits. we drank coffee and smoked large pipes surrounded by a crowd of chiouks. the large and well-lighted room was filled with albanian soldiers lying and sitting in all positions on the floor, and we had to be careful in picking our way through them. we did not stop longer at argos or tiryns than was necessary to verify gell's description. at napoli di romagna, where we were detained for want of horses, we narrowly escaped the bastinado. napoli is one of the chief fortresses of the morea, and the custom on entering such places is to get off one's horse. our servant, who knew nothing of this, was cruelly beaten by the guard. when we came up we were told of it by the grooms who looked after our luggage, and conjured by the panagia and the cross to dismount as we went in. we, however, thought it unbecoming our dignity, and rode boldly in. the guard, seeing so many hats, was awed and said nothing; but we could see by the frowns of the bystanders that our presumption was disapproved, and when we complained to the pasha, the head of the janissaries, of the way our servant was mishandled, he took very little notice of us. generally speaking the turks in their fortresses are insufferably intolerant and insolent. our treatment was no inducement to stay, and we made on for athens as soon as we could. we visited the sacred grove at epidaurus,[ ] the ruins of mycenæ,[ ] and stayed one day in corinth. but we were glad to get to athens; it was like home to us. for three weeks i had slept with my clothes on, without a bed, and with only one blanket to wrap myself in." footnotes: [ ] it probably was the insurrection, for when it occurred he took an important part in it. he was the opponent of the mavro michali faction, headed by petro bey. [ ] here it was that chevalier bronstedt was stopped next year and robbed: _vide infra._ [ ] the hieron of epidaurus excavated by the archæological society of athens. [ ] excavated by schliemann in . chapter x Ægina marbles called for by british government ships--leaves athens for crete and egypt with hon. francis north--canea--condition of crete--by land--retimo--kalipo christo--candia--audience of the pasha--his band-- the archbishop--the military commandant--turkish society--life in candia. "waiting for me in athens i found letters from my father detailing the measures he had taken in our favour concerning the marbles. he had moved the prince regent, who had given orders that , l. and a free entry should be offered for the collection, and that a ship of war should be sent to fetch it. the offer might be considered equal to , l. the ship might be expected at once. here was a bitter disappointment to be unable to accept so splendid an offer, and a painful embarrassment as well; for i had led the government, quite unintentionally, to suppose that they had only to send for the marbles to secure them. in consequence of which they were sending two great vessels at great expense, whereas i should now have to tell the captain not only that the marbles were no longer in athens--but that they could not be handed over at all." at this moment the honourable mr. north,[ ] an acquaintance already made in constantinople, had turned up in athens, and intended making an expedition to egypt up the nile as far as thebes. he proposed to cockerell and foster to join him. egypt had been part of the former's original scheme in planning his travels, and the opportunity of sharing expenses was not one to be lost. so it was agreed, and all preparations were made for the journey. they were to have started in the beginning of november, but were delayed by unfavourable winds. "i was a month in athens, for the most part unprofitably, as all time spent in expectation must be. every day we packed up, to unpack again when the wind went contrary. finally, on november th, the wished-for wind came, and at the same time an express from captain percival of the brig-of-war _pauline_ , come for the marbles, called us down to the piræus to see the ship sent by the prince regent. it was raining in torrents. nevertheless we set out, with haller and linckh as well, to explain matters. i own my consternation was great when i saw the two big ships come on a bootless quest, for which i was in a way answerable. we had to tell captain percival not only that the marbles were now in zante, but that even if they had been still here he could not have taken them, as they were now to be sold by auction; and, finally, as there was danger of zante being at any time attacked by the french, to request him to remove them to malta for greater security. at first captain percival was very indignant, not unnaturally; but when he had done his duty in this respect he was very civil and asked us to dine. ale and porter, which i had not seen for so long, seemed delicious, and i drank so much of it that when, with north, haller, and stackelberg, i went aboard our greek ship to bed, i slept like a stone till the morning drum on the _pauline_ woke me. the wind was blowing fresh from the north. we drew up our anchor; haller and stackelberg shook us by the hand and went ashore. and now for candia and egypt. good port as the piræus is once you are inside, to get in and out of it is very awkward. the brig, of course, well handled, had no difficulty; but we failed altogether at the first attempt, and at the next as near as possible got on to the rocks at the entrance. the _pauline_ laid to for us till we were out, and then sailed ahead much more quickly than we were able to follow. the day was bright, the wind was fair, and it was new and exhilarating to sail in such good company. at Ægina, where the temple stood up clear for us to see, the brig and the transport lay to, to land a pilot, and we went in front, but they soon caught us up again; and when they passed us, comparing their trimness and order with our state, i saw why a greek always speaks with such awe of an english ship. between hydra--a black and barren rock--and the mainland a storm, which we just escaped, swept along, and our captain seeing it, and thinking dirty weather might come on, steered towards milo so as to be able to put in there in case of danger, and we parted with our convoy. of our party i was the only one who was not ill, and appeared at dinner; and as the air was close below among my sick friends, i passed the night on deck in a seaman's coat. in the morning candia was in sight, and by midday we were in canea--only twenty-eight hours. as we drew near, the town, with its many minarets, all white and stretching along a flat, with dark mountains, peak above peak, in very fine forms behind it, had a most striking effect. from a great distance one could distinguish the large arched arsenals built by the venetians for their galleys. the port is difficult to enter, and we nearly ran ashore here again by mistaking a breach in the wall which encloses the port for the entrance to it. it is a gap which has once been mended by the turks, but it was so ill done that it fell in again immediately; and now it has been a ruin for some time and seems likely to remain one. we dropped our anchor ill too, so that the stem of our ship ran foul of some rocks, but no harm was done. we landed, dressed _à la turque_, and i felt some 'mauvaise honte' in replying to the salutation of turks who took us for their fellows, so i was not sorry to take shelter in the house of our consul, sr. capo grosso, a native of spalatro, with a pretty tartar wife from the crimea. it appears that besides himself there are very few franks living here--only two families descended from the venetians, and two other catholic families, all kept in a perpetual tremor by the turks, who are worse in crete than anywhere. there are quarrels and murders every day between them and the greeks. there never was such a state as the country is in. the military power consists of a local militia of janissaries and none other, so that their captains are able to terrorise the pasha into doing anything they please. but the militia, again, is composed of various regiments, and they are at variance with each other. so that you have both anarchy and civil war. fancy, how nice! the venetians long possessed the island, and the fortifications and public buildings, which are really very noble, as well as every other decent thing in the place, are of their production. indeed, in walking through the city, judging by the look of the buildings, one might imagine oneself in a frank country, except that they are all left to go to rack and ruin. the sea walls are so neglected that the port is almost destroyed. it is, as i said, a fortified town, and the turks are absurdly jealous of any stranger and possible spy. one cannot stir out without being closely watched, and they shoot at anything which incurs the slightest suspicion--a frankish hat, for instance. in consequence it was impossible to do any sketching, however much i might wish to. the weather looked thoroughly bad. it poured all day, with a north wind which forbade all thoughts of sailing. to make the best use of our time, it was proposed that we should make an expedition to see ida and the famous labyrinth; but as mr. north is no mountain climber he settled to wait in the ship for a fair wind to carry him to candia, where whichever of us should arrive first was to await the other. there was some delay in starting, because the rascally turk from whom we first tried to job our horses came to a dispute with his agroates about the pay they were to get. though he was to get ten piastres per horse, he would only give them five. as they could not agree, the negotiation fell through and it was rather late before we got others. we were douglas,[ ] foster, and myself, the consul's dragoman and two janissaries. outside the ramparts, which are certainly strong, one comes on a fine plain dotted with white villas and thick with olives. one owner whose house we passed, hagi imin effendi, makes as many as , barrels of oil per annum, which at piastres a barrel represents a vast income. having crossed the plain, one comes to suda bay, an excellent harbour, a mile and a half or two miles in length. the entrance is protected by an island with a famous fortress upon it which resisted the turks for thirty-five years after the reduction of the rest of crete. it has pieces of cannon now. soapmaking is one of the chief industries of crete. along suda bay were numbers of salt-pans for winning the salt wanted for the soapmaking. a venetian road, once good, now in a ruinous condition, led us along a cliff flanked with watch-towers, and presently turned inland. before us was a beautiful hilly country covered with olives, and in the distance ida white with snow. on our right the sphakiote mountains, high and pointed, very like maina to look at, and not unlike it in respect of its population, though it has not been quite so fortunate. the sphakiotes maintained their independence till forty-three years ago, but then they were reduced by the turks, and have been paying taxes ever since, and furnishing sailors for the turkish shipping. these sailors act as hostages for the good behaviour of their relatives. all the same they are a bold people never without arms, and prompt in the use of them. we slept that night at a wretched khan at neokorio in company with our horses and their vagabond drivers, and fleas in infinite abundance. thomas, douglas's english servant, made an ill-timed joke here, which might have been awkward among such savage people. the turks at suppertime pressed round him to see what was in our food-bag, and he, to be rid of them, told them it was full of pork. at this they expressed the greatest disgust, pressed upon us to know if it was true, and refused to eat anything that night. however, nothing more came of it. fleas and the manifold varieties of stinks drove us to get through our night's rest as quickly as possible. we were up and away two hours before daybreak, scrambling along a rough road. when the sun rose the effect of it on the snow-covered sphakiote hills was magnificent. our way was through a country rich in olives and full of beautiful scenes. well situated at the entrance to a valley leading up from the sea, as a defence against piratical descents, was a fortress with a [greek: pyrgos] or watch-tower, built by the venetians. it is of the fine workmanship they always used, with well-arranged quarters for troops, moat, &c., all very neat and well executed. there we went down on to the sands and continued along them for a length of time till we reached a small river and the ruins of a splendid venetian bridge. thence still along the seaside, but over rocks and past watch-towers standing within gunshot of each other, till we rose again on to a height from which we gained a grand view of retimo. we crossed a bridge, a double arch of great depth, prodigiously effective, and there i stopped to make a sketch before descending into the town, while the luggage went on. but when we followed i was met by the dragoman before i had dismounted. he looked very pale, and telling me that my stopping by the road had been remarked and commented upon, entreated me not to say what i had been doing, but to give in fact a much more natural reason. i had already, at canea, been warned of the danger of drawing the fortress; so, my love of truth notwithstanding, i was obliged for the dragoman's sake, he being responsible, to do as he asked. we were received into the house of achmet aga, the karahayah. he was not at home himself at the time, but his nephews and relatives made us welcome. as soon as he came in we were ushered into an upper room into his presence. he was a remarkably handsome old man with a long white beard. he received us with a proud, not to say cold, hospitality; so much so that when we thanked him for his polite offer of his house, as he said it was ours, he looked the other way. as we drank coffee we made our apologies for our dirty appearance, but he only said he feared we were not comfortable and begged us to rest ourselves. his manner was haughty not only to us but to the wretched flatterers who came to pay him homage; it was such that i was quite offended. his servants treated him with the most abject respect, and even his two nephews, men of thirty or thereabouts, sat at the side without the divan, not venturing to approach him. and yet, notwithstanding his manner, his treatment of us was hospitality and civility itself. he had a son of sixteen or seventeen years dressed in a bosnian costume--one of the handsomest lads i ever saw, like the youths one imagines in reading the arabian tales. he came by his father's order to sit by me and entertain me. i asked him if he had ever travelled, and whether he would come to egypt with me and see the world. he replied very politely that to please me he would do so. the audience being over, we went out and strolled down to the port. it has lately been deepened by a maltese engineer, but is very small, and might hold fifteen or twenty polaccas at the most. after seeing it we returned to get ready for the dinner to which our host had invited us. as usual in such houses one had to dress in the midst of a crowd of servants, negroes, dervishes, and hangers-on. we put on our best clothes and went up. in the corner of the sofa or raised divan was placed a large round tray on a small stool, and we sat round it cross-legged. over our knees was stretched a long napkin from one to the other, and a small one was thrown over each man's shoulder. we ate with our fingers, pinching off bits of meat from the same plate in the middle. our janissary was invited to eat with us. the dinner was dressed in the harem. the servant tapped at the door communicating with it from the passage, and the dishes were handed in. there were many of them, and they were sent away by our host without any apparent notice of any disposition on our part to detain them. we had a stew of fowls, another of mutton, some strange made-dishes, a soup, a number of cakes, and i particularly remember some made of flour and cheese which were excellent. we greased our fingers handsomely and washed them as soon as we had done. for us there was wine, but achmet would not drink any himself: not from virtue, he said, but because it did not agree with him. the handsome son waited without the divan and took orders from his father. before dinner was over an old turk came in with a fiddle and played or told long stories the whole evening. i was obliged to him, for it supplied the place of conversation, which did not seem to flourish. in the evening numbers of turks came in to see the 'inglesi,' and would have pressed forward, but until our dinner was done they were kept outside the sofa. afterwards we formed into a sort of conversazione--very few words and much gravity. finally the beautiful youth, the host's son, made beds for us of two quilts and a pillow on the sofa, and there we slept. i wonder what a young squire in england would say if his father told him to make beds for his guests. next morning we were much pressed to stay both by our host and his son, but we had to resist, much as we had been pleased with our entertainment. so we distributed plentiful bakshish and rode away. our road lay along the shore, with fine views of retimo and the sphakiote hills. then over a high ridge to a khan at the foot of ida. here we had some refreshments and a dispute with the khangee, who tried to steal one of our spoons under cover of great professions of friendliness. after avlopotamo the road became very dangerous. it ran by the side of awful precipices and over slippery rocks, and it was getting dark. indeed, had it been lighter i don't suppose we should have ridden over it. in one place our janissary fell, and his horse's legs dangled over the precipice in a way to make one's blood run cold. no roads in maina could be worse. the light of a fire beckoned us from afar to the monastery of kalipo christo, but we found the gate closed and the papades not to be seen. they were frightened and had hidden themselves. the fact is, the turks in the country here are so brutal and lawless that if they once get into a monastery of this kind they eat and drink all they can get, never think of paying, and perhaps rob or murder some of the monks. there were several little boys hanging about to peep at us, one of whom our janissary caught, and by drawing his sword and threatening to imbrue it in his blood he terrified him into fetching the monks out of their concealment. once in, the papades were very communicative. they told us that their convent was not freehold, and that it belonged to a turk of canea, who exacted an exorbitant rent. the ruinous condition of the villages which we observed as we came along was due, they said, to the earthquake of february , . it came, as they always do, with a west wind, and as many as two thousand lives were lost. a blackguardly tartar came and sat with us, with whom we presently quarrelled, and finally, when his behaviour grew intolerable, we had to kick him out. we left early, but our tartar must have been ashamed of himself, for we saw nothing of him; he had gone on. the road wound up and up among barren rocks for about five hours, till we reached the ridge and a stupendous view of candia, ida, and the sea. in three hours more we reached candia, and took up our quarters in the house of a jew. there, in the course of the evening, we received a visit from the dragoman of the pasha, a very stupid greek, who tried to be very, very grand, and later from the master of the pasha's household, chiouk emene, a most urbane turk. he was very particularly proud of his watch, and produced it, compared it with ours, and begged me to say his was the best. we had to wait till the pasha should be ready to receive us at one o'clock. then he sent to us, and we walked off through the streets to his palace, locally known as the porte. the entrance was surrounded with a crowd of janissaries. when we had passed them we were ushered into the room of the secretary, whom we found sitting in one corner of his sofa, surrounded with agas in so much state that i mistook him for the pasha himself. we were there but a few minutes, but long enough to see that he must be a man of talent. we afterwards learnt that he was and had many accomplishments. he could write, ride, and play the djerid better than anyone. the djerid he could cast as high as a minaret. presently we were led through a crowd of servants into the presence of the pasha. he was in the corner, sitting in great magnificence. his pelisse was worth , piastres. by his side was a diamond-hilted dagger and two snuff-boxes set in diamonds and pearls. three chairs, covered with red brocade, were placed before him for us to sit on. our two dragomans stood on either side of us, and, at each word spoken and answered to the pasha, moved their heads and their hands from their mouth to their head. the conversation was as follows. we were asked whence we came, and when we had replied, the friendship between the porte and england was referred to, and the pasha desired the jew--our host--to treat us, being englishmen, with all possible attention. the mention of authority led the pasha to tell us that he commanded in retimo and canea, as well as in candia. he next begged to know if we brought any news; whether there had been any fighting in the west of europe; and whether buonaparte had put into execution his threat of invading england. to this we replied that he knew better than to try. sweetmeats were then handed round, and rose-water and other essences sprinkled out of narrow-necked bottles on to our hands and wiped with a beautifully embroidered napkin. after about half an hour we rose, and the pasha having said 'you are welcome: i am glad of your arrival,' we withdrew. our departure was marked by the usual battle among the chiouks for bakshish. our treatment by the pasha had had a great effect throughout the city, so that when we walked through it we were everywhere stared at as foreign grandees, just as the persian ambassador was in london. as we passed people invited us into their houses, and a boy from a cafané threw down hot water before us, a thing we understood to be an altogether exceptional compliment, and which had of course to be exceptionally rewarded. it was now about two hours after midday, and at that hour it seems the band of the pasha always plays to the public. we saw it sitting on the top of a house, and stopped in a shop over the way to hear it discoursing what appeared to me to be the most excruciating discords. when it was over two chiouks came forward, crying, 'pray first for the grand signor, and then for our pasha.' we turned home, and found that the emene aga had just been, bringing the compliments of the pasha and a present consisting of six loaves of sugar, three packets of wax candles, twenty in a packet, and three pots of honey. we expressed our lively gratitude in all the best greek we could command. in the evening the pasha sent us his band to entertain us. it consisted of six performers, mostly persians. their instruments were a dulcimer, a violin of three strings held in the right hand, the bow in the left, a persian pipe which had some really beautiful tones, melancholy, soft, and sentimental, a guitar with a very long handle, a panpipe with twenty-one pipes, and a double drum, which was beaten by the man who did the singing. i could not observe that they had guidance in their playing, except such as the ear gave them; but by dint of practice they managed to keep their instruments together, and the result was, i thought, rather tender and pleasing. as for our poor dragoman, who had heard no music since he had left constantinople, he was quite overcome and dissolved in tears. we paid a visit to the archbishop. he seemed to have as many religious attendants as the pasha had secular ones, but he received us in a very unaffected way at his door and showed us over his church. his answers to our questions showed him to have very little learning. pausanias he had never even heard of. thence we went on to pay a visit to the captain of 'fourteen,' the chief of the five regiments here, the military commandant in fact. he has under him from , to , troops, second only for insubordination and lack of discipline to those at canea, where they are in chronic open rebellion. we found him in his room, a fat vulgar man with a good many handsome arms about him; among them a shield which he told me is still in use. ali, our janissary, showed me afterwards how it is handled, and anything more barbarous or inexpert i never saw. being such rare birds, and received with so much form and cordiality by the pasha, all the notabilities were anxious to see us. many turkish agas and others signified their wish to visit us, and our poor house, alas! alas! was full of them from morning to night. some were polite, but most of them merely curious to view us. few questions were asked, and those few not in the least intelligent. in fact, we have been acting the part of embassy, and we could not do otherwise. received and stared at and made much of as we were, we were obliged to try and do credit to our country. besides there was nothing else to do; we were practically under surveillance. no drawings could be made, nor studies of mount ida or the beautiful country. i was always fuming over the waste of time, but there was no help for it. as soon as the novelty is worn off, turks and turkish manners become very uninteresting. their outward bearing is very dignified, but their society is inexpressibly dull. those few who had travelled ever so little, even so far as malta, could be distinguished at once. a little glimpse of the world had sufficed to remove their ridiculous turkish _superbia_ and make them respect their neighbours." footnotes: [ ] chancellor of the university of corfu, later lord guilford. [ ] the hon. frederick s. n. douglas, author of an essay entitled _on points of resemblance between ancient and modern greeks_. chapter xi expedition to the labyrinth--delli yani--the interior--the return to candia--life there--rejoins mr. north--bad weather--expedition to egypt abandoned--scio--leaves mr. north to go to smyrna--storms--danger and cold--arrives at smyrna. "on the second day we started on our expedition to visit the labyrinth. it was delightful to get away from a place where we were little better than state prisoners, unable to go out at all unless in form, and then obliged to stay within the walls for fear of being taken for spies if we went outside. when we had to pass through them to get out i saw that the works are really very strong, with a ditch which can be flooded, and walls thirty feet high. at night we reached schallous, a small village, and passed the night in the house of an old greek. both he and his wife were terrified at first, as we were in turkish dress, and they had suffered terribly at the hands of the turks. he told me afterwards that his son, after an absence of five years, had come home, and the very first night some turks had broken into the house, eaten and drunk all they could lay hands on, and finally murdered the poor youth. next day, by hagiospiliotissa to the convent of s. georgio. our janissaries here gave us a sample of the tyranny of turks by preparing for us and themselves a magnificent repast, and getting drunk and insulting the papades. three hours more of hilly country, commanded at intervals by fortified towers (kopia), brought us to the foot of ida. in ancient times, as well as now, towns of importance in these parts were generally found by the sea, which was their source of wealth; but the greatness of gortyna, though so far inland, was no doubt due to the magnificent cornlands of the rich plain of messara. as i guess, the town stood on a pointed hill overlooking it. in a steep part of the hill looking towards the plain is an inconspicuous hole in the rock, unmarked by any architectural or structural feature. this is the entrance to the labyrinth.[ ] we had brought a quantity of string for a clue, which we rolled on two long sticks, then lit torches and went in. at first one enters a vestibule out of which lead several openings. two of the three, perhaps four, dark entrances are blocked up, but one remains open. this we followed, and for three mortal hours and more we groped about among intricate passages and in spacious halls. the windings bewildered us at once, and my compass being broken i was quite ignorant as to where i was. the clearly intentional intricacy and apparently endless number of galleries impressed me with a sense of horror and fascination i cannot describe. at every ten steps one was arrested, and had to turn to right or left, sometimes to choose one of three or four roads. what if one should lose the clue! a poor madman had insisted on accompanying us all the way from candia. he used to call me st. michael; douglas, st. george; and foster, minos. we knew him as delli yani. much against our will he persisted in following us into the cavern, and when we stopped, going off with a boy who had a lantern. conceive our horror when we found suddenly that he had disappeared. there in that awful obscurity he might wander about till death relieved him. we sent back two men along the clue with torches to shout for him, and listened anxiously, but the turks were quite unconcerned. god, they said, takes care of madmen. we went on, and sure enough after about an hour delli yani turned up with the boy, who was horribly frightened. we entered many chambers; in some were venetian names, such as spinola; in another, 'hawkins ,' 'fiott' and other englishmen, and many names of jews. all the _culs de sac_ were infested with bats, which were very annoying, and rose in thousands when one of our party fired a pistol. in one place is a spring. here and there we saw some lichen, and there were occasional signs of metallic substances, but not enough to support the idea of its having been a mine. the stone is sandy, stratified, and easily cut, the air dry, and it appears to me that the most probable purpose of this wonderful excavation was as a secure storehouse for corn and valuables from the attacks of robbers in the days of minos. the work was plainly all done with the chisel. the passage is always eight or ten feet wide, and four, five, six, eight, or ten feet or more high. in many places it had fallen in. the peasants tell all sorts of stories about it. they told me that in one place there are reeds and a pool, and that the hole goes right through the mountain for three miles; that a sow went in and came out seven years after with a litter of pigs; and so on. we slept at hagios deka, left it at dawn and rode close to the foot of ida through a very rich country, and in spite of waiting an hour on the road, reached candia in seven hours and a half. it was evident that for purposes of his own our janissary had taken us something like fifteen hours out of our way in coming, and we had a serious dispute with him in consequence. our hurrying back was of no use. there was no prospect of our getting away. _candia._--we have plenty of time on our hands and can only employ it in the worst possible way by the assistance of the agas, who in the name of dullness come and pass away their ennui in our company. to crown our bliss, imagine us sleeping, feeding, and sitting all in one room, without the possibility of finding a hole to hide our heads alone in. what was to me perhaps the worst affliction of all, was that to entertain our guests we had to have music, wearing on unceasingly in melancholy monotony. our situation, in fact, was getting to be very trying. we had a visit from our friend alilah agas, who begged us to send for music, which was brought. then he wished the girls of the house (jewesses) to come up and dance, and had we not been there no doubt he would have compelled them to come. as it was, we discountenanced it, and he gave it up. but he is a turk; which is as good as to say utterly unprincipled. he told me himself that in raising recruits in anatolia for the bey of tunis, he gave them three hundred piastres apiece, and set it down as six hundred. that dishonesty and bestiality go hand in hand with ignorance is well seen among the turks. moreover they lack the civilising influence of women in their society. as soon as their affected gravity is laid aside, they betray the vilest indecency of feeling. one cannot give instances, but the fact was painfully brought home to us. at last, on the th december, a note came from mr. north to say that he was at dia, the island across the bay. we replied begging him to stay where he was, for that if he came to candia he would certainly be delayed. at the same time we sent to the pasha, begging to have the gate of the port opened in case mr. north came. the gate, however, was never opened. happily he did not come, and the dragoman we had sent with our message had to sleep at a cafané outside the gate, and we lowered dinner down to him with a piece of string over the walls. for a wonder we were left alone for this evening, and douglas and i walked about in our little [greek: peribolê] by moonlight, and thought of home and happy christmas parties there and our dismal christmas out here. amongst other subjects we talked of the divine mrs. siddons. i trust you never omit my love and duty to her, and my request that she will not forget her devoted admirer during his wanderings. you have never told me whether she intends ever to go on the stage again.[ ] we went to pay a farewell visit to the pasha. we found him sitting in the same state as before--in full dress, with his diamond-hilted dagger in his girdle and several magnificently rich snuff-boxes on the couch beside him. our conversation, made up of his questions and our answers, lasted half an hour. he said he had seen a drawing of the labyrinth which i had done, and that it was very beautiful. what was the age of the labyrinth? the name of the king who made it? the age of the world? &c. &c. our answers were taken down, and our names. finally he said our visit was agreeable to him, and bade us cordially farewell. then walking down to the port we took two boats for ourselves and our baggage, and urging the boatmen to hurry, in our eagerness not to miss a chance of sailing that evening if the wind allowed it, we reached dia in two hours; and there was mr. north very pleased to see us. we now watched the wind for a chance of getting out of port, but it shifted unsteadily from point to point, and there we remained twelve days. my occupations were to wander about over the desert island, draw, and read a great deal. it was dull, no doubt, but nothing to the active boredom of society in candia. mr. north had several excellent cases of books, and i fell upon gibbon, and became entirely absorbed in it. at last the wind changed, the captain set all hands to work, and we got out of port, but lay outside rolling the whole day in a dead calm. towards evening the wind came strong from the south, and our captain, always afraid to beat against it, let it drive us with it to the north, so that in the night we passed nio, and in the morning found ourselves among the cyclades between paro and siphanto, into the latter of which the captain begged leave to put, for he said the weather looked dirty. the harbour of siphanto, which is called pharo, is rather exposed to the south, but is otherwise good. there is the usual chapel to the panagia at the entrance. i had caught such a violent cold and fever from sleeping on deck the night before that i was forced to go to bed and stop there for the next two days, so that i was prevented from going ashore and visiting the town with north and foster. it lies about one hour off on the hill, the houses scattered and looking from a distance like the broken remains of a wall. above is a castle, apparently of the time of the dukes of the archipelago. foster found nothing there of interest except numbers of pretty girls, some of whom were so pressing that he found it difficult to get away alone. the fact is the men of the island, being mostly sailors, are away at sea, and the ladies, being left in a majority, make the love which in other countries is made to them. the costume, a venetian bodice and high bonnet, with very short petticoats, is pretty and peculiar. there are no turks in the island, but some turkish sailors lying in the port took offence at the fine clothes of north and douglas, saying we were romaics, and had no right to ridicule their faith by wearing their sacred dress. they even threatened to give stronger proofs of their displeasure than by mere words. however, next morning we were towed out of port; but being becalmed all day outside, mr. north, who had been stirred by the remonstrances of the turks just mentioned, sent in a boat, and got a wig, a pair of shoes and breeches for his own wear. next day we were still lying becalmed among the cyclades, but the next a light breeze sprang up and carried us northwards through the passage towards scio; for mr. north, tired of our delays, having lost all confidence in our captain, and frightened at the violence of the winds, had finished by making up his mind to give up the voyage to egypt; and this caprice, by which all our time and immense expenses were wasted, necessarily involved us all. i must say i was bitterly disappointed. but luck was against us; we could not afford to make the journey alone, and i had to make the best of it. it took us two days to get to scio. a steady wind carried us gently on from mykoni, and we seemed to enter a large lake: on one side were the mountains of anatolia; on the other, the left, the isle of scio, richly cultivated and populous. the whole coast is covered with the so-called mastic villages. the mastic plant, which is cultivated mainly on the east side--the side we were looking at--of the island, is a high evergreen. it is gathered much as resin is from firs, and the annual crop is about , okes, all of which goes to constantinople. besides mastic, the island produces a vast quantity of fruit, which also goes to the capital. the population is very large, almost entirely greek. compared to the wretched cretans, they are very independent, both men and women. the latter paint extravagantly and wear an ugly costume; but i must say that on a _festa_, such as the day after our arrival, being the th of january and new year's day in greece, the crowds of them dressed in their best, sitting on either side of the street, looked as brilliant as banks of flowers. before leaving we went to see the chief curiosity of the island--viz. homer's school. it lies northwards, along the shore, about an hour's ride. you arrive first at a fall of a small stream into the sea, and a little above is a singular hanging rock, the top cut smooth into a circular floor about feet across. in the centre an altar is left, on which are carved in bas-relief, on three sides, greyhounds, and on the fourth--the front--something resembling the head and breast of a sphinx. it looks south-east. the situation is exceedingly pretty, but why it should be called homer's school i cannot conceive. it was more probably an altar to some deity whose shrine was near--possibly the deity of the beautiful spring below. there is in scio an agreeable polyglot society of merchants of all nations living together in harmony. one may find an english family where english is the only language not spoken, the men perhaps speaking a little badly, and the women going to church on sunday and not understanding a word. as mr. north intends to remain here and douglas is starting homewards by way of st. petersburg, foster and i took leave of them and sailed for smyrna in the evening. we were carried gently along between scio and the mainland till we reached the north end of the passage. there we fell in with a storm. the wind rose very strong; all around us grew fearfully black, and close to us fell a waterspout. hereupon the man at the helm sunk terrified on his knees and made a large cross in the air with his hand. but our old pilot ordered him to look to the helm, for that he would save us from the danger. drawing out a knife with a black handle (a very important point, i understand), he with it made also a cross in the air, and then stuck it into the deck and pronounced the words: [greek: en archê ên ho logos], &c. ('in the beginning was the word.') whereupon, or very shortly after, the waterspout did disperse and our pious greek took to himself all the credit for having saved us from a considerable danger. our next fright was that we should hardly be able to clear cape boronu, the point of the gulf of smyrna, but we did just manage to do that also. the wind changed about several times, till presently it came down in a heavy gale from the north and continued to increase, till all was confusion and terror on board. and indeed we were in a very awkward plight; for our ship was a very bad sailer and we were on a lee shore with a wind she could make no head against. besides, the rain and the hail prevented our seeing anything. the captain completely lost his head, trembled with fear, and began reproaching us for persuading him to leave scio. the only man who kept his presence of mind was the pious old pilot. he knew of a port near by, where we might possibly gain shelter, and by his great skill we succeeded in arriving there; but it was neck or nothing. the smallest mismanagement and we should have been dashed on the rocks. as it was, we as near as possible ran on to them, owing to the anchor being let down too late; for the ship, in swinging round, drove towards them with appalling violence. the captain fell on his knees, and we all expected the ship to be dashed to pieces. she actually swung up to within three yards of the rocks, and there the anchor held us. we all drew a deep breath and thanked our stars. it had been a very near thing. for days the wind was still against us, and piercingly cold. we stayed where we were. i was thankful to have pope's 'homer' with me as a consolation. our vessel is managed on the system in use at hydra, syra, spezzia, &c, viz. that half the profits of a voyage go to the captain or proprietor, and the other half to the crew. sometimes the members of the crew have also shares in the venture, and so are doubly interested; sometimes the captain is sole proprietor and supercargo. the system ensures a brisk co-operation, as everyone is interested in the success of the venture. on the th we were still in the same place, the wind still blowing from the n.n.e.--a greco levante, as it is called--and the cold as bitter as ever it is in england. snow fell and froze on the deck. the sea, which was warmer than the air, gave off a mist which rose from it in a thick steam. one of the sailors told me of some antiquities inland, and i tried to get to them; but first of all it was difficult to persuade the crew to turn out to put me ashore. they complained of the cold, and would not leave the cabin, where they were crouching over the fire. once on shore i found everything frozen--ice rather thick--and when i got up to the town i found the antiquities were about three hours off, and nobody could give me any clear account of them; so i had to give it up and return to pope's 'homer' and the cabin. we lay here in all eight days--till the nd--shivering in a filthy cabin among the sailors, utterly idle and half starved. at last on that day we were able to move to the island of vourlac, where we added two more days of wretchedness to our account; and then, when we had consumed every particle of food except our salt fish, we found a boat to carry us to smyrna. the captain of the ship would not stir. the weather was still very rough, and the wretched coward waited another eight days before he ventured up. no one who has not experienced it, can have an idea of the horrors of a storm in a greek brig. the sailors, out of all discipline or order, run about all over the ship in the most frantic attitudes of dismay, with their bushy heads of hair flying in all directions, and scream contrary orders to each other. then the boldest, even if he be but the cabin boy, takes the command, abuses the captain and encourages the rest by his orders and example. all is in confusion, and if one escapes shipwreck it is more by good luck than by good management." footnotes: [ ] recent excavations by messrs. evans and hogarth throw quite a different light on the true nature of the labyrinth. [ ] mrs. siddons ( - ) formally retired from the stage in , but continued to appear occasionally until many years later. chapter xii life in smyrna--trip to trios--foster falls in love--cockerell starts alone for town of seven churches--pergamo--knifnich--sumeh--commerce all in the hands of greeks--karasman oglu--turcomans--sardis--allah sheri--crosses from valley of hermus to that of the meander--hierapolis --danger of the country--turns westwards. "after our experiences of danger, discomfort, and cold at sea, smyrna seemed to us a paradise of delightfulness. the consul received us very hospitably, and introduced us to various acquaintance and to the pleasures of the carnival which was going on. to you in england its diversions would have appeared vulgar and flat. to us it was the quintessence of gaiety to meet the masques, bad as they were, with their forced hilarity, passing noisily from one frank house to another. on the last days of the carnival there were processions, than which nothing could be more ridiculous. there was a bacchus on a barrel with various spouts about his body which, when turned, distributed wine to the populace; and about the car it rode on, piped and danced a number of wretches dressed in nankeen stained to a flesh-colour and hung with faded leaves and flowers. there followed on another car the 'illness and death of bacchus.' he was in bed surrounded by a procession of weeping bacchanals, priests, doctors, glisters, and other remedial engines of gigantic dimensions. in sober daylight such a sight calls for its enjoyment for an amount of lightheartedness englishmen do not at all moments possess--but we, under the circumstances, were very much amused. we would have started at once on a tour of the seven churches if the road had been clear. for the moment, however, it is blocked by the presence of a pasha, who with four thousand troops is raiding and making war on his own account. his army is stationed just across our path, and i have been strongly advised to wait until the storm is passed over. i am really not sorry to have such a good reason for remaining a little longer where i am. the weather is still very severe and quite unfit for travelling. our chief friend in smyrna is a mr. thomas burgon, married to a smyrniote lady. with him we started on february to make a little trip of four days to boudron, the ancient trios. we went in an open boat up the gulf to vourlac, that is to say, to the scala or port of it, which is on an island opposite to the site of the ancient clazomenæ, and walked from there to the town, spent the night there, and next day rode to boudron. here was only a tiny cafané, and nothing but a bench to sleep on. the following days were passed entirely among the ruins of temples and magnificent buildings, among which now only a few scattered husbandmen guide their ploughs. if in chandler's day-- --the temple of bacchus was anything like what he describes, it must have been a good deal knocked about since, for it is very different now. the country we passed through generally is exceedingly fertile, and, in consequence of the great demand for produce in and about smyrna, very prosperous. when i got back to smyrna i was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of captain f. beaufort, r.n.,[ ] of h.m. frigate _frederiksteen_. he is an accomplished antiquarian, a taste he has been able to cultivate in these countries, as he has been employed for some time in charting the coasts hereabouts. i have suffered not a little from the changeableness of my companions: mr. north first, in giving up the whole voyage to egypt when we were halfway there, because of the weather; then douglas, in suddenly at scio taking it into his head to go home to england because he was disappointed of the voyage to egypt; and now, finally, foster has fallen in love and refuses to make with me the tour of the seven churches, as he promised, because he cannot tear himself away from his lady love. the difficulty mentioned before about the raiding pasha has been settled. the moslem of this place have conciliated him with a gift of , piastres, and he is to retire to his own pashalik of kauna. so i only await my horses and janissary to set off alone. _march st._--i started in a boat for the scala of menimen, where the horses were waiting for me to take me to menimen on the hermus. as my janissary got drunk overnight, i had to wait next morning till seven before i could start, and in consequence did not get so far as i intended, and had to sleep in a small cafané, on the site, as i take it, of the ancient cumé. we slept six in a small space, the divan, with a large fire, while the three or four horses were in the space beyond. greeks steal when they get a chance, but turks as a rule may be trusted; and though dimitri and i were so tired that we left my arms, silver cup and spoons, &c, lying about all night, nobody touched them. in the morning i walked over the site of cumé. there were large remains of the wall nine or ten feet thick, and i found the torso of a white marble statue five feet six inches long, of a very beautiful style. the head, arms, and legs had been broken off by the aga of the place because he thought he should find gold inside. it is not far from here to pergamo, but it took us unusually long because the water was out in all the low ground, and one had to keep to the causeways. these are made mostly of stones taken from ruined cities, in which one saw bits of architraves, friezes, and so on. getting off the causeway in one place, i was very nearly bogged. at pergamo i lodged in the khan. the first thing i did was to walk up to the castle. it is in three stages, with remains of fortification of all ages, from the earliest to the genoese, but the roman are the most important. on the second stage are two towers and a great wall built of roman-greek fragments of white marble. above are two larger towers with a gate and strong wall full of fragments. on the south-west side a gap or dell in the hill is filled up with arches fifty feet high by twenty wide, and above them a range of smaller ones, the whole forming a solid foundation for an immense temple[ ] of white marble in the best roman-greek style. the whole work is prodigious and very noble. there are still considerable remains of the temple, but they are rapidly disappearing, for the turks cut them up into tombstones. the ancient town seems to have been built on the hill. everywhere on the sides of it are immense foundations. the amphitheatre is an extraordinary building. it stands in a narrow valley astride of a river. the two sides of the valley make the two ends of the oval, and the middle stands upon arches under which the river runs. i was detained at pergamo two days by the weather. it poured all the first day, and the second the water was out and the river too high for me to get across. i went to the baths to see the vase for which canning offered , piastres, and bought there a beautiful stone for piastres, and some bronze coins. i took a guide to show me the way across the river, for the water was out all over the valley, and even on the causeway it was over our horses' knees, and to get off it would have been dangerous. on the way we met the son of a neighbouring aga with a party of fifty armed followers. we took them at a distance for a company of derrys, or mountain robbers. but when they came near us we saw they were much too smart. the young man was merely going to the aga of pergamo with the compliments of his father on the recovery of his health. seeing me and my suite dressed _à la turque_, he sent in passing a man with his compliments to me to wish me a happy journey. the pleasant taste left by this graceful courtesy was wiped out by the next incident, which was far from agreeable. we came upon a camel-driver whose camels had got bogged in the swamp and could not be made to move backwards or forwards. impatience at his trouble had put the man so beside himself that as we passed on he insulted our party. i did not understand a word he said, or the cause of offence, but our janissary was in a moment as furious as he. both drew their pistols, and i had the greatest difficulty in containing my man. one or other would have been killed for no reason that i could comprehend. i managed to drag my man away, and we went on to knifnich; after which our horses, wearied with their wetting and plodding through the heavy mire, could go no further, and we halted for the night. i had a letter to a resident armenian merchant who received me with genuine hospitality; he introduced me to a relation of his, and the two vied in their honest gallantry. each insisted on entertaining me. finally my friend gave a party in my honour; and in the evening, the turkish part of the company having departed, the women, contrary to the usual armenian custom, appeared. the music which had been sent for began to play the greek circle, the romaika, and we all danced it together. at the end i did what i had understood before was the height of gallantry in these countries: on passing the musicians, dancing with my fair one, i clapped a dollar into the hand of the musician to express my enjoyment. better still, is with a bit of wax to stick your sequin on his forehead, but i had no wax even if i had wished to try it. after eating and dancing to our heart's content, beds were spread, and in courtesy the landlord remained in the room till i was undressed. nothing, in fact, could be more cordial than their treatment of me. the trade of knifnich is in raw cotton. next day i got as far as sumeh. the roads were so heavy that our baggage horse fell and i thought we should never get him up again. this comes of having started too early in the year. close to sumeh, in a dell, is the picturesque village of tarcala, with an ancient castle above it. a friend, constantine stephano, took me to call on a greek family there. i cannot go into details; suffice it to say i found the people so really barbarous that i could not bear it and came out. indeed, in simple savagery it would be impossible to surpass the natives of this country. in the khan i found a number of romaic greeks. it was the last day of carnival and they were singing moriote songs, making a noise and behaving themselves generally in a way they would not venture to do in greece proper. the fact is, that karasman oglu, who governs all this part of the country from pergamo north to samos in the south and inland to sart and magnesia, is an extraordinarily good administrator for a turk. he sees that the greeks form the most industrious and the richest part of the population, and that it is to his interest to protect them. trade is flourishing, and greeks from other parts, such as those from the morea who were so noisy in the khan, come and settle under him. i am bound to say that here, and everywhere else where they come into power, they are insolent and insufferably vain. on the other hand, the turks hereabouts are a mild and hospitable but apparently a dull race. they are even more severely taxed than the greeks. for instance, it was they who had to pay to buy off the raiding pasha i spoke of, and in places remote from the seat of government they suffer great oppression from the hands of their petty governors. indeed at times they have openly expressed to me their desire that the french or the english would take possession of their empire, for that they would be better off in the hands of anybody than in those of their own countrymen. and nothing would be easier than to take possession of it. in all my tour i saw only one fortress, and that a small one, quite incapable of resisting a regular force. moreover, it is not a cramped country like the morea, but perfectly open; and after you leave the coast, which is really populous and well cultivated, it is a desert. in nine hours' journey from akhissar to sart, i came across only one village and a few turcomans. these turcomans are a nomadic people. they live in tents, of which you find perhaps twenty together, with their herds of cattle, horses, and camels around them, and wander about following the pasture. they consider themselves just as much part of the inhabitants as the settled population, and are well armed and dressed. as a rule, in these parts at any rate, they are inoffensive, but further up the country i am told they are organised into larger bands, call themselves dervishes or desperadoes, and if travellers do not keep together in large caravans, attack, rob, and even sell them for slaves. i was even given the sort of price i might be expected to fetch in that capacity, viz. from ten to twenty pounds. from sumeh to kerikahatch, and thence over a low watershed into the valley of the hermus and to akhissar, where there is nothing worth seeing. i spent the evening with greek and armenian merchants, very rough company. went on towards sardis. at a village on a small branch of the hermus we came upon a large party of turcoman women, who had come down from the mountains to wash. they made no attempt to avoid observation as the turkish women do, and some of them were exceedingly beautiful. they had with them three men as guard, who showed no jealousy of us and very civilly told us our way. in the afternoon we arrived at the hermus, and the view of the valley i shall never forget. it was a glorious country up the river, but the cultivation and the rich population were behind us, and in front was a continued desert. a ferry-boat running on a rope set us over the river, and an hour later we reached achmet li, a miserable village of mud cottages, and prepared to pass the night in the wretched cafané. happily, when it got about that we were not turks, the widow of a greek papa gladly received us and lodged me well. the raiding pasha aforesaid had passed through and burned the aga's house, but done no other harm beyond eating up all the fowls in the place; there was not one to be got for love or money for my supper. next day we got early to sart. the neighbourhood affords the most lovely views imaginable of distant hills. the site itself is peculiar. the hills are wholly of fat earth, no rock seen at all, and the weather has worn them into the most fantastic forms. amidst them the castle, standing at the foot of bousdagh, is astonishingly picturesque. but the whole is a very picture of desolation. where the ancient sardis stood are now ten or twelve miserable huts. far off across the glorious landscape i could distinguish one solitary wretched village, and here and there a turcoman's tent. a veritable desert, where the soil is rich as anyone could imagine. besides the fine situation there is only one other thing to notice, viz. the ionic temple. i spent my first day in examining it and making a drawing of it. only three of the five columns still standing in chandler's time remain erect; the other two were blown up three years ago by a greek who thought he might find gold in them. the whole temple is buried many feet deep. as i wished very much to see the base of the column, i got a cretan--whom i found here professedly buying tobacco, but i suspect a fugitive from his home for some murder--to dig for me. i had to give it up after we had got down ten feet without reaching it. one ought to be here for a month, and then, as the earth is very soft, one could do the thing thoroughly. nobody would interfere. i spent the evening with the turcomans in a tent, sitting cross-legged on a mat, smoking. they had a bold free manner and a savage air, but they were not uncivil to me. my janissary got into a dispute with one because he had taken his place. he ordered him out, and the man would not go. as he and all his companions were well armed, a fight would not have been pleasant, and when the dispute quieted down i was not sorry. the ruins of the comparatively modern town, especially those of a large church, seem to consist entirely of fragments of ancient temples, some of the bits being very fine. the castle has no remains of earlier date than that of the lower empire. the more ancient fortress may have been swept away by the torrents, which tear the soil into such strange forms, and the whole site be changed. at any rate i could not find a scrap of ancient wall anywhere, and the later ones are rapidly being undermined, and totter on the edge of the precipice. next day we rode eastwards along the side of bousdagh (tmolus). in five hours we passed only two small villages and a number of turcoman tents, but we met many caravans, the camels whimsically decked with feathers and shells, and the largest male with festoons of bells as well. i was told that the turks were very fond of witnessing camel-fights, and that those which i saw most handsomely dressed out were the champions at that sport. the houses hereabouts are all built of mud, and so full of mice that i could not sleep in the night and was in consequence late in starting. we continued along the great valley and came by midday to allah sheri (philadelphia), the most forlorn city ever i saw. the squalid mud houses cover several small hills and contain a population of about a thousand families, mostly turks. there are twenty-four churches, of which only five are in use, while the rest are kept sacred by occasional services. in the shape of antiquities there is nothing to be seen. the chief curiosity is the warm mineral spring, which smells like addled eggs and has a taste of ink. the people about use it a good deal for scorbutic complaints. some travellers have spoken of having been shown a wall of bones here. i saw nothing of the sort. two hours' travelling next day brought us at last to the end of the immense plain of the hermus, and we began to get among the mountains, going up the east side of a steep romantic dell, the west side of which was wonderfully rugged and wild. beyond were mountains covered with snow: beneath us an immeasurable giddy depth. except a few sheep, we saw no living thing for hours together. once i heard some wild duck by the torrent below. at the end of six hours we reached derwent, a village of, say, two hundred houses. a wretched lodging and, as there was no fowl to be got--and that is what one depends entirely upon--no supper; and i had to be content with smoke, coffee, and homer. in the evening came, as usual, a number of turks to see the stranger. they enter, they salute with a 'salaam aleikum,' and sit down perhaps for hours. their conversation generally turns upon the stranger, with conjectures upon his object in coming. later at night came in the son of our host. he had been searching for a strayed ox, and was afraid that the wolves had got it. he examined my firearms for a long while, and admired them very much. the turks of this part of the country are large, handsome, very slow in their speech, and stupid and ignorant. starting next morning, we began by following the course of a river till we got on to a high level plain surrounded by formless hills--an ugly country. we met a few turcomans, and once i saw some ploughing. at the end of seven hours' riding we reached the edge of the valley of the meander and looked over a glorious view; then downwards through bulladan, a village of about five hundred houses and a number of mosques, to a village the name of which i never learnt, where we slept. as one expects nothing of one's host but shelter, it was an unusual hospitality in ours to give us some of his bread. it was a strange compound, such as i had never seen before. to make it, the dough is mixed very thin and poured on a heated copper. the result looks like rags of coarse cloth and tastes like bad crumpets. we slept in a barn with the horses. next day we descended into the plain of the meander and crossed the river by a bridge of four or five arches, the parapet of which is made of the steps of a theatre. just there was a man administering a singular remedy to a mule which had fallen sick in the road. he had tied all four legs together and thrown him down. then he had cut the throat of a sheep, and holding the mule's mouth open, let the sheep's blood flow into it. i was assured it was an excellent medicine. from the bridge onwards we crossed a flat till we reached the ridge, at the foot of which is hierapolis. it had cost me certainly a whole day more than was necessary to get here, because tabouk kalise (the castle of the cemetery), its proper name, was spelt in chandler, pambouk (cotton); and when i inquired for pambouk kalise no one could make out what i meant, so that practically i lost my way until i got into the valley of the meander. once there, hierapolis is a conspicuous object from a great distance on account of the remarkable whiteness of the rock on which it stands. this is due to a petrification deposited by the river, which rises, a full stream, in the city and flows over the front of the cliff. it makes a fine cascade, and the spray of it, carried by the wind, spreads a white coating like ice over everything it reaches. as it gradually forms, it takes rounded shapes overlapping each other, something like conventional clouds. the ruins of the ancient city stand on the top above the cliff and half buried in a sea of this singular deposit. the vast colonnades present the most extraordinary appearance. the most magnificent are perhaps the ruins of the gymnasium, and the best preserved the theatre, which is all perfect except the proscenium; but perhaps what astonished me most was to find, on going out of one of the gates, a number of tombs of various forms and sizes as complete as on the day they were built, two thousand years ago. the style of them is very large and magnificent. many of the sarcophagi are eight or nine feet long by three or four wide, and the rest in proportion. all bear inscriptions, but the rough quality of the stone prevented my reading them. under the sarcophagus, and forming part of the monument, is generally a stone bench for the friends of the deceased to sit upon and meditate. there are some beautiful bas-reliefs in high preservation lying exposed in the theatre. altogether, for preservation there can be nothing but pompeii to compare to this place. i did not forget to inquire for the remarkable cave in which no animal can live, which chandler tried to find. my guide led me to one near the spring and told me that on certain days birds flying over it fall down, overcome by the fumes. there, sure enough, i did find four small birds with the bones of various other animals. if travellers had been frequent here i could have supposed that someone had put the birds there for sightseers to wonder at; but according to the old aga i am the first traveller here since chandler's time in , and it seemed impossible that it should have been done on such short notice merely to make a fool of me. when evening came on, i walked down again to yemkeni where the janissary and horses were. the aga had prepared a meal for me, and ate it with me, sometimes tearing bits of meat off and throwing them into my plate. as usual, all the turks came in, in the evening, to stare. all next day it blew and poured, but i went up to the ruins attended by the aga's man, and worked hard all day long. i had bought a live fowl to try strabo's experiment of putting him into the cave; but whether it was not really the right cave, or whether the violent wind and rain prevented the gas having effect, at any rate the fowl was none the worse after being exposed to it for half an hour, and we ate him with a good appetite in the evening. over his bones the aga grew talkative, and told me of the real cave which was in the mountain, one hour distant. he said that inside the cave is a bridge, and beyond that a chamber in which is a treasure guarded by a black man. he added that he who should get the better of that black man had need have studied and learnt much. many and many an adventurer, after the treasure, had died horribly in the cavern. and so on, with all the cock-and-bull stories universal among the turks. but when i asked him to give me a guide to take me to the cave, he put every sort of difficulty into the way. i should need ladders, and there were none--horses, and there were none. in short it was quite clear he meant to prevent my going, so i gave it up. i did so the more willingly because i already felt exceedingly uncomfortable. the people around me were utter savages, and the country perfectly lawless. south of the river, in the direction of denisli or laodicea, it was worse; and besides brigands, which were said to abound between denisli and aidin and would oblige my taking an expensive escort, the agas themselves had a very bad reputation for extortion. moreover, my janissary was anxious, because in coming to hierapolis we were already outside the limits to which my travelling firman referred, and he wished to get back within them. so, all things considered, i decided to give up seeing laodicea (i could make out the situation of it at a very great distance) and passed on to avoid the desert country and dangerous neighbourhood." footnotes: [ ] later sir francis beaufort, chief hydrographer to the navy. [ ] since excavated at the cost of the prussian government. chapter xiii back into civilisation--nasli bazar--nysa--guzul--hissar (magnesia)--the plague--aisaluck (ephesus)--scala nuova--a storm--samos--priene--canna-- geronta--knidos--rhodes--mr. north again--sails for patara--castel rosso--cacava--myra--the shrine of st. nicolas--troubles with natives--a water snake--finica--carosi--olympus--volcanic fire--phaselis--falls in with the _frederiksteen_. "two days' riding down the river brought us to nasli bazar, which is within the government of karasman oglu, and the fact was at once perceptible. greeks were numerous and impudent, trade flourishing, and the bazaar full of all kinds of merchants. it is the great mart for the interior. i had to pass the night in a wretched khan. in the chamber adjoining mine was a slave merchant with two young negresses, one of whom had a child for sale, and also a fine young negro. i followed the valley of the meander to sultan hissar. on the way i went up a steep ascent to see the ruins of nysa. they stand on an elevated plain over the river, and command a grand view and good air above the malarious bed of the meander and its bordering marshes. there is first of all a large agora, with traces of temples in or around it. further on, in the side of the mountain, is a very considerable theatre, with the remains of the proscenium and apartments for actors &c. on all sides. seated in the theatre one had a glorious view of the senate house and prison, with the amphitheatre beyond, and the bridge which spans a gully in one magnificent arch. all these buildings are in a grandiose style, very impressive, and made all the more so by their absolute solitude. in nysa was but one man, a shepherd, who had taken up his abode in one of the arches of the theatre. after a stay there of two hours we went on down the valley. we had now quite left the desert behind us and come into civilisation, cultivation, and orderly government. every two or three miles we passed a cafané and a guard, with an air of order and discipline. my janissary was full of admiration for karasman oglu, and related to me stories illustrating his character. i recollect two. a greek merchant going to akhissar was robbed by four turks of sequins. the poor man made his complaint to karasman oglu, who at once gave him the money, as recognising his responsibility for order, and that the merchant might not stand out of his money while it was being recovered. then he despatched his police, who in a few days brought in the four turks, and they were then and there hanged. the turks resent his protection of the greeks and christians, and call it partiality. hearing of this, karasman called together the chief turks of magnesia, and when he had given them coffee, he told them that he had summoned them as he wished to raise a sum of , piastres for government purposes, and they should be repaid in a few months with the interest due. the proposition being received with dead silence, he sent for four poor greek primates of some small villages in the neighbourhood, and made them the same proposal in the presence of the turks. they at once assented, and the money was brought in an hour. 'now,' said he, 'you see why i prefer the greeks. the first of you who complains again shall lose his head.' when we got in the evening to guzul hissar i found the reports i had picked up on the road exaggerated in two main particulars. i had been told that the plague was raging in the town, and that there were english corn-merchants to whom i could apply for harbourage. there was a good deal of plague, no doubt, in the town, which is extensive, but hardly enough to deter one from entering it; while the nearest thing to an english merchant was a genoese merchant living in the house of a sardinian doctor who enjoyed english protection. they made room for me, and were very kind and hospitable; and it was a comfort to be in a frank house, but outside it was rather nervous work. a house close to our lodging was infected by the plague, and as i was going down the street a greek warned me to make room for him. 'i have nothing the matter with me,' said he, 'but a few days ago my brother died of the plague.' need i say that i complied at once. the panic that grows in a plague-stricken city, and which one cannot help imbibing, has a strange effect on characters. the woman of the neighbouring house, which, as i said, was _impestata_, was seen going about out of doors by my host the doctor, and he was beside himself at the sight. the importance of guzul hissar as a place of commerce arises from its standing on the track of the corn trade between the interior and scala nuova. i came upon caravans of one hundred to one hundred and fifty camels, bringing corn from cæsarea. some bring it from even as far as the borders of persia. once here, its value is doubled or trebled; but the greed of the agas and the roguery of the greek merchants prevent much of the profit going to the growers. signor mora told me that the great trouble he found was the system of constant _douceurs_ and bribery. it makes it impossible for a merchant to make his calculations. i walked up to see the few remains of the city of magnesia. like all greek cities, it stood above the plain. there is a theatre just discernible, a stadium below it, and a few remnants of a gymnasium. one night in guzul hissar was enough for me, and next day i started for scala nuova; and leaving the valley of the meander on the left, kept by the mountain to the right, and came late to aisaluck, the ancient ephesus. here i dismissed my janissary and horses, and, relieved of my expensive suite, spent a blissful, tranquil day alone. the castle is a vile turkish fort. the great mosque, in which are some grand columns of granite, is fine, and, like the others--for there are many in the place--thoroughly well executed in the true oriental taste. the degraded modern turk is incapable of producing anything half so good. the remains of ephesus are very trifling, and what there are, are in a very poor style. i did not, any more than other travellers, find out the temple of diana,[ ] though of course i have my own opinion as to the site. aisaluck is now an almost deserted town. it has only about fifteen inhabited houses, and the mosques and forts are in ruinous condition, but their number and splendour show that it must once have been an important turkish city. i called on the aga, and by way of a present gave him a little gunpowder, with which he was delighted. my lodging was in a miserable little cafané, anything but a palace of luxury. the fleas within, added to the jackals howling without, prevented my getting any rest. but it was not much worse than my other lodgings on this tour. luxuries have been few. all i can say is i have learnt not to miss them. in my turkish dress i pass without observation or inconvenience. in the evening, after eating my meal, i smoke my pipe with the other turks, go to sleep and get up early. i rode from aisaluck to scala nuova, which is only four hours off, and from thence i took a passage for samos on a maltese brig of twelve hands and six guns and set sail the following morning (march th); but when we had made half the passage, which is by rights only about two hours, we met a furious wind which obliged us to put back. i went ashore again, and as the wind rose to the force of a hurricane i watched out of my window no less than eighteen boats and vessels of various sizes blown ashore and wrecked under my very eyes. it was a scene of incredible destruction. the shore was strewn with wreckage and cargoes which had been thrown overboard--oranges, corn, barrels of all sorts of goods--while the sailors, ruined, although thankful to have escaped with their lives, sat round fires in some sheds by the port, the pictures of dejection. the wind detained me till the th, when i crossed over in a boat to bathi in samos. here i had to wait first for horses, and then on account of the bad weather. i had to stay indoors, and indoors in a greek house means anything but privacy. no matter where you sit, you hear everything that goes on in it. application of any kind is out of the question. in this case, the consular court being at the other end of the house, i had to hear the cases proceeding in it. one in especial went on in detached chapters all the time i was there. a zantiote had deserted his wife and children eighteen years ago in mykoni. he had since lived and been married in cyprus, while the deserted wife went to smyrna and maintained herself and the children by hard work. she had done what she could to find her husband, in vain, till just as i arrived she discovered him in samos. she haled him before the consul and demanded that he, being rich, should support her. not till the whole assembly had joined the bench in calling him every name they could invent would he consent, but finally he signed an agreement to live with his wife in samos and support the daughter. but this was but the beginning. every day we had visits from both parties to complain that the conditions were not adhered to: he to say that the agreement to live with them did not involve supporting them; they to say they must be supported, and meanwhile, as they were half starved, to take an opportunity of satisfying their appetites at the consulate. i made acquaintance of a pleasant russian, monsieur marschall, and with him crossed the island to see the antiquities--first of the ancient city and then of the temple of juno, lying three-quarters of an hour to the eastward of it. there is only one column of it remaining, but that one very finely cut and of beautiful marble. a few years ago, i understand, there were still many standing; but some were blown up for the sake of the metal rivets, and others knocked over by the turkish men of war, who, as they were very white, used them as a target for gunnery practice. we returned to the village of samos for the night, and lodged with the bishop, who was more hospitable than greeks generally are. he was a man of some ingenuity and amusing, but very ignorant and superstitious. we went by bathi to geronta and across the bogas to changlu on the mainland--rode to kelibesh over the top of range of hills commanding the valley of the meander--and the lake of myus--and on to sansun kalesi (priene), which i was very glad to see. it is an exceedingly fine site. unfortunately it rained and blew so violently that i could not do much; but if one could stay and dig in the temple, i dare say one might find a treasure of statues, for it remains exactly as it fell. two days after, we set out, riding along the foot of mount titanus, in frequent danger of being bogged in the low new-made ground of the meander, which near the sea is covered with sedge and rushes inhabited by numberless waterfowl. the scenery was often very fine. we reached the corn warehouses at canna after midday, and found there my sardinian corn-merchant friend from guzul hissar. he was trying to make up a cargo, and at the moment was full of the wrongs suffered by merchants in this country. a caravan of fifteen camels he was expecting had been stopped by an aga, the corn they carried unloaded and left by the road, while the camels were sent away to carry cotton into the interior. here we hired a boat; but, hearing firing in the bogas, which we could only attribute to a pirate, we were not without some qualms at starting. with this in our heads, when we saw a large caique making directly towards us, we were naturally enough alarmed and made for the mouth of the meander, and there remained till the bark came up and proved itself to be only a fishing caique. setting forward again with a very strong wind, we reached the port of geronta after dark. the boatman mistook the entrance and very nearly ran us on to a rock some distance from the shore, upon which he got into a fright and lost all presence of mind. the wind, as i said, being very high, the position was so serious that marschall and i took the management of the bark, and giving the man a cuff sent him forward to look out for the port. in this fashion we found it and got in. even then we were not well off, for the place was perfectly solitary, and we had no mind to remain all night in the boat. it grew extremely dark, and it was an hour and a half before we could find the village. on the way to it, we passed the massive remains of the temple of apollo didymæus, and as they loomed through the darkness they looked very grand--grander than i thought them next morning by daylight. the village of geronta is only about thirty years old and is inhabited entirely by albanian and greek immigrants who seem fairly prosperous. the pasha, elis oglu, like his neighbour karasman oglu, is a great patron of greeks. we set sail at night, but had to put back, after a hard night, to a port close to geronta and wait there three days till the weather improved. when at last we got away, in five hours we were off cape ciron, which ends in a lofty hill by which is knidos. at my request the captain went into the port, and very glad i was to see the place; the situation is so curious: but i found no inscription or antiquities of any kind. i slept in the boat, and we started at midnight. the wind was furious; and as the bark laboured and strained in the waves, dimitri groaned with fear. it was indeed far from pleasant; but as the day came on the wind went down, till we were absolutely becalmed off the little island of symi, and did not get into rhodes till afternoon. i was preparing to go to visit the consul, and had walked a few yards in that direction when i saw another boat come into port, and in it, to my surprise, who but mr. north. he was as astonished as myself, and as pleased. we went together to the consul's. there we had long conversation on the subject of the island, its inhabitants, products, &c. the present governor of rhodes is hassan bey, slave of a previous governor--a man of great simplicity of life. i found him sitting in the passage of his palace without attendants or pomp. although he is about seventy years old and deaf, he received as a present, by the same boat as mr. north came in, a female slave. he builds ships here for government, and has one, a frigate, for his own behoof, which he uses himself for piratical purposes while with it he clears the neighbouring seas of all other pirates. two days after, i left rhodes and sailed eastwards with a light breeze, till in the evening we were becalmed off the seven capes. in the morning i was awakened by strange voices on board. we had been boarded by hydriotes inquiring for corn. their ship had been lying off the coast for some days, boarding every boat that passed for corn. she was a large ship with a crew of sixty men, who seemed to spend all their time in merrily dancing and fiddling. we rowed into the port, which is a fine harbour, and when i had landed i found a boy to undertake to guide us to patara. it took two hours to walk there, keeping all the way by the side of an aqueduct. we met a few savage-looking turks armed, and a boy or two playing on wild simple reeds. the whole country was very wild and desolate, and the road a mere track. the ruins are considerable, and, although none of them belong to the finest time, very interesting. they have an inexpressibly forlorn appearance, standing as they do half buried in the sand. the once extensive port is entirely silted up. the theatre is half filled up. i found in it an inscription, from which i gathered that the auditorium is of later date than the proscenium. near the head of the port are two large mausolea, at least i suppose that is what they are; and besides these there are the remains of fortifications of the lower empire and of several churches. i could not get over to examine the buildings on the opposite side of the port. we started for castel rosso, but were becalmed. the boys played and danced, and we did not get in till the evening. the port, a poor one, is defended by a castle which is red, whence the name. the few savages we found on the beach received us with great suspicion, with arms in their hands, but sold us some provisions. in the morning i landed and looked about. inside the walls there are many ruins of houses, all of the lower empire, while the walls themselves are of much earlier date in cyclopean masonry. outside the old walls and in the modern town there are several ancient tombs that have been respected and are in good preservation. the ground is incredibly rugged and stony, almost as bad as maina. we sailed off at midday, and got to the small port of cacava in the evening. there, among the modern houses, are a number of tombs, all of them respected and well preserved. as the cross is on most of them, the town must have flourished during the lower empire. i found and copied various inscriptions, some of them in a character i have not seen before. in the evening we crossed to myra, and there i enjoyed a good bathe. then when night had come on, we worked the oars against wind till we reached a port at the east end of karadah, and when it was morning crossed to visit the shrine of st. nicolas. the sea was so high we had to leave the caique and walk thither. st. nicolas is a favourite saint of the greeks, and his shrine is greatly revered. our captain and crew were all dressed in their very best to make their cross, and had brought with them a bottle of oil as an offering. the road was wretched, and what made it worse was that in wading across a river which was over my knees i so wetted my shalvar that they were heavy to walk in. at the mouth of the river zanthus we found many tombs, but none of which i could read the inscription. the holy place consists of half of a ruined church of the lower empire, and by the side of it a small chapel in which is the tomb. the entrance to it is so low that we were obliged to go down on our hands and knees to get in. the greeks knelt down, bowed their foreheads to the earth, made crosses and said prayers; then, putting some parahs on a tray, took some small candles from a bundle beside it, and stuck them round the tomb. the ceremony being over, we took some earth from near the tomb to keep as a relic, and fell into conversation with the papa of the shrine, nicola by name, native of salonica. he told us that early in life in a severe illness he had vowed service to st. nicolas for the rest of his life if he recovered: that, being restored to health, he had come here in fulfilment of his vow, but that he led but a miserable life, in constant apprehension of the turks, who are very violent and fanatical hereabouts. i went on with dimitri and the captain to see some remains of which he told me, at no great distance, but the other greeks were afraid to accompany me or even to show me the way. however, i found the ruins--a theatre in astonishing preservation, and some highly interesting tombs, and was quietly taking measurements of them when several turks appeared. they seemed highly to disapprove of our operations. while examining some statues i heard one of them exclaim: 'if the infidels are attracted here by these blasphemous figures the temptation shall soon cease, for when that dog is gone i will destroy them.' then some of them went away and presently came back with a larger party. while i was above in the upper part of the building, they suddenly seized the arms of dimitri and the captain, and ordered us to follow them to the aga, who lived at a distance of no less than six hours off. at this i remonstrated, saying that i was an englishman, a friend; but they answered that i lied, that we were giaour russians, and were plotting to take possession of the place. they wanted to examine our things, but this i resisted. my firman unfortunately was left behind in the boat, and matters began to look ugly. the least encouragement from the elder members would have led the crowd of ruffians to take strong measures. i could perceive that, but i saw no exit from our dilemma. there was, fortunately, still one elder of the village to be consulted, and he was ill at home. the chief of our captors went off to consult him, and a quarter of an hour later returned a different man, his rage assuaged, and willing to accept the captain's assurance that i was an englishman. he then returned me my arms and begged that i would go where i thought proper. of course i was very much pleased at this _dénouemeut_, but i kept my countenance and pretended to be still very angry, at which the leader, who was now afraid of me, positively quailed for fear of my vengeance. we slept the night under protection of st. nicolas. accompanied by the papas, we took a boat on the river and rowed down to the port at the mouth, and across the bay to the port where our bark lay. while i was swimming, following the boat, i was not a little frightened to meet a large snake which was making for the land. i got out of its way hastily and called to the boys in the caique, who killed it as it approached the shore. it was black, with some red spots on the belly, and measured five feet two inches in length. we heaved anchor at night, and in the morning reached the port of finica. the town itself is three-quarters of an hour from the sea. there are the remains of a theatre, the seats all gone, and a castle of the lower empire, built of the said seats. i found various monuments, the inscriptions all in the same unknown character. at a mill hard by, i fell in with a number of merchants belonging to sparta, in asia minor, six days from here. it is curious that they all talk turkish, but write it in greek characters. i found them very bigoted but civil. we slept in the open air, all in a row. as i had promised them some fish, they lent me a horse, and one of them accompanied me back to the port; but unfortunately no fish had been caught in the night, so i had to make up for it with five okes of olives and a large botza of wine, on which my friends got excessively drunk. we now got on board and tried to beat out of port, but it was not so easy. it is very narrow, and a south-east wind, such as we had at the moment, blows right into it. once out, we crossed the bay and got into the small port of carosi. we had now to get round the cape. all along this coast an imbat or sea breeze springs up from the south regularly at midday. as we took care, by rowing hard southwards, to get round the point before twelve, we caught the breeze nicely, which carried us straight north to porto genovese by night. this is a fine port, and the rocks above it are very grand. we caught and ate a fine supper of fish, and sat cross-legged on our little deck drinking wine with an enjoyment of this adventurous, unconventional life i can never forget. the night was cool, the moon shone bright upon us, and we crowned the evening with moriote songs. it was past midnight before we got to bed. it was a short distance to the foot of olympus. when i met captain f. beaufort at smyrna, he gave me an account of the volcanic fire which springs up out of a hole in the side of this mountain, and i wished to see it. it lies about an hour's walk up the hill. the flame was just like that of a furnace, and the mouth, about five feet wide, from which it issued, was all calcined. ten feet from it was another mouth, from which no fire but a strong sulphurous smell issued, and about fifty yards higher up the hill there was a spring. close by there were also the remains of a temple, showing that the spot had been held sacred in ancient times. my guide told me that the fire would roast eggs well, but not if they were stolen--indeed it would not act upon stolen things at all. greeks are very superstitious, and this is one of the favourite forms it takes with them. i tried to confute him by cutting a scrap off his turban while his back was turned and showing him how it burned, but although he saw it consumed it did not shake his belief in the least. i went downhill again to the ruins. they consisted mostly of venetian or genoese work, but there was the door of a portico erected to germanicus, a small theatre on the south side of the river, and some very rough tombs of roman times, among which i drew until nightfall. next morning we had an enchanting sail to phaselis. the breeze was slight and the dolphins played all round us, as though they enjoyed the fair weather. phaselis was once a favourite stronghold of pirates, and is just made for it. it stands on a peninsula easily defended, and has or had--for all are now destroyed--three excellent harbours. the town was defended by a strong wall, and was provided with numbers of cisterns, besides an aqueduct for bringing water from the mainland. where the sea had undermined the cliffs, parts of the wall and sides of cisterns had fallen away into it. there were some tombs only just recently mutilated, which i thought worth making drawings of. in the evening we put out our net and caught some fish, but lost part of the net, owing to an octopus which clung to it and dragged it into its hole. _april th._--we weighed anchor early, but there was no wind as yet, and we had rowed for some hours when we became aware of a large sail coming up on a breeze. as i scanned her i had little doubt she would be the _salsette_ or the _frederiksteen_; but my poor captain was very much frightened, and when he saw her send a boat to board a small vessel before us, he desired his sons to hide his money in the ballast. it was not long, however, before i made out with my glass the red cross, and then i was able to set his mind at rest. when our little caique came alongside, we must have been a shabby sight; but captain beaufort bade me heartily welcome and gave me so cordial a shake of the hand as i can never forget. he said he had hunted for me all along the coast, and pressed me to take a cruise with him, rather than go on travelling in this hazardous fashion in the caique. the offer was tantalising; but, as i was not sure if i should feel at my ease, i only promised to stay a few days to begin with." _extract from beaufort's "karamania."_--"at avova we had the satisfaction of meeting mr. cockerell, who had been induced by our report to explore the antiquities of these desolate regions. he had hired a small greek vessel, and had already coasted part of lycia. those who have experienced the filth and other miseries of such a mode of conveyance, and who know the dangers that await an unprotected european among these tribes of uncivilised mahommedans, can alone appreciate the ardour which could lead to such an enterprise. i succeeded in persuading him to remove to his majesty's ship, in which he might pursue his researches with less hazard and with some degree of comfort. the alarm felt by his crew on seeing the frigate had been excessive. had she been a turkish man-of-war, they were sure of being pillaged under the pretext of exacting a present; if a barbary cruiser, the youngest men would have been forcibly seized for recruits, and the rest plundered; and even if she had been a greek merchant-ship, their security would still have been precarious; for when one of these large greek polaccas meets even her own countrymen in small vessels and in unfrequented places she often compels them to assist in loading her, or arbitrarily takes their cargoes at her own prices." footnote: [ ] the temple of diana was discovered by mr. j. t. wood, who carried on excavations from to on behalf of the british museum. chapter xiv adalia--satalia (sidÉ)--alaia--hostility of natives--selinty--cape anemurium--visit of a pasha--chelindreh--porto cavaliero--seleucia--a privateer--natives hostile--pompeiopolis--tarsous--a poor reception-- explores a lake--castle of ayas--captain beaufort wounded by natives--sails for malta. "on the st of may we reached adalia (or satalia). it stands on a plain which breaks abruptly into the sea and looks very rich and oriental from a distance. considering the way captain beaufort had given protection to certain fugitive rebels last year, he was rather uncertain what sort of reception to expect. it turned out to be a very cordial one, for the old pasha having just died and his son not yet firmly set in place, he could not deal with the high hand as turks like to do. he expressed himself as pleased at the captain's offer to salute the fortress, but begged the guns might not be more than eleven, probably because he had only eleven guns to answer with. it was clear, however, that the appearance of the vessel had excited no small apprehension in the town. no turks came to look at her, as usually happens in a port, and we could see that the few miserable guns in the fort had been trained to bear upon us. at the same time a handsome present was sent to the ship, consisting of bullocks, goats, fowls, vegetables, and a very magnificent dress for the captain. the dress was refused, but the eatables were accepted and a suitable return made. this included english ale and porter, and a big barrel of gunpowder, which, slung on a pole carried by two seamen, looked imposing. the captain and his boat's crew and guard of marines, all in their best, and my humble self then landed and went up to pay a visit of ceremony to the pasha. captain beaufort in the course of the interview very kindly asked, on my behalf, leave for the captain of my caique--which had come on to adalia with us--to load his boat with flour, a profitable cargo which would indemnify him for being discharged by me. the export of flour is really contraband, but as there is an immense trade quite openly carried on in it by greek ships, they need not have made such a great favour of it as they did. however, they gave permission, and i was indignant that my late captain never came and thanked me. during our stay we rode one day through the town and out into the country beyond, which is very rich and well cultivated. there are two interesting gates to the town--one on the land side, of roman architecture, very rich and much injured, and the other towards the sea, of frankish work, with mutilated arms and inscriptions on it. we set sail on the th, without doubt to the great relief of the people of adalia, and cast anchor again at lara. here there are considerable ruins, but none of them very interesting. our next stoppage was at eshi satalia, the ancient sidé, where we remained four days. the roman theatre is of vast dimensions and in good preservation, and it is noticeable that, as is evident from marks of crosses on the stones, it had been repaired in christian times, which shows that theatres were still used after the conversion of the inhabitants to christianity. the proscenium was in ruins, as usual, and some of its sculptures lay in the arena. in comparatively modern times it had been utilised to form part of the city wall, but the theatre itself was in wonderful preservation. sidé is now absolutely desolate, probably because the aqueduct which supplied the ancient city is broken, and there is no water whatever on the site. this accounts for the theatre being so well preserved. i spent all my time among these lonely ruins to very good purpose, drawing and studying. the architecture is some of it even absurd: for instance, the triumphal façade at the entrance; but the sculpture is all far superior to the architecture. although not in the very best style, it is exceedingly good, and cut with astonishing freedom and boldness. as i said, the site of sidé, and even the neighbourhood, is absolutely deserted. nevertheless, news of our being on the coast had got about, and a turkish dignitary came down from the interior, ostensibly to offer us civilities, but in reality to watch our proceedings. he was invited on board, but refused, saying, with a great assumption of dignity, that he had ridden an hour to the coast to visit the captain, and now the captain should come to him. the real fact was he was afraid. the captain accordingly came in the jolly-boat, the crew of which was in charge of a midshipman who charmed the turk so much that he wanted to buy him, and made an offer of , piastres for him. on the th we reached alaia and anchored off the town. it stands on a steep rock projecting into the sea. the houses have a very oriental look, with their flat roofs and balconies, rather like rabbit-hutches supported on long poles. our reception was very cordial; a salute was fired, and a present of bullocks &c. sent us. we landed to take a little turn into the town and found it filthy; stinks of all kinds in all directions. through narrow streets down which wound gutters, disgusting with horrors flung from upper windows, we threaded our way in apprehension of more. the ladies, however, were eager to see the franks, and from the streets and from the ship we could descry them peeping at us in their balconies. i went with the captain to pay our visit to the council which governs in the absence of the pasha. we found it sitting in a miserable tumbledown room with walls not even plastered. we sat a few minutes, asked a few questions mainly about antiquities, and then retired to the ship to receive their return visit. next morning we set off to the eastwards to look for ruins of sydra. the expedition was not a success. in the first place the surf was high and we had difficulty in landing; then after a long walk we came upon several villages, but no considerable ruins, and what there were, only of late date and uninteresting, and we had to trudge back disappointed. in the course of our walk we came upon a small turkish boy all alone. he screamed with fright to see our strange figures and ran away, bounding over stock and stone, and still screaming for help. he had never seen franks before. the following day we, the captain and officers in uniform and myself in my best, landed to walk in the town. we were first detained a long time at the gate on small excuses, and then when we started were told by the guide that if we proceeded there was danger of a disturbance. the captain told him to go on all the same, but as he refused we turned back to the port. then we learnt that the evening before there had been a general meeting of the turks to protest against our being allowed to go about the town. we went aboard again; and from the ship an officer was sent to the council with a severe remonstrance against our treatment, and the present of bullocks was re-landed on the beach. this attitude of ours brought them at once to their knees; the humblest apologies were sent with assurances that the offenders were being punished, and a request that captain beaufort would come ashore and see the castle as he desired. the captain replied that an officer of his rank could not expose himself to the possibility of a repetition of such affronts as he had submitted to that morning, but that the beyzesday (myself) with some of his officers would go, as they allowed it. we accordingly went; but as the authority of governors in these countries is at no time very great, we went in the fullest expectation of a disturbance and of being forced to turn back. the council seems, however, to have kept its promise, for nothing of the sort occurred. we were entirely unmolested. on the other hand, there was nothing whatever to see. it was a most fatiguing walk up the hill. the town is defended by three walls, one inside the other, never well built and now ruinous, although well whitewashed to conceal their condition, and in the whole place only four cannon, all of them old. on the top of all is the citadel, itself ruinous and full of the ruins of several christian monasteries and churches converted into mosques, some water tanks and a fountain. over a gate is an inscription to say that aladin was conqueror of this city. there are remains of a fine ancient greek wall. this was all we saw for our trouble and risk. the council again sent apologies and invitations to captain beaufort, but he replied as before; only, to show he had no resentment, he sent his surgeon, while the anchor was being weighed, to see what he could do for a member of the council who was ill. i meanwhile, with a party of officers, went off in the gig to look at some ruins we had observed to the westward on the top of a hill. we had three miles to go in the boat and about two on foot inland. the hill is high and desperately steep. on the top is a town, deserted, with ancient greek walls, a tower, the ruins of a temple, a number of pedestals and monuments, some with inscriptions which we copied, but none of them gave us the name of the place. we have made up our minds since, judging by strabo's description, that it must have been laertes. the city walls, the temple, and the tower are all of cut stone and the best greek construction, while the walls of dwellings are of small stones and mortar. this town, being all of one sort of date, is a good example by which to judge of greek habits of building. i suppose private houses were always built in this inferior style. our next stoppage was at selinty, originally selinus, and afterwards changed, on the death of trajan within its walls, to trajanopolis. it stands on a remarkable rock, the cragus, absolutely precipitous on one side and very steep on the other, with a river, sixty feet or so wide, at the bottom of the slope. it struck one as curious that with such a river there should be an aqueduct to carry water across it into the town. one could only suppose that the water of the river, like that of the cataracts near adalia, was unwholesome because it contained a chalky sediment. to the top of the cragus is a great climb. there we found a fortress without any inscriptions of any kind, but, to judge by the style, of no great age and no interest. the best thing was the view. beneath us fell a sheer precipice right down into the sea, perhaps five hundred feet. as we looked over the top the eagles sprang out from the rocks far below us, so far that shots fired at them were quite ineffective. we found here a small theatre, much ruined, and the remains of a grand senate house, or perhaps a mausoleum to trajan, also very much injured. the ship remained a day and a half. after passing a promontory we came opposite to a rocky ridge sloping rapidly to the sea, on which was a fortress, answering to strabo's antiochetta on the cragus. we put off in the gig, and had to land on a precipitous rock in a high surf, which i did not like at all; but as we had been brought, it had to be done. we found a place that must have had some importance. there were fragments of polished granite columns, a modern castle, several greek chapels, and ruins on all sides as well. the most promising were on the mountain above us and on a small peninsula jutting out from the site of the town. my companions made for the small peninsula, where they found some tombs like those at selinty, and other matters of no great moment. i, hoping for something more considerable, went up the mountain--and a very rough climb it was. i was, however, well paid for my exertions. i found there numbers of granite columns, marble blocks and pedestals, and the ruins of a vast and magnificent edifice which might have been a senate house or a gymnasium. the situation of it was truly sublime, and it must have had a glorious effect from the sea. i hoped to return and examine it more perfectly next day, but unfortunately captain beaufort thought it necessary to get on to cape anemurium by the th, in order to make an observation of jupiter's satellite which would determine at once his longitude, and the wind was favourable. we went on therefore, to my great regret, and the same evening ( rd) anchored opposite a small castle on a low rock by the sea. next day, as we were allowed, we went all over the castle. it appears to be of saracen origin, and according to an inscription to have been conquered by the turk aladin. a remarkable thing about it is that it has a keep like those one sees in england. it is all in ruins; such guns as it has are lying about dismounted. i suppose the people hereabouts are so frightened at us that they send the news about in all directions; for the bey of the district, who lives at some distance inland, had heard of our arrival, and sent down his compliments. captain beaufort hastened to send a suitable reply to his courtesy by an officer with an invitation to come on board, where he would be received with all the honours of war. he did promise to come when he could. all day long captain beaufort was preparing, on a small island close to the castle, the necessary arrangements for making his observation. it was perfectly successful, and we got back on board at one o'clock a.m. _ th may._--having done what was wanted with regard to the verification of the longitude, we went back in a boat to cape anemurium to see the ancient town. on the point is a fortress and citadel. outside of that a second wall includes a theatre and an odeum, the seats of which are all gone. there are no traces of dwellings within the walls, so that one must suppose the inhabitants to have lived in mud or timber houses, for outside the walls there is the most perfect necropolis i ever saw. each tomb has two apartments, and all, except for their having been broken open, are as fresh as if just built. the ship being still at anemurium, the bey above mentioned came down to the beach attended by his retinue. as soon as we made him out, we pushed off to pay him the compliments of the captain. nothing could be more picturesque than the scene when we reached the shore. at the foot of the precipice of anemurium he was seated on a small carpet spread on the rock, surrounded by about a hundred dark, savage-looking men all heavily armed. they were clearly as pleased to look at us as we were to see the barbarians of the interior. the gloomy evening cast a grave air over the wild crags and the savage figures, while the sea broke in heavy waves at the foot of the rock on which abdul muim sat. the manner with which the bey received us was free and polite. he told us the history of the country about us, and of the castle in particular. he was very much pressed to come aboard, but he would not be tempted. instead of that, he contented himself with inquiring the length of the ship and sat looking at her with a pocket telescope for several hours. we crossed a bay, and lay off cape kisliman, a bluff and remarkable cape on which were ruins, but the people of the country seemed to object to our examining them. thence to chelindreh, which, being the nearest point of communication with cyprus for couriers from constantinople and other travellers, boasts some twenty huts and their inhabitants. they are barbarous and savage to a degree, and were disposed to treat the crew of the captain's boat, who were looking for inscriptions among the tombs of the ancient city, very roughly. one man even drew his yatagan, when the sudden appearance of the frigate frightened them into politeness. _june st._--to the captain, who is always earnestly employed, one day is like another. even sundays are only distinguished by the officers' invitation to him and to myself to dine in the gun-room, and by the clean clothes of the men at muster; but the other officers did not forget that to-day was an anniversary, and we all drank the health of lord howe. _porto cavaliero._--to the eastward of us lay isola provenzale, once without doubt a settlement of the knights of rhodes. while the captain examined cape cavaliero, i went, burning with expectation, to the island, not doubting but that i should come home with a load of inscriptions and arms for the heralds; but we found no sort of remains of the occupation of the knights that one could identify. we landed near a quarry of soft stone, in the middle of which an upright rock is left standing, in which it appears that a hermit had made his cell. there are crosses cut in the three sides, and several neat little receptacles for utensils. at the top of the hill are fortifications and two churches, themselves built of the materials of older greek buildings. clefts in the rock had been carefully stopped and used as reservoirs. the walls are built with an inner and an outer face of squared stones set in mortar, the interval being filled in with chips and rubble without cement, and the whole making a thickness of eight or nine feet. the north-west side of the island is also covered with ruins, all of the same romaic work. one was of a church to which several rooms were attached, and in one of them a considerable tomb--probably of a saint of the early church. this must at all times have been a valuable station, and would be now. it has one of the best and most defensible harbours on this coast, and is within easy reach of supplies. the captain had fared no better than ourselves in his search for remains of the knights at porto cavaliero. here we fell in with a myconiote ship full of hadjis on their return from a visit to the holy sepulchre at jerusalem. my dimitri and andrea were pigs enough to get drunk there and quarrel with the crew. they got the licking they deserved, but they came and complained to me that they had been ill-used and ourselves insulted, and gave me the trouble of inquiring into it. i found, as i had suspected, that what they had got they had brought upon themselves. our next move was to seleucia or selefkeh. we landed as near as we could to the end of the line of hills on which it stands, and then walked to it, nine miles across the plain at the foot of them. the ancient town is beautifully placed at the side of a river, the calicadnus. it is partly on the plain and partly on steps of rock which rise gradually from it up to a large castle of late date, which has an armenian inscription over the gate. the aga received us with obvious ill-humour, which perhaps was owing to his being unwell, for he begged to see our doctor, and promised to send horses for him and for us to the beach next day. we looked about among the ruins, which are very extensive. there is a theatre, a long line of porticoes, and a temple once converted to a christian church, together with several late churches of the date of the ruins on provenzale. we then went back to the ship. next day, no horses for the doctor or ourselves appearing upon the beach, we started walking, and on our arrival at selefkeh complained. the aga affected to blame his servants. we expected at least to return well mounted when the doctor had seen the aga and we had seen the town, but only one sorry hack was prepared for the doctor; and, as he refused to ride alone, we made our exit, walking in a huff, and went so briskly that a miserable turk whom the aga had sent on a pony, while we had to walk, to bring him back his medicine, could not keep up with us, and was quite out of sight by the time we got to the beach. so we went aboard, rather pleased at first to deprive the ungracious aga of his medicine; but upon reflection we wrote him a sharp laconic note and sent his dose. this aga, it is true, was not a man of good character; he had deposed and murdered his predecessor, but as that is the usual mode of succession in this country, it need not necessarily involve discourtesy to strangers. but i must not, in justice to turks, forget to mention what occurred on our way to the beach as a set-off to the incivility of the aga. we had had nothing to eat all day, and we were not a little sharp-set when, finding some peasants (turks) amongst the corn making their evening meal, with that confidence which hunger inspires we pounced upon their dishes and devoured all that appeared before us. the poor fellows were not in the least disconcerted, but begged us to eat, one of them saying as he pointed to the corn all round him, 'there is plenty of bread. it is ours.' they would take no money, and when we got up to go pressed us to stay. our hearts were melted at their noble benevolence, and we had to agree that all turks were not brutes. on the whole, seleucia is worth the trouble of a visit. an immense reservoir, by feet by feet deep, supplied by an aqueduct, impressed me as a very fine work. the theatre also, although totally ruined, is delightfully situated; and the temple, which had been converted into a church, is very interesting. the calicadnus, although it is on an even bed, is a noble river, wide and rapid, and gives great beauty to the scene. it is unhealthy to drink, which accounts for the existence of the great reservoir. it is evident that the population of these countries has decreased, and still is decreasing. it has not one-tenth of what it could easily support, and not one-hundredth of what it has supported in past times. while we were away at selefkeh a bombard french privateer came into the bay of seleucia in pursuit of a turkish boat, and would have fallen into our hands if the captain and pilot had been on board; but the necessary delay before this could be done enabled the frenchman to get to shallow water, and the _frederiksteen_ in pursuit ran into four fathoms, and in another five minutes would have been aground. so the bombard escaped.[ ] _anchored off lingua di bagascia._--we arrived at a castle named curco, with another on a rock outside the port, which has an armenian inscription on it. the one on the mainland, which i take to be the ancient coricus, is a place of great strength. there is a moat thirty feet wide, cut in solid rock, to disconnect from the land, and double walls and towers. there are many ruins of modern churches and monasteries and numberless sarcophagi of ancient and early christian times, but the whole place, town and castles, is absolutely deserted. we were in the boat following the frigate as she proceeded along the coast, when, perceiving ruins on the coast, we disembarked, and found on a striking eminence a corinthian temple of bad execution which had been converted into a church. further on was a town, a theatre, and a vast colonnade with a number of important and very perfect tombs. we had, however, to retire to the boat, for the inhabitants were very threatening, and had we been fewer or shown any fear might have fared badly. as soon as we were off in the boat we had a good bathe. _at the latmus._--captain beaufort sent two of his officers ashore to inspect the long aqueduct leading to eleusa, which we could see from the ship, but the aga, who had at first consented to their going, withdrew his permission, and they had to give it up. at pompeiopolis, as we had understood that the turks of this part of the country were particularly dangerous, i took with me two marines as a guard to visit the ruins. seen from the sea they presented a truly startling grandeur. the plan of the city is noble in the extreme--one single colonnade passes right through it from the port to the gate leading out into the country, and forty of its columns are still standing. the remainder, making about two hundred, lie as they fell. the town was defended by a fine wall with towers to it, enclosing a theatre and the port. the style of the architecture, which looked so well from a distance, when one comes to see it close is very bad. pompeiopolis is quite deserted, but the turks from the neighbouring villages came in, and, although their appearance was barbarous in the extreme, they were very civil. i imagine the guns and men of the _frederiksteen_ had to do with this, for i observed that the further we got from the ship the less polite we always found the turks to be. we made sail in the evening and anchored off mersine, at the beginning of the great plain of tarsous, and put ashore to reconnoitre and pay a visit to the aga with a view to getting horses to go to tarsous. the aga was very civil and promised we should have the horses we asked for. in the morning the horses were ready; but now the aga, for whatever reason, discouraged our going to tarsous, and told us that since seeing us yesterday evening he had received news of an outbreak there, that a neighbouring pasha had attacked the town and all was uproar and arms. on reflection his account struck us as so improbable that we decided at any rate to start, and go on according to the information we should pick up on the road. we set out, a large party. the country was a flat, covered with corn and in it many reapers, male and female, the latter going uncovered and quite unembarrassed by strangers. their language and costume were arab, quite unlike anything i had seen before, and there were quantities of camels about. the ride took us four hours. from the inquiries we made from time to time it was clear that the aga's tale had been a downright lie. tarsous lies on the plain about two miles and a half from the mountains. at the entrance to it is a hillock about a quarter of a mile long, which commands the town; it was included in the ancient walls, which were then strengthened by a moat into which the river was turned. it is now dry, and the present town has nothing but a slight wall round it. we passed over the old moat and through an ancient gate of roman work. it had three arches, but only one of them is standing, and the wall it formed the passage through and every other antiquity in the town has been destroyed and used up for building materials. nothing could exceed the surprise of the inhabitants at our appearance. they had never seen europeans, and they crowded about us in such numbers that we could with difficulty move. we went to visit the aga and were detained, sitting among the servants an hour and a half before we could obtain an audience. the aga, they said, was engaged. at last we remonstrated and got up to go; when, to our surprise and indignation, we saw the aga sitting in a room by himself smoking his pipe and quite unoccupied. we would have passed the door had they not pressed us in, so angry were we. he was sitting on a sofa in a long white arab cloak in a room that was neater and handsomer than it is usual to see in these countries. he made a slight motion on our coming in, but spoke not a word, nor did he deign to answer 'yhary' when we conveyed to him the compliments of the captain. a turk who sat by his side with our firman in his hands now addressed a turk who was with us with an affectation of great indignation. he wanted to know what could be the meaning of four hundred men, when only eight men were mentioned in the firman--together with a number of other insolent questions, from which i gathered that he suspected us of being travelling merchants. fortunately, as these remarks were not addressed to us, we were not bound to make any reply, for if we had we were by this time in such a state of impatience with their insolent barbarity that it would hardly have been a conciliatory one. as soon as we could get away, we mounted our horses again, and through a thick and insulting rabble went out of the town and homewards without delay. an old turk of the aga's people, who had been one of the chief of our tormentors, saw us off for some distance. to him i had the satisfaction of giving a piece of my mind, and when we came within sight of the ship gave him an invitation on board that he might see how we treated strangers. the old rascal went home very much abashed and awestruck. we arrived on board late, and well wetted by coming through the violent surf. the ship was two more days off the great plain of tarsous, moving slowly in a thick haze, and on the th arrived off cape karadash. the captain proposed to me that i should go with mr. wingham to reconnoitre a great lake one could see from the ship. about one mile n.w. of the cape we turned up a deep channel like a river mouth, except that the current set inwards instead of outwards, and after about three-quarters of a mile entered an apparently boundless lake. it was very shallow, and before long we were aground, after which the men waded and towed the boat. in this fashion we went several miles till we had got a fair general notion of the size of the sheet of water. a deceptive atmospheric effect, due to the great evaporation, would hide the shore when very low, so that it presented the appearance of a sheet of water. owing to this i had a bitter disappointment. ahead of us we descried four beautiful deer, which, as we approached, fled to what appeared to me to be the isthmus of a peninsula. i cried to one of the boatmen, who had a musket, to run to the isthmus to cut them off, while i and two others made for the other side, hoping to get a shot at them. as we got nearer, the fancied water vanished, and the deer, a herd of ten beauties, ran up into the plain. they were spotted like fallow deer, but with short horns turning back like those of a goat. coming back, we saw immense flocks, of perhaps ten thousand at once, of white stately birds about as big as swans [flamingoes.--ed.], the tail beautiful with red feathers. they stood in ranks like soldiers, and now and again flapped their wings all at once and shrieked. there were numbers of large fish about, and the water was so shallow that their backs stood out of it. all the same, when we tried to catch them they were too quick for us. the only thing we did secure was a big turtle. at cape mallo we went ashore and walked over the ruins. thence we moved down the coast, anchored eight miles west of ayas castle, and rowed on to it. there are the remains of the ancient town of Ægæ to be seen, and a modern turkish castle. when we entered the mouth of the port we noticed that some turks standing on a tower which commanded it shouted and gesticulated to us in a threatening manner. they were all armed. i, however, set it down to fear on their part, and recommended our going on. unhappily, we did so; and i can never sufficiently regret the part i had in bringing on the catastrophe which will always make ayas a painful recollection. nothing further occurred that evening; we walked about, and when it grew dark went aboard again. _june th._--we went ashore, a strong party, and scattered in various directions. the captain took his surveying instruments, a little to the westwards. another party stripped to bathe and hunt turtles, of which there were many; while two others and myself walked towards the castle. the jolly-boat, under command of a midshipman, young olphert, was to meet us to the east of the castle. all at once dimitri came running up to us to say that a turk had robbed one of the party. his account was that while they were bathing, this turk, attracted by the gilt buttons on the coat of a petty officer, and taking them for gold, had run off with it. we walked at once to the beach, where several turks of the village were collected. they tried to conciliate us, saying it was a turcoman from the mountains who had been the thief, and that the coat had already been restored. just then up came mr. lane to tell us to get immediately to the boats, that the captain had been dangerously wounded and young olphert shot dead. we did as he told us, and got back to the ship; but my horror and surprise were succeeded by the most violent indignation, and there was nothing i hoped for so much as that orders would be given for a general attack on the village. as soon as i was on board i went to see captain beaufort. his wound, i was glad to find, was not so dangerous as was thought at first. the ball had entered the fleshy part of the thigh and had broken the bone at the hip. still, it was a serious wound, and he was a good deal shaken. when he heard of poor olphert's death he burst into tears, and bitterly upbraided himself with having been the cause of it. it seems that when the band of ruffians came to attack his boat and began to point their guns, he, to frighten them, fired over their heads. hereupon they all fell down in abject terror, and the boats, pushing off, got nearly clear of the rocks. one man, however, more resolute than the rest, rushed forwards, and taking deliberate aim from behind a rock, shot the captain: and had the rest of the ruffians been like him, the whole boat's crew must have been sacrificed. as it was, the boat was out of range before they recovered. but having whetted their appetite for blood, and furious at having been shot at, they rushed off to where young olphert was with his boat and murdered him as he was pushing off. the condition captain beaufort was in was so serious, and his concern lest olphert's death should have been in any sense his fault, so painful, that i took upon myself to tell him a deliberate falsehood, for which i trust god will forgive me. i assured him positively that olphert had been already shot when the natives came to attack his (the captain's) boat. as he was a long way from where olphert was, he had no means of knowing that it might not have been so, and he was eventually persuaded and his mind very much quieted. at first we had hoped that we might be allowed to seek our own redress, but the coolness and moderation of the captain were admirable. when one came to consider, it was not at all clear that the villagers had had any hand in it, and to destroy the village would not be to punish the offenders. it was sure to make all travelling dangerous, if not impossible, for the future, and finally it would be the act of war on the territories of a friendly power, barbarous as that power might be. it was therefore settled that we should apply for redress through the regular channel. we crossed the bay to scanderoon, which is a miserable town with a population half turks and half cypriote greeks, and no resident official higher than an aga. we did what we could to frighten this person by representing the affair to him in its most serious light, at the same time calling his attention to the strict moderation of our conduct, and our respect for the authorities of the country. meanwhile a peremptory letter demanding reparation was despatched to the pasha himself, who lived some miles inland. he returned an immediate reply to the effect that ayas was not within his pashalik, but in that of his neighbour the pasha of adana, to whom he had at once written. meanwhile he promised in his name that every reparation should be made. in our turn we informed him that a british squadron would be there in fifteen days to see that this was done. in the cemetery attached to the old british factory and consulate we buried poor young olphert. ten marines (all the aga would allow ashore) fired a salute over him, and we set up over his grave a greek tombstone brought from one of the cities on the coast. considering how many tokens of friendship captain beaufort had shown me, and that he was at the moment in a dangerous condition, with a risk of fever coming on; and that, as he could not enjoy easy familiarity with his junior officers, my company might be pleasant to him, i thought i ought not to leave him and settled to go back with him to malta. two days after olphert's funeral, on the nd june, we set sail. on the st of july we fell in with the _salsette_, captain hope, off khelidonia, by appointment. she was to take captain beaufort's report to the admiral on the station, and to go on to scanderoon afterwards to see that proper amends were made for the injury done us." footnote: [ ] captain beaufort seems to have thought that she was a mainiote pirate. his account of this episode is worth reading. chapter xv malta--attacked by bilious fever--sails to palermo--segeste--leaves for girgenti--immigrant albanians--selinunto--travelling with sicilians-- girgenti--restores the temple of the giants--leaves for syracuse-- occupations in syracuse--sale of the Ægina marbles--leaves for zante. "we had nothing but west winds, very unfavourable for us. meltern, as this wind is called, follows the rim of the coast of asia minor, being north in the archipelago, west along karamania, and turning south again down the coast of syria. we were seldom out of sight of land--first the mountains of asia, then rhodes, crete, the morea, &c. finally we reached malta on the th of july, being the twenty-seventh day since we left scanderoon, and the end of a month of complete idleness. i spent most of the time in the captain's cabin, showing him all the attention i could, and profiting in return very much by his society and his library. to get to malta was a refreshment to our spirits. numbers of visitors came at once under the stern to salute captain beaufort, although until we had pratique they could not come aboard. the plague is at present in smyrna, and quarantine for ships from thence usually lasts thirty or forty days; but as we could prove that we had had no communication with any infected town, we were let off in two days. unfortunately, from the moment we arrived i began to feel unwell. all the time i was on the coast of asia i had been taking violent exercise and perspiring profusely, while since we left i had been wholly confined; and the consequence of the change was a violent bilious attack with fever. after stopping in bed three days i thought i would take a trip to sant' antonio with gammon, the senior officer; but i got back so thoroughly done up that i had to lie up again, and was ill for three weeks in thorn's hotel.[ ] my chief remedies, prescribed by doctors stewart of the _frederiksteen_ and allen of the malta hospital, were calomel in large quantities and bleeding. every day one or other of the officers of the _frederiksteen_--gammon, seymour, lane, or dodd--came to sit with me. when i was able to get about again, i found that captain beaufort had been moved to the house of commissioner larcom, where every possible care was taken of him. they were a most agreeable and hospitable family--the only one, indeed, in malta. the officers--general oakes, colonel phillips, &c.--were like all garrison officers. mr. chabot, the banker, honoured my drafts, and when i was going expressed his sorrow that i was off so soon, as he had hoped to have seen me at his house. as soon as ever i was well enough i felt eager to get away from a society so odious to me as that of malta, and having been introduced from two separate sources to mr. harvey, commander of h.m. brig _haughty_, i got from him an excellent passage to palermo. it took us from the th august to the th. mr. harvey himself was ill, and i saw little of him, but what i did delighted me. like all sailors, he was very lovable, and so long as he remained in palermo i went to him every day. my first day i strolled over the town and delivered my letters to mr. gibbs and mr. fagan. the latter is an antiquarian and a great digger. he told me, i think, that he had dug up over two hundred statues in his time. i called on him several times afterwards, pleased with his conversation and hoping to learn something of sicily from him, and found him exceedingly polite. a return of the fever i had in malta confined me again for a few days, after which i managed to keep it at bay with plenty of port wine and bark. my chief friends in palermo were general and mrs. campbell, sir robert laurie, captain of a lying here, lord william bentinck, generalissimo of the british army of occupation in sicily, and fagan. after a fortnight in palermo i started on a trip to segeste. i could not but be very much struck by the difference between the richness of sicily, and the desolation of greece under turkish rule. mahomet ii. desired that on his tomb should be written that had he lived he proposed in the ensuing summer to conquer 'the beautiful italy and the island of rhodes.' sicily must have followed, and i pictured in my mind the landscape as it would then have looked. a few ruined mosques would have supplied the place of the splendid churches and monasteries, and a wretched khan and a few low huts the rich towns of sala and partinico. the temple of segeste is the largest i have seen, but it looks as if it had never been finished. the style of workmanship is good and exact, but as far inferior to athenian execution as its rough stone is to pentilican marble. the turn of the capital is very inferior in delicacy to athenian examples, and there is no handsome finish to the ceiling of the peristyle, which was probably of plaster like Ægina. the circular sinking cut in the plinth to receive the column, leaving a space all round to give a play, it is said, in case of earthquake, is certainly curious if that was the purpose of it. nothing whatever remains of the cella. in the evening we returned to alcamo and next day breakfasted with colonel burke, who is in command of a regiment of , fine men, all piedmontese and italians, not sicilians. one finds englishmen in command everywhere. returned to palermo. my fame had spread in my absence, and on my return i found my table covered with cards and invitations--the most conspicuous being from general macfarlane and lord montgomery. the palaces of the sicilian nobles are exasperatingly pretentious and tasteless; that of palagonia is an unforgetable nightmare. though a paradise compared with greece, i find sicily seething with discontent; and were it not for lord w. bentinck, to whom the people look up as the only honest man amongst the authorities, there would be an insurrection. ten days later i set out on horseback for girgenti. on the second day i turned aside from villa fraté to visit one of the greek villages so much talked of and so misrepresented. in palermo i was told that the villagers are some of the ancient greek settlers, who remain so unchanged that they still wear sandals and are almost pagans. in reality they are albanians, who emigrated in the sixteenth century when the oppression of the turks was specially severe in their country, and came in bands to various points of sicily. mezzojuso is one of their settlements, and has about , inhabitants. the situation, about two miles off the road from villa fraté to alcara, is on the side of a mountain and very beautiful. i met some goodhumoured peasants who were ready to tell me all they knew. they talk albanian amongst themselves, and they readily understood the few words of it which i and my servant could speak. the explanation of the report of their being almost pagans is that they retain the greek ritual, although they have changed the altar to the catholic form and acknowledge the supremacy of the pope. over the altar is a greek inscription, which i read, to the surprise of those who attended me. the priests preserve the greek costume, the bead cap, hair, &c. st. nicolas, the greek saint _par excellence_, is a conspicuous figure in the church. what a pity i had not with me a little of the earth i took from the shrine of the saint at myra in asia minor! it would have been an acceptable present to the priest. i saw none of the women, but i was told they wear a peculiar costume; and at their communion, instead of the host, as in roman catholic churches, a piece of cloth is held up. started for the temples of selinunto, accompanied by don ignazio, the son of my host, don gaetano. we took the road towards the sea, and passing through siciliana and turning inland came in the evening to cattolica. here we added to our party a most entertaining companion, don raffaelle politi, a painter, not very excellent in his art, though one of the best in sicily, but full of talents and of humour. he was staying at the time in the house of a certain marquis, for whom he had been painting two ceilings. we went to see him there, and found him with the marchese, sitting over a greasy table surrounded by a company of nasty fellows, such as in england one might see in a shopkeeper's parlour. no sort of civility or hospitality was shown us. on the other hand, a friend and equal of don raffaelle's received us very kindly. he and a company of tradesmen who had come over to a fair which was being held in cattolica, and had of course brought their guitars with them, entertained us before supper in the locanda. next day we passed by the ancient city of heraclia, of which, however, there are very trifling remains, to sciacca, where in the market-place we saw dead meat--meat of animals that had died of disease owing to the great drought this year, which has killed a great many cattle--being sold to the poor at a cheap rate. travelling with sicilians i fell into their customs, and instead of looking out for an hotel i went with them into a café where we ate and drank. the cafetiere, to show his liberality, in pouring out lets the cup overflow until the saucer also is full, after which he brings spirits and cigars--all customs new to me. arrived in a storm at montefeice, wet through. my friends slept on a mattress, and i, who was accustomed to it, slept on the floor. nothing can be more solemn than the magnificent remains of the three temples of selinus, but i had not many hours to study them. it is clear that earthquake was the cause of their destruction, and i guess from the difference in preservation between the parts which fell and were covered and protected, and the condition of those which remain standing, that it may have occurred about the eighth or ninth century. we went over twice from montefeice, each time returning in the evening; and when we got home, how differently we spent our evenings from the ordinary way englishmen do! had they been my companions we should have cursed the fare and lodging, and should have laid ourselves down grumbling to pass a tedious and uncomfortable night. instead of that, with these sicilians, as soon as the demands of hunger were satisfied, at the sound of a guitar in the streets, we sallied out and joined the serenaders, stopped under the windows of some fair one we did not know, and don raffaelle, who is a perfect master of the guitar and ravished the bystanders, played and sang with much taste a number of exceedingly pretty melodies. if this was not enough for the evening, we sat and told stories. at cattolica we arrived so late that every inch of the locanda was occupied. we did not care to disturb our friend of the previous occasion, don giuseppe, and the marchese's hospitality had been so grudgingly offered that we were too proud to accept it, and so we sought consolation by going about the streets with a guitar till we were tired of it, and then taking horse again; but before going far we were so weary that we got off under a tree, sat down, and waited for dawn to light us back to girgenti. after my return to girgenti, i remained there till the th of november, applying myself with close attention and infinite pleasure to attempting to reconstruct the temple of jupiter olympius. the examination of the stones and the continual exercise of ingenuity kept me very busy, and at the end the successful restoration of the temple gave me a pleasure which was only to be surpassed by that of originally conceiving the design. my days went by in great peace and content. i lived with the family of don gaetano sterlini, and when i got accustomed to them i learnt to like them. the bawling of the servants, the open doors, the dirt and disorder of a sicilian household came after a time to be matters of course to me and passed unnoticed. but there came an english fine gentleman, by the name of cussins, to spend two days here, who was not so philosophical and made himself odious by protesting. when anyone came into or went out of the room, the doors, which never else turned on their hinges, must be shut; the windows, that perhaps lacked two or three panes, must be closed; the shutters bolted; he could not eat the food nor drink the wine. a creature so refined is as unpleasant an object to a barbarian as the latter is to him, and we prayed for his departure. my fine friend was supercilious to me, but polite in a lofty fashion, and took a patronising interest in what i was doing. would i give him some notes and a sketch? at first i said i would, but his manner disgusted me, so that i finally sent him only the notes. he wanted the sketch to flourish at palermo. in the last few days of my stay my fame got about. the caffé dei nobili, the bishop and all, heard with astonishment that i had unravelled the puzzle, and that all the morsels composing the giants were still existing and could be put together again. a dignitary of the church, (don?) candion panettieri, sent me a message to say that if i would mark the stones and give directions for the setting up of one of the giants, he would undertake the expense of doing it. i was tempted by this offer and the immediate notoriety it would give me, and agreed and completed my sketch as far as it could be carried and took it to him. it was copied immediately, and with my name appended as the author, sent to palermo. then i went over the fragments with raffaelle politi and marked the stones corresponding with the numbers in the design. don gaetano could not contain his indignation at my suffering the results of so much labour to be launched into the world as it were semi-anonymously, instead of in a book duly written and published by myself, the author. from the moment i handed over my drawing to politi to copy there was no peace between us. i could not help being gratified at the interest he took in my success, and my feeling for him was sharpened by the sentiment with which his fair daughter had inspired me, which was so strong that it made me feel the necessity of going away, and yet made me weep like a noodle when i did. but i had found my reward in the pleasure of solving the puzzle, and though i liked the notoriety, it was not worth giving oneself much trouble about. i left girgenti with don ignazio sala, son-in-law of sterlini, for alicata, and the consul himself saw me as far as the river agrigas. on our left were many sulphur works, which are so injurious to vegetation that there is a law in force that they shall not work from the time the corn begins to get up till after the harvest. from palma the road lies along the seashore, and there at every mile and a half are watch-towers, or, failing these, straw huts for the coastguard to give warning of barbary corsairs. until lately this coast was infested by them. their descents were small, and they carried off only a few men or cattle; but there was once a desperate action near alicata, in which the inhabitants turned out, headed by the priest, and captured the whole party of twenty-five who had landed. the prisoners were sent by palermo to algiers to be exchanged. alicata to serra nuova. serra nuova to cartalagerone. we had to cross a river on the way, the banks of which were high and the river swollen by the rain, and one mule with baggage and man rolled right into it. the night got very dark, and i really thought we should have to stop on the bank all night or break our necks, but by help of repeated invocations indifferently to maria sanctissima and santo diavolone we got across safely at last. from cartalagerone by mineo to lentini, and so to syracuse. although compared with the ancient town it is tiny and confined entirely to the island of ortygia, the modern syracuse has considerable fortifications. we had to pass through four gates and two dykes before we got inside. at one gate the guard wanted to take our arms, till i remonstrated on the insult to the british nation, and they let me pass. but, then, if they did not mean to enforce it, how ridiculous ever to make such a regulation! as soon as i was settled i despatched a letter my friend raffaelle politi had given me to his father, who came at once, offered me every civility, and remained my fast friend throughout my stay." cockerell spent three months--december, january, and february--in syracuse. for one thing his health had been severely shaken by the grave illness he had had in malta, and he needed rest. it seems to have made a turning-point in his travels. hitherto his letters home had been full of joyous anticipations of getting back to england, and with restless energy he had endeavoured to cram the utmost into his time before doing that, and settling into harness as an architect. seeing so many countries and going through so many vicissitudes had, however, weakened the tie and he could now make himself at home anywhere. for another thing, a main object of his travels--perhaps the main object--was a visit to italy, as for practical purposes italian architecture was the best worth studying. but the war with france continuing, italy remained closed indefinitely to a british subject. so for several years there are no more references to coming home. a last reason for stopping where he was, was that the weather was detestable. it was the terrible winter of the retreat from moscow. "for forty days," he says, "it never failed to rain, snow, or hail." his time was chiefly spent in preparing the drawings for the plates of the great contemplated book on Ægina and phigaleia. besides this, he seems to have drawn in the museum, and to have read a good deal; he learnt the art of cutting cameos, and even executed some; and finally, fired by the performances of his friend politi, he spent two hours a day in learning to play the guitar. he probably never carried this accomplishment very far and abandoned it on leaving sicily, for i never recollect even hearing it alluded to. the time passed very quietly. he had some friends among the sicilians, besides the politis--don pietro satallia, the conte bucchieri, and one english acquaintance, lieutenant winter, adjutant of the town and fort, who had a nice english wife and large family, with whom he spent occasional evenings. for the most part, however, he spent his evenings studying in his lodgings, and "on the whole," he says, "i can say of syracuse what i wish i could say of all the places i ever stopped in: i do not repent of the time i spent there." during the latter part of his stay, when the weather grew less severe, he was a good deal occupied in examining the walls of ancient syracuse, and the fortress of labdalum. a letter received at about this time from linckh records the death of the little skye terrier fop which my father had brought with him from england. when he left athens to go with messrs. north, douglas, and foster to crete, _en route_ for egypt, he left the dog behind in charge of a certain nicolo, who seems to have gone with bronstedt and linckh not long after on the expedition they undertook to zea in december .... "dans la lettre égarée je vous ai écrit le sort malheureux de votre pauvre fope, qui a fini ses jours misérablement et en grande famine à zea. bronstedt et moi nous lui avons encore prolongé son triste destin pour quelques jours, car nous l'avons trouvé mourant dans un ravin entre la ville de zea et le port. vraiment ce nicolo est un être infâme et malicieux. vous savez que nous lui avons confisqué la bague du platon qu'il a portée aussitôt que vous autres êtes partis d'athènes pour egypte. [he had stolen it, as he did later various articles from hughes and parker, _q.v._] comme nous avons quitté l'isle de zea, il faisait une banque de pharaon pour piller les zeotes." he had kept in communication with his friends in greece, and especially with gropius, to whom he had written repeatedly on the subject of the sale of the Ægina marbles, but it was not till march that he could have heard of the disastrous issue. what had happened was this. it will be remembered that while the statues themselves had been conveyed for security to malta, the sale of them had been advertised to take place in zante on november , . when the day arrived only two bidders presented themselves in the sale room, one bearing an offer from the french government, and herr wagner another from prince louis of bavaria. the british museum had sent out a mr. coombe with ample powers to buy for england, but he never turned up. he had reached malta in good time, but having understood from mr. mcgill, who was _pro tem._ agent for gropius, that the sale would take place where the marbles were, took it for granted that he knew all about it and there stayed, waiting for the auctioneer to come. meanwhile the sale came off at zante. the french offer of , francs proved to be altogether too conditional to be accepted, and the sculptures were knocked down to prince louis for , sequins. it was suggested afterwards that gropius had been bribed by wagner to keep the english parties in the dark, but it was never proved. what is clear is that if gropius had kept his agent, mcgill, properly informed as to the place of sale, coombe would have been able to bid and the Ægina statues would be in the british museum now. cockerell at once set out from syracuse for zante. but he found that when he joined there was really nothing to be done. he at first tried to upset the contract, but on reflection he found himself obliged in honour and in law to abide by the action of their agent. a new agreement was drawn up and signed, confirming the former and engaging to petition the british government for leave to export the sculptures from malta. at home in england the deepest disappointment was felt by those who had interested themselves in the acquisition, and a protest was forwarded by mr. s. p. cockerell through mr. hamilton to the government, petitioning that no permission to remove the marbles from malta should be granted, and demanding a new sale on the ground of improper procedure in the first. in the end, however, it was not found possible to contest the validity of the sale, and they were finally delivered to the prince of bavaria in . footnote: [ ] now the hôtel de provence. chapter xvi athens--the excavation of marbles at bassÆ--bronstedt's mishap--fate of the corinthian capital of bassÆ--severe illness--stackelberg's mishap--trip to albania with hughes and parker--thebes--livadia--the five emissaries--state of the country--merchants of livadia--delphi-- salona--galaxidi--patras--previsa--nicopolis--arta--the plague--janina. the fate of the Ægina marbles being now practically settled, foster, who was engaged to make a marriage very displeasing to his family, with a levantine, left for smyrna, while haller, linckh, and cockerell went to athens. the latter had not been in greece since november . in the interval the expedition to dig up the sculptures he had discovered at bassæ had been there and had successfully accomplished their purpose, the party consisting of haller, foster, linckh, stackelberg, gropius, bronstedt, and an english traveller, mr. leigh.[ ] they had provided themselves with powers from constantinople sufficient to overcome the resistance of the local authorities, and after many difficulties had succeeded in bringing away the sculptures with one exception, to which i will presently refer. the excavations were carried out in june, july, and august, while my father was absent at malta and in sicily. nevertheless, as he had discovered their existence it was understood that he was to be a participator in any sculptures that should be disinterred. the party of excavators established themselves there for nearly three months, building huts of boughs all round the temple, making almost a city, which they christened francopolis. they had frequently from fifty to eighty men at work at a time, a band of arcadian music to entertain them, and in the evening after work, while the lamb was roasting on a wooden spit, they danced. however, if cockerell lost the pleasure, he escaped the fever from which they all suffered desperately--and no wonder, after living such a life in such a climate. it was during this expedition that a misfortune befell bronstedt which, although it had an element of absurdity in it, was very serious to the victim. while the work at bassæ was proceeding he left his companions to take a trip into maina. before starting he wrote for himself a letter of introduction to captain murzinos purporting to be from my father, and would have presented it; but, as ill-luck would have it, on the th of august, on the road between sparta and kalamata, he fell into the hands of a band of eight robbers. understanding them to be mainiotes, and supposing all mainiotes to be friends, he tried to save his property by saying that he had a letter with him to captain murzinos; but the robbers replied: "oh, have you? if we had murzinos here we would play him twice the pranks we are playing you," and spared nothing. they decamped with his money, his watch, his rings, a collection of antique coins, all that he had in their eyes worth taking, to the tune, as he considered, of l. ( , piastres fortes d'espagne), leaving him disconsolate in the dark to collect his scattered manuscripts, which they had rejected with the contemptuous words: [greek: kartasia einai. den ta stochasomen] ("papers! we don't look at them.") in the darkness and confusion after the departure of the robbers he managed to lose some of these as well. the poor traveller returned quite forlorn to phigaleia. after this, linckh writes in his delicious french: "bronstedt parcourt la morée en longue et à travers pour cherger ses hardes pertus par les voleurs. le drôle de corps a beaucoup d'espérance, parce que le consul paul lui a recommendé fortement au nouveau pascha dans une letter qui a etté enveloppée en vilours rouge." such a letter, bound in red velvet, was esteemed particularly urgent, but he obtained no redress whatever, nor ever saw again any of "ses hardes," except the ring which had been given him by his _fiancée_, koes' sister. this was recovered for him by stackelberg on a journey which he took through maina, when he saw it exposed for sale in the house of one of the captains or chieftains of the country, together with the watch, purse, and several other articles which had been bronstedt's; but the prices asked were too exorbitant for him to ransom any but this, which he knew the late owner had highly prized. the piece of sculpture i have just mentioned, which the explorers of phigaleia failed to bring away, was the capital of the single corinthian column of the interior of the temple. it will be remembered by those who have read my father's work on the subject, that all the columns of the interior were of the ionic order with one exception, which was corinthian, and which stood in the centre of one end of the cella. the capital of this corinthian column was of the very finest workmanship; and although the volutes had been broken off, much of it was still well preserved, and the party of excavators took it with them to the coast for embarcation with the rest. there are figures of it by stackelberg in his book, and by foster in a drawing in the phigaleian room of the british museum. veli pasha, the governor of the morea, had sanctioned the explorations on the understanding that he should have half profits; but when he had seen the sculptures he was so disappointed that they were not gold or silver, and so little understood them, that he took the warriors under shields for tortoises, allowing that as such they were rather well done. it chanced that at this moment news reached him that he had been superseded in his command, and not thinking much of them, and eager to get what he could, he accepted l. as his share of the spoil and sanctioned the exportation of the marbles. the local archons, however, put every impediment they could in the way by fomenting a strike among the porters which caused delays, and by giving information to the incoming pasha, who sent down troops to stop the embarcation. everything had been loaded except the capital in question, which was more ponderous than the rest, and was still standing half in and half out of the water when the troops came up. the boat had to put off without it, and the travellers had the mortification of seeing it hacked to pieces by the turks in their fury at having been foiled. the volute of one of the ionic columns presented by my father to the british museum is the only fragment of any of the interior capitals of the temple remaining. he brought it away with him on his, the first, visit. to return to where i left my father before this digression. as i said, after the sale of the Ægina marbles, haller and he came to athens, where, finding the summer very hot in the town, they went to live at padischa or sadischa, not far outside the town, and set earnestly to work upon the drawings for the book on Ægina and phigaleia. all went on quietly till on the nd of august cockerell was attacked by a malignant bilious fever, which brought him to death's door: at least, either the illness or the remedies did. the doctor, abraham, the first in athens, thought it must be yellow fever, gave him up, and fearing infection for himself, refused to attend him after the first few days. it was even whispered that it might be the plague, for the enormous swelling of the glands was not unlike it. but haller would listen to no counsels of despair, and refused to leave his friend. the kind madame masson, too, the aunt of the misses makri, came out from athens, and the two nursed him with ceaseless devotion. haller never left his bedside, night or day, for the first month. the vice-consul, hearing that the sufferer was as good as dead, came to take away his keys and put seals upon his property, and was only prevented by haller by main force. the same faithful friend compelled the doctor to do his duty. the first having deserted his patient, a second was called in and kept attentive by threats and persuasion. the methods of medicine were inconceivably barbarous. bleeding was the great remedy in fever, and calomel the alternative. when the patient had been brought by this treatment so low that his heart was thought to have stopped, live pigeons were cut in half and the reeking portions applied to his breast to restore the vital heat. medicine failing, spells were believed in. madame masson, though described as one of the first personages in athens, could neither read nor write, and was grossly ignorant. she had a great faith in spells; and haller, fearing that in the feeble condition of the patient she might commit some folly, kept a strict watch upon her. one day, however, in his absence, when my father was suffering agonies from his glands, she took the opportunity to tie round his neck a charm of particular potency. it was a little bag containing some resin, some pitch, a lock of hair, and two papers, each inscribed with the figure of a pyramid and other symbols drawn with a pen. they even got so far as to speak of his burial, and it was settled that it should be in the theseum, where one tweddle, an englishman, and other foreigners had been interred, and where haller himself was laid not many years after. the churches were kept lighted night and day for his benefit, and his nurse attributed his final recovery entirely to the intercession of panagia castriotissa, or "our lady of the acropolis." at length, after long hovering between life and death, his robust constitution carried him through, and towards the end of september the doctor advised his being removed to athens. he was carried thither in a litter and set down at madame masson's, where he was henceforth to live. before this episode was fairly concluded or my father had progressed far in convalescence, a new cause of agitation arose. notice was received that baron stackelberg was in the hands of pirates. he had been for a tour in asia minor, and was on his way back between constantinople and athens, when in crossing the gulf of volo he was taken. his case was even more deplorable than bronstedt's, for he not only lost whatever he had with him, and saw his drawings torn to pieces in sheer malice before his very eyes, but the miscreants claimed an enormous ransom, amounting to about , l., and sent a notice to his friends in athens to the effect that the money must be forwarded promptly or portions of the prisoner would be sent as reminders. meanwhile he had to live with the pirates, and his experiences were no laughing matter. the ruffians used to show him hideous instruments of torture to frighten him into paying a higher ransom. they made him sleep in the open air, which half killed him with fever; and as they had nowhere to keep him when they went on their marauding expeditions, he had to go with them. on one occasion he saw a vessel run aground to avoid capture, and the sailors clamber up the rocks to escape. an old man who could not follow fast enough was brought in to be sold as a slave. the rest got away, and one of the pirates, in his fury at being eluded, in order to slake his thirst for blood seized on a wretched goat that was grazing by him and cut its throat. several weeks of this sort of company and exposure left poor stackelberg more dead than alive. his rescue, which was managed with great diplomacy and a splendid disregard for his own safety by baron haller, was finally effected at a cost of about l. a mr. hughes, in company with mr. parker, whom he was "bearleading," arrived in athens when my father was recovering; and about the last week of november, at their invitation, tempted by the opportunity of travelling with a tartar and a buyulurdi--that is to say, in security and with as little discomfort as possible--he consented to join in a tour to albania. i shall not give a detailed account of this voyage. it was over ground everyone has read about. it resulted in no discoveries and few adventures, and anyone who is curious about it will find it fully described in hughes's book. general davies, quartermaster-general to the british forces in the mediterranean, was to form one of the party. "we set out from athens on november th, a large cavalcade. two of my friends, though they had not yet learnt that to travel in these countries one must sacrifice a little personal comfort, were otherwise agreeable companions, gentlemanlike and goodhumoured; but i early began to foresee trouble with the general. he was one of those people who think everyone who cannot speak english must be either an assassin or a rogue, and was more unreasonable, unjust, and unaccommodating than any englishman i ever met, odious as many of them make themselves abroad. it rained heavily, but everyone tried to be gay except the general, who damned gloomily, right and left. we went over an interesting country, but as it was all in the clouds we enjoyed the scenery neither of parnes nor of phylæ. our way was beguiled by the singing of some of the party. the tartar especially gave proofs of a good voice, a very desirable quality in a greek companion. the recollection of the scenery of any part of greece or asia minor is bound up with that of the cheerful roundelays of the guides as one rides through the mountains, or the soft melodious song of the anatolian plains. it is the characteristic thing of eastern travel. after about three hours in the clouds we got down into boeotia and saw below us a splendid country of mountain, plain, and sea. our tartar had gone on before us to thebes, so that when we arrived at our conachi (lodging) it was all ready for us. it was as well, for the weather had given hughes a return of his fever, and he had to lie in bed. parker and i rode next morning without the others to platæa. it has an admirable situation, and its walls are in better preservation and more interesting and venerable than any i have seen yet. we could find nothing interesting at thebes, so as soon as hughes was better we all set out for livadia. as we were passing through the hills that separate the respective plains of these two towns a pleasant coincidence occurred. we fell in with an english traveller, a mr. yonge, who was a friend of hughes, and was bearing a letter of introduction to me. after greetings and compliments he gave us the latest european news, viz. of the grand defeat of the french at leipsic. glorious news indeed! hughes being laid up again at livadia and the general impracticable, parker and i made excursions thence to the cave of trophonius, orchomenus, and topolias, the point from which one visits the five emissaries of the lake copais. these last struck me as perhaps the most astonishing work of antiquity known to me. two are still running, but the first, third, and fifth are quite dry. at the entrances the mountain has been cut to a face of thirty or forty feet high at the mouth and not a tool-mark visible, so they look like the work of nature. i wanted to go to the other side of the ridge to see the exits, but our guide assured me that it was too dangerous, because of the pirates who lie in the mountain in the daytime and would probably catch us. poor stackelberg's misfortune was too recent a warning to be neglected, so i gave it up. all this country, broadly speaking, is quite uncultivated, and inhabited by immense herds attended by whole families living in huts and wandering, according to the pasture and season, in parties of perhaps twenty with horses and mules. they are not turcomans, such as i saw in asia, but are called vlaki and speak greek. one can imagine nothing more picturesque than they are and the mountains they live in. our quarters during our three nights out had been of the roughest, and when parker and i got back to livadia our whole evening was spent in the bath, ridding ourselves of the fleas and dirt we had been living in. hughes was found to be better, and the general (thank goodness!) tired out and gone off to salona. he was an odious individual--got drunk every day of our absence--and we were well rid of him. we had brought with us from athens letters of introduction to the principal greek merchants, primates of livadia, messrs. logotheti. on the first day of our arrival they had come very civilly to call upon us. now that we were back from our excursion we returned the visit. the greeks appear to possess great wealth and influence here, whereas the turks are but few in the place, and those there are speak greek and to some extent have greek manners. when we came into the logothetis' house we found some actually arguing a point--a thing not to be thought of among turks elsewhere: the affectation of pride among orientals, so stupefying to themselves and so exasperating to others, would forbid it. when we came in they rose to go, leaving signor nicola to attend to his foreign guests. our host gave us a striking instance of the devices used by well-to-do greeks to conceal their wealth from the rapacious government. he at once led us out of the room he had received us in at the head of the first landing, which was reserved for the reception of turks and was very simple, into his own apartments, which were exceedingly splendid. there in one corner of the room was the beautiful logothetina, wife of a logotheti nephew, in bed. her father went up to her when he came in and she kissed his hand. one might have thought her being in bed embarrassing, but not at all; we all sat down and stopped with them for an hour. no one either said or did much, for those who talked had little to say, and many said nothing. when logotheti went home we accompanied him, and very grand he was, with a large stick in his hand and five or six persons escorting him--quite in the splendid style of the ancient greeks. it so happened that in the morning while on a visit to the bey, or waiwode, we heard the reading of a firman bringing the news of the taking of belgrade by the turks. during the reading the primates all stood up, and when it was concluded all exclaimed: 'thanks to god for this success! may our sultan live!' in the evening we went to dine with logotheti. there were a corfiote doctor and several other greeks. our talk was of their hopes of emancipation, as it always is when one is in company with greeks, with the inevitable references to leonidas and the hellenes. our hosts and the other greeks struck me as heavier and more boeotian in appearance than the greeks i was accustomed to, but also more polished. the corfiote, of course, was talkative and ignorant: they always are. we ate an immense quantity of turkeys--roast, boiled, hashed and again roasted--fowls and all sorts of poultry dressed in all sorts of ways, and we drank a great deal of bad wine in toasts to king george, success to the greeks, &c. as soon as hughes could move we went on from livadia by chæronea to castri,[ ] the ancient delphi. until within the last few years the region we were now in was impassable owing to robbers, but ali pasha's tyranny has at any rate the merit of an excellent zabete or police, so that it is now fairly safe. the scenery among the mountains is splendid. our visit to castri was not a long one. except the castalian spring and the stadium, one could make out nothing of the ancient topography. the whole site is covered with walls running in every sort of direction, possibly to keep the earth from slipping down the hill. in the evening we got to crisso. a buyulurdi such as we carried confers the most arbitrary rights; but it was not until the protocaro had been cudgelled by our tartar that we were able to procure a lodging, a tolerably good one, in the house of the papa. i reflected how wretched is the position of the greeks, and how ungenerous of us englishmen to live at their expense and assist in the general oppression; but i was too pleased to get a lodging for the night to act upon it. from crisso we went to salona, and here it became necessary to settle upon our further route. when we came to look into it, it appeared that the plague is raging in every town on our way by nepacto and missalonghi through Ætolia. moreover, the roads are rough and infested by robbers, the horses bad, and in fact the best way to get to albania seemed to be to go by sea. this was settled upon accordingly, and we started to do it. from salona to the port is a two hours' ride. thence we set sail in a felucca. the sea was running very high, the wind was in our teeth, and though we got to galaxidi at last, it was not without considerable peril. i have had a good many adventures, but i do not think i was ever in greater danger than during those four hours of sailing in that weather in the dark, and i thanked god heartily when i found myself ashore. the only lodging we could get was in the guard-house, a filthy magazine so alive with bugs that after a first failure i gave up all idea of going to sleep, and sat up with parker smoking till morning. it was out of the question going to look for other quarters. the country is so infested with robbers, who think nothing even of penetrating into the town and carrying off a primate or so, that arriving late and knocking at doors we should have been taken for brigands and answered by pistol shots from the windows. in the morning our buyulurdi stood us in good stead. with its help we were able to get some good fowls and a sheep, bread and rice. then going to the shore we made a bargain to be taken to previsa in a boat. the voyage was fairly prosperous. the second day we landed at patras, and heard the news of the grand defeat of the french confirmed. we set out again at night and got becalmed, and with difficulty reached a small port, the scrofé, beyond the flat at the mouth of the achelous. here was a scampa-via from santa maura, and other boats, and we entered with some trepidation lest we should be taken for pirates and fired upon. here we were detained several days by stormy weather. getting away we passed the mouth of the achelous, and tried to find either of two excellent ports, petala and dragonise; but as they were not marked in our bad charts we failed, and were finally obliged to put into a creek not far from santa maura, and lay there the greater part of the night, till the wind blew us off again to sea. at daylight we anchored in the shallow port of santa maura. the weather again detained us some days, till we with some difficulty got across to previsa. here the harbour is a fine one, but too shallow to admit large vessels, and with an awkward bar. the shore is all desolation and misery, with one exception, the palace of the vizier, which is splendid. the foundations on the side towards the sea are all of stones from actium and the neighbouring san pietro, the ancient nicopolis. in venetian days previsa had no fortifications. now the pasha has made it quite a strong place, with several forts and a deep ditch across the isthmus, though the cannon, to be sure--which are old english ones of all sorts and sizes--are in the worst possible order, their carriages ill-designed, and now rotten as well. the population has fallen from , , to , at the outside, mostly turks. we went of course to nicopolis. the ruins are most interesting. there are the theatre, the baths, the odeum, and the walls of the city, all in fair preservation and most instructive: the latter especially, as an example of ancient fortification. an aqueduct, which is immensely high, brought water from nine hours off. we went from previsa, in a scampa-via belonging to the vizier, to salona, the port for arta. it consists of only two houses, the customs house and the serai of the vizier. in the latter we got lodgings for the night, and bespoke some returning caravan horses to carry us to arta. the road, feet wide, is one which has been lately made for the vizier by a wretched cephaloniote engineer across otherwise impassable flats. it is not finished yet; to , men are still at work upon it. there is no doubt that this road and the canal from arta to previsa, as well as the destruction of the suliotes, who made this part of the world impassable to travellers without a large escort, are public benefits to be put to ali pasha's credit. arta is a flourishing place under the special eye of the vizier. the bazaar is considerable, and there is every sign of industry. we left it about midday. the ice was thick on the pools and the road hard with frost. passing the bridge, we got again on to the vizier's new road. the cephaloniote superintendent, who was very desirous that we should express to the vizier great admiration for the work, was assiduous in doing the honours of it. after various stoppages, at last, at seven o'clock, nearly frozen, we reached the khan of five wells. a rousing fire we made to warm ourselves by was no use, for it smoked so intolerably that it drove us out again to walk about in the cold till the room was clear. our only distraction was a tartar we fell in with who had lately been to constantinople by land, and his account of the journey is enough to make one shudder. he passed through no less than nineteen vilayets, or towns, in which the plague was raging. at adrianople the smell of the dead was so great that his companion fell ill. at the next place he asked at the post if there was any pest. 'a great deal, god be praised,' was the reply. at another town, in answer to inquiries he was told 'half the town is dead or fled, but god is great.' what a miserable country! next day, riding along a paved way, we got to janina or joannina, the capital of ali pasha. the first _coup d'oeil_ of the great town and the lake is certainly impressive, but not so much so as i had expected. once inside the town the thing that struck me most was the splendid dress of all ranks and the shabby appearance we franks presented. we made for the house of our minister, george foresti, with whom we dined, and there met colonel church, just arrived from durazzo." footnotes: [ ] grandfather of the present lord leigh. [ ] by a convention with the greek government made in , the french government obtained power to buy out the inhabitants of castri and remove the village in order to excavate the site. the ancient topography is now well ascertained. chapter xvii ali pasha--psallida--euphrosyne--mukhtar--starts for a trip to suli--cassiopeia--unable to ford river--turns back to janina--leaves to return to athens--crosses the pindus through the snow--malakash--a robber--meteora--turkish rule--the monastery--by trikhala, phersala, zituni, thermopylÆ and livadia to athens. "next day, as the vizier wished to see us, and we of course to see him, foresti took us to the palace he was living in for the moment. he has no less than eight in the town. this one is handsome, but the plan is as usual ill-contrived, and there was much less magnificence than i had expected. we were first led into the upper apartments to await his leisure, and found there a number of fine youths, not very splendidly dressed. after half an hour of waiting we were led into a low room, in the corner of which sat this extraordinary man. he welcomed us politely and said he hoped we had had a good journey and would like janina, and desired that if there was anything we lacked we would mention it, for that he regarded us as his children, and his house and family were at our disposal. he next asked if any of us spoke greek; and hearing that i did, asked me when i had learnt it, and how long i had remained in athens. then, observing that hughes was near the fire, he ordered in a screen in the shape of a large vessel of water, saying that young men did not require fire, only old men; and in saying this he laughed with so much _bonhomie_, his manner was so mild and paternal and so charming in its air of kindness and perfect openness, that i, remembering the blood-curdling stories told of him, could hardly believe my eyes. finally, he said he hoped to improve our acquaintance, and begged us to stay on. we, however, bowed ourselves out. the number and richness of the shops is surprising, and the bustle of business is such as i have not seen since leaving constantinople. we understood that when the vizier first settled at janina in ' --that is, twenty-seven years ago--there were but five or six shops in the place: now there are more than , . the city has immensely increased, and we passed through several quarters of the town which are entirely new. the fortresses on the promontory into the lake are of the vizier's building. he has always an establishment of , soldiers, tartars (the sultan himself has but ), a park of artillery presented him by the english, and german and other french artillerymen. we seem to have supplied him also with arms and ammunition in his wars with suli and other parts of epirus. perhaps it is not much to our honour to have assisted a tyrant in dispossessing or exterminating the lawful owners of the soil, who only fought for their own liberty; but one must remember that, picturesque as they were and desperately as they fought, they were nothing but robbers and freebooters and the scourge of the country. we passed the th of january with psallida, who is master of a school in janina. he is, for this country, a learned man. besides greek, he speaks latin and very bad italian, but as far as manners go he is a mere barbarian. from him i had an account of the gardiki massacre.[ ] i occupied a wet three days in drawing an interior view of a kiosk of the vizier's at the beshkey gardens at the north end of the town. then i got a costume and drew the figures in. psallida dined with us one day and entertained us with an account of the fair and frail euphrosyne, who was a celebrity here. her fate was made the subject of a ballad preserved in leslie. the story is certainly an awful tragedy. she was of good family and married to a respectable man. without possessing more education than is usual with greek ladies she had, besides her great beauty, a natural wit which, with a good deal of love of admiration, soon attracted round her a host of admirers, and she became a reigning beauty. mukhtar, the son of ali, who is a dissolute fellow, was attracted by her, and, cutting out his competitors, became her acknowledged lover. his wife, whom he entirely neglected for his new passion, was a daughter of the vizier of berat, whose friendship ali was at that time particularly anxious to cultivate; and when she complained to her father-in-law of his son's conduct, he (ali) determined to put a stop to it. at the head of his guard he burst at midnight into the room of euphrosyne, and after calling her the seducer of his son and other names, he forced her to give up whatever presents he had made her, and had her led off to prison with her maid. next day, in order to make a terrifying example to check the immorality of the town in general and his son in especial, he had nine other women of known bad character arrested, and they and euphrosyne were led to the brink of the precipice over the lake on which the fortress stands. her faithful maid refused to desert her, and she and euphrosyne, linked in each other's arms, leapt together down the fatal rock, as did all the others. mukhtar has never forgotten his attachment or forgiven his father, or even seen his wife again, and from having been a gay and frank youth he has become gloomy and ferocious without being less dissolute than before. the court he keeps is a sad blackguard affair, a great contrast to the austere sobriety of his father's. we called in the evening (january ) to take leave of ali pasha. he was on that day in the palace of the fortress at the extremity of the rock over the lake. we passed through the long gallery described by byron, and into a low anteroom, from which we entered a very handsome apartment, very warm with a large fire in it, and with crimson sofas trimmed with gold lace. there was ali, to-day a truly oriental figure. he had a velvet cap, a prodigious fine cloak; he was smoking a long persian pipe, and held a book in his hand. foresti says he did this on purpose to show us he could read. hanging beside him was a small gun magnificently set with diamonds, and a powder-horn; on his right hand also was a feather fan. to his left was a window looking into the courtyard, in which they were playing at the djerid, and in which nine horses stood tethered in their saddles and bridles, as though ready for instant use. i am told this is a piece of form or etiquette. at first his reception seemed less cordial than before, whether by design or no, and he took very little notice of us. he showed us some leaden pieces of money, and a spanish coin just found by some country people, and asked us what they were. then he said he wished he had a coat of beaver such as he had seen on the danube. he asked parker whether he had a mother and brothers, and when he heard he was the only son he said it was a sin that he should leave his mother. why did not he stay at home? on january we went to call on mukhtar pasha. we found him rough, open, and goodhumoured, without any of the inimitable grace of his father, which makes everything ali says agreeable, however trivial the subject may be. mukhtar's talk was flat. he was very fond of sport--were we? it was very hot in summer at trikhala. he had killed so and so many birds; there were loose women at dramishush; it was a small place, but he would send a man to see that we were properly accommodated; and so on--very civil and rather dull. he smoked a persian pipe brought him by a beautiful boy very richly dressed, with his hair carefully combed, and another brought him coffee; while coffee and pipes were brought to us by particularly ugly ones. on the sofa beside him were laid out a number of snuff-boxes, mechanical singing birds, and things of that sort. the serai itself was handsome in point of expense, but in the miserable taste now in vogue in constantinople. the decoration represented painted battle-pieces, sieges, fights between turks and cossacks, wild men, and abominations of that sort; while in the centre of the pediment is a pasha surrounded by his guard, and in front of them a couple of greeks just hanged, as a suitable ornament for the palace of a despot. on the th we set out early for an excursion to cassiopeia and suli, across the fine open field behind janina, past the village of kapshisda, over a low chain of hills south-west of janina. then, after a climb of over an hour, we entered a pass, and presently saw dramishush in front, on the side of a high mountain. cassiopeia is on a gentle height in the middle of a valley. the situation is beautiful, and the theatre the largest and best preserved i have seen in greece. next morning we dismissed mukhtar pasha's man who had escorted us so far, and went on south-westwards along the edge of the valley of cassiopeia. as it grew narrower we climbed a ridge which overhung an awful depth, went over a high mountain, and reached bareatis, a small village in a pass with a serai of ali pasha's, in which he lived for a length of time during the war of suli. three and a half hours further on we came to terbisena, the first village of suli. it had been pouring all day, and we were not only wet and cold when we arrived but the hovel we got as a lodging let in the water everywhere, and here, huddled in the driest corner we could find, we had to sleep and spend the next day. on the th the weather was fine again, and we went on hoping to find the river fordable, but when we got to the bank we found it rapid and deep. one of our turks, after a good deal of boasting, plunged in, and in an instant sank, and the torrent was carrying him and his horse floundering away. another of his brother turks, seeing him carried down, called loudly on allah, and stroked his beard in great tribulation, but without stirring a stump. in another minute the man would have been drowned, but our servant antonetti, who was but a christian, very pluckily ran in and clawed him out. the poor boaster was already senseless when we got him to land. we took him back to dervishina, and gradually brought him round, when instead of thanking his stars for his narrow escape, or antonetti for the plucky part he had played, he did nothing but lament the loss of his gun, 'tofeki,' which he had himself won, he said, and of his shawl which had cost him piastres. we promised to make the latter good, and left him to rest. the whole incident was in all senses a damper to our ardour. when we considered that to pass this river we must wait one day at least, and probably four days to get across the one near suli, the expenditure of time seemed to us all, at least so i thought, greater than we cared to devote to the expedition. so the long and short of it was that we turned back and slept at bareatis. next day we got back to janina. i made up my mind now that i was wasting time over this trip, and wished to get back to athens. but before leaving i thought it my duty to call once more on ali pasha. a most agreeable old man he is. i was more than ever struck with the easy familiarity and perfect good humour of his manners. we found him in a low apartment with a fire in the middle, generally used for his albanians and known as laapoda. then we went to see pouqueville,[ ] the french resident. we found him with his brother, both of them the worst type of frenchmen--vulgar, bragging, genuine children of the revolution. nothing worth remembering was said, but i did gather this from his tone--that the empire in france is not likely to last. on the th my friends, for a wonder, got up early, and we all set out in a boat for a small village where we were to find my horses. there we bid farewell and i mounted. it came on to rain, and i arrived, wet through, at the three khans to sleep. next day the rain became snow, but i set out nevertheless for mezzovo. we had to ford the river several times, and for the last hour to mezzovo were up to our middles in snow. the scenery was magnificent, and the country is well cultivated. mezzovo is a vlaki or wallachian village; the people speak a sort of mixed greek. they are exceedingly industrious and well-to-do. artistically i do not know that i have gained much, but i do not regret the time i have spent in albania. the climate is more bracing than that of the rest of greece, and has set me up after my illness. the scenery, though it cannot be at its best in winter, is most beautiful, and the inhabitants are a fine race--not handsome, but hardy and energetic. an albanian has very few wants. a little bread of calambochi or indian corn, an onion, and cheese is abundant fare to him. if he changes his linen five times in the year, that is the outside. a knife and a pistol in his girdle and his gun by his side, he sleeps quite well in the open air with his head on a stone and the lappel of his jacket over his face. in summer and winter he wears a fez. his boots are only goatskin sandals, which he makes himself. his activity in them over rocks is surprising. as for ali pasha's government, one has to remember what a chaotic state the country was in before he made himself master of it. the accounts one gets from the elders make it clear what misery there was. no stranger could travel in it, nor could the inhabitants themselves get about. every valley was at war with its neighbour, and all were professional brigands. all this ali has reduced to order. there is law--for everyone admits his impartiality as compared with that of rulers in other parts of turkey--and there is commerce. he has made roads, fortified the borders, put down brigandage, and raised albania into a power of some importance in europe. that in arriving at this end he has often used means which civilised nations disapprove is no doubt true, but there has been in the first place gross exaggeration as to the crimes attributed to him: for instance, that he sees fifteen or twenty heads cut off every day before breakfast, whereas in point of fact there has not been such a thing as a public execution in the past year; and then, in the second, one must make allowance for the ferocious manners amongst which he was brought up. on the th of january, as the weather seemed favourable, we set out eagerly to cross pindus. the snow was deep in places, but for the first hour and a half we had no great difficulty. it was the last half-hour before getting to the top that was worst. the road is desperately steep up a precipice, and the snow was above the horses' girths. our chamalides, however, waded through it, often up to their middles, and, carrying the loads on their own shoulders, lifted the horses by their tails and heads alternately, i hardly know how. although i constantly slipped down on the steep incline, i was so eager to see the view that i was the first at the top. towards the interior it was glorious: the feet of pindus rooting themselves far into the country, which, although mountainous, was free from snow; conspicuous was elymbo (olympus), the top capped with snow, but the form of it is not beautiful. to the north were other snow-capped mountains. behind us westward the air was so thick one could see nothing. the west side of the hills is covered with fir, while the east seems to have nothing but oak and birch--quantities of it, but all small trees. as we went down we noticed on the trunks of them the marks of the snow of the year before last, which must have been ten or twelve feet deep. three and a half hours from our start we got to a khan, where we made a good fire and congratulated ourselves on having got over the hills so well and escaped the fatana--the wind the mountaineers dread. our next stage was to malakash, a vlaki town. it was astonishing the way our chamalides bore the fatigue of forcing our way through the snow, which was still five or six feet deep in places. they cut a way for the horses, which were constantly falling down and half smothering themselves in the drifts. from there we followed the course of the river for six hours, and crossed it fifty times at least. on the way we passed a dervish, an albanian. he was seated on a sort of balcony, very high up, and had a gun in his hand, which he pointed at me and called on me to stop and pay. the sight of the tartar, however, brought him to reason. without one a traveller is exposed to great insult from such ruffians. as it was, a poor wretch who tried to pass himself off as one of our party was forced to stop and pay his quota. in the afternoon we arrived at meteora, the strange rocks of which we had seen from some distance up the river. we were given quarters in the house of a cypriote greek, from whom i learnt a good deal of the terrible exactions of veli pasha, in whose dominions we now were. our host and his two sons, poor wretches with hardly a fez to their heads and mere sandals bound with a thong to their feet, came to welcome us. after the first compliments they fell into the tale of their woes. their taxes were so heavy that unless the new year were abundantly fruitful the village must be bankrupt and become 'chiflik' or forfeit. when a village is unable to pay its taxes, the vizier, as universal mortgagee, forecloses and the land becomes his private property and the villagers his slaves. this is becoming 'chiflik.' while we were sitting and talking of these troubles a great noise was heard below. two albanians, being refused conachi, had broken in the door of a house and entered by force, and the soubashi was gone out to quell the riot. he very properly refused them any kind of reception and drove them out to the khan. my hosts had roasted me a fowl, but my heart was so full i could scarcely eat. how long will it please god to afflict these wretched people with such monstrous tyranny? besides the exactions of the government, scoundrels such as these albanians infest the villages, force their way in houses and eat and drink immoderately and pay nothing. to ease my mind, when the daughter of my host brought me some raisins to eat with my wine i gave her a dollar. she seemed hardly to believe her eyes at first, then took it and kissed my hand. next morning, january st, i ascended to the principal monastery of meteora. after a tiring walk of half an hour, winding among the crags of this strange place, we came to the foot of the rock on which it is perched, and found that the ladder commonly used, which is made in joints five or six feet long, had been drawn up. we called to the papades who were aloft to let down the rope and net. after some hallooing, down it came, a circular net with the meshes round the circumference gathered on a hook. michael and myself, with my drawing materials, got in and were drawn up by a windlass. to swing in mid-air trusting to a rope not so thick as my wrist and feet long (i measured it) is anything but pleasant. i shall not forget my sensations as i looked out through the meshes of the net as we were spinning round in the ascent. there was a horrible void below--sheer precipices on each side, and then the slipping of the rope as it crossed on the windlass. once up, we were pulled in at the entrance, the hook drawn out, and we were set at liberty. the company that received us were some wretched papades, as ignorant as possible. they could tell me next to nothing about their monastery, except that on the occasion of an invasion of the turks, a bey of trikhala, one joseph ducas, had retired hither and established it and seventeen others. the buildings of ten of them still exist, but only two or three are still inhabited. the church here is a very good one, and there is a chapel of constantine. the view is magnificent. i gave a dollar to the young priest who took me round, desiring him to use it for any purpose of the church; but i found, from what my peasant guide told me when we had got down, that the scamp had pocketed it for his own use, for that the chief papa had asked him as we were about to leave, if the stranger would not leave some parahs for the church. it was a lovely day, and beneath me, from the village, passed a procession of a bridegroom going to a neighbouring village to fetch his bride. his mother was on one side of his horse, another relative on the other; before him a male relation carried a flag, and behind came all his friends and family in their best dresses with guns on their shoulders, making a gallant show. it was a pretty sight. we left kalabaki by meteora, and reached trikhala about sunset. the solitude of the town and the vastness of the cemeteries gave one the creeps; and hearing that the plague was in the town at that moment, i mounted again, and rode four hours further to a khan and slept there. next day we rode to phersala (twelve hours); but the plague being there also, we proceeded a further four hours to a khan under thaumaco (sixteen hours' riding). from meteora to phersala is one uninterrupted plain which i thought would never end. i saw many villages, but much misery--especially in trikhala and phersala. next day we got to zituni (six hours) about noon. i did not venture to stay on account of the plague, and passed on to molo, at which we arrived in the evening, passing through the straits of thermopylæ. molo is a village of only houses, and yet forty persons had died of the plague in it in the last three days. the terrified inhabitants had fled to the mountains, and we found only two hangees (men attached to the han) to receive us. we meant to have slept here, but the cats and dogs howled so terribly (always a symptom of the plague) that i could not sleep in comfort; so as the moon shone bright, we mounted and rode six hours further to a village opposite parnassus, passing in safety the fountain famous for robbers who are almost always stationed there. the scenery here is very fine and romantic. in six hours more, after crossing two little plains besides that of chæronæa, we arrived at livadia (february rd). what between the cold, the horror of the plague, and the fatigue, it had been an appalling journey." footnotes: [ ] the gardiki massacre took place about . in ali's youth, his tower had been stormed by the people of gardiki and his mother and sister outraged--at least, so he said. he nursed his revenge for forty years, and then gratified it by massacring the whole population of the village. [ ] author of a valuable account of greece at this time. chapter xviii athens--to zante for sale of phigaleian marbles--returns to athens--fever--spencer stanhope--trip to marathon, etc.--ramazan--living out in the country--a picnic at salamis--presented with a block of panathenaic frieze--trip to Ægina--leaves athens for italy. my father seems to have got back to athens to his old quarters at madame masson's with haller and stackelberg, and there remained. he kept a diary only under the excitement of travel or novelty, and as the sights and society of athens were too familiar to stir him, there is no precise record of how he passed his time; but he says in a letter that he intends to spend his winter in completing the Ægina and phigaleian drawings. after all, it was only two or three months he had to be there. the phigaleian marbles were to be sold in zante in may, and this time he meant to be present. the fiasco of the Ægina marbles in his absence was a warning of what might happen again if the sale were not properly looked after; and as gropius after his failure had been dismissed from his functions as agent (although still part proprietor) the necessary work had to be done by the others--each one probably communicating with his own government. he had taken care that his (the british) should be kept properly posted up. in consequence, everything went off without a hitch. in may he went to zante. the marbles were sold to general campbell,[ ] commandant of the ionian islands, acting on behalf of h.r.h. the prince regent, and were already packed up for transport on the th of july. during his stay in zante my father made many elaborate drawings of the phigaleian bas-reliefs, with a view to determining their relative positions for the book, and he now returned to athens to go on with it. he arrived on the th of july. but his health was no longer able to bear an athenian summer. in august he writes: "a most tiresome fever has been worrying me for the past month, sometimes leaving me for a few days, at others rendering me incapable of doing anything. few people, even natives, escape it, either in this or any other summer. such is the fine climate of greece, which poets would persuade you is a paradise, whereas really hyperborean england, with all her fogs, has still the best in the world.... i am summing up a few observations, wonderfully _savant_ and deep, on the temples we are preparing for publication, and the grecian architecture in general. between you and me, i verily flatter myself, we understand it practically better than anybody--as indeed we ought to. i arrived from zante on the th july. while i was there i received a very fresh (!) letter from home of twenty-nine days. i was rejoiced to find here my friends and old schoolfellows, spencer stanhope and his brother. conceive our pleasure talking at athens over westminster stories and all our adventures since we left. he, poor fellow, has been a prisoner in france for two and a half years, having been taken in spain owing to the treachery of a gibraltar vessel, which took him into the port of barcelona. he is now exploring and excavating (at his own expense) for the french government as the condition for his freedom! a few days later he and i made a trip to marathon. we proceeded to rhamnos, and sleeping a night at a fountain near by, visited in the morning the temple of nemesis and stayed there the whole day. it had been well examined, and by this time will have been published by gell[ ] and gandy. we then went on to a village near which we had the good fortune to find tanagra, the situation of which had never yet been known. we could trace the whole circuit of the walls and a theatre. thence to aulis, the walls of which are easily traceable; then we crossed the bridge over the euripos into euboea. the town of negropont is a wretched place, inhabited by nothing but turks. the fortress is ruined and contemptible, and the cannon out of order, as usual, although it is by way of being one of the principal fortresses in these parts. the more one sees of the turks the more one is astonished at their prolonged rule in these countries. we visited a bey in this place who had a set of maps, and was considered one of the most enlightened men in the town. he produced them immediately he saw us, and boasted of his extensive knowledge on the subject, and the respect the bystanders paid this philosopher was perfectly delightful. the usual custom, before making a visit to these great personages, is to send them an offering of two or three pounds of sugar or coffee, and i thought he seemed rather offended at our exempting ourselves, as englishmen, from this tribute. next day we went along the seashore, riding through delightful gardens and olive groves, to eretria, which has not been seen by modern travellers. it must have been a great city, little less than three miles in circumference. the whole extent of the walls and theatres is still visible. the greater part of greece is naturally a rich and productive country. this needs no better proof than the immense population to which the ruins still remaining bear testimony. the ruins of towns of immense extent and close to each other are found everywhere, and now it is a desert. neither plague, pestilence, nor famine is so destructive as tyranny. we returned to athens on the tenth day. we hear that the plague is raging at constantinople, salonica, and smyrna; whereas athens, with the morea and greece in general, though surrounded on all sides by it, has escaped. the festival of ramazan is being celebrated. the bazaar has been well sprinkled with water, and lights are hung before every shop. the caffanee (coffee shops) are all open and lighted, as well as the balconies of the mosques. all day, if any turks are seen, they are walking about in their best, with long wands, but looking very cross, and not lightly to be accosted by a greek. at kinde (sunset) the imams call, and the faithful, having fasted from sunrise, not having smoked or even drunk a drop of water, sit down with holy zeal to the very best meal their funds can afford, for it is accounted a crime at this feast to deny themselves what the heart desires. after this the mosque, gaily lighted, is filled with songs and prayer and thanksgiving. later on the streets are filled. each in his best enjoys whatever pleasures and amusements the town has to offer--_ombres chinoises_, long stories from the 'arabian nights,' music, chess-playing, &c. above all, the women now have liberty. they go about in parties, unmasked, visiting, feasting, and amusing themselves, and the whole place is a continual vauxhall from sunset to sunrise. at midnight the imam again ascends to the minaret with a chorus, who sing a solemn and beautiful hymn, far more impressive than the finest bells in christendom. the words begin-- arise, arise, and pray, for ye know not the hour of death. towards the morning passes the dumbanum, a huge drum which a man beats as he goes; while another accompanies him in a sort of sing-song, calling up each householder and bidding him eat his pillau, for the morning is near. he winds up with good wishes and kind terms, for which, at the end of the ramazan, he expects a present. my name was brought in. what do you think of cockarella to rhyme with canella? from the minaret a beggar is crying for charity and threatening to throw himself down unless he gets it. he goes there at the same hour every day till he has got what he wants. the wife of the old disdar (commandant of the castle) died a few days ago. she was one of the first ladies of the place, and a respectable good woman. everyone was touched with the disdar's lamentation. 'she was the ship in which all my hopes were embarked. she was the port in which i took shelter from all the storms and troubles of the world; in her my comforts and joys were confided; she was the anchor in which i trusted.' each morning he has visited her tomb, and, causing water to be brought, has poured it around that her remains may be refreshed. three days after, as is the custom, the elders of his relations went to him, desiring that he should marry again. but he refused, looking, as he said, soon to follow his wife. _october ._--i have been having continual relapses of this abominable fever ever since august. the worst was in the beginning of this month, and it has taken me till now to get over it. after having leeches on, i had removed one of the bandages too soon, and lost a greater quantity of blood than was intended. it is impossible to describe the feebleness this fever leaves. i sometimes felt as if i was breathing out my soul, and had ceased to belong to this world at all. i lost all interest in my pursuits. i should have been badly off indeed if it had not been for madame masson. she had been a second mother to me, and more attentive in this and in all my other illnesses than any attendants i could have hired. as soon as i was a little better she was so good as to accompany me to a monastery in the sacred way, some little distance from athens, to which i had been advised to go for change of air. there was only one old woman there to take care of the keys, and in the big deserted place we were like two owls in a barn. i cannot say it was gay. i passed most of my time in sleeping, for that has been the chief effect of my weakness, and what little was left in reading. occasionally we were favoured with a visit by some of our athenian friends, who brought their provisions with them, as their custom is. the monastery stands in a beautiful dell or pass through the mountains. on one side is a beautiful view of the bay and mountains of eleusis, and on the other, of the plain of athens, with the long forest of olive trees between us and the acropolis, which dominates the plain and is backed by hymettus. on the right is the piræus, at no great distance. i could not enjoy this lovely scene. alas! one can enjoy nothing with a low fever. and now, after a stay of a fortnight, we are just returned, and i am not much the better for it. but one of the last days i was there i was tempted by my friend linckh to ride to piræus, to join in celebrating the anniversary of the victory of salamis--the th october--by a fête on the island of psytalia, where the thickest of the fight was waged. he had assembled a large party of athenians, who, to tell the truth, were more intent on the feast than on the occasion of it. we embarked from piræus in a large boat, accompanied by music--to wit, fiddles and tambourines--as is the athenian fashion, and a great cargo of provisions which were to be prepared while the modern athenians contemplated the interesting scene before us, and were to weep over the fall of their country since those glorious days, &c. &c. all set out in the greatest glee. beyond the port, in the open sea, some countenances began to change; though we had almost a calm, some began to feel the effects of the 'gentle motion' and hung their heads over the side, while several pinched each other with fear and anxiety at our distance from _terra firma_. gradually all became silence. then some murmurs began to arise, together with advice and recommendation to the sailors to row gently and hold fast. a council of war sat, and agreed _nem. con._ that it would be best to return to the nearest land. a small bay was found and all leapt ashore, crossing themselves and thanking their stars for their deliverance. a fire was lighted, the lamb roasted in no time, a cloth laid on the ground, and all set to. the greeks of old could not have attacked the persians with more ardour than these moderns did the turkeys and lamb before us. the bottle went round apace, and all soon began to glorify themselves, the demoiselles also playing their part; and when at length, and not until at length, the desire of eating and drinking was accomplished, each one filched the remaining sweets off the table as she found her opportunity. music's soft enchantment then arose, and the most active began a dance, truly bacchanalian, while the rest lingered over the joys of the table. punch crowned the feast. all was rapture; moderation was no longer observed, and the day closed with a pelting of each other with the bones of the slain, amidst dancing, singing, and roars of laughter or applause. i venture to assert most positively that not one thought was given to the scene before us, or the occasion, by any one member of the party except my friend linckh and the [greek: didaskalos], the schoolmaster of athens, who, having brought tools for the purpose, carved on the rock an inscription which will one day be interesting to those who may chance to light upon it a thousand years hence--'invitation [or repast] in memory of the immortal salaminian combat.' our party embarked not till after sunset; and though the sea was twice as high and the wind as contrary as it was coming, such are the powers of nectar and ambrosia that all conducted themselves with uncommon courage and resolution. choruses, dutch and athenian, beguiled the way, and all was harmony except the music. so one might have hoped the day might have concluded; but no! the greek fire, once lighted, is not so easily quenched. i, as an invalid, and exceedingly tired with so much pleasure, retired to my cell in a monastery where we were all to pass the night, and some of my friends kindly gave me a coverlet and a sort of bed, on which i threw myself; but not until long after midnight did the music or the dancing cease, or i or any sober person get a chance of sleep. we got away next day, but not without difficulty; for the athenians are like our journeymen: when once they are out on the spree they must carry it on for a week. we are now in athens again, and i have just returned to my work-table covered with the dust of so many lost days. this waste of time is terrible. altogether, out of twenty-four months spent in athens, seven have been passed in illness. if ever i get away from this country in health and safety, how i shall thank my stars!" it was in these last days of his stay in athens that he became possessed of a portion of the panathenaic frieze of the parthenon in the following strange manner. the disdar or commandant of the castle on the acropolis was by now an old friend of cockerell's, and had ended by becoming exceedingly attached to him. when he understood from the latter, who came to pay him a farewell visit, that he was leaving for good, he told him that he would make him a present. he said he knew that cockerell was very fond of old sculptured stones, so if he liked to bring a cart to the base of the acropolis at a certain hour at night (it could not be done in the daytime for fear of giving offence to the greeks) he would give him something. cockerell kept the appointment with the cart. as they drew near there was a shout from above to look out, and without further warning the block which forms the right-hand portion of slab i. of the south frieze now in the british museum was bowled down the cliff. such a treatment of it had not been anticipated, but it was too late for regrets. the block was put on to the cart, taken down to the piræus, and shipped at once. cockerell presented it to the british museum, and its mutilated appearance bears eloquent testimony to its rough passage down the precipices of the acropolis. "my fever continued to harass me until i took a trip to Ægina, which i made for the purpose of change of air, as well as of correcting and revising our drawings of the temple of jupiter panhellenius. in both respects i have succeeded beyond my hopes. i am now in perfect health, and have made some improvements and additions to our observations which will be of importance to our work. taking ladders from here, i have also succeeded in measuring the columns of a temple supposed to have been that of venus--i think hecate--which are of universally admired proportion, and so high that hitherto no travellers have been able to manage them. only two columns still exist. they belong, i found, to the posticum between the antæ. in digging at their base to prove this, i came upon a very beautiful foot in a sandal, life-size, of parian marble, of precisely the same school and style as those of our panhellenian discovery.[ ] you may imagine i counted on nothing less than finding a collection as interesting and extensive as the other. i procured, with some difficulty, authority from the archons of the island, and struck a bargain by which they were to have one half of the produce of the excavation, which was to be made at my expense, and i the other, with a first refusal of purchasing their portion. i dug for three days without finding the smallest fragment, and, what was worse, satisfied myself that it had been dug over and re-dug a hundred times, the foundations of the temple having served time out of mind as a quarry for the Æginetans. the money spent was not very great, the time wasted was all to the good of my health, and i was able to make a curious observation on the foundations of the building. greek temples are commonly on rock. this was not; and the foundations were no less than to feet deep, the first three courses of well-cut stone, the last set in mortar on a wall of small stones in mortar, at the sides of which is a rubble-work of largish stones beaten down with sea sand and charcoal and bones of sacrifices. underneath, again, are other courses of well-cut stones which form a solid mass under the whole temple. i have also with great difficulty, since there are no carpenters in this country, ascertained what i spoke of before as a matter of conjecture--viz. the entasis or swelling of the greek columns. a straight line stretched from the capital to the base showed the swelling at about a third of the height to be in the temple of minerva an inch, in that of Ægina half an inch, which is the same proportion in both. the ruined state of the columns of the theseum makes it less easy to ascertain the exact swelling. those of minerva polias and the erechtheum are also swelled. i have no doubt that it was a general rule with the greek architects, though it has hitherto escaped the eyes of stuart and our most accurate observers." cockerell had long been anxious to get into italy. there alone could he see and study an architecture in some measure applicable to modern needs, if he was ever to become a practical architect. for four years he had been studying abstract beauty, practising his hand in landscape painting, interesting himself in archæology, and generally, except for his vigour and perseverance, behaving as many a gentleman at large might have done whose place in the english world was already made for him. but he had a position to win, and in one of the most arduous of professions, for which all this unsettling life was not merely not preparing him but actually making him unfit. since his first startling success at Ægina, he had been led on from one expedition to another, losing sight for months together, in the easy life and simple conditions which surrounded him, of the keen competition in the crush of london for which he ought to be girding himself. he had been forming a taste, but a taste in the externals and details of building only. of composition and of planning he had seen as yet no fine example and had learnt nothing. there was nothing left for him to do in greece. he had traversed it in all directions, seen every place of interest, and whenever there appeared a prospect of finding anything with the moderate means at his disposal, he had tried digging. under napoleon's continental system italy of course was closed to englishmen, but to bavarians it was accessible, and cockerell had often talked with haller of the possibility of smuggling himself as his servant into the country under cover of his (haller's) passport. fortunately this was never attempted. even if they had succeeded in passing the frontiers under governments where every foreigner was subjected to continual espionage, the delusion would soon have been discovered. it was a boy's scheme. he had also tried to engage the good offices of louis of bavaria to obtain him admission as an artist, but nothing had come of it; and finally, when he heard that lady hester stanhope had got leave to travel in italy, he had applied to lord melville for a similar indulgence. but with the abdication of napoleon, which took place in april , the whole prospect changed. france was at once thrown open to englishmen, and the rest of the continent by degrees. it is not easy to discover at what precise date the kingdom of naples and rome became accessible, but it must have been during the summer. western news took time to percolate into greece, but as soon as he learnt that there was a possibility of penetrating into italy, he had begun making preparations for doing so. and now that there was nothing left to detain him, he arranged to start with linckh for rome on the th of january, . when the appointed day came, madame masson saw him off at the piræus, and shed floods of tears. she was very fond of him. two years after she writes: "non si sa cosa è carnovale dopo la vostra partenza." a curious fact about the journey is that they brought away with them a german of darmstadt of the name of carl rester, who appears to have been a fugitive slave, of whom more hereafter. the party was joined by a mr. tupper. this young gentleman had been lodging at madame makri's, and had fallen in love, as it was the indispensable fashion for young englishmen to do, with one or all of the charming daughters. he left them in tears, vowing to return, but it does not appear that he ever did. the diary of this journey is kept in a sketch-book in pencil, and is not everywhere legible. the country was one well traversed by tourists and minutely described by gell. there were no discoveries to be made or new impressions to be felt. they had no adventures. the weather was odious. the entries consist largely of the kind of information--estimates of population, accounts of products, and possibilities--which for the modern traveller is "found" by murray or baedeker, and would never figure in his diary. at the mouth of the alpheus he remarks how well suited the situation would be for a naval dockyard, close to vast forests of oak and fir--forests, all of which must have disappeared in the devastations of mehemet ali, for there are none there now. the route taken was by corinth, argos, tripolizza, caritzena, phigaleia, which they found buried in snow, olympia, patras, ithaca, corfu, otranto, lecce, bari, and foggia. the pass of bovino, between foggia and naples, was considered exceedingly dangerous, on account of banditti, and perhaps the most interesting thing in the whole diary is the extravagant size of the escort considered necessary to see the travellers through it. it consisted of no less than sixty men--thirty cavalry and thirty infantry. but on the whole the diary of the journey, which was through interesting places and at an interesting moment, could hardly be duller. it may be due to cockerell's having been in poor health, or to tupper's having been a stupid, unstimulating companion. they arrived at naples on the th of april, . footnotes: [ ] general sir james campbell, bart. ( - ), governor of the ionian islands till . [ ] sir william gell ( - ), traveller, author of the _itinerary of greece_, _pompeiana_, and other works. the augustus hare of his day. [ ] this foot was presented to the glyptothek at munich. chapter xix naples--pompeii--rome--the german rester got rid of--social success in rome--leaves for florence--bartholdy and the niobe group--lady dillon-- the wellington palace--pisa--tour in the north--meets stackelberg again--returns to florence and rome--homeward bound--conclusion. with one exception there were no englishmen, artists or others, in naples at that time, but a number of frenchmen, with some of whom cockerell struck up a great intimacy. in spite of national feeling, which was running very high at the time, he got on very well with them, but he says in a letter from rome they were dreadful time-servers in their political views. of course it was a difficult moment for frenchmen. after napoleon's abdication at fontainebleau in april , they had had to accommodate themselves to a revival of the ancient monarchy, which could not be very satisfactory to anyone, and now napoleon was back again in france. between two such alternatives no wonder that their judgment oscillated; but to cockerell--patriotic, enthusiastic, and troubled by no awkward dilemmas--their vacillation was unintelligible. the one englishman was gell (afterwards sir william), who speaks of a stay they made together at pompeii as the pleasantest time he had spent in his three years' tour. during this time cockerell worked hard, and besides what he did which could only be of use to himself, he made himself so familiar with pompeii that gell proposed to him to join him in writing an itinerary of that place. altogether, leaving athens on the th of january, it was six months before cockerell got to rome. between naples and rome the country seems to have been in a very unquiet state, and carl rester, who was still with him, writes afterwards: "you remember how anxious about brigands we all were on the journey." soon after they arrived, rester, who must by now have become an irksome burden, started from rome to walk to his own home at frankfort. he took a long time about it, but he got there at last in december, only to find his family so reduced by the wars that he determined, as he says, not to be a burden to them, but to show his gratitude to his benefactor by asking for more favours and throwing himself as a burden upon him. so he determined to extend his walk to england. before leaving his native town, however, he says he published in the local newspaper the following strange tribute to cockerell's generosity: "magna britannia victoriosa, gloriosa, bene merens, felix. carolus robertus cockerell nobilis anglus et moribus et scientiis praeclarus me infelicem perditum germaniae prolem, primis diebus e morea barbaris deportavit. ad corfum deinde amicis meis anglis restituit et patriae advicinavit per napolem universum, romae me secum ducentem [for ducens] humaniter semper et nobili amicitia me tractavit a london, old burlington street, no. , nobilissimi parentes ipsum progenuerunt dignissimum membrum magnae nationis et hominem ubicunque aestimatissimum pro gratia universis anglis et ipsi carolus rester germanus. gallis merentibus, britannia juncta germanis felix auspicium semper semperque erit." (are these two last lines elegiacs?--ed.) he arrived at bois le duc early in march , and after an illness there of seven weeks, writes to cockerell to beg his assistance to get him over to england, that he might be the better able to sponge upon him there. i never heard what became of him afterwards. cockerell then was in rome, and here he first began to enjoy the harvest of his labours. he says there were no english there at the time except lady westmoreland, mother of the british minister at florence, but there was a large society of foreign artists, into which he threw himself. there were the brothers riepenhausen, painters; schadow, a sculptor from berlin; ingres, who drew his portrait;[ ] cornelius of munich, and others of his school; knoering, a russian; mazois, author of "le palais de scaurus" and an itinerary of pompeii; catel, a french architect; thorwaldsen, overbeck, vogel, portrait painter; bartholdy, prussian consul-general; hess, a painter from vienna; canova, and checcarini, who did the neptune and tritons in the piazza del popolo at the bottom of the drive up to the pincio. the air of rome was steeped in classicism. in this company every event was described in classical figures: their café was the café greco, which still exists; the front half was called the pronaos. there all the artistic world collected and made acquaintance. "if i were a little more vain i should be out of my wits at the attention paid me here. i have a daily levee of savants, artists and amateurs come to see my drawings; envoys and ambassadors beg to know when it will be convenient for me to show them some sketches; prince poniatowski and the prince of saxe-gotha beg to be permitted to see them. i say they are slight, and in truth poor things, but at any rate they were done on the spot, and they, 'c'est la grèce enfin, c'est là le véritable pays. ah, monsieur, que vous êtes heureux d'avoir parcouru ce beau pays!' then i explain to them some constructions or beauties which they don't understand. 'ah, que c'est merveilleux, mais vous les publierez, vous nous donnerez le bonheur de les posséder, mais ce sont des choses fort intéressantes, enfin c'est de la grèce.' and in truth publishers and readers have been so long restricted to the roman antiquities, which have been published and read over and over again a thousand times, that the avidity for novelty is beyond measure, and greece is the fashion here as everywhere else. there is not a single english artist here and only a few passengers. lady westmoreland is one. she is a very clever, well-bred, agreeable chatterer, who has been very civil to me, and made me lose several hours which might have been better employed. fortunately she is going away. i have several letters for the roman nobles, but i have not presented them that i may have my time to myself. so canova is gone to england. i hope it is not to execute the paltry monument of lord nelson which he has published here. it would be a disgrace to us all. fancy the great nelson as a roman in petticoats! i do trust whenever a monument is erected to him it may be as original, national, and characteristic as was the man and the great nation he sprang from. every age hitherto has had ingenuity enough to make its costume interesting in sculpture; we are the first who have shown such poverty of ideas as to despise our age and our dress. i hope he will not be made too much of in england. it is true that nobody ever worked the marble as he does, and it is this finish of his which has deceived and captivated the world, but it is nothing but artificiality, and there is no nature about it. when he attempts the sublime he is ludicrous. in seeking grace he is more successful; but, after all, his terpsichore was conceived in the palais royal, and her headdress is exactly the latest hairdressers' fashion. it is exasperating to think of his success when flaxman, as far his superior as hyperion to a satyr, an artist looked up to by the schools of the continent as a great and extraordinary genius, is neglected by us because he is not a foreigner. it is exceedingly gratifying to me to find everything in my portfolio turning to account. i had the pleasure of showing to colonel catinelli, who lately fortified genoa, my fortifications of syracuse, and the sketches i made of that subject in greece. he assures me that they are invaluable notices new to modern warfare, and that they prove that, compared to the ancients, we who imagine ourselves so well informed on the matter, know nothing at all. then i have above inscriptions among my papers, and i find most of them are unpublished. i have had them copied fairly, and they are now in the hands of a great savant, m. akerblad, for his perusal. he promises to give me his notes on them. i do think i have not made a bad use of my opportunities, if i may judge by the interest taken in the various new notices on different subjects i have brought with me, and the flattering consideration everywhere shown me, i get so many invitations, and am so harassed to show distinguished persons of all nations my drawings, that i can get no time to myself. and in order to have something to show i have been obliged to finish up some of my sketches, which has occupied the whole of the last two months. i have now a portfolio of about fifteen of some of the most interesting scenes in greece fit to show, and i generally find them as much as my visitors want to see. finding at last that my time and occupations were too much infringed upon by gaieties, i left rome to seek more quiet in florence. i found it at first, and for more than six weeks was as busy as it was possible to be. my life was a curious one. i rose early, and after working all day, dined alone at a trattoria, refusing frequently three or four invitations in a day. then i slept three or four hours on a sofa, and rose in the night to work calmly until four or five in the morning, when i took another nap, and rose at seven. this odd life got wind; and as i was a great deal known here, either by reputation or by name and family, i occasioned a good deal of wonder, particularly among those who are astonished at anyone's occupying himself earnestly except for a necessity. the interest in me was also increased rather than diminished by my shyness when i did show in company. i had so much lost the habit of society by the long sojourn in turkey, and, looking on it with a new eye, was often so disgusted with the follies of it, and showed my disgust, that i got a character for being a cynic. but instead of taking offence people only made the more of me, and i was constantly invited out, more to gratify my hosts' curiosity than to give pleasure to me. to have travelled in greece, still more to have been a discoverer there, is enough to make a lion; while the fame of my drawings, which few of the many who saw them understood and all were therefore willing to think wonderful, completed the business. it was at this time that i brought out my drawing of the niobe and the etchings from it." b. bartholdy, prussian consul-general in rome, an intelligent man and much interested in art, had travelled up from rome to florence with cockerell and made himself one of his most intimate acquaintances. walking together one day in the uffizi, they examined the group of the niobe. it is now neglected and forgotten, but in those days it occupied, in the estimation of artists, the place to-day held by the elgin marbles. with the venus de' medici, the apollo belvedere, and the torso in the vatican, these statues were regarded as the greatest remains antiquity had bequeathed to the modern world. but, prized and studied as they were, the purpose of so many figures, evidently meant to stand together, had never yet dawned on the minds of their admirers. the figure of niobe, which is the largest, had been placed in the middle, and the rest in a circle round her. it was felt indeed that this could not be right, but no one had anything better to suggest, and it remained one of the favourite puzzles for art lovers to wrangle over. into the middle of this clouded state of intelligences cockerell dropped as from another planet. the experience of the Æginetan statues, which he had arranged so laboriously, besides the constant sight of what remained of the parthenon and other greek monuments, made the notion of a pediment or [greek: haetos] so familiar as to present itself to his mind at once as the only possible destination for so many statues. he says the first suggestion came on that occasion from bartholdy. "i have told schlegel and all parties that it was first proposed by you;" to which bartholdy replies: "j'aurai le plaisir de pouvoir dire que vous avez fait fructifier un petit grain tombé de la main d'un amateur des beaux arts qui sans cela serait resté stérile." but it was probably the company of cockerell and the associations with Ægina &c. which suggested the notion to bartholdy. at all events, beyond that first suggestion, bartholdy did nothing. it was cockerell who measured the statues, arranged them, proved the case, and made the etching which hangs to this day in the niobe room in the uffizi gallery, showing the arrangement which he proposed. in recognition, however, of the part bartholdy had had in it, the plate was dedicated to him. for the introduction of cockerell as a lion into society--if that be a thing to be desired--this discovery was most opportune. he had arrived with a great reputation as a traveller, a discoverer, and unraveller of age-long puzzles, as in the case of the temple of the giants, and now here was a proof of his powers exhibited in the centre of artistic europe. "i had shown my drawing to several people and amongst the ambassadors and distinguished persons here--all of whom, _de rigueur_, more or less pretend to understand the arts--and it gained universal approbation. it was talked about by all, and written about by demetrius schinas and other obscure poets and prose writers. i was flattered, invited, and made much of. our ambassador boasts that the solution has been proved by an englishman; others bow and beg to be allowed to send copies of my etching to their governments, to metternich, &c. it was formally presented to the grand duke, and i have received from the academy here a handsome letter and diploma of academician of florence. it is to be published in the official work on the gallery. i have presented it myself to madame de staël, and my friends have sent it to all parts of the continent." he was now regularly launched in the fashionable society of florence. the reigning beauty at this time, the centre of all jollity and brightness, was lady dillon. all the young men were at her feet, and cockerell was as deeply smitten as anybody. as already mentioned, during the time that he was in syracuse he had learnt the art of cameo-cutting. he now made use of it--or at least of the preliminary stage, which is to make a model in wax--to execute a highly finished portrait of her, which still exists in the possession of her descendants. it shows a head of great beauty, and is executed with admirable skill and minuteness. the whole english nation was now jubilant over the success of its army at waterloo, and was considering the rewards to be offered to its idol, the duke of wellington. he was to have a magnificent palace, surpassing the glories of blenheim, and architects were called upon to give reins to their imagination in preparing designs in competition. the celebrity which my father had by now made for himself obtained him, through the medium of lord and lady burghersh, his fast friends, a formal invitation to send in designs for the wellington palace. the opportunity was of course magnificent, but nothing he had been doing for years had in the least adapted him to take advantage of it. "although my occupation in the wellington palace is a very honourable one, and the study and exercise of invention in the course of it may be profitable, yet i cannot help wishing i had never been invited to give an idea for it, for i have spent a vast deal of time over it, and it will add nothing to my reputation, even if it does not detract from it. if such a design was difficult to everyone, you may imagine what it was to me who have never attempted anything original before. i consulted every architectural work of europe (they are all in the library here), and i would have consulted every professional man i could get at if there had been any here whose opinion was worth having. then i composed general ideas, and finally fixed on one which pleased mr. north and several other persons to whom i showed it; but when i went into detail i found the difficulties increase immeasurably, and the notions which were plausible while they were vague could not be put into execution. plan would not agree with elevation. doors and windows would not come into their right places. i invented roundabout ways for simple ends. in fact i worked furiously, and for the first time realised the practical difficulties of the profession. at last, when i had filled a portfolio with sketches and schemes, i completed a set and showed them to lord and lady burghersh, who said they were pleased with them. i began to feel that i had too large an acquaintance in florence--too many visits and invitations. my wound [?], of which i did not get the better, confined me, and that made me generally unwell and obliged me to go through a course of physic. altogether i got out of heart with my work and determined to get away. i went to pisa for the month of july, and except for visits from pigou i was quite alone. there i undid all i had done before, and finding that to do the thing well i should need more time than i could possibly give, i determined to make some small sketches which, prettily finished, might attract attention and show that i was in some sort capable. finally, i made some sketches and sent them with an explanation to lady burghersh and a request to forward them to the proper quarter." the difficulties he had encountered over these drawings so disgusted him with architecture that he seems to have even proposed to his father to throw it up and become a painter, as that, he thought, was the profession for which he was best suited. but mr. cockerell, who was a steady business man, had no notion of his son becoming what he would have considered a bohemian, and refused to sanction any such change. the only thing to do, then, was to continue his studies. the wellington palace drawings had at any rate weaned him of any idea that pure greek architecture was applicable to modern architectural designing, and he had little knowledge of any other. he started for a tour of the north of italy. his letters contain few criticisms. palladio, probably as being most akin to what he had hitherto studied, pleased him more than any other architect. in venice he fell in with stackelberg, who had been home to russia while his travels in greece were still fresh enough to claim attention, and had been received with every sort of distinction. he was now on his way back to rome to settle there and bring out the various books he subsequently published. the two joined forces, and having run through all the principal towns, returned southwards to florence. shortly after, in company with lord and lady dillon, he went to rome. he was now a recognised lion, everywhere fêted and made much of. bartholdy writes of him: "cockerell est gâté par les femmes." nevertheless he worked hard. amongst other things he finished the drawing of the forum romanum, the engraving of which is well known. the duchess of devonshire wished to insert a reduction of it in her "virgil," and writes to thank him for "the beautiful drawing you _was_ so good as to do for me." he had left also in rome the bulk of his, and haller's, drawings for the intended book on greek architecture. these he picked up, and having seen all the architecture italy had to show him, he started in march for england. in paris he remained some little time. a letter from his father during his stay there is worth transcribing in part. "i send a few hints as to what you should observe in paris; not things of that high order to which you have so long been used, but yet important to study in order to supply the luxurious indulgence so much coveted by the great here, by whom a complete knowledge of them in their professors of architecture is expected. you have raised a name here so high that everything in perfection will be expected of you; at least in all that relates to taste in the arts, and in all the subordinate degrees of contrivances, as well as in decoration. the last is that which affords the most extensive employment, and you will be surprised to find more importance attached to the decorations of a salon than to the building of a temple. if, therefore, you can bend to the consideration of what is called the 'fittings up' of the interior of the best hotels and palaces of paris, the graces of their _meubles_, and the harmony of their colours in hangings, painting, and gilding, you may be the general arbiter of taste here; and as there are very few persons who are real judges of compositions even classical, much less sublime, and there must be few opportunities of exercising those parts of your studies here, it will be really useful if you allow yourself to look at those minor objects at paris which in truth they judge well of. percier[ ] is the first architect in paris; he will tell you what is worth seeing. dismalter & jacob are the first decorators in furniture &c., rue meslée. your friends lord burghersh and lord dillon proclaim your name without ceasing, and much is expected of you. the duke of gloucester has commanded me to introduce you to his acquaintance. you have been spoken of at carlton house, where i have reason to think there is great likelihood of your being noticed advantageously; but you must not be disappointed to find very common things occupying the minds of a large majority of a nation of _boutiquiers_, and we must take the world as we find it, believing always that good sense, refined judgment, and true taste will ultimately prevail. do not imagine that i am thinking of money as the only thing worth your attention. i consider that as the last object. the first, a higher order of taste and information, you possess amply. the second is to learn to suit in some measure the times we live in and the objects which occupy the multitude, and it is worth attending to. the third and last is the profit which follows; but that must come of itself, and is not worth pursuing. you will think me lecturing to the last, but i really mean no more than to express my hope that you will not despise trifles, if elegant, finding yourself for the moment amongst a nation of triflers, because they have long been considered and imitated by ourselves and the rest of europe as accomplished in matters of ornament, though not in subjects of use. your family are now on tiptoe for your arrival, and daily drink their affectionate good wishes to the homeward bound. none is behind another in their impatience; for myself, it is always present to me. nevertheless, i am not selfish enough to wish you to leave unseen, for the sake of a few days more, anything which you ought to be acquainted with." my father arrived in london on the th of june, , having left it on the th of april, . besides his own, he had brought with him all haller's drawings for the intended book which was to be the complete and final authority on greek architecture and the grand result of his seven years of travel. haller was to come to england to see it through the press. had it appeared at once it would have been most _à propos_. greek architecture was all the fashion. unhappily, the intention was thwarted by the sudden death of haller, which took place at ambelakia, in the vale of tempe, of a congestion of the lungs, caught while making excavations in the month of september . the loss of this valuable help disheartened my father, who had no taste for the work. he was already busy in other ways, and the task which should have had his first attention gradually sank into the background. one by one those who had taken part in the discoveries died: stackelberg in , linckh and foster not many years after. but the book remained a load on my father's conscience all his life, and it was not till , more than forty years later, that it saw the light. the interest in the events and actors had died down, and the novelties had become common property. his unfortunate dislike for writing lost him much of the credit he might have reaped, while others profited by his experience. his collection of inscriptions was picked over by walpole; hughes fills out his pages with his letters; bronstedt uses his drawings. it is stackelberg who relates how he discovered the bas-reliefs at phigaleia; beaufort anticipates anything he might have had to tell of karamania; wordsworth plundered his portfolio; and in the absence of any consecutive account of his own, it has been often only by the help of the writings of others that it has been possible for me to piece together his disjointed and often undated diaries. footnotes: [ ] see frontispiece. [ ] charles percier ( - ), originator of the so-called "empire" style in furniture, architect of the arc de triomphe du carrousel, and of parts of the louvre and of the tuileries. printed by spottiswoode and co. ltd., new-street square london transcriber's note: the dagger symbol is denoted by the [+] sign the asterism symbol is denoted by ** * * * * * [illustration] a thousand miles in the rob roy canoe on rivers and lakes of europe. by j. macgregor, m.a., trinity college, cambridge; barrister at law: with numerous illustrations and a map. _sixth thousand._ london: sampson low, son, and marston milton house, ludgate-hill. . (_the right of translation reserved._) preface. the voyage about to be described was made last autumn in a small canoe, with a double paddle and sails, which the writer managed alone. the route led sometimes over mountains and through forests and plains, where the boat had to be carried or dragged. the waters navigated were as follows:-- the rivers thames, sambre, meuse, rhine, main, danube, reuss, aar, ill, moselle, meurthe, marne, and seine. the lakes titisee, constance, unter see, zurich, zug, and lucerne, together with six canals in belgium and france, and two expeditions in the open sea of the british channel. temple, london, _april , _. the author's profits from the first and second editions, were given to the royal national life-boat institution and to the shipwrecked mariners' society. list of illustrations. page rapids of the reuss (_frontispiece_). -- sea rollers in the channel swimming herd on the meuse singers' waggon on the danube a crowd in the morning haymakers amazed night surprise at gegglingen the rob roy in a bustle sailing upon lake zug shirking a waterfall a critical moment astride the stern the rob roy and the cow polite to the ladies group of french fishers passing a dangerous barrier a choked canal rigging ashore route of the canoe (_map_) chart of currents and rocks contents. chapter i. page canoe travelling--other modes--the rob roy--hints--tourists--the rivers--the dress--i and we chapter ii. the start--the nore--porpoises--a gale--the channel--ostend canal--river meuse--earl of aberdeen--holland--the rhine--the premier's son--river main--heron stalking--the prince of wales chapter iii. hollenthal pass--ladies--black forest--night music--beds--lake titisee--pontius pilate--storm--starers--banket--four in hand--source of the danube chapter iv. river donau--singers--shady nooks--geisingen--mill weirs--rapids--morning crowd--donkey's stable--islands--monks--spiders--concert--fish--a race chapter v. sigmaringen--treacherous trees--congress of herons--flying dutchman--tub and shovel--bottle race--snags--bridge perils--ya vol--ferry rope--benighted--ten eggs chapter vi. day-dream--river iller--ulm--a stiff king--lake constance--seeing in the dark--switzerland--coloured canvas--sign talk--synagogue--amelia--gibberish chapter vii. fog--fancy pictures--boy soldiers--boat's billet--eating--lake zurich--crinoline--hot walk--staring--lake zug--swiss shots--fishing britons--talk-book chapter viii. sailing on lucerne--seeburg--river scenes--night and snow--the reuss--a dear dinner--seeing a rope--passing a fall--sullen roar--bremgarten rapids chapter ix. hunger--music at the mill--sentiment and chops--river limmat--fixed on a fall--river aar--rhine again--douaniers--falls of lauffenburg--the cow cart chapter x. field of foam--precipice--puzzled--philosophy--rheinfelden rapids--dazzled--lower rapids--astride--fate of the four-oar--very salt--ladies--whirlpool--funny english--insulting a baby--bride chapter xi. private concert--thunderer--la hardt forest--mulhouse canal--river ill--reading stories--madame nico--night noises--pets--ducking--the vosges mountains--admirers--boat on wheels--new wine chapter xii. bonfire--my wife--matthews--tunnel picture--imposture--fancy--moselle--cocher--saturday review tracts--gymnastics--the paddle--a spell--overhead--feminine forum--public breakfast chapter xiii. river moselle--the tramp--halcyon--painted woman--beating to quarters--boat in a hedge--river meurthe--moving house--tears of a mother--five francs chapter xiv. ladies in muslin--chalons camp--officers shouting--volunteers' umbrella--reims--leaks--madame clicquot--heavy blow--the elephant--first cloud chapter xv. meaux on the marne--hammering--popish forms--wise dogs--blocked in a tunnel--a dry voyage--arbour and garret--odd fellows--dream on the seine--almost over--no admittance--charing-cross appendix. hints for canoists--the rob roy's stores--chart of rocks and currents--the kent--danger--exercise--sun--walking machine--odds and ends--future voyages chapter i. canoe travelling--other modes--the rob roy--hints--tourists--the rivers--the dress--i and we--the election. the object of this book is to describe a new mode of travelling on the continent, by which new people and things are met with, while healthy exercise is enjoyed, and an interest ever varied with excitement keeps fully alert the energies of the mind. some years ago the water lily was rowed by four men on the rhine and on the danube, and its "log" delighted all readers. afterwards, the boat water witch laboured up french rivers, and through a hundred tedious locks on the bâle canal. but these and other voyages of three or five men in an open boat were necessarily very limited. in the wildest parts of the best rivers the channel is too narrow for oars, or, if wide, it is too shallow for a row-boat; and the tortuous passages, the rocks and banks, the weeds and snags, the milldams, barriers, fallen trees, rapids, whirlpools, and waterfalls that constantly occur on a river winding among hills, make those very parts where the scenery is wildest and best to be quite unapproachable in an open boat, for it would be swamped by the sharp waves, or upset over the sunken rocks which it is utterly impossible for a steersman to see. but these very things, which are obstacles or dangers to the "pair oar," become interesting features to the voyager in a covered canoe. for now, as he sits in his little bark, he looks forward, and not backward. he sees all his course, and the scenery besides. with one powerful sweep of his paddle he can instantly turn the canoe, when only a foot distant from fatal destruction. he can steer within an inch in a narrow place, or pass through reeds and weeds, branches and grass; can hoist and lower his sail without changing his seat; can shove with his paddle when aground, or jump out in good time to prevent a decided smash. he can wade and haul the light craft over shallows, or drag it on dry ground, through fields and hedges, over dykes, barriers, and walls; can carry it by hand up ladders and stairs, and can transport his boat over high mountains and broad plains in a cart drawn by a horse, a bullock, or a cow. nay, more than this, the covered canoe is far stronger than an open boat, and may be fearlessly dropped headforemost into a deep pool, a lock, or a millrace, and yet, when the breakers are high, in the open sea or in fresh water rapids, they can only wash over the covered deck, while it is always dry within. again, the canoe is safer than a rowing-boat, because you sit so low in it, and never require to shift your place or lose hold of the paddle; while for comfort during long hours, for days and weeks of hard work, it is evidently the best, because you lean all the time against a backboard, and the moment you rest the paddle on your lap you are as much at ease as in an arm-chair; so that, while drifting along with the current or the wind, you can gaze around, and eat or read or chat with the starers on the bank, and yet, in a moment of sudden danger, the hands are at once on the faithful paddle ready for action. finally, you can lie at full length in the canoe, with the sail as an awning for the sun, or a shelter for rain, and you can sleep in it thus at night, under cover, with an opening for air to leeward, and at least as much room for turning in your bed as sufficed for the great duke of wellington; or, if you are tired of the water for a time, you can leave your boat at an inn--it will not be "eating its head off," like a horse; or you can send it home or sell it, and take to the road yourself, or sink into the dull old cushions of the "première classe," and dream you are seeing the world. with such advantages, then, and with good weather and good health, the canoe voyage about to be described was truly delightful, and i never enjoyed so much continuous pleasure in any other tour. but, before this deliberate assertion has weight with intending "canoists," it may well be asked from one who thus praises the paddle, "has he travelled in other ways, so as to know their several pleasures? has he climbed glaciers and volcanoes, dived into caves and catacombs, trotted in the norway carriole, ambled on an arab, and galloped on the russian steppes? does he know the charms of a nile boat, or a trinity eight, or a sail in the Ægean, or a mule in spain? has he swung upon a camel, or glided in a sleigh, or trundled in a rantoone?" yes, he has most thoroughly enjoyed these and other modes of locomotion in the four corners of the world; but the pleasure in the canoe was far better than all. the weather last summer was, indeed, exceptionally good; but then rain would have diminished some of the difficulties, though it might have been a bore to paddle ten hours in a downpour. two inches more of water in the rivers would have saved many a grounding and wading, while, at worst, the rain could have wetted only the upper man, which a cape can cover; so, even in bad weather, give me the canoe. messrs. searle and sons, of lambeth, soon built for me the very boat i wanted. the rob roy is built of oak, and covered fore and aft with cedar. she is made just short enough to go into the german railway waggons; that is to say, fifteen feet in length, twenty-eight inches broad, nine inches deep, weighs eighty pounds, and draws three inches of water, with an inch of keel. a paddle seven feet long, with a blade at each end, and a lug sail and jib, are the means of propulsion; and a pretty blue silk union jack is the only ornament. the elliptic hole in which i sit is fifty-four inches long and twenty broad, and has a macintosh cover fastened round the combing and to a button on my breast; while between my knees is my baggage for three months, in a black bag one foot square and five inches deep. but, having got this little boat, the difficulty was to find where she could go to, or what rivers were at once feasible to paddle on, and pretty to see. inquiries in london as to this had no result. even the paris boat club knew nothing of french rivers. the best german and austrian maps were frequently wrong. they made villages on the banks which i found were a mile away in a wood, and so were useless to one who had made up his mind (a good resolve) never to leave his boat. it was soon, therefore, evident that, after quitting the rhine, this was to be a voyage of discovery. and as i would most gladly have accepted any hints on the matter myself, so i venture to hope that this narrative will lessen the trouble, while it stimulates the desire of the numerous travellers who will spend their vacation in a canoe.[i.] [i.] see appendix. special hints for those who intend to "canoe it" will usually be given in the footnotes, or in the appendix. not that i shall attempt to make a "handbook" to any of the streams. the man who has a spark of enterprise would turn from a river of which every reach was mapped and its channels all lettered. fancy the free traveller, equipped for a delicious summer of savage life, quietly submitting to be cramped and tutored by a "chart of the upper mosel," in the style of the following extracts copied literally from two guide-books;-- ( ) "turn to the r. (right), cross the brook, and ascend by a broad and steep forest track (in min.) to the hamlet of albersbach, situate in the midst of verdant meadows. in five min. more a cross is reached, where the path to the l. must be taken; in min. to the r., in the hollow, to the saw mill; in min. more through the gate to the r.; in min. the least trodden path to the l. leading to the gaschpels hof; after / hr. the stony track into the wood must be ascended," &c., &c.--_from b----'s rhine, p. _. ( ) "_to the ridge of the riffelberg_ , ft. _hotel_ on top very good. hrs. up. guide fr. horse and man fr. path past the church: then l. over fields; then up through a wood hr. past châlets: then r. across a stream."-- _----'s handbook_. this sort of guide-book is not to be ridiculed. it is useful for some travellers as a ruled copy-book is of use to some writers. for first tours it may be needful and pleasant to have all made easy, to be carried in steamers or railways like a parcel, to stop at hotels anglified by the crowd of english guests, and to ride, walk, or drive among people who know already just what you will want to eat, and see, and do. year after year it is enough of excitement to some tourists to be shifted in squads from town to town, according to the routine of an excursion ticket. those who are a little more advanced will venture to devise a tour from the mazy pages of bradshaw, and with portmanteau and bag, and hat-box and sticks, they find more than enough of judgment and tact is needed when they arrive in a night train, and must fix on an omnibus in a strange town. safe at last in the bedroom of the hotel, they cannot but exclaim with satisfaction "well, here we are all right at last!" but after mountains and caves, churches and galleries, ruins and battle-fields have been pretty well seen, and after tact and fortitude have been educated by experience, the tourist is ready for new lines of travel which might have given him at first more anxiety than pleasure, and these he will find in deeper searches among the natural scenery and national character of the very countries he has only skimmed before. the rivers and streams on the continent are scarcely known to the english tourist, and the beauty and life upon them no one has well seen. in his guide-book route, indeed, from town to town, the tourist has crossed this and that stream--has admired a few yards of the water, and has then left it for ever. he is carried again on a noble river by night in a steamboat, or is whisked along its banks in a railway, and, between two tunnels, gets a moment's glimpse at the lovely water, and lo! it is gone. but a mine of rich beauty remains there to be explored, and fresh gems of life and character are waiting there to be gathered. these are not mapped and labelled and ticketed in any handbook yet; and far better so, for the enjoyment of such treasures is enhanced to the best traveller by the energy and pluck required to get at them. on this new world of waters we are to launch the boat, the man, and his baggage, for we must describe all three, "arma virumque canoe." so what sort of dress did he wear? the clothes i took for this tour consisted of a complete suit of grey flannel for use in the boat, and another suit of light but ordinary dress for shore work and sundays. the "norfolk jacket" is a loose frock-coat, like a blouse, with shoulder-straps, and belted at the waist, and garnished by six pockets. with this excellent new-fashioned coat, a something in each of its pockets, and a cambridge straw hat, canvas wading shoes, blue spectacles, a waterproof overcoat, and my spare jib for a sun shawl, there was sure to be a full day's enjoyment in defiance of rain or sun, deeps or shallows, hunger or _ennui_. four hours' work to begin, and then three of rest or floating, reading or sailing, and again, a three hours' heavy pull, and then with a swim in the river or a bath at the inn, a change of garments and a pleasant walk, all was made quite fresh again for a lively evening, a hearty dinner, talk, books, pictures, letters, and bed. now i foresee that in the description of this tour i shall have to write "i," and the word "me" must be used by me very often indeed; but having the misfortune to be neither an emperor, an editor, nor a married man, who can speak in the plural, i cannot help it if i am put down as a bachelor _egotist_, reserving the "we" for myself and my boat. the manner of working the double-bladed paddle was easily learned by a few days' practice on the thames, and so excellent is the exercise for the muscles of the limbs and body that i have continued it at intervals, even during the winter, when a pretty sharp "look out" must be kept to pilot safely among the red and yellow lights of steamers, barges, embankments, and bridges in an evening's voyage from putney to westminster. all being ready and the weather very hot at the end of july, when the country had caught the election fever, and m.p.'s had run off to scramble for seats, and the lawyers had run after them to thicken the bustle, and the last bullet at wimbledon had come "thud" on the target, it was time for the rob roy to start. chapter ii. the start. the thames--the cornwall--porpoises--a gale--the channel--ostend canal--the meuse--earl of aberdeen--holland--the rhine--the premier's son--the river main--heron stalking--the prince of wales. the rob roy bounded away joyously on the top of the tide through westminster bridge, and swiftly shooting the narrow piles at blackfriars, danced along the waves of the pool, which looked all golden in the morning sun, but were in fact of veritable pea-soup hue. a fine breeze at greenwich enabled me to set the new white sail, and we skimmed along with a cheery hissing sound. at such times the river is a lively scene with steamers and sea-bound ships, bluff little tugs, and big looming barges. i had many a chat with the passing sailors, for it was well to begin this at once, seeing that every day afterwards i was to have talk with the river folk in english, french, dutch, german, or else some hotchpotch patois. the bargee is not a bad fellow if you begin with good humour, but he will not stand banter. often they began the colloquy with, "holloah you two!" or "any room inside?" or "got your life insured, gov'nor?" but i smiled and nodded to every one, and every one on every river and lake was friendly to me. gravesend was to be the port for the night, but purfleet looked so pretty that i took a tack or two to reconnoitre, and resolved to stop at the very nice hotel on the river, which i beg to recommend. while lolling about in my boat at anchor in the hot sun a fly stung my hand; and although it was not remarked at once, the arm speedily swelled, and i had to poultice the hand at night and to go to church next day with a sling, which appendage excited a great deal of comment in the village sunday-school. this little incident is mentioned because it was the only occasion on which any insect troubled me on the voyage, though several croakers had predicted that in rivers and marshes there would be hundreds of wasps, venomous flies, and gnats, not to mention other residents within doors. just as i entered the door of the quiet little church, an only gentleman about to go in fell down dead in the path. it was impossible not to be much impressed with this sudden death as a solemn warning, especially to one in vigorous health. the "cornwall" reformatory school-ship is moored at purfleet. some of the boys came ashore for a walk, neatly clad and very well behaved. captain burton, who commands this interesting vessel, received me on board very kindly, and the evening service between decks was a sight to remember for ever. about boys sat in rows along the old frigate's main-deck, with the open ports looking on the river, now reddened by a setting sun, and the cool air pleasantly fanning us. the lads chanted the psalms to the music of a harmonium, played with excellent feeling and good taste, and the captain read a suitable portion from some selected book, and then prayer was offered; and all this was by and for poor vagrant boys, whose claim on society is great indeed if measured by the wrong it has done them in neglect if not in precept, nay, even in example. next morning the canoe was lowered down a ladder from the hay-loft, where it had been kept (it had to go up into many far more strange places in subsequent days), and the cornwall boys bid me a pleasant voyage--a wish most fully realized indeed. after taking in supplies at gravesend, i shoved off into the tide, and lit a cigar, and now i felt i had fairly started. then there began a strange feeling of _freedom_ and _novelty_ which lasted to the end of the tour. something like it is felt when you first march off with a knapsack ready to walk anywhere, or when you start alone in a sailing-boat for a long cruise. but then in walking you are bounded by every sea and river, and in a common sailing-boat you are bounded by every shallow and shore; whereas, i was in a canoe, which could be paddled or sailed, hauled, or carried over land or water to rome, if i liked, or to hong-kong. the wind was fair again, and up went my sail. the reaches got wider and the water more salt, but i knew every part of the course, for i had once spent a fortnight about the mouth of the thames in my pretty little sailing-boat, the kent, alone, with only a dog, a chart, a compass, and a bachelor's kettle. the new steamer alexandra, which plies from london daily, passed me here, its high-terraced american decks covered with people, and the crowd gave a fine loud cheer to the rob roy, for the newspapers had mentioned its departure. presently the land seemed to fade away at each side in pale distance, and the water was more sea than river, till near the nore we entered a great shoal of porpoises. often as i have seen these harmless and agile playfellows i had never been so close to them before, and in a boat so small as to be almost disregarded by them, wily though they be. i allowed the canoe to rock on the waves, and the porpoises frequently came near enough to be struck by my paddle, but i did not wage war, for a flap of a tail would have soon turned me upside down. after a pleasant sail to southend and along the beach, the wind changed, and a storm of heavy rain had to be met in its teeth by taking to the paddle, until near shoeburyness, where i meant to stop a day or two in the camp of the national artillery association, which was assembled here for its first prize shooting. the royal artillery received us volunteers on this occasion with the greatest kindness, and as they had appropriated quarters of officers absent on leave for the use of members of the council of the association, i was soon comfortably ensconced. the camp, however, in a wet field was moist enough; but the fine tall fellows who had come from yorkshire, somerset, or aberdeen to handle the -pounders, trudged about in the mud with good humour and thick boots, and sang round the camp-fire in a drizzle of rain, and then pounded away at the targets next day, for these were volunteers of the right sort. as the wind had then risen to a gale it seemed a good opportunity for a thorough trial of the canoe in rough water, so i paddled her to a corner where she would be least injured by being thrown ashore after an upset, and where she would be safe while i might run to change clothes after a swim. the buoyancy of the boat astonished me, and her stability was in every way satisfactory. in the midst of the waves i even managed to rig up the mast and sail, and as i had no baggage on board and so did not mind being perfectly wet through in the experiments, there was nothing left untried, and the confidence then gained for after times was invaluable. early next morning i started directly in the teeth of the wind, and paddled against a very heavy sea to southend, where a nice warm bath was enjoyed while my clothes were getting dried, and then the rob roy had its first railway journey in one of the little cars on the southend pier to the steamboat. it was amusing to see how much interest and curiosity the canoe excited even on the thames, where all kinds of new and old and wonderful boats may be seen. the reasons for this i never exactly made out. some wondered to see so small a boat at sea, others had never seen a canoe before, the manner of rowing was new to most, and the sail made many smile. the graceful shape of the boat pleased others, the cedar covering and the jaunty flag, and a good many stared at the captain's uniform, and they stared more after they had asked, "where are you going to?" and were often told, "i really do not know." from sheerness to dover was the route, and on the branch line train the rob roy had to be carried on the coals in the engine-tender, with torrents of rain and plenty of hot sparks driven into her by the gale; but after some delay at a junction the canoe was formally introduced to a baggage-waggon and ticketed like a portmanteau, the first of a series of transits in this way. the london chatham and dover railway company took this new kind of "box" as passengers' luggage, so i had nothing to pay, and the steamer to ostend was equally large-hearted, so i say, "canoemen, choose this channel." but before crossing to belgium i had a day at dover, where i bought some stuff and had a jib made for the boat by deft and fair fingers, had paddled the rob roy on the green waves which toss about off the pier-head most delectably. the same performance was repeated on the top of the swell, tumbling and breaking on the "digue"[ii.] at ostend, where, even with little wind, the rollers ran high on a strong ebb tide. fat bathers wallowed in the shallows, and fair ones, dressed most bizarre, were swimming like ducks. all of these, and the babies squalling hysterically at each dip, were duly admired; and then i had a quieter run under sail on their wide and straight canal. [illustration: rollers off the digue.] [ii.] at ostend i found an english gentleman preparing for a voyage on the danube, for which he was to build a "centre board" boat. although no doubt a sailing boat could reach the danube by the bamberg canal, yet, after four tours on that river from its source as far as pest, i am convinced that to trust to sailing upon it would entail much tedious delay, useless trouble, and constant anxiety. if the wind is ahead you have all the labour of tacking, and are frequently in slack water near the banks, and often in channels where the only course would be dead to windward. if the wind is aft the danger of "running" is extreme where you have to "broach to" and stop suddenly near a shallow or a barrier. with a strong side wind, indeed, you can sail safely, but this must come from north or south, and the high banks vastly reduce its effect. with just a little persuasion the railway people consented to put the canoe in the baggage-van, and to charge a franc or two for "extra luggage" to brussels. here she was carried on a cart through the town to another station, and in the evening we were at namur, where the rob roy was housed for the night in the landlord's private parlour, resting gracefully upon two chairs. two porters carried her through the streets next morning, and i took a paddle on the sambre, but very soon turned down stream and smoothly glided to the meuse. glancing water, brilliant sun, a light boat, and a light heart, all your baggage on board, and on a fast current,--who would exchange this for any diligence or railway, or steamboat, or horse? a pleasant stream was enough to satisfy at this early period of the voyage, for the excitement of rocks and rapids had not yet become a charm. it is good policy, too, that a quiet, easy, respectable sort of river like the meuse should be taken in the earlier stage of a water tour, when there is novelty enough in being on a river at all. the river-banks one would call tame if seen from shore are altogether new when you open up the vista from the middle of the stream. the picture that is rolled sideways to the common traveller now pours out from before you, ever enlarging from a centre, and in the gentle sway of the stream the landscape seems to swell on this side and on that with new things ever advancing to meet you in succession. how careful i was at the first shallow! getting out and wading as i lowered the boat. a month afterwards i would dash over them with a shove here and a stroke there in answer to a hoarse croak of the stones at the bottom grinding against my keel. and the first barrier--how anxious it made me, to think by what means shall i get over. a man appeared just in time (n.b.--they _always_ do), and twopence made him happy for his share of carrying the boat round by land, and i jumped in again as before. sailing was easy, too, in a fine wide river, strong and deep, and with a favouring breeze, and when the little steamer passed i drew alongside and got my penny roll and penny glass of beer, while the wondering passengers (the first of many amazed foreigners) smiled, chattered, and then looked grave--for was it not indecorous to laugh at an englishman evidently mad, poor fellow? the voyage was chequered by innumerable little events, all perfectly different from those one meets on shore, and when i came to the forts at huy and knew the first day's work was done, the persuasion was complete that quite a new order of sensations had been set going. next morning i found the boat safe in the coach-house and the sails still drying on the harness-pegs, where we had left them, but the ostler and all his folks were nowhere to be seen. everybody had gone to join the long funeral procession of a great musician, who lived fifty years at huy, though we never heard of him before, or of huy either; yet you see it is in our map at page . the pleasure of meandering with a new river is very peculiar and fascinating. each few yards brings a novelty, or starts an excitement. a crane jumps up here, a duck flutters there, splash leaps a gleaming trout by your side, the rushing sound of rocks warns you round that corner, or anon you come suddenly upon a millrace. all these, in addition to the scenery and the people and the weather, and the determination that you _must_ get on, over, through, or under every difficulty, and cannot leave your boat in a desolate wold, and ought to arrive at a house before dark, and that your luncheon bag is long since empty; all these, i say, keep the mind awake, which would perchance dose away for miles in a first-class carriage. it is, as in the voyage of life, that our cares and hardships are our very mentors of living. our minds would only vegetate if all life were like a straight canal, and we in a boat being towed along it. the afflictions that agitate the soul are as its shallows, rocks, and whirlpools, and the bark that has not been tossed on billows knows not half the sweetness of the harbour of rest. the river soon got fast and lively, and hour after hour of vigorous work prepared me well for breakfast. trees seemed to spring up in front and grow tall, but it was only because i came rapidly towards them. pleasant villages floated as it were to meet me, gently moving. all life got to be a smooth and gliding thing, of dreamy pictures and far-off sounds, without fuss and without dust or anything sudden or loud, till at length the bustle and hammers of liege neared the rob roy--for it was always the objects and not myself that seemed to move. here i saw a fast steamer, the seraing, propelled by water forced from its sides, and as my boat hopped and bobbed in the steamer's waves we entered a dock together, and the canoe was soon hoisted into a garden for the night. gun-barrels are the rage in liege. everybody there makes or carries or sells gun-barrels. even women walk about with twenty stocked rifles on their backs, and each rifle, remember, weighs lbs. they sell plenty of fruit in the market, and there are churches well worth a visit here, but gun-barrels, after all, are the prevailing idea of the place. however, it is not my purpose to describe the towns seen on this tour. i had seen liege well, years before, and indeed almost every town mentioned in these pages. the charm then of the voyage was not in going to strange lands, but in seeing old places in a new way. here at length the earl of aberdeen met me, according to our plans arranged long before. he had got a canoe built for the trip, but a foot longer and two inches narrower than the rob roy, and, moreover, made of fir instead of strong oak. it was sent from london to liege, and the "combing" round the edge of the deck was broken in the journey, so we spent some hours at a cabinet-maker's, where it was neatly mended. launching our boats unobserved on the river, we soon left liege in the distance and braved the hot sun. the pleasant companionship of two travellers, each quite free in his own boat, was very enjoyable. sometimes we sailed, then paddled a mile or two, or joined to help the boats over a weir, or towed them along while we walked on the bank for a change.[iii.] [iii.] frequent trials afterwards convinced me that towing is only useful if you feel very cramped from sitting. and this constraint is felt less and less as you get accustomed to sit ten or twelve hours at a time. experience enables you to make the seat perfectly comfortable, and on the better rivers you have so frequently to get out that any additional change is quite needless. towing is slower progress than paddling, even when your arms are tired, though my canoe was so light to tow that for miles i have drawn it by my little finger on a canal. each of us took whichever side of the river pleased him best, and we talked across long acres of water between, to the evident surprise of sedate people on the banks, who often could see only one of the strange elocutionists, the other being hidden by bushes or tall sedge. when talking thus aloud had amplified into somewhat uproarious singing, the chorus was far more energetic than harmonious, but then the briton is at once the most timid and shy of mortal travellers, and the most _outré_ and singular when he chooses to be free. the midday beams on a river in august are sure to conquer your fresh energies at last, and so we had to pull up at a village for bread and wine. the moment i got into my boat again a shrill whining cry in the river attracted my attention, and it came from a poor little boy, who had somehow fallen into the water, and was now making his last faint efforts to cling to a great barge in the stream. naturally i rushed over to save him, and my boat went so fast and so straight that its sharp prow caught the hapless urchin in the rear, and with such a pointed reminder too that he screamed and struggled and thus got safely on the barge, which was beyond his reach, until thus roughly but fortunately aided. on most of the belgian, german, and french rivers there are excellent floating baths, an obvious convenience which i do not recollect observing on a single river in britain, though in summer we have quite as many bathers as there are abroad. the floating baths consist of a wooden framework, say feet long, moored in the stream, and through which the water runs freely, while a set of strong bars and chains and iron network forms a false bottom, shallow at one end and deeper at the other, so that the bather cannot be carried away by the current. round the sides there are bathing boxes and steps, ladders, and spring boards for the various degree of aquatic proficiency. the youths and even the little boys on the rhine are very good swimmers, and many of them dive well. sometimes there is a ladies' bath of similar construction, from which a good deal of very lively noise may be heard when the fair bathers are in a talkative mood. the soldiers at military stations near the rivers are marched down regularly to bathe, and one day we found a large number of young recruits assembled for their general dip. while some were in the water others were firing at the targets for ball practice. there were three targets, each made of cardboard sheets, fastened upon wooden uprights. a marker safely protected in a ball-proof _mantelet_ was placed so close to these targets that he could see all three at once. one man of the firing party opposite each target having fired, his bullet passed through the pasteboard and left a clear round hole in it, while the ball itself was buried in the earth behind, and so could be recovered again, instead of being dashed into fragments as on our iron targets, and then spattered about on all sides, to the great danger of the marker and everybody else. when three men had thus fired, signals were made by drum, flag, and bugle, and the firing ceased. the marker then came out and pointed to the bullet-mark on each target, and having patched up the holes he returned within his mantelet, and the firing was resumed. this very safe and simple method of ball practice is much better than that used in our military shooting. once as we rounded a point there was a large herd of cattle swimming across the stream in close column, and i went right into the middle of them to observe how they would welcome a stranger. in the nile you see the black oxen swim over the stream night and morning, reminding you of pharaoh's dream about the "kine" coming up out of the river, a notion that used to puzzle in boyhood days, but which is by no means incongruous when thus explained. the bible is a book that bears full light to be cast upon it, for truth looks more true under more light. we had been delayed this morning in our start, and so the evening fell sombre ere we came near the resting-place. this was the town of maastricht, in holland, and it is stated to be one of the most strongly fortified places in europe; that is, of the old fashion, with straight high walls quite impervious to the armstrong and whitworth guns--of a century gone by. [illustration: cattle swimming the meuse. page .] but all we knew as we came near it at night was, that the stream was good and strong, and that no lights appeared. emerging from trees we were right in the middle of the town, but where were the houses? had they no windows, no lamps, not even a candle? two great high walls bounded the river, but not a gate or port could we find, though one of us carefully scanned the right and the other cautiously scraped along the left of this very strange place. it appears that the commerce and boats all turn into a canal above the old tumble-down fortress, and so the blank brick sides bounded us thus inhospitably. soon we came to a bridge, looming overhead in the blackness, and our arrival there was greeted by a shower of stones from some dutch lads upon it, pattering pitilessly upon the delicate cedar-covered canoes. turning up stream, and after a closer scrutiny, we found a place where we could cling to the wall, which here sloped a little with debris, and now there was nothing for it but to haul the boats up bodily over the impregnable fortification, and thus carry them into the sleepy town. no wonder the _octroi_ guard stared as his lamplight fell on two gaunt men in grey, carrying what seemed to him a pair of long coffins, but he was a sensible though surprised individual, and he guided us well, stamping through the dark deserted streets to an hotel. though the canoes in a cart made a decided impression at the railway-station next day, and arguments logically proved that the boats must go as baggage, the porters were dense to conviction, and obdurate to persuasion, until all at once a sudden change took place; they rushed at us, caught up the two neglected "batteaux," ran with them to the luggage-van, pushed them in, and banged the door, piped the whistle, and as the train went off--"do you know why they have yielded so suddenly?" said a dutchman, who could speak english. "not at all," said we. "because i told them one of you was the son of the prime minister, and the other lord russell's son." but a change of railway had to be made at aix-la-chapelle, and after a hard struggle we had nearly surrendered the boats to the "merchandise train," to limp along the line at night and to arrive "perhaps to-morrow." indeed the superintendent of that department seemed to clutch the boats as his prize, but as he gloried a little too loudly, the "chef" of the passengers' baggage came, listened, and with calm mien ordered for us a special covered truck, and on arriving at cologne there was "nothing to pay."[iv.] [iv.] this is an exceptional case, and i wrote from england to thank the officer. it would be unreasonable again to expect any baggage to be thus favoured. a canoe is at best a clumsy inconvenience in the luggage-van, and no one can wonder that it is objected to. in france the railway _fourgons_ are shorter than in other countries, and the officials there insisted on treating my canoe as merchandise. the instances given above show what occurred in belgium and holland. in germany little difficulty was made about the boat as luggage. in switzerland there was no objection raised, for was not i an english traveller? as for the english railway guards, they have the good sense to see that a long light article like a canoe can be readily carried on the top of a passenger carriage. probably some distinct rules will be instituted by the railways in each country, when they are found to be liable to a nautical incursion, but after all one can very well arrange to walk or see sights now and then, while the boat travels slower by a goods-train. to be quiet we went to the belle vue, at deutz, which is opposite cologne, but a great singing society had its gala there, and sang and drank prodigiously. next day (sunday too) this same quiet deutz had a "schutzen fest," where the man who had hit the target best was dragged about in an open carriage with his wife, both wearing brass crowns, and bowing royally to a screaming crowd, while blue lights glared and rockets shot up in the serene darkness. at cologne, while lord a. went to take our tickets at the steamer, the boats were put in a handcart, which i shoved from behind as a man pulled it in front. in our way to the river i was assailed by a poor vagrant sort of fellow, who insisted on being employed as a porter, and being enraged at a refusal he actually took up a large stone and ran after the cart in a threatening passion. i could not take my hands from the boats, though in fear that his missile would smash them if he threw it, but i kicked up my legs behind as we trotted along. one of the sentries saw the man's conduct, and soon a policeman brought him to me as a prisoner, but as he trembled now with fear more than before with anger, i declined to make any charge, though the police pressed this course, saying, "travellers are sacred here." this incident is mentioned because it was the sole occasion when any discourtesy happened to me during this tour. we took the canoes by steamer to a wide part of the rhine at bingen. here the scenery is good, and we spent an active day on the river, sailing in a splendid breeze, landing on islands, scudding about in steamers' waves, and, in fact, enjoying a combination of yacht voyage, pic-nic, and boat race. this was a fine long day of pleasure, though in one of the sudden squalls my canoe happened to ground on a bank just at the most critical time, and the bamboo mast broke short. the uncouth and ridiculous appearance of a sail falling overboard is like that of an umbrella turned inside out in a gust of wind. but i got another stronger mast, and made the broken one into a boom. lord aberdeen went by train to inspect the river nahe, but reported unfavourably; and i paddled up from its mouth, but the water was very low. few arguments were needed to stop me from going against stream; for i have a profound respect for the universal principle of gravitation, and quite allow that in rowing it is well to have it with you by always going down stream, and so the good rule was to make steam, horse, or man take the canoe against the current, and to let gravity help the boat to carry me down. time pressed for my fellow-paddler to return to england, so we went on to mayence, and thence by rail to asschaffenburg on the main. the canoes again travelled in grand state, having a truck to themselves; but instead of the stately philosopher superintendent of aix-la-chapelle, who managed this gratuitously, we had a fussy little person to deal with, and to pay accordingly,--the only case of decided cheating i can recollect during the voyage. a fellow-passenger in the railway was deeply interested about our tour; and we had spoken of its various details for some time to him before we found that he supposed we were travelling with "two small cannons," mistaking the word "canôts" for "canons." he had even asked about their length and weight, and had heard with perfect placidity that our "canons" were fifteen feet long, and weighed eighty pounds, and that we took them only for "plaisir," not to sell. had we carried two pet cameleopards, he probably would not have been astonished. the guests at the german inn of this long-named town amused us much by their respectful curiosity. our dress in perfect unison, both alike in grey flannel, puzzled them exceedingly; but this sort of perplexity about costume and whence why and whither was an everyday occurrence for months afterwards with me. a fine breeze enabled us to start on the river main under sail, though we lost much time in forcing the boats to do yachts' work; and i am inclined to believe that sailing on rivers is rather a mistake unless with a favourable wind. the main is an easy stream to follow, and the scenery only so-so. a storm of rain at length made it lunch-time, so we sheltered ourselves in a bleak sort of arbour attached to an inn, where they could give us only sour black bread and raw bacon. eating this poor cheer in a wet, rustling breeze and pattering rain, half-chilled in our macintoshes, was the only time i fared badly, so little of "roughing it" was there in this luxurious tour. fine weather came soon again and pleasure,--nay, positive sporting; for there were wild ducks quite impudent in their familiarity, and herons wading about with that look of injured innocence they put on when you dare to disturb them. so my friend capped his revolver-pistol, and i acted as a pointer dog, stealing along the other side of the river, and indicating the position of the game with my paddle. vast trouble was taken. lord a. went ashore, and crawled on the bank a long way to a wily bird, but, though the sportsman had shown himself at wimbledon to be one of the best shots in the world, it was evidently not easy to shoot a heron with a pocket revolver. as the darker shades fell, even this rather stupid river became beautiful; and our evening bath was in a quiet pool, with pure yellow sand to rest on if you tired in swimming. at hanau we stopped for the night. the wanderings and turnings of the main next day have really left no impression on my memory, except that we had a pleasant time, and at last came to a large schloss, where we observed on the river a boat evidently english. while we examined this craft, a man told us it belonged to the prince of wales, "and he is looking at you now from the balcony." for this was the duchess of cambridge's schloss at rumpenheim, and presently a four-in-hand crossed the ferry, and the prince and princess of wales drove in it by the river-side, while we plied a vigorous paddle against the powerful west wind until we reached frankfort, where our wet jackets were soon dried at the _russie_, one of the best hotels in europe. the frankfort boatmen were much interested next day to see the two english canoes flitting about so lightly on their river; sometimes skimming the surface with the wind, and despising the contrary stream; then wheeling about, and paddling hither and thither in shallows where it seemed as if the banks were only moist. on one occasion we both got into my canoe, and it supported the additional weight perfectly well, which seemed to prove that the dimensions of it were unnecessarily large for the displacement required. however, there was not room for both of us to use our paddles comfortably in the same canoe. on the sunday, the royal personages came to the english church at frankfort, and, with that quiet behaviour of good taste which wins more admiration that any pageantry, they walked from the place of worship like the rest of the hearers. there is a true grandeur in simplicity when the occasion is one of solemn things. next day my active and pleasant companion had to leave me on his return to england. not satisfied with a fortnight's rifle practice at wimbledon, where the best prize of the year was won by his skill, he must return to the moors and coverts for more deadly sport; and the calls of more important business, besides, required his presence at home. he paddled down the rhine to cologne, and on the way several times performed the difficult feat of hooking on his canoe to a steamer going at full speed. meantime, my boat went along with me by railway to freyburg, from whence the new voyage was really to begin, for as yet the rob roy had not paddled in parts unknown. chapter iii. höllenthal pass--ladies--black forest--night music--beds--lake titisee--pontius pilate--storm--starers--singers--source of the danube. planning your summer tour is one of the most agreeable of occupations. it is in june or july that the foreign bradshaw becomes suddenly of intense interest, and the well-known pages of "steamers and railways"--why, it is worth while being a bachelor to be able to read each of these as part of your sketched-out plan, and (oh, selfish thought!) to have only one mind to consult as to whither away. all this pleasure is a good deal influenced, however, by true answers to these questions,--have you worked hard in working time, so as to be entitled to play in these playhours? is this to be a vacation of refreshment, or an idle lounge and killing of time? are you going off to rest, and to recruit delicate health, or with vigour to enjoy a summer of active exertion? but now the infallible bradshaw could not help me with the canoe one iota, and baedeker was not written for a boat; so at freyburg my plans resolved themselves into the simple direction, "go at once to the source of the danube." next morning, therefore, found the rob roy in a cart, and the grey-clothed traveller walking beside it on the dusty höllenthal road. the gay, light-hearted exultation of being strong and well, and on a right errand, and with unknown things to do and places to see and people to meet, who can describe this? how easy it is at such times to be glad, and to think this is being "thankful." after moralizing for a few miles, a carriage full of english people overtook me, and soon we became companions. "the english are so distant, so silent, such _hauteur_, and gloomy distrust," forsooth! a false verdict, say i. the ladies carried me off through the very pretty glen, and the canoe on its cart trundled slowly after us behind, through the höllenthal pass, which is too seldom visited by travellers, who so often admire the spire of freyburg (from the railway perhaps), passing it on their route to switzerland. this entrance to the schwartzwald, or black forest, is a woody, rocky, and grim defile, with an excellent road, and good inns. the villages are of wood, and there is a saw-mill in every other house, giving a busy, wholesome sound, mellowed by the patter of the water-wheel. further on, where tourists' scenery stops, it is a grand, dark-coloured ocean of hills. the houses get larger and larger, and fewer and fewer, and nearly every one has a little chapel built alongside, with a wooden saint's image of life-size nailed on the gable end. one night i was in one of these huge domiciles, when all the servants and ploughboys came in, and half said, half sung, their prayers, in a whining but yet musical tone, and then retired for a hearty supper. our carriage mounted still among crags, that bowed from each side to meet across the narrow gorge, and were crested on high by the grand trees that will be felled and floated down the rhine on one of those huge rafts you meet at strasbourg. but everybody must have seen a rhine raft, so i need not describe it, with its acres of wood and its street of cabin dwellings, and its gay bannerets. a large raft needs men to navigate it, and the timber will sell for , _l._ at the top of this pass was the watershed of this first chain of hills, where my english friends took leave of me. the rob roy was safely housed in the baar inn, and i set off for a long walk to find if the tiny stream there would possibly be navigable. alone on a hillside in a foreign land, and with an evening sun on the wild mountains, the playful breeze and the bleating sheep around you--there is a certain sense of independent delight that possesses the mind then with a buoyant gladness; but how can i explain it in words, unless you have felt this sort of pleasure? however, the rivulet was found to be eminently unsuited for a canoe; so now let me go to bed in my wooden room, where the washingbasin is oval, and the partitions are so thin that one hears all the noises of the place at midnight. now, the long-drawn snore of the landlord; then, the tittle-tattle of the servants not asleep yet,--a pussy's plaintive mew, and the scraping of a mouse; the cows breathing in soft slumber; and, again, the sharp rattle of a horse's chain. the elaborate construction of that edifice of housewifery called a "bett" here, and which we are expected to sleep upon, can only be understood when you have to undermine and dismantle it night after night to arrive at a reasonable flat surface on which to recline. first you take off a great fluff bag, at least two feet thick, then a counterpane, and then a brilliant scarlet blanket; next you extract one enormous pillow, another enormous pillow, and a huge wedge-shaped bolster,--all, it appears, requisite for the teutonic race, who yet could surely put themselves to sleep at an angle of forty-five degrees, without all this trouble, by merely tilting up the end of a flat bedstead. simple but real courtesy have i found throughout. every one says "gut tag;" and, even in a hotel, on getting up from breakfast a guest who has not spoken a word will wish "gut morgen" as he departs, and perhaps "bon appetit" to those not satisfied like himself. about eight o'clock the light repast of tea or coffee, bread, butter, and honey begins the day; at noon is "mittagessen," the mid-day meal, leaving all proper excuse for another dining operation in the shape of a supper at seven. no fine manners here! my driver sat down to dinner with me, and the waiter along with him, smoking a cigar between whiles, as he waited on us both. but all this is just as one sees in canada and in norway, and wherever there are mountains, woods, and torrent streams, with a sparse population; and, as in norway too, you see at once that all can read, and they do read. there is more reading in one day in a common house in germany than in a month in the same sort of place in france. i had hired the cart and driver by the day, but he by no means admired my first directions next morning--namely, to take the boat off the main road, so as to get to the titisee, a pretty mountain lake about four miles long, and surrounded by wooded knolls. his arguments and objections were evidently superficial, and something deeper than he said was in his mind. in fact, it appears that, by a superstition long cherished there, pontius pilate is supposed to be in that deep, still lake, and dark rumours were told that he would surely drag me down if i ventured upon it.[v.] [v.] the legend about pilate extends over germany and italy. even on the flanks of stromboli there is a _talus_ of the volcano which the people dare not approach, "because of pontius pilate." of course, this decided the matter, and when i launched the rob roy from the pebbly shore in a fine foggy morning, and in full view of the inhabitants of the region (eight in number at last census), we had a most pleasant paddle for several miles. at a distance the boat was invisible being so low in the water, and they said that "only a man was seen, whirling a paddle about his head." there is nothing interesting about this lake, except that it is , feet above the sea and very lonely, in the middle of the black forest. certainly no english boat has been there before, and probably no other will visit the deserted water. after this, the rob roy is carted again still further into the forests. lumbering vehicles meet us, all carrying wood. some have joined three carts together, and have eight horses. others have a bullock or two besides, and all the men are intelligent enough, for they stop and stare, and my driver deigns to tell them, in a patois wholly beyond me, as to what a strange fare he has got with a boat and no other luggage. however, they invariably conclude that the canoe is being carried about for sale, and it could have been well sold frequently already. about mid-day my sage driver began to mutter something at intervals, but i could only make out from his gestures and glances that it had to do with a storm overhead. the mixture of english, french, and german on the borders of the rhine accustoms one to hear odd words. "shall have you pottyto?" says a waiter, and he is asking if you will have potatoes. another hands you a dish, saying, it is "sweetbone," and you must know it is "sweetbread." yes, the storm came, and as it seldom does come except in such places. i once heard a thunder peal while standing on the crater of mount vesuvius, and i have seen the bright lightning, in cold and grand beauty, playing on the falls of niagara in a sombre night, but the vividness of the flashes to-day in the black forest, and the crashing, rolling, and booming of the terrible and majestic battery of heaven was astounding. once a bolt fell so near and with such a blaze that the horse albeit tired enough started off down a hill and made me quite nervous lest he should overturn the cart and injure my precious boat, which naturally was more and more dear to me as it was longer my sole companion. as we toiled up the rothenhaus pass, down came the rain, whistling and rushing through the cold, dark forests of larch, and blackening the top of great feldberg, the highest mountain here, and then pouring heavy and fast on the cart and horse, the man, the canoe, and myself. this was the last rain my boat got in the tour. all other days i spent in her were perfectly dry. people stared out of their windows to see a cart and a boat in this heavy shower--what! a boat, up here in the hills? where can it be going, and whose is it? then they ran out to us, and forced the driver to harangue, and he tried to satisfy their curiosity, but his explanation never seemed to be quite exhaustive, for they turned homeward shaking their heads and looking grave, even though i nodded and laughed at them through the bars of the cart, lifting up my head among the wet straw. the weather dried up its tears at last, and the sun glittered on the road, still sparkling with its rivulets of rain, but the boat was soon dried by a sponge, while a smart walk warmed its well-soaked captain. the horse too had got into a cheerful vein and actually trotted with excitement, for now it was down hill, and bright sun--a welcome change in ten minutes from our labouring up a steep forest road in a thunder-storm. the most rigid teetotaller (i am only a temperance man) would probably allow that just a very small glass of kirchwasser might be prescribed at this moment with advantage, and as there was no "faculty" there but myself, i administered the dose medicinally to the driver and to his employer, and gave a bran-mash and a rub down to the horse, which made all three of us better satisfied with ourselves and each other, and so we jogged on again. by dusk i marched into donaueschingen, and on crossing the little bridge, saw at once i could begin the danube from its very source, for there was at least three inches of water in the middle of the stream. in five minutes a crowd assembled round the boat, even before it could be loosened from the cart.[vi.] [vi.] after trying various modes of securing the canoe in a springless cart for long journeys on rough and hilly roads, i am convinced that the best way is to fasten two ropes across the top of a long cart and let the boat lie on these, which will bear it like springs and so modify the jolts. the painter is then made fast fore and aft, so as to keep the boat from moving back and forward. all plans for using trusses of straw, &c., fail after a few miles of rolling gravel and coarse ruts. the ordinary idlers came first, then the more shy townspeople, and then a number of strange folk, whose exact position i could not make out, until it was explained that the great singing meeting for that part of germany was to be held next day in the town, and so there were visitors, all men of some means and intelligence, who were collected from a wide country round about. the town was in gala for this meeting of song. the inns were full, but still the good landlord of the "poste" by the bridge gave me an excellent room, and the canoe was duly borne aloft in procession to the coachhouse. what a din these tenors and basses did make at the table d'hôte! everything about the boat had to be told a dozen times over to them, while my driver had a separate lecture-room on the subject below. the town was well worth inspection next day, for it was in a violent fit of decoration. every house was tidied up, and all the streets were swept clean. from the humbler windows hung green boughs and garlands, rugs, quilts, and blankets; while banners, venetian streamers, arches, mottoes, and wreaths of flowers announced the wealthier houses. crowds of gaping peasants paraded the streets and jostled against bands drumming and tromboning (if there be such a word), and marching in a somewhat ricketty manner over the undoubtedly rough pavement. every now and then the bustle had a fresh paroxysm when four horses rattled along, bringing in new visitors from some distant choir. they are coming you see in a long four-wheeled cart, covered with evergreens and bearing four pine trees in it erect among sacks which are used as seats--only the inmates do not sit but stand up in the cart, and shout, and sing, and wave banners aloft, while the hundreds of on-lookers roar out the "hoch," the german hurrah! with only one note. as every window had its ornament or device, i made one for mine also, and my sails were festooned (rather tastefully, i flatter myself) to support the little blue silk english jack of the canoe. this complimentary display was speedily recognized by the germans, who greeted it with cheers, and sung glees below, and improvised verses about england, and then sang round the boat itself, laughing, shouting, and hurraing boisterously with the vigour of youthful lungs. never tell me again that the germans are phlegmatic! [illustration: singers' waggon.] they had a "banket" in the evening at the museum. it was "free for all," and so came on these cheap terms, and all drank beer from long glass cylinders at a penny a glass, all smoked cigars at a farthing a piece, and all talked and all sang, though a splendid brass band was playing beside them, and whenever it stopped a glee or chorus commenced. the whole affair was a scene of bewildering excitement, very curious to contemplate for one sitting in the midst. next me i found a young bookseller who had sold me a french book in the morning. he said i must take a ticket for the sunday concert; but i told him i was an englishman, and had learned in my country that it was god's will and for man's good to keep sunday for far better things, which are too much forgotten when one day in seven is not saved from the business, excitement, and giddiness of every-day life. and is there not a feeling of dull sameness about time in those countries and places where the week is not steadied and centred round a solid day on which lofty and deep things, pure and lasting things may have at least some hours of our attention? so i left the merry singers to bang their drums and hoch! at each other in the great hall provided for their use by the prince of furstemburg. he had reared this near his stables, in which are many good horses, some of the best being english, and named on their stalls "miss," "pet," "lady," or "tom," &c. an english gentleman whom i met afterwards had been travelling through germany with a four-in-hand drag, and he came to donaueschingen, where the prince soon heard of his arrival. next day his serene highness was at his stables, and seeing an english visitor there, he politely conducted the stranger over the whole establishment, explaining every item with minute care. he found out afterwards that this visitor was not the english gentleman, but only his groom! the intelligence, activity, and good temper of most of the german waiters in hotels will surely be observed by travellers whose daily enjoyment depends so much on that class. here, for instance, is a little waiter at the poste inn. he is the size of a boy, but looks twenty years older. his face is flat, and broad, and brown, and so is his jacket. his shoulders are high, and he reminds you of those four everlasting german juveniles, with thick comforters about their necks, who stand in london streets blowing brass music, with their cheeks puffed out, and their cold grey eyes turning on all the passing objects while the music, or at any rate a noise, blurts out as if mechanically from the big, unpolished instruments held by red benumbed fingers. this waiter lad then is all the day at the beck of all, and never gets a night undisturbed, yet he is as obliging at ten o'clock in the dark as for the early coffee at sunrise, and he quite agrees with each guest, in the belief that _his_ particular cutlet or cognac is the most important feature of the hour. i honour this sort of man. he fills a hard place well, and bismarck or mussurus cannot do more. then again, there is ulric, the other waiter, hired only for to-day as an "extra," to meet the crush of hungry vocalists who will soon fill the _saal_. he is timid yet, being young, and only used to a village inn where "the poste at donaueschingen" is looked up to with solemn admiration as the pink of fashion. he was learning french too, and was sentimental, so i gave him a very matter-of-fact book, and then he asked me to let him sit in the canoe while i was to paddle it down the river to his home! the naïve simplicity of this request was truly refreshing, and if we had been sure of shallow water all the way, and yet not too shallow, it would perhaps have been amusing to admit such a passenger. the actual source of the danube is by no means agreed upon any more than the source of the nile. i had a day's exploration of the country, after seeking exact information on this point from the townspeople in vain. the land round donaueschingen is a spongy soil, with numerous rivulets and a few large streams. i went along one of these, the brege, which rises twenty miles away, near st. martin, and investigated about ten miles of another, the brigach, a brook rising near st. georgen, about a mile from the source of the neckar, which river runs to the rhine. these streams join near donaueschingen, but in the town there bubbles up a clear spring of water in the gardens of the prince near the church, and this, the infant danube, runs into the other water already wide enough for a boat, but which then for the first time has the name of donau. the name, it is said, is never given to either of the two larger rivulets, because sometimes both have been known to fail in dry summers, while the bubbling spring has been perennial for ages. the brege and another confluent are caused to fill an artificial pond close by the brigach. this lake is wooded round, and has a pretty island, and swans, and gold fish. a waterwheel (in vain covered for concealment) pumps up water to flow from an inverted horn amid a group of statuary in this romantic pond, and the stream flowing from it also joins the others, now the danube.[vii.] [vii.] the old roman ister. the name donau is pronounced "doanou." hilpert says, "dönau allied to dón and düna (a river)." in celtic _dune_ means "river," and _don_ means "brown," while "_au_" in german is "island" (like the english "eyot"). the other three rivers mentioned above, and depicted in the plan on the map with this book, seem to preserve traces of their roman names. thus the "brigach" is the stream coming from the north where "alt breisach" now represents the roman "mons brisiacus," while the "brege" may be referred to "brigantii," the people about the "brigantinus lacus," now the "boden see" (lake constance), where also bregentz now represents the roman "brigantius." the river neckar was "nicer" of old, and the black forest was "hercynia silva." the reader being now sufficiently confused about the source of the danube and its name, let us leave the latin in the quagmire and jump nimbly into our canoe. that there might be no mistake however in this matter about the various rivulets, i went up each stream until it would not float a canoe. then from near the little bridge, on august , while the singers _sol-faed_ excessively at the boat, and shouted "hocks" and farewells to the english "flagge," and the landlord bowed (his bill of thirteen francs for three full days being duly paid), and the populace stared, the rob roy shot off like an arrow on a river delightfully new. chapter iv. the danube--singers--shady nooks--geisingen--mill weirs--rapids--morning crowd--donkey's stable--islands--monks--spiders--concert--fish--a race. at first the river is a few feet broad, but it soon enlarges, and the streams of a great plain quickly bring its volume to that of the thames at kingston. the quiet, dark donau winds about then in slow serpentine smoothness for hours in a level mead, with waving sedge on the banks and silken sleepy weeds in the water. here the long-necked, long-winged, long-legged heron, that seems to have forgotten to get a body, flocks by scores with ducks of the various wild breeds, while pretty painted butterflies and fierce-looking dragon-flies float, as it were, on the summer sunbeams, and simmer in the air. the haymakers are at work; and half their work is hammering the soft edges of their very miserable scythes, which they then dip in the water. now they have a chat; and as i whiz by round a corner, there is a row of open mouths and wondering eyes, but an immediate return to courtesy with a touch of the hat, and "gut tag" when presence of mind is restored. then they call to their mates, and laugh with rustic satisfaction--a laugh that is real and true, not cynical, but the recognition of a strange incongruity, that of a reasonable being pent up in a boat and hundreds of miles from home, yet whistling most cheerfully all the time. soon the hills on either side have houses and old castles, and then wood, and, lastly, rock; and with these, mingling the bold, the wild, and the sylvan, there begins a grand panorama of river beauties to be unrolled for days and days. no river i have seen equals this upper danube, and i have visited many pretty streams. the wood is so thick, the rocks so quaint and high and varied, the water so clear, and the grass so green. winding here and turning there, and rushing fast down this reach and paddling slow along that, with each minute a fresh view, and of new things, the mind is ever on the _qui vive_, or the boat will go bump on a bank, crash on a rock, or plunge into a tree full of gnats and spiders. this is veritable travelling, where skill and tact are needed to bear you along, and where each exertion of either is rewarded at once. i think, also, it promotes decision of character, for you _must_ choose, and that promptly, too, between, say, five channels opened suddenly before you. three are probably safe, but which of these three is the shortest, deepest, and most practicable? in an instant, if you hesitate, the boat is on a bank; and it is remarkable how speedily the exercise of this resolution becomes experienced into habit, but of course only after some severe lessons. it is exciting to direct a camel over the sandy desert when you have lost your fellow-travellers, and to guide a horse in trackless wilds alone; but the pleasure of paddling a canoe down a rapid, high-banked, and unknown river, is far more than these. part of this pleasure flows from the mere sense of rapid motion. in going down a swift reach of the river there is the same sensation about one's diaphragm which is felt when one goes forward smoothly on a lofty rope swing. now the first few days of the danube are upon very fast waters. between its source and ulm the descent of the river is about , feet.[viii.] this would give feet of fall for each of a five days' journey; and it will be seen from this that the prospect for the day's voyage is most cheering when you launch in the morning and know you will have to descend about the height of st. paul's cathedral before halting for the night. [viii.] the best geographical books give different estimates of this, some above and others below the amount here stated. another part of the pleasure--it is not to be denied--consists in the satisfaction of overcoming difficulties. when you have followed a channel chosen from several, and, after half-a-mile of it, you see one and another of the rejected channels emerging from its island to join that you are in, there is a natural pride in observing that any other streamlet but the one you had chosen would certainly have been a mistake. these reflections are by the way; and we have been winding the while through a rich grassy plain till a bridge over the river made it seem quite a civilized spot, and, just as i passed under, there drove along one of the green-boughed waggons of jovial singers returning from donaueschingen. of course they recognised the canoe, and stopped to give her a hearty cheer, ending with a general chorus made up of the few english words of their vocabulary, "all r-r-r-r-ight, englishmánn!" "all r-r-r-r-ight, englishmánn!"[ix.] [ix.] see sketch, _ante_, page . the coincidence of these noisy but good-humoured people having been assembled in the morning, when the canoe had started from the source of the danube, caused the news of its adventure to be rapidly carried to all the neighbouring towns, so that the rob roy was welcomed at once, and the newspapers recorded its progress not only in germany and france, but in england, and even in sweden and in america. at the village of geisingen it was discovered that the boiler of my engine needed some fuel, or, in plain terms, i must breakfast. the houses of the town were not close to the river, but some workmen were near at hand, and i had to leave the canoe in the centre of the stream moored to a plank, with very strict injunctions (in most distinct english!) to an intelligent boy to take charge of her until my return; and then i walked to the principal street, and to the best-looking house, and knocked, entered, asked for breakfast, and sat down, and was speedily supplied with an excellent meal. one after another the people came in to look at the queer stranger who was clad so oddly, and had come--aye, _how_ had he come? that was what they argued about in whispers till he paid his bill, and then they followed to see where he would go, and thus was there always a congregation of inquisitive but respectful observers as we started anew. off again, though the august sun is hot. but we cannot stop now. the shade will be better enjoyed when resting in the boat under a high rock, or in a cool water cave, or beneath a wooden bridge, or within the longer shadow of a pine-clad cliff. often i tried to rest those midday hours (for one cannot always work) on shore, in a house, or on a grassy bank; but it was never so pleasant as at full length in the canoe, under a thick grown oak-tree, with a book to read dreamily, and a mild cigar at six for a penny, grown in the fields we passed, and made up at yesterday's inn.[x.] [x.] two stimulants well known in england are much used in germany,--tea and tobacco. ( ) the tobacco plant (sometimes styled a weed, because it also grows wild) produces leaves, which are dried and rolled, and then treated with fire, using an appropriate instrument, by which the fumes are inhaled. the effect upon many persons is to soothe; but it impairs the appetite of others. the use is carried to excess in turkey. the leaves contain a deadly poison. ( ) the tea weed (sometimes styled a plant, because it also grows under cultivation) produces leaves, which are dried and rolled, and then treated with fire, using an appropriate instrument, by which the infusion is imbibed. the effect upon many persons is to cheer; but it impairs the sleep of others. the use is carried to excess in russia. the leaves contain a deadly poison. both these luxuries are cheap and portable, and are daily enjoyed by millions of persons in all climates. both require care and moderation in their use. both have advocates and enemies; and it cannot be settled by argument whether the plant or the weed is the more useful or hurtful to mankind. let it be well understood that this picture only describes the resting time, and not the active hours of progress in the cooler part of the day before and after the bright meridian sun. in working hours there was no lazy lolling, the enjoyment was that of delightful exertion, varied at every reach of the river. you start, indeed, quietly enough, but are sure soon to hear the well-known rushing sound of a milldam, and this almost every day, five or six times. on coming to it i usually went straight along the top edge of the weir, looking over for a good place to descend by, and surveying the innumerable little streams below to see my best course afterwards. by this time the miller and his family and his men, and all the neighbours, would run down to see the new sight, but i always lifted out my little black knapsack and put my paddle on shore, and then stepped out and pulled my boat over or round the obstruction, sometimes through a hayfield or two, or by a lane, or along a wall, and then launched her again in deep water. dams less than four feet high one can "shoot" with a headlong plunge into the little billows at the foot, but this wrenches the boot if it strikes against a stone, and it is better to get out and ease her through, lift her over, or drag her round. in other places i had to sit astride on the stern of the canoe, with both legs in the water, fending her off from big stones on either side, and cautiously steering.[xi.] [xi.] the invention of this method was made here, but its invaluable advantages were more apparent in passing the second rapid of rheinfelden. see _post_, page , where described, with a sketch. but with these amusements, and a little wading, you sit quite dry, and, leaning against the backboard, smoothly glide past every danger, lolling at ease where the current is excessive, and where it would not be safe to add impetus, for the shock of a collision there would break the strongest boat. if incidents like these, and the scenery and the people ashore, were not enough to satisfy the ever greedy mind, some louder plashing, with a deeper roar, would announce the rapids. this sound was sure to waken up any sleepiness, and once in the middle of rough water all had to be energy and life. i never had a positive upset, but of course i had to jump out frequently to save the boat, for the first care was the canoe, and the second was my luggage, to keep it all dry, the sketch-book in particular, while the third object was to get on comfortably and fast. after hours of these pleasures of work and rest, and a vast deal seen and heard and felt that would take too long to tell, the waning sun, and the cravings within for dinner, warned me truly that i had come near the stopping-place for the night. the town of tuttlingen is built on both sides of the river, and almost every house is a dyer's shop or a tannery, with men beating, scraping, and washing hides in the water. as i allowed the boat to drift among these the boys soon found her out--a new object--and therefore to boys (and may it always be so) well worth a shout and a run; so a whole posse of little germans scampered along beside me, but i could not see any feasible-looking inn. it is one of the privileges of this water tour that you can survey calmly all the whereabouts; and being out of reach of the touters and porters who harass the wretched traveller delivered to their grasp from an omnibus or a steamboat, you can philosophize on the whole _morale_ of a town, and if so inclined can pass it, and simply go on. in fact, on several occasions i did not fancy a town, so we went on to another. however, i was fairly nonplussed now. it would not do to go further, for it was not a thickly-peopled country; but i went nearly to the end of the place in search of a good landing, till i turned into a millrace and stepped ashore. the crowd pressed so closely that i had to fix on a boy who had a toy barrow with four little wheels, and amid much laughter i persuaded the boy to lend it (of course as a great honour to him), and so i pulled the boat on this to the hotel. the boy's sixpence of reward was a fact that brought all the juvenile population together, and though we hoisted the canoe into a hayloft and gave very positive injunction to the ostler to keep her safe, there was soon a string of older sightseers admitted one by one; and even at night they were mounting the ladder with lanterns, women as well as men, to examine the "schiff." a total change of garments usually enabled me to stroll through the villages in the evening without being recognised, but here i was instantly known as i emerged for a walk, and it was evident that an unusual attendance must be expected in the morning. tuttlingen is a very curious old town, with a good inn and bad pavement, tall houses, all leaning here and there, and big, clumsy, honest-looking men lounging after their work, and wonderfully satisfied to chat in groups amid the signal darkness of unlighted streets; very fat horses and pleasant-looking women, a bridge, and numerous schoolboys; these are my impressions of tuttlingen. [illustration: morning visitors. page .] even at six o'clock next morning these boys had begun to assemble for the sight they expected, and those of them who had satchels on their backs seemed grievously disappointed to find the start would not come off before their hour for early school. however, the grown-up people came instead, and flocked to the bridge and its approaches. while i was endeavouring to answer all the usual questions as to the boat, a man respectfully asked me to delay the start five minutes, as his aged father, who was bedridden, wished exceedingly just to see the canoe. in all such cases it is a pleasure to give pleasure, and to sympathize with the boundless delight of the boys, remembering how as a boy a boat delighted me; and then, again, these worthy, mother-like, wholesome-faced dames, how could one object to their prying gaze, mingled as it was with friendly smile and genuine interest? the stream on which i started here was not the main channel of the danube, but a narrow arm of the river conducted through the town, while the other part fell over the mill-weir. the woodcut shows the scene at starting, and there were crowds as large as this at other towns; but a picture never can repeat the shouts and bustle, or the sound of guns firing and bells ringing, which on more than one occasion celebrated the rob roy's morning paddle. the lovely scenery of this day's voyage often reminded me of that upon the wye,[xii.] in its best parts between ross and chepstow. there were the white rocks and dark trees, and caverns, crags, and jutting peaks you meet near tintern; but then the wye has no islands, and its muddy water at full tide has a worse substitute in muddier banks when the sea has ebbed. [xii.] murray says: "the meuse has been compared to the wye; but is even more romantic than the english river." i would rank the wye as much above the meuse as below the danube for romance in scenery. the islands on beauteous donau were of all sizes and shapes. some low and flat, and thickly covered with shrubs; others of stalwart rock, stretching up at a sharp angle, under which the glassy water bubbled all fresh and clear. almost each minute there was a new scene, and often i backed against the current to hold my post in the best view of some grand picture. magnificent crags reached high up on both sides, and impenetrable forests rung with echoes when i shouted in the glee of health, freedom, and exquisite enjoyment. but scenes and sentiments will not feed the hungry paddler, so i decided to stop at friedingen, a village on the bank. there was a difficulty now as to where the canoe could be left, for no inn seemed near enough to let me guard her while i breakfasted. at length a mason helped me to carry the rob roy into a donkey's stable, and a boy volunteered to guide the stranger to the best inn. the first, and the second, and the third he led me to were all beerhouses, where only drink could be had; and as the crowd augmented at every stage, i dismissed the ragged cicerone, and trusted myself instead to the sure leading of that unnamed instinct which guides a hungry man to food. even the place found at last, was soon filled with wondering spectators. a piece of a german and english dictionary from my baggage excited universal attention, and was several times carried outside to those who had not secured reserved seats within. the magnificent scenery culminated at beuron, where a great convent on a rich mound of grass is nearly surrounded by the danube, amid a spacious amphitheatre of magnificent white cliffs perfectly upright, and clad with the heaviest wood. the place looks so lonely, though fair, that you could scarcely believe you might stop there for the night, and so i had nearly swept by it again into perfect solitude, but at last pulled up under a tree, and walked through well ploughed fields to the little hamlet in this sequestered spot. the field labourers were of course surprised at the apparition of a man in flannel, who must have come out of the river; but the people at the kloster had already heard of the "schiff," and the rob roy was soon mounted on two men's shoulders, and borne in triumph to the excellent hotel. the prince who founded the monastery is, i believe, himself a monk. now tolls the bell for "even song," while my dinner is spread in an arbour looking out on this grand scene, made grander still by dark clouds gathering on the mountains, and a loud and long thunder peal, with torrents of rain. this deluge of wet came opportunely when i had such good shelter, as it cooled the air, and would strengthen the stream of the river; so i admired the venerable monks with complacent satisfaction, a feeling never so complete as when you are inside, and you look at people who are out in the rain. a young girl on a visit to her friends here could talk bad french rapidly, so she was sent to gossip with me as i dined; and then the whole family inspected my sketch-book, a proceeding which happened at least twice every day for many weeks of the voyage. this emboldened me to ask for some music, and we adjourned to a great hall, where a concert was soon in progress with a guitar, a piano, and a violin, all well played; and the germans are never at a loss for a song. my young visitor, melanie, then became the interpreter in a curious conversation with the others, who could speak only german; and i ventured to turn our thoughts on some of the nobler things which ought not to be long absent from the mind--i mean, what is loved, and feared, enjoyed, and derided, as "religion." in my very limited baggage i had brought some selected pieces and scripture anecdotes and other papers in french and german, and these were used on appropriate occasions, and were always well received, often with exceedingly great interest and sincere gratitude. some people are shy about giving tracts, or are even afraid of them. but then some people are shy of speaking at all, or even dislike to ride, or skate, or row. one need not laugh at another for this. the practice of carrying a few printed pages to convey in clear language what one cannot accurately speak in a foreign tongue is surely allowable, to say the least. but i invariably find it to be very useful and interesting to myself and to others; and, as it hurts nobody, and has nothing in it of which to be proud or ashamed, and as hundreds of men do it, and as i have done it for years, and will do it again, i am far too old a traveller to be laughed out of it now. the kloster at beuron is a favourite place for excursionists from the towns in the neighbourhood, and no doubt some day soon it will be a regular "place to see" for english travellers rowing down the danube; for it is thus, and only thus, you can approach it with full effect. the moon had come forth as i leaned out of my bedroom window, and it whitened the ample circus of beetling crags, and darkened the trees, while a fainter and redder light glimmered from the monks' chapel, as the low tones of midnight chanting now and then reached the ear. perhaps it is better to wear a monk's cowl than to wear consistently a layman's common coat in the workday throng of life; and it _may_ be better to fast and chant and kneel at shrines than to be temperate and thankful and prayerful in the busy world. but i doubt. after leaving beuron, with the firing of guns and the usual pleasant good wishes from the shore, the danube carried us between two lofty rocks, and down calm reaches for hours. the water was unspeakably clear; you could see right into deep caverns far below. i used to gaze downwards for so long a time at the fish moving about, and to strike at them with my long paddle (never once hitting any), that i forgot the boat was swinging along all the time, till bump she went on a bank, or crash against a rocky isle, or rumbling into some thick trees, when a shower of leaves, spiders, and rubbish wakened up my reverie. then, warned by the shock, i return to the plain duty of looking ahead, until, perhaps, after an hour's active rushing through narrow "guts," and over little falls, and getting out and hauling the boat down larger ones, my eyes are wandering again, gazing at the peaks overhead, and at the eagles soaring above them, and at the clear blue sky above all; till again the rob roy heels over on a sunken stone, and i have to jump out nimbly to save her from utter destruction. for days together i had my feet bare, and my trousers tucked up, ready to wade at any moment, and perfectly comfortable all the time, for a fiery sun dried every thing in a few minutes. the physical enjoyment of such a life to one in good health and good spirits, with a good boat and good scenery, is only to be appreciated after experience; for these little reminders that one must not actually _sleep_ on a rushing river never resulted in any disaster, and i came home without a cold or a scratch, or a hole in the boat, or one single day regretted. may this be so for many a john bull let loose on the continent to "paddle his own canoe." on the rivers where there is no navigation and no towing paths it was impossible to estimate the distances traversed each day, except by the number of hours i was at work, the average speed, the strength of the wind and current, and the number of stoppages for food or rest, or mill-weirs, waterfalls, or barriers. thirty miles was reckoned to be a good day's work, and i have sometimes gone forty miles in a day; but twenty was quite enough when the scenery and incidents on the way filled up every moment of time with varied sensations of new pleasures. it will generally be found, i think, that for walking in a pleasant country twenty miles a day is enough for mind and body to be active and observant all the time. but the events that occur in river work are far more frequent and interesting than those on the road, for you have all the circumstances of your boat in addition to what fills the pedestrian's journal, and after a little time your canoe becomes so much a companion (friend, shall i say?) that every turn it takes and every knock and grate on its side is felt as if it were your own. the boat gets to be individualized, and so does the river, till at last there is a pleasant rivalry set up, for it is "man and boat" _versus_ the river and all it can place in your way. after a few tours on the continent your first hour in a railway or diligence may be new and enjoyable, but you soon begin to wish for the end of the road, and after a short stay in the town you have come to you begin to talk (or think) of when you are to leave. now a feature of the boating tour is that quiet progress can be enjoyed all the time, because you have personal exertion or engagement for every moment, and your observation of the scenery around is now most minute and interesting, because every bend and slope of it tells at once what you have to do. certainly the pleasure of a day is not to be measured by the number of miles you have gone over. the voyage yesterday, for instance, was one of the very best for enjoyment of scenery, incident, and exercise, yet it was the shortest day i had. the guide-book says, "tuttlingen is twelve miles"--by river, say eighteen--"from kloster beuron, where the fine scenery begins. this part of the danube is not navigable." i will not say that on some occasions i did not wish for the end of the day's work, when arms were weary, and the sun was low, and yearnings of the inner man grumbling for dinner, especially when no one could tell how far it was to any house, or whether you could stop there all night if you reached it. chapter v. sigmaringen--treacherous trees--congress of herons--flying dutchman--tub and shovel--bottle race--snags--bridge perils--ya vol--ferry rope--benighted. the sides of the river were now less precipitous, and the road came within a field or two of the water, and made it seem quite homely for a time. i had heard a loud jingling sound on this road for at least half-an-hour, and observed a long cart with two horses trotting fast, and evidently daring to race with the rob roy. but at length such earnest signals were made from it that i stopped, and the cart at once pulled up, and from it there ran across the field a man breathless and hot, without his hat, and followed by two young ladies, equally hurried. he was a german, resident for a short time in london, and now at home for a month's holiday, and he was prodigal of thanks for my "great courtesy" in having stopped that the ladies might see the canoe which they had followed thus for some miles, having heard of its fame at their village. on another occasion three youths voluntarily ran alongside the boat and panted in the sun, and tumbled over stocks and stones at such a rate, that after a mile of the supererogatory exercise, i asked what it was all about. excellent villagers! they had taken all this trouble to arrive at a point further down the stream where they knew there was a hard place, and they thought they might help me in passing it. such exertions on behalf of a stranger were really most kind, and when i allowed them to give a nominal help, where in reality it was easy enough to get on unaided, they were much delighted and more than rewarded, and went back prattling their purest suabian in a highly satisfied frame of mind. many are the bends and currents, but at last we arrive at the town of sigmaringen. it has certainly an aristocratic air, though there are only , inhabitants; but then it has a principality, though the whole population of this is only , . fancy a parish in london with a prince all to themselves, and--bearing such a fine grand name too--"his royal serene highness the hereditary prince of hohenzollern sigmaringen." but though i have often laughed at this petty kingdom in the geography books, i shall never do so again, for it contains some of the most beautiful river scenery in the world, and i never had more unalloyed pleasure in passing through a foreign dominion. there are pretty gardens here, and a handsome protestant church, and a few good shops, schlosses on the hills, and older castles perched on high rocks in the usual picturesque and uncomfortable places where our ancestors built their nests. the deutscher hof is the hotel just opened three weeks ago, and all its inmates are in a flutter when their first english guest marches up to the door with a boat and a great company of gazers. the waiter too, all fresh from a year in london at the palace hotel, buckingham gate, how glad he is that his english is now in requisition, sitting by me at dinner and talking most sensibly all the time. the weather still continued superb as we paddled away. deep green woods dipped their lower branches in the water, but i found that the stream had sometimes a fashion of carrying the boat under these, and it is especially needful to guard against this when a sharp bend with a fast current hurries you into a wooded corner. indeed, strange as it may seem, there was more danger to the boat from these trees than from rocks or banks, and far more trouble. for when the boat gets under their low branches your paddle is quite powerless, because you cannot lower one end to hold the water without raising the other and so catching it in the trees. then if you put your head down forward you cannot see, and the boughs are generally as hard as an ordinary skull when the two are in collision. finally, if you lean backwards the twigs scrape your face and catch upon a nose even of ordinary length, and if you take your hand from the paddle to protect the face away goes the paddle into the river. therefore, although my hat was never knocked off, and my skull was always the hardest, and my paddle was never lost, and my nose was never de-romanized by the branches, i set it down as a maxim, to keep clear of trees in a stream. still it was tempting to go under shady groves when i tried to surprise a flock of herons or a family of wild ducks. once we came upon twenty-four herons all together. as my boat advanced silently, steadily gliding, it was curious to watch these birds, who had certainly never been disturbed before by any boat in such a place. they stared eagerly at me and then looked at each other, and evidently took a vote of the assembly as to what all this could mean. if birds' faces can give any expression of their opinions, it is certain that one of these herons was saying then to the others "did you ever?" and an indignant sneer was on another's beak that plainly answered, "such impudence indeed!" while a third added, with a sarcastic chirp, "and a foreigner too!" but, after consultation, they always got up and circled round, flew down stream, and then settled all again together in an adjourned meeting. a few minutes brought me to their new retreat, and so we went on for miles, they always flying down stream, and always assembling, though over and over again disturbed, until an amendment on the plan was moved and they bent their way aside. a pleasant and favourable breeze springing up, which soon freshened into a gale, i now set my sails, and the boat went with very great speed; dashing over rocks and bounding past the haymakers so fast that when one who caught sight of her had shouted to the rest of his "mates," the sight was departed for ever before they came, and i heard them behind me arguing, probably about the ghost. but it was a shame to be a phantom ship too often, and it was far more amusing to go right into the middle of these people, who knew nothing about the canoe, who had never seen a boat, and never met a foreigner in their lives. thus, when a waterfall was found too high to "shoot," or a wide barrier made it advisable to take the boat by land, i used to walk straight into the hayfields, pushing the boat point foremost through a hedge, or dragging her steadily over the wet newly-mown grass in literal imitation of the american craft which could go "wherever there was a heavy dew." on such occasions the amazement of the untaught clowns, beholding suddenly such an apparition, was beyond all description. some even ran away, very often children cried outright, and when i looked gravely on the ground as i marched and dragged the boat, and then suddenly stopped in their midst with a hearty laugh and an address in english, the whole proceeding may have appeared to them at least as strange as it did to me. [illustration: "in the hayfields."] the water of the river all at once became here of a pale white colour, and i was mourning that my pretty scenes below were clouded; but in about thirty miles the pebbly deeps appeared again, and the stream resumed its charming limpid clearness. this matter of dark or bright water is of some importance, because, when it is clear you can easily estimate after a little experience the general depth, even at some distance, by the shades and hues of the water, while the sunk rocks, big stones, and other particular obstacles are of course more visible then. usually i got well enough fed at some village, or at least at a house, but in this lonely part of the river it seemed wise to take provender with me in the boat, and to picnic in some quiet pool, with a shady tree above. one of the very few boats i saw on the river appeared as i was thus engaged, and a little boy was in it. his specimen of naval architecture (no doubt the only one he had ever seen) was an odd contrast to the beautifully finished canoe made by searle. he had a pole and a shovel; the latter article he used as a paddle, and his boat was of enormous thickness and clumsiness, made of three planks, abundantly clamped with iron. i gave him some bread, and we had a chat; then some butter, and then some cheese. he would not take wine, but he produced a cigar from his wet jacket, and also two matches, which he lighted with great skill. we soon got to be friends, as people do who are together alone, and in the same mode of travelling, riding, or sailing, or on camels' backs. so we smiled in sympathy, and i asked him if he could read, and gave him a neat little page prettily printed in german, with a red border. this he read very nicely and was glad to put in his ragged pocket; but he could scarcely part from me, and struggled vainly to urge his tub along with the shovel till we came to a run of dashing waves, and then of course i had to leave him behind, looking and yearning, with a low, murmuring sound, and a sorrowful, earnest gaze i shall never forget. shoals of large and small fish are in this river, and very few fishermen. i did not see ten men fishing in ten days. but the pretty little kingfisher does not neglect his proper duties, and ever and anon his round blue back shines in the sun as he hurries away with a note of protest against the stranger who has invaded his preserves. bees are buzzing while the sun is hot, and when it sinks, out gush the endless mazes of gnats to hop and flit their tangled dances, the creatures of a day--born since the morning, and to die at night. before the danube parted with the rocks that had been on each side for days together, it played some strange pranks among them, and they with it. often they rose at each side a hundred feet without a bend, and then behind these were broken cliffs heaved this way and that, or tossed upside down, or as bridges hanging over chasms. here and there a huge splinted tooth-like spire of stone stuck out of the water, leaning at an angle. sometimes in front there was a veritable upright wall, as smooth as if it were chiselled, and entirely cutting off the middle of the stream. in advancing steadily to such a place it was really impossible to determine on which side the stream could by any means find an exit, and once indeed i was persuaded that it must descend below. in other cases the river, which had splayed out its width to that of the thames at hungerford, would suddenly narrow its size to a six-foot passage, and rush down that with a "whishhh!" the rob roy cheerily sped through these, but i landed to scan the course before attempting the most difficult cuts.--oh how lonely it was! a more difficult vagary to cope with was when in a dozen petty streams the water tumbled over as many little cascades, and only one was passable--sometimes not one. the interest of finding these, examining, trying, failing, and succeeding, was a continuous delight, and filled up every mile with a series of exciting incidents, till at length the rocks were done. and now we enter a vast plain, with the stream bending round on itself, and hurrying swiftly on through the innumerable islands, eddies, and "snags," or trees uprooted, sticking in the water. at the most critical part of this labyrinth we were going a tremendous pace, when suddenly we came to a fork in the river, with the volumes of water going down both channels nearly equal. we could not descend by one of these because a tree would catch the mast, so i instantly turned into the other, when up started a man and shouted impetuously that no boat could pass by _that_ course. it was a moment of danger, but i lowered the sails in that moment, took down my mast, and, despite stream and gale, i managed to paddle back to the proper channel. as no man had been seen for hours before, the arrival of this warning note was opportune. a new amusement was invented to-day--it was to pitch out my empty wine-bottle and to watch its curious bobbings and whirlings as the current carried it along, while i floated near and compared the natural course taken by the bottle with the selected route which intelligence gave to the rob roy. soon the bottle became impersonated, and we were racing together, and then a sympathy began for its well-known cork as it plumped down when its bottom struck a stone--for the bottle drew more water than my canoe--and every time it grounded there came a loud and melancholy clink of the glass, and down it went. the thick bushes near the river skirted it now for miles, and at one place i could see above me, through the upper branches, about haymakers, men and women, who were honestly working away, and therefore had not observed my approach. i resolved to have a bit of fun here, so we closed in to the bank, but still so as to see the industrious group. then suddenly i began in a very loud voice with-- "rule, britannia, britannia rules the waves." long before i got to the word "slaves" the whole party were like statues, silent and fixed in amazement. then they looked right, left, before, behind, and upwards in all directions, except, of course, into the river, for why should they look _there_? nothing had ever come up from the river to disturb their quiet mead. i next whistled a lively air, and then dashing out of my hiding-place stood up in my boat, and made a brief (but, we trust, brilliant) speech to them in the best english i could muster, and in a moment afterwards we had vanished from their sight. a little further on there was some road-making in progress, and i pulled up my boat under a tree and walked up to the "barraque," or workman's canteen, and entered among or german "navvies," who were sitting at their midday beer. i ordered a glass and drank their health standing, paid, bowed, and departed, but a general rush ensued to see where on earth this flannel-clad being had come from, and they stood on the bank in a row as i waded, shoved, hauled, paddled, and carried my boat through a troublesome labyrinth of channels and embankments, with which their engineering had begun to spoil the river. but the bridges one had now more frequently to meet were far worse encroachments of civilization, for most of them were so low that my mast would not pass under without heeling the boat over to one side, so as to make the mast lean down obliquely. in one case of this kind she was very nearly shipwrecked, for the wind was so good that i would not lower the sail, and this and a swift current took us (me and my boat--she is now, you see, installed as a "person") rapidly to the centre arch, when just as we entered i noticed a fierce-looking snag with a sharp point exactly in my course. to swerve to the side would be to strike the wooden pier, but even this would be better (for i might ward off the violence of a blow near my hands) than to run on the snag, which would be certain to cut a hole. with a heavy thump on the pier the canoe began to capsize, and only by the nearest escape was she saved from foundering. what i thought was a snag turned out to be the point of an iron stake or railing, carelessly thrown into the water from the bridge above. it may be here remarked that many hidden dangers occur near bridges, for there are wooden or iron bars fixed under water, or rough sharp stones lying about, which, being left there when the bridge was building, are never removed from a river not navigable or used by boats. another kind of obstruction is the thin wire rope suspended across the rivers, where a ferry is established by running a flat boat over the stream with cords attached to the wire rope. the rope is black in colour, and therefore is not noticed till you approach it too near to lower the mast, but this sort of danger is easily avoided by the somewhat sharp "look-out" which a week or two on the water makes quite instinctive and habitual. perhaps one of the many advantages of a river tour is the increased acuteness of observation which it requires and fosters. i stopped next at a clumsy sort of town called riedlingen, where an englishman is a very rare visitor. the excitement here about the boat became almost ridiculous, and one german, who had been in america and could jabber a little in english, was deputed to ask questions, while the rest heard the answers interpreted. next morning at eight o'clock at least a thousand people gathered on the bridge and its approaches to see the boat start, and shoals of schoolboys ran in, each with his little knapsack of books.[xiii.] [xiii.] knapsack, from "schnap," "sach," provision bag, for "bits and bats," as we should say; havresack is from "hafer," "forage bag." query.--does this youthful carriage of the knapsack adapt boys for military service, and does it account for the high shoulders of many germans? the scenery after this became of only ordinary interest compared with what i had passed through, but there would have been little spare time to look at it had it been ever so picturesque, for the wind was quite a gale,[xiv.] and right in my favour, and the stream was fast and tortuous with banks, eddies, and innumerable islands and cross channels, so that the navigation occupied all one's energy, especially as it was a point of honour not to haul down the sail in a fair wind. [xiv.] in the newspaper accounts of the weather it was stated that at this time a storm swept over central europe. midday came, and yet i could find no place to breakfast, though the excitement and exertion of thus sailing was really hard work. but still we hurried on, for dark clouds were gathering behind, and thunder and rain seemed very near. "ah," said i inwardly, "had i only listened to that worthy dame's entreaties this morning to take good provision for the day!" she had smiled like the best of mothers, and timidly asked to be allowed to touch my watch-chain, "it was so _schon_," so beautiful to see. but, oddly enough, we had taken no solid food on board to-day, being so impatient to get off when the wind was strong and fair. the rapid pace then brought us to ehingen, the village i had marked on the map for this night's rest. but now we came there it was found to be _too soon_--i could not stop for the day with such a splendid breeze inviting progress; nor would it do to leave the boat on the bank and go to the village to eat, for it was too far from the river, and so the current and sails must hurry us on as before. now and then i asked some gazing agriculturist on the bank where the nearest houses were, but he never could understand that i meant _nearest, and also close to the river_; so the end of every discussion was that he said, "ya vol," which means in yankee tongue, "that's so"; in scottish, "hoot, aye"; in irish, "troth, an' it is"; and in french, "c'est vrai"; but then none of this helps one a bit. i therefore got first ravenous and then faint, and after mounting the bank to see the turns of the river in advance, i actually fell asleep under a tree. the wind had quite subsided when i awoke, and then quaffed deep draughts of water and paddled on. the banks were now of yellow mud, and about eight or ten feet high, quite straight up from the water, just like those on the nile, and several affluent streams ran from the plain to join the river. often, indeed, i saw a church tower right ahead, and laboured along to get there, but after half-a-mile the stream would turn sharp round to one side, and still more and more round, and at last the tower once in front was directly behind us. the explanation of this tormenting peculiarity was simply this,--that the villages were carefully built _away_ from the river bank because it is a bad foundation, and is washed away as new channels are formed by the flood. when the light began to fail i took a good look at the map, and serpentine bends were marked on it plain enough indeed, but only in one-half of their actual number; and, moreover, i saw that in the forest we had now entered there would be no suitable villages at all. the overhanging trees made a short twilight soon deepen into night; and to add to the interest the snags suddenly became numerous, and some of them waved about in the current, as they do on the upper mississippi, when the tenacious mud holds down the roots merely by its weight. all this made it necessary to paddle slowly and with great caution, and to cross always to the slack side of the stream instead of by one's usual course, which, in descending, is to keep with the rapid current. sometimes i had to back out of shallows which were invisible in the dark, and often i stopped a long time before a glance of some ripple obscurely told me the probable course. the necessity for this caution will be evident when it is remembered that in case of an upset here _both_ sets of clothes would have been wet together, and without any house at hand to dry them. all at once i heard a bell toll quite near me in the thick wood, and i came to the bank, but it was impossible to get ashore on it, so i passed that place too, and finally made up my mind to sleep in the boat, and soon had all sorts of plans in course of devising. just then two drops of rain came on my nose, and i resolved at once to stop, for if my clothes got wet before i was snug in the canoe there would be little comfort all night, without anything solid to eat since morning, and all my cigars already puffed away. as i now cautiously searched for some root projecting from the bank to make fast to, a light appeared straight in front, and i dashed forward with the boat to reach it, and speedily ran her into a strange sort of lake or pond, where the stream ceased, and a noise on the boat's side told of weeds, which proved to be large round leaves on the surface, like those of the victoria regia lily. i drew up the boat on shore, and mounted the high bank through a thicket, carrying my long paddle as a protection against the large dogs which farmhouses sport here, and which might be troublesome to quarrel with in the dark. the house i came to on the top of the precipice had its window lighted, and several people were talking inside, so i knocked loudly, and all was silence. then i knocked again, and whined out that i was a poor benighted "englander," and hoped they would let me in, at which melancholy tale they burst out laughing, and so did i! after an argument between us, which was equally intelligible on both sides, a fat farmer cautiously took the light upstairs, and, opening a window, thrust the candle forward, and gazed out upon me standing erect as a true briton, and with my paddle, too, but in reality a humiliated vagrant begging for a night's lodging. [illustration] [illustration] after due scrutiny he pulled in his head and his candle, shut the window, and fell to laughing immoderately. at this i was glad, for i never found it difficult to get on with a man who begins in good humour. presently the others went up, and i stood their gaze unflinchingly, and, besides, made an eloquent appeal in the vernacular--mine, not theirs, be it clearly understood. finally they were satisfied that i was alone, and, though probably mad, yet not quite a match for all of them, so they came down gallantly; but then there was the difficulty of persuading the man to grope down to the river on this dark night to carry up a boat. with some exertion we got it up by a better way, and safely locked it in the cowhouse of another establishment, and there i was made thoroughly comfortable. they said they had nothing to eat but kirchwasser, bread, and eggs, and how many eggs would i like? so i said, "to begin with, ten," and i ate them every one. by this time the priest had come; they often used to send for the _prester_ to do the talk. the large room soon got full, and the sketch-book was passed round, and an india-rubber band made endless merriment for the smaller fry, all in the old routine, the very mention of which it may be tedious to hear of so often, as indeed it was to me to perform. but then in each case it was _their_ first time of going through the performance, and they were so kind and courteous one could not refuse to please such people. the priest was very communicative, and we tried to converse in latin, for my german was not good enough for him nor his french for me. but we soon agreed that it was a long time since our schoolboy latin days, though i recollect having had long conversations in latin with a monk at nazareth, but there we had ten days together, and so had time to practise. thus ended the st of september, the only occasion on which i had to "rough it" at all during the voyage; and even then, it may be seen, the very small discomforts were all the results of gross want of prudence on my own part, and ended merely by a hard day's work with breakfast and dinner merged into a late supper. my bill here was _s._ _d._, the day before, _s._ _d._, including always wine and luxuries. chapter vi. day-dream--river iller--ulm--a stiff king--lake constance--seeing in the dark--switzerland--coloured canvas--sign talk--synagogue--amelia--gibberish. the threatening rain had not come during the night, and it was a lovely morning next day, like all the rest before and after it; and as we were leaving this place i found it was called gegglingen,[xv.] and was only nine miles from ulm. [xv.] it will be noticed how the termination "_ingen_" is common here. thus in our water route we have passed donaueschingen, geisingen, mehringen, tuttlingen, friedingen, sigmaringen, riedlingen, ehingen, dischingen, and gegglingen, the least and last. in england we have the "ing" in dorking, kettering, &c. the lofty tower of the cathedral of this town soon came in view, but i noticed it without any pleasure, for this was to end my week on the danube; and in my ship's log it is entered as "one of the most pleasant weeks of my life for scenery, health, weather, exercise, and varied adventure." in a pensive mood, therefore, i landed at a garden, and reclined on a warm mossy bank to have a rest and a day-dream, but very soon the loud booming of artillery aroused the hill echoes, and then sharp rattling of infantry firing. the heights around were crested with fringes of blue-coated soldiers and glistening bayonets, amid the soft round, cotton-like volumes of smoke from the great guns spurting out fire long before the sound comes. it was a review of troops and a sham attack on a fort surmounting the hill, near the battlefield of long years ago at ulm. if they fought in heat and fury, let them now rest in peace. come back, my thoughts, to the river at my feet. i had been with this river from its infancy, nay, even from its birth in the schwartzwald. i had followed it right and left, as it seemed to toddle in zigzag turnings like a child; and i had wound with it hither and thither as it roamed away further like free boyhood. then it grew in size by feeding on the oozy plain, and was still my companion when it got the strength of youth, dashing over the rocks, and bounding through the forests; and i had come at last to feel its powerful stream stronger than my strength, and compelling my respect. and now, at ulm, i found it a noble river, steady and swift, as if in the flower of age; but its romance was gone. it had boats on it, and navigation, and bridges, and railways, like other great waters; and so i would let it go on alone, tumbling, rushing, swelling, till its broad bosom bears whole fleets at ofen, and at length as a great water giant it leaps down headlong into the black sea. having seen ulm in a former tour, i was in no mood to "go over" the sights again, nor need they be related here, for it is only river travel and lake sailing that we are concerned with; while reference may be made to the guide-books if you wish to hear this sort of thing: "ulm, lat. °, an old cathedral (_a_) town, on two (§) hills (see appx.). pop. ; situated [+][+] on the danube." at that i stop, and look into the water once more. the river is discoloured here,--what is called in scotland "drumly;" and this seems partly owing to the tributary _iller_, which rises in the tyrol, and falls into the danube, a little way above the town. the iller has a peculiar air of wild, forlorn bleakness, with its wide channel half occupied by cold white gravel, and its banks scored and torn, with weird, broken roots, gnarled trees, bleakness and fallen, all lying dishevelled; surely in flood times, and of dark wintry nights, a very deluge boils and seethes along there. then, at last, there are the barges on the danube, and very rudimental they are; huge in size, with flat bottoms, and bows and stems cocked up, and a roofed house in the middle of their sprawling length. the german boys must have these models before them when they make the noah's arks for english nurseries; and murray well says of these barges, they are "nothing better than wooden sheds floating in flat trays." in a steamer was tried here, but it got on a bank, and the effort was abandoned; so you have to go on to donauwerth before this mode of travelling is reached, but from thence you can steam down to the black sea, and the passage boats below vienna are very fast and well appointed. rafts there are at ulm, but we suppose the timber for them comes by the iller, for i did not notice any logs descending the upper part of the danube. again, there are the public washhouses in the river, each of them a large floating establishment, with overhanging eaves, under which you can see, say, fifty women all in a row, half kneeling or leaning over the low bulwarks, and all slapping your best shirts mercilessly. i made straight over to these ladies, and asked how the rob roy could get up so steep a bank, and how far it was to the railway; and so their senior matron kindly got a man and a hand-cart for the boat, and, as the company of women heard it was from england, they all talked louder and more together, and pounded and smacked the unfortunate linen with additional emphasis. the bustle at the railway-station was only half about the canoe; the other half was for the king of wurtemburg, who was getting into his special train to go to his palace at fredrickshafen. behold me, then, fresh from gegglingen and snags, in the immediate presence of royalty! but this king was not at all kingly, though decidedly stiff. he is, however, rather amusing sometimes; as when by his order, issued lately, he compels sentries to salute even empty royal carriages. i got a newspaper here, and had twelve days to overtake of the world's doings while we had roamed in hill, forest, and waves. yet i had been always asked there to "give the news," and chiefly on two points,--the great eastern, with its electric cable, and the catastrophe on the matterhorn glacier, the two being at times vaguely associated, as if the breaking of the cable in the one had something to do with the loss of mountaineers in the other. so, while i read, the train bore us southwards to fredrickshafen, the canoe being charged as baggage three shillings, and patiently submitting to have a numbered label pasted on its pretty brown face. this lively port, on the north side of the lake of constance, has a charming view in front of it well worth stopping to enjoy. it is not fair to treat it as only a half-hour's town, to be seen while you are waiting for the lake steamer to take you across to switzerland. but now i come to it for a sunday's rest (if you wish to travel fast and far, rest every sunday), and, as the hotel faced the station, and the lake faced the hotel, this is the very place to stop in with a canoe. so we took the boat upstairs into a loft, where the washerwoman not only gave room for the well worked timbers of the rob roy to be safe and still, but kindly mended my sails, and sundry other odds and ends of a wardrobe, somewhat disorganized by rough times. next day there was service in the protestant church, a fine building, well filled, and duly guarded by a beadle in bright array. the service began by a woman singing "comfort ye" from handel, in exquisite taste and simple style, with a voice that made one forget that this solemn melody is usually sung by a man. then a large number of school children were ranged in the chancel, round a crucifix, and sang a very beautiful hymn, and next the whole congregation joined in chanting the psalms in unison, with tasteful feeling and devoutness. a young german preacher gave us an eloquent sermon, and then the people were dismissed. the afternoon was drummed away by two noisy bands, evidently rivals, and each determined to excel the other in loudness, while both combined to persecute the poor visitors who _do_ wish for quietness, at any rate once a week. i could scarcely escape from this din in a long walk by the lake, and on coming back found a man bathing by moonlight, while rockets, squibs, and catherine wheels were let off in his boat. better indeed was it to look with entranced eyes on the far off snowy range, now lit up by the full harvest moon, and on the sheen of "each particular star," bright above, and bright again below, in the mirror of the lake. the lake of constance is forty-four miles long, and about nine miles wide. i could not see a ripple there when the rob roy was launched at early morn, with my mind, and body, and soul refreshed, and an eager longing to begin the tour of switzerland once more, but now in so new a fashion. soon we were far from the shore, and in that middle distance of the lake where all sides seem equally near, and where the "other side" appears never to get any nearer as you go on. here, in the middle, i rested for a while, and the sensation then was certainly new. beauty was everywhere around, and there was full freedom to see it. there was no cut-and-dry route to be followed, no road, not even a track on the water, no hours, or time to constrain. i could go right or left by a stroke of the paddle, and i was utterly my own master of whither to steer, and where to stop. the "pat-a-pat" of a steamer's wheels was the only sound, and that was very distant, and when the boat came near, the passengers cheered the canoe, and smiles of (was it not?) envy told of how pleasant and pretty she looked. after a little wavering in my plans, i settled it was best to go to the swiss side, and, after coasting by the villages, i selected a little inn in a retired bay, and moored my boat, and ordered breakfast. here was an old man of eighty-six, landlord and waiter in one, a venerable man, and i respect age more while growing older. he talked with me for five hours while i ate, read, and sketched, and feasted my eyes on mountain views, and answered vaguely to his remarks, said in a sleepy way, and in a hot, quiet, basking sun. there are peaceful and almost dreamy hours of rest in this water tour, and they are sweet too after hard toil. it is not all rapids and struggles when you journey with a canoe. close to the inn was the idiot asylum, an old castle with poor demented women in it. the little flag of my boat attracted their attention, and all the inmates were allowed to come out and see it, with many smiles of pleasure, and many odd remarks and gestures. disentangling myself from this strange group, i landed again further down, and, under a splendid tree, spent an hour or two in carpenter's work (for i had a few tools on board), to repair the boat's damages and to brighten her up a bit for the english eyes i must expect in the next part of the voyage. not a wave had energy to rise on the lake in the hot sun. a sheep-bell tinkled now and then, but in a tired, listless, and irregular way. a gossamer spider had spun his web from my mast to the tree above, and wagtails hopped near me on the stones, and turned an inquiring little eye to the boat half in the water, and its master reclining on the grass. it was an easy paddle from this to the town of constance, at the end of the lake. here a _douanier_ made a descent upon me and was inexorable. "you _must_ have the boat examined." "very well, pray examine it." his chief was absent, and i must put the canoe in the custom-house till to-morrow morning. an hour was wasted in palaver about this, and at first i protested vigorously against such absurdity in "free switzerland." but constance is not in switzerland, it is in the grand duchy of baden, and so to keep it "grand," they must do very little things, and at any rate can trouble travellers. at length an obliging native, ashamed of the proceeding, remonstrated with the douanier, and persuaded him at least to search the boat and let it pass. he took as much time to inspect as if she were a brig of tons, and, when he came to look at the stern, i gravely pointed to a round hole cut in the partition for this very purpose! into this hole he peered, while the crowd was hushed in silence, and as he saw nothing but darkness, extremely dark, for (nothing else was there), he solemnly pronounced the canoe "free," and she was duly borne to the hotel. but constance once had a man in it who was really "grand," john huss, the noble martyr for the truth. in the council hall you see the veritable cell in which he was imprisoned some hundreds of years ago, and on a former visit i had seen, from the tower, through a telescope, the field where the faggots burned him, and from whence his great soul leaped up to heaven out of the blazing pile. "avenge, o lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered on the alpine mountains cold; e'en them who kept thy truth so pure of old when all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones." --_milton._ does not a thought or two on such great things make other common things look small? true and good--but we may not stop always in the lake to ponder thus, for the current is moving again, so let us launch the rob roy on our old friend, the rhine. it is a change to cross a quiet lake after being hurried on a rapid stream like the danube, and now it is another change to paddle from the lake into a wide river like the rhine, which speeds fast and steady among lively scenes. the water is deep, and of a faint blue, but clear enough to show what is below. the pebbly bottom seems to roll towards you from underneath, and village churches appear to spin quietly round on the banks, for the land and its things seem to move, not the water, so glassy its surface steadily flowing. here are the fishers again, slowly paying out their fine-spun nets, and there is a target-hut built on four piles in the river. the target itself is a great cube of wood, say six feet on each side. it is fired at from another hut perched also on post in the water, and a "marker" safely placed behind the great block of wood turns it round on a vertical pivot, and so patches up the bullet-hole, and indicates its position to those who have fired. the rhine suddenly narrows soon after leaving the boden see, or lake constance as we call it, but the banks again open out till it is a mile or two in breadth. here and there are grassy islands, and you may notice, by long stakes stuck on the shallows, which tremble as the water presses them, that the channel for steamers is very roundabout, though the canoe will skim over any part of it comfortably. behind each islet of tall reeds there is a fishing-boat held fast by two poles stuck in the bottom of the river; or it is noiselessly moving to a more lucky pool, sculled by the boatman, with his oar at only one side,--rather a novel plan,--while he pays out the net with his other hand. rudely-made barges are afloat, and seem to turn round helplessly in the current of the deeper parts, or hoist their great square sails in the dead calm--perhaps for the appearance of the thing--a very picturesque appearance, as the sail has two broad bands of dark blue cloth for its centre stripes. but the pointed lateen sail of geneva is certainly a more graceful rig than the lug, especially when there are two masts, and the white sails swell towards you, goosewinged, before a flowing breeze. the river has probably a very uneven bottom in this part, for the water sometimes rushes round in great whirlpools, and strange overturnings of itself, as if it were boiling from below in exuberant volume with a gushing upwards; and then again, it wheels about in a circle with a sweep far around, before it settles to go onward.[xvi.] [xvi.] these maelstroms seem at first to demand extra caution as you approach, but they are harmless enough, for the water is deep, and it only twists the boat round; and you need not mind this except when the sail is up, but have a care _then_ that you are not taken aback. in crossing one of these whirlpools at full speed it will be found needless to try to counteract the sudden action on your bow by paddling against it, for it is better to hold on as if there were no interference, and presently the action in the reverse direction puts all quite straight. on the borders of switzerland the german and french tongues are both generally known at the hotels, and by the people accustomed to do business with foreigners travelling among them. but in your course along a river these convenient waiters and polyglot commissionaires are not found exactly in attendance at every village, and it is, therefore, to the bystanders or casual loungers your observations must be addressed. frequent intercourse with natives of strange countries, where there is no common language between them and the tourist, will gradually teach him a "sign language" which suits all people alike. thus, in any place, no matter what was their dialect, it was always easy to induce one or two men to aid in carrying the canoe. the _formula_ for this was something in the following style. i first got the boat on shore, and a crowd of course soon collected, while i arranged its interior, and sponged out the splashed water, and fastened the cover down. then, tightening my belt for a walk, i looked round with a kind smile, and selecting a likely man, would address him in english deliberately as follows--suiting each action to the word, for i have always found that sign language is made more natural when you speak your own tongue all the time you are acting:--"well now, i think as you have looked on enough and have seen all you want, it's about time to go to an hotel, a _gasthaus_. here! you--yes, _you_!--just take that end of the boat up, so,--gently, '_langsam!_' '_langsam!_'--all right, yes, under your arm, like this,--now march off to the best hotel, _gasthaus_." [illustration: "langsam."] then the procession naturally formed itself. the most humorous boys of course took precedence, because of services or mischief willing to be performed; and, meanwhile, they gratuitously danced about and under the canoe like fauns around silenus. women only came near and waited modestly till the throng had passed. the seniors of the place kept on the safer confines of the movement, where dignity of gait might comport with close observation. in a case of sign talking like the foregoing you can be helped by one substantive and one adverb; and if you pronounce these clearly, and use them correctly, while all the other expressions are evidently _your_ language and not theirs, they will understand it much better than if you try signs in dumb show or say the whole in bad german, and so give rise to all possible mistakes of your meaning. but it is quite another matter when you have forgotten (or have never acquired) the foreign word for the noun you wish to name, though, even then, by well chosen signs, and among an intelligent people, a good deal can be conveyed, as may be shown in the following cases. once i was riding among the arabs along the algerian coast, on my way from carthage, and my guide, a dense kabyle, was evidently taking me past a place i wished to visit, and which had been duly entered in the list when he was engaged. i could not make him understand this, for my limited arabic had been acquired under a different pronunciation in syria; but one night, it happened that a clever chief had me in a tent, or rather a hut, just like the top of a gipsy cart. i explained to him by signs (and talking english) that the muleteer was taking me past the place it was desired to see. then i tried to pronounce the name of that place, but was always wrong, or he could not make it out; it was maskutayn, or "bewitched waters," a wonderful volcanic valley, full of boiling streams and little volcanoes of salt. at length, sitting in the moonlight, signs were tried even for this difficult occasion. i put my chibouque (pipe) under the sand and took water in my hand, and as he looked on intently--for the arabs love this speaking action--i put water on the fire in the pipe-bowl, and blew it up through the sand, talking english all the time. this was done again, and suddenly the black lustrous eyes of the ishmaelite glistened brighter. he slapped his forehead. he jumped up. you could almost be sure he said "i know it now;" and then he roused the unfortunate muleteer from his snorings to give him an energetic lecture, by means of which we were directed next day straight to the very place i desired to find. in a few cases of this international talking it becomes necessary to sketch pictures, which are even better than signs, but not among arabs. during a visit to the fair of nijni novgorod, in the middle of russia, i passed many hours in the "chinese street" there, and found it was very difficult to communicate with ching loo, and even signs were useless. but they had some red wax about the tea-chests, and there was a white wall beside us, so upon this i put the whole story in large pictures, with an explanatory lecture in english all the time, which proceeding attracted an audience of several scores of chinamen and kalmuks and other outlandish people, and the particular group i meant to enlighten seemed perfectly to understand all that was desired. and so we suppose that if you can work your paddle well, and learn the general sign language, and a little of the pencil tongue, you can go very far in a canoe without being starved or homeless; while you are sure to have a wide field in which to study the various degrees of intelligence among those you meet. to come back, however, from the volga to the rhine. the current flows more and more gently as we enter the zeller see, or unter see, a lake which would be called pretty if our taste has not been sated for a while by having a snowy range for the background to the views on constance. but the lake of constance sadly wants islands, and here in the zeller see are several, one of them being of great size. the emperor of the french had passed two days at his chateau on this lake, just before we arrived. no doubt he would have waited a week had he known the rob roy was coming.[xvii.] [xvii.] his majesty has not forgotten the canoe, as will be seen by the following extract from the paris intelligence in the "globe" of april (his majesty's birthday):-- "by an edict, dated april , , issued this morning, the ministre d'etat institutes a special committee for the organisation of a special exhibition, at the exposition universelle of , of all objects connected with the arts and industry attached to pleasure boats and river navigation. this measure is thought to display the importance which amateur navigation has assumed during the last few years--to display the honour in which is held this _sport nouveau_, as it is denominated in the report, and to be successful in abolishing the old and absurd prejudices which have so long prevented its development in france. the emperor, whose fancy for imitating everything english leads him to patronise with alacrity all imitation of english sports in particular, is said to have suggested the present exhibition after reading macgregor's 'cruise of the rob roy,' which developes many new ideas of the purposes besides mere pleasure to which pleasure boats may be applied, and would be glad to encourage a taste for the exploration of solitary streams and lonely currents amongst the youth of france." however, as we were too late to breakfast with his majesty, i pulled in at the village of steckborn, where an inn is built on the actual edge of the water, a state of things most convenient for the aquatic tourist, and which you find often along this part of the rhine. in a case of this sort you can tap at the door with the paddle, and order a repast before you debark, so that it is boiling and fizzing, and the table is all ready, while you put things to rights on board, and come leisurely ashore, and then tie the boat to the window balcony, or, at any rate, in some place where it can be seen all the time you breakfast or dine, and rest, and read, and draw. experience proved that very few boys, even of the most mischievous species, will meddle with a boat which is floating, but that very few men, even of the most amiable order, will refrain from pulling it about when the little craft is left on shore. to have your boat not only moored afloat but in your sight too,--that is perfection, and it is worth additional trouble to arrange this, because then and for hours of the midday stoppage, you will be wholly at ease, or at any rate, you will have one care the less, the weary resting traveller will not then be anxious about his absent boat, as if it were a valuable horse in a strange stable. the landlord was much interested in the story of my voyage as depicted in the sketch-book, so he brought a friend to see me who could speak french, and who had himself constructed a boat of two tin tubes,[xviii.] on which a stage or frame is supported, with a seat and rowlocks, the oddest looking thing in nautical existence. i persuaded him to put this institution into the water, and we started for a cruise; the double-tube metal boat, with its spider-like gear aloft, and the oak canoe, so low and rakish, with its varnished cedar deck, and jaunty flag, now racing side by side, each of them a rare sight, but the two together quite unprecedented. [xviii.] each of these was in shape like the cigar ship which i had sailed past on the thames, and which has since been launched. the river here is like parts of the clyde and the kyles of bute, with french villages let in, and an italian sky stretched overhead. we rowed across to a village where a number of jews live, for i wished to visit their synagogue; but, lo! this was the grand duchy of baden land, and a heavily-armed sentry found us invading the dominion, so he deployed and formed square to force us to land somewhere else. the man was civil, but his orders were unreasonable, so we merely embarked again and went over to switzerland, and ran our little fleet into a bramble bush, to hide it while we mounted to an auberge on the hill for a sixpenny bottle of wine. the pretty swiss lass in charge said she once knew an englishman--but "it was a pity they were all so proud." he had sent her a letter in english, which i asked her to let me read for her. it began, "my dear little girl, i love you;" and this did not sound so very proud for a beginning. my boating friend promised to make her a tin _cafetiere_, and so it may be divined that he was the tinman of the village, and a most agreeable tinman too. she came to see us on board, and her father arrived just in time to witness a triangular parting, which must have puzzled him a good deal, amelia waving farewell to a "proud" englishman and a nautical whitesmith, who both took leave also of each other, the last sailing away with huge square yards and coloured canvas, and the rob roy drifting with the stream in the opposite direction. every day for weeks past had been as a picnic to me, but i prolonged this one into night, the air was so balmy and the red sun setting was so soon replaced by the white moon rising, and besides, the navigation here had no dangers, and there were villages every few miles. when i had enough of it, cruising here and there by moonlight, i drew up to the town of stein, but all was now lonely by the water-side. this is to be expected when you arrive late; however, a slap or two on the water with the paddle, and a loud verse of a song, italian, dutch, a pibroch, any noise in fact, soon draws the idlers to you, and it is precisely the idlers you want. one of them readily helped me with the boat to an inn, where an excellent landlady greeted the strange guest. from this moment all was bustle there, and very much it was increased by a german guest, who insisted on talking to me in english, which i am sure i did not understand a bit better than the germans who came to listen and look on. chapter vii. fog--fancy pictures--boy soldiers--boat's billet--eating--lake zurich--crinoline--hot walk--staring--lake zug--swiss shots--fishing britons--talk-book. in the morning there was a most curious change of air; all around was in a dense white fog. truly it was now to be "sensation rowing;" so we hastened to get off into this milky atmosphere. i have an idea that we passed under a bridge; at least the usual cheers sounded this time as if they were above me, but the mist was as thick as our best november cheshire-cheese fogs, and quite as interesting. on several occasions i positively could not see the bow of my boat, only a few feet from my nose. the whole arrangement was so unexpected and entirely novel,--paddling on a fast invisible stream--that i had the liveliest emotions of pleasure without seeing anything at all. but then fancy had free play all the time, and the pictures it drew were vivid and full of colour, and, after all, our impressions of external objects are only pictures, so say the philosophers; and why not then enjoy a tour in a fog, with a good album of pictures making the while in the brain? sounds too there were, but like those of witches and fairies--though perhaps it was only the cackling of some antique washerwomen on the banks. however, i addressed the unseen company in both prose and poetry, and was full of emphasis, which now and again was increased by my boat running straight into the shore. the clearing away of the fog was one of the most interesting evolutions of nature to be seen. in one sort or other every traveller has enjoyed the quick or gradual tearing up of a fog curtain on mountain or moor, but here it was on a beauteous river. i wish to describe this process, but i cannot. it was a series of "turner pictures," with glimpses right and left, and far overhead, of trees, sky, castles, each lightened and shown for a moment, and then gauzed over again and completely hidden; while the mind had to imagine all the context of the scenery, and it was sure to be quite wrong when another gleam of sun disclosed what was there in reality. for it cleared away at last, and father sol avenged himself by an extra hot ray, for thus trifling with his beams. the rhine banks here were sloping but steep, with pleasant meadows, vineyards, and woods, mingled with tolerable fairness to all three. in short, though i appreciate scenery with an eager admiration, any scenery seemed good when the genial exercise of the canoe was the medium for enjoying it. soon afterwards the woods thickened, the mountains rose behind them, the current got faster and faster, the houses, at first dotted on the knolls, got closer and more suburb like, and at last a grand sweep of the stream opened up schaffhausen to the eye, while a sullen sound on the water warned of "rapids ahead." as i intended to keep them always in front, some caution was needed in steering, though there is no difficulty here, for steamboats navigate thus far, and of course it is easy for a canoe. but when i glided down to the bridge there was the "goldenen schiff" hotel, and i resolved to patronise it on account of its name, and because there was a gigantic picture of a briton on the adjoining wall. he was in full highland costume, though the peculiar tartan of his kilt showed that there is still one clan we have not yet recognised. here began a novel kind of astonishment among the people; for when, on my arrival, they asked, "where have you come from?" and were told, "from england," they could not understand how my course seemed as if in reality from germany. the short morning's work being soon over, there was all the day before me to wander about. drums and a band presently led me to a corps of little boys in full uniform, about of them, all with real guns and with boy officers, most martial to behold, albeit they were munching apples between the words of command, and pulling wry faces at urchins of eight years old, who strove in vain to take long steps with short legs. they had some skirmishing drill, and used small goats' horns to give the orders instead of bugles. these horns are used on the railways too, and the note is very clear, and may be heard well a long way off. indeed i think much might be done in our drill at home by something of this sort. it is a short three miles to the belle vue, built above the falls of schaffhausen, and in full view of this noble scene. these great falls of the rhine looked much finer than i had recollected them some twelve years before; it is pleasant, but unusual, for one's second visit to such sights to be more striking than the first. at night the river was splendidly illuminated by bengal lights of different colours, and the effect of this on the tossing foam and rich full body of ever pouring water--or fire as it then seemed to be--was to present a spectacle of magical beauty and grandeur, well seen from the balcony of the hotel, by many travellers from various lands. on one side of me was a russian, and a brazilian on the other. next day, at the railway-station, i put the sharp bow of the rob roy in at the window of the "baggages" office, and asked for the "boat's ticket." the clerk did not seem at all surprised, for he knew i was an englishman, and nothing is too odd, queer, mad in short, for englishmen to do. but the porters, guards, and engine-drivers made a good deal of talk before the canoe was safely stowed among the trunks in the van; and i now and then visited her there, just for company's sake, and to see that the sharp-cornered, iron-bound boxes of the american tourists had not broken holes in her oaken skin. one could not but survey, with some anxiety, the lumbering casks on the platform, waiting to be rolled in beside the canoe; and the fish baskets, iron bars, crates, and clumsy gear of all sorts, which at every stoppage is tumbled in or roughly shovelled out of the luggage-van of a train. this care and sympathy for a mere boat may be called enthusiasm by those who have not felt the like towards inanimate objects linked to our pleasures or pains by hourly ties of interest; but others will understand how a friendship for the boat was felt more every day i journeyed with her: her strong points were better known as they were more tried, but the weak points, too, of the frail traveller became now more apparent, and the desire to bring her safely to england was rapidly increased when we had made the homeward turn. the mere cost of the railway ticket for the boat's carriage to zurich was two or three shillings,--not so much as the expense of taking it between the stations and the hotels. submitting, then, to be borne again on wheels and through tunnels in the good old railway style, we soon arrive among the regular swiss mountains, and where gather the swiss tourists, for whom arise the swiss hotels, those huge establishments founded and managed so as best to fatten on the wandering englishman, and to give him homoeopathic feeding while his purse is bled. for suffer me again to have a little gossip about _eating_. yes, it is a mundane subject, and undoubtedly physical; but when the traveller has to move his body and baggage along a route by his own muscles, by climbing or by rowing, or by whipping a mule, it is a matter of high moment, to him at least, that fibrine should be easily procurable. if you wish, then, to live well in switzerland and germany go to german hotels, and avoid the grand barracks reared on every view-point for the english tourist. see how the omnibus, from the train or the steamer, pours down its victims into the landlords' arms. papa and mamma, and three daughters and a maid: well, of course _they_ will be attended to. here is another timid lady with an alpenstock, a long white cane people get when they arrive in switzerland, and which they never know what on earth to do with. next there will issue from the same vehicle a dozen newly-fledged londoners; and the whole party, men and women, are so demure, so afraid of themselves, that the hotel-keeper does just what he likes with them, every one. without a courier, a wife, heavy baggage, or young ladies, i enter too, and dare to order a cutlet and potatoes. after half-an-hour two chops come and spinach, each just one bite, and cold. i ask for fruit, and some pears are presented that grate on the knife, with a minute bunch of grapes, good ones let us acknowledge. for this we pay _s._ next day i row three miles down the lake, and order, just as before, a cutlet, potatoes, and fruit, but this time at a second-rate german inn. presently behold two luscious veal cutlets, with splendid potatoes, and famous hot plates; and a fruit-basket teeming gracefully with large clusters of magnificent grapes, peaches, pears all gushing with juice, and mellow apples, and rosy plums. for this i pay _s._ _d._ the secret is that the germans won't pay the prices which the english fear to grumble at, and won't put up with the articles the english fear to refuse. nor may we blame the hotel-keepers for their part in this business. they try to make as much money as they can, and most people who are making money try to do the same. in the twilight the rob roy launched on the lake of zurich, so lovely by evening, cool and calm, with its pretty villages painted again on the water below, and soft voices singing, and slow music floating in the air, as the moon looked down, and the crests of snow were silvered on far-off hills. the canoe was now put up in a boathouse where all seemed to be secure. it was the only time i had found a boathouse for my boat, and the only time when she was badly treated; for, next morning, though the man in charge appeared to be a solid, honest fellow, i saw at once that the canoe had been sadly tumbled about and filled with water, the seat cast off and floating outside, the covering deranged, the sails untied, and the sacred paddle defiled by clumsy hands. the man who suffered this to be perpetrated will not soon forget the anglo-german-french set-down he received (with a half-franc), and i shall not forget in future to observe the time-honoured practice of carrying the canoe invariably into the hotel. another piece of experience gained here was this, that to send your luggage on by a steamer, intending to regain it on your arrival, adds far less of convenience than it does of anxiety and trouble, seeing that in this sort of travel you can readily take the baggage with you always and everywhere in your boat. much of the charm of next day's paddle on the lake consisted in its perfect independence of all previous arrangements, and in the absence of such thraldom as, "you must be here by ten o'clock;" or, "you have to sleep there at night." so now, let the wind blow as it likes, i could run before it, and breakfast at this village; or cross to that point to bathe; or row round that bay, and lunch on the other side of the lake, or anywhere else on the shore, or in the boat itself, as i pleased. i felt as a dog must feel on his travels who has no luggage and no collar, and has only one coat, which always fits him, and is always getting new. when quite sated with the water, i fixed on horgen to stop at for a rest, to the intense delight of all the horgen boys. how they did jump and caper about the canoe, and scream with the glee of young hearts stirred by a new sight! it was one of the great treats of this voyage to find it gave such hours of pleasure to the juvenile population in each place. along the vista of my recollection as i think over the past days of this excursion, many thousand childish faces brimming with happiness range their chubby or not chubby cheeks. these young friends were still more joyous when the boat was put into a cart, and the driver got up beside it, and the captain of the canoe began his hot walk behind. a number of their mammas came out to smile on the performance, and some asked to have a passage to england in the boat, to which there was the stock reply, given day by day, "not much room for the crinoline." only once was there the rejoinder, that the lady would willingly leave her expansion at home; though on another occasion (and that in france, too) they answered, "we poor folks don't wear crinoline." in every group there were various forms of inquisitiveness about the canoe. first, those who examined it without putting questions; and then those who questioned about it without examining. some lifted it to feel the weight; others passed their hands along its smooth deck to feel the polished cedar; others looked underneath to see if there was a keel, or bent the rope to feel how flexible it was, or poised the paddle (when i let them), and said, "how light!" and then more critical inquirers measured the boat's dimensions, tapped its sides with their knuckles, and looked wise; sketched its form, scrutinized its copper nails, or gently touched the silken flag, with its frayed hem and colour fading now; in all places this last item, as an object of interest, was always the first exclaimed about by the lady portion of the crowd. it is with such little but pleasant trivialities that a traveller's day may be filled in this enchanting atmosphere where simply to exist, to breathe, to gaze, and to listen, are enough to pass the sunny hours, if not to engage the nobler powers of the mind. the lakes of zurich and zug are not far separate. about three hours of steady road walking takes you from one to the other, over a high neck of forest land, and a hot walk this was from twelve to three o'clock, in the brightest hours of the day. the heat and the dust made me eager again to be afloat. by the map, indeed, it seemed as if one could row part of this way on a river which runs into zug, but maps are no guidance as to the fitness of streams for a boat. they make a black line wriggling about on the paper do for all rivers alike, and this tells you nothing as to the depth or force of the current, nor can the drivers or innkeepers tell much more, since they have no particular reason for observing how a river comports itself; their business is on the road. the driver was proud of his unusual fare, a boat with an english flag, and he gave a short account of it to every friend he met, an account no doubt frightfully exaggerated, but always accepted as sufficient by the gratified listener. the worthy carter, however, was quite annoyed that i stopped him outside the town of zug (paying thirteen francs for the cart), for i wished to get the canoe into the water unobserved, as the morning's work had left me yet no rest, and sweet repose could best be had by floating in my boat. however, there was no evading the townspeople's desire to see "the schiff in a cart from england." we took her behind a clump of stones, but they climbed upon the stones and stood. i sat down in a moody silence, but they sat down too in respectful patience. i tried then another plan, turned the canoe bottom upward, and began lining a seam of the planks with red putty. they looked on till it was done, and i began the same seam again, and told them that all the other seams must be thus lined. this, at last, was too much for some of the wiser ones, who turned away and murmured about my slowness, but others at once took their places in the front row. it seemed unfriendly to go on thus any longer, and as it was cooler now, i pushed the boat into the lake, shipped my luggage on board, and after the usual english speech to them all from the water, bid every one "adieu."[xix.] [xix.] this word, like other expressive french words, is commonly used in germany and switzerland. new vigour came when once the paddle was grasped again, and the soft yielding water and gentle heaving on its bosom had fresh pleasure now after the dusty road. it seems as if one must be for ever spoiled for land travel by this smooth liquid journeying. zug is a little lake, and the mountains are over it only at one end, but then there are glorious hills, the rigi and a hundred more, each behind another, or raising a peak in the gaps between. i must resolutely abstain from describing these here. the sight of them is well known to the traveller. the painted pictures of them in every shop window are faithful enough for those who have not been nearer, and words can tell very little to others of what is seen and felt when you fill the delighted eye by looking on the snowy range. near one end of the lake i visited the line of targets where the switzers were popping away their little bullets at their short ranges, with all sorts of gimcrack instruments to aid them, lenses, crooks, and straps for the arms, hair-triggers, and everything done under cover too. very skilful indeed are they in the use of these contrivances; but the weapons look like toy-guns after all, and are only one step removed from the crossbows you see in belgium and france, where men meet to shoot at stuffed cockrobins fixed on a pole, and do not hit them, and then adjourn for beer. the swiss are good shots and brave men, and woe be to their invaders. still, in this matter of rifle shooting their _dilettanti_ practice through a window, at the short range of yards, seems really childish when compared with that of the manly groups at wimbledon, where, on the open heath, in sun or drifting hail, the burly yorkshireman meets with the hardy scot, and sends his heavier deadly bullet on its swift errand right away for a thousand yards in the storm. leaving the shooters to their bulls' eyes, i paddled in front of the town to scan the hotels, and to judge of the best by appearances. out came the boats of zug to examine the floating stranger. they went round and round, in a criticising mood, just as local dogs strut slowly in circles about a new-come cur who is not known to their street, and besides is of ambiguous breed. these boats were all larger than mine, and most of them were brighter with plenty of paint, and universally they were encumbered with most awkward oars. a courteous frenchman in one of the boats told me all the zug news in a breath, besides asking numerous questions, and giving a hasty commentary on the fishing in the lake. finally, he pointed out the best hotel, and so the naval squadron advanced to the pier, led by the canoe. a gracious landlady here put my boat safe in the hotel coachhouse, and offered to give me the key of the padlock, to make sure. in the _salle à manger_ were some english friends from london, so now i felt that here was an end of lone wanderings among foreigners, for the summer stream of tourists from england was encountered at this point. an early start next morning found the mists on the mountains, but they were quickly furled up out of the way in festoons like muslin curtains. we skirted the pretty villas on the verge of the lake, and hauled in by some apple-trees to rig up the sails. this could be done more easily when the boat was drawn ashore than when it was afloat; though, after practice, i could not only set the mast and hoist the sails "at sea," but could even stand up and change my coat, or tie the flag on the masthead, or survey a difficult channel, while the boat was rocking on the waves of a rapid.[xx.] [xx.] this is so very useful in extending the horizon of view, and in enabling you to examine a whole ledge of sunken rocks at once, that it is well worth the trouble of a week or two's practice. sailing on a lake in switzerland is a full reward for carrying your mast and sails unused for many a long mile. sometimes, indeed, the sails seemed to be after all an encumbrance, but this was when they were not available. every time they came into use again the satisfaction of having brought them was reassured. in sailing while the wind is light you need not always sit, as must be done for paddling. wafted by the breeze you can now recline, lie down, or lie up, put your legs anyhow and anywhere, in the water if you like, and the peak of the sail is a shade between the sun and your eyes, while the ripples seem to tinkle cheerfully against the bow, and the wavelets seethe by smoothly near the stern. when you are under sail the hill tops look higher than before, for now you see how far they are above your "lofty" masthead, and the black rocks on the shore look blacker when seen in contrast with a sail like cream. [illustration: "sailing on lake zug."] after a cruise that left nothing more to see of zug, we put into port at imyn, and though it is a little place, only a few houses, the boys there were as troublesome as gnats buzzing about; so the canoe had to be locked in the stable out of sight. three britons were waiting here for the steamer. they had come to fish in switzerland. now fishing and travelling kill each other, so far as my experience goes, unless one of them is used as a _passetemps_ because you cannot go on with the other. thus i recollect once at the town of vossevangen, in norway, when we had to wait some hours for horses, it was capital fun to catch three trout with a pin for a hook fastened on the lash of a gig-whip, while a fellow-traveller shot with a pistol at my glengarry cap on a stone. the true fisherman fishes for the fishing, not for the fishes. he himself is pleased even if he catches nothing, though he is more pleased to bring back a full basket, for that will justify him to his friends. now when you stop your travelling that you may angle, if you catch nothing you grudge the day spent, and keep thinking how much you might have seen in it on the road. on the other hand, if you do happen to catch one or two fish, you don't like to leave the place where more might be taken, and your first ten miles after departure from it is a stage of reflection about pools, stones, bites, and rises, instead of what is going on all around. worst of all, if you have hooked a fish and lost him, it is a sad confession of defeat then to give up the sport and moodily resume the tour. as for the three visitors at imyn, they had just twenty minutes sure, so they breakfasted in five minutes, and in the next three minutes had got their rods ready, and were out in the garden casting as fast as possible, and flogging the water as if the fish also ought to be in a hurry to get taken. the hot sun blazed upon the bald head of one of these excited anglers, for he had not time to put on his hat. the other had got his line entangled in a bush, and of course was _hors de combat_. the third was a sort of light skirmisher, rushing about with advice, and pointing out shoals of minnows everywhere else but where his companions were engaged. however, they managed to capture a few monsters of the deep, that is to say, a couple of misguided gudgeons, probably dissipated members of their tribe, and late risers, who had missed their proper breakfasts. ardent as i am with the rod i could not enjoy fishing after this sort. to be in this tide of wandering britons, and yet to look at them and listen to them as if you were distinct--this is a post full of interest and amusement; and if you can, even for one day, try to be (at least in thought) a swiss resident or a parisian, and so to regard the english around you from the point they are seen from by the foreigners whom they visit, the examination becomes far more curious. but this has been done by many clever tourists, who have written their notes with more or less humour, and with more rather than less severity; so i shall not attempt to analyse the strange atoms of the flood from our islands which overflows the continent every year. it is the fashion to decry three-fourths of this motley company as "snobs," "spendthrifts," or "greenhorns." with humble but firm voice i protest against this unfairness; nor can i help thinking that much of the hard criticism published by travellers against their fellows is a crooked way of saying, what it does not do to assert directly, that the writer has at any rate met some travellers inferior to himself. of course, among the englishmen whom i met now and then in the course of this voyage there were some strange specimens, and their remarks were odd enough, when alluding to the canoe. one said, for example, "don't you think it would have been more commodious to have had an attendant with you to look after your luggage and things?" the most obvious answer to this was probably that which i gave, "not for me, if he was to be in the boat; and not for him, if he had to run on the bank." another englishman at home asked me in all seriousness about the canoe voyage, "was it not a great waste of time?" and when i inquired how _he_ had spent his vacation, he said, "oh, i was all the time _at brighton_!" in returning once more to english conversation, one is reminded how very useless and unpractical are all the "talk-books" published to facilitate the traveller's conversation in foreign languages. whether they are meant to help you in french, german, italian, or spanish, these little books, with their well-known double columns of words and phrases, and their "polite letter-writer" at the end, all seem to be equally determined to force words upon you which you never will need to use; while the things you are always wanting to say in the new tongue are either carefully buried among colloquies on botany or precious stones, or among philosophical discussions about metaphysics, or else the desirable phrases are not in the book at all. this need of a brief and good "talk-book" struck me particularly when i had carefully marked in my german one all the pages which would never be required in the tour, so that i could cut them out as an unnecessary addition to the weight of my ship's library. why, the little book, when thus expurgated, got so lamentably thin that the few pages left of it, as just possible to be useful, formed only a wretched skeleton of the original volume. another fault of these books is that half the matter in them is made up of what the imaginary chatting foreigner says _to you_, the unhappy englishman, and this often in long phrases, or even in set speeches. but when, in actual life, the real foreigner speaks to you, he somehow says quite a different set of words from any particular phrases you see in the book, and you cannot make out his meaning, because it does not correspond with anything you have learned. it is evident that a dictionary is required to get at the english meaning of what is said to you by another; while a talk-book will suffice for what you wish to say to him; because you can select in it and compose from it before you utter any particular phrase. the danish phrase-book for norway and sweden is a tolerably good one, and it holds in a short compass all the traveller wants; but i think a book of this kind for each of the other principal languages might well be constructed on the following basis. first, let us have the expression "i want," and then the english substantives most used in travel talk, arranged in alphabetical order, and with their foreign equivalents. next, put the request "will you," and after it place each of the verbs of action generally required by travellers. then set forth the question, "does the," with a column of events formed by a noun, verb, and preposition in each, such as "coach stop at," "road lead to," "steamer start from," &c.; and, lastly, give us the comprehensive "is it," with a long alphabetical list of adjectives likely to be employed. under these four heads, with two pages of adverbs and numerals, i think that the primary communications with a foreigner can be comprised; and as for conversations with him on special subjects, such as politics, or art, or scenery, these are practically not likely to be attempted unless you learn his language, and not merely some of its most necessary _words_; but this study of language is not the purpose for which you get a talk-book. having now delivered a homily on international talking, it is time to be on the move again. chapter viii. sailing on lucerne--seeburg--river scenes--night and snow--the reuss--a dear dinner--seeing a rope--passing a fall--bremgarten rapids. when the steamer at imyn had embarked the three sportsmen, and the little pier was quiet, we got a cart out for the rob roy, and bargained to have it rumbled over the hill to the lake of lucerne for the sum of five francs--it is only half-an-hour's walk. the landlord himself came as driver, for he was fully interested about the canoe, and he did not omit to let people know his sentiments on the subject all along the way, even calling out to the men plucking fruit in the apple-trees, who had perhaps failed to notice the phenomenon which was passing on the road beneath them. there was a permanent joke on such occasions, and, oddly enough, it was used by the drivers in germany as well as in switzerland, and was of course original and spontaneous with each of them as they called out, "going to america!" and then chuckled at the brilliant remark. the village we came to on lucerne was the well-known kussnacht, that is, _one_ of the well-known kussnachts, for there are plenty of these honeymoon towns in central europe; and with the customary assembly of _quidnuncs_, eloquently addressed this time by the landlord-driver, the canoe was launched on another lake, perhaps the prettiest lake in the world. like other people, and at other times, i had traversed this beautiful water of the four cantons, but those only who have seen it well by steamer and by walking, so as to know how it juts in and winds round in intricate geography, can imagine how much better you may follow and grasp its beauties by searching them out alone and in a canoe. for thus i could penetrate all the wooded nooks, and dwell on each view-point, and visit the rocky islets, and wait long, longer--as long as i pleased before some lofty berg, while the ground-swell gently undulated, and the passing cloud shaded the hill with grey, and the red flag of a steamer fluttered in a distant sunbeam, and the plash of a barge's oar broke on the boatman's song; everything around changing just a little, and the stream of inward thought and admiration changing too as it flowed, but, all the time, and when the eye came back to it again, there was the grand mountain still the same, "like teneriffe or atlas unremoved." how cool the snow looked up there aloft even in the heat of summer! and, to come down again to one's level on the water, how lively the steamer was with the music of its band and the quick beat of its wheels curling up white foam. let us speed to meet it and to get a tossing in the swell, while jones and smith, under the awning, cry out, "why, to be sure, that's the rob roy canoe," and mrs. jones and the three miss smiths all lift up their heads from their "murrays," where they have been diligently reading the history of switzerland from a.d. , and then the description in words of all the scenery around, although they have suffered its speaking realities in mountain, wood, and lake to pass unnoticed. as i was quite fresh (having worked chiefly the sails on zug) and now in good "training," so as to get on very comfortably with ten or twelve hours' rowing in the day, i spent it all in seeing this inexhaustible lake of lucerne, and yet felt that at least a dozen new pictures had been left unseen in this rich volume of the book of nature. but as this book had no page in it about quarters for the night it was time to consider these homely affairs, and to look out for an hotel; not one of the big barracks for englishmen spoken of before, but some quiet place where one could stop for sunday. coming suddenly then round a shady point, behold the very place! but can it be an hotel? yes, there is the name, "seeburg." is it quiet? observe the shady walks. bathing? why, there is a bath in the lake at the end of the garden. fishing? at least four rods are stretched over the reeds by hopeful hands, and with earnest looks behind, watching for the faintest nibble. let us run boldly in. ten minutes, and the boat is safely in a shed, and its captain well housed in an excellent room; and, having ordered dinner, it was delicious to jump into the lake for a swim, all hot with the hot day's work, and to stretch away out to the deep, and circle round and round in these limpid waters, with a nice little bath-room to come back to, and fresh dry clothes to put on. in the evening we had very pretty english music, a family party improvised in an hour, and broken up for a moonlight walk, while, all this time (one fancied), in the big hotel of the town the guests were in stiff _coteries_, or each set retired to its sitting-room, and lamenting how unsociable everybody else had become. i never was more comfortable than here, with a few english families "en pension," luxuriating for the sum of six francs per day, and an old russian general, most warlike and courteous, who would chat with you by the hour, on the seat under the shady chestnut, and smiled at the four persevering fishermen whose bag consisted, i believe, of three bites, one of them allowed on all hands to have been _bonâ fide_. then on sunday we went to lucerne, to church, where a large congregation listened to a very good sermon from the well-known secretary of the society for colonial and continental churches. at least every traveller, if not every home-stayed englishman, ought to support this association, because it many times supplies just that food and rest which the soul needs so much on a sunday abroad, when the pleasures of foreign travel are apt to make only the mind and body constitute the man. i determined to paddle from lucerne by the river reuss, which flows out of the lake and through the town. this river is one of four--the rhine, rhone, reuss, and ticino, which all rise near together in the neighbourhood of the st. gothard; and yet, while one flows into the german ocean, another falls into the mediterranean, both between them having first made nearly the compass of switzerland. the walking tourist comes often upon the rapid reuss as it staggers and tumbles among the swiss mountains. to me it had a special interest, for i once ascended the galenhorn over the glaciers it starts from, and with only a useless guide, who lost his head and then lost his way, and then lost his temper and began to cry. we groped about in a fog until snow began to fall, and the snowstorm lasted for six hours--a weary time spent by us wandering in the dark and without food. at length we were discovered by some people sent out with lights to search for the benighted pleasure-seeker. the reuss has many cascades and torrent gorges as it runs among the rough crags, and it falls nearly , feet before it reaches the lake of lucerne, this lake itself being still , feet above the sea. a gradual current towards the end of the lake entices you under the bridge where the river starts again on its course, at first gently enough, and as if it never could get fierce and hoarse-voiced when it has taken you miles away into the woods and can deal with you all alone. the map showed the reuss flowing into the aar, but i could learn nothing more about either of these rivers, except that an intelligent man said, "the reuss is a mere torrent," while another recounted how a man some years ago went on the aar in a boat, and was taken up by the police and punished for thus perilling his life. deducting from these statements the usual per cent. for exaggeration, everything appeared satisfactory, so i yielded my boat to the current, and, at parting, waved my yellow paddle to certain fair friends who had honoured me with their countenance, and who were now assembled on the bridge. after this a few judicious strokes took the rob roy through the town and past the pleasant environs, and we were now again upon running water. the current, after a quiet beginning, soon put on a sort of "business air," as if it did not mean to dally, and rapidly got into quick time, threading a devious course among the woods, hayfields, and vineyards, and it seemed not to murmur (as streams always do), but to sing with buoyant exhilaration in the fresh brightness of the morn. it certainly was a change, from the sluggish feeling of dead water in the lakes to the lively tremulous thrilling of a rapid river like the reuss, which, in many places, is as wide as the rhine at schaffhausen. it is a wild stream, too fast for navigation, and therefore the villages are not built on the banks, and there are no boats, and the lonely, pathless, forest-covered banks are sometimes bleak enough when seen from the water. for some miles it was easy travelling, the water being seldom less than two feet deep, and with rocks readily visible by the eddy bubbling about them, because they were sharp and jagged. it is the long smooth and round-topped rock which is most treacherous in a fast river, for the spray which the current throws round such a rock is often not different from an ordinary wave. now and then the stream was so swift that i was afraid of losing my straw hat, simply from the breeze created by great speed--for it was a day without wind. it cannot be concealed that continuous physical enjoyment such as this tour presented is a dangerous luxury if it be not properly used. when i thought of the hospitals of london, of the herds of squalid poor in foetid alleys, of the pale-faced ragged boys, and the vice, sadness, pain, and poverty we are sent to do battle with if we be christian soldiers, i could not help asking, "am i right in thus enjoying such comfort, such scenery, such health?" certainly not right, unless to get vigour of thought and hand, and freshened energy of mind, and larger thankfulness and wider love, and so, with all the powers recruited, to enter the field again more eager and able to be useful. in the more lonely parts of the reuss the trees were in dense thickets to the water's edge, and the wild ducks fluttered out from them with a splash, and some larger birds like bustards often hovered over the canoe. i think among the flying companions i noticed also the bunting, or "ammer" (from which german word comes our english "yellow hammer"), wood-pigeons, and very beautiful hawks. the herons and kingfishers were here as well, but not so many of them as on the danube. nothing particular occurred, although it was a pleasant morning's work, until we got through the bridge at imyl, where an inn was high up on the bank. the ostler helped me to carry the boat into the stable, and the landlady audaciously charged me _s._ _d._ for my first dinner (i always had two dinners on full working days), being pretty sure that she need not expect her customer to stop there again. the navigation after this began to be more interesting, with gravel banks and big stones to avoid, and a channel to be chosen from among several, and the wire ropes of the ferries stretched tightly across the river requiring to be noticed with proper respect. you may have observed how difficult it is, sometimes, to see a rope when it is stretched and quite horizontal, or at any rate how hard it is to judge correctly of its distance from your eye. this can be well noticed in walking by the seashore among fishing-boats moored on the beach, when you will sometimes even knock your nose against a taut hawser before you are aware that it is so close. this is caused by the fact that the mind estimates the distance of an object partly by comparing the two views of its surface obtained by the two eyes respectively, and which views are not quite the same, but differ, just as the two pictures prepared for the stereoscope. each eye sees a little round one side of the object, and the solid look of the object and its distance are thus before the mind. now when the rope is horizontal the eyes do not see round the two sides in this manner, though if the head is leant sideways it will be found that the illusion referred to no longer appears. nor is it out of place to inquire thus at length into this matter, for i can assure you that one or two blunt slaps on the head from these ropes across a river make it at least interesting if not pleasant to examine "the reason why." and now we have got the philosophy of the thing, let us leave the ropes behind. the actual number of miles in a day's work is much influenced by the number of waterfalls or artificial barriers which are too dry or too high to allow the canoe to float over them. [illustration: "shirking a fall."] in all such cases, of course, i had to get out and to drag the boat round by the fields, as has been already described (p. ); or to lower her carefully among the rocks, as is shown in the accompanying sketch, which represents the usual appearance of this part of the day's proceedings. although this sort of work was a change of posture, and brought into play new muscular action, yet the strain sometimes put on the limbs by the weight of the boat, and the great caution required where there was only slippery footing, made these barriers to be regarded on the whole as bores. full soon however we were to forget such trifling troubles, for more serious work impended. the river banks suddenly assumed a new character. they were steep and high, and their height increased as we advanced between the two upright walls of stratified gravel and boulders. a full body of water ran here, the current being of only ordinary force at its edges, where it was interrupted by rocks, stones, and shingle, and was thus twisted into eddies innumerable. to avoid these entanglements at the sides, it seemed best, on the whole, to keep the boat in mid-channel, though the breakers were far more dangerous there, in the full force of the stream. i began to think that this must be the "hard place coming," which a wise man farther up the river had warned me was quite too much for so small a boat, unless in flood times, when fewer rocks would be in the way. in reply, i had told him that when we got near such a place i would pull out my boat and drag it along the bank, if requisite. to this he said, "ah! but the banks are a hundred feet high." so i had mentally resolved (but entirely forgot) to stop in good time and to climb up the rocks and investigate matters ahead before going into an unknown run of broken water. such plans are very well in theory, but somehow the approach to these rapids was so gradual, and the mind was so much occupied in overcoming the particular difficulty of each moment, that no opportunity occurred for rest or reflection. the dull heavy roar round the corner got louder as the rob roy neared the great bend. for here the river makes a turn round the whole of a letter s, in fact very nearly in a complete figure of , and in wheeling thus it glides over a sloping ledge of flat rocks, spread obliquely athwart the stream for a hundred feet on either hand, and just a few inches below the surface. the canoe was swept over this singular place by the current, its keel and sides grinding and bumping on the stones, and sliding on the soft moss which here made the rock so slippery and black. the progress was aided by sundry pushes and jerks at proper times, but we advanced altogether in a clumsy, helpless style, until at length there came in sight the great white ridge of tossing foam where the din was great, and a sense of excitement and confusion filled the mind. i was quite conscious that the sight before me was made to look worse because of the noise around, and by the feeling of the loneliness and powerlessness of a puny man struggling in a waste of breakers, where to strike a single one was sure to upset the boat. from the nature of the place, too, it was evident that it would be difficult to save the canoe by swimming alongside it when capsized or foundered, and yet it was utterly impossible now to stop. right in front, and in the middle, i saw the well-known wave which is always raised when a main stream converges, as it rushes down a narrow neck. the depression or trough of this was about two feet below, and the crest four feet above the level, so the height of the wave was about six feet. though rather tall it was very thin and sharp-featured, and always stationary in position, though the water composing it was going at a tremendous pace. after this wave there was another smaller one, as frequently happens. it was not the _height_ of the wave that gave any concern; had it been at sea the boat would rise over any lofty billow, but here the wave stood still, and the canoe was to be impelled against it with all the force of a mighty stream, and so it _must_ go through the body of water, for it could not have time to rise. and so the question remained, "what is _behind_ that wave?" for if it is a rock then this is the last hour of the rob roy.[xxi.] [xxi.] i had not then acquired the knowledge of a valuable fact, that a sharp wave of this kind _never_ has a rock behind it. a sharp wave requires free water at its rear, and it is therefore in the safest part of the river so far as concealed dangers are concerned. this at least was the conclusion come to after frequent observation afterwards of many such places. the boat plunged headlong into the shining mound of water as i clenched my teeth and clutched my paddle. we saw her sharp prow deeply buried, and then (i confess) my eyes were shut involuntarily, and before she could rise the mass of solid water struck me with a heavy blow full in the breast, closing round my neck as if cold hands gripped me, and quite taking away my breath.[xxii.] [xxii.] see a faithful representation of this incident, so far as relates to the water, in the frontispiece. vivid thoughts coursed through the brain in this exciting moment, but another slap from the lesser wave, and a whirl round in the eddy below, told that the battle was over soon, and the little boat slowly rose from under a load of water, which still covered my arms, and then, trembling, and as if stunned by the heavy shock, she staggered to the shore. the river too had done its worst, and it seemed now to draw off from hindering us, and so i clung to a rock to rest for some minutes, panting with a tired thrilling of nervousness and gladness strangely mingled. although the weight of water had been so heavy on my body and legs, very little of it had got inside under the waterproof covering, for the whole affair was done in a few seconds, and though everything in front was completely drenched up to my necktie, the back of my coat was scarcely wet. most fortunately i had removed the flag from its usual place about an hour before, and thus it was preserved from being swept away. well, now it is over, and we are rested, and begin with a fresh start; for there is still some work to do in threading a way among the breakers. the main point, however, has been passed, and the difficulties after it look small, though at other times they might receive attention. here is our resting-place, the old roman town of bremgarten, which is built in a hollow of this very remarkable serpent bend of the rapid reuss. the houses are stuck on the rocks, and abut on the river itself, and as the stream bore me past these i clung to the doorstep of a washerwoman's house, and pulled my boat out of the water into her very kitchen, to the great amusement and surprise of the worthy lady, who wondered still more when i hauled the canoe again through the other side of her room until it fairly came out to the street behind! it must have astonished the people to see a canoe thus suddenly appearing on their quiet pavement. they soon crowded round and bore her to the hotel, which was a moderately bad one. next morning the bill was twelve francs, nearly double its proper amount; and thus we encountered in one day the only two extortionate innkeepers met with at all.[xxiii.] [xxiii.] however, i made the landlord here take eight francs as a compromise. this quaint old place, with high walls and a foss, and several antiquities, was well worth the inspection of my early morning walk next day, and then the rob roy was ordered to the door. chapter ix. hunger--music at the mill--sentiment and chops--river limmat--fixed on a fall--on the river aar--the rhine again--douaniers--falls of lauffenburg--the cow cart. the wetting and excitement of yesterday made me rather stiff in beginning again; and anon, when a rushing sound was heard in front i was aware of a new anxiety as to whether this might not mean the same sort of rough work as yesterday's over again, whereas hitherto this sound of breakers to come had always promised nothing but pleasure. however, things very soon came back to their old way, a continuous and varied enjoyment from morning to night. the river was rapid again, but with no really difficult places. i saw one raft in course of preparation, though there were not many boats, for as the men there said, "how could we get boats _up_ that stream?" the villages near the river were often so high up on lofty cliffs, or otherwise unsuitable, that i went on for some miles trying in vain to fix on one for my (no. ) dinner. each bend of the winding water held out hopes that down there at last, or round that bluff cape at farthest, there must be a proper place to breakfast. but when it was now long past the usual hour, and the shores got less inhabited and hunger more imperative, we determined to land at a mill which overhung the stream in a picturesque spot. i landed unobserved. this was a blunder in diplomacy, for the canoe was always good as credentials; but i climbed up the bank and through the garden, and found the hall door open; so i walked timidly into a large, comfortable house, leaving my paddle outside lest it might be regarded as a bludgeon. i had come as a beggar, not a burglar. the chords of a piano, well struck and by firm fingers, led me towards the drawing-room; for to hear music is almost to make sure of welcome in a house, and it was so now. my bows and reverences scarcely softened the exceedingly strange appearance i must have made as an intruder, clothed in universal flannel, and offering ten thousand apologies in french, german, and english for thus dropping down from the clouds, that is to say, climbing up from the water. the young miller rose from the piano, and bowed. his fair sister stopped her sweet song, and blushed. for my part, being only a sort of "casual," i modestly asked for bread and wine, and got hopelessly involved in an effort to explain how i had come by the river unperceived. the excessive courtesy of my new friends was embarrassing, and was further complicated by the arrival of another young lady, even more surprised and hospitable. quickly the refreshments were set on the table, and the miller sealed the intimacy by lighting his ample pipe. our conversation was of the most lively and unintelligible character, and soon lapsed into music, when beethoven and goss told all we had to say in chants and symphonies. the inevitable sketch-book whiled away a good hour, till the ladies were joined by a third damsel, and the adventures of ulysses had to be told to three penelopes at once. the miller's party became humorous to a degree, and they resisted all my efforts to get away, even when the family dinner was set on the board, and the domestic servants and farm-labourers came in to seat themselves at a lower table. this was a picture of rural life not soon to be forgotten. the stately grandmamma of the mansion now advanced, prim and stiff, and with dignity and matronly grace entreated the stranger to join their company. the old oak furniture was lightened by a hundred little trifles worked by the women, or collected by the tasteful diligence of their brother; and the sun shone, and the mill went round, and the river rolled by, and all was kindness, "because you are an englishman." the power of the _civis romanus_ is far better shown when it draws forth kindness, than when it compels fear. but as respects the formal invitation it would not do to stop and eat, and it would not do to stop and not eat, or to make the potatoes get cold, or the granddames' dinner too late; so i _must_ go, even though the girls had playfully hidden my luggage to keep the guest among them. the whole party, therefore, adjourned to the little nook where my boat had been left concealed; and when they caught sight of its tiny form, and its little fluttering flag, the young ladies screamed with delight and surprise, clapping their hands and waving adieux as we paddled away. i left this happy, pleasant scene with mingled feelings, and tried to think out what was the daily life in this sequestered mill; and if my paddling did for a time become a little sentimental, it may be pardoned by travellers who have come among kind friends where they expected perhaps a cold rebuff. the romantic effect of all this was to make me desperately hungry, for be it known that bread and wine and beethoven will not do to dine upon if you are rowing forty miles in the sun. so it must be confessed that when an hour afterwards i saw an auberge by the water's edge it became necessary to stifle my feelings by ordering an omelette and two chops. the table was soon spread under a shady pear-tree just by the water, and the rob roy rested gently on the ripples at my feet. the pleasures of this sunny hour of well-earned repose, freshened by a bunch of grapes and a pear plucked from above my head, were just a little troubled by a slight apprehension that some day the miller's sister might come by and hear how had been comforted my lacerated heart. again "to boat," and down by the shady trees, under the towering rocks, over the nimble rapids, and winding among orchards, vineyards, and wholesome scented hay, the same old story of constant varied pleasure. the hills were in front now, and their contour showed that some rivers were to join company with the reuss, which here rolled on a fine broad stream, like the thames at putney. presently the limmat flowed in at one side, and at the other the river aar, which last then gives the name to all the three, though it did not appear to be the largest. this is not the only aar among the rivers, but it is the "old original aar," which swiss travellers regard as an acquaintance after they have seen it dash headlong over the rocks at handek. it takes its rise from two glaciers, one of them the finster aar glacier, not far from grimsel; and to me this gave it a special interest, for i had been hard pushed once in the wilds near that homely hospice. it was on an afternoon some years ago, when i came from the furca, by the rhone glacier to the foot of the valley, walking with two germans; and as they were rather "muffs," and meant to stop there, i thoughtlessly set off alone to climb the rocks and to get to the grimsel by myself. this is easy enough in daylight, but it was nearly six o'clock when i started, and late in september; so after a short half-hour of mounting, the snow began to fall, and the darkness was not made less by the white flakes drifting across it. by some happy conjuncture i managed to scale the pathless mountain, and struck on a little stream which had often to be forded in the dark, but was always leading to the desired valley. at length the light of the hospice shone welcome as a haven to steer for, and i soon joined the pleasant english guests inside, and bought a pair of trousers from the waiter at _s._ _d._ for a change in the wet. but paddling on the aar had no great danger where we met it now, for the noisy, brawling torrent was sobered by age, and after much knocking about in the world it had settled into a steady and respectable river. a few of my friends, the snags, were however lodged in the water hereabouts, and as they bobbed their heads in uneasy beds, and the river was much discoloured, it became worth while to keep a sharp lookout for them. the "river tongue," explained already as consisting of sign language with a parallel comment in loud english, was put to a severe test on a wide stream like this. consider, for example, how you could best ask the following question (speaking by signs and english only) from a man who is on the bank over there a hundred yards distant. "is it better for me to go over to those rocks, and keep on the left of that island, or to pull my boat out at these stumps, and drag her on land into this channel?" one comfort is the man made out my meaning, for did he not answer, "ya vol?" he could not have done more had we both learned the same language, unless indeed he had _heard_ what i said. mills occurred here and there. some of these had the waterwheel simply built on the river; others had it so arranged as to allow the shaft to be raised or lowered to suit the varying height of water in floods and droughts. others had it floating on barges. others, again, had a half weir built diagonally across part of the river; and it was important to look carefully at this wall so as to see on which side it ought to be kept in selecting the best course. in a few cases there was another construction; two half weirs, converged gradually towards the middle of the river, forming a letter v, with its sharp end turned _up_ the stream, and leaving a narrow opening there, through which a torrent flowed, with rough waves dancing merrily in the pool below. i had to "shoot" several of these, and at other times to get out and lower the boat down them, in the manner explained before. on one occasion i was in an unaccountably careless fit, and instead of first examining the depth of the water on the edge of the little fall, i resolved to go straight at it and take my chance. it must be stated that while a depth of three inches is enough for the canoe to float in when all its length is in the water, the same depth will by no means suffice at the upper edge of a fall. for when the boat arrives there the fore part, say six or seven feet of it, projects for a time over the fall and out of the water, and is merely in the air, without support, so that the centre of the keel will sink at least six or seven inches; and if there be not more water than this the keel catches the crest of the weir, and the boat will then stop, and perhaps swing round, after which it must fall over sideways, unless considerable dexterity is used in the management. although a case of this sort had occurred to me before, i got again into the same predicament, which was made far more puzzling as the fore end of the boat went under a rock at the bottom of the fall, and thus the canoe hung upon the edge, and would go neither one way nor another.[xxiv.] it would also have been very difficult to get out of the boat in this position; for to jump feet foremost would have broken the boat--to plunge in head first might have broken my head on the rocks below. [xxiv.] this adventure was the result of temporary carelessness, while that at the rapids was the result of impatience, for the passage of these latter could probably have been effected without encountering the central wave had an hour or two been spent in examining the place. let not any tourist, then, be deterred from a paddle on the reuss, which is a perfectly suitable river, with no unavoidable dangers. [illustration: "fixed on the fall."] the canoe was much wrenched in my struggles, which ended, however, by man and boat tumbling down sideways, and, marvellous to say, quite safely to the bottom. this performance was not one to be proud of. surely it was like ingratitude to treat the rob roy thus, exposing it to needless risk when it had carried me so far and so well. the aar soon flows into the rhine, and here is our canoe on old rhenus once more, with the town of waldshut ("end of the forest") leaning over the high bank to welcome us near. there is a lower path and a row of little houses at the bottom of the cliff, past which the rhine courses with rapid eddies deep and strong. here an old fisherman soon spied me, and roared out his biography at the top of his voice; how he had been a courier in lord somebody's family; how he had journeyed seven years in italy, and could fish with artificial flies, and was seventy years old, with various other reasons why i should put my boat into his house. he was just the man for the moment; but first those two uniformed _douaniers_ must be dealt with, and i had to satisfy their dignity by paddling up the strong current to their lair; for the fly had touched the spiders' web and the spiders were too grand to come out and seize it. good humour, and smiles, and a little judicious irony as to the absurd notion of overhauling a canoe which could be carried on your back, soon made them release me, if only to uphold their own dignity, and i left the boat in the best drawing-room of the ex-courier, and ascended the hill to the hotel aloft. but the man came too, and he had found time to prepare an amended report of the boat's journey for the worthy landlord, so, as usual, there was soon everything ready for comfort and good cheer. waldshut is made up of one wide street almost closed at the end, and with pretty gardens about it, and a fine prospect from its high position; but an hour's walk appeared to exhaust all the town could show, though the scenery round such a place is not to be done with in this brief manner. the visitors soon came to hear and see more nearly what the newspapers had told them of the canoe. one gentleman, indeed, seemed to expect me to unfold the boat from my pocket, for a french paper had spoken about a man going over the country "with a canoe under his arm." the evening was enlivened by some signals, burned at my bedroom-window to lighten up the street, which little entertainment was evidently entirely new--to the waldshutians at least. before we start homewards on the rhine with our faces due west, it may be well very briefly to give the log bearings and direction of the canoe's voyage up to this point. first, by the thames, july , e. (east), to shoeburyness, thence to sheerness, s. from that by rail to dover, and by steamer to ostend, and rail again, aug. , to the meuse, along which the course was nearly e., until its turn into holland, n.e. then, aug. , to the rhine, s.e., and ascending it nearly s., until at frankfort, aug. , we go n.e. by rail to asschaffenburg, and by the river wind back again to frankfort in wide curves. farther up the rhine, aug. , our course is due s., till from freyburg the boat is carted e. to the titisee, and to donaueschingen, and, aug. , descends the danube, which there flows nearly e., but with great bends to n. and s. until, sept. , we are at ulm. the rail next carries us s. to the lake of constance, which is sailed along in a course s.w., and through the zeller see to schaffhausen, sept. , about due w. thence turning s. to zurich, and over the lake and the neck of land, and veering to the w. by zug, we arrive on lucerne, sept. , where the southernmost point of the voyage is reached, and then our prow points to n., till, sept. , we land at waldshut. this devious course had taken the boat to several different kingdoms and states--holland, belgium, france, wurtemburg, bavaria, and the grand duchy of baden, rhenish prussia, the palatinate, switzerland, and the pretty hollenzollern sigmaringen. now we had come back again to the very grand duchy again, a land where all travellers must mind their p's and q's. the ex-courier took the canoe from his wife's washing-tubs and put her on the rhine, and then he spirited my start by recounting the lively things we must expect soon to meet. i must take care to "keep to the right," near the falls of lauffenburg, for an english lord had been carried over them and drowned;[xxv.] and i must beware of rheinfelden rapids, because an englishman had tried to descend them in a boat with a fisherman, and their craft was capsized and the fisherman was drowned; and i must do this here, and that there, and so many other things everywhere else, that all the directions were jumbled up together. but it seemed to relieve the man to tell his tale, and doubtless he sat down to his breakfast comfortable in mind and body, and cut his meat into little bits, and then changed the fork to the right hand to eat them every one, as they all do hereabouts, with every appearance of content. [xxv.] this was lord montague, the last of his line, and on the same day his family mansion of cowdray, in sussex, was burned to the ground. up with the sails! for the east wind freshens, and the fair wide river hurries along. this was a splendid scene to sail in, with lofty banks of rock, and rich meads, or terraces laden with grapes. after a good morning's pleasure here the wind suddenly rose to a gale, and i took in my jib just in time, for a sort of minor hurricane came on, raising tall columns of dust on the road alongside, blowing off men's hats, and whisking up the hay and leaves and branches high into the air. still i kept the lug-sail set; and with wind and current in the same direction i scudded faster than i ever sailed before in my life. great exertion was required to manage a light skiff safely with such a whirlwind above and a whirlwater below; one's nerves were kept in extreme tension, and it was a half-hour of pleasant excitement. for this reason it was that i did not for some time notice a youth who had been running after the boat, yelling and shrieking, and waving his coat in the air. we drew nearer to him, and "luffed up," hailing him with, "what's the matter?" and he could only pant out "wasserfall, wasserfall, funf minuten!"----the breeze had brought me within a hundred yards of the falls of lauffenburg,--the whistle of the wind had drowned the roar of the water. i crossed to the right bank (as the ex-courier had directed), but the youth's loud cries to come to the "links," or left side, at last prevailed, and he was right in this. the sail was soon lowered, and the boat was hauled on a raft, and then this fine young fellow explained that five minutes more would have turned the corner and drawn me into the horrid current sweeping over the falls. while he set off in search of a cart to convey the boat, i had time to pull her up the high bank and make all snug for a drive, and anon he returned with a very grotesque carter and a most crazy vehicle, actually drawn by a milch cow! all three of us laughed as we hoisted the rob roy on this cart, and the cow kicked vehemently, either at the cart, or the boat, or the laughing. our procession soon entered the little town, but it was difficult to be dignified. as the cart with a screeching wheel rattled slowly over the big round stones of the street, vacant at midday, the windows were soon full of heads, and after one peep at us, down they rushed to see the fun.[xxvi.] a cow drawing a boat to the door of a great hotel is certainly a quaint proceeding; although in justice to the worthy quadruped i should mention that she now behaved in a proper and ladylike manner. [xxvi.] a sketch of this cow-cart will be found, _post_, page . here the public hit upon every possible way but the right one to pronounce the boat's name, painted in blue letters on its bow. sometimes it was "roab ro," at others "rubree," but at length a man in spectacles called out, "ah! ah! valtarescote!" the mild sir walter's novels had not been written in vain. the falls of lauffenburg[xxvii.] can be seen well from the bridge which spans the river, much narrowed at this spot. [xxvii.] "lauffenburg" means the "town of the falls," from "laufen," to run; and the yankee term "loafer" may come from this "herum laufer," one running about. a raft is coming down as we look at the thundering foam--of course without the men upon it; see the great solid frame that seems to resent the quickening of its quiet pace, and to hold back with a presentiment of evil as every moment draws it nearer to the plunge. crash go all the bindings, and the huge, sturdy-logs are hurled topsy-turvy into the gorge, bouncing about like chips of firewood, and rattling among the foam. nor was it easy to look calmly on this without thinking how the frail canoe would have fared in such a cauldron of cold water boiling. the salmon drawn into this place get terribly puzzled by it, and so are caught by hundreds in great iron cages lowered from the rocks for this purpose. fishing stations of the same kind are found at several points on the river, where a stage is built on piles, and a beam supports a strong net below. in a little house, like a sentry-box, you notice a man seated, silent and lonely, while he holds tenderly in his hand a dozen strings, which are fastened to the edges of the net. when a fish is beguiled into the snare, or is borne in by the swift current bewildering, the slightest vibrations of the net are thrilled along the cords to the watcher's hand, and then he raises the great beam and secures the prize. my young friend, who had so kindly warned me, and hired the cow, and shown the salmon, i now invited to breakfast, and he became the hero of the hour, being repeatedly addressed by the other inquirers in an unpronounceable german title, which signifies, in short, "man preserver." here we heard again of a certain four-oared boat, with five englishmen in it, which had been sent out from london overland to schaffhausen, and then descended the rhine rowing swiftly. this, the people said, had come to lauffenburg about six weeks before, and i fully sympathised with the crew in their charming pull, especially if the weather was such as we had enjoyed; that is to say, not one shower in the boat from the source of the danube to the palace of westminster. chapter x. field of foam--precipice--puzzled--philosophy--rheinfelden rapids--dazzled--astride--fate of the four-oar--very salt--the ladies--whirlpool--funny english--a baby--the bride. the canoe was now fixed on a hand-cart and dragged once more through the streets to a point below the falls, and the rob roy became very lively on the water after its few hours of rest. all was brilliant around, and deep underneath, and azure above, and happy within, till the dull distant sound of breakers began and got louder, and at last could not be ignored; we have come to the rapids of rheinfelden. the exaggeration with which judicious friends at each place describe the dangers to be encountered is so general in these latitudes, that one learns to receive it calmly, but the scene itself when i came to the place was certainly puzzling and grand. imagine some hundreds of acres all of water in white crested waves, varied only by black rocks resisting a struggling torrent, and a loud, thundering roar, mingled with a strange hissing, as the spray from ten thousand sharp-pointed billows is tossed into the air. and then you are alone, too, and the banks are high, and you have a precious boat to guard. while there was time to do it i stood up in my boat to survey, but it was a mere horizon of waves, and nothing could be learned from looking. then i coasted towards one side where the shrubs and trees hanging in the water brushed the paddle, and seemed so safe because they were on shore. the rapids of bremgarten could probably be passed most easily by keeping to the edge, though with much delay and numerous "getting outs," but an attempt now to go along the side in this way was soon shown to be useless, for presently i came to a lofty rock jutting out into the stream, and the very loud roar behind it fortunately attracted so much attention that i pulled into the bank, made the boat fast, and mounted through the thicket to the top of the cliff. i saw at once that to try to pass by this rock in any boat would be madness, for the swiftest part of the current ran right under the projecting crag, and then wheeled round and plunged over a height of some feet into a pool of foam, broken fragments, and powerful waves. next, would it be just possible to float the boat past the rock while i might hold the painter from above? the rock on careful measurement was found too high for this. to see well over the cliff i had to lie down on my face, and the pleasant curiosity felt at first, as to how i should have to act, now gradually sickened into the sad conviction, "impossible!" then was the time to turn with earnest eyes to the wide expanse of the river, and see if haply, somewhere at least, even in the middle, a channel might be traced. yes, there certainly was a channel, only one, very far out, and very difficult to hit upon when you sit in a boat quite near the level of the water; but the attempt must be made, or stay,--might i not get the boat carried round by land? under the trees far off were men who might be called to help, labourers quietly working, and never minding me. i was tempted, but did not yield. for a philosophical thought had come upmost, that, after all, the boat had not to meet _every_ wave and rock now visible, and the thousand breakers dashing around, but only a certain few which would be on each side in my crooked and untried way; of the rocks in any one line--say fifty of them between me and any point--only two would become a new danger in crossing that line. then again, rapids look worse from the shore than they really are, because you see all their difficulties at once, and you hear the general din. on the other hand, waves look much smaller from the bank (being half hidden by others) than you find them to be when the boat is in the trough between two. the hidden rocks may make a channel which looks good enough from the land, to be quite impracticable when you attempt it in the water. lastly, the current is seen to be swifter from the shore where you can observe its speed from a fixed point, than it seems when you are in the water where you notice only its velocity in relation to the stream on each side, which is itself all the time running at four or five miles an hour. but it is the positive speed of the current that ought really to be considered, for it is by this the boat will be urged against a breaker stationary in the river. to get to this middle channel at once from the place where i had left my boat was not possible. we must enter it higher up the river, so i had to pull the canoe up stream, over shallows, and along the bristly margin, wading, towing, and struggling, for about half a mile, till at length it seemed we must be high enough up stream to let me paddle out swiftly across, while the current would take the boat sideways to the rough water. and now in a little quiet bay i rested half an hour to recover strength after this exertion, and to prepare fully for a "spurt," which might indeed be delayed in starting, but which, once begun, must be vigorous and all watchful to the end. here various thoughts blended and tumbled about in the mind most disorderly. to leave this quiet bank and willingly rush out, in cold blood, into a field of white breakers; to tarnish the fair journey with a foolhardy prank; to risk the rob roy where the touch of one rock was utter destruction. will it be pleasant? can it be wise? is it right? the answer was, to sponge out every drop of water from the boat, to fasten the luggage inside, that it might not fall out in an upset, to brace the waterproof cover all tight around, and to get its edge in my teeth ready to let go in capsizing, and then to pull one gentle stroke which put the boat's nose out of the quiet water into the fast stream, and hurrah! we are off at a swinging pace. the sun, now shining exactly up stream, was an exceedingly uncomfortable addition to the difficulties; for its glancing beams confounded all the horizon in one general band of light, so that rocks, waves, solid water, and the most flimsy foam were all the same at a little distance. this, the sole disadvantage of a cloudless sky, was so much felt in my homeward route that i sometimes prolonged the morning's work by three or four hours (with sun behind or on one side), so as to shorten the evening's _quota_ where it was dead in the eye of the sun. on the present occasion, when it was of great moment to hit the channel exactly, i could not see it at all, even with my blue spectacles on. they seemed to be utterly powerless against such a fiery blaze; and, what was almost worse, my eyes were thereby so dazzled that on looking to nearer objects i could scarcely see them either. this unexpected difficulty was so serious that i thought for a moment of keeping on in my present course (directed straight across the river), so as to attain the opposite side, and there to wait for the sun to go down. but it was already too late to adopt this plan, for the current had been swiftly bearing me down stream, and an instant decision must be made. "now," thought i, "judging by the number of paddle-strokes, we must surely be opposite the channel in the middle, and now i must turn to it." by a happy hit, the speed and the direction of the canoe were both well fitted, so that when the current had borne us to the breakers the boat's bow was just turned exactly down stream, and i entered the channel whistling for very loneliness, like a boy in the dark. but it was soon seen to be "all right, englishman;" so in ten minutes more the canoe had passed the rapids, and we floated along pleasantly on that confused "bobbery" of little billows always found below broken water,--a sort of mob of waves, which for a time seem to be elbowing and jostling in all directions to find their proper places. i saw here two fishermen by one of the salmon traps described above, and at once pulled over to them, to land on a little white bank of sand, that i might rest, and bale out, and hear the news. the men asked if i had come down the rapids in that boat. "yes." "by the middle channel?" "yes." they smiled to each other, and then both at once commenced a most voluble and loud-spoken address in the vilest of patois. their eagerness and energy rose to such a pitch that i began to suppose they were angry; but the upshot of all this eloquence (always louder when you are seen not to understand one word of it) was this, "there are other rapids to come. you will get there in half an hour. they are far worse than what you have passed. your boat _must_ be carried round them on land." to see if this was said to induce me to employ them as porters, i asked the men to come along in their boat, so as to be ready to help me; but they consulted together, and did not by any means agree in admiring this proposal. then i asked them to explain the best route through the next rapids, when they drew such confused diagrams on the sand, and gave such complicated directions, that it was impossible to make head or tail of their atrocious jargon; so i quietly bowed, wiped out the sand pictures with my foot, and started again happy and free; for it is really the case that in these things "ignorance is bliss." the excitement of finding your way, and the satisfaction when you have found it yourself, is well worth all the trouble. just so in mountain travel. if you go merely to work the muscles, and to see the view, it will do to be tied by a rope to three guides, and to follow behind them; but then _theirs_ is all the mental exertion, and tact, and judgment, while yours is only the merit of keeping up with the leaders, treading in their steps. and therefore i have observed that there is less of this particular pleasure of the discoverer when one is ascending mont blanc, where by traditional rule one must be tied to the guides, than in making out a path over a mountain pass undirected, though the heights thus climbed up are not so great. when the boat got near the lower rapids, i went ashore and walked for half a mile down the bank, and so was able to examine the bearings well. it appeared practicable to get along by the shallower parts of one side, so this was resolved upon as my course. it is surely quite fair to go by the easiest way, provided there is no carrying overland adopted, or other plan for shirking the water. the method accordingly used in this case was rather a novel mode of locomotion, and it was quite successful, as well as highly amusing. in the wide plain of breakers here, the central district seemed radically bad, so we cautiously kept out of the main current, and went where the stream ran fast enough nevertheless. i sat stridelegs on the deck of the boat near its stern, and was thus floated down until the bow, projecting out of the water, went above a ridge of rocks, and the boat grounded. thus i received the shock against my legs (hanging in the water), so that the violence of its blow was eased off from the boat. then i immediately fixed both feet on the rock, and stood up, and the canoe went free from between my knees, and could be lowered down or pushed forward until the water got deeper, and when it got too deep to wade after her i pulled the boat back between my knees, and sat down again on it as before. [illustration: "astride the stern."] the chief difficulty in this proceeding was to be equally attentive at once to keep hold of the boat, to guide it between rocks, to keep hold of the paddle, and to manage not to tumble on loose stones, or to get into the water above the waist. thus by successive riding and ferrying over the deep pools, and walking and wading in the shallows, by pushing the boat here, and by being carried upon it there, the lower rapids of rheinfelden were most successfully passed without any damage. it will be seen from the description already given of the rapids at bremgarten, and now of these two rapids on the rhine, that the main difficulties are only for him who goes there uninformed, and that these can be avoided by examining them on the spot at the cost of a walk and a short delay. but the pleasure is so much enhanced by the whole thing being novel, that, unless for a man who wishes simply to _get past_, it is better to seek a channel for oneself, even if a much easier one has been found out by other people. the town of rheinfelden was now in view, and i began to wonder how the english four-oar boat we had traced as far as lauffenburg could have managed to descend the rapids just now passed. but i learned afterwards that the four-oar had come there in a time of flood, when rocks would be covered, and probably with only such eddies as i have already noticed higher up the river where it was deep. so they pulled on bravely to bâle, where the hotel folks mentioned that when the five moist britons arrived their clothes and baggage were all drenched, and the waiter said, with a malicious grin, that thereby his friend the washerwoman had earned twenty-seven francs in one night. on the left bank of the river was a large building with a smooth gravel shore in front, to which i steered at once. this was the great salt-water baths of rheinfelden--a favourite resort for crippled invalids. the salt rock in the earth beneath impregnates the springs with such an intensity of brine that eighty per cent. of fresh water has to be added before the saline mixture can be medicinally employed as a bath. if you take a glass of the water as it proceeds from the spring, and put a little salt in it, the salt will not dissolve, the water is already saturated. a drop of it put on your coat speedily dries up and leaves a white stain of minute crystals. in fact, this water seemed to me to be far more saline than even the water of the dead sea, which is in all conscience salt enough, as every one knows who has rubbed it on his face in that reeking-hot death-stricken valley of jericho. though the shore was pleasant here and the water was calm, i found no one to welcome me now, and yet this was the only time i had reason to expect somebody to greet the arrival of the canoe. for in the morning a worthy german had told me he was going by train to rheinfelden, and he would keep a look out for the canoe, and would surely meet me on the beach if i "ever got through the rapids." but i found afterwards that he _had_ come there, and with his friends, too, and they had waited and waited till at last they gave up the rob roy as a "missing ship." excellent man, he must have had some novel excuses to comfort his friends with as they retired, disappointed, after waiting in vain! there was however, not far off, a poor woman washing clothes by the river, and thumping and bullying them with a wooden bludgeon as if her sole object was to smash up the bachelor's shirt-buttons. a fine boy of eight years old was with her, a most intelligent little fellow, whose quick eye at once caught sight of the rob roy as it dashed round the point into the smooth water of the bay, and landed me there a tired, tanned traveller, wet and warm. this juvenile helped me more than any man ever did, and with such alacrity, too, and intelligence, and good humour, that i felt grateful to the boy. we spread out the sails to dry, and my socks and shoes in the sun, and sponged out the boat, and then dragged her up the high bank. here, by good luck, we found two wheels on an axle left alone, for what purpose i cannot imagine; but we got a stick and fastened it to them as a pole, and then put the boat on this extemporized vehicle, and with the boy (having duly got permission from his mamma) soon pulled the canoe to the gates of the old town, and then rattling through the streets, even to the door of the hotel. a bright franc in the lad's hand made him start with amaze, but he instantly rose to the dignity of the occasion, and some dozens of other urchins formed an attentive audience as he narrated over and over the events of the last half-hour, and ended always by showing the treasure in his hand, "and the herr gave me this!" the krone hotel here is very prettily situated. it is a large house, with balconies overlooking the water, and a babbling _jet d'eau_ in its garden, which is close by the river. the stream flows fast in front, and retains evidence of having passed through troublous times higher up; therefore it makes no small noise as it rushes under the arches of the covered wooden bridge, but though there are rocks and a few eddies the passage is easy enough if you look at it for five minutes to form a mental chart of your course. my german friend having found out that the canoe had arrived after all, his excitement and pleasure abounded. now he was proved right. now his promises, broken as it seemed all day, were all fulfilled. he was a very short, very fat, and very hilarious personage, with a minute smattering of english, which he had to speak loudly, so as to magnify its value among his allemand friends, envious of his accomplishment. his explanations of the contents of my sketch-book were truly ludicrous as he dilated on it page by page, but he well deserved all gratitude for ordering my hotel bedroom and its comforts, which were never more acceptable than now after a hard day's work. music finished the evening, and then the hum of the distant rapids sung me a lullaby breathing soft slumber. next morning, as there was but a short row to bâle, i took a good long rest in bed, and then carried the canoe half way across the bridge where a picturesque island is formed into a terraced garden, and here we launched the boat on the water. although the knocks and strains of the last few days were very numerous, and many of them of portentous force, judging by the sounds they made, the rob roy was still hale and hearty, and the carpenter's mate had no damages to report to the captain. it was not until harder times came, in the remainder of the voyage, that her timbers suffered and her planks were tortured by rough usage. a number of ladies patronized the start on this occasion, and as they waved their parasols and the men shouted hoch! and bravo! we glided down stream, the yellow paddle being waved round my head in an original mode of "salute," which i invented specially for returning friendly gratulations of this kind. speaking about rheinfelden, baedeker says, "below the town another rapid of the rhine forms a sort of whirlpool called the höllenhaken," a formidable announcement, and a terrible name; but what is called here a "whirlpool" is not worth notice. the sound of a railway train beside the river reminds you that this is not quite a strange, wild, unseen country. reminds you i say, because really when you are in the river bed, you easily forget all that is beyond it on each side. let a landscape be ever so well known from the road, it becomes new again when you view it from the level of the water. for before the scene was bounded by a semicircle with the diameter on the horizon, and the arch of sky for its circumference. but when you are seated in the canoe, the picture changes to the form of a great sector, with its point on the clear water, and each radius inclining aloft through rocks, trees, and mossy banks, on this side and on that. and this holds good even on a well worn river like the thames. the land-scenes between oxford and london get pretty well known and admired by travellers, but the views will seem both fresh and fair if you row down the river through them. nay, there are few rivers which have such lovely scenery as the thames can show in its windings along that route. but our canoe is now getting back to civilization, and away from that pleasant simplicity where everything done in the streets or the hotel is strange to a stranger. here we have composite candles and therefore no snuffers; here the waiter insists on speaking english, and sitting down by me, and clutching my arm, he confidentially informs me that there are no "bean green," translating "haricots verts," but that perhaps i might like a "flower caul," so we assent to a cauliflower. this is funny enough, but far more amusing is it when the woman waiter of some inland german village shouts louder german to you, because that she rattles out at first is not understood. she gazes with a new sensation at a guest who actually cannot comprehend her voluble words, and then guest and waiter burst into laughter. here too i saw a boat towed along the rhine--a painful evidence of being near commerce, even though it was in a primitive style; not that there was any towing-path, but men walked among the bushes, pulling the boat with a rope, and often wading to do so. this sight told me at once that i had left the fine free forests where you might land anywhere, and it was sure to be lonely and charming. after a few bends westward we come in sight of the two towers of bâle, but the setting sun makes it almost impossible to see anything in its brightness, so we must only paddle on. the bridge at bâle was speedily covered by the idle and the curious as the canoe pulled up at an hotel a few yards from the water on sept. th. it was here that the four-oared boat had arrived some weeks ago with its moist crew. the proprietor of the house was therefore much pleased to see another english boat come in, so little and so lonely, but still so comfortable and so dry. i walked about the town and entered a church (protestant here of course), where a number of people had assembled at a baptism. the baby was fixed on a sort of frame, so as to be easily handed about from mother to father, and from clerk to minister; i hereby protest against this mechanical arrangement as a flagrant indignity to the little darling. i have a great respect for babies, sometimes a certain awe. the instant the christening was done, a happy couple came forward to be married, an exceedingly clumsy dolt of a bridegroom and a fair bride, not very young, that is to say, about fifty-five years old. there were no bridesmaids or other perplexing appurtenances, and after the simple ceremony the couple just walked away, amid the titters of a numerous crowd of women. the bridegroom did not seem to know exactly what to do next. he walked before his wife, then behind her, and then on one side, but it did not somehow feel quite comfortable, so he assumed a sort of diagonal position, and kept nudging her on till they disappeared in some house. altogether, i never saw a more unromantic commencement of married life, but there was this redeeming point, that they were not bored by that dread infliction--a marriage breakfast--the first meeting of two jealous sets of new relations, who are all expected to be made friends at once by eating when they are not hungry, and listening when there is nothing to say. but, come, it is not proper for me to criticise these mysteries, so let us go back to the inn. in the coffee-room a frenchman, who had been in london, has just been instructing two mexicans, who are going there, as to hotels, and it is excessively amusing to hear his description of the london "caffy hous," and the hotels in "lyces-ter-squar." "it is pronounced squar," he said, "in england." chapter xi. private concert--thunderer--la hardt forest--mulhouse canal--river ill--reading stories--madame nico--night noises--pets--ducking--vosges--admirers--boat on wheels--new wine. bâle is, in every sense, a turning-point on the rhine. the course of the river here bends abruptly from west to north, and the character of the scenery beside it alters at once from high sloping banks to a widespread network of streams, all entangled in countless islands, and yet ever tending forward, northward, seaward through the great rich valley of the rhine with mountain chains reared on each side like two everlasting barriers. here then we could start anew almost in any direction, and i had not settled yet what route to take, whether by the saone and doubs to paddle to the rhone, and so descend to marseilles, and coast by the cornici road, and sell the boat at genoa; or--and this second plan must be surely a better alternative, if by it we can avoid a sale of the rob roy--i could not part with her now--so let us at once decide to go back through france. we were yet on the river slowly paddling when this decision was arrived at, and the river carried me still, for i determined not to leave its pleasant easy current for a slow canal, until the last possible opportunity. a diligent study of new maps procured at bâle, showed that a canal ran northward nearly parallel to the rhine, and approached very near to the river at one particular spot, which indeed looked hard enough to find even on the map, but was far more dubious when we got into a maze of streamlets and little rivers circling among high osiers, so thick and close that even on shore it was impossible to see a few yards. but the line of tall poplars along the canal was visible now and then, so i made a guesswork turn, and it was not far wrong, or at any rate we got so near the canal that by winding about for a little in a pretty limpid stream, i brought the rob roy at last within carrying distance. a song or two (without words) and a variation of the music by whistling on the fingers would be sure to bring anybody out of the osiers who was within reach of the outlandish concert, and so it proved, for a woman's head soon peered over a break in the dense cover. she wished to help to carry the boat herself, but the skipper's gallantry had scruples as to this proposal, so she disappeared and soon fetched a man, and we bore the canoe with some trouble through hedges and bushes, and over dykes and ditches, and at last through deep grassy fields, till she was safely placed on the canal. the man was delighted by a two-franc piece. he had been well paid for listening to bad music. as for the boat she lay still and resigned, awaiting my next move, and as for me i sighed to give a last look backward, and to say with byron-- "adieu to thee, fair rhine! how long delighted the stranger fain would linger on his way! thine is a scene alike where souls united or lonely contemplation thus might stray; and could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey on self-condemning bosoms, it were here, where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! there can be no farewell to scene like thine; the mind is colour'd by thy every hue; and if reluctantly the eyes resign their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely rhine! 'tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; more mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, but none unite in one attaching maze the brilliant, fair, and soft--the glories of old days. the negligently grand, the fruitful bloom of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, the rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, the forest's growth, and gothic walls between, the wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been in mockery of man's art; and these withal a race of faces happy as the scene, whose fertile bounties here extend to all, still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. but these recede. above me are the alps, the palaces of nature, whose vast walls have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, and throned eternity in icy halls of cold sublimity, where forms and falls the avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! all that expands the spirit, yet appals, gather around these summits, as to show how earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below." --_childe harold, canto iii._ to my surprise and satisfaction the canal had a decided current in it, and in the right direction too. it is true that this current was only about two miles an hour, but even that is something; and though the little channel was hardly twelve feet wide, yet it was clear and deep, and by no means stupid to travel on. after a few miles i came to a drawbridge, which rested within a foot of the water. a man came to raise the bridge by machinery, and he was surprised to see my way of passing it instead, that is, to shove my boat under it, while i quietly walked over the top and got into the boat at the other side. this was, without doubt, the first boat which had traversed the canal without the bridge being raised, but i had passed several very low bridges on the danube, some of them not two inches above the surface of the water. the very existence of these proves that no boats pass there, and mine only passed by pulling it over the bridge itself. it may be asked, how such a low bridge fares in flood times? and the answer is, that the water simply flows all over it. in some cases the planks which form the roadway are removed when the water rises, and then the wayfaring man who comes to the river must manage in some other mode. his bridge is removed at the very time when the high water makes it most necessary. the bridge man was so intelligent in his remarks that we determined to stop there and breakfast, so i left the canoe in his charge and found my way to a little publichouse at the hamlet of gros kembs, and helped the wizened old lady who ruled there to make me an omelette--my help, by the bye, consisted in ordering, eating, and paying for the omelette, for the rest she was sure to do well enough, as all french women can, and no english ones. the village gossips soon arrived, and each person who saw the boat came on to the inn to see the foreigner who could sail in such a _batteau_. the courteous and respectful behaviour of continental people is so uniform that the stranger among them is bound, i think, to amuse and interest these folk in return. this was most easily done by showing all my articles of luggage,[xxviii.] and of course the drawings. a testament with gilt leaves was, however, the chief object of curiosity, and all the _savants_ of the party tried in turn to read it. [xxviii.] see an inventory of these in the appendix. one of these as spokesman, and with commendable gravity, told me he had read in their district newspaper about the canoe, but he little expected to have the honour of meeting its owner. fancy the local organ of such a place! is it called the "news of the wold," or the "gros kembs thunderer"? well, whatever was the title of the gazette, it had an article about pontius pilate and my visit to the titisee in the black forest, and this it was no doubt which made these canal people so very inquisitive on the occasion. the route now lay through the great forest of la hardt, with dense thickets on each side of the canal, and not a sound anywhere to be heard but the hum now and then of a dragon fly. one or two woodmen met me as they trudged silently home from work, but there was a lonely feeling about the place without any of the romance of wild country. in the most brilliant day the scenery of a canal has at best but scant liveliness, the whole thing is so prosaic and artificial, and in fact stupid, if one can ever say that of any place where there is fresh air and clear water, and blue sky and green trees. still i had to push on, and sometimes, for a change, to tow the boat while i walked. the difference between a glorious river encircling you with lofty rocks and this canal with its earthen walls was something like that between walking among high mountains and being shut up by mistake in bloomsbury-square. no birds chirped or sung, or even flew past, only the buzzing of flies was mingled with the distant shriek of a train on the railway. it is this railway which has killed the canal, for i saw no boats moving upon it. the long continued want of rain had also reduced its powers of accommodation for traffic, and the traffic is so little at the best that it would not pay to buy water for the supply. for in times of drought canal water is very expensive. it was said that the regent's canal, in london, had to pay , _l._ for what they required last summer, in consequence of the dryness of the season. at length we came to a great fork of the canal in a wide basin, and i went along the branch to the town of mulhouse, a place of great wealth, the largest french cotton town--the manchester of france. the street boys here were very troublesome, partly because they were intelligent, and therefore inquisitive, and partly because manufacturing towns make little urchins precocious and forward in their manners. i hired a truck from a woman and hired a man to drag it, and so took the boat to the best hotel, a fine large house, where they at once recognized the canoe, and seemed to know all about it from report. the hotel porter delayed so long next morning to wheel the boat to the railway, that when we took her into the luggage office as usual and placed the boat on the counter with the trunks and band-boxes, the officials declined to put it in the train. this was the first time it had been refused on a railroad, and i used every kind of persuasion, but in vain, and this being the first application of the kind on french soil we felt that difficulties were ahead, if this precedent was to hold good. subsequent experience showed that the french railways will not take a canoe as baggage; while the other seven or eight countries we had brought the boat through were all amenable to pressure on this point. we had desired to go by the railway only a few miles, but it would have enabled me to avoid about fifty locks on the canal and thus have saved two tedious days. as, however, they would not take the boat in a passenger train we carried her back to the canal, and i determined to face the locks boldly, and to regard them as an exercise of patience and of the flexor muscles, as it happens sometimes one's walk is only "a constitutional." the superintendent of the rhine and rhone canal was very civil, and endeavoured to give me the desirable information i required, but which he had not got, that is to say, the length, depth, and general character of the several rivers we proposed to navigate in connexion with streams less "canalizé," so i had to begin again as usual, without any knowledge of the way. with rather an ill-tempered "adieu" to mulhouse, the rob roy set off again on its voyage. the water assumed quite a new aspect, now that one _must_ go by it, but it was not so much the water as the locks which were objectionable. for at each of these there is a certain form of operations to be gone through--all very trifling and without variety, yet requiring to be carefully performed, or you may have the boat injured, or a ducking for yourself. when we get to a lock i have to draw to the bank, open my waterproof covering, put my package and paddle ashore, then step out and haul the boat out of the water. by this time two or three persons usually congregate. i select the most likely one, and ask him to help in such a persuasive but dignified manner that he feels it an honour to carry one end of the boat while i take the other, and so we put her in again above the barrier, and, if the man looks poor, i give him a few sous. at some of the locks they asked me for a "carte de permission," or pass for travelling on their canal, but i laughed the matter off, and when they pressed it with a "mais monsieur," i kept treating the proposal as a good joke, until the officials were fairly baffled and gave in. the fact is, we had got into the canal as one gets over the hedge on to a public road, and as i did not use any of the water in locks or any of the lock-keepers' time, and the "pass" was a mere form, price _d._, it was but reasonable to go unquestioned; and besides, this "carte" could not be obtained except at the beginning. having set off late, we went on until about sunset, when the route suddenly passed into the river ill, a long dull stream, which flows through the vosges into the rhine. this stream was now quite stagnant, and a mere collection of pools covered by thick scum. it was therefore a great comfort to have only a short voyage upon it. when the rob roy again entered the canal, an acquaintance was formed with a fine young lad, who was reading as he sauntered along. he was reading of canoe adventures in america, and so i got him to walk some miles beside me, and to help the boat over some locks, telling him he could thus see how different actual canoeing was from the book stories about it made up of romance! he was pining for some expansion of his sphere, and specially for foreign travel, and above all to see england. we went to an _auberge_, where i ordered a bottle of wine, the cost of which was twopence halfpenny. after he left, and as it was now dark, i halted, put my boat in a lock-keeper's house, and made his son conduct me to the little village of illfurth, a most unsophisticated place indeed, with a few vineyards on a hill behind it, though the railway has a road station near. it was not easy to mistake which was the best house here even in the dark, so i inquired of madame at "the white horse" if she could give me a bed. "not in a room for one alone; three others will be sleeping in the same chamber." this she had answered after glancing at my puny package and travel-worn dress, but her ideas about the guest were enlarged when she heard of how he had come, and so she managed (they always do if you give time and smiles and show sketches) to allot me a nice little room to myself, with two beds of the hugest size, a water-jug of the most minute dimensions, and sheets very coarse and very clean. another omelette was consumed while the customary visitors surrounded the benighted traveller; carters, porters, all of them with courteous manners, and behaving so well to me and to one another, and talking such good sense, as to make me feel how different from this is the noisy taproom of a roadside english "public." presently two fine fellows of the gendarmerie came in for their half bottle of wine, at one penny, and as both of them had been in the crimea there was soon ample subject for most interesting conversation. this was conducted in french, but the people here usually speak a patois utterly impossible for one to comprehend. i found they were discussing me under various conjectures, and they settled at last that i must be rather an odd fish, but certainly "a gentleman," and probably "noble." they were most surprised to hear i meant to stop all the next day at illfurth, simply because it was sunday, but they did not fail to ask for my passport, which until this had been carried all the way without a single inquiry on the subject. the sudden change from a first-rate hotel this morning to the roadside inn at illfurth, was more entertaining on account of its variety than for its agreeables; but in good health and good weather one can put up with anything. the utter silence of peaceful and cool night in a place like this reigns undisturbed until about four o'clock in early morn, when the first sound is some matutinal cock, who crows first because he is proud of being first awake. after he has asserted his priority thus once or twice, another deeper toned rooster replies, and presently a dozen cocks are all in full song, and in different keys. in half an hour you hear a man's voice; next, some feminine voluble remarks; then a latch is moved and clicks, the dog gives a morning bark, and a horse stamps his foot in the stable because the flies have aroused to breakfast on his tender skin. at length a pig grunts, his gastric juice is fairly awake, the day is begun. and so the stream of life, thawed from its sleep, flows gently on again, and at length the full tide of village business is soon in agitation, with men's faces and women's quite as full of import as if this french stoke pogis were the capital of the world. while the inmates prepare for early mass, and my bowl of coffee is set before me, there are four dogs, eight cats, and seven canaries (i counted them) all looking on, moving, twittering, mewing, each evidently sensible that a being from some other land is present among them; and as these little pets look with doubtful inquiring eyes on the stranger, there is felt more strongly by him too, "yes, i am in a foreign country." on sunday i had a quiet rest, and walk, and reading, and an englishman, who had come out for a day from mulhouse to fish, dined in the pleasant arbour of the inn with his family. one of his girls managed to fall into a deep pond and was nearly drowned, but i heard her cries, and we soon put her to rights. this briton spoke with quite a foreign accent, having been six years in france; but his lancashire dialect reappeared in conversation, and he said he had just been reading about the canoe in a manchester paper. his children had gone that morning to a sunday-school before they came out by railway to fish in the river here; but i could not help contrasting their rude manners with the good behaviour of the little "lady and gentleman" children of my host. one of these, philibert, was very intelligent, and spent an hour or two with me, so we became great friends. he asked all kinds of questions about england and america, far more than i was able to answer. i gave him a little book with a picture in it, that he might read it to his father, for it contained the remarkable conversation between napoleon and his marshal at st. helena concerning the christian religion, a paper well worth reading, whoever spoke the words. this sunday being an annual village fête a band played, and some very uncouth couples waltzed the whole day. large flocks of sheep, following their shepherds, wandered over the arid soil. the poor geese, too, were flapping their wings in vain as they tried to swim in water an inch deep, where usually there had been pleasant pools in the river. i sympathized with the geese, for i missed my river sadly too. my bill here for the two nights, with plenty to eat and drink, amounted to five shillings in all, and i left good madame nico with some regret, starting again on the canal, which looked more dully and dirty than before. after one or two locks this sort of travelling became so insufferable that i suddenly determined to change my plans entirely--for is not one free? by the present route several days would be consumed in going over the hills by a series of tedious locks; besides, this very canal had been already traversed by the four-oar boat waterwitch some years ago. a few moments of thought, and i got on the bank to look for a way of deliverance. far off could be seen the vine-clad hills of the vosges, and i decided at once to leave the canal, cross the country to those hills, cart the canoe over the range, and so reach the source of the moselle, and thus begin to paddle on quite another set of rivers. we therefore turned the prow back, went down the canal, and again entered the river ill, but soon found it was now too shallow to float even my canoe. once more i retraced my way, ascending the locks, and, passing by illfurth, went on to reach a village where a cart could be had. desperation made me paddle hard even in the fierce sun, but it was not that this so much troubled me as the humiliation of thus rowing back and forward for miles on a dirty, stagnant canal, and passing by the same locks two or three times, with the full conviction that the people who gazed at the procedure must believe me not only to be mad (this much one can put up with), but furiously insane, and dangerous to be at large. whether we confess it or not we all like to be admired. the right or wrong of this depends on for what and from whom we covet admiration. but when the deed you attract attention by is neither a great one, nor a deed which others have not done or cannot do, but is one that all other people could but would not do, then you are not admired as remarkable but only stared at as singular. the shade of a suspicion that this is so in any act done before lookers-on is enough to make it hateful. nay, you have then the sufferings of a martyr, without his cause or his glory. but i fear that instead of getting a cart for the canoe i am getting out of depth in metaphysics, which means, you know, "when ane maun explains till anither what he disna understaun himsel, that's metapheesics." well, when we came to the prescribed village, named haidwiller, we found they had plenty of carts, but not one would come to help me even for a good round sum. it was their first day with the grapes, and "ancient customs must be observed"; so we went on still further to another village, where they were letting out the water from the canal to repair a lock. [illustration: "the rob roy on wheels."] here was a position of unenviable repose for the poor rob roy! no water to float in, and no cart to carry her. to aid deliberation i attacked a large cake of hot flour baked by the lock-keeper's dirty wife, and we stuck plums in it to make it go down, while the man hied off to the fields to get some animal that could drag a clumsy vehicle--cart is too fine a name for it--which i had impressed from a ploughman near. the man came back leading a gloomy-looking bullock, and we started with the boat now travelling on wheels, but at a most dignified pace.[xxix.] [xxix.] the sketch represents the lady cow which dragged the cart at lauffenburg, but it will do almost equally well for the present equipage. this was the arrangement till we reached another village, which had no vineyards, and where therefore we soon found a horse, instead of the gruff bullock; while the natives were lost in amazement to see a boat in a cart, and a big foreigner gabbling beside it. the sun was exceedingly hot, and the road dusty; but i felt the walk would be a pleasant change, though my driver kept muttering to himself about my preference of pedestrianism to the fearful jolts of his cart. we passed thus through several villages on a fine fruitful plain, and at some of them the horse had to bait, or the driver to lunch, or his employer to refresh the inner man, in every case the population being favoured with an account by the driver of all he knew about the boat, and a great deal more. at one of the inns on the road some new wine was produced on the table. it had been made only the day before, and its colour was exactly like that of cold tea, with milk and sugar in it, while its taste was very luscious and sweet. this new wine is sometimes in request, but especially among the women. "corn shall make the young men cheerful, and new wine the maids." (zech. ix. .) chapter xii. bonfire--my wife--matthews--tunnel picture--imposture--fancy--moselle--cocher--"saturday review" tracts--gymnastics--the paddle--a spell--overhead--feminine forum--public breakfast. as evening came on the little flag of the rob roy, which was always hoisted, even in a cart, showed signs of animation, being now revived by a fresh breeze from the beautiful vosges mountains when we gradually brought their outline more distinctly near. then we had to cross the river thur, but that was an easy matter in these scorching days of drought. so the cavalcade went on till, the high road being reached, we drove the cart into the pretty town of thann. the driver insisted on going to _his_ hotel, but when there i saw it could not be the best in a town of this size (experience quickens perception in these matters), and i simply took the reins, backed out of the yard, and drove to a better one. here the hotel-keeper had read of the rob roy, so it was received with all the honours, and the best of his good things was at my disposal. in the evening i burned some magnesium-wire signals to amuse the rustics, who came in great crowds along the roads, drawing home their bullock-carts, well loaded with large vats full of the new grapes, and singing hoarsely as they waved aloft flowers and garlands and danced around them,--the rude rejoicings for a bounteous vine harvest. it is remarkable how soon the good singing of germany is lost trace of when you cross into france, though the language of the peasant here was german enough. at night we went to see an experiment in putting out fires. a large bonfire was lighted in the market-place, and the inventor of the new apparatus came forward, carrying on his back a vessel full of water, under the pressure of "six atmospheres" of carbonic acid gas. he directed this on the fire from a small squirt at the end of a tube, and it was certainly most successful in immediately extinguishing the flames.[xxx.] this gentleman and other _savants_ of the town then visited the boat, and the usual entertainment of the sketch-book closed a pleasant day, which had begun with every appearance of being the reverse. [xxx.] this invention, l'extincteur, has since been exhibited in london, and it seems to be a valuable one. although this is a busy place, i found only one book-shop in it, and that a very bad one. a priest and two nuns were making purchases there, and i noticed that more images and pictures than printed books were kept for sale. next morning a new railroad enabled me to take the boat a little further into the hills; but they fought hard to make her go separate, that is, in a "merchandise" train, though i said the boat was "my wife," and could not travel alone. at last they put their wise heads together, filled up five separate printed forms, charged double fare, and the whole thing cost me just ninepence. verily, the french are still overloaded with forms, and are still in the straitwaistcoat of _système_. the railway winds among green hills, while here and there a "fabrik," or factory, nestles in a valley, or illumines a hill-side at night with its numerous windows all lighted up. these are the chief depôts of that wonderful industry of taste which spreads the shawls and scarfs of france before the eyes of an admiring world, for ladies to covet, and for their husbands to buy. i was informed that the designs for patterns here cost large sums, as if they were the oil paintings of the first masters, and that three times as much is paid in france for cutting one in wood as will be given by an english manufacturer. at wesserling we managed to mount the rob roy on a spring vehicle, and we set off gaily up the winding road that passes the watershed of the vosges mountains. i never had a more charming drive. for six hours we were among woods, vineyards, bright rivulets, and rich pastures. walking up a hill, we overtook a carriage, and found one of the occupants was an englishman. but he had resided in france for more than twenty years, and really i could scarcely understand his english. he spoke of "dis ting," and "ve vill go," and frequently mingled french and german words with his native tongue. in a newspaper article here we noticed after the name "matthews," the editor had considerately added, "pronounced, in english, massious." this is well enough for a frenchman, but it certainly is difficult to conceive how a man can fail in pronouncing our "th," if he is a real live englishman. when he found out my name, he grasped my hand, and said how deeply interested he had been in a pamphlet written by one of the same name.[xxxi.] [xxxi.] the loss of the kent east indiaman by fire in the bay of biscay, by general sir d. macgregor, k.c.b. (religious tract society, paternoster-row.) see a further note on this in the appendix. the spring carriage had been chartered as an expensive luxury in this cheap tour, that is to say, my boat and myself were to be carried about thirty-five miles in a comfortable four-wheeled vehicle for twenty-six francs--not very dear when you consider that it saved a whole day's time to me and a whole day's jolting to the canoe, which seemed to enjoy its soft bed on the top of the cushion, and to appreciate very well the convenience of springs. after a good hard pull up a winding road we got to the top of the pass of this "little switzerland," as it is called, and here was a tunnel on the very crest of the watershed. the arch of this dark tunnel made an excellent frame to a magnificent picture; for before me was stretched out broad france. all streams at our back went down to the all-absorbing rhine, but those in front would wend their various ways, some to the mediterranean, others into the bay of biscay, and the rest into the british channel. a thousand peaks and wooded knolls were on this side and that, while a dim panorama of five or six villages and sunny plains extended before us. this was the chain of the vosges mountains and their pleasant vales, where many valorous men have been reared. the most noted crusaders came from this district, and from here too the first of the two great napoleons drew the best soldiers of his army.[xxxii.] most of the community are protestants. [xxxii.] the giant called "anak," who has been exhibiting in london, is from the vosges mountains. high up on one side of us was a pilgrim station, where thousands of people come year by year, and probably they get fine fresh air and useful exercise. the french seem to walk farther for superstitious purposes than for mere pedestrian amusement.[xxxiii.] [xxxiii.] among other celebrated french "stations" there is the mountain of la salette, near grenoble, where, even in one day, , pilgrims have ascended to visit the spot where the virgin mary was said to have spoken to some shepherds. on the occasion of my pilgrimage there i met some donkeys with panniers bringing down holy water (in lemonade bottles) which was sold throughout europe for a shilling a bottle, until a priest at the bottom of the mountain started a private pump of his own. the woman who had been hired to personate the holy saint confessed the deception, and it was exploded before the courts of law in a report which i read on the spot; but the roman catholic papers, even in england, published attractive articles to support this flagrant imposture, and its truth and goodness were vehemently proclaimed in a book by the romish bishop of birmingham, with the assent of the pope. methinks it is easier to march barefoot miles over sharp stones than to plod your honest walk of life on common pavement and with strong soled boots. my english friend now got into my carriage, and we drove a little way from the road to the village of bussang to see the source of the moselle. this river rises under the "ballon d'alsace," a lofty mountain with a rounded top, and the stream consists at first of four or five very tiny trickling rivulets which unite and come forth in a little spring well about the size of a washing-tub, from which the water flows across the road in a channel that you can bridge with your fingers. but this bubbling brook had great interest for me, as i meant to follow its growth until it would be strong enough to bear me on its cool, clear water, now only like feathers strewed among the grass, and singing its first music very pretty and low. we like to see the source of a great river; a romantic man must have much piquant thought at the sight, and a poetic man must be stirred by its sentiment. every great thought must also have had a source or germ, and it would be interesting to know how and when some of the grand ideas that have afterwards aroused nations first thrilled in the brain of a genius, a warrior, a philosopher, or a statesman. and besides having a source, each stream of thought has a current too, with ripples and deep pools, and scenery as it were around. some thoughts are lofty, others broad; some are straight, and others round about; some are rushing, while others glide peacefully; only a few are clear and deep. but this is not the place to launch upon fancy's dreams, or even to describe the real, pretty valleys around us in the vosges. we go through these merely to find water for the rob roy, and in this search we keep descending every hour. when the bright stars came out they glittered below thick trees in pools of the water now so quickly become a veritable river, and i scanned each lagoon in the darkness to know if still it was too small for the boat. we came to the town of remiremont and to a bad sort of inn, where all was disorder and dirt. the driver sat down with me to a late supper and behaved with true french politeness, which always shows better in company than in private, or when real self-denial or firm friendship is to be tested. so he ate of his five different courses, and had his wine, fruit, and neat little etceteras, and my bill next day for our united entertainment and lodging was just _s._ _d._ this _cocher_ was an intelligent man, and conversed on his own range of subjects with considerable tact, and when our conversation was turned upon the greater things of another world he said, "they must be happy there, for none of them have ever come back"--a strange thought, oddly phrased. as he became interested in the subject i gave him a paper upon it, which he at once commenced to read aloud.[xxxiv.] [xxxiv.] some days previously a stranger gave me a bundle of papers to read, for which i thanked him much. afterwards at leisure i examined the packet, which consisted of about thirty large pages sewn together, and comprising tracts upon politics, science, literature, and religion. the last subject was prominent, and was dealt with in a style clever, caustic, and censorious, which interested me much. these tracts were printed in england and with good paper and type. they are a weekly series, distributed everywhere at six shillings a dozen, and each page is entitled "the saturday review." next morning, the th of september, the rob roy was brought to the door in a handcart, and was soon attended by its usual levee. as we had come into the town late at night the gazers were ignorant of any claims this boat might have upon their respect, and some of them derided the idea of its being able to float on the river here, or at any rate to go more than a mile or two. but having previously taken a long walk before breakfast to examine the moselle, i was convinced it could be begun even here and in this dry season. the porter was therefore directed to go forward, and the boat moved towards the river amid plaudits rather ambiguous, until a curious old gentleman, with green spectacles and a white hat, kindly brought the sceptical mob to their senses by telling them he had read often about the boat, and they must not make fun of it now. then they all chopped round and changed their minds in a moment--the fickle french--and they helped me with a will, and carried the rob roy about a mile to the spot fixed upon for the start, which was speedily executed, with a loud and warm "adieu!" and "bon voyage!" from all the spectators. it was pleasant again to grasp the paddle and to find pure clear water below, which i had not seen since the danube, and to have a steady current alongside that was so much missed on the sluggish river ill and the basel canal. pretty water flowers quivered in the ripples round the mossy stones, and park-like meadows sloped to the river with fruit trees heavy laden. after half an hour of congratulation that we had come to the moselle rather than the saone and the doubs, i settled down to my day's work with cheerfulness. the water of this river was very clear and cool, meandering through long deep pools, and then over gurgling shallows; and the fish, waterfowl, woods, and lovely green fields were a most welcome change from the canal we had left. the sun was intensely hot, but the spare "jib," as a shawl on my shoulders, defied its fierce rays, and so i glided along in solitary enjoyment. the numerous shallows required much activity with the paddle, and my boat got more bumped and thumped to-day than in any other seven days of the tour. of course i had often to get out and to tow her through the water; sometimes through the fields, or over rocks, but this was easily done with canvas shoes on, and flannel trousers that are made for constant ducking. the aspect of the river was rather of a singular character for some miles, with low banks sloping backwards, and richly carpeted with grass, so that the view on either side was ample; while in front was a spacious picture of successive levels, seen to great advantage as the rob roy glided smoothly on crystal waters lipped with green. again the playful river descends by sudden leaps and deep falls, chiefly artificial, and some trouble is caused in getting down each of these, for the boat had to be lowered by hand, with a good deal of gymnastic exercise among the slippery rocks; the mosses and lichens were studied in anything but botanical order. at this period of the voyage the paddle felt so natural in my hands from long use of it every day, that it was held unconsciously. in the beginning of my practice i had invented various tethers and ties to secure this all-important piece of furniture from being lost if it should fall overboard, and i had practised what ought to be done if the paddle should ever be beaten out of my hand by a wave, or dropped into the water in a moment of carelessness. but none of these plans were satisfactory in actual service. the strings got entangled when i jumped out suddenly, or i forgot the thing was tied when it had to be thrown out on the shore, so it was better to have the paddle perfectly loose; and thus free, it never was dropped or lost hold of even in those times of difficulty or confusion which made twenty things to be done, and each to be done first, when an upset was imminent, and a jump out had to be managed instead.[xxxv.] [xxxv.] the bamboo mast was meant originally to serve also as a boat-hook or hitcher, and had a ferrule and a fishing gaff neatly fastened on the end, which fitted also into the mast step. i recollect having used the boat-hook once at gravesend, but it was instantly seen to be a mistake. you don't want a boat-hook when your canoe can come close alongside where it is deep, and will ground when it is shallow. besides, to use a boat-hook you must drop the paddle. the movement of the paddle, then, got to be almost involuntary, just as the legs are moved in walking, and the ordinary difficulties of a river seemed to be understood by the mind without special observation, and to be dealt with naturally, without hesitation or reasoning as to what ought to be done. this faculty increased until long gazes upwards to the higher grounds or to the clouds were fully indulged without apparently interrupting the steady and proper navigation of the boat, even when it was moving with speed. on one of these occasions i had got into a train of thought on this subject, and was regretting that the course of the stream made me turn my back on the best scenery. i had spun round two or three times to feast my eyes once more and again upon some glowing peaks, lit up by the setting sun, until a sort of fascination seized the mind, and a quiet lethargy crept over the system; and, moreover, a most illogical persuasion then settled that the boat always _did_ go right, and that one need not be so much on the alert to steer well. this still held me as we came into a cluster of about a dozen rocks all dotted about, and with the stream welling over this one and rushing over that, and yet i was spellbound and doggedly did nothing to guide the boat's course. but the water was avenged on this foolish defiance of its power, for in a moment i was driven straight on a great rock, only two inches below the surface, and the boat at once swung round, broadside on to the current, and then slowly but determinedly began to turn over. as it canted more and more my lax muscles were rudely aroused to action, for the plain fact stared out baldly that i was about to get a regular ducking, and all from a stupid, lazy fit. the worst of it was i was not sitting erect, but stretched almost at full length in the boat, and one leg was entangled inside by the strap of my bag. in the moments following (that seem minutes in such a case) a gush of thoughts went through the mind while the poor little boat was still turning over, until at last i gave a spring from my awkward position to jump into the water. the jerk released the canoe from the rock, but only the head and arms of its captain fell into the river--though in a most undignified _pose_, which was soon laughed off, when my seat was recovered, with a wet head and dripping sleeves! however, this little _faux pas_ quite wakened and sobered me, and i looked in half shame to the bank to see if any person had witnessed the absurd performance. and it was well to have done with sentiment and reveries, for the river had now got quite in earnest about going along. permit me again to invite attention to the washerwomen on the river; for this institution, which one does not find thus floating on our streams in england, becomes a very frequent object of interest if you canoe it on the continent. [illustration: "washing barge."] as the well in eastern countries is the recognised place for gossiping, and in colder climes a good deal of politics is settled in the barber's shop, so here in fluvial districts the washing barge is the forum of feminine eloquence. the respectability of a town as you approach it is shadowed forth by the size and ornaments of the _blanchisseuses'_ float; and as there are often fifty faces seen at once, the type of female loveliness may be studied for a district at a time. while they wash they talk, and while they talk they thump and belabour the clothes; but there is always some idle eye wandering which speedily will catch sight of the rob roy canoe. in smaller villages, and where there is no barge for them to use, the women have to do without one, and kneel on the ground, so that even in far-off parts of the river we shall find them there. a flat sounding whack! whack! tells me that round the corner we shall come upon at least a couple of washerwomen, homely dames, with brown faces and tall caps, who are wringing, slapping, and scrubbing the "linge." though this may encourage the french cotton trade, i rejoice that my own shirts are of strong woollen stuff, which defies their buffeting. i always fraternized with these ladies, doffing my hat, and drawing back my left foot for a bow (though the graceful action is not observed under the macintosh). other travellers, also, may find there is something to be seen and heard if they pass five minutes at the washing-barge. but even if it were not instructive and amusing thus to study character when a whole group is met with at once, surely it is to be remembered that the pleasure of seeing a new sight and of hearing a foreigner speak cheerful and kind words, is to many of these hard-working, honest mothers a bright interlude in a life of toil. to give pleasure is one of the best pleasures of a tourist; and it is in acting thus, too, that the lone traveller feels no loneliness, while he pleases and is pleased. two englishmen may travel together agreeably among foreigners for a week without learning so much of the life, and mind, and manners of the people as would be learned in one day if each of the tourists went alone, provided he was not too shy or too proud to open his eyes, and ears, and mouth among strangers, and had sense enough to be an exception to the rule that "every englishman is an island." merely for a change, i ran the rob roy into a long millrace in search of breakfast. this stream having secured hold of the boat stealthily ran away with us in a winding course among the hayfields, and quite out of reach of the river, until it seemed that after all we were only in a streamlet for irrigation, which would vanish into rills an inch deep in a water meadow. however, i put a bold face on it, and gravely and swiftly sped through the fields, and bestowed a nod now and then on the rural gazers. a fine boy of twelve years old soon trotted alongside, and i asked him if he was an honest lad, which he answered by a blush, and "yes." "here is a franc, then. go and buy me bread and wine, and meet me at the mill." a few of the "hands" soon found out the canoe, moored, as it was thought, in quiet retirement, with its captain resting under a tree, and presently a whole crowd of them swarmed out, and shouted with delight as they pressed round to see. the boy brought a very large bottle of wine, and a loaf big enough to dine four men; and i set to work with an oarsman's appetite, and that happy _sang froid_ which no multitude of gazers now could disturb. however, one of the party invited me into her house, and soon set delicate viands before the new guest, while the others filled the room in an instant, and were replaced by sets of fifty at a time, all very good-humoured and respectful. but it was so hot and bustling here that i resolved to go away and have a more pleasant and sulky meal by myself on some inaccessible island. the retreat through the crowd had to be regularly prepared for by military tactics; so i appointed four of the most troublesome boys as "policemen" to guard the boat in its transit across the fields, but they discharged their new duties with such vigour that two little fellows were soon knocked over into the canoe, and so we launched off, while the manager of the factory called in vain to his cottonspinners, who were all now in full cry after the boat, and were making holiday without leave. chapter xiii. river moselle--epinal--the tramp--halcyon--painted woman--beating to quarters--boat in a hedge--the meurthe--moving house--tears of a mother--five francs. under a dark arbour-like arch of foliage, where the water was deep and still, i made fast to the long grass, cast my tired limbs into the fantastic folds of ease, and, while the bottle lasted and the bread, i watched the bees and butterflies, and the beetles and rats, and the coloured tribes of airy and watery life that one can see so well in a quiet half hour like this. how little we are taught at school about these wondrous communities of real life, each with its laws and instincts, its beauties of form, and marvellous ingenuities! how little of flowers and insects, not to say of trees and animals, a boy learns as school-lessons, while he has beaten into him at one end and crammed in at the other the complicated politics of heathen gods, and their loves and faction fights, which are neither real nor possible. the moselle rapidly enlarged in volume, though one could easily see that it had seldom been so low before. it is a very beautiful river to row on, especially where we began. then it winds to the west and north, and again, turning a little eastwards, traverses a lovely country between treves and coblentz, where it joins the ancient rhine. my resting-place for this evening was epinal, a town with little to interest; and so we could turn to books and pencils until it was time for bed. next day the scenery was by no means so attractive, but i had plenty of hard work, which was enjoyed very much, my shoes and socks being off all day, for it was useless to put them on when so many occasions required me to jump out. here it was a plain country, with a gravel soil, and fast rushings of current; and then long pools like the serpentine, and winding turns leading entirely round some central hill which the river insisted upon circumventing. at noon we came upon a large number of labourers at work on a milldam, and as this sort of crowd generally betokens something to eat (always, at any rate, some drinkable fluid), i left my boat boldly in mid-stream, and knocked at a cottage, when an old woman came out. "madame, i am hungry, and you are precisely the lady who can make me an omelette." "sir, i have nothing to give you." "why," said i, "look at these hens; i am sure they have laid six eggs this morning, they seem so conceited." she evidently thought i was a tramp demanding alms, and when told to look at the boat which had come from england, she said she was too old and too blind to see. however, we managed to make an omelette together, and she stood by (with an eye, perhaps, to her only fork) and chatted pleasantly, asking, "what have you got to sell?" i told her i had come there only for pleasure. "what sort of pleasure, monsieur, can you possibly hope to find in _this_ place?" but i was far too gallant to say bluntly that her particular mansion was not the ultimate object of the tour. after receiving a franc for the rough breakfast, she kept up a battery of blessings till the rob roy started, and she ended by shrieking out to a navvy looking on, "i tell you every englishman is rich!" next day was bright and blue-skyed as before, and an early start got the fine fresh morning air on the water. the name of this river is sometimes pronounced "moselle," and at other times "mosel," what we should call "mozle." when a frenchman speaks of "la moselle," he puts an equal emphasis on each of the three syllables he is pronouncing; whereas generally we englishmen call this river mosélle. the name of a long river often indeed goes through changes as it traverses various districts and dialects; for instance, the missouri, which you hear the travellers in kansas call "mzoory," while they wend along the californian road. when the scenery is tame to the canoist, and the channel of the river is not made interesting by dangers to be avoided, then one can always turn again to the animals and birds, and five minutes of watching will be sure to see much that is curious. here, for instance, we have the little kingfisher again, who had met us on the danube and the reuss, and whom we knew well in england before; but now we are on a visit to _his_ domain, and we see him in his private character alone. there are several varieties of this bird, and they differ in form and colour of plumage. this "royal bird," the _halcyon_ of antiquity, the _alcedo_ in classic tongue, is called in german "eis fogl," or "ice bird," perhaps because he fishes even in winter's frost, or because his nest is like a bundle of icicles, being made of minnows' bones most curiously wrought together. but now it is on a summer day, and he is perched on a twig within two inches of the water, and under the shade of a briar leaf, his little parasol. he is looking for fish, and is so steady that you may easily pass him without observing that brilliant back of azure, or the breast of blushing red. when i desired to see these birds, i quietly moved my boat till it grounded on a bank, and, after it was stationary thus for a few minutes, the halcyon fisher got quite unconcerned, and plied his task as if unseen. he peers with knowing eye into the shallow below him, and now and then he dips his head a bit to make quite sure he has marked a fish worth seizing; then suddenly he darts down with a spluttering splash, and flies off with a little white minnow, or a struggling sticklebat nipped in his beak. if it is caught thus crosswise, the winged fisherman tosses his prey into the air, and nimbly catches it in his mouth, so that it may be gulped down properly. then he quivers and shakes with satisfaction, and quickly speeds to another perch, flitting by you with wonderful swiftness, as if a sapphire had been flung athwart the sunbeam, flashing beauteous colours in its flight. or, if bed-time has come, or he is fetching home the family dinner, he flutters on and on, and then with a little sharp note of "good-bye," pops into a hole, the dark staircase to his tiny nest, and there he finds mrs. halcyon sitting in state, and thirteen baby kingfishers gaping for the dainty fish. this pretty bird has an air of quiet mystery, beauty, and vivid motion, all combined, which has made him a favourite with the rob roy. strangely enough, the river in this part of its course actually gets less and less as you descend it. every few miles some of the water is drawn off by a small canal to irrigate the neighbouring land, and in a season of drought like this, very little of the abstracted part returns. they told me that the moselle river never has been so "basse" for years, and i was therefore an unlucky _voyageur_ in having to do for the first time what could have been done more easily in any other season. as evening fell we reached the town of chatel, and the rob roy was sent to bed in the washhouse of the hotel. but five minutes had not elapsed before a string of visitors came for the daily inspection of the boat. as i sauntered along the bridge a sprightly youth came up, who had not seen the canoe, but who knew i was "one of her crew." he was most enthusiastic on the subject, and took me to see _his_ boat, a deadly-looking flat-bottomed open cot, painted all manner of patterns; and as he was extremely proud of her i did not tell him that a boat is like a woman, too good to paint: a pretty one is spoiled by paint, and a plain one is made hideous. then he came for a look at the rob roy, and, poor fellow, it was amusing to observe how instantly his countenance fell from pride to intense envy. he had a "boating mind," but had never seen a really pretty boat till now. however, to console himself he invited me to another hotel to drink success to the canoe in bavarian beer, and to see my drawings, and then i found that my intelligent, eager, and, we may add, gentlemanly friend was the waiter there! a melancholy sensation pervaded the rob roy to-day, in consequence of a sad event, the loss of the captain's knife. we had three knives on board in starting from england; one had been given away in reward for some signal service, and this which was now lost was one with a metal haft and a curious hook at the end, a special description made in berlin, and very useful to the tourist. it is not to be wondered that in so many leaps and somersaults, and with such constant requirements for the knife to mend pencils, &c., &c., the trusty blade should at last have disappeared, but the event suggests to the next canoeman that his boat-knife should be secured to a lanyard. one singular conformation of the river-bed occurred in my short tour upon this part of the moselle. without much warning the banks of rock became quite vertical and narrowed close together. they reminded me of the rock-cutting near liverpool, on the old railway to manchester. the stream was very deep here, but its bed was full of enormous stones and crags, very sharp and jagged, which, however, could be easily avoided, because the current was gentle. a man i found fishing told me that a little further on there was an "impossible" place, so when after half a mile the well-known sound of rushing waters came (the ear got marvellous quick for this), we beat to quarters and prepared for action. the ribbon to keep my hat was tied down. sleeves and trousers were tucked up. the covering was braced tight and the baggage secured below; and then came the eager pleasures of anticipating, wishing, hoping, fearing, that are mixed up in the word excitement. the sound was quite near now, but the river took the strangest of all the forms i had yet seen. if you suppose a trench cut along oxford-street to get at the gas-pipes, and if all the water of a river which had filled the street before suddenly disappeared in the trench, that would be exactly what the moselle had now become. the plateau of rock on each side was perfectly dry, though in flood times, no doubt, the river covers that too. the water boiled and foamed through this channel from to feet deep, but only in the trench, which was not five feet wide. an intelligent man came near to see me enter this curious passage, but when we had got a little way in i had to stop the boat, and this too by putting my hands on both sides of the river! then i got out and carefully let the boat drive along the current, but still held by the painter. soon it got too narrow and fast even for this process, so i pulled the canoe upon the dry rock, and sat down to breathe and to cool my panting frame. two other gentlemen had come near me by this time, and on a bridge above were several more with two ladies. i had to drag the boat some hundred yards over most awkward rocks, and these men hovered round and admired, and even talked to me, and actually praised my perseverance, yet not one offer of any help did any one of them give! in deep water again, and now exactly under the bridge i looked up and found the whole party regarding the rob roy with curiosity and smiles. within a few yards was a large house these people had come from, and i thought their smiles were surely to preface, "would you not like a glass of wine, sir, after your hour of hard work?" but as it meant nothing of the sort i could not help answering their united adieux! by these words, "adieu, ladies and gentlemen. many to look, but none to help. the exhibition is gratuitous!" was it wrong to say this? it was utterly impossible not to think as much. one or two other places gave trouble without interest, such as when i had to push the boat into a hedge point foremost, and to pull it through by main force from the other side, and then found, after all, it was pushed into the wrong field, so the operation had to be done over again in a reverse direction. but never mind, all this counted in the day's work, and all the trouble of it was forgotten after a good night's sleep, or was entirely recompensed by some interesting adventure. the water of the moselle is so clear that the scenery under the surface continually occupied my attention. in one long reach, unusually deep and quiet, i happened to be gazing down at some huge trout, and accidentally observed a large stone, the upper part of a fine column, at the very bottom of the water, at least ten feet below me. the capital showed it to be ionic, and near it was another, a broken pediment of large dimensions, and a little further on a pedestal of white marble. i carefully examined both banks, to see if a roman villa or bridge, or other ruin, indicated how these subaqueous reliques had come into this strange position, and i inquired diligently at charmes, the next town; but although much curiosity was shown on the subject, no information was obtained, except that the romans had built a fort somewhere on the river (but plainly not at that spot), so we may consider that the casual glance at the fish revealed a curious fragment of the past hitherto probably unnoticed. after pulling along the moselle, from as near to its source as my canoe could find water, until the scenery became dull at charmes, we went by railway from thence to blainville, on the river meurthe, which is a tributary of the moselle, for i thought some new scenery might be found in this direction. the rob roy was therefore sent by itself in a goods-train, the very first separation between us for three months. it seemed as if the little boat, leaning on its side in the truck, turned from me reproachfully, and we foreboded all sorts of accidents to its delicate frame, but the only thing lost was a sponge, a necessary appendage to a boat's outfit when you desire to keep it perfectly dry and clean. two railway porters, with much good-humoured laughing, carried the rob roy from the station to the river's edge, and again we paddled cheerily along, and on a new river, too, with scenery and character quite different from that of the moselle. the meurthe winds through rich plains of soft earth, with few rocks and little gravel. but then in its shallows it has long thick mossy weeds, all under the surface. these were found to be rather troublesome, because they got entangled with my paddle, and since they could not be seen beforehand the best channel was not discernible, as where rocks or gravel give those various forms of ripples which the captain of a canoe soon gets to know as if they were a chart telling the number of inches of depth. moreover, when you get grounded among these long weeds, all pointed down stream, it is very difficult to "back out," for it is like combing hair against the grain. the larger rivers in france are all thoroughly fished. in every nook you find a fisherman. they are just as numerous here as in germany they are rare. and yet one would think that fishing is surely more adapted to the contemplative german than to the vivacious french. yet, here they are by hundreds, both men and women, and every day, each staring intently on a tiny float, or at the grasshopper bait, and quite satisfied if now and then he can pull up a gudgeon the size of your thumb. [illustration: "french fishers."] generally, these people are alone, and when they asked me at hotels if i did not feel lonely in the canoe, the answer was, "look at your fishermen, for hours by choice alone. they have something to occupy attention every moment, and so have i." sometimes, however, there is a whole party in one clumsy boat. the _pater familias_ sits content, and recks not if all his time is spent in baiting his line and lighting his pipe. the lazy "hopeful" lies at full length on the grass, while a younger brother strains every nerve to hook a knowing fish that is laughing at him under water, and winking its pale eye to see the fisher just toppling over. mademoiselle chatters whether there are bites or not, and another, the fair cousin, has got on shore, where she can bait her hook and set her cap and simper to the bold admirer by her side. not one of these that i have spoken to had ever seen an artificial fly. then besides, we have the fishers with nets. these are generally three men in a boat, with its stem and its stern both cocked up, and the whole affair looking as if it must upset or sink. such boats were painted by raphael in the great cartoons, where all of us must have observed how small the boat is compared with the men it carries. again, there are some young lads searching under the stones for _ecrevisses_, the freshwater prawns, much in request, but giving very little food for a great deal of trouble. near these fishers the pike plies his busy sportsman's life below the surface, and i have sometimes seen a poor little trout leap high into the air to escape from the long-nosed pursuer, who followed him even out of the water, and snapped his jaws on the sweet morsel impudently. this sound, added to the very suspicious appearance of the rob roy gliding among the islands, decides the doubtful point with a duck, the leader of a flock of wild ducks that have been swimming down stream in front of me with a quick glance on each side, every one of them seemingly indignant at this intrusion on their haunts; at last they find it really will not do, so with a scream and a spring they flap the water and rise in a body to seek if there be not elsewhere at least some one nook to nestle in where john bull does not come. that bell you hear tinkling is at the ferry, to call the ferryman who lives at the other side, and he will jump into his clumsy boat, which is tied to a pulley running on a rope stretched tight across the river. he has only to put his oar obliquely on the gunwale, and the transverse pressure of the current brings the boat rapidly to the other bank. paddling on, after a chat with the ferryman (and he is sure to be ready for that), a wonderful phenomenon appears. we see a house, large, new, and of two stories high, it has actually moved. we noticed it a few minutes ago, and now it has changed its position. i gaze in astonishment, and while we ponder, lo! the whole house entirely disappears. now, the true explanation of this is soon found when we get round the next corner of the reach;--the house is a great wooden bathing "etablissement," built on a barge, and it is being slowly dragged up the stream. after wonder comes sentiment. three women are seen on the river-bank evidently in great alarm: a mother, a daughter, and a servant maid, who searched in vain for two boys, supposed to have gone away to fish, but now missing for many hours. they eagerly inquired if i had seen the lads, and implored me with tears to give them advice. i tried all i could to recollect, but no! i had not seen the boys, and so the women went away distracted, and left me sorrowful--who would not be so at a woman's tears, a mother's too? but suddenly, when toiling in the middle of a very difficult piece of rock-work, lowering the boat, i remembered having seen those boys, so i ran over the fields after the anxious mamma and soon assured her the children had been safe an hour ago, and their faithful servant with them, but that _he_ had become the fisherman, and they, like boys, had got tired of the rod, and were playing with a goat. when the poor mother heard we had seen the little fellows and they were safe, her tears of joy were quite affecting, and they vividly recalled one's schoolboy days, when the thoughtless playtime of childhood so often entails anxiety on a loving mother's heart. such, then, are the river sights and river wonders, ever new, though trifling perhaps when told, but far more lively and entertaining than the common incidents of a dusty road, or a whirring, shrieking train. with a few wadings and bumpings, and one or two "vannes," or weirs, we slipped along pleasantly until evening came. still it was only a slow stream, and the towers of st. nicholas, long visible on the horizon, seemed ever to move from side to side without being any nearer, so much does this river wind in its course. i paddled at my best pace, but the evening rapidly grew darker, until we overtook two french youths in a boat, the first occasion on which we had noticed frenchmen rowing for exercise. they could not keep up with the canoe, so we had to leave them ingloriously aground on a bank, and yet too lazy to get out and help their boat over the difficulty. soon after i came to a great weir about fifteen feet in height, the deepest we had yet encountered, and half a sigh was heaved when it was evident that there was no escape from all the bother of getting out and gymnasticizing here after a long day's work. it was a matter of some time and trouble to get the boat over this weir in the dark; but what was far worse immediately followed, as i found myself in a maze of shallows, without light to see how to get through them. whenever we stopped, too, for rest, there was only darkness, silence, and no motion--not even the excitement of a current to arouse. finally, i had to wade and haul the boat along, and jump in and ferry myself over the pools, for nearly half a mile, until at length the "look-out" man of our starboard watch shouted, "a bridge and a house on the lee bow!" and a joyous cheer burst forth from the crew. all this, which may be told in a few sentences, took a full hour of very tiresome work, though, as there was no current, there was no danger, and it was merely tedious, wet, unlighted, and uncomfortable. nevertheless i sang and whistled all the time. when the bridge was arrived at, i was sure it must be a town, and then there happened a scene almost an exact counterpart of that which took place at gegglingen, on the danube. i pulled up my boat on the dark shore, and, all dripping wet, i mounted to the house above, and speedily aroused the inmates. a window opened, and a worthy couple appeared in their night-dresses, holding a candle to examine the intruder. the tableau was most comical. the man asked, "is it a farce?" he could scarcely expect a traveller from england to arrive there at such an hour. but he soon helped me to carry the boat to a little restaurant, where a dozen men were drinking, who rushed out with lamps to look at the boat, but entirely omitted to help the forlorn captain. nor was there any room in this restaurant, so we had to carry the boat through the dark streets to another house, where another lot of topers received me in like style. we put the rob roy into a garden here, and her sails flapped next morning while a crowd gazed over the walls with anxious curiosity. the worthy husband who had thus left his spouse that he might carry my wet boat, all slippery with mud, was highly pleased with a five-franc piece, which was the least i thought him to deserve, though it was like a five-pound note to him in such a cheap country. next morning in the light of day we had a survey of the scene of last night's adventure. it was very amusing to trace the various channels we had groped about in the darkness. here i met a french gentleman, of gay and pleasant manner, but who bemoaned his lot as secretary of a great factory in this outlandish place, instead of being in joyous, thoughtless, brilliant paris, where, he said, often for days together he did not sleep in bed, but ran one night into the next by balls, theatres, and supper parties. he kindly took me to see the great salt works, that send refined salt all over europe. this rock salt is hoisted out of a deep mine, in blocks like those of coal, having been hewn from the strata below, which are pierced by long and lofty galleries. then it is covered in tanks by water, which becomes saturated, and is conducted to flat evaporating pans, when the water is expelled by the heat of great furnaces, and the salt appears in masses like snow-drift. salt that is sold by weight they judiciously wet again, and other qualities sold by measure they cleverly deposit in crooked crystals, so as to take up as much space as possible! we found a canal here, and as the river was so shallow i mounted to the artificial channel, and with a strong and fair wind was soon sailing along rapidly. this canal has plenty of traffic upon it, and only a few locks; so it was by no means tedious. they asked for my card of permission, but i smiled the matter off as before. however, an officer of the canal who was walking alongside looked much more seriously at the infringement of rules, and when we came to a lock he insisted we must produce the "carte." as a last resort, i showed him the well-worn sketch-book, and then he at once gave in. in fact, after he had laughed at the culprit's caricatures, how could he gravely sentence him to penalties? it is wonderful how a few lines of drawing will please these outlying country people. sometimes we gave a small sketch to a man when it was desirable to get rid of him: he was sure to take it away to show outside, and when he returned i had departed. once we gave a little girl a portrait of her brother, and next morning she brought it again all crumpled up. her mother said the child had held it all night in her hand. chapter xiv. ladies in muslin--officers shouting--volunteers' umbrella--reims--leaks--wet--madame clicquot--heavy blow--dinner talk--the elephant--cloud. the canal brought me to nancy, a fine old town, with an archbishop, a field-marshal, a good hotel, large washhand basins, drums, bugles, ices, and all the other luxuries of life. in the cathedral there was more tawdry show about the mass than i ever remarked before, even in italy. at least thirty celebrants acted in the performance, and the bowings and turnings and grimaces of sedate old men clad in gorgeous, dirty needlework, fumbling with trifles and muttering latin, really passed all bounds: they were an insult to the population, who are required to attend this vicarious worship, and to accept such absurdities as the true interpretation of "this do in remembrance of me." a large and attentive congregation, nearly all women, listened first to an eloquent sermon from a young priest who glorified an old saint. it is possible that the ancient worthy was a most respectable monk, but probably he was, when he lived, a good deal like the monks one meets in the monasteries, and now that i have lived pretty frequently with these gentlemen i must say it makes one smile to think of canonizing such people, as if any one of them had unapproachable excellence; but perhaps this monk distinguished himself by proper daily ablutions, and so earned the rare reputation of being reasonably clean. in the afternoon the relics of the monk were borne through the streets by a procession of some thousand women and a few men. these ladies, some hundreds of whom were dressed in white muslin, and in two single ranks, chanted as they slowly marched, and all the bystanders took off their hats, but i really could not see what adoration was due to the mouldering bones of a withered friar, so my excellent straw hat was kept on my head. but the french, who live in public, must have a public religion, a gregarious worship, with demonstrative action and colours and sounds. deep devotion, silent in its depth, is for the north and not for this radiant sun, though you will find that quiet worship again in lower latitudes where the very heat precludes activity. some twenty years ago, one of the ablest men of the university of cambridge read a paper on the influence which the insular position and the climate of britain has upon our national character, and it appeared to be proved clearly that this influence pervades every feature of our life. in a third-rate french town like nancy, nearly all the pleasant _agrements_ depend on the climate, and would be sadly curtailed by rain or snow. so, again, when a frenchman visits england and gets laughed at for mistakes in our difficult language, and has to eat only two dishes for dinner, and drinks bad coffee, and has no evening lounge in the open air, and is then told to look at our domestic life, and finds he cannot get an entrance there (for how very few french do enter there), his miseries are directly caused by our climate, and no wonder his impression of albion is that we are all fog and cotton and smoke, and everything _triste_. from nancy we sent the canoe by rail to meet me on the river marne, and while the slow luggage-train lumbered along i took the opportunity of visiting the celebrated camp of châlons, the aldershot of france. an omnibus takes you from the railway station, and you soon enter a long straggling street of very little houses, built badly, and looking as if one and all could be pushed down by your hand. these are not the military quarters, but the self-grown parasite sutlers' town, which springs up near every camp. here is "place solferino," and there "rue malakhoff," where the sign of the inn is a chinaman having his pigtail lopped off by a français. the camp is in the middle of a very large plain, with plenty of dust and white earth, which "glared" on my eyes intensely, this being the hottest day i have experienced during the vacation. but there are trees for shade, and a good deal of grass on these extensive downs where great armies can manoeuvre and march past the emperor as he sits enthroned under a bower on that hill-crest overlooking all. the permanent buildings for the troops consist of about separate houses, substantial, airy, and well lighted, all built of brick, and slated, and kept in good repair; each of these is about seventy feet long, twenty broad, and of one story high. a million and a-half pounds sterling have already been expended on this camp. behind the quarters are the soldiers' gardens, a feature added lately to the camps in england. there were only a few thousand soldiers at the place, so we soon saw all that was interesting, and then adjourned to a restaurant, where i observed about twenty officers go in a body to breakfast. this they did in a separate room, but their loud, coarse, and outrageously violent conversation really amazed me. the din was monstrous and without intermission. we had never before fallen in with so very bad a specimen of french manners, and i cannot help thinking there may have been special reasons for these men bellowing for half an hour as they ate their breakfast. the "mess system" has been tried in the french army several times, but it seems to fail always, as the french clubs do, on the whole. it is not wise, however, for a traveller to generalize too rapidly upon the character of any portion of a great people if he has not lived long among them. a hasty glance may discern that a stranger has a long nose, but you must have better acquaintance with him before you can truly describe the character of your friend. in a little book just published in france about the english bar two facts are noted, that barristers put the name of their "inn" on their visiting cards, and that the temple volunteers are drilled admirably by a serjeant-at-law, who wields "an umbrella with a varnished cover, which glances in the sun like a sword"! another interesting town in this department of france is rheims (spelt reims, and pronounced very nearly rens). having still an hour or two free, i went there, and enjoyed the visit to the very splendid cathedral. it is one of the finest in europe, very old, very large, very rich, and celebrated as the place of coronation for the french sovereigns. besides all this it is kept in good order, and is remarkably clean. the outside is covered with stone figures, most of them rude in art, but giving at a distance an appearance of prodigal richness of material. a little periodical called _france illustrated_ is published at fourpence each number, with a map of the department, several woodcuts of notable places or events, and a brief history of the principal towns, concluding with a _résumé_ of the statistics of the department. a publication of this kind would, i think, be very useful in england; and for travellers especially, who could purchase at the county town the particular number or part then required. in one of the adjoining departments, according to this publication, it appears that there are about a hundred suicides in the year among a population of half a million. surely this is an alarming proportion; and what should we say if manchester had to report men and women in one year who put themselves to death? but we are subsiding, you see, into the ordinary tales of a traveller, because i am waiting now for the train and the rob roy, and certainly this my only experience of widowerhood made me long again for the well-known yellow oaken side of the boat and her pink-brown cedar varnished top. well, next morning here is the canoe at epernay, arrived all safe at a cost of _s._ _d._ all safe we thought at first, but we soon found it had been sadly bruised, and would surely leak. i turned it upside down on the railway platform in the hot sun, and bought two candles and occupied three good hours in making repairs and greasing all the seams. but after all this trouble, when we put the boat into the marne, the water oozed in all round. it is humiliating to sit in a leaky boat--it is like a lame horse or a crooked gun; of all the needful qualities of a boat the first is to keep out the water. so i stopped at the first village, and got a man to mix white lead and other things, and we carefully worked this into all the seams, leaving it to harden while i had my breakfast in the little auberge close by the shore, where they are making the long rafts to go down to paris, and where hot farmers come to sip their two-penny bottle of wine. the raft man was wonderfully proud of his performance with the canoe, and he called out to each of his friends as they walked past, to give them its long history in short words. when i paid him at last, he said he hoped i would never forget that the canoe had been thoroughly mended in the middle of france, at the village of ----, but i really do not remember the name. however, there were not wanting tests of his workmanship, for the rob roy had to be pulled over many dykes and barriers on the marne. some of these were of a peculiar construction, and were evidently novel in design. a "barrage" reached across the stream, and there were three steps or falls on it, with a plateau between each. the water ran over these steps, and was sometimes only a few inches in depth on the crest of each fall, where it had to descend some eight or ten inches at most. this, of course, would have been easy enough for the canoe to pass, but then a line of iron posts was ranged along each plateau, and chains were tied from the top of one post to the bottom of another, diagonally, and it will be understood that this was a very puzzling arrangement to steer through in a fast current. in cases of this sort i usually got ashore to reconnoitre, and having calculated the angle at which we must enter the passage obliquely (down a fall, and across its stream), i managed to get successfully through several of these strange barriers. we came at length to one which, on examination, i had to acknowledge was "impassable," for the chains were slack, and there was only an inch or two of "law" on either side of the difficult course through them. [illustration: "the chain barrier."] however, a man happened to see my movements and the canoe, and soon he called some dozen of his fellow navvies from their work to look at the navigator. the captain was therefore incited by these spectators to try the passage, and i mentally resolved at any rate to be cool and placid, however much discomfiture was to be endured. the boat was steered to the very best of my power, but the bow of the canoe swerved an inch in the swift oblique descent, and instantly it got locked in the chains, while i quietly got out (whistling an air in slow time), and then, in the water with all my clothes on, i steadily lifted the boat through the iron network and got into her, dripping wet, but trying to behave as if it were only the usual thing. the navvies cheered a long and loud bravo! but i felt somewhat ashamed of having yielded to the desire for ignorant applause, and when finally round the next corner i got out and changed my wet things, a wiser and a sadder man, but dry. this part of the river is in the heart of the champagne country, and all the softly swelling hills about are thickly covered by vineyards. the vine for champagne is exceedingly small, and grows round one stick, and the hillside looks just like a carding-brush, from the millions of these little sharp-pointed rods upright in the ground and close together, without any fence whatever between the innumerable lots. the grape for champagne is always red, and never white, so they said, though "white grapes are grown for eating." during the last two months few people have consumed more grapes in this manner than the chief mate of the rob roy canoe. on one of these hills we noticed the house of madame clicquot, whose name has graced many a cork of champagne bottles and of bottles not champagne. the vineyards of ai, near epernay, are the most celebrated for their wine. after the bottles are filled, they are placed neck downwards, and the sediment collects near the cork. each bottle is then uncorked in this position, and the confined gas forces out a little of the wine with the sediment, while a skilful man dexterously replaces the cork when this sediment has been expelled. one would think that only a very skilful man can perform such a feat. when the bottles are stored in "caves," or vast cellars, the least change of temperature causes them to burst by hundreds. sometimes one-fourth of the bottles explode in this manner, and it is said that the renowned madame clicquot lost , in the hot autumn of , before sufficient ice could be fetched from paris to cool her spacious cellars. every year about fifty million bottles of genuine champagne are made in france, and no one can say how many more millions of bottles of "french champagne" are imbibed every year by a confiding world. the marne is a large and deep river, and its waters are kept up by barriers every few miles. it is rather troublesome to pass these by taking the boat out and letting it down on the other side, and in crossing one of them i gave a serious blow to the stern of the canoe against an iron bar. this blow started four planks from the sternpost, and revealed to me also that the whole frame had suffered from the journey at night on an open truck. however, as my own ship's carpenter was on board, and had nails and screws, we soon managed to make all tight again, and by moonlight came to dormans, where i got two men to carry the boat as usual to an hotel, and had the invariable run of visitors from that time until everybody went to bed. it is curious to remark the different names by which the canoe has been called, and among these the following:--"_batteau_," "_schiff_," "_bôt_," "_barca_," "_canôt_," "_caique_" (the soldiers who have been in the crimea call it thus), "_chaloupe_" "_navire_," "_schipp_" (low german), "_yacht_" ("jacht"--danish, "jaht," from "jagen," to ride quickly--properly a boat drawn by horses). several people have spoken of it as "_batteau à vapeur_," for in the centre of france they have never seen a steamboat, but the usual name with the common people is "_petit batteau_" and among the educated people "_nacelle_" or "_perissoir_;" this last as we call a dangerous boat a "coffin" or "sudden death." an early start next morning found me slipping along with a tolerable current and under sail before a fine fresh breeze, but with the same unalterable blue sky. i had several interesting conversations with farmers and others riding to market along the road which here skirts the river. what most surprises the frenchman is that a traveller can possibly be happy alone! not one hour have i had of _ennui_, and, however selfish it may seem, it is true that for this sort of journey i prefer to travel entirely _seul_. pleasant trees and pretty gardens are here on every side in plenty, but where are the houses of the gentlemen of france, and where are the french gentlemen themselves? this is a difference between france and england which cannot fail to "knock" the observant traveller (as artemus ward would say)--the notable absence of country seats during hours and hours of passage along the best routes; whereas in england the prospect from almost every hill of woodland would have a great house at the end of its vista, and the environs of every town would stretch into outworks of villas smiling in the sun. the french have ways and fashions which are not ours, but their nation is large enough to entitle them to a standard of their own, just as the americans, with so great a people agreed on the matter, may surely claim liberty to speak with a twang, and to write of a "plow." i am convinced that it is a mistake to say we britons are a silent people compared with the french or americans. at some hundred sittings of the table d'hôte in both these countries i have found more of dull, dead silence than in england at our inns. an englishman accustomed only to the pleasant chat of a domestic dinner feels ill at ease when dining with strangers, and so he notices their silence all the more; but the french table d'hôte (not in the big barrack hotels, for english tourists, we have before remarked upon) has as little general conversation, and an american one has far less than in england. here in france come six or seven middle-class men to dine. they put the napkin kept for each from yesterday, and recognized by the knots they tied on it, up to their chins like the pinafore of a baby, and wipe plate, fork, and spoons with the other end, and eat bits and scraps of many dishes, and scrape their plates almost clean, and then depart, and not one word has been uttered. then, again, there is the vaunted french climate. bright sun, no doubt, but forget not that it is so very bright as to compel all rooms to be darkened from ten to four each day. at noon the town is like a cemetery; no one thinks of walking, riding, or looking out of his window in the heat. from seven to nine in the morning, and from an hour before sunset to any time you please at night, the open air is delicious. but i venture to say that in a week of common summer weather we see more of the sun in england than in france, for we seldom have so much of it at once as to compel us to close our eyes against its fierce rays. in fact, the sensation of life in the south, after eleven o'clock in the morning, is that of _waiting for the cool hours_, and so day after day is a continual reaching forward to something about to come; whereas, an english day of sunshine is an enjoyable present from beginning to end. once more, let it be remembered that twilight lasts only for half an hour in the sunny south; that delicious season of musing and long shadows is a characteristic of the northern latitudes which very few southerners have ever experienced at all. the run down the marne for about miles was a pleasant part of the voyage, but seldom so exciting in adventure as the paddling on unknown waters. long days of work could therefore be now well endured, for constant exercise had trained the body, and a sort of instinct was enough, when thus educated by experience, to direct the mind. therefore the rob roy's paddle was in my hands for ten hours at a time without weariness, and sometimes even for twelve hours at a stretch. after a comfortable night at chateau thierry in the elephant hotel, which is close to the water, i took my canoe down from the hayloft to which it had been hoisted, and once more launched her on the river. the current gradually increased, and the vineyards gave place to forest trees. see, there are the rafts, some of casks, lashed together with osiers, some of planks, others of hewn logs, and others of great rough trees. there is a straw hut on them for the captain's cabin, and the crew will have a stiff fortnight's work to drag, push, and steer this congeries of wood on its way to the seine. the labour spent merely in adjusting and securing the parts is enormous, but labour of that kind costs little here. further on there is a large flock of sheep conducted to the river to drink, in the orthodox pastoral manner of picture-books. but (let us confess it) they were also driven by the sagacious shepherd's dogs, who seem to know perfectly that the woolly multitude has come precisely to drink, and, therefore, the dogs cleverly press forward each particular sheep, until it has got a place by the cool brink of the water. in the next quiet bay a village maid drives her cow to the river, and chats across the water with another, also leading in a cow to wade knee deep, and to dip its broad nose, and lift it gently again from the cool stream. on the road alongside is a funny little waggon, and a whole family are within. this concern is actually drawn along by a goat. its little kid skips about, for the time of toil has not yet come to the youngling, and it may gambol now. but here is the bridge of nogent, so i leave my boat in charge of an old man, and give positive pleasure to the cook at the auberge by ordering a breakfast. saints' portraits adorn the walls, and a "sampler" worked by some little girl, with only twenty-five letters in the alphabet, for the "w" is as yet ignored in classic grammars, though it has now to be constantly used in the common books and newspapers. why, they even adopt our sporting terms, and you see in a paper that such a race was only "un walkover," and that another was likely to be "un dead heat." suddenly in my quiet paddling here the sky was shaded, and on looking up amazed i found a cloud; at last, after six weeks of brilliant blue and scorching glare, one fold of the fleecy curtain has been drawn over the sun. the immediate effect of this cooler sky was very invigorating, though, after weeks of hot glare (reflected upwards again into the face from the water), it seemed the most natural thing to be always in a blaze of light, for much of the inconvenience of it was avoided by a plan which will be found explained in the appendix, with some other hints to "boating men." the day went pleasantly now, and with only the events of ordinary times, which need not be recounted. the stream was steady, the banks were peopled, and many a blue-bloused countryman stopped to look at the canoe as she glided past, with the captain's socks and canvas shoes on the deck behind him, for this was his drying-place for wet clothes. now and then a pleasure-boat was seen, and there were several canoes at some of the towns, but all of them flat-bottomed and open, and desperately unsafe--well named "perissoirs." some of these were made of metal. the use of this is well-known to be a great mistake for any boat under ten tons; in all such cases it is much heavier than wood of the same strength, considering the strains which a boat must expect to undergo. "la ferté sous jouarre" is the long name of the next stopping-place. there are several towns called by the name la ferté (la fortifié), which in some measure corresponds with the termination "caster" or "cester" of english names. millstones are the great specialty of this la ferté. a good millstone costs _l._, and there is a large exportation of them. the material has the very convenient property of not requiring to be chipped into holes, as these exist in this stone naturally. at la ferté i put the boat into a hayloft; how often it has occupied this elevated lodgings amongst its various adventures; and at dinner with me there is an intelligent and hungry bourgeois from paris, with his vulgar and hearty wife, and opposite to them the gossip of the town, who kept rattling on the stupid, endless fiddle-faddle of everybody's doings, sayings, failings, and earnings. some amusement, however, resulted from the collision of two gossips at our table of four guests, for while the one always harped upon family tales of la ferté, its local statistics, and the minute sayings of its people, the other kept struggling to turn our thoughts to shoes and slippers, for he was a commercial traveller with a cartful of boots to sell. but, after all, how much of our conversation in better life is only of the same kind, though about larger, or at any rate different things; what might sound trifles to our british cabinet would be the loftiest politics of honolulu. when we started at eight o'clock next day i felt an unaccountable languor; my arms were tired, and my energy seemed, for the first time, deficient. this was the result of a week's hard exercise, and of a sudden change of wind to the south. give me our english climate for real hard work to prosper in. one generally associates the north wind with cool and bracing air, and certainly in the mediterranean it is the change of wind to the south, the hated _sirocce_, that enervates the traveller at once. but this north wind on the marne came over a vast plain of arid land heated by two months of scorching sun, whereas the breezes of last week, though from the east, had been tempered in passing over the mountains of the vosges. forty-two miles lay before me to be accomplished before arriving to-night at my resting-place for sunday, and it was not a pleasant prospect to contemplate with stiff muscles in the shoulders. however, after twelve miles i found that about twenty miles in turnings of the river could be cut off by putting the boat on a cart, and thus a league of walking and _s._ _d._ of payment solved the difficulty. the old man with his cart was interesting to talk to, and we spoke about those deep subjects which are of common interest to all. at a turn in the road we came upon a cart overturned and with a little crowd round it, while the earth was covered with a great pool of what seemed to be blood, but was only wine. the cart had struck a tree, and the wine-cask on it instantly burst, which so frightened the horse that he overset the cart. the rob roy was soon in the water again, and the scenery had now become much more enjoyable. i found an old soldier at a ferry who fetched me a bottle of wine, and then he and his wife sat in their leaky, flat, green-painted boat, and became very great friends with the englishman. he had been at the taking of constantine in algeria, a place which really does look quite impossible to be taken by storm. but the appearance of a fortress is deceptive except to the learned in such matters. who would think that comorn, in hungary, is stronger than constantine? when you get near comorn there is nothing to see, and it is precisely because of this that it was able to resist so long. the breeze soon freshened till i hoisted my sails and was fairly wafted on to meaux, so that, after all, the day, begun with forebodings, became as easy and as pleasant as the rest. chapter xv. meaux on the marne--hammering--popish forms--wise dogs--blocked in a tunnel--a dry voyage--arbour and garret--odd fellows--dream on the seine--almost over--no admittance--charing-cross. there are three hemispheres of scenery visible to the traveller who voyages thus in a boat on the rivers. first, the great arch of sky, and land, and trees, and flowers down to the water's brink; then the whole of this reflected beautifully in the surface of the river; and then the wondrous depths in the water itself, with its animal life, its rocks and glades below, and its flowers and mosses. now rises the moon so clear, and with the sky around it so black that no "man in the moon" can be seen. at the hotel we find a whole party of guests for the marriage-dinner of a newly-wedded pair. the younger portion of the company adjourn to the garden and let off squibs and crackers, so it seems to be a good time to exhibit some of my signal lights from my bedroom-window, and there is much cheering as the englishman illumines the whole neighbourhood. next day the same people all assembled for the marriage breakfast, and sherry, madeira, and champagne flowed from the well-squeezed purse of the bride's happy father. i have noticed that the last sound to give way to the stillness of the night in a village is that of the blacksmith's hammer, which is much more heard abroad than at home. perhaps this is because much of their execrable french ironwork is made in each town; whereas in england it is manufactured by machinery in great quantities and at special places. at any rate, after travelling on the continent long enough to become calm and observant, seeing, hearing, and, we may add, scenting all around, the picture in the mind is full of blue dresses, white stones, jingling of bells, and the "cling, cling" of the never idle blacksmith. this town of meaux has a bridge with houses on it, and great mill-wheels filling up the arches as they used to do in old london-bridge. pleasant gardens front the river, and cafés glitter there at night. these are not luxuries but positive necessaries of life for the frenchman, and it is their absence abroad which--we believe--is one chief cause of his being so bad a colonist, for the frenchman has only the expression "with me" for "home," and no word for "wife" but "woman." the cathedral of meaux is grand and old, and see how they masquerade the service in it! look at the gaunt "suisse," with his cocked-hat kept on in church, with his sword and spear. the twenty priests and twelve red-surpliced boys intone to about as many hearers. a monk escorted through the church makes believe to sprinkle holy water on all sides from that dirty plasterer's brush, and then two boys carry on their shoulders a huge round loaf, the "pain benit," which, after fifty bowings, is blessed, and escorted back to be cut up, and is then given in morsels to the congregation. these endless ceremonies are the meshes of the net of popery, and they are well woven to catch many frenchmen, who must have action, show, the visible tangible outside, whatever may be meant by it. this service sets one a-thinking. some form there must be in worship. one may suppose, indeed, that perfect spirit can adore god without attitude, or even any sequence or change. yet in the bible we hear of seraphs veiling their bodies with their wings, and of elders prostrate at certain times, and saints that have a litany even in heaven. mortals must have some form of adoration, but there is the question, how much? and on this great point how many wise and foolish men have written books without end, or scarcely any effect! the riverside was a good place for a quiet sunday walk. here a flock of sheep had come to drink, and nibble at the flowers hanging over the water, and the simple-hearted shepherd stood looking on while his dogs rushed backward and forward, yearning for some sheep to do wrong, that their dog service might be required to prevent or to punish naughty conduct. this "berger" inquires whether england is near africa, and how large our legs of mutton are, and if we have sheep-dogs, and are there any rivers in our island on the sea. meanwhile at the hotel the marriage party kept on "breakfasting," even until four o'clock, and non-melodious songs were sung. the french, as a people, do not excel in vocal music, either in tone or in harmony, but then they are precise in time. afloat again next morning, and quite refreshed, we prepared for a long day's work. the stream was now clear, and the waving tresses of dark green weeds gracefully curved under water, while islands amid deep shady bays varied the landscape above. i saw a canal lock open, and paddled in merely for variety, passing soon into a tunnel, in the middle of which there was a huge boat fixed, and nobody with it. the boat exactly filled the tunnel, and the men had gone to their dinner, so i had first to drag their huge boat out, and then the canoe proudly glided into daylight, having a whole tunnel to itself. at lagny, where we were to breakfast, i left my boat with a nice old gentleman, who was fishing in a nightcap and spectacles, and he assured me he would stop there two hours. but when i scrambled back to it through the mill (the miller's men amazed among their wholesome dusty sacks), the disconsolate rob roy was found to be all alone, the first time she had been left in a town an "unprotected female." to escape a long serpent wind of the river, we entered another canal and found it about a foot deep, with clear water flowing pleasantly. this seemed to be very fortunate, and it was enjoyed most thoroughly for a few miles, little knowing what was to come. presently weeds began, then clumps of great rushes, then large bushes and trees, all growing with thick grass in the water, and at length this got so dense that the prospect before me was precisely like a very large hayfield, with grass four feet high, all ready to be mowed, but which had to be mercilessly rowed through. this on a hot day without wind, and in a long vista, unbroken by a man or a house, or anything lively, was rather daunting, but we had gone too far to recede with honour, and so by dint of pushing and working i actually got the boat through some miles of this novel obstruction (known only this summer), and brought her safe and sound again to the river. at one place there was a bridge over this wet marsh, and two men happened to be going over it as the canoe came near. they soon called to some neighbours, and the row of spectators exhibited the faculty so notable in french people and so rarely found with us, that of being able to keep from laughing right out at a foreigner in an awkward case. the absurd sight of a man paddling a boat amid miles of thick rushes was indeed a severe test of courteous gravity. however, i must say that the labour required to penetrate this marsh was far less than one would suppose from the appearance of the place. the sharp point of the boat entered, and its smooth sides followed through hedges, as it were, of aquatic plants, and, on the whole (and after all was done!), i preferred the trouble and muscular effort required then to that of the monotonous calm of usual canal sailing. [illustration: "canal miseries."] fairly in the broad river again the rob roy came to neuilly, and it was plain that my sunday rest had enabled over thirty miles to be accomplished without any fatigue at the end. with some hesitation we selected an inn on the water-side. the canoe was taken up to it and put on a table in a summer-house, while my own bed was in a garret where one could not stand upright--the only occasion where i have been badly housed; and pray let no one be misled by the name of this abode--"the jolly rowers." next day the river flowed fast again, and numerous islands made the channels difficult to find. the worst of these difficulties is that you cannot prepare for them. no map gives any just idea of your route--the people on the river itself are profoundly ignorant of its navigation. for instance, in starting, my landlord told me that in two hours we should reach paris. after ten miles an intelligent man said, "distance from paris? it is six hours from here;" while a third informed me a little further on, "it is just three leagues and a half from this spot." the banks were now dotted with villas, and numerous pleasure-boats were moored at neat little stairs. the vast number of these boats quite astonished me, and the more so as very few of them were ever to be seen in actual use. the french are certainly ingenious in their boat-making, but more of ingenuity than of practical exercise is seen on the water. on several rivers we remarked the "walking machine," in which a man can walk on the water by fixing two small boats on his feet. a curious mode of rowing with your face to the bows has lately been invented by a frenchman, and it is described in the appendix. we stopped to breakfast at a new canal cutting, and as there were many _gamins_ about, i fastened a stone to my painter and took the boat out into the middle of the river, and so left her moored within sight of the arbour, where i sat, and also within sight of the ardent-eyed boys who gazed for hours with wistful looks on the tiny craft and its fluttering flag. their desire to handle as well as to see is only natural for these little fellows, and, therefore, if the lads behave well, i always make a point of showing them the whole affair quite near, after they have had to abstain from it so long as a forbidden pleasure. strange that this quick curiosity of french boys does not ripen more of them into travellers, but it soon gets expended in trifling details of a narrow circle, while the sober, sedate, nay, the _triste_, anglian is found scurrying over the world with a carpet-bag, and pushing his way in foreign crowds without one word of their language, and all the while as merry as a lark. among the odd modes of locomotion adopted by englishmen, we have already mentioned that of the gentleman travelling in germany with a four-in-hand and two spare horses. we met another briton who had made a tour in a road locomotive which he bought for _l._, and sold again at the same price. one more john bull, who regarded the canoe as a "queer conveyance," went himself abroad on a velocipede. none of these, however, could cross seas, lakes, and rivers like the canoe, which might be taken wherever a man could walk or a plank could swim. it seemed contrary to nature that, after thus nearing pretty paris, one's back was now to be turned upon it for hours in order to have a wide, vague, purposeless voyage into country parts. but the river willed it so; for here a great curve began and led off to the left, while the traffic of the marne went straight through a canal to the right,--through a canal, and therefore i would not follow it there. the river got less and less in volume; its water was used for the canal, and it could scarcely trickle, with its maimed strength, through a spacious sweep of real country life. here we often got grounded, got entangled in long mossy weeds, got fastened in overhanging trees, and, in fact, suffered all the evils which the smallest brook had ever entailed, though this was a mighty river. the bend was more and more inexplicable, as it turned more round and round, till my face was full in the sunlight at noon, and i saw that the course was now due south. rustics were there to look at me, and wondering herdsmen too, as if the boat was in mid germany, instead of being close to paris. evidently boating men in that quarter never came here by the river, and the rob roy was a _rara avis_ floating on a stream unused. but the circle was rounded at last, as all circles are, however large they be; and we got back to the common route, to civilization, fishing men and fishing women, and on the broad marne once more. so here i stopped a bit for a ponder. and now we unmoor for the last time, and enter the rob roy for its final trip--the last few miles of the marne, and of more than a thousand miles rowed and sailed since we started from england. i will not disguise my feeling of sadness then, and i wished that paris was still another day distant. for this journey in a canoe has been interesting, agreeable, and useful, though its incidents may not be realized by reading what has now been described. the sensation of novelty, freedom, health, and variety all day and every day was what cannot be recited. the close acquaintance with the people of strange lands, and the constant observation of nature around, and the unremitting attention necessary for progress, all combine to make a voyage of this sort improving to the mind thus kept alert, while the body thoroughly enjoys life when regular hard exercise in the open air dissipates the lethargy of these warmer climes. these were my thoughts as i came to the seine and found a cool bank to lie upon under the trees, with my boat gently rocking in the ripples of the stream below, and the nearer sound of a great city telling that paris was at hand. "here," said i, "and now is my last hour of life savage and free. sunny days; alone, but not solitary; worked, but not weary"--as in a dream the things, places, and men i had seen floated before my eyes half closed. the panorama was wide, and fair to the mind's eye; but it had a tale always the same as it went quickly past--that vacation was over, and work must begin. up, then, for this is not a life of mere enjoyment. again into the harness of "polite society," the hat, the collar, the braces, the gloves, the waistcoat, the latch-key--perhaps, the razor--certainly the umbrella. how every joint and limb will rebel against these manacles, but they must be endured! the gradual approach to paris by gliding down the seine was altogether a new sensation. by diligence, railway, or steamer, you have nothing like it--not certainly by walking into paris along a dusty road. for now we are smoothly carried on a wide and winding river, with nothing to do but to look and to listen while the splendid panorama majestically unfolds. villas thicken, gardens get smaller as houses are closer, trees get fewer as walls increase. barges line the banks, commerce and its movement, luxury and its adornments, spires and cupolas grow out of the dim horizon, and then bridges seem to float towards me, and the hum of life gets deeper and busier, while the pretty little prattling of the river stream yields to the roar of traffic, and to that indescribable thrill which throbs in the air around this the capital of the continent, the centre of the politics, the focus of the pleasure and the splendour of the world. in passing the island at notre dame i fortunately took the proper side, but even then we found a very awkward rush of water under the bridges. this was caused by the extreme lowness of the river, which on this very day was three feet lower than in the memory of man. the fall over each barrier, though wide enough, was so shallow that i saw at the last bridge the crowd above me evidently calculated upon my being upset; and they were nearly right too. the absence of other boats showed me (now experienced in such omens) that some great difficulty was at hand, but i also remarked that by far the greater number of observers had collected over one particular arch, where at first there seemed to be the very worst chance for getting through. by logical deduction i argued, "that must be the best arch, after all, for they evidently expect i will try it," and, with a horrid presentiment that my first upset was to be at my last bridge, i boldly dashed forward--whirl, whirl the waves, and grate--grate--my iron keel; but the rob roy rises to the occasion, and a rewarding bravo! from the frenchmen above is answered by a british "all right" from the boat below. no town was so hard to find a place for the canoe in as the bright, gay paris. i went to the floating baths; they would not have me. we paddled to the funny old ship; they shook their heads. we tried a coal wharf; but they were only civil there. even the worthy washerwomen, my quondam friends, were altogether callous now about a harbour for the canoe. in desperation we paddled to a bath that was being repaired, but when my boat rounded the corner it was met by a volley of abuse from the proprietor for disturbing his fishing; he was just in the act of expecting the final bite of a _goujon_. relenting as we apologized and told the rob roy's tale, he housed her there for the night; and i shouldered my luggage and wended my way to an hotel. here is meurice's, with the homeward tide of britons from every alp and cave of europe flowing through its salons. here are the gay streets, too white to be looked at in the sun, and the _poupeé_ theatres under the trees, and the dandies driving so stiff in hired carriages, and the dapper, little soldiers, and the gilded cafés. yes, it is paris--and more brilliant than ever! i faintly tried to hope, but--pray pardon me--i utterly failed to believe that any person there had enjoyed his summer months with such excessive delight as the captain, the purser, the ship's cook, and cabin boy of the rob roy canoe. eight francs take the boat by rail to calais. two shillings take her thence to dover. the railway takes her free to charing cross, and there two porters put her in the thames again. a flowing tide, on a sunny evening, bears her fast and cheerily straight to searle's, there to debark the rob roy's cargo safe and sound and thankful, and to plant once more upon the shore of old england the flag that braved a thousand miles, the rapid and the snag. [illustration] appendix. gossip ashore about things afloat. those who intend to make a river voyage on the continent--and several canoes are preparing for this purpose--will probably feel interested in some of the following information, while other readers of these pages may be indulgent enough to excuse the relation of a few particulars and technical details. it is proposed, then, to give, first, a description of the canoe considered to be most suitable for a voyage of this sort after experience has aided in modifying the dimensions of the boat already used; second, an inventory of the cargo or luggage of the rob roy, with remarks on the subject, for the guidance of future passengers. next there will be found some notes upon rocks and currents in broken water; and lastly, some further remarks on the "kent," and a few miscellaneous observations upon various points. although the rob roy and its luggage were not prepared until after much cogitation, it is well that intending canoists should have the benefit of what experience has since proved as to the faults and virtues of the arrangements devised for a first trip, after these have been thoroughly tasted in so pleasant a tour. the best dimensions for the canoe appear to be--length, feet [ ][xxxvi.]; beam, inches [ ], six inches abaft the midship; depth outside, from keel to deck, inches; camber, inch [ ]; keel, inch, with a strip of iron, half an inch broad, carefully secured all the way below, and a copper strip up the stem and stern posts, and round the top of each of them. [xxxvi.] the figures in [ ] are the dimensions of the old rob roy. the new canoe now building will have the beam at the water's edge, and the upper plank will "topple in," so that the cedar deck will be only inches wide. the "well" or opening in the deck should be feet long [ feet inches] and inches wide, with a strong combing all round, sloping forward, but not more than inch [ ] high at the bow end. this opening should be semicircular at the ends, both for appearance sake and strength and convenience, so as to avoid corners. the macintosh sheet to cover this must be strong, to resist constant wear, light coloured, for the sun's heat, and so attached as to be readily loosened and made fast again, say times a day, and by cords which will instantly break if you have to jump out. in the new canoe this macintosh (the most difficult part of the equipment to arrange) is inches long, and a light wooden hatch covers the fore part, an arrangement found to be most successful. a water-tight compartment in the hull is a mistake. its partition prevents access to breakages within, and arrests the circulation of air, and it cannot be kept long perfectly staunch. there should be extra timbers near the seat. the canoe must be so constructed as to endure without injury, ( ) to be lifted by any part whatever; ( ) to be rested on any part; ( ) to be sat upon while aground, on any part of the deck, the combing, and the interior. wheels for transport have been often suggested, but they would be useless. on plain ground or grass you can readily do without them. on rocks and rough ground, or over ditches and through hedges, wheels could not be employed, and at all times they would be in the way. bilge pieces are not required. strength must be had without them, and their projections seriously complicate the difficulties of pushing the boat over a pointed rock, both when afloat and when ashore; besides, as they are not parallel to the keel they very much retard the boat's speed. the paddle should be feet long (not more), weight, lbs. oz., strong, with blades inches broad, ends rounded, thick, and banded with copper. there should be conical cups of vulcanised india rubber to catch the dribbling water, and, if possible, some plan (not yet devised) for preventing or arresting the drops from the paddle ends, which fall on the deck when you paddle slowly, and when there is not enough centrifugal force to throw this water away from the boat. the painter ought to be of the best flexible rope, not tarred, well able to bear lb. weight; more than feet of rope is a constant encumbrance. the ends should be silk-whipped and secured through a hole in the stem post and another in the stern post (so that either or both ends can be readily cast off); the slack may be coiled on deck behind you. there should be a back support of two wooden slips, each inches by inches, placed like the side strokes of the letter h, and an inch apart, but laced together with cord, or joined by a strip of cloth. rest them against the edge of the combing, and so as to be free to yield to the motion of the back at each stroke, without hurting the spine. if made fast so as always to project, they are much in the way of the painter in critical times. they may be hinged below so as to fold down as you get out, but in this case they are in the way when you are getting in and wish to sit down in an instant ready for work. the mast should be feet long, strong enough to stand gales without stays, stepped just forward of the stretcher, in a tube an inch above deck, and so as to be struck without difficulty in a squall, or when nearing trees, or a bridge, barrier, ferry-rope, bank, or waterfall, or when going aground. the sail, if a lug, should have a fore leach of feet inches, a head of feet inches, and a foot of feet inches; yard and boom of bamboo. the boat can well stand more sail than this at sea, or in lakes and broad channels, but the foregoing size for a lug is quite large enough to manage in stiff breezes and in narrow rocky tortuous rivers. a spritsail would be better in some respects, but no plan has, as yet, been suggested to me for instantly striking the sprit without endangering the deck, so i mean to use a lug still. the material of the sail should be strong cotton, in one piece, without any eyelet or hole whatever, but with a broad hem, enclosing well-stretched cord all round. a jib is of little use as a sail. it is apt to get aback in sudden turns. besides, you must land either to set it or to take in its outhaul, so as to be quite snug. but the jib does well to tie on the shoulders when they are turned to a fierce sun. the boom should be attached by a brass shackle, so that when "topped" or folded its end closes on the top of the mast. the sails (with the boom and yard) should be rolled up round the mast compactly, to be stowed away forward, so that the end of the mast resting on the stretcher will keep the roll of sails out of the wet. the flag and its staff when not fast at the mast-head (by two metal loops) should fit into the mast-step, and the flag-staff, inches long, should be light, so as not to sink if it falls overboard, as one of mine did. the floor-boards should be strong, and easily detachable, so that one of them can be at once used as a paddle if that falls overboard. they should come six inches short of the stern end of a light seat, which can thus rest on the timbers, so as to be as low as possible, and its top should be of strong cane open-work. the stretcher should have only one length, and let this be carefully determined after trial before starting. the two sides of its foot-board should be high and broad, while the middle may be cut down to let the hand get to the mast. the stretcher should, of course, be moveable, in order that you may lie down with the legs at full length for repose. one brass cleat for belaying the halyard should be on deck, about the middle, and on the right-hand side. a stud on the other side, and this cleat will do to make the sheet fast to by one turn on either tack. list of stores on board the rob roy. . _useful stores._--paddle, painter ( feet at first, but cut down to feet), sponge, waterproof cover, feet by feet inches, silk blue union jack, inches by inches, on a staff feet long. mast, boom, and yard. lug sail, jib, and spare jib (used as a sun shawl). stretcher, two back boards, floor boards, basket to sit on ( inches by inches, by inch deep), and holding a macintosh coat. for repairs--iron and brass screws, sheet copper and copper nails, putty and whitelead, a gimlet, cord, string, and thread, one spare button, needle, pins, canvas wading shoes (wooden clogs would be better); all the above should be left with the boat. black bag for months' luggage, size, inches by inches, by inches deep (just right), closed by three buttons, and with shoulder-strap. flannel norfolk jacket (flaps not too long, else they dip in the water, or the pockets are inverted in getting out and in); wide flannel trousers, gathered by a broad back buckle belt, second trousers for shore should have braces, but in the boat the back buttons are in the way. flannel shirt on, and another for shore. a straw hat is the very best for use--while writing this there are various head covers before me used in different tours, but the straw hat is best of all for boating. thin alpaca black sunday coat, thick waistcoat, black leather light-soled spring-sided shoes (should be strong for rocks and village pavements), cloth cap (only used as a bag), collars, pocket handkerchiefs, ribbon tie, pair of cotton socks (easily got off for sudden wading, and drying quickly when put on deck in the sun). brush, comb, and tooth-brush. testament, passport (will be scarcely needed this season), leather purse, large (and _full_), circular notes, small change in silver and copper for frequent use, blue spectacles in strong case, book for journal and sketches, black, blue, and red chalk, and steel pen. maps, cutting off a six inch square at a time for pocket reference. pipe, tobacco-case, and light-box (metal, to resist moisture from without and within), guide books and pleasant evening reading book. you should cut off covers and all useless pages of books, and every page as read; no needless weight should be carried hundreds of miles; even a fly settling on the boat must be refused a free passage. illustrated papers, tracts, and anecdotes in french and german for sunday reading and daily distribution (far too few had been taken, they were always well received). medicine (rhubarb and court plaister), small knife, and pencil. messrs. silver's, in bishopsgate, is the place for stores. . _useless articles._--boathook, undervest, waterproof helmet, ventilated cap, foreign conversation books, glass seltzer bottle and patent cork (for a drinking flask), tweezers for thorns. . _lost or stolen articles._--bag for back cushion, waterproof bag for sitting cushion, long knife, necktie, woven waistcoat, box of quinine, steel-hafted knife. these, except the last of them, were not missed. i bought another thick waistcoat from a jew. rocks and currents. a few remarks may now be made upon the principal cases in which rocks and currents have to be dealt with by the canoist. even if a set of rules could be laid down for the management of a boat in the difficult parts of a river, it would not be made easier until practice has given the boatman that quick judgment as to their application which has to be patiently acquired in this and other athletic exercises, such as riding or skating, and even in walking. the canoist, who passes many hours every day for months together in the earnest consideration of the river problems always set before him for solution, will probably feel some interest in this attempt to classify those that occur most frequently. steering a boat in a current among rocks is not unlike walking on a crowded pavement, where the other passengers are going in various directions, and at various speeds; and this operation of threading your way in the streets requires a great deal of practice, and not a few lessons enforced by collisions, to make a pedestrian thoroughly _au fait_ as a good man in a crowd. after years of walking through crowds, there is produced by this education of the mind and training of the body a certain power--not possessed by a novice--which insensibly directs a man in his course and his speed, but still his judgment has had insensibly to take cognizance of many varying _data_ in the movements of other people which must have their effect upon each step he takes. after this capacity becomes, as it were, instinctive, or, at any rate, acts almost involuntarily, a man can walk briskly along fleet-street at p.m., and, without any distinct thought about other people, or about his own progress, he can safely get to his journey's end. indeed, if he does begin to think of rules or how to apply them systematically, he is then almost sure to knock up against somebody else. nay, if two men meet as they walk through a crowd, and each of them "catches the eye" of the other, they will probably cease to move instinctively, and, with uncertain data to reason from, a collision is often the result. as the descent of a current among rocks resembles a walk along the pavement through a crowd, so the passage _across_ a rapid is even more strictly in resemblance with the course of a man who has to cross a street where vehicles are passing at uncertain intervals and at various speeds, though all in the same direction. for it is plain that the thing to be done is nearly the same, whether the obstacles (as breakers) are fixed and the current carries you towards them, or the obstacles (as cabs and carts) are moving, while you have to walk through them on _terra firma_. to cross park-lane in the afternoon requires the very same sort of calculation as the passage across the stream in a rapid on the rhine. the importance of this subject of "boating instinct" will be considered sufficient to justify these remarks when the canoist has by much practice at last attained to that desirable proficiency which enables him to steer without thinking about it, and therefore to enjoy the conversation of other people on the bank or the scenery, while he is rapidly speeding through rocks, eddies, and currents. we may divide the rocks thus encountered in fast water into two classes--( ) those that are _sunk_, so that the boat can float over them, and which do not deflect the direction of the surface current. ( ) those that are _breakers_, and so deflect the current, and do not allow the boat to float over them. the currents may be divided into--( ) those that are equable in force, and in the same direction through the course to be steered. ( ) those that alter their direction in a part of that course. in the problems before the canoist will be found the combinations of every degree and variety of these rocks and currents, but the actual circumstances he has to deal with at any specified moment may--it is believed--be generally ranged under one or other of the six cases depicted in the accompanying woodcut. [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] [illustration: fig. .] in each of the figures in the diagram the current is supposed to run towards the top of the page, and the general course of the canoe is supposed to be with the current. the particular direction of the current is indicated by the dotted lines. the rocks when shaded are supposed to be _sunk_, and when not shaded they are _breakers_. thus the current is uniform in figs. , , ; and it is otherwise in figs. , , . the rocks are all sunk in figs. , , , and ; whereas in figs. and there are breakers. the black line in these figures, and in all the others, shows the proper course of the centre of the boat, and it is well to habituate oneself to make the course such as that this line shall never be nearer to the rock than one-half of the boat's length. the simplest case that can occur is when the canoe is merely floating without "way" through a current, and the current bears it near a rock. if this be a breaker, the current, being deflected, will generally carry the boat to one side. the steering in such cases is so easy, and its frequent occurrence gives so much practice, that no more need be said about it. but if the rock be a sunk rock, and if it be not quite plain from the appearance of the water that there is depth enough over the rock to float the boat, then it is necessary to pass either above the rock, as in fig. , or below it, as in fig. . a few days' practice is not thrown away if the canoist seizes every opportunity of performing under easy circumstances feats which may at other times have to be done under necessity, and which would not be so well done if attempted then for the first time. let him, therefore, as soon as possible, become adept in crossing above or below a single sunk rock with his _boat's bow pointed to any angle of the semicircle before him_. next we have to consider the cases in which more than one rock will have to be avoided. now, however great the number of the rocks may be, they can be divided into sets of three, and in each of the figures , , , it is supposed that (for reasons which may be different in each case, but always sufficient) the canoe has to pass between rocks _a_ and _b_, and then between _b_ and _c_, but must not pass otherwise between _a_ and _c_. in fig. the course is below _b_, and above _c_, being a combination of the instance in fig. with that in fig. . the precise angle to the line of the course which the boat's longer axis ought to have will depend upon what is to be done next after passing between _b_ and _c_, and hence the importance of being able to effect the passages in fig. and fig. with the axis at any required angle. we may next suppose that one of the three rocks, say _b_, as in fig. , is a breaker which will deflect the current (as indicated by the dotted stream lines), and it will then be necessary to modify the angle of the boat's axis, though the boat's centre has to be kept in the same course as before. it will be seen at once that if _a_ were a breaker the angle would be influenced in another manner, and that if _c_ were a breaker the angle at which the boat should emerge from the group of rocks would be influenced by the stream from _c_ also; but it is only necessary to remind the reader that all the combinations and permutations of breakers and sunk rocks need not be separately discussed,--they may be met by the experience obtained in one case of each class of circumstances. fig. represents a _circular current_ over the group of three rocks. this is a very deceptive case, for it looks so easy that at first it is likely to be treated carelessly. if the boat were supposed to be a substance floating, but without weight, it would have its direction of motion instantly altered by that of the current. but the boat has weight, and as it has velocity (that of the current even if the boat is not urged also by the paddle so as to have "way" through the water), therefore it will have _momentum_, and the tendency will be to continue the motion in a straight line, instead of a curve guided solely by the current. in all these cases, therefore, it will be found (sometimes inexplicably unless with these considerations) that the boat _insists_ upon passing between _a_ and _c_, where it must not be allowed to go on the hypothesis we have started with; and if it effects a compromise by running upon _c_, this is by no means satisfactory. this class of cases includes all those in which the river makes a quick turn round a rock or a tongue _b_, where the boundary formed by the rock _a_ on the outer bend of the stream is a solid bank, or a fringe of growing trees, or of faggots artificially built as a protection against the erosion of the water. this case occurs, therefore, very frequently in some fast rivers, say, at least, a hundred times in a day's work, and perhaps no test of a man's experience and capacity as a canoist is more decisive than his manner of steering round a fast, sharp bend. the tendency of the canoist in such cases is always to bring the boat round by paddling forward with the outer hand, thereby adding to the "way," and making the force of the current in its circular turn less powerful relatively. whereas, the proper plan is to back with the inner hand, and so to stop all way in the direction of the boat's length, and to give the current its full force on the boat. repeated lessons are needed before this is learned thoroughly. the case we have last remarked upon is made easier if either _a_ or _c_ is a breaker, but it is very much increased in difficulty if the rock _b_ is a breaker or is a strong tongue of bank, and so deflects the current outwards at this critical point. the difficulty is often increased by the fact that the water inside of the curve of the stream may be shoal, and so the paddle on that side strikes the bottom or grinds along it in backing. when the curve is all in deep water, and there is a pool after _b_, the boat ought not to be turned too quickly in endeavouring to avoid the rock _c_, else it will sometimes then enter the eddy below _b_, which runs up stream sometimes for fifty yards. in such a case the absurd position you are thereby thrown into naturally causes you to struggle to resist or stem this current; but i have found, after repeated trials of every plan i could think of, that if once the back current has taken the canoe it is best to let the boat swing with the eddy so as to make an entire circuit, until the bow can come back towards _b_ (and below it), when the nose of the boat may be again thrust into the main stream, which will now turn the boat round again to its proper course. much time and labour may be spent uselessly in a wrong and obstinate contest with an eddy. in fig. , where the three rocks are in a straight line, and the middle one is a breaker, an instance is given when the proper course must be kept by _backing_ during the first part of it. we must suppose for this that the canoist has attained the power of backing with perfect ease, for it will be quite necessary if he intends to take his boat safely through several hundred combinations of sunk rocks and breakers. presuming this, the case in fig. will be easy enough, though a little reflection will show that it might be very difficult, or almost impossible, if the canoist could give only a forward motion to the boat. to pass most artistically, then, through the group of rocks in fig. the stern should be turned towards _a_, as shown in the diagram, and the passage across the current, between _a_ and _b_, is to be effected solely by backing water (and chiefly in this case with the left hand) until the furthest point of the right of the curve is reached, with the boat's length still as before in the position represented in the figure. then the forward action of both hands will take the canoe speedily through the passage between _b_ and _c_. cases of this sort are rendered more difficult by the distance of _c_ from the point above _a_, where you are situated when the decision has to be made (and in three instants of time) as to what must be done; also, it would usually be imprudent to rise in the boat in such a place to survey the rock _c_ from a better position. if it is evident that the plan described above will not be applicable, because other and future circumstances will require the boat's bow to emerge in the opposite direction (pointing to the right), then you must enter forwards, and must back between _b_ and _c_, so as to be ready, after passing _c_, to drive forward, and to the right. it is plain that this is very much more difficult than the former case, for your backing now has to be done against the full stream from the breaker _b_. in all these instances the action of the wind has been entirely omitted from consideration, but it must not be forgotten that a strong breeze materially complicates the problem before the canoist. this is especially so when the wind is aft; when it is ahead you are not likely to forget its presence. a strong fair wind (that has scarcely been felt with your back to it) and the swift stream and the boat's speed from paddling being all in one direction, the breeze will suddenly become a new element in the case when you try to cross above a rock as in fig. , and find the wind carries you broadside on against all your calculations. nor have i any observations to make as to sailing among rocks in a current. the canoe must be directed solely by the paddle in a long rapid, and in the other places the course to be steered by a boat sailing is the same as if it were being merely paddled, though the action of the wind has to be carefully taken into consideration. in all these things boldness and skill come only after lessons of experience, and the canoist will find himself ready and able, at the end of his voyage, to sail down a rapid which he would have approached timidly, even with the paddle, at the beginning. but perhaps enough has been said for the experienced oarsman, while surely more than enough has been said to shew the tyro aspirant what varied work he has to do, and how interesting are the circumstances that will occupy his attention on a delightful river tour. note on the "kent."--the narrative of a shipwreck referred to at page has been published years ago, and in many foreign languages, but its circulation is very large at the present time. the following letter about one of the incidents related in the little book, appeared in the "times" of march , :-- "letters from the deep. "_to the editor of the 'times.'_ "sir,--as attention has been drawn to the letters written on board the ship london, and washed ashore, it may be interesting to notice the following remarkable incident respecting a letter from another ship wrecked in the bay of biscay. in march, , the kent, east indiaman, took fire in the bay of biscay during a storm while persons were on board, most of them soldiers of the st regiment. when all hope was gone, and before a little vessel was seen which ultimately saved more than people from the kent, major ---- wrote a few lines and enclosed the paper in a bottle, which was left in the cabin. nineteen months after this the writer of the paper arrived in the island of barbadoes, in command of another regiment, and he was amazed to find that the bottle (cast into the sea by the explosion that destroyed the kent) had been washed ashore on that very island. the paper, with its faint pencil lines expressing christian faith, is still preserved; and this account of it can be authenticated by those who were saved. "i am, your obedient servant, "one of them." the bottle, after its long immersion, was thickly covered with weeds and barnacles. the following are the words of the "letter from the deep," which it contained:-- "the ship the kent, indiaman, is on fire--elizabeth joanna and myself commit our spirits into the hands of our blessed redeemer--his grace enables us to be quite composed in the awful prospect of entering eternity. "d. m'gregor. "_ st march, , bay of biscay._" the writer of that letter lives now with blessings on his venerable head, while he who records it anew is humbly grateful to god for his own preservation. and may we not say of every one who reads such words, written in such an hour, that his life would be unspeakably happy if he could lay hold now of so firm a surety, and be certain to keep fast hold to the end? the following notes are on miscellaneous points:-- (_a_) we are sometimes asked about such a canoe voyage as this, "is it not very dangerous?" there seems to me to be no necessary danger in the descent of a river in a canoe; but if you desire to make it as safe as possible you must get out at each difficult place and examine the course, and if the course is too difficult you may take the boat past the danger by land. on the other hand, if the excitement and novelty of finding out a course on the spur of the moment is to be enjoyed, then, no doubt, there is more danger to the boat. as for danger to the canoist, it is supposed, _imprimis_, that he is well able to swim, not only in a bath when stripped, but when unexpectedly thrown into the water with his clothes on, and that he _knows_ he can rely on this capacity. if this be so, the chief danger to him occurs when he meets a steamer on rough water (rare enough on such a tour); for if his boat is upset by that, and his head is broken by the paddle floats, the swimming powers are futile for safety. the danger incurred by the boat is certainly both considerable and frequent, but nothing short of the persuasion that the boat would be smashed if a great exertion is not made will incite the canoist to those very exertions which are the charm of travelling, when spirit, strength, and skill are to be proved. men have their various lines of exercise as they have of duty. the huntsman may not understand the pleasures of a rapid, nor the boatman care for the delights of a "bullfinch." certainly, however, the waterman can say that a good horse may carry a bad rider well, but that the best boat will not take a bad boatman through a mile of broken water. in each case there is, perhaps, a little of _populus me sibilat_, and it may possibly be made up for by a good deal of _at mihi plaudo_. (_b_) it has been said that the constant use of a canoe paddle must contract the chest, but this is certainly a mistake. if, indeed, you merely dabble each blade of the paddle in the water without taking the full length of the stroke the shoulders are not thrown back, and the effect will be injurious; but exactly the same is true if you scull or row with a short jerky stroke. in a proper use of the paddle the arms ought to be in turn fully extended, and then brought well back, so that the hand touches the side, and the chest is then well plied in both directions. in using the single-bladed paddle, of which i have had experience in canada and new brunswick with the indians in bark canoes and log canoes, there seems to be a less beneficial action on the pectoral muscles, but after three months' use of the double paddle i found the arms much strengthened, while clothes that fitted before were all too narrow round the chest when put on after this exercise. (_c_) in shallow water the paddle should be clasped lightly, so that if it strikes the bottom or a rock the hand will yield and not the blade be broken. great caution should be used when placing the blade in advance to meet a rock, or even a gravel bank, otherwise it gets jammed in the rock or gravel, or the boat overrides it. it is better in such a case to retard the speed rather by dragging the paddle (tenderly), and always with its flat side downwards, so that the edge does not get nipped. (_d_) m. farcôt, a french engineer, has lately exhibited on the thames a boat which is rowed by the oarsman sitting with his face to the bow, who by this means secures one of the advantages of the canoe--that of seeing where you are going. to effect this, a short prop or mast about three feet high is fixed in the boat, and the two sculls are jointed to it by their handles, while their weight is partly sustained by a strong spiral spring acting near the joint, and in such a manner as to keep the blade of the scull a few inches from the surface of the water when it is not pressed down purposely. the sculler then sits with his face towards the mast and the bow, and he holds in each hand a rod jointed to the loom of the corresponding scull. by this means each scull is moved on the mast as a fulcrum with the power applied between that and the water. the operation of feathering is partially performed, and to facilitate this there is an ingeniously contrived guide. this invention appears to be new, but it is evident that the plan retains many of the disadvantages of common sculls, and it leaves the double paddle quite alone as a simple means for propelling a canoe in narrow or tortuous channels, or where it has to meet waves, weeds, rocks, or trees, and moreover has to sail. however, the muscular power of the arms can be applied with good effect in this new manner, and i found it not very difficult to learn the use of this french rowing apparatus, which is undoubtedly very ingenious, and deserves a full trial before a verdict is pronounced. (_e_) in a difficult place where the boat is evidently going too near a rock, the disposition of the canoist is to change the direction by a _forward_ stroke on one side, but this adds to the force with which a collision may be invested. it is often better to _back_ a stroke on the other side, and thus to lessen this force; and this is nearly always possible to be done even when the boat appears to be simply drifting on the stream. in fact, as a maxim, there is always steerage way sufficient to enable the paddle to be used exactly as a rudder. (_f_) when there is a brilliant glare of the sun, and it is low, and directly in front, and it is impossible to bear its reflection on the water, a good plan is to direct the bow to some point you are to steer for, and then observe the reflection of the sun on the cedar deck of the boat. having done this you may lower the peak of your hat so as to cut off the direct rays of the sun, and its reflected rays on the water, while you steer simply by the light on the deck. (_g_) when a great current moves across a river to a point where it seems very unlikely to have an exit, you may be certain that some unusual conformation of the banks or of the river bed will be found there, and caution should be used in approaching the place. this, however, is less necessary when the river is deep. such cross currents are frequent on the rhine, but they result merely from unevenness in the bottom far below, and thus we see how the rapids, most dangerous when the river is low, become quite agreeable and safe in high flood time. (_h_) the ripple and bubbles among weeds are so totally different from those on free water that their appearance at a distance as a criterion of the depth, current, and direction of the channel must be learned separately. in general, where weeds are under water, and can sway or wave about, there will be water enough to pass--the requisite inches. backing up stream against long weeds is so troublesome, and so sure to sway the stern round athwart stream, that it is best to force the boat forward instead, even if you have to get out and pull her through. (_i_) paddling through rushes, or flags, or other plants above the water, so as to cut off a corner, is a mistake. much more "way" is lost then by the friction than might be supposed. (_j_) i noticed a very curious boat-bridge across the rhine below basle. it seemed to open wide without swinging, and on coming close to it the plan was found to be this. the boats of one half of the bridge were drawn towards the shore, and a stage connecting them ran on wheels along rails inwards from the river, and up an incline on the bank. this system is ingenious, convenient, and philosophical. (_k_) double-hulled boats have often been tried for sailing, but their disadvantages are manifest when the craft is on a large scale, though for toy-boats they answer admirably, and they are now quite fashionable on the serpentine. the double boat of the nautical tinman on the rhine, before described, was a "fond conceit." but there are many double-hulled boats on french rivers, and they have this sole recommendation, that you sit high up, and so can fish without fearing you may "turn the turtle." when the two hulls are reduced as much as possible, this sort of boat becomes an aquatic "walking machine," for one foot then rests on each hull. propulsion is obtained either by linking the hulls together with parallel bars moving on studs, while vanes are on each side, so as to act like fins, and to collapse for the alternate forward stroke of each foot bound to its hull--or a square paddle, or a pole works on the water or on the bottom. i have always noticed that the proprietors of such craft are ingenious, obstinate men, proud of their peculiar mode, and very touchy when it is criticised. however, it is usually best, and it is fortunately always easy, to paddle away from them. (_l_) the hard exercise of canoe paddling, the open-air motion, constant working of the muscles about the stomach, and free perspiration result in good appetite and pleasant sleepiness at night. but at the end of the voyage the change of diet and cessation of exercise will be apt to cause derangement in the whole system, and especially in the digestion, if the high condition or "training" be not cautiously lowered into the humdrum "constitutionals" of more ordinary life. still i have found it very agreeable to take a paddle in the rob roy up to hammersmith and back even in december and march. the last public occasion on which she appeared was on april , when the captain offered her aid to the chief constructor of the navy in the effort of the admiralty to launch the ironclad northumberland. the offer was eagerly accepted, and the launch was accordingly successful. the rob roy has since departed for a voyage to norway and iceland in the schooner yacht sappho, whose young owner, mr. w. f. lawton, has promised "to be kind to her." it is intended that a new rob roy should make a voyage next summer with another canoe called the "robin hood." (_m_) other pleasant voyages may be suggested for the holiday of the canoist. one of these might begin with the thames, and then down the severn, along the north coast of devon, and so by the river dart to plymouth. another on the solent, and round the isle of wight. the dee might be descended by the canoe, and then to the left through the menai straits. or a longer trip may be made through the cumberland lakes by windermere and the derwent, or from edinburgh by the forth, into the clyde, and through the kyles of bute to oban; then along the caledonian canal, until the voyager can get into the tay for a swift run eastward. but why not begin at gothenburg and pass through the pretty lakes of sweden to stockholm, and then skirt the lovely archipelago of green isles in the gulf of bothnia, until you get to petersburg? for one or other of such tours a fishing-rod and an air rifle, and for all of them a little dog, would be a great addition to the outfit. in some breezy lake of these perhaps, or on some rushing river, the little rob roy may hope to meet the reader's canoe; and when the sun is setting, and the wavelets ripple sleepily, the pleasures of the paddle will be known far better than they have been told by the pen. c. a. macintosh, printer, great new-street, london. _milton house, ludgate hill, april, ._ a list of sampson low & co.'s new works. _a biography of admiral sir b.p.v. broke, bart., k.c.b._ by the rev. john g. brighton, rector of kent town. dedicated by express permission to his royal highness prince alfred. vo., price _s._ _the great schools of england._ a history of the foundation, endowments, and discipline of the chief seminaries of learning in england; including eton, winchester, westminster, st. paul's, charterhouse, merchant taylors', harrow, rugby, shrewsbury, &c.; with notices of distinguished scholars. by howard staunton, esq. with numerous illustrations. vo., handsomely bound in cloth, price _s._ "the book is as full of solid matter as of gossiping narrative and pleasant anecdote. as a handbook to our great schools mr. staunton's volume will have a wide class of readers."--_athenæum._ _social life of the chinese_; with some account of their religion, government, educational, and business customs and opinions. by the rev. j. doolittle, fourteen years member of the fuhchou mission of the american board. with illustrations. vols. vo., _s._ "we have no hesitation in saying that from these pages may be gathered more information about the social life of the chinese than can be obtained from any other source. the importance of the work as a key to a right understanding of the character of so vast a portion of the human race ought to insure it an extensive circulation."--_athenæum._ _captain hall's life with the esquimaux._ new and cheaper edition, with coloured engravings and upwards of woodcuts. with a map. price _s._ _d._, cloth extra. forming the cheapest and most popular edition of a work on arctic life and exploration ever published. "this is a very remarkable book; and unless we very much misunderstand both him and his book, the author is one of those men of whom great nations do well to be proud."--_spectator._ _the cruise of the frolic._ by w. h. g. kingston. a story for young yacht-loving people. illustrated edition, price _s._ "who does not welcome mr. w.h.g. kingston? here he is again with an admirable boys' book. if boys do not love this book there is no truth in boyhood, and no use in reviewing; it is just the book for a present."--_illustrated times._ _under the waves;_ or, the hermit crab in society. a book for the seaside. _s._ _d._; or gilt edges, _s._ "this is one of the best books we know of to place in the hands of young and intelligent persons during a visit to the seaside."--_reader._ _a walk from london to the land's end_; with notes by the way. by elihu burritt. with illustrations. vo., price _s._ _a walk from london to john o'groat's._ by the same author. a new and cheaper edition. price _s._ _essays by montaigne._ choicely printed. with vignette portrait. small post vo., price _s._ _a second series of the gentle life._ uniform with the first series. second edition. small post, price _s._ _the gentle life;_ essays on the formation of character of gentlemen and gentlewomen. sixth edition. price _s._ _like unto christ._ a new translation of the 'de imitatione christi,' usually ascribed to thomas à kempis. beautifully printed on toned paper, with a vignette, from an original drawing by sir thomas lawrence. mo. cloth extra, price _s._; or, handsomely bound in calf antique, _s._ _bees and bee-keeping._ by the 'times beemaster.' a manual for all who keep, or wish to keep, bees. with numerous illustrations. crown vo. cloth, _s._ "few letters that have appeared in these columns have been more popular than those addressed to us by the beemaster. we do not wish to detract from this praise in saying that they were popular because the subject is popular. bees have always been interesting to mankind, and no man of ordinary intelligence can describe in any detail their natural history without unfolding a little romance--a kind of fairy annals, that fills us with wonder and insures our attention. but our friend the beemaster has the knack of exposition, and knows how to tell a story well; over and above which, he tells a story so that thousands can take a practical and not merely a speculative interest in it."--_times._ london: sampson low, son, & marston, milton house, ludgate hill. a list of books publishing by _sampson low, son, and marston._ _milton house, ludgate hill, london._ [illustration] ** _when the price is not given, the work was not ready at the time of issuing this list._ [_february , ._ new illustrated works. the great schools of england. a history of the foundation, endowments, and discipline of the chief seminaries of learning in england; including eton, winchester, westminster, st. paul's, charterhouse, merchant taylors', harrow, rugby, shrewsbury, &c; with notices of distinguished scholars. by howard staunton, esq. with numerous illustrations. one volume vo., handsomely bound in cloth, price _s._ "_the book is as full of solid matter as of gossiping narrative and pleasant anecdote. as a handbook to our great schools mr. staunton's volume will have a wide class of readers._"--athenæum. "_cannot fail to be interesting to all fathers and mothers, and it appeals to the sympathies of everyone who has been a boy, and has been educated at a public school. good store of anecdote, amusing and pathetic, has been provided; and the exquisite letters written to the famous poet, soldier, and gentleman, sir philip sydney, by his father and mother, when the future 'scipio, cicero, and petrarch of his time' was a boy at shrewsbury, are wonderfully moving, and worthy of the attention of every father, every mother, and every son._"--illustrated london news. "_the work is so full of practical information on the details of school life at these great foundations that it may be regarded as a guide book to all who contemplate sending their sons thither. for all such the volume must have a solid value, as enabling them to compare the several systems prevailing at different places, and to determine beforehand which offers the greatest advantages. the subject, however, is interesting to all intelligent englishmen, and the book has, therefore, a general attraction beyond the circle which it specially addresses._"--london review. the pleasures of memory. by samuel rogers. illustrated with twenty designs, forming a volume of "cundall's choice of choice books." small to. price _s._ the divine and moral songs of dr. watts: a new and very choice edition. illustrated with one hundred woodcuts in the first style of the art, from original designs by eminent artists; engraved by j. d. cooper. small to. cloth extra, price _s._ _d._ pictures of society, grave and gay; comprising one hundred engravings on wood, from the pictures of eminent artists; including j. e. millais, a.r.a., f. w. pickersgill, r.a., c. w. cope, r.a., j. d. watson, george thomas, marcus stone, &c. illustrated by the pens of popular authors; including mrs. s. c. hall, e. k. harvey, barry cornwall, tom hood, edward levein, noel jones, cuthbert bede, j. h. friswell, walter thornbury, &c. beautifully printed by messrs. dalziel brothers. handsomely bound in cloth, with an elaborate and novel design, by messrs. leighton and co. royal vo. price one guinea. the twenty-third psalm: with richly-coloured emblematic borders. small to. bevelled boards, price _s._ the three kings of orient: a christmas carol. illuminated. small to. bevelled boards, price _s._ christ was born on christmas day: a carol. with illustrations by john a. hows. illustrated and illuminated. small to. bevelled boards, price _s._ an entirely new edition of edgar a. poe's poems. illustrated by eminent artists. small to. cloth extra, price _s._ _d._ poems of the inner life. selected chiefly from modern authors, by permission. small vo. _s._ choicely printed. a history of lace, from the earliest period; with upwards of one hundred illustrations and coloured designs. by mrs. bury palliser. one volume, vo. choicely bound in cloth. _s._ _d._ pictures of english life; illustrated by ten folio page illustrations on wood, by j. d. cooper, after drawings by r. barnes and e. m. whimperis, with appropriate descriptive poems, printed in floreated borders. imperial folio, cloth extra, _s._ "_this handsome volume is entirely in the english taste._"--spectator. "_pictures that do you good to look at them._"--illustrated times. "_an elegant volume, containing speaking pictures that might have owned the parentage of gainsborough or morland; thoroughly national in character and detail._"--reader. pictures for the people: the same engravings beautifully printed on thick paper. adapted by their price to the adornment of cottage walls, and by their artistic beauty to the drawing-room portfolio. one shilling each. favourite english poems. _complete edition._ comprising a collection of the most celebrated poems in the english language, with but one or two exceptions unabridged, from chaucer to tennyson. with illustrations by the first artists. two vols. royal vo. half bound, top gilt, roxburgh style, _l._ _s._; antique calf, _l._ _s._ ** either volume sold separately as distinct works. . "early english poems, chaucer to dyer." . "favourite english poems, thomson to tennyson." each handsomely bound in cloth, _l._ _s._; or morocco extra, _l._ _s._ "_one of the choicest gift-books of the year. "favourite english poems" is not a toy book, to be laid for a week on the christmas table and then thrown aside with the sparkling trifles of the christmas tree, but an honest book, to be admired in the season of pleasant remembrances for its artistic beauty; and, when the holydays are over, to be placed for frequent and affectionate consultation on a favourite shelf._"--athenæum. schiller's lay of the bell. sir e. bulwer lytton's translation; beautifully illustrated by forty-two wood engravings, drawn by thomas scott, and engraved by j. d. cooper, after the etchings by retszch. oblong to. cloth extra, _s._ "_a very elegant and classic christmas present._"--guardian. "_the work is a standard picture-book, and of its success there can be no doubt._"--examiner. the poetry of nature. selected and illustrated with thirty-six engravings by harrison weir. small to. handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, _s._; morocco, _l._ _s._ a new edition of choice editions of choice books. illustrated by c. w. cope, r.a., t. creswick, r.a., edward duncan, birket foster, j. c. horsley, a.r.a., george hicks, r. redgrave, r.a., c. stonehouse, f. tayler, george thomas, h. j. townshend, e. h. wehnert, harrison weir, &c. crown vo. cloth, _s._ each; bevelled boards, _s._ _d._; or, in morocco, gilt edges, _s._ _d._ bloomfield's farmer's boy. campbell's pleasures of hope. cundall's elizabethan poetry. coleridge's ancient mariner. goldsmith's deserted village. goldsmith's vicar of wakefield. gray's elegy in a churchyard. keat's eve of st. agnes. milton's l'allegro. roger's pleasures of memory. shakespeare's songs and sonnets. tennyson's may queen. wordsworth's pastoral poems. "_such works are a glorious beatification for a poet. such works as these educate townsmen, who, surrounded by dead and artificial things, as country people are by life and nature, scarcely learn to look at nature till taught by these concentrated specimens of her beauty._"--athenæum. literature, works of reference, and education. the english catalogue of books: giving the date of publication of every book published from to , in addition to the title, size, price, and publisher, in one alphabet. an entirely new work, combining the copyrights of the "london catalogue" and the "british catalogue." one thick volume of pages, half morocco, _s._ like unto christ. a new translation of the de imitatione christi, usually ascribed to thomas à kempis--forming a volume of _the gentle life_ series. small post vo. _s._ the gentle life: essays in aid of the formation of character of gentlemen and gentlewomen. small post vo. seventh edition, _s._ a second volume of the gentle life. uniform with the first series. second edition, _s._ about in the world: essays uniform with, and by the author of "the gentle life." small post vo. _s._ essays by montaigne. with vignette portrait. small post vo. _s._ familiar words; an index verborum, or dictionary of quotation of sentences and phrases which have become embedded in our english tongue. second edition, revised and enlarged. post vo. [_shortly._ "_not only the most extensive dictionary of quotations which we have yet met with, but it has, moreover, this additional merit, that in all cases an exact reference is given to every chapter, act, scene, book, and number of the line._"--notes and queries. the complete poetical works of john milton, with a life of the author: and a verbal index containing upwards of , references to all the poems. by charles dexter cleveland. new edition. vo. _s._; morocco, _s._ life portraits of shakspeare; with an examination of the authenticity, and a history of the various representations of the poet. by j. h. friswell, member of the national shakspeare committee. illustrated by photographs of authentic and received portraits. square vo. _s._; or with photograph of the will, _s._ memoirs of the life of william shakespeare. with an essay toward the expression of his genius, and an account of the rise and progress of the english drama. by richard grant white. post vo. cloth, _s._ _d._ her majesty's mails: a history of the post office, and an industrial account of its present condition. by wm. lewins, of the general post office. nd edition, revised, and enlarged, with a photographic portrait of sir rowland hill. small post vo. _s._ "_a book we strongly recommend to those who wish to be fully informed on the subject, as an interesting and generally accurate account of the history and working of the post office._"--edinburgh review. "_will take its stand as a really useful book of reference on the history of the post. we heartily recommend it as a thoroughly careful performance._"--saturday review. a history of banks for savings; including a full account of the origin and progress of mr. gladstone's recent prudential measures. by william lewins, author of 'her majesty's mails.' with a photograph of the chancellor of the exchequer. vo. cloth. varia: rare readings from scarce books. reprinted by permission from the _saturday review_ and _spectator_. beautifully printed by whittingham. fcap. cloth. the origin and history of the english language, and of the early literature it embodies. by the hon. george p. marsh, u. s. minister at turin, author of "lectures on the english language." vo. cloth extra, _s._ lectures on the english language; forming the introductory series to the foregoing work. by the same author. vo. cloth, _s._ this is the only author's edition. man and nature; or, physical geography as modified by human action. by george p. marsh, author of "lectures on the english language," &c. vo. cloth, _s._ "_mr. marsh traces the history of human industry as shown in the extensive modification and extirpation of animal and vegetable life in the woods, the waters, and the sands; and, in a concluding chapter, he discusses the probable and possible geographical changes yet to be wrought. the whole of mr. marsh's book is an eloquent showing of the duty of care in the establishment of harmony between man's life and the forces of nature, so as to bring to their highest points the fertility of the soil, the vigour of the animal life, and the salubrity of the climate, on which we have to depend for the physical well-being of mankind._"--examiner. english and scotch ballads, &c. an extensive collection. designed as a complement to the works of the british poets, and embracing nearly all the ancient and traditionary ballads both of england and scotland, in all the important varieties of form in which they are extant, with notices of the kindred ballads of other nations. edited by f. j. child, new edition, revised by the editor. vols. fcap. cloth, _s._ _d._ each. the handy-book of patent and copyright law, english and foreign. by james fraser, esq. post vo. cloth, _s._ _d._ a concise summary of the law of english and french copyright law and international law, by peter burke. mo. _s._ index to the subjects of books published in the united kingdom during the last twenty years-- - . containing as many as , references under subjects, so as to ensure immediate reference to the books on the subject required, each giving title, price, publisher, and date. two valuable appendices are also given--a, containing full lists of all libraries, collections, series, and miscellanies--and b, a list of literary societies, printing societies, and their issues. one vol. royal vo. morocco, _l._ _s._ the american catalogue, or english guide to american literature; giving the full title of original works published in the united states of america since the year , with especial reference to the works of interest to great britain, with the size, price, place, date of publication, and london prices. with comprehensive index. vo. _s._ _d._ also supplement, - . vo. _d._ dr. worcester's new and greatly enlarged dictionary of the english language. adapted for library or college reference, comprising , words more than johnson's dictionary, and pages more than the quarto edition of webster's dictionary. in one volume, royal to. cloth, , pp. price _s._ _d._ the cheapest book ever published. "the volumes before us show a vast amount of diligence; but with webster it is diligence in combination with fancifulness,--with worcester in combination with good sense and judgment. worcester's is the soberer and safer book, and may be pronounced the best existing english lexicon."--_athenæum_, july , . the publishers' circular, and general record of british and foreign literature; giving a transcript of the title-page of every work published in great britain, and every work of interest published abroad, with lists of all the publishing houses. published regularly on the st and th of every month, and forwarded post free to all parts of the world on payment of _s._ per annum. the ladies' reader: with some plain and simple rules and instructions for a good style of reading aloud, and a variety of selections for exercise. by george vandenhoff, m.a., author of "the art of elocution." fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ the clerical assistant: an elocutionary guide to the reading of the scriptures and the liturgy, several passages being marked for pitch and emphasis: with some observations on clerical bronchitus. by george vandenhoff, m.a. fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._ the art of elocution as an essential part of rhetoric, with instructions in gesture, and an appendix of oratorical, poetical and dramatic extracts. by george vandenhoff, m.a. third edition. _s._ latin-english lexicon, by dr. andrews. th edition. vo. _s._ the superiority of this justly-famed lexicon is retained over all others by the fulness of its quotations, the including in the vocabulary proper names, the distinguishing whether the derivative is classical or otherwise, the exactness of the references to the original authors, and in the price. "_every page bears the impress of industry and care._"--athenæum. "_the best latin dictionary, whether for the scholar or advanced student._"--spectator. "_we never saw such a book published at such a price._"--examiner. the farm and fruit of old. from virgil. by a market gardener. _s._ usque ad coelum; or, the dwellings of the people. by thomas hare, esq., barrister-at-law. fcap. _s._ domestic servants, their duties and rights. by a barrister. _s._ signals of distress, in refuges and houses of charity; in industrial schools and reformatories; at invalids' dinner tables, and in the homes of the little sisters of the poor, &c. &c.; among the fallen, the vicious, and the criminal; where missionaries travel, and where good samaritans clothe the naked. by blanchard jerrold, author of "the life of douglas jerrold," &c. crown vo. _s._ _d._ the children of lutetia; or, life amongst the poor of paris. by blanchard jerrold. vols, post vo. cloth, _s._ the charities of london: an account of the origin, operations, and general condition of the charitable, educational, and religious institutions of london. with copious index. also an alphabetical appendix corrected to may . fcap. cloth, _s._ ** the latter also as a separate publication, forms "low's shilling guide to the charities of london." prince albert's golden precepts. _second edition_, with photograph. a memorial of the prince consort; comprising maxims and extracts from addresses of his late royal highness. many now for the first time collected and carefully arranged. with an index. royal mo. beautifully printed on toned paper, cloth, gilt edges, _s._ _d._ our little ones in heaven: thoughts in prose and verse, selected from the writings of favourite authors; with frontispiece after sir joshua reynolds. fcap. vo. cloth extra, _s._ _d._ new books for young people. the great fun toy books: a series of eight new one shilling story books for young people. by thomas hood and thomas archer. each illustrated by six of edward wehnert's well-known great fun pictures. printed in colours, with an appropriate cover by charles bennett. the cherry-coloured cat and her three friends. the live rocking-horse. master mischief and miss meddle. cousin nellie's stories after school. harry high-stepper. grandmamma's spectacles. how the house was built. dog toby and artistical arthur. the frog's parish clerk; and his adventures in strange lands. a tale for young folk. by thomas archer. numerous illustrations. small post vo. _s._ choice editions of children's fairy tales. each illustrated with highly-finished coloured pictures in facsimile of water-colour drawings. square, cloth extra, price _s._ _d._ each. cinderella and the glass slipper. puss in boots. beauty and the beast. under the waves; or the hermit crab in society. by annie e. ridley. impl. mo. cloth extra, with coloured illustration. cloth, _s._; gilt edges, _s._ _d._ "_this is one of the best books we know of to place in the hands of young and intelligent persons during a visit to the seaside._"--reader. _also beautifully illustrated:--_ little bird red and little bird blue. coloured, _s._ snow-flakes, and what they told the children. coloured, _s._ child's book of the sagacity of animals. _s._; coloured, _s._ _d._ child's picture fable book. _s._; or coloured, _s._ _d._ child's treasury of story books. _s._; or coloured, _s._ _d._ the nursery playmate. pictures. _s._; coloured, _s._ the boy's own book of boats. by w. h. g. kingston. illustrations by e. weedon, engraved by w. j. linton. fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ "_this well-written, well-wrought book._"--athenæum. how to make miniature pumps and a fire-engine: a book for boys. with seven illustrations. fcap. vo. _s._ the cruise of the frolic. by w. h. g. kingston. illustrated. large fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ "_who does not welcome mr. w. h. g. kingston? here he is again with an admirable boys' book. if boys do not love this book, there is no truth in boyhood, and no use in reviewing; it is just the book for a present._"--illustrated times. _also by the same author, well illustrated,_ the boy's own book of boats. illustrated by weedon. _s._ ernest bracebridge; or, the boy's book of sports. _s._ jack buntline: the life of a sailor boy. _s._ the fire ships. [_shortly._ golden hair; a story for young people. by sir lascelles wraxall, bart. with eight full page illustrations, _s._ "_full of incident and adventure, and sure to please boys home from school quite as much as his 'black panther' of last year._"--reader. "_a thoroughly good boy's book; the story is full of incident and always moves on._"--spectator. _also, same price, full of illustrations:--_ black panther: a boy's adventures among the red skins. life among the indians. by george catlin. the voyage of the constance. by mary gillies. stanton grange. by the rev. c. j. atkinson. boyhood of martin luther. by henry mayhew. stories of the woods. from cooper's tales. the story of peter parley's own life. noodle-doo. by the author of "the stories that little breeches told." with large engravings on steel. plain, _s._; coloured, _s._ _d._ "_among all the christmas bookmen mr. charles bennett ranks first, for he who best pleases children has the best right to priority in a notice of christmas books, and to all his productions we venture to prefer 'noodle-doo;' it will make the youngsters crow again with delight._"--standard. _also, now ready, same size and price, and full of illustrations._ great fun for our little friends. by harriet myrtle. more fun for our little friends. by the same author. the book of blockheads. by charles bennett. the stories that little breeches told. by the same author. mr. wind and madame rain. illustrated by charles bennett. paul duncan's little by little; a tale for boys. edited by frank freeman. with an illustration by charles keene. fcap. vo. cloth _s._; gilt edges, _s._ _d._ also, same price, boy missionary; a tale for young people. by mrs. j. m. parker. difficulties overcome. by miss brightwell. the babes in the basket: a tale in the west indian insurrection. jack buntline; the life of a sailor boy. by w. h. g. kingston. the swiss family robinson; or, the adventures of a father and mother and four sons on a desert island. with explanatory notes and illustrations. first and second series. new edition, complete in one volume, _s._ _d._ geography for my children. by mrs. harriet beecher stowe. author of "uncle tom's cabin," &c. arranged and edited by an english lady, under the direction of the authoress. with upwards of fifty illustrations. cloth extra, _s._ _d._ stories of the woods; or, the adventures of leather-stocking: a book for boys, compiled from cooper's series of "leather-stocking tales." fcap. cloth, illustrated, _s._ "_i have to own that i think the heroes of another writer, viz. 'leather-stocking,' 'uncas,' 'hard heart,' 'tom coffin,' are quite the equals of sir walter scott's men;--perhaps 'leather-stocking' is better than any one in scott's lot._"--w. m. thackeray. child's play. illustrated with sixteen coloured drawings by e. v. b., printed in fac-simile by w. dickes' process, and ornamented with initial letters. new edition, with india paper tints, royal vo. cloth extra, bevelled cloth, _s._ _d._ the original edition of this work was published at one guinea. child's delight. forty-two songs for the little ones, with forty-two pictures. _s._; coloured, _s._ _d._ goody platts, and her two cats. by thomas miller. fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ little blue hood: a story for little people. by thomas miller, with coloured frontispiece. fcap. vo. cloth, _s._ _d._ mark willson's first reader. by the author of "the picture alphabet" and "the picture primer." with pictures. _s._ the picture alphabet; or child's first letter book. with new and original designs. _d._ the picture primer. _d._ history and biography. the conspiracy of count fieschi: an episode in italian history. by m. de celesia. translated by david hilton, esq., author of a "history of brigandage." with portrait. vo. [_shortly._ a biography of admiral sir b. p. v. broke, bart., k.c.b. by the rev. john brighton, rector of kent town. dedicated by express permission to his royal highness prince alfred. [_shortly._ a history of brigandage in italy; with adventures of the more celebrated brigands. by david hilton, esq. vols, post vo. cloth, _s._ a history of the gipsies, with specimens of the gipsy language. by walter simson. post vo. a history of west point, the united states military academy and its military importance. by capt. e. c. boynton, a. m. with plans and illustrations. vo. _s._ the twelve great battles of england, from hastings to waterloo. with plans, fcap. vo. cloth extra, _s._ _d._ george washington's life, by washington irving. vols. royal vo. _s._ each library illustrated edition. vols. imp. vo. _l._ _s._ plutarch's lives. an entirely new library edition, carefully revised and corrected, with some original translations by the editor. edited by a. h. clough, esq. sometime fellow of oriel college, oxford, and late professor of english language and literature at university college. vols. vo. cloth. _l._ _s._ "_mr. clough's work is worthy of all praise, and we hope that it will tend to revive the study of plutarch._"--times. life of john adams, nd president of the united states, by c. f. adams. vo. _s._ life and works complete, vols. _s._ each. life and administration of abraham lincoln. fcap. vo. stiff cover, _s._; with map, speeches, &c. crown vo. _s._ _d._ travel and adventure. a walk from london to the land's end. by elihu burritt, author of "a walk from london to john o'groats:" with several illustrations. large post vo. uniform with the first edition of "john o'groats." _s._ a walk from london to john o'groats. with notes by the way. by elihu burritt. second and cheaper edition. with photographic portrait of the author. small post vo. _s._ social life of the chinese: with some account of their religious, governmental, educational, and business customs and opinions. by the rev. justus doolittle. with over illustrations, in two vols. demy vo. cloth, _s._ a thousand miles in the rob roy canoe, or rivers and lakes of europe. by john macgregor, m.a. with numerous illustrations. post vo. cloth, _s._ captain hall's life with the esquimaux. new and cheaper edition, with coloured engravings and upwards of woodcuts. with a map. price _s._ _d._ cloth extra. forming the cheapest and most popular edition of a work on arctic life and exploration ever published. "_this is a very remarkable book, and unless we very much misunderstand both him and his book, the author is one of those men of whom great nations do well to be proud._"--spectator. "_if capt. hall should survive the perils of the journey on which he is now engaged, we are convinced he will bring home some news, be it good or bad, about the franklin expedition. he can hardly be expected back before the autumn of . but if he has gone he has left us his vastly entertaining volumes, which contain much valuable information, as we have said, concerning the esquimaux tribes. these volumes are the best that we have ever met with, concerning the people and things to be found among 'the thick ribb'd ice.'_"--standard. 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"_we have waited for the publication of the second and last volume of this interesting, we may well say entertaining, biography, before introducing it to our readers. it is now complete, and furnishes one of the most various and delightful portraits of a fine, sturdy, old representative of antient theology and earnest piety, relieved by very sweet and engaging pictures of new england society in its religious circles, and the ways and usages of the men and women who lived, and loved, and married, and had families, nearly a century since.... and now we must lay down these very delightful volumes. we trust we have sufficiently characterized them, while there are, of course, reminiscences, pictures of places and of persons, we have been unable even to mention. it was an extraordinary family altogether; a glow of bright, affectionate interest suffuses all in charming sunshine. it was a life of singular purpose, usefulness, and determination; and we think ministers especially, and of ministers young students especially, might read it, and read it more than once, to advantage.... without attempting any more words, we hope we have sufficiently indicated our very high appreciation of, and gratitude for, this charming and many-sided biography of a most robust and healthy life._"--the eclectic. 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"_there is a freshness and reality about his young people, and a degree of warmth and zest in the love-making of these impetuosities, which make the first chapter of his book most enjoyable reading. the description of the boat-race at henley is beyond anything of the kind we have ever seen in print, and the repulse of the two pirates by the old agra is a perfect masterpiece of nautical painting._"--saturday review. _new popular novels, to be obtained at all libraries._ passing the time. by blanchard jerrold. vols, post vo. _s._ marian rooke. by henry sedley. vols. _s._ the gayworthys. nd edition, vols, crown vo. _s._ sir felix foy, bart. by dutton cook. vols, post vo. _s._ the trials of the tredgolds. by the same. vols. _s._ a mere story. by the author of "twice lost." vols. _s._ selvaggio. by the author of "mary powell." one vol. _s._ miss biddy frobisher. by the author of "selvaggio." one vol. _s._ john godfrey's fortunes. by bayard taylor. vols. _s._ hannah thurston. by the same author. vols. _s._ a splendid fortune. by j. hain friswell. vols, post vo. _s._ lion-hearted; 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so please, dear mother, tell us all you can remember. it is now, boys, five years since my return from europe. much that i did and saw while there i forget. however, as i have been lately looking over my hasty journal, i will see what i can remember. on the first of august i set sail in the steamer caledonia for england. at four o'clock in the afternoon, we were out of sight of land; one by one, we had taken leave of every object which could be seen from the departing vessel; and now nothing was visible to us but the sky, the ocean meeting it in its wide, unbroken circle the sun gradually sinking in the west, and our small but only house, the ship. how strange, how sublime the scene was! so lonely, so magnificent, so solemn! at last the sun set, gilding the clouds, and looking, to my tearful eyes, as if that too said farewell! then the moon appeared; and the long, indefinite line of light from where her rays first touched the waters to our ship, and the dancing of the waves as they crossed it, catching the light as they passed, were so beautiful that i was unwilling to leave the deck when the hour for rest arrived. the wind was against us, and we did not get on very fast; but i enjoyed the novel scene the next day, and passed all my time on deck, watching the sailors and the passengers, and noticing the difference between englishmen and americans. on sunday it was very cold, and the wind, still contrary, rose higher and higher; it was impossible to set any sail, but i still kept on deck, and thus avoided sickness. soon after breakfast i saw a white foam rising in different places occasionally, and was told that it was whales spouting; i saw a great number, and enjoyed it highly. presently some one called out, "an iceberg!" and, far off against the sky, i saw this floating wonder. it was very beautiful; such a dazzling white, so calm and majestic, and so lonely; it was shaped, as i thought, like an old cathedral, but others thought like a sleeping lion, taking what i called the ruined tower for his head and mane. soon after this, the man on the lookout cried, "steamship america;" and in a few moments more we saw her coming swiftly towards us with her sails all set, for the wind was fair for her. captain leitch then told me that he should stop his vessel and send a boat on board, and that he would send a letter by it if i would write one quickly; to others he said the same thing. in a moment the deck was cleared, and in a few more moments all had returned with their letters; and never was there a more beautiful sight than these two fine steamers manoeuvring to stop at a respectful distance from each other; then our little boat was lowered, and o, how pretty it was to see her dancing over the rough waves to the other steamer! we sent to the america the sad news of the loss of the kestrel. after what seemed to us a long time, the boat returned and brought papers, &c., but no important news; and in a few moments the two steamers courtesied to each other, and each went on her way. after six days, the waves had risen to a terrible height; the wind was all but a gale; the ocean, as far as one could see, was one roaring foam; one after another the angry billows rose to the height of twenty or thirty feet, and rolled on, curling over their green sides, and then broke with a voice of thunder against our vessel. i crawled out of the cabin, assisted by two gentlemen, and from the lower deck saw the sublime commotion over the bulwarks, when the ship rolled over on the side where i was sitting. the sea broke over our vessel repeatedly; it went over the top of the smoke pipe, and struck the fore-topsail in the middle but did, not hurt either of them. the fourth officer was washed out of his berth by a sea when he was asleep. one of the paddles broke, but in a very short time was replaced. one of the wheels was often entirely out of water, but no harm was done us by any of these disasters; and on we went safe through the troubled waters. at night, when we were planning how we should secure ourselves from rolling about the cabin, there came a sudden lurch of the ship, and every thing movable was sent slam bang on one side of the cabin; and such a crash of crockery in the pantry! a few minutes after came a sound as if we had struck a rock. "what is that?" i asked of the stewardess. "only a sea, ma'am," she replied. in my heart i hoped we should not have another such box on the ear. we had a horrid night, but the next day it grew quieter, though it was still rough, and the wind ahead. soon after, it grew fair, and the captain promised us that on monday, before twelve o'clock, we should see ireland; and sure enough it was so. i was on deck again just at twelve; the sun came out of the clouds, and the mate took an observation. "that is worth five pounds," said he; "now i know just where we are." then the captain went up on the wheel-box, and we heard the welcome sound, "tory island." we were then greatly rejoiced; this was the twelfth day of our voyage. at night, for one hour, the wind blew a gale, and the ship rocked in a very disagreeable manner; but at six o'clock on tuesday morning we were on deck, and there was the beautiful welsh coast, and snowdon just taking off his night-cap; and soon we saw "england, that precious stone set in a silver sea." next to the thought of friends whom we had parted from for so long a time, my mind during the voyage was occupied with the idea of columbus. when i looked upon the rude, boundless ocean, and remembered that when he set out with his little vessel to go to a land that no one knew any thing of, not even that there was such a land, he was guided altogether by his faith in its existence; that he had no sympathy, but only opposition; that he had no charts, nothing but the compass, that sure but mysterious guide,--the thought of his sublime courage, of his patient faith, was so present to my mind, that it seemed as if i was actually sometimes in his presence. the other idea was the wonderful skill displayed in the construction of the small, but wonderfully powerful and beautifully arranged and safe home, in which we were moving on this immense and turbid ocean, carrying within her the great central fire by which the engine was moved, which, in spite of winds and waves, carried us safely along; then the science which enabled the master of this curious nutshell of man's contriving to know just in what part of this waste of trackless waters we were. all these things i knew before, and had often thought of them, but was never so impressed with them; it was almost as if they were new to me. before i quit the ocean, i must tell you of what i saw for which i cannot account, and, had not one of the gentlemen seen it too, i should almost have doubted my senses. when we were entirely out of sight of land, i saw a white butterfly hovering over the waves, and looking as if he were at home. where the beautiful creature came from, or how he lived, or what would become of him, no one could tell. he seemed to me to be there as a symbol and a declaration that the souls of those whose bodies lay in the ocean were yet living and present with those they had loved. when we arrived at liverpool, we found a very dear friend, whom we had known in america, on the wharf ready to receive us. he took us to his house, and we felt that we were not, after all, in a strange land. love and kindness are the home of all souls, and show us what heaven must be. the thing that impressed me most was the dim light of the english day, the soft, undefined shadows, compared with our brilliant sunshine and sharply defined shade--then the coloring of the houses, the streets, the ground, of every thing; no bright colors, all sober, some very dark,--the idea of age, gravity, and stability. nobody seems in a hurry. our country seems so young and vehement; this so grave and collected! now i will tell you something about my visit to my dear friend harriet martineau, whose beautiful little books, "feats on the fiord," "the crofton boys," and the others, you love so much to read. she lives at ambleside, in what is called the lake country. ambleside is a beautiful country town in the valley of the rotha, and not far from lake windermere. around the town rise high hills, which perhaps may be called mountains. these mountains are not, like many of ours, clothed to the summit with thick wild forests, but have fewer trees, and are often bare at the summit. the mixture of gray rock and green grass forms such a beautiful coloring over their graceful and sometimes grotesque outline that you would not have them other than they are. the ambleside houses are of dark-gray stone, and almost all of them have ivy and flowers about them. one small house, the oldest in the village, was several hundred years old; and out of all the crevices between the stones hung harebells and other wild flowers; one side of it and much of the roof were covered with ivy. this house was only about ten feet square, and it looked to me like a great rustic flower pot. i should like some time to read you a description of this lovely place, written by miss martineau herself. then you will almost hear the murmuring sound of the brathay and the rotha, and breathe the perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing words. miss martineau lives a little out of the village. you drive up to the house through a shrubbery of laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and other plants,--young trees and flowers,--to the beautiful little porch, covered with honeysuckles and creeping plants. the back of the house is turned to the road, and the front looks out over the loveliest green meadows, to the grand, quiet hills, sometimes clear and sharp in their outline against the blue sky, and at others wreathed with mist; and one might sit for hours at the large bay window in the parlor, watching these changes, and asking no other enjoyment. it was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of my friend. i saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and benevolence carried into daily practice. miss martineau took us one morning to see the poet wordsworth. he lived in a low, old-fashioned stone house, surrounded by laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and other flowers and flowering shrubs. the porch is all covered with ivy. we found the venerable man in his low, dark parlor. he very kindly showed us his study, and then took us over his grounds. when we took our leave, i asked him to give each of us a leaf from a fine laurel tree near him; this he did very kindly, and smiled as kindly at my effort at a compliment, in saying to him something about one who had received so many laurels having some to spare to others. i thanked him for his goodness in giving me so much of his time, and bade the venerable man good by, very much pleased with my visit, and very grateful to the kind friend who had introduced me to him, and insured me a welcome. i shall never forget that day. ambleside is a very fashionable place for travellers to visit in the summer months, and we saw there many distinguished and agreeable people. i had a conversation with an intelligent lad of fourteen years of age, which impressed me very much. he was talking with me about our country, and finding faults with it of various kinds. while i could, i defended it. he thought our revolution was only a rebellion. i told him that all revolutions were only successful rebellions, and that we bore with the tyranny of his country as long as we could. "i don't like the americans," said he; he blushed as he thought of the discourtesy of saying this to me, and then added, "they are so inconsistent; they call themselves republicans, and then hold slaves, and that is so wicked and absurd." he went on to say all he thought and felt about the wickedness of slavery. i heard him to the end, and then said, "there is nothing you have said upon that subject that i do not agree to entirely. you cannot say too much against slavery; but i call myself an abolitionist, and while i live, i mean to say and do all i can against it. there are many people in america, also, who feel as i do, and we hope to see it abolished." while we were in westmoreland, we made an excursion of four days among the beautiful lakes. miss martineau was our guide and companion. she knows the name of every mountain, every lake, every glen and dale, every stream and tarn, and her guidance lent a new charm to the scenes of grandeur and beauty through which she conducted us. we took a vehicle which the people call a jaunting car; it is a square open carriage with two side seats and a door behind; and is drawn by one horse. two easy steps and a door easily opened let you in and out when you please. the car holds four persons. the driver has a seat in front, and under it he tied our carpet bag. never did four souls enjoy themselves more than we on this little excursion. i could not give you an adequate idea of what we saw, or of the pleasure we took. think of coming down from one of these beautiful hills into eskdale, or ennesdale, of walking four miles on the banks of ullswater, of looking with your living eyes on derwent water, grassmere, windermere, and many other lovely spots of which you have seen pictures and read descriptions; and of being one in the pleasantest party in the world, as you think, stopping where, and when, and as long as any one pleases. it was on this journey that i first saw a real ruin. the ruins of calder abbey i had never heard of; but the impression it made upon me i can never forget; partly, perhaps, that it was the first ruin upon which i ever gazed. one row of the pillars of the great aisle remains standing. the answering row is gone. two tall arches of the body of the main building remain also, and different pieces of the walls. it is of sandstone; the clusters of columns in the aisle look as if they were almost held together by the ivy and honeysuckles that wave around their mouldering capitals with every motion of the wind. in every crevice, the harebell, the foxglove, and innumerable other flowers peep forth, and swing in the wind. on the tops of the arches and walls large flowering shrubs are growing; on the highest is a small tree, and within the walls are oak trees more than a century old. the abbey was built seven hundred years ago; and the ruins that are now standing look as if they might stand many centuries longer. the owner of the place has made all smooth and nice around it, so that you may imagine the floor of the church to look like green velvet. it seems as if the ivy and the flowers were caressing and supporting the abbey in its beautiful old age. as i walked under the arches and upon the soft green turf, that so many years ago had been a cold rough stone pavement, trodden by beings like myself; and felt the flowers and vines hanging from the mouldering capitals touch my face; and saw, in the place where was once a confessional, an oak tree that had taken centuries to grow, and whose top branches mingled with the smiling crest of flowers that crowned the tops of the highest arches,--the thought of the littleness and the greatness of man, and the everlasting beauty of the works of the creator, almost overwhelmed me; and i felt that, after all, i was not in a decaying, ruined temple, but in an everlasting church, that would grow green and more beautiful and perfect as time passes on. there is a fine old park around these lovely ruins; and, not far off, a beautiful stream of water, with a curious bridge over it. the old monks well knew how to choose beautiful places to live in. all harmonizes, except--i grieve to tell of it--a shocking modern house, very near, very ugly, and, i suppose, ridiculously elegant and comfortable inside. from this hideosity you must resolutely turn away; and then you may say, as i did, that your mortal eyes have never rested on any thing so lovely as the ruins of calder abbey. sometimes miss martineau would tell us some pretty legend, or some good story. this was one of the legends: near the borders of the ullswater is the beautiful ara force, one of the most lovely falls i have seen in england. one may stand below, and look up at the rushing stream, or above, on the top of the fall. here, long ago, in the time of the crusades, stood a pair of lovers; and here grows an old oak which was their trysting tree. the lady was of noble birth, and lived in a castle near by; and her true knight used to come at the still hour of evening to meet her at the ara force. at length the lover was called away to the holy land. as he left his lady, he vowed to be her true knight, and to return and wed her. many long days passed away, and the lady waited in vain for her true knight. though she heard often from others of his chivalrous deeds in the east, yet no word came from him to tell her he was faithful; and she began to fear that he was no longer true to her, but was serving some other lady. despair at last came upon her; and she grew wan and pale, and slept no longer soundly: but, when the world was at rest, she would rise in her sleep, and wander to the trysting tree, and pluck off the green oak leaves, and throw them into the foaming water. the knight was all this time faithful, but was not able to send word to his lady love. at last, he returned to england, and hastened towards the castle where she lived. it was late at night when he came to the ara force; and he sat him down under the trysting tree to wait for the morning. when he had been there a long time, he saw a figure approach, all in white, and pluck off the oak leaves, and fling them into the stream. angry to see the sacred tree thus injured, he rose to prevent it. the figure started and awoke. in a moment he knew his beloved lady. she was now on the frail bridge. the sudden shock, and the roar of the force below, had made her giddy. he leaped forward to embrace and save her. alas! too late. her foot slipped, and she fell. it was all over. the water tumbling far down into the rocky chasm beneath told the story of death. the knight was inconsolable. he retired from the world forever, and built a monastery near by, on the borders of the lake, where he died. the frail bridge is now gone, and a strong plank, with a railing, supplies its place. but the water still roars down the rock as on the fatal night; and the foam and spray look as if the white garments of the fair lady were still fluttering over the deep below. from ambleside i went with some friends to visit dr. nichol at glasgow. we took coach first, and then the railroad. for the sake of economy we took a second class carriage. the second class carriages, on the english railroad, are, in fact, boxes with small holes for windows, from which you may, if you are not very short, see something of the world you are flying through, but not much. good, honest, hard boards are on the floor, sides, tops, and seats; in short, all around you. the backs are not slanted at all. you must sit bolt upright, or not sit at all. now and then, these vehicles have a thin leather on the seats--not often. nothing can be more luxurious than a first class carriage. the floors are nicely carpeted, the seats and backs are all stuffed; each seat is a very nice easy chair. you can sleep in them almost as well as in a bed; but these carriages are very expensive; and on this account many of the gentry take those of the second class, hard as they are. we arrived at glasgow at eight o'clock in the evening, and were unfortunate enough to have a driver to the vehicle we took, who did not know where the observatory was. we knew that it was three miles from the city, and not much more. we were advised by a gentleman, who was in the same railroad box with us, to take a noddy, or a minibus, to the observatory. what these things were, of course, we could only guess, and we did not care much, so we could only get out of our wooden box. we came to the conclusion that we could sympathize tolerably well with poor box brown. we, as we had been advised, took a noddy. a minibus is only a small omnibus. a noddy is a contrivance that holds four, and has a door at the end, and only one horse,--very like a yankee cab. glasgow, as every one knows, is one of the greatest manufacturing cities in the world. before we arrived, we were astonished at the great fires from the iron works in the environs; and, as the streets were well lighted, our eyes were dazzled and delighted with the whole scene, and we were so pleased with the comfort of our noddy, that we did not at first feel troubled at the fact that neither our driver nor we knew where dr. nichol's house was. presently we found ourselves left in the middle of the street, and saw our noddy man, in a shop as bright as day, poring over a directory. all he could learn was what we had already told him, and so on he went, not knowing whether right or wrong, giving us a fine opportunity of seeing the city in the evening. at last, he came to the bridge over the clyde, and there the tollman directed us to the observatory. after a long drive, evidently over not a very good road, the driver stopped, and told us that here was dr. nichol's house. he began to take off our luggage. we insisted upon his inquiring, first, if that was dr. nichol's. he took off our trunk, and would have us go in; we resisted; and after a while he rang the bell, and the answer was, "dr. nichol lives in the next house." still higher we had to climb, and at last stopped at the veritable observatory, where our friend, who was expecting us, lived. nothing could exceed the hospitality with which we were received. early, one misty, smoky morning, i embarked in one of the famous little clyde steamers, and set out on a highland tour. i had heard of old scotia's barren hills, clothed with the purple heather and the yellow gorse, of her deep glens, of her romantic streams; but the reality went far beyond the description, or my imagination. the hills are all bare of trees, but their outline is very beautiful and infinitely varied. picture to yourself a ridge of hills or mountains all purple with the heather, relieved with the silver-gray of the rocks and with patches of the bright yellow gorse, and all this harmony of color reflected in the green sea water which runs winding far in among the hills. as the light changes, these colors are either brought out more strongly, or mingle into one soft lilac color, or sometimes a sort of purple-gray. your eye is enchanted, and never weary of looking and admiring. i would not have any trees on the scotch hills; i would not have them other than they are. if i were dying i could look at them with joy; they are lovely beyond words to tell. i was on all the most celebrated and beautiful lakes. i was rowed in an open boat, by two highland youths, from one end of loch katrine to the other, and through those beautiful, high, heathery, rocky banks at one end of the lake, called the trosachs. these exquisite rocks are adorned, and every crevice fringed and festooned with harebells, heather, gorse, and here and there beautiful evergreen trees. we passed by "ellen's isle," as it is called, the most exquisite little island ever formed, a perfect oval, and all covered with the purple heather, the golden gorse, and all sorts of flowers and exquisitely beautiful trees. o, what a little paradise it is! a number of little row-boats, with fine-looking highland rowers and gay companies of ladies and gentlemen, were visiting the island as we passed. they show the oak tree to which they say ellen fastened her boat. it was beautiful to see the glancing of the sunlight on the oars of these boats, and the bright colors of the shawls and bonnets of the ladies in them, and to witness this homage to nature and genius which they were paying in their visit to ellen's isle. i was glad to join them, and do reverence too. the heather is usually not more than two feet high,--sometimes higher, but often shorter; but on ellen's isle it grows to the height of four and five feet. just before we came to oban, we passed the estate of lord heigh, where we heard the following story. the origin of his name and rank is this: when king kenneth ruled in scotland, he was beaten in a great battle by the danes, and his army scattered among the hills, while the enemy was marching home in triumph. a man in the scottish army said that he knew a pass through which the victor must go, where one man might stop a thousand, and offered himself and his two sons to defend it. he came to the pass armed only with an ox-yoke, but made such use of his weapon that the danes were kept at bay, till the scots rallied and cut them to pieces. when kenneth reached the pass, he found his brave subject lying in truth quite exhausted. he raised him up, and inquired his name; the fainting man could only gasp, "heigh-ho, heigh!" from that moment he was called the lord of heigh, and the king gave him as much land as an eagle could fly over without alighting. the family arms are an eagle on the wing over an ox-yoke. at edinburgh, i went to see the regalia, which are kept in a small room in the castle, in which they were found after being buried there for more than a century. it is a small room, not more than twelve feet square. on one side is the iron chest in which the regalia were found; and in the middle of the room is a marble table, entirely white, surrounded by an iron grating, on which is the crown which robert bruce had made for himself, the sword of james the first, the signet ring of charles the first, and other jewels that had belonged to some of the scottish kings. around these and the other insignia of their former royalty the lamps are always burning. this is an altar sacred to auld lang syne. i arrived in york at half past two o'clock at night. all was dark in the city, save the lights in the large station, where we were let out of our boxes with our luggage. we had contrived occasionally to lie down on the hard wooden seats, resting our heads on our carpet bags, and, by a little entreaty, had secured a box to ourselves, so that we were not quite so weary as we might have been, and were in good spirits for what was before us, which was to hunt up a lodging place for the remainder of the night, for all the inns were closed. after a while, we got a porter to take the luggage. after some hard knocking we roused an innkeeper, and by three o'clock we were all in as good beds as mortals could desire. at nine o'clock we breakfasted, and at ten my delighted eyes rested on the real, living york minster; the dream of my youth was realized, and i stood in its majestic presence. i entered; the service had just begun; the organ was playing, they were chanting. you could not tell from whence the music came. it was every where; it enters your soul like a beautiful poetic thought, and you know not what possesses you. only your whole soul is full of worship, peace, and joy. i could hardly keep from falling on my knees. look at the fine engravings, and study it all out as well as you can; still you can form no adequate idea of the effect of those endless arches, of the exquisite carving in stone, of the flowers, strange figures, and in short every wild, every grotesque thing that you can or cannot imagine. well has it been called a great poem in stone,--such grace, such aspiration, such power, such harmony. o, it was worth crossing the atlantic, that first impression. after the service, i took a guide and went all over this miracle of beauty and genius, and read the inscriptions and saw the curiosities. during my second stay in liverpool, my friend took me to chester, that wonderful old city, just on the borders of wales. if you can imagine the front rooms of the second story of a row of houses taken out, and in their place a floor put over the lower story and a ceiling under the upper story, and shops in the back rooms, you will form some idea of chester. all the streets, nearly, are made in this way. the carts and horses go in the narrow streets between the houses, but foot passengers walk in this curious sort of piazzas, put into the houses instead of being added to them. the most elegant shops are here in these back rooms, and you walk for whole long streets under cover, with the dwellings of the inhabitants over your heads and under your feet. often the upper story shelves over the third, so that you almost wonder why the house does not tumble over. a friend, whom i had never seen, did me the honor to invite me to her hospitable mansion in manchester. it was indeed a great privilege to be allowed to make a part of the family circle, and sit with them by their fireside, and be made to feel at home so far from one's native land; and this i experienced all the time i was in england. i was prepared for the appearance of manchester. so i was not astonished at the number of tall chimneys, nor at the quantity of smoke that issued from them. and i could quite enter into the feelings of the friend who told me that nothing was more melancholy than to see a clear atmosphere over the town; the blacker it looked the more prosperity was indicated, and the more cause for rejoicing. my kind friend took me to one of the great print factories. my principal wish for going was to see how the factory people looked, whether they seemed well and happy. i observed them; they were well dressed, and were cheerful in their appearance. there were a few children employed, who looked healthy and happy. there was at this factory a reading room, nicely warmed and perfectly comfortable, where the workman, by subscribing a penny or two a week, could obtain the right to spend his leisure hours and see the periodicals and newspapers. each one had a vote in deciding what these papers should be, as they were paid for by the subscription money of the laborers. the proprietors paid a certain sum towards the support of the reading room. of course, seeing one prosperous factory and the fortunate workmen in it, in manchester, cannot enable one to form any adequate judgment of the condition of the working people. i visited the asylum for the deaf and dumb, which appeared to me to have an admirable teacher. one of his best aids is a young man who was his pupil. the teacher desired me to ask of this young man the meaning of some word that had an abstract meaning. i asked him what he understood by intelligence. he put his hand to his head, and thought for some time, before he attempted to reply; then he nearly covered the slate with his definition. he evidently saw the difference between intelligence and learning or knowledge, but had to use many words to express his idea; but i thought he had as clear a thought as any of us. after he had given the best definition he could, he added, "there is another meaning to the word: it means news, sometimes." there was, at this asylum, a little girl, about twelve years old, who was blind, as well as deaf and dumb. she was a very interesting child from her countenance and manner, apart from her infirmity. her face was far more beautiful than laura bridgman's; her head good, but not so fine at present, not so well developed. her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes rested on her cheeks with a mournful expression. the teacher was just getting into communication with her, but had to make many efforts, such as pressing her head, her heart, and shoulders, as well as her hands. when he tried to tell her that laura bridgman, in america, was in the same state that she was, and that she had learned a great deal, and had sent her love to all the deaf and dumb, by a lady who had come to see her, she raised her head, and looked as if trying to see or hear, and then put out her hand. i took it, and then told the teacher how dr. howe and others communicated with laura bridgman by moving their fingers, and making certain impressions on the palm of her hand. as i told him, i imitated the motions with my fingers on the palm of her hand. she gave one of those peculiar screams which laura bridgman does, at times, when she is excited, and her white face glowed with pleasure and strong emotion. her teacher told me i had put myself into communication with her; but my heart ached to think i could do no more. in a few moments we left her. she told her teacher to tell me to give her love to laura bridgman, and sat down again upon her little bench, in the solitude of her perpetual silence and blindness. when i had been over the institution, and seen the admirable work of the inmates, and was about leaving, i had to pass near this lovely child again. when i was within three or four feet of her, she put out her hand and took hold of me. it seemed as if she knew me from the rest of the party, after i had thus by chance spoken to her imprisoned soul. no one will wonder that i could not keep the tears out of my eyes. i visited another collection of children, who might have been still more unfortunate than these but for the wise charity of the people of manchester. the swinton union school is a large, noble building, in the outskirts of manchester. the school is a fine looking place, surrounded by nice gardens and grounds. it can contain one thousand children; there were then in it six hundred and fifty. they have a fine, large, well-ventilated school room. they have a large place to wash themselves, with a sufficient number of separate, fixed basins, arranged to admit and let off water, a towel and piece of soap for each child; and they are obliged to wash their faces and hands three times a day. there are great tanks where they are all bathed twice a week. they have a fine infant school for the little ones, most admirably managed. the large girls are taught to wash, and iron, and do housework. the boys are, some of them, taught the tailor's trade, and some the shoemaker's, and others the baker's. it was a pretty sight to see the little fellows sitting on their legs, making their own jackets and trousers, and laughing together, and looking as happy as boys can look; and just so with the little shoemakers. they work only four hours, and then another set take their place. the room was large and airy, and perfectly comfortable. i saw the clothes they had made, all nicely pressed and put away in their storerooms, ready for wear. so with the shoes; they mended their old shoes and their old clothes themselves. i saw those of the children who were not at work, at play; for the school hours were past. i saw their happy faces, their clean, tidy clothes, and their long rows of nice, clean beds, for i went into every part of the house, and a beautiful sight it all was. in the kitchen some girls were making up the bread, and most excellent bread it was, and a good, large, thick slice there was for every one. i saw the dining hall, and all that belonged to that part of the concern, and all was just what it ought to be. now, you must know that these are, all, the children of paupers--children who have no earthly parents, children that the public must take care of, or they would live or die in the streets. all the different parishes have erected this building, and put in the best teachers, and furnished it as i have related to you, and there placed these poor children, who were growing up in vice and misery. here they are taught habits of order, industry, and obedience, and learn a way of supporting themselves honestly, and are kept till they are old enough to be put apprentice to some good person who will treat them well. so, instead of six hundred and fifty ignorant, reckless vagrants, the community receives that number of well-instructed, well-brought-up individuals, who can support themselves decently and respectably. an english country home, where education, high breeding, easy circumstances, old trees, room enough, and a merry family circle, make life beautiful--this had always been one of my dreams of earthly happiness. all this was realized at mrs. c--'s, at chobham, where i stopped for a visit on my way to london. every day my kind friends devised some little plan for my amusement, beyond the constant pleasure of the every-day life. one day they took me to windsor, which, you know, is one of the queen's country palaces. we approached it through the famous avenue of elms in the park. the effect of the castle, seen through that long, long vista, is very fine. the english elm, though not so graceful as ours, is more grand and stately, and better for architectural effects. there were many deer in the park, which added much to its beauty. at last we were at the castle; it is a fine building, but would be far more picturesque in ruins than in its present perfect state. we went first into the chapel; this is exquisitely beautiful. the gothic clusters of pillars springing up from the floor rise unbroken to the roof, and spread out like palm trees. the emblazoned coats of arms of the knights of the garter hanging all around on the pillars of the chapel, the beautiful carved ornaments like lace-work, and many other rare and lovely objects, make the royal chapel very magnificent. there was a horrible old woman who went screeching about the room, showing the pictures, &c. she was particularly apropos in calling us, when she found we were americans, into a corner of the chapel to show us the tomb of lord harcourt, who is there represented receiving the sword of some unfortunate american general, and shrieked out with her cracked voice, "i thought this might interest you." after feasting my eyes long enough upon the chapel, i went into the castle, and joined one of those batches of human beings which are driven through the state apartments by the guide. the rooms are magnificent. one contains a beautiful collection of pictures by vandyke. we saw the grand malachite vase, presented to victoria by the emperor of russia, large enough to hold one or two men. after seeing the rooms, we ascended the tower, whence is a fine view. we then walked on the terrace, and went to join the rest of our party, who had gone before us to the hotel. we then went to get a look at the famous eton school, about a mile distant. the eton boys amused me much. they go there very young, and remain there a long while, till they are ready to enter the universities. their dress indicates their advancement in age and standing. first comes a jacket, then a little suspicion of a tail, which gradually lengthens and widens as maturity comes on, till, at last, it is a perfect tail coat. i saw specimens in these various stages of growth. after one of the happiest weeks that ever mortals passed, i said a reluctant farewell, and departed for london, where more kind friends, whom i had never seen, were expecting my arrival. i can now, in my mind's eye, see all the dear family on the steps or in the hall door, giving us their parting blessing, and the old comfortable-looking gentlemanly butler arranging my luggage. one of the dear family accompanied me to the railroad, and saw me fairly on my way to london. in london we again enjoyed the great pleasure of being received like old friends, not heard there truly divine music. there is no describing and no forgetting the effect of one of those sublime religious strains that seem to burst forth from you know not where, and swell and grow fuller and louder, and then more and more distant, and fainter and fainter, till you think it dying in the distance, and then gush out with an overwhelming fulness of harmony and beauty. one feels as if he would hear such strains at the hour of death. our next object was st. paul's. how different! how very different! in a gothic building, you think that the artist, who designed it, had in mind the idea of the solemn forest where the crossing branches produce all those beautiful lines and forms, which so delight your eye, and where the dim, mysterious light awakens and accords with the religious sentiment; but the effect of the great dome, which suggests the open sky, is entirely opposite. the effect upon your mind of standing in the middle of st. paul's is very impressive; but what moved me most was the sound of the people without the walls. no one of our party spoke, and the noise of the busy multitude without was like the waves of the ocean. i had heard the voice of many waters while coming over the atlantic, and there is no exaggeration; it is just such a sound, such an ebbing and flowing, and yet such a full and constant roar, as the waves make after continued high winds. it was truly sublime, this concentrated sound of this living multitude of human beings, these breathings and heavings of the heart of the mighty monster, london. we were shown all over the cathedral; we first ascended to the inside gallery, and walked around, looking down upon the whole interior; we then visited the clock, and we heard and felt the quiver of its tremendous voice. we next entered the famous whispering gallery, which is made around the base of the dome inside. the faintest whisper is heard at the point opposite that whence it comes. then we went outside, and walked some time around the dome, gazing about with great delight. then we ascended to the golden gallery, as it is called from the fact that the balustrade is gilded. it runs around the top of the dome. from here, you see london all spread out like a map before you,--its towers, its spires, all its multitudinous abodes, lie beneath your eye. one little thing remained. the ball was yet above us. the gentlemen of our party went up various perpendicular ladders, and at last pulled themselves through a small hole into the ball. there is room, i think, there for a dozen people, if well packed, not to stand, walk, or sit, however; these things the nature of the place forbids. it is a strange feeling, they say, to crouch in this little apartment and hear the wind roaring and shaking the golden cross above. the whole ball shakes somewhat, and by a sudden movement one can produce quite a perceptible motion. we descended the infinity of stairs, and entered the crypt, as it is called, under the church. there were many grand tombs there. nelson's occupies the centre, and is a fine work. but what impressed me most was the tomb of sir christopher wren himself; a simple tablet marks his tomb, with this inscription, which is repeated above in the nave:-- subtus conditur hujus ecclesias et urbis conditor, christopherus wren; qui vixit annos ultra nonaginta, non sibi, sed bono publico. lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. obiit feb. mdccxxiii., aetat. xci. we subjoin a translation of this inscription for our young friends:-- "underneath lies buried christopher wren, the builder of this church and city; who lived beyond the age of ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good.--reader, if you ask for his monument, look around you.--he died on the th of february, , aged ." he is called the builder of the city, as well as of the church; for sir christopher wren was the architect of more than fifty of the churches in london. one morning, our friend, miss s., was kind enough to accompany us to greenwich, where, you know, is the hospital for disabled sailors of the british navy. the day was warm and lovely, like what we call the indian summer in america. we took an omnibus to london bridge; from thence we proceeded by railway, and in a few minutes were in greenwich. we entered the magnificent old park, and wandered about for a long time, to our hearts' content, among the venerable old trees, admiring the graceful deer that were enjoying themselves all around us. at last we came to the top of a charming hill, where we sat down to rest and look at the river. several of the sailors had arranged spy glasses of various sizes for the accommodation of visitors, and for the good to themselves of a few pence. we patronized one of these, and then descended to the hospital, which is the main object of interest. it was just time for the old sailors' dinner, and we went into one of their dining rooms, where there were about three hundred seated at an excellent meal, plain, but wholesome and plentiful. a very pleasant sight it was; they were chatting, telling good old stories, and laughing merrily, and evidently enjoying themselves highly. there were, at that time, more than seven hundred of these veterans in the building. those who chose carried their dinners to their rooms. the place for the sailors' sleeping rooms was a long hall, with small rooms on one side and large windows on the other. the rooms were just large enough for a bed, a bureau, a little table, and, i think, two chairs. there were shelves around the room, except on the side that looked into the hall, where was the door and a window. on these shelves were ranged little keepsakes, books and various articles of taste, often beautiful shells; there were hanging up around the rooms profiles of friends, perhaps the dearest that this life can give us. i could not help thinking that many a touching story might be told by those silent but eloquent memorials. we were much amused with looking at a card put in one of the windows of these little comfortable state rooms, on which was written these words: "anti-poke-your-nose-into-other-folks'-business society. pounds reward annually to any one who will really mind his own business; with the prospect of an increase of pounds, if he shall abstain from poking his nose into other folks' business." we returned to london in a steamer. now you must suppose you are walking with me in paris, on a bright sunday morning in spring. we will go first to the place vendome. it is an oblong square with the corners cut off. the buildings are all of the same beautiful cream-colored stone, and of the same style of architecture,--a basement story, very pretty and simple, and upper stories ornamented with corinthian pilasters and gilded balconies. there are high, pointed roofs with pretty luthern windows. the place is four hundred and twenty feet by four hundred and fifty. two large handsome streets, opposite to each other, the rue de la paix, and the rue castiglione, open out of the place; these alone break the range of handsome buildings that surround this beautiful spot. in the centre is the magnificent column, made in imitation of the column of trajan, and surmounted by a bronze statue of napoleon in his military dress. at first he was placed there in his imperial robes; but when he fell, so did his statue, and it was melted up to help make an equestrian statue of henry iv. in , the present statue was erected; and the people are very proud of the little corporal, as they call him, as he stands up there, looking over their glorious city, as if born to lead men to conquest, and to govern the world. inside the column is a spiral staircase by which you ascend to the top of the column. you are well paid for the fatigue of mounting these one hundred and seventy-six steps, when you get your breath and look down upon paris glittering in the sunlight. what pleases me most, however, is the scene immediately below. all the people are in the streets. sunday in paris is a holiday. whole families leave work, care,--all their troubles,--and come into the public places to enjoy themselves. there is no swearing, no drunkenness, no rudeness, no noise; the old folks seats themselves in chairs, and the children run about. some have been to mass, and some have not, but all are in the spirit of enjoyment. nothing can be more enlivening than the aspect of the french people. you cannot resist their cheerful looks. the appearance of the place vendome is truly enchanting. now let us go down, and take a nearer look at what is going on below. at the foot of the column you will see a group of children collected round a man with a large basket of little tin carriages which are constructed in such a way that they will go with the wind on a smooth place. for some distance round the column is laid the asphaltum pavement. these little tin carriages run well across this wide platform; and you might imagine that the tin horses carried them. it is a pleasant thing to see the delight of the children, and a lesson in good nature and good manners, to see how carefully all the passers by turn aside, so as not to interrupt the progress of these pretty toys. look up at the beautiful bas reliefs in bronze, on this noble column, giving the history of so many fierce battles and so much bloodshed, and at the military hero on the top, and then at these laughing, merry children at the foot, running after the tin carriages that go with the wind. is it not a strange and moving contrast? does it not tell a story that all of us hope may be one day true; when war shall belong only to history, and when peace shall possess the earth? around the base of this beautiful column many of those who served under bonaparte, or who remember him with affection, hang wreaths and garlands as expressions of their tender remembrance. this is still done; these memorials are ever there. at one time this was forbidden by the government, but to no purpose. at last, an officer was stationed at the foot of the column with a water engine, and with orders to play it upon any one who should bring any votive offerings to the fallen hero. a lady, whose love and admiration could not be so intimidated, came the next day in her carriage, which she filled with wreaths of flowers, and stood up in it, and threw wreath after wreath at the foot of the column, crying out, as each one fell, "will you play your engine upon me?" but not a drop of water was sent at her, and she deposited all her offerings, and went away unharmed. i suppose a frenchman would sooner have been shot than have done any thing to quench the enthusiasm of this heroic woman. one thing struck me much in paris, and most agreeably, and that is the good appearance of the children. this is not confined to the rich; you will see a very poor woman leading her child, really well dressed. you never see boys idling in the streets; you never hear them swearing and quarrelling. if you ask a boy to show you the way, his manner of doing it would grace a drawing room. i am told that the french are never severe with their children; that the french nature will not bear it; that strong excitement makes the children ill; that the law of love is the only one they will bear. stop with me now on our walk, at this little low cart, just by the sidewalk; it is as you see larger than a common handcart, and much lower, and on four small wheels; it is full of china, all marked sous. see how pretty these cups and saucers are. after your looking at all the pieces, the owner would say, "bon jour" very kindly to you, if you took nothing, but we will take this pretty cup and saucer; as a remembrance of his little cart. as we walk along, we shall see many others, containing every thing you can imagine. i bought many things in the streets,--combs, saucepans, clothes-brushes, &c. look into this shop window; see these lovely flowers, and, in the midst of them, a small fountain is playing all the time to keep them fresh. look at those immense bunches in the windows,--of pansies, violets, hyacinths of all colors, ixias, wall flowers, tulips, geraniums, narcissus; and o, this is not half the variety of flowers! look into the shop; there are bushels of them and other flowers, all ranged round the wall; the perfume salutes the most insensible passer-by; it tells of the songs of birds, and of the delights of summer time. you cannot resist its influence. let us go in and look at the flowers. the person who keeps the shop has the manners of a lady; she wishes you good morning; and, if you do not behave just as you would if you entered a lady's parlor, you are set down as an american or englishman, who does not know how to behave. when you leave the shop also, you must remember to say, "bon jour," or you commit an offence. how kindly the lady who keeps this flower shop shows us all her flowers! how she seems to love them, as if they were her children! we must get a bouquet to show our gratitude for her kindness, though she would not demand it. at every street corner is a woman with a basket of violets and evergreens. she offers them in such a pretty way, taking care that you shall take their perfume. you cannot resist them. now, suppose we were taking a walk, some other morning. before us is the "place de la concorde," all glistening in the spring sunlight. see, there, in the centre, is the obelisk--a monument of the time of sesostris, king of egypt, erected by him before the great temple of thebes more than three thousand years ago, or fifteen hundred and fifty years before christ. this enormous stone, all of one piece, seventy-two feet high, seven feet and a half square at the base, of red granite, and covered with hieroglyphic inscriptions, was given to the french government by the viceroy of egypt, in consideration of an armed and naval establishment which that government had helped him to form at alexandria. eight hundred men struggled for three months in egypt, in the midst of all manner of hardships, building a road and constructing machinery to drag the obelisk, completely cased in wood, down to the nile. it cost two millions of francs to place this monument where it now stands. this was done with great pomp and ceremony in october, , the royal family and about a hundred and fifty thousand other people looking on. now try to place yourself in imagination at the foot of this great obelisk of luxor, mounted up as it is upon a single block of gray granite of france, covered all over with gilded engraving of the machinery used in placing the great thing where it is. the place de la concorde itself, which surrounds you, is eight sided; and if the excavations around it were filled with water, it would be an island, seven hundred feet or so across, and connected with the main land by four elegant little bridges. but instead of water, these "diggings" are beautifully filled with flower gardens. at the eight corners of the island are eight pavilions, as they are called; or great watch houses, of elegant architecture, occupied by the military or the police, as occasion requires. each of these forms the base of a gigantic statue, representing one of the principal cities of france. it is as if the whole eight were sitting in friendly council for the good of paris. how beautiful they are, with their grand expressionless faces, and their graceful attitudes, and their simple antique drapery. they are all sitting in their mural crowns,--the fortified cities on cannons, the commercial ones on bales of goods. strasburg alone seems full of life. she has her arm akimbo, as if braving germany, to which she once belonged. look, north from the obelisk, up the rue de la concorde, and the splendid church of the madeleine bounds your sight. on your right are the gardens of the tuilleries; on your left are the champs elysees; behind you is the chamber of deputies. both before and behind you, in the place itself, you have a splendid fountain, each being a round basin, fifty feet in diameter, in which stands a smaller basin, with a still smaller above it, supported and surrounded by bronze figures of rivers, seas, genii of fruits, flowers, and fisheries, and all manner of gods of commerce and navigation, all spouting water like mad. see the famous marble horses from marly. how impatient they look to break away from the athletic arm which holds them! what life and spirit they show! how beautiful they are! take one look now at the arc de triomphe; it is nearly two miles off, but looks very near. now turn; and directly opposite, at some distance, you see what james lowell calls the "front door of the tuilleries." the gardens are full of beautiful children. their mothers or nurses are sitting under the trees, while the children run about at will. there are thousands playing at ball, driving hoops, jumping ropes, shouting, laughing, merry as children will be and ought to be. let us take a stroll in the champs elysees. you have never seen any thing so beautiful, so captivating, as the scene. it seems like enchantment. all the world is here--young and old, poor and rich, fashionable and unfashionable. all for their amusement. let us see what this group are looking at so earnestly. a number of wooden ponies are wheeled round and round, and each has a rosy-cheeked boy upon it. here is another in which they go in boats; another in chairs. this amusement costs only two or three sous apiece to the children. the parents or the nurses stand around enjoying it almost as much as the children. let us walk on. see that little fountain gleaming through the tender green of the young leaves as you see them in the pretty wood that forms a background to the picture. all along in the road you observe fine equipages of all sorts standing in waiting, while the gay world, or the poor invalids whom they brought to this place of enchantment, are walking about or sitting in chairs, courting health and amusement. here is something still prettier than any thing you have seen--a beautiful little carriage that can hold four children and a driver, drawn by four white goats, with black horns and beards. the french are peculiarly kind to animals. no law is necessary in france for the protection of animals from the cruelty of their masters. you meet men and women, very respectably dressed, leading dogs with the greatest care; and in the fashionable drives, every tenth carriage (it seemed to me) had a dog lying on the seat, or standing on his hind legs, looking out of the window. a friend told me that, when present at a grand review where there was a great crowd, she saw a woman, who could not get near enough to see the show, hold up her dog over the heads of the people, that he might at least have the pleasure of seeing what was going on. i must tell you about the ceremony of making an archbishop, which we had the good fortune to witness. it took place at notre dame. the nave of the church was full. around the altar, all the priests and dignitaries of the church were seated; the officiating archbishop in a high seat, and an empty chair by his side for the new archbishop when finished and prepared for the honor. all the priests were in full dress. their garments were stiff with gold and silver. my eyes were dazzled with their splendor. perfect silence prevailed, and the ceremony commenced. the priest, who was to be made into a bishop, had all sorts of things done to him. he knelt, he prayed, he was prayed over, he was read to, he had hands laid upon him, he was crossed; incense was thrown up, the organ played, and all the priests and bishops knelt and rose from their knees, and knelt and rose again, and again; high mass was said, and the show was very remarkable. once the poor mortal, who was to be consecrated, knelt, and a large book was put upon him, like a saddle. finally they took him and tied napkins upon his arms and his neck, and then led him to a knot of priests a little out of my sight. in a few moments, he reappeared with all his canonicals on, except the mitre. now he was brilliant indeed, loaded with gold ornaments, stiff with splendor. his face, i noticed, was very red, and he looked weary. i did not quite understand the tumbled towels; whether these were to catch the consecrating oil that they poured on his head, or whether they were emblematic of the filthy rags of this world, which he laid aside for the new and shining garments of perfect holiness, i could not find out. now the new archbishop knelt again before the old archbishop, and the old one put the mitre upon the head of the new one. then the old archbishop embraced and kissed the new, and after that all the other bishops, who, as the french say, assisted at the ceremony, performed the same act on both sides of his face. after this, the new archbishop and his holy brother walked side by side, followed by all the other bishops and priests, down from the altar among the audience; and the new dignitary gave his blessing to all the people. i wish i could carry you with me to the palace at versailles. the magnificent equestrian statue of louis xiv., which you can see afar off as you approach, the noble statues in the grand court yard, and the ancient regal aspect of the whole scene, with its countless fountains and its seven miles of pictures, are beyond all description. as i stood lost in wonder and admiration, my friend, who introduced me to this world of wonders, pointed to a window in one corner of the building; there, she said, louis xvi. passed much of his time making locks; and there, from that balcony, marie antoinette appeared with her children and the king, when she addressed the wild, enraged parisian mob. we saw the private apartments of the unhappy queen, and the small door through which she escaped from the fury of the soldiers. we went to see the little trianon which she had built for her amusement; a lovely place it is. here she tried to put aside state and the queen, and be a happy human being. here marie antoinette had a laiterie, a milk house, where she is said to have made butter and cheese. here she caused to be built twelve cottages after the swiss fashion, and filled them with poor families whom she tried to make happy. we went into her dairy. it was fit for a queen to make butter in. in the centre of the beautifully shaped room was a large oblong, white marble table; on each side were places for admitting the water, and under them beautiful marble reservoirs in the shape of shells, and, underneath, large slabs of white marble. all is still, all so chaste, so beautiful, all as it once was, and she, the poor sufferer, what a story of blighted hope and bitter sorrow! see her the night before her trial, which she knew would end in death, mending her own old shoes, that she might appear more decently. the solemn realities of life had come to her unsought. i left paris and travelled through belgium to cologne. the day i arrived was some holiday; so there was grand mass in the cathedral, and such music!--the immense building was filled with the sound. the full organ was played, and some of the priest singers took part. never did music so overcome me. the sublime piece,--as i thought of beethoven's, surely of some great composer,--performed in this glorious old cathedral, was beyond all that i had ever dreamt of. it seems to me that i might think of it again in my dying hour with delight. i felt as if it created a new soul in me. such gushes of sweet sound, such joyful fulness of melody, such tender breathings of hope, and love, and peace, and then such floods of harmony filling all those sublime arches, ascending to the far distant roof and running along through the dim aisles--o, one must hear, to have an idea of the effect of such music in such a place. at bonn we took the steamer; the day was perfect, and our pleasure was full. you must see one of these fine old castles on the top of the beautiful hills--you must yourself see the blue sky through its ruined arches--you must see the vines covering every inch of the mountain that is not solid rock, and witness the lovely effect of the gray rock mingling with the tender green--you must hear the wild legend of the owner of the castle in his day of power, and feel the passage of time and civilization that has changed his fastness of strength and rapine to a beautiful adornment of this scene of peace and plenty, its glories all humbled, its terrors all passed away, and its great and only value the part it plays in a picture, and the lesson it preaches, in its decay, of the progress of justice and humanity. from coblentz to bingen is the glory of the rhine scenery; old castles looking down over these lovely hills covered with vines and cornfields; little villages nestled in between them; beautiful spires of the prettiest churches you can imagine, looking as if they gathered the houses of the villages under their protecting wings. your soul, in short, is full of unutterable delight. it was a sort of relief to laugh at the legend as we passed the little island on which is the mouse tower, so named from the history of bishop hatto, who it is said was eaten up by rats because he refused corn in a time of scarcity to the starving poor, when he had a plenty rotting in his storehouses. when i was obliged at last to turn away from all these glories, the words of byron were in my heart:-- * * * * * adieu to thee again; a vain adieu; there can be no farewell to scenes like thine. the mind is colored by thy every hue, and if reluctantly the eyes resign their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely rhine, 'tis with the thankful glance of parting praise. more mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, but none unite in one attracting maze the brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days, the negligently grand, the fruitful bloom of summer ripeness, the white cities' sheen, the rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, the forest's growth, and gothic walls between the wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, in mockery of man's art." proofreading team. english travellers of the renaissance by clare howard burt franklin: bibliography and reference series # preface this essay was written in - while i was studying at oxford as fellow of the society of american women in london. material on the subject of travel in any century is apparently inexhaustible, and one could write many books on the subject without duplicating sources. the following aims no further than to describe one phase of renaissance travel in clear and sharp outline, with sufficient illustration to embellish but not to clog the main ideas. in the preparation of this book i incurred many debts of gratitude. i would thank the staff of the bodleian, especially mr w.h.b. somerset, for their kindness during the two years i was working in the library of oxford university; and dr perlbach, abteilungsdirektor of the königliche bibliothek at berlin, who forwarded to me some helpful information concerning the early german books of instructions for travellers; and professor clark s. northup, of cornell university, for similar aid. to mr george whale i am indebted for the use of his transcript of sloane ms. , and to my friend miss m.e. marshall, of the board of trade, for the generous gift of her leisure hours in reading for me in the british museum after the sea had divided me from that treasure-house of information. i would like to acknowledge with thanks the kind advice of sir walter raleigh and sir sidney lee, whose generosity in giving time and scholarship many students besides myself are in a position to appreciate. mr l. pearsall smith, from whose work on the _life and letters of sir henry wotton_ i have drawn copiously, gave me also courteous personal assistance. to the faculty of the english department at columbia university i owe the gratitude of one who has received her earliest inclination to scholarship from their teachings. i am under heavy obligations to professor a.h. thorndike and professor g.p. krapp for their corrections and suggestions in the proof-sheets of this book, and to professor w.p. trent for continued help and encouragement throughout my studies at columbia and elsewhere. above all, i wish to emphasize the aid of professor c.h. firth, of oxford university, whose sympathy and comprehension of the difficulties of a beginner in the field he so nobly commands can be understood only by those, like myself, who come to oxford aspiring and alone. i wish this essay were a more worthy result of his influence. clare howard barnard college, new york _october_ * * * * * introduction among the many didactic books which flooded england in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were certain essays on travel. some of these have never been brought to light since their publication more than three hundred years ago, or been mentioned by the few writers who have interested themselves in the literature of this subject. in the collections of voyages and explorations, so often garnered, these have found no place. most of them are very rare, and have never been reprinted. yet they do not deserve to be thus overlooked, and in several ways this survey of them will, i think, be useful for students of literature. they reveal a widespread custom among elizabethan and jacobean gentlemen, of completing their education by travel. there are scattered allusions to this practice, in contemporary social documents: anthony à wood frequently explains how such an oxonian "travelled beyond seas and returned a compleat person,"--but nowhere is this ideal of a cosmopolitan education so explicitly set forth as it is in these essays. addressed to the intending tourist, they are in no sense to be confused with guide-books or itineraries. they are discussions of the benefits of travel, admonitions and warnings, arranged to put the traveller in the proper attitude of mind towards his great task of self-development. taken in chronological order they outline for us the life of the travelling student. beginning with the end of the sixteenth century when travel became the fashion, as the only means of acquiring modern languages and modern history, as well as those physical accomplishments and social graces by which a young man won his way at court, they trace his evolution up to the time when it had no longer any serious motive; that is, when the chairs of modern history and modern languages were founded at the english universities, and when, with the fall of the stuarts, the court ceased to be the arbiter of men's fortunes. in the course of this evolution they show us many phases of continental influence in england; how italian immorality infected young imaginations, how the jesuits won travellers to their religion, how france became the model of deportment, what were the origins of the grand tour, and so forth. that these directions for travel were not isolated oddities of literature, but were the expression of a widespread ideal of the english gentry, i have tried to show in the following study. the essays can hardly be appreciated without support from biography and history, and for that reason i have introduced some concrete illustrations of the sort of traveller to whom the books were addressed. if i have not always quoted the "instructions" fully, it is because they repeat one another on some points. my plan has been to comment on whatever in each book was new, or showed the evolution of travel for study's sake. the result, i hope, will serve to show something of the cosmopolitanism of english society in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; of the closer contact which held between england and the continent, while england was not yet great and self-sufficient; of times when her soldiers of low and high degree went to seek their fortunes in the low countries, and her merchants journeyed in person to conduct business with italy; when a steady stream of roman catholics and exiles for political reasons trooped to france or flanders for years together. these discussions of the art of travel are relics of an age when englishmen, next to the germans, were known for the greatest travellers among all nations. in the same boat-load with merchants, spies, exiles, and diplomats from england sailed the young gentleman fresh from his university, to complete his education by a look at the most civilized countries of the world. he approached the continent with an inquiring, open mind, eager to learn, quick to imitate the refinements and ideas of countries older than his own. for the same purpose that now takes american students to england, or japanese students to america, the english striplings once journeyed to france, comparing governments and manners, watching everything, noting everything, and coming home to benefit their country by new ideas. i hope, also, that a review of these forgotten volumes may lend an added pleasure to the reading of books greater than themselves in elizabethan literature. one cannot fully appreciate the satire of amorphus's claim to be "so sublimated and refined by travel," and to have "drunk in the spirit of beauty in some eight score and eighteen princes' courts where i have resided,"[ ] unless one has read of the benefits of travel as expounded by the current instructions for travellers; nor the dialogues between sir politick-would-be and peregrine in _volpone, or the fox_. shakespeare, too, in _the two gentlemen of verona_, has taken bodily the arguments of the elizabethan orations in praise of travel: "some to the warres, to try their fortune there; some, to discover islands farre away; some, to the studious universities; for any, or for all these exercises, he said, thou proteus, your sonne was meet; and did request me, to importune you to let him spend his time no more at home; which would be great impeachment to his age, in having knowne no travaile in his youth. (antonio) nor need'st thou much importune me to that whereon, this month i have been hamering, i have considered well, his losse of time, and how he cannot be a perfect man, not being tryed, and tutored in the world; experience is by industry atchiev'd, and perfected by the swift course of time." (act i. sc. iii.) * * * * * contents chapter i the beginnings of travel for culture pilgrimages at the close of the middle ages--new objects for travel in the fifteenth century--humanism--diplomatic ambition--linguistic acquirement. chapter ii the high purpose of the elizabethan traveller development of the individual--benefit to the commonwealth--first books addressed to travellers. chapter iii some cynical aspersions upon the benefits of travel the italianate englishman. chapter iv perils for protestant travellers the inquisition--the jesuits--penalties of recusancy. chapter v the influence of the french academies france the arbiter of manners in the seventeenth century--riding the great horse--attempts to establish academies in england--why travellers neglected spain. chapter vi the grand tour origin of the term--governors for young travellers--expenses of travel. chapter vii the decadence of the grand tour the decline of the courtier--foundation of chairs of modern history and modern languages at oxford and cambridge--englishmen become self-sufficient--books of travel become common--advent of the romantic traveller who travels for scenery. bibliography index footnotes * * * * * chapter i the beginnings of travel for culture of the many social impulses that were influenced by the renaissance, by that "new lernynge which runnythe all the world over now-a-days," the love of travel received a notable modification. this very old instinct to go far, far away had in the middle ages found sanction, dignity and justification in the performance of pilgrimages. it is open to doubt whether the number of the truly pious would ever have filled so many ships to port jaffa had not their ranks been swelled by the restless, the adventurous, the wanderers of all classes. towards the sixteenth century, when curiosity about things human was an ever stronger undercurrent in england, pilgrimages were particularly popular. in , henry vi. granted licences to pilgrims to the shrine of st james of compostella alone.[ ] the numbers were so large that the control of their transportation became a coveted business enterprise. "pilgrims at this time were really an article of exportation," says sir henry ellis, in commenting on a letter of the earl of oxford to henry vi., asking for a licence for a ship of which he was owner, to carry pilgrims. "ships were every year loaded from different ports with cargoes of these deluded wanderers, who carried with them large sums of money to defray the expenses of their journey."[ ] among the earliest books printed in england was _informacon for pylgrymes unto the holy londe,_ by wynkin de worde, one which ran to three editions,[ ] an almost exact copy of william wey's "prevysyoun" (provision) for a journey eastwards.[ ] the tone and content of this _informacon_ differ very little from the later directions for travellers which are the subject of our study. the advice given shows that the ordinary pilgrim thought, not of the ascetic advantages of the voyage, or of simply arriving in safety at his holy destination, but of making the trip in the highest possible degree of personal comfort and pleasure. he is advised to take with him two barrels of wine ("for yf ye wolde geve xx dukates for a barrel ye shall none have after that ye passe moche venyse"); to buy orange-ginger, almonds, rice, figs, cloves, maces and loaf sugar also, to eke out the fare the ship will provide. and this although he is to make the patron swear, before the pilgrim sets foot in the galley, that he will serve "hote meete twice at two meals a day." he whom we are wont to think of as a poor wanderer, with no possessions but his grey cloak and his staff, is warned not to embark for the holy land without carrying with him "a lytell cawdron, a fryenge panne, dysshes, platers, cuppes of glasse ... a fether bed, a matrasse, a pylawe, two payre sheets and a quylte" ... a cage for half a dozen of hens or chickens to have with you in the ship, and finally, half a bushel of "myle sede" to feed the chickens. far from being encouraged to exercise a humble and abnegatory spirit on the voyage, he is to be at pains to secure a berth in the middle of the ship, and not to mind paying fifty ducats for to be in a good honest place, "to have your ease in the galey and also to be cherysshed." still more unchristian are the injunctions to run ahead of one's fellows, on landing, in order to get the best quarters at the inn, and first turn at the dinner provided; and above all, at port jaffa, to secure the best ass, "for ye shall paye no more for the best than for the worste." but while this book was being published, new forces were at hand which were to strip the thin disguise of piety from pilgrims of this sort. the colloquies of erasmus appeared before the third edition of _informacon for pylgrymes_, and exploded the idea that it was the height of piety to have seen jerusalem. it was nothing but the love of change, erasmus declared, that made old bishops run over huge spaces of sea and land to reach jerusalem. the noblemen who flocked thither had better be looking after their estates, and married men after their wives. young men and women travelled "non sine gravi discrimine morum et integritatis." pilgrimages were a dissipation. some people went again and again and did nothing else all their lives long.[ ] the only satisfaction they looked for or received was entertainment to themselves and their friends by their remarkable adventures, and ability to shine at dinner-tables by recounting their travels.[ ] there was no harm in going sometimes, but it was not pious. and people could spend their time, money and pains on something which was truly pious.[ ] it was only a few years after this that that pupil of erasmus and his friends, king henry the eighth, who startled europe by the way he not only received new ideas but acted upon them, swept away the shrines, burned our lady of walsingham and prosecuted "the holy blisful martyr" thomas à becket for fraudulent pretensions.[ ] but a new object for travel was springing up and filling the leading minds of the sixteenth century--the desire of learning, at first hand, the best that was being thought and said in the world. humanism was the new power, the new channel into which men were turning in the days when "our naturell, yong, lusty and coragious prynce and sovrayne lord king herre the eighth entered into the flower of pleasaunt youthe."[ ] and as the scientific spirit or the socialistic spirit can give to the permanent instincts of the world a new zest, so the renaissance passion for self-expansion and for education gave to the old road a new mirage. all through the fifteenth century the universities of italy, pre-eminent since their foundation for secular studies, had been gaining reputation by their offer of a wider education than the threadbare discussions of the schoolmen. the discovery and revival in the fifteenth century of greek literature, which had stirred italian society so profoundly, gave to the universities a northward-spreading fame. northern scholars, like rudolf agricola, hurried south to find congenial air at the centre of intellectual life. that professional humanists could not do without the stamp of true culture which an italian degree gave to them, erasmus, observer of all things, notes in the year to the lady of veer: "two things, i feel, are very necessary: one that i go to italy, to gain for my poor learning some authority from the celebrity of the place; the other, that i take the degree of doctor; both senseless, to be sure. for people do not straightway change their minds because they cross the sea, as horace says, nor will the shadow of an impressive name make me a whit more learned ... but we must put on the lion's skin to prove our ability to those who judge a man by his title and not by his books, which in truth they do not understand."[ ] although erasmus despised degree-hunting, it is well known that he felt the power of italy. he was tempted to remain in rome for ever, by reason of the company he found there. "what a sky and fields, what libraries and pleasant walks and sweet confabulation with the learned ..."[ ] he exclaims, in afterwards recalling that paradise of scholars. there was, for instance, the cardinal grimani, who begged erasmus to share his life ... and books.[ ] and there was aldus manutius. we get a glimpse of the venetian printing-house when aldus and erasmus worked together: erasmus sitting writing regardless of the noise of printers, while aldus breathlessly reads proof, admiring every word. "we were so busy," says erasmus, "we scarce had time to scratch our ears."[ ] it was this charm of intellectual companionship which started the whole stream of travel _animi causa_. whoever had keen wits, an agile mind, imagination, yearned for italy. there enlightened spirits struck sparks from one another. young and ardent minds in england and in germany found an escape from the dull and melancholy grimness of their uneducated elders--purely practical fighting-men, whose ideals were fixed on a petrified code of life. i need not explain how englishmen first felt this charm of urbane civilization. the travels of tiptoft, earl of worcester, of gunthorpe, flemming, grey and free, have been recently described by mr einstein in _the italian renaissance in england_. as for italian journeys of selling, grocyn, latimer, tunstall, colet and lily, of that extraordinary group of scholars who transformed oxford by the introduction of greek ideals and gave to it the peculiar distinction which is still shining, i mention them only to suggest that they are the source of the renaissance respect for a foreign education, and the founders of the fashion which, in its popular spreadings, we will attempt to trace. they all studied in italy, and brought home nothing but good. for to scholarship they joined a native force of character which gave a most felicitous introduction to england of the fine things of the mind which they brought home with them. by their example they gave an impetus to travel for education's sake which lesser men could never have done. though through grocyn, linacre and tunstall, greek was better taught in england than in italy, according to erasmus,[ ] at the time henry viii. came to the throne, the idea of italy as the goal of scholars persisted. rich churchmen, patrons of letters, launched promising students on to the continent to give them a complete education; as richard fox, founder of corpus christi, sent edward wotton to padua, "to improve his learning and chiefly to learn greek,"[ ] or thomas langton, bishop of winchester, supported richard pace at the same university.[ ] to reginald pole, the scholar's life in italy made so strong an appeal that he could never be reclaimed by henry viii. shunning all implication in the tumult of the political world, he slipped back to padua, and there surrounded himself with friends,--"singular fellows, such as ever absented themselves from the court, desiring to live holily."[ ] to his household at padua gravitated other english students fond of "good company and the love of learned men"; thomas lupset,[ ] the confidant of erasmus and richard pace; thomas winter,[ ] wolsey's reputed natural son; thomas starkey,[ ] the historian; george lily,[ ] son of the grammarian; michael throgmorton, and richard morison,[ ] ambassador-to-be. there were other elements that contributed to the growth of travel besides the desire to become exquisitely learned. the ambition of henry viii. to be a power in european politics opened the liveliest intercourse with the continent. it was soon found that a special combination of qualities was needed in the ambassadors to carry out his aspirations. churchmen, like the ungrateful pole, for whose education he had generously subscribed, were often unpliable to his views of the pope; a good old english gentleman, though devoted, might be like sir robert wingfield, simple, unsophisticated, and the laughingstock of foreigners.[ ] a courtier, such as lord rochford, who could play tennis, make verses, and become "intime" at the court of francis i., could not hold his own in disputes of papal authority with highly educated ecclesiastics.[ ] hence it came about that the choice of an ambassador fell more and more upon men of sound education who also knew something of foreign countries: such as sir thomas wyatt, or sir richard wingfield, of cambridge and gray's inn, who had studied at ferrara[ ]; sir nicholas wotton, who had lived in perugia, and graduated doctor of civil and canon law[ ]; or anthony st lieger, who, according to lloyd, "when twelve years of age was sent for his grammar learning with his tutor into france, for his carriage into italy, for his philosophy to cambridge, for his law to gray's inn: and for that which completed all, the government of himself, to court; where his debonairness and freedom took with the king, as his solidity and wisdom with the cardinal."[ ] sometimes henry was even at pains to pick out and send abroad promising university students with a view to training them especially for diplomacy. on one of his visits to oxford he was impressed with the comely presence and flowing expression of john mason, who, though the son of a cowherd, was notable at the university for his "polite and majestick speaking." king henry disposed of him in foreign parts, to add practical experience to his speculative studies, and paid for his education out of the king's privy purse, as we see by the royal expenses for september . among such items as "£ , s. to hanybell zinzano, for drinks and other medicines for the king's horses"; and, " s. to the fellow with the dancing dog," is the entry of "a year's exhibition to mason, the king's scholar at paris, £ , s. d."[ ] another educational investment of the king's was thomas smith, afterwards as excellent an ambassador as mason, whom he supported at cambridge, and according to camden, at riper years made choice of to be sent into italy. "for even till our days," says camden under the year , "certain young men of promising hopes, out of both universities, have been maintained in foreign countries, at the king's charge, for the more complete polishing of their parts and studies."[ ] the diplomatic career thus opened to young courtiers, if they proved themselves fit for service by experience in foreign countries, was therefore as strong a motive for travel as the desire to reach the source of humanism. this again merged into the pursuit of a still more informal education--the sort which comes from "seeing the world." the marriage of mary tudor to louis xii., and later the subtle bond of humanism and high spirits which existed between francis i. and his "very dear and well-beloved good brother, cousin and gossip, perpetual ally and perfect friend," henry the eighth, led a good many of henry's courtiers to attend the french court at one time or another--particularly the most dashing favourites, and leaders of fashion, the "friskers," as andrew boorde calls them,[ ] such as charles brandon, george boleyn, francis bryan, nicholas carew, or henry fitzroy. with any ambassador went a bevy of young gentlemen, who on their return diffused a certain mysterious sophistication which was the envy of home-keeping youth. according to hall, when they came back to england they were "all french in eating and drinking and apparel, yea, and in the french vices and brags: so that all the estates of england were by them laughed at, the ladies and gentlewomen were dispraised, and nothing by them was praised, but if it were after the french turn."[ ] from this time on young courtiers pressed into the train of an ambassador in order to see the world and become like ann boleyn's captivating brother, or elizabeth's favourite, the earl of oxford, or whatever gallant was conspicuous at court for foreign graces. there was still another contributory element to the growth of travel, one which touched diplomats, scholars, and courtiers--the necessity of learning modern languages. by the middle of the sixteenth century latin was no longer sufficient for intercourse between educated people. in the most civilized countries the vernacular had been elevated to the dignity of the classical tongues by being made the literary vehicle of such poets as politian and bembo, ronsard and du bellay. a vernacular literature of great beauty, too important to be overlooked, began to spring up on all sides. one could no longer keep abreast of the best thought without a knowledge of modern languages. more powerful than any academic leanings was the renaissance curiosity about man, which could not be satisfied through the knowledge of latin only. hardly anyone but churchmen talked latin in familiar conversation with one. when a man visited foreign courts and wished to enter into social intercourse with ladies and fashionables, or move freely among soldiers, or settle a bill with an innkeeper, he found that he sorely needed the language of the country. so by the time we reach the reign of edward vi., we find thomas hoby, a typical young gentleman of the period, making in his diary entries such as these: "removed to the middes of italy, to have a better knowledge of ye tongue and to see tuscany." "went to sicily both to have a sight of the country and also to absent myself for a while out of englishmenne's companie for the tung's sake."[ ] roger ascham a year or two later writes from germany that one of the chief advantages of being at a foreign court was the ease with which one learned german, french, and italian, whether he would or not. "i am almost an italian myself and never looks on it." he went so far as to say that such advantages were worth ten fellowships at st john's.[ ] we have noted how italy came to be the lode-stone of scholars, and how courtiers sought the grace which france bestowed, but we have not yet accounted for the attraction of germany. germany, as a centre of travel, was especially popular in the reign of edward the sixth. france went temporarily out of fashion with those men of whom we have most record. for in edward's reign the temper of the leading spirits in england was notably at variance with the court of france. it was to germany that edward's circle of protestant politicians, schoolmasters, and chaplains felt most drawn--to the country where the tides of the reformation were running high, and men were in a ferment over things of the spirit; to the country of sturm and bucer, and fagius and ursinus--the doctrinalists and educators so revered by cambridge. cranmer, who gathered under his roof as many german savants as could survive in the climate of england,[ ] kept the current of understanding and sympathy flowing between cambridge and germany, and since cambridge, not oxford, dominated the scholarly and political world of edward the sixth, from that time on germany, in the minds of the st john's men, such as burleigh, ascham and hoby, was the place where one might meet the best learned of the day. we have perhaps said enough to indicate roughly the sources of the renaissance fashion for travel which gave rise to the essays we are about to discuss. the scholar's desire to specialize at a foreign university, in greek, in medicine, or in law; the courtier's ambition to acquire modern languages, study foreign governments, and generally fit himself for the service of the state, were dignified aims which in men of character produced very happy results. it was natural that others should follow their example. in elizabethan times the vogue of travelling to become a "compleat person" was fully established. and though in mean and trivial men the ideal took on such odd shapes and produced such dubious results that in every generation there were critics who questioned the benefits of travel, the ideal persisted. there was always something, certainly, to be learned abroad, for men of every calibre. those who did not profit by the study of international law learned new tricks of the rapier. and because experience of foreign countries was expensive and hard to come at, the acquirement of it gave prestige to a young man. besides, underneath worldly ambition was the old curiosity to see the world and know all sorts of men--to be tried and tested. more powerful than any theory of education was the yearning for far-off, foreign things, and the magic of the sea. * * * * * chapter ii the high purpose of the elizabethan traveller the love of travel, we all know, flourished exceedingly in the reign of queen elizabeth. all classes felt the desire to go beyond seas upon "such wind as scatters young men through the world, to seeke their fortunes farther than at home, where small experience growes."[ ] the explorer and the poet, the adventurer, the prodigal and the earl's son, longed alike for foreign shores. what ben jonson said of coryat might be stretched to describe the average elizabethan: "the mere superscription of a letter from zurich sets him up like a top: basil or heidelberg makes him spinne. and at seeing the word frankford, or venice, though but in the title of a booke, he is readie to breake doublet, cracke elbowes, and overflowe the roome with his murmure."[ ] happy was an obscure gentleman like fynes moryson, who could roam for ten years through the "twelve dominions of germany, bohmerland, sweitzerand, netherland, denmarke, poland, italy, turkey, france, england, scotland and ireland" and not be peremptorily called home by his sovereign. sad it was to be a court favourite like fulke greville, who four times, thirsting for strange lands, was plucked back to england by elizabeth. at about the time ( ) when some of the most prominent courtiers--edward dyer, gilbert talbot, the earl of hertford, and more especially sir christopher hatton and sir philip sidney--had just returned from abroad, book-publishers thought it worth while to print books addressed to travellers. at least, there grew up a demand for advice to young men which became a feature of elizabethan literature, printed and unprinted. it was the convention for a young man about to travel to apply to some experienced or elderly friend, and for that friend to disburden a torrent of maxims after the manner of polonius. john florio, who knew the humours of his day, represents this in a dialogue in _second frutes_.[ ] so does robert greene in _greene's mourning garment_.[ ] what were at first the personal warnings of a wise man to his young friend, such as cecil's letter to rutland, grew into a generalized oration for the use of any traveller. hence arose manuals of instruction--marvellous little books, full of incitements to travel as the duty of man, summaries of the leading characteristics of foreigners, directions for the care of sore feet--and a strange medley of matters. among the first essays of this sort are translations from germanic writers, with whom, if turler is right, the book of precepts for travel originated. for the germans, with the english, were the most indefatigable travellers of all nations. like the english, they suddenly woke up with a start to the idea that they were barbarians on the outskirts of civilization, and like chicago of the present day, sent their young men "hustling for culture." they took up assiduously not only the renaissance ideal of travel as a highly educating experience, by which one was made a complete man intellectually, but also the renaissance conviction that travel was a duty to the state. since both germany and england were somewhat removed from the older and more civilized nations, it was necessary for them to make an effort to learn what was going on at the centre of the world. it was therefore the duty of gentlemen, especially of noblemen, to whom the state would look to be directed, to search out the marts of learning, frequent foreign courts, and by knowing men and languages be able to advise their prince at home, after the manner set forth in _il cortegiano_. it must be remembered that in the sixteenth century there were no schools of political economy, of modern history or modern languages at the universities. a sound knowledge of these things had to be obtained by first-hand observation. from this fact arose the importance of improving one's opportunities, and the necessity for methodical, thorough inquiry, which we shall find so insisted upon in these manuals of advice. hieronymus turlerus claims that his _de peregrinatione_ (argentorati, ) is the first book to be devoted to precepts of travel. it was translated into english and published in london in , under the title of _the traveiler of jerome turler_, and is, as far as i know, the first book of the sort in england. not much is known of turler, save that he was born at leissnig, in saxony, in , studied at padua, became a doctor of law, made such extensive travels that he included even england--a rare thing in those days--and after serving as burgomaster in his native place, died in . his writings, other than _de peregrinatione_, are three translations from machiavelli.[ ] turler addresses to two young german noblemen his book "written on behalf of such as are desirous to travell, and to see foreine cuntries, and specially of students.... mee thinkes they do a good deede, and well deserve of al men, that give precepts for traveyl. which thing, althoughe i perceive that some have done, yet have they done it here and there in sundrie bookes and not in any one certeine place." a discussion of the advantages of travel had appeared in thomas wilson's _arte of rhetorique_ ( ),[ ] and certain practical directions for avoiding ailments to which travellers were susceptible had been printed in basel in ,[ ] but turler's would seem to be the first book devoted to the praise of peregrination. not only does turler say so himself, but theodor zwinger, who three years later wrote _methodus apodemica_, declares that turler and pyrckmair were his only predecessors in this sort of composition.[ ] pyrckmair was apparently one of those governors, or hofmeister,[ ] who accompanied young german noblemen on their tours through europe. he drew up a few directions, he declares, as guidance for himself and the count von sultz, whom he expected shortly to guide into italy. he had made a previous journey to rome, which he enjoyed with the twofold enthusiasm of the humanist and the roman catholic, beholding "in a stupor of admiration" the magnificent remnants of classic civilization and the institutions of a benevolent pope.[ ] from plantin's shop in antwerp came in a narrative by another hofmeister--stephen vinandus pighius--concerning the life and travels of his princely charge, charles frederick, duke of cleves, who on his grand tour died in rome. pighius discusses at considerable length,[ ] in describing the hesitancy of the duke's guardians about sending him on a tour, the advantages and disadvantages of travel. the expense of it and the diseases you catch, were great deterrents; yet the widening of the mind which judicious travelling insures, so greatly outweighed these and other disadvantages, that it was arranged after much discussion, "not only in the council but also in the market-place and at the dinner-table," to send young charles for two years to austria to the court of his uncle the emperor maximilian, and then to italy, france, and lower germany to visit the princess, his relations, and friends, and to see life. theodor zwinger, who was reputed to be the first to reduce the art of travel into a form and give it the appearance of a science,[ ] died a doctor of medicine at basel. he had no liking for his father's trade of furrier, but apprenticed himself for three years to a printer at lyons. somehow he managed to learn some philosophy from peter ramus at paris, and then studied medicine at padua, where he met jerome turler.[ ] as doctor of philosophy and medicine he occupied several successive professorships at basel. even more distinguished in the academic world was the next to carry on the discussion of travel--justus lipsius. his elegant letter on the subject,[ ] written a year after zwinger's book was published, was translated into english by sir john stradling in .[ ] stradling, however, has so enlarged the original by whatever fancies of his own occurred to him, that it is almost a new composition. philip jones took no such liberties with the "method" of albert meier, which he translated two years after it was published in .[ ] in his dedication to sir francis drake of "this small but sweete booke of method for men intending their profit and honor by the experience of the world," jones declares that he first meant it only to benefit himself, "when pleasure of god, convenient time and good company" should draw him to travel. the _pervigilium mercurii_ of georgius loysius, a friend of scaliger, was never translated into english, but the important virtues of a traveller therein described had their influence on english readers. loysius compiled two hundred short petty maxims, illustrated by apt classical quotations, bearing on the correct behaviour and duties of a traveller. for instance, he must avoid luxury, as says seneca; and laziness, as say horace and ovid; he must be reticent about his wealth and learning and keep his counsel, like ulysses. he must observe the morals and religion of others, but not criticise them, for different nations have different religions, and think that their fathers' gods ought to be served diligently. he that disregards these things acts with pious zeal but without consideration for other people's feelings ("nulla ratione cujusque vocationis").[ ] james howell may have read maxim on how to take jokes and how to make them, "joci sine vilitate, risus sine cachinno, vox sine clamore" (let your jokes be free from vulgarity, your laugh not a guffaw, and your voice not a roar). loysius reflects the sentiment of his country in his conviction that "nature herself desires that women should stay at home." "it is true throughout the whole of germany that no woman unless she is desperately poor or 'rather fast' desires to travel."[ ] adding to these earliest essays the _oration in praise of travel_, by hermann kirchner,[ ] we have a group of instructions sprung from german soil all characterized by an exalted mood and soaring style. they have in common the tendency to rationalize the activities of man, which was so marked a feature of the renaissance. the simple errant impulse that chaucer noted as belonging with the songs of birds and coming of spring, is dignified into a philosophy of travel. travel, according to our authors, is one of the best ways to gain personal force, social effectiveness--in short, that mysterious "virtù" by which the renaissance set such great store. it had the negative value of providing artificial trials for young gentlemen with patrimony and no occupation who might otherwise be living idly on their country estates, or dissolutely in london. knight-errantry, in chivalric society, had provided the hardships and discipline agreeable to youth; travel "for vertues sake, to apply the study of good artes,"[ ] was in the renaissance an excellent way to keep a young man profitably busy. for besides the academic advantages of foreign universities, travel corrected the character. the rude and arrogant young nobleman who had never before left his own country, met salutary opposition and contempt from strangers, and thereby gained modesty. by observing the refinements of the older nations, his uncouthness was softened: the rough barbarian cub was gradually mollified into the civil courtier. and as for giving one prudence and patience, never was such a mentor as travel. the tender, the effeminate, the cowardly, were hardened by contention with unwonted cold or rain or sun, with hard seats, stony pillows, thieves, and highwaymen. any simple, improvident, and foolish youth would be stirred up to vigilancy by a few experiences with "the subtelty of spies, the wonderful cunning of inn-keepers and baudes and the great danger of his life."[ ] in short, the perils and discomforts of travel made a mild prelude to the real life into which a young man must presently fight his way. only experience could teach him how to be cunning, wary, and bold; how he might hold his own, at court or at sea, among elizabeth's adventurers. however, this development of the individual was only part of the benefit of travel. far more to be extolled was his increased usefulness to the state. that was the stoutest reason for leaving one's "owne sweete country dwellings" to endure hardships and dangers beyond seas. for a traveller may be of the greatest benefit to his own country by being able to compare its social, economic, and military arrangements with those of other commonwealths. he is wisely warned, therefore, against that fond preference for his own country which leads him to close his eyes to any improvement--"without just cause preferring his native country,"[ ] but to use choice and discretion, to see, learn, and diligently mark what in every place is worthy of praise and what ought to be amended, in magistrates, regal courts, schools, churches, armies--all the ways and means pertaining to civil life and the governing of a humane society. for all improvement in society, say our authors, came by travellers bringing home fresh ideas. examples from the ancients, to complete a renaissance argument, are cited to prove this.[ ] so the romans sent their children to marseilles, so cyrus travelled, though yet but a child, so plato "purchased the greatest part of his divine wisdome from the very innermost closets of egypt." therefore to learn how to serve one's prince in peace or war, as a soldier, ambassador, or "politicke person," one must, like ulysses, have known many men and seen many cities; know not only the objective points of foreign countries, such as the fortifications, the fordable rivers, the distances between places, but the more subjective characteristics, such as the "chief force and virtue of the spanyardes and of the frenchmen. what is the greatest vice in both nacions? after what manner the subjects in both countries shewe their obedience to their prince, or oppose themselves against him?"[ ] here we see coming into play the newly acquired knowledge of human nature of which the sixteenth century was so proud. an ambassador to paris must know what was especially pleasing to a frenchman. even a captain in war must know the special virtues and vices of the enemy: which nation is ablest to make a sudden sally, which is stouter to entertain the shock in open field, which is subtlest of the contriving of an ambush. evidently, since there is so varied a need for acquaintance with foreign countries, travel is a positive duty. noah, aristotle, solomon, julius cæsar, columbus, and many other people of authority are quoted to prove that "all that ever were of any great knowledge, learning or wisdom since the beginning of the world unto this present, have given themselves to travel: and that there never was man that performed any great thing or achieved any notable exploit, unless he had travelled."[ ] this summary, of course, cannot reproduce the style of each of our authors, and only roughly indicates their method of persuasion. especially it cannot represent the mode of zwinger, whose contribution is a treatise of four hundred pages, arranged in outline form, by means of which any single idea is made to wend its tortuous way through folios. every aspect of the subject is divided and subdivided with meticulous care. he cannot speak of the time for travel without discriminating between natural time, such as years and days, and artificial time, such as festivals and holidays; nor of the means of locomotion without specifying the possibility of being carried through the air by: (i) mechanical means, such as the wings of icarus; or ( ) angels, as the apostle philip was snatched from samaria.[ ] in this elaborate method he found an imitator in sir thomas palmer.[ ] the following, a mere truncated fragment, may serve to illustrate both books:-- "travelling is either:-- i. irregular. ii. regular. of regular travailers some be a. non-voluntaries, sent out by the prince, and employed in matters of . peace (etc.). . warre (etc.). b. voluntaries. voluntary regular travailers are considered . as they are moved accidentally. a. principally, that afterwards they may leade a more quiet and contented life, to the glory of god. b. secondarily, regarding ends, (i) publicke. (a) what persons are inhibited travaile. ( ) infants, decrepite persons, fools, women. (b) what times to travaile in are not fitte: ( ) when our country is engaged in warres. (c) fitte. ( ) when one may reape most profit in shortest time, for that hee aimeth at. ( ) when the country, into which we would travaile, holdeth not ours in jealousie, etc." that the idea of travel as a duty to the state had permeated the elizabethans from the courtier to the common sailor is borne out by contemporary letters of all sorts. even william bourne, an innkeeper at gravesend, who wrote a hand-book of applied mathematics, called it _the treasure for travellers_[ ] and prefaced it with an exhortation in the style of turler. in the correspondence of lord burghley, sir philip sidney, fulke greville, the earl of essex, and secretary davison, we see how seriously the aim of travel was inculcated. here are the same reminders to have the welfare of the commonwealth constantly in mind, to waste no time, to use order and method in observation, and to bring home, if possible, valuable information. sidney bewails how much he has missed for "want of having directed my course to the right end, and by the right means." but he trusts his brother has imprinted on his mind "the scope and mark you mean by your pains to shoot at. your purpose is, being a gentleman born, to furnish yourself with the knowledge of such things as may be serviceable to your country."[ ] davison urges the value of experience, scorning the man who thinks to fit himself by books: "our sedentary traveller may pass for a wise man as long as he converseth either with dead men by reading, or by writing, with men absent. but let him once enter on the stage of public employment, and he will soon find, if he can but be sensible of contempt, that he is unfit for action. for ability to treat with men of several humours, factions and countries; duly to comply with them, or stand off, as occasion shall require, is not gotten only by reading of books, but rather by studying of men: yet this is ever held true. the best scholar is fittest for a traveller, as being able to make the most useful observations: experience added to learning makes a perfect man."[ ] both essex and fulke greville are full of warnings against superficial and showy knowledge of foreign countries: "the true end of knowledge is clearness and strength of judgment, and not ostentation, or ability to discourse, which i do rather put your lordship in mind of, because the most part of noblemen and gentlemen of our time have no other use nor end of their learning but their table-talk. but god knoweth they have gotten little that have only this discoursing gift: for, though like empty vessels they sound loud when a man knocks upon their outsides, yet if you pierce into them, you shall find that they are full of nothing but wind."[ ] lord burghley, wasting not a breath, tersely instructs the earl of rutland in things worthy of observation. among these are frontier towns, with what size garrison they are maintained, etc.; what noblemen live in each province, by what trade each city is supported. at court, what are the natural dispositions of the king and his brothers and sisters, what is the king's diet, etc. "particularly for yourself, being a nobleman, how noblemen do keep their wives, their children, their estates; how they provide for their younger children; how they keep the household for diet," and so on.[ ] so much for the attitude of the first "subsidium peregrinantibus." it will be seen that it was something of a trial and an opportunity to be a traveller in elizabethan times. but biography is not lacking in evidence that the recipients of these directions did take their travels seriously and try to make them profitable to the commonwealth. among the rutland papers[ ] is a plan of fortifications and some notes made by the edward manners to whom cecil wrote the above letter of advice. sir thomas bodley tells how full he was of patriotic intent: "i waxed desirous to travel beyond the seas, for attaining to the knowledge of some special modern tongues, and for the increase of my experience in the managing of affairs, being wholly then addicted to employ myself, and all my cares, in the public service of the state."[ ] assurances of their object in travelling are written from abroad by sir john harington and the third earl of essex to their friend prince henry. essex says: "being now entered into my travels, and intending the end thereof to attain to true knowledge and to better my experience, i hope god will so bless me in my endeavours, that i shall return an acceptable servant unto your highness."[ ] and harington in the same vein hopes that by his travels and experience in foreign countries he shall sometime or other be more fit to carry out the commands of his highness.[ ] one of the particular ways of serving one's country was the writing of "observations on his travels." this was the first exercise of a young man who aspired to be a "politicke person." harington promises to send to prince henry whatever notes he can make of various countries. henry wotton offers lord zouche "a view of all the present almagne princes."[ ] the keeping of a journal is insisted upon in almost all the "directions." "it is good," says lord burghley to edward manners, "that you make a booke of paper wherein you may dayly or at least weekly insert all things occurent to you,"[ ] the reason being that such observations, when contemporary history was scarce, were of value. they were also a guarantee that the tourist had been virtuously employed. the earl of salisbury writes severely to his son abroad: "i find every week, in the prince's hand, a letter from sir john harington, full of the news of the place where he is, and the countries as he passeth, and all occurents: which is an argument, that he doth read and observe such things as are remarkable." this narrative was one of the chief burdens of a traveller. gilbert talbot is no sooner landed in padua than he must write to his impatient parents and excuse himself for the lack of that "relation." "we fulfil your honour's commaundement in wrytynge the discourse of our travayle which we would have sent with thes letres but it could not be caryed so conveniently with them, as it may be with the next letres we wryte."[ ] francis davison, the secretary's son, could not get on, somehow, with his "relation of tuscany." he had been ill, he writes at first; his tutor says that the diet of italy--"roots, salads, cheese and such like cheap dishes"--"mr francis can in no wise digest," and after that, he is too worried by poverty. in reply to his father's complaints of his extravagance, he declares: "my promised relation of tuscany your last letter hath so dashed, as i am resolved not to proceed withal."[ ] the journal of richard smith, gentleman, who accompanied sir edward unton into italy in , shows how even an ordinary man, not inclined to writing, conscientiously tried to note the fortifications and fertility of each province, whether it was "marvellous barren" or "stood chiefly upon vines"; the principal commodities, and the nature of the inhabitants: "the people (on the rhine) are very paynefull and not so paynefull as rude and sluttyshe." "they are well faced women in most places of this land, and as ill-bodied."[ ] besides writing his observations, the traveller laboured earnestly at modern languages. many and severe were the letters cecil wrote to his son thomas in paris on the subject of settling to his french. for thomas's tutor had difficulties in keeping his pupil from dog-fights, horses and worse amusements in company of the earl of hertford, who was a great hindrance to thomas's progress in the language.[ ] francis davison hints that his tour was by no means a pleasure trip, what with studying italian, reading history and policy, observing and writing his "relation." indeed, as lipsius pointed out, it was not easy to combine the life of a traveller with that of a scholar, "the one being of necessitie in continual motion, care and business, the other naturally affecting ease, safety and quietness,"[ ] but still, by avoiding englishmen, according to our "directions," and by doggedly conversing with the natives, one might achieve something. to live in the household of a learned foreigner, as robert sidney did with sturm, or henry wotton with hugo blotz, was of course especially desirable. for there were still, in the elizabethans, remnants of that ardent sociability among humanists which made englishmen traverse dire distances of sea and land to talk with some scholar on the rhine--that fraternizing spirit which made cranmer fill lambeth palace with martin bucers; and bishop gardiner, meanwhile, complain from the tower not only of "want of books to relieve my mind, but want of good company--the only solace in this world."[ ] it was still as much of a treat to see a wise man as it was when ascham loitered in every city through which he passed, to hear lectures, or argue about the proper pronunciation of greek; until he missed his dinner, or found that his party had ridden out of town.[ ] advice to travellers is full of this enthusiasm. essex tells rutland "your lordship should rather go an hundred miles to speake with one wise man, than five miles to see a fair town." stradling, translating lipsius, urges the earl of bedford to "shame not or disdaine not to intrude yourself into their familiarity." "talk with learned men, we unconsciously imitate them, even as they that walke in the sun only for their recreation, are colored therewith and sunburnt; or rather and better as they that staying a while in the apothecarie shop, til their confections be made, carrie away the smell of the sweet spices even in their garments."[ ] there are signs that the learned men were not always willing to shine upon admiring strangers who burst in upon them. the renowned doctor zacharias ursinus at heidelberg marked on his doorway these words: "my friend, whoever you are, if you come here, please either go away again, or give me some help in my studies."[ ] sidney foresees the difficulty his brother may have: "how shall i get excellent men to take paines to speake with me? truly, in few words: either much expense or much humbleness."[ ] if one had not the means to live with famous scholars, it was a good plan to take up lodgings with an eminent bookseller. for statesmen, advocates and other sorts of great men came to the shop, from whose talk much could be learned. by and by some occasion would arise for insinuating oneself into familarity and acquaintance with these personages, and perhaps, if some one of them, "non indoctus," intended journeying to another city, he might allow you to attach yourself to him.[ ] of course, for observation and experience, there was no place so advantageous as the household of an ambassador, if one was fortunate enough to win an entry there. the english ambassador in france generally had a burden of young gentlemen more or less under his care. sometimes they were lodged independently in paris, but many belonged to his train, and had meat and drink for themselves, their servants and their horses, at the ambassador's expense. sir amias paulet's _letter-book_ of - testifies that an ambassador's cares were considerably augmented by writing reports to parents. mr speake is assured that "although i dwell far from paris, yet i am not unacquainted with your sonne's doing in paris, and cannot commend him enough to you as well for his diligence in study as for his honest and quiet behaviour, and i dare assure you that you may be bold to trust him as well for the order of his expenses, as for his government otherwise."[ ] mr argall, whose brother could not be taken into paulet's house, has to be soothed as well as may be by a letter.[ ] mr throckmorton, after questionable behaviour, is sent home to his mother under excuse of being bearer of a letter to england. "his mother prayeth that his coming over may seeme to proceed of his owne request, because the queen shall not be offended with it." his mother "hath promised to gett him lycence to travil into italie." but, says paulet, "he may not goe into italie withoute the companie of some honest and wyse man, and so i have tould him, and in manie other things have dealt very playnely with him."[ ] among these troublesome charges of paulet's was francis bacon. but to his father, the lord keeper, paulet writes only that all is well, and that his son's servant is particularly honest, diligent, discreet and faithful, and that paulet is thankful for his "good and quiet behaviour in my house"--a fact which appears exceptional. sir dudley carleton, as ambassador to venice, was also pursued by ambitious fathers.[ ] sir rowland lytton chamberlain writes to carleton, begs only "that his son might be in your house, and that you would a little train him and fashion him to business. for i perceive he means to make him a statesman, and is very well persuaded of him, ... like a very indulgent father.... if you can do it conveniently, it will be a favour; but i know what a business it is to have the breaking of such colts, and therefore will urge no more than may be to your liking."[ ] besides gaining an apprenticeship in diplomacy, another advantage of travelling with an ambassador was the participation in ambassadorial immunities. it might have fared ill with sir philip sidney, in paris at the time of the massacre of saint bartholomew, if he had not belonged to the household of sir francis walsingham. many other young men not so glorious to posterity, but quite as much so to their mothers, were saved then by the same means. when news of the massacre had reached england, sir thomas smith wrote to walsingham: "i am glad yet that in these tumults and bloody proscriptions you did escape, and the young gentlemen that be there with you.... yet we hear say that he that was sent by my lord chamberlain to be schoolmaster to young wharton, being come the day before, was then slain. alas! he was acquainted with nobody, nor could be partaker of any evil dealing. how fearful and careful the mothers and parents be here of such young gentlemen as be there, you may easily guess by my lady lane, who prayeth very earnestly that her son may be sent home with as much speed as may be."[ ] the dangers of travel were of a nature to alarm mothers. as well as catholics, there were shipwrecks, pirates, and highway robbers. moors and turks lay waiting "in a little port under the hill," to take passenger vessels that went between rome and naples. "if we had come by daye as we did by night, we had bin all taken slaves."[ ] in dark strait ways up the sides of mountains, or on some great heath in prussia, one was likely to meet a horseman "well furnyshed with daggs (pistols), who myght well be called a swarte ritter--his face was as black as a devill in a playe."[ ] inns were death-traps. a man dared not make any display of money for fear of being murdered in the night.[ ] it was wiser to disguise himself as a humble country boy and gall his feet by carrying all his gold in his boots. even if by these means he escaped common desperadoes, he might easily offend the deadly university students, as did the eldest son of sir julius cæsar, slain in a brawl in padua,[ ] or like the admirable crichton, stabbed by his noble pupil in a dark street, bleed away his life in lonely lodgings.[ ] still more dangerous were less romantic ills, resulting from strange diet and the uncleanliness of inns. it was a rare treat to have a bed to oneself. more probably the traveller was obliged to share it with a stranger of disagreeable appearance, if not of disposition.[ ] at german ordinaries "every travyler must syt at the ordinary table both master and servant," so that often they were driven to sit with such "slaves" that in the rush to get the best pieces from the common dish in the middle of the table, "a man wold abhor to se such fylthye hands in his dish."[ ] many an eager tourist lay down with small-pox before he had seen anything of the world worth mentioning, or if he gained home, brought a broken constitution with him. the third lord north was ill for life because of the immoderate quantities of hot treacle he consumed in italy, to avoid the plague.[ ] but it was not really the low material dangers of small-pox, quartain ague, or robbers which troubled the elizabethan. such considerations were beneath his heroical temper. sir edward winsor, warned against the piratical gulf of malta, writes: "and for that it should not be said an englishman to come so far to see malta, and to have turned backe againe, i determined rather making my sepulker of that golfe."[ ] it was the sort of danger that weakened character which made people doubt the benefits of travel. so far we have not mentioned in our description of the books addressed to travellers any of the reminders of the trials of ulysses, and dark warnings against the "siren-songs of italy." since they were written at the same time with the glowing orations in praise of travel, it might be well to consider them before we go farther. * * * * * chapter iii some cynical aspersions upon the benefits of travel the traveller newly returned from foreign lands was a great butt for the satirists. in elizabethan times his bows and tremendous politeness, his close-fitting black clothes from venice, his french accent, his finicky refinements, such as perfumes and pick-tooths, were highly offensive to the plain englishman. one was always sure of an appreciative audience if he railed at the "disguised garments and desperate hats" of the "affectate traveller" how; his attire spoke french or italian, and his gait cried "behold me!" how he spoke his own language with shame and loathing.[ ] "you shall see a dapper jacke, that hath beene but over at deepe,[ ] wring his face round about, as a man would stir up a mustard-pot, and talke english through the teeth, like ... monsieur mingo de moustrap."[ ] nash was one of the best at describing some who had lived in france for half-a-dozen years, "and when they came home, they have hyd a little wéerish leane face under a broad french hat, kept a terrible coyle with the dust in the stréete in their long cloaks of gray paper, and spoke english strangely. naught else have they profited by their travell, save learnt to distinguish of the true burdeaux grape, and know a cup of neate gascoygne wine from wine of orleance; yea, and peradventure this also, to esteeme of the poxe as a pimple, to weare a velvet patch on their face, and walke melancholy with their armes folded."[ ] the frenchified traveller came in for a good share of satire, but darker things were said of the italianate englishman. he was an atheist--a creature hitherto unknown in england--who boldly laughed to scorn both protestant and papist. he mocked the pope, railed on luther, and liked none, but only himself.[ ] "i care not," he said, "what you talk to me of god, so as i may have the prince and the laws of the realm on my side."[ ] in politics he allied himself with the papists, they being more of his way of living than the puritans, but he was faithless to all parties.[ ] in private life he was vicious, and practised "such villainy as is abominable to declare," for in italy he had served circes, who turns men into beasts.[ ] "but i am afraid," says ascham, "that over many of our travellers unto italy do not eschew the way to circe's court: but go and ryde and runne and flie thether, they make great hast to cum to her; they make great sute to serve her: yea, i could point out some with my finger that never had gone out of england, but onlie to serve circes in italie. vanitie and vice and any licence to ill living in england was counted stale and rude unto them."[ ] it is likely that some of these accusations were true. italy more than any other country charmed the elizabethan englishman, partly because the climate and the people and the look of things were so unlike his own grey home. particularly venice enchanted him. the sun, the sea, the comely streets, "so clean that you can walk in a silk stockin and sattin slippes,"[ ] the tall palaces with marble balconies, and golden-haired women, the flagellants flogging themselves, the mountebanks, the turks, the stately black-gowned gentlemen, were new and strange, and satisfied his sense of romance. besides, the university of padua was still one of the greatest universities in europe. students from all nations crowded to it. william thomas describes the "infinite resorte of all nacions that continually is seen there. and i thinke verilie, that in one region of all the worlde againe, are not halfe so many straungers as in italie; specially of gentilmen, whose resorte thither is principallie under pretence of studie ... all kyndes of vertue maie there be learned: and therfore are those places accordyngly furnisshed: not of suche students alone, as moste commonly are brought up in our universitees (meane mens children set to schole in hope to live upon hyred learnyng) but for the more parte of noble mens sonnes, and of the best gentilmen: that studie more for knowledge and pleasure than for curiositee or luker: ... this last wynter living in padoa, with diligent serche i learned, that the noumbre of scholers there was little lesse than fiftene hundreth; whereof i dare saie, a thousande at the lest were gentilmen."[ ] the life of a student at padua was much livelier than the monastic seclusion of an english university. he need not attend many lectures, for, as thomas hoby explains, after a scholar has been elected by the rectors, "he is by his scholarship bound to no lectures, nor nothing elles but what he lyst himselfe to go to."[ ] so being a gentleman and not a clerk, he was more likely to apply himself to fencing or riding: for at padua "there passeth no shrof-tide without rennyng at the tilte, tourneiyng, fighting at the barriers and other like feates of armes, handled and furnisshed after the best sort: the greatest dooers wherof are scholers."[ ] then, too, the scholar diversified his labours by excursions to venice, in one of those passenger boats which plied daily from padua, of which was said "that the boat shall bee drowned, when it carries neither monke, nor student, nor curtesan.... the passengers being for the most part of these kinds"[ ] and, as moryson points out, if he did not, by giving offence, receive a dagger in his ribs from a fellow-student, he was likely to have pleasant discourse on the way.[ ] hoby took several trips from padua to venice to see such things as the "lustie yong duke of ferrandin, well accompanied with noble menn and gentlemen ... running at the ring with faire turks and cowrsars, being in a maskerie after the turkishe maner, and on foote casting of eggs into the wyndowes among the ladies full of sweete waters and damaske poulders," or like the latin quarter students who frequent "la morgue," went to view the body of a gentleman slain in a feud, laid out in state in his house--"to be seen of all men."[ ] in the outlandish mixture of nations swarming at venice, a student could spend all day watching mountebanks, and bloody street fights, and processions. in the renowned freedom of that city where "no man marketh anothers dooynges, or meddleth with another mans livyng,"[ ] it was no wonder if a young man fresh from an english university and away from those who knew him, was sometimes "enticed by lewd persons:" and, once having lost his innocence, outdid even the students of padua. for, as greene says, "as our wits be as ripe as any, so our willes are more ready than they all, to put into effect any of their licentious abuses."[ ] thus arose the famous proverb, "an englishman italianate is a devil incarnate." hence the warnings against circes by even those authors most loud in praise of travel. lipsius bids his noble pupil beware of italian women: " ... inter fæminas, formæ conspicuæ, sed lascivæ et procaces."[ ] turler must acknowledge "an auntient complaint made by many that our countrymen usually bring three thinges with them out of italye: a naughty conscience, an empty purse, and a weak stomache: and many times it chaunceth so indeede." for since "youth and flourishing yeeres are most commonly employed in traveill, which of their owne course and condicion are inclined unto vice, and much more earnestly imbrace the same if it be enticed thereto," ... "many a time pleasures make a man not thinke on his returne," ... but he is caught by the songs of mermaids, "so to returne home with shame and shame enough."[ ] it was necessary also to warn the traveller against those more harmless sins which we have already mentioned: against an arrogant bearing on his return to his native land, or a vanity which prompted him at all times to show that he had been abroad, and was not like the common herd. perhaps it was an intellectual affectation of atheism or a cultivated taste for machiavelli with which he was inclined to startle his old-fashioned countrymen. almost the only book sir edward unton seems to have brought back with him from venice was the _historie of nicolo machiavelli_, venice, . on the title page he has written: "macchavelli maxima / qui nescit dissimulare / nescit vivere / vive et vivas / edw. unton. /"[ ] perhaps it was only his display of italian clothes--"civil, because black, and comely because fitted to the body,"[ ] or daintier table manners than englishmen used which called down upon him the ridicule of his enemies. no doubt there was in the returned traveller a certain degree of condescension which made him disagreeable--especially if he happened to be a proud and insolent courtier, who attracted the queen's notice by his sharpened wits and novelties of discourse, or if he were a vain boy of the sort that cumbered the streets of london with their rufflings and struttings. in making surmises as to whom ascham had in his mind's eye when he said that he knew men who came back from italy with "less learning and worse manners," i guessed that one might be arthur hall, the first translator of homer into english. hall was a promising grecian at cambridge, and began his translation with ascham's encouragement.[ ] between and , when ascham was writing _the scolemaster_, hall, without finishing for a degree, or completing the homer, went to italy. it would have irritated ascham to have a member of st john's throw over his task and his degree to go gadding. certainly hall's after life bore out ascham's forebodings as to the value of foreign travel. on his return he spent a notorious existence in london until the consequences of a tavern brawl turned him out of parliament. i might dwell for a moment on hall's curious account of this latter affair, because it is one of the few utterances we have by an acknowledged italianate englishman--of a certain sort. hall, apparently, was one of those gallants who ruffled about elizabethan london and used "to loove to play at dice to sware his blood and hart to face it with a ruffins look and set his hat athwart."[ ] the humorists throw a good deal of light on such "yong jyntelmen." so does fleetwood, the recorder of london, to whom they used to run when they were arrested for debt, or for killing a carman, making as their only apology, "i am a jyntelman, and being a jyntelman, i am not thus to be used at a slave and a colion's hands."[ ] hall, writing in the third person, in the assumed character of a friend, describes himself as "a man not wholly unlearned, with a smacke of the knowledge of diverse tongues ... furious when he is contraried ... as yourselfe is witnesse of his dealings at rome, at florence, in the way between that and bollonia ... so implacable if he conceyve an injurie, as sylla will rather be pleased with marius, than he with his equals, in a maner for offences grown of tryffles.... also spending more tyme in sportes, and following the same, than is any way commendable, and the lesse, bycause, i warrant you, the summes be great are dealte for." [ ] this terrible person, on the th of december , at lothbury, in london, at a table of twelve pence a meal, supped with some merchants and a certain melchisedech mallerie. dice were thrown on the board, and in the course of play mallerie "gave the lye with harde wordes in heate to one of the players." "hall sware (as he will not sticke to lende you an othe or two), to throw mallerie out at the window. here etna smoked, daggers were a-drawing ... but the goodman lamented the case for the slaunder, that a quarrel should be in his house, ... so ... the matter was ended for this fitte." but a certain master richard drake, attending on my lord of leicester, took pains first to warn hall to take heed of mallerie at play, and then to tell mallerie that hall said he used "lewde practices at cards." the next day at "poules"[ ] came mallerie to hall and "charged him very hotly, that he had reported him to be a cousiner of folkes at mawe." hall, far from showing that fury which he described as his characteristic, denied the charge with meekness. he said he was patient because he was bound to keep the peace for dark disturbances in the past. mallerie said it was because he was a coward. mallerie continued to say so for months, until before a crowd of gentlemen at the "ordinary" of one wormes, his taunts were so unbearable that hall crept up behind him and tried to stab him in the back. there was a general scuffle, some one held down hall, the house grew full in a moment with lord zouche, gentlemen, and others, while "mallerie with a great shreke ranne with all speede out of the doores, up a paire of stayres, and there aloft used most harde wordes againste mr hall." hall, who had cut himself--and nobody else--nursed his wound indoors for some days, during which time friends brought word that mallerie would "shewe him an italian tricke, intending thereby to do him some secret and unlooked for mischief." then, with "a mufle half over his face," hall took post-horses to his home in lincolnshire. business called him, he tells the reader. there was no ground whatever for mallerie to say he fled in disguise. after six months, he ventured to return to london and be gay again. he dined at "james lumelies--the son, as it is said, of old m. dominicke, born at genoa, of the losse of whose nose there goes divers tales,"--and coming by a familiar gaming-house on his way back to his lodgings, he "fell to with the rest." but there is no peace for him. in comes mallerie--and with insufferably haughty gait and countenance, brushes by. hall tries a pleasant saunter around poules with his friend master woodhouse: "comes mallerie again, passing twice or thrice by hall, with great lookes and extraordinary rubbing him on the elbowes, and spurning three or four times a spaniel of mr woodhouses following his master and master hall." hall mutters to his servants, "jesus can you not knocke the boyes head and the wall together, sith he runnes a-bragging thus?" his three servants go out of the church by the west door: when mallerie stalks forth they set upon him and cut him down the cheek. we will not follow the narrative through the subsequent lawsuit brought by mallerie against hall's servants, the trial presided over by recorder fleetwood, the death of mallerie, who "departed well leanyng to the olde father of rome, a dad whome i have heard some say mr hall doth not hate" or hall's subsequent expulsion from parliament. this is enough to show the sort of harmless, vain braggarts some of these "italianates" were, and how easily they acquired the reputation of being desperate fellows. mallerie's lawyer at the trial charged hall with "following the revenge with an italian minde learned at rome." among other italianified cambridge men whom ascham might well have noticed were george acworth and william barker. acworth had lived abroad during mary's reign, studying civil law in france and italy. when elizabeth came to the throne he was elected public orator of the university of cambridge, but through being idle, dissolute, and a drunkard, he lost all his preferments in england.[ ] barker, or bercher, who was educated at st john's or christ's, was abroad at the same time as ascham, who may have met him as hoby did in italy.[ ] barker seems to have been an idle person--he says that after travels "my former fancye of professenge nothinge partycularly was verye muche encreased"[ ]--and a papistical one, for on the accession of mary he came home to serve the duke of norfolk, whose catholic plots he betrayed, under torture, in . it was then that the duke bitterly dubbed him an "italianfyd inglyschemane," equal in faithlessness to "a schamlesse scote";[ ] _i.e._ the bishop of ross, another witness. edward de vere, seventeenth earl of oxford, famous for his rude behaviour to sir philip sidney, whom he subsequently tried to dispatch with hired assassins after the italian manner,[ ] might well have been one of the rising generation of courtiers whom ascham so deplored. in ascham's lifetime he was already a conspicuous gallant, and by , at the age of twenty-two, he was the court favourite. the friends of the earl of rutland, keeping him informed of the news while he was fulfilling in paris those heavy duties of observation which cecil mapped out for him, announce that "there is no man of life and agility in every respect in court, but the earl of oxford."[ ] and a month afterwards, "th' erle of oxenforde hath gotten hym a wyffe--or at the leste a wyffe hath caught hym--that is mrs anne cycille, whearunto the queen hath gyven her consent, the which hathe causyd great wypping, waling, and sorowful chere, of those that hoped to have hade that golden daye."[ ] ascham did not live to see the development of this favorite into an italianate englishman, but harrison's invective against the going of noblemen's sons into italy coincides with the return of the earl from a foreign tour which seems to have been ill-spent. at the very time when the queen "delighted more in his personage and his dancing and valiantness than any other,"[ ] oxford betook himself to flanders--without licence. though his father-in-law burghley had him brought back to the indignant elizabeth, the next year he set forth again and made for italy. from siena, on january rd, - , he writes to ask burghley to sell some of his land so as to disburden him of his debts, and in reply to some warning of burghley's that his affairs in england need attention, replies that since his troubles are so many at home, he has resolved to continue his travels.[ ] eight months afterwards, from italy, he begs burghley's influence to procure him a licence to continue his travels a year longer, stating as his reason an exemplary wish to see more of germany. (in another letter also[ ] he assures cecil that he means to acquaint himself with sturmius--that educator of youth so highly approved of by ascham.) "as to italy, he is glad he has seen it, but cares not ever to see it again, unless to serve his prince or country." the reason they have not heard from him this past summer is that his letters were sent back because of the plague in the passage. he did not know this till his late return to venice. he has been grieved with a fever. the letter concludes with a mention that he has taken up of baptista nigrone crowns, which he desires repaid from the sale of his lands, and a curt thanks for the news of his wife's delivery.[ ] from paris, after an interval of six months, he declares his pleasure at the news of his being a father, but makes no offer to return to england. rather he intends to go back to venice. he "may pass two or three months in seeing constantinople and some part of greece."[ ] however, burghley says, "i wrote to pariss to hym to hasten hym homewards," and in april , he landed at dover in an exceedingly sulky mood. he refused to see his wife, and told burghley he might take his daughter into his own house again, for he was resolved "to be rid of the cumber."[ ] he accused his father-in-law of holding back money due to him, although burghley states that oxford had in one year £ .[ ] considering that robert sidney, afterwards earl of leicester, had only £ oo a year for a tour abroad,[ ] and that sir robert dallington declares £ to be quite enough for a gentleman studying in france or italy--including pay for a servant--and that any more would be "superfluous and to his hurte,"[ ] it will be seen that the earl of oxford had £ "to his hurte." certain results of his travel were pleasing to his sovereign, however. for he was the first person to import to england "gloves, sweete bagges, a perfumed leather jerkin, and other pleasant things."[ ] the queen was so proud of his present of a pair of perfumed gloves, trimmed with "foure tufts or roses of coloured silk" that she was "pictured with those gloves upon her hands, and for many yeeres after, it was called the earle of oxford's perfume."[ ] his own foreign and fashionable apparel was ridiculed by gabriel harvey, in the much-quoted description of an italianate englishman, beginning: "a little apish hat couched faste to the pate, like an oyster."[ ] arthur hall and the earl of oxford will perhaps serve to show that many young men pointed out as having returned the worse for their liberty to see the world, were those who would have been very poor props to society had they never left their native land. weak and vain striplings of entirely english growth escaped the comment attracted by a sinner with strange garments and new oaths. for in those garments themselves lay an offence to the commonwealth. i need only refer to the well-known jealousy, among english haberdashers and milliners, of the superior craft of continental workmen, behind whom english weavers lagged: henry the eighth used to have to wear hose cut out of pieces of cloth--on that leg of which he was so proud--unless "by great chance there came a paire of spanish silke stockings from spaine."[ ] knit worsted stockings were not made in england till , when an apprentice "chanced to see a pair of knit worsted stockings in the lodging of an italian merchant that came from mantua."[ ] harrison's description of england breathes an animosity to foreign clothes, plainly founded on commercial jealousy: "neither was it ever merrier in england than when an englishman was known abroad by his own cloth, and contented himself at home with his fine carsey hosen, and a mean slop: his coat, gown, and cloak of brown, blue, or puke, with some pretty furniture of velvet or of fur, and a doublet of sad tawny, or black velvet, or other comely silk, without such cuts and garish colours, as are worn in these days, and never brought in but by the consent of the french, who think themselves the gayest men when they have most diversities of rags and change of colours about them."[ ] wrapped up with economic acrimony there was a good deal of the hearty old english hatred of a frenchman, or a spaniard, or any foreigner, which was always finding expression. either it was the 'prentices who rioted, or some rude fellow who pulls up beside the carriage of the spanish ambassador, snatches the ambassador's hat off his head and "rides away with it up the street as fast as he could, the people going on and laughing at it,"[ ] or it was the smithfield officers deputed to cut swords of improper length, who pounced upon the french ambassador because his sword was longer than the statutes allowed. "he was in a great fury.... her majestie is greatly offended with the officers, in that they wanted judgement."[ ] there was also a dislike of the whole new order of things, of which the fashion for travel was only a phase: dislike of the new courtier who scorned to live in the country, surrounded by a huge band of family servants, but preferred to occupy small lodgings in london, and join in the pleasures of metropolitan life. the theatre, the gambling resorts, the fence-schools, the bowling alleys, and above all the glamor of the streets and the crowd were charms only beginning to assert themselves in elizabethan england. but the popular voice was loud against the nobles who preferred to spend their money on such things instead of on improving their estates, and who squandered on fine clothes what used to be spent on roast beef for their retainers. greene's _quip for an upstart courtier_ parodies what the new and refined englishman would say:-- "the worlds are chaungde, and men are growne to more wit, and their minds to aspire after more honourable thoughts: they were dunces in diebus illis, they had not the true use of gentility, and therefore they lived meanely and died obscurely: but now mennes capacities are refined. time hath set a new edge on gentlemen's humours and they show them as they should be: not like gluttons as their fathers did, in chines of beefe and almes to the poore, but in velvets, satins, cloth of gold, pearle: yea, pearle lace, which scarce caligula wore on his birthday."[ ] on the whole, we may say that the objections to foreign travel rose from a variety of motives. ascham doubtless knew genuine cases of young men spoiled by too much liberty, and there were surely many obnoxious boys who bragged of their "foreign vices." insular prejudice, jealousy and conservatism, hating foreign influence, drew attention to these bad examples. lastly, there was another element in the protest against foreign travel, which grew more and more strong towards the end of the reign of elizabeth and the beginning of james the first's, the hatred of italy as the stronghold of the roman catholic church, and fear of the inquisition. warnings against the jesuits are a striking feature of the next group of instructions to travellers. * * * * * chapter iv perils for protestant travellers the quickening of animosity between protestants and catholics in the last quarter of the sixteenth century had a good deal to do with the censure of travel which we have been describing. in their fear and hatred of the roman catholic countries, englishmen viewed with alarm any attractions, intellectual or otherwise, which the continent had for their sons. they had rather have them forego the advantages of a liberal education than run the risk of falling body and soul into the hands of the papists. the intense, fierce patriotism which flared up to meet the spanish armada almost blighted the genial impulse of travel for study's sake. it divided the nations again, and took away the common admiration for italy which had made the young men of the north all rush together there. we can no longer imagine an englishman like selling coming to the great politian at bologna and grappling him to his heart--"arctissima sibi conjunxit amicum familiaritate,"[ ] as the warm humanistic phrase has it. in the seventeenth century politian would be a "contagious papist," using his charm to convert men to romanism, and selling would be a "true son of the church of england," railing at politian for his "debauch'd and popish principles." the renaissance had set men travelling to italy as to the flower of the world. they had scarcely started before the reformation called it a place of abomination. lord burghley, who in elizabeth's early days had been so bent on a foreign education for his eldest son, had drilled him in languages and pressed him to go to italy,[ ] at the end of his long life left instructions to his children: "suffer not thy sonnes to pass the alps, for they shall learn nothing there but pride, blasphemy, and atheism. and if by travel they get a few broken languages, that shall profit them nothing more than to have one meat served on divers dishes."[ ] the mother of francis bacon affords a good example of the puritan distrust of going "beyond seas." she could by no means sympathize with her son anthony's determination to become versed in foreign affairs, for that led him into intimacy with roman catholics. all through his prolonged stay abroad she chafed and fretted, while anthony perversely remained in france, gaining that acquaintance with valuable correspondents, spies, and intelligencers which later made him one of the greatest authorities in england on continental politics. he had a confidential servant, a catholic named lawson, whom he sent over to deliver some important secret news to lord burghley. lady bacon, in her fear lest lawson's company should pervert her son's religion and morals, had the man arrested and detained in england. his anxious master sent another man to plead with his mother for lawson's release; but in vain. the letter of this messenger to anthony will serve to show the vehemence of anti-catholic feelings in a british matron in . "upon my arrival at godombery my lady used me courteously until such time i began to move her for mr lawson; and, to say the truth, for yourself; being so much transported with your abode there that she let not to say that you are a traitor to god and your country; you have undone her; you seek her death; and when you have that you seek for, you shall have but a hundred pounds more than you have now. "she is resolved to procure her majesty's letter to force you to return; and when that should be, if her majesty give you your right or desert, she should clap you up in prison. she cannot abide to hear of you, as she saith, nor of the other especially, and told me plainly she should be the worse this month for my coming without you, and axed me why you could not have come from thence as well as myself. "she saith you are hated of all the chiefest on that side and cursed of god in all your actions, since mr lawson's being with you.... "when you have received your provision, make your repair home again, lest you be a means to shorten her days, for she told me the grief of mind received daily by your stay will be her end; also saith her jewels be spent for you, and that she borrowed the last money of seven several persons. "thus much i must confess unto you for a conclusion, that i have never seen nor never shall see a wise lady, an honourable woman, a mother, more perplexed for her son's absence than i have seen that honourable dame for yours."[ ] it was not only a general hatred of roman catholics which made staunch protestants anxious to detain their sons from foreign travel towards the end of elizabeth's reign, but a very lively and well-grounded fear of the inquisition and the jesuits. when england was at war with spain, any englishman caught on spanish territory was a lawful prisoner for ransom; and since spanish territory meant sicily, naples, and milan, and rome was the territory of spain's patron, the pope, italy was far from safe for englishmen and protestants. even when peace with spain was declared, on the accession of james i., the spies of the inquisition were everywhere on the alert to find some slight pretext for arresting travellers and to lure them into the dilemma of renouncing their faith, or being imprisoned and tortured. there is a letter, for instance, to salisbury from one of his agents on the continent, concerning overtures made to him by the pope's nuncio, to decoy some englishman of note--young lord roos or lord cranborne--into papal dominions, where he might be seized and detained, in hope of procuring a release for baldwin the jesuit.[ ] william bedell, about to go to italy as chaplain to sir henry wotton, the ambassador to venice, very anxiously asks a friend what route is best to italy. "for it is told me that the inquisition is in millaine, and that if a man duck not low at every cross, he may be cast in prison.... send me, i pray you, a note of the chief towns to be passed through. i care not for seeing places, but to go thither the shortest and safest way."[ ] bedell's fears were not without reason, for the very next year occurred the arrest of the unfortunate mr mole, whose case was one of the sensations of the day. fuller, in his _church history_, under the year , records how-- "about this time mr molle, governour to the lord ross in his travails, began his unhappy journey beyond the seas.... he was appointed by thomas, earl of exeter, to be governour in travail to his grandchilde, the lord ross, undertaking the charge with much reluctance (as a presage of ill successe) and with a profession, and a resolution not to passe the alpes. "but a vagari took the lord ross to go to rome, though some conceive this notion had its root in more mischievous brains. in vain doth mr molle dissuade him, grown now so wilfull, he would in some sort govern his governour. what should this good man doe? to leave him were to desert his trust, to goe along with him were to endanger his own life. at last his affections to his charge so prevailed against his judgment, that unwillingly willing he went with him. now, at what rate soever they rode to rome, the fame of their coming came thither before them; so that no sooner had they entered their inne, but officers asked for mr molle, took and carried him to the inquisition-house, where he remained a prisoner whilest the lord ross was daily feasted, favoured, entertained: so that some will not stick to say, that here he changed no religion for a bad one."[ ] no threats could persuade mr mole to renounce his heresy, and though many attempts were made to exchange him for some jesuits caught in england, he lay for thirty years in the prison of the inquisition, and died there, at the age of eighty-one. it was part of the policy of the jesuits, according to sir henry wotton, to thus separate their tutors from young men, and then ply the pupils with attentions and flattery, with a view to persuading them into the church of rome. not long after the capture of mole, wotton writes to salisbury of another case of the same sort. "my lord wentworthe[ ] on the th of may coming towards venice ... accompanied with his brother-in-law mr henry crafts, one edward lichefeld, their governor, and some two or three other english, through bologna, as they were there together at supper the very night of their arrival, came up two dominican friars, with the sergeants of the town, and carried thence the foresaid lichefeld, with all his papers, into the prison of the inquisition where he yet remaineth.[ ] thus standeth this accident in the bare circumstances thereof, not different, save only in place, from that of mr mole at rome. and doubtlessly (as we collect now upon the matter) if sir john harington[ ] had either gone the roman journey, or taken the ordinary way in his remove thitherwards out of tuscany, the like would have befallen his director also, a gentleman of singular sufficiency;[ ] for it appeareth a new piece of council (infused into the pope by his artisans the jesuits) to separate by some device their guides from our young noblemen (about whom they are busiest) and afterwards to use themselves (for aught i can yet hear) with much kindness and security, but yet with restraint (when they come to rome) of departing thence without leave; which form was held both with the lords rosse and st jhons, and with this lord wentworthe and his brother-in-law at their being there. and we have at the present also a like example or two in barons of the almaign nation of our religion, whose governors are imprisoned, at rome and ferrara; so as the matter seemeth to pass into a rule. and albeit thitherto those before named of our own be escaped out of that babylon (as far as i can penetrate) without any bad impressions, yet surely it appeareth very dangerous to leave our travellers in this contingency; especially being dispersed in the middle towns of italy (whither the language doth most draw them) certain nimble pleasant wits in quality of interceptors, who deliver over to their correspondents at rome the dispositions of gentlemen before they arrive, and so subject them both to attraction by argument, and attraction by humour."[ ] wotton did not overrate the persuasiveness of the jesuits. lord roos became a papist.[ ] wotton's own nephew, pickering, had been converted in spain, on his death-bed, although he had been, according to the jesuit records, "most tenacious of the corrupt religion which from his tender youth he had imbibed."[ ] in his travels "through the greater part of france, italy, spain and germany for the purpose of learning both the languages and the manners, an ancient custom among northern nations, ... he conferred much upon matters of faith with many persons, led either by inclination or curiosity, and being a clever man would omit no opportunity of gaining information."[ ] through this curiosity he made friends with father walpole of the jesuit college at valladolid, and falling into a mortal sickness in that city, walpole had come to comfort him. another conversion of the same sort had been made by father walpole at valladolid, the year before. sir thomas palmer came to spain both for the purpose of learning the language and seeing the country. "visiting the english college, he treated familiarly with the fathers, and began to entertain thoughts in his heart of the catholic religion." while cogitating, he was "overtaken by a sudden and mortal sickness. therefore, perceiving himself to be in danger of death, he set to work to reconcile himself with the catholic church. having received all the last sacraments he died, and was honourably interred with catholic rites, to the great amazement also of the english protestants, who in great numbers were in the city, and attended the funeral."[ ] there is nothing surprising in these death-bed conversions, when we think of the pressure brought to bear on a traveller in a strange land. as soon as he fell sick, the host of his inn sent for a priest, and if the invalid refused to see a ghostly comforter that fact discovered his protestantism. whereupon the physician and apothecary, the very kitchen servants, were forbidden by the priest to help him, unless he renounced his odious reformed religion and accepted confession, the sacrament, and extreme unction. if he died without these his body was not allowed in consecrated ground, but was buried in the highway like a very dog. it is no wonder if sometimes there was a conversion of an englishman, lonely and dying, with no one to cling to.[ ] we must remember, also, how many reputed protestants had only outwardly conformed to the church of england for worldly reasons. they could not enter any profession or hold any public office unless they did. but their hearts were still in the old faith, and they counted on returning to it at the very end.[ ] sometimes the most sincere of protestants in sickness "relapsed into papistry." for the protestant religion was new, but the roman church was the church of their fathers. in the hour of death men turn to old affections. and so in several ways one can account for sir francis cottington, ambassador to spain, who fell ill, confessed himself a catholic; and when he recovered, once more became a protestant.[ ] the mere force of environment, according to sir charles cornwallis, ambassador to spain from - , was enough to change the religion of impressionable spirits. his reports to england show a constant struggle to keep his train of young gentlemen true to their national church.[ ] the spanish court was then at valladolid, in which city flourished an especially strong college of jesuits. thence walpole, and other dangerous persuaders, made sallies upon cornwallis's fold. at first the ambassador was hopeful:-- "much hath that creswell and others of that societie" (the jesuits) "bestir'd themselves here in conference and persuasion with the gentlemen that came to attend his excellencie[ ] and do secretly bragg of their much prevailinge. two of myne own followers i have found corrupted, the one in such sorte as he refused to come to prayers, whom i presently discharged; the other being an honest and sober young gentleman, and one that denieth not to be present both at prayers and preachinge, i continue still, having good hope that i shall in time reduce him."[ ] but within a month he has to report the conversion of sir thomas palmer, and within another month, the loss of even his own chaplain. "were god pleased that onlie young and weak ones did waver, it were more tollerable," he laments, "but i am put in some doubte of my chaplaine himself." he had given the chaplain--one wadesworth, a good cambridge protestant--leave of absence to visit the university of salamanca. in a week the chaplain wrote for a prolongation of his stay, making discourse of "a strange tempest that came upon him in the way, of visible fire that fell both before and behind him, of an expectation of present death, and of a vowe he made in that time of danger." this manner of writing, and reports from others that he has been a secret visitor to the college of the jesuits, make cornwallis fear the worst. "i should think him borne in a most unfortunate hower," he wails, "to become the occasion of such a scandall."[ ] but his fears were realized. the chaplain never came back. he had turned romanist. the reasons for the headway of catholicism in the reign of james i. do not concern us here. to explain the agitated mood of our precepts for travellers, it is necessary only to call attention to the fact that protestantism was just then losing ground, through the devoted energy of the jesuits. even in england, they were able to strike admiration into the mind of youth, and to turn its ardour to their own purposes. but in spain and in italy, backed by their impressive environment and surrounded by the visible power of the roman church, they were much more potent. the english jesuits in rome--oxford scholars, many of them--engaged the attentions of such of their university friends or their countrymen who came to see italy, offering to show them the antiquities, to be guides and interpreters.[ ] by some such means the traveller was lured into the company of these winning companions, till their spiritual and intellectual power made an indelible impression on him.[ ] how much the english government feared the influence of the jesuits upon young men abroad may be seen by the increasing strictness of licences for travellers. the ordinary licence which everyone but a known merchant was obliged to obtain from a magistrate before he could leave england, in gave permission with the condition that the traveller "do not haunte or resorte unto the territories or dominions of any foreine prince or potentate not being with us in league or amitie, nor yet wittinglie kepe companie with any parson or parsons evell affected to our state."[ ] but the attempt to keep englishmen out of italy was generally fruitless, and the proviso was too frequently disregarded. lord zouche grumbled exceedingly at the limitations of his licence. "i cannot tell," he writes to burghley in , "whether i shall do well or no to touch that part of the licence which prohibiteth me in general to travel in some countries, and companioning divers persons.... this restraint is truly as an imprisonment, for i know not how to carry myself; i know not whether i may pass upon the lords of venis, and the duke of florens' territories, because i know not if they have league with her majesty or no."[ ] doubtless bishop hall was right when he declared that travellers commonly neglected the cautions about the king's enemies, and that a limited licence was only a verbal formality.[ ] king james had occasion to remark that "many of the gentry, and others of our kingdom, under pretence of travel for their experience, do pass the alps, and not contenting themselves to remain in lombardy or tuscany, to gain the language there, do daily flock to rome, out of vanity and curiosity to see the antiquities of that city; where falling into the company of priests and jesuits ... return again into their countries, both averse to religion and ill-affected to our state and government."[ ] to come to our instructions for travellers, as given in the reign of james i., they abound, as we would expect, in warnings against the inquisition and the jesuits. sir robert dallington, in his _method for travell_,[ ] gives first place to the question of remaining steadfast in one's religion: "concerning the traveliers religion, i teach not what it should be, (being out of my element;) only my hopes are, he be of the religion here established: and my advice is he be therein well settled, and that howsoever his imagination shall be carried in the voluble sphere of divers men's discourses; yet his inmost thoughts like lines in a circle shall alwaies concenter in this immoveable point, not to alter his first faith: for that i knowe, that as all innovation is dangerous in a state; so is this change in the little commonwealth of a man. and it is to be feared, that he which is of one religion in his youth, and of another in his manhood, will in his age be of neither.... "i will instance in a gentleman i knew abroade, of an overt and free nature zealously forward in the religion hee carried from home, while he was in france, who had not bene twentie dayes in italy, but he was as farre gone on the contrary byas, and since his returne is turned againe. now what should one say of such men but as the philosopher saith of a friend, 'amicus omnium, amicus nullorum,' a professor of both, a believer in neither.[ ] "the next caveat is, to beware how he heare anything repugnant to his religion: for as i have tyed his tongue; so must i stop his eares, least they be open to the smooth incantations of an insinuating seducer, or the suttle arguments of a sophisticall adversarie. to this effect i must precisely forbid him the fellowship or companie of one sort of people in generall: these are the jesuites, underminders and inveiglers of greene wits, seducers of men in matter of faith, and subverters of men in matters of state, making of both a bad christian, and worse subject. these men i would have my travueller never heare, except in the pulpit; for[ ] being eloquent, they speake excellent language; and being wise, and therefore best knowing how to speake to best purpose, they seldome or never handle matter of controversie." our best authority in this period of travelling is fynes moryson, whose _precepts for travellers_[ ] are particularly full. moryson is well known as one of the most experienced travellers of the late elizabethan era. on a travelling fellowship from peterhouse college, cambridge, in - he made a tour of europe, when the continent was bristling with dangers for englishmen. spain and the inquisition infected italy and the low countries; france was full of desperate marauding soldiers; germany nourished robbers and free-booters in every forest. it was the particular delight of fynes moryson to run into all these dangers and then devise means of escaping them. he never swerved from seeing whatever his curiosity prompted him to, no matter how forbidden and perilous was the venture. disguised as a german he successfully viewed the inside of a spanish fort;[ ] in the character of a frenchman he entered the jaws of the jesuit college at rome.[ ] he made his way through german robbers by dressing as a poor bohemian, without cloak or sword, with his hands in his hose, and his countenance servile.[ ] his triumphs were due not so much to a dashing and magnificent bravery, as to a nice ingenuity. for instance, when he was plucked bare by the french soldiers of even his inner doublet, in which he had quilted his money, he was by no means left penniless, for he had concealed some gold crowns in a box of "stinking ointment" which the soldiers threw down in disgust.[ ] his _precepts for travellers_ are characteristically canny. never tell anyone you can swim, he advises, because in case of shipwreck "others trusting therein take hold of you, and make you perish with them."[ ] upon duels and resentment of injury in strange lands he throws cold common sense. "i advise young men to moderate their aptnesse to quarrell, lest they perish with it. we are not all like amadis or rinalldo, to incounter an hoste of men."[ ] very thoughtful is this paragraph on the night's lodging: "in all innes, but especially in suspected places, let him bolt or locke the doore of his chamber: let him take heed of his chamber fellows, and always have his sword by his side, or by his bed-side; let him lay his purse under his pillow, but always foulded with his garters, or some thing hee first useth in the morning, lest hee forget to put it up before hee goe out of his chamber. and to the end he may leave nothing behind him in his innes, let the visiting of his chamber, and gathering his things together, be the last thing he doth, before hee put his foote into the stirrup."[ ] the whole of the precepts is marked by this extensive caution. since, as moryson truly remarks, travellers meet with more dangers than pleasures, it is better to travel alone than with a friend. "in places of danger, for difference of religion or proclaimed warre, whosoever hath his country-man or friend for his companion doth much increase his danger, as well for the confession of his companion, if they chance to be apprehended, as for other accidents, since he shall be accomptable and drawne into danger, as well as by his companion's words or deeds, as by his owne. and surely there happening many dangers and crosses by the way, many are of such intemperate affections, as they not only diminish the comfort they should have from this consort, but even as dogs, hurt by a stone, bite him that is next, not him that cast the stone, so they may perhaps out of these crosses grow to bitterness of words betweene themselves."[ ] instead of a companion, therefore, let the traveller have a good book under his pillow, to beguile the irksome solitude of inns--"alwaies bewaring that it treat not of the commonwealth, the religion thereof, or any subject that may be dangerous to him."[ ] chance companions of the road should not be trusted. lest the traveller should become too well known to them, let him always declare that he is going no further than the next city. arrived there, he may give them the slip and start with fresh consorts. moryson himself, when forced to travel in company, chose germans, kindly honest gentlemen, of his own religion. he could speak german well enough to pass as one of them, but in fear lest even a syllable might betray his nationality to the sharp spies at the city gates, he made an agreement with his companions that when he was forced to answer questions they should interrupt him as soon as possible, and take the words out of his mouth, as though in rudeness. if he were discovered they were to say they knew him not, and flee away.[ ] moryson advised the traveller to see rome and naples first, because those cities were the most dangerous. men who stay in padua some months, and afterwards try rome, may be sure that the jesuits and priests there are informed, not only of their coming, but of their condition and appearance by spies in padua. it were advisable to change one's dwelling-place often, so to avoid the inquiries of priests. at easter, in rome, moryson found the fullest scope for his genius. a few days before easter a priest came to his lodgings and took the inmates' names in writing, to the end that they might receive the sacrament with the host's family. moryson went from rome on the tuesday before easter, came to siena on good friday, and upon easter eve "(pretending great business)" darted to florence for the day. on monday morning he dodged to pisa, and on the folowing, back to siena. "thus by often changing places i avoyded the priests inquiring after mee, which is most dangerous about easter time, when all men receive the sacrament."[ ] the conception of travel one gathers from fynes moryson is that of a very exciting form of sport, a sort of chase across europe, in which the tourist was the fox, doubling and turning and diving into cover, while his friends in england laid three to one on his death. so dangerous was travel at this time, that wagers on the return of venturous gentlemen became a fashionable form of gambling.[ ] the custom emanated from germany, moryson explains, and was in england first used at court and among "very noble men." moryson himself put out £ to receive £ on his return; but by , when he contemplated a second journey, he would not repeat the wager, because ridiculous voyages were by that time undertaken for insurance money by bankrupts and by men of base conditions. sir henry wotton was a celebrated product of foreign education in these perilous times. as a student of political economy in he led a precarious existence, visiting rome with the greatest secrecy, and in elaborate disguise. for years abroad he drank in tales of subtlety and craft from old italian courtiers, till he was well able to hold his own in intrigue. by nature imaginative and ingenious, plots and counterplots appealed to his artistic ability, and as english ambassador to venice, he was never tired of inventing them himself or attributing them to others. it was this characteristic of jacobean politicians which ben jonson satirized in sir politick-would-be, who divulged his knowledge of secret service to peregrine in venice. greatly excited by the mention of a certain priest in england, sir politick explains: "he has received weekly intelligence upon my knowledge, out of the low countries, for all parts of the world, in cabbages; and these dispensed again to ambassadors, in oranges, musk-melons, apricocks--, lemons, pome-citrons, and such-like: sometimes in colchester oysters, and your selsey cockles."[ ] later on sir politick gives instructions for travellers: "some few particulars i have set down, only for this meridian, fit to be known of your crude traveller.... first, for your garb, it must be grave and serious, very reserv'd and lock'd; not tell a secret on any terms; not to your father: scarce a fable, but with caution: make sure choice both of your company, and discourse; beware you never speak a truth-- peregrine. how! sir p. not to strangers, for those be they you must converse with most; others i would not know, sir, but at distance, so as i still might be a saver in them: you shall have tricks eke passed upon you hourly. and then, for your religion, profess none, but wonder at the diversity of all."[ ] sir henry wotton's letter to milton must not be left out of account of jacobean advice to travellers. it is brief, but very characteristic, for it breathes the atmosphere of plots and caution. admired for his great experience and long sojourn abroad, in his old age, as provost of eton, sir henry's advice was much sought after by fathers about to send their sons on the grand tour. forty-eight years after he himself set forth beyond seas, he passed on to young john milton "in procinct of his travels," his favourite bit of wisdom, learned from a roman courtier well versed in the ways of italy: "i pensieri stretti e il viso sciolto."[ ] milton did not follow this machiavellian precept to keep his "thoughts close and his countenance loose," as wotton translates it,[ ] and was soon marked by the inquisition; but he was proud of being advised by sir henry wotton, and boasted of the "elegant letter" and "exceedingly useful precepts" which the provost bestowed on him at his departure for italy.[ ] so much for the admonitory side of instructions for travellers at the opening of the seventeenth century. italy, we see, was still feared as a training-ground for "green wits." bishop hall succeeded ascham in denouncing the travel of young men who professed "to seek the glory of a perfect breeding, and the perfection of that which we call civility." allowed to visit the continent at an early age, "these lapwings, that go from under the wing of their dam with the shell on their heads, run wild." they hasten southwards, where in italy they view the "proud majesty of pompous ceremonies, wherewith the hearts of children and fools are easily taken."[ ] to the persuasive power of the jesuits hall devotes several pages, and makes an impassioned plea to the authorities to prevent englishmen from travelling. parents could be easily alarmed by any possibility of their sons' conversion to romanism. for the penalties of being a roman catholic in england were enough to make an ambitious father dread recusancy in his son. though a gentleman or a nobleman ran no risk of being hanged, quartered, disembowelled and subjected to such punishments as were dealt out to active and dangerous priests, he was regarded as a traitor if he acknowledged himself to be a romanist. at any moment of anti-catholic excitement he might be arrested and clapped into prison. drearier than prison must have been his social isolation. for he was cut off from his generation and had no real part in the life of england. under the laws of james he was denied any share in the government, could hold no public office, practise no profession. neither law nor medicine, nor parliament nor the army, nor the university, was open to him. banished from london and the court, shunned by his contemporaries, he lurked in some country house, now miserably lonely, now plagued by officers in search of priests. at last, generally, he went abroad, and wandered out his life, an exile, despised by his countrymen, who met him hanging on at foreign courts; or else he sought a monastery and was buried there. to be sure, the laws against recusants were not uniformly enforced; papistry in favourites and friends of the king was winked at, and the rich noblemen, who were able to pay fines, did not suffer much. but the fact remains that for the average gentleman to turn romanist generally meant to drop out of the world. "mr lewknor," writes father gerard to father owen,[ ] "growing of late to a full resolution of entering the society (of jesus), and being so much known in england and in the court as he is, so that he could not be concealed in the english college at rome; and his father, as he considered, being morally sure to lose his place,[ ] which is worth unto him £ a year, he therefore will come privately to liege, where i doubt not but to keep him wholly unknown." * * * * * chapter v the influence of the french academies the admonitions of their elders did not keep young men from going to italy, but as the seventeenth century advanced the conditions they found there made that country less attractive than france. the fact that the average englishman was a protestant divided him from his compeers in italy and damped social intercourse. he was received courteously and formally by the italian princes, perhaps, for the sake of his political uncle or cousin in england, but inner distrust and suspicion blighted any real friendship. unless the englishman was one of those who had a secret, half-acknowledged allegiance to romanism, there could not, in the age of the puritans, be much comfortable affection between him and the italians. the beautiful youth, john milton, as the author of excellent latin verse, was welcomed into the literary life of florence, to be sure, and there were other unusual cases, but the typical traveller of stuart times was the young gentleman who was sent to france to learn the graces, with a view to making his fortune at court, even as his widowed mother sent george villiers, afterwards duke of buckingham. the englishmen who travelled for "the complete polishing of their parts" continued to visit italy, to satisfy their curiosity, but it was rather in the mood of the sight-seer. only malcontents, at odds with their native land, like bothwell, or the earl of arundel, or leicester's disinherited son, made prolonged residence in italy. aspiring youth, seeking a social education, for the most part hurried to france. for it was not only a sense of being surrounded by enemies which during the seventeenth century somewhat weakened the englishman's allegiance to italy, but the increasing attractiveness of another country. by it was said of france that "unto no other countrie, so much as unto this, doth swarme and flow yearly from all christian nations, such a multitude, and concourse of young gentlemen, marchants, and other sorts of men: some, drawen from their parentes bosoms by desire of learning; some, rare science, or new conceites; some by pleasure; and others allured by lucre and gain.... but among all other nations, there cometh not such a great multitude to fraunce from any country, as doth yearely from this isle (england), both of gentlemen, students, marchants, and others."[ ] held in peace by henry of navarre, france began to be a happier place than italy for the englishman abroad. germany was impossible, because of the thirty years' war; and spain, for reasons which we shall see later on, was not inviting. though nominally roman catholic, france was in fact half protestant. besides, the french court was great and gay, far outshining those of the impoverished italian princes. it suited the gallants of the stuart period, who found the grave courtesy of the italians rather slow. learning, for which men once had travelled into italy, was no longer confined there. nor did the cavaliers desire exact classical learning. a knowledge of mythology, culled from french translations, was sufficient. accomplishments, such as riding, fencing, and dancing, were what chiefly helped them, it appeared, to make their way at court or at camp. and the best instruction in these accomplishments had shifted from italy to france. a change had come over the ideal of a gentleman--a reaction from the tudor enthusiasm for letters. a long time had gone by since henry viii. tried to make his children as learned as erasmus, and had the most erudite scholars fetched from oxford and cambridge to direct the royal nursery. the somewhat moderated esteem in which book-learning was held in the household of charles i. may be seen in a letter of the earl of newcastle, governor to prince charles,[ ] who writes to his pupil: "i would not have you too studious, for too much contemplation spoils action, and virtue consists in that." the prince's model is to be the bishop of chichester, his tutor, who "hath no pedantry in him: his learning he makes right use of, neither to trouble himself with it or his friends: ... reades men as well as books: ... is travell'd, which you shall perceive by his wisdome and fashion more than by his relations; and in a word strives as much discreetly to hide the scholler in him, as other men's follies studies to shew it: and is a right gentleman."[ ] of pedantry, however, there never seems to have been any danger in court circles, either in tudor or stuart days. it took constant exhortations to make the majority of noblemen's sons learn anything at all out of books. for centuries the marks of a gentleman had been bravery, courtesy and a good seat in the saddle, and it was not to be supposed that a sudden fashionable enthusiasm for literature could change all that. ascham had declared that the elizabethan young bloods thought it shameful to be learned because the "jentlemen of france" were not so.[ ] when with the general relaxation of high effort which appeared in so many ways at the court of james i., the mastery of greek authors was no longer an ideal of the courtier, the jacobean gallant was hardly more intellectual than the mediæval page. henry peacham, in , described noblemen's flagging faith in a university education. they sent their sons to oxford or cambridge at an early age, and if the striplings did not immediately lay hold on philosophy, declared that they had no aptitude for learning, and removed them to a dancing school. "these young things," as he calls the oxford students "of twelve, thirteene, or foureteene, that have no more care than to expect the next carrier, and where to sup on fridayes and fasting nights" find "such a disproportion betweene aristotles categories, and their childish capacities, that what together with the sweetnesse of libertie, varietie of companie, and so many kinds of recreation in towne and fields abroad," they give over any attempt to understand "the crabbed grounds of arts." whereupon, the parents, "if they perceive any wildnesse or unstayednesse in their children, are presently in despaire, and out of all hope of them for ever prooving schollers, or fit for anything else; neither consider the nature of youth, nor the effect of time, the physitian of all. but to mend the matter, send them either to the court to serve as pages, or into france and italy to see fashions, and mend their manners, where they become ten times worse."[ ] the influence of france would not be towards books, certainly. brave, gallant, and magnificent were the gallic gentlemen; but not learned. reading made them positively ill: "la tête leur tourne de lire," as brézé confessed.[ ] scorning an indoor sedentary life, they left all civil offices to the bourgeoisie, and devoted themselves exclusively to war. as the vicomte d'avenel has crisply put it: "it would have seemed as strange to see a person of high rank the treasurer of france, the controller of finance, or the rector of a university, as it would be to see him a cloth-merchant or maker of crockery.... the poorest younger son of an ancient family, who would not disdain to engage himself as a page to a nobleman, or as a common soldier, would have thought himself debased by accepting the post of secretary to an ambassador."[ ] brute force was still considered the greatest power in the world, even when sully was conseiller d'etat, though divining spirits like eustache deschamps had declared that the day would come when serving-men would rule france by their wits, all because the noblesse would not learn letters.[ ] in vain the wise bras-de-fer warned his generation that glory and strength of limb were of short duration, while knowledge was the only immortal quality.[ ] as long as parents saw that the honours at court went to handsome horsemen, they thought it mistaken policy to waste money on book-learning for their sons. when a boy came from the university to court, he found himself eclipsed by young pages, who scarcely knew how to read, but had killed their man in a duel, and danced to perfection.[ ] a martial training, with physical accomplishments, was the most effective, apparently. the martial type which france evolved dazzled other nations, and it is not surprising that under the stuarts, who had inherited french ways, the english court was particularly open to french ideals. our directions for travellers reflect the change from the typical elizabethan courtier, "somewhat solemn, coy, big and dangerous of look," to the easy manners of the cavalier. _a method for travell_, written while elizabeth was still on the throne, extols italian conduct. "i would rather," it says of the traveller, "he should come home italianate than frenchified: i speake of both in the better sense: for the french is stirring, bold, respectless, inconstant, suddaine: the italian stayed, demure, respective, grave, advised."[ ] but _instructions for forreine travell_ in urges one to imitate the french. "for the gentry of france have a kind of loose, becoming boldness, and forward vivacity in their manners."[ ] the first writer of advice to travellers who assumes that french accomplishments are to be a large part of the traveller's education, is sir robert dallington, whom we have already quoted. his _view of france_[ ] to which the _method for travel_ is prefixed, deserves a reprint, for both that and his _survey of tuscany_,[ ] though built on the regular model of the elizabethan traveller's "relation," being a conscientious account of the chief geographical, economic, architectural, and social features of the country traversed, are more artistic than the usual formal reports. dallington wrote these views in , a little before the generation which modelled itself on the french gallants, and his remarks on frenchmen may well have served as a warning to courtiers not to imitate the foibles, along with the admirable qualities, of their compeers across the channel. for instance, he is outraged by the effusiveness of the "violent, busy-headed and impatient frenchman," who "showeth his lightness and inconstancie ... in nothing more than in his familiaritie, with whom a stranger cannot so soone be off his horse, but he will be acquainted: nor so soone in his chamber, but the other like an ape will bee on his shoulder: and as suddenly and without cause ye shall love him also. a childish humour, to be wonne with as little as an apple and lost with lesse than a nut."[ ] the king of france himself is censured for his geniality. dallington deems henry of navarre "more affable and familiar than fits the majesty of a great king." he might have found in current gossip worse lapses than the two he quotes to show henry's lack of formality, but it is part of dallington's worth that he writes of things at first-hand, and gives us only what he himself saw; how at orleans, when the italian commedians were to play before him, the king himself, "came whiffling with a small wand to scowre the coast, and make place for the rascall players,... a thing, me thought, most derogatory to the majesty of a king of france." "and lately at paris (as they tell us) when the spanish hostages were to be entertayned, he did usher it in the great chamber, as he had done here before; and espying the chayre not to stand well under the state, mended it handsomely himselfe, and then set him downe to give them audience."[ ] nor can dallington conceal his disapproval of foreign food. the sorrows of the beef-eating englishman among the continentals were always poignant. dallington is only one of the many travellers who, unable to grasp the fact that warmer climes called for light diet, reproached the italians especially for their "parsimony and thin feeding." in henry the eighth's time there was already a saying among the italians, "give the englishman his beef and mustard,"[ ] while the english in turn jibed at the italians for being "like nebuchadnezzar,--always picking of sallets." "herbage," says dallington scornfully "is the most generall food of the tuscan ... for every horse-load of flesh eaten, there is ten cart loades of hearbes and rootes, which also their open markets and private tables doe witnesse, and whereof if one talke with them fasting, he shall have sencible feeling."[ ] the whole subject of diet he dismisses in his advice to a traveller as follows: "as for his viands i feare not his surfetting; his provision is never so great, but ye may let him loose to his allowance.... i shall not need to tell him before what his dyet shall be, his appetite will make it better than it is: for he shall be still kept sharpe: only of the difference of dyets, he shall observe thus much: that of germanie is full or rather fulsome; that of france allowable; that of italie tolerable; with the dutch he shall have much meat ill-dressed: with the french lesse, but well handled; with the italian neither the one nor the other."[ ] though there is much in dallington's description of italy and france to repay attention, our concern is with his _method for travell_,[ ] which, though more practical than the earlier elizabethan essays of the same sort, opens in the usual style of exhortation: "plato, one of the day-starres of that knowledge, which then but dawning hath since shone out in clearer brightness, thought nothing better for the bettering our understanding then _travell_: as well by having a conference with the wiser sort in all sorts of learning, as by the [greek: autopsiaêi]. the eye-sight of those things, which otherwise a man cannot have but by tradition; a sandy foundation either in matter of science, or conscience. so that a purpose to travell, if it be not ad voluptatem solum, sed ad utilitatem, argueth an industrious and generous minde. base and vulgar spirits hover still about home: those are more noble and divine, that imitate the heavens, and joy in motion." after a warning against jesuits, which we have quoted, he comes at once to definite directions for studying modern languages[ ]--advice which though sound is hardly novel. continual speaking with all sorts of people, insisting that his teacher shall not do all the talking, and avoiding his countrymen are unchangeable rules for him who shall travel for language.[ ] but this is the first treatise for travellers which makes note of dancing as an important accomplishment. "there's another exercise to be learned in france, because there are better teachers, and the french fashion is in most request with us, that is, of dancing. this i meane to my traveller that is young and meanes to follow the court: otherwise i hold it needelesse, and in some ridiculous."[ ] this art was indeed essential to courtiers, and a matter of great earnestness. chamberlain reports that sir henry bowyer died of the violent exercise he underwent while practising dancing.[ ] henri iii. fell into a tearful passion and called the grand prieur a liar, a poltroon, and a villain, at a ball, because the grand prieur was heard to mutter "unless you dance better, i would you had your money again that your dancing has cost you." [ ] james i. was particularly anxious to have his "babies" excel in complicated boundings. his copy of _nuove inventioni di balli_[ ] may be seen in the british museum, with large plates illustrating how to "gettare la gamba," that is, in the words of chaucer, "with his legges casten to and fro."[ ] prince henry was skilful in these matters. the spanish ambassador reports how "the prince of wales was desired by his royal parents to open the ball with a spanish gallarda: he acquitted himself with much grace and delicacy, introducing some occasional leaps."[ ] prince charles and buckingham, during their stay in spain, are earnestly implored by their "deare dad and gossip" not to forget their dancing. "i praye you, my babie, take heade of being hurt if ye runne at tilte, ... i praye you in the meantyme keep your selfis in use of dawncing privatlie, thogh ye showlde quhissell and sing one to another like jakke and tom for faulte of better musike." [ ] however, dallington is very much against the saltations of elderly persons. "i remember a countriman of ours, well seene in artes and language, well stricken in yeares, a mourner for his second wife, a father of mariageable children, who with his other booke studies abroade, joyned also the exercise of dancing: it was his hap in an honourable _bal_ (as they call it) to take a fall, which in mine opinion was not so disgracefull as the dancing it selfe, to a man of his stuffe."[ ] dallington would have criticized frenchmen more severely than ever had he known that even sully gave way in private to a passion for dancing. at least tallemant des réaux says that "every evening a valet de chambre of the king played on the lute the dances of the day, and m. de sully danced all alone, in some sort of extraordinary hat--such as he always wore in his cabinet--while his cronies applauded him, although he was the most awkward man in the world."[ ] tennis is another courtly exercise in which dallington urges moderation. "this is dangerous, (if used with too much violence) for the body; and (if followed with too much diligence,) for the purse. a maine point of the travellers care." he reached france when the rage for tennis was at its height,--when there were two hundred and fifty tennis courts in paris,[ ]--and "two tennis courts for every one church through france," according to his computation.[ ] everyone was at it;--nobles, artizans, women, and children. the monks had had to be requested not to play--especially, the edict said, "not in public in their shirts."[ ] our englishman, of course, thought this enthusiasm was beyond bounds. "ye have seene them play sets at tennise in the heat of summer and height of the day, when others were scarcely able to stirre out of doors." betting on the game was the ruin of the working-man, who "spendeth that on the holyday, at tennis, which hee got the whole weeke, for the keeping of his poore family. a thing more hurtfull then our ale-houses in england."[ ] "there remains two other exercises," says the _method for travell_, "of use and necessitie, to him that will returne ably quallified for his countries service in warre, and his owne defence in private quarrell. these are riding and fencing. his best place for the first (excepting naples) is in florence under il signor rustico, the great dukes cavallerizzo, and for the second (excepting rome) is in padua, under il sordo."[ ] italy, it may be observed, was still the best school for these accomplishments. pluvinel was soon to make a world-renowned riding academy in paris, but the art of fencing was more slowly disseminated. one was still obliged, like captain bobadil, to make "long travel for knowledge, in that mystery only."[ ] brantome says the fencing masters of italy kept their secrets in their own hands, giving their services only on the condition that you should never reveal what you had learnt even to your dearest friends. some instructors would never allow a living soul in the room where they were giving lessons to a pupil. and even then they used to keek everywhere, under the beds, and examine the wall to see if it had any crack or hole through which a person could peer.[ ] dallington makes no further remark on the subject, however, than the above, and after some advice about money matters, which we will mention in another connection, and a warning to the traveller that his apparel must be in fashion--for the fashions change with trying rapidity, and the french were very scornful of anyone who appeared in a last year's suit[ ]--he brings to a close one of the pithiest essays in our collection. when the influence of france over the ideals of a gentleman was well established, james howell wrote his _instructions for forreine travell_,[ ] and in this book for the first time the traveller is advised to stay at one of the french academies--or riding schools, as they really were. his is the best known, probably, of all our treatises, partly because it was reprinted a little while ago by mr gosse, and partly because of its own merits. howell had an easier, more indulgent outlook upon the world than dallington, and could see all nations with equal humour--his own included. take his comparison of the frenchman and the spaniard. the frenchman "will dispatch the weightiest affairs as hee walke along in the streets, or at meales, the other upon the least occasion of businesse will retire solemnly to a room, and if a fly chance to hum about him, it will discompose his thoughts and puzzle him: it is a kind of sicknesse for a frenchman to keep a secret long, and all the drugs of egypt cannot get it out of a spaniard.... the frenchman walks fast, (as if he had a sergeant always at his heels,) the spaniard slowly, as if hee were newly come out of some quartan ague; the french go up and down the streets confusedly in clusters, the spaniards if they be above three, they go two by two, as if they were going a procession; etc. etc."[ ] with the same humorous eye he observes the englishmen returned to london from paris, "whom their gate and strouting, their bending in the hammes, and shoulders, and looking upon their legs, with frisking and singing do speake them travellers.... some make their return in huge monstrous periwigs, which is the golden fleece _they_ bring over with them. such, i say, are a shame to their country abroad, and their kinred at home, and to their parents, benonies, the sons of sorrow: and as jonas in the whales belly, travelled much, but saw little."[ ] these are some of the advantages an englishman will reap from foreign travel: "one shall learne besides there not to interrupt one in the relation of his tale, or to feed it with odde interlocutions: one shall learne also not to laugh at his own jest, as too many used to do, like a hen, which cannot lay an egge but she must cackle. "moreover, one shall learne not to ride so furiously as they do ordinarily in england, when there is no necessity at all for it; for the italians have a proverb, that a galloping horse is an open sepulcher. and the english generally are observed by all other nations, to ride commonly with that speed as if they rid for a midwife, or a physitian, or to get a pardon to save one's life as he goeth to execution, when there is no such thing, or any other occasion at all, which makes them call england the hell of horses. "in these hot countreyes also, one shall learne to give over the habit of an odde custome, peculiar to the english alone, and whereby they are distinguished from other nations, which is, to make still towards the chimney, though it bee in the dog-dayes."[ ] we need not comment in detail upon howell's book since it is so accessible. the passage which chiefly marks the progress of travel for study's sake is this: "for private gentlemen and cadets, there be divers academies in paris, colledge-like, where for pistols a yeare, which come to about £ sterling per annum of our money, one may be very well accomodated, with lodging and diet for himself and man, and be taught to ride, to fence, to manage armes, to dance, vault, and ply the mathematiques."[ ] these academies were one of the chief attractions which france had for the gentry of england in the seventeenth century. the first one was founded by pluvinel, the _grand écuyer_ of henri iv. pluvinel, returning from a long apprenticeship to pignatelli in naples, made his own riding-school the best in the world, so that the french no longer had to journey to italian masters. he obtained from the king the basement of the great gallery of the louvre, and there taught louis xiii. and other young nobles of the court--amongst them the marquis du chillon, afterwards cardinal richelieu--to ride the great horse.[ ] such was the success of his manège that he annexed masters to teach his pupils dancing, vaulting, and swordsmanship, as well as drawing and mathematics, till he had rounded out what was considered a complete education for a chevalier. in imitation of his establishment, many other riding-masters, such as benjamin, potrincourt, and nesmond, set up others of the same sort, which drew pupils from other nations during all the seventeenth century.[ ] in the suburb of pré-aux-clercs, says malingre in , "are several academies where the nobility learn to ride. the most frequented is that of m. de mesmon, where there is a prince of denmark and one of the princes palatine of the rhine, and a quantity of other foreign gentlemen."[ ] englishmen found the academies very useful retreats where a boy could learn french accomplishments without incurring the dangers of foreign travel and make the acquaintance of young nobles of his own age. mr thomas lorkin writing from paris in , outlines to the tutor of the prince of wales the routine of his pupil mr puckering[ ] at such an establishment. the morning began with two hours on horseback, followed by two hours at the french tongue, and one hour in "learning to handle his weapon." dinner was at twelve o'clock, where the company continued together till two, "either passing the time in discourse or in some honest recreation perteyning to armes." at two the bell rang for dancing, and at three another gong sent the pupil to his own room with his tutor, to study latin and french for two hours. "after supper a brief survey of all."[ ] it will be seen that there was an exact balance between physical and mental exercise--four hours of each. all in all, academies seemed to be the solution of preparing for life those who were destined to shine at court. the problem had been felt in england, as well as in france. in , sir nicholas bacon had devised "articles for the bringing up in virtue and learning of the queens majesties wardes."[ ] lord burghley is said to have propounded the creation of a school of arms and exercises.[ ] in , sir humphrey gilbert drew up an elaborate proposal for an "academy of philosophy and chivalry,"[ ] but none of these plans was carried out. nor was that of prince henry, who had also wanted to establish a royal academy or school of arms, in which all the king's wards and others should be educated and exercised.[ ] a certain sir francis kinaston, esquire of the body to charles i., "more addicted to the superficiall parts of learning--poetry and oratory (wherein he excell'd)--than to logic and philosophy," wood says, did get a licence to erect an academy in his house in covent garden, "which should be for ever a college for the education of the young nobility and others, sons of gentlemen, and should be styled the musæum minervæ."[ ] but whatever start was made in that direction ended with the civil war. however, the idea of setting up in england the sort of academy which was successful in france was such an obvious one that it kept constantly recurring. in a courtly parasite, sir balthazar gerbier, who used to be a miniature painter, an art-critic, and master of ceremonies to charles i., being sadly thrown out of occupation by the civil war, opened an academy at bethnal green. there are still in existence his elaborate advertisements of its attractions, addressed to "all fathers of noble families and lovers of vertue," and proposing his school as "a meanes, whereby to free them of such charges as they are at, when they send their children to foreign academies, and to render them more knowing in those languages, without exposing them to the dangers incident to travellers, and to that of evill companies, or of giving to forrain parts the glory of their education."[ ] but gerbier was a flimsy character, and without a court to support him, or money, his academy dissolved after a gaseous lecture or two. faubert, however, another french protestant refugee, was more successful with an academy he managed to set up in london in , "to lessen the vast expense the nation is at yearly by sending children into france to be taught military exercises."[ ] evelyn, who was a patron of this enterprise, describes how he "went with lord cornwallis to see the young gallants do their exercise, mr faubert having newly railed in a manège, and fitted it for the academy. there were the dukes of norfolk and northumberland, lord newburgh, and a nephew of (duras) earl of feversham.... but the duke of norfolk told me he had not been at this exercise these twelve years before."[ ] however, faubert's could not have been an important institution, since in , a certain dr maidwell tried to get the government to convert a great house of his near westminster into a public academy of the french sort, as a greatly needed means of rearing gentlemen.[ ] but all these efforts to educate english boys on the lines of french ones came to nothing, because at the close of the seventeenth century englishmen began to realize that it was not wise for a gentleman to confine himself to a military life. as to riding as a fine art, his practical mind felt that it was all very well to amuse oneself in paris by learning to make a war-horse caracole, but there was no use in taking such things too seriously; that in war "a ruder way of riding was more in use, without observing the precise rules of riding the great horse."[ ] he could not feel that artistic passion for form in horsemanship which breathes from the pages of pluvinel's book _le maneige royal_[ ] in which magnificent engravings show louis xiii. making courbettes, voltes, and "caprioles" around the louvre, while a circle of grandees gravely discuss the deportment of his charger. even sir philip sidney made gentle fun of the hippocentric universe of his italian riding master: "when the right vertuous edward wotton, and i, were at the emperors court together, wee gave ourselves to learne horsemanship of john pietro pugliano: one that with great commendation had the place of an esquire in his stable. and hee, according to the fertilnes of the italian wit, did not onely afoord us the demonstration of his practise, but sought to enrich our mindes with the contemplations therein, which hee thought most precious. but with none i remember mine eares were at any time more loden, then when (ether angred with slowe paiment, or mooved with our learner-like admiration,) he exercised his speech in the prayse of his facultie. hee sayd, souldiers were the noblest estate of mankinde, and horsemen, the noblest of souldiours. he sayde, they were the maistres of warre, and ornaments of peace: speedy goers, and strong abiders, triumphers both in camps and courts. nay, to so unbeleeved a poynt hee proceeded, as that no earthly thing bred such wonder to a prince, as to be a good horseman. skill of government, was but a pedanteria in comparison: then woulde he adde certaine prayses, by telling what a peerlesse beast a horse was. the only serviceable courtier without flattery, the beast of the most beutie, faithfulness, courage, and such more, that if i had not beene a peece of a logician before i came to him, i think he would have perswaded mee to have wished my selfe a horse."[ ] that this was somewhat the spirit of the french academies there seems no doubt. though they claimed to give an equal amount of physical and mental exercise, they tended to the muscular side of the programme. pluvinel, says tallemant des réaux, "was hardly more intelligent than his horses,"[ ] and the academies are supposed to have declined after his death.[ ] "all that is to be learned in these academies," says clarendon, "is riding, dancing, and fencing, besides some wickednesses they do not profess to teach. it is true they have men there who teach arithmetick, which they call philosophy, and the art of fortification, which they call the mathematicks; but what learning they had there, i might easily imagine, when he assured me, that in three years which he had spent in the academy, he never saw a latin book nor any master that taught anything there, who would not have taken it very ill to be suspected to speake or understand latin."[ ] this sort of aspersion was continued by dr wallis, the savilian professor of mathematics at oxford in , who was roused to a fine pitch of indignation by maidwell's efforts to start an academy in london:[ ] "of teachers in the academie, scarce any of a higher character than a valet-de-chambre. and, if such an one, who (for instance) hath waited on his master in one or two campagnes, and is able perhaps to copy the draught of a fortification from another paper; this is called mathematicks; and, beyond this (if so much) you are not to expect." a certain mr p. chester finishes the english condemnation of a school, such as benjamin's, by declaring that its pretensions to fit men for life was "like the shearing of hoggs, much noyse and little wooll, nothing considerable taught that i know, butt only to fitt a man to be a french chevalier, that is in plain english a trooper."[ ] these comments are what one expects from oxford, to be sure, but even m. jusserand acknowledges that the academies were not centres of intellectual light, and quotes to prove it certain questions asked of a pupil put into the bastille, at the demand of his father: "was it not true that the sieur varin, his father, seeing that he had no inclination to study, had put him into the académie royale to there learn all sorts of exercises, and had there supported him with much expense? "he admitted that his father, while his mother was living, had put him into the académie royale and had given him for that the necessary means, and paid the ordinary pension, livres a year. "was it not true that after having been some time at the académie royale, he was expelled, having disguised girls in boys' clothes to bring them there? "he denied it. he had never introduced into the school any académiste féminine: he had departed at the summons of his father, having taken proper leave of m. and mme. de poix."[ ] however, something of an education had to be provided for royalist boys at the time of the civil war, when oxford was demoralized. parents wandering homeless on the continent were glad enough of the academies. even the stuarts tried them, though the duke of gloucester had to be weaned from the company of some young french gallants, "who, being educated in the same academy, were more familiar with him than was thought convenient."[ ] it was a choice between academies or such an education as edmund verney endured in a dull provincial city as the sole pupil of an exiled regius professor of greek at cambridge. but the effects of being reared in france, and too early thrown into the dissolute courts of europe, were evident at the restoration, when charles the second and his friends returned to startle england with their "exceeding wildness." what else could be the effect of a youth spent as the earl of chesterfield records:[ ] at thirteen years old a courtier at st germaine: at fourteen, rid of any governor or tutor: at sixteen, at the academy of m. de veau, he "chanced to have a quarrel with m. morvay, since captaine of the french king's guards, who i hurt and disarmed in a duel." thereupon he left the academy and took up his abode at the court of turin. it was from italy, de gramont said, that chesterfield brought those elaborate manners, and that jealousy about women, for which he was so notorious among the rakes of the restoration.[ ] henry peacham's chapter "of travaile"[ ] is for the most part built out of dallington's advice, but it is worthy of note that in _the compleat gentleman_, spain is pressed upon the traveller's attention for the first time. this is, of course, the natural reflection of an interest in spain due to the romantic adventures of prince charles and buckingham in that country. james howell, who was of their train, gives even more space to it in his _instructions for forreine travell_. notwithstanding, and though spain was, after , fairly safe for englishmen, as a pleasure ground it was not popular. it was a particularly uncomfortable and expensive country; hardly improved from the time--( )--when clenardus, weary with traversing deserts on his way to the university of salamanca, after a sparse meal of rabbit, sans wine, sans water, composed himself to sleep on the floor of a little hut, with nothing to pillow his head on except his three negro grooms, and exclaimed, "o misera lusitania, beati qui non viderunt."[ ] all civilization was confined to the few large cities, to reach which one was obliged to traverse tedious, hot, barren, and unprofitable wastes, in imminent danger of robbers, and in certainty of the customs officers, who taxed people for everything, even the clothes they had on. none escaped. henry the eighth's ambassador complained loudly and frantically of the outrage to a person in his office.[ ] so did elizabeth's ambassador. but the officers said grimly "that if christ or sanct fraunces came with all their flock they should not escape."[ ] if the preliminary discomforts from customs-officers put travellers into an ill mood at once against spain, the inns confirmed them in it. "in some places there is but the cask of a house, with a little napery, but sometimes no beds at all for passengers in the ventas--or lodgings on the king's highway, where if passengers meet, they must carry their knapsacks well provided of what is necessary: otherwise they may go to bed supperless."[ ] the comtesse d'aunoy grumbles that it was impossible to warm oneself at the kitchen-fire without being choked, for there was no chimney. besides the room was full of men and women, "blacker than devils and clad like beggars ... always some of 'em impudently grating on a sorry guitar."[ ] even the large cities were not diverting, for though they were handsome enough and could show "certain massie and solid braveries," yet they had few of the attractions of urban life. the streets were so ill-paved that the horses splashed water into one's carriage at every step.[ ] a friend warned tobie matthew that "in the cities you shall find so little of the italian delicacie for the manner of their buildings, the cleannesse and sweetnesse of their streets, their way of living, their entertainments for recreations by villas, gardens, walks, fountains, academies, arts of painting, architecture and the like, that you would rather suspect that they did but live together for fear of wolves."[ ] how little the solemnity of the spanish nobles pleased english courtiers used to the boisterous ways of james i. and his "steenie," may be gathered from _the perambulation of spain._[ ] "you must know," says the first character in that dialogue, "that there is a great deal of gravity and state in the catholic court, but little noise, and few people; so that it may be call'd a monastery, rather than a royal court." the economy in such a place was a great source of grievance. "by this means the king of spain spends not much," says the second character. "so little," is the reply, "that i dare wager the french king spends more in pages and laquays, than he of spain among all his court attendants." buckingham's train jeered at the abstemious fare they received.[ ] it was in such irritating contrast to the lofty airs of those who provided it. "we are still extream poor," writes the english ambassador about the court of madrid, "yet as proud as divells, yea even as rich divells."[ ] not only at court, but everywhere, spaniards were indifferent to strangers, and not at all interested in pleasing them. lord clarendon remarks that in madrid travellers "will find less delight to reside than in any other place to which we have before commended them: for that nation having less reverence for meer travellers, who go abroad, without business, are not at all solicitous to provide for their accomodation: and when they complain of the want of many conveniences, as they have reason to do, they wonder men will come from home, who will be troubled for those incommodities."[ ] it is no wonder, therefore, that spain was considered a rather tedious country for strangers, and that howell "met more passengers 'twixt paris and orleans, than i found well neer in all the journey through spain."[ ] curiosity and a desire to learn the language might carry a man to madrid for a time, but englishmen could find little to commend there. holland, on the other hand, provoked their admiration more and more. travellers were never done exclaiming at its municipal governments, its reformatories and workhouses, its industry, frugality, and social economy. the neat buildings, elegant streets, and quiet inns, were the subject of many encomiums.[ ] descartes, who chose amsterdam as the place in which to think out his philosophy, praised it as the ideal retreat for students, contending that it was far better for them than italy, with its plagues, heat, unwholesome evenings, murder and robbery.[ ] locke, when he went into voluntary exile in , enjoyed himself with the doctors and men of letters in amsterdam, attending by special invitation of the principal physician of the city the dissection of a lioness, or discussing knotty problems of theology with the wealthy quaker merchants.[ ] courtiers were charmed with the sea-shore at scheveningen, where on the hard sand, admirably contrived by nature for the divertisement of persons of quality, the foreign ambassadors and their ladies, and the society of the hague, drove in their coaches and six horses.[ ] however, sir william temple, after some years spent as ambassador to the netherlands, decided that holland was a place where a man would choose rather to travel than to live, because it was a country where there was more sense than wit, more wealth than pleasure, and where one would find more persons to esteem than to love.[ ] holland was of peculiar delight to the traveller of the seventeenth century because it contained so many curiosities and rareties. to ferret out objects of vertu the jacobean gentleman would take any journey. people with cabinets of butterflies, miniatures, shells, ivory, or indian beads, were pestered by tourists asking to see their treasures.[ ] no garden was so entrancing to them as one that had "a rupellary nidary"[ ] or an aviary with eagles, cranes, storks, bustards, ducks with four wings, or with rabbits of an almost perfect yellow colour.[ ] holland, therefore, where ships brought precious curiosities from all over the world, was a heaven for the virtuoso. evelyn in rotterdam hovered between his delight in the brass statue of erasmus and a pelican, which he carefully describes. the great charm of dutch inns for sam paterson was their hoards of china and japan ware and the probability you had of meeting a purring marmot, a squeaking guinea-pig, or a tame rabbit with a collar of bells, hopping through the house.[ ] but we have dwelt too long, perhaps, on those who voyaged to see knick-knacks, and to gain accomplishments at french academies. though the academies were characteristic of the seventeenth century, there were other centres of education sought by englishmen abroad. the study of medicine, particularly, took many students to padua or paris, for the continent was far ahead of england in scientific work.[ ] sir thomas browne's son studied anatomy at padua with sir john finch, who had settled there and was afterwards chosen syndic of the university.[ ] at paris martin lister, though in the train of the english ambassador, principally enjoyed "mr bennis in the dissecting-room working by himself upon a dead body," and "took more pleasure to see monsieur breman in his white waistcoat digging in the royal physic-garden and sowing his couches, than mounsieur de saintot making room for an ambassador": and found himself better disposed and more apt to learn the names and physiognomy of a hundred plants, than of five or six princes.[ ] it was medicine that chiefly interested nicholas ferrar, than whom no traveller for study's sake was ever more devoted to the task of self-improvement. at about the same time that the second earl of chesterfield was fighting duels at the academy of monsieur de veau, nicholas ferrar, a grave boy, came from cambridge to leipsic and "set himself laboriously to study the originals of the city, the nature of the government, the humors and inclinations of the people." finding the university too distracting, he retired to a neighbouring village to read the choicest writers on german affairs. he served an apprenticeship of a fortnight at every german trade. he could maintain a dialogue with an architect in his own phrases; he could talk with mariners in their sea terms. removing to padua, he attained in a very short time a marvellous proficiency in physic, while his conversation and his charm ennobled the evil students of padua.[ ] * * * * * chapter vi the grand tour after the restoration the idea of polishing one's parts by foreign travel received fresh impetus. the friends of charles the second, having spent so much of their time abroad, naturally brought back to england a renewed infusion of continental ideals. france was more than ever the arbiter for the "gentry and civiller sort of mankind." travellers such as evelyn, who deplored the english gentry's "solitary and unactive lives in the country," the "haughty and boorish englishman," and the "constrained address of our sullen nation,"[ ] made an impression. it was generally acknowledged that comity and affability had to be fetched from beyond the seas, for the "meer englishman" was defective in those qualities. he was "rough in address, not easily acquainted, and blunt even when he obliged."[ ] even wise and honest englishmen began to be ashamed of their manners and felt they must try to be not quite so english. "put on a decent boldness," writes sir thomas browne constantly to his son in france. "shun pudor rusticus." "practise an handsome garb and civil boldness which he that learneth not in france, travaileth in vain."[ ] but there was this difference in travel to complete the gentleman during the reign of charles the second: that italy and germany were again safe and thrown open to travellers, so that holland, germany, italy, and france made a magnificent round of sights; namely, the grand tour. it was still usual to spend some time in paris learning exercises and accomplishments at an academy, but a large proportion of effort went to driving by post-chaise through the principal towns of europe. since it was a great deal easier to go sight-seeing than to study governments, write "relations," or even to manage "the great horse," the grand tour, as a form of education, gained upon society, especially at the end of the century, when even the academies were too much of an exertion for the beaux to attend. to dress well and to be witty superseded martial ambitions. gentlemen could no longer endure the violence of the great horse, but were carried about in sedan chairs. to drive through europe in a coach suited them very well. it was a form of travel which likewise suited country squires' sons; for with the spread of the fashion from court to country not only great noblemen and "utter gallants" but plain country gentlemen aspired to send their sons on a quest for the "bel air." their idea of how this was to be done being rather vague, the services of a governor were hired, who found that the easiest way of dealing with tony lumpkin was to convey him over an impressive number of miles and keep him interested with staring at buildings. the whole aim of travel was sadly degenerated from elizabethan times. cynical parents like francis osborn had not the slightest faith in its good effects, but recommended it solely because it was the fashion. "some to starch a more serious face upon wanton, impertinent, and dear bought vanity, cry up 'travel' as 'the best accomplisher of youth and gentry,' tho' detected by experience in the generality, for 'the greatest debaucher' ... yet since it advanceth opinion in the world, without which desert is useful to none but itself (scholars and travellers being cried up for the highest graduates in the most universal judgments) i am not much unwilling to give way to peregrine motion for a time."[ ] in short, the object of the grand tour was to see and be seen. the very term seems to be an extension of usage from the word employed to describe driving in one's coach about the principal streets of a town. the duchess of newcastle, in , wrote from antwerp: "i go sometimes abroad, seldom to visit, but only in my coach about the town, or about some of the streets, which we call here a tour, where all the chief of the town go to see and be seen, likewise all strangers of what quality soever."[ ] evelyn, in , contrasted "making the tour" with the proper sort of industrious travel; "but he that (instead of making the tour, as they call it) or, as a late embassador of ours facetiously, but sharply reproached, (like a goose swimms down the river) having mastered the tongue, frequented the court, looked into their customes, been present at their pleadings, observed their military discipline, contracted acquaintance with their learned men, studied their arts, and is familiar with their dispositions, makes this accompt of his time."[ ] and in another place he says: "it is written of ulysses, that hee saw many cities indeed, but withall his remarks of mens manners and customs, was ever preferred to his counting steeples, and making tours: it is this ethicall and morall part of travel, which embellisheth a gentleman."[ ] in , richard lassels uses the term "grand tour" for the first time in an english book for travellers: "the grand tour of france and the giro of italy."[ ] of course this is only specialized usage of the idea "round" which had long been current, and which still survives in our phrase, "make the round trip." "the spanish ambassadors," writes dudley carleton in , "are at the next spring to make a perfect round."[ ] in the age of the grand tour the governor becomes an important figure. there had always been governors, to be sure, from the very beginnings of travel to become a complete person. their arguments with fathers as to the expenses of the tour, and their laments at the disagreeable conduct of their charges echo from generation to generation. now it is mr windebanke complaining to cecil that his son "has utterly no mind nor disposition in him to apply any learning, according to the end you sent him for hither," being carried away by an "inordinate affection towards a young gentlewoman abiding near paris."[ ] now it is mr smythe desiring to be called home unless the allowance for himself and francis davison can be increased. "for mr francis is now a man, and your son, and not so easily ruled touching expenses, about which we have had more brabblements than i will speak of."[ ] bacon's essay "of travel" in is the first to advise the use of a governor;[ ] but governors rose to their full authority only in the middle of the century, when it was the custom to send boys abroad very young, at fourteen or fifteen, because at that age they were more malleable for instruction in foreign languages. at that age they could not generally be trusted by themselves, especially after the protests of a century against the moral and religious dangers of foreign travel. how fearful parents were of the hazards of travel, and what a responsibility it was for a governor to undertake one of these precious charges, may be gathered from this letter by lady lowther to joseph williamson, he who afterwards rose to be secretary of state: "i doubt not but you have received my son," writes the mother, "with our letters entreating your care for improving all good in him and restraining all irregularities, as he is the hope and only stem of his father. i implore the almighty, and labour for all means conducible thereto; i conceive your discreet government and admonition may much promote it. tell me whether you find him tractable or disorderly: his disposition is good, and his natural parts reasonable, but his acquirements meaner than i desire: however he is young enough yet to learn, and by study may recover, if not recall, his lost time. "in the first place, endeavour to settle him in his religion, as the basis of all our other hopes, and the more to be considered in regard of the looseness of the place where you are. i doubt not but you have well considered of the resolve to travel to italy, yet i have this to say for my fond fears (besides the imbecility of my sex) my affections are all contracted into one head: also i know the hotness of his temper, apt to feverishness. yet i submit him to your total management, only praying the god of heaven to direct you for the best, and to make him tractable to you, and laborious for his own advancement."[ ] a governor became increasingly necessary as the arbiter of what was modish for families whose connection with the fashionable world was slight. he assumed airs of authority, and took to writing books on how the grand tour should be made. such is _the voyage of italy_, with _instructions concerning travel_, by _richard lassels, gent._, who "travelled through italy five times, as tutor to several of the english nobility and gentry."[ ] lassels, in reciting the benefits of travel, plays upon that growing sensitiveness of the country gentleman about his innocent peculiarities: "the country lord that never saw anybody but his father's tenants and m. parson, and never read anything but john stow, and speed; thinks the land's-end to be the world's-end; and that all solid greatness, next unto a great pasty, consists in a great fire, and a great estate;" or, "my country gentleman that never travelled, can scarce go to london without making his will, at least without wetting his hand-kerchief."[ ] the grand tour, of course, is the remedy for these weaknesses--especially under the direction of a wise governor. more care should go to choosing that governor than to any other retainer. for lacqueys and footmen "are like his galoshooes, which he leaves at the doors of those he visits," but his governor is like his shirt, always next him, and should therefore be of the best material. the revelation of bad governors in lassels' instructions are enough to make one recoil from the grand tour altogether. these "needy bold men" led pupils to geneva, where the pupils lost all their true english allegiance and respect for monarchy; they kept them in dull provincial cities where the governor's wife or mistress happened to live. "others have been observed to sell their pupils to masters of exercises, and to have made them believe that the worst academies were the best, because they were the best to the cunning governour, who had ten pound a man for every one he could draw thither: others i have known who would have married their pupils in france without their parents' knowledge";[ ] ... and so forth, with other more lurid examples. the difficulties of procuring the right sort of governor were hardly exaggerated by lassels. the duke of ormond's grandson had just such a dishonest tutor as described--one who instead of showing the earl of ossory the world, carried him among his own relations, and "buried" him at orange.[ ] it seems odd, at first sight, that the earl of salisbury's son should be entrusted to sir john finet, who endeared himself to james the first by his remarkable skill in composing "bawdy songs."[ ] it astonishes us to read that lord clifford's governor, mr beecher, lost his temper at play, and called sir walter chute into the field,[ ] or that sir walter raleigh's son was able to exhibit his governor, ben jonson, dead-drunk upon a car, "which he made to be drawn by pioneers through the streets, at every corner showing his governor stretched out, and telling them that was a more lively image of a crucifix than any they had."[ ] but it took a manly man to be a governor at all. it was not safe to select a merely intelligent and virtuous tutor; witness the case of the earl of derby sent abroad in , with mr james forbes, "a gentleman of parts, virtue and prudence, but of too mild a nature to manage his pupil." the adventures of these two, as narrated by carte in his life of ormond, are doubtless typical. "they had not been three months at paris, before a misunderstanding happened between them that could not be made up, so that both wrote over to the duke (of ormond) complaining of one another. his grace immediately dispatched over mr muleys to inquire into the ground of the quarrel, in order to reconcile them.... the earl had forgot the advice which the duke had given him, to make himself acquainted with the people of quality in france, and to keep as little correspondence with his own countrymen, whilst he was abroad, as was consistent with good manners; and had formed an intimate acquaintance with a lewd, debauched young fellow whom he found at paris, and who was the son of dr merrit, a physician. the governor had cautioned his young nobleman against creating a friendship with so worthless a person, who would draw him into all manner of vice and expense, and lead him into numberless inconveniences. merrit, being told of this, took mr forbes one day at an advantage in an house, and wounded him dangerously. the earl, instead of manifesting his resentment as he ought in such a case, seemed rather pleased with the affair, and still kept on his intimacy with merrit. the duke finding that merrit had as ill a character from all that knew him in london, as mr forbes had given him, easily suspected the earl was in the wrong, and charged muleys to represent to him the ill fame of the man, and how unworthy he was of his lordship's acquaintance and conversation.... "when muleys came to paris, he found the matters very bad on lord derby's side, who had not only countenanced merrit's assault, but, at the instigation of some young french rakes, had consented to his governor's being tossed in a blanket. the earl was wild, full of spirits, and impatient of restraint: forbes was a grave, sober, mild man, and his sage remonstrances had no manner of effect on his pupil. the duke, seeing what the young gentleman would be at, resolved to send over one that should govern him. for this purpose he pitched upon colonel thomas fairfax, a younger son of the first lord fairfax, a gallant and brave man (as all the fairfaxes were), and roughly honest. lord derby was restless at first: but the colonel told him sharply, that he was sent to govern him, and would govern him: that his lordship must submit, and should do it; so that the best method he had to take, was to do it with decorum and good humour. he soon discharged the vicious and scandalous part of the earl's acquaintance, and signified to the rest, that he had the charge of the young nobleman, who was under his government: and therefore if any of them should ever have a quarrel with his pupil, who was young and inexperienced, he himself was their man, and would give them satisfaction. his courage was too well known to tempt anybody make a trial of it; the nobleness of his family, and his own personal merit, procured him respect from all the world, as well as from his pupil. no quarrel happened: the earl was reclaimed, being always very observant of his governor. he left paris, and passing down the loire went to the south of france, received in all places by the governors of towns and provinces with great respect and uncommon marks of honour and distinction. from thence he went into italy, making a handsome figure in all places, and travelling with as much dignity as any nobleman whatever at little more than one thousand two hundred pounds a year expense; so easy is it to make a figure in those countries with virtue, decorum, and good management."[ ] this concluding remark of carte's gives us the point of view of certain families; that it was more economical to live abroad. it certainly was--for courtiers who had to pay eighty pounds for a suit of clothes--without trimming[ ]--and spent two thousand pounds on a supper to the king.[ ] francis osborn considered one of the chief benefits of travel to be the training in economy which it afforded: "frugality being of none so perfectly learned as of the italian and the scot; natural to the first, and as necessary to the latter."[ ] notwithstanding, the cost of travel had in the extravagant days of the stuarts much increased. the grand tour cost more than travel in elizabethan days, when young men quietly settled down for hard study in some german or italian town. robert sidney, for instance, had only £ a year when he was living with sturm. "tearm yt as you wyll, it ys all i owe you," said his father. "harry whyte ... shall have his £ yearly, and you your £ ; and so be as mery as you may."[ ] secretary davison expected his son, his tutor, and their servant to live on this amount at venice. "mr. wo." had said this would suffice.[ ] if "mr wo." means mr wotton, as it probably does, since wotton had just returned from abroad in , and francis davison set out in , he was an authority on economical travel, for he used to live in germany at the rate of one shilling, four pence halfpenny a day for board and lodging.[ ] but he did not carry with him a governor and an english servant. moryson, howell, and dallington all say that expenses for a servant amounted to £ yearly. therefore davison's tutor quite rightly protested that £ would not suffice for three people. although they spent "not near so much as other gentlemen of their nation at venice, and though he went to market himself and was as frugal as could be, the expenses would mount up to forty shillings a week, not counting apparel and books." "i protest i never endured so much slavery in my life to save money," he laments.[ ] when learning accomplishments in france took the place of student-life in italy, expenses naturally rose. moryson, who travelled as a humanist, for "knowledge of state affaires, histories, cosmography, and the like," found that fifty or sixty pounds were enough to "beare the charge of a traveller's diet, necessary apparrell, and two journies yeerely, in the spring and autumne, and also to serve him for moderate expences of pleasure."[ ] but dallington found that an education of the french sort would come to just twice as much. "if he travell without a servant fourscore pounds sterling is a competent proportion, except he learne to ride: if he maintaine both these charges, he can be allowed no lesse than one hundred and fiftie poundes: and to allowe above two hundred, were superfluous, and to his hurte. and thus rateably, according to the number he keepeth. "the ordinarie rate of his expence, is this: ten gold crownes a moneth his owne dyet, eight for his man, (at the most) two crownes a moneth his fencing, as much dancing, no lesse his reading, and fiftene crownes monethly his ridings: but this exercise he shall discontinue all the heate of the yeare. the remainder of his pound i allow him for apparell, bookes, travelling charges, tennis play, and other extraordinaire expences."[ ] a few years later howell fixes annual expense at £ --(£ extra for every servant.) these three hundred pounds are to pay for riding, dancing, fencing, tennis, clothes, and coach hire--a new item of necessity. an academy would seem to have been a cheaper means of learning accomplishments. for about £ one might have lodging and diet for himselfe and a man and be taught to ride, fence, ply mathematics, and so forth.[ ] lassels very wisely refrains from telling those not already persuaded, what the cost will be for the magnificent grand tour he outlines. we calculate that it would be over £ , for the earl of cork paid £ a year for his two sons, their governor, only two servants and only saddle-horses:[ ] whereas lassels hints that no one with much pretension to fashion could go through paris without a coach followed by three lacqueys and a page.[ ] evelyn, at any rate, thought the expenses of a traveller were "vast": "and believe it sir, if he reap some contentment extraordinary, from what he hath observed abroad, the pains, sollicitations, watchings, perills, journeys, ill entertainment, absence from friends, and innumerable like inconveniences, joyned to his vast expences, do very dearly, and by a strange kind of extortion, purchase that smal experience and reputation which he can vaunt to have acquired from abroad."[ ] perhaps some details from the education of robert boyle will serve to illustrate the manner of taking the grand tour. his father, the great earl of cork, was a devoted adherent to this form of education and launched his numerous sons, two by two, upon the continent. he was, as boyle says, the sort of person "who supplied what he wanted in scholarship himself, by being both a passionate affecter, and eminent patron of it."[ ] his journal for records first the return of "my sones lewis and roger from their travailes into foreign kingdomes,... ffor which their safe retorn, god be ever humbly and heartely thancked and praised both by me and them."[ ] in the same year he recovered the lord viscount of kynalmeaky and the lord of broghill, with mr marcombes, their governor, from their foreign travels into france and italy. then it was the turn of francis and robert, just removed from eton college. with the governor marcombes, a french servant, and a french boy, they departed from london in october , "having his majestie's license under his hand and privy signett for to continew abrode yeares: god guide them abrod and safe back."[ ] robert, according to his autobiography, was well satisfied to go, but francis, aged fifteen, had just been married to one of the queen's maids of honour, aged fourteen, and after four days of revelry was in no mood to be thrust back into the estate of childhood.[ ] high words passed between him and his father on the occasion of his enforced departure for paris. he was so agitated that he mislaid his sword and pistols--at least so we hear by the first letter marcombes writes from paris. "mr francis att his departure from london was so much troubled because of your lordship's anger against him that he could never tell us where he put his sword and ye kaise of pistoles that your lordship gave them, so that i have been forced to buy them here a kaise of pistolles a peece, because of the danger that is now everywhere in france, and because it is so much ye mode now for every gentleman of fashion to ride with a kase of pistoles, that they laugh att those that have them not. i bought also a sword for mr francis and when mr robert saw it he did so earnestly desire me to buy him one, because his was out of fashion, that i could not refuse him that small request."[ ] marcombes did not expose the boys long to the excitement of paris, but at once hurried them to geneva, and settled them to work, where francis showed a great deal of resignation and good-humour in accepting his fate. he was not so sulky as lord cranborne, who in a similar situation fell ill, could not eat, and had to be taken back to england.[ ] "and as for mr francis," writes marcombes to cork, "i protest unto your lordship that i did not thinke yt he could frame himselfe to every kind of good learning with so great a facilitie and passion as he doth, having tasted already a little drope of ye libertinage of ye court, but i find him soe disciplinable, and soe desirous to repare ye time lost, yt i make no question but your lordship shall receive a great ioye."[ ] he had not had much of an education at eton, as his governor takes pleasure in pointing out: "for mr francis i doe assure your lordship he had need to aplay himselfe to other things till now, for except reeding and writting inglish he was grounded in nothing of ye wordle (world); and beleeve me, for before god i spake true, when i say that never any gentleman hath donne lesse profit of his time then he had done when he went out of england: and besides yt if he had been longer at eatton he had learned there to drinke with other deboice scholers, as i have beene in formed by mr robert."[ ] won over by the study of "fortifications," a branch of mathematics very pleasing to the seventeenth century boy, the future viscount shannon applied himself to work with energy;[ ] and for a time peace reigned over the process of education. "every morning," writes their tutor, "i teach them ye rhetoricke in latin, and i expound unto them justin from latin into french, and presently after dinner i doe reade unto them two chapters of ye old testament with a brief exposition of those points that i think that they doe not understand; and before supper i teach them ye history of ye romans in french out of florus and of titus livius, and two sections of ye cateshisme of caluin with ye most orthodox exposition of the points that they doe not understand; and after supper i doe reade unto them two chapters of ye new testament, and both morning and evening we say our prayers together, and twice a weeke we goe to church."[ ] the boys spoke french always, and had some dancing lessons, but no riding lessons, for "their lyms are not knitt and strong enough, nor their bodys hable to endure rough exercises; and besides, although wee have here as good and skillfull teachers as in many other places, yet when they shall come to paris or some other place, their teachers will make them beleeve that they have lost their time and shall make them beginn againe: for it is their custome so to doe to all."[ ] at tennis, however, francis enjoyed himself, and grew apace. "i may assure your lordship that both his leggs and armes are by a third part bigger now then they were in england." robert, even at fourteen a studious person, "doth not love tennisse play so much, but delights himselfe more to be in private with some booke of history or other, but i perswade him often both to play att tennisse and goe about. i never saw him handsomer, for although he growes much, yet he is very fatt and his cheeks are as red as vermilian. this leter end of ye winter is mighty cold and a great quantity of snow is fallen upon ye ground, but that brings them to such a stomacke that your lordship should take a great pleasure to see them feed. i do not give them daintys, but i assure your lordship that they have allwayes good bred and good wine, good beef and mouton, thrice a week good capons and good fish, constantly two dishes of fruit and a good piece of cheese; all kind of cleane linnen twice and thrice a week and a constant fire in their chamber wherein they have a good bed for them, and another for their men."[ ] indeed, marcombes was a very good governor, as robert several times assured the earl of cork, and allowed them to lack for nothing. in the spring he bought them saddle-horses so that after their studies they might take the air and see their friends. since a governor had charge of all the funds, it was a great test of his honesty whether he resisted the temptation to economize on the clothes and spending-money of his pupils, and to pocket the part of their allowance so saved. this is why marcombes often lets fall into his letters to the earl of cork items such as these: "i have made a compleat black satin sute for mr robert: ye cloake lined with plush, and i allow them every moneth a peese ye value of very neare two pounds sterlings for their passe time."[ ] the only disturbing elements in the satisfactory state of marcombes and his pupils were the killigrews. thomas killigrew, he who afterwards became one of the dramatists of the restoration, had then only just outgrown the estate of page to charles i., and in strolling about the continent he paid the boyles a visit.[ ] as the brother of the wife whom mr francis had left at home, and on his own account as a fascinating courtier, he cast a powerful but baleful influence upon the household in geneva. marcombes was at first very guarded in his remarks, writing only that "mr kyligry is here since saturday last ... but i think he will not stay long: which perhaps will be ye better for yr sons: for although his conversation is very sweet and delectable yet they have no need of interruption, specially mr francis, which was much abused in his learning by his former teachers: and although he hath a great desire to redime ye time, yet he cannot follow his younger brother, and therefore he must have time, and avoid ye company of those yt care not for their bookes."[ ] but when it appeared that killigrew had told the earl of cork that marcombes kept the brothers shabbily dressed, the governor unfolded his opinion of the rising dramatist as "one that speakes ill of his own mother and of all his friends and that plays ye foole allwayes through ye streets like a schoole boy, having allwayes his mouth full of whoores and such discourses, and braging often of his getting mony from this or ye other merchant without any good intention to pay."[ ] his company fomented in mr francis a boastful spirit, "never speaking of any thing but what he should doe when he should once more command his state, how many dogs he shoulde keepe; how many horses; how many fine bands, sutes and rubans, and how freely he would play and keepe company with good fellowes, etc."[ ] thomas killigrew's sister, the wife of mr francis, was also a very disturbing person. she would correspond with her husband and urge him to run away from his tutor, and suggested coming to the continent herself and meeting him.[ ] these plots she made with the assistance of her brother, whom she much resembled in disposition.[ ] there is no knowing what havoc she would have made with the carefully planned education of the boyles, for francis at the end of two years became dangerously restive, had not their tour been decisively ended by the first rumblings of the civil war at home. after a winter in italy, they were about to start for paris to perfect themselves in dancing and to begin riding the great horse, when they received news that the earl of cork was ruined by the rebellion in ireland. he could send them no more money, he told them, than the two hundred and fifty pounds he had just dispatched. by economizing, and dismissing their servants, they might reach holland, and enlist under the prince of orange. they must now work out their fortune for themselves.[ ] the two hundred and fifty pounds never came. they were embezzled by the agent; and the boyles were left penniless in a strange country. marcombes did not desert them, however. robert, who was too frail for soldiering, he kept with him in geneva for two years. francis, free at last, took horse, was off to ireland, and joined in the fighting beside his brothers dungarvan, kynalmeaky, and broghill, who rallied around their father.[ ] there are several other seventeenth-century books on the theory of travel besides lassels', which would repay reading. but we have come to the period when essays of this sort contain so many repetitions of one another, that detailed comment would be tedious. edward leigh's _three diatribes_[ ] appeared in , a year after lassels' book, and in gailhard, another professional governor, in his "directions for the education of youth as to their breeding at home and travelling abroad,"[ ] imitated lassels' attention to the particular needs of the country gentleman. "the honest country gentleman" is a synonym for one apt to be fooled, one who has neither wit nor experience. he, above all others, needs to go abroad to study the tempers of men and learn their several fashions. "as to country breeding, which is opposed to the courts, to the cities, or to travelling: when it is merely such, it is a clownish one. before a gentleman comes to a settlement, hawking, coursing and hunting, are the dainties of it; then taking tobacco, and going to the alehouse and tavern, where matches are made for races, cock-fighting, and the like." as opposed to this life, gailhard holds up the pattern of sir thomas grosvenor, who did "strive after being bettered with an outlandish breeding" by means of close application to the french and italian languages, to fencing, dancing, riding the great horse, drawing landscapes, and learning the guitar. "his moneys he did not trifle away, but bestowed them upon good books, medals and other useful rareties worth the curiosity of a compleat gentleman."[ ] on comparing these instructions with those of the sixteenth century, one is struck with the emphasis they lay upon drawing and "limning." this is what we would expect in the seventeenth century, when an interest in pictures, statues, and architecture was a distinguishing feature of a gentleman. the marquis de seignelay, sent on a tour in by his father colbert, was accompanied by a painter and an architect charged to make him understand the beauties of italian art.[ ] antoine delahaute, making the grand tour with an abbé for a governor, carried with him an artist as well, so that when he came upon a fine site, he ordered the chaise to be stopped, and the view to be drawn by the obedient draughtsman.[ ] not only did gentlemen study to appreciate pictures, but they strove themselves to draw and paint. in the travels of george sandys[ ] (edition ), may be seen a woodcut of travellers, in the costume of henry of navarre, sketching at the side of lake avernus. to take out one's memorandum-book and make a sketch of a charming prospect, was the usual thing before the camera was invented. "before i went to bed i took a landscape of this pleasant terrace," says evelyn in roane.[ ] at tournon, where he saw a very strong castle under a high precipice, "the prospect was so tempting that i could not forbear designing it with my crayon."[ ] consequently, we find instructions for travellers reflecting the tastes of the time: gerbier's _subsidium peregrinantibus_, for instance, insisting on a knowledge of "perspective, sculpture, architecture and pictures," as among the requisites of a polite education, lays great stress on the identification and survey of works of art as one of the main duties of a traveller.[ ] significant as are the instructions of gerbier, lassels, and others of this period, there are some directions for an education abroad which are more interesting than these products of professional tutors--instructions written by one who was himself the perfect gentleman of his day. the earl of chesterfield's letters to his son define the purpose of a foreign education with a freedom which is lacking in the book of a governor who writes for the public eye. though the contents of the letters are familiar to everyone, their connection with travel for "cultum animi" has hitherto, i think, been overlooked. it will be remembered that the earl sent his son abroad at the age of fourteen to study for five years on the continent, and to acquire a better preparation for life than oxford or cambridge could offer. of these universities chesterfield had a low opinion. he could not sufficiently scorn an education which did not prevent a man from being flurried at his presentation to the king. he remembered that he himself, when he was first introduced into good company, with all the awkwardness and rust of cambridge about him, was frightened out of his wits. at cambridge he "had acquired among the pedants of an illiberal seminary a turn for satire and contempt, and a strong tendency to argumentation and contradiction," which was a hindrance to his progress in the polite world. only after a continental education did he see the follies of englishmen who knew nothing of modern europe, who were always talking of the ancients as something more than men, and of the moderns as something less. "they are never without a classic or two in their pockets; they stick to the old good sense; they read none of modern trash; and will show you plainly that no improvement has been made, in any one art or science, these last seventeen hundred years."[ ] his son, therefore, was to waste no time in the society of pedants, but accompanied by a travelling tutor, was to begin studying life first-hand at the courts. his book-learning was to go side by side with the study of manners: "courts and camps are the only places to learn the world in. there alone all kinds of characters resort, and human nature is seen in all the various shapes and modes ... whereas, in all other places, one local mode generally prevails."[ ] moreover, the earl did not think that a company wholly composed of men of learning could be called good company. "they cannot have the easy manners and tournure of the world, as they do not live in it." and an engaging address, "an insinuating behaviour," was to be sought for early in life, and, at the same time, with the solid parts of learning. "the scholar, without good breeding, is a pedant: the philosopher, a cynic: the soldier, a brute: and every man disagreeable."[ ] the five years of young stanhope's travel were carefully distributed as follows: a year in lausanne,[ ] for the rudiments of languages; a year in leipsic, for a thorough grounding in history and jurisprudence; a year spent in visits to such cities as berlin, dresden, and vienna, for a view of the different courts; one in italy, to get rid of the manners of germany; and one in paris, to give him the final polish, the supreme touch, of gentlemanly complaisance, politeness, and ease. we may pass over the years in germany, as the earl did, without much comment. young stanhope was quite satisfactory in the more solid parts of learning, and it was not until he reached italy, there to begin his courtly training, that chesterfield's interest was fully aroused. "the manners of leipsig must be shook off," he says emphatically. "no scramblings at your meals as at a german ordinary: no awkward overturns of glasses, plates, and salt-cellers."[ ] he is to mind the decent mirth of the courtiers--their discreet frankness, their natural, careless, but genteel air; in short, to acquire the graces. chesterfield sent letters of introduction to the best company in venice, forwarded his own diamond shoe buckles for his son, and began to pour forth advice on the possible social problems confronting a young englishman in rome. with a contemptuous tolerance for papists, protestants, and all religious quarrels as obstructions to the art of pleasing, he bade stanhope be civil to the pope, and to kneel down while the host was being carried through the streets. his tutor, though, had better not. with wonderful artistic insight, the earl perceives that the fitting attitude for mr harte is simple, ungracious honesty.[ ] on the subject of the pretender, then resident in rome, his advice is; never meet a stuart at all if you can help it; but if you must, feign ignorance of him and his grievances. if he begins to talk politics, disavow any knowledge of events in england, and escape as soon as you can.[ ] long before his son's year in italy was completed, chesterfield began preparing him for paris. for the first six months stanhope was to live in an academy with young frenchmen of fashion; after that, to have lodgings of his own. the mornings were to belong to study, or serious conversation with men of learning or figure; the afternoons, to exercise; the evenings to be free for balls, the opera, or play. these are the pleasures of a gentleman, for which his father is willing to pay generously. but he will not, he points out frequently, subscribe to the extravagance of a rake. the eighteen-year-old stanhope is to have his coach, his two valets and a footman, the very best french clothes--in fact, everything that is sensible. but he shall not be allowed money for dozens of cane-heads, or fancy snuff-boxes, or excessive gaming, or the support of opera-singers. one handsome snuff-box, one handsome sword, and gaming only when the presence of the ladies keeps down high stakes; but no tavern-suppers--no low company which costs so much more than dissipations among one's equals. there is no need for a young man of any address to make love to his laundress,[ ] as long as ladies of his own class stoop to folly. above all, stanhope is not to associate with his own countrymen in paris. on them chesterfield is never tired of pouring the vials of scorn. he began while stanhope was at leipsic to point out the deficiences of english boys: "they are commonly twenty years old before they have spoken to anybody above their schoolmaster, and the fellows of their college. if they happen to have learning, it is only greek and latin; but not one word of modern history, or modern languages. thus prepared, they go abroad as they call it; but in truth, they stay at home all that while; for being very awkward, confoundedly ashamed, and not speaking the languages, they go into no foreign company, at least none good, but dine and sup with one another only, at the tavern.[ ]... "the life of les milords anglais is regularly, or if you will, irregularly, this. as soon as they rise, which is very late, they breakfast together to the utter loss of two good morning hours. then they go by coachfuls to the palais, the invalides, and notre-dame; from thence to the english coffee-house where they make up their tavern party for dinner. from dinner, where they drink quick, they adjourn in clusters to the play, where they crowd up the stage, drest up in very fine clothes, very ill made by a scotch or irish tailor. from the play to the tavern again, where they get very drunk, and where they either quarrel among themselves, or sally forth, commit some riot in the streets, and are taken up by the watch."[ ] to avoid these monsters, and to cultivate the best french society, was what a wise young man must do in paris. he must establish an intimacy with the best french families. if he became fashionable among the french, he would be fashionable in london. chesterfield considered it best to show no erudition at paris before the rather illiterate society there. as the young men were all bred for and put into the army at the age of twelve or thirteen, only the women had any knowledge of letters. stanhope would find at the academy a number of young fellows ignorant of books, and at that age hasty and petulant, so that the avoidance of quarrels must be a young englishman's great care. he will be as lively as these french boys, but a little wiser; he will not reproach them with their ignorance, nor allow their idlenesses to break in on the hours he has laid aside for study. such was the plan of a grand tour laid down by one of the first gentlemen of europe. it remains one of the best expressions of the social influence of france upon england, and for that reason properly belongs to the seventeenth century more than to the georgian era in which the letters were written. chesterfield might be called the last of the courtiers. he believed in accomplishments and personal elegance as a means of advancing oneself in the world, long after the court had ceased to care for such qualities, or to be of much account in the destinies of leading englishmen. republicanism was in the air. chesterfield was thinking of the france of his youth; but france had changed. in , horace walpole was depressed by the solemnity and austerity of french society. their style of conversation was serious, pedantic, and seldom animated except by a dispute on some philosophic subject.[ ] in fact, chesterfield was admiring the france of louis the fourteenth long after "le soleil" had set, and the country was sombre. it was the eve of the day when france was to imitate the democratic ideals of england. england, at last, instead of being on the outskirts of civilization, was coming to be the most powerful, respected, and enlightened country in europe. when that day dawned, englishmen no longer sought the continent in the spirit of the elizabethans--the spirit which aimed at being "a citizen of the whole world." * * * * * chapter vii the decadence of the grand tour. during the several generations when the stuarts communicated their love of france to the aristocracy of england, there was, as we might suppose, a steady undercurrent of protest against this gallic influence. a returning traveller would be pursued by the rabble of london, who, sighting his french periwig and foreign gestures, would pelt his coach with gutter-dirt, squibs, roots and rams-horns, and run after it shouting "french dogs! french dogs! a mounser! a mounser!"[ ] between the courtiers and the true-born englishman there was no great sympathy in the matter of foreign culture. the courtiers too often took towards deep-seated english customs the irreverent attitude of their master, charles ii.--known to remark that it was the roast beef and reading of the holy scriptures that caused the noted sadness of the english.[ ] the true-born englishman retorted with many a jibe at the "gay, giddy, brisk, insipid fool," who thought of nothing but clothes and garnitures, despised roast beef, and called his old friends ruffians and rustics; or at the rake who "has not been come from france above three months and here he has debauch'd four women and fought five duels." the playwrights could always secure an audience by a skilful portrait of an "english mounsieur" such as sir fopling flutter, who "went to paris a plain bashful english blockhead and returned a fine undertaking french fop."[ ] there had always been a protest against foreign influence, but in the eighteenth century one cannot fail to notice a stronger and more contemptuous attitude than ever before. england was feeling her power. war with france sharpened the shafts of satire, and every victory over the french increased a strong insular patriotism in all classes. foote declared residence in paris a necessary part of every man of fashion's education, because it "gives 'em a relish for their own domestic happiness and a proper veneration for their own national liberties."[ ] his epilogue to _the englishman in paris_ commends the prudence of british forefathers who "scorned to truck for base unmanly arts, their native plainness and their honest hearts."[ ] it was not the populace alone, or those who appealed directly to the populace, who sneered at popish countries, and pitied them for not being british.[ ] as time went on whigs of all classes boasted of the superiority of england, especially when they travelled in europe. "we envy not the warmer clime that lies in ten degrees of more indulgent skies ... 'tis liberty that crowns britannia's isle and makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile."[ ] addison's travels are full of reflections of this sort. the destitution of the campagna of rome demonstrates triumphantly what an aversion mankind has to arbitrary government, while the well-populated mountain of st marino shows what a natural love they have for liberty. whigs abroad were well caricatured by smollett in _peregrine pickle_ in the figures of the painter and the doctor. they observed that even the horses and dogs in france were starved; whereupon the governor of peregrine, an oxonian and a jacobite, sneered that they talked like true englishmen. the doctor, affronted by the insinuation, told him with some warmth that he was wrong in his conjecture, "his affections and ideas being confined to no particular country; for he considered himself as a citizen of the world. he owned himself more attached to england than to any other kingdom, but this preference was the effect of reflection and not of prejudice." this growing conviction of england's superiority helped to bring about the decadence of travel for education. travel continued, and the eighteenth century was as noticeable as any other for the "mal du pays" which attacked young men, but travel became the tour of curiosity and diversion with which we are familiar, and not an earnest endeavour to become "a compleat person." many changes helped this decadence. the "policy" of italy and france, which once attracted the embryo statesmen of elizabeth, was now well known and needed no further study. with the passing of the stuarts, when the king's favour ceased to be the means of making one's fortune, a courtly education was no longer profitable. high offices under the georges were as often as not filled by unpolished englishmen extolled for their native flavour of bluntness and bluffness. foreign graces were a superfluous ornament, more or less ridiculous. the majority of englishmen were wont to prize, as sam johnson did, "their rustic grandeur and their surly grace," and to join in his lament: "lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; sense, freedom, piety refined away, of france the mimick and of spain the prey."[ ] a large section of society was inimical to the kind of education that the earl of chesterfield prescribed for his son. the earl was well aware of it, indeed, and marked with repugnance divers young bucks of his day with leathern breeches and unpowdered hair, who would exclaim; "damn these finical outlandish airs, give me a manly resolute manner. they make a rout with their graces, and talk like a parcel of dancing masters, and dress like a parcel of fops; one good englishman will beat three of them."[ ] even during the height of the grand tour in the latter half of the seventeenth century, thoughtful minds, observing the effects of a foreign education as seen not only in the courtiers of charles ii., but in the dozens of obscure country gentlemen who painfully sought to acquire the habit of a parisian marquis by education abroad, noticed the weak points of such a system. the earl of clarendon thought it pernicious to send boys abroad until after they had gone through oxford or cambridge. there was no necessity for their getting the french accent at an early age, "as if we had no mind to be suspected to be englishmen." that took them from their own country at just the age when they ought to have severe mental discipline, for the lack of which no amount of social training would make them competent men. "they return from travel with a wonderful confidence which may very well be called impudence ... all their learning is in wearing their clothes well; they have very much without their heads, very little within; and they are very much more solicitous that their periwigs fit handsomely, than to speak discreetly; they laugh at what they do not understand, which understanding so little, makes their laughter very immoderate. when they have been at home two or three years, which they spend in the vanities which they brought over with them, fresh travellers arrive with newer fashions, and the same confidence, and are looked upon as finer gentlemen, and wear their ribbons more gracefully; at which the others are angry, quit the stage, and would fain get into wiser company, where they every day find defects in themselves, which they owe to the ill spending that time when they thought only of being fine gentlemen."[ ] when these products of a french education could not remain in town, but were obliged to live on their estates amid rough country squires, it went hard with them. "they will by no means embrace our way," says the country gentleman in clarendon's _dialogue of the want of respect due to age_, "but receive us with cringes and treat us with set speeches, and complain how much it rains, that they cannot keep their hair dry, or their linnen handsome one hour. they talk how much a better country france is and how much they eat and drink better there, which our neighbors will not believe, and laugh at them for saying so. they by no means endure our exercises of hunting and hawking, nor indeed can their tender bodies endure those violent motions. they have a guitar or some other fiddle, which they play upon commonly an hour or so in their beds before they rise, and have at least one french fellow to wait upon them, to shave them, and comb their periwig; and he is sent into the kitchen to dress some little dish, or to make some sauce for dinner, whom the cook is hardly restrained from throwing into the fire. in a word, they live to and within themselves, and their nearest neighbors do not know whether they eat and drink or no."[ ] not only were the recreations of their country neighbours violent and unrefined, according to the english messieurs, but that preoccupation with local government, which was the chief duty of the country gentleman, was beyond the capacity of those who by living abroad had learned little of the laws and customs of their own country. clarendon draws a sad picture of the return of the native who was ashamed to be present at the public and private meetings for the administration of justice, because he had spent in dancing the time when he might have been storing knowledge, and who now passed his days a-bed, reading french romances of which he was tired. locke also set forth the fallacies of the grand tour in his _essay of education_. he admitted that fencing and riding the great horse were looked upon as "so necessary parts of breeding that it would be thought a great omission to neglect them," but he questioned whether riding the great horse was "of moment enough to be made a business of."[ ] fencing, he pointed out, has very little to do with civil life, and is of no use in real warfare, while music "wastes so much of a young man's time, to gain but a moderate skill in it, and engages often in such odd company, that many think it much better spared."[ ] but the feature of travel which was most mercilessly analysed by locke was the governor. he exposed the futility of sending a boy abroad to gain experience and to mingle with good society while he was so young as to need a guardian. for at the age when most boys were abroad--that is, from sixteen to twenty-two--they thought themselves too much men to be governed by others, and yet had not experience and prudence enough to govern themselves. under the shelter of a governor they were excused from being accountable for their own conduct and very seldom troubled themselves with inquiries or with making useful observations of their own. while the governor robbed his pupil of life's responsibilities on one hand, he hampered him, on the other, in any efforts to get into good company: "i ask amongst our young men that go abroad under tutors what one is there of an hundred, that ever visits any person of quality? much less makes an acquaintance with such from whose conversation he may learn what is good breeding in that country and what is worth observation in it.... nor indeed is it to be wondered. for men of worth and parts will not easily admit the familiarity of boys who yet need the care of a tutor: though a young gentleman and stranger, appearing like a man, and shewing a desire to inform himself in the customs, laws, and government of the country he is in, will find welcome, assistance and entertainment everywhere."[ ] these, and many comments of the same sort from other observers, made for the disintegration of the grand tour, and cast discredit upon it as a mode of education. locke was not the only person who exposed the ineffectiveness of governors. they became a favourite subject of satire in the eighteenth century. though even the best sort of "maître d'ours" or "bear-master," as the french called him, robbed travel of its proper effect, the best were seldom available for the hosts of boyish travellers. generally the family chaplain was chosen, because of his cheapness, and this unfortunate was expected to restrain the boisterous devilment of the peregrine pickle committed to his care.[ ] a booklet called _the bear-leaders; or, modern travelling stated in a proper light_, sums up a biting condemnation of "our rugged unsocial telemachuses and their unpolished mentors," describing how someone in orders, perhaps a family dependent, is chosen as the governor of the crude unprepared mortal embarking for a tour of europe. "the oddities, when introduced to each other, start back with mutual astonishment, but after some time from a frequency of seeing, grow into a coarse fondness one for the other, expressed by horse laughs, or intimated by alternate thumps on the back, with all such other gentle insinuations of our uncivilized male hoydens."[ ] small wonder, therefore, that a youth, who returned from driving by post-chaise through the principal towns of europe in the company of a meek chaplain,[ ] returned from his tour about as much refined, according to congreve, "as a dutch skipper from a whale-fishing."[ ] the whole idea of the grand tour was thrown into disrepute after its adoption by crude and low-bred people, who thought it necessary to inform all their acquaintance where they had been, by a very unbecoming dress and a very awkward address: "not knowing that an englishman's beef-and-pudding face will not agree with a hat no bigger than a trencher; and that a man who never learned to make a bow performs it worse in a head of hair dressed a l'aille pidgeon, than in a scratch wig."[ ] in many other ways, also, travel lost its dignity in the eighteenth century. it was no longer necessary to live in foreign countries to understand them. with the foundation of the chairs of modern history at oxford and cambridge by king george the first in , one great reason for travel was lost. information about contemporary politics on the continent could be had through the increasing number of news-journals and gazettes. as for learning the french language, there had been no lack of competent teachers since the revocation of the edict of nantes in sent french protestant refugees swarming across the channel to find some sort of living in england. therefore the spirit of acquisitiveness dwindled and died down, in the absence of any strong need to study abroad, and an idle, frivolous, darting, capricious spirit controlled the aristocratic tourist. horace walpole on his travels spent his time in a way that would have been censured by the elizabethans. he rushed everywhere, played cards, danced through the streets of rheims before the ladies' coaches, and hailed with delight every acquaintance from england. what would sir philip sidney have thought of the mode of life walpole draws in this letter: "about two days ago, about four o'clock in the afternoon ... as we were picking our teeth round a littered table and in a crumby room, gray[ ] in an undress, mr conway in a morning-grey coat and i in a trim white night-gown and slippers, very much out of order, with a very little cold, a message discomposed us all of a sudden, with a service to mr walpole from mr more, and that, if he pleased, he would wait on mr walpole. we scuttle upstairs in great confusion, but with no other damage than the flinging down two or three glasses and the dropping a slipper by the way. having ordered the room to be cleaned out, and sent a very civil response to mr more, we began to consider who mr more might be."[ ] in the tour of walpole and gray one may see a change in the interest of travel; how the romantic spirit had already ousted the humanistic love of men and cities. as he drifted through europe gray took little interest in history or in the intricacies of human character. he would not be bothered by going to courts with walpole, or if he did he stood in the corner of the ballroom and looked on while walpole danced. what he cared for was la grande chartreuse, with its cliffs and pines and torrents and hanging woods.[ ] he is the forerunner of the byronic traveller who delighted in the terrific aspects of nature and disdained mankind. different indeed was the genial heart of howell, who was at pains to hire lodgings in paris with windows opening on the street, that he might study every passerby,[ ] but who spoke of mountains in spain in a casual way as "not so high and hideous as the alps," or as "uncouth, huge, monstrous excrescences of nature, bearing nothing but craggy stones."[ ] with the decline of enthusiasm over the serious advantages of travel, there was not much demand for those essays on the duties of the student abroad which we have tried to describe. by the eighteenth century, hand-books for travellers were much the same as those with which we are to-day familiar; that is, a guide-book describing the particular objects to be inspected, and the sensations they ought to inspire, together with exceedingly careful notes as to the price of meals and transportation. this sort of manual became necessary when travel grew to be the recreation of men of moderate education who could not read the local guide-books written in the language of the country they visited. compilations such as the _itinerarium italiæ_ of schottus, published at antwerp in , and issued in eleven editions during the seventeenth century, had been sufficient for the accomplished traveller of the renaissance.[ ] france, as the centre of travel, produced the greatest number of handy manuals,[ ] and it was from these, doubtless, that richard lassels drew the idea of composing a similar work in the english language, which would comprise the exhortation to travel, in the manner of turler, with a continental guide to objects of art. _the voyage of italy_ by lassels, published in paris in , marks the beginning of guide-books in english. still, in succeeding vade-mecums there are some occasional echoes of the old injunctions to improve one's time. misson's _a new voyage to italy_,[ ] maps out some intellectual duties. according to misson a voyager ought to carry along with him a cane divided into several measures, or a piece of pack-thread well twined and waxed, fifty fathom long and divided into feet by knots, so as to be able to measure the height of the towers and the bigness of pillars and the dimensions of everything so far as he is able. this seems sufficiently laborious, but it makes for an easy life compared to the one prescribed by count leopold berchtold in his _essay to direct and extend the inquiries of patriotic travellers_. he would have one observe the laws and customs of foreigners with a curiosity that would extend to every department of social and economic life, beginning with "causes of the decrease of population and remedies to prevent them"; proceeding to such matters as the state of the peasantry; to questions applicable to manuring, ploughing, and the housing of black cattle; or to an "inquiry concerning charitable institutions such as one for recovering drowned and strangled persons"; or to the "extent of liberty to grown-up young ladies." in case the traveller is at a loss how to conduct his investigation, a list of particular questions on the topics for study is added by the author. a few random examples of this list are: "which are the favourite herbs of the sheep of this country?" "are there many instances of people having been bit by mad animals?" "is the state of a bachelor aggravated and rendered less desirable? by what means?" "how much is paid per day for ploughing with two oxen? with two horses?" "which food has been experienced to be most portable and most nourishing for keeping a distressed ship's crew from starving?" "what is the value of whales of different sizes?" in addition to such inquiries berchtold[ ] urges the necessity of sketching landscapes and costumes, and better yet, the scientific drawing of engines and complicated machines, and also of acquiring skill on some musical instrument, to keep one from the gaming table in one's idle hours, preferably of learning to play on a portable instrument, such as a german flute. journals, it goes without saying, must be written every night before the traveller goes to sleep. it is not only the fact of their being addressed to persons of small intelligence which makes the guide-books of the eighteenth century seem ridiculous; another reason for their ignoble tone is the increased emphasis they lay on the material convenience of the traveller. not the service of one's country or the perfecting of one's character is the note of georgian injunctions, but the fear of being cheated and of being sick. misson's instructions begin at once with praise of fixed rates in holland, where one is spared the exhaustion of wrangling. the exact fare from cologne to maintz is his next subject, and how one can hire a coach and six horses for three crowns a day; how the best inns at venice are the louvre, the white lion, and the french arms; how one can stay at the louvre for eight livres a day and pay seven or eight livres for a gondola by the day, and so forth; with similar useful but uninspired matter. next he discusses sea-sickness, and informs us that the best remedy is to keep always, night and day, a piece of earth under the nose; for which purpose you should provide a sufficient quantity of earth and preserve it fresh in a pot of clay; and when you have used a piece so long that it begins to grow dry, put it again into the pot, and take out some fresh earth.[ ] berchtold's suggestions for comfort are even more elaborate. one should carry everywhere: "a bottle of vinegar, de quatre voleurs. ditto best french brandy. ditto spirit of salmiac, against fits. ditto hoffman's drops." at inns it is advisable to air the room by throwing a little strong vinegar upon a red hot shovel, and to bring your bed-clothes with you. as a guard against robbers it is advisable to have your servant sleep in the same room with you, keep a wax candle burning all night, and look into the chests and behind the bed before retiring. pocket door-bolts in the form of a cross are easily obtainable; if not, put the tables and chair against the door. there is something fussy about such a traveller, though robbers undoubtedly were to be feared, even in the eighteenth century,[ ] and though inns were undoubtedly dirty. a repugnance to dirt and discomfort is justifiable enough, but there is something especially peevish in the tone of many georgian travellers. sam sharp's _letters from italy_ breathe only sorrow, disillusion and indignation. italian beds and vermin, italian post-boys and their sorry nags are too frequently the theme of his discourse. he even assures us that the young gentlemen whom he had always pictured as highly delighted by the grand tour are in reality very homesick for england. they are weary of the interminable drives and interminable conversazioni of italy and long for the fox-hunting of great britain.[ ] fielding's account of his voyage to lisbon contains too much about his wife's toothache and his own dropsy.[ ] smollett, like fielding, was a sick man at the time of his travels, and we can excuse his rage at the unswept floors, old rotten tables, crazy chairs and beds so disgusting that he generally wrapped himself in a great-coat and lay upon four chairs with a leathern portmanteau for a pillow; but we cannot admire a man who is embittered by the fact that he cannot get milk to put in his tea, and is continually thrusting his head out of the window to curse at the post-boys, or pulling out his post-book to read to an inn-yard with savage vociferation the article which orders that the traveller who comes first shall be first served.[ ] this is a degeneration from the undaunted mettle of the elizabethans, who, though acquainted with dirty inns and cheating landlords, kept their spirits soaring above the material difficulties of travel. we miss, in eighteenth century accounts, the gaiety of roger ascham's report of germany and of the fair barge with goodly glass windows in which he went up the rhine--gaiety which does not fail even when he had to spend the night in the barge, with his tired head on his saddle for a bolster.[ ] we miss the spirit of good fellowship with which john taylor, the water poet, shared with six strangers in the coach from hamburgh the ribs of roast beef brought with him from great britain.[ ] vastly diverting as the eighteenth-century travel-books sometimes are, there is nothing in them that warms the heart like the travels of poor tom coryat, that infatuated tourist, chief of the tribe of gad, whom nothing daunted in his determination to see the world. often he slept in wagons and in open skiffs, and though he could not afford to hire the guides with sedan chairs who took men over the alpine passes in those days, yet he followed them on foot, panting.[ ] so, in spite of the fact that travel is never-ending, and that "peregrinatio animi causa" of the sixteenth century is not very different from the wanderlust of the nineteenth, we feel we have come to the end of the particular phase of travel which had its beginning in the renaissance. the passing of the courtier, the widened scope of the university, the rise of journalism, and the ascendancy of england, changed the attitude of the english traveller from eager acquisitiveness to complacent amusement. with this change of attitude came an end to the essay in praise of travel, written by scholars and gentlemen for their kind; intended for him "who, whithersoever he directeth his journey, travelleth for the greater benefit of his wit, for the commodity of his studies, and dexterity of his life,--he who moveth more in mind than in body."[ ] we hope we have done something to rescue these essays from the oblivion into which they have fallen, to show the social background from which they emerged, and to reproduce their enthusiasm for self-improvement and their high-hearted contempt for an easy, indolent life. * * * * * bibliography i chronological table of advice to travellers, - . gratarolus, guilhelmus. _authore gratarolo guilhelmo, philosopho et medico, de regimine iter agentium, vel equitum, vel peditum, vel navi, vel curru rheda ... viatoribus et peregrinatoribus quibusque utilissimi libri duo, nunc primum editi._ basileæ, . - . cecil, william, lord burghley: _letter to edward manners, earl of rutland_, among state papers, elizabeth, - , vol. lxxvii. no. . . turlerus, hieronymus. _de peregrinatione et agro neapolitano, libri ii. scripti ab hieronymo turlero. omnibus peregrinantibus utiles ac necessarii; ac in corum gratiam nunc primum editi._ argentorati, anno . ---- _the traveiler of jerome turler, divided into two bookes, the first conteining a notable discourse of the maner and order of traveiling oversea, or into strange and foreign countries, the second comprehending an excellent description of the most delicious realme of naples in italy; a work very pleasant for all persons to reade, and right profitable and necessarie unto all such as are minded to traveyll._ london, . . pyrckmair, hilarius. _commentariolus de arte apodemica seu vera peregrinandi ratione. auctore hilario pyrckmair landishutano._ ingolstadii, . . zvingerus, theodor. _methodus apodemica in eorum gratiam qui cum fructu in quocunq; tandem vitæ genere peregrinari cupiunt, a theod. zvingero. basiliense typis delineata, et cum aliis tum quatuor præsertim athenarum vivis exemplis illustrata._ basileæ, . . bourne, william. _a booke called the treasure for traveilers, devided into five parts, contayning very necessary matters for all sortes of travailers, eyther by sea or by lande._ london, . . ---- _a regiment for the sea, containing verie necessarie matters for all sortes of men and travailers: netyly corrected and amended by thomas hood_. london, . . lipsius, justus. _de ratione cum fructu peregrinandi, et præsertim in italia_. (in epistola ad ph. lanoyum.) justi lipsii _epistolæ selectæ: fol. . parisiis, . . sidney. sir philip sidney to his brother robert sidney when he was on his travels; advising him what circuit to take; how to behave, what authors to read, etc. in _letters and memorials of state_, collected by arthur collins. london, . . pighius (stephanus vinandus). _hercules prodicius, seu principis juventutis vita et peregrinatio_. ex officina c. plantini. antverpiæ, . . meierus, albertus. _methodus describendi regimes, urbes et arces, et quid singulis locis proecipue in peregrinationibus homines nobiles ac docti animadvertere, observare et annotare debeant_. per m. albertum meierum. helmstadii, . . ---- _certaine briefe and speciall instructions for gentlemen, merchants, students, souldiers, marriners ... employed in services abroad or anie way occasioned to converse in the kingdomes and governementes of forren princes_. london, . (translation by philip jones.) . stradling, sir john. _a direction for travailers taken out of justus lipsius and enlarged for the behoofe of the right honorable lord, the young earle of bedford, being now ready to travell_. london, . . devereux, robert, earl of essex (or bacon ?). harl. ms. , p. . _profitable instructions_, for roger manners, earl of rutland. (?). davison, william (secretary of queen elizabeth.) harl. ms. . _instructions for travel_. . loysius, georgius. _g. loysii curiovoitlandi pervigilium mercurii, quo agitur de præstantissimis peregrinantis virtutibus_, ... curiæ variscorum, . . dallington, sir robert. _a method for travell, shewed by taking the view of france as it stoode in the yeare of our lord_, . n.d., london, printed by thomas creede. c. . _a true description and direction of what is most worthy to be seen in all italy_. anon., n.d. _harleian miscellany_, vol. v. no. . . pitsius, joannes, _ioannis pitsii anglii sacræ theologiæ doctoris de peregrinatione libri septem_. dusseldorpii, . (?). neugebauer, salomon. _tractatus de peregrinatione ... historcis, ethicis, politicisque exemplis illustratus ... cum indice rerum et exemplorum_. basileæ. . palmer, thomas. _an essay of the meanes how to make our travailes into forraine countries the more profitable and honourable._ london, . . ranzovinus, henricus count. _methodus apodemica seu peregrinandi perlustrandique regiones, urbes et arces ratio_ ... (with a dedication by tob. kirchmair.) argentinæ, . . greville, fulke, lord brooke. _a letter of travell_, to his cousin greville varney. (in _certaine learned and elegant works of the right honorable fulke, lord brooke_. london, .) . kirchnerus, hermannus. _an oration made by hermannus kirchnerus ... concerning this subject; that young men ought to travell into forraine countryes, and all those that desire the praise of learning and atchieving worthy actions both at home and abroad._ (in _coryat's crudities_, london, .) . sincerus, iodocus. _itinerarium galliæ, ita accommodatum, ut eius ductu mediocri tempore tota gallia obiri, anglia et belgium adiri possint; nec bis terve ad eadem loca rediri oporteat; notatis cuiusque loci, quas vocant, deliciis_. lugduni, . . moryson, fynes. _of travel in general; of precepts for travellers_. (in the _itinerary_ of fynes moryson. ed. glasgow, .) . peacham, henry. _the compleat gentleman_. ed., reprinted in tudor and stuart library by clarendon press, with introduction by g.s. gordon. oxford, . . bacon, francis. _of travel._ in _works_. ed. james spedding. london, . . erpenius, thomas. _de peregrinatione gallica utiliter instituenda tractatus._ lugduni batavorum, . . devereux, robert, earl of essex. _profitable instructions: describing what speciall observations are to be taken by travellers in all nations, states and countries; pleasant and profitable. by the three much admired, robert, late earl of essex, sir philip sidney and secretary davison_. london, . . wotton, sir henry. letter of instruction to john milton, about to travel. in _life and letters_, ed. by pearsall smith. oxford, . . _le voyage de france, dresse pour l'instruction et commodité tant des françois, que des estrangers_. paris, . (du verdier.) . howell, james. _instructions for forreine travell, shewing by what cours, and in what compasse of time, one may take an exact survey of the kingdomes and states of christendome, and arrive to the practicall knowledge of the languages, to good purpose._ london, . . evelyn, john. _the state of france as it stood in the ixth yeer of this present monarch, lewis xiiii_. written to a friend by j. e. london, . (discussion of travel in the preface.) . zeiler, martin. _fidus achates qui itineris sui socium ... non tantum de locorum ... situ, verum etiam, quid in plerisque spectatu ... dignum occurrat ... monet ... nunc e germanico latinus factus a quodam apodemophilo_.... ulmæ, . . osborn, francis. _travel_, in _advice to a son_. ed. e. a. parry. london, . . howell, james. _a new english grammar, whereunto is annexed a discours or dialog containing a perambulation of spain and portugall which may serve for a direction how to travell through both countreys_. london, . _c_. . hyde, edward, earl of clarendon. _a dialogue concerning education_ in _a collection of several tracts_. london, . . gerbier, balthazar, knight; master of the ceremonies to king charles the first. _subsidium peregrinantibus or an assistance to a traveller in his convers ... directing him, after the latest mode, to the greatest honour, pleasure, security, and advantage in his travells. written to a princely traveller for a vade mecum_. oxford, . : lassels, richard: _the voyage of italy or a compleat journey through italy.... with instructions concerning travel_; by richard lassels, gent., who travelled through italy five times, as tutor to several of the english nobility and gentry. never before extant. newly printed at paris and are to be sold in london by john starkey. . . ---- _a letter of advice to a young gentleman leaving the university, concerning his behavior and conversation in the world_, by r(ichard) l(assels). dublin, . . leigh, edward. _three diatribes or discourses; first of travel, or a guide for travellers into foreign parts; secondly, of money or coyns; thirdly, of measuring the distance betwixt place and place_. london, . . gailhard, j. (who hath been tutor abroad to severall of the nobility and gentry.) _the compleat gentleman: or directions for the education of youth as to their breeding at home and travelling abroad_. london, . . locke, john. _some thoughts concerning education_. fourth edition. london, . . _a letter of advice to a young gentleman of an honorable family, now in his travels beyond the seas: for his more safe and profitable conduct in the three great instances, of study, moral deportment and religion_. in three parts. by a true son of the church of england. london, . . carr, will, late consul for the english nation in amsterdam. _remarks of the government of severall parts of germaniæ, denmark ... but more particularly the united provinces, with some few directions how to travell in the states dominions_. amsterdam, . . ---- _the travellers guide and historians faithful companion_. [london? ?] . misson, maximilian. _a new voyage to italy: with a description of the chief towns ... together with useful instructions for those who shall travel thither. done into english, and adorn'd with figures_. vols. london, . * * * * * ii travels, memoirs, letters and biographies, - , used in the foregoing chapters ascham, roger. _works_. ed. giles. london, . aubrey, john. _letters written by eminent persons in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries_; and _lives of eminent men_. london, . d'aunoy, marie catherine jumelle de berneville, comtesse. _relation du voyage d'espagne._ a la haye, . ---- _the ingenious and diverting letters of the lady ... travels into spain_. nd ed. london, . belvoir mss. (hist. mss. comm. th report; appendix, part iv. mss. of the duke of rutland preserved at belvoir castle.) bercherus, gulielmus. _epitaphia et inscriptiones lugubres_. a gulielmo berchero cum in italia, animi causa, peregrinaretur, collecta. excusum londini, . ---- _the nobility of women_. ed. warwick bond for roxburghe club, . (written .) bisticci, vespasiano da. _vite di uomini illustri del secolo xv_. in _collezione di opere inediti o rare_. firenze, . bodley, sir thomas. _life, written by himself_. privately reprinted for john lane. london, . boorde, andrew. _the first boke of the introduction of knowledge, made by andrew boorde, of physycke doctor_; also _a compendyous regyment, or a dyetary of helth, made in montpelier, compyled by andrew boorde, of physycke doctour_. ed. f.j. furnivail, for the early english text society. extra series, ix.-x. london, - . botero, giovanni. _the travellers breviat, or an historicall description of the most famous kingdomes in the world_. translated into english. london, . ---- _a treatise, concerning the causes of the magnificencie and greatness of cities_, ... now done into english by robert peterson of lincolnes inne, gent. london, . ---- _relations of the most famous kingdoms and common-weales through the world_.... london, . (translated by robert johnson.) bourdeille, pierre de, seigneur de brantome. _memoires, *... contenans les anecdotes de la cour de france, sous les rois henri ii., françois ii., henri iii. et iv._ a. leyde, . boyle, robert. _works._ vol. i. (_life_) and v. (_letters_). london, . breton, nicholas. _works._ ed. a.b. grosart. london, . ---- _grimello's fortunes, with his entertainment in his travaile_. london, . browne, sir thomas. _works._ ed. simon wilkin. london, . (vol. i., containing _life and correspondence_.) burnet, gilbert. _some letters containing an account of what seemed most remarkable in switzerland, italy, etc._ (written to the hon. robert boyle.) printed . ---- _three letters concerning the present state of italy_, written in the year . printed . camden, william. _history or annals of england._ in _a complete history of england._ vol. ii. . carew, george. _a relation of the state of france, with the character of henry iv. and the principal persons of that court._ printed by thomas birch. london, . cavendish, george. _life of thomas wolsey_ (written c. ). printed by william morris at the kelmscott press, . cavendish, margaret, duchess of newcastle. _life of ... william cavendishe, duke of newcastle._ london, . ---- _life of ... the duke of newcastle_, to which is added "_the true relation of my birth, breeding and life_." ed. c.h. firth. london, . caxton, william. dialogues in french and english. ed. from text printed about , by henry bradley, for the early english text society. extra series, lxxix. london, . chapman, george. _monsieur d'olive_, in _the comedies and tragedies of george chapman_. vols. london, . clenardus, nicolaus. _epistolarum libri duo._ antverpiæ, ex officina christophori plantini, . _collectanea: first series._ ed. c.r.l. fletcher, for the oxford historical society. vol. v. oxford, . contarini, gaspar. _the commonwealth and government of venice_, written by the cardinall gaspar contareno, and translated out of italian into english by lewes lewkenor, esquire, london, . coryat, thomas. _coryat's crudities hastily gobled up in five moneths travells in france, savoy, italy, rhetia, commonly called the grisons country, helvetia alias switzerland, some parts of high germany and the netherlands; newly digested in the hungry aire of odcombe in the county of somerset, and now dispersed to the nourishment of the travelling members of this kingdome._ london, . reprint by james maclehose & sons. glasgow, . dallington, robert. _a survey of the great dukes state of tuscany in the yeare of our lord ._ printed for edward blount at london, . _description contenant les antiquitez, fondations et singularitez des plus celebres villes, chasteaux et places remarquables du royaume de france, avec les choses plus memorables advenues en iciluy_ (par f. des rues). constance, . dudithius, andreas. _vita reginaldi poli._ venetiis, . erasmus, desiderius. _opera omnia._ lugduni batavorum, . (tomus tertius qui complectitur epistolas.) ---- _modus orandi deum._ basileæ, . ---- _familiarium colloquiorum des. erasmi roterodami opus._ basileæ, . evelyn, john. _diary and correspondence._ ed. william bray. london, . fénélon, de la mothe. _correspondance diplomatique._ tome sixième. paris et londres, . ferrar, nicholas. two lives: by his brother john and by doctor jebb. ed. j.e.b. mayor. . florio, giovanni. _florio, his firste frutes: which yeelde familiar speech, merie proverbes, wittie sentences, and golden sayings. also a perfect induction to the italian and english tongues as in the table appeareth.... imprinted by thomas dawson for thomas woodcocke_. london, . ---- _florios second frutes to be gathered of twelve trees, of divers but delightsome tastes to the tongues of italians and englishmen._ ... london, . france: _the survey or topographical description of france; with a new mappe.... collected out of sundry approved authors; very amply, truly and historically digested for the pleasure of those who desire to be thoroughly acquainted in the state of the kingdome and dominion of france._ london, . ---- _the view of france._ printed by symon stafford. london, . fuller, thomas. _the church-history of britain from the birth of jesus christ untill the year mdcxlviii. endeavoured by thomas fuller._ london, . ---- _history of the worthies of england._ vols, london, . gascoigne, george. _the posies._ ed. j.w. cunliffe. cambridge university press, . gerbier, balthazar. _the interpreter of the academie for forrain languages and all noble sciences and exercises._ . ---- _the first lecture of an introduction to cosmographie: being a description of all the world. read publiquely at sir balthazar gerbier's academy._ london, . ---- _sir balthazar gerbier's project for an academy royal in england._ no. xxi. in _collectanea curiosa_. oxford, . gilbert, sir humphrey. _queene elizabethes achademy._ ed. by f.j. furnivall for the early english text society. extra series viii. london, . goodall, baptist. _the tryall of travell._ london, . googe, barnaby. _eglogs, epytaphes and sonettes._ . ---- _the zodiake of life written by ... pallingenius ... newly translated into englishe verse by barnabe googe._ london, . greene, robert. _greene's mourning garment, the carde of fancie_, and _mamillia_; in _life and complete works in prose and verse_. vols. ed. a.b. grosart for the huth library, - . greville, fulke, lord brooke. _life of the renowned sir philip sidney.... written by ... his companion and friend._ london, . ---- _life of sir philip sidney_. tudor and stuart library. oxford, . _guide des chemins, pour aller et venir par tous les pays et contrées du royaume de france, avec les noms des fleuves et rivieres qui courent parmy lesdicts pays_. paris ( ). (par c. estienne.) hall, arthur. _a letter sent by f.a. touching the proceedings in a private quarrell and unkindnesse between arthur hall and melchisedich mallerie, gentleman, to his very friend l.b. being in italy_. (printed in _antiqua anglicana_, vol. i. london, .) hall, edward. _life of henry viii_. reprint with an introduction by charles whibley. london, . hall, joseph. _quo vadis? a just censure of travell as it is undertaken by the gentlemen of our nation_. london, . reprinted in _works_. ed. p. wynter, for the clarendon press. oxford, . hamilton, le comte antoine. _memoires du comte de grammont_. nouvelle edition augmentée de notes et eclairissements necessaires par m. horace walpole. imprimée a strawberry hill, . _harleian miscellany_, vol. ii. _a late voyage to holland, with brief relations of the transactions at the hague: also remarks on the manners and customs, nature and comical humours of the people.... written by an english gentleman, attending the court of the king of great britain_. . ---- vol. iii. _a relation of such things as were observed to happen in the journey of the rt. hon. chas. earl of nottingham, lord high admiral of england, his highness's ambassador to the king of spain_. by robert treswell, esq., somerset-herald. . harrison, william. _a description of england_ in holinshed's _chronicles_. ed. by l. withington, with introduction by f.j. furnivall. camelot series. ( ?) hatfield mss. calendar of mss. of the most hon. the marquis of salisbury, k.g., preserved at hatfield house. hentznerus, paulus. _itinerarium germaniæ, galliæ, angliæ, italiæ_. norinbergæ, . herbert, edward, lord, of cherbury. _satyra secunda, of travellers from paris_. to ben jonson. _in occasional verses of edward lord herbert, baron of cherbury_. london, . ---- _autobiography_. ed. sidney lee. london, . heylyn, peter. _a full relation of two journeys; the one into the mainland of france, the other into some of the adjacent ilands_. london, . ----_france painted to the life by a learned and impartial hand_. the second edition. london, . hoby, thomas. _the travels and life of sir thomas hoby. written by himself, - _. ed. edgar powell for camden society, third series, vol. iv. . ---- _the book of the courtier_. introduction by walter raleigh in tudor translations. ed. w.e. henley. vol. xxiii. london, . howard, james. _the english mounsieur_. london, . howell, james. _epistolæ ho-elianæ. the familiar letters of james horvell_. ed. j. jacobs. (first edition ). ----_a survey of the signorie of venice, of her admired policy and method of government,... with a cohortation to all christian princes to resent her dangerous condition at present_. london, . _information for pilgrims unto the holy land, c. _. ed. e. gordon duff. london, . jonson, ben. _works_. ed. gifford. vols. . la noue, françois de. _discours politiques et militaires_. basle, . leland, john. _commentarii de scriptoribus britannicis_. oxonii ex theatro sheldoniano, . lemnius, levinus. _a touchstone of complexions. englished by t. newton_. ( .) lewkenor, samuel, gentleman. _a discourse not altogether unprofitable nor unpleasant for such as are desirous to know the situation and customs of forraine cities without travelling to see them; containing a discourse of all those citties wherein doe flourish at this day priveleged universities_. london, . lloyd, david. _state-worthies._ london, . locke, john. _life and letters, with extracts from his journals and common-place books_; by lord king. london, . _lismore papers:_ ed. a.b. grosart. first series, vol. v.; second series, vols. iv. and v. . lyly, john. _euphues and his ephæbus_, in _euphues; the anatomy of wit_, in _works_. ed. r. warwick bond. oxford, . markham, gervase. _a discourse of horsemanshippe._ london, . ---- _the gentlemans academie; or the booke of saint albans;... reduced into a better method by g.m._ london, . marston, john. _works._ ed. a.h. bullen. london, . ---- _scourge of villainie._ london, . milton, john. _defensio secunda pro populo anglicano, contra alexandrum morum ecclesiasten._ amstelodami, . (_opera omnia latina._) montfaucon, bernard de. _the travels of the learned father montfaucon from paris thro italy (in - ), made english from the paris edition._ london, . munday, anthony. _the english romayne life written by a. munday, sometime the popes schollar in the seminarie among them._ london, . munster, sebastian. _cosmographiæ universalis libri vi._ basileæ, . nash, thomas. _works._ ed. grosart. vols. - . ---- _the unfortunate traveller, or the life of jacke wilton._ london, . negri, cesare. _nuove inventioni di balli: opera vaghissima di cesare negri milanese detto il trombone, famoso e eccellente professore di ballare._ milano, . north, the hon. roger. _lives of the norths_, together with the autobiography of the author; ed. a. jessopp. london, . _original letters illustrative of english history_ ... from autographs in the british museum. with notes by henry ellis, keeper of mss. in the british museum. london, . overbury, sir thomas. _sir thomas overbury, his wife, with additions of new newes, and divers more characters (never before annexed) written by himself and other learned gentlemen._ the tenth impression augmented. london, . ----_sir thomas overbury, his observations in his travailes upon the state of the xvii. provinces as they stood anno dom. ._ [london], . owen, lewis. _the running register: recording a true relation of the state of the english colledges, seminaries and cloysters in all forraine parts_. london, . pace, richard. _richardi pacei invictissimi regis angliæ primarii secretarii, eiusque apud elvetios oratoris, de fructu qui ex doctrina percipitur, liber_. in inclyta basilea ( ). paulet, sir amias. copy-book of sir amias paulet's letters written during his embassy to france, a.d. . from ms. in the bodleian, edited by o. ogle for the roxburghe club. . penn, william. _an account of w. penn's travails in holland and germany anno mdclxxvii. for the service of the gospel of christ, by way of journal. containing also divers letters and epistles unto several great and eminent persons whilst there_. london, . pilgrim-book of the ancient english hospice attached to the english college at rome from - , and diary of the same college - , printed by henry foley in _records of the english province of the society of jesus_, vol. vi. pluvinel, antoine. _le maneige royal ou lon peut remarquer le defaut et la perfection du chevalier, en tous les exercices de cet art, digne de princes, fait et pratiqué en l'instruction du roy par antoine pluvinel son escuyer principal, conseiller en son conseil d'estat, son chambellan ordinaire, et sous-gouverneur de sa majesté. le tout gravè et representé en grandes figures de taille douce par crispian de pas, flamand, à l'honneur du roy, et à la memoire de monsieur de pluvinel_. paris, . raymond, john. _il mercurio italico, communicating a voyage made through italy in the yeares and by j.r., gent_. london, . réaux, tallemant des. _historiettes_. paris, . sandys, george. _a relation of a journey begun an. dom. . foure bookes, containing a description of the turkish empire of aegypt, of the holy land, of the remote parts of italy, and the ilands adjoyning_. london, . schottus, franciscus. _itinerarii italiæ rerumque romanarum libri tres a franc. schotto i.c. ex antiquis novisque scriptoribus, iis editi qui romam anno iubileii sacro visunt. ad robertum bellarminum s.r.e. card. ampliss_. antverpiæ, ex officina plantiniana, apud joannem moretum. anno sæculari sacro, . shirley, james. _dramatic works and poems_. ed. a. dyce. vols. london, . sidney, sir philip. _correspondence with hubert languet_, collected by s.a. pears. london, . smith, richard. sloane ms. , containing the journal of r. smith, gentleman, who accompanied sir edward unton on his travels into italy in . spelman, william. _a dialogue or confabulation between two travellers which treateth of civile and pollitike gouvernment in dyvers kingdomes and contries_. ms. c. , edited by j.e.l. pickering. london, . stanhope, philip, second earl of chesterfield. _letters to several celebrated individuals of the time of charles ii., james ii., william iii. and queen anne, with some of their replies._ london, . state papers, domestic, - . vols. xviii.-xx. _passim_, in the public record office, london. (for correspondence of sir william cecil with his son thomas cecil in paris.) stow, john. _a survey of london_. reprinted from the text of and edited by c.l. kingsford. oxford, . strype, john. _life of the learned sir thomas smith, secretary of state of king edward the sixth, and queen elizabeth_. oxford, . ----_annals of the reformation_. oxford, . ----_life of edmund grindal_. oxford, . ----_life of sir john cheke_. oxford, . talbot mss., in the college of arms, london. vol. p. fol. . (for correspondence of gilbert talbot in italy in .) taylor, john. _all the works of john taylor the water poet. being sixty-three in number, collected into one volume by the author_. london, . temple, sir william. _observations upon the united provinces and the netherlands._ london, . thomas, william. _the historie of italie, a boke excedyng profitable to be redde; because it intreateth of the estate of many and divers commonweales, how they have been, and now be governed_. . ----_the pilgrim_, a dialogue on the life and actions of king henry the eighth. ed. j.a. froude. london, . warner, william. _pan his syrinx, compact of seven reedes; including in one, seven tragical and comicall arguments_. london ( ). webbe, edward. _travailes_ ( ). ed. e. arber. london, . weldon, sir anthony. _the court and character of king james: written and taken by sir a. w.(eldon)_. london, . wey, william. itineraries of william wey, fellow of eton college, to jerusalem, a.d. and a.d. ; and to saint james of compostella, a.d. : from the ms. in the bodleian. printed for the roxburghe club. london, . whetstone, george. _a remembrance of the wel imployed life and goodly end of george gaskoigne esquire, who deceased at stalmford in lincolneshire the of october . the reporte of geor. whetstone gent. an eye witness of his godly and charitable end in this world_. imprinted at london for edward a(?)ggas, dwelling in paules churchyard and are there to be solde. [ .] wilson, thomas. _the arte of rhetorique, for the use of all such as are studious of eloquence, sette forth in english, by thomas wilson_. . ----reprint of edition, edited by g.h. mair for the tudor and stuart library. oxford, . _winwood memorials_. memorials of affairs of state in the reigns of queen elizabeth and king james i., collected from the original papers of the rt. hon. sir ralph winwood, kt. vols. london, . wood, anthony à. _athenæ oxonienses_. ed. bliss. london, . * * * * * iii critical or other works which have been useful in this study addison, joseph. _remarks on several parts of italy ... in the years , , _. london, . ----_a letter from italy to the right honourable charles, lord halifax, by mr joseph addison, _. printed london, . andrich, i.a. _de natione anglica et scotia iuristarum universitatis patavinæ ab an. mccxxii. p. ch. n. usque ad an. mdccxxxviii._ præfatus est blasius brugi. patavii excudebant fratres gallina mdcccxcii. avenel, le vicomte g. d'. _la noblesse française sous richelieu_. paris, . babeau, albert. _les voyageurs en france depuis la renaissance j'usqu' a la révolution_. paris, . bapst, edmund. _deux gentilshommes-poetes de la cour de henry viii_. paris, . baretti, joseph. _an account of the manners and customs of italy: with observations on the mistakes of some travellers with regard to that country_. london, . ----_an appendix to the account of italy, in answer to samuel sharp, esq_ london, . _bear-leaders, the: or modern travelling stated in a proper light, in a letter to the rt. honorable the earl of_ ... london, . beckmann, johann. _litteratur der älteren reisebeschreibungen_. gottingen, . ----physikalisch-ökonomische bibliothek vorinn von den neuesten büchern, welche die naturgeschichte, naturlehre und die land- und stadtwirthschaft betreffen, zuverlässige und volständige nachrichten ertheilet werden, von johann beckmann ... ordentl. profess. der ökonomischen wissenschaften. band. gottingen, . berchtold, count leopold. _an essay to direct and extend the inquirie of patriotic travellers; with further observations on the means of preserving the life, health, and property of the inexperienced in their journies by land and sea. also a series of questions, interesting to society and humanity, necessary to be proposed for solution to men of all ranks and employments and of all nations and governments, comprising the most serious points relative to the objects of all travels._ london, . birch, thomas. _the court and times of james the first._ london, . ---- _the court and times of charles the first._ london, . ---- _memoirs of the reign of queen elizabeth from till , from the papers of anthony bacon, esq._ london, . ---- _life of henry, prince of wales._ london, . bonnaffé, edmund. _voyages et voyageurs de la renaissance._ paris, . bourciez, eduard. _les moeurs polies et la littérature de cour sous henri ii._ paris, . burgon, j.w. _life and times of sir thomas gresham._ london, . carte, thomas. _life of james, duke of ormond._ vols. oxford, . congreve, william. _comedies._ vols. london, . coriat junior (sam paterson, bookseller). _another traveller: or cursory remarks and critical observations made upon a journey through part of the netherlands in the latter end of the year ._ vols. london, . cust, mrs henry. _gentlemen errant._ london, . devereux, w.b. _lives and letters of the devereux, earls of essex._ vols. london, . dodd, charles. _church history of england from the commencement of the sixteenth century to the revolution in ._ ed. by rev. m.a. tierney. vols. london, . einstein, lewis. _the italian renaissance in england._ columbia university press, new york, . feuillerat, albert. _john lyly._ cambridge university press, cambridge, . fielding, henry. _journal of a voyage to lisbon._ ed. by austin dobson. chiswick press, . foote, samuel. _dramatic works._ vols. london, . gibbon, edward. _autobiography._ ed. by john murray, with an introduction by the earl of sheffield. london, . gray, thomas. _gray and his friends; letters and relics in great part hitherto unpublished_. ed. by d.c. tovey. cambridge university press, cambridge, . ----_letters of thomas gray_. ed. by d.c. tovey. vols. london, . jöcher, christian gottlieb. _gelehrten-lexicon._ leipsig, delmerhorst and bremen, - . jusserand, j.j. _les sports et jeux d'exercice dans l'ancienne france_. paris, . knight, samuel. _the life of dr john colet_. oxford, . lodge, edmund. _illustrations of british history_. vols. london, . mathew, a.h. _the life of sir tobie matthew_, by his kinsman. london, . maugham, h. neville. _the book of italian travel_. london, . montagu, lady mary wortley. _letters and works_. ed. by her great-grandson lord wharncliffe, with additions by w. moy thomas. vols. london, . nares, edward. _memoirs of lord burghley_. vols. . nicolas, sir harris. _memoirs of the life and times of sir christopher hatton, k.g._ london, . nolhac, pierre de. _erasme en italie_. paris, . nugent, thomas. _the grand tour_. vols. london, . _physikalisch-ökonomischer bibliothek, xxi. vide_ beckmann, johann. pinkerton, john. _voyages and travels_. vol. . london, . poole, r., doctor of physick. _a journey from london to france and holland; or the traveller's useful vade mecum.... wherein is also occasionally contained many moral reflections and useful observations_. london, . ----_the beneficient bee; or traveller's companion, containing each day's observations in a voyage from london to gibraltar ... interspersed with many useful observations and occasional remarks._ london, . rashdall, h. _the universities of europe in the middle ages_. oxford, . rye, w.b. _england as seen by foreigners in the days of elizabeth and james the first_. london, . sauval, henri. _histoire et recherches des antiquités de la ville de paris._ paris, . seebohm, frederic. _the oxford reformers._ london, . (seward, william.) _anecdotes of some distinguished persons, chiefly of the present and two preceding centuries._ vols. london, . sharp, samuel. _letters from italy, describing the customs and manners of that country in the years - . to which is annexed, an admonition to gentlemen who pass the alps in their tour through italy._ london, . ---- _a view of the customs, manners, drama, etc., of italy as they are described in the frustra letteraria; and in the account of italy in english written by mr baretti; compared with the letters from italy written by mr sharp._ london, . smith, edward. _foreign visitors in england._ london, . smollett, tobias. _works._ ed. w.e. henley. london, . stanhope, philip dormer, earl of chesterfield. _letters to his son._ published by mrs eugenia stanhope from the originals now in her possession. vols. london, . thicknesse, philip. _observations on the customs and manners of the french nation in a series of letters in which that nation is vindicated from the misrepresentations of some late writers._ london, . _the travellers. a satire._ london, . verney, margaret. _memoirs of the verney family during the commonwealth, - ._ vol. iii. london, . voltaire (francis marie arouet). _lettres philosophiques._ ed. by gustave lanson. paris, . walpole, horace, fourth earl of orford. _letters._ ed. by peter cunningham. vols. london, . * * * * * index academies, - ; in france, - ; proposals for academies in england, - ; objections to such academies, - acworth, george, addison, joseph, advice to travellers, - , ; elizabethan, ; characteristics of renaissance books of, - ; admonitory side of, , - ; for the country gentleman, ; guide-books of the th century, , agricola, rudolf, alps, the, , ambassadors, training for, - , - , ; troubles of, - , amorphus, in _cynthia's revels_, xii amsterdam, art in spain, ; attention to in th century, - arundel, earl of, see howard ascham, roger, , , , , , , bacon, lady anne, - anthony, - francis, note, : _of travel_, sir nicholas, barker, william, , _bear-leaders,_ the, becket, thomas à, bedell, william, bedford, earl of, see russell bellay, joachim du, bembo, pietro, berchtold, leopold, count, _essay to direct and extend the inquiries of patriotic travellers_, - berneville, marie catherine jumelle de, comtesse d'aunoy, bethune, maximilien de, duc de sully, blotz, hugo, bobadil, captain, in _every man in his humour_, bodley, sir thomas, boleyn, george, viscount rochford, , boorde, andrew, borssele, anne, lady of veer, bothwell, earl of, see hepburn bourdeille, pierre de, seigneur de brantome, bourne, william, _treasure for travellers_, bowyer, sir henry, boyle, richard, first earl of cork, and his sons robert and francis, - brandon, charles, duke of suffolk, brantome, see bourdeille bras-de-fer, see la noue browne, sir thomas, , note; his son at padua, bryan, sir francis, bucer, martin, , buckingham, duke of, see villiers burghley, lord, see cecil camden, thomas, _history of england_, carew, sir nicholas, carlton, sir dudley, cavendish, margaret, duchess of newcastle, william, duke of newcastle, cecil, anne, countess of oxford, , robert, earl of salisbury, , , , thomas, earl of exeter, , note, , , note william, baron of burghley, l , , , , - , william, lord cranbourne, , william, lord roos, - , chamberlain, john, , charles i., , charles ii., , , chaucer, geoffrey, chesterfield, earls of, see stanhope chichester, bishop of, see montague clarendon, earl of, see hyde clenardus, nicolaus, cleves, charles frederick, duke of, clothes, - ; french, , , , , , , ; italian, , colbert, jean baptiste, marquis de seignelay, colet, john, compostella, st james of, cork, earl of, see boyle cornwallis, sir charles, - coryat, thomas, , note, cost, see expense cottington, sir francis, cranbourne, lord, see cecil cranmer, george, , , creswell, joseph, jesuit, crichton, james, "the admirable," curiosities, - , customs (_droit d'aubaine_) in spain, dallington, sir robert, _method for travell_, - , , - , , ; _survey of tuscany_, , ; _view of france,_ , dancing, - dangers of travel, , - , , - , d'aunoy, see berneville davison, francis, - , , william, , delahaute, antoine, _de peregrinatione_, , - , derby, earl of, see stanley descartes, rené, deschamps, eustache, devereux, robert, second earl of essex, , , robert, third earl of essex, drake, sir francis, dudley, sir robert, dyer, sir edward, education, - ; see also academies, universities, scholars, ambassadors, governors, humanism edward vi., , einstein, lewis, _italian renaissance in england_, ellis, sir henry, englishmen, their special reason for travelling, ; peculiarities, ; italianate, ; prejudices against foreigners, - , - erasmus, desiderius, , , essex, earls of, see devereux evelyn, john, , , , , expenses of travel, , - fairfax, colonel thomas, faubert, mons., fencing, ferrar, nicholas, fielding, henry, finch, sir john, fitzroy, henry, duke of richmond, fleetwood, william, recorder of london, , flemming, robert, florio, john, _second frutes_, _flutter, sir fopling_, food, , - foote, samuel, _the englishman in paris,_ forbes, james, - foreigners, english prejudice against, - , - fox, richard, bishop of winchester, france, academies in, , - ; affectations learned in, , , , , - ; arbiter of fashion, , , ; gentlemen of, , , , ; attraction for tourists, - ; loses some of its charm, francis i., free, john, gailhard j., gardiner, stephen, bishop of winchester, george i., gerbier, balthazar, - ; _subsidium peregrinantibus_, germans, energetic travellers, ; fynes moryson's preference for, ; slow to learn languages, note germany, attraction of, ; women of, ; manners of, , ; ascham's _report of germany_, gilbert, sir humphrey, gloucester, duke of, see henry governors, - , - , , , - grand tour, the, origin of the term, - gray, thomas, - greek, , , , greene, robert, , ; _greene's mourning garment_, ; _quip for an upstart courtier_, greville, fulke, lord brooke, , grey, william, grimani, dominic, the cardinal, grocyn, william, grosvenor, sir thomas, guide-books, see advice to travellers gunthorpe, john, hall, arthur, - edward, joseph, , harington, sir john, , , harrison, william, harvey, gabriel, hatton, sir christopher, henri iii., henri iv., - henry vi., henry viii., , , , , , henry, prince of wales, son of james i., , note, , henry, duke of gloucester, son of charles i., hepburn, francis stewart, earl of bothwell, hertford, earl of, see seymour hoby, sir thomas, , - , holland, - , horace, , howard, thomas, fourth duke of norfolk, thomas, second earl of arundel, howell, james, - , , , ; _instructions for forreine travell_, , - , ; _perambulations of spain_, humanists, their sociability, , humanism, hyde, edward, earl of clarendon, , , - ; _dialogue of the want of respect due to age_, _il cortegiano_, _informacon for pylgrymes unto the holy land_, - inns, , , , - inquisition, - _passim_ instructions for travellers, see advice insurance, italianate englishmen, - _passim_, - , italy, attraction of, - , , , , , ; evils of, , , , - ; universities of, - , - jaffa, port, , james i., , , jerusalem, jesuits, - _passim_ johnson, samuel, jones, philip, jonson, ben, ; _cynthia's revels_, xii; preface to _coryat's crudities_, ; _every man out of his humour_, note; _volpone, or the fox_, - journals, - , jusserand, j.j., killigrew, sir thomas, - kinaston, sir francis, kirchnerus, hermannus, ; _oration in praise of travel_, , , , langton, thomas, bishop of winchester, languages, - , , - , la noue, françois de, lassels, richard, , ; _the voyage of italy_, - , latimer, william, leicester's, the earl of, son, see dudley leigh, edward, lewknor, thomas, licences for travel, - lichefield, edward, lily, william, george, linacre, thomas, lipsius, justus, , , , lister, martin, locke, john, , - lodgings, with an ambassador, - ; with a bookseller, ; with a scholar, ; in spain, - ; see also inns lorkin, thomas, louis xiii., , louis xiv., loysius, georgius, _pervigilium mercurii_, - lupset, thomas, machiavelli, niccolo, , maidwell, lewis, mallerie, melchisedech, - manners, edward, third earl of rutland, , , manutius, aldus, mason, sir john, mathew, sir tobie, note meierus, albertus, _methodus describendi regiones_, milton, john, , misson, maximilian, , ; _a new voyage to italy_, mole, john, - montagu, richard, bishop of chichester, morison, sir richard, moryson, fynes, , ; _precepts for travellers_, - murder, , note nash, thomas, newcastle, duchess and earl of, see cavendish norfolk, duke of, see howard north, dudley, third lord north, _nuove inventioni di balli_, osborn, francis, , oxford, earls of, see vere pace, richard, padua, pole's household at, ; university of, - , , palmer, sir thomas, "the traveller," died , sir thomas, died in spain , paris, life of englishmen at, - ; medical students at, ; see also france passports, see licences paulet, sir amias, peacham, henry, , peregrine, in _volpone, or the fox_, xii peter martyr, see vermigli pighius, stephanus vinandus, pignatelli, pilgrimages, - pirates, , plague, note, plantin, christophe, plato, , plegsis, armand du, cardinal richelieu, pluvinel, antoine, , , pole, reginald, cardinal, - politian (angelo ambrogini), , politick-would-be in _volpone, or the fox_, xii, pretender, the, pugliano, john pietro, pyrckmair, hilarious, - raleigh's, sir walter, son, ramus, peter, réaux, tallemant des, , religion, changes in, due to travel, , , - , - _passim_, , renaissance, enthusiasm for travel, sources of, , ; quest of virtù, richelieu, cardinal and duc de, see plessis riding, ; the great horse, , - _passim_, , robbers, , , , , , rochford, viscount, see boleyn rome, , , , , , ronsard, pierre de, roos, lord, see cecil russell, edward, third earl of bedford, rutland, earl of, see manners st john's college, cambridge, , st lieger, sir anthony, salisbury, earl of, see cecil scholars, - , , , - , schottus, franciscus, _itinerarium italiæ_, seignelay, marquis de, see colbert selling, william, , seymour, edward, earl of hertford, , shakespeare, william, _two gentlemen of verona_, xii; _taming of the shrew_, sharp, sam, ; _letters from italy,_ sickness, , , , , sidney, sir philip, , , , robert, earl of leicester, , , "sights," , smith, richard, , sir thomas, , smollett, tobias, ; _peregrine pickle,_ spain, gentlemen of, , ; discomforts of, - stanhope, philip, second earl of chesterfield, - , philip dormer, third earl of chesterfield, - , - stanley, william, ninth earl of derby, - starkey, thomas, stradling, sir john, , students, see universities sturmius, joannes, , sully, duc de, see bethune talbot, gilbert, seventh earl of shrewsbury, , , taylor, john, the water poet, temple, sir william, tennis, - thomas, william, _the historie of italie_, ; _the pilgrim_, throgmorton, michael, tiptoft, john, earl of worcester, transportation, - , , , , , tunstall, cuthbert, turlerus, hieronymus, , , ; _de peregrinatione_, , - _passim_, tutors, see governors ulysses, , universities, of italy, - , - , ; of spain, , ; of england, , , , , , , unton, sir edward, , ursinus, zacharias, valladolid, conversions at, , veer, lady of, see borssele venice, charm of, , , ; clothes from, : inns at, vere, edward de, seventeenth earl of oxford, - vermigli, john de, twelfth earl of oxford, peter, martyr, verney, edmund, villiers, george, duke of buckingham, , , wallis, john, walpole, horace, fourth earl of orford, , - richard, jesuit, , walsingham, sir francis, our lady of, wentworth, thomas, fourth baron wentworth, - williamson, sir joseph, wilson, thomas, _arte of rhetoric_, windebanke, sir thomas, wingfield, sir richard, sir robert, winsor, sir edward, winter, thomas, women, , , wood, anthony à, ix, worde, wynkin de, wotton, sir edward, , sir henry, , - , - , sir nicholas, wyatt, sir thomas, zouche, edward la, eleventh baron zouche of harringworth, , , zwingerus, theodor, , ; _methodus apodemica_, , * * * * * footnotes footnote : ben jonson, _cynthia's revels_, act i. sc. i. footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, i. , note. footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, i. , note. footnote : in c. , , and . footnote : _itineraries of william wey._ printed for the roxburghe club from the original ms. in the bodleian library, , pp. - . footnote : _familiarium colloquiorum opus._ basileæ, . _de utilitate colloquiorum, ad lectorem._ footnote : _ibid. de votis tentere susceptis_, fol. . footnote : _ibid. ad lectorem._ footnote : lord campbell, _lives of the lord chancellors_, i. . footnote : g. cavendish, _life of wolsey_. kelmscott press, . footnote : opera (mdcciii.), tom. iii., ep. xcii. (annæ bersalæ, principi verianæ). footnote : "quid cælum, quos agros, quas bibliothecas, quas ambulationes, quam mellitas eruditorum hominum confabulationes, quot mundi lumina ... reliquerim." ep. cxxxvi. footnote : ep. mclxxv. footnote : opera (mdcciii.) tom. ix. . footnote : ep. ccclxiii. footnote : _letters and papers of henry viii._, vol. iv., part i., no. . footnote : richard pace, _de fructu qui ex doctrina percipitur_ ( ), p. . footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, vol. i. . archbishop cranmer to henry viii. footnote : becatelli, _vita reginaldi poli._ latin version of andreas dudithius, venetiis, . footnote : ms. cotton, nero, b. f. . footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, vol. i. . footnote : wood's _athenæ oxonienses_, ed. bliss. footnote : _letters and papers of henry viii._, vol. ix., no. . footnote : j.s. brewer, _reign of henry viii._, vol. i. - . footnote : bapst, edmond, _deux gentilshommes-poetes de la cour de henry viii._, paris, , pp. , . footnote : _letters and papers of henry viii._, vol. ii., part i., no. . footnote : ibid., vol. xi., no. ; vol. xv., no. . footnote : d. lloyd, _state worthies_, vol. i. . footnote : _letters and papers of henry viii._, vol. v. p. . footnote : camden, _history of england_. footnote : in the _first boke of the introduction of knowledge_, . footnote : hall's _life of henry viii._, ed. whibley, , vol. i. . footnote : _the travels and life of sir thomas hoby_, ed. powell, , pp. , . footnote : ascham's _works_, ed. giles, vol. i., part ii., p. . footnote : i refer to the death of bucer and p. fagius. strype (_life of cranmer_, p. ) says that when they arrived in england in the month of april they "very soon fell sick: which gave a very unhappy stop to their studies. fagius on the fifth of november came to cambridge, and ten days afterwards died." footnote : _taming of the shrew_, act i. sc. ii. footnote : coryat's _crudities_, ed. , p. . footnote : ed. , p. . footnote : _works_, ed. grossart, ix. . in which the father of philador, among many other admonitions, forestalls sir henry wotton's famous advice to milton on the traveller's need of holding his tongue: "be, philador, in secrecy like the arabick-tree, that yields no gumme but in the darke night." footnote : jöcher, _gelehrten-lexicon_, , and zedler's _universal-lexicon_. footnote : clarendon press ed. , p. . footnote : g. gratarolus, _de regimine iter agentium_, some insight into the trials of travel in the sixteenth century may be gained by the sections on how to endure hunger and thirst, how to restore the appetite, make up lost sleep, ward off fever, avoid vermin, take care of sore feet, thaw frozen limbs, and so forth. footnote : _methodus apodemica_, basel, , fol. b, verso. footnote : paul hentzner, whose travels were reprinted by horace walpole, was a hofmeister of this sort. the letter of dedication which he prefixed to his _itinerary_ in is a section, verbatim, of pyrckmair's _de arte apodemica_. footnote : _de arte apodemica_, ingolstadii, , fols. - . footnote : _hercules prodicius, seu principis juventutis vita et peregrinatio_, pp. - footnote : jöcher, _gelebrten-lexicon,_ under zwinger. footnote : zwinger, _methodus apodemica_, fol. b, verso. footnote : ad. ph. lanoyum, fol. , in _justi lipsii epistole selecta_, parisiis, . footnote : _a direction for travailers_, london, . footnote : "methodus describendi regiones, urbes, et arces, et quid singulis locis præcipue in peregrinationibus homines nobiles ac docti animadvertere observare et annotare debeant." meier was a danish geographer and historian, - . footnote : _g. loysii curiovoitlandi pervigilium mercurii_. curiæ variscorum, . (nos. , , , .) footnote : op. cit., no. . footnote : translated by thomas coryat in his _crudities_, . he must have picked up the oration in his tour of germany; but nothing which appears to be the original is given among the forty-six works of hermann kirchner, professor of history and poetry at marburg, as cited by jöcher, though the other "oratio de germaniæ perlustratione omnibus aliis peregrinationibus anteferenda," also translated by coryat, is there listed. footnote : turler, _the traveiler_, p. . footnote : kirchner in coryat's _crudities_, vol. i. . footnote : turler, op. cit., p. . footnote : lipsius, turler, kirchner. footnote : turler, _the traveiler_, p. . footnote : turler, op. cit., p. . footnote : _methodus apodemica_, p. . footnote : _an essay of the meanes how to make our travailes in forraine countries the more profitable and honourable_. london, . footnote : london, . footnote : sidney, letter to his brother, . footnote : _profitable instructions_. written c. . printed . footnote : _profitable instructions_, , harl. ms. , printed in spedding's _letters and life of bacon_, vol. ii. p. . spedding believes these _instructions_ to be by bacon. footnote : _state papers, domestic elizabeth_, - , vol. lxxvii., no. . footnote : _hist. mss. comm. th report_, app. iv., january , . footnote : _life, written by himself_, oxford, . footnote : devereux, _lives and letters of the devereux_, vol. ii. . footnote : birch, _life of prince henry of wales_, app. no. xii. footnote : _life and letters_, by pearsall smith, vol. i. . footnote : _op. cit._ footnote : talbot, mss. in the college of arms, vol. p, fol. . footnote : _davison's poetical rhapsody_. i. biographical notice, p. xxiii. footnote : _sloane ms._ . footnote : _state papers, domestic_, - , vols. xviii., no. ; xix., no. - _passim_; xx., no. - _passim_. footnote : _direction for travailers_. footnote : stowe's _annals_, p. . footnote : _works_, ed. giles, vol. i., pt. ii., epis. cxvi. footnote : op. cit. footnote : fox-bourne's _life of sidney_, p. . footnote : op. cit. footnote : thomae erpenii, _de peregrinatione gallica_, , pp. , . footnote : _copy-book of sir amias poulet's letters_, roxburghe club, p. . footnote : _letter-book_, p. . footnote : _letter-book_, p. . footnote : _poems of thomas carew_, ed. w.c. hazlitt, . pp. xxiii.-xxx. footnote : t. birch, _court and times of james i._, vol. i. p. . the embarrassments of an ambassador under these circumstances are hardly exaggerated, perhaps, in chapman's play, _monsieur d'olive_, where the fictitious statesman bursts into a protest: "heaven i beseech thee, what an abhominable sort of followers have i put upon mee: ... i cannot looke into the cittie, but one or other makes tender his good partes to me, either his language, his travaile, his intelligence, or something: gentlemen send me their younger sonnes furnisht in compleat, to learn fashions, for-sooth: as if the riding of five hundred miles, and spending crownes would make 'am wiser then god meant to make 'am.... three hundred of these gold-finches i have entertained for my followers: i can go in no corner, but i meete with some of my wifflers in there accoutrements; you may heare 'am halfe a mile ere they come at you, and smell 'am half an hour after they are past you: sixe or seaven make a perfect morrice-daunce; they need no bells, their spurs serve their turne: i am ashamed to traine 'am abroade, theyle say i carrie a whole forrest of feathers with mee, and i should plod afore 'am in plaine stuffe, like a writing schole-maister before his boyes when they goe a feasting." footnote : strype, _life of sir thomas smith_, p. . footnote : _the travels and life of sir thomas hoby_, - , ed. powell, p. . footnote : spelman, w., _a dialogue between two travellers_, c. , ed. by pickering for the roxburghe club, , p. . footnote : gratarolus, _de regimine iter agentium_, , p. . footnote : _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, vol. i. p. . footnote : _proceedings of the society of antiquaries of scotland_, th may . footnote : florio, _second frutes_, p. . footnote : _sloane ms_., , fol. . footnote : article on the third lord north in the _dictionary of national biography._ footnote : t. wright, _queen elizabeth_, vol. i. p. . footnote : sir thomas overbury, _an affectate traveller_, in _characters_. footnote : dieppe. footnote : thomas nash, _pierce pennilesse_, in _works_, ed. grosart, vol. ii. . footnote : nash, _the unfortunate traveller_, in _works_, ed. grosart, v. . footnote : roger ascham, _the scholemaster_, ed. mayor, pp. - . footnote : william harrison, _a description of england_, ed. withington, p. . footnote : ascham, _op. cit._, p. . footnote : robert greene, _repentance_, in _works_, ed. grosart, xii. ; john marston, _certaine satires_, ; satire ii., p. . footnote : ascham, op. cit., p. . footnote : james howell, _letters_, ed. jacobs, p. . footnote : william thomas, _the historic of italie_, , p. . footnote : _travels and life of sir thomas hoby, written by himself_, ed. powell, p. . footnote : william thomas, op. cit. p. . footnote : fynes moryson, _an itinerary_, etc., glasgow ed. , i. . footnote : ibid. footnote : thomas hoby, op. cit. pp. , . footnote : william thomas, op. cit. p. . footnote : robert greene, _all about conny-catching_. works, x. foreword. footnote : _epistola de peregrinatione_ in _de eruditione comparanda_, , p. . footnote : turler, _the traveller_, preface, and pp. - . footnote : the _unton inventories_, ed. by j.g. nichols, p. xxxviii. footnote : sir robert dallington, _state of tuscany_, , p. . footnote : arthur hall, _ten books of homer's iliades_, , epistle to sir thomas cicill. footnote : nicholas breton: _a floorish upon fancie_, ed. grosart, p. . footnote : thomas wright, _queen elizabeth_, ii. . footnote : "a letter sent by f.a. touching the proceedings in a private quarrel and unkindnesse, between arthur hall and melchisedech mallerie, gentleman, to his very friend l.b. being in italy." (only fourteen copies of this escaped destruction by order of parliament in . one was reprinted in in _miscellanea antiqua anglicana_, from which my quotations are taken.) footnote : st paul's cathedral, the fashionable promenade. footnote : cooper's _athenae cantabrigienses_, i. . footnote : _life and travels of thomas hoby, written by himself_, p. , . footnote : bercher, ded. to queen elizabeth, in _the nobility of women_, , ed. by w. bond for the roxburghe club, . footnote : ibid. introduction by bond, p. . footnote : _d.n.b._ article by sir sidney lee. footnote : hist. mss. commission, th report, app. part iv. mss. of the duke of rutland, p. . footnote : ibid. footnote : e. lodge, _illustrations of british history_, ii. . (gilbert talbot to his father, the earl of shrewsbury.) footnote : hatfield mss. (calendar), ii. . footnote : ibid., ii. . footnote : ibid., ii. . footnote : hatfield mss. (calendar), ii. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : see "sir henry sidney to his son robert," th oct. , in collin's _sidney papers_, i. . footnote : in _a method for travell_, c. , fol. c. footnote : john stowe, _annales_, ed. , p. . footnote : ibid. footnote : gabriel harvey, _letter-book_, camden society, new series, no. xxxiii. p. . footnote : stowe, _annales_, ed. , p. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : harrison's _description of england_, ed. withington, p. . footnote : t. birch, _court and times of james i._, i. . footnote : e. lodge's _illustrations of british history_, ii. . footnote : _harleian miscellany_, vol. v. pp. - . footnote : leland, j., _de scriptoribus britannicis_, vol. i. . footnote : _calendar of state papers_, foreign, , nos. and . footnote : e. nares, _memoir of lord burghley_, vol. iii. p. . footnote : lambeth mss., no. , fol. iii. printed in spedding's _letters and life of bacon_, vol. i. p. . footnote : _calendar of state papers_, domestic, - , p. . footnote : quoted in _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, ed. by l. pearsall smith, vol. ii. p. . footnote : fuller, _the church-history of britain_, ed. , book x. p. . the alleged reason for mole's imprisonment, fuller says, was that he had translated du plessis mornay, "his book on the visibility of the church, out of french into english; but besides, there were other contrivances therein, not so fit for a public relation" (_supra_, p. ). footnote : fourth baron wentworth of nettlestead and first earl of cleveland, - , who became a royalist general in the civil war. at the time of wotton's letter ( ) he was completing his education abroad after residence at oxford. see _dictionary of national biography_, which does not, however, mention his foreign tour. footnote : he was at once "reconciled" to the church of rome, entered the society of the jesuits, and "died a most holy death," in , while filling the office of confessor of the english college at rome. h. foley, _records of society of jesus_, vi. p. , cited in _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, i. p. , note. footnote : second lord harington of exton, - ; the favourite friend and companion of henry, prince of wales. a rare and godly young man. for an account of him, and for his letters from abroad, in french and latin, to prince henry, see t. birch's _life of prince henry_. footnote : "one tovy, an 'aged man,' late master of the free school, guildford." _dictionary of national biography_, article on sir john harington, _supra_. footnote : _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, i. - . footnote : s.r. gardiner, _history of england_, iii. . footnote : h. foley, _records of the english province of the society of jesus_, london, , series ii. p. . footnote : ibid. footnote : foley, op. cit., p. . the facts are confirmed by the report of the english ambassador at valladolid, th july , o.s., printed in the _winwood memorials_, vol. ii. p. . footnote : fynes moryson, _itinerary_, ed. , vol. iii. pp. - . footnote : such as dr thomas case of st john's in oxford, whom fuller reports as "always a romanist in his heart, but never expressing the same till his mortal sickness seized upon him" (_church history_, book ix. p. ). footnote : gardiner, _history of england_, vol. v. pp. - . the same wavering between two churches in the time of james i. is exemplified by "edward buggs, esq., living in london, aged seventy, and a professed protestant." he "was in his sicknesse seduced to the romish religion." recovering, a dispute was held at his request between two jesuits and two protestant divines, on the subject of the visibility of the church. "this conference did so satisfie master buggs, that renouncing his former wavering, he was confirmed in the protestant truth" (fuller, _church history_, x. ). footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. ii. . footnote : the earl of nottingham, ambassador extraordinary in . footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. ii. . footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. ii. . footnote : fynes moryson, _itinerary_, vol. i. p. . footnote : such was the case of tobie matthew, son of the archbishop of york, converted during his travels in italy. this witty and frivolous courtier came home and faced the uproar of his friends, spent a whole plague-stricken summer in fleet arguing with the bishops sent to reclaim him, and then was banished. after ten years he reappeared at court, as amusing as ever, the protégé of the duke of buckingham. but under the mask of frippery he worked unsleepingly to advance the church of rome, for he had secretly taken orders as a jesuit priest. see _life of sir tobie matthew_, by a.h. mathew, london, . footnote : davison's _poetical rhapsody_, ed. nicolas, , vol. i. p. vi. footnote : _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, vol. ii. . footnote : _quo vadis, a just censure of travel_, in _works_, oxford, vol. ix. p. . footnote : _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, vol. i. , note. footnote : _a method for travell shewed by taking the view of france, as it stoode in the yeare of our lord_, . footnote : wood records such a state of mind in john nicolls, who, in left england, made a recantation of his heresy, and was "received into the holy catholic church." returning to england he recanted his roman catholic opinions, and even wrote "his pilgrimage, wherein is displayed the lives of the proud popes, ambitious cardinals, leacherous bishops, fat bellied monks, and hypocritical jesuits" ( ). notwithstanding which, he went beyond the seas again (to turn mohometan, his enemies said), and under threats and imprisonment at rouen, recanted all that he had formerly uttered against the romanists.--_athenæ oxonienses_, ed. bliss, i. p. . footnote : understood: "for in the pulpit, being eloquent, they," etc. footnote : in volume iii. of his _itinerary_ (reprint by the university of glasgow, ), preceded by an _essay of travel in general_, a panegyric in the style of turler, lipsius, etc., containing most points of previous essays in praise of travel, and some new ones. for instance, in his defence of travel, he must answer the objection that travellers run the risk of being perverted from the church of england. footnote : _itinerary_, iii. . footnote : _ibid_., i. . footnote : _ibid_., i. - . footnote : _ibid_., i. . footnote : _ibid_., iii. . footnote : _itinerary_, iii. . footnote : ibid., iii. . footnote : ibid., iii. . footnote : ibid., iii. . footnote : _itinerary_, iii. . footnote : ibid., iii. . footnote : see ben jonson, _every man out of his humour_, act ii. sc. i.: "i do intend this year of jubilee coming on, to travel, and because i will not altogether go upon expense i am determined to put forth some five thousand pound, to be paid me five for one, upon the return of myself, my wife, and my dog from the turk's court in constantinople." also the epigram of sir john davies in _poems_, ed. grosart, vol. ii. p. : "lycus, which lately is to venice gone, shall if he doe returne, gaine three for one." footnote : _volpone: or the fox_, act ii. sc. i. footnote : ibid., act iii. sc. v. footnote : the whole letter is printed in pearsall smith's collection, vol. ii. p. . footnote : pearsall smith's collection, vol. ii. p. (in another letter of advice on foreign travel). footnote : _defensio secunda_, in _opera latina_, amstelodami, , p. . footnote : _quo vadis?_ a just censure of travel as it is undertaken by the gentlemen of our nation, london, . footnote : th september . quoted in c. dodd's _church history of england_, ed. tierney, vol. iv. appendix, p. ccxli. footnote : master of ceremonies to james i. footnote : _the reformed travailer_, by w.h., , fol. a , verso. footnote : charles ii. footnote : ellis, _original letters_, st series, iii. . footnote : _the scholemaster_, ed. mayor, p. . footnote : _the compleat gentleman_, (reprint ), p. . footnote : cited in g. d'avenel, _la noblesse française sous richelieu_, p. . footnote : _ibid_., pp. - . footnote : balade, "les chevaliers ont honte d'étudier" _(oeuvres complètes_, tome iii. p. ). footnote : de la nouë, _discours politiques et militaires_, , p. . footnote : de la nouë, _op. cit_., pp. - . _court and times of charles i_., vol. ii. pp. , . footnote : _a method for travell. shewed by taking the view of france. as it stood in the yeare of our lord_, . footnote : by james howell. footnote : _supra_, note ( ). footnote : _a survey of the great dukes state of tuscany. in the yeare of our lord_, . footnote : _the view of france_, fol. x. footnote : _the view of france_, fol. h , verso. footnote : william thomas, _the pilgrim_, . footnote : _survey of tuscany_, p. . footnote : _a method for travell_, fol. b , verso. footnote : the first edition of _the view of fraunce_ was printed anonymously in by symon stafford: when thomas creede brought out another edition, apparently in , dallington inserted a preface "to all gentlemen that have travelled," and _a method for travell_, consisting of eight unpaged leaves, and a folded leaf containing a conspectus of _a method for travell_. footnote : as the use of latin waned, a knowledge of modern languages became increasingly important. the attitude of continental gentlemen on this point is indicated by a spanish ambassador in , to whom the pope's nuncio used a german punctilio, of speaking latin, for more dignity, to him and italian to the residents of mantua and urbino. the ambassador answered in italian, "and afterwards gave this reason for it: that it were as ill a decorum for a cavalier to speak latin, as for a priest to use any other language." (_winwood memorials_, vol. iii. p. ). footnote : fynes moryson had a great deal to say on this subject. in particular, he instances the germans as reprehensible in living only with their own countrymen in italy, "never attaining the perfect use of any forreigne language, be it never so easy. so as myselfe remember one of them, who being reprehended, that having been thirty yeeres in italy hee could not speake the language, he did merrily answer in dutch: ah lieber was kan man doch in dreissig jahr lehrnen? alas, good sir, what can a man learne in thirty yeeres?" (_itinerary,_ vol. in. p. ). footnote : _a method for travell_, b , verso. footnote : _court and times of james i_., vol. i. p. . footnote : amias paulet to elizabeth, jan. , . cal. state papers, foreign. footnote : by cesare nigri milanese detto il trombone, "famose e eccellente professori di ballare." printed at milan, . footnote : "in twenty manere coude he trippe and dance after the schole of oxenforde tho, and with his legges casten to and fro." _the milleres tale_, . - . footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, vol. iii. p. . footnote : _ibid_., st series, vol. iii. pp. - . footnote : _a method jor travell_, fol. b , verso. footnote : _historiettes_, ed. paris, , tome er, p. . footnote : so counted the pope's legate in . cited by jusserand, in _sports et jeux d'exercise dans l'ancienne france_, p. . footnote : _a view of france_, fol. v, verso. footnote : jusserand, _op. cit._, p. . cited from thomassin's _ancienne et nouvelle discipline de l'eglise_, , tome iii. col. . footnote : _the view of france_, t , verso, v, verso. footnote : fol. c. footnote : _every man in his humour_, act iv. sc. v. footnote : _touchant les duels_, ed. , p. . footnote : "if in the court they spie one in a sute of the last yeres making, they scoffingly say, 'nous le cognoissons bien, il ne nous mordra pas, c'est un fruit suranne.' we know him well enough, he will not hurt us, hee's an apple of the last yeere" (_the view of france_, fol. t ). footnote : _instructions for forreine travell_, . footnote : _op. cit_., pp. - . footnote : _ibid_., pp. , . footnote : _op. cit.,_ pp. - . footnote : _ibid_., p. . footnote : "the great horse" is the term used of animals for war or tournaments, in contradistinction to palfreys, coursers, nags, and other common horses. these animals of "prodigious weight" had to be taught to perform manoeuvres, and their riders, the art of managing them according to certain rules and principles. see _a new method ... to dress horses_, by william cavendish, duke of newcastle, london, . footnote : _histoire et recherches des antiquités de la ville de paris_, par h. sauval, paris, , tome ii. p. . footnote : _les antiquitez de la ville de paris_. paris , livre second, p. . footnote : probably the son of sir john puckering, lord keeper in - . footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, vol. iii. pp. - . footnote : _archeologia_, vol. xxxvi. pp. - . footnote : _collectania, first series_, ed. for the oxford historical society (vol. v.) by c.r.l. fletcher, p. . footnote : see _archeologia_, xxi. p. . gilbert's and la nouë's dreams were of academies like vittorino da feltre's--not pluvinel's. footnote : _oxford historical society_, vol. v. p. . footnote : _ibid_., pp. - . footnote : _the interpreter of the academic for forrain languages, and all noble sciences, and exercises_, london, . footnote : evelyn's diary, th august . footnote : _ibid_., th december . footnote : _oxford historical society_, vol. v. pp. - . footnote : _ibid_., p. . footnote : _le maneige royal_, ou l'on peut remarquer le defaut et la perfection du chevalier, en tous les exercices de cet art, digne de princes, fait et pratique en l'instruction du roy par antoine pluvinel son Éscuyer principal, conseiller en son conseil d'Éstat, son chambellan ordinaire, et sous-gouverneur de sa majesté. paris, . footnote : opening words of _an apologie for poetrie_, ed. . footnote : _historiettes_, vol. i. p. of ed. . marguerite of valois compared m. de souvray, the governor of louis xiii., to chiron rearing achilles. contemporary satire said that m. de souvray "n'avoit de chiron que le train de derrière." footnote : henri sauval, _op. cit._, p. . footnote : _a dialogue concerning education_, in _tracts_, london, , p. . we must allow for the fact that english university men did not approve of the french ambition to elevate the vernacular, or of their translation of the classics, or of any displacement of latin from the highest place in the ambitions of anyone with pretentions to learning. see also evelyn, _state of france_, p. . footnote : _oxford historical society_, vol. v. p. . footnote : written to john aubrey, between - . quoted in _oxford historical society_, vol. v. p. . footnote : ravaisson, _archives de la bastille_, paris, , tome i. p. ; cited in _sports et jeux d'exercice_, p. . footnote : thomas carte, _life of james, duke of ormond_, vol. iii. p. . footnote : addit. ms. (british museum). footnote : _memoires du comte de grammont_, strawberry hill, . footnote : in _the compleat gentleman_, . footnote : nicolaus clenardus latomo suo s.d., _epistole_, antverpiæ, , pp. - , _passim_. see p. for the historic incident of the drinking cup, broken by vasæus, and so impossible to replace, after a search through the whole spanish village, that the rest of the party were obliged to drink out of their hands. as to expenses, clenardus scoffs at the poets who sing of "auriferum tagum." "aurum auferendum" would better express it, he found. footnote : ellis, _original letters_, nd series, vol. ii. p. . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : james howell, _a discours or dialog_, containing a perambulation of spain and portugall which may serve for a direction how to travell through both countreys, london, . footnote : _relation du voyage d'espagne_, a la haye, (translated in under the title of "the ingenious and diverting letters of the lady ---- travels into spain"). footnote : comtesse d'aunoy, _op. cit._, p. . footnote : reprinted in _the life of sir tobie matthew_, by a.h. mathew, p. . footnote : by james howell, . footnote : howell's _letters_, ed. jacobs, p. . footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. iii. p. . footnote : _tracts_: (_a dialogue concerning education_), , p. . footnote : _the perambulation of spain_, p. . footnote : see _les delices de la hollande_, amsterdam, , pp. , ; sir william brereton, bart., _travels in holland, the united provinces, england, scotland, and ireland_, - , ed. hawkins, for the chatham society, ; william carr, gentleman, _the traveller's guide and historian's faithful companion_, london, . footnote : william seward, _anecdotes of some distinguished persons_, london, , vol. ii. p. . footnote : lord king, _the life and letters of john locke, with extracts from his journals and common-place books_, london, , vol. ii. pp. , , . footnote : _the harleian miscellany_, vol. ii. p. . footnote : _observations upon the united provinces of the netherlands_, london, , p. . footnote : coriat junior, _another traveller_, london, , p. . footnote : john evelyn, _diary and correspondence_, ed. bray, london, , p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . also john raymond, _il mercurio italico_, london, , p. . footnote : coriat junior, _op. cit._, p. . footnote : r. poole, doctor of physick, _a journey from london to france and holland; or, the traveller's useful vade mecum_, london, . footnote : sir thomas browne, _works_, ed. wilkin, vol. i. p. . footnote : _martin lister's travels in france_, in john pinkerton's collection of voyages and travels, , vol. iv. pp. , . footnote : _nicholas ferrar, two lives_, by his brother john and by doctor jebb, ed. j.e.b. mayor, london, . footnote : _state of france_, , pp. , . _a character of england_, , pp. , . footnote : _advice to a young gentleman leaving the university_, by r.(ichard) l.(assels), . footnote : sir thomas browne, _works_, ed. by wilkin, vol. i. pp. - , _passim_. footnote : _advice to a son_, ed. , p. . footnote : _life of william cavendish, duke of newcastle_, ed. firth, , p. . footnote : prefatory letter, _the state of france_, , fol. b. footnote : _ibid._, fol. b . footnote : _the voyage of italy_, paris, . _a preface to the reader concerning travelling._ footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. iii. . footnote : _calendar of state papers, foreign_, - , pp. , . footnote : _davison's poetical rhapsody_, ed. nicolas, vol. i. p. xi. footnote : "that young men travel under some tutor, or grave servant, i allow well: so that he be such a one that hath some entrance into the language, and hath been in the country before; whereby he may be able to tell them what things are worthy to be seen in the country where they go: what acquaintances they are to seek; what exercises or discipline the place yieldeth. for else young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little" (_essays: of travel_). footnote : _calendar of state papers, domestic_, - , no, . it will be seen from the above letter that fear of a change in their son's religion was still a very real one in the minds of parents. see also _a letter of advice to a young gentleman of an honorable family, now in his travels beyond the seas_. by a _true son of the church of england, london_, . the writer hopes that above all things the young man may return "a well-bred gentleman, a good scholar, and a sound christian." footnote : "newly printed at paris, and are to be sold in london, by john starkey, ." lassels, a roman catholic, passed most of his life abroad. he left oxford for the college of douay. see _d.n.b._ footnote : _the voyage of italy, preface to the reader._ footnote : _op. cit., preface to the reader._ footnote : thomas carte, _life of james, duke of omond_, vol. iv. p. . "he passed several months in a very cheap country, and yet the bills of expenses sent over by the governor were higher than those which used to be drawn by colonel fairfax on account of the earl of derby, when he was travelling from place to place, and appeared in all with so much dignity." footnote : anthony weldon, _court and character of king james_, london, , p. . footnote : _winwood memorials_, vol. iii. p. . footnote : ben jonson, _conversations with drummond_, ed. sidney, , pp. - . footnote : _life of james, duke of ormond_, vol. iv. pp. - . footnote : _court and times of james i._, vol. i. p, . footnote : _life of james, duke of ormond_, vol. iv. p. . footnote : _advice to a son_, p. . footnote : a. collins, _letters and memorials of state_, vol. i. p. . (sir henry sidney to his son robert sidney, after earl of leicester.) footnote : _davison's poetical rhapsody_, ed. nicolas, vol. i. pp. viii.-xi. footnote : _sir henry wotton; life and letters_, ed. pearsall smith, vol. i. p. (note ). footnote : _davison's poetical rhapsody_, pp. viii., xi. footnote : _itinerary_, vol. iii. p. . footnote : _a method for travell_, fol. g. footnote : _instructions for forreine travel_, p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. v. p. . footnote : _the voyage of italy; preface to the reader_, fol. b . footnote : _the state of france_, . folio b. footnote : robert boyle, _works_, , vol. i. p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, st series, vol. v. pp. , . footnote : _ibid._, . footnote : it was a common custom at this time to marry one's sons, if a favourable match could be made, before they went abroad. footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : on nov. rd, , carleton, the ambassador at venice, wrote to salisbury that his son was ill at padua. "he finds relish in nothing on this side the mountains, nor much in anything on this side the sea; his affections being so strangely set on his return homeward, that any opposition is a disease." cranborne's tutor, dr lister, wrote to carleton in december: "sir, we must for england, there is no resisting of it. if we stay the fruit will not be great, the discontent infinite. my lord is going to dinner, this being the first meal he eateth." (state papers, . cited in _life and letters of sir henry wotton_, ed. pearsall-smith, vol. i. p. .) footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : in march . this fact, and his appearance in the _lismore papers_, are not mentioned in the _dictionary of national biography_. footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. iv. p. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : ibid., p. . footnote : ibid., pp. - . footnote : she became one of the mistresses of charles ii. with her daughter, charlotte boyle, otherwise fitzroy, she is buried in westminster abbey. (_cockayne's peerage_, under viscount shannon.) footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. v. pp. - . footnote : _lismore papers_, nd series, vol. v. pp. , , . footnote : _three diatribes or discourses_, london, . footnote : _the compleat gentleman_, london, . footnote : _the compleat gentleman_, p. . footnote : albert babeau, _les voyageurs en france_, paris, , p. . footnote : m. adrien delahaute, _une famille de finance an xviii. siècle_, vol. i. p. . footnote : george sandys, _a relation of a journey begun in an. dom. _, london, . footnote : john evelyn, _diary and correspondence_, ed. bray, london, , vol. i. p. . footnote : _ibid._, p. . footnote : balthazar gerbier, _subsidium peregrinantibus_, oxford, . footnote : _letter to his son_, feb. , . footnote : _ibid._, oct. , o.s., . footnote : _letter to his son_, oct. , o.s., . footnote : lausanne was where edward gibbon received the education he considered far superior to what could be had from oxford. when he returned to england, after four years, he missed the "elegant and rational society" of lausanne, and could not love london--"the noisy and expensive scene of crowds without company, and dissipation without pleasure." footnote : _letter to his son_, april , o.s., . footnote : _ibid._, sept. , o.s., . footnote : _ibid._, sept. , o.s., . footnote : _letter to his son_, nov. , o.s., . footnote : _letter to his son_, may , o.s., . footnote : _letter to his son_, april , o.s., . footnote : _letters from paris_, sept. , ; oct. , , . footnote : a character of england, as it was lately presented in a letter to a noble man of france, london, . footnote : see voltaire, _lettres philosophiques_, tome ii. p. , ed. gustave lanson, paris, . footnote : "the merest john trot in a week you shall see bien poli, bien frizé, tout à fait un marquis." (samuel foote, _dramatic works_, vol. i. p. .) the hon. james howard, _the english mounsieur_, london, ; sir george etherege, _sir fopling flutter, love in a tub_, act iii. sc. iv. the abbe le blanc on visiting england was very indignant at the representation of his countrymen on the london stage: he describes how, "two actors came in, one dressed in the english manner very decently, and the other with black eye-brows, a riband an ell long under his chin, a big peruke immoderately powdered, and his nose all bedaubed with snuff. what englishman could not know a frenchman by this ridiculous picture?... but when it was found that the man thus equipped, being also laced down every seam of his coat, was nothing but a cook, the spectators were equally charmed and surprised. the author had taken care to make him speak all the impertinences he could devise.... there was a long criticism upon our manners, our customs and above all, our cookery. the excellence and virtues of english beef were cried up; the author maintained that it was owing to the quality of its juice that the english were so courageous, and had such a solidity of understanding which raised them above all the nations of europe" (e. smith, _foreign visitors in england_, london, , pp. - ). footnote : samuel foote, _dramatic works_, vol. i. p. . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : "let paris be the theme of gallia's muse where slav'ry treads the streets in wooden shoes." (gay, _trivia_.) footnote : joseph addison, _a letter from italy_, london, . footnote : samuel johnson, _london_: a poem. footnote : philip dormer stanhope, earl of chesterfield, _letters to his son_, london, ; vol. ii. p. ; vol. iii. p. . footnote : edward hyde, earl of clarendon, _a dialogue concerning education_, in _a collection of several tracts_, london, . footnote : _ibid._, _dialogue of the want of respect due to age_, pp. - . footnote : john locke, _some thoughts concerning education_, london, , pp. - , - . footnote : john locke, _some thoughts concerning education_, london, , pp. - , - . footnote : _ibid._ footnote : as cowper says in _the progress of error_: "from school to cam or isis, and thence home: and thence with all convenient speed to rome. with reverend tutor clad in habit lay, to tease for cash and quarrel with all day: with memorandum-book for every town, and every post, and where the chaise broke down." foote's play, _an englishman in paris_, represents in the character of the pedantic prig named classick, the sort of university tutor who was sometimes substituted for the parson, as an appropriate guardian. footnote : _the bear-leaders_, london, . footnote : lady mary wortley montagu met many of these pairs at rome, where she writes that, by herding together and throwing away their money on worthless objects, they had acquired the title of golden asses, and that goldoni adorned his dramas with "gli milordi inglesi" in the same manner as molière represented his parisian marquises (_letters_, ed. wharncliffe, london, , vol. ii. p. ). footnote : william congreve, _the way of the world_, act iii. sc. xv. footnote : philip thicknesse, _observations on the customs and manners of the french nation_, london, , p. . footnote : thomas gray the poet. footnote : horace walpole, _letters_, ed. cunningham, london, , vol. i. p. . footnote : thomas gray, _letters_, ed. tovey, cambridge university press, , pp. , , . footnote : james howell, _instructions for forraine travell_, p. (arber reprint). footnote : _ibid., epistolæ ho-elianæ,_ ed. jacobs, , vol. i. p. . the renaissance traveller had little commendation for a land that was not fruitful, rich with grains and orchards. a landscape that suggested food was to him the fairest landscape under heaven. far from being an admirer of mountains, he was of the opinion of dr johnson that "an eye accustomed to flowery pastures and waving harvests is astonished and repelled by this wide extent of hopeless sterility" and that "this uniformity of barrenness can afford very little amusement to the traveller" (_works_, ed. , vol. x. p. ). footnote : _itinerarii italiæ rerumq. romanorum libri tres_ a franc. schotto i.c. ex antiquis novisque scriptoribus iis editi qui romam anno iubileii sacro visunt. ad robertum bellarminum s.r.e. card. ampliss. antverpiæ. ex officina plantiniana apud joannem moretum. anno sæcularii sacro, . thomas cecil in paris in studied the richly illustrated _cosmographia universalis_ of sebastien munster (pub. basel ) which gave descriptions of "omnium gentium mores, leges, religio, res gestæ, mutationes." sir thomas browne recommends to his son in france in _les antiquities de paris_ "which will direct you in many things, what to look after, that little time you stay there" (_works_, ed. wilkin, , vol. i. p. ). footnote : such as: (_a_) _la guide des chemins_: pour aller et venir par tous les pays et contrees du royaume de france. avec les noms des fleuves et rivieres qui courent parmy lesdicts pays. a. paris (n.d.) ( ?). (_b_) _deliciæ galliæ_, sive itinerarium per universam galliam. coloniæ, . (_c_) _iodoci sinceri itinerarium galliæ_, ita accomodatum, ut eius ductu mediocri tempore tota gallia obiri, anglia et belgium adire possuit: nec bis terve ad eadum loca rediri oporteat: de burdigala, lugduni, . (_d_) _le voyage de france_ dresse pour l'instruction et commodite tant des francais que des estrangers. paris, chez olivier de varennes, . footnote : maximilian misson, _a new voyage to italy_; together with _useful instructions_ for those who shall travel thither, vols., london, . footnote : count leopold berchtold, _an essay to direct and extend the inquiries of patriotic travellers_, london, . footnote : mission, _op. cit._, vol. ii. p. . footnote : see hearne's collections, vol. viii., being vol. i. of publications of _the oxford historical society_, pp. , , , for the account of an assault by six highwaymen upon two gentlemen with their servants on the way from calais, in september . defoe wrote a tract on the subject, and it was treated in boyer's _political state_, and in other periodicals of the time. footnote : _letters from italy_, to which is annexed, _an admonition to gentlemen who pass the alps_, london, , pp. , , , . footnote : henry fielding, _the journal of a voyage to lisbon_. footnote : tobias smollett, _works_, ed. , p. . footnote : roger ascham, _works_, ed. giles, london, , vol. i. part ii. p. . footnote : _all the works of john taylor the water poet_, being sixty-three in number, collected into one volume by the author, london, . see p. , _three weekes, three dayes, and three houres observations from london to hamburgh in germanie_ ... dedicated to sr. thomas coriat, great brittaines error, and the world's mirror, aug. , . footnote : _coryal's crudities_, glasgow, , vol. i. pp. , , ; vol. ii. pp. , . footnote : hermannus kirchnerus in _coryat's crudities_, vol. ii. p. . at home and abroad; or, things and thoughts in america and europe. by margaret fuller ossoli, author of "woman in the nineteenth century," "art, literature, and the drama," "life without and life within," etc. edited by her brother, arthur b. fuller. new and complete edition. new york; the tribune association. nassau street entered according to act of congress, in the year , by arthur b. fuller, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. preface. there are at least three classes of persons who travel in our own land and abroad. the first and largest in number consists of those who, "having eyes, see not, and ears, hear not," anything which is profitable to be remembered. crossing lake and ocean, passing over the broad prairies of the new world or the classic fields of the old, though they look on the virgin soil sown thickly with flowers by the hand of god, or on scenes memorable in man's history, they gaze heedlessly, and when they return home can but tell us what they ate and drank, and where slept,--no more; for this and matters of like import are all for which they have cared in their wanderings. those composing the second class travel more intelligently. they visit scrupulously all places which are noted either as the homes of literature, the abodes of art, or made classic by the pens of ancient genius. accurately do they mark the distance of one famed city from another, the size and general appearance of each; they see as many as possible of celebrated pictures and works of art, and mark carefully dimensions, age, and all details concerning them. men, too, whom the world regards as great men, whether because of wisdom, poesy, warlike achievements, or of wealth and station, they seek to take by the hand and in some degree to know; at least to note their appearance, demeanor, and mode of life. writers belonging to this class of travellers are not to be undervalued; returning home, they can give much useful information, and tell much which all wish to hear and know, though, as their narratives are chiefly circumstantial, and every year circumstances change, such recitals lessen constantly in value. but there is a third class of those who journey, who see indeed the outward, and observe it well. they, too, seek localities where art and genius dwell, or have painted on canvas or sculptured in marble their memorials; they become acquainted with the people, both famed and obscure, of the lands which they visit and in which for a time they abide; their hearts throb as they stand on places where great deeds have been done, with whose dust perhaps is mingled the sacred ashes of men who fell in the warfare for truth and freedom,--a warfare begun early in the world's history, and not yet ended. but they do much _more_ than this. there is, though in a different sense from what ancient pagans fancied, a genius or guardian spirit of each scene, each stream and lake and country, and this spirit is ever speaking, but in a tone which only the attent ear of the noble and gifted can hear, and in a language which such minds and hearts only can understand. with vision which needs no miracle to make it prophetic, they see the destinies which nations are all-unconsciously shaping for themselves, and note the deep meaning of passing events which only make others wonder. beneath the mask of mere externals, their eyes discern the character of those whom they meet, and, refusing to accept popular judgment in place of truth, they see often the real relation which men bear to their race and age, and observe the facts by which to determine whether such men are great only because of circumstances, or by the irresistible power of their own minds. when such narrate their journeyings, we have what is valuable not for a few years only, but, because of its philosophic and suggestive spirit, what must always be useful. the reader of the following pages, it is believed, will decide that margaret fuller deserves to rank with the latter class of travellers, while not neglectful of those details which it is well to learn and remember. twelve years ago she journeyed, in company with several friends, on the lakes, and through some of the western states. returning, she published a volume describing this journey, which seems worthy of republication. it seems so because it rather gives an idea of western scenery and character, than enters into guide-book statements which would be all erroneous now. beside this, it is much a record of thoughts as well as things, and those thoughts have lost none of their significance now. it gives us also knowledge of indian character, and impressions respecting that much injured and fast vanishing race, which justice to them makes it desirable should be remembered. the friends of madame ossoli will be glad to make permanent this additional proof of her sympathy with all the oppressed, no matter whether that oppression find embodiment in the indian or the african, the american or the european. the second part of the present volume gives my sister's impressions and observations during her european journey and residence in italy. this is done through letters, which originally appeared in the new york tribune but have never before been gathered into book form. there may be a degree of incompleteness, sometimes perhaps inaccuracy, in these letters, which are inseparable attendants upon letter-writing during a journey or amid exciting and warlike scenes. none can lament more than i that their writer lives not to revise them. some errors, too, were doubtless made in the original printing of these letters, owing to her handwriting not being easily read by those who were not familiar with it, and very probably some such errors may have escaped my notice in the revision, especially as many emendations must be conjectural, the original manuscript not now existing. there is one fact, however, which gives this part of the volume a high value. madame ossoli was in rome during the most eventful period of its modern history. she was almost the only american who remained there during the italian revolution, and the siege of the city. her marriage with the marquis ossoli, who was captain of the civic guard and active in the republican councils and army, and her own ardent love of freedom, and sacrifices for it, brought her into immediate acquaintance with the leaders in the revolutionary army, and made her cognizant of their plans, their motives, and their characters. unsuccessful for a time as has been that struggle for freedom, it was yet a noble one, and its true history should be known in this country and in all lands, that justice may be done to those who sacrificed much, some even life, in behalf of liberty. her peculiar fitness to write the history of this struggle is well expressed by mr. greeley, in his introduction to one of her volumes recently published.[a] "of italy's last struggle for liberty and light," he says, "she might not merely say, with the grattan of ireland's kindred effort, half a century earlier, 'i stood by its cradle; i followed its hearse.' she might fairly claim to have been a portion of its incitement, its animation, its informing soul. she bore more than a woman's part in its conflicts and its perils; and the bombs of that ruthless army which a false and traitorous government impelled against the ramparts of republican rome, could have stilled no voice more eloquent in its exposures, no heart more lofty in its defiance, of the villany which so wantonly drowned in blood the hopes, while crushing the dearest rights, of a people, than those of margaret fuller." [footnote a: introduction to papers on literature and art, p. .] inadequate, indeed, are these letters as a memorial and vindication of that struggle, in comparison with the history which madame ossoli had written, and which perished with her; but well do they deserve to be preserved, as the record of a clear-minded and true-hearted eyewitness of, and participator in, this effort to establish a new and better roman republic. in one respect they have an interest higher than would the history. they were written during the struggle, and show the fluctuations of hope and despondency-which animated those most deeply interested. i have thought it right to leave unchanged all expressions of her opinion and feeling, even when it is evident from the letters themselves that these were gradually somewhat modified by ensuing events. especially did this change occur in regard to the pope, whom she at first regarded, in common with all lovers of freedom in this and other lands, with a hopefulness which was doomed to a cruel disappointment. she was, however, never for a moment deceived as to his character. his heart she believed kindly and good; his intellect, of a low order; his views as to reform, narrow, intending only what is partial, temporary, and alleviating, never a permanent, vital reform, which should remove the cause of the ills on account of which his people groaned. really to elevate and free italy, it was necessary to remove the yoke of ecclesiastical and political thraldom; to do this formed no part of his plans,--from his very nature he was incapable of so great a purpose. the expression in her letters of this opinion, when most people hoped better things, was at first censured, as doing injustice to pius ix.; but alas! events proved the impulses of his heart to be in subjection to the prejudices of his mind, and that mind to be weaker than even she had deemed it, with views as narrow as she had feared. the third part of this volume contains some letters to friends, which were never written for the public eye, but are necessary to complete, as far as can now be done, the narrative of her residence abroad. some few of these have already appeared in her "memoirs," a work i cannot too warmly recommend to those who would know my sister's character. many more of her letters may be there found, equally worthy of perusal, but not so necessary to complete the history of events in italy. the fourth part contains the details of that shipwreck which caused mourning not only in the hearts of her kindred, but of the many who knew and loved her. these, with some poems commemorative of her character and eventful death, form a sad but fitting close to a book which records her european journeyings, and her voyage to a home which proved to be not in this land, where were waiting warm hearts to bid her welcome, but one in a land yet freer, better than this, where she can be no less loved by the angels, by our saviour, and the infinite father. after the copy for this volume had been sent to the press, it was found necessary to omit some portions of the work in the republication, as too much matter had been furnished for a volume of reasonable size. the editor made these omissions with much reluctance, but the desire to bring a record of madame ossoli's journeyings within the compass of one volume outweighed that reluctance. he believes the omissions have been made in such a way as not materially to diminish its value, especially as most which has been omitted will find place in another volume he hopes soon to issue, containing a portion of the miscellaneous writings of madame ossoli. all of these omissions that are important occur in the summer on the lakes, it being thought better to omit from a portion of the work which had previously been before the public in book form. the episodical nature of that work, too, enabled the editor to make omissions without in any way marring its unity. these omissions, when other than mere verbal ones, consist of extracts from books which she read in relation to the indians; an account of and translation from the seeress of prevorst, a german work which had not then, but has since, been translated into english, and republished in this country; a few extracts from letters and poems sent to her by friends while she was in the west, one of which poems has been since published elsewhere by its author; and the story of marianna, (a great portion of which may be found in my sister's "memoirs,") and also lines to edith, a short poem. marianna and lines to edith will probably be republished in another volume. from the letters of madame ossoli in parts ii. and iii. no omissions have been made other than verbal, or when pertaining to trifling incidents, having only a temporary interest. nothing in any portion of the book recording my sister's own observations or opinions has been omitted or changed. the reader, too, will notice that nothing affecting the unity of the narrative is here wanting, the volume even gaining in that respect by the omission of extracts from other writers, and of a story and short poem not connected in any regard with western life. in conclusion, the editor would express the sincere hope that this volume may not only be of general interest, but inspire its readers with an increased love of republican institutions, and an earnest purpose to seek the removal of every national wrong which hinders our beloved country from being a perfect example and hearty helper of other nations in their struggles for liberty. may it do something, also, to remove misapprehension of the motives, character, and action of those noble patriots of italy, who strove, though for a time vainly, to make their country free, and to deepen the sympathy which every true american should feel with faithful men everywhere, who by art are seeking to refine, by philanthropic exertion to elevate, by the diffusion of truth to enlighten, or by self-sacrifice and earnest effort to free, their fellow-men. a.b.f. boston, march , . contents. part i. summer on the lakes part ii. things and thoughts in europe part iii. letters from abroad to friends at home part iv. homeward voyage, and memorials part i summer on the lakes. summer days of busy leisure, long summer days of dear-bought pleasure, you have done your teaching well; had the scholar means to tell how grew the vine of bitter-sweet, what made the path for truant feet, winter nights would quickly pass, gazing on the magic glass o'er which the new-world shadows pass. but, in fault of wizard spell, moderns their tale can only tell in dull words, with a poor reed breaking at each time of need. yet those to whom a hint suffices mottoes find for all devices, see the knights behind their shields, through dried grasses, blooming fields. * * * * * some dried grass-tufts from the wide flowery field, a muscle-shell from the lone fairy shore, some antlers from tall woods which never more to the wild deer a safe retreat can yield, an eagle's feather which adorned a brave, well-nigh the last of his despairing band,-- for such slight gifts wilt thou extend thy hand when weary hours a brief refreshment crave? i give you what i can, not what i would if my small drinking-cup would hold a flood, as scandinavia sung those must contain with which, the giants gods may entertain; in our dwarf day we drain few drops, and soon must thirst again. chapter i. niagara. niagara, june , . since you are to share with me such foot-notes as may be made on the pages of my life during this summer's wanderings, i should not be quite silent as to this magnificent prologue to the, as yet, unknown drama. yet i, like others, have little to say, where the spectacle is, for once, great enough to fill the whole life, and supersede thought, giving us only its own presence. "it is good to be here," is the best, as the simplest, expression that occurs to the mind. we have been here eight days, and i am quite willing to go away. so great a sight soon satisfies, making us content with itself, and with what is less than itself. our desires, once realized, haunt us again less readily. having "lived one day," we would depart, and become worthy to live another. we have not been fortunate in weather, for there cannot be too much, or too warm sunlight for this scene, and the skies have been lowering, with cold, unkind winds. my nerves, too much braced up by such an atmosphere, do not well bear the continual stress of sight and sound. for here there is no escape from the weight of a perpetual creation; all other forms and motions come and go, the tide rises and recedes, the wind, at its mightiest, moves in gales and gusts, but here is really an incessant, an indefatigable motion. awake or asleep, there is no escape, still this rushing round you and through you. it is in this way i have most felt the grandeur,--somewhat eternal, if not infinite. at times a secondary music rises; the cataract seems to seize its own rhythm and sing it over again, so that the ear and soul are roused by a double vibration. this is some effect of the wind, causing echoes to the thundering anthem. it is very sublime, giving the effect of a spiritual repetition through all the spheres. when i first came, i felt nothing but a quiet satisfaction. i found that drawings, the panorama, &c. had given me a clear notion of the position and proportions of all objects here; i knew where to look for everything, and everything looked as i thought it would. long ago, i was looking from a hill-side with a friend at one of the finest sunsets that ever enriched, this world. a little cowboy, trudging along, wondered what we could be gazing at. after spying about some time, he found it could only be the sunset, and looking, too, a moment, he said approvingly, "that sun looks well enough"; a speech worthy of shakespeare's cloten, or the infant mercury, up to everything from the cradle, as you please to take it. even such a familiarity, worthy of jonathan, our national hero, in a prince's palace, or "stumping," as he boasts to have done, "up the vatican stairs, into the pope's presence, in my old boots," i felt here; it looks really _well enough_, i felt, and was inclined, as you suggested, to give my approbation as to the one object in the world that would not disappoint. but all great expression, which, on a superficial survey, seems so easy as well as so simple, furnishes, after a while, to the faithful observer, its own standard by which to appreciate it. daily these proportions widened and towered more and more upon my sight, and i got, at last, a proper foreground for these sublime distances. before coming away, i think i really saw the full wonder of the scene. after a while it so drew me into itself as to inspire an undefined dread, such as i never knew before, such as may be felt when death is about to usher us into a new existence. the perpetual trampling of the waters seized my senses. i felt that no other sound, however near, could be heard, and would start and look behind me for a foe. i realized the identity of that mood of nature in which these waters were poured down with such absorbing force, with that in which the indian was shaped on the same soil. for continually upon my mind came, unsought and unwelcome, images, such as never haunted it before, of naked savages stealing behind me with uplifted tomahawks; again and again this illusion recurred, and even after i had thought it over, and tried to shake it off, i could not help starting and looking behind me. as picture, the falls can only be seen from the british side. there they are seen in their veils, and at sufficient distance to appreciate the magical effects of these, and the light and shade. from the boat, as you cross, the effects and contrasts are more melodramatic. on the road back from the whirlpool, we saw them as a reduced picture with delight. but what i liked best was to sit on table rock, close to the great fall. there all power of observing details, all separate consciousness, was quite lost. once, just as i had seated myself there, a man came to take his first look. he walked close up to the fall, and, after looking at it a moment, with an air as if thinking how he could best appropriate it to his own use, he spat into it. this trait seemed wholly worthy of an age whose love of _utility_ is such that the prince puckler muskau suggests the probability of men coming to put the bodies of their dead parents in the fields to fertilize them, and of a country such as dickens has described; but these will not, i hope, be seen on the historic page to be truly the age or truly the america. a little leaven is leavening the whole mass for other bread. the whirlpool i like very much. it is seen to advantage after the great falls; it is so sternly solemn. the river cannot look more imperturbable, almost sullen in its marble green, than it does just below the great fall; but the slight circles that mark the hidden vortex seem to whisper mysteries the thundering voice above could not proclaim,--a meaning as untold as ever. it is fearful, too, to know, as you look, that whatever has been swallowed by the cataract is like to rise suddenly to light here, whether uprooted tree, or body of man or bird. the rapids enchanted me far beyond what i expected; they are so swift that they cease to seem so; you can think only of their beauty. the fountain beyond the moss islands i discovered for myself, and thought it for some time an accidental beauty which it would not do to leave, lest i might never see it again. after i found it permanent, i returned many times to watch the play of its crest. in the little waterfall beyond, nature seems, as she often does, to have made a study for some larger design. she delights in this,--a sketch within a sketch, a dream within a dream. wherever we see it, the lines of the great buttress in the fragment of stone, the hues of the waterfall copied in the flowers that star its bordering mosses, we are delighted; for all the lineaments become fluent, and we mould the scene in congenial thought with its genius. people complain of the buildings at niagara, and fear to see it further deformed. i cannot sympathize with such an apprehension: the spectacle is capable of swallowing up all such objects; they are not seen in the great whole, more than an earthworm in a wide field. the beautiful wood on goat island is full of flowers; many of the fairest love to do homage here. the wake-robin and may-apple are in bloom now; the former, white, pink, green, purple, copying the rainbow of the fall, and fit to make a garland for its presiding deity when he walks the land, for they are of imperial size, and shaped like stones for a diadem. of the may-apple, i did not raise one green tent without finding a flower beneath. and now farewell. niagara. i have seen thee, and i think all who come here must in some sort see thee; thou art not to be got rid of as easily as the stars. i will be here again beneath some flooding july moon and sun. owing to the absence of light, i have seen the rainbow only two or three times by day; the lunar bow not at all. however, the imperial presence needs not its crown, though illustrated by it. general porter and jack downing were not unsuitable figures here. the former heroically planted the bridges by which we cross to goat island and the wake-robin-crowned genius has punished his temerity with deafness, which must, i think, have come upon him when he sunk the first stone in the rapids. jack seemed an acute and entertaining representative of jonathan, come to look at his great water-privilege. he told us all about the americanisms of the spectacle; that is to say, the battles that have been fought here. it seems strange that men could fight in such a place; but no temple can still the personal griefs and strifes in the breasts of its visitors. no less strange is the fact that, in this neighborhood, an eagle should be chained for a plaything. when a child, i used often to stand at a window from which i could see an eagle chained in the balcony of a museum. the people used to poke at it with sticks, and my childish heart would swell with indignation as i saw their insults, and the mien with which they were borne by the monarch-bird. its eye was dull, and its plumage soiled and shabby, yet, in its form and attitude, all the king was visible, though sorrowful and dethroned. i never saw another of the family till, when passing through the notch of the white mountains, at that moment glowing before us in all the panoply of sunset, the driver shouted, "look there!" and following with our eyes his upward-pointing finger, we saw, soaring slow in majestic poise above the highest summit, the bird of jove. it was a glorious sight, yet i know not that i felt more on seeing the bird in all its natural freedom and royalty, than when, imprisoned and insulted, he had filled my early thoughts with the byronic "silent rages" of misanthropy. now, again, i saw him a captive, and addressed by the vulgar with the language they seem to find most appropriate to such occasions,--that of thrusts and blows. silently, his head averted, he ignored their existence, as plotinus or sophocles might that of a modern reviewer. probably he listened to the voice of the cataract, and felt that congenial powers flowed free, and was consoled, though his own wing was broken. the story of the recluse of niagara interested me a little. it is wonderful that men do not oftener attach their lives to localities of great beauty,--that, when once deeply penetrated, they will let themselves so easily be borne away by the general stream of things, to live anywhere and anyhow. but there is something ludicrous in being the hermit of a show-place, unlike st. francis in his mountain-bed, where none but the stars and rising sun ever saw him. there is also a "guide to the falls," who wears his title labelled on his hat; otherwise, indeed, one might as soon think of asking for a gentleman usher to point out the moon. yet why should we wonder at such, when we have commentaries on shakespeare, and harmonies of the gospels? and now you have the little all i have to write. can it interest you? to one who has enjoyed the full life of any scene, of any hour, what thoughts can be recorded about it seem like the commas and semicolons in the paragraph,--mere stops. yet i suppose it is not so to the absent. at least, i have read things written about niagara, music, and the like, that interested _me_. once i was moved by mr. greenwood's remark, that he could not realize this marvel till, opening his eyes the next morning after he had seen it, his doubt as to the possibility of its being still there taught him what he had experienced. i remember this now with pleasure, though, or because, it is exactly the opposite to what i myself felt. for all greatness affects different minds, each in "its own particular kind," and the variations of testimony mark the truth of feeling.[a] [footnote a: "somewhat avails, in one regard, the mere sight of beauty without the union of feeling therewith. carried away in memory, it hangs there in the lonely hall as a picture, and may some time do its message. i trust it may be so in my case, for i _saw_ every object far more clearly than if i had been moved and filled with the presence, and my recollections are equally distinct and vivid." extracted from manuscript notes of this journey left by margaret fuller.--ed.] i will here add a brief narrative of the experience of another, as being much better than anything i could write, because more simple and individual. "now that i have left this 'earth-wonder,' and the emotions it excited are past, it seems not so much like profanation to analyze my feelings, to recall minutely and accurately the effect of this manifestation of the eternal. but one should go to such a scene prepared to yield entirely to its influences, to forget one's little self and one's little mind. to see a miserable worm creep to the brink of this falling world of waters, and watch the trembling of its own petty bosom, and fancy that this is made alone to act upon him excites--derision? no,--pity." as i rode up to the neighborhood of the falls, a solemn awe imperceptibly stole over me, and the deep sound of the ever-hurrying rapids prepared my mind for the lofty emotions to be experienced. when i reached the hotel, i felt a strange indifference about seeing the aspiration of my life's hopes. i lounged about the rooms, read the stage-bills upon the walls, looked over the register, and, finding the name of an acquaintance, sent to see if he was still there. what this hesitation arose from, i know not; perhaps it was a feeling of my unworthiness to enter this temple which nature has erected to its god. at last, slowly and thoughtfully i walked down to the bridge leading to goat island, and when i stood upon this frail support, and saw a quarter of a mile of tumbling, rushing rapids, and heard their everlasting roar, my emotions overpowered me, a choking sensation rose to my throat, a thrill rushed through my veins, "my blood ran rippling to my fingers' ends." this was the climax of the effect which the falls produced upon me,--neither the american nor the british fall moved me as did these rapids. for the magnificence, the sublimity of the latter, i was prepared by descriptions and by paintings. when i arrived in sight of them i merely felt, "ah, yes! here is the fall, just as i have seen it in a picture." when i arrived at the terrapin bridge, i expected to be overwhelmed, to retire trembling from this giddy eminence, and gaze with unlimited wonder and awe upon the immense mass rolling on and on; but, somehow or other, i thought only of comparing the effect on my mind with what i had read and heard. i looked for a short time, and then, with almost a feeling of disappointment, turned to go to the other points of view, to see if i was not mistaken in not feeling any surpassing emotion at this sight. but from the foot of biddle's stairs, and the middle of the river, and from below the table rock, it was still "barren, barren all." provoked with my stupidity in feeling most moved in the wrong place, i turned away to the hotel, determined to set off for buffalo that afternoon. but the stage did not go, and, after nightfall, as there was a splendid moon, i went down to the bridge, and leaned over the parapet, where the boiling rapids came down in their might. it was grand, and it was also gorgeous; the yellow rays of the moon made the broken waves appear like auburn tresses twining around the black rocks. but they did not inspire me as before. i felt a foreboding of a mightier emotion to rise up and swallow all others, and i passed on to the terrapin bridge. everything was changed, the misty apparition had taken off its many-colored crown which it had worn by day, and a bow of silvery white spanned its summit. the moonlight gave a poetical indefiniteness to the distant parts of the waters, and while the rapids were glancing in her beams, the river below the falls was black as night, save where the reflection of the sky gave it the appearance of a shield of blued steel. no gaping tourists loitered, eyeing with their glasses, or sketching on cards the hoary locks of the ancient river-god. all tended to harmonize with the natural grandeur of the scene. i gazed long. i saw how here mutability and unchangeableness were united. i surveyed the conspiring waters rushing against the rocky ledge to overthrow it at one mad plunge, till, like toppling ambition, o'er-leaping themselves, they fall on t' other side, expanding into foam ere they reach the deep channel where they creep submissively away. then arose in my breast a genuine admiration, and a humble adoration of the being who was the architect of this and of all. happy were the first discoverers of niagara, those who could come unawares upon this view and upon that, whose feelings were entirely their own. with what gusto does father hennepin describe "this great downfall of water," "this vast and prodigious cadence of water, which falls down after a surprising and astonishing manner, insomuch that the universe does not afford its parallel. 'tis true italy and swedeland boast of some such things, but we may well say that they be sorry patterns when compared with this of which we do now speak." chapter ii. the lakes.--chicago.--geneva.--a thunder-storm.--papaw grove. scene, steamboat.--_about to leave buffalo.--baggage coming on board.--passengers bustling for their berths.--little boys persecuting everybody with their newspapers and pamphlets.--j., s., and m. huddled up in a forlorn corner, behind a large trunk.--a heavy rain falling._ _m._ water, water everywhere. after niagara one would like a dry strip of existence. and at any rate it is quite enough for me to have it under foot without having it overhead in this way. _j._ ah, do not abuse the gentle element. it is hardly possible to have too much of it, and indeed, if i were obliged to choose amid the four, it would be the one in which i could bear confinement best. _s._ you would make a pretty undine, to be sure! _j._ nay. i only offered myself as a triton, a boisterous triton of the sounding shell. you, m., i suppose, would be a salamander, rather. _m._ no! that is too equivocal a position, whether in modern mythology, or hoffman's tales. i should choose to be a gnome. _j._ that choice savors of the pride that apes humility. _m._ by no means; the gnomes are the most important of all the elemental tribes. is it not they who make the money? _j._ and are accordingly a dark, mean, scoffing ---- _m._ you talk as if you had always lived in that wild, unprofitable element you are so fond of, where all things glitter, and nothing is gold; all show and no substance. my people work in the secret, and their works praise them in the open light; they remain in the dark because only there such marvels could be bred. you call them mean. they do not spend their energies on their own growth, or their own play, but to feed the veins of mother earth with permanent splendors, very different from what she shows on the surface. think of passing a life, not merely in heaping together, but _making_ gold. of all dreams, that of the alchemist is the most poetical, for he looked at the finest symbol. "gold," says one of our friends, "is the hidden light of the earth, it crowns the mineral, as wine the vegetable order, being the last expression of vital energy." _j._ have you paid for your passage? _j._ yes! and in gold, not in shells or pebbles. _j._ no really wise gnome would scoff at the water, the beautiful water. "the spirit of man is like the water." _s._ and like the air and fire, no less. _j._ yes, but not like the earth, this low-minded creature's chosen, dwelling. _m._ the earth is spirit made fruitful,--life. and its heartbeats are told in gold and wine. _j._ oh! it is shocking to hear such sentiments in these times. i thought that bacchic energy of yours was long since repressed. _m._ no! i have only learned to mix water with my wine, and stamp upon my gold the heads of kings, or the hieroglyphics of worship. but since i have learnt to mix with water, let's hear what you have to say in praise of your favorite. _j._ from water venus was born, what more would you have? it is the mother of beauty, the girdle of earth, and the marriage of nations. _s._ without any of that high-flown poetry, it is enough, i think, that it is the great artist, turning all objects that approach it to picture. _j._ true, no object that touches it, whether it be the cart that ploughs the wave for sea-weed, or the boat or plank that rides upon it, but is brought at once from the demesne of coarse utilities into that of picture. all trades, all callings, become picturesque by the water's side, or on the water. the soil, the slovenliness, is washed out of every calling by its touch. all river-crafts, sea-crafts, are picturesque, are poetical. their very slang is poetry. _m._ the reasons for that are complex. _j._ the reason is, that there can be no plodding, groping words and motions on my water as there are on your earth. there is no time, no chance for them where all moves so rapidly, though so smoothly; everything connected with water must be like itself, forcible, but clear. that is why sea-slang is so poetical; there is a word for everything and every act, and a thing and an act for every word. seamen must speak quick and bold, but also with utmost precision. they cannot reef and brace other than in a homeric dialect,-- therefore--(steamboat bell rings.) but i must say a quick good-by. _m._ what, going, going back to earth after all this talk upon the other side. well, that is nowise homeric, but truly modern. j. is borne off without time for any reply, but a laugh--at himself, of course. s. and m. retire to their state-rooms to forget the wet, the chill, and steamboat smell, in their just-bought new world of novels. next day, when we stopped at cleveland, the storm was just clearing up; ascending the bluff, we had one of the finest views of the lake that could have been wished. the varying depths of these lakes give to their surface a great variety of coloring, and beneath this wild sky and changeful light, the waters presented a kaleidoscopic variety of hues, rich, but mournful. i admire these bluffs of red, crumbling earth. here land and water meet under very different auspices from those of the rock-bound coast to which i have been accustomed. there they meet tenderly to challenge, and proudly to refuse, though, not in fact repel. but here they meet to mingle, are always rushing together, and changing places; a new creation takes place beneath the eye. the weather grew gradually clearer, but not bright; yet we could see the shore and appreciate the extent of these noble waters. coming up the river st. clair, we saw indians for the first time. they were camped out on the bank. it was twilight, and their blanketed forms, in listless groups or stealing along the bank, with a lounge and a stride so different in its wildness from the rudeness of the white settler, gave me the first feeling that i really approached the west. the people on the boat were almost all new-englanders, seeking their fortunes. they had brought with them their habits of calculation, their cautious manners, their love of polemics. it grieved me to hear these immigrants, who were to be the fathers of a new race, all, from the old man down to the little girl, talking, not of what they should do, but of what they should get in the new scene. it was to them a prospect, not of the unfolding nobler energies, but of more ease and larger accumulation. it wearied me, too, to hear trinity and unity discussed in the poor, narrow, doctrinal way on these free waters; but that will soon cease; there is not time for this clash of opinions in the west, where the clash of material interests is so noisy. they will need the spirit of religion more than ever to guide them, but will find less time than before for its doctrine. this change was to me, who am tired of the war of words on these subjects, and believe it only sows the wind to reap the whirlwind, refreshing, but i argue nothing from it; there is nothing real in the freedom of thought at the west,--it is from the position of men's lives, not the state of their minds. so soon as they have time, unless they grow better meanwhile, they will cavil and criticise, and judge other men by their own standard, and outrage the law of love every way, just as they do with us. we reached mackinaw the evening of the third day, but, to my great disappointment, it was too late and too rainy to go ashore. the beauty of the island, though seen under the most unfavorable circumstances, did not disappoint my expectations.[a] but i shall see it to more purpose on my return. [footnote a: "mackinaw, that long desired, sight, was dimly discerned under a thick fog, yet it soothed and cheered me. all looked mellow there; man seemed to have worked in harmony with nature instead of rudely invading her, as in most western towns. it seemed possible, on that spot, to lead a life of serenity and cheerfulness. some richly dressed indians came down to show themselves. their dresses were of blue broadcloth, with splendid leggings and knee-ties. on their heads were crimson scarfs adorned with beads and falling on one shoulder, their hair long and looking cleanly. near were one or two wild figures clad in the common white blankets." manuscript notes.--ed.] as the day has passed dully, a cold rain preventing us from keeping out in the air, my thoughts have been dwelling on a story told when we were off detroit, this morning, by a fellow-passenger, and whose moral beauty touched me profoundly. "some years ago," said mrs. l., "my father and mother stopped to dine at detroit. a short time before dinner my father met in the hall captain p., a friend of his youthful days. he had loved p. extremely, as did many who knew him, and had not been surprised to hear of the distinction and popular esteem which his wide knowledge, talents, and noble temper commanded, as he went onward in the world. p. was every way fitted to succeed; his aims were high, but not too high for his powers, suggested by an instinct of his own capacities, not by an ideal standard drawn from culture. though steadfast in his course, it was not to overrun others; his wise self-possession was no less for them than himself. he was thoroughly the gentleman, gentle because manly, and was a striking instance that, where there is strength for sincere courtesy, there is no need of other adaptation to the character of others, to make one's way freely and gracefully through the crowd. "my father was delighted to see him, and after a short parley in the hall, 'we will dine together,' he cried, 'then we shall have time to tell all our stories.' "p. hesitated a moment, then said, 'my wife is with me.' "'and mine with me,' said my father; 'that's well; they, too, will have an opportunity of getting acquainted, and can entertain one another, if they get tired of our college stories.' "p. acquiesced, with a grave bow, and shortly after they all met in the dining-room. my father was much surprised at the appearance of mrs. p. he had heard that his friend married abroad, but nothing further, and he was not prepared to see the calm, dignified p. with a woman on his arm, still handsome, indeed, but whose coarse and imperious expression showed as low habits of mind as her exaggerated dress and gesture did of education. nor could there be a greater contrast to my mother, who, though understanding her claims and place with the certainty of a lady, was soft and retiring in an uncommon degree. "however, there was no time to wonder or fancy; they sat down, and p. engaged in conversation, without much vivacity, but with his usual ease. the first quarter of an hour passed well enough. but soon it was observable that mrs. p. was drinking glass after glass of wine, to an extent few gentlemen did, even then, and soon that she was actually excited by it. before this, her manner had been brusque, if not contemptuous, towards her new acquaintance; now it became, towards my mother especially, quite rude. presently she took up some slight remark made by my mother, which, though, it did not naturally mean anything of the sort, could be twisted into some reflection upon england, and made it a handle, first of vulgar sarcasm, and then, upon my mother's defending herself with some surprise and gentle dignity, hurled upon her a volley of abuse, beyond billingsgate. "my mother, confounded by scenes and ideas presented to her mind equally new and painful, sat trembling; she knew not what to do; tears rushed into her eyes. my father, no less distressed, yet unwilling to outrage the feelings of his friend by doing or saying what his indignation prompted, turned an appealing look on p. "never, as he often said, was the painful expression of that sight effaced from his mind. it haunted his dreams and disturbed his waking thoughts. p. sat with his head bent forward, and his eyes cast down, pale, but calm, with a fixed expression, not merely of patient woe, but of patient shame, which it would not have been thought possible for that noble countenance to wear. 'yet,' said my father, 'it became him. at other times he was handsome, but then beautiful, though of a beauty saddened and abashed. for a spiritual light borrowed from the worldly perfection of his mien that illustration by contrast, which the penitence of the magdalen does from the glowing earthliness of her charms.' "seeing that he preserved silence, while mrs. p. grew still more exasperated, my father rose and led his wife to her own room. half an hour had passed, in painful and wondering surmises, when a gentle knock was heard at the door, and p. entered equipped for a journey. 'we are just going,' he said, and holding out his hand, but without looking at them, 'forgive.' "they each took his hand, and silently pressed it; then he went without a word more. "some time passed, and they heard now and then of p., as he passed from one army station to another, with his uncongenial companion, who became, it was said, constantly more degraded. whoever mentioned having seen them wondered at the chance which had yoked him to such a woman, but yet more at the silent fortitude with which he bore it. many blamed him for enduring it, apparently without efforts to check her; others answered that he had probably made such at an earlier period, and, finding them unavailing, had resigned himself to despair, and was too delicate to meet the scandal that, with such resistance as such a woman could offer, must attend a formal separation. "but my father, who was not in such haste to come to conclusions, and substitute some plausible explanation for the truth, found something in the look of p. at that trying moment to which, none of these explanations offered a key. there was in it, he felt, a fortitude, but not the fortitude of the hero; a religious submission, above the penitent, if not enkindled with the enthusiasm, of the martyr. "i have said that my father was not one of those who are ready to substitute specious explanations for truth, and those who are thus abstinent rarely lay their hand, on a thread without making it a clew. such a man, like the dexterous weaver, lets not one color go till ire finds that which matches it in the pattern,--he keeps on weaving, but chooses his shades; and my father found at last what he wanted to make out the pattern for himself. he met a lady who had been intimate with both himself and p. in early days, and, finding she had seen the latter abroad, asked if she knew the circumstances of the marriage. "'the circumstances of the act which sealed the misery of our friend, i know,' she said, 'though as much in the dark as any one about the motives that led to it. "'we were quite intimate with p. in london, and he was our most delightful companion. he was then in the full flower of the varied accomplishments which set off his fine manners and dignified character, joined, towards those he loved, with a certain soft willingness which gives the desirable chivalry to a man. none was more clear of choice where his personal affections were not touched, but where they were, it cost him pain to say no, on the slightest occasion. i have thought this must have had some connection with the mystery of his misfortunes. "'one day he called on me, and, without any preface, asked if i would be present next day at his marriage. i was so surprised, and so unpleasantly surprised, that i did not at first answer a word. we had been on terms so familiar, that i thought i knew all about him, yet had never dreamed of his having an attachment; and, though i had never inquired on the subject, yet this reserve where perfect openness had been supposed, and really, on my side, existed, seemed to me a kind of treachery. then it is never pleasant to know that a heart on which we have some claim is to be given to another. we cannot tell how it will affect our own relations with a person; it may strengthen or it may swallow up other affections; the crisis is hazardous, and our first thought, on such an occasion, is too often for ourselves,--at least mine was. seeing me silent, he repeated his question. "to whom," said i, "are you to be married?" "that," he replied, "i cannot tell you." he was a moment silent, then continued, with an impassive look of cold self-possession, that affected me with strange sadness: "the name of the person you will hear, of course, at the time, but more i cannot tell you. i need, however, the presence, not only of legal, but of respectable and friendly witnesses. i have hoped you and your husband would, do me this kindness. will you?" something in his manner made it impossible to refuse. i answered, before i knew i was going to speak, "we will," and he left me. "'i will not weary you with telling how i harassed myself and my husband, who was, however, scarce less interested, with doubts and conjectures. suffice it that, next morning, p. came and took us in a carriage to a distant church. we had just entered the porch, when a cart, such as fruit and vegetables are brought to market in, drove up, containing an elderly woman and a young girl. p. assisted them to alight, and advanced with the girl to the altar. "'the girl was neatly dressed and quite handsome, yet something in her expression displeased me the moment i looked upon her. meanwhile, the ceremony was going on, and, at its close, p. introduced us to the bride, and we all went to the door. "good by, fanny," said the elderly woman. the new-made mrs. p. replied without any token of affection or emotion. the woman got into the cart and drove away. "'from that time i saw but little of p. or his wife. i took our mutual friends to see her, and they were civil to her for his sake. curiosity was very much excited, but entirely baffled; no one, of course, dared speak to p. on the subject, and no other means could be found of solving the riddle. "'he treated his wife with grave and kind politeness, but it was always obvious that they had nothing in common between them. her manners and tastes were not at that time gross, but her character showed itself hard and material. she was fond of riding, and spent much time so. her style in this, and in dress, seemed the opposite of p.'s; but he indulged all her wishes, while, for himself, he plunged into his own pursuits. "'for a time he seemed, if not happy, not positively unhappy; but, after a few years, mrs. p. fell into the habit of drinking, and then such scenes as you witnessed grew frequent. i have often heard of them, and always that p. sat, as you describe him, his head bowed down and perfectly silent all through, whatever might be done or whoever be present, and always his aspect has inspired such sympathy that no person has questioned him or resented her insults, but merely got out of the way as soon as possible.' "'hard and long penance,' said my father, after some minutes musing, 'for an hour of passion, probably for his only error.' "'is that your explanation?' said the lady. 'o, improbable! p. might err, but not be led beyond himself.' "i know that his cool, gray eye and calm complexion seemed to say so, but a different story is told by the lip that could tremble, and showed what flashes might pierce those deep blue heavens; and when these over-intellectual beings do swerve aside, it is to fall down a precipice, for their narrow path lies over such. but he was not one to sin without making a brave atonement, and that it had become a holy one, was written on that downcast brow." the fourth day on these waters, the weather was milder and brighter, so that we could now see them to some purpose. at night the moon was clear, and, for the first time, from, the upper deck i saw one of the great steamboats come majestically up. it was glowing with lights, looking many-eyed and sagacious; in its heavy motion it seemed a dowager queen, and this motion, with its solemn pulse, and determined sweep, becomes these smooth waters, especially at night, as much as the dip of the sail-ship the long billows of the ocean. but it was not so soon that i learned to appreciate the lake scenery; it was only after a daily and careless familiarity that i entered into its beauty, for nature always refuses to be seen by being stared at. like bonaparte, she discharges her face of all expression when she catches the eye of impertinent curiosity fixed on her. but he who has gone to sleep in childish ease on her lap, or leaned an aching brow upon her breast, seeking there comfort with full trust as from a mother, will see all a mother's beauty in the look she bends upon him. later, i felt that i had really seen these regions, and shall speak of them again. in the afternoon we went on shore at the manitou islands, where the boat stops to wood. no one lives here except wood-cutters for the steamboats. i had thought of such a position, from its mixture of profound solitude with service to the great world, as possessing an ideal beauty. i think so still, even after seeing the wood-cutters and their slovenly huts. in times of slower growth, man did not enter a situation without a certain preparation or adaptedness to it. he drew from it, if not to the poetical extent, at least in some proportion, its moral and its meaning. the wood-cutter did not cut down so many trees a day, that the hamadryads had not time to make their plaints heard; the shepherd tended his sheep, and did no jobs or chores the while; the idyl had a chance to grow up, and modulate his oaten pipe. but now the poet must be at the whole expense of the poetry in describing one of these positions; the worker is a true midas to the gold he makes. the poet must describe, as the painter sketches irish peasant-girls and danish fishwives, adding the beauty, and leaving out the dirt. i come to the west prepared for the distaste i must experience at its mushroom growth. i know that, where "go ahead" is tire only motto, the village cannot grow into the gentle proportions that successive lives and the gradations of experience involuntarily give. in older countries the house of the son grew from that of the father, as naturally as new joints on a bough, and the cathedral crowned the whole as naturally as the leafy summit the tree. this cannot be here. the march of peaceful is scarce less wanton than that of warlike invasion. the old landmarks are broken down, and the land, for a season, bears none, except of the rudeness of conquest and the needs of the day, whose bivouac-fires blacken the sweetest forest glades. i have come prepared to see all this, to dislike it, but not with stupid narrowness to distrust or defame. on the contrary, while i will not be so obliging as to confound ugliness with beauty, discord with harmony, and laud and be contented with all i meet, when it conflicts with my best desires and tastes, i trust by reverent faith to woo the mighty meaning of the scene, perhaps to foresee the law by which a new order, a new poetry, is to be evoked from this chaos, and with a curiosity as ardent, but not so selfish, as that of macbeth, to call up the apparitions of future kings from the strange ingredients of the witch's caldron. thus i will not grieve that all the noble trees are gone already from this island to feed this caldron, but believe it will have medea's virtue, and reproduce them in the form of new intellectual growths, since centuries cannot again adorn the land with such as have been removed. on this most beautiful beach of smooth white pebbles, interspersed with agates and cornelians for those who know how to find them, we stepped, not like the indian, with some humble offering, which, if no better than an arrow-head or a little parched corn, would, he judged, please the manitou, who looks only at the spirit in which it is offered. our visit was so far for a religious purpose that one of our party went to inquire the fate of some unitarian tracts left among the wood-cutters a year or two before. but the old manitou, though, daunted like his children by the approach of the fire-ships, which he probably considered demons of a new dynasty, he had suffered his woods to be felled to feed their pride, had been less patient of an encroachment which did not to him seem so authorized by the law of the strongest, and had scattered those leaves as carelessly as the others of that year. but s. and i, like other emigrants, went, not to give, but to get, to rifle the wood of flowers for the service of the fire-ship. we returned with a rich booty, among which was the _uva-ursi_, whose leaves the indians smoke, with the _kinnikinnik_, and which had then just put forth its highly finished little blossoms, as pretty as those of the blueberry. passing along still further, i thought it would be well if the crowds assembled to stare from the various landings were still confined to the _kinnikinnik_, for almost all had tobacco written on their faces, their cheeks rounded with plugs, their eyes dull with its fumes. we reached chicago on the evening of the sixth day, having been out five days and a half, a rather longer passage than usual at a favorable season of the year. chicago, june . there can be no two places in the world more completely thoroughfares than this place and buffalo. they are the two correspondent valves that open and shut all the time, as the life-blood rushes from east to west, and back again from west to east. since it is their office thus to be the doors, and let in and out, it would be unfair to expect from them much character of their own. to make the best provisions for the transmission of produce is their office, and the people who live there are such as are suited for this,--active, complaisant, inventive, business people. there are no provisions for the student or idler; to know what the place can give, you should be at work with the rest; the mere traveller will not find it profitable to loiter there as i did. since circumstances made it necessary for me so to do, i read all the books i could find about the new region, which now began, to become real to me. especially i read all the books about the indians,--a paltry collection truly, yet which furnished material for many thoughts. the most narrow-minded and awkward recital still bears some lineaments of the great features of this nature, and the races of men that illustrated them. catlin's book is far the best. i was afterwards assured by those acquainted with the regions he describes, that he is not to be depended on for the accuracy of his facts, and indeed it is obvious, without the aid of such assertions, that he sometimes yields to the temptation of making out a story. they admitted, however, what from my feelings i was sure of, that he is true to the spirit of the scene, and that a far better view can be got from him than from any source at present existing, of the indian tribes of the far west, and of the country where their inheritance lay. murray's travels i read, and was charmed by their accuracy and clear, broad tone. he is the only englishman that seems to have traversed these regions as man simply, not as john bull. he deserves to belong to an aristocracy, for he showed his title to it more when left without a guide in the wilderness, than he can at the court of victoria. he has; himself, no poetic force at description, but it is easy to make images from his hints. yet we believe the indian cannot be locked at truly except by a poetic eye. the pawnees, no doubt, are such as he describes them, filthy in their habits, and treacherous in their character, but some would have seen, and seen truly, more beauty and dignity than he does with all his manliness and fairness of mind. however, his one fine old man is enough to redeem the rest, and is perhaps tire relic of a better day, a phocion among the pawnees. schoolcraft's algic researches is a valuable book, though a worse use could hardly have been made of such fine material. had the mythological or hunting stories of the indians been written down exactly as they were received from the lips of the narrators, the collection could not have been surpassed in interest? both for the wild charm they carry with them, and the light they throw on a peculiar modification of life and mind. as it is, though the incidents have an air of originality and pertinence to the occasion, that gives us confidence that they have not been altered, the phraseology in which they were expressed has been entirely set aside, and the flimsy graces, common to the style of annuals and souvenirs, substituted for the spartan brevity and sinewy grasp of indian speech. we can just guess what might have been there, as we can detect the fine proportions of the brave whom the bad taste of some white patron has arranged in frock-coat, hat, and pantaloons. the few stories mrs. jameson wrote out, though to these also a sentimental air has been given, offend much less in that way than is common in this book. what would we not give for a completely faithful version of some among them! yet, with all these drawbacks, we cannot doubt from internal evidence that they truly ascribe to the indian a delicacy of sentiment and of fancy that justifies cooper in such inventions as his uncas. it is a white man's view of a savage hero, who would be far finer in his natural proportions; still, through a masquerade figure, it implies the truth. irving's books i also read, some for the first, some for the second time, with increased interest, now that i was to meet such people as he received his materials from. though the books are pleasing from, their grace and luminous arrangement, yet, with the exception of the tour to the prairies, they have a stereotype, second-hand air. they lack the breath, the glow, the charming minute traits of living presence. his scenery is only fit to be glanced at from, dioramic distance; his indians are academic figures only. he would have made the best of pictures, if he could have used his own eyes for studies and sketches; as it is, his success is wonderful, but inadequate. mckenney's tour to the lakes is the dullest of books, yet faithful and quiet, and gives some facts not to be met with everywhere. i also read a collection of indian anecdotes and speeches, the worst compiled and arranged book possible, yet not without clews of some value. all these books i read in anticipation of a canoe-voyage on lake superior as far as the pictured rocks, and, though i was afterwards compelled to give up this project, they aided me in judging of what i subsequently saw and heard of the indians. in chicago i first saw the beautiful prairie-flowers. they were in their glory the first ten days we were there,-- "the golden and the flame-like flowers." the flame-like flower i was taught afterwards, by an indian girl, to call "wickapee"; and she told me, too, that its splendors had a useful side, for it was used by the indians as a remedy for an illness to which they were subject. beside these brilliant flowers, which gemmed and gilt the grass in a sunny afternoon's drive near the blue lake, between the low oak-wood and the narrow beach, stimulated, whether sensuously by the optic nerve, unused to so much gold and crimson with such tender green, or symbolically through some meaning dimly seen in the flowers, i enjoyed a sort of fairy-land exultation never felt before, and the first drive amid the flowers gave me anticipation of the beauty of the prairies. at first, the prairie seemed to speak of the very desolation of dulness. after sweeping over the vast monotony of the lakes to come to this monotony of land, with all around a limitless horizon,--to walk, and walk, and run, but never climb, oh! it was too dreary for any but a hollander to bear. how the eye greeted the approach of a sail, or the smoke of a steamboat; it seemed that anything so animated must come from a better land, where mountains gave religion to the scene. the only thing i liked at first to do was to trace with slow and unexpecting step the narrow margin of the lake. sometimes a heavy swell gave it expression; at others, only its varied coloring, which i found more admirable every day, and which gave it an air of mirage instead of the vastness of ocean. then there was a grandeur in the feeling that i might continue that walk, if i had any seven-leagued mode of conveyance to save fatigue, for hundreds of miles without an obstacle and without a change. but after i had ridden out, and seen the flowers, and observed the sun set with that calmness seen only in the prairies, and tire cattle winding slowly to their homes in the "island groves,"--most peaceful of sights,--i began to love, because i began to know tire scene, and shrank no longer from "the encircling vastness." it is always thus with the new form of life; we must learn to look at it by its own standard. at first, no doubt, my accustomed eye kept saying, if the mind did not, what! no distant mountains? what! no valleys? but after a while i would ascend the roof of the house where we lived, and pass many hours, needing no sight but the moon reigning in the heavens, or starlight falling upon the lake, till all the lights were out in the island grove of men beneath my feet, and felt nearer heaven that there was nothing but this lovely, still reception on the earth; no towering mountains, no deep tree-shadows, nothing but plain earth and water bathed in light. sunset, as seen from that place, presented most generally, low-lying, flaky clouds, of the softest serenity. one night a star "shot madly from, its sphere," and it had a fair chance to be seen, but that serenity could not be astonished. yes! it was a peculiar beauty, that of those sunsets and moonlights on the levels of chicago, which chamouny or the trosachs could not make me forget.[a] [footnote a: "from the prairie near chicago had i seen, some days before, the sun set with that calmness observed only on the prairies. i know not what it says, but something quite different from sunset at sea. there is no motion except of waving grasses,--the cattle move slowly homeward in the distance. that _home!_ where is it? it seems as if there was no home, and no need of one, and there is room enough to wander on for ever."--manuscript notes.] notwithstanding all the attractions i thus found out by degrees on the flat shores of the lake, i was delighted when i found myself really on my way into the country for an excursion of two or three weeks. we set forth in a strong wagon, almost as large, and with the look of those used elsewhere for transporting caravans of wild beasts, loaded with everything we might want, in case nobody would give it to us,--for buying and selling were no longer to be counted on,--with, a pair of strong horses, able and willing to force their way through mud-holes and amid stumps, and a guide, equally admirable as marshal and companion, who knew by heart the country and its history, both natural and artificial, and whose clear hunter's eye needed, neither road nor goal to guide it to all the spots where beauty best loves to dwell. add to this the finest weather, and such country as i had never seen, even in my dreams, although these dreams had been haunted by wishes for just such a one, and you may judge whether years of dulness might not, by these bright days, be redeemed, and a sweetness be shed over all thoughts of the west. the first day brought us through woods rich in the moccason-flower and lupine, and plains whose soft expanse was continually touched with expression by the slow moving clouds which "sweep over with their shadows, and beneath the surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; dark hollows seem to glide along and chase the sunny ridges," to the banks of the fox river, a sweet and graceful stream. we readied geneva just in time to escape being drenched by a violent thunder-shower, whose rise and disappearance threw expression into all the features of the scene. geneva reminds me of a new england village, as indeed there, and in the neighborhood, are many new-englanders of an excellent stamp, generous, intelligent, discreet, and seeking to win from life its true values. such are much wanted, and seem like points of light among the swarms of settlers, whose aims are sordid, whose habits thoughtless and slovenly.[a] [footnote a: "we passed a portion of one day with mr. and mrs. ----, young, healthy, and, thank heaven, _gay_ people. in the general dulness that broods over this land where so little genius flows, and care, business, and fashionable frivolity are equally dull, unspeakable is the relief of some flashes of vivacity, some sparkles of wit. of course it is hard enough for those, most natively disposed that way, to strike fire. i would willingly be the tinder to promote the cheering blaze."--manuscript notes.] with great pleasure we heard, with his attentive and affectionate congregation, the unitarian clergyman, mr. conant, and afterward visited him in his house, where almost everything bore traces of his own handiwork or that of his father. he is just such a teacher as is wanted in this region, familiar enough, with the habits of those he addresses to come home to their experience and their wants; earnest and enlightened enough to draw the important inferences from the life of every day.[b] [footnote b: "let any who think men do not need or want the church, hear these people talk about it as if it were the only indispensable thing, and see what i saw in chicago. an elderly lady from philadelphia, who had been visiting her sons in the west, arrived there about one o'clock on a hot sunday noon. she rang the bell and requested a room immediately, as she wanted to get ready for afternoon service. some delay occurring, she expressed great regret, as she had ridden all night for the sake of attending church. she went to church, neither having dined nor taken any repose after her journey."--manuscript notes.] a day or two we remained here, and passed some happy hours in the woods that fringe the stream, where the gentlemen found a rich booty of fish. next day, travelling along the river's banks, was an uninterrupted pleasure. we closed our drive in the afternoon at the house of an english gentleman, who has gratified, as few men do, the common wish to pass the evening of an active day amid the quiet influences of country life. he showed us a bookcase filled with books about this country; these he had collected for years, and become so familiar with the localities, that, on coming here at last, he sought and found, at once, the very spot he wanted, and where he is as content as he hoped to be, thus realizing wordsworth's description of the wise man, who "sees what he foresaw." a wood surrounds the house, through which paths are cut in every direction. it is, for this new country, a large and handsome dwelling; but round it are its barns and farm-yard, with cattle and poultry. these, however, in the framework of wood, have a very picturesque and pleasing effect. there is that mixture of culture and rudeness in the aspect of things which gives a feeling of freedom, not of confusion. i wish, it were possible to give some idea of this scene, as viewed by the earliest freshness of dewy dawn. this habitation of man seemed like a nest in the grass, so thoroughly were the buildings and all the objects of human care harmonized with, what was natural. the tall trees bent and whispered all around, as if to hail with, sheltering love the men who had come to dwell among them. the young ladies were musicians, and spoke french fluently, having been educated in a convent. here in the prairie, they had learned to take care of the milk-room, and kill the rattlesnakes that assailed their poultry-yard. beneath the shade of heavy curtains you looked out from the high and large windows to see norwegian peasants at work in their national dress. in the wood grew, not only the flowers i had before seen, and wealth of tall, wild roses, but the splendid blue spiderwort, that ornament of our gardens. beautiful children strayed there, who were soon to leave these civilized regions for some really wild and western place, a post in the buffalo country. their no less beautiful mother was of welsh descent, and the eldest child bore the name of gwynthleon. perhaps there she will meet with some young descendants of madoc, to be her friends; at any rate, her looks may retain that sweet, wild beauty, that is soon made to vanish from eyes which look too much on shops and streets, and the vulgarities of city "parties." next day we crossed the river. we ladies crossed on a little foot-bridge, from which we could look down the stream, and see the wagon pass over at the ford. a black thunder-cloud was coming up; the sky and waters heavy with expectation. the motion of the wagon, with its white cover, and the laboring horses, gave just the due interest to the picture, because it seemed, as if they would not have time to cross before the storm came on. however, they did get across, and we were a mile or two on our way before the violent shower obliged us to take refuge in a solitary house upon the prairie. in this country it is as pleasant to stop as to go on, to lose your way as to find it, for the variety in the population gives you a chance for fresh entertainment in every hut, and the luxuriant beauty makes every path attractive. in this house we found a family "quite above the common," but, i grieve to say, not above false pride, for the father, ashamed of being caught barefoot, told us a story of a man, one of the richest men, he said, in one of the eastern cities, who went barefoot, from choice and taste. near the door grew a provence rose, then in blossom. other families we saw had brought with them and planted the locust. it was pleasant to see their old home loves, brought into connection with their new splendors. wherever there were traces of this tenderness of feeling, only too rare among americans, other things bore signs also of prosperity and intelligence, as if the ordering mind of man had some idea of home beyond a mere shelter beneath which to eat and sleep. no heaven need wear a lovelier aspect than earth did this afternoon, after the clearing up of the shower. we traversed the blooming plain, unmarked by any road, only the friendly track of wheels which bent, not broke, the grass. our stations were not from town to town, but from grove to grove. these groves first floated like blue islands in the distance. as we drew nearer, they seemed fair parks, and the little log-houses on the edge, with their curling smokes, harmonized beautifully with them. one of these groves, ross's grove, we reached just at sunset, it was of the noblest trees i saw during this journey, for generally the trees were not large or lofty, but only of fair proportions. here they were large enough to form with their clear stems pillars for grand cathedral aisles. there was space enough for crimson light to stream through upon the floor of water which the shower had left. as we slowly plashed through, i thought i was never in a better place for vespers. that night we rested, or rather tarried, at a grove some miles beyond, and there partook of the miseries, so often jocosely portrayed, of bedchambers for twelve, a milk dish for universal hand-basin, and expectations that you would use and lend your "hankercher" for a towel. but this was the only night, thanks to the hospitality of private families, that we passed thus; and it was well that we had this bit of experience, else might we have pronounced all trollopian records of the kind to be inventions of pure malice. with us was a young lady who showed herself to have been bathed in the britannic fluid, wittily described by a late french writer, by the impossibility she experienced of accommodating herself to the indecorums of the scene. we ladies were to sleep in the bar-room, from which its drinking visitors could be ejected only at a late hour. the outer door had no fastening to prevent their return. however, our host kindly requested we would call him, if they did, as he had "conquered them for us," and would do so again. we had also rather hard couches (mine was the supper-table); but we yankees, born to rove, were altogether too much fatigued to stand upon trifles, and slept as sweetly as we would in the "bigly bower" of any baroness. but i think england sat up all night, wrapped in her blanket-shawl, and with a neat lace cap upon her head,--so that she would have looked perfectly the lady, if any one had come in,--shuddering and listening. i know that she was very ill next day, in requital. she watched, as her parent country watches the seas, that nobody may do wrong in any case, and deserved to have met some interruption, she was so well prepared. however, there was none, other than from the nearness of some twenty sets of powerful lungs, which would not leave the night to a deathly stillness. in this house we had, if not good beds, yet good tea, good bread, and wild strawberries, and were entertained with most free communications of opinion and history from our hosts. neither shall any of us have a right to say again that we cannot find any who may be willing to hear all we may have to say. "a's fish that comes to the net," should be painted on the sign at papaw grove. chapter iii. rock river.--oregon.--ancient indian village.--ganymede to his eagle.--western fourth of july celebration.--women in the west.--kishwaukie.--belvidere.--farewell. in the afternoon of this day we reached the rock river, in whose neighborhood we proposed to make some stay, and crossed at dixon's ferry. this beautiful stream flows full and wide over a bed of rocks, traversing a distance of near two hundred miles, to reach the mississippi. great part of the country along its banks is the finest region of illinois, and the scene of some of the latest romance of indian warfare. to these beautiful regions black hawk returned with his band "to pass the summer," when he drew upon himself the warfare in which he was finally vanquished. no wonder he could not resist the longing, unwise though its indulgence might be, to return in summer to this home of beauty. of illinois, in general, it has often been remarked, that it bears the character of country which has been inhabited by a nation skilled like the english in all the ornamental arts of life, especially in landscape-gardening. the villas and castles seem to have been burnt, the enclosures taken down, but the velvet lawns, the flower-gardens, the stately parks, scattered at graceful intervals by the decorous hand of art, the frequent deer, and the peaceful herd of cattle that make picture of the plain, all suggest more of the masterly mind of man, than the prodigal, but careless, motherly love of nature. especially is this true of the rock river country. the river flows sometimes through these parks and lawns, then betwixt high bluffs, whose grassy ridges are covered with fine trees, or broken with crumbling stone, that easily assumes the forms of buttress, arch, and clustered columns. along the face of such crumbling rocks, swallows' nests are clustered, thick as cities, and eagles and deer do not disdain their summits. one morning, out in the boat along the base of these rocks, it was amusing, and affecting too, to see these swallows put their heads out to look at us. there was something very hospitable about it, as if man had never shown himself a tyrant near them. what a morning that was! every sight is worth twice as much by the early morning light. we borrow something of the spirit of the hour to look upon them. the first place where we stopped was one of singular beauty, a beauty of soft, luxuriant wildness. it was on the bend of the river, a place chosen by an irish gentleman, whose absenteeship seems of the wisest kind, since, for a sum which would have been but a drop of water to the thirsty fever of his native land, he commands a residence which has all that is desirable, in its independence, its beautiful retirement, and means of benefit to others. his park, his deer-chase, he found already prepared; he had only to make an avenue through it. this brought us to the house by a drive, which in the heat of noon seemed long, though afterwards, in the cool of morning and evening, delightful. this is, for that part of the world, a large and commodious dwelling. near it stands the log-cabin where its master lived while it was building, a very ornamental accessory. in front of the house was a lawn, adorned by the most graceful trees. a few of these had been taken out to give a full view of the river, gliding through banks such as i have described. on this bend the bank is high and bold, so from, the house or the lawn the view was very rich and commanding. but if you descended a ravine at the side to the water's edge, you found there a long walk on the narrow shore, with a wall above of the richest hanging wood, in which they said the deer lay hid. i never saw one but often fancied that i heard them rustling, at daybreak, by these bright, clear waters, stretching out in such smiling promise where no sound broke the deep and blissful seclusion, unless now and then this rustling, or the splash of some fish a little gayer than the others; it seemed not necessary to have any better heaven, or fuller expression of love and freedom, than in the mood of nature here. then, leaving the bank, you would walk far and yet farther through long, grassy paths, full of the most brilliant, also the most delicate flowers. the brilliant are more common on the prairie, but both kinds loved this place. amid the grass of the lawn, with a profusion of wild strawberries, we greeted also a familiar love, the scottish harebell, the gentlest and most touching form of the flower-world. the master of the house was absent, but with a kindness beyond thanks had offered us a resting-place there. here we were taken care of by a deputy, who would, for his youth, have been assigned the place of a page in former times, but in the young west, it seems, he was old enough for a steward. whatever be called his function, he did the honors of the place so much in harmony with it, as to leave the guests free to imagine themselves in elysium. and the three days passed here were days of unalloyed, spotless happiness. there was a peculiar charm in coming here, where the choice of location, and the unobtrusive good taste of all the arrangements, showed such intelligent appreciation of the spirit of the scene, after seeing so many dwellings of the new settlers, which showed plainly that they had no thought beyond satisfying the grossest material wants. sometimes they looked attractive, these little brown houses, the natural architecture of the country, in the edge of the timber. but almost always, when you came near the slovenliness of the dwelling, and the rude way in which objects around it were treated, when so little care would have presented a charming whole, were very repulsive. seeing the traces of the indians, who chose the most beautiful sites for their dwellings, and whose habits do not break in on that aspect of nature under which they were born, we feel as if they were the rightful lords of a beauty they forbore to deform. but most of these settlers do not see it at all; it breathes, it speaks in vain to those who are rushing into its sphere. their progress is gothic, not roman, and their mode of cultivation will, in the course of twenty, perhaps ten years, obliterate the natural expression of the country. this is inevitable, fatal; we must not complain, but look forward to a good result. still, in travelling through this country, i could not but be struck with the force of a symbol. wherever the hog comes, the rattlesnake disappears; the omnivorous traveller, safe in its stupidity, willingly and easily makes a meal of the most dangerous of reptiles, and one which the indian looks on with a mystic awe. even so the white settler pursues the indian, and is victor in the chase. but i shall say more upon the subject by and by. while we were here, we had one grand thunder-storm, which added new glory to the scene. one beautiful feature was the return of the pigeons every afternoon to their home. at this time they would come sweeping across the lawn, positively in clouds, and with a swiftness and softness of winged motion more beautiful than anything of the kind i ever knew. had i been a musician, such as mendelssohn, i felt that i could have improvised a music quite peculiar, from the sound they made, which should have indicated all the beauty over which their wings bore them. i will here insert a few lines left at this house on parting, which feebly indicate some of the features. the western eden. familiar to the childish mind were tales of rock-girt isles amid a desert sea, where unexpected stretch the flowery vales to soothe the shipwrecked sailor's misery. fainting, he lay upon a sandy shore, and fancied that all hope of life was o'er; but let him patient climb the frowning wall, within, the orange glows beneath the palm-tree tall, and all that eden boasted waits his call. almost these tales seem realized to-day, when the long dulness of the sultry way, where "independent" settlers' careless cheer made us indeed feel we were "strangers" here, is cheered by sudden sight of this fair spot, on which "improvement" yet has made no blot, but nature all-astonished stands, to find her plan protected by the human mind. blest be the kindly genius of the scene; the river, bending in unbroken grace, the stately thickets, with their pathways green, fair, lonely trees, each in its fittest place; those thickets haunted by the deer and fawn; those cloudlike flights of birds across the lawn! the gentlest breezes here delight to blow, and sun and shower and star are emulous to deck the show. wondering, as crusoe, we survey the land; happier than crusoe we, a friendly band. blest be the hand that reared this friendly home, the heart and mind of him to whom we owe hours of pure peace such as few mortals know; may he find such, should he be led to roam,-- be tended by such ministering sprites,-- enjoy such gayly childish days, such hopeful nights! and yet, amid the goods to mortals given, to give those goods again is most like heaven. hazelwood, rock river, june , . the only really rustic feature was of the many coops of poultry near the house, which i understood it to be one of the chief pleasures of the master to feed. leaving this place, we proceeded a day's journey along the beautiful stream, to a little town named oregon. we called at a cabin, from whose door looked out one of those faces which, once seen, are never forgotten; young, yet touched with many traces of feeling, not only possible, but endured; spirited, too, like the gleam of a finely tempered blade. it was a face that suggested a history, and many histories, but whose scene would have been in courts and camps. at this moment their circles are dull for want of that life which, is waning unexcited in this solitary recess. the master of the house proposed to show us a "short cut," by which we might, to especial advantage, pursue our journey. this proved to be almost perpendicular down a hill, studded with young trees and stumps. from these he proposed, with a hospitality of service worthy an oriental, to free our wheels whenever they should get entangled, also to be himself the drag, to prevent our too rapid descent. such generosity deserved trust; however, we women could not be persuaded to render it. we got out and admired, from afar, the process. left by our guide and prop, we found ourselves in a wide field, where, by playful quips and turns, an endless "creek," seemed to divert itself with our attempts to cross it. failing in this, the next best was to whirl down a steep bank, which feat our charioteer performed with an air not unlike that of rhesus, had he but been as suitably furnished with chariot and steeds! at last, after wasting some two or three hours on the "short cut," we got out by following an indian trail,--black hawk's! how fair the scene through which it led! how could they let themselves be conquered, with such a country to fight for! afterwards, in the wide prairie, we saw a lively picture of nonchalance (to speak in the fashion of clear ireland). there, in the wide sunny field, with neither tree nor umbrella above his head, sat a pedler, with his pack, waiting apparently for customers. he was not disappointed. we bought what hold, in regard to the human world, as unmarked, as mysterious, and as important an existence, as the infusoria to the natural, to wit, pins. this incident would have delighted those modern sages, who, in imitation of the sitting philosophers of ancient ind, prefer silence to speech, waiting to going, and scornfully smile, in answer to the motions of earnest life, "of itself will nothing come, that ye must still be seeking?" however, it seemed to me to-day, as formerly on these sublime occasions, obvious that nothing would, come, unless something would go; now, if we had been as sublimely still as the pedler, his pins would have tarried in the pack, and his pockets sustained an aching void of pence. passing through one of the fine, park-like woods, almost clear from underbrush and carpeted with thick grasses and flowers, we met (for it was sunday) a little congregation just returning from their service, which had been performed in a rude house in its midst. it had a sweet and peaceful air, as if such words and thoughts were very dear to them. the parents had with them, all their little children; but we saw no old people; that charm was wanting which exists in such scenes in older settlements, of seeing the silver bent in reverence beside the flaxen head. at oregon, the beauty of the scene was of even a more sumptuous character than at our former "stopping-place." here swelled the river in its boldest course, interspersed by halcyon isles on which nature had lavished all her prodigality in tree, vine, and flower, banked by noble bluffs, three hundred feet high, their sharp ridges as exquisitely definite as the edge of a shell; their summits adorned with those same beautiful trees, and with buttresses of rich rock, crested with old hemlocks, which wore a touching and antique grace amid, the softer and more luxuriant vegetation. lofty natural mounds rose amidst the rest, with the same lovely and sweeping outline, showing everywhere the plastic power of water,--water, mother of beauty,--which, by its sweet and eager flow, had left such lineaments as human genius never dreamt of. not far from the river was a high crag, called the pine rock, which looks out, as our guide observed, like a helmet above the brow of the country. it seems as if the water left here and there a vestige of forms and materials that preceded its course, just to set off its new and richer designs. the aspect of this country was to me enchanting, beyond any i have ever seen, from its fulness of expression, its bold and impassioned sweetness. here the flood of emotion has passed over and marked everywhere its course by a smile. the fragments of rock touch it with a wildness and liberality which give just the needed relief. i should never be tired here, though i have elsewhere seen country of more secret and alluring charms, better calculated to stimulate and suggest. here the eye and heart are filled. how happy the indians must have been here! it is not long since they were driven away, and the ground, above and below, is full of their traces. "the earth is full of men." you have only to turn up the sod to find arrowheads and indian pottery. on an island, belonging to our host, and nearly opposite his house, they loved to stay, and, no doubt, enjoyed its lavish beauty as much as the myriad wild pigeons that now haunt its flower-filled shades. here are still the marks of their tomahawks, the troughs in which they prepared their corn, their caches. a little way down the river is the site of an ancient indian village, with its regularly arranged mounds. as usual, they had chosen with the finest taste. when we went there, it was one of those soft, shadowy afternoons when nature seems ready to weep, not from grief, but from an overfull heart. two prattling, lovely little girls, and an african boy, with glittering eye and ready grin, made our party gay; but all were still as we entered the little inlet and trod those flowery paths. they may blacken indian life as they will, talk of its dirt, its brutality, i will ever believe that the men who chose that dwelling-place were able to feel emotions of noble happiness as they returned to it, and so were the women that received them. neither were the children sad or dull, who lived so familiarly with the deer and the birds, and swam that clear wave in the shadow of the seven sisters. the whole scene suggested to me a greek splendor, a greek sweetness, and i can believe that an indian brave, accustomed to ramble in such paths, and be bathed by such sunbeams, might be mistaken for apollo, as apollo was for him by west. two of the boldest bluffs are called the deer's walk, (not because deer do _not_ walk there,) and the eagle's nest. the latter i visited one glorious morning; it was that of the fourth of july, and certainly i think i had never felt so happy that i was born in america. woe to all country folks that never saw this spot, never swept an enraptured gaze over the prospect that stretched beneath. i do believe rome and florence are suburbs compared to this capital of nature's art. the bluff was decked with great bunches of a scarlet variety of the milkweed, like cut coral, and all starred with a mysterious-looking dark flower, whose cup rose lonely on a tall stem. this had, for two or three days, disputed the ground with the lupine and phlox. my companions disliked, i liked it. here i thought of, or rather saw, what the greek expresses under the form of jove's darling, ganymede, and the following stanzas took form. ganymede to his eagle. suggested by a work of thorwaldsen's. composed on the height called the eagle's nest, oregon, rock river, july th, . upon the rocky mountain stood the boy, a goblet of pure water in his hand; his face and form spoke him one made for joy, a willing servant to sweet love's command, but a strange pain was written on his brow, and thrilled throughout his silver accents now. "my bird," he cries, "my destined brother friend, o whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight? hast thou forgotten that i here attend, from the full noon until this sad twilight? a hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, since the fall noon o'er hill and valley glowed, i've filled the vase which our olympian king upon my care for thy sole use bestowed; that, at the moment when thou shouldst descend, a pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. "hast thou forgotten earth, forgotten me, thy fellow-bondsman in a royal cause, who, from the sadness of infinity, only with thee can know that peaceful pause in which we catch the flowing strain of love, which binds our dim fates to the throne of jove? "before i saw thee, i was like the may, longing for summer that must mar its bloom, or like the morning star that calls the day, whose glories to its promise are the tomb; and as the eager fountain rises higher to throw itself more strongly back to earth, still, as more sweet and full rose my desire, more fondly it reverted to its birth, for what the rosebud seeks tells not the rose, the meaning that the boy foretold the man cannot disclose. "i was all spring, for in my being dwelt eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit; full feeling was the thought of what was felt, its music was the meaning of the lute; but heaven and earth such life will still deny, for earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the question _why?_ "upon the highest mountains my young feet ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew, my starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet, yet win no greeting from the circling blue; fair, self-subsistent each in its own sphere, they had no care that there was none for me; alike to them that i was far or near, alike to them time and eternity. "but from the violet of lower air sometimes an answer to my wishing came; those lightning-births my nature seemed to share, they told the secrets of its fiery frame, the sudden messengers of hate and love, the thunderbolts that arm the hand of jove, and strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike the sacred grove. "come in a moment, in a moment gone, they answered me, then left me still more lone; they told me that the thought which ruled the world as yet no sail upon its course had furled, that the creation was but just begun, new leaves still leaving from the primal one, but spoke not of the goal to which _my_ rapid wheels would run. "still, still my eyes, though tearfully, i strained to the far future which my heart contained, and no dull doubt my proper hope profaned. "at last, o bliss! thy living form i spied, then a mere speck upon a distant sky; yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride, and the full answer of that sun-filled eye; i knew it was the wing that must upbear my earthlier form into the realms of air. "thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height, where dwells the monarch, of the sons of light; thou knowest he declared us two to be the chosen servants of his ministry, thou as his messenger, a sacred sign of conquest, or, with omen more benign, to give its due weight to the righteous cause, to express the verdict of olympian laws. "and i to wait upon the lonely spring, which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 't is given the destined dues of hopes divine to sing, and weave the needed chain to bind to heaven. only from such could be obtained a draught for him who in his early home from jove's own cup has quaffed "to wait, to wait, but not to wait too long. till heavy grows the burden of a song; o bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day, my feet are weary of their frequent way, the spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say. "if soon thou com'st not, night will fall around, my head with a sad slumber will be bound, and the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. "remember that i am not yet divine, long years of service to the fatal nine are yet to make a delphian vigor mine. "o, make them not too hard, thou bird of jove! answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love, receive the service in which he delights, and bear him often to the serene heights, where hands that were so prompt in serving thee shall be allowed the highest ministry, and rapture live with bright fidelity." the afternoon was spent in a very different manner. the family whose guests we were possessed a gay and graceful hospitality that gave zest to each moment. they possessed that rare politeness which, while fertile in pleasant expedients to vary the enjoyment of a friend, leaves him perfectly free the moment he wishes to be so. with such hosts, pleasure may be combined with repose. they lived on the bank opposite the town, and, as their house was full, we slept in the town, and passed three days with them, passing to and fro morning and evening in their boats. to one of these, called the fairy, in which a sweet little daughter of the house moved about lighter than any scotch ellen ever sung, i should indite a poem, if i had not been guilty of rhyme on this very page. at morning this boating was very pleasant; at evening, i confess, i was generally too tired with the excitements of the day to think it so. the house--a double log-cabin--was, to my eye, the model of a western villa. nature had laid out before it grounds which could not be improved. within, female taste had veiled every rudeness, availed itself of every sylvan grace. in this charming abode what laughter, what sweet thoughts, what pleasing fancies, did we not enjoy! may such never desert those who reared it, and made us so kindly welcome to all its pleasures! fragments of city life were dexterously crumbled into the dish prepared for general entertainment. ice-creams followed the dinner, which was drawn by the gentlemen from the river, and music and fireworks wound up the evening of days spent on the eagle's nest. now they had prepared a little fleet to pass over to the fourth of july celebration, which some queer drumming and fifing, from, the opposite bank, had announced to be "on hand." we found the free and independent citizens there collected beneath the trees, among whom many a round irish visage dimpled at the usual puffs of "ameriky." the orator was a new-englander, and the speech smacked loudly of boston, but was received with much applause and followed by a plentiful dinner, provided by and for the sovereign people, to which hail columbia served as grace. returning, the gay flotilla cheered the little flag which the children had raised from a log-cabin, prettier than any president ever saw, and drank the health of our country and all mankind, with a clear conscience. dance and song wound up the day. i know not when the mere local habitation has seemed to me to afford so fair a chance of happiness as this. to a person of unspoiled tastes, the beauty alone would afford stimulus enough. but with it would be naturally associated all kinds of wild sports, experiments, and the studies of natural history. in these regards, the poet, the sportsman, the naturalist, would alike rejoice in this wide range of untouched loveliness. then, with a very little money, a ducal estate may be purchased, and by a very little more, and moderate labor, a family be maintained upon it with raiment, food, and shelter. the luxurious and minute comforts of a city life are not yet to be had without effort disproportionate to their value. but, where there is so great a counterpoise, cannot these be given up once for all? if the houses are imperfectly built, they can afford immense fires and plenty of covering; if they are small, who cares,--with, such fields to roam in? in winter, it may be borne; in summer, is of no consequence. with plenty of fish, and game, and wheat, can they not dispense with a baker to bring "muffins hot" every morning to the door for their breakfast? a man need not here take a small slice from the landscape, and fence it in from the obtrusions of an uncongenial neighbor, and there cut down his fancies to miniature improvements which a chicken could run over in ten minutes. he may have water and wood and land enough, to dread no incursions on his prospect from some chance vandal that may enter his neighborhood. he need not painfully economize and manage how he may use it all; he can afford to leave some of it wild, and to carry out his own plans without obliterating those of nature. here, whole families might live together, if they would. the sons might return from their pilgrimages to settle near the parent hearth; the daughters might find room near their mother. those painful separations, which already desecrate and desolate the atlantic coast, are not enforced here by the stern need of seeking bread; and where they are voluntary, it is no matter. to me, too, used to the feelings which haunt a society of struggling men, it was delightful to look upon a scene where nature still wore her motherly smile, and seemed to promise room, not only for those favored or cursed with the qualities best adapting for the strifes of competition, but for the delicate, the thoughtful, even the indolent or eccentric. she did not say, fight or starve; nor even, work or cease to exist; but, merely showing that the apple was a finer fruit than the wild crab, gave both room to grow in the garden. a pleasant society is formed of the families who live along the banks of this stream upon farms. they are from various parts of the world, and have much to communicate to one another. many have cultivated minds and refined manners, all a varied experience, while they have in common the interests of a new country and a new life. they must traverse some space to get at one another, but the journey is through scenes that make it a separate pleasure. they must bear inconveniences to stay in one another's houses; but these, to the well-disposed, are only a source of amusement and adventure. the great drawback upon the lives of these settlers, at present, is the unfitness of the women for their new lot. it has generally been the choice of the men, and the women follow, as women will, doing their best for affection's sake, but too often in heartsickness and weariness. beside, it frequently not being a choice or conviction of their own minds that it is best to be here, their part is the hardest, and they are least fitted for it. the men can find assistance in field labor, and recreation with the gun and fishing-rod. their bodily strength is greater, and enables them to bear and enjoy both these forms of life. the women can rarely find any aid in domestic labor. all its various and careful tasks must often be performed, sick, or well, by the mother and daughters, to whom a city education has imparted neither the strength nor skill now demanded. the wives of the poorer settlers, having more hard work to do than before, very frequently become slatterns; but the ladies, accustomed to a refined neatness, feel that they cannot degrade themselves by its absence, and struggle under every disadvantage to keep up the necessary routine of small arrangements. with all these disadvantages for work, their resources for pleasure are fewer. when they can leave the housework, they have not learnt to ride, to drive, to row, alone. their culture has too generally been that given to women to make them "the ornaments of society." they can dance, but not draw; talk french, but know nothing of the language of flowers; neither in childhood were allowed to cultivate them, lest they should tan their complexions. accustomed to the pavement of broadway, they dare not tread the wild-wood paths for fear of rattlesnakes! seeing much of this joylessness, and inaptitude, both of body and mind, for a lot which would be full of blessings for those prepared for it, we could not but look with deep interest on the little girls, and hope they would grow up with the strength of body, dexterity, simple tastes, and resources that would fit them to enjoy and refine the western farmer's life. but they have a great deal to war with in the habits of thought acquired by their mothers from their own early life. everywhere the fatal spirit of imitation, of reference to european standards, penetrates, and threatens to blight whatever of original growth might adorn the soil. if the little girls grow up strong, resolute, able to exert their faculties, their mothers mourn over their want of fashionable delicacy. are they gay, enterprising, ready to fly about in the various ways that teach them so much, these ladies lament that "they cannot go to school, where they might learn to be quiet." they lament the want of "education" for their daughters, as if the thousand needs which call out their young energies, and the language of nature around, yielded no education. their grand ambition for their children is to send them to school in some eastern city, the measure most likely to make them useless and unhappy at home. i earnestly hope that, erelong, the existence of good schools near themselves, planned by persons of sufficient thought to meet the wants of the place and time, instead of copying new york or boston, will correct this mania. instruction the children want to enable them to profit by the great natural advantages of their position; but methods copied from the education of some english lady augusta are as ill suited to the daughter of an illinois farmer, as satin shoes to climb the indian mounds. an elegance she would diffuse around her, if her mind were opened to appreciate elegance; it might be of a kind new, original, enchanting, as different from that of the city belle as that of the prairie torch-flower from the shop-worn article that touches the cheek of that lady within her bonnet. to a girl really skilled to make home beautiful and comfortable, with bodily strength to enjoy plenty of exercise, the woods, the streams, a few studies, music, and the sincere and familiar intercourse, far more easily to be met with here than elsewhere, would afford happiness enough. her eyes would not grow dim, nor her cheeks sunken, in the absence of parties, morning visits, and milliners' shops. as to music, i wish i could see in such places the guitar rather than the piano, and good vocal more than instrumental music. the piano many carry with them, because it is the fashionable instrument in the eastern cities. even there, it is so merely from the habit of imitating europe, for not one in a thousand is willing to give the labor requisite to insure any valuable use of the instrument. but out here, where the ladies have so much less leisure, it is still less desirable. add to this, they never know how to tune their own instruments, and as persons seldom visit them who can do so, these pianos are constantly out of tune, and would spoil the ear of one who began by having any. the guitar, or some portable instrument which requires less practice, and could be kept in tune by themselves, would be far more desirable for most of these ladies. it would give all they want as a household companion to fill up the gaps of life with a pleasant stimulus or solace, and be sufficient accompaniment to the voice in social meetings. singing in parts is the most delightful family amusement, and those who are constantly together can learn to sing in perfect accord. all the practice it needs, after some good elementary instruction, is such as meetings by summer twilight and evening firelight naturally suggest. and as music is a universal language, we cannot but think a fine italian duet would be as much at home in the log cabin as one of mrs. gore's novels. the th of july we left this beautiful place. it was one of those rich days of bright sunlight, varied by the purple shadows of large, sweeping clouds. many a backward look we cast, and left the heart behind. our journey to-day was no less delightful than before, still all new, boundless, limitless. kinmont says, that limits are sacred; that the greeks were in the right to worship a god of limits. i say, that what is limitless is alone divine, that there was neither wall nor road in eden, that those who walked, there lost and found their way just as we did, and that all the gain from the fall was that we had a wagon to ride in. i do not think, either, that even the horses doubted whether this last was any advantage. everywhere the rattlesnake-weed grows in profusion. the antidote survives the bane. soon the coarser plantain, the "white man's footstep," shall take its place. we saw also the compass-plant, and the western tea-plant. of some of the brightest flowers an indian girl afterwards told me the medicinal virtues. i doubt not those students of the soil knew a use to every fair emblem, on which we could only look to admire its hues and shape. after noon we were ferried by a girl (unfortunately not of the most picturesque appearance) across the kishwaukie, the most graceful of streams, and on whose bosom rested many full-blown water-lilies,--twice as large as any of ours. i was told that, _en revanche_, they were scentless, but i still regret that i could not get at one of them to try. query, did the lilied fragrance which, in the miraculous times, accompanied visions of saints and angels, proceed from water or garden lilies? kishwaukie is, according to tradition, the scene of a famous battle, and its many grassy mounds contain the bones of the valiant. on these waved thickly the mysterious purple flower, of which i have spoken before. i think it springs from the blood of the indians, as the hyacinth did from that of apollo's darling. the ladies of our host's family at oregon, when they first went, there, after all the pains and plagues of building and settling, found their first pastime in opening one of these mounds, in which they found, i think, three of the departed, seated, in the indian fashion. one of these same ladies, as she was making bread one winter morning, saw from the window a deer directly before the house. she ran out, with her hands covered with dough, calling the others, and they caught him bodily before he had time to escape. here (at kiskwaukie) we received a visit from a ragged and barefooted, but bright-eyed gentleman, who seemed to be the intellectual loafer, the walking will's coffee-house, of the place. he told us many charming snake-stories; among others, of himself having seen seventeen young ones re-enter the mother snake, on the approach of a visitor. this night we reached belvidere, a flourishing town in boon county, where was the tomb, now despoiled, of big thunder. in this later day we felt happy to find a really good hotel. from this place, by two days of very leisurely and devious journeying, we reached chicago, and thus ended a journey, which one at least of the party might have wished unending. i have not been particularly anxious to give the geography of the scene, inasmuch as it seemed to me no route, nor series of stations, but a garden interspersed with cottages, groves, and flowery lawns, through which a stately river ran. i had no guide-book, kept no diary, do not know how many miles we travelled each day, nor how many in all. what i got from the journey was the poetic impression of the country at large; it is all i have aimed to communicate. the narrative might have been made much more interesting, as life was at the time, by many piquant anecdotes and tales drawn from private life. but here courtesy restrains the pen, for i know those who received the stranger with such frank kindness would feel ill requited by its becoming the means of fixing many spy-glasses, even though the scrutiny might be one of admiring interest, upon their private homes. for many of these anecdotes, too, i was indebted to a friend, whose property they more lawfully are. this friend was one of those rare beings who are equally at home in nature and with man. he knew a tale of all that ran and swam and flew, or only grew, possessing that extensive familiarity with things which shows equal sweetness of sympathy and playful penetration. most refreshing to me was his unstudied lore, the unwritten poetry which common life presents to a strong and gentle mind. it was a great contrast to the subtilties of analysis, the philosophic strainings of which i had seen too much. but i will not attempt to transplant it. may it profit others as it did me in the region where it was born, where it belongs. the evening of our return to chicago, the sunset was of a splendor and calmness beyond any we saw at the west. the twilight that succeeded was equally beautiful; soft, pathetic, but just so calm. when afterwards i learned this was the evening of allston's death, it seemed to me as if this glorious pageant was not without connection with that event; at least, it inspired similar emotions,--a heavenly gate closing a path adorned with shows well worthy paradise. farewell to rock river valley. farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes! ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, haunted, by paths like those that poussin knew, when after his all gazers' eyes he drew; i go,--and if i never more may steep an eager heart in your enchantments deep, yet ever to itself that heart may say, be not exacting; them hast lived one day,-- hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. a tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, and through its life new-born our lives have been. once more farewell,--a sad, a sweet farewell; and, if i never must behold you more, in other worlds i will not cease to tell the rosary i here have numbered o'er; and bright-haired hope will lend a gladdened ear, and love will free him from the grasp of fear, and gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, shall dew their stony glances with a tear, if i but catch one echo from your spell:-- and so farewell,--a grateful, sad farewell! chapter iv. a short chapter.--chicago again.--morris birkbeck. chicago had become interesting to me now, that i knew it as the portal to so fair a scene. i had become interested in the land, in the people, and looked sorrowfully on the lake on which i must soon embark, to leave behind what i had just begun to enjoy. now was the time to see the lake. the july moon was near its full, and night after night it rose in a cloudless sky above this majestic sea. the heat was excessive, so that there was no enjoyment of life, except in the night; but then the air was of that delicious temperature worthy of orange-groves. however, they were not wanted;--nothing was, as that full light fell on the faintly rippling waters, which then seemed, boundless. the most picturesque objects to be seen from chicago on the inland side were the lines of hoosier wagons. these rude farmers, the large first product of the soil, travel leisurely along, sleeping in their wagons by night, eating only what they bring with them. in the town they observe the same plan, and trouble no luxurious hotel for board and lodging. here they look like foreign peasantry, and contrast well with the many germans, dutch, and irish. in the country it is very pretty to see them prepared to "camp out" at night, their horses taken out of harness, and they lounging under the trees, enjoying the evening meal. on the lake-side it is fine to see the great boats come panting in from their rapid and marvellous journey. especially at night the motion of their lights is very majestic. when the favorite boats, the great western and illinois, are going out, the town is thronged with, people from the south and farther west, to go in them. these moonlight nights i would hear the french rippling and fluttering familiarly amid the rude ups and downs of the hoosier dialect. at the hotel table were daily to be seen new faces, and new stories to be learned. and any one who has a large acquaintance may be pretty sure of meeting some of them here in the course of a few days. at chicago i read again philip van artevelde, and certain passages in it will always be in my mind associated with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. i used to read a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out. the moon would be full upon the lake, and the calm breath, pure light, and the deep voice harmonized well with the thought of the flemish hero. when will this country have such a man? it is what she needs; no thin idealist, no coarse realist, but a man whose eye reads the heavens, while his feet step firmly on the ground, and his hands are strong and dexterous for the use of human implements. a man religious, virtuous, and--sagacious; a man of universal sympathies, but self-possessed; a man who knows the region of emotion, though he is not its slave; a man to whom this world is no mere spectacle, or fleeting shadow, not a great, solemn game, to be played with, good heed, for its stakes are of eternal value, yet who, if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by the falsehood of others;--a man who hives from the past, yet knows that its honey can but moderately avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans the present, neither infatuated by its golden lures, nor chilled by its many ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man must, but not so far as to be driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns to-morrow;--when there is such a man for america, the thought which urges her on will be expressed. * * * * * now that i am about to leave illinois, feelings of regret and admiration come over me, as in parting with a friend whom, we have not had the good sense to prize and study, while hours of association, never perhaps to return, were granted. i have fixed my attention almost exclusively on the picturesque beauty of this region; it was so new, so inspiring. but i ought to have been more interested in the housekeeping of this magnificent state, in the education she is giving her children, in their prospects. illinois is, at present, a by-word of reproach among the nations, for the careless, prodigal course by which, in early youth, she has endangered her honor. but you cannot look about you there, without seeing that there are resources abundant to retrieve, and soon to retrieve, far greater errors, if they are only directed with wisdom. would that the simple maxim, that honesty is the best policy, might be laid to heart; that a sense of the true aim of life might elevate the tone of politics and trade till public and private honor became identical; that the western man, in that crowded and exciting life which, develops his faculties so fully for to-day, might not forget that better part which could not be taken from him; that the western woman might take that interest and acquire that light for the education of the children, for which she alone has leisure! this is indeed the great problem of the place and time. if the next generation be well prepared for their work, ambitious of good and skilful to achieve it, the children of the present settlers may be leaven enough for the mass constantly increasing by immigration. and how much is this needed, where those rude foreigners can so little understand the best interests of the land they seek for bread and shelter! it would be a happiness to aid in this good work, and interweave the white and golden threads into the fate of illinois. it would be a work worthy the devotion of any mind. in the little that i saw was a large proportion of intelligence, activity, and kind feeling; but, if there was much serious laying to heart of the true purposes of life, it did not appear in the tone of conversation. having before me the illinois guide-book, i find there mentioned, as a "visionary," one of the men i should think of as able to be a truly valuable settler in a new and great country,--morris birkbeck, of england. since my return, i have read his journey to, and letters from, illinois. i see nothing promised there that will not surely belong to the man who knows how to seek for it. mr. birkbeck was an enlightened, philanthropist, the rather that he did not wish to sacrifice himself to his fellow-men, but to benefit them with all he had, and was, and wished. he thought all the creatures of a divine love ought to be happy and ought to be good, and that his own soul and his own life were not less precious than those of others; indeed, that to keep these healthy was his only means of a healthy influence. but his aims were altogether generous. freedom, the liberty of law, not license; not indolence, work for himself and children and all men, but under genial and poetic influences;--these were his aims. how different from those of the new settlers in general! and into his mind so long ago shone steadily the two thoughts, now so prevalent in thinking and aspiring minds, of "resist not evil," and "every man his own priest, and the heart the only true church." he has lost credit for sagacity from accidental circumstances. it does not appear that his position was ill chosen, or his means disproportioned to his ends, had he been sustained by funds from england, as he had a right to expect. but through the profligacy of a near relative, commissioned to collect these dues, he was disappointed of them, and his paper protested and credit destroyed in our cities, before he became aware of his danger. still, though more slowly and with more difficulty, he might have succeeded in his designs. the english farmer might have made the english settlement a model for good methods and good aims to all that region, had not death prematurely cut short his plans. i have wished to say these few words, because the veneration with which i have been inspired for his character by those who knew him well, makes me impatient of this careless blame being passed from mouth to mouth and book to book. success is no test of a man's endeavor, and illinois will yet, i hope, regard this man, who knew so well what _ought_ to be, as one of her true patriarchs, the abraham of a promised land. he was one too much before his time to be soon valued; but the time is growing up to him, and will understand his mild philanthropy, and clear, large views. i subjoin the account of his death, given me by a friend, as expressing, in fair picture, the character of the man. "mr. birkbeck was returning from the seat of government, whither he had been on public business, and was accompanied by his son bradford, a youth of sixteen or eighteen. it was necessary to cross a ford, which was rendered difficult by the swelling of the stream. mr. b.'s horse was unwilling to plunge into the water, so his son offered to go first, and he followed. bradford's horse had just gained footing on the opposite shore, when he looked back and perceived his father was dismounted, struggling in the water, and carried down by the current. "mr. birkbeck could not swim; bradford could; so he dismounted, and plunged into the stream to save his father. he got to him before he sunk, held him up above water, and told him to take hold of his collar, and he would swim ashore with him. mr. b. did so, and bradford exerted all his strength to stem the current and reach the shore at a point where they could land; but, encumbered by his own clothing and his father's weight, he made no progress; when mr. b. perceived this, he, with his characteristic calmness and resolution, gave up his hold of his son, and, motioning to him to save himself, resigned himself to his fate. his son reached the shore, but was too much overwhelmed by his loss to leave it. he was found by some travellers, many hours after, seated on the margin of the stream, with his face in his hands, stupefied with grief. "the body was found, and on the countenance was the sweetest smile; and bradford said, 'just so he smiled, upon me when he let go and pushed me away from him.'" many men can choose the right and best on a great occasion, but not many can, with such ready and serene decision, lay aside even life, when that is right and best. this little narrative touched my imagination in very early youth, and often has come up, in lonely vision, that face, serenely smiling above the current which bore him away to another realm of being. chapter v. thoughts and scenes in wisconsin.--society in milwaukie.--indian anecdote.--seeress of prevorst.--milwaukie. a territory, not yet a state;[a] still nearer the acorn than we were. [footnote a: wisconsin was not admitted into the union as a state till , after this volume was written.--ed.] it was very pleasant coming up. these large and elegant boats are so well arranged that every excursion may be a party of pleasure. there are many fair shows to see on the lake and its shores, almost always new and agreeable persons on board, pretty children playing about, ladies singing (and if not very well, there is room, to keep out of the way). you may see a great deal here of life, in the london sense, if you know a few people; or if you do not, and have the tact to look about you without seeming to stare. we came to milwaukie, where we were to pass a fortnight or more. this place is most beautifully situated. a little river, with romantic banks, passes up through the town. the bank of the lake is here a bold bluff, eighty feet in height. from its summit is enjoyed a noble outlook on the lake. a little narrow path winds along the edge of the lake below. i liked this walk much,--above me this high wall of rich earth, garlanded on its crest with trees, the long ripples of the lake coming up to my feet. here, standing in the shadow, i could appreciate better its magnificent changes of color, which are the chief beauties of the lake-waters; but these are indescribable. it was fine to ascend into the lighthouse, above this bluff, and thence watch the thunder-clouds which so frequently rose over the lake, or the great boats coming in. approaching the milwaukie pier, they made a bend, and seemed to do obeisance in the heavy style of some dowager duchess entering a circle she wishes to treat with especial respect. these boats come in and out every day, and still afford a cause for general excitement. the people swarm, down to greet them, to receive and send away their packages and letters. to me they seemed such mighty messengers, to give, by their noble motion, such an idea of the power and fulness of life, that they were worthy to carry despatches from king to king. it must be very pleasant for those who have an active share in carrying on the affairs of this great and growing world to see them approach, and pleasant to such as have dearly loved friends at the next station. to those who have neither business nor friends, it sometimes gives a desolating sense of insignificance. the town promises to be, some time, a fine one, as it is so well situated; and they have good building material,--a yellow brick, very pleasing to the eye. it seems to grow before you, and has indeed but just emerged from the thickets of oak and wild-roses. a few steps will take you into the thickets, and certainly i never saw so many wild-roses, or of so beautiful a red. of such a color were the first red ones the world ever saw, when, says the legend, venus flying to the assistance of adonis, the rose-bushes kept catching her to make her stay, and the drops of blood the thorns drew from her feet, as she tore herself a way, fell on the white roses, and turned them this beautiful red. one day, walking along the river's bank in search of a waterfall to be seen from one ravine, we heard tones from a band of music, and saw a gay troop shooting at a mark, on the opposite bank. between every shot the band played; the effect was very pretty. on this walk we found two of the oldest and most gnarled hemlocks that ever afforded study for a painter. they were the only ones we saw; they seemed the veterans of a former race. at milwaukie, as at chicago, are many pleasant people, drawn together from all parts of the world. a resident here would find great piquancy in the associations,--those he met having such dissimilar histories and topics. and several persons i saw, evidently transplanted from the most refined circles to be met in this country. there are lures enough in the west for people of all kinds;--the enthusiast and the cunning man; the naturalist, and the lover who needs to be rich for the sake of her he loves. the torrent of immigration swells very strongly towards this place. during the fine weather, the poor refugees arrive daily, in their national dresses, all travel-soiled and worn. the night they pass in rude shantees, in a particular quarter of the town, then walk off into the country,--the mothers carrying their infants, the fathers leading the little children by the hand, seeking a home where their hands may maintain them. one morning we set off in their track, and travelled a day's journey into this country,--fair, yet not, in that part which i saw, comparable, in my eyes, to the rock river region. rich fields, proper for grain, alternate with oak openings, as they are called; bold, various, and beautiful were the features of the scene, but i saw not those majestic sweeps, those boundless distances, those heavenly fields; it was not the same world. neither did we travel in the same delightful manner. we were now in a nice carriage, which must not go off the road, for fear of breakage, with a regular coachman, whose chief care was not to tire his horses, and who had no taste for entering fields in pursuit of wild-flowers, or tempting some strange wood-path, in search of whatever might befall. it was pleasant, but almost as tame as new england. but charming indeed was the place where we stopped. it was in the vicinity of a chain of lakes, and on the bank of the loveliest little stream, called, the bark river, which, flowed in rapid amber brightness, through fields, and dells, and stately knolls, of most poetic beauty. the little log-cabin where we slept, with its flower-garden in front, disturbed the scene no more than a stray lock on the fair cheek. the hospitality of that house i may well call princely; it was the boundless hospitality of the heart, which, if it has no aladdin's lamp to create a palace for the guest, does him still higher service by the freedom of its bounty to the very last drop of its powers. sweet were the sunsets seen in the valley of this stream, though, here, and, i grieve to say, no less near the rock river, the fiend, who has every liberty to tempt the happy in this world, appeared in the shape of mosquitos, and allowed us no bodily to enjoy our mental peace. one day we ladies gave, under the guidance of our host, to visiting all the beauties of the adjacent lakes,--nomabbin, silver, and pine lakes. on the shore of nomabbin had formerly been one of the finest indian villages. our host said, that once, as he was lying there beneath the bank, he saw a tall indian standing at gaze on the knoll. he lay a long time, curious to see how long the figure would maintain its statue-like absorption. but at last his patience yielded, and, in moving, he made a slight noise. the indian saw him, gave a wild, snorting sound of indignation and pain, and strode away. what feelings must consume their hearts at such moments! i scarcely see how they can forbear to shoot the white man where he stands. but the power of fate is with, the white man, and the indian feels it. this same gentleman told of his travelling through the wilderness with an indian guide. he had with him a bottle of spirit which he meant to give him in small quantities, but the indian, once excited, wanted the whole at once. "i would not," said mr. ----, "give it him, for i thought, if he got really drunk, there was an end to his services as a guide. but he persisted, and at last tried to take it from me. i was not armed; he was, and twice as strong as i. but i knew an indian could not resist the look of a white man, and i fixed my eye steadily on his. he bore it for a moment, then his eye fell; he let go the bottle. i took his gun and threw it to a distance. after a few moments' pause, i told him to go and fetch it, and left it in his hands. from that moment he was quite obedient, even servile, all the rest of the way." this gentleman, though in other respects of most kindly and liberal heart, showed the aversion that the white man soon learns to feel for the indian on whom he encroaches,--the aversion of the injurer for him he has degraded. after telling the anecdote of his seeing the indian gazing at the seat of his former home, "a thing for human feelings the most trying," and which, one would think, would have awakened soft compassion-- almost remorse--in the present owner of that fair hill, which contained for the exile the bones of his dead, the ashes of his hopes, he observed: "they cannot be prevented from straggling back here to their old haunts. i wish they could. they ought not to be permitted to drive away _our_ game." our game,--just heavens! the same gentleman showed, on a slight occasion, the true spirit of a sportsman, or perhaps i might say of man, when engaged in any kind of chase. showing us some antlers, he said: "this one belonged to a majestic creature. but this other was the beauty. i had been lying a long time at watch, when at last i heard them come crackling along. i lifted my head cautiously, as they burst through the trees. the first was a magnificent fellow; but then i saw coming one, the prettiest, the most graceful i ever beheld,--there was something so soft and beseeching in its look. i chose him at once, took aim, and shot him dead. you see the antlers are not very large; it was young, but the prettiest creature!" in the course of this morning's drive, we visited the gentlemen on their fishing party. they hailed us gayly, and rowed ashore to show us what fine booty they had. no disappointment there, no dull work. on the beautiful point of land from which we first saw them lived a contented woman, the only one i heard of out there. she was english, and said she had seen so much suffering in her own country, that the hardships of this seemed as nothing to her. but the others--even our sweet and gentle hostess--found their labors disproportioned to their strength, if not to their patience; and, while their husbands and brothers enjoyed the country in hunting or fishing, they found themselves confined to a comfortless and laborious in-door life. but it need not be so long. this afternoon, driving about on the banks of these lakes, we found the scene all of one kind of loveliness; wide, graceful woods, and then these fine sheets of water, with, fine points of land jutting out boldly into them. it was lovely, but not striking or peculiar. all woods suggest pictures. the european forest, with its long glades and green, sunny dells, naturally suggested the figures of armed knight on his proud steed, or maiden, decked in gold and pearl, pricking along them on a snow-white palfrey; the green dells, of weary palmer sleeping there beside the spring with his head upon his wallet. our minds, familiar with such, figures, people with them the new england woods, wherever the sunlight falls down a longer than usual cart-track, wherever a cleared spot has lain still enough for the trees to look friendly, with their exposed sides cultivated by the light, and the grass to look velvet warm, and be embroidered with flowers. these western woods suggest a different kind of ballad. the indian legends have often an air of the wildest solitude, as has the one mr. lowell has put into verse in his late volume. but i did not see those wild woods; only such as suggest to me little romances of love and sorrow, like this:-- gunhilda. a maiden sat beneath the tree, tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be, and she sigheth heavily. from forth the wood into the light a hunter strides, with carol light, and a glance so bold and bright. he careless stopped and eyed the maid; "why weepest thou?" he gently said; "i love thee well; be not afraid." he takes her hand, and leads her on; she should have waited there alone, for he was not her chosen one. he leans her head upon his breast, she knew 't was not her home of rest, but ah! she had been sore distrest. the sacred stars looked sadly down; the parting moon appeared to frown, to see thus dimmed the diamond crown. then from the thicket starts a deer, the huntsman, seizing on his spear, cries, "maiden, wait thou for me here." she sees him vanish into night, she starts from sleep in deep affright, for it was not her own true knight. though but in dream gunhilda failed. though but a fancied ill assailed, though she but fancied fault bewailed,-- yet thought of day makes dream of night: she is not worthy of the knight, the inmost altar burns not bright. if loneliness thou canst not bear, cannot the dragon's venom dare, of the pure meed thou shouldst despair. now sadder that lone maiden sighs, far bitterer tears profane her eyes, crushed, in the dust her heart's flower lies. on the bank of silver lake we saw an indian encampment. a shower threatened us, but we resolved to try if we could not visit it before it came on. we crossed a wide field on foot, and found the indians amid the trees on a shelving bank; just as we reached them, the rain began to fall in torrents, with frequent thunderclaps, and we had to take refuge in their lodges. these were very small, being for temporary use, and we crowded the occupants much, among whom were several sick, on the damp ground, or with only a ragged mat between them and it. but they showed all the gentle courtesy which, marks their demeanor towards the stranger, who stands in any need; though it was obvious that the visit, which inconvenienced them, could only have been caused by the most impertinent curiosity, they made us as comfortable as their extreme poverty permitted. they seemed to think we would not like to touch them; a sick girl in the lodge where i was, persisted in moving so as to give me the dry place; a woman, with the sweet melancholy eye of the race, kept off the children and wet dogs from even the hem of my garment. without, their fires smouldered, and black kettles, hung over them on sticks, smoked, and seethed in the rain. an old, theatrical-looking indian stood with arms folded, looking up to the heavens, from which the rain clashed and the thunder reverberated; his air was french-roman; that is, more romanesque than roman. the indian ponies, much excited, kept careering through the wood, around the encampment, and now and then, halting suddenly, would thrust in their intelligent, though amazed faces, as if to ask their masters when this awful pother would cease, and then, after a moment, rush and trample off again. at last we got away, well wetted, but with a picturesque scene for memory. at a house where we stopped to get dry, they told us that this wandering band (of pottawattamies), who had returned, on a visit, either from homesickness, or need of relief, were extremely destitute. the women had been there to see if they could barter for food their head-bands, with which they club their hair behind into a form not unlike a grecian knot. they seemed, indeed, to have neither food, utensils, clothes, nor bedding; nothing but the ground, the sky, and their own strength. little wonder if they drove off the game! part of the same band i had seen in milwaukee, on a begging dance. the effect of this was wild and grotesque. they wore much paint and feather head-dresses. "indians without paint are poor coots," said a gentleman who had been a great deal with, and really liked, them; and i like the effect of the paint on them; it reminds of the gay fantasies of nature. with them in milwaukie was a chief, the finest indian figure i saw, more than six feet in height, erect, and of a sullen, but grand gait and gesture. he wore a deep-red blanket, which fell in large folds from his shoulders to his feet, did not join in the dance, but slowly strode about through the streets, a fine sight, not a french-roman, but a real roman. he looked unhappy, but listlessly unhappy, as if he felt it was of no use to strive or resist. while in the neighborhood of these lakes, we visited also a foreign settlement of great interest. here were minds, it seemed, to "comprehend the trust" of their new life; and, if they can only stand true to them, will derive and bestow great benefits therefrom. but sad and sickening to the enthusiast who comes to these shores, hoping the tranquil enjoyment of intellectual blessings, and the pure happiness of mutual love, must be a part of the scene that he encounters at first. he has escaped from the heartlessness of courts, to encounter the vulgarity of the mob; he has secured solitude, but it is a lonely, a deserted solitude. amid the abundance of nature, he cannot, from petty, but insuperable obstacles, procure, for a long time, comforts or a home. but let him come sufficiently armed with patience to learn the new spells which the new dragons require, (and this can only be done on the spot,) he will not finally be disappointed of the promised treasure; the mob will resolve itself into men, yet crude, but of good dispositions, and capable of good character; the solitude will become sufficiently enlivened, and home grow up at last from the rich sod. in this transition state we found one of these homes. as we approached, it seemed the very eden which earth might still afford to a pair willing to give up the hackneyed pleasures of the world for a better and more intimate communion with one another and with beauty: the wild road led through wide, beautiful woods, to the wilder and more beautiful shores of the finest lake we saw. on its waters, glittering in the morning sun, a few indians were paddling to and fro in their light canoes. on one of those fair knolls i have so often mentioned stood the cottage, beneath trees which stooped as if they yet felt brotherhood with its roof-tree. flowers waved, birds fluttered round, all had the sweetness of a happy seclusion; all invited to cry to those who inhabited it, all hail, ye happy ones! but on entrance to those evidently rich in personal beauty, talents, love, and courage, the aspect of things was rather sad. sickness had been with them, death, care, and labor; these had not yet blighted them, but had turned their gay smiles grave. it seemed that hope and joy had given place to resolution. how much, too, was there in them, worthless in this place, which would have been so valuable elsewhere! refined graces, cultivated powers, shine in vain before field-laborers, as laborers are in this present world; you might as well cultivate heliotropes to present to an ox. oxen and heliotropes are both good, but not for one another. with them were some of the old means of enjoyment, the books, the pencil, the guitar; but where the wash-tub and the axe are so constantly in requisition, there is not much time and pliancy of hand for these. in the inner room, the master of the house was seated; he had been sitting there long, for he had injured his foot on ship-board, and his farming had to be done by proxy. his beautiful young wife was his only attendant and nurse, as well as a farm, housekeeper. how well she performed hard and unaccustomed duties, the objects of her care showed; everything that belonged to the house was rude, but neatly arranged. the invalid, confined to an uneasy wooden chair, (they had not been able to induce any one to bring them an easy-chair from the town,) looked as neat and elegant as if he had been dressed by the valet of a duke. he was of northern blood, with clear, full blue eyes, calm features, a tempering of the soldier, scholar, and man of the world, in his aspect. either various intercourses had given him that thoroughbred look never seen in americans, or it was inherited from a race who had known all these disciplines. he formed a great but pleasing contrast to his wife, whose glowing complexion and dark yellow eye bespoke an origin in some climate more familiar with the sun. he looked as if he could sit there a great while patiently, and live on his own mind, biding his time; she, as if she could bear anything for affection's sake, but would feel the weight of each moment as it passed. seeing the album full of drawings and verses, which bespoke the circle of elegant and affectionate intercourse they had left behind, we could not but see that the young wife sometimes must need a sister, the husband a companion, and both must often miss that electricity which sparkles from the chain of congenial minds. for mankind, a position is desirable in some degree proportioned to education. mr. birkbeck was bred a farmer, but these were nurslings of the court and city; they may persevere, for an affectionate courage shone in their eyes, and, if so, become true lords of the soil, and informing geniuses to those around; then, perhaps, they will feel that they have not paid too clear for the tormented independence of the new settler's life. but, generally, damask roses will not thrive in the wood, and a ruder growth, if healthy and pure, we wish rather to see there. i feel about these foreigners very differently from what i do about americans. american men and women are inexcusable if they do not bring up children so as to be fit for vicissitudes; the meaning of our star is, that here all men being free and equal, every man should be fitted for freedom and an independence by his own resources wherever the changeful wave of our mighty stream may take him. but the star of europe brought a different horoscope, and to mix destinies breaks the thread of both. the arabian horse will not plough well, nor can the plough-horse be rode to play the jereed. yet a man is a man wherever he goes, and something precious cannot fail to be gained by one who knows how to abide by a resolution of any kind, and pay the cost without a murmur. returning, the fine carriage at last fulfilled its threat of breaking down. we took refuge in a farm-house. here was a pleasant scene,--a rich and beautiful estate, several happy families, who had removed together, and formed a natural community, ready to help and enliven one another. they were farmers at home, in western new york, and both men and women knew how to work. yet even here the women did not like the change, but they were willing, "as it might be best for the young folks." their hospitality was great: the houseful of women and pretty children seemed all of one mind. returning to milwaukie much fatigued, i entertained myself: for a day or two with reading. the book i had brought with me was in strong contrast with, the life around, me. very strange was this vision of an exalted and sensitive existence, which seemed to invade the next sphere, in contrast with the spontaneous, instinctive life, so healthy and so near the ground i had been surveying. this was the german book entitled:-- "the seeress of prevorst.--revelations concerning the inward life of man, and the projection of a world of spirits into ours, communicated by justinus kerner." this book, published in germany some twelve years since, and which called forth there plenteous dews of admiration, as plenteous hail-storms of jeers and scorns, i never saw mentioned in any english publication till some year or two since. then a playful, but not sarcastic account of it, in the dublin magazine, so far excited my curiosity, that i procured the book, intending to read it so soon as i should have some leisure days, such as this journey has afforded. dr. kerner, its author, is a man of distinction in his native land, both as a physician and a thinker, though always on the side of reverence, marvel, and mysticism. he was known to me only through two or three little poems of his in catholic legends, which i much admired for the fine sense they showed of the beauty of symbols. he here gives a biography, mental and physical, of one of the most remarkable cases of high nervous excitement that the age, so interested in such, yet affords, with all its phenomena of clairvoyance and susceptibility of magnetic influences. as to my own mental positron on these subjects, it may be briefly expressed by a dialogue between several persons who honor me with a portion of friendly confidence and criticism, and myself, personified as _free hope_. the others may be styled _old church_, _good sense_, and _self-poise_. dialogue. _good sense._ i wonder you can take any interest in such observations or experiments. don't you see how almost impossible it is to make them with any exactness, how entirely impossible to know anything about them unless made by yourself, when the least leaven of credulity, excited fancy, to say nothing of willing or careless imposture, spoils the whole loaf? beside, allowing the possibility of some clear glimpses into a higher state of being, what do we want of it now? all around us lies what we neither understand nor use. our capacities, our instincts for this our present sphere, are but half developed. let us confine ourselves to that till the lesson be learned; let us be completely natural, before we trouble ourselves with the supernatural. i never see any of these things but i long to get away and lie under a green tree, and let the wind blow on me. there is marvel and charm enough in that for me. _free hope._ and for me also. nothing is truer than the wordsworthian creed, on which carlyle lays such stress, that we need only look on the miracle of every day, to sate ourselves with thought and admiration every day. but how are our faculties sharpened to do it? precisely by apprehending the infinite results of every day. who sees the meaning of the flower uprooted in the ploughed field? the ploughman who does not look beyond its boundaries and does not raise his eyes from the ground? no,--but the poet who sees that field in its relations with the universe, and looks oftener to the sky than on the ground. only the dreamer shall understand realities, though, in truth, his dreaming must be not out of proportion to his waking! the mind, roused powerfully by this existence, stretches of itself into what the french sage calls the "aromal state." from the hope thus gleaned it forms the hypothesis, under whose banner it collects its facts. long before these slight attempts were made to establish, as a science what is at present called animal magnetism, always, in fact, men were occupied more or less with this vital principle,--principle of flux and influx,--dynamic of our mental mechanics,--human phase of electricity. poetic observation was pure, there was no quackery in its free course, as there is so often in this wilful tampering with the hidden springs of life, for it is tampering unless done in a patient spirit and with severe truth; yet it may be, by the rude or greedy miners, some good ore is unearthed. and some there are who work in the true temper, patient and accurate in trial, not rushing to conclusions, feeling there is a mystery, not eager to call it by name till they can know it as a reality: such may learn, such may teach. subject to the sudden revelations, the breaks in habitual existence, caused by the aspect of death, the touch of love, the flood of music, i never lived, that i remember, what you call a common natural day. all my days are touched by the supernatural, for i feel the pressure of hidden causes, and the presence, sometimes the communion, of unseen powers. it needs not that i should ask the clairvoyant whether "a spirit-world projects into ours." as to the specific evidence, i would not tarnish my mind by hasty reception. the mind is not, i know, a highway, but a temple, and its doors should not be carelessly left open. yet it were sin, if indolence or coldness excluded what had a claim to enter; and i doubt whether, in the eyes of pure intelligence, an ill-grounded hasty rejection be not a greater sign of weakness than an ill-grounded and hasty faith. i will quote, as my best plea, the saying of a man old in years, but not in heart, and whose long life has been distinguished by that clear adaptation of means to ends which gives the credit of practical wisdom. he wrote to his child, "i have lived too long, and seen too much, to be _in_ credulous." noble the thought, no less so its frank expression, instead of saws of caution, mean advices, and other modern instances. such was the romance of socrates when he bade his disciples "sacrifice a cock to Ã�sculapius." _old church._ you are always so quick-witted and voluble, free hope, you don't get time to see how often you err, and even, perhaps, sin and blaspheme. the author of all has intended to confine our knowledge within certain boundaries, has given us a short span of time for a certain probation, for which our faculties are adapted. by wild speculation and intemperate curiosity we violate his will, and incur dangerous, perhaps fatal, consequences. we waste our powers, and, becoming morbid and visionary, are unfitted to obey positive precepts, and perform positive duties. _free hope._ i do not see how it is possible to go further beyond the results of a limited human experience than those do who pretend to settle the origin and nature of sin, the final destiny of souls, and the whole plan of the causal spirit with regard to them. i think those who take your view have not examined themselves, and do not know the ground on which they stand. i acknowledge no limit, set up by man's opinion, as to the capacities of man. "care is taken," i see it, "that the trees grow not up into heaven"; but, to me it seems, the more vigorously they aspire, the better. only let it be a vigorous, not a partial or sickly aspiration. let not the tree forget its root. so long as the child insists on knowing where its dead parent is, so long as bright eyes weep at mysterious pressures, too heavy for the life, so long as that impulse is constantly arising which made the roman emperor address his soul in a strain of such touching softness, vanishing from, the thought, as the column of smoke from the eye, i know of no inquiry which the impulse of man suggests that is forbidden to the resolution of man to pursue. in every inquiry, unless sustained by a pure and reverent spirit, he gropes in the dark, or falls headlong. _self-poise._ all this may be very true, but what is the use of all this straining? far-sought is dear-bought. when we know that all is in each, and that the ordinary contains the extraordinary, why should we play the baby, and insist upon having the moon for a toy when a tin dish will do as well? our deep ignorance is a chasm that we can only fill up by degrees, but the commonest rubbish will help us as well as shred silk. the god brahma, while on earth, was set to fill up a valley, but he had only a basket given him in which to fetch earth for this purpose; so is it with us all. no leaps, no starts, will avail us; by patient crystallization alone, the equal temper of wisdom is attainable. sit at home, and the spirit-world will look in at your window with moonlit eyes; run out to find it, and rainbow and golden cup will have vanished, and left you the beggarly child you were. the better part of wisdom is a sublime prudence, a pure and patient truth, that will receive nothing it is not sure it can permanently lay to heart. of our study, there should be in proportion two thirds of rejection to one of acceptance. and, amid the manifold infatuations and illusions of this world of emotion, a being capable of clear intelligence can do no better service than to hold himself upright, avoid nonsense, and do what chores lie in his way, acknowledging every moment that primal truth, which no fact exhibits, nor, if pressed by too warm a hope, will even indicate. i think, indeed, it is part of our lesson to give a formal consent to what is farcical, and to pick up our living and our virtue amid what is so ridiculous, hardly deigning a smile, and certainly not vexed. the work is done through all, if not by every one. _free hope._ thou art greatly wise, my friend, and ever respected by me, yet i find not in your theory or your scope room enough for the lyric inspirations or the mysterious whispers of life. to me it seems that it is madder never to abandon one's self, than often to be infatuated; better to be wounded, a captive, and a slave, than always to walk in armor. as to magnetism, that is only a matter of fancy. you sometimes need just such a field in which to wander vagrant, and if it bear a higher name, yet it may be that, in last result, the trance of pythagoras might be classed with the more infantine transports of the seeress of prevorst. what is done interests me more than what is thought and supposed. every fact is impure, but every fact contains in it the juices of life. every fact is a clod, from which may grow an amaranth or a palm. climb you the snowy peaks whence come the streams, where the atmosphere is rare, where you can see the sky nearer, from which you can get a commanding view of the landscape? i see great disadvantages as well as advantages in this dignified position. i had rather walk myself through all kinds of places, even at the risk of being robbed in the forest, half drowned at the ford, and covered with dust in the street. i would beat with the living heart of the world, and understand all the moods, even the fancies or fantasies, of nature. i dare to trust to the interpreting spirit to bring me out all right at last,--establish truth through error. whether this be the best way is of no consequence, if it be the one individual character points out. for one, like me, it would be vain from glittering heights the eyes to strain; i the truth can only know, tested by life's most fiery glow. seeds of thought will never thrive, till dews of love shall bid them live. let me stand in my age with all its waters flowing round me. if they sometimes subdue, they must finally upbear me, for i seek the universal,--and that must be the best. the spirit, no doubt, leads in every movement of my time: if i seek the how, i shall find it, as well as if i busied myself more with the why. whatever is, is right, if only men are steadily bent to make it so, by comprehending and fulfilling its design. may not i have an office, too, in my hospitality and ready sympathy? if i sometimes entertain guests who cannot pay with gold coin, with "fair rose nobles," that is better than to lose the chance of entertaining angels unawares. you, my three friends, are held, in heart-honor, by me. you, especially, good sense, because where you do not go yourself, you do not object to another's going, if he will. you are really liberal. you, old church, are of use, by keeping unforgot the effigies of old religion, and reviving the tone of pure spenserian sentiment, which this time is apt to stifle in its childish haste. but you are very faulty in censuring and wishing to limit others by your own standard. you, self-poise, fill a priestly office. could but a larger intelligence of the vocations of others, and a tender sympathy with their individual natures, be added, had you more of love, or more of apprehensive genius, (for either would give you the needed expansion and delicacy,) you would command my entire reverence. as it is, i must at times deny and oppose you, and so must others, for you tend, by your influence, to exclude us from our full, free life. we must be content when you censure, and rejoiced when you approve; always admonished to good by your whole being, and sometimes by your judgment. * * * * * do not blame me that i have written so much suggested by the german seeress, while you were looking for news of the west. here on the pier, i see disembarking the germans, the norwegians, the swedes, the swiss. who knows how much of old legendary lore, of modern wonder, they have already planted amid the wisconsin forests? soon, their tales of the origin of things, and the providence which rules them, will be so mingled with those of the indian, that the very oak-tree will not know them apart,--will not know whether itself be a runic, a druid, or a winnebago oak. some seeds of all growths that have ever been known in this world might, no doubt, already be found in these western wilds, if we had the power to call them to life. i saw, in the newspaper, that the american tract society boasted of their agent's having exchanged, at a western cabin door, tracts for the "devil on two sticks," and then burnt that more entertaining than edifying volume. no wonder, though, they study it there. could one but have the gift of reading the dreams dreamed by men of such various birth, various history, various mind, it would afford much, more extensive amusement than did the chambers of one spanish city! could i but have flown at night through such mental experiences, instead of being shut up in my little bedroom at the milwaukie boarding-house, this chapter would have been worth reading. as it is, let us hasten to a close. had i been rich in money, i might have built a house, or set up in business, during my fortnight's stay at milwaukie, matters move on there at so rapid a rate. but being only rich in curiosity, i was obliged to walk the streets and pick up what i could in casual intercourse. when i left the street, indeed, and walked on the bluffs, or sat beside the lake in their shadow, my mind was rich in dreams congenial to the scene, some time to be realized, though not by me. a boat was left, keel up, half on the sand, half in the water, swaying with each swell of the lake. it gave a picturesque grace to that part of the shore, as the only image of inaction,--only object of a pensive character to be seen. near this i sat, to dream my dreams and watch the colors of the lake, changing hourly, till the sun sank. these hours yielded impulses, wove webs, such as life will not again afford. returning to the boarding-house, which was also a boarding-school, we were sure to be greeted by gay laughter. this school was conducted by two girls of nineteen and seventeen years; their pupils were nearly as old as themselves. the relation seemed very pleasant between them; the only superiority--that of superior knowledge--was sufficient to maintain authority,--all the authority that was needed to keep daily life in good order. in the west, people are not respected merely because they are old in years; people there have not time to keep up appearances in that way; when persons cease to have a real advantage in wisdom, knowledge, or enterprise, they must stand back, and let those who are oldest in character "go ahead," however few years they may count. there are no banks of established respectability in which to bury the talent there; no napkin of precedent in which to wrap it. what cannot be made to pass current, is not esteemed coin of the realm. to the windows of this house, where the daughter of a famous "indian fighter," i.e. fighter against the indians, was learning french, and the piano, came wild, tawny figures, offering for sale their baskets of berries. the boys now, instead of brandishing the tomahawk, tame their hands to pick raspberries. here the evenings were much lightened by the gay chat of one of the party, who with the excellent practical sense of mature experience, and the kindest heart, united a _naïveté_ and innocence such as i never saw in any other who had walked so long life's tangled path. like a child, she was everywhere at home, and, like a child, received and bestowed entertainment from all places, all persons. i thanked her for making me laugh, as did the sick and poor, whom she was sure to find out in her briefest sojourn in any place, for more substantial aid. happy are those who never grieve, and so often aid and enliven their fellow-men! this scene, however, i was not sorry to exchange for the much celebrated beauties of the island of mackinaw. chapter vi. mackinaw.--indians.--indian women.--everett's reception of chiefs.--unfitness of indian missionaries.--our duties toward this race. late at night we reached this island of mackinaw, so famous for its beauty, and to which i proposed a visit of some length. it was the last week in august, at which, time a large representation from the chippewa and ottawa tribes are here to receive their annual payments from the american government. as their habits make travelling easy and inexpensive to them, neither being obliged to wait for steamboats, or write to see whether hotels are full, they come hither by thousands, and those thousands in families, secure of accommodation on the beach, and food from the lake, to make a long holiday out of the occasion. there were near two thousand encamped on the island already, and more arriving every day. as our boat came in, the captain had some rockets let off. this greatly excited the indians, and their yells and wild cries resounded along the shore. except for the momentary flash of the rockets, it was perfectly dark, and my sensations as i walked with a stranger to a strange hotel, through the midst of these shrieking savages, and heard the pants and snorts of the departing steamer, which carried, away all my companions, were somewhat of the dismal sort; though it was pleasant, too, in the way that everything strange is; everything that breaks in upon the routine that so easily incrusts us. i had reason to expect a room to myself at the hotel, but found none, and was obliged to take up my rest in the common parlor and eating-room, a circumstance which insured my being an early riser. with the first rosy streak, i was out among my indian neighbors, whose lodges honeycombed the beautiful beach, that curved away in long, fair outline on either side the house. they were already on the alert, the children creeping out from beneath the blanket door of the lodge, the women pounding corn in their rude mortars, the young men playing on their pipes. i had been much amused, when the strain proper to the winnebago courting flute was played to me on another instrument, at any one fancying it a melody; but now, when i heard the notes in their true tone and time, i thought it not unworthy comparison, in its graceful sequence, and the light flourish at the close, with the sweetest bird-song; and this, like the bird-song, is only practised to allure a mate. the indian, become a citizen and a husband, no more thinks of playing the flute, than one of the "settled-down" members of our society would, of choosing the "purple light of love" as dye-stuff for a surtout. mackinaw has been fully described by able pens, and i can only add my tribute to the exceeding beauty of the spot and its position. it is charming to be on an island so small that you can sail round it in an afternoon, yet large enough to admit of long, secluded walks through its gentle groves. you can go round it in your boat; or, on foot, you can tread its narrow beach, resting, at times, beneath the lofty walls of stone, richly wooded, which rise from it in various architectural forms. in this stone, caves are continually forming, from the action of the atmosphere; one of these is quite deep, and a rocky fragment left at its mouth, wreathed with little creeping plants, looks, as you sit within, like a ruined pillar. the arched rock surprised me, much as i had heard of it, from, the perfection of the arch. it is perfect, whether you look up through it from the lake, or down through it to the transparent waters. we both ascended and descended--no very easy matter--the steep and crumbling path, and rested at the summit, beneath the trees, and at the foot, upon the cool, mossy stones beside the lapsing wave. nature has carefully decorated all this architecture with shrubs that take root within the crevices, and small creeping vines. these natural ruins may vie for beautiful effect with the remains of european grandeur, and have, beside, a charm as of a playful mood in nature. the sugar-loaf rock is a fragment in the same kind as the pine rock we saw in illinois. it has the same air of a helmet, as seen from an eminence at the side, which you descend by a long and steep path. the rock itself may be ascended by the bold and agile: half-way up is a niche, to which those who are neither can climb by a ladder. a very handsome young officer and lady who were with us did so, and then, facing round, stood there side by side, looking in the niche, if not like saints or angels wrought by pious hands in stone, as romantically, if not as holily, worthy the gazer's eye. the woods which adorn the central ridge of the island are very full in foliage, and, in august, showed the tender green and pliant leaf of june elsewhere. they are rich in beautiful mosses and the wild raspberry. from fort holmes, the old fort, we had the most commanding view of the lake and straits, opposite shores, and fair islets. mackinaw itself is best seen from the water. its peculiar shape is supposed to have been the origin of its name, michilimackinac, which means the great turtle. one person whom i saw wished to establish another etymology, which he fancied to be more refined; but, i doubt not, this is the true one, both because the shape might suggest such a name, and the existence of an island of such form in this commanding position would seem a significant fact to the indians. for henry gives the details of peculiar worship paid to the great turtle, and the oracles received from this extraordinary apollo of the indian delphos. it is crowned, most picturesquely, by the white fort, with its gay flag. from this, on one side, stretches the town. how pleasing a sight, after the raw, crude, staring assemblage of houses everywhere else to be met in this country, is an old french town, mellow in its coloring, and with the harmonious effect of a slow growth, which assimilates, naturally, with objects round it! the people in its streets, indian, french, half-breeds, and others, walked with a leisure step, as of those who live a life of taste and inclination, rather than of the hard press of business, as in american towns elsewhere. on the other side, along the fair, curving beach, below the white houses scattered on the declivity, clustered the indian lodges, with their amber-brown matting, so soft and bright of hue, in the late afternoon sun. the first afternoon i was there, looking down from a near height, i felt that i never wished to see a more fascinating picture. it was an hour of the deepest serenity; bright blue and gold, with rich shadows. every moment the sunlight fell more mellow. the indians were grouped and scattered among the lodges; the women preparing food, in the kettle or frying-pan, over the many small fires; the children, half naked, wild as little goblins, were playing both in and out of the water. here and there lounged a young girl, with a baby at her back, whose bright eyes glanced, as if born into a world of courage and of joy, instead of ignominious servitude and slow decay. some girls were cutting wood, a little way from me, talking and laughing, in the low musical tone, so charming in the indian women. many bark canoes were upturned upon the beach, and, by that light, of almost the same amber as the lodges; others coming in, their square sails set, and with almost arrowy speed, though heavily laden with dusky forms, and all the apparatus of their household. here and there a sail-boat glided by, with a different but scarce less pleasing motion. it was a scene of ideal loveliness, and these wild forms adorned it, as looking so at home in it. all seemed happy, and they were happy that day, for they had no fire-water to madden them, as it was sunday, and the shops were shut. from my window, at the boarding-house, my eye was constantly attracted by these picturesque groups. i was never tired of seeing the canoes come in, and the new arrivals set up their temporary dwellings. the women ran to set up the tent-poles, and spread the mats on the ground. the men brought the chests, kettles, &c.; the mats were then laid on the outside, the cedar-boughs strewed on the ground, the blanket hung up for a door, and all was completed in less than twenty minutes. then they began to prepare the night meal, and to learn of their neighbors the news of the day. the habit of preparing food out of doors gave all the gypsy charm and variety to their conduct. continually i wanted sir walter scott to have been there. if such romantic sketches were suggested to him, by the sight of a few gypsies, not a group near one of these fires but would have furnished him material for a separate canvas. i was so taken up with the spirit of the scene, that i could not follow out the stories suggested by these weather-beaten, sullen, but eloquent figures. they talked a great deal, and with much, variety of gesture, so that i often had a good guess at the meaning of their discourse. i saw that, whatever the indian may be among the whites, he is anything but taciturn with his own people; and he often would declaim, or narrate at length. indeed, it is obvious, if only from the fables taken from their stores by mr. schoolcraft, that these tribes possess great power that way. i liked very much, to walk or sit among them. with, the women i held much communication by signs. they are almost invariably coarse and ugly, with the exception of their eyes, with a peculiarly awkward gait, and forms bent by burdens. this gait, so different from the steady and noble step of the men, marks the inferior position they occupy. i had heard much eloquent contradiction of this. mrs. schoolcraft had maintained to a friend, that they were in fact as nearly on a par with their husbands as the white woman with hers. "although," said she, "on account of inevitable causes, the indian woman is subjected to many hardships of a peculiar nature, yet her position, compared with that of the man, is higher and freer than that of the white woman. why will people look only on one side? they either exalt the red man into a demigod, or degrade him into a beast. they say that he compels his wife to do all the drudgery, while he does nothing but hunt and amuse himself; forgetting that upon his activity and power of endurance as a hunter depends the support of his family; that this is labor of the most fatiguing kind, and that it is absolutely necessary that he should keep his frame unbent by burdens and unworn by toil, that he may be able to obtain the means of subsistence. i have witnessed scenes of conjugal and parental love in the indian's wigwam, from, which i have often, often thought the educated white man, proud of his superior civilization, might learn a useful lesson. when he returns from hunting, worn out with, fatigue, having tasted nothing since dawn, his wife, if she is a good wife, will take off his moccasons and replace them with dry ones, and will prepare his game for their repast, while his children will climb upon him, and he will caress them, with all the tenderness of a woman; and in the evening the indian wigwam is the scene of the purest domestic pleasures. the father will relate, for the amusement of the wife and for the instruction of the children, all the events of the day's hunt, while they will treasure up every word that falls, and thus learn the theory of the art whose practice is to be the occupation of their lives." mrs. grant speaks thus of the position of woman amid the mohawk indians:-- "lady mary montague says, that the court of vienna was the paradise of old women, and that there is no other place in the world where a woman past fifty excites the least interest. had her travels extended to the interior of north america, she would have seen another instance of this inversion of the common mode of thinking. here a woman never was of consequence, till sire had a son old enough to fight the battles of his country. from, that date she held a superior rank in society; was allowed to live at ease, and even called to consultations on national affairs. in savage and warlike countries, the reign of beauty is very short, and its influence comparatively limited. the girls in childhood had a very pleasing appearance; but excepting their fine hair, eyes, and teeth, every external grace was soon banished by perpetual drudgery, carrying burdens too heavy to be borne, and other slavish employments, considered beneath the dignity of the men. these walked before, erect and graceful, decked with ornaments which set off to advantage the symmetry of their well-formed persons, while the poor women followed, meanly attired, bent under the weight of the children and the utensils, which they carried everywhere with, them, and disfigured and degraded by ceaseless toils. they were very early married, for a mohawk had no other servant but his wife; and whenever he commenced hunter, it was requisite he should have some one to carry his load, cook his kettle, make his moccasons, and, above all, produce the young warriors who were to succeed him in the honors of the chase and of the tomahawk. wherever man is a mere hunter, woman is a mere slave. it is domestic intercourse that softens man, and elevates woman; and of that there can be but little, where the employments and amusements are not in common. the ancient caledonians honored the fair; but then it is to be observed, they were fair huntresses, and moved in the light of their beauty to the hill of roes; and the culinary toils were entirely left to the rougher sex. when the young warrior made his appearance, it softened the cares of his mother, who well knew that, when he grew up, every deficiency in tenderness to his wife would be made up in superabundant duty and affection to her. if it were possible to carry filial veneration to excess, it was done here; for all other charities were absorbed in it. i wonder this system of depressing the sex in their early years, to exalt them, when all their juvenile attractions are flown, and when mind alone can distinguish them, has not occurred to our modern reformers. the mohawks took good care not to admit their women to share their prerogatives, till they approved themselves good wives and mothers." the observations of women upon the position of woman are always more valuable than those of men; but, of these two, mrs. grant's seem much, nearer the truth than mrs. schoolcraft's, because, though her opportunities for observation did not bring her so close, she looked more at both sides to find the truth. carver, in his travels among the winnebagoes, describes two queens, one nominally so, like queen victoria; the other invested with a genuine royalty, springing from her own conduct. in the great town of the winnebagoes, he found a queen presiding over the tribe, instead of a sachem. he adds, that, in some tribes, the descent is given to the female line in preference to the male, that is, a sister's son will succeed to the authority, rather than a brother's son. the position of this winnebago queen reminded me forcibly of queen victoria's. "she sat in the council, but only asked a few questions, or gave some trifling directions in matters relative to the state, for women are never allowed to sit in their councils, except they happen to be invested with the supreme authority, and then it is not customary for them to make any formal speeches, as the chiefs do. she was a very ancient woman, small in stature, and not much distinguished by her dress from several young women that attended her. these, her attendants, seemed greatly pleased whenever i showed any tokens of respect to their queen, especially when i saluted her, which i frequently did to acquire her favor." the other was a woman, who, being taken captive, found means to kill her captor, and make her escape; and the tribe were so struck with admiration at the courage and calmness she displayed on the occasion, as to make her chieftainess in her own light. notwithstanding the homage paid to women, and the consequence allowed them in some cases, it is impossible to look upon the indian women without feeling that they _do_ occupy a lower place than women among the nations of european civilization. the habits of drudgery expressed in their form and gesture, the soft and wild but melancholy expression of their eye, reminded me of the tribe mentioned by mackenzie, where the women destroy their female children, whenever they have a good opportunity; and of the eloquent reproaches addressed by the paraguay woman to her mother, that she had not, in the same way, saved her from the anguish and weariness of her lot. more weariness than anguish, no doubt, falls to the lot of most of these women. they inherit submission, and the minds of the generality accommodate themselves more or less to any posture. perhaps they suffer less than their white sisters, who have more aspiration and refinement, with little power of self-sustenance. but their place is certainly lower, and their share of the human inheritance less. their decorum and delicacy are striking, and show that, when these are native to the mind, no habits of life make any difference. their whole gesture is timid, yet self-possessed. they used to crowd round me, to inspect little things i had to show them, but never press near; on the contrary, would reprove and keep off the children. anything they took from my hand was held with care, then shut or folded, and returned with an air of lady-like precision. they would not stare, however curious they might be, but cast sidelong glances. a locket that i wore was an object of untiring interest; they seemed to regard it as a talisman. my little sun-shade was still more fascinating to them; apparently they had never before seen one. for an umbrella they entertained profound regard, probably looking upon it as the most luxurious superfluity a person can possess, and therefore a badge of great wealth. i used to see an old squaw, whose sullied skin and coarse, tanned locks told that she had braved sun and storm, without a doubt or care, for sixty years at least, sitting gravely at the door of her lodge, with an old green umbrella over her head, happy for hours together in the dignified shade. for her happiness pomp came not, as it so often does, too late; she received it with grateful enjoyment. one day, as i was seated on one of the canoes, a woman came and sat beside me, with her baby in its cradle set up at her feet. she asked me by a gesture to let her take my sun-shade, and then to show her how to open it. then she put it into her baby's hand, and held it over its head, looking at me the while with a sweet, mischievous laugh, as much, as to say, "you carry a thing that is only fit for a baby." her pantomime was very pretty. she, like the other women, had a glance, and shy, sweet expression in the eye; the men have a steady gaze. that noblest and loveliest of modern preux, lord edward fitzgerald, who came through buffalo to detroit and mackinaw, with brant, and was adopted into the bear tribe by the name of eghnidal, was struck in the same way by the delicacy of manners in women. he says: "notwithstanding the life they lead, which would make most women rough and masculine, they are as soft, meek, and modest as the best brought up girls in england. somewhat coquettish too! imagine the manners of mimi in a poor _squaw_, that has been carrying packs in the woods all her life." mckenney mentions that the young wife, during the short bloom of her beauty, is an object of homage and tenderness to her husband. one indian woman, the flying pigeon, a beautiful and excellent person, of whom he gives some particulars, is an instance of the power uncommon characters will always exert of breaking down the barriers custom has erected round them. she captivated by her charms, and inspired her husband and son with, reverence for her character. the simple praise with which the husband indicates the religion, the judgment, and the generosity he saw in her, are as satisfying as count zinzendorf's more labored eulogium on his "noble consort." the conduct of her son, when, many years after her death, he saw her picture at washington, is unspeakably affecting. catlin gives anecdotes of the grief of a chief for the loss of a daughter, and the princely gifts he offers in exchange for her portrait, worthy not merely of european, but of troubadour sentiment. it is also evident that, as mrs. schoolcraft says, the women have great power at home. it can never be otherwise, men being dependent upon them for the comfort of their lives. just so among ourselves, wives who are neither esteemed nor loved by their husbands have great power over their conduct by the friction of every day, and over the formation of their opinions by the daily opportunities so close a relation affords of perverting testimony and instilling doubts. but these sentiments should not come in brief flashes, but burn as a steady flame; then there would be more women worthy to inspire them. this power is good for nothing, unless the woman be wise to use it aright. has the indian, has the white woman, as noble a feeling of life and its uses, as religious a self-respect, as worthy a field of thought and action, as man? if not, the white woman, the indian woman, occupies a position inferior to that of man. it is not so much a question of power, as of privilege. the men of these subjugated tribes, now accustomed to drunkenness and every way degraded, bear but a faint impress of the lost grandeur of the race. they are no longer strong, tall, or finely proportioned. yet, as you see them stealing along a height, or striding boldly forward, they remind you of what _was_ majestic in the red man. on the shores of lake superior, it is said, if you visit them at home, you may still see a remnant of the noble blood. the pillagers (pilleurs), a band celebrated by the old travellers, are still existent there. "still some, 'the eagles of their tribe,' may rush." i have spoken of the hatred felt by the white man for the indian: with white women it seems to amount to disgust, to loathing. how i could endure the dirt, the peculiar smell, of the indians, and their dwellings, was a great marvel in the eyes of my lady acquaintance; indeed, i wonder why they did not quite give me up, as they certainly looked on me with great distaste for it. "get you gone, you indian dog," was the felt, if not the breathed, expression towards the hapless owners of the soil;--all their claims, all their sorrows quite forgot, in abhorrence of their dirt, their tawny skins, and the vices the whites have taught them. a person who had seen them during great part of a life expressed his prejudices to me with such violence, that i was no longer surprised that the indian children threw sticks at him, as he passed. a lady said: "do what you will for them, they will be ungrateful. the savage cannot be washed out of them. bring up an indian child, and see if you can attach it to you." the next moment, she expressed, in the presence of one of those children whom she was bringing up, loathing at the odor left by one of her people, and one of the most respected, as he passed through the room. when the child is grown, she will be considered basely ungrateful not to love the lady, as she certainly will not; and this will be cited as an instance of the impossibility of attaching the indian. whether the indian could, by any efforts of love and intelligence from, the white man, have been civilized and made a valuable ingredient in the new state, i will not say; but this we are sure of,--the french catholics, at least, did not harm them, nor disturb their minds merely to corrupt them. the french, they loved. but the stern presbyterian, with his dogmas and his task-work, the city circle and the college, with their niggard concessions and unfeeling stare, have never tried the experiment. it has not been tried. our people and our government have sinned alike against the first-born of the soil, and if they are the fated agents of a new era, they have done nothing,--have invoked no god to keep them sinless while they do the hest of fate. worst of all is it, when they invoke the holy power only to mask their iniquity; when the felon trader, who, all the week, has been besotting and degrading the indian with rum mixed with red pepper, and damaged tobacco, kneels with him on sunday before a common altar, to tell the rosary which recalls the thought of him crucified for love of suffering men, and to listen to sermons in praise of "purity"!! "my savage friends," cries the old, fat priest, "you must, above all things, aim at _purity_." oh! my heart swelled when i saw them in a christian church. better their own dog-feasts and bloody rites than such mockery of that other faith. "the dog," said an indian, "was once a spirit; he has fallen for his sin, and was given by the great spirit, in this shape, to man, as his most intelligent companion. therefore we sacrifice it in highest honor to our friends in this world,--to our protecting geniuses in another." there was religion in that thought. the white man sacrifices his own brother, and to mammon, yet he turns in loathing from, the dog-feast. "you say," said the indian of the south to the missionary, "that christianity is pleasing to god. how can that be?--those men at savannah are christians." yes! slave-drivers and indian traders are called christians, and the indian is to be deemed less like the son of mary than they! wonderful is the deceit of man's heart! i have not, on seeing something of them in their own haunts, found reason to change the sentiments expressed in the following lines, when a deputation of the sacs and foxes visited boston in , and were, by one person at least, received in a dignified and courteous manner. governor everett receiving the indian chiefs, november, . who says that poesy is on the wane, and that the muses tune their lyres in vain? 'mid all the treasures of romantic story, when thought was fresh and fancy in her glory, has ever art found out a richer theme, more dark a shadow, or more soft a gleam, than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly, in the newspaper column of to-day? american romance is somewhat stale. talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, wampum and calumets and forests dreary, once so attractive, now begins to weary. uncas and magawisca please us still, unreal, yet idealized with skill; but every poetaster, scribbling witling, from the majestic oak his stylus whittling, has helped to tire us, and to make us fear the monotone in which so much we hear of "stoics of the wood," and "men without a tear." yet nature, ever buoyant, ever young, if let alone, will sing as erst she sung; the course of circumstance gives back again the picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain; shows us the fount of romance is not wasted,-- the lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. shorn of his strength, the samson now must sue for fragments from the feast his fathers gave; the indian dare not claim what is his due, but as a boon his heritage must crave; his stately form shall soon be seen no more through all his father's land, the atlantic shore; beneath the sun, to _us_ so kind, _they_ melt, more heavily each day our rule is felt. the tale is old,--we do as mortals must: might makes right here, but god and time are just. though, near the drama hastens to its close, on this last scene awhile your eyes repose; the polished greek and scythian meet again, the ancient life is lived by modern men; the savage through our busy cities walks, he in his untouched, grandeur silent stalks. unmoved by all our gayeties and shows, wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes; he gazes on the marvels we have wrought, but knows the models from whence all was brought; in god's first temples he has stood so oft, and listened to the natural organ-loft, has watched the eagle's flight, the muttering thunder heard. art cannot move him to a wondering word. perhaps he sees that all this luxury brings less food to the mind than to the eye; perhaps a simple sentiment has brought more to him than your arts had ever taught. what are the petty triumphs _art_ has given, to eyes familiar with the naked heaven? all has been seen,--dock, railroad, and canal, fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal, asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill, the theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail. the braves each novelty, reflecting, saw, and now and then growled out the earnest "_yaw_." and now the time is come, 'tis understood, when, having seen and thought so much, a _talk_ may do some good. a well-dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet, and motley figures throng the spacious street; majestical and calm through all they stride, wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride; the gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny their noble forms and blameless symmetry. if the great spirit their _morale_ has slighted, and wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted, yet the _physique_, at least, perfection reaches, in wilds where neither combe nor spurzheim teaches; where whispering trees invite man to the chase, and bounding deer allure him to the race. would thou hadst seen it! that dark, stately band, whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land, whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee, are brought, the white man's victory to see. can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow, as through these realms, now decked by art, they go? the church, the school, the railroad, and the mart,-- can these a pleasure to their minds impart? all once was theirs,--earth, ocean, forest, sky,-- how can they joy in what now meets the eye? not yet religion has unlocked the soul, nor each has learned to glory in the whole! must they not think, so strange and sad their lot, that they by the great spirit are forgot? from the far border to which they are driven, they might look up in trust to the clear heaven; but _here_,--what tales doth every object tell where massasoit sleeps, where philip fell! we take our turn, and the philosopher sees through the clouds a hand which cannot err an unimproving race, with all their graces and all their vices, must resign their places; and human culture rolls its onward flood over the broad plains steeped in indian blood such thoughts steady our faith; yet there will rise some natural tears into the calmest eyes,-- which gaze where forest princes haughty go, made for a gaping crowd a raree-show. but _this_ a scene seems where, in courtesy, the pale face with the forest prince could vie, for one presided, who, for tact and grace, in any age had held an honored place,-- in beauty's own dear day had shone a polished phidian vase! oft have i listened to his accents bland, and owned the magic of his silvery voice, in all the graces which life's arts demand, delighted by the justness of his choice. not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought,-- the rhetoric by passion's magic wrought; not his the massive style, the lion port, which with the granite class of mind assort; but, in a range of excellence his own, with all the charms to soft persuasion known, amid our busy people we admire him,--"elegant and lone." he scarce needs words: so exquisite the skill which modulates the tones to do his will, that the mere sound enough would charm the ear, and lap in its elysium all who hear. the intellectual paleness of his cheek, the heavy eyelids and slow, tranquil smile, the well-cut lips from which the graces speak, pit him alike to win or to beguile; then those words so well chosen, fit, though few, their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue, we deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond dew. and never yet did i admire the power which makes so lustrous every threadbare theme,-- which won for la fayette one other hour, and e'en on july fourth could cast a gleam,-- as now, when i behold him play the host, with all the dignity which red men boast,-- with all the courtesy the whites have lost; assume the very hue of savage mind, yet in rude accents show the thought refined; assume the _naïveté_ of infant age, and in such prattle seem still more a sage; the golden mean with tact unerring seized, a courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased. the stoic of the woods his skill confessed, as all the father answered in his breast; to the sure mark the silver arrow sped, the "man without a tear" a tear has shed; and them hadst wept, hadst thou been there, to see how true one sentiment must ever be, in court or camp, the city or the wild,-- to rouse the father's heart, you need but name his child. the speech of governor everett on that occasion was admirable; as i think, the happiest attempt ever made to meet the indian in his own way, and catch the tone of his mind. it was said, in the newspapers, that keokuck did actually shed tears when addressed as a father. if he did not with his eyes, he well might in his heart. not often have they been addressed with such intelligence and tact. the few who have not approached them with sordid rapacity, but from love to them, as men having souls to be redeemed, have most frequently been persons intellectually too narrow, too straitly bound in sects or opinions, to throw themselves into the character or position of the indians, or impart to them anything they can make available. the christ shown them by these missionaries is to them but a new and more powerful manito; the signs of the new religion, but the fetiches that have aided the conquerors. here i will copy some remarks made by a discerning observer, on the methods used by the missionaries, and their natural results. "mr. ---- and myself had a very interesting conversation, upon the subject of the indians, their character, capabilities, &c. after ten years' experience among them, he was forced to acknowledge that the results of the missionary efforts had produced nothing calculated to encourage. he thought that there was an intrinsic disability in them to rise above, or go beyond, the sphere in which they had so long moved. he said, that even those indians who had been converted, and who had adopted the habits of civilization, were very little improved in their real character; they were as selfish, as deceitful, and as indolent, as those who were still heathens. they had repaid the kindnesses of the missionaries with the basest ingratitude, killing their cattle and swine, and robbing them of their harvests, which, they wantonly destroyed. he had abandoned the idea of effecting any general good to the indians. he had conscientious scruples as to promoting an enterprise so hopeless as that of missions among the indians, by sending accounts to the east that might induce philanthropic individuals to contribute to their support. in fact, the whole experience of his intercourse with them seemed to have convinced him of the irremediable degradation of the race. their fortitude under suffering he considered the result of physical and mental insensibility; their courage, a mere animal excitement, which they found it necessary to inflame, before daring to meet a foe. they have no constancy of purpose; and are, in fact, but little superior to the brutes in point of moral development. it is not astonishing, that one looking upon the indian character from mr. ----'s point of view should entertain such sentiments. the object of his intercourse with them was, to make them apprehend the mysteries of a theology, which, to the most enlightened, is an abstruse, metaphysical study; and it is not singular they should prefer their pagan superstitions, which address themselves more directly to the senses. failing in the attempt to christianize before civilizing them, he inferred that in the intrinsic degradation of their faculties the obstacle was to be found." thus the missionary vainly attempts, by once or twice holding up the cross, to turn deer and tigers into lambs; vainly attempts to convince the red man that a heavenly mandate takes from him his broad lands. he bows his head, but does not at heart acquiesce. he cannot. it is not true; and if it were, the descent of blood through the same channels, for centuries, has formed habits of thought not so easily to be disturbed. amalgamation would afford the only true and profound means of civilization. but nature seems, like all else, to declare that this race is fated to perish. those of mixed blood fade early, and are not generally a fine race. they lose what is best in either type, rather than enhance the value of each, by mingling. there are exceptions,--one or two such i know of,--but this, it is said, is the general rule. a traveller observes, that the white settlers who live in the woods soon become sallow, lanky, and dejected; the atmosphere of the trees does not agree with caucasian lungs; and it is, perhaps, in part an instinct of this which causes the hatred of the new settlers towards trees. the indian breathed the atmosphere of the forests freely; he loved their shade. as they are effaced from the land, he fleets too; a part of the same manifestation, which cannot linger behind its proper era. the chippewas have lately petitioned the state of michigan, that they may be admitted as citizens; but this would be vain, unless they could be admitted, as brothers, to the heart of the white man. and while the latter feels that conviction of superiority which enabled our wisconsin friend to throw away the gun, and send the indian to fetch it, he needs to be very good, and very wise, not to abuse his position. but the white man, as yet, is a half-tamed pirate, and avails himself as much as ever of the maxim, "might makes right." all that civilization does for the generality is to cover up this with a veil of subtle evasions and chicane, and here and there to rouse the individual mind to appeal to heaven against it. i have no hope of liberalizing the missionary, of humanizing the sharks of trade, of infusing the conscientious drop into the flinty bosom of policy, of saving the indian from immediate degradation and speedy death. the whole sermon may be preached from the text, "needs be that offences must come, yet woe onto them by whom they come." yet, ere they depart, i wish there might be some masterly attempt to reproduce, in art or literature, what is proper to them,--a kind of beauty and grandeur which few of the every-day crowd have hearts to feel, yet which ought to leave in the world its monuments, to inspire the thought of genius through all ages. nothing in this kind has been done masterly; since it was clevengers's ambition, 't is pity he had not opportunity to try fully his powers. we hope some other mind may be bent upon it, ere too late. at present the only lively impress of their passage through the world is to be found in such books as catlin's, and some stories told by the old travellers. let me here give another brief tale of the power exerted by the white man over the savage in a trying case; but in this case it was righteous, was moral power. "we were looking over mckenney's tour to the lakes, and, on observing the picture of key-way-no-wut, or the going cloud, mr. b. observed, 'ah, that is the fellow i came near having a fight with'; and he detailed at length the circumstances. this indian was a very desperate character, and of whom, all the leech lake band stood in fear. he would shoot down any indian who offended him, without the least hesitation, and had become quite the bully of that part of the tribe. the trader at leech lake warned mr. b. to beware of him, and said that he once, when he (the trader) refused to give up to him his stock of wild-rice, went and got his gun and tomahawk, and shook the tomahawk over his head, saying, '_now_, give me your wild-rice.' the trader complied with his exaction, but not so did mr. b. in the adventure which i am about to relate. key-way-no-wut came frequently to him with furs, wishing him to give for them, cotton-cloth, sugar, flour, &c. mr. b. explained to him that he could not trade for furs, as he was sent there as a teacher, and that it would be like putting his hand into the fire to do so, as the traders would inform against him, and he would be sent out of the country. at the same time, he _gave_ him the articles which he wished. key-way-no-wut found this a very convenient way of getting what he wanted, and followed up this sort of game, until, at last, it became insupportable. one day the indian brought a very large otter-skin, and said, 'i want to get for this ten pounds of sugar, and some flour and cloth,' adding, 'i am not like other indians, _i_ want to pay for what i get.' mr. b. found that he must either be robbed of all he had by submitting to these exactions, or take a stand at once. he thought, however, he would try to avoid a scrape, and told his customer he had not so much sugar to spare. 'give me, then,' said he, 'what you can spare'; and mr. b., thinking to make him back out, told him he would, give him five pounds of sugar for his skin. 'take it,' said the indian. he left the skin, telling mr. b. to take good care of it. mr. b. took it at once to the trader's store, and related the circumstance, congratulating himself that he had got rid of the indian's exactions. but in about a month key-way-no-wut appeared, bringing some dirty indian sugar, and said, 'i have brought back the sugar that i borrowed of you, and i want my otter-skin back.' mr. b. told him, 'i _bought_ an otter-skin of you, but if you will return the other articles you have got for it, perhaps i can get it for you.' 'where is the skin?' said he very quickly; 'what have you done with it?' mr. b. replied it was in the trader's store, where he (the indian) could not get it. at this information he was furious, laid his hands on his knife and tomahawk, and commanded mr. b. to bring it at once. mr. b. found this was the crisis, where he must take a stand or be 'rode over rough-shod' by this man. his wife, who was present was much alarmed, and begged he would get the skin for the indian, but he told her that 'either he or the indian would soon be master of his house, and if she was afraid to see it decided which was to be so, she had better retire,' he turned to key-way-no-wut, and addressed him in a stern voice as follows: 'i will _not_ give you the skin. how often have you come to my house, and i have shared with you what i had. i gave you tobacco when you were well, and medicine when you were sick, and you never went away from my wigwam with your hands empty. and this is the way you return my treatment to you. i had thought you were a man and a chief, but you are not, you are nothing but an old woman. leave this house, and never enter it again.' mr. b. said he expected the indian would attempt his life when he said this, but that he had placed himself in a position so that he could defend himself, and looked straight into the indian's eye, and, like other wild beasts, he quailed before the glance of mental and moral courage. he calmed down at once, and soon began to make apologies. mr. b. then told him kindly, but firmly, that, if he wished to walk in the same path with him, he must walk as straight as the crack on the floor before them; adding, that he would not walk with anybody who would jostle him by walking so crooked as he had done. he was perfectly tamed, and mr. b. said he never had any more trouble with him." the conviction here livingly enforced of the superiority on the side of the white man, was thus expressed by the indian orator at mackinaw while we were there. after the customary compliments about sun, dew, &c., "this," said he, "is the difference between the white and the red man; the white man looks to the future and paves the way for posterity. the red man never thought of this." this is a statement uncommonly refined for an indian; but one of the gentlemen present, who understood the chippewa, vouched for it as a literal rendering of his phrases; and he did indeed touch the vital point of difference. but the indian, if he understands, cannot make use of his intelligence. the fate of his people is against it, and pontiac and philip have no more chance than julian in the times of old. the indian is steady to that simple creed which forms the basis of all his mythology; that there is a god and a life beyond this; a right and wrong which each man can see, betwixt which each man should choose; that good brings with it its reward, and vice its punishment. his moral code, if not as refined as that of civilized nations, is clear and noble in the stress laid upon truth and fidelity. and all unprejudiced observers bear testimony, that the indians, until broken from their old anchorage by intercourse with the whites,--who offer them, instead, a religion of which they furnish neither interpretation nor example,--were singularly virtuous, if virtue be allowed to consist in a man's acting up to his own ideas of right. my friend, who joined me at mackinaw, happened, on the homeward journey, to see a little chinese girl, who had been sent over by one of the missionaries, and observed that, in features, complexion, and gesture, she was a counterpart to the little indian girls she had just seen playing about on the lake shore. the parentage of these tribes is still an interesting subject of speculation, though, if they be not created for this region, they have become so assimilated to it as to retain little trace of any other. to me it seems most probable, that a peculiar race was bestowed on each region,[a] as the lion on one latitude and the white bear on another. as man has two natures,--one, like that of the plants and animals, adapted to the uses and enjoyments of this planet, another which presages and demands a higher sphere,--he is constantly breaking bounds, in proportion as the mental gets the better of the mere instinctive existence. as yet, he loses in harmony of being what he gains in height and extension; the civilized man is a larger mind, but a more imperfect nature, than the savage. [footnote a: professor agassiz has recently published some able scientific papers tending to enforce this theory.--ed.] we hope there will be a national institute, containing all the remains of the indians, all that has been preserved by official intercourse at washington, catlin's collection, and a picture-gallery as complete as can be made, with a collection of skulls from all parts of the country. to this should be joined the scanty library that exists on the subject. a little pamphlet, giving an account of the massacre at chicago, has lately; been published, which i wish much i had seen while there, as it would have imparted an interest to spots otherwise barren. it is written with animation, and in an excellent style, telling just what we want to hear, and no more. the traits given of indian generosity are as characteristic as those of indian cruelty. a lady, who was saved by a friendly chief holding her under the waters of the lake, at the moment the balls endangered her, received also, in the heat of the conflict, a reviving draught from a squaw, who saw she was exhausted; and as she lay down, a mat was hung up between her and the scene of butchery, so that she was protected from the sight, though she could not be from sounds full of horror. i have not wished to write sentimentally about the indians, however moved by the thought of their wrongs and speedy extinction. i know that the europeans who took possession of this country felt themselves justified by their superior civilization and religious ideas. had they been truly civilized or christianized, the conflicts which sprang from the collision of the two races might have been avoided; but this cannot be expected in movements made by masses of men. the mass has never yet been humanized, though the age may develop a human thought. since those conflicts and differences did arise, the hatred which sprang from terror and suffering, on the european side, has naturally warped the whites still further from justice. the indian, brandishing the scalps of his wife and friends, drinking their blood, and eating their hearts, is by him viewed as a fiend, though, at a distant day, he will no doubt be considered as having acted the roman or carthaginian part of heroic and patriotic self-defence, according to the standard of right and motives prescribed by his religious faith and education. looked at by his own standard, he is virtuous when he most injures his enemy, and the white, if he be really the superior in enlargement of thought, ought to cast aside his inherited prejudices enough to see this, to look on him in pity and brotherly good-will, and do all he can to mitigate the doom of those who survive his past injuries. in mckenney's book is proposed a project for organizing the indians under a patriarchal government; but it does not look feasible, even on paper. could their own intelligent men be left to act unimpeded in their behalf, they would do far better for them than the white thinker, with all his general knowledge. but we dare not hope the designs of such will not always be frustrated by barbarous selfishness, as they were in georgia. _there_ was a chance of seeing what might have been done, now lost for ever. yet let every man look to himself how far this blood shall be required at his hands. let the missionary, instead of preaching to the indian, preach to the trader who ruins him, of the dreadful account which will be demanded of the followers of cain, in a sphere where the accents of purity and love come on the ear more decisively than in ours. let every legislator take the subject to heart, and, if he cannot undo the effects of past sin, try for that clear view and right sense that may save us from sinning still more deeply. and let every man and every woman, in their private dealings with the subjugated race, avoid all share in embittering, by insult or unfeeling prejudice, the captivity of israel. chapter vii. sault st. marie.--st. joseph's island.--the land of music.--rapids.--homeward.--general hull.--the book to the reader. nine days i passed alone at mackinaw, except for occasional visits from kind and agreeable residents at the fort, and mr. and mrs. a. mr. a., long engaged in the fur-trade, is gratefully remembered by many travellers. from mrs. a., also, i received kind attentions, paid in the vivacious and graceful manner of her nation. the society at the boarding-house entertained, being of a kind entirely new to me. there were many traders from the remote stations, such as la pointe, arbre croche,--men who had become half wild and wholly rude by living in the wild; but good-humored, observing, and with a store of knowledge to impart, of the kind proper to their place. there were two little girls here, that were pleasant companions for me. one gay, frank, impetuous, but sweet and winning. she was an american, fair, and with bright brown hair. the other, a little french canadian, used to join me in my walks, silently take my hand, and sit at my feet when i stopped in beautiful places. she seemed to understand without a word; and i never shall forget her little figure, with its light, but pensive motion, and her delicate, grave features, with the pale, clear complexion and soft eye. she was motherless, and much left alone by her father and brothers, who were boatmen. the two little girls were as pretty representatives of allegro and penseroso as one would wish to see. i had been wishing that a boat would come in to take me to the sault st. marie, and several times started to the window at night in hopes that the pant and dusky-red light crossing the waters belonged to such an one; but they were always boats for chicago or buffalo, till, on the th of august, allegro, who shared my plans and wishes, rushed in to tell me that the general scott had come; and in this little steamer, accordingly, i set off the next morning. i was the only lady, and attended in the cabin by a dutch girl and an indian woman. they both spoke english fluently, and entertained me much by accounts of their different experiences. the dutch girl told me of a dance among the common people at amsterdam, called the shepherd's dance. the two leaders are dressed as shepherd and shepherdess; they invent to the music all kinds of movements, descriptive of things that may happen in the field, and the rest are obliged to follow. i have never heard of any dance which gave such free play to the fancy as this. french dances merely describe the polite movements of society; spanish and neapolitan, love; the beautiful mazurkas, &c. are war-like or expressive of wild scenery. but in this one is great room both for fun and fancy. the indian was married, when young, by her parents, to a man she did not love. he became dissipated, and did not maintain her. she left him, taking with her their child, for whom and herself she earns a subsistence by going as chambermaid in these boats. now and then, she said, her husband called on her, and asked if he might live with her again; but she always answered, no. here she was far freer than she would have been in civilized life. i was pleased by the nonchalance of this woman, and the perfectly national manner she had preserved after so many years of contact with all kinds of people. the two women, when i left the boat, made me presents of indian work, such as travellers value, and the manner of the two was characteristic of their different nations. the indian brought me hers, when i was alone, looked bashfully down when she gave it, and made an almost sentimental little speech. the dutch girl brought hers in public, and, bridling her short chin with a self-complacent air, observed she had _bought_ it for me. but the feeling of affectionate regard was the same in the minds of both. island after island we passed, all fairly shaped and clustering in a friendly way, but with little variety of vegetation. in the afternoon the weather became foggy, and we could not proceed after dark. that was as dull an evening as ever fell. the next morning the fog still lay heavy, but the captain took me out in his boat on an exploring expedition, and we found the remains of the old english fort on point st. joseph's. all around was so wholly unmarked by anything but stress of wind and weather, the shores of these islands and their woods so like one another, wild and lonely, but nowhere rich and majestic, that there was some charm, in the remains of the garden, the remains even of chimneys and a pier. they gave feature to the scene. here i gathered many flowers, but they were the same as at mackinaw. the captain, though he had been on this trip hundreds of times, had never seen this spot, and never would but for this fog, and his desire to entertain me. he presented a striking instance how men, for the sake of getting a living, forget to live. it is just the same in the most romantic as the most dull and vulgar places. men get the harness on so fast, that they can never shake it off, unless they guard against this danger from the very first. in chicago, how many men live who never find time to see the prairies, or learn anything unconnected with the business of the day, or about the country they are living in! so this captain, a man of strong sense and good eyesight, rarely found time to go off the track or look about him on it. he lamented, too, that there had been no call which, induced him to develop his powers of expression, so that he might communicate what he had seen for the enjoyment or instruction of others. this is a common fault among the active men, the truly living, who could tell what life is. it should not be so. literature should not be left to the mere literati,--eloquence to the mere orator; every cæsar should be able to write his own commentary. we want a more equal, more thorough, more harmonious development, and there is nothing to hinder the men of this country from it, except their own supineness, or sordid views. when the weather did clear, our course up the river was delightful. long stretched before us the island of st. joseph's, with its fair woods of sugar-maple. a gentleman on board, who belongs to the fort at the sault, said their pastime was to come in the season of making sugar, and pass some time on this island,--the days at work, and the evening in dancing and other amusements. work of this kind done in the open air, where everything is temporary, and every utensil prepared on the spot, gives life a truly festive air. at such times, there is labor and no care,--energy with gayety, gayety of the heart. i think with the same pleasure of the italian vintage, the scotch harvest-home, with its evening dance in the barn, the russian cabbage-feast even, and our huskings and hop-gatherings. the hop-gatherings, where the groups of men and girls are pulling down and filling baskets with the gay festoons, present as graceful pictures as the italian vintage. how pleasant is the course along a new river, the sight of new shores! like a life, would but life flow as fast, and upbear us with as full a stream. i hoped we should come in sight of the rapids by daylight; but the beautiful sunset was quite gone, and only a young moon trembling over the scene, when we came within hearing of them. i sat up long to hear them merely. it was a thoughtful hour. these two days, the th and th of august, are memorable in my life; the latter is the birthday of a near friend. i pass them alone, approaching lake superior; but i shall not enter into that truly wild and free region; shall not have the canoe voyage, whose daily adventure, with the camping out at night beneath the stars, would have given an interlude of such value to my existence. i shall not see the pictured rocks, their chapels and urns. it did not depend on me; it never has, whether such things shall be done or not. my friends! may they see, and do, and be more; especially those who have before them a greater number of birthdays, and a more healthy and unfettered existence! i should like to hear some notes of earthly music to-night. by the faint moonshine i can hardly see the banks; how they look i have no guess, except that there are trees, and, now and then, a light lets me know there are homes, with their various interests. i should like to hear some strains of the flute from beneath those trees, just to break the sound of the rapids. the land of music. when no gentle eyebeam charms; no fond hope the bosom warms; of thinking the lone mind is tired,-- naught seems bright to be desired. music, be thy sails unfurled; bear me to thy better world; o'er a cold and weltering sea, blow thy breezes warm and free. by sad sighs they ne'er were chilled, by sceptic spell were never stilled. take me to that far-off shore, where lovers meet to part no more. there doubt and fear and sin are o'er; the star of love shall set no more. with the first light of dawn i was up and out, and then was glad i had not seen all the night before, it came upon me with such power in its dewy freshness. o, they are beautiful indeed, these rapids! the grace is so much more obvious than the power. i went up through the old chippewa burying-ground to their head, and sat down on a large stone to look. a little way off was one of the home-lodges, unlike in shape to the temporary ones at mackinaw, but these have been described by mrs. jameson. women, too, i saw coming home from the woods, stooping under great loads of cedar-boughs, that were strapped upon their backs. but in many european countries women carry great loads, even of wood, upon their backs. i used to hear the girls singing and laughing as they were cutting down boughs at mackinaw; this part of their employment, though laborious, gives them the pleasure of being a great deal in the free woods. i had ordered a canoe to take me down the rapids, and presently i saw it coming, with the two indian canoe-men in pink calico shirts, moving it about with their long poles, with a grace and dexterity worthy fairy-land. now and then they cast the scoop-net;--all looked just as i had fancied, only far prettier. when they came to me, they spread a mat in the middle of the canoe; i sat down, and in less than four minutes we had descended the rapids, a distance of more than three quarters of a mile. i was somewhat disappointed in this being no more of an exploit than i found it. having heard such expressions used as of "darting," or "shooting down," these rapids, i had fancied there was a wall of rock somewhere, where descent would somehow be accomplished, and that there would come some one gasp of terror and delight, some sensation entirely new to me; but i found myself in smooth water, before i had time to feel anything but the buoyant pleasure of being carried so lightly through this surf amid the breakers. now and then the indians spoke to one another in a vehement jabber, which, however, had no tone that expressed other than pleasant excitement. it is, no doubt, an act of wonderful dexterity to steer amid these jagged rocks, when one rude touch would tear a hole in the birch canoe; but these men are evidently so used to doing it, and so adroit, that the silliest person could not feel afraid. i should like to have come down twenty times, that i might have had leisure to realize the pleasure. but the fog which had detained us on the way shortened the boat's stay at the sault, and i wanted my time to walk about. while coming down the rapids, the indians caught a white-fish for my breakfast; and certainly it was the best of breakfasts. the white-fish i found quite another thing caught on the spot, and cooked immediately, from what i had found it at chicago or mackinaw. before, i had had the bad taste to prefer the trout, despite the solemn and eloquent remonstrances of the _habitués_, to whom the superiority of white-fish seemed a cardinal point of faith. i am here reminded that i have omitted that indispensable part of a travelling journal, the account of what we found to eat. i cannot hope to make up, by one bold stroke, all my omissions of daily record; but that i may show myself not destitute of the common feelings of humanity, i will observe that he whose affections turn in summer towards vegetables should not come to this region, till the subject of diet be better understood; that of fruit, too, there is little yet, even at the best hotel tables; that the prairie chickens require no praise from me, and that the trout and white-fish are worthy the transparency of the lake waters. in this brief mention i by no means intend to give myself an air of superiority to the subject. if a dinner in the illinois woods, on dry bread and drier meat, with water from the stream that flowed hard by, pleased me best of all, yet, at one time, when living at a house where nothing was prepared for the table fit to touch, and even the bread could not be partaken of without a headache in consequence, i learnt to understand and sympathize with the anxious tone in which fathers of families, about to take their innocent children into some scene of wild beauty, ask first of all, "is there a good, table?" i shall ask just so in future. only those whom the powers have furnished with small travelling cases of ambrosia can take exercise all day, and be happy without even bread morning or night. our voyage back was all pleasure. it was the fairest day. i saw the river, the islands, the clouds, to the greatest advantage. on board was an old man, an illinois farmer, whom i found a most agreeable companion. he had just been with his son, and eleven other young men, on an exploring expedition to the shores of lake superior. he was the only old man of the party, but he had enjoyed most of any the journey. he had been the counsellor and playmate, too, of the young ones. he was one of those parents--why so rare?--who understand and live a new life in that of their children, instead of wasting time and young happiness in trying to make them conform to an object and standard of their own. the character and history of each child may be a new and poetic experience to the parent, if he will let it. our farmer was domestic, judicious, solid; the son, inventive, enterprising, superficial, full of follies, full of resources, always liable to failure, sure to rise above it. the father conformed to, and learnt from, a character he could not change, and won the sweet from the bitter. his account of his life at home, and of his late adventures among the indians, was very amusing, but i want talent to write it down, and i have not heard the slang of these people intimately enough. there is a good book about indiana, called the new purchase, written by a person who knows the people of the country well enough to describe them in their own way. it is not witty, but penetrating, valuable for its practical wisdom and good-humored fun. there were many sportsman-stories told, too, by those from illinois and wisconsin. i do not retain any of these well enough, nor any that i heard earlier, to write them down, though they always interested me from bringing wild natural scenes before the mind. it is pleasant for the sportsman to be in countries so alive with game; yet it is so plenty that one would think shooting pigeons or grouse would seem more like slaughter, than the excitement of skill to a good sportsman. hunting the deer is full of adventure, and needs only a scrope to describe it to invest the western woods with _historic_ associations. how pleasant it was to sit and hear rough men tell pieces out of their own common lives, in place of the frippery talk of some fine circle with its conventional sentiment, and timid, second-hand criticism. free blew the wind, and boldly flowed the stream, named for mary mother mild. a fine thunder-shower came on in the afternoon. it cleared at sunset, just as we came in sight of beautiful mackinaw, over which, a rainbow bent in promise of peace. i have always wondered, in reading travels, at the childish joy travellers felt at meeting people they knew, and their sense of loneliness when they did not, in places where there was everything new to occupy the attention. so childish, i thought, always to be longing for the new in the old, and the old in the new. yet just such sadness i felt, when i looked on the island glittering in the sunset, canopied by the rainbow, and thought no friend would welcome me there; just such childish joy i felt to see unexpectedly on the landing the face of one whom i called friend. the remaining two or three days were delightfully spent, in walking or boating, or sitting at the window to see the indians go. this was not quite so pleasant as their coming in, though accomplished with the same rapidity; a family not taking half an hour to prepare for departure, and the departing canoe a beautiful object. but they left behind, on all the shore, the blemishes of their stay,--old rags, dried boughs, fragments of food, the marks of their fires. nature likes to cover up and gloss over spots and scars, but it would take her some time to restore that beach to the state it was in before they came. s. and i had a mind for a canoe excursion, and we asked one of the traders to engage us two good indians, that would not only take us out, but be sure and bring us back, as we could not hold converse with them. two others offered their aid, beside the chief's son, a fine-looking youth of about sixteen, richly dressed in blue broadcloth, scarlet sash and leggins, with a scarf of brighter red than the rest, tied around his head, its ends falling gracefully on one shoulder. they thought it, apparently, fine amusement to be attending two white women; they carried us into the path of the steamboat, which was going out, and paddled with all their force,--rather too fast, indeed, for there was something of a swell on the lake, and they sometimes threw water into the canoe. however, it flew over the waves, light as a seagull. they would say, "pull away," and "ver' warm," and, after these words, would laugh gayly. they enjoyed the hour, i believe, as much as we. the house where we lived belonged to the widow of a french trader, an indian by birth, and wearing the dress of her country she spoke french fluently, and was very ladylike in her manners. she is a great character among them. they were all the time coming to pay her homage, or to get her aid and advice; for she is, i am told, a shrewd woman of business. my companion carried about her sketch-book with her, and the indians were interested when they saw her using her pencil, though less so than about the sun-shade. this lady of the tribe wanted to borrow the sketches of the beach, with its lodges and wild groups, "to show to the _savages_" she said. of the practical ability of the indian women, a good specimen is given by mckenney, in an amusing story of one who went to washington, and acted her part there in the "first circles," with a tact and sustained dissimulation worthy of cagliostro. she seemed to have a thorough love of intrigue for its own sake, and much dramatic talent. like the chiefs of her nation, when on an expedition among the foe, whether for revenge or profit, no impulses of vanity or way-side seductions had power to turn her aside from carrying out her plan as she had originally projected it. although i have little to tell, i feel that i have learnt a great deal of the indians, from observing them even in this broken and degraded condition. there is a language of eye and motion which cannot be put into words, and which teaches what words never can. i feel acquainted with the soul of this race; i read its nobler thought in their defaced figures. there _was_ a greatness, unique and precious, which he who does not feel will never duly appreciate the majesty of nature in this american continent. i have mentioned that the indian orator, who addressed the agents on this occasion, said, the difference between the white man and the red man is this: "the white man no sooner came here, than he thought of preparing the way for his posterity; the red man never thought of this." i was assured this was exactly his phrase; and it defines the true difference. we get the better because we do "look before and after." but, from, the same cause, we "pine for what is not." the red man, when happy, was thoroughly happy; when good, was simply good. he needed the medal, to let him know that he _was_ good. these evenings we were happy, looking over the old-fashioned garden, over the beach, over the waters and pretty island opposite, beneath the growing moon. we did not stay to see it full at mackinaw; at two o'clock one night, or rather morning, the great western came snorting in, and we must go; and mackinaw, and all the northwest summer, is now to me no more than picture and dream:-- "a dream within a dream." these last days at mackinaw have been pleasanter than the "lonesome" nine, for i have recovered the companion with whom i set out from the east,--one who sees all, prizes all, enjoys much, interrupts never. at detroit we stopped for half a day. this place is famous in our history, and the unjust anger at its surrender is still expressed by almost every one who passes there. i had always shared the common feeling on this subject; for the indignation at a disgrace to our arms that seemed so unnecessary has been handed down from father to child, and few of us have taken the pains to ascertain where the blame lay. but now, upon the spot, having read all the testimony, i felt convinced that it should rest solely with the government, which, by neglecting to sustain general hull, as he had a right to expect they would, compelled him to take this step, or sacrifice many lives, and of the defenceless inhabitants, not of soldiers, to the cruelty of a savage foe, for the sake of his reputation. i am a woman, and unlearned in such affairs; but, to a person with common sense and good eyesight, it is clear, when viewing the location, that, under the circumstances, he had no prospect of successful defence, and that to attempt it would have been an act of vanity, not valor. i feel that i am not biassed in this judgment by my personal relations, for i have always heard both sides, and though my feelings had been moved by the picture of the old man sitting in the midst of his children, to a retired and despoiled old age, after a life of honor and happy intercourse with the public, yet tranquil, always secure that justice must be done at last, i supposed, like others, that he deceived himself, and deserved to pay the penalty for failure to the responsibility he had undertaken. now, on the spot, i change, and believe the country at large must, erelong, change from this opinion. and i wish to add my testimony, however trifling its weight, before it be drowned in the voice of general assent, that i may do some justice to the feelings which possess me here and now. a noble boat, the wisconsin, was to be launched this afternoon; the whole town was out in many-colored array, the band playing. our boat swept round to a good position, and all was ready but--the wisconsin, which could not be made to stir. this was quite a disappointment. it would have been an imposing sight. in the boat many signs admonished that we were floating eastward. a shabbily-dressed phrenologist laid his hand on every head which would bend, with half-conceited, half-sheepish expression, to the trial of his skill. knots of people gathered here and there to discuss points of theology. a bereaved lover was seeking religious consolation in--butler's analogy, which he had purchased for that purpose. however, he did not turn over many pages before his attention was drawn aside by the gay glances of certain damsels that came on board at detroit, and, though butler might afterwards be seen sticking from his pocket, it had not weight to impede him from many a feat of lightness and liveliness. i doubt if it went with him from the boat. some there were, even, discussing the doctrines of fourier. it seemed pity they were not going to, rather than from, the rich and free country where it would be so much easier than with us to try the great experiment of voluntary association, and show beyond a doubt that "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," a maxim of the "wisdom of nations" which has proved of little practical efficacy as yet. better to stop before landing at buffalo, while i have yet the advantage over some of my readers. the book to the reader, who opens, as american readers often do,--at the end. to see your cousin in her country home, if at the time of blackberries you come, "welcome, my friends," she cries with ready glee, "the fruit is ripened, and the paths are free. but, madam, you will tear that handsome gown; the little boy be sure to tumble down; and, in the thickets where they ripen best, the matted ivy, too, its bower has drest. and then the thorns your hands are sure to rend, unless with heavy gloves you will defend; amid most thorns the sweetest roses blow, amid most thorns the sweetest berries grow." if, undeterred, you to the fields must go, you tear your dresses and you scratch your hands; but, in the places where the berries grow, a sweeter fruit the ready sense commands, of wild, gay feelings, fancies springing sweet,-- of bird-like pleasures, fluttering and fleet. another year, you cannot go yourself, to win the berries from the thickets wild, and housewife skill, instead, has filled the shelf with blackberry jam, "by best receipts compiled,-- not made with country sugar, for too strong the flavors that to maple-juice belong; but foreign sugar, nicely mixed 'to suit the taste,' spoils not the fragrance of the fruit." "'tis pretty good," half-tasting, you reply, "i scarce should know it from fresh blackberry. but the best pleasure such a fruit can yield is to be gathered in the open field; if only as an article of food, cherry or crab-apple is quite as good; and, for occasions of festivity, west india sweetmeats you had better buy." thus, such a dish of homely sweets as these in neither way may chance the taste to please. yet try a little with the evening-bread; bring a good needle for the spool of thread; take fact with fiction, silver with the lead, and, at the mint, you can get gold instead; in fine, read me, even as you would be read. part ii. things and thoughts in europe. letter i. passage in the cambria.--lord and lady falkland.--captain judkins.--liverpool.--manchester.--mechanics' institute.--"the dial."--peace and war.--the working-men of england.--their tribute to sir robert peel.--the royal institute.--statues.--chester.--bathing. ambleside, westmoreland, d august, . i take the first interval of rest and stillness to be filled up by some lines for the tribune. only three weeks have passed since leaving new york, but i have already had nine days of wonder in england, and, having learned a good deal, suppose i may have something to tell. long before receiving this, you know that we were fortunate in the shortest voyage ever made across the atlantic,[a]--only ten days and sixteen hours from boston to liverpool. the weather and all circumstances were propitious; and, if some of us were weak of head enough to suffer from the smell and jar of the machinery, or other ills by which the sea is wont to avenge itself on the arrogance of its vanquishers, we found no pity. the stewardess observed that she thought "any one tempted god almighty who complained on a voyage where they did not even have to put guards to the dishes"! [footnote a: true at the time these letters were written.--ed.] as many contradictory counsels were given us with regard to going in one of the steamers in preference to a sailing vessel, i will mention here, for the benefit of those who have not yet tried one, that he must be fastidious indeed who could complain of the cambria. the advantage of a quick passage and certainty as to the time of arrival, would, with us, have outweighed many ills; but, apart from this, we found more space than we expected and as much as we needed for a very tolerable degree of convenience in our sleeping-rooms, better ventilation than americans in general can be persuaded to accept, general cleanliness, and good attendance. in the evening, when the wind was favorable, and the sails set, so that the vessel looked like a great winged creature darting across the apparently measureless expanse, the effect was very grand, but ah! for such a spectacle one pays too dear; i far prefer looking out upon "the blue and foaming sea" from a firm green shore. our ship's company numbered several pleasant members, and that desire prevailed in each to contribute to the satisfaction of all, which, if carried out through the voyage of life, would make this earth as happy as it is a lovely abode. at halifax we took in the governor of nova scotia, returning from his very unpopular administration. his lady was with, him, a daughter of william the fourth and the celebrated mrs. jordan. the english on board, and the americans, following their lead, as usual, seemed to attach much importance to her left-handed alliance with one of the dullest families that ever sat upon a throne, (and that is a bold word, too,) none to her descent from one whom nature had endowed with her most splendid regalia,--genius that fascinated the attention of all kinds and classes of men, grace and winning qualities that no heart could resist. was the cestus buried with her, that no sense of its pre-eminent value lingered, as far as i could perceive, in the thoughts of any except myself? we had a foretaste of the delights of living under an aristocratical government at the custom-house, where our baggage was detained, and we waiting for it weary hours, because of the preference given to the mass of household stuff carried back by this same lord and lady falkland. captain judkins of the cambria, an able and prompt commander, is the man who insisted upon douglass being admitted to equal rights upon his deck with the insolent slave-holders, and assumed a tone toward their assumptions, which, if the northern states had had the firmness, good sense, and honor to use, would have had the same effect, and put our country in a very different position from that she occupies at present. he mentioned with pride that he understood the new york herald called him "the nigger captain," and seemed as willing to accept the distinction as colonel mckenney is to wear as his last title that of "the indian's friend." at the first sight of the famous liverpool docks, extending miles on each side of our landing, we felt ourselves in a slower, solider, and not on that account less truly active, state of things than at home. that impression is confirmed. there is not as we travel that rushing, tearing, and swearing, that snatching of baggage, that prodigality of shoe-leather and lungs, which attend the course of the traveller in the united states; but we do not lose our "goods," we do not miss our car. the dinner, if ordered in time, is cooked properly, and served punctually, and at the end of the day more that is permanent seems to have come of it than on the full-drive system. but more of this, and with a better grace, at a later day. the day after our arrival we went to manchester. there we went over the magnificent warehouse of ---- phillips, in itself a bazaar ample to furnish provision for all the wants and fancies of thousands. in the evening we went to the mechanics' institute, and saw the boys and young men in their classes. i have since visited the mechanics' institute at liverpool, where more than seventeen hundred pupils are received, and with more thorough educational arrangements; but the excellent spirit, the desire for growth in wisdom and enlightened benevolence, is the same in both. for a very small fee, the mechanic, clerk, or apprentice, and the women of their families, can receive various good and well-arranged instruction, not only in common branches of an english education, but in mathematics, composition, the french and german, languages, the practice and theory of the fine arts, and they are ardent in availing themselves of instruction in the higher branches. i found large classes, not only in architectural drawing, which may be supposed to be followed with a view to professional objects, but landscape also, and as large in german as in french. they can attend many good lectures and concerts without additional charge, for a due place is here assigned to music as to its influence on the whole mind. the large and well-furnished libraries are in constant requisition, and the books in most constant demand are not those of amusement, but of a solid and permanent interest and value. only for the last year in manchester, and for two in liverpool, have these advantages been extended to girls; but now that part of the subject is looked upon as it ought to be, and begins to be treated more and more as it must and will be wherever true civilization is making its way. one of the handsomest houses in liverpool has been purchased for the girls' school, and room and good arrangement been afforded for their work and their play. among other things they are taught, as they ought to be in all american schools, to cut out and make dresses. i had the pleasure of seeing quotations made from our boston "dial," in the address in which the director of the liverpool institute, a very benevolent and intelligent man, explained to his disciples and others its objects, and which concludes thus:-- "but this subject of self-improvement is inexhaustible. if traced to its results in action, it is, in fact, 'the whole duty of man.' what of detail it involves and implies, i know that you will, each and all, think out for yourselves. beautifully has it been said: 'is not the difference between spiritual and material things just this,--that in the one case we must watch details, in the other, keep alive the high resolve, and the details will take care of themselves? keep the sacred central fire burning, and throughout the system, in each of its acts, will be warmth and glow enough.'[a] [footnote a: the dial, vol. i. p. , october, , "musings of a recluse."] "for myself, if i be asked what my purpose is in relation to you, i would briefly reply, it is that i may help, be it ever so feebly, to train up a race of young men, who shall escape vice by rising above it; who shall love truth because it is truth, not because it brings them wealth or honor; who shall regard life as a solemn thing, involving too weighty responsibilities to be wasted in idle or frivolous pursuits; who shall recognize in their daily labors, not merely a tribute to the "hard necessity of daily bread," but a field for the development of their better nature by the discharge of duty; who shall judge in all things for themselves, bowing the knee to no sectarian or party watchwords of any kind; and who, while they think for themselves, shall feel for others, and regard their talents, their attainments, their opportunities, their possessions, as blessings held in trust for the good of their fellow-men." i found that the dial had been read with earnest interest by some of the best minds in these especially practical regions, that it had been welcomed as a representative of some sincere and honorable life in america, and thought the fittest to be quoted under this motto:-- "what are noble deeds but noble thoughts realized?" among other signs of the times we bought bradshaw's railway guide, and, opening it, found extracts from the writings of our countrymen, elihu burritt and charles sumner, on the subject of peace, occupying a leading place in the "collect," for the month, of this little hand-book, more likely, in an era like ours, to influence the conduct of the day than would an illuminated breviary. now that peace is secured for the present between our two countries, the spirit is not forgotten that quelled the storm. greeted on every side with expressions of feeling about the blessings of peace, the madness and wickedness of war, that would be deemed romantic in our darker land, i have answered to the speakers, "but you are mightily pleased, and illuminate for your victories in china and ireland, do you not?" and they, unprovoked by the taunt, would mildly reply, "_we_ do not, but it is too true that a large part of the nation fail to bring home the true nature and bearing of those events, and apply principle to conduct with as much justice as they do in the case of a nation nearer to them by kindred and position. but we are sure that feeling is growing purer on the subject day by day, and that there will soon be a large majority against war on any occasion or for any object." i heard a most interesting letter read from a tradesman in one of the country towns, whose daughters are self-elected instructors of the people in the way of cutting out from books and pamphlets fragments on the great subjects of the day, which they send about in packages, or paste on walls and doors. he said that one such passage, pasted on a door, he had seen read with eager interest by hundreds to whom such thoughts were, probably, quite new, and with some of whom it could scarcely fail to be as a little seed of a large harvest. another good omen i found in written tracts by joseph barker, a working-man of the town of wortley, published through his own printing-press. how great, how imperious the need of such men, of such deeds, we felt more than ever, while compelled to turn a deaf ear to the squalid and shameless beggars of liverpool, or talking by night in the streets of manchester to the girls from the mills, who were strolling bareheaded, with coarse, rude, and reckless air, through the streets, or seeing through the windows of the gin-palaces the women seated drinking, too dull to carouse. the homes of england! their sweetness is melting into fable; only the new spirit in its holiest power can restore to those homes their boasted security of "each man's castle," for woman, the warder, is driven into the street, and has let fall the keys in her sad plight. yet darkest hour of night is nearest dawn, and there seems reason to believe that "there's a good time coming." blest be those who aid, who doubt not that "smallest helps, if rightly given, make the impulse stronger; 'twill be strong enough one day." other things we saw in liverpool,--the royal institute, with the statue of roscoe by chantrey, and in its collection from the works of the early italian artists, and otherwise, bearing traces of that liberality and culture by which the man, happy enough to possess them, and at the same time engaged with his fellow-citizens in practical life, can do so much more to enlighten and form them, than prince or noble possibly can with far larger pecuniary means. we saw the statue of huskisson in the cemetery. it is fine as a portrait statue, but as a work of art wants firmness and grandeur. i say it is fine as a portrait statue, though we were told it is not like the original; but it is a good conception of an individuality which might exist, if it does not yet. it is by gibson, who received his early education in liverpool. i saw there, too, the body of an infant borne to the grave by women; for it is a beautiful custom, here, that those who have fulfilled all other tender offices to the little being should hold to it the same relation to the very last. from liverpool we went to chester, one of the oldest cities in england, a roman station once, and abode of the "twentieth legion," "the victorious." tiles bearing this inscription, heads of jupiter, and other marks of their occupation, have, not long ago, been detected beneath the sod. the town also bears the marks of welsh invasion and domestic struggles. the shape of a cross in which it is laid out, its walls and towers, its four arched gateways, its ramparts and ruined, towers, mantled with ivy, its old houses with biblical inscriptions, its cathedral,--in which tall trees have grown up amid the arches, a fresh garden-plot, with flowers, bright green and red, taken place of the altar, and a crowd of revelling swallows supplanted the sallow choirs of a former priesthood,--present a _tout-ensemble_ highly romantic in itself, and charming, indeed, to transatlantic eyes. yet not to all eyes would it have had charms, for one american traveller, our companion on the voyage, gravely assured us that we should find the "castles and that sort of thing all humbug," and that, if we wished to enjoy them, it would "be best to sit at home and read some _handsome_ work on the subject." at the hotel in liverpool and that in manchester i had found no bath, and asking for one at chester, the chambermaid said, with earnest good-will, that "they had none, but she thought she could get me a note from her master to the infirmary (!!) if i would go there." luckily i did not generalize quite as rapidly as travellers in america usually do, and put in the note-book,--"_mem._: none but the sick ever bathe in england"; for in the next establishment we tried, i found the plentiful provision for a clean and healthy day, which i had read would be met _everywhere_ in this country. all else i must defer to my next, as the mail is soon to close. letter ii. chester.--its museum.--travelling companions.--a bengalese.-- westmoreland.--ambleside.--cobden and bright.--a scotch lady.--wordsworth.--his flowers.--miss martineau. ambleside. westmoreland, th august, . i forgot to mention, in writing of chester, an object which gave me pleasure. i mentioned, that the wall which enclosed the old town was two miles in circumference; far beyond this stretches the modern part of chester, and the old gateways now overarch the middle of long streets. this wall is now a walk for the inhabitants, commanding a wide prospect, and three persons could walk abreast on its smooth flags. we passed one of its old picturesque towers, from whose top charles the first, poor, weak, unhappy king, looked down and saw his troops defeated by the parliamentary army on the adjacent plain. a little farther on, one of these picturesque towers is turned to the use of a museum, whose stock, though scanty, i examined with singular pleasure, for it had been made up by truly filial contributions from, all who had derived benefit from chester, from the marquis of westminster--whose magnificent abode, eton hall, lies not far off--down to the merchant's clerk, who had furnished it in his leisure hours with a geological chart, the soldier and sailor, who sent back shells, insects, and petrifactions from their distant wanderings, and a boy of thirteen, who had made, in wood, a model of its cathedral, and even furnished it with a bell to ring out the evening chimes. many women had been busy in filling these magazines for the instruction and the pleasure of their fellow-townsmen. lady ----, the wife of the captain of the garrison, grateful for the gratuitous admission of the soldiers once a month,--a privilege of which the keeper of the museum (a woman also, who took an intelligent pleasure in her task) assured me that they were eager to avail themselves,--had given a fine collection of butterflies, and a ship. an untiring diligence had been shown in adding whatever might stimulate or gratify imperfectly educated minds. i like to see women perceive that there are other ways of doing good besides making clothes for the poor or teaching sunday-school; these are well, if well directed, but there are many other ways, some as sure and surer, and which benefit the giver no less than the receiver. i was waked from sleep at the chester inn by a loud dispute between the chambermaid and an unhappy elderly gentleman, who insisted that he had engaged the room in which i was, had returned to sleep in it, and consequently must do so. to her assurances that the lady was long since in possession, he was deaf; but the lock, fortunately for me, proved a stronger defence. with all a chambermaid's morality, the maiden boasted to me, "he said he had engaged , and would not believe me when i assured him it was ; indeed, how could he? i did not believe myself." to my assurance that, if i had known the room, was his, i should not have wished for it, but preferred taking a worse, i found her a polite but incredulous listener. passing from liverpool to lancaster by railroad, that convenient but most unprofitable and stupid way of travelling, we there took the canal-boat to kendal, and passed pleasantly through a country of that soft, that refined and cultivated loveliness, which, however much we have heard of it, finds the american eye--accustomed to so much wildness, so much rudeness, such a corrosive action of man upon nature--wholly unprepared. i feel all the time as if in a sweet dream, and dread to be presently awakened by some rude jar or glare; but none comes, and here in westmoreland--but wait a moment, before we speak of that. in the canal-boat we found two well-bred english gentlemen, and two well-informed german gentlemen, with whom we had some agreeable talk. with one of the former was a beautiful youth, about eighteen, whom i supposed, at the first glance, to be a type of that pure east-indian race whose beauty i had never seen represented before except in pictures; and he made a picture, from which i could scarcely take my eyes a moment, and from it could as ill endure to part. he was dressed in a broadcloth robe richly embroidered, leaving his throat and the upper part of his neck bare, except that he wore a heavy gold chain. a rich shawl was thrown gracefully around him; the sleeves of his robe were loose, with white sleeves below. he wore a black satin cap. the whole effect of this dress was very fine yet simple, setting off to the utmost advantage the distinguished beauty of his features, in which there was a mingling of national pride, voluptuous sweetness in that unconscious state of reverie when it affects us as it does in the flower, and intelligence in its newly awakened purity. as he turned his head, his profile was like one i used to have of love asleep, while psyche leans over him with the lamp; but his front face, with the full, summery look of the eye, was unlike that. he was a bengalese, living in england for his education, as several others are at present. he spoke english well, and conversed on several subjects, literary and political, with grace, fluency, and delicacy of thought. passing from kendal to ambleside, we found a charming abode furnished us by the care of a friend in one of the stone cottages of this region, almost the only one _not_ ivy-wreathed, but commanding a beautiful view of the mountains, and truly an english home in its neatness, quiet, and delicate, noiseless attention to the wants of all within its walls. here we have passed eight happy days, varied by many drives, boating excursions on grasmere and winandermere, and the society of several agreeable persons. as the lake district at this season draws together all kinds of people, and a great variety beside come from, all quarters to inhabit the charming dwellings that adorn its hill-sides and shores, i met and saw a good deal of the representatives of various classes, at once. i found here two landed proprietors from other parts of england, both "travelled english," one owning a property in greece, where he frequently resides, both warmly engaged in reform measures, anti-corn-law, anti-capital-punishment,--one of them an earnest student of emerson's essays. both of them had wives, who kept pace with their projects and their thoughts, active and intelligent women, true ladies, skilful in drawing and music; all the better wives for the development of every power. one of them told me, with a glow of pride, that it was not long since her husband had been "cut" by all his neighbors among the gentry for the part he took against the corn laws; but, she added, he was now a favorite with them all. verily, faith will remove mountains, if only you do join with it any fair portion of the dove and serpent attributes. i found here, too, a wealthy manufacturer, who had written many valuable pamphlets on popular subjects. he said: "now that the progress of public opinion was beginning to make the church and the army narrower fields for the younger sons of 'noble' families, they sometimes wish to enter into trade; but, beside the aversion which had been instilled into them for many centuries, they had rarely patience and energy for the apprenticeship requisite to give the needed knowledge of the world and habits of labor." of cobden he said: "he is inferior in acquirements to very many of his class, as he is self-educated and had everything to learn after he was grown up; but in clear insight there is none like him." a man of very little education, whom i met a day or two after in the stage-coach, observed to me: "bright is far the more eloquent of the two, but cobden is more felt, just _because_ his speeches are so plain, so merely matter-of-fact and to the point." we became acquainted also with dr. gregory, professor of chemistry at edinburgh, a very enlightened and benevolent man, who in many ways both instructed and benefited us. he is the friend of liebig, and one of his chief representatives here. we also met a fine specimen of the noble, intelligent scotchwoman, such as walter scott and burns knew how to prize. seventy-six years have passed over her head, only to prove in her the truth of my theory, that we need never grow old. she was "brought up" in the animated and intellectual circle of edinburgh, in youth an apt disciple, in her prime a bright ornament of that society. she had been an only child, a cherished wife, an adored mother, unspoiled by love in any of these relations, because that love was founded on knowledge. in childhood she had warmly sympathized in the spirit that animated the american revolution, and washington had been her hero; later, the interest of her husband in every struggle for freedom had cherished her own; she had known in the course of her long life many eminent men, knew minutely the history of efforts in that direction, and sympathized now in the triumph of the people over the corn laws, as she had in the american victories, with as much ardor as when a girl, though with a wiser mind. her eye was full of light, her manner and gesture of dignity; her voice rich, sonorous, and finely modulated; her tide of talk marked by candor, justice, and showing in every sentence her ripe experience and her noble, genial nature. dear to memory will be the sight of her in the beautiful seclusion of her home among the mountains, a picturesque, flower-wreathed dwelling, where affection, tranquillity, and wisdom were the gods of the hearth, to whom was offered no vain oblation. grant us more such women, time! grant to men the power to reverence, to seek for such! our visit to mr. wordsworth was very pleasant. he also is seventy-six, but his is a florid, fair old age. he walked with us to all his haunts about the house. its situation is beautiful, and the "rydalian laurels" are magnificent. still i saw abodes among the hills that i should have preferred for wordsworth, more wild and still, more romantic; the fresh and lovely rydal mount seems merely the retirement of a gentleman, rather than the haunt of a poet. he showed his benignity of disposition in several little things, especially in his attentions to a young boy we had with us. this boy had left the circus, exhibiting its feats of horsemanship in ambleside "for that day only," at his own desire to see wordsworth, and i feared he would be disappointed, as i know i should have been at his age, if, when called to see a poet, i had found no apollo, flaming with youthful glory, laurel-crowned and lyre in hand, but, instead, a reverend old man clothed in black, and walking with cautious step along the level garden-path; however, he was not disappointed, but seemed in timid reverence to recognize the spirit that had dictated "laodamia" and "dion,"--and wordsworth, in his turn, seemed to feel and prize a congenial nature in this child. taking us into the house, he showed us the picture of his sister, repeating with much expression some lines of hers, and those so famous of his about her, beginning, "five years," &c.; also his own picture, by inman, of whom he spoke with esteem. mr. wordsworth is fond of the hollyhock, a partiality scarcely deserved by the flower, but which marks the simplicity of his tastes. he had made a long avenue of them of all colors, from the crimson-brown to rose, straw-color, and white, and pleased himself with having made proselytes to a liking for them among his neighbors. i never have seen such magnificent fuchsias as at ambleside, and there was one to be seen in every cottage-yard. they are no longer here under the shelter of the green-house, as with us, and as they used to be in england. the plant, from its grace and finished elegance, being a great favorite of mine, i should like to see it as frequently and of as luxuriant a growth at home, and asked their mode of culture, which i here mark down, for the benefit of all who may be interested. make a bed of bog-earth and sand, put down slips of the fuchsia, and give them a great deal of water,--this is all they need. people have them out here in winter, but perhaps they would not bear the cold of our januaries. mr. wordsworth spoke with, more liberality than we expected of the recent measures about the corn laws, saying that "the principle was certainly right, though as to whether existing interests had been as carefully attended to as was just, he was not prepared to say." his neighbors were pleased to hear of his speaking thus mildly, and hailed it as a sign that he was opening his mind to more light on these subjects. they lament that his habits of seclusion keep him much ignorant of the real wants of england and the world. living in this region, which is cultivated by small proprietors, where there is little poverty, vice, or misery, he hears not the voice which cries so loudly from other parts of england, and will not be stilled by sweet poetic suasion or philosophy, for it is the cry of men in the jaws of destruction. it was pleasant to find the reverence inspired by this great and pure mind warmest nearest home. our landlady, in heaping praises upon him, added, constantly, "and mrs. wordsworth, too." "do the people here," said i, "value mr. wordsworth most because he is a celebrated writer?" "truly, madam," said she, "i think it is because he is so kind a neighbor." "true to the kindred points of heaven and home." dr. arnold, too,--who lived, as his family still live, here,--diffused the same ennobling and animating spirit among those who knew him in private, as through the sphere of his public labors. miss martineau has here a charming residence; it has been finished only a few months, but all about it is in unexpectedly fair order, and promises much beauty after a year or two of growth. here we found her restored to full health and activity, looking, indeed, far better than she did when in the united states. it was pleasant to see her in this home, presented to her by the gratitude of england for her course of energetic and benevolent effort, and adorned by tributes of affection and esteem from many quarters. from the testimony of those who were with her in and since her illness, her recovery would seem to be of as magical quickness and sure progress as has been represented. at the house of miss martineau i saw milman, the author, i must not say poet,--a specimen of the polished, scholarly man of the world. we passed one most delightful day in a visit to langdale,--the scene of "the excursion,"--and to dungeon-ghyll force. i am finishing my letter at carlisle on my way to scotland, and will give a slight sketch of that excursion, and one which occupied another day, from keswick to buttermere and crummock water, in my next. letter iii. westmoreland.--langdale.--dungeon-ghyll force.--keswick.--carlisle.-- branxholm.--scott.--burns. edinburgh, th september, . i have too long delayed writing up my journal.--many interesting observations slip from recollection if one waits so many days: yet, while travelling, it is almost impossible to find an hour when something of value to be seen will not be lost while writing. i said, in closing my last, that i would write a little more about westmoreland; but so much, has happened since, that i must now dismiss that region with all possible brevity. the first day of which i wished to speak was passed in visiting langdale, the scene of wordsworth's "excursion." our party of eight went in two of the vehicles called cars or droskas,--open carriages, each drawn by one horse. they are rather fatiguing to ride in, but good to see from. in steep and stony places all alight, and the driver leads the horse: so many of these there are, that we were four or five hours in going ten miles, including the pauses when we wished to _look_. the scenes through which we passed are, indeed, of the most wild and noble character. the wildness is not savage, but very calm. without recurring to details, i recognized the tone and atmosphere of that noble poem, which was to me, at a feverish period in my life, as pure waters, free breezes, and cold blue sky, bringing a sense of eternity that gave an aspect of composure to the rudest volcanic wrecks of time. we dined at a farm-house of the vale, with its stone floors, old carved cabinet (the pride of a house of this sort), and ready provision of oaten cakes. we then ascended a near hill to the waterfall called dungeon-ghyll force, also a subject touched by wordsworth's muse. you wind along a path for a long time, hearing the sound of the falling water, but do not see it till, descending by a ladder the side of the ravine, you come to its very foot. you find yourself then in a deep chasm, bridged over by a narrow arch of rock; the water falls at the farther end in a narrow column. looking up, you see the sky through a fissure so narrow as to make it look very pure and distant. one of our party, passing in, stood some time at the foot of the waterfall, and added much to its effect, as his height gave a measure by which to appreciate that of surrounding objects, and his look, by that light so pale and statuesque, seemed to inform the place with the presence of its genius. our circuit homeward from this grand scene led us through some lovely places, and to an outlook upon the most beautiful part of westmoreland. passing over to keswick we saw derwentwater, and near it the fall of lodore. it was from keswick that we made the excursion of a day through borrowdale to buttermere and crummock water, which i meant to speak of, but find it impossible at this moment. the mind does not now furnish congenial colors with which to represent the vision of that day: it must still wait in the mind and bide its time, again to emerge to outer air. at keswick we went to see a model of the lake country which gives an excellent idea of the relative positions of all objects. its maker had given six years to the necessary surveys and drawings. he said that he had first become acquainted with the country from his taste for fishing, but had learned to love its beauty, till the thought arose of making this model; that while engaged in it, he visited almost every spot amid the hills, and commonly saw both sunrise and sunset upon them; that he was happy all the time, but almost too happy when he saw one section of his model coming out quite right, and felt sure at last that he should be quite successful in representing to others the home of his thoughts. i looked upon him as indeed an enviable man, to have a profession so congenial with his feelings, in which he had been so naturally led to do what would be useful and pleasant for others. passing from keswick through a pleasant and cultivated country, we paused at "fair carlisle," not voluntarily, but because we could not get the means of proceeding farther that day. so, as it was one in which "the sun shone fair on carlisle wall," we visited its cathedral and castle, and trod, for the first time, in some of the footsteps of the unfortunate queen of scots. passing next day the border, we found the mosses all drained, and the very existence of sometime moss-troopers would have seemed problematical, but for the remains of gilnockie,--the tower of johnnie armstrong, so pathetically recalled in one of the finest of the scottish ballads. its size, as well as that of other keeps, towers, and castles, whose ruins are reverentially preserved in scotland, gives a lively sense of the time when population was so scanty, and individual manhood grew to such force. ten men in gilnockie were stronger then in proportion to the whole, and probably had in them more of intelligence, resource, and genuine manly power, than ten regiments now of red-coats drilled to act out manoeuvres they do not understand, and use artillery which needs of them no more than the match to go off and do its hideous message. farther on we saw branxholm, and the water in crossing which the goblin page was obliged to resume his proper shape and fly, crying, "lost, lost, lost!" verily these things seem more like home than one's own nursery, whose toys and furniture could not in actual presence engage the thoughts like these pictures, made familiar as household words by the most generous, kindly genius that ever blessed this earth. on the coach with us was a gentleman coming from london to make his yearly visit to the neighborhood of burns, in which he was born. "i can now," said he, "go but once a year; when a boy, i never let a week pass without visiting the house of burns." he afterward observed, as every step woke us to fresh recollections of walter scott, that scott, with all his vast range of talent, knowledge, and activity, was a poet of the past only, and in his inmost heart wedded to the habits of a feudal aristocracy, while burns is the poet of the present and the future, the man of the people, and throughout a genuine man. this is true enough; but for my part i cannot endure a comparison which by a breath of coolness depreciates either. both were wanted; each acted the important part assigned him by destiny with a wonderful thoroughness and completeness. scott breathed the breath just fleeting from the forms of ancient scottish heroism and poesy into new,--he made for us the bridge by which we have gone into the old ossianic hall and caught the meaning just as it was about to pass from us for ever. burns is full of the noble, genuine democracy which seeks not to destroy royalty, but to make all men kings, as he himself was, in nature and in action. they belong to the same world; they are pillars of the same church, though they uphold its starry roof from opposite sides. burns was much the rarer man; precisely because he had most of common nature on a grand scale; his humor, his passion, his sweetness, are all his own; they need no picturesque or romantic accessories to give them due relief: looked at by all lights they are the same. since adam, there has been none that approached nearer fitness to stand up before god and angels in the naked majesty of manhood than robert burns;--but there was a serpent in his field also! yet but for his fault we could never have seen brought out the brave and patriotic modesty with which he owned it. shame on him who could bear to think of fault in this rich jewel, unless reminded by such confession. we passed abbotsford without stopping, intending to go there on our return. last year five hundred americans inscribed their names in its porter's book. a raw-boned scotsman, who gathered his weary length into our coach on his return from a pilgrimage thither, did us the favor to inform us that "sir walter was a vara intelligent mon," and the guide-book mentions "the american washington" as "a worthy old patriot." lord safe us, cummers, what news be there! this letter, meant to go by the great britain, many interruptions force me to close, unflavored by one whiff from the smoke of auld reekie. more and better matter shall my next contain, for here and in the highlands i have passed three not unproductive weeks, of which more anon. letter iv. edinburgh, old and new.--scott and burns.--dr. andrew combe.--american re-publishing.--the bookselling trade.--the messrs. chambers.--de quincey the opium-eater.--dr. chalmers. edinburgh, september d, . the beautiful and stately aspect of this city has been the theme of admiration so general that i can only echo it. we have seen it to the greatest advantage both from calton hill and arthur's seat, and our lodgings in princess street allow us a fine view of the castle, always impressive, but peculiarly so in the moonlit evenings of our first week here, when a veil of mist added to its apparent size, and at the same time gave it the air with which martin, in his illustrations of "paradise lost," has invested the palace which "rose like an exhalation." on this our second visit, after an absence of near a fortnight in the highlands, we are at a hotel nearly facing the new monument to scott, and the tallest buildings of the old town. from my windows i see the famous kirk, the spot where the old tolbooth was, and can almost distinguish that where porteous was done to death, and other objects described in the most dramatic part of "the heart of mid-lothian." in one of these tall houses hume wrote part of his history of england, and on this spot still nearer was the home of allan ramsay. a thousand other interesting and pregnant associations present themselves every time i look out of the window. in the open square between us and the old town is to be the terminus of the railroad, but as the building will be masked with trees, it is thought it will not mar the beauty of the place; yet scott could hardly have looked without regret upon an object that marks so distinctly the conquest of the new over the old, and, appropriately enough, his statue has its back turned that way. the effect of the monument to scott is pleasing, though without strict unity of thought or original beauty of design. the statue is too much hid within the monument, and wants that majesty of repose in the attitude and drapery which a sitting figure should have, and which might well accompany the massive head of scott. still the monument is an ornament and an honor to the city. this is now the fourth that has been erected within two years to commemorate the triumphs of genius. monuments that have risen from the same idea, and in such quick succession, to schiller, to goethe, to beethoven, and to scott, signalize the character of the new era still more happily than does the railroad coming up almost to the foot of edinburgh castle. the statue of burns has been removed from the monument erected in his honor, to one of the public libraries, as being there more accessible to the public. it is, however, entirely unworthy its subject, giving the idea of a smaller and younger person, while we think of burns as of a man in the prime of manhood, one who not only promised, but _was_, and with a sunny glow and breadth, of character of which this stone effigy presents no sign. a scottish gentleman told me the following story, which would afford the finest subject for a painter capable of representing the glowing eye and natural kingliness of burns, in contrast to the poor, mean puppets he reproved. burns, still only in the dawn of his celebrity, was invited to dine with one of the neighboring so-called gentry (unhappily quite void of true gentle blood). on arriving he found his plate set in the servants' room!! after dinner he was invited into a room where guests were assembled, and, a chair being placed for him at the lower end of the board, a glass of wine was offered, and he was requested to sing one of his songs for the entertainment of the company. he drank off the wine, and thundered forth in reply his grand song, "for a' that and a' that," with which it will do no harm to refresh the memories of our readers, for we doubt there may be, even in republican america, those who need the reproof as much, and with far less excuse, than had that scottish company. "is there, for honest poverty, that hangs his head, and a' that? the coward slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that, our toils obscure, and a' that, the rank is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the gowd for a' that. "what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin gray, and a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that! for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that, the honest man, though, e'er sae poor is king o' men for a' that. "ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, wha struts, and stares, and a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that; for a' that, and a' that, his ribbon, star, and a' that, the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that. "a prince can make a belted knight, a marquis, duke, and a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might guid faith, he maunna fa' that! for a' that, and a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o' sense and pride o' worth are higher ranks than a' that. "then let us pray that, come it may, as come it will for a' that, that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, may bear the gree, and a' that; for a' that, and a' that, it's coming yet for a' that, that man to man, the wide warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that." and, having finished this prophecy and prayer, nature's nobleman left his churlish entertainers to hide their diminished heads in the home they had disgraced. we have seen all the stock lions. the regalia people still crowd to see, though the old natural feelings from which they so long lay hidden seem almost extinct. scotland grows english day by day. the libraries of the advocates, writers to the signet, &c., are fine establishments. the university and schools are now in vacation; we are compelled by unwise postponement of our journey to see both edinburgh and london at the worst possible season. we should have been here in april, there in june. there is always enough to see, but now we find a majority of the most interesting persons absent, and a stagnation in the intellectual movements of the place. we had, however, the good fortune to find dr. andrew combe, who, though a great invalid, was able and disposed for conversation at this time. i was impressed with great and affectionate respect by the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate knowledge, accompanied, as such should naturally be, by a large and intelligent liberality. of our country he spoke very wisely and hopefully, though among other stories with which we, as americans, are put to the blush here, there is none worse than that of the conduct of some of our publishers toward him. one of these stories i had heard in new york, but supposed it to be exaggerated till i had it from the best authority. it is of one of our leading houses who were publishing on their own account and had stereotyped one of his works from an early edition. when this work had passed through other editions and he had for years been busy in reforming and amending it, he applied to this house to republish from the later and better edition. they refused. in vain he urged that it was not only for his own reputation as an author that he was anxious, but for the good of the great country through which writings on such, important subjects were to be circulated, that they might have the benefit of his labors and best knowledge. such arguments on the stupid and mercenary tempers of those addressed fell harmless as on a buffalo's hide might a gold-tipped arrow. the book, they thought, answered their purpose sufficiently, for it sells. other purpose for a book they knew none. and as to the natural rights of an author over the fruits of his mind, the distilled essence of a life consumed in the severities of mental labor, they had never heard of such a thing. his work was in the market, and he had no more to do with it, that they could see, than the silkworm with the lining of one of their coats. mr. greeley, the more i look at this subject, the more i must maintain, in opposition to your views, that the publisher cannot, if a mere tradesman, be a man of honor. it is impossible in the nature of things. he _must_ have some idea of the nature and value of literary labor, or he is wholly unfit to deal with its products. he cannot get along by occasional recourse to paid critics or readers; he must himself have some idea what he is about. one partner, at least, in the firm, must be a man of culture. all must understand enough to appreciate their position, and know that he who, for his sordid aims, circulates poisonous trash amid a great and growing people, and makes it almost impossible for those whom heaven has appointed as its instructors to do their office, are the worst of traitors, and to be condemned at the bar of nations under a sentence no less severe than false statesmen and false priests. this matter should and must be looked to more conscientiously. dr. combe, repelled by all this indifference to conscience and natural equity in the firm who had taken possession of his work, applied to others. but here he found himself at once opposed by the invisible barrier that makes this sort of tyranny so strong and so pernicious. "it was the understanding among the trade that they were not to interfere with one another; indeed, they could have no chance," &c., &c. when at last he did get the work republished in another part of the country less favorable for his purposes, the bargain made as to the pecuniary part of the transaction was in various ways so evaded, that, up to this time, he has received no compensation from that widely-circulated work, except a lock of spurzheim's hair!! i was pleased to hear the true view expressed by one of the messrs. chambers. these brothers have worked their way up to wealth and influence by daily labor and many steps. one of them is more the business man, the other the literary curator of their journal. of this journal they issue regularly eighty thousand copies, and it is doing an excellent work, by awakening among the people a desire for knowledge, and, to a considerable extent, furnishing them with good materials. i went over their fine establishment, where i found more than a hundred and fifty persons, in good part women, employed, all in well-aired, well-lighted rooms, seemingly healthy and content. connected with the establishment is a savings bank, and evening instruction in writing, singing, and arithmetic. there was also a reading-room, and the same valuable and liberal provision we had found attached to some of the manchester warehouses. such accessories dignify and gladden all kinds of labor, and show somewhat of the true spirit of human brotherhood in the employer. mr. chambers said he trusted they should never look on publishing _chiefly_ as _business_, or a lucrative and respectable employment, but as the means of mental and moral benefit to their countrymen. to one so wearied and disgusted as i have been by vulgar and base avowals on such subjects, it was very refreshing to hear this from the lips of a successful publisher. dr. combe spoke with high praise of mr. hurlbart's book, "human rights and their political guaranties," which was published at the tribune office. he observed that it was the work of a real thinker, and extremely well written. it is to be republished here. dr. combe said that it must make its way slowly, as it could interest those only who were willing to read thoughtfully; but its success was sure at last. he also spoke with, great interest and respect of mrs. farnham, of whose character and the influence she has exerted on the female prisoners at sing sing he had heard some account. a person of a quite different character and celebrity is de quincey, the english opium-eater, and who lately has delighted us again with the papers in blackwood headed "suspiria de profundis." i had the satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of seeing him for some hours, and in the mood of conversation. as one belonging to the wordsworth, and coleridge constellation, (he too is now seventy-six years of age,) the thoughts and knowledge of mr. de quincey lie in the past; and oftentimes he spoke of matters now become trite to one of a later culture. but to all that fell from his lips, his eloquence, subtile and forcible as the wind, full and gently falling as the evening dew, lent a peculiar charm. he is an admirable narrator, not rapid, but gliding along like a rivulet through a green meadow, giving and taking a thousand little beauties not absolutely required to give his story due relief, but each, in itself, a separate boon. i admired, too, his urbanity, so opposite to the rapid, slang, vivian-greyish style current in the literary conversation of the day. "sixty years since," men had time to do things better and more gracefully than now. with dr. chalmers we passed a couple of hours. he is old now, but still full of vigor and fire. we had an opportunity of hearing a fine burst of indignant eloquence from him. "i shall blush to my very bones," said he, "if the _chaarrch_"--(sound these two _rr_'s with as much burr as possible and you will get at an idea of his mode of pronouncing that unweariable word)--"if the chaarrch yields to the storm." he alluded to the outcry now raised against the free church by the abolitionists, whose motto is, "send back the money," i.e. money taken from the american slaveholders. dr. chalmers felt that, if they did not yield from conviction, they must not to assault. his manner of speaking on this subject gave me an idea of the nature of his eloquence. he seldom preaches now. a fine picture was presented by the opposition of figure and lineaments between a young indian, son of the celebrated dwarkanauth tagore, who happened to be there that morning, and dr. chalmers, as they were conversing together. the swarthy, half-timid, yet elegant face and form of the indian made a fine contrast with the florid, portly, yet intellectually luminous appearance of the doctor; half shepherd, half orator, he looked a shepherd king opposed to some arabian story-teller. i saw others in edinburgh of a later date who haply gave more valuable as well as fresher revelations of the spirit, and whose names may be by and by more celebrated than those i have cited; but for the present this must suffice. it would take a week, if i wrote half i saw or thought in edinburgh, and i must close for to-day. letter v. perth.--travelling by coach.--loch leven.--queen mary.--loch katrine.--the trosachs.--rowardennan.--a night on ben lomond.--scotch peasantry. birmingham, september th, . i was obliged to stop writing at edinburgh before the better half of my tale was told, and must now begin there again, to speak of an excursion into the highlands, which occupied about a fortnight. we left edinburgh, by coach for perth, and arrived there about three in the afternoon. i have reason to be very glad that i visit this island before the reign of the stage-coach is quite over. i have been constantly on the top of the coach, even one day of drenching rain, and enjoy it highly. nothing can be more inspiring than this swift, steady progress over such smooth roads, and placed so high as to overlook the country freely, with the lively flourish of the horn preluding every pause. travelling by railroad is, in my opinion, the most stupid process on earth; it is sleep without the refreshment of sleep, for the noise of the train makes it impossible either to read, talk, or sleep to advantage. but here the advantages are immense; you can fly through this dull trance from one beautiful place to another, and stay at each during the time that would otherwise be spent on the road. already the artists, who are obliged to find their home in london, rejoice that all england is thrown open to them for sketching-ground, since they can now avail themselves of a day's leisure at a great distance, and with choice of position, whereas formerly they were obliged to confine themselves to a few "green, and bowery" spots in the neighborhood of the metropolis. but while in the car, it is to me that worst of purgatories, the purgatory of dulness. well, on the coach we went to perth, and passed through kinross, and saw loch leven, and the island where queen mary passed those sorrowful months, before her romantic escape under care of the douglas. as this unhappy, lovely woman stands for a type in history, death, time, and distance do not destroy her attractive power. like cleopatra, she has still her adorers; nay, some are born to her in each new generation of men. lately she has for her chevalier the russian prince labanoff, who has spent fourteen years in studying upon all that related to her, and thinks now that he can make out a story and a picture about the mysteries of her short reign, which shall satisfy the desire of her lovers to find her as pure and just as she was charming. i have only seen of his array of evidence so much, as may be found in the pages of chambers's journal, but that much does not disturb the original view i have taken of the case; which is, that from a princess educated under the medici and guise influence, engaged in the meshes of secret intrigue to favor the roman catholic faith, her tacit acquiescence, at least, in the murder of darnley, after all his injurious conduct toward her, was just what was to be expected. from a poor, beautiful young woman, longing to enjoy life, exposed both by her position and her natural fascinations to the utmost bewilderment of flattery, whether prompted by interest or passion, her other acts of folly are most natural, and let all who feel inclined harshly to condemn her remember to "gently scan your brother man, still gentler sister woman." surely, in all the stern pages of life's account-book there is none on which a more terrible price is exacted for every precious endowment. her rank and reign only made her powerless to do good, and exposed her to danger; her talents only served to irritate her foes and disappoint her friends. this most charming of women was the destruction of her lovers: married three times, she had never any happiness as a wife, but in both the connections of her choice found that she had either never possessed or could not retain, even for a few weeks, the love of the men she had chosen, so that darnley was willing to risk her life and that of his unborn child to wreak his wrath upon rizzio, and after a few weeks with bothwell she was heard "calling aloud for a knife to kill herself with." a mother twice, and of a son and daughter, both the children were brought forth in loneliness and sorrow, and separated from her early, her son educated to hate her, her daughter at once immured in a convent. add the eighteen years of her imprisonment, and the fact that this foolish, prodigal world, when there was in it one woman fitted by her grace and loveliness to charm all eyes and enliven all fancies, suffered her to be shut up to water with her tears her dull embroidery during all the full rose-blossom of her life, and you will hardly get beyond this story for a tragedy, not noble, but pallid and forlorn. such were the bootless, best thoughts i had while looking at the dull blood-stain and blocked-up secret stair of holyrood, at the ruins of loch leven castle, and afterward at abbotsford, where the picture of queen mary's head, as it lay on the pillow when severed from the block, hung opposite to a fine caricature of "queen elizabeth dancing high and disposedly." in this last the face is like a mask, so frightful is the expression of cold craft, irritated, vanity, and the malice of a lonely breast in contrast with the attitude and elaborate frippery of the dress. the ambassador looks on dismayed; the little page can scarcely control the laughter which swells his boyish cheeks. such can win the world which, better hearts (and such mary's was, even if it had a large black speck in it) are most like to lose. that was a most lovely day on which we entered perth, and saw in full sunshine its beautiful meadows, among them the north-inch, the famous battle-ground commemorated in "the fair maid of perth," adorned with graceful trees like those of the new england country towns. in the afternoon we visited the modern kinfauns, the stately home of lord grey. the drive to it is most beautiful, on the one side the park, with noble heights that skirt it, on the other through a belt of trees was seen the river and the sweep of that fair and cultivated country. the house is a fine one, and furnished with taste, the library large, and some good works in marble. among the family pictures one arrested my attention,--the face of a girl full of the most pathetic sensibility, and with no restraint of convention upon its ardent, gentle expression. she died young. returning, we were saddened, as almost always on leaving any such place, by seeing such swarms of dirty women and dirtier children at the doors of the cottages almost close by the gate of the avenue. to the horrors and sorrows of the streets in such places as liverpool, glasgow, and, above all, london, one has to grow insensible or die daily; but here in the sweet, fresh, green country, where there seems to be room for everybody, it is impossible to forget the frightful inequalities between the lot of man and man, or believe that god can smile upon a state of things such as we find existent here. can any man who has seen these things dare blame the associationists for their attempt to find prevention against such misery and wickedness in our land? rather will not every man of tolerable intelligence and good feeling commend, say rather revere, every earnest attempt in that direction, nor dare interfere with any, unless he has a better to offer in its place? next morning we passed on to crieff, in whose neighborhood we visited drummond castle, the abode, or rather one of the abodes, of lord willoughby d'eresby. it has a noble park, through which you pass by an avenue of two miles long. the old keep is still ascended to get the fine view of the surrounding country; and during queen victoria's visit, her guards were quartered there. but what took my fancy most was the old-fashioned garden, full of old shrubs and new flowers, with its formal parterres in the shape of the family arms, and its clipped yew and box trees. it was fresh from a shower, and now glittering and fragrant in bright sunshine. this afternoon we pursued our way, passing through the plantations of ochtertyre, a far more charming place to my taste than drummond castle, freer and more various in its features. five or six of these fine places lie in the neighborhood of crieff, and the traveller may give two or three days to visiting them with a rich reward of delight. but we were pressing on to be with the lakes and mountains rather, and that night brought us to st. fillan's, where we saw the moon shining on loch earn. all this region, and that of loch katrine and the trosachs, which we reached next day, scott has described exactly in "the lady of the lake"; nor is it possible to appreciate that poem, without going thither, neither to describe the scene better than he has done after you have seen it. i was somewhat disappointed in the pass of the trosachs itself; it is very grand, but the grand part lasts so little while. the opening view of loch katrine, however, surpassed, expectation. it was late in the afternoon when we launched our little boat there for ellen's isle. the boatmen recite, though not _con molto espressione_, the parts of the poem which describe these localities. observing that they spoke of the personages, too, with the same air of confidence, we asked if they were sure that all this really happened. they replied, "certainly; it had been told from father to son through so many generations." such is the power of genius to interpolate what it will into the regular log-book of time's voyage. leaving loch katrine the following day, we entered rob roy's country, and saw on the way the house where helen macgregor was born, and rob roy's sword, which is shown in a house by the way-side. we came in a row-boat up loch katrine, though both on that and loch lomond you _may_ go in a hateful little steamer with a squeaking fiddle to play rob roy macgregor o. i walked almost all the way through the pass from loch katrine to loch lomond; it was a distance of six miles; but you feel as if you could walk sixty in that pure, exhilarating air. at inversnaid we took boat again to go down loch lomond to the little inn of rowardennan, from which the ascent is made of ben lomond, the greatest elevation in these parts. the boatmen are fine, athletic men; one of those with us this evening, a handsome young man of two or three and twenty, sang to us some gaelic songs. the first, a very wild and plaintive air, was the expostulation of a girl whose lover has deserted her and married another. it seems he is ashamed, and will not even look at her when they meet upon the road. she implores him, if he has not forgotten all that scene of bygone love, at least to lift up his eyes and give her one friendly glance. the sad _crooning_ burden of the stanzas in which she repeats this request was very touching. when the boatman had finished, he hung his head and seemed ashamed of feeling the song too much; then, when we asked for another, he said he would sing another about a girl that was happy. this one was in three parts. first, a tuneful address from a maiden to her absent lover; second, his reply, assuring her of his fidelity and tenderness; third, a strain which expresses their joy when reunited. i thought this boatman had sympathies which would prevent his tormenting any poor women, and perhaps make some one happy, and this was a pleasant thought, since probably in the highlands, as elsewhere, "maidens lend an ear too oft to the careless wooer; maidens' hearts are _always soft_; would that men's were truer!" i don't know that i quote the words correctly, but that is the sum and substance of a masculine report on these matters. the first day at rowardennan not being propitious for ascending the mountain, we went down the lake to sup, and got very tired in various ways, so that we rose very late next morning. their we found a day of ten thousand for our purpose; but unhappily a large party had come with the sun and engaged all the horses, so that, if we went, it must be on foot. this was something of an enterprise for me, as the ascent is four miles, and toward the summit quite fatiguing; however, in the pride of newly gained health and strength, i was ready, and set forth with mr. s. alone. we took no guide,--and the people of the house did not advise it, as they ought. they told us afterward they thought the day was so clear that there was no probability of danger, and they were afraid of seeming mercenary about it. it was, however, wrong, as they knew what we did not, that even the shepherds, if a mist comes on, can be lost in these hills; that a party of gentlemen were so a few weeks before, and only by accident found their way to a house on the other side; and that a child which had been lost was not found for five days, long after its death. we, however, nothing doubting, set forth, ascending slowly, and often stopping to enjoy the points of view, which are many, for ben lomond consists of a congeries of hills, above which towers the true ben, or highest peak, as the head of a many-limbed body. on reaching the peak, the night was one of beauty and grandeur such as imagination never painted. you see around you no plain ground, but on every side constellations or groups of hills exquisitely dressed in the soft purple of the heather, amid which gleam the lakes, like eyes that tell the secrets of the earth and drink in those of the heavens. peak beyond peak caught from the shifting light all the colors of the prism, and on the farthest, angel companies seemed hovering in their glorious white robes. words are idle on such subjects; what can i say, but that it was a noble vision, that satisfied the eye and stirred the imagination in all its secret pulses? had that been, as afterward seemed likely, the last act of my life, there could not have been a finer decoration painted on the curtain which was to drop upon it. about four o'clock we began our descent. near the summit the traces of the path are not distinct, and i said to mr. s., after a while, that we had lost it. he said, he thought that was of no consequence, we could find oar way down. i thought however it was, as the ground was full of springs that were bridged over in the pathway. he accordingly went to look for it, and i stood still because so tired that i did not like to waste any labor. soon he called to me that he had found it, and i followed in the direction where he seemed to be. but i mistook, overshot it, and saw him no more. in about ten minutes i became alarmed, and called him many times. it seems he on his side did the same, but the brow of some hill was between us, and we neither saw nor heard one another. i then thought i would make the best of my way down, and i should find him upon my arrival. but in doing so i found the justice of my apprehension about the springs, as, so soon as i got to the foot of the hills, i would sink up to my knees in bog, and have to go up the hills again, seeking better crossing-places. thus i lost much time; nevertheless, in the twilight i saw at last the lake and the inn of rowardennan on its shore. between me and it lay direct a high heathery hill, which i afterward found is called "the tongue," because hemmed in on three sides by a watercourse. it looked as if, could i only get to the bottom of that, i should be on comparatively level ground. i then attempted to descend in the watercourse, but, finding that impracticable, climbed on the hill again and let myself down by the heather, for it was very steep and full of deep holes. with great fatigue i got to the bottom, but when about to cross the watercourse there, it looked so deep in the dim twilight that i felt afraid. i got down as far as i could by the root of a tree, and threw down a stone; it sounded very hollow, and made me afraid to jump. the shepherds told me afterward, if i had, i should probably have killed myself, it was so deep and the bed of the torrent full of sharp stones. i then tried to ascend the hill again, for there was no other way to get off it, but soon sunk down utterly exhausted. when able to get up again and look about me, it was completely dark. i saw far below me a light, that looked about as big as a pin's head, which i knew to be from the inn at rowardennan, but heard no sound except the rush of the waterfall, and the sighing of the night-wind. for the first few minutes after i perceived i had got to my night's lodging, such as it was, the prospect seemed appalling. i was very lightly clad,--my feet and dress were very wet,--i had only a little shawl to throw round me, and a cold autumn wind had already come, and the night-mist was to fall on me, all fevered and exhausted as i was. i thought i should not live through the night, or, if i did, live always a miserable invalid. there was no chance to keep myself warm by walking, for, now it was dark, it would be too dangerous to stir. my only chance, however, lay in motion, and my only help in myself, and so convinced was i of this, that i did keep in motion the whole of that long night, imprisoned as i was on such a little perch of that great mountain. _how_ long it seemed under such circumstances only those can guess who may have been similarly circumstanced. the mental experience of the time, most precious and profound,--for it was indeed a season lonely, dangerous, and helpless enough for the birth of thoughts beyond what the common sunlight will ever call to being,--may be told in another place and time. for about two hours i saw the stars, and very cheery and companionable they looked; but then the mist fell, and i saw nothing more, except such apparitions as visited ossian on the hill-side when he went out by night and struck the bosky shield and called to him the spirits of the heroes and the white-armed maids with their blue eyes of grief. to me, too, came those visionary shapes; floating slowly and gracefully, their white robes would unfurl from the great body of mist in which they had been engaged, and come upon me with a kiss pervasively cold as that of death. what they might have told me, who knows, if i had but resigned myself more passively to that cold, spirit-like breathing! at last the moon rose. i could not see her, but the silver light filled the mist. then i knew it was two o'clock, and that, having weathered out so much of the night, i might the rest; and the hours hardly seemed long to me more. it may give an idea of the extent of the mountain to say that, though i called every now and then with all my force, in case by chance some aid might be near, and though no less than twenty men with their dogs were looking for me, i never heard a sound except the rush of the waterfall and the sighing of the night-wind, and once or twice the startling of the grouse in the heather. it was sublime indeed,--a never-to-be-forgotten presentation of stern, serene realities. at last came the signs of day, the gradual clearing and breaking up; some faint sounds, from i know not what. the little flies, too, arose from their bed amid the purple heather, and bit me; truly they were very welcome to do so. but what was my disappointment to find the mist so thick, that i could see neither lake nor inn, nor anything to guide me. i had to go by guess, and, as it happened, my yankee method served me well. i ascended the hill, crossed the torrent in the waterfall, first drinking some of the water, which was as good at that time as ambrosia. i crossed in that place because the waterfall made steps, as it were, to the next hill; to be sure they were covered with water, but i was already entirely wet with the mist, so that it did not matter. i then kept on scrambling, as it happened, in the right direction, till, about seven, some of the shepherds found me. the moment they came, all my feverish strength departed, though, if unaided, i dare say it would have kept me up during the day; and they carried me home, where my arrival relieved my friends of distress far greater than i had undergone, for i had had my grand solitude, my ossianic visions, and the pleasure of sustaining myself while they had only doubt amounting to anguish and a fruitless search through the night. entirely contrary to my expectations, i only suffered for this a few days, and was able to take a parting look at my prison, as i went down the lake, with feelings of complacency. it was a majestic-looking hill, that tongue, with the deep ravines on either side, and the richest robe of heather i have seen anywhere. mr. s. gave all the men who were looking for me a dinner in the barn, and he and mrs. s. ministered to them, and they talked of burns, really the national writer, and known by them, apparently, as none other is, and of hair-breadth escapes by flood and fell. afterwards they were all brought up to see me, and it was pleasing indeed to observe the good breeding and good, feeling with which they deported themselves on the occasion. indeed, this adventure created quite an intimate feeling between us and the people there. i had been much pleased, with them before, in attending one of their dances, on account of the genuine independence and politeness of their conduct. they were willing and pleased to dance their highland flings and strathspeys for our amusement, and did it as naturally and as freely as they would have offered the stranger the best chair. all the rest must wait a while. i cannot economize time to keep up my record in any proportion with what happens, nor can i get out of scotland on this page, as i had intended, without utterly slighting many gifts and graces. letter vi. inverary.--the argyle family.--dumbarton.--sunset on the clyde.--glasgow.--dirt and intellect.--stirling.--"the scottish chiefs."--stirling castle.--the tournament ground.--edinburgh.--james simpson.--infant schools.--free baths.--melrose.--abbotsford.--walter scott.--dryburgh abbey.--scott's tomb. paris, november, . i am very sorry to leave such a wide gap between my letters, but i was inevitably prevented from finishing one that was begun for the steamer of the th of november. i then hoped to prepare one after my arrival here in time for the hibernia, but a severe cold, caught on the way, unfitted me for writing. it is now necessary to retrace my steps a long way, or lose sight of several things it has seemed desirable to mention to friends in america, though i shall make out my narrative more briefly than if nearer the time of action. if i mistake not, my last closed just as i was looking back on the hill where i had passed the night in all the miserable chill and amid the ghostly apparitions of a scotch mist, but which looked in the morning truly beautiful, and (had i not known it too well to be deceived) alluring, in its mantle of rich pink heath, the tallest and most full of blossoms we anywhere saw, and with, the waterfall making music by its side, and sparkling in the morning sun. passing from tarbet, we entered the grand and beautiful pass of glencoe,--sublime with purple shadows with bright lights between, and in one place showing an exquisitely silent and lonely little lake. the wildness of the scene was heightened by the black highland cattle feeding here and there. they looked much at home, too, in the park at inverary, where i saw them next day. in inverary i was disappointed. i found, indeed, the position of every object the same as indicated in the "legend of montrose," but the expression of the whole seemed unlike what i had fancied. the present abode of the argyle family is a modern structure, and boasts very few vestiges of the old romantic history attached to the name. the park and look-out upon the lake are beautiful, but except from the brief pleasure derived from these, the old cross from iona that stands in the market-place, and the drone of the bagpipe which lulled me to sleep at night playing some melancholy air, there was nothing to make me feel that it was "a far cry to lochawe," but, on the contrary, i seemed in the very midst of the prosaic, the civilized world. leaving inverary, we left that day the highlands too, passing through. hell glen, a very wild and grand defile. taking boat then on loch levy, we passed down the clyde, stopping an hour or two on our way at dumbarton. nature herself foresaw the era of picture when she made and placed this rock: there is every preparation for the artist's stealing a little piece from her treasures to hang on the walls of a room. here i saw the sword of "wallace wight," shown by a son of the nineteenth century, who said that this hero lived about fifty years ago, and who did not know the height of this rock, in a cranny of which he lived, or at least ate and slept and "donned his clothes." from the top of the rock i saw sunset on the beautiful clyde, animated that day by an endless procession of steamers, little skiffs, and boats. in one of the former, the cardiff castle, we embarked as the last light of day was fading, and that evening found ourselves in glasgow. i understand there is an intellectual society of high merit in glasgow, but we were there only a few hours, and did not see any one. certainly the place, as it may be judged of merely from the general aspect of the population and such objects as may be seen in the streets, more resembles an _inferno_ than any other we have yet visited. the people are more crowded together, and the stamp of squalid, stolid misery and degradation more obvious and appalling. the english and scotch do not take kindly to poverty, like those of sunnier climes; it makes them fierce or stupid, and, life presenting no other cheap pleasure, they take refuge in drinking. i saw here in glasgow persons, especially women, dressed in dirty, wretched tatters, worse than none, and with an expression of listless, unexpecting woe upon their faces, far more tragic than the inscription over the gate of dante's _inferno_. to one species of misery suffered here to the last extent, i shall advert in speaking of london. but from all these sorrowful tokens i by no means inferred the falsehood of the information, that here was to be found a circle rich in intellect and in aspiration. the manufacturing and commercial towns, burning focuses of grief and vice, are also the centres of intellectual life, as in forcing-beds the rarest flowers and fruits are developed by use of impure and repulsive materials. where evil comes to an extreme, heaven seems busy in providing means for the remedy. glaring throughout scotland and england is the necessity for the devoutest application of intellect and love to the cure of ills that cry aloud, and, without such application, erelong help _must_ be sought by other means than words. yet there is every reason to hope that those who ought to help are seriously, though, slowly, becoming alive to the imperative nature of this duty; so we must not cease to hope, even in the streets of glasgow, and the gin-palaces of manchester, and the dreariest recesses of london. from glasgow we passed to stirling, like dumbarton endeared to the mind which cherishes the memory of its childhood more by association with miss porter's scottish chiefs, than with "snowdon's knight and scotland's king." we reached the town too late to see the castle before the next morning, and i took up at the inn "the scottish chiefs," in which i had not read a word since ten or twelve years old. we are in the habit now of laughing when this book is named, as if it were a representative of what is most absurdly stilted or bombastic, but now, in reading, my maturer mind was differently impressed from what i expected, and the infatuation with which childhood and early youth regard this book and its companion, "thaddeus of warsaw," was justified. the characters and dialogue are, indeed, out of nature, but the sentiment that animates them is pure, true, and no less healthy than noble. here is bad drawing, bad drama, but good music, to which the unspoiled heart will always echo, even when the intellect has learned to demand a better organ for its communication. the castle of stirling is as rich as any place in romantic associations. we were shown its dungeons and its court of lions, where, says tradition, wild animals, kept in the grated cells adjacent, were brought out on festival occasions to furnish entertainment for the court. so, while lords and ladies gay danced and sang above, prisoners pined and wild beasts starved below. this, at first blush, looks like a very barbarous state of things, but, on reflection, one does not find that we have outgrown it in our present so-called state of refined civilization, only the present way of expressing the same facts is a little different. still lords and ladies dance and sing, unknowing or uncaring that the laborers who minister to their luxuries starve or are turned into wild beasts. man need not boast his condition, methinks, till he can weave his costly tapestry without the side that is kept under looking thus sadly. the tournament ground is still kept green and in beautiful order, near stirling castle, as a memento of the olden time, and as we passed away down the beautiful firth, a turn of the river gave us a very advantageous view of it. so gay it looked, so festive in the bright sunshine, one almost seemed to see the graceful forms of knight and noble pricking their good steeds to the encounter, or the stalwart douglas, vindicating his claim to be indeed a chief by conquest in the rougher sports of the yeomanry. passing along the firth to edinburgh, we again passed two or three days in that beautiful city, which i could not be content to leave so imperfectly seen, if i had not some hope of revisiting it when the bright lights that adorn it are concentred there. in summer almost every one is absent. i was very fortunate to see as many interesting persons as i did. on this second visit i saw james simpson, a well-known philanthropist, and leader in the cause of popular education. infant schools have been an especial care of his, and america as well as scotland has received the benefit of his thoughts on this subject. his last good work has been to induce the erection of public baths in edinburgh, and the working people of that place, already deeply in his debt for the lectures he has been unwearied in delivering for their benefit, have signified their gratitude by presenting him with a beautiful model of a fountain in silver as an ornament to his study. never was there a place where such a measure would be more important; if cleanliness be akin to godliness, edinburgh stands at great disadvantage in her devotions. the impure air, the terrific dirt which surround the working people, must make all progress in higher culture impossible; and i saw nothing which seemed to me so likely to have results of incalculable good, as this practical measure of the simpsons in support of the precept, "wash and be clean every whit." we returned into england by the way of melrose, not content to leave scotland without making our pilgrimage to abbotsford. the universal feeling, however, has made this pilgrimage so common that there is nothing left for me to say; yet, though i had read a hundred descriptions, everything seemed new as i went over this epitome of the mind and life of scott. as what constitutes the great man is more commonly some extraordinary combination and balance of qualities, than the highest development of any one, so you cannot but here be struck anew by the singular combination in scott's mind of love for the picturesque and romantic with the plainest common sense,--a delight in heroic excess with the prudential habit of order. here the most pleasing order pervades emblems of what men commonly esteem disorder and excess. amid the exquisite beauty of the ruins of dryburgh, i saw with regret that scott's body rests in almost the only spot that is not green, and cannot well be made so, for the light does not reach it. that is not a fit couch for him who dressed so many dim and time-worn relics with living green. always cheerful and beneficent, scott seemed to the common eye in like measure prosperous and happy, up to the last years, and the chair in which, under the pressure of the sorrows which led to his death, he was propped up to write when brain and eye and hand refused their aid, the product remaining only as a guide to the speculator as to the workings of the mind in case of insanity or approaching imbecility, would by most persons be viewed as the only saddening relic of his career. yet when i recall some passages in the lady of the lake, and the address to his harp, i cannot doubt that scott had the full share of bitter in his cup, and feel the tender hope that we do about other gentle and generous guardians and benefactors of our youth, that in a nobler career they are now fulfilling still higher duties with serener mind. doubtless too they are trusting in us that we will try to fill their places with kindly deeds, ardent thoughts, nor leave the world, in their absence, "a dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate." letter vii. newcastle.--descent into a coal-mine.--york with its minster.-- sheffield.--chatsworth.--warwick castle.--leamington and stratford.--shakespeare.--birmingham.--george dawson.--james martineau.--w.j. fox.--w.h. charming and theodore parker.--london and paris. paris, . we crossed the moorland in a heavy rain, and reached newcastle late at night. next day we descended into a coal-mine; it was quite an odd sensation to be taken off one's feet and dropped down into darkness by the bucket. the stables under ground had a pleasant gil-blas air, though the poor horses cannot like it much; generally they see the light of day no more after they have once been let down into these gloomy recesses, but pass their days in dragging cars along the rails of the narrow passages, and their nights in eating hay and dreaming of grass!! when we went down, we meant to go along the gallery to the place where the miners were then at work, but found this was a walk of a mile and a half, and, beside the weariness of picking one's steps slowly along by the light of a tallow candle, too wet and dirty an enterprise to be undertaken by way of amusement; so, after proceeding half a mile or so, we begged to be restored to our accustomed level, and reached it with minds slightly edified and face and hands much blackened. passing thence we saw york with its minster, that dream of beauty realized. from, its roof i saw two rainbows, overarching that lovely country. through its aisles i heard grand music pealing. but how sorrowfully bare is the interior of such a cathedral, despoiled of the statues, the paintings, and the garlands that belong to the catholic religion! the eye aches for them. such a church is ruined by protestantism; its admirable exterior seems that of a sepulchre; there is no correspondent life within. within the citadel, a tower half ruined and ivy-clad, is life that has been growing up while the exterior bulwarks of the old feudal time crumbled to ruin. george fox, while a prisoner at york for obedience to the dictates of his conscience, planted here a walnut, and the tall tree that grew from it still "bears testimony" to his living presence on that spot. the tree is old, but still bears nuts; one of them was taken away by my companions, and may perhaps be the parent of a tree somewhere in america, that shall shade those who inherit the spirit, if they do not attach importance to the etiquettes, of quakerism. in sheffield i saw the sooty servitors tending their furnaces. i saw them, also on saturday night, after their work was done, going to receive its poor wages, looking pallid and dull, as if they had spent on tempering the steel that vital force that should have tempered themselves to manhood. we saw, also, chatsworth, with its park and mock wilderness, and immense conservatory, and really splendid fountains and wealth of marbles. it is a fine expression of modern luxury and splendor, but did not interest me; i found little there of true beauty or grandeur. warwick castle is a place entirely to my mind, a real representative of the english aristocracy in the day of its nobler life. the grandeur of the pile itself, and its beauty of position, introduce you fitly to the noble company with which the genius of vandyke has peopled its walls. but a short time was allowed to look upon these nobles, warriors, statesmen, and ladies, who gaze upon us in turn with such a majesty of historic association, yet was i very well satisfied. it is not difficult to see men through the eyes of vandyke. his way of viewing character seems superficial, though commanding; he sees the man in his action on the crowd, not in his hidden life; he does not, like some painters, amaze and engross us by his revelations as to the secret springs of conduct. i know not by what hallucination i forebore to look at the picture i most desired to see,--that of lucy, countess of carlisle. i was looking at something else, and when the fat, pompous butler announced her, i did not recognize her name from his mouth. afterward it flashed across me, that i had really been standing before her and forgotten to look. but repentance was too late; i had passed the castle gate to return no more. pretty leamington and stratford are hackneyed ground. of the latter i only observed what, if i knew, i had forgotten, that the room where shakespeare was born has been an object of devotion only for forty years. england has learned much of her appreciation of shakespeare from the germans. in the days of innocence, i fondly supposed that every one who could understand english, and was not a cannibal, adored shakespeare and read him on sundays always for an hour or more, and on week days a considerable portion of the time. but i have lived to know some hundreds of persons in my native land, without finding ten who had any direct acquaintance with their greatest benefactor, and i dare say in england as large an experience would not end more honorably to its subjects. so vast a treasure is left untouched, while men are complaining of being poor, because they have not toothpicks exactly to their mind. at stratford i handled, too, the poker used to such good purpose by geoffrey crayon. the muse had fled, the fire was out, and the poker rusty, yet a pleasant influence lingered even in that cold little room, and seemed to lend a transient glow to the poker under the influence of sympathy. in birmingham i heard two discourses from one of the rising lights of england, george dawson, a young man of whom i had earlier heard much in praise. he is a friend of the people, in the sense of brotherhood, not of a social convenience or patronage; in literature catholic; in matters of religion antisectarian, seeking truth in aspiration and love. he is eloquent, with good method in his discourse, fire and dignity when wanted, with a frequent homeliness in enforcement and illustration which offends the etiquettes of england, but fits him the better for the class he has to address. his powers are uncommon and unfettered in their play; his aim is worthy. he is fulfilling and will fulfil an important task as an educator of the people, if all be not marred by a taint of self-love and arrogance now obvious in his discourse. this taint is not surprising in one so young, who has done so much, and in order to do it has been compelled to great self-confidence and light heed of the authority of other minds, and who is surrounded almost exclusively by admirers; neither is it, at present, a large speck; it may be quite purged from him by the influence of nobler motives and the rise of his ideal standard; but, on the other hand, should it spread, all must be vitiated. let us hope the best, for he is one that could ill be spared from the band who have taken up the cause of progress in england. in this connection i may as well speak of james martineau, whom i heard in liverpool, and w.j. fox, whom i heard in london. mr. martineau looks like the over-intellectual, the partially developed man, and his speech confirms this impression. he is sometimes conservative, sometimes reformer, not in the sense of eclecticism, but because his powers and views do not find a true harmony. on the conservative side he is scholarly, acute,--on the other, pathetic, pictorial, generous. he is no prophet and no sage, yet a man full of fine affections and thoughts, always suggestive, sometimes satisfactory; he is well adapted to the wants of that class, a large one in the present day, who love the new wine, but do not feel that they can afford to throw away _all_ their old bottles. mr. fox is the reverse of all this: he is homogeneous in his materials and harmonious in the results he produces. he has great persuasive power; it is the persuasive power of a mind warmly engaged in seeking truth for itself. he sometimes carries homeward convictions with great energy, driving in the thought as with golden nails. a glow of kindly human sympathy enlivens his argument, and the whole presents thought in a well-proportioned, animated body. but i am told he is far superior in speech on political or social problems, than on such as i heard him discuss. i was reminded, in hearing all three, of men similarly engaged in our country, w.h. charming and theodore parker. none of them compare in the symmetrical arrangement of extempore discourse, or in pure eloquence and communication of spiritual beauty, with charming, nor in fulness and sustained flow with parker, but, in power of practical and homely adaptation of their thought to common wants, they are superior to the former, and all have more variety, finer perceptions, and are more powerful in single passages, than parker. and now my pen has run to st october, and still i have such notabilities as fell to my lot to observe while in london, and these that are thronging upon me here in paris to record for you. i am sadly in arrears, but 't is comfort to think that such meats as i have to serve up are as good cold as hot. at any rate, it is just impossible to do any better, and i shall comfort myself, as often before, with the triplet which i heard in childhood from a sage (if only sages wear wigs!):-- "as said the great prince fernando, what _can_ a man do, more than he can do?" letter viii. recollections of london.--the english gentleman.--london climate.--out of season.--luxury and misery.--a difficult problem.--terrors of poverty.--joanna baillie and madame roland.--hampstead.--miss berry.--female artists.--margaret gillies.--the people's journal.--the times.--the howitts.--south wood smith.--houses for the poor.--skeleton of jeremy bentham.--cooper the poet.--thom. paris, december, . i sit down here in paris to narrate some recollections of london. the distance in space and time is not great, yet i seem in wholly a different world. here in the region of wax-lights, mirrors, bright wood fires, shrugs, vivacious ejaculations, wreathed smiles, and adroit courtesies, it is hard to remember john bull, with his coal-smoke, hands in pockets, except when extended for ungracious demand of the perpetual half-crown, or to pay for the all but perpetual mug of beer. john, seen on that side, is certainly the most churlish of clowns, and the most clownish of churls. but then there are so many other sides! when a gentleman, he is so truly the gentleman, when a man, so truly the man of honor! his graces, when he has any, grow up from his inmost heart. not that he is free from humbug; on the contrary, he is prone to the most solemn humbug, generally of the philanthrophic or otherwise moral kind. but he is always awkward beneath the mask, and can never impose upon anybody--but himself. nature meant him to be noble, generous, sincere, and has furnished him with no faculties to make himself agreeable in any other way or mode of being. 'tis not so with your frenchman, who can cheat you pleasantly, and move with grace in the devious and slippery path. you would be almost sorry to see him quite disinterested and straightforward, so much of agreeable talent and naughty wit would thus lie hid for want of use. but john, o john, we must admire, esteem, or be disgusted with thee. as to climate, there is not much to choose at this time of year. in london, for six weeks, we never saw the sun for coal-smoke and fog. in paris we have not been blessed with its cheering rays above three or four days in the same length of time, and are, beside, tormented with an oily and tenacious mud beneath the feet, which makes it almost impossible to walk. this year, indeed, is an uncommonly severe one at paris; but then, if they have their share of dark, cold days, it must be admitted that they do all they can to enliven them. but to dwell first on london,--london, in itself a world. we arrived at a time which the well-bred englishman considers as no time at all,--quite out of "the season," when parliament is in session, and london thronged with the equipages of her aristocracy, her titled wealthy nobles. i was listened to with a smile of contempt when i declared that the stock shows of london would yield me amusement and employment more than sufficient for the time i had to stay. but i found that, with my way of viewing things, it would be to me an inexhaustible studio, and that, if life were only long enough, i would live there for years obscure in some corner, from which i could issue forth day by day to watch unobserved the vast stream of life, or to decipher the hieroglyphics which ages have been inscribing on the walls of this vast palace (i may not call it a temple), which human effort has reared for means, not yet used efficaciously, of human culture. and though i wish to return to london in "the season," when that city is an adequate representative of the state of things in england, i am glad i did not at first see all that pomp and parade of wealth and luxury in contrast with the misery, squalid, agonizing, ruffianly, which stares one in the face in every street of london, and hoots at the gates of her palaces more ominous a note than ever was that of owl or raven in the portentous times when empires and races have crumbled and fallen from inward decay. it is impossible, however, to take a near view of the treasures created by english genius, accumulated by english industry, without a prayer, daily more fervent, that the needful changes in the condition of this people may be effected by peaceful revolution, which shall destroy nothing except the shocking inhumanity of exclusiveness, which now prevents their being used, for the benefit of all. may their present possessors look to it in time! a few already are earnest in a good spirit. for myself, much as i pitied the poor, abandoned, hopeless wretches that swarm in the roads and streets of england, i pity far more the english noble, with this difficult problem before him, and such need of a speedy solution. sad is his life, if a conscientious man; sadder still, if not. poverty in england has terrors of which i never dreamed at home. i felt that it would be terrible to be poor there, but far more so to be the possessor of that for which so many thousands are perishing. and the middle class, too, cannot here enjoy that serenity which the sages have described as naturally their peculiar blessing. too close, too dark throng the evils they cannot obviate, the sorrows they cannot relieve. to a man of good heart, each day must bring purgatory which he knows not how to bear, yet to which he fears to become insensible. from these clouds of the present, it is pleasant to turn the thoughts to some objects which have cast a light upon the past, and which, by the virtue of their very nature, prescribe hope for the future. i have mentioned with satisfaction seeing some persons who illustrated the past dynasty in the progress of thought here: wordsworth, dr. chalmers, de quincey, andrew combe. with a still higher pleasure, because to one of my own sex, whom i have honored almost above any, i went to pay my court to joanna baillie. i found on her brow, not indeed a coronal of gold, but a serenity and strength undimmed and unbroken by the weight of more than fourscore years, or by the scanty appreciation which her thoughts have received. i prize joanna baillie and madame roland as the best specimens which have been hitherto offered of women of a roman strength and singleness of mind, adorned by the various culture and capable of the various action opened to them by the progress of the christian idea. they are not sentimental; they do not sigh and write of withered flowers of fond affection, and woman's heart born to be misunderstood by the object or objects of her fond, inevitable choice. love (the passion), when spoken of at all by them, seems a thing noble, religious, worthy to be felt. they do not write of it always; they did not think of it always; they saw other things in this great, rich, suffering world. in superior delicacy of touch, they show the woman, but the hand is firm; nor was all their speech, one continued utterance of mere personal experience. it contained things which are good, intellectually, universally. i regret that the writings of joanna baillie are not more known in the united states. the plays on the passions are faulty in their plan,--all attempts at comic, even at truly dramatic effect, fail; but there are masterly sketches of character, vigorous expressions of wise thought, deep, fervent ejaculations of an aspiring soul! we found her in her little calm retreat at hampstead, surrounded by marks of love and reverence from distinguished and excellent friends. near her was the sister, older than herself, yet still sprightly and full of active kindness, whose character and their mutual relation she has, in one of her last poems, indicated with such a happy mixture of sagacity, humor, and tender pathos, and with so absolute a truth of outline. although no autograph collector, i asked for theirs, and when the elder gave hers as "sister to joanna baillie," it drew a tear from my eye,--a good tear, a genuine pearl,--fit homage to that fairest product of the soul of man, humble, disinterested tenderness. hampstead has still a good deal of romantic beauty. i was told it was the favorite sketching-ground of london artists, till the railroads gave them easy means of spending a few hours to advantage farther off. but, indeed, there is a wonderful deal of natural beauty lying in untouched sweetness near london. near one of our cities it would all have been grabbed up the first thing. but we, too, are beginning to grow wiser. at richmond i went to see another lady of more than threescore years' celebrity, more than fourscore in age, miss berry the friend of horace walpole, and for her charms of manner and conversation long and still a reigning power. she has still the vivacity, the careless nature, or refined art, that made her please so much in earlier days,--still is girlish, and gracefully so. verily, with her was no sign of labor or sorrow. from the older turning to the young, i must speak with pleasure of several girls i know in london, who are devoting themselves to painting as a profession. they have really wise and worthy views of the artist's avocation; if they remain true to them, they will enjoy a free, serene existence, unprofaned by undue care or sentimental sorrow. among these, margaret gillies has attained some celebrity; she may be known to some in america by engravings in the "people's journal" from her pictures; but, if i remember right, these are coarse things, and give no just notion of her pictures, which are distinguished for elegance and refinement; a little mannerized, but she is improving in that respect. the "people's journal" comes nearer being a fair sign of the times than any other publication of england, apparently, if we except punch. as for the times, on which you all use your scissors so industriously, it is managed with vast ability, no doubt, but the blood would tingle many a time to the fingers' ends of the body politic, before that solemn organ which claims to represent the heart would dare to beat in unison. still it would require all the wise management of the times, or wisdom enough to do without it, and a wide range and diversity of talent, indeed, almost sweeping the circle, to make a people's journal for england. the present is only a bud of the future flower. mary and william howitt are its main support. i saw them several times at their cheerful and elegant home. in mary howitt i found the same engaging traits of character we are led to expect from her books for children. her husband is full of the same agreeable information, communicated in the same lively yet precise manner we find in his books; it was like talking with old friends, except that now the eloquence of the eye was added. at their house i became acquainted with dr. southwood smith, the well-known philanthropist. he is at present engaged on the construction of good tenements calculated to improve the condition of the working people. his plans look promising, and should they succeed, you shall have a detailed account of them. on visiting him, we saw an object which i had often heard celebrated, and had thought would be revolting, but found, on the contrary, an agreeable sight; this is the skeleton of jeremy bentham. it was at bentham's request that the skeleton, dressed in the same dress he habitually wore, stuffed out to an exact resemblance of life, and with a portrait mark in wax, the best i ever saw, sits there, as assistant to dr. smith in the entertainment of his guests and companion of his studies. the figure leans a little forward, resting the hands on a, stout stick which bentham always carried, and had named "dapple"; the attitude is quite easy, the expression of the whole quite mild, winning, yet highly individual. it is a pleasing mark of that unity of aim and tendency to be expected throughout the life of such a mind, that bentham, while quite a young man, had made a will, in which, to oppose in the most convincing manner the prejudice against dissection of the human subject, he had given his body after death to be used in service of the cause of science. "i have not yet been able," said the will, "to do much service to my fellow-men by my life, but perhaps i may in this manner by my death." many years after, reading a pamphlet by dr. smith on the same subject, he was much pleased with it, became his friend, and bequeathed his body to his care and use, with directions that the skeleton should finally be disposed of in the way i have described. the countenance of dr. smith has an expression of expansive, sweet, almost childlike goodness. miss gillies has made a charming picture of him, with a favorite little granddaughter nestling in his arms. another marked figure that i encountered on this great showboard was cooper, the author of "the purgatory of luicides," a very remarkable poem, of which, had there been leisure before my departure, i should have made a review, and given copious extracts in the tribune. cooper is as strong a man, and probably a milder one, than when in the prison where that poem was written. the earnestness in seeking freedom and happiness for all men, which drew upon him that penalty, seems unabated; he is a very significant type of the new era, and also an agent in bringing it near. one of the poets of the people, also, i saw,--the sweetest singer of them all,--thom. "a chieftain unknown to the queen" is again exacting a cruel tribute from him. i wish much that some of those of new york who have taken an interest in him would provide there a nook in which he might find refuge and solace for the evening of his days, to sing or to work as likes him best, and where he could bring up two fine boys to happier prospects than the parent land will afford them. could and would america but take from other lands more of the talent, as well as the bone and sinew, she would be rich. but the stroke of the clock warns me to stop now, and begin to-morrow with fresher eye and hand on some interesting topics. my sketches are slight; still they cannot be made without time, and i find none to be had in this europe except late at night. i believe it is what all the inhabitants use, but i am too sleepy a genius to carry the practice far. letter ix. writing at night.--london.--national gallery.--murillo.--the flower girl.--nursery-maids and working-men.--hampton court.--zoÃ�logical gardens.--king of animals.--english piety.--eagles.--sir john soane's museum.--kew gardens.--the great cactus.--the reform club house.--men cooks.--orderly kitchen.--a gilpin excursion.--the bell at edmonton.-- omnibus.--cheapside.--english slowness.--freiligrath.--arcadia.-- italian school.--mazzini.--italy.--italian refugees.--correggio.-- hope of italians.--addresses.--supper.--carlyle, his appearance, conversation, &c. again i must begin to write late in the evening. i am told it is the custom of the literati in these large cities to work in the night. it is easy to see that it must be almost impossible to do otherwise; yet not only is the practice very bad for the health, and one that brings on premature old age, but i cannot think this night-work will prove as firm in texture and as fair of hue as what is done by sunlight. give me a lonely chamber, a window from which through the foliage you can catch glimpses of a beautiful prospect, and the mind finds itself tuned to action. but london, london! i have yet some brief notes to make on london. we had scarcely any sunlight by which to see pictures, and i postponed all visits to private collections, except one, in the hope of being in england next time in the long summer days. in the national gallery i saw little except the murillos; they were so beautiful, that with me, who had no true conception of his kind of genius before, they took away the desire to look into anything else at the same time. they did not affect me much either, except with a sense of content in this genius, so rich and full and strong. it was a cup of sunny wine that refreshed but brought no intoxicating visions. there is something very noble in the genius of spain, there is such an intensity and singleness; it seems to me it has not half shown itself, and must have an important part to play yet in the drama of this planet. at the dulwich gallery i saw the flower girl of murillo, an enchanting picture, the memory of which must always "cast a light upon the day, a light that will not pass away, a sweet forewarning." who can despair when he thinks of a form like that, so full of life and bliss! nature, that made such human forms to match the butterfly and the bee on june mornings when the lime-trees are in blossom, has surely enough of happiness in store to satisfy us all, somewhere, some time. it was pleasant, indeed, to see the treasures of those galleries, of the british museum, and of so charming a place as hampton court, open to everybody. in the national gallery one finds a throng of nursery-maids, and men just come from their work; true, they make a great deal of noise thronging to and fro on the uncarpeted floors in their thick boots, and noise from which, when penetrated by the atmosphere of art, men in the thickest boots would know how to refrain; still i felt that the sight of such objects must be gradually doing them a great deal of good. the british museum would, in itself, be an education for a man who should go there once a week, and think and read at his leisure moments about what he saw. hampton court i saw in the gloom, and rain, and my chief recollections are of the magnificent yew-trees beneath whose shelter--the work of ages--i took refuge from the pelting shower. the expectations cherished from childhood about the cartoons were all baffled; there was no light by which they could be seen. but i must hope to visit hampton court again in the time of roses. the zoölogical gardens are another pleasure of the million, since, although something is paid there, it is so little that almost all can afford it. to me, it is a vast pleasure to see animals where they can show out their habits or instincts, and to see them assembled from, all climates and countries, amid verdure and with room enough, as they are here, is a true poem. they have a fine lion, the first i ever saw that realized the idea we have of the king of the animal world; but the groan and roar of this one were equally royal. the eagles were fine, but rather disgraced themselves. it is a trait of english piety, which would, no doubt, find its defenders among ourselves, not to feed the animals on sunday, that their keepers may have rest; at least this was the explanation given us by one of these men of the state of ravenous hunger in which we found them on the monday. i half hope he was jesting with us. certain it is that the eagles were wild with famine, and even the grandest of them, who had eyed us at first as if we were not fit to live in the same zone with him, when the meat came round, after a short struggle to maintain his dignity, joined in wild shriek and scramble with the rest. sir john soane's museum i visited, containing the sarcophagus described by dr. waagen, hogarth's pictures, a fine canaletto, and a manuscript of tasso. it fills the house once the residence of his body, still of his mind. it is not a mind with which i have sympathy; i found there no law of harmony, and it annoyed me to see things all jumbled together as if in an old curiosity-shop. nevertheless it was a generous bequest, and much may perhaps be found there of value to him who takes time to seek. the gardens at kew delighted me, thereabouts all was so green, and still one could indulge at leisure in the humorous and fantastic associations that cluster around the name of kew, like the curls of a "big wig" round the serene and sleepy face of its wearer. here are fourteen green-houses: in one you find all the palms; in another, the productions of the regions of snow; in another, those squibs and humorsome utterances of nature, the cactuses,--ay! there i saw the great-grandfather of all the cactuses, a hoary, solemn plant, declared to be a thousand years old, disdaining to say if it is not really much, older; in yet another, the most exquisitely minute plants, delicate as the tracery of frostwork, too delicate for the bowers of fairies, such at least as visit the gross brains of earthly poets. the reform club was the only one of those splendid establishments that i visited. certainly the force of comfort can no farther go, nor can anything be better contrived to make dressing, eating, news-getting, and even sleeping (for there are bedrooms as well as dressing-rooms for those who will), as comfortable as can be imagined. yet to me this palace of so many "single gentlemen rolled into one" seemed _stupidly_ comfortable, in the absence of that elegant arrangement and vivacious atmosphere which only women can inspire. in the kitchen, indeed, i met them, and on that account it seemed the pleasantest part of the building,--though even there they are but the servants of servants. there reigned supreme a genius in his way, who has published a work on cookery, and around him his pupils,--young men who pay a handsome yearly fee for novitiate under his instruction. i was not sorry, however, to see men predominant in the cooking department, as i hope to see that and washing transferred to their care in the progress of things, since they are "the stronger sex." the arrangements of this kitchen were very fine, combining great convenience with neatness, and even elegance. fourier himself might have taken pleasure in them. thence we passed into the private apartments of the artist, and found them full of pictures by his wife, an artist in another walk. one or two of them had been engraved. _she_ was an englishwoman. a whimsical little excursion we made on occasion of the anniversary of the wedding-day of two of my friends. they had often enjoyed reading the account of john gilpin's in america, and now thought that, as they were in england and near enough, they would celebrate theirs also at "the bell at edmonton." i accompanied them with "a little foot-page," to eke out the train, pretty and graceful and playful enough for the train of a princess. but our excursion turned out somewhat of a failure, in an opposite way to gilpin's. whereas he went too fast, we went too slow. first we took coach and went through cheapside to take omnibus at (strange misnomer!) the flower-pot. but gilpin could never have had his race through cheapside as it is in its present crowded state; we were obliged to proceed at a funeral pace. we missed the omnibus, and when we took the next one it went with the slowness of a "family horse" in the old chaise of a new england deacon, and, after all, only took us half-way. at the half-way house a carriage was to be sought. the lady who let it, and all her grooms, were to be allowed time to recover from their consternation at so unusual a move as strangers taking a carriage to dine at the little inn at edmonton, now a mere alehouse, before we could be allowed to proceed. the english stand lost in amaze at "yankee notions," with their quick come and go, and it is impossible to make them "go ahead" in the zigzag chain-lightning path, unless you push them. a rather old part of the plan had been a pilgrimage to the grave of lamb, with a collateral view to the rural beauties of edmonton, but night had fallen on all such hopes two hours at least before we reached the bell. _there_, indeed, we found them somewhat more alert to comprehend our wishes; they laughed when we spoke of gilpin, showed us a print of the race and the window where mrs. gilpin must have stood,--balcony, alas! there was none; allowed us to make our own fire, and provided us a wedding dinner of tough meat and stale bread. nevertheless we danced, dined, paid (i believe), and celebrated the wedding quite to our satisfaction, though in the space of half an hour, as we knew friends were even at that moment expecting us to _tea_ at some miles' distance. but it is always pleasant in this world of routine to act out a freak. "such a one," said an english gentleman, "one of _us_ would rarely have dreamed of, much, less acted." "why, was it not pleasant?" "oh, _very_! but _so_ out of the way!" returning, we passed the house where freiligrath finds a temporary home, earning the bread, of himself and his family in a commercial house. england houses the exile, but not without house-tax, window-tax, and head-tax. where is the arcadia that dares invite all genius to her arms, and change her golden wheat for their green laurels and immortal flowers? arcadia?--would the name were america! and now returns naturally to my mind one of the most interesting things i have seen here or elsewhere,--the school for poor italian boys, sustained and taught by a few of their exiled compatriots, and especially by the mind and efforts of mazzini. the name of joseph mazzini is well known to those among us who take an interest in the cause of human freedom, who, not content with the peace and ease bought for themselves by the devotion and sacrifices of their fathers, look with anxious interest on the suffering nations who are preparing for a similar struggle. those who are not, like the brutes that perish, content with the enjoyment of mere national advantages, indifferent to the idea they represent, cannot forget that the human family is one, "and beats with one great heart." they know that there can be no genuine happiness, no salvation for any, unless the same can be secured for all. to this universal interest in all nations and places where man, understanding his inheritance, strives to throw off an arbitrary rule and establish a state of things where he shall be governed as becomes a man, by his own conscience and intelligence,--where he may speak the truth as it rises in his mind, and indulge his natural emotions in purity,--is added an especial interest in italy, the mother of our language and our laws, our greatest benefactress in the gifts of genius, the garden of the world, in which our best thoughts have delighted to expatiate, but over whose bowers now hangs a perpetual veil of sadness, and whose noblest plants are doomed to removal,--for, if they cannot bear their ripe and perfect fruit in another climate, they are not permitted to lift their heads to heaven in their own. some of these generous refugees our country has received kindly, if not with a fervent kindness; and the word _correggio_ is still in my ears as i heard it spoken in new york by one whose heart long oppression could not paralyze. _speranza_ some of the italian youth now inscribe on their banners, encouraged by some traits of apparent promise in the new pope. however, their only true hope is in themselves, in their own courage, and in that wisdom winch may only be learned through many disappointments as to how to employ it so that it may destroy tyranny, not themselves. mazzini, one of these noble refugees, is not only one of the heroic, the courageous, and the faithful,--italy boasts many such,--but he is also one of the wise;--one of those who, disappointed in the outward results of their undertakings, can yet "bate no jot of heart and hope," but _must_ "steer right onward "; for it was no superficial enthusiasm, no impatient energies, that impelled him, but an understanding of what _must_ be the designs of heaven with regard to man, since god is love, is justice. he is one who can live fervently, but steadily, gently, every day, every hour, as well as on great, occasions, cheered by the light of hope; for, with schiller, he is sure that "those who live for their faith shall behold it living." he is one of those same beings who, measuring all things by the ideal standard, have yet no time to mourn over failure or imperfection; there is too much to be done to obviate it. thus mazzini, excluded from publication in his native language, has acquired the mastery both of french and english, and through his expressions in either shine the thoughts which animated his earlier effort with mild and steady radiance. the misfortunes of his country have only widened the sphere of his instructions, and made him an exponent of the better era to europe at large. those who wish to form an idea of his mind could not do better than to read his sketches of the italian martyrs in the "people's journal." they will find there, on one of the most difficult occasions, an ardent friend speaking of his martyred friends with, the purity of impulse, warmth of sympathy, largeness and steadiness of view, and fineness of discrimination which must belong to a legislator for a christian commonwealth. but though i have read these expressions with great delight, this school was one to me still more forcible of the same ideas. here these poor boys, picked up from the streets, are redeemed from bondage and gross ignorance by the most patient and constant devotion of time and effort. what love and sincerity this demands from minds capable of great thoughts, large plans, and rapid progress, only their peers can comprehend, yet exceeding great shall he the reward; and as among the fishermen, and poor people of judæa were picked up those who have become to modern europe a leaven that leavens the whole mass, so may these poor italian boys yet become more efficacious as missionaries to their people than would an orphic poet at this period. these youths have very commonly good faces, and eyes from which that italian fire that has done so much to warm the world glows out. we saw the distribution of prizes to the school, heard addresses from mazzini, pistracci, mariotti (once a resident in our country), and an english gentleman who takes a great interest in the work, and then adjourned to an adjacent room, where a supper was provided for the boys and other guests, among whom we saw some of the exiled poles. the whole evening gave a true and deep pleasure, though tinged with sadness. we saw a planting of the kingdom of heaven, though now no larger than a grain of mustard-seed, and though perhaps none of those who watch the spot may live to see the birds singing in its branches. i have not yet spoken of one of _our_ benefactors, mr. carlyle, whom i saw several times. i approached him with more reverence after a little experience of england and scotland had taught me to appreciate the strength and height of that wall of shams and conventions which he more than any man, or thousand men,--indeed, he almost alone,--has begun to throw down. wherever there was fresh thought, generous hope, the thought of carlyle has begun the work. he has torn off the veils from hideous facts; he has burnt away foolish illusions; he has awakened thousands to know what it is to be a man,--that we must live, and not merely pretend to others that we live. he has touched the rocks and they have given forth musical answer; little more was wanting to begin to construct the city. but that little was wanting, and the work of construction is left to those that come after him: nay, all attempts of the kind he is the readiest to deride, fearing new shams worse than the old, unable to trust the general action of a thought, and finding no heroic man, no natural king, to represent it and challenge his confidence. accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his writings, his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely to be faced with steady eyes. he does not converse,--only harangues. it is the usual misfortune of such marked men (happily not one invariable or inevitable) that they cannot allow other minds room to breathe and show themselves in their atmosphere, and thus miss the refreshment and instruction, which the greatest never cease to need from the experience of the humblest. carlyle allows no one a chance, but bears down all opposition, not only by his wit and onset of words, resistless in their sharpness as so many bayonets, but by actual physical superiority, raising his voice and rushing on his opponent with a torrent of sound. this is not the least from unwillingness to allow freedom to others; on the contrary, no man would more enjoy a manly resistance to his thought; but it is the impulse of a mind accustomed to follow out its own impulse as the hawk its prey, and which knows not how to stop in the chase. carlyle, indeed, is arrogant and overbearing, but in his arrogance there is no littleness or self-love: it is the heroic arrogance of some old scandinavian conqueror,--it is his nature and the untamable impulse that has given him power to crush the dragons. you do not love him, perhaps, nor revere, and perhaps, also, he would only laugh at you if you did; but you like him heartily, and like to see him the powerful smith, the siegfried, melting all the old iron in his furnace till it glows to a sunset red, and burns you if you senselessly go too near. he seemed to me quite isolated, lonely as the desert; yet never was man more fitted to prize a man, could he find one to match his mood. he finds such, but only in the past. he sings rather than talks. he pours upon you a kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular cadences, and generally catching up near the beginning some singular epithet, which, serves as a _refrain_ when his song is full, or with which as with a knitting-needle he catches up the stitches if he has chanced now and then to let fall a row. for the higher kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk on that subject is delightfully and gorgeously absurd; he sometimes stops a minute to laugh at it himself, then begins anew with fresh vigor; for all the spirits he is driving before him seem to him as fata morganas, ugly masks, in fact, if he can but make them turn about, but he laughs that they seem to others such dainty ariels. he puts out his chin sometimes till it looks like the beak of a bird, and his eyes flash bright instinctive meanings like jove's bird; yet he is not calm and grand enough for the eagle: he is more like the falcon, and yet not of gentle blood enough for that either. he is not exactly like anything but himself, and therefore you cannot see him without the most hearty refreshment and good-will, for he is original, rich, and strong enough to afford a thousand, faults; one expects some wild land in a rich kingdom. his talk, like his books, is full of pictures, his critical strokes masterly; allow for his point of view, and his survey is admirable. he is a large subject; i cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor needs it; his works are true, to blame and praise him, the siegfried of england, great and powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a might rather to destroy evil than legislate for good. at all events, he seems to be what destiny intended, and represents fully a certain side; so we make no remonstrance as to his being and proceeding for himself, though we sometimes must for us. i had meant some remarks on some fine pictures, and the little i saw of the theatre in england; but these topics must wait till my next, where they may connect themselves naturally enough with what i have to say of paris. letter x. more of london.--the model prison at pentonville.--bathing establishment for the poor.--also one for washing clothes.--the crÃ�ches of paris, for poor people's children.--old drury in london.--sadler's wells.--english and french acting compared.-- mademoiselle rachel.--french tragedy.--rose cheny.--dumas.--guizot.-- the presentation at court of the young duchess.--ball at the tuileries.--american and french women.--leverrier.--the sorbonne.-- arago.--discussions on suicide and the crusades.--rÃ�musat.--the academy.--la mennais.--bÃ�ranger.--reflections. paris. when i wrote last i could not finish with london, and there remain yet two or three things i wish to speak of before passing to my impressions of this wonder-full paris. i visited the model prison at pentonville; but though in some respects an improvement upon others i have seen,--though there was the appearance of great neatness and order in the arrangements of life, kindness and good judgment in the discipline of the prisoners,--yet there was also an air of bleak forlornness about the place, and it fell far short of what my mind demands of such abodes considered as redemption schools. but as the subject of prisons is now engaging the attention of many of the wisest and best, and the tendency is in what seems to me the true direction, i need not trouble myself to make prude and hasty suggestions; it is a subject to which persons who would be of use should give the earnest devotion of calm and leisurely thought. the same day i went to see an establishment which gave me unmixed pleasure; it is a bathing establishment put at a very low rate to enable the poor to avoid one of thee worst miseries of their lot, and which yet promises _to pay_. joined with this is an establishment for washing clothes, where the poor can go and hire, for almost nothing, good tubs, water ready heated, the use of an apparatus for rinsing, drying, and ironing, all so admirably arranged that a poor woman can in three hours get through an amount of washing and ironing that would, under ordinary circumstances, occupy three or four days. especially the drying closets i contemplated with great satisfaction, and hope to see in our own country the same arrangements throughout the cities, and even in the towns and villages. hanging out the clothes is a great exposure for women, even when they have a good place for it; but when, as is so common in cities, they must dry them in the house, how much they suffer! in new york, i know, those poor women who take in washing endure a great deal of trouble and toil from this cause; i have suffered myself from being obliged to send back what had cost them so much toil, because it had been, perhaps inevitably, soiled in the drying or ironing, or filled with the smell of their miscellaneous cooking. in london it is much worse. an eminent physician told me he knew of two children whom he considered to have died because their mother, having but one room to live in, was obliged to wash and dry clothes close to their bed when they were ill. the poor people in london naturally do without washing all they can, and beneath that perpetual fall of soot the result may be guessed. all but the very poor in england put out their washing, and this custom ought to be universal in civilized countries, as it can be done much better and quicker by a few regular laundresses than by many families, and "the washing day" is so malignant a foe to the peace and joy of households that it ought to be effaced from the calendar. but as long as we are so miserable as to have any very poor people in this world, _they_ cannot put out their washing, because they cannot earn enough money to pay for it, and, preliminary to something better, washing establishments like this of london are desirable. one arrangement that they have here in paris will be a good one, even when we cease to have any very poor people, and, please heaven, also to have any very rich. these are the _crèches_,--houses where poor women leave their children to be nursed during the day while they are at work. i must mention that the superintendent of the washing establishment observed, with a legitimate triumph, that it had been built without giving a single dinner or printing a single puff,--an extraordinary thing, indeed, for england! to turn to something a little gayer,--the embroidery on this tattered coat of civilized life,--i went into only two theatres; one the old drury, once the scene of great glories, now of execrable music and more execrable acting. if anything can be invented more excruciating than an english opera, such as was the fashion at the time i was in london, i am sure no sin of mine deserves the punishment of bearing it. at the sadler's wells theatre i saw a play which i had much admired in reading it, but found still better in actual representation; indeed, it seems to me there can be no better acting play: this is "the patrician's daughter," by j.w. marston. the movement is rapid, yet clear and free; the dialogue natural, dignified, and flowing; the characters marked with few, but distinct strokes. where the tone of discourse rises with manly sentiment or passion, the audience applauded with bursts of generous feeling that gave me great pleasure, for this play is one that, in its scope and meaning, marks the new era in england; it is full of an experience which is inevitable to a man of talent there, and is harbinger of the day when the noblest commoner shall be the only noble possible in england. but how different all this acting to what i find in france! here the theatre is living; you see something really good, and good throughout. not one touch of that stage strut and vulgar bombast of tone, which the english actor fancies indispensable to scenic illusion, is tolerated here. for the first time in my life i saw something represented in a style uniformly good, and should have found sufficient proof, if i had needed any, that all men will prefer what is good to what is bad, if only a fair opportunity for choice be allowed. when i came here, my first thought was to go and see mademoiselle rachel. i was sure that in her i should find a true genius, absolutely the diamond, and so it proved. i went to see her seven or eight times, always in parts that required great force of soul and purity of taste even to conceive them, and only once had reason to find fault with her. on one single occasion i saw her violate the harmony of the character to produce effect at a particular moment; but almost invariably i found her a true artist, worthy greece, and worthy at many moments to have her conceptions immortalized in marble. her range even in high tragedy is limited. she can only express the darker passions, and grief in its most desolate aspects. nature has not gifted her with those softer and more flowery attributes that lend to pathos its utmost tenderness. she does not melt to tears, or calm or elevate the heart by the presence of that tragic beauty that needs all the assaults of fate to make it show its immortal sweetness. her noblest aspect is when sometimes she expresses truth in some severe shape, and rises, simple and austere, above the mixed elements around her. on the dark side, she is very great in hatred and revenge. i admired her more in phedre than in any other part in which i saw her. the guilty love inspired by the hatred of a goddess was expressed in all its symptoms with a force and terrible naturalness that almost suffocated the beholder. after she had taken the poison, the exhaustion and paralysis of the system, the sad, cold, calm submission to fate, were still more grand. i had heard so much about the power of her eye in one fixed look, and the expression she could concentrate in a single word, that the utmost results could only satisfy my expectations. it is, indeed, something magnificent to see the dark cloud give out such sparks, each one fit to deal a separate death; but it was not that i admired most in her: it was the grandeur, truth, and depth of her conception of each part, and the sustained purity with which she represented it. for the rest, i shall write somewhere a detailed _critique_ upon the parts in which i saw her. it is she who has made me acquainted with the true way of viewing french tragedy. i had no idea of its powers and symmetry till now, and have received from the revelation high pleasure and a crowd of thoughts. the french language from her lips is a divine dialect; it is stripped of its national and personal peculiarities, and becomes what any language must, moulded by such a genius, the pure music of the heart and soul. i never could remember her tone in speaking any word; it was too perfect; you had received the thought quite direct. yet, had i never heard her speak a word, my mind would, be filled by her attitudes. nothing more graceful can be conceived, nor could the genius of sculpture surpass her management of the antique drapery. she has no beauty except in the intellectual severity of her outline, and bears marks of age which will grow stronger every year, and make her ugly before long. still it will be a _grandiose_, gypsy, or rather sibylline ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic parts. only it seems as if she could not live long; she expends force enough upon a part to furnish out a dozen common lives. though the french tragedy is well acted throughout, yet unhappily there is no male actor now with a spark of fire, and these men seem the meanest pigmies by the side of rachel;--so on the scene, beside the tragedy intended by the author, you see also that common tragedy, a woman of genius who throws away her precious heart, lives and dies for one unworthy of her. in parts this effect is productive of too much pain. i saw rachel one night with her brother and sister. the sister imitated her so closely that you could not help seeing she had a manner, and an imitable manner. her brother was in the play her lover,--a wretched automaton, and presenting the most unhappy family likeness to herself. since then i have hardly cared to go and see her. we could wish with geniuses, as with the phoenix, to see only one of the family at a time. in the pathetic or sentimental drama paris boasts another young actress, nearly as distinguished in that walk as rachel in hers. this is rose cheny, whom we saw in her ninety-eighth personation of clarissa harlowe, and afterward in genevieve and the _protégé sans le savoir_,--a little piece written expressly for her by scribe. the "miss clarisse" of the french drama is a feeble and partial reproduction of the heroine of richardson; indeed, the original in all its force of intellect and character would have been too much for the charming rose cheny, but to the purity and lovely tenderness of clarissa she does full justice. in the other characters she was the true french girl, full of grace and a mixture of _naïveté_ and cunning, sentiment and frivolity, that is winning and _piquant_, if not satisfying. only grief seems very strange to those bright eyes; we do not find that they can weep much and bear the light of day, and the inhaling of charcoal seems near at hand to their brightest pleasures. at the other little theatres you see excellent acting, and a sparkle of wit unknown to the world out of france. the little pieces in which all the leading topics of the day are reviewed are full of drolleries that make you laugh at each instant. _poudre-colon_ is the only one of these i have seen; in this, among other jokes, dumas, in the character of monte-christo and in a costume half oriental, half juggler, is made to pass the other theatres in review while seeking candidates for his new one. dumas appeared in court yesterday, and defended his own cause against the editors who sue him for evading some of his engagements. i was very desirous to hear him speak, and went there in what i was assured would be very good season; but a french audience, who knew the ground better, had slipped in before me, and i returned, as has been too often the case with me in paris, having seen nothing but endless staircases, dreary vestibules, and _gens d'armes_. the hospitality of _le grande nation_ to the stranger is, in many respects, admirable. galleries, libraries, cabinets of coins, museums, are opened in the most liberal manner to the stranger, warmed, lighted, ay, and guarded, for him almost all days in the week; treasures of the past are at his service; but when anything is happening in the present, the french run quicker, glide in more adroitly, and get possession of the ground. i find it not the most easy matter to get to places even where there is nothing going on, there is so much tiresome fuss of getting _billets_ from one and another to be gone through; but when something is happening it is still worse. i missed hearing m. guizot in his speech on the montpensier marriage, which would have given a very good idea of his manner, and which, like this defence of m. dumas, was a skilful piece of work as regards evasion of the truth. the good feeling toward england which had been fostered with so much care and toil seems to have been entirely dissipated by the mutual recriminations about this marriage, and the old dislike flames up more fiercely for having been hid awhile beneath the ashes. i saw the little duchess, the innocent or ignorant cause of all this disturbance, when presented at court. she went round the circle on the arm of the queen. though only fourteen, she looks twenty, but has something fresh, engaging, and girlish about her. i fancy it will soon be rubbed out under the drill of the royal household. i attended not only at the presentation, but at the ball given at the tuileries directly after. these are fine shows, as the suite of apartments is very handsome, brilliantly lighted, and the french ladies surpass all others in the art of dress; indeed, it gave me much, pleasure to see them. certainly there are many ugly ones, but they are so well dressed, and have such an air of graceful vivacity, that the general effect was that of a flower-garden. as often happens, several american women were among the most distinguished for positive beauty; one from philadelphia, who is by many persons considered the prettiest ornament of the dress circle at the italian opera, was especially marked by the attention of the king. however, these ladies, even if here a long time, do not attain the air and manner of french women; the magnetic atmosphere that envelops them is less brilliant and exhilarating in its attractions. it was pleasant to my eye, which has always been so wearied in our country by the sombre masses of men that overcloud our public assemblies, to see them now in so great variety of costume, color, and decoration. among the crowd wandered leverrier, in the costume of academician, looking as if he had lost, not found, his planet. french _savants_ are more generally men of the world, and even men of fashion, than those of other climates; but, in his case, he seemed not to find it easy to exchange the music of the spheres for the music of fiddles. speaking of leverrier leads to another of my disappointments. i went to the sorbonne to hear him lecture, nothing dreaming that the old pedantic and theological character of those halls was strictly kept up in these days of light. an old guardian of the inner temple, seeing me approach, had his speech all ready, and, manning the entrance, said with a disdainful air, before we had time to utter a word, "monsieur may enter if he pleases, but madame must remain here" (i.e. in the court-yard). after some exclamations of surprise, i found an alternative in the hotel de clugny, where i passed an hour very delightfully while waiting for my companion. the rich remains of other centuries are there so arranged that they can be seen to the best advantage; many of the works in ivory, china, and carved wood are truly splendid or exquisite. i saw a dagger with jewelled hilt which talked whole poems to my mind. in the various "adorations of the magi," i found constantly one of the wise men black, and with the marked african lineaments. before i had half finished, my companion came and wished me at least to visit the lecture-rooms of the sorbonne, now that the talk, too good for female ears, was over. but the guardian again interfered to deny me entrance. "you can go, madame," said he, "to the college of france; you can go to this and t'other place, but you cannot enter here." "what, sir," said i, "is it your institution alone that remains in a state of barbarism?" "que voulez vous, madame?" he replied, and, as he spoke, his little dog began to bark at me,--"que voulez vous, madame? c'est la regle,"--"what would you have, madam? it is the rule,"--a reply which makes me laugh even now, as i think how the satirical wits of former days might have used it against the bulwarks of learned dulness. i was more fortunate in hearing arago, and he justified all my expectations. clear, rapid, full and equal, his discourse is worthy its celebrity, and i felt repaid for the four hours one is obliged to spend in going, in waiting, and in hearing; for the lecture begins at half past one, and you must be there before twelve to get a seat, so constant and animated is his popularity. i have attended, with some interest, two discussions at the athenée,--one on suicide, the other on the crusades. they are amateur affairs, where, as always at such times, one hears much, nonsense and vanity, much making of phrases and sentimental grimace; but there was one excellent speaker, adroit and rapid as only a frenchman could be. with admirable readiness, skill, and rhetorical polish, he examined the arguments of all the others, and built upon their failures a triumph for himself. his management of the language, too, was masterly, and french is the best of languages for such a purpose,--clear, flexible, full of sparkling points and quick, picturesque turns, with a subtile blandness that makes the dart tickle while it wounds. truly he pleased the fancy, filled the ear, and carried us pleasantly along over the smooth, swift waters; but then came from the crowd a gentleman, not one of the appointed orators of the evening, but who had really something in his heart to say,--a grave, dark man, with spanish eyes, and the simple dignity of honor and earnestness in all his gesture and manner. he said in few and unadorned words his say, and the sense of a real presence filled the room, and those charms of rhetoric faded, as vanish the beauties of soap-bubbles from the eyes of astonished childhood. i was present on one good occasion at the academy the day that m. rémusat was received there in the place of royer-collard. i looked down from one of the tribunes upon the flower of the celebrities of france, that is to say, of the celebrities which are authentic, _comme il faut_. among them were many marked faces, many fine heads; but in reading the works of poets we always fancy them about the age of apollo himself, and i found with pain some of my favorites quite old, and very unlike the company on parnassus as represented by raphael. some, however, were venerable, even noble, to behold. indeed, the literary dynasty of france is growing old, and here, as in england and germany, there seems likely to occur a serious gap before the inauguration of another, if indeed another is coming. however, it was an imposing sight; there are men of real distinction now in the academy, and molière would have a fair chance if he were proposed to-day. among the audience i saw many ladies of fine expression and manner, as well as one or two _precieuses ridicules_, a race which is never quite extinct. m. rémusat, as is the custom on these occasions, painted the portrait of his predecessor; the discourse was brilliant and discriminating in the details, but the orator seemed to me to neglect drawing some obvious inferences which would have given a better point of view for his subject. a _séance_ to me much more impressive find interesting was one which borrowed nothing from dress, decorations, or the presence of titled pomp. i went to call on la mennais, to whom i had a letter, i found him in a little study; his secretary was writing in a larger room through which i passed. with him was a somewhat citizen-looking, but vivacious, elderly man, whom i was at first sorry to see, having wished for half an hour's undisturbed visit to the apostle of democracy. but how quickly were those feelings displaced by joy when he named to me the great national lyrist of france, the unequalled béranger. i had not expected to see him at all, for he is not one to be seen in any show place; he lives in the hearts of the people, and needs no homage from their eyes. i was very happy in that little study in presence of these two men, whose influence has been so great, so real. to me béranger has been much; his wit, his pathos, his exquisite lyric grace, have made the most delicate strings vibrate, and i can feel, as well as see, what he is in his nation and his place. i have not personally received anything from la mennais, as, born under other circumstances, mental facts which he, once the pupil of rome, has learned by passing through severe ordeals, are at the basis of all my thoughts. but i see well what he has been and is to europe, and of what great force of nature and spirit. he seems suffering and pale, but in his eyes is the light of the future. these are men who need no flourish of trumpets to announce their coming,--no band of martial music upon their steps,--no obsequious nobles in their train. they are the true kings, the theocratic kings, the judges in israel. the hearts of men make music at their approach; the mind of the age is the historian of their passage; and only men of destiny like themselves shall be permitted to write their eulogies, or fill their vacant seats. wherever there is a genius like his own, a germ of the finest fruit still hidden beneath the soil, the "_chante pauvre petit_" of béranger shall strike, like a sunbeam, and give it force to emerge, and wherever there is the true crusade,--for the spirit, not the tomb of christ,--shall be felt an echo of the "_que tes armes soient benis jeune soldat_" of la mennais. letter xi. france and her artistic excellence.--the pictures of horace vernet.--de la roche.--leopold robert.--contrast between the french and english schools of art.--the general appreciation of turner's pictures.--botanical models in wax.--music.--the opera.--duprez.-- lablache.--ronconi.--grisi.--persiana.--"semiramide" as performed by the new york and paris operas.--mario.--coletti.--gardini.-- "don giovanni."--the writer's trial of the "letheon."--its effects. it needs not to speak in this cursory manner of the treasures of art, pictures, sculptures, engravings, and the other riches which france lays open so freely to the stranger in her musées. any examination worth writing of such objects, or account of the thoughts they inspire, demands a place by itself, and an ample field in which to expatiate. the american, first introduced to some good pictures by the truly great geniuses of the religious period in art, must, if capable at all of mental approximation to the life therein embodied, be too deeply affected, too full of thoughts, to be in haste to say anything, and for me, i bide my time. no such great crisis, however, is to be apprehended from acquaintance with the productions of the modern french school. they are, indeed, full of talent and of vigor, but also melodramatic and exaggerated to a degree that seems to give the nightmare passage through the fresh and cheerful day. they sound no depth of soul, and are marked with the signet of a degenerate age. thus speak i generally. to the pictures of horace vernet one cannot but turn a gracious eye, they are so faithful a transcript of the life which circulates around us in the present state of things, and we are willing to see his nobles and generals mounted on such excellent horses. de la roche gives me pleasure; there is in his pictures a simple and natural poesy; he is a man who has in his own heart a well of good water, whence he draws for himself when the streams are mixed with strange soil and bear offensive marks of the bloody battles of life. the pictures of leopold robert i find charming. they are full of vigor and nobleness; they express a nature where all is rich, young, and on a large scale. those that i have seen are so happily expressive of the thoughts and perceptions of early manhood, i can hardly regret he did not live to enter on another stage of life, the impression now received is so single. the effort of the french school in art, as also its main tendency in literature, seems to be to turn the mind inside out, in the coarsest acceptation of such a phrase. art can only be truly art by presenting an adequate outward symbol of some fact in the interior life. but then it _is_ a symbol that art seeks to present, and not the fact itself. these french painters seem to have no idea of this; they have not studied the method of nature. with the true artist, as with nature herself, the more full the representation, the more profound and enchanting is the sense of mystery. we look and look, as on a flower of which we cannot scrutinize the secret life, yet b; looking seem constantly drawn nearer to the soul that causes and governs that life. but in the french pictures suffering is represented by streams of blood,--wickedness by the most ghastly contortions. i saw a movement in the opposite direction in england; it was in turner's pictures of the later period. it is well known that turner, so long an idol of the english public, paints now in a manner which has caused the liveliest dissensions in the world of connoisseurs. there are two parties, one of which maintains, not only that the pictures of the late period are not good, but that they are not pictures at all,--that it is impossible to make out the design, or find what turner is aiming at by those strange blotches of color. the other party declare that these pictures are not only good, but divine,--that whoever looks upon them in the true manner will not fail to find there somewhat ineffably and transcendently admirable,--the soul of art. books have been written to defend this side of the question. i had become much interested about this matter, as the fervor of feeling on either side seemed to denote that there was something real and vital going on, and, while time would not permit my visiting other private collections in london and its neighborhood, i insisted on taking it for one of turner's pictures. it was at the house of one of his devoutest disciples, who has arranged everything in the rooms to harmonize with them. there were a great many of the earlier period; these seemed to me charming, but superficial, views of nature. they were of a character that he who runs may read,--obvious, simple, graceful. the later pictures were quite a different matter; mysterious-looking things,--hieroglyphics of picture, rather than picture itself. sometimes you saw a range of red dots, which, after long looking, dawned on you as the roofs of houses,--shining streaks turned out to be most alluring rivulets, if traced with patience and a devout eye. above all, they charmed the eye and the thought. still, these pictures, it seems to me, cannot be considered fine works of art, more than the mystical writing common to a certain class of minds in the united states can be called good writing. a great work of art demands a great thought, or a thought of beauty adequately expressed. neither in art nor literature more than in life can an ordinary thought be made interesting because well dressed. but in a transition state, whether of art or literature, deeper thoughts are imperfectly expressed, because they cannot yet be held and treated masterly. this seems to be the case with turner. he has got beyond the english gentleman's conventional view of nature, which implies a _little_ sentiment and a _very_ cultivated taste; he has become awake to what is elemental, normal, in nature,--such, for instance, as one sees in the working of water on the sea-shore. he tries to represent these primitive forms. in the drawings of piranesi, in the pictures of rembrandt, one sees this grand language exhibited more truly. it is not picture, but certain primitive and leading effects of light and shadow, or lines and contours, that captivate the attention. i saw a picture of rembrandt's at the louvre, whose subject i do not know and have never cared to inquire. i cannot analyze the group, but i understand and feel the thought it embodies. at something similar turner seems aiming; an aim so opposed to the practical and outward tendency of the english mind, that, as a matter of course, the majority find themselves mystified, and thereby angered, but for the same reason answering to so deep and seldom satisfied a want in the minds of the minority, as to secure the most ardent sympathy where any at all can be elicited. upon this topic of the primitive forms and operations of nature, i am reminded of something interesting i was looking at yesterday. these are botanical models in wax, with microscopic dissections, by an artist from florence, a pupil of calamajo, the director of the wax-model museum there. i saw collections of ten different genera, embracing from fifty to sixty species, of fungi, mosses, and lichens, detected and displayed in all the beautiful secrets of their lives; many of them, as observed by dr. leveillé of paris. the artist told me that a fisherman, introduced to such acquaintance with the marvels of love and beauty which we trample under foot or burn in the chimney each careless day, exclaimed, "'tis the good god who protects us on the sea that made all these"; and a similar recognition, a correspondent feeling, will not be easily evaded by the most callous observer. this artist has supplied many of these models to the magnificent collection of the _jardin des plantes_, to edinburgh, and to bologna, and would furnish them, to our museums at a much cheaper rate than they can elsewhere be obtained. i wish the universities of cambridge, new york, and other leading institutions of our country, might avail themselves of the opportunity. in paris i have not been very fortunate in hearing the best music. at the different opera-houses, the orchestra is always good, but the vocalization, though far superior to what i have heard at home, falls so far short of my ideas and hopes that--except to the italian opera--i have not been often. the _opera comique_ i visited only once; it was tolerably well, and no more, and, for myself, i find the tolerable intolerable in music. at the grand opera i heard _robert le diable_ and _guillaume tell_ almost with ennui; the decorations and dresses are magnificent, the instrumental performance good, but not one fine singer to fill these fine parts. duprez has had a great reputation, and probably has sung better in former days; still he has a vulgar mind, and can never have had any merit as an artist. at present i find him unbearable. he forces his voice, sings in the most coarse, showy style, and aims at producing effects without regard to the harmony of his part; fat and vulgar, he still takes the part of the lover and young chevalier; to my sorrow i saw him in ravenswood, and he has well-nigh disenchanted for me the bride of lammermoor. the italian opera is here as well sustained, i believe, as anywhere in the world at present; all about it is certainly quite good, but alas! nothing excellent, nothing admirable. yet no! i must not say nothing: lablache is excellent,--voice, intonation, manner of song, action. ronconi i found good in the doctor of "_l'elisire d'amore_". for the higher parts grisi, though now much too large for some of her parts, and without a particle of poetic grace or dignity, has certainly beauty of feature, and from nature a fine voice. but i find her conception of her parts equally coarse and shallow. her love is the love of a peasant; her anger, though having the italian picturesque richness and vigor, is the anger of an italian fishwife, entirely unlike anything in the same rank elsewhere; her despair is that of a person with the toothache, or who has drawn a blank in the lottery. the first time i saw her was in _norma_; then the beauty of her outline, which becomes really enchanting as she recalls the first emotions of love, the force and gush of her song, filled my ear, and charmed the senses, so that i was pleased, and did not perceive her great defects; but with each time of seeing her i liked her less, and now i do not like her at all. persiani is more generally a favorite here; she is indeed skilful both as an actress and in the management of her voice, but i find her expression meretricious, her singing mechanical. neither of these women is equal to pico in natural force, if she had but the same advantages of culture and environment. in hearing _semiramide_ here, i first learned to appreciate the degree of talent with which it was cast in new york. grisi indeed is a far better semiramis than borghese, but the best parts of the opera lost all their charm from the inferiority of brambilla, who took pico's place. mario has a charming voice, grace and tenderness; he fills very well the part of the young, chivalric lover, but he has no range of power. coletti is a very good singer; he has not from nature a fine voice or personal beauty; but he has talent, good taste, and often surpasses the expectation he has inspired. gardini, the new singer, i have only heard once, and that was in a lovesick-shepherd part; he showed delicacy, tenderness, and tact. in fine, among all these male singers there is much to please, but little to charm; and for the women, they never fail absolutely to fill their parts, but no ray of the muse has fallen on them. _don giovanni_ conferred on me a benefit, of which certainly its great author never dreamed. i shall relate it,--first begging pardon of mozart, and assuring him i had no thought of turning his music to the account of a "vulgar utility." it was quite by accident. after suffering several days very much with the toothache, i resolved to get rid of the cause of sorrow by the aid of ether; not sorry, either, to try its efficacy, after all the marvellous stories i had heard. the first time i inhaled it, i did not for several seconds feel the effect, and was just thinking, "alas! this has not power to soothe nerves so irritable as mine," when suddenly i wandered off, i don't know where, but it was a sensation like wandering in long garden-walks, and through many alleys of trees,--many impressions, but all pleasant and serene. the moment the tube was removed, i started into consciousness, and put my hand to my cheek; but, sad! the throbbing tooth was still there. the dentist said i had not seemed to him insensible. he then gave me the ether in a stronger dose, and this time i quitted the body instantly, and cannot remember any detail of what i saw and did; but the impression was as in the oriental tale, where the man has his head in the water an instant only, but in his vision a thousand years seem to have passed. i experienced that same sense of an immense length of time and succession of impressions; even, now, the moment my mind was in that state seems to me a far longer period in time than my life on earth does as i look back upon it. suddenly i seemed to see the old dentist, as i had for the moment before i inhaled the gas, amid his plants, in his nightcap and dressing-gown; in the twilight the figure had somewhat of a faust-like, magical air, and he seemed to say, "_c'est inutile._" again i started up, fancying that once more he had not dared to extract the tooth, but it was gone. what is worth, noticing is the mental translation i made of his words, which, my ear must have caught, for my companion tells me he said, "_c'est le moment_," a phrase of just as many syllables, but conveying just the opposite sense. ah! i how i wished then, that you had settled, there in the united states, who really brought this means of evading a portion of the misery of life into use. but as it was, i remained at a loss whom to apostrophize with my benedictions, whether dr. jackson, morton, or wells, and somebody thus was robbed of his clue;--neither does europe know to whom to address her medals. however, there is no evading the heavier part of these miseries. you avoid the moment of suffering, and escape the effort of screwing up your courage for one of these moments, but not the jar to the whole system. i found the effect of having taken the ether bad for me. i seemed to taste it all the time, and neuralgic pain continued; this lasted three days. for the evening of the third, i had taken a ticket to _don giovanni_, and could not bear to give up this opera, which i had always been longing to hear; still i was in much suffering, and, as it was the sixth day i had been so, much weakened. however, i went, expecting to be obliged to come out; but the music soothed the nerves at once. i hardly suffered at all during the opera; however, i supposed the pain would return as soon as i came out; but no! it left me from that time. ah! if physicians only understood the influence of the mind over the body, instead of treating, as they so often do, their patients like machines, and according to precedent! but i must pause here for to-day. letter xii. adieu to paris.--its scenes.--the procession of the fat ox.--destitution of the poorer classes.--need of a reform.--the doctrines of fourier making progress.--review of fourier's life and character.--the parisian press on the spanish marriage.--guizot's policy.--napoleon.--the manuscripts of rousseau in the chamber of deputies.--his character.--speech of m. berryer in the chamber.--american and french oratory.--the affair of cracow.--dull speakers in the chamber.--french vivacity.--amusing scene.--guizot speaking.--international exchange of books.--the evening school of the _frÃ�res chretiens_.--the great good accomplished by them.--suggestions for the like in america.--the institution of the deaconesses.--the new york "home."--school for idiots near paris.--the reclamation of idiots. i bade adieu to paris on the th of february, just as we had had one fine day. it was the only one of really delightful weather, from morning till night, that i had to enjoy all the while i was at paris, from the th of november till the th of february. let no one abuse our climate; even in winter it is delightful, compared to the parisian winter of mud and mist. this one day brought out the parisian world in its gayest colors. i never saw anything more animated or prettier, of the kind, than the promenade that day in the _champs elysées_. such crowds of gay equipages, with _cavaliers_ and their _amazons_ flying through their midst on handsome and swift horses! on the promenade, what groups of passably pretty ladies, with excessively pretty bonnets, announcing in their hues of light green, peach-blossom, and primrose the approach of spring, and charming children, for french children are charming! i cannot speak with equal approbation of the files of men sauntering arm in arm. one sees few fine-looking men in paris: the air, half-military, half-dandy, of self-esteem and _savoir-faire_, is not particularly interesting; nor are the glassy stare and fumes of bad cigars exactly what one most desires to encounter, when the heart is opened by the breath of spring zephyrs and the hope of buds and blossoms. but a french crowd is always gay, full of quick turns and drolleries; most amusing when most petulant, it represents what is so agreeable in the character of the nation. we have now seen it on two good occasions, the festivities of the new year, and just after we came was the procession of the _fat ox_, described, if i mistake not, by eugene sue. an immense crowd thronged the streets this year to see it, but few figures and little invention followed the emblem of plenty; indeed, few among the people could have had the heart for such a sham, knowing how the poorer classes have suffered from hunger this winter. all signs of this are kept out of sight in paris. a pamphlet, called "the voice of famine," stating facts, though in the tone of vulgar and exaggerated declamation, unhappily common to productions on the radical side, was suppressed almost as soon as published; but the fact cannot be suppressed, that the people in the provinces have suffered most terribly amid the vaunted prosperity of france. while louis philippe lives, the gases, compressed by his strong grasp, may not burst up to light; but the need of some radical measures of reform is not less strongly felt in france than elsewhere, and the time will come before long when such will be imperatively demanded. the doctrines of fourier are making considerable progress, and wherever they spread, the necessity of some practical application of the precepts of christ, in lieu of the mummeries of a worn-out ritual, cannot fail to be felt. the more i see of the terrible ills which infest the body politic of europe, the more indignation i feel at the selfishness or stupidity of those in my own country who oppose an examination of these subjects,--such as is animated by the hope of prevention. the mind of fourier was, in many respects, uncongenial to mine. educated in an age of gross materialism, he was tainted by its faults. in attempts to reorganize society, he commits the error of making soul the result of health of body, instead of body the clothing of soul; but his heart was that of a genuine lover of his kind, of a philanthropist in the sense of jesus,--his views were large and noble. his life was one of devout study on these subjects, and i should pity the person who, after the briefest sojourn in manchester and lyons,--the most superficial acquaintance with the population of london and paris,--could seek to hinder a study of his thoughts, or be wanting in reverence for his purposes. but always, always, the unthinking mob has found stones on the highway to throw at the prophets. amid so many great causes for thought and anxiety, how childish has seemed the endless gossip of the parisian press on the subject of the spanish marriage,--how melancholy the flimsy falsehoods of m. guizot,--more melancholy the avowal so naïvely made, amid those falsehoods, that to his mind expediency is the best policy! this is the policy, said he, that has made france so prosperous. indeed, the success is correspondent with the means, though in quite another sense than that he meant. i went to the _hotel des invalides_, supposing i should be admitted to the spot where repose the ashes of napoleon, for though i love not pilgrimages to sepulchres, and prefer paying my homage to the living spirit rather than to the dust it once animated, i should have liked to muse a moment beside his urn; but as yet the visitor is not admitted there. in the library, however, one sees the picture of napoleon crossing the alps, opposite to that of the present king of the french. just as they are, these should serve as frontispieces to two chapters of history. in the first, the seed was sown in a field of blood indeed, yet was it the seed of all that is vital in the present period. by napoleon the career was really laid open to talent, and all that is really great in france now consists in the possibility that talent finds of struggling to the light. paris is a great intellectual centre, and there is a chamber of deputies to represent the people, very different from the poor, limited assembly politically so called. their tribune is that of literature, and one needs not to beg tickets to mingle with the audience. to the actually so-called chamber of deputies i was indebted for two pleasures. first and greatest, a sight of the manuscripts of rousseau treasured in their library. i saw them and touched them,--those manuscripts just as he has celebrated them, written on the fine white paper, tied with ribbon. yellow and faded age has made them, yet at their touch i seemed to feel the fire of youth, immortally glowing, more and more expansive, with which his soul has pervaded this century. he was the precursor of all we most prize. true, his blood was mixed with madness, and the course of his actual life made some detours through villanous places, but his spirit was intimate with the fundamental truths of human nature, and fraught with prophecy. there is none who has given birth to more life for this age; his gifts are yet untold; they are too present with us; but he who thinks really must often think with rousseau, and learn of him even more and more: such is the method of genius, to ripen fruit for the crowd of those rays of whose heat they complain. the second pleasure was in the speech of m. berryer, when the chamber was discussing the address to the king. those of thiers and guizot had been, so far, more interesting, as they stood for more that was important; but m. berryer is the most eloquent speaker of the house. his oratory is, indeed, very good; not logical, but plausible, full and rapid, with occasional bursts of flame and showers of sparks, though indeed no stone of size and weight enough to crush any man was thrown out of the crater. although the oratory of our country is very inferior to what might be expected from the perfect freedom and powerful motive for development of genius in this province, it presents several examples of persons superior in both force and scope, and equal in polish, to m. berryer. nothing can be more pitiful than the manner in which the infamous affair of cracow is treated on all hands. there is not even the affectation of noble feeling about it. la mennais and his coadjutors published in _la reforme_ an honorable and manly protest, which the public rushed to devour the moment it was out of the press;--and no wonder! for it was the only crumb of comfort offered to those who have the nobleness to hope that the confederation of nations may yet be conducted on the basis of divine justice and human right. most men who touched the subject apparently weary of feigning, appeared in their genuine colors of the calmest, most complacent selfishness. as described by körner in the prayer of such a man:-- "o god, save me, my wife, child, and hearth, then my harvest also; then will i bless thee, though thy lightning scorch to blackness all the rest of human kind." a sentiment which finds its paraphrase in the following vulgate of our land:-- "o lord, save me, my wife, child, and brother sammy, us four, _and no more_." the latter clause, indeed, is not quite frankly avowed as yet by politicians. it is very amusing to be in the chamber of deputies when some dull person is speaking. the french have a truly greek vivacity; they cannot endure to be bored. though their conduct is not very dignified, i should like a corps of the same kind of sharp-shooters in our legislative assemblies when honorable gentlemen are addressing their constituents and not the assembly, repeating in lengthy, windy, clumsy paragraphs what has been the truism of the newspaper press for months previous, wickedly wasting the time that was given us to learn something for ourselves, and help our fellow-creatures. in the french chamber, if a man who has nothing to say ascends the tribune, the audience-room is filled with the noise as of myriad beehives; the president rises on his feet, and passes the whole time of the speech in taking the most violent exercise, stretching himself to look imposing, ringing his bell every two minutes, shouting to the representatives of the nation to be decorous and attentive. in vain: the more he rings, the more they won't be still. i saw an orator in this situation, fighting against the desires of the audience, as only a frenchman could,--certainly a man of any other nation would have died of embarrassment rather,--screaming out his sentences, stretching out both arms with an air of injured dignity, panting, growing red in the face; but the hubbub of voices never stopped an instant. at last he pretended to be exhausted, stopped, and took out his snuff-box. instantly there was a calm. he seized the occasion, and shouted out a sentence; but it was the only one he was able to make heard. they were not to be trapped so a second time. when any one is speaking that commands interest, as berryer did, the effect of this vivacity is very pleasing, the murmur of feeling that rushes over the assembly is so quick and electric,--light, too, as the ripple on the lake. i heard guizot speak one day for a short time. his manner is very deficient in dignity,--has not even the dignity of station; you see the man of cultivated intellect, but without inward strength; nor is even his panoply of proof. i saw in the library of the deputies some books intended to be sent to our country through m. vattemare. the french have shown great readiness and generosity with regard to his project, and i earnestly hope that our country, if it accept these tokens of good-will, will show both energy and judgment in making a return. i do not speak from myself alone, but from others whose opinion is entitled to the highest respect, when i say it is not by sending a great quantity of documents of merely local interest, that would be esteemed lumber in our garrets at home, that you pay respect to a nation able to look beyond, the binding of a book. if anything is to be sent, let persons of ability be deputed to make a selection honorable to us and of value to the french. they would like documents from our congress,--what is important as to commerce and manufactures; they would also like much what can throw light on the history and character of our aborigines. this project of international exchange could not be carried on to any permanent advantage without accredited agents on either side, but in its present shape it wears an aspect of good feeling that is valuable, and may give a very desirable impulse to thought and knowledge. m. vattemare has given himself to the plan with indefatigable perseverance, and i hope our country will not be backward to accord him that furtherance he has known how to conquer from his countrymen. to his complaisance i was indebted for opportunity of a leisurely survey of the _imprimeri royale_, which gave me several suggestions i shall impart at a more favorable time, and of the operations of the mint also. it was at his request that the librarian of the chamber showed me the manuscripts of rousseau, which are not always seen by the traveller. he also introduced me to one of the evening schools of the _frères chretiens_, where i saw, with pleasure, how much can be done for the working classes only by evening lessons. in reading and writing, adults had made surprising progress, and still more so in drawing. i saw with the highest pleasure, excellent copies of good models, made by hard-handed porters and errand-boys with their brass badges on their breasts. the benefits of such an accomplishment are, in my eyes, of the highest value, giving them, by insensible degrees, their part in the glories of art and science, and in the tranquil refinements of home. visions rose in my mind of all that might be done in our country by associations of men and women who have received the benefits of literary culture, giving such evening lessons throughout our cities and villages. should i ever return, i shall propose to some of the like-minded an association for such a purpose, and try the experiment of one of these schools of christian brothers, with the vow of disinterestedness, but without the robe and the subdued priestly manner, which even in these men, some of whom seemed to me truly good, i could not away with. i visited also a protestant institution, called that of the deaconesses, which pleased me in some respects. beside the regular _crèche_, they take the sick children of the poor, and nurse them till they are well. they have also a refuge like that of the home which, the ladies of new york have provided, through which members of the most unjustly treated class of society may return to peace and usefulness. there are institutions of the kind in paris, but too formal,--and the treatment shows ignorance of human nature. i see nothing that shows so enlightened a spirit as the home, a little germ of good which i hope flourishes and finds active aid in the community. i have collected many facts with regard to this suffering class of women, both in england and in france. i have seen them under the thin veil of gayety, and in the horrible tatters of utter degradation. i have seen the feelings of men with regard to their condition, and the general heartlessness in women of more favored and protected lives, which i can only ascribe to utter ignorance of the facts. if a proclamation of some of these can remove it, i hope to make such a one in the hour of riper judgment, and after a more extensive survey. sad as are many features of the time, we have at least the satisfaction of feeling that if something true can be revealed, if something wise and kind shall be perseveringly tried, it stands a chance of nearer success than ever before; for much light has been let in at the windows of the world, and many dark nooks have been touched by a consoling ray. the influence of such a ray i felt in visiting the school for idiots, near paris,--idiots, so called long time by the impatience of the crowd; yet there are really none such, but only beings so below the average standard, so partially organized, that it is difficult for them to learn or to sustain themselves. i wept the whole time i was in this place a shower of sweet and bitter tears; of joy at what had been done, of grief for all that i and others possess and cannot impart to these little ones. but patience, and the father of all will give them all yet. a good angel these of paris have in their master. i have seen no man that seemed to me more worthy of envy, if one could envy happiness so pure and tender. he is a man of seven or eight and twenty, who formerly came there only to give lessons in writing, but became so interested in his charge that he came at last to live among them and to serve them. they sing the hymns he writes for them, and as i saw his fine countenance looking in love on those distorted and opaque vases of humanity, where he had succeeded in waking up a faint flame, i thought his heart could never fail to be well warmed and buoyant. they sang well, both in parts and in chorus, went through gymnastic exercises with order and pleasure, then stood in a circle and kept time, while several danced extremely well. one little fellow, with whom the difficulty seemed to be that an excess of nervous sensibility paralyzed instead of exciting the powers, recited poems with a touching, childish grace and perfect memory. they write well, draw well, make shoes, and do carpenter's work. one of the cases most interesting to the metaphysician is that of a boy, brought there about two years and a half ago, at the age of thirteen, in a state of brutality, and of ferocious brutality. i read the physician's report of him at that period. he discovered no ray of decency or reason; entirely beneath the animals in the exercise of the senses, he discovered a restless fury beyond that of beasts of prey, breaking and throwing down whatever came in his way; was a voracious glutton, and every way grossly sensual. many trials and vast patience were necessary before an inlet could be obtained to his mind; then it was through the means of mathematics. he delights in the figures, can draw and name them all, detects them by the touch when blindfolded. each, mental effort of the kind he still follows up with an imbecile chuckle, as indeed his face and whole manner are still that of an idiot; but he has been raised from his sensual state, and can now discriminate and name colors and perfumes which before were all alike to him. he is partially redeemed; earlier, no doubt, far more might have been done for him, but the degree of success is an earnest which must encourage to perseverance in the most seemingly hopeless cases. i thought sorrowfully of the persons of this class whom i have known in our country, who might have been so raised and solaced by similar care. i hope ample provision may erelong be made for these pariahs of the human race; every case of the kind brings its blessings with it, and observation on these subjects would be as rich in suggestion for the thought, as such acts of love are balmy for the heart. letter xiii. music in paris.--chopin and the chevalier neukomm.--adieu to paris.--a midnight drive in a diligence.--lyons and its weavers.--their manner of life.--a young wife.--the weavers' children.--the banks of the rhone.--dreary weather for southern france.--the old roman amphitheatre at arles.--the women of arles.--marseilles.--passage to genoa.--italy.--genoa and naples.--baiÃ�.--vesuvius.--the italian character at home.--passage from leghorn in a small steamer.--narrow escape.--a confusion of languages.--degradation of the neapolitans. naples. in my last days at paris i was fortunate in hearing some delightful music. a friend of chopin's took me to see him, and i had the pleasure, which the delicacy of iris health makes a rare one for the public, of hearing him play. all the impressions i had received from hearing his music imperfectly performed were justified, for it has marked traits, which can be veiled, but not travestied; but to feel it as it merits, one must hear himself; only a person as exquisitely organized as he can adequately express these subtile secrets of the creative spirit. it was with, a very different sort of pleasure that i listened to the chevalier neukomm, the celebrated composer of "david," which has been so popular in our country. i heard him improvise on the _orgue expressif_, and afterward on a great organ which has just been built here by cavaille for the cathedral of ajaccio. full, sustained, ardent, yet exact, the stream, of his thought bears with it the attention of hearers of all characters, as his character, full of _bonhommie_, open, friendly, animated, and sagacious, would seem to have something to present for the affection and esteem of all kinds of men. chopin is the minstrel, neukomm the orator of music: we want them both,--the mysterious whispers and the resolute pleadings from the better world, which calls us not to slumber here, but press daily onward to claim our heritage. paris! i was sad to leave thee, thou wonderful focus, where ignorance ceases to be a pain, because there we find such means daily to lessen it. it is the only school where i ever found abundance of teachers who could bear being examined by the pupil in their special branches. i must go to this school more before i again cross the atlantic, where often for years i have carried about some trifling question without finding the person who could answer it. really deep questions we must all answer for ourselves; the more the pity, then, that we get not quickly through with a crowd of details, where the experience of others might accelerate our progress. leaving by _diligence_, we pursued our way from twelve o'clock on thursday till twelve at night on friday, thus having a large share of magnificent moonlight upon the unknown fields we were traversing. at chalons we took boat and reached lyons betimes that afternoon. so soon as refreshed, we sallied out to visit some of the garrets of the weavers. as we were making inquiries about these, a sweet little girl who heard us offered to be our guide. she led us by a weary, winding way, whose pavement was much easier for her feet in their wooden _sabots_ than for ours in paris shoes, to the top of a hill, from which we saw for the first time "the blue and arrowy rhone." entering the light buildings on this high hill, i found each chamber tenanted by a family of weavers,--all weavers; wife, husband, sons, daughters,--from nine years old upward,--each was helping. on one side were the looms; nearer the door the cooking apparatus; the beds were shelves near the ceiling: they climbed up to them on ladders. my sweet little girl turned out to be a wife of six or seven years' standing, with two rather sickly-looking children; she seemed to have the greatest comfort that is possible amid the perplexities of a hard and anxious lot, to judge by the proud and affectionate manner in which she always said "_mon mari_," and by the courteous gentleness of his manner toward her. she seemed, indeed, to be one of those persons on whom "the graces have smiled in their cradle," and to whom a natural loveliness of character makes the world as easy as it can be made while the evil spirit is still so busy choking the wheat with tares. i admired her graceful manner of introducing us into those dark little rooms, and she was affectionately received by all her acquaintance. but alas! that voice, by nature of such bird-like vivacity, repeated again and again, "ah! we are all very unhappy now." "do you sing together, or go to evening schools?" "we have not the heart. when we have a piece of work, we do not stir till it is finished, and then we run to try and get another; but often we have to wait idle for weeks. it grows worse and worse, and they say it is not likely to be any better. we can think of nothing, but whether we shall be able to pay our rent. ah! the workpeople are very unhappy now." this poor, lovely little girl, at an age when the merchant's daughters of boston and new york are just gaining their first experiences of "society," knew to a farthing the price of every article of food and clothing that is wanted by such a household. her thought by day and her dream by night was, whether she should long be able to procure a scanty supply of these, and nature had gifted her with precisely those qualities, which, unembarrassed by care, would have made her and all she loved really happy; and she was fortunate now, compared with many of her sex in lyons,--of whom a gentleman who knows the class well said: "when their work fails, they have no resource except in the sale of their persons. there are but these two ways open to them, weaving or prostitution, to gain their bread." and there are those who dare to say that such a state of things is _well enough_, and what providence intended for man,--who call those who have hearts to suffer at the sight, energy and zeal to seek its remedy, visionaries and fanatics! to themselves be woe, who have eyes and see not, ears and hear not, the convulsions and sobs of injured humanity! my little friend told me she had nursed both her children,--though almost all of her class are obliged to put their children out to nurse; "but," said she, "they are brought back so little, so miserable, that i resolved, if possible, to keep mine with me." next day in the steamboat i read a pamphlet by a physician of lyons in which he recommends the establishment of _crèches_, not merely like those of paris, to keep the children by day, but to provide wet-nurses for them. thus, by the infants receiving nourishment from more healthy persons, and who under the supervision of directors would treat them well, he hopes to counteract the tendency to degenerate in this race of sedentary workers, and to save the mothers from too heavy a burden of care and labor, without breaking the bond between them and their children, whom, under such circumstances, they could visit often, and see them taken care of as they, brought up to know nothing except how to weave, cannot take care of them. here, again, how is one reminded of fourier's observations and plans, still more enforced by the recent developments at manchester as to the habit of feeding children on opium, which has grown out of the position of things there. descending next day to avignon, i had the mortification of finding the banks of the rhone still sheeted with white, and there waded through melting snow to laura's tomb. we did not see mr. dickens's tower and goblin,--it was too late in the day,--but we saw a snowball fight between two bands of the military in the castle yard that was gay enough to make a goblin laugh. and next day on to arles, still snow,--snow and cutting blasts in the south of france, where everybody had promised us bird-songs and blossoms to console us for the dreary winter of paris. at arles, indeed, i saw the little saxifrage blossoming on the steps of the amphitheatre, and fruit-trees in flower amid the tombs. here for the first time i saw the great handwriting of the romans in its proper medium of stone, and i was content. it looked us grand and solid as i expected, as if life in those days was thought worth the having, the enjoying, and the using. the sunlight was warm this day; it lay deliciously still and calm upon the ruins. one old woman sat knitting where twenty-five thousand persons once gazed down in fierce excitement on the fights of men and lions. coming back, we were refreshed all through the streets by the sight of the women of arles. they answered to their reputation for beauty; tall, erect, and noble, with high and dignified features, and a full, earnest gaze of the eye, they looked as if the eagle still waved its wings over their city. even the very old women still have a degree of beauty, because when the colors are all faded, and the skin wrinkled, the face retains this dignity of outline. the men do not share in these characteristics; some priestess, well beloved of the powers of old religion, must have called down an especial blessing on her sex in this town. hence to marseilles,--where is little for the traveller to see, except the mixture of oriental blood in the crowd of the streets. thence by steamer to genoa. of this transit, he who has been on the mediterranean in a stiff breeze well understands i can have nothing to say, except "i suffered." it was all one dull, tormented dream to me, and, i believe, to most of the ship's company,--a dream too of thirty hours' duration, instead of the promised sixteen. the excessive beauty of genoa is well known, and the impression upon the eye alone was correspondent with what i expected; but, alas! the weather was still so cold i could not realize that i had actually touched those shores to which i had looked forward all my life, where it seemed that the heart would expand, and the whole nature be turned to delight. seen by a cutting wind, the marble palaces, the gardens, the magnificent water-view of genoa, failed to charm,--"i _saw, not felt_, how beautiful they were." only at naples have i found _my_ italy, and here not till after a week's waiting,--not till i began to believe that all i had heard in praise of the climate of italy was fable, and that there is really no spring anywhere except in the imagination of poets. for the first week was an exact copy of the miseries of a new england spring; a bright sun came for an hour or two in the morning, just to coax you forth without your cloak, and then came up a villanous, horrible wind, exactly like the worst east wind of boston, breaking the heart, racking the brain, and turning hope and fancy to an irrevocable green and yellow hue, in lieu of their native rose. however, here at naples i _have_ at last found _my_ italy; i have passed through the grotto of pausilippo, visited cuma, baiæ, and capri, ascended vesuvius, and found all familiar, except the sense of enchantment, of sweet exhilaration, this scene conveys. "behold how brightly breaks the morning!" and yet all new, as if never yet described, for nature here, most prolific and exuberant in her gifts, has touched them all with a charm unhackneyed, unhackneyable, which the boots of english dandies cannot trample out, nor the raptures of sentimental tourists daub or fade. baiæ had still a hid divinity for me, vesuvius a fresh baptism of fire, and sorrento--o sorrento was beyond picture, beyond poesy, for the greatest artist had been at work there in a temper beyond the reach of human art. beyond this, reader, my old friend and valued acquaintance on other themes, i shall tell you nothing of naples, for it is a thing apart in the journey of life, and, if represented at all, should be so in a fairer form than offers itself at present. now the actual life here is over, i am going to rome, and expect to see that fane of thought the last day of this week. at genoa and leghorn, i saw for the first time italians in their homes. very attractive i found them, charming women, refined men, eloquent and courteous. if the cold wind hid italy, it could not the italians. a little group of faces, each so full of character, dignity, and, what is so rare in an american face, the capacity for pure, exalting passion, will live ever in my memory,--the fulfilment of a hope! we started from leghorn in an english boat, highly recommended, and as little deserving of such praise as many another bepuffed article. in the middle of a fine, clear night, she was run into by the mail steamer, which all on deck clearly saw coming upon her, for no reason that could be ascertained, except that the man at the wheel said _he_ had turned the right way, and it never seemed to occur to him that he could change when he found the other steamer had taken the same direction. to be sure, the other steamer was equally careless, but as a change on our part would have prevented an accident that narrowly missed sending us all to the bottom, it hardly seemed worth while to persist, for the sake of convicting them of error. neither the captain nor any of his people spoke french, and we had been much amused before by the chambermaid acting out the old story of "will you lend me the loan of a gridiron?" a polish lady was on board, with a french waiting-maid, who understood no word of english. the daughter of john bull would speak to the lady in english, and, when she found it of no use, would say imperiously to the _suivante_, "go and ask your mistress what she will have for breakfast." and now when i went on deck there was a parley between the two steamers, which the captain was obliged to manage by such interpreters as he could find; it was a long and confused business. it ended at last in the neapolitan steamer taking us in tow for an inglorious return to leghorn. when she had decided upon this she swept round, her lights glancing like sagacious eyes, to take us. the sea was calm as a lake, the sky full of stars; she made a long detour, with her black hull, her smoke and lights, which look so pretty at night, then came round to us like the bend of an arm embracing. it was a pretty picture, worth the stop and the fright,--perhaps the loss of twenty-four hours, though i did not think so at the time. at leghorn we changed the boat, and, retracing our steps, came now at last to naples,--to this priest-ridden, misgoverned, full of dirty, degraded men and women, yet still most lovely naples,--of which the most i can say is that the divine aspect of nature _can_ make you forget the situation of man in this region, which was surely intended for him as a princely child, angelic in virtue, genius, and beauty, and not as a begging, vermin-haunted, image kissing lazzarone. letter xiv. italy.--misfortune of travellers.--english travellers.-- cockneyism.--macdonald the sculptor.--british aristocracy.-- tenerani.--wolff's diana and seasons.--gott.--crawford.--overbeck the painter.--american painters in rome.--terry.--granch.--hicks.-- remains of the antique.--italian painters.--domenichimo and titian.--frescos of raphael.--michel angelo.--the colosseum.--holy week.--st. peter's.--pius ix. and his measures.--popular enthusiasm.--public dinner at the baths of titus.--austrian jealousy.--the "contemporaneo." rome, may, . there is very little that i can like to write about italy. italy is beautiful, worthy to be loved and embraced, not talked about. yet i remember well that, when afar, i liked to read what was written about her; now, all thought of it is very tedious. the traveller passing along the beaten track, vetturinoed from inn to inn, ciceroned from gallery to gallery, thrown, through indolence, want of tact, or ignorance of the language, too much into the society of his compatriots, sees the least possible of the country; fortunately, it is impossible to avoid seeing a great deal. the great features of the part pursue and fill the eye. yet i find that it is quite out of the question to know italy; to say anything of her that is full and sweet, so as to convey any idea of her spirit, without long residence, and residence in the districts untouched by the scorch and dust of foreign invasion (the invasion of the _dilettanti_ i mean), and without an intimacy of feeling, an abandonment to the spirit of the place, impossible to most americans. they retain too much, of their english blood; and the travelling english, as a class, seem to me the most unseeing of all possible animals. there are exceptions; for instance, the perceptions and pictures of browning seem as delicate and just here on the spot as they did at a distance; but, take them as a class, they have the vulgar familiarity of mrs. trollope without her vivacity, the cockneyism of dickens without his graphic power and love of the odd corners of human nature. i admired the english at home in their island; i admired their honor, truth, practical intelligence, persistent power. but they do not look well in italy; they are not the figures for this landscape. i am indignant at the contempt they have presumed to express for the faults of our semi-barbarous state. what is the vulgarity expressed in our tobacco-chewing, and way of eating eggs, compared to that which elbows the greek marbles, guide-book in hand,--chatters and sneers through the miserere of the sistine chapel, beneath the very glance of michel angelo's sibyls,--praises st. peter's as "_nice_"--talks of "_managing_" the colosseum by moonlight,--and snatches "_bits_" for a "_sketch_" from the sublime silence of the campagna. yet i was again reconciled with them, the other day, in visiting the studio of macdonald. there i found a complete gallery of the aristocracy of england; for each lord and lady who visits rome considers it a part of the ceremony to sit to him for a bust. and what a fine race! how worthy the marble! what heads of orators, statesmen, gentlemen! of women chaste, grave, resolute, and tender! unfortunately, they do not look as well in flesh and blood; then they show the habitual coldness of their temperament, the habitual subservience to frivolous conventionalities. they need some great occasion, some exciting crisis, in order to make them look as free and dignified as these busts; yet is the beauty there, though, imprisoned, and clouded, and such a crisis would show us more then one boadicea, more than one alfred. tenerani has just completed a statue which is highly-spoken of; it is called the angel of the resurrection. i was not so fortunate as to find it in his studio. in that of wolff i saw a diana, ordered by the emperor of russia. it is modern and sentimental; as different from, the antique diana as the trance of a novel-read young lady of our day from the thrill with which the ancient shepherds deprecated the magic pervasions of hecate, but very beautiful and exquisitely wrought. he has also lately finished the four seasons, represented as children. of these, winter is graceful and charming. among the sculptors i delayed longest in the work-rooms of gott. i found his groups of young figures connected with animals very refreshing after the grander attempts of the present time. they seem real growths of his habitual mind,--fruits of nature, full of joy and freedom. his spaniels and other frisky poppets would please apollo far better than most of the marble nymphs and muses of the present day. our crawford has just finished a bust of mrs. crawford, which is extremely beautiful, full of grace and innocent sweetness. all its accessaries are charming,--the wreaths, the arrangement of drapery, the stuff of which the robe is made. i hope it will be much seen on its arrival in new york. he has also an herodias in the clay, which is individual in expression, and the figure of distinguished elegance. i liked the designs of crawford better than those of gibson, who is estimated as highest in the profession now. among the studios of the european painters i have visited only that of overbeck. it is well known in the united states what his pictures are. i have much to say at a more favorable time of what they represented to me. he himself looks as if he had just stepped out of one of them,--a lay monk, with a pious eye and habitual morality of thought which limits every gesture. painting is not largely represented here by american artists at present. terry has two pleasing pictures on the easel: one is a costume picture of italian life, such as i saw it myself, enchanted beyond my hopes, on coming to naples on a day of grand festival in honor of santa agatha. cranch sends soon to america a picture of the campagna, such as i saw it on my first entrance into rome, all light and calmness; hicks, a charming half-length of an italian girl, holding a mandolin: it will be sure to please. his pictures are full of life, and give the promise of some real achievement in art. of the fragments of the great time, i have now seen nearly all that are treasured up here: i have, however, as yet nothing of consequence to say of them. i find that others have often given good hints as to how they _look_; and as to what they _are_, it can only be known by approximating to the state of soul out of which they grew. they should not be described, but reproduced. they are many and precious, yet is there not so much of high excellence as i had expected: they will not float the heart on a boundless sea of feeling, like the starry night on our western prairies. yet i love much to see the galleries of marbles, even when there are not many separately admirable, amid the cypresses and ilexes of roman villas; and a picture that is good at all looks very good in one of these old palaces. the italian painters whom i have learned most to appreciate, since i came abroad, are domenichino and titian. of others one may learn something by copies and engravings: but not of these. the portraits of titian look upon me from the walls things new and strange. they are portraits of men such as i have not known. in his picture, absurdly called _sacred and profane love_, in the borghese palace, one of the figures has developed my powers of gazing to an extent unknown before. domenichino seems very unequal in his pictures; but when he is grand and free, the energy of his genius perfectly satisfies. the frescos of caracci and his scholars in the farnese palace have been to me a source of the purest pleasure, and i do not remember to have heard of them. i loved guercino much before i came here, but i have looked too much at his pictures and begin to grow sick of them; he is a very limited genius. leonardo i cannot yet like at all, but i suppose the pictures are good for some people to look at; they show a wonderful deal of study and thought. that is not what i can best appreciate in a work of art. i hate to see the marks of them. i want a simple and direct expression of soul. for the rest, the ordinary cant of connoisseur-ship on these matters seems in italy even more detestable than elsewhere. i have not yet so sufficiently recovered from my pain at finding the frescos of raphael in such a state, as to be able to look at them, happily. i had heard of their condition, but could not realize it. however, i have gained nothing by seeing his pictures in oil, which are well preserved. i find i had before the full impression of his genius. michel angelo's frescos, in like manner, i seem to have seen as far as i can. but it is not the same with the sculptures: my thought had not risen to the height of the moses. it is the only thing in europe, so far, which has entirely outgone my hopes. michel angelo was my demigod before; but i find no offering worthy to cast at the feet of his moses. i like much, too, his christ. it is a refreshing contrast with all the other representations of the same subject. i like it even as contrasted with raphael's christ of the transfiguration, or that of the cartoon of _feed my lambs_. i have heard owls hoot in the colosseum by moonlight, and they spoke more to the purpose than i ever heard any other voice upon that subject. i have seen all the pomps and shows of holy week in the church of st. peter, and found them less imposing than an habitual acquaintance with the place, with processions of monks and nuns stealing in now and then, or the swell of vespers from some side chapel. i have ascended the dome, and seen thence rome and its campagna, its villas with, their cypresses and pines serenely sad as is nothing else in the world, and the fountains of the vatican garden gushing hard by. i have been in the subterranean to see a poor little boy introduced, much to his surprise, to the bosom of the church; and then i have seen by torch-light the stone popes where they lie on their tombs, and the old mosaics, and virgins with gilt caps. it is all rich, and full,--very impressive in its way. st. peter's must be to each one a separate poem. the ceremonies of the church, have been numerous and splendid during our stay here; and they borrow unusual interest from the love and expectation inspired by the present pontiff. he is a man of noble and good aspect, who, it is easy to see, has set his heart upon doing something solid for the benefit of man. but pensively, too, must one feel how hampered and inadequate are the means at his command to accomplish these ends. the italians do not feel it, but deliver themselves, with all the vivacity of their temperament, to perpetual hurras, vivas, rockets, and torch-light processions. i often think how grave and sad must the pope feel, as he sits alone and hears all this noise of expectation. a week or two ago the cardinal secretary published a circular inviting the departments to measures which would give the people a sort of representative council. nothing could seem more limited than this improvement, but it was a great measure for rome. at night the corso in which, we live was illuminated, and many thousands passed through it in a torch-bearing procession. i saw them first assembled in the piazza del popolo, forming around its fountain a great circle of fire. then, as a river of fire, they streamed slowly through the corso, on their way to the quirinal to thank the pope, upbearing a banner on which the edict was printed. the stream, of fire advanced slowly, with a perpetual surge-like sound of voices; the torches flashed on the animated italian faces. i have never seen anything finer. ascending the quirinal they made it a mount of light. bengal fires were thrown up, which cast their red and white light on the noble greek figures of men and horses that reign over it. the pope appeared on his balcony; the crowd shouted three vivas; he extended his arms; the crowd fell on their knees and received his benediction; he retired, and the torches were extinguished, and the multitude dispersed in an instant. the same week came the natal day of rome. a great dinner was given at the baths of titus, in the open air. the company was on the grass in the area; the music at one end; boxes filled with the handsome roman women occupied the other sides. it was a new thing here, this popular dinner, and the romans greeted it in an intoxication of hope and pleasure. sterbini, author of "the vestal," presided: many others, like him, long time exiled and restored to their country by the present pope, were at the tables. the colosseum, and triumphal arches were in sight; an effigy of the roman wolf with her royal nursling was erected on high; the guests, with shouts and music, congratulated themselves on the possession, in pius ix., of a new and nobler founder for another state. among the speeches that of the marquis d'azeglio, a man of literary note in italy, and son-in-law of manzoni, contained this passage (he was sketching the past history of italy):-- "the crown passed to the head of a german monarch; but he wore it not to the benefit, but the injury, of christianity,--of the world. the emperor henry was a tyrant who wearied out the patience of god. god said to rome, 'i give you the emperor henry'; and from these hills that surround us, hildebrand, pope gregory vii., raised his austere and potent voice to say to the emperor, 'god did not give you italy that you might destroy her,' and italy, germany, europe, saw her butcher prostrated at the feet of gregory in penitence. italy, germany, europe, had then kindled in the heart the first spark of liberty." the narrative of the dinner passed the censor, and was published: the ambassador of austria read it, and found, with a modesty and candor truly admirable, that this passage was meant to allude to his emperor. he must take his passports, if such home thrusts are to be made. and so the paper was seized, and the account of the dinner only told from, mouth to mouth, from those who had already read it. also the idea of a dinner for the pope's fête-day is abandoned, lest something too frank should again be said; and they tell me here, with a laugh, "i fancy you have assisted at the first and last popular dinner." thus we may see that the liberty of rome does not yet advance with seven-leagued boots; and the new romulus will need to be prepared for deeds at least as bold as his predecessor, if he is to open a new order of things. i cannot well wind up my gossip on this subject better than by translating a passage from the programme of the _contemporaneo_, which represents the hope of rome at this moment. it is conducted by men of well-known talent. "the _contemporaneo_ (contemporary) is a journal of progress, but tempered, as the good and wise think best, in conformity with the will of our best of princes, and the wants and expectations of the public.... "through discussion it desires to prepare minds to receive reforms so soon and far as they are favored by the law of _opportunity_. "every attempt which is made contrary to this social law must fail. it is vain to hope fruits from a tree out of season, and equally in vain to introduce the best measures into a country not prepared to receive them." and so on. i intended to have translated in full the programme, but time fails, and the law of opportunity does not favor, as my "opportunity" leaves for london this afternoon. i have given enough to mark the purport of the whole. it will easily be seen that it was not from the platform assumed by the _contemporaneo_ that lycurgus legislated, or socrates taught,--that the christian religion was propagated, or the church, was reformed by luther. the opportunity that the martyrs found here in the colosseum, from whose blood grew up this great tree of papacy, was not of the kind waited for by these moderate progressists. nevertheless, they may be good schoolmasters for italy, and are not to be disdained in these piping times of peace. more anon, of old and new, from tuscany. letter xv. italy.--fruits and flowers on the route from florence to rome.--the plain of umbria.--assisi.--the saints.--tuition in schools.--pius ix.--the etrurian tomb.--perugia and its stores of early art.--portraits of raphael.--florence.--the grand duke and his policy.--the liberty of the press and its influence.--the american sculptors.--greenough and his new works.--powers.--his statue of calhoun.--review of his endeavors.--the festivals of st. john at florence.--bologna.--female professors in its university.--matilda tambroni and others.--milan and her female mathematician.--the state of woman in italy.--ravenna and byron.--venice.--the adda.--milan and its neighborhood, and manzoni.--excitements.--national affairs. milan, august , . since leaving rome, i have not been able to steal a moment from the rich and varied objects before me to write about them. i will, therefore, take a brief retrospect of the ground. i passed from florence to rome by the perugia route, and saw for the first time the italian vineyards. the grapes hung in little clusters. when i return, they will be full of light and life, but the fields will not be so enchantingly fresh, nor so enamelled with flowers. the profusion of red poppies, which dance on every wall and glitter throughout the grass, is a great ornament to the landscape. in full sunlight their vermilion is most beautiful. well might ceres gather _such_ poppies to mingle with her wheat. we climbed the hill to assisi, and my ears thrilled as with many old remembered melodies, when an old peasant, in sonorous phrase, bade me look out and see the plain of umbria. i looked back and saw the carriage toiling up the steep path, drawn by a pair of those light-colored oxen shelley so much admired. i stood near the spot where goethe met with a little adventure, which he has described with even more than his usual delicate humor. who can ever be alone for a moment in italy? every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems instinct with spirit from the past, every step recalls some line, some legend of long-neglected lore. assisi was exceedingly charming to me. so still!--all temporal noise and bustle seem hushed down yet by the presence of the saint. so clean!--the rains of heaven wash down all impurities into the valley. i must confess that, elsewhere, i have shared the feelings of dickens toward st. francis and st. sebastian, as the "mounseer tonsons" of catholic art. st. sebastian i have not been so tired of, for the beauty and youth of the figure make the monotony with which the subject of his martyrdom is treated somewhat less wearisome. but st. francis is so sad, and so ecstatic, and so brown, so entirely the monk,--and st. clara so entirely the nun! i have been very sorry for her that he was able to draw her from the human to the heavenly life; she seems so sad and so worn out by the effort. but here at assisi, one cannot help being penetrated by the spirit that flowed from that life. here is the room where his father shut up the boy to punish his early severity of devotion. here is the picture which represents him despoiled of all outward things, even his garments,--devoting himself, body and soul, to the service of god in the way he believed most acceptable. here is the underground chapel, where rest those weary bones, saluted by the tears of so many weary pilgrims who have come hither to seek strength from his example. here are the churches above, full of the works of earlier art, animated by the contagion of a great example. it is impossible not to bow the head, and feel how mighty an influence flows from a single soul, sincere in its service of truth, in whatever form that truth comes to it. a troop of neat, pretty school-girls attended us about, going with us into the little chapels adorned with pictures which open at every corner of the streets, smiling on us at a respectful distance. some of them were fourteen or fifteen years old. i found reading, writing, and sewing were all they learned at their school; the first, indeed, they knew well enough, if they could ever get books to use it on. tranquil as assisi was, on every wall was read _viva pio ix.!_ and we found the guides and workmen in the shop full of a vague hope from him. the old love which has made so rich this aerial cradle of st. francis glows warm as ever in the breasts of men; still, as ever, they long for hero-worship, and shout aloud at the least appearance of an object. the church at the foot of the hill, santa maria degli angeli, seems tawdry after assisi. it also is full of records of st. francis, his pains and his triumphs. here, too, on a little chapel, is the famous picture by overbeck; too exact a copy, but how different in effect from the early art we had just seen above! harmonious but frigid, grave but dull; childhood is beautiful, but not when continued, or rather transplanted, into the period where we look for passion, varied means, and manly force. before reaching perugia, i visited an etrurian tomb, which is a little way off the road; it is said to be one of the finest in etruria. the hill-side is full of them, but excavations are expensive, and not frequent. the effect of this one was beyond my expectations; in it were several female figures, very dignified and calm, as the dim lamp-light fell on them by turns. the expression of these figures shows that the position of woman in these states was noble. their eagles' nests cherished well the female eagle who kept watch in the eyrie. perugia too is on a noble hill. what a daily excitement such a view, taken at every step! life is worth ten times as much in a city so situated. perugia is full, overflowing, with the treasures of early art. i saw them so rapidly it seems now as if in a trance, yet certainly with a profit, a manifold gain, such as mahomet thought he gained from his five minutes' visits to other spheres. here are two portraits of raphael as a youth: it is touching to see what effect this angel had upon all that surrounded him from the very first. florence! i was there a month, and in a sense saw florence: that is to say, i took an inventory of what is to be seen there, and not without great intellectual profit. there is too much that is really admirable in art,--the nature of its growth lies before you too clearly to be evaded. of such things more elsewhere. i do not like florence as i do cities more purely italian. the natural character is ironed out here, and done up in a french pattern; yet there is no french vivacity, nor italian either. the grand duke--more and more agitated by the position in which he finds himself between the influence of the pope and that of austria--keeps imploring and commanding his people to keep still, and they _are_ still and glum as death. this is all on the outside; within, tuscany burns. private culture has not been in vain, and there is, in a large circle, mental preparation for a very different state of things from the present, with an ardent desire to diffuse the same amid the people at large. the sovereign has been obliged for the present to give more liberty to the press, and there is an immediate rush of thought to the new vent; if it is kept open a few months, the effect on the body of the people cannot fail to be great. i intended to have translated some passages from the programme of the _patria_, one of the papers newly started at florence, but time fails. one of the articles in the same number by lambruschini, on the duties of the clergy at this juncture, contains views as liberal as can be found in print anywhere in the world. more of these things when i return to rome in the autumn, when i hope to find a little leisure to think over what i have seen, and, if found worthy, to put the result in writing. i visited the studios of our sculptors; greenough has in clay a david which promises high beauty and nobleness, a bass-relief, full of grace and tender expression; he is also modelling a head of napoleon, and justly enthusiastic in the study. his great group i did not see in such a state as to be secure of my impression. the face of the pioneer is very fine, the form of the woman graceful and expressive; but i was not satisfied with the indian. i shall see it more as a whole on my return to florence. as to the eve and the greek slave, i could only join with the rest of the world in admiration of their beauty and the fine feeling of nature which they exhibit. the statue of calhoun is full of power, simple, and majestic in attitude and expression. in busts powers seems to me unrivalled; still, he ought not to spend his best years on an employment which cannot satisfy his ambition nor develop his powers. if our country loves herself, she will order from him some great work before the prime of his genius has been frittered away, and his best years spent on lesser things. i saw at florence the festivals of st. john, but they are poor affairs to one who has seen the neapolitan and roman people on such occasions. passing from florence, i came to bologna,--learned bologna; indeed an italian city, full of expression, of physiognomy, so to speak. a woman should love bologna, for there has the spark of intellect in woman been cherished with reverent care. not in former ages only, but in this, bologna raised a woman who was worthy to the dignities of its university, and in their certosa they proudly show the monument to matilda tambroni, late greek professor there. her letters, preserved by her friends, are said to form a very valuable collection. in their anatomical hall is the bust of a woman, professor of anatomy. in art they have had properzia di rossi, elizabetta sirani, lavinia fontana, and delight to give their works a conspicuous place. in other cities the men alone have their _casino dei nobili_, where they give balls, _conversazioni_, and similar entertainments. here women have one, and are the soul of society. in milan, also, i see in the ambrosian library the bust of a female mathematician. these things make me feel that, if the state of woman in italy is so depressed, yet a good-will toward a better is not wholly wanting. still more significant is the reverence to the madonna and innumerable female saints, who, if, like st. teresa, they had intellect as well as piety, became counsellors no less than comforters to the spirit of men. ravenna, too, i saw, and its old christian art, the pineta, where byron loved to ride, and the paltry apartments where, cheered by a new affection, in which was more of tender friendship than of passion, he found himself less wretched than at beautiful venice or stately genoa. all the details of this visit to ravenna are pretty. i shall write them out some time. of padua, too, the little to be said should be said in detail. of venice and its enchanted life i could not speak; it should only be echoed back in music. there only i began to feel in its fulness venetian art. it can only be seen in its own atmosphere. never had i the least idea of what is to be seen at venice. it seems to me as if no one ever yet had seen it,--so entirely wanting is any expression of what i felt myself. venice! on this subject i shall not write much till time, place, and mode agree to make it fit. venice, where all is past, is a fit asylum for the dynasties of the past. the duchesse de berri owns one of the finest palaces on the grand canal; the duc de bordeaux rents another; mademoiselle taglioni has bought the famous casa d'oro, and it is under repair. thanks to the fashion which has made venice a refuge of this kind, the palaces, rarely inhabited by the representatives of their ancient names, are valuable property, and the noble structures will not be suffered to lapse into the sea, above which they rose so proudly. the restorations, too, are made with excellent taste and judgment,--nothing is spoiled. three of these fine palaces are now hotels, so that the transient visitor can enjoy from their balconies all the wondrous shows of the venetian night and day as much as any of their former possessors did. i was at the europa, formerly the giustiniani palace, with better air than those on the grand canal, and a more unobstructed view than danieli's. madame de berri gave an entertainment on the birthnight of her son, and the old duchesse d'angoulême came from vienna to attend it. 't was a scene of fairy-land, the palace full of light, so that from the canal could be seen even the pictures on the walls. landing from the gondolas, the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen seemed to rise from the water; we also saw them glide up the great stair, rustling their plumes, and in the reception-rooms make and receive the customary grimaces. a fine band stationed on the opposite side of the canal played the while, and a flotilla of gondolas lingered there to listen. i, too, amid, the mob, a pleasant position in venice alone, thought of the stuarts, bourbons, bonapartes, here in italy, and offered up a prayer that other names, when the possessors have power without the heart to use it for the emancipation of mankind, might he added to the list, and other princes, more rich in blood than brain, might come to enjoy a perpetual _villeggiatura_ in italy. it did not seem to me a cruel wish. the show of greatness will satisfy every legitimate desire of such minds. a gentle punishment for the distributors of _letters de cachet_ and spielberg dungeons to their fellow-men. having passed more than a fortnight at venice, i have come here, stopping at vicenza, verona, mantua, lago di garda, brescia. certainly i have learned more than ever in any previous ten days of my existence, and have formed an idea what is needed for the study of art and its history in these regions. to be sure, i shall never have time to follow it up, but it is a delight to look up those glorious vistas, even when there is no hope of entering them. a violent shower obliged me to stop on the way. it was late at night, and i was nearly asleep, when, roused by the sound of bubbling waters, i started up and asked, "is that the adda?" and it was. so deep is the impression made by a simple natural recital, like that of renzo's wanderings in the _promessi sposi_, that the memory of his hearing the adda in this way occurred to me at once, and the adda seemed familiar as if i had been a native of this region. as the scottish lakes seem the domain of walter scott, so does milan and its neighborhood in the mind of a foreigner belong to manzoni. i have seen him since, the gentle lord of this wide domain; his hair is white, but his eyes still beam as when he first saw the apparitions of truth, simple tenderness, and piety which he has so admirably recorded for our benefit. those around lament that the fastidiousness of his taste prevents his completing and publishing more, and that thus a treasury of rare knowledge and refined thought will pass from us without our reaping the benefit. we, indeed, have no title to complain, what we do possess from his hand is so excellent. at this moment there is great excitement in italy. a supposed spy of austria has been assassinated at ferrara, and austrian troops are marched there. it is pretended that a conspiracy has been discovered in rome; the consequent disturbances have been put down. the national guard is forming. all things seem to announce that some important change is inevitable here, but what? neither radicals nor moderates dare predict with confidence, and i am yet too much a stranger to speak with assurance of impressions i have received. but it is impossible not to hope. letter xvi. review of past and present.--the merits of italian literature.--manzoni.--italian dialects.--milan, the milanese, and the simplicity of their language.--the north of italy, and a tour to switzerland.--italian lakes.--maggiore, como, and lugano.--lago di garda.--the boatmen of the lakes and the gondoliers.--lady franklin, widow of the navigator.--return to and festivals at milan.--the archbishop.--austrian rule and austrian policy.--the future hopes of italy.--a glance at pavia, florence, parma, and bologna, and the works of the masters. rome, october, . i think my last letter was from milan, and written after i had seen manzoni. this was to me a great pleasure. i have now seen the most important representatives who survive of the last epoch in thought. our age has still its demonstrations to make, its heroes and poets to crown. although the modern italian literature is not poor, as many persons at a distance suppose, but, on the contrary, surprisingly rich in tokens of talent, if we consider the circumstances under which it struggles to exist, yet very few writers have or deserve a european or american reputation. where a whole country is so kept down, her best minds cannot take the lead in the progress of the age; they have too much to suffer, too much to explain. but among the few who, through depth of spiritual experience and the beauty of form in which it is expressed, belong not only to italy, but to the world, manzoni takes a high rank. the passive virtues he teaches are no longer what is wanted; the manners he paints with so delicate a fidelity are beginning to change; but the spirit of his works,--the tender piety, the sensibility to the meaning of every humblest form of life, the delicate humor and satire so free from disdain,--these are immortal. young italy rejects manzoni, though not irreverently; young italy prizes his works, but feels that the doctrine of "pray and wait" is not for her at this moment,--that she needs a more fervent hope, a more active faith. she is right. it is well known that the traveller, if he knows the italian language as written in books, the standard tuscan, still finds himself a stranger in many parts of italy, unable to comprehend the dialects, with their lively abbreviations and witty slang. that of venice i had understood somewhat, and could enter into the drollery and _naïveté_ of the gondoliers, who, as a class, have an unusual share of character. but the milanese i could not at first understand at all. their language seemed to me detestably harsh, and their gestures unmeaning. but after a friend, who possesses that large and ready sympathy easier found in italy than anywhere else, had translated for me verbatim into french some of the poems written in the milanese, and then read them aloud in the original, i comprehended the peculiar inflection of voice and idiom in the people, and was charmed with it, as one is with the instinctive wit and wisdom of children. there is very little to see at milan, compared with any other italian city; and this was very fortunate for me, allowing an interval of repose in the house, which i cannot take when there is so much without, tempting me to incessant observation and study. i went through, the north of italy with a constantly increasing fervor of interest. when i had thought of italy, it was always of the south, of the roman states, of tuscany. but now i became deeply interested in the history, the institutions, the art of the north. the fragments of the past mark the progress of its waves so clearly, i learned to understand, to prize them every day more, to know how to make use of the books about them. i shall have much to say on these subjects some day. leaving milan, i went on the lago maggiore, and afterward into switzerland. of this tour i shall not speak here; it was a beautiful little romance by itself, and infinitely refreshing to be so near nature in these grand and simple forms, after so much exciting thought of art and man. the day passed in the st. bernardin, with its lofty peaks and changing lights upon the distant snows,--its holy, exquisite valleys and waterfalls, its stories of eagles and chamois, was the greatest refreshment i ever experienced: it was bracing as a cold bath after the heat of a crowd amid which one has listened to some most eloquent oration. returning from switzerland, i passed a fortnight on the lake of como, and afterward visited lugano. there is no exaggeration in the enthusiastic feeling with which artists and poets have viewed these italian lakes. their beauties are peculiar, enchanting, innumerable. the titan of richter, the wanderjahre of goethe, the elena of taylor, the pictures of turner, had not prepared me for the visions of beauty that daily entranced the eyes and heart in those regions. to our country nature has been most bounteous; but we have nothing in the same kind that can compare with these lakes, as seen under the italian heaven. as to those persons who have pretended to discover that the effects of light and atmosphere were no finer than they found in our own lake scenery, i can only say that they must be exceedingly obtuse in organization,--a defect not uncommon among americans. nature seems to have labored to express her full heart in as many ways as possible, when she made these lakes, moulded and planted their shores. lago maggiore is grand, resplendent in its beauty; the view of the alps gives a sort of lyric exaltation to the scene. lago di garda is so soft and fair,--so glittering sweet on one side, the ruins of ancient palaces rise so softly with the beauties of that shore; but at the other end, amid the tyrol, it is sublime, calm, concentrated in its meaning. como cannot be better described in general than in the words of taylor: "softly sublime, profusely fair." lugano is more savage, more free in its beauty. i was on it in a high gale; there was a little clanger, just enough to exhilarate; its waters were wild, and clouds blowing across the neighboring peaks. i like very much the boatmen on these lakes; they have strong and prompt character. of simple features, they are more honest and manly than italian men are found in the thoroughfares; their talk is not so witty as that of the venetian gondoliers, but picturesque, and what the french call _incisive_. very touching were some of their histories, as they told them to me while pausing sometimes on the lake. on this lake, also, i met lady franklin, wife of the celebrated navigator. she has been in the united states, and showed equal penetration and candor in remarks on what she had seen there. she gave me interesting particulars as to the state of things in van diemen's land, where she passed seven years when her husband was in authority there. i returned to milan for the great feast of the madonna, th september, and those made for the archbishop's entry, which took place the same week. these excited as much feeling as the milanese can have a chance to display, this archbishop being much nearer tire public heart than his predecessor, who was a poor servant of austria. the austrian rule is always equally hated, and time, instead of melting away differences, only makes them more glaring. the austrian race have no faculties that can ever enable them to understand the italian character; their policy, so well contrived to palsy and repress for a time, cannot kill, and there is always a force at work underneath which shall yet, and i think now before long, shake off the incubus. the italian nobility have always kept the invader at a distance; they have not been at all seduced or corrupted by the lures of pleasure or power, but have shown a passive patriotism highly honorable to them. in the middle class ferments much thought, and there is a capacity for effort; in the present system it cannot show itself, but it is there; thought ferments, and will yet produce a wine that shall set the lombard veins on fire when the time for action shall arrive. the lower classes of the population are in a dull state indeed. the censorship of the press prevents all easy, natural ways of instructing them; there are no public meetings, no free access to them by more instructed and aspiring minds. the austrian policy is to allow them a degree of material well-being, and though so much wealth is drained from, the country for the service of the foreigners, jet enough must remain on these rich plains comfortably to feed and clothe the inhabitants. yet the great moral influence of the pope's action, though obstructed in their case, does reach and rouse them, and they, too, felt the thrill of indignation at the occupation of ferrara. the base conduct of the police toward the people, when, at milan, some youths were resolute to sing tire hymn in honor of pius ix., when the feasts for the archbishop afforded so legitimate an occasion, roused all the people to unwonted feeling. the nobles protested, and austria had not courage to persist as usual. she could not sustain her police, who rushed upon a defenceless crowd, that had no share in what excited their displeasure, except by sympathy, and, driving them like sheep, wounded them _in the backs_. austria feels that there is now no sympathy for her in these matters; that it is not the interest of the world to sustain her. her policy is, indeed, too thoroughly organized to change except by revolution; its scope is to serve, first, a reigning family instead of the people; second, with the people to seek a physical in preference to an intellectual good; and, third, to prefer a seeming outward peace to an inward life. this policy may change its opposition from the tyrannical to the insidious; it can know no other change. yet do i meet persons who call themselves americans,--miserable, thoughtless esaus, unworthy their high birthright,--who think that a mess of pottage can satisfy the wants of man, and that the viennese listening to strauss's waltzes, the lombard peasant supping full of his polenta, is _happy enough_. alas: i have the more reason to be ashamed of my countrymen that it is not among the poor, who have so much, toil that there is little time to think, but those who are rich, who travel,--in body that is, they do not travel in mind. absorbed at home by the lust of gain, the love of show, abroad they see only the equipages, the fine clothes, the food,--they have no heart for the idea, for the destiny of our own great nation: how can they feel the spirit that is struggling now in this and others of europe? but of the hopes of italy i will write more fully in another letter, and state what i have seen, what felt, what thought. i went from milan, to pavia, and saw its magnificent certosa, i passed several hours in examining its riches, especially the sculptures of its façade, full of force and spirit. i then went to florence by parma and bologna. in parma, though ill, i went to see all the works of the masters. a wonderful beauty it is that informs them,--not that which is the chosen food of my soul, yet a noble beauty, and which did its message to me also. those works are failing; it will not be useless to describe them in a book. beside these pictures, i saw nothing in parma and modena; these states are obliged to hold their breath while their poor, ignorant sovereigns skulk in corners, hoping to hide from the coming storm. of all this more in my next. letter xvii. first impressions of rome in the spring.--the pope.--rome as a capital.--tuscany.--the liberty of the press there just established.--the enlightened minds and available instructors of tuscany.--italian estimation of pius ix., and the influence, present and future, of his labors.--foreign intrusion the curse of italy.--irruption of the austrians into italy, and its effects.--louis philippe's apostasy turned to the advantage of freedom.--the great fÃ�te at florence in honor of the grant of a national guard.--the american sculptors, greenough, crawford, and their participation in the fÃ�te.--americans generally in italy.--hymns in florence in honor of pius ix.--happy augury to be drawn from the wise docility of the people.--an expression of sympathy from america toward italy earnestly hoped for. rome, october , . in the spring, when i came to rome, the people were in the intoxication of joy at the first serious measures of reform taken by the pope. i saw with pleasure their childlike joy and trust. with equal pleasure i saw the pope, who has not in his expression the signs of intellectual greatness so much as of nobleness and tenderness of heart, of large and liberal sympathies. heart had spoken to heart between the prince and the people; it was beautiful to see the immediate good influence exerted by human feeling and generous designs, on the part of a ruler. he had wished to be a father, and the italians, with that readiness of genius that characterizes them, entered at once into the relation; they, the roman people, stigmatized by prejudice as so crafty and ferocious, showed themselves children, eager to learn, quick to obey, happy to confide. still doubts were always present whether all this joy was not premature. the task undertaken by the pope seemed to present insuperable difficulties. it is never easy to put new wine into old bottles, and our age is one where all things tend to a great crisis; not merely to revolution, but to radical reform. from the people themselves the help must come, and not from princes; in the new state of things, there will be none but natural princes, great men. from the aspirations of the general heart, from the teachings of conscience in individuals, and not from an old ivy-covered church long since undermined, corroded by time and gnawed by vermin, the help must come. rome, to resume her glory, must cease to be an ecclesiastical capital; must renounce all this gorgeous mummery, whose poetry, whose picture, charms no one more than myself, but whose meaning is all of the past, and finds no echo in the future. although i sympathized warmly with the warm love of the people, the adulation of leading writers, who were so willing to take all from the hand of the prince, of the church, as a gift and a bounty, instead of implying steadily that it was the right of the people, was very repulsive to me. the moderate party, like all who, in a transition state, manage affairs with a constant eye to prudence, lacks dignity always in its expositions; it is disagreeable and depressing to read them. passing into tuscany, i found the liberty of the press just established, and a superior preparation to make use of it. the _alba_, the _patria_, were begun, and have been continued with equal judgment and spirit. their aim is to educate the youth, to educate the lower people; they see that this is to be done by promoting thought fearlessly, yet urge temperance in action, while the time is yet so difficult, and many of its signs dubious. they aim at breaking down those barriers between the different states of italy, relics of a barbarous state of polity, artificially kept up by the craft of her foes. while anxious not to break down what is really native to the italian character,--defences and differences that give individual genius a chance to grow and the fruits of each region to ripen in their natural way,--they aim at a harmony of spirit as to measures of education and for the affairs of business, without which italy can never, as one nation, present a front strong enough to resist foreign robbery, and for want of which so much time and talent are wasted here, and internal development almost wholly checked. there is in tuscany a large corps of enlightened minds, well prepared to be the instructors, the elder brothers and guardians, of the lower people, and whose hearts burn to fulfil that noble office. before, it had been almost impossible to them, for the reasons i have named in speaking of lombardy; but during these last four months that the way has been opened by the freedom of the press, and establishment of the national guard,--so valuable, first of all, as giving occasion for public meetings and free interchange of thought between the different classes,--it is surprising how much light they have been able to diffuse. a bolognese, to whom i observed, "how can you be so full of trust when all your hopes depend, not on the recognition of principles and wants throughout the people, but on the life of one mortal man?" replied: "ah! but you don't consider that his life gives us a chance to effect that recognition. if pius ix. be spared to us five years, it will be impossible for his successors ever to take a backward course. our nation is of a genius so vivacious,--we are unhappy, but not stupid, we italians,--we can learn as much in two months as other nations in twenty years." this seemed to me no brag when i returned to tuscany and saw the great development and diffusion of thought that had taken place during my brief absence. the grand duke, a well-intentioned, though dull man, had dared, to declare himself "_an_ italian _prince_" and the heart of tuscany had bounded with hope. it is now deeply as justly felt that _the_ curse of italy is foreign intrusion; that if she could dispense with foreign aid, and be free from foreign aggression, she would find the elements of salvation within herself. all her efforts tend that way, to re-establish the natural position of things; may heaven grant them success! for myself, i believe they will attain it. i see more reason for hope, as i know more of the people. their rash and baffled struggles have taught them prudence; they are wanted in the civilized world as a peculiar influence; their leaders are thinking men, their cause is righteous. i believe that italy will revive to new life, and probably a greater, one more truly rich and glorious, than at either epoch of her former greatness. during the period of my absence, the austrians had entered ferrara. it is well that they hazarded this step, for it showed them the difficulties in acting against a prince of the church who is at the same time a friend to the people. the position was new, and they were probably surprised at the result,--surprised at the firmness of the pope, surprised at the indignation, tempered by calm resolve, on the part of the italians. louis philippe's mean apostasy has this time turned to the advantage of freedom. he renounced the good understanding with england which it had been one of the leading features of his policy to maintain, in the hope of aggrandizing and enriching his family (not france, he did not care for france); he did not know that he was paving the way for italian freedom. england now is led to play a part a little nearer her pretensions as the guardian of progress than she often comes, and the ghost of la fayette looks down, not unappeased, to see the "constitutional king" decried by the subjects he has cheated and lulled so craftily. the king of sardinia is a worthless man, in whom nobody puts any trust so far as regards his heart or honor; but the stress of things seems likely to keep him on the right side. the little sovereigns blustered at first, then ran away affrighted when they found there was really a spirit risen at last within the charmed circle,--a spirit likely to defy, to transcend, the spells of haggard premiers and imbecile monarchs. i arrived in florence, unhappily, too late for the great fête of the th of september, in honor of the grant of a national guard. but i wept at the mere recital of the events of that day, which, if it should lead to no important results, must still be hallowed for ever in the memory of italy, for the great and beautiful emotions that flooded the hearts of her children. the national guard is hailed with no undue joy by italians, as the earnest of progress, the first step toward truly national institutions and a representation of the people. gratitude has done its natural work in their hearts; it has made them better. some days before the fête were passed in reconciling all strifes, composing all differences between cities, districts, and individuals. they wished to drop all petty, all local differences, to wash away all stains, to bathe and prepare for a new great covenant of brotherly love, where each should act for the good of all. on that day they all embraced in sign of this,--strangers, foes, all exchanged the kiss of faith and love; they exchanged banners, as a token that they would fight for, would animate, one another. all was done in that beautiful poetic manner peculiar to this artist people; but it was the spirit, so great and tender, that melts my heart to think of. it was the spirit of true religion,--such, my country! as, welling freshly from some great hearts in thy early hours, won for thee all of value that thou canst call thy own, whose groundwork is the assertion, still sublime though thou hast not been true to it, that all men have equal rights, and that these are _birth_-rights, derived from god alone. i rejoice to say that the americans took their share on this occasion, and that greenough--one of the few americans who, living in italy, takes the pains to know whether it is alive or dead, who penetrates beyond the cheats of tradesmen and the cunning of a mob corrupted by centuries of slavery, to know the real mind, the vital blood, of italy--took a leading part. i am sorry to say that a large portion of my countrymen here take the same slothful and prejudiced view as the english, and, after many years' sojourn, betray entire ignorance of italian literature and italian life, beyond what is attainable in a month's passage through the thoroughfares. however, they did show, this time, a becoming spirit, and erected the american eagle where its cry ought to be heard from afar,--where a nation is striving for independent existence, and a government representing the people. crawford here in rome has had the just feeling to join the guard, and it is a real sacrifice for an artist to spend time on the exercises; but it well becomes the sculptor of orpheus,--of him who had such faith, such music of divine thought, that he made the stones move, turned the beasts from their accustomed haunts, and shamed hell itself into sympathy with the grief of love. i do not deny that such a spirit is wanted here in italy; it is everywhere, if anything great, anything permanent, is to be done. in reference to what i have said of many americans in italy, i will only add, that they talk about the corrupt and degenerate state of italy as they do about that of our slaves at home. they come ready trained to that mode of reasoning which affirms that, because men are degraded by bad institutions, they are not fit for better. as to the english, some of them are full of generous, intelligent sympathy;--indeed what is more solidly, more wisely good than the right sort of englishmen!--but others are like a gentleman i travelled with the other day, a man of intelligence and refinement too as to the details of life and outside culture, who observed, that he did not see what the italians wanted of a national guard, unless to wear these little caps. he was a man who had passed five years in italy, but always covered with that non-conductor called by a witty french writer "the britannic fluid." very sweet to my ear was the continual hymn in the streets of florence, in honor of pius ix. it is the roman hymn, and none of the new ones written in tuscany have been able to take its place. the people thank the grand duke when he does them good, but they know well from whose mind that good originates, and all their love is for the pope. time presses, or i would fain describe in detail the troupe of laborers of the lower class, marching home at night, keeping step as if they were in the national guard, filling the air, and cheering the melancholy moon, by the patriotic hymns sung with the mellow tone and in the perfect time which belong to italians. i would describe the extempore concerts in the streets, the rejoicings at the theatres, where the addresses of liberal souls to the people, through that best vehicle, the drama, may now be heard. but i am tired; what i have to write would fill volumes, and my letter must go. i will only add some words upon the happy augury i draw from the wise docility of the people. with what readiness they listened to wise counsel, and the hopes of the pope that they would give no advantage to his enemies, at a time when they were so fevered by the knowledge that conspiracy was at work in their midst! that was a time of trial. on all these occasions of popular excitement their conduct is like music, in such order, and with such union of the melody of feeling with discretion where to stop; but what is wonderful is that they acted in the same manner on that difficult occasion. the influence of the pope here is without bounds; he can always calm the crowd at once. but in tuscany, where they have no such idol, they listened in the same way on a very trying occasion. the first announcement of the regulation for the tuscan national guard terribly disappointed the people; they felt that the grand duke, after suffering them to demonstrate such trust and joy on the feast of the th, did not really trust, on his side; that he meant to limit them all he could. they felt baffled, cheated; hence young men in anger tore down at once the symbols of satisfaction and respect; but the leading men went among the people, begged them to be calm, and wait till a deputation had seen the grand duke. the people, listening at once to men who, they were sure, had at heart their best good, waited; the grand duke became convinced, and all ended without disturbance. if they continue to act thus, their hopes cannot be baffled. certainly i, for one, do not think that the present road will suffice to lead italy to her goal. but it _is_ an onward, upward road, and the people learn as they advance. now they can seek and think fearless of prisons and bayonets, a healthy circulation of blood begins, and the heart frees itself from disease. i earnestly hope for some expression of sympathy from my country toward italy. take a good chance and do something; you have shown much good feeling toward the old world in its physical difficulties,--you ought to do still more in its spiritual endeavor. this cause is ours, above all others; we ought to show that we feel it to be so. at present there is no likelihood of war, but in case of it i trust the united states would not fail in some noble token of sympathy toward this country. the soul of our nation need not wait for its government; these things are better done by individuals. i believe some in the united states will pay attention to these words of mine, will feel that i am not a person to be kindled by a childish, sentimental enthusiasm, but that i must be sure i have seen something of italy before speaking as i do. i have been here only seven months, but my means of observation have been uncommon. i have been ardently desirous to judge fairly, and had no prejudices to prevent; beside, i was not ignorant of the history and literature of italy, and had some common ground on which to stand with, its inhabitants, and hear what they have to say. in many ways italy is of kin to us; she is the country of columbus, of amerigo, of cabot. it would please me much to see a cannon here bought by the contributions of americans, at whose head should stand the name of cabot, to be used by the guard for salutes on festive occasions, if they should be so happy as to have no more serious need. in tuscany they are casting one to be called the "gioberti," from a writer who has given a great impulse to the present movement. i should like the gift of america to be called the amerigo, the columbo, or the washington. please think of this, some of my friends, who still care for the eagle, the fourth of july, and the old cries of hope and honor. see if there are any objections that i do not think of, and do something if it is well and brotherly. ah! america, with all thy rich boons, thou hast a heavy account to render for the talent given; see in every way that thou be not found wanting. letter xviii. reflections for the new year.--americans in europe.--france, england, poland, italy, russia, austria,--their policy.--europe toils and struggles.--all things bode a new outbreak.--the eagle of america stoops to earth, and shares the character of the vulture.--abolition.--the youth of the land.--anticipations of their usefulness. this letter will reach the united states about the st of january; and it may not be impertinent to offer a few new-year's reflections. every new year, indeed, confirms the old thoughts, but also presents them under some new aspects. the american in europe, if a thinking mind, can only become more american. in some respects it is a great pleasure to be here. although we have an independent political existence, bur position toward europe, as to literature and the arts, is still that of a colony, and one feels the same joy here that is experienced by the colonist in returning to the parent home. what was but picture to us becomes reality; remote allusions and derivations trouble no more: we see the pattern of the stuff, and understand the whole tapestry. there is a gradual clearing up on many points, and many baseless notions and crude fancies are dropped. even the post-haste passage of the business american through the great cities, escorted by cheating couriers and ignorant _valets de place_, unable to hold intercourse with the natives of the country, and passing all his leisure hours with his countrymen, who know no more than himself, clears his mind of some mistakes,--lifts some mists from his horizon. there are three species. first, the servile american,--a being utterly shallow, thoughtless, worthless. he comes abroad to spend his money and indulge his tastes. his object in europe is to have fashionable clothes, good foreign cookery, to know some titled persons, and furnish himself with coffee-house gossip, by retailing which among those less travelled and as uninformed as himself he can win importance at home. i look with unspeakable contempt on this class,--a class which has all the thoughtlessness and partiality of the exclusive classes in europe, without any of their refinement, or the chivalric feeling which still sparkles among them here and there. however, though these willing serfs in a free age do some little hurt, and cause some annoyance at present, they cannot continue long; our country is fated to a grand, independent existence, and, as its laws develop, these parasites of a bygone period must wither and drop away. then there is the conceited american, instinctively bristling and proud of--he knows not what. he does not see, not he, that the history of humanity for many centuries is likely to have produced results it requires some training, some devotion, to appreciate and profit by. with his great clumsy hands, only fitted to work on a steam-engine, he seizes the old cremona violin, makes it shriek with anguish, in his grasp, and then declares he thought it was all humbug before he came, and now he knows it; that there is not really any music in these old things; that the frogs in one of our swamps make much finer, for they are young and alive. to him the etiquettes of courts and camps, the ritual of the church, seem simply silly,--and no wonder, profoundly ignorant as he is of their origin and meaning. just so the legends which are the subjects of pictures, the profound myths which are represented in the antique marbles, amaze and revolt him; as, indeed, such things need to be judged of by another standard than that of the connecticut blue-laws. he criticises severely pictures, feeling quite sure that his natural senses are better means of judgment than the rules of connoisseurs,--not feeling that, to see such objects, mental vision as well as fleshly eyes are needed and that something is aimed at in art beyond the imitation of the commonest forms of nature. this is jonathan in the sprawling state, the booby truant, not yet aspiring enough to be a good school-boy. yet in his folly there is meaning; add thought and culture to his independence, and he will be a man of might: he is not a creature without hope, like the thick-skinned dandy of the class first specified. the artistes form a class by themselves. yet among them, though seeking special aims by special means, may also be found the lineaments of these two classes, as well as of the third, of which i am now to speak. this is that of the thinking american,--a man who, recognizing the immense advantage of being born to a new world and on a virgin soil, yet does not wish one seed from the past to be lost. he is anxious to gather and carry back with him every plant that will bear a new climate and new culture. some will dwindle; others will attain a bloom and stature unknown before. he wishes to gather them clean, free from noxious insects, and to give them a fair trial in his new world. and that he may know the conditions under which he may best place them in that new world, he does not neglect to study their history in this. the history of our planet in some moments seems so painfully mean and little,--such terrible bafflings and failures to compensate some brilliant successes,--such a crushing of the mass of men beneath, the feet of a few, and these, too, often the least worthy,--such a small drop of honey to each cup of gall, and, in many cases, so mingled that it is never one moment in life purely tasted,--above all, so little achieved for humanity as a whole, such tides of war and pestilence intervening to blot out the traces of each triumph,--that no wonder if the strongest soul sometimes pauses aghast; no wonder if the many indolently console themselves with gross joys and frivolous prizes. yes! those men _are_ worthy of admiration who can carry this cross faithfully through fifty years; it is a great while for all the agonies that beset a lover of good, a lover of men; it makes a soul worthy of a speedier ascent, a more productive ministry in the next sphere. blessed are they who ever keep that portion of pure, generous love with which they began life! how blessed those who have deepened the fountains, and have enough to spare for the thirst of others! some such there are; and, feeling that, with all the excuses for failure, still only the sight of those who triumph, gives a meaning to life or makes its pangs endurable, we must arise and follow. eighteen hundred years of this christian culture in these european kingdoms, a great theme never lost sight of, a mighty idea, an adorable history to which the hearts of men invariably cling, yet are genuine results rare as grains of gold in the river's sandy bed! where is the genuine democracy to which the rights of all men are holy? where the child-like wisdom learning all through life more and more of the will of god? where the aversion to falsehood, in all its myriad disguises of cant, vanity, covetousness, so clear to be read in all the history of jesus of nazareth? modern europe is the sequel to that history, and see this hollow england, with its monstrous wealth and cruel poverty, its conventional life, and low, practical aims! see this poor france, so full of talent, so adroit, yet so shallow and glossy still, which could not escape from a false position with all its baptism of blood! see that lost poland, and this italy bound down by treacherous hands in all the force of genius! see russia with its brutal czar and innumerable slaves! see austria and its royalty that represents nothing, and its people, who, as people, are and have nothing! if we consider the amount of truth that has really been spoken out in the world, and the love that has beat in private hearts,--how genius has decked each spring-time with such splendid flowers, conveying each one enough of instruction in its life of harmonious energy, and how continually, unquenchably, the spark of faith has striven to burst into flame and light up the universe,--the public failure seems amazing, seems monstrous. still europe toils and struggles with her idea, and, at this moment, all things bode and declare a new outbreak of the fire, to destroy old palaces of crime! may it fertilize also many vineyards! here at this moment a successor of st. peter, after the lapse of near two thousand years, is called "utopian" by a part of this europe, because he strives to get some food to the mouths of the _leaner_ of his flock. a wonderful state of things, and which leaves as the best argument against despair, that men do not, _cannot_ despair amid such dark experiences. and thou, my country! wilt thou not be more true? does no greater success await thee? all things have so conspired to teach, to aid! a new world, a new chance, with oceans to wall in the new thought against interference from the old!--treasures of all kinds, gold, silver, corn, marble, to provide for every physical need! a noble, constant, starlike soul, an italian, led the way to thy shores, and, in the first days, the strong, the pure, those too brave, too sincere, for the life of the old world, hastened to people them. a generous struggle then shook off what was foreign, and gave the nation a glorious start for a worthy goal. men rocked the cradle of its hopes, great, firm, disinterested, men, who saw, who wrote, as the basis of all that was to be done, a statement of the rights, the _inborn_ rights of men, which, if fully interpreted and acted upon, leaves nothing to be desired. yet, o eagle! whose early flight showed this clear sight of the sun, how often dost thou near the ground, how show the vulture in these later days! thou wert to be the advance-guard of humanity, the herald of all progress; how often hast thou betrayed this high commission! fain would the tongue in clear, triumphant accents draw example from thy story, to encourage the hearts of those who almost faint and die beneath the old oppressions. but we must stammer and blush when we speak of many things. i take pride here, that i can really say the liberty of the press works well, and that checks and balances are found naturally which suffice to its government. i can say that the minds of our people are alert, and that talent has a free chance to rise. this is much. but dare i further say that political ambition is not as darkly sullied as in other countries? dare i say that men of most influence in political life are those who represent most virtue, or even intellectual power? is it easy to find names in that career of which i can speak with enthusiasm? must i not confess to a boundless lust of gain in my country? must i not concede the weakest vanity, which bristles and blusters at each foolish taunt of the foreign press, and admit that the men who make these undignified rejoinders seek and find popularity so? can i help admitting that there is as yet no antidote cordially adopted, which will defend even that great, rich country against the evils that have grown out of the commercial system in the old world? can i say our social laws are generally better, or show a nobler insight into the wants of man and woman? i do, indeed, say what i believe, that voluntary association for improvement in these particulars will be the grand means for my nation to grow, and give a nobler harmony to the coming age. but it is only of a small minority that i can say they as yet seriously take to heart these things; that they earnestly meditate on what is wanted for their country, for mankind,--for our cause is indeed, the cause of all mankind at present. could we succeed, really succeed, combine a deep religious love with practical development, the achievements of genius with the happiness of the multitude, we might believe man had now reached a commanding point in his ascent, and would stumble and faint no more. then there is this horrible cancer of slavery, and the wicked war that has grown out of it. how dare i speak of these things here? i listen to the same arguments against the emancipation of italy, that are used against the emancipation of our blacks; the same arguments in favor of the spoliation of poland, as for the conquest of mexico. i find the cause of tyranny and wrong everywhere the same,--and lo! my country! the darkest offender, because with the least excuse; forsworn to the high calling with which she was called; no champion of the rights of men, but a robber and a jailer; the scourge hid behind her banner; her eyes fixed, not on the stars, but on the possessions of other men. how it pleases me here to think of the abolitionists! i could never endure to be with them at home, they were so tedious, often so narrow, always so rabid and exaggerated in their tone. but, after all, they had a high motive, something eternal in their desire and life; and if it was not the only thing worth thinking of, it was really something worth living and dying for, to free a great nation from such a terrible blot, such a threatening plague. god strengthen them, and make them wise to achieve their purpose! i please myself, too, with remembering some ardent souls among the american youth, who i trust will yet expand, and help to give soul to the huge, over-fed, too hastily grown-up body. may they be constant! "were man but constant, he were perfect," it has been said; and it is true that he who could be constant to those moments in which he has been truly human, not brutal, not mechanical, is on the sure path to his perfection, and to effectual service of the universe. it is to the youth that hope addresses itself; to those who yet burn with aspiration, who are not hardened in their sins. but i dare not expect too much of them. i am not very old; yet of those who, in life's morning, i saw touched by the light of a high hope, many have seceded. some have become voluptuaries; some, mere family men, who think it quite life enough to win bread for half a dozen people, and treat them, decently; others are lost through indolence and vacillation. yet some remain constant; "i have witnessed many a shipwreck, yet still beat noble hearts." i have found many among the youth of england, of france, of italy, also, full of high desire; but will they have courage and purity to fight the battle through in the sacred, the immortal band? of some of them i believe it, and await the proof. if a few succeed amid the trial, we have not lived and loved in vain. to these, the heart and hope of my country, a happy new year! i do not know what i have written; i have merely yielded to my feelings in thinking of america; but something of true love must be in these lines. receive them kindly, my friends; it is, of itself, some merit for printed words to be sincere. letter xix. the climate of italy.--review of first impressions.--rome in its various aspects.--the pope.--cemetery of santo spirito.--ceremonies at the chapels.--the women of italy.--festival of st. carlo borromeo.--an incident in the chapel.--english residents in the seven-hilled city.--mrs. trollope a resident of florence.--the pope as he communicates with his people.--the position of affairs.--lesser potentates.--the inauguration of the new council.--the ceremonies thereto appertaining.--the american flag in rome.--a ball.--a feast, and its reverse.--the funeral of a councillor. rome, december , . this th day of december i rise to see the floods of sunlight blessing us, as they have almost every day since i returned to rome,--two months and more,--with scarce three or four days of rainy weather. i still see the fresh roses and grapes each morning on my table, though both these i expect to give up at christmas. this autumn is _something like_, as my countrymen say at home. like _what_, they do not say; so i always supposed they meant like their ideal standard. certainly this weather corresponds with mine; and i begin to believe the climate of italy is really what it has been represented. shivering here last spring in an air no better than the cruel cast wind of puritan boston, i thought all the praises lavished on "italia, o italia!" would turn out to be figments of the brain; and that even byron, usually accurate beyond the conception of plodding pedants, had deceived us when he says, you have the happiness in italy to "see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow," and not, according to a view which exercises a withering influence on the enthusiasm of youth in my native land, be forced to regard each pleasant day as a _weather-breeder_. how delightful, too, is the contrast between this time and the spring in another respect! then i was here, like travellers in general, expecting to be driven away in a short time. like others, i went through the painful process of sight-seeing, so unnatural everywhere, so counter to the healthful methods and true life of the mind. you rise in the morning knowing there are a great number of objects worth knowing, which you may never have the chance to see again. you go every day, in all moods, under all circumstances; feeling, probably, in seeing them, the inadequacy of your preparation for understanding or duly receiving them. this consciousness would be most valuable if one had time to think and study, being the natural way in which the mind is lured to cure its defects; but you have no time; you are always wearied, body and mind, confused, dissipated, sad. the objects are of commanding beauty or full of suggestion, but there is no quiet to let that beauty breathe its life into the soul; no time to follow up these suggestions, and plant for the proper harvest. many persons run about rome for nine days, and then go away; they might as well expect to appreciate the venus by throwing a stone at it, as hope really to see rome in this time. i stayed in rome nine weeks, and came away unhappy as he who, having been taken in the visions of the night through some wondrous realm, wakes unable to recall anything but the hues and outlines of the pageant; the real knowledge, the recreative power induced by familiar love, the assimilation of its soul and substance,--all the true value of such a revelation,--is wanting; and he remains a poor tantalus, hungrier than before he had tasted this spiritual food. no; rome is not a nine-days wonder; and those who try to make it such lose the ideal rome (if they ever had it), without gaining any notion of the real. to those who travel, as they do everything else, only because others do, i do not speak; they are nothing. nobody counts in the estimate of the human race who has not a character. for one, i now really live in rome, and i begin to see and feel the real rome. she reveals herself day by day; she tells me some of her life. now i never go out to see a sight, but i walk every day; and here i cannot miss of some object of consummate interest to end a walk. in the evenings, which are long now, i am at leisure to follow up the inquiries suggested by the day. as one becomes familiar, ancient and modern rome, at first so painfully and discordantly jumbled together, are drawn apart to the mental vision. one sees where objects and limits anciently wore; the superstructures vanish, and you recognize the local habitation of so many thoughts. when this begins to happen, one feels first truly at ease in rome. then the old kings, the consuls and tribunes, the emperors, drunk with blood and gold, the warriors of eagle sight and remorseless beak, return for us, and the togated procession finds room to sweep across the scene; the seven hills tower, the innumerable temples glitter, and the via sacra swarms with triumphal life once more. ah! how joyful to see once more _this_ rome, instead of the pitiful, peddling, anglicized rome, first viewed in unutterable dismay from the _coupé_ of the vettura,--a rome all full of taverns, lodging-houses, cheating chambermaids, vilest _valets de place_, and fleas! a niobe of nations indeed! ah! why, secretly the heart blasphemed, did the sun omit to kill her too, when all the glorious race which wore her crown fell beneath his ray? thank heaven, it is possible to wash away all this dirt, and come at the marble yet. their the later papal rome: it requires much acquaintance, much thought, much reference to books, for the child of protestant republican america to see where belong the legends illustrated by rite and picture, the sense of all the rich tapestry, where it has a united and poetic meaning, where it is broken by some accident of history. for all these things--a senseless mass of juggleries to the uninformed eye--are really growths of the human spirit struggling to develop its life, and full of instruction for those who learn to understand them. then modern rome,--still ecclesiastical, still darkened and damp in the shadow of the vatican, but where bright hopes gleam now amid the ashes! never was a people who have had more to corrupt them,--bloody tyranny, and incubus of priestcraft, the invasions, first of goths, then of trampling emperors and kings, then of sight-seeing foreigners,--everything to turn them from a sincere, hopeful, fruitful life; and they are much corrupted, but still a fine race. i cannot look merely with a pictorial eye on the lounge of the roman dandy, the bold, juno gait of the roman contadina. i love them,--dandies and all? i believe the natural expression of these fine forms will animate them yet. certainly there never was a people that showed a better heart than they do in this day of love, of purely moral influence. it makes me very happy to be for once in a place ruled by a father's love, and where the pervasive glow of one good, generous heart is felt in every pulse of every day. i have seen the pope several times since my return, and it is a real pleasure to see him in the thoroughfares, where his passage is always greeted as that of _the_ living soul. the first week of november there is much praying for the dead here in the chapels of the cemeteries. i went to santo spirito. this cemetery stands high, and all the way up the slope was lined with beggars petitioning for alms, in every attitude find tone, (i mean tone that belongs to the professional beggar's gamut, for that is peculiar,) and under every pretext imaginable, from the quite legless elderly gentleman to the ragged ruffian with the roguish twinkle in his eye, who has merely a slight stiffness in one arm and one leg. i could not help laughing, it was such a show,--greatly to the alarm of my attendant, who declared they would kill me, if ever they caught me alone; but i was not afraid. i am sure the endless falsehood in which such creatures live must make them very cowardly. we entered the cemetery; it was a sweet, tranquil place, lined with cypresses, and soft sunshine lying on the stone coverings where repose the houses of clay in which once dwelt joyous roman hearts,--for the hearts here do take pleasure in life. there were several chapels; in one boys were chanting, in others people on their knees silently praying for the dead. in another was one of the groups in wax exhibited in such chapels through the first week of november. it represented st. carlo borromeo as a beautiful young man in a long scarlet robe, pure and brilliant as was the blood of the martyrs, relieving the poor who were grouped around him,--old people and children, the halt, the maimed, the blind; he had called them all into the feast of love. the chapel was lighted and draped so as to give very good effect to this group; the spectators were mainly children and young girls, listening with ardent eyes, while their parents or the nuns explained to them the group, or told some story of the saint. it was a pretty scene, only marred by the presence of a villanous-looking man, who ever and anon shook the poor's box. i cannot understand the bad taste of choosing him, when there were _frati_ and priests enough of expression less unprepossessing. i next entered a court-yard, where the stations, or different periods in the passion of jesus, are painted on the wall. kneeling before these were many persons: here a franciscan, in his brown robe and cord; there a pregnant woman, uttering, doubtless, some tender aspiration for the welfare of the yet unborn dear one; there some boys, with gay yet reverent air; while all the while these fresh young voices were heard chanting. it was a beautiful moment, and despite the wax saint, the ill-favored friar, the professional mendicants, and my own removal, wide as pole from pole, from the positron of mind indicated by these forms, their spirit touched me, and. i prayed too; prayed for the distant, every way distant,--for those who seem to have forgotten me, and with me all we had in common; prayed for the dead in spirit, if not in body; prayed for myself, that i might never walk the earth "the tomb of my dead self"; and prayed in general for all unspoiled and loving hearts,--no less for all who suffer and find yet no helper. going out, i took my road by the cross which marks the brow of the hill. up the ascent still wound the crowd of devotees, and still the beggars beset them. amid that crowd, how many lovely, warm-hearted women! the women of italy are intellectually in a low place, _but_--they are unaffected; you can see what heaven meant them to be, and i believe they will be yet the mothers of a great and generous race. before me lay rome,--how exquisitely tranquil in the sunset! never was an aspect that for serene grandeur could vie with that of rome at sunset. next day was the feast of the milanese saint, whose life has been made known to some americans by manzoni, when speaking in his popular novel of the cousin of st. carlo, federigo borromeo. the pope came in state to the church of st. carlo, in the corso. the show was magnificent; the church is not very large, and was almost filled with papal court and guards, in all their splendid harmonies of color. an italian child was next me, a little girl of four or five years, whom her mother had brought to see the pope. as in the intervals of gazing the child smiled and made signs to me, i nodded in return, and asked her name. "virginia," said she; "and how is the signora named?" "margherita," "my name," she rejoined, "is virginia gentili." i laughed, but did not follow up the cunning, graceful lead,--still i chatted and played with her now and then. at last, she said to her mother, "la signora e molto cara," ("the signora is very dear," or, to use the english equivalent, _a darling_,) "show her my two sisters." so the mother, herself a fine-looking woman, introduced two handsome young ladies, and with the family i was in a moment pleasantly intimate for the hour. before me sat three young english ladies, the pretty daughters of a noble earl; their manners were a strange contrast to this italian graciousness, best expressed by their constant use of the pronoun _that_. "_see that man!_" (i.e. some high dignitary of the church,) "look at that dress!" dropped constantly from their lips. ah! without being a catholic, one may well wish rome was not dependent on english sight-seers, who violate her ceremonies with acts that bespeak their thoughts full of wooden shoes and warming-pans. can anything be more sadly expressive of times out of joint than the fact that mrs. trollope is a resident in italy? yes! she is fixed permanently in florence, as i am told, pensioned at the rate of two thousand pounds a year to trail her slime over the fruit of italy. she is here in rome this winter, and, after having violated the virgin beauty of america, will have for many a year her chance to sully the imperial matron of the civilized world. what must the english public be, if it wishes to pay two thousand pounds a year to get italy trollopified? but to turn to a pleasanter subject. when the pope entered, borne in his chair of state amid the pomp of his tiara and his white and gold robes, he looked to me thin, or, as the italians murmur anxiously at times, _consumato_, or wasted. but during the ceremony he seemed absorbed in his devotions, and at the end i think he had become exhilarated by thinking of st. carlo, who was such another over the human race as himself, and his face wore a bright glow of faith. as he blessed the people, he raised his eyes to heaven, with a gesture quite natural: it was the spontaneous act of a soul which felt that moment more than usual its relation with things above it, and sure of support from a higher power. i saw him to still greater advantage a little while after, when, riding on the campagna with a young gentleman who had been ill, we met the pope on foot, taking exercise. he often quits his carriage at the gates and walks in this way. he walked rapidly, robed in a simple white drapery, two young priests in spotless purple on either side; they gave silver to the poor who knelt beside the way, while the beloved father gave his benediction. my companion knelt; he is not a catholic, but he felt that "this blessing would do him no harm." the pope saw at once he was ill, and gave him a mark of interest, with that expression of melting love, the true, the only charity, which assures all who look on him that, were his power equal to his will, no living thing would ever suffer more. this expression the artists try in vain to catch; all busts and engravings of him are caricatures; it is a magnetic sweetness, a lambent light that plays over his features, and of which only great genius or a soul tender as his own would form an adequate image. the italians have one term of praise peculiarly characteristic of their highly endowed nature. they say of such and such, _ha una phisonomia simpatica_,--"he has a sympathetic expression"; and this is praise enough. this may be pre-eminently said of that of pius ix. _he_ looks, indeed, as if nothing human could be foreign to him. such alone are the genuine kings of men. he has shown undoubted wisdom, clear-sightedness, bravery, and firmness; but it is, above all, his generous human heart that gives him his power over this people. his is a face to shame the selfish, redeem the sceptic, alarm the wicked, and cheer to new effort the weary and heavy-laden. what form the issues of his life may take is yet uncertain; in my belief, they are such as he does not think of; but they cannot fail to be for good. for my part, i shall always rejoice to have been here in his time. the working of his influence confirms my theories, and it is a positive treasure to me to have seen him. i have never been presented, not wishing to approach, so real a presence in the path of mere etiquette; i am quite content to see him standing amid the crowd, while the band plays the music he has inspired. "sons of rome, awake!" yes, awake, and let no police-officer put you again to sleep in prison, as has happened to those who were called by the marseillaise. affairs look well. the king of sardinia has at last, though with evident distrust and heartlessness, entered the upward path in a way that makes it difficult to return. the duke of modena, the most senseless of all these ancient gentlemen, after publishing a declaration, which made him more ridiculous than would the bitterest pasquinade penned by another, that he would fight to the death against reform, finds himself obliged to lend an ear as to the league for the customs; and if he joins that, other measures follow of course. austria trembles; and, in fine, cannot sustain the point of ferrara. the king of naples, after having shed much blood, for which he has a terrible account to render, (ah! how many sad, fair romances are to tell already about the calabrian difficulties!) still finds the spirit fomenting in his people; he cannot put it down. the dragon's teeth are sown, and the lazzaroni may be men yet! the swiss affairs have taken the right direction, and good will ensue, if other powers act with decent honesty, and think of healing the wounds of switzerland, rather than merely of tying her down, so that she cannot annoy them. in rome, here, the new council is inaugurated, and elections have given tolerable satisfaction. already, struggles ended in other places begin to be renewed here, as to gas-lights, introduction of machinery, &c. we shall see at the end of the winter how they have gone on. at any rate, the wants of the people are in some measure represented; and already the conduct of those who have taken to themselves so large a portion of the loaves and fishes on the very platform supposed to be selected by jesus for a general feeding of his sheep, begins to be the subject of spoken as well as whispered animadversion. torlonia is assailed in his bank, campana amid his urns or his monte di picti; but these assaults have yet to be verified. on the day when the council was to be inaugurated, great preparations were made by representatives of other parts of italy, and also of foreign nations friendly to the cause of progress. it was considered to represent the same fact as the feast of the th of september in tuscany,--the dawn of an epoch when the people shall find their wants and aspirations represented and guarded. the americans showed a warm interest; the gentlemen subscribing to buy a flag, the united states having none before in rome, and the ladies meeting to make it. the same distinguished individual, indeed, who at florence made a speech to prevent "the american eagle being taken out on so trifling an occasion," with similar perspicuity and superiority of view, on the present occasion, was anxious to prevent "rash demonstrations, which might embroil the united states with austria"; but the rash youth here present rushed on, ignorant how to value his nestorian prudence,--fancying, hot-headed simpletons, that the cause of freedom was the cause of america, and her eagle at home wherever the sun shed a warmer ray, and there was reason to hope a happier life for man. so they hurried to buy their silk, red, white, and blue, and inquired of recent arrivals how many states there are this winter in the union, in order to making the proper number of stars. a magnificent spread-eagle was procured, not without difficulty, as this, once the eyrie of the king of birds, is now a rookery rather, full of black, ominous fowl, ready to eat the harvest sown by industrious hands. this eagle, having previously spread its wings over a piece of furniture where its back was sustained by the wall, was somewhat deficient in a part of its anatomy. but we flattered ourselves he should be held so high that no roman eye, if disposed, could carp and criticise. when lo! just as the banner was ready to unfold its young glories in the home of horace, virgil, and tacitus, an ordinance appeared prohibiting the display of any but the roman ensign. this ordinance was, it is said, caused by representations made to the pope that the oscurantists, ever on the watch to do mischief, meant to make this the occasion of disturbance,--as it is their policy to seek to create irritation here; that the neapolitan and lombardo-venetian flags would appear draped with black, and thus the signal be given for tumult. i cannot help thinking these fears were groundless; that the people, on their guard, would have indignantly crushed at once any of these malignant efforts. however that may be, no one can ever be really displeased with any measure of the pope, knowing his excellent intentions. but the limitation of the festival deprived it of the noble character of the brotherhood of nations and an ideal aim, worn by that of tuscany. the romans, drilled and disappointed, greeted their councillors with but little enthusiasm. the procession, too, was but a poor affair for rome. twenty-four carriages had been lent by the princes and nobles, at the request of the city, to convey the councillors. i found something symbolical in this. thus will they be obliged to furnish from their old grandeur the vehicles of the new ideas. each deputy was followed by his target and banner. when the deputy for ferrara passed, many garlands were thrown upon his carriage. there has been deep respect and sympathy felt for the citizens of ferrara, they have conducted so well under their late trying circumstances. they contained themselves, knowing that the least indiscretion would give a handle for aggression to the enemies of the good cause. but the daily occasions of irritation must have been innumerable, and they have shown much power of wise and dignified self-government. after the procession passed, i attempted to go on foot from the café novo, in the corso, to st. peter's, to see the decorations of the streets, but it was impossible. in that dense, but most vivacious, various, and good-humored crowd, with all best will on their part to aid the foreigner, it was impossible to advance. so i saw only themselves; but that was a great pleasure. there is so much individuality of character here, that it is a great entertainment to be in a crowd. in the evening, there was a ball given at the argentina. lord minto was there; prince corsini, now senator; the torlonias, in uniform of the civic guard,--princess torlonia in a sash of their colors, given her by the civic guard, which she waved often in answer to their greetings. but the beautiful show of the evening was the trasteverini dancing the saltarello in their most brilliant costume. i saw them thus to much greater advantage than ever before. several were nobly handsome, and danced admirably; it was really like pinelli. the saltarello enchants me; in this is really the italian wine, the italian sun. the first time, i saw it danced one night very unexpectedly near the colosseum; it carried me quite beyond myself, so that i most unamiably insisted on staying, while the friends in my company, not heated by enthusiasm like me, were shivering and perhaps catching cold from the damp night-air. i fear they remember it against me; nevertheless i cherish the memory of the moments wickedly stolen at their expense, for it is only the first time seeing such a thing that you enjoy a peculiar delight. but since, i love to see and study it much. the pope, in receiving the councillors, made a speech,--such as the king of prussia intrenched himself in on a similar occasion, only much better and shorter,--implying that he meant only to improve, not to _reform_, and should keep things _in statu quo_, safe locked with the keys of st. peter. this little speech was made, no doubt, more to reassure czars, emperors, and kings, than from the promptings of the spirit. but the fact of its necessity, as well as the inferior freedom and spirit of the roman journals to those of tuscany, seems to say that the pontifical government, though from the accident of this one man's accession it has taken the initiative to better times, yet may not, after a while, from its very nature, be able to keep in the vanguard. a sad contrast to the feast of this day was presented by the same persons, a fortnight after, following the body of silvani, one of the councillors, who died suddenly. the councillors, the different societies of rome, a corps _frati_ bearing tapers, the civic guard with drums slowly beating, the same state carriages with their liveried attendants all slowly, sadly moving, with torches and banners, drooped along the corso in the dark night. a single horseman, with his long white plume and torch reversed, governed the procession; it was the prince aldobrandini. the whole had that grand effect so easily given by this artist people, who seize instantly the natural poetry of an occasion, and with unanimous tact hasten to represent it. more and much anon. letter xx. rome.--bad weather.--st. cecilia.--the people's processions.--taking the veil.--festivities.--political agitation.--nobles.--maria louisa.--guiccioli.--parma.--address to the new sovereign.--the new york meeting for italy.--address to the pope. rome, december , . i could not, in my last, content myself with praising the glorious weather. i wrote in the last day of it. since, we have had a fortnight of rain falling incessantly, and whole days and nights of torrents such as are peculiar to the "clearing-up" shower in our country. under these circumstances, i have found my lodging in the corso not only has its dark side, but is all dark, and that one in the piazza di spagne would have been better for me in this respect; there on these days, the only ones when i wish to stay at home and write and study, i should have had the light. now, if i consulted the good of my eyes, i should have the lamp lit on first rising in the morning. "every sweet must have its bitter," and the exchange from the brilliance of the italian heaven to weeks and months of rain, and such black cloud, is unspeakably dejecting. for myself, at the end of this fortnight without exercise or light, and in such a damp atmosphere, i find myself without strength, without appetite, almost without spirits. the life of the german scholar who studies fifteen hours out of the twenty-four, or that of the spielberg prisoner who could live through ten, fifteen, twenty years of dark prison with, only half an hour's exercise in the day, is to me a mystery. how can the brain, the nerves, ever support it? we are made to keep in motion, to drink the air and light; to me these are needed to make life supportable, the physical state is so difficult and full of pains at any rate. i am sorry for those who have arrived just at this time hoping to enjoy the christmas festivities. everything was spoiled by the weather. i went at half past ten to san luigi francese, a church adorned with some of domenichino's finest frescos on the life and death of st. cecilia. this name leads me to a little digression. in a letter to mr. phillips, the dear friend of our revered dr. charming, i asked him if he remembered what recumbent statue it was of which dr. charming was wont to speak as of a sight that impressed him more than anything else in rome. he said, indeed, his mood, and the unexpectedness in seeing this gentle, saintly figure lying there as if death had just struck her down, had no doubt much influence upon him; but still he believed the work had a peculiar holiness in its expression. i recognized at once the theme of his description (the name he himself had forgotten) as i entered the other evening the lonely church of st. cecilia in trastevere. as in his case, it was twilight: one or two nuns were at their devotions, and there lay the figure in its grave-clothes, with an air so gentle, so holy, as if she had only ceased to pray as the hand of the murderer struck her down. her gentle limbs seemed instinct still with soft, sweet life; the expression was not of the heroine, the martyr, so much as of the tender, angelic woman. i could well understand the deep impression made upon his mind. the expression of the frescos of domenichino is not inharmonious with the suggestions of this statue. finding the mass was not to begin for some time, i set out for the quirinal to see the pope return from that noble church, santa maria maggiore, where he officiated this night. i reached the mount just as he was returning. a few torches gleamed before his door; perhaps a hundred people were gathered together round the fountain. last year an immense multitude waited for him there to express their affection in one grand good-night; the change was occasioned partly by the weather, partly by other causes, of which i shall speak by and by. just as he returned, the moon looked palely out from amid the wet clouds, and shone upon the fountain, and the noble figures above it, and the long white cloaks of the guardia nobile who followed his carriage on horseback; darker objects could scarcely be seen, except by the flickering light of the torches, much blown by the wind. i then returned to san luigi. the effect of the night service there was very fine; those details which often have such a glaring, mean look by day are lost sight of in the night, and the unity of impression from the service is much more undisturbed. the music, too, descriptive of that era which promised peace on earth, good-will to men, was very sweet, and the _pastorale_ particularly soothed the heart amid the crowd, and pompous ceremonial. but here, too, the sweet had its bitter, in the vulgar vanity of the leader of the orchestra, a trait too common in such, who, not content with marking the time for the musicians, made his stick heard in the remotest nook of the church; so that what would have been sweet music, and flowed in upon the soul, was vulgarized to make you remember the performers and their machines. on monday the leaders of the guardia civica paid their respects to the pope, who, in receiving them, expressed his constantly increasing satisfaction in having given this institution to his people. the same evening there was a procession with torches to the quirinal, to pay the homage due to the day (feast of st. john, and name-day of the pope, _giovanni maria mastai_); but all the way the rain continually threatened to extinguish the torches, and the pope could give but a hasty salute under an umbrella, when the heavens were again opened, and such a cataract of water descended, as drove both man and beast to seek the nearest shelter. on sunday, i went to see a nun take the veil. she was a person of high family; a princess gave her away, and the cardinal ferreti, secretary of state, officiated. it was a much less effective ceremony than i expected from the descriptions of travellers and romance-writers. there was no moment of throwing on the black veil; no peal of music; no salute of cannon. the nun, an elegantly dressed woman of five or six and twenty,--pretty enough, but whose quite worldly air gave the idea that it was one of those arrangements made because no suitable establishment could otherwise be given her,--came forward, knelt, and prayed; her confessor, in that strained, unnatural whine too common among preachers of all churches and all countries, praised himself for having induced her to enter on a path which would lead her fettered steps "from palm to palm, from triumph to triumph," poor thing! she looked as if the domestic olives and poppies were all she wanted; and lacking these, tares and wormwood must be her portion. she was then taken behind a grating, her hair cut, and her clothes exchanged for the nun's vestments; the black-robed sisters who worked upon her looking like crows or ravens at their ominous feasts. all the while, the music played, first sweet and thoughtful, then triumphant strains. the effect on my mind was revolting and painful to the last degree. were monastic seclusion always voluntary, and could it be ended whenever the mind required a change back from seclusion to common life, i should have nothing to say against it; there are positions of the mind which it suits exactly, and even characters that might choose it all through life; certainly, to the broken-hearted it presents a shelter that protestant communities do not provide. but where it is enforced or repented of, no hell could be worse; nor can a more terrible responsibility be incurred than by him who has persuaded a novice that the snares of the world are less dangerous than the demons of solitude. festivities in italy have been of great importance, since, for a century or two back, the thought, the feeling, the genius of the people have had more chance to expand, to express themselves, there than anywhere else. now, if the march of reform goes forward, this will not be so; there will be also speeches made freely on public occasions, without having the life pressed out of them by the censorship. now we hover betwixt the old and the new; when the many reasons for the new prevail, i hope what is poetical in the old will not be lost. the ceremonies of new year are before me; but as i shall have to send this letter on new-year's day, i cannot describe them. the romans begin now to talk of the mad gayeties of carnival, and the opera is open. they have begun with "attila," as, indeed, there is little hope of hearing in italy other music than verdi's. great applause waited on the following words:-- "ezio (the roman leader). "e gittata la mia sorte, pronto sono ad ogni guerra, s' io cardò, cadrè da forte, e il mio nome resterà. "non vedrò l'amata terra svener lenta e farri a brano, sopra l'ultimo romano tutta italia piangerà." "my lot is fixed, and i stand ready for every conflict. if i must fall, i shall fall as a brave man, and my fame will survive. i shall not see my beloved country fall to pieces and slowly perish, and over the last roman all italy will weep." and at lines of which the following is a translation:-- "o brave man, whose mighty power can raise thy country from such dire distress; from the immortal hills, radiant with glory, let the shades of our ancestors arise; oh! only one day, one instant, arise to look upon us!" it was an italian who sung this strain, though, singularly enough, here in the heart of italy, so long reputed the home of music, three principal parts were filled by persons bearing the foreign names of ivanoff, mitrovich, and nissren. naples continues in a state of great excitement, which now pervades the upper classes, as several young men of noble families have been arrested; among them, one young man much beloved, son of prince terella, and who, it is said, was certainly not present on the occasion for which he was arrested, and that the measure was taken because he was known to sympathize strongly with the liberal movement. the nobility very generally have not feared to go to the house of his father to express their displeasure at the arrest and interest in the young man. the ministry, it is said, are now persuaded of the necessity of a change of measures. the king alone remains inflexible in his stupidity. the stars of bonaparte and byron show again a conjunction, by the almost simultaneous announcement of changes in the lot of women with whom they were so intimately connected;--the archduchess of parma, maria louisa, is dead; the countess guiccioli is married. the countess i have seen several times; she still looks young, and retains the charms which by the contemporaries of byron she is reputed to have had; they never were of a very high order; her best expression is that of a good heart. i always supposed that byron, weary and sick of the world such as he had known it, became attached to her for her good disposition, and sincere, warm tenderness for him; the sight of her, and the testimony of a near relative, confirmed this impression. this friend of hers added, that she had tried very hard to remain devoted to the memory of byron, but was quite unequal to the part, being one of those affectionate natures that must have some one near with whom to be occupied; and now, it seems, she has resigned herself publicly to abandon her romance. however, i fancy the manes of byron remain undisturbed. we all know the worthless character of maria louisa, the indifference she showed to a husband who, if he was not her own choice, yet would have been endeared to almost any woman, as one fallen from an immense height into immense misfortune, and as the father of her child. no voice from her penetrated to cheer his exile: the unhappiness of josephine was well avenged. and that child, the poor duke of reichstadt, of a character so interesting, and with obvious elements of greatness, withering beneath the mean, cold influence of his grandfather,--what did maria louisa do for him,--she, appointed by nature to be his inspiring genius, his protecting angel? i felt for her a most sad and profound contempt last summer, as i passed through her oppressed dominion, a little sphere, in which, if she could not save it from the usual effects of the austrian rule, she might have done so much private, womanly good,--might have been a genial heart to warm it,--and where she had let so much ill be done. a journal announces her death in these words: "the archduchess is dead; a woman who _might_ have occupied one of the noblest positions in the history of the age";--and there makes expressive pause. parma, passing from bad to worse, falls into the hands of the duke of modena; and the people and magistracy have made an address to their new ruler. the address has received many thousand signatures, and seems quite sincere, except in the assumption of good-will in the duke of modena; and this is merely an insincerity of etiquette. letter xxi. the pope's reception of the new officers.--they kiss his foot.--vespers at the gesÃ�.--a poor youth in rome seeking a patron.--rumors of disturbances.--their cause.--representations to the pope.--his conduct in the affair.--an italian consul for the united states.--catholicism.--the popularity of the pope.--his deposition of a censor.--the policy of the pope in his domestic not equal to that of his public life.--his opposition to protestant reform.--letter from joseph mazzini to the pontiff.--reflections on it. rome, january , . in the first morning of this new year i sent off a letter which must then be mailed, in order to reach the steamer of the th. so far am i from home, that even steam does not come nigh to annihilate the distance. this afternoon i went to the quirinal palace to see the pope receive the new municipal officers. he was to-day in his robes of white and gold, with his usual corps of attendants in pure red and white, or violet and white. the new officers were in black velvet dresses, with broad white collars. they took the oaths of office, and then actually kissed his foot. i had supposed this was never really done, but only a very low obeisance made; the act seemed to me disgustingly abject. a heavenly father does not want his children at his feet, but in his arms, on a level with his heart. after this was over the pope went to the gesù, a very rich church, belonging to the jesuits, to officiate at vespers, and we followed. the music was beautiful, and the effect of the church, with its richly-painted dome and altar-piece in a blaze of light, while the assembly were in a sort of brown darkness, was very fine. a number of americans there, new arrivals, kept requesting in the midst of the music to know when _it_ would begin. "why, this is _it_," some one at last had the patience to answer; "you are hearing vespers now." "what," they replied, "is there no oration, no speech!" so deeply rooted in the american mind is the idea that a sermon is the only real worship! this church, is indelibly stamped on my mind. coming to rome this time, i saw in the diligence a young man, whom his uncle, a priest of the convent that owns this church, had sent for, intending to provide him employment here. some slight circumstances tested the character of this young man, and showed it what i have ever found it, singularly honorable and conscientious. he was led to show me his papers, among which was a letter from a youth whom, with that true benevolence only possible to the poor, because only they _can_ make great sacrifices, he had so benefited as to make an entire change in his prospects for life. himself a poor orphan, with nothing but a tolerable education at an orphan asylum, and a friend of his dead parents to find him employment on leaving it, he had felt for this young man, poorer and more uninstructed than himself, had taught him at his leisure to read and write, had then collected from, friends, and given himself, till he had gathered together sixty francs, procuring also for his _protégé_ a letter from monks, who were friends of his, to the convents on the road, so that wherever there was one, the poor youth had lodging and food gratis. thus armed, he set forth on foot for rome; piacenza, their native place, affording little hope even of gaining bread, in the present distressed state of that dominion. the letter was to say that he had arrived, and been so fortunate as to find employment immediately in the studio of benzoni, the sculptor. the poor patron's eyes sparkled as i read the letter. "how happy he is!" said he. "and does he not spell and write well? i was his only master." but the good do not inherit the earth, and, less fortunate than his _protégé_, germano on his arrival found his uncle ill of the roman fever. he came to see me, much agitated. "can it be, signorina," says he, "that god, who has taken my father and mother, will also take from me the only protector i have left, and just as i arrive in this strange place, too?" after a few days he seemed more tranquil, and told me that, though he had felt as if it would console him and divert his mind to go to some places of entertainment, he had forborne and applied the money to have masses said for his uncle. "i feel," he said, "as if god would help me." alas! at that moment the uncle was dying. poor germano came next day with a receipt for masses said for the soul of the departed, (his simple faith in these being apparently indestructible,) and amid his tears he said: "the fathers were so unkind, they were hardly willing to hear me speak a word; they were so afraid i should be a burden to them, i shall never go there again. but the most cruel thing was, i offered them a scudo (dollar) to say six masses for the soul of my poor uncle; they said they would only say five, and must have seven baiocchi (cents) more for that." a few days after, i happened to go into their church, and found it thronged, while a preacher, panting, sweating, leaning half out of the pulpit, was exhorting his hearers to "imitate christ." with unspeakable disgust i gazed on this false shepherd of those who had just so failed in their duty to a poor stray lamb, their church is so rich in ornaments, the seven baiocchi were hardly needed to burnish it. their altar-piece is a very imposing composition, by an artist of rome, still in the prime of his powers. capalti. it represents the circumcision, with the cross and six waiting angels in the background; joseph, who holds the child, the priest, and all the figures in the foreground, seem intent upon the barbarous rite, except mary the mother; her mind seems to rush forward into the future, and understand the destiny of her child; she sees the cross,--she sees the angels, too. now i have mentioned a picture, let me say a word or two about art and artists, by way of parenthesis in this letter so much occupied, with political affairs. we laugh a little here at some words that come from your city on the subject of art. we hear that the landscapes painted here show a want of familiarity with nature; artists need to return to america and see her again. but, friends, nature wears a different face in italy from what she does in america. do you not want to see her italian face? it is very glorious! we thought it was the aim of art to reproduce all forms of nature, and that you would not be sorry to have transcripts of what you have not always round you. american art is not necessarily a reproduction of american nature. hicks has made a charming picture of familiar life, which those who cannot believe in italian daylight would not tolerate. i am not sure that all eyes are made in the same manner, for i have known those who declare they see nothing remarkable in these skies, these hues; and always complain when they are reproduced in picture. i have yet seen no picture by cropsey on an italian subject, but his sketches from scotch scenes are most poetical and just presentations of those lakes, those mountains, with their mourning veils. he is an artist of great promise. cranch has made a picture for mr. ogden haggerty of a fine mountain-hold of old colonna story. i wish he would write a ballad about it too; there is plenty of material. but to return to the jesuits. one swallow does not make a summer, nor am i--who have seen so much hard-heartedness and barbarous greed of gain in all classes of men--so foolish as to attach undue importance to the demand, by those who have dared to appropriate peculiarly to themselves the sacred name of jesus, from a poor orphan, and for the soul of one of their own order, of "seven baiocchi more." but i have always been satisfied, from the very nature of their institutions, that the current prejudice against them must be correct. these institutions are calculated to harden the heart, and destroy entirely that truth which is the conservative principle in character. their influence is and must be always against the free progress of humanity. the more i see of its working, the more i feel how pernicious it is, and were i a european, to no object should i lend myself with more ardor, than to the extirpation of this cancer. true, disband the jesuits, there would still remain jesuitical men, but singly they would have infinitely less power to work mischief. the influence of the oscurantist foe has shown itself more and more plainly in rome, during the last four or five weeks. a false miracle is devised: the madonna del popolo, (who has her handsome house very near me,) has cured, a paralytic youth, (who, in fact, was never diseased,) and, appearing to him in a vision, takes occasion to criticise severely the measures of the pope. rumors of tumult in one quarter are circulated, to excite it in another. inflammatory handbills are put up in the night. but the romans thus far resist all intrigues of the foe to excite them to bad conduct. on new-year's day, however, success was near. the people, as usual, asked permission of the governor to go to the quirinal and receive the benediction of the pope. this was denied, and not, as it might truly have been, because the pope was unwell, but in the most ungracious, irritating manner possible, by saying, "he is tired of these things: he is afraid of disturbance." then, the people being naturally excited and angry, the governor sent word to the pope that there was excitement, without letting him know why, and had the guards doubled on the posts. the most absurd rumors were circulated among the people that the cannon of st. angelo were to be pointed on them, &c. but they, with that singular discretion which they show now, instead of rising, as their enemies had hoped, went to ask counsel of their lately appointed senator, corsini. he went to the pope, found him ill, entirely ignorant of what was going on, and much distressed when he heard it. he declared that the people should be satisfied, and, since they had not been allowed to come to him, he would go to them. accordingly, the next day, though rainy and of a searching cold like that of a scotch mist, we had all our windows thrown open, and the red and yellow tapestries hung out. he passed through the principal parts of the city, the people throwing themselves on their knees and crying out, "o holy father, don't desert us! don't forget us! don't listen to our enemies!" the pope wept often, and replied, "fear nothing, my people, my heart is yours." at last, seeing how ill he was, they begged him to go in, and he returned to the quirinal; the present tribune of the people, as far as rule in the heart is concerned, ciceronacchio, following his carriage. i shall give some account of this man in another letter. for the moment, the difficulties are healed, as they will be whenever the pope directly shows himself to the people. then his generous, affectionate heart will always act, and act on them, dissipating the clouds which others have been toiling to darken. in speaking of the intrigues of these emissaries of the power of darkness, i will mention that there is a report here that they are trying to get an italian consul for the united states, and one in the employment of the jesuits. this rumor seems ridiculous; yet it is true that dr. beecher's panic about catholic influence in the united states is not quite unfounded, and that there is considerable hope of establishing a new dominion there. i hope the united states will appoint no italian, no catholic, to a consulship. the representative of the united states should be american; our national character and interests are peculiar, and cannot be fitly represented by a foreigner, unless, like mr. ombrossi of florence, he has passed part of his youth in the united states. it would, indeed, be well if our government paid attention to qualification for the office in the candidate, and not to pretensions founded on partisan service; appointing only men of probity, who would not stain the national honor in the sight of europe. it would be wise also not to select men entirely ignorant of foreign manners, customs, ways of thinking, or even of any language in which to communicate with foreign society, making the country ridiculous by all sorts of blunders; but 't were pity if a sufficient number of americans could not be found, who are honest, have some knowledge of europe and gentlemanly tact, and are able at least to speak french. to return to the pope, although the shadow that has fallen on his popularity is in a great measure the work of his enemies, yet there is real cause for it too. his conduct in deposing for a time one of the censors, about the banners of the th of december, his speech to the council the same day, his extreme displeasure at the sympathy of a few persons with the triumph of the swiss diet, because it was a protestant triumph, and, above all, his speech to the consistory, so deplorably weak in thought and absolute in manner, show a man less strong against domestic than foreign foes, instigated by a generous, humane heart to advance, but fettered by the prejudices of education, and terribly afraid to be or seem to be less the pope of rome, in becoming a reform prince, and father to the fatherless. i insert a passage of this speech, which seems to say that, whenever there shall be collision between the priest and the reformer, the priest shall triumph:-- "another subject there is which profoundly afflicts and harasses our mind. it is not certainly unknown to you, venerable brethren, that many enemies of catholic truth have, in our times especially, directed their efforts by the desire to place certain monstrous offsprings of opinion on a par with the doctrine of christ, or to blend them therewith, seeking to propagate more and more that impious system of _indifference_ toward all religion whatever. "and lately some have been found, dreadful to narrate! who have offered such an insult to our name and apostolic dignity, as slanderously to represent us participators in their folly, and favorers of that most iniquitous system above named. these have been pleased to infer from, the counsels (certainly not foreign to the sanctity of the catholic religion) which, in certain affairs pertaining to the civil exercise of the pontific sway, we had benignly embraced for the increase of public prosperity and good, and also from the pardon bestowed in clemency upon certain persons subject to that sway, in the very beginning of our pontificate, that we had such benevolent sentiments toward every description of persons as to believe that not only the sons of the church, but others also, remaining aliens from catholic unity, are alike in the way of salvation, and may attain eternal life. words are wanting to us, from horror, to repel this new and atrocious calumny against us. it is true that with intimate affection of heart we love all mankind, but not otherwise than in the charity of god and of our lord jesus christ, who came to seek and to save that which had perished, who wisheth that all men should be saved and come to a knowledge of the truth, and who sent his disciples through the whole world to preach the gospel to every creature, declaring that those who should believe and be baptized should be saved, but those who should not believe, should be condemned. let those therefore who seek salvation come to the pillar and support of the truth, which is the church,--let them come, that is, to the true church of christ, which possesses in its bishops and the supreme head of all, the roman pontiff, a never-interrupted succession of apostolic authority, and which for nothing has ever been more zealous than to preach, and with all care preserve and defend, the doctrine announced as the mandate of christ by his apostles; which church afterward increased, from the time of the apostles, in the midst of every species of difficulties, and flourished throughout the whole world, radiant in the splendor of miracles, amplified by the blood of martyrs, ennobled by the virtues of confessors and virgins, corroborated by the testimony and most sapient writings of the fathers,--as it still flourishes throughout all lands, refulgent in perfect unity of the sacraments, of faith, and of holy discipline. we who, though unworthy, preside in this supreme chair of the apostle peter, in which christ our lord placed the foundation of his church, have at no time abstained, from any cares or toils to bring, through the grace of christ himself, those who are in ignorance and error to this sole way of truth and salvation. let those, whoever they be, that are adverse, remember that heaven and earth shall pass away, but nothing can ever perish of the words of christ, nor be changed in the doctrine which the catholic church received, to guard, defend, and publish, from him. "next to this we cannot but speak to you, venerable brethren, of the bitterness of sorrow by which we were affected, on seeing that a few days since, in this our fair city, the fortress and centre of the catholic religion, it proved possible to find some--very few indeed and well-nigh frantic men--who, laying aside the very sense of humanity, and to the extreme disgust and indignation of other citizens of this town, were not withheld, by horror from triumphing openly and publicly over the most lamentable intestine war lately excited among the helvetic people; which truly fatal war we sorrow over from the depths of our heart, as well considering the blood shed by that nation, the slaughter of brothers, the atrocious, daily recurring, and fatal discords, hatreds, and dissensions (which usually redound among nations in consequence especially of civil wars), as the detriment which we learn the catholic religion has suffered, and fear it may yet suffer, in consequence of this, and, finally, the deplorable acts of sacrilege committed in the first conflict, which our soul shrinks from narrating." it is probably on account of these fears of pius ix. lest he should be a called a protestant pope, that the roman journals thus far, in translating the american address to the pope, have not dared to add any comment. but if the heart, the instincts, of this good man have been beyond his thinking powers, that only shows him the providential agent to work out aims beyond his ken. a wave has been set in motion, which cannot stop till it casts up its freight upon the shore, and if pius ix. does not suffer himself to be surrounded by dignitaries, and see the signs of the times through the eyes of others,--if he does not suffer the knowledge he had of general society as a simple prelate to become incrusted by the ignorance habitual to princes,--he cannot fail long to be a most important agent in fashioning a new and better era for this beautiful injured land. i will now give another document, which may be considered as representing the view of what is now passing taken by the democratic party called "young italy." should it in any other way have reached the united states, yet it will not come amiss to have it translated for the tribune, as many of your readers may not otherwise have a chance of seeing this noble document, one of the milestones in the march of thought. it is a letter to the most high pontiff, pius ix., from joseph mazzini. "london, th september, . "most holy father,--permit an italian, who has studied your every step for some months back with much hopefulness, to address to you, in the midst of the applauses, often far too servile and unworthy of you, which, resound near you, some free and profoundly sincere words. take to read them some moments from your infinite cares. from a simple individual animated by holy intentions may come, sometimes, a great counsel; and i write to you with so much love, with so much emotion of my whole soul, with so much faith in the destiny of my country, which may be revived by your means, that my thoughts ought to speak truth. "and first, it is needful, most holy father, that i should say to you somewhat of myself. my name has probably reached your ears, but accompanied by all the calumnies, by all the errors, by all the foolish conjectures, which the police, by system, and many men of my party through want of knowledge or poverty of intellect, have heaped upon it. i am not a subverter, nor a communist, nor a man of blood, nor a hater, nor intolerant, nor exclusive adorer of a system, or of a form imagined by my mind. i adore god, and an idea which seems to me of god,--italy an angel of moral unity and of progressive civilization for the nations of europe. here and everywhere i have written the best i know how against the vices of materialism, of egotism, of reaction, and against the destructive tendencies which contaminate many of our party. if the people should rise in violent attack against the selfishness and bad government of their rulers, i, while rendering homage to the right of the people, shall be among the first to prevent the excesses and the vengeance which long slavery has prepared. i believe profoundly in a religious principle, supreme above all social ordinances; in a divine order, which we ought to seek to realize here on earth; in a law, in a providential design, which we all ought, according to our powers, to study and to promote. i believe in the inspiration of my immortal soul, in the teaching of humanity, which shouts to me, through the deeds and words of all its saints, incessant progress for all through, the work of all my brothers toward a common moral amelioration, toward the fulfilment of the divine law. and in the great history of humanity i have studied the history of italy, and have found there rome twice directress of the world,--first through the emperors, later through the popes. i have found there, that every manifestation of italian life has also been a manifestation of european life; and that always when italy fell, the moral unity of europe began to fall apart in analysis, in doubt, in anarchy. i believe in yet another manifestation of the italian idea; and i believe that another european world ought to be revealed from the eternal city, that had the capitol, and has the vatican. and this faith has not abandoned me ever, through years, poverty, and griefs which god alone knows. in these few words lies all my being, all the secret of my life. i may err in the intellect, but the heart has always remained pure. i have never lied through fear or hope, and i speak to you as i should speak to god beyond the sepulchre. "i believe you good. there is no man this day, i will not say in italy, but in all europe, more powerful than you; you then have, most holy father, vast duties. god measures these according to the means which he has granted to his creatures. "europe is in a tremendous crisis of doubts and desires. through the work of time, accelerated by your predecessors of the hierarchy of the church, faith is dead, catholicism is lost in despotism; protestantism is lost in anarchy. look around you; you will find superstitious and hypocrites, but not believers. the intellect travels in a void. the bad adore calculation, physical good; the good pray and hope; nobody _believes_. kings, governments, the ruling classes, combat for a power usurped, illegitimate, since it does not represent the worship of truth, nor disposition to sacrifice one's self for the good of all; the people combat because they suffer, because they would fain take their turn to enjoy; nobody fights for duty, nobody because the war against evil and falsehood is a holy war, the crusade of god. we have no more a heaven; hence we have no more a society. "do not deceive yourself, most holy father; this is the present state of europe. "but humanity cannot exist without a heaven. the idea of society is only a consequence of the idea of religion. we shall have then, sooner or later, religion and heaven. we shall have these not in the kings and the privileged classes,--their very condition excludes love, the soul of all religions,--but in the people. the spirit from god descends on many gathered together in his name. the people have suffered for ages on the cross, and god will bless them with a faith. "you can, most holy father, hasten that moment. i will not tell you my individual opinions on the religious development which is to come; these are of little importance. but i will say to you, that, whatever be the destiny of the creeds now existing, you can put yourself at the head of this development. if god wills that such creeds should revive, you can make them revive; if god wills that they should be transformed, that, leaving the foot of the cross, dogma and worship should be purified by rising a step nearer god, the father and educator of the world, you can put yourself between the two epochs, and guide the world to the conquest and the practice of religious truth, extirpating a hateful egotism, a barren negation. "god preserve me from tempting you with ambition; that would be profanation. i call you, in the name of the power which god has granted you, and has not granted without a reason, to fulfil the good, the regenerating european work. i call you, after so many ages of doubt and corruption, to be apostle of eternal truth. i call you to make yourself the 'servant of all,' to sacrifice yourself, if needful, so that 'the will of god may be done on the earth as it is in heaven'; to hold yourself ready to glorify god in victory, or to repeat with resignation, if you must fail, the words of gregory vii.: 'i die in exile, because i have loved justice and hated iniquity.' "but for this, to fulfil the mission which god confides to you, two things are needful,--to be a believer, and to unify italy. without the first, you will fall in the middle of the way, abandoned by god and by men; without the second, you will not have the lever with which only you can effect great, holy, and durable things. "be a believer; abhor to be king, politician, statesman. make no compromise with error; do not contaminate yourself with diplomacy, make no compact with fear, with expediency, with the false doctrines of a _legality_, which is merely a falsehood invented when faith failed. take no counsel except from god, from the inspirations of your own heart, and from the imperious necessity of rebuilding a temple to truth, to justice, to faith. self-collected, in enthusiasm of love for humanity, and apart from every human regard, ask of god that he will teach you the way; then enter upon it, with the faith of a conqueror on your brow, with the irrevocable decision of the martyr in your heart; look neither to the right hand nor the left, but straight before you, and up to heaven. of every object that meets you on the way, ask of yourself: 'is this just or unjust, true or false, law of man or law of god?' proclaim aloud the result of your examination, and act accordingly. do not say to yourself: 'if i speak and work in such a way, the princes of the earth will disagree; the ambassadors will present notes and protests!' what are the quarrels of selfishness in princes, or their notes, before a syllable of the eternal evangelists of god? they have had importance till now, because, though phantoms, they had nothing to oppose them but phantoms; oppose to them the reality of a man who sees the divine view, unknown to them, of human affairs, of an immortal soul conscious of a high mission, and these will vanish before you as vapors accumulated in darkness before the sun which rises in the east. do not let yourself be affrighted by intrigues; the creature who fulfils a duty belongs not to men, but to god. god will protect you; god will spread around you such a halo of love, that neither the perfidy of men irreparably lost, nor the suggestions of hell, can break through it. give to the world a spectacle new, unique: you will have results new, not to be foreseen by human calculation. announce an era; declare that humanity is sacred, and a daughter of god; that all who violate her rights to progress, to association, are on the way of error; that in god is the source of every government; that those who are best by intellect and heart, by genius and virtue, must be the guides of the people. bless those who suffer and combat; blame, reprove, those who cause suffering, without regard to the name they bear, the rank that invests them. the people will adore in you the best interpreter of the divine design, and your conscience will give you rest, strength, and ineffable comfort. "unify italy, your country. for this you have no need to work, but to bless him who works through you and in your name. gather round you those who best represent the national party. do not beg alliances with princes. continue to seek the alliance of our own people; say, 'the unity of italy ought to be a fact of the nineteenth century,' and it will suffice; we shall work for you. leave our pens free; leave free the circulation of ideas in what regards this point, vital for us, of the national unity. treat the austrian government, even when it no longer menaces your territory, with the reserve of one who knows that it governs by usurpation in italy and elsewhere; combat it with words of a just man, wherever it contrives oppressions and violations of the rights of others out of italy. require, in the name of the god of peace, the jesuits allied with austria in switzerland to withdraw from that country, where their presence prepares an inevitable and speedy effusion of the blood of the citizens. give a word of sympathy which shall become public to the first pole of galicia who comes into your presence. show us, in fine, by some fact, that you intend not only to improve the physical condition of your own few subjects, but that you embrace in your love the twenty-four millions of italians, your brothers; that you believe them called by god to unite in family unity under one and the same compact; that you would bless the national banner, wherever it should be raised by pure and incontaminate hands; and leave the rest to us. we will cause to rise around you a nation over whose free and popular development you, living, shall preside. we will found a government unique in europe, which shall destroy the absurd divorce between spiritual and temporal power, and in which you shall be chosen to represent the principle of which the men chosen by the nation will make the application. we shall know how to translate into a potent fact the instinct which palpitates through all italy. we will excite for you active support among the nations of europe; we will find you friends even in the ranks of austria; we alone, because we alone have unity of design, believe in the truth of our principle, and have never betrayed it. do not fear excesses from the people once entered upon this way; the people only commit excesses when left to their own impulses without any guide whom they respect. do not pause before the idea of becoming a cause of war. war exists, everywhere, open or latent, but near breaking out, inevitable; nor can human power prevent it. nor do i, it must be said frankly, most holy father, address to you these words because i doubt in the least of our destiny, or because i believe you the sole, the indispensable means of the enterprise. the unity of italy is a work of god,--a part of the design of providence and of all, even of those who show themselves most satisfied with local improvements, and who, less sincere than i, wish to make them means of attaining their own aims. it will be fulfilled, with you or without you. but i address you, because i believe you worthy to take the initiative in a work so vast; because your putting yourself at the head of it would much abridge the road and diminish the dangers, the injury, the blood; because with you the conflict would assume a religious aspect, and be freed from many dangers of reaction and civil errors; because might be attained at once under your banner a political result and a vast moral result; because the revival of italy under the ægis of a religious idea, of a standard, not of rights, but of duties, would leave behind all the revolutions of other countries, and place her immediately at the head of european progress; because it is in your power to cause that god and the people, terms too often fatally disjoined, should meet at once in beautiful and holy harmony, to direct the fate of nations. "if i could be near you, i would invoke from god power to convince you, by gesture, by accent, by tears; now i can only confide to the paper the cold corpse, as it were, of my thought; nor can i ever have the certainty that you have read, and meditated a moment what i write. but i feel an imperious necessity of fulfilling this duty toward italy and you, and, whatsoever you may think of it, i shall find myself more in peace with my conscience for having thus addressed you. "believe, most holy father, in the feelings of veneration and of high hope which professes for you your most devoted "joseph mazzini." whatever may be the impression of the reader as to the ideas and propositions contained in this document,[a] i think he cannot fail to be struck with its simple nobleness, its fervent truth. [footnote a: this letter was printed in paris to be circulated in italy. a prefatory note signed by a friend of mazzini's, states that the original was known to have reached the hands of the pope. the hope is expressed that the publication of this letter, though without the authority of its writer, will yet not displease him, as those who are deceived as to his plans and motives will thus learn his true purposes and feelings, and the letter will one day aid the historian who seeks to know what were the opinions and hopes of the entire people of italy.--ed.] a thousand petty interruptions have prevented my completing this letter, till, now the hour of closing the mail for the steamer is so near, i shall not have time to look over it, either to see what i have written or make slight corrections. however, i suppose it represents the feelings of the last few days, and shows that, without having lost any of my confidence in the italian movement, the office of the pope in promoting it has shown narrower limits, and sooner than i had expected. this does not at all weaken my personal feeling toward this excellent man, whose heart i have seen in his face, and can never doubt. it was necessary to be a great thinker, a great genius, to compete with the difficulties of his position. i never supposed he was that; i am only disappointed that his good heart has not carried him on a little farther. with regard to the reception of the american address, it is only the roman press that is so timid; the private expressions of pleasure have been very warm; the italians say, "the americans are indeed our brothers." it remains to be seen, when pius ix. receives it, whether the man, the reforming prince, or the pope is uppermost at that moment. letter xxii. the ceremonies succeeding epiphany.--the death of torlonia, and its predisposing causes.--funeral honors.--a striking contrast in the decease of the cardinal prince massimo.--the pope and his officers of state.--the cardinal bofondi.--sympathetic excitements through italy.--sicily in full insurrection.--the king of sicily, prince metternich, and louis philippe.--a rumor as to the parentage of the king of the french.--rome: ave maria.--life in the eternal city.--the bambino.--catholicism: its gifts and its workings.--the church of ara coeli.--exhibition of the bambino.--bygone superstition and living reality.--the soul of catholicism has fled.--reflections.--exhibition by the college of the propaganda.--exercises in all languages.-- disturbances and their causes.--thoughts.--blessing animals.--accounts from pavia.--austria.--the king of naples.--rumors from other parts of europe.--france.--guizot.--appearances and apprehensions. rome, january, . i think i closed my last letter, without having had time to speak of the ceremonies that precede and follow epiphany. this month, no day, scarcely an hour, has passed unmarked by some showy spectacle or some exciting piece of news. on the last day of the year died don carlo torlonia, brother of the banker, a man greatly beloved and regretted. the public felt this event the more that its proximate cause was an attack made upon his brother's house by paradisi, now imprisoned in the castle of st. angelo, pending a law process for proof of his accusations. don carlo had been ill before, and the painful agitation caused by these circumstances decided his fate. the public had been by no means displeased at this inquiry into the conduct of don alessandro torlonia, believing that his assumed munificence is, in this case, literally a robbery of peter to pay paul, and that all he gives to rome is taken from rome. but i sympathized no less with the affectionate indignation of his brother, too good a man to be made the confidant of wrong, or have eyes for it, if such exist. thus, in the poetical justice which does not fail to be done in the prose narrative of life, while men hastened, the moment a cry was raised against don alessandro, to echo it back with all kinds of imputations both on himself and his employees, every man held his breath, and many wept, when the mortal remains of don carlo passed; feeling that in him was lost a benefactor, a brother, a simple, just man. don carlo was a knight of malta; yet with him the celibate life had not hardened the heart, but only left it free on all sides to general love. not less than half a dozen pompous funerals were given in his honor, by his relatives, the brotherhoods to which he belonged, and the battalion of the civic guard of which he was commander-in-chief. but in his own house the body lay in no other state than that of a simple franciscan, the order to which he first belonged, and whose vow he had kept through half a century, by giving all he had for the good of others. he lay on the ground in the plain dark robe and cowl, no unfit subject for a modern picture of little angels descending to shower lilies on a good man's corpse. the long files of armed men, the rich coaches, and liveried retinues of the princes, were little observed, in comparison with more than a hundred orphan girls whom his liberality had sustained, and who followed the bier in mourning robes and long white veils, spirit-like, in the dark night. the trumpet's wail, and soft, melancholy music from the bands, broke at times the roll of the muffled drum; the hymns of the church were chanted, and volleys of musketry discharged, in honor of the departed; but much more musical was the whisper in which the crowd, as passed his mortal frame, told anecdotes of his good deeds. i do not know when i have passed more consolatory moments than in the streets one evening during this pomp and picturesque show,--for once not empty of all meaning as to the present time, recognizing that good which remains in the human being, ineradicable by all ill, and promises that our poor, injured nature shall rise, and bloom again, from present corruption to immortal purity. if don carlo had been a thinker,--a man of strong intellect,--he might have devised means of using his money to more radical advantage than simply to give it in alms; he had only a kind human heart, but from that heart distilled a balm which made all men bless it, happy in finding cause to bless. as in the moral little books with which our nurseries are entertained, followed another death in violent contrast. one of those whom the new arrangements deprived of power and the means of unjust gain was the cardinal prince massimo, a man a little younger than don carlo, but who had passed his forty years in a very different manner. he remonstrated; the pope was firm, and, at last, is said to have answered with sharp reproof for the past. the cardinal contained himself in the audience, but, going out, literally suffocated with the rage he had suppressed. the bad blood his bad heart had been so long making rushed to his head, and he died on his return home. men laughed, and proposed that all the widows he had deprived of a maintenance should combine to follow _his_ bier. it was said boys hissed as that bier passed. now, a splendid suit of lace being for sale in a shop of the corso, everybody says: "have you been to look at the lace of cardinal massimo, who died of rage, because he could no longer devour the public goods?" and this is the last echo of _his_ requiem. the pope is anxious to have at least well-intentioned men in places of power. men of much ability, it would seem, are not to be had. his last prime minister was a man said to have energy, good dispositions, but no thinking power. the cardinal bofondi, whom he has taken now, is said to be a man of scarce any ability; there being few among the new councillors the public can name as fitted for important trust. in consolation, we must remember that the chancellor oxenstiern found nothing more worthy of remark to show his son, than by how little wisdom the world could be governed. we must hope these men of straw will serve as thatch to keep out the rain, and not be exposed to the assaults of a devouring flame. yet that hour may not be distant. the disturbances of the st of january here were answered by similar excitements in leghorn and genoa, produced by the same hidden and malignant foe. at the same time, the austrian government in milan organized an attempt to rouse the people to revolt, with a view to arrests, and other measures calculated to stifle the spirit of independence they know to be latent there. in this iniquitous attempt they murdered eighty persons; yet the citizens, on their guard, refused them the desired means of ruin, and they were forced to retractions as impudently vile as their attempts had been. the viceroy proclaimed that "he hoped the people would confide in him as he did in them"; and no doubt they will. at leghorn and genoa, the wiles of the foe were baffled by the wisdom of the popular leaders, as i trust they always will be; but it is needful daily to expect these nets laid in the path of the unwary. sicily is in full insurrection; and it is reported naples, but this is not sure. there was a report, day before yesterday, that the poor, stupid king was already here, and had taken cheap chambers at the hotel d'allemagne, as, indeed, it is said he has always a turn for economy, when he cannot live at the expense of his suffering people. day before yesterday, every carriage that the people saw with a stupid-looking man in it they did not know, they looked to see if it was not the royal runaway. but it was their wish was father to that thought, and it has not as yet taken body as fact. in like manner they report this week the death of prince metternich; but i believe it is not sure he is dead yet, only dying. with him passes one great embodiment of ill to europe. as for louis philippe, he seems reserved to give the world daily more signal proofs of his base apostasy to the cause that placed him on the throne, and that heartless selfishness, of which his face alone bears witness to any one that has a mind to read it. how the french nation could look upon that face, while yet flushed with the hopes of the three days, and put him on the throne as representative of those hopes, i cannot conceive. there is a story current in italy, that he is really the child of a man first a barber, afterwards a police-officer, and was substituted at nurse for the true heir of orleans; and the vulgarity of form in his body of limbs, power of endurance, greed of gain, and hard, cunning intellect, so unlike all traits of the weak, but more "genteel" bourbon race, might well lend plausibility to such a fable. but to return to rome, where i hear the ave maria just ringing. by the way, nobody pauses, nobody thinks, nobody prays. "ave maria! 't is the hour of prayer, ave maria! 't is the hour of love," &c., is but a figment of the poet's fancy. to return to rome: what a rome! the fortieth day of rain, and damp, and abominable reeking odors, such as blessed cities swept by the sea-breeze--bitter sometimes, yet indeed a friend--never know. it has been dark all day, though the lamp has only been lit half an hour. the music of the day has been, first the atrocious _arias_, which last in the corso till near noon, though certainly less in virulence on rainy days. then came the wicked organ-grinder, who, apart from the horror of the noise, grinds exactly the same obsolete abominations as at home or in england,--the copenhagen waltz, "home, sweet home," and all that! the cruel chance that both an english my-lady and a councillor from one of the provinces live opposite, keeps him constantly before my window, hoping baiocchi. within, the three pet dogs of my landlady, bereft of their walk, unable to employ their miserable legs and eyes, exercise themselves by a continual barking, which is answered by all the dogs in the neighborhood. an urchin returning from the laundress, delighted with the symphony, lays down his white bundle in the gutter, seats himself on the curb-stone, and attempts an imitation of the music of cats as a tribute to the concert. the door-bell rings. _chi è?_ "who is it?" cries the handmaid, with unweariable senselessness, as if any one would answer, _rogue_, or _enemy_, instead of the traditionary _amico_, _friend_. can it be, perchance, a letter, news of home, or some of the many friends who have neglected so long to write, or some ray of hope to break the clouds of the difficult future? far from it. enter a man poisoning me at once with the smell of the worst possible cigars, not to be driven out, insisting i shall look upon frightful, ill-cut cameos, and worse-designed mosaics, made by some friend of his, who works in a chamber and will sell _so_ cheap. man of ill-odors and meanest smile! i am no countess to be fooled by you. for dogs they were not even--dog-cheap. a faint and misty gleam of sun greeted the day on which there was the feast to the bambino, the most venerated doll of rome. this is the famous image of the infant jesus, reputed to be made of wood from a tree of palestine, and which, being taken away from its present abode,--the church of ara coeli,--returned by itself, making the bells ring as it sought admittance at the door. it is this which is carried in extreme cases to the bedside of the sick. it has received more splendid gifts than any other idol. an orphan by my side, now struggling with difficulties, showed me on its breast a splendid jewel, which a doting grandmother thought more likely to benefit her soul if given to the bambino, than if turned into money to give her grandchildren education and prospects in life. the same old lady left her vineyard, not to these children, but to her confessor, a well-endowed monsignor, who occasionally asks this youth, his godson, to dinner! children so placed are not quite such devotees to catholicism as the new proselytes of america;--they are not so much patted on the head, and things do not show to them under quite the same silver veil. the church of ara coeli is on or near the site of the temple of capitoline jove, which certainly saw nothing more idolatrous than these ceremonies. for about a week the bambino is exhibited in an illuminated chapel, in the arms of a splendidly dressed madonna doll. behind, a transparency represents the shepherds, by moonlight, at the time the birth was announced, and, above, god the father, with many angels hailing the event. a pretty part of this exhibition, which i was not so fortunate as to hit upon, though i went twice on purpose, is the children making little speeches in honor of the occasion. many readers will remember some account of this in andersen's "improvvisatore." the last time i went was the grand feast in honor of the bambino. the church was entirely full, mostly with contadini and the poorer people, absorbed in their devotions: one man near me never raised his head or stirred from his knees to see anything; he seemed in an anguish of prayer, either from repentance or anxiety. i wished i could have hoped the ugly little doll could do mm any good. the noble stair which descends from the great door of this church to the foot of the capitol,--a stair made from fragments of the old imperial time,--was flooded with people; the street below was a rapid river also, whose waves were men. the ceremonies began with splendid music from the organ, pealing sweetly long and repeated invocations. as if answering to this call, the world came in, many dignitaries, the conservatori, (i think conservatives are the same everywhere, official or no,) and did homage to the image; then men in white and gold, with the candles they are so fond here of burning by daylight, as if the poorest artificial were better than the greatest natural light, uplifted high above themselves the baby, with its gilded robes and crown, and made twice the tour of the church, passing twice the column labelled "from the home of augustus," while the band played--what?--the hymn to pius ix. and "sons of rome, awake!" never was a crueller comment upon the irreconcilableness of these two things. rome seeks to reconcile reform and priestcraft. but her eyes are shut, that they see not. o awake indeed, romans! and you will see that the christ who is to save men is no wooden dingy effigy of bygone superstitions, but such as art has seen him in your better mood,--a child, living, full of love, prophetic of a boundless future,--a man acquainted with all sorrows that rend the heart of all, and ever loving man with sympathy and faith death could not quench,--_that_ christ lives and may be sought; burn your doll of wood. how any one can remain a catholic--i mean who has ever been aroused to think, and is not biassed by the partialities of childish years--after seeing catholicism here in italy, i cannot conceive. there was once a soul in the religion while the blood of its martyrs was yet fresh upon the ground, but that soul was always too much encumbered with the remains of pagan habits and customs: that soul is now quite fled elsewhere, and in the splendid catafalco, watched by so many white and red-robed snuff-taking, sly-eyed men, would they let it be opened, nothing would be found but bones! then the college for propagating all this, the most venerable propaganda, has given its exhibition in honor of the magi, wise men of the east who came to christ. i was there one day. in conformity with the general spirit of rome,--strangely inconsistent in a country where the madonna is far more frequently and devoutly worshipped than god or christ, in a city where at least as many female saints and martyrs are venerated as male,--there was no good place for women to sit. all the good seats were for the men in the area below, but in the gallery windows, and from the organ-loft, a few women were allowed to peep at what was going on. i was one of these exceptional characters. the exercises were in all the different languages under the sun. it would have been exceedingly interesting to hear them, one after the other, each in its peculiar cadence and inflection, but much of the individual expression was taken away by that general false academic tone which is sure to pervade such exhibitions where young men speak who have as yet nothing to say. it would have been different, indeed, if we could have heard natives of all those countries, who were animated by real feelings, real wants. still it was interesting, particularly the language and music of kurdistan, and the full-grown beauty of the greek after the ruder dialects. among those who appeared to the best advantage were several blacks, and the majesty of the latin hexameters was confided to a full-blooded guinea negro, who acquitted himself better than any other i heard. i observed, too, the perfectly gentlemanly appearance of these young men, and that they had nothing of that cuffy swagger by which those freed from a servile state try to cover a painful consciousness of their position in our country. their air was self-possessed, quiet and free beyond that of most of the whites. january , o'clock, p.m. pour, pour, pour again, dark as night,--many people coming in to see me because they don't know what to do with themselves. i am very glad to see them for the same reason; this atmosphere is so heavy, i seem to carry the weight of the world on my head and feel unfitted for every exertion. as to eating, that is a bygone thing; wine, coffee, meat, i have resigned; vegetables are few and hard to have, except horrible cabbage, in which the romans delight. a little rice still remains, which i take with pleasure, remembering it growing in the rich fields of lombardy, so green and full of glorious light. that light fell still more beautiful on the tall plantations of hemp, but it is dangerous just at present to think of what is made from hemp. this week all the animals are being blessed,[a] and they get a gratuitous baptism, too, the while. the lambs one morning were taken out to the church of st. agnes for this purpose. the little companion of my travels, if he sees this letter, will remember how often we saw her with her lamb in pictures. the horses are being blessed by st. antonio, and under his harmonizing influence are afterward driven through the city, twelve and even twenty in hand. they are harnessed into light wagons, and men run beside them to guard against accident, in case the good influence of the saint should fail. [footnote a: one of rome's singular customs.--ed.] this morning came the details of infamous attempts by the austrian police to exasperate the students of pavia. the way is to send persons to smoke cigars in forbidden places, who insult those who are obliged to tell them to desist. these traps seem particularly shocking when laid for fiery and sensitive young men. they succeeded: the students were lured, into combat, and a number left dead and wounded on both sides. the university is shut up; the inhabitants of pavia and milan have put on mourning; even at the theatre they wear it. the milanese will not walk in that quarter where the blood of their fellow-citizens has been so wantonly shed. they have demanded a legal investigation of the conduct of the officials. at piacenza similar attempts have been made to excite the italians, by smoking in their faces, and crying, "long live the emperor!" it is a worthy homage to pay to the austrian crown,--this offering of cigars and blood. "o this offence is rank; it smells to heaven." this morning authentic news is received from naples. the king, when assured by his own brother that sicily was in a state of irresistible revolt, and that even the women quelled the troops,--showering on them stones, furniture, boiling oil, such means of warfare as the household may easily furnish to a thoughtful matron,--had, first, a stroke of apoplexy, from, which the loss of a good deal of bad blood relieved him. his mind apparently having become clearer thereby, he has offered his subjects an amnesty and terms of reform, which, it is hoped, will arrive before his troops have begun to bombard the cities in obedience to earlier orders. comes also to-day the news that the french chamber of peers propose an address to the king, echoing back all the falsehoods of his speech, including those upon reform, and the enormous one that "the peace of europe is now assured"; but that some members have worthily opposed this address, and spoken truth in an honorable manner. also, that the infamous sacrifice of the poor little queen of spain puts on more tragic colors; that it is pretended she has epilepsy, and she is to be made to renounce the throne, which, indeed, has been a terrific curse to her. and heaven and earth have looked calmly on, while the king of france has managed all this with the most unnatural of mothers. january . this morning comes the plan of the address of the chamber of deputies to the king: it contains some passages that are keenest satire upon him, as also some remarks which have been made, some words of truth spoken in the chamber of peers, that must have given him some twinges of nervous shame as he read. m. guizot's speech on the affairs of switzerland shows his usual shabbiness and falsehood. surely never prime minister stood in so mean a position as he: one like metternich seems noble and manly in comparison; for if there is a cruel, atheistical, treacherous policy, there needs not at least continual evasion to avoid declaring in words what is so glaringly manifest in fact. there is news that the revolution has now broken out in naples; that neither sicilians nor neapolitans will trust the king, but demand his abdication; and that his bad demon, coclo, has fled, carrying two hundred thousand ducats of gold. but in particulars this news is not yet sure, though, no doubt, there is truth, at the bottom. aggressions on the part of the austrians continue in the north. the advocates tommaso and manin (a light thus reflected on the name of the last doge), having dared to declare formally the necessity of reform, are thrown into prison. every day the cloud swells, and the next fortnight is likely to bring important tidings. letter xxiii. unpleasantness of a roman winter.--progress of events in europe, and their effect upon italy.--the carnival.--rain interrupts the gayety.--rejoicings for the revolutions of france and austria.--transports of the people.--oblations to the cause of liberty.--castle fusano.--the weather, gladsomeness of nature, and the pleasure of thought. rome, march , . it is long since i have written. my health entirely gave way beneath the roman winter. the rain was constant, commonly falling in torrents from the th of december to the th of march. nothing could surpass the dirt, the gloom, the desolation, of rome. let no one fancy he has seen her who comes here only in the winter. it is an immense mistake to do so. i cannot sufficiently rejoice that i did not first see italy in the winter. the climate of rome at this time of extreme damp i have found equally exasperating and weakening. i have had constant nervous headache without strength to bear it, nightly fever, want of appetite. some constitutions bear it better, but the complaint of weakness and extreme dejection of spirits is general among foreigners in the wet season. the english say they become acclimated in two or three years, and cease to suffer, though never so strong as at home. now this long dark dream--to me the most idle and most suffering season of my life--seems past. the italian heavens wear again their deep blue; the sun shines gloriously; the melancholy lustres are stealing again over the campagna, and hundreds of larks sing unwearied above its ruins. nature seems in sympathy with the great events that are transpiring,--with the emotions which are swelling the hearts of men. the morning sun is greeted by the trumpets of the roman legions marching out once more, now not to oppress but to defend. the stars look down on their jubilees over the good news which nightly reaches them from their brothers of lombardy. this week has been one of nobler, sweeter feeling, of a better hope and faith, than rome in her greatest days ever knew. how much has happened since i wrote! first, the victorious resistance of sicily and the revolution of naples. this has led us yet only to half-measures, but even these have been of great use to the progress of italy. the neapolitans will probably have to get rid at last of the stupid crowned head who is at present their puppet; but their bearing with him has led to the wiser sovereigns granting these constitutions, which, if eventually inadequate to the wants of italy, will be so useful, are so needed, to educate her to seek better, completer forms of administration. in the midst of all this serious work came the play of carnival, in which there was much less interest felt than usual, but enough to dazzle and captivate a stranger. one thing, however, has been omitted in the description of the roman carnival; i.e. that it rains every day. almost every day came on violent rain, just as the tide of gay masks was fairly engaged in the corso. this would have been well worth bearing once or twice, for the sake of seeing the admirable good humor of this people. those who had laid out all their savings in the gayest, thinnest dresses, on carriages and chairs for the corso, found themselves suddenly drenched, their finery spoiled, and obliged to ride and sit shivering all the afternoon. but they never murmured, never scolded, never stopped throwing their flowers. their strength of constitution is wonderful. while i, in my shawl and boa, was coughing at the open window from the moment i inhaled the wet sepulchral air, the servant-girls of the house had taken off their woollen gowns, and, arrayed in white muslins and roses, sat in the drenched street beneath the drenching rain, quite happy, and have suffered nothing in consequence. the romans renounced the _moccoletti_, ostensibly as an expression of sympathy for the sufferings of the milanese, but really because, at that time, there was great disturbance about the jesuits, and the government feared that difficulties would arise in the excitement of the evening. but, since, we have had this entertainment in honor of the revolutions of france and austria, and nothing could be more beautiful. the fun usually consists in all the people blowing one another's lights out. we had not this; all the little tapers were left to blaze, and the long corso swarmed with tall fire-flies. lights crept out over the surface of all the houses, and such merry little twinkling lights, laughing and flickering with each slightest movement of those who held them! up and down the corso they twinkled, they swarmed, they streamed, while a surge of gay triumphant sound ebbed and flowed beneath that glittering surface. here and there danced men carrying aloft _moccoli_, and clanking chains, emblem of the tyrannic power now vanquished by the people;--the people, sweet and noble, who, in the intoxication of their joy, were guilty of no rude or unkindly word or act, and who, no signal being given as usual for the termination of their diversion, closed, of their own accord and with one consent, singing the hymns for pio, by nine o'clock, and retired peacefully to their homes, to dream of hopes they yet scarce understand. this happened last week. the news of the dethronement of louis philippe reached us just after the close of the carnival. it was just a year from my leaving paris. i did not think, as i looked with such disgust on the empire of sham he had established in france, and saw the soul of the people imprisoned and held fast as in an iron vice, that it would burst its chains so soon. whatever be the result, france has done gloriously; she has declared that she will not be satisfied with pretexts while there are facts in the world,--that to stop her march is a vain attempt, though the onward path be dangerous and difficult. it is vain to cry, peace! peace! when there is no peace. the news from france, in these days, sounds ominous, though still vague. it would appear that the political is being merged in the social struggle: it is well. whatever blood is to be shed, whatever altars cast down, those tremendous problems must be solved, whatever be the cost! that cost cannot fail to break many a bank, many a heart, in europe, before the good can bud again out of a mighty corruption. to you, people of america, it may perhaps be given to look on and learn in time for a preventive wisdom. you may learn the real meaning of the words fraternity, equality: you may, despite the apes of the past who strive to tutor you, learn the needs of a true democracy. you may in time learn to reverence, learn to guard, the true aristocracy of a nation, the only really nobles,--the laboring classes. and metternich, too, is crushed; the seed of the woman has had his foot on the serpent. i have seen the austrian arms dragged through the streets of rome and burned in the piazza del popolo. the italians embraced one another, and cried, _miracolo! providenza!_ the modern tribune ciceronacchio fed the flame with faggots; adam mickiewicz, the great poet of poland, long exiled from his country or the hopes of a country, looked on, while polish women, exiled too, or who perhaps, like one nun who is here, had been daily scourged by the orders of a tyrant, brought little pieces that had been scattered in the street and threw them into the flames,--an offering received by the italians with loud plaudits. it was a transport of the people, who found no way to vent their joy, but the symbol, the poesy, natural to the italian mind. the ever-too-wise "upper classes" regret it, and the germans choose to resent it as an insult to germany; but it was nothing of the kind; the insult was to the prisons of spielberg, to those who commanded the massacres of milan,--a base tyranny little congenial to the native german heart, as the true germans of germany are at this moment showing by their resolves, by their struggles. when the double-headed eagle was pulled down from above the lofty portal of the palazzo di venezia, the people placed there in its stead one of white and gold, inscribed with the name alta italia, and quick upon the emblem followed the news that milan was fighting against her tyrants,--that venice had driven them out and freed from their prisons the courageous protestants in favor of truth, tommaso and manin,--that manin, descendant of the last doge, had raised the republican banner on the place st. mark,--and that modena, that parma, were driving out the unfeeling and imbecile creatures who had mocked heaven and man by the pretence of government there. with indescribable rapture these tidings were received in rome. men were seen dancing, women weeping with joy along the street. the youth rushed to enroll themselves in regiments to go to the frontier. in the colosseum their names were received. father gavazzi, a truly patriotic monk, gave them the cross to carry on a new, a better, because defensive, crusade. sterbini, long exiled, addressed them. he said: "romans, do you wish to go; do you wish to go with all your hearts? if so, you _may_, and those who do not wish to go themselves may give money. to those who will go, the government gives bread and fifteen baiocchi a day." the people cried: "we wish to go, but we do not wish so much; the government is very poor; we can live on a paul a day." the princes answered by giving, one sixty thousand, others twenty, fifteen, ten thousand dollars. the people responded by giving at the benches which are opened in the piazzas literally everything; street-pedlers gave the gains of each day; women gave every ornament,--from the splendid necklace and bracelet down to the poorest bit of coral; servant-girls gave five pauls, two pauls, even half a paul, if they had no more. a man all in rags gave two pauls. "it is," said he, "all i have." "then," said torlonia, "take from me this dollar." the man of rags thanked him warmly, and handed that also to the bench, which refused to receive it. "no! _that_ must stay with you," shouted all present. these are the people whom the traveller accuses of being unable to rise above selfish considerations;--a nation rich and glorious by nature, capable, like all nations, all men, of being degraded by slavery, capable, as are few nations, few men, of kindling into pure flame at the touch of a ray from the sun of truth, of life. the two or three days that followed, the troops were marching about by detachments, followed always by the people, to the ponte molle, often farther. the women wept; for the habits of the romans are so domestic, that it seemed a great thing to have their sons and lovers gone even for a few months. the english--or at least those of the illiberal, bristling nature too often met here, which casts out its porcupine quills against everything like enthusiasm (of the more generous saxon blood i know some noble examples)--laughed at all this. they have said that this people would not fight; when the sicilians, men and women, did so nobly, they said: "o, the sicilians are quite unlike the italians; you will see, when the struggle comes on in lombardy, they cannot resist the austrian force a moment." i said: "that force is only physical; do not you think a sentiment can sustain them?" they replied: "all stuff and poetry; it will fade the moment their blood flows." when the news came that the milanese, men and women, fight as the sicilians did, they said: "well, the lombards are a better race, but these romans are good for nothing. it is a farce for a roman to try to walk even; they never walk a mile; they will not be able to support the first day's march of thirty miles, and not have their usual _minéstra_ to eat either." now the troops were not willing to wait for the government to make the necessary arrangements for their march, so at the first night's station--monterosi--they did _not_ find food or bedding; yet the second night, at civita castellana, they were so well alive as to remain dancing and vivaing pio nono in the piazza till after midnight. no, gentlemen, soul is not quite nothing, if matter be a clog upon its transports. the americans show a better, warmer feeling than they did; the meeting in new york was of use in instructing the americans abroad! the dinner given here on washington's birthday was marked by fine expressions of sentiment, and a display of talent unusual on such occasions. there was a poem from mr. story of boston, which gave great pleasure; a speech by mr. hillard, said to be very good, and one by rev. mr. hedge of bangor, exceedingly admired for the felicity of thought and image, and the finished beauty of style. next week we shall have more news, and i shall try to write and mention also some interesting things want of time obliges me to omit in this letter. april . yesterday i passed at ostia and castle fusano. a million birds sang; the woods teemed with blossoms; the sod grew green hourly over the graves of the mighty past; the surf rushed in on a fair shore; the tiber majestically retreated to carry inland her share from the treasures of the deep; the sea-breezes burnt my face, but revived my heart. i felt the calm of thought, the sublime hopes of the future, nature, man,--so great, though so little,--so dear, though incomplete. returning to rome, i find the news pronounced official, that the viceroy ranieri has capitulated at verona; that italy is free, independent, and one. i trust this will prove no april-foolery, no premature news; it seems too good, too speedy a realization of hope, to have come on earth, and can only be answered in the words of the proclamation made yesterday by pius ix.:-- "the events which these two months past have seen rush after one another in rapid succession, are no human work. woe to him who, in this wind, which shakes and tears up alike the lofty cedars and humble shrubs, hears not the voice of god! woe to human pride, if to the fault or merit of any man whatsoever it refer these wonderful changes, instead of adoring the mysterious designs of providence." letter xxiv. affairs in italy.--the provisional government of milan.--address to the german nation.--brotherhood, and the independence of italy.--the provisional government to the nations subject to the rule of the house of austria.--reflections on these movements.--lamartine.-- beranger.--mickiewicz in florence: enthusiastic reception: styled the dante of poland: his address before the florentines.--exiles returning.--mazzini.--the position of pius ix.--his dereliction from the cause of freedom and of progress.--the affair of the jesuits.-- his course in various matters.--language of the people.--the work begun by napoleon virtually finished.--the loss of pius ix. for the moment a great one.--the responsibility of events lying wholly with the people.--hopes and prospects of the future. rome, april , . in closing my last, i hoped to have some decisive intelligence to impart by this time, as to the fortunes of italy. but though everything, so far, turns in her favor, there has been no decisive battle, no final stroke. it pleases me much, as the news comes from day to day, that i passed so leisurely last summer over that part of lombardy now occupied by the opposing forces, that i have in my mind the faces both of the lombard and austrian leaders. a number of the present members of the provisional government of milan i knew while there; they are men of twenty-eight and thirty, much more advanced in thought than the moderates of rome, naples, tuscany, who are too much fettered with a bygone state of things, and not on a par in thought, knowledge, preparation for the great future, with the rest of the civilized world at this moment. the papers that emanate from the milanese government are far superior in tone to any that have been uttered by the other states. their protest in favor of their rights, their addresses to the germans at large and the countries under the dominion of austria, are full of nobleness and thoughts sufficiently great for the use of the coming age. these addresses i translate, thinking they may not in other form reach america. "the provisional government of milan to the german nation. "we hail you as brothers, valiant, learned, generous germans! "this salutation from a people just risen after a terrible struggle to self-consciousness and to the exercise of its rights, ought deeply to move your magnanimous hearts. "we deem ourselves worthy to utter that great word brotherhood, which effaces among nations the traditions of all ancient hate, and we proffer it over the new-made graves of our fellow-citizens, who have fought and died to give us the right to proffer it without fear or shame. "we call brothers men of all nations who believe and hope in the improvement of the human family, and seek the occasion to further it; but you, especially, we call brothers, you germans, with whom, we have in common so many noble sympathies,--the love of the arts and higher studies, the delight of noble contemplation,--with whom also we have much correspondence in our civil destinies. "with you are of first importance the interests of the great country, germany,--with us, those of the great country, italy. "we were induced to rise in arms against austria, (we mean, not the people, but the government of austria,) not only by the need of redeeming ourselves from the shame and grief of thirty-one years of the most abject despotism, but by a deliberate resolve to take our place upon the plane of nations, to unite with our brothers of the peninsula, and take rank with them under the great banner raised by pius ix., on which is written, the independence of italy. "can you blame us, independent germans? in blaming us, you would sink beneath your history, beneath your most honored and recent declarations. "we have chased the austrian from our soil; we shall give ourselves no repose till we have chased him from all parts of italy. no this enterprise we are all sworn; for this fights our army enrolled in every part of the peninsula,--an array of brothers led by the king of sardinia, who prides himself on being the sword of italy. "and the austrian is not more our enemy than yours. "the austrian--we speak still of the government, and not of the people--has always denied and contradicted the interests of the whole german nation, at the head of an assemblage of races differing in language, in customs, in institutions. when it was in his power to have corrected the errors of time and a dynastic policy, by assuming the high mission of uniting them by great moral interests, he preferred to arm one against the other, and to corrupt them all. "fearing every noble instinct, hostile to every grand idea, devoted to the material interests of an oligarchy of princes spoiled by a senseless education, of ministers who had sold their consciences, of speculators who subjected and sacrificed everything to gold, the only aim of such a government was to sow division everywhere. what wonder if everywhere in italy, as in germany, it reaps harvests of hate and ignominy. yes, of hate! to this the austrian has condemned us, to know hate and its deep sorrows. but we are absolved in the sight of god, and by the insults which have been heaped upon us for so many years, the unwearied efforts to debase us, the destruction of our villages, the cold-blooded slaughter of our aged people, our priests, our women, our children. and you,--you shall be the first to absolve us, you, virtuous among the germans, who certainly have shared our indignation when a venal and lying press accused us of being enemies to your great and generous nation, and we could not answer, and were constrained to devour in silence the shame of an accusation which wounded us to the heart. "we honor you, germans! we pant to give you glorious evidence of this. and, as a prelude to the friendly relations we hope to form with your governments, we seek to alleviate as much as possible the pains of captivity to some officers and soldiers belonging to various states of the germanic confederation, who fought in the austrian army. these we wish to send back to you, and are occupied by seeking the means to effect this purpose. we honor you so much, that we believe you capable of preferring to the bonds of race and language the sacred titles of misfortune and of right. "ah! answer to our appeal, valiant, wise, and generous germans! clasp the hand, which we offer you with the heart of a brother and friend; hasten to disavow every appearance of complicity with a government which the massacres of galicia and lombardy have blotted from the list of civilized and christian governments. it would be a beautiful thing for you to give this example, which will be new in history and worthy of these miraculous times,--the example of a strong and generous people casting aside other sympathies, other interests, to answer the invitation of a regenerate people, to cheer it in its new career, obedient to the great principles of justice, of humanity, of civil and christian brotherhood." "the provisional government of milan to the nations subject to the rule of the house of austria. "from your lands have come three armies which have brought war into ours; your speech is spoken by those hostile bands who come to us with fire and sword; nevertheless we come to you as to brothers. "the war which calls for our resistance is not your war; you are not our enemies: you are only instruments in the hand of our foe, and this foe, brothers, is common to us all. "before god, before men, solemnly we declare it,--our only enemy is the government of austria. "and that government which for so many years has labored to cancel, in the races it has subdued, every vestige of nationality, which takes no heed of their wants or prayers, bent only on serving miserable interests and more miserable pride, fomenting always antipathies conformably with the ancient maxim of tyrants, _divide and govern_,--this government has constituted itself the adversary of every generous thought, the ally and patron of all ignoble causes, the government declared by the whole civilized world paymaster of the executioners of galicia. "this government, after having pertinaciously resisted the legal expression of moderate desires,--after having defied with ludicrous hauteur the opinion of europe, has found itself in its metropolis too weak to resist an insurrection of students, and has yielded,--has yielded, making an assignment on time, and throwing to you, brothers, as an alms-gift to the importunate beggar, the promise of institutions which, in these days, are held essential conditions of life for a civilized nation. "but you have not confided in this promise; for the youth of vienna, which feels the inspiring breath of this miraculous time, is impelled on the path of progress; and therefore the austrian government, uncertain of itself and of your dispositions, took its old part of standing still to wait for events, in the hope of turning them to its own profit. "in the midst of this it received the news of our glorious revolution, and it thought to have found in this the best way to escape from its embarrassment. first it concealed that news; then made it known piecemeal, and disfigured by hypocrisy and hatred. we were a handful of rebels thirsting for german blood. we make a war of stilettos, we wish the destruction of all germany. but for us answers the admiration of all italy, of all europe, even the evidence of your own people whom we are constrained to hold prisoners or hostages, who will unanimously avow that we have shown heroic courage in the fight, heroic moderation in victory. "yes! we have risen as one man against the austrian government, to become again a nation, to make common cause with our italian brothers, and the arms which we have assumed for so great an object we shall not lay down till we have attained it. assailed by a brutal executor of brutal orders, we have combated in a just war; betrayed, a price set on our heads, wounded in the most vital parts, we have not transgressed the bounds of legitimate defence. the murders, the depredations of the hostile band, irritated against us by most wicked arts, have excited our horror, but never a reprisal. the soldier, his arms once laid down, was for us only an unfortunate. "but behold how the austrian government provokes you against us, and bids you come against us as a crusade! a crusade! the parody would be ludicrous if it were not so cruel. a crusade against a people which, in the name of christ, under a banner blessed by the vicar of christ, and revered by all the nations, fights to secure its indefeasible rights. "oh! if you form against us this crusade,--we have already shown the world what a people can do to reconquer its liberty, its independence,--we will show, also, what it can do to preserve them. if, almost unarmed, we have put to flight an army inured to war,--surely, brothers, that army wanted faith in the cause for which it fought,--can we fear that our courage will grow faint after our triumph, and when aided by all our brothers of italy? let the austrian government send against us its threatened battalions, they will find in our breasts a barrier more insuperable than the alps. everything will be a weapon to us; from every villa, from every field, from every hedge, will issue defenders of the national cause; women and children will fight like men; men will centuple their strength, their courage; and we will all perish amid the ruins of our city, before receiving foreign rule into this land which at last we call ours. "but this must not be. you, our brothers, must not permit it to be; your honor, your interests, do not permit it. will you fight in a cause which you must feel to be absurd and wicked? you sink to the condition of hirelings, and do you not believe that the austrian government, should it conquer us and italy, would turn against you the arms you had furnished for the conquest? do you not believe it would act as after the struggle with napoleon? and are you not terrified by the idea of finding yourself in conflict with all civilized europe, and constrained to receive, to feast as your ally, the autocrat of russia, that perpetual terror to the improvement and independence of europe? it is not possible for the house of lorraine to forget its traditions; it is not possible that it should resign itself to live tranquil in the atmosphere of liberty. you can only constrain it by sustaining yourself, with the germanic and slavonian nationalities, and with this italy, which longs only to see the nations harmonize with that resolve which she has finally taken, that she may never more be torn in pieces. "think of us, brothers. this is for you and for us a question of life and of death; it is a question on which depends, perhaps, the peace of europe. "for ourselves, we have already weighed the chances of the struggle, and subordinated them all to this final resolution, that we will be free and independent, with our brothers of italy. "we hope that our words will induce you to calm counsels; if not, you will find us on the field of battle generous and loyal enemies, as now we profess ourselves your generous and loyal brothers. (signed,) "casati, _president_, durini, strigelli, beretta, grappi, turroni, rezzonico, carbonera, borromeo, p. litta, giulini, guerrieri, porro, morroni, ab. anelli, correnti, _sec.-gen._" these are the names of men whose hearts glow with that generous ardor, the noble product of difficult times. into their hearts flows wisdom from on high,--thoughts great, magnanimous, brotherly. they may not all remain true to this high vocation, but, at any rate, they will have lived a period of true life. i knew some of these men when in lombardy; of old aristocratic families, with all the refinement of inheritance and education, they are thoroughly pervaded by principles of a genuine democracy of brotherhood and justice. in the flower of their age, they have before them a long career of the noblest usefulness, if this era follows up its present promise, and they are faithful to their present creed, and ready to improve and extend it. every day produces these remarkable documents. so many years as we have been suffocated and poisoned by the atmosphere of falsehood in official papers, how refreshing is the tone of noble sentiment in lamartine! what a real wisdom and pure dignity in the letter of béranger! _he_ was always absolutely true,--an oasis in the pestilential desert of humbug; but the present time allowed him a fine occasion. the poles have also made noble manifestations. their great poet, adam mickiewicz, has been here to enroll the italian poles, publish the declaration of faith in which they hope to re-enter and re-establish their country, and receive the pope's benediction on their banner. in their declaration of faith are found these three articles:-- "every one of the nation a citizen,--every citizen equal in rights and before authorities. "to the jew, our elder brother, respect, brotherhood, aid on the way to his eternal and terrestrial good, entire equality in political and civil rights. "to the companion of life, woman, citizenship, entire equality of rights." this last expression of just thought the poles ought to initiate, for what other nation has had such truly heroic women? women indeed,--not children, servants, or playthings. mickiewicz, with the squadron that accompanied him from rome, was received with the greatest enthusiasm at florence. deputations from the clubs and journals went to his hotel and escorted him to the piazza del gran dúca, where, amid an immense concourse of people, some good speeches were made. a florentine, with a generous forgetfulness of national vanity, addressed him as the dante of poland, who, more fortunate than the great bard and seer of italy, was likely to return to his country to reap the harvest of the seed he had sown. "o dante of poland! who, like our alighieri, hast received from heaven sovereign genius, divine song, but from earth sufferings and exile,--more happy than our alighieri, thou hast reacquired a country; already thou art meditating on the sacred harp the patriotic hymn of restoration and of victory. the pilgrims of poland have become the warriors of their nation. long live poland, and the brotherhood of nations!" when this address was finished, the great poet appeared on the balcony to answer. the people received him with a tumult of applause, followed by a profound silence, as they anxiously awaited his voice. those who are acquainted with the powerful eloquence, the magnetism, of mickiewicz as an orator, will not be surprised at the effect produced by this speech, though delivered in a foreign language. it is the force of truth, the great vitality of his presence, that loads his words with such electric power. he spoke as follows:-- "people of tuscany! friends! brothers! we receive your shouts of sympathy in the name of poland; not for us, but for our country. our country, though distant, claims from you this sympathy by its long martyrdom. the glory of poland, its only glory, truly christian, is to have suffered more than all the nations. in other countries the goodness, the generosity of heart, of some sovereigns protected the people; as yours has enjoyed the dawn of the era now coming, under the protection of your excellent prince. [viva leopold ii.!] but conquered poland, slave and victim, of sovereigns who were her sworn enemies and executioners,--poland, abandoned by the governments and the nations, lay in agony on her solitary golgotha. she was believed slain, dead, burred. 'we have slain her,' shouted the despots; 'she is dead!' [no, no! long live poland!] 'the dead cannot rise again,' replied the diplomatists; 'we may now be tranquil.' [a universal shudder of feeling in the crowd.] there came a moment in which the world doubted of the mercy and justice of the omnipotent. there was a moment in which the nations thought that the earth might be for ever abandoned by god, and condemned to the rule of the demon, its ancient lord. the nations forgot that jesus christ came down from heaven to give liberty and peace to the earth. the nations had forgotten all this. but god is just. the voice of pius ix. roused italy. [long live pius ix.!] the people of paris have driven out the great traitor against the cause of the nations. [bravo! viva the people of paris!] very soon will be heard the voice of poland. poland will rise again! [yes, yes! poland will rise again!] poland will call to life all the slavonic races,--the croats, the dalmatians, the bohemians, the moravians, the illyrians. these will form the bulwark against the tyrant of the north. [great applause.] they will close for ever the way against the barbarians of the north,--destroyers of liberty and of civilization. poland is called to do more yet: poland, as crucified nation, is risen again, and called to serve her sister nations. the will of god is, that christianity should become in poland, and through poland elsewhere, no more a dead letter of the law, but the living law of states and civil associations;--[great applause;]--that christianity should be manifested by acts, the sacrifices of generosity and liberality. this christianity is not new to you, florentines; your ancient republic knew and has acted upon it: it is time that the same spirit should make to itself a larger sphere. the will of god is that the nations should act towards one another as neighbors,--as brothers. [a tumult of applause.] and you, tuscans, have to-day done an act of christian brotherhood. receiving thus foreign, unknown pilgrims, who go to defy the greatest powers of the earth, you have in us saluted only what is in us of spiritual and immortal,--our faith and our patriotism. [applause.] we thank you; and we will now go into the church to thank god." "all the people then followed the poles to the church of santa cróce, where was sung the _benedictus dominus_, and amid the memorials of the greatness of italy collected in that temple was forged more strongly the chain of sympathy and of union between two nations, sisters in misfortune and in glory." this speech and its reception, literally translated from the journal of the day, show how pleasant it is on great occasions to be brought in contact with this people, so full of natural eloquence and of lively sensibility to what is great and beautiful. it is a glorious time too for the exiles who return, and reap even a momentary fruit of their long sorrows. mazzini has been able to return from his seventeen years' exile, during which there was no hour, night or day, that the thought of italy was banished from his heart,--no possible effort that he did not make to achieve the emancipation of his people, and with it the progress of mankind. he returns, like wordsworth's great man, "to see what he foresaw." he will see his predictions accomplishing yet for a long time, for mazzini has a mind far in advance of his times in general, and his nation in particular,--a mind that will be best revered and understood when the "illustrious gioberti" shall be remembered as a pompous verbose charlatan, with just talent enough to catch the echo from the advancing wave of his day, but without any true sight of the wants of man at this epoch. and yet mazzini sees not all: he aims at political emancipation; but he sees not, perhaps would deny, the bearing of some events, which even now begin to work their way. of this, more anon; but not to-day, nor in the small print of the tribune. suffice it to say, i allude to that of which the cry of communism, the systems of fourier, &c., are but forerunners. mazzini sees much already,--at milan, where he is, he has probably this day received the intelligence of the accomplishment of his foresight, implied in his letter to the pope, which angered italy by what was thought its tone of irreverence and doubt, some six months since. to-day is the th of may, for i had thrown aside this letter, begun the th of april, from a sense that there was something coming that would supersede what was then to say. this something has appeared in a form that will cause deep sadness to good hearts everywhere. good and loving hearts, that long for a human form which they can revere, will be unprepared and for a time must suffer much from the final dereliction of pius ix. to the cause of freedom, progress, and of the war. he was a fair image, and men went nigh to idolize it; this they can do no more, though they may be able to find excuse for his feebleness, love his good heart no less than before, and draw instruction from the causes that have produced his failure, more valuable than his success would have been. pius ix., no one can doubt who has looked on him, has a good and pure heart; but it needed also, not only a strong, but a great mind, "to _comprehend his trust_, and to the same keep faithful, with a singleness of aim." a highly esteemed friend in the united states wrote to express distaste to some observations in a letter of mine to the tribune on first seeing the pontiff a year ago, observing, "to say that he had not the expression of great intellect was _uncalled for_" alas! far from it; it was an observation that rose inevitably on knowing something of the task before pius ix., and the hopes he had excited. the problem he had to solve was one of such difficulty, that only one of those minds, the rare product of ages for the redemption of mankind, could be equal to its solution. the question that inevitably rose on seeing him was, "is he such a one?" the answer was immediately negative. but at the same time, he had such an aspect of true benevolence and piety, that a hope arose that heaven would act through him, and impel him to measures wise beyond his knowledge. this hope was confirmed by the calmness he showed at the time of the conspiracy of july, and the occupation of ferrara by the austrians. tales were told of simple wisdom, of instinct, which he obeyed in opposition to the counsels of all his cardinals. everything went on well for a time. but tokens of indubitable weakness were shown by the pope in early acts of the winter, in the removal of a censor at the suggestion of others, in his speech, to the consistory, in his answer to the first address of the council. in these he declared that, when there was conflict between the priest and the man, he always meant to be the priest; and that he preferred the wisdom of the past to that of the future. still, times went on bending his predeterminations to the call of the moment. he _acted_ wiselier than he intended; as, for instance, three weeks after declaring he would not give a constitution to his people, he gave it,--a sop to cerberus, indeed,--a poor vamped-up thing that will by and by have to give place to something more legitimate, but which served its purpose at the time as declaration of rights for the people. when the news of the revolution of vienna arrived, the pope himself cried _viva pio nono!_ and this ebullition of truth in one so humble, though opposed to his formal declarations, was received by his people with that immediate assent which truth commands. the revolution of lombardy followed. the troops of the line were sent thither; the volunteers rushed to accompany them. in the streets of rome was read the proclamation of charles albert, in which he styles himself the servant of italy and of pius ix. the priests preached the war, and justly, as a crusade; the pope blessed their banners. nobody dreamed, or had cause to dream, that these movements had not his full sympathy; and his name was in every form invoked as the chosen instrument of god to inspire italy to throw off the oppressive yoke of the foreigner, and recover her rights in the civilized world. at the same time, however, the pope was seen to act with great blindness in the affair of the jesuits. the other states of italy drove them out by main force, resolved not to have in the midst of the war a foe and spy in the camp. rome wished to do the same, but the pope rose in their defence. he talked as if they were assailed as a _religious_ body, when he could not fail, like everybody else, to be aware that they were dreaded and hated solely as agents of despotism. he demanded that they should be assailed only by legal means, when none such were available. the end was in half-measures, always the worst possible. he would not entirely yield, and the people would not at all. the order was ostensibly dissolved; but great part of the jesuits really remain here in disguise, a constant source of irritation and mischief, which, if still greater difficulties had not arisen, would of itself have created enough. meanwhile, in the earnestness of the clergy about the pretended loss of the head of st. andrew, in the ceremonies of the holy week, which at this juncture excited no real interest, was much matter for thought to the calm observer as to the restlessness of the new wine, the old bottles being heard to crack on every side, and hour by hour. thus affairs went on from day to day,--the pope kissing the foot of the brazen jupiter and blessing palms of straw at st. peter's; the _circolo romano_ erecting itself into a kind of jacobin club, dictating programmes for an italian diet-general, and choosing committees to provide for the expenses of the war; the civic guard arresting people who tried to make mobs as if famishing, and, being searched, were found well provided both with arms and money; the ministry at their wits' end, with their trunks packed up ready to be off at a moment's warning,--when the report, it is not yet known whether true or false, that one of the roman civic guard, a well-known artist engaged in the war of lombardy, had been taken and hung by the austrians as a brigand, roused the people to a sense of the position of their friends, and they went to the pope to demand that he should take a decisive stand, and declare war against the austrians. the pope summoned, a consistory; the people waited anxiously, for expressions of his were reported, as if the troops ought not to have thought of leaving the frontier, while every man, woman, and child in rome knew, and every letter and bulletin declared, that all their thought was to render active aid to the cause of italian independence. this anxious doubt, however, had not prepared at all for the excess to which they were to be disappointed. the speech of the pope declared, that he had never any thought of the great results which had followed his actions; that he had only intended local reforms, such as had previously been suggested by the potentates of europe; that he regretted the _mis_use which had been made of his name; and wound up by lamenting over the war,--dear to every italian heart as the best and holiest cause in which for ages they had been called to embark their hopes,--as if it was something offensive to the spirit of religion, and which he would fain see hushed up, and its motives smoothed out and ironed over. a momentary stupefaction followed this astounding performance, succeeded by a passion of indignation, in which the words _traitor_ and _imbecile_ were associated with the name that had been so dear to his people. this again yielded to a settled grief: they felt that he was betrayed, but no traitor; timid and weak, but still a sovereign whom they had adored, and a man who had brought them much good, which could not be quite destroyed by his wishing to disown it. even of this fact they had no time to stop and think; the necessity was too imminent of obviating the worst consequences of this ill; and the first thought was to prevent the news leaving rome, to dishearten the provinces and army, before they had tried to persuade the pontiff to wiser resolves, or, if this could not be, to supersede his power. i cannot repress my admiration at the gentleness, clearness, and good sense with which the roman people acted under these most difficult circumstances. it was astonishing to see the clear understanding which animated the crowd, as one man, and the decision with which they acted to effect their purpose. wonderfully has this people been developed within a year! the pope, besieged by deputations, who mildly but firmly showed him that, if he persisted, the temporal power must be placed in other hands, his ears filled with reports of cardinals, "such venerable persons," as he pathetically styles them, would not yield in spirit, though compelled to in act. after two days' struggle, he was obliged to place the power in the hands of the persons most opposed to him, and nominally acquiesce in their proceedings, while in his second proclamation, very touching from the sweetness of its tone, he shows a fixed misunderstanding of the cause at issue, which leaves no hope of his ever again being more than a name or an effigy in their affairs. his people were much affected, and entirely laid aside their anger, but they would not be blinded as to the truth. while gladly returning to their accustomed habits of affectionate homage toward the pontiff, their unanimous sense and resolve is thus expressed in an able pamphlet of the day, such as in every respect would have been deemed impossible to the rome of :-- "from the last allocution of pius result two facts of extreme gravity;--the entire separation between the spiritual and temporal power, and the express refusal of the pontiff to be chief of an italian republic. but far from drawing hence reason for discouragement and grief, who looks well at the destiny of italy may bless providence, which breaks or changes the instrument when the work is completed, and by secret and inscrutable ways conducts us to the fulfilment of our desires and of our hopes. "if pius ix. refuses, the italian people does not therefore draw back. nothing remains to the free people of italy, except to unite in one constitutional kingdom, founded on the largest basis; and if the chief who, by our assemblies, shall be called to the highest honor, either declines or does not answer worthily, the people will take care of itself. "italians! down with all emblems of private and partial interests. let us unite under one single banner, the tricolor, and if he who has carried it bravely thus far lets it fall from his hand, we will take it one from the other, twenty-four millions of us, and, till the last of us shall have perished under the banner of our redemption, the stranger shall not return into italy. "viva italy! viva the italian people!"[a] [footnote a: close of "a comment by pio angelo fierortino on the allocution of pius ix. spoken in the secret consistory of th april, ," dated italy, th april, st year of the redemption of italy.] these events make indeed a crisis. the work begun by napoleon is finished. there will never more be really a pope, but only the effigy or simulacrum of one. the loss of pius ix. is for the moment a great one. his name had real moral weight,--was a trumpet appeal to sentiment. it is not the same with any man that is left. there is not one that can be truly a leader in the roman dominion, not one who has even great intellectual weight. the responsibility of events now lies wholly with the people, and that wave of thought which has begun to pervade them. sovereigns and statesmen will go where they are carried; it is probable power will be changed continually from, hand to hand, and government become, to all intents and purposes, representative. italy needs now quite to throw aside her stupid king of naples, who hangs like a dead weight on her movements. the king of sardinia and the grand duke of tuscany will be trusted while they keep their present course; but who can feel sure of any sovereign, now that louis philippe has shown himself so mad and pius ix. so blind? it seems as if fate was at work to bewilder and cast down the dignities of the world and democratize society at a blow. in rome there is now no anchor except the good sense of the people. it seems impossible that collision should not arise between him who retains the name but not the place of sovereign, and the provisional government which calls itself a ministry. the count mamiani, its new head, is a man of reputation as a writer, but untried as yet as a leader or a statesman. should agitations arise, the pope can no longer calm them by one of his fatherly looks. all lies in the future; and our best hope must be that the power which has begun so great a work will find due means to end it, and make the year a year of true jubilee to italy; a year not merely of pomps and tributes, but of recognized rights and intelligent joys; a year of real peace,--peace, founded not on compromise and the lying etiquettes of diplomacy, but on truth and justice. then this sad disappointment in pius ix. may be forgotten, or, while all that was lovely and generous in his life is prized and reverenced, deep instruction may be drawn from his errors as to the inevitable dangers of a priestly or a princely environment, and a higher knowledge may elevate a nobler commonwealth than the world has yet known. hoping this era, i remain at present here. should my hopes be dashed to the ground, it will not change my faith, but the struggle for its manifestation is to me of vital interest. my friends write to urge my return; they talk of our country as the land of the future. it is so, but that spirit which made it all it is of value in my eyes, which gave all of hope with which i can sympathize for that future, is more alive here at present than in america. my country is at present spoiled by prosperity, stupid with the lust of gain, soiled by crime in its willing perpetuation of slavery, shamed by an unjust war, noble sentiment much forgotten even by individuals, the aims of politicians selfish or petty, the literature frivolous and venal. in europe, amid the teachings of adversity, a nobler spirit is struggling,--a spirit which cheers and animates mine. i hear earnest words of pure faith and love. i see deeds of brotherhood. this is what makes _my_ america. i do not deeply distrust my country. she is not dead, but in my time she sleepeth, and the spirit of our fathers flames no more, but lies hid beneath the ashes. it will not be so long; bodies cannot live when the soul gets too overgrown with gluttony and falsehood. but it is not the making a president out of the mexican war that would make me wish to come back. here things are before my eyes worth recording, and, if i cannot help this work, i would gladly be its historian. may . returning from a little tour in the alban mount, where everything looks so glorious this glorious spring, i find a temporary quiet. the pope's brothers have come to sympathize with him; the crowd sighs over what he has done, presents him with great bouquets of flowers, and reads anxiously the news from the north and the proclamations of the new ministry. meanwhile the nightingales sing; every tree and plant is in flower, and the sun and moon shine as if paradise were already re-established on earth. i go to one of the villas to dream it is so, beneath the pale light of the stars. letter xxv. review of the course of pius ix.--mamiani.--the people's disappointed hopes.--the monuments in milan, naples, etc.--the king of naples and his troops.--calamities of the war.--the italian people.--charles albert.--deductions.--summer among the mountains of italy. rome, december , . i have not written for six months, and within that time what changes have taken place on this side "the great water,"--changes of how great dramatic interest historically,--of bearing infinitely important ideally! easy is the descent in ill. i wrote last when pius ix. had taken the first stride on the downward road. he had proclaimed himself the foe of further reform measures, when he implied that italian independence was not important in his eyes, when he abandoned the crowd of heroic youth who had gone to the field with his benediction, to some of whom his own hand had given crosses. all the popes, his predecessors, had meddled with, most frequently instigated, war; now came one who must carry out, literally, the doctrines of the prince of peace, when the war was not for wrong, or the aggrandizement of individuals, but to redeem national, to redeem human, rights from the grasp of foreign oppression. i said some cried "traitor," some "imbecile," some wept, but in the minds of all, i believe, at that time, grief was predominant. they could no longer depend on him they had thought their best friend. they had lost their father. meanwhile his people would not submit to the inaction he urged. they saw it was not only ruinous to themselves, but base and treacherous to the rest of italy. they said to the pope, "this cannot be; you must follow up the pledges you have given, or, if you will not act to redeem them, you must have a ministry that will." the pope, after he had once declared to the contrary, ought to have persisted. he should have said, "i cannot thus belie myself, i cannot put my name to acts i have just declared to be against my conscience." the ministers of the people ought to have seen that the position they assumed was utterly untenable; that they could not advance with an enemy in the background cutting off all supplies. but some patriotism and some vanity exhilarated them, and, the pope having weakly yielded, they unwisely began their impossible task. mamiani, their chief, i esteem a man, under all circumstances, unequal to such a position,--a man of rhetoric merely. but no man could have acted, unless the pope had resigned his temporal power, the cardinals been put under sufficient check, and the jesuits and emissaries of austria driven from their lurking-places. a sad scene began. the pope,--shut up more and more in his palace, the crowd of selfish and insidious advisers darkening round, enslaved by a confessor,--he who might have been the liberator of suffering europe permitted the most infamous treacheries to be practised in his name. private letters were written to the foreign powers, denying the acts he outwardly sanctioned; the hopes of the people were evaded or dallied with; the chamber of deputies permitted to talk and pass measures which they never could get funds to put into execution; legions to form and manoeuvre, but never to have the arms and clothing they needed. again and again the people went to the pope for satisfaction. they got only--benediction. thus plotted and thus worked the scarlet men of sin, playing the hopes of italy off and on, while _their_ hope was of the miserable defeat consummated by a still worse traitor at milan on the th of august. but, indeed, what could be expected from the "sword of pius ix.," when pius ix. himself had thus failed in his high vocation. the king of naples bombarded his city, and set on the lazzaroni to rob and murder the subjects he had deluded by his pretended gift of the constitution. pius proclaimed that he longed to embrace _all_ the princes of italy. he talked of peace, when all knew for a great part of the italians there was no longer hope of peace, except in the sepulchre, or freedom. the taunting manifestos of welden are a sufficient comment on the conduct of the pope. "as the government of his holiness is too weak to control his subjects,"--"as, singularly enough, a great number of romans are found, fighting against us, contrary to the _expressed_ will of their prince,"--such were the excuses for invasions of the pontifical dominions, and the robbery and insult by which they were accompanied. such invasions, it was said, made his holiness very indignant; he remonstrated against these; but we find no word of remonstrance against the tyranny of the king of naples,--no word of sympathy for the victims of lombardy, the sufferings of verona, vicenza, padua, mantua, venice. in the affairs of europe there are continued signs of the plan of the retrograde party to effect similar demonstrations in different places at the same hour. the th of may was one of these marked days. on that day the king of naples made use of the insurrection he had contrived to excite, to massacre his people, and find an excuse for recalling his troops from lombardy. the same day a similar crisis was hoped in rome from the declarations of the pope, but that did not work at the moment exactly as the foes of enfranchisement hoped. however, the wounds were cruel enough. the roman volunteers received the astounding news that they were not to expect protection or countenance from their prince; all the army stood aghast, that they were no longer to fight in the name of pio. it had been so dear, so sweet, to love and really reverence the head of their church, so inspiring to find their religion for once in accordance with the aspirations of the soul! they were to be deprived, too, of the aid of the disciplined neapolitan troops and their artillery, on which they had counted. how cunningly all this was contrived to cause dissension and dismay may easily be seen. the neapolitan general pepe nobly refused to obey, and called on the troops to remain with him. they wavered; but they are a pampered army, personally much attached to the king, who pays them well and indulges them at the expense of his people, that they may be his support against that people when in a throe of nature it rises and striven for its rights. for the same reason, the sentiment of patriotism was little diffused among them in comparison with the other troops. and the alternative presented was one in which it required a very clear sense of higher duty to act against habit. generally, after wavering awhile, they obeyed and returned. the roman states, which had received them with so many testimonials of affection and honor, on their retreat were not slack to show a correspondent aversion and contempt. the towns would not suffer their passage; the hamlets were unwilling to serve them even with fire and water. they were filled at once with shame and rage; one officer killed himself, unable to bear it; in the unreflecting minds of the soldiers, hate sprung up for the rest of italy, and especially rome, which will make them admirable tools of tyranny in case of civil war. this was the first great calamity of the war. but apart from the treachery of the king of naples and the dereliction of the pope, it was impossible it should end thoroughly well. the people were in earnest, and have shown themselves so; brave, and able to bear privation. no one should dare, after the proofs of the summer, to reiterate the taunt, so unfriendly frequent on foreign lips at the beginning of the contest, that the italian can boast, shout, and fling garlands, but not _act_. the italian always showed himself noble and brave, even in foreign service, and is doubly so in the cause of his country. but efficient heads were wanting. the princes were not in earnest; they were looking at expediency. the grand duke, timid and prudent, wanted to do what was safest for tuscany; his ministry, "_moderate_" and prudent, would have liked to win a great prize at small risk. they went no farther than the people pulled them. the king of sardinia had taken the first bold step, and the idea that treachery on his part was premeditated cannot be sustained; it arises from the extraordinary aspect of his measures, and the knowledge that he is not incapable of treachery, as he proved in early youth. but now it was only his selfishness that worked to the same results. he fought and planned, not for italy, but the house of savoy, which his balbis and giobertis had so long been prophesying was to reign supreme in the new great era of italy. these prophecies he more than half believed, because they chimed with his ambitious wishes; but he had not soul enough to realize them; he trusted only in his disciplined troops; he had not nobleness enough to believe he might rely at all on the sentiment of the people. for his troops he dared not have good generals; conscious of meanness and timidity, he shrank from the approach of able and earnest men; he was inly afraid they would, in helping italy, take her and themselves out of his guardianship. antonini was insulted, garibaldi rejected; other experienced leaders, who had rushed to italy at the first trumpet-sound, could never get employment from him. as to his generalship, it was entirely inadequate, even if he had made use of the first favorable moments. but his first thought was not to strike a blow at the austrians before they recovered from the discomfiture of milan, but to use the panic and need of his assistance to induce lombardy and venice to annex themselves to his kingdom. he did not even wish seriously to get the better till this was done, and when this was done, it was too late. the austrian army was recruited, the generals had recovered their spirits, and were burning to retrieve and avenge their past defeat. the conduct of charles albert had been shamefully evasive in the first months. the account given by franzini, when challenged in the chamber of deputies at turin, might be summed up thus: "why, gentlemen, what would you have? every one knows that the army is in excellent condition, and eager for action. they are often reviewed, hear speeches, and sometimes get medals. we take places always, if it is not difficult. i myself was present once when the troops advanced; our men behaved gallantly, and had the advantage in the first skirmish; but afterward the enemy pointed on us artillery from the heights, and, naturally, we retired. but as to supposing that his majesty charles albert is indifferent to the success of italy in the war, that is absurd. he is 'the sword of italy'; he is the most magnanimous of princes; he is seriously occupied about the war; many a day i have been called into his tent to talk it over, before he was up in the morning!" sad was it that the heroic milan, the heroic venice, the heroic sicily, should lean on such a reed as this, and by hurried acts, equally unworthy as unwise, sully the glory of their shields. some names, indeed, stand, out quite free from this blame. mazzini, who kept up a combat against folly and cowardice, day by day and hour by hour, with almost supernatural strength, warned the people constantly of the evils which their advisers were drawing upon them. he was heard then only by a few, but in this "italia del popolo" may be found many prophecies exactly fulfilled, as those of "the golden-haired love of phoebus" during the struggles of ilium. he himself, in the last sad days of milan, compared his lot to that of cassandra. at all events, his hands are pure from that ill. what could be done to arouse lombardy he did, but the "moderate" party unable to wean themselves from old habits, the pupils of the wordy gioberti thought there could be no safety unless under the mantle of a prince. they did not foresee that he would run away, and throw that mantle on the ground. tommaso and manin also were clear in their aversion to these measures; and with them, as with all who were resolute in principle at that time, a great influence has followed. it is said charles albert feels bitterly the imputations on his courage, and says they are most ungrateful, since he has exposed the lives of himself and his sons in the combat. indeed, there ought to be made a distinction between personal and mental courage. the former charles albert may possess, may have too much of what this still aristocratic world calls "the feelings of a gentleman" to shun exposing himself to a chance shot now and then. an entire want of mental courage he has shown. the battle, decisive against him, was made so by his giving up the moment fortune turned against him. it is shameful to hear so many say this result was inevitable, just because the material advantages were in favor of the austrians. pray, was never a battle won against material odds? it is precisely such that a good leader, a noble man, may expect to win. were the austrians driven out of milan because the milanese had that advantage? the austrians would again, have suffered repulse from them, but for the baseness of this man, on whom they had been cajoled into relying,--a baseness that deserves the pillory; and on a pillory will the "magnanimous," as he was meanly called in face of the crimes of his youth and the timid selfishness of his middle age, stand in the sight of posterity. he made use of his power only to betray milan; he took from the citizens all means of defence, and then gave them up to the spoiler; he promised to defend them "to the last drop of his blood," and sold them the next minute; even the paltry terms he made, he has not seen maintained. had the people slain him in their rage, he well deserved it at their hands; and all his conduct since show how righteous would have been that sudden verdict of passion. of all this great drama i have much to write, but elsewhere, in a more full form, and where i can duly sketch the portraits of actors little known in america. the materials are over-rich. i have bought my right in them by much sympathetic suffering; yet, amid the blood and tears of italy, 'tis joy to see some glorious new births. the italians are getting cured of mean adulation and hasty boasts; they are learning to prize and seek realities; the effigies of straw are getting knocked down, and living, growing men take their places. italy is being educated for the future, her leaders are learning that the time is past for trust in princes and precedents,--that there is no hope except in truth and god; her lower people are learning to shout less and think more. though my thoughts have been much with the public in this struggle for life, i have been away from it during the summer months, in the quiet valleys, on the lonely mountains. there, personally undisturbed, i have seen the glorious italian summer wax and wane,--the summer of southern italy, which i did not see last year. on the mountains it was not too hot for me, and i enjoyed the great luxuriance of vegetation. i had the advantage of having visited the scene of the war minutely last summer, so that, in mind, i could follow every step of the campaign, while around me were the glorious relics of old times,--the crumbling theatre or temple of the roman day, the bird's-nest village of the middle ages, on whose purple height shone the sun and moon of italy in changeless lustre. it was great pleasure to me to watch the gradual growth and change of the seasons, so different from ours. last year i had not leisure for this quiet acquaintance. now i saw the fields first dressed in their carpets of green, enamelled richly with the red poppy and blue corn-flower,--in that sunshine how resplendent! then swelled the fig, the grape, the olive, the almond; and my food was of these products of this rich clime. for near three months i had grapes every day; the last four weeks, enough daily for two persons for a cent! exquisite salad for two persons' dinner and supper cost but a cent, and all other products of the region were in the same proportion. one who keeps still in italy, and lives as the people do, may really have much simple luxury for very little money; though both travel, and, to the inexperienced foreigner, life in the cities, are expensive. letter xxvi. thoughts of the italian race, the seasons, and rome.--changes.--the death of the minister rossi.--the church of san luigi del francesi.--st. cecilia and the domenichino chapel.--the piazza del popolo.--the troops: preparatory movements toward the quirinal.--the demonstration on the palace.--the church: its position and aims.--the pope's flight, &c.--social life.--don tirlone.--the new year. rome, december , . not till i saw the snow on the mountains grow rosy in the autumn sunset did i turn my steps again toward rome. i was very ready to return. after three or four years of constant excitement, this six months of seclusion had been welcome; but now i felt the need of meeting other eyes beside those, so bright and so shallow, of the italian peasant. indeed, i left what was most precious, but which i could not take with me;[a] still it was a compensation that i was again to see rome,--rome, that almost killed me with her cold breath of last winter, yet still with that cold breath whispered a tale of import so divine. rome so beautiful, so great! her presence stupefies, and one has to withdraw to prize the treasures she has given. city of the soul! yes, it is _that_; the very dust magnetizes you, and thousand spells have been chaining you in every careless, every murmuring moment. yes! rome, however seen, thou must be still adored; and every hour of absence or presence must deepen love with one who has known what it is to repose in thy arms. [footnote a: her child, who was born in rieti, september , , and was necessarily left in that town during the difficulties and siege of rome.--ed.] repose! for whatever be the revolutions, tumults, panics, hopes, of the present day, still the temper of life here is repose. the great past enfolds us, and the emotions of the moment cannot here greatly disturb that impression. from the wild shout and throng of the streets the setting sun recalls us as it rests on a hundred domes and temples,--rests on the campagna, whose grass is rooted in departed human greatness. burial-place so full of spirit that death itself seems no longer cold! o let me rest here, too! hest here seems possible; meseems myriad lives still linger here, awaiting some one great summons. the rivers had burst their bounds, and beneath the moon the fields round rome lay one sheet of silver. entering the gate while the baggage was under examination, i walked to the entrance of a villa. far stretched its overarching shrubberies, its deep green bowers; two statues, with foot advanced and uplifted finger, seemed to greet me; it was near the scene of great revels, great splendors in the old time; there lay the gardens of sallust, where were combined palace, theatre, library, bath, and villa. strange things have happened since, the most attractive part of which--the secret heart--lies buried or has fled to animate other forms; for of that part historians have rarely given a hint more than they do now of the truest life of our day, which refuses to be embodied, by the pen, craving forms more mutable, more eloquent than the pen can give. i found rome empty of foreigners. most of the english have fled in affright,--the germans and french are wanted at home,--the czar has recalled many of his younger subjects; he does not like the schooling they get here. that large part of the population, which lives by the visits of foreigners was suffering very much,--trade, industry, for every reason, stagnant. the people were every moment becoming more exasperated by the impudent measures of the minister rossi, and their mortification at seeing rome represented and betrayed by a foreigner. and what foreigner? a pupil of guizot and louis philippe. the news of the bombardment and storm of vienna had just reached rome. zucchi, the minister of war, at once left the city to put down over-free manifestations in the provinces, and impede the entrance of the troops of the patriot chief, garibaldi, into bologna. from the provinces came soldiery, called by rossi to keep order at the opening of the chamber of deputies. he reviewed them in the face of the civic guard; the press began to be restrained; men were arbitrarily seized and sent out of the kingdom. the public indignation rose to its height; the cup overflowed. the th was a beautiful day, and i had gone out for a long walk. returning at night, the old padrona met me with her usual smile a little clouded. "do you know," said she, "that the minister rossi has been killed?" no roman said _murdered_. "killed?" "yes,--with a thrust in the back. a wicked man, surely; but is that the way to punish even the wicked?" "i cannot," observed a philosopher, "sympathize under any circumstances with so immoral a deed; but surely the manner of doing it was great." the people at large were not so refined in their comments as either the padrona or the philosopher; but soldiers and populace alike ran up and down, singing, "blessed the hand that rids the earth of a tyrant." certainly, the manner _was_ "great." the chamber was awaiting the entrance of rossi. had he lived to enter, he would have found the assembly, without a single exception, ranged upon the opposition benches. his carriage approached, attended by a howling, hissing multitude. he smiled, affected unconcern, but must have felt relieved when his horses entered the courtyard gate of the _cancelleria_. he did not know he was entering the place of his execution. the horses stopped; he alighted in the midst of a crowd; it jostled him, as if for the purpose of insult; he turned abruptly, and received as he did so the fatal blow. it was dealt by a resolute, perhaps experienced, hand; he fell and spoke no word more. the crowd, as if all previously acquainted with the plan, as no doubt most of them were, issued quietly from the gate, and passed through the outside crowd,--its members, among whom was he who dealt the blow, dispersing in all directions. for two or three minutes this outside crowd did not know that anything special had happened. when they did, the news was at the moment received in silence. the soldiers in whom rossi had trusted, whom he had hoped to flatter and bribe, stood at their posts and said not a word. neither they nor any one asked, "who did this? where is he gone?" the sense of the people certainly was that it was an act of summary justice on an offender whom the laws could not reach, but they felt it to be indecent to shout or exult on the spot where he was breathing his last. rome, so long supposed the capital of christendom, certainly took a very pagan view of this act, and the piece represented on the occasion at the theatres was "the death of nero." the next morning i went to the church of st. andrea della valle, where was to be performed a funeral service, with fine music, in honor of the victims of vienna; for this they do here for the victims of every place,--"victims of milan," "victims of paris," "victims of naples," and now "victims of vienna." but to-day i found the church closed, the service put off,--rome was thinking about her own victims. i passed into the ripetta, and entered the church of san luigi dei francesi. the republican flag was flying at the door; the young sacristan said the fine musical service, which this church gave formerly on st. philip's day in honor of louis philippe, would now be transferred to the republican anniversary, the th of february. i looked at the monument chateaubriand erected when here, to a poor girl who died, last of her family, having seen all the others perish round her. i entered the domenichino chapel, and gazed anew on the magnificent representations of the life and death of st. cecilia. she and st. agnes are my favorite saints. i love to think of those angel visits which her husband knew by the fragrance of roses and lilies left behind in the apartment. i love to think of his visit to the catacombs, and all that followed. in one of the pictures st. cecilia, as she stretches out her arms toward the suffering multitude, seems as if an immortal fount of purest love sprung from her heart. it gives very strongly the idea of an inexhaustible love,--the only love that is much worth thinking about. leaving the church, i passed along toward the piazza del popolo. "yellow tiber rose," but not high enough to cause "distress," as he does when in a swelling mood. i heard the drums beating, and, entering the piazza, i found the troops of the line already assembled, and the civic guard marching in by platoons, each battalion saluted as it entered by trumpets and a fine strain from the band of the carbineers. i climbed the pincian to see better. there is no place so fine for anything of this kind as the piazza del popolo, it is so full of light, so fair and grand, the obelisk and fountain make so fine a centre to all kinds of groups. the object of the present meeting was for the civic guard and troops of the line to give pledges of sympathy preparatory to going to the quirinal to demand a change of ministry and of measures. the flag of the union was placed in front of the obelisk; all present saluted it; some officials made addresses; the trumpets sounded, and all moved toward the quirinal. nothing could be gentler than the disposition of those composing the crowd. they were resolved to be played with no longer, but no threat was uttered or thought. they believed that the court would be convinced by the fate of rossi that the retrograde movement it had attempted was impracticable. they knew the retrograde party were panic-struck, and hoped to use the occasion to free the pope from its meshes. all felt that pius ix. had fallen irrevocably from his high place as the friend of progress and father of italy; but still he was personally beloved, and still his name, so often shouted in hope and joy, had not quite lost its _prestige_. i returned to the house, which is very near the quirinal. on one side i could see the palace and gardens of the pope, on the other the piazza barberini and street of the four fountains. presently i saw the carriage of prince barberini drive hurriedly into his court-yard gate, the footman signing to close it, a discharge of fire-arms was heard, and the drums of the civic guard beat to arms. the padrona ran up and down, crying with every round of shot, "jesu maria, they are killing the pope! o poor holy father!--tito, tito," (out of the window to her husband,) "what _is_ the matter?" the lord of creation disdained to reply. "o signora! pray, pray, ask tito what is the matter?" i did so. "i don't know, signora; nobody knows." "why don't you go on the mount and see?" "it would be an imprudence, signora; nobody will go." i was just thinking to go myself, when i saw a poor man borne by, badly wounded, and heard that the swiss were firing on the people. their doing so was the cause of whatever violence there was, and it was not much. the people had assembled, as usual, at the quirinal, only with more form and solemnity than usual. they had taken with them several of the chamber of deputies, and they sent an embassy, headed by galetti, who had been in the late ministry, to state their wishes. they received a peremptory negative. they then insisted on seeing the pope, and pressed on the palace. the swiss became alarmed, and fired from the windows and from the roof. they did this, it is said, without orders; but who could, at the time, suppose that? if it had been planned to exasperate the people to blood, what more could have been done? as it was, very little was shed; but the pope, no doubt, felt great panic. he heard the report of fire-arms,--heard that they tried to burn a door of the palace. i would lay my life that he could have shown himself without the slightest danger; nay, that the habitual respect for his presence would have prevailed, and hushed all tumult. he did not think so, and, to still it, once more degraded himself and injured his people, by making promises he did not mean to keep. he protests now against those promises as extorted by violence,--a strange plea indeed for the representative of st. peter! rome is all full of the effigies of those over whom violence had no power. there was an early pope about to be thrown into the tiber; violence had no power to make him say what he did not mean. delicate girls, men in the prime of hope and pride of power,--they were all alike about that. they could die in boiling oil, roasted on coals, or cut to pieces; but they could not say what they did not mean. these formed the true church; it was these who had power to disseminate the religion of him, the prince of peace, who died a bloody death of torture between sinners, because he never could say what he did not mean. a little church, outside the gate of st. sebastian commemorates the following affecting tradition of the church. peter, alarmed at the persecution of the christians, had gone forth to fly, when in this spot he saw a bright figure in his path, and recognized his master travelling toward rome. "lord," he said, "whither goest thou?" "i go," replied jesus, "to die with my people." peter comprehended the reproof. he felt that he must not a fourth time deny his master, yet hope for salvation. he returned to rome to offer his life in attestation of his faith. the roman catholic church has risen a monument to the memory of such facts. and has the present head of that church quite failed to understand their monition? not all the popes have so failed, though the majority have been intriguing, ambitious men of the world. but even the mob of rome--and in rome there _is_ a true mob of unheeding cabbage-sellers, who never had a thought before beyond contriving how to satisfy their animal instincts for the day--said, on hearing the protest, "there was another pius, not long since, who talked in a very different style. when the french threatened him, he said, 'you may do with me as you see fit, but i cannot consent to act against my convictions.'" in fact, the only dignified course for the pope to pursue was to resign his temporal power. he could no longer hold it on his own terms; but to it he clung; and the counsellors around him were men to wish him to regard _that_ as the first of duties. when the question was of waging war for the independence of italy, they regarded him solely as the head of the church; but when the demand was to satisfy the wants of his people, and ecclesiastical goods were threatened with taxes, then he was the prince of the state, bound to maintain all the selfish prerogatives of bygone days for the benefit of his successors. poor pope! how has his mind been torn to pieces in these later days! it moves compassion. there can be no doubt that all his natural impulses are generous and kind, and in a more private station he would have died beloved and honored; but to this he was unequal; he has suffered bad men to surround him, and by their misrepresentations and insidious suggestions at last entirely to cloud his mind. i believe he really thinks now the progress movement tends to anarchy, blood, and all that looked worst in the first french revolution. however that may be, i cannot forgive him some of the circumstances of this flight. to fly to naples; to throw himself in the arms of the bombarding monarch, blessing him and thanking his soldiery for preserving that part of italy from anarchy; to protest that all his promises at rome were null and void, when he thought himself in safety to choose a commission for governing in his absence, composed of men of princely blood, but as to character so null that everybody laughed, and said he chose those who could best be spared if they were killed; (but they all ran away directly;) when rome was thus left without any government, to refuse to see any deputation, even the senator of rome, whom he had so gladly sanctioned,--these are the acts either of a fool or a foe. they are not his acts, to be sure, but he is responsible; he lets them stand as such in the face of the world, and weeps and prays for their success. no more of him! his day is over. he has been made, it seems unconsciously, an instrument of good his regrets cannot destroy. nor can he be made so important an instrument of ill. these acts have not had the effect the foes of freedom hoped. rome remained quite cool and composed; all felt that they had not demanded more than was their duty to demand, and were willing to accept what might follow. in a few days all began to say: "well, who would have thought it? the pope, the cardinals, the princes are gone, and rome is perfectly tranquil, and one does not miss anything, except that there are not so many rich carriages and liveries." the pope may regret too late that he ever gave the people a chance to make this reflection. yet the best fruits of the movement may not ripen for a long time. it is a movement which requires radical measures, clear-sighted, resolute men: these last, as yet, do not show themselves in rome. the new tuscan ministry has three men of superior force in various ways,--montanelli, guerazzi, d'aguila; such are not as yet to be found in rome. but should she fall this time,--and she must either advance with decision and force, or fall, since to stand still is impossible,--the people have learned much; ignorance and servility of thought are lessened,--the way is paving for final triumph. and my country, what does she? you have chosen a new president from a slave state, representative of the mexican war. but he seems to be honest, a man that can be esteemed, and is one really known to the people, which is a step upward, after having sunk last time to choosing a mere tool of party. pray send here a good ambassador,--one that has experience of foreign life, that he may act with good judgment, and, if possible, a man that has knowledge and views which extend beyond the cause of party politics in the united states,--a man of unity in principles, but capable of understanding variety in forms. and send a man capable of prizing the luxury of living in, or knowing rome; the office of ambassador is one that should not be thrown away on a person who cannot prize or use it. another century, and i might ask to be made ambassador myself, ('tis true, like other ambassadors, i would employ clerks to do the most of the duty,) but woman's day has not come yet. they hold their clubs in paris, but even george sand will not act with women as they are. they say she pleads they are too mean, too treacherous. she should not abandon them for that, which is not nature, but misfortune. how much i shall have to say on that subject if i live, which i desire not, for i am very tired of the battle with giant wrongs, and would like to have some one younger and stronger arise to say what ought to be said, still more to do what ought to be done. enough! if i felt these things in privileged america, the cries of mothers and wives beaten at night by sons and husbands for their diversion after drinking, as i have repeatedly heard them these past months,--the excuse for falsehood, "i _dare not_ tell my husband, he would be ready to kill me,"--have sharpened my perception as to the ills of woman's condition and the remedies that must be applied. had i but genius, had i but energy, to tell what i know as it ought to be told! god grant them me, or some other more worthy woman, i pray. _don tirlone_, the _punch_ of rome, has just come in. this number represents the fortress of gaëta. outside hangs a cage containing a parrot (_pappagallo_), the plump body of the bird surmounted by a noble large head with benign face and papal head-dress. he sits on the perch now with folded wings, but the cage door, in likeness of a portico, shows there is convenience to come forth for the purposes of benediction, when wanted. outside, the king of naples, dressed as harlequin, plays the organ for instruction of the bird (unhappy penitent, doomed to penance), and, grinning with sharp teeth, observes: "he speaks in my way now." in the background a young republican holds ready the match for a barrel of gunpowder, but looks at his watch, waiting the moment to ignite it. a happy new year to my country! may she be worthy of the privileges she possesses, while others are lavishing their blood to win them,--that is all that need be wished for her at present. letter xxvii. rome.--the carnival: the moccoletti.--the roman character.--the pope's flight.--the assembly.--the people.--the pope's mistake.--his manifesto: its tone and effect.--destruction of the temporal dominion of the church. rome, evening of feb. , . it is said you cannot thoroughly know any place till you have both summered and wintered in it; but more than one summer and winter of experience seems to be needed for rome. how i fretted last winter, during the three months' rain, and sepulchral chill, and far worse than sepulchral odors, which accompanied it! i thought it was the invariable roman winter, and that i should never be able to stay here during another; so took my room only by the month, thinking to fly so soon as the rain set in. and lo! it has never rained at all; but there has been glorious sun and moon, unstained by cloud, always; and these last days have been as warm as may,--the days of the carnival, for i have just come in from seeing the _moccoletti_. the republican carnival has not been as splendid as the papal, the absence of dukes and princes being felt in the way of coaches and rich dresses; there are also fewer foreigners than usual, many having feared to assist at this most peaceful of revolutions. but if less splendid, it was not less gay; the costumes were many and fanciful,--flowers, smiles, and fun abundant. this is the first time of my seeing the true _moccoletti_; last year, in one of the first triumphs of democracy, they did not blow oat the lights, thus turning it into an illumination. the effect of the swarms of lights, little and large, thus in motion all over the fronts of the houses, and up and down the corso, was exceedingly pretty and fairy-like; but that did not make up for the loss of that wild, innocent gayety of which this people alone is capable after childhood, and which never shines out so much as on this occasion. it is astonishing the variety of tones, the lively satire and taunt of which the words _senza moccolo_, _senza mo_, are susceptible from their tongues. the scene is the best burlesque on the life of the "respectable" world that can be imagined. a ragamuffin with a little piece of candle, not even lighted, thrusts it in your face with an air of far greater superiority than he can wear who, dressed in gold and velvet, erect in his carriage, holds aloft his light on a tall pole. in vain his security; while he looks down on the crowd to taunt the wretches _senza mo_, a weak female hand from a chamber window blots out his pretensions by one flirt of an old handkerchief. many handsome women, otherwise dressed in white, wore the red liberty cap, and the noble though somewhat coarse roman outline beneath this brilliant red, by the changeful glow of million lights, made a fine effect. men looked too vulgar in the liberty cap. how i mourn that my little companion e. never saw these things, that would have given him such store of enchanting reminiscences for all his after years! i miss him always on such occasions; formerly it was through him that i enjoyed them. he had the child's heart, had the susceptible fancy, and, naturally, a fine discerning sense for whatever is individual or peculiar. i missed him much at the fair of st. eustachio. this, like the carnival, was last year entirely spoiled by constant rain. i never saw it at all before. it comes in the first days, or rather nights, of january. all the quarter of st. eustachio is turned into one toy-shop; the stalls are set out in the street and brightly lighted, up. these are full of cheap toys,--prices varying from half a cent up to twenty cents. the dolls, which are dressed as husband and wife, or sometimes grouped in families, are the most grotesque rag-babies that can be imagined. among the toys are great quantities of whistles, tin trumpets, and little tambourines; of these every man, woman, and child has bought one, and is using it to make a noise. this extempore concert begins about ten o'clock, and lasts till midnight; the delight of the numerous children that form part of the orchestra, the good-humored familiarity without the least touch of rudeness in the crowd, the lively effect of the light upon the toys, and the jumping, shouting figures that, exhibit them, make this the pleasantest saturnalia. had you only been there, e., to guide me by the hand, blowing the trumpet for both, and spying out a hundred queer things in nooks that entirely escape me! the roman still plays amid his serious affairs, and very serious have they been this past winter. the roman legions went out singing and dancing to fight in lombardy, and they fought no less bravely for that. when i wrote last, the pope had fled, guided, he says, "by the hand of providence,"--italy deems by the hand of austria,--to gaëta. he had already soiled his white robes, and defamed himself for ever, by heaping benedictions on the king of naples and the bands of mercenaries whom he employs to murder his subjects on the least sign of restlessness in their most painful position. most cowardly had been the conduct of his making promises he never meant to keep, stealing away by night in the coach of a foreign diplomatist, protesting that what he had done was null because he had acted under fear,--as if such a protest could avail to one who boasts himself representative of christ and his apostles, guardian of the legacy of the martyrs! he selected a band of most incapable men to face the danger he had feared for himself; most of these followed his example and fled. rome sought an interview with him, to see if reconciliation were possible; he refused to receive her messengers. his wicked advisers calculated upon great confusion and distress as inevitable on the occasion; but, for once, the hope of the bad heart was doomed to immediate disappointment. rome coolly said, "if you desert me,--if you will not hear me,--i must act for myself." she threw herself into the arms of a few men who had courage and calmness for this crisis; they bade her think upon what was to be done, meanwhile avoiding every excess that could give a color to calumny and revenge. the people, with admirable good sense, comprehended and followed up this advice. never was rome so truly tranquil, so nearly free from gross ill, as this winter. a few words of brotherly admonition have been more powerful than all the spies, dungeons, and scaffolds of gregory. "the hand of the omnipotent works for us," observed an old man whom i saw in the street selling cigars the evening before the opening of the constitutional assembly. he was struck by the radiant beauty of the night. the old people observe that there never has been such a winter as this which follows the establishment by the french of a republic. may the omens speed well! a host of enemies without are ready to levy war against this long-suffering people, to rivet anew their chains. still there is now an obvious tide throughout europe toward a better order of things, and a wave of it may bear italy onward to the shore. the revolution, like all genuine ones, has been instinctive, its results unexpected and surprising to the greater part of those who achieved them. the waters, which had flowed so secretly beneath the crust of habit that many never heard their murmur, unless in dreams, have suddenly burst to light in full and beautiful jets; all rush to drink the pure and living draught. as in the time of jesus, the multitude had been long enslaved beneath a cumbrous ritual, their minds designedly darkened by those who should have enlightened them, brutified, corrupted, amid monstrous contradictions and abuses; yet the moment they hear a word correspondent to the original nature, "yes, it is true," they cry. "it is spoken with, authority. yes, it ought to be so. priests ought to be better and wiser than other men; if they were, they would not need pomp and temporal power to command respect. yes, it is true; we ought not to lie; we should not try to impose upon one another. we ought rather to prefer that our children should work honestly for their bread, than get it by cheating, begging, or the prostitution of their mothers. it would be better to act worthily and kindly, probably would please god more than the kissing of relics. we have long darkly felt that these things were so; _now_ we know it." the unreality of relation between the people and the hierarchy was obvious instantly upon the flight of pius. he made an immense mistake then, and he made it because neither he nor his cardinals were aware of the unreality. they did not know that, great as is the force of habit, truth _only_ is imperishable. the people had abhorred gregory, had adored pius, upon whom they looked as a saviour, as a liberator; finding themselves deceived, a mourning-veil had overshadowed their love. still, had pius remained here, and had courage to show himself on agitating occasions, his position as the pope, before whom they had been bred to bow, his aspect, which had once seemed to them full of blessing and promise, like that of an angel, would have still retained power. probably the temporal dominion of the papacy would not have been broken up. he fled; the people felt contempt for his want of force and truth. he wrote to reproach them with ingratitude; they were indignant. what had they to be grateful for? a constitution to which he had not kept true an instant; the institution of the national guard, which he had begun to neutralize; benedictions, followed by such actions as the desertion of the poor volunteers in the war for italian independence? still, the people were not quite alienated from pius. they felt sure that his heart was, in substance, good and kindly, though the habits of the priest and the arts of his counsellors had led him so egregiously to falsify its dictates and forget the vocation with which he had been called. many hoped he would see his mistake, and return to be at one with the people. among the more ignorant, there was a superstitious notion that he would return in the night of the th of january. there were many bets that he would be found in the palace of the quirinal the morning of the th. all these lingering feelings were finally extinguished by the advice of excommunication. as this may not have readied america, i subjoin a translation. here i was obliged to make use of a manuscript copy; all the printed ones were at once destroyed. it is probably the last document of the kind the world will see. manifesto of pius ix. "to our most beloved subjects:-- "from this pacific abode to which it has pleased divine providence to conduct us, and whence we can freely manifest our sentiments and our will, we have waited for testimonies of remorse from our misguided children for the sacrileges and misdeeds committed against persons attached to our service,--among whom some have been slain, others outraged in the most barbarous manner,--as well as for those against our residence and our person. but we have seen nothing except a sterile invitation to return to our capital, unaccompanied by a word of condemnation for those crimes or the least guaranty for our security against the frauds and violences of that same company of furious men which still tyrannizes with a barbarous despotism over rome and the states of the church. we also waited, expecting that the protests and orders we have uttered would recall to the duties of fidelity and subjection those who have despised and trampled upon them in the very capital of our states. but, instead of this, a new and more monstrous act of undisguised felony and of actual rebellion by them audaciously committed, has filled the measure of our affliction, and excited at the same time our just indignation, as it will afflict the church universal. we speak of that act, in every respect detestable, by which, it has been pretended to initiate the convocation of a so-called general national assembly of the roman states, by a decree of the th of last december, in order to establish new political forms for the pontifical dominion. adding thus iniquity to iniquity, the authors and favorers of the demagogical anarchy strive to destroy the temporal authority of the roman pontiff over the dominions of holy church,--however irrefragably established through the most ancient and solid rights, and venerated, recognized, and sustained by all the nations,--pretending and making others believe that his sovereign power can be subject to controversy or depend on the caprices of the factious. we shall spare our dignity the humiliation of dwelling on all that is monstrous contained in that act, abominable through the absurdity of its origin no less than the illegality of its form and the impiety of its scope; but it appertains to the apostolic authority, with which, however unworthy, we are invested, and to the responsibility which binds us by the most sacred oaths in the sight of the omnipotent, not only to protest in the most energetic and efficacious manner against that same act, but to condemn it in the face of the universe as an enormous and sacrilegious crime against our independence and sovereignty, meriting the chastisements threatened by divine and human laws. we are persuaded that, on receiving the impudent invitation, you were full of holy indignation, and will have rejected far from you this guilty and shameful provocation. notwithstanding, that none of you may say he has been deluded by fallacious seductions, and by the preachers of subversive doctrines, or ignorant of what is contriving by the foes of all order, all law, all right, true liberty, and your happiness, we to-day again raise and utter abroad our voice, so that you may be more certain of the absoluteness with which we prohibit men, of whatever class and condition, from taking any part in the meetings which those persons may dare to call, for the nomination of individuals to be sent to the condemned assembly. at the same time we recall to you how this absolute prohibition is sanctioned by the decrees of our predecessors and of the councils, especially of the sacred council-general of trent, sect. xxii. chap. , in which the church has fulminated many times her censures, and especially the greater excommunication, as incurred without fail by any declaration of whomsoever daring to become guilty of whatsoever attempt against the temporal sovereignty of the supreme pontiff, this we declare to have been already unhappily incurred by all those who have given aid to the above-named act, and others preceding, intended to prejudice the same sovereignty, and in other modes and under false pretexts have, perturbed, violated, and usurped our authority. yet, though we feel ourselves obliged by conscience to guard the sacred deposit of the patrimony of the spouse of jesus christ, confided to our care, by using the sword of severity given to us for that purpose, we cannot therefore forget that we are on earth the representative of him who in exercise of his justice does not forget mercy. raising, therefore, our hands to heaven, while we to it recommend a cause which is indeed more heaven's than ours, and while anew we declare ourselves ready, with the aid of its powerful grace, to drink even to the dregs, for the defence and glory of the catholic church, the cup of persecution which he first wished to drink for the salvation of the same, we shall not desist from supplicating him benignly to hear the fervent prayers which day and night we unceasingly offer for the salvation of the misguided. no day certainly could be more joyful for us, than that in which it shall be granted to see return into the fold of the lord our sons from whom now we derive so much bitterness and so great tribulations. the hope of enjoying soon the happiness of such a day is strengthened in us by the reflection, that universal are the prayers which, united to ours, ascend to the throne of divine mercy from the lips and the heart of the faithful throughout the catholic world, urging it continually to change the hearts of sinners, and reconduct them into the paths of truth and of justice. "gaëta, january , ." the silliness, bigotry, and ungenerous tone of this manifesto excited a simultaneous movement in the population. the procession which carried it, mumbling chants, for deposit in places provided for lowest uses, and then, taking from, the doors of the hatters' shops the cardinals' hats, threw them into the tiber, was a real and general expression of popular disgust. from that hour the power of the scarlet hierarchy fell to rise no more. no authority can survive a universal movement of derision. from that hour tongues and pens were loosed, the leaven of machiavellism, which still polluted the productions of the more liberal, disappeared, and people talked as they felt, just as those of us who do not choose to be slaves are accustomed to do in america. "jesus," cried an orator, "bade them feed his lambs. if they have done so, it has been to rob their fleece and drink their blood." "why," said another, "have we been so long deaf to the saying, that the temporal dominion of the church was like a thorn in the wound of italy, which shall never be healed till that thorn is extracted?" and then, without passion, all felt that the temporal dominion was in fact finished of itself, and that it only remained to organize another form of government. letter xxviii. gioberti, mamiani, and mazzini.--formation of the constitutional assembly.--the right of suffrage.--a procession.--proclamation of the republic.--results.--decree of the assembly.--americans in rome: difference of impressions.--flight of the grand duke of tuscany.--charles albert.--present state of rome.--reflections and conclusions.--latest intelligence. rome, evening of feb. , . the league between the italian states, and the diet which was to establish it, had been the thought of gioberti, but had found the instrument at rome in mamiani. the deputies were to be named by princes or parliaments, their mandate to be limited by the existing institutions of the several states; measures of mutual security and some modifications in the way of reform would be the utmost that could be hoped from this diet. the scope of this party did not go beyond more vigorous prosecution of the war for independence, and the establishment of good, institutions for the several principalities on a basis of assimilation. mazzini, the great radical thinker of italy, was, on the contrary, persuaded that unity, not union, was necessary to this country. he had taken for his motto, god and the people, and believed in no other powers. he wished an italian constitutional assembly, selected directly by the people, and furnished with an unlimited mandate to decide what form was now required by the needs of the peninsula. his own wishes, certainly, aimed at a republic; but the decision remained with the representatives of the people. the thought of gioberti had been at first the popular one, as he, in fact, was the seer of the so-called moderate party. for myself, i always looked upon him as entirely a charlatan, who covered his want of all real force by the thickest embroidered mantle of words. still, for a time, he corresponded with the wants of the italian mind. he assailed the jesuits, and was of real use by embodying the distrust and aversion that brooded in the minds of men against these most insidious and inveterate foes of liberty and progress. this triumph, at least, he may boast: that sect has been obliged to yield; its extinction seems impossible, of such life-giving power was the fiery will of loyola. in the primate he had embodied the lingering hope of the catholic church; pius ix. had answered to the appeal, had answered only to show its futility. he had run through italy as courier for charles albert, when the so falsely styled magnanimous entered, pretending to save her from the stranger, really hoping to take her for himself. his own cowardice and treachery neutralized the hope, and charles albert, abject in his disgrace, took a retrograde ministry. this the country would not suffer, and obliged him after a while to reassume at least the position of the previous year, by taking gioberti for his premier. but it soon became evident that the ministry of charles albert was in the same position as had been that of pius ix. the hand was powerless when the head was indisposed. meantime the name of mazzini had echoed through tuscany from the revered lips of montanelli; it reached the roman states, and though at first propagated by foreign impulse, yet, as soon as understood, was welcomed as congenial. montanelli had nobly said, addressing florence: "we could not regret that the realization of this project should take place in a sister city, still more illustrious than ours." the romans took him at his word; the constitutional assembly for the roman states was elected with a double mandate, that the deputies might sit in the constitutional assembly for all italy whenever the other provinces could send theirs. they were elected by universal suffrage. those who listened to jesuits and moderates predicted that the project would fail of itself. the people were too ignorant to make use of the liberty of suffrage. but ravens now-a-days are not the true prophetic birds. the roman eagle recommences her flight, and it is from its direction only that the high-priest may draw his augury. the people are certainly as ignorant as centuries of the worst government, the neglect of popular education, the enslavement of speech and the press, could make them; yet they have an instinct to recognize measures that are good for them. a few weeks' schooling at some popular meetings, the clubs, the conversations of the national guards in their quarters or on patrol, were sufficient to concert measures so well, that the people voted in larger proportion than at contested elections in our country, and made a very good choice. the opening of the constitutional assembly gave occasion for a fine procession. all the troops in rome defiled from the campidoglio; among them many bear the marks of suffering from the lombard war. the banners of sicily, venice, and bologna waved proudly; that of naples was veiled with crape. i was in a balcony in the piazza di venezia; the palazzo di venezia, that sternest feudal pile, so long the head-quarters of austrian machinations, seemed to frown, as the bands each in passing struck up the _marseillaise_. the nephew of napoleon and garibaldi, the hero of montevideo, walked together, as deputies. the deputies, a grave band, mostly advocates or other professional men, walked without other badge of distinction than the tricolored scarf. i remembered the entrance of the deputies to the council only fourteen months ago, in the magnificent carriages lent by the princes for the occasion; they too were mostly nobles, and their liveried attendants followed, carrying their scutcheons. princes and councillors have both fled or sunk into nothingness; in those councillors was no counsel. will it be found in the present? let us hope so! what we see to-day has much more the air of reality than all that parade of scutcheons, or the pomp of dress and retinue with which the ecclesiastical court was wont to amuse the people. a few days after followed the proclamation of a republic. an immense crowd of people surrounded the palazzo della cancelleria, within whose court-yard rossi fell, while the debate was going on within. at one o'clock in the morning of the th of february, a republic was resolved upon, and the crowd rushed away to ring all the bells. early next morning i rose and went forth to observe the republic. over the quirinal i went, through the forum, to the capitol. there was nothing to be seen except the magnificent calm emperor, the tamers of horses, the fountain, the trophies, the lions, as usual; among the marbles, for living figures, a few dirty, bold women, and murillo boys in the sun just as usual. i passed into the corso; there were men in the liberty cap,--of course the lowest and vilest had been the first to assume it; all the horrible beggars persecuting as impudently as usual. i met some english; all their comfort was, "it would not last a month." "they hoped to see all these fellows shot yet." the english clergyman, more mild and legal, only hopes to see them (i.e. the ministry, deputies, &c.) _hung_. mr. carlyle would be delighted with his countrymen. they are entirely ready and anxious to see a cromwell for italy. they, too, think, when the people starve, "it is no matter what happens in the back parlor." what signifies that, if there is "order" in the front? how dare the people make a noise to disturb us yawning at billiards! i met an american. he "had no confidence in the republic." why? because he "had no confidence in the people." why? because "they were not like _our_ people." ah! jonathan and john,--excuse me, but i must say the italian has a decided advantage over you in the power of quickly feeling generous sympathy, as well as some other things which i have not time now to particularize. i have memoranda from you both in my note-book. at last the procession mounts the campidoglio. it is all dressed with banners. the tricolor surmounts the palace of the senator; the senator himself has fled. the deputies mount the steps, and one of them reads, in a clear, friendly voice, the following words:-- "fundamental decree of the constitutional assembly of rome. "art. i.--the papacy has fallen in fact and in right from the temporal government of the roman state. "art. ii.--the roman pontiff shall have all the necessary guaranties for independence in the exercise of his spiritual power. "art. iii.--the form of government of the roman state shall be a pure democracy, and will take the glorious name of roman republic. "art. iv.--the roman republic shall have with the rest of italy the relations exacted by a common nationality." between each of these expressive sentences the speaker paused; the great bell of the capitol gave forth its solemn melodies; the cannon answered; while the crowd shouted, _viva la republica! viva italia!_ the imposing grandeur of the spectacle to me gave new force to the emotion that already swelled my heart; my nerves thrilled, and i longed to see in some answering glance a spark of rienzi, a little of that soul which made my country what she is. the american at my side remained impassive. receiving all his birthright from a triumph of democracy, he was quite indifferent to this manifestation on this consecrated spot. passing the winter in rome to study art, he was insensible to the artistic beauty of the scene,--insensible to this new life of that spirit from which all the forms he gazes at in galleries emanated. he "did not see the use of these popular demonstrations." again i must mention a remark of his, as a specimen of the ignorance in which americans usually remain during their flighty visits to these scenes, where they associate only with one another. and i do it the rather as this seemed a really thoughtful, intelligent man; no vain, vulgar trifler. he said, "the people seem only to be looking on; they take no part." what people? said i. "why, these around us; there is no other people." there are a few beggars, errand-boys, and nurse-maids. "the others are only soldiers." soldiers! the civic guard! all the decent men in rome. thus it is that the american, on many points, becomes more ignorant for coming abroad, because he attaches some value to his crude impressions and frequent blunders. it is not thus that any seed-corn can be gathered from foreign gardens. without modest scrutiny, patient study, and observation, he spends his money and goes home, with a new coat perhaps, but a mind befooled rather than instructed. it is necessary to speak the languages of these countries, and know personally some of their inhabitants, in order to form any accurate impressions. the flight of the grand duke of tuscany followed. in imitation of his great exemplar, he promised and smiled to the last, deceiving montanelli, the pure and sincere, at the very moment he was about to enter his carriage, into the belief that he persevered in his assent to the liberal movement. his position was certainly very difficult, but he might have left it like a gentleman, like a man of honor. 't was pity to destroy so lightly the good opinion the tuscans had of him. now tuscany meditates union with rome. meanwhile, charles albert is filled with alarm. he is indeed betwixt two fires. gioberti has published one of his prolix, weak addresses, in which, he says, that in the beginning of every revolution one must fix a limit beyond which he will not go; that, for himself, he has done it,--others are passing beyond his mark, and he will not go any farther. of the want of thought, of insight into historic and all other truths, which distinguishes the "illustrious gioberti," this assumption is a specimen. but it makes no difference; he and his prince must go, sooner or later, if the movement continues, nor is there any prospect of its being stayed unless by foreign intervention. this the pope has not yet, it is believed, solicited, but there is little reason to hope he will be spared that crowning disgrace. he has already consented to the incitement of civil war. should an intervention be solicited, all depends on france. will she basely forfeit every pledge and every duty, to say nothing of her true interest? it seems that her president stands doubtful, intending to do what is for _his_ particular interest; but if his interest proves opposed to the republican principle, will france suffer herself again to be hoodwinked and enslaved? it is impossible to know, she has already shown such devotion to the mere prestige of a name. on england no dependence can be placed. she is guided by no great idea; her parliamentary leaders sneer at sentimental policy, and the "jargon" of ideas. she will act, as always, for her own interest; and the interest of her present government is becoming more and more the crushing of the democratic tendency. they are obliged to do it at home, both in the back and the front parlor; it would not be decent as yet to have a spielberg just at home for obstreperous patriots, but england has so many ships, it is just as easy to transport them to a safe distance. then the church of england, so long an enemy to the church of rome, feels a decided interest with it on the subject of temporal possessions. the rich english traveller, fearing to see the prince borghese stripped of one of his palaces for a hospital or some such low use, thinks of his own twenty-mile park and the crowded village of beggars at its gate, and muses: "i hope to see them all shot yet, these rascally republicans." how i wish my country would show some noble sympathy when an experience so like her own is going on. politically she cannot interfere; but formerly, when greece and poland were struggling, they were at least aided by private contributions. italy, naturally so rich, but long racked and impoverished by her oppressors, greatly needs money to arm and clothe her troops. some token of sympathy, too, from america would be so welcome to her now. if there were a circle of persons inclined to trust such to me, i might venture to promise the trust should be used to the advantage of italy. it would make me proud to have my country show a religious faith in the progress of ideas, and make some small sacrifice of its own great resources in aid of a sister cause, now. but i must close this letter, which it would be easy to swell to a volume from the materials in my mind. one or two traits of the hour i must note. mazzarelli, chief of the present ministry, was a prelate, and named spontaneously by the pope before his flight. he has shown entire and frank intrepidity. he has laid aside the title of monsignor, and appears before the world as a layman. nothing can be more tranquil than has been the state of rome all winter. every wile has been used by the oscurantists to excite the people, but their confidence in their leaders could not be broken. a little mutiny in the troops, stimulated by letters from their old leaders, was quelled in a moment. the day after the proclamation of the republic, some zealous ignoramuses insulted the carriages that appeared with servants in livery. the ministry published a grave admonition, that democracy meant liberty, not license, and that he who infringed upon an innocent freedom of action in others must be declared traitor to his country. every act of the kind ceased instantly. an intimation that it was better not to throw large comfits or oranges during the carnival, as injuries have thus been sometimes caused, was obeyed with equal docility. on sunday last, placards affixed in the high places summoned the city to invest giuseppe mazzini with the rights of a roman citizen. i have not yet heard the result. the pope made rossi a roman citizen; he was suffered to retain that title only one day. it was given him on the th of november, he died the th. mazzini enters rome at any rate, for the first time in his life, as deputy to the constitutional assembly; it would be a noble poetic justice, if he could enter also as a roman citizen. february . the austrians have invaded ferrara, taken $ , and six hostages, and retired. this step is, no doubt, intended to determine whether france will resent the insult, or whether she will betray italy. it shows also the assurance of the austrian that the pope will approve of an armed intervention. probably before i write again these matters will reach some decided crisis. letter xxix. the roman republic.--charles albert a traitor.--fall of gioberti.--mazzini.--his character.--his address to the people.--his oratory.--american artists.--brown, terry, and freeman.--hicks and his pictures.--cropsey and cranch contrasted.--american landscape paintings.--sculptors.--story's "fisher boy."--mozier's "pocahontas."--greenough's group.--powers's "slave."--the equestrian statue of washington.--crawford's design.--trials of the artist.--american patrons of art.--expenses of artist life.--a german sculptor.--overbeck and his paintings.--festival of fried rice.--an ave maria. rome, march , . the roman republic moves on better than could have been expected. there are great difficulties about money, necessarily, as the government, so beset with trials and dangers, cannot command confidence in that respect. the solid coin has crept out of the country or lies hid, and in the use of paper there are the corresponding inconveniences. but the poor, always the chief sufferers from such a state of things, are wonderfully patient, and i doubt not that the new form, if italy could be left to itself, would be settled for the advantage of all. tuscany would soon be united with rome, and to the republic of central italy, no longer broken asunder by petty restrictions and sacrificed to the interests of a few persons, would come that prosperity natural to a region so favored by nature. could italy be left alone! but treacherous, selfish men at home strive to betray, and foes threaten her from without on every side. even france, her natural ally, promises to prove foolishly and basely faithless. the dereliction from principle of her government seems certain, and thus far the nation, despite the remonstrance of a few worthy men, gives no sign of effective protest. there would be little hope for italy, were not the thrones of her foes in a tottering state, their action liable at every moment to be distracted by domestic difficulties. the austrian government seems as destitute of support from the nation as is possible for a government to be, and the army is no longer what it was, being made up so largely of new recruits. the croats are uncertain in their adhesion, the war in hungary likely to give them much to do; and if the russian is called in, the rest of europe becomes hostile. all these circumstances give italy a chance she otherwise could not have; she is in great measure unfurnished with arms and money; her king in the south is a bloody, angry, well-armed foe; her king in the north, a proved traitor. charles albert has now declared, war because he could not do otherwise; but his sympathies are in fact all against liberty; the splendid lure that he might become king of italy glitters no more; the republicans are in the ascendant, and he may well doubt, should the stranger be driven out, whether piedmont could escape the contagion. now, his people insisting on war, he has the air of making it with a good grace; but should he be worsted, probably he will know some loophole by which to steal out. the rat will get out and leave the lion in the trap. the "illustrious gioberti" has fallen,--fallen for ever from his high scaffold of words. his demerits were too unmistakable for rhetoric to hide. that he sympathized with the pope rather than the roman people, and could not endure to see him stripped of his temporal power, no one could blame in the author of the _primato_. that he refused the italian general assembly, if it was to be based on the so-called montanelli system instead of his own, might be conviction, or it might be littleness and vanity. but that he privily planned, without even adherence of the council of ministers, an armed intervention of the piedmontese troops in tuscany, thus willing to cause civil war, and, at this great moment, to see italian blood shed by italian hands, was treachery. i think, indeed, he has been probably made the scape-goat in that affair; that charles albert planned the measure, and, finding himself unable to carry it out, in consequence of the vigilance and indignant opposition of the chamber of deputies, was somewhat consoled by making it an occasion to victimize the "illustrious," whom four weeks before the people had forced him to accept as his minister. now the name of gioberti is erased from the corners of the streets to which it was affixed a year ago; he is stripped of all his honorary degrees, and proclaimed an unworthy son of the country. mazzini is the idol of the people. "soon to be hunted out," sneered the sceptical american. possibly yes; for no man is secure of his palm till the fight is over. the civic wreath may be knocked from his head a hundred times in the ardor of the contest. no matter, if he can always keep the forehead pure and lofty, as will mazzini. in thinking of mazzini, i always remember petrarch's invocation to rienzi. mazzini comes at a riper period in the world's history, with the same energy of soul, but of purer temper and more enlarged views to answer them. i do not know whether i mentioned a kind of poetical correspondence about mazzini and rossi. rossi was also an exile for liberal principles, but he did not value his birthright; he alienated it, and as a french citizen became peer of france and representative of louis philippe in italy. when, with the fatuity of those whom the gods have doomed to perish, pius ix. took the representative of the fallen guizot policy for his minister, he made him a roman citizen. he was proclaimed such on the th of november. on the th he perished, before he could enter the parliament he had called. he fell at the door of the cancelleria when it was sitting. mazzini, in his exile, remained absolutely devoted to his native country. because, though feeling as few can that the interests of humanity in all nations are identical, he felt also that, born of a race so suffering, so much needing devotion and energy, his first duty was to that. the only powers he acknowledged were _god and the people_, the special scope of his acts the unity and independence of italy. rome was the theme of his thoughts, but, very early exiled, he had never seen that home to which all the orphans of the soul so naturally turn. now he entered it as a roman citizen, elected representative of the people by universal suffrage. his motto, _dio e popolo_, is put upon the coin with the roman eagle; unhappily this first-issued coin is of brass, or else of silver, with much alloy. _dii, avertite omen_, and may peaceful days turn it all to pure gold! on his first entrance to the house, mazzini, received with fervent applause and summoned, to take his place beside the president, spoke as follows:-- "it is from me, colleagues, that should come these tokens of applause, these tokens of affection, because the little good i have not done, but tried to do, has come to me from rome. rome was always a sort of talisman for me; a youth, i studied the history of italy, and found, while all the other nations were born, grew up, played their part in the world, then fell to reappear no more in the same power, a single city was privileged by god to die only to rise again greater than before, to fulfil a mission greater than the first. i saw the rome of the empire extend her conquests from the confines of africa to the confines of asia. i saw rome perish, crushed by the barbarians, by those whom even yet the world, calls barbarians. i saw her rise again, after having chased away these same barbarians, reviving in its sepulchre the germ of civilization. i saw her rise more great for conquest, not with arms, but with words,--rise in the name of the popes to repeat her grand mission. i said in my heart, the city which alone in the world has had two grand lives, one greater than the other, will have a third. after the rome which wrought by conquest of arms, the rome which wrought by conquest of words, must come a third which shall work by virtue of example. after the rome of the emperors, after the rome of the popes, will come the rome of the people. the rome of the people is arisen; do not salute with applauses, but let us rejoice together! i cannot promise anything for myself, except concurrence in all you shall do for the good of rome, of italy, of mankind. perhaps we shall have to pass through great crises; perhaps we shall have to fight a sacred battle against the only enemy that threatens us,--austria. we will fight it, and we will conquer. i hope, please god, that foreigners may not be able to say any more that which so many of them repeat to-day, speaking of our affairs,--that the light which, comes from rome is only an _ignis fatuus_ wandering among the tombs. the world shall see that it is a starry light, eternal, pure, and resplendent as those we look up to in the heavens!" on a later day he spoke more fully of the difficulties that threaten at home the young republic, and said:-- "let us not hear of right, of left, of centre; these terms express the three powers in a constitutional monarchy; for us they have no meaning; the only divisions for us are of republicans or non-republicans,--or of sincere men and temporizing men. let us not hear so much of the republicans of to-day and of yesterday; i am a republican of twenty years' standing. entertaining such hopes for italy, when many excellent, many sincere men held them as utopian, shall i denounce these men because they are now convinced of their practicability?" this last i quote from memory. in hearing the gentle tone of remonstrance with those of more petty mind, or influenced by the passions of the partisan, i was forcibly reminded of the parable by jesus, of the vineyard and the discontent of the laborers that those who came at the eleventh hour "received also a penny." mazzini also is content that all should fare alike as brethren, if only they will come into the vineyard. he is not an orator, but the simple conversational tone of his address is in refreshing contrast with the boyish rhetoric and academic swell common to italian speakers in the present unfledged state. as they have freer use of the power of debate, they will become more simple and manly. the speech of mazzini is laden with thought,--it goes straight to the mark by the shortest path, and moves without effort, from the irresistible impression of deep conviction and fidelity in the speaker. mazzini is a man of genius, an elevated thinker; but the most powerful and first impression from his presence must always be of the religion of his soul, of his _virtue_, both in the modern and antique sense of that word. if clearness of right, if energy, if indefatigable perseverance, can steer the ship through this dangerous pass, it will be done. he said, "we will conquer"; whether rome will, this time, is not to me certain, but such men as mazzini conquer always,--conquer in defeat. yet heaven grant that no more blood, no more corruption of priestly government, be for italy. it could only be for once more, for the strength, of her present impulse would not fail to triumph at last; but even one more trial seems too intolerably much, when i think of the holocaust of the broken hearts, baffled lives, that must attend it. but enough of politics for the present; this letter goes by private hand, and, as news, will be superseded before it can arrive. let me rather take the opportunity to say some things that i have let lie by, while writing of political events. especially of our artists i wish to say something. i know many of thorn, if not all, and see with pleasure our young country so fairly represented. among the painters i saw of brown only two or three pictures at the exhibition in florence; they were coarse, flashy things. i was told he could do better; but a man who indulges himself with such, coarse sale-work cannot surely do well at any time. the merits of terry and freeman are not my merits; they are beside both favorites in our country, and have a sufficient number of pictures there for every one to judge. i am no connoisseur as regards the technical merits of paintings; it is only poetic invention, or a tender feeling of nature, which captivates me. terry loves grace, and consciously works from the model. the result is a pleasing transposition of the hues of this clime. but the design of the picture is never original, nor is it laden with any message from, the heart. of freeman i know less; as the two or three pictures of his that i have seen never interested me. i have not visited his studio. of hicks i think very highly. he is a man of ideas, an original observer, and with a poetic heart. his system of coloring is derived from a thoughtful study, not a mere imitation of nature, and shows the fineness of his organization. struggling unaided to pursue the expensive studies of his art, he has had only a small studio, and received only orders for little cabinet pictures. could, he carry out adequately his ideas, in him would be found the treasure of genius. he has made the drawings for a large picture of many figures; the design is original and noble, the grouping highly effective. could he paint this picture, i believe it would be a real boon to the lovers of art, the lovers of truth. i hope very much that, when he returns to the united states, some competent patron of art--one of the few who have mind as well as purse--will see the drawings and order the picture. otherwise he cannot paint it, as the expenses attendant on models for so many figures, &c. are great, and the time demanded could not otherwise be taken from the claims of the day. among landscape painters cropsey and cranch have the true artist spirit. in faculties, each has what the other wants. cropsey is a reverent and careful student of nature in detail; it is no pedantry, but a true love he has, and his pictures are full of little, gentle signs of intimacy. they please and touch; but yet in poetic feeling of the heart of nature he is not equal to cranch, who produces fine effects by means more superficial, and, on examination, less satisfactory. each might take somewhat from the other to advantage, could he do it without diminishing his own original dower. both are artists of high promise, and deserve to be loved and cherished by a country which may, without presumption, hope to carry landscape painting to a pitch of excellence unreached before. for the historical painter, the position with us is, for many reasons, not favorable; but there is no bar in the way of the landscape painter, and fate, bestowing such a prodigality of subject, seems to give us a hint not to be mistaken. i think the love of landscape painting is genuine in our nation, and as it is a branch of art where achievement has been comparatively low, we may not unreasonably suppose it has been left for us. i trust it will be undertaken in the highest spirit. nature, it seems to me, reveals herself more freely in our land; she is true, virgin, and confiding,--she smiles upon the vision of a true endymion. i hope to see, not only copies upon canvas of our magnificent scenes, but a transfusion of the spirit which is their divinity. then why should the american landscape painter come to italy? cry many. i think, myself, he ought not to stay here very long. yet a few years' study is precious, for here nature herself has worked with man, as if she wanted to help him in the composition of pictures. the ruins of italy, in their varied relations with vegetation and the heavens, make speeches from every stone for instruction of the artist; the greatest variety here is found with the greatest harmony. to know how this union may be accomplished is a main secret of art, and though the coloring is not the same, yet he who has the key to its mysteries of beauty is the more initiated to the same in other climates, and will easily attune afresh his more instructed eye and mind to the contemplation of that which moulded his childhood. i may observe of the two artists i have named, that cranch has entered more into the spirit of italian landscape, while cropsey is still more distinguished on subjects such as he first loved. he seemed to find the scotch lake and mountain scenery very congenial; his sketches and pictures taken from a short residence there are impressive. perhaps a melancholy or tender subject suits him best; something rich, bold, and mellow is more adapted to call out the genius of cranch. among the sculptors new names rise up, to show that this is decidedly a province for hope in america. i look upon this as the natural talent of an american, and have no doubt that glories will be displayed by our sculptors unknown to classic art. the facts of our history, ideal and social, will be grand and of new import; it is perfectly natural to the american to mould in clay and carve in stone. the permanence of material and solid, relief in the forms correspond to the positiveness of his nature better than the mere ephemeral and even tricky methods of the painter,--to his need of motion and action, better than the chambered scribbling of the poet. he will thus record his best experiences, and these records will adorn the noble structures that must naturally arise for the public uses of our society. it is particularly gratifying to see men that might amass far more money and attain more temporary power in other things, despise those lower lures, too powerful in our country, and aim only at excellence in the expression of thought. among these i may mention story and mozier. story has made in florence the model for a statue of his father. this i have not seen, but two statuettes that he modelled here from the "fisher" of goethe pleased me extremely. the languid, meditative reverie of the boy, the morbid tenderness of his nature, is most happily expressed in the first, as is the fascinated surrender to the siren murmur of tire flood in the second. he has taken the moment "half drew she him; half sank he in," &c. i hope some one will give him an order to make them in marble. mozier seemed to have an immediate success. the fidelity and spirit of his portrait-busts could be appreciated by every one; for an ideal head of pocahontas, too, he had at once orders for many copies. it was not an indian head, but, in the union of sweetness and strength with a princelike, childlike dignity, very happily expressive of his idea of her character. i think he has modelled a rebecca at the well, but this i did not see. these have already a firm hold on the affections of our people; every american who comes to italy visits their studios, and speaks of them with pride, as indeed they well may, in comparing them with artists of other nations. it will not be long before you see greenough's group; it is in spirit a pendant to cooper's novels. i confess i wish he had availed himself of the opportunity to immortalize the real noble indian in marble. this is only the man of the woods,--no metamora, no uncas. but the group should be very instructive to our people. you seem as crazy about powers's greek slave as the florentines were about cimabue's madonnas, in which we still see the spark of genius, but not fanned to its full flame. if your enthusiasm be as genuine as that of the lively florentines, we will not quarrel with it; but i am afraid a great part is drawing-room rapture and newspaper echo. genuine enthusiasm, however crude the state of mind from which it springs, always elevates, always educates; but in the same proportion talking and writing for effect stultifies and debases. i shall not judge the adorers of the greek slave, but only observe, that they have not kept in reserve any higher admiration for works even now extant, which are, in comparison with that statue, what that statue is compared with any weeping marble on a common monument. i consider the slave as a form of simple and sweet beauty, but that neither as an ideal expression nor a specimen of plastic power is it transcendent. powers stands far higher in his busts than in any ideal statue. his conception of what is individual in character is clear and just, his power of execution almost unrivalled; but he has had a lifetime of discipline for the bust, while his studies on the human body are comparatively limited; nor is his treatment of it free and masterly. to me, his conception of subject is not striking: i do not consider him rich in artistic thought. he, no less than greenough and crawford, would feel it a rich reward for many labors, and a happy climax to their honors, to make an equestrian statue of washington for our country. i wish they might all do it, as each would show a different kind of excellence. to present the man on horseback, the wise centaur, the tamer of horses, may well be deemed a high achievement of modern, as it was of ancient art. the study of the anatomy and action of the horse, so rich in suggestions, is naturally most desirable to the artist; happy he who, obliged by the brevity of life and the limitations of fortune, to make his studies conform to his "orders," finds himself justified by a national behest in entering on this department. at home one gets callous about the character of washington, from a long experience of fourth of july bombast in his praise. but seeing the struggles of other nations, and the deficiencies of the leaders who try to sustain them, the heart is again stimulated, and puts forth buds of praise. one appreciates the wonderful combination of events and influences that gave our independence so healthy a birth, and the almost miraculous merits of the men who tended its first motions. in the combination of excellences needed at such a period with the purity and modesty which dignify the private man in the humblest station, washington as yet stands alone. no country has ever had such a good future; no other is so happy as to have a pattern of spotless worth which will remain in her latest day venerable as now. surely, then, that form should be immortalized in material solid as its fame; and, happily for the artist, that form was of natural beauty and dignity, and he who places him on horseback simply represents his habitual existence. everything concurs to make an equestrian statue of washington desirable. the dignified way to manage that affair would be to have a committee chosen of impartial judges, men who would look only to the merits of the work and the interests of the country, unbiassed by any personal interest in favor of some one artist. it is said it is impossible to find such a committee, but i cannot believe it. let there be put aside the mean squabbles and jealousies, the vulgar pushing of unworthy friends, with which, unhappily, the artist's career seems more rife than any other, and a fair concurrence established; let each artist offer his design for an equestrian statue of washington, and let the best have the preference. mr. crawford has made a design which he takes with him to america, and which, i hope, will be generally seen. he has represented washington in his actual dress; a figure of fame, winged, presents the laurel and civic wreath; his gesture declines them; he seems to say, "for me the deed is enough,--i need no badge, no outward, token in reward." this group has no insipid, allegorical air, as might be supposed; and its composition is very graceful, simple, and harmonious. the costume is very happily managed. the angel figure is draped, and with, the liberty-cap, which, as a badge both of ancient and modern times, seems to connect the two figures, and in an artistic point of view balances well the cocked hat; there is a similar harmony between the angel's wings and the extremities of the horse. the action of the winged figure induces a natural and spirited action of the horse and rider. i thought of goethe's remark, that a fine work of art will always have, at a distance, where its details cannot be discerned, a beautiful effect, as of architectural ornament, and that this excellence the groups of raphael share with the antique. he would have been pleased with the beautiful balance of forms in this group, with the freedom with which light and air play in and out, the management of the whole being clear and satisfactory at the first glance. but one should go into a great number of studies, as you can in rome or florence, and see the abundance of heavy and inharmonious designs to appreciate the merits of this; anything really good seems so simple and so a matter of course to the unpractised observer. some say the americans will not want a group, but just the fact; the portrait of washington riding straight onward, like marcus aurelius, or making an address, or lifting his sword. i do not know about that,--it is a matter of feeling. this winged figure not only gives a poetic sense to the group, but a natural support and occasion for action to the horse and rider. uncle sam must send major downing to look at it, and then, if he wants other designs, let him establish a concurrence, as i have said, and choose what is best. i am not particularly attached to mr. greenough, mr. powers, or mr. crawford. i admire various excellences in the works of each, and should be glad if each received an order for an equestrian statue. nor is there any reason why they should not. there is money enough in the country, and the more good things there are for the people to see freely in open daylight, the better. that makes artists germinate. i love the artists, though i cannot speak of their works in a way to content their friends, or even themselves, often. who can, that has a standard of excellence in the mind, and a delicate conscience in the use of words? my highest tribute is meagre of superlatives in comparison with the hackneyed puffs with which artists submit to be besmeared. submit? alas! often they court them, rather. i do not expect any kindness from my contemporaries. i know that what is to me justice and honor is to them only a hateful coldness. still i love them, i wish for their good, i feel deeply for their sufferings, annoyances, privations, and would lessen them if i could. i have thought it might perhaps be of use to publish some account of the expenses of the artist. there is a general impression, that the artist lives very cheaply in italy. this is a mistake. italy, compared with america, is not so very cheap, except for those who have iron constitutions to endure bad food, eaten in bad air, damp and dirty lodgings. the expenses, even in florence, of a simple but clean and wholesome life, are little less than in new york. the great difference is for people that are rich. an englishman of rank and fortune does not need the same amount of luxury as at home, to be on a footing with the nobles of italy. the broadway merchant would find his display of mahogany and carpets thrown away in a country where a higher kind of ornament is the only one available. but poor people, who can, at any rate, buy only the necessaries of life, will find them in the italian cities, where all sellers live by cheating foreigners, very little cheaper than in america. the patrons of art in america, ignorant of these facts, and not knowing the great expenses which attend the study of art and the production of its wonders, are often guilty of most undesigned cruelty, and do things which it would grieve their hearts to have done, if they only knew the facts. they have read essays on the uses of adversity in developing genius, and they are not sufficiently afraid to administer a dose of adversity beyond what the forces of the patient can bear. laudanum in drops is useful as a medicine, but a cupful kills downright. beside this romantic idea about letting artists suffer to develop their genius, the american mæcenas is not sufficiently aware of the expenses attendant on producing the work he wants. he does not consider that the painter, the sculptor, must be paid for the time he spends in designing and moulding, no less than in painting and carving; that he must have his bread and sleeping-house, his workhouse or studio, his marbles and colors,--the sculptor his workmen; so that if the price be paid he asks, a modest and delicate man very commonly receives _no_ guerdon for his thought,--the real essence of the work,--except the luxury of seeing it embodied, which he could not otherwise have afforded, the american mæcenas often pushes the price down, not from want of generosity, but from a habit of making what are called good bargains,--i.e. bargains for one's own advantage at the expense of a poorer brother. those who call these good do not believe that "mankind is one, and beats with one great heart." they have not read the life of jesus christ. then the american mæcenas sometimes, after ordering a work, has been known to change his mind when the statue is already modelled. it is the american who does these things, because an american, who either from taste or vanity buys a picture, is often quite uneducated as to the arts, and cannot understand why a little picture or figure costs so much money. the englishman or frenchman, of a suitable position to seek these adornments for his house, usually understands better than the visitor of powers who, on hearing the price of the proserpine, wonderingly asked, "isn't statuary riz lately?" queen victoria of england, and her albert, it is said, use their royal privilege to get works of art at a price below their value; but their subjects would be ashamed to do so. to supply means of judging to the american merchant (full of kindness and honorable sympathy as beneath the crust he so often is) who wants pictures and statues, not merely from ostentation, but as means of delight and improvement to himself and his friends, who has a soul to respect the genius and desire the happiness of the artist, and who, if he errs, does so from ignorance of the circumstances, i give the following memorandum, made at my desire by an artist, my neighbor:-- "the rent of a suitable studio for modelling in clay and executing statues in marble may be estimated at $ a year. "the best journeyman carver in marble at rome receives $ a month. models are paid $ a day. "the cost of marble varies according to the size of the block, being generally sold by the cubic palm, a square of nine inches english. as a general guide regarding the prices established among the higher sculptors of rome, i may mention that for a statue of life-size the demand is from $ , to $ , , varying according to the composition of the figure and the number of accessories. "it is a common belief in the united states, that a student of art can live in italy and pursue his studies on an income of $ or $ a year. this is a lamentable error; the russian government allows its pensioners $ , which is scarcely sufficient. $ , per annum should be placed at the disposal of every young artist leaving our country for europe." let it be remembered, in addition to considerations inevitable from this memorandum, that an artist may after years and months of uncheered and difficult toil, after he has gone through the earlier stages of an education, find it too largely based, and of aim too high, to finish in this world. the prussian artist here on my left hand learned not only his art, but reading and writing, after he was thirty. a farmer's son, he was allowed no freedom to learn anything till the death of the head of the house left him a beggar, but set him free; he walked to berlin, distant several hundred miles, attracted by his first works some attention, and received some assistance in money, earned more by invention of a ploughshare, walked to rome, struggled through every privation, and has now a reputation which has secured him the means of putting his thoughts into marble. true, at forty-nine years of age he is still severely poor; he cannot marry, because he cannot maintain a family; but he is cheerful, because he can work in his own way, trusts with childlike reliance in god, and is still sustained by the vigorous health he won laboring in his father's fields. not every man could continue to work, circumstanced as he is, at the end of the half-century. for him the only sad thing in my mind is that his works are not worth working, though of merit in composition and execution, yet ideally a product of the galvanized piety of the german school, more mutton-like than lamb-like to my unchurched eyes. you are likely to have a work to look at in the united states by the great master of that school, overbeck; mr. perkins of boston, who knows how to spend his money with equal generosity and discretion, having bought his "wise and foolish virgins." it will be precious to the country from great artistic merits. as to the spirit, "blessed are the poor in spirit." that kind of severity is, perhaps has become, the nature of overbeck. he seems like a monk, but a really pious and pure one. this spirit is not what i seek; i deem it too narrow for our day, but being deeply sincere in him, its expression is at times also deeply touching. barabbas borne in triumph, and the child jesus, who, playing with his father's tools, has made himself a cross, are subjects best adapted for expression of this spirit. i have written too carelessly,--much writing hath made me mad of late. forgive if the "style be not neat, terse, and sparkling," if there be naught of the "thrilling," if the sentences seem not "written with a diamond pen," like all else that is published in america. some time i must try to do better. for this time "forgive my faults; forgive my virtues too." march . day before yesterday was the feast of st. joseph. he is supposed to have acquired a fondness for fried rice-cakes during his residence in egypt. many are eaten in the open street, in arbors made for the occasion. one was made beneath my window, on piazza barberini. all the day and evening men, cleanly dressed in white aprons and liberty caps, quite new, of fine, red cloth, were frying cakes for crowds of laughing, gesticulating customers. it rained a little, and they held an umbrella over the frying-pan, but not over themselves. the arbor is still there, and little children are playing in and out of it; one still lesser runs in its leading-strings, followed by the bold, gay nurse, to the brink of the fountain, after its orange which has rolled before it. tenerani's workmen are coming out of his studio, the priests are coming home from ponte pio, the contadini beginning to play at _moro_, for the setting sun has just lit up the magnificent range of windows in the palazzo barberini, and then faded tenderly, sadly away, and the mellow bells have chimed the ave maria. rome looks as roman, that is to say as tranquil, as ever, despite the trouble that tugs at her heart-strings. there is a report that mazzini is to be made dictator, as manin is in venice, for a short time, so as to provide hastily and energetically for the war. ave maria sanissima! when thou didst gaze on thy babe with such infinite hope, thou didst not dream that, so many ages after, blood would be shed and curses uttered in his name. madonna addolorata! hadst thou not hoped peace and good-will would spring from his bloody woes, couldst thou have borne those hours at the foot of the cross. o stella! woman's heart of love, send yet a ray of pure light on this troubled deep? letter xxx. the struggle in rome.--position of the french.--the austrians.--feeling of the roman people.--the french troops.--effects of war.--hospitals.--the princess belgioioso.--position of mr. cass as envoy.--difficulties and suggestions.--america and rome.--reflections on the eternal city.--the french: the people. rome, may , . i have suspended writing in the expectation of some decisive event; but none such comes yet. the french, entangled in a web of falsehood, abashed by a defeat that oudinot has vainly tried to gloss over, the expedition disowned by all honorable men at home, disappointed at gaëta, not daring to go the length papal infatuation demands, know not what to do. the neapolitans have been decidedly driven back into their own borders, the last time in a most shameful rout, their king flying in front. we have heard for several days that the austrians were advancing, but they come not. they also, it is probable, meet with unexpected embarrassments. they find that the sincere movement of the italian people is very unlike that of troops commanded by princes and generals who never wished to conquer and were always waiting to betray. then their troubles at home are constantly increasing, and, should the russian intervention quell these to-day, it is only to raise a storm far more terrible to-morrow. the struggle is now fairly, thoroughly commenced between the principle of democracy and the old powers, no longer legitimate. that struggle may last fifty years, and the earth be watered with the blood and tears of more than one generation, but the result is sure. all europe, including great britain, where the most bitter resistance of all will be made, is to be under republican government in the next century. "god moves in a mysterious way." every struggle made by the old tyrannies, all their jesuitical deceptions, their rapacity, their imprisonments and executions of the most generous men, only sow more dragon's teeth; the crop shoots up daily more and more plenteous. when i first arrived in italy, the vast majority of this people had no wish beyond limited monarchies, constitutional governments. they still respected the famous names of the nobility; they despised the priests, but were still fondly attached to the dogmas and ritual of the roman catholic church. it required king bomba, the triple treachery of charles albert, pius ix., and the "illustrious gioberti," the naturally kind-hearted, but, from the necessity of his position, cowardly and false leopold of tuscany, the vagabond "serene" meannesses of parma and modena, the "fatherly" radetzsky, and, finally, the imbecile louis bonaparte, "would-be emperor of france," to convince this people that no transition is possible between the old and the new. _the work is done_; the revolution in italy is now radical, nor can it stop till italy becomes independent and united as a republic. protestant she already is, and though the memory of saints and martyrs may continue to be revered, the ideal of woman to be adored under the name of mary, yet christ will now begin to be a little thought of; _his_ idea has always been kept carefully out of sight under the old _régime_; all the worship being for the madonna and saints, who were to be well paid for interceding for sinners;--an example which might make men cease to be such, was no way coveted. now the new testament has been translated into italian; copies are already dispersed far and wide; men calling themselves christians will no longer be left entirely ignorant of the precepts and life of jesus. the people of rome have burnt the cardinals' carriages. they took the confessionals out of the churches, and made mock confessions in the piazzas, the scope of which was, "i have sinned, father, so and so." "well, my son, how much will you _pay_ to the church for absolution?" afterward the people thought of burning the confessionals, or using them for barricades; but at the request of the triumvirate they desisted, and even put them back into the churches. but it was from no reaction of feeling that they stopped short, only from respect for the government. the "tartuffe" of molière has been translated into italian, and was last night performed with great applause at the valle. can all this be forgotten? never! should guns and bayonets replace the pope on the throne, he will find its foundations, once deep as modern civilization, now so undermined that it falls with the least awkward movement. but i cannot believe he will be replaced there. france alone could consummate that crime,--that, for her, most cruel, most infamous treason. the elections in france will decide. in three or four days we shall know whether the french nation at large be guilty or no,--whether it be the will of the nation to aid or strive to ruin a government founded on precisely the same basis as their own. i do not dare to trust that people. the peasant is yet very ignorant. the suffering workman is frightened as he thinks of the punishments that ensued on the insurrections of may and june. the man of property is full of horror at the brotherly scope of socialism. the aristocrat dreams of the guillotine always when he hears men speak of the people. the influence of the jesuits is still immense in france. both in france and england the grossest falsehoods have been circulated with unwearied diligence about the state of things in italy. an amusing specimen of what is still done in this line i find just now in a foreign journal, where it says there are red flags on all the houses of rome; meaning to imply that the romans are athirst for blood. now, the fact is, that these flags are put up at the entrance of those streets where there is no barricade, as a signal to coachmen and horsemen that they can pass freely. there is one on the house where i am, in which is no person but myself, who thirst for peace, and the padrone, who thirsts for money. meanwhile the french troops are encamped at a little distance from rome. some attempts at fair and equal treaty when their desire to occupy rome was firmly resisted, oudinot describes in his despatches as a readiness for _submission_. having tried in vain to gain this point, he has sent to france for fresh orders. these will be decided by the turn the election takes. meanwhile the french troops are much exposed to the roman force where they are. should the austrians come up, what will they do? will they shamelessly fraternize with the french, after pretending and proclaiming that they came here as a check upon their aggressions? will they oppose them in defence of rome, with which they are at war? ah! the way of falsehood, the way of treachery,--how dark, how full of pitfalls and traps! heaven defend from it all who are not yet engaged therein! war near at hand seems to me even more dreadful than i had fancied it. true, it tries men's souls, lays bare selfishness in undeniable deformity. here it has produced much fruit of noble sentiment, noble act; but still it breeds vice too, drunkenness, mental dissipation, tears asunder the tenderest ties, lavishes the productions of earth, for which her starving poor stretch out their hands in vain, in the most unprofitable manner. and the ruin that ensues, how terrible! let those who have ever passed happy days in rome grieve to hear that the beautiful plantations of villa borghese--that chief delight and refreshment of citizens, foreigners, and little children--are laid low, as far as the obelisk. the fountain, singing alone amid the fallen groves, cannot be seen and heard without tears; it seems like some innocent infant calling and crowing amid dead bodies on a field which battle has strewn with the bodies of those who once cherished it. the plantations of villa salvage on the tiber, also, the beautiful trees on the way from st. john lateran to la maria maggiore, the trees of the forum, are fallen. rome is shorn of the locks which lent grace to her venerable brow. she looks desolate, profaned. i feel what i never expected to,--as if i might by and by be willing to leave rome. then i have, for the first time, seen what wounded men suffer. the night of the th of april i passed in the hospital, and saw the terrible agonies of those dying or who needed amputation, felt their mental pains and longing for the loved ones who were away; for many of these were lombards, who had come from the field of novarra to fight with a fairer chance,--many were students of the university, who had enlisted and thrown themselves into the front of the engagement. the impudent falsehoods of the french general's despatches are incredible. the french were never decoyed on in any way. they were received with every possible mark of hostility. they were defeated in open field, the garibaldi legion rushing out to meet them; and though they suffered much from the walls, they sustained themselves nowhere. they never put up a white flag till they wished to surrender. the vanity that strives to cover over these facts is unworthy of men. the only excuse for the imprudent conduct of the expedition is that they were deceived, not by the romans here, but by the priests of gaëta, leading them to expect action in their favor within the walls. these priests themselves were deluded by their hopes and old habits of mind. the troops did not fight well, and general oudinot abandoned his wounded without proper care. all this says nothing against french valor, proved by ages of glory, beyond the doubt of their worst foes. they were demoralized because they fought in so bad a cause, and there was no sincere ardor or clear hope in any breast. but to return to the hospitals: these were put in order, and have been kept so, by the princess belgioioso. the princess was born of one of the noblest families of the milanese, a descendant of the great trivalzio, and inherited a large fortune. very early she compromised it in liberal movements, and, on their failure, was obliged to fly to paris, where for a time she maintained herself by writing, and i think by painting also. a princess so placed naturally excited great interest, and she drew around her a little court of celebrated men. after recovering her fortune, she still lived in paris, distinguished for her talents and munificence, both toward literary men and her exiled countrymen. later, on her estate, called locate, between pavia and milan, she had made experiments in the socialist direction with fine judgment and success. association for education, for labor, for transaction of household affairs, had been carried on for several years; she had spared no devotion of time and money to this object, loved, and was much beloved by, those objects of her care, and said she hoped to die there. all is now despoiled and broken up, though it may be hoped that some seeds of peaceful reform have been sown which will spring to light when least expected. the princess returned to italy in - , full of hope in pius ix and charles albert. she showed her usual energy and truly princely heart, sustaining, at her own expense, a company of soldiers and a journal up to the last sad betrayal of milan, august th. these days undeceived all the people, but few of the noblesse; she was one of the few with mind strong enough to understand the lesson, and is now warmly interested in the republican movement. from milan she went to france, but, finding it impossible to effect anything serious there in behalf of italy, returned, and has been in rome about two months. since leaving milan she receives no income, her possessions being in the grasp of radetzky, and cannot know when, if ever, she will again. but as she worked so largely and well with money, so can she without. she published an invitation to the roman women to make lint and bandages, and offer their services to the wounded; she put the hospitals in order; in the central one, trinita de pellegrini, once the abode where the pilgrims were received during holy week, and where foreigners were entertained by seeing their feet washed by the noble dames and dignitaries of rome, she has remained day and night since the th of april, when the wounded were first there. some money she procured at first by going through rome, accompanied by two other ladies veiled, to beg it. afterward the voluntary contributions were generous; among the rest, i am proud to say, the americans in rome gave $ , of which a handsome portion came from mr. brown, the consul. i value this mark of sympathy more because of the irritation and surprise occasioned here by the position of mr. cass, the envoy. it is most unfortunate that we should have an envoy here for the first time, just to offend and disappoint the romans. when all the other ambassadors are at gaëta, ours is in rome, as if by his presence to discountenance the republican government, which he does not recognize. mr. cass, it seems, is required by his instructions not to recognize the government till sure it can be sustained. now it seems to me that the only dignified ground for our government, the only legitimate ground for any republican government, is to recognize for any nation the government chosen by itself. the suffrage had been correct here, and the proportion of votes to the whole population was much larger, it was said by americans here, than it is in our own country at the time of contested elections. it had elected an assembly; that assembly had appointed, to meet the exigencies of this time, the triumvirate. if any misrepresentations have induced america to believe, as france affects to have believed, that so large a vote could have been obtained by moral intimidation, the present unanimity of the population in resisting such immense odds, and the enthusiasm of their every expression in favor of the present government, puts the matter beyond a doubt. the roman people claims once more to have a national existence. it declines further serfdom to an ecclesiastical court. it claims liberty of conscience, of action, and of thought. should it fall from its present position, it will not be from, internal dissent, but from foreign oppression. since this is the case, surely our country, if no other, is bound to recognize the present government _so long as it can sustain itself_. this position is that to which we have a right: being such, it is no matter how it is viewed by others. but i dare assert it is the only respectable one for our country, in the eyes of the emperor of russia himself. the first, best occasion is past, when mr. cass might, had he been empowered to act as mr. rush did in france, have morally strengthened the staggering republic, which would have found sympathy where alone it is of permanent value, on the basis of principle. had it been in vain, what then? america would have acted honorably; as to our being compromised thereby with the papal government, that fear is idle. pope and cardinals have great hopes from america; the giant influence there is kept up with the greatest care; the number of catholic writers in the united states, too, carefully counted. had our republican government acknowledged this republican government, the papal camarilla would have respected us more, but not loved us less; for have we not the loaves and fishes to give, as well as the precious souls to be saved? ah! here, indeed, america might go straightforward with all needful impunity. bishop hughes himself need not be anxious. that first, best occasion has passed, and the unrecognized, unrecognizing envoy has given offence, and not comfort, by a presence that seemed constantly to say, i do not think you can sustain yourselves. it has wounded both the heart and the pride of rome. some of the lowest people have asked me, "is it not true that your country had a war to become free?" "yes." "then why do they not feel for us?" yet even now it is not too late. if america would only hail triumphant, though she could not sustain injured rome, that would be something. "can you suppose rome will triumph," you say, "without money, and against so potent a league of foes?" i am not sure, but i hope, for i believe something in the heart of a people when fairly awakened. i have also a lurking confidence in what our fathers spoke of so constantly, a providential order of things, by which brute force and selfish enterprise are sometimes set at naught by aid which seems to descend from a higher sphere. even old pagans believed in that, you know; and i was born in america, christianized by the puritans,--america, freed by eight years' patient suffering, poverty, and struggle,--america, so cheered in dark days by one spark of sympathy from a foreign shore,--america, first "recognized" by lafayette. i saw him when traversing our country, then great, rich, and free. millions of men who owed in part their happiness to what, no doubt, was once sneered at as romantic sympathy, threw garlands in his path. it is natural that i should have some faith. send, dear america! to thy ambassadors a talisman precious beyond all that boasted gold of california. let it loose his tongue to cry, "long live the republic, and may god bless the cause of the people, the brotherhood of nations and of men,--equality of rights for all." _viva america!_ hail to my country! may she live a free, a glorious, a loving life, and not perish, like the old dominions, from, the leprosy of selfishness. evening. i am alone in the ghostly silence of a great house, not long since full of gay faces and echoing with gay voices, now deserted by every one but me,--for almost all foreigners are gone now, driven by force either of the summer heats or the foe. i hear all the spaniards are going now,--that twenty-one have taken passports to-day; why that is, i do not know. i shall not go till the last moment; my only fear is of france. i cannot think in any case there would be found men willing to damn themselves to latest posterity by bombarding rome. other cities they may treat thus, careless of destroying the innocent and helpless, the babe and old grandsire who cannot war against them. but rome, precious inheritance of mankind,--will they run the risk of marring her shrined treasures? would they dare do it? two of the balls that struck st. peter's have been sent to pius ix. by his children, who find themselves so much less "beloved" than were the austrians. these two days, days of solemn festivity in the calends of the church, have been duly kept, and the population looks cheerful as it swarms through the streets. the order of rome, thronged as it is with troops, is amazing. i go from one end to the other, and amid the poorest and most barbarous of the population, (barbarously ignorant, i mean,) alone and on foot. my friends send out their little children alone with their nurses. the amount of crime is almost nothing to what it was. the roman, no longer pent in ignorance and crouching beneath espionage, no longer stabs in the dark. his energies have true vent; his better feelings are roused; he has thrown aside the stiletto. the power here is indeed miraculous, since no doubt still lurk within the walls many who are eager to incite brawls, if only to give an excuse for slander. to-day i suppose twelve thousand austrians marched into florence. the florentines have humbled and disgraced themselves in vain. they recalled the grand duke to ward off the entrance of the austrians, but in vain went the deputation to gaëta--in an american steamer! leopold was afraid to come till his dear cousins of austria had put everything in perfect order; then the austrians entered to take leghorn, but the florentines still kept on imploring them not to come there; florence was as subdued, as good as possible, already:--they have had the answer they deserved. now they crown their work by giving over guerazzi and petracci to be tried by an austrian court-martial. truly the cup of shame brims over. i have been out on the balcony to look over the city. all sleeps with that peculiar air of serene majesty known to this city only;--this city that has grown, not out of the necessities of commerce nor the luxuries of wealth, but first out of heroism, then out of faith. swelling domes, roofs softly tinted with yellow moss! what deep meaning, what deep repose, in your faintly seen outline! the young moon climbs among clouds,--the clouds of a departing thunderstorm. tender, smiling moon! can it be that thy full orb may look down on a smoking, smouldering rome, and see her best blood run along the stones, without one nation in the world to defend, one to aid,--scarce one to cry out a tardy "shame"? we will wait, whisper the nations, and see if they can bear it. rack them well to see if they are brave. _if they can do without us_, we will help them. is it thus ye would be served in your turn? beware! letter xxxi. the french treason at rome.--oudinot.--lesseps.--letter of the triumvirate.--reply of lesseps.--course of oudinot.--the wounded italians.--garibaldi.--italian young men.--military funeral.--havoc of the siege.--courage of mazzini.--falseness of the london times. rome, june , . what shall i write of rome in these sad but glorious days? plain facts are the best; for my feelings i could not find fit words. when i last wrote, the french were playing the second act of their farce. in the first, the french government affected to consult the assembly. the assembly, or a majority of the assembly, affected to believe the pretext it gave, and voted funds for twelve thousand men to go to civita vecchia. arriving there, oudinot proclaimed that he had come as a friend and brother. he was received as such. immediately he took possession of the town, disarmed the roman troops, and published a manifesto in direct opposition to his first declaration. he sends to rome that he is coming there as a friend; receives the answer that he is not wanted and cannot be trusted. this answer he chooses to consider as coming from a minority, and advances on rome. the pretended majority on which he counts never shows itself by a single movement within the walls. he makes an assault, and is defeated. on this subject his despatches to his government are full of falsehoods that would disgrace the lowest pickpocket,--falsehoods which it is impossible he should not know to be such. the assembly passed a vote of blame. m. louis bonaparte writes a letter of compliment and assurance that this course of violence shall be sustained. in conformity with this promise twelve thousand more troops are sent. this time it is not thought necessary to consult the assembly. let us view the second act. now appears in rome m. ferdinand lesseps, envoy, &c. of the french government. he declares himself clothed with full powers to treat with rome. he cannot conceal his surprise at all he sees there, at the ability with which preparations have been made for defence, at the patriotic enthusiasm which pervades the population. nevertheless, in beginning his game of treaty-making, he is not ashamed to insist on the french occupying the city. again and again repulsed, he again and again returns to the charge on this point. and here i shall translate the letter addressed to him by the triumvirate, both because of its perfect candor of statement, and to give an idea of the sweet and noble temper in which these treacherous aggressions have been met. letter of the triumvirs to monsieur lesseps. "may , . "we have had the honor, monsieur, to furnish you, in our note of the th, with some information as to the unanimous consent which was given to the formation of the government of the roman republic. we to-day would speak to you of the actual question, such as it is debated in fact, if not by right, between the french government and ours. you will allow us to do it with the frankness demanded by the urgency of the situation, as well as the sympathy which ought to govern all relations between france and italy. our diplomacy is the truth, and the character given to your mission is a guaranty that the best possible interpretation will be given to what we shall say to you. "with your permission, we return for an instant to the cause of the present situation of affairs. "in consequence of conferences and arrangements which took place without the government of the roman republic ever being called on to take part, it was some time since decided by the catholic powers,-- st. that a modification should take place in the government and institutions of the roman states; d. that this modification should have for basis the return of pius ix., not as pope, for to that no obstacle is interposed by us, but as temporal sovereign; d. that if, to attain that aim, a continuous intervention was judged necessary, that intervention should take place. "we are willing to admit, that while for some of the contracting governments the only motive was the hope of a general restoration and absolute return to the treaties of , the french government was drawn into this agreement only in consequence of erroneous information, tending systematically to depict the roman states as given up to anarchy and governed by terror exercised in the name of an audacious minority. we know also, that, in the modification proposed, the french government intended to represent an influence more or less liberal, opposed to the absolutist programme of austria and of naples. it does none the less remain true, that under the apostolic or constitutional form, with or without liberal guaranties to the roman people, the dominant thought in all the negotiations to which we allude has been some sort of return toward the past, a compromise between the roman people and pius ix. considered as temporal prince. "we cannot dissemble to ourselves, monsieur, that the french expedition has been planned and executed under the inspiration of this thought. its object was, on one side, to throw the sword of france into the balance of negotiations which were to be opened at rome; on the other, to guarantee the roman people from the excess of retrograde, but always on condition that it should submit to constitutional monarchy in favor of the holy father. this is assured to us partly from information which we believe we possess as to the concert with austria; from the proclamations of general oudinot; from the formal declarations made by successive envoys to the triumvirate; from the silence obstinately maintained whenever we have sought to approach the political question and obtain a formal declaration of the fact proved in our note of the th, that the institutions by which the roman people are governed at this time are the free and spontaneous expression of the wish of the people inviolable when legally ascertained. for the rest, the vote of the french assembly sustains implicitly the fact that we affirm. "in such a situation, under the menace of an inadmissible compromise, and of negotiations which the state of our people no way provoked, our part, monsieur, could not be doubtful. to resist,--we owed this to our country, to france, to all europe. we ought, in fulfilment of a mandate loyally given, loyally accepted, maintain to our country the inviolability, so far as that was possible to us, of its territory, and of the institutions decreed by all the powers, by all the elements, of the state. we ought to conquer the time needed for appeal from france ill informed to france better informed, to save the sister republic the disgrace and the remorse which must be hers if, rashly led on by bad suggestions from without, she became, before she was aware, accomplice in an act of violence to which we can find no parallel without going back to the partition of poland in . we owed it to europe to maintain, as far as we could, the fundamental principles of all international life, the independence of each people in all that concerns its internal administration. we say it without pride,--for if it is with enthusiasm that we resist the attempts of the neapolitan monarchy and of austria, our eternal enemy, it is with profound grief that we are ourselves constrained to contend with the arms of france,--we believe in following this line of conduct we have deserved well, not only of our country, but of all the people of europe, even of france herself. "we come to the actual question. you know, monsieur, the events which have followed the french intervention. our territory has been invaded by the king of naples. "four thousand spaniards were to embark on the th for invasion of this country. the austrians, having surmounted the heroic resistance of bologna, have advanced into romagna, and are now marching on ancona. "we have beaten and driven out of our territory the forces of the king of naples. we believe we should do the same by the austrian forces, if the attitude of the french here did not fetter our action. "we are sorry to say it, but france must be informed that the expedition of civita vecchia, said to be planned for our protection, costs us very dear. of all the interventions with which it is hoped to overwhelm us, that of the french has been the most perilous. against the soldiers of austria and the king of naples we can fight, for god protects a good cause. but we _do not wish to fight_ against the french. we are toward them in a state, not of war, but of simple defence. but this position, the only one we wish to take wherever we meet france, has for us all the inconveniences without any of the favorable chances of war. "the french expedition has, from the first, forced us to concentrate our troops, thus leaving our frontier open to austrian invasion, and bologna and the cities of romagna unsustained. the austrians have profited by this. after eight days of heroic resistance by the population, bologna was forced to yield. we had bought in france arms for our defence. of these ten thousand muskets have been detained between marseilles and civita vecchia. these are in your hands. thus with a single blow you deprive us of ten thousand soldiers. in every armed man is a soldier against the austrians. "your forces are disposed around our walls as if for a siege. they remain there without avowed aim or programme. they have forced us to keep the city in a state of defence which weighs upon our finances. they force us to keep here a body of troops who might be saving our cities from the occupation and ravages of the austrians. they hinder our going from place to place, our provisioning the city, our sending couriers. they keep minds in a state of excitement and distrust which might, if our population were less good and devoted, lead to sinister results. they do _not_ engender anarchy nor reaction, for both are impossible at rome; but they sow the seed of irritation against france, and it is a misfortune for us who were accustomed to love and hope in her. "we are besieged, monsieur, besieged by france, in the name of a protective mission, while some leagues off the king of naples, flying, carries off our hostages, and the austrian slays our brothers. "you have presented propositions. those propositions have been declared inadmissible by the assembly. to-day you add a fourth to the three already rejected. this says that france will protect from foreign invasion all that part of our territory that may be occupied by her troops. you must yourself feel that this changes nothing in our position. "the parts of the territory occupied by your troops are in fact protected; but if only for the present, to what are they reduced? and if it is for the future, have we no other way to protect our territory than by giving it up entirely to you? "the real intent of your demands is not stated. it is the occupation of rome. this demand has constantly stood first in your list of propositions. now we have had the honor to say to you, monsieur, that is impossible. the people will never consent to it. if the occupation of rome has for its aim only to protect it, the people thank you, but tell you at the same time, that, able to defend rome by their own forces, they would be dishonored even in your eyes by declaring themselves insufficient, and needing the aid of some regiments of french soldiers. if the occupation has otherwise a political object, which god forbid, the people, who have given themselves freely these institutions, cannot suffer it. rome is their capital, their palladium, their sacred city. they know very well, that, apart from their principles, apart from their honor, there is civil war at the end of such an occupation. they are filled with distrust by your persistence. they foresee, the troops being once admitted, changes in men and in actions which would be fatal to their liberty. they know that, in presence of foreign bayonets, the independence of their assembly, of their government, would be a vain word. they have always civita vecchia before their eyes. "on this point be sure their will is irrevocable. they will be massacred from barricade to barricade, before they will surrender. can the soldiers of france wish to massacre a brother people whom they came to protect, because they do not wish to surrender to them their capital? "there are for france only three parts to take in the roman states. she ought to declare herself for us, against us, or neutral. to declare herself for us would be to recognize our republic, and fight side by side with us against the austrians. to declare against us is to crush without motive the liberty, the national life, of a friendly people, and fight side by side with the austrians. france _cannot_ do that. she _will not_ risk a european war to depress us, her ally. let her, then, rest neutral in this conflict between us and our enemies. only yesterday we hoped more from her, but to-day we demand but this. "the occupation of civita vecchia is a fact accomplished; let it go. france thinks that, in the present state of things, she ought not to remain distant from the field of battle. she thinks that, vanquishers or vanquished, we may have need of her moderative action and of her protection. we do not think so; but we will not react against her. let her keep civita vecchia. let her even extend her encampments, if the numbers of her troops require it, in the healthy regions of civita vecchia and viterbo. let her then wait the issue of the combats about to take place. all facilities will be offered her, every proof of frank and cordial sympathy given; her officers can visit rome, her soldiers have all the solace possible. but let her neutrality be sincere and without concealed plans. let her declare herself in explicit terms. let her leave us free to use all our forces. let her restore our arms. let her not by her cruisers drive back from our ports the men who come to our aid from other parts of italy. let her, above all, withdraw from before our walls, and cause even the appearance of hostility to cease between two nations who, later, undoubtedly are destined to unite in the same international faith, as now they have adopted the same form of government." in his answer, lesseps appears moved by this statement, and particularly expresses himself thus:-- "one point appears above all to occupy you; it is the thought that we wish forcibly to impose upon you the obligation of receiving us as friends. _friendship and violence are incompatible._ thus it would be _inconsistent_ on our part to begin by firing our cannon upon you, since we are your natural protectors. _such a contradiction enters neither into my intentions, nor those of the government of the french republic, nor of our army and its honorable chief._" these words were written at the head-quarters of oudinot, and of course seen and approved by him. at the same time, in private conversation, "the honorable chief" could swear he would occupy rome by "one means or another." a few days after, lesseps consented to conditions such as the romans would tolerate. he no longer insisted on occupying rome, but would content himself with good positions in the country. oudinot protested that the plenipotentiary had "exceeded his powers,"--that he should not obey,--that the armistice was at an end, and he should attack rome on monday. it was then friday. he proposed to leave these two days for the few foreigners that remained to get out of town. m. lesseps went off to paris, in great seeming indignation, to get _his_ treaty ratified. of course we could not hear from him for eight or ten days. meanwhile, the _honorable_ chief, alike in all his conduct, attacked on sunday instead of monday. the attack began before sunrise, and lasted all day. i saw it from my window, which, though distant, commands the gate of st. pancrazio. why the whole force was bent on that part, i do not know. if they could take it, the town would be cannonaded, and the barricades useless; but it is the same with the pincian gate. small-parties made feints in two other directions, but they were at once repelled. the french fought with great bravery, and this time it is said with beautiful skill and order, sheltering themselves in their advance by movable barricades. the italians fought like lions, and no inch of ground was gained by the assailants. the loss of the french is said to be very great: it could not be otherwise. six or seven hundred italians are dead or wounded. among them are many officers, those of garibaldi especially, who are much exposed by their daring bravery, and whose red tunic makes them the natural mark of the enemy. it seems to me great folly to wear such a dress amid the dark uniforms; but garibaldi has always done it. he has now been wounded twice here and seventeen times in ancona. all this week i have been much at the hospitals where are these noble sufferers. they are full of enthusiasm; this time was no treason, no vicenza, no novara, no milan. they had not been given up by wicked chiefs at the moment they were shedding their blood, and they had conquered. all were only anxious to get out again and be at their posts. they seemed to feel that those who died so gloriously were fortunate; perhaps they were, for if rome is obliged to yield,--and how can she stand always unaided against the four powers?--where shall these noble youths fly? they are the flower of the italian youth; especially among the lombards are some of the finest young men i have ever seen. if rome falls, if venice falls, there is no spot of italian earth where they can abide more, and certainly no italian will wish to take refuge in france. truly you said, m. lesseps, "violence and friendship are incompatible." a military funeral of the officer ramerino was sadly picturesque and affecting. the white-robed priests went before the body singing, while his brothers in arms bore the lighted tapers. his horse followed, saddled and bridled. the horse hung his head and stepped dejectedly; he felt there was something strange and gloomy going on,--felt that his master was laid low. ramerino left a wife and children. a great proportion of those who run those risks are, happily, alone. parents weep, but will not suffer long; their grief is not like that of widows and children. since the d we have only cannonade and skirmishes. the french are at their trenches, but cannot advance much; they are too much molested from the walls. the romans have made one very successful sortie. the french availed themselves of a violent thunderstorm, when the walls were left more thinly guarded, to try to scale them, but were immediately driven back. it was thought by many that they never would be willing to throw bombs and shells into rome, but they do whenever they can. that generous hope and faith in them as republicans and brothers, which put the best construction on their actions, and believed in their truth as far as possible, is now destroyed. the government is false, and the people do not resist; the general is false, and the soldiers obey. meanwhile, frightful sacrifices are being made by rome. all her glorious oaks, all her gardens of delight, her casinos, full of the monuments of genius and taste, are perishing in the defence. the houses, the trees which had been spared at the gate of st. pancrazio, all afforded shelter to the foe, and caused so much loss of life, that the romans have now fully acquiesced in destruction agonizing to witness. villa borghese is finally laid waste, the villa of raphael has perished, the trees are all cut down at villa albani, and the house, that most beautiful ornament of rome, must, i suppose, go too. the stately marble forms are already driven from their place in that portico where winckelmann sat and talked with such delight. villa salvage is burnt, with all its fine frescos, and that bank of the tiber shorn of its lovely plantations. rome will never recover the cruel ravage of these days, perhaps only just begun. i had often thought of living a few months near st. peter's, that i might go as much as i liked to the church and the museum, have villa pamfili and monte mario within the compass of a walk. it is not easy to find lodgings there, as it is a quarter foreigners never inhabit; but, walking about to see what pleasant places there were, i had fixed my eye on a clean, simple house near ponte st. angelo. it bore on a tablet that it was the property of angela ----; its little balconies with their old wooden rails, full of flowers in humble earthen vases, the many bird-cages, the air of domestic quiet and comfort, marked it as the home of some vestal or widow, some lone woman whose heart was centred in the ordinary and simplest pleasures of a home. i saw also she was one having the most limited income, and i thought, "she will not refuse to let me a room for a few months, as i shall be as quiet as herself, and sympathize about the flowers and birds." now the villa pamfili is all laid waste. the french encamp on monte mario; what they have done there is not known yet. the cannonade reverberates all day under the dome of st. peter's, and the house of poor angela is levelled with the ground. i hope her birds and the white peacocks of the vatican gardens are in safety;--but who cares for gentle, harmless creatures now? i have been often interrupted while writing this letter, and suppose it is confused as well as incomplete. i hope my next may tell of something decisive one way or the other. news is not yet come from lesseps, but the conduct of oudinot and the formation of the new french ministry give reason to hope no good. many seem resolved to force back pius ix. among his bleeding flock, into the city ruined by him, where he cannot remain, and if he come, all this struggle and sorrow is to be borne over again. mazzini stands firm as a rock. i know not whether he hopes for a successful issue, but he _believes_ in a god bound to protect men who do what they deem their duty. yet how long, o lord, shall the few trample on the many? i am surprised to see the air of perfect good faith with which articles from the london times, upon the revolutionary movements, are copied into our papers. there exists not in europe a paper more violently opposed to the cause of freedom than the times, and neither its leaders nor its foreign correspondence are to be depended upon. it is said to receive money from austria. i know not whether this be true, or whether it be merely subservient to the aristocratical feeling of england, which is far more opposed to republican movements than is that of russia; for in england fear embitters hate. it is droll to remember our reading in the class-book. "ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are";-- to think how bitter the english were on the italians who succumbed, and see how they hate those who resist. and their cowardice here in italy is ludicrous. it is they who run away at the least intimation of danger,--it is they who invent all the "fe, fo, fum" stories about italy,--it is they who write to the times and elsewhere that they dare not for their lives stay in rome, where i, a woman, walk everywhere alone, and all the little children do the same, with their nurses. more of this anon. letter xxxii. progress of the tragedy.--pius ix. disavows liberalism.--oudinot, and the roman authorities.--shame of france.--devastation of the city.--courage of the people.--bombs extinguished.--a crisis approaching. rome, june , . it is now two weeks since the first attack of oudinot, and as yet we hear nothing decisive from paris. i know not yet what news may have come last night, but by the morning's mail we did not even receive notice that lesseps had arrived in paris. whether lesseps was consciously the servant of all these base intrigues, time will show. his conduct was boyish and foolish, if it was not treacherous. the only object seemed to be to create panic, to agitate, to take possession of rome somehow, though what to do with it, if they could get it, the french government would hardly know. pius ix., in his allocution of the th of april last, has explained himself fully. he has disavowed every liberal act which ever seemed to emanate from him, with the exception of the amnesty. he has shamelessly recalled his refusal to let austrian blood be shed, while roman flows daily at his request. he has implicitly declared that his future government, could he return, would be absolute despotism,--has dispelled the last lingering illusion of those still anxious to apologize for him as only a prisoner now in the hands of the cardinals and the king of naples. the last frail link is broken that bound to him the people of rome, and could the french restore him, they must frankly avow themselves, abandon entirely and fully the position they took in february, , and declare themselves the allies of austria and of russia. meanwhile they persevere in the jesuitical policy that has already disgraced and is to ruin them. after a week of vain assaults, oudinot sent to rome the following letter, which i translate, as well as the answers it elicited. letter of general oudinot, _intended for the roman constituent assembly, the triumvirate, the generalissimo, and the commander-in-chief of the national guard._ "general,--the events of war have, as you know, conducted the french army to the gates of rome. "should the entrance into the city remain closed against us, i should see myself constrained to employ immediately all the means of action that france has placed in my hands. "before having recourse to such terrible necessity, i think it my duty to make a last appeal to a people who cannot have toward france sentiments of hostility. "the roman army wishes, no doubt, equally with myself, to spare bloody ruin to the capital of the christian world. "with this conviction, i pray you, signore general, to give the enclosed proclamation the most speedy publicity. if, twelve hours after this despatch shall have been delivered to you, an answer corresponding to the honor and the intentions of france shall not have reached me, i shall be constrained to give the forcible attack. "accept, &c. "villa pamfili, june, , p.m." he was in fact at villa santucci, much farther out, but could not be content without falsifying his date as well as all his statements. "proclamation. "inhabitants of rome,--we did not come to bring you war. we came to sustain among you order, with liberty. the intentions of our government have been misunderstood. the labors of the siege have conducted us under your walls. till now we have wished only occasionally to answer the fire of your batteries. we approach these last moments, when the necessities of war burst out in terrible calamities. spare them to a city fall of so many glorious memories. "if you persist in repelling us, on you alone will fall the responsibility of irreparable disasters." the following are the answers of the various functionaries to whom this letter was sent:-- answer of the assembly. "general,--the roman constitutional assembly informs you, in reply to your despatch of yesterday, that, having concluded a convention from the st of may, , with m. de lesseps, minister plenipotentiary of the french republic, a convention which we confirmed soon after your protest, it must consider that convention obligatory for both parties, and indeed a safeguard of the rights of nations, until it has been ratified or declined by the government of france. therefore the assembly must regard as a violation of that convention every hostile act of the french army since the above-named st of may, and all others that shall take place before the resolution of your government can be made known, and before the expiration of the time agreed upon for the armistice. you demand, general, an answer correspondent to the intentions and power of france. nothing could be more conformable with the intentions and power of france than to cease a flagrant violation of the rights of nations. "whatever may be the results of such violation, the people of rome are not responsible for them. rome is strong in its right, and decided to maintain tire conventions which attach it to your nation; only it finds itself constrained by the necessity of self-defence to repel unjust aggressions. "accept, &c., for the assembly, "the president, galletti. "secretaries, fabretti, pannacchi, cocchi." "answer of the commander-in-chief of the national guard. "general,--the treaty, of which we await the ratification, assures this tranquil city from every disaster. "the national guard, destined to maintain order, has the duty of seconding the resolutions of the government; willingly and zealously it fulfils this duty, not caring for annoyance and fatigue. "the national guard showed very lately, when it escorted the prisoners sent back to you, its sympathy for france, but it shows also on every occasion a supreme regard for its own dignity, for the honor of rome. "any misfortune to the capital of the catholic world, to the monumental city, must be attributed not to the pacific citizens constrained to defend themselves, but solely to its aggressors. "accept, &c. "sturbinetti, _general of the national guard, representative of the people_". answer of the generalissimo. "citizen general,--a fatality leads to conflict between the armies of two republics, whom a better destiny would have invited to combat against their common enemy; for the enemies of the one cannot fail to be also enemies of the other. "we are not deceived, and shall combat by every means in our power whoever assails our institutions, for only the brave are worthy to stand before the french soldiers. "reflecting that there is a state of life worse than death, if the war you wage should put us in that state, it will be better to close our eyes for ever than to see the interminable oppressions of oar country. "i wish you well, and desire fraternity. "rosselli." answer of the triumvirate. "we have the honor to transmit to you the answer of the assembly. "we never break our promises. we have promised to defend, in execution of orders from the assembly and people of rome, the banner of the republic, the honor of the country, and the sanctity of the capital of the christian world; this promise we shall maintain. "accept, &c. "the triumvirs, armellini. mazzini. saffi." observe the miserable evasion of this missive of oudinot: "the fortune of war has conducted us." what war? he pretended to come as a friend, a protector; is enraged only because, after his deceits at civita vecchia, rome will not trust him within her walls. for this he daily sacrifices hundreds of lives. "the roman people cannot be hostile to the french?" no, indeed; they were not disposed to be so. they had been stirred to emulation by the example of france. they had warmly hoped in her as their true ally. it required all that oudinot has done to turn their faith to contempt and aversion. cowardly man! he knows now that he comes upon a city which wished to receive him only as a friend, and he cries, "with my cannon, with my bombs, i will compel you to let me betray you." the conduct of france--infamous enough before--looks tenfold blacker now that, while the so-called plenipotentiary is absent with the treaty to be ratified, her army daily assails rome,--assails in vain. after receiving these answers to his letter and proclamation, oudinot turned all the force of his cannonade to make a breach, and began, what no one, even in these days, has believed possible, the bombardment of rome. yes! the french, who pretend to be the advanced guard of civilization, are bombarding rome. they dare take the risk of destroying the richest bequests made to man by the great past. nay, they seem to do it in an especially barbarous manner. it was thought they would avoid, as much as possible, the hospitals for the wounded, marked to their view by the black banner, and the places where are the most precious monuments; but several bombs have fallen on the chief hospital, and the capitol evidently is especially aimed at. they made a breach in the wall, but it was immediately filled up with a barricade, and all the week they have been repulsed in every attempt they made to gain ground, though with considerable loss of life on our side; on theirs it must be great, but how great we cannot know. ponte molle, the scene of raphael's fresco of a battle, in the vatican, saw again a fierce struggle last friday. more than fifty were brought wounded into rome. but wounds and assaults only fire more and more the courage of her defenders. they feel the justice of their cause, and the peculiar iniquity of this aggression. in proportion as there seems little aid to be hoped from man, they seem to claim it from god. the noblest sentiments are heard from every lip, and, thus far, their acts amply correspond. on the eve of the bombardment one or two officers went round with a fine band. it played on the piazzas the marseillaise and roman marches; and when the people were thus assembled, they were told of the proclamation, and asked how they felt. many shouted loudly, _guerra! viva la republica romana!_ afterward, bands of young men went round singing the chorus, "vogliamo sempre quella, vogliamo liberta." ("we want always one thing; we want liberty.") guitars played, and some danced. when the bombs began to come, one of the trasteverini, those noble images of the old roman race, redeemed her claim to that descent by seizing a bomb and extinguishing the match. she received a medal and a reward in money. a soldier did the same thing at palazza spada, where is the statue of pompey, at whose base great cæsar fell. he was promoted. immediately the people were seized with emulation; armed with pans of wet clay, they ran wherever the bombs fell, to extinguish them. women collect the balls from the hostile cannon, and carry them to ours. as thus very little injury has been done to life, the people cry, "madonna protects us against the bombs; she wills not that rome should be destroyed." meanwhile many poor people are driven from their homes, and provisions are growing very dear. the heats are now terrible for us, and must be far more so for the french. it is said a vast number are ill of fever; indeed, it cannot be otherwise. oudinot himself has it, and perhaps this is one explanation of the mixture of violence and weakness in his actions. he must be deeply ashamed at the poor result of his bad acts,--that at the end of two weeks and so much bravado, he has done nothing to rome, unless intercept provisions, kill some of her brave youth, and injure churches, which should be sacred to him as to us. st. maria trastevere, that ancient church, so full of precious remains, and which had an air of mild repose more beautiful than almost any other, is said to have suffered particularly. as to the men who die, i share the impassioned sorrow of the triumvirs. "o frenchmen!" they wrote, "could you know what men you destroy! _they_ are no mercenaries, like those who fill your ranks, but the flower of the italian youth, and the noblest among the aged. when you shall know of what minds you have robbed the world, how ought you to repent and mourn!" this is especially true of the emigrant and garibaldi legions. the misfortunes of northern and southern italy, the conscription which compels to the service of tyranny those who remain, has driven from the kingdom of naples and from lombardy all the brave and noble youth. many are in venice or rome, the forlorn hope of italy. radetzky, every day more cruel, now impresses aged men and the fathers of large families. he carries them with him in chains, determined, if he cannot have good troops to send into hungary, at least to revenge himself on the unhappy lombards. many of these young men, students from pisa, pavia, padua, and the roman university, lie wounded in the hospitals, for naturally they rushed first to the combat. one kissed an arm which was cut off; another preserves pieces of bone which were painfully extracted from his wound, as relics of the best days of his life. the older men, many of whom have been saddened by exile and disappointment, less glowing, are not less resolved. a spirit burns noble as ever animated the most precious deeds we treasure from the heroic age. i suffer to see these temples of the soul thus broken, to see the fever-weary days and painful operations undergone by these noble men, these true priests of a higher hope; but i would not, for much, have missed seeing it all. the memory of it will console amid the spectacles of meanness, selfishness, and faithlessness which life may yet have in store for the pilgrim. june . matters verge to a crisis. the french government sustains oudinot and disclaims lesseps. harmonious throughout, shameless in falsehood, it seems oudinot knew that tire mission of lesseps was at an end, when he availed himself of his pacific promises to occupy monte mario. when the romans were anxious at seeing french troops move in that direction, lesseps said it was only done to occupy them, and conjured the romans to avoid all collision which might prevent his success with the treaty. the sham treaty was concluded on the th of may, a detachment of french having occupied monte mario on the night of the th. oudinot flies into a rage and refuses to sign; m. lesseps goes off to paris; meanwhile, the brave oudinot attacks on the d of june, after writing to the french consul that ire should not till the th, to leave time for the foreigners remaining to retire. he attacked in the night, possessing himself of villa pamfili, as he had of monte mario, by treachery and surprise. meanwhile, m. lesseps arrives in paris, to find himself seemingly or really in great disgrace with the would-be emperor and his cabinet. to give reason for this, m. drouyn de lhuys, who had publicly declared to the assembly that m. lesseps had no instructions except from the report of the sitting of the th of may, shamefully publishes a letter of special instructions, hemming him in on every side, which m. lesseps, the "plenipotentiary," dares not disown. what are we to think of a great nation, whose leading men are such barefaced liars? m. guizot finds his creed faithfully followed up. the liberal party in france does what it can to wash its hands of this offence, but it seems weak, and unlikely to render effectual service at this crisis. venice, rome, ancona, are the last strong-holds of hope, and they cannot stand for ever thus unsustained. night before last, a tremendous cannonade left no moment to sleep, even had the anxious hearts of mothers and wives been able to crave it. at morning a little detachment of french had entered by the breach of st. pancrazio, and intrenched itself in a vineyard. another has possession of villa poniatowski, close to the porta del popolo, and attacks and alarms are hourly to be expected. i long to see the final one, dreadful as that hour may be, since now there seems no hope from delay. men are daily slain, and this state of suspense is agonizing. in the evening 'tis pretty, though terrible, to see the bombs, fiery meteors, springing from the horizon line upon their bright path, to do their wicked message. 't would not be so bad, methinks, to die by one of these, as wait to have every drop of pure blood, every childlike radiant hope, drained and driven from the heart by the betrayals of nations and of individuals, till at last the sickened eyes refuse more to open to that light which shines daily on such pits of iniquity. letter xxxiii. siege of rome.--heat.--night attacks.--the bombardment.--the night breach.--defection.--entry of the french.--slaughter of the romans.--the hospitals.--destruction by bombs.--cessation of resistance.--oudinot's stubbornness.--garibaldi's troops.--their muster on the scene of rienzi's triumph.--garibaldi.--his departure.--"respectable" opinion.--the protectors unmasked.--cold reception.--a priest assassinated.--martial law declared.--republican education.--disappearance of french soldiers.--clearing the hospitals.--priestly baseness.--insult to the american consul.--his protest and departure.--disarming the national guard.--position of mr. cass.--petty oppression.--expulsion of foreigners.--effect of french presence.--address to the people.--visit to the scene of strife.--american sympathy for liberty in europe. rome, july , . if i mistake not, i closed my last letter just as the news arrived here that the attempt of the democratic party in france to resist the infamous proceedings of the government had failed, and thus rome, as far as human calculation went, had not a hope for her liberties left. an inland city cannot long sustain a siege when there is no hope of aid. then followed the news of the surrender of ancona, and rome found herself alone; for, though venice continued to hold out, all communication was cut off. the republican troops, almost to a man, left ancona, but a long march separated them from rome. the extreme heat of these days was far more fatal to the romans than to their assailants, for as fast as the french troops sickened, their place was taken by fresh arrivals. ours also not only sustained the exhausting service by day, but were harassed at night by attacks, feigned or real. these commonly began about eleven or twelve o'clock at night, just when all who meant to rest were fairly asleep. i can imagine the harassing effect upon the troops, from what i feel in my sheltered pavilion, in consequence of not knowing a quiet night's sleep for a month. the bombardment became constantly more serious. the house where i live was filled as early as the th with persons obliged to fly from the piazza di gesu, where the fiery rain fell thickest. the night of the st- d, we were all alarmed about two o'clock, a.m. by a tremendous cannonade. it was the moment when the breach was finally made by which the french entered. they rushed in, and i grieve to say, that, by the only instance of defection known in the course of the siege, those companies of the regiment union which had in charge a position on that point yielded to panic and abandoned it. the french immediately entered and intrenched themselves. that was the fatal hour for the city. every day afterward, though obstinately resisted, the enemy gained, till at last, their cannon being well placed, the city was entirely commanded from the janiculum, and all thought of further resistance was idle. it was true policy to avoid a street-fight, in which the italian, an unpractised soldier, but full of feeling and sustained from the houses, would have been a match even for their disciplined troops. after the d of june, the slaughter of the romans became every day more fearful. their defences were knocked down by the heavy cannon of the french, and, entirely exposed in their valorous onsets, great numbers perished on the spot. those who were brought into the hospitals were generally grievously wounded, very commonly subjects for amputation. my heart bled daily more and more at these sights, and i could not feel much for myself, though now the balls and bombs began to fall round me also. the night of the th the effect was truly fearful, as they whizzed and burst near me. as many as thirty fell upon or near the hotel de russie, where mr. cass has his temporary abode. the roof of the studio in the pavilion, tenanted by mr. stermer, well known to the visitors of rome for his highly-finished cabinet pictures, was torn to pieces. i sat alone in my much exposed apartment, thinking, "if one strikes me, i only hope it will kill me at once, and that god will transport my soul to some sphere where virtue and love are not tyrannized over by egotism and brute force, as in this." however, that night passed; the next, we had reason to expect a still more fiery salute toward the pincian, as here alone remained three or four pieces of cannon which could be used. but on the morning of the th, in a contest at the foot of the janiculum, the line, old papal troops, naturally not in earnest like the free corps, refused to fight against odds so terrible. the heroic marina fell, with hundreds of his devoted lombards. garibaldi saw his best officers perish, and himself went in the afternoon to say to the assembly that further resistance was unavailing. the assembly sent to oudinot, but he refused any conditions,--refused even to guarantee a safe departure to garibaldi, his brave foe. notwithstanding, a great number of men left the other regiments to follow the leader whose courage had captivated them, and whose superiority over difficulties commanded their entire confidence. toward the evening of monday, the d of july, it was known that the french were preparing to cross the river and take possession of all the city. i went into the corso with some friends; it was filled with citizens and military. the carriage was stopped by the crowd near the doria palace; the lancers of garibaldi galloped along in full career. i longed for sir walter scott to be on earth again, and see them; all are light, athletic, resolute figures, many of the forms of the finest manly beauty of the south, all sparkling with its genius and ennobled by the resolute spirit, ready to dare, to do, to die. we followed them to the piazza of st. john lateran. never have i seen a sight so beautiful, so romantic, and so sad. whoever knows rome knows the peculiar solemn grandeur of that piazza, scene of the first triumph of rienzi, and whence may be seen the magnificence of the "mother of all churches," the baptistery with its porphyry columns, the santa scala with its glittering mosaics of the early ages, the obelisk standing fairest of any of those most imposing monuments of rome, the view through the gates of the campagna, on that side so richly strewn with ruins. the sun was setting, the crescent moon rising, the flower of the italian youth were marshalling in that solemn place. they had been driven from every other spot where they had offered their hearts as bulwarks of italian independence; in this last strong-hold they had sacrificed hecatombs of their best and bravest in that cause; they must now go or remain prisoners and slaves. _where_ go, they knew not; for except distant hungary there is not now a spot which would receive them, or where they can act as honor commands. they had all put on the beautiful dress of the garibaldi legion, the tunic of bright red cloth, the greek cap, or else round hat with puritan plume. their long hair was blown back from resolute faces; all looked full of courage. they had counted the cost before they entered on this perilous struggle; they had weighed life and all its material advantages against liberty, and made their election; they turned not back, nor flinched, at this bitter crisis. i saw the wounded, all that could go, laden upon their baggage cars; some were already pale and fainting, still they wished to go. i saw many youths, born to rich inheritance, carrying in a handkerchief all their worldly goods. the women were ready; their eyes too were resolved, if sad. the wife of garibaldi followed him on horseback. he himself was distinguished by the white tunic; his look was entirely that of a hero of the middle ages,--his face still young, for the excitements of his life, though so many, have all been youthful, and there is no fatigue upon his brow or cheek. fall or stand, one sees in him a man engaged in the career for which he is adapted by nature. he went upon the parapet, and looked upon the road with a spy-glass, and, no obstruction being in sight, he turned his face for a moment back upon rome, then led the way through the gate. hard was the heart, stony and seared the eye, that had no tear for that moment. go, fated, gallant band! and if god care not indeed for men as for the sparrows, most of ye go forth to perish. and rome, anew the niobe! must she lose also these beautiful and brave, that promised her regeneration, and would have given it, but for the perfidy, the overpowering force, of the foreign intervention? i know that many "respectable" gentlemen would be surprised to hear me speak in this way. gentlemen who perform their "duties to society" by buying for themselves handsome clothes and furniture with the interest of their money, speak of garibaldi and his men as "brigands" and "vagabonds." such are they, doubtless, in the same sense as jesus, moses, and eneas were. to me, men who can throw so lightly aside the ease of wealth, the joys of affection, for the sake of what they deem honor, in whatsoever form, are the "respectable." no doubt there are in these bands a number of men of lawless minds, and who follow this banner only because there is for them no other path. but the greater part are the noble youths who have fled from the austrian conscription, or fly now from the renewal of the papal suffocation, darkened by french protection. as for the protectors, they entirely threw aside the mask, as it was always supposed they would, the moment they had possession of rome. i do not know whether they were really so bewildered by their priestly counsellors as to imagine they would be well received in a city which they had bombarded, and where twelve hundred men were lying wounded by their assault. to say nothing of the justice or injustice of the matter, it could not be supposed that the roman people, if it had any sense of dignity, would welcome them. i did not appear in the street, as i would not give any countenance to such a wrong; but an english lady, my friend, told me they seemed to look expectingly for the strong party of friends they had always pretended to have within the walls. the french officers looked up to the windows for ladies, and, she being the only one they saw, saluted her. she made no reply. they then passed into the corso. many were assembled, the softer romans being unable to control a curiosity the milanese would have disclaimed, but preserving an icy silence. in an evil hour, a foolish priest dared to break it by the cry of _viva pio nono!_ the populace, roused to fury, rushed on him with their knives. he was much wounded; one or two others were killed in the rush. the people howled then, and hissed at the french, who, advancing their bayonets, and clearing the way before them, fortified themselves in the piazzas. next day the french troops were marched to and fro through rome, to inspire awe in the people; but it has only created a disgust amounting to loathing, to see that, with such an imposing force, and in great part fresh, the french were not ashamed to use bombs also, and kill women and children in their beds. oudinot then, seeing the feeling of the people, and finding they pursued as a spy any man who so much as showed the way to his soldiers,--that the italians went out of the cafés if frenchmen entered,--in short, that the people regarded him and his followers in the same light as the austrians,--has declared martial law in rome; the press is stifled; everybody is to be in the house at half past nine o'clock in the evening, and whoever in any way insults his men, or puts any obstacle in their way, is to be shot. the fruits of all this will be the same as elsewhere; temporary repression will sow the seeds of perpetual resistance; and never was rome in so fair a way to be educated for a republican form of government as now. especially could nothing be more irritating to an italian population, in the month of july, than to drive them to their homes at half past nine. after the insupportable heat of the day, their only enjoyment and refreshment are found in evening walks, and chats together as they sit before their cafés, or in groups outside some friendly door. now they must hurry home when the drum beats at nine o'clock. they are forbidden to stand or sit in groups, and this by their bombarding _protector!_ comment is unnecessary. french soldiers are daily missing; of some it is known that they have been killed by the trasteverini for daring to make court to their women. of more than a hundred and fifty, it is only known that they cannot he found; and in two days of french "order" more acts of violence have been committed, than in two months under the triumvirate. the french have taken up their quarters in the court-yards of the quirinal and venetian palaces, which are full of the wounded, many of whom have been driven well-nigh mad, and their burning wounds exasperated, by the sound of the drums and trumpets,--the constant sense of an insulting presence. the wounded have been warned to leave the quirinal at the end of eight days, though there are many who cannot be moved from bed to bed without causing them great anguish and peril; nor is it known that any other place has been provided as a hospital for them. at the palazzo di venezia the french have searched for three emigrants whom they wished to imprison, even in the apartments where the wounded were lying, running their bayonets into the mattresses. they have taken for themselves beds given by the romans to the hospital,--not public property, but private gift. the hospital of santo spirito was a governmental establishment, and, in using a part of it for the wounded, its director had been retained, because he had the reputation of being honest and not illiberal. but as soon as the french entered, he, with true priestly baseness, sent away the women nurses, saying he had no longer money to pay them, transported the wounded into a miserable, airless basement, that had before been used as a granary, and appropriated the good apartments to the use of the french! july . the report of this morning is that the french yesterday violated the domicile of our consul, mr. brown, pretending to search for persons hidden there; that mr. brown, banner in one hand and sword in the other, repelled the assault, and fairly drove them down stairs; that then he made them an appropriate speech, though in a mixed language of english, french, and italian; that the crowd vehemently applauded mr. brown, who already was much liked for the warm sympathy he had shown the romans in their aspirations and their distresses; and that he then donned his uniform, and went to oudinot to make his protest. how this was received i know not, but understand mr. brown departed with his family yesterday evening. will america look as coldly on the insult to herself, as she has on the struggle of this injured people? to-day an edict is out to disarm the national guard. the generous "protectors" wish to take all the trouble upon themselves. rome is full of them; at every step are met groups in the uniform of france, with faces bronzed in the african war, and so stultified by a life without enthusiasm and without thought, that i do not believe napoleon would recognize them as french soldiers. the effect of their appearance compared with that of the italian free corps is that of body as compared with spirit. it is easy to see how they could be used to purposes so contrary to the legitimate policy of france, for they do not look more intellectual, more fitted to have opinions of their own, than the austrian soldiery. july . the plot thickens. the exact facts with regard to the invasion of mr. brown's house i have not been able to ascertain. i suppose they will be published, as oudinot has promised to satisfy mr. cass. i must add, in reference to what i wrote some time ago of the position of our envoy here, that the kind and sympathetic course of mr. cass toward the republicans in these troubles, his very gentlemanly and courteous bearing, have from the minds of most removed all unpleasant feelings. they see that his position was very peculiar,--sent to the papal government, finding here the republican, and just at that moment violently assailed. unless he had extraordinary powers, he naturally felt obliged to communicate further with our government before acknowledging this. i shall always regret, however, that he did not stand free to occupy the high position that belonged to the representative of the united states at that moment, and peculiarly because it was by a republic that the roman republic was betrayed. but, as i say, the plot thickens. yesterday three families were carried to prison because a boy crowed like a cock at the french soldiery from the windows of the house they occupied. another, because a man pursued took refuge in their court-yard. at the same time, the city being mostly disarmed, came the edict to take down the insignia of the republic, "emblems of anarchy." but worst of all they have done is an edict commanding all foreigners who had been in the service of the republican government to leave rome within twenty-four hours. this is the most infamous thing done yet, as it drives to desperation those who stayed because they had so many to go with and no place to go to, or because their relatives lie wounded here: no others wished to remain in rome under present circumstances. i am sick of breathing the same air with men capable of a part so utterly cruel and false. as soon as i can, i shall take refuge in the mountains, if it be possible to find an obscure nook unpervaded by these convulsions. let not my friends be surprised if they do not hear from me for some time. i may not feel like writing. i have seen too much sorrow, and, alas! without power to aid. it makes me sick to see the palaces and streets of rome full of these infamous foreigners, and to note the already changed aspect of her population. the men of rome had begun, filled with new hopes, to develop unknown energy,--they walked quick, their eyes sparkled, they delighted in duty, in responsibility; in a year of such life their effeminacy would have been vanquished. now, dejectedly, unemployed, they lounge along the streets, feeling that all the implements of labor, all the ensigns of hope, have been snatched from them. their hands fall slack, their eyes rove aimless, the beggars begin to swarm again, and the black ravens who delight in the night of ignorance, the slumber of sloth, as the only sureties for their rule, emerge daily more and more frequent from their hiding-places. the following address has been circulated from hand to hand. "to the people of rome. "misfortune, brothers, has fallen upon us anew. but it is trial of brief duration,--it is the stone of the sepulchre which we shall throw away after three days, rising victorious and renewed, an immortal nation. for with us are god and justice,--god and justice, who cannot die, but always triumph, while kings and popes, once dead, revive no more. "as you have been great in the combat, be so in the days of sorrow,--great in your conduct as citizens, by generous disdain, by sublime silence. silence is the weapon we have now to use against the cossacks of france and the priests, their masters. "in the streets do not look at them; do not answer if they address you. "in the cafés, in the eating-houses, if they enter, rise and go out. "let your windows remain closed as they pass. "never attend their feasts, their parades. "regard the harmony of their musical bands as tones of slavery, and, when you hear them, fly. "let the liberticide soldier be condemned to isolation; let him atone in solitude and contempt for having served priests and kings. "and you, roman women, masterpiece of god's work! deign no look, no smile, to those satellites of an abhorred pope! cursed be she who, before the odious satellites of austria, forgets that she is italian! her name shall be published for the execration of all her people! and even the courtesans! let them show love for their country, and thus regain the dignity of citizens! "and our word of order, our cry of reunion and emancipation, be now and ever, viva la republica! "this incessant cry, which not even french slaves can dispute, shall prepare us to administer the bequest of our martyrs, shall be consoling dew to the immaculate and holy bones that repose, sublime holocaust of faith and of love, near our walls, and make doubly divine the eternal city. in this cry we shall find ourselves always brothers, and we shall conquer. viva rome, the capital of italy! viva the italy of the people! viva the roman republic! "a roman. "rome, july , ." yes; july th, the day so joyously celebrated in our land, is that of the entrance of the french into rome! i know not whether the romans will follow out this programme with constancy, as the sterner milanese have done. if they can, it will draw upon them endless persecutions, countless exactions, but at once educate and prove them worthy of a nobler life. yesterday i went over the scene of conflict. it was fearful even to _see_ the casinos quattro venti and vascello, where the french and romans had been several days so near one another, all shattered to pieces, with fragments of rich stucco and painting still sticking to rafters between the great holes made by the cannonade, and think that men had stayed and fought in them when only a mass of ruins. the french, indeed, were entirely sheltered the last days; to my unpractised eyes, the extent and thoroughness of their works seemed miraculous, and gave me the first clear idea of the incompetency of the italians to resist organized armies. i saw their commanders had not even known enough of the art of war to understand how the french were conducting the siege. it is true, their resources were at any rate inadequate to resistance; only continual sorties would have arrested the progress of the foe, and to make them and man the wall their forces were inadequate. i was struck more than ever by the heroic valor of _our_ people,--let me so call them now as ever; for go where i may, a large part of my heart will ever remain in italy. i hope her children will always acknowledge me as a sister, though i drew not my first breath here. a contadini showed me where thirty-seven braves are buried beneath a heap of wall that fell upon them in the shock of one cannonade. a marble nymph, with broken arm, looked sadly that way from her sun-dried fountain; some roses were blooming still, some red oleanders, amid the ruin. the sun was casting its last light on the mountains on the tranquil, sad campagna, that sees one leaf more turned in the book of woe. this was in the vascello. i then entered the french ground, all mapped and hollowed like a honeycomb. a pair of skeleton legs protruded from a bank of one barricade; lower, a dog had scratched away its light covering of earth from the body of a man, and discovered it lying face upward all dressed; the dog stood gazing on it with an air of stupid amazement. i thought at that moment, recalling some letters received: "o men and women of america, spared these frightful sights, these sudden wrecks of every hope, what angel of heaven do you suppose has time to listen to your tales of morbid woe? if any find leisure to work for men to-day, think you not they have enough to do to care for the victims here?" i see you have meetings, where you speak of the italians, the hungarians. i pray you _do something_; let it not end in a mere cry of sentiment. that is better than to sneer at all that is liberal, like the english,--than to talk of the holy victims of patriotism as "anarchists" and "brigands"; but it is not enough. it ought not to content your consciences. do you owe no tithe to heaven for the privileges it has showered on you, for whose achievement so many here suffer and perish daily? deserve to retain them, by helping your fellow-men to acquire them. our government must abstain from interference, but private action is practicable, is due. for italy, it is in this moment too late; but all that helps hungary helps her also,--helps all who wish the freedom of men from an hereditary yoke now become intolerable. send money, send cheer,--acknowledge as the legitimate leaders and rulers those men who represent the people, who understand their wants, who are ready to die or to live for their good. kossuth i know not, but his people recognize him; manin i know not, but with what firm nobleness, what perserving virtue, he has acted for venice! mazzini i know, the man and his acts, great, pure, and constant,--a man to whom only the next age can do justice, as it reaps the harvest of the seed he has sown in this. friends, countrymen, and lovers of virtue, lovers of freedom, lovers of truth! be on the alert; rest not supine in your easier lives, but remember "mankind is one, and beats with one great heart." part iii. letters from abroad to friends at home. letters. from a letter to ---- ----. bellagio, lake of como, august, . you do not deceive yourself surely about religion, in so far as that there is a deep meaning in those pangs of our fate which, if we live by faith, will become our most precious possession. "live for thy faith and thou shalt yet behold it living," is with me, as it hath been, a maxim. wherever i turn, i see still the same dark clouds, with occasional gleams of light. in this europe how much suffocated life!--a sort of woe much less seen with us. i know many of the noble exiles, pining for their natural sphere; many of them seek in jesus the guide and friend, as you do. for me, it is my nature to wish to go straight to the creative spirit, and i can fully appreciate what you say of the need of our happiness depending on no human being. can you really have attained such wisdom? your letter seemed to me very modest and pure, and i trust in heaven all may be solid. i am everywhere well received, and high and low take pleasure in smoothing my path. i love much the italians. the lower classes have the vices induced by long subjection to tyranny; but also a winning sweetness, a ready and discriminating love for the beautiful, and a delicacy in the sympathies, the absence of which always made me sick in our own country. here, at least, one does not suffer from obtuseness or indifference. they take pleasure, too, in acts of kindness; they are bountiful, but it is useless to hope the least honor in affairs of business. i cannot persuade those who serve me, however attached, that they should not deceive me, and plunder me. they think that is part of their duty towards a foreigner. this is troublesome no less than disagreeable; it is absolutely necessary to be always on the watch against being cheated. * * * * * extract from a letter. one loses sight of all dabbling and pretension when seated at the feet of dead rome,--rome so grand and beautiful upon her bier. art is dead here; the few sparkles that sometimes break through the embers cannot make a flame; but the relics of the past are great enough, over-great; we should do nothing but sit, and weep, and worship. in rome, one has all the free feeling of the country; the city is so interwoven with vineyards and gardens, such delightful walks in the villas, such ceaseless music of the fountains, and from every high point the campagna and tiber seem so near. full of enchantment has been my summer, passed wholly among italians, in places where no foreigner goes, amid the snowy peaks, in the exquisite valleys of the abruzzi. i have seen a thousand landscapes, any one of which might employ the thoughts of the painter for years. not without reason the people dream that, at the death of a saint, columns of light are seen to hover on those mountains. they take, at sunset, the same rose-hues as the alps. the torrents are magnificent. i knew some noblemen, with baronial castles nestled in the hills and slopes, rich in the artistic treasures of centuries. they liked me, and showed me the hidden beauties of roman remains. * * * * * rome, april, . the gods themselves walk on earth, here in the italian spring. day after day of sunny weather lights up the flowery woods and arcadian glades. the fountains, hateful during the endless rains, charm again. at castle turano i found heaths, as large as our pear-trees, in full flower. such wealth of beauty is irresistible, but ah! the drama of my life is very strange: the ship plunges deeper as it rises higher. you would be amazed, could you know how different is my present phase of life from that in which you knew me; but you would love me no less; it is tire same planet that shows such different climes. * * * * * to her mother. rome, november , . i am again in rome, situated for the first time entirely to my mind. i have only one room, but large; and everything about the bed so gracefully and adroitly disposed that it makes a beautiful parlor,--and of course i pay much less. i have the sun all day, and an excellent chimney. it is very high, and has pure air and the most beautiful view all around imaginable. add, that i am with the dearest, delightful old couple one can imagine,--quick, prompt, and kind, sensible and contented. having no children, they like to regard me and the prussian sculptor, my neighbor, as such; yet are too delicate and too busy ever to intrude. in the attic dwells a priest, who insists on making my fire when antonia is away. to be sure, he pays himself for his trouble by asking a great many questions.... you cannot conceive the enchantment of this place. so much i suffered here last january and february, i thought myself a little weaned; but returning, my heart swelled even to tears with the cry of the poet, "o rome, _my_ country, city of the soul!" those have not lived who have not seen rome. warned, however, by the last winter, i dared not rent my lodgings for the year. i hope i am acclimated. i have been through what is called the grape-cure, much more charming, certainly, than the water-cure. at present i am very well, but, alas! because i have gone to bed early, and done very little. i do not know if i can maintain any labor. as to my life, i think it is not the will of heaven it should terminate very soon. i have had another strange escape. i had taken passage in the diligence to come to rome; two rivers were to be passed, the turano and the tiber, but passed by good bridges, and a road excellent when not broken unexpectedly by torrents from the mountains. the diligence sets out between three and four in the morning, long before light. the director sent me word that the marchioness crispoldi had taken for herself and family a coach extraordinary, which would start two hours later, and that i could have a place in that if i liked; so i accepted. the weather had been beautiful, but on the eve of the day fixed for my departure, the wind rose, and the rain fell in torrents. i observed that the river, which passed my window, was much swollen, and rushed with great violence. in the night i heard its voice still stronger, and felt glad i had not to set out in the dark. i rose at twilight and was expecting my carriage, and wondering at its delay, when i heard that the great diligence, several miles below, had been seized by a torrent; the horses were up to their necks in water, before any one dreamed of danger. the postilion called on all the saints, and threw himself into the water. tire door of the diligence could not be opened, and tire passengers forced themselves, one after another, into the cold water; it was dark too. had i been there, i had fared ill. a pair of strong men were ill after it, though all escaped with life. for several days there was no going to rome; but at last we set forth in two great diligences, with all the horses of the route. for many miles the mountains and ravines were covered with snow; i seemed to have returned to my own country and climate. few miles were passed before the conductor injured his leg under the wheel, and i had the pain of seeing him suffer all the way, while "blood of jesus!" and "souls in purgatory!" was the mildest beginning of an answer to the jeers of the postilions upon his paleness. we stopped at a miserable osteria, in whose cellar we found a magnificent relic of cyclopean architecture,--as indeed in italy one is paid at every step for discomfort and danger, by some precious subject of thought. we proceeded very slowly, and reached just at night a solitary little inn which marks the site of the ancient home of the sabine virgins, snatched away to become the mothers of rome. we were there saluted with, the news that the tiber also had overflowed its banks, and it was very doubtful if we could pass. but what else to do? there were no accommodations in the house for thirty people, or even for three; and to sleep in the carriages, in that wet air of the marshes, was a more certain danger than to attempt the passage. so we set forth; the moon, almost at the full, smiling sadly on the ancient grandeurs half draped in mist, and anon drawing over her face a thin white veil. as we approached the tiber, the towers and domes of rome could be seen, like a cloud lying low on the horizon. the road and the meadows, alike under water, jay between us and it, one sheet of silver. the horses entered; they behaved nobly. we proceeded, every moment uncertain if the water would not become deep; but the scene was beautiful, and i enjoyed it highly. i have never yet felt afraid, when really in the presence of danger, though sometimes in its apprehension. at last we entered the gate; the diligence stopping to be examined, i walked to the gate of villa ludovisi, and saw its rich shrubberies of myrtle, so pale and eloquent in the moonlight.... my dear friend, madame arconati, has shown me generous love; a contadina, whom i have known this summer, hardly less. every sunday she came in her holiday dress, a beautiful corset of red silk, richly embroidered, rich petticoat, nice shoes and stockings, and handsome coral necklace, on one arm an immense basket of grapes, on the other a pair of live chickens to be eaten by me for her sake ("_per amore mio_"), and wanted no present, no reward: it was, as she said, "for the honor and pleasure of her acquaintance." the old father of the family never met me but he took off his hat, and said, "madame, it is to me a consolation to see you." are there not sweet flowers of affection in life, glorious moments, great thoughts? why must they be so dearly paid for? many americans have shown me great and thoughtful kindness and none more so than william story and his wife. they are now in florence, but may return. i do not know whether i shall stay here or not: i shall be guided much by the state of my health. all is quieted now in rome. late at night the pope had to yield, but not till the door of his palace was half burned, and his confessor killed. this man, parma, provoked his fate by firing on the people from a window. it seems the pope never gave order to fire; his guard acted from a sudden impulse of their own. the new ministry chosen are little inclined to accept. it is almost impossible for any one to act, unless the pope is stripped of his temporal power, and the hour for that is not yet quite ripe; though they talk more and more of proclaiming the republic, and even of calling to rome my friend mazzini. if i came home at this moment, i should feel as if forced to leave my own house, my own people, and the hour which i had always longed for. if i do come in this way, all i can promise is to plague other people as little as possible. my own plans and desires will be postponed to another world. do not feel anxious about me. some higher power leads me through strange, dark, thorny paths, broken at times by glades opening down into prospects of sunny beauty, into which i am not permitted to enter. if god disposes for us, it is not for nothing. this i can say: my heart is in some respects better, it is kinder, and more humble. also, my mental acquisitions have certainly been great, however inadequate to my desires. * * * * * to her brother, k.f. fuller. rome, january , . my dear richard,--with my window open, looking out upon st. peter's, and the glorious italian sun pouring in, i was just thinking of you; i was just thinking how i wished you were here, that we might walk forth and talk together under the influence of these magnificent objects. i was thinking of the proclamation of the constitutional assembly here, a measure carried by courageous youth in the face of age, sustained by the prejudices of many years, the ignorance of the people, and all the wealth of the country; yet courageous youth faces not only these, but the most threatening aspect of foreign powers, and dares a future of blood and exile to achieve privileges which are our american common birthright. i thought of the great interests which may in our country be sustained without obstacle by every able man,--interests of humanity, interests of god. i thought of the new prospects of wealth opened to our countrymen by the acquisition of new mexico and california,--the vast prospects of our country every way, so that it is itself a vast blessing to be born an american; and i thought how impossible it is that one like you, of so strong and generous a nature, should, if he can but patiently persevere, be defrauded of a rich, manifold, powerful life. thursday eve, january . this has been a most beautiful day, and i have taken a long walk out of town. how much i should like sometimes to walk with you again! i went to the church of st. lorenzo, one of the most ancient in rome, rich in early mosaics, also with spoils from the temples, marbles, ancient sarcophagi with fine bassirilievi, and magnificent columns. there is a little of everything, but the medley is harmonized by the action of time, and the sensation induced is that of repose. it has the public cemetery, and there lie the bones of many poor; the rich and noble lie in lead coffins in the church vaults of rome, but st. lorenzo loved the poor. when his tormentors insisted on knowing where he had hid his riches,--"there," he said, pointing to the crowd of wretches who hovered near his bed, compelled to see the tyrants of the earth hew down the tree that had nourished and sheltered them. amid the crowd of inexpressive epitaphs, one touched me, erected by a son to his father. "he was," says the son, "an angel of prosperity, seeking our good in distant countries with unremitting toll and pain. we owe him all. for his death it is my only consolation that in life i never left his side." returning, i passed the pretorian camp, the campus salisetus, where vestals that had broken their vows were buried alive in the city whose founder was born from a similar event. such are the usual, the frightful inconsistencies of mankind. from my windows i see the barberini palace; in its chambers are the pictures of the cenci, and the galatea, so beautifully described by goethe; in the gardens are the remains of the tomb of servius tullius. yesterday as i went forth i saw the house where keats lived in rome, and where he died; i saw the casino of raphael. returning, i passed the villa where goethe lived when in rome: afterwards, the houses of claude and poussin. ah what human companionship here! how everything speaks! i live myself in the apartment described in andersen's "improvvisatore," which get you, and read a scene of the childhood of antonio. i have the room, i suppose, indicated as being occupied by the danish sculptor. * * * * * to the same. rome, march , . i take occasion to enclose this seal, as a little birthday present, for i think you will be twenty-five in may. i have used it a great deal; the design is graceful and expressive,--the stone of some little value. i live with the severest economy consistent with my health. i could not live for less anywhere. i have renounced much, have suffered more. i trust i shall not find it impossible to accomplish, at least one of my designs. this is, to see the end of the political struggle in italy, and write its history. i think it will come to its crisis within, this year. but to complete my work as i have begun, i must watch it to the end. this work, if i can accomplish it, will be a worthy chapter in the history of the world; and if written with the spirit which breathes through me, and with sufficient energy and calmness to execute well the details, would be what the motto on my ring indicates,--"_a possession for ever, for man_." it ought to be profitable to me pecuniarily; but in these respects fate runs so uniformly counter to me, that i dare not expect ever to be free from perplexity and uncongenial labor. still, these will never more be so hard to me, if i shall have done something good, which may survive my troubled existence. yet it would be like the rest, if by ill health, want of means, or being driven prematurely from the field of observation, this hope also should be blighted. i am prepared to have it so. only my efforts tend to the accomplishment of my object; and should they not be baffled, you will not see me before the summer of . meantime, let the future be what it may, i live as well as i can in the present. farewell, my dear richard; that you may lead a peaceful, aspiring, and generous life was ever, and must ever be, the prayer from the soul of your sister margaret. * * * * * undaunted rome. rome, may , . i write you from barricaded rome. the "mother of nations" is now at bay against them all. rome was suffering before. the misfortunes of other regions of italy, the defeat at novara, preconcerted in hope to strike the last blow at italian independence, the surrender and painful condition of genoa, the money-difficulties,--insuperable unless the government could secure confidence abroad as well as at home,--prevented her people from finding that foothold for which they were ready. the vacillations of france agitated them; still they could not seriously believe she would ever act the part she has. we must say france, because, though many honorable men have washed their hands of all share in the perfidy, the assembly voted funds to sustain the expedition to civita vecchia; and the nation, the army, have remained quiescent. no one was, no one could be, deceived as to the scope of this expedition. it was intended to restore the pope to the temporal sovereignty, from which the people, by the use of suffrage, had deposed him. no doubt the french, in case of success, proposed to temper the triumph of austria and naples, and stipulate for conditions that might soothe the romans and make their act less odious. they were probably deceived, also, by the representations of gaëta, and believed that a large party, which had been intimidated by the republicans, would declare in favor of the pope when they found themselves likely to be sustained. but this last pretext can in noway avail them. they landed at civita vecchia, and no one declared for the pope. they marched on rome. placards were affixed within the walls by hands unknown, calling upon the papal party to rise within the town. not a soul stirred. the french had no excuse left for pretending to believe that the present government was not entirely acceptable to the people. notwithstanding, they assail the gates; they fire upon st. peter's, and their balls pierce the vatican. they were repulsed, as they deserved, retired in quick and shameful defeat, as surely the brave french soldiery could not, if they had not been demoralized by the sense of what an infamous course they were pursuing. france, eager to destroy the last hope of italian emancipation,--france, the alguazil of austria, the soldiers of republican france, firing upon republican rome! if there be angel as well as demon powers that interfere in the affairs of men, those bullets could scarcely fail to be turned back against their own breasts. yet roman blood has flowed also; i saw how it stained the walls of the vatican gardens on the th of april--the first anniversary of the appearance of pius ix.'s too famous encyclic letter. shall he, shall any pope, ever again walk peacefully in these gardens? it seems impossible! the temporal sovereignty of the popes is virtually destroyed by their shameless, merciless measures taken to restore it. the spiritual dominion ultimately falls, too, into irrevocable ruin. what may be the issue at this moment, we cannot guess. the french have retired to civita vecchia, but whether to reëmbark or to await reinforcements, we know not. the neapolitan force has halted within a few miles of the walls; it is not large, and they are undoubtedly surprised at the discomfiture of the french. perhaps they wait for the austrians, but we do not yet hear that these have entered the romagna. meanwhile, rome is strongly barricaded, and, though she cannot stand always against a world in arms, she means at least to do so as long as possible. mazzini is at her head; she has now a guide "who understands his faith," and all there is of a noble spirit will show itself. we all feel very sad, because the idea of bombs, barbarously thrown in, and street-fights in rome, is peculiarly dreadful. apart from all the blood and anguish inevitable at such times, the glories of art may perish, and mankind be forever despoiled of the most beautiful inheritance. yet i would defend rome to the last moment. she must not be false to the higher hope that has dawned upon her. she must not fall back again into servility and corruption. and no one is willing. the interference of the french has roused the weakest to resistance. "from the austrians, from the neapolitans," they cried, "we expected this; but from the french--it is too infamous; it cannot be borne;" and they all ran to arms and fought nobly. the americans here are not in a pleasant situation. mr. cass, the chargé of the united states, stays here without recognizing the government. of course, he holds no position at the present moment that can enable him to act for us. beside, it gives us pain that our country, whose policy it justly is to avoid armed interference with the affairs of europe, should not use a moral influence. rome has, as we did, thrown off a government no longer tolerable; she has made use of the suffrage to form another; she stands on the same basis as ourselves. mr. rush did us great honor by his ready recognition of a principle as represented by the french provisional government; had mr. cass been empowered to do the same, our country would have acted nobly, and all that is most truly american in america would have spoken to sustain the sickened hopes of european democracy. but of this more when i write next. who knows what i may have to tell another week? * * * * * to her brother, r.b. fuller. rome, may , . i do not write to eugene yet, because around me is such excitement i cannot settle my mind enough to write a letter good for anything. the neapolitans have been driven back; but the french, seem to be amusing us with a pretence of treaties, while waiting for the austrians to come up. the austrians cannot, i suppose, be more than three days' march from us. i feel but little about myself. such thoughts are merged in indignation, and in the fears i have that rome may be bombarded. it seems incredible that any nation should be willing to incur the infamy of such an act,--an act that may rob posterity of a most precious part of its inheritance;--only so many incredible things have happened of late. i am with william story, his wife and uncle. very kind friends they have been in this strait. they are going away, so soon as they can find horses,--going into germany. i remain alone in the house, under our flag, almost the only american except the consul and ambassador. but mr. cass, the envoy, has offered to do anything for me, and i feel at liberty to call on him if i please. but enough of this. let us implore of fate another good meeting, full and free, whether long or short. love to dearest mother, arthur, ellen, lloyd. say to all, that, should any accident possible to these troubled times transfer me to another scene of existence, they need not regret it. there must be better worlds than this, where innocent blood is not ruthlessly shed, where treason does not so easily triumph, where the greatest and best are not crucified. i do not say this in apprehension, but in case of accident, you might be glad to keep this last word from your sister margaret. * * * * * to r.w. emerson. rome, june , . i received your letter amid the round of cannonade and musketry. it was a terrible battle fought here from the first to the last light of day. i could see all its progress from my balcony. the italians fought like lions. it is a truly heroic spirit that animates them. they make a stand here for honor and their rights, with little ground for hope that they can resist, now they are betrayed by france. since the th of april, i go almost daily to the hospitals, and though i have suffered, for i had no idea before how terrible gun-shot wounds and wound-fevers are, yet i have taken pleasure, and great pleasure, in being with the men. there is scarcely one who is not moved by a noble spirit. many, especially among the lombards, are the flower of the italian youth. when they begin to get better, i carry them books and flowers; they read, and we talk. the palace of the pope, on the quirinal, is now used for convalescents. in those beautiful gardens i walk with them, one with his sling, another with his crutch. the gardener plays off all his water-works for the defenders of the country, and gathers flowers for me, their friend. a day or two since, we sat in the pope's little pavilion, where he used to give private audience. the sun was going gloriously down over monte mario, where gleamed the white tents of the french light-horse among the trees. the cannonade was heard at intervals. two bright-eyed boys sat at our feet, and gathered up eagerly every word said by the heroes of the day. it was a beautiful hour, stolen from the midst of ruin and sorrow, and tales were told as full of grace and pathos as in the gardens of boccaccio, only in a very different spirit,--with noble hope for man, and reverence for woman. the young ladies of the family, very young girls, were filled with enthusiasm for the suffering, wounded patriots, and they wished to go to the hospital, to give their services. excepting the three superintendents, none but married ladies were permitted to serve there, but their services were accepted. their governess then wished to go too, and, as she could speak several languages, she was admitted to the rooms of the wounded soldiers, to interpret for them, as the nurses knew nothing but italian, and many of these poor men were suffering because they could not make their wishes known. some are french, some germans, many poles. indeed, i am afraid it is too true that there were comparatively few romans among them. this young lady passed several nights there. should i never return, and sometimes i despair of doing so, it seems so far off,--so difficult, i am caught in such a net of ties here,--if ever you know of my life here, i think you will only wonder at the constancy with which i have sustained myself,--the degree of profit to which, amid great difficulties, i have put the time,--at least in the way of observation. meanwhile, love me all you can. let me feel that, amid the fearful agitations of the world, there are pure hands, with healthful, even pulse, stretched out toward me, if i claim their grasp. i feel profoundly for mazzini. at moments i am tempted to say, "cursed with every granted prayer,"--so cunning is the demon. mazzini has become the inspiring soul of his people. he saw rome, to which all his hopes through life tended, for the first time as a roman citizen, and to become in a few days its ruler. he has animated, he sustains her to a glorious effort, which, if it fails this time, will not in the age. his country will be free. yet to me it would be so dreadful to cause all this bloodshed,--to dig the graves of such martyrs! then, rome is being destroyed; her glorious oaks,--her villas, haunts of sacred beauty, that seemed the possession of the world for ever,--the villa of raphael, the villa of albani, home of winckelmann and the best expression of the ideal of modern rome, and so many other sanctuaries of beauty,--all must perish, lest a foe should level his musket from their shelter. i could not, could not! i know not, dear friend, whether i shall ever get home across that great ocean, but here in rome i shall no longer wish to live. o rome, _my_ country! could i imagine that the triumph of what i held dear was to heap such desolation on thy head! speaking of the republic, you say, "do you not wish italy had a great man?" mazzini is a great man. in mind, a great, poetic statesman; in heart, a lover; in action, decisive and full of resource as cæsar. dearly i love mazzini. he came in, just as i had finished the first letter to you. his soft, radiant look makes melancholy music in my soul; it consecrates my present life, that, like the magdalen, i may, at the important hour, shed all the consecrated ointment on his head. there is one, mazzini, who understands thee well,--who knew thee no less when an object of popular fear than now of idolatry,--and who, if the pen be not held too feebly, will help posterity to know thee too! * * * * * to her sister, mrs. e.k. channing. rome, june , . as was eve, at first, i suppose every mother is delighted by the birth of a man-child. there is a hope that he will conquer more ill, and effect more good, than is expected from girls. this prejudice in favor of man does not seem to be destroyed by his shortcomings for ages. still, each mother hopes to find in hers an emanuel. i should like very much to see your children, but hardly realize i ever shall. the journey home seems so long, so difficult, so expensive. i should really like to lie down here, and sleep my way into another sphere of existence, if i could take with me one or two that love and need me, and was sure of a good haven for them on that other side. the world seems to go so strangely wrong! the bad side triumphs; the blood and tears of the generous flow in vain. i assist at many saddest scenes, and suffer for those whom i knew not before. those whom i knew and loved,--who, if they had triumphed, would have opened for me an easier, broader, higher-mounting road,--are everyday more and more involved in earthly ruin. eternity is with us, but there is much darkness and bitterness in this portion of it. a baleful star rose on my birth, and its hostility, i fear, will never be disarmed while i walk below. * * * * * to w.h. channing. july, . i cannot tell you what i endured in leaving rome, abandoning the wounded soldiers,--knowing that there is no provision made for them, when they rise from the beds where they have been thrown by a noble courage, and have suffered with a noble patience. some of the poorer men, who rise bereft even of the right arm,--one having lost both the right arm and the right leg,--i could have provided for with a small sum. could i have sold my hair, or blood from my arm, i would have done it. had any of the rich americans remained in rome, they would have given it to me; they helped nobly at first, in the service of the hospitals, when there was far less need; but they had all gone. what would i have given could i but have spoken to one of the lawrences, or the phillipses! they could and would have saved this misery. these poor men are left helpless in the power of a mean and vindictive foe. you felt so oppressed in the slave states; imagine what i felt at seeing all the noblest youth, all the genius of this dear land, again enslaved! * * * * * to her mother. florence, february , . dearest mother,--after receiving your letter of october, i answered immediately; but as richard mentions, in one dated december th, that you have not heard, i am afraid, by some post-office mistake, it went into the mail-bag of some sail-ship, instead of steamer, so you were very long without hearing. i regret it the more, as i wanted so much to respond fully to your letter,--so lovely, so generous, and which, of all your acts of love, was perhaps the one most needed by me, and which has touched me the most deeply. i gave you in that a flattering picture of our life. and those pleasant days lasted till the middle of december; but then came on a cold unknown to italy, and which has lasted ever since. as the apartments were not prepared for such weather, we suffered a good deal. besides, both ossoli and myself were taken ill at new-year's time, and were not quite well again, all january: now we are quite well. the weather begins to soften, though still cloudy, damp, and chilly, so that poor baby can go out very little; on that account he does not grow so fast, and gets troublesome by evening, as he tires of being shut up in two or three little rooms, where he has examined every object hundreds of times. he is always pointing to the door. he suffers much with chilblains, as do other children here; however, he is, with that exception, in the best health, and is a great part of the time very gay, laughing and dancing in the nurse-maid's arms, and trying to sing and drum, in imitation of the bands, which play a great deal in the piazza. nothing special has happened to me. the uninhabitableness of the rooms where i had expected to write, and the need of using our little dining-room, the only one in which is a stove, for dressing baby, taking care of him, eating, and receiving visits and messages, have prevented my writing for six or seven weeks past. in the evening, when baby went to bed, about eight, i began to have time, but was generally too tired to do anything but read. the four hours, however, from nine till one, beside the bright little fire, have been very pleasant. i have thought of you a great deal, remembering how you suffer from cold in the winter, and hope you are in a warm, comfortable house, have pleasant books to read, and some pleasant friends to see. one does not want many; only a few bright faces to look in now and then, and help thaw the ice with little rills of genial conversation. i have fewer of these than at rome,--but still several. * * * * * horace sumner, youngest son of father's friend, mr. charles p. sumner, lives near us, and comes every evening to read a little while with ossoli. he has solid good in his heart and mind. we have a true regard for him, and he has shown true and steadfast sympathy for us; when i am ill or in a hurry, he helps me like a brother. ossoli and sumner exchange some instruction in english and italian. * * * * * my sister's last letter from europe is full of solemnity, and evidences her clear conviction of the perils of the voyage across the treacherous ocean. it is a leave-taking, dearly cherished now by the mother to whom it was addressed, the kindred of whom she speaks, and by those other kindred,--those who in spirit felt near to and loved her. it is as follows:-- florence, may , . "dear mother,--i will believe i shall be welcome with my treasures,--my husband and child. for me, i long so much to see you! should anything hinder our meeting upon earth, think of your daughter, as one who always wished, at least, to do her duty, and who always cherished you, according as her mind opened to discover excellence. "give dear love, too, to my brothers; and first to my eldest, faithful friend, eugene; a sister's love to ellen; love to my kind good aunts, and to my dear cousin e. god bless them! "i hope we shall be able to pass some time together yet, in this world. but if god decrees otherwise,--here and hereafter, my dearest mother, "your loving child, "margaret." part iv. homeward voyage, and memorials. it seems proper that some account of the sad close of madame ossoli's earthly journeyings should be embodied in this volume recording her travels. but a brother's hand trembles even now and _cannot_ write it. noble, heroic, unselfish, _christian_ was that death, even as had been her life; but its outward circumstances were too painful for my pen to describe. nor needs it,--for a scene like that must have impressed itself indelibly on those who witnessed it, and accurate and vivid have been their narratives. the memoirs of my sister contain a most faithful description; but as they are accessible to all, and i trust will be read by all who have read this volume, i have chosen rather to give the accounts somewhat condensed which appeared in the new york tribune at the time of the calamity. the first is from the pen of bayard taylor, who visited the scene on the day succeeding the wreck, and describes the appearance of the shore and the remains of the vessel. this is followed by the narrative of mrs. hasty, wife of the captain, herself a participant in the scene, and so overwhelmed by grief at her husband's loss, and that of friends she had learned so much to value, that she has since faded from this life. a true and noble woman, her account deserves to be remembered. the third article is from the pen of horace greeley, my sister's ever-valued friend. several poems, suggested by this scene, written by those in the old world and new who loved and honored madame ossoli, are also inserted here. the respect they testify for the departed is soothing to the hearts of kindred, and to the many who love and cherish the memory of margaret fuller.--ed. letter of bayard taylor fire island, tuesday, july . to the editors of the tribune:-- i reached the house of mr. smith oakes, about one mile from the spot where the elizabeth was wrecked, at three o'clock this morning. the boat in which i set out last night from babylon, to cross the bay, was seven hours making the passage. on landing among the sand-hills, mr. oakes admitted me into his house, and gave me a place of rest for the remaining two or three hours of the night. this morning i visited the wreck, traversed the beach for some extent on both sides, and collected all the particulars that are now likely to be obtained, relative to the closing scenes of this terrible disaster. the sand is strewn for a distance of three or four miles with fragments of planks, spars, boxes, and the merchandise with which the vessel was laden. with the exception of a piece of her broadside, which floated to the shore intact, all the timbers have been so chopped and broken by the sea, that scarcely a stick of ten feet in length can be found. in front of the wreck these fragments are piled up along high-water mark to the height of several feet, while farther in among the sand-hills are scattered casks of almonds stove in, and their contents mixed with the sand, sacks of juniper-berries, oil-flasks, &c. about half the hull remains under water, not more than fifty yards from the shore. the spars and rigging belonging to the foremast, with part of the mast itself, are still attached to the ruins, surging over them at every swell. mr. jonathan smith, the agent of the underwriters, intended to have the surf-boat launched this morning, for the purpose of cutting away the rigging and ascertaining how the wreck lies; but the sea is still too high. from what i can learn, the loss of the elizabeth is mainly to be attributed to the inexperience of the mate, mr. h.p. bangs, who acted as captain after leaving gibraltar. by his own statement, he supposed he was somewhere between cape may and barnegat, on thursday evening. the vessel was consequently running northward, and struck head on. at the second thump, a hole was broken in her side, the seas poured through and over her, and she began going to pieces. this happened at ten minutes before four o'clock. the passengers were roused from their sleep by the shock, and hurried out of the cabin in their night-clothes, to take refuge on the forecastle, which was the least exposed part of the vessel. they succeeded with great difficulty; mrs. hasty, the widow of the late captain, fell into a hatchway, from which she was dragged by a sailor who seized her by the hair. the swells increased continually, and the danger of the vessel giving way induced several of the sailors to commit themselves to the waves. previous to this they divested themselves of their clothes, which they tied to pieces of plank and sent ashore. these were immediately seized upon by the beach pirates, and never afterward recovered. the carpenter cut loose some planks and spars, and upon one of these madame ossoli was advised to trust herself, the captain promising to go in advance, with her boy. she refused, saying that she had no wish to live without the child, and would not, at that hour, give the care of it to another. mrs. hasty then took hold of a plank, in company with the second mate, mr. davis, through whose assistance she landed safely, though terribly bruised by the floating timber. the captain clung to a hatch, and was washed ashore insensible, where he was resuscitated by the efforts of mr. oakes and several others, who were by this time collected on the beach. most of the men were entirely destitute of clothing, and some, who were exhausted and ready to let go their hold, were saved by the islanders, who went into the surf with lines about their waists, and caught them. the young italian girl, celesta pardena, who was bound for new york, where she had already lived in the family of henry peters gray, the artist, was at first greatly alarmed, and uttered the most piercing screams. by the exertions of the ossolis she was quieted, and apparently resigned to her fate. the passengers reconciled themselves to the idea of death. at the proposal of the marquis ossoli some time was spent in prayer, after which all sat down calmly to await the parting of the vessel. the marchioness ossoli was entreated by the sailors to leave the vessel, or at least to trust her child to them, but she steadily refused. early in the morning some men had been sent to the lighthouse for the life-boat which is kept there. although this is but two miles distant, the boat did not arrive till about one o'clock, by which time the gale had so increased, and the swells were so high and terrific, that it was impossible to make any use of it. a mortar was also brought for the purpose of firing a line over the vessel, to stretch a hawser between it and the shore. the mortar was stationed on the lee of a hillock, about a hundred and fifty rods from the wreck, that the powder might be kept dry. it was fired five times, but failed to carry a line more than half the necessary distance. just before the forecastle sunk, the remaining sailors determined to leave. the steward, with whom the child had always been a great favorite, took it, almost by main force, and plunged with it into the sea; neither reached the shore alive. the marquis ossoli was soon afterwards washed away, but his wife remained in ignorance of his fate. the cook, who was the last person that reached the shore alive, said that the last words he heard her speak were: "i see nothing but death before me,--i shall never reach the shore." it was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon, and after lingering for about ten hours, exposed to the mountainous surf that swept over the vessel, with the contemplation of death constantly forced upon her mind, she was finally overwhelmed as the foremast fell. it is supposed that her body and that of her husband are still buried under the ruins of the vessel. mr. horace sumner, who jumped overboard early in the morning, was never seen afterwards. the dead bodies that were washed on shore were terribly bruised and mangled. that of the young italian girl was enclosed in a rough box, and buried in the sand, together with those of the sailors. mrs. hasty had by this time found a place of shelter at mr. oakes's house, and at her request the body of the boy, angelo eugene ossoli, was carried thither, and kept for a day previous to interment. the sailors, who had all formed a strong attachment to him during the voyage, wept like children when they saw him. there was some difficulty in finding a coffin when the time of burial came, whereupon they took one of their chests, knocked out the tills, laid the body carefully inside, locked and nailed down the lid. he was buried in a little nook between two of the sand-hills, some distance from the sea. the same afternoon a trunk belonging to the marchioness ossoli came to shore, and was fortunately secured before the pirates had an opportunity of purloining it. mrs. hasty informs me that it contained several large packages of manuscripts, which she dried carefully by the fire. i have therefore a strong hope that the work on italy will be entirely recovered. in a pile of soaked papers near the door, i found files of the _democratie pacifique_ and _il nazionale_ of florence, as well as several of mazzini's pamphlets, which i have preserved. an attempt will probably be made to-morrow to reach the wreck with the surf-boat. judging from its position and the known depth of the water, i should think the recovery, not only of the bodies, if they are still remaining there, but also of powers's statue and the blocks of rough carrara, quite practicable, if there should be a sufficiency of still weather. there are about a hundred and fifty tons of marble under the ruins. the paintings, belonging to mr. aspinwall, which were washed ashore in boxes, and might have been saved had any one been on the spot to care for them, are for the most part utterly destroyed. those which were least injured by the sea-water were cut from the frames and carried off by the pirates; the frames were broken in pieces, and scattered along the beach. this morning i found several shreds of canvas, evidently more than a century old, half buried in the sand. all the silk, leghorn braid, hats, wool, oil, almonds, and other articles contained in the vessel, were carried off as soon as they came to land. on sunday there were nearly a thousand persons here, from all parts of the coast between rockaway and montauk, and more than half of them were engaged in secreting and carrying off everything that seemed to be of value. the two bodies found yesterday were those of sailors. all have now come to land but those of the ossolis and horace sumner. if not found in the wreck, they will be cast ashore to the westward of this, as the current has set in that direction since the gale. yours, &c. * * * * * the wreck of the elizabeth. from a conversation with mrs. hasty, widow of the captain of the ill-fated elizabeth, we gather the following particulars of her voyage and its melancholy termination. we have already stated that captain hasty was prostrated, eight days after leaving leghorn, by a disease which was regarded and treated as fever, but which ultimately exhibited itself as small-pox of the most malignant type. he died of it just as the vessel reached gibraltar, and his remains were committed to the deep. after a short detention in quarantine, the elizabeth resumed her voyage on the th ultimo, and was long baffled by adverse winds. two days from gibraltar, the terrible disease which had proved fatal to the captain attacked the child of the ossolis, a beautiful boy of two years, and for many days his recovery was regarded as hopeless. his eyes were completely closed for five days, his head deprived of all shape, and his whole person covered with pustules; yet, through the devoted attention of his parents and their friends, he survived, and at length gradually recovered. only a few scars and red spots remained on his face and body, and these were disappearing, to the great joy of his mother, who felt solicitous that his rare beauty should not be marred at his first meeting with those she loved, and especially her mother. at length, after a month of slow progress, the wind shifted, and blew strongly from the southwest for several days, sweeping them rapidly on their course, until, on thursday evening last, they knew that they were near the end of their voyage. their trunks were brought up and repacked, in anticipation of a speedy arrival in port. meantime, the breeze gradually swelled to a gale, which became decided about nine o'clock on that evening. but their ship was new and strong, and all retired to rest as usual. they were running west, and supposed themselves about sixty miles farther south than they actually were. by their reckoning, they would be just off the harbor of new york next morning. about half past two o'clock, mr. bangs, the mate in command, took soundings, and reported twenty-one fathoms. he said that depth insured their safety till daylight, and turned in again. of course, all was thick around the vessel, and the storm howling fiercely. one hour afterward, the ship struck with great violence, and in a moment was fast aground. she was a stout brig of tons, five years old, heavily laden with marble, &c., and drawing seventeen feet water. had she been light, she might have floated over the bar into twenty feet water, and all on board could have been saved. she struck rather sidewise than bows on, canted on her side and stuck fast, the mad waves making a clear sweep over her, pouring down into the cabin through the skylight, which was destroyed. one side of the cabin was immediately and permanently under water, the other frequently drenched. the passengers, who were all up in a moment, chose the most sheltered positions, and there remained, calm, earnest, and resigned to any fate, for a long three hours. no land was yet visible; they knew not where they were, but they knew that their chance of surviving was small indeed. when the coast was first visible through the driving storm in the gray light of morning, the sand-hills were mistaken for rocks, which made the prospect still more dismal. the young ossoli cried a little with discomfort and fright, but was soon hushed to sleep. our friend margaret had two life-preservers, but one of them proved unfit for use. all the boats had been smashed in pieces or torn away soon after the vessel struck; and it would have been madness to launch them in the dark, if it had been possible to launch them at all, with the waves charging over the wreck every moment. a sailor, soon after light, took madame ossoli's serviceable life-preserver and swam ashore with it, in quest of aid for those left on board, and arrived safe, but of course could not return his means of deliverance. by a.m. it became evident that the cabin must soon go to pieces, and indeed it was scarcely tenantable then. the crew were collected in the forecastle, which was stronger and less exposed, the vessel having settled by the stem, and the sailors had been repeatedly ordered to go aft and help the passengers forward, but the peril was so great that none obeyed. at length the second mate, davis, went himself, and accompanied the italian girl, celesta pardena, safely to the forecastle, though with great difficulty. madame ossoli went next, and had a narrow escape from being washed away, but got over. her child was placed in a bag tied around a sailor's neck, and thus carried safely. marquis ossoli and the rest followed, each convoyed by the mate or one of the sailors. all being collected in the forecastle, it was evident that their position was still most perilous, and that the ship could not much longer hold together. the women were urged to try first the experiment of taking each a plank and committing themselves to the waves. madame ossoli refused thus to be separated from her husband and child. she had from the first expressed a willingness to live or die with them, but not to live without them. mrs. hasty was the first to try the plank, and, though the struggle was for some time a doubtful one, did finally reach the shore, utterly exhausted. there was a strong current setting to the westward, so that, though the wreck lay but a quarter of a mile from the shore, she landed three fourths of a mile distant. no other woman, and no passenger, survives, though several of the crew came ashore after she did, in a similar manner. the last who came reports that the child had been washed away from the man who held it before the ship broke up, that ossoli had in like manner been washed from the foremast, to which he was clinging; but, in the horror of the moment, margaret never learned that those she so clung to had preceded her to the spirit land. those who remained of the crew had just persuaded her to trust herself to a plank, in the belief that ossoli and their child had already started for the shore, when just as she was stepping down, a great wave broke over the vessel and swept her into the boiling deep. she never rose again. the ship broke up soon after (about a.m. mrs. hasty says, instead of the later hour previously reported); but both mates and most of the crew got on one fragment or another. it was supposed that those of them who were drowned were struck by floating spars or planks, and thus stunned or disabled so as to preclude all chance of their rescue. we do not know at the time of this writing whether the manuscript of our friend's work on italy and her late struggles has been saved. we fear it has not been. one of her trunks is known to have been saved; but, though it contained a good many papers, mrs. hasty believes that this was not among them. the author had thrown her whole soul into this work, had enjoyed the fullest opportunities for observation, was herself a partaker in the gallant though unsuccessful struggle which has redeemed the name of rome from the long rust of sloth, servility, and cowardice, was the intimate friend and compatriot of the republican leaders, and better fitted than any one else to refute the calumnies and falsehoods with which their names have been blackened by the champions of aristocratic "order" throughout the civilized world. we cannot forego the hope that her work on italy has been saved, or will yet be recovered. * * * * * the following is a complete list of the persons lost by the wreck of the ship elizabeth:-- giovanni, marquis ossoli. margaret fuller ossoli. their child, eugene angelo ossoli. celesta pardena, of rome. horace sumner, of boston. george sanford, seaman (swede). henry westervelt, seaman (swede). george bates, steward. * * * * * death of margaret fuller. a great soul has passed from this mortal stage of being by the death of margaret fuller, by marriage marchioness ossoli, who, with her husband and child, mr. horace sumner of boston,[a] and others, was drowned in the wreck of the brig elizabeth from leghorn for this port, on the south shore of long island, near fire island, on friday afternoon last. no passenger survives to tell the story of that night of horrors, whose fury appalled many of our snugly sheltered citizens reposing securely in their beds. we can adequately realize what it must have been to voyagers approaching our coast from the old world, on vessels helplessly exposed to the rage of that wild southwestern gale, and seeing in the long and anxiously expected land of their youth and their love only an aggravation of their perils, a death-blow to their hopes, an assurance of their temporal doom! [footnote a: horace sumner, one of the victims of the lamentable wreck of the elizabeth, was the youngest son of the late hon. charles p. sumner, of boston, for many years sheriff of suffolk county, and the brother of george sumner, esq., the distinguished american writer, now resident at paris, and of hon. charles sumner of boston, who is well known for his legal and literary eminence throughout the country. he was about twenty-four years of age, and had been abroad for nearly a year, travelling in the south of europe for the benefit of his health. the past winter was spent by him chiefly in florence, where he was on terms of familiar intimacy with the marquis and marchioness ossoli, and was induced to take passage in the same vessel with them for his return to his native land. he was a young man of singular modesty of deportment, of an original turn of mind, and greatly endeared to his friends by the sweetness of his disposition and the purity of his character.] margaret fuller was the daughter of hon. timothy fuller, a lawyer of boston, but nearly all his life a resident of cambridge, and a representative of the middlessex district in congress from to . mr. fuller, upon his retirement from congress, purchased a farm at some distance from boston, and abandoned law for agriculture, soon after which he died. his widow and six children still survive. margaret, if we mistake not, was the first-born, and from a very early age evinced the possession of remarkable intellectual powers. her father regarded her with a proud admiration, and was from childhood her chief instructor, guide, companion, and friend. he committed the too common error of stimulating her intellect to an assiduity and persistency of effort which severely taxed and ultimately injured her physical powers.[a] at eight years of age he was accustomed to require of her the composition of a number of latin verses per day, while her studies in philosophy, history, general science, and current literature were in after years extensive and profound. after her father's death, she applied herself to teaching as a vocation, first in boston, then in providence, and afterward in boston again, where her "conversations" were for several seasons attended by classes of women, some of them married, and including many from the best families of the "american athens." [footnote a: i think this opinion somewhat erroneous, for reasons which i have already given in the edition recently published of woman in the nineteenth century. the reader is referred to page of that work, and also to page , where i believe my sister personified herself under the name of miranda, and stated clearly and justly the relation which, existed between her father and herself.--ed.] in the autumn of , she accepted an invitation to take part in the conduct of the tribune, with especial reference to the department of reviews and criticism on current literature, art, music, &c.; a position which she filled for nearly two years,--how eminently, our readers well know. her reviews of longfellow's poems, wesley's memoirs, poe's poems, bailey's "festus," douglas's life, &c. must yet be remembered by many. she had previously found "fit audience, though few," for a series of remarkable papers on "the great musicians," "lord herbert of cherbury," "woman," &c., &c., in "the dial," a quarterly of remarkable breadth and vigor, of which she was at first co-editor with ralph waldo emerson, but which was afterward edited by him only, though she continued a contributor to its pages. in , she accompanied some friends on a tour via niagara, detroit, and mackinac to chicago, and across the prairies of illinois, and her resulting volume, entitled "summer on the lakes," is one of the best works in this department ever issued from the american press. it was too good to be widely and instantly popular. her "woman in the nineteenth century"--an extension of her essay in the dial--was published by us early in , and a moderate edition sold. the next year, a selection from her "papers on literature and art" was issued by wiley and putnam, in two fair volumes of their "library of american books." we believe the original edition was nearly or quite exhausted, but a second has not been called for, while books nowise comparable to it for strength or worth have run through half a dozen editions.[a] these "papers" embody some of her best contributions to the dial, the tribune, and perhaps one or two which had not appeared in either. [footnote a: a second edition has since been published.--ed.] in the summer of , miss fuller accompanied the family of a devoted friend to europe, visiting england, scotland, france, and passing through italy to rome, where they spent the ensuing winter. she accompanied her friends next spring to the north of italy, and there stopped, spending most of the summer at florence, and returning at the approach of winter to rome, where she was soon after married to giovanni, marquis ossoli, who had made her acquaintance during her first winter in the eternal city. they have since resided in the roman states until the last summer, after the surrender of rome to the french army of assassins of liberty, when they deemed it expedient to migrate to florence, both having taken an active part in the republican movement which resulted so disastrously,--nay, of which the ultimate result is yet to be witnessed. thence in june they departed and set sail at leghorn for this port, in the philadelphia brig elizabeth, which was doomed to encounter a succession of disasters. they had not been many days at sea when the captain was prostrated by a disease which ultimately exhibited itself as confluent small-pox of the most malignant type, and terminated his life soon after they touched at gibraltar, after a sickness of intense agony and loathsome horror. the vessel was detained some days in quarantine by reason of this affliction, but finally set sail again on the th ultimo, just in season to bring her on our coast on the fearful night between thursday and friday last, when darkness, rain, and a terrific gale from the southwest (the most dangerous quarter possible), conspired to hurl her into the very jaws of destruction. it is said, but we know not how truly, that the mate in command since the captain's death mistook the fire island light for that on the highlands of neversink, and so fatally miscalculated his course; but it is hardly probable that any other than a first-class, fully manned ship could have worked off that coast under such a gale, blowing him directly toward the roaring breakers. she struck during the night, and before the next evening the elizabeth was a mass of drifting sticks and planks, while her passengers and part of her crew were buried in the boiling surges. alas that our gifted friend, and those nearest to and most loved by her, should have been among them! we trust a new, compact, and cheap edition or selection, of margaret fuller's writings will soon be given to the public, prefaced by a memoir. it were a shame to us if one so radiantly lofty in intellect, so devoted to human liberty and well-being, so ready to dare and to endure for the upraising of her sex and her race, should perish from among us, and leave no memento less imperfect and casual than those we now have. we trust the more immediate relatives of our departed friend will lose no time in selecting the fittest person to prepare a memoir, with a selection from her writings, for the press.[a] america has produced no woman who in mental endowments and acquirements has surpassed margaret fuller, and it will be a public misfortune if her thoughts are not promptly and acceptably embodied. [footnote a: the reader is aware that such a memoir has since been published, and that several of her works have been republished likewise. i trust soon to publish a volume of madame ossoli's miscellaneous writings.--ed.] * * * * * margaret fuller ossoli by c.p. cranch. o still, sweet summer days! o moonlight nights! after so drear a storm how can ye shine? o smiling world of many-hued delights, how canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine the accustomed wreaths of pleasure? how, o day, wakest thou so full of beauty? twilight deep, how diest thou so tranquilly away? and how, o night, bring'st thou the sphere of sleep? for she is gone from us,--gone, lost for ever,-- in the wild billows swallowed up and lost,-- gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor, just when we would have welcomed her the most. was it for this, o woman, true and pure! that life through shade and light had formed thy mind to feel, imagine, reason, and endure,-- to soar for truth, to labor for mankind? was it for this sad end thou didst bear thy part in deeds and words for struggling italy,-- devoting thy large mind and larger heart that rome in later days might yet be free? and, from that home driven out by tyranny, didst turn to see thy fatherland once more, bearing affection's dearest ties with thee; and as the vessel bore thee to our shore, and hope rose to fulfilment,--on the deck, when friends seemed almost beckoning unto thee: o god! the fearful storm,--the splitting wreck,-- the drowning billows of the dreary sea! o, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief! we who had known thee here,--had met thee there where rome threw golden light on every leaf life's volume turned in that enchanted air,-- o friend! how we recall the italian days amid the cæsar's ruined palace halls,-- the coliseum, and the frescoed blaze of proud st. peter's dome,--the sistine walls,-- the lone campagna and the village green,-- the vatican,--the music and dim light of gorgeous temples,--statues, pictures, seen with thee: those sunny days return so bright, now thou art gone! thou hast a fairer world than that bright clime. the dreams that filled thee here now find divine completion, and, unfurled thy spirit-wings, find out their own high sphere. farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one! we, who have known thee, know thou art not lost; the star that set in storms still shines upon the o'ershadowing cloud, and, when we sorrow most, in the blue spaces of god's firmament beams out with purer light than we have known. above the tempest and the wild lament of those who weep the radiance that is flown. * * * * * the death of margaret fuller ossoli. by mary c. ames. o italy! amid thy scenes of blood, she acted long a woman's noble part! soothing the dying of thy sons, proud rome! till thou wert bowed, o city of her heart! when thou hadst fallen, joy no longer flowed in the rich sunlight of thy heaven; and from thy glorious domes and shrines of art, no quickening impulse to her life was given. from the deep shadow of thy cypress hills, from the soft beauty of thy classic plains, the noble-hearted, with, her treasures, turned to the far land where freedom proudly reigns. after the rocking of long years of storms, her weary spirit looked and longed for rest; pictures of home, of loved and kindred forms, rose warm and life-like in her aching breast. but the wild ocean rolled before her home; and, listening long unto its fearful moan, she thought of myriads who had found their rest down in its caverns, silent, deep, and lone. then rose the prayer within her heart of hearts, with the dark phantoms of a coming grief, that "_nino_, ossoli, and i may go _together_;--that the anguish may be brief." the bark spread out her pennons proud and free, the sunbeams frolicked with the wanton waves; smiled through the long, long days the summer sea, and sung sweet requiems o'er her sunken graves. e'en then the shadow of the fearful king hung deep and darkening o'er the fated bark; suffering and death and anguish reigned, ere came hope's weary dove back to the longing ark. this was the morning to the night of woe; when the grim ocean, in his fiercest wrath, held fearful contest with the god of storms, who lashed the waves with death upon his path. o night of agony! o awful morn, that oped on such a scene thy sullen eyes! the shattered ship,--those wrecked and broken hearts, who only prayed, "_together let us die_." was this thy greeting longed for, margaret, in the high, noontide of thy lofty pride? the welcome sighed for, in thine hours of grief, when pride had fled and hope in thee had died? twelve hours' communion with the terror-king! no wandering hope to give the heart relief! and yet thy prayer was heard,--the cold waves wrapt those forms "together," and the woe was "brief." thus closed thy day in darkness and in tears; thus waned a life, alas! too full of pain; but o thou noble woman! thy brief life, though full of sorrows, was not lived in vain. no more a pilgrim o'er a weary waste, with light ineffable thy mind is crowned; heaven's richest lore is thine own heritage; all height is gained, thy "kingdom" now is found. * * * * * to the memory of margaret fuller. by e. oakes smith. we hailed thee, margaret, from the sea, we hailed thee o'er the wave, and little thought, in greeting thee, thy home would be a grave. we blest thee in thy laurel crown, and in the myrtle's sheen,-- rejoiced thy noble worth to own, still joy, our tears between. we hoped that many a happy year would bless thy coming feet; and thy bright fame grow brighter here, by fatherland made sweet. gone, gone! with all thy glorious thought,-- gone with thy waking life,-- with the green chaplet fame had wrought,-- the joy of mother, wife. oh! who shall dare thy harp to take, and pour upon the air the clear, calm music, that should wake the heart to love and prayer! the lip, all eloquent, is stilled and silent with its trust,-- the heart, with woman's greatness filled, must crumble to the dust: but from thy _great heart_ we will take new courage for the strife; from petty ills our bondage break, and labor with new life. wake up, in darkness though it be, to better truth and light; patient in toil, as we saw thee, in searching for the light; and mindless of the scorn it brings, for 't is in desert land that angels come with sheltering wings to lead us by the hand. courageous one! thou art not lost, though sleeping in the wave; upon its chainless billows tost, for thee is fitting grave. * * * * * sleep sweetly, gentle child.[a] [the only child of the marchioness ossoli, well known as margaret fuller, is buried in the valley cemetery, at manchester, n.h. there is always a vase of flowers placed near the grave, and a marble slab, with a cross and lily sculptured upon it, bears this inscription: "in memory of angelo eugene philip ossoli, who was born at rieti, in italy, th september, , and perished by shipwreck off fire island, with both his parents, giovanni angelo and margaret fuller ossoli, on the th of july, ."] sleep sweetly, gentle child! though to this sleep the cold winds rocked thee, on the ocean's breast, and strange, wild murmurs o'er the dark, blue deep were the last sounds that lulled thee to thy rest, and while the moaning waves above thee rolled, the hearts that loved thee best grew still and cold. sleep sweetly, gentle child! though the loved tone that twice twelve months had hushed thee to repose could give no answer to the tearful moan that faintly from thy sea-moss pillow rose. that night the arms that closely folded thee were the wet weeds that floated in the sea. sleep sweetly, gentle child! the cold, blue wave hath pitied the sad sighs the wild winds bore, and from the wreck it held _one_ treasure gave to the fond watchers weeping on the shore;-- now the sweet vale shall guard its precious trust, while mourning hearts weep o'er thy silent dust. sleep sweetly, gentle child! love's tears are shed upon the garlands of fair northern flowers that fond hearts strew above thy lowly bed, through all our summer's glad and pleasant hours: for thy sake, and for hers who sleeps beneath the wave, kind hands bring flowers to fade upon thy grave. sleep sweetly, gentle child! the warm wind sighs amid the dark pines through this quiet dell, and waves the light flower-shade that lies upon the white-leaved lily's sculptured bell;-- the "valley's" flowers are fair, the turf is green;-- sleep sweetly here, wept-for eugene! sleep sweetly, gentle child! this peaceful rest hath early given thee to a home above, safe from all sin and tears, for, ever blest to sing sweet praises of redeeming love.-- the love that took thee to that world of bliss ere thou hadst learned the sighs and griefs of this. juliet. laurel brook, n.h., september, . [footnote a: these lines are beautiful and full of sweet sympathy. the home of the mother and brother of margaret fuller being now removed from manchester to boston, the remains of the little child, too dear to remain distant from us, have been removed to mount auburn. the same marble slab is there with, its inscription, and the lines deserve insertion here.--ed.] * * * * * on the death of margaret fuller. by g.p.r. james. high hopes and bright thine early path bedecked, and aspirations beautiful though wild,-- a heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked, a dream that earth-things could be undefiled. but soon, around thee, grew a golden chain, that bound the woman to more human things, and taught with joy--and, it may be, with pain-- that there are limits e'en to spirit's wings. husband and child,--the loving and beloved,-- won, from the vast of thought, a mortal part, the impassioned wife and mother, yielding, proved mind has itself a master--in the heart. in distant lands enhaloed by, old fame thou found'st the only chain thy spirit knew, but captive ledst thy captors, from the shame of ancient freedom, to the pride of new. and loved hearts clung around thee on the deck, welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny skies: the wide horizon round thee had no speck,-- e'en doubt herself could see no cloud arise. thy loved ones clung around thee, when the sail o'er wide atlantic billows onward bore thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale pressed the glad bark toward thy native shore. the loved ones clung around thee still, when all was darkness, tempest, terror, and dismay,-- more closely clung around thee, when the pall of fate was falling o'er the mortal clay. with them to live,--with them, with them to die, sublime of human love intense and fine!-- was thy last prayer unto the deity; and it was granted thee by love divine. in the same billow,--in the same dark grave,-- mother, and child, and husband, find their rest. the dream is ended; and the solemn wave gives back the gifted to her country's breast. * * * * * on the death of marquis ossoli and his wife, margaret fuller. by walter savage landor. over his millions death has lawful power, but over thee, brave ossoli! none, none! after a long struggle, in a fight worthy of italy to youth restored, thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge of the atlantic; on its shore; in reach of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all precious on earth to thee,--a child, a wife! proud as thou wert of her, america is prouder, showing to her sons how high swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast. she would not leave behind her those she loved: such solitary safety might become others,--not her; not her who stood beside the pallet of the wounded, when the worst of france and perfidy assailed the walls of unsuspicious rome. rest, glorious soul, renowned for strength of genius, margaret! rest with the twain too dear! my words are few, and shortly none will hear my failing voice, but the same language with more full appeal shall hail thee. many are the sons of song whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains, worthy to sing of thee; the hour is come; take we our seats and let the dirge begin. * * * * * monument to the ossoli family. [from the new york tribune.] the family of margaret fuller ossoli have just erected to her memory, and that of her husband and child, a marble monument in mount auburn cemetery, in massachusetts. it is located on pyrola path, in a beautiful part of the grounds, and has near it some noble oaks, while the hand of affection has planted many a flower. the body of margaret fuller rests in the ocean, but her memory abides in many hearts. she needs no monumental stone, but human affection loves thus to do honor to the departed. the following is the inscription on the monument:-- erected in memory of margaret fuller ossoli, born in cambridge, mass., may , . by birth, a citizen of new england; by adoption, a citizen of rome; by genius, belonging to the world. in youth, an insatiate student, seeking the highest culture; in riper years, teacher, writer, critic of literature and art; in maturer age, companion and helper of many earnest reformers in america and europe. and in memory of her husband, giovanni angelo, marquis ossoli. he gave up rank, station, and home for the roman republic, and for his wife and child. and in memory of that child, angelo eugene philip ossoli, born in rieti, italy, sept. , , whose dust reposes at the foot of this stone. they passed from life together by shipwreck, july , . united in life by mutual love, labors, and trials, the merciful father took them together, and in death they were not divided. the end. transcriber's notes: punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. a list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. [illustration: greece, turkey, _part of_ russia & poland.] incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia and poland. by the author of "incidents of travel in egypt, arabia petrÆa, and the holy land." with a map and engravings. in two volumes. vol. ii. seventh edition. new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the southern district of new york. contents of the second volume. chapter i. page choice of a conveyance.--hiring a servant.--another american.--beginning of troubles.--a bivouac.--russian jews.--the steppes of russia.--a _traveller's_ story.--approach to chioff.--how to get rid of a servant.--history of chioff. chapter ii. a lucky encounter.--church of the catacombs.--a visit to the saints.--a tender parting.--pilgrims.--rough treatment.--a scene of starvation.--russian serfs.--devotion of the serfs.--approach to moscow. chapter iii. moscow.--a severe operation.--an exile by accident.--meeting with an emigré.--a civil stranger.--a spy.--the kremlin.--sepulchres of the czars.--the great bell.--the great gun.--precious relics. chapter iv. the drosky.--salle des nobles.--russian gaming.--gastronomy.--pedroski.--a sunday in moscow.--a gipsy belle.--tea drinking.--the emperor's garden.--retrospective. chapter v. getting a passport.--parting with the marquis.--the language of signs.--a loquacious traveller.--from moscow to st. petersburgh.--the wolga.--novogorod.--newski perspective.--an unfortunate mistake.--northern twilight. chapter vi. police requisites.--the russian capital.--equestrian statue of peter the great.--the alexandrian column.--architectural wonders.--the summer islands.--a perilous achievement.--origin of st. petersburgh.--tombs of dead monarchs.--origin of the russian navy. chapter vii. a carroty pole.--the winter palace.--importance of a hat.--an artificial mine.--remains of a huge monster.--peter the great's workshop.--the greek religion.--tomb of a hero.--a saint militant.--another love affair.--the hermitage.--the winter and summer gardens. chapter viii. an imperial fête.--nicolas of russia.--varied splendours.--a soliloquy.--house of peter the great.--a boatrace.--czarskoselo.--the amber chamber.--catharine ii.--the emperor alexander. chapter ix. the soldier's reward.--review of the russian army.--american cannibals.--palace of potemkin.--palace of the grand-duke michael.--equipments for travelling.--rough riding.--poland.--vitepsk.--napoleon in poland.--the disastrous retreat.--passage of the berezina. chapter x. travel by night.--a rencounter.--a traveller's message.--lithuania.--poverty of the country.--agricultural implements.--minsk.--polish jews.--a coin of freedom.--riding in a basket.--brezc.--the bug.--a searching operation.--women labourers.--warsaw. chapter xi. warsaw.--a polish doctor.--battle of grokow.--the outbreak.--the fatal issue.--present condition of poland.--polish exiles.--aspect of warsaw.--traits of the poles. chapter xii. religion of poland.--sunday in warsaw.--baptized jews.--palaces of the polish kings.--sobieski.--field of vola.--wreck of a warrior.--the poles in america.--a polish lady.--troubles of a passport.--departure from warsaw.--an official rachel.--a mysterious visiter. chapter xiii. friendly solicitude.--raddom.--symptoms of a difficulty.--a court of inquisition.--showing a proper spirit.--troubles thickening.--approaching the climax.--woman's influence.--the finale.--utility of the classics.--another latinist.--a lucky accident.--arrival at cracow. chapter xiv. cracow.--casimir the great.--kosciusko.--tombs of the polish kings.--a polish heroine.--last words of a king.--a hero in decay.--the salt-mines of cracow.--the descent.--the mines.--underground meditations.--the farewell. incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. chapter i. choice of a conveyance.--hiring a servant.--another american.--beginning of troubles.--a bivouac.--russian jews.--the steppes of russia.--a _traveller's_ story.--approach to chioff.--how to get rid of a servant.--history of chioff. i had before me a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a country more than half barbarous, and entirely destitute of all accommodation for travellers. southern russia was the scythia of darius, "savage from the remotest time." "all the way," says an old traveller, "i never came in a house, but lodged in the wilderness by the river side, and carried provisions by the way, for there be small succour in those parts;" and we were advised that a century had made but little change in the interior of the empire. there were no public conveyances, and we had our choice of three modes of travelling; first, by a jew's wagon, in which the traveller stretches out his bed, and is trundled along like a bale of goods, always with the same horses, and therefore, of necessity, making slow progress; secondly, the char de poste, a mere box of wood on four wheels, with straw in the bottom; very fast, but to be changed always with the posthorses; and, thirdly, posting with our own carriage. we did not hesitate long in choosing the last, and bought a carriage, fortunately a good one, a large calêche which an italian nobleman had had made for his own use in travelling on the continent, and which he now sold, not because he did not want it, but because he wanted money more. next we procured a podoroshni, under which, "by order of his majesty nicolas the first, autocrat of all the russias, from odessa to moscow and petersburgh, all the postoffices were commanded to give ---- and ----, with their servant, four horses with their drivers, at the price fixed by law." besides this, it was necessary to give security that we left no debts behind us; and if mr. ralli undertakes for all americans the same obligation he did for me, it may happen that his office of consul will be no sinecure. next, and this was no trifling matter, we got our passports arranged; the russian ambassador at constantinople, by-the-way, had given me a new passport in russian, and my companion, that he might travel with the advantages of rank and title, got himself made "noble" by an extra stroke of his consul's pen. the last thing was to engage a servant. we had plenty of applications, but, as very few talked any language we understood, we had not much choice, one, a german, a capital fellow, was exactly the man we wanted, only he could not speak a word of russian, which was the principal qualification we required in a servant. at length came a frenchman, with an unusual proportion of whiskers and mustaches, and one of the worst of the desperate emigrés whom the french revolution, or, rather, the restoration, sent roaming in foreign lands. he had naturally a most unprepossessing physiognomy, and this was heightened by a sabre-cut which had knocked out several of his teeth, and left a huge gash in his cheek and lip, and, moreover, made him speak very unintelligibly. when i asked him if he was a frenchman, he drew himself up with great dignity, and replied, "monsieur je suis _parisien_." his appearance was a gross libel upon the parisians; but, as we could get no one else, we took him upon little recommendation the day before our departure, and, during the same day, threatened half a dozen times to discharge him. the police regulation, obliging him to pay his debts before leaving odessa, he seemed to consider peculiarly hard; and, all the time he was with us, kept referring to his having been obliged to fritter away thirty or forty rubles before he could leave. we ought to have furnished ourselves with provisions for the whole road to moscow, and even cooking utensils; but we neglected it, and carried with us only tea and sugar, a tin teapot, two tin cups, two tin plates, two knives and forks, and some bologna sausages, trusting, like napoleon when he invaded russia, to make up the rest by foraging. before beginning our journey we had a foretaste of the difficulty of travelling in russia. we had ordered posthorses three times, and had sent for them morning and evening, and received for answer that there were none in. at the third disappointment, our own consul being out of town, my friend the spanish consul went with me to the director of the post, and found that during the time in which they had told us they had no horses, they had sent out more than a hundred. instead of taxing them with their rascality, he talked the matter over very politely, paid the price of the horses, gave them a bonus of ten rubles, and obtained a promise by all the saints in the russian calendar for daylight the next morning. the next morning at eight o'clock the horses came; four shaggy, wild-looking little animals, which no comb or brush had ever touched, harnessed with a collar and rope lines. they were tied in with rope traces, all abreast, two on each side the pole, and a postillion with a low wool cap, sheepskin coat and trousers, the woolly side next the skin, who would make an english whip stare, mounted the box. henri followed, and my companion and myself took our seats within. the day before we had a positive quarrel upon a point unnecessary here to mention, in which i thought and still think he acted wrong, and the dispute had run so high that i told him i regretted exceedingly having made arrangements for travelling with him, and proposed even then to part company; he objected, and as we had purchased a carriage jointly, and particularly as our passports were prepared, our podoroshni made out, and servant hired in our joint names, i was fain to go on; and in this inauspicious humour toward each other we set out for a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a wild and desolate country, among a half-civilized people, whose language we could not understand, and with a servant whom we distrusted and disliked. in spite of all this, however, i felt a high degree of excitement in starting for the capital of russia; and i will do my companion the justice to say that he had been always ready to receive my advances, and to do more than meet me half way, which i afterward learned was from an apprehension of the taunts of his companions, who, not satisfied with getting rid of him, had constantly told him that it was impossible for an englishman and an american to travel together, and that we would quarrel and fight the first day. i believe that i am enough of an american in my feelings, but such an idea had never entered my head; i met many englishmen, and with some formed a friendship which, i trust, will last through life; and among all i met, these two were the only _young_ men so far behind the spirit of the age as to harbour such a thought. i did meet one _old_ gentleman, who, though showing me personally the greatest kindness, could not forget the old grudge. but men cannot be driving their elbows into each other's ribs, comparing money accounts, and consulting upon the hundred little things that present themselves on such a journey, without getting upon at least sociable terms; and before night of the first day the feelings of my companion and myself had undergone a decided change. but to go back to odessa. at the barrier we found a large travelling-carriage stopping the way, in which was my friend mr. ralli, with his lady, on his way to nicolaif; part of his business there was to erect a monument to the memory of a deceased countryman. mr. munroe, son of a former postmaster in washington, is another instance of the success of american adventurers in russia. he went out to st. petersburgh with letters from the russian ambassador and others, and entered the army, the only road to distinction in russia. he accompanied the grand-duke constantine to poland, and was made one of his aiddecamps, and on the death of constantine was transferred to the staff of the emperor nicolas. at the time of the invasion of turkey by the egyptians under ibrahim pacha, mr. munroe held the rank of colonel in the army sent to the aid of the sultan. while the russians were encamped at the foot of the giant's mountain, he visited constantinople, and became acquainted with the american missionaries, who all spoke of him in the highest terms. he was a tall, well-made man, carried himself with a military air, and looked admirably well in the russian uniform. on the withdrawal of the russians from the black sea, mr. munroe was left in some important charge at nicolaif, where he died in the opening of a brilliant career. i heard of him all over russia, particularly from officers of the army; and being often asked if i knew him, regretted to be obliged to answer no. but, though personally unacquainted, as an american i was gratified with the name he had left behind him. to return again to our journey: a few rubles satisfied the officer at the barrier that we were carrying nothing prohibited out of the "free port" of odessa, and we started on a full run, to the great peril of our necks, and, to use the climax of a dutch proclamation, "what's more, of breaking our carriage." in less than an hour we brought up before the door of a posthouse. our wheels were smoking when we stopped. on our hind axle we carried a bucket of grease; half a dozen bipeds in sheepskin whipped off the wheels and greased them; four quadrupeds were tied into the carriage, another bête mounted the box, and we were off again at a full run. my companion undertook to keep a memorandum of expenses, and we put a certain sum in a purse and paid out of it till all was gone. this was a glorious beginning for a journey of two thousand miles. the country possessed little interest, being mostly level, and having but few villages. on the way we saw a natural phenomenon that is common enough in egypt and the east, where the country is level, and known by the name of _mirage_. at a distance it seemed a mere pond or lake, and a drove of cattle passing over it looked as if they were walking in the water. we rolled on rapidly all day, passed through balgarha, kodurseve, and pakra, timing every post and noting every village with a particularity which it would be tedious here to repeat, and at about eight in the evening dashed into the little town of vosnezeuski, one hundred and thirty versts from odessa. here we came to a dead stand. we had begun to entertain some apprehensions from the conduct of monsieur henri, who complained of the hardness of his seat, and asked if we did not intend to stop at night, recommending vosnezeuski as a place where we could sleep in the posthouse; we told him that we had no idea of stopping but to change horses, and should go on immediately. vosnezeuski lies on the river bog, and is the chief town of the cossacks of the bog. this river is navigable for large vessels one hundred and fifty versts; beyond this for three or four hundred versts it is full of cataracts. the cossacks of the bog are a warlike tribe, numbering from six to seven thousand, and living under the same military system with the cossacks of the don. but we fell into worse hands than the cossacks. the postmaster was a jew, and at first told us that he had no horses; then that he had no postillion, but would hire one if we would pay him a certain sum, about four times the amount fixed by law. we had been obliged before to pay a few extra rubles, but this was our first serious difficulty with the postmasters; and, in pursuance of the advice received at odessa, we talked loud, demanded the book which is nailed to the table in every posthouse for travellers to enter complaints in, and threatened the vengeance of count woronzow and every one else, up to the emperor; but the jew laughed in our faces; looked in our podoroshni, where we were described as simple travellers, without any of the formidable array of titles which procure respect in russia; told us we were no grand seigneurs, and that we must either pay the price or wait, as our betters had done before us. we found too soon, as we had been advised at odessa, that these fellows do not know such a character in society as a private gentleman; and if a man is not described in his podoroshni as a count, duke, or lord of some kind, or by some high-sounding military title, they think he is a merchant or manufacturer, or some other common fellow, and pay no regard to him. i relied somewhat upon my companion's having been made "noble," but now found that his consul had been rather chary of his honours, and, by the russian word used, had not put him up high enough to be of any use. we had a long wrangle with the jew, the result of which was, that we told him, probably in no very gentle phrase, that we would wait a month rather than submit to his extortion; and, drawing up the window of our carriage, prepared to pass the night at the door of the posthouse. one of our party was evidently well satisfied with this arrangement, and he was monsieur henri. we had hired him by the day to moscow, and, if we wanted him, to st. petersburgh, and very soon saw that he was perfectly content with the terms, and in no hurry to bring our journey to a close. from the moment of our arrival we suspected him of encouraging the postmaster in his efforts to detain us, and were so much fortified in this opinion by after circumstances, that, when he was about moving toward the house to pass the night within, we peremptorily ordered him to mount the box and sleep there; he refused, we insisted; and as this was the first day out and the first moment of actual collision, and it was all important to decide who should be master, we told him that, if he did not obey, we would discharge him on the spot, at the risk of being obliged to work our way back to odessa alone. and as he felt that, in that case, his debts would have been paid to no purpose, with a string of suppressed sacrés he took his place on the box. our carriage was very comfortable, well lined and stuffed, furnished with pockets and everything necessary for the road, and we expected to sleep in it; but, to tell the truth, we felt rather cheap as we woke during the night, and looked at the shut door of the posthouse, and thought of the jew sleeping away in utter contempt of us, and our only satisfaction was in hearing an occasional groan from henri. that worthy individual did not oversleep himself, nor did he suffer the jew to do so either. early in the morning, without a word on our part, the horses were brought out and harnessed to our vehicle, and the same man whom he professed to have hired expressly for us, and who, no doubt, was the regular postillion, mounted the box. the jew maintained his impudence to the last, coming round to my window, and then asking a few rubles as a douceur. good english would have been thrown away upon him, so i resented it by drawing up the window of the carriage and scowling at him through the glass. many of the postmasters along this road were jews; and i am compelled to say that they were always the greatest scoundrels we had to deal with; and this is placing them on very high ground, for their inferiors in rascality would be accounted masters in any other country. no men can bear a worse character than the russian jews, and i can truly say that i found them all they were represented to be. they are not allowed to come within the territory of old russia. peter the great refused their application to be permitted to approach nearer, smoothing his refusal by telling them that his russian subjects were greater jews than they were themselves. the sagacious old monarch, however, was wrong; for all the money business along the road is in their hands. they keep little taverns, where they sell vodka, a species of brandy, and wring from the peasant all his earnings, lending the money again to the seigneurs at exorbitant interest. many of them are rich, and though alike despised by rich and poor, by the seigneur and the serf, they are proud of exhibiting their wealth, particularly in the jewels and ornaments of their women. at savonka, a little village on the confines of old poland, where we were detained waiting for horses, i saw a young girl about sixteen, a polonese, sitting on the steps of a miserable little tavern, sewing together some ribands, with a headdress of brown cloth, ornamented with gold chains and pearls worth six hundred rubles, diamond earrings worth a hundred, and a necklace of ducats and other dutch gold pieces worth four hundred rubles; altogether, in our currency, worth perhaps two hundred and fifty dollars. here, too, while sitting with henri on the steps of the posthouse, i asked him in a friendly way how he could be such a rascal as to league with the postmaster to detain us at vosnezeuski, whereupon he went at once into french heroics, exclaiming, "monsieur, je suis vieux militaire--j'etais chasseur de napoleon--mon honneur," &c.; that he had never travelled before except with grand seigneurs, and then _in_ the carriage, more as compagnon de voyage than as a servant, and intimated that it was a great condescension to travel with us at all. we passed through several villages, so much alike and so uninteresting in appearance that i did not note even their names. as night approached we had great apprehensions that henri would contrive to make us stop again; but the recollection of his bed on the box served as a lesson, and we rolled on without interruption. at daylight we awoke, and found ourselves upon the wild steppes of russia, forming part of the immense plain which, beginning in northern germany, extends for hundreds of miles, having its surface occasionally diversified by ancient tumuli, and terminates at the long chain of the urals, which, rising like a wall, separates them from the equally vast plains of siberia. the whole of this immense plain was covered with a luxuriant pasture, but bare of trees like our prairie lands, mostly uncultivated, yet everywhere capable of producing the same wheat which now draws to the black sea the vessels of turkey, egypt, and italy, making russia the granary of the levant; and which, within the last year, we have seen brought six thousand miles to our own doors. our road over these steppes was in its natural state; that is to say, a mere track worn by caravans of wagons; there were no fences, and sometimes the route was marked at intervals by heaps of stones, intended as guides when the ground should be covered with snow. i had some anxiety about our carriage; the spokes of the wheels were all strengthened and secured by cords wound tightly around them, and interlaced so as to make a network; but the postillions were so perfectly reckless as to the fate of the carriage, that every crack went through me like a shot. the breaking of a wheel would have left us perfectly helpless in a desolate country, perhaps more than a hundred miles from any place where we could get it repaired. indeed, on the whole road to chioff there was not a single place where we could have any material injury repaired; and the remark of the old traveller is yet emphatically true, that "there be small succour in these parts." [illustration: tumuli on the steppes.] at about nine o'clock we whirled furiously into a little village, and stopped at the door of the posthouse. our wheels were smoking with the rapidity of their revolutions; henri dashed a bucket of water over them to keep them from burning, and half a dozen men whipped them off and greased them. indeed, greasing the wheels is necessary at every post, as otherwise the hubs become dry, so that there is actual danger of their taking fire; and there is a _traveller's_ story told (but i do not vouch for its truth) of a postillion, wagon, and passengers being all burned up on the road to moscow by the ignition of the wheels. the village, like all the others, was built of wood, plastered and whitewashed, with roofs of thatched straw, and the houses were much cleaner than i expected to find them. we got plenty of fresh milk; the bread, which to the traveller in those countries is emphatically the staff of life, we found good everywhere in russia, and at moscow the whitest i ever saw. henri was an enormous feeder, and, wherever we stopped, he disappeared for a moment, and came out with a loaf of bread in his hand and his mustache covered with the froth of quass, a russian small beer. he said he was not always so voracious, but his seat was so hard, and he was so roughly shaken, that eating did him no good. resuming our journey, we met no travellers. occasionally we passed large droves of cattle, but all the way from odessa the principal objects were long trains of wagons, fifty or sixty together, drawn by oxen, and transporting merchandise toward moscow or grain to the black sea. their approach was indicated at a great distance by immense clouds of dust, which gave us timely notice to let down our curtains and raise our glasses. the wagoners were short, ugly-looking fellows, with huge sandy mustaches and beards, black woolly caps, and sheepskin jackets, the wool side next the skin; perhaps, in many cases, transferred warm from the back of one animal to that of the other, where they remained till worn out or eaten up by vermin. they had among them blacksmiths and wheelwrights, and spare wheels, and hammer, and tools, and everything necessary for a journey of several hundred miles. half of them were generally asleep on the top of their loads, and they encamped at night in caravan style, arranging the wagons in a square, building a large fire, and sleeping around it. about midday we saw clouds gathering afar off in the horizon, and soon after the rain began to fall, and we could see it advancing rapidly over the immense level till it broke over our heads, and in a few moments passed off, leaving the ground smoking with exhalations. late in the afternoon we met the travelling equipage of a seigneur returning from moscow to his estate in the country. it consisted of four carriages, with six or eight horses each. the first was a large, stately, and cumbrous vehicle, padded and cushioned, in which, as we passed rapidly by, we caught a glimpse of a corpulent russian on the back seat, with his feet on the front, bolstered all around with pillows and cushions, almost burying every part of him but his face, and looking the very personification of luxurious indulgence; and yet probably, that man had been a soldier, and slept many a night on the bare ground, with no covering but his military cloak. next came another carriage, fitted out in the same luxurious style, with the seigneur's lady and a little girl; then another with nurses and children; then beds, baggage, cooking utensils, and servants, the latter hanging on everywhere about the vehicle, much in the same way with the pots and kettles. altogether, it was an equipment in caravan style, somewhat the same as for a journey in the desert, the traveller carrying with him provision and everything necessary for his comfort, as not expecting to procure anything on the road, nor to sleep under a roof during the whole journey. he stops when he pleases, and his servants prepare his meals, sometimes in the open air, but generally at the posthouse. we had constant difficulties with henri and the postmasters, but, except when detained for an hour or two by these petty tyrants, we rolled on all night, and in the morning again woke upon the same boundless plain. the posthouse was usually in a village, but sometimes stood alone, the only object to be seen on the great plain. before it was always a high square post, with black and white stripes, marking the number of versts from station to station; opposite to this henri dismounted, and presented the podoroshni or imperial order for horses. but the postmasters were high above the laws; every one of them seemed a little autocrat in his own right, holding his appointment rather to prey upon than to serve travellers; and the emperor's government would be but badly administered if his ukases and other high-sounding orders did not carry with them more weight than his podoroshni. the postmasters obeyed it when they pleased, and when they did not, made a new bargain. they always had an excuse; as, for instance, that they had no horses, or were keeping them in reserve for a courier or grand seigneur; but they listened to reason when enforced by rubles, and, as soon as a new bargain was made, half a dozen animals in sheepskin went out on the plain and drove up fifteen or twenty horses, small, rugged, and tough, with long and shaggy manes and tails, which no comb or brush had ever touched, and, diving among them promiscuously, caught four, put on rope headstalls, and tied them to our rope traces. the postillion mounted the box, and shouting and whipping his horses, and sometimes shutting his eyes, started from the post on a full gallop, carried us like the wind, ventre à terre, over the immense plain, sometimes without a rut or any visible mark to guide him, and brought us up all standing in front of the next post. a long delay and a short post, and this was the same over and over again during the whole journey. the time actually consumed in making progress was incredibly short, and i do not know a more beautiful way of getting over the ground than posting in russia with a man of high military rank, who can make the postmasters give him horses immediately on his arrival. as for us, after an infinite deal of vexation and at a ruinous expense, on the morning of the fourth day we were within one post of chioff. here we heard with great satisfaction that a diligence was advertised for moscow, and we determined at once to get rid of carriage, posting, and henri. we took our seats for the last time in the _calêche_ gave the postillion a double allowance of kopeks, and in half an hour saw at a great distance the venerable city of chioff, the ancient capital of russia. it stands at a great height, on the crest of an amphitheatre of hills, which rise abruptly in the middle of an immense plain, apparently thrown up by some wild freak of nature, at once curious, unique, and beautiful. the style of its architecture is admirably calculated to give effect to its peculiar position; and, after a dreary journey over the wild plains of the ukraine, it breaks upon the traveller with all the glittering and gorgeous splendour of an asiatic city. for many centuries it has been regarded as the jerusalem of the north, the sacred and holy city of the russians; and, long before reaching it, its numerous convents and churches, crowning the summit and hanging on the sides of the hill, with their quadrupled domes, and spires, and chains, and crosses, gilded with ducat gold and glittering in the sun, gave the whole city the appearance of golden splendour. the churches and monasteries have one large dome in the centre, with a spire surmounted by a cross, and several smaller domes around it, also with spires and crosses connected by pendant chains, and all gilded so purely that they never tarnish. we drove rapidly to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a long wooden paved road to the heart of the city. during the whole of our last post our interest had been divided between the venerable city and the rogue henri. my companion, who, by-the-way, spoke but little french disliked him from the first. we had long considered him in league with all the jews and postmasters on the road, and had determined under no circumstances to take him farther than chioff; but as we had hired him to moscow, the difficulty was how to get rid of him. he might take it into his head that, if we did not know when we had a good servant, he knew when he had good masters; but he was constantly grumbling about his seat, and calculated upon three or four days' rest at chioff. so, as soon as we drove up to the door of the hotel, we told him to order breakfast and posthorses. he turned round as if he had not fully comprehended us. we repeated the order, and for the first time since he had been with us he showed something like agility in dismounting; fairly threw himself from the box, swore he would not ride another verst that day for a thousand rubles, and discharged us on the spot. we afterward paid him to his entire satisfaction, indemnifying him for the money he had squandered in paying his debts at odessa, and found him more useful at chioff than he had been at any time on the road. indeed, we afterward learned what was rather ludicrous, viz., that he, our pilot and interpreter through the wilderness of russia, knew but little more of russian than we did ourselves. he could ask for posthorses and the ordinary necessaries of life, count money, &c., but could not support a connected conversation, nor speak nor understand a long sentence. this changed our suspicions of his honesty into admiration of his impudence; but, in the mean time, when he discharged us, we should have been rather destitute if it had not been for the servant of a russian traveller, who spoke french, and, taking our direction from him, we mounted a drosky and rode to the office of the diligence, which was situated in the podolsk or lower town, and at which we found ourselves particularly well received by the proprietor. he said that the attempt to run a diligence was discouraging; that he had advertised two weeks, and had not booked a single passenger; but, if he could get two, he was determined to try the experiment. we examined the vehicle, which was very large and convenient, and, satisfied that there was no danger of all the places being taken, we left him until we could make an effort to dispose of our carriage. relieved from all anxiety as to our future movements, we again mounted our drosky. ascending the hill, we passed the fountain where st. vladimir baptized the first russian converts; the spring is held sacred by the christians now, and a column bearing a cross is erected over it, to commemorate the pious act and the ancient sovereignty of chioff. the early history of this city is involved in some obscurity. its name is supposed to be derived from kiovi or kii, a sarmatian word signifying heights or mountains; and its inhabitants, a sarmatian tribe, were denominated kivi or mountaineers. it is known to have been a place of consequence in the fifth century, when the suevi, driven from their settlements on the danube, established themselves here and at novogorod. in the beginning of the tenth century it was the capital and most celebrated and opulent city in russia, or in that part of europe. boleslaus the terrible notched upon its "golden gate" his "miraculous sword," called by the monks "the sword of god," and the poles entered and plundered it of its riches. in the latter part of the same century the capital of russia again fell before the conquering arms of the poles. kiev was at that time the foster-child of constantinople and the eastern empire. the voluptuous greeks had stored it with all the luxuries of asia; the noble architecture of athens was festooned with the gaudy tapestry of lydia, and the rough metal of russian swords embossed with the polished gold of ophir and persia. boleslaus ii., shut up within the "golden gate" of this city of voluptuousness, quaffed the bowl of pleasure till its intoxicating draught degraded all the nobler energies of his nature. his army of warriors followed his example, and slept away month after month on the soft couches of kiev; and in the language of the historian, as if they had eaten of the fabled fruit of the lotos-tree, at length forgot that their houses were without masters, their wives without husbands, and their children without parents. but these tender relations were not in like manner oblivious; and, after seven years of absence, the poles were roused from their trance of pleasure by the tidings of a revolt among the women at home, who, tired of waiting their return, in revenge gave themselves up to the embraces of their slaves. burning under the disgrace, the poles hurried home to wreak their vengeance on wives and paramours; but they met at warsaw a bloody resistance; the women, maddened by despair, urged on their lovers, many of them fighting in person, and seeking out on the battle-field their faithless husbands: an awful warning to married men! for a long time kiev was the prey alternately of the poles, the lithuanians, and the tartars, until in it was finally ceded by the poles to russia. the city is composed of three distinct quarters; the old, with its polish fortifications, containing the palace of the emperor, and being the court end; the petcherk fortress, built by peter the great, with ditches and high ramparts, and an arsenal capable of containing eighty or a hundred thousand stand of arms; and the podolsk, or business part, situated at the foot of the hill on the banks of the dnieper. it contains thirty thousand inhabitants besides a large military garrison, partly of cossack troops, and one pretty good hotel; but no beds, and none of those soft couches which made the hardy poles sleep away their senses; and though a welcome resting-place for a traveller through the wild plains of russia, it does not now possess any such attraction as to put in peril the faith and duties of husbands. by its position secluded from intercourse with strangers, kiev is still thoroughly a russian city, retaining in full force its asiatic style of architecture; and the old russian, wedded to the manners and customs of his fathers, clings to it as a place which the hand of improvement has not yet reached; among other relics of the olden time, the long beard still flourishes with the same solemn dignity as in the days of peter the great. lying a hundred miles away from the direct road between moscow and the black sea, few european travellers visit it; and though several of them have done so since, perhaps i was the first american who ever passed through it. we passed the morning in riding round to the numerous convents and churches, among which is the church of st. sophia, the oldest in russia, and, if not an exact model of the great st. sophia of constantinople, at least of byzantine design; and toward evening went to the emperor's garden. this garden is more than a mile in length, bounded on one side by the high precipitous bank of the hill, undulating in its surface, and laid out like an english park, with lawn, gravel-walks, and trees; it contains houses of refreshment, arbours or summer-houses, and a summer theatre. at the foot of the hill flows the dnieper, the ancient borysthenes, on which, in former days the descendants of odin and ruric descended to plunder constantinople. two or three sloops were lying, as it were, asleep in the lower town, telling of a still interior country, and beyond was a boundless plain covered with a thick forest of trees. the view from this bank was unique and extraordinary, entirely different from anything i ever saw in natural scenery, and resembling more than anything else a boundless marine prospect. at the entrance of the garden is an open square or table of land overlooking the plain, where, every evening at seven o'clock, the military band plays. the garden is the fashionable promenade, the higher classes resorting to it in carriages and on horseback, and the common people on foot; the display of equipages was not very striking, although there is something stylish in the russian manner of driving four horses, the leaders with very long traces and a postillion; and soldiers and officers, with their splendid uniforms, caps, and plumes, added a brilliant effect. before the music began, all returned from the promenade or drive in the garden, and gathered in the square. it was a beautiful afternoon in june, and the assemblage was unusually large and brilliant; the carriages drew up in a line, the ladies let down the glasses, and the cavaliers dismounted, and talked and flirted with them just as in civilized countries. all chioff was there, and the peasant in his dirty sheepskin jacket, the shopkeeper with his long surtout and beard, the postillion on his horse, the coachman on his box, the dashing soldier, the haughty noble and supercilious lady, touched by the same chord, forgot their temporal distinctions, and listened to the swelling strains of the music till the last notes died away. the whole mass was then in motion, and in a few moments, except by a few stragglers, of whom i was one, the garden was deserted. at about ten o'clock i returned to my hotel. we had no beds, and slept in our cloaks on settees stuffed with straw and covered with leather. we had no coverlets; still, after four days and nights in a carriage, it was a luxury to have plenty of kicking room. chapter ii. a lucky encounter.--church of the catacombs.--a visit to the saints.--a tender parting.--pilgrims.--rough treatment.--a scene of starvation.--russian serfs.--devotion of the serfs.--approach to moscow. early in the morning, while i was standing in the yard of the hotel, chaffering with some jews about the sale of our carriage, an officer in a faded, threadbare uniform, with two or three ribands at his buttonhole and stars sparkling on his breast, came up, and, taking me by the hand, told me, in capital english, that he had just heard of the arrival of two english gentlemen, and had hurried down to see them; that he was a great admirer of the english, and happy to have an opportunity, in the interior of his own country, to show its hospitalities to the natives of the island queen. at the risk of losing the benefit of his attentions, i was obliged to disclaim my supposed english character, and to publish, in the heart of a grinding despotism, that i was a citizen of a free republic. nor did i suffer for my candour; for, by one of those strange vagaries which sometimes happen, we cannot tell how or why, this officer in the service of russia had long looked to america and her republican government as the perfection of an ideal system. he was in chioff only by accident. wounded in the last campaign against the turks, he had taken up his abode at ismail, where, upon his pension and a pittance of his own, he was able to live respectably as a poor officer. with no friends or connexions, and no society at ismail, his head seemed to have run principally upon two things, apparently having no connexion with each other, but intimately connected in his mind, viz., the british possessions in india and the united states of america; and the cord that bound them together was the wide diffusion of the english language by means of these powerful agents. he told me more than i ever knew of the constitution and government of the east india company, and their plan of operations; and, in regard to our own country, his knowledge was astonishing; he knew the names and character, and talked familiarly of all our principal men, from the time of washington to the present day; had read all our standard works, and was far more familiar with those of franklin, irving, &c., than i was; in short, he told me that he had read every american book, pamphlet, or paper he could lay his hands on; and so intimate was his knowledge of detail, that he mentioned chestnut-street by name as one of the principal streets in philadelphia. it may be supposed that i was not sorry to meet such a man in the heart of russia. he devoted himself to us, and seldom left us, except at night, until we left the city. after breakfast, accompanied by our new friend with as unpronounceable a name as the best in russia, we visited the catacombs of the petcherskoi monastery. i have before remarked that chioff is the holy city of the russians, and the crowds of pilgrims we met at every turn in the streets constantly reminded us that this was the great season of the pilgrimage. i was but imperfectly acquainted with the russian character, but in no one particular had i been so ignorant as in regard to their religious impressions. i had seen italian, greek, and turkish devotees, but the russian surpassed them all; and, though deriving their religion from strangers, they exceed the punctilious greeks themselves in the observance of its minutest forms. censurable, indeed, would he be considered who should pass, in city or in highway, the figure of the cross, the image of the virgin, or any of the numerous family of saints, without taking off his hat and making on his breast the sacred sign of the cross; and in a city like chioff, where every turn presents some new object claiming their worship, the eyes of our drosky boy were rapidly turning from one side to the other, and his hand was almost constantly in a quick mechanical motion. the church of the catacombs, or the cathedral of the assumption, attached to the monastery, stands a little out of the city, on the banks of the dnieper. it was founded in ten hundred and seventy-three, and has seven golden domes with golden spires, and chains connecting them. the dome of the belfry, which rises above the hill to the height of about three hundred feet, and above the dnieper to that of five hundred and eighty-six, is considered by the russians a chef d'oeuvre of architecture. it is adorned with doric and ionic columns and corinthian pilasters; the whole interior bears the venerable garb of antiquity, and is richly ornamented with gold, silver, and precious stones and paintings; indeed, it is altogether very far superior to any greek church i had then seen. in the immense catacombs under the monastery lie the unburied bodies of the russian saints, and year after year thousands and tens of thousands come from the wilds of siberia and the confines of tartary to kneel at their feet and pray. in one of the porches of the church we bought wax tapers, and, with a long procession of pilgrims, bareheaded and with lighted tapers in our hands, descended a long wooden staircase to the mouth of the catacomb. on each side along the staircase was ranged a line of kneeling devotees, of the same miserable description i had so often seen about the churches in italy and greece. entering the excavated passages of the catacombs, the roof of which was black from the smoke of candles, we saw on each side, in niches in the walls, and in open coffins, enveloped in wrappers of cloth and silk, ornamented with gold and silver, the bodies of the russian saints. these saints are persons who have led particularly pure and holy lives, and by reason thereof have ascended into heaven, where they are supposed to exercise an influence with the father and son; and their bodies are left unburied that their brethren may come to them for intercession, and, seeing their honours after death, study to imitate them in the purity of their lives. the bodies are laid in open coffins, with the stiffened hands so placed as to receive the kisses of pilgrims, and on their breasts are written their names, and sometimes a history of their virtuous actions. but we saw there other and worse things than these, monuments of wild and desperate fanaticism; for besides the bodies of saints who had died at god's appointed time, in one passage is a range of small windows, where men had with their own hands built themselves in with stones against the wall, leaving open only a small hole by which to receive their food; and died with the impious thought that they were doing their maker good service. these little windows close their dwelling and their tomb; and the devoted russian, while he kneels before them, believes that their unnatural death has purchased for them everlasting life, and place and power among the spirits of the blessed. we wandered a long time in this extraordinary burial-place, everywhere strewed with the kneeling figures of praying pilgrims. at every turn we saw hundreds from the farthest parts of the immense empire of russia; perhaps at that time more than three thousand were wandering in these sepulchral chambers. the last scene i shall never forget. more than a hundred were assembled in a little chapel, around which were arranged the bodies of men who had died in peculiar sanctity. all were kneeling on the rocky floor, an old priest, with a long white beard streaming down his breast, was in the midst of them, and all there, even to the little children, were listening with rapt attention, as if he were preaching to them matters of eternal moment. there was no hypocrisy or want of faith in that vast sepulchre; surrounded by their sainted dead, they were searching their way to everlasting life, and in all honesty believed that they saw the way before them. we ascended once more to the regions of upper air, and stopped a few moments in the courtyard of the monastery, where the beggar pilgrims were eating the hard bread distributed to them by the monks from the bounty of government. no man seemed more relieved than the major. he was a liberal in religion as well as in politics, but he crossed himself everywhere most devoutly, to avoid, as he said, offending the prejudices of his countrymen, though once he rather scandalized a group of pilgrims by cross-questioning a monk about a new saint, who seemed to be receiving more than a usual share of veneration, and who, he said, had been canonized since he was there last. but there is a time for all things, and nothing is more absolutely fixed by nature's laws than a time for dinner. almost at the first moment of our acquaintance the major had told me of an engraving representing a scene in _new-york_, which was to be found at a second or third rate hotel, and i proposed to him, in compliment to the honest publican who had the good taste to have such a picture in his house, to go there and dine. we went, and in a large room, something like a barroom in our hotels, saw on one of the walls, in a black wooden frame, a gaudy and flaring engraving representing the pulling down of the statue of george the second in the bowling green. the bowling green was associated with my earliest recollections. it had been my playground when a boy; hundreds of times i had climbed over its fence for my ball, and i was one of a band of boys who held on to it long after the corporation invaded our rights. captain cook mentions the effect produced upon his crew by finding at one of the savage islands he visited a silver spoon marked "london;" my feelings were, in a small way, of the same nature. the grouping of the picture was rude and grotesque, the ringleader being a long negro stripped to his trousers, and straining with all his might upon a rope, one end of which was fastened to the head of the statue, and the other tied around his own waist, his white teeth and the whites of his eyes being particularly conspicuous on a heavy ground of black. it was a poor specimen of art, but it was a home scene; we drew up our table opposite the picture, and here, in the very headquarters of despotism, i found a liberal spirit in an officer wearing the uniform of the autocrat, who pledged me in the toast, "success to liberty throughout the world." i had another occupation, which savoured more of home, and served to keep my faculties from rusting; and that was the sale of our carriage. we had made a calculation, and found that it would be cheaper, to say nothing of other advantages, to give it away, and take the diligence to moscow, than go on posting. we accordingly offered it for sale, and every time we returned to the house found a group of jews examining it. the poor thing found no favour in their eyes; they told us that we had been riding in it at peril of our lives; that we might be thankful it had not broken down on the road; and, in short, that it was worth nothing except for old iron, and for that it was worth forty-five rubles, or about _nine dollars_. we could not stand this. it had cost us one hundred and forty less than a week before, was cheap at that, and as good now as when we bought it. on the eve of departure, therefore, we offered it to our landlord for three days' board; but the old turk (he was a jew turned christian, and in his regenerated worse than his natural state) refused our offer, thinking that we would go away and leave it on his hands. but we resolved to burn it first; and while hesitating about offering it to our friend the major, he relieved us from all delicacy by telling us that he did not want it, and had no horses to put to it; to save us from imposition, he would willingly give us the full value, but he was not worth the money. he had, however, a piece of fifty rubles, or about ten dollars, in his pocket, and, if we would take that, he would keep the carriage as a souvenir. we gladly accepted his offer, and had the satisfaction of finding that we had grievously disappointed both the jews and our landlord. in the morning the proprietor of the diligence, learning that we had sold our vehicle, raised the price of places fifty rubles apiece; the major heard of it, and insisted upon our taking back the carriage, when the proprietor took another tone, talked of the expense of sending his huge vehicle with only two passengers, and we listened and assented. we started to accompany him, and just at the door of the hotel saw two runaway horses coming furiously down the street with a drosky, and an officer entangled and dragging on the ground. we picked him up and carried him into the hotel. he was a noble-looking man, who but a few minutes before had attracted my attention by his proud and manly bearing, now a miserable mangled object, his clothes torn, his plume soiled with mud, and his face covered with dust and blood, and, when we left, it was uncertain whether he would live or die. the major accompanied us to the office of the diligence, and our parting was rather tender; he rubbed his mustache on both my cheeks, wrote his name in my memorandum-book, and i gave him my address; he said that our visit had been an interlude relieving the dull monotony of his life; that we were going to new scenes, and would soon forget him, but he would not forget us. nor shall i forget him, although it is not probable that he and i will ever meet again. we took our seats in the diligence for moscow, and set off with an uncommon degree of satisfaction at having got rid of posting and of henri, and, with them, of all our troubles. we had nothing to do, no wrangling with postmasters, no cheating to undergo from jews, and were in that happy state which made the honest hibernian indifferent to an upset or a breakdown; that is to say, we were merely passengers. with great pomp and circumstance we drove through the principal streets, to advise the knickerbockers of chioff of the actual departure of the long-talked-of diligence, the conducteur sounding his trumpet, and the people stopping in the streets and running to the doors to see the extraordinary spectacle. we descended the long wooden road to the river, and crossed the dnieper on a bridge about half a mile long. on the opposite bank i turned for the last time to the sacred city, and i never saw anything more unique and strikingly beautiful than the high, commanding position of "this city on a hill," crowned with its golden cupolas and domes, that reflected the sun with dazzling brightness. for a short distance the country was rather undulating, but soon settled into the regular steppe. we rolled on all day without anything to annoy us or even to interest us, except processions of pilgrims on their way to chioff. they travelled on foot in bands of one or two hundred, men, women, and children, headed by a white-bearded monk, barefooted, and leaning on a staff. during the night i was roused by a loud chant, and, looking out, saw a group of more than a hundred pilgrims gathered round a fire, with an old monk in the midst of them, breaking the stillness of night with songs of devotion; and all the night long, as we rode swiftly by, i saw by the bright moonlight groups of forty, fifty, or a hundred lying by the roadside asleep under the trees. more than fifty thousand pilgrims that year visited the catacombs of kiev, coming from every part of the immense empire of russia, and many from kamschatka and the most distant region of siberia, performing the whole journey on foot, seldom sleeping under a roof, and living upon the precarious charity of the miserable peasants on the road. i have since seen the gathering of pilgrims at jerusalem, and the whole body moving together from the gates of the city to bathe in the jordan, and i have seen the great caravan of forty thousand true believers tracking their desolate way through the deserts of arabia to the tomb of the prophet at mecca; but i remember, as if they were before me now, the groups of russian pilgrims strewed along the road and sleeping under the pale moonlight, the bare earth their bed, the heavens their only covering. in the morning we stopped at a little town, where the posthouse had in front four corinthian columns supporting a balcony. inside, mats were placed against the broken windows, the walls were rough logs, the floor of mud, with pigs and children disputing its possession, and the master and mistress stood in special need of the purifying influence of a russian bath. we brought the teaurn out on the balcony, and had a cow brought up and milked in our presence. after breakfast we lighted our pipes and strolled up the street. at the upper end, an old man in a civil uniform hailed us from the opposite side, and crossed over to meet us; supposing him to be some dignitary disposed to show us the civilities of the town, we waited to receive him with all becoming respect; but, as he approached, were rather startled by the loud tone of his voice and the angry expression of his face, and more so when, as soon as within reach, he gave my pipe-stick a severe rap with his cane, which knocked it out of my mouth, broke the bowl, and scattered the contents on the ground. i picked up the stick, and should, perhaps, have laid it over his head but for his gray hairs; and my companion, seeing him tread out the sparks of fire, recollected that there was a severe penalty in russia against smoking in the streets. the houses are all of wood; whole villages and towns are often burned down at once, and probably the old man had begun by a civil intimation to that effect; but, indignant at my quietly smoking in his face, had used more summary measures. he was in a perfect fury; and calling at the top of his voice to a man up the street, the latter went off with such a suspicious looking-for-a-police-officer movement, that we hurried back to the diligence, which happened to be ready and waiting for us, and started from the town on a full run. that night, in a miserable posthouse in a miserable village, we found an old billiard-table. it seemed strangely out of place, and i had a great curiosity to know how it had found its way there; but it was twelve o'clock, and all were asleep but the postillion. i can give no account of the rest of the night's work. i had a large cushioned seat of the diligence to myself, certainly the softest bed i had yet had in russia; and when i put my feet out of the window, it was so comfortable that i felt myself in some danger of falling into luxurious habits. at daylight we arrived in a large village, the inhabitants of which were not yet stirring, and the streets were strewed with peasants, grim, yellow-bearded fellows, in sheepskin dresses and caps, lying on their backs asleep, each of them with a log of wood under his head for a pillow. i descended from the diligence, and found that the whole village consisted of a single street, with log-houses on each side, having their gable ends in front; the doors were all open, and i looked in and saw men and women with all their clothes on, pigs, sheep, and children strewed about the floor. [illustration: russian village.] in every house was the image of the panagia, or all holy virgin, or the picture of some tutelary saint, the face only visible, the rest covered with a tin frame, with a lamp or taper burning before it; and regularly as the serf rose he prostrated himself and made his orisons at this domestic shrine. about noon we passed the chateau and grounds of a seigneur; belonging to the chateau was a large church standing in a conspicuous situation, with a green dome, surmounted by the greek cross; and round it were the miserable and filthy habitations of his slaves. entering the village, we saw a spectacle of wretchedness and misery seldom surpassed even on the banks of the nile. the whole population was gathered in the streets, in a state of absolute starvation. the miserable serfs had not raised enough to supply themselves with food, and men of all ages, half-grown boys, and little children were prowling the streets or sitting in the doorways, ravenous with hunger, and waiting for the agent to come down from the chateau and distribute among them bread. i had found in russia many interesting subjects of comparison between that country and my own, but it was with deep humiliation i felt that the most odious feature in that despotic government found a parallel in ours. at this day, with the exception of russia, some of the west india islands, and the republic of the united states, every country in the civilized world can respond to the proud boast of the english common law, that the moment a slave sets foot on her soil he is free. i respect the feelings of others and their vested rights, and would be the last to suffer those feelings or those rights to be wantonly violated; but i do not hesitate to say that, abroad, slavery stands as a dark blot upon our national character. there it will not admit of any palliation; it stands in glaring contrast with the spirit of our free institutions; it belies our words and our hearts; and the american who would be most prompt to repel any calumny upon his country withers under this reproach, and writhes with mortification when the taunt is hurled at the otherwise stainless flag of the free republic. i was forcibly struck with a parallel between the white serfs of the north of europe and african bondsmen at home. the russian boor, generally wanting the comforts which are supplied to the negro on our best-ordered plantations, appeared to me to be not less degraded in intellect, character, and personal bearing. indeed, the marks of physical and personal degradation were so strong, that i was insensibly compelled to abandon certain theories not uncommon among my countrymen at home, in regard to the intrinsic superiority of the white race over all others. perhaps, too, this impression was aided by my having previously met with africans of intelligence and capacity, standing upon a footing of perfect equality as soldiers and officers in the greek army and the sultan's. the serfs of russia differ from slaves with us in the important particular that they belong to the soil, and cannot be sold except with the estate; they may change masters, but cannot be torn from their connexions or their birthplace. one sixth of the whole peasantry of russia, amounting to six or seven millions, belong to the crown, and inhabit the imperial demesne, and pay an annual tax. in particular districts, many have been enfranchised, and become burghers and merchants; and the liberal and enlightened policy of the present emperor is diffusing a more general system of melioration among these subjects of his vast empire. the rest of the serfs belong to the nobles, and are the absolute property and subject to the absolute control of their masters, as much as the cattle on their estates. some of the seigneurs possess from seventy to more than a hundred thousand; and their wealth depends upon the skill and management with which the labour of these serfs is employed. sometimes the seigneur sends the most intelligent to petersburgh or moscow to learn some handicraft, and then employs them on his own estates, hires them out, or allows them to exercise their trade on their own account on payment of an annual sum. and sometimes, too, he gives the serf a passport, under which he is protected all over russia, settles in a city, and engages in trade, and very often accumulates enough to ransom himself and his family. indeed, there are many instances of a serf's acquiring a large property, and even rising to eminence. but he is always subject to the control of his master; and i saw at moscow an old mongik who had acquired a very large fortune, but was still a slave. his master's price for his freedom had advanced with his growing wealth, and the poor serf, unable to bring himself to part with his hard earnings, was then rolling in wealth with a collar round his neck; struggling with the inborn spirit of freedom, and hesitating whether to die a beggar or a slave. the russian serf is obliged to work for his master but three days in the week; the other three he may work for himself on a portion of land assigned to him by law on his master's estate. he is never obliged to work on sunday, and every saint's day or fête day of the church is a holyday. this might be supposed to give him an opportunity of elevating his character and condition; but, wanting the spirit of a free agent, and feeling himself the absolute property of another, he labours grudgingly for his master, and for himself barely enough to supply the rudest necessaries of life and pay his tax to the seigneur. a few rise above their condition, but millions labour like beasts of burden, content with bread to put in their mouths, and never even thinking of freedom. a russian nobleman told me that he believed, if the serfs were all free, he could cultivate his estate to better advantage by hired labour; and i have no doubt a dozen connecticut men would cultivate more ground than a hundred russian serfs, allowing their usual non-working days and holydays. they have no interest in the soil, and the desolate and uncultivated wastes of russia show the truth of the judicious reflection of catharine ii., "that agriculture can never flourish in that nation where the husbandman possesses no property." it is from this great body of peasantry that russia recruits her immense standing army, or, in case of invasion, raises in a moment a vast body of soldiers. every person in russia entitled to hold land is known to the government, as well as the number of peasants on his estate; and, upon receiving notice of an imperial order to that effect, the numbers required by the levy are marched forthwith from every part of the empire to the places of rendezvous appointed. it might be asked, what have these men to fight for? they have no country, and are brought up on immense levels, wanting the rocks, rivers, and mountains that inspire local attachments. it is a singular fact, that, with the russian serf, there is always an unbounded love for him who stands at the head of the system of oppression under which they groan, the emperor, whom they regard as their protector against the oppression of their immediate masters; but to whatever cause it may be ascribed, whether inability to estimate the value of any change in their condition, or a feeling of actual love for the soil on which they were born, during the invasion of napoleon the serfs of russia presented a noble spectacle; and the spirit of devotion which animated the corps of ten thousand in the north extended to the utmost bounds of the empire. they received orders to march from st. petersburgh to meet the advance of the french army; the emperor reviewed them, and is said to have shed tears at their departure. arrived at the place appointed, witgenstein ordered them to fall back to a certain point, but they answered "no; the last promise we made the emperor our father was, that we would never fly before the enemy, and we keep our word." eight thousand of their number died on the spot; and the spirit which animated them fired the serfs throughout the whole empire. the scholar may sneer, but i defy him to point to a nobler page in grecian or roman history. i shall make amends for this long discussion by hurrying on to moscow. we rode hundreds of miles without meeting a hill; the country was bare of trees, and almost everywhere presenting the same appearance. we saw the first disk of the sun peeping out of the earth, watched it while soaring on its daily round, and, without a bush to obstruct the view, saw it sink below the horizon; and woke up at all times of night and saw the stars, "rolling like living cars of light for gods to journey by." the principal and only large towns on our road were orel and toula, the former containing a population of four or five thousand, and presenting an imposing display of churches and monasteries gaudily painted and with gilded domes; the houses were principally of wood, painted yellow. toula is the largest manufacturing town, and is called the sheffield of russia, being particularly celebrated for its cutlery. everywhere the diligence created a great sensation; the knowing ones said it would never do; but at orel one spirited individual said if we would wait three days for him he would go on with us. it can hardly seem credible, in our steamboat and railroad community, that a public conveyance could roll on for seven days and nights, through many villages and towns, toward the capital of an immense empire, and not take in a single way-passenger; but such was the fact; and on the morning of the seventh day, alone, as we started from chioff, we were approaching the burned and rebuilt capital of the czars, moscow with gilded cupolas, the holy moscow, the sanctified city, the jerusalem of russia, beloved of god, and dear to men. chapter iii. moscow.--a severe operation.--an exile by accident.--meeting with an emigré.--a civil stranger.--a spy.--the kremlin.--sepulchres of the czars.--the great bell.--the great gun.--precious relics. at daylight we arrived at the last post; and here, for the first time, we saw evidences of our approach to a great city. four or five travelling-carriages were waiting for horses, some of which had been waiting all night; but our diligence being a "public accommodation," we were preferred, and had the first that came in. we took our places for the last time in the diligence, and passed two or three fine chateaux, our curiosity and interest increasing as we approached, until, at about five versts from moscow, as we reached the summit of a gentle eminence, the whole city broke upon us at one view, situated in the midst of a great plain, and covering an extent of more than thirty versts. moscow is emphatically the city of churches, containing more than six hundred, many of which have five or six domes, with steeples, and spires, and crosses, gilded and connected together with golden chains like those of chioff. its convents, too, are almost innumerable, rivalling the churches in size and magnificence, and even to us, coming directly from the capital of the eastern empire, presenting a most striking and extraordinary appearance. as we passed the barrier, two of the most conspicuous objects on each side were the large greek convents, enclosed by high walls, with noble trees growing above them; and as we rode through the wide and showy streets, the first thing that struck me as strange, and, in this inhospitable climate (always associated in my mind with rude and wintry scenes), as singularly beautiful, was the profusion of plants and flowers, with the remarkable degree of taste and attention given to their cultivation. in greece and turkey i had seen the rarest plants and flowers literally "wasting their sweetness on the desert air;" while here, in the heart of an inhospitable country, every house had a courtyard or garden, and in front a light open portico or veranda, ornamented with plants, and shrubs, and flowers, forced into a glowing though unnatural beauty. the whole appearance of the city is asiatic; and as the exhibition of flowers in front of the better class of houses was almost universal, moscow seemed basking in the mild climate of southern asia, rioting in its brief period of vernal existence, and forgetting that, in a few weeks, a frost would come and cover their beauty with the dreary drapery of winter. at the office of the diligence my companion and myself separated. he went to a hotel kept by an english woman, with english company, and i believe, too, with english comfort, and i rode to the hotel germanica, an old and favourite stopping-place with the russian seigneurs when they come up from their estates in the country. having secured my room, i mounted a drosky and hurried to a bath. riding out to the suburbs, the drosky boy stopped at a large wooden building, pouring forth steam from every chink and crevice. at the entrance stood several half-naked men, one of whom led me to an apartment to undress, and then conducted me to another, in one end of which were a furnace and apparatus for generating steam. i was then familiar with the turkish bath, but the worst i had known was like the breath of the gentle south wind compared with the heat of this apartment. the operator stood me in the middle of the floor, opened the upper door of the stove, and dashed into it a bucketful of water, which sent forth volumes of steam like a thick fog into every part of the room, and then laid me down on a platform about three feet high and rubbed my body with a mop dipped in soap and hot water; then he raised me up, and deluged me with hot water, pouring several tubfuls on my head; then laid me down again, and scrubbed me with soap and water from my head to my heels, long enough, if the thing were possible, to make a blackamoor white; then gave me another sousing with hot water, and another scrubbing with pure water, and then conducted me up a flight of steps to a high platform, stretched me out on a bench within a few feet of the ceiling, and commenced whipping me with twigs of birch, with the leaves on them, dipped in hot water. it was hot as an oven where he laid me down on the bench; the vapour, which almost suffocated me below, ascended to the ceiling, and, finding no avenue of escape, gathered round my devoted body, fairly scalding and blistering me; and when i removed my hands from my face, i felt as if i had carried away my whole profile. i tried to hold out to the end, but i was burning, scorching, and consuming. in agony i cried out to my tormentor to let me up, but he did not understand me, or was loath to let me go, and kept thrashing me with the bunch of twigs until, perfectly desperate, i sprang off the bench, tumbled him over, and descended to the floor. snow, snow, a region of eternal snow seemed paradise; but my tormentor had not done with me; and, as i was hurrying to the door, he dashed over me a tub of cold water. i was so hot that it seemed to hiss as it touched me; he came at me with another, and at that moment i could imagine, what had always seemed a traveller's story, the high satisfaction and perfect safety with which the russian in mid winter rushes from his hot bath and rolls himself in the snow. the grim features of my tormentor relaxed as he saw the change that came over me. i withdrew to my dressing-room, dozed an hour on the settee, and went out a new man. in half an hour i stood in the palace of the czars, within the walls of the kremlin. toward evening i returned to my hotel. in all the large hotels in russia it is the custom for every man to dine in his own apartment. travelling alone, i always avoided this when i could, as, besides my dislike of the thing itself, it prevented my making acquaintances and acquiring such information as i needed in a strange city; and i was particularly averse to dine alone the first day of my arrival at moscow; but it was the etiquette of the house to do so, and as i had a letter of introduction which i intended to deliver, from count woronzow to prince galitzin, the governor of moscow, i was bound to make some sacrifice for the credit of my acquaintance. after the table was spread, however, finding it too severe a trial, i went down stairs and invited myself to dine with my landlord. he was a german of about fifty-five or sixty, tall, stout, with gray hair, a frank, manly expression, and great respectability of appearance and manners; and before the dinner was over i regarded him emphatically as what a frenchman would call _un brave homme_. he had been in russia during the whole of the french invasion, and, among the other incidents of a stirring life, had been sent in exile to siberia; and the curious part of it was, that he was sent there by mistake. rather an awkward mistake, though, as he said, not so bad as being knouted or hanged by mistake; and in his case it turned out a rather interesting adventure. he was taken by the french as a russian spy, and retaken by the russians as a french spy, when, as he said, he did not care a fig for either of them. he was hurried off to siberia, but on the journey succeeded in convincing the officer who escorted the prisoners that there was error in the case, and on his arrival was merely detained in exile, without being put to hard labour, until, through the medium of friends, he had the matter brought before the proper tribunal, and the mistake corrected, when he came back post, in company with a russian officer, smoking his pipe all the way, at the expense of the government. he gave me many interesting particulars in regard to that celebrated country, its mines, the sufferings of the noble exiles; and much also, that was new to me, touching its populousness and wealth, and the comfort and luxury of a residence there. he spoke of tobolsk as a large, gay, and populous city, containing hotels, theatres, and all kinds of places of amusement. the exiles, being many of them of rank, have introduced there all the luxuries of the capital, and life at tobolsk is much the same as life at moscow. as the rage for travelling is excited by hearing from the lips of a traveller stories of the countries he has visited, before dinner was over i found myself infected with a strong disposition for a journey to siberia. small matters, however, produce great changes in the current of a man's feelings, and in a few moments i had entirely forgotten siberia, and was carried directly home. while we were smoking our pipes, an old gentleman entered, of singularly aristocratic appearance, whom my host received with the greatest consideration and respect, addressing him as the marquis de p----. he was a frenchman, an old militaire, and a noble specimen of a race almost extinct; tall, thin, and gray-headed, wearing a double-breasted blue frockcoat, buttoned up to the throat, with a cane in his hand and a red riband in his buttonhole, the decoration of the knights of malta; and when my host introduced me as an american traveller arrived that day in moscow, he welcomed me with more than the usual forms of courtesy, and told me that, far off as it was, and little as he knew of it, he almost regarded america as his own country; that, on the downfall of "the emperor," and in a season of universal scattering, some of his nearest relatives, particularly a sister married to a fellow-soldier and his dearest friend, had taken refuge on the other side of the atlantic; that, eighteen years before, he had met an american secretary of legation who knew them, but since that time he had not heard from them, and did not know whether they were living or dead. i asked him the name, with very little expectation of being able to give him any information about them; and it was with no small degree of pleasure that i found i was particularly acquainted with the condition of his relatives. his brother-in-law and old comrade was dead, but i brought him a satisfaction to which he had long been a stranger, by telling him that his sister was still living, occupying a large property in a neighbouring state, surrounded by a family of children, in character and standing ranking among the first in our country. they were intimately connected with the family of one of my most intimate friends, letters to and from different members of which had very often passed through my hands; i knew the names of all his nieces, and personally one of his nephews, a lieutenant, and one of the most promising officers in our navy; and about a year before i had accompanied the friends to whom i refer on a visit to these relatives. at philadelphia i left them under the charge of the lieutenant; and on my return from washington, according to agreement, the lieutenant came down to an intersecting point on the railroad to take me home with him; but circumstances prevented my going, and much as i regretted my disappointment then, i regretted it far more now, as otherwise i might have gladdened the old man's heart by telling him that within a year i had seen his sister. his own history was brief. born to the possession of rank and fortune, and having won honours and decorations by long service in the field, and risen to the rank of inspector-general in the army of napoleon, he was taken in the campaign against russia in eighteen hundred and thirteen, and sent a prisoner of war to moscow, where he had remained ever since. immediately on their arrival, his brother-in-law and sister had written to him from america, telling him that, with the wreck of their fortune, they had purchased a large landed estate, and begging him to come over and share their abundance; but, as he told me, he scorned to eat the bread of idleness and dependance; manfully turned to account the advantages of an accomplished education; and now, at the advanced age of seventy-eight, sustained himself by his pencil, an honoured guest at every table, and respected by the most distinguished inhabitants of moscow. he had accidentally given up his rooms a few days before, and was residing temporarily at the same hotel with myself. he was much agitated by this unexpected intelligence from friends he never expected to hear of more, and left me with a promise to call upon me early in the morning. too much interested myself to go back to siberia with my host, i went to the french theatre. the play was some little every-day thing, and the house but thinly attended. i took my seat in the pit, which was on a dead level, instead of ascending from the stage, containing large cushioned seats, and sprinkled with officers talking with ladies in the boxes above. at the end of the first act, as whole benches were empty above me, i moved up to put myself nearer a pair of bright eyes that were beaming from the box upon a pair of epaulettes below. i was hardly seated before one of the understrappers came up and whispered, or rather muttered, something in my ear. as i did not understand a word he said, and his manner was exceedingly rude and ungracious, i turned my back upon him and looked at the lady with the bright eyes. the fellow continued muttering in my ear, and i began to be seriously annoyed and indignant, when a frenchman sitting two or three benches behind me came up, and, in an imperious tone, ordered him away. he then cursed the russians as a set of canaille, from the greatest seigneurs to the lowest serf; remarked that he saw i was a stranger, and, with the easy freedom of a man of the world, took a seat by my side. he was above six feet high, about thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, in robust health, with a large pair of whiskers, rather overdressed, and of manners good, though somewhat imperious and bordering on the swagger. he seemed perfectly at home in the theatre; knew all the actors and, before the evening was over, offered to introduce me to all the actresses. i was under obligations to him, if not for the last offer, at least for relieving me from the impertinent doorkeeper; and, when the curtain fell, accepted his invitation to go to a restaurant and take a petit souper. i accompanied him to the restaurant au coin du pont des mareschaux, which i afterward ascertained to be the first in moscow. he was perfectly at home with the carte, knew exactly what to order, and, in fact, he was a man of great general information, perfectly familiar with all continental europe, geographically and politically, and particularly at home in moscow; and he offered his services in showing me all that was curious and interesting. we sat together more than two hours, and in our rambling and discursive conversation i could not help remarking that he seemed particularly fond of railing at the government, its tyranny and despotism, and appealing to me, as an american and a liberal, to sustain him. i did not think anything of it then, though in a soldier under charles the tenth, driven out, as he said, by the revolution of july, it was rather strange; but, at any rate, either from a spirit of contradiction or because i had really a good feeling toward everything in russia, i disagreed with him throughout; he took upon himself the whole honours of the entertainment, scolded the servants, called in the landlord, and, as i observed, after a few words with him, went out without paying. i saw that the landlord knew him, and that there was something constrained and peculiar in his behaviour. i must confess, however, that i did not notice these things at the time so clearly as when i was induced to recur to them by after circumstances, for we went out of the house the best friends in the world; and, as it was then raining, we took a drosky and rode home together, with our arms around each other's neck, and my cloak thrown over us both. about two o'clock, in a heavy rain, i stopped at my hotel, bade him good-night, and lent him my cloak to go home with. the reader, perhaps, smiles at my simplicity, but he is wrong in his conjecture; my cloak came home the next morning, and was my companion and only covering many a night afterward. my friend followed it, sat with me a few minutes, and was taking his departure, having made an appointment to call for me at twelve o'clock, when there was a knock at the door, and my friend the marquis entered. i presented them to each other, and the latter was in the act of bending his body with the formality of a gentleman of the old school, when he caught a full view of my friend of the theatre, and, breaking off his unfinished bow, recovered his erect position, and staring from him to me, and from me to him, seemed to demand an explanation. i had no explanation to give, nor had my friend, who, cocking his hat on one side, and brushing by the marquis with more than his usual swagger, stamped down stairs. the marquis looked after him till he was at the foot of the stairs, and then turning to me, asked how, in the name of wonder, i had already contrived to pick up such an acquaintance. i told him the history of our meeting at the theatre, our supper at the restaurant, and our loving ride home, to which he listened with breathless attention; and after making me tax my memory for the particulars of the conversation at the restaurant, told me that my friend was a disgrace to his country; that he had, no doubt, been obliged to leave france for some rascality, and was now entertained by the emperor of russia as a _spy_, particularly upon his own countrymen; that he was well fed and clothed, and had the entrée of all the theatres and public houses without paying. with the earnestness of a man long used to a despotic government, and to seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, the marquis congratulated me upon not having fallen into what he called the snare laid for me. it is almost impossible for an american to believe that even in russia he incurs any risk in speaking what he thinks; he is apt to regard the stories of summary punishment for freedom of speech as bugbears or bygone things. in my own case, even when men looked cautiously around the room and then spoke in whispers, i could not believe that there was any danger. still i had become prudent enough not to talk with any unnecessary indiscretion of the constituted authorities, and, even in writing home to my friends, not to say anything that could prejudice me if the letter should fall into wrong hands; and now, although i did not consider that i had run any great risk, i was rather pleased that i had said nothing exceptionable; and though i had no apprehension, particularly since i had been put on my guard, i determined to drop my new acquaintance, and did not consider myself bound to observe any great courtesy in the mode of doing it. i had had a supper, which it was my original intention to return with a dinner; but i did not consider myself under any obligation to him for civilities shown in the exercise of his despicable calling. the first time i met him i made no apology for having been out when he called according to appointment, and did not ask him to come again. i continued to meet him in the streets and at every public place, but our greetings became colder and colder, and the day before i left moscow we brushed against each other without speaking at all. so much for acquaintances who, after an intimacy of three or four hours, had ridden home under the same cloak, with their arms around each other's neck. but to return: as soon as the marquis left me i again went to the kremlin, to me the great, i had almost said the only, object of interest in moscow. i always detested a cicerone; his bowing, fawning, and prating annoyed me; and all through italy, with my map and guide-book under my arm, i was in the habit of rambling about alone. i did the same at moscow, and again walked to the kremlin unaccompanied. unlike many of the places i had visited, all the interest i had felt in looking forward to the kremlin was increased when i stood within its walls. i had thought of it as the rude and barbarous palace of the czars; but i found it one of the most extraordinary, beautiful, and magnificent objects i ever beheld. i rambled over it several times with admiration, without attempting to comprehend it all. its commanding situation on the banks of the moskwa river; its high and venerable walls; its numerous battlements, towers, and steeples; its magnificent and gorgeous palaces; its cathedrals, churches, monasteries, and belfries, with their gilded, coppered, and tin-plated domes; its mixture of barbarism and decay, magnificence and ruins; its strong contrast of architecture, including the tartarian, hindoo, chinese, and gothic; and, rising above all, the lofty tower of ivan veliki, with its golden ball reflecting the sun with dazzling brilliancy, all together exhibited a beauty, grandeur, and magnificence strange and indescribable. [illustration: the kremlin.] the kremlin is "the heart" and "sacred place" of moscow, once the old fortress of the tartars, and now the centre of the modern city. it is nearly triangular in form, enclosed by a high brick wall painted white, and nearly two miles in extent, and is in itself a city. it has five gates, at four of which there are high watch-towers. the fifth is "our saviour's," or the holy gate, through whose awe-commanding portals no male, not even the emperor and autocrat of all the russias, can pass except with uncovered head and bended body. bareheaded, i entered by this gate, and passed on to a noble esplanade, commanding one of the most interesting views of moscow, and having in front the range of palaces of the czars. i shall not attempt to describe these palaces. they are a combination of every variety of taste and every order of architecture, grecian, gothic, italian, tartar, and hindoo, rude, fanciful, grotesque, gorgeous, magnificent, and beautiful. the churches, monasteries, arsenals, museum, and public buildings are erected with no attempt at regularity of design, and in the same wild confusion of architecture. there are no regular streets, but three open places or squares, and abundance of room for carriages and foot passengers, with which, in summer afternoons, it is always thronged. having strolled for some time about the kremlin, i entered the cathedral of the assumption, the most splendid church in moscow. it was founded in , and rebuilt in . it is loaded with gorgeous and extravagant ornaments. the iconastos or screen which divides the sanctuary from the body of the church is in many parts covered with plates of solid silver and gold, richly and finely wrought. on the walls are painted the images of more than two thousand three hundred saints, some at full length and some of a colossal size, and the whole interior seems illuminated with gold, of which more than two hundred and ten thousand leaves have been employed in embellishing it. from the centre of the roof is suspended a crown of massive silver, with forty-eight chandeliers, all in a single piece, and weighing nearly three thousand pounds. besides the portraits of saints and martyrs, there are portraits of the old historians, whose names, to prevent confusion, are attached to their resemblances, as aristotle, anarcharsis, thucydides, plutarch, &c. some of the paintings on wood could not fail to delight an antiquary, inasmuch as every vestige of paint being obliterated, there is abundance of room for speculation as to their age and character. there is also an image of the virgin, painted by st. luke's own hand!!! the face dark, almost black, the head encircled with a glory of precious stones, and the hands and the body gilded. it is reverenced for its miraculous powers, guarded with great care, and enclosed within a large silver covering, which is never removed but on great religious festivals, or on payment of a ruble to the verger. here, too, is a nail from the cross, a robe of our saviour's, and part of one of the virgin's!!! and here, too, are the tombs of the church patriarchs, one of whom, st. phillippe, honoured by a silver monument, dared to say to john the terrible, "we respect you as an image of the divinity, but as a man you partake of the dust of the earth." the cathedral of the assumption is honoured as the place where the sovereigns of russia are crowned, and there is but a step from their throne to their grave, for near it is the cathedral of the archangel michael, the ancient burial-place where, in raised sepulchres, lie the bodies of the czars, from the time when moscow became the seat of empire until the close of the seventeenth century. the bodies rest in raised tombs or sepulchres, each covered with a velvet pall, and having on it a silver plate, bearing the name of the occupant and the date of his decease. close by is an odd-looking church, constantly thronged with devotees; a humble structure, said to be the oldest christian church in moscow. it was built in the desert, before moscow was thought of, and its walls are strong enough to last till the gorgeous city shall become a desert again. after strolling through the churches i ascended the tower of ivan veliki, or john the great, the first of the czars. it is about two hundred and seventy feet high, and contains thirty-three bells, the smallest weighing seven thousand, and the largest more than one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds english. on festivals they are all tolled together, the muscovites being extremely fond of ivan veliki's music. this celebrated tower rises above every other object in the kremlin, and its large gilded dome and cross are conspicuous from every part of the city. from its top i had the finest view of moscow and the surrounding country, and, perhaps, the finest panoramic view in the world. hundreds of churches were in sight, with their almost innumerable domes, and spires, and crosses glittering with gold, tartaric battlements, terraces, balconies, and ramparts. gothic steeples, grecian columns, the star, the crescent, and the cross, palaces, mosques, and tartar temples, pagodas, pavilions, and verandas, monasteries peeping out over high walls and among noble trees, the stream of the moskwa winding prettily below, and in the distance the sparrow hills, on which the french army first made its appearance on the invasion of moscow. it may seem strange, but i did not feel myself a stranger on the top of that tower. thousands of miles away i had read its history. i knew that the magnificent city at my feet had been a sheet of fire, and that, when napoleon fled by the light of its conflagration, a dreadful explosion shook to their foundation the sacred precincts of the kremlin, and rent from its base to its top the lofty tower of ivan. i descended, and the custode conducted me to another well-known object, the great bell, the largest, and the wonder of the world. it is only a short distance from the foot of the tower, in an excavation under ground, accessible by a trapdoor, like the covered mouth of a well. i descended by a broken ladder, and can hardly explain to myself the curiosity and interest with which i examined this monstrous piece of metal. i have no knowledge of or taste for mechanics, and no particular penchant for bells, even when spelled with an additional e; but i knew all about this one, and it added wonderfully to the interest with which i strolled through the kremlin, that, from accidental circumstances, i was familiar with every object within its walls. i impeach, no doubt, my classical taste, but, before seeing either, i had dwelt with more interest upon the kremlin, and knew more of it, than of the acropolis at athens; and i stood at the foot of the great bell almost with a feeling of reverence. its perpendicular height is twenty-one feet four inches, and the extreme thickness of the metal twenty-three inches; the length of the clapper is fourteen feet, the greatest circumference sixty-seven feet four inches, its weight upward of four hundred thousand pounds english, and its cost has been estimated at more than three hundred and sixty-five thousand pounds sterling. there is some question whether this immense bell was ever hung, but it is supposed that it was suspended by a great number of beams and crossbeams; that it was rung by forty or fifty men, one half on either side, who pulled the clapper by means of ropes, and that the sound amazed and deafened the inhabitants. on one side is a crack large enough to admit the figure of a man. i went inside and called aloud, and received an echo like the reverberations of thunder. [illustration: the great bell.] besides the great bell, there is another noisy musical instrument, namely, the great gun, like the bell, the largest in the world, being a four thousand three hundred and twenty pounder. it is sixteen feet long, and the diameter of its calibre nearly three feet. i jumped in and turned round in its mouth, and sat upright, my head not reaching the top. all around were planted cannon taken from the french in their unhappy expedition against the capital of russia; immense fieldpieces, whose throats once poured their iron hail against the walls within which they now repose as trophies. i was attracted by a crowd at the door of one of the principal buildings, which i found to be the treasury, containing what a russian prizes as his birthright, the repository of sacred heirlooms; the doorkeeper demanded a permit, and i answered him with rubles and entered the treasury. on the first floor are the ancient imperial carriages; large, heavy, and extraordinary vehicles, covered with carving and gilding, and having large plate glass windows; among them was an enormous sleigh, carved and profusely gilded, and containing a long table with cushioned seats on each side; all together, these vehicles were most primitive and asiatic in appearance, and each one had some long and interesting story connected with it. i ascended by a noble staircase to the _belle etage_, a gallery composed of five parts, in the first of which are the portraits of all the emperors and czars and their wives, in the exact costume of the times in which they lived; in another is a model of a palace projected by the empress catharine to unite the whole kremlin under one roof, having a circumference of two miles, and make of it one magnificent palace; if it had been completed according to the plan, this palace would probably have surpassed the temple of solomon or any of the seven wonders of the world. in another is a collection of precious relics, such as the crowns worn by the different emperors and czars, loaded with precious stones; the dresses worn at their marriages; the canopies under which the emperors are married, surmounted by magnificent plumes; two canopies of red velvet, studded with gold, and a throne with two seats. the crown of prince vladimir is surmounted by a golden cross, and ornamented with pearls and precious stones, and, until the time of peter the great, was used to crown the czars; the crown of the conquered kingdom of cazan was placed there by the victorious hands of john vassilivitch. besides these were the crowns of the conquered countries of astrachan and siberia. that of john alexius has eight hundred and eighty-one diamonds, and under the cross which surmounts it is an immense ruby. there were also the crown of peter the great, containing eight hundred and forty-seven diamonds; that of catharine the first, his widow, containing two thousand five hundred and thirty-six fine diamonds, to which the empress anne added a ruby of enormous size, bought by the russian ambassador at pekin; and, lastly, the crown of unhappy poland! it is of polished gold, surmounted by a cross, but no other ornament. and there were other emblems of royalty: a throne or greek fauteuil of ivory, in arabesque, presented to john the great by the ambassadors who accompanied from rome to moscow the princess sophia, whom he had demanded in marriage. she was the daughter of thomas paleologus porphrygenitus brother of constantine paleologus, who died in fourteen hundred and fifty-three, after seeing his empire fall into the hands of the turks. by this marriage john considered himself the heir of constantine, and took the title of czar, meaning cæsar (this is one of the derivations of the name), and thus the emperor and autocrat of all the russias has the fairest claim to the throne of the cæsars, and, consequently, has always had an eye upon constantinople; then there are the throne of boris, adorned with two thousand seven hundred and sixty turquoises and other precious stones; that of michel, containing eight thousand eight hundred and twenty-four precious stones; that of alexius, containing eight hundred and seventy-six diamonds, one thousand two hundred and twenty-four other jewels, and many pearls, bought of a company of merchants trafficking to ispahan; the throne of the czars john and peter, made of massive silver, separated in the middle, the back a cloth of gold, concealing a hole through which the czarina used to dictate answers to the foreign ambassadors; and, lastly, the throne of poland! in the armory are specimens of ancient armour, the workmanship of every age and nation; coats of mail, sabres adorned with jewels, swords, batons, crosses in armour, imperial robes, ermines in abundance, and, finally, the clothes in which peter the great worked at saardam, including his old boots, from which it appears that he had considerable of a foot. these memorials were all interesting, and i wandered through the apartments till ordered out by the footman, when i returned to my hotel to meet my old friend the marquis, who was engaged to dine with me. at his suggestion we went to a new restaurant, patronized by a different set of people from those who frequented the restaurant au coin du pont des mareschaux, being chiefly frenchmen, manufacturers, and small merchants of various kinds, who, while they detested the country, found it a profitable business to introduce parisian luxuries and refinements among the barbarous russians. a party of about twenty sat at a long table, and relieved the severity of exile by talking of their beautiful and beloved france; many of them were old militaires; and my octogenarian friend, as a soldier distinguished under the empire, and identified with the glory of the french arms, was treated with a consideration and respect honourable to them and flattering to himself. at another table was another circle of strangers, composed almost exclusively of swiss, forming here, as elsewhere, one of the most valuable parts of the foreign population; keeping alive by intercourse with each other the recollections of home, and looking to the time when, with the profits of successful industry, they might return to their wild and beloved native mountains. "dear is that hill to which his soul conforms, and dear that cliff which lifts him to the storms." before we rose from table my friend of the theatre came in and took his seat at one end; he talked and laughed louder than any one else, and was received generally with an outward appearance of cordiality; but the old marquis could not endure his presence. he said he had become too old to learn, and it was too late in life to temporize with dishonour; that he did not blame his countrymen; fair words cost nothing, and it was not worth their while wilfully to make an enemy who would always be on their haunches; but as to himself, he had but a few years to live, and he would not sully the last moments of his life by tolerating a man whom he regarded as a disgrace to his country. we rose from the table, the old marquis leaning on my arm, and pouring in my ears his honest indignation at the disgraceful character of his countryman, and proceeded to the kitaigorod, or chinese town, the division immediately encircling the kremlin. it is enclosed by a wall with battlements, towers, and gates; is handsomely and compactly built, with wide, clean, and regular streets, and thronged with every variety of people, greeks, turks, tartars, cossacks, chinese, muscovites, french, italians, poles, and germans, in the costumes of their respective nations. the quarter is entirely russian, and i did not find in the shops a single person who could speak any language but russian. in one of them, where i was conducted by the marquis, i found the old mongik to whom i before referred, who could not agree with his master for the price of his ransom. the principal shops resemble the bazars in the east, though they are far superior even to those in constantinople, being built of stone, and generally in the form of arcades. they are well filled with every description of asiatic goods; and some of them, particularly their tea, and tobacco, and pipe shops, are models of propriety and cleanliness. the façade of the great bazar or market is very imposing, resting the whole length on corinthian columns. it fronts on a noble square, bounded on the opposite side by the white walls of the kremlin, and contains six thousand "bargaining shops." the merchants live at a distance, and, on leaving their shops at sundown, each of them winds a piece of cord round the padlock of his door, and seals it with soft wax; a seal being with the russians more sacred than a lock. in another section of the kitaigorod is the finest part of the city, containing the hotels and residences of the nobles, many of which are truly magnificent. the hotel at which i put up would in italy be called a palace. as we moved slowly along the street by the pont des mareschaux, we discoursed of the terrible inroads at this moment making by the french in the capital of the north, almost every shop having an inviting sign of nouveautés from paris. foiled in their attempt with the bayonet, they are now advancing with apparently more feeble but far more insidious and fatal weapons; and the rugged russian, whom french arms could not conquer, bows to the supremacy of the french modistes and artistes, and quietly wears the livery of the great mistress of fashion. chapter iv. the drosky.--salle des nobles.--russian gaming.--gastronomy.--pedroski.--a sunday in moscow.--a gipsy belle.--tea drinking.--the emperor's garden.--retrospective. early the next morning i mounted a drosky and rode to a celebrated garden or springs, furnished with every description of mineral water. i have several times spoken of the drosky. this may be called the russian national vehicle, for it is found all over russia, and nowhere else that i know of, except at warsaw, where it was introduced by its russian conquerors. it is on four wheels, with a long cushioned seat running lengthwise, on which the rider sits astride as on horseback, and so low that he can mount from the street. it is drawn by two horses; one in shafts, with a high arched bow over the neck called the douga, and the other, called "le furieux," in traces alongside, this last being trained to curb his neck and canter while the shaft-horse trots. the seat is long enough for two besides the driver, the riders sitting with their feet on different sides; or sometimes there is a cross-seat behind, on which the riders sit, with their faces to the horses, and the drosky boy, always dressed in a long surtout, with a bell-crowned hat turned up at the sides, sits on the end. but to return to the springs. the waters are prepared under the direction of medical men, who have the chymical analysis of all the principal mineral waters known, and manufacture them to order. as is universally the case in russia, where there is any attempt at style, the establishment is upon a magnificent scale. the building contains a room perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, with a clean and highly-polished floor, large looking-glasses, elegant sofas, and mahogany chairs and tables. the windows open upon a balcony extending along the whole front, which is furnished with tables and rustic chairs, and opens upon a large garden ornamented with gravel-walks, trees, and the most rare and valuable plants and flowers, at the time of my visit in full bloom. every morning, from sunrise till noon, crowds of people, and particularly the nobility and higher classes, frequent this establishment, and that morning there was a larger collection than usual. russian hospitality is conspicuous at a place like this. a stranger, instead of being avoided, is sought out; and after one or two promenades i was accosted by more than one gentleman, ready to show me every civility. in the long room and on the balconies, scattered about at the different tables, i saw the gourmand who had distended his stomach almost to bursting, and near him the gaunt and bilious dyspeptic, drinking their favourite waters; the dashing officer and the blooming girl, the lover and coquette, and, in short, all the style and fashion of moscow, their eyes occasionally turning to the long mirrors, and then singly, in pairs and in groups, strolling gently through the gardens, enjoying the music that was poured forth from hidden arbours. returning through a street not far from my hotel, i saw a line of carriages, and gentlemen and ladies passing under a light arcade, which formed the entrance to a large building. i joined the throng, and was put back by the doorkeeper because i was not in a dresscoat. i ran to my hotel and changed my frockcoat, but now i had no biglietto of entrance. a few rubles obviated this difficulty and admitted me to the _salle des nobles_, a magnificent apartment surrounded by a colonnade, capable of containing more than three thousand persons, and said to be the finest ballroom in europe. it belongs to a club of the nobility, and none are admitted as members but nobles. all games of hazard are forbidden; but, nevertheless, all games of hazard are played. indeed, among the "on dits" which a traveller picks up, gambling is said to be the great vice of russia. young men who have not two rubles to rub together will bet thousands; and, when all other resources fail, the dishonourable will cheat, but the delicate-minded will kill themselves. it is not uncommon for a young man to say at the cardtable over night, "i must shoot myself to-morrow;" and he is as good as his word. the salle was open for a few days, as a sort of fair, for the exhibition of specimens of russian manufacture; and, besides tables, workboxes, &c., there were some of the finest living specimens of genuine russian men and women that i had yet seen, though not to be compared, as a russian officer said, to whom i made the remark, with the exhibition of the same specimens in the waltz and mazourka, when the salle was lighted up and decorated for a ball. i returned to my hotel, where i found my old friend the marquis waiting, according to appointment, to dine with me. he would have accompanied me everywhere, but i saw that he suffered from the exertion, and would not allow it. meeting with me had struck a chord that had not been touched for years, and he was never tired of talking of his friends in america. every morning he breakfasted in my room, and we dined together every day. we went to the restaurant where i had supped with my friend of the theatre. the saloon was crowded, and at a table next us sat a seigneur, who was dining upon a delicacy that will surprise the reader, viz., one of his own female slaves, a very pretty girl, whom he had hired to the keeper of the restaurant for her maintenance and a dinner a volonté per annum for himself. this was the second time he had dined on her account, and she was then waiting upon him; a pretty, modest, delicate-looking girl, and the old noble seemed never to know when he had enough of her. we left him gloating over still untasted dishes, and apparently mourning that human ability could hold out no longer. in going out my old friend, in homely but pithy phrase, said the only difference between a russian seigneur and a russian serf is, that the one wears his shirt inside his trousers and the other outside; but my friend spoke with the prejudices of a soldier of france aggravated by more than twenty years of exile. so far as my observation extended, the higher classes are rather extraordinary for talent and acquirements. their government is unfortunate for the development and exercise of abilities. they have none of the learned profession; merchandise is disgraceful, and the army is the only field. with an ardent love of country and an ambition to distinguish himself, every nobleman becomes a soldier, and there is hardly an old or middle-aged individual of this class who was not in arms to repel the invasion of napoleon, and hardly a young man who did not serve lately in a less noble cause, the campaign in poland. the consequence of service in the army seems to have been generally a passion for display and expensive living, which sent them back to their estates, after their terms of service expired, over head and ears in debt. unable to come often to the cities, and obliged to live at their chateaux, deprived of all society, surrounded only by slaves, and feeling the want of the excitement incident to a military life, many of them become great gourmands, or rather, as my french friend said, gluttons. they do not eat, said he, they swallow; and the manner in which, with the true spirit of a frenchman who still remembered the cuisine of the palais royal, he commented upon their eating entremets, hors d'oeuvres, rotis, and desserts all pellmell, would have formed a proper episode to major hamilton's chapter upon americans eating eggs out of wineglasses. the old marquis, although he retained all his french prejudices against the russians, and always asserted, as the russians themselves admit, that, but for the early setting in of winter, napoleon would have conquered russia, allowed them the virtue of unbounded hospitality, and enumerated several principal families at whose tables he could at any time take a seat without any express invitation, and with whom he was always sure of being a welcome guest; and he mentioned the case of a compatriot who for years had a place regularly reserved for him at the table of a seigneur, which he took whenever he pleased without any questions being asked, until, having stayed away longer than usual, the seigneur sent to inquire for him, and learned that he was dead. but to return. toward evening i parted with the marquis, mounted a drosky, and rode to the country theatre at pedroski. pedroski is a place dear to the heart of every russian, having been the favourite residence of peter the great, to whom russia owes its existence among civilized nations. it is about three versts from the barrier, on the st. petersburgh road. the st. petersburgh gate is a very imposing piece of architecture. six spirited horses rest lightly upon the top, like the brazen horses at st. mark's in venice. a wide road, divided into avenues for carriages and pedestrians, gravelled and lined with trees, leads from the gate. the chateau is an old and singular, but interesting building of red brick, with a green dome and white cornices, and enclosed by a circular wall flanked with turrets. in the plain in front two regiments of cossack cavalry were going through their exercises. the grounds around the chateau are very extensive, handsomely laid out for carriages and promenades, public and retired, to suit every taste. the principal promenade is about a mile in length, through a forest of majestic old trees. on each side is a handsome footpath of continual shade; and sometimes almost completely hidden by the luxuriant foliage are beautiful little summer-houses, abundantly supplied with all kinds of refreshments. the theatre is at a little distance from the extreme end of the great promenade, a plain and unpretending building; and this and the grand operahouse are the only theatres i have seen built like ours, merely with continued rows of seats, and not partitioned off into private boxes. the opera was some little russian piece, and was followed by the grand ballet, the revolt of the seraglio. he who goes to russia expecting to see a people just emerging from a state of barbarism, will often be astonished to find himself suddenly in a scene of parisian elegance and refinement; and in no place will he feel this wonder more than in an operahouse at moscow. the house was rather full, and contained more of the russian nobility than i had yet seen at any one time. they were well dressed, adorned with stars and ribands, and, as a class of men, the "biggest in the round" i ever saw. orders and titles of nobility, by-the-way, are given with a liberality which makes them of no value; and all over russia princes are as plenty as pickpockets in london. the seigneurs of russia have jumped over all intermediate grades of civilization, and plunged at once into the luxuries of metropolitan life. the ballet was, of course, inferior to that of paris or london, but it is speaking in no mean praise of it to say that at this country theatre it might be made a subject of comparison. the dancers were the prettiest, the most interesting, and, what i was particularly struck with, the most modest looking i ever saw on the stage. it was melancholy to look at those beautiful girls, who, amid the glare and glitter of the stage, and in the graceful movements of the dance, were perfectly captivating and entrancing, and who, in the shades of domestic life, might fill the measure of man's happiness on earth, and know them to be slaves. the whole troop belongs to the emperor. they are selected when young with reference to their beauty and talents, and are brought up with great care and expense for the stage. with light fairy figures, seeming rather spirits than corporeal substances, and trained to inspire admiration and love, they can never give way to these feelings themselves, for their affections and marriages are regulated entirely by the manager's convenience. what though they are taken from the very poorest class of life, leaving their parents, their brothers and sisters, the tenants of miserable cabins, oppressed and vilified, and cold and hungry, while they are rolling in luxuries. a chain does not gall the less because it is gilded. raised from the lot to which they were born, taught ideas they would never have known, they but feel more sensibly the weight of their bonds; and the veriest sylph, whose graceful movements have brought down the loudest thunders of applause, and whose little heart flutters with the admiration she has excited, would probably give all her shortlived triumph for the privilege of bestowing that little flutterer where it would be loved and cherished. there was one among them whom i long remembered. i followed her with my eyes till the curtain fell and left a blank around me. i saw her go out, and afterward she passed me in one of a long train of dark blue carriages belonging to the direction, in which they are carried about like merchandise from theatre to theatre, but, like many other bright visions that broke upon me for a moment, i never saw her again. at about eleven i left the steps of the theatre to return home. it was a most magnificent night, or, rather, it is almost profanation to call it by so black a name, for in that bright northern climate the day seemed to linger, unwilling to give place before the shades of night. i strolled on alone, wrapped in lonely but not melancholy meditations; the carriages rolled rapidly by me, and i was almost the last of the throng that entered the gate of moscow. a sunday at moscow. to one who had for a long time been a stranger to the sound of the church-going bell, few things could be more interesting than a sunday at moscow. any one who has rambled along the maritime alps, and has heard from some lofty eminence the convent bell ringing for matins, vespers, and midnight prayers, will long remember the sweet yet melancholy sounds. to me there is always something touching in the sound of the church-going bell; touching in its own notes, but far more so in its associations. and these feelings were exceedingly fresh when i awoke on sunday in the holy city of moscow. in greece and turkey there are no bells; in russia they are almost innumerable, but this was the first time i had happened to pass the sabbath in a city. i lay and listened, almost fearing to move lest i should hush the sounds; thoughts of home came over me; of the day of rest, of the gathering for church, and the greeting of friends at the church door. but he who has never heard the ringing of bells at moscow does not know its music. imagine a city containing more than six hundred churches and innumerable convents, all with bells, and these all sounding together, from the sharp, quick hammer-note, to the loudest, deepest peals that ever broke and lingered on the ear, struck at long intervals, and swelling on the air as if unwilling to die away. i rose and threw open my window, dressed myself, and after breakfast, joining the throng called to their respective churches by their well-known bells, i went to what is called the english chapel, where, for the first time in many months, i joined in a regular church service, and listened to an orthodox sermon. i was surprised to see so large a congregation, though i remarked among them many english governesses with children, the english language being at that moment the rage among the russians, and multitudes of cast-off chambermaids adventuring thither to teach the rising russian nobility the beauties of the english tongue. all over the continent sunday is the great day for observing national manners and customs. i dined at an early hour with my friend the marquis, and, under his escort, mounting a drosky, rode to a great promenade of the people called _l'allée des peuples_. it lies outside the barrier, and beyond the state prisons, where the exiles for siberia are confined, on the land of count schremetow, the richest nobleman in russia, having one hundred and thirty thousand slaves on his estate; the chateau is about eight versts from the city, and a noble road through his own land leads from the barrier to his door. this promenade is the great rendezvous of the people; that is, of the merchants and shopkeepers of moscow. the promenade is simply a large piece of ground ornamented with noble trees, and provided with everything necessary for the enjoyment of all the national amusements, among which the russian mountain is the favourite; and refreshments were distributed in great abundance. soldiers were stationed at different points to preserve order, and the people seemed all cheerful and happy; but the life and soul of the place were the bohemian or gipsy girls. wherever they moved, a crowd gathered round them. they were the first i had seen of this extraordinary people. coming no one knows whence, and living no one knows how, wanderers from their birth, and with a history enveloped in doubt, it was impossible to mistake the dark complexion and piercing coal-black eyes of the gipsy women. the men were nowhere to be seen, nor were there any old women with them; and these young girls, well dressed, though, in general, with nothing peculiar in their costume, moved about in parties of five or six, singing, playing, and dancing to admiring crowds. one of them, with a red silk cloak trimmed with gold, and a gold band round her hair, struck me as the very _beau ideal_ of a gipsy queen. recognising me as a stranger, she stopped just in front of me, struck her castanets and danced, at the same time directing the movements of her companions, who formed a circle around me. there was a beauty in her face, combined with intelligence and spirit, that riveted my attention, and when she spoke her eyes seemed to read me through. i ought, perhaps, to be ashamed of it, but in all my wanderings i never regretted so much my ignorance of the language as when it denied me the pleasure of conversing with that gipsy girl. i would fain have known whether her soul did not soar above the scene and the employment in which i found her; whether she was not formed for better things than to display her beautiful person before crowds of boors; but i am sorry to add, that the character of my queen was not above reproach; and, as i had nothing but my character to stand upon in moscow, i was obliged to withdraw from the observation which her attention fixed upon me. leaving my swarthy princess with this melancholy reflection, and leaving the scene of humbler enjoyment, i mounted a drosky, and, depositing my old friend in the suburbs of the city, in half an hour was in another world, in the great promenade of pedroski, the gathering-place of the nobility, where all the rank and fashion of moscow were vying with each other in style and magnificence. the extensive grounds around the old chateau are handsomely disposed and ornamented with trees, but the great carriage promenade is equal to anything i ever saw. it is a straight road, more than a mile in length, through a thick forest of noble trees. for two hours before dark all the equipages in moscow paraded up and down this promenade. these equipages were striking and showy without being handsome, and the russian manner of driving four horses makes a very dashing appearance, the leaders being harnessed with long traces, perhaps twenty feet from the wheel horses, and guided by a lad riding the near leader, the coachman sitting as if nailed to the box, and merely holding the reins. all the rules of good taste, as understood in the capitals of southern europe, were set at defiance; and many a seigneur, who thought he was doing the thing in the very best style, had no idea how much his turnout would have shocked an english whip. but all this extravagance, in my eyes, added much to the effect of the scene; and the star-spangled muscovite who dashed up and down the promenade on horseback, with two calmuc tartars at his heels, attracted more of my attention than the plain gentleman who paced along with his english jockey and quiet elegance of equipment. the stars and decorations of the seigneurs set them off to great advantage; and scores of officers, with their showy uniforms, added brilliancy to the scene, while the footmen made as good an appearance as their masters. on either side of the grand promenade is a walk for foot passengers, and behind this, almost hidden from view by the thick shade of trees, are little cottages, arbours, and tents, furnished with ices and all kinds of refreshments suited to the season. i should have mentioned long since that tea, the very pabulum of all domestic virtues, is the russian's favourite beverage. they say that they have better tea than can be obtained in europe, which they ascribe to the circumstance of its being brought by caravans over land, and saved the exposure of a sea voyage. whether this be the cause or not, if i am any judge they are right as to the superiority of their article; and it was one of the most striking features in the animating scene at pedroski to see family groups distributed about, all over the grounds, under the shade of noble trees, with their large brass urn hissing before them, and taking their tea under the passing gaze of thousands of people with as much unconcern as if by their own firesides. leaving for a moment the thronged promenade, i turned into a thick forest and entered the old chateau of the great peter. there all was solitude; the footman and i had the palace to ourselves. i followed him through the whole range of apartments, in which there was an appearance of staid respectability that quite won my heart, neither of them being any better furnished than one of our oldfashioned country houses. the pomp and show that i saw glittering through the openings in the trees were unknown in the days of the good old peter; the chateau was silent and deserted; the hand that built it was stiff and cold, and the heart that loved it had ceased to beat; old peter was in his grave, and his descendants loved better their splendid palaces on the banks of the neva. when moscow was burning, napoleon fled to this chateau for refuge. i stopped for a moment in the chamber where, by the blaze of the burning city, he dictated his despatches for the capital of france; gave the attendant a ruble, and again mixed with the throng, with whom i rambled up and down the principal promenade, and at eleven o'clock was at my hotel. i ought not to forget the russian ladies; but, after the gay scene at pedroski, it is no disparagement to them if i say that, in my quiet walk home, the dark-eyed gipsy girl was uppermost in my thoughts. the reader may perhaps ask if such is indeed what the traveller finds in russia; "where are the eternal snows that cover the steppes and the immense wastes of that northern empire? that chill the sources of enjoyment, and congeal the very fountains of life?" i answer, they have but just passed by, and they will soon come again; the present is the season of enjoyment; the russians know it to be brief and fleeting, and, like butterflies, unfold themselves to the sun and flutter among the flowers. like them, i made the most of it at moscow. mounted in a drosky, i hurried from church to church, from convent to convent, and from quarter to quarter. but although it is the duty of a traveller to see everything that is to be seen, and although there is a kind of excitement in hurrying from place to place, which he is apt to mistake for pleasure, it is not in this that his real enjoyment is found. his true pleasure is in turning quietly to those things which are interesting to the imagination as well as to the eyes, and so i found myself often turning from the churches and palaces, specimens of architecture and art, to the sainted walls of the kremlin. here were the first and last of my visits; and whenever i sauntered forth without any specific object, perhaps to the neglect of many other places i ought to have seen, my footsteps involuntarily turned thitherward. outside and beneath the walls of the kremlin, and running almost the whole extent of its circumference, are boulevards and a public garden, called the emperor's, made within a few years, and the handsomest thing of the kind in moscow; i am not sure but that i may add anywhere else. i have compared it in my mind to the gardens of the luxembourg and tuileries, and in many respects hold it to be more beautiful. it is more agreeably irregular and undulating in its surface, and has a more rural aspect, and the groves and plants are better arranged, although it has not the statues, lakes, and fountains of the pride of paris. i loved to stroll through this garden, having on one side of me the magnificent buildings of the great russian princes, seigneurs, and merchants, among the finest and most conspicuous of which is the former residence of the unhappy queen of georgia; and on the other side, visible through the foliage of the trees, the white walls of the kremlin, and, towering above them, the domes of the palaces and churches within, and the lofty tower of ivan veliki. thence i loved to stroll to the holy gate of the kremlin. it is a vaulted portal, and over the entrance is a picture, with a lamp constantly burning; and a sentinel is always posted at the gate. i loved to stand by it and see the haughty seigneurs and the degraded serf alike humble themselves on crossing the sacred threshold, and then, with my hat in my hand, follow the footsteps of the venerating russian. once i attempted to brave the interdict, and go in with my head covered; but the soldier at the gate stopped me, and forbade my violating the sacred prohibition. within the walls i wandered about, without any definite object, sometimes entering the great church and beholding for a moment the prostrate russian praying before the image of some saint, or descending to look once more at the great bell, or at other times mounting the tower and gazing at the beautiful panorama of the city. on the last day of my stay in moscow a great crowd drew me to the door of the church, where some fête was in course of celebration, in honour of the birth, marriage, or some other incident in the life of the emperor or empress. the archbishop, a venerable-looking old man, was officiating, and when he came out a double line of men, women, and children was drawn up from the door of the church to his carriage, all pressing forward and struggling to kiss his hands. the crowd dispersed, and i strolled once more through the repository of heirlooms, and imperial reliques and trophies; but, passing by the crowns loaded with jewels, the canopies and thrones adorned with velvet and gold, i paused before the throne of unhappy poland! i have seen great cities desolate and in ruins, magnificent temples buried in the sands of the african desert, and places once teeming with fertility now lying waste and silent; but no monument of fallen greatness ever affected me more than this. it was covered with blue velvet and studded with golden stars. it had been the seat of casimir, and sobieski, and stanislaus augustus. brave men had gathered round it and sworn to defend it, and died in redeeming their pledge. their oaths are registered in heaven, their bodies rest in bloody graves; poland is blotted from the list of nations, and her throne, unspotted with dishonour, brilliant as the stars which glitter on its surface, is exhibited as a russian trophy, before which the stoutest manhood need not blush to drop a tear. toward evening i returned to my favourite place, the porch of the palace of the czars. i seated myself on the step, took out my tablets, and commenced a letter to my friends at home. what should i write? above me was the lofty tower of ivan veliki; below, a solitary soldier, in his gray overcoat, was retiring to a sentry-box to avoid a drizzling rain. his eyes were fixed upon me, and i closed my book. i am not given to musing, but i could not help it. here was the theatre of one of the most extraordinary events in the history of the world. after sixty battles and a march of more than two thousand miles, the grand army of napoleon entered moscow, and found no smoke issuing from a single chimney, nor a muscovite even to gaze upon them from the battlements or walls. moscow was deserted, her magnificent palaces forsaken by their owners, her three hundred thousand inhabitants vanished as if they had never been. silent and amazed, the grand army filed through its desolate streets. approaching the kremlin, a few miserable, ferocious, and intoxicated wretches, left behind as a savage token of the national hatred, poured a volley of musketry from the battlements. at midnight the flames broke out in the city; napoleon, driven from his quarters in the suburbs, hurried to the kremlin, ascended the steps, and entered the door at which i sat. for two days the french soldiers laboured to repress the fierce attempts to burn the city. russian police-officers were seen stirring up the fire with tarred lances; hideous-looking men and women, covered with rags, were wandering like demons amid the flames, armed with torches, and striving to spread the conflagration. at midnight again the whole city was in a blaze; and while the roof of the kremlin was on fire, and the panes of the window against which he leaned were burning to the touch, napoleon watched the course of the flames and exclaimed, "what a tremendous spectacle! these are scythians indeed." amid volumes of smoke and fire, his eyes blinded by the intense heat, and his hands burned in shielding his face from its fury, and traversing streets arched with fire, he escaped from the burning city. russia is not classic ground. it does not stand before us covered with the shadow of great men's deeds. a few centuries ago it was overrun by wandering tribes of barbarians; but what is there in those lands which stand forth on the pages of history, crowned with the glory of their ancient deeds, that, for extraordinary daring, for terrible sublimity, and undaunted patriotism, exceeds the burning of moscow. neither marathon, nor thermopylæ, nor the battle of the horatii, nor the defence of cocles, nor the devotion of the decii, can equal it; and when time shall cover with its dim and quiet glories that bold and extraordinary deed, the burning of moscow will be regarded as outstripping all that we read of grecian or roman patriotism, and the name of the russian governor (rostopchin), if it be not too tough a name to hand down to posterity, will never be forgotten. chapter v. getting a passport.--parting with the marquis.--the language of signs.--a loquacious traveller.--from moscow to st. petersburgh.--the wolga.--novogorod.--newski perspective.--an unfortunate mistake.--northern twilight. unable to remain longer in moscow, i prepared for my journey for st. petersburgh. several diligences run regularly between these two great cities; one of which, the velocifère, is superior to any public conveyance on the continent of europe. i took my place in that, and two days beforehand sent my passport to be _viséd_. i sent for it the next day, and it was not ready. i went myself, and could not get it. i knew that nothing could be done at the russian offices without paying for it, and was ready and willing to do so, and time after time i called the attention of the officer to my passport. he replied coolly, "_dans un instant_," and, turning to something else, kept me waiting two hours; and when at length he took it up and arranged it, he led me down stairs out of sight to receive the expected _douceur_. he was a well-dressed man, with the large government button on his coat, and rather distingué in his appearance and manners. i took the passport, folded it up, and put it in my pocket with a coolness equal to his own, and with malicious pleasure put into his hand a single ruble, equal to twenty cents of our money; he expected at least twenty-five rubles, or about five dollars, and his look of rage and disappointment amply repaid me for all the vexation he had caused by his delay. i bade him farewell with a smile that almost drove him mad. bribery is said to be almost universal among the inferior officers of government, and there is a story of a frenchman in russia which illustrates the system. he had an office, of which the salary was so small that he could not live upon it. at first he would not take bribes, but stern necessity drove him to it, and while he was about it he did the thing handsomely. having overreached the mark, and been guilty of being detected, he was brought before the proper tribunal; and when asked, "why did you take a bribe?" his answer was original and conclusive, "i take, thou takest, he takes, we take, you take, they take!" i told the marquis the story of my parting interview at the police-office, which he said was capital, but startled me by suggesting that, if there should happen to be any irregularity, i would have great trouble in getting it rectified; even this, however, did not disturb my immediate satisfaction, and, fortunately, all was right. the morning of my departure, before i was out of bed, the marquis was in my room. meeting with me had revived in him feelings long since dead; and at the moment of parting he told me, what his pride had till that moment concealed, that his heart yearned once more to his kindred; and that, if he had the means, old as he was, he would go to america. and yet, though his frame trembled and his voice was broken, and his lamp was almost burned out, his spirit was as high as when he fought the battles of the empire; and he told me to say to them that he would not come to be a dependant upon their bounty; that he could repay all they should do for him by teaching their children. he gave me his last painting, which he regarded with the pride of an artist, as a souvenir for his sister; but having no means of carrying it safely, i was obliged to return it to him. he remained with me till the moment of my departure, clung to my hand after i had taken my place in the drosky, and when we had started i looked back and saw him still standing in the road. it seemed as if the last link that bound him to earth was broken. he gave me a letter, which i forwarded to his friends at home; his sister was still living, and had not forgotten her long-lost brother; she had not heard from him in twenty years, and had long believed him dead. pecuniary assistance was immediately sent to him, and, unhappily, since my return home, intelligence has been received that it arrived only at the last moment when human aid could avail him; in time to smooth the pillow of death by the assurance that his friends had not forgotten him. and perhaps, in his dying moments, he remembered me. at all events, it is some satisfaction, amid the recollections of an unprofitable life, to think that, when his checkered career was drawing to its close, i had been the means of gladdening for a moment the old exile's heart. i must not forget my host, the quondam exile to siberia. in his old days his spirit too was chafed at living under despotism, and, like the marquis, he also hoped, before he died, to visit america. i gave him my address, with the hope, but with very little expectation, of seeing him again. a travelling companion once remarked, that if every vagabond to whom i gave my address should find his way to america, i would have a precious set to present to my friends. be it so; there is not a vagabond among them whom i would not be glad to see. my english companion and myself had seen but little of each other at moscow. he intended to remain longer than i did, but changed his mind, and took a place in the same diligence for st. petersburgh. this diligence was the best i ever rode in; and, for a journey of nearly five hundred miles, we could not have been more comfortably arranged. it started at the hour punctually, as from the messagere in paris. we rolled for the last time through the streets of moscow, and in a few minutes passed out at the st. petersburgh gate. our companions were a man about thirty-five, a cattle-driver, with his trousers torn, and his linen hanging out ostentatiously in different places, and an old man about sixty-five, just so far civilized as to have cut off the long beard and put on broadcloth clothes. it was the first time the old man had ever been on a journey from home; everything was new to him, and he seemed puzzled to know what to make of us; he could not comprehend how we could look, and walk, and eat like russians, and not talk like them. my place was directly opposite his, and, as soon as we were seated, he began to talk to me. i looked at him and made no answer; he began again, and went on in an uninterrupted strain for several minutes, more and more surprised that i did not answer, or answered only in unintelligible sounds. after a while he seemed to come to the conclusion that i was deaf and dumb and turned to my companion as to my keeper for an explanation. finding he could do nothing there, he appeared alarmed, and it was some time before he could get a clear idea of the matter. when he did, however, he pulled off an amazingly white glove, took my hand and shook it, pointed to his head, shook it, and touched my head, then put his hand to his heart, then to my heart; all which was to say, that though our heads did not understand each other, our hearts did. but though he saw we did not understand him, he did not on that account stop talking; indeed, he talked incessantly, and the only way of stopping him was to look directly in his face and talk back again; and i read him long lectures, particularly upon the snares and temptations of the world into which he was about to plunge, and wound up with stanzas of poetry and scraps of greek and latin, all which the old man listened to without ever interrupting me, bending his ear as if he expected every moment to catch something he understood; and when i had finished, after a moment's blank expression he whipped off his white glove, took my hand, and touched significantly his head and heart. indeed, a dozen times a day he did this; and particularly whenever we got out, on resuming our seats, as a sort of renewal of the compact of good fellowship, the glove invariably came off, and the significant movement between the hand, head, and heart was repeated. the second day a young seigneur named chickoff, who spoke french, joined the diligence, and through him we had full explanations with the old russian. he always called me the american graff or noble, and said that, after being presented to the emperor, i should go down with him into the country. my worthy comrade appeared at first to be not a little bored by the old man's garrulous humour; but at length, seized by a sudden whim, began, as he said, to teach him english. but such english! he taught him, after a fashion peculiarly his own, the manner of addressing a lady and gentleman in english; and very soon, with the remarkable facility of the russians in acquiring languages, the old man, utterly unconscious of their meaning, repeated the words with extraordinary distinctness; and regularly, when he took his place in the diligence, he accompanied the significant movements of his hand, head, and heart to me with the not very elegant address taught him by my companion. though compelled to smile inwardly at the absurdity of the thing, i could not but feel the inherent impropriety of the conduct of my eccentric fellow-traveller; and ventured to suggest to him that, though he had an undoubted right to do as he pleased in matters that could not implicate me, yet, independent of the very questionable character of the joke itself (for the words savoured more of wapping than of st. james's), as we were known to have travelled together, a portion of the credit of having taught the old russian english might fall upon me--an honour of which i was not covetous, and, therefore, should tell the old man never to repeat the words he had been taught, which i did without assigning any reason for it, and before we arrived at st. petersburgh he had forgotten them. the road from moscow to st. petersburgh is now one of the best in europe. it is macadamized nearly the whole way, and a great part is bordered with trees; the posthouses are generally large and handsome, under the direction of government, where soup, cutlets, &c., are always ready at a moment's notice, at prices regulated by a tariff hanging up in the room, which, however, being written in russian, was of no particular use to us. the country is comparatively thickly settled, and villages are numerous. even on this road, however, the villages are forlorn things, being generally the property and occupied by the serfs of the seigneurs, and consisting of a single long street, with houses on both sides built of logs, the better sort squared, with the gable end to the street, the roofs projecting two or three feet from the houses, and sometimes ornamented with rude carving and small holes for windows. we passed several chateaux, large, imposing buildings, with parks and gardens, and a large church, painted white, with a green dome surmounted by a cross. in many places on the road are chapels with figures of the panagia, or all holy virgin, or some of the saints; and our old russian, constantly on the lookout for them, never passed one without taking off his hat and going through the whole formula of crosses; sometimes, in entering a town, they came upon us in such quick succession, first on one side, then on the other, that, if he had not been engaged in, to him, a sacred ceremony, his hurry and perplexity would have been ludicrous. during the night we saw fires ahead, and a little off the road were the bivouacs of teamsters or wayfarers, who could not pay for lodging in a miserable russian hut. all the way we met the great caravan teams carrying tallow, hides, hemp, and other merchandise to the cities, and bringing back wrought fabrics, groceries, &c., into the interior. they were generally thirty or forty together, one man or woman attending to three or four carts, or, rather, neglecting them, as the driver was generally asleep on the top of his load. the horses, however, seemed to know what they were about; for as the diligence came rolling toward them, before the postillion could reach them with his whip, they intuitively hurried out of the way. the bridges over the streams and rivers are strong, substantial structures, built of heavy hewn granite, with iron balustrades, and ornamented in the centre with the double-headed eagle, the arms of russia. at tver we passed the wolga on a bridge of boats. this noble river, the longest in europe, navigable almost from its source for an extent of four thousand versts, dividing, for a great part of its course, europe and asia, runs majestically through the city, and rolls on, bathing the walls of the city of astrachan, till it reaches the distant caspian; its banks still inhabited by the same tribes of warlike cossacks who hovered on the skirts of the french army during their invasion of russia. by its junction with the tverza, a communication is made between the wolga and neva, or, in other words, between the caspian and baltic. the impetus of internal improvements has extended even to the north of europe, and the emperor nicolas is now actively engaged in directing surveys of the great rivers of russia for the purpose of connecting them by canals and railroads, and opening steam communications throughout the whole interior of his empire. a great number of boats of all sizes, for carrying grain to the capital, were lying off the city. these boats are generally provided with one mast, which, in the largest, may equal a frigate's mainmast. "the weight of the matsail," an english officer remarks, "must be prodigious, having no fewer than one hundred breadths in it; yet the facility with which it is managed bears comparison with that of the yankees with their boom mainsail in their fore-and-aft clippers." the rudder is a ponderous machine, being a broad piece of timber floating astern twelve or fifteen feet, and fastened to the tiller by a pole, which descends perpendicularly into the water; the tiller is from thirty to forty feet long, and the pilot who turns it stands upon a scaffold at that distance from the stern. down the stream a group of cossacks were bathing, and i could not resist the temptation to throw myself for a moment into this king of rivers. the diligence hurried me, and, as it came along, i gathered up my clothes and dressed myself inside. about eighty versts from st. petersburgh we came to the ancient city of novogorod. in the words of an old traveller, "next unto moscow, the city of novogorod is reputed the chiefest in russia; for although it be in majestie inferior to it, yet in greatness it goeth beyond it. it is the chiefest and greatest mart-town of all muscovy; and albeit the emperor's seat is not there, but at moscow, yet the commodiousness of the river, falling into that gulf which is called sinus finnicus, whereby it is well frequented by merchants, makes it more famous than moscow itself." few of the ruined cities of the old world present so striking an appearance of fallen greatness as this comparatively unknown place. there is an ancient saying, "who can resist the gods and novogorod the great?" three centuries ago it covered an area of sixty-three versts in circumference, and contained a population of more than four hundred thousand inhabitants. some parts of it are still in good condition, but the larger portion has fallen to decay. its streets present marks of desolation, mouldering walls, and ruined churches, and its population has dwindled to little more than seven thousand inhabitants. the steeples in this ancient city bear the cross, unaccompanied by the crescent, the proud token showing that the tartars, in all their invasions, never conquered it, while in the reconquered cities the steeples all exhibit the crescent surmounted by the cross. late in the afternoon of the fourth day we were approaching st. petersburgh. the ground is low and flat, and i was disappointed in the first view of the capital of russia; but passing the barrier, and riding up the newski perspective, the most magnificent street in that magnificent city, i felt that the stories of its splendour were not exaggerated, and that this was, indeed, entitled to the proud appellation of the "palmyra of the north." my english companion again stopped at a house kept by an englishwoman and frequented by his countrymen, and i took an apartment at a hotel in a broad street with an unpronounceable russian name, a little off the newski perspective. i was worn and fatigued with my journey, but i could not resist the inclination to take a gentle promenade along the newski perspective. while in the coffee-room refreshing myself with a cup of the best russian tea, i heard some one outside the door giving directions to a tailor, and presently a man entered, whom, without looking at him, i told he was just the person i wanted to see, as i had a pair of pantaloons to be mended. he made no answer, and, without being able to see distinctly, i told him to wait till i could go up stairs and change them, and that he must mend them strongly and bring them back in the morning. in all probability, the next moment i should have been sprawling on the floor; but the landlady, a clever frenchwoman, who saw my error stepped up, and crying out, "ah, monsieur colonel, attendez, attendez," explained my mistake as clearly as i could have done myself, and i followed closely with an apology, adding that my remark could not be intended as disrespectful to him, inasmuch as even then, with the windows closed, i could scarcely distinguish his person. he understood the thing at once, accepted my apology with great frankness, and, instead of knocking me down, or challenging me to fight with sabre or some other diabolical thing, finding i was a stranger just arrived from moscow, sat down at the table, and before we rose offered to accompany me in my walk. there could be no mistake as to the caste of my new friend. the landlady had called him colonel, and, in repelling the imputation of his being a tailor, had spoken of him as a rich seigneur, who for ten years had occupied the front apartments _au premier_ in her hotel. we walked out into the newski perspective, and strolled along that magnificent street down to the admiralty, and along the noble quays of the neva. i had reached the terminus of my journey; for many months i had been moving farther and farther away, and the next step i took would carry me toward home. it was the eve of the fourth of july; and as i strolled through the broad streets and looked up at the long ranges of magnificent buildings, i poured into the ear of my companion the recollections connected with this moment at home: in boyhood, crackers and fireworks in readiness for the great jubilee of the morrow; and, latterly, the excursion into the country to avoid the bustle and confusion of "the glorious fourth." at moscow and during the journey i had admired the exceeding beauty of the twilight in these northern latitudes but this night in st. petersburgh it was magnificent. i cannot describe the peculiar shades of this northern twilight. it is as if the glare and brilliancy of the sun were softened by the mellowing influence of the moon, and the city, with its superb ranges of palaces, its statues, its bridges, and its clear and rapid river, seemed, under the reflection of that northern light, of a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty. i felt like rambling all night. even though worn with three days' travel, it was with me as with a young lady at her first ball; the night was too short. i could not bear to throw it away in sleep. my companion was tough, and by no means sentimental, and the scene was familiar to him; but he told me that, even in his eyes, it never lost its interest. moonlight is something, but this glorious twilight is a thing to enjoy and to remember; and, as the colonel remarked when we sat down in his apartment to a comfortable supper, it always gave him such an appetite. after supper i walked through a long corridor to my apartment, threw myself upon my bed and tried to sleep, but the mellow twilight poured through my window and reproached me with the base attempt. i was not restless, but i could not sleep; lest, however, the reader should find himself of a different humour, i will consider myself asleep the first night in st. petersburgh. chapter vi. police requisites.--the russian capital.--equestrian statue of peter the great.--the alexandrine column.--architectural wonders.--the summer islands.--a perilous achievement.--origin of st. petersburgh.--tombs of dead monarchs.--origin of the russian navy. july fourth. i had intended to pass this day at moscow, and to commemorate it in napoleon style by issuing a bulletin from the kremlin, but it was a long time since i had heard from home. at constantinople i had written to paris, directing my letters to be sent to petersburgh, and, notwithstanding my late hours the night before, i was at the postoffice before the door was open. i had never been so long without hearing from home, and my lips quivered when i asked for letters, my hand shook when i received them, and i hardly drew breath until i had finished the last postscript. my next business was at the bureau of general police for a _carte de sejour_, without which no stranger can remain in st. petersburgh. as usual, i was questioned as to my reasons for coming into russia; age, time of sojourn, destination, &c.; and, satisfied that i had no intention of preaching democratic doctrines or subverting the government of the autocrat, i received permission to remain two weeks, which, according to direction, i gave to my landlord to be entered at the police-office of his district. as no stranger can stay in petersburgh without permission, neither can he leave without it; and, to obtain this, he must advertise three times in the government gazette, stating his name, address, and intention of leaving the empire; and as the gazette is only published twice a week, this formality occupies eight days. one of the objects of this is to apprize his creditors, and give them an opportunity of securing their debts; and few things show the barbarity and imperfect civilization of the russians more clearly than this; making it utterly impossible for a gentleman to spend a winter in st. petersburgh and go away without paying his landlord. this must prevent many a soaring spirit from wending its way hither, and keep the residents from being enlivened by the flight of those birds of passage which dazzle the eyes of the denizens of other cities. as there was no other way of getting out of the dominions of the czar, i caused my name and intention to be advertised. it did not create much of a sensation; and though it was proclaimed in three different languages, no one except my landlord seemed to feel any interest in it. after all, to get in debt is the true way to make friends; a man's creditors always feel an interest in him; hope no misfortune may happen to him, and always wish him prosperity and success. these formalities over, i turned to other things. different from every other principal city i had visited, st. petersburgh had no storied associations to interest the traveller. there is no colosseum, as at rome; no acropolis, as at athens; no rialto, as at venice; and no kremlin, as at moscow; nothing identified with the men and scenes hallowed in our eyes, and nothing that can touch the heart. it depends entirely upon itself for the interest it creates in the mind of the traveller. st. petersburgh is situated at the mouth of the neva, at the eastern extremity of the gulf of finland. it is built partly on islands formed by the neva, and partly on both sides of that river. but little more than a century ago, the ground now covered with stately palaces consisted of wild morasses and primeval forests, and a few huts tenanted by savage natives, who lived upon the fish of the sea. in seventeen hundred and three peter the great appeared as a captain of grenadiers under the orders of one of his own generals, on the wild and dreary banks of the neva, drove the swedes from their fortress at its mouth, cut down the forests on the rude islands of the river, and laid the foundations of a city which now surpasses in architectural magnificence every other in the world. i do not believe that rome, when adrian reared the mighty colosseum, and the palace of the cæsars covered the capitoline hill, exhibited such a range of noble structures as now exists in the admiralty quarter. the admiralty itself is the central point, on one side fronting the neva, and on the other a large open square, and has a façade of marble, with ranges of columns, a quarter of a mile in length. a beautiful golden spire shoots up from the centre, towering above every other object, and seen from every part of the city glittering in the sun; and three principal streets, each two miles in length, radiate from this point. in front is a range of boulevards, ornamented with trees, and an open square, at one extremity of which stands the great church of st. isaac, of marble, jasper, and porphyry, upon a foundation of granite; it has been once destroyed, and reared again with increased splendour, enormous columns of a single block of red granite already lifting their capitals in the air. on the right of the façade, and near the isaac bridge, itself a magnificent structure, a thousand and fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, with two drawbridges, stands the well-known equestrian statue of peter the great. the huge block of granite forming the pedestal is fifteen hundred tons in weight. the height of the figure of the emperor is eleven feet, that of the horse seventeen feet, and the weight of the metal in the group nearly thirty-seven thousand pounds. both the idea and the execution of this superb monument are regarded as masterpieces of genius. to immortalize the enterprise and personal courage with which that extraordinary man conquered all difficulties and converted a few fishermen's huts into palaces, peter is represented on a fiery steed, rushing up a steep and precipitous rock to the very brink of a precipice; the horse rears with his fore feet in the air, and seems to be impatient of restraint, while the imperial rider, in an attitude of triumph, extends the hand of protection over his capital rising out of the waters. to aid the inspiration of the artist, a russian officer, the boldest rider of his time, daily rode the wildest arabian of count orloff's stud to the summit of a steep mound, where he halted him suddenly, with his forelegs raised pawing the air over the brink of the precipice. the monument is surrounded by an iron railing, and the pedestal bears the simple inscription, petro primo, catharina secunda, mdcclxxxii. on the other side of the square, and in front of the winter palace, raised within the last two years, and the most gigantic work of modern days, rivalling those magnificent monuments in the old world whose ruins now startle the wondering traveller, and towering to the heavens, as if to proclaim that the days of architectural greatness are not gone by for ever, is the great alexandrine column, a single shaft of red granite, exclusive of pedestal and capital, eighty-four feet high. on the summit stands an angel holding a cross with the left hand, and pointing to heaven with the right. the pedestal contains the simple inscription, "to alexander i. grateful russia." [illustration: column of alexander i.] surrounding this is a crescent of lofty buildings, denominated the etat major, its central portion having before it a majestic colonnade of the corinthian order, placed on a high rustic basement, with a balustrade of solid bronze gilt between the columns. in the middle is a triumphal arch, which, with its frieze, reaches nearly to the upper part of the lofty building, having a span of seventy feet, the entablature sculptured with military trophies, allegorical figures, and groups in alto relievo. next on a line with the admiralty, and fronting the quay, stands the first of a long range of imperial palaces, extending in the form of a crescent for more than a mile along the neva. the winter palace is a gigantic and princely structure, built of marble, with a façade of seven hundred and forty feet. next are the two palaces of the hermitage, connected with it and with each other by covered galleries on bold arches; the beautiful and tasteful fronts of these palaces are strangely in contrast with their simple and unpretending name. next is the stately grecian theatre of the hermitage. beyond this are the barracks of the guards, then the palace of the french ambassador, then the marble palace built by catharine ii. for her favourite, prince orloff, with a basement of granite and superstructure of bluish marble, ornamented with marble columns and pillars. in this palace died stanislaus poniatowsky, the last of the polish sovereigns. this magnificent range, presenting an uninterrupted front of marble palaces upward of a mile in length, unequalled in any city in the world, is terminated by an open square, in which stands a colossal statue of suwarrow; beyond this, still on the neva, is the beautiful summer garden fronting the palace of paul ii.; and near it, and at the upper end of the square, is the palace of the grand-duke michael. opposite is the citadel, with its low bastions of solid granite, washed all around by the neva; beautiful in its structure, and beautifully decorated by the tall, slender, and richly gilded spire of its church. on the one side of the admiralty is the senatorial palace, and beyond opens the english quay, with a range of buildings that might well be called the residence of "merchant princes;" while the opposite bank is crowded with public buildings, among which the most conspicuous are the palace of the academy of the fine arts; the obelisk, rising in the centre of a wide square, recording the glory of some long-named russian hero; the building of the naval cadet corps, with its handsome front, and the barracks of the guard of finland; finally, the great pile of palace-like buildings belonging to the military cadet corps, reaching nearly to the palace of the academy of sciences, and terminating with the magnificent grecian front of the exchange. i know that a verbal description can give but a faint idea of the character of this scene, nor would it help the understanding of it to say that it exhibits all that wealth and architectural skill can do, for few in our country know what even these powerful engines can effect; as for myself, hardly noting the details, it was my greatest delight to walk daily to the bridge across the neva, at the summer gardens, the view from which more than realized all the crude and imperfect notions of architectural magnificence that had ever floated through my mind; a result that i had never found in any other city i had yet seen, not excepting venice the rich or genoa the proud, although the latter is designated in guide-books the city of palaces. next to the palaces in solidity and beauty of structure are the bridges crossing the neva, and the magnificent quays along its course, these last being embankments of solid granite, lining the stream on either side the whole length of its winding course through the city. i was always at a loss whether to ride or walk in st. petersburgh; sometimes i mounted a drosky and rode up and down the newski perspective, merely for the sake of rolling over the wooden pavement. this street is perhaps more than twice as wide as broadway; the gutter is in the middle, and on each side are wooden pavements wide enough for vehicles to pass each other freely. the experiment of wooden pavements was first made in this street, and found to answer so well that it has since been introduced into many others; and as the frost is more severe than with us, and it has stood the test of a russian winter, if rightly constructed it will, no doubt, prove equally successful in our own city. the road is first covered with broken stone, or macadamized; then logs are laid across it, the interstices being filled up with sand and stone, and upon this are placed hexagonal blocks of pine about eighteen inches long, fitted like joiner's work, fastened with long pegs, and covered with a preparation of melted lead. when i left paris i had no expectation of travelling in russia, and, consequently, had no letter of introduction to mr. wilkins, our minister; but, long before reaching st. petersburgh, i had made it a rule, immediately on my arrival in a strange place, to call upon our representative, whatever he might be, from a minister plenipotentiary down to a little greek consul. i did so here, and was probably as well received upon my own introduction as if i had been recommended by letter; for i got from mr. wilkins the invitation to dinner usually consequent upon a letter, and besides much interesting information from home, and, more than all, a budget of new-york newspapers. it was a long time since i had seen a new-york paper, and i hailed all the well-known names, informed myself of every house to let, every vessel to sail, all the cotton in market, and a new kind of shaving-soap for sale at hart's bazar; read with particular interest the sales of real estate by james bleecker and sons; wondered at the rapid increase of the city in creating a demand for building lots in one hundred and twenty-seventh street, and reflected that some of my old friends had probably grown so rich that they would not recognise me on my return. having made arrangements for the afternoon to visit the summer islands, i dined with my friend the colonel, in company with prince ---- (i have his name in my pocketbook, written by himself, and could give a facsimile of it, but i could not spell it). the prince was about forty-five, a high-toned gentleman, a nobleman in his feelings, and courtly in his manners, though, for a prince, rather out at elbows in fortune. the colonel and he had been fellow-soldiers, had served in the guards during the whole of the french invasion, and entered paris with the allied armies as officers in the same regiment. like most of the russian seigneurs, they had run through their fortunes in their military career. the colonel, however, had been set up again by an inheritance from a deceased relative, but the prince remained ruined. he was now living upon a fragment saved from the wreck of his estate, a pension for his military services, and the bitter experience acquired by a course of youthful extravagance. like many of the reduced russian seigneurs, he was disaffected toward the government, and liberal in politics; he was a warm admirer of liberal institutions, had speculated upon and studied them both in france and america, and analyzed understandingly the spirit of liberty as developed by the american and french revolutions; when he talked of washington, he folded his hands and looked up to heaven, as if utterly unable to express the fulness of his emotions. with us, the story of our revolution is a hackneyed theme, and even the sacred name of washington has become almost commonplace; but the freshness of feeling with which the prince spoke of him invested him in my eyes with a new and holy character. after dinner, and while on our way to the summer islands, we stopped at his apartments, when he showed me the picture of washington conspicuous on the wall; under it, by way of contrast, was that of napoleon; and he summed up the characters of both in few words, by saying that the one was all for himself, the other all for his country. the summer islands on sundays and fête days are the great promenade of the residents of the capital, and the approach to them is either by land or water. we preferred the latter, and at the admiralty took a boat on the neva. all along the quay are flights of steps cut in the granite, and descending to a granite platform, where boats are constantly in attendance for passengers. these boats are fantastically painted, and have the stern raised some three or four feet; sometimes they are covered with an awning. the oar is of disproportionate thickness toward the handle, the blade very broad, always feathered in rowing, and the boatman, in his calico or linen shirt and pantaloons, his long yellowish beard and mustaches, looks like anything but the gondolier of venice. in passing down the neva i noticed, about half way between low-water mark and the top of the quay, a ring which serves to fasten vessels, and is the mark, to which if the water rises, an inundation may be expected. the police are always on the watch, and the fearful moment is announced by the firing of cannon, by the display of white flags from the admiralty steeple by day, and by lanterns and the tolling of the bells at night. in the last dreadful inundation of eighteen hundred and twenty-four, bridges were swept away, boats floated in some parts of the town above the tops of the houses, and many villages were entirely destroyed. at cronstadt, a vessel of one hundred tons was left in the middle of one of the principal streets; eight thousand dead bodies were found and buried, and probably many thousands more were hurried on to the waters of the gulf of finland. it was a fête day in honour of some church festival, and a great portion of the population of st. petersburgh was bending its way toward the summer islands. the emperor and empress were expected to honour the promenade with their presence, and all along the quay boats were shooting out loaded with gay parties, and, as they approached the islands, they formed into a fleet, almost covering the surface of the river. we were obliged to wait till perhaps a dozen boats had discharged their passengers before we could land. these islands are formed by the branches of the neva, at about three versts from st. petersburgh. they are beautifully laid out in grass and gravel-walks, ornamented with trees, lakes, shrubs, and flowers, connected together by light and elegant bridges, and adorned with beautiful little summer-houses. these summer-houses are perfectly captivating; light and airy in their construction, and completely buried among the trees. as we walked along we heard music or gentle voices, and now and then came upon a charming cottage, with a beautiful lawn or garden, just enough exposed to let the passer-by imagine what he pleased; and on the lawn was a light fanciful tent, or an arbour hung with foliage, under which the occupants, with perhaps a party of friends from the city, were taking tea, and groups of rosy children were romping around them, while thousands were passing by and looking on, with as perfect an appearance of domestic _abandon_ as if in the privacy of the fireside. i have sometimes reproached myself that my humour changed with every passing scene; but, inasmuch as it generally tended toward at least a momentary satisfaction, i did not seek to check it; and though, from habit and education, i would have shrunk from such a family exhibition, here it was perfectly delightful. it seemed like going back to a simpler and purer age. the gay and smiling faces seemed to indicate happy hearts; and when i saw a mother playing on the green with a little cherub daughter, i felt how i hung upon the community, a loose and disjointed member, and would fain have added myself to some cheerful family group. a little farther on, however, i saw a papa flogging a chubby urchin, who drowned with his bellowing the music from a neighbouring arbour, which somewhat broke the charm of this public exhibition of scenes of domestic life. besides these little retiring-places or summer residences of citizens, restaurants and houses of refreshments were distributed in great abundance, and numerous groups were sitting under the shade of trees or arbours, taking ices or refreshments; and the grounds for promenade were so large and beautifully disposed, that, although thousands were walking through them, there was no crowd, except before the door of a principal refectory, where a rope-dancer was flourishing in the air among the tops of the trees. in addition to the many enchanting retreats and summer residences created by the taste, luxury, and wealth of private individuals, there are summer theatres and imperial villas. but the gem of the islands is the little imperial palace at cammenoi. i have walked through royal palaces, and admired their state and magnificence without one wish to possess them, but i felt a strong yearning toward this imperial villa. it is not so grand and stately as to freeze and chill one, but a thing of extraordinary simplicity and elegance, in a beautifully picturesque situation, heightened by a charming disposition of lawn and trees, so elegant, and, if i may add such an unpoetical word in the description of this imperial residence, so comfortable, that i told the prince if i were a rasselas escaped from the happy valley, i would look no farther for a resting-place. the prince replied that in the good old days of russian barbarism, when a queen swayed the sceptre, russia had been a great field for enterprising and adventurous young men, and in more than one instance a palace had been the reward of a favourite. we gave a sigh to the memory of those good old days, and at eleven o'clock returned to the city on the top of an omnibus. the whole road from the summer islands and the great street leading to the admiralty were lighted with little glass lamps, arranged on the sidewalks about six feet apart, but they almost realized the conceit of illuminating the sun by hanging candles around it, seeming ashamed of their own sickly glare and struggling vainly with the glorious twilight. the next morning the valet who had taken me as his master, and who told others in the house that he could not attend to them, as he was in my service, informed me that a traveller arrived from warsaw the night before had taken apartments in the same hotel, and could give me all necessary information in regard to that route; and, after breakfast, i sent him, with my compliments, to ask the traveller if he would admit me, and shortly after called myself. he was a young man, under thirty, above the middle size, strong and robust of frame, with good features, light complexion, but very much freckled, a head of extraordinary red hair, and a mustache of the same brilliant colour; and he was dressed in a coloured stuff morning-gown, and smoking a pipe with an air of no small dignity and importance. i explained the purpose of my visit, and he gave me as precise information as could possibly be had; and the most gratifying part of the interview was, that before we separated he told me that he intended returning to warsaw in about ten days, and would be happy to have me bear him company. i gladly embraced his offer, and left him, better pleased with the result of my interview than i had expected from his rather unprepossessing appearance. he was a frenchman by descent, born in belgium, and educated and resident in poland, and possessed in a striking degree the compounded amor patriæ incident to the relationship in which he stood to these three countries. but, as i shall be obliged to speak of him frequently hereafter, i will leave him for the present to his morning-gown and pipe. well pleased with having my plans arranged, i went out without any specific object, and found myself on the banks of the neva. directly opposite the winter palace, and one of the most conspicuous objects on the whole line of the neva, is the citadel or old fortress, and, in reality, the foundation of the city. i looked long and intently on the golden spire of its church, shooting toward the sky and glittering in the sun. this spire, which rises tapering till it seems almost to fade away into nothing, is surmounted by a large globe, on which stands an angel supporting a cross. this angel, being made of corruptible stuff, once manifested symptoms of decay, and fears were entertained that he would soon be numbered with the fallen. government became perplexed how to repair it, for to raise a scaffolding to such a height would cost more than the angel was worth. among the crowd which daily assembled to gaze at it from below was a roofer of houses, who, after a long and silent examination, went to the government and offered to repair it without any scaffolding or assistance of any kind. his offer was accepted; and on the day appointed for the attempt, provided with nothing but a coil of cords, he ascended inside to the highest window, and, looking for a moment at the crowd below and at the spire tapering away above him, stood up on the outer ledge of the window. the spire was covered with sheets of gilded copper, which, to beholders from below, presented only a smooth surface of burnished gold; but the sheets were roughly laid, and fastened by large nails, which projected from the sides of the spire. he cut two pieces of cord, and tied loops at each end of both, fastened the upper loops over two projecting nails, and stood with his feet in the lower; then, clinching the fingers of one hand over the rough edges of the sheets of copper, raised himself till he could hitch one of the loops on a higher nail with the other hand; he did the same for the other loop, and so he raised one leg after the other, and at length ascended, nail by nail, and stirrup by stirrup, till he clasped his arms around the spire directly under the ball. here it seemed impossible to go any farther, for the ball was ten or twelve feet in circumference, with a smooth and glittering surface, and no projecting nails, and the angel was above the ball, as completely out of sight as if it were in the habitation of its prototypes. but the daring roofer was not disheartened. raising himself in his stirrups, he encircled the spire with a cord, which he tied round his waist; and, so supported, leaned gradually back until the soles of his feet were braced against the spire, and his body fixed almost horizontally in the air. in this position he threw a cord over the top of the ball, and threw it so coolly and skilfully that at the first attempt it fell down on the other side, just as he wanted it; then he drew himself up to his original position, and, by means of his cord, climbed over the smooth sides of the globe, and in a few moments, amid thunders of applause from the crowd below, which at that great height sounded only like a faint murmur, he stood by the side of the angel. after attaching a cord to it he descended, and the next day carried up with him a ladder of ropes, and effected the necessary repairs. but to return. with my eyes fixed upon the spire, i crossed the bridge and entered the gate of the fortress. it is built on a small island, fortified by five bastions, which, on the land side, are mere ramparts connected with st. petersburgh quarter by drawbridges, and on the river side it is surrounded by walls cased with granite, in the centre of which is a large gate or sallyport. as a fortress, it is now useless; but it is a striking object of embellishment to the river, and an interesting monument in the history of the city. peter himself selected this spot for his citadel and the foundation of his city. at that time it contained two fishing-huts in ruins, the only original habitations on the island. it was necessary to cut down the trees, and elevate the surface of the island with dirt and stone brought from other places before he commenced building the fortress; and the labour of the work was immense, no less than forty thousand workmen being employed at one time. soldiers, swedish prisoners, ingrians, carelians, and cossacks, tartars and calmucs, were brought from their distant solitudes to lay the foundation of the imperial city, labouring entirely destitute of all the comforts of life, sleeping on the damp ground and in the open air, often without being able, in that wilderness, to procure their daily meal; and, moreover, without pickaxes, spades, or other instruments of labour, and using only their bare hands for digging; but, in spite of all this, the work advanced with amazing rapidity, and in four months the fortress was completed. the principal objects of interest it now contains are the imperial mint and the cathedral of st. peter and st. paul. brought up in a community where "making money" is the great business of life, i ought, perhaps, to have entered the former, but i turned away from the ingots of gold and silver, and entered the old church, the burial-place of peter the great, and nearly all the czars and czarinas, emperors and empresses, since his time. around the walls were arranged flags and banners, trophies taken in war, principally from the turks, waving mournfully over the tombs of the dead. a sombre light broke through the lofty windows, and i moved directly to the tomb of peter. it is near the great altar, of plain marble, in the shape of a square coffin, without any ornament but a gold plate, on one end of which are engraved his name and title; and at the moment of my entrance an old russian was dusting it with a brush. it was with a mingled feeling of veneration and awe that i stood by the tomb of peter. i had always felt a profound admiration for this extraordinary man, one of those prodigies of nature which appear on the earth only once in many centuries; a combination of greatness and cruelty, the sternness of whose temper spared neither age nor sex, nor the dearest ties of kindred; whose single mind changed the face of an immense empire and the character of millions, and yet who often remarked with bitter compunction, "i can reform my people, but i cannot reform myself." by his side lies the body of his wife, catharine i., the beautiful livonian, the daughter of a peasant girl, and the wife of a common soldier, who, by a wonderful train of events, was raised to wield the sceptre of a gigantic empire. her fascination soothed the savage peter in his moodiest hours. she was the mediatrix between the stern monarch and his subjects; mercy was ever on her lips, and one who knew her well writes what might be inscribed in letters of gold upon her tomb: "she was a pretty, well-looked woman, but not of that sublimity of wit, or, rather, that quickness of imagination which some people have supposed. the great reason why the czar was so fond of her was her exceeding good temper; she never was seen peevish or out of humour; obliging and civil to all, and never forgetful of her former condition, and withal mighty grateful." near their imperial parents lie the bodies of their two daughters, anne of holstein and the empress elizabeth. peter, on his deathbed, in an interval of delirium, called to him his daughter anne, as it was supposed, with the intention of settling upon her the crown, but suddenly relapsed into insensibility; and anne, brought up in the expectation of two crowns, died in exile, leaving one son, the unfortunate peter iii. elizabeth died on the throne, a motley character of goodness, indolence, and voluptuousness, and extremely admired for her great personal attractions. she was never married, but, as she frequently owned to her confidants, never happy but when in love. she was so tender of heart that she made a vow to inflict no capital punishment during her reign; shed tears upon the news of every victory gained by her troops, from the reflection that it could not have been gained without bloodshed, and would never give her consent for the execution of a felon, however deserving; and yet she condemned two noble ladies, one of them the most beautiful woman in russia, to receive fifty strokes of the knout in the open square of st. petersburgh. i strolled for a few moments among the other imperial sepulchres, and returned to the tombs of peter's family. separate monuments are erected over their bodies, all in the shape of large oblong tombstones, ornamented with gold, and enclosed by high iron railings. as i leaned against the railing of peter's tomb, i missed one member of his imperial family. it was an awful chasm. where was his firstborn child and only son? the presumptive heir of his throne and empire? early the object of his unnatural prejudice, excluded from the throne, imprisoned, tortured, tried, condemned, sentenced to death by the stern decree of his offended father! the ill-starred alexius lies in the vaults of the church, in the imperial sepulchre, but without any tomb or inscription to perpetuate the recollection of his unhappy existence. and there is something awful in the juxtaposition of the dead; he lies by the side of his unhappy consort, the amiable princess charlotte, who died the victim of his brutal neglect; so subdued by affliction that, in a most affecting farewell to peter, unwilling to disturb the tranquillity of her last hour, she never mentioned his name, and welcomed death as a release from her sufferings. leaving the church, i went to a detached building within the fortress, where is preserved, in a separate building, a four-oared boat, as a memorial of the origin of the russian navy. its history is interesting. about the year peter saw this boat at a village near moscow; and inquiring the cause of its being built differently from those he was in the habit of seeing, learned that it was contrived to go against the wind. under the direction of brandt, the dutch shipwright who built it, he acquired the art of managing it. he afterward had a large pleasure-yacht constructed after the same model, and from this beginning went on till he surprised all europe by a large fleet on the baltic and the black sea. twenty years afterward he had it brought up from moscow, and gave a grand public entertainment, which he called the consecration of the "little grandsire." the fleet, consisting of twenty-seven men-of-war, was arranged at cronstadt in the shape of a half moon. peter embarked in the little grandsire, himself steering, and three admirals and prince mendzikoff rowing, and made a circuit in the gulf, passing by the fleet, the ships striking their flags and saluting it with their guns, while the little grandsire returned each salute by a discharge of three small pieces. it was then towed up to st. petersburgh, where its arrival was celebrated by a masquerade upon the waters, and, peter again steering, the boat proceeded to the fortress, and under a discharge of all the artillery it was deposited where it now lies. returning, i took a bath in the neva. in bathing, as in everything else, the russians profit by the short breath of summer, and large public bathing-houses are stationed at intervals along the quay of the river, besides several smaller ones, tasteful and ornamental in appearance, being the private property of rich seigneurs. i went into one of the former, where a swimming-master was teaching a school of boys the art of swimming. the water of the neva was the first thing i had found regularly russian, that is, excessively cold; and though i bathed in it several times afterward, i always found it the same. at five o'clock i went to dine with mr. wilkins. he had broken up his establishment and taken apartments at the house of an english lady, where he lived much in the same style as at home. he had been at st. petersburgh but a short time, and, i believe, was not particularly well pleased with it, and was then making arrangements to return. i had never met with mr. wilkins in our own country, and i consider myself under obligations to him; for, not bringing him any letter, i stood an entire stranger in st. petersburgh, with nothing but my passport to show that i was an american citizen, and he might have even avoided the dinner, or have given me the dinner and troubled himself no more about me. but the politeness which he had shown me as a stranger increased to kindness; and i was in the habit of calling upon him at all times, and certainly without any expectation of ever putting him in print. we had at table a parti quarré, consisting of mr. wilkins, mr. gibson, who has been our consul, i believe, for twenty years, if, he being still a bachelor, it be not unfriendly to carry him back so far, and mr. clay, the secretary of legation, who had been twice left as chargé d'affaires at the imperial court, and was then lately married to an english lady in st. petersburgh. after dinner, three or four american merchants came in; and at eleven o'clock, having made an appointment to go with mr. wilkins and see a boatrace on the neva, mr. clay and i walked home along the quay, under that enchanting twilight which i have already so often thrust upon the reader, and which i only regret that i cannot make him realize and enjoy. chapter vii. a new friend.--the winter palace.--importance of a hat.--an artificial mine.--remains of a huge monster.--peter the great's workshop.--the greek religion.--tomb of a hero.--a saint militant.--another love affair.--the hermitage.--the winter and summer gardens. early in the morning, while at breakfast, i heard a loud knock at my door, which was opened without waiting for an answer, and in stalked a tall, stout, dashing-looking young man, with a blue frock, white pantaloons, and a vest of many colours, a heavy gold chain around his neck, an enormous indian cane in his hand, and a broad-brimmed hat brought down on one side, over his right eye in particular. he had a terrible scowl on his face, which seemed to be put on to sustain the dignity of his amazing costume, and he bowed on his entrance with as much _hauteur_ as if he meant to turn me out of my own room. i stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, when, putting his cane under his arm, and pulling off his hat, his intensely red head broke upon me with a blaze of beauty, and i recognised my friend and intended fellow-traveller, the french belgian pole, whom i had seen in an old morning-gown and slippers. i saw through my man at once; and speedily knocking in the head his overwhelming formality, came upon him with the old college salutation, asking him to pull off his clothes and stay a week; and he complied almost literally, for in less than ten minutes he had off his coat and waistcoat, cravat and boots, and was kicking up his heels on my bed. i soon discovered that he was a capital fellow, a great beau in his little town on the frontiers of poland, and one of a class by no means uncommon, that of the very ugly men who imagine themselves very handsome. while he was kicking his heels over the footboard, he asked me what we thought of red hair in america; and i told him that i could not undertake to speak the public voice, but that, for myself, i did not admire it as much as some people did, though, as to his, there was something striking about it, which was strictly true, for it was such an enormous mop that, as his head lay on the pillow, it looked like a bust set in a large red frame. all the time he held in his hand a pocket looking-glass and a small brush, with which he kept brushing his mustaches, giving them a peculiar twirl toward the ears. i told him that he was wrong about the mustache; and, taking the brush, brought them out of their twist, and gave them an inclination à la turque, recommending my own as a model; but he soon got them back to their place, and, rising, shook his gory locks and began to dress himself, or, as he said, to put himself in parchment for a walk. my new friend was for no small game, and proposed visiting some of the palaces. on the way he confided to me a conquest he had already made since his arrival; a beautiful young lady, of course, the daughter of an italian music-master, who resided directly opposite our hotel. he said he had applied for an apartment next to mine, which commanded a view of the window at which she sat, and asked me, as a friend, whether it would be interfering with me. having received my assurance that i had no intentions in that quarter, he said he would order his effects to be removed the same day. by this time we had arrived at the winter palace, presenting, as i have before remarked, a marble front on the neva of more than seven hundred feet, or as long as the side of washington square, and larger and more imposing than that of the tuileries or any other royal palace in europe. we approached the large door of entrance to this stately pile, and, notwithstanding my modest application, backed by my companion's dashing exterior, we were turned away by the imperial footman because we had not on dresscoats. we went home and soon returned equipped as the law of etiquette requires, and were admitted to the imperial residence. we ascended the principal story by the great marble staircase, remarkable for its magnificence and the grandeur of its architecture. there are nearly a hundred principal rooms on the first floor, occupying an area of four hundred thousand square feet, and forming almost a labyrinth of splendour. the great banqueting-hall is one hundred and eighty-nine feet by one hundred and ten, incrusted with the finest marble, with a row of columns at each end, and the side decorated with attached columns, rich gilding, and splendid mirrors. the great hall of st. george is one of the richest and most superb rooms on the continent, not excepting the pride of the tuileries or versailles. it is a parallelogram of one hundred and forty feet by sixty, decorated with forty fluted corinthian columns of porphyritic marble, with capitals and bases of bronze richly gilded, and supporting a gallery with a gilded bronze balustrade of exquisite workmanship. at one end, on a platform, is the throne, approached by a flight of eight steps, covered with the richest genoa velvet, embroidered with gold, with the double-headed eagle expanding his wings above it. the large windows on both sides are hung with the richest drapery, and the room is embellished by magnificent mirrors and colossal candelabra profusely gilded. we passed on to the _salle blanche_, which is nearly of the same dimensions, and beautifully chaste in design and finish. its elevation is greater, and the sides are decorated with pilasters, columns, and bas-reliefs of a soft white tint, without the least admixture of gaudy colours. the space between the hall of st. george and the _salle blanche_ is occupied as a gallery of national portraits, where the russians who distinguished themselves during the french invasion are exhibited in half-length portraits as rewards for their military services. the three field-marshals, kutuzow, barclay de tolly, and the duke of wellington, are represented at full length. the symbol which accompanies the hero of waterloo is that of imperishable strength, the british oak, "the triumpher of many storms." i will not carry the reader through all the magnificent apartments, but i cannot help mentioning the diamond room, containing the crowns and jewels of the imperial family. diamonds, rubies, and emeralds are arranged round the room in small cases, of such dazzling beauty that it is almost bewildering to look at them. i had already acquired almost a passion for gazing at precious stones. at constantinople i had wandered through the bazars, under the guidance of a jew, and seen all the diamonds collected and for sale in the capital of the east, but i was astonished at the brilliancy of this little chamber, and, in my strongly-awakened admiration, looked upon the miser who, before the degrading days of bonds and mortgages, converted his wealth into jewels and precious stones, as a man of elegant and refined taste. the crown of the emperor is adorned with a chaplet of oak-leaves made of diamonds of an extraordinary size, and the imperial sceptre contains one supposed to be the largest in the world, being the celebrated stone purchased by the empress catharine ii. from a greek slave for four hundred and fifty thousand rubles and a large pension for life. eighty thousand persons were employed in the construction of this palace; upward of two thousand habitually reside in it, and even a larger number when the emperor is in st. petersburgh. the imperial flag was then floating from the top of the palace, as an indication to his subjects of his majesty's presence in the capital; and about the time that his majesty sat down to his royal dinner we were working upon a cotelette de mouton, and drinking in vin ordinaire health and long life to nicolas the first; and afterward, in talking of the splendour of the imperial palace and the courtesy of the imperial footmen, we added health and long life to the lady autocrat and all the little autocrats.[ ] after dinner we took our coffee at the café chinois, on the newski perspective, equal, if not superior, in style and decoration to anything in paris. even the rules of etiquette in france are not orthodox all over the world. in paris it is not necessary to take off the hat on entering a café or restaurant, and in the south of france a frenchman will sit down to dinner next a lady with his head covered; but in russia, even on entering an apartment where there are only gentlemen, it is necessary to uncover the head. i neglected this rule from ignorance and want of attention, and was treated with rudeness by the proprietor, and afterward learned the cause, with the suggestion that it was fortunate that i had not been insulted. this is a small matter, but a man's character in a strange place is often affected by a trifling circumstance; and americans, at least i know it to be the case with myself, are, perhaps, too much in the habit of neglecting the minor rules of etiquette. that night my new friend had his effects removed to a room adjoining mine, and the next morning i found him sitting in his window with a book in his hand, watching the young lady opposite. he was so pleased with his occupation that i could not get him away, and went off without him. mr. wilkins having offered to accompany me to some of the public institutions, i called for him; and, finding him disengaged, we took a boat on the neva, and went first to the academy of arts, standing conspicuously on the right bank opposite the english quay, and, perhaps, the chastest and most classical structure in st. petersburgh. in the court are two noble egyptian sphynxes. a magnificent staircase, with a double flight of granite steps, leads to a grand landing-place with broad galleries around it, supporting, by means of ionic columns, the cupola, which crowns the whole. the rotunda is a fine apartment of exquisite proportions, decorated with statues and busts; and at the upper end of the conference-room stands a large table, at the head of which is a full-length portrait of nicolas under a rich canopy. in one room are a collection of models from the antique, and another of the paintings of native artists, some of which are considered as indicating extraordinary talent. from hence we went to the _hotel des mines_, where the name of the american minister procured us admission without the usual permit. the _hotel des mines_ was instituted by the great peter for the purpose of training a mining engineer corps, to explore scientifically the vast mineral resources of the empire, and also engineers for the army. like all the other public edifices, the building is grand and imposing, and the arrangement of the different rooms and galleries is admirable. in one room is a large collection of medals, and in another of coins. besides specimens of general mineralogy of extraordinary beauty, there are native iron from the lake olonetz, silver ore from tobolsk and gold sand from the oural mountains; and in iron-bound cases, beautifully ornamented, there is a rich collection of native gold, found either in the mines belonging to government or in those of individuals, one piece of which was discovered at the depth of three and a half feet in the sand, weighing more than twenty-four pounds. the largest piece of platinum in existence, from the mines of demidoff, weighing ten pounds, is here also; and, above all, a colossal specimen of amalachite weighing three thousand four hundred and fifty-six pounds, and, at the common average price of this combination of copper and carbonic acid, worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling. but the most curious part of this valuable repository is under ground, being a model of a mine in siberia. furnished with lighted tapers, we followed our guides through winding passages cut into the bowels of the earth, the sides of which represented, by the aggregation of real specimens, the various stratifications, with all the different ores, and minerals, and different species of earth, as they were found in the natural state; the coal formation, veins of copper, and in one place of gold, being particularly well represented, forming an admirable practical school for the study of geology, though under a chillness of atmosphere which would be likely very soon to put an end to studies of all kinds. from here we passed to the imperial academy of sciences, by far the most interesting part of our day's visiting. this, too, was founded by the great peter. i hardly know why, but i had already acquired a warm admiration for the stout old czar. there was nothing high or chivalric about him, but every step in russia, from the black sea to the baltic, showed me what he had done to advance the condition of his people. i knew all this as matter of history, but here i felt it as fact. we strolled through the mineralogical and zoological repositories, and stopped before the skeleton of that stupendous inhabitant of a former world, denominated the mammoth, whose fame had been carried over the waste of waters even to our distant country, and beside which even the skeletons of elephants looked insignificant. what was he? where did he live, and is his race extinct? it gave rise to a long train of interesting speculation, to endow him with life, and see him striding with gigantic steps, the living tenant of a former world; and more interesting still to question, as others had done, whether he was not, after all, one of a race of animals not yet extinct, and perhaps wandering even now within a short distance of the polar sea. there is also in this part of the museum a collection of anatomical specimens and of human monsters; an unpleasing exhibition, though, no doubt, useful to medical science; among them was a child with two heads from america. more interesting to me was a large collection of insects, of medals, and particularly of the different objects in gold found in the tumuli of siberia, consisting of bracelets, vases, crowns, bucklers, rings, sabres with golden hilts, tartar idols, &c., many of them of great value and of very elegant workmanship, which have given rise to much interesting speculation in regard to the character of the people who formerly inhabited that country. the asiatic museum contains a library of chinese, japanese, mongolese, and tibetan books and manuscripts; mohammedan, chinese, and japanese coins; an interesting assemblage of mongolese idols cut in bronze and gilded, and illustrating the religion of buddha. there is also an egyptian museum, containing about a thousand articles. the cabinet of curiosities contains figures of all the different people conquered under the government of russia, habited in their national costumes; also of chinese, persians, aleutans, carelians, and the inhabitants of many of the eastern, pacific, or northern islands discovered or visited by russian travellers and navigators, as well as of the different nations inhabiting siberia. but by far the most interesting part of the museum is the cabinet of peter himself, consisting of a suite of apartments, in which the old czar was in the habit of passing his leisure hours engaged in some mechanical employment. in one room are several brass cylinders turned by his own hands, and covered with battle-scenes of his own engraving. also an iron bar forged by him; bas-reliefs executed in copper, representing his desperate battles in livonia; an ivory chandelier of curious and highly-wrought workmanship, and a group in ivory representing abraham offering up his son isaac, the ram and the angel gabriel cut out entire. in another room is his workshop, containing a variety of vessels and models etched in copper, and a copperplate with an unfinished battle-scene. his tools and implements are strewed about the room precisely in the state in which he left them the last time he was there. in another chamber were the distended skin of his french body-servant, seven feet high; the arabian horse which he rode at the bloody battle of pultowa, and the two favourite dogs which always accompanied him; and in another the figure of the old czar himself in wax, as large as life; the features, beyond doubt, bearing the exact resemblance to the original, being taken from a cast applied to his face when dead, and shaded in imitation of his real complexion. the eyebrows and hair are black, the eyes dark, the complexion swarthy, and aspect stern. this figure is surrounded by the portraits of his predecessors, in their barbarian costumes, himself seated in an armchair in the same splendid dress which he wore when with his own hands he placed the imperial crown on the head of his beloved catharine. here, also, are his uniform of the guards, gorget, scarf, and sword, and hat shot through at the battle of pultowa; and the last thing which the guide put into my hands was a long stick measuring his exact height, and showing him literally a great man, being six russian feet. i must not forget a pair of shoes made by his own hands; but the old czar was no shoemaker. nevertheless, these memorials were all deeply interesting; and though i had seen the fruits of his labours from the black sea to the baltic, i never felt such a strong personal attraction to him as i did here. i was obliged to decline dining with mr. wilkins in consequence of an engagement with my friend the pole; and, returning, i found him at the window with a book in his hand, precisely in the same position in which i had left him. after dinner a servant came in and delivered a message, and he proposed a walk on the admiralty boulevards. it was the fashionable hour for promenade, and, after a turn or two, he discovered his fair enslaver, accompanied by her father and several ladies and gentlemen, one of whom seemed particularly devoted to her. she was a pretty little girl, and seemed to me a mere child, certainly not more than fifteen. his admiration had commenced on the boulevards the first afternoon of his arrival, and had increased violently during the whole day, while he was sitting at the window. he paraded me up and down the walk once or twice, and, when they had seated themselves on a bench, took a seat opposite. he was sure she was pleased with his admiration, but i could not see that her look indicated any very flattering acknowledgment. in fact, i could but remark that the eyes of the gentlemen were turned toward us quite as often as those of the lady, and suggested that, if he persisted, he would involve us in some difficulty with them; but he said there could not be any difficulty about it, for, if he offended them, he would give them satisfaction. as this view of the case did not hit my humour, i told him that, as i had come out with him, i would remain, but if he made any farther demonstrations, i should leave him, and, at all events, after that he must excuse me from joining his evening promenades. soon after they left the boulevards, and we returned to our hotel, where he entertained me with a history of his love adventures at home, and felicitations upon his good fortune in finding himself already engaged in one here. sunday. until the early part of the tenth century the religion of russia was a gross idolatry. in nine hundred and thirty-five, olga, the widow of igor the son of runic, sailed down the dnieper from kief, was baptized at constantinople, and introduced christianity into russia, though her family and nation adhered for a long time to the idolatry of their fathers. the great schism between the eastern and western churches had already taken place, and the christianity derived from constantinople was of course of the greek persuasion. the greek church believes in the doctrines of the trinity, but differs from the catholic in some refined and subtle distinction in regard to what is called the procession of the holy ghost. it enjoins the invocation of saints as mediators, and permits the use of pictures as a means of inspiring and strengthening devotion. the well-informed understand the use for which they are intended, but these form a very small portion of the community, and probably the great bulk of the people worship the pictures themselves. the clergy are, in general, very poor and very ignorant. the priests are not received at the tables of the upper classes, but they exercise an almost controlling influence over the lower, and they exhibited this influence in rousing the serfs against the french, which may be ascribed partly, perhaps, to feelings of patriotism, and partly to the certainty that napoleon would strip their churches of their treasures, tear down their monasteries, and turn themselves out of doors. but of the population of fifty-five millions, fifteen are divided into roman catholics, armenians, protestants, jews, and mohammedans, and among the caucasians, georgians, circassians, and mongol tribes nearly two millions are pagans or idolaters, brahmins, lamists, and worshippers of the sun. for a people so devout as the russians, the utmost toleration prevails throughout the whole empire, and particularly in st. petersburgh. churches of every denomination stand but a short distance apart on the newski perspective. the russian cathedral is nearly opposite the great catholic chapel; near them is the armenian, then the lutheran, two churches for dissenters, and a mosque for the mohammedans! and on sunday thousands are seen bending their steps to their separate churches, to worship according to the faith handed down to them by their fathers. early in the morning, taking with me a valet and joining the crowd that was already hurrying with devout and serious air along the newski perspective, i entered the cathedral of our lady of cazan, a splendid monument of architecture, and more remarkable as the work of a native artist, with a semicircular colonnade in front, consisting of one hundred and thirty-two corinthian columns thirty-five feet high, somewhat after the style of the great circular colonnade of st. peter's at rome, and surmounted by a dome crowned with a cross of exquisite workmanship, supported on a large gilded ball. within, fifty noble columns, each of one piece of solid granite from finland, forty-eight feet high and four feet in diameter, surmounted by a rich capital of bronze, and resting on a massive bronze base, support an arched roof richly ornamented with flowers in bas-relief. the jewels and decorations of the altar are rich and splendid, the doors leading to the sanctum sanctorum, with the railing in front, being of silver. as in the catholic churches, there are no pews, chairs, or benches, and all over the floor were the praying figures of the russians. around the walls were arranged military trophies, flags, banners, and the keys of fortresses wrested from the enemies of russia; but far more interesting than her columns, and colossal statues, and military trophies, is the tomb of the warrior kutuzow; simple, and remarkable for the appropriate warlike trophy over it, formed of french flags and the eagles of napoleon. admiration for heroism owns no geographical or territorial limits, and i pity the man who could stand by the grave of kutuzow without feeling it a sacred spot. the emperor alexander with his own hands took the most precious jewel from his crown and sent it to the warrior, with a letter announcing to him his elevation to the rank of prince of smolensko; but richer than jewels or principalities is the tribute which his countrymen pay at his tomb. the church of our lady of cazan contains another monument of barbarian patriotism. the celebrated leader of the cossacks during the period of the french invasion, having intercepted a great part of the booty which the french were carrying from moscow, sent it to the metropolitan or head of the church, with a characteristic letter, directing it to be "made into an image of the four evangelists, and adorn the church of the mother of god of cazan." the concluding paragraph is, "hasten to erect in the temple of god this monument of battle and victory; and while you erect it, say with thankfulness to providence, the enemies of russia are no more; the vengeance of god has overtaken them on the soil of russia; and the road they have gone has been strewed with their bones, to the utter confusion of their frantic and proud ambition." (signed) "platoff." from the church of our lady of cazan i went to the protestant church, where i again joined in an orthodox service. the interior of the church is elegant, though externally it can scarcely be distinguished from a private building. the seats are free, the men sitting on one side and the women on the other. mr. law, the clergyman, has been there many years, and is respected and loved by his congregation. after church i walked to the convent of alexander newski, the burial-place of prince alexander, who obtained in the thirteenth century a splendid victory over the allied forces of sweden, denmark, and livonia; afterward became a monk, and for his pure and holy life was canonized, and now ranks among the principal saints in the russian calendar. the warrior was first buried at moscow, but peter the great had his remains transported with great ceremony to this place, a procession of a thousand priests walking barefoot all the way. the monastery stands at the extreme end of the newski perspective, and within its precincts are several churches and a large cemetery. it is the residence of the distinguished prelates of the greek church and a large fraternity of monks. the dress of the monks is a loose black cloak and round black cap, and no one can be admitted a member until the age of thirty. we entered a grand portal, walked up a long avenue, and, crossing a bridge over a stream, worked our way between lines of the carriages of nobles and ladies, and crowds of the people in their best bell-crowned hats; and, amid a throng of miserable beggars, penetrated to the door of the principal church, a large and beautiful specimen of modern corinthian architecture. i remarked the great entrance, the lofty dome, the fresco paintings on the ceilings, and the arabesque decorations on the walls; the altar-piece of white carrara marble, paintings by rubens and vandyck, the holy door in the iconastos, raised on a flight of steps of rich gilded bronze, and surmounted by the representation of a dazzling aureola of different colored metals, and in the centre the initials of that awful name which none in israel save the initiated were permitted to pronounce. i walked around and paused before the tomb of the warrior saint. a sarcophagus or coffin of massive silver, standing on an elevated platform, ornamented in bas-relief, representing scenes of battles with the swedes, contains his relics; a rich ermine lies upon the coffin, and above is a silver canopy. on each side is a warrior clothed in armour, with his helmet, breastplate, shield, and spear also of massive silver. the altar rises thirty feet in height, of solid silver, with groups of military figures and trophies of warriors, also of silver, as large as life; and over it hangs a golden lamp, with a magnificent candelabrum of silver, together with a vessel of curious workmanship holding the bones of several holy men, the whole of extraordinary magnificence and costliness of material, upward of four thousand pounds weight of silver having been used in the construction of the chapel and shrine. the dead sleep the same whether in silver coffins or in the bare earth, but the stately character of the church, dimly lighted, and the splendour and richness of the material, gave a peculiar solemnity to the tomb of the warrior saint. leaving the churches, i strolled through the cloisters of the monastery and entered the great cemetery. there, as in the great cemetery of père la chaise at paris, all that respect, and love, and affection can do to honour the memory of the dead, and all that vanity and folly can do to ridicule it, have been accomplished. there are seen epitaphs of affecting brevity and elaborate amplification; every design, every device, figure, emblem, and decoration; every species of material, from native granite to carrara marble and pure gold. among the simpler tombs of poets, warriors, and statesmen, a monument of the most gigantic proportions is erected to snatch from oblivion the name of a rich russian merchant. the base is a solid cubic block of the most superb marble, on which is a solid pedestal of black marble ten feet square, bearing a sarcophagus fourteen feet high, and of most elegant proportions, surmounted by a gold cross twenty feet in height. at each of the four corners is a colossal candelabrum of cast iron, with entwining serpents of bronze gilded. the ground alone cost a thousand pounds, and the whole monument about twenty thousand dollars. near the centre of this asylum of the dead, a tetrastyle ionic temple of the purest white marble records the virtues of an interesting lady, the countess of potemkin, and alto relievos of the most exquisite execution on three sides of the temple tell the melancholy story of a mother snatched from three lovely children. the countess, prophetically conscious of her approaching fate, is looking up calmly and majestically to the figure of religion, and resting with confidence her left hand on the symbol of christianity. in front are the inscription and arms of the family in solid gold. but what are the russian dead to me? the granite and marble monument of the merchant is a conglomeration of hides, hemp, and tallow; a man may be excused if he linger a moment at the tomb of an interesting woman, a mother cut off in her prime; but melancholy is infectious, and induces drowsiness and closing of the book. in consideration for my valet, at the grand portal i took a drosky, rolled over the wooden pavement of the newski perspective, and, with hardly motion enough to disturb my revery, was set down at the door of my hotel. my pole was waiting to dine with me, and roused me from my dreams of the dead to recount his dreams of the living. all day he had sat at his window, and a few straggling glances from the lady opposite had abundantly rewarded him, and given him great spirits for his evening's promenade on the boulevards. i declined accompanying him, and he went alone, and returned in the evening almost in raptures. we strolled an hour by the twilight, and retired early. it will hardly be believed, but early the next morning he came to my room with a letter on fine pink paper addressed to his fair enslaver. the reader may remember that this was not the first time i had been made a confidant in an affaire du coeur. to be sure, the missionary at smyrna turned out to be crazy; and on this point, at least, my pole was a little touched; nevertheless, i listened to his epistle. it was the regular oldfashioned document, full of hanging, shooting, drowning, and other extravagances. he sealed it with an amatory device, and, calling up a servant in his confidence, told him to carry it over, and then took his place in my window to watch the result. in the mean time, finding it impossible to dislodge him, and that i could not count upon him to accompany me on my visits to the palaces as he had promised, i went to the hermitage alone. the great and little hermitages are connected with the winter palace and with each other by covered galleries, and the theatre is connected with the two hermitages by means of another great arch thrown over a canal, so that the whole present a continued line of imperial palaces, unequalled in extent in any part of europe, measuring one thousand five hundred and ninety-six feet, or one third of an english mile. if i were to select a building designed to realize the most extravagant notions of grandeur and luxury, it would be the gorgeous palace known under the modest name of the hermitage. i shall not attempt any description of the interior of this splendid edifice, but confine myself to a brief enumeration of its contents. i ascended by a spacious staircase to the anteroom, where i gave, or, rather, where my cane was demanded by the footman, and proceeded through a suite of magnificent rooms, every one surpassing the last, and richer in objects of the fine arts, science, and literature; embellished throughout by a profusion of the most splendid ornaments and furniture, and remarkable for beauty of proportion and variety of design. in rooms and galleries appropriated to the separate schools and masters are upward of thirteen hundred paintings by raphael, titian, guido, andrea del sarto, luca giordano, the caracci, perugino, corregio, and leonardi da vinci; here is also the best collection in existence, of pictures by wouvermans and teniers, with some of the masterpieces of rubens and vandyck, of the french claude, poussin, and vernet. the celebrated houghton collection is here, with a gallery of paintings of the spanish schools, many of them murillos. in one room is a superb vase of siberian jasper, of a lilac colour, five feet high, and of exquisite form and polish; in another are two magnificent candelabras, said to be valued at two hundred and twenty thousand rubles, or about fifty thousand dollars; i must mention also the great musical clock, representing an antique grecian temple, and containing within a combination of instruments, having the power of two orchestras, which accompany each other; two golden tripods, seven feet high, supporting the gold salvers on which salt and bread were exhibited to the emperor alexander on his triumphal return from paris, as emblems of wisdom and plenty, a large musical and magical secretary, which opens spontaneously in a hundred directions at the sound of music, purchased by the late emperor for eight hundred guineas; a room surrounded with books, some of which were originals, placed there by catharine for the use of the domestics, as she said, to keep the devil out of their heads; a saloon containing the largest collection of engravings and books of engravings in europe, amounting to upward of thirty thousand; a library of upward of one hundred and ten thousand volumes; an extensive cabinet of medals, and another of gems and pastes; a jewel-cabinet, containing the rich ornaments which have served for the toilettes of succeeding empresses, innumerable precious stones and pearls, many of extraordinary magnitude; a superb collection of antiques and cameos, amounting to upward of fifteen thousand, the cameos alone affording employment for days. in one room are curious works in ivory and fishbones, by the inhabitants of archangel, who are skilled in that species of workmanship; and in another is the celebrated clock, known by the name of l'horloge du paon. it is enclosed in a large glass case ten feet high, being the trunk of a golden tree, with its branches and leaves all of gold. on the top of the trunk sits a peacock, which, when the chimes begin, expands its brilliant tail, while an owl rolls its eyes with its own peculiar stare, and, instead of a bell striking the hours, a golden cock flaps his wings and crows. the clock is now out of order, and the machinery is so complicated that no artist has hitherto been able to repair it. but perhaps the most extraordinary and interesting of the wonders of the hermitage are the winter and summer gardens. as i strolled through the suites of apartments, and looked out through the windows of a long gallery, it was hardly possible to believe that the flourishing trees, shrubs, and flowers stood upon an artificial soil, raised nearly fifty feet above the surface of the earth. the winter garden is a large quadrangular conservatory, planted with laurels and orange trees, in which linnets and canary birds formerly flew about enjoying the freedom of nature; but the feathered tribe have disappeared. the summer garden connected with it is four hundred feet long; and here, suspended, as it were, in the air, near the top of the palace, i strolled along gravel-walks, and among parterres of shrubs and flowers growing in rich luxuriance, and under a thick foliage inhaled their delightful fragrance. it is idle to attempt a description of this scene. i returned to my pole, whom i found at his window with a melancholy and sentimental visage, his beautiful epistle returned upon his hands--having, in sportsman's phrase, entirely missed fire--and then lying with a most reproving look on his table. my friend had come up to st. petersburgh in consequence of a lawsuit, and as this occupied but a small portion of his time, he had involved himself in a lovesuit, and, so far as i could see, with about an equal chance of success in both. l'amour was the great business of his life, and he could not be content unless he had on hand what he called une affaire du coeur. footnote: [ ] the winter palace has since been destroyed by fire. the author has not seen any account of the particulars, but has heard that the contents of the diamond chamber were saved. chapter viii. an imperial fête.--nicolas of russia.--varied splendours.--a soliloquy.--house of peter the great.--a boatrace.--czarskoselo.--the amber chamber.--catharine ii.--the emperor alexander. the next day was that appointed for the great fête at peterhoff. in spite of the confining nature of his two suits, my pole had determined to accompany me thither, being prompted somewhat by the expectation of seeing his damsel; and, no way disheartened by the fate of his first letter, he had manufactured another, by comparison with which the first was an icicle. i admitted it to be a masterpiece, though when he gave it to a servant to carry over, as we were on the point of setting off, suggested that it might be worth while to wait and pick it up when she threw it out of the window. but he had great confidence, and thought much better of her spirit for sending back his first letter. the whole population of petersburgh was already in motion and on the way to peterhoff. it was expected that the fête would be more than usually splendid, on account of the presence of the queen of holland, then on a visit to her sister the empress; and at an early hour the splendid equipages of the nobility, carriages, droskys, telegas, and carts, were hurrying along the banks of the neva, while steamboats, sailboats, rowboats, and craft of every description were gliding on the bosom of the river. as the least trouble, we chose a steamboat, and at twelve o'clock embarked at the english quay. the boat was crowded with passengers, and among them was an old english gentleman, a merchant of thirty years' standing in st. petersburgh. i soon became acquainted with him, how i do not know, and his lady told me that the first time i passed them she remarked to her husband that i was an american. the reader may remember that a lady made the same remark at smyrna; without knowing exactly how to understand it, i mention it as a fact showing the nice discrimination acquired by persons in the habit of seeing travellers from different countries. before landing, the old gentleman told me that his boys had gone down in a pleasure-boat, abundantly provided with materials, and asked me to go on board and lunch with them, which, upon the invitation being extended to my friend, i accepted. peterhoff is about twenty-five versts from st. petersburgh, and the whole bank of the neva on that side is adorned with palaces and beautiful summer residences of the russian seigneurs. it stands at the mouth of the neva, on the borders of the gulf of finland. opposite is the city of cronstadt, the seaport of st. petersburgh and the anchorage of the russian fleet. it was then crowded with merchant ships of every nation, with flags of every colour streaming from their spars in honour of the day. on landing, we accompanied our new friends, and found "the boys," three fine young fellows just growing up to manhood, in a handsome little pleasure-boat, with a sail arranged as an awning, waiting for their parents. we were introduced and received with open arms, and sat down to a cold collation in good old english style, at which, for the first time since i left home, i fastened upon an oldfashioned sirloin of roastbeef. it was a delightful meeting for me. the old people talked to me about my travels; and the old lady particularly, with almost a motherly interest in a straggling young man, inquired about my parents, brothers, and sisters, &c.; and i made my way with the frankhearted "boys" by talking "boat." altogether, it was a regular home family scene; and, after the lunch, we left the old people under the awning, promising to return at nine o'clock for tea, and with "the boys" set off to view the fête. from the time when we entered the grounds until we left at three o'clock the next morning, the whole was a fairy scene. the grounds extended some distance along the shore, and the palace stands on an embankment perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, commanding a full view of the neva, cronstadt with its shipping, and the gulf of finland. we followed along the banks of a canal five hundred yards long, bordered by noble trees. on each side of the canal were large wooden frames about sixty feet high, filled with glass lamps for the illumination; and at the foot of each was another high framework with lamps, forming, among other things, the arms of russia, the double-headed eagle, and under it a gigantic star thirty or forty feet in diameter. at the head of the canal was a large basin of water, and in the centre of the basin stood a colossal group in brass, of a man tearing open the jaws of a rampant lion; and out of the mouth of the lion rushed a jet d'eau perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high. on each side of this basin, at a distance of about three hundred feet, was a smaller basin, with a jet d'eau in each about half its height, and all around were jets d'eau of various kinds, throwing water vertically and horizontally; among them i remember a figure larger than life, leaning forward in the attitude of a man throwing the discus, with a powerful stream of water rushing from his clinched fist. these basins were at the foot of the embankment on which stands the palace. in the centre was a broad flight of steps leading to the palace, and on each side was a continuous range of marble slabs to the top of the hill, over which poured down a sheet of water, the slabs being placed so high and far apart as to allow lamps to be arranged behind the water. all over, along the public walks and in retired alcoves, were frames hung with lamps; and everywhere, under the trees and on the open lawn, were tents of every size and fashion, beautifully decorated; many of them, oriental in style and elegance, were fitted up as places of refreshment. thousands of people, dressed in their best attire, were promenading the grounds, but no vehicles were to be seen, until, in turning a point, we espied at some distance up an avenue, and coming quietly toward us, a plain open carriage, with two horses and two english jockey outriders, in which were a gentleman and lady, whom, without the universal taking off of hats around us, i recognised at once as the emperor and empress. i am not apt to be carried away by any profound admiration for royalty, but, without consideration of their rank, i never saw a finer specimen of true gentility; in fact, he looked every inch a king, and she was my beau ideal of a queen in appearance and manners. they bowed as they passed, and, as i thought, being outside of the line of russians and easily recognised as a stranger, their courtesy was directed particularly to me; but i found that my companion took it very much to himself, and no doubt every long-bearded russian near us did the same. in justice to myself, however, i may almost say that i had a conversation with the emperor; for although his imperial highness did not speak to me, he spoke in a language which none but i (and the queen and his jockey outriders) understood; for, waving his hand to them, i heard him say in english, "to the right." after this _interview_ with his majesty we walked up to the palace. the splendid regiments of cavalier guards were drawn up around it, every private carrying himself like a prince; and i did not admire all his palaces, nor hardly his queen, so much as this splendid body of armed followers. behind the palace is a large plain cut up into gravel-walks, having in one place a basin of water, with waterworks of various kinds, among which were some of peculiar beauty falling in the form of a semiglobe. a little before dark we retired to a refectory under a tent until the garden was completely lighted up, that we might have the full effect of the illumination at one coup d'oeil, and, when we went out, the dazzling brilliancy of the scene within the semicircular illumination around the waterworks was beyond description. this semicircular framework enclosed in a large sweep the three basins, and terminated at the embankment on which the palace stands, presenting all around an immense fiery scroll in the air, sixty or eighty feet high, and filled with all manner of devices; and for its background a broad sheet of water falling over a range of steps, with lighted lamps behind it, forming an illuminated cascade, while the basins were blazing with the light thrown upon them from myriads of lamps, and the colossal figures of a reddened and unearthly hue were spouting columns of water into the air. more than two hundred thousand people were supposed to be assembled in the garden, in every variety of gay, brilliant, and extraordinary costume. st. petersburgh was half depopulated, and thousands of peasants were assembled from the neighbouring provinces. i was accidentally separated from all my companions; and, alone among thousands, sat down on the grass, and for an hour watched the throng passing through the illuminated circle, and ascending the broad steps leading toward the palace. among all this immense crowd there was no rabble; not a dress that could offend the eye; but intermingled with the ordinary costumes of europeans were the russian shopkeeper, with his long surtout, his bell-crowned hat, and solemn beard; cossacks, and circassian soldiers, and calmuc tartars, and cavalier guards, hussars, with the sleeves of their rich jackets dangling loose over their shoulders, tossing plumes, and helmets glittering with steel, intermingled throughout with the gay dresses of ladies; while near me, and, like me, carelessly stretched on the grass, under the light of thousands of lamps, was a group of peasants from finland fiddling and dancing; the women with light hair, bands around their heads, and long jackets enwrapping their square forms, and the men with long greatcoats, broad-brimmed hats, and a bunch of shells in front. leaving this brilliant scene, i joined the throng on the steps, and by the side of a splendid hussar, stooping his manly figure to whisper in the ears of a lovely young girl, i ascended to the palace and presented my ticket of admission to the bal masqué, so called from their being no masks there. i had not been presented at court, and, consequently, had only admission to the outer apartments with the people. i had, however, the range of a succession of splendid rooms, richly decorated with vases and tazzas of precious stones, candelabra, couches, ottomans, superb mirrors, and inlaid floors; and the centre room, extending several hundred feet in length, had its lofty walls covered to the very ceilings with portraits of all the female beauties in russia about eighty years ago. i was about being tired of gazing at these pictures of long-sleeping beauties, when the great doors at one end were thrown open, and the emperor and empress, attended by the whole court, passed through on their way to the banqueting-hall. although i had been in company with the emperor before in the garden, and though i had taken off my hat to the empress, both passed without recognising me. the court at st. petersburgh is admitted to be the most brilliant in europe; the dresses of the members of the diplomatic corps and the uniforms of the general and staff-officers being really magnificent, while those of the ladies sparkled with jewels. besides the emperor and empress, the only acquaintance i recognised in that constellation of brilliantly-dressed people were mr. wilkins and mr. clay, who, for republicans, made a very fair blaze. i saw them enter the banqueting-hall, painted in oriental style to represent a tent, and might have had the pleasure of seeing the emperor and empress and all that brilliant collection eat; but, turning away from a noise that destroyed much of the illusion, viz., the clatter of knives and forks, and a little piqued at the cavalier treatment i had received from the court circles, i went out on the balcony and soliloquized, "fine feathers make fine birds; but look back a little, ye dashing cavaliers and supercilious ladies. in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a french traveller in russia wrote that 'most men treat their wives as a necessary evil, regarding them with a proud and stern eye, and even beating them after.' dr. collins, physician to the czar in , as an evidence of the progress of civilization in russia, says that the custom of tying up wives by the hair of the head and flogging them 'begins to be left off;' accounting for it, however, by the prudence of parents, who made a stipulative provision in the marriage contract that their daughters were not to be whipped, struck, kicked, &c. but, even in this improved state of society, one man 'put upon his wife a shirt dipped in ardent spirits, and burned her to death,' and was not punished, there being, according to the doctor, 'no punishment in russia for killing a wife or a slave.' when no provision was made in the marriage contract, he says they were accustomed to discipline their wives very severely. at the marriage the bridegroom had a whip in one boot and a jewel in the other, and this poor girl tried her fortune by choosing. 'if she happens upon the jewel,' says another traveller, 'she is lucky; but if on the whip, she gets it.' the bridegroom rarely saw his companion's face till after the marriage, when, it is said, 'if she be ugly she pays for it soundly, maybe the first time he sees her.' ugliness being punished with the whip, the women painted to great excess; and a traveller in sixteen hundred and thirty-six saw the grand duchess and her ladies on horseback astride, 'most wickedly bepainted.' the day after a lady had been at an entertainment, the hostess was accustomed to ask how she got home; and the polite answer was, 'your ladyship's hospitality made me so tipsy that i don't know how i got home;' and for the climax of their barbarity it can scarcely be believed, but it is recorded as a fact, that the women did not begin to wear stays till the beginning of the present century!" soothed by these rather ill-natured reflections, i turned to the illuminated scene and the thronging thousands below, descended once more to the garden, passed down the steps, worked my way through the crowd, and fell into a long avenue, like all the rest of the garden, brilliantly lighted, but entirely deserted. at the end of the avenue i came to an artificial lake, opposite which was a small square two-story cottage, being the old residence of peter the great, the founder of all the magnificence of peterhoff. it was exactly in the style of our ordinary country houses, and the furniture was of a simplicity that contrasted strangely with the surrounding luxury and splendour. the door opened into a little hall, in which were two oldfashioned dutch mahogany tables, with oval leaves, legs tapering and enlarging at the feet into something like a horseshoe; just such a table as every one may remember in his grandfather's house, and recalling to mind the simple style of our own country some thirty or forty years ago. in a room on one side was the old czar's bed, a low, broad wooden bedstead, with a sort of canopy over it, the covering of the canopy and the coverlet being of striped calico; the whole house, inside and out, was hung with lamps, illumining with a glare that was almost distressing the simplicity of peter's residence; and, as if to give greater contrast to this simplicity, while i was standing in the door of the hall, i saw roll by me in splendid equipages, the emperor and empress, with the whole of the brilliant court which i had left in the banqueting-hall, now making a tour of the gardens. the carriages were all of one pattern, long, hung low, without any tops, and somewhat like our omnibuses, except that, instead of the seats being on one side, there was a partition in the middle not higher than the back of a sofa, with large seats like sofas on each side, on which the company sat in a row, with their backs to each other; in front was a high and large box for the coachmen, and a footman behind. it was so light that i could distinguish the face of every gentleman and lady as they passed; and there was something so unique in the exhibition, that, with the splendour of the court dresses, it seemed the climax of the brilliant scenes at peterhoff. i followed them with my eyes till they were out of sight, gave one more look to the modest pillow on which old peter reposed his careworn head, and at about one o'clock in the morning left the garden. a frigate brilliantly illuminated was firing a salute, the flash of her guns lighting up the dark surface of the water as i embarked on board the steamboat. at two o'clock the morning twilight was like that of day; at three o'clock i was at my hotel, and, probably, at ten minutes past, asleep. about eight o'clock the next morning my pole came into my room. he had returned from peterhoff before me, and found waiting for him his second epistle, with a note from the mother of the young lady, which he read to me as i lay in bed. though more than half asleep, i was rather roused by the strange effect this letter had upon him, for he was now encouraged to go on with his suit, since he found that the backwardness of the young lady was to be ascribed to the influence of the mother, and not to any indifference on her part. in the afternoon i went to a boatrace between english amateurs that had excited some interest among the english residents. the boats were badly matched; a six-oared boat thirty-two feet long, and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, being pitted against three pairs of sculls, with a boat twenty-eight feet long and weighing only one hundred and eight pounds. one belonged to the english legation and the other to some english merchants. the race was from the english quay to the bridge opposite the suwarrow monument at the foot of the summer garden, and back, a little more than two miles each way. the rapidity of the current was between two and three miles an hour, though its full strength was avoided by both boats keeping in the eddies along shore. it was a beautiful place for a boatrace; the banks of the neva were lined with spectators, and the six-oared boat beat easily, performing the distance in thirty-one minutes. the next morning, in company with a frenchman lately arrived at our hotel, i set out for the imperial palace of czarskoselo, about seventeen versts from st. petersburgh. about seven versts from the city we passed the imperial seat of zechenne, built by the empress catharine to commemorate the victory obtained by orloff over the turks on the coast of anatolia. the edifice is in the form of a turkish pavilion, with a central rotunda containing the full-length portraits of the sovereigns cotemporary with catharine. since her death this palace has been deserted. in eighteen hundred and twenty-five, alexander and the empress passed it on their way to the south of russia, and about eight months after their mortal remains found shelter in it for a night, on their way to the imperial sepulchre. there was no other object of interest on the road until we approached czarskoselo. opposite the "caprice gate" is a cluster of white houses, in two rows, of different sizes, diminishing as they recede from the road, and converging at the farthest extremity; altogether a bizarre arrangement, and showing the magnificence of russian gallantry. the empress catharine at the theatre one night happened to express her pleasure at the perspective view of a small town, and the next time she visited czarskoselo she saw the scene realized in a town erected by count orloff at immense expense before the gate of the palace. the façade of the palace is unequalled by any royal residence in the world, being twelve hundred feet in length. originally, every statue, pedestal, and capital of the numerous columns; the vases, carvings, and other ornaments in front, were covered with gold leaf, the gold used for that purpose amounting to more than a million of ducats. in a few years the gilding wore off, and the contractors engaged in repairing it offered the empress nearly half a million of rubles (silver) for the fragments of gold; but the empress scornfully refused, saying, "je ne suis pas dans l'usage de vendre mes vielles hardes." i shall not attempt to carry the reader through the magnificent apartments of this palace. but i must not forget the famed amber chamber, the whole walls and ceilings being of amber, some of the pieces of great size, neatly fitted together, and even the frames of the pictures an elaborate workmanship of the same precious material. but even this did not strike me so forcibly as when, conducted through a magnificent apartment, the walls covered with black paper shining like ebony, and ornamented with gold and immense looking-glasses, the footman opened a window at the other end, and we looked down into the chapel, an asiatic structure, presenting an _ensemble_ of rich gilding of surpassing beauty, every part of it, the groups of columns, the iconastos, and the gallery for the imperial family, resplendent with gold. in one of the staterooms where the empress's mother resides, the floor consists of a parquet of fine wood inlaid with wreaths of mother-of-pearl, and the panels of the room were incrusted with lapis lazuli. but to me all these magnificent chambers were as nothing compared with those which were associated with the memory of the late occupant. "uneasy rests the head that wears a crown;" and perhaps it is for this reason that i like to look upon the pillow of a king, far more on that of a queen. the bedchamber of catharine ii. is adorned with walls of porcelain and pillars of purple glass; the bedclothes are those under which she slept the last time she was at the palace, and in one place was a concealed door, by which, as the unmannerly footman, without any respect to her memory, told us, her imperial highness admitted her six-feet paramours. in the bedchamber of alexander were his cap, gloves, boots, and other articles of dress, lying precisely as he left them previous to his departure for the southern part of his empire. his bed was of leather, stuffed with straw, and his boots were patched over and over worse than mine, which i had worn all the way from paris. i tried on his cap and gloves, and moralized over his patched boots. i remembered alexander as the head of a gigantic empire, the friend and ally, and then the deadly foe of napoleon; the companion of kings and princes; the arbiter of thrones and empires, and playing with crowns and sceptres. i sat with the patched boots in my hand. like old peter, he had considerable of a foot, and i respected him for it. i saw him, as it were, in an undress, simple and unostentatious in his habits; and there was a domestic air in his whole suite of apartments that interested me more than when i considered him on his throne. his sitting-room showed quiet and gentlemanly as well as domestic habits, for along the wall was a border of earth, with shrubs and flowers growing out of it, a delicate vine trailed around and almost covering a little mahogany railing. the grounds around the palace are eighteen miles in circumference, abounding in picturesque and beautiful scenery, improved by taste and an unbounded expenditure of money, and at this time they were in the fulness of summer beauty. we may talk simplicity and republicanism, but, after all, it must be a pleasant thing to be an emperor. i always felt this, particularly when strolling through imperial parks or pleasure-grounds, and sometimes i almost came to the unsentimental conclusion that, to be rural, a man must be rich. we wandered through the grounds without any plan, taking any path that offered, and at every step some new beauty broke upon us: a theatre; turkish kiosk or chinese pagoda; splendid bridges, arches, and columns; and an egyptian gate; a summer-house in the form of an ionic colonnade, a masterpiece of taste and elegance, supporting an aerial garden crowded with flowers; and a gothic building called the admiralty, on the borders of an extensive lake, on which lay several boats--rigged as frigates, elegant barges and pleasure-boats, and beautiful white swans floating majestically upon its surface; on the islands and the shores of the lake were little summer-houses; at the other end was a magnificent stone landing, and in full view a marble bridge, with corinthian columns of polished marble; an arsenal, with many curious and interesting objects, antique suits of armour, and two splendid sets of horse trappings, holsters, pistols, and bridles, all studded with diamonds, presented by the sultan on occasion of the peace of adrianople. nor must i forget the dairy, and a superb collection of goats and lamas from siberia. amid this congregation of beauties one thing offended me; a gothic tower built as a ruin for the sake of the picturesque, which, wanting the associations connected with monuments ruined by time, struck me as a downright mockery. we had intended to visit the palace of paulowsky, but time slipped away, and it was six o'clock before we started to return to st. petersburgh. chapter ix. the soldier's reward.--review of the russian army.--american cannibals.--palace of potemkin.--palace of the grand-duke michael.--equipments for travelling.--rough riding.--poland.--vitepsk.--napoleon in poland.--the disastrous retreat.--passage of the berezina. early the next morning i went out about twelve versts from the city to attend a grand military review by the emperor in person. the government of russia is a military despotism, and her immense army, nominally amounting to a million, even on the peace establishment numbers actually six hundred thousand, of which sixty thousand follow the person of the emperor, and were at that time under arms at st. petersburgh. when i rode on the parade-ground, the spectacle of this great army, combining the élite of barbaric chivalry with soldiers trained in the best schools of european discipline, drawn up in battle's stern array, and glittering with steel, was brilliant and almost sublime; in numbers and military bearing, in costliness of armour and equipment, far surpassing any martial parade that i had seen, not excepting a grand review of french troops at paris, or even a _fourth of july parade at home_. i once had the honour to be a paymaster in the valiant one hundred and ninety-seventh regiment of new-york state militia; and i can say what, perhaps, no other man who ever served in our _army_ can say, that i served out my whole term without being once promoted. men came in below and went out above me; ensigns became colonels and lieutenants generals, but i remained the same; it was hard work to escape promotion, but i was resolute. associated with me was a friend as quartermaster, with as little of the spirit of a soldier in him as myself, for which we were rather looked down upon by the warriors of our day; and when, at the end of our term, in company with several other officers, we resigned, the next regimental orders were filled with military panegyrics, such as, "the colonel has received, with the greatest regret, the resignation of lieutenant a.;" "the country has reason to deplore the loss of the services of captain b.;" and wound up with, "quartermaster g. and paymaster s. have tendered their resignations, _both of which are hereby accepted_." but when strains of martial music burst from a hundred bands, and companies, and regiments, and brigades wheeled and manoeuvred before me, and the emperor rode by, escorted by general and field officers, and the most magnificent staff in europe, and the earth shook under the charge of cavalry, i felt a strong martial spirit roused within me, perhaps i was excited by the reflection that these soldiers had been in battles, and that the stars and medals glittering on their breasts were not mere holyday ornaments, but the tokens of desperate service on bloody battle-fields. in a body, the russian soldiers present an exceedingly fine appearance. when the serf is enrolled, his hair and beard are cut off, except on the upper lip, his uniform is simple and graceful, a belt is worn tightly round the waist, and the breast of the coat is thickly padded, increasing the manliness of the figure, though sometimes at the expense of health. in evolutions they move like a great machine, as if all the arms and legs were governed by a single impulse. the army under review was composed of representatives from all the nations under the sway of russia; cossacks of the don, and the wolga, and the black sea, in jackets and wide pantaloons of blue cloth, riding on small horses, with high-peaked saddles, and carrying spears eight or ten feet in length. one regiment had the privilege of wearing a ragged flag and caps full of holes, as proofs of their gallant service, being the only regiment that fought at pultowa. and there were calmucs in their extraordinary war-dress; a helmet with a gilded crest, or a chain cap with a network of iron rings falling over the head and shoulders, and hanging as low as the eyebrows in front; a shirt of mail, composed of steel rings matted together and yielding to the body, the arms protected by plates, and the back of the hand by steel network fastened to the plates on each side; their offensive weapons were bows and arrows, silver-mounted pistols peeping out of their holsters, cartridge-boxes on each side of the breast, and a dagger, sword, and gun. the kirguish, a noble-looking race, come from the steppes of siberia. their uniform is magnificent, consisting of a blue frockcoat and pantaloons covered with silver lace, a grecian helmet, and a great variety of splendid arms, the yataghan alone costing a thousand rubles. they are all noble, and have no regular duty, except to attend the imperial family on extraordinary occasions. at home they are always at war among themselves. they are mohammedans; and one of them said to an american friend who had a long conversation with him, that he had four wives at home; that some had more, but it was not considered becoming to exceed that number. a bearded russian came up and said that these kirguish eat dogs and cats against which the kirguish protested. the same russian afterward observed that the americans were worse than the kirguish, for that a patriarch of the church had written, and therefore it must be true, that the number of human beings eaten by americans could not be counted; adding, with emphasis, "sir, you were created in the likeness of your maker, and you should endeavour to keep yourself so." he continued that the russians were the first christians, and he felt much disposed to send missionaries among the americans to meliorate their condition. the imperial guards are the finest-looking set of men i ever saw. the standard is six feet, and none are admitted below that height. their uniform is a white cloth coat, with buckskin breeches, boots reaching up to the hips, and swords that wallace himself would not have been ashamed to wield. but perhaps the most striking in that brilliant army was the emperor himself; seeming its natural head, towering even above his gigantic guards, and looking, as mr. wilkins once said of him, like one who, among savages, would have been chosen for a chief. in the midst of this martial spectacle, the thought came over me of militia musters at home; and though smiling at the insignificance of our military array as i rode back in my drosky, i could but think of the happiness of our isolated position, which spares us the necessity of keeping a large portion of our countrymen constantly in arms to preserve the rest in the enjoyment of life and fortune. the next morning my polish friend, hopeless of success either in his lawsuit or his lovesuit, fixed a day for our departure; and, with the suggestion that i am about leaving st. petersburgh, i turn once more, and for the last time, to the imperial palaces. not far from the hermitage is the marble palace; a colossal pile, built by the empress catharine for her favourite, count orloff, presenting one of its fronts to the neva. all the decorations are of marble and gilded bronze, and the capitals and bases of the columns and pilasters, and the window-frames and balustrades of the balconies, of cast bronze richly gilded. the effect is heightened by the unusually large dimensions of the squares of fine plate glass. a traveller in seventeen hundred and fifty-nine says "that the prodigies of enchantment which we read of in the tales of the genii are here called forth into reality; and the temples reared by the luxuriant fancy of our poets may be considered as a picture of the marble palace, which jupiter, when the burden of cares drives him from heaven, might make his delightful abode." at present, however, there are but few remains of this olympian magnificence, and i think jupiter at the same expense would prefer the winter palace or the hermitage. the taurida palace, erected by catharine ii. for her lover, potemkin, in general effect realizes the exaggerated accounts of travellers. the entrance is into a spacious hall, which leads to a circular vestibule of extraordinary magnitude, decorated with busts and statues in marble, with a dome supported by white columns. from thence you pass between the columns into an immense hall or ballroom, two hundred and eighty feet long and eighty wide, with double colonnades of lofty ionic pillars decorated with gold and silver festoons, thirty-five feet high and ten feet in circumference. from the colonnade, running the whole length of the ballroom, you enter the winter garden, which concealed flues and stoves keep always at the temperature of summer; and here, upon great occasions, under the light of magnificent lustres and the reflection of numerous mirrors, during the fierceness of the russian winter, when the whole earth is covered with snow, and "water tossed in the air drops down in ice," the imperial visiter may stroll through gravel-walks bordered with the choicest plants and flowers, blooming hedges and groves of orange, and inhale the fragrance of an arabian garden. paul, in one of his "darkened hours," converted this palace into barracks and a riding-school; but it has since been restored, in some degree, to its ancient splendour. the palace of paul, in which he was assassinated, has been uninhabited since his death. but the triumph of modern architecture in st. petersburgh is the palace of the grand-duke michael. i shall not attempt any description of this palace; but, to give some notion of its splendours to my calculating countrymen, i shall merely remark that it cost upward of seventeen millions of rubles. but i am weary of palaces; of wandering through magnificent apartments, where scene after scene bursts upon my eyes, and, before i begin to feel at home in them, i find myself ordered out by the footman. will the reader believe me? on the opposite side of the river is a little wooden house, more interesting in my eyes than all the palaces in st. petersburgh. it is the humble residence of peter the great. i visited it for the last time after rambling through the gorgeous palace of the grand-duke michael. it is one story high, low roofed, with a little piazza around it, and contains a sitting-room, bedroom, and dining-parlours; and peter himself, with his own axe, assisted in its construction. the rooms are only eight feet in height, the sitting-room is fifteen feet square, the dining-room fifteen feet by twelve, and the bedchamber ten feet square. in the first there is a chapel and shrine, where the russian visiter performs his orisons and prays for the soul of peter. around the cottage is a neat garden, and a boat made by peter himself is suspended to one of the walls. i walked around the cottage, inside and out; listened attentively, without understanding a word he said, to the garrulous russian cicerone, and sat down on the step of the front piazza. opposite was that long range of imperial palaces extending for more than a mile on the neva, and surpassing all other royal residences in europe or the world. when peter sat in the door of this humble cottage, the ground where they stood was all morass and forest. where i saw the lofty spires of magnificent churches, he looked out upon fishermen's huts. my eyes fell upon the golden spire of the church of the citadel glittering in the sunbeams, and reminding me that in its dismal charnelhouse slept the tenant of the humble cottage, the master-spirit which had almost created out of nothing all this splendour. i saw at the same time the beginning and the end of greatness. the humble dwelling is preserved with religious reverence, and even now is the most interesting monument which the imperial city can show. and here, at this starting-point in her career, i take my leave of the palmyra of the north. i am compelled to omit many things which he who speaks of st. petersburgh at all ought not to omit: her magnificent churches; her gigantic and splendid theatres; her literary, scientific, and eleemosynary institutions, and that which might form the subject of a chapter in her capital, her government and laws. i might have seen something of russian society, as my friend luoff had arrived in st. petersburgh; but, with my limited time, the interchange of these civilities interfered with my seeing the curiosities of the capital. my intimacy with the colonel had fallen off, though we still were on good terms. the fact is, i believe i fell into rather queer company in st. petersburgh, and very soon found the colonel to be the most thorough roué i ever met. he seemed to think that travelling meant dissipating; he had never travelled but once, and that was with the army to paris; and, except when on duty, his whole time had been spent in riot and dissipation; and though sometimes he referred to hard fighting, he talked more of the pleasures of that terrible campaign than of its toils and dangers. in consideration of my being a stranger and a young man, he constituted himself my mentor, and the advice which, in all soberness, he gave me as the fruits of his experience, was a beautiful guide for the road to ruin. i have no doubt that, if i had given myself up entirely to him, he would have fêted me all the time i was in st. petersburgh; but this did not suit me, and i afterward fell in with the pole, who had his own vagaries too, and who, being the proprietor of a cloth manufactory, did not suit the aristocratic notions of the colonel, and so our friendship cooled. my intimacy with his friend the prince, however, increased. i called upon him frequently, and he offered to accompany me everywhere; but as in sightseeing i love to be alone, i seldom asked him, except for a twilight walk. old associations were all that now bound together him and the colonel; their feelings, their fortunes, and their habits of life were entirely different; and the colonel, instead of being displeased with my seeking the prince in preference to himself, was rather gratified. altogether, the colonel told me, he was much mistaken in me, but he believed i was a good fellow after all; excused my regular habits somewhat on the ground of my health; and the day before that fixed for my departure, asked me to pass the evening with him, and to bring my friend the pole. in the evening we went to the colonel's apartments. the prince was there, and, after an elegant little supper, happening to speak of a frenchman and a prussian living in the hotel, with whom i had become acquainted, he sent down for them to come up and join us. the table was cleared, pipes and tobacco were brought on, and champagne was the only wine. we had a long and interesting conversation on the subject of the road to warsaw, and particularly in regard to the bloody passage of the berezina, at which both the colonel and the prince were present. the servant, a favourite serf (who the next day robbed the colonel of every valuable article in his apartment), being clumsy in opening a new bottle of champagne, the colonel said he must return to army practice, and reaching down his sabre, with a scientific blow took off the neck without materially injuring the bottle or disturbing the contents. this military way of decanting champagne aided its circulation, and head after head fell rapidly before the naked sabre. i had for some time avoided emptying my glass, which, in the general hurry of business, was not noticed; but, as soon as the colonel discovered it, he cried out, "treason, treason against good fellowship. america is a traitor." i pleaded ill health, but he would not listen to me; upbraided me that the friend and old ally of russia should fail him; turned up his glass on the table, and swore he would not touch it again unless i did him justice. all followed his example; all decided that america was disturbing the peace of nations; the glasses were turned up all around, and a dead stop was put to the merriment. i appealed, begged, and protested; and the colonel became positive, dogged, and outrageous. the prince came to my aid, and proposed that the difficulty between russia and america should be submitted to the arbitration of france and prussia. he had observed these powers rather backing out. the eyes of france were already in a fine phrensy rolling, and prussia's tongue had long been wandering; and in apprehension of their own fate, these mighty powers leaned to mercy. it was necessary, however, to propitiate the colonel, and they decided that, to prevent the effusion of blood, i should start once more the flow of wine; that we should begin again with a bumper all around; and, after that, every man should do as he pleased. the colonel was obliged to be content; and swearing that he would drink for us all, started anew. the prussian was from berlin, and this led the colonel to speak of the stirring scenes that had taken place in that capital on the return of the russian army from paris; and, after a while, the prussian, personally unknown to the colonel, told him that his name was still remembered in berlin as a leader in russian riot and dissipation, and particularly as having carried off, in a most daring manner, a lady of distinguished family; and--"go on," said the colonel--"killed her husband." "he refused my challenge," said the colonel, "but sought my life, and i shot him like a dog." the whole party now became uproarious; the colonel begged me, by all the friendly relations between russia and america, to hold on till breakfast-time; but, being the coolest man present, and not knowing what farther developments might take place, i broke up the party. in the morning my passport was not ready. i went off to the police-office for it, and when i returned the horses had not come, and the valet brought me the usual answer, that there were none. my pole was glad to linger another day for the sake of his flirtation with the little girl opposite, and so we lounged through the day, part of the time in the bazar of a persian, where i came near ruining myself by an offer i made for a beautiful emerald; and after one more and the last twilight stroll on the banks of the neva and up the newski perspective, we returned at an early hour, and for the last time in russia, slept in a bed. at nine o'clock the next morning a kibitka drove up to the door of our hotel, demanding an american and a pole for warsaw. all the servants of the hotel were gathered around, arranging the luggage, and making a great parade of getting off the distinguished travellers. the travellers themselves seemed equipped for a long journey. one wore a blue roundabout jacket, military cap and cloak, with whiskers and a mustache tending to red; the other, a tall, stout, herculean fellow, was habited in the most outré costume of a russian traveller; a cotton dressing-gown of every variety of colours, red and yellow predominating; coarse gray trousers; boots coming above his knees; a cap _tout a fait farouche_, and there was no mistake about the colour of his hair and mustaches; he was moving slowly around the kibitka in his travelling dress, and looking up to the window opposite, to give his dulcinea the melancholy intelligence that he was going away, and perhaps to catch one farewell smile at parting. the carriage of these distinguished travellers was the kibitka, one of the national vehicles of russia, being a long, round-bottomed box or cradle on four wheels, probably the old scythian wagon, resting, in proud contempt of the effeminacy of springs, on the oaken axles; the hubs of the wheels were two feet long, the linchpins of wood, the body of the carriage fastened to the wheels by wooden pins, ropes, and sticks; and, except the tires of the wheels, there was not a nail or piece of iron about it. the hinder part was covered with matting, open in front somewhat like an oldfashioned bonnet, and supported by an arched stick, which served as a linchpin for the hind wheels; a bucket of grease hung under the hind axle, and the bottom of the kibitka was filled with straw; whole cost of outfit, thirteen dollars. before it were three horses, one in shafts and one on each side, the centre one having a high bow over his neck, painted yellow and red, to which a rein was tied for holding up his head, and also a bell, to a russian postillion more necessary than harness. the travellers took their places in the bottom of the kibitka, and the postillion, a rough, brutal-looking fellow, in gray coat and hat turned up at the sides, mounted in front, catching a seat where he could on the rim of the wagon, about three inches wide; and in this dashing equipage we started for a journey of a thousand miles to the capital of another kingdom. we rolled for the last time through the streets of st. petersburgh, gazed at the domes, and spires, and magnificent palaces, and in a few moments passed the barrier. i left st. petersburgh, as i did every other city, with a certain feeling of regret that, in all probability, i should never see it more; still the cracking of the postillion's whip and the galloping of the horses created in me that high excitement which i always felt in setting out for a new region. our first stage was to czarskoselo, our second to cazena, where there was another palace. it was dark when we reached the third, a small village, of which i did not even note the name. i shall not linger on this road, for it was barren of interest and incident, and through a continued succession of swamps and forests. for two hundred miles it tried the tenure of adhesion between soul and body, being made of the trunks of trees laid transversely, bound down by long poles or beams fastened into the ground with wooden pegs covered with layers of boughs, and the whole strewed over with sand and earth; the trunks in general were decayed and sunken, and the sand worn or washed away, reminding me of the worst of our western corduroy roads. our wagon being without springs, and our seats a full-length extension on straw on the bottom, without the bed, pillows, and cushions which the russians usually have, i found this ride one of the severest trials of physical endurance i ever experienced. my companion groaned and brushed his mustaches, and talked of the little girl at st. petersburgh. in my previous journey in russia i had found the refreshment of tea, and on this, often when almost exhausted, i was revived by that precious beverage. i stood it three days and nights, but on the fourth completely broke down. i insensibly slipped down at full length in the bottom of the wagon; the night was cold and rainy; my companion covered me up to the eyes with straw, and i slept from the early part of the evening like a dead man. the horses were changed three times; the wagon was lifted up under me, and the wheels greased; and three times my companion quarrelled with the postmaster over my body without waking me. about six o'clock in the morning he roused me. i could not stir hand or foot; my mouth was full of dust and straw, and i felt a sense of suffocation. in a few moments i crawled out, staggered a few steps, and threw myself down on the floor of a wretched posthouse. my companion put my carpet-bag under my head, wrapped cloaks and greatcoats around me, and prepared me some tea; but i loathed everything. i was in that miserable condition which every traveller has some time experienced; my head ringing, every bone aching, and perfectly reckless as to what became of me. while my companion stood over me i fell asleep, and believe i should have been sleeping there yet if he had not waked me. he said we must go on at all risks until we found a place where we could remain with some degree of comfort. i begged and entreated to be left to myself, but he was inexorable. he lifted me up, hauled me out to the kibitka, which was filled with fresh straw, and seated me within, supporting me on his shoulder. it was a beautiful day. we moved moderately, and toward evening came to a posthouse kept by a jew, or, rather, a jewess, who was so kind and attentive that we determined to stay there all night. she brought in some clean straw and spread it on the floor, where i slept gloriously. my companion was tougher than i, but he could not stand the fleas and bugs, and about midnight went out and slept in the kibitka. in the morning we found that he had been too late; that the kibitka had been stripped of every article except himself and the straw. fortunately, my carpet-bag had been brought in; but i received a severe blow in the loss of a cane, an old friend and travelling companion, which had been with me in every variety of scene, and which i had intended to carry home with me, and retain as a companion through life. it is almost inconceivable how much this little incident distressed me. it was a hundred times worse than the loss of my carpet-bag. i felt the want of it every moment; i had rattled it on the boulevards of paris, in the eternal city, the colosseum, and the places thereabout; had carried it up the burning mountain, and poked it into the red-hot lava; had borne it in the acropolis, on the field of marathon, and among the ruins of ephesus; had flourished it under the beard of the sultan, and the eyes and nose of the emperor and autocrat of all the russias; in deserts and in cities it had been my companion and friend. unsparing nemesis, let loose your vengeance upon the thief who stole it! the rascals had even carried off the rope traces, and every loose article about the kibitka. notwithstanding this, however, i ought not to omit remarking the general security of travelling in russia and poland. the immense plains; the distance of habitations; the number of forests; the custom of travelling by night as well as by day; the negligence of all measures to ensure the safety of the roads, all contribute to favour robbery and murders; and yet an instance of either is scarcely known in years. it was difficult on those immense levels, which seemed independent of either general or individual proprietors, to recognise even the bounds of empires. the dwina, however, a natural boundary, rolls between russia and poland; and at vitepsk we entered the territories of what was once another kingdom. the surface of poland forms part of that immense and unvaried plain which constitutes the northern portion of all the central european countries. a great portion of this plain is overspread with a deep layer of sand, alternating however, with large clayey tracts and extensive marshes; a winter nearly as severe as that of sweden, and violent winds blowing uninterruptedly over this wide open region, are consequences of its physical structure and position. the roman arms never penetrated any part of this great level tract, the whole of which was called by them sarmatia; and sarmatia and scythia were in their descriptions always named together as the abode of nomadic and savage tribes. from the earliest era it appears to have been peopled by the sclavonic tribes; a race widely diffused, and distinguished by a peculiar language, by a strong national feeling, and by a particular train of superstitious ideas. though shepherds, they did not partake of the migratory character of the teutonic or tartar nations; and were long held in the most cruel bondage by the huns, the goths, and other nations of asia, for whom their country was a path to the conquest of the west of europe. in the tenth century the poles were a powerful and warlike nation. in the fourteenth lithuania was incorporated with it, and poland became one of the most powerful monarchies in europe. for two centuries it was the bulwark of christendom against the alarming invasions of the turks; the reigns of sigismund and sobieski hold a high place in military history; and, until the beginning of the last century, its martial character gave it a commanding influence in europe. it is unnecessary to trace the rapid and irrecoverable fall of poland. on the second partition, kosciusko, animated by his recent struggle for liberty in america, roused his countrymen to arms. but the feet of three giants were upon her breast; and suwarrow, marching upon the capital, storming the fortress of praga, and butchering in cold blood thirty thousand inhabitants, extinguished, apparently for ever, the rights and the glories of poland. living as we do apart from the rest of the world, with no national animosities transmitted by our fathers, it is impossible to realize the feeling of deadly hatred existing between neighbouring nations from the disputes of ancestors centuries ago. the history of russia and poland presents a continued series of bloodstained pages. battle after battle has nourished their mutual hate, and for a long time it had been the settled feeling of both that russia or poland must fall. it is perhaps fortunate for the rest of europe that this feeling has always existed; for, if they were united in heart, the whole south of europe would lie at the mercy of their invading armies. napoleon committed a fatal error in tampering with the brave and patriotic poles; for he might have rallied around him a nation of soldiers who, in gratitude, would have stood by him until they were exterminated. but to return to vitepsk. here, for the first time, we fell into the memorable road traversed by napoleon on his way to moscow. the town stands on the banks of the dwina, built on both sides of the river, and contains a population of about fifteen thousand, a great portion of whom are jews. in itself, it has but little to engage the attention of the traveller; but i strolled through its streets with extraordinary interest, remembering it as the place where napoleon decided on his fatal march to moscow. it was at the same season and on the very same day of the year that the "grand army," having traversed the gloomy forests of lithuania in pursuit of an invincible and intangible enemy, with the loss of more than a hundred thousand men, emerged from the last range of woods and halted at the presence of the hostile fires that covered the plain before the city. napoleon slept in his tent on an eminence at the left of the main road, and before sunrise appeared at the advanced posts, and by its first rays saw the russian army, eighty thousand strong, encamped on a high plain commanding all the avenues of the city. ten thousand horsemen made a show of defending its passes; and at about ten o'clock, murat le beau sabreur, intoxicated by the admiration his presence excited, at the head of a single regiment of chasseurs charged the whole russian cavalry. he was repulsed, and driven back to the foot of the hillock on which napoleon stood. the chasseurs of the french guards formed a circle around him, drove off the assailant lancers, and the emperor ordered the attack to cease; and, pointing to the city, his parting words to murat were, "to-morrow at five o'clock the sun of austerlitz." at daylight the camp of barclay de tolly was deserted; not a weapon, not a single valuable left behind; and a russian soldier asleep under a bush was the sole result of the day expected to be so decisive. vitepsk, except by a few miserable jews and jesuits, like the russian camp, was also abandoned. the emperor mounted his horse and rode through the deserted camp and desolate streets of the city. chagrined and mortified, he pitched his tents in an open courtyard; but, after a council of war with murat, eugene, and others of his principal officers, laid his sword upon the table, and resolved to finish in vitepsk the campaign of that year. well had it been for him had he never changed that determination. he traced his line of defence on the map, and explored vitepsk and its environs as a place where he was likely to make a long residence; formed establishments of all kinds; erected large ovens capable of baking at once thirty thousand loaves of bread; pulled down a range of stone houses which injured the appearance of the square of the palace, and made arrangements for opening the theatre with parisian actors. but in a few days he was observed to grow restless; the members of his household recollected his expression at the first view of the deserted vitepsk, "do you think i have come so far to conquer these miserable huts?" segur says that he was observed to wander about his apartments as if pursued by some dangerous temptation. nothing could rivet his attention. every moment he began, stopped, and resumed his labour. at length, overwhelmed with the importance of the considerations that agitated him, "he threw himself on the floor of his apartment; his frame, exhausted by the heat and the struggles of his mind, could only bear a covering of the slightest texture. he rose from his sleepless pillow possessed once more with the genius of war; his voice deepens, his eyes flash fire, and his countenance darkens. his attendants retreat from his presence, struck with mingled awe and respect. his plan is fixed, his determination taken, his order of march traced out." the last council occupied eight hours. berthier by a melancholy countenance, by lamentations, and even by tears; lobau by the cold and haughty frankness of a warrior; caulaincourt with obstinacy and impetuosity amounting to violence; duroc by a chilling silence, and afterward by stern replies; and daru straightforward and with firmness immoveable, opposed his going; but, as if driven on by that fate he almost defied, he broke up the council with the fatal determination. "blood has not been shed, and russia is too great to yield without fighting. alexander can only negotiate after a great battle. i will proceed to the holy city in search of that battle, and i will gain it. peace waits me at the gates of moscow." from that hour commenced that train of terrible disasters which finally drove him from the throne of france, and sent him to die an exile on a small island in the indian ocean. i walked out on the moscow road, by which the grand army, with pomp and martial music, with murat, and ney, and duroc, and daru, inspired by the great names of smolensk and moscow, plunged into a region of almost pathless forest, where most of them were destined to find a grave. i was at first surprised at the utter ignorance of the inhabitants of vitepsk, in regard to the circumstances attending the occupation of the city by napoleon. a jew was my cicerone, who talked of the great scenes of which this little city had in his own day been the theatre almost as matter of tradition, and without half the interest with which, even now, the greek points the stranger to the ruins of argos or the field of marathon; and this ignorance in regard to the only matters that give an interest to this dreary road i remarked during the whole journey. i was so unsuccessful in my questions, and the answers were so unsatisfactory, that my companion soon became tired of acting as my interpreter. indeed, as he said, he himself knew more than any one i met, for he had travelled it before in company with an uncle, of the polish legion; but even he was by no means familiar with the ground. we left vitepsk with a set of miserable horses, rode all night, and at noon of the next day were approaching the banks of the berezina, memorable for the dreadful passage which almost annihilated the wretched remnant of napoleon's army. it was impossible, in passing over the same ground, not to recur to the events of which it had been the scene. the "invincible legions," which left vitepsk two hundred thousand strong, were now fighting their dreadful retreat from moscow through regulars and cossacks, reduced to less than twelve thousand men marching in column, with a train of thirty thousand undisciplined followers, sick, wounded, and marauders of every description. the cavalry which crossed the niemen thirty-seven thousand in number was reduced to one hundred and fifty men on horseback. napoleon collected all the officers who remained mounted, and formed them into a body, in all about five hundred, which he called his sacred squadron; officers served as privates, and generals of divisions as captains. he ordered the carriages of the officers, many of the wagons, and even the eagles belonging to the different corps, to be burned in his presence; and drawing his sword, with the stern remark that he had sufficiently acted the emperor, and must once more play the general, marched on foot at the head of his old guard. he had hardly reorganized before the immense pine forests which border the berezina echoed with the thunder of the russian artillery; in a moment all remains of discipline were lost. in the last stage of weakness and confusion they were roused by loud cries before them, and, to their great surprise and joy, recognised the armies of victor and oudinot. the latter knew nothing of the terrible disasters of the army of moscow, and they were thrown into consternation and then melted to tears when they saw behind napoleon, instead of the invincible legions which had left them in splendid equipments, a train of gaunt and spectral figures, their faces black with dirt, and long bristly beards, covered with rags, female pelisses, pieces of carpet, with bare and bleeding feet, or bundled with rags, and colonels and generals marching pellmell with soldiers, unarmed and shameless, without any order or discipline, kept together and sleeping round the same fires only by the instinct of self-preservation. about noon we drove into the town of borizoff. it stands on the banks of the berezina, and is an old, irregular-looking place, with a heavy wooden church in the centre of an open square. as usual, at the door of the posthouse a group of jews gathered around us. when napoleon took possession of borizoff the jews were the only inhabitants who remained; and they, a scattered, wandering, and migratory people, without any attachment of soil or country, were ready to serve either the french or russians, according to the inducements held out to them. a few noble instances are recorded where this persecuted and degraded people exhibited a devotion to the land that sheltered them honourable to their race and to the character of man; but in general they were false and faithless. those who gathered around us in borizoff looked as though they might be the very people who betrayed the russians. one of them told us that a great battle had been fought there, but we could not find any who had been present at the fatal passage of the river. we dined at the posthouse, probably with less anxiety than was felt by napoleon or any of the flying frenchmen; but even we were not permitted to eat in peace; for, before we had finished, our vehicle was ready, with worse horses than usual, and a surlier postillion. we sent the postillion on ahead, and walked down to the bank of the river. on the night preceding the passage, napoleon himself had command of borizoff, with six thousand guards prepared for a desperate contest. he passed the whole night on his feet; and while waiting for the approach of daylight in one of the houses on the border of the river, so impracticable seemed the chance of crossing with the army that murat proposed to him to put himself under the escort of some brave and determined poles, and save himself while there was yet time; but the emperor indignantly rejected the proposition as a cowardly flight. the river is here very broad, and divided into branches. on the opposite side are the remains of an embankment that formed part of the russian fortifications. when the russians were driven out of borizoff by oudinot, they crossed the river, burned the bridge, and erected these embankments. besides the sanguinary contest of the french and russians, this river is also memorable for a great battle between my companion and our postillion. in the middle of the bridge the postillion stopped and waited till we came up; he grumbled loudly at being detained, to which my companion replied in his usual conciliatory and insinuating manner, by laying his cane over the fellow's shoulders; but on the bridge of borizoff the blood of the lithuanian was roused; and, perhaps, urged on by the memory of the deeds done there by his fathers, he sprang out of the wagon, and with a warcry that would not have disgraced a cossack of the don, rushed furiously upon my friend. oh for a homer to celebrate that fight on the bridge of borizoff! the warriors met, not like grecian heroes, with spear and shield, and clad in steel, but with their naked fists and faces bare to take the blows. my friend was a sublime spectacle. like a rock, firm and immoveable, he stood and met the charge of the postillion; in short, in the twinkling of an eye he knocked the postillion down. those who know say that it is more trying to walk over a field of battle after all is over than to be in the fight; and i believe it from my experience in our trying passage of the berezina; for, when i picked up the discomfited postillion, whose face was covered with blood, i believe that i had the worst of it. all great victories are tested by their results, and nothing could be more decisive than that over the postillion. he arose a wiser and much more tractable man. at first he looked very stupid when he saw me leaning over him, and very startled when he rubbed his hand over his face and saw it stained with blood; but, raising himself, he caught sight of his victor, and without a word got into the wagon, walked the horses over the bridge, and at the other end got out and threw himself on the ground. it was a beautiful afternoon, and we lingered on the bridge. crossing it, we walked up the bank on the opposite side toward the place where napoleon erected his bridges for the passage of his army. all night the french worked at the bridges by the light of the enemy's fires on the opposite side. at daylight the fires were abandoned, and the russians, supposing the attempt here to be a feint, were seen in full retreat. the emperor, impatient to get possession of the opposite bank, pointed it out to the bravest. a french aiddecamp and lithuanian count threw themselves into the river, and, in spite of the ice, which cut their horses' breasts, reached the opposite bank in safety. about one o'clock the bank on which we stood was entirely cleared of cossacks, and the bridge for the infantry was finished. the first division crossed it rapidly with its cannon, the men shouting "_vive l'empereur!_" the passage occupied three days. the number of stragglers and the quantity of baggage were immense. on the night of the twenty-seventh the stragglers left the bridge, tore down the whole village, and made fires with the materials, around which they crouched their shivering figures, and from which it was impossible to tear themselves away. at daylight they were roused by the report of witgenstein's cannon thundering over their heads, and again all rushed tumultuously to the bridges. the russians, with platow and his cossacks, were now in full communication on both sides of the river. on the left bank, napoleon's own presence of mind and the bravery of his soldiers gave him a decided superiority; but, in the language of scott, the scene on the right bank had become the wildest and most horrible which war can exhibit. "victor, with eight or ten thousand men, covered the retreat over the bridges, while behind his line thousands of stragglers, old men, women, and children, were wandering by the side of this river like the fabled spectres which throng the banks of the infernal styx, seeking in vain for passage. the balls of the russians began to fall among the disordered mass, and the whole body rushed like distracted beings toward the bridges, every feeling of prudence or humanity swallowed up by the animal instinct of self-preservation. the weak and helpless either shrunk from the fray and sat down to wait their fate at a distance, or, mixing in it, were thrust over the bridges, crushed under carriages, cut down with sabres, or trampled to death under the feet of their countrymen. all this while the action continued with fury; and, as if the heavens meant to match their wrath with that of man, a hurricane arose and added terrors to a scene which was already of a character so dreadful. about midday the larger bridge, constructed for artillery and heavy carriages, broke down, and multitudes were forced into the water. the scream of the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the cossacks. the dreadful scene continued till dark. as the obscurity came on, victor abandoned the station he had defended so bravely, and led the remnant of his troops in their turn across. all night the miscellaneous multitude continued to throng across the bridge under the fire of the russian artillery. at daybreak the french engineers finally set fire to the bridge, and all that remained on the other side, including many prisoners, and a great quantity of guns and baggage, became the property of the russians. the amount of the french loss was never exactly known; but the russian report concerning the bodies of the invaders, which were collected and burned as soon as the thaw permitted, states that upward of thirty-six thousand were found in the berezina." the whole of this scene was familiar to me as matter of history; the passage of the berezina had in some way fastened itself upon my mind as one of the most fearful scenes in the annals of war; and, besides this, at st. petersburgh the colonel and prince had given me a detailed account of the horrors of that dreadful night, for they were both with witgenstein's army, by the light of the snow, the course of the river, and the noise, directing a murderous fire of artillery against the dark mass moving over the bridge; and nearer still, my companion had visited the place in company with his uncle, of the polish legion, and repeated to me the circumstances of individual horror which he had heard from his relative, surpassing human belief. the reader will excuse me if i have lingered too long on the banks of that river; and perhaps, too, he will excuse me when i tell him that, before leaving it, i walked down to its brink and bathed my face in its waters. others have done so at the classic streams of italy and greece; but i rolled over the arno and the tiber in a vetturino without stopping, and the reader will remember that i jumped over the ilissus. chapter x. travel by night.--a rencounter.--a traveller's message.--lithuania.--poverty of the country.--agricultural implements.--minsk.--polish jews.--a coin of freedom.--riding in a basket.--brezc.--the bug.--a searching operation.--women labourers.--warsaw. it was after dark when we returned to our wagon, still standing at the end of the bridge opposite borizoff. our postillion, like a sensible man, had lain down to sleep at the head of his horses, so they could not move without treading on him and waking him; and, when we roused him, the pain of his beating was over, and with it all sense of the indignity; and, in fact, we made him very grateful for the flogging by promising him a few additional kopeks. we hauled up the straw and seated ourselves in the bottom of our kibitka. night closed upon us amid the gloomy forests bordering the banks of the berezina. we talked for a little while, and by degrees drawing our cloaks around us, each fell into a revery. the continued tinkling of the bell, which, on my first entering russia, grated on my ear, had become agreeable to me, and in a dark night particularly was a pleasing sound. the song of the postillion, too, harmonized with the repose of spirit at that moment most grateful to us; that too died away, the bell almost ceased its tinkling, and, in spite of the alarum of war which we had all day been ringing in our own ears, we should probably soon have fallen into a sleep as sound, for a little while at least, as that of them who slept under the waters of the berezina, but we were suddenly roused by a shock as alarming to quiet travellers as the hourra of the cossack in the ears of the flying frenchmen. our horses sprang out of the road, but not in time to avoid a concussion with another wagon going toward borizoff. both postillions were thrown off their seats; and the stranger, picking himself up, came at us with a stream of lithuanian russian almost harsh enough to frighten the horses. i will not suggest what its effect was upon us, but only that, as to myself, it seemed at first equal to the voice of at least a dozen freebooters and marauders; and if the english of it had been "stand and deliver," i should probably have given up my carpet-bag without asking to reserve a change of linen. but i was restored by the return fire of our postillion, who drowned completely the attack of his adversary by his outrageous clamour; and when he stopped to take breath my companion followed up the defence, and this brought out a fourth voice from the bottom of the opposite wagon. a truce was called, and waiving the question on which side the fault lay, we all got out to ascertain the damage. our antagonist passenger was a german merchant, used to roughing it twice every year between berlin, warsaw, petersburgh, and moscow, and took our smashing together at night in this desolate forest as coolly as a rub of the shoulders in the streets; and, when satisfied that his wagon was not injured, kindly asked us if we had any bones broken. we returned his kind inquiries; and, after farther interchanges of politeness, he said that he was happy to make our acquaintance, and invited us to come and see him at berlin. we wanted him to go back and let us have a look at him by torchlight, but he declined; and, after feeling him stretched out in his bed in the bottom of his wagon, we started him on his way. we resumed our own places, and, without dozing again, arrived at the posthouse, where first of all we made ourselves agreeable to the postmaster by delivering our german friend's message to him, that he ought to be whipped and condemned to live where he was till he was a hundred years old for putting the neck of a traveller at the mercy of a sleepy postillion; but the postmaster was a jew, and thought the vile place where he lived equal to any on earth. he was a miserable, squalid-looking object, with a pine torch in his hand lighting up the poverty and filthiness of his wretched habitation, and confessed that he should be too happy to enjoy the fortune which the german would have entailed upon him as a curse. he offered to make us a bed of some dirty straw which had often been slept on before; but we shrank from it; and, as soon as we could get horses, returned to our kibitka and resumed our journey. the whole province of lithuania is much the same in appearance. we lost nothing by travelling through it at night; indeed, every step that we advanced was a decided gain, as it brought us so much nearer its farthermost border. the vast provinces of lithuania, formerly a part of the kingdom of poland, and, since the partition of that unhappy country, subject to the throne of russia, until the fourteenth century were independent of either. the lithuanians and samogitians are supposed to be of a different race from the poles, and spoke a language widely dissimilar to the polish or russian. their religion was a strange idolatry; they worshipped the god of thunder, and paid homage to a god of the harvest; they maintained priests, who were constantly feeding a sacred fire in honour of the god of the seasons; they worshipped trees, fountains, and plants; had sacred serpents, and believed in guardian spirits of trees, cattle, &c. their government, like that of all other barbarous nations, was despotic, and the nobles were less numerous and more tyrannical than in poland. in the latter part of the fourteenth century, on the death of louis, successor to casimir the great, hedwiga was called to the throne of poland, under a stipulation, however, that she should follow the will of the poles in the choice of her husband. many candidates offered themselves for the hand dowered with a kingdom; but the offers of jagellon, duke of lithuania, were most tempting; he promised to unite his extensive dominions to the territory of poland, and pledged himself for the conversion to christianity of his lithuanian subjects. but queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature; and hedwiga had fixed her affections upon her cousin, william of austria, whom she had invited into poland; and when jagellon came to take possession of his wife and crown, she refused to see him. the nobles, however, sent william back to his papa, and locked her up as if she had been a boarding-school miss. and again, queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature: hedwiga was inconstant; the handsome lithuanian made her forget her first love, and poland and lithuania were united under one crown. jagellon was baptized, but the inhabitants of lithuania did not so readily embrace the christian religion; in one of the provinces they clung for a long time to their own strange and wild superstitions; and even in modern times, it is said, the peasants long obstinately refused to use ploughs or other agricultural instruments furnished with iron, for fear of wounding the bosom of mother earth. all the way from borizoff the road passes through a country but little cultivated, dreary, and covered with forests. when napoleon entered the province of lithuania his first bulletins proclaimed, "here, then, is that russia so formidable at a distance! it is a desert for which its scattered population is wholly insufficient. they will be vanquished by the very extent of territory which ought to defend them;" and, before i had travelled in it a day, i could appreciate the feeling of the soldier from la belle france, who, hearing his polish comrades boast of their country, exclaimed, "et ces gueux la appellent cette pays une patrie!" the villages are a miserable collection of straggling huts, without plan or arrangement, and separated from each other by large spaces of ground. they are about ten or twelve feet square, made of the misshapen trunks of trees heaped on each other, with the ends projecting over; the roof of large shapeless boards, and the window a small hole in the wall, answering the double purpose of admitting light and letting out smoke. the tenants of these wretched hovels exhibit the same miserable appearance both in person and manners. they are hard-boned and sallow-complexioned; the men wear coarse white woollen frocks, and a round felt cap lined with wool, and shoes made of the bark of trees, and their uncombed hair hangs low over their heads, generally of a flaxen colour. their agricultural implements are of the rudest kind. the plough and harrow are made from the branches of the fir tree, without either iron or ropes; their carts are put together without iron, consisting of four small wheels, each of a single piece of wood; the sides are made of the bark of a tree bent round, and the shafts are a couple of fir branches; their bridles and traces platted from the bark of trees, or composed merely of twisted branches. their only instrument to construct their huts and make their carts is a hatchet. they were servile and cringing in their expressions of respect, bowing down to the ground and stopping their carts as soon as we came near them, and stood with their caps in their hands till we were out of sight. the whole country, except in some open places around villages, is one immense forest of firs, perhaps sixty feet in height, compact and thick, but very slender. as we approached minsk the road was sandy, and we entered by a wooden bridge over a small stream and along an avenue of trees. minsk is one of the better class of lithuanian towns, being the chief town of the government of minsk, but very dirty and irregular. the principal street terminates in a large open square of grass and mean wooden huts. from this another street goes off at right angles, containing large houses, and joining with a second square, where some of the principal buildings are of brick. from this square several streets branch off, and enter a crowd of wooden hovels irregularly huddled together, and covering a large space of ground. the churches are heavily constructed, and in a style peculiar to lithuania, their gable ends fronting the street, and terminated at each corner by a square spire, with a low dome between them. the population is half catholic and half jewish, and the jews are of the most filthy and abject class. a few words with regard to the jews in poland. from the moment of crossing the borders of lithuania, i had remarked in every town and village swarms of people differing entirely from the other inhabitants in physical appearance and costume, and in whose sharply-drawn features, long beards, and flowing dresses, with the coal-black eyes and oriental costumes of the women, i at once recognised the dispersed and wandering children of israel. on the second destruction of jerusalem, when the roman general drove a plough over the site of the temple of solomon, the political existence of the jewish nation was annihilated, their land was portioned out among strangers, and the descendants of abraham were forbidden to pollute with their presence the holy city of their fathers. in the roman territories, their petition for the reduction of taxation received the stern answer of the roman, "ye demand exemption from tribute for your soil; i will lay it on the air you breathe;" and, in the words of the historian, "dispersed and vagabond, exiled from their native soil and air, they wander over the face of the earth without a king, either human or divine, and even as strangers they are not permitted to salute with their footsteps their native land." history furnishes no precise records of the emigration or of the first settlement of the israelites in the different countries of europe; but for centuries they have been found dispersed, as it was foretold they would be, over the whole habitable world, a strange, unsocial, and isolated people, a living and continued miracle. at this day they are found in all the civilized countries of europe and america, in the wildest regions of asia and africa, and even within the walls of china; but, after palestine, poland is regarded as their land of promise; and there they present a more extraordinary spectacle than in any country where their race is known. centuries have rolled on, revolutions have convulsed the globe, new and strange opinions have disturbed the human race, but the polish jew remains unchanged: the same as the dark superstition of the middle ages made him; the same in his outward appearance and internal dispositions, in his physical and moral condition, as when he fled thither for refuge from the swords of the crusaders. as early as the fourteenth century, great privileges were secured to the jews by casimir the great, who styled them his "faithful and able subjects," induced, according to the chronicles of the times, like ahasuerus of old, by the love of a beautiful esther. while in germany, italy, spain, portugal, and even in england and france, their whole history is that of one continued persecution, oppressed by the nobles, anathematized by the clergy, despised and abhorred by the populace, flying from city to city, arrested, and tortured, and burned alive, and sometimes destroying themselves by thousands to escape horrors worse than death; while all orders were arrayed in fierce and implacable hatred against them, in poland the race of israel found rest; and there they remain at this day, after centuries of residence, still a distinct people, strangers and sojourners in the land, mingling with their neighbours in the every-day business of life, but never mingling their blood; the direct descendants of the israelites who, three thousand years ago, went out from the land of egypt; speaking the same language, and practising the laws delivered to moses on the mountain of sinai; mourning over their fallen temple, and still looking for the messiah who shall bring together their scattered nation and restore their temporal kingdom. but notwithstanding the interest of their history and position, the polish jews are far from being an interesting people; they swarm about the villages and towns, intent on gain, and monopolizing all the petty traffic of the country. outward degradation has worked inward upon their minds; confined to base and sordid occupations, their thoughts and feelings are contracted to their stations, and the despised have become despicable. it was principally in his capacity of innkeeper that i became acquainted with the polish jew. the inn is generally a miserable hovel communicating with, or a room partitioned off in one corner of, a large shed serving as a stable and yard for vehicles; the entrance is under a low porch of timber; the floor is of dirt; the furniture consists of a long table, or two or three small ones, and in one corner a bunch of straw, or sometimes a few raised boards formed into a platform, with straw spread over it, for beds; at one end a narrow door leads into a sort of hole filled with dirty beds, old women, half-grown boys and girls, and children not overburdened with garments, and so filthy that, however fatigued, i never felt disposed to venture among them for rest. here the jew, assisted by a dirty-faced rachel, with a keen and anxious look, passes his whole day in serving out to the meanest customers beer, and hay, and corn; wrangling with and extorting money from intoxicated peasants; and, it is said, sometimes, after the day's drudgery is over, retires at night to his miserable hole to pore over the ponderous volumes filled with rabbinical lore; or sometimes his mind takes a higher flight, meditating upon the nature of the human soul; its relation to the divinity; the connexion between the spirit and the body; and indulging in the visionary hope of gaining, by means of cabalistic formula, command over the spirits of the air, the fire, the flood, and the earth. though the days of bitter persecution and hatred have gone by, the jews are still objects of contempt and loathing. once i remember pointing out to my postillion a beautiful jewish girl, and, with the fanatic spirit of the middle ages, himself one of the most degraded serfs in poland, he scorned the idea of marrying the fair daughter of israel. but this the jew does not regard; all he asks is to be secured from the active enmity of mankind. "like the haughty roman banished from the world, the israelite throws back the sentence of banishment, and still retreats to the lofty conviction that his race is not excluded as an unworthy, but kept apart as a sacred, people; humiliated, indeed, but still hallowed, and reserved for the sure though tardy fulfilment of the divine promises." the jews in poland are still excluded from all offices and honours, and from all the privileges and distinctions of social life. until the accession of nicolas, they were exempted from military service on payment of a tax; but since his time they have been subject to the regular conscription. they regard this as an alarming act of oppression, for the boys are taken from their families at twelve or thirteen, and sent to the army or the common military school, where they imbibe notions utterly at variance with the principles taught them by their fathers; and, probably, if the system continues, another generation will work a great change in the character of the jews of poland. but to return to the jews at minsk. as usual, they gathered around us before we were out of our kibitka, laid hold of our baggage, and in hebrew, lithuanian, and polish, were clamorous in offers of service. they were spare in figure, dressed in high fur caps and long black muslin gowns, shining and glossy from long use and tied around the waist with a sash; and here i remarked what has often been remarked by other travellers, when the features were at rest, a style of face and expression resembling the pictures of the saviour in the galleries in italy. while my companion was arranging for posthorses and dinner, i strolled through the town alone, that is, with a dozen israelites at my heels and on my return i found an accession of the stiff-necked and unbelieving race, one of whom arrested my attention by thrusting before me a silver coin. it was not an antique, but it had in my eyes a greater value than if it had been dug from the ruins of a buried city, and bore the image of julius cæsar. on the breaking out of the late revolution, one of the first acts of sovereignty exercised by the provincial government was to issue a national coin stamped with the arms of the old kingdom of poland, the white eagle and the armed cavalier, with an inscription around the rim, "god protect poland." when the revolution was crushed, with the view of destroying in the minds of the poles every memento of their brief but glorious moment of liberty, this coin was called in and suppressed, and another substituted in its place, with the polish eagle, by way of insult, stamped in a small character near the tip end of the wing of the double-headed eagle of russia. the coin offered me by the jew was one of the emission of the revolution, and my companion told me it was a rare thing to find one. i bought it at the jew's price, and put it in my pocket as a memorial of a brave and fallen people. i will not inflict upon the reader the particulars of our journey through this dreary and uninteresting country. we travelled constantly, except when we were detained for horses. we never stopped at night, for there seldom was any shelter on the road better than the jews' inns, and even in our kibitka we were better than there. but, unluckily, on the seventh day, our kibitka broke down; the off hind wheel snapped in pieces, and let us down rather suddenly in one of the autocrat's forests. our first impulse was to congratulate ourselves that this accident happened in daylight; and we had a narrow escape, for the sun had hardly begun to find its way into the dark forest. fortunately, too, we were but two or three versts from a posthouse. i had met with such accidents at home, and rigged a small tree (there being no such things as rails, property there not being divided by rail fences) under the hind axle, supporting it on the front. we lighted our pipes and escorted our crippled vehicle to the posthouse, where we bought a wheel off another wagon, much better than the old one, only about two inches lower. this, however, was not so bad as might be supposed, at least for me, who sat on the upper side, and had the stout figure of my companion as a leaning-post. at sloghan, about two hundred versts from brezc the frontier town of poland, we sold our kibitka for a breakfast, and took the _char de pôste_, or regular troika. this is the postboy's favourite vehicle; the body being made of twigs interlaced like a long basket, without a particle of iron, and so light that a man can lift up either end with one hand. our speed was increased wonderfully by the change; the horses fairly played with the little car at their heels; the drivers vied with each other, and several posts in succession we made nearly twenty versts in an hour. it will probably be difficult to throw the charm of romance around the troika driver; but he comes from the flower of the peasantry; his life, passed on the wild highways, is not without its vicissitudes, and he is made the hero of the russian's favourite popular ballads: "away, away, along the road the gallant troika bounds; while 'neath the douga, sadly sweet, their valdai bell resounds."[ ] we passed the house of a _very respectable_ seigneur who had married his own sister. we stopped at his village and talked of him with the postmaster, by whom he was considered a model of the domestic virtues. the same day we passed the chateau of a nobleman who wrote himself cousin to the emperors of russia and austria, confiscated for the part he took in the late polish revolution, a melancholy-looking object, deserted and falling to ruins, its owner wandering in exile with a price upon his head. it rained hard during the day, for the first time since we left petersburgh; at night the rain ceased, but the sky was still overcast. for a long distance, and, in fact, a great part of the way from petersburgh, the road was bordered with trees. at eleven o'clock we stopped at a wretched posthouse, boiled water, and refreshed ourselves with deep potations of hot tea. we mounted our troika, the postillion shouted, and set off on a run. heavy clouds were hanging in the sky; it was so dark that we could not see the horses, and there was some little danger of a breakdown; but there was a high and wild excitement in hurrying swiftly through the darkness on a run, hearing the quick tinkling of the bell and the regular fall of the horses' hoofs, and seeing only the dark outline of the trees. we continued this way all night, and toward morning we were rattling on a full gallop through the streets of brezc. we drove into a large stable-yard filled with kibitkas, troikas, and all kinds of russian vehicles, at one end of which was a long low building kept by a jew. we dismounted, and so ended nearly three thousand miles of posting in russia. the jew, roused by our noise, was already at the door with a lighted taper in his hand, and gave us a room with a leather-covered sofa and a leather cushion for a pillow, where we slept till eleven o'clock the next day. we breakfasted, and in the midst of a violent rain crossed the bug, and entered the territory of poland proper. for many centuries the banks of the bug have been the battle-ground of the russians and poles. in the time of boleslaus the terrible, the russians were defeated there with great slaughter, and the river was so stained with blood that it has retained ever since the name of the _horrid_. before crossing we were obliged to exchange our russian money for polish, rubles for florins, losing, of course, heavily by the operation, besides being subjected to the bore of studying a new currency; and the moment we planted our feet on the conquered territory, though now nominally under the same government, we were obliged to submit to a most vexatious process. the custom-house stood at the end of the bridge, and, as matter of course, our postillion stopped there. our luggage was taken off the wagon, carried inside, every article taken out and laid on the floor, and a russian soldier stood over, comparing them with a list of prohibited articles as long as my arm. fortunately for me, the russian government had not prohibited travellers from wearing pantaloons and shirts in poland, though it came near faring hard with a morning-gown. my companion, however, suffered terribly; his wearing apparel was all laid out on one side, while a large collection of curious and pretty nothings, which he had got together with great affection at the capital, as memorials for his friends at home, were laid out separately, boxes opened, papers unrolled, and, with provoking deliberation, examined according to the list of prohibited things. it was a new and despotic regulation unknown to him, and he looked on in agony, every condemned article being just the one above all others which he would have saved; and when they had finished, a large pile was retained for the examination of another officer, to be sent on to warsaw in case of their being allowed to pass at all. i had frequently regretted having allowed the trouble and inconvenience to prevent my picking up curiosities; but when i saw the treasures of my friend taken from him, or, at least, detained for an uncertain time, i congratulated myself upon my good fortune. my friend was a man not easily disheartened; he had even got over the loss of his love at st. petersburgh; but he would rather have been turned adrift in poland without his pantaloons than be stripped of his precious bawbles. i had seen him roused several times on the road, quarrelling with postmasters and thumping postillions, but i had never before seen the full development of that extraordinary head of hair. he ground his teeth and cursed the whole russian nation, from the emperor nicolas down to the soldier at the custom-house. he was ripe for revolution, and, if a new standard of rebellion had been set up in poland, he would have hurried to range himself under its folds. i soothed him by striking the key-note of his heart. all the way from petersburgh he had sat mechanically, with his pocket-glass and brush, dressing his mustaches; but his heart was not in the work, until, as we approached the borders of poland, he began to recover from his petersburgh affair, and to talk of the beauty of the polish women. i turned him to this now. it is a fact that, while for ages a deadly hatred has existed between the russians and the poles, and while the russians are at this day lording it over the poles with the most arbitrary insolence and tyranny, beauty still asserts its lawful supremacy, and the polish women bring to their feet the conquerors of their fathers, and husbands, and brothers. the first posthouse at which we stopped confirmed all that my companion had said; for the postmaster's daughter was brilliantly beautiful, particularly in the melting wildness of a dark eye, indicating an asiatic or tartar origin; and her gentle influence was exerted in soothing the savage humour of my friend, for she sympathized in his misfortunes, and the more sincerely when she heard of the combs, and rings, and slippers, and other pretty little ornaments for sisters and female friends at home; and my pole could not resist the sympathy of a pretty woman. we had scarcely left the postmaster's daughter, on the threshold of poland, almost throwing a romance about the polish women, before i saw the most degrading spectacle i ever beheld in europe, or even in the barbarous countries of the east. forty or fifty women were at work in the fields, and a large, well-dressed man, with a pipe in his mouth and a long stick in his hand, was walking among them as overseer. in our country the most common labouring man would revolt at the idea of his wife or daughter working in the open fields. i had seen it, however, in gallant france and beautiful italy; but i never saw, even in the barbarous countries of the east, so degrading a spectacle as this; and i could have borne it almost anywhere better than in chivalric poland. we were now in the territory called poland proper, that is, in that part which, after the other provinces had been wrested away and attached to the dominions of the colossal powers around, until the revolution and conquest of had retained the cherished name of the kingdom of poland. the whole road is macadamized, smooth and level as a floor, from the banks of the bug to warsaw; the posthouses and postmasters are much better, and posting is better regulated, though more expensive. the road lay through that rich agricultural district which had for ages made poland celebrated as the granary of europe; and though the face of the country was perfectly flat, and the scenery tame and uninteresting, the soil was rich, and, at that time, in many places teeming with heavy crops. as yet, it had not recovered from the desolating effects of the war of the revolution. the whole road has been a battle-ground, over which the poles had chased the russians to the frontier, and been driven back to warsaw; time after time it had been drenched with russian and polish blood, the houses and villages sacked and burned, and their blackened ruins still cumbered the ground, nursing in the conquered but unsubdued pole his deep, undying hatred of the russians. on this road diebitsch, the crosser of the balkan, at the head of eighty thousand men, advanced to warsaw. his right and left wings manoeuvred to join him at siedler, the principal town, through which we passed. we changed horses three times, and rolled on all night without stopping. in the morning my companion pointed out an old oak, where a distinguished colonel of the revolution, drawing up the fourth polish regiment against the imperial guards, with a feeling of mortal hate commanded them to throw away their primings, and charge with the bayonet, "coeur à coeur." in another place five hundred gentlemen, dressed in black, with pumps, silk stockings, and small swords, in a perfect wantonness of pleasure at fighting with the russians, and, as they said, in the same spirit with which they would go to a ball, threw themselves upon a body of the guards, and, after the most desperate fighting, were cut to pieces to a man. farther on, a little off from the road, on the borders of the field of grokow, was a large mound covered with black crosses, thrown up over the graves of the poles who had fallen there. about eleven o'clock we approached the banks of the vistula. we passed the suburbs of praga, the last battle-ground of kosciusko, where the bloodstained suwarrow butchered in cold blood thirty thousand poles. warsaw lay spread out on the opposite bank of the river, the heroic but fallen capital of poland, the city of brave men and beautiful women; of stanislaus, and sobieski, and poniatowsky, and kosciusko, and, i will not withhold it, possessing in my eyes, a romantic interest from its associations with the hero of my schoolboy days, thaddeus of warsaw. on the right is the chateau of the old kings of poland, now occupied by a russian viceroy, with the banner of russia waving over its walls. we rode over the bridge and entered the city. martial music was sounding, and russian soldiers, cossacks, and circassians were filing through its streets. we held up to let them pass, and they moved like the keepers of a conquered city, with bent brows and stern faces, while the citizens looked at them in gloomy silence. we drove up to the hotel de leipsic (which, however, i do not recommend), where i took a bath and a doctor. footnote: [ ] the douga is the bow over the neck of the middle horse, to which the bell is attached; and valdai the place on the moscow road where the best bells are made. chapter xi. warsaw.--a polish doctor.--battle of grokow.--the outbreak.--the fatal issue.--present condition of poland.--polish exiles.--aspect of warsaw.--traits of the poles. a letter dated at warsaw to my friends at home begins thus: "i have reached this place to be put on my back by a polish doctor. how long he will keep me here i do not know. he promises to set me going again in a week; and, as he has plenty of patients without keeping me down, i have great confidence in him. besides, having weathered a greek, an armenian, and a russian, i think i shall be too much for a pole." there was not a servant in the house who understood any language i spoke, and my friend kindly proposed my taking a room with him; and, as he had many acquaintances in warsaw, who thronged to see him, he had to tell them all the history of the american in the bed in one corner. all the next day i lay in the room alone on a low bedstead, looking up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the wall. i was saved from a fit of the blues by falling into a passion, and throwing my boots at the servant because he could not understand me. late in the evening my friend returned from the theatre with three or four companions, and we made a night of it, i taking medicine and they smoking pipes. they were all excellent fellows, and, as soon as they heard me moving, came over to me, and, when i fell back on my pillow, covered me up, and went back, and talked till i wanted them again. toward daylight i fell asleep, and, when the doctor came in the morning, felt myself a new man. my doctor, by-the-way, was not a pole, but a german, physician to the court, and the first in warsaw; he occupied a little country-seat a few miles from warsaw, belonging to count niemcewicz, the poet and patriot, who accompanied kosciusko to this country, and married a lady of new-jersey; returned with him to poland, was with him on his last battle-field, and almost cut to pieces by his side. in the afternoon one of my companions of the night before came to see me. he had been in warsaw during the revolution, and talked with enthusiasm of their brief but gallant struggle; and, as it was a beautiful afternoon, proposed strolling to a little eminence near at hand, commanding a view of the first battle-ground. i went with him and he pointed out on the other side of the vistula the field of grokow. below it was the bridge over which general romarino carried his little army during the night, having covered the bridge, the horses' hoofs, and the wheels of the carriages with straw. this general is now in france under sentence of death, with a price set upon his head. the battle of grokow, the greatest in europe since that of waterloo, was fought on the twenty-fifth of february, , and the place where i stood commanded a view of the whole ground. the russian army was under the command of diebitsch, and consisted of one hundred and forty-two thousand infantry, forty thousand cavalry, and three hundred and twelve pieces of cannon. this enormous force was arranged in two lines of combatants, and a third of reserve. its left wing, between wavre and the marshes of the vistula, consisted of four divisions of infantry of forty-seven thousand men, three of cavalry of ten thousand five hundred, and one hundred and eight pieces of cannon; the right consisted of three and a half divisions of infantry of thirty-one thousand men, four divisions of cavalry of fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty men, and fifty-two pieces of cannon. upon the borders of the great forest opposite the forest of elders, conspicuous from where i stood, was placed the reserve, commanded by the grand-duke constantine. against this immense army the poles opposed less than fifty thousand men and a hundred pieces of cannon, under the command of general skrzynecki. at break of day the whole force of the russian right wing, with a terrible fire of fifty pieces of artillery and columns of infantry, charged the polish left with the determination of carrying it by a single and overpowering effort. the poles, with six thousand five hundred men and twelve pieces of artillery, not yielding a foot of ground, and knowing they could hope for no succour, resisted this attack for several hours, until the russians slackened their fire. about ten o'clock the plain was suddenly covered with the russian forces issuing from the cover of the forest, seeming one undivided mass of troops. two hundred pieces of cannon, posted on a single line, commenced a fire which made the earth tremble, and was more terrible than the oldest officers, many of whom had fought at marengo and austerlitz, had ever beheld. the russians now made an attack upon the right wing; but foiled in this as upon the left, diebitsch directed the strength of his army against the forest of elders, hoping to divide the poles into two parts. one hundred and twenty pieces of cannon were brought to bear on this one point, and fifty battalions, incessantly pushed to the attack, kept up a scene of massacre unheard of in the annals of war. a polish officer who was in the battle told me that the small streams which intersected the forest were so choked with dead that the infantry marched directly over their bodies. the heroic poles, with twelve battalions, for four hours defended the forest against the tremendous attack. nine times they were driven out, and nine times, by a series of admirably-executed manoeuvres, they repulsed the russians with immense loss. batteries, now concentrated in one point, were in a moment hurried to another, and the artillery advanced to the charge like cavalry, sometimes within a hundred feet of the enemy's columns, and there opened a murderous fire of grape. at three o'clock the generals, many of whom were wounded, and most of whom had their horses shot under them, and fought on foot at the head of their divisions, resolved upon a retrograde movement, so as to draw the russians on the open plain. diebitsch, supposing it to be a flight, looked over to the city and exclaimed, "well, then, it appears that, after this bloody day, i shall take tea in the belvidere palace." the russian troops debouched from the forest. a cloud of russian cavalry, with several regiments of heavy cuirassiers at their head, advanced to the attack. colonel pientka, who had kept up an unremitting fire from his battery for five hours, seated with perfect sang-froid upon a disabled piece of cannon, remained to give another effective fire, then left at full gallop a post which he had so long occupied under the terrible fire of the enemy's artillery. this rapid movement of his battery animated the russian forces. the cavalry advanced on a trot upon the line of a battery of rockets. a terrible discharge was poured into their ranks, and the horses, galled to madness by the flakes of fire, became wholly ungovernable, and broke away, spreading disorder in every direction; the whole body swept helplessly along the fire of the polish infantry, and in a few minutes was so completely annihilated that, of a regiment of cuirassiers who bore inscribed on their helmets the "invincibles," not a man escaped. the wreck of the routed cavalry, pursued by the lancers, carried along in its flight the columns of infantry; a general retreat commenced, and the cry of "poland for ever" reached the walls of warsaw to cheer the hearts of its anxious inhabitants. so terrible was the fire of that day, that in the polish army there was not a single general or staff officer who had not his horse killed or wounded under him; two thirds of the officers, and, perhaps, of the soldiers, had their clothes pierced with balls, and more than a tenth part of the army were wounded. thirty thousand russians and ten thousand poles were left on the field of battle; rank upon rank lay prostrate on the earth, and the forest of elders was so strewed with bodies that it received from that day the name of the "forest of the dead." the czar heard with dismay, and all europe with astonishment, that the crosser of the balkan had been foiled under the walls of warsaw. all day, my companion said, the cannonading was terrible. crowds of citizens, of both sexes and all ages, were assembled on the spot where we stood, earnestly watching the progress of the battle, sharing in all its vicissitudes, in the highest state of excitement as the clearing up of the columns of smoke showed when the russians or the poles had fled; and he described the entry of the remnant of the polish army into warsaw as sublime and terrible; their hair and faces were begrimed with powder and blood; their armour shattered and broken, and all, even dying men, were singing patriotic songs; and when the fourth regiment, among whom was a brother of my companion, and who had particularly distinguished themselves in the battle, crossed the bridge and filed slowly through the streets, their lances shivered against the cuirasses of the guards, their helmets broken, their faces black and spotted with blood, some erect, some tottering, and some barely able to sustain themselves in the saddle, above the stern chorus of patriotic songs rose the distracted cries of mothers, wives, daughters, and lovers, seeking among this broken band for forms dearer than life, many of whom were then sleeping on the battle-field. my companion told me that he was then a lad of seventeen, and had begged with tears to be allowed to accompany his brother; but his widowed mother extorted from him a promise that he would not attempt it. all day he had stood with his mother on the very spot where we did, his hand in hers, which she grasped convulsively, as every peal of cannon seemed the knell of her son; and when the lancers passed, she sprang from his side as she recognised in the drooping figure of an officer, with his spear broken in his hand, the figure of her gallant boy. he was then reeling in his saddle, his eye was glazed and vacant, and he died that night in their arms. the tyranny of the grand-duke constantine, the imperial viceroy, added to the hatred of the russians, which is the birthright of every pole, induced the unhappy revolution of eighteen hundred and thirty. although, on the death of alexander, constantine waived in favour of his brother nicolas his claim to the throne of russia, his rule in poland shows that it was not from any aversion to the exercise of power. when constantine was appointed its commander-in-chief, the polish army ranked with the bravest in europe. the polish legions under dombrowski and poniatowski had kept alive the recollections of the military glory of their fallen nation. almost annihilated by the bloody battles in italy, where they met their old enemies under suwarrow, the butcher of praga, the proud remnants reorganized and formed the fifth corps of the "grande armée," distinguished themselves at smolensk, borodino, kalouga, and the passage of the berezina, took the field with the wreck of the army in saxony, fought at dresden and leipsic, and, when napoleon told them, brave as they were, that they were free to go home if they pleased, they scorned to desert him in his waning fortunes, and accompanied him to paris. alexander promised an amnesty, and they marched with him to warsaw. within the first six months many officers of this army had been grossly insulted; an eyewitness told me that he had seen, on the great square of warsaw, the high sheriff tear off the epaulettes from the shoulders of an officer, and, in the presence of the whole troops, strike him on the cheek with his hand. it would, perhaps, be unjust to enumerate, as i heard them, the many causes of oppression that roused to revolt the slumbering spirit of the poles; in the midst of which the french revolution threw all poland into commotion. the three days of july were hailed with rapture by every patriotic heart; the new revolutionary movements in belgium cheered them on; and eighty young men, torn from the altars while praying for the souls of their murdered countrymen on the anniversary of the butchery at praga, thrilled every heart and hurried the hour of retribution. the enthusiasm of youth struck the first blow. a band of ardent young men of the first families attended the meetings of secret patriotic associations; and six of them, belonging to the military school, suspecting they were betrayed, early in the evening went to their barracks, and proposed to their comrades a plan for liberating their country. the whole corps, not excepting one sick in bed, amounting in all to about a hundred and fifty, took up arms, and, under a lieutenant of nineteen, attacked the palace of constantine, and almost secured his person. the grand-duke was then asleep on a couch in a room opening upon a corridor of the belvidere palace, and, roused by a faithful valet, had barely time to throw a robe over him and fly. the insurgents, with cries of vengeance, rushed into the interior of the palace, driving before them the chief of the city police and the aiddecamp of the grand-duke. the latter had the presence of mind to close the door of the grand-duke's apartment before he was pierced through with a dozen bayonets. the wife of the grand-duke, the beautiful and interesting princess for whom he had sacrificed a crown, hearing the struggle, was found on her knees offering up prayers to heaven for the safety of her husband. constantine escaped by a window; and the young soldiers, foiled in their attempt, marched into the city, and, passing the barracks of the russian guards, daringly fired a volley to give notice of their coming. entering the city, they broke open the prisons and liberated the state prisoners, burst into the theatres, crying out, "women, home; men, to arms," forced the arsenal, and in two hours forty thousand men were under arms. very soon the fourth polish regiment joined them; and before midnight the remainder of the polish troops in warsaw, declaring that their children were too deeply implicated to be abandoned, espoused the popular cause. some excesses were committed; and general stanislaus potocki, distinguished in the revolution of kosciusko, for hesitating was killed, exclaiming with his last breath that it was dreadful to die by the hands of his countrymen. chlopicki, the comrade of kosciusko, was proclaimed dictator by an immense multitude in the champ de mars. for some time the inhabitants of warsaw were in a delirium; the members of the patriotic association, and citizens of all classes, assembled every day, carrying arms, and with glasses in their hands, in the saloon of the theatre and at a celebrated coffee-house, discussing politics and singing patriotic songs. in the theatres the least allusion brought down thunders of applause, and at the end of the piece heralds appeared on the stage waving the banners of the dismembered provinces. in the pit they sang in chorus national hymns; the boxes answered them; and sometimes the spectators finished by scaling the stage and dancing the mazurka and the cracoviak. the fatal issue of this revolution is well known. the polish nation exerted and exhausted its utmost strength, and the whole force of the colossal empire was brought against it, and, in spite of prodigies of valour, crushed it. the moment, the only moment when gallant, chivalric, and heroic poland could have been saved and restored to its rank among nations, was suffered to pass by, and no one came to her aid. the minister of france threw out the bold boast that a hundred thousand men stood ready to march to her assistance; but france and all europe looked on and saw her fall. her expiring diet ordered a levy in mass, and made a last appeal, "in the name of god; in the name of liberty; of a nation placed between life and death; in the name of kings and heroes who have fought for religion and humanity; in the name of future generations; in the name of justice and the deliverance of europe;" but her dying appeal was unheard. her last battle was under the walls of warsaw; and then she would not have fallen, but even in poland there were traitors. the governor of warsaw blasted the laurels won in the early battles of the revolution by the blackest treason. he ordered general romarino to withdraw eight thousand soldiers and chase the russians beyond the frontier at brezc. while he was gone the russians pressed warsaw; he could have returned in time to save it, but was stopped with directions not to advance until farther orders. in the mean time warsaw fell, with the curse of every pole upon the head of its governor. the traitor now lives ingloriously in russia, disgraced and despised, while the young lieutenant is in unhappy but not unhonoured exile in siberia. so ended the last heroic struggle of poland. it is dreadful to think so, but it is greatly to be feared that poland is blotted for ever from the list of nations. indeed, by a late imperial ukase, poland is expunged from the map of europe; her old and noble families are murdered, imprisoned, or in exile; her own language is excluded from the offices of government, and even from the public schools; her national character destroyed; her national dress proscribed; her national colours trampled under foot; her national banner, the white eagle of poland, is in the dust. warsaw is abandoned, and become a russian city; her best citizens are wandering in exile in foreign lands, while cossack and circassian soldiers are filing through her streets, and the banner of russia is waving over her walls. perhaps it is not relevant, but i cannot help saying that there is no exaggeration in the stories which reach us at our own doors of the misfortunes and sufferings of polish exiles. i have met them wandering in many different countries, and particularly i remember one at cairo. he had fought during the whole polish revolution, and made his escape when warsaw fell. he was a man of about thirty-five years of age, dressed in a worn military frockcoat, and carrying himself with a manly and martial air. he had left a wife and two children at warsaw. at constantinople he had written to the emperor requesting permission to return, and even promising never again to take up arms against russia, but had received for answer that the amnesty was over and the day of grace was past; and the unfortunate pole was then wandering about the world like a cavalier of fortune or a knight of romance, with nothing to depend upon but his sword. he had offered his services to the sultan and to the pacha of egypt; he was then poor, and, with the bearing of a gentleman and the pride of a soldier, was literally begging his bread. i could sympathize in the misfortunes of an exiled pole, and felt that his distress must indeed be great, that he who had perilled life and ties dearer than life in the cause of an oppressed country, should offer his untarnished sword to the greatest despot that ever lived. the general appearance of warsaw is imposing. it stands on a hill of considerable elevation on the left bank of the vistula; the zamech or chateau of the kings of poland spreads its wings midway between the river and the summit of the hill, and churches and towering spires checker at different heights the distant horizon. most of the houses are built of stone, or brick stuccoed; they are numbered in one continued series throughout the city, beginning from the royal palace (occupied by paskiewitch), which is numbered _one_, and rising above number five thousand. the churches are numerous and magnificent; the palaces, public buildings, and many of the mansions of noblemen, are on a large scale, very showy, and, in general, striking for their architectural designs. one great street runs irregularly through the whole city, of which miodowa, or honey-street, and the novoy swiat, or new world, are the principal and most modern portions. as in all aristocratic cities, the streets are badly paved, and have no trottoirs for the foot passengers. the russian drosky is in common use; the public carriages are like those in western europe, though of a low form; the linings generally painted red; the horses large and handsome, with large collars of red or green, covered with small brass rings, which sound like tinkling bells; and the carts are like those in our own city, only longer and lower, and more like our brewer's dray. the hotels are numerous, generally kept in some of the old palaces, and at the entrance of each stands a large porter, with a cocked hat and silver-headed cane, to show travellers to their apartments and receive the names of visiters. there are two principal kukiernia, something like the french cafés, where many of the varsovians breakfast and lounge in the mornings. [illustration: royal palace at warsaw.] the poles, in their features, looks, customs, and manners, resemble asiatics rather than europeans; and they are, no doubt, descended from tartar ancestors. though belonging to the sclavonic race, which occupies nearly the whole extent of the vast plains of western europe, they have advanced more than the others from the rude and barbarous state which characterizes this race; and this is particularly manifest at warsaw. an eyewitness, describing the appearance of the polish deputies at paris sent to announce the election of henry of anjou as successor of sigismund, says, "it is impossible to describe the general astonishment when we saw these ambassadors in long robes, fur caps, sabres, arrows, and quivers; but our admiration was excessive when we saw the sumptuousness of their equipages; the scabbards of their swords adorned with jewels; their bridles, saddles, and horse-cloths decked in the same way," &c. but none of this barbaric display is now seen in the streets of warsaw. indeed, immediately on entering it i was struck with the european aspect of things. it seemed almost, though not quite, like a city of western europe, which may, perhaps, be ascribed, in a great measure, to the entire absence of the semi-asiatic costumes so prevalent in all the cities of russia, and even at st. petersburgh; and the only thing i remarked peculiar in the dress of the inhabitants was the remnant of a barbarous taste for show, exhibiting itself in large breastpins, shirt-buttons, and gold chains over the vest; the mustache is universally worn. during the war of the revolution immediately succeeding our own, warsaw stood the heaviest brunt; and when kosciusko fell fighting before it, its population was reduced to seventy five thousand. since that time it has increased, and is supposed now to be one hundred and forty thousand, thirty thousand of whom are jews. calamity after calamity has befallen warsaw; still its appearance is that of a gay city. society consists altogether of two distinct and distant orders, the nobles and the peasantry, without any intermediate degrees. i except, of course, the jews, who form a large item in her population, and whose long beards, thin and anxious faces, and piercing eyes met me at every corner of warsaw. the peasants are in the lowest stage of mental degradation. the nobles, who are more numerous than in any other country in europe, have always, in the eyes of the public, formed the people of poland. they are brave, prompt, frank, hospitable, and gay, and have long been called the french of the north, being french in their habits, fond of amusements, and living in the open air, like the lounger in the palais royal, the tuileries, the boulevards, and luxembourgh, and particularly french in their political feelings, the surges of a revolution in paris being always felt at warsaw. they regard the germans with mingled contempt and aversion, calling them "dumb" in contrast with their own fluency and loquacity; and before their fall were called by their neighbours the "proud poles." they consider it the deepest disgrace to practise any profession, even law or medicine, and, in case of utmost necessity, prefer the plough. a sicilian, a fellow-passenger from palermo to naples, who one moment was groaning in the agony of seasickness and the next playing on his violin, said to me, "canta il, signore?" "do you sing?" i answered "no;" and he continued, "suonate?" "do you play?" i again answered "no;" and he asked me, with great simplicity, "cosa fatte? niente?" "what do you do? nothing?" and i might have addressed the same question to every pole in warsaw. the whole business of the country is in the hands of the jews, and all the useful and mechanical arts are practised by strangers. i did not find a pole in a single shop in warsaw; the proprietors of the hotels and coffee-houses are strangers, principally germans; my tailor was a german; my shoemaker a frenchman, and the man who put a new crystal in my watch an italian from milan. but though this entire absence of all useful employment is, on grounds of public policy, a blot on their national character, as a matter of feeling it rather added to the interest with which i regarded the "proud poles;" and perhaps it was imaginary, but i felt all the time i was in warsaw that, though the shops and coffee-houses were open, and crowds thronged the streets, a sombre air hung over the whole city; and if for a moment this impression left me, a company of cossacks, with their wild music, moving to another station, or a single russian officer riding by in a drosky, wrapped in his military cloak, reminded me that the foot of a conqueror was upon the necks of the inhabitants of warsaw. this was my feeling after a long summer day's stroll through the streets; and in the evening i went to the theatre, which was a neat building, well filled, and brilliantly lighted; but the idea of a pervading and gloomy spirit so haunted me that in a few moments i left what seemed a heartless mockery of pleasure. i ought to add that i did not understand a word of the piece; the _triste_ air which touched me may have been induced by the misfortunes of the stage hero; and, in all probability, i should have astonished a melancholy-looking neighbour if, acting under my interpretation of his visage, i had expressed to him my sympathy in the sufferings of his country. chapter xii. religion of poland.--sunday in warsaw.--baptized jews.--palaces of the polish kings.--sobieski.--field of vola.--wreck of a warrior.--the poles in america.--a polish lady.--troubles of a passport.--departure from warsaw.--an official rachel.--a mysterious visiter. sunday at warshaw. poland is distinguished above the other nations of europe as a land of religious toleration. so late as the latter part of the tenth century, the religion of poland was a gross idolatry; and, mingled with the rites of their own country, they worshipped, under other names, jupiter, pluto, mars, venus, diana, and others of the pagan deities. during the reign of mieczylaus i. of the piast dynasty, the monks introduced christianity. the prince himself was proof against the monks, but received from woman's lips the principles of the christian religion. enamoured of dombrowska, the daughter of the duke of bohemia, a country which had then lately embraced christianity, who refused to accept his suit unless he was baptized, mieczylaus sacrificed the superstitions and prejudices of his fathers on the altar of love. but the religion which he embraced for the sake of dombrowska he afterward propagated for its own; became an ardent champion of the cross; broke down with his own hands the idols of his country; built christian churches on the ruins of pagan temples; and, in the ardour of his new faith, issued an edict that, when any portion of the gospel was read, the hearers should half draw their swords to testify their readiness to defend its truth. in the reign of the "famous" john sobieski, the annals of poland, till that time free from this disgrace, were stained by one of the most atrocious acts of barbarity recorded in the history of religious persecution. a lithuanian nobleman, a religious and benevolent man, but sufficiently intelligent to ridicule some of the current superstitions, and very rich, on account of a note made in the margin of a book, written by a stupid german, was tried for atheism by a council of bigoted catholic bishops, and found guilty, not only of "having denied the existence of a god, but the doctrine of the trinity and the divine maternity of the virgin mary." zaluski, one of the villains concerned in the torment, writes, "the convict was led to the scaffold, where the executioner, with a red-hot iron, tore his tongue and his mouth, _with which he had been cruel toward god_; then they burned his hands, instruments of the abominable production, at a slow fire. the sacrilegious paper was thrown into the flame; himself last; that monster of the age, that deicide, was cast into the flames of expiation, if such a crime could be atoned." in seventeen hundred and twenty-six the jesuits, making a public procession with the host in the streets of thorn, the young scholars of the order insisted that some lutheran children should kneel; and on their refusal a scuffle ensued between the jesuits and townspeople, most of whom were lutherans, in which the enraged townspeople broke open the jesuits' college, profaned all the objects of worship, and, among others an image of the virgin. the catholics of poland, assembled in the diet, almost infuriated with fanatic zeal, condemned to death the magistrates of thorn for not exercising their authority. seven of the principal citizens were also condemned to death; many were imprisoned or banished; three persons, accused of throwing the virgin's image into the fire, lost their right arms, and the whole city was deprived of the freedom of public worship. this was the last act of religious persecution in poland; but even yet the spirit of the reformation has made but little progress, and the great bulk of the people are still groping in the darkness of catholicism. on every public road and in all the streets of warsaw stand crosses, sometimes thirty feet high, with a figure of the saviour large as life, sometimes adorned with flowers and sometimes covered with rags. as in all catholic cities, a sunday in warsaw is a fête day. i passed the morning in strolling through the churches, which are very numerous, and some of them, particularly the cathedral church of st. john and that of the holy cross, of colossal dimensions. the scene was the same as in the catholic churches in italy; at every door crowds were entering and passing out, nobles, peasants, shopmen, drosky boys, and beggars; the highborn lady descended from her carriage, dipped her fingers in the same consecrated water, and kneeled on the same pavement side by side with the beggar; alike equal in god's house, and outside the door again an immeasurable distance between them. at twelve o'clock, by appointment, i met my travelling companion and another of his friends in the jardin de saxe, the principal public garden in warsaw. it stands in the very heart of the city, in the rear of the palais de saxe, built by the elector of saxony when called to the throne of poland. it is enclosed all around by high brick walls, screened by shrubs, and vines, and trees rising above, so as to exclude the view of the houses facing it. it is handsomely laid out with lawns and gravel-walks, and adorned with trees; and as the grounds are exceedingly rural and picturesque, and the high walls and trees completely shut out the view of all surrounding objects, i could hardly realize that i was in the centre of a populous city. it was then the fashionable hour for promenade, and all the élite of warsaw society was there. i had heard of this sunday promenade, and, after making one or two turns on the principal walk, i remarked to my companions that i was disappointed in not seeing, as i had expected, a collection of the highborn and aristocratic poles; but they told me that, changed as warsaw was in every particular, in nothing was this change more manifest than in the character of this favourite resort. from boyhood, one of them had been in the habit of walking there regularly on the same day and at the same hour; and he told me that, before the revolution, it had always been thronged by a gay and brilliant collection of the nobility of warsaw; and he enumerated several families whose names were identified with the history of poland, who were in the habit of being there at a certain time, as regularly as the trees which then shaded our walk; but since the revolution these families were broken up and dispersed, and their principal members dead or in exile, or else lived retired, too proud in their fallen state to exhibit themselves in public places, where they were liable to be insulted by the presence of their russian conquerors; and i could well appreciate the feeling which kept them away, for russian officers, with their rattling swords and nodding plumes, and carrying themselves with a proud and lordly air, were the most conspicuous persons present. i had noticed one party, a dark, pale, and interesting-looking man, with an elegant lady and several children and servants, as possessing, altogether, a singularly melancholy and aristocratic appearance; but the interest i was disposed to take in them was speedily dispelled by hearing that he was a baptized jew, a money broker, who had accumulated a fortune by taking advantage of the necessities of the distressed nobles. indeed, next to the russian officers, the baptized jews were the most prominent persons on the promenade. these persons form a peculiar class in warsaw, occupying a position between the israelites and christians, and amalgamating with neither. many of them are rich, well educated, and accomplished, and possess great elegance of appearance and manner. they hate most cordially their unregenerated brethren, and it is unnecessary to say that this hate is abundantly reciprocated. it was with a feeling of painful interest that i strolled through this once favourite resort of the nobility of warsaw; and my companions added to this melancholy feeling by talking in a low tone, almost in whispers, and telling me that now the promenade was always _triste_ and dull; and in going out they led me through a private walk, where an old noble, unable to tear himself from a place consecrated by the recollections of his whole life, still continued to take his daily walk apart from the crowd, wearing out the evening of his days in bitter reflections on the fallen condition of his kindred and country. we dined, as usual, at a restaurant, where at one table was a party of swiss, here, as at moscow, exercising that talent, skill, and industry which they exhibit all over the world, and consoling themselves for the privations of exile with the hope of one day being able to return to their native mountains, never to leave them again. after dinner we took an open carriage, and at the barrier entered one of the numerous avenues of the ujazdow, leading to belvidere, the country residence of the late grand-duke constantine. the avenue is divided by rows of old and stately trees, terminating in a large circular octagon, from which branch off eight other avenues, each at a short distance crossed by others, and forming a sort of labyrinth, said to be one of the finest drives and promenades in europe, and on sundays the rendezvous of nearly the entire population of warsaw. it was a beautiful afternoon, and the throng of carriages, and horsemen, and thousands of pedestrians, and the sun, occasionally obscured and then breaking through the thick foliage, darkening and again lighting up the vista through the trees, gave a beauty to the landscape, and a variety and animation to the scene, that i had not yet found in warsaw. passing the belvidere palace, my companions described the manner in which the students had made their attack upon it, and pointed out the window by which constantine escaped. turning from one of the splendid avenues of the ujazdow, we crossed a stone bridge, on which stands the equestrian statue of john sobieski, his horse rearing over the body of a prostrate turk; it was erected to him as the saviour of christendom after he had driven the turks from the walls of vienna. beyond this we entered the grounds and park of lazienki, formerly the country residence of stanislaus augustus, situated in a most delightful spot on the banks of the vistula. the royal villa stands in the midst of an extensive park of stately old trees, and the walks lead to a succession of delightful and romantic spots, adorned with appropriate and tasteful buildings. among them, on an island reached by crossing a rustic bridge, are a winter and a summer theatre, the latter constructed so as to resemble, in a great measure, an ancient amphitheatre in ruins; in it performances used formerly to take place in the open air. i am not given to dreaming, and there was enough in the scenes passing under my eyes to employ my thoughts; but, as i wandered through the beautiful walks, and crossed romantic bridges, composed of the trunks and bended branches of trees, i could not help recurring to the hand that had planned these beauties, the good king stanislaus. "dread pultowa's day, when fortune left the royal swede," hurled stanislaus from his throne; and as i stood under the portico of his palace, i could but remember that its royal builder had fled from it in disguise, become a prisoner to the turks, and died an exile in a foreign land. from here we rode to the chateau of villanow, another and one of the most interesting of the residences of the kings of poland, constructed by john sobieski and perhaps the only royal structure in europe which, like some of the great edifices of egypt and rome, was erected by prisoners taken in war, being constructed entirely by the hands of turkish captives. it was the favourite residence of sobieski, where he passed most of his time when not in arms, and where he closed his days. until lately, the chamber and bed on which he died might still be seen. the grounds extend for a great distance along the banks of the vistula, and many of the noble trees which now shade the walks were planted by sobieski's own hands. the reign of sobieski is the most splendid era in the history of poland. the great statue i had just passed presented him as the conqueror of the turks, the deliverer of christendom, the redoubtable warrior, riding over the body of a prostrate mussulman; and every stone in the palace is a memorial of his warlike triumphs; but if its inner chambers could tell the scenes of which they had been the witness, loud and far as the trumpet of glory has sounded his name, no man would envy john sobieski. the last time he unsheathed his sword, in bitterness of heart he said, "it will be easier to get the better of the enemies i am in quest of than my own sons." he returned broken with vexation and shattered with wounds, more than sixty years old, and two thirds of his life spent in the tented field; his queen drove his friends from his side, destroyed that domestic peace which he valued above all things, and filled the palace with her plots and intrigues. he had promised to zaluski an office which the queen wished to give to another. "my friend," said the dying monarch, "you know the rights of marriage, and you know if i can resist the prayers of the queen; it depends, then, on you that i live tranquil or that i be constantly miserable. she has already promised to another this vacant office, and if i do not consent to it i am obliged to fly my house. i know not where i shall go to die in peace. you pity me; you will not expose me to public ridicule." old and infirm, with gray hairs and withered laurels, a prey to lingering disease, the deathbed of the dying warrior was disturbed by a noise worse than the din of battle; and before the breath had left him, an intriguing wife and unnatural children were wrangling over his body for the possession of his crown. a disgraceful struggle was continued a short time after his death. one by one his children died, and there is not now any living of the name of sobieski. the next day i visited the field of vola, celebrated as the place of election of the kings of poland. it is about five miles from warsaw, and was formerly surrounded by a ditch with three gates, one for great poland, one for little poland, and one for lithuania. in the middle were two enclosures, one of an oblong shape, surrounded by a kind of rampart or ditch, in the centre of which was erected, at the time of election, a vast temporary building of wood, covered at the top and open at the sides, which was called the zopa, and occupied by the senate; and the other of a circular shape, called the kola, in which the nuncios assembled in the open air. the nobles, from a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand in number, encamped on the plain in separate bodies under the banners of their respective palatinates, with their principal officers in front on horseback. the primate, having declared the names of the candidates, kneeled down and chanted a hymn; and then, mounting on horseback, went round the plain and collected the votes, the nobles not voting individually, but each palatinate in a body. it was necessary that the election should be unanimous, and a single nobleman peremptorily stopped the election of ladislaus vii. being asked what objection he had to him, he answered, "none at all; but i will not suffer him to be king." after being by some means brought over, he gave the king as the reason for his opposition, "i had a mind to see whether our liberty was still in being or not. i am satisfied that it is, and your majesty shall not have a better subject than myself." if the palatinates agreed, the primate asked again, and yet a third time if all were satisfied; and, after a general approbation, three times proclaimed the king; and the grand marshal of the crown repeated the proclamation three times at the gates of the camp. it was the exercise of this high privilege of electing their own king which created and sustained the lofty bearing of the polish nobles, inducing the proud boast which, in a moment of extremity, an intrepid band made to their king, "what hast thou to fear with twenty thousand lances? if the sky should fall, we would keep it up with their points." but, unhappily, although the exercise of this privilege was confined only to the nobles, the election of a king often exhibited a worse picture than all the evils of universal suffrage with us. the throne was open to the whole world; the nobles were split into contending factions; foreign gold found its way among them, and sometimes they deliberated under the bayonets of foreign troops. warsaw and its environs were a scene of violence and confusion, and sometimes the field of vola was stained with blood. still no man can ride over that plain without recurring to the glorious hour when sobieski, covered with laurels won in fighting the battles of his country, amid the roar of cannon and the loud acclamations of the senate, the nobles, and the army, was hailed the chosen king of a free people. i had enough of travelling post, and was looking out for some quiet conveyance to cracow. a jew applied to me, and i went with him to look at his carriage, which i found at a sort of "bull's-head" stopping-place, an enormous vehicle without either bottom or top, being a species of framework like our hay-wagons, filled with straw to prevent goods and passengers from spilling out. he showed me a couple of rough-looking fellows, who would be my _compagnons de voyage_, and who said that we could all three lie very comfortably in the bottom of the vehicle. their appearance did not add to the recommendation of the wagon; nevertheless, if i had understood the language and been strong enough for the rough work, i should perhaps have taken that conveyance, as, besides the probable incidents of the journey, it would give me more insight into the character of the people than a year's residence in the capital. returning to my hotel, i found that a polish officer had left his address, with a request for me to call upon him. i went, and found a man of about forty, middle sized, pale and emaciated, wounded and an invalid, wearing the polish revolutionary uniform. it was the only instance in which i had seen this dress. after the revolution it had been absolutely proscribed; but the country being completely subdued, and the government in this particular case not caring to exercise any unnecessary harshness, he was permitted to wear it unmolested. it was, however, almost in mockery that he still wore the garb of a soldier; for if poland had again burst her chains, and the unsheathed sword were put in his hands, he could not have struck a blow to help her. unfortunately, he could not speak french, or, rather, i may say fortunately, for in consequence of this i saw his lady, a pensive, melancholy, and deeply-interesting woman, dressed in black, in mourning for two gallant brothers who died in battle under the walls of warsaw. their business with me was of a most commonplace nature. they had lately returned from a visit to some friends at cracow, in a calêche hired at the frontier; and hearing from the peasant who drove them that a stranger was looking for a conveyance to that place, out of good-will to him desired to recommend him to me. the lady had hardly finished a sort of apologizing commencement before i had resolved to assent to almost anything she proposed; and when she stated the whole case, it was so exactly what i wanted, that i expressed myself under great obligations for the favour done me. i suggested, however, my doubts as to the propriety of undertaking the journey alone, without any interpreter; but, after a few words with the major, she replied that she would give full directions to the peasant as to the route. as the carriage could not go beyond the frontier, her husband would give me a letter to the commissaire at michoof, who spoke french, and also to the postmaster; and, finally, she would herself make out for me a vocabulary of the words likely to be most necessary, so as to enable me to ask for bread, milk, eggs, &c.; and with this, and the polish for "how much," i would get along without any difficulty. while she was writing, another officer came in, old and infirm, and also dressed in the polish uniform. she rose from the table, met him almost at the door, kissed him affectionately, led him to a seat, and barely mentioning him to me as "_mon beau père_," resumed her work. while she was writing i watched attentively the whole three, and the expression of face with which the two officers regarded her was unspeakably interesting. they were probably unconscious of it, and perhaps it was only my fancy, but if the transient lighting of their sunken eyes meant anything, it meant that they who sat there in the garb and equipment of soldiers, who had stood in all the pride and vigour of manhood on bloody battle-fields, now looked to a feeble and lovely woman as their only staff and support in life. i would have told them how deeply i sympathized in the misfortunes of their suffering country, but their sadness seemed too deep and sacred. i knew that i could strike a responsive chord by telling them that i was an american, but i would not open their still bleeding wounds; at parting, however, i told them that i should remember in my own country and to their countrymen the kindness shown me here; and as soon as i mentioned that i was an american, the lady asked me the fate of her unhappy countrymen who had been landed as exiles on our shores, and i felt proud in telling them that they had found among our citizens that sympathy which brave men in misfortune deserve, and that our government had made a provision in land for the exiled compatriots of kosciusko. she inquired particularly about the details of their occupation, and expressed the fear that their habits of life, most of them having been brought up as soldiers, unfitted them for usefulness among us. i did not then know how prophetic were her forebodings, and was saved the necessity of telling her, what i afterward read in a newspaper, that an unhappy portion of that band of exiles, discontented with their mode of life, in attempting to cross the rocky mountains were cut to pieces by a party of indians. under the pressure of their immediate misfortunes they had not heard the fate of the exiles, and a ray of satisfaction played for a moment over their melancholy features in hearing that they had met with friends in america; and they told me to say to the poles wherever i found them, that they need never again turn their eyes toward home. she added that the time had been when she and her friends would have extended the hand of welcome to a stranger in poland; that, when a child, she had heard her father and brothers talk of liberty and the pressure of a foreign yoke, but, living in affluence, surrounded by friends and connexions, she could not sympathize with them, and thought it a feeling existing only in men, which women could not know; but actual occurrences had opened her eyes; her family had been crushed to the earth, her friends imprisoned, killed, or driven into exile, and yet, she added, turning to her husband and father, she ought not to mourn, for those dearest to her on earth were spared. but i could read in her face, as she bent her eyes upon their pallid features, that she felt they were spared only for a season. reluctantly i bade them farewell. a servant waited to go with me and show me the calêche, but i told him it was not worth while. i was in no humour for examining the spokes of carriage-wheels; and, if i had been obliged to ride on the tongue, i believe i should have taken it. i went to my hotel, and told my friend of my interview with the major and his lady. he knew them by reputation, and confirmed and strengthened all the interest i took in them, adding that both father and son had been among the first to take up arms during the revolution, and at its unhappy termination were so beloved by the people of warsaw that, in their wounded and crippled state, the russian government had not proceeded to extremities with them. i spent my last evening in warsaw with my pole and several of his friends at a herbata, that is, a sort of confectioner's shop, like a _café_ in the south of europe, where, as in russia, tea is the popular drink. the next morning, as usual, my passport was not ready. my valet had been for it several times, and could not get it. i had been myself to the police-office, and waited until dark, when i was directed to call the next morning. i went at a little after eight, but i will not obtrude upon the reader the details of my vexation, nor the amiable feelings that passed my mind in waiting till twelve o'clock in a large anteroom. in my after wanderings i sometimes sat down upon a stump or on the sands of the desert, and meditated upon my folly in undergoing all manner of hardships when i might be sitting quietly at home; but when i thought of passports in russia and poland, i shook myself with the freedom of a son of the desert, and with the thought that i could turn my dromedary's head which way i pleased, other difficulties seemed light. ancient philosophers extolled uniformity as a great virtue in a young man's character; and, if so, i was entitled to the highest praise, for in the matter of arranging my passport i was always in a passion. i do not know a single exception to the contrary. and if there was one thing more vexatious than another, it was in the case at warsaw, where, after having been bandied from office to office, i received my passport, still requiring the signature of the governor, and walked up to the palace, nursing my indignation, and expecting an accumulation, i was ushered in by guards and soldiers, and at once disarmed of all animosity by the politeness and civility of the principal officers of government. i was almost sorry to be obliged to withhold my intended malediction. i hurried back to my hotel. my friend, with three or four of his warsaw acquaintances, was waiting to see the last of me; my calêche was at the door, and i was already late for a start. i took my seat and bade them farewell. i promised to write to him on my arrival in paris, and to continue a correspondence on my return home. most unfortunately, i lost his address. he lived in some town in poland, near the frontiers of prussia, and probably at this moment thinks of me unkindly for my apparent neglect. possibly we may meet again, though probably never; but if we do, though it do not happen till our heads are gray, we will have a rich fund of satisfaction in the recollections of our long journey to warsaw. i was again setting out alone. my guide or _conducteur_ was a polish peasant. without having seen him, i had calculated upon making ordinary human intelligence, to some extent, a medium of communication; but i found that i had been too soaring in my ideas of the divinity of human nature. when i returned to the hotel i found him lying on the sidewalk asleep; a servant kicked him up and pointed me out as his master for the journey. he ran up and kissed my hand, and, before i was aware of his intention, stooped down and repeated the same salutation on my boot. an american, perhaps, more than any other, scorns the idea of man's debasing himself to his fellow-man; and so powerful was this feeling in me, that before i went abroad i almost despised a white man whom i saw engaged in a menial office. i had outlived this feeling; but when i saw a tall, strong, athletic white man kneel down and kiss my foot, i could almost have spurned him from me. his whole dress was a long shirt coming down to his feet, supported by a broad leathern belt eight inches wide, which he used as a pocket, and a low, broad-brimmed hat, turned up all round, particularly at the sides, and not unlike the headgear of the lebanon shakers. before putting myself out of the reach of aid, i held a conversation with him through an interpreter. the lady of the major had made out a chart for me, specifying each day's journey, which he promised to observe, and added that he would be my slave if i would give him plenty to drink. with such a companion, then, i may say most emphatically that i was again setting out alone; but my calêche was even better than the polish officer represented it, abundantly provided with pockets for provisions, books, &c., and altogether so much more comfortable than anything i was used to, that i threw myself back in it with a feeling of great satisfaction. i rolled for the last time through the streets of warsaw; looked out upon the busy throng; and though, in the perfectly indifferent air with which they turned to me, i felt how small a space i occupied in the world, i lighted my pipe and smoked in their faces, and, with a perfect feeling of independence toward all the world, at one o'clock i arrived at the barrier. here i found, to my great vexation, that i was an object of special consideration to the emperor of russia. a soldier came out for my passport, with which he went inside the guardhouse, and in a few minutes returned with the paper in his hands to ask me some question. i could not answer him. he talked at me a little while, and again went within doors. after sitting for a few moments, vexed at the detention, but congratulating myself that if there was any irregularity it had been discovered before i had advanced far on my journey, i dismounted and went inside, where, after detaining me long enough to make me feel very uncomfortable, they endorsed the visé and let me go. i again lighted my pipe, and in the mildness and beauty of the day, the comfort of my calêche, and the docility and accommodating spirit of my peasant, forgot my past, and even the chance of future difficulties. there was nothing particularly attractive in the road; the country was generally fertile, though tame and uninteresting. late in the afternoon we stopped at a little town, of which i cannot make out the name. like all the other towns on this side of warsaw, in the centre was a square, with a range of wooden houses built all around fronting on the square, and the inhabitants were principally jews. my peasant took off his horses and fed them in the square, and i went into a little kukernia, much cleaner and better than the town promised, where i had a cup of coffee and a roll of bread, and then strolled around the town, which, at this moment, presented a singular spectacle. the women and children were driving into the square herds of cows from the pasture-grounds in the unenclosed plains around; and, when all were brought in, each proprietor picked out his own cow and drove her home, and in a few moments opposite almost every house stood the family cow, with a woman or child milking her. after this the cows strolled back into the square to sleep till morning. a little before dark we started, and, after a fine moonlight ride, at about ten o'clock drove into a sort of caravanserai, being simply a large shed or covered place for wagons and horses, with a room partitioned off in one corner for eating and sleeping. there were, perhaps, fifteen or twenty wagons under the shed, and their wagoners were all assembled in this room, some standing up and eating off a board stretched along the wall, some drinking, some smoking, and some already asleep on the floor. in one corner was a party of jews, with the contents of a purse emptied before them, which they were dividing into separate parcels. the place was kept by a jew, who, with his wife, or some woman belonging to the establishment, old and weatherbeaten, was running about serving and apparently quarrelling with all the wagoners. she seemed particularly disposed to quarrel with me, i believe because i could not talk to her, this being, in her eyes, an unpardonable sin. i could understand, however, that she wanted to prepare me a supper; but my appetite was not tempted by what i saw around me, and i lighted my pipe and smoked. i believe she afterward saw something in me which made her like me better; for while the wagoners were strewing themselves about the floor for sleep, she went out, and returning with a tolerably clean sheaf of straw under each arm, called me to her, and shaking them out in the middle of the floor, pointed me to my bed. my pipe was ended, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, i lay down upon the straw; and the old woman climbed up to a sort of platform in one corner, where, a moment after, i saw her sitting up with her arms above her head, with the utmost nonchalance changing her innermost garment. i was almost asleep, when i noticed a strapping big man, muffled up to the eyes, standing at my feet and looking in my face. i raised my head, and he walked round, keeping his eyes fixed upon me, and went away. shortly after he returned, and again walking round, stopped and addressed me, "spreechen sie deutsch?" i answered by asking him if he could speak french; and not being able, he went away. he returned again, and again walked round as before, looking steadily in my face. i rose on my elbow, and followed him with my eyes till i had turned completely round with him, when he stopped as if satisfied with his observations, and in his broadest vernacular opened bluntly, "hadn't we better speak english?" i need not say that i entirely agreed with him. i sprang up, and catching his hand, asked him what possessed him to begin upon me in dutch; he replied by asking why i had answered in french, adding that his stout english figure ought to have made me know better; and after mutual good-natured recriminations, we kicked my straw bed about the floor, and agreed to make a night of it. he was the proprietor of a large iron manufactory, distant about three days' journey, and was then on his way to warsaw. he went out to his carriage, and one of his servants produced a stock of provisions like the larder of a well-furnished hotel; and as i had gone to bed supperless, he seemed a good, stout, broad-shouldered guardian angel sent to comfort me. we sat on the back seat of the carriage, making a table of the front; and when we had finished, and the fragments were cleared away, we stretched our legs on the table, lighted our pipes, and talked till we fell asleep on each other's shoulder. notwithstanding our intimacy so far, we should not have known each other by daylight, and at break of day we went outside to examine each other. it was, however, perhaps hardly worth while to retain a recollection of features; for, unless by some such accident as that which brought us together, we never shall meet again. we wrote our names in each other's pocketbook as a memorial of our meeting, and at the same moment started on our opposite roads. chapter xiii. friendly solicitude.--raddom.--symptoms of a difficulty.--a court of inquisition.--showing a proper spirit.--troubles thickening.--approaching the climax.--woman's influence.--the finale.--utility of the classics.--another latinist.--a lucky accident.--arrival at cracow. at about eight o'clock we stopped to feed, and at the feeding-place met a german wagoner, who had lived in hamburgh, and spoke english. he seemed much distressed at my not understanding the language of the country. he was a stout, burly fellow, eating and drinking all the time, and his great anxiety was lest i should starve on the road. he insisted upon my providing against such a fatality, and had a couple of fowls roasted for me, and wrapped in a piece of coarse brown paper; and, at parting, backed by a group of friends, to whom he had told my story, he drank schnaps (at my expense) to my safe arrival at cracow. at eleven o'clock we reached raddom. there was a large swinging gate at the barrier of the town, and the soldier opening it demanded my passport to be _viséd_ by the police; he got into the calêche with me, and we drove into the town, stopped in the public square, and went to the bureau together. he left me in an antechamber, and went within, promising, by his manner, to expedite the business, and intimating an expectation of schnaps on his return. in a few minutes he returned, and barely opening the door for me to enter, hurried off, apparently with some misgivings about his schnaps. i entered, and found three or four men, who took no notice of me. i waited a few moments, and seeing my passport on a table before one of them, went up, and, certainly without intending anything offensive, took up the passport with a view of calling his attention to it; he jerked it out of my hand, and looking at me with an imperious and impertinent air, at the same time saying something i have no doubt in character with the expression of his face, he slapped it down on the table. two or three officers coming in, looked at it, and laid it down again, until at length one man, the head of that department, i suppose, took it up, wrote a note, and giving the note and the passport to a soldier, directed me to follow him. the soldier conducted me to the bureau of the government, the largest building, and occupying a central position in the town, and left me in an antechamber with the usual retinue of soldiers and officers. in about a quarter of an hour he came out without the passport, and pulled me by the sleeve to follow him. i shook my head, asked for the passport, and, in fact, moved toward the door he had left. he seemed a good-hearted fellow, and, anxious to save me from any imprudence, pulled me back, held up his fingers, and pointing to the clock, told me to return at one; and touching his hat respectfully, with probably the only french words he knew, "adieu, seigneur," and a look of real interest, hurried away. i strolled about the town, dropped in at a kukiernia, went to the square, and saw my peasant friend feeding his horses, apparently in some trouble and perplexity. i went back at one, and was ordered to come again at four. i would have remonstrated, but, besides that i could not make myself understood, when i attempted to speak they turned rudely away from me. i was vexed by the loss of the day, as i had agreed to pay a high price for the sake of going through a day sooner, and this might spoil my plan; and i was particularly vexed by the rough manner in which i was treated. i returned at four, and was conducted into a large chamber, in which were perhaps twenty or thirty clerks and inferior officers in the uniform of the government. as soon as i entered there was a general commotion. they had sent for a young man who spoke a little french to act as interpreter. the passport was put into his hands, and the first question he asked me was how i, an american, happened to be travelling under a russian passport. i answered that it was not from any wish of mine, but in obedience to their own laws, and added the fact that this passport had been made out by the russian ambassador at constantinople; that under it i had been admitted into russia, and travelled from the black sea to st. petersburgh, and from there down to warsaw, as he might see from the paper itself, the _visés_ of the proper authorities, down to that of the governor of warsaw, being regularly endorsed. he then asked what my business was in poland, and what had induced me to come there. i answered, the same that had carried me into russia, merely the curiosity of a traveller; and he then inquired what in particular i wanted to see in poland. if i had consulted merely my feelings, i should have told him that, besides being attracted by the interest of her heroic history, i wished to see with my own eyes the pressure of a colossal foot upon the necks of a conquered people; that this very system of inquisition and _espionage_ was one of the things i expected to see; but i, of course, forbore this, and answered only in general terms, and my answer was not satisfactory. he then began a more particular examination; asked my age, my height, the colour of my eyes, &c. at first i did not see the absurdity of this examination, and answered honestly according to the fact, as i believed it; but, all at once, it struck me that, as i did not remember the particulars of the description of my person in the passport, my own impromptu might very easily differ from it, and, catching an insulting expression on his face, i told him that he had the passport in his hands, and might himself compare my person with the description there given of me. he then read aloud the entire description; height, so many feet; eyes, such a colour, &c., &c.; scanned me from head to foot; peered into my eyes, stopping after each article to look at me and compare me with the description. by this time every man in the room had left his business and gathered round looking at me, and, after the reading of each article and the subsequent examination, there was a general shaking of heads and a contemptuous smile. at the time i remembered, what had before suggested itself to me rather as a good thing, that, before embarking for europe, i had written on to the department of state for a passport, with a description of my person made out at the moment by a friend, not very flattering, and, perhaps, not very true, but good enough for the continent, which i expected to be the extent of my tour; and i felt conscious that, on a severe examination, my nose might be longer, or my eyes grayer, or in some other point different from the description. this, added to their close and critical examination, at first embarrassed me considerably, but the supercilious and insulting manner in which the examination was conducted roused my indignation and restored my self-possession. i saw, from the informal way in which the thing was done, that this was a mere preliminary inquisition, and not the court to sit in judgment; and i had noticed from the beginning that most of these men were poles, who had sold themselves to russia for petty place and pay in her offices, traitors in their hearts and lives, apostates from every honourable feeling, and breathing a more infernal spirit against their enslaved country than the russians themselves; and i told the interpreter, as coolly as the nature of the case would admit, to accept for himself, and to convey to his associates, the assurance that i should remember their little town as long as i lived; that i had then travelled from england through france, italy, greece, turkey, and russia, and had nowhere met such wanton rudeness and insult as from them; that i did not think it possible that in any european government twenty of its officers would laugh and sneer at the embarrassment of a stranger without a single one stepping forward to assist him; that i deeply regretted the occurrence of such a circumstance in poland; that i felt convinced that there was not a truehearted pole among them, or my character as an american would have saved me from insult. the interpreter seemed a little abashed, but i could see in the vindictive faces of the rest that they were greatly irritated. the examination was cut short, and i was directed to come again at half past five, when the commandant, who had been sent for, would be there. by this time there was some excitement in the streets, and, as i afterward learned, it was noised through the little town that an american was detained on suspicion of travelling under a false passport. my calêche had been standing in the public square all day. i had been noticed going to and from the offices with a soldier at my heels, and my poor pole had been wandering up and down the streets, telling everybody his fears and interest in me, and particularly his anxiety about ten rubles i had promised him. as i passed along, people turned round and looked at me. i went to a kukiernia, where the dame had been very smiling and attentive, and could not get even a look from her. i went to another; several men were earnestly talking, who became silent the moment i entered. a small matter created an excitement in that little place. it was a rare thing for a traveller to pass through it; the russian government threw every impediment in the way, and had made the road so vexatious that it was almost broken up. the french or the citizens of a free country like america were always suspected of being political emissaries to stir up the poles to revolution, and it seemed as if, under that despotic government, to be suspected was to be guilty. the poles were in the habit of seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, and probably half the little town looked on me as a doomed man. i went back to the square and took a seat on my calêche; my poor pole sat on the box looking at me; he had followed me all over, and, like the rest, seemed to regard me as lost. i had probably treated him with more kindness than he was accustomed to receive, though, for every new kindness, he vexed me anew by stooping down and kissing my foot. at half past five o'clock i was again at the door of the palace. on the staircase i met the young man who had acted as interpreter; he would have avoided me, but i stopped him and asked him to return with me. i held on to him, asking him if the commandant spoke french; begged him, as he would hope himself to find kindness in a strange country, to go back and act as a medium of explanation; but he tore rudely away, and hurried down stairs. a soldier opened the door and led me into the same apartment as before. the clerks were all at their desks writing; all looked up as i entered, but not one offered me a seat, nor any the slightest act of civility. i waited a moment, and they seemed studiously to take no notice of me. i felt outrageous at their rudeness. i had no apprehensions of any serious consequences beyond, perhaps, that of a detention until i could write to mr. wilkins, our ambassador at st. petersburgh, and resolved not to be trampled upon by the understrappers. i walked up to the door of the commandant's chamber, when one man, who had been particularly insulting during the reading of the passport, rudely intercepted me, and leaning his back against the door, flourished his hands before him to keep me from entering. fortunately, i fell back in time to prevent even the tip end of his fingers touching me. my blood flashed through me like lightning, and even now i consider myself a miracle of forbearance that i did not strike him. in a few moments the door opened, and a soldier beckoned me to enter. directly in front, at the other end of the room, behind a table, sat the commandant, a grim, gaunt-looking figure about fifty, his military coat buttoned tight up in his throat, his cap and sword on the table by his side, and in his hands my unlucky passport. as i walked toward him he looked from the passport to me, and from me to the passport; and when i stopped at the table he read over again the whole description, at every clause looking at me; shook his head with a grim smile of incredulity, and laid it down, as if perfectly satisfied. i felt that my face was flushed with indignation, and, perhaps, to a certain extent, so distorted with passion that it would have been difficult to recognise me as the person described. i suggested to him that the rude treatment i had met with in the other room had no doubt altered the whole character of my face, but he waved his hand for me to be silent; and, taking up a sheet of paper, wrote a letter or order, or something which i did not understand, and gave it to a soldier, who took it off to one corner and stamped it. the commandant then folded up the passport, enclosed it in the letter, and handed it again to the soldier, who carried it off and affixed to it an enormous wax seal, which looked very ominous and siberian-like. i was determined not to suffer from the want of any effort on my part, and pulled out my old american passport, under which i had travelled in france and italy, and also a new one which commodore porter had given me in constantinople. he looked at them without any comment and without understanding them; and, when the soldier returned with the paper and the big seal, he rose, and, without moving a muscle, waved with his hand for me to follow the soldier. i would have resisted if i had dared. i was indignant enough to do some rash thing, but at every step was a soldier; i saw the folly of it, and, grinding my teeth with vexation and rage, i did as i was ordered. at the door of the palace we found a large crowd, who, knowing my appointment for this hour, were waiting to hear the result. a line of people was formed along the walk, who, seeing me under the charge of a soldier, turned round and looked at me with ominous silence. we passed under the walls of the prison, and the prisoners thrust their arms through the bars and hailed me, and seemed to claim me as a companion, and to promise me a welcome among them. for a moment i was infected with some apprehensions. in my utter ignorance as to what it all meant, i ran over in my mind the stories i had heard of the exercise of despotic authority, and for one moment thought of my german host at moscow and a journey to siberia by mistake. i did not know where the soldier was taking me, but felt relieved when we had got out of the reach of the voices of the prisoners, and more so when we stopped before a large house, which i remarked at once as a private dwelling, though a guard of honour before the door indicated it as the residence of an officer of high rank. we entered, and were ushered into the presence of the governor and commander-in-chief. he was, of course, a russian, a man about sixty, in the uniform of a general officer, and attended by an aiddecamp about thirty. i waited till the soldier had delivered his message; and, before the governor had broken the seal, i carried the war into the enemy's country by complaining of the rude treatment i had received, interrupted in my journey under a passport which had carried me all over russia, and laughed at and insulted by the officers of the government, at the same time congratulating myself that i had at last met those who could at least tell me why i was detained, and would give me an opportunity of explaining anything apparently wrong. i found the governor, as everywhere else in russia where i could get access to the principal man, a gentleman in his bearing and feelings. he requested me to be seated, while he retired into another apartment to examine the passport. the aiddecamp remained, and i entertained him with my chapter of grievances; he put the whole burden of the incivility upon the poles, who, as he said, filled all the inferior offices of government, but told me, too, that the country was in such an unsettled state that it was necessary to be very particular in examining all strangers; and particularly as at that time several french emissaries were suspected to be secretly wandering in poland, trying to stir up revolution. the governor stayed so long that i began to fear there was some technical irregularity which might subject me to detention, and i was in no small degree relieved when he sent for me, and telling me that he regretted the necessity for giving such annoyance and vexation to travellers, handed me back the passport, with a direction to the proper officer to make the necessary _visé_ and let me go. i was so pleased with the result that i did not stop to ask any questions, and to this day i do not know particularly why i was detained. by this time it was nine o'clock, and when we returned the bureau was closed. the soldier stated the case to the loungers about the door, and now all, including some of the scoundrels who had been so rude to me in the morning, were anxious to serve me. one of them conducted me to an apartment near, where i was ushered into the presence of an elderly lady and her two daughters, both of whom spoke french. i apologized for my intrusion; told them my extreme anxiety to go on that night, and begged them to procure some one to take the governor's order to the commandant; in fact, i had become nervous, and did not consider myself safe till out of the place. they called in a younger brother, who started with alacrity on the errand, and i sat down to wait his return. there must be a witchery about polish ladies. i was almost savage against all mankind; i had been kept up to the extremest point of indignation without any opportunity of exploding all day, and it would have been a great favour for some one to knock me down; but in a few minutes all my bitterness and malevolence melted away, and before tea was over i forgot that i had been bandied all day from pillar to post, and even forgave the boors who had mocked me, in consideration of their being the countrymen of the ladies who were showing me such kindness. even with them i began with the chafed spirit that had been goading me on all day; but when i listened to the calm and sad manner in which they replied; that it was annoying, but it was light, very light, compared with the scenes through which they and all their friends had passed, i was ashamed of my petulance. a few words convinced me that they were the poles of my imagination and heart. a widowed mother and orphan children, their staff and protector had died in battle, and a gallant brother was then wandering an exile in france. i believe it is my recollection of polish ladies that gives me a leaning toward rebels. i never met a polish lady who was not a rebel, and i could but think, as long as the startling notes of revolution continue to fall like music from their pretty lips, so long the russian will sleep on an unquiet pillow in poland. it was more than an hour before the brother returned, and i was sorry when he came; for, after my professions of haste, i had no excuse for remaining longer. i was the first american they had ever seen; and if they do not remember me for anything else, i am happy to have disabused them of one prejudice against my country, for they believed the americans were all black. at parting, and at my request, the eldest daughter wrote her name in my memorandum-book, and i bade them farewell. it was eleven o'clock when i left the house, and at the first transition from their presence the night seemed of pitchy darkness. i groped my way into the square, and found my calêche gone. i stood for a moment on the spot where i had left it, ruminating what i should do. perhaps my poor pole had given me up as lost, and taken out letters of administration upon my carpet-bag. directly before me, intersecting the range of houses on the opposite side of the square, was a street leading out of the town. i knew that he was a man to go straight ahead, turning neither to the right hand nor the left. i walked on to the opening, followed it a little way, and saw on the right a gate opening to a shed for stabling. i went in, and found him with his horses unharnessed, feeding them, whipping them, and talking at them in furious polish. as soon as he saw me he left them and came at me in the same tone, throwing up both his hands, and almost flourishing them in my face; then went back to his horses, began pitching on the harness, and, snatching up the meal-bag, came back again toward me, all the time talking and gesticulating like a bedlamite. i was almost in despair. what have i done now? even my poor peasant turns against me; this morning he kissed my foot, now he is ready to brain me with a meal-bag. roused by the uproar, the old woman, proprietor of the shed, came out, accompanied by her daughter, a pretty little girl about twelve years old, carrying a lantern. i looked at them without expecting any help. my peasant moved between them and me and the horses, flourishing his meal-bag, and seeming every moment to become more and more enraged with me. i looked on in dismay, when the little girl came up, and dropping a courtesy before me, in the prettiest french i ever heard, asked me, "que voulez vous, monsieur?" i could have taken her up in my arms and kissed her. i have had a fair share of the perplexity which befalls every man from the sex, but i hold many old accounts cancelled by the relief twice afforded me this day. before coming to a parley with my pole, i took her by the hand, and, sitting down on the tongue of a wagon, learned from her that she had been taken into the house of a rich seigneur to be educated as a companion for his daughter, and was then at home on a visit to her mother; after which she explained the meaning of my postillion's outcry. besides his apprehensions for me personally, he had been tormented with the no less powerful one of losing the promised ten rubles upon his arrival at a fixed time at michoof, and all his earnestness was to hurry me off at once, in order to give him a chance of still arriving within the time. this was exactly the humour in which i wanted to find him, for i had expected great difficulty in making him go on that night; so i told him to hitch on his horses, and at parting did give the little girl a kiss, and the only other thing i could give her without impoverishing myself was a silk purse as a memento. i lighted my pipe, and, worn out with the perplexities of the day, in a short time forgot police and passports, rude russians and dastardly poles, and even the polish ladies and the little girl. i woke the next morning under a shed, horses harnessed, postillion on the box whipping, and a jew at their head holding them, and the two bipeds quarrelling furiously about the stabling. i threw the jew a florin, and he let go his hold, though my peasant shook his whip, and roared back at him long after we were out of sight and hearing. at a few miles' distance we came to a stopping-place, where we found a large calêche with four handsome horses, and the postillion in the costume of a peasant of cracow, a little square red cap with a red feather, a long white frock somewhat like a shooting-jacket, bordered with red, a belt covered with pieces of brass like scales lapping over each other, and a horn slung over his right shoulder. it belonged to a polish seigneur, who, though disaffected toward government, had succeeded in retaining his property, and was the proprietor of many villages. he was accompanied by a young man about thirty, who spoke a very little french; less than any man whom i ever heard attempt to speak it at all. they had with them their own servants and cooking apparatus, and abundance of provisions. the seigneur superintended the cooking, and i did them the honour to breakfast with them. while we were breakfasting a troop of wagoners or vagabonds were under the shed dancing the mazurka. the better class of poles are noble, high-spirited men, warm and social in their feelings, and to them, living on their estates in the interior of their almost untrodden country, a stranger is a curiosity and a treasure. the old seigneur was exceedingly kind and hospitable, and the young man and i soon became on excellent terms. i was anxious to have a friend in case of a new passport difficulty, and at starting gladly embraced his offer to ride with me. as soon as we took our seats in the calêche we lighted our pipes and shook hands as a bargain of good fellowship. our perfect flow of confidence, however, was much broken by the up-hill work of making ourselves understood. i was no great scholar myself, but his french was execrable; he had studied it when a boy, but for more than ten years had not spoken a word. at one time, finding it impossible to express himself, he said, "parlatis latinum?" "can you speak latin?" i at first thought it was some dialect of the country, and could not believe that he meant the veritable stuff that had been whipped into me at school, and which, to me, was most emphatically a dead language; but necessity develops all that a man has, and for three hours we kept up an uninterrupted stream of talk in bad latin and worse french. like every pole whom i met, except the employés in the public offices, from the bottom of his heart he detested a russian. he had been a soldier during the revolution, and lay on his back crippled with wounds when it was crushed by the capture of warsaw. i showed him the coin which had accidentally come into my hands, and when we came to the point where our roads separated, he said that he was ashamed to do so, but could not help begging from me that coin; to me it was merely a curiosity, to him it was a trophy of the brilliant but shortlived independence of his country. i was loath to part with it, and would rather have given him every button on my coat; but i appreciated his patriotic feeling, and could not refuse. i got out, and he threw his arms around me, kissed me on both cheeks, called me his friend and brother, and mounted the kibitka with the old seigneur. the latter invited me to go with him to his château, about a day's journey distant, and if i had expected to write a book i should certainly have done so. i went on again alone. at about twelve o'clock we arrived at the town of kielse. i felt nervous as we approached the barrier. i threw myself back in the calêche, and drew my cap over my eyes in grand seigneur style, the soldier touched his hat as he opened the gate, and we drove into the public square unmolested. i breathed more freely, but almost hesitated to leave the calêche while the horses fed. i smiled, however, at thinking that any effort to avoid observation was the very way to attract it, and went to a kukernia, where i drank coffee, ate bread encrusted with sugar, and smoked a pipe until my pole came in and kissed my foot as an intimation that the horses were ready. no questions were asked at the barrier; and we rode on quietly till nine o'clock, when we drove under the shed of a caravanserai. fifteen or twenty wagoners were eating off a bench, and, as they finished, stretched themselves on the floor for sleep. it was a beautiful moonlight night, and i strolled out for a walk. the whole country was an immense plain. i could see for a great distance, and the old shed was the only roof in sight. it was the last night of a long journey through wild and unsettled countries. i went back to the time when, on a night like that, i had embarked on the adriatic for greece; thought of the many scenes i had passed through since, and bidding farewell to the plains of poland, returned to my calêche, drew my cloak around me, and was soon asleep. at nine o'clock we stopped at a feeding-place, where a horde of dirty jews were at a long table eating. i brushed off one corner, and sat down to some bread and milk. opposite me was a beggar woman dividing with a child about ten years old a small piece of dry black bread. i gave them some bread and a jar of milk, and i thought, from the lighting up of the boy's face, that it was long since he had had such a meal. at twelve o'clock we reached michoof, the end of my journey with the calêche. i considered my difficulties all ended, and showed at the posthouse my letter from the polish captain to the commissario. to my great annoyance, he was not in the place. i had to procure a conveyance to cracow; and having parted with my poor pole overwhelmed with gratitude for my treatment on the road and my trifling gratuity at parting, i stood at the door of the posthouse with my carpet-bag in my hand, utterly at a loss what to do. a crowd of people gathered round, all willing to assist me, but i could not tell them what i wanted. one young man in particular seemed bent upon serving me; he accosted me in russian, polish, and german. i answered him in english, french, and italian, and then both stopped. as a desperate resource, and almost trembling at my own temerity, i asked him the question i had learned from my yesterday's companion "parlates latinum?" and he answered me with a fluency and volubility that again threw me into another perplexity, caught my hand, congratulated me upon having found a language both understood, praised the good old classic tongues, offered his services to procure anything i wanted, &c., and all with such rapidity of utterance that i was obliged to cry out with something like the sailor's "vast heaving," and tell him that, if he went on at that rate, it was all russian to me. he stopped, and went on more moderately, and with great help from him i gave him to understand that i wanted to hire a wagon to take me to cracow. "venite cum me," said my friend, and conducted me round the town until we found one. i then told him i wanted my passport _viséd_ for passing the frontier. "venite cum me," again said my friend, and took me with him and procured the _visé_; then that i wanted a dinner; still he answered "venite cum me," and took me to a trattoria, and dined with me. at dinner my classical friend did a rather unclassical thing. an enormous cucumber was swimming in a tureen of vinegar. he asked me whether i did not want it; and, taking it up in his fingers, ate it as a dessert, and drinking the vinegar out of the tureen, smacked his lips, wiped his mustaches with the tablecloth, and pronounced it "optimum." for three hours we talked constantly, and talked nothing but latin. it was easy enough for him, for, as he told me, at school it had been the language of conversation. to me it was like breaking myself into the treadmill; but, once fairly started, my early preceptors would have been proud of my talk. at parting he kissed me on both cheeks, rubbed me affectionately with his mustaches and, after i had taken my seat, his last words were, "semper me servate in vestra memoria." we had four and a half german, or about eighteen english, miles to cracow. we had a pair of miserable, ragged little horses, but i promised my postillion two florins extra if he took me there in three hours, and he started off so furiously that in less than an hour the horses broke down, and we had to get out and walk. after breathing them a little they began to recover, and we arrived on a gentle trot at the frontier town, about half way to cracow. my passport was all right, but here i had a new difficulty in that i had no passport for my postillion. i had not thought of this, and my classical friend had not suggested it. it was exceedingly provoking, as to return would prevent my reaching cracow that night. after a parley with the commanding officer, a gentlemanly man, who spoke french very well, he finally said that my postillion might go on under charge of a soldier to the next posthouse, about a mile beyond, where i could get another conveyance and send him back. just as i had thanked him for his courtesy, a young gentleman from cracow, in a barouche with four horses, drove up, and, hearing my difficulty, politely offered to take me in with him. i gladly accepted his offer, and arrived at cracow at about dark, where, upon his recommendation, i went to the hotel de la rose blanche, and cannot well describe the satisfaction with which i once more found myself on the borders of civilized europe, within reach of the ordinary public conveyances, and among people whose language i could understand. "shall i not take mine ease in mine own inn?" often, after a hard day's journey, i have asked myself this question, but seldom with the same self-complacency and the same determination to have mine ease as at cracow. i inquired about the means of getting to vienna, which, at that moment, i thought no more of than a journey to boston. though there was no particular need of it, i had a fire built in my room for the associations connected with a cheerful blaze. i put on my morning-gown and slippers, and hauling up before the fire an old chintz-covered sofa, sent for my landlord to come up and talk with me. my host was an italian, and an excellent fellow. attached to his hotel was a large restaurant, frequented by the first people at cracow. during the evening an old countess came there to sup; he mentioned to her the arrival of an american, and i supped with her and her niece; neither of them, however, so interesting as to have any effect upon my slumber. chapter xiv. cracow.--casimir the great.--kosciusko.--tombs of the polish kings.--a polish heroine.--last words of a king.--a hero in decay.--the salt-mines of cracow.--the descent.--the mines.--underground meditations.--the farewell. cracow is an old, curious, and interesting city, situated in a valley on the banks of the vistula; and approaching it as i did, toward the sunset of a summer's day, the old churches and towers, the lofty castles and the large houses spread out on the immense plains, gave it an appearance of actual splendour. this faded away as i entered, but still the city inspired a feeling of respect, for it bore the impress of better days. it contains numerous churches, some of them very large, and remarkable for their style and architecture, and more than a hundred monasteries and convents. in the centre is a large square, on which stands the church of notre dame, an immense gothic structure, and also the old palace of sobieski, now cut down into shops, and many large private residences, uninhabited and falling to ruins. the principal streets terminate in this square. almost every building bears striking marks of ruined grandeur. on the last partition of poland in eighteen hundred and fifteen by the holy alliance, cracow, with a territory of five hundred square miles and a population of a hundred and eight thousand, including about thirty thousand jews, was erected into a republic; and at this day it exists nominally as a _free city_, under the protection of the three great powers; emphatically, such protection as vultures give to lambs; three masters instead of one, russia, prussia, and austria, all claiming the right to interfere in its government. but even in its fallen state cracow is dear to the pole's heart, for it was the capital of his country when poland ranked high among nations, and down to him who last sat upon her throne, was the place of coronation and of burial for her kings. it is the residence of many of the old polish nobility, who, with reduced fortunes, prefer this little foothold in their country, where liberty nominally lingers, to exile in foreign lands. it now contains a population of about thirty thousand, including jews. occasionally the seigneur is still seen, in his short cassock of blue cloth, with a red sash and a white square-topped cap; a costume admirably adapted to the tall and noble figure of the proud pole, and the costume of the peasant of cracow is still a striking feature in her streets. after a stroll through the churches, i walked on the old ramparts of cracow. the city was formerly surrounded with regular fortifications, but, as in almost all the cities of europe, her ancient walls have been transformed into boulevards; and now handsome avenues of trees encircle it, destroying altogether its gothic military aspect, and on sundays and fête days the whole population gathers in gay dresses, seeking pleasure where their fathers stood clad in armour and arrayed for battle. the boulevards command an extensive view of all the surrounding country. "all the sites of my country," says a national poet, "are dear to me; but, above all, i love the environs of cracow; there at every step i meet the recollections of our ancient glory and our once imposing grandeur." on the opposite bank of the river is a large tumulus of earth, marking the grave of cracus, the founder of the city. a little higher up is another mound, reverenced as the sepulchre of his daughter wenda, who was so enamoured of war that she promised to give her hand only to the lover who should conquer her in battle. beyond this is the field of zechino, where the brave kosciusko, after his return from america, with a band of peasants, again struck the first blow of revolution, and, by a victory over the russians, roused all poland to arms. about a mile from cracow are the ruins of the palace of lobzow, built by casimir the great, for a long time the favourite royal residence, and identified with a crowd of national recollections; and, until lately, a large mound of earth in the garden was reverenced as the grave of esther, the beautiful jewess, the idol of casimir the great. poetry has embellished the tradition, and the national muse has hallowed the palace of lobzow and the grave of esther. "passer-by, if you are a stranger, tremble in thinking of human destruction; but if you are a pole, shed bitter tears; heroes have inhabited this palace.... who can equal them?... * * * * * "casimir erected this palace: centuries have hailed him with the name of the great.... * * * * * "near his esther, in the delightful groves of lobzow, he thought himself happy in ceasing to be a king to become a lover. * * * * * "but fate is unpitiable for kings as for us, and even beauty is subject to the common law. esther died, and casimir erected a tomb in the place she had loved. "oh! if you are sensible to the grief caused by love, drop a tear at this tomb and adorn it with a crown. if casimir was tied to humanity by some weaknesses, they are the appendage of heroes! in presence of this chateau, in finding again noble remains, sing the glory of casimir the great." i was not a sentimental traveller, nor sensible to the grief that is caused by love, and i could neither drop a tear at the tomb of esther nor sing the glory of casimir the great; but my heart beat high as i turned to another monument in the environs of cracow; an immense mound of earth, standing on an eminence visible from every quarter, towering almost into a mountain, and sacred to the memory of kosciusko! i saw it from the palace of the kings and from the ramparts of the fallen city, and, with my eyes constantly fixed upon it, descended to the vistula, followed its bank to a large convent, and then turned to the right, direct for the mound. i walked to the foot of the hill, and ascended to a broad table of land. from this table the mound rises in a conical form, from a base three hundred feet in diameter, to the height of one hundred and seventy-five feet. at the four corners formerly stood small houses, which were occupied by revolutionary soldiers who had served under kosciusko. on the farther side, enclosed by a railing, was a small chapel, and within it a marble tomb covering kosciusko's heart! a circular path winds round the mound; i ascended by this path to the top. it is built of earth sodded, and was then covered with a thick carpet of grass, and reminded me of the tumuli of the grecian heroes on the plains of troy; and perhaps, when thousands of years shall have rolled by, and all connected with our age be forgotten, and time and exposure to the elements shall have changed its form, another stranger will stand where i did, and wonder why and for what it was raised. it was erected in by the voluntary labour of the polish people; and so great was the enthusiasm, that, as an eyewitness told me, wounded soldiers brought earth in their helmets, and women in their slippers; and i remembered, with a swelling heart, that on this consecrated spot a nation of brave men had turned to my country as the star of liberty, and that here a banner had been unfurled and hailed with acclamations by assembled thousands, bearing aloft the sacred inscription, "kosciusko, the friend of washington!" the morning was cold and dreary, the sky was overcast with clouds, and the sun, occasionally breaking through lighted up for a moment with dazzling brilliancy the domes and steeples of cracow, and the palace and burial-place of her kings, emblematic of the fitful gleams of her liberty flashing and dazzling, and then dying away. i drew my cloak around me, and remained there till i was almost drenched with rain. the wind blew violently, and i descended and sheltered myself at the foot of the mound, by the grave of kosciusko's heart! i returned to the city and entered the cathedral church. it stands by the side of the old palace, on the summit of the rock of wauvel, in the centre of and commanding the city, enclosed with walls and towers, and allied in its history with the most memorable annals of poland; the witness of the ancient glory of her kings, and their sepulchre. the rain was pattering against the windows of the old church as i strolled through the silent cloisters and among the tombs of the kings. a verger in a large cocked hat, and a group of peasants, moved, like myself, with noiseless steps, as if afraid to disturb the repose of the royal dead. many of the kings of poland fill but a corner of the page of history. some of their names i had forgotten, or, perhaps, never knew until i saw them inscribed on their tombs; but every monument covered a head that had worn a crown, and some whose bones were mouldering under my feet will live till the last records of heroism perish. the oldest monument is that of wladislaus le bref, built of stone, without any inscription, but adorned with figures in bas-relief, which are very much injured. he died in thirteen hundred and thirty-three, and chose himself the place of his eternal rest. charles the twelfth of sweden, on his invasion of poland, visited the cathedral church, and stopped before this tomb. a distinguished canon who attended him, in allusion to the position of john casimir, who was then at war with the king of sweden, remarked, "and that king was also driven from his throne, but he returned and reigned until his death." the swede answered with bitterness, "but your john casimir will never return." the canon replied respectfully, "god is great and fortune is fickle;" and the canon was right, for john casimir regained his throne. i approached with a feeling of veneration the tomb of casimir the great. it is of red marble; four columns support a canopy, and the figure of the king, with a crown on his head, rests on a coffin of stone. an iron railing encloses the monument. it is nearly five hundred years since the palatins and nobles of poland, with all the insignia of barbaric magnificence, laid him in the place where his ashes now repose. the historian writes, "poland is indebted to casimir for the greatest part of her churches, palaces, fortresses, and towns," adding that "he found poland of wood and left her of marble." he patronized letters, and founded the university of cracow; promoted industry and encouraged trade; digested the unwritten laws and usages into a regular code; established courts of justice; repressed the tyranny of the nobles, and died with the honourable title of king of the peasants; and i did not forget, while standing over his grave, that beneath me slept the spirit that loved the groves of lobzow and the heart that beat for esther the jewess. the tomb of sigismund i. is of red marble, with a figure as large as life reclining upon it. it is adorned with bas-reliefs and the arms of the republic, the white eagle and the armed cavalier of lithuania. he died in fifteen hundred and forty-one, and his monument bears the following inscription in latin: "sigismund jagellon, king of poland, grand-duke of lithuania, conqueror of the tartars, of the wallachians, of the russians and prussians, reposes under this stone, which he prepared for himself." forty years ago thaddeus czacki, the polish historian, opened the tombs of the kings, and found the head of sigismund resting upon a plate of silver bearing a long latin inscription; the body measured six feet and two inches in height, and was covered with three rich ermines; on the feet were golden spurs, a chain of gold around the neck, and a gold ring on one finger of the left hand. at his feet was a small pewter coffin enclosing the body of his son by bone sforza. by his side lies the body of his son sigismund ii., the last of the jagellons, at whose death began the cabals and convulsions of an elective monarchy, by which poland lost her influence among foreign powers. his memory is rendered interesting by his romantic love for barbe radzewill. she appeared at his father's court, the daughter of a private citizen, celebrated in polish history and romance as uniting to all a woman's beauty a mingled force and tenderness, energy and goodness. the prince had outlived all the ardour of youth; disappointed and listless amid pleasures, his energy of mind destroyed by his excesses, inconstant in his love, and at the summit of human prosperity, living without a wish or a hope; but he saw barbe, and his heart beat anew with the pulsations of life. in the language of his biographer he proved, in all its fulness, that sentiment which draws to earth by its sorrows and raises to heaven by its delights. he married her privately, and on his father's death proclaimed her queen. the whole body of nobles refused to acknowledge the marriage, and one of the nuncios, in the name of the representatives of the nation, supplicated him for himself, his country, his blood, and his children, to extinguish his passion; but the king swore on his sword that neither the diet, nor the nation, nor the whole universe should make him break his vows to barbe; that he would a thousand times rather live with her out of the kingdom than keep a throne which she could not share; and was on the point of abdicating, when his opponents offered to do homage to the queen. when czacki opened the coffin of this prince, he found the body perfectly preserved, and the head, as before, resting on a silver plate containing a long latin inscription. at the foot of his coffin is that of his sister and successor, anne; and in a separate chapel is the tomb of stephen battory, one of the greatest of the kings of poland, raised to the throne by his marriage with anne. i became more and more interested in this asylum of royal dead. i read there almost the entire history of the polish republic, and again i felt that it was but a step from the throne to the grave, for near me was the great chair in which the kings of poland were crowned. i paused before the tomb of john casimir; and there was something strangely interesting in the juxtaposition of these royal dead. john casimir lies by the side of the brother whom he endeavoured to supplant in his election to the throne. his reign was a continued succession of troubles and misfortunes. once he was obliged to fly from poland. he predicted what has since been so fearfully verified, that his country, enfeebled by the anarchy of its government and the licentiousness of the nobles, would be dismembered among the neighbouring powers; and, worn out with the cares of royalty, abdicated the throne, and died in a convent in france. i read at his tomb his pathetic farewell to his people. "people of poland, "it is now two hundred and eighty years that you have been governed by my family. the reign of my ancestors is past, and mine is going to expire. fatigued by the labours of war, the cares of the cabinet, and the weight of age; oppressed with the burdens and vicissitudes of a reign of more than twenty-one years, i, your king and father, return into your hands what the world esteems above all things, a crown, and choose for my throne six feet of earth, where i shall sleep with my fathers. when you show my tomb to your children, tell them that i was the foremost in battle and the last in retreat; that i renounced regal grandeur for the good of my country, and restored my sceptre to those who gave it me." by his side, and under a monument of black marble, lies the body of his successor, michel wisniowecki, an obscure and unambitious citizen, who was literally dragged to the throne, and wept when the crown was placed upon his head, and of whom casimir remarked, when informed of his late subjects' choice, "what, have they put the crown on the head of that poor fellow?" and again i was almost startled by the strange and unnatural mingling of human ashes. by the side of that "poor fellow" lies the "famous" john sobieski, the greatest of the long line of kings of a noble and valorous nation; "one of the few, the immortal names, that were not born to die." on the lower floor of the church, by the side of poniatowski, the polish bayard, is the tomb of one nobler in my eyes than all the kings of poland or of the world. it is of red marble, ornamented with the cap and plume of the peasant of cracow, and bears the simple inscription "t. kosciusko." all over the church i had read elaborate panegyrics upon the tenants of the royal sepulchres, and i was struck with this simple inscription, and remembered that the white marble column reared amid the magnificent scenery of the hudson, which i had often gazed at from the deck of a steamboat, and at whose base i had often stood, bore also in majestic simplicity the name of "kosciusko." it was late in the afternoon, and the group of peasants, two poles from the interior, and a party of the citizens of cracow, among whom were several ladies, joined me at the tomb. we could not speak each other's language; we were born and lived thousands of miles apart, and we were strangers in our thoughts and feelings, in all our hopes and prospects, but we had a bond of sympathy at the grave of kosciusko. one of the ladies spoke french, and i told them that, in my far distant country, the name of their nation's idol was hallowed; that schoolboys had erected a monument to his memory. they knew that he had fought by the side of washington, but they did not know that the recollection of his services was still so dearly cherished in america; and we all agreed that it was the proudest tribute that could be paid to his memory, to write merely his name on his monument. it meant that it was needless to add an epitaph, for no man would ask, who was kosciusko? it was nearly dark when i returned to my hotel. in the restaurant, at a small table directly opposite me, sat the celebrated chlopicki, to whom, on the breaking out of the last revolution, poland turned as to another kosciusko, and who, until he faltered during the trying scenes of that revolution, would have been deemed worthy to lie by kosciusko's side. born of a noble family, a soldier from his birth, he served in the memorable campaigns of the great patriot, distinguished himself in the polish legions in italy under dombrowski, and, as colonel of a regiment of the army of the vistula, behaved gloriously in prussia. in spain he fought at saragossa and sagunta, and was called by suchet _le brave des braves_; as general of brigade in the army of russia, he was wounded at valentina, near smolensk, and was general of a division in eighteen hundred and fourteen, when poland fell under the dominion of the autocrat. the grand-duke constantine censured him on parade, saying that his division was not in order; and chlopicki, with the proud boast, "i did not gain my rank on the parade-ground, nor did i win my decorations there," asked his discharge the next day, and could never after be induced to return to the service. the day after the revolutionary blow was struck, all poland turned to chlopicki as the only man capable of standing at the head of the nation. the command of the army, with absolute powers, was conferred upon him by acclamation, and one of the patriot leaders concluded his address to him with these words: "brother, take the sword of your ancestors and predecessors, czarnecki, dombrowski, and kosciusko. guide the nation that has placed its trust in you in the path of honour. save this unhappy country." chlopicki, with his silver head grown white in the service of poland, was hailed by a hundred thousand people on the champ de mars with shouts of "our country and its brave defender, chlopicki, for ever." he promised never to abuse their confidence, and swore that he would defend the liberty of poland to the last moment. the whole nation was enthusiastic in his favour; but in less than three months, at a stormy session of the diet, he threw up his high office of dictator, and refused peremptorily to accept command of the army. this brave army, enthusiastically attached to him, was struck with profound grief at his estrangement; but, with all the faults imputed to him, it never was charged that he attempted to take advantage of his great popularity for any ambitious purposes of his own. at the battle of grokow he fought nominally as a private soldier, though skryznecki and radziwill being both deficient in military experience, the whole army looked to him for guidance. once, when the battle was setting strong against the poles, in a moment of desperation he put himself at the head of some disposable battalions, and turning away from an aiddecamp who came to him for orders, said, "go and ask radziwill; for me, i seek only death." grievously wounded, his wounds were dressed in presence of the enemy; but at two o'clock he was borne off the field, the hopes of the soldiers died, and the army remained without any actual head. throughout the revolution his conduct was cold, indifferent, and inexplicable; private letters from the emperor of russia were talked of, and even _treason_ was whispered in connexion with his name. the poles speak of him more in sorrow than in anger; they say that it was not enough that he exposed his person on the field of battle; that he should have given them the whole weight of his great military talents, and the influence of his powerful name; that, standing alone, without children or relations to be compromised by his acts, he should have consummated the glory of his life by giving its few remaining years for the liberty of his country. he appeared about sixty-five, with hair perfectly white, a high florid complexion, a firm and determined expression, and in still unbroken health, carrying himself with the proud bearing of a distinguished veteran soldier. i could not believe that he had bartered the precious satisfaction of a long and glorious career for a few years of ignoble existence; and, though a stranger, could but regret that, in the wane of life, circumstances, whether justly or not, had sullied an honoured name. it spoke loudly against him that i saw him sitting in a public restaurant at cracow, unmolested by the russian government. the next day i visited the celebrated salt-mines at wielitska. they lie about, twelve miles from cracow, in the province of galicia, a part of the kingdom of poland, which, on the unrighteous partition of that country, fell to the share of austria. although at so short a distance, it was necessary to go through all the passport formalities requisite on a departure for a foreign country. i took a fiacre and rode to the different bureaux of the city police, and, having procured the permission of the municipal authorities to leave the little territory of cracow, rode next to the austrian consul, who thereupon, and in consideration of one dollar to him in hand paid, was graciously pleased to permit me to enter the dominions of his master the emperor of austria. it was also necessary to have an order from the director of the mines to the superintendent; and furnished with this i again mounted my fiacre, rattled through the principal street, and in a few minutes crossed the vistula. at the end of the bridge an austrian soldier stopped me for my passport, a _douanier_ examined my carriage for articles subject to duty, and, these functionaries being satisfied, in about two hours from the time at which i began my preparations i was fairly on my way. leaving the vistula, i entered a pretty, undulating, and well-cultivated country, and saw at a distance a high dark line, marking the range of the carpathian mountains. it was a long time since i had seen anything that looked like a mountain. from the black sea the whole of my journey had been over an immense plain, and i hailed the wild range of the carpathian as i would the spire of a church, as an evidence of the approach to regions of civilization. in an hour and a half i arrived at the town of wielitska, containing about three thousand inhabitants, and standing, as it were, on the roof of the immense subterraneous excavations. the houses are built of wood, and the first thing that struck me was the almost entire absence of men in the streets, the whole male population being employed in the mines, and then at work below. i rode to the office of the superintendent, and presented my letter, and was received with great civility of manner but his _polish_ was perfectly unintelligible. a smutty-faced operative, just out of the mines, accosted me in latin, and i exchanged a few shots with him, but hauled off on the appearance of a man whom the superintendent had sent for to act as my guide; an old soldier who had served in the campaigns of napoleon, and, as he said, become an amateur and proficient in fighting and french. he was dressed in miner's costume, fanciful, and embroidered with gold, holding in his hand a steel axe; and, having arrayed me in a long white frock, conducted me to a wooden building covering the shaft which forms the principal entrance to the mine. this shaft is ten feet square, and descends perpendicularly more than two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth. we arranged ourselves in canvass seats, and several of the miners, who were waiting to descend, attached themselves to seats at the end of the ropes, with lamps in their hands, about eight or ten feet below us. when my feet left the brink of the shaft i felt, for a moment, as if suspended over the portal of a bottomless pit; and as my head descended below the surface, the rope, winding and tapering to a thread, seemed letting me down to the realms of pluto. but in a few moments we touched bottom. from within a short distance of the surface, the shaft is cut through a solid rock of salt, and from the bottom passages almost innumerable are cut in every direction through the same bed. we were furnished with guides, who went before us bearing torches, and i followed through the whole labyrinth of passages, forming the largest excavations in europe, peopled with upward of two thousand souls, and giving a complete idea of a subterraneous world. these mines are known to have been worked upward of six hundred years, being mentioned in the polish annals as early as twelve hundred and thirty-seven, under boleslaus the chaste, and then not as a new discovery, but how much earlier they had existed cannot now be ascertained. the tradition is, that a sister of st. casimir, having lost a gold ring, prayed to st. anthony, the patron saint of cracow, and was advised in a dream that, by digging in such a place, she would find a treasure far greater than that she had lost, and within the place indicated these mines were discovered. [illustration: salt-mines of wielitska.] there are four different stories or ranges of apartments; the whole length of the excavations is more than six thousand feet, or three quarters of an hour's walk, and the greatest breadth more than two thousand feet; and there are so many turnings and windings that my guide told me, though i hardly think it possible, that the whole length of all the passages cut through this bed of salt amounts to more than three hundred miles. many of the chambers are of immense size. some are supported by timber, others by vast pillars of salt; several are without any support in the middle, and of vast dimensions, perhaps eighty feet high, and so long and broad as almost to appear a boundless subterraneous cavern. in one of the largest is a lake covering nearly the whole area. when the king of saxony visited this place in eighteen hundred and ten, after taking possession of his moiety of the mines as duke of warsaw, this portion of them was brilliantly illuminated; and a band of music, floating on the lake, made the roof echo with patriotic airs. we crossed the lake in a flatboat by a rope, the dim light of torches, and the hollow sound of our voices, giving a lively idea of a passage across the styx; and we had a scene which might have entitled us to a welcome from the prince of the infernals, for our torch-bearers quarrelled, and in a scuffle that came near carrying us all with them, one was tumbled into the lake. our charon caught him, and, without stopping to take him in, hurried across, and as soon as we landed beat them both unmercifully. from this we entered an immense cavern, in which several hundred men were working with pickaxes and hatchets, cutting out large blocks of salt, and trimming them to suit the size of barrels. with their black faces begrimed with dust and smoke, they looked by the light of the scattered torches like the journeymen of beelzebub, the prince of darkness, preparing for some great blow-up, or like the spirits of the damned condemned to toil without end. my guide called up a party, who disengaged with their pickaxes a large block of salt from its native bed, and in a few minutes cut and trimmed it to fit the barrels in which they are packed. all doubts as to their being creatures of our upper world were removed by the eagerness with which they accepted the money i gave them; and it will be satisfactory to the advocates of that currency to know that paper money passes readily in these lower regions. there are more than a thousand chambers or halls, most of which have been abandoned and shut up. in one is a collection of fanciful things, such as rings, books, crosses, &c., cut in the rock-salt. most of the principal chambers had some name printed over them, as the "archduke," "carolina," &c. whenever it was necessary, my guides went ahead and stationed themselves in some conspicuous place, lighting up the dark caverns with the blaze of their torches, and, after allowing me a sufficient time, struck their flambeaux against the wall, and millions of sparks flashed and floated around and filled the chamber. in one place, at the end of a long, dark passage, a door was thrown open, and i was ushered suddenly into a spacious ballroom lighted with torches; and directly in front, at the head of the room, was a transparency with coloured lights, in the centre of which were the words "excelso hospiti," "to the illustrious guest," which i took to myself, though i believe the greeting was intended for the same royal person for whom the lake chamber was illuminated. lights were ingeniously arranged around the room, and at the foot, about twenty feet above my head, was a large orchestra. on the occasion referred to a splendid ball was given in this room; the roof echoed with the sound of music; and nobles and princely ladies flirted and coquetted the same as above ground; and it is said that the splendid dresses of a numerous company, and the blaze of light from the chandeliers reflected upon the surface of the rock-salt, produced an effect of inconceivable brilliancy. my chandeliers were worse than allan m'aulay's strapping highlanders with their pine torches, being dirty, ragged, smutty-faced rascals, who threw the light in streaks across the hall. i am always willing to believe fanciful stories; and if my guide had thrown in a handsome young princess as part of the welcome to the "excelso hospiti," i would have subscribed to anything he said; but, in the absence of a consideration, i refused to tax my imagination up to the point he wished. perhaps the most interesting chamber of all is the chapel dedicated to that saint anthony who brought about the discovery of these mines. it is supposed to be more than four hundred years old. the columns, with their ornamented capitals, the arches, the images of the saviour, the virgin and saints, the altar and the pulpit, with all their decorations, and the figures of two priests represented at prayers before the shrine of the patron saint, are all carved out of the rock-salt, and to this day grand mass is regularly celebrated in the chapel once every year. following my guide through all the different passages and chambers, and constantly meeting miners and seeing squads of men at work, i descended by regular stairs cut in the salt, but in some places worn away and replaced by wood or stone, to the lowest gallery, which is nearly a thousand feet below the surface of the earth. i was then a rather veteran traveller, but up to this time it had been my business to move quietly on the surface of the earth, or, when infected with the soaring spirit of other travellers, to climb to the top of some lofty tower or loftier cathedral; and i had fulfilled one of the duties of a visiter to the eternal city by perching myself within the great ball of st. peter's; but here i was far deeper under the earth than i had ever been above it; and at the greatest depth from which the human voice ever rose, i sat down on a lump of salt and soliloquized, "through what varieties of untried being, through what new scenes and changes must we pass!" i have since stood upon the top of the pyramids, and admired the daring genius and the industry of man, and at the same time smiled at his feebleness when, from the mighty pile, i saw in the dark ranges of mountains, the sandy desert, the rich valley of the nile and the river of egypt, the hand of the world's great architect; but i never felt man's feebleness more than here; for all these immense excavations, the work of more than six hundred years, were but as the work of ants by the roadside. the whole of the immense mass above me, and around and below, to an unknown extent, was of salt; a wonderful phenomenon in the natural history of the globe. all the different strata have been carefully examined by scientific men. the uppermost bed at the surface is sand; the second clay occasionally mixed with sand and gravel, and containing petrifactions of marine bodies; the third is calcareous stone; and from these circumstances it has been conjectured that this spot was formerly covered by the sea, and that the salt is a gradual deposite formed by the evaporation of its waters. i was disappointed in some of the particulars which had fastened themselves upon my imagination. i had heard and read glowing accounts of the brilliancy and luminous splendour of the passages and chambers, compared by some to the lustre of precious stones; but the salt is of a dark gray colour, almost black, and although sometimes glittering when the light was thrown upon it, i do not believe it could ever be lighted up to shine with any extraordinary or dazzling brightness. early travellers, too, had reported that these mines contained several villages inhabited by colonies of miners, who lived constantly below, and that many were born and died there, who never saw the light of day; but all this is entirely untrue. the miners descend every morning and return every night, and live in the village above. none of them ever sleep below. there are, however, two horses which were foaled in the mines, and have never been on the surface of the earth. i looked at these horses with great interest. they were growing old before their time; other horses had perhaps gone down and told them stories of a world above which they would never know. it was late in the afternoon when i was hoisted up the shaft. these mines do not need the embellishment of fiction. they are, indeed, a wonderful spectacle, and i am satisfied that no traveller ever visited them without recurring to it as a day of extraordinary interest. i wrote my name in the book of visiters, where i saw those of two american friends who had preceded me about a month, mounted my barouche, and about an hour after dark reached the bank of the vistula. my passport was again examined by a soldier and my carriage searched by a custom-house officer; i crossed the bridge, dined with my worthy host of the hotel de la rose blanche, and, while listening to a touching story of the polish revolution, fell asleep in my chair. and here, on the banks of the vistula, i take my leave of the reader. i have carried him over seas and rivers, mountains and plains, through royal palaces and peasants' huts, and in return for his kindness in accompanying me to the end, i promise that i will not again burden him with my incidents of travel. the end. a new classified and descriptive catalogue of harper & brothers' publications has just been issued, comprising a very extensive range of literature, in its several departments of history, biography, philosophy, travel, science and art, the classics, fiction, &c.; also, many splendidly embellished productions. the selection of works includes not only a large proportion of the most esteemed literary productions of our times, but also, in the majority of instances, the best existing authorities on given subjects. this new catalogue has been constructed with a view to the especial use of persons forming or enriching their literary collections, as well as to aid principals of district schools and seminaries of learning, who may not possess any reliable means of forming a true estimate of any production; to all such it commends itself by its explanatory and critical notices. the valuable collection described in this catalogue, consisting of about _two thousand volumes_, combines the two-fold advantages of great economy in price with neatness--often elegance of typographical execution, in many instances the rates of publication being scarcely one fifth of those of similar issues in europe. *** copies of this catalogue may be obtained, free of expense, by application to the publishers personally, or by letter, post-paid. to prevent disappointment, it is requested that, whenever books ordered through any bookseller or local agent can not be obtained, applications with remittance be addressed direct to the publishers, which will be promptly attended to. _new york, january, ._ list of corrections: p. : "voznezeuski" was changed to "vosnezeuski." p. : "the last time in the _calèche_" was changed to "the last time in the _calêche_." p. : "merchandize" was changed to "merchandise" as elsewhere in the book. p. : "the men where nowhere" was changed to "the men were nowhere." p. : "sailed down the dneiper from kief" was changed to "sailed down the dnieper from kief." p. : "of a lilach colour" was changed to "of a lilac colour." p. : "diebisch directed the strength" was changed to "diebitsch directed the strength." errata: the summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. the original has been retained. transcriber's notes: punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. a list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. [illustration: greece, turkey, _part of_ russia & poland.] incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. by the author of "incidents of travel in egypt, arabia petrÆa, and the holy land." with a map and engravings. in two volumes. vol. i. seventh edition. new york: harper & brothers, publishers. & pearl street, franklin square. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the southern district of new york. preface to the fifth edition. the fourth edition of this work was published during the author's absence from the city. his publishers, in a preface in his behalf, returned his acknowledgments to the public, and he can but respond to the acknowledgments there made. he has made some alterations in the page relating to the american phil-hellenists; and for the rest, he concludes as in the preface to his first edition. the author has been induced by his publishers to put forth his "incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland." in point of time they precede his tour in egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land. the countries which form the subject of the following pages perhaps do not, in themselves, possess the same interest with those in his first work; but the author has reason to believe that part of his route, particularly from the black sea to the baltic, through the interior of russia, and from st. petersburgh through the interior of poland to warsaw and cracow, is comparatively new to most of his countrymen. as in his first work, his object has been to present a picture of the every-day scenes which occur to the traveller in the countries referred to, rather than any detailed description of the countries themselves. _new york, november, ._ contents of the first volume chapter i. page a hurricane.--an adventure.--missilonghi.--siege of missilonghi.--byron.--marco bozzaris.--visit to the widow, daughters, and brother of bozzaris.--halleck's "marco bozzaris." chapter ii. choice of a servant.--a turnout.--an evening chat.--scenery of the road.--lepanto.--a projected visit.--change of purpose.--padras.--vostitza.--variety and magnificence of scenery. chapter iii. quarrel with the landlord.--Ægina.--sicyon.--corinth.--a distinguished reception.--desolation of corinth.--the acropolis.--view from the acropolis.--lechæum and cenchreæ.--kaka scala.--arrival at athens. chapter iv. american missionary school.--visit to the school.--mr. hill and the male department.--mrs. hill and the female department.--maid of athens.--letter from mr. hill.--revival of athena.--citizens of the world. chapter v. ruins of athens.--hill of mars.--temple of the winds.--lantern of demosthenes.--arch of adrian.--temple of jupiter olympus.--temple of theseus.--the acropolis.--the parthenon.--pentelican mountain.--mount hymettus.--the piræus.--greek fleas.--napoli. chapter vi. argos.--parting and farewell.--tomb of agamemnon.--mycenæ.--gate of the lions.--a misfortune.--meeting in the mountains.--a landlord's troubles.--a midnight quarrel.--one good turn deserves another.--gratitude of a greek family.--megara.--the soldiers' revel. chapter vii. a dreary funeral.--marathon.--mount pentelicus.--a mystery.--woes of a lover.--reveries of glory.--scio's rocky isle.--a blood-stained page of history.--a greek prelate.--desolation.--the exile's return. chapter viii. a noble grecian lady.--beauty of scio.--an original.--foggi.--a turkish coffee-house.--mussulman at prayers.--easter sunday.--a greek priest.--a tartar guide.--turkish ladies.--camel scenes.--sight of a harem.--disappointed hopes.--a rare concert.--arrival at smyrna. chapter ix. first sight of smyrna.--unveiled women.--ruins of ephesus.--ruin, all ruin.--temple of diana.--encounter with a wolf.--love at first sight.--gatherings on the road. chapter x. position of smyrna.--consular privileges.--the case of the lover.--end of the love affair.--the missionary's wife.--the casino.--only a greek row.--rambles in smyrna.--the armenians.--domestic enjoyments. chapter xi. an american original.--moral changes in turkey.--wonders of steam navigation.--the march of mind.--classic localities.--sestos and abydos.--seeds of pestilence. chapter xii. mr. churchill.--commodore porter.--castle of the seven towers.--the sultan's naval architect.--launch of the great ship.--sultan mahmoud.--jubilate.--a national grievance.--visit to a mosque.--the burial-grounds. chapter xiii. visit to the slave-market.--horrors of slavery.--departure from stamboul.--the stormy euxine.--odessa.--the lazaretto.--russian civility.--returning good for evil. chapter xiv. the guardiano.--one too many.--an excess of kindness.--the last day of quarantine.--mr. baguet.--rise of odessa.--city-making.--count woronzow.--a gentleman farmer.--an american russian. incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. chapter i. a hurricane.--an adventure.--missilonghi.--siege of missilonghi.--byron.--marco bozzaris.--visit to the widow, daughters, and brother of bozzaris. on the evening of the ---- february, , by a bright starlight, after a short ramble among the ionian islands, i sailed from zante in a beautiful cutter of about forty tons for padras. my companions were doctor w., an old and valued friend from new-york, who was going to greece merely to visit the episcopal missionary school at athens, and a young scotchman, who had travelled with me through italy, and was going farther, like myself, he knew not exactly why. there was hardly a breath of air when we left the harbour, but a breath was enough to fill our little sail. the wind, though of the gentlest, was fair; and as we crawled from under the lee of the island, in a short time it became a fine sailing breeze. we sat on the deck till a late hour, and turned in with every prospect of being at padras in the morning. before daylight, however, the wind chopped about, and set in dead ahead, and when i went on deck in the morning it was blowing a hurricane. we had passed the point of padras; the wind was driving down the gulf of corinth as if old Æolus had determined on thwarting our purpose; and our little cutter, dancing like a gull upon the angry waters, was driven into the harbour of missilonghi. the town was full in sight, but at such a distance, and the waves were running so high, that we could not reach it with our small boat. a long flat extends several miles into the sea, making the harbour completely inaccessible except to small greek caiques built expressly for such navigation. we remained on board all day; and the next morning, the gale still continuing, made signals to a fishing boat to come off and take us ashore. in a short time she came alongside; we bade farewell to our captain--an italian and a noble fellow, cradled, and, as he said, born to die on the adriatic--and in a few minutes struck the soil of fallen but immortal greece. our manner of striking it, however, was not such as to call forth any of the warm emotions struggling in the breast of the scholar, for we were literally stuck in the mud. we were yet four or five miles from the shore, and the water was so low that the fishing-boat, with the additional weight of four men and luggage, could not swim clear. our boatmen were two long, sinewy greeks, with the red tarbouch, embroidered jacket, sash, and large trousers, and with their long poles set us through the water with prodigious force; but, as soon as the boat struck, they jumped out, and, putting their brawny shoulders under her sides, heaved her through into better water, and then resumed their poles. in this way they propelled her two or three miles, working alternately with their poles and shoulders, until they got her into a channel, when they hoisted the sail, laid directly for the harbour, and drove upon the beach with canvass all flying. during the late greek revolution, missilonghi was the great debarking-place of european adventurers; and, probably, among all the desperadoes who ever landed there, none were more destitute and in better condition to "go ahead" than i; for i had all that i was worth on my back. at one of the ionian islands i had lost my carpet-bag, containing my notebook and every article of wearing apparel except the suit in which i stood. every condition, however, has its advantages; mine put me above porters and custom-house officers; and while my companions were busy with these plagues of travellers, i paced with great satisfaction the shore of greece, though i am obliged to confess that this satisfaction was for reasons utterly disconnected with any recollections of her ancient glories. business before pleasure: one of our first inquiries was for a breakfast. perhaps, if we had seen a monument, or solitary column, or ruin of any kind, it would have inspired us to better things; but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could recall an image of the past. besides, we did not expect to land at missilonghi, and were not bound to be inspired at a place into which we were thrown by accident; and, more than all, a drizzling rain was penetrating to our very bones; we were wet and cold, and what can men do in the way of sentiment when their teeth are chattering? the town stands upon a flat, marshy plain, which extends several miles along the shore. the whole was a mass of new-made ruins--of houses demolished and black with smoke--the tokens of savage and desolating war. in front, and running directly along the shore, was a long street of miserable one-story shantees, run up since the destruction of the old town, and so near the shore that sometimes it is washed by the sea, and at the time of our landing it was wet and muddy from the rain. it was a cheerless place, and reminded me of communipaw in bad weather. it had no connexion with the ancient glory of greece, no name or place on her historic page, and no hotel where we could get a breakfast; but one of the officers of the customs conducted us to a shantee filled with bavarian soldiers drinking. there was a sort of second story, accessible only by a ladder; and one end of this was partitioned off with boards, but had neither bench, table, nor any other article of housekeeping. we had been on and almost _in_ the water since daylight, exposed to a keen wind and drizzling rain, and now, at eleven o'clock, could probably have eaten several chickens apiece; but nothing came amiss, and, as we could not get chickens, we took eggs, which, for lack of any vessel to boil them in, were roasted. we placed a huge loaf of bread on the middle of the floor, and seated ourselves around it, spreading out so as to keep the eggs from rolling away, and each hewing off bread for himself. fortunately, the greeks have learned from their quondam turkish masters the art of making coffee, and a cup of this eastern cordial kept our dry bread from choking us. when we came out again the aspect of matters was more cheerful; the long street was swarming with greeks, many of them armed with pistols and yataghan, but miserably poor in appearance, and in such numbers that not half of them could find the shelter of a roof at night. we were accosted by one dressed in a hat and frockcoat, and who, in occasional visits to corfu and trieste, had picked up some italian and french, and a suit of european clothes, and was rather looked up to by his untravelled countrymen. as a man of the world, who had received civilities abroad, he seemed to consider it incumbent upon him to reciprocate at home, and, with the tacit consent of all around, he undertook to do the honours of missilonghi. if, as a greek, he had any national pride about him, he was imposing upon himself a severe task; for all that he could do was to conduct us among ruins, and, as he went along, tell us the story of the bloody siege which had reduced the place to its present woful state. for more than a year, under unparalleled hardships, its brave garrison resisted the combined strength of the turkish and egyptian armies, and, when all hope was gone, resolved to cut their way through the enemy or die in the attempt. many of the aged and sick, the wounded and the women, refused to join in the sortie, and preferred to shut themselves up in an old mill, with the desperate purpose of resisting until they should bring around them a large crowd of turks, when they would blow all up together. an old invalid soldier seated himself in a mine under the bastion bozzaris (the ruins of which we saw), the mine being charged with thirty kegs of gunpowder; the last sacrament was administered by the bishop and priests to the whole population and, at a signal, the besieged made their desperate sortie. one body dashed through the turkish ranks, and, with many women and children, gained the mountains; but the rest were driven back. many of the women ran to the sea and plunged in with their children; husbands stabbed their wives with their own hands to save them from the turks, and the old soldier under the bastion set fire to the train, and the remnant of the heroic garrison buried themselves under the ruins of missilonghi. among them were thirteen foreigners, of whom only one escaped. one of the most distinguished was meyer, a young swiss, who entered as a volunteer at the beginning of the revolution, became attached to a beautiful missilonghiote girl, married her, and, when the final sortie was made, his wife being sick, he remained with her, and was blown up with the others. a letter written a few days before his death, and brought away by one who escaped in the sortie, records the condition of the garrison. "a wound which i have received in my shoulder, while i am in daily expectation of one which will be my passport to eternity, has prevented me till now from bidding you a last adieu. we are reduced to feed upon the most disgusting animals. we are suffering horribly with hunger and thirst. sickness adds much to the calamities which overwhelm us. seventeen hundred and forty of our brothers are dead; more than a hundred thousand bombs and balls thrown by the enemy have destroyed our bastions and our homes. we have been terribly distressed by the cold, for we have suffered great want of food. notwithstanding so many privations, it is a great and noble spectacle to behold the ardour and devotedness of the garrison. a few days more, and these brave men will be angelic spirits, who will accuse before god the indifference of christendom. in the name of all our brave men, among whom are notho bozzaris, *** i announce to you the resolution sworn to before heaven, to defend, foot by foot, the land of missilonghi, and to bury ourselves, without listening to any capitulation, under the ruins of this city. we are drawing near our final hour. history will render us justice. i am proud to think that the blood of a swiss, of a child of william tell, is about to mingle with that of the heroes of greece." but missilonghi is a subject of still greater interest than this, for the reader will remember it as the place where byron died. almost the first questions i asked were about the poet, and it added to the dreary interest which the place inspired, to listen to the manner in which the greeks spoke of him. it might be thought that here, on the spot where he breathed his last, malignity would have held her accursed tongue; but it was not so. he had committed the fault, unpardonable in the eyes of political opponents, of attaching himself to one of the great parties that then divided greece; and though he had given her all that man could give, in his own dying words, "his time, his means, his health, and, lastly, his life," the greeks spoke of him with all the rancour and bitterness of party spirit. even death had not won oblivion for his political offences; and i heard those who saw him die in her cause affirm that byron was no friend to greece. his body, the reader will remember, was transported to england and interred in the family sepulchre. the church where it lay in state is a heap of ruins, and there is no stone or monument recording his death, but, wishing to see some memorial connected with his residence here, we followed our guide to the house in which he died. it was a large square building of stone, one of the walls still standing, black with smoke, the rest a confused and shapeless mass of ruins. after his death it was converted into a hospital and magazine; and, when the turks entered the city, they set fire to the powder; the sick and dying were blown into the air, and we saw the ruins lying as they fell after the explosion. it was a melancholy spectacle, but it seemed to have a sort of moral fitness with the life and fortunes of the poet. it was as if the same wild destiny, the same wreck of hopes and fortunes that attended him through life, were hovering over his grave. living and dead, his actions and his character have been the subject of obloquy and reproach, perhaps justly; but it would have softened the heart of his bitterest enemy to see the place in which he died. it was in this house that, on his last birthday, he came from his bedroom and produced to his friends the last notes of his dying muse, breathing a spirit of sad foreboding and melancholy recollections; of devotion to the noble cause in which he had embarked, and a prophetic consciousness of his approaching end. "my days are in the yellow leaf, the flowers and fruits of love are gone; the worm, the canker, and the grief are mine alone. * * * * * "if thou regret'st thy youth, _why live?_ the land of honourable death is here: up to the field, and give away thy breath! "seek out--less often sought than found-- a soldier's grave, for thee the best; then look around, and choose thy ground, and take thy rest." moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still within the line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot perhaps as interesting as any that greece in her best days could show. it was the tomb of marco bozzaris! no monumental marble emblazoned his deeds and fame; a few round stones piled over his head, which, but for our guide, we should have passed without noticing, were all that marked his grave. i would not disturb a proper reverence for the past; time covers with its dim and twilight glories both distant scenes and the men who acted in them, but, to my mind, miltiades was not more of a hero at marathon or leonidas at thermopylæ than marco bozzaris at missilonghi. when they went out against the hosts of persia, athens and sparta were great and free, and they had the prospect of _glory_ and the praise of men, to the greeks always dearer than life. but when the suliote chief drew his sword, his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all europe condemned the greek revolution as foolhardy and desperate. for two months, with but a few hundred men, protected only by a ditch and slight parapet of earth, he defended the town where his body now rests against the whole egyptian army. in stormy weather, living upon bad and unwholesome bread, with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days and nights in constant vigil; in every assault his sword cut down the foremost assailant, and his voice, rising above the din of battle, struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. in the struggle which ended with his life, with two thousand men he proposed to attack the whole army of mustapha pacha, and called upon all who were willing to die for their country to stand forward. the whole band advanced to a man. unwilling to sacrifice so many brave men in a death-struggle, he chose three hundred, the sacred number of the spartan band, his tried and trusty suliotes. at midnight he placed himself at their head, directing that not a shot should be fired till he sounded his bugle; and his last command was, "if you lose sight of me, seek me in the pacha's tent." in the moment of victory he ordered the pacha to be seized, and received a ball in the loins; his voice still rose above the din of battle, cheering his men until he was struck by another ball in the head, and borne dead from the field of his glory. not far from the grave of bozzaris was a pyramid of sculls, of men who had fallen in the last attack upon the city, piled up near the blackened and battered wall which they had died in defending. in my after wanderings i learned to look more carelessly upon these things; and, perhaps, noticing everywhere the light estimation put upon human life in the east, learned to think more lightly of it myself; but, then, it was melancholy to see bleaching in the sun, under the eyes of their countrymen, the unburied bones of men who, but a little while ago, stood with swords in their hands, and animated by the noble resolution to free their country or die in the attempt. our guide told us that they had all been collected in that place with a view to sepulture; and that king otho, as soon as he became of age and took the government in his own hands, intended to erect a monument over them. in the mean time, they are at the mercy of every passing traveller; and the only remark that our guide made was a comment upon the force and unerring precision of the blow of the turkish sabre, almost every scull being laid open on the side nearly down to the ear. but the most interesting part of our day at missilonghi was to come. returning from a ramble round the walls, we noticed a large square house, which, our guide told us, was the residence of constantine, the brother of marco bozzaris. we were all interested in this intelligence, and our interest was in no small degree increased when he added that the widow and two of the children of the suliote chief were living with his brother. the house was surrounded by a high stone wall, a large gate stood most invitingly wide open, and we turned toward it in the hope of catching a glimpse of the inhabitants; but, before we reached the gate, our interest had increased to such a point that, after consulting with our guide, we requested him to say that, if it would not be considered an intrusion, three travellers, two of them americans, would feel honoured in being permitted to pay their respects to the widow and children of marco bozzaris. we were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, where three greeks were sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking the long turkish chibouk. soon after the brother entered, a man about fifty, of middling height, spare built, and wearing a bavarian uniform, as holding a colonel's commission in the service of king otho. in the dress of the dashing suliote he would have better looked the brother of marco bozzaris, and i might then more easily have recognised the daring warrior who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was deemed, by universal acclamation, worthy of succeeding the fallen hero. now the straight military frockcoat, buttoned tight across the breast, the stock, tight pantaloons, boots, and straps, seemed to repress the free energies of the mountain warrior; and i could not but think how awkward it must be for one who had spent all his life in a dress which hardly touched him, at fifty to put on a stock, and straps to his boots. our guide introduced us, with an apology for our intrusion. the colonel received us with great kindness, thanked us for the honour done his brother's widow, and, requesting us to be seated, ordered coffee and pipes. and here, on the very first day of our arrival in greece, and from a source which made us proud, we had the first evidence of what afterward met me at every step, the warm feeling existing in greece toward america; for almost the first thing that the brother of marco bozzaris said was to express his gratitude as a greek for the services rendered his country by our own; and, after referring to the provisions sent out for his famishing countrymen, his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed as he told us that, when the greek revolutionary flag first sailed into the port of napoli di romania, among hundreds of vessels of all nations, an american captain was the first to recognise and salute it. in a few moments the widow of marco bozzaris entered. i have often been disappointed in my preconceived notions of personal appearance, but it was not so with the lady who now stood before me; she looked the widow of a hero; as one worthy of her grecian mothers, who gave their hair for bowstrings, their girdle for a sword-belt, and, while their heartstrings were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms to fight and perish for their country. perhaps it was she that led marco bozzaris into the path of immortality; that roused him from the wild guerilla warfare in which he had passed his early life, and fired him with the high and holy ambition of freeing his country. of one thing i am certain, no man could look in her face without finding his wavering purposes fixed, without treading more firmly in the path of high and honourable enterprise. she was under forty, tall and stately in person and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition, with a white handkerchief laid flat over her head, giving the madonna cast to her dark eyes and marble complexion. we all rose as she entered the room; and though living secluded, and seldom seeing the face of a stranger, she received our compliments and returned them with far less embarrassment than we both felt and exhibited. but our embarrassment, at least i speak for myself, was induced by an unexpected circumstance. much as i was interested in her appearance, i was not insensible to the fact that she was accompanied by two young and beautiful girls, who were introduced to us as her daughters. this somewhat bewildered me. while waiting for their appearance, and talking with constantine bozzaris, i had in some way conceived the idea that the daughters were mere children, and had fully made up my mind to take them both on my knee and kiss them; but the appearance of the stately mother recalled me to the grave of bozzaris; and the daughters would probably have thought that i was taking liberties upon so short an acquaintance if i had followed up my benevolent purpose in regard to them; so that, with the long pipe in my hand, which, at that time, i did not know how to manage well, i cannot flatter myself that i exhibited any of the benefit of continental travel. the elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my friend doctor w., a cool judge in these matters, a beautiful girl, possessing in its fullest extent all the elements of grecian beauty: a dark, clear complexion, dark hair, set off by a little red cap embroidered with gold thread, and a long blue tassel hanging down behind, and large black eyes, expressing a melancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot forth glances of fire more terrible than her father's sword. happily, too, for us, she talked french, having learned it from a french marquis who had served in greece and been domesticated with them; but young and modest, and unused to the company of strangers, she felt the embarrassment common to young ladies when attempting to speak a foreign language. and we could not talk to her on common themes. our lips were sealed, of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house. we could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. at parting, however, i told them that the name of marco bozzaris was as familiar in america as that of a hero of our own revolution, and that it had been hallowed by the inspiration of an american poet; and i added that, if it would not be unacceptable, on my return to my native country i would send the tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling existing in america toward the memory of marco bozzaris. my offer was gratefully accepted; and afterward, while in the act of mounting my horse to leave missilonghi, our guide, who had remained behind, came to me with a message from the widow and daughters reminding me of my promise. i do not see that there is any objection to my mentioning that i wrote to a friend, requesting him to procure halleck's "marco bozzaris," and send it to my banker at paris. my friend, thinking to enhance its value, applied to mr. halleck for a copy in his own handwriting. mr. halleck, with his characteristic modesty, evaded the application; and on my return home i told him the story of my visit, and reiterated the same request. he evaded me as he had done my friend, but promised me a copy of the new edition of his poems, which he afterward gave me, and which, i hope, is now in the hands of the widow and daughters of the grecian hero. i make no apology for introducing in a book the widow and daughters of marco bozzaris. true, i was received by them in private, without any expectation, either on their part or mine, that all the particulars of the interview would be noted and laid before the eyes of all who choose to read. i hope it will not be considered invading the sanctity of private life; but, at all events, i make no apology; the widow and children of marco bozzaris are the property of the world. chapter ii. choice of a servant.--a turnout.--an evening chat.--scenery of the road.--lepanto.--a projected visit.--change of purpose.--padras.--vostitza.--variety and magnificence of scenery. barren as our prospect was on landing, our first day in greece had already been full of interest. supposing that we should not find anything to engage us long, before setting out on our ramble we had directed our servant to procure horses, and when we returned we found all ready for our departure. one word with regard to this same servant. we had taken him at corfu, much against my inclination. we had a choice between two, one a full-blooded greek in fustinellas, who in five minutes established himself in my good graces, so that nothing but the democratic principle of submitting to the will of the majority could make me give him up. he held at that time a very good office in the police at corfu, but the eagerness which he showed to get out of regular business and go roving warmed me to him irresistibly. he seemed to be distracted between two opposing feelings; one the strong bent of his natural vagabond disposition to be rambling, and the other a sort of tugging at his heartstrings by wife and children, to keep him in a place where he had a regular assured living, instead of trusting to the precarious business of guiding travellers. he had a boldness and confidence that won me; and when he drew on the sand with his yataghan a map of greece, and told us the route he would take us, zigzag across the gulf of corinth to delphi and the top of parnassus, i wondered that my companions could resist him. our alternative was an italian from somewhere on the coast of the adriatic, whom i looked upon with an unfavourable eye, because he came between me and my greek; and on the morning of our departure i was earnestly hoping that he had overslept himself, or got into some scrape and been picked up by the guard; but, most provokingly, he came in time, and with more baggage than all of us had together. indeed, he had so much of his own, that, in obedience to nature's first law, he could not attend to ours, and in putting ashore some british soldiers at cephalonia he contrived to let my carpet-bag go with their luggage. this did not increase my amiable feeling toward him, and, perhaps, assisted in making me look upon him throughout with a jaundiced eye; in fact, before we had done with him, i regarded him as a slouch, a knave, and a fool, and had the questionable satisfaction of finding that my companions, though they sustained him as long as they could, had formed very much the same opinion. it was to him, then, that, on our return from our visit to the widow and daughters of marco bozzaris, we were indebted for a turnout that seemed to astonish even the people of missilonghi. the horses were miserable little animals, hidden under enormous saddles made of great clumps of wood over an old carpet or towcloth, and covering the whole back from the shoulders to the tail; the luggage was perched on the tops of these saddles, and with desperate exertions and the help of the citizens of missilonghi we were perched on the top of the luggage. the little animals had a knowing look as they peered from under the superincumbent mass, and, supported on either side by the by-standers till we got a little steady in our seats, we put forth from missilonghi. the only gentleman of our party was our servant, who followed on a european saddle which he had brought for his own use, smoking his pipe with great complacency, perfectly satisfied with our appearance and with himself. it was four o'clock when we crossed the broken walls of missilonghi. for three hours our road lay over a plain extending to the sea. i have no doubt, if my greek had been there, he would have given an interest to the road by referring to scenes and incidents connected with the siege of missilonghi; but demetrius--as he now chose to call himself--knew nothing of greece, ancient or modern; he had no sympathy of feeling with the greeks; had never travelled on this side of the gulf of corinth before; and so he lagged behind and smoked his pipe. it was nearly dark when we reached the miserable little village of bokara. we had barely light enough to look around for the best khan in which to pass the night. any of the wretched tenants would have been glad to receive us for the little remuneration we might leave with them in the morning. the khans were all alike, one room, mud floor and walls, and we selected one where the chickens had already gone to roost, and prepared to measure off the dirt floor according to our dimensions. before we were arranged a greek of a better class, followed by half a dozen villagers, came over, and, with many regrets for the wretched state of the country, invited us to his house. though dressed in the greek costume, it was evident that he had acquired his manners in a school beyond the bounds of his miserable little village, in which his house now rose like the leaning tower of pisa, higher than everything else, but rather rickety. in a few minutes we heard the death notes of some chickens, and at about nine o'clock sat down to a not unwelcome meal. several greeks dropped in during the evening, and one, a particular friend of our host's, supped with us. both talked french, and had that perfect ease of manner and savoir faire which i always remarked with admiration in all greeks who had travelled. they talked much of their travels; of time spent in italy and germany, and particularly of a long residence at bucharest. they talked, too, of greece; of her long and bitter servitude, her revolution, and her independence; and from their enthusiasm i could not but think that they had fought and bled in her cause. i certainly was not lying in wait to entrap them, but i afterward gathered from their conversation that they had taken occasion to be on their travels at the time when the bravest of their countrymen were pouring out their blood like water to emancipate their native land. a few years before i might have felt indignation and contempt for men who had left their country in her hour of utmost need, and returned to enjoy the privileges purchased with other men's blood; but i had already learned to take the world as i found it, and listened quietly while our host told us that, confiding in the permanency of the government secured by the three great powers, england, france, and russia, he had returned to greece, and taken a lease of a large tract of land for fifty years, paying a thousand drachms, a drachm being one sixth of a dollar, and one tenth of the annual fruits, at the end of which time one half of the land under cultivation was to belong to his heirs in fee. as our host could not conveniently accommodate us all, m. and demetrius returned to the khan at which we had first stopped and where, to judge from the early hour at which they came over to us the next morning, they had not spent the night as well as we did. at daylight we took our coffee, and again perched our luggage on the backs of the horses, and ourselves on top of the luggage. our host wished us to remain with him, and promised the next day to accompany us to padras; but this was not a sufficient inducement; and taking leave of him, probably for ever, we started for lepanto. we rode about an hour on the plain; the mountains towered on our left, and the rich soil was broken into rough sandy gullies running down to the sea. our guides had some apprehensions that we should not be able to cross the torrents that were running down from the mountain; and when we came to the first, and had to walk up along the bank, looking out for a place to ford, we fully participated in their apprehensions. bridges were a species of architecture entirely unknown in that part of modern greece; indeed, no bridges could have stood against the mountain torrents. there would have been some excitement in encountering these rapid streams if we had been well mounted; but, from the manner in which we were hitched on our horses, we did not feel any great confidence in our seats. still nothing could be wilder or more picturesque than our process in crossing them, except that it might have added somewhat to the effect to see one of us floating down stream, clinging to the tail of his horse. but we got over or through them all. a range of mountains then formed on our right, cutting us off from the sea, and we entered a valley lying between the two parallel ranges. at first the road, which was exceedingly difficult for a man or a sure-footed horse, lay along a beautiful stream, and the whole of the valley extending to the gulf of lepanto is one of the loveliest regions of country i ever saw. the ground was rich and verdant, and, even at that early season of the year, blooming with wild flowers of every hue, but wholly uncultivated, the olive-trees having all been cut down by the turks, and without a single habitation on the whole route. my scotch companion, who had a good eye for the picturesque and beautiful in natural scenery, was in raptures with this valley. i have since travelled in switzerland, not, however, in all the districts frequented by tourists; but in what i saw, beautiful as it is, i do not know a place where the wildness of mountain scenery is so delightfully contrasted with the softness of a rich valley. at the end of the valley, directly opposite padras, and on the borders of the gulf, is a wild road called scala cativa, running along the sides of a rocky, mountainous precipice overlooking the sea. it is a wild and almost fearful road; in some places i thought it like the perpendicular sides of the palisades; and when the wind blows in a particular direction it is impossible to make headway against it. our host told us that we should find difficulty that day; and there was just rudeness enough to make us look well to our movements. directly at our feet was the gulf of corinth; opposite a range of mountains; and in the distance the island of zante. on the other side of the valley is an extraordinary mountain, very high, and wanting a large piece in the middle, as if cut out with a chisel, leaving two straight parallel sides, and called by the unpoetical name of the armchair. in the wildest pan of the scala, where a very slight struggle would have precipitated us several hundred feet into the sea, an enormous shepherd's dog came bounding and barking toward us; and we were much relieved when his master, who was hanging with his flock of goats on an almost inaccessible height, called him away. at the foot of the mountain we entered a rich plain, where the shepherds were pasturing their flocks down to the shore of the sea, and in about two hours arrived at lepanto. after diligent search by demetrius (the name by which we had taken him, whose true name, however, we found to be jerolamon), and by all the idlers whom the arrival of strangers attracted, we procured a room near the farthest wall; it was reached by ascending a flight of steps outside, and boasted a floor, walls, and an apology for a roof. we piled up our baggage in one corner, or, rather, my companions did theirs, and went prowling about in search of something to eat. our servant had not fully apprized us of the extreme poverty of the country, the entire absence of all accommodations for travellers, and the absolute necessity of carrying with us everything requisite for comfort. he was a man of few words, and probably thought that, as between servant and master, example was better than precept, and that the abundant provision he had made for himself might serve as a lesson for us; but, in our case, the objection to this mode of teaching was, that it came too late to be profitable. at the foot of the hill fronting the sea was an open place, in one side of which was a little cafteria, where all the good-for-nothing loungers of lepanto were assembled. we bought a loaf of bread and some eggs, and, with a cup of turkish coffee, made our evening meal. we had an hour before dark, and strolled along the shore. though in a ruinous condition, lepanto is in itself interesting, as giving an exact idea of an ancient greek city, being situated in a commanding position on the side of a mountain running down to the sea, with its citadel on the top, and enclosed by walls and turrets. the port is shut within the walls, which run into the sea, and are erected on the foundations of the ancient naupactus. at a distance was the promontory of actium, where cleopatra, with her fifty ships, abandoned antony, and left to augustus the empire of the world; and directly before us, its surface dotted with a few straggling greek caiques, was the scene of a battle which has rung throughout the world, the great battle of the cross against the crescent, where the allied forces of spain, venice, and the pope, amounting to nearly three hundred sail, under the command of don john of austria, humbled for ever the naval pride of the turks. one hundred and thirty turkish galleys were taken and fifty-five sunk; thirty thousand turks were killed, ten thousand taken prisoners, fifteen thousand christian slaves delivered; and pope pius vi., with holy fervour, exclaimed, "there was a man sent from god, and his name was john." cervantes lost his left hand in this battle; and it is to wounds he received here that he makes a touching allusion when reproached by a rival: "what i cannot help feeling deeply is, that i am stigmatized with being old and maimed, as though it belonged to me to stay the course of time; or as though my wounds had been received in some tavern broil, instead of the most lofty occasion which past ages have yet seen, or which shall ever be seen by those to come. the scars which the soldier wears on his person, instead of badges of infamy, are stars to guide the daring in the path of glory. as for mine, though they may not shine in the eyes of the envious, they are at least esteemed by those who know where they were received; and, even was it not yet too late to choose, i would rather remain as i am, maimed and mutilated, than be now whole of my wounds, without having taken part in so glorious an achievement." i shall, perhaps, be reproached for mingling with the immortal names of don john of austria and cervantes those of george wilson, of providence, rhode island, and james williams, a black of baltimore, cook on board lord cochrane's flagship in the great battle between the greek and turkish fleets. george wilson was a gunner on board one of the greek ships, and conducted himself with so much gallantry, that lord cochrane, at a dinner in commemoration of the event, publicly drank his health. in the same battle james williams, who had lost a finger in the united states service under decatur at algiers, and had conducted himself with great coolness and intrepidity in several engagements, when no greek could be found to take the helm, volunteered his services, and was struck down by a splinter, which broke his legs and arms. the historian will probably never mention these gallant fellows in his quarto volumes; but i hope the american traveller, as he stands at sunset by the shore of the gulf of lepanto, and recalls to mind the great achievements of don john and cervantes, will not forget _george wilson_ and _james williams_. at evening we returned to our room, built a fire in the middle, and, with as much dignity as we could muster, sitting on the floor, received a number of greek visiters. when they left us we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and lay down to sleep. sleep, however, is not always won when wooed. sometimes it takes the perverse humour of the wild irish boy: "the more you call me, the more i won't come." our room had no chimney; and though, as i lay all night looking up at the roof, there appeared to be apertures enough to let out the smoke, it seemed to have a loving feeling toward us in our lowly position, and clung to us so closely that we were obliged to let the fire go out, and lie shivering till morning. every schoolboy knows how hard it is to write poetry, but few know the physical difficulties of climbing the poetical mountain itself. we had made arrangements to sleep the next night at castri, by the side of the sacred oracle of delphi, a mile up parnassus. our servant wanted to cross over and go up on the other side of the gulf, and entertained us with several stories of robberies committed on this road, to which we paid no attention. the greeks who visited us in the evening related, with much detail, a story of a celebrated captain of brigands having lately returned to his haunt on parnassus, and attacked nine greek merchants, of whom he killed three; the recital of which interesting incident we ascribed to demetrius, and disregarded. early in the morning we mounted our horses and started for parnassus. at the gate of the town we were informed that it was necessary, before leaving, to have a passport from the eparchos, and i returned to procure it. the eparchos was a man about forty-five, tall and stout, with a clear olive complexion and a sharp black eye, dressed in a rich greek costume, and, fortunately, able to speak french. he was sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking a pipe, and looking out upon the sea; and when i told him my business, he laid down his pipe, repeated the story of the robbery and murder that we had heard the night before, and added that we must abandon the idea of travelling that road. he said, farther, that the country was in a distracted state; that poverty was driving men to desperation; and that, though they had driven out the turks, the greeks were not masters of their own country. hearing that i was an american, and as if in want of a bosom in which to unburden himself, and as one assured of sympathy, he told me the whole story of their long and bloody struggle for independence, and the causes that now made the friends of greece tremble for her future destiny. i knew that the seat of the muses bore a rather suspicious character, and, in fact, that the rocks and caves about parnassus were celebrated as the abodes of robbers, but i was unwilling to be driven from our purpose of ascending it. i went to the military commandant, a bavarian officer, and told him what i had just heard from the eparchos. he said frankly that he did not know much of the state of the country, as he had but lately arrived in it; but, with the true bavarian spirit, advised me, as a general rule, not to believe anything a greek should tell me. i returned to the gate, and made my double report to my companions. dr. w. returned with me to the eparchos, where the latter repeated, with great earnestness, all he had told me; and when i persisted in combating his objections, shrugged his shoulders in a manner that seemed to say, "your blood be on your own heads;" that he had done his duty, and washed his hands of the consequences. as we were going out he called me back, and, recurring to our previous conversation, said that he had spoken to me as an american more freely than he would have done to a stranger, and begged that, as i was going to athens, i would not repeat his words where they could do him injury. i would not mention the circumstance now, but that the political clouds which then hung over the horizon of greece have passed away; king otho has taken his seat on the throne, and my friend has probably long since been driven or retired from public life. i was at that time a stranger to the internal politics of greece, but i afterward found that the eparchos was one of a then powerful body of greeks opposed to the bavarian influence, and interested in representing the state of the country as more unsettled than it really was. i took leave of him, however, as one who had intended me a kindness, and, returning to the gate, found our companion sitting on his horse, waiting the result of our farther inquiries. both he and my fellow envoy were comparatively indifferent upon the subject, while i was rather bent on drinking from the castalian fount, and sleeping on the top of parnassus. besides, i was in a beautiful condition to be robbed. i had nothing but what i had on my back, and i felt sure that a greek mountain robber would scorn my stiff coat and pantaloons and black hat. my companions, however were not so well situated, particularly m., who had drawn money at corfu, and had no idea of trusting it to the tender mercies of a greek bandit. in the teeth of the advice we had received, it would, perhaps, have been foolhardy to proceed; and, to my great subsequent regret, for the first and the last time in my ramblings, i was turned aside from my path by fear of perils on the road. perhaps, after all, i had a lucky escape; for, if the greek tradition be true, whoever sleeps on the mountain becomes an inspired poet or a madman, either of which, for a professional man, is a catastrophe to be avoided. our change of plan suited demetrius exactly; he had never travelled on this side of the gulf of corinth; and, besides that, he considered it a great triumph that his stories of robbers were confirmed by others, showing his superior knowledge of the state of the country; he was glad to get on a road which he had travelled before, and on which he had a chance of meeting some of his old travelling acquaintance. in half an hour he had us on board a caique. we put out from the harbour of lepanto with a strong and favourable wind; our little boat danced lightly over the waters of the gulf of corinth; and in three hours, passing between the frowning castles of romelia and morea, under the shadow of the walls of which were buried the bodies of the christians who fell in the great naval battle, we arrived at padras. the first thing we recognised was the beautiful little cutter which we had left at missilonghi, riding gracefully at anchor in the harbour, and the first man we spoke to on landing was our old friend the captain. we exchanged a cordial greeting, and he conducted us to mr. robertson, the british vice-consul, who, at the moment of our entering, was in the act of directing a letter to me at athens. the subject was my interesting carpet-bag. there being no american consul at padras, i had taken the liberty of writing to mr. robertson, requesting him, if my estate should find its way into his hands, to forward it to me at athens, and the letter was to assure me of his attention to my wishes. it may be considered treason against classical taste, but it consoled me somewhat for the loss of parnassus to find a stranger taking so warm an interest in my fugitive habiliments. there was something, too, in the appearance of padras, that addressed itself to other feelings than those connected with the indulgence of a classical humour. our bones were still aching with the last night's rest, or, rather, the want of it, at lepanto; and when we found ourselves in a neat little locanda, and a complaisant greek asked us what we would have for dinner, and showed us our beds for the night, we almost agreed that climbing parnassus and such things were fit only for boys just out of college. padras is beautifully situated at the mouth of the gulf of corinth, and the windows of our locanda commanded a fine view of the bold mountains on the opposite side of the gulf, and the parallel range forming the valley which leads to missilonghi. it stands on the site of the ancient patræ, enumerated by herodotus among the twelve cities of achaia. during the intervals of peace in the peloponnesian war, alcibiades, about four hundred and fifty years before christ, persuaded its inhabitants to build long walls down to the sea. philip of macedon frequently landed there in his expeditions to peloponnesus. augustus cæsar, after the battle of actium, made it a roman colony, and sent thither a large body of his veteran soldiers; and, in the time of cicero, roman merchants were settled there just as french and italians are now. the modern town has grown up since the revolution, or rather since the accession of otho, and bears no marks of the desolation at missilonghi and lepanto. it contains a long street of shops well supplied with european goods; the english steamers from corfu to malta touch here; and, besides the little greek caiques trading in the gulf of corinth, vessels from all parts of the adriatic are constantly in the harbour. among others, there was an austrian man-of-war from trieste, on her way to alexandria. by a singular fortune, the commandant had been in one of the austrian vessels that carried to new-york the unfortunate poles; the only austrian man-of-war which had ever been to the united states. a day or two after their arrival at new-york i had taken a boat at the battery and gone on board this vessel, and had met the officers at some parties given to them at which he had been present; and though we had no actual acquaintance with each other, these circumstances were enough to form an immediate link between us, particularly as he was enthusiastic in his praises of the hospitality of our citizens and the beauty of our women. lest, however, any of the latter should be vainglorious at hearing that their praises were sounded so far from home, i consider it my duty to say that the commandant was almost blind, very slovenly, always smoking a pipe, and generally a little tipsy. early in the morning we started for athens. our turnout was rather better than at missilonghi, but not much. the day, however, was fine; the cold wind which, for several days, had been blowing down the gulf of corinth, had ceased, and the air was warm, and balmy, and invigorating. we had already found that greece had something to attract the stranger besides the recollections of her ancient glories, and often forgot that the ground we were travelling was consecrated by historians and poets, in admiration of its own wild and picturesque beauty. our road for about three hours lay across a plain, and then close along the gulf, sometimes winding by the foot of a wild precipitous mountain, and then again over a plain, with the mountains rising at some distance on our right. sometimes we rose and crossed their rugged summits, and again descended to the seashore. on our left we had constantly the gulf, bordered on the opposite side by a range of mountains sometimes receding and then rising almost out of the water, while high above the rest rose the towering summits of parnassus covered with snow. it was after dark when we arrived at vostitza, beautifully situated on the banks of the gulf of corinth. this is the representative of the ancient Ægium, one of the most celebrated cities in greece, mentioned by homer as having supplied vessels for the trojan war, and in the second century containing sixteen sacred edifices, a theatre, a portico, and an agora. for many ages it was the seat of the achaian congress. probably the worthy delegates who met here to deliberate upon the affairs of greece had better accommodations than we obtained, or they would be likely, i should imagine, to hold but short sessions. we stopped at a vile locanda, the only one in the place, where we found a crowd of men in a small room, gathered around a dirty table, eating, one of whom sprang up and claimed me as an old acquaintance. he had on a greek capote and a large foraging cap slouched over his eyes, so that i had some difficulty in recognising him as an italian who, at padras, had tried to persuade me to go by water up to the head of the gulf. he had started that morning, about the same time we did, with a crowd of passengers, half of whom were already by the ears. fortunately, they were obliged to return to their boats, and left all the house to us; which, however, contained little besides a strapping greek, who called himself its proprietor. before daylight we were again in the saddle. during the whole day's ride the scenery was magnificent. sometimes we were hemmed in as if for ever enclosed in an amphitheatre of wild and gigantic rocks; then from some lofty summit we looked out upon lesser mountains, broken, and torn, and thrown into every wild and picturesque form, as if by an earthquake; and after riding among deep dells and craggy steeps, yawning ravines and cloud-capped precipices, we descended to a quiet valley and the seashore. at about four o'clock we came down, for the last time, to the shore, and before us, at some distance, espied a single khan, standing almost on the edge of the water. it was a beautiful resting-place for a traveller; the afternoon was mild, and we walked on the shore till the sun set. the khan was sixty or seventy feet long, and contained an upper room running the whole length of the building. this room was our bedchamber. we built a fire at one end, made tea, and roasted some eggs, the smoke ascending and curling around the rafters, and finally passing out of the openings in the roof; we stretched ourselves in our cloaks and, with the murmur of the waves in our ears, looked through the apertures in the roof upon the stars, and fell asleep. about the middle of the night the door opened with a rude noise, and a tall greek, almost filling the doorway, stood on the threshold. after pausing a moment he walked in, followed by half a dozen gigantic companions, their tall figures, full dresses, and the shining of their pistols and yataghans wearing a very ugly look to a man just roused from slumber. but they were merely greek pedlers or travelling merchants, and, without any more noise, kindled the fire anew, drew their capotes around them, stretched themselves upon the floor, and were soon asleep. chapter iii. quarrel with the landlord.--Ægina.--sicyon.--corinth.--a distinguished reception.--desolation of corinth.--the acropolis.--view from the acropolis.--lechæum and cenchreæ.--kaka scala.--arrival at athens. in the morning demetrius had a roaring quarrel with the keeper of the locanda, in which he tried to keep back part of the money we gave him to pay for us. he did this, however, on principle, for we had given twice as much as our lodging was worth, and no man ought to have more. his character was at stake in preventing any one from cheating us too much; and, in order to do this, he stopped our funds in transitu. we started early, and for some time our road lay along the shore. it was not necessary, surrounded by such magnificent scenery, to draw upon historical recollections for the sake of giving interest to the road; still it did not diminish that interest to know that, many centuries ago, great cities stood here, whose sites are now desolate or occupied as the miserable gathering-places of a starving population. directly opposite parnassus, and at the foot of a hill crowned with the ruins of an acropolis, in perfect desolation now, stood the ancient Ægira; once numbering a population of ten thousand inhabitants, and in the second century containing three hiera, a temple, and another sacred edifice. farther on, and toward the head of the gulf of corinth, the miserable village of basilico stands on the site of the ancient sicyon, boasting as high an antiquity as any city in greece, and long celebrated as the first of her schools of painting. in five hours we came in sight of the acropolis of corinth, and, shortly after, of corinth itself. the reader need not fear my plunging him deeply into antiquities. greece has been explored, and examined, and written upon, till the subject is almost threadbare; and i do not flatter myself that i discovered in it anything new. still no man from such a distant country as mine can find himself crossing the plain of corinth, and ascending to the ancient city, without a strange and indescribable feeling. we have no old monuments, no classical associations; and our history hardly goes beyond the memory of that venerable personage, "the oldest inhabitant." corinth is so old that its early records are blended with the history of the heathen gods. the corinthians say that it was called after the son of jupiter, and its early sovereigns were heroes of the grecian mythology. it was the friend of sparta and the rival of athens; the first city to build war-galleys and send forth colonies, which became great empires. it was the assembling-place of their delegates, who elected philip, and afterward alexander the great, to conduct the war against the persians. in painting, sculpture, and architecture surpassing all the achievements of greece, or which the genius of man has ever since accomplished. conquered by the then barbarous romans, her walls were razed to the ground, her men put to the sword, her women and children sold into captivity, and the historian who records her fall writes that he saw the finest pictures thrown wantonly on the ground, and roman soldiers playing on them at draughts and dice. for many years deserted, corinth was again peopled; rose rapidly from its ruins; and, when st. paul abode there "a year and six months"--to the christian the most interesting period in her history--she was again a populous city, and the corinthians a luxurious people. its situation in the early ages of the world could not fail to make it a great commercial emporium. in the inexperienced navigation of early times it was considered difficult and dangerous to go around the point of the peloponnesus, and there was a proverb, "before the mariner doubles cape malea, he should forget all he holds dearest in the world." standing on the isthmus commanding the adriatic and Ægean seas; receiving in one hand the riches of asia and in the other those of europe; distributing them to every quarter of the then known world, wealth followed commerce, and then came luxury and extravagance to such an extent that it became a proverb, "it is not for every man to go to corinth." as travellers having regard to supper and lodging, we should have been glad to see some vestige of its ancient luxury; but times are changed; the ruined city stands where stood corinth of old, but it has fallen once more; the sailor no longer hugs the well-known coasts, but launches fearlessly into the trackless ocean, and corinth can never again be what she has been. our servant had talked so much of the hotel at corinth, that perhaps the idea of bed and lodging was rather too prominent in our reveries as we approached the fallen city. he rode on before to announce our coming, and, working our way up the hill through narrow streets, stared at by all the men, followed by a large representation from the juvenile portion of the modern corinthians, and barked at by the dogs, we turned into a large enclosure, something like a barnyard, on which opened a ruined balcony forming the entrance to the hotel. demetrius was standing before it with our host, as unpromising a looking scoundrel as ever took a traveller in. he had been a notorious captain of brigands, and when his lawless band was broken up and half of its number hanged, he could not overcome his disposition to prey upon travellers, but got a couple of mattresses and bedsteads, and set up a hotel at corinth. demetrius had made a bargain for us at a price that made him hang his head when he told it, and we were so indignant at the extortion that we at first refused to dismount. our host stood aloof, being used to such scenes, and perfectly sure that, after storming a little, we should be glad to take the only beds between padras and athens. in the end, however, we got the better both of him and demetrius; for, as he had fixed separate prices for dinner, beds, and breakfast, we went to a little greek coffee-house, and raised half corinth to get us something to eat, and paid him only for our lodging. we had a fine afternoon before us, and our first movement was to the ruins of a temple, the only monument of antiquity in corinth. the city has been so often sacked and plundered, that not a column of the corinthian order exists in the place from which it derives its name. seven columns of the old temple are still standing, fluted and of the doric order, though wanting in height the usual proportion to the diameter; built probably before that order had attained its perfection, and long before the corinthian order was invented; though when it was built, by whom, or to what god it was consecrated, antiquaries cannot agree in deciding. contrasted with these solitary columns of an unknown antiquity are ruins of yesterday. houses fallen, burned, and black with smoke, as if the wretched inmates had fled before the blaze of their dwellings; and high above the ruined city, now as in the days when the persian and roman invaded it, still towers the acropolis, a sharp and naked rock, rising abruptly a thousand feet from the earth, inaccessible and impregnable under the science of ancient war; and in all times of invasion and public distress, from her earliest history down to the bloody days of the late revolution, the refuge of the inhabitants. [illustration: corinth.] it was late in the afternoon when we set out for the acropolis. about a mile from the city we came to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a steep and difficult path, with many turnings and windings, to the first gate. having been in the saddle since early in the morning, we stopped several times to rest, and each time lingered and looked out with admiration upon the wild and beautiful scenery around us; and we thought of the frequently recurring times when hostile armies had drawn up before the city at our feet, and the inhabitants, in terror and confusion, had hurried up this path and taken refuge within the gate before us. inside the gate were the ruins of a city, and here, too, we saw the tokens of ruthless war; the fire-brand was hardly yet extinguished, and the houses were in ruins. within a few years it has been the stronghold and refuge of infidels and christians, taken and retaken, destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed again, and the ruins of turkish mosques and christian churches are mingled together in undistinguishable confusion. this enclosure is abundantly supplied with water, issuing from the rock, and is capable of containing several thousand people. the fountain of pyrene, which supplies the acropolis, called the most salubrious in greece, is celebrated as that at which pegasus was drinking when taken by bellerophon. ascending among ruined and deserted habitations, we came to a second gate flanked by towers. a wall about two miles in circumference encloses the whole summit of the rock, including two principal points which still rise above the rest. one is crowned with a tower and the other with a mosque, now in ruins; probably erected where once stood a heathen temple. some have mistaken it for a christian church, but all agree that it is a place built and consecrated to divine use, and that, for unknown ages men have gone up to this cloud-capped point to worship their creator. it was a sublime idea to erect on this lofty pinnacle an altar to the almighty. above us were only the unclouded heavens; the sun was setting with that brilliancy which attends his departing glory nowhere but in the east; and the sky was glowing with a lurid red, as of some great conflagration. the scene around and below was wondrously beautiful. mountains and rivers, seas and islands, rocks, forests, and plains, thrown together in perfect wantonness, and yet in the most perfect harmony, and every feature in the expanded landscape consecrated by the richest associations. on one side the saronic gulf, with its little islands, and Ægina and salamis, stretching off to "sunium's marble height," with the ruins of its temple looking out mournfully upon the sea; on the other, the gulf of corinth or lepanto, bounded by the dark and dreary mountains of cytheron, where acteon, gazing at the goddess, was changed into a stag, and hunted to death by his own hounds; and where bacchus, with his train of satyrs and frantic bacchantes, celebrated his orgies. beyond were helicon, sacred to apollo and the muses, and parnassus, covered with snow. behind us towered a range of mountains stretching away to argos and the ancient sparta, and in front was the dim outline of the temple of the acropolis at athens. the shades of evening gathered thick around us while we remained on the top of the acropolis, and it was dark long before we reached our locanda. the next morning we breakfasted at the coffee-house, and left corinth wonderfully pleased at having outwitted demetrius and our brigand host, who gazed after us with a surly scowl as we rode away, and probably longed for the good old days when, at the head of his hanged companions, he could have stopped us at the first mountain-pass and levied contributions at his own rate. i probably condemn myself when i say that we left this ancient city with such a trifle uppermost in our thoughts, but so it was; we bought a loaf of bread as we passed through the market-place, and descended to the plain of corinth. we had still the same horses which we rode from padras; they were miserable animals, and i did not mount mine the whole day. indeed, this is the true way to travel in greece; the country is mountainous, and the road or narrow horse-path so rough and precipitous that the traveller is often obliged to dismount and walk. the exercise of clambering up the mountains and the purity of the air brace every nerve in the body, and not a single feature of the scenery escapes the eye. but, as yet, there are other things beside scenery; on each side of the road and within site of each other are the ruins of the ancient cities of lechæum and cenchreæ, the ports of corinth on the corinthian and saronic gulfs; the former once connected with it by two long walls, and the road to the latter once lined with temples and sepulchres, the ruins of which may still be seen. the isthmus connecting the peloponnesus with the continent is about six miles wide, and corinth owed her commercial greatness to the profits of her merchants in transporting merchandise across it. entire vessels were sometimes carried from one sea and launched into the other. the project of a canal across suggested itself both to the greeks and romans, and there yet exist traces of a ditch commenced for that purpose. on the death of leonidas, and in apprehension of a persian invasion, the peloponnesians built a wall across the isthmus from lechæum to cenchreæ. this wall was at one time fortified with a hundred and fifty towers; it was often destroyed and as often rebuilt; and in one place, about three miles from corinth, vestiges of it may still be seen. here were celebrated those isthmian games so familiar to every tyro in grecian literature and history; toward mount oneus stands on an eminence an ancient mound, supposed to be the tomb of melicertes, their founder, and near it is at this day a grove of the sacred pine, with garlands of the leaves of which the victors were crowned. in about three hours from corinth we crossed the isthmus, and came to the village of kalamaki on the shore of the saronic gulf, containing a few miserable buildings, fit only for the miserable people who occupied them. directly on the shore was a large coffee-house enclosed by mud walls, and having branches of trees for a roof; and in front was a little flotilla of greek caiques. next to the greek's love for his native mountains is his passion for the waters that roll at their feet; and many of the proprietors of the rakish little boats in the harbour talked to us of the superior advantage of the sea over a mountainous road, and tried to make us abandon our horses and go by water to athens; but we clung to the land, and have reason to congratulate ourselves upon having done so, for our road was one of the most beautiful it was ever my fortune to travel over. for some distance i walked along the shore, on the edge of a plain running from the foot of mount geranion. the plain was intersected by mountain torrents, the channel-beds of which were at that time dry. we passed the little village of caridi, supposed to be the sidus of antiquity, while a ruined church and a few old blocks of marble mark the site of ancient crommyon, celebrated as the haunt of a wild boar destroyed by theseus. at the other end of the plain we came to the foot of mount geranion, stretching out boldly to the edge of the gulf, and followed the road along its southern side close to and sometimes overhanging the sea. from time immemorial this has been called the kaka scala, or bad way. it is narrow, steep, and rugged, and wild to sublimity. sometimes we were completely hemmed in by impending mountains, and then rose upon a lofty eminence commanding an almost boundless view. on the summit of the range the road runs directly along the mountain's brink, overhanging the sea, and so narrow that two horsemen can scarcely pass abreast; where a stumble would plunge the traveller several hundred yards into the waters beneath. indeed, the horse of one of my companions stumbled and fell, and put him in such peril that both dismounted and accompanied me on foot. in the olden time this wild and rugged road was famous as the haunt of the robber sciron, who plundered the luckless travellers, and then threw them from this precipice. the fabulous account is, that theseus, three thousand years before, on his first visit to athens, encountered the famous robber, and tossed him from the same precipice whence he had thrown so many better men. according to ovid, the earth and the sea refused to receive the bones of sciron, which continued for some time suspended in the open air, until they were changed into large rocks, whose points still appear at the foot of the precipice; and to this day, say the sailors, knock the bottoms out of the greek vessels. in later days this road was so infested by corsairs and pirates, that even the turks feared to travel on it; at one place, that looks as though it might be intended as a jumping-off point into another world, ino, with her son melicertes in her arms (so say the greek poets), threw herself into the sea to escape the fury of her husband; and we know that in later days st. paul travelled on this road to preach the gospel to the corinthians. but, independently of all associations, and in spite of its difficulties and dangers, if a man were by accident placed on the lofty height without knowing where he was, he would be struck with the view which it commands, as one of the most beautiful that mortal eyes ever beheld. it was my fortune to pass over it a second time on foot, and i often seated myself on some wild point, and waited the coming up of my muleteers, looking out upon the sea, calm and glistening as if plated with silver, and studded with islands in continuous clusters stretching away into the Ægean. during the greater part of the passage of the kaka scala my companions walked with me; and, as we always kept in advance, when we seated ourselves on some rude rock overhanging the sea to wait for our beasts and attendants, few things could be more picturesque than their approach. on the summit of the pass we fell into the ancient paved way that leads from attica into the peloponnesus, and walked over the same pavement which the greeks travelled, perhaps, three thousand years ago. a ruined wall and gate mark the ancient boundary; and near this an early traveller observed a large block of white marble projecting over the precipice, and almost ready to fall into the sea, which bore an inscription, now illegible. here it is supposed stood the stèle erected by theseus, bearing on one side the inscription, "here is peloponnesus, not ionia;" and on the other the equally pithy notification, "here is not peloponnesus, but ionia." it would be a pretty place of residence for a man in misfortune; for, besides the extraordinary beauty of the scenery, by a single step he might avoid the service of civil process, and set the sheriff of attica or the peloponnesus at defiance. descending, we saw before us a beautiful plain, extending from the foot of the mountain to the sea, and afar off, on an eminence commanding the plain, was the little town of megara. it is unfortunate for the reader that every ruined village on the road stands on the site of an ancient city. the ruined town before us was the birthplace of euclid, and the representative of that megara which is distinguished in history more than two thousand years ago; which sent forth its armies in the persian and peloponnesian wars; alternately the ally and enemy of corinth and athens; containing numerous temples, and the largest public houses in greece; and though exposed, with her other cities, to the violence of a fierce democracy, as is recorded by the historian, "the megareans retained their independence and lived in peace." as a high compliment, the people offered to alexander the great the freedom of their city. when we approached it its appearance was a speaking comment upon human pride. it had been demolished and burned by greeks and turks, and now presented little more than a mass of blackened ruins. a few apartments had been cleared out and patched up, and occasionally i saw a solitary figure stalking amid the desolation. i had not mounted my horse all day; had kicked out a pair of greek shoes on my walk, and was almost barefoot when i entered the city. a little below the town was a large building enclosed by a high wall, with a bavarian soldier lounging at the gate. we entered, and found a good coffee-room below, and a comfortable bed chamber above, where we found good quilts and mattresses, and slept like princes. early in the morning we set out for athens, our road for some time lying along the sea. about half way to the piræus, a ruined village, with a starving population, stands on the site of the ancient eleusis, famed throughout all greece for the celebration of the mysterious rites of ceres. the magnificent temple of the goddess has disappeared, and the colossal statue made by the immortal phidias now adorns the vestibule of the university at cambridge. we lingered a little while in the village, and soon after entered the via sacra, by which, centuries ago, the priests and people moved in solemn religious processions from athens to the great temple of ceres. at first we passed underneath the cliff along the shore, then rose by a steep ascent among the mountains, barren and stony, and wearing an aspect of desolation equal to that of the roman campagna; then we passed through a long defile, upon the side of which, deeply cut in the rock, are seen the marks of chariot-wheels; perhaps of those used in the sacred processions. we passed the ruined monastery of daphne, in a beautifully picturesque situation, and in a few minutes saw the rich plain of attica; and our muleteers and demetrius, with a burst of enthusiasm, perhaps because the journey was ended, clapped their hands and cried out, "atinæ! atinæ!" the reader, perhaps, trembles at the name of athens, but let him take courage. i promise to let him off easily. a single remark, however, before reaching it. the plain of attica lies between two parallel ranges of mountains, and extends from the sea many miles back into the interior. on the border of the sea stands the piræus, now, as in former times, the harbour of the city, and toward the east, on a little eminence, athens itself, like the other cities in greece, presenting a miserable appearance, the effects of protracted and relentless wars. but high above the ruins of the modern city towers the acropolis, holding up to the skies the ruined temples of other days, and proclaiming what athens was. we wound around the temple of theseus, the most beautiful and perfect specimen of architecture that time has spared; and in striking contrast with this monument of the magnificence of past days, here, in the entrance to the city, our horses were struggling and sinking up to their saddle-girths in the mud. we did in athens what we should have done in boston or philadelphia; rode up to the best hotel, and, not being able to obtain accommodations there, rode to another; where, being again refused admittance, we were obliged to distribute ourselves into three parcels. dr. willet went to mr. hill's (of whom more anon). m. found entrance at a new hotel in the suburbs, and i betook myself to the hotel de france. the garçon was rather bothered when i threw him a pair of old boots which i had hanging at my saddle-bow, and told him to take care of my baggage; he asked me when the rest would come up; and hardly knew what to make of me when i told him that was all i travelled with. i was still standing in the court of the hotel, almost barefoot, and thinking of the prosperous condition of the owner of a dozen shirts, and other things conforming, when mr. hill came over and introduced himself; and telling me that his house was the house of every american, asked me to waive ceremony and bring my luggage over at once. this was again hitting my sore point; everybody seemed to take a special interest in my luggage, and i was obliged to tell my story more than once. i declined mr. hill's kind invitation, but called upon him early the next day, dined with him, and, during the whole of my stay in athens, was in the habit, to a great extent, of making his house my home; and this, i believe, is the case with all the americans who go there; besides which, some borrow his money, and others his clothes. chapter iv. american missionary school.--visit to the school.--mr. hill and the male department.--mrs. hill and the female department.--maid of athens.--letter from mr. hill.--revival of athens.--citizens of the world. the first thing we did in athens was to visit the american missionary school. among the extraordinary changes of an ever-changing world, it is not the least that the young america is at this moment paying back the debt which the world owes to the mother of science, and the citizen of a country which the wisest of the greeks never dreamed of, is teaching the descendants of plato and aristotle the elements of their own tongue. i did not expect among the ruins of athens to find anything that would particularly touch my national feelings, but it was a subject of deep and interesting reflection that, in the city which surpassed all the world in learning, where socrates, and plato, and aristotle taught, and cicero went to study, the only door of instruction was that opened by the hands of american citizens, and an american missionary was the only schoolmaster; and i am ashamed to say that i was not aware of the existence of such an institution until advised of it by my friend dr. w. in eighteen hundred and thirty the rev. messrs. hill and robinson, with their families, sailed from this city (new-york) as the agents of the episcopal missionary society, to found schools in greece. they first established themselves in the island of tenos; but, finding that it was not the right field for their labours, employed themselves in acquiring a knowledge of the language, and of the character and habits of the modern greeks. their attention was directed to athens, and in the spring of eighteen hundred and thirty-one they made a visit to that city, and were so confirmed in their impressions, that they purchased a lot of ground on which to erect edifices for a permanent establishment, and, in the mean time, rented a house for the immediate commencement of a school. they returned to tenos for their families and effects, and again arrived at athens about the end of june following. from the deep interest taken in their struggle for liberty, and the timely help furnished them in their hour of need, the greeks were warmly prepossessed in favour of our countrymen; and the conduct of the missionaries themselves was so judicious, that they were received with the greatest respect and the warmest welcome by the public authorities and the whole population of athens. their furniture, printing-presses, and other effects were admitted free of duties; and it is but justice to them to say that, since that time, they have moved with such discretion among an excitable and suspicious people, that, while they have advanced in the great objects of their mission, they have grown in the esteem and good-will of the best and most influential inhabitants of greece; and so great was mr. hill's confidence in their affections, that, though there was at that time a great political agitation, and it was apprehended that athens might again become the scene of violence and bloodshed, he told me he had no fears, and felt perfectly sure that, in any outbreaking of popular fury, himself and family, and the property of the mission, would be respected.[ ] in the middle of the summer of their arrival at athens, mrs. hill opened a school for girls in the magazine or cellar of the house in which they resided; the first day she had twenty pupils, and in two months one hundred and sixty-seven. of the first ninety-six, not more than six could read at all, and that very imperfectly; and not more than ten or twelve knew a letter. at the time of our visit the school numbered nearly five hundred; and when we entered the large room, and the scholars all rose in a body to greet us as americans, i felt a deep sense of regret that, personally, i had no hand in such a work, and almost envied the feelings of my companion, one of its patrons and founders. besides teaching them gratitude to those from whose country they derived the privileges they enjoyed, mr. hill had wisely endeavoured to impress upon their minds a respect for the constituted authorities, particularly important in that agitated and unsettled community; and on one end of the wall, directly fronting the seats of the scholars, was printed, in large greek characters, the text of scripture, "fear god, honour the king." it was all important for the missionaries not to offend the strong prejudices of the greeks by any attempt to withdraw the children from the religion of their fathers; and the school purports to be, and is intended for, the diffusion of elementary education only; but it is opened in the morning with prayer, concluding with the lord's prayer as read in our churches, which is repeated by the whole school aloud; and on sundays, besides the prayers, the creed, and sometimes the ten commandments, are recited, and a chapter from the gospels is read aloud by one of the scholars, the missionaries deeming this more expedient than to conduct the exercises themselves. the lesson for the day is always the portion appointed for the gospel of the day in their own church; and they close by singing a hymn. the room is thrown open to the public, and is frequently resorted to by the parents of the children and strangers; some coming, perhaps, says mr. hill, to "hear what these babblers will say," and "other some" from a suspicion that "we are setters forth of strange gods." the boys' school is divided into three departments, the lowest under charge of a greek qualified on the lancasterian system. they were of all ages, from three to eighteen; and, as mr. hill told me, most of them had been half-clad, dirty, ragged little urchins, who, before they were put to their a, b, c, or, rather, their alpha, beta, gamma, delta, had to be thoroughly washed, rubbed, scrubbed, doctored, and dressed, and, but for the school, would now, perhaps, be prowling vagabonds in the streets of athens, or training for robbery in the mountains. they were a body of fine-looking boys, possessing, as mr. hill told me, in an extraordinary degree, all that liveliness of imagination, that curiosity and eagerness after knowledge, which distinguished the greeks of old, retaining, under centuries of dreadful oppression, the recollection of the greatness of their fathers, and, what was particularly interesting, many of them bearing the great names so familiar in grecian history; i shook hands with a little miltiades, leonidas, aristides, &c., in features and apparent intelligence worthy descendants of the immortal men whose names they bear. and there was one who startled me, he was the son of the maid of athens! to me the maid of athens was almost an imaginary being, something fanciful, a creation of the brain, and not a corporeal substance, to have a little urchin of a boy. but so it was. the maid of athens is married. she had a right to marry, no doubt; and it is said that there is poetry in married life, and, doubtless, she is a much more interesting person now than the maid of athens at thirty-six could be; but the maid of athens is married to a scotchman! the maid of athens is now mrs. black! wife of george black. comment is unnecessary. but the principal and most interesting part of this missionary school was the female department, under the direction of mrs. hill, the first, and, except at syra, the only school for females in all greece, and particularly interesting to me from the fact that it owed its existence to the active benevolence of my own country-women. at the close of the greek revolution, female education was a thing entirely unknown in greece, and the women of all classes were in a most deplorable state of ignorance. when the strong feeling that ran through our country in favour of this struggling people had subsided, and greece was freed from the yoke of the mussulman, an association of ladies in the little town of troy, perhaps instigated somewhat by an inherent love of power and extended rule, and knowing the influence of their sex in a cultivated state of society, formed the project of establishing at athens a school exclusively for the education of females; and, humble and unpretending as was its commencement, it is becoming a more powerful instrument in the civilization and moral and religious improvement of greece, than all that european diplomacy has ever done for her. the girls were distributed in different classes, according to their age and advancement; they had clean faces and hands, a rare thing with greek children, and were neatly dressed, many of them wearing frocks made by ladies at home (probably at some of our sewing societies); and some of them had attained such an age, and had such fine, dark, rolling eyes as to make even a northern temperament feel the powerful influence they would soon exercise over the rising, excitable generation of greeks and almost make him bless the hands that were directing that influence aright. mr. and mrs. hill accompanied us through the whole establishment, and, being americans, we were everywhere looked upon and received by the girls as patrons and fathers of the school, both which characters i waived in favour of my friend; the one because he was really entitled to it, and the other because some of the girls were so well grown that i did not care to be regarded as standing in that venerable relationship. the didaskalissas, or teachers, were of this description, and they spoke english. occasionally mr. hill called a little girl up to us, and told us her history, generally a melancholy one, as, being reduced to the extremity of want by the revolution; or an orphan, whose parents had been murdered by the turks; and i had a conversation with a little penelope, who, however, did not look as if she would play the faithful wife of ulysses, and, if i am a judge of physiognomy, would never endure widowhood twenty years for any man. before we went away the whole school rose at once, and gave us a glorious finale with a greek hymn. in a short time these girls will grow up into women and return to their several families; others will succeed them, and again go out, and every year hundreds will distribute themselves in the cities and among the fastnesses of the mountains, to exercise over their fathers, and brothers, and lovers, the influence of the education acquired here; instructed in all the arts of woman in civilized domestic life, firmly grounded in the principles of morality, and of religion purified from the follies, absurdities, and abominations of the greek faith. i have seen much of the missionary labours in the east, but i do not know an institution which promises so surely the happiest results. if the women are educated, the men cannot remain ignorant; if the women are enlightened in religion, the men cannot remain debased and degraded christians. the ex-secretary rigos was greatly affected at the appearance of this female school; and, after surveying it attentively for some moments, pointed to the parthenon on the summit of the acropolis, and said to mrs. hill, with deep emotion, "lady, you are erecting in athens a monument more enduring and more noble than yonder temple;" and the king was so deeply impressed with its value, that, a short time before my arrival, he proposed to mr. hill to take into his house girls from different districts and educate them as teachers, with the view of sending them back to their districts, there to organize new schools, and carry out the great work of female education. mr. hill acceded to the proposal, and the american missionary school now stands as the nucleus of a large and growing system of education in greece; and, very opportunely for my purpose, within a few days i have received a letter from mr. hill, in which, in relation to the school, he says, "our missionary establishment is much increased since you saw it; our labours are greatly increased, and i think i may say we have now reached the summit of what we had proposed to ourselves. we do not think it possible that it can be extended farther without much larger means and more personal aid. we do not wish or intend to ask for either. we have now nearly forty persons residing with us, of whom thirty-five are greeks, all of whom are brought within the influence of the gospel; the greater part of them are young girls from different parts of greece, and even from egypt and turkey (greeks, however), whom we are preparing to become instructresses of youth hereafter in their various districts. we have five hundred, besides, under daily instruction in the different schools under our care, and we employ under us in the schools twelve native teachers, who have themselves been instructed by us. we have provided for three of our dear pupils (all of whom were living with us when you were here), who are honourably and usefully settled in life. one is married to a person every way suited to her, and both husband and wife are in our missionary service. one has charge of the government female school at the piræus, and supports her father and mother and a large family by her salary; and the third has gone with our missionaries to crete, to take charge of the female schools there. we have removed into our new house" (of which the foundation was just laid at the time of my visit), "and, large as it is, it is not half large enough. we are trying to raise ways and means to enlarge it considerably, that we may take more boarders under our own roof, which we look up to as the most important means of making sure of our labour; for every one who comes to reside with us is taken away from the corrupt example exhibited at home, and brought within a wholesome influence. lady byron has just sent us one hundred pounds toward enlarging our house with this view, and we have commenced the erection of three additional dormitories with the money." athens is again the capital of a kingdom. enthusiasts see in her present condition the promise of a restoration to her ancient greatness; but reason and observation assure us that the world is too much changed for her ever to be what she has been. in one respect, her condition resembles that of her best days; for, as her fame then attracted strangers from every quarter of the world to study in her schools, so now the capital of king otho has become a great gathering-place of wandering spirits from many near and distant regions. for ages difficult and dangerous of access, the ancient capital of the arts lay shrouded in darkness, and almost cut off from the civilized world. at long intervals, a few solitary travellers only found their way to it; but, since the revolution, it has again become a place of frequent resort and intercourse. it is true that the ancient halls of learning are still solitary and deserted, but strangers from every nation now turn hither; the scholar to roam over her classic soil, the artist to study her ancient monuments, and the adventurer to carve his way to fortune. the first day i dined at the hotel i had an opportunity of seeing the variety of material congregated in the reviving city. we had a long table, capable of accommodating about twenty persons. the manner of living was à la carte, each guest dining when he pleased; but, by tacit consent, at about six o'clock all assembled at the table. we presented a curious medley. no two were from the same country. our discourse was in english, french, italian, german, greek, russian, polish, and i know not what else, as if we were the very people stricken with confusion of tongues at the tower of babel. dinner over, all fell into french, and the conversation became general. every man present was, in the fullest sense of the term, a citizen of the world. it had been the fortune of each, whether good or bad, to break the little circle in which so many are born, revolve, and die; and the habitual mingling with people of various nations had broken down all narrow prejudices, and given to every one freedom of mind and force of character. all had seen much, had much to communicate, and felt that they had much yet to learn. by some accident, moreover, all seemed to have become particularly interested in the east. they travelled over the whole range of eastern politics, and, to a certain extent, considered themselves identified with eastern interests. most of the company were or had been soldiers, and several wore uniforms and stars, or decorations of some description. they spoke of the different campaigns in greece in which some of them had served; of the science of war; of marlborough, eugene, and more modern captains; and i remember that they startled my feelings of classical reverence by talking of leonidas at thermopylæ and miltiades at marathon in the same tone as of napoleon at leipsic and wellington at waterloo. one of them constructed on the table, with the knives and forks and spoons, a map of marathon, and with a sheathed yataghan pointed out the position of the greeks and persians, and showed where miltiades, as a general, was wrong. they were not blinded by the dust of antiquity. they had been knocked about till all enthusiasm and all reverence for the past were shaken out of them, and they had learned to give things their right names. a french engineer showed us the skeleton of a map of greece, which was then preparing under the direction of the french geographical society, exhibiting an excess of mountains and deficiency of plain which surprised even those who had travelled over every part of the kingdom. one had just come from constantinople, where he had seen the sultan going to mosque; another had escaped from an attack of the plague in egypt; a third gave the dimensions of the temple of the sun at baalbeck; and a fourth had been at babylon, and seen the ruins of the tower of babel. in short, every man had seen something which the others had not seen, and all their knowledge was thrown into a common stock. i found myself at once among a new class of men; and i turned from him who sneered at miltiades to him who had seen the sultan, or to him who had been at bagdad, and listened with interest, somewhat qualified by consciousness of my own inferiority. i was lying in wait, however, and took advantage of an opportunity to throw in something about america; and, at the sound, all turned to me with an eagerness of curiosity that i had not anticipated. in europe, and even in england, i had often found extreme ignorance of my own country; but here i was astonished to find, among men so familiar with all parts of the old world, such total lack of information about the new. a gentleman opposite me, wearing the uniform of the king of bavaria, asked me if i had ever been in america. i told him that i was born, and, as they say in kentucky, raised there. he begged my pardon, but doubtfully _suggested_, "you are not black?" and i was obliged to explain to him that in our section of america the indian had almost entirely disappeared, and that his place was occupied by the descendants of the gaul and the briton. i was forthwith received into the fraternity, for my home was farther away than any of them had ever been; my friend opposite considered me a bijou, asked me innumerable questions, and seemed to be constantly watching for the breaking out of the cannibal spirit, as if expecting to see me bite my neighbour. at first i had felt myself rather a small affair but, before separating, _l'americain_, or _le sauvage_, or finally, _le cannibal_ found himself something of a lion. footnote: [ ] since my return home i have seen in a newspaper an account of a popular commotion at syra, in which the printing-presses and books at the missionaries were destroyed, and mr. robinson was threatened with personal violence. chapter v. ruins of athens.--hill of mars.--temple of the winds.--lantern of demosthenes.--arch of adrian.--temple of jupiter olympus.--temple of theseus.--the acropolis.--the parthenon.--pentelican mountain.--mount hymettus.--the piræus.--greek fleas.--napoli. the next morning i began my survey of the ruins of athens. it was my intention to avoid any description of these localities and monuments, because so many have preceded me, stored with all necessary knowledge, ripe in taste and sound in judgment, who have devoted to them all the time and research they so richly merit; but as, in our community, through the hurry and multiplicity of business occupations, few are able to bestow upon these things much time or attention, and, farthermore, as the books which treat of them are not accessible to all, i should be doing injustice to my readers if i were to omit them altogether. besides, i should be doing violence to my own feelings, and cannot get fairly started in athens, without recurring to scenes which i regarded at the time with extraordinary interest. i have since visited most of the principal cities in europe, existing as well as ruined and i hardly know any to which i recur with more satisfaction than athens. if the reader tire in the brief reference i shall make, he must not impute it to any want of interest in the subject; and as i am not in the habit of going into heroics, he will believe me when i say that, if he have any reverence for the men or things consecrated by the respect and admiration of ages, he will find it called out at athens. in the hope that i may be the means of inducing some of my countrymen to visit that famous city, i will add another inducement by saying that he may have, as i had, mr. hill for a cicerone. this gentleman is familiar with every locality and monument around or in the city, and, which i afterward found to be an unusual thing with those living in places consecrated in the minds of strangers, he retains for them all that freshness of feeling which we possess who only know them from books and pictures. by an arrangement made the evening before, early in the morning of my second day in athens mr. hill was at the door of my hotel to attend us. as we descended the steps a greek stopped him, and, bowing with his hand on his heart, addressed him in a tone of earnestness which we could not understand; but we were struck with the sonorous tones of his voice and the musical cadence of his sentences; and when he had finished, mr. hill told us that he had spoken in a strain which, in the original, was poetry itself, beginning, "americanos, i am a stagyrite. i come from the land of aristotle, the disciple of plato," &c., &c.; telling him the whole story of his journey from the ancient stagyra and his arrival in athens; and that, having understood that mr. hill was distributing books among his countrymen, he begged for one to take home with him. mr. hill said that this was an instance of every-day occurrence, showing the spirit of inquiry and thirst for knowledge among the modern greeks. this little scene with a countryman of aristotle was a fit prelude to our morning ramble. the house occupied by the american missionary as a school stands on the site of the ancient agora or market-place, where st. paul "disputed daily with the athenians." a few columns still remain; and near them is an inscription mentioning the price of oil. the schoolhouse is built partly from the ruins of the agora; and to us it was an interesting circumstance, that a missionary from a newly-discovered world was teaching to the modern greeks the same saving religion which, eighteen hundred years ago, st. paul, on the same spot, preached to their ancestors. winding around the foot of the acropolis, within the ancient and outside the modern wall, we came to the areopagus or hill of mars, where, in the early days of athens, her judges sat in the open air; and, for many ages, decided with such wisdom and impartiality, that to this day the decisions of the court of areopagites are regarded as models of judicial purity. we ascended this celebrated hill, and stood on the precise spot where st. paul, pointing to the temples which rose from every section of the city and towered proudly on the acropolis, made his celebrated address: "ye men of athens, i see that in all things ye are too superstitious." the ruins of the very temples to which he pointed were before our eyes. descending, and rising toward the summit of another hill, we came to the pnyx, where demosthenes, in the most stirring words that ever fell from human lips, roused his countrymen against the macedonian invader. above, on the very summit of the hill, is the old pnyx, commanding a view of the sea of salamis, and of the hill where xerxes sat to behold the great naval battle. during the reign of the thirty tyrants the pnyx was removed beneath the brow of the hill, excluding the view of the sea, that the orator might not inflame the passions of the people by directing their eyes to salamis, the scene of their naval glory. but, without this, the orator had material enough; for, when he stood on the platform facing the audience, he had before him the city which the athenians loved and the temples in which they worshipped, and i could well imagine the irresistible force of an appeal to these objects of their enthusiastic devotion, their firesides and altars. the place is admirably adapted for public speaking. the side of the hill has been worked into a gently inclined plane, semicircular in form, and supported in some places by a wall of immense stones. this plain is bounded above by the brow of the hill, cut down perpendicularly. in the centre the rock projects into a platform about eight or ten feet square, which forms the pnyx or pulpit for the orator. the ascent is by three steps cut out of the rock, and in front is a place for the scribe or clerk. we stood on this pnyx, beyond doubt on the same spot where demosthenes thundered his philippics in the ears of the athenians. on the road leading to the museum hill we entered a chamber excavated in the rock, which tradition hallows as the prison of socrates; and though the authority for this is doubtful, it is not uninteresting to enter the damp and gloomy cavern wherein, according to the belief of the modern athenians, the wisest of the greeks drew his last breath. farther to the south is the hill of philopappus, so called after a roman governor of that name. on the very summit, near the extreme angle of the old wall, and one of the most conspicuous objects around athens, is a monument erected by the roman governor in honour of the emperor trajan. the marble is covered with the names of travellers, most of whom, like philopappus himself, would never have been heard of but for that monument. descending toward the acropolis, and entering the city among streets encumbered with ruined houses, we came to the temple of the winds, a marble octagonal tower, built by andronicus. on each side is a sculptured figure, clothed in drapery adapted to the wind he represents; and on the top was formerly a triton with a rod in his hand, pointing to the figure marking the wind. the triton is gone, and great part of the temple buried under ruins. part of the interior, however, has been excavated, and probably, before long, the whole will be restored. east of the foot of the acropolis, and on the way to adrian's gate, we came to the lantern of demosthenes (i eschew its new name of the choragic monument of lysichus), where, according to an absurd tradition, the orator shut himself up to study the rhetorical art. it is considered one of the most beautiful monuments of antiquity, and the capitals are most elegant specimens of the corinthian order refined by attic taste. it is now in a mutilated condition, and its many repairs make its dilapidation more perceptible. whether demosthenes ever lived here or not, it derives an interest from the fact that lord byron made it his residence during his visit to athens. farther on, and forming part of the modern wall, is the arch of adrian, bearing on one side an inscription in greek, "this is the city of theseus;" and on the other, "but this is the city of adrian." on the arrival of otho a placard was erected, on which was inscribed, "these were the cities of theseus and adrian, but now of otho." many of the most ancient buildings in athens have totally disappeared. the turks destroyed many of them to construct the wall around the city, and even the modern greeks have not scrupled to build their miserable houses with the plunder of the temples in which their ancestors worshipped. passing under the arch of adrian, outside the gate, on the plain toward the ilissus, we came to the ruined temple of jupiter olympus, perhaps once the most magnificent in the world. it was built of the purest white marble, having a front of nearly two hundred feet, and more than three hundred and fifty in length, and contained one hundred and twenty columns, sixteen of which are all that now remain; and these, fluted and having rich corinthian capitals, tower more than sixty feet above the plain, perfect as when they were reared. i visited these ruins often, particularly in the afternoon; they are at all times mournfully beautiful, but i have seldom known anything more touching than, when the sun was setting, to walk over the marble floor, and look up at the lonely columns of this ruined temple. i cannot imagine anything more imposing than it must have been when, with its lofty roof supported by all its columns, it stood at the gate of the city, its doors wide open, inviting the greeks to worship. that such an edifice should be erected for the worship of a heathen god! on the architrave connecting three of the columns a hermit built his lonely cell, and passed his life in that elevated solitude, accessible only to the crane and the eagle. the hermit is long since dead, but his little habitation still resists the whistling of the wind, and awakens the curiosity of the wondering traveller. the temple of theseus is the last of the principal monuments, but the first which the traveller sees on entering athens. it was built after the battle of marathon, and in commemoration of the victory which drove the persians from the shores of greece. it is a small but beautiful specimen of the pure doric, built of pentelican marble, centuries of exposure to the open air giving it a yellowish tint, which softens the brilliancy of the white. three englishmen have been buried within this temple. the first time i visited it a company of greek recruits, with some negroes among them, was drawn up in front, going through the manual under the direction of a german corporal; and, at the same time, workmen were engaged in fitting it up for the coronation of king otho! [illustration: temple of jupiter olympus and acropolis at athena.] these are the principal monuments around the city, and, except the temples at pæstum, they are more worthy of admiration than all the ruins in italy; but towering above them in position, and far exceeding them in interest, are the ruins of the acropolis. i have since wandered among the ruined monuments of egypt and the desolate city of petra, but i look back with unabated reverence to the athenian acropolis. every day i had gazed at it from the balcony of my hotel, and from every part of the city and suburbs. early on my arrival i had obtained the necessary permit, paid a hurried visit, and resolved not to go again until i had examined all the other interesting objects. on the fourth day, with my friend m., i went again. we ascended by a broad road paved with stone. the summit is enclosed by a wall, of which some of the foundation stones, very large, and bearing an appearance of great antiquity, are pointed out as part of the wall built by themistocles after the battle of salamis, four hundred and eighty years before christ. the rest is venetian and turkish, falling to decay, and marring the picturesque effect of the ruins from below. the guard examined our permit, and we passed under the gate. a magnificent propylon of the finest white marble, the blocks of the largest size ever laid by human hands, and having a wing of the same material on each side, stands at the entrance. though broken and ruined, the world contains nothing like it even now. if my first impressions do not deceive me, the proudest portals of egyptian temples suffer in comparison. passing this magnificent propylon, and ascending several steps, we reached the parthenon or ruined temple of minerva; an immense white marble skeleton, the noblest monument of architectural genius which the world ever saw. standing on the steps of this temple, we had around us all that is interesting in association and all that is beautiful in art. we might well forget the capital of king otho, and go back in imagination to the golden age of athens. pericles, with the illustrious throng of grecian heroes, orators, and sages, had ascended there to worship, and cicero and the noblest of the romans had gone there to admire; and probably, if the fashion of modern tourists had existed in their days, we should see their names inscribed with their own hands on its walls. the great temple stands on the very summit of the acropolis, elevated far above the propylæa and the surrounding edifices. its length is two hundred and eight feet, and breadth one hundred and two. at each end were two rows of eight doric columns, thirty-four feet high and six feet in diameter, and on each side were thirteen more. the whole temple within and without was adorned with the most splendid works of art, by the first sculptors in greece, and phidias himself wrought the statue of the goddess, of ivory and gold, twenty-six cubits high, having on the top of her helmet a sphinx, with griffins on each of the sides; on the breast a head of medusa wrought in ivory, and a figure of victory about four cubits high, holding a spear in her hand and a shield lying at her feet. until the latter part of the seventeenth century, this magnificent temple, with all its ornaments, existed entire. during the siege of athens by the venetians, the central part was used by the turks as a magazine; and a bomb, aimed with fatal precision or by a not less fatal chance, reached the magazine, and, with a tremendous explosion, destroyed a great part of the buildings. subsequently the turks used it as a quarry, and antiquaries and travellers, foremost among whom is lord elgin, have contributed to destroy "what goth, and turk, and time had spared." around the parthenon, and covering the whole summit of the acropolis, are strewed columns and blocks of polished white marble, the ruins of ancient temples. the remains of the temples of erectheus and minerva polias are pre-eminent in beauty; the pillars of the latter are the most perfect specimens of the ionic in existence, and its light and graceful proportions are in elegant contrast with the severe and simple majesty of the parthenon. the capitals of the columns are wrought and ornamented with a delicacy surpassing anything of which i could have believed marble susceptible. once i was tempted to knock off a corner and bring it home, as a specimen of the exquisite skill of the grecian artist, which it would have illustrated better than a volume of description; but i could not do it; it seemed nothing less than sacrilege. afar off, and almost lost in the distance, rises the pentelican mountain, from the body of which were hewed the rough rude blocks which, wrought and perfected by the sculptor's art, now stand the lofty and stately columns of the ruined temple. what labour was expended upon each single column! how many were employed in hewing it from its rocky bed, in bearing it to the foot of the mountain, transporting it across the plain of attica, and raising it to the summit of the acropolis! and then what time, and skill, and labour, in reducing it from a rough block to a polished shaft, in adjusting its proportions, in carving its rich capitals, and rearing it where it now stands, a model of majestic grace and beauty! once, under the direction of mr. hill, i clambered up to the very apex of the pediment, and, lying down at full length, leaned over and saw under the frieze the acanthus leaf delicately and beautifully painted on the marble, and, being protected from exposure, still retaining its freshness of colouring. it was entirely out of sight from below, and had been discovered, almost at the peril of his life, by the enthusiasm of an english artist. the wind was whistling around me as i leaned over to examine it, and, until that moment, i never appreciated fully the immense labour employed and the exquisite finish displayed in every portion of the temple. the sentimental traveller must already mourn that athens has been selected as the capital of greece. already have speculators and the whole tribe of "improvers" invaded the glorious city; and while i was lingering on the steps of the parthenon, a german, who was quietly smoking among the ruins, a sort of superintendent whom i had met before, came up, and offering me a segar, and leaning against one of the lofty columns of the temple, opened upon me with "his plans of city improvements;" with new streets, and projected railroads, and the rise of lots. at first i almost thought it personal, and that he was making a fling at me in allusion to one of the greatest hobbies of my native city; but i soon found that he was as deeply bitten as if he had been in chicago or dunkirk; and the way in which he talked of moneyed facilities, the wants of the community, and a great french bank then contemplated at the piræus, would have been no discredit to some of my friends at home. the removal of the court has created a new era in athens; but, in my mind, it is deeply to be regretted that it has been snatched from the ruin to which it was tending. even i, deeply imbued with the utilitarian spirit of my country, and myself a quondam speculator in "up-town lots," would fain save athens from the ruthless hand of renovation; from the building mania of modern speculators. i would have her go on till there was not a habitation among her ruins; till she stood, like pompeii, alone in the wilderness, a sacred desert, where the traveller might sit down and meditate alone and undisturbed among the relics of the past. but already athens has become a heterogeneous anomaly; the greeks in their wild costume are jostled in the streets by englishmen, frenchmen, italians, dutchmen, spaniards, and bavarians, russians, danes, and sometimes americans. european shops invite purchasers by the side of eastern bazars, coffee-houses, and billiard-rooms, and french and german restaurants are opened all over the city. sir pultney malcolm has erected a house to hire near the site of plato's academy. lady franklin has bought land near the foot of mount hymettus for a country-seat. several english gentlemen have done the same. mr. richmond, an american clergyman, has purchased a farm in the neighbourhood; and in a few years, if the "march of improvement" continues, the temple of theseus will be enclosed in the garden of the palace of king otho; the temple of the winds will be concealed by a german opera-house, and the lantern of demosthenes by a row of "three-story houses." i was not a sentimental traveller, but i visited all the localities around athens, and, therefore, briefly mention that several times i jumped over the poetic and perennial ilissus, trotted my horse over the ground where aristotle walked with his peripatetics, and got muddied up to my knees in the garden of plato. one morning my scotch friend and i set out early to ascend mount hymettus. the mountain is neither high nor picturesque, but a long flat ridge of bare rock, the sides cut up into ravines, fissures, and gullies. there is an easy path to the summit, but we had no guide, and about midday, after a wild scramble, were worn out, and descended without reaching the top, which is exceedingly fortunate for the reader, as otherwise he would be obliged to go through a description of the view therefrom. returning, we met the king taking his daily walk, attended by two aids, one of whom was young marco bozzaris. otho is tall and thin, and, when i saw him, was dressed in a german military frockcoat and cap, and altogether, for a king, seemed to be an amiable young man enough. all the world speaks well of him, and so do i. we touched our hats to him, and he returned the civility; and what could he do more without inviting us to dinner? in old times there was a divinity about a king; but now, if a king is a gentleman, it is as much as we can expect. he has spent his money like a gentleman, that is, he cannot tell what has become of it. two of the three-millions loan are gone, and there is no colonization, no agricultural prosperity, no opening of roads, no security in the mountains; not a town in greece but is in ruins, and no money to improve them. athens, however, is to be embellished. with ten thousand pounds in the treasury, he is building a palace of white pentelican marble, to cost three hundred thousand pounds. otho was very popular, because, not being of age, all the errors of his administration were visited upon count armansbergh and the regency, who, from all accounts, richly deserved it; and it was hoped that, on receiving the crown, he would shake off the bavarians who were preying upon the vitals of greece, and gather around him his native-born subjects. in private life he bore a most exemplary character. he had no circle of young companions, and passed much of his time in study, being engaged, among other things, in acquiring the greek and english languages. his position is interesting, though not enviable; and if, as the first king of emancipated greece, he entertains recollections of her ancient greatness, and the ambition of restoring her to her position among the nations of the earth, he is doomed to disappointment. otho is since crowned and married. the pride of the greeks was considerably humbled by a report that their king's proposals to several daughters of german princes had been rejected; but the king had great reason to congratulate himself upon the spirit which induced the daughter of the duke of oldenburgh to accept his hand. from her childhood she had taken an enthusiastic interest in greek history, and it had been her constant wish to visit greece; and when she heard that otho had been called to the throne, she naively expressed an ardent wish to share it with him. several years afterward, by the merest accident, she met otho at a german watering-place, travelling with his mother, the queen of bavaria, as the count de missilonghi; and in february last she accompanied him to athens, to share the throne which had been the object of her youthful wish. m. dined at my hotel, and, returning to his own, he was picked up and carried to the guardhouse. he started for his hotel without a lantern, the requisition to carry one being imperative in all the greek and turkish cities; the guard could not understand a word he said until he showed them some money, which made his english perfectly intelligible; and they then carried him to a bavarian corporal, who, after two hours' detention, escorted him to his hotel. after that we were rather careful about staying out late at night. "thursday. i don't know the day of the month." i find this in my notes, the caption of a day of business, and at this distance of time will not undertake to correct the entry. indeed, i am inclined to think that my notes in those days are rather uncertain and imperfect; certainly not taken with the precision of one who expected to publish them. nevertheless, the residence of the court, the diplomatic corps, and strangers form an agreeable society at athens. i had letters to some of the foreign ministers, but did not present them, as i was hardly presentable myself without my carpet-bag. on "thursday," however, in company with dr. w., i called upon mr. dawkins, the british minister. mr. dawkins went to greece on a special mission, which he supposed would detain him six months from home, and had remained there ten years. he is a high tory, but retained under a whig administration, because his services could not well be dispensed with. he gave us much interesting information in regard to the present condition and future prospects of greece; and, in answer to my suggestion that the united states were not represented at all in greece, not even by a consul, he said, with emphasis, "you are better represented than any power in europe. mr. hill has more influence here than any minister plenipotentiary among us." a few days after, when confined to my room by indisposition, mr. dawkins returned my visit, and again spoke in the same terms of high commendation of mr. hill. it was pleasing to me, and i have no doubt it will be so to mr. hill's numerous friends in this country, to know that a private american citizen, in a position that keeps him aloof from politics, was spoken of in such terms by the representative of one of the great powers of europe. i had heard it intimated that there was a prospect of mr. dawkins being transferred to this country, and parted with him in the hope at some future day of seeing him the representative of his government here. i might have been presented to the king, but my carpet-bag--dr. w. borrowed a hat, and was presented; the doctor had an old white hat, which he had worn all the way from new-york. the tide is rolling backward; athens is borrowing her customs from the barbarous nations of the north; and it is part of the etiquette to enter a drawing-room with a hat (a black one) under the arm. the doctor, in his republican simplicity, thought that a hat, good enough to put on his own head, was good enough to go into the king's presence; but he was advised to the contrary, and took one of mr. hill's, not very much too large for him. he was presented by dr. ----, a german, the king's physician, with whom he had discoursed much of the different medical systems in germany and america. dr. w. was much pleased with the king. did ever a man talk with a king who was not pleased with him? but the doctor was particularly pleased with king otho, as the latter entered largely into discourse on the doctor's favourite theme, mr. hill's school, and the cause of education in greece. indeed, it speaks volumes in favour of the young king, that education is one of the things in which he takes the deepest interest. the day the doctor was to be presented we dined at mr. hill's, having made arrangements for leaving athens that night; the doctor and m. to return to europe. in the afternoon, while the doctor remained to be presented, m. and i walked down to the piræus, now, as in the days of her glory, the harbour of athens. the ancient harbour is about five miles from athens, and was formerly joined to it by _long walls_ built of stone of enormous size, sixty feet high, and broad enough on the top for two wagons to pass abreast. these have long since disappeared, and the road is now over a plain shaded a great part of the way by groves of olives. as usual at this time of day, we met many parties on horseback, sometimes with ladies; and i remember particularly the beautiful and accomplished daughters of count armansbergh, both of whom are since married and dead.[ ] it is a beautiful ride, in the afternoon particularly, as then the dark outline of the mountains beyond, and the reflections of light and shade, give a peculiarly interesting effect to the ruins of the acropolis. toward the other end we paced between the ruins of the old walls, and entered upon a scene which reminded me of home. eight months before there was only one house at the piræus; but, as soon as the court removed to athens, the old harbour revived; and already we saw long ranges of stores and warehouses, and all the hurry and bustle of one of our rising western towns. a railroad was in contemplation, and many other improvements, which have since failed; but an _omnibus!_ that most modern and commonplace of inventions, is now running regularly between the piræus and athens. a friend who visited greece six months after me brought home with him an advertisement printed in greek, english, french, and german, the english being in the words and figures following, to wit: "advertisement. "the public are hereby informed, that on the nineteenth instant an omnibus will commence running between athena and the piræus, and will continue to do so every day at the undermentioned hours until farther notice. _hours of departure._ from athens. from piræus. half past seven o'clock a.m. half past eight o'clock a.m. ten o'clock a.m. eleven o'clock a.m. two o'clock p.m. three o'clock p.m. half past four p.m. half past five p.m. "the price of a seat in the omnibus is one drachme. "baggage, if not too bulky and heavy, can be taken on the roof. "smoking cannot be allowed in the omnibus, nor can dogs be admitted. "small parcels and packages may be sent by this conveyance at a moderate charge, and given to the care of the conducteur. "the omnibus starts from the corner of the hermes and Æolus streets at athens and from the bazar at the piræus, and will wait five minutes at each place, during which period the conducteur will sound his horn. "athens, th, th september, ." old things are passing away, and all things are becoming new. for a little while yet we may cling to the illusions connected with the past, but the mystery is fast dissolving, the darkness is breaking away, and greece, and rome, and even egypt herself, henceforward claim our attention with objects and events of the present hour. already they have lost much of the deep and absorbing interest with which men turned to them a generation ago. all the hallowed associations of these ancient regions are fading away. we may regret it, we may mourn over it, but we cannot help it. the world is marching onward; i have met parties of my own townsmen while walking in the silent galleries of the coliseum; i have seen americans drinking champagne in an excavated dwelling of the ancient pompeii, and i have dined with englishmen among the ruins of thebes, but, blessed be my fortune, i never rode in an omnibus from the piræus to athens. we put our baggage on board the caique, and lounged among the little shops till dark, when we betook ourselves to a dirty little coffee-house filled with greeks dozing and smoking pipes. we met there a boat's crew of a french man-of-war, waiting for some of the officers, who were dining with the french ambassador at athens. one of them had been born to a better condition than that of a common sailor. one juvenile indiscretion after another had brought him down, and, without a single vice, he was fairly on the road to ruin. once he brushed a tear from his eyes as he told us of prospects blighted by his own follies; but, rousing himself, hurried away, and his reckless laugh soon rose above the noise and clamour of his wild companions. about ten o'clock the doctor came in, drenched with rain and up to his knees in mud. we wanted to embark immediately, but the appearance of the weather was so unfavourable that the captain preferred waiting till after midnight. the greeks went away from the coffee-house, the proprietor fell asleep in his seat, and we extended ourselves on the tables and chairs; and now the fleas, which had been distributed about among all the loungers, made a combined onset upon us. life has its cares and troubles, but few know that of being given up to the tender mercies of greek fleas. we bore the infliction till human nature could endure no longer; and, at about three in the morning, in the midst of violent wind and rain, broke out of the coffee-house and went in search of our boat. it was very dark, but we found her and got on board. she was a caique, having an open deck with a small covering over the stern. under this we crept, and with our cloaks and a sailcloth spread over us, our heated blood cooled, and we fell asleep. when we woke we were on the way to epidaurus. the weather was raw and cold. we passed within a stone's throw of salamis and Ægina, and at about three o'clock, turning a point which completely hid it from view, entered a beautiful little bay, on which stands the town of epidaurus. the old city, the birthplace of esculapius, stands upon a hill projecting into the bay, and almost forming an island. in the middle of the village is a wooden building containing a large chamber, where the greek delegates, a band of mountain warriors, with arms in their hands, "in the name of the greek nation, proclaimed before gods and men its independence." at the locanda there was by chance one bed, which not being large enough for three, i slept on the floor. at seven o'clock, after a quarrel with our host and paying him about half his demand, we set out for napoli di romania. for about an hour we moved in the valley running off from the beautiful shore of epidaurus; soon the valley deepened into a glen, and in an hour we turned off on a path that led into the mountains, and, riding through wild and rugged ravines, fell into the dry bed of a torrent; following which, we came to the hieron elios, or sacred grove of esculapius. this was the great watering-place for the invalids of ancient greece, the prototype of the cheltenham and saratoga of modern days. it is situated in a valley surrounded by high mountains, and was formerly enclosed by walls, within which, that the credit of the god might not be impeached, _no man was allowed to die, and no woman to be delivered_. within this enclosure were temples, porticoes and fountains, now lying in ruins hardly distinguishable. the theatre is the most beautiful and best preserved. it is scooped out of the side of the mountain, rather more than semicircular in form, and containing fifty-four seats. these seats are of pink marble, about fifteen inches high and nearly three feet wide. in the middle of each seat is a groove, in which, probably, woodwork was constructed, to prevent the feet of those above from incommoding them who sat below, and also to support the backs of an invalid audience. the theatre faces the north, and is so arranged that, with the mountain towering behind it, the audience was shaded nearly all the day. it speaks volumes in favour of the intellectual character of the greeks, that it was their favourite recreation to listen to the recitation of their poets and players. and their superiority in refinement over the romans is in no way manifested more clearly than by the fact, that in the ruined cities of the former are found the remains of theatres, and in the latter of amphitheatres, showing the barbarous taste of the romans for combats of gladiators and wild beasts. it was in beautiful keeping with this intellectual taste of the greeks, that their places of assembling were in the open air, amid scenery calculated to elevate the mind; and, as i sat on the marble steps of the theatre, i could well imagine the high satisfaction with which the greek, under the shade of the impending mountain, himself all enthusiasm and passion, rapt in the interest of some deep tragedy, would hang upon the strains of euripides or sophocles. what deep-drawn exclamations, what shouts of applause had rung through that solitude, what bursts of joy and grief had echoed from those silent benches! and then, too, what flirting and coqueting, the state of society at the springs in the grove of esculapius being probably much the same as at saratoga in our own days. the whole grove is now a scene of desolation. the lentisculus is growing between the crevices of the broken marble; birds sing undisturbed among the bushes; the timid hare steals among the ruined fragments; and sometimes the snake is seen gliding over the marble steps. we had expected to increase the interest of our visit by taking our noonday refection on the steps of the theatre, but it was too cold for a picnic _al fresco_; and, mounting our horses, about two o'clock we came in sight of argos, on the opposite side of the great plain; and in half an hour more, turning the mountain, saw napoli di romania beautifully situated on a gentle elevation on the shore of the gulf. the scenery in every direction around napoli is exceedingly beautiful; and, when we approached it, bore no marks of the sanguinary scenes of the late revolution. the plain was better cultivated than any part of the adjacent country; and the city contained long ranges of houses and streets, with german names, such as heidecker, maurer-street, &c., and was seemingly better regulated than any other city in greece. we drove up to the hotel des quatre nations, the best we had found in greece, dined at a restaurant with a crowd of bavarian officers and adventurers, and passed the evening in the streets and coffee-houses. the appearance of otho-street, which is the principal, is very respectable; it runs from what was the palace to the grand square or esplanade, on one side of which are the barracks of the bavarian soldiers, with a park of artillery posted so as to sweep the square and principal streets; a speaking comment upon the liberty of the greeks, and the confidence reposed in them by the government. everything in napoli recalls the memory of the brief and unfortunate career of capo d'istria. its recovery from the horrors of barbarian war, and the thriving appearance of the country around, are ascribed to the impulse given by his administration. a greek by birth, while his country lay groaning under the ottoman yoke he entered the russian service, distinguished himself in all the diplomatic correspondence during the french invasion, was invested with various high offices and honours, and subscribed the treaty of paris in as imperial russian plenipotentiary. he withdrew from her service because russia disapproved the efforts of his countrymen to free themselves from the turkish yoke; and, after passing five years in germany and switzerland, chiefly at geneva, in he was called to the presidency of greece. on his arrival at napoli amid the miseries of war and anarchy, he was received by the whole people as the only man capable of saving their country. civil war ceased on the very day of his arrival, and the traitor grievas placed in his hands the key of the palimethe. i shall not enter into any speculations upon the character of his administration. the rank he had attained in a foreign service is conclusive evidence of his talents, and his withdrawal from that service for the reason stated is as conclusive of his patriotism; but from the moment he took into his hands the reins of government, he was assailed by every so-called liberal press in europe with the party cry of russian influence. the greeks were induced to believe that he intended to sell them to a stranger; and capo d'istria, strong in his own integrity, and confidently relying on the fidelity and gratitude of his countrymen, was assassinated in the streets on his way to mass. young mauromichalis, the son of the old bey of maina, struck the fatal blow, and fled for refuge to the house of the french ambassador. a gentleman attached to the french legation told me that he himself opened the door when the murderer rushed in with the bloody dagger in his hand, exclaiming, "i have killed the tyrant." he was not more than twenty-one, tall and noble in his appearance, and animated by the enthusiastic belief that he had delivered his country. my informant told me that he barred all the doors and windows, and went up stairs to inform the minister, who had not yet risen. the latter was embarrassed and in doubt what he should do. a large crowd gathered round the house; but, as yet, they were all mauromichalis's friends. the young enthusiast spoke of what he had done with a high feeling of patriotism and pride; and while the clamour out of doors was becoming outrageous, he ate his breakfast and smoked his pipe with the utmost composure. he remained at the embassy more than two hours, and until the regular troops drew up before the house. the french ambassador, though he at first refused, was obliged to deliver him up; and my informant saw him shot under a tree outside the gate of napoli, dying gallantly in the firm conviction that he had played the brutus and freed his country from a cæsar. the fate of capo d'istria again darkened the prospects of greece, and the throne went begging for an occupant until it was accepted by the king of bavaria for his second son otho. the young monarch arrived at napoli in february, eighteen hundred and thirty-three. the whole population came out to meet him, and the grecian youth ran breast deep in the water to touch his barge as it approached the shore. in february, eighteen hundred and thirty-four, it was decided to establish athens as the capital. the propriety of this removal has been seriously questioned, for napoli possessed advantages in her location, harbour, fortress and a town already built; but the king of bavaria, a scholar and an antiquary, was influenced more, perhaps, by classical feeling than by regard for the best interests of greece. napoli has received a severe blow from the removal of the seat of government; still it was by far the most european in its appearance of any city i had seen in greece. it had several restaurants and coffee-houses, which were thronged all the evening with bavarian officers and broken-down european adventurers, discussing the internal affairs of that unfortunate country, which men of every nation seemed to think they had a right to assist in governing. napoli had always been the great gathering-place of the phil-hellenists, and many appropriating to themselves that sacred name were hanging round it still. all over europe thousands of men are trained up to be shot at for so much per day; the soldier's is as regular a business as that of the lawyer or merchant, and there is always a large class of turbulent spirits constantly on the look-out for opportunities, and ever ready with their swords to carve their way to fortune. i believe that there were men who embarked in the cause of greece with as high and noble purposes as ever animated the warrior; but of many, there is no lack of charity in saying that, however good they might be as fighters, they were not much as men; and i am sorry to add that, from the accounts i heard in greece, some of the american phil-hellenists were rather shabby fellows. mr. m., then resident in napoli, was accosted one day in the streets by a young man, who asked him where he could find general jarvis. "what do you want with him?" said mr. m. "i hope to obtain a commission in his army." "do you see that dirty fellow yonder?" said mr. m., pointing to a ragged patriot passing at the moment; "well, twenty such fellows compose jarvis's army, and jarvis himself is no better off." "well, then," said the young _american_, "i believe i'll join the turks!" allen, another american patriot, was hung at constantinople. one bore the sacred name of washington; a brave but unprincipled man. mr. m. had heard him say, that if the devil himself should raise a regiment and would give him a good commission, he would willingly march under him. he was struck by a shot from the fortress of napoli while directing a battery against it; was taken on board his britannic majesty's ship asia, and breathed his last uttering curses on his country. there were others, however, who redeemed the american character. the agents sent out by the greek committee (among them our townsmen, messrs. post and stuyvesant), under circumstances of extraordinary difficulty fulfilled the charitable purposes of their mission with such zeal and discretion as to relieve the wants of a famishing people, and secure the undying gratitude of the greeks. dr. russ, another of the agents, established an american hospital at poros, and, under the most severe privations, devoted himself gratuitously to attendance upon the sick and wounded. dr. howe, one of the earliest american phil-hellenists, in the darkest hour of the revolution, and at a time when the greeks were entirely destitute of all medical aid, with an honourable enthusiasm, and without any hope of pecuniary reward, entered the service as surgeon, was the fellow-labourer of dr. russ in establishing the american hospital, and, at the peril of his life, remained with them during almost the whole of their dreadful struggle. colonel miller, the principal agent, now resident in vermont, besides faithfully performing the duties of his trust, entered the army, and conducted himself with such distinguished gallantry that he was called by the greek braves the american delhi, or daredevil.[ ] footnotes: [ ] they married two brothers, the young princes cantacuzenes. some scruples being raised against this double alliance on the score of consanguinity, the difficulty was removed by each couple going to separate churches with separate priests to pronounce the mystic words at precisely the same moment; so that neither could be said to espouse his sister-in-law. [ ] in the previous editions of his work, the author's remarks were so general as to reflect upon the character of individuals who stand in our community above reproach. the author regrets that the carelessness of his expressions should have wounded where he never intended, and hopes the gentlemen affected will do him the justice to believe that he would not wantonly injure any man's character or feelings. chapter vi. argos.--tomb of agamemnon.--mycenæ.--gate of the lions.--a misfortune.--a midnight quarrel.--gratitude of a greek family.--megara. in the morning, finding a difficulty in procuring horses, some of the loungers about the hotel told us there was a carriage in napoli, and we ordered it to be brought out, and soon after saw moving majestically down the principal street a bella carozza, imported by its enterprising proprietor from the strada toledo at naples. it was painted a bright flaring yellow, and had a big breeched albanian for coachman. while preparing to embark, a greek came up with two horses, and we discharged the bella carozza. my companion hired the horses for padras, and i threw my cloak on one of them and followed on foot. the plain of argos is one of the most beautiful i ever saw. on every side except toward the sea it is bounded by mountains, and the contrast between these mountains, the plain, and the sea is strikingly beautiful. the sun was beating upon it with intense heat; the labourers were almost naked, or in several places lying asleep on the ground, while the tops of the mountains were covered with snow. i walked across the whole plain, being only six miles, to argos. this ancient city is long since in ruins; her thirty temples, her costly sepulchres, her gymnasium, and her numerous and magnificent monuments and statues have disappeared, and the only traces of her former greatness are some remains of her cyclopean walls, and a ruined theatre cut in the rock and of magnificent proportions. modern argos is nothing more than a straggling village. mr. riggs, an american missionary, was stationed there, but was at that time at athens with an invalid wife. i was still on foot, and wandered up and down the principal street looking for a horse. every greek in argos soon knew my business, and all kinds of four-legged animals were brought to me at exorbitant prices. when i was poring over the iliad i little thought that i should ever visit argos; still less that i should create a sensation in the ancient city of the danai; but man little knows for what he is reserved. argos has been so often visited that homer is out of date. every middy from a mediterranean cruiser has danced on the steps of her desolate theatre, and, instead of busying myself with her ancient glories, i roused half the population in hiring a horse. in fact, in this ancient city i soon became the centre of a regular horsemarket. every rascally jockey swore that his horse was the best, and, according to the descendants of the respectable sons of atreus, blindness, lameness, spavin, and staggers were a recommendation. a bavarian officer, whom i had met in the bazars, came to my assistance, and stood by me while i made my bargain. i had more regard to the guide than the horse; and picking out one who had been particularly noisy, hired him to conduct me to corinth and athens. he was a lad of about twenty, with a bright sparkling eye, who, laughing roguishly at his unsuccessful competitors, wanted to pitch me at once on the horse and be off. i joined my companions, and in a few minutes we left argos. the plain of argos has been immortalized by poetic genius as the great gathering-place of the kings and armies that assembled for the siege of troy. to the scholar and poet few plains in the world are more interesting. it carries him back to the heroic ages, to the history of times bordering on the fabulous, when fact and fiction are so beautifully blended that we would not separate them if we could. i had but a little while longer to remain with my friends, for we were approaching the point where our roads separated, and about eleven o'clock we halted and exchanged our farewell greetings. we parted in the middle of the plain, they to return to padras and europe, and i for the tomb of agamemnon, and back to athens, and i hardly know where besides. dr. w. i did not meet again until my return home. about a year afterward i arrived in antwerp in the evening from rotterdam. the city was filled with strangers, and i was denied admission at a third hotel, when a young man brushed by me in the doorway, and i recognised maxwell. i hailed him, but in cap and cloak, and with a large red shawl around my neck, he did not know me. i unrolled and discovered myself, and it is needless to say that i did not leave the hotel that night. it was his very last day of two years' travel on the continent; he had taken his passage in the steamer for london, and one day later i should have missed him altogether. i can give but a faint idea of the pleasure of this meeting. he gave me the first information of the whereabout of dr. w.; we talked nearly all night, and about noon the next day i again bade him farewell on board the steamer. i have for some time neglected our servant. when we separated, the question was who should _not_ keep him. we were all heartily tired of him, and i would not have had him with me on any account. still, at the moment of parting in that wild and distant region, never expecting to see him again, i felt some slight leaning toward him. touching the matter of shirts, it will not be surprising to a man of the world that, at the moment of parting, i had one of m.'s on my back; and, in justice to him, i must say it was a very good one, and lasted a long time. a friend once wrote to me on a like occasion not to wear his out of its turn, but m. laid no such restriction upon me. but this trifling gain did not indemnify me for the loss of my friends. i had broken the only link that connected me with home, and was setting out alone for i knew not where. i felt at once the great loss i had sustained, for my young muleteer could speak only his own language, and, as queen elizabeth said to sir walter raleigh of her hebrew, we had "forgotten our" greek. but on that classical soil i ought not to have been lonely. i should have conjured up the ghosts of the departed atridæ, and held converse on their own ground with homer's heroes. nevertheless, i was not in the mood; and, entirely forgetting the glories of the past, i started my horse into a gallop. my companion followed on a full run, close at my heels, belabouring my horse with a stick, which when he broke, he pelted him with stones; indeed, this mode of scampering over the ground seemed to hit his humour, for he shouted, hurraed, and whipped, and sometimes laying hold of the tail of the beast, was dragged along several paces with little effort of his own. i soon tired of this, and made signs to him to stop; but it was his turn now, and i was obliged to lean back till i reached him with my cane before i could make him let go his hold, and then he commenced shouting and pelting again with stones. in this way we approached the village of krabata, about a mile below the ruins of mycenæ, and the most miserable place i had seen in greece. with the fertile plain of argos uncultivated before them, the inhabitants exhibited a melancholy picture of the most abject poverty. as i rode through, crowds beset me with outstretched arms imploring charity; and a miserable old woman, darting out of a wretched hovel, laid her gaunt and bony hand upon my leg, and attempted to stop me. i shrunk from her grasp, and, under the effect of a sudden impulse, threw myself off on the other side, and left my horse in her hands. hurrying through the village, a group of boys ran before me, crying out "agamemnon," "agamemnon." i followed, and they conducted me to the tomb of "the king of kings," a gigantic structure, still in good preservation, of a conical form, covered with turf; the stone over the door is twenty-seven feet long and seventeen wide, larger than any hewn stone in the world except pompey's pillar. i entered, my young guides going before with torches, and walked within and around this ancient sepulchre. a worthy dutchman, herman van creutzer, has broached a theory that the trojan war is a mere allegory, and that no such person as agamemnon ever existed. shame upon the cold-blooded heretic. i have my own sins to answer for in that way, for i have laid my destroying hand upon many cherished illusions; but i would not, if i could, destroy the mystery that overhangs the heroic ages. the royal sepulchre was forsaken and empty; the shepherd drives within it his flock for shelter; the traveller sits under its shade to his noonday meal; and, at the moment, a goat was dozing quietly in one corner. he started as i entered, and seemed to regard me as an intruder; and when i flared before him the light of my torch, he rose up to butt me. i turned away and left him in quiet possession. the boys were waiting outside, and crying "mycenæ," "mycenæ," led me away. all was solitude, and i saw no marks of a city until i reached the relics of her cyclopean walls. i never felt a greater degree of reverence than when i approached the lonely ruins of mycenæ. at argos i spent most of my time in the horsemarket, and i had galloped over the great plain as carelessly as if it had been the road to harlem; but all the associations connected with this most interesting ground here pressed upon me at once. its extraordinary antiquity, its gigantic remains, and its utter and long-continued desolation, came home to my heart. i moved on to the gate of the lions, and stood before it a long time without entering. a broad street led to it between two immense parallel walls; and this street may, perhaps, have been a market-place. over the gate are two lions rampant, like the supporters of a modern coat-of-arms, rudely carved, and supposed to be the oldest sculptured stone in greece. under this very gate agamemnon led out his forces for the siege of troy; three thousand years ago he saw them filing before him, glittering in brass, in all the pomp and panoply of war; and i held in my hand a book which told me that this city was so old that, more than seventeen hundred years ago, travellers came as i did to visit its ruins; and that pausanias had found the gate of the lions in the same state in which i beheld it now. a great part is buried by the rubbish of the fallen city. i crawled under, and found myself within the walls, and then mounted to the height on which the city stood. it was covered with a thick soil and a rich carpet of grass. my boys left me, and i was alone. i walked all over it, following the line of the walls. i paused at the great blocks of stone, the remnants of cyclopic masonry, the work of wandering giants. the heavens were unclouded, and the sun was beaming upon it with genial warmth. nothing could exceed the quiet beauty of the scene. i became entangled in the long grass, and picked up wild flowers growing over long-buried dwellings. under it are immense caverns, their uses now unknown; and the earth sounded hollow under my feet, as if i were treading on the sepulchre of a buried city. i looked across the plain to argos; all was as beautiful as when homer sang its praises; the plain, and the mountains, and the sea were the same, but the once magnificent city, her numerous statues and gigantic temples, were gone for ever; and but a few remains were left to tell the passing traveller the story of her fallen greatness. i could have remained there for hours; i could have gone again and again, for i had not found a more interesting spot in greece; but my reveries were disturbed by the appearance of my muleteer and my juvenile escort. they pointed to the sun as an intimation that the day was passing; and crying "cavallo," "cavallo," hurried me away. to them the ruined city was a playground; they followed capering behind; and, in descending, three or four of them rolled down upon me; they hurried me through the gate of the lions, and i came out with my pantaloons, my only pantaloons, rent across the knee almost irreparably. in an instant i was another man; i railed at the ruins for their strain upon wearing apparel, and bemoaned my unhappy lot in not having with me a needle and thread. i looked up to the old gate with a sneer. this was the city that homer had made such a noise about; a man could stand on the citadel and almost throw a stone beyond the boundary-line of agamemnon's kingdom. in full sight, and just at the other side of the plain, was the kingdom of argos. the little state of rhode island would make a bigger kingdom than both of them together. but i had no time for deep meditation, having a long journey to corinth before me. fortunately, my young greek had no tire in him; he started me off on a gallop, whipping and pelting my horse with stones, and would have hurried me on, over rough and smooth, till either he, or i, or the horse broke down, if i had not jumped off and walked. as soon as i dismounted he mounted, and then he moved so leisurely that i had to hurry him on in turn. in this way we approached the range of mountains separating the plain of argos from the isthmus of corinth. entering the pass, we rode along a mountain torrent, of which the channel-bed was then dry, and ascended to the summit of the first range. looking back, the scene was magnificent. on my right and left were the ruined heights of argos and mycenæ; before me, the towering acropolis of napoli di romania; at my feet, the rich plain of argos, extending to the shore of the sea; and beyond, the island-studded Ægean. i turned away with a feeling of regret that, in all probability, i should never see it more. i moved on, and in a narrow pass, not wide enough to turn my horse if i had been disposed to take to my heels, three men rose up from behind a rock, armed to the teeth with long guns, pistols, yataghans, and sheepskin cloaks--the dress of the klept or mountain robber--and altogether presenting a most diabolically cutthroat appearance. if they had asked me for my purse i should have considered it all regular, and given up the remnant of my stock of borrowed money without a murmur; but i was relieved from immediate apprehension by the cry of passe porta. king otho has begun the benefits of civilized government in greece by introducing passports, and mountain warriors were stationed in the different passes to examine strangers. they acted, however, as if they were more used to demanding purses than passports, for they sprang into the road and rattled the butts of their guns on the rock with a violence that was somewhat startling. unluckily, my passport had been made out with those of my companions, and was in their possession, and when we parted neither thought of it; and this demand to me, who had nothing to lose, was worse than that of my purse. a few words of explanation might have relieved me from all difficulty, but my friends could not understand a word i said. i was vexed at the idea of being sent back, and thought i would try the effect of a little impudence; so, crying out "americanos," i attempted to pass on; but they answered me "nix," and turned my horse's head toward argos. the scene, which a few moments before had seemed so beautiful, was now perfectly detestable. finding that bravado had not the desired effect, i lowered my tone and tried a bribe; this was touching the right chord; half a dollar removed all suspicions from the minds of these trusty guardians of the pass; and, released from their attentions, i hurried on. the whole road across the mountain is one of the wildest in greece. it is cut up by numerous ravines, sufficiently deep and dangerous, which at every step threaten destruction to the incautious traveller. during the late revolution the soil of greece had been drenched with blood; and my whole journey had been through cities and over battle-fields memorable for scenes of slaughter unparalleled in the annals of modern war. in the narrowest pass of the mountains my guide made gestures indicating that it had been the scene of a desperate battle. when the turks, having penetrated to the plain of argos, were compelled to fall back again upon corinth, a small band of greeks, under niketas and demetrius ypsilanti, waylaid them in this pass. concealing themselves behind the rocks, and waiting till the pass was filled, all at once they opened a tremendous fire upon the solid column below, and the pass was instantly filled with slain. six thousand were cut down in a few hours. the terrified survivers recoiled for a moment; but, as if impelled by an invisible power, rushed on to meet their fate. "the mussulman rode into the passes with his sabre in his sheath and his hands before his eyes, the victim of destiny." the greeks again poured upon them a shower of lead, and several thousand more were cut down before the moslem army accomplished the passage of this terrible defile. it was nearly dark when we rose to the summit of the last range of mountains, and saw, under the rich lustre of the setting sun, the acropolis of corinth, with its walls and turrets, towering to the sky, the plain forming the isthmus of corinth; the dark, quiet waters of the gulf of lepanto; and the gloomy mountains of cithæron, and helicon, and parnassus covered with snow. it was after dark when we passed the region of the nemean grove, celebrated as the haunt of the lion and the scene of the first of the twelve labours of hercules. we were yet three hours from corinth; and, if the old lion had still been prowling in the grove, we could not have made more haste to escape its gloomy solitude. reaching the plain, we heard behind us the clattering of horses' hoofs, at first sounding in the stillness of evening as if a regiment of cavalry or a troop of banditti was at our heels, but it proved to be only a single traveller, belated like ourselves, and hurrying on to corinth. i could see through the darkness the shining butts of his pistols and hilt of his yataghan, and took his dimensions with more anxiety, perhaps, than exactitude. he recognised my frank dress; and accosted me in bad italian, which he had picked up at padras (being just the italian in which i could meet him on equal ground), and told me that he had met a party of franks on the road to padras, whom, from his description, i recognised as my friends. it was nearly midnight when we rattled up to the gate of the old locanda. the yard was thronged with horses and baggage, and greek and bavarian soldiers. on the balcony stood my old brigand host, completely crestfallen, and literally turned out of doors in his own house; a detachment of bavarian soldiers had arrived that afternoon from padras, and taken entire possession, giving him and his wife the freedom of the outside. he did not recognise me, and, taking me for an englishman, began, "sono inglesi signor" (he had lived at corfu under the british dominion); and, telling me the whole particulars of his unceremonious ouster, claimed, through me, the arm of the british government to resent the injury to a british subject; his wife was walking about in no very gentle mood, but, in truth, very much the contrary. i did not speak to her, and she did not trust herself to speak to me; but, addressing myself to the husband, introduced the subject of my own immediate wants, a supper and night's lodging. the landlord told me, however, that the bavarians had eaten everything in the house, and he had not a room, bed, blanket, or coverlet to give me; that i might lie down in the hall or the piazza, but there was no other place. i was outrageous at the hard treatment he had received from the bavarians. it was too bad to turn an honest innkeeper out of his house, and deny him the pleasure of accommodating a traveller who had toiled hard all day, with the perfect assurance of finding a bed at night. i saw, however, that there was no help for it; and noticing an opening at one end of the hall, went into a sort of storeroom filled with all kinds of rubbish, particularly old barrels. an unhinged door was leaning against the wall, and this i laid across two of the barrels, pulled off my coat and waistcoat, and on this extemporaneous couch went to sleep. i was roused from my first nap by a terrible fall against my door. i sprang up; the moon was shining through the broken casement, and, seizing a billet of wood, i waited another attack. in the mean time i heard the noise of a violent scuffling on the floor of the hall, and, high above all, the voices of husband and wife, his evidently coming from the floor in a deprecating tone, and hers in a high towering passion, and enforced with severe blows of a stick. as soon as i was fairly awake i saw through the thing at once. it was only a little matrimonial _tête-à-tête_. the unamiable humour in which i had left them against the bavarians had ripened into a private quarrel between themselves, and she had got him down, and was pummelling him with a broomstick or something of that kind. it seemed natural and right enough, and was, moreover, no business of mine; and remembering that whoever interferes between man and wife is sure to have both against him, i kept quiet. others, however, were not so considerate, and the occupants of the different rooms tumbled into the hall in every variety of fancy night-gear, among whom was one whose only clothing was a military coat and cap, with a sword in his hand. when the hubbub was at its highest i looked out, and found, as i expected, the husband and wife standing side by side, she still brandishing the stick, and both apparently outrageous at everything and everybody around them. i congratulated myself upon my superior knowledge of human nature, and went back to my bed on the door. in the morning i was greatly surprised to find that, instead of whipping her husband, she had been taking his part. two german soldiers, already half intoxicated, had come into the hall, and insisted upon having more wine; the host refused, and when they moved toward my sleeping place, where the wine was kept, he interposed, and all came down together with the noise which had woke me. his wife came to his aid, and the blows which, in my simplicity, i had supposed to be falling upon him, were bestowed on the two bavarians. she told me the story herself; and when she complained to the officers, they had capped the climax of her passion by telling her that her husband deserved more than he got. she was still in a perfect fury; and as she looked at them in the yard arranging for their departure, she added, in broken english, with deep and, as i thought, ominous passion, "'twas better to be under the turks." i learned all this while i was making my toilet on the piazza, that is, while she was pouring water on my hands for me to wash; and, just as i had finished, my eye fell upon my muleteer assisting the soldiers in loading their horses. at first i did not notice the subdued expression of his usually bright face, nor that he was loading my horse with some of their camp equipage; but all at once it struck me that they were pressing him into their service. i was already roused by what the woman had told me, and, resolving that they should not serve me as they did the greeks, i sprang off the piazza, cleared my way through the crowd, and going up to my horse, already staggering under a burden poised on his back, but not yet fastened, put my hand under one side and tumbled it over with a crash on the other. the soldiers cried out furiously; and, while they were sputtering german at me, i sprang into the saddle. i was in admirable pugilistic condition, with nothing on but pantaloons, boots, and shirt, and just in a humour to get a whipping, if nothing worse; but i detested the manner in which the bavarians lorded it in greece; and riding up to a group of officers who were staring at me, told them that i had just tumbled their luggage off my horse, and they must bear in mind that they could not deal with strangers quite so arbitrarily as they did with the greeks. the commandant was disposed to be indignant and very magnificent; but some of the others making suggestions to him, he said he understood i had only hired my horse as far as corinth; but, if i had taken him for athens, he would not interfere; and, apologizing on the ground of the necessities of government, ordered him to be released. i apologized back again, returned the horse to my guide, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure, and went in for my hat and coat. i dressed myself, and, telling him to be ready when i had finished my breakfast, went out expecting to start forthwith; but, to my surprise, my host told me that the lad refused to go any farther without an increase of pay; and, sure enough, there he stood, making no preparation for moving. the cavalcade of soldiers had gone, and taken with them every horse in corinth, and the young rascal intended to take advantage of my necessity. i told him that i had hired him to athens for such a price, and that i had saved him from impressment, and consequent loss of wages, by the soldiers, which he admitted. i added that he was a young rascal, which he neither admitted nor denied, but answered with a roguish laugh. the extra price was no object compared with the vexation of a day's detention; but a traveller is apt to think that all the world is conspiring to impose upon him, and, at times, to be very resolute in resisting. i was peculiarly so then, and, after a few words, set off to complain to the head of the police. without any ado he trotted along with me, and we proceeded together, followed by a troup of idlers, i in something of a passion, he perfectly cool, good-natured, and considerate, merely keeping out of the way of my stick. hurrying along near the columns of the old temple, i stumbled, and he sprang forward to assist me, his face expressing great interest, and a fear that i had hurt myself; and when i walked toward a house which i had mistaken for the bureau of the police department, he ran after me to direct me right. all this mollified me considerably; and, before we reached the door, the affair began to strike me as rather ludicrous. i stated my case, however, to the eparchos, a greek in frank dress, who spoke french with great facility, and treated me with the greatest consideration. he was so full of professions that i felt quite sure of a decision in my favour; but, assuming my story to be true, and without asking the lad for his excuse, he shrugged his shoulders, and said it would take time to examine the matter, and, if i was in a hurry, i had better submit. to be sure, he said, the fellow was a great rogue, and he gave his countrymen in general a character that would not tell well in print; but added, in their justification, that they were imposed upon and oppressed by everybody, and therefore considered that they had a right to take their advantage whenever an opportunity offered. the young man sat down on the floor, and looked at me with the most frank, honest, and open expression, as if perfectly unconscious that he was doing anything wrong. i could not but acknowledge that some excuse for him was to be drawn from the nature of the school in which he had been brought up, and, after a little parley, agreed to pay him the additional price, if, at the end of the journey, i was satisfied with his conduct. this was enough; his face brightened, he sprang up and took my hand, and we left the house the best friends in the world. he seemed to be hurt as well as surprised at my finding fault with him, for to him all seemed perfectly natural; and, to seal the reconciliation, he hurried on ahead, and had the horse ready when i reached the locanda. i took leave of my host with a better feeling than before, and set out a second time on the road to athens. at kalamaki, while walking along the shore, a greek who spoke the lingua franca came from on board one of the little caiques, and, when he learned that i was an american, described to me the scene that had taken place on that beach upon the arrival of provisions from america; when thousands of miserable beings who had fled from the blaze of their dwellings, and lived for months upon plants and roots; grayheaded men, mothers with infants at their breasts, emaciated with hunger and almost frantic with despair, came down from their mountain retreats to receive the welcome relief. he might well remember the scene, for he had been one of that starving people; and he took me to his house, and showed me his wife and four children, now nearly all grown, telling me that they had all been rescued from death by the generosity of my countrymen. i do not know why, but in those countries it did not seem unmanly for a bearded and whiskered man to weep; i felt anything but contempt for him when, with his heart overflowing and his eyes filled with tears, he told me, when i returned home, to say to my countrymen that i had seen and talked with a recipient of their bounty; and though the greeks might never repay us, they could never forget what we had done for them. i remembered the excitement in our country in their behalf, in colleges and schools, from the graybearded senator to the prattling schoolboy, and reflected that, perhaps, my mite, cast carelessly upon the waters, had saved from the extremity of misery this grateful family. i wish that the cold-blooded prudence which would have checked our honest enthusiasm in favour of a people, under calamities and horrors worse than ever fell to the lot of man struggling to be free, could have listened to the gratitude of this greek family. with deep interest i bade them farewell, and, telling my guide to follow with my horse, walked over to the foot of the mountain. ascending, i saw in one of the openings of the road a packhorse and a soldier in the bavarian uniform, and, hoping to find some one to talk with, i hailed him. he was on the top of the mountain, so far off that he did not hear me; and when, with the help of my greek, i had succeeded in gaining his attention, he looked for some time without being able to see me. when he did, however, he waited; but, to my no small disappointment, he answered my first question with the odious "nix." we tried each other in two or three dialects; but, finding it of no use, i sat down to rest, and he, for courtesy, joined me; my young greek, in the spirit of good-fellowship, doing the same. he was a tall, noble-looking fellow, and, like myself, a stranger in greece; and, though we could not say so, it was understood that we were glad to meet and travel together as comrades. the tongue causes more evils than the sword; and, as we were debarred the use of this mischievous member, and walked all day side by side, seldom three paces apart, before night we were sworn friends. about five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at megara. a group of bavarian soldiers was lounging round the door of the khan, who welcomed their expected comrade and me as his companion. my friend left me, and soon returned with the compliments of the commandant, and an invitation to visit him in the evening. i had, however, accepted a prior invitation from the soldiers for a rendezvous in the locanda. i wandered till dark among the ruined houses of the town, thought of euclid and alexander the great, and returning, went up to the same room in which i had slept with my friends, pored over an old map of greece hanging on the wall, made a few notes, and throwing myself back on a sort of divan, while thinking what i should do fell asleep. about ten o'clock i was roused by the loud roar of a chorus, not like a sudden burst, but a thing that seemed to have swelled up to that point by degrees; and rubbing my eyes, and stumbling down stairs, i entered the banqueting hall; a long, rough wooden table extended the whole length of the room, supplied with only two articles, wine-flagons and tobacco-pouches; forty or fifty soldiers were sitting round it, smoking pipes and singing with all their souls, and, at the moment i entered, waving their pipes to the dying cadence of a hunting chorus. then followed a long thump on the table, and they all rose; my long travelling friend, with a young soldier who spoke a little french, came up, and, escorting me to the head of the table, gave me a seat by the side of the chairman. one of them attempted to administer a cup of wine, and the other thrust at me the end of a pipe, and i should have been obliged to kick and abscond but for the relief afforded me by the entrance of another new-comer. this was no other than the corporal's wife; and if i had been received warmly, she was greeted with enthusiasm. half the table sprang forward to escort her, two of them collared the president and hauled him off his seat, and the whole company, by acclamation, installed her in his place. she accepted it without any hesitation, while two of them, with clumsy courtesy, took off her bonnet, which i, sitting at her right hand, took charge of. all then resumed their places, and the revel went on more gayly than ever. the lady president was about thirty, plainly but neatly dressed, and, though not handsome, had a frank, amiable, and good-tempered expression, indicating that greatest of woman's attributes, a good heart. in fact, she looked what the young man at my side told me she was, the peacemaker of the regiment; and he added, that they always tried to have her at their convivial meetings, for when she was among them the brawling spirits were kept down, and every man would be ashamed to quarrel in her presence. there was no chivalry, no heroic devotion about them, but their manner toward her was as speaking a tribute as was ever paid to the influence of woman; and i question whether beauty in her bower, surrounded by belted knights and barons bold, ever exercised in her more exalted sphere a more happy influence. i talked with her, and with the utmost simplicity she told me that the soldiers all loved her; that they were all kind to her, and she looked upon them all as brothers. we broke up at about twelve o'clock with a song, requiring each person to take the hand of his neighbour; one of her hands fell to me, and i took it with a respect seldom surpassed in touching the hand of woman; for i felt that she was cheering the rough path of a soldier's life, and, among scenes calculated to harden the heart, reminding them of mothers, and sisters, and sweethearts at home. chapter vii. a dreary funeral.--marathon.--mount pentelicus.--a mystery.--woes of a lover.--reveries of glory.--scio's rocky isle.--a blood-stained page of history.--a greek prelate.--desolation.--the exile's return. early in the morning i again started. in a little khan at eleusis i saw three or four bavarian soldiers drinking, and ridiculing the greek proprietor, calling him patrioti and capitani. the greek bore their gibes and sneers without a word; but there was a deadly expression in his look, which seemed to say, "i bide my time;" and i remember then thinking that the bavarians were running up an account which would one day be settled with blood. in fact, the soldiers went too far; and, as i thought, to show off before me, one of them slapped the greek on the back, and made him spill a measure of wine which he was carrying to a customer, when the latter turned upon him like lightning, threw him down, and would have strangled him if he had not been pulled off by the by-standers. indeed, the greeks had already learned both their intellectual and physical superiority over the bavarians; and, a short time before, a party of soldiers sent to subdue a band of maniote insurgents had been captured, and, after a farce of selling them at auction at a dollar a head, were kicked, and whipped, and sent off. about four o'clock i arrived once more at athens, dined at my old hotel, and passed the evening at mr. hill's. the next day i lounged about the city. i had been more than a month without my carpet-bag, and the way in which i managed during that time is a thing between my travelling companions and myself. a prudent scotchman used to boast of a careful nephew, who, in travelling, instead of leaving some of his clothes at every hotel on the road, always brought home _more_ than he took away with him. i was a model of this kind of carefulness while my opportunities lasted; but my companions had left me, and this morning i went to the bazars and bought a couple of shirts. dressed up in one of them, i strolled outside the walls; and, while sitting in the shadow of a column of the temple of jupiter, i saw coming from the city, through hadrian's gate, four men, carrying a burden by the corners of a coverlet, followed by another having in his hands a bottle and spade. as they approached i saw they were bearing the dead body of a woman, whom, on joining them, i found to be the wife of the man who followed. he was an englishman or an american (for he called himself either, as occasion required) whom i had seen at my hotel and at mr. hill's; had been a sailor, and probably deserted from his ship, and many years a resident of athens, where he married a greek woman. he was a thriftless fellow, and, as he told me, had lived principally by the labour of his wife, who washed for european travellers. he had been so long in greece, and his connexions and associations were so thoroughly greek, that he had lost that sacredness of feeling so powerful both in englishmen and americans of every class in regard to the decent burial of the dead, though he did say that he had expected to procure a coffin, but the police of the city had sent officers to take her away and bury her. there was something so forlorn in the appearance of this rude funeral, that my first impulse was to turn away; but i checked myself and followed. several times the greeks laid the corpse on the ground and stopped to rest, chattering indifferently on various subjects. we crossed the ilissus, and at some distance came to a little greek chapel excavated in the rock. the door was so low that we were obliged to stoop on entering, and when within we could hardly stand upright. the greeks laid down the body in front of the altar; the husband went for the priest, the greeks to select a place for a grave, and i remained alone with the dead. i sat in the doorway, looking inside upon the corpse, and out upon the greeks digging the grave. in a short time the husband returned with a priest, one of the most miserable of that class of "blind teachers" who swarm in greece. he immediately commenced the funeral service, which continued nearly an hour, by which time the greeks returned and, taking up the body, carried it to the graveside and laid it within. i knew the hollow sound of the first clod of earth which falls upon the lid of a coffin, and shrunk from its leaden fall upon the uncovered body. i turned away, and, when at some distance, looked back and saw them packing the earth over the grave. i never saw so dreary a burial-scene. returning, i passed by the ancient stadium of herodes atticus, once capable of containing twenty-five thousand spectators; the whole structure was covered with the purest white marble. all remains of its magnificence are now gone; but i could still trace on the excavated side of the hill its ancient form of a horseshoe, and walked through the subterraneous passage by which the vanquished in the games retreated from the presence of the spectators. returning to the city, i learned that an affray had just taken place between some greeks and bavarians, and, hurrying to the place near the bazars, found a crowd gathered round a soldier who had been stabbed by a greek. according to the greeks, the affair had been caused by the habitual insults and provocation given by the bavarians, the soldier having wantonly knocked a drinking-cup out of the greek's hand while he was drinking. in the crowd i met a lounging italian (the same who wanted me to come up from padras by water), a good-natured and good-for-nothing fellow, and skilled in tongues; and going with him into a coffee-house thronged with bavarians and europeans of various nations in the service of government, heard another story, by which it appeared that the greeks, as usual, were in the wrong, and that the poor bavarian had been stabbed without the slightest provocation, purely from the greeks' love of stabbing. tired of this, i left the scene of contention, and a few streets off met an athenian, a friend of two or three days' standing, and, stopping under a window illuminated by a pair of bright eyes from above, happened to express my admiration of the lady who owned them, when he tested the strength of my feelings on the subject by asking me if i would like to marry her. i was not prepared at the moment to give precisely that proof, and he followed up his blow by telling me that, if i wished it, he would engage to secure her for me before the next morning. the greeks are almost universally poor. with them every traveller is rich, and they are so thoroughly civilized as to think that a rich man is, of course, a good match. toward evening i paid my last visit to the acropolis. solitude, silence, and sunset are the nursery of sentiment. i sat down on a broken capital of the parthenon; the owl was already flitting among the ruins. i looked up at the majestic temple and down at the ruined and newly-regenerated city, and said to myself, "lots must rise in athens!" i traced the line of the ancient walls, ran a railroad to the piræus, and calculated the increase on "up-town lots" from building the king's palace near the garden of plato. shall i or shall i not "make an operation" in athens? the court has removed here, the country is beautiful, climate fine, government fixed, steamboats are running, all the world is coming, and lots must rise. i bought (in imagination) a tract of good tillable land, laid it out in streets, had my plato, and homer, and washington places, and jackson avenue, built a row of houses to improve the neighbourhood where nobody lived, got maps lithographed, and sold off at auction. i was in the right condition to "go in," for i had nothing to lose; but, unfortunately, the greeks were very far behind the spirit of the age, knew nothing of the beauties of the credit system, and could not be brought to dispose of their consecrated soil "on the usual terms," _ten per cent. down, balance on bond and mortgage_, so, giving up the idea, at dark i bade farewell to the ruins of the acropolis, and went to my hotel to dinner. early the next morning i started for the field of marathon. i engaged a servant at the hotel to accompany me, but he disappointed me, and i set out alone with my muleteer. our road lay along the base of mount hymettus, on the borders of the plain of attica, shaded by thick groves of olives. at noon i was on the summit of a lofty mountain, at the base of which, still and quiet as if it had never resounded with the shock of war, the great battle-ground of the greeks and persians extended to the sea. the descent was one of the finest things i met with in greece; wild, rugged, and, in fact, the most magnificent kind of mountain scenery. at the foot of the mountain we came to a ruined convent, occupied by an old white-bearded monk. i stopped there and lunched, the old man laying before me his simple store of bread and olives, and looking on with pleasure at my voracious appetite. [illustration: mound of marathon.] this over, i hurried to the battle-field. toward the centre is a large mound of earth, erected over the athenians who fell in the battle. i made directly for this mound, ascended it, and threw the reins loose over my horse's neck; and, sitting on the top, read the account of the battle in herodotus. after all, is not our reverence misplaced, or, rather does not our respect for deeds hallowed by time render us comparatively unjust? the greek revolution teems with instances of as desperate courage, as great love of country, as patriotic devotion, as animated the men of marathon, and yet the actors in these scenes are not known beyond the boundaries of their native land. thousands whose names were never heard of, and whose bones, perhaps, never received burial, were as worthy of an eternal monument as they upon whose grave i sat. still that mound is a hallowed sepulchre; and the shepherd who looks at it from his mountain home, the husbandman who drives his plough to its base, and the sailor who hails it as a landmark from the deck of his caique, are all reminded of the glory of their ancestors. but away with the mouldering relics of the past. give me the green grave of marco bozzaris. i put herodotus in my pocket, gathered a few blades of grass as a memorial, descended the mound, betook myself to my saddle, and swept the plain on a gallop, from the mountain to the sea. it is about two miles in width, and bounded by rocky heights enclosing it at either extremity. toward the shore the ground is marshy, and at the place where the persians escaped to their ships are some unknown ruins; in several places the field is cultivated, and toward evening, on my way to the village of marathon, i saw a greek ploughing; and when i told him that i was an american, he greeted me as the friend of greece. it is the last time i shall recur to this feeling; but it was music to my heart to hear a ploughman on immortal marathon sound in my ears the praises of my country. i intended to pass the night at the village of marathon; but every khan was so cluttered up with goats, chickens, and children, that i rode back to the monastery at the foot of the mountain. it was nearly dark when i reached it. the old monk was on a little eminence at the door of his chapel, clapping two boards together to call his flock to vespers. with his long white beard, his black cap and long black gown, his picturesque position and primitive occupation, he seemed a guardian spirit hovering on the borders of marathon in memory of its ancient glory. he came down to the monastery to receive me, and, giving me a paternal welcome, and spreading a mat on the floor, returned to his chapel. i followed, and saw his little flock assemble. the ploughman came up from the plain and the shepherd came down from the mountain; the old monk led the way to the altar, and all kneeled down and prostrated themselves on the rocky floor. i looked at them with deep interest. i had seen much of greek devotion in cities and villages, but it was a spectacle of extraordinary interest to see these wild and lawless men assembled on this lonely mountain to worship in all sincerity, according to the best light they had, the god of their fathers. i could not follow them in their long and repeated kneelings and prostrations; but my young greek, as if to make amends for me, and, at the same time, to show how they did things in athens, led the van. the service over, several of them descended with us to the monastery; the old monk spread his mat, and again brought out his frugal store of bread and olives. i contributed what i had brought from athens, and we made our evening meal. if i had judged from appearances, i should have felt rather uneasy at sleeping among such companions; but the simple fact of having seen them at their devotions gave me confidence. though i had read and heard that the italian bandit went to the altar to pray forgiveness for the crimes he intended to commit, and, before washing the stains from his hands, hung up the bloody poniard upon a pillar of the church, and asked pardon for murder, i always felt a certain degree of confidence in him who practised the duties of his religion, whatever that religion might be. i leaned on my elbow, and, by the blaze of the fire, read herodotus, while my muleteer, as i judged from the frequent repetition of the word americanos, entertained them with long stories about me. by degrees the blaze of the fire died away, the greeks stretched themselves out for sleep, the old monk handed me a bench about four inches high for a pillow, and, wrapping myself in my cloak, in a few moments i was wandering in the land of dreams. before daylight my companions were in motion. i intended to return by the marble quarries on the pentelican mountain; and crying "cavallo" in the ear of my still sleeping muleteer, in a few minutes i bade farewell for ever to the good old monk of marathon. almost from the door of the monastery we commenced ascending the mountain. it was just peep of day, the weather raw and cold, the top of the mountain covered with clouds, and in an hour i found myself in the midst of them. the road was so steep and dangerous that i could not ride; a false step of my horse might have thrown me over a precipice several hundred feet deep; and the air was so keen and penetrating, that, notwithstanding the violent exercise of walking, i was perfectly chilled. the mist was so dense, too, that, when my guide was a few paces in advance, i could not see him, and i was literally groping my way through the clouds. i had no idea where i was nor of the scene around me, but i felt that i was in a measure lifted above the earth. the cold blasts drove furiously along the sides of the mountain, whistled against the precipices, and bellowed in the hollows of the rocks, sometimes driving so furiously that my horse staggered and fell back. i was almost bewildered in struggling blindly against them; but, just before reaching the top of the mountain, the thick clouds were lifted as if by an invisible hand, and i saw once more the glorious sun pouring his morning beams upon a rich valley extending a great distance to the foot of the pentelican mountain. about half way down we came to a beautiful stream, on the banks of which we took out our bread and olives. our appetites were stimulated by the mountain air, and we divided till our last morsel was gone. at the foot of the mountain, lying between it and mount pentelicus, was a large monastery, occupied by a fraternity of monks. we entered and walked through it, but found no one to receive us. in a field near by we saw one of the monks, from whom we obtained a direction to the quarries. moving on to the foot of the mountain, which rises with a peaked summit into the clouds, we commenced ascending, and soon came upon the strata of beautiful white marble for which mount pentelicus has been celebrated thousands of years. excavations appear to have been made along the whole route, and on the roadside were blocks, and marks caused by the friction of the heavy masses transported to athens. the great quarries are toward the summit. the surface has been cut perpendicularly smooth, perhaps eighty or a hundred feet high, and one hundred and fifty or two hundred feet in width, and excavations have been made within to an unknown extent. whole cities might have been built with the materials taken away, and yet by comparison with what is left, there is nothing gone. in front are entrances to a large chamber, in one corner of which, on the right, is a chapel with the painted figure of the virgin to receive the greeks' prayers. within are vast humid caverns, over which the wide roof awfully extends, adorned with hollow tubes like icicles, while a small transparent petrifying stream trickles down the rock. on one side are small chambers communicating with subterraneous avenues, used, no doubt, as places of refuge during the revolution, or as the haunts of robbers. bones of animals and stones blackened with smoke showed that but lately some part had been occupied as a habitation. the great excavations around, blocks of marble lying as they fell, perhaps, two thousand years ago, and the appearances of having been once a scene of immense industry and labour, stand in striking contrast with the desolation and solitude now existing. probably the hammer and chisel will never be heard there more, great temples will no more be raised, and modern genius will never, like the greeks of old, make the rude blocks of marble speak. [illustration: quarries of pentelicus.] at dark i was dining at the hotel de france, when mr. hill came over with the welcome intelligence that my carpet-bag had arrived. on it was pinned a large paper, with the words "huzzah!" "huzzah!" "huzzah!" by my friend maxwell, who had met it on horse back on the shores of the gulf of lepanto, travelling under the charge of a greek in search of me. i opened it with apprehension, and, to my great satisfaction, found undisturbed the object of my greatest anxiety, the precious notebook from which i now write, saved from the peril of an anonymous publication or of being used up for gun-waddings. the next morning, before i was up, i heard a gentle rap at my door, which was followed by the entrance of a german, a missionary, whom i had met several times at mr. hill's, and who had dined with me once at my hotel. i apologized for being caught in bed, and told him that he must possess a troubled spirit to send him so early from his pillow. he answered that i was right; that he did indeed possess a troubled spirit; and closing the door carefully, came to my bedside, and said he had conceived a great regard for me, and intended confiding in me an important trust. i had several times held long conversations with him at mr. hill's, and very little to my edification, as his english was hardly intelligible; but i felt pleased at having, without particularly striving for it, gained the favourable opinion of one who bore the character of a very learned and a very good man. i requested him to step into the dining-room while i rose and dressed myself; but he put his hand upon my breast to keep me down, and drawing a chair, began, "you are going to smyrna." he then paused, but, after some moments of hesitation, proceeded to say that the first name i would hear on my arrival there would be his own; that, unfortunately, it was in everybody's mouth. my friend was a short and very ugly middle-aged man, with a very large mouth, speaking english with the most disagreeable german sputter, lame from a fall, and, altogether, of a most uninteresting and unsentimental aspect; and he surprised me much by laying before me a veritable _affaire du coeur_. it was so foreign to my expectations, that i should as soon have expected to be made a confidant in a love affair by the archbishop of york. after a few preliminaries he went into particulars; lavished upon the lady the usual quota of charms "in such case made and provided," but was uncertain, rambling, and discursive in regard to the position he held in her regard. at first i understood that it was merely the old story, a flirtation and a victim; then that they were very near being married, which i afterward understood to be only so near as this, that he was willing and she not; and, finally, it settled down into the every-day occurrence, the lady smiled, while the parents and a stout two-fisted brother frowned. i could but think, if such a homely expression may be introduced in describing these tender passages, that he had the boot on the wrong leg, and that the parents were much more likely than the daughter to favour such a suitor. however, on this point i held my peace. the precise business he wished to impose on me was, immediately on my arrival in smyrna to form the acquaintance of the lady and her family, and use all my exertions in his favour. i told him i was an entire stranger in smyrna, and could not possibly have any influence with the parties; but, being urged, promised him that, if i could interfere without intruding myself improperly, he should have the benefit of my mediation. at first he intended giving me a letter to the lady, but afterward determined to give me one to the rev. mr. brewer, an american missionary, who, he said, was a particular friend of his, and intimate with the beloved and her family, and acquainted with the whole affair. placing himself at my table, on which were pens, ink, and paper, he proceeded to write his letter, while i lay quietly till he turned over the first side, when, tired of waiting, i rose, dressed myself, packed up, and, before he had finished, stood by the table with my carpet-bag, waiting until he should have done to throw in my writing materials. he bade me good-by after i had mounted my horse to leave, and, when i turned back to look at him, i could not but feel for the crippled, limping victim of the tender passion, though, in honesty, and with the best wishes for his success, i did not think it would help his suit for the lady to see him. an account of my journey from athens to smyrna, given in a letter to friends at home, was published during my absence and without my knowledge, in successive numbers of the american monthly magazine, and perhaps the favourable notice taken of it had some influence in inducing me to write a book. i give the papers as they were then published. _smyrna, april_, . my dear ****, i have just arrived at this place, and i live to tell it. i have been three weeks performing a voyage usually made in three days. it has been tedious beyond all things; but, as honest dogberry would say, if it had been ten times as tedious, i could find it in my heart to bestow it all upon you. to begin at the beginning: on the morning of the second instant, i and my long-lost carpet-bag left the eternal city of athens, without knowing exactly whither we were going, and sincerely regretted by miltiades panajotti, the garçon of the hotel. we wound round the foot of the acropolis, and, giving a last look to its ruined temples, fell into the road to the piræus, and in an hour found ourselves at that ancient harbour, almost as celebrated in the history of greece as athens itself. here we took counsel as to farther movements, and concluded to take passage in a caique to sail that evening for syra, being advised that that island was a great place of rendezvous for vessels, and that from it we could procure a passage to any place we chose. having disposed of my better half (i may truly call it so, for what is man without pantaloons, vests, and shirts), i took a little sailboat to float around the ancient harbour and muse upon its departed glories. the day that i lingered there before bidding farewell, perhaps for ever, to the shores of greece, is deeply impressed upon my mind. i had hardly begun to feel the magic influence of the land of poets, patriots, and heroes, until the very moment of my departure. i had travelled in the most interesting sections of the country, and found all enthusiasm dead within me when i had expected to be carried away by the remembrance of the past; but here, i know not how it was, without any effort, and in the mere act of whiling away my time, all that was great, and noble, and beautiful in her history rushed upon me at once; the sun and the breeze, the land and the sea, contributed to throw a witchery around me; and in a rich and delightful frame of mind, i found myself among the monuments of her better days, gliding by the remains of the immense wall erected to enclose the harbour during the peloponnesian war, and was soon floating upon the classic waters of salamis. if i had got there by accident it would not have occurred to me to dream of battles and all the fierce panoply of war upon that calm and silvery surface. but i knew where i was, and my blood was up. i was among the enduring witnesses of the athenian glory. behind me was the ancient city, the acropolis, with its ruined temples, the telltale monuments of by-gone days, towering above the plain; here was the harbour from which the galleys carried to the extreme parts of the then known world the glories of the athenian name; before me was unconquered salamis; here the invading fleet of xerxes; there the little navy, the last hope of the athenians; here the island of Ægina, from which aristides, forgetting his quarrel with themistocles, embarked in a rude boat, during the hottest of the battle, for the ship of the latter; and there the throne of xerxes, where the proud invader stationed himself as spectator of the battle that was to lay the rich plain of attica at his feet. there could be no mistake about localities; the details have been handed down from generation to generation, and are as well known to the greeks of the present day as they were to their fathers. so i went to work systematically, and fought the whole battle through. i gave the persians ten to one, but i made the greeks fight like tigers; i pointed them to their city; to their wives and children; i brought on long strings of little innocents, urging them as in the farce, "sing out, young uns;" i carried old themistocles among the persians like a modern greek fireship among the turks; i sunk ship after ship, and went on demolishing them at a most furious rate, until i saw old xerxes scudding from his throne, and the remnant of the persian fleet scampering away to the tune of "devil take the hindmost." by this time i had got into the spirit of the thing; and moving rapidly over that water, once red with blood of thousands from the fields of asia, i steered for the shore and mounted the vacant throne of xerxes. this throne is on a hill near the shore, not very high, and as pretty a place as a man could have selected to see his friends whipped and keep out of harm's way himself; for you will recollect that in those days there was no gunpowder nor cannon balls, and, consequently, no danger from long chance shots. i selected a particular stone, which i thought it probable xerxes, as a reasonable man, and with an eye to perspective, might have chosen as his seat on the eventful day of the battle; and on that same stone sat down to meditate upon the vanity of all earthly greatness. but, most provokingly, whenever i think of xerxes, the first thing that presents itself to my mind is the couplet in the primer, "xerxes the great did die, and so must you and i." this is a very sensible stanza, no doubt, and worthy of always being borne in mind; but it was not exactly what i wanted. i tried to drive it away; but the more i tried, the more it stuck to me. it was all in vain. i railed at early education, and resolved that acquired knowledge hurts a man's natural faculties; for if i had not received the first rudiments of education, i should not have been bothered with the vile couplet, and should have been able to do something on my own account. as it was, i lost one of the best opportunities ever a man had for moralizing; and you, my dear ----, have lost at least three pages. i give you, however, all the materials; put yourself on the throne of xerxes, and do what you can, and may your early studies be no stumbling-block in your way. as for me, vexed and disgusted with myself, i descended the hill as fast as the great king did of yore, and jumping into my boat, steered for the farthest point of the piræus; from the throne of _xerxes_ to the tomb of themistocles. i was prepared to do something here. this was not merely a place where he had been; i was to tread upon the earth that covered his bones; here were his ashes; here was all that remained of the best and bravest of the greeks, save his immortal name. as i approached i saw the large square stones that enclosed his grave, and mused upon his history; the deliverer of his country, banished, dying an exile, his bones begged by his repenting countrymen, and buried with peculiar propriety near the shore of the sea commanding a full view of the scene of his naval glory. for more than two thousand years the waves have almost washed over his grave, the sun has shone and the winds have howled over him; while, perhaps, his spirit has mingled with the sighing of the winds and the murmur of the waters, in moaning over the long captivity of his countrymen; perhaps, too, his spirit has been with them in their late struggle for liberty; has hovered over them in the battle and the breeze, and is now standing sentinel over his beloved and liberated country. i approached as to the grave of one who will never die. his great name, his great deeds, hallowed by the lapse of so many ages; the scene--i looked over the wall with a feeling amounting to reverence, when, directly before me, the first thing i saw, the only thing i could see, so glaring and conspicuous that nothing else could fix my eye, was a tall, stiff, wooden headboard, painted white, with black letters, to the memory of an englishman with as unclassical a name as that of _john johnson_. my eyes were blasted with the sight; i was ferocious; i railed at him as if he had buried himself there with his own hands. what had he to do there? i railed at his friends. did they expect to give him a name by mingling him with the ashes of the immortal dead? did they expect to steal immortality like fire from the flint? i dashed back to my boat, steered directly for the harbour, gave sentiment to the dogs, and in half an hour was eating a most voracious and spiteful dinner. in the evening i embarked on board my little caique. she was one of the most rakish of that rakish description of vessels. i drew my cloak around me and stretched myself on the deck as we glided quietly out of the harbour; saw the throne of xerxes, the island of salamis, and the shores of greece gradually fade from view; looked at the dusky forms of the greeks in their capotes lying asleep around me; at the helmsman sitting cross-legged at his post, apparently without life or motion; gave one thought to home, and fell asleep. in the morning i began to examine my companions. they were, in all, a captain and six sailors, probably all part owners, and two passengers from one of the islands, not one of whom could speak any other language than greek. my knowledge of that language was confined to a few rolling hexameters, which had stuck by me in some unaccountable way as a sort of memento of college days. these, however, were of no particular use, and, consequently, i was pretty much tongue-tied during the whole voyage. i amused myself by making my observations quietly upon my companions, as they did more openly upon me, for i frequently heard the word "americanos" pass among them. i had before had occasion to see something of greek sailors, and to admire their skill and general good conduct, and i was fortified in my previous opinion by what i saw of my present companions. their temperance in eating and drinking is very remarkable, and all my comparisons between them and european sailors were very much in their favour. indeed, i could not help thinking, as they sat collectively, turkish fashion, around their frugal meal of bread, caviari, and black olives, that i had never seen finer men. their features were regular, in that style which we to this day recognise as grecian; their figures good, and their faces wore an air of marked character and intelligence; and these advantages of person were set off by the island costume, the fez or red cloth cap, with a long black tassel at the top, a tight vest and jacket, embroidered and without collars, large turkish trousers coming down a little below the knee, legs bare, sharp-pointed slippers, and a sash around the waist, tied under the left side, with long ends hanging down, and a knife sticking out about six inches. there was something bold and daring in their appearance; indeed, i may say, rakish and piratical; and i could easily imagine that, if the mediterranean should again become infested with pirates, my friends would cut no contemptible figure among them. but i must not detain you as long on the voyage as i was myself. the sea was calm; we had hardly any wind; our men were at the oars nearly all the time, and, passing slowly by Ægina, cape sunium, with its magnificent ruins mournfully overlooking the sea, better known in modern times as colonna's height and the scene of falconer's shipwreck, passing also the island of zea, the ancient chios, thermia, and other islands of lesser note, in the afternoon of the third day we arrived at syra. with regard to syra i shall say but little; i am as loath to linger about it now as i was to stay there then. the fact is, i cannot think of the place with any degree of satisfaction. the evening of my arrival i heard, through a greek merchant to whom i had a letter from a friend in athens, of a brig to sail the next day for smyrna; and i lay down on a miserable bed in a miserable locanda, in the confident expectation of resuming my journey in the morning. before morning, however, i was roused by "blustering boreas" rushing through the broken casement of my window; and for more than a week all the winds ever celebrated in the poetical history of greece were let loose upon the island. we were completely cut off from all communication with the rest of the world. not a vessel could leave the port, while vessel after vessel put in there for shelter. i do not mean to go into any details; indeed, for my own credit's sake i dare not; for if i were to draw a true picture of things as i found them; if i were to write home the truth, i should be considered as utterly destitute of taste and sentiment; i should be looked upon as a most unpoetical dog, who ought to have been at home poring over the revised statutes instead of breathing the pure air of poetry and song. and now, if i were writing what might by chance come under the eyes of a sentimental young lady or a young gentleman in his teens, the truth would be the last thing i would think of telling. no, though my teeth chatter, though a cold sweat comes over me when i think of it, i would go through the usual rhapsody, and huzzah for "the land of the east and the clime of the sun." indeed, i have a scrap in my portfolio, written with my cloak and greatcoat on, and my feet over a brazier, beginning in that way. but to you, my dear ----, who know my touching sensibilities, and who, moreover, have a tender regard for my character and will not publish me, i would as soon tell the truth as not. and i therefore do not hesitate to say, but do not whisper it elsewhere, that in one of the beautiful islands of the Ægean; in the heart of the cyclades, in the sight of delos, and paros, and antiparos, any one of which is enough to throw one who has never seen them into raptures with their fancied beauties, here, in this paradise of a young man's dreams, in the middle of april, i would have hailed "chill november's surly blast" as a zephyr; i would have exchanged all the beauties of this balmy clime for the sunny side of kamschatka; i would have given my room and the whole island of syra for a third-rate lodging in communipaw. it was utterly impossible to walk out, and equally impossible to stay in my room; the house, to suit that delightful climate, being built without windows or window-shutters. if i could forget the island, i could remember with pleasure the society i met there. i passed my mornings in the library of mr. r., one of our worthy american missionaries; and my evenings at the house of mr. w., the british consul. this gentleman married a greek lady of smyrna, and had three beautiful daughters, more than half greeks in their habits and feelings; one of them is married to an english baronet, another to a greek merchant of syra, and the third--. on the ninth day the wind fell, the sun once more shone brightly, and in the evening i embarked on board a rickety brig for smyrna. at about six o'clock p.m. thirty or forty vessels were quietly crawling out of the harbour like rats after a storm. it was almost a calm when we started: in about two hours we had a favourable breeze; we turned in, going at the rate of eight miles an hour, and rose with a strong wind dead ahead. we beat about all that day; the wind increased to a gale, and toward evening we took shelter in the harbour of scio. the history of this beautiful little island forms one of the bloodiest pages in the history of the world, and one glance told that dreadful history. once the most beautiful island of the archipelago, it is now a mass of ruins. its fields, which once "budded and blossomed as the rose," have become waste places; its villages are deserted, its towns are in ruins, its inhabitants murdered, in captivity, and in exile. before the greek revolution the greeks of scio were engaged in extensive commerce, and ranked among the largest merchants in the levant. though living under hard taskmasters, subject to the exactions of a rapacious pacha, their industry and enterprise, and the extraordinary fertility of their island, enabled them to pay a heavy tribute to the turks and to become rich themselves. for many years they had enjoyed the advantages of a college, with professors of high literary and scientific attainments, and their library was celebrated throughout all that country; it was, perhaps, the only spot in greece where taste and learning still held a seat. but the island was far more famed for its extraordinary natural beauty and fertility. its bold mountains and its soft valleys, the mildness of its climate and the richness of its productions, bound the greeks to its soil by a tie even stronger than the chain of their turkish masters. in the early part of the revolution the sciotes took no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty. forty of their principal citizens were given up as hostages, and they were suffered to remain in peace. wrapped in the rich beauties of their island, they forgot the freedom of their fathers and their own chains; and, under the precarious tenure of a tyrant's will, gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of all that wealth and taste could purchase. we must not be too hard upon human nature; the cause seemed desperate; they had a little paradise at stake; and if there is a spot on earth, the risk of losing which could excuse men in forgetting that they were slaves in a land where their fathers were free, it is the island of scio. but the sword hung suspended over them by a single hair. in an unexpected hour, without the least note of preparation, they were startled by the thunder of the turkish cannon; fifty thousand turks were let loose like bloodhounds upon the devoted island. the affrighted greeks lay unarmed and helpless at their feet, but they lay at the feet of men who did not know mercy even by name; at the feet of men who hungered and thirsted after blood; of men, in comparison with whom wild beasts are as lambs. the wildest beast of the forest may become gorged with blood; not so with the turks at scio. their appetite "grew with what it fed on," and still longed for blood when there was not a victim left to bleed. women were ripped open, children dashed against the walls, the heads of whole families stuck on pikes out of the windows of their houses, while their murderers gave themselves up to riot and plunder within. the forty hostages were hung in a row from the walls of the castle; an indiscriminate and universal burning and massacre took place; in a few days the ground was cumbered with the dead, and one of the loveliest spots on earth was a pile of smoking ruins. out of a population of one hundred and ten thousand, sixty thousand are supposed to have been murdered, twenty thousand to have escaped, and thirty thousand to have been sold into slavery. boys and young girls were sold publicly in the streets of smyrna and constantinople at a dollar a head. and all this did not arise from any irritated state of feeling toward them. it originated in the cold-blooded, calculating policy of the sultan, conceived in the same spirit which drenched the streets of constantinople with the blood of the janisaries; it was intended to strike terror into the hearts of the greeks, but the murderer failed in his aim. the groans of the hapless sciotes reached the ears of their countrymen, and gave a headlong and irresistible impulse to the spirit then struggling to be free. and this bloody tragedy was performed in our own days, and in the face of the civilized world. surely if ever heaven visits in judgment a nation for a nation's crimes, the burning and massacre at scio will be deeply visited upon the accursed turks. it was late in the afternoon when i landed, and my landing was under peculiarly interesting circumstances. one of my fellow-passengers was a native of the island, who had escaped during the massacre, and now revisited it for the first time. he asked me to accompany him ashore, promising to find some friends at whose house we might sleep; but he soon found himself a stranger in his native island: where he had once known everybody, he now knew nobody. the town was a complete mass of ruins; the walls of many fine buildings were still standing, crumbling to pieces, and still black with the fire of the incendiary turks. the town that had grown up upon the ruins consisted of a row of miserable shantees, occupied as shops for the sale of the mere necessaries of life, where the shopman slept on his window-shutter in front. all my companion's efforts to find an acquaintance who would give us a night's lodging were fruitless. we were determined not to go on board the vessel, if possible to avoid it; her last cargo had been oil, the odour of which still remained about her. the weather would not permit us to sleep on deck, and the cabin was intolerably disagreeable. to add to our unpleasant position, and, at the same time, to heighten the cheerlessness of the scene around us, the rain began to fall violently. under the guidance of a greek we searched among the ruins for an apartment where we might build a fire and shelter ourselves for the night, but we searched in vain; the work of destruction was too complete. cold, and thoroughly drenched with rain, we were retracing our way to our boat, when our guide told my companion that a greek archbishop had lately taken up his abode among the ruins. we immediately went there, and found him occupying apartments, partially repaired, in what had once been one of the finest houses in scio. the entrance through a large stone gateway was imposing; the house was cracked from top to bottom by fire, nearly one half had fallen down, and the stones lay scattered as they fell; but enough remained to show that in its better days it had been almost a palace. we ascended a flight of stone steps to a terrace, from which we entered into a large hall perhaps thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. on one side of this hall the wall had fallen down the whole length, and we looked out upon the mass of ruins beneath. on the other side, in a small room in one corner, we found the archbishop. he was sick, and in bed with all his clothes on, according to the universal custom here, but received us kindly. the furniture consisted of an iron bedstead with a mattress, on which he lay with a quilt spread over him, a wooden sofa, three wooden chairs, about twenty books, and two large leather cases containing clothes, napkins, and, probably, all his worldly goods. the rain came through the ceiling in several places; the bed of the poor archbishop had evidently been moved from time to time to avoid it, and i was obliged to change my position twice. an air of cheerless poverty reigned through the apartment. i could not help comparing his lot with that of more favoured and, perhaps, not more worthy servants of the church. it was a style so different from that of the priests at rome, the pope and his cardinals, with their gaudy equipages and multitudes of footmen rattling to the vatican; or from the pomp and state of the haughty english prelates, or even from the comforts of our own missionaries in different parts of this country, that i could not help feeling deeply for the poor priest before me. but he seemed contented and cheerful, and even thankful that, for the moment, there were others worse off than himself, and that he had it in his power to befriend them. sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes were served; and in about an hour we were conducted to supper in a large room, also opening from the hall. our supper would not have tempted an epicure, but suited very well an appetite whetted by exercise and travel. it consisted of a huge lump of bread and a large glass of water for each of us, caviari, black olives, and two kinds of turkish sweetmeats. we were waited upon by two priests: one of them, a handsome young man, not more than twenty, with long black hair hanging over his shoulders like a girl's, stood by with a napkin on his arm and a pewter vessel, with which he poured water on our hands, receiving it again in a basin. this was done both before and after eating; then came coffee and pipes. during the evening the young priest brought out an edition of homer, and i surprised _him_, and astounded _myself_, by being able to translate a passage in the iliad. i translated it in french, and my companion explained it in modern greek to the young priest. our beds were cushions laid on a raised platform or divan extending around the walls, with a quilt for each of us. in the morning, after sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes, we paid our respects to the good old archbishop, and took our leave. when we got out of doors, finding that the wind was the same, and that there was no possibility of sailing, my friend proposed a ride into the country. we procured a couple of mules, took a small basket of provisions for a collation, and started. our road lay directly along the shore; on one side the sea, and on the other the ruins of houses and gardens, almost washed by the waves. at about three miles' distance we crossed a little stream, by the side of which we saw a sarcophagus, lately disinterred, containing the usual vases of a grecian tomb, including the piece of money to pay charon his ferriage over the river styx, and six pounds of dust; being all that remained of a _man_--perhaps one who had filled a large space in the world; perhaps a hero--buried probably more than two thousand years ago. after a ride of about five miles we came to the ruins of a large village, the style of which would anywhere have fixed the attention, as having been once a favoured abode of wealth and taste. the houses were of brown stone, built together, strictly in the venetian style, after the models left during the occupation of the island by the venetians, large and elegant, with gardens of three or four acres, enclosed by high walls of the same kind of stone, and altogether in a style far superior to anything i had seen in greece. these were the country-houses and gardens of the rich merchants of scio. the manner of living among the proprietors here was somewhat peculiar, and the ties that bound them to this little village were peculiarly strong. this was the family home; the community was essentially mercantile, and most of their business transactions were carried on elsewhere. when there were three or four brothers in a family, one would be in constantinople a couple of years, another at trieste, and so on, while another remained at home; so that those who were away, while toiling amid the perplexities of business, were always looking to the occasional family reunion; and all trusted to spend the evening of their days among the beautiful gardens of scio. what a scene for the heart to turn to now! the houses and gardens were still there, some standing almost entire, others black with smoke and crumbling to ruins. but where were they who once occupied them? where were they who should now be coming out to rejoice in the return of a friend and to welcome a stranger? an awful solitude, a stillness that struck a cold upon the heart, reigned around us. we saw nobody; and our own voices, and the tramping of our horses upon the deserted pavements, sounded hollow and sepulchral in our ears. it was like walking among the ruins of pompeii; it was another city of the dead; but there was a freshness about the desolation that seemed of to-day; it seemed as though the inhabitants should be sleeping and not dead. indeed, the high walls of the gardens, and the outside of the houses too, were generally so fresh and in so perfect a state, that it seemed like riding through a handsome village at an early hour before the inhabitants had risen; and i sometimes could not help thinking that in an hour or two the streets would be thronged with a busy population. my friend continued to conduct me through the solitary streets; telling me, as we went along, that this was the house of such a family, this of such a family, with some of whose members i had become acquainted in greece, until, stopping before a large stone gateway, he dismounted at the gate of his father's house. in that house he was born; there he had spent his youth; he had escaped from it during the dreadful massacre, and this was the first time of his revisiting it. what a tide of recollections must have rushed upon him! we entered through the large stone gateway into a courtyard beautifully paved in mosaic in the form of a star, with small black and white round stones. on our left was a large stone reservoir, perhaps twenty-five feet square, still so perfect as to hold water, with an arbour over it supported by marble columns; a venerable grapevine completely covered the arbour. the garden covered an extent of about four acres, filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; overrun with weeds, roses, and flowers, growing together in wild confusion. on the right was the house, and a melancholy spectacle it was; the wall had fallen down on one side, and the whole was black with smoke. we ascended a flight of stone steps, with marble balustrades, to the terrace, a platform about twenty feet square, overlooking the garden. from the terrace we entered the saloon, a large room with high ceilings and fresco paintings on the walls; the marks of the fire kindled on the stone floor still visible, all the woodwork burned to a cinder, and the whole black with smoke. it was a perfect picture of wanton destruction. the day, too, was in conformity with the scene; the sun was obscured, the wind blew through the ruined building, it rained, was cold and cheerless. what were the feelings of my friend i cannot imagine; the houses of three of his uncles were immediately adjoining; one of these uncles was one of the forty hostages, and was hanged; the other two were murdered; his father, a venerable-looking old man, who came down to the vessel when we started to see him off, had escaped to the mountains, from thence in a caique to ipsara, and from thence into italy. i repeat it, i cannot imagine what were his feelings; he spoke but little; they must have been too deep for utterance. i looked at everything with intense interest; i wanted to ask question after question, but could not, in mercy, probe his bleeding wounds. we left the house and walked out into the garden. it showed that there was no master's eye to watch over it; i plucked an orange which had lost its flavour; the tree was withering from want of care; our feet became entangled among weeds, and roses, and rare hothouse plants growing wildly together. i said that he did not talk much; but the little he did say amounted to volumes. passing a large vase in which a beautiful plant was running wildly over the sides, he murmured indistinctly "the same vase" (le même vase), and once he stopped opposite a tree, and, turning to me, said, "this is the only tree i do not remember." these and other little incidental remarks showed how deeply all the particulars were engraved upon his mind, and told me, plainer than words, that the wreck and ruin he saw around him harrowed his very soul. indeed, how could it be otherwise? this was his father's house, the home of his youth, the scene of his earliest, dearest, and fondest recollections. busy memory, that source of all our greatest pains as well as greatest pleasures, must have pressed sorely upon him, must have painted the ruined and desolate scene around him in colours even brighter, far brighter, than they ever existed in; it must have called up the faces of well-known and well-loved friends; indeed, he must have asked himself, in bitterness and in anguish of spirit, "the friends of my youth where are they?" while the fatal answer fell upon his heart, "gone murdered, in captivity and in exile." chapter viii. a noble grecian lady.--beauty of scio.--an original.--foggi.--a turkish coffee-house.--mussulman at prayers.--easter sunday.--a greek priest.--a tartar guide.--turkish ladies.--camel scenes.--sight of a harem.--disappointed hopes.--a rare concert.--arrival at smyrna. (_continuation of the letter._) we returned to the house, and seeking out a room less ruined than the rest, partook of a slight collation, and set out on a visit to a relative of my sciote friend. on our way my companion pointed out a convent on the side of a hill, where six thousand greeks, who had been prevailed upon to come down from the mountains to ransom themselves, were treacherously murdered to a man; their unburied bones still whiten the ground within the walls of the convent. arriving at the house of his relative, we entered through a large gateway into a handsome courtyard, with reservoir, garden, &c., ruinous, though in better condition than those we had seen before. this relative was a widow, of the noble house of mavrocordato, one of the first families in greece, and perhaps the most distinguished name in the greek revolution. she had availed herself of the sultan's amnesty to return; had repaired two or three rooms, and sat down to end her days among the scenes of her childhood, among the ruins of her father's house. she was now not more than thirty; her countenance was remarkably pensive, and she had seen enough to drive a smile for ever from her face. the meeting between her and my friend was exceedingly affecting, particularly on her part. she wept bitterly, though, with the elasticity peculiar to the greek character, the smile soon chased away the tear. she invited us to spend the night there, pointing to the divan, and promising us cushions and coverlets. we accepted her invitation, and again set forth to ramble among the ruins. i had heard that an american missionary had lately come into the island, and was living somewhere in the neighbourhood. i found out his abode, and went to see him. he was a young man from virginia, by the name of ****; had married a lady from connecticut, who was unfortunately sick in bed. he was living in one room in the corner of a ruined building, but was then engaged in repairing a house into which he expected to remove soon. as an american, the first whom they had seen in that distant island, they invited me into the sickroom. in a strange land, and among a people whose language they did not understand, they seemed to be all in all to each other; and i left them, probably for ever, in the earnest hope that the wife might soon be restored to health, that hand in hand they might sustain each other in the rough path before them. toward evening we returned to the house of my friend's relative. we found there a nephew, a young man about twenty-two, and a cousin, a man about thirty-five, both accidentally on a visit to the island. as i looked at the little party before me, sitting around a brazier of charcoal, and talking earnestly in greek, i could hardly persuade myself that what i had seen and heard that day was real. all that i had ever read in history of the ferocity of the turkish character; all the wild stories of corsairs, of murdering, capturing, and carrying into captivity, that i had ever read in romances, crowded upon me, and i saw living witnesses that the bloodiest records of history and the wildest creations of romance were not overcharged. they could all testify in their own persons that these things were true. they had all been stripped of their property, and had their houses burned over their heads; had all narrowly escaped being murdered; and had all suffered in their nearest and dearest connexions. the nephew, then a boy nine years old, had been saved by a maidservant, his father had been murdered; a brother, a sister, and many of his cousins, were at that moment, and had been for years, in slavery among the turks; my friend, with his sister, had found refuge in the house of the austrian consul, and from thence had escaped into italy; the cousin was the son of one of the forty hostages who were hung, and was the only member of his father's family that escaped death; while our pensive and amiable hostess, a bride of seventeen, had seen her young husband murdered before her eyes; had herself been sold into slavery, and, after two years' servitude, redeemed by her friends. in the morning i rose early and walked out upon the terrace. nature had put on a different garb. the wind had fallen, and the sun was shining warmly upon a scene of softness and luxuriance surpassing all that i had ever heard or dreamed of the beauty of the islands of greece. away with all that i said about syra; skip the page. the terrace overlooked the garden filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; with plants, roses, and flowers of every description, growing in luxuriant wildness. but the view was not confined to the garden. looking back to the harbour of scio, was a bold range of rugged mountains bounding the view on that side; on the right was the sea, then calm as a lake; on both the other sides were ranges of mountains, irregular and picturesque in their appearance, verdant and blooming to their very summits; and within these limits, for an extent of perhaps five miles, were continued gardens like that at my feet, filled with the choicest fruit-trees, with roses and the greatest variety of rare plants and flowers that ever unfolded their beauties before the eyes of man; above all, the orange-trees, the peculiar favourite of the island, then almost in full bloom, covered with blossoms, from my elevated position on the terrace made the whole valley appear an immense bed of flowers. all, too, felt the freshening influence of the rain; and a gentle breeze brought to me from this wilderness of sweets the most delicious perfume that ever greeted the senses. do not think me extravagant when i say that, in your wildest dreams, you could never fancy so rich and beautiful a scene. even among ruins, that almost made the heart break, i could hardly tear my eyes from it. it is one of the loveliest spots on earth. it is emphatically a paradise lost, for the hand of the turks is upon it; a hand that withers all that it touches. in vain does the sultan invite the survivers, and the children made orphans by his bloody massacre, to return; in vain do the fruits and the flowers, the sun and the soil, invite them to return; their wounds are still bleeding; they cannot forget that the wild beast's paw might again be upon them, and that their own blood might one day moisten the flowers which grow over the graves of their fathers. but i must leave this place. i could hardly tear myself away then, and i love to linger about it now. while i was enjoying the luxury of the terrace a messenger came from the captain to call us on board. with a feeling of the deepest interest i bade farewell, probably for ever, to my sorrowing hostess and to the beautiful gardens of scio. we mounted our mules, and in an hour were at the port. my feelings were so wrought upon that i felt my blood boil at the first turk i met in the streets. i felt that i should like to sacrifice him to the shades of the murdered greeks. i wondered that the greeks did not kill every one on the island. i wondered that they could endure the sight of the turban. we found that the captain had hurried us away unnecessarily. we could not get out of the harbour, and were obliged to lounge about the town all day. we again made a circuit among the ruins; examined particularly those of the library, where we found an old woman who had once been an attendant there, living in a little room in the cellar, completely buried under the stones of the fallen building; and returning, sat down with a chibouk before the door of an old turkish coffee-house fronting the harbour. here i met an original in the person of the dutch consul. he was an old italian, and had been in america during the revolutionary war as _dragoman_, as he called it, to the count de grasse, though, from his afterward incidentally speaking of the count as "my master," i am inclined to think that the word dragoman, which here means a person of great character and trust, may be interpreted as "valet de chambre." the old consul was in scio during the whole of the massacre, and gave me many interesting particulars respecting it. he hates the greeks, and spoke with great indignation about the manner in which their dead bodies lay strewed about the streets for months after the massacre. "d--n them," he said, "he could not go anywhere without stumbling over them." as i began to have some apprehensions about being obliged to stay here another night, i thought i could not employ my time better than in trying to work out of the consul an invitation to spend it with him. but the old fellow was too much for me. when i began to talk about the unpleasantness of being obliged to spend the night on board, and the impossibility of spending it on shore, _having no acquaintance_ there, he began to talk poverty in the most up and down terms. i was a little discouraged, but i looked at his military coat, his cocked hat and cane, and considering his talk merely a sort of apology for the inferior style of housekeeping i would find, was ingeniously working things to a point, when he sent me to the right about by enumerating the little instances of kindness he had received from strangers who happened to visit the island; among others, from one--he had his name in his pocketbook; he should never forget him; perhaps i had heard of him--who, at parting, shook him affectionately by the hand, and gave him a doubloon and a spanish dollar. i hauled off from the representative of the majesty of holland, and perhaps, before this, have been served up to some new visitor as the "mean, stingy american." in the evening we again got under weigh; before morning the wind was again blowing dead ahead; and about midday we put into the harbour of foggi, a port in asia minor, and came to anchor under the walls of the castle, under the blood-red mussulman flag. we immediately got into the boat to go ashore. this was my first port in turkey. a huge ugly african, marked with the smallpox, with two pistols and a yataghan in his belt, stood on a little dock, waited till we were in the act of landing, and then rushed forward, ferocious as a tiger from his native sands, throwing up both his hands, and roaring out "quarantino." this was a new thing in turkey. heretofore the turks, with their fatalist notions, had never taken any precautions against the plague; but they had become frightened by the terrible ravages the disease was then making in egypt, and imposed a quarantine upon vessels coming from thence. we were, however, suffered to land, and our first movement was to the coffee-house directly in front of the dock. the coffee-house was a low wooden building, covering considerable ground, with a large piazza, or, rather, projecting roof all around it. inside and out there was a raised platform against the wall. this platform was one step from the floor, and on this step every one left his shoes before taking his seat on the matting. there were, perhaps, fifty turks inside and out; sitting cross-legged, smoking the chibouk, and drinking coffee out of cups not larger than the shell of a madeira-nut. we kicked our shoes off on the steps, seated ourselves on a mat outside, and took our chibouk and coffee with an air of savoir faire that would not have disgraced the worthiest moslem of them all. verily, said i, as i looked at the dozing, smoking, coffee-sipping congregation around me, there are some good points about the turks, after all. they never think--that hurts digestion; and they love chibouks and coffee--that shows taste and feeling. i fell into their humour, and for a while exchanged nods with my neighbours all around. suddenly the bitterness of thought came upon me; i found that my pipe was exhausted. i replenished it, and took a sip of coffee. verily, said i, there are few better things in this world than chibouks and coffee; they even make men forget there is blood upon their hands. the thought started me; i shrank from contact with my neighbours, cut my way through the volumes of smoke, and got out into the open air. my companion joined me. we entered the walls and made a circuit of the town. it was a dirty little place, having one principal street lined with shops or bazars; every third shop, almost, being a cafteria, where a parcel of huge turbaned fellows were at their daily labours of smoking pipes and drinking coffee. the first thing i remarked as being strikingly different from a european city was the total absence of women. the streets were thronged with men, and not a woman was to be seen, except occasionally i caught a glimpse of a white veil or a pair of black eyes sparkling through the latticed bars of a window. afterward, however, in walking outside the walls into the country, we met a large party of women. when we first saw them they had their faces uncovered; but, as soon as they saw us coming toward them, they stopped and arranged their long white shawls, winding them around their faces so as to leave barely space enough uncovered to allow them to see and breathe, but so that it was utterly impossible for us to distinguish a single one of their features. going on in the direction from which they came, and attracted by the mourning cypress, we came to a large burying-ground. it is situated on the side of a hill almost washed by the waves, and shaded by a thick grove of the funereal tree. there is, indeed, something peculiarly touching in the appearance of this tree; it seems to be endowed with feelings, and to mourn over the dead it shades. the monuments were generally a single upright slab of marble, with a turban on the top. there were many, too, in form like one of our oblong tombstones; and, instead of a slab of marble over the top, the interior was filled with earth, and the surface overrun with roses, evergreens, and flowers. the burying-grounds in the east are always favourite places for walking in; and it is a favourite occupation of the turkish women to watch and water the flowers growing over the graves of their friends. toward evening we returned to the harbour. i withdrew from my companion, and, leaning against one of the gates of the city, fixed my eyes upon the door of a minaret, watching till the muezzin should appear, and, for the last time before the setting of the sun, call all good mussulmans to prayer. the door opens toward mecca, and a little before dark the muezzin came out, and, leaning over the railing with his face toward the tomb of the prophet, in a voice, every tone of which fell distinctly upon my ear, made that solemn call which, from the time of mohammed, has been addressed five times a day from the tops of the minarets to the sons of the faithful. "allah! allah! god is god, and mohammed is his prophet. to prayer! to prayer!" immediately an old turk by my side fell upon his knees, with his face to the tomb of the prophet; ten times, in quick succession, he bowed his forehead till it touched the earth; then clasped his hands and prayed. i never saw more rapt devotion than in this pious old mussulman. i have often marked in italy the severe observance of religious ceremonies; i have seen, for instance, at rome, fifty penitents at a time mounting on their knees, and kissing, as they mounted, the steps of the scala santa, or holy staircase, by which, as the priests tell them, our saviour ascended into the presence of pontius pilate. i have seen the greek prostrate himself before a picture until he was physically exhausted; and i have seen the humble and pious christian at his prayers, beneath the simple fanes and before the peaceful altars of my own land; but i never saw that perfect abandonment with which a turk gives himself up to his god in prayer. he is perfectly abstracted from the things of this world; he does not regard time or place; in his closet or in the street, alone or in a crowd, he sees nothing, he hears nothing; the world is a blank; his god is everything. he is lost in the intensity of his devotion. it is a spectacle almost sublime, and for the moment you forget the polluted fountain of his religion, and the thousand crimes it sanctions, in your admiration of his sincerity and faith. not being able to find any place where we could sleep ashore, except on one of the mats of the coffee-house, head and heels with a dozen turks, we went on board, and toward morning again got under weigh. we beat up to the mouth of the gulf of smyrna, but, with the sirocco blowing directly in our teeth, it was impossible to go farther. we made two or three attempts to enter, but in tacking the last time our old brig, which had hardly ballast enough to keep her keel under water, received such a rough shaking that we got her away before the wind, and at three o'clock p.m. were again anchored in the harbour of foggi. i now began to think that there was a spell upon my movements, and that smyrna, which was becoming to me a sort of land of promise, would never greet my longing eyes. i was somewhat comforted, however, by remembering that i had never yet reached any port in the mediterranean for which i had sailed, without touching at one or two intermediate ports; and that, so far, i had always worked right at last. i was still farther comforted by our having the good fortune to be able to procure lodging ashore, at the house of a greek, the son of a priest. it was the saturday before easter sunday, and the resurrection of our saviour was to be celebrated at midnight, or, rather, the beginning of the next day, according to the rites and ceremonies of the greek church. it was also the last of the forty days' fasting, and the next day commenced feasting. supper was prepared for us, at which meat was put on the table for me only; my greek friend being supposed not to eat meat during the days of fasting. he had been, however, two years out of greece; and though he did not like to offend the prejudices of his countrymen, he did not like fasting. i felt for my fellow-traveller; and, cutting up some meat in small parcels, kept my eye upon the door while he whipped them into his mouth. after supper we lay down upon the divan, with large quilts over us, my friend having promised to rise at twelve o'clock and accompany me to the greek church. at midnight we were roused by the chant of the greeks in the streets, on their way to the church. we turned out, and fell into a procession of five hundred people, making the streets as light as day with their torches. at the door of the church we found our host, sitting at a table with a parcel of wax tapers on one side and a box to receive money on the other. we each bought a taper and went in. after remaining there at least two hours, listening to a monotonous and unintelligible routine of prayers and chants, the priests came out of the holy doors, bearing aloft an image of our saviour on the cross, ornamented with gold leaf, tassels, and festoons of artificial flowers; passed through the church, and out of the opposite door. the greeks lighted their tapers and formed into a procession behind them, and we did the same. immediately outside the door, up the staircase, and on each side of the corridor, allowing merely room enough for the procession to pass, were arranged the women, dressed in white, with long white veils, thrown back from their faces however, laid smooth over the tops of their heads, and hanging down to their feet. nearly every woman, old or young, had a child in her arms. in fact, there seemed to be as great a mustering of children as of men and women, and, for aught that i could see, as much to the edification of the former as the latter. a continued chant was kept up during the movements of the procession, and perhaps for half an hour after the arrival of the priests at the courtyard, when it rose to a tremendous burst. the torches were waved in the air; a wild, unmeaning, and discordant scream or yell rang through the hollow cloisters, and half a dozen pistols, two or three muskets, and twenty or thirty crackers were fired. this was intended as a feu-de-joie, and was supposed to mark the precise moment of our saviour's resurrection. in a few moments the phrensy seemed to pass away; the noise fell from a wild clamour to a slow chant, and the procession returned to the church. the scene was striking, particularly the part outside the church; the dead of night; the waving of torches; the women with their long white dresses, and the children in their arms, &c.; but, from beginning to end, there was nothing solemn in it. returned to the church, a priest came round with a picture of the saviour risen; and, as far as i could make it out, holding in his hand the greek flag, followed by another priest with a plate to receive contributions. he held out the picture to be kissed, then turned his hand to receive the same act of devotion, keeping his eye all the time upon the plate which followed to receive the offerings of the pious, as a sort of payment for the privilege of the kiss. his manner reminded me of the dutch parson, who, immediately after pronouncing a couple man and wife, touching the bridegroom with his elbow, said, "and now where ish mine dollar?" i kissed the picture, dodged his knuckles, paid my money, and left the church. i had been there four hours, during which time, perhaps, more than a thousand persons had been completely absorbed in their religious ceremonies; and though beginning in the middle of the night, i have seen more yawning at the theatre or at an italian opera than i saw there. they now began to disperse, though i remember i left a crowd of regular amateurs, at the head of whom were our sailors, still hanging round the desk of an exhorting priest, with an earnestness that showed a still craving appetite. i do not wonder that the turks look with contempt upon christians, for they have constantly under their eyes the disgusting mummeries of the greek church, and see nothing of the pure and sublime principles our religion inculcates. still, however, there was something striking and interesting in the manner in which the greeks in this turkish town had kept themselves, as it were, a peculiar people, and, in spite of the brands of "dog" and "infidel," held fast to the religion they received from their fathers. there was nothing interesting about them as greeks; they had taken no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty; they were engaged in petty business, and bartered the precious chance of freedom once before them for base profits and ignoble ease; and even now were content to live in chains, and kiss the rod that smote them. we returned to the house where we had slept; and, after coffee, in company with our host and his father, the priest, sat down to a meal, in which, for the first time in forty days, they ate meat. i had often remarked the religious observance of fast days among the common people in greece. in travelling there i had more than once offered an egg to my guide on a fast day, but never could get one to accept anything that came so near to animal food, though, by a strange confusion of the principles of religious obligation, perhaps the same man would not have hesitated to commit murder if he had any inducement to do so. mrs. hill, at athens, told me that, upon one occasion, a little girl in her school refused to eat a piece of cake because it was made with eggs. at daylight i was lying on the floor looking through a crevice of the window-shutter at the door of the minaret, waiting for the muezzin's morning cry to prayer. at six o'clock i went out, and finding the wind still in the same quarter, without any apparent prospect of change, determined, at all hazards, to leave the vessel and go on by land. my friend and fellow-passenger was also very anxious to get to smyrna, but would not accompany me, from an indefinite apprehension of plague, robbers, &c. i had heard so many of these rumours, all of which had proved to be unfounded, that i put no faith in any of them. i found a turk who engaged to take me through in fourteen hours; and at seven o'clock i was in my saddle, charged with a dozen letters from captains, supercargoes, and passengers, whom i left behind waiting for a change of wind. my tartar was a big swarthy fellow, with an extent of beard and mustaches unusual even among his bearded countrymen. he was armed with a pair of enormous pistols and a yataghan, and was, altogether, a formidable fellow to look upon. but there was a something about him that i liked. there was a doggedness, a downright stubbornness that seemed honest. i knew nothing about him. i picked him up in the street, and took him in preference to others who offered, because he would not be beaten down in his price. when he saw me seated on my horse he stood by my side a little distance off, and looking at me without opening his lips, drew his belt tight around him, and adjusted his pistols and yataghan. his manner seemed to say that he took charge of me as a bale of goods, to be paid for on safe delivery, and that he would carry me through with fire and sword, if necessary. and now, said i, "let fate do her worst;" i have a good horse under me, and in fourteen hours i shall be in smyrna. "blow winds and crack your cheeks;" i defy you. my tartar led off at a brisk trot, never opening his lips nor turning his head except occasionally to see how i followed him across a stream. at about ten o'clock he turned off from the horse-path into a piece of fine pasture, and, slipping the bridle off his horse, turned him loose to feed. he then did the same with mine, and, spreading my cloak on the ground for me to sit upon, sat down by my side and opened his wallet. his manner seemed to intimate a disposition to throw provisions into a common stock, no doubt expecting the gain to be on his side; but as i could only contribute a couple of rolls of bread which i bought as we rode through the town, i am inclined to think that he considered me rather a sponge. while we were sitting there a travelling party came up, consisting of five turks and three women. the women were on horseback, riding crosswise, though there were so many quilts, cushions, &c., piled on the backs of their horses that they sat rather on seats than on saddles. after a few words of parley with my tartar, the men lifted the women from the horses, taking them in their arms, and, as it were, hauling them off, not very gracefully, but very kindly; and, spreading their quilts on the ground a short distance from us, turned their horses loose to feed, and sat down to make their morning meal. an unusual and happy thing for me the women had their faces uncovered nearly all the time, though they could not well have carried on the process of eating with them muffled up in the usual style. one of the women was old, the other two were exceedingly young; neither of them more than sixteen; each had a child in her arms, and, without any allowance for time and place, both were exceedingly beautiful. i do not say so under the influence of the particular circumstances of our meeting, nor with the view of making an incident of it, but i would have singled them out as such if i had met them in a ballroom at home. i was particularly struck with their delicacy of figure and complexion. notwithstanding their laughing faces, their mirth, and the kind treatment of the men, i could not divest myself of the idea that they were caged birds longing to be free. i could not believe that a woman belonging to a turk could be otherwise than unhappy. unfortunately, i could not understand a word of their language; and as they looked from their turbaned lords to my stiff hat and frockcoat, they seemed to regard me as something the tartar had just caught and was taking up to constantinople as a present to the sultan. i endeavoured to show, however, that i was not the wild thing they took me to be; that i had an eye to admire their beauty, and a heart to feel for their servitude. i tried to procure from them some signal of distress; i did all that i could to get some sign to come to their rescue, and to make myself generally agreeable. i looked sentimentally. this they did not seem to understand at all. i smiled; this seemed to please them better; and there is no knowing to what a point i might have arrived, but my tartar hurried me away; and i parted on the wild plains of turkey with two young and beautiful women, leading almost a savage life, whose personal graces would have made them ornaments in polished and refined society. verily, said i, the turks are not so bad, after all; they have handsome wives, and a handsome wife comes next after chibouks and coffee. i was now reminded at every step of my being in an oriental country by the caravans i was constantly meeting. caravans and camels are more or less associated with all the fairy scenes and glowing pictures of the east. they have always presented themselves to my mind with a sort of poetical imagery, and they certainly have a fine effect in a description or in a picture; but, after all, they are ugly-looking things to meet on the road. i would rather see the two young turk-_esses_ again than all the caravans in the east. the caravan is conducted by a guide on a donkey, with a halter attached to the first camel, and so on from camel to camel through the whole caravan. the camel is an exceedingly ugly animal in his proportions, and there is a dead uniformity in his movement; with a dead, vacant expression in his face, that is really distressing. if a man were dying of thirst in the desert, it would be enough to drive him to distraction to look in the cool, unconcerned, and imperturbable face of his camel. but their value is inestimable in a country like this, where there are no carriage roads, and where deserts and drought present themselves in every direction. one of the camel scenes, the encampment, is very picturesque, the camels arranged around on their knees in a circle, with their heads to the centre, and the camel-drivers with their bales piled up within; and i was struck with another scene; we came to the borders of a stream, which it was necessary to cross in a boat. the boat was then on the other side, and the boatman and camel driver were trying to get on board some camels. when we came up they had got three on board, down on their knees in the bottom of the boat, and were then in the act of coercing the fourth. the poor brute was frightened terribly; resisted with all his might, and put forth most piteous cries; i do not know a more distressing noise than the cry of a brute suffering from fear; it seems to partake of the feeling that causes it, and carries with it something fearful; but the cries of the poor brute were vain; they got him on board, and in the same way urged on board three others. they then threw in the donkey, and seven camels and the donkey were so stowed in the bottom of the boat, that they did not take up much more room than calves on board of our country boats. in the afternoon i met another travelling party of an entirely different description. if before i had occasionally any doubts or misgivings as to the reality of my situation; if sometimes it seemed to be merely a dream, that it could not be that i was so far from home, wandering alone on the plains of asia, with a guide whom i never saw till that morning, whose language i could not understand, and upon whose faith i could not rely; if the scenes of turbaned turks, of veiled women, of caravans and camels, of graveyards with their mourning cypress and thousands of tombstones, where every trace of the cities which supplied them with their dead had entirely disappeared; if these and the other strange scenes around me would seem to be the mere creations of a roving imagination, the party which i met now was so marked in its character, so peculiar to an oriental country, and to an oriental country only, that it roused me from my waking dreams, fixed my wandering thoughts, and convinced me, beyond all peradventure, that i was indeed far from home, among a people "whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, and whose ways are not as our ways;" in short, in a land where ladies are not the omnipotent creatures that they are with us. this party was no other than the ladies of a harem. they were all dressed in white, with their white shawls wrapped around their faces, so that they effectually concealed every feature, and could bring to bear only the artillery of their eyes. i found this, however, to be very potent, as it left so much room for the imagination; and it was a very easy matter to make a fatima of every one of them. they were all on horseback, not riding sidewise, but _otherwise_; though i observed, as before, that their saddles were so prepared that their delicate limbs were not subject to that extreme expansion required by the saddle of the rougher sex. they were escorted by a party of armed turks, and followed by a man in frank dress, who, as i after understood, was the physician of the harem. they were thirteen in number, just a baker's dozen, and belonged to a pacha who was making his annual tour of the different posts under his government, and had sent them on before to have the household matters all arranged upon his arrival. and no doubt, also, they were to be in readiness to receive him with their smiles; and if they continued in the same humour in which i saw them, he must have been a happy man who could call them all his own. i had not fairly recovered from the cries of the poor camel when i heard their merry voices: verily, thought i, stopping to catch the last musical notes, there are exceedingly good points about the turks: chibouks, coffee, and as many wives as they please. it made me whistle to think of it. oh, thought i, that some of our ladies could see these things; that some haughty beauty, at whose feet dozens of worthy and amiable young gentlemen are sighing themselves into premature wrinkles and ugliness, might see these things. i am no rash innovator. i would not sweep away the established customs of our state of society. i would not lay my meddling fingers upon the admitted prerogatives of our ladies; but i cannot help asking myself if, in the rapid changes of this turning world, changes which completely alter rocks and the hardest substances of nature, it may not by possibility happen that the tenour of a lady's humour will change. what a goodly spectacle to see those who are never content without a dozen admirers in their train, following by dozens in the train of one man! but i fear me much that this will never be, at least in our day. our system of education is radically wrong. the human mind, says some philosopher, and the gentleman is right, is like the sand upon the shore of the sea. you may write upon it what character you please. _we_ begin by writing upon their innocent unformed minds, that, "born for their use, we live but to oblige them." the consequence is, i will not say what; for i hope to return among them and kiss the rod in some fair hand; but this i do know, that here the "twig is so bent" that they become as gentle, as docile, and as tractable as any domestic animal. i say again, there are many exceeding good points about the turks. at about six o'clock we came in sight of smyrna, on the opposite side of the gulf, and still a long way off. at dusk we were directly opposite the city; and although we had yet to make a long circuit round the head of the gulf, i was revelling in the bright prospect before me. dreams of pulling off my pantaloons; delightful visions of clean sheets and a christian bed flitted before my eyes. yes, said i to my pantaloons and shirt, ye worthy and faithful servants, this night ye shall have rest. while other garments have fallen from me by the way, ye have stuck to me. and thou, my gray pantaloons, little did the neat parisian tailor who made thee think that the strength of his stitching would ever be tested by three weeks' uninterrupted wear; but to-morrow thou shalt go into the hands of a master, who shall sew on thy buttons and sew up thy rents; and thou, my--i was going on with words of the same affectionate import to my shirt, stockings, and drawers, which, however, did not deserve so well of me, for they had in a measure _dropped off_ on the way, when my tartar came to a dead stop before the door of a cabin, dismounted, and made signs to me to do the same. but i began now to have some notions of my own; heretofore i had been perfectly passive; i had always done as i was told, but in sight of smyrna i became restiff. i talked and shouted to him, pointed to the city, and turned my horse as though i was going on alone. my tartar, however, paid no attention to me; he very coolly took off my carpet-bag and carried it into the cabin, lighted his pipe, and sat down by the door, looking at me with the most imperturbable gravity. i had hardly had time to admire his impudence, and to calculate the chances of my being able, alone at night, to cross the many streams which emptied into the gulf, when the wind, which had been rising for some time, became very violent, and the rain began to fall in torrents. with a sigh i bade farewell to the bright visions that had deluded me, gave another sigh to the uncertainty of all human calculations, the cup and the lip, &c., and took refuge in the cabin. what a substitute for the pretty little picture i had drawn! three turks were sitting round a brazier of charcoal frying doughballs. three rugs were spread in three corners of the cabin, and over each of them were the eternal pistols and yataghan. there was nothing there to defend; their miserable lives were not worth taking; why were these weapons there? the turks at first took no notice of me, and i had now to make amends for my backwardness in entering. i resolved to go to work boldly, and at once elbowed among them for a seat around the brazier. the one next me on my right seemed a little struck by my easy ways; he put his hand on his ribs to feel how far my elbow had penetrated, and then took his pipe from his mouth and offered it to me. the ice broken, i smoked the pipe to the last whiff, and handed it to him to be refilled; with all the horrors of dyspepsy before my eyes, i scrambled with them for the last doughball, and, when the attention of all of them was particularly directed toward me, took out my watch, held it over the lamp, and wound it up. i addressed myself particularly to the one who had first taken notice of me, and made myself extremely agreeable by always smoking his pipe. after coffee and half a dozen pipes, he gave me to understand that i was to sleep with him upon his mat, at which i slapped him on the back and cried out, "bono," having heard him use that word apparently with a knowledge of its meaning. i was surprised in the course of the evening to see one of them begin to undress, knowing that such was not the custom of the country, but found that it was only a temporary disrobing for sporting purposes, to hunt fleas and bedbugs; by which i had an opportunity of comparing the turkish with some i had brought with me from greece; and though the turk had great reason to be proud of his, i had no reason to be ashamed of mine. i now began to be drowsy, and should soon have fallen asleep; but the youngest of the party, a sickly and sentimental young man, melancholy and musical, and, no doubt, in love, brought out the common turkish instrument, a sort of guitar, on which he worked with untiring vivacity, keeping time with his head and heels. my friend accompanied him with his voice, and this brought out my tartar, who joined in with groans and grunts which might have waked the dead. but my cup was not yet full. during the musical festival my friend and intended bedfellow took down from a shelf above me a large plaster, which he warmed over the brazier. he then unrolled his turban, took off a plaster from the back of his head, and disclosed a wound, raw, gory, and ghastly, that made my heart sink within me: i knew that the plague was about smyrna; i had heard that it was on this road; i involuntarily recurred to the italian prayer, "save me from the three miseries of the levant: plague, fire, and the dragoman." i shut my eyes; i had slept but two hours the night before; had ridden twelve hours that day on horseback; i drew my cloak around me; my head sank upon my carpet-bag, and i fell asleep, leaving the four turks playing cards on the bottom of a pewter plate. once during the night i was awakened by my bedfellow's mustaches tickling my lips. i turned my back and slept on. in the morning my tartar, with one jerk, stood me upright on the floor, and holding me in that position until i got awake, kicked open the door, and pointed to my horse standing before it ready saddled and bridled. in three hours i was crossing the caravan bridge, a bridge over the beautiful melissus, on the banks of which homer was born; and picking my way among caravans, which for ages have continued to cross this bridge laden with all the riches of the east, i entered the long-looked-for city of smyrna, a city that has braved the reiterated efforts of conflagrations, plagues, and earthquakes; ten times destroyed, and ten times risen from her ruins; the queen of the cities of anatolia; extolled by the ancients as smyrna the lovely, the crown of ionia, the pride of asia. but old things have passed away, and the ancient city now figures only under the head of arrivals in a newspaper, in the words and figures following, that is to say, "brig betsy, baker master, days from smyrna, with figs and raisins to order. mastic dull, opium rising." in half an hour i was in the full enjoyment of a turkish bath; lolled half an hour on a divan, with chibouk and coffee, and came out fresh as if i had spent the last three weeks training for the ring. oh, these turks are luxurious dogs. chibouks, coffee, hot baths, and as many wives as they please. what a catalogue of human enjoyments! but i intend smyrna as a place of rest, and, in charity, give you the benefit, of it. **** chapter ix. first sight of smyrna.--unveiled women.--ruins of ephesus.--ruin, all ruin.--temple of diana.--encounter with a wolf.--love at first sight.--gatherings on the road. (_another letter._) my dear ****, after my bath i returned to my hotel, breakfasted, and sallied out for a walk. it was now about twelve o'clock, sunday--the first sunday after easter--and all the frank population was in the streets. my hotel was in an out-of-the-way quarter, and when, turning a corner, i suddenly found myself in the main street, i was not prepared for the sight that met my eye. paris on a fête day does not present so gay and animated a scene. it was gay, animated, striking, and beautiful, and entirely different from anything i had ever seen in any european city. franks, jews, greeks, turks, and armenians, in their various and striking costumes, were mingled together in agreeable confusion; and making all due allowance for the circumstance that i had for some time been debarred the sight of an unveiled woman, i certainly never saw so much beauty, and i never saw a costume so admirably calculated to set off beauty. at the same time the costume is exceedingly trying to a lady's pretensions. being no better than one of the uninitiated, i shall not venture upon such dangerous ground as a lady's toilet. i will merely refer to that part which particularly struck me, and that is the headdress; no odious broad-brimmed hat; no enormous veils enveloping nose, mouth, and eyes; but simply a large gauze turban, sitting lightly and gracefully on the head, rolled back over the forehead, leaving the whole face completely exposed, and exhibiting clear dark complexions, rosy lips closing over teeth of dazzling whiteness; and then such eyes, large, dark, and rolling. it is matter of history, and it is confirmed by poetry, that "the angelic youths of old, burning for maids of mortal mould, bewildered, left the glorious skies, and lost their heaven for woman's eyes." my dear friend, this is the country where such things happened; the throne of the thunderer, high olympus, is almost in sight, and these are the daughters of the women who worked such miracles. if the age of passion, like the age of chivalry, were not over and for ever gone, if this were not emphatically a bank-note world, i would say of the smyrniotes, above all others, that they are that description of women who could "raise a mortal to the skies, or bring an angel down." and they walk, too, as if conscious of their high pretensions, as if conscious that the reign of beauty is not yet ended; and, under that enchanting turban, charge with the whole artillery of their charms. it is a perfect unmasked battery; nothing can stand before it. i wonder the sultan allows it. the turks are as touchy as tinder; they take fire as quick as any of the old demigods, and a pair of black eyes is at any time enough to put mischief in them. but the turks are a considerate people. they consider that the franks, or rather the greeks, to whom i particularly refer, have periodical fits of insanity that they go mad twice a year during carnival and after lent; and if at such a time a follower of the prophet, accidentally straggling in the frank quarter, should find the current of his blood disturbed, he would sooner die, nay, he would sooner cut off his beard, than hurt a hair of any one of the light heads that he sees flitting before him. there is something remarkable, by-the-way, in the tenacity with which the grecian women have sustained the rights and prerogatives of beauty in defiance of turkish customs and prejudices; while the men have fallen into the habits of their quondam masters, have taken to pipes and coffee, and in many instances to turbans and big trousers, the women have ever gone with their faces uncovered, and to this day one and all eschew the veil of the turkish women. pleased and amused with myself and everything i saw, i moved along unnoticed and unknown, staring, observing, and admiring; among other things, i observed that one of the amiable customs of our own city was in full force here, viz., that of the young gentlemen, with light sticks in their hands, gathering around the door of the fashionable church to stare at the ladies as they came out. i was pleased to find such a mark of civilization in a land of barbarians, and immediately fell into a thing which seemed so much like home; but, in justice to the smyrniote ladies, i must say i cannot flatter myself that i stared a single one out of countenance. but i need not attempt to interest you in smyrna; it is too every-day a place; every cape cod sailor knows it better than i do. i have done all that i could; i have waived the musty reminiscences of its history; i have waived ruins which are said to exist here, and have endeavoured to give you a faint but true picture of its living and existing beauties, of the bright and beautiful scene that broke upon me the first morning of my arrival; and now, if i have not touched you with the beauty of its women, i should despair of doing so by any description of its beautiful climate, its charming environs, and its hospitable society. leave, then, what is, after all, but the city of figs and raisins, and go with me where, by comparison, the foot of civilized man seldom treads; go with me into the desert and solitary places; go with me among the cities of the seven churches of asia; and, first, to the ruins of ephesus. i had been several days expecting a companion to make this tour with me, but, being disappointed, was obliged to set out alone. i was not exactly alone, for i had with me a turk as guide and a greek as cicerone and interpreter, both well mounted and armed to the teeth. we started at two o'clock in the morning, under the light of thousands of stars; and the day broke upon us in a country wild and desolate, as if it were removed thousands of miles from the habitations of men. there was little variety and little incident in our ride. during the whole day it lay through a country decidedly handsome, the soil rich and fertile, but showing with appalling force the fatal effects of misgovernment, wholly uncultivated, and almost wholly uninhabited. indeed, the only habitations were the little turkish coffee-houses and the black tents of the turcomans. these are a wandering tribe, who come out from the desert, and approach comparatively near the abodes of civilization. they are a pastoral people; their riches are their flocks and herds; they lead a wandering life, free as the air they breathe; they have no local attachments; to-day they pitch their tents on the hillside, to-morrow on the plain; and wherever they sit themselves down, all that they have on earth, wife, children, and friends, are immediately around them. there is something primitive, almost patriarchal, in their appearance; indeed, it carries one back to a simple and perhaps a purer age, and you can almost realize that state of society when the patriarch sat in the door of his tent and called in and fed the passing traveller. the general character of the road is such as to prepare one for the scene that awaits him at ephesus; enormous burying-grounds, with thousands of headstones shaded by the mourning cypress, in the midst of a desolate country, where not a vestige of a human habitation is to be seen. they stand on the roadside as melancholy telltales that large towns or cities once existed in their immediate neighbourhood, and that the generations who occupied them have passed away, furnishing fearful evidence of the decrease of the turkish population, and perhaps that the gigantic empire of the ottoman is tottering to its fall. for about three hours before reaching ephesus, the road, crossing a rich and beautiful plain watered by the cayster, lies between two mountains; that on the right leads to the sea, and on the left are the ruins of ephesus. near, and in the immediate vicinity, storks were calmly marching over the plain and building among the ruins; they moved as if seldom disturbed by human footsteps, and seemed to look upon us as intruders upon a spot for a long time abandoned to birds and beasts of prey. about a mile this side are the remains of the turkish city of aysalook, or temple of the moon, a city of comparatively modern date, reared into a brief magnificence out of the ruins of its fallen neighbour. a sharp hill, almost a mountain, rises abruptly from the plain, on the top of which is a ruined fortress, with many ruins of turkish magnificence at the base; broken columns, baths overgrown with ivy, and the remains of a grand mosque, the roof sustained by four granite columns from the temple of diana; the minaret fallen, the mosque deserted; the mussulman no more goes there to pray; bats and owls were building in its lofty roof, and snakes and lizards were crawling over its marble floor. it was late in the afternoon when i arrived at the little coffee-house at aysalook; a caravan had already encamped under some fine old sycamores before the door, preparatory to passing the night. i was somewhat fatigued, and my greek, who had me in charge, was disposed to stop and wait for the morrow; but the fallen city was on the opposite hill at but a short distance, and the shades of evening seemed well calculated to heighten the effect of a ramble among its ruins. in a right line it was not more than half a mile, but we soon found that we could not go directly to it; a piece of low swampy ground lay between, and we had not gone far before our horses sank up to their saddle-girths. we were obliged to retrace our steps, and work our way around by a circuitous route of more than two miles. this, too, added to the effect of our approach. it was a dreary reflection, that a city, whose ports and whose gates had been open to the commerce of the then known world; whose wealth had invited the traveller and sojourner within its walls should lie a ruin upon a hillside, with swamps and morasses extending around it, in sight but out of reach, near but unapproachable. a warning voice seemed to issue from the ruins, "_procul, procul, este profani_," my day is past, my sun is set, i have gone to my grave; pass on, stranger, and disturb not the ashes of the dead. but my turk did not understand latin, and we continued to advance. we moved along in perfect silence, for besides that my turk never spoke, and my greek, who was generally loquacious enough, was out of humour at being obliged to go on, we had enough to do in picking our lonely way. but silence best suited the scene; the sound of the human voice seemed almost a mockery of fallen greatness. we entered by a large and ruined gateway into a place distinctly marked as having been a street, and, from the broken columns strewed on each side, probably having been lined with a colonnade. i let my reins fall upon my horse's neck; he moved about in the slow and desultory way that suited my humour; now sinking to his knees in heaps of rubbish, now stumbling over a corinthian capital, and now sliding over a marble pavement. the whole hillside is covered with ruins to an extent far greater than i expected to find, and they are all of a kind that tends to give a high idea of the ancient magnificence of the city. to me, these ruins appeared to be a confused and shapeless mass; but they have been examined by antiquaries with great care, and the character of many of them identified with great certainty. i had, however, no time for details; and, indeed, the interest of these ruins in my eyes was not in the details. it mattered little to me that this was the stadium and that a fountain; that this was a gymnasium and that a market-place; it was enough to know that the broken columns, the mouldering walls, the grass-grown streets, and the wide-extended scene of desolation and ruin around me were all that remained of one of the greatest cities of asia, one of the earliest christian cities in the world. but what do i say? who does not remember the tumults and confusion raised by demetrius the silversmith, "lest the temple of the great goddess diana should be despised, and her magnificence be destroyed;" and how the people, having caught "caius and aristarchus, paul's companions in travel," rushed with one accord into the theatre, crying out, "great is diana of the ephesians." my dear friend, i sat among the ruins of that theatre; the stillness of death was around me; far as the eye could reach, not a living soul was to be seen save my two companions and a group of lazy turks smoking at the coffee-house in aysalook. a man of strong imagination might almost go wild with the intensity of his own reflections; and do not let it surprise you, that even one like me, brought up among the technicalities of declarations and replications, rebutters and surrebutters, and in nowise given to the illusions of the senses, should find himself roused, and irresistibly hurried back to the time when the shapeless and confused mass around him formed one of the most magnificent cities in the world; when a large and busy population was hurrying through its streets, intent upon the same pleasures and the same business that engage men now; that he should, in imagination, see before him st. paul preaching to the ephesians, shaking their faith in the gods of their fathers, gods made with their own hands; and the noise and confusion, and the people rushing tumultuously up the very steps where he sat; that he should almost hear their cry ringing in his ears, "great is diana of the ephesians;" and then that he should turn from this scene of former glory and eternal ruin to his own far-distant land; a land that the wisest of the ephesians never dreamed of; where the wild man was striving with the wild beast when the whole world rang with the greatness of the ephesian name; and which bids fair to be growing greater and greater when the last vestige of ephesus shall be gone and its very site unknown. but where is the temple of the great diana, the temple two hundred and twenty years in building; the temple of one hundred and twenty-seven columns, each column the gift of a king? can it be that the temple of the "great goddess diana," that the ornament of asia, the pride of ephesus, and one of the seven wonders of the world, has gone, disappeared, and left not a trace behind? as a traveller, i would fain be able to say that i have seen the ruins of this temple; but, unfortunately, i am obliged to limit myself by facts. its site has of course engaged the attention of antiquaries. i am no skeptic in these matters, and am disposed to believe all that my cicerone tells me. you remember the countryman who complained to his minister that he never gave him any latin in his sermons; and when the minister answered that he would not understand it, the countryman replied that he paid for the best, and ought to have it. i am like that honest countryman; but my cicerone understood himself better than the minister; he knew that i paid him for the best; he knew what was expected from him, and that his reputation was gone for ever if, in such a place as ephesus, he could not point out the ruins of the great temple of diana. he accordingly had _his_ temple, which he stuck to with as much pertinacity as if he had built it himself; but i am sorry to be obliged to say, in spite of his authority and my own wish to believe him, that the better opinion is, that now not a single stone is to be seen. topographers have fixed the site on the plain, near the gate of the city which opened to the sea. the sea, which once almost washed the walls, has receded or been driven back for several miles. for many years a new soil has been accumulating, and all that stood on the plain, including so much of the remains of the temple as had not been plundered and carried away by different conquerors, is probably now buried many feet under its surface. it was dark when i returned to aysalook. i had remarked, in passing, that several caravans had encamped there, and on my return found the camel-drivers assembled in the little coffee-house in which i was to pass the night. i soon saw that there were so many of us that we should make a tight fit in the sleeping part of the khan, and immediately measured off space enough to fit my body, allowing turning and kicking room. i looked with great complacency upon the light slippers of the turks, which they always throw off, too, when they go to sleep, and made an ostentatious display of a pair of heavy iron-nailed boots, and, in lying down, gave one or two preliminary thumps to show them that i was restless in my movements, and, if they came too near me these iron-nailed boots would be uncomfortable neighbours. and here i ought to have spent half the night in musing upon the strange concatenation of circumstances which had broken up a quiet practising attorney, and sent him a straggler from a busy, money-getting land, to meditate among the ruins of ancient cities, and sleep pellmell with turbaned turks. but i had no time for musing; i was amazingly tired; i looked at the group of turks in one corner, and regretted that i could not talk with them; thought of the tower of babel and the wickedness of man, which brought about a confusion of tongues; of camel-drivers, and arabian nights' entertainments; of home, and my own comfortable room in the third story; brought my boot down with a thump that made them all start, and in five minutes was asleep. in the morning i again went over to the ruins. daylight, if possible, added to their effect; and a little thing occurred, not much in itself, but which, under the circumstances, fastened itself upon my mind in such a way that i shall never forget it. i had read that here, in the stillness of the night, the jackal's cry was heard; that, if a stone was rolled, a scorpion or lizard slipped from under it; and, while picking our way slowly along the lower part of the city, a wolf of the largest size came out above, as if indignant at being disturbed in his possessions. he moved a few paces toward us with such a resolute air that my companions both drew their pistols; then stopped, and gazed at us deliberately as we were receding from him, until, as if satisfied that we intended to leave his dominions, he turned and disappeared among the ruins. it would have made a fine picture; the turk first, then the greek, each with a pistol in his hand, then myself, all on horseback, the wolf above us, the valley, and the ruined city. i feel my inability to give you a true picture of these ruins. indeed, if i could lay before you every particular, block for block, fragment for fragment, here a column and there a column, i could not convey a full idea of the desolation that marks the scene. to the christian, the ruins of ephesus carry with them a peculiar interest; for here, upon the wreck of heathen temples, was established one of the earliest christian churches; but the christian church has followed the heathen temple, and the worshippers of the true god have followed the worshippers of the great goddess diana; and in the city where paul preached, and where, in the words of the apostle, "much people were gathered unto the lord," now not a solitary christian dwells. verily, in the prophetic language of inspiration, the "candlestick is removed from its place;" a curse seems to have fallen upon it, men shun it, not a human being is to be seen among its ruins; and ephesus, in faded glory and fallen grandeur, is given up to birds and beasts of prey, a monument and a warning to nations. from ephesus i went to scala nova, handsomely situated on the shore of the sea, and commanding a fine view of the beautiful island of samos, distant not more than four miles. i had a letter to a greek merchant there, who received me kindly, and introduced me to the turkish governor. the governor, as usual, was seated upon a divan, and asked us to take seats beside him. we were served with coffee and pipes by two handsome greek slaves, boys about fourteen, with long hair hanging down their necks, and handsomely dressed; who, after serving us, descended from the platform, and waited with folded arms until we had finished. soon after a third guest came, and a third lad, equally handsome and equally well dressed, served him in the same manner. this is the style of the turkish grandees, a slave to every guest. i do not know to what extent it is carried, but am inclined to think that, in the present instance, if one or two more guests had happened to come in, my friend's retinue of slaves would have fallen short. the governor asked me from what country i came, and who was my king; and when i told him that we had no king, but a president, he said, very graciously, that our president and the grand seignior were very good friends; a compliment which i acknowledged with all becoming humility. wanting to show off a little, i told him that we were going to fight the french, and he said we should certainly whip them if we could get the grand seignior to help us. i afterward called on my own account upon the english consul. the consuls in these little places are originals. they have nothing to do, but they have the government arms blazoned over their doors, and strut about in cocked hats and regimentals, and shake their heads, and look knowing, and talk about their government; they do not know what the government will think, &c., when half the time their government hardly knows of the existence of its worthy representatives. this was an old maltese, who spoke french and italian. he received me very kindly, and pressed me to stay all night. i told him that i was not an englishman, and had no claim upon his hospitality; but he said that made no difference; that he was consul for all civilized nations, among which he did me the honour to include mine. at three o'clock i took leave of the consul. my greek friend accompanied me outside the gate, where my horses were waiting for me; and, at parting, begged me to remember that i had a friend, who hardly knew what pleasure was except in serving me. i told him that the happiness of my life was not complete before i met him; we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and, after a two hours' acquaintance, could hardly tear away from each other's embraces. such is the force of sympathy between congenial spirits. my friend was a man about fifty, square built, broad shouldered, and big mustached; and the beauty of it was, that neither could understand a word the other said; and all this touching interchange of sentiment had to pass through my mustached, big-whiskered, double-fisted, six-feet interpreter. at four o'clock we set out on our return; at seven we stopped in a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains, and on the sides of the mountains were a number of turcomans tents. the khan was worse than any i had yet seen. it had no floor and no mat. the proprietor of the khan, if such a thing, consisting merely of four mud walls with a roof of branches, which seemed to have been laid there by the winds, could be said to have a proprietor, was uncommonly sociable; he set before me my supper, consisting of bread and yort--a preparation of milk--and appeared to be much amused at seeing me eat. he asked my guide many questions about me; examined my pistols, took off his turban, and put my hat upon his shaved head, which transformed him from a decidedly bold, slashing-looking fellow, into a decidedly sneaking-looking one. i had certainly got over all fastidiousness in regard to eating, drinking, and sleeping; but i could not stand the vermin at this khan. in the middle of the night i rose and went out of doors; it was a brilliant starlight night, and, as the bare earth was in any case to be my bed, i exchanged the mud floor of my khan for the greensward and the broad canopy of heaven. my turk was sleeping on the ground, about a hundred yards from the house, with his horse grazing around him. i nestled close to him, and slept perhaps two hours. toward morning i was awakened by the cold, and, with the selfishness of misery, i began punching my turk under the ribs to wake him. this was no easy matter; but, after a while, i succeeded, got him to saddle the horses, and in a few minutes we were off, my greek not at all pleased with having his slumbers so prematurely disturbed. at about two o'clock we passed some of the sultan's _volunteers_. these were about fifty men chained together by the wrists and ankles, who had been chased, run down, and caught in some of the villages, and were now on their way to constantinople, under a guard, to be trained as soldiers. i could but smile as i saw them, not at them, for, in truth, there was nothing in their condition to excite a smile, but at the recollection of an article i had seen a few days before in a european paper, which referred to the new levies making by the sultan, and the spirit with which his subjects entered into the service. they were a speaking comment upon european insight into turkish politics. but, without more ado, suffice it to say, that at about four o'clock i found myself at the door of my hotel, my outer garments so covered with creeping things that my landlord, a prudent swiss, with many apologies, begged me to shake myself before going into the house; and my nether garments so stained with blood, that i looked as if a corps of the sultan's regulars had pricked me with their bayonets. my enthusiasm on the subject of the seven churches was in no small degree abated, and just at that moment i was willing to take upon trust the condition of the others, that all that was foretold of them in the scriptures had come to pass. i again betook me to the bath, and, in thinking of the luxury of my repose, i feel for you, and come to a full stop. **** chapter x. position of smyrna.--consular privileges.--the case of the lover.--end of the love affair.--the missionary's wife.--the casino.--only a greek row.--rambles in smyrna.--the armenians.--domestic enjoyments. but i must go back a little, and make the amende honourable, for, in truth, ghiaour ismir, or infidel smyrna, with its wild admixture of european and asiatic population, deserves better than the rather cavalier notice contained in my letter. before reaching it i had remarked its exceeding beauty of position, chosen as it is with that happy taste which distinguished the greeks in selecting the sites of their ancient cities, on the declivity of a mountain running down to the shore of the bay, with houses rising in terraces on its sides; its domes and minarets, interspersed with cypresses, rising above the tiers of houses, and the summit of the hill crowned with a large solitary castle. it was the first large turkish city i had seen, and it differed, too, from all other turkish cities in the strong foothold obtained there by europeans. indeed, remembering it as a place where often, and within a very few years, upon a sudden outbreaking of popular fury, the streets were deluged with christian blood, i was particularly struck, not only with the air of confidence and security, but, in fact, with the bearing of superiority assumed by the "christian dog!" among the followers of the prophet. directly on the bay is a row of large houses running along the whole front of the city, among which are seen emblazoned over the doors the arms of most of the foreign consuls, including the american. by the treaties of the porte with christian powers, the turkish tribunals have no jurisdiction of matters touching the rights of foreign residents; and all disputes between these, and even criminal offences, fall under the cognizance of their respective consuls. this gives the consuls in all the maritime ports of turkey great power and position; and all over the levant they are great people; but at smyrna they are far more important than ambassadors and ministers at the european capitals; and, with their janisaries and their appearance on all public occasions in uniform, are looked up to by the levantines somewhat like the consuls sent abroad under the roman empire, and by the turks as almost sultans. the morning after my arrival i delivered letters of introduction to mr. offley, the american consul, a native of philadelphia, thirty years resident in smyrna, and married to an armenian lady, mr. langdon, a merchant of boston, and mr. styth, of baltimore, of the firm of issaverdens, styth, and company; one to mr. jetter, a german missionary, whose lady told me, while her husband was reading it, that she had met me in the street the day before, and on her return home told him that an american had just arrived. i was curious to know the mark by which she recognised me as an american, being rather dubious whether it was by reason of anything praiseworthy or the reverse; but she could not tell. i trust the reader has not forgotten the victim of the tender passion who, in the moment of my leaving athens, had reposed in my sympathizing bosom the burden of his hopes and fears. at the very first house in which i was introduced to the female members of the family, i found making a morning call the lady who had made such inroads upon his affections. i had already heard her spoken of as being the largest fortune, and, par consequence, the greatest belle in smyrna, and i hailed it as a favourable omen that i accidentally made her acquaintance so soon after my arrival. i made my observations, and could not help remarking that she was by no means pining away on account of the absence of my friend. i was almost indignant at her heartless happiness, and, taking advantage of an opportunity, introduced his name, hoping to see a shade come over her, and, perhaps, to strike her pensive for two or three minutes; but her comment was a deathblow to my friend's prospects and my mediation: "poor m.!" and all present repeated "poor m.!" with a portentous smile, and the next moment had forgotten his existence. i went away in the full conviction that it was all over with "poor m.!" and murmuring to myself, put not your trust in woman, i dined, and in the afternoon called with my letter of introduction upon his friend the rev. mr. brewer, and mr. brewer's comment on reading it was about equal to the lady's "poor m.!" he asked me in what condition i left our unfortunate friend. i told him his _leg_ was pretty bad, though he continued to hobble about; but mr. brewer interrupted me; he did not mean his leg, but, he hesitated and with reluctance, as if he wished to avoid speaking of it outright, added, _his mind_. i did not comprehend him, and, from his hesitation and delicacy, imagined that he was alluding to the lover's heart; but he cleared the matter up, and to my no small surprise, by telling me that, some time before he left smyrna, "poor m." had shown such strong marks of aberration of intellect, that his friends had deemed it advisable to put him under the charge of a brother missionary and send him home, and that they hoped great benefit from travel and change of scene. i was surprised, and by no means elevated in my own conceit, when i found that i had been made the confidant of a crazy man. mr. hill, not knowing of any particular intimacy between us, and probably not wishing to publish his misfortune unnecessarily, had not given me the slightest intimation of it, and i had not discovered it. i had considered his communication to me strange, and his general conduct not less so, but i had no idea that it was anything more than the ordinary derangement which every man is said to labour under when in love. i then told mr. brewer my story, and the commission with which i was intrusted, which he said was perfectly characteristic, his malady being a sort of monomania on the subject of the tender passion; and every particle of interest which i might nevertheless have taken in the affair, in connecting his derangement in some way with the lady in question, was destroyed by the volatile direction of his passion, sometimes to one object and sometimes with another; and in regard to the lady to whom i was accredited, he had never shown any penchant toward her in particular, and must have given me her name because it happened to be the first that suggested itself at the moment of his unburdening himself to me. fortunately, i had not exposed myself by any demonstrations in behalf of my friend, so i quietly dropped him. on leaving mr. brewer i suggested a doubt whether i could be regarded as an acquaintance upon the introduction of a crazy man; but we had gone so far that it was decided, for that specific purpose, to admit his sanity. i should not mention these particulars if there was any possibility of their ever wounding the feelings of him to whom they refer; but he is now beyond the reach either of calumny or praise, for about a year after i heard, with great regret, that his malady had increased, accompanied with a general derangement of health; and, shortly after his return home, he died. my intercourse with the franks was confined principally to my own countrymen, whose houses were open to me at all times; and i cannot help mentioning the name of mr. van lennup, the dutch consul, the great friend of the missionaries in the levant, who had been two years resident in the united states, and was intimately acquainted with many of my friends at home. society in smyrna is purely mercantile; and having been so long out of the way of it, it was actually grateful to me once more to hear men talking with all their souls about cotton, stocks, exchanges, and other topics of _interest_, in the literal meaning of the word. sometimes lounging in a merchant's counting-room, i took up an american paper, and heard boston, and new-york, and baltimore, and cotton, and opium, and freight, and quarter per cent. less bandied about, until i almost fancied myself at home; and when this became too severe i had a resource with the missionaries, gentlemanly and well-educated men, well acquainted with the countries and the places worth visiting, with just the books i wanted, and, i had almost said, the wives; i mean with wives always glad to see a countryman, and to talk about home. there is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. a soldier's is more so, for she follows him to danger and, perhaps, to death; but glory waits him if he falls, and while she weeps she is proud. before i went abroad the only missionary i ever knew i despised, for i believed him to be a canting hypocrite; but i saw much of them abroad, and made many warm friends among them; and, i repeat it, there is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. she who had been cherished as a plant that the winds must not breathe on too rudely, recovers from the shock of a separation from her friends to find herself in a land of barbarians, where her loud cry of distress can never reach their ears. new ties twine round her heart, and the tender and helpless girl changes her very nature, and becomes the staff and support of the man. in his hours of despondency she raises his drooping spirits; she bathes his aching head; she smooths his pillow of sickness; and, after months of wearisome silence, i have entered her dwelling, and her heart instinctively told her that i was from the same land. i have been welcomed as a brother; answered her hurried, and anxious, and eager questions; and sometimes, when i have known any of her friends at home, i have been for a moment more than recompensed for all the toils and privations of a traveller in the east. i have left her dwelling burdened with remembrances to friends whom she will perhaps never see again. i bore a letter to a father, which was opened by a widowed mother. where i could, i have discharged every promise to a missionary's wife; but i have some yet undischarged which i rank among the sacred obligations of my life. it is true, the path of the missionary is not strewed with roses; but often, in leaving his house at night, and following my guide with a lantern through the narrow streets of a turkish city, i have run over the troubles incident to every condition of life, not forgetting those of a traveller, and have taken to whistling, and, as i stumbled into the gate of an old convent, have murmured involuntarily, "after all, these missionaries are happy fellows." every stranger, upon his arrival in smyrna, is introduced at the casino. i went there the first time to a concert. it is a large building, erected by a club of merchants, with a suite of rooms on the lower floor, billiards, cards, reading and sitting room, and a ball room above covering the whole. the concert was given in the ballroom, and, from what i had seen in the streets, i expected an extraordinary display of beauty; but i was much disappointed. the company consisted only of the aristocracy or higher mercantile classes, the families of the gentlemen composing the club, and excluded the greek and smyrniote women, among whom is found a great portion of the beauty of the place. a patent of nobility in smyrna, as in our own city, is founded upon the time since the possessor gave up selling goods, or the number of consignments he receives in the course of a year. the casino, by-the-way, is a very aristocratic institution, and sometimes knotty questions occur in its management. captains of merchant vessels are not admitted. a man came out as owner of a vessel and cargo, and also master: _quere_, could he be admitted? his consignee said yes; but the majority, not being interested in the sales of his cargo, went for a strict construction, and excluded him. the population of smyrna, professing three distinct religions, observe three different sabbaths; the mohammedans friday, the jews saturday, and the christians sunday, so that there are only four days in the week in which all the shops and bazars are open together, and there are so many fête days that these are much broken in upon. the most perfect toleration prevails, and the religious festivals of the greeks often terminate in midnight orgies which debase and degrade the christian in the eyes of the pious mussulman. on saturday morning i was roused from my bed by a loud cry and the tramp of a crowd through the street. i ran to my window, and saw a greek tearing down the street at full speed, and another after him with a drawn yataghan in his hand; the latter gained ground at every step, and, just as he turned the corner, stabbed the first in the back. he returned with the bloody poniard in his hand, followed by the crowd, and rushed into a little greek drinking-shop next door to my hotel. there was a loud noise and scuffling inside, and presently i saw him pitched out headlong into the street, and the door closed upon him. in a phrensy of passion he rushed back, and drove his yataghan with all his force into the door, stamped against it with his feet, and battered it with stones; unable to force it open, he sat down on the opposite side of the street, occasionally renewing his attack upon the door, talking violently with those inside, and sometimes the whole crowd laughing loud at the answers from within. nobody attempted to interfere. giusseppi, my host, said it was only a row among the greeks. the greek kept the street in an uproar for more than an hour, when he was secured and taken into custody. after dinner, under the escort of a merchant, a jew from trieste residing at the same hotel, i visited the jews' quarter. the jews of smyrna are the descendants of that unhappy people who were driven out from spain by the bloody persecutions of ferdinand and isabel; they still talk spanish in their families; and though comparatively secure, now, as ever, they live the victims of tyranny and oppression, ever toiling and accumulating, and ever fearing to exhibit the fruits of their industry, lest they should excite the cupidity of a rapacious master. their quarter is by far the most miserable in smyrna, and within its narrow limits are congregated more than ten thousand of "the accursed people." it was with great difficulty that i avoided wounding the feelings of my companion by remarking its filthy and disgusting appearance; and wishing to remove my unfavourable impression by introducing me to some of the best families first, he was obliged to drag me through the whole range of its narrow and dirty streets. from the external appearance of the tottering houses, i did not expect anything better within; and, out of regard to his feelings, was really sorry that i had accepted his offer to visit his people; but with the first house i entered i was most agreeably disappointed. ascending outside by a tottering staircase to the second story, within was not only neatness and comfort, but positive luxury. at one end of a spacious room was a raised platform opening upon a large latticed window, covered with rich rugs and divans along the wall. the master of the house was taking his afternoon siesta, and while we were waiting for him i expressed to my gratified companion my surprise and pleasure at the unexpected appearance of the interior. in a few minutes the master entered, and received us with the greatest hospitality and kindness. he was about thirty, with the high square cap of black felt, without any rim or border, long silk gown tied with a sash around the waist, a strongly-marked jewish face, and amiable expression. in the house of the israelite the welcome is the same as in that of the turk; and seating himself, our host clapped his hands together, and a boy entered with coffee and pipes. after a little conversation he clapped his hands again; and hearing a clatter of wooden shoes, i turned my head and saw a little girl coming across the room, mounted on high wooden sabots almost like stilts, who stepped up the platform, and with quite a womanly air took her seat on the divan. i looked at her, and thought her a pert, forward little miss, and was about asking her how old she was, when my companion told me she was our host's wife. i checked myself, but in a moment felt more than ever tempted to ask the same question; and, upon inquiring, learned that she had attained the respectable age of thirteen, and had been then two years a wife. our host told us that she had cost him a great deal of money, and the expense consisted in the outlay necessary for procuring a divorce from another wife. he did not like the other one at all; his father had married him to her, and he had great difficulty in prevailing on his father to go to the expense of getting him freed. this wife was also provided by his father, and he did not like her much at first; he had never seen her till the day of marriage, but now he began to like her very well, though she cost him a great deal for ornaments. all this time we were looking at her, and she, with a perfectly composed expression, was listening to the conversation as my companion interpreted it, and following with her eyes the different speakers. i was particularly struck with the cool, imperturbable expression of her face, and could not help thinking that, on the subject of likings and dislikings, young as she was, she might have some curious notions of her own; and since we had fallen into this little disquisition on family matters, and thinking that he had gone so far himself that i might waive delicacy, i asked him whether she liked him; he answered in that easy tone of confidence of which no idea can be given in words, "oh yes;" and when i intimated a doubt, he told me i might ask herself. but i forbore, and did not ask her, and so lost the opportunity of learning from both sides the practical operation of matches made by parents. our host sustained them; the plan saved a great deal of trouble, and wear and tear of spirit; prudent parents always selected such as were likely to suit each other; and being thrown together very young, they insensibly assimilated in tastes and habits; he admitted that he had missed it the first time, but he had hit it the second, and allowed that the system would work much better if the cost of procuring a divorce was not so great. with the highest respect, and a pressing invitation to come again, seconded by his wife, i took my leave of the self-satisfied israelite. from this we went into several other houses, in all of which the interior belied, in the same manner, their external appearance. i do not say that they were gorgeous or magnificent, but they were clean, comfortable, and striking by their oriental style of architecture and furniture; and being their sabbath, the women were in their best attire, with their heads, necks, and wrists adorned with a profusion of gold and silver ornaments. several of the houses had libraries, with old hebrew books, in which an old rabbi was reading or sometimes instructing children. in the last house a son was going through his days of mourning on the death of his father. he was lying in the middle of the floor, with his black cap on, and covered with a long black cloak. twenty or thirty friends were sitting on the floor around him, who had come in to condole with him. when we entered, neither he nor any of his friends took any notice of us, except to make room on the floor. we sat down with them. it was growing dark, and the light broke dimly through the latticed windows upon the dusky figures of the mourning israelites; and there they sat, with stern visages and long beards, the feeble remnant of a fallen people, under scorn and contumely, and persecution and oppression, holding on to the traditions received from their fathers, practising in the privacy of their houses the same rites as when the priests bore aloft the ark of the covenant, and out of the very dust in which they lie still looking for the restoration of their temporal kingdom. in a room adjoining sat the widow of the deceased, with a group of women around her, all perfectly silent; and they too took no notice of us either when we entered or when we went away. the next day the shops were shut, and the streets again thronged as on the day of my arrival. i went to church at the english chapel attached to the residence of the british consul, and heard a sermon from a german missionary. i dined at one o'clock, and, in company with mine host of the pension suisse, and a merchant of smyrna resident there, worked my way up the hill through the heart of the turks' quarter to the old castle standing alone and in ruins on its summit. we rested a little while at the foot of the castle, and looked over the city and the tops of the minarets upon the beautiful bay, and descending in the rear of the castle, we came to the river meles winding through a deep valley at the foot of the hill. this stream was celebrated in grecian poetry three thousand years ago. it was the pride of the ancient smyrneans, once washed the walls of the ancient city, and tradition says that on its banks the nymph critheis gave birth to homer. we followed it in its winding course down the valley, murmuring among evergreens. over it in two places were the ruins of aqueducts which carried water to the old city, and in one or two places it turns an overshot mill. on each side, at intervals along its banks, were oriental summer-houses, with verandahs, and balconies, and latticed windows. approaching the caravan bridge we met straggling parties, and by degrees fell into a crowd of people, franks, europeans of every nation, greeks, turks, and armenians, in all their striking costumes, sitting on benches under the shade of noble old sycamores, or on the grass, or on the river's brink, and moving among them were turks cleanly dressed, with trays of refreshments, ices, and sherbet. there was an unusual collection of greek and smyrniote women, and an extraordinary display of beauty; none of them wore hats, but the greek women a light gauze turban, and the smyrniotes a small piece of red cloth, worked with gold, secured on the top of the head by the folds of the hair, with a long tassel hanging down from it. opposite, and in striking contrast, the great turkish burying-ground, with its thick grove of gloomy cypress, approached the bank of the river. i crossed over and entered the burying-ground, and penetrated the grove of funereal trees; all around were the graves of the dead; thousands and tens of thousands who but yesterday were like the gay crowd i saw flitting through the trees, were sleeping under my feet. over some of the graves the earth was still fresh, and they who lay in them were already forgotten; but no, they were not forgotten; woman's love still remembered them, for turkish women, with long white shawls wrapped around their faces, were planting over them myrtle and flowers, believing that they were paying an acceptable tribute to the souls of the dead. i left the burying-ground and plunged once more among the crowd. it may be that memory paints these scenes brighter than they were; but, if that does not deceive me, i never saw at paris or vienna so gay and beautiful a scene, so rich in landscape and scenery, in variety of costume, and in beauty of female form and feature. we left the caravan bridge early to visit the armenian quarter, this being the best day for seeing them collectively at home; and i had not passed through the first street of their beautiful quarter before i was forcibly struck with the appearance of a people different from any i had yet seen in the east. the armenians are one of the oldest nations of the civilized world, and, amid all the revolutions of barbarian war and despotism, have maintained themselves as a cultivated people. from the time when their first chieftain fled from babylon, his native place, to escape from the tyranny of belus, king of assyria, this warlike people, occupying a mountainous country near the sources of the tigris and euphrates, battled the assyrians, medes, the persians, macedonians, and arabians, until their country was depopulated by the shah of persia. less than two millions are all that now remain of that once powerful people. commerce has scattered them, like the israelites, among all the principal nations of europe and asia, and everywhere they have preserved their stern integrity and uprightness of character. the armenian merchant is now known in every quarter of the globe, and everywhere distinguished by superior cultivation, honesty, and manners. as early as the fourth century the armenians embraced christianity; they never had any sympathy with, and always disliked and avoided, the greek christians, and constantly resisted the endeavours of the popes to bring them within the catholic pale. their doctrine differs from that of the orthodox chiefly in their admitting only one nature in christ, and believing the holy spirit to issue from the father alone. their first abode, mount ararat, is even at the present day the centre of their religious and political union. they are distinguished by a patriarchal simplicity in their domestic manners; and it was the beautiful exhibition of this trait in their character that struck me on entering their quarter at smyrna. in style and appearance their quarter is superior to any in smyrna; their streets are broad and clean; their houses large, in good order, and well painted; oriental in their style of architecture, with large balconies and latticed windows, and spacious halls running through the centre, floored with small black and white stones laid in the form of stars and other fanciful devices, and leading to large gardens in the rear, ornamented with trees, vines, shrubs, and flowers, then in full bloom and beauty. all along the streets the doors of the houses were thrown wide open, and the old armenian "knickerbockers" were sitting outside or in the doorway, in their flowing robes, grave and sedate, with long pipes and large amber mouth pieces, talking with their neighbours, while the younger members were distributed along the hall or strolling through the garden, and children climbing the trees and arbours. it was a fête day for the whole neighbourhood. all was social, and cheerful, and beautiful, without being gay or noisy, and all was open to the observation of every passer-by. my companion, an old resident of smyrna, stopped with me at the house of a large banker, whose whole family, with several neighbours young and old, were assembled in the hall. in the street the armenian ladies observe the turkish custom of wearing the shawl tied around the face so that it is difficult to see their features, though i had often admired the dignity and grace of their walk, and their propriety of manners; but in the house there was a perfect absence of all concealment; and i have seldom seen more interesting persons than the whole group of armenian ladies, and particularly the young armenian girls. they were not so dark, and wanted the bold, daring beauty of the greek, but altogether were far more attractive. the great charm of their appearance was an exceeding modesty, united with affability and elegance of manner; in fact, there was a calm and quiet loveliness about them that would have made any one of them dangerous to be shut up alone with, i.e., if a man could talk with her without an interpreter. this was one of the occasions when i numbered among the pains of life the confusion of tongues. but, notwithstanding this, the whole scene was beautiful; and, with all the simplicity of a dutchman's fireside, the style of the house, the pebbled hall, the garden, the foliage, and the oriental costumes, threw a charm around it which now, while i write, comes over me again. chapter xi. an american original.--moral changes in turkey.--wonders of steam navigation.--the march of mind.--classic localities.--sestos and abydos.--seeds of pestilence. on my return from ephesus i heard of the arrival in smyrna of two american travellers, father and son, from egypt; and the same day, at mr. langdon's, i met the father, dr. n. of mississippi. the doctor had made a long and interesting tour in egypt and the holy land, interrupted, however, by a severe attack of ophthalmia on the nile, from which he had not yet recovered, and a narrow escape from the plague at cairo. he was about fifty-five, of a strong, active, and inquiring mind; and the circumstances which had brought him to that distant country were so peculiar, that i cannot help mentioning them. he had passed all his life on the banks of the mississippi, and for many years had busied himself with speculations in regard to the creation of the world. year after year he had watched the deposites and the formation of soil on the banks of the mississippi, had visited every mound and mountain indicating any peculiar geological formation, and, unable to find any data to satisfy him, he started from his plantation directly for the banks of the nile. he possessed all the warm, high-toned feelings of the southerner, but a thorough contempt for the usages of society and everything like polish of manners. he came to new-york and embarked for havre. he had never been even to new-york before; was utterly ignorant of any language but his own; despised all foreigners, and detested their "jabber." he worked his way to marseilles with the intention of embarking for alexandria, but was taken sick, and retraced his steps directly to his plantation on the mississippi. recovering, he again set out for the nile the next year, accompanied by his son, a young man of about twenty-three, acquainted with foreign languages, and competent to profit by foreign travel. this time he was more successful, and, when i saw him, he had rambled over the pyramids and explored the ruined temples of egypt. the result of his observations had been to fortify his preconceived notions, that the age of this world far exceeds six thousand years. indeed, he was firmly persuaded that some of the temples of the nile were built more than six thousand years ago. he had sent on to smyrna enormous boxes of earth and stones, to be shipped to america, and was particularly curious on the subject of trees, having examined and satisfied himself as to the age of the olive-trees in the garden of gethsemane and the cedars of lebanon. i accompanied him to his hotel, where i was introduced to his son; and i must not forget another member of this party, who is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers by the name of paolo nuozzo, or, more familiarly, paul. this worthy individual had been travelling on the nile with two hungarian counts, who discharged him, or whom he discharged (for they differed as to the fact), at cairo. dr. n. and his son were in want, and paul entered their service as dragoman and superintendent of another man, who, they said, was worth a dozen of paul. i have a very imperfect recollection of my first interview with this original. indeed, i hardly remember him at all until my arrival at constantinople, and have only an indistinct impression of a dark, surly-looking, mustached man following at the heels of dr. n., and giving crusty answers in horrible english. before my visit to ephesus i had talked with a prussian baron of going up by land to constantinople; but on my return i found myself attacked with a recurrence of an old malady, and determined to wait for the steamboat. the day before i left smyrna, accompanied by mr. o. langdon, i went out to boujac to dine with mr. styth. the great beauty of smyrna is its surrounding country. within a few miles there are three villages, bournabat, boujac, and sediguey, occupied by franks, of which boujac is the favourite. the franks are always looking to the time of going out to their country houses, and consider their residences in their villages the most agreeable part of their year; and, from what i saw of it, nothing can be more agreeable. not more than half of them had yet moved out, but after dinner we went round and visited all who were there. they are all well acquainted, and, living in a strange and barbarous country, are drawn closer together than they would be in their own. every evening there is a reunion at some of their houses, and there is among them an absence of all unnecessary form and ceremony, without which there can be no perfect enjoyment of the true pleasures of social intercourse. these villages, too, are endeared to them as places of refuge during the repeated and prolonged visitations of the plague, the merchant going into the city every morning and returning at night, and during the whole continuance of the disease avoiding to touch any member of his family. the whole region of country around their villages is beautiful in landscape and scenery, producing the choicest flowers and fruits; the fig tree particularly growing with a luxuriance unknown in any other part of the world. but the whole of this beautiful region lies waste and uncultivated, although, if the government could be relied on, holding out, by reason of its fertility, its climate, and its facility of access, particularly now by means of steamboats, far greater inducements to european emigration than any portion of our own country. i will not impose upon the reader my speculations on this subject; my notes are burdened with them; but, in my opinion, the old world is in process of regeneration, and at this moment offers greater opportunities for enterprise than the new. on monday, accompanied by dr. n. and his son and paolo nuozzo, i embarked on board the steamboat maria dorothea for constantinople; and here follows another letter, and the last, dated from the capital of the eastern empire. constantinople, may ----, . my dear ****, oh you who hope one day to roam in eastern lands, to bend your curious eyes upon the people warmed by the rising sun, come quickly, for all things are changing. you who have pored over the story of the turk; who have dreamed of him as a gloomy enthusiast, hating, spurning, and slaying all who do not believe and call upon the prophet; "one of that saintly, murderous brood, to carnage and the koran given, who think through unbelievers' blood lies their directest path to heaven;" come quickly, for that description of turk is passing away. the day has gone by when the haughty mussulman spurned and persecuted the "christian dog." a few years since it would have been at peril of a man's life to appear in many parts of turkey in a european dress; but now the european is looked upon, not only as a creature fit to live, but as a man to be respected. the sultan himself, the great head of the nation and the religion, the vicegerent of god upon earth, has taken off the turban, and all the officers of government have followed his example. the army wears a bastard european uniform, and the great study of the sultan is to introduce european customs. thanks to the infirmities of human nature, many of these customs have begun to insinuate themselves. the pious follower of the prophet has dared to raise the winecup to his lips; and in many instances, at the peril of losing his paradise of houris, has given himself up to strong drink. time was when the word of a turk was sacred as a precept of the koran; now he can no more be relied upon than a jew or a christian. he has fallen with great facility into lying, cheating, and drinking, and if the earnest efforts to change him are attended with success, perhaps we may soon add stealing and having but one wife. and all this change, this mighty fall, is ascribed by the europeans here to the destruction of the janisaries, a band of men dangerous to government, brave, turbulent, and bloody, but of indomitable pride; who were above doing little things, and who gave a high tone to the character of the whole people. if i was not bent upon a gallop, and could stop for the jogtrot of an argument, i would say that the destruction of the janisaries is a mere incidental circumstance, and that the true cause is--_steam navigation_. do not laugh, but listen. the turks have ever been a proud people, possessing a sort of peacock pride, an extravagantly good opinion of themselves, and a superlative contempt for all the rest of the world. heretofore they have had comparatively little intercourse with europeans, consequently but little opportunity of making comparisons, and consequently, again, but little means of discovering their own inferiority. but lately things have changed; the universal peace in europe and the introduction of steamboats into the mediterranean have brought the europeans and the turks comparatively close together. it seems to me that the effect of steamboats here has as yet hardly begun to be felt. there are but few of them, indifferent boats, constantly getting out of order, and running so irregularly that no reliance can be placed upon them. but still their effects are felt, their convenience is acknowledged; and, so far as my knowledge extends, they have never been introduced anywhere yet without multiplying in numbers, and driving all other vessels off the water. now the mediterranean is admirably suited to the use of steamboats; indeed, the whole of these inland waters, the mediterranean, the adriatic, the archipelago, the dardanelles, the sea of marmora, the bosphorus, and the black sea, from the straits of gibraltar to the sea of azoff, offer every facility that can be desired for steam navigation; and when we consider that the most interesting cities in the world are on the shores of these waters, i cannot but believe that in a very few years they will be, to a certain extent, covered with steamboats. at all events, i have no doubt that in two or three years you will be able to go from paris to constantinople in fifteen or twenty days; and, when that time comes, it will throw such numbers of europeans into the east as will have a sensible effect upon the manners and customs of the people. these eastern countries will be invaded by all classes of people, travellers, merchants, and mechanics, gentlemen of elegant leisure, and blacksmiths, shoemakers, tinkers, and tailors, nay, even mantuamakers, milliners, and bandboxes, the last being an incident to civilized life as yet unknown in turkey. indeed, wonderful as the effects of steamboats have been under our own eyes, we are yet to see them far more wonderful in bringing into close alliance, commercial and social, people from distant countries, of different languages and habits; in removing national prejudices, and in breaking down the great characteristic distinctions of nations. nous verrons, twenty years hence, what steamboats will have done in this part of the world! but, in standing up for steamboats, i must not fail in doing justice to the grand seignior. his highness has not always slept upon a bed of roses. he had to thank the petticoats of a female slave for saving his life when a boy, and he had hardly got upon his throne before he found that he should have a hard task to keep it. it lay between him and the janisaries. in spite of them and of the general prejudices of the people, he determined to organize an army according to european tactics. he staked his throne and his head upon the issue; and it was not until he had been pushed to the desperate expedient of unfurling the sacred standard of the prophet, parading it through the streets of constantinople, and calling upon all good mussulmans to rally round it; in short, it was not until the dead bodies of thirty thousand janisaries were floating down the bosphorus, that he found himself the master in his own dominions. since that time, either because he is fond of new things, or because he really sees farther than those around him, he is constantly endeavouring to introduce european improvements. for this purpose he invites talent, particularly mechanical and military, from every country, and has now around him europeans among his most prominent men, and directing nearly all his public works. the turks are a sufficiently intelligent people, and cannot help feeling the superiority of strangers. probably the immediate effect may be to make them prone rather to catch the faults and vices than the virtues of europeans; but afterward better things will come; they will fall into our better ways; and perhaps, though that is almost more than we dare hope for, they will embrace a better religion. but, however this may be, or whatever may be the cause, all ye who would see the turk of mohammed; the turk who swept the plains of asia, who leaned upon his bloody sword before the walls of vienna, and threatened the destruction of christendom in europe; the turk of the turban, and the pipe, and the seraglio, come quickly, for he is becoming another man. a little longer, and the great characteristic distinctions will be broken down; the long pipe, the handsome pipe-bearer, and the amber mouthpiece are gone, and oh, death to all that is beautiful in eastern romance, the walls of the seraglio are prostrated, the doors of the harem thrown open, the black eunuch and the veiled woman are no more seen, while the honest turk trudges home from a quiet tea-party stripped of his retinue of fair ones, with his one and only wife tucked under his arm, his head drooping between his shoulders, taking a lecture from his better half for an involuntary sigh to the good old days that are gone. and oh you who turn up your aristocratic noses at such parvenues as mohammed and the turks; who would go back to those distant ages which time covers with its dim and twilight glories, "when the world was fresh and young, and the great deluge still had left it green;" you who come piping-hot from college, your brains teeming with recollections of the heroic ages; who would climb mount ida, to sit in council with the gods, come quickly, also, for all things are changing. a steamboat--shade of hector, ajax, and agamemnon, forgive the sins of the day--an austrian steamboat is now splashing the island-studded Ægean, and paddling the classic waters of the hellespont. oh ye princes and heroes who armed for the trojan war, and covered these waters with your thousand ships, with what pious horror must you look down from your blessed abodes upon the impious modern monster of the deep, which strips the tall mast of its flowing canvass, renders unnecessary the propitiation of the gods, and flounders on its way in spite of wind and weather! a new and unaccountable respect for the classics almost made me scorn the newfangled conveyance, though much to the comfort of wayfaring men; but sundry recollections of greek caiques, and also an apprehension that there might be those yet living who had heard me in early days speak anything but respectfully of homer, suggested to me that one man could not stem the current of the times, and that it was better for a humble individual like myself to float with the tide. this idea, too, of currents and tides made me think better of prince metternich and his steamboat; and smothering, as well as i could, my sense of shame, i sneaked on board the maria dorothea for a race to constantinople. join me, now, in this race; and if your heart does not break at going by at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, i will whip you over a piece of the most classic ground consecrated in history, mythology, or poetry, and in less time than ever the swiftfooted achilles could have travelled it. at eleven o'clock on a bright sunny day the maria dorothea turned her back upon the city and beautiful bay of smyrna; in about two hours passed the harbour of vourla, then used as a quarantine station, the yellow plague flag floating in the city and among the shipping; and toward dark, turning the point of the gulf, came upon my old acquaintance foggi, the little harbour into which i had been twice driven by adverse winds. my greek friend happened to be on board, and, in the honesty of his heart, congratulated me upon being this time independent of the elements, without seeming to care a fig whether he profaned the memory of his ancestors in travelling by so unclassical a conveyance. if he takes it so coolly, thought i, what is it to me? they are his relations, not mine. in the evening we were moving close to the island of mytilene, the ancient lesbos, the country of sappho, alcæus, and terpander, famed for the excellence of its wine and the beauty of its women, and pre-eminently distinguished for dissipation and debauchery, the fatal plague flag now floating mournfully over its walls, marking it as the abode of pestilence and death. early in the morning i found myself opposite the promontory of lectum, now cape baba, separating the ancient troas from Æolia; a little to the right, but hardly visible, were the ruins of assos, where the apostles stopped to take in paul; a little farther the ruins of alexandria troas, one of the many cities founded by alexander during his conquests in asia; to the left, at some distance in the sea, is the island of lemnos, in the songs of the poets overshadowed by the lofty olympus, the island that received vulcan after he was kicked out of heaven by jupiter. a little farther, nearer the land, is the island of tenedos, the ancient leucophrys, where paris first landed after carrying off helen, and behind which the greeks withdrew their fleet when they pretended to have abandoned the siege of troy. still farther, on the mainland, is the promontory of sigæum, where the scamander empties into the sea, and near which were fought the principal of homer's battles. a little farther--but hold, stop the engine! if there be a spot of classic ground on earth in which the historical, and the poetical, and the fabulous are so beautifully blended together that we would not separate them even to discover the truth, it is before us now. extending for a great distance along the shore, and back as far as the eye can reach, under the purest sky that ever overshadowed the earth, lies a rich and beautiful plain, and it is the plain of troy, the battle-ground of heroes. oh field of glory and of blood, little does he know, that surly turk who is now lazily following his plough over thy surface, that every blade of thy grass could tell of heroic deeds, the shock of armies, the meeting of war chariots, the crashing of armour, the swift flight, the hot pursuit, the shouts of victors, and the groans of the dying. beyond it, towering to the heavens, is a lofty mountain, and it is mount ida, on whose top paris adjudged the golden apple to the goddess of beauty, and paved the way for those calamities which brought on the ten years' siege, and laid in ruins the ancient city of priam. two small streams, taking their rise from the mountain of the gods, join each other in the middle of the plain; scamander and simois, whose waters once washed the walls of the ancient city of dardanus; and that small, confused, and shapeless mass of ruins, that beautiful sky and the songs of homer, are all that remain to tell us that "troy was." close to the sea, and rising like mountains above the plain, are two immense mounds of earth; they are the tombs of ajax and achilles. shades of departed heroes, fain would we stop and pay the tribute which we justly owe, but we are hurried past by an engine of a hundred horse power. onward, still onward! we have reached the ancient hellespont, the dardanelles of the turks, famed as the narrow water that divides europe from asia, for the beauties that adorn its banks, and for its great turkish fortifications. three miles wide at the mouth, it becomes gradually narrower, until, in the narrowest part, the natives of europe and asia can talk together from the opposite sides. for sixty miles (its whole length) it presents a continued succession of new beauties, and in the hands of europeans, particularly english, improved as country seats, would make one of the loveliest countries in the world. i had just time to reflect that it was melancholy, and seemed inexplicable that this and other of the fairest portions of the earth should be in the hands of the turks, who neither improve it themselves nor allow others to do so. at three o'clock we arrived at the dardanelles, a little turkish town in the narrowest and most beautiful part of the straits; a strong fort with enormous cannon stands frowning on each side. these are the terrible fortifications of mohammed ii., the keys of constantinople. the guns are enormous; of one in particular, the muzzle is two feet three inches in diameter; but, with turkish ingenuity, they are so placed as to be discharged when a ship is directly opposite. if the ship is not disabled by the first fire, and does not choose to go back and take another, she is safe. at every moment a new picture presents itself; a new fort, a new villa, or the ruins of an ancient city. a naked point on the european side, so ugly compared with all around it as to attract particular attention, projects into the strait, and here are the ruins of sestos; here xerxes built his bridge of boats to carry over his millions to the conquest of greece; and here, when he returned with the wreck of his army, defeated and disgraced, found his bridge destroyed by a tempest, and, in his rage, ordered the chains to be thrown into the sea and the waves to be lashed with rods. from this point, too, leander swam the hellespont for love of hero, and lord byron and mr. ekenhead for fun. nearly opposite, close to a turkish fort, are the ruins of abydos. here xerxes, and leander, and lord byron, and mr. ekenhead landed. our voyage is drawing to a close. at gallipoli, a large turkish town handsomely situated at the mouth of the dardanelles, we took on board the turkish governor, with his pipe-bearer and train of attendants, escorted by thirty or forty boats, containing three or four hundred people, his mightiness taking a deck passage. toward evening we were entering the sea of marmora, the ancient propontis, like one of our small lakes, and i again went to sleep lulled by the music of a high-pressure engine. at daylight we were approaching constantinople; twelve miles this side, on the bank of the sea of marmora, is the village of st. stephano, the residence of commodore porter. here the domes and minarets of the ancient city, with their golden points and glittering crescents, began to appear in sight. high above the rest towered the mosque of sultan achmet and the beautiful dome of st. sophia, the ancient christian church, but now, for nearly four hundred years, closed against the christians' feet. we approach the walls and pass a range of gloomy turrets; there are the seven towers, prisons, portals of the grave, whose mysteries few live to publish: the bowstring and the sea reveal no secrets. that palace, with its blinded windows and its superb garden, surrounded by a triple range of walls, is the far-famed seraglio; there beauty lingers in a splendid cage, and, lolling on her rich divan, sighs for the humblest lot and freedom. in front, that narrow water, a thousand caiques shooting through it like arrows, and its beautiful banks covered with high palaces and gardens in the oriental style, is the thracian bosphorus. we float around the walls of the seraglio, enter the golden horn, and before us, with its thousand mosques and its myriad of minarets, their golden points glittering in the sun, is the roman city of constantinople, the thracian byzantium, the stamboul of the turks; the city which, more than all others, excites the imagination and interests the feelings; once dividing with rome the empire of the world; built by a christian emperor and consecrated as a christian city, a "burning and a shining light" in a season of universal darkness, all at once lost to the civilized world; falling into the hands of a strange and fanatic people, the gloomy followers of a successful soldier; a city which, for nearly four centuries, has sat with its gates closed in sullen distrust and haughty defiance of strangers; which once sent forth large and terrible armies, burning, slaying, and destroying, shaking the hearts of princes and people, now lying like a fallen giant, huge, unwieldy, and helpless, ready to fall into the hands of the first invader, and dragging out a precarious and ignoble existence but by the mercy or policy of the great christian powers. the morning sun, now striking upon its domes and minarets, covers it, as it were, with burnished gold; a beautiful verdure surrounds it, and pure waters wash it on every side. can this beautiful city, rich with the choicest gifts of heaven, be pre-eminently the abode of pestilence and death? where a man carries about with him the seeds of disease to all whom he holds dear? if he extend the hand of welcome to a friend, if he embrace his child or rub against a stranger, the friend, and the child, and the stranger follow him to the grave? where, year after year, the angel of death stalks through the streets, and thousands and tens of thousands look him calmly in the face, and murmuring "allah, allah, god is merciful," with a fatal trust in the prophet, lie down and die? we enter the city, and these questions are quickly answered. a lazy, lounging, and filthy population; beggars basking in the sun, and dogs licking their sores; streets never cleaned but by the winds and rains; immense burying-grounds all over the city; tombstones at the corners of the streets; graves gaping ready to throw out their half-buried dead, the whole approaching to one vast charnel-house, dispel all illusions and remove all doubts, and we are ready to ask ourselves if it be possible that, in such a place, health can ever dwell. we wonder that it should ever, for the briefest moment, be free from that dreadful scourge which comes with every summer's sun and strews its streets with dead. **** chapter xii. mr. churchill.--commodore porter.--castle of the seven towers.--the sultan's naval architect.--launch of the great ship.--sultan mahmoud.--jubilate.--a national grievance.--visit to a mosque.--the burial-grounds. there is a good chance for an enterprising connecticut man to set up a hotel in constantinople. the reader will see that i have travelled with my eyes open, and i trust this shrewd observation on entering the city of the cæsars will be considered characteristic and american. paul was at home in pera, and conducted us to the hotel d'italia, which was so full that we could not get admission, and so vile a place that we were not sorry for it. we then went to madame josephine's, a sort of private boarding-house, but excellent of its kind. we found there a collection of travellers, english, french, german, and russian, and the dinner was particularly social; but dr. n. was so disgusted with the clatter of foreign tongues, that he left the table with the first course, and swore he would not stay there another day. we tried to persuade him. i reminded him that there was an englishman among them, but this only made him worse; he hated an englishman, and wondered how i, as an american, could talk with one as i had with him. in short, he was resolved, and had paul running about every street in pera looking for rooms. notwithstanding his impracticabilities as a traveller, i liked the doctor, and determined to follow him, and before breakfast the next morning we were installed in a suite of rooms in the third story of a house opposite the old palace of the british ambassador. for two or three days i was _hors du combat_, and put myself under the hands of dr. zohrab, an armenian, educated at edinburgh, whom i cordially recommend both for his kindness and medical skill. on going out, one of my first visits was to my banker, mr. churchill, a gentleman whose name has since rung throughout europe, and who at one time seemed likely to be the cause of plunging the whole civilized world into a war. he was then living in sedikuey, on the site of the ancient chalcedon, in asia; and i have seldom been more shocked than by reading in a newspaper, while in the lazaretto at malta, that, having accidentally shot a turkish boy with a fowling-piece, he had been seized by the turks, and, in defiance of treaties, _bastinadoed_ till he was almost dead. i had seen the infliction of that horrible punishment; and, besides the physical pain, there was a sense of the indignity that roused every feeling. i could well imagine the ferocious spirit with which the turks would stand around and see a christian scourged. the civilized world owes a deep debt of gratitude to the english government for the uncompromising stand taken in this matter with the sultan, and the firmness with which it insisted on, and obtained, the most ample redress for mr. churchill, and atonement for the insult offered to all christendom in his person. my companions and myself had received several invitations from commodore porter, and, accompanied by mr. dwight, one of our american missionaries, to whom i am under particular obligations for his kindness, early in the morning we took a caique with three athletic turks, and, after a beautiful row, part of it from the seraglio point to the seven towers, a distance of five miles, being close under the walls of the city, in two hours reached the commodore's residence at st. stephano, twelve miles from constantinople, on the borders of the sea of marmora. the situation is beautiful, abounding in fruit-trees, among which are some fig trees of the largest size; and the commodore was then engaged in building a large addition to his house. it will be remembered that commodore porter was the first envoy ever sent by the united states' government to the sublime porte. he had formerly lived at buyukdere, on the bosphorus, with the other members of the diplomatic corps; but his salary as chargé being inadequate to sustain a becoming style, he had withdrawn to this place. i had never seen commodore porter before. i afterward passed a month with him in the lazaretto at malta, and i trust he will not consider me presuming when i say that our acquaintance ripened into friendship. he is entirely different from the idea i had formed of him; small, dark, weather-beaten, much broken in health, and remarkably mild and quiet in his manners. his eye is his best feature, though even that does not indicate the desperate hardihood of character which he has exhibited on so many occasions. perhaps i ought not to say so, but he seemed ill at ease in his position, and i could not but think that he ought still to be standing in the front rank of that service he so highly honoured. he spoke with great bitterness of the foxardo affair, and gave me an account of an interesting interview between general jackson and himself on his recall from south america. general jackson wished him to resume his rank in the navy, but he answered that he would never accept service with men who had suspended him for doing what, they said in their sentence of condemnation, was done "to sustain the honour of the american flag." at the primitive hour of one we sat down to a regular family dinner. we were all americans. the commodore's sister, who was living with him, presided, and we looked out on the sea of marmora and talked of home. i cannot describe the satisfaction of these meetings of americans so far from their own country. i have often experienced it most powerfully in the houses of the missionaries in the east. besides having, in many instances, the same acquaintances, we had all the same habits and ways of thinking; their articles of furniture were familiar to me, and there was scarcely a house in which i did not find an article unknown except among americans, a boston rocking-chair. we talked over the subject of our difficulties with france, then under discussion in the chamber of deputies, and i remember that commodore porter was strong in the opinion that the bill paying the debt would pass. before rising from table, the commodore's janisary came down from constantinople, with papers and letters just arrived by the courier from paris. he told me that i should have the honour of breaking the seals, and i took out the paper so well known all over europe, "galignani's messenger," and had the satisfaction of reading aloud, in confirmation of the commodore's opinion, that the bill for paying the american claims had passed the chamber of deputies by a large majority. [illustration: castle of the seven towers.] about four o'clock we embarked in our caique to return to constantinople. in an hour mr. d. and i landed at the foot of the seven towers, and few things in this ancient city interested me more than my walk around its walls. we followed them the whole extent on the land side, from the sea of marmora to the golden horn. they consist of a triple range, with five gates, the principal of which is the cannon gate, through which mohammed ii. made his triumphal entry into the christian city. they have not been repaired since the city fell into the hands of the turks, and are the same walls which procured for it the proud name of the "well-defended city;" to a great extent, they are the same walls which the first constantine built and the last constantine died in defending. time has laid his ruining hand upon them, and they are everywhere weak and decaying, and would fall at once before the thunder of modern war. the moat and fossé have alike lost their warlike character, and bloom and blossom with the vine and fig tree. beyond, hardly less interesting than the venerable walls, and extending as far as the eye can reach, is one continued burying-ground, with thousands and tens of thousands of turbaned headstones, shaded by thick groves of the mourning cypress. opposite the damascus gate is an elevated enclosure, disconnected from all around, containing five headstones in a row, over the bodies of ali pacha, the rebel chief of yanina, and his four sons. the fatal mark of death by the bowstring is conspicuous on the tombs, as a warning to rebels that they cannot escape the sure vengeance of the porte. it was toward the sunset of a beautiful evening, and all stamboul was out among the tombs. at dark we reached the golden horn, crossed over in a caique, and in a few minutes were in pera. the next day i took a caique at tophana, and went up to the shipyards at the head of the golden horn to visit mr. rhodes, to whom i had a letter from a friend in smyrna. mr. rhodes is a native of long island, but from his boyhood a resident of this city, and i take great pleasure in saying that he is an honour to our state and country. the reader will remember that, some years ago, mr. eckford, one of our most prominent citizens, under a pressure of public and domestic calamities, left his native city. he sailed from new-york in a beautiful corvette, its destination unknown, and came to anchor under the walls of the seraglio in the harbour of constantinople. the sultan saw her, admired her, and bought her; and i saw her "riding like a thing of life" on the waters of the golden horn, a model of beauty. the fame of his skill, and the beautiful specimen he carried out with him, recommended mr. eckford to the sultan as a fit instrument to build up the character of the ottoman navy; and afterward, when his full value became known, the sultan remarked of him that america must be a great nation if she could spare from her service such a man. had he lived, even in the decline of life he would have made for himself a reputation in that distant quarter of the globe equal to that he had left behind him, and doubtless would have reaped the attendant pecuniary reward. mr. rhodes went out as mr. eckford's foreman, and on his death the task of completing his employer's work devolved on him. it could not have fallen upon a better man. from a journeyman shipbuilder, all at once mr. rhodes found himself brought into close relations with the seraskier pacha, the reis effendi, the grand vizier, and the sultan himself; but his good sense never deserted him. he was then preparing for the launch of the great ship; the longest, as he said, and he knew the dimensions of every ship that floated, in the world. i accompanied him over the ship and through the yards, and it was with no small degree of interest that i viewed a townsman, an entire stranger in the country, by his skill alone standing at the head of the great naval establishment of the sultan. he was dressed in a blue roundabout jacket, without whiskers or mustache, and, except that he wore the tarbouch, was thorough american in his appearance and manners, while his dragoman was constantly by his side, communicating his orders to hundreds of mustached turks, and in the same breath he was talking with me of shipbuilders in new-york, and people and things most familiar in our native city. mr. rhodes knows and cares but little for things that do not immediately concern him; his whole thoughts are of his business, and in that he possesses an ambition and industry worthy of all praise. as an instance of his discretion, particularly proper in the service of that suspicious and despotic government, i may mention that, while standing near the ship and remarking a piece of cloth stretched across her stern, i asked him her name, and he told me he did not know; that it was painted on her stern, and his dragoman knew, but he had never looked under, that he might not be able to answer when asked. i have seldom met a countryman abroad with whom i was more pleased, and at parting he put himself on a pinnacle in my estimation by telling me that, if i came to the yard the next day at one, i would see the sultan! there was no man living whom i had a greater curiosity to see. at twelve o'clock i was at the yard, but the sultan did not come. i went again, and his highness had come two hours before the time; had accompanied mr. rhodes over the ship, and left the yard less than five minutes before my arrival; his caique was still lying at the little dock, his attendants were carrying trays of refreshments to a shooting-ground in the rear, and two black eunuchs belonging to the seraglio, handsomely dressed in long black cloaks of fine pelisse cloth, with gold-headed canes and rings on their fingers, were still lingering about the ship, their effeminate faces and musical voices at once betraying their neutral character. the next was the day of the launch; and early in the morning, in the suite of commodore porter, i went on board an old steamer provided by the sultan expressly for the use of mr. rhodes's american friends. the waters of the golden horn were already covered; thousands of caiques, with their high sharp points, were cutting through it, or resting like gulls upon its surface; and there were ships with the still proud banner of the crescent, and strangers with the flags of every nation in christendom, and sailboats, longboats, and rowboats, ambassadors' barges, and caiques of effendis, beys, and pachas, with red silk flags streaming in the wind, while countless thousands were assembled on the banks to behold the extraordinary spectacle of an american ship, the largest in the world, launched in the harbour of old stamboul. the sultan was then living at his beautiful palace at sweet waters, and was obliged to pass by our boat; he had made a great affair of the launch; had invited all the diplomatic corps, and, through the reis effendi, particularly requested the presence of commodore porter; had stationed his harem on the opposite side of the river; and as i saw prepared for himself near the ship a tent of scarlet cloth trimmed with gold, i expected to see him appear in all the pomp and splendour of the greatest potentate on earth. i had already seen enough to convince me that the days of eastern magnificence had gone by, or that the gorgeous scenes which my imagination had always connected with the east had never existed; but still i could not divest myself of the lingering idea of the power and splendour of the sultan. his commanding style to his own subjects: "i command you, ----, my slave, that you bring the head of ----, my slave, and lay it at my feet;" and then his lofty tone with foreign powers: "i, who am, by the infinite grace of the great, just, and all-powerful creator, and the abundance of the miracles of the chief of his prophets, emperor of powerful emperors; refuge of sovereigns; distributor of crowns to the kings of the earth; keeper of the two very holy cities (mecca and medina); governor of the holy city of jerusalem; master of europe, asia, and africa, conquered with our victorious sword and our terrible lance; lord of two seas (black and white); of damascus, the odour of paradise; of bagdad, the seat of the califs; of the fortresses of belgrade, agra, and a multitude of countries, isles, straits, people, generations, and of so many victorious armies who repose under the shade of our sublime porte; i, in short, who am the shadow of god upon earth;" i was rolling these things through my mind when a murmur, "the sultan is coming," turned me to the side of the boat, and one view dispelled all my gorgeous fancies. there was no style, no state, a citizen king, a republican president, or a democratic governor, could not have made a more unpretending appearance than did this "shadow of god upon earth." he was seated in the bottom of a large caique, dressed in the military frockcoat and red tarbouch, with his long black beard, the only mark of a turk about him, and he moved slowly along the vacant space cleared for his passage, boats with the flags of every nation, and thousands of caiques falling back, and the eyes of the immense multitude earnestly fixed upon him, but without any shouts or acclamations; and when he landed at the little dock, and his great officers bowed to the dust before him, he looked the plainest, mildest, kindest man among them. i had wished to see him as a wholesale murderer, who had more blood upon his hands than any man living; who had slaughtered the janisaries, drenched the plains of greece, to say nothing of bastinadoes, impalements, cutting off heads, and tying up in sacks, which are taking place every moment; but i will not believe that sultan mahmoud finds any pleasure in shedding blood. dire necessity, or, as he himself would say, fate, has ever been driving him on. i look upon him as one of the most interesting characters upon earth; as the creature of circumstances, made bloody and cruel by the necessities of his position. i look at his past life and at that which is yet in store for him, through all the stormy scenes he is to pass until he completes his unhappy destiny, the last of a powerful and once-dreaded race, bearded by those who once crouched at the footstool of his ancestors, goaded by rebellious vassals, conscious that he is going a downward road, and yet unable to resist the impulse that drives him on. like the strong man encompassed with a net, he finds no avenue of escape, and cannot break through it. the seraskier pacha and other principal officers escorted him to his tent, and now all the interest which i had taken in the sultan was transferred to mr. rhodes. he had great anxiety about the launch, and many difficulties to contend with: first, in the turks' jealousy of a stranger, which obliged him to keep constantly on the watch lest some of his ropes should be cut or fastenings knocked away; and he had another turkish prejudice to struggle against: the day had been fixed twice before, but the astronomers found an unfortunate conjunction of the stars, and it was postponed, and even then the stars were unpropitious; but mr. rhodes had insisted that the work had gone so far that it could not be stopped. and, besides these, he had another great difficulty in his ignorance of their language. with more than a thousand men under him, all his orders had to pass through interpreters, and often, too, the most prompt action was necessary, and the least mistake might prove fatal. fortunately, he was protected from treachery by the kindness of mr. churchill and dr. zohrab, one of whom stood on the bow and the other in the stern of the ship, and through whom every order was transmitted in turkish. probably none there felt the same interest that we did; for the flags of the barbarian and every nation in christendom were waving around us, and at that distance from home the enterprise of a single citizen enlisted the warmest feelings of every american. we watched the ship with as keen an interest as if our own honour and success in life depended upon her movements. for a long time she remained perfectly quiet. at length she moved, slowly and almost imperceptibly; and then, as if conscious that the eyes of an immense multitude were on her, and that the honour of a distant nation was in some measure at stake, she marched proudly to the water, plunged in with a force that almost buried her, and, rising like a huge leviathan, parted the foaming waves with her bow, and rode triumphantly upon them. even mussulman indifference was disturbed; all petty jealousies were hushed; the whole immense mass was roused into admiration; loud and long-continued shouts of applause rose with one accord from turks and christians, and the sultan was so transported that he jumped up and clapped his hands like a schoolboy. mr. rhodes's triumph was complete; the sultan called him to his tent, and with his own hands fixed on the lappel of his coat a gold medal set in diamonds, representing the launching of a ship. mr. rhodes has attained among strangers the mark of every honourable man's ambition, the head of his profession. he has put upon the water what commodore porter calls the finest ship that ever floated, and has a right to be proud of his position and prospects under the "shade of the sublime porte." the sultan wishes to confer upon him the title of chief naval constructor, and to furnish him with a house and a caique with four oars. in compliment to his highness, who detests a hat, mr. rhodes wears the tarbouch; but he declines all offices and honours, and anything that may tend to fix him as a turkish subject, and looks to return and enjoy in his own country and among his own people the fruits of his honourable labours. if the good wishes of a friend can avail him, he will soon return to our city rich with the profits of untiring industry, and an honourable testimony to his countrymen of the success of american skill and enterprise abroad. to go back a moment. all day the great ship lay in the middle of the golden horn, while perhaps more than a hundred thousand turks shot round her in their little caiques, looking up from the surface of the water to her lofty deck: and in pera, wherever i went, perhaps because i was an american, the only thing i heard of was the american ship. proud of the admiration excited so far from home by this noble specimen of the skill of an american citizen, i unburden myself of a long-smothered subject of complaint against my country. i cry out with a loud voice for _reform_, not in the hackneyed sense of petty politicians, but by a liberal and enlarged expenditure of public money; by increasing the outfits and salaries of our foreign ambassadors and ministers. we claim to be rich, free from debt, and abundant in resources, and yet every american abroad is struck with a feeling of mortification at the inability of his representative to take that position in social life to which the character of his country entitles him. we may talk of republican simplicity as we will, but there are certain usages of society and certain appendages of rank which, though they may be unmeaning and worthless, are sanctioned, if not by the wisdom, at least by the practice of all civilized countries. we have committed a fatal error since the time when franklin appeared at the court of france in a plain citizen's dress; everywhere our representative conforms to the etiquette of the court to which he is accredited, and it is too late to go back and begin anew; and now, unless our representative is rich and willing to expend his own fortune for the honour of the nation, he is obliged to withdraw from the circles and position in which he has a right and ought to move, or to move in them on an inferior footing, under an acknowledgment of inability to appear as an equal. and again: our whole consular system is radically wrong, disreputable, and injurious to our character and interests. while other nations consider the support of their consuls a part of the expenses of their government, we suffer ourselves to be represented by merchants, whose pecuniary interests are mixed up with all the local and political questions that affect the place and who are under a strong inducement to make their office subservient to their commercial relations. i make no imputations against any of them. i could not if i would, for i do not know an american merchant holding the office who is not a respectable man; but the representative of our country ought to be the representative of our country only; removed from any distracting or conflicting interests, standing like a watchman to protect the honour of his nation and the rights of her citizens. and more than this, all over the mediterranean there are ports where commerce presents no inducements to the american merchant, and there the office falls into the hands of the natives; and at this day the american arms are blazoned on the doors, and the american flag is waving over the houses, of greeks, italians, jews, and arabs, and all the mongrel population of that inland sea; and in the ports under the dominion of turkey particularly, the office is coveted as a means of protecting the holder against the liabilities to his own government, and of revenue by selling that protection to others. i will not mention them by name, for i bear them no ill will personally, and i have received kindness from most of the petty vagabonds who live under the folds of the american flag; but the consuls at gendoa and algiers are a disgrace to the american name. congress has lately turned its attention to this subject, and will, before long, i hope, effect a complete change in the character of our consular department, and give it the respectability which it wants; the only remedy is by following the example of other nations, in fixing salaries to the office, and forbidding the holders to engage in trade. besides the leading inducements to this change, there is a secondary consideration, which, in my eyes, is not without its value, in that it would furnish a valuable school of instruction for our young men. the offices would be sought by such. a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year would maintain them respectably, in most of the ports of the mediterranean, and young men resident in those places, living upon salaries, and not obliged to engage in commerce, would employ their leisure hours in acquiring the language of the country, in communicating with the interior, and among them would return upon us an accumulation of knowledge far more than repaying us for all the expense of supporting them abroad. doubtless the reader expects other things in constantinople; but all things are changing. the day has gone by when the christian could not cross the threshold of a mosque and live. even the sacred mosque of st. sophia, the ancient christian church, so long closed against the christians' feet, now, upon great occasions, again opens its doors to the descendants of its christian builders. one of these great occasions happened while i was there. the sultan gave a firman to the french ambassador, under which all the european residents and travellers visited it. unfortunately, i was unwell, and could not go out that day, and was obliged afterward to content myself with walking around its walls, with uplifted eyes and a heavy heart, admiring the glittering crescent and thinking of the prostrate cross. but no traveller can leave constantinople without having seen the interior of a mosque; and accordingly, under the guidance of mustapha, the janisary of the british consul, i visited the mosque of sultan suliman, next in point of beauty to that of st. sophia, though far inferior in historical interest. at an early hour we crossed the golden horn to old stamboul; threaded our way through its narrow and intricate streets to an eminence near the seraskier pacha's tower; entered by a fine gateway into a large courtyard, more than a thousand feet square, handsomely paved and ornamented with noble trees, and enclosed by a high wall; passed a marble fountain of clear and abundant water, where, one after another, the faithful stopped to make their ablutions; entered a large colonnade, consisting of granite and marble pillars of every form and style, the plunder of ancient temples, worked in without much regard to architectural fitness, yet, on the whole, producing a fine effect; pulled off our shoes at the door, and, with naked feet and noiseless step, crossed the sacred threshold of the mosque. silently we moved among the kneeling figures of the faithful scattered about in different parts of the mosque and engaged in prayer; paused for a moment under the beautiful dome sustained by four columns from the temple of diana at ephesus; leaned against a marble pillar which may have supported, two thousand years ago, the praying figure of a worshipper of the great goddess; gazed at the thousand small lamps suspended from the lofty ceiling, each by a separate cord, and with a devout feeling left the mosque. [illustration: mosque of sultan suliman.] in the rear, almost concealed from view by a thick grove of trees, shrubs, and flowers, is a circular building about forty feet in diameter, containing the tomb of suliman, the founder of the mosque, his brother, his favourite wife roxala, and two other wives. the monuments are in the form of sarcophagi, with pyramidal tops, covered with rich cashmere shawls, having each at the head a large white turban, and enclosed by a railing covered with mother-of-pearl. the great beauty of the sepulchral chamber is its dome, which is highly ornamented, and sparkles with brilliants. in one corner is a plan of mecca, the holy temple, and tomb of the prophet. in the afternoon i went for the last time to the armenian burying-ground. in the east the graveyards are the general promenades, the places of rendezvous, and the lounging-places; and in constantinople the armenian burying-ground is the most beautiful, and the favourite. situated in the suburbs of pera, overlooking the bosphorus, shaded by noble palm-trees, almost regularly toward evening i found myself sitting upon the same tombstone, looking upon the silvery water at my feet, studded with palaces, flashing and glittering with caiques from the golden palace of the sultan to the seraglio point, and then turned to the animated groups thronging the burying-ground; the armenian in his flowing robes, the dashing greek, the stiff and out-of-place-looking frank; turks in their gay and bright costume, glittering arms, and solemn beards, enjoying the superlative of existence in dozing over their pipe; and women in long white veils, apart under some delightful shade, in little picnic parties, eating ices and confectionary. here and there, toward the outskirts, was the araba, the only wheeled carriage known among the turks, with a long low body, highly carved and gilded, drawn by oxen fancifully trimmed with ribands, and filled with soft cushions, on which the turkish and armenian ladies almost buried themselves. instead of the cypress, the burying-ground is shaded by noble plane-trees; and the tombstones, instead of being upright, are all flat, having at the head a couple of little niches scooped out to hold water, with the beautiful idea to induce birds to come there and drink and sing among the trees. their tombstones, too, have another mark, which, in a country where men are apt to forget who their fathers were, would exclude them even from that place where all mortal distinctions are laid low, viz., a mark indicating the profession or occupation of the deceased; as, a pair of shears to mark the grave of a tailor; a razor that of a barber; and on many of them was another mark indicating the manner of death, the bowstring, or some other mark, showing that the stone covered a victim of turkish cruelty. but all these things are well known; nothing has escaped the prying eyes of curious travellers; and i merely state, for my own credit's sake, that i followed the steps of those who had gone before me, visited the sweet waters, scutary, and belgrade, the reservoirs, aqueducts, and ruins of the palace of constantine, and saw the dancing dervishes; rowed up the bosphorus to buyukdere, lunched under the tree where godfrey encamped with his gallant crusaders, and looked out upon the black sea from the top of the giant's mountain. chapter xiii. visit to the slave-market.--horrors of slavery.--departure from stamboul.--the stormy euxine.--odessa.--the lazaretto.--russian civility.--returning good for evil. the day before i left constantinople i went, in company with dr. n. and his son, and attended by paul, to visit the slave-market; crossing over to stamboul, we picked up a jew in the bazars, who conducted us through a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets to a quarter of the city from which it would have been utterly impossible for me to extricate myself alone. i only know that it was situated on high ground, and that we passed through a gateway into a hollow square of about a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet on each side. it was with no small degree of emotion that i entered this celebrated place, where so many christian hearts have trembled; and, before crossing the threshold, i ran over in my mind all the romantic stories and all the horrible realities that i could remember connected with its history: the tears of beauty, the pangs of brave men, and so down to the unsentimental exclamation of johnson to his new friend don juan: "yon black eunuch seems to eye us; i wish to god that somebody would buy us." the bazar forms a hollow square, with little chambers about fifteen feet each way around it, in which the slaves belonging to the different dealers are kept. a large shed or portico projects in front, under which, and in front of each chamber, is a raised platform, with a low railing around it, where the slave-merchant sits and gossips, and dozes over his coffee and pipes. i had heard so little of this place, and it was so little known among europeans, taking into consideration, moreover, that in a season of universal peace the market must be without a supply of captives gained in war, that i expected to see but a remnant of the ancient traffic, supposing that i should find but few slaves, and those only black; but, to my surprise, i found there twenty or thirty white women. bad, horrible as this traffic is under any circumstances, to my habits and feelings it loses a shade of its horrors when confined to blacks; but here whites and blacks were exposed together in the same bazar. the women were from circassia and the regions of the caucasus, that country so renowned for beauty; they were dressed in the turkish costume, with the white shawl wrapped around the mouth and chin, and over the forehead, shading the eyes, so that it was difficult to judge with certainty as to their personal appearance. europeans are not permitted to purchase, and their visits to this bazar are looked upon with suspicion. if we stopped long opposite a door, it was closed upon us; but i was not easily shaken off, and returned so often at odd times, that i succeeded in seeing pretty distinctly all that was to be seen. in general, the best slaves are not exposed in the bazars, but are kept at the houses of the dealers; but there was one among them not more than seventeen, with a regular circassian face, a brilliantly fair complexion, a mild and cheerful expression; and in the slave-market, under the partial disguise of the turkish shawl, it required no great effort of the imagination to make her decidedly beautiful. paul stopped, and with a burst of enthusiasm, the first i had discovered in him, exclaimed "quelle beauté!" she noticed my repeatedly stopping before her bazar; and, when i was myself really disposed to be sentimental, instead of drooping her head with the air of a distressed heroine, to my great surprise she laughed and nodded, and beckoned me to come to her. paul was very much struck; and repeating his warm expression of admiration at her beauty, told me that she wanted me to buy her. without waiting for a reply, he went off and inquired the price, which was two hundred and fifty dollars; and added that he could easily get some turk to let me buy her in his name, and then i could put her on board a vessel, and carry her where i pleased. i told him it was hardly worth while at present; and he, thinking my objection was merely to the person, in all honesty and earnestness told me he had been there frequently, and never saw anything half so handsome; adding that, if i let slip this opportunity, i would scarcely have another as good, and wound up very significantly by declaring that, if he was a gentleman, he would not hesitate a moment. a gentleman, in the sense in which paul understood the word, is apt to fall into irregular ways in the east. removed from the restraints which operate upon men in civilized countries, if he once breaks through the trammels of education, he goes all lengths; and it is said to be a matter of general remark, that slaves are always worse treated by europeans than by the turks. the slave-dealers are principally jews, who buy children when young, and, if they have beauty train up the girls in such accomplishments as may fascinate the turks. our guide told us that, since the greek revolution, the slave-market had been comparatively deserted; but, during the whole of that dreadful struggle, every day presented new horrors; new captives were brought in, the men raving and struggling, and vainly swearing eternal vengeance against the turks, and the women shrieking distractedly in the agony of a separation. after the massacre at scio, in particular, hundreds of young girls, with tears streaming down their cheeks, and bursting hearts, were sold to the unhallowed embraces of the turks for a few dollars a head. we saw nothing of the horrors and atrocities of this celebrated slave-market. indeed, except prisoners of war and persons captured by turkish corsairs, the condition of those who now fill the slave-market is not the horrible lot that a warm imagination might suppose. they are mostly persons in a semibarbarous state; blacks from sennaar and abyssinia, or whites from the regions of the caucasus, bought from their parents for a string of beads or a shawl; and, in all probability, the really beautiful girl whom i saw had been sold by parents who could not feed or clothe her, who considered themselves rid of an encumbrance, and whom she left without regret; and she, having left poverty and misery behind her, looked to the slave-market as the sole means of advancing her fortune; and, in becoming the favoured inmate of a harem, expected to attain a degree of happiness she could never have enjoyed at home. i intended to go from constantinople to egypt, but the plague was raging there so violently that it would have been foolhardy to attempt it; and while making arrangements with a tartar to return to europe on horseback across the balkan, striking the danube at semlin and belgrade, a russian government steamer was advertised for odessa; and as this mode of travelling at that moment suited my health better, i altered my whole plan, and determined to leave the ruined countries of the old world for a land just emerging from a state of barbarism, and growing into gigantic greatness. with great regret i took leave of dr. n. and his son, who sailed the same day for smyrna, and i have never seen them since. paul was the last man to whom i said farewell. at the moment of starting my shirts were brought in dripping wet, and paul bestowed a malediction upon the greek while he wrung them out and tumbled them into my carpet-bag. i afterward found him at malta, whence he accompanied me on my tour in egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land, by which he is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers. with my carpet-bag on the shoulders of a turk, i walked for the last time to tophana. a hundred caiquemen gathered around me, but i pushed them all back, and kept guard over my carpet-bag, looking out for one whom i had been in the habit of employing ever since my arrival in constantinople. he soon spied me; and when he took my luggage and myself into his caique, manifested that he knew it was for the last time. having an hour to spare, i directed him to row once more under the walls of the seraglio; and still loath to leave, i went on shore and walked around the point, until i was stopped by a turkish bayonet. the turk growled, and his mustache curled fiercely as he pointed it at me. i had been stopped by frenchmen, italians, and by a mountain greek, but found nothing that brings a man to such a dead stand as the turkish bayonet. i returned to my caique, and went on board the steamer. she was a russian government vessel, more classically called a pyroscaphe, a miserable old thing; and yet as much form and circumstance were observed in sending her off as in fitting out an _exploring expedition_. consuls' and ambassadors' boats were passing and repassing, and after an enormous fuss and preparation, we started under a salute of cannon, which was answered from one of the sultan's frigates. we had the usual scene of parting with friends, waving of handkerchiefs, and so on; and feeling a little lonely at the idea of leaving a city containing a million inhabitants without a single friend to bid me godspeed, i took my place on the quarter-deck, and waved my handkerchief to my caiqueman, who, i have no doubt, independent of the loss of a few piasters per day, was very sorry to lose me; for we had been so long together, that, in spite of our ignorance of each other's language, we understood each other perfectly. i found on board two englishmen whom i had met at corfu, and a third, who had joined them at smyrna, going to travel in the crimea; our other cabin-passengers were mr. luoff, a russian officer, an aiddecamp of the emperor, just returned from travels in egypt and syria, mr. perseani, secretary to the russian legation in greece; a greek merchant, with a russian protection, on his way to the sea of azoff; and a french merchant of odessa. the tub of a steamboat dashed up the bosphorus at the rate of three miles an hour; while the classic waters, as if indignant at having such a bellowing, blowing, blustering monster upon their surface, seemed to laugh at her unwieldy and ineffectual efforts. slowly we mounted the beautiful strait, lined on the european side almost with one continued range of houses, exhibiting in every beautiful nook a palace of the sultan, and at terapeia and buyukdere the palaces of the foreign ambassadors; passed the giant's mountain, and about an hour before dark were entering a new sea, the dark and stormy euxine. advancing, the hills became more lofty and ragged, terminating on the thracian side in high rocky precipices. the shores of this extremity of the bosphorus were once covered with shrines, altars, and temples, monuments of the fears or gratitude of mariners who were about to leave, or who had escaped, the dangers of the inhospitable euxine; and the remains of these antiquities were so great that a traveller almost in our own day describes the coasts as "covered by their ruins." the castles on the european and the asiatic side of the strait are supposed to occupy the sites where stood, in ancient days, the great temples of jupiter serapis and jupiter urius. the bosphorus opens abruptly, without any enlargement at its mouth, between two mountains. the parting view of the strait, or, rather, of the coast on each side, was indescribably grand, presenting a stupendous wall opposed to the great bed of waters, as if torn asunder by an earthquake, leaving a narrow rent for their escape. on each side, a miserable lantern on the top of a tower, hardly visible at the distance of a few miles, is the only light to guide the mariner at night; and as there is another opening called the false bosphorus, the entrance is difficult and dangerous, and many vessels are lost here annually. as the narrow opening closed before me, i felt myself entering a new world; i was fairly embarked upon that wide expanse of water which once, according to ancient legends, mingled with the caspian, and covered the great oriental plain of tartary, and upon which jason, with his adventurous argonauts, having killed the dragon and carried off the golden fleece from colchis, if those same legends be true (which some doubt), sailed across to the great ocean. i might and should have speculated upon the great changes in the face of nature and the great deluge recorded by grecian historians and poets, which burst the narrow passage of the thracian bosphorus for the outlet of the mighty waters; but who could philosophize in a steamboat on the euxine? oh fulton! much as thou hast done for mechanics and the useful arts, thy hand has fallen rudely upon all cherished associations. we boast of thee; i have myself been proud of thee as an american; but as i sat at evening on the stern of the steamer, and listened to the clatter of the engine, and watched the sparks rushing out of the high pipes, and remembered that this was on the dark and inhospitable euxine, i wished that thy life had begun after mine was ended. i trust i did his memory no wrong; but if i had borne him malice, i could not have wished him worse than to have all his dreams of the past disturbed by the clatter of one of his own engines. i turned away from storied associations to a new country grown up in our own day. we escaped, and, i am obliged to say, without noticing them, the cyaneæ, "the blue symplegades," or "wandering islands," which, lying on the european and asiatic side, floated about, or, according to pliny, "were alive, and moved to and fro more swiftly than the blast," and in passing through which the good ship argo had a narrow escape, and lost the extremity of her stern. history and poetry have invested this sea with extraordinary and ideal terrors; but my experience both of the mediterranean and black sea was unfortunate for realizing historical and poetical accounts. i had known the beautiful mediterranean a sea of storm and sunshine, in which the storm greatly predominated. i found the stormy euxine calm as an untroubled lake; in fact, the black sea is in reality nothing more than a lake, not as large as many of our own, receiving the waters of the great rivers of the north: the don, the cuban, the phase, the dnieper, and the danube, and pouring their collected streams through the narrow passage of the bosphorus into the mediterranean. still, if the number of shipwrecks be any evidence of its character, it is indeed entitled to its ancient reputation of a dangerous sea, though probably these accidents proceed, in a great measure, from the ignorance and unskilfulness of mariners, and the want of proper charts and of suitable lighthouses at the opening of the bosphorus. at all events, we outblustered the winds and waves with our steamboat; passed the serpent isles, the ancient leuce, with a roaring that must have astonished the departed heroes whose souls, according to the ancient poets, were sent there to enjoy perpetual paradise, and scared the aquatic birds which every morning dipped their wings in the sea, and sprinkled the temple of achilles, and swept with their plumage its sacred pavement. [illustration: odessa.] on the third day we made the low coast of moldavia or bess arabia, within a short distance of odessa, the great seaport of southern russia. here, too, there was nothing to realize preconceived notions; for, instead of finding a rugged region of eternal snows, we were suffering under an intensely hot sun when we cast anchor in the harbour of odessa. the whole line of the coast is low and destitute of trees; but odessa is situated on a high bank; and, with its beautiful theatre, the exchange, the palace of the governor, &c., did not look like a city which, thirty years ago, consisted only of a few fishermen's huts. the harbour of odessa is very much exposed to the north and east winds, which often cause great damage to the shipping. many hundred anchors cover the bottom, which cut the rope cables; and, the water being shallow, vessels are often injured by striking on them. an austrian brig going out, having struck one, sank in ten minutes. there are two moles, the quarantine mole, in which we came to anchor, being the principal. quarantine flags were flying about the harbour, the yellow indicating those undergoing purification, and the red the fatal presence of the plague. we were prepared to undergo a vexatious process. at constantinople i had heard wretched accounts of the rude treatment of lazaretto subjects, and the rough, barbarous manners of the russians to travellers, and we had a foretaste of the light in which we were to be regarded, in the conduct of the health-officer who came alongside. he offered to take charge of any letters for the town, purify them that night, and deliver them in the morning; and, according to his directions, we laid them down on the deck, where he took them up with a pair of long iron tongs, and putting them into an iron box, shut it up and rowed off. in the morning, having received notice that the proper officers were ready to attend us, we went ashore. we landed in separate boats at the end of a long pier, and, forgetting our supposed pestiferous influence, were walking up toward a crowd of men whom we saw there, when their retrograde movements, their gestures, and unintelligible shouts reminded us of our situation. one of our party, in a sort of ecstasy at being on shore, ran capering up the docks, putting to flight a group of idlers, and, single-handed, might have depopulated the city of odessa, if an ugly soldier with a bayonet had not met him in full career and put a stop to his gambols. the soldier conducted us to a large building at the upper end of the pier; and carefully opening the door, and falling back so as to avoid even the wind that might blow from us in his direction, told us to go in. at the other end of a large room, divided by two parallel railings, sat officers and clerks to examine our passports and take a general account of us. we were at once struck with the military aspect of things, every person connected with the establishment wearing a military uniform; and now commenced a long process. the first operation was to examine our passports, take down our names, and make a memorandum of the purposes for which we severally entered the dominions of the emperor and autocrat of all the russias. we were all called up, one after the other, captain, cook, and cabin-boy, cabin and deck passengers; and never, perhaps, did steamboat pour forth a more motley assemblage than we presented. we were jews, turks, and christians; russians, poles, and germans; english, french, and italians; austrians, greeks, and illyrians; moldavians, wallachians, bulgarians, and sclavonians; armenians, georgians, and africans; and one american. i had before remarked the happy facility of the russians in acquiring languages, and i saw a striking instance in the officer who conducted the examination, and who addressed every man in his own language with apparently as much facility as though it had been his native tongue. after the oral commenced a corporeal examination. we were ordered one by one into an adjoining room, where, on the other side of a railing, stood a doctor, who directed us to open our shirt bosoms, and slap our hands smartly under our arms and upon our groins, these being the places where the fatal plague-marks first exhibit themselves. this over, we were forthwith marched to the lazaretto, escorted by guards and soldiers, who behaved very civilly and kept at a respectful distance from us. among our deck passengers were forty or fifty jews, dirty and disgusting objects, just returned from a pilgrimage to jerusalem. an old man, who seemed to be, in a manner, the head of the party, and exceeded them all in rags and filthiness, but was said to be rich, in going up to the lazaretto amused us and vexed the officers by sitting down on the way, paying no regard to them when they urged him on, being perfectly assured that they would not dare to touch him. once he resolutely refused to move; they threatened and swore at him, but he kept his place until one got a long pole and punched him on ahead. in this way we entered the lazaretto; but if it had not been called by that name, and if we had not looked upon it as a place where we were compelled to stay for a certain time, nolens volens, we should have considered it a beautiful spot. it is situated on high ground, within an enclosure of some fifteen or twenty acres, overlooking the black sea, laid out in lawn and gravel walks, and ornamented with rows of acacia-trees. fronting the sea was a long range of buildings divided into separate apartments, each with a little courtyard in front containing two or three acacias. the director, a fine, military-looking man, with a decoration on his lapel, met us on horseback within the enclosure, and with great suavity of manner said that he could not bid us welcome to a prison, but that we should have the privilege of walking at will over the grounds, and visiting each other, subject only to the attendance of a guardiano; and that all that could contribute to our comfort should be done for us. we then selected our rooms, and underwent another personal examination. this was the real touchstone; the first was a mere preliminary observation by a medical understrapper; but this was conducted by a more knowing doctor. we were obliged to strip naked; to give up the clothes we pulled off, and put on a flannel gown, drawers, and stockings, and a woollen cap provided by the government, until our own should be smoked and purified. in everything, however, the most scrupulous regard was paid to our wishes, and a disposition was manifested by all to make this rather vexatious proceeding as little annoying as possible. the bodily examination was as delicate as the nature of the case would admit; for the doctor merely opened the door, looked in, and went out without taking his hand from off the knob. it was none of my business, i know, and may be thought impertinent, but, as he closed the door, i could not help calling him back to ask him whether he held the same inquisition upon the fair sex; to which he replied with a melancholy upturning of the eyes that in the good old days of russian barbarism this had been part of his duties, but that the march of improvement had invaded his rights, and given this portion of his professional duties to a _sage femme_. all our effects were then taken to another chamber, and arranged on lines, each person superintending the disposition of his own, so as to prevent all confusion, and left there to be fumigated with sulphuric acid for twenty-four hours. so particular were they in fumigating everything susceptible of infection, that i was obliged to leave there a black riband which i wore round my neck as a guard to my watch. toward evening the principal director, one of the most gentlemanly men i ever met, came round, and with many apologies and regrets for his inability to receive us better, requested us to call upon him freely for anything we might want. not knowing any of us personally, he did me the honour to say that he understood there was an american in the party, who had been particularly recommended to him by a russian officer and fellow-passenger. afterward came the commissary, or chief of the department, and repeated the same compliments, and left us with an exalted opinion of russian politeness. i had heard horrible accounts of the rough treatment of travellers in russia, and i made a note at the time, lest after vexations should make me forget it, that i had received more politeness and civility from these northern barbarians, as they are called by the people of the south of europe, than i ever found amid their boasted civilization. having still an hour before dark, i strolled out, followed by my guardiano, to take a more particular survey of our prison. in a gravel walk lined with acacias, immediately before the door of my little courtyard, i came suddenly upon a lady of about eighteen, whose dark hair and eyes i at once recognised as grecian, leading by the hand a little child. i am sure my face brightened at the first glimpse of this vision which promised to shine upon us in our solitude; and perhaps my satisfaction was made too manifest by my involuntarily moving toward her. but my presumption received a severe and mortifying check; for though at first she merely crossed to the other side of the walk, she soon forgot all ceremony, and, fairly dragging the child after her, ran over the grass to another walk to avoid me; my mortification, however, was but temporary; for though, in the first impulse of delight and admiration, i had forgotten time, place, and circumstance, the repulse i had received made me turn to myself, and i was glad to find an excuse for the lady's flight in the flannel gown and long cap and slippers, which marked me as having just entered upon my season of purification. i was soon initiated into the routine of lazaretto ceremonies and restrictions. by touching a quarantine patient, both parties are subjected to the longest term of either; so that if a person, on the last day of his term, should come in contact with another just entered, he would lose all the benefit of his days of purification, and be obliged to wait the full term of the latter. i have seen, in various situations in life, a system of operations called keeping people at a distance, but i never saw it so effectually practised as in quarantine. for this night, at least, i had full range. i walked where i pleased, and was very sure that every one would keep out of my way. during the whole time, however, i could not help treasuring up the precipitate flight of the young lady; and i afterward told her, and, i hope, with the true spirit of one ready to return good for evil, that if she had been in my place, and the days of my purification had been almost ended, in spite of plague and pestilence she might have rushed into my arms without my offering the least impediment. in making the tour of the grounds, i had already an opportunity of observing the relation in which men stand to each other in russia. when an officer spoke to a soldier, the latter stood motionless as a statue, with his head uncovered during the whole of the conference; and when a soldier on guard saw an officer, no matter at what distance, he presented arms, and remained in that position until the officer was out of sight. returning, i passed a grating, through which i saw our deck passengers, forty or fifty in number, including the jewish pilgrims, miserable, dirty-looking objects, turned in together for fourteen days, to eat, drink, and sleep as best they might, like brutes. with a high idea of the politeness of the russians toward the rich and great, or those whom they believed to be so, and with a strong impression already received confirming the accounts of the degraded condition of the lower classes, i returned to my room, and, with a frenchman and a greek for my room-mates, my window opening upon the black sea, i spent my first night in quarantine. chapter xiv. the guardiano.--one too many.--an excess of kindness.--the last day of quarantine.--mr. baguet.--rise of odessa.--city-making.--count woronzow.--a gentleman farmer.--an american russian. i shall pass over briefly the whole of our _pratique_. the next morning i succeeded in getting a room to myself. a guardiano was assigned to each room, who took his place in the antechamber, and was always in attendance. these guardianos are old soldiers, entitled by the rules of the establishment to so much a day; but, as they always expect a gratuity, their attention and services are regulated by that expectation. i was exceedingly fortunate in mine; he was always in the antechamber, cleaning his musket, mending his clothes, or stretched on a mattress looking at the wall; and, whenever i came through with my hat on, without a word he put on his belt and followed me; and very soon, instead of regarding him as an encumbrance, i became accustomed to him, and it was a satisfaction to have him with me. sometimes, in walking for exercise, i moved so briskly that it tired him to keep up with me; and then i selected a walk where he could sit down and keep his eye upon me, while i walked backward and forward before him. besides this, he kept my room in order, set my table, carried my notes, brushed my clothes, and took better care of me than any servant i ever had. our party consisted of eight, and being subjected to the same quarantine, and supposed to have the same quantum of infection, we were allowed to visit each other; and every afternoon we met in the yard, walked an hour or two, took tea together, and returned to our own rooms, where our guardianos mounted guard in the antechamber; our gates were locked up, and a soldier walked outside as sentinel. i was particularly intimate with the russian officer, whom i found one of the most gentlemanly, best educated, and most amiable men i ever met. he had served and been wounded in the campaign against poland; had with him two soldiers, his own serfs, who had served under him in that campaign, and had accompanied him in his tour in egypt and syria. he gave me his address at st. petersburgh and promised me the full benefit of his acquaintance there. i have before spoken of the three englishmen. two of them i had met at corfu; the third joined them at smyrna, and added another proof to the well-established maxim that three spoil company; for i soon found that they had got together by the ears; and the new-comer having connected himself with one of the others, they were anxious to get rid of the third. many causes of offence existed between them; and though they continued to room together, they were merely waiting till the end of our pratique for an opportunity to separate. one morning the one who was about being thrown off came to my room, and told me that he did not care about going to the crimea, and proposed accompanying me. this suited me very well; it was a long and expensive journey, and would cost a mere fraction more for two than for one; and when the breach was widened past all possibility of being healed, the cast-off and myself agreed to travel together. i saw much of the secretary of legation, and also of the greek and frenchman, my room-mates for the first night. indeed, i think i may say that i was an object of special interest to all our party. i was unwell, and my companions overwhelmed me with prescriptions and advice; they brought in their medicine chests; one assuring me that he had been cured by this, another by that, and each wanted me to swallow his own favourite medicine, interlarding their advice with anecdotes of whole sets of passengers who had been detained, some forty, some fifty, and some sixty days, by the accidental sickness of one. i did all i could for them, always having regard to the circumstance that it was not of such vital importance to me, at least, to hold out fourteen days if i broke down on the fifteenth. in a few days the doctor, in one of his rounds, told me he understood i was unwell, and i confessed to him the reason of my withholding the fact, and took his prescriptions so well, that, at parting, he gave me a letter to a friend in chioff, and to his brother, a distinguished professor in the university at st. petersburgh. we had a restaurant in the lazaretto, with a new bill of fare every day; not first-rate, perhaps, but good enough. i had sent a letter of introduction to mr. baguet, the spanish consul, also to a german, the brother of a missionary at constantinople, and a note to mr. ralli, the american consul, and had frequent visits from them, and long talks at the parlatoria through the grating. the german was a knowing one, and came often; he had a smattering of english, and would talk in that language, as i thought, in compliment to me; but the last time he came he thanked me kindly, and told me he had improved more in his english than by a year's study. when i got out he never came near me. sunday, june seventh, was our last day in quarantine. we had counted the days anxiously; and though our time had passed as agreeably as, under the circumstances, it could pass, we were in high spirits at the prospect of our liberation. to the last, the attention and civility of the officers of the yard continued unremitted. every morning regularly the director knocked at each gate to inquire how we had passed the night, and whether he could do anything for us; then the doctor, to inquire into our corporeal condition; and every two or three days, toward evening, the director, with the same decoration on the lapel of his coat, and at the same hour, inquired whether we had any complaints to make of want of attendance or improper treatment. our last day in the lazaretto is not to be forgotten. we kept as clear of the rest of the inmates as if they had been pickpockets, though once i was thrown into a cold sweat by an act of forgetfulness. a child fell down before me; i sprang forward to pick him up, and should infallibly have been fixed for ten days longer if my guardiano had not caught me. lingering for the last time on the walk overlooking the black sea, i saw a vessel coming up under full sail, bearing, as i thought, the american flag. my heart almost bounded at seeing the stars and stripes on the black sea; but i was deceived; and almost dejected with the disappointment, called my guardiano, and returned for the last time to my room. the next morning we waited in our rooms till the doctor paid his final visit, and soon after we all gathered before the door of the directory, ready to sally forth. every one who has made a european voyage knows the metamorphosis in the appearance of the passengers on the day of landing. it was much the same with us; we had no more slipshod, long-bearded companions, but all were clean shirted and shaved becomingly, except our old jew and his party, who probably had not changed a garment or washed their faces since the first day in quarantine, nor perhaps for many years before. they were people from whom, under any circumstances, one would be apt to keep at a respectful distance; and to the last they carried everything before them. we had still another vexatious process in passing our luggage through the custom-house. we had handed in a list of all our effects the night before, in which i intentionally omitted to mention byron's poems, these being prohibited in russia. he had been my companion in italy and greece, and i was loath to part with him; so i put the book under my arm, threw my cloak over me, and walked out unmolested. outside the gate there was a general shaking of hands; the director, whom we had seen every day at a distance, was the first to greet us, and mr. baguet, the brother of the spanish consul, who was waiting to receive me, welcomed me to russia. with sincere regret i bade good-by to my old soldier, mounted a drosky, and in ten minutes was deposited in a hotel, in size and appearance equal to the best in paris. it was a pleasure once more to get into a wheel-carriage; i had not seen one since i left italy, except the old hack i mentioned at argos, and the arabas at constantinople. it was a pleasure, too, to see hats, coats, and pantaloons. early associations will cling to a man; and, in spite of a transient admiration for the dashing costume of the greek and turk, i warmed to the ungraceful covering of civilized man, even to the long surtout and bell-crowned hat of the russian marchand; and, more than all, i was attracted by an appearance of life and energy particularly striking after coming from among the dead-and-alive turks. while in quarantine i had received an invitation to dine with mr. baguet, and had barely time to make one tour of the city in a drosky before it was necessary to dress for dinner. mr. baguet was a bachelor of about forty, living in pleasant apartments, in an unpretending and gentlemanly style. as in all the ports of the levant, except where there are ambassadors, the consuls are the nobility of the place. several of them were present; and the european consuls in those places are a different class of men from ours, as they are paid by salaries from their respective governments, while ours, who receive no pay, are generally natives of the place, who serve for the honour or some other accidental advantage. we had, therefore, the best society in odessa at mr. baguet's, the american consul not being present, which, by-the-way, i do not mean in a disrespectful sense, as mr. ralli seemed every way deserving of all the benefits that the station gives. in the evening the consul and myself took two or three turns on the boulevards, and at about eleven i returned to my hotel. after what i have said of this establishment, the reader will be surprised to learn that, when i went to my room, i found there a bedstead, but no bed or bedclothes. i supposed it was neglect, and ordered one to be prepared; but, to my surprise, was told that there were no beds in the hotel. it was kept exclusively for the rich seigneurs who always carry their own beds with them. luckily, the bedstead was not corded, but contained a bottom of plain slabs of wood, about six or eight inches wide, and the same distance apart, laid crosswise, so that lengthwise there was no danger of falling through; and wrapping myself in my cloak, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, i went to sleep. before breakfast the next morning i had learned the topography of odessa. to an american russia is an interesting country. true, it is not classic ground; but as for me, who had now travelled over the faded and wornout kingdoms of the old world, i was quite ready for something new. like our own, russia is a new country, and in many respects resembles ours. it is true that we began life differently. russia has worked her way to civilization from a state of absolute barbarism, while we sprang into being with the advantage of all the lights of the old world. still there are many subjects of comparison, and even of emulation, between us; and nowhere in all russia is there a more proper subject to begin with than my first landing-place. odessa is situated in a small bay between the mouths of the dnieper and dniester. forty years ago it consisted of a few miserable fishermen's huts on the shores of the black sea. in the empress catharine resolved to built a city there; and the turks being driven from the dominion of the black sea, it became a place of resort and speculation for the english, austrians, neapolitans, dutch, ragusans, and greeks of the ionian republic. in eighteen hundred and two, two hundred and eighty vessels arrived from constantinople and the mediterranean; and the duke de richelieu, being appointed governor-general by alexander, laid out a city upon a gigantic scale, which, though at first its growth was not commensurate with his expectations, now contains sixty thousand inhabitants, and bids fair to realize the extravagant calculations of its founder. mr. baguet and the gentlemen whom i met at his table were of opinion that it is destined to be the greatest commercial city in russia, as the long winters and the closing of the baltic with ice must ever be a great disadvantage to st. petersburgh; and the interior of the country can as well be supplied from odessa as from the northern capital. there is no country where cities have sprung up so fast and increased so rapidly as in ours; and, altogether, perhaps nothing in the world can be compared with our buffalo, rochester, cincinnati, &c. but odessa has grown faster than any of these, and has nothing of the appearance of one of our new cities. we are both young, and both marching with gigantic strides to greatness, but we move by different roads; and the whole face of the country, from the new city on the borders of the black sea to the steppes of siberia, shows a different order of government and a different constitution of society. with us, a few individuals cut down the trees of the forest, or settle themselves by the banks of a stream, where they happen to find some local advantages, and build houses suited to their necessities; others come and join them; and, by degrees, the little settlement becomes a large city. but here a gigantic government, endowed almost with creative powers, says, "let there be a city," and immediately commences the erection of large buildings. the rich seigneurs follow the lead of government, and build hotels to let out in apartments. the theatre, casino, and exchange at odessa are perhaps superior to any buildings in the united states. the city is situated on an elevation about a hundred feet above the sea; a promenade three quarters of a mile long, terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of the governor, is laid out in front along the margin of the sea, bounded on one side by an abrupt precipice, and adorned with trees, shrubs, flowers, statues, and busts, like the garden of the tuileries, the borghese villa, or the villa recali at naples. on the other side is a long range of hotels built of stone, running the whole length of the boulevards, some of them with façades after the best models in italy. a broad street runs through the centre of the city, terminating with a semicircular enlargement at the boulevards, and in the centre of this stands a large equestrian statue erected to the duke de richelieu; and parallel and at right angles are wide streets lined with large buildings, according to the most approved plans of modern architecture. the custom which the people have of taking apartments in hotels causes the erection of large buildings, which add much to the general appearance of the city; while with us, the universal disposition of every man to have a house to himself, conduces to the building of small houses, and, consequently, detracts from general effect. the city, as yet, is not generally paved, and is, consequently, so dusty, that every man is obliged to wear a light cloak to save his dress. paving-stone is brought from trieste and malta, and is very expensive. about two o'clock mr. ralli, our consul, called upon me. mr. ralli is a greek of scio. he left his native island when a boy; has visited every port in europe as a merchant, and lived for the last eight years in odessa. he has several brothers in england, trieste, and some of the greek islands, and all are connected in business. when mr. rhind, who negotiated our treaty with the porte, left odessa, he authorized mr. ralli to transact whatever consular business might be required, and on his recommendation mr. ralli afterward received a regular appointment as consul. mr. rhind, by-the-way, expected a great trade from opening the black sea to american bottoms; but he was wrong in his anticipations, and there have been but two american vessels there since the treaty. mr. ralli is rich and respected, being vice-president of the commercial board, and very proud of the honour of the american consulate, as it gives him a position among the dignitaries of the place, enables him to wear a uniform and sword on public occasions, and yields him other privileges which are gratifying, at least, if not intrinsically valuable. no traveller can pass through odessa without having to acknowledge the politeness of count woronzow, the governor of the crimea, one of the richest seigneurs in russia, and one of the pillars of the throne. at the suggestion of mr. ralli, i accompanied him to the palace and was presented. the palace is a magnificent building, and the interior exhibits a combination of wealth and taste. the walls are hung with italian paintings, and, for interior ornaments and finish, the palace is far superior to those in italy; the knobs of the doors are of amber, and the doors of the dining-room from the old imperial palace at st. petersburgh. the count is a military-looking man of about fifty, six feet high, with sallow complexion and gray hair. his father married an english lady of the sidney family, and his sister married the earl of pembroke. he is a soldier in bearing and appearance, held a high rank during the french invasion of russia, and distinguished himself particularly at borodino; in rank and power he is the fourth military officer in the empire. he possesses immense wealth in all parts of russia, particularly in the crimea; and his wife's mother, after demidoff and scheremetieff, is the richest subject in the whole empire. he speaks english remarkably well, and, after a few commonplaces, with his characteristic politeness to strangers, invited me to dine at the palace the next day. i was obliged to decline, and he himself suggested the reason, that probably i was engaged with my countryman, mr. sontag (of whom more anon), whom the count referred to as his old friend, adding that he would not interfere with the pleasure of a meeting between two countrymen so far from home, and asked me for the day after, or any other day i pleased. i apologized on the ground of my intended departure, and took my leave. my proposed travelling companion had committed to me the whole arrangements for our journey, or, more properly, had given me the whole trouble of making them; and, accompanied by one of mr. ralli's clerks, i visited all the carriage repositories to purchase a vehicle, after which i accompanied mr. ralli to his country-house to dine. he occupied a pretty little place a few versts from odessa, with a large fruit and ornamental garden. mr. ralli's lady is also a native of greece, with much of the cleverness and _spirituelle_ character of the educated greeks. one of her _bons mots_ current in odessa is, that her husband is consul for the other world. a young italian, with a very pretty wife, dined with us, and, after dinner and a stroll through the garden, we walked over to mr. perseani's, the father of our russian secretary; another walk in the garden with a party of ladies, tea, and i got back to odessa in time for a walk on the boulevards and the opera. before my attention was turned to odessa, i should as soon have thought of an opera-house at chicago as there; but i already found, what impressed itself more forcibly upon me at every step, that russia is a country of anomalies. the new city on the black sea contains many french and italian residents, who are willing to give all that is not necessary for food and clothing for the opera; the russians themselves are passionately fond of musical and theatrical entertainments, and government makes up all deficiencies. the interior of the theatre corresponds with the beauty of its exterior. all the decorations are in good taste, and the corinthian columns, running from the foot to the top, particularly beautiful. the opera was the barber of seville; the company in _full_ undress, and so barbarous as to pay attention to the performance. i came out at about ten o'clock, and, after a turn or two on the boulevards, took an icecream at the café of the hotel de petersbourgh. this hotel is beautifully situated on one corner of the main street, fronting the boulevards, and opposite the statue of the duke de richelieu; and looking from the window of the café, furnished and fitted up in a style superior to most in paris, upon the crowd still thronging the boulevards, i could hardly believe that i was really on the borders of the black sea. having purchased a carriage and made all my arrangements for starting, i expected to pass this day with an unusual degree of satisfaction, and i was not disappointed. i have mentioned incidentally the name of a countryman resident in odessa; and, being so far from home, i felt a yearning toward an american. in france or italy i seldom had this feeling, for there americans congregate in crowds; but in greece and turkey i always rejoiced to meet a compatriot; and when, on my arrival at odessa, before going into the lazaretto, the captain told me that there was an american residing there, high in character and office, who had been twenty years in russia, i requested him to present my compliments, and say that, if he had not forgotten his fatherland, a countryman languishing in the lazaretto would be happy to see him through the gratings of his prison-house. i afterward regretted having sent this message, as i heard from other sources that he was a prominent man, and during the whole term of my quarantine i never heard from him personally. i was most agreeably disappointed, however, when, on the first day of my release, i met him at dinner at the spanish consul's. he had been to the crimea with count woronzow; had only returned that morning, and had never heard of my being there until invited to meet me at dinner. i had wronged him by my distrust; for, though twenty years an exile, his heart beat as true as when he left our shores. who can shake off the feeling that binds him to his native land? not hardships nor disgrace at home; not favour nor success abroad; not even time, can drive from his mind the land of his birth or the friends of his youthful days. general sontag was a native of philadelphia; had been in our navy, and served as sailing-master on board the wasp; became dissatisfied from some cause which he did not mention, left our navy, entered the russian, and came round to the black sea as captain of a frigate; was transferred to the land service, and, in the campaign of , entered paris with the allied armies as colonel of a regiment. in this campaign he formed a friendship with count woronzow, which exists in full force at this day. he left the army with the rank of brigadier-general. by the influence of count woronzow, he was appointed inspector of the port of odessa, in which office he stood next in rank to the governor of the crimea, and, in fact, on one occasion, during the absence of count woronzow, lived in the palace and acted as governor for eight months. he married a lady of rank, with an estate and several hundred slaves at moscow; wears two or three ribands at his buttonhole, badges of different orders; has gone through the routine of offices and honours up to the grade of grand counsellor of the empire; and a letter addressed to him under the title of "his excellency" will come to the right hands. he was then living at his country place, about eight versts from odessa, and asked me to go out and pass the next day with him. i was strongly tempted, but, in order that i might have the full benefit of it, postponed the pleasure until i had completed my arrangements for travelling. the next day general sontag called upon me, but i did not see him; and this morning, accompanied by mr. baguet the younger, i rode out to his place. the land about odessa is a dead level, the road was excessively dry, and we were begrimed with dust when we arrived. general sontag was waiting for us, and, in the true spirit of an american farmer at home, proposed taking us over his grounds. his farm is his hobby; it contains about six hundred acres, and we walked all over it. his crop was wheat, and, although i am no great judge of these matters, i think i never saw finer. he showed me a field of very good wheat, which had not been sowed in three years, but produced by the fallen seed of the previous crops. we compared it with our genesee wheat, and to me it was an interesting circumstance to find an american cultivating land on the black sea, and comparing it with the products of our genesee flats, with which he was perfectly familiar. one thing particularly struck me, though, as an american, perhaps i ought not to have been so sensitive. a large number of men were at work in the field, and they were all slaves. such is the force of education and habit, that i have seen hundreds of black slaves without a sensation; but it struck rudely upon me to see white men slaves to an american, and he one whose father had been a soldier of the revolution, and had fought to sustain the great principle that "all men are by nature free and equal." mr. sontag told me that he valued his farm at about six thousand dollars, on which he could live well, have a bottle of crimea wine, and another every day for a friend, and lay up one thousand dollars a year; but i afterward heard that he was a complete enthusiast on the subject of his farm; a bad manager, and that he really knew nothing of its expense or profit. returning to the house, we found madame sontag ready to receive us. she is an authoress of great literary reputation, and of such character that, while the emperor was prosecuting the turkish war in person, and the empress remained at odessa, the young archduchesses were placed under her charge. at dinner she talked with much interest of america, and expressed a hope, though not much expectation, of one day visiting it. but general sontag himself, surrounded as he is by russian connexions, is all american. pointing to the riband on his buttonhole, he said he was entitled to one order which he should value above all others; that his father had been a soldier of the revolution, and member of the cincinnati society, and that in russia the decoration of that order would be to him the proudest badge of honour that an american could wear. after dining we retired into a little room fitted up as a library, which he calls america, furnished with all the standard american books, irving, paulding, cooper, &c., engravings of distinguished americans, maps, charts, canal and railroad reports, &c.; and his daughter, a lovely little girl and only child, has been taught to speak her father's tongue and love her father's land. in honour of me she played on the piano "hail columbia" and "yankee doodle," and the day wore away too soon. we took tea on the piazza, and at parting i received from him a letter to his agent on his estate near moscow, and from madame sontag one which carried me into the imperial household, being directed to monsieur l'intendant du prince héritiere, petersbourgh. a few weeks ago i received from him a letter, in which he says, "the visit of one of my countrymen is so great a treat, that i can assure you, you are never forgotten by any one of my little family; and when my daughter wishes to make me smile, she is sure to succeed if she sits down to her piano and plays 'hail columbia' or 'yankee doodle;' this brings to mind mr. ----, mr. ----, mr. ----, and mr. ----, who have passed through this city; to me alone it brings to mind my country, parents, friends, youth, and a world of things and ideas past, never to return. should any of our countrymen be coming this way, do not forget to inform them that in odessa lives one who will be glad to see them;" and i say now to any of my countrymen whom chance may throw upon the shores of the black sea, that if he would receive so far from home the welcome of a true-hearted american, general sontag will be glad to render it. it was still early in the evening when i returned to the city. it was moonlight, and i walked immediately to the boulevards. i have not spoken as i ought to have done of this beautiful promenade, on which i walked every evening under the light of a splendid moon. the boulevards are bounded on one side by the precipitous shore of the sea; are three quarters of a mile in length, with rows of trees on each side, gravel walks and statues, and terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of count woronzow. at this season of the year it was the promenade of all the beauty and fashion of odessa, from an hour or two before dark until midnight. this evening the moon was brighter, and the crowd was greater and gayer than usual. the great number of officers, with their dashing uniforms, the clashing of their swords, and rattling of their spurs, added to the effect; and woman never looks so interesting as when leaning on the arm of a soldier. even in italy or greece i have seldom seen a finer moonlight scene than the columns of the exchange through the vista of trees lining the boulevards. i expected to leave the next day, and i lingered till a late hour. i strolled up and down the promenade, alone among thousands. i sat down upon a bench, and looked for the last time on the black sea, the stormy euxine, quiet in the moonbeams, and glittering like a lake of burnished silver. by degrees the gay throng disappeared; one after another, party after party withdrew; a few straggling couples, seeming all the world to each other, still lingered, like me, unable to tear themselves away. it was the hour and the place for poetry and feeling. a young officer and a lady were the last to leave; they passed by me, but did not notice me; they had lost all outward perceptions; and as, in passing for the last time, she raised her head for a moment, and the moon shone full upon her face, i saw there an expression that spoke of heaven. i followed them as they went out, murmured involuntarily "happy dog," whistled "heighho, says thimble," and went to my hotel to bed. end of vol. i. list of corrections: p. iii, preface: "egypt, arabia petræ, and the holy land." was changed to "egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land." p. : "that we coud" was changed to "that we could." p. : "friends in this county" was changed to "friends in this country." p. : "but we connot" was changed to "but we cannot." p. : "gate of the lyons" was changed to "gate of the lions" as in the rest of the book. p. : "to favour such a suiter" was changed to "to favour such a suitor." p. : "it is confirmed by poetry, hat" was changed to "it is confirmed by poetry, that." p. : "the jackall's cry was heard" was changed to "the jackal's cry was heard." p. : "cartainly whip them" was changed to "certainly whip them." p. : "threade our way" was changed to "threaded our way." p. : "cachmere shawls" was changed to "cashmere shawls." p. : "the phase, the dneiper, and the danube" was changed to "the phase, the dnieper, and the danube." p. : "the mouths of the dneiper and dneister" was changed to "the mouths of the dnieper and dniester." p. : "quiet in the moonbeans" was changed to "quiet in the moonbeams." errata: the summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. the original has been retained. [illustration: _congress of france._] a colored man round the world. by a quadroon. printed for the author. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by david f. dorr, in the clerk's office of the district court, for the northern district of ohio. to my slave mother. mother! wherever thou art, whether in heaven or a lesser world; or whether around the freedom base of a bunker hill, or only at the lowest savannah of american slavery, thou art the same to me, and i dedicate this token of my knowledge to thee mother, oh, my own mother! your david. index. page. debut in a foreign land, london, the queen in hyde park, i am going to paris, first day in paris, first night in paris, i must rove away from paris, spicy towns of germany, down among the dutch, col. fellowes learning dutch, on! on! to waterloo, the bias of my tour, coup d'etat of napoleon iii, the secrets of a paris life and who knows them, rome and st. peter's church, naples and its craft, st. januarius and his blood, constantinople, the dogs provoke me, and the women are veiled, a colored man from tennessee shaking hands with the sultan, and men putting women in the bath and taking them out, going to athens with a prima donna, athens a sepulchre, beautiful venice, verona and bologna, frienza de bella cita, back to paris, egypt and the nile, egyptian kings of olden time, traveling on the nile miles, thebes and back to cairo, camels--through the desert, jerusalem, jericho and damascus, conclusion, preface. the author of this book, though a quadroon, is pleased to announce himself the "colored man around the world." not because he may look at a colored man's position as an honorable one at this age of the world, he is too smart for that, but because he has the satisfaction of looking with his own eyes and reason at the ruins of the ancestors of which he is the posterity. if the ruins of the author's ancestors were not a living language of their scientific majesty, this book could receive no such appellation with pride. luxor, carnack, the memnonian and the pyramids make us exclaim, "what monuments of pride can surpass these? what genius must have reflected on their foundations! what an ambition these people must have given to the rest of the world when found the glory of the world in their hieroglyphic stronghold of learning," whose stronghold, to-day, is not to be battered down, because we cannot reach their hidden alphabet. who is as one, we might suppose, "learned in all the learning of the egyptians." have we as learned a man as moses, and if yes, who can prove it? how did he come to do what no man can do now? you answer, god aided him; that is not the question! no, all you know about it is he was "learned in all the learning of the egyptians," that is the answer; and thereby knew how to facilitate a glorious cause at heart, because had he been less learned, who could conceive how he could have proved to us to be a man full of successful logic. well, who were the egyptians? ask homer if their lips were not thick, their hair curly, their feet flat and their skin black. but the author of this book, though a colored man, hopes to die believing that this federated government is destined to be the noblest fabric ever germinated in the brain of men or the tides of time. though a colored man, he believes that he has the right to say that, in his opinion, _the american people are to be the medes and persians of the th century_. he believes, from what he has seen in the four quarters of the globe, that the federal tribunal of this mighty people and territory, are to weigh other nations' portion of power by its own scale, and equipoise them on its own pivot, "_the will of the whole people_," the federal people. and as he believes that the rights of ignorant people, whether white or black, ought to be respected by those who have seen more, he offers this book of travels to that class who craves to know what those know who have respect for them. in offering this book to the public, i will say, by the way, i wrote it under the disadvantage of having access to no library save walker's school dictionary. in traveling through europe, asia and africa, i am indebted to mr. cornelius fellowes, of the highly respectable firm of messrs. fellowes & co., common st., new orleans, la. this gentleman treated me as his own son, and could look on me as as free a man as walks the earth. but if local law has power over man, instead of man's effects, i was legally a slave, and would be to-day, like my mother, were i on louisiana's soil instead of ohio's. when we returned to america, after a three years' tour, i called on this original man to consummate a two-fold promise he made me, in different parts of the world, because i wanted to make a connection, that i considered myself more than equaled in dignity and means, but as he refused me on old bachelor principles, i fled from him and his princely promises, westward, where the "star of empire takes its way," reflecting on the moral liberties of the legal freedom of england, france and our new england states, with the determination to write this book of "overlooked things" in the four quarters of the globe, seen by "a colored man round the world." the author. debut in a foreign land. this day, june th, , i commence my writings of a promiscuous voyage. this day is sunday. i am going from the custom house, where i have deposited my baggage to be searched for contraband goods, and making my way along a street that might be termed, from its appearance, "the street of cemeteries." this street is in liverpool, and is a mercantile street in every sense of the word, and the reason why it looked so lonesome and a business street at that, is wanting. i must now explain why so great a street looked dismal. the english people are, indeed, a moral people. this was the sabbath, and the "bells were chiming," discoursing the sweetest sacred music i had ever heard. the streets were very narrow and good. their material was solid square stones closely packed together. the houses were very high, some being six stories. not one house for half a mile had a door or window ajar. it was raining; consequently not a person was to be seen. all of a sudden the coachman drew up to the side walk, and, opening the coach, said, "adelphi, sir." i was looking with considerable interest to see the hotel of so much celebrity on board the ship. captain riley had informed me that it was a house not to be surpassed in the "hotel line," and i had put an estimated interest on this important item to travelers that southerners are too much addicted to. i mean to say, that i, a southerner, judge too much by appearance, instead of experience. i had been taught at orleans that the "english could whip all the world, and we could whip the english," and that england was always in great danger of being starved by us, and all her manufactories stopped in double quick time by southern cotton-planters. but, the greatest absurdity of all was, that england was very much afraid that we would declare war against her, and thereby ruin what little independence she still retains. i, under this dispensation of knowledge, looked around to see the towering of a "st. charles or verandah," but when i saw a house looking like all the rest, i came to the conclusion that the english were trying to get along without making any improvement, as it was not certain how long we would permit her to remain a "monarchial independent nation." just then a well-dressed gentleman opened the door and descended the steps with an umbrella to escort me in. "come right in here, sir," said he, leading me into a large room, with an organ and hat-stands as its furniture. the organ was as large as an ordinary sized church organ. the gentleman took my overcoat and hung it up. he then asked me some questions concerning the voyage, after which he asked me to walk to the bureau and register my name. this done we ascend one flight of stairs and enter my room. he asked me if i wished fire. i answered in the affirmative. he left me. having seated myself _a la american_, i listened very attentively to "those chiming bells." tap, tap on my door called forth another american expression, "come in." the door opened and a beautiful girl of fifteen summers came in with a scuttle of coal and kindling. she wore on her head a small frilled cap, and it was very small. a snow white apron adorned her short, neat dress. a man is a good deal like a dog in some particulars. he may be uncommonly savage in his nature, and as soon as he sees his sexual mate, his attention is manifested in the twinkling of an eye. she looked so neat, i thought it good policy to be polite, and become acquainted. having finished making a lively little fire, she rose up from her half-bending posture to follow up her duty through the hotel. "what is your name, miss," said i; "mary," said she, at the same time moving away. "i shall be here a week said i, and want you to take care of me." mary's pretty little feet could stay no longer with propriety the first time. in fifteen minutes the gong rang for dinner. i locked my door, and made my way through the narrow passages to hunt head quarters. passing one of the inferior passage ways, i saw mary half whispering to one of her companions about the american, and laughing jocularly. her eyes fell upon me just as mine did on her. in the twinkling of an eye she conveyed an idea to her comrade that the topic must be something else, which seemed to have been understood before conveyed. "mary," said i, "i want some washing done," as polite as a piled basket of chips. she stepped up to me and said, "are they ready, sir?" "no," said i, "i will be up in a few minutes," (we always do things by minutes.) "i will call for them," said she. i descended and found a good dinner, after which i walked into the newsroom, where i found several of the merchants of liverpool assembled to read and discuss the prevailing topics of interest. seated close to a table on which was the london times, new york tribune and herald, the french journal, called the moniteur, besides several other journals of lesser note, was a noble looking gentleman. on the other side of this feast of news was another noble and intellectual looking gentleman. these were noblemen from different parts of england. they were quietly discussing the weak points in american policy. one held that if the negroes of the southern states were fit for freedom, it would be an easy matter for four million of slaves to raise the standard of liberty, and maintain it against , slaveholders. the other gentleman held that it was very true, but they needed some white man, well posted in the south, with courage enough to plot the _entree_. he continued, at great length, to show the feasibility under a french plotter. he closed with this expression, "one intelligent frenchman like ledru rollin could do the whole thing before it could be known." i came to the conclusion that they were not so careful in the expression of their views as i thought they ought to be. i was quite sure that they would not be allowed to use such treasonable language at orleans or charleston as that they had just indulged in. sitting in my room about an hour after hearing this nauseous language, mary came for the clothes, for that is what she asked for. i requested mary to wait until monday morning, for the fact was, i had no clothes--they were in the custom house. here mary began to show more familiarity than i had ever shown, but she only expressed enough to show me that she only wished to return for my clothes when they were ready. i gave her to understand that nothing would give me more pleasure than to have her return again for them. * * * * * two weeks have gone by. i am now packing my trunk for london. in half an hour, the evening express train leaves here for a five hours' cruise over farms of rich and poor, like a streak of lightning. i find on the day of departure that the servants are like the servants of all parts of my own country. it is impossible for me to do anything for myself. i have offers from nearly all parts of the hotel, volunteering to do all that is to be done and more too.--before i commenced packing my trunk, i went down to the bureau (office) to have my bill made out. as i passed along the passage i saw a large man with slippers on, with a cap denoting cookery, bowing and scraping. i instantly perceived that my fame, as an american, had reached the culinary sanctum. i requested the clerk to have my bill ready, but found that i was too late in the information to be given. my bill was already made out. a quarter to o'clock, i showed to mary, my sincere wishes for her welfare, and left my apartment. her cap was neater than when i located there; her apron was whiter, and her hair was neater. i done my duty to the advice given by murray, who is the author of the guide book of all europe, asia, and even africa. he says that it is best to give a small bonus to the menials in public or private houses. the landlord, saw me in the coach and wished me a happy voyage to london. when the coach moved gradually away from that small hotel, it carried lingering thoughts of friendship and comfort. i thought of the kind attention, and obedient but commanding language of all i had seen, and the moral came home to my heart, saying "you have value received." i reflected on mary's cap and snow white apron; the old porter's hopeful countenance; the dining room servants; and how well they seemed to be pleased, when the driver stopped my coach and landed me at the london station in a good humor. all aboard! the cars, (express train in a hurry) dashed on with fury, and i found myself a happy man on my way to london. london. last night i arrived here, making the time from liverpool in five hours and a half. my location is between buckingham palace and trafalgar square. i am on the second floor, in the trafalgar hotel, on trafalgar square. the queen, when in london, resides at this celebrated palace. it is in st. james' park. this july th, london is the world's bazaar. the crystal palace is the acquafortis of curiosity that gives the arcadial polish to london's greatness. this is the place where every country is trying to make a pigmy of some other. in this great feast of genius no country is fairly represented. the united states has many articles of arts in the palace that are not what she has ever prided herself on as her arts. one of our ordinary steam boats would have astonished the natives beyond the admiration of all the trumpery that we ever contemplate carrying to a world's fair. i was, indeed, ashamed to see the piles of india rubber shoes, coats and pants, and clocks that stood out in bas relief in that part of the palace appropriated to the american arts and sciences.--pegged shoes and boots were without number. martingales and side saddles, horse shoes, ploughs, threshing machines, irrigators, and all the most worthless trash to be found in the states. i saw everything that was a prevailing disgrace to our country except slaves. i understood that a south carolinian proposed taking half a dozen haughty and sinewy negroes to the fair, but was only deterred from that proposition by the want of courage to risk six fat, strong healthy negroes to the chances of escape from slavery to freedom. in the centre of this beautiful and most splendid palace, was a band of music not to be surpassed by any band for discoursing sweet melody. close to this music was a beautiful fountain, throwing sprays upward like the heaves of a shark; and round about this fountain were seats for ladies and gentlemen to take refreshments together. this palace resembles, in a great degree, "paradise found;" there is also some sparrows inside yet, that the falcons did not run out when those twenty thousand took possession some months ago. these little birds light about among this gay crowd as if they were on one of our wild prairies, lighting among the still gayer tribe of flora. two or three tried to light on a spray of water, but could not make it go. i see two sitting on a piano, whilst one is trying to get an equilibrium on the strings of a harp. the piano now opens and a noblemen is seating one of the most handsome women there i have seen in england. i said to a young englishman, that is indeed a handsome woman. he said yes, she is generally pronounced the handsomest woman in london. i enquired her pedigree and found that it was the benevolent duchess of sutherland; like a humming bird, from one "sweet flower" to another her alabaster-like fingers darted from the bassiest note to the flutiest. the pianos were generally enclosed like a separate tomb with railings a yard from the pianos. after her highness had played out "god save the queen" and brought an audience round the railing, as if they really came to protect the "queen of beauty," she played a thrilling retreat as if her intention was to convey the idea that she must retreat or be captured. the piece played, she rose straight up and gazed around upon the recruits she had drummed up with the air of a successful adventurer throughout the world; she moved along this immense crowd of various classes like a swan in a showery storm. whilst all was in commotion, she seemed more herself. the noble gallant seemed to be quite conscious that the lady he was gallanting was the _duchess of sutherland_. on the outside of the crystal palace is a small, fairy-like house, erected for prince albert and her majesty the queen of england to lunch in when they visit the fair. it is said that the prince planned it himself. in this pretty little house is enough furniture of various beauties to make an ordinary fair itself. the police regulations about this fair are admirable. there is no question that can be asked about this affair but will be properly and intellectually answered by any policeman. they are intelligent men and seem to take an interest as well as pride in this great fair. the queen in hyde park. it is now o'clock. all the streets within a mile of the crystal palace are crowded with people, instead of drays, carts, wagons and other impeding obstacles to the world's fair. for a quarter of a mile down the street that leads to st. james' square, where the queen resides, at buckingham palace, i presume i can see , people bareheaded, that is to say, they have their hats off. but, at the further end of this quarter of a mile, i see a uniform commotion, and this commotion of heads are coming towards hyde park. i mean only the commotion but not the heads. these heads are being responded to from an open plain calashe, that is coming as rapid as a post chaise from the battle field when bringing good tidings to a king.--the object of this exciting moment is the queen of england. one minute and she is gone by, as she passed me, bowing on all sides to the crowd greeting her. i felt a sort of religious thrill pass over me, and i said to myself "this is civilization." her majesty was evidently proud of her people's homage; and her people were not ashamed to show their loyalty to their "gracious queen." she was looking remarkably healthy for one living on the delicacies of a queen. in fact she was too healthy in appearance for a queen. her color was too red and masculine for a lady. she was considerable stouter than i thought she was, and quite as handsome as i expected to find the great queen. seated opposite her, face to face, was her maid of honor; and seated by her side vis-a-vis to the queen, was a couple of the "little bloods" of her majesty and prince coburgh. i thought it strange that his highness, prince albert, was not accompanying the queen. i learned afterwards that it was usual for the queen to go in hyde park alone. i also found that the prince and his courtiers were gone out deer stalking. in the queen's calashe was four greys. the driver rode the hindmost left horse. in his right hand he carried a light whip which was altogether useless. about yards ahead of this moving importance, a liveried outrider sped on at a rapid speed, that the populace might know that he was soliciting their attention to making way for the queen. he wore long, white-legged boots, and held his arab steed as artful as a bedouin sporting over a rocky desert. his other habiliments were red, save his hat, which was a latest style silk. the driver keeps him in view, and has nothing to do but mount and drive off after this courier or out-rider, who gets his orders at the palace where to lead. it is said that the queen is not celebrated for a good temper. like her symbol, the lion, she is not to be bearded by any one, no matter how important. she is a natural monarch and feels her royalty. prince albert is one of the handsomest men i ever saw. the like of the prince's popularity among the ladies of the court cannot be equaled by any nobleman in england; but that popularity must be general, it cannot be in spots, for the queen is not unlike other women under the influence of the "green-eyed monster." although prince albert's virtue has never been dishonored by even a hint, still the queen is not to be too trusty. prince albert is a model of a "true gentleman." he could not suspect half as quick as the most virtuous queen the world has ever been ornamented with. the english people are alone in all things pertaining to domestic life. it would puzzle the double-width intellect of a hermit to tell what one was thinking about; and this nonchalence of air to surrounding circumstances is every moment blowing upon the object in their heart. france sets the fashion for the world, but what the morning paper say about the dress worn by the empress on the champs d'elysee yesterday, is not what the poorest maid servant is trying to find out to cut her calico by, but what her majesty wore at windsor or buckingham. these people were wearing the skins of the beasts of their forests in the days of the cæsars' invasion, and barbarous as our indians, but now they are the most civilized and christian power on this earth. a german now sitting by my side tells me this is a gross subject for me to be writing upon. i asked what subject? he said konigon (queen). on reflection i find it true, and now retire from the beading of this chapter. i am going to paris. i am now all cap a pie for paris. ho! for boston, is nothing to ah! paris. i have been this morning to get my last view of the great palace of the world's fair. i have since been to greenwich to eat white bait, and i am now hurrying on to the station. whoever wishes to see a good deal of the country, and a broken down route, had better take what is called the brighton route. if you leave london at o'clock in the evening, you will stop at o'clock at new haven, a place with a name on the map, but in fact no place at all, save the destination of the train of this route. there you will, in all probability, have to wait about an old building an hour or two for the arrival of a boat to take you across the channel. next morning, if you are lucky, you arrive at o'clock at a little old french town called dieppe, just in time to be too late to take the morning train for paris. it is said that these little old half dead towns live off these tricks. i got a pretty breakfast _a la carte_; i say pretty, because i had boiled eggs, red wine and white, radishes, lettuce, and three boquets on my breakfast table. having been disappointed in taking the morning's train for paris, i vented my wrath on both bottles of wine, thereby getting an equilibrium between disappointment and contentment. this done i went down to a little old shed which they called the custom house, to get my trunks which they had been searching. i then took a ride in the country to see the ruins of an ancient castle, captured by the first reigning king of the present great bourbon family, henry quatre, king of navarre. this was the first ruined castle i had ever seen, and it interested me so much that in spite of the boat last night with no berths, sea sickness, custom-house troubles, disappointment in getting to paris that day instead of o'clock at night, i was in quite a good humor, and in fact, considered myself well paid for the ride, though in an old chaise and two poor horses. at the ruins of this enormous pile of brick and mortar, was an old, broken down french officer. his companion was a lonely raven. we could go in and out of no part of this dilapidated mass of downfallen power, without meeting the raven. he seemed to be a lonely spirit. i caught at him once when he came within two feet of me; he jumped about a foot further off and stopped right still, and turned his head so that one eye was up and the other down, and kept looking up at me as long as i looked at him, as if he would fain say _laissi moi_ (let me be). the cool treatment of the raven about these old ruins lowered my spirits. i gave the old soldier a franc for his trouble and information, and got in my old turn-out, and turned around to say adieu to the old soldier when i found him too much engaged paying jocko with crumbs, his portion of the bonus, for services rendered. at o'clock i found myself well seated in a french car, for the first time, direct for paris. here we go in a tunnel, and it is dark as ebony; here we come out; away go the cattle as if indians were after them. it would be impossible to conjecture that french farmers were lazy, for this is the sabbath and down in the meadows i see farmers reaping. i can see towns in such quick succession, it would be useless to attempt to describe them. it is now o'clock, and i am at my destination and being searched. nothing found and i am pronounced an honest man. but my honesty, if there be any, is like falstaff's, hid. i have two hundred cigars in my over and under coat, and they are, indeed, contraband and was one of the greatest objects of search; but, reader, if you pronounce this french stupidity you deceive yourself. it was french politeness that allowed me to pass unnoticed by this scrutinizing assemblage of savans. if a man move among these lynx-eyed prefectures as a gentleman ought to, he is, once out of three times, likely to pass the barrier of their polite inclinations, whilst at the same time it would give them great satisfaction to believe that it would pay to examine you, were there a justifiable excuse for such rudeness, overbalancing the politeness which is characteristic of their whole national dignity. the french are proud of their national characteristics, and least of all nations inclined to trample them under foot. it is now eleven o'clock, as i have before said, and i am in paris, trying to get across the boulevard des italian. what i mean by trying is, picking my chance. i am no dancing master, and in this crowded street might not do the dodging right the first time. i am now across and ringing the bell at rue richelieu. this is the hotel des prince (hotel of the princes). mr. privat is the proprietor. in this hotel all have gone to bed except a beautiful little woman at the concierge. she was sewing whilst stillness reigned around her, like a deep, dark forest, just before a storm. she received me with a smile. i, not knowing that this was her usual behavior to all patronage of this or any other house in paris, took for granted i had made an extra impression right off. she took me to an apartment which she said was merely temporary. to-morrow, she said, i could get another to my taste. i gazed around at all the different doors and comforts with numerous conveniencies of neatness, and said to her, "miss, this, in my opinion, is good enough for the oldest inhabitant." she smiled and went away and brought me a bottle of water with a piece of ice inside just the shape of the bottle. "how did you put that piece of ice inside without breaking the bottle?" said i. "it was water, sir, and it froze inside," said she, "will you have something to eat?" i said i would like a small bit of chicken and red wine; she rang the bell and an english and french waiter was summoned; she went away and left me pretty certain that i was in paris. first day in paris. next morning i felt pretty sure i was in paris, or i "wasn't anywhere else." every five minutes would assure me that i was there. before the grey of the morn departed from paris i had two lady visitors. one was a beautiful girl, like "mary of adelphi." she was evidently mistaken in finding a tenant in this one of her rooms, unless that was her way. she moved up to the washstand, which was near my bed, or rather couch, and slyly looked in the drawer and drew back. i, wishing to let her know that if her business or adventure was connected with me, she need not fear waking me, rose my left arm and said, "good morning!" she, not understanding what i did say, muttered out something like "_reste vous tranquilles_," which, i afterwards learned, meant, don't be disturbed. she hurried out the half opened door pulling her little starched dress, that seemed to pull back, after her. five minutes after this, she returned and placed on my stand close to my bed, a bottle of ice water and a glass. i asked her name, she said, elverata, and winded away. five minutes after this another female opened my door about a foot and leaned gracefully in. she asked me some question two or three times, all that i could understand was blanche, with some other points to it like _e sirs_. consulting my guide of the french translated into the four following languages, french, italian, german and english, i discovered she was talking about washing. i got this book in london and studied all the way to paris, but found that i had made no improvement; all i knew of the book was, that the words translated were only some useful words that the solicitors would most likely know themselves when it would be necessary to use such expressions. she ran to me, for she was acquainted with the book better than i was, and helped to find what she wished to say. "_ie trouver, ie trouver_," she said. i gave her the book, at the same time asking her in english what was _trouver_. she looked up at the wall, like a madonna, and seemed to be lost in inward study, at last she looked me full in the face and said, "fyend." "ah!" said i, "find." "yis!" said she, "what you call _cela_?" "washerwoman," said i. "_ie suis washe-women_." this woman was certainly very bewitching whilst speaking this broken english. i gave her to understand that some other time would be more agreeable. she said she "stand" and went out; but as she did not stand, but went out, i presume she meant to say "i understand." at eight o'clock i descended to the _salle a manger_ for breakfast. persons were coming in to breakfast, two and three a minute, and others were going out as fast. this continued till eleven o'clock. thirty and forty were frequently at the table at the same time. mostly all were europeans; and had everything not gone on so regularly, an american "greenhorn" would have taken them to be the confusion of tongues convening for a reconciliation. on the table was more wine than coffee. the coffee was usually taken in the smoking room, where all gentlemen assemble to discuss politics. among this assemblage that i am so flippantly speaking of, was three noblemen of england, one duke of italy, three barons of the rhine, and a broken down princess. from merely gossip authority, i learned that she was the wife of a great man in one of the russio turko principalities. she was generally dressed in black, and had two servants and a _lacquey de place_. she was handsome and that had ruined her. she was getting from her husband , per annum to stay away from him and his court, which seemed to meet her approbation. she roomed on the same floor i did, and i frequently met her smiling in these narrow and dark passage ways. she seldom dined at the "_table de hote_," (dinner table) but either at the _trois frere_, (three brothers) or the _maison d'or doree_, corner of the boulevard and rue lafitte. she most always had her cabinet, good dinners and various wines, consequently was always full of agreeability. she would walk home herself, and, like the rest of ladies in paris, she was always sure that her dress in front should not drag the ground, by a process she had in her nature, to show her intention of keeping her dress high enough to prevent all accidents of the kind. by this habit of hers, she got many admirers, for what a man would then see instead of her dress would be no disadvantage to her or her intention. her reputation was such that had she been once gazed upon by the virgin mary, the fiery censure of her pure eyes would have been basilisks to her poor heart; the poor princess would have dropped dead from the mere spark of censure which the virgin could not, though fain would, hold back. the day has gone by. i stood about, looking! looking! looking! seeing what is novel enough to an american in paris, in the court of the _hotel des princes_. night came on and i went to my room to prepare to see a "night in paris." i shall write of a night in paris, and then shall say no more of paris until i have been to germany and return, where i expect to spend three or four months. after this voyage i calculate to spend the winter here, and write something of paris and its manners. my first day ends by meeting the princess on the steps, and having the pleasure of answering some inquiries of hers about sea-sickness, and pleasant ships of the cunard line. first night in paris. my "first day in paris" commenced at night. if sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, i will commence this chapter in the day by saying, "where now! valet de place?" "notre dame," he replied, and the coachman drove away towards the boulevards. in half an hour's time, he reined before the door of that "venerable old monument of reality and romance." i approached it like a timid child being baited with a shining sixpence. as my feet touched the sill, a peal came from the belfry, one of those sonorous twangs, that have made so many hearts flinch for hundreds of years in the "bloody bastile," and it vibrated from my timid heart to all parts of my frame. at this moment a reverend father offered me his hand, who had all the time been concealed beneath what one might well take to be a dark black coffin standing on end. i accepted his hand, and he led me quietly in that vast "sepulchre of kings." in all directions i saw magnificent aisles, and altars with burning incense. magnificent pictures representing all reverend worth, from the "son of man," to saints of france. golden knobs with inscriptions thereon, adorned the footsteps of every visitor thereof, denoting the downwardness of kings who had once ruled nations. whilst standing there awestruck with departed worth, i gazed downward with a submissive heart, when lo! i stood upon the coffin of a king! i quickly changed my position, but stepped upon a queen. the valet was relating to me the many different opinions the people had about stepping on noted personages, and how unnecessary it was to take notice of such things as they were dead, when i got disgusted at his ignorance, and stepped from a queen to a princess. to describe this gorgeously furnished sanctum, it is enough to say, that all the brilliant artists of this scientific people have been engaged for hundreds of years in its decoration. not only employed by the coffers of the church of france, but by the throne that upheld numerous kings, as well as the wish of the whole populace of france, and the spoils of other nations. hundreds of people from different parts of the world visit it every day, and all leave a franc or two. thousands of parisians visit it every day, and they make no mark of decay. it stands a living monument of church and state. drive me to the national assembly, i said to the coachman. in ten minutes i was going up the gallery. before i went in, the valet went to a member's coachman, and gave him a franc, and he gave in return a ticket to the gallery. each member is allowed so many gallery tickets, and if he fails in giving them out, he makes his servants presents of them, and they sell them. they were debating republican principles. louis napoleon was then president of the republic, and on the door of every building and gate of france were these words in legible letters, "liberte eqalite fraternite." louis napoleon was not there that day, and they seemed to have a good time, like mice when the cat is away. the most incomprehensible part of their proceeding was, sometimes two would be speaking at once, regardless of the chair. the speaker hammered away furiously, but it was hard to tell, unless you knew, whether he was beating up a revival or a retreat from destruction; as they cooled off their debative heat, there was always twenty or thirty ready to throw agitating fuel in the furnace. as they would cool down a whiff, mushroom-like risings, would be perceptible in four or five different parts of the spacious hall. i could make nothing out of what was going on, save willingness to talk instead of listening, and i left. one handsome and intelligent looking gentleman descended at the same time, which i learned to be the correspondent of the new york tribune. i then took a curve like tour back, across the seine, by the tuillieries, luxomburg, and back to the same part of the boulevards, which was more crowded with fashion, than when i passed along in the forenoon, and went home. night came on, and with it, the gayest time of paris. the valet said i must go to _jardin mabeille_, (a ball), i rode there. this is a nightly ball, but there was no less than fifty vehicles of different comforts, which showed that a great many foreigners were there, because parisians generally prefer promenading when going to such a feast of pleasure. i paid two francs and went in. it was a garden about a square block in size. in all parts of it was shrubbery of the most fragrant odors. there was an immense number of little walks, with neat rustic seats for lovers to caress in, from the disinterested eye; and on my first preambulation, i got lost, and intruded more than was polite, but i did not know the importance of this discretion, until i perilously saw the danger. had i gone on without stopping, i would have led myself to the orchestra, where and when i could have taken part in the amusement to the approbation of all present. when i discovered that i did not know what i was about, i stopped quickly and looked scrutinizingly around those snug little bowers. all in a minute out came a "bower lover," as furious as a cat. i asked him "where the ball was;" he discovered that i was no frenchman, and could not have meant intrusion; he directed me to go straight ahead, and i left him in his bliss. like a round pigeon house on the end of pole, i pronounce the orchestra. a stair ran up to the pigeon house from the platform round the great pole, or post that supported it. a small enclosure was under the orchestra and occasionally the band would descend to the platform to play. round this orchestra they danced. the spectators seemed to be exclusively foreigners; they made a ring around the gay lotharios as unbroken as the one they made around the orchestra. the bassy and fluty melodious band, discoursed the sweetest waltz that ever tickled my admiration. off they glided like a scared serpent, winding their curvy way as natural as if they were taking their chances. there they come! but there is some still going in the ranks, and there is still a vacancy. twice they have made the circuit, and the hoop is complete. now to me it is all dizziness, and it all looked to me as a moving body of muses from times of yore. occasionally my eye would cling to a couple for an instant, but this was occasioned by the contrast between a large, fat, and heavy gentleman, that had become a troublesome neighbor to all that chose to get in his way. whenever any of the lighter footed would discover their close proximity to his appollo pedestals, like a shooting star they would flit away, and leave him monarch of all he surveyed. i wish to describe a few of the most conspicuous, but i will wait for a quadrille, where i can get them to take their places in description. the name of my valet de place is oscar. "oscar, what nation does that puny looking, red-skinned man belong to?" "a _maltese_," said he, as if he never would stop sounding the ese, but he added the "i believe." i afterwards found out that he was some of the canary island's stock; but the best of the stock. a beautiful french girl held him by the hind part of his coat with her left hand, whilst she held with her right his hand, lest he might go off in his glee, "half shot." she was also afraid that some interested lady might take better care of him than herself. he was fashionably dressed, and in paris, as a nabob, his actions represented some rich man's foolish son. i swear by my father's head, i see a live turk! turban! sack hanging between his legs, more empty than falstaff's! one of the genuine breed that followed saladin to the plains of palestine and stood before richard's battle-axe with his scimitar! one of the head choppers of christians! perhaps the next will be the amiable countenance of "blue beard." the old turk and his beard is trying to dance, but his bag won't let him. he is let down, and goes off the track. he is now mixing some oakum with tobacco. now he is looking on, like a poor boy at a frolic--yes! he would if he could. i am sure his first duty to-morrow will be to hunt a mosque and give up dancing. he is leaving and trying to get his money back. i walked round on the opposite side, and saw several other incomprehensibles. "what tall, fine looking, yellow skinned man is that, oscar, with that tall lady standing looking on?" "that, sir," said he, "is a very rich quadroon from louisiana, i believe new orleans. he lives at no. , _boulevard possoniere_, when he is in town, but he has his country residence nine miles in the country. he has a very handsome french lady for a wife, and it is said he left new orleans on account of their prejudice to color. he is a very popular man here, and is said to be worth $ , ." just then i saw mr. holbrook, of the new orleans picayune, and mr. fellowes of the firm of fellowes & co., step up to this man and shake him warmly by the hand, and said, "mr. cordevoille, don't you know me? i patronized your tailor's shop five or six years." cordevoille had been the largest tailorizer in the south, and accumulated a large fortune, and sold out to his partner, mr. lacroix, who still is carrying on the firm under the name and style of cordevoille & lacroix. mr. cordevoille was looking the very picture of a gentleman; he seemed to be a great object of respect to those that spoke to the lady he was conversing with in the french tongue. he reminded me more of prince albert in his manners than any other person around. had his face not been pock marked, he would have conveyed a conception of an inferior appollo; his _tout ensemble_ had as many brilliant cuts of a true gentleman's conduct, as the single diamond he wore. after some enquiry about new orleans, he invited some american gentlemen to his country seat; it was to be on the following day, and they being high toned gentlemen of sense, they accepted, not so much for pleasure and information, as for giving mr. cordevoille to understand that they understood the duty of gentlemen; no doubt they felt that if they refused, mr. cordevoille might feel the weight of such a refusal. they agreed also to stay all night, which invitation had been extended by mr. cordevoille. lest it be a censure on these gentlemen, i refrain from going any further with a subject so delicate. i now walked under the roof of a very extensive hall; in it was all kinds of refreshments. all one side of the hall was a door, so that when the crowd in the garden was likely to be overtaken by a shower, dancing went on in there. immense crowds were seated about at tables smoking, and discussing politics, but not one gentleman had his foot on the table, except an american quietly seated in one corner in a profound soliloquy. he was chewing tobacco. i did'nt stop to see where he spit, for fear he might claim nationality. i learned that several of the quietly seated, were members of the national assembly. it was now getting late, and gentlemen that had pretty mates were going through the gates in compact succession. why gentlemen with pretty mates could not stay to the last was a mystery to me. but to solve that mystery i followed the crowd, and discovered that the nearer they got home, the more affectionate they got. the most of these couples would stop at the first _cafe_ and call for their _tass du coffee_ and _vere d'eau de vie_ (cup of coffee and glass of brandy). they would set the brandy on fire and burn the spirits out, and then pour it into the coffee. as soon as they began to feel the effects of this pleasant nourishment, they would move again for home. at o'clock at night carriages were running in all directions from balls, theatres, operas, museums, concerts, soirees, dancing schools, and more amusements than could be named in one article. i went to the hotel, seeking my own amusement. i could not conjecture a more comfortable place than the house i roomed at, after seeing all this night's bustle. even if i could not find my own room, i was in the house of acquaintances. i went to the room of an acquaintance, and talked and lingered in agreeable conversation and amusement until near day. i approached my own chamber, and found that whilst i was out helping to make a city of dissipators, elvereta had been to my room and arranged my wardrobe _comme foi_. this ends my "first night in paris." i must rove away from paris. here is the middle of august, nearly a month of uninterrupted sight seeing has passed away, and my curiosity is surfeited. i am now on the eve of roving away to "the hilly oberland," where i will tire my limbs on the rocky alps, and crave the comfort i here have enjoyed. i know i am but leaving paris to enjoy the anxiety to get back. four days are gone by, and i have spent half a day at chalon, and one at lyons, the "silk city." in this last half a day, i saw more manufactories than i ever saw in one town. it is said that machines to the enormous power of two hundred horse, are in some of these factories. from to , hands are engaged in manufacturing silk daily. this is a very rich looking city, and must indeed, be very rich. it is no doubt an older city than paris. if a man was brought here blindfolded, after beholding its magnificence and wealth, he might easily be led to believe he was at the capitol of france. another day is gone, and finds me not less fleeting. i am away up the rhone, at "_aix le bain_." this romantic little town of a few thousand inhabitants, has the celebrity of chronology of years before the christian era. it points to some warm baths, which it is named after, as its grey hairs; and of which was its phoenix. the romans built it up on account of its feasibility of becoming a "national bath tub" of gaul. under the ground, as far as the ambition of a roman chooses to go, these baths could be made profitable. there are now from eight to ten stone walled rooms, where all a man has to do to put the bath in readiness, is to open the door. some or frenchmen were here passing away the summer, enjoying themselves fishing, dancing and gaming, for there is a very rich bank in a splendid casino, to draw that class of france that live on excitement, i saw one american here who was broke. he wanted to relate his misfortunes to me, but i did not wish to hear them, as i was well posted before he tried to post me. i am intercepted on all sides, as i step off the steps of the hotel, by donkey boys, who are indeed anxious to have me take a ride to a little old city not far away, but in savoy. it is impossible to tell a good donkey from a bad one by his looks, and each boy assures me that his donkey is the best in aix. by way of proving it to me, he gives me the word of an american that rode him the summer before; but were i an englishman instead of what he took me to be, he would have had other testimonials more influential. but what these little good natured plagues say is true, so far as the words of their patrons are to be trusted; it would be very indecorous to ride his little donkey three or four miles and have the little owner to run along behind all the time and whip and beat the poor donkey, and then get off and walk in without saying he was a "good donkey," "the best you ever saw." that pleases the little fellows. his donkey is worth or $ , and to run down his little stock, would be no part of a gentleman. august is not yet gone, but i am a long way from paris. here i am, at the "city of watches," geneva, and lake leman. never did a better opportunity present itself to man, to make a good impression, than this beautiful day presents geneva to me, her visitor. not a cloud intervenes to mount blanc's snow clad peak, fifty odd miles away, and it looks as if it was merely over yonder hill, to the right of byron's house, which is not two miles away. it reminds me of a still cloud, over a sun-set that indicates fair weather to-morrow. as mount blanc is covered with snow here in august, it makes another mountain of a lesser height that lies between here and mount blanc, appear as if its top was painted red. mount blanc, standing beyond, with her white capped peak, through the intervening heat of this hot day, the small one may well resemble a fiery painted mountain. this is the edge of switzerland, and still the french is the prevalent language, which language seems destined to be universal throughout europe. after looking over some of the watch factories, i went to mount blanc on horses, and stayed two days at the a city at its base, and went across the country to vevey, a small town on lake leman. to my astonishment i saw two americans here. one was dr. elliot, of louisville, ky., and the other mr. n., of new orleans. the old dr. was very glad to see me. he and i had been sick companions together on the steamship africa, where and when we both wished that we had never heard of europe, but now that we were out of the slough, and traveling over the republican land of wm. tell in the very best health and spirits, and like the roe and buck, we were happy in these highlands. vevey is a very handsomely situated village, one would not forget it after seeing its picturesque groups of vineyards and rustic huts, interspersed with fairy-like palaces. it is a lively little place, and a great many english and rich switzers come here in the dog days of summer. after staying at vevey a couple of days, i hired a carriage and plodded on over this hilly land to switzerland's capital, bern. bern is a very dull looking place, and most especially so for a capitol. the second story of the houses hang over the pavement, so you can walk the town without getting wet. the language generally is german, so you see the close alliance of languages in switzerland. five days more; i am in the great oberland, among the towering alps. i traversed the whole of the valley of interlaken, to the almost hidden village of interlaken. the hotels are all small, generally not more than ten rooms, and are called pensions; queer name to create an appetite with. english come here in summer for cheap living; there is also some americans with patience enough to stay a short time and strengthen their means, that are most too frequently consumed at paris, brussels, or vienna. as you leave the village to take a tour in a carriage up the great valley, you pass the ruins of an ancient castle, which once was the court of an ancient and noble race, whose ancestors are not to be traced, whose names was unspunnin. a young knight belonging to another court scaled the walls and stole away ida, the last male descendant's daughter, and made her his bride. many years of bloody strife followed, after which the young knight came forth to burkard, the lord of this castle and father of ida, with his infant son in his arms and offered himself up, when the old man went into tears and made rudolph's infant son heir of his numerous estates. farther up the valley a place is pointed out where a great murder was committed, and a noble young knight was the doer of the deed. he could never rest afterwards, so he fled from the sight of man, and has never been heard of since. in the immense vallies of perpetual glaciers, the snow has lain for thousands of years, and where the mountains drip upon the glaciers below, crevasses are made through and under. it is supposed that this knight crept into one of these and there froze up his heart, unseen by father, mother, sister, brother, friend or acquaintance. this part of switzerland is unlike any other part. it is nothing but mountains and small lakes. the lakes are as apt to be found on the tops of mountains as in vallies. from these large basins of water on top of mountains, are crevasses running through side rocks, and falling off makes the crevasses through and under the glaciers as i have described. but here is a specimen of the intelligence of the switzers of olden time. it is a little old town with a wall round it, and a hill close up to the wall all round. the walls could have done no more good than the hill if there was any spunk in the builders. the lake of lucern comes up to this bigoted little spot. its appelation is in honor of this important lake of catfish and suckers. it has a piece of art, too, a lion sculptured in the side of a rock outside the walls. it is the most natural artificial lion i ever saw. here is zurich, the prettiest city in switzerland, notwithstanding byron's praise of geneva. here is the famed "zurich waters." the people here have not that staring stupidity so characteristic of the swiss in other towns. they are all going along about their business as if they had lived among strangers all their lives. it is a thriving town, and they manufacture silks here on quite an extensive scale. in conclusion, switzerland is a republic, and all parts, except the ruggedest mountains, is in the highest state of cultivation. wine and wheat are among their chief studies. they are devout christians. every mile of their highways there is an image of the son of mary hung high up by the roadside, denoting his suffering, patience and forbearance. the swiss are not a homely people. their country is too mountainous for railroads. spicy towns in germany. having passed over the borders of switzerland and germany, and through the first german town, called friedsburg, i will linger a while at strasborg. it was once the capitol of many provinces. in times gone by, many centuries ago, it was called the roman's "argentoratum," and experienced more than a few of the miseries of war. the tallest piece of monumental art the world ever had recorded on the pages of its chronology, not even the tower of babel excepted, is here in this city of over two thousand years old. its name is the munster, and ought to have been monster. it is a church, and was three hundred years in process of erection. it is feet from the earth, and to give a clearer perception of its height, it is feet higher than the pyramids of egypt. in it is that famous clock, made three hundred years ago, which runs yet. this clock might justly have an other half added to its name, _clock_. many people flock there every day to see its manoeuvres. at o'clock, or a few minutes before twelve, wooden men, representing the apostles or priests, come out of the clock, and some inferior personages also, and march a short distance and waits a few minutes to be warned of the hour, then this waited for moment is signalized by a brass cock coming out of the clock on the other side, which flaps its wings three times and crows, after which this group of old men returns to their vestry of study or seclusion, and the clock clicks on as it has done for three hundred years, and the crowd disperses. the streets are crowded with soldiers, as in paris, and the ladies go about the streets holding up their dresses just the right height to attract attention. the rain is over, and there is no more attraction in the spicy town of strasborg, so i am going to baden baden, the spiciest gambling place in europe. in the park is a great large building in the shape of a country stable, but full of splendor, called a casino or conversation room, and this conspicuous appellation is conspicuously written on the front of the building. in this open hall--open to all--is gambling hours between each meal. the great gambling table is in the centre with numerous stools, such as are to be found in stuarts, or any other fashionable dry goods store in america. on these stools are all classes of society that like excitement--dukes, earls, marquises, barons, knights, valets, and even liveried coachmen, betting from francs to , francs. while i was in the casino the prince of prussia broke the bank. only thirty thousand francs is allowed in the bank at once, and if broken no more business or amusement goes on that day in that cassino; but there are others dealing on the same platform. it is quite amusing to see the anxiety written on the brow of players, and to see the expression of disinterested persons, which we in america term "stuck on the game." i have seen more excruciating pain come from an outsider by the loss of some pile of gold, than i ever saw come from the expression of the loser. here comes a count who has been betting and losing on another bank, and he came to change his luck. he threw down his last thousand and it won; he let it all stand on the red, and this time it all goes into the bank. he exclaims, "that's my luck." then the outsiders would cast an eye of pity on him, and say, he might have known that he would lose it, when the very reason they were not betting, was, they were broke on the same bank perhaps a week ago. i see six beautiful noble ladies betting, with their money snugly piled up before them. their bets generally range from twenty to one hundred francs. but the most amusing part of this crowd's entertainment is, the airs that the money scampers put on. if a lady or gentleman should win, he pays it with an air of nonchalence and great pleasure; but if he wins, which he is sure to do in the end, he looks very melancholy, as if it were the result of accident, and in his opinion it was very vulgar for the bank to win. i put down a five franc piece, it won; i let the ten stand, it won; i let the twenty stand, it won; i moved it, and it lost, and i quit. he attempted to console me by saying i ought to have let it stand where it was, "what do you bet on now sir," said he; i don't bet any more said i, i have already lost five francs. he took me to be a green yankee and said no more to me. another amusing sight was there; it was two more broken american youths, who said they were waiting for mr. peabody to forward them money, and was "sound on the borry." i did'nt pride myself much here on my nationality, lest i would have some unprofitable fame. one of them owed two weeks' board in the british hotel. he was mighty polite when he met me in company, and placed me under the truly painful necessity of being introduced to some person of note whom he had himself been a bore upon. he asked me if i was acquainted with the grand duke, at the same time looking over the heads of the players, as if he would call him if he could only get his eye on him. then he insisted on my going down to the other bank, where the chances were better, and where the grand duke of baden would most likely be. i declined all invitations, and got a carriage and went out of town to see the ruins of the erhreinstein castle. having returned and paid my bill, i left this little german town to go to heidelburg, where once dwelled a good castilian, frederick the st, of the palatinate. james lived between baden baden and heidelberg two or three years, and wrote the two following novels, which gives a better history of these, the castles of heidelberg and erhreinstein, than any other history gives or can be obtained at present. he lived at carlsruth. the grand duke lives at baden baden, and carlsruth, and heidelberg, and he is here now at heidelberg, and was here when my american friend was hunting him in the casino. tilly, the great french general, blew up the front side of this castle in , since which all its magnificence has been known but as tradition. the picture gallery still remains perfect, that is to say, some wings of it. there is many talented artists now grouped about in its rural halls, for the grass has grown up in them, taking copies of these splendid pictures. the city of heidelberg which this castle overlooks, is quite a large city for a german interior town. i was told by my landlord that its population was upwards of , . the cellar of the old ruins still contains its wine casks. i saw one cask or vat said to hold , bottles of wine. ten men can dine round a king arthur's round table on its head. in the cellar is the statue of one of king frederick's fools, with one side of his face painted green and one half of his hair red, whilst the other is not. he drank eighteen bottles of wine each day and lived one hundred years. father matthew never heard of that juice of such admirable longevity, or it would have clapped the cap on his spouting eloquence. german towns are spicy towns. outside of the city, just across the necker, is to be two duels to-day with short swords, and they fight duels on that duelling ground every day, either students or other citizens. it is considered a small gladiatorial arena. the grand duke is about to leave for carlsruth, and the people are parading with great glee. children women and men are crowding the gates in solid batallions; you would think old zack had come to town. i am dizzy with reflections of these fast little towns of germany. as i whirl along now towards the cradle of the rothschild's my brain is rocking its reflective matter from the canton of the quiet and religious swiss here to the burghers of this profane people. but here i am, in the independent little territory of the duchess of darmstadt. each mile-post is painted barber-pole style. this duchess is better known as the duchess of nassau. the cars stopped at darmstadt, and if a good big southern barber's shop had been here the people all would have gone in it instead of darmstadt by mistake. the gates are barberified in its style of designation. i saw an american looking out of the cars at these posts until he felt his beard. all at once he threw himself back in his seat, as if he thought the country was too dull to look at, and of course impossible to produce anything sharp enough to take off beards. frankfort may be strictly termed the capitol of germany; because all the german princes meet here once a year and hold a conference on the great topics of interest to the whole german people. this gathering is called the diet. this diet enacts for the german principalities, some of the most wholesome and sound logical laws that comes from the parliament of any nation of these modern times. frankfort has produced the most sagacious merchants the world ever knew. i have just been to look at goethe's house. it has stood the scathing weather of the main for five hundred years, but none of the calamities of time have laid their fingers upon it, save a slight decay. "frankfort on the oder" must not be misconstrued so as to convey an idea of this frankfort. this is generally designated as frankfort on the main. it is a town full of high spirited people, and lively as crickets, but less sedate. business is always good here. each man is in some degree possessed with the ambition of a rothschild. i am going to see the house of the primitive rothschild, and then off to the rhine. here i am at mainz, on the banks of the rhine. looking at my ticket down the rhine, i see this is the th of september, but the weather indicates summer time. this old, dead, but vast town, has the distinction allotted to it of producing the first book printer. i will not attempt, as most chroniclers, to describe the impression the legend river of europe made on me; suffice it to say that, on every peak, and that is saying a good deal, is the ruins of tyrants, and every hole that is made through these turrets, sends out a woeful wisp of a "blue beard's wrath," that quickens the pulse of a modern civilian. i am now in town, at a great hotel, called disch. here is a very old city, and in old times roman emperors were proclaimed here. the wife of germanicus, aggrippa, the mother of the tyrant that "fiddled" whilst rome was burning, was born here. in this city is a church which has already cost four millions of florins, and is not finished yet. in this church is one of the most imposing pieces of splendor the eye of man ever gazed on. inside of this case of jewels is three skulls filled with jewels. they glitter about in the nose and eyes and ears like moving maggots, and causes man to gaze with amazement upon the peculiarities of the people of german towns. its name is cologne. its modern merit is its production of colognes, not little towns, but the fluid possessing requisite qualifications of admittance to the private apartment of the sweetest virgin. i must now bring this chapter to a close and go down among the dutch. down among the dutch. having been disappointed in seeing a magnificent city, and smelling one, i am rapidly running down the rhine to the netherlands--holland among the dutch. these boats are hardly worth mentioning, more than to say they have steam and a crew. the crew are very stupid looking; mind you i say stupid looking, but i don't mean to say they are stupid. they have nothing to say or do with the passengers. they don't leave their watch and come to the cabin to sit a minute and talk with passengers, and occasionally "take a hand" at a game, as they do on our inferior boats running the yazoo, arkansas, red and black river, until the boiler hisses, or the boat snags. they are slow but sure. in the cabin, which is below, is a sufficient number of small tables in restaurant style, and whoever eats does it _a la carte_. if you eat what is worth only fifteen grochens, you only pay fifteen grochens; but, if you eat one hundred grochens' worth, you will pay one hundred grochens; not one cent over or under is required, for the dutch, as a class, are a reasonable, just and inoffensive people, therefore wish nothing but fair understanding and dealing. they always keep an interpreter on a cheap scale, to enable them to get along without difficulty. he was either a waiter, dish washer or potato-peeler, but on a no more expensive scale. they are the last people i am acquainted with to count unhatched chickens. captain husenhork, i understand, is a gentleman and a good humored man, but the eye of a lynx would have a task to catch a smile upon his hickory countenance. he brought an old dutch musket on deck for me to amuse myself with, shooting at snipe along the dykes. i shot into their midst several times, but they all flew up, circled around and lit at the same place. i never before saw so many of this style or genera of bird. their bills was the most conspicuous part of them. the boat is now turning to land at a pretty large town called arnheim; but holland is so low that a man cannot see the spires of a city until he enters its walls. holland is one vast marsh. it is dyked so as to drain each acre, but it is the richest soil in europe, and its productiveness is so profitable that its owners would not swop it for the land of goshen. it has nourished a people that seem to be well adapted to its nature; the forbearance of the dutch people is not to be equalled by any. the labor required to till such soil as holland's, has been the best friend to the hollanders, for no people on the earth enjoys the labor as does a holland farmer, and no people could make it so profitable. in taking a hack ride a few miles in the country around arnheim, i can say the nurseries are unsurpassed by switzerland, the hanse states, or france. having gossiped in arnheim two days, i called for my bill, paid it, packed my trunk for amsterdam. wine being such an extravagant item i thought i would enquire into it, as i might get some information why it was so much more in holland than the other parts of the rhine. i found that wine was an imported liquor, consequently, the duty made the difference between wine on that side of the rhine and the other. a swilly beer is most universally the beverage of the netherlands. the clerk supposing that i was not satisfied with the length of my bill, took it in his inspection and examined it carefully, and said, "sir, you eat snipe." "well is that any reason you should make my bill like a snipes?" "yes sir," said he, "it is extra." "all right, sir, i did not ask you about any part of the bill except wine." next day i was in amsterdam, the wealthiest city of holland. it is a city of canals; they run through all the main parts of the town, leaving a large side-walk on each side. some pretty large ships are in the heart of the town. bridges run across the canals, but they revolve on hinges and are easily turned. the gayest time of amsterdam is dead winter. then the zuyder zee and all its canals are frozen over, when ladies and gentlemen are skating night and day. vessels sail charmingly on the ice, but their bottoms are made for the ice instead of water. balls and pic-nic parties are numerous in winter. the amsterdam ladies are all healthy looking. i saw half a dozen ladies yesterday shooting snipe, when i rode out to saandam. they had on nice little boots and moved among the high grass like skilful hunters. at saandam i registered my name in the little "book of names," in the house of peter the great, emperor of russia. he ran away from russia and came here and rented this little house with only two rooms, and lived in poverty here, to learn to build ships. hollandaise builders worked with him a year at a time, but knew not that it was peter the great, of the russias. the little frame hut is three hundred years old, but has been preserved on account of its strange and novel history. th of september, and i am at the capitol of holland, the hague. the king lives here, about a quarter of a mile from my hotel, the "bellevue." but i just dined with a king. the father of the queen is the old king of wurtemburg, and he is putting up here, and we have a guard of honor at our door. he is going out--he bows to me. col. fellowes learning dutch. i must now introduce the reader to an american "merchant prince," better known by his associates as the "prince of good fellows." this is cornelius fellowes, of the respectable firm of messrs. fellowes & co., of new orleans, la. he is rather more than a medium size man, and straight as an exclamation point, with handsome limbs. he cannot be justly termed handsome, without adding _man_. his face was the color of a last year's red apple all free from decay; his hair is light for black, and not very thick on top, and he is aged years. he is no politician, statesman, or orator, but as a business man, he is "sound on the goose." i know of no man that could settle business disagreements to the entire satisfaction of both, better than mr. fellowes. he would have made a profound judge, his heart and talent alike is so justly qualified. he is a very liberal and extravagant man, more so than any man i am acquainted with, but he is by no means a benevolent man; i don't mean to say that he is stingy, for he is not, but i mean to indicate that he always has some original idea of his own to make him give; for example, if a group of little ragged girls come around him begging, he will instantly feel his pockets, and take out all the change, but the most of it would go into the hands of the prettiest or cleanest, at the same time saying, "this is a pretty little girl," and if there is any left they will be sure to get the remainder. or if a group of little boys are the beggars, he will give the most to the smartest, and exclaim, "he is a smart little fellow." and sometimes he is conscious of this partiality, and tries to evade it by throwing the coin among the boys to see them scuffle for it, but this trait of his is so marked, that he will be sure to throw it on his favorite's head, and if he fails to catch it, it is a sure sign of another chance for the boys. he laughs heartily when his boy catches it, as if it done his soul good. he is so proud, or haughty, or perhaps i had better say, naturally aristocratic, that he can descend from his sphere to vulgar without knowing it, and joke, laugh, and even offer some of his drink, but if you forget yourself, he will recollect himself. he can treat a free colored man as polite as he can a poor white one, and a class that are below them must be in his estimation what they are. he is a man with no enemies; i don't believe he has one, and he himself hates no man, and in fact is always happy, jovial, and scarcely ever disappointed with his calculations of things and people. whatever the col. does, he does well, but he always puts it off until it can be delayed no longer. if he makes up his mind that he must go up the river, and look in the affairs of his agents or debters, he will appoint next week, but four or five weeks will follow in succession, but as next week must eventually come, he battles with that until the last day. saturday he leaves on the last boat, and, is his most interested partner abler than another man to tell when he will ever turn his face home, or whether he will stop at natchez, or memphis, for what convinced him at o'clock saturday that he had better get off that evening, was as much the departure of his friends on that boat, as the conviction that these affairs of his must be looked into. when he wants a partner in any of his various traffics, he never looks for a man with capital, but one that understands what his views are, and would feel an aspiring interest, so much so as to devote all his time and talent and scrutiny to its development of prosperity in the end, if not at first. his object seems more the perfection of the business than its profits; but at the end of the year of business, which is the first day of september, if there is no profit, and he is not very deeply in, he will not be inclined to risk much, but he sticks like a leech, and this year must pay the loss of last. he will bleed some branch of this business before he lets go. the balance sheet of the firm of messrs. fellowes and co., foots per annum about $ , to $ , profit; but if he lost by giving up some of his planters that have made a good crop, $ , , he thinks that he managed badly, and goes about finding who they are connected with, and whether they wish to come back again. he will now furnish them with more means than he refused them when they left him. no man can get along with a planter better than cornelius fellowes; for he considers a planter, or slave holder, his equal in every particular; consequently feels himself at home with them. a planter looks at a merchant as his agent until they become the leading houses in their community, then they are honored in having the great merchant to stay a few days and hunt. but when they go to new orleans they expect to be waited on by the merchant, when to their great disgust, the merchant sends his clerk to look after their wants; and the merchant, instead of persuading them to come and put up at his house, or dine with him, has other friends more congenial to his taste and dignity, than the planter with his sunday suit of store made clothes. but as mr. fellowes never cares much for looks or position, and as he is an old bachelor and never had a house, and a slave holder is his equal, he hesitates not to go to the ladies ordinary and order his seat at table, and call on the rustic gentleman and family to dine with him, where they drink such wine as they would most likely take at home for stump water and cider. but this familiarity will tell upon the nerves of mr. fellowes, for he does not like to feel himself obliged to do any thing, and they will, in this good mood, invite him to the opera, theatre, or most likely the circus. now this stumps his benevolent feelings to those who need no benevolence; he has his club mates, or the gaieties of orleans to meet, where are to be found the very men he must touch glasses or whif a cigar with. he is now puzzled. he will let them know before dark, but will have their tickets for them already. he surely will be found missing; he says to himself "it will not do to refuse them without a good and plausable excuse," therefore he plans in his mind. he calls on one of his numerous clerks, and requests him to take an amount of money and go and buy so many tickets, and requests him further to call on mr. brown, and make an excuse, and offer to accompany him and the ladies to the amusement in view. these rich, bustle-dressed, young girls are diamonds in the eyes of young clerks; and young clerks in the best houses are adonises to what these girls are used to. they soon become agreeable, and when they return home, sam smith, their next neighbor, is treated as he deserves to be by civilized beings. soon after a letter comes to mr. clerk from this plantation, with a lady's scrawl, care fellowes & co., and mr fellowes delights to find that his suggestion of this young man met the entire approbation of the favorite of the old farmer. the fact is mr. fellowes can kill more birds with one stroke of his policy, than any other man that studies so little. mr. fellowes is never in so bad a humour as when he treats one kindly, and it is unkindly returned, to illustrate this, i must drop this epitome of his history, and carry the reader to the capitol of holland, where mr. fellowes is trying to learn something of this slow and easy people. he was smoking his segar when the king of wurtimburg went out, but took no notice of him, because he was engaged with a group of beggar boys, throwing stivers at them. an english gentleman that had lived in the indies, was by us, and we had travelled on the rhine together. "let us go down to the sea, five miles off, and see the dutch fisheries. i understand they are extensively engaged in fishing, mr. grant," said col. fellowes. "i have been there, mr. fellowes," said the englishman, "but will go again with you, though i know you will be annoyed with these plagued beggars." "o," said mr. fellowes, "i like to see them, with their large wooden shoes, jumping after the grochens, and further, they are a great people, and i wish to find out a great deal about their habits and manners; i think i shall stay here a week." the fame of the col. had reached the remotest corner of the hague, and squads of two and three were seen in all directions coming to the bellevue house. here our lacquey brought before the door a fine turnout, and he jumped in and drove away like a prince, whilst they followed on all sides, some hundreds of yards, like fallstaff's soldiers, ready to run from any one they found they were close to that knew them except their abject leader. in a few moments we were down on the north sea. it was very cold down on the beach, but fishermen were walking in the sea from their smacks, with hamper baskets full of all kinds of fish. their vessels that had been two days seining, was full of fish, but as these vessels could get no nearer than a quarter of a mile to land, they always fill their bushel basket, and shoulder it, and walk through the surging waves on the beach, on whose sand was pyramids of fish piled up, to be sold at a zwanzich bushels (about cents). sometimes they would disappear in the waves with the fish, but would appear soon again nearer shore, plodding on patiently. whilst col. fellowes was reading a description of this fish point, the lacquey explained a conversation he had with six or seven beggars off a rod from us. he said they were anxious to know who we three fellows were, and had dubbed mr. fellowes "count of new york." i was son of the count, and would eventually become count of the amsterdam, of the empire state. mr. grant was dignified with the royal appellation of "duke of brunswick." they certainly found more curious matter in the polish of our glazed boots, than we did at their large wooden trotters, that at every step rattled against the others, who stood so close together as to form a bouquet of dirty dutch heads of various colors. having informed mr. fellowes of his new made honor, he laughed heartily, and called them nearer to corroborate the information that they had been so lucky to find out, by throwing among them some of his revenue of the city named after their great amsterdam. the col. threw stavers and grochens until he astonished the natives. some jumped clear over other's heads. now the col. was in his glory. this was friday, and they had'nt eaten anything, but from their movements and agility, you would swear "they would make hay while the sun shines." their strange movements was not only a signal for miles up the beach, but the fishermen had abandoned their smacks, and were coming through the surf, and under it. the col. here run out of money, and called on my money bag, which was hanging under my arm like a bird bag, and was full of various coins, from louis d' or's of twenty franc pieces, to the smallest denominations. i gave small coin until i thought he had thrown away enough, and then cried broke. mr. grant and myself drew back from the col., and he was beseiged. he told them he was broke, at the same time feeling all his pockets, whilst they was looking all around him for pockets he might overlook. about sixty or seventy had circled him, and we were laughing to ourselves because we saw he was vexed and felt himself in a dilemma. the little dutch had almost fell down in the sand by his feet, and was feeling up his pantaloons leg to see if some was not dropping. one old honest dutchman that had been carefully examining mr. fellowes coat tail, had come across his white handkerchief, and took it round in front and returned it. here mr. fellowes showed tokens of fear, and he hallowed out, "lacquey, why don't you take a stick and beat them off, don't you see they are robbing me?" "no sir, that handkerchief he thought was something that you had overlooked sticking to your clothes, and he brought it to your notice," said the lacquey. "then tell them i am broke and drive them off." "yes, sir, if i can." here he went to work in earnest, explaining that the count had run out of money but he had a plenty in the bank, and they could get no more to-day. then they went away about a rod and seemed buried in reflection. they started to come again, but the col. backed, while the lacquey appealed to their reason by informing them that were it the king himself, he could not carry all his money with him. mr. fellowes shook himself and tried to put on a pleasing countenance, but we could not for our lives maintain our gravity at his lesson of familiarity while learning dutch. we walked up the beach, and conversed on the subject of the north sea and sir john franklin, when all of a sudden mr. fellowes called to the coachman to drive up. i looked around and saw the beggars coming. we lost no time in retreating. while passing through the gates of the city, i noticed a bronze lion placed in the position of a guardian over it. i said, what an awful condition daniel must have been in when in the lion's den. "no worse," said the col. "than i was in with the dutch!" here a boy opened a door on the col.'s side, that he might descend. as the col. stepped out, he alighted on the dutchman's wooden shoe, and tripped himself up. as he picked himself up and moved towards the hotel door, he exclaimed in an under tone, d----n the dutch. it must not be supposed that mr. fellowes meant any harm to the dutch, but, they were not in his opinion, as agreeable as they might be. he left next day, although he intended staying a week "learning dutch." on! on! to waterloo. without noting rotterdam, holland's lowest town, and antwerp, an old flemish town, i am at the carpet city of belgium, brussels, on my way to waterloo. i have a little old lacquey i just hired and he is as cute as a mink. "all ready, sir," said he, "shall i drive you to the palace or the museum?" "no sir, on to waterloo!" here the hackman remonstrated--he was not engaged for twelve miles and only engaged inside the city walls, and would not go to waterloo this cold wet day for less than twenty francs. "go on, sir," said i, and he traversed the whole of the brussels boulevard before he passed the gates. here we are at the battle-field where wellington rose and napoleon fell. wellington conquered the master of the world. byron says, in his ode on napoleon,-- "'tis done! but yesterday a king, and armed with kings to strive; and now thou art a nameless thing-- so abject, yet alive" he continues:-- "is this the man with thousand thrones who strewed our earth with hostile bones, and can he yet survive? since he miscalled the morning star, nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far." my guide was an old revolutionary soldier who was opposed to the bourbons before the days of charles the th. he fought in this bloody fray, and pleads up fool play on the part of grouchy. mr. cotton's clerk sold me a copy of a book giving the details of this battle, which it took ten years to accumulate the matter for. mr. cotton was in the battle or close to it. in the centre of this field is now an immense mound, made with the bones of slain warriors. small steps run up to its top, and wellington is a monumental emblem seated on a horse moving over the field, apparently as natural as life, pinnacling this mound. having rested my body by leaning on the leg of the horse, i listened to the harangue of this old man, whose jaws had crept into his mouth, which was void of teeth. he first pointed out the position of grouchy, who was not in the battle, but was napoleon's climaxing reserve, off miles in the distance. he now evidently felt some of the animating spirit of that great day, as, pointing in the same direction, he showed me the hill over which blucher came, and made napoleon believe that it was his own grouchy. the old man quieted his feelings before proceeding farther. he assured me that napoleon's heartstrings must have burst at this perfidious conduct of grouchy. he believed that grouchy was so angry with napoleon for refusing to let him lead on the battle in the morning instead of french generals and marshals, that he sold himself to the allies. grouchy was one of napoleon's german generals, and wanted the glory of a battle which, if lost, would bankrupt the french nation, as they had drained their coffers to support the ambition of its chief, which, no doubt, was the greatest general of modern times. the old soldier pointed off to the right of blucher's march over the hill, to the french position of belle alliance, and referred to those hours of anxiety from the first evening napoleon arrived there and saw the english in the distance, when he craved the power of joshua to stop the sun that he might attack them that day, to the close of the battle, when he mounted his white steed and started to the carnage, that he might fall among the slain, and how he was checked by marshal soult, which marshal is yet living, who said to napoleon, "they will not slay you but take you prisoner," upon which he fled from the scene of desolation and mourning. the old soldier now turned languidly round to hougomont, and there depicted some of the most daring fighting that ever a juvenile ear listened to. he said that napoleon ordered hougomont to be taken, and gave so many soldiers for that purpose. hougomont is a long brick building, like an old fashioned barracks. it has a hedge of tall shrubbery in front, looking towards the battle plain. thousands of english were stationed there with loop holes only a foot apart, so as to shoot down all attacks. when the french soldiers went towards the house to take it, they were shot down one upon another so fast that the few thousands sent against it were slain before they reached the hedge, where the french thought the fire came from. word was sent to napoleon that hougomont could not be taken, and asking for an answer to the leader. napoleon glanced once round the field, and said, "tell him to take hougomont," but he reinforced the leader, who said to his true soldiers, "let us march up to die, the emperor says, take hougomont." when these soldiers heard the orders of their emperor, they scuffled over the hedge to find the fire of their enemy, but to their great disappointment it came from the loopholes! but these daring veterans were not inclined to disobey the great emperor, who was no more a "little corporal." "they," says history, "marched up to the muzzles of the english muskets, and grappled with them till they sank beneath their wrath." afterwards they took it, but could not keep it. they took it again and kept it some time, but finally left it in the hands of the enemy. the old man says there were all sorts of reports on the field the night after the battle concerning the emperor. one was, that he rode into the fight and fell with the old guard, who made a pyramid over his body trying to screen him from the blows which fell on him; others were, that wellington had him in close confinement, and when this was told, thousands of mangled men that seemed to be living only to hear his fate, fell back and died the death that none can die but a soldier. next day the news came to the living wounded, that napoleon was on his way, if not at fontainbleau, and the old soldiers sprang up on their broken limbs, and filled the air with _vive l'empereur, vive toujours_. blucher and wellington then commenced preparing to march on paris and did. blucher wanted to burn it but wellington knew the revengeful spirit of the nation. he might have burned paris as his allies wished, and, like nero, fiddled while it burned, but all france would have been annihilated, or london razed to the earth. napoleon sent to paris to know the cabinet's opinion of this awful disaster to her treasury and dignity. tallyrand who was at the head of affairs, advised him to stay away from paris, for he bankrupted france, and therefore, must abdicate. napoleon sent a faithful man to plead in favor of his son, but tallyrand said he had cost france millions of souls, besides bankrupting her, and must leave unconditionally. next morning this king of a hundred thrones rode out of fontainbleau towards dieppe. he went aboard an english vessel and said, "i am napoleon." the old captain trembled as he saw the resemblance of that cold countenance, whose pictures filled even the hamlets of england. struck with this importance, he untied his vessel, drew up his sail and steered to the admiral. thus ends this chapter as it did napoleon, whose orders some days ago were, "on to waterloo." the bias of my tour. here is ghent. it is a large city, and a great many of the brussells carpets are made here. there is no doubt it is as old a city as london. it is here the famous "treaty of ghent" was made by henry clay and john adams. i have just been in their old residence, which, from appearances, must have been one of the best houses in ghent. a good deal of silk is manufactured here even now. a great many flemish families live here. the city supports an opera, besides theatres and other places of amusement. they are inclined to be frenchy on the sabbath. i went on the sabbath to see a horse go up in a balloon. three men, who paid a certain sum, took passage with the beast, and as he hung below the balloon, well strapped so he could not kick or agitate himself, these passengers were seated above; i hated it much, as the beast looked so melancholy and innocent. i had seen the same performance at paris. it was not such a novelty to the horse as to me, for this was the same horse i had seen at paris some time before. away they went, upward like a cloud, in a hurry toward the sea, and were soon lost to our sight. another day is gone and leaves me in bruges; an old quiet city that figured much in the romantic affairs of flanders. bad hotels are plentiful here, with wise men to keep them, for if a man was to keep them better, he would soon have to keep none. we were the only occupants, or even strangers in town. and as we walked out to see its wonders, we found that our arrival had excited the curiosity of a hundred beggars. it is a characteristic trait of beggars, to keep quiet when they see a stranger in town, like a dog with his bone he wishes the picking of alone. but always betray themselves by waiting too long about the hotel where their victim resides. they generally watch the movement of the shrewdest beggar, and keep in his track. they most always keep themselves concealed from view, until they get their victim fairly launched; then with the sails of poverty, like boreas, they will follow him up till they drive his temper straight into the channel of charity, where we can only find safety in our acts of humanity. here i was right for once, because i had procured an immense quantity of the smallest coin. i called them all up, and told the lacquey de place to tell them i would give them all i had, if they would cease to follow us, it was agreed, and i give him about half a pint of small coin to divide among them; he give it to a responsible one and they all followed him in counsel. i said in august on my departure from paris, that i was leaving it to "enjoy the anxiety to get back." now i am biasing my tour in verification of that expression. i am now close to paris, and can go there to night. it is eleven o'clock at night, and i am at paris. i am going to stay this winter, as i am getting used to the life here. last night i arrived at the hotel des princes; the pretty little portress was glad to see me, and i felt at home. she asked me if i wanted a bottle of water with ice inside; she gave me all the news, and showed me a list of her american occupants, and said the russian princess was gone, not from paris, but to private rooms. i put a five franc piece in her hand to convince her i was the same man in all particulars, and went to my room and looked around for elverata, who used to arrange my wardrobe so nice and say, with neatness on her brow, "how do you like that, mr. dorr?" i did not see her and rang the bell, when a strange waiter came quickly and i enquired for elverata; he satisfied the enquiry by saying he was only a few days there and could not say. i went to bed. next morning i saw the shadow of a woman moving towards my drawer, i raised my weary head on my elbow and said, "good morning, elverata." the woman quietly passed out; i rose and dressed and went to enquire for unpretending elverata, but like a plant under the cloud of night, i was seeking a tear, she was dead! and dead only one month, and everybody had forgotten her. i had difficulty in that vast hotel to make them understand who i was seeking. i asked what graveyard she was buried in, but that, like elverata, was forgotten. i shall never see her again! she a good, honest, and religious girl; though nothing here below, in heaven she will be more than a _femme de chambre_. some may well say, "happy those who linger yet the steep ascent to climb, for jewels lie like treasures set upon the breast of time." coup d'etat of napoleon iii. on the morning of the d and th of dec., the fate of paris, like a stormy sea, was rocking to and fro in the minds of this versatile and fickle people. on the d of december, the morning after the ascent of the members of the national assembly, i went to the boulevards to see how the populace took this daring of the presidents. the place was crowded with groups discussing the importance of this blow to their liberties. old, white-headed men were making speeches in different places within sight. but while they were making speeches louis napoleon was at the palace decreeing laws for this particular occasion, and he was not only in the palace quelling the populace, but the very same day he rode through the boulevards at the head of soldiers, and people shouted _vive l'empereur_. how and why they said this, when as yet they had none, remains to be seen. that night fifty or sixty thousand soldiers slept in the streets of paris, and cavalry stood close to the side walk for miles without one single break of ranks. the soldiers had their rations carried to them. next morning, the d, the rebels commenced their work of destruction in spite of the soldiers. the news came into paris from all parts of france that a hundred thousand soldiers were rapidly marching to the assistance of the army and sustainance of the republic. but this did not intimidate the factions. the soldiers though now one hundred thousand strong, right in the city, they had to keep on the march, up one street and down another, to keep down the barricade builders. i saw a strong wall built across a street in a quarter of an hour. they go about peaceable in droves until they pass the soldiers and then with pickaxes and crowbars and all manner of iron implements dig up the flag-stones, door-sills and stone steps, and place them one upon another until they get them head high. they leave small apertures to poke their pistols and guns through, and therefrom they fight the soldiers who cannot, except by accident, shoot through the apertures. if the soldiers come down behind them to hem them in, they jump over the barricade and they are as well there as on the other side. but the soldiers are in a critical condition fighting barricaders, because they have their friends on the top of the houses and in each story, throwing down all manner of heavy things, such as pots, skillets, pans, chairs, beds, plates, dishes, tumblers and bottles on the heads of the soldiers until they are intimidated enough to stand from under. i saw one old orator leading the rebels up by the side of the soldiers and trying to persuade some of them to say they would not fire on the citizens if they were ordered. the captain of these troops told him if he did not leave off talking with the soldiers that he would have him shot. he would not, and was placed back against the wall and shot through. on the th, precisely at two o'clock, the firing of muskets and cannon were heard from all parts of the city of paris. the cannon balls ran through whole blocks of buildings, but the destruction was not, as one might suppose, bustling but made clear, rounded holes of its own size, and passed on so rapid it left no bustling confusion. where it touched, it done its work. when the firing commenced i was in the crowd on the _boulevard des italian_ with the crowd that was being shot at. some fell, and i, with hundreds, ran over them. i fell, and a dozen or so leaped over me. like a tangled rabbit i rose and went faster than ever. i ran down the _rue lafitte_, trying to get into some of those large palace doorways, but all was firmly barred. having run clear past my own house, no. , _rue lafitte_, i only discovered my mistake by observing a squad of soldiers behind _l'eglise l'orette_, loading and firing over some dead bodies that had already fallen beneath their fire. like a rabbit again, i took the back track, and my good old porter saw me from the third story, and descended and opened one foot of his _porte firme_, and said with a cheek flushed with fear, "_entree vite_." i was about to kiss the old man, but he was not inclined to enjoy such a luxury, most especially as i had failed to take the advice he gave me the morning before, "_pas allez dans la rue_." about an hour after this the streets of paris were as empty as a ball room after the festal scene. it is a wonderful sight to see the streets of paris void of its moving mass of humanity. like the streets of pompeii, it reminds one of the victory of destruction. paris looked as if it was mourning for those thousands that were fleetly moving on to eternity. next day hundreds of ladies and gentlemen who were innocently killed, lay under a shed in paris, to be recognized by their friends, and buried. you could not get close to them, not closer than ten feet, and then look along through the glass that kept you and the scent in your own places. there lay some of the gayest of paris, with their fine kids on as they had fallen; their watches and diamonds denoted their bearing, while their countenances said in their expression, "in the midst of life we are in death." there can be no mistake but that these were people that were trying to get out of danger, but were overtaken ere they reached the barrier of safety. the poor horses in the streets of paris looked round on the crowded and thronged streets with considerable amazement at man's convulsions. people, horses, birds, shops, and even the weather resembled the picture of discontent. the graceful hanging trees of the champs elysees, and tuilleries, are disturbed by the bayonet, as the soldiers stand under them, for a sort of shield from the drizzling weather, while they keep the populace back from the national assembly. the night after this awful contention of the people against the army, was as still and lonesome a one as ever the gay spirit of france was awed with. this night was as interesting to frenchmen, as the th of january, , the night before the execution of louis the sixteenth, and which history describes thus: "paris was, by the direction of the government, illuminated on the night of the th, and no person was permitted to go at large in the streets. strong bodies of armed troops patroled in every district of that immense metropolis, the sounds of carriages ceased, the streets appeared deserted, except by the patrols, and the whole city was buried in an awful silence. about two o'clock on the morning of the fatal st, voices were heard, throughout the gloom, of lamentation and distress, but whence they came, or what they were, no one has ever discovered. on monday morning, as the clock struck , he was summoned to his fate. he was conducted to a coach belonging to the mayor of paris, in which were two soldiers of the _gendarmerie_; the most profound silence prevailed while the carriage advanced slowly to the scaffold; louis mounted the platform with a firm step and unaltered countenance, and was preparing to address them, when the ruffian _sauterre_, who commanded the guard, cried out, no speeches, no speeches, and suddenly the drums beat and the trumpets sounded. the unfortunate monarch, then, with apparent serenity, placed his head upon the block, the axe fell, and in an instant he ceased to live in this world. so perished louis the xvi, a prince whose heart nature had formed of the best materials, and who, from the first accession to power, appeared to make his first object, his peoples' happiness. he was an excellent husband and a good father." though the laws on both occasions were executed with great faith and promptness, they were by no means pacific to the nation. there is still too much royal blood in france to allow the seed of republicanism to prosper spontaneously heedless of their interests. though they readily admit that louis the fifteenth was a better sultan than a king of france, and that louis phillippe dissipated the throne by being an illegitimate heir, still they cannot look upon that as sufficient reason to rid them of their vested ancestral rights. the french are full of that ambition that came from orleans in female attire, to give back to royalty some hope of yet governing a versatile people. but if louis napoleon, the president of france, wants to rise higher, he must consult the legitimists of france, or he will never find bone and sinew for his cruel _coup de etat_. the secrets of a paris life, and who knows them. reader, can a man dream with his eyes open? or can a man see with them shut? before you say no, bear in mind that man is the shadow of his maker; and life, a dream. as to the latter part of the query, the answer may be emphatically no! then let me dream of what i saw. one night my faculties fell asleep upon all the world's eider down, but these things, my faculties, could not sleep on, i saw myself going along by the quietest looking, but gayest palace of every day resort of noblemen and monied men, that decorates the boulevard. it is not the magic no. from the corner of the _rue la fitte_. on the first floor is all the pleasure a monied man could momentarily crave; but the second floor looked gayer, and the third gayer still. i could see ladies and gentlemen coming in groups of two, four, and six, every quarter of a minute. it was six o'clock, as near as i can recollect the dream. they commenced sitting down at different tables, while some were hanging up hats, and others looking around as if they were hunting something like what other people had; some of the tables were larger than others; according to their number was the measure thereof. the gentlemen looked as dignified as giraffes, whilst the ladies looked the picture of birds of paradise more especially where fine feathers contributed. some were placing their chairs in as agreeable a position as their inward idea could allow them to do with propriety. towards the end of this palace, in the direction of the boulevards, now sprang up a volley of small, or not very loud, musket-like reports, but as nobody was afraid, no harm could be done. then i could see the waiters pouring into some glasses like dutch churns, upside down, some hot, smoking stuff that boiled over; it was so hot, that a man might well fear for the ladies mouths being burnt when they took hold of it as if they did not see it, but merely wished to comply with the desire of their beaux. i expected every moment to hear them scream, but they were not afraid of it. the waiters were running to and fro with bottles of all colors. here one turned up some smaller glasses and poured in something like blood. if it was blood it was pure as abel's sacrifice; i never before saw redder from veins. the next occupation of the waiter, was bringing different kinds of soups. i looked on the _carte_ and saw a dozen different kinds; some i never read of before. i looked out of the window on the _rue la fitte_, and saw as many as twenty carriages standing before one another, and from them descending ladies and gentlemen in pairs, running up stairs with perfect gusto. it is six o'clock as i have said, and i will leave those scenes and tell what more i dreamt, but will return again. i thought i pushed my way through crowds of people, and moved along the boulevards about four squares, until i came to an extraordinary fine and fashionable street called vivienne, and i followed it about two squares until my attention was attracted by an immense stone building, taking up one whole square. it looked like the temples i had read of, and i asked a man what it meant, who said it is a place where all the rich people go every day at o'clock to make money, and some loose; they call it "bourse." he assured me that its financiering had made "countless thousands mourn." i next walked into a caffee filled with ladies and gentlemen and found a seat. a few minutes afterwards a ballet girl entered and seated herself for _la creme_. i then called for some cream and we eat on the same side of the same table. i asked her if it was good? she said she liked it, and asked me if mine was the same. as the color was different i could not say, without tasting hers, and we put our glasses together and satisfied ourselves on the difference, after which we took a _vere du vin_ at the expense of one of us. it is now o'clock, and i said i would return to the "maison doree." having reached this all-hour sought place, i saw the very same people i saw seat themselves at o'clock. they were somewhat changed in color; they all looked rosier and better enabled to take hold of anything they had to do. the gentlemen looked more sociable, and the ladies--i won't say more bold, but less timid. when a gentleman had anything to communicate, he was not obliged to exert himself in reaching, because the ladies would meet him half way. everything was so harmonious that one could not go through the laborious task of telling his wish, without assistance from his hearer. every few minutes something like a rallying remnant of a weak soldier's gun would go off, and the glasses would smoke as though each one was a volcano. every minute or two a couple would rise, and before the gentleman could give his arm the lady would reach for it. even their tempers seemed to fit, as the ocean does the earth, all around and through. whilst i was thus dreaming, the pillow became insufferable, and i must say it awoke me. i thought i looked out of the window on the moving surface of the seine. the moon was shining down on its ripples with a most admirable light of solemn grandeur. stillness reigned such as i had never seen in paris, and all the time i stood gazing upon that famous stream, not once did that queer dream enter my mind. i jumped into bed and soon fell asleep, and soon got into the old habit, so i dreamt. how particular a man ought to be, when about to do anything for the first time, for, let it be good or bad, the mind will be tempered with the same sterile or fertile nature, as that of the preceding act. i thought i was again at the agreeable maison doree, and i looked upon the walled clock, and the hour hand stood at . the hall below stairs was as empty as the marble hall, where the true lover dreamed he dwelt among vassals and serfs. but i also dreamed, _which pleased me most_, that i saw very many beautiful women walking up and down the sidewalk with an apparent air of hunting for something; not that they had lost anything they ever possessed, but something to be found. i thought one came up to me with her dress fully two feet shorter in front than behind, i mean to say it looked so from what i could see, and said to me "_quelle heure it el?_" i told her o'clock; she then looked puzzled, as if she was sure i did not know what she meant by speaking to me at that late hour. then she started one way and turned and went the other. as she passed me she gave her dress a jerk in front that raised it so high that i almost saw the whole of a pair of the whitest stockings i had seen since i left the dutch, who don't wear stockings at all. my curiosity was that of children on a christmas morning, and i started after her in the same earnestness to see if there was anything good inside the stockings. i found that the supposed stocking, like santa claus, was all imagination. thus ends the dream with open eyes. said the fast countess of blessington, "oh commend me to the comforts of a french bed; its soft and even mattress, its light curtains, and genial _couvre pied_ of eider down; commend me, also, to a french _cuisine_, with its soup _sans_ pepper, its cutlet _a la minute_, and its _poulet au jus_, its _cafe a la creme_, and its desserts. but defend me from its slamming of french doors, and the shaking of french windows, &c." i like not the noise like the one in paris; it is an amalgamated one, such as never was heard in another city on earth. the noise of paris is a variegated one, like humming of bees, or a serpent's hiss when they cannot be seen. sometimes its cabs alone, at another carts filled with groups of theatre actors, from the _opera comique_, _theatre francois_, _ambique_, _grand opera_, _or hippodrome_. or if it is early in the morning, it is sure to be some gay crowds returning from some wild and exciting amusement, such as only french can enjoy without remorse. when you hear a noise in paris, you can no more tell its cause, than you can tell the composition of a fricassee. it may be a good rabbit, or a better cat, the skin of the former lying on the table to prove its identity. when you see woodcocks in the window of a second rate _restaurateur_, you must not be sure that the cook is putting his herbs among the joints of the woodcock you have ordered, instead of a diseased owl that was caught in the barn, for french cooks are not to be scared by an owl. the more he can dress a rat like a squirrel, the greater his celebrity as an epicure of the most refined taste. if you go to market in paris, you will see under a butcher's stall, whole herds of rabbits, for rabbits are domestic animals in france. this butcher lives at the upper end of the market, and has nothing to do with _mons. ledeau_, who lives at the other end, and who sells little cats under the disguise of amusing _les enfants de paris_. but _mons. feteau_, the restaurateur, knows both, and takes particular care to invite _mons. ledeau chez lui_ to take dinner with him, when they have a good deal of unknown talk. after this interview, the trade in rabbits gets dull, and the vender wonders who can sell them on more advantageous terms than he can. he looks all around the market, and finds that his price is the usual price. it never enters his head that cats are substituted for rabbits. now reader, don't accuse me of trying to become conspicuous by asserting more than others, for you know nothing about it, and i do. i have seen a landlord stand behind a post in his own restaurant, watching some of his patrons trying to cut what he called _poulet_ (chicken), but no mortal man could tell what it was but a french _cuisineur_. i have dined at the _maison doree_, _trois freres_, _cafe anglaise_, and _vachettes_, and then gradually down to the lowest grade, the socialists, and i ought to know something about it. oh, how delightful it is to walk on the champ elysee and take a seat among the french girls, _au fait_, and order your _caffee au lait_. then take from your pocket a _sou_, sit cross legged and toss it up and down, and turn it over and, look at it, and while waiting for the light guitar, to fend off those nimble fingers, that are taking from it its sweetest notes, you can think what an immense deal of pleasure you are getting for the mere anticipation of a _sou_. then look around, not slyly, but boldly, and you see some unassuming french _demoiselle_ gazing upon you with such riveted force of interest, that the lashes of her eye moveth not. after this you walk into some _valentino cassino, or jardin_, and you will see some or modes of cupids and psyches, keeping time to a parisian band, and there will appear to your mind a perfect agreeing correspondence between the music and the figures that dance around it. never will you see the right foot of one couple up while the left foot of another is down, such perfection of dancing is to be found in all classes in paris. very candid, frank and free is a frenchman. if one admires a lady, she knows it almost before an opportunity presents itself. if he is encouraging a useless desire, he always manages it before it can do a serious injury. little trouble dwells within the mind of a frenchman; he makes much of to-day, to-morrow's trouble must dawn or die with itself. he finds more pleasure in going to the opera, with his five francs, than he does by sitting in the house, waiting for the morrow that never comes, or if it does come, bringing with it a greater anxiety and love for another morrow. there is an amusement in paris, which language is inadequate to express the vulgarity of. it is called the "_industrious fleas_." the name does not indicate the performance. it changes its location every night in fear of the police. its supporters are merely curious young men, who wish to see as strange a sight as the mind of woman can picture. their performance commences with a dozen beautiful women habited like eve before she devised the fig leaf covering. they first appear in the form of a wreath, with each one's head between another's legs; the rest must be imagined. _au revoir._ rome and st. peter's church. by the gate on the southern side, on the th of march, , i entered the "holy city," just as day was turning to night. i moved slowly along by the venerable walls of the great st. peter's church, in a shackling old _viturino_. a celebrated writer says it is built on the site of the palace of julius cæsar. he also says the extent of ground covered by the ruined and inhabited parts of rome amounts to four and twenty miles. you there find eighty halls of the eighty eminent kings; from king tarquin, to king pepin, the father of charlemagne, who first conquered spain, and wrested it from the mahomedans. in the outskirts of rome, he said, there is the palace of titus, who was rejected by the senators, in consequence of having wasted three years in the conquest of jerusalem, which, according to their will, he ought to have accomplished in two years. there is likewise the hall of vespasian, a very large and strong building, also the hall of king galba, containing windows, the circumference of this palace is nearly three miles, and on this very three miles of earth, a battle was fought in times of yore, and more than one hundred thousand fell, whose bones are hung up there even to the present day. now rome is the leader of all christendom, and st. peters' yearly carnivals are the glory of rome, instead of the gladiatorial festivals in the colisseum. some writers assert that it is only the forum upon the site of the palace of the cæsars. cooper says in his excursions in italy, that the first palace of nero must have occupied the whole of the palatine hill, with perhaps the exception of a temple or two. the ground round the colisseum, and all the land as far as the esquiline, and even to the verge of the quirinal, a distance exceeding a mile; this was occupying, moreover, the heart of the town, although a portion of the space was occupied by gardens, and other embellishments. when this building was burned, he returned to the palatine, repaired the residence of augustus, and rebuilt his residence with so much magnificence, that the new palace was called the "golden house;" this building also extended to the esquiline, though it was never finished. vespasian and titus, more moderate than the descendants of the cæsars, demolished all the new parts of the palace, and caused the colisseum and the baths that bear the name of the latter, to be constructed on the spot; the emperors were all elected, and they found it necessary to consult the public taste and good. thus we find the remains of two of the largest structures of the world, now standing within the ground once occupied by the palace of the cæsars, on which they appear as little more than points. from this time, the emperors confined themselves to the palatine, the glory of which gradually departed. it is said that the palace, as it was subsequently reduced, remained standing in a great measure, as recently as the th century, and that it was even inhabited in the th, so says cooper. having been anxious to see the pope of rome, pius ix, i was a frequent visitor of the carnival, and at last got a good look at the great man. he was seated on a divan, which rested on the shoulders of twelve cardinals, or senators of rome; he was crowned with a gorgeously jewelled crown, as the eye of man need wish to gaze on. ten thousand people were in the church at the time, and they would carry the pope from one aisle to another. the people all would fall on their knees, and the great man would bless them in the name of god, and the organ would peal its bassy notes of te deum, from east to west, and north to south, whilst the alarum from the belfry jarred my heart strings. rome, said a great traveler, is well known; authors of veracity assure us that for seven hundred years, she was mistress of the world, but although their writings should not affirm this, would there not be sufficient evidence in all the grand edifices now existing, in those columns of marble, those statues. add to the quantity of relics that are there, so many things that our lord has touched with his own fleshy fingers, such numbers of holy bodies of apostles, martyrs, confessors, and virgins; in short, so many churches, where the holy pontiffs, have granted full indulgences for sin. this writer that spoke of these true merits of the city of rome, was among these great and magnificient ruins of rome, in the th century. his name was bertrand de la bracquiere, a lord of vieux chateau, counseller and first esquire carver, to phillip, duke of burgundy, living at that age in ghent. one day when it was very warm, i went down to the tiber to waste a little time reflectively, where the golden candlestick that was brought from jerusalem fell off the bridge and never was afterwards found. whilst i laid there on its banks, listening to its most inaudible murmur a jew came and stretched himself close to my feet. i asked him if he recollected who it was that plutarch says was condemned to the hideous punishment of being nailed up in a barrel with serpents and thrown in the tiber to float on to the sea? he had never heard of such a thing. i then asked him if he was aware that the golden candlestick out of the temple of solomon lay at the bottom of that muddy stream? he said yes, and added that the pope had been offered millions of piastres by the jews to let them turn the current of the tiber twenty miles above rome, that they might recover all the lost and hidden treasure of nearly three thousand years' standing, but the pope had refused because he was too superstitious to allow the tiber's current to be changed. my attention was just at this time drawn to a large old building that had the bearing of royalty deeply marked on its furrowed decay. i asked its use, and was informed that it was a maccaroni manufactory. i drew nigh, and stood, in company with dozens of girls, looking through its decayed apertures. i saw hundreds of men walking about in a perfect state of nudity, and also as many more moving round at quicker step. i would discover every few moments a couple of these that seemed to be mantled with small reeds of a bending nature, step on a platform and commence turning round, like crazy men imitating the spinning of a top, but i could discover nothing of their intention until they walked off the platform, when i could plainly see that they had divested themselves of something i knew not what. the way they make maccaroni in rome, is thus: when it is hot or warm, the men stand by the aperture that squeezes it into a reed-like shape, and wind it round their bodies until they are totally covered or mantled, and then they walk in great haste in a circle until it is nearly cool, after which they walk on the aforesaid platform and unwind themselves from its cooling grasp, and there it stays until it becomes totally dry, after which they box it for export. that which is made for home consumption is not made on so extensive a scale, and different ideas of neatness is needed lest it affect the home consumption. three days it took me to pass through the "vatican." it is the great gallery of fine arts, and the pope lives in one part of this palace. the carnival being over, i took one day to go to tivoli to see an old temple and olive orchard and the vast ruins of the emperor adrian's brick palace, after which i returned to rome, and bought some mosaiac work in breast pin jewelry, hired a viturino and four, went to st. peters and took a last farewell glance at st. peter, who stands in his statue dignity over an altar with his keys of heaven, and left rome in its decay of tyrannical monuments for naples, its bay and vesuvius. naples and its craft. after twenty days sight-seeing in rome, observe me seated in the front of a viturino on my way to naples. e. g. squires, the author of a book of discoveries, is seated in one of the back seats. he is a little man full of humor, and a man to judge him by his looks and manners would have a hard task to steer from error. he is well versed in roman lore. we were now an hour and half out from rome, and he said "look there ahead, those old walls we are going under is the walls of old rome, and that high archway, with those splendid pillars of carved stone, is the gate leading into rome via the appian road from naples." we passed through these walls and rome was forgotten, in the matters of interest to which he directed our attention. as we came up to the pretty little ruined city albano, he said, "there, gentlemen, is the tomb of pompey the great." it was a tall monumental tomb of white marble, but fallen on all sides by the wreck of the weather. we entered albano and dined, and paid a visit to the veil of diana, whose temple was here at albano. this city occupies the site of the palace of pompey the great and domitian. the veil of diana is a lake of a few hundred yards round, and hemmed in on all sides by cliffs of fertility. two days and a half brought me to the back part of the city of naples. in coming to naples by this route you are some hours going down hill, but as the lombard poplar trees are so numerous, it is impossible to get a look at naples; occasionally i could hear the roar of vesuvius and the hum of business, coming by the force of the breeze from the bay on the other side. all at once i came out on an open descending slope, but, a quarter of a mile ahead, the lombardy poplars intercepted our view, still over their tops, off to the left of naples, i could see vesuvius like a sleeping giant with his flag of wrath ascending on high. the flag of smoke was as still as a standing cloud, and it stood like god on the earth, but spreading above in the heavens. napoli is the city's name, and its meaning is new city, and we call it naples. i don't think that one contented man can be found in the whole city of naples, with its , souls. every time this growling, burning mountain roars it jars the whole city; organ grinders give themselves as little trouble about vesuvius as any other class, and the streets are full of them. they stand all day playing away in the streets as if they had no where to run to, whilst all house tenants, citizens, king and priests, run in the streets for fear vesuvius will spit fire and brimstone on them, for she has once or twice proved that she, like god, had no respect of persons. naples is at least five miles off, but they looked to me as if they were only a quarter of a mile apart. it is believed by philosophical men that vesuvius has burnt out her bowels for miles under the shallow bay, and also under naples. i went to pompeii and herculanium, two great cities that vesuvius, in her tipsy spree, belched all over, destroying population, temples, theatres, and gladiatorial arenas. expeditions from different parts of the world were here, excavating crowns of diamonds; and hundreds of thousands of scuddies worth of the rarest jemmed jewelry has been found, even upon the parched bones of notorious victims to this hideous spree. naples was founded one thousand and three hundred years before the christian era, and still escapes this awful calamity. generation after generation has lived and died in this fear, and still naples is yet the most wicked city on the face of the globe. it shows that hell-fire preaching will never advance man in this world, or better prepare him for another. nothing but an educated mind can ever understand the mission of christianity. if tyranny can ever do anything with the mind of man, it had full scope here. the neapolitans, reared under such fearful influences of wrath, must naturally be tempered with surrounding influences. to see a club slain man in naples is no object of pity; their mind is forever placed on wholesale calamities, and nothing short of that can excite sympathy in such a people. they can fight well because they are always well prepared to fight, or be annihilated. when the great carthagenian, who was so victorious over the romans, at the well known battle of thrasimene, came here to take naples, he was so much frightened at the walls, that he would not undertake to besiege the city. cumae was the first name of this city, but its inhabitants being a very jealous people, fell out, and destroyed it; but it was soon rebuilt, and then it was renamed new city, napoli, when its walls obtained the strength that scared the son of hamilcar, who had come away from carthage, leaving behind him a people who could never believe that the italians could be whipped, not even by hannibal, until he sent three bushels of gold rings back, that was taken from the fingers of conquered italians, to prove it. there is three hundred churches in naples, but the vestry of priesthood is no sign of the true temple of wisdom. the lower classes are craft ridden from the faggest end of an intelligent class, to the uttermost peak of sublime ignorance. the moral authority has great power over those who profess to be the followers of the church; even the king himself, is afraid of the priest. in illustration of this i must relate an anecdote on the present king of naples, whose title is better known as the king of the two sicilies. a good, and honest intentioned priest one day called on the king to obtain a certain small sum of money from his honor, as a starting point of collection to build a church at a certain place. the king, who loves money much, refused to start the ball rolling by contributing the first subscription. the good father, somewhat astonished, stood sometime, thinking over the chances of getting anything after the king's refusal, put his hand under his ground colored gown to lay hold of his handkerchief to wipe his nose and eyes of their weeping. the king took fright, and ran to the bell and rang furiously, the guard came running in and arrested the priest, but to their great pleasure they discovered that the king was frightened at the priest's motion for his handkerchief, instead of a stilleto. the people got wind of it, and laughed at the scary old king so that he dare not go out. this old ugly king has been trying to make some improvements in the way of morality. he has appropriated a small portion of the city to the safe keeping of lewd women. it is about three squares of this city being walled in, and all women found and proven in adultery are to be condemned to the inside of these walls until the city authorities become satisfied that they are sufficiently punished. police are stationed at the gate and no one but spectators are allowed to go in and out, except an old woman who acts as their steward. all foreigners are allowed to go in once, but i don't suppose foreigners ever wished to go in more than once. when i was in, the lazaroni asked me if i would allow him to spend a quarter of my bag of change to see the women perform. i, not knowing what he meant, said "yes." he gave a c. piece to one woman, and there was a hundred in that group, and said something in italian, when, as many as wished to claim stock in the cents commenced showing their nakedness, to the horror of man's sensual curiosity. i saw fifty women show what i had never legally seen before. i must end this chapter and commence another of more superstition, of st. janarius and his blood. st. janarius and his blood. in the centre of naples, on a very high hill, is a splendid old castle or fort. myself and two american ladies winded round its base upwards, till we reached its gates. our guide beat there some time before its old lord would hear; we handed him our permit from below to enter, and he said "walk in," in the french tongue. these two american ladies and their father seemed to make quite an agreeable impression on the commander of the castle or fort. he invited us into his parlor where he asked us many disguised questions, such as; "how do you like naples?" "when are you going to leave and what directions will you take from here?" was some of his questions. having "pumped" us as dry as he could, he called a guard and put us under escort to see the wonders of this old tyrant mound. cannons were pointed from the loopholes of this fort to all parts of the city. the people are afraid to rebel against the laws of ferdinand ii, because orders from the palace to this castle can come under ground. the king has a private path miles under ground to get to this castle when besieged in his palace. it is said that this fort can destroy the city in a few hours; can batter it all down and set it on fire with its shells, and burn it up, and as the property belongs to the citizens they keep quiet. the old man now invited us back to his saloon and asked us our opinions of this, his castle; of course it was all we anticipated and more too. whilst he was delighted with the ladies' answers to his questions, i walked out in the court, and the lazaroni or guide called my attention to the open register, where all visitors' names are recorded, and glanced at the following record of that morning: "_mons. millenberger et deau dame; compte fello de amerique et une jeune homme._" this was indeed laughable, but to make it more absurd, my old guide informed me that he was aware of our nobility some days ago. i inquired of him how it was possible for him to find out such a mystery. he smiled very knowingly and assured me that he was possessed of peculiar tact for finding out such things. then in his confirmation of his skill in fathoming this hidden secret, he told me of a mr. rice, a powerful lord of south carolina, who would be an heir to an immense estate if he lived long enough, and of his noble bearing, and how mr. r. tried to conceal it from him, but it couldn't be done, and which mr. rice had to acknowledge. then he went on to show me why americans ought not to try and conceal such things as they eventually lost the best accomodation the hotels could afford, by not letting it be known who it was wanted them. he also suggested that american noblemen ought to wear some peculiar mark or sign that they may be distinguished from those of an inferior dignity. i for once felt like driving the good-natured old fool away, but as he was so bigoted with his own errors i told him that all noblemen of american peculiarities did have signs about them unmistakeable. here his curiosity rose to such a pitch he asked me to make it known to him so that he might hereafter know how to treat such worth. i told him that if ever he came across an american of arkansas or texas, to get behind him when seated and look over his left shoulder, in his bosom, and he will most likely see something like an elephant's tusk, but it was nothing more nor less than what was called a toothpick, and when he saw that, it would be to his advantage to be mighty polite. the old man believes now he has the insignia of an american prince, and intends treating him with due respect to his high position. from this fort i took a ride to baie, and after two hours' ride i reached it. two thousand years ago it was a great city where cæsar and cicero dwelt a great part of their time. the site of their palaces are yet discernable. the hot baths out of the earth are here yet, and i took one. no doubt but they are heated, running under the bay from vesuvius on the other side. a few hundred yards out in the bay is the smallest island i ever saw to have a town of thousands of souls on it. it is about a mile in circumference. the town takes up almost all of the island of procida. the inhabitants are nearly all greek descendants, and are celebrated for keeping up the greek fashions. the old guide insisted on us going into the heart of procida, where he would show us the curious costumes. having waited in an old dirty room some time for the scene, a rough working girl came into the room and stood some time. the old man asked me how i liked it? but i couldn't see anything different from other women about the town. he told her to turn around, when he called my attention to some plaiting around the waist of the woman's dress. she now whispered something to our guide, which, when translated, meant that she had her soap to make, and would like to discontinue the performance as the show was out. he said we must give her a couple of pauls for her trouble of dressing and undressing. this old man kept us laughing all the way back to naples. when leaving baie, passing some old magnificent ruins, he said, "gentlemen, that is the ruins of the palace of lucullus, the greatest eater that ever was in italy." then he commenced relating plutarch's history of lucullus' style of living. he told us of the single dish that was expensive to the tune of , francs. here the old man licked out his tongue, in token of his approbation of its being good. this old man has a country seat and town residence. he showed us, on our way out, his country seat; it consists of an old brick building, that in times of yore must have been used by somebody, who had a house, as a stable, and being an enterprising man, his mouth watered for it as a filthy retreat from naples, when he can get no labor, such as he is now occupied with. we give him about forty cents a day, and he finds himself. in napoli is a church of fearful renown. it is built upon the site of the temple of apollo; it was commenced by charles the first, and finished by charles the second, in the twelfth century. it is built of stone, and pillars of stone, from all parts of africa, brought here in conquest. in it is buried the aforesaid charles. this is the church of st. janarius; a large statue of st. janarius is represented seated, and always ready to bless the people. in a small tabernacle, with silver doors, is preserved the head and two vials of the saint's blood, said to have been collected by a neapolitan lady during his martyrdom. this blood becomes miraculously liquid, whenever it is placed before the head of st. janarius. the ceremony of this miracle is repeated three times a year, that is, during eight days in the month of may, eight days during the month of september, and on the day of protection, on the th of december. this miracle is to the neapolitans a constant object of devotion and astonishment, of which no one that has not been present, can form a just idea. when the liquifaction of the blood takes place immediately, the joy of the people knows no bounds; but if the operation of the miracle is retarded one moment, the cries and groaning of the people rend the air; for at naples the procrastination of this miracle is considered the prestage of some great misfortune; the grief, particularly of the women, is so great, that the blood never fails to become liquid, and resume its consistency, on each of the eight days; so that every one may see and kiss the blood of st. janarius, in as liquid a state as when it first issued from his veins. the city of naples has been in danger of being destroyed by the eruption of mt. vesuvius, by earthquakes, and other calamities, such as war, pestilence, &c., &c., but it has always been delivered by the blood of this mighty saint. a lady writer says: "at one time the blood was rather slow about doing its duty, when their hypocritical priest says to the people, that the blood would never liquidate so long as they allowed the french to keep possession of the town. as soon as the french general heard this, he sent notice to the people that if the priest did not make the blood liquidate in ten minutes, off went his head. there was great lamentation for the priest, and the whole city was sympathizing with him, as his time was short; but at the expiration of nine minutes and three quarters the blood liquidated." constantinople. on the second day of may i glided out on the beautiful bay of naples, and steered towards the east, where the wise men lived, and the light rose up. the first piece of terra firma next discovered was etna, in sicily. sicily, before the crusade of king siguard, was governed by dukes and earls. mussinna is the only town of any particular note, on this fertile island. mt. etna, while at musina, hides half of the firmament from your view, but when seen at eventide from the deck of a receding vessel, it seems to have sunk in a mole hole. it takes two days carriage ride around its base, to reach its top. six days out from naples brought our good vessel to syria, a city in greece, with , inhabitants. it is a charming sight to look at from your vessel, on account of its resemblance to _wall hung pigeon houses_. from the sea, you look at a mountain, with hundreds of systematical white spots clinging to its sides, and which proves to be syria. the ship stopped here a day, and all the passengers, and the rest of mankind, went ashore. the men were quite handsome for such a rough country; four or five young men and myself, were determined to see some of the syrian ladies, if possible. on we went to the top of the city, through very narrow streets, and few ran over fifty yards without ending, and taking some unknown direction. after great exertion we reached the highest house, but, like moses from his pisgah, we saw the land but not its fruits. we were still inclined to prosecute our search, until our minds came to some definite conclusion. an exclamation of joy burst forth from one of our company, indicating success. we all moved closer to our guide, who, most wonderful to behold, had discovered the figure of a woman with her back towards us. we passed respectfully by her, trying to conceal our emotion of success. the first that passed her, quickly turned round as if he would speak to our companions, just as you have seen a young lady walk a little ahead of her companion, to have an excuse to look back at some young gent who seemed to have admired her when passing, and lo! this woman's face was bound in the fashion of death, her motion was as still as the grave, and well it might be, as it was nothing but a marble figure of some grecian maid, long dead. we had one good laugh to reward the artist of so exquisite a piece of his skill. the young men went skipping down the hill towards our vessel. i, taking more interest in this monumental piece of affection, did not discover that my friends were gone until i found myself a "last mohican." i started to descend the theatrical looking town, by winding in and out of small passage ways, until i found myself up an alley with no outlet, and when i turned to go out, the gate was fast and barred. a gate running in another direction was opened, and, old as a man could well be, was an old priest, seated on a stone beckoning to me to come in. i did not seem to comprehend, but he was determined i should, and came out with an extraordinary long string of beads nearly counted. he spoke several languages, and informed me that if my business was what all persons' business is that enter that alley, that he was ready to give me absolution. i informed him in french that i was there through a mistake; and he then told me that it was usual in syria for those wishing immediate absolution, to come to the priest's residence at all times, when there was no services in church, and on payment of a small fee, get value received in full. he was a kind old man. he offered to give me absolution right off, for any mistake, or bad intention that i allowed to occupy my attention, whilst in syria. whilst i was explaining to the priest, i heard a suppressed laugh at the gate. the priest opened the gate and let me out. my friends were close by; they had seen me go in the passage way with no outlet and fastened the gate on me, as they say "to have a lark," but they little knew that they were then placing me in wisdom's way; i had learned more with the priest than i could from them all day long. our sail is up, and on ahead of us is smyrna, the birthplace of homer, one of the seven churches of asia minor, and it has , inhabitants, and it is close to the isle of patmos, where st. john wrote the revelations and saw four angels standing on the four quarters of the globe holding up the four winds of heaven, that they might not blow upon the sea nor the earth. smyrna has been destroyed ten or twelve times and still has a large population. like syra, smyrna is on the side of a hill. none of its ancient buildings remain except a corner wall of an old church that resounded back the voice of st. john to the minds of his hearers, when he preached those very epistles we hear every sabbath, in all christian lands. the streets and bazaars are densely crowded with business men from all smaller towns for hundreds of miles around, and the houses, which are only one story, seem to be as densely filled with pretty women. i see no window of a respectable looking house without a lady. i cannot describe the ladies dress as i was not fortunate enough to get inside, and as they are very seldom on the street. the dresses of the men were of so many styles it would not pay to describe them, it is enough to say that it consisted of a many colors as joseph's coat, of some cotton or silk woof of all qualities. there being no accommodation here for travelers, we did not ask the captain to lay by all night. next morning we were sailing through the rapid hellespont, at the dardenelles. about ten o'clock, a. m. we reached the part of the hellespont where lord byron swam across from europe to asia--from sestos to abydos. "if in the month of dark december, leander, who was nightly wont (what maid will not the tale remember?) to cross thy stream, broad hellespont!" here we stopped some minutes, and two or three yawls came from the asia side in quest of something to do. at the hind part of one of these yawls was a large, fat and shiney black african, doing the lazy part of the work--steering. his heavy self weighed down the other end, containing two men and oars. it was a beautiful day and the sun came down with a quivering heat in the distance, so, as it is said, that the natives in the interior of africa cook their meat on sun heated rocks, he looked as if he was about to broil. he attracted the attention and caused amusement for the passengers; and some one threw some orange peelings on his naked rotundity as he was half lying on his back with no clothes on above his loins. he pretended to take no notice of it until they came in such regular succession he could not but show signs of acknowledgement or cowardice. after his patience gave out, he turned lazily around and looked up, like a duck at thunder, and shook his head; they followed up this amusement until he got agoing on the gibberish dialect, and that was more amusement yet; at last our boat left him, and one of our passengers translated his resentment. it was merely, "according to his ideas of decorum, he had not been treated gentlemanly, and that he would remember it if ever we came to his country, and that he would not consider us worth taking notice of." on the morning of the th of may, the captain said to the sailors, "bosphorus! down the hatch and bring the mail on deck." i looked ahead and saw an immense number of steeples, towers and minarets; to the eye no city on earth need look prettier. it was, indeed, the fairest sight i ever beheld. i asked an old turkish tar what it was, he said, "stamboul, stamboul." the captain said to the pilot, "right towards the harem." gondoliers from all directions of the "golden horn" were racing to us; in one of them a couple of officers, in their gay colors came. all our baggage was gondoliered, and we, all afloat, approached the custom house. i slipped a five franc piece, as i had been told, in an officers hand, to get rid of the trouble of unlocking trunks, and he went blind, and i passed unmolested with my contraband, if i had any, into the great mahommedan city, constantinople. the dogs provoke me, and the women are veiled. the first visible annoyance in constantinople is dogs, which murray's guide says is nobody's property. in a space of a rod i counted seventy-four dogs, and not one respectable dog in the seventy-four! fifteen or twenty of them were marked on different parts of the body with scalds, some with only one ear, some blind, the streets were lined with them, lying down, standing up, fighting, breeding, and making love. the turks are as particular about getting around and through them, as a good man would be in a crowd of children; in fact, i saw a turk tread upon a child in an effort to pass around dogs. they take no notice of persons passing to and fro, but if you touch one, he jumps at you and lays hold. during the night we have a long dog-note howl, from dark to daylight, and there is no way to stop it; they have systematical skirmishes of parties from different sections. murray holds that they have fundamental laws of infringement, and woe be to him that don't acknowledge their legality. the puppies, as soon as they open their eyes, he observes, join in the first fight, and off goes his ear, tail, or leg, and he grows up used to hardships, and the customs and responsibilities of war; he is also taught the responsibility of invasion. before he learns the landmarks, he goes on another's territory, where he is picked up by some old sentinel and shook a little, and thrown across the border, where he stands and barks a little, in defiance of the old dog's pluck and courage to come on this "spot and do the like. in their hymenial adventures" they frequently cross the borders, in pursuit of their object of affection, when there is a free fight, that lasts until some devoted amour falls a martyr to his sincerity, whilst the object of his affection escapes, heedless of his fidelity, and his great care for her and his posterity. the virtue of keeping so many dogs in constantinople, is to cleanse the streets of offal, that is piled there by the citizens, who are not blessed with sink holes under the streets, they empty their swill, bad vegetables, and scraps of all corruption in the middle of the streets, and the dogs act the buzzard's part, or the cholera would reign supreme all the year round. when the citizens are fearful of hydrophobia, the sultan orders the dogs to be driven in herds to a lake a few miles from the city, and there to stay during the dog days; but when they are brought back, the city is generally raging with what they call in the east, the plague. if the city was blessed with sink holes, they could then dispense with the nuisance of dogs in such narrow streets, and the provocation of their efforts of progeny. they are frequently so close together that a man hardly ever takes notice of their condition to one another. i, trying to pass through a group, got entangled between two and fell over them, as it was impossible to get through, as one tried to go one way, and the other another; i was so provoked when i got up, i did'nt look back to see whether it was their legs or tails was tied together; i am sure it was one or the other, from their magnanimous struggles to take one another their own way. another source of low spirits to a man from off the waters, is to see women moving about like spirits or shadows, and cannot be seen. the promenades in constantinople are the graveyards or any other sacred site. the graveyards are like rustic parks with immense numbers of tombstones denoting the head of the grave, and all are inclined to a fall. the ladies go there and lean against them and talk with their maids, and you can hear their sweet laugh, but see no smile. they sit like a tailor, on the inside of their heels or ankles. you will see five or six stand talking in their beautiful silk wrappers, and quick as a fall they will sink down upon those little feet, like a blossom sinking from its majesty of beauty to its downward decay. they seem to get closer to the earth than any other people could. one nymph-like lady was so wiry in her manner of talking to her black maid, and so full of good humor, that i knew she must have been pretty. i looked at her one hour, and she at me, through her eyelits. i would have given five pds to lift her veil; i know she was pretty, her voice was so fluty, and her hands so delicate, and her feet so small, and her dress so gauzy; she was like an eel. i do not believe she had any bones in her. i asked the guide if there was no way in the world to get acquainted with her, and he said, none under heaven. the guide and myself moved along to see some others, and something new presented itself at every step. vanity is reigning monarch in all females. i had stopped in another part of the graveyard pleasure ground, and whilst leaning against a tombstone, this mohammedan maid came up and seated herself as near to me as she was before. her maid had changed her veil, and was still fixing it on her mistress. this veil was thin enough to make me believe i could see her figure of countenance, and i swear she was pretty. the guide said that she was for sale, i told him to go and buy her for me, and asked him who owned her, he said, her mother, but i could not buy her because i was no mohammedan. i asked him what did he think she was worth, he said, about a thousand turkish piastres, a sum of about twenty-five dollars. i told him if he could buy her for that i would give twenty-five dollars for himself. this was a powerful engine on his reflective powers. he said he did not know how it could be done. i asked him if he thought the girl would admire me; he had no doubt about that, and added, i need not have any uneasiness about that, as i could make her love me after she was mine, she was obliged to obey me according to the turkish laws, and no man could change the laws but abdul medjid, the sultan. a colored man from tennessee shaking hands with the sultan; and men putting women in the bath and taking them out. friday is a festive day with the citizens of stamboul. it is celebrated by gondolar rides along the canal called "sweet water." males and females go up this canal, in all degrees of magnificence, and it is nothing but the elite of the city. from thirty to forty thousand assemble by eleven o'clock, the hour for the sultan and his seven sultanas, to arrive. just about this hour it is very gay. the gentlemen are in groups of from two to ten, exercising on flageolets, or wooden or iron musical instruments of some kind. the ladies come some in palanquins with strong turks at each end, and others in a golden gilt carriage, drawn by either oxen, camels, or men; if oxen, their horns are decorated with ribbons and flowers, if camels no decoration of beauty is needed as they are appreciated for their capability of standing hardships and sufferings; if men, for their masculine limbs and jocular songs, whilst pulling the beauties to the festal scene. where i discovered the crowd thickest there i repaired, and the mohammedans, were standing around a very large man, from nashville, tennessee, united states of america. his name was frank parish. he had in his hand as large a hickory stick as ever a man carried to be a stick; he wore turkish costume from head to foot, and his tarbouche was of the best red, and he stood up with a narghehly in his hand and mouth, all cap a pie, _ala turkoise_. here the people began to give way for the sultan and his seven legitimate wives. frank didn't give way an inch of territory for the sultan. two or three pachas rode a head of the sultan seated on camels in their golden saddles. the sultan stopped every fifty yards and listened to the music. when he stopped close to frank, he cast his eyes on his great form, and seemed to be interested; and frank had brass enough to look at the sultan as he did at other people. frank took his pipe from his mouth and walked up to the sultan's carriage and offered his hand which the sultan took, to the approbation of all present. the seven sultanas were looking at frank all the time through their eyelits as if they liked the looks of him. frank is a man about or years of age, and looks like a man in every sense of the word. he is not a yellow, or black man, but what we call ginger-bread color. he had come to constantinople, with a mr. ewing from nashville, and was staying at constantinople to recover from wounds he had received from arabs that shot him through the shoulder with his own gun, whilst standing over the body of mr. ewing, who the arabs were trying to kill, and thereby saved the life of mr. ewing. he was a free man and owned property in nashville. the sultan could plainly see that his loyal subjects were but as infants, by the giant-like man that stood over them. being surrounded by such dwarf-like men, he showed off to great advantage. the sultan is a weak looking man, and has the marks of fatigue well written on his forehead and limbs; he also looks like a man surfeiting on the fat of the world. he is a slow walking man, and seems as if he experienced some weakness coming from a hidden source which allowed its approach so gradually and agreeable that he is not conscious of its fatality. he knows nothing of the rest of the world nor cares for it, but believes that himself and constantinople are the wonders and powers of it. he is only twenty-two years old, but never once has been out of his paradise, shamboul. according to his opinion, he has no equals, consequently he has no associates. he is uneducated, because no one dare to instruct him. such a man lives a monarch and will die like a fool. if the czar of russia were to pay him a visit, he might smile with acknowledgement, but if queen victoria's virtuous head would call, she could not stop in his seraglio as quick as madame rachel or lolla montez; and if general zack taylor called, his pacha's would receive him, and a general jackson would scare him to death, as he is the most nervous man on a throne. as he is the descendant of mahommed, it is admitted here that his authority to govern the people is received on all emergencies from god. he is incapable of fearing any nation on the earth, as he thinks that his is head of all. if some day, the news went to his palace that the bosphorus was covered with a fleet, and that one ball had already struck the dome of the mosque st. sophia, he would, through all his resolutions, break his haughty heart, and no doubt tremble off his divan. they are talking about a war with russia, and i can find no man here that thinks russia can begin to fight them. the sultan's harems are numerous. while the occupants of the large are removed to two small ones, we have permission to pass through it, to see its magnificence, by paying the sum of five dollars a piece. it is a government of itself. it has a large bath room of water, and one of vapor. the girls are as pure as silvan nymphs, and some have remained in this harem until they become old, on account of the sultan's fancy to certain ones. they are carried to the baths by black men, called eunuchs. they take their baths in all attitudes of pleasure, while these eunuchs lean over the large, stationary stone basins, and gaze at them in their eve like costumes. but before these men are placed in this important position of servitude, they are privately handled to the disadvantage of displaying any demonstrations of manly pride, towards these vexed reflections that must naturally spring up in the reflective minds of virgins deprived of the luxuries of a life, built upon the confines of clandestine border thoughts of _sexes_. going to athens with a prima donna. having seen the sultan's great city, mosques, ambers, sponges, perfumeries and beads, i am now passing the custom house, on my way back to greece. in the front part of this vessel the cabin is all one, and whoever gets any kind of a berth is lucky, as the passengers are numerous. the beds or berths are one over the other, like our lake boats' second class cabin. one berth is a little higher than the other, they are three stories, and one person has to climb over another to get in bed, and even then you are too close together. the second class passengers find their own bedding, and sleep upon deck, and we have some very rich greecian families aboard, with their bedding and food, who sleep on deck. yesterday we passed by smyrna, and stopped and took aboard three beautiful albanian girls. when you see a pile of old rubbish lying about on these dardanelle boats, there is always some owner lying under it. these albanian girls were dressed very different from the turkish girls, and the pretty ones are not veiled. they had on a very pretty costume, but over it they wore a very large and coarse cloak, composed of either camel's hair, or wool of some ugly animal. they have a bonnet attached to it, that they can either throw back, or wear on their heads, and this cloak drags the ground. on board of our vessel was two young gentlemen from new york, trying to attract the attention of these albanian girls, though they had their beaux with them. these young gents are very rich, their wholesale oil establishment, in new york, is said to do a business of millions of dollars per annum, and their names were bridgers. they were seen to follow these beauties wherever they promenaded the deck, still they received no encouragement. sometimes these girls would hide themselves in their winding sheet, and throw the bonnet part over their heads, and fall down upon the deck as singular and as natural as an apple from a tree, and then they would appear as a pile of rubbish of old sacks. at last the gay messrs. bridgers lost them, and they hunted in all directions, but could not find these fairies. they got tired hunting, and seated themselves to talk on some old piles of blankets and quilts, but before he got seated. i mean only one, he was thrown flat on his face by one of these pretty girls. in choosing a comfortable seat, he picked the covered head of the prettiest girl. he felt very bad about the mistake he had made, and i felt ashamed for him, but worst of all, he could make no amends, as she spoke nothing but greek. he said "i wish i could apologize," but he could'nt. she did not seem to like it at all. the first night out we had a good deal of contention about berths. we had more passengers than the law of this company allows; they are not allowed to take one passenger more than they can accommodate. among the passengers on board was the first dancer of constantinople. those who had spoken for berths went to bed soon for fear disputes would arise about the right of them. i made sure of mine by sitting by it and watching it. after all the berthers had taken possession of their respective places, i discovered many persons taking berths on the sofas around the cabin; there were some curtains hanging about to make screens, to dress and undress behind, and the lights always burned dimly. these sofas were on a level with the lower berths, consequently, whoever took a sofa berth, was almost sleeping with the occupant of the lower berth. there was some choice about them, inasmuch as some were wider than others. i could see through my thin curtain that some one had picked out x , my own doorway. i lay like a rock to find out who it was, until i saw that everybody was in a resting attitude, after which i quietly drew back my curtain, to see what my neighbor was like. i knew it was some respectable person from the sweet smell of roses and other eastern scents which i inhaled. i could dimly see a madonna figure of considerable size, and the figure was nearly touching me. i did not get scared but lay as quiet as possible. i saw plainly that sleep had sent in a regret for that night, the lamp flickered up and went down, leaving a dark twilight perceptible around the cabin, and i put my hand slowly out to see what my neighbor felt like, and i felt the veritable prima donna of constantinople, "_qu est ce que vous voulez_," said she, "_rien_," said i, and shut my eyes and went to sleep in a hurry, and slept as sound as any man could, by the side of a live prima donna. athens, a sepulchre. when rome had a cæsar and a cicero, and a cassius with a brutus, athens dictated the arts and sciences for her. though she cannot claim the originality of them, she can the perfection of beautifying. the conquest of alexander the great, in egypt, among the africans, was considered the greatest triumph of conquest ever made by man, because it enabled the warlike people of greece, to adorn their triumphs with the spoils of the vanquished. egypt was a higher sphere of artistical science than any other nation on the earth. this will naturally convey an idea to the world that the black man was the first skillful animal on the earth, because homer describes the egyptians as men with wooly hair, thick lips, flat feet, and black, and we have no better authority than homer. we know not the exact epoch of his time, but we know it was before any other authentic chronicler, save the sacred book of moses, by the fact that he voyaged on the nile before the pyramids were built, which we can trace three thousand years. on the th of may, , as the sun was going down the blue arch of the western sky, i reached the top of mars hill, in athens, and seated myself in the seat where st. paul rested from his display of power over a bigoted people, when he said, "i perceive that in all things you are too superstitious." when st. paul stood on mars hill, athens was a voluptuous city to look at. there was the white marble temple of apollo, jupiter, minerva, juno and mars, besides temples to the sun and moon, and one to the "unknown god," all of which were reared up in the most conspicuous reigns of those gods over the minds of all the inhabitants of athens in a limited degree. as i descended mars hill, i turned to the right and entered the temple of bacchus, who is described in the classical dictionary thus: "son of jupiter and semele, and god of wine and drunkards, nourished till a proper time of birth in his fathers thigh, after the death of his mother, whom jupiter, at her request, visited in all his majesty. semele, who was a mortal and unable to bear the presence of a god, was consumed to ashes." an old man was in the temple to keep people from breaking pieces off from the beautiful temple's treasure, which was the tomb of bacchus, with the god carved on the sides, drinking his delight. i did not know what god's temple this was, and enquired of the old man, he could not speak any european language, but was quite successful in conveying the information i wanted; he took an old gourd and scooped some water up from the bottom of a bucket, and drank it with great hilarity, at the same time pointing to bacchus, as if he would say, "he drank!" i said, "you mean to say this is the temple of bacchus, the god of wine and drunkards, do you?" he bowed towards his toes and then stood erect, and tried to make me understand that the rest of the tombs there were gods and goddesses, of which apollo loved either sexually or valorously. there were no windows to the temple, the only inlet was the door, but though the door was shut, it was as light inside as one would wish. the marble was transparent, and when the sun shone upon its roof or walls, it forced its light through in a determined way. as i left this veritable tomb and sepulchre of the great god of wine and drunkards, my guide pointed to an aperture from the heart of a hill, and said, that entrance goes to the cave where socrates was poisoned. we then went up the most imposing ruins of athens, the acropolis. the temples there looked down upon the rest of the temples of athens, like jupiter would at the feast of gods, it was higher and more stupendous than all. there was the seats of solid blocks of white marble of the twelve judges. they were all in a row, and only one broke. they were solid blocks with scooping apertures, for a man to place his rotundity in comfortable quarters. round about the ruins were balls and cannon, grape, and several bursted shells, but one half of this tremendous mass of splendid ruins stood upright, as when it first took its stand among the wonders of the world, as a temple of wisdom. this temple makes it impossible for us to pronounce ourselves the "light of all ages." the great god of this temple was the ammon of the africans, the belus of the babylonians and the ossiris of the egyptians; from him, mankind receives his blessings, and their blessings of miseries, and he is looked upon as one acquainted with everything, past, present and future. saturn was jupiter's father, and conspired against his son and in consequence was banished from his kingdom. now jupiter became ruler of the universe and sole master of the empire of the world, and divided with his brothers, reserving for himself the kingdom of heaven, and giving the empires of the sea to neptune, and that of the infernal regions to pluto. the sea moved at his wrath, and hell burned his opposers, and he looked down from heaven at the commotion of his wrath till the men on earth considered their welfare only secured by worshipping his smile. athens and all her superstition is gone now, and the godly man now laughs at the folly of the wisdom that all talent of old times craved for. on mars hill where st. paul thundered the decrees of god against gods, though nothing to designate the spot, there the christian of to-day would rather stake his salvation than from the most sacred abode of jupiter and juno. but there is still weak minds in athens, for as i descend i see on the side of a hill that celebrated stone where females used to come from all parts of italy as well as greece to slide down on it, as a true avoidance of barrenness. this stone is as slick as a piece of soap, so slick a lizzard could not run down it. for nearly three thousand years two and three thousand women per day have slid down it in a sitting posture. the guide books call it the "substitute rock for female barrenness." many a bruise has this rock given in receiving its polish. hundreds of boys and young men are here at present, sliding down it for fun. i see, seated about fifty feet away from it, the tennessee negro i described at constantinople, frank parish. a scotchwoman is seated beside him, and seems to be proud of him as a beaux. she is a lady's maid that came here yesterday from the sublime porte with her mistress and frank. the scotch lady insisted on frank taking a slide with the young men, but for frank it was no joke, as he was an extraordinary large man. but frank, being as full of conspicuousness as any other man, it only required a little coaxing to get him started; at last he seated himself for a slide, but he did not much like to let go lest there would be a crash up. he anchored himself to the top and hesitated some, paused and looked like a fool. an irish servant that was with the same family as the scotchwoman, encouraged frank, by saying, "be a marn," frank said, "if i am not a man there is none about here," just to fill up the pause of suspense; but while frank was looking and studying, the irishman loosened his hands, and he went down like a colossus; seeing that he had broke no bones, he got up with a smile and felt himself all over to see if he was safe and sound. the irishman said, "how did it feel my marn?" frank pronounced it the most pleasant sensation he ever experienced. "then ye never dreamed that ye were married," said the irishman. frank said he had, but had forgot it. the scotchwoman wished to know if that was a pleasant dream; the irishman said, "it was the most pleasant dream a marn could have, and the most unpleasant was to find it a lie." starting from the "female substitute for barrenness," we met a man with a telescope, and we all wanted to take a fair view of athens. the irishman borrowed it from the man and took the first squint. he pointed to a fine house towards the kings palace, and there he looked alone. when i obtained it i looked there too, and saw a beautiful grecian maid combing her long black hair; gazing at her until she finished, i got a most ungentlemanly view of a lady, from which, in all due respect to her, i had to refrain, and took another direction in search of fair views. we went down the hill, and as we moved along the grecian ladies' and gentlemen's walks, i, though mixed up in a crowd of different people, was determined to hear frank talk to this scotchwoman. he was telling her of his business, which was still going on in nashville, tennessee, and of how many improvements he intended to make in his bath house and barber shop, when he returned, with things that he had already bought in paris. she believed it all, and frank was in his glory. i noticed their actions particularly, and was upon the eve of hearing their loveliest words, when she stopped as if it was a great sacrifice to her to give up his company. they lingered some time, as they would fain go on, but as she was going to her mistress' hotel, and frank to his, they must part. frank was well versed for the occasion, in byron. he took her by the hand and looked her in the face affectionately, and said with emotion, "maid of athens, ere we part, give, oh give me back my heart." as frank was going to my hotel i thought it well to make his acquaintance; he said he saw me at constantinople, but as i was an american, he did not deem it necessary to make my acquaintance, as i knew that he was a mere barber from tennessee. he also told me he had been married several times, and was now engaged at home. the day after this, i was outside of athens at what is called "the amusement grounds" of athens, for the people repair there every evening to hear the national band play. this band comes from bavaria, where greece got her present king. king otho is the son of the king of bavaria. here the king rides out every evening, and here frank took another liberty with royalty. as the king and his wife rode up to the band, his horses stopped just at frank's elbow, and frank walked to the carriage and offered his red hand to the king, and it was, through courtesy, accepted. athens is to-day a small town, and the king lives here. the whole population of greece is not quite a million. our slaves would make four kingdoms as powerful in population as greece. oh, when will we be the "freest government in the world?" we looked from the acropolis down upon a village, but in old times we looked upon a town. "ah! greece, they love thee least who owe thee most." the women are still pretty, and what is like a grecian nose? come, pilgrim, and see athens in the days when it is not even a shadow of its former greatness, and ask yourself if power constitutes stability. yes, go upon the acropolis and gaze downward to the top of mars' hill, and look at the council stand of st. paul; raise your eyes and turn them eastward, and if your imagination is as good as your sight, you will see the sea that in old times was covered over with the fleet of alexander the great. further off from the shore, in the year of our lord , richard i. of england, the lion-hearted, crusaded along with men, women, children, cattle and dogs, to put down infidelity on the sacred plains of palestine, where abraham, isaac and jacob walked as types of moral light for the salvation of mankind. now, as you stand there on the acropolis, as cecrops himself has stood, be not disgusted at what you see below, of the so much written of towns, for though now you see athens, it is true you do not see herself, but "athens a sepulchre." beautiful venice. on a little slip of land between the gulf of lepante and athens, we come to corinthe; we know it not, save a few immense pillars of marble pinnacling the site of corinthe. artists from all parts of the world come here and sit down at their base to sketch their dimensions; then away they go, with no regretful feelings for the great founders of arts stupendous, who, perhaps, three thousand years ago, were known far and near as men of the best faculties. the greatest gem that rome ever put in its crown, was the one that was made by imagination of the greecian dictator when listening to cicero, he said, "rome has robbed us of all we possess, but our eloquence, and it seems as if that is going towards rome." but rome has since fallen as low as athens! in the ionian sea, between sicily and greece, are the ionian islands, seven in number, and corfu is the principal one; they now all belong to the english. out further the east indias, where the queen of england has , , subjects; on the coast of africa, at the cape of good hope, the west indias, and the canadas, is her sceptral wand waving its ambrosial food of civilization. "the sun never sets on the queen's domain." between asia, macedonia, and greece is the most celebrated archipelago in the world. six days along the adriatic have brought me to trieste, in northern italy. it now belongs to austria. the austrian sceptre is waving over nearly half of italy. it is generally believed she cannot much longer hold her italian possessions. the army of austria, like its eagle's wings, is stretched to its utmost extremity of space. she could not sustain , more troops, without breaking some of her internal machinery. like an overflowing river, she is most too high to rise any higher without damaging her union. she seems to have taken the last drop of the italian's patience and forbearance, while leghorn, lucca, trieste, venice, and other italian cities, and other foreign powers, are trying to overflow her channels of power; they are perfectly willing that these troubled waters should spread across the plain of the hapsburg policy, and turn the institution of tyranny from hungary, bohemia, and italy; but the beardless, blue-eyed emperor seems to be as undisturbed as a god of liberty, and heedless of the consequences of a rebellion of these warlike people. five hours' ride from trieste is venice, a city in the sea. more lovely cities, perhaps, have been built, but i have never seen them. as our steamer threw out her anchor about fifty yards from the city, i could see on the other side of the city, a railroad in the sea, and cars running along as the sea spray washed their sides. on all sides gondolas were racing toward us, which we went ashore in. this magnificent city is built in the sea, and it costs more to drive down piles, in venice, to build a house, than it costs in london or paris to build the whole house. there is one building in this city of the sea, more beautiful inside, in its old age, than most of the best buildings of its kind, in any kingdom in the world, are in when they are new. it is the church of st. mark. the body of st. mark is in its cloisters, resting in his magnificent tomb, like a sleeping giant that dare not be aroused. the floor of this old gothic building is precious stones; the pillars near the alters are alabaster. the pope, in the doge days of venice, put his foot upon the emperor alexander's head. all the magnificent displays of state, even in these times, cannot be worthy of the notice of the people of this part of the world, unless it be the will of the pope; he is much feared by the monarch's of to day. it has been proven that the napoleon of to day has been seeking the smile of pius ix. it seems very strange to some people, but not to me, that the kings of england and france, in the eleventh century, should hold the pope's horse for him to alight. while walking around the church of st. mark, i saw a beautiful figure of a woman leaning gracefully from a stool downward. i watched her to see if any miracle was about to be performed. i saw the beautiful creature move with a blush upon her cheek. she was confessing to an old father, of whom, i saw, was more partial than moral worth sanctions, for as soon as she left the box, another made application, but the priest took no notice of it, but walked into his vestry. the applicant was an old woman, and homely as a bone, which, i have no doubt, was qualifications for religion not comporting with his reverence's sensitive taste of moral obligation, to receive confessions from so ugly a source to fill up the ranks of his beautiful herds. this poor old woman waited some time for his return, but like gifts from lips that frequent promise, he never came. this church is attached to the palace of the great doge of venice, and across a canal that runs between this palace and the prison, is a bridge. when a culprit was judged and sent across this bridge, he never saw again his th hour. all the instruments the ingenuity of man could invent, is here found to destroy the human body. i saw one machine to put a man in, and gradually break his bones; at the crush of each bone, he would be asked "if he would confess the crime?" another was a steel covering for a man's head, with seven holes in it; the culprit's head would be firmly placed in this iron case, whilst he would be seated on an iron block, one nail would gradually be driven in at a time, until all the seven holes would be filled with long nails, meeting in the centre of the head, unless he confessed his guilt when some of the nails were hammered down. another machine was something like a brace for the loins, and each end came curve like together and left it in the shape of a hoop; it had a lock and key, and old tyrannical lords used it when they left home, to protect their wives' virtue. he would put it around below the loins, lock it, put the key in his pocket, and go out hunting. no man could unlock it, and in those times false keys were not so easily obtained as now. when he returned he would unlock it, as he could then keep guard over her to his own satisfaction. from this horrid place, reader, come with me down the great canal that traverses the whole town, with its branches, to where, at from ten to one o'clock every day, would meet together the "merchants of venice." here their financiering would daily rock thrones, but now you see a long row of decaying old walls whose bases are wrapt in sea-weed, like climbing serpents, that now dwell in those damp, old commercial halls, now rotting away. i asked the guide for the site of desdemona's father's house, but that was forgotten. here we find no horses, carriages, or cars, but myriads of gondolas intercept the traveler at every turn of an alley or canal. on a beautiful moonlight night, i went through the city in my gondola, and as my oar struck the salty brine fiercely, i could see myriads of lights reflected from the various built palaces, and the sea looked like a diamond lawn. verona and bologna. one morning, at sunrise, i was rapidly roaring towards the depot that was to carry me to verona. all was lone and still, for the venicians are no early risers. as still as the zephyr wind gondolas passed by me, and away the ripples flew. i left this city in the sea, and about ten o'clock arrived at verona; a city so handsome in appearance--so magnificent in its ruins--so picturesquely situated in a plain, i felt as if i could dwell an age with it. having obtained a cicerone we repaired to the old ruined walls of julliete's fathers' house; afterwards the old man insisted on us going to see the half of her tomb, which is still preserved. no traces can be found of romeo or his father's house or tomb. in verona is many beautiful churches, the principal of which is san zenone. san zenone was a black man, and was the patron of verona. he is represented as seated in a chair, with costly robes around him; his face is the picture of gloom, whilst his brow is stern and commanding. preparations were going on for the reception of one of the oldest bishops of italy. the church was thrown wide open and workmen were employed in all parts of the inside of this edifice. behind the altar, was preserved some holy water, brought from rome for the occasion. the priest poured some out of the jug into a tin bucket and gave it to one of his boy aids to pour in the basin found at the entrance to all catholic churches. this little priest boy returned to the vestry for more, received it, but when he returned to the basin where he had deposited the first bucket full, he discovered that the basin was minus the first bucket of water. his great amazement scared even the workmen. he returned to the priest and informed him that some unforeseen cause had deprived the church of the precious libation. the priest soon discovered the phenomenon, and pronounced it an omen unfavorable to the reception of the great bishop on his way here. it was talked about town that day, that the great bishop could not be received in the aisles of san zenone. but i saw a thirsty boy looking in at the door, go up to the basin and drink his fill of the holy water, brought from rome in a jug, and pronounced it not so good as he thought it was, by a jug full. i told the proprietor of the hotel that a boy drank the water, and he said, "i must be mistaken, as no one in verona was so ignorant as to quench thirst on holy water." some said it was the devil thirsting for the protection of san zenone, for no admirer that hoped for salvation by the intercession of this holy saint, would be guilty of such a rash act, as they could not expect him to intercede in behalf of the spoilers of his festivals, unless their admiration of him was so great that they felt it their duty to partake of his blessings beyond the power of their resistance, even of stealing them. on my way to the railroad station, i passed the amphitheatre, that, in the gladiatorial days of verona, held one hundred thousand persons in its arena, and where they saw the lion tear the man, and again where the man slew the lion. that same night i slept at mantua, one of the most strongly fortified towns of italy, and from here i went to bologna and bought a sausage. this is a beautiful town so far as churches and graveyards add to the beauty of towns, and the latter is more extensive than the former. i informed the landlord of the hotel europe that i needed a guide for at least a day. he went in search of one and returned with a schoolmaster, who had closed his school of fifty scholars, to wait on us at the enormous sum of one ducat per day. this was a little pert man with a body twice as long as his legs. "gentlemen," said he, "let us be moving, there is a great deal to be seen before nightfall in bologna." i informed him that i wanted to see one of the sausage manufactories, but he seemed to be ignorant that bologna was celebrated in the sausage line. he asked some wayfaring man through those old lonesome streets to tell him where sausage was made. after seeing the manufactory and the lean donkeys, he took me to see a gymnasium, and here i saw the insignia of every organized people on the earth except my own, and looking for our eagle, stars and stripes, without finding them, i asked him how it was they could not be found. he said this institution was ten years old, to his certain knowledge, and as we were a new people and country, he supposed this was the reason. bologna, like a candle, must soon be extinguished for want of fuel of such combustibles as will burn up the dark ignorant pile now hid from the bright light that ought to shine supreme from the temple of wisdom of the times. venice, with her sea bathed palaces, may survive it, as she is still in beauty the "pride of the sea," more so than bologna is the pride of graveyards, churches and sausage. the "two young men of verona" is better known to the world to-day than verona or bologna. firenza de bella cita. when we were within two hours drive of florence, the capitol of tuscany and as it is also called the "italian capitol of fine arts," we stopped at a hotel to dine and feed horses. the landlord having ascertained that we might probably feel like paying something for what he called dinner, came into the sitting room with a live chicken by the neck and wished to know if i would order something to eat; i answered in the affirmative, when he gave his arm a twist and off went the chicken from his head, fluttering into nonentity. i informed mine host that the stage would hardly wait so long as was necessary to prepare the fowl, and he said he knew more about that than i did. a few moments after this he returned with the crawling flesh of the chicken, some wine and bread, as if he had done something really worth mentioning, and said, "now sir, here is some as fresh chicken as you ever eat, i am not like those town hotels that allow every thing to rot and stink before they sell it." a beautiful italian girl that was a passenger in the dilligence with me, was waiting to get something, and she said to me "you sir, seem to be the lucky one." i thought it proper to give some one a small piece of the fresh chicken, but if she had not been so pretty she might have been the "unlucky one." up over the door of this man's house was written, these german words, _gasthof zum new york_. it not taking as much time to dine in the gosthof as in the stable, we took a walk to see the extraordinary phenomena of a muddy place that one can set a blazing with a match. having arrived at florence and hoteled myself i ascertained where the races were, and was told they would commence in thirty minutes and that my hotel window was as good a seat at the races as i could get. i looked out of the window and saw the streets clean as a floor of a log cabin, and written upon the corner "course." that was the name of the street. a few minutes after the heralds proclaimed "that this course must be cleared" as round at the stand the horses were on the track. this street is circular, and the horses run round, till they come to where they start from, when the race is awarded to the first that comes. no riders are allowed, but the people which makes a paling round the track, hurry each horse on. the horses don't seem to know they are running a race, because the shouts of the populace at every window, corner and alley is so frightening they are trying all the time to get out of the track. before the races commence, a carriage with four greys is conveying an old man and wife up a street that comes to the course and branches off, and after the race, himself and lady is the first to ride on the street called "_la course_;" and after his carriage every other person has a right to enter the promenade of this man and wife, the grand duke, of tuscany. in the next carriage to his was a tall lady with a beaux by her side, who, i learned, was the princess, his daughter. next to her carriage, was a mr. bullion from california, trying to pass himself off for a real american gentleman. these are the times when men who make money in the eldorado, come home to the states to show off. he certainly had more money than brains. he had a liveried carriage. the smoke curled up in little clouds behind him, his feet were on the fore cushion of the open calashe, and a profusion of beard adorned all the lower extremity of his face. his beard reminded me of col. may's the captor of la vega. the duke halted a moment causing all in the train to halt also, when mr. b. rose up in his carriage and looked round the dukes carriage and told his driver to drive on. he was informed that he could not, and he looked up very wise as if he would like to know why. a few minutes after the train moved, and he said to his driver "wait a little, i don't want them to think i want to follow them." the driver stopped and got himself in trouble, for the vehicle behind him told him to drive on or get out of their way. here the police interfeared and ordered mr. consequence bullion esq., of the el dorado to get out of the way of gentlemen and ladies. he tried to pursuade the officers to bear in mind he was talking to an american citizen; but there was as much difference as space between the torrid and frigid zone. the officer gave him to understand that he might be a florentine, but he must get out of the way of other people. mr. b. spit a mouthful of juice in the carriage, threw his feet on the front cushion and told the driver to go on. at first my national pride was somewhat lowered, but on second thought, i gloried in knowing that americans are not responsible for every upstart that goes abroad and violates the rules and regulations of other communities because they were not made to suit his taste, for which no body ever cared but himself. the good people of europe know full well that there is always thistles among roses and not all good among themselves. american people are not as selfish as italians. italians will hate a man for ever for a paul or bioca. i got acquainted with an italian at the work shop of hiram powers, and this young man volunteered to show me florence, which would of course save me the expense of a lacquey; and my old lacquey told me he wished this man was dead, as he had deprived him of a ducat. an english writer, tells a tale on fontenelle thus: "he once ordered some asparagus cooked in oil for his dinner, for he was passionately fond of it; in five minutes afterwards, an abbey came to see him on some church politics, and as it is usual in france to ask ones friend how he wishes his dinner cooked and name what you have, fontenelles told the old man what he had, and the old man said he would have half of the asparagus cooked in butter. fontenelles thought it a great sacrafice, but said nothing. thirty minutes afterward the abbey's valet came down in the parlor and exclaimed in great sorrow that while the abbey was washing he was taken with an apilepic fit and was dead. fontenelles struck the youth on the shoulders and said, "run to the kitchen and tell the cook, to cook all the asparagus in oil."" now this was indeed a selfish man. sam slick asked a country beaux "why it was that such a fine looking gentleman as himself was not married where so many pretty ladies were?" his answer was "when i offer my hand to a lady, she will be a lady!" this is another selfish man. an irishman once drinking his neighbors wine was too selfish to testify his approbation of its merrits, by drinking a toast of such good wine to his neighbor. at last he was compelled to drink one, and he said, "here is to my wifes husband." the french is celebrated for eating, the yankee for his pride, and irishmen for their toddies. "the lads and lasses blightly bent, to mind both soul and body, set round the table weel content and steer about the toddy." but i have never found even wit, to justify an italian's selfishness, only sublimity of meanness is an italian's selfishness. back to paris on my departure from florence, i luxuriated at lucca, the bathing resort of the tuscans. the city is old with stout walls around it. three hours ride in a viturino will bring you to the baths. they are beautifully located, down in a valley with craggy and fertile mountains hanging over. it was quite a place in old times, and counts, and dukes and other nobles used to flock here to gamble, until so much murder was committed, lucca broke up the resort of these monied men, and until very recently it was thought to be destroyed and dead, but the austrians, who occupy all the important places in the government of this part of italy, wishing to resurrect something that has already been in the italians' mind as a pleasant dream, hotels have been built, and livery stables erected, for the accommodation of the gay portion of florence, pisa, genoa, leghorn, and even milan. on my way from florence to lucca i stopped at pisa. pisa is well known to the world as holding up one of the seven wonders of the world, to the world's travelers and sight seers. i have reference to the "leaning tower." in describing the "leaning tower," i will merely say, that the first vast and solid layer of stone is heavy enough to hold all the others laid upon it. each layer is fastened to the one under, and though it might protrude several feet on the layers protruding side, this few feet of reaching out stone can have no power over all the rest of that same layer around this immense tower. the next layer protrudes on the same perched side of the tower, and straight over the reaching edge of its under layer; as each layer is fastened with iron spikes to its under layer, there can be no chance of even the very top falling down on the side of the tower. it leans so much on each layer as to make the top of the tower reach away over the base on the leaning side, so much so that, were it to break loose, it would fall over to the earth without touching the base or foundation of the leaning side of the tower. the city of pisa is well known in italian history, by the awful contentions that used to exist among next door neighbors. men used to fight on the top of their own houses, and go on conquering, from house to house, until they would slay as many as twenty lords, whose property would be theirs as spoils of war. one hour and a quarter's ride from pisa is leghorn, a city full of hats and bonnets. the bay is dotted over with little white houses, and some miles out in the sea; and i see hundreds of small boats rowing towards bath houses. the strongest merchants here are english, who ship leghorn hats and bonnets to foreign ports, as well as their own, but the city belongs to the hapsburg sceptre, and thousands of austrian soldiers stand in the by ways of public places. twelve hours travel through the sea from here, brought me to the "city of palaces," genoa. it is a city on the side of a hill, with eight story palaces looking down on the sea. before the fifteenth century it had the inducement for traders that lyons to-day has. silk was manufactured here in a way that astonished that age of pride; but since the invention of steam, all those scientific arts that this trade called for is but as nothing, and italians look at our steam power machines, and then at all their scientific arts, and like the proud fowl that gazed downward, their feathers fall. i must now pass over many places and their accomplishments, and hasten back to france, to prepare myself for the roughest voyage yet--egypt, arabia and palestine. here is the pyramids, memphis, (now cairo) thebes, the nile, the red sea, the desert of sahara, mount sinai, the tomb of abraham, isaac, jacob and joseph, at hebron, the city of david; and to jerusalem, down to jericho where the jordan's muddy waters slip under the briny and sulphurous liquid of the grave god dug for sodom and gomorrah; and to olives, carmel, tabor and calvary; and to damascus, the cedars of lebanon, nazareth, bethel, and the temple of balbec or baal. prussia, bavaria, sardinia and saxony i will pass through without comment, more than to say that i found them separate nations of one people, save in language. however, i will say, that of all the german kingdoms the most despotic is austria; but she hates slavery more than the "freest government in the world." austria tyrannizes over man, but she cannot tyrannize, chattelize, and prostrate their rights with impunity, any more than washington, jefferson, or henry could. egypt and the nile. five months of paris life is again spent, and with it winter has gone by. winter takes away and deadens the energies of a gay man, but the spring time comes, and with it the awakening of man from his lethargy, and like old sol from the bed of the sea, in his majesty he shakes himself in all his rising glory, and puts a fiery garb between himself and all the rest of creation, to scorch the temptation that would impede his bright and manly career. did you ever stand by the shore of a bed of water, reader, and see old sol, like a mighty giant, rise up from his wet pillow, and seem to shake his shaggy locks, as they loosened from the abode of neptune for more etherial spheres, and when at his journey's end, fall again on his pillow of the watery down? if you have, see me alike pulling away from the festal abode of paris' comfort, and loosening the tie of familiar smiles, for a hard journey over a rough sea, dead lands, and a treacherous people. will i not be willing, as old sol when he fell on the western sea, to rest my mortal part on the flinty base of great pompey's pillar, ere the work be "did and done?" i think i will! i have passed marseilles, malta in the sea, and here i am in sight of land. well, mr. captain, what are you looking after in the distance with as much anxiety as the passengers, have you not been here before? "yes sir, but every body wants to see pompey's pillar." "that's a fact, captain, is that his pillar?" at this stage of the enquiry, the captain of the great steamer ripon, laid his telescope down, and took hold of the ladies and gentlemen by the arm and shoulders, and requested that they would not be so partial to only one side of the boat, as it might dry one side of her boiler, endangering his life, as well as theirs. "now," said the captain, "do you all see that tall, monumental pillar, reaching upwards to the right of those barracks," when answered in the affirmative, he said, "that is pompey's pillar, to the left is the pacha's palace." this was indeed the great city of alexandria. here it was diogenes built the great temple of diana; and over it suspended her in the air, by attractive and non-attractive metals, such as loadstone and others. we are coming near, and the camel boys and donkey drivers are more numerous than any other class. having gone a quarter of a mile through mud, i am at the hotel, but i would as soon be any where else, for the accommodation is sickening. a man and camel is standing at the door, with a bullock skin full of butter for the landlord. the landlord requested him to uncamel it, and bring it in, after which he plated some of it for dinner. i enquired where this butter was made, and the bedouin told me it was made in the desert, and in recommending it, he said it was good because he made it himself. but the most disgusting information i got of the origin of this butter, was, that it was made from camel's milk, and this very camel was one of the milch camels. the landlord came to know how we liked our dinner, and the rev. levi tucker, of boston, mass., enquired about this butter, and mine host stuck his finger in the butter, and tasted thereof. i was eating a piece of roast beef at the time, but i could not refrain from turning it over to ask myself, "might it not be camel's meat," though i could get no answer. after dinner, four of us americans, headed by the rev. levi tucker, called to see his most serene highness, the pacha of egypt. we stood before his palace in the court, about an hour, after which the dragoman returned from the interior of the palace and inquired of us if we were the president, i told him not quite. he then told us that his serene highness had no complaint to make of us for calling on him, and furthermore, that he had no objection to our looking over the gardens, and at the walls of the palace, and the stable doors. mr. fellowes, of new orleans, lit a cigar, mr. elliot, of south carolina, threw a quid of tobacco among the flowers, and i plucked a rose, and the rev. levi tucker, so far descended from his gravity, to joke by saying, "you will all be fined, look sharp!" this city was built by alexander the great, more than three hundred years before christ. it is on the nile where it flows into the mediterranean sea, but hardly any of its ancient splendor remains to point its site, save pompey's pillar, which is an immense stone column. some parts of its walls are traced, and a few gates of granite marble are left to mark its spaciousness. here used to pass the treasures of the indies, but since the discovery of the route, via the cape of good hope, only the mails traverse the red sea, the desert, and the nile. alexandria is the sea-port of egypt, and egypt is a province of turkey. the pacha pays the sultan millions of treasure to rule this land himself, and also binds himself to furnish so many men in time of war, and is bound to lead them on the field if required. the present pacha is said to be a foreign prince, who fought his way to the throne. he lives here one part of the year, and the other at cairo, the capitol of egypt. cairo is about miles from alexandria, and as the english mail from the indies comes there from towards the red sea to this place, they are now building railroads here, to facilitate conveying it to and from england and india. egyptian kings of olden times. alexander the great, after having extended his conquest to the indies, returned to babylon and there died in the thirty-third year of his age. byron, who died at this age, pronounces it fatal to genius. we will not class our savior with men of genius, as it would not be a just comparison to his superior talent or grace, but, if what byron says about the turn of genius be true, there can be little argument against him when these specimens can be taken into consideration. after this great man's death at babylon, his empire was divided among the next great men of the earth, and the egyptian division fell to the ptolemies. they were a great family of the upper part of the nile, perhaps the thebiad, and are known to us as ptolemy st, d and d, &c. these kings were very learned, for they possessed the library of alexandria, and which caliph omar burned containing , volumes of manuscript. for six months they burnt books instead of wood to heat the water they bathed in. the word ptolemy means a class of kings. the emperors of rome were known successively as cæsars. the persians as darius, just as the louises of france were under the designation of one, two, and three. these titles of the throne originated with the great and kingly family of pharaohs. pharaoh hophra is the famous pharaoh that we are acquainted with in the scriptures. pharaoh necko is another celebrated pharaoh. the present cairo of egypt, was then the capitol of the greatest kings of the the earth, the pharaohs. it is still a magnificent city for its age. its population is variously estimated to be from to , . some as fine edifices are found here as in any part of the east. it was the memphis of old. here it was that pharaoh dwelt when he marched in pursuit of moses, when the cloud stood between them; here it is he is, to day, a mummy, if he was not embalmed in the red sea, but distinguished not; here it is the famine raged furiously and men sold themselves for food to joseph; here it was that moses had the power to turn ashes into dust, that flew over the land with the rapidity of a lightning flash, and infested the body of man with boils, and still the king loved the spot too well to give up one single foot of his powerful sway. here it was that greece and italy were schooled in all that they excelled; here it was that moses obtained his fundamental rules of governing nations of people, for he was "learned in all the learning of the egyptians," and where was more? and here it is some one thing is found that all the savans' talent cannot conjecture the design of its structure, i mean the pyramids. i was there to day, and gazed upward odd feet in the air at its top. i say it because it is only necessary to see one to be confounded and awe struck. it is a spacious mass of solid layers of stone, one upon the other, and each from to feet in length. what the great kings of egypt had such a tremendous mass of stone so systematically put together for, is a mystery to all the learning of our time, and still we know it must have been for no ordinary freak of talent, intelligence and power, such a structure was reared. the old historians tell us it took twenty years to build one, with a force of , hands. these one hundred thousand men were relieved every three months by another hundred thousand. these stones were hewn from the mountains in the desert. it took ten years to make a causeway on which to bring these immense stones to the building. each stone was originally adorned with engravings of animals, but now there is no vestige of them. the two largest in egypt, and perhaps in the world, are these two here before cairo. my dragoman insisted on my crawling in and seeing the wonders, but i could make nothing out of its hollow. it was lined with leather winged bats. if they were the sepulchre of kings, their bodies are long gone, though secure they might have been. in going to these pyramids, one walks over a pavement of dead bodies. i sunk in the sand, one hundred yards from the pyramid of cheops, and my foot caught in the ribs of a buried man, which i afterwards learned to be a mummy. oh, mummy! when the side of the mountains was filled with the dead in old times, it was usual to take out the oldest corpse and put them beneath the earth, and in consequence, the whole plain, from the pyramids to cairo, some six or seven miles, is macadamized with dead egyptians, perhaps some kings and queens. i find that pachas are reverenced here according to their wealth. if you ask an egyptian whether said pacha is a great man or not, he compares him to pachas of a like means. the pacha has all the learned men of the land around him. they now, as of old, carry their inkhorn tied to their waistband. no king, perhaps, of the earth is so absolute in will over his people as the present pacha of the turkisk empire. the kings of old time, no doubt, were more powerful in their absolute sway. when thebes had one hundred gates undecayed, she could send to war, two millions of men. such were egyptian kings of olden time, though black. traveling on the nile eight hundred miles. the boat i obtained at alexandria, was made like a keel boat. the cabin consisted of four bed rooms with a saloon in the centre. this cabin occupied the centre of the hull of the keel, but it left space outside all around, and more at each end than at the sides. the fourteen arabs and one captain, called reice, would either be pulling the boat all day, or managing the sail to advantage. when the breeze blew up the nile, they would hoist the sail and take advantage of the wind. we paid them for the boat, men, and their own food, pounds for the trip, but if the trip was not made in seventy days, and it is miles, we then had to pay them so much for each day over, besides this, every few days the reice would come into the cabin for bucksheesh; we were annoyed at every stopping place for bucksheesh. the indian of north america would translate bucksheesh "gim e money." our cookery was at the bow of the boat, a small space of four feet square, and our cook was an italian of rome. we paid him two dollars a day, because he was a european, and could not work for less, and by the way, arabs cannot cook, and will not, for any price, cook such food as we had. our best meat was smoked pork, and they detest this meat. nearly every man on our boat was named achmit, or mahommed; but the reice's name was marmound. the reice was a good old man, i have often felt as if it would afford me great pleasure to sketch his profile, when, along about noonday, he would stop our boat without consulting us, to have his head shaved. the head shavers at all the little dirt villages, would keep a look out for boats, and be ready on the bank, to shave the captain's head, and make one cent. the speculators of the nile could always be found on the banks at the villages, waiting to sell a goat, a chicken, or an egg. when we would stop a minute or two at a village, every few seconds, women or men would come in great haste to sell, each one trying to beat the other, some dates, cloves, or chickens. some places, when the boat was shoving out, some great, fat and lazy arab would come blowing and panting to the edge of the nile with one single egg, that he had been waiting for the hen to lay. one man, to make up a dozen, squeezed an old hen until her egg bag emitted a yelk, which i refused to take as an egg. one arab brought us some young crocodiles he had dug out of their nest, even while the old one was chasing him. to believe what an arab says when trying to sell anything, would be a sublime display of the most profound ignorance a man could be guilty of. i have seen arabs, however, professing an artful talent that i have no reason to believe can be found in the whole united states. i have reference to what is called snake charming. yesterday an arab came aboard with a basket on his arm, and he was literally covered or clothed with live snakes. they were crawling over his shoulders, arms, breast, and whole body in general, and his head was an emblem of discord. serpents looked in all directions, while their forked tongues signaled their wrath, like little flashes of lightning. this was a "snake charmer," and we concluded we would test his skill, and gave him a quarter to go to the mountains and call out of the rocks some of his prey. having arrived, he sang a melancholy strain like that of a dove in spring time, occasionally raising his voice like a lonely crane, and after ten or fifteen minutes of this proceeding, brought some three serpents from the crevices of the rock, and quietly walked to them and they crawled on his arm. he offered to guarantee one crawling on me without biting, but i was not willing to make any contract to that effect. he returned to the boat with us, and one of our arabs, who was a very incredulous man, told us that the "rascal" was possessed of no power at all over the wild serpents, but had placed these serpents there before, and that they were taught to come when called. but this arab of ours was jealous of the interesting entertainment we enjoyed. the charmer knew not where we were taking him until we told him to call the snakes. the reice of our boat was afraid the charmer would get too much bucksheesh, and called on us in our cabin to inform us, that some months before he had seen this man with the same serpents, and i asked him how he distinguished the serpents, and he said, "by their color." he gave me to understand, that though we were very learned this rascal could fool us, but with him it was very different. he said that "old marmoud's beard was white, but few men knew more than he did." he appealed to our generosity, to keep some of the bucksheesh, "don't want the rascal to get all the bucksheesh." at night the jackalls are quite noisy. two came within fifty yards of our boat, and played their howling notes some time. no arab takes notice of jackalls, foxes, or crocodiles. i went into six sugar houses on the nile, and all owned by the pacha. no man can show his money here without getting it borrowed. the man who refuses to loan it to the pacha when asked, cannot live. a wise man and his money must part. thebes and back to cairo. two great streams rises in the mountain of the moon, in abyssinia, and unites in nubia, and flows through egypt, and makes what we call "the nile." this splendid old stream flows on gradually as in the days of pharaoh, and jupiter hammon; splendid, because in those days its banks were walled with rich cities. the remains of thebes stand like catskill mountains, unshocked. i mean the remains, the renowned memnonian, luxor and carnack. the tall columns of the memnonian is here like untold riddles to be explained. the paintings are as bright to-day as any modern picture i have seen in the louvre, at paris. the carved chariots on the walls convey the idea, "i see remesees and pharaoh's on the battlefield." these chariots seem to have carried only two or three warriors with their spears in the battle. on the outside wall of this temple is carved, the exact likeness of a "man's individual part," varying from to inches in length, and hanging beneath each is two balls, seeming to be connected like the two big parts of a heart, and both gradually sloping down together. it is supposed, that cutting off these parts of man was the punishment or qualification required to degrade those gents of the remesee court, who were too polite to the ladies. but why gallant gentlemen should be treated so i shall leave for the conjecture of the learned reader. some light may be thrown on this subject by reference to the preceeding page, on constantinople's manner of preparing gentlemen's nature for taking ladies to the baths. these great temples are situated so that it takes a man many days to see them. they are on different sides of the nile. carnack is a tremendous mass of splendid ruins. owls and foxes dwell within; and i saw a pretty bird, half asleep, that a man told me was a whip-poor-will. it is no pleasant thing to stop in these ruins a few hours alone, unless a man was possessed of no imagination at all. on one of the splendid painted broken columns that ran up through the hall or court of the unapproachable pharaoh, ptolemy, or remese, a fox or hawk had been breakfasting on a rabbit, and martins had their nests perched on the side of the spreading columns that supported the beams of solid stone, of feet wide and long, over head. these ruins were sights of wonder to behold. thebes could send to war , men from each of her hundred gates, making in all two millions of men. but to-day her walls cannot be found; we know her but by carnack, and the rest of her temples, and the stadium of the nile. england and america has a consul here. he is a colored man named mustapha. he insisted on us taking dinner with him before we left, and so we did. he had what is called a fashionable egyptian dinner of to-day. the goat was cooked whole, and in a standing posture, and when placed on the table, uncarved, the strongest fingered man gets the best part with more ease and facility than the weaker. whoever has seen a skinned calf's head hanging by a butcher's stall, can imagine how melancholy this cooked goat's head looked. mr. mustapha had no chairs or tables, but he had ample room round the tray in the middle of the floor, where this goat is placed. we all squatted as well as possible and dined at nine o'clock at night; each one of us had hold of mustapha's goat at the same time. the consul was indeed skilled in obtaining long pieces of tenderloin. if he is as well posted in diplomatic affairs as in finding tender parts of a goat, he will do honor to england and america, or memphis of old. about o'clock mustapha said, "all the dinner was eaten up, and now we would have some dancing." the girls were called in, and they stocked their bodies, and made a general preparation with their bells tied to their waist. this was called tuning up. they went off in their different strains, as you have heard three or four sleigh turnouts, one after the other, and all getting together. such a jingling; such screwing in and out of bodies; such a gesturing; and such a quivering of the bodies from their necks to their knees, is only to be imagined. one girl stuck her head between her legs in front, whilst another done the same over backwards. a few minutes afterwards, we eat some dates, smoked some pipes, and drank some arrack, a liquid used here as we use whisky, brandy, and gin, to raise the spirits. the feast over, mustapha informed us that it was usual to pay his cook and waiter for their services. the next day he also informed us that it was usual to pay him for being our consul, as he performed this service for our government gratis. this is his short cut to the meeting house of distinction and gain. we paid, hoisted our sails, rowed away, and arrived in three weeks afterwards, back to cairo. camels, through the desert. for three of us, eighteen camels were procured, to convey us, provisions and tents, through the desert. to every camel was a master, who loads and unloads food and water. the remainder of my travels will only be described as objects are found: no comments on their past or future. having at ten o'clock, the first time in my life, mounted a camel, i found it hard work to hold to the old riggings on his back. we went out on the commons to the east of cairo, and turned the head of the camels towards suez, on the desert, and awaited their own movements. the youngest went out in all directions, as far as a quarter of a mile off; they would follow one another a few minutes, until they would lose confidence in the ability of the leader to perform his duty, and take the direction of another. after half an hour spent in this way, some of the young leaders would wait and look at the old camels and dromedaries until they would come along side, and wait quietly until the older would take the lead, and in five minutes the whole caravan from all directions would pull for his course, like the different branches of a flock of wild geese that had been disturbed by some unnatural disturbance; in twenty minutes all would be in a straight line for palestine. at five o'clock in the evening we camped for the night, and while supping before our tent doors, the english mail caravan came along from suez with the india mail, some camels; they had left the red sea the day before, and were getting along very well. the english are great people to meet in a strange place, as they take pleasure in imparting all the news likely to add to ones comfort. they asked us about her majesty's government, and also about french feelings. we offered them something to drink, which they refused, and bade us good day and went a couple of hundred yards farther and camped. next morning they were off before we waked up. the next day we arrived at the red sea, crossed over, and wended our way to mount sinai. we found, at the base of mount sinai, two bedouins, like lost men from their tribe, looking about as if they were hunting something in their lonesome vallies. they rode arab steeds instead of camels, as we did in the desert. i had always believed that the desert was an arid sandy plain, but i found it more hill than plain. occasionally we would see a couple of gazelles on the mountain crag, but always ready to run. we stayed at the convent of st. catherine some days with the old monks, and bought some treasures of them in the way of manna, put up here for pilgrims in a little tin box, like mustard boxes, and also some canes of different kinds of shrubs growing round about here. it takes about an hour to wake the monks up from their studies, breakfast or sleep. they lowered a sort of a hamper basket for us to seat ourselves in, one at a time, and they pulled us up. next morning we prepared our luncheon for an ascent; about twelve o'clock we reached the top where moses held the stones. the guide showed us many little altars and curious places, said to be sacred places, to different ages of which he named. i could plainly see that his information was merely traditionary, without the least shadow of history for support. as we ascended, he showed a hole in the ground where the sons of levi buried their dead. i asked him how he knew this was the history of this hole, and he said that a powerful sheik told him this. he meant the chief of a tribe of bedouins. they are called sheiks. the sheik who gave this important information was a very powerful sheik, and consequently, his opinion carried great weight, though he could not read. he often settles questions more important than this to the arabs. the next day, while branching out from sinai and the red sea, we encountered a desperate tribe of bedouins, who demanded of us a bonus, in genuine coin, for permission to travel through this territory. we refused to pay, and the sheik declared that we should. our guide, whose name was como, said many years ago he traveled along the range with one dr. robinson who wrote a book, and was attacked by this rascally sheik before, and refused to pay then, and would refuse now. he bullied up to the sheik, and told him he would report him to the authorities of hebron, who would send his complaint to constantinople, to the sublime porte. the sheik was intimidated, and rode off in the desert towards petra. after thirty-five days in the desert, we came to hebron, the burial ground of abraham, isaac, and jacob. here we quarantined for three days. after traveling all these thousands of miles, the arabs would not let us enter the mosque built over these distinguished men's bodies. our camel drivers could enter, they were arabs, and would not defile the mosque. jerusalem, jericho, and damascus. passing by the mosque whose treasure is the patriarch's bodies covered with golden robes, the boys and women threw stones at us, that we might know we were approaching too near their sacred dead. they pride themselves on these sacred relics, and allow no man to pass by without seeing their fidelity displayed. our drivers explained to us all they knew of the magnificence inside, but that was poor explanation and satisfaction, as it had also to be translated. as we left the city on our way to jerusalem, we were shown some two or three olive trees nearly three thousand years old. about an hour after emerging from the city of hebron, we met an arab, and inquired the distance to the holy city, and he said, "about half a day's camel ride." all miles are counted here by some animal's hour's travel. at one o'clock we were passing over rolling mounds adorned with olive trees. one was higher than the rest, and from its summit i saw jerusalem only half a mile ahead. its towers were few and scarce, and its walls were parched and charred. the mosque of omar's dome glittered in the sun beam, and this mahommedan sanctum towered above all the other buildings in this city, that was once the "glory of the world," because of its godliness. yes, the mosque of the turk looked down upon our glorious sepulchre, as it were with contempt. i made my way straight to our humble edifice, and fell upon the marble slabs that once entombed the flesh and blood of the greatest man ever tabernacled in a body of flesh. in the middle of the latin church, which means the church we christians of the world built over calvary, is another small house like a large sepulchre, such as i have seen in new orleans, or _pere la chaise_, at paris, and in this little house are the sides, bottom, and cover, of the tomb of our savior, just as it was taken from the earth and placed on this stone floor, before this little house and the large church were built around it. two men were inside of the little house, one at each end of our savior's tomb, giving wild flowers to the visitors. these flowers are fresh, and placed daily on the tomb beside the burning candles, that burn night and day on this consecrated marble tomb. an english lady, who came in before me, was prostrated on the floor, kissing the tomb with great devotion. she was a lady of rank who had pilgrimed here, and now had given way to her devoted feelings towards the dull, cold marble that once, in the midst of thousands of enemies, our savior had lain in, uncorrupted, though bleeding and mangled. the monks were passing to and fro in all directions. the best place to locate for a short time, is in the convent attached to the church; they make no charges against a pilgrim, but no pilgrim can come here unless rich, and no rich man will go away without giving something to so sacred a place as the tomb of our savior. these monks are strict in all their rules, and allow none to be treated with indifference; they allow no chickens, ducks, cats, or dogs in the convent; as by their courting habits they might lead the mind of man from spiritual reflections, to groveling desires. these are undisputed facts, and i got them from the lips of a monk's aid. i walked round the walls of this celebrated city in one hour and a quarter, though when titus took it, it contained about , , souls. but as jerusalem was considered by the jews impregnable, the people from all the villages round about came here for safety. this accounts for its having so many people when taken. i am mounting a small arab steed to go to bethlehem. i can see it from here. in an hour after leaving jerusalem, i passed by the tomb of lazarus, and rode up to the walls of the convent at bethel. it was closely shut on all sides. our guide demanded in an authorative tone and air for entrance. a bare footed monk unlatched the door, and we walked in, and were carried direct to the altar built over the manger. we saw burning candles and flowers strewn around. we came out and wended our way towards jericho, it could be seen in the distance. we came to a spring whose water was running freely, and the guide had the impudence to tell me that the cause of this water running so freely, was because the jawbone that sampson fought so bravely with was buried here. he had told me another absurd story about jeremiah's cave, but i was not inclined to believe anything i heard from the people about here, because i knew as much as they did about it. i came to jerusalem with a submissive heart, but when i heard all the absurdities of these ignorant people, i was more inclined to ridicule right over these sacred dead bodies, and spots, than pay homage. the same evening i camped at jericho, about a hundred yards from where the jordan empties into the dead sea. we took a bath in the jordan, and tried some of its water with _eau de vie_, and found it in quality like mississippi water. then before we dressed, we took another in the dead sea. i cannot swim, but i could not sink in this sea; it is a strong brine of sulphur and salt, and stronger in holding up substances than the mediterranean or the atlantic. no living creature can live in it; the jordan washes an immense quantity of small perch-like fish into it, but they instantly die, and are thrown out on the banks of the sea within twenty feet of the jordan. the jordan is frightfully rapid, but so narrow that a child could throw a stone across any part of it within a mile of the sea. rabbits and birds are plentiful here; in the shrubbery in the valley of the jordan i killed doves and quails enough for supper. jericho is not worth mentioning, as there is not even a temple here left by time. the ground is covered with broken bricks and stones. having stayed in the city of jerusalem seventeen days, i leave it, never wishing to return again, and am now leaving the wall, calvary, moriah, and olivet, to see gallilee, tabor, nazareth, and damascus. i saw the sea, as no doubt it was when the whale vomited; i saw the little house where water was turned into wine, i saw tabor, ascended and took my chances with the wild boar; i returned from tabor to nazareth, where i had left my baggage and provisions; eat some camel's meat. the soldiers were preparing for army stores, and i hurried on to damascus to hear something about the decrees of st. petersburg against the sublime porte. the turks all through palestine were preparing for war; they said this year, , was going to be a memorable one; the crescent and the cross were to shine gloomily, for the hungry russian bear was seeking food beyond his lair. about the st of july i arrived at the paradise-plain city of damascus, and bought a blade. i bought some silks, and old swords, celebrated as damascus blades were, with one i cut a half a dollar into two pieces. the ambassadors of different nations were informing their country's subjects that it was best to be among the missing, and said that some russians were here yesterday, but were now gone to parts unknown. these ambassadors were more frightened than their subjects; one said to col. fellowes and myself, "as soon as the sultan declares war, no christian will be allowed to pass the barrier of his boundary," and as this is said to be a quarrel on religion, every christian head might fall "that is found where waves the little turkish flag of the crescent and the cross." i packed my trunk, paid my bill, and left damascus and its sights, and traveled towards the mediterranean. i looked at my old damascus blade, and thought of those sharp scymaters, like reap hooks, and as i could see one in my imagination, i felt all over, and spurred towards joppa. conclusion. i am now letting loose the thread of my knowledge; the broach is turning from me to pull away the end, and with it the satisfaction that though its a hard broach to tie to, i have spun _no yarn_. the reader that only believes what he can see, through a limited source of facts, is always losing time and money, to read another man's knowledge; but the one who is always seeking to add to the stock of knowledge which he already has, is sure to gain time and knowledge in the stride of life. on my way to joppa i passed through lebanon, took a glance at the old cedars, which i can pronounce nothing but spruce pine. i brought some of the burrows home to new orleans, and they received from my friends the appellation above. an old man close to the little group of cedars, offered me his virgin daughter for the sum of twenty-five dollars; he seemed to be in great want of money. i hurried to acre, and looked at its strong walls, and heard its foolish citizens talk of the impossibility of any nation being strong enough to take it. jaffa is the present name of joppa. it was formerly the sea port town of palestine; it has suffered much from being the gate city of syria. here, at jaffa, i took passage to marseilles, france, and arrived there just as the emperor of morocco, who had been visiting france, was departing, himself and retinue, for morocco, the capitol of his empire. i arrived back to paris before the last of july. on the second day of september, the franklin backed out from the wharf at havre, france, with a splendid trip of passengers for new york city. among these were charles w. march, private secretary of mr. webster, and geo. w. kendall, the traveling editor of the new orleans picayune. they seemed to me the happiest men aboard; they eat their good dinners, drank their good wines, and came on deck and inquired of me my opinion of thousands of little things that i thought hardly worth noticing. i am passing by england and wales for home, my journey must be considered done. youth is ever ready to be where it seems no advantage to him; and it is a long time before he can surfeit on curiosity, enough to say, "alack, and well-a-day!" the aged are rough and ready implements of the world, they are too tightly riveted to their designs to let loose when they are absolutely in danger; yes, old fogy goes on like a saw on a nail, determined to go through because he had the power, heedless of the consequences, and determined to make the nail suffer for attempting to impede his progress; he soon finds his sawing propensities broken, and much the worse for wear. but not so with youth. i feel in taking leave of this work, as if i was parting with an old and familiar friend that i could stay much longer with, but i am afraid to stay much longer lest i enhance its value as a friend. _a friend?_ yes, a friend! james says that men of talent are often seen with many books before them, extracting their contents and substances. were such men authors? no! but imitators; they wrote few impressions because few were made; they merely confirmed what others proved. like an anxious boy, in the ardor of anxiety to describe, i may fail, but i tell the thing as i saw it. should the reader think strange that i could find pleasure in these curious and strange places for a young man to be in, wherein they may occasionally find me, he must bear in mind that those are the only places and streams where flows the tide of curiosity from the mind of a youthful channel. there is no sameness about youth; like the clock when down, he must be wound up, or there can be shown no fine work in the machinery of a career of glory. henry kindled his own fire, washington paddled his own canoe, and for a bright manhood, youth must find his own crag on the mountain, rivet his eye of determined prosperity up the cliffy wiles of life, kick assunder impediments and obstacles, and climb on! when you hear _can't_, laugh at it; when they tell you _not in your time_, pity them; and when they tell you _surrounding circumstances alter cases_, in manliness scorn them as sleeping sluggards, unworthy of a social brotherhood. all are obliged to unite when a question of _might_ against _right_ comes up, as it is now before the world. dickens says, "no doubt that all the ingenuity of men gifted with genius for finding differences, has never been able to impugn the doctrine of the unity of man." he further says, "the european, ethiopean, mongolian, and american, are but different varieties of one species." he then quotes buffon, "man, white in europe, black in africa, yellow in asia, and red in america, is nothing but the same man differently dyed by climate." then away with your _can't_; when backed to the wall by the debator, you had better say _nothing_ than _can't_. you had better say, as i say while taking leave of you, _au revoir_. * * * * * transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. obvious printer's errors corrected. every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings, inconsistent hyphenation, unclear grammatical usage, and other inconsistencies. transcribed from the j. w. arrowsmith ltd. edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org. proofed by andrew wallace, email andy@linxit.demon.co.uk. diary of a pilgrimage by jerome k. jerome author of "the idle thoughts of an idle fellow," "stageland" "three men in a boat," etc. illustrations by g. g. fraser bristol j. w. arrowsmith ltd., quay street london simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co. limited _first edition_, _april_, . _reprinted_, _june_, . _reprinted_, _december_, . _reprinted_, _february_, . _reprinted_, _february_, . _reprinted_, _september_, . _reprinted_, _december_, . _reprinted_, _january_, . _reprinted_, _september_, . _reprinted_, _october_, . _reprinted_, _october_, . _reprinted_, _january_, . _reprinted_, _october_, . _reprinted_, _march_, . _reprinted_, _february_, . _reprinted_, _february_, . _reprinted_, _november_, . _reprinted_, _february_, . _reprinted_, _december_, . _second edition_, _december_, . preface said a friend of mine to me some months ago: "well now, why don't you write a _sensible_ book? i should like to see you make people think." "do you believe it can be done, then?" i asked. "well, try," he replied. accordingly, i have tried. this is a sensible book. i want you to understand that. this is a book to improve your mind. in this book i tell you all about germany--at all events, all i know about germany--and the ober-ammergau passion play. i also tell you about other things. i do not tell you all i know about all these other things, because i do not want to swamp you with knowledge. i wish to lead you gradually. when you have learnt this book, you can come again, and i will tell you some more. i should only be defeating my own object did i, by making you think too much at first, give you a perhaps, lasting dislike to the exercise. i have purposely put the matter in a light and attractive form, so that i may secure the attention of the young and the frivolous. i do not want them to notice, as they go on, that they are being instructed; and i have, therefore, endeavoured to disguise from them, so far as is practicable, that this is either an exceptionally clever or an exceptionally useful work. i want to do them good without their knowing it. i want to do you all good--to improve your minds and to make you think, if i can. _what_ you will think after you have read the book, i do not want to know; indeed, i would rather not know. it will be sufficient reward for me to feel that i have done my duty, and to receive a percentage on the gross sales. london, _march_, . monday, th my friend b.--invitation to the theatre.--a most unpleasant regulation.--yearnings of the embryo traveller.--how to make the most of one's own country.--friday, a lucky day.--the pilgrimage decided on. my friend b. called on me this morning and asked me if i would go to a theatre with him on monday next. "oh, yes! certainly, old man," i replied. "have you got an order, then?" he said: "no; they don't give orders. we shall have to pay." "pay! pay to go into a theatre!" i answered, in astonishment. "oh, nonsense! you are joking." "my dear fellow," he rejoined, "do you think i should suggest paying if it were possible to get in by any other means? but the people who run this theatre would not even understand what was meant by a 'free list,' the uncivilised barbarians! it is of no use pretending to them that you are on the press, because they don't want the press; they don't think anything of the press. it is no good writing to the acting manager, because there is no acting manager. it would be a waste of time offering to exhibit bills, because they don't have any bills--not of that sort. if you want to go in to see the show, you've got to pay. if you don't pay, you stop outside; that's their brutal rule." "dear me," i said, "what a very unpleasant arrangement! and whereabouts is this extraordinary theatre? i don't think i can ever have been inside it." "i don't think you have," he replied; "it is at ober-ammergau--first turning on the left after you leave ober railway-station, fifty miles from munich." "um! rather out of the way for a theatre," i said. "i should not have thought an outlying house like that could have afforded to give itself airs." "the house holds seven thousand people," answered my friend b., "and money is turned away at each performance. the first production is on monday next. will you come?" i pondered for a moment, looked at my diary, and saw that aunt emma was coming to spend saturday to wednesday next with us, calculated that if i went i should miss her, and might not see her again for years, and decided that i would go. to tell the truth, it was the journey more than the play that tempted me. to be a great traveller has always been one of my cherished ambitions. i yearn to be able to write in this sort of strain:-- "i have smoked my fragrant havana in the sunny streets of old madrid, and i have puffed the rude and not sweet-smelling calumet of peace in the draughty wigwam of the wild west; i have sipped my evening coffee in the silent tent, while the tethered camel browsed without upon the desert grass, and i have quaffed the fiery brandy of the north while the reindeer munched his fodder beside me in the hut, and the pale light of the midnight sun threw the shadows of the pines across the snow; i have felt the stab of lustrous eyes that, ghostlike, looked at me from out veil-covered faces in byzantium's narrow ways, and i have laughed back (though it was wrong of me to do so) at the saucy, wanton glances of the black-eyed girls of jedo; i have wandered where 'good'--but not too good--haroun alraschid crept disguised at nightfall, with his faithful mesrour by his side; i have stood upon the bridge where dante watched the sainted beatrice pass by; i have floated on the waters that once bore the barge of cleopatra; i have stood where caesar fell; i have heard the soft rustle of rich, rare robes in the drawing-rooms of mayfair, and i have heard the teeth-necklaces rattle around the ebony throats of the belles of tongataboo; i have panted beneath the sun's fierce rays in india, and frozen under the icy blasts of greenland; i have mingled with the teeming hordes of old cathay, and, deep in the great pine forests of the western world, i have lain, wrapped in my blanket, a thousand miles beyond the shores of human life." b., to whom i explained my leaning towards this style of diction, said that exactly the same effect could be produced by writing about places quite handy. he said:-- "i could go on like that without having been outside england at all. i should say: "i have smoked my fourpenny shag in the sanded bars of fleet street, and i have puffed my twopenny manilla in the gilded balls of the criterion; i have quaffed my foaming beer of burton where islington's famed angel gathers the little thirsty ones beneath her shadowing wings, and i have sipped my tenpenny _ordinaire_ in many a garlic-scented salon of soho. on the back of the strangely-moving ass i have urged--or, to speak more correctly, the proprietor of the ass, or his agent, from behind has urged--my wild career across the sandy heaths of hampstead, and my canoe has startled the screaming wild-fowl from their lonely haunts amid the sub-tropical regions of battersea. adown the long, steep slope of one tree hill have i rolled from top to foot, while laughing maidens of the east stood round and clapped their hands and yelled; and, in the old-world garden of that pleasant court, where played the fair-haired children of the ill-starred stuarts, have i wandered long through many paths, my arm entwined about the waist of one of eve's sweet daughters, while her mother raged around indignantly on the other side of the hedge, and never seemed to get any nearer to us. i have chased the lodging-house norfolk howard to his watery death by the pale lamp's light; i have, shivering, followed the leaping flea o'er many a mile of pillow and sheet, by the great atlantic's margin. round and round, till the heart--and not only the heart--grows sick, and the mad brain whirls and reels, have i ridden the small, but extremely hard, horse, that may, for a penny, be mounted amid the plains of peckham rye; and high above the heads of the giddy throngs of barnet (though it is doubtful if anyone among them was half so giddy as was i) have i swung in highly-coloured car, worked by a man with a rope. i have trod in stately measure the floor of kensington's town hall (the tickets were a guinea each, and included refreshments--when you could get to them through the crowd), and on the green sward of the forest that borders eastern anglia by the oft-sung town of epping i have performed quaint ceremonies in a ring; i have mingled with the teeming hordes of drury lane on boxing night, and, during the run of a high-class piece, i have sat in lonely grandeur in the front row of the gallery, and wished that i had spent my shilling instead in the oriental halls of the alhambra." "there you are," said b., "that is just as good as yours; and you can write like that without going more than a few hours' journey from london." "we will discuss the matter no further," i replied. "you cannot, i see, enter into my feelings. the wild heart of the traveller does not throb within your breast; you cannot understand his longings. no matter! suffice it that i will come this journey with you. i will buy a german conversation book, and a check-suit, and a blue veil, and a white umbrella, and suchlike necessities of the english tourist in germany, this very afternoon. when do you start?" "well," he said, "it is a good two days' journey. i propose to start on friday." "is not friday rather an unlucky day to start on?" i suggested. "oh, good gracious!" he retorted quite sharply, "what rubbish next? as if the affairs of europe were going to be arranged by providence according to whether you and i start for an excursion on a thursday or a friday!" he said he was surprised that a man who could be so sensible, occasionally, as myself, could have patience to even think of such old-womanish nonsense. he said that years ago, when he was a silly boy, he used to pay attention to this foolish superstition himself, and would never upon any consideration start for a trip upon a friday. but, one year, he was compelled to do so. it was a case of either starting on a friday or not going at all, and he determined to chance it. he went, prepared for and expecting a series of accidents and misfortunes. to return home alive was the only bit of pleasure he hoped for from that trip. as it turned out, however, he had never had a more enjoyable holiday in his life before. the whole event was a tremendous success. and after that, he had made up his mind to _always_ start on a friday; and he always did, and always had a good time. he said that he would never, upon any consideration, start for a trip upon any other day but a friday now. it was so absurd, this superstition about friday. so we agreed to start on the friday, and i am to meet him at victoria station at a quarter to eight in the evening. thursday, nd the question of luggage.--first friend's suggestion.--second friend's suggestion.--third friend's suggestion.--mrs. briggs' advice.--our vicar's advice.--his wife's advice.--medical advice.--literary advice.--george's recommendation.--my sister-in-law's help.--young smith's counsel.--my own ideas.--b.'s idea. i have been a good deal worried to-day about the question of what luggage to take with me. i met a man this morning, and he said: "oh, if you are going to ober-ammergau, mind you take plenty of warm clothing with you. you'll need all your winter things up there." he said that a friend of his had gone up there some years ago, and had not taken enough warm things with him, and had caught a chill there, and had come home and died. he said: "you be guided by me, and take plenty of warm things with you." i met another man later on, and he said: "i hear you are going abroad. now, tell me, what part of europe are you going to?" i replied that i thought it was somewhere about the middle. he said: "well, now, you take my advice, and get a calico suit and a sunshade. never mind the look of the thing. you be comfortable. you've no idea of the heat on the continent at this time of the year. english people will persist in travelling about the continent in the same stuffy clothes that they wear at home. that's how so many of them get sunstrokes, and are ruined for life." i went into the club, and there i met a friend of mine--a newspaper correspondent--who has travelled a good deal, and knows europe pretty well. i told him what my two other friends had said, and asked him which i was to believe. he said: "well, as a matter of fact, they are both right. you see, up in those hilly districts, the weather changes very quickly. in the morning it may be blazing hot, and you will be melting, and in the evening you may be very glad of a flannel shirt and a fur coat." "why, that is exactly the sort of weather we have in england!" i exclaimed. "if that's all these foreigners can manage in their own country, what right have they to come over here, as they do, and grumble about our weather?" "well, as a matter of fact," he replied, "they haven't any right; but you can't stop them--they will do it. no, you take my advice, and be prepared for everything. take a cool suit and some thin things, for if it's hot, and plenty of warm things in case it is cold." when i got home i found mrs. briggs there, she having looked in to see how the baby was. she said:-- "oh! if you're going anywhere near germany, you take a bit of soap with you." she said that mr. briggs had been called over to germany once in a hurry, on business, and had forgotten to take a piece of soap with him, and didn't know enough german to ask for any when he got over there, and didn't see any to ask for even if he had known, and was away for three weeks, and wasn't able to wash himself all the time, and came home so dirty that they didn't know him, and mistook him for the man that was to come to see what was the matter with the kitchen boiler. mrs. briggs also advised me to take some towels with me, as they give you such small towels to wipe on. i went out after lunch, and met our vicar. he said: "take a blanket with you." he said that not only did the german hotel-keepers never give you sufficient bedclothes to keep you warm of a night, but they never properly aired their sheets. he said that a young friend of his had gone for a tour through germany once, and had slept in a damp bed, and had caught rheumatic fever, and had come home and died. his wife joined us at this point. (he was waiting for her outside a draper's shop when i met him.) he explained to her that i was going to germany, and she said: "oh! take a pillow with you. they don't give you any pillows--not like our pillows--and it's _so_ wretched, you'll never get a decent night's rest if you don't take a pillow." she said: "you can have a little bag made for it, and it doesn't look anything." i met our doctor a few yards further on. he said: "don't forget to take a bottle of brandy with you. it doesn't take up much room, and, if you're not used to german cooking, you'll find it handy in the night." he added that the brandy you get at foreign hotels was mere poison, and that it was really unsafe to travel abroad without a bottle of brandy. he said that a simple thing like a bottle of brandy in your bag might often save your life. coming home, i ran against a literary friend of mine. he said: "you'll have a goodish time in the train old fellow. are you used to long railway journeys?" i said: "well, i've travelled down from london into the very heart of surrey by a south eastern express." "oh! that's a mere nothing, compared with what you've got before you now," he answered. "look here, i'll tell you a very good idea of how to pass the time. you take a chessboard with you and a set of men. you'll thank me for telling you that!" george dropped in during the evening. he said: "i'll tell you one thing you'll have to take with you, old man, and that's a box of cigars and some tobacco." he said that the german cigar--the better class of german cigar--was of the brand that is technically known over here as the "penny pickwick--spring crop;" and he thought that i should not have time, during the short stay i contemplated making in the country, to acquire a taste for its flavour. my sister-in-law came in later on in the evening (she is a thoughtful girl), and brought a box with her about the size of a tea-chest. she said: "now, you slip that in your bag; you'll be glad of that. there's everything there for making yourself a cup of tea." she said that they did not understand tea in germany, but that with that i should be independent of them. she opened the case, and explained its contents to me. it certainly was a wonderfully complete arrangement. it contained a little caddy full of tea, a little bottle of milk, a box of sugar, a bottle of methylated spirit, a box of butter, and a tin of biscuits: also, a stove, a kettle, a teapot, two cups, two saucers, two plates, two knives, and two spoons. if there had only been a bed in it, one need not have bothered about hotels at all. young smith, the secretary of our photographic club, called at nine to ask me to take him a negative of the statue of the dying gladiator in the munich sculpture gallery. i told him that i should be delighted to oblige him, but that i did not intend to take my camera with me. "not take your camera!" he said. "you are going to germany--to rhineland! you are going to pass through some of the most picturesque scenery, and stay at some of the most ancient and famous towns of europe, and are going to leave your photographic apparatus behind you, and you call yourself an artist!" he said i should never regret a thing more in my life than going without that camera. i think it is always right to take other people's advice in matters where they know more than you do. it is the experience of those who have gone before that makes the way smooth for those who follow. so, after supper, i got together the things i had been advised to take with me, and arranged them on the bed, adding a few articles i had thought of all by myself. i put up plenty of writing paper and a bottle of ink, along with a dictionary and a few other books of reference, in case i should feel inclined to do any work while i was away. i always like to be prepared for work; one never knows when one may feel inclined for it. sometimes, when i have been away, and have forgotten to bring any paper and pens and ink with me, i have felt so inclined for writing; and it has quite upset me that, in consequence of not having brought any paper and pens and ink with me, i have been unable to sit down and do a lot of work, but have been compelled, instead, to lounge about all day with my hands in my pockets. accordingly, i always take plenty of paper and pens and ink with me now, wherever i go, so that when the desire for work comes to me i need not check it. that this craving for work should have troubled me so often, when i had no paper, pens, and ink by me, and that it never, by any chance, visits me now, when i am careful to be in a position to gratify it, is a matter over which i have often puzzled. but when it does come i shall be ready for it. i also put on the bed a few volumes of goethe, because i thought it would be so pleasant to read him in his own country. and i decided to take a sponge, together with a small portable bath, because a cold bath is so refreshing the first thing in the morning. b. came in just as i had got everything into a pile. he stared at the bed, and asked me what i was doing. i told him i was packing. "great heavens!" he exclaimed. "i thought you were moving! what do you think we are going to do--camp out?" "no!" i replied. "but these are the things i have been advised to take with me. what is the use of people giving you advice if you don't take it?" he said: "oh! take as much advice as you like; that always comes in useful to give away. but, for goodness sake, don't get carrying all that stuff about with you. people will take us for gipsies." i said: "now, it's no use your talking nonsense. half the things on this bed are life-preserving things. if people go into germany without these things, they come home and die." and i related to him what the doctor and the vicar and the other people had told me, and explained to him how my life depended upon my taking brandy and blankets and sunshades and plenty of warm clothing with me. he is a man utterly indifferent to danger and risk--incurred by other people--is b. he said: "oh, rubbish! you're not the sort that catches a cold and dies young. you leave that co-operative stores of yours at home, and pack up a tooth-brush, a comb, a pair of socks, and a shirt. that's all you'll want." * * * * * i have packed more than that, but not much. at all events, i have got everything into one small bag. i should like to have taken that tea arrangement--it would have done so nicely to play at shop with in the train!--but b. would not hear of it. i hope the weather does not change. friday, rd early rising.--ballast should be stowed away in the hold before putting to sea.--annoying interference of providence in matters that it does not understand.--a socialistic society.--b. misjudges me.--an uninteresting anecdote.--we lay in ballast.--a moderate sailor.--a playful boat. i got up very early this morning. i do not know why i got up early. we do not start till eight o'clock this evening. but i don't regret it--the getting up early i mean. it is a change. i got everybody else up too, and we all had breakfast at seven. i made a very good lunch. one of those seafaring men said to me once: "now, if ever you are going a short passage, and are at all nervous, you lay in a good load. it's a good load in the hold what steadies the ship. it's them half-empty cruisers as goes a-rollin' and a-pitchin' and a-heavin' all over the place, with their stern up'ards half the time. you lay in ballast." it seemed very reasonable advice. aunt emma came in the afternoon. she said she was so glad she had caught me. something told her to change her mind and come on friday instead of saturday. it was providence, she said. i wish providence would mind its own business, and not interfere in my affairs: it does not understand them. she says she shall stop till i come back, as she wants to see me again before she goes. i told her i might not be back for a month. she said it didn't matter; she had plenty of time, and would wait for me. the family entreat me to hurry home. i ate a very fair dinner--"laid in a good stock of ballast," as my seafaring friend would have said; wished "good-bye!" to everybody, and kissed aunt emma; promised to take care of myself--a promise which, please heaven, i will faithfully keep, cost me what it may--hailed a cab and started. i reached victoria some time before b. i secured two corner seats in a smoking-carriage, and then paced up and down the platform waiting for him. when men have nothing else to occupy their minds, they take to thinking. having nothing better to do until b. arrived, i fell to musing. what a wonderful piece of socialism modern civilisation has become!--not the socialism of the so-called socialists--a system modelled apparently upon the methods of the convict prison--a system under which each miserable sinner is to be compelled to labour, like a beast of burden, for no personal benefit to himself, but only for the good of the community--a world where there are to be no men, but only numbers--where there is to be no ambition and no hope and no fear,--but the socialism of free men, working side by side in the common workshop, each one for the wage to which his skill and energy entitle him; the socialism of responsible, thinking individuals, not of state-directed automata. here was i, in exchange for the result of some of my labour, going to be taken by society for a treat, to the middle of europe and back. railway lines had been laid over the whole or miles to facilitate my progress; bridges had been built, and tunnels made; an army of engineers, and guards, and signal-men, and porters, and clerks were waiting to take charge of me, and to see to my comfort and safety. all i had to do was to tell society (here represented by a railway booking-clerk) where i wanted to go, and to step into a carriage; all the rest would be done for me. books and papers had been written and printed; so that if i wished to beguile the journey by reading, i could do so. at various places on the route, thoughtful society had taken care to be ready for me with all kinds of refreshment (her sandwiches might be a little fresher, but maybe she thinks new bread injurious for me). when i am tired of travelling and want to rest, i find society waiting for me with dinner and a comfortable bed, with hot and cold water to wash in and towels to wipe upon. wherever i go, whatever i need, society, like the enslaved genii of some eastern tale, is ready and anxious to help me, to serve me, to do my bidding, to give me enjoyment and pleasure. society will take me to ober-ammergau, will provide for all my wants on the way, and, when i am there, will show me the passion play, which she has arranged and rehearsed and will play for my instruction; will bring me back any way i like to come, explaining, by means of her guide-books and histories, everything upon the way that she thinks can interest me; will, while i am absent, carry my messages to those i have left behind me in england, and will bring me theirs in return; will look after me and take care of me and protect me like a mother--as no mother ever could. all that she asks in return is, that i shall do the work she has given me to do. as a man works, so society deals by him. to me society says: "you sit at your desk and write, that is all i want you to do. you are not good for much, but you can spin out yards of what you and your friends, i suppose, call literature; and some people seem to enjoy reading it. very well: you sit there and write this literature, or whatever it is, and keep your mind fixed on that. i will see to everything else for you. i will provide you with writing materials, and books of wit and humour, and paste and scissors, and everything else that may be necessary to you in your trade; and i will feed you and clothe you and lodge you, and i will take you about to places that you wish to go to; and i will see that you have plenty of tobacco and all other things practicable that you may desire--provided that you work well. the more work you do, and the better work you do, the better i shall look after you. you write--that is all i want you to do." "but," i say to society, "i don't like work; i don't want to work. why should i be a slave and work?" "all right," answers society, "don't work. i'm not forcing you. all i say is, that if you don't work for me, i shall not work for you. no work from you, no dinner from me--no holidays, no tobacco." and i decide to be a slave, and work. society has no notion of paying all men equally. her great object is to encourage brain. the man who merely works by his muscles she regards as very little superior to the horse or the ox, and provides for him just a little better. but the moment he begins to use his head, and from the labourer rises to the artisan, she begins to raise his wages. of course hers is a very imperfect method of encouraging thought. she is of the world, and takes a worldly standard of cleverness. to the shallow, showy writer, i fear, she generally pays far more than to the deep and brilliant thinker; and clever roguery seems often more to her liking than honest worth. but her scheme is a right and sound one; her aims and intentions are clear; her methods, on the whole, work fairly well; and every year she grows in judgment. one day she will arrive at perfect wisdom, and will pay each man according to his deserts. but do not be alarmed. this will not happen in our time. turning round, while still musing about society, i ran against b. (literally). he thought i was a clumsy ass at first, and said so; but, on recognising me, apologised for his mistake. he had been there for some time also, waiting for me. i told him that i had secured two corner seats in a smoking-carriage, and he replied that he had done so too. by a curious coincidence, we had both fixed upon the same carriage. i had taken the corner seats near the platform, and he had booked the two opposite corners. four other passengers sat huddled up in the middle. we kept the seats near the door, and gave the other two away. one should always practise generosity. there was a very talkative man in our carriage. i never came across a man with such a fund of utterly uninteresting anecdotes. he had a friend with him--at all events, the man was his friend when they started--and he talked to this friend incessantly, from the moment the train left victoria until it arrived at dover. first of all he told him a long story about a dog. there was no point in the story whatever. it was simply a bald narrative of the dog's daily doings. the dog got up in the morning and barked at the door, and when they came down and opened the door there he was, and he stopped all day in the garden; and when his wife (not the dog's wife, the wife of the man who was telling the story) went out in the afternoon, he was asleep on the grass, and they brought him into the house, and he played with the children, and in the evening he slept in the coal-shed, and next morning there he was again. and so on, for about forty minutes. a very dear chum or near relative of the dog's might doubtless have found the account enthralling; but what possible interest a stranger--a man who evidently didn't even know the dog--could be expected to take in the report, it was difficult to conceive. the friend at first tried to feel excited, and murmured: "wonderful!" "very strange, indeed!" "how curious!" and helped the tale along by such ejaculations as, "no, did he though?" "and what did you do then?" or, "was that on the monday or the tuesday, then?" but as the story progressed, he appeared to take a positive dislike to the dog, and only yawned each time that it was mentioned. indeed, towards the end, i think, though i trust i am mistaken, i heard him mutter, "oh, damn the dog!" after the dog story, we thought we were going to have a little quiet. but we were mistaken; for, with the same breath with which he finished the dog rigmarole, our talkative companion added: "but i can tell you a funnier thing than that--" we all felt we could believe that assertion. if he had boasted that he could tell a duller, more uninteresting story, we should have doubted him; but the possibility of his being able to relate something funnier, we could readily grasp. but it was not a bit funnier, after all. it was only longer and more involved. it was the history of a man who grew his own celery; and then, later on, it turned out that his wife was the niece, by the mother's side, of a man who had made an ottoman out of an old packing-case. the friend glanced round the carriage apologetically about the middle of this story, with an expression that said: "i'm awfully sorry, gentlemen; but it really is not my fault. you see the position i'm in. don't blame me. don't make it worse for me to bear than it is." and we each replied with pitying, sympathetic looks that implied: "that's all right, my dear sir; don't you fret about that. we see how it is. we only wish we could do something to help you." the poor fellow seemed happier and more resigned after that. b. and i hurried on board at dover, and were just in time to secure the last two berths in the boat; and we were glad that we had managed to do this because our idea was that we should, after a good supper, turn in and go comfortably to sleep. b. said: "what i like to do, during a sea passage, is to go to sleep, and then wake up and find that i am there." we made a very creditable supper. i explained to b. the ballast principle held by my seafaring friend, and he agreed with me that the idea seemed reasonable; and, as there was a fixed price for supper, and you had as much as you liked, we determined to give the plan a fair trial. b. left me after supper somewhat abruptly, as it appeared to me, and i took a stroll on deck by myself. i did not feel very comfortable. i am what i call a moderate sailor. i do not go to excess in either direction. on ordinary occasions, i can swagger about and smoke my pipe, and lie about my channel experiences with the best of them. but when there is what the captain calls "a bit of a sea on," i feel sad, and try to get away from the smell of the engines and the proximity of people who smoke green cigars. there was a man smoking a peculiarly mellow and unctuous cigar on deck when i got there. i don't believe he smoked it because he enjoyed it. he did not look as if he enjoyed it. i believe he smoked it merely to show how well he was feeling, and to irritate people who were not feeling very well. there is something very blatantly offensive about the man who feels well on board a boat. i am very objectionable myself, i know, when i am feeling all right. it is not enough for me that i am not ill. i want everybody to see that i am not ill. it seems to me that i am wasting myself if i don't let every human being in the vessel know that i am not ill. i cannot sit still and be thankful, like you'd imagine a sensible man would. i walk about the ship--smoking, of course--and look at people who are not well with mild but pitying surprise, as if i wondered what it was like and how they did it. it is very foolish of me, i know, but i cannot help it. i suppose it is the human nature that exists in even the best of us that makes us act like this. i could not get away from this man's cigar; or when i did, i came within range of the perfume from the engine-room, and felt i wanted to go back to the cigar. there seemed to be no neutral ground between the two. if it had not been that i had paid for saloon, i should have gone fore. it was much fresher there, and i should have been much happier there altogether. but i was not going to pay for first-class and then ride third--that was not business. no, i would stick to the swagger part of the ship, and feel aristocratic and sick. a mate, or a boatswain, or an admiral, or one of those sort of people--i could not be sure, in the darkness, which it was--came up to me as i was leaning with my head against the paddle-box, and asked me what i thought of the ship. he said she was a new boat, and that this was her first voyage. i said i hoped she would get a bit steadier as she grew older. he replied: "yes, she is a bit skittish to-night." what it seemed to me was, that the ship would try to lie down and go to sleep on her right side; and then, before she had given that position a fair trial, would suddenly change her mind, and think she could do it better on her left. at the moment the man came up to me she was trying to stand on her head; and before he had finished speaking she had given up this attempt, in which, however, she had very nearly succeeded, and had, apparently, decided to now play at getting out of the water altogether. and this is what he called being a "bit skittish!" seafaring people talk like this, because they are silly, and do not know any better. it is no use being angry with them. i got a little sleep at last. not in the bunk i had been at such pains to secure: i would not have stopped down in that stuffy saloon, if anybody had offered me a hundred pounds for doing so. not that anybody did; nor that anybody seemed to want me there at all. i gathered this from the fact that the first thing that met my eye, after i had succeeded in clawing my way down, was a boot. the air was full of boots. there were sixty men sleeping there--or, as regards the majority, i should say _trying_ to sleep there--some in bunks, some on tables, and some under tables. one man _was_ asleep, and was snoring like a hippopotamus--like a hippopotamus that had caught a cold, and was hoarse; and the other fifty-nine were sitting up, throwing their boots at him. it was a snore, very difficult to locate. from which particular berth, in that dimly-lighted, evil-smelling place, it proceeded nobody was quite sure. at one moment, it appeared to come, wailing and sobbing, from the larboard, and the next instant it thundered forth, seemingly from the starboard. so every man who could reach a boot picked it up, and threw it promiscuously, silently praying to providence, as he did so, to guide it aright and bring it safe to its desired haven. i watched the weird scene for a minute or two, and then i hauled myself on deck again, and sat down--and went to sleep on a coil of rope; and was awakened, in the course of time, by a sailor who wanted that coil of rope to throw at the head of a man who was standing, doing no harm to anybody, on the quay at ostend. saturday, th arrival at ostend.--coffee and rolls.--difficulty of making french waiters understand german.--advantages of possessing a conscience that does not get up too early.--villainy triumphant.--virtue ordered outside.--a homely english row. when i say i was "awakened" at ostend, i do not speak the strict truth. i was not awakened--not properly. i was only half-awakened. i never did get fairly awake until the afternoon. during the journey from ostend to cologne i was three-parts asleep and one-part partially awake. at ostend, however, i was sufficiently aroused to grasp the idea that we had got somewhere, and that i must find my luggage and b., and do something or other; in addition to which, a strange, vague instinct, but one which i have never yet known deceive me, hovering about my mind, and telling me that i was in the neighbourhood of something to eat and drink, spurred me to vigour and action. i hurried down into the saloon and there found b. he excused himself for having left me alone all night--he need not have troubled himself. i had not pined for him in the least. if the only woman i had ever loved had been on board, i should have sat silent, and let any other fellow talk to her that wanted to, and that felt equal to it--by explaining that he had met a friend and that they had been talking. it appeared to have been a trying conversation. i also ran against the talkative man and his companion. such a complete wreck of a once strong man as the latter looked i have never before seen. mere sea-sickness, however severe, could never have accounted for the change in his appearance since, happy and hopeful, he entered the railway-carriage at victoria six short hours ago. his friend, on the other hand, appeared fresh and cheerful, and was relating an anecdote about a cow. we took our bags into the custom house and opened them, and i sat down on mine, and immediately went to sleep. when i awoke, somebody whom i mistook at first for a field-marshal, and from force of habit--i was once a volunteer--saluted, was standing over me, pointing melodramatically at my bag. i assured him in picturesque german that i had nothing to declare. he did not appear to comprehend me, which struck me as curious, and took the bag away from me, which left me nothing to sit upon but the floor. but i felt too sleepy to be indignant. after our luggage had been examined, we went into the buffet. my instinct had not misled me: there i found hot coffee, and rolls and butter. i ordered two coffees with milk, some bread, and some butter. i ordered them in the best german i knew. as nobody understood me, i went and got the things for myself. it saves a deal of argument, that method. people seem to know what you mean in a moment then. b. suggested that while we were in belgium, where everybody spoke french, while very few indeed knew german, i should stand a better chance of being understood if i talked less german and more french. he said: "it will be easier for you, and less of a strain upon the natives. you stick to french," he continued, "as long as ever you can. you will get along much better with french. you will come across people now and then--smart, intelligent people--who will partially understand your french, but no human being, except a thought-reader, will ever obtain any glimmering of what you mean from your german." "oh, are we in belgium," i replied sleepily; "i thought we were in germany. i didn't know." and then, in a burst of confidence, i added, feeling that further deceit was useless, "i don't know where i am, you know." "no, i thought you didn't," he replied. "that is exactly the idea you give anybody. i wish you'd wake up a bit." we waited about an hour at ostend, while our train was made up. there was only one carriage labelled for cologne, and four more passengers wanted to go there than the compartment would hold. not being aware of this, b. and i made no haste to secure places, and, in consequence, when, having finished our coffee, we leisurely strolled up and opened the carriage door we saw that every seat was already booked. a bag was in one space and a rug in another, an umbrella booked a third, and so on. nobody was there, but the seats were gone! it is the unwritten law among travellers that a man's luggage deposited upon a seat, shall secure that seat to him until he comes to sit upon it himself. this is a good law and a just law, and one that, in my normal state, i myself would die to uphold and maintain. but at three o'clock on a chilly morning one's moral sensibilities are not properly developed. the average man's conscience does not begin work till eight or nine o'clock--not till after breakfast, in fact. at three a.m. he will do things that at three in the afternoon his soul would revolt at. under ordinary circumstances i should as soon have thought of shifting a man's bag and appropriating his seat as an ancient hebrew squatter would have thought of removing his neighbour's landmark; but at this time in the morning my better nature was asleep. i have often read of a man's better nature being suddenly awakened. the business is generally accomplished by an organ-grinder or a little child (i would back the latter, at all events--give it a fair chance--to awaken anything in this world that was not stone deaf, or that had not been dead for more than twenty-four hours); and if an organ-grinder or a little child had been around ostend station that morning, things might have been different. b. and i might have been saved from crime. just as we were in the middle of our villainy, the organ-grinder or the child would have struck up, and we should have burst into tears, and have rushed from the carriage, and have fallen upon each other's necks outside on the platform, and have wept, and waited for the next train. as it was, after looking carefully round to see that nobody was watching us, we slipped quickly into the carriage, and, making room for ourselves among the luggage there, sat down and tried to look innocent and easy. b. said that the best thing we could do, when the other people came, would be to pretend to be dead asleep, and too stupid to understand anything. i replied that as far as i was concerned, i thought i could convey the desired impression without stooping to deceit at all, and prepared to make myself comfortable. a few seconds later another man got into the carriage. he also made room for himself among the luggage and sat down. "i am afraid that seat's taken, sir," said b. when he had recovered his surprise at the man's coolness. "in fact, all the seats in this carriage are taken." "i can't help that," replied the ruffian, cynically. "i've got to get to cologne some time to-day, and there seems no other way of doing it that i can see." "yes, but so has the gentleman whose seat you have taken got to get there," i remonstrated; "what about him? you are thinking only of yourself!" my sense of right and justice was beginning to assert itself, and i felt quite indignant with the fellow. two minutes ago, as i have explained, i could contemplate the taking of another man's seat with equanimity. now, such an act seemed to me shameful. the truth is that my better nature never sleeps for long. leave it alone and it wakens of its own accord. heaven help me! i am a sinful, worldly man, i know; but there is good at the bottom of me. it wants hauling up, but it's there. this man had aroused it. i now saw the sinfulness of taking another passenger's place in a railway-carriage. but i could not make the other man see it. i felt that some service was due from me to justice, in compensation of the wrong i had done her a few moments ago, and i argued most eloquently. my rhetoric was, however, quite thrown away. "oh! it's only a vice-consul," he said; "here's his name on the bag. there's plenty of room for him in with the guard." it was no use my defending the sacred cause of right before a man who held sentiments like that; so, having lodged a protest against his behaviour, and thus eased my conscience, i leant back and dozed the doze of the just. five minutes before the train started, the rightful owners of the carriage came up and crowded in. they seemed surprised at finding only five vacant seats available between seven of them, and commenced to quarrel vigorously among themselves. b. and i and the unjust man in the corner tried to calm them, but passion ran too high at first for the voice of reason to be heard. each combination of five, possible among them, accused each remaining two of endeavouring to obtain seats by fraud, and each one more than hinted that the other six were liars. what annoyed me was that they quarrelled in english. they all had languages of their own,--there were four belgians, two frenchmen, and a german,--but no language was good enough for them to insult each other in but english. finding that there seemed to be no chance of their ever agreeing among themselves, they appealed to us. we unhesitatingly decided in favour of the five thinnest, who, thereupon, evidently regarding the matter as finally settled, sat down, and told the other two to get out. these two stout ones, however--the german and one of the belgians--seemed inclined to dispute the award, and called up the station-master. the station-master did not wait to listen to what they had to say, but at once began abusing them for being in the carriage at all. he told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for forcing their way into a compartment that was already more than full, and inconveniencing the people already there. he also used english to explain this to them, and they got out on the platform and answered him back in english. english seems to be the popular language for quarrelling in, among foreigners. i suppose they find it more expressive. we all watched the group from the window. we were amused and interested. in the middle of the argument an early gendarme arrived on the scene. the gendarme naturally supported the station-master. one man in uniform always supports another man in uniform, no matter what the row is about, or who may be in the right--that does not trouble him. it is a fixed tenet of belief among uniform circles that a uniform can do no wrong. if burglars wore uniform, the police would be instructed to render them every assistance in their power, and to take into custody any householder attempting to interfere with them in the execution of their business. the gendarme assisted the station-master to abuse the two stout passengers, and he also abused them in english. it was not good english in any sense of the word. the man would probably have been able to give his feelings much greater variety and play in french or flemish, but that was not his object. his ambition, like every other foreigner's, was to become an accomplished english quarreller, and this was practice for him. a customs house clerk came out and joined in the babel. he took the part of the passengers, and abused the station-master and the gendarme, and _he_ abused _them_ in english. b. said he thought it very pleasant here, far from our native shores, in the land of the stranger, to come across a little homely english row like this. saturday, th--continued a man of family.--an eccentric train.--outrage on an englishman.--alone in europe.--difficulty of making german waiters understand scandinavian.--danger of knowing too many languages.--a wearisome journey.--cologne, ahoy! there was a very well-informed belgian in the carriage, and he told us something interesting about nearly every town through which we passed. i felt that if i could have kept awake, and have listened to that man, and remembered what he said, and not mixed things up, i should have learnt a good deal about the country between ostend and cologne. he had relations in nearly every town, had this man. i suppose there have been, and are, families as large and as extensive as his; but i never heard of any other family that made such a show. they seemed to have been planted out with great judgment, and were now all over the country. every time i awoke, i caught some such scattered remark as: "bruges--you can see the belfry from this side--plays a polka by haydn every hour. my aunt lives here." "ghent--hotel de ville, some say finest specimen of gothic architecture in europe--where my mother lives. you could see the house if that church wasn't there." "just passed alost--great hop centre. my grandfather used to live there; he's dead now." "there's the royal chateau--here, just on this side. my sister is married to a man who lives there--not in the palace, i don't mean, but in laeken." "that's the dome of the palais de justice--they call brussels 'paris in little'--i like it better than paris, myself--not so crowded. i live in brussels." "louvain--there's van de weyer's statue, the revolutionist. my wife's mother lives in louvain. she wants us to come and live there. she says we are too far away from her at brussels, but i don't think so." "leige--see the citadel? got some cousins at leige--only second ones. most of my first ones live at maestricht"; and so on all the way to cologne. i do not believe we passed a single town or village that did not possess one or more specimens of this man's relatives. our journey seemed, not so much like a tour through belgium and part of northern germany, as a visit to the neighbourhood where this man's family resided. i was careful to take a seat facing the engine at ostend. i prefer to travel that way. but when i awoke a little later on, i found myself going backwards. i naturally felt indignant. i said: "who's put me over here? i was over there, you know. you've no right to do that!" they assured me, however, that nobody had shifted me, but that the train had turned round at ghent. i was annoyed at this. it seemed to me a mean trick for a train to start off in one direction, and thus lure you into taking your seat (or somebody else's seat, as the case might be) under the impression that you were going to travel that way, and then, afterwards, turn round and go the other way. i felt very doubtful, in my own mind, as to whether the train knew where it was going at all. at brussels we got out and had some more coffee and rolls. i forget what language i talked at brussels, but nobody understood me. when i next awoke, after leaving brussels, i found myself going forwards again. the engine had apparently changed its mind for the second time, and was pulling the carriages the other way now. i began to get thoroughly alarmed. this train was simply doing what it liked. there was no reliance to be placed upon it whatever. the next thing it would do would be to go sideways. it seemed to me that i ought to get up and see into this matter; but, while pondering the business, i fell asleep again. i was very sleepy indeed when they routed us out at herbesthal, to examine our luggage for germany. i had a vague idea that we were travelling in turkey, and had been stopped by brigands. when they told me to open my bag, i said, "never!" and remarked that i was an englishman, and that they had better be careful. i also told them that they could dismiss any idea of ransom from their minds at once, unless they were prepared to take i.o.u.'s, as it was against the principles of our family to pay cash for anything--certainly not for relatives. they took no notice of my warning, and caught hold of my gladstone. i resisted feebly, but was over-powered, and went to sleep again. on awakening, i discovered myself in the buffet. i have no recollection of going there. my instinct must have guided me there during my sleep. i ordered my usual repast of coffee and rolls. (i must have been full of coffee and rolls by this time.) i had got the idea into my head now that i was in norway, and so i ordered them in broken scandinavian, a few words of which i had picked up during a trip through the fiords last summer. of course, the man did not understand; but i am accustomed to witnessing the confusion of foreigners when addressed in their native tongue, and so forgave him--especially as, the victuals being well within reach, language was a matter of secondary importance. i took two cups of coffee, as usual--one for b., and one for myself--and, bringing them to the table, looked round for b. i could not see him anywhere. what had become of him? i had not seen him, that i could recollect, for hours. i did not know where i was, or what i was doing. i had a hazy knowledge that b. and i had started off together--whether yesterday or six months ago, i could not have said to save my life--with the intention, if i was not mistaken, of going somewhere and seeing something. we were now somewhere abroad--somewhere in norway was my idea; though why i had fixed on norway is a mystery to me to this day--and i had lost him! how on earth were we ever to find each other again? a horrible picture presented itself to my mind of our both wandering distractedly up and down europe, perhaps for years, vainly seeking each other. the touching story of evangeline recurred to me with terrible vividness. something must be done, and that immediately. somehow or another i must find b. i roused myself, and summoned to my aid every word of scandinavian that i knew. it was no good these people pretending that they did not understand their own language, and putting me off that way. they had got to understand it this time. this was no mere question of coffee and rolls; this was a serious business. i would make that waiter understand my scandinavian, if i had to hammer it into his head with his own coffee-pot! i seized him by the arm, and, in scandinavian that must have been quite pathetic in its tragic fervour, i asked him if he had seen my friend--my friend b. the man only stared. i grew desperate. i shook him. i said: "my friend--big, great, tall, large--is he where? have you him to see where? here?" (i had to put it that way because scandinavian grammar is not a strong point with me, and my knowledge of the verbs is as yet limited to the present tense of the infinitive mood. besides, this was no time to worry about grace of style.) a crowd gathered round us, attracted by the man's terrified expression. i appealed to them generally. i said: "my friend b.--head, red--boots, yellow, brown, gold--coat, little squares--nose, much, large! is he where? him to see--anybody--where?" not a soul moved a hand to help me. there they stood and gaped! i repeated it all over again louder, in case anybody on the outskirts of the mob had not heard it; and i repeated it in an entirely new accent. i gave them every chance i could. they chatted excitedly among themselves, and, then a bright idea seemed to strike one of them, a little more intelligent-looking than the rest, and he rushed outside and began running up and down, calling out something very loudly, in which the word "norwegian" kept on occurring. he returned in a few seconds, evidently exceedingly pleased with himself, accompanied by a kindly-looking old gentleman in a white hat. way was made in the crowd, and the old gentleman pressed forward. when he got near, he smiled at me, and then proceeded to address to me a lengthy, but no doubt kindly meant, speech in scandinavian. of course, it was all utterly unintelligible to me from beginning to end, and my face clearly showed this. i can grasp a word or two of scandinavian here and there, if pronounced slowly and distinctly; but that is all. the old gentleman regarded me with great surprise. he said (in scandinavian, of course): "you speak norwegian?" i replied, in the same tongue: "a little, a very little--_very_." he seemed not only disappointed, but indignant. he explained the matter to the crowd, and they all seemed indignant. _why_ everybody should be indignant with me i could not comprehend. there are plenty of people who do not understand scandinavian. it was absurd to be vexed with me because _i_ did not. i do know a little, and that is more than some people do. i inquired of the old gentleman about b. he did understand me. i must give him credit for that. but beyond understanding me, he was of no more use than the others; and why they had taken so much trouble to fetch him, i could not imagine. what would have happened if the difficulty had continued much longer (for i was getting thoroughly wild with the lot of them) i cannot say. fortunately, at this moment i caught sight of b. himself, who had just entered the room. i could not have greeted him more heartily if i had wanted to borrow money of him. "well, i _am_ glad to see you again!" i cried. "well, this _is_ pleasant! i thought i had lost you!" "why, you are english!" cried out the old gentleman in the white hat, in very good saxon, on hearing me speak to b. "well, i know that," i replied, "and i'm proud of it. have you any objection to my being english?" "not in the least," he answered, "if you'd only talk english instead of norwegian. i'm english myself;" and he walked away, evidently much puzzled. b. said to me as we sat down: "i'll tell you what's the matter with you, j.--you know too many languages for this continent. your linguistic powers will be the ruin of us if you don't hold them in a bit. you don't know any sanscrit or chaldean, do you?" i replied that i did not. "any hebrew or chinese?" "not a word." "sure?" "not so much as a full stop in any of them." "that's a blessing," said b., much relieved. "you would be trying to palm off one or other of them on some simple-minded peasant for german, if you did!" it is a wearisome journey, through the long, hot hours of the morning, to cologne. the carriage is stifling. railway travellers, i have always noticed, regard fresh air as poison. they like to live on the refuse of each other's breath, and close up every window and ventilator tight. the sun pours down through glass and blind and scorches our limbs. our heads and our bodies ache. the dust and soot drift in and settle on our clothes, and grime our hands and face. we all doze and wake up with a start, and fall to sleep again upon each other. i wake, and find my neighbour with his head upon my shoulder. it seems a shame to cast him off; he looks so trustful. but he is heavy. i push him on to the man the other side. he is just as happy there. we roll about; and when the train jerks, we butt each other with our heads. things fall from the rack upon us. we look up surprised, and go to sleep again. my bag tumbles down upon the head of the unjust man in the corner. (is it retribution?) he starts up, begs my pardon, and sinks back into oblivion. i am too sleepy to pick up the bag. it lies there on the floor. the unjust man uses it for a footstool. we look out, through half-closed eyes, upon the parched, level, treeless land; upon the little patchwork farms of corn and beetroot, oats and fruit, growing undivided, side by side, each looking like a little garden dropped down into the plain; upon the little dull stone houses. a steeple appears far away upon the horizon. (the first thing that we ask of men is their faith: "what do you believe?" the first thing that they show us is their church: "_this_ we believe.") then a tall chimney ranges itself alongside. (first faith, then works.) then a confused jumble of roofs, out of which, at last, stand forth individual houses, factories, streets, and we draw up in a sleeping town. people open the carriage door, and look in upon us. they do not appear to think much of us, and close the door again quickly, with a bang, and we sleep once more. as we rumble on, the country slowly wakes. rude v-shaped carts, drawn by yoked oxen, and even sometimes by cows, wait patiently while we cross the long, straight roads stretching bare for many a mile across the plain. peasants trudge along the fields to work. smoke rises from the villages and farm-houses. passengers are waiting at the wayside stations. towards mid-day, on looking out, we see two tiny spires standing side by side against the sky. they seem to be twins, and grow taller as we approach. i describe them to b., and he says they are the steeples of cologne cathedral; and we all begin to yawn and stretch, and to collect our bags and coats and umbrellas. half of saturday th, and some of sunday, th difficulty of keeping this diary.--a big wash.--the german bed.--its goings on.--manners and customs of the german army.--b.'s besetting sin.--cologne cathedral.--thoughts without words.--a curious custom. this diary is getting mixed. the truth is, i am not living as a man who keeps a diary should live. i ought, of course, to sit down in front of this diary at eleven o'clock at night, and write down all that has occurred to me during the day. but at eleven o'clock at night, i am in the middle of a long railway journey, or have just got up, or am just going to bed for a couple of hours. we go to bed at odd moments, when we happen to come across a bed, and have a few minutes to spare. we have been to bed this afternoon, and are now having another breakfast; and i am not quite sure whether it is yesterday or to-morrow, or what day it is. i shall not attempt to write up this diary in the orthodox manner, therefore; but shall fix in a few lines whenever i have half-an-hour with nothing better to do. we washed ourselves in the rhine at cologne (we had not had a wash since we had left our happy home in england). we started with the idea of washing ourselves at the hotel; but on seeing the basin and water and towel provided, i decided not to waste my time playing with them. as well might hercules have attempted to tidy up the augean stables with a squirt. we appealed to the chambermaid. we explained to her that we wanted to wash--to clean ourselves--not to blow bubbles. could we not have bigger basins and more water and more extensive towels? the chambermaid (a staid old lady of about fifty) did not think that anything better could be done for us by the hotel fraternity of cologne, and seemed to think that the river was more what we wanted. i fancied that the old soul was speaking sarcastically, but b. said "no;" she was thinking of the baths alongside the river, and suggested that we should go there. i agreed. it seemed to me that the river--the rhine--would, if anything could, meet the case. there ought to be plenty of water in it now, after the heavy spring rains. when i saw it, i felt satisfied. i said to b.: "that's all right, old man; that's the sort of thing we need. that is just the sized river i feel i can get myself clean in this afternoon." i have heard a good deal in praise of the rhine, and i am glad to be able to speak well of it myself. i found it most refreshing. i was, however, sorry that we had washed in it afterwards. i have heard from friends who have travelled since in germany that we completely spoiled that river for the rest of the season. not for business purposes, i do not mean. the barge traffic has been, comparatively speaking, uninterfered with. but the tourist trade has suffered terribly. parties who usually go up the rhine by steamer have, after looking at the river, gone by train this year. the boat agents have tried to persuade them that the rhine is always that colour: that it gets like that owing to the dirt and refuse washed down into it during its course among the mountains. but the tourists have refused to accept this explanation. they have said: "no. mountains will account for a good deal, we admit, but not for all _that_. we are acquainted with the ordinary condition of the rhine, and although muddy, and at times unpleasant, it is passable. as it is this summer, however, we would prefer not to travel upon it. we will wait until after next year's spring-floods." we went to bed after our wash. to the _blase_ english bed-goer, accustomed all his life to the same old hackneyed style of bed night after night, there is something very pleasantly piquant about the experience of trying to sleep in a german bed. he does not know it is a bed at first. he thinks that someone has been going round the room, collecting all the sacks and cushions and antimacassars and such articles that he has happened to find about, and has piled them up on a wooden tray ready for moving. he rings for the chambermaid, and explains to her that she has shown him into the wrong room. he wanted a bedroom. she says: "this _is_ a bedroom." he says: "where's the bed?" "there!" she says, pointing to the box on which the sacks and antimacassars and cushions lie piled. "that!" he cries. "how am i going to sleep in that?" the chambermaid does not know how he is going to sleep there, never having seen a gentleman go to sleep anywhere, and not knowing how they set about it; but suggests that he might try lying down flat, and shutting his eyes. "but it is not long enough," he says. the chambermaid thinks he will be able to manage, if he tucks his legs up. he sees that he will not get anything better, and that he must put up with it. "oh, very well!" he says. "look sharp and get it made, then." she says: "it is made." he turns and regards the girl sternly. is she taking advantage of his being a lonely stranger, far from home and friends, to mock him? he goes over to what she calls the bed, and snatching off the top-most sack from the pile and holding it up, says: "perhaps you'll tell me what this is, then?" "that," says the girl, "that's the bed!" he is somewhat nonplussed at the unexpected reply. "oh!" he says. "oh! the bed, is it? i thought it was a pincushion! well, if it is the bed, then what is it doing out here, on the top of everything else? you think that because i'm only a man, i don't understand a bed!" "that's the proper place for it," responds the chambermaid. "what! on top?" "yes, sir." "well, then where are the clothes?" "underneath, sir." "look here, my good girl," he says; "you don't understand me, or i don't understand you, one or the other. when i go to sleep, i lie on a bed and pull the clothes over me. i don't want to lie on the clothes, and cover myself with the bed. this isn't a comic ballet, you know!" the girl assures him that there is no mistake about the matter at all. there is the bed, made according to german notions of how a bed should be made. he can make the best of it and try to go to sleep upon it, or he can be sulky and go to sleep on the floor. he is very much surprised. it looks to him the sort of bed that a man would make for himself on coming home late from a party. but it is no use arguing the matter with the girl. "all right," he says; "bring me a pillow, and i'll risk it!" the chambermaid explains that there are two pillows on the bed already, indicating, as she does so, two flat cushions, each one a yard square, placed one on top of the other at one end of the mixture. "these!" exclaims the weary traveller, beginning to feel that he does not want to go to bed at all. "these are not pillows! i want something to put my head on; not a thing that comes down to the middle of my back! don't tell me that i've got to sleep on these things!" but the girl does tell him so, and also implies that she has something else to do than to stand there all day talking bed-gossip with him. "well, just show me how to start," he says, "which way you get into it, and then i won't keep you any longer; i'll puzzle out the rest for myself." she explains the trick to him and leaves, and he undresses and crawls in. the pillows give him a good deal of worry. he does not know whether he is meant to sit on them or merely to lean up against them. in experimenting upon this point, he bumps his head against the top board of the bedstead. at this, he says, "oh!" and shoots himself down to the bottom of the bed. here all his ten toes simultaneously come into sharp contact with the board at the bottom. nothing irritates a man more than being rapped over the toes, especially if he feels that he has done nothing to deserve it. he says, "oh, damn!" this time, and spasmodically doubles up his legs, thus giving his knees a violent blow against the board at the side of the bed. (the german bedstead, be it remembered, is built in the form of a shallow, open box, and the victim is thus completely surrounded by solid pieces of wood with sharp edges. i do not know what species of wood it is that is employed. it is extremely hard, and gives forth a curious musical sound when struck sharply with a bone.) after this he lies perfectly still for a while, wondering where he is going to be hit next. finding that nothing happens, he begins to regain confidence, and ventures to gently feel around with his left leg and take stock of his position. for clothes, he has only a very thin blanket and sheet, and beneath these he feels decidedly chilly. the bed is warm enough, so far as it goes, but there is not enough of it. he draws it up round his chin, and then his feet begin to freeze. he pushes it down over his feet, and then all the top part of him shivers. he tries to roll up into a ball, so as to get the whole of himself underneath it, but does not succeed; there is always some of him left outside in the cold. he reflects that a "boneless wonder" or a "man serpent" would be comfortable enough in this bed, and wishes that he had been brought up as a contortionist. if he could only tie his legs round his neck, and tuck his head in under his arm, all would yet be well. never having been taught to do any really useful tricks such as these, however, he has to be content to remain spread out, warming a bit of himself at a time. it is, perhaps, foolish of him, amid so many real troubles, to allow a mere aesthetical consideration to worry him, but as he lies there on his back, looking down at himself, the sight that he presents to himself considerably annoys him. the puffed-up bed, resting on the middle of him, gives him the appearance of a man suffering from some monstrous swelling, or else of some exceptionally well-developed frog that has been turned up the wrong way and does not know how to get on to its legs again. another vexation that he has to contend with is, that every time he moves a limb or breathes extra hard, the bed (which is only of down) tumbles off on to the floor. you cannot lean out of a german bed to pick up anything off the floor, owing to its box-like formation; so he has to scramble out after it, and of course every time he does this he barks both his shins twice against the sides of the bed. when he has performed this feat for about the tenth time, he concludes that it was madness for him, a mere raw amateur at the business, to think that he could manage a complicated, tricky bed of this sort, that must take even an experienced man all he knows to sleep in it; and gets out and camps on the floor. at least, that is what i did. b. is accustomed to german beds, and doubled himself up and went off to sleep without the slightest difficulty. we slept for two hours, and then got up and went back to the railway-station, where we dined. the railway refreshment-room in german towns appears to be as much patronised by the inhabitants of the town as by the travellers passing through. it is regarded as an ordinary restaurant, and used as such by the citizens. we found the dining-room at cologne station crowded with cologneists. all classes of citizens were there, but especially soldiers. there were all sorts of soldiers--soldiers of rank, and soldiers of rank and file; attached soldiers (very much attached, apparently) and soldiers unattached; stout soldiers, thin soldiers; old soldiers, young soldiers. four very young soldiers sat opposite us, drinking beer. i never saw such young soldiers out by themselves before. they each looked about twelve years old, but may have been thirteen; and they each looked, also, ready and willing to storm a battery, if the order were given to them to do it. there they sat, raising and lowering their huge mugs of beer, discussing military matters, and rising every now and again to gravely salute some officer as he passed, and to receive as gravely his grave salute in return. there seemed to be a deal of saluting to be gone through. officers kept entering and passing through the room in an almost continual stream, and every time one came in sight all the military drinkers and eaters rose and saluted, and remained at the salute until the officer had passed. one young soldier, who was trying to eat a plate of soup near us, i felt quite sorry for. every time he got the spoon near his mouth an officer invariably hove in view, and down would have to go the spoon, soup and all, and up he would have to rise. it never seemed to occur to the silly fellow to get under the table and finish his dinner there. we had half-an-hour to spare between dinner and the starting of our train, and b. suggested that we should go into the cathedral. that is b.'s one weakness, churches. i have the greatest difficulty in getting him past a church-door. we are walking along a street, arm in arm, talking as rationally and even as virtuously as need be, when all at once i find that b. has become silent and abstracted. i know what it is; he has caught sight of a church. i pretend not to notice any change in him, and endeavour to hurry him on. he lags more and more behind, however, and at last stops altogether. "come, come," i say to him, encouragingly, "pull yourself together, and be a man. don't think about it. put it behind you, and determine that you _won't_ be conquered. come, we shall be round the corner in another minute, where you won't be able to see it. take my hand, and let's run!" he makes a few feeble steps forward with me, and then stops again. "it's no good, old man," he says, with a sickly smile, so full of pathos that it is impossible to find it in one's heart to feel anything but pity for him. "i can't help it. i have given way to this sort of thing too long. it is too late to reform now. you go on and get a drink somewhere; i'll join you again in a few minutes. don't worry about me; it's no good." and back he goes with tottering steps, while i sadly pass on into the nearest cafe, and, over a glass of absinthe or cognac, thank providence that i learnt to control my craving for churches in early youth, and so am not now like this poor b. in a little while he comes in, and sits down beside me. there is a wild, unhealthy excitement in his eye, and, under a defiant air of unnatural gaiety, he attempts to hide his consciousness of guilt. "it was a lovely altar-cloth," he whispers to me, with an enthusiasm that only makes one sorrow for him the more, so utterly impossible does it cause all hope of cure to seem. "and they've got a coffin in the north crypt that is simply a poem. i never enjoyed a sarcophagus more in all my life." i do not say much at the time; it would be useless. but after the day is done, and we are standing beside our little beds, and all around is as silent as one can expect it to be in an hotel where people seem to be arriving all night long with heavy luggage, and to be all, more or less, in trouble, i argue with him, and gently reprove him. to avoid the appearance of sermonising as much as possible, i put it on mere grounds of expediency. "how are we to find time," i say, "to go to all the places that we really ought to go to--to all the cafes and theatres and music-halls and beer-gardens and dancing-saloons that we want to visit--if you waste half the precious day loafing about churches and cathedrals?" he is deeply moved, and promises to swear off. he vows, with tears in his voice, that he will never enter a church-door again. but next morning, when the temptation comes, all his good resolutions are swept away, and again he yields. it is no good being angry with him, because he evidently does really try; but there is something about the mere odour of a church that he simply cannot withstand. not knowing, then, that this weakness of his for churches was so strong, i made no objection to the proposed visit to cologne cathedral, and, accordingly, towards it we wended our way. b. has seen it before, and knows all about it. he tells me it was begun about the middle of the thirteenth century, and was only completed ten years ago. it seems to me that there must have been gross delay on the part of the builder. why, a plumber would be ashamed to take as long as that over a job! b. also asserts that the two towers are the highest church towers in the world. i dispute this, and deprecate the towers generally. b. warmly defends them. he says they are higher than any building in europe, except the eiffel tower. "oh, dear no!" i say, "there are many buildings higher than they in europe--to say nothing of asia and america." i have no authority for making this assertion. as a matter of fact, i know nothing whatever about the matter. i merely say it to irritate b. he appears to take a sort of personal interest in the building, and enlarges upon its beauties and advantages with as much fervour as if he were an auctioneer trying to sell the place. he retorts that the towers are feet high. i say: "nonsense! somebody has imposed upon you, because they see you are a foreigner." he becomes quite angry at this, and says he can show me the figures in the guide-book. "the guide-book!" i reply, scornfully. "you'll believe a newspaper next!" b. asks me, indignantly, what height i should say they are, then. i examine them critically for a few minutes, and then give it as my opinion that they do not exceed feet at the very outside. b. seems annoyed with me, and we enter the church in silence. there is little to be said about a cathedral. except to the professional sightseer, one is very much like another. their beauty to me lies, not in the paintings and sculpture they give houseroom to, nor in the bones and bric-a-brac piled up in their cellars, but in themselves--their echoing vastness, their deep silence. above the little homes of men, above the noisy teeming streets, they rise like some soft strain of perfect music, cleaving its way amid the jangle of discordant notes. here, where the voices of the world sound faint; here, where the city's glamour comes not in, it is good to rest for a while--if only the pestering guides would leave one alone--and think. there is much help in silence. from its touch we gain renewed life. silence is to the soul what his mother earth was to briareus. from contact with it we rise healed of our hurts and strengthened for the fight. amid the babel of the schools we stand bewildered and affrighted. silence gives us peace and hope. silence teaches us no creed, only that god's arms are around the universe. how small and unimportant seem all our fretful troubles and ambitions when we stand with them in our hand before the great calm face of silence! we smile at them ourselves, and are ashamed. silence teaches us how little we are--how great we are. in the world's market-places we are tinkers, tailors, apothecaries, thieves--respectable or otherwise, as the case may be--mere atoms of a mighty machine--mere insects in a vast hive. it is only in silence that it comes home to us that we are something much greater than this--that we are _men_, with all the universe and all eternity before us. it is in silence we hear the voice of truth. the temples and the marts of men echo all night and day to the clamour of lies and shams and quackeries. but in silence falsehood cannot live. you cannot float a lie on silence. a lie has to be puffed aloft, and kept from falling by men's breath. leave a lie on the bosom of silence, and it sinks. a truth floats there fair and stately, like some stout ship upon a deep ocean. silence buoys her up lovingly for all men to see. not until she has grown worn-out and rotten, and is no longer a truth, will the waters of silence close over her. silence is the only real thing we can lay hold of in this world of passing dreams. time is a shadow that will vanish with the twilight of humanity; but silence is a part of the eternal. all things that are true and lasting have been taught to men's hearts by silence. among all nations, there should be vast temples raised where the people might worship silence and listen to it, for it is the voice of god. these fair churches and cathedrals that men have reared around them throughout the world, have been built as homes for mere creeds--this one for protestantism, that one for romanism, another for mahomedanism. but god's silence dwells in all alike, only driven forth at times by the tinkling of bells and the mumbling of prayers; and, in them, it is good to sit awhile and have communion with her. we strolled round, before we came out. just by the entrance to the choir an official stopped me, and asked me if i wanted to go and see a lot of fal-lal things he had got on show--relics and bones, and old masters, and such-like wardour-street rubbish. i told him, "no"; and attempted to pass on, but he said: "no, no! you don't pay, you don't go in there," and shut the gate. he said this sentence in english; and the precision and fluency with which he delivered it rather suggested the idea that it was a phrase much in request, and one that he had had a good deal of practice in. it is very prevalent throughout germany, this custom of not allowing you to go in to see a thing unless you pay. end of saturday, th, and beginning of sunday, th--continued the rhine!--how history is written.--complicated villages.--how a peaceful community was very much upset.--the german railway guard.--his passion for tickets.--we diffuse comfort and joy wherever we go, gladdening the weary, and bringing smiles to them that weep.--"tickets, please."--hunting experiences.--a natural mistake.--free acrobatic performance by the guard.--the railway authorities' little joke.--why we should think of the sorrows of others. we returned to the station just in time to secure comfortable seats, and at . steamed out upon our fifteen hours' run to munich. from bonn to mayence the line keeps by the side of the rhine nearly the whole of the way, and we had a splendid view of the river, with the old-world towns and villages that cluster round its bank, the misty mountains that make early twilight upon its swiftly rolling waves, the castled crags and precipices that rise up sheer and majestic from its margin, the wooded rocks that hang with threatening frown above its sombre depths, the ruined towers and turrets that cap each point along its shores, the pleasant isles that stud like gems its broad expanse of waters. few things in this world come up to expectation, especially those things of which one has been led to expect much, and about which one has heard a good deal. with this philosophy running in my head, i was prepared to find the rhine a much over-rated river. i was pleasantly disappointed. the panorama which unfolded itself before our eyes, as we sped along through the quiet twilight that was deepening into starry night, was wonderfully beautiful, entrancing and expressive. i do not intend to describe it to you. to do justice to the theme, i should have to be even a more brilliant and powerful writer than i am. to attempt the subject, without doing it justice, would be a waste of your time, sweet reader, and of mine--a still more important matter. i confess it was not my original intention to let you off so easily. i started with the idea of giving you a rapid but glowing and eloquent word-picture of the valley of the rhine from cologne to mayence. for background, i thought i would sketch in the historical and legendary events connected with the district, and against this, for a foreground, i would draw, in vivid colours, the modern aspect of the scene, with remarks and observations thereon. here are my rough notes, made for the purpose:-- mems. for chapter on rhine: "constantine the great used to come here--so did agrippa. (n.b.--try and find out something about agrippa.) caesar had a good deal to do with the rhine--also nero's mother." (to the reader.--the brevity of these memoranda renders their import, at times, confusing. for instance, this means that caesar and nero's mother both had a good deal to do with the rhine; not that caesar had a good deal to do with nero's mother. i explain this because i should be sorry to convey any false impression concerning either the lady or caesar. scandal is a thing abhorrent to my nature.) notes continued: "the ubii did something on the right bank of the rhine at an early period, and afterwards were found on the other side. (expect the ubii were a tribe; but make sure of this, as they might be something in the fossil line.) cologne was the cradle of german art. talk about art and the old masters. treat them in a kindly and gentle spirit. they are dead now. saint ursula was murdered at cologne, with eleven thousand virgin attendants. there must have been quite a party of them. draw powerful and pathetic imaginary picture of the slaughter. (n.b.--find out who murdered them all.) say something about the emperor maximilian. call him 'the mighty maximilian.' mention charlemagne (a good deal should be made out of charlemagne) and the franks. (find out all about the franks, and where they lived, and what has become of them.) sketch the various contests between the romans and the goths. (read up 'gibbon' for this, unless you can get enough out of _mangnall's questions_.) give picturesque account--with comments--of the battles between the citizens of cologne and their haughty archbishops. (n.b.--let them fight on a bridge over the rhine, unless it is distinctly stated somewhere that they didn't.) bring in the minne-singers, especially walter von vogelweid; make him sing under a castle-wall somewhere, and let the girl die. talk about albert durer. criticise his style. say it's flat. (if possible, find out if it _is_ flat.) "the rat tower on the rhine," near bingen. describe the place and tell the whole story. don't spin it out too long, because everybody knows it. "the brothers of bornhofen," story connected with the twin castles of sterrenberg and liebenstein, conrad and heinrich--brothers--both love hildegarde. she was very beautiful. heinrich generously refuses to marry the beautiful hildegarde, and goes away to the crusades, leaving her to his brother conrad. conrad considers over the matter for a year or two, and then _he_ decides that he won't marry her either, but will leave her for his brother heinrich, and _he_ goes off to the crusades, from whence he returns, a few years later on, with a grecian bride. the beautiful h., muddled up between the pair of them, and the victim of too much generosity, gets sulky (don't blame her), and shuts herself up in a lonely part of the castle, and won't see anybody for years. chivalrous heinrich returns, and is wild that his brother c. has not married the beautiful h. it does not occur to him to marry the girl even then. the feverish yearning displayed by each of these two brothers, that the other one should marry the beloved hildegarde, is very touching. heinrich draws his sword, and throws himself upon his brother c. to kill him. the beautiful hildegarde, however, throws herself between them and reconciliates them, and then, convinced that neither of them means business, and naturally disgusted with the whole affair, retires into a nunnery. conrad's grecian bride subsequently throws herself away on another man, upon which conrad throws himself on his brother h.'s breast, and they swear eternal friendship. (make it pathetic. pretend you have sat amid the ruins in the moonlight, and give the scene--with ghosts.) "rolandseck," near bonn. tell the story of roland and hildegunde (see _baedeker_, p. ). don't make it too long, because it is so much like the other. describe the funeral? the "watch tower on the rhine" below audernach. query, isn't there a song about this? if so, put it in. coblentz and ehrenbreitstein. great fortresses. call them "the frowning sentinels of the state." make reflections on the german army, also on war generally. chat about frederick the great. (read carlyle's history of him, and pick out the interesting bits.) the drachenfels. quote byron. moralise about ruined castles generally, and describe the middle ages, with your views and opinions on same." there is much more of it, but that is sufficient to let you see the scheme i had in my head. i have not carried out my scheme, because, when i came to reflect upon the matter, it seemed to me that the idea would develop into something that would be more in the nature of a history of europe than a chapter in a tourist's diary, and i determined not to waste my time upon it, until there arose a greater public demand for a new history of europe than there appears to exist at present. "besides," i argued to myself, "such a work would be just the very thing with which to beguile the tedium of a long imprisonment. at some future time i may be glad of a labour of this magnitude to occupy a period of involuntary inaction." "this is the sort of thing," i said to myself, "to save up for holloway or pentonville." it would have been a very enjoyable ride altogether, that evening's spin along the banks of the rhine, if i had not been haunted at the time by the idea that i should have to write an account of it next day in my diary. as it was, i enjoyed it as a man enjoys a dinner when he has got to make a speech after it, or as a critic enjoys a play. we passed such odd little villages every here and there. little places so crowded up between the railway and the river that there was no room in them for any streets. all the houses were jumbled up together just anyhow, and how any man who lived in the middle could get home without climbing over half the other houses in the place i could not make out. they were the sort of villages where a man's mother-in-law, coming to pay him a visit, might wander around all day, hearing him, and even now and then seeing him, yet never being able to get at him in consequence of not knowing the way in. a drunken man, living in one of these villages, could never hope to get home. he would have to sit down outside, and wait till his head was clear. we witnessed the opening scenes of a very amusing little comedy at one of the towns where the train drew up. the chief characters were played by an active young goat, a small boy, an elderly man and a woman, parents of the small boy and owners of the goat, and a dog. first we heard a yell, and then, from out a cottage opposite the station, bounded an innocent and happy goat, and gambolled around. a long rope, one end of which was fastened to his neck, trailed behind him. after the goat (in the double sense of the phrase) came a child. the child tried to catch the goat by means of the rope, caught itself in the rope instead, and went down with a bump and a screech. whereupon a stout woman, the boy's mother apparently, ran out from the cottage, and also made for the goat. the goat flew down the road, and the woman flew after it. at the first corner, the woman trod on the rope, and then _she_ went down with a bump and a screech. then the goat turned and ran up the street, and, as it passed the cottage, the father ran out and tried to stop it. he was an old man, but still seemed to have plenty of vigour in him. he evidently guessed how his wife and child had gone down, and he endeavoured to avoid the rope and to skip over it when it came near him. but the goat's movements were too erratic for him. his turn came, and he trod on the rope, and went down in the middle of the road, opposite his own door, with a thud that shook us all up against each other as we stood looking out of the carriage-window, and sat there and cursed the goat. then out ran a dog, barking furiously, and he went for the goat, and got the end of the rope in his teeth and held on to it like grim death. away went the goat, at his end of the rope, and, with him, the dog at the other end. between them, they kept the rope about six inches above the ground, and with it they remorselessly mowed down every living thing they came across in that once peaceful village. in the course of less than half a minute we counted fourteen persons sitting down in the middle of the road. eight of them were cursing the goat, four were cursing the dog, and two of them were cursing the old man for keeping the goat, one of these two, and the more violent one, being the man's own wife. the train left at this juncture. we entreated the railway officials to let us stop and see the show out. the play was becoming quite interesting. it was so full of movement. but they said that we were half-an-hour late as it was, and that they dared not. we leaned out of the window, and watched for as long as we could; and after the village was lost to view in the distance, we could still, by listening carefully, hear the thuds, as one after another of the inhabitants sat down and began to swear. at about eleven o'clock we had some beer--you can generally obtain such light refreshment as bottled beer and coffee and rolls from the guard on a through long-distance train in germany--took off our boots, and saying "good-night" to each other, made a great show of going to sleep. but we never succeeded in getting there. they wanted to see one's ticket too often for one to get fairly off. every few minutes, so it seemed to me, though in reality the intervals may perhaps have been longer, a ghostly face would appear at the carriage-window, and ask to see our tickets. whenever a german railway-guard feels lonesome, and does not know what else to do with himself, he takes a walk round the train, and gets the passengers to show him their tickets, after which he returns to his box cheered and refreshed. some people rave about sunsets and mountains and old masters; but to the german railway-guard the world can show nothing more satisfying, more inspiring, than the sight of a railway-ticket. nearly all the german railway officials have this same craving for tickets. if only they get somebody to show them a railway-ticket, they are happy. it seemed a harmless weakness of theirs, and b. and i decided that it would be only kind to humour them in it during our stay. accordingly, whenever we saw a german railway official standing about, looking sad and weary, we went up to him and showed him our tickets. the sight was like a ray of sunshine to him; and all his care was immediately forgotten. if we had not a ticket with us at the time, we went and bought one. a mere single third to the next station would gladden him sufficiently in most cases; but if the poor fellow appeared very woe-begone, and as if he wanted more than ordinary cheering up, we got him a second-class return. for the purpose of our journey to ober-ammergau and back, we each carried with us a folio containing some ten or twelve first-class tickets between different towns, covering in all a distance of some thousand miles; and one afternoon, at munich, seeing a railway official, a cloak-room keeper, who they told us had lately lost his aunt, and who looked exceptionally dejected, i proposed to b. that we should take this man into a quiet corner, and both of us show him all our tickets at once--the whole twenty or twenty-four of them--and let him take them in his hand and look at them for as long as he liked. i wanted to comfort him. b., however, advised against the suggestion. he said that even if it did not turn the man's head (and it was more than probable that it would), so much jealousy would be created against him among the other railway people throughout germany, that his life would be made a misery to him. so we bought and showed him a first-class return to the next station but one; and it was quite pathetic to watch the poor fellow's face brighten up at the sight, and to see the faint smile creep back to the lips from which it had so long been absent. but at times, one wishes that the german railway official would control his passion for tickets--or, at least, keep it within due bounds. even the most kindly-hearted man grows tired of showing his ticket all day and night long, and the middle of a wearisome journey is not the proper time for a man to come to the carriage-window and clamour to see your "billet." you are weary and sleepy. you do not know where your ticket is. you are not quite sure that you have got a ticket; or if you ever had one, somebody has taken it away from you. you have put it by very carefully, thinking that it would not be wanted for hours, and have forgotten where. there are eleven pockets in the suit you have on, and five more in the overcoat on the rack. maybe, it is in one of those pockets. if not, it is possibly in one of the bags--somewhere, or in your pocket-book, if you only knew where that was, or your purse. you begin a search. you stand up and shake yourself. then you have another feel all over. you look round in the course of the proceedings; and the sight of the crowd of curious faces watching you, and of the man in uniform waiting with his eye fixed severely upon you, convey to you, in your then state of confusion, the momentary idea that this is a police-court scene, and that if the ticket is found upon you, you will probably get five years. upon this you vehemently protest your innocence. "i tell you i haven't got it!" you exclaim;--"never seen the gentleman's ticket. you let me go! i--" here the surprise of your fellow-passengers recalls you to yourself, and you proceed on your exploration. you overhaul the bags, turning everything out on to the floor, muttering curses on the whole railway system of germany as you do so. then you feel in your boots. you make everybody near you stand up to see if they are sitting upon it, and you go down on your knees and grovel for it under the seat. "you didn't throw it out of the window with your sandwiches, did you?" asks your friend. "no! do you think i'm a fool?" you answer, irritably. "what should i want to do that for?" on going systematically over yourself for about the twentieth time, you discover it in your waistcoat pocket, and for the next half-hour you sit and wonder how you came to miss it on the previous nineteen occasions. meanwhile, during this trying scene, the conduct of the guard has certainly not tended to allay your anxiety and nervousness. all the time that you have been looking for your ticket, he has been doing silly tricks on the step outside, imperilling his life by every means that experience and ingenuity can suggest. the train is going at the rate of thirty miles an hour, the express speed in germany, and a bridge comes in sight crossing over the line. on seeing this bridge, the guard, holding on by the window, leans his body as far back as ever it will go. you look at him, and then at the rapidly-nearing bridge, and calculate that the arch will just take his head off without injuring any other part of him whatever, and you wonder whether the head will be jerked into the carriage or will fall outside. when he is three inches off the bridge, he pulls himself up straight, and the brickwork, as the train dashes through, kills a fly that was trespassing on the upper part of his right ear. then, when the bridge is passed, and the train is skirting the very edge of a precipice, so that a stone dropped just outside the window would tumble straight down feet, he suddenly lets go, and, balancing himself on the foot-board without holding on to anything, commences to dance a sort of teutonic cellar-flap, and to warm his body by flinging his arms about in the manner of cabmen on a cold day. the first essential to comfortable railway travelling in germany is to make up your mind not to care a rap whether the guard gets killed in the course of the journey or not. any tender feeling towards the guard makes railway travelling in the fatherland a simple torture. at five a.m. (how fair and sweet and fresh the earth looks in the early morning! those lazy people who lie in bed till eight or nine miss half the beauty of the day, if they but knew it. it is only we who rise early that really enjoy nature properly) i gave up trying to get to sleep, and made my way to the dressing-room at the end of the car, and had a wash. it is difficult to wash in these little places, because the cars shake so; and when you have got both your hands and half your head in the basin, and are unable to protect yourself, the sides of the room, and the water-tap and the soap-dish, and other cowardly things, take a mean advantage of your helplessness to punch you as hard as ever they can; and when you back away from these, the door swings open and slaps you from behind. i succeeded, however, in getting myself fairly wet all over, even if i did nothing else, and then i looked about for a towel. of course, there was no towel. that is the trick. the idea of the railway authorities is to lure the passenger, by providing him with soap and water and a basin, into getting himself thoroughly soaked, and then to let it dawn upon him that there is no towel. that is their notion of fun! i thought of the handkerchiefs in my bag, but to get to them i should have to pass compartments containing ladies, and i was only in early morning dress. so i had to wipe myself with a newspaper which i happened to have in my pocket, and a more unsatisfactory thing to dry oneself upon i cannot conceive. i woke up b. when i got back to the carriage, and persuaded him to go and have a wash; and in listening to the distant sound of his remarks when he likewise discovered that there was no towel, the recollection of my own discomfiture passed gently away. ah! how true it is, as good people tell us, that in thinking of the sorrows of others, we learn to forget our own! for fifty miles before one reaches munich, the land is flat, stale, and apparently very unprofitable, and there is little to interest the looker-out. he sits straining his eyes towards the horizon, eagerly longing for some sign of the city to come in sight. it lies very low, however, and does all it can to escape observation; and it is not until he is almost within its streets that he discovers it. the rest of sunday, the th we seek breakfast.--i air my german.--the art of gesture.--the intelligence of the premiere danseuse.--performance of english pantomime in the pyrenees.--sad result therefrom.--the "german conversation" book.--its narrow-minded view of human wants and aspirations.--sunday in munich.--hans and gretchen.--high life v. low life.--"a beer-cellar." at munich we left our luggage at the station, and went in search of breakfast. of course, at eight o'clock in the morning none of the big cafes were open; but at length, beside some gardens, we found an old-fashioned looking restaurant, from which came a pleasant odour of coffee and hot onions; and walking through and seating ourselves at one of the little tables, placed out under the trees, we took the bill of fare in our hands, and summoned the waiter to our side. i ordered the breakfast. i thought it would be a good opportunity for me to try my german. i ordered coffee and rolls as a groundwork. i got over that part of my task very easily. with the practice i had had during the last two days, i could have ordered coffee and rolls for forty. then i foraged round for luxuries, and ordered a green salad. i had some difficulty at first in convincing the man that it was not a boiled cabbage that i wanted, but succeeded eventually in getting that silly notion out of his head. i still had a little german left, even after that. so i ordered an omelette also. "tell him a savoury one," said b., "or he will be bringing us something full of hot jam and chocolate-creams. you know their style." "oh, yes," i answered. "of course. yes. let me see. what is the german for savoury?" "savoury?" mused b. "oh! ah! hum! bothered if i know! confound the thing--i can't think of it!" i could not think of it either. as a matter of fact, i never knew it. we tried the man with french. we said: "_une omelette aux fines herbes_." as he did not appear to understand that, we gave it him in bad english. we twisted and turned the unfortunate word "savoury" into sounds so quaint, so sad, so unearthly, that you would have thought they might have touched the heart of a savage. this stoical teuton, however, remained unmoved. then we tried pantomime. pantomime is to language what marmalade, according to the label on the pot, is to butter, "an excellent (occasional) substitute." but its powers as an interpreter of thought are limited. at least, in real life they are so. as regards a ballet, it is difficult to say what is not explainable by pantomime. i have seen the bad man in a ballet convey to the _premiere danseuse_ by a subtle movement of the left leg, together with some slight assistance from the drum, the heartrending intelligence that the lady she had been brought up to believe was her mother was in reality only her aunt by marriage. but then it must be borne in mind that the _premiere danseuse_ is a lady whose quickness of perception is altogether unique. the _premiere danseuse_ knows precisely what a gentleman means when he twirls round forty-seven times on one leg, and then stands on his head. the average foreigner would, in all probability, completely misunderstand the man. a friend of mine once, during a tour in the pyrenees, tried to express gratitude by means of pantomime. he arrived late one evening at a little mountain inn, where the people made him very welcome, and set before him their best; and he, being hungry, appreciated their kindness, and ate a most excellent supper. indeed, so excellent a meal did he make, and so kind and attentive were his hosts to him, that, after supper, he felt he wanted to thank them, and to convey to them some idea of how pleased and satisfied he was. he could not explain himself in language. he only knew enough spanish to just ask for what he wanted--and even to do that he had to be careful not to want much. he had not got as far as sentiment and emotion at that time. accordingly he started to express himself in action. he stood up and pointed to the empty table where the supper had been, then opened his mouth and pointed down his throat. then he patted that region of his anatomy where, so scientific people tell us, supper goes to, and smiled. he has a rather curious smile, has my friend. he himself is under the impression that there is something very winning in it, though, also, as he admits, a touch of sadness. they use it in his family for keeping the children in order. the people of the inn seemed rather astonished at his behaviour. they regarded him, with troubled looks, and then gathered together among themselves and consulted in whispers. "i evidently have not made myself sufficiently clear to these simple peasants," said my friend to himself. "i must put more vigour into this show." accordingly he rubbed and patted that part of himself to which i have previously alluded--and which, being a modest and properly brought-up young man, nothing on earth shall induce me to mention more explicitly--with greater energy than ever, and added another inch or two of smile; and he also made various graceful movements indicative, as he thought, of friendly feeling and contentment. at length a ray of intelligence burst upon the faces of his hosts, and they rushed to a cupboard and brought out a small black bottle. "ah! that's done it," thought my friend. "now they have grasped my meaning. and they are pleased that i am pleased, and are going to insist on my drinking a final friendly bumper of wine with them, the good old souls!" they brought the bottle over, and poured out a wineglassful, and handed it to him, making signs that he should drink it off quickly. "ah!" said my friend to himself, as he took the glass and raised it to the light, and winked at it wickedly, "this is some rare old spirit peculiar to the district--some old heirloom kept specially for the favoured guest." and he held the glass aloft and made a speech, in which he wished long life and many grand-children to the old couple, and a handsome husband to the daughter, and prosperity to the whole village. they could not understand him, he knew; but he thought there might be that in his tones and gestures from which they would gather the sense of what he was saying, and understand how kindly he felt towards them all. when he had finished, he put his hand upon his heart and smiled some more, and then tossed the liquor off at a gulp. three seconds later he discovered that it was a stringent and trustworthy emetic that he had swallowed. his audience had mistaken his signs of gratitude for efforts on his part to explain to them that he was poisoned, or, at all events, was suffering from acute and agonising indigestion, and had done what they could to comfort him. the drug that they had given him was not one of those common, cheap medicines that lose their effect before they have been in the system half-an-hour. he felt that it would be useless to begin another supper then, even if he could get one, and so he went to bed a good deal hungrier and a good deal less refreshed than when he arrived at the inn. gratitude is undoubtedly a thing that should not be attempted by the amateur pantomimist. "savoury" is another. b. and i very nearly did ourselves a serious internal injury, trying to express it. we slaved like cab-horses at it--for about five minutes, and succeeded in conveying to the mind of the waiter that we wanted to have a game at dominoes. then, like a beam of sunlight to a man lost in some dark, winding cave, came to me the reflection that i had in my pocket a german conversation book. how stupid of me not to have thought of it before. here had we been racking our brains and our bodies, trying to explain our wants to an uneducated german, while, all the time, there lay to our hands a book specially written and prepared to assist people out of the very difficulty into which we had fallen--a book carefully compiled with the express object of enabling english travellers who, like ourselves, only spoke german in a dilettante fashion, to make their modest requirements known throughout the fatherland, and to get out of the country alive and uninjured. i hastily snatched the book from my pocket, and commenced to search for dialogues dealing with the great food question. there were none! there were lengthy and passionate "conversations with a laundress" about articles that i blush to remember. some twenty pages of the volume were devoted to silly dialogues between an extraordinarily patient shoemaker and one of the most irritating and constitutionally dissatisfied customers that an unfortunate shop-keeper could possibly be cursed with; a customer who, after twaddling for about forty minutes, and trying on, apparently, every pair of boots in the place, calmly walks out with: "ah! well, i shall not purchase anything to-day. good-morning!" the shopkeeper's reply, by-the-by, is not given. it probably took the form of a boot-jack, accompanied by phrases deemed useless for the purposes of the christian tourist. there was really something remarkable about the exhaustiveness of this "conversation at the shoemaker's." i should think the book must have been written by someone who suffered from corns. i could have gone to a german shoemaker with this book and have talked the man's head off. then there were two pages of watery chatter "on meeting a friend in the street"--"good-morning, sir (or madam)." "i wish you a merry christmas." "how is your mother?" as if a man who hardly knew enough german to keep body and soul together, would want to go about asking after the health of a foreign person's mother. there were also "conversations in the railway carriage," conversations between travelling lunatics, apparently, and dialogues "during the passage." "how do you feel now?" "pretty well as yet; but i cannot say how long it will last." "oh, what waves! i now feel very unwell and shall go below. ask for a basin for me." imagine a person who felt like that wanting to know the german for it. at the end of the book were german proverbs and "idiomatic phrases," by which latter would appear to be meant in all languages, "phrases for the use of idiots":--"a sparrow in the hand is better than a pigeon on the roof."--"time brings roses."--"the eagle does not catch flies."--"one should not buy a cat in a sack,"--as if there were a large class of consumers who habitually did purchase their cats in that way, thus enabling unscrupulous dealers to palm off upon them an inferior cat, and whom it was accordingly necessary to advise against the custom. i skimmed through all this nonsense, but not a word could i discover anywhere about a savoury omelette. under the head of "eating and drinking," i found a short vocabulary; but it was mainly concerned with "raspberries" and "figs" and "medlars" (whatever they may be; i never heard of them myself), and "chestnuts," and such like things that a man hardly ever wants, even when he is in his own country. there was plenty of oil and vinegar, and pepper and salt and mustard in the list, but nothing to put them on. i could have had a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham; but i did not want a hard-boiled egg, or a slice of ham. i wanted a savoury omelette; and that was an article of diet that the authors of this "handy little guide," as they termed it in their preface, had evidently never heard of. since my return home, i have, out of curiosity, obtained three or four "english-german dialogues" and "conversation books," intended to assist the english traveller in his efforts to make himself understood by the german people, and i have come to the conclusion that the work i took out with me was the most sensible and practical of the lot. finding it utterly hopeless to explain ourselves to the waiter, we let the thing go, and trusted to providence; and in about ten minutes the man brought us a steaming omelette, with about a pound of strawberry jam inside, and powdered sugar all over the outside. we put a deal of pepper and salt on it to try and counteract the flavour of the sweets, but we did not really enjoy it even then. after breakfast we got a time-table, and looked out for a train to ober-ammergau. i found one which started at . . it seemed a very nice train indeed; it did not stop anywhere. the railway authorities themselves were evidently very proud of it, and had printed particulars of it in extra thick type. we decided to patronise it. to pass away the time, we strolled about the city. munich is a fine, handsome, open town, full of noble streets and splendid buildings; but in spite of this and of its hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants, an atmosphere of quiet and provincialism hovers over it. there is but little traffic on ordinary occasions along its broad ways, and customers in its well-stocked shops are few and far between. this day being sunday, it was busier than usual, and its promenades were thronged with citizens and country folk in holiday attire, among whom the southern peasants, wearing their quaint, centuries-old costume, stood out in picturesque relief. fashion, in its world-wide crusade against variety and its bitter contest with form and colour, has recoiled, defeated for the present from the mountain fastnesses of bavaria. still, as sunday or gala-day comes round, the broad-shouldered, sunburnt shepherd of the oberland dons his gay green-embroidered jacket over his snowy shirt, fastens his short knee-breeches with a girdle round his waist, claps his high, feather-crowned hat upon his waving curls, and with bare legs, shod in mighty boots, strides over the hill-sides to his gretchen's door. she is waiting for him, you may be sure, ready dressed; and a very sweet, old-world picture she makes, standing beneath the great overhanging gables of the wooden chalet. she, too, favours the national green; but, as relief, there is no lack of bonny red ribbons, to flutter in the wind, and, underneath the ornamented skirt, peeps out a bright-hued petticoat. around her ample breast she wears a dark tight-fitting bodice, laced down the front. (i think this garment is called a stomacher, but i am not sure, as i have never liked to ask.) her square shoulders are covered with the whitest of white linen. her sleeves are also white; and being very full, and of some soft lawnlike material, suggest the idea of folded wings. upon her flaxen hair is perched a saucy round green hat. the buckles of her dainty shoes, the big eyes in her pretty face, are all four very bright. one feels one would like much to change places for the day with hans. arm-in-arm, looking like some china, but exceedingly substantial china, shepherd and shepherdess, they descend upon the town. one rubs one's eyes and stares after them as they pass. they seem to have stepped from the pictured pages of one of those old story-books that we learnt to love, sitting beside the high brass guard that kept ourselves and the nursery-fire from doing each other any serious injury, in the days when the world was much bigger than it is now, and much more real and interesting. munich and the country round about it make a great exchange of peoples every sunday. in the morning, trainload after trainload of villagers and mountaineers pour into the town, and trainload after trainload of good and other citizens steam out to spend the day in wood and valley, and upon lake and mountain-side. we went into one or two of the beer-halls--not into the swell cafes, crowded with tourists and munich masherdom, but into the low-ceilinged, smoke-grimed cellars where the life of the people is to be seen. the ungenteel people in a country are so much more interesting than the gentlefolks. one lady or gentleman is painfully like every other lady or gentleman. there is so little individuality, so little character, among the upper circles of the world. they talk like each other, they think and act like each other, they dress like each other, and look very much like each other. we gentlefolks only play at living. we have our rules and regulations for the game, which must not be infringed. our unwritten guide-books direct us what to do and what to say at each turn of the meaningless sport. to those at the bottom of the social pyramid, however, who stand with their feet upon the earth, nature is not a curious phenomenon to be looked down at and studied, but a living force to be obeyed. they front grim, naked life, face to face, and wrestle with it through the darkness; and, as did the angel that strove with jacob, it leaves its stamp upon them. there is only one type of a gentleman. there are five hundred types of men and women. that is why i always seek out and frequent the places where the common people congregate, in preference to the haunts of respectability. i have to be continually explaining all this to my friends, to account to them for what they call my love of low life. with a mug of beer before me, and a pipe in my mouth, i could sit for hours contentedly, and watch the life that ebbs and flows into and out of these old ale-kitchens. the brawny peasant lads bring in their lasses to treat them to the beloved nectar of munich, together with a huge onion. how they enjoy themselves! what splendid jokes they have! how they laugh and roar and sing! at one table sit four old fellows, playing cards. how full of character is each gnarled face. one is eager, quick, vehement. how his eyes dance! you can read his every thought upon his face. you know when he is going to dash down the king with a shout of triumph on the queen. his neighbour looks calm, slow, and dogged, but wears a confident expression. the game proceeds, and you watch and wait for him to play the winning cards that you feel sure he holds. he must intend to win. victory is written in his face. no! he loses. a seven was the highest card in his hand. everyone turns to him, surprised. he laughs--a difficult man to deal with, that, in other matters besides cards. a man whose thoughts lie a good deal below his skin. opposite, a cross-looking old woman clamours for sausages, gets them, and seems crosser than ever. she scowls round on everyone, with a malignant expression that is quite terrifying. a small dog comes and sits down in front of her, and grins at her. still, with the same savage expression of hatred towards all living things, she feeds him with sausage at the end of a fork, regarding him all the while with an aspect of such concentrated dislike, that one wonders it does not interfere with his digestion. in a corner, a stout old woman talks incessantly to a solemn-looking man, who sits silent and drinks steadily. it is evident that he can stand her conversation just so long as he has a mug of beer in front of him. he has brought her in here to give her a treat. he will let her have her talk out while he drinks. heavens! how she does talk! she talks without movement, without expression; her voice never varies, it flows on, and on, and on, like a great resistless river. four young artisans come clamping along in their hob-nailed boots, and seating themselves at one of the rude wooden tables, call for beer. with their arms round the waist of the utterly indifferent fraulein, they shout and laugh and sing. nearly all the young folks here are laughing--looking forward to life. all the old folks are talking, remembering it. what grand pictures some of these old, seared faces round us would make, if a man could only paint them--paint all that is in them, all the tragedy--and comedy that the great playwright, life, has written upon the withered skins! joys and sorrows, sordid hopes and fears, child-like strivings to be good, mean selfishness and grand unselfishness, have helped to fashion these old wrinkled faces. the curves of cunning and kindliness lurk round these fading eyes. the lines of greed hover about these bloodless lips, that have so often been tight-pressed in patient heroism. sunday, th--continued we dine.--a curious dish.--"a feeling of sadness comes o'er me."--the german cigar.--the handsomest match in europe.--"how easy 'tis for friends to drift apart," especially in a place like munich railway station.--the victim of fate.--a faithful bradshaw.--among the mountains.--prince and pauper.--a modern romance.--arrival at oberau.--wise and foolish pilgrims.--an interesting drive.--ettal and its monastery.--we reach the goal of our pilgrimage. at one o'clock we turned into a restaurant for dinner. the germans themselves always dine in the middle of the day, and a very substantial meal they make of it. at the hotels frequented by tourists _table d'hote_ is, during the season, fixed for about six or seven, but this is only done to meet the views of foreign customers. i mention that we had dinner, not because i think that the information will prove exciting to the reader, but because i wish to warn my countrymen, travelling in germany, against undue indulgence in liptauer cheese. i am fond of cheese, and of trying new varieties of cheese; so that when i looked down the cheese department of the bill of fare, and came across "liptauer garnit," an article of diet i had never before heard of, i determined to sample it. it was not a tempting-looking cheese. it was an unhealthy, sad-looking cheese. it looked like a cheese that had seen trouble. in appearance it resembled putty more than anything else. it even tasted like putty--at least, like i should imagine putty would taste. to this hour i am not positive that it was not putty. the garnishing was even more remarkable than the cheese. all the way round the plate were piled articles that i had never before seen at a dinner, and that i do not ever want to see there again. there was a little heap of split-peas, three or four remarkably small potatoes--at least, i suppose they were potatoes; if not, they were pea-nuts boiled soft,--some caraway-seeds, a very young-looking fish, apparently of the stickleback breed, and some red paint. it was quite a little dinner all to itself. what the red paint was for, i could not understand. b. thought that it was put there for suicidal purposes. his idea was that the customer, after eating all the other things in the plate, would wish he were dead, and that the restaurant people, knowing this, had thoughtfully provided him with red paint for one, so that he could poison himself off and get out of his misery. i thought, after swallowing the first mouthful, that i would not eat any more of this cheese. then it occurred to me that it was a pity to waste it after having ordered it, and, besides, i might get to like it before i had finished. the taste for most of the good things of this world has to be acquired. _i_ can remember the time when i did not like beer. so i mixed up everything on the plate all together--made a sort of salad of it, in fact--and ate it with a spoon. a more disagreeable dish i have never tasted since the days when i used to do willie evans's "dags," by walking twice through a sewer, and was subsequently, on returning home, promptly put to bed, and made to eat brimstone and treacle. i felt very sad after dinner. all the things i have done in my life that i should not have done recurred to me with painful vividness. (there seemed to be a goodish number of them, too.) i thought of all the disappointments and reverses i had experienced during my career; of all the injustice that i had suffered, and of all the unkind things that had been said and done to me. i thought of all the people i had known who were now dead, and whom i should never see again, of all the girls that i had loved, who were now married to other fellows, while i did not even know their present addresses. i pondered upon our earthly existence, upon how hollow, false, and transient it is, and how full of sorrow. i mused upon the wickedness of the world and of everybody in it, and the general cussedness of all things. i thought how foolish it was for b. and myself to be wasting our time, gadding about europe in this silly way. what earthly enjoyment was there in travelling--being jolted about in stuffy trains, and overcharged at uncomfortable hotels? b. was cheerful and frivolously inclined at the beginning of our walk (we were strolling down the maximilian strasse, after dinner); but as i talked to him, i was glad to notice that he gradually grew more serious and subdued. he is not really bad, you know, only thoughtless. b. bought some cigars and offered me one. i did not want to smoke. smoking seemed to me, just then, a foolish waste of time and money. as i said to b.: "in a few more years, perhaps before this very month is gone, we shall be lying in the silent tomb, with the worms feeding on us. of what advantage will it be to us then that we smoked these cigars to-day?" b. said: "well, the advantage it will be to me now is, that if you have a cigar in your mouth i shan't get quite so much of your chatty conversation. take one, for my sake." to humour him, i lit up. i do not admire the german cigar. b. says that when you consider they only cost a penny, you cannot grumble. but what i say is, that when you consider they are dear at six a half-penny, you can grumble. well boiled, they might serve for greens; but as smoking material they are not worth the match with which you light them, especially not if the match be a german one. the german match is quite a high art work. it has a yellow head and a magenta or green stem, and can certainly lay claim to being the handsomest match in europe. we smoked a good many penny cigars during our stay in germany, and that we were none the worse for doing so i consider as proof of our splendid physique and constitution. i think the german cigar test might, with reason, be adopted by life insurance offices.--question: "are you at present, and have you always been, of robust health?" answer: "i have smoked a german cigar, and still live." life accepted. towards three o'clock we worked our way round to the station, and began looking for our train. we hunted all over the place, but could not find it anywhere. the central station at munich is an enormous building, and a perfect maze of passages and halls and corridors. it is much easier to lose oneself in it, than to find anything in it one may happen to want. together and separately b. and i lost ourselves and each other some twenty-four times. for about half an hour we seemed to be doing nothing else but rushing up and down the station looking for each other, suddenly finding each other, and saying, "why, where the dickens have you been? i have been hunting for you everywhere. don't go away like that," and then immediately losing each other again. and what was so extraordinary about the matter was that every time, after losing each other, we invariably met again--when we did meet--outside the door of the third-class refreshment room. we came at length to regard the door of the third-class refreshment room as "home," and to feel a thrill of joy when, in the course of our weary wanderings through far-off waiting-rooms and lost-luggage bureaus and lamp depots, we saw its old familiar handle shining in the distance, and knew that there, beside it, we should find our loved and lost one. when any very long time elapsed without our coming across it, we would go up to one of the officials, and ask to be directed to it. "please can you tell me," we would say, "the nearest way to the door of the third-class refreshment room?" when three o'clock came, and still we had not found the . train, we became quite anxious about the poor thing, and made inquiries concerning it. "the . train to ober-ammergau," they said. "oh, we've not thought about that yet." "haven't thought about it!" we exclaimed indignantly. "well, do for heaven's sake wake up a bit. it is . now!" "yes," they answered, " . in the afternoon; the . is a night train. don't you see it's printed in thick type? all the trains between six in the evening and six in the morning are printed in fat figures, and the day trains in thin. you have got plenty of time. look around after supper." i do believe i am the most unfortunate man at a time-table that ever was born. i do not think it can be stupidity; for if it were mere stupidity, i should occasionally, now and then when i was feeling well, not make a mistake. it must be fate. if there is one train out of forty that goes on "saturdays only" to some place i want to get to, that is the train i select to travel by on a friday. on saturday morning i get up at six, swallow a hasty breakfast, and rush off to catch a return train that goes on every day in the week "except saturdays." i go to london, brighton and south coast railway-stations and clamour for south-eastern trains. on bank holidays i forget it is bank holiday, and go and sit on draughty platforms for hours, waiting for trains that do not run on bank holidays. to add to my misfortunes, i am the miserable possessor of a demon time-table that i cannot get rid of, a bradshaw for august, . regularly, on the first of each month, i buy and bring home with me a new bradshaw and a new a.b.c. what becomes of them after the second of the month, i do not know. after the second of the month, i never see either of them again. what their fate is, i can only guess. in their place is left, to mislead me, this wretched old corpse. for three years i have been trying to escape from it, but it will not leave me. i have thrown it out of the window, and it has fallen on people's heads, and those people have picked it up and smoothed it out, and brought it back to the house, and members of my family--"friends" they call themselves--people of my own flesh and blood--have thanked them and taken it in again! i have kicked it into a dozen pieces, and kicked the pieces all the way downstairs and out into the garden, and persons--persons, mind you, who will not sew a button on the back of my shirt to save me from madness--have collected the pieces and stitched them carefully together, and made the book look as good as new, and put it back in my study! it has acquired the secret of perpetual youth, has this time-table. other time-tables that i buy become dissipated-looking wrecks in about a week. this book looks as fresh and new and clean as it did on the day when it first lured me into purchasing it. there is nothing about its appearance to suggest to the casual observer that it is not this month's bradshaw. its evident aim and object in life is to deceive people into the idea that it is this month's bradshaw. it is undermining my moral character, this book is. it is responsible for at least ten per cent. of the bad language that i use every year. it leads me into drink and gambling. i am continually finding myself with some three or four hours to wait at dismal provincial railway stations. i read all the advertisements on both platforms, and then i get wild and reckless, and plunge into the railway hotel and play billiards with the landlord for threes of scotch. i intend to have that bradshaw put into my coffin with me when i am buried, so that i can show it to the recording angel and explain matters. i expect to obtain a discount of at least five-and-twenty per cent. off my bill of crimes for that bradshaw. the . train in the morning was, of course, too late for us. it would not get us to ober-ammergau until about a.m. there was a train leaving at . (i let b. find out this) by which we might reach the village some time during the night, if only we could get a conveyance from oberau, the nearest railway-station. accordingly, we telegraphed to cook's agent, who was at ober-ammergau (we all of us sneer at mr. cook and mr. gaze, and such-like gentlemen, who kindly conduct travellers that cannot conduct themselves properly, when we are at home; but i notice most of us appeal, on the quiet, to one or the other of them the moment we want to move abroad), to try and send a carriage to meet us by that train; and then went to an hotel, and turned into bed until it was time to start. we had another grand railway-ride from munich to oberau. we passed by the beautiful lake of starnberg just as the sun was setting and gilding with gold the little villages and pleasant villas that lie around its shores. it was in the lake of starnberg, near the lordly pleasure-house that he had built for himself in that fair vale, that poor mad ludwig, the late king of bavaria, drowned himself. poor king! fate gave him everything calculated to make a man happy, excepting one thing, and that was the power of being happy. fate has a mania for striking balances. i knew a little shoeblack once who used to follow his profession at the corner of westminster bridge. fate gave him an average of sixpence a day to live upon and provide himself with luxuries; but she also gave him a power of enjoying that kept him jolly all day long. he could buy as much enjoyment for a penny as the average man could for a ten-pound note--more, i almost think. he did not know he was badly off, any more than king ludwig knew he was well off; and all day long he laughed and played, and worked a little--not more than he could help--and ate and drank, and gambled. the last time i saw him was in st. thomas's hospital, into which he had got himself owing to his fatal passion for walking along outside the stone coping of westminster bridge. he thought it was "prime," being in the hospital, and told me that he was living like a fighting-cock, and that he did not mean to go out sooner than he could help. i asked him if he were not in pain, and he said "yes," when he "thought about it." poor little chap! he only managed to live like a "fighting-cock" for three days more. then he died, cheerful up to the last, so they told me, like the plucky little english game-cock he was. he could not have been more than twelve years old when he crowed his last. it had been a short life for him, but a very merry one. now, if only this little beggar and poor old ludwig could have gone into partnership, and so have shared between them the shoeblack's power of enjoying and the king's stock of enjoyments, what a good thing it would have been for both of them--especially for king ludwig. he would never have thought of drowning himself then--life would have been too delightful. but that would not have suited fate. she loves to laugh at men, and to make of life a paradox. to the one, she played ravishing strains, having first taken the precaution to make him stone-deaf. to the other, she piped a few poor notes on a cracked tin-whistle, and he thought it was music, and danced! a few years later on, at the very same spot where king ludwig threw back to the gods their gift of life, a pair of somewhat foolish young lovers ended their disappointments, and, finding they could not be wedded together in life, wedded themselves together in death. the story, duly reported in the newspapers as an item of foreign intelligence, read more like some old rhine-legend than the record of a real occurrence in this prosaic nineteenth century. he was a german count, if i remember rightly, and, like most german counts, had not much money; and her father, as fathers will when proposed to by impecunious would-be sons-in-law, refused his consent. the count then went abroad to try and make, or at all events improve, his fortune. he went to america, and there he prospered. in a year or two he came back, tolerably rich--to find, however, that he was too late. his lady, persuaded of his death, had been urged into a marriage with a rich somebody else. in ordinary life, of course, the man would have contented himself with continuing to make love to the lady, leaving the rich somebody else to pay for her keep. this young couple, however, a little lighter headed, or a little deeper hearted than the most of us, whichever it may have been, and angry at the mocking laughter with which the air around them seemed filled, went down one stormy night together to the lake, and sobered droll fate for an instant by turning her grim comedy into a somewhat grimmer tragedy. soon after losing sight of starnberg's placid waters, we plunged into the gloom of the mountains, and began a long, winding climb among their hidden recesses. at times, shrieking as if in terror, we passed some ghostly hamlet, standing out white and silent in the moonlight against the shadowy hills; and, now and then, a dark, still lake, or mountain torrent whose foaming waters fell in a long white streak across the blackness of the night. we passed by murnau in the valley of the dragon, a little town which possessed a passion play of its own in the olden times, and which, until a few years ago, when the railway-line was pushed forward to partenkirchen, was the nearest station to ober-ammergau. it was a tolerably steep climb up the road from murnau, over mount ettal, to ammergau--so steep, indeed, that one stout pilgrim not many years ago, died from the exertion while walking up. sturdy-legged mountaineer and pulpy citizen both had to clamber up side by side, for no horses could do more than drag behind them the empty vehicle. every season, however, sees the european tourist more and more pampered, and the difficulties and consequent pleasure and interest of his journey more and more curtailed and spoilt. in a few years' time, he will be packed in cotton-wool in his own back-parlour, labelled for the place he wants to go to, and unpacked and taken out when he gets there. the railway now carries him round mount ettal to oberau, from which little village a tolerably easy road, as mountain roadways go, of about four or five english miles takes him up to the valley of the ammer. it was midnight when our train landed us at oberau station; but the place was far more busy and stirring than on ordinary occasions it is at mid-day. crowds of tourists and pilgrims thronged the little hotel, wondering, as also did the landlord, where they were all going to sleep; and wondering still more, though this latter consideration evidently did not trouble their host, how they were going to get up to ober-ammergau in the morning in time for the play, which always begins at a.m. some were engaging carriages at fabulous prices to call for them at five; and others, who could not secure carriages, and who had determined to walk, were instructing worried waiters to wake them at . , and ordering breakfast for a quarter-past three sharp. (i had no idea there were such times in the morning!) we were fortunate enough to find our land-lord, a worthy farmer, waiting for us with a tumble-down conveyance, in appearance something between a circus-chariot and a bath-chair, drawn by a couple of powerful-looking horses; and in this, after a spirited skirmish between our driver and a mob of twenty or so tourists, who pretended to mistake the affair for an omnibus, and who would have clambered into it and swamped it, we drove away. higher and higher we climbed, and grander and grander towered the frowning moon-bathed mountains round us, and chillier and chillier grew the air. for most of the way we crawled along, the horses tugging us from side to side of the steep road; but, wherever our coachman could vary the monotony of the pace by a stretch-gallop--as, for instance, down the precipitous descents that occasionally followed upon some extra long and toilsome ascent--he thoughtfully did so. at such times the drive became really quite exciting, and all our weariness was forgotten. the steeper the descent, the faster, of course, we could go. the rougher the road, the more anxious the horses seemed to be to get over it quickly. during the gallop, b. and i enjoyed, in a condensed form, all the advantages usually derived from crossing the channel on a stormy day, riding on a switchback railway, and being tossed in a blanket--a hard, nobbly blanket, full of nasty corners and sharp edges. i should never have thought that so many different sensations could have been obtained from one machine! about half-way up we passed ettal, at the entrance to the valley of the ammer. the great white temple, standing, surrounded by its little village, high up amid the mountain solitudes, is a famous place of pilgrimage among devout catholics. many hundreds of years ago, one of the early bavarian kings built here a monastery as a shrine for a miraculous image of the virgin that had been sent down to him from heaven to help him when, in a foreign land, he had stood sore in need, encompassed by his enemies. maybe the stout arms and hearts of his bavarian friends were of some service in the crisis also; but the living helpers were forgotten. the old church and monastery, which latter was a sort of ancient chelsea hospital for decayed knights, was destroyed one terrible night some hundred and fifty years ago by a flash of lightning; but the wonder-working image was rescued unhurt, and may still be seen and worshipped beneath the dome of the present much less imposing church which has been reared upon the ruins of its ancestor. the monastery, which was also rebuilt at the same time, now serves the more useful purpose of a brewery. from ettal the road is comparatively level, and, jolting swiftly over it, we soon reached ober-ammergau. lights were passing to and fro behind the many windows of the square stone houses, and dark, strange-looking figures were moving about the streets, busy with preparations for the great business that would commence with the dawn. we rattled noisily through the village, our driver roaring out "good night!" to everyone he passed in a voice sufficient to wake up everybody who might be sleeping within a mile, charged light-heartedly round half-a-dozen corners, trotted down the centre path of somebody's front garden, squeezed our way through a gate, and drew up at an open door, through which the streaming light poured out upon two tall, comely lasses, our host's daughters, who were standing waiting for us in the porch. they led us into a large, comfortably furnished room, where a tempting supper of hot veal-chops (they seem to live on veal in germany) and white wine was standing ready. under ordinary circumstances i should have been afraid that such a supper would cause me to be more eager for change and movement during the ensuing six hours than for sleep; but i felt that to-night it would take a dozen half-baked firebricks to keep me awake five seconds after i had got my head on the pillow--or what they call a pillow in germany; and so, without hesitation, i made a very satisfactory meal. after supper our host escorted us to our bedroom, an airy apartment adorned with various highly-coloured wood-carvings of a pious but somewhat ghastly character, calculated, i should say, to exercise a disturbing influence upon the night's rest of a nervous or sensitive person. "mind that we are called at proper time in the morning," said b. to the man. "we don't want to wake up at four o'clock in the afternoon and find that we have missed the play, after coming all this way to see it." "oh! that will be all right," answered the old fellow. "you won't get much chance of oversleeping yourself. we shall all be up and about, and the whole village stirring, before five; and besides, the band will be playing at six just beneath the window here, and the cannon on the kofel goes off at--" "look here," i interrupted, "that won't do for me, you know. don't you think that i am going to be woke up by mere riots outside the window, and brass-band contests, and earthquakes, and explosions, and those sort of things, because it can't be done that way. somebody's got to come into this room and haul me out of bed, and sit down on the bed and see that i don't get into it again, and that i don't go to sleep on the floor. that will be the way to get me up to-morrow morning. don't let's have any nonsense about stirring villages and guns and german bands. i know what all that will end in, my going back to england without seeing the show. i want to be roused in the morning, not lulled off to sleep again." b. translated the essential portions of this speech to the man, and he laughed and promised upon his sacred word of honour that he would come up himself and have us both out; and as he was a stalwart and determined-looking man, i felt satisfied, and wished him "good-night," and made haste to get off my boots before i fell asleep. tuesday, the th a pleasant morning.--what can one say about the passion play?--b. lectures.--unreliable description of ober-ammergau.--exaggerated description of its weather.--possibly untruthful account of how the passion play came to be played.--a good face.--the cultured schoolboy and his ignorant relations. i am lying in bed, or, to speak more truthfully, i am sitting up on a green satin, lace-covered pillow, writing these notes. a green satin, lace-covered bed is on the floor beside me. it is about eleven o'clock in the morning. b. is sitting up in his bed a few feet off, smoking a pipe. we have just finished a light repast of--what do you think? you will never guess--coffee and rolls. we intend to put the week straight by stopping in bed all day, at all events until the evening. two english ladies occupy the bedroom next to ours. they seem to have made up their minds to also stay upstairs all day. we can hear them walking about their room, muttering. they have been doing this for the last three-quarters of an hour. they seem troubled about something. it is very pleasant here. an overflow performance is being given in the theatre to-day for the benefit of those people who could not gain admittance yesterday, and, through the open windows, we can hear the rhythmic chant of the chorus. mellowed by the distance, the wailing cadence of the plaintive songs, mingled with the shrill haydnistic strains of the orchestra, falls with a mournful sweetness on our ears. we ourselves saw the play yesterday, and we are now discussing it. i am explaining to b. the difficulty i experience in writing an account of it for my diary. i tell him that i really do not know what to say about it. he smokes for a while in silence, and then, taking the pipe from his lips, he says: "does it matter very much what you say about it?" i find much relief in that thought. it at once lifts from my shoulders the oppressive feeling of responsibility that was weighing me down. after all, what does it matter what i say? what does it matter what any of us says about anything? nobody takes much notice of it, luckily for everybody. this reflection must be of great comfort to editors and critics. a conscientious man who really felt that his words would carry weight and influence with them would be almost afraid to speak at all. it is the man who knows that it will not make an ounce of difference to anyone what he says, that can grow eloquent and vehement and positive. it will not make any difference to anybody or anything what i say about the ober-ammergau passion play. so i shall just say what i want to. but what do i want to say? what can i say that has not been said, and said much better, already? (an author must always pretend to think that every other author writes better than he himself does. he does not really think so, you know, but it looks well to talk as though he did.) what can i say that the reader does not know, or that, not knowing, he cares to know? it is easy enough to talk about nothing, like i have been doing in this diary hitherto. it is when one is confronted with the task of writing about _some_thing, that one wishes one were a respectable well-to-do sweep--a sweep with a comfortable business of his own, and a pony--instead of an author. b. says: "well, why not begin by describing ober-ammergau." i say it has been described so often. he says: "so has the oxford and cambridge boat race and the derby day, but people go on describing them all the same, and apparently find other people to read their descriptions. say that the little village, clustered round its mosque-domed church, nestles in the centre of a valley, surrounded by great fir-robed hills, which stand, with the cross-crowned kofel for their chief, like stern, strong sentinels guarding its old-world peace from the din and clamour of the outer world. describe how the square, whitewashed houses are sheltered beneath great overhanging gables, and are encircled by carved wooden balconies and verandahs, where, in the cool of the evening, peasant wood-carver and peasant farmer sit to smoke the long bavarian pipe, and chat about the cattle and the passion play and village politics; and how, in gaudy colours above the porch, are painted glowing figures of saints and virgins and such-like good folk, which the rains have sadly mutilated, so that a legless angel on one side of the road looks dejectedly across at a headless madonna on the other, while at an exposed corner some unfortunate saint, more cruelly dealt with by the weather than he ever was even by the heathen, has been deprived of everything that he could call his own, with the exception of half a head and a pair of extra-sized feet. "explain how all the houses are numbered according to the date they were built, so that number sixteen comes next to number forty-seven, and there is no number one because it has been pulled down. tell how unsophisticated visitors, informed that their lodgings are at number fifty-three, go wandering for days and days round fifty-two, under the not unreasonable impression that their house must be next door, though, as a matter of fact, it is half a mile off at the other end of the village, and are discovered one sunny morning, sitting on the doorstep of number eighteen, singing pathetic snatches of nursery rhymes, and trying to plat their toes into door-mats, and are taken up and carried away screaming, to end their lives in the madhouse at munich. "talk about the weather. people who have stayed here for any length of time tell me that it rains at ober-ammergau three days out of every four, the reason that it does not rain on the fourth day being that every fourth day is set apart for a deluge. they tell me, also, that while it will be pouring with rain just in the village the sun will be shining brightly all round about, and that the villagers, when the water begins to come in through their roofs, snatch up their children and hurry off to the nearest field, where they sit and wait until the storm is over." "do you believe them--the persons that you say tell you these tales?" i ask. "personally i do not," he replies. "i think people exaggerate to me because i look young and innocent, but no doubt there is a ground-work of truth in their statements. i have myself left ober-ammergau under a steady drenching rain, and found a cloudless sky the other side of the kofel. "then," he continues, "you can comment upon the hardihood of the bavarian peasant. how he or she walks about bare-headed and bare-footed through the fiercest showers, and seems to find the rain only pleasantly cooling. how, during the performance of the passion play, they act and sing and stand about upon the uncovered stage without taking the slightest notice of the downpour of water that is soaking their robes and running from their streaming hair, to make great pools upon the boards; and how the audience, in the cheaper, unroofed portion of the theatre, sit with equal stoicism, watching them, no one ever dreaming even of putting up an umbrella--or, if he does dream of doing so, experiencing a very rude awakening from the sticks of those behind." b. stops to relight his pipe at this point, and i hear the two ladies in the next room fidgeting about and muttering worse than ever. it seems to me they are listening at the door (our room and theirs are connected by a door); i do wish that they would either get into bed again or else go downstairs. they worry me. "and what shall i say after i have said all that?" i ask b. when at last he has started his pipe again. "oh! well, after that," he replies, "you can give the history of the passion play; how it came to be played." "oh, but so many people have done that already," i say again. "so much the better for you," is his reply. having previously heard precisely the same story from half a dozen other sources, the public will be tempted to believe you when you repeat the account. tell them that during the thirty year's war a terrible plague (as if half a dozen different armies, marching up and down their country, fighting each other about the lord only knows what, and living on them while doing it, was not plague enough) swept over bavaria, devastating each town and hamlet. of all the highland villages, ober-ammergau by means of a strictly enforced quarantine alone kept, for a while, the black foe at bay. no soul was allowed to leave the village; no living thing to enter it. "but one dark night caspar schuchler, an inhabitant of ober-ammergau, who had been working in the plague-stricken neighbouring village of eschenlohe, creeping low on his belly, passed the drowsy sentinels, and gained his home, and saw what for many a day he had been hungering for--a sight of his wife and bairns. it was a selfish act to do, and he and his fellow-villagers paid dearly for it. three days after he had entered his house he and all his family lay dead, and the plague was raging through the valley, and nothing seemed able to stay its course. "when human means fail, we feel it is only fair to give heaven a chance. the good people who dwelt by the side of the ammer vowed that, if the plague left them, they would, every ten years, perform a passion play. the celestial powers seem to have at once closed with this offer. the plague disappeared as if by magic, and every recurring tenth year since, the ober-ammergauites have kept their promise and played their passion play. they act it to this day as a pious observance. before each performance all the characters gather together on the stage around their pastor, and, kneeling, pray for a blessing upon the work then about to commence. the profits that are made, after paying the performers a wage that just compensates them for their loss of time--wood-carver maier, who plays the christ, only receives about fifty pounds for the whole of the thirty or so performances given during the season, to say nothing of the winter's rehearsals--is put aside, part for the temporal benefit of the community, and the rest for the benefit of the church. from burgomaster down to shepherd lad, from the mary and the jesus down to the meanest super, all work for the love of their religion, not for money. each one feels that he is helping forward the cause of christianity." "and i could also speak," i add, "of grand old daisenberger, the gentle, simple old priest, 'the father of the valley,' who now lies in silence among his children that he loved so well. it was he, you know, that shaped the rude burlesque of a coarser age into the impressive reverential drama that we saw yesterday. that is a portrait of him over the bed. what a plain, homely, good face it is! how pleasant, how helpful it is to come across a good face now and then! i do not mean a sainted face, suggestive of stained glass and marble tombs, but a rugged human face that has had the grit, and rain, and sunshine of life rubbed into it, and that has gained its expression, not by looking up with longing at the stars, but by looking down with eyes full of laughter and love at the human things around it." "yes," assented b. "you can put in that if you like. there is no harm in it. and then you can go on to speak of the play itself, and give your impressions concerning it. never mind their being silly. they will be all the better for that. silly remarks are generally more interesting than sensible ones." "but what is the use of saying anything about it at all?" i urge. "the merest school-boy must know all about the ober-ammergau passion play by this time." "what has that to do with you?" answers b. "you are not writing for cultured school-boys. you are writing for mere simple men and women. they will be glad of a little information on the subject, and then when the schoolboy comes home for his holiday they will be able, so far as this topic, at all events, is concerned, to converse with him on his own level and not appear stupid. "come," he says, kindly, trying to lead me on, "what did you think about it?" "well," i reply, after musing for a while, "i think that a play of eighteen acts and some forty scenes, which commences at eight o'clock in the morning, and continues, with an interval of an hour and a half for dinner, until six o'clock in the evening, is too long. i think the piece wants cutting. about a third of it is impressive and moving, and what the earnest student of the drama at home is for ever demanding that a play should be--namely, elevating; but i consider that the other two-thirds are tiresome." "quite so," answers b. "but then we must remember that the performance is not intended as an entertainment, but as a religious service. to criticise any part of it as uninteresting, is like saying that half the bible might very well have been omitted, and that the whole story could have been told in a third of the space." tuesday, the th--continued we talk on.--an argument.--the story that transformed the world. "and now, as to the right or wrong of the performance as a whole. do you see any objection to the play from a religious point of view?" "no," i reply, "i do not; nor do i understand how anybody else, and least of all a really believing christian, can either. to argue as some do, that christianity should be treated as a sacred mystery, is to argue against the whole scheme of christianity. it was christ himself that rent the veil of the temple, and brought religion down into the streets and market-places of the world. christ was a common man. he lived a common life, among common men and women. he died a common death. his own methods of teaching were what a saturday reviewer, had he to deal with the case, would undoubtedly term vulgar. the roots of christianity are planted deep down in the very soil of life, amid all that is commonplace, and mean, and petty, and everyday. its strength lies in its simplicity, its homely humanness. it has spread itself through the world by speaking to the hearts, rather than to the heads of men. if it is still to live and grow, it must be helped along by such methods as these peasant players of ober-ammergau employ, not by high-class essays and the learned discussions of the cultured. "the crowded audience that sat beside us in the theatre yesterday saw christ of nazareth nearer than any book, however inspired, could bring him to them; clearer than any words, however eloquent, could show him. they saw the sorrow of his patient face. they heard his deep tones calling to them. they saw him in the hour of his so-called triumph, wending his way through the narrow streets of jerusalem, the multitude that thronged round him waving their branches of green palms and shouting loud hosannas. "what a poor scene of triumph!--a poor-clad, pale-faced man, mounted upon the back of a shuffling, unwilling little grey donkey, passing slowly through the byways of a city, busy upon other things. beside him, a little band of worn, anxious men, clad in thread-bare garments--fishermen, petty clerks, and the like; and, following, a noisy rabble, shouting, as crowds in all lands and in all times shout, and as dogs bark, they know not why--because others are shouting, or barking. and that scene marks the highest triumph won while he lived on earth by the village carpenter of galilee, about whom the world has been fighting and thinking and talking so hard for the last eighteen hundred years. "they saw him, angry and indignant, driving out the desecrators from the temple. they saw the rabble, who a few brief moments before had followed him, shouting 'hosanna,' slinking away from him to shout with his foes. "they saw the high priests in their robes of white, with the rabbis and doctors, all the great and learned in the land, sitting late into the night beneath the vaulted roof of the sanhedrin's council-hall, plotting his death. "they saw him supping with his disciples in the house of simon. they saw poor, loving mary magdalen wash his feet with costly ointment, that might have been sold for three hundred pence, and the money given to the poor--'and us.' judas was so thoughtful for the poor, so eager that other people should sell all they had, and give the money to the poor--'and us.' methinks that, even in this nineteenth century, one can still hear from many a tub and platform the voice of judas, complaining of all waste, and pleading for the poor--'and us.' "they were present at the parting of mary and jesus by bethany, and it will be many a day before the memory of that scene ceases to vibrate in their hearts. it is the scene that brings the humanness of the great tragedy most closely home to us. jesus is going to face sorrow and death at jerusalem. mary's instinct tells her that this is so, and she pleads to him to stay. "poor mary! to others he is the christ, the saviour of mankind, setting forth upon his mighty mission to redeem the world. to loving mary mother, he is her son: the baby she has suckled at her breast, the little one she has crooned to sleep upon her lap, whose little cheek has lain against her heart, whose little feet have made sweet music through the poor home at bethany: he is her boy, her child; she would wrap her mother's arms around him and hold him safe against all the world, against even heaven itself. "never, in any human drama, have i witnessed a more moving scene than this. never has the voice of any actress (and i have seen some of the greatest, if any great ones are living) stirred my heart as did the voice of rosa lang, the burgomaster's daughter. it was not the voice of one woman, it was the voice of motherdom, gathered together from all the world over. "oliver wendell holmes, in _the autocrat of the breakfast table_, i think, confesses to having been bewitched at different times by two women's voices, and adds that both these voices belonged to german women. i am not surprised at either statement of the good doctor's. i am sure if a man did fall in love with a voice, he would find, on tracing it to its source, that it was the voice of some homely-looking german woman. i have never heard such exquisite soul-drawing music in my life, as i have more than once heard float from the lips of some sweet-faced german fraulein when she opened her mouth to speak. the voice has been so pure, so clear, so deep, so full of soft caressing tenderness, so strong to comfort, so gentle to soothe, it has seemed like one of those harmonies musicians tell us that they dream of, but can never chain to earth. "as i sat in the theatre, listening to the wondrous tones of this mountain peasant-woman, rising and falling like the murmur of a sea, filling the vast sky-covered building with their yearning notes, stirring like a great wind stirs aeolian strings, the thousands of trembling hearts around her, it seemed to me that i was indeed listening to the voice of the 'mother of the world,' of mother nature herself. "they saw him, as they had often seen him in pictures, sitting for the last time with his disciples at supper. but yesterday they saw him, not a mute, moveless figure, posed in conventional, meaningless attitude, but a living, loving man, sitting in fellowship with the dear friends that against all the world had believed in him, and had followed his poor fortunes, talking with them for the last sweet time, comforting them. "they heard him bless the bread and wine that they themselves to this day take in remembrance of him. "they saw his agony in the garden of gethsemane, the human shrinking from the cup of pain. they saw the false friend, judas, betray him with a kiss. (alas! poor judas! he loved jesus, in a way, like the rest did. it was only his fear of poverty that made him betray his master. he was so poor--he wanted the money so badly! we cry out in horror against judas. let us pray rather that we are never tempted to do a shameful action for a few pieces of silver. the fear of poverty ever did, and ever will, make scamps of men. we would like to be faithful, and noble, and just, only really times are so bad that we cannot afford it! as becky sharp says, it is so easy to be good and noble on five thousand a year, so very hard to be it on the mere five. if judas had only been a well-to-do man, he might have been saint judas this day, instead of cursed judas. he was not bad. he had only one failing--the failing that makes the difference between a saint and a villain, all the world over--he was a coward; he was afraid of being poor.) "they saw him, pale and silent, dragged now before the priests of his own countrymen, and now before the roman governor, while the voice of the people--the people who had cried 'hosanna' to him--shouted 'crucify him! crucify him!' they saw him bleeding from the crown of thorns. they saw him, still followed by the barking mob, sink beneath the burden of his cross. they saw the woman wipe the bloody sweat from off his face. they saw the last, long, silent look between the mother and the son, as, journeying upward to his death, he passed her in the narrow way through which he once had ridden in brief-lived triumph. they heard her low sob as she turned away, leaning on mary magdalen. they saw him nailed upon the cross between the thieves. they saw the blood start from his side. they heard his last cry to his god. they saw him rise victorious over death. "few believing christians among the vast audience but must have passed out from that strange playhouse with their belief and love strengthened. the god of the christian, for his sake, became a man, and lived and suffered and died as a man; and, as a man, living, suffering, dying among other men, he had that day seen him. "the man of powerful imagination needs no aid from mimicry, however excellent, however reverent, to unroll before him in its simple grandeur the great tragedy on which the curtain fell at calvary some eighteen and a half centuries ago. "a cultivated mind needs no story of human suffering to win or hold it to a faith. "but the imaginative and cultured are few and far between, and the peasants of ober-ammergau can plead, as their master himself once pleaded, that they seek not to help the learned but the lowly. "the unbeliever, also, passes out into the village street full of food for thought. the rude sermon preached in this hillside temple has shown to him, clearer than he could have seen before, the secret wherein lies the strength of christianity; the reason why, of all the faiths that nature has taught to her children to help them in their need, to satisfy the hunger of their souls, this faith, born by the sea of galilee, has spread the farthest over the world, and struck its note the deepest into human life. not by his doctrines, not even by his promises, has christ laid hold upon the hearts of men, but by the story of his life." tuesday, the th--continued we discuss the performance.--a marvellous piece of workmanship.--the adam family.--some living groups.--the chief performers.--a good man, but a bad judas.--where the histrionic artist grows wild.--an alarm! "and what do you think of the performance _as_ a performance?" asks b. "oh, as to that," i reply, "i think what everyone who has seen the play must think, that it is a marvellous piece of workmanship. "experienced professional stage-managers, with all the tricks and methods of the theatre at their fingers' ends, find it impossible, out of a body of men and women born and bred in the atmosphere of the playhouse, to construct a crowd that looks like anything else except a nervous group of broken-down paupers waiting for soup. "at ober-ammergau a few village priests and representative householders, who have probably never, any one of them, been inside the walls of a theatre in their lives, dealing with peasants who have walked straight upon the stage from their carving benches and milking-stools, produce swaying multitudes and clamouring mobs and dignified assemblages, so natural and truthful, so realistic of the originals they represent, that you feel you want to leap upon the stage and strangle them. "it shows that earnestness and effort can very easily overtake and pass mere training and technical skill. the object of the ober-ammergau 'super' is, not to get outside and have a drink, but to help forward the success of the drama. "the groupings, both in the scenes of the play itself and in the various tableaux that precede each act, are such as i doubt if any artist could improve upon. the tableau showing the life of adam and eve after their expulsion from eden makes a beautiful picture. father adam, stalwart and sunbrowned, clad in sheepskins, rests for a moment from his delving, to wipe the sweat from his brow. eve, still looking fair and happy--though i suppose she ought not to,--sits spinning and watching the children playing at 'helping father.' the chorus from each side of the stage explained to us that this represented a scene of woe, the result of sin; but it seemed to me that the adam family were very contented, and i found myself wondering, in my common, earthly way, whether, with a little trouble to draw them closer together, and some honest work to keep them from getting into mischief, adam and eve were not almost better off than they would have been mooning about paradise with nothing to do but talk. "in the tableau representing the return of the spies from canaan, some four or five hundred men, women and children are most effectively massed. the feature of the foreground is the sample bunch of grapes, borne on the shoulders of two men, which the spies have brought back with them from the promised land. the sight of this bunch of grapes, we are told, astonished the children of israel. i can quite understand its doing so. the picture of it used to astonish me, too, when _i_ was a child. "the scene of christ's entry into jerusalem surrounded by the welcoming multitude, is a wonderful reproduction of life and movement, and so also is the scene, towards the end, showing his last journey up to calvary. all jerusalem seems to have turned out to see him pass and to follow him, the many laughing, the few sad. the people fill the narrow streets to overflowing, and press round the spears of the roman guard. "they throng the steps and balconies of every house, they strain to catch a sight of christ above each other's heads. they leap up on each other's backs to gain a better vantage-ground from which to hurl their jeers at him. they jostle irreverently against their priests. each individual man, woman, and child on the stage acts, and acts in perfect harmony with all the rest. "of the chief members of the cast--maier, the gentle and yet kingly christ; burgomaster lang, the stern, revengeful high priest; his daughter rosa, the sweet-faced, sweet-voiced virgin; rendl, the dignified, statesman-like pilate; peter rendl, the beloved john, with the purest and most beautiful face i have ever seen upon a man; old peter hett, the rugged, loving, weak friend, peter; rutz, the leader of the chorus (no sinecure, his post); and amalie deschler, the magdalen--it would be difficult to speak in terms of too high praise. themselves mere peasants--there are those two women again, spying round our door; i am sure of it!" i exclaim, breaking off, and listening to the sounds that come from the next room. "i wish they would go downstairs; i am beginning to get quite nervous." "oh, i don't think we need worry," answers b. "they are quite old ladies, both of them. i met them on the stairs yesterday. i am sure they look harmless enough." "well, i don't know," i reply. "we are all by ourselves, you know. nearly everyone in the village is at the theatre, i wish we had got a dog." b. reassures me, however, and i continue: "themselves mere peasants," i repeat, "they represent some of the greatest figures in the world's history with as simple a dignity and as grand a bearing as could ever have been expected from the originals themselves. there must be a natural inborn nobility in the character of these highlanders. they could never assume or act that manner _au grand seigneur_ with which they imbue their parts. "the only character poorly played was that of judas. the part of judas is really _the_ part of the piece, so far as acting is concerned; but the exemplary householder who essayed it seemed to have no knowledge or experience of the ways and methods of bad men. there seemed to be no side of his character sufficiently in sympathy with wickedness to enable him to understand and portray it. his amateur attempts at scoundrelism quite irritated me. it sounds conceited to say so, but i am convinced i could have given a much more truthful picture of the blackguard myself. "'dear, dear me,' i kept on saying under my breath, 'he is doing it all wrong. a downright unmitigated villain would never go on like that; he would do so and so, he would look like this, and speak like that, and act like the other. i know he would. my instinct tells me so.' "this actor was evidently not acquainted with even the rudiments of knavery. i wanted to get up and instruct him in them. i felt that there were little subtleties of rascaldom, little touches of criminality, that i could have put that man up to, which would have transformed his judas from woodenness into breathing life. as it was, with no one in the village apparently who was worth his salt as a felon to teach him, his performance was unconvincing, and judas became a figure to laugh rather than to shudder at. "with that exception, the whole company, from maier down to the donkey, seemed to be fitted to their places like notes into a master's melody. it would appear as though, on the banks of the ammer, the histrionic artist grew wild." "they are real actors, all of them," murmurs b. enthusiastically, "the whole village full; and they all live happily together in one small valley, and never try to kill each other. it is marvellous!" at this point, we hear a sharp knock at the door that separates the before-mentioned ladies' room from our own. we both start and turn pale, and then look at each other. b. is the first to recover his presence of mind. eliminating, by a strong effort, all traces of nervousness from his voice, he calls out in a tone of wonderful coolness: "yes, what is it?" "are you in bed?" comes a voice from the other side of the door. "yes," answers b. "why?" "oh! sorry to disturb you, but we shall be so glad when you get up. we can't go downstairs without coming through your room. this is the only door. we have been waiting here for two hours, and our train goes at three." great scott! so that is why the poor old souls have been hanging round the door, terrifying us out of our lives. "all right, we'll be out in five minutes. so sorry. why didn't you call out before?" friday, th, or saturday, i am not sure which troubles of a tourist agent.--his views on tourists.--the english woman abroad.--and at home.--the ugliest cathedral in europe.--old masters and new.--victual-and-drink-scapes.--the german band.--a "beer garden."--not the women to turn a man's head.--difficulty of dining to music.--why one should keep one's mug shut. i think myself it is saturday. b. says it is only friday; but i am positive i have had three cold baths since we left ober-ammergau, which we did on wednesday morning. if it is only friday, then i have had two morning baths in one day. anyhow, we shall know to-morrow by the shops being open or shut. we travelled from oberau with a tourist agent, and he told us all his troubles. it seems that a tourist agent is an ordinary human man, and has feelings just like we have. this had never occurred to me before. i told him so. "no," he replied, "it never does occur to you tourists. you treat us as if we were mere providence, or even the government itself. if all goes well, you say, what is the good of us, contemptuously; and if things go wrong, you say, what is the good of us, indignantly. i work sixteen hours a day to fix things comfortably for you, and you cannot even look satisfied; while if a train is late, or a hotel proprietor overcharges, you come and bully _me_ about it. if i see after you, you mutter that i am officious; and if i leave you alone, you grumble that i am neglectful. you swoop down in your hundreds upon a tiny village like ober-ammergau without ever letting us know even that you are coming, and then threaten to write to the _times_ because there is not a suite of apartments and a hot dinner waiting ready for each of you. "you want the best lodgings in the place, and then, when at a tremendous cost of trouble, they have been obtained for you, you object to pay the price asked for them. you all try and palm yourselves off for dukes and duchesses, travelling in disguise. you have none of you ever heard of a second-class railway carriage--didn't know that such things were made. you want a first-class pullman car reserved for each two of you. some of you have seen an omnibus in the distance, and have wondered what it was used for. to suggest that you should travel in such a plebeian conveyance, is to give you a shock that takes you two days to recover from. you expect a private carriage, with a footman in livery, to take you through the mountains. you, all of you, must have the most expensive places in the theatre. the eight-mark and six-mark places are every bit as good as the ten-mark seats, of which there are only a very limited number; but you are grossly insulted if it is hinted that you should sit in anything but the dearest chairs. if the villagers would only be sensible and charge you ten marks for the eight-mark places you would be happy; but they won't." i must candidly confess that the english-speaking people one meets with on the continent are, taken as a whole, a most disagreeable contingent. one hardly ever hears the english language spoken on the continent, without hearing grumbling and sneering. the women are the most objectionable. foreigners undoubtedly see the very poorest specimens of the female kind we anglo-saxons have to show. the average female english or american tourist is rude and self-assertive, while, at the same time, ridiculously helpless and awkward. she is intensely selfish, and utterly inconsiderate of others; everlastingly complaining, and, in herself, drearily uninteresting. we travelled down in the omnibus from ober-ammergau with three perfect specimens of the species, accompanied by the usual miserable-looking man, who has had all the life talked out of him. they were grumbling the whole of the way at having been put to ride in an omnibus. it seemed that they had never been so insulted in their lives before, and they took care to let everybody in the vehicle know that they had paid for first-class, and that at home they kept their own carriage. they were also very indignant because the people at the house where they had lodged had offered to shake hands with them at parting. they did not come to ober-ammergau to be treated on terms of familiarity by german peasants, they said. there are many women in the world who are in every way much better than angels. they are gentle and gracious, and generous and kind, and unselfish and good, in spite of temptations and trials to which mere angels are never subjected. and there are also many women in the world who, under the clothes, and not unfrequently under the title of a lady, wear the heart of an underbred snob. having no natural dignity, they think to supply its place with arrogance. they mistake noisy bounce for self-possession, and supercilious rudeness as the sign of superiority. they encourage themselves in sleepy stupidity under the impression that they are acquiring aristocratic "repose." they would appear to have studied "attitude" from the pages of the _london journal_, coquetry from barmaids--the commoner class of barmaids, i mean--wit from three-act farces, and manners from the servants'-hall. to be gushingly fawning to those above them, and vulgarly insolent to everyone they consider below them, is their idea of the way to hold and improve their position, whatever it may be, in society; and to be brutally indifferent to the rights and feelings of everybody else in the world is, in their opinion, the hall-mark of gentle birth. they are the women you see at private views, pushing themselves in front of everybody else, standing before the picture so that no one can get near it, and shouting out their silly opinions, which they evidently imagine to be brilliantly satirical remarks, in strident tones: the women who, in the stalls of the theatre, talk loudly all through the performance; and who, having arrived in the middle of the first act, and made as much disturbance as they know how, before settling down in their seats, ostentatiously get up and walk out before the piece is finished: the women who, at dinner-party and "at home"--that cheapest and most deadly uninteresting of all deadly uninteresting social functions--(you know the receipt for a fashionable "at home," don't you? take five hundred people, two-thirds of whom do not know each other, and the other third of whom cordially dislike each other, pack them, on a hot day, into a room capable of accommodating forty, leave them there to bore one another to death for a couple of hours with drawing-room philosophy and second-hand scandal; then give them a cup of weak tea, and a piece of crumbly cake, without any plate to eat it on; or, if it is an evening affair, a glass of champagne of the you-don't-forget-you've-had-it-for-a-week brand, and a ham-sandwich, and put them out into the street again)--can do nothing but make spiteful remarks about everybody whose name and address they happen to know: the women who, in the penny 'bus (for, in her own country, the lady of the new school is wonderfully economical and business-like), spreads herself out over the seat, and, looking indignant when a tired little milliner gets in, would leave the poor girl standing with her bundle for an hour, rather than make room for her--the women who write to the papers to complain that chivalry is dead! b., who has been looking over my shoulder while i have been writing the foregoing, after the manner of a _family herald_ story-teller's wife in the last chapter (fancy a man having to write the story of his early life and adventures with his wife looking over his shoulder all the time! no wonder the tales lack incident), says that i have been living too much on sauerkraut and white wine; but i reply that if anything has tended to interfere for a space with the deep-seated love and admiration that, as a rule, i entertain for all man and woman-kind, it is his churches and picture-galleries. we have seen enough churches and pictures since our return to munich to last me for a very long while. i shall not go to church, when i get home again, more than twice a sunday, for months to come. the inhabitants of munich boast that their cathedral is the ugliest in europe; and, judging from appearances, i am inclined to think that the claim must be admitted. anyhow, if there be an uglier one, i hope i am feeling well and strong when i first catch sight of it. as for pictures and sculptures, i am thoroughly tired of them. the greatest art critic living could not dislike pictures and sculptures more than i do at this moment. we began by spending a whole morning in each gallery. we examined each picture critically, and argued with each other about its "form" and "colour" and "treatment" and "perspective" and "texture" and "atmosphere." i generally said it was flat, and b. that it was out of drawing. a stranger overhearing our discussions would have imagined that we knew something about painting. we would stand in front of a canvas for ten minutes, drinking it in. we would walk round it, so as to get the proper light upon it and to better realise the artist's aim. we would back away from it on to the toes of the people behind, until we reached the correct "distance," and then sit down and shade our eyes, and criticise it from there; and then we would go up and put our noses against it, and examine the workmanship in detail. this is how we used to look at pictures in the early stages of our munich art studies. now we use picture galleries to practise spurts in. i did a hundred yards this morning through the old pantechnicon in twenty-two and a half seconds, which, for fair heel-and-toe walking, i consider very creditable. b. took five-eighths of a second longer for the same distance; but then he dawdled to look at a raphael. the "pantechnicon," i should explain, is the name we have, for our own purposes, given to what the munichers prefer to call the pinakothek. we could never pronounce pinakothek properly. we called it "pynniosec," "pintactec," and the "happy tack." b. one day after dinner called it the "penny cock," and then we both got frightened, and agreed to fix up some sensible, practical name for it before any mischief was done. we finally decided on "pantechnicon," which begins with a "p," and is a dignified, old-established name, and one that we can both pronounce. it is quite as long, and nearly as difficult to spell, before you know how, as the other, added to which it has a homely sound. it seemed to be the very word. the old pantechnicon is devoted to the works of the old masters; i shall not say anything about these, as i do not wish to disturb in any way the critical opinion that europe has already formed concerning them. i prefer that the art schools of the world should judge for themselves in the matter. i will merely remark here, for purposes of reference, that i thought some of the pictures very beautiful, and that others i did not care for. what struck me as most curious about the exhibition was the number of canvases dealing with food stuffs. twenty-five per cent. of the pictures in the place seem to have been painted as advertisements for somebody's home-grown seeds, or as coloured supplements to be given away with the summer number of the leading gardening journal of the period. "what could have induced these old fellows," i said to b., "to choose such very uninteresting subjects? who on earth cares to look at the life-sized portrait of a cabbage and a peck of peas, or at these no doubt masterly representations of a cut from the joint with bread and vegetables? look at that 'view in a ham-and-beef shop,' no. , size sixty feet by forty. it must have taken the artist a couple of years to paint. who did he expect was going to buy it? and that christmas-hamper scene over in the corner; was it painted, do you think, by some poor, half-starved devil, who thought he would have something to eat in the house, if it were only a picture of it?" b. said he thought that the explanation was that the ancient patrons of art were gentry with a very strong idea of the fitness of things. for "their churches and cathedrals," said b., "they had painted all those virgins and martyrs and over-fed angels that you see everywhere about europe. for their bedrooms, they ordered those--well, those bedroom sort of pictures, that you may have noticed here and there; and then i expect they used these victual-and-drink-scapes for their banqueting halls. it must have been like a gin-and-bitters to them, the sight of all that food." in the new pantechnicon is exhibited the modern art of germany. this appeared to me to be exceedingly poor stuff. it seemed to belong to the illustrated christmas number school of art. it was good, sound, respectable work enough. there was plenty of colour about it, and you could tell what everything was meant for. but there seemed no imagination, no individuality, no thought, anywhere. each picture looked as though it could have been produced by anyone who had studied and practised art for the requisite number of years, and who was not a born fool. at all events, this is my opinion; and, as i know nothing whatever about art, i speak without prejudice. one thing i have enjoyed at munich very much, and that has been the music. the german band that you hear in the square in london while you are trying to compose an essay on the civilising influence of music, is not the sort of band that you hear in germany. the german bands that come to london are bands that have fled from germany, in order to save their lives. in germany, these bands would be slaughtered at the public expense and their bodies given to the poor for sausages. the bands that the germans keep for themselves are magnificent bands. munich of all places in the now united fatherland, has, i suppose, the greatest reputation for its military bands, and the citizens are allowed, not only to pay for them, but to hear them. two or three times a day in different parts of the city one or another of them will be playing _pro bono publico_, and, in the evening, they are loaned out by the authorities to the proprietors of the big beer-gardens. "go" and dash are the chief characteristics of their method; but, when needed, they can produce from the battered, time-worn trumpets, which have been handed down from player to player since the regiment was first formed, notes as soft and full and clear as any that could start from the strings of some old violin. the german band in germany has to know its business to be listened to by a german audience. the bavarian artisan or shopkeeper understands and appreciates good music, as he understands and appreciates good beer. you cannot impose upon him with an inferior article. a music-hall audience in munich are very particular as to how their beloved wagner is rendered, and the trifles from mozart and haydn that they love to take in with their sausages and salad, and which, when performed to their satisfaction, they will thunderously applaud, must not be taken liberties with, or they will know the reason why. the german beer-garden should be visited by everyone who would see the german people as well as their churches and castles. it is here that the workers of all kinds congregate in the evening. here, after the labours of the day, come the tradesman with his wife and family, the young clerk with his betrothed and--also her mother, alack and well-a-day!--the soldier with his sweetheart, the students in twos and threes, the little grisette with her cousin, the shop-boy and the workman. here come grey-haired darby and joan, and, over the mug of beer they share between them, they sit thinking of the children--of little lisa, married to clever karl, who is pushing his way in the far-off land that lies across the great sea; of laughing elsie, settled in hamburg, who has grandchildren of her own now; of fair-haired franz, his mother's pet, who fell in sunny france, fighting for the fatherland. at the next table sits a blushing, happy little maid, full of haughty airs and graces, such as may be excused to a little maid who has just saved a no doubt promising, but at present somewhat awkward-looking, youth from lifelong misery, if not madness and suicide (depend upon it, that is the alternative he put before her), by at last condescending to give him the plump little hand, that he, thinking nobody sees him, holds so tightly beneath the table-cloth. opposite, a family group sit discussing omelettes and a bottle of white wine. the father contented, good-humoured, and laughing; the small child grave and solemn, eating and drinking in business-like fashion; the mother smiling at both, yet not forgetting to eat. i think one would learn to love these german women if one lived among them for long. there is something so sweet, so womanly, so genuine about them. they seem to shed around them, from their bright, good-tempered faces, a healthy atmosphere of all that is homely, and simple, and good. looking into their quiet, steadfast eyes, one dreams of white household linen, folded in great presses; of sweet-smelling herbs; of savoury, appetising things being cooked for supper; of bright-polished furniture; of the patter of tiny feet; of little high-pitched voices, asking silly questions; of quiet talks in the lamp-lit parlour after the children are in bed, upon important questions of house management and home politics, while long stockings are being darned. they are not the sort of women to turn a man's head, but they are the sort of women to lay hold of a man's heart--very gently at first, so that he hardly knows that they have touched it, and then, with soft, clinging tendrils that wrap themselves tighter and tighter year by year around it, and draw him closer and closer--till, as, one by one, the false visions and hot passions of his youth fade away, the plain homely figure fills more and more his days--till it grows to mean for him all the better, more lasting, true part of life--till he feels that the strong, gentle mother-nature that has stood so long beside him has been welded firmly into his own, and that they twain are now at last one finished whole. we had our dinner at a beer-garden the day before yesterday. we thought it would be pleasant to eat and drink to the accompaniment of music, but we found that in practice this was not so. to dine successfully to music needs a very strong digestion--especially in bavaria. the band that performs at a munich beer-garden is not the sort of band that can be ignored. the members of a munich military band are big, broad-chested fellows, and they are not afraid of work. they do not talk much, and they never whistle. they keep all their breath to do their duty with. they do not blow their very hardest, for fear of bursting their instruments; but whatever pressure to the square inch the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be, is calculated to be capable of sustaining without permanent injury (and they are tolerably sound and well-seasoned utensils), that pressure the conscientious german bandsman puts upon each square inch of the trumpet, cornet, or trombone, as the case may be. if you are within a mile of a munich military band, and are not stone deaf, you listen to it, and do not think of much else. it compels your attention by its mere noise; it dominates your whole being by its sheer strength. your mind has to follow it as the feet of the little children followed the playing of the pied piper. whatever you do, you have to do in unison with the band. all through our meal we had to keep time with the music. we ate our soup to slow waltz time, with the result that every spoonful was cold before we got it up to our mouth. just as the fish came, the band started a quick polka, and the consequence of that was that we had not time to pick out the bones. we gulped down white wine to the "blacksmith's galop," and if the tune had lasted much longer we should both have been blind drunk. with the advent of our steaks, the band struck up a selection from wagner. i know of no modern european composer so difficult to eat beefsteak to as wagner. that we did not choke ourselves is a miracle. wagner's orchestration is most trying to follow. we had to give up all idea of mustard. b. tried to eat a bit of bread with his steak, and got most hopelessly out of tune. i am afraid i was a little flat myself during the "valkyries' ride." my steak was rather underdone, and i could not work it quickly enough. after getting outside hard beefsteak to wagner, putting away potato salad to the garden music out of _faust_ was comparatively simple. once or twice a slice of potato stuck in our throat during a very high note, but, on the whole, our rendering was fairly artistic. we rattled off a sweet omelette to a symphony in g--or f, or else k; i won't be positive as to the precise letter; but it was something in the alphabet, i know--and bolted our cheese to the ballet music from _carmen_. after which we rolled about in agonies to all the national airs of europe. if ever you visit a german beer-hall or garden--to study character or anything of that kind--be careful, when you have finished drinking your beer, to shut the cover of the mug down tight. if you leave it with the cover standing open, that is taken as a sign that you want more beer, and the girl snatches it away and brings it back refilled. b. and i very nearly had an accident one warm night, owing to our ignorance of this custom. each time after we had swallowed the quart, we left the pot, standing before us with the cover up, and each time it was, in consequence, taken away, and brought back to us, brimming full again. after about the sixth time, we gently remonstrated. "this is very kind of you, my good girl," b. said, "but really i don't think we _can_. i don't think we ought to. you must not go on doing this sort of thing. we will drink this one now that you have brought it, but we really must insist on its being the last." after about the tenth time we expostulated still more strongly. "now, you know what i told you four quarts ago!" remarked b., severely. "this can't go on for ever. something serious will be happening. we are not used to your german school of drinking. we are only foreigners. in our own country we are considered rather swagger at this elbow-raising business, and for the credit of old england we have done our best. but now there must be an end to it. i simply decline to drink any more. no, do not press me. not even another gallon!" "but you both sit there with both your mugs open," replies the girl in an injured tone. "what do you mean, 'we sit with our mugs open'?" asks b. "can't we have our mugs open if we like?" "ah, yes," she explains pathetically; "but then i think you want more beer. gentlemen always open their mugs when they want them filled with beer." we kept our mugs shut after that. monday, june th a long chapter, but happily the last.--the pilgrims' return.--a deserted town.--heidelberg.--the common, or bed, sheet, considered as a towel.--b. grapples with a continental time table.--an untractable train.--a quick run.--trains that start from nowhere.--trains that arrive at nowhere.--trains that don't do anything.--b. goes mad.--railway travelling in germany.--b. is taken prisoner.--his fortitude.--advantages of ignorance.--first impressions of germany and of the germans. we are at ostend. our pilgrimage has ended. we sail for dover in three hours' time. the wind seems rather fresh, but they say that it will drop towards the evening. i hope they are not deceiving us. we are disappointed with ostend. we thought that ostend would be gay and crowded. we thought that there would be bands and theatres and concerts, and busy table-d'hotes, and lively sands, and thronged parades, and pretty girls at ostend. i bought a stick and a new pair of boots at brussels on purpose for ostend. there does not seem to be a living visitor in the place besides ourselves--nor a dead one either, that we can find. the shops are shut up, the houses are deserted, the casino is closed. notice-boards are exhibited outside the hotels to the effect that the police have strict orders to take into custody anybody found trespassing upon or damaging the premises. we found one restaurant which looked a little less like a morgue than did the other restaurants in the town, and rang the bell. after we had waited for about a quarter of an hour, an old woman answered the door, and asked us what we wanted. we said a steak and chipped potatoes for two, and a couple of lagers. she said would we call again in about a fortnight's time, when the family would be at home? she did not herself know where the things were kept. we went down on to the sands this morning. we had not been walking up and down for more than half an hour before we came across the distinct imprint of a human foot. someone must have been there this very day! we were a good deal alarmed. we could not imagine how he came there. the weather is too fine for shipwrecks, and it was not a part of the coast where any passing trader would be likely to land. besides, if anyone has landed, where is he? we have been able to find no trace of him whatever. to this hour, we have never discovered who our strange visitant was. it is a very mysterious affair, and i am glad we are going away. we have been travelling about a good deal since we left munich. we went first to heidelberg. we arrived early in the morning at heidelberg, after an all-night journey, and the first thing that the proprietor of the royal suggested, on seeing us, was that we should have a bath. we consented to the operation, and were each shown into a little marble bath-room, in which i felt like a bit out of a picture by alma tadema. the bath was very refreshing; but i should have enjoyed the whole thing much better if they had provided me with something more suitable to wipe upon than a thin linen sheet. the germans hold very curious notions as to the needs and requirements of a wet man. i wish they would occasionally wash and bath themselves, and then they would, perhaps, obtain more practical ideas upon the subject. i have wiped upon a sheet in cases of emergency, and so i have upon a pair of socks; but there is no doubt that the proper thing is a towel. to dry oneself upon a sheet needs special training and unusual agility. a nautch girl or a dancing dervish would, no doubt, get through the performance with credit. they would twirl the sheet gracefully round their head, draw it lightly across their back, twist it in waving folds round their legs, wrap themselves for a moment in its whirling maze, and then lightly skip away from it, dry and smiling. but that is not the manner in which the dripping, untaught briton attempts to wipe himself upon a sheet. the method he adopts is, to clutch the sheet with both hands, lean up against the wall, and rub himself with it. in trying to get the thing round to the back of him, he drops half of it into the water, and from that moment the bathroom is not big enough to enable him to get away for an instant from that wet half. when he is wiping the front of himself with the dry half, the wet half climbs round behind, and, in a spirit of offensive familiarity, slaps him on the back. while he is stooping down rubbing his feet, it throws itself with delirious joy around his head, and he is black in the face before he can struggle away from its embrace. when he is least expecting anything of the kind, it flies round and gives him a playful flick upon some particularly tender part of his body that sends him springing with a yell ten feet up into the air. the great delight of the sheet, as a whole, is to trip him up whenever he attempts to move, so as to hear what he says when he sits down suddenly on the stone floor; and if it can throw him into the bath again just as he has finished wiping himself, it feels that life is worth living after all. we spent two days at heidelberg, climbing the wooded mountains that surround that pleasant little town, and that afford, from their restaurant or ruin-crowned summits, enchanting, far-stretching views, through which, with many a turn and twist, the distant rhine and nearer neckar wind; or strolling among the crumbling walls and arches of the grand, history-logged wreck that was once the noblest castle in all germany. we stood in awed admiration before the "great tun," which is the chief object of interest in heidelberg. what there is of interest in the sight of a big beer-barrel it is difficult, in one's calmer moments, to understand; but the guide book says that it is a thing to be seen, and so all we tourists go and stand in a row and gape at it. we are a sheep-headed lot. if, by a printer's error, no mention were made in the guide book of the colosseum, we should spend a month in rome, and not think it worth going across the road to look at. if the guide book says we must by no means omit to pay a visit to some famous pincushion that contains eleven million pins, we travel five hundred miles on purpose to see it! from heidelberg we went to darmstadt. we spent half-an-hour at darmstadt. why we ever thought of stopping longer there, i do not know. it is a pleasant enough town to live in, i should say; but utterly uninteresting to the stranger. after one walk round it, we made inquiries as to the next train out of it, and being informed that one was then on the point of starting, we tumbled into it and went to bonn. from bonn (whence we made one or two rhine excursions, and where we ascended twenty-eight "blessed steps" on our knees--the chapel people called them "blessed steps;" _we_ didn't, after the first fourteen) we returned to cologne. from cologne we went to brussels; from brussels to ghent (where we saw more famous pictures, and heard the mighty "roland" ring "o'er lagoon and lake of sand"). from ghent we went to bruges (where i had the satisfaction of throwing a stone at the statue of simon stevin, who added to the miseries of my school-days, by inventing decimals), and from bruges we came on here. finding out and arranging our trains has been a fearful work. i have left the whole business with b., and he has lost two stone over it. i used to think at one time that my own dear native bradshaw was a sufficiently hard nut for the human intellect to crack; or, to transpose the simile, that bradshaw was sufficient to crack an ordinary human nut. but dear old bradshaw is an axiom in euclid for stone-wall obviousness, compared with a through continental time-table. every morning b. has sat down with the book before him, and, grasping his head between his hands, has tried to understand it without going mad. "here we are," he has said. "this is the train that will do for us. leaves munich at . ; gets to heidelberg at --just in time for a cup of tea." "gets to heidelberg at ?" i exclaim. "does the whole distance in two and a quarter hours? why, we were all night coming down!" "well, there you are," he says, pointing to the time-table. "munich, depart . ; heidelberg, arrive ." "yes," i say, looking over his shoulder; "but don't you see the is in thick type? that means in the morning." "oh, ah, yes," he replies. "i never noticed that. yes, of course. no! it can't be that either. why, that would make the journey fourteen hours. it can't take fourteen hours. no, of course not. that's not meant for thick type, that . that's thin type got a little thick, that's all." "well, it can't be this afternoon," i argue. "it must be to-morrow afternoon! that's just what a german express train would like to do--take a whole day over a six hours' job!" he puzzles for a while, and then breaks out with: "oh! i see it now. how stupid of me! that train that gets to heidelberg at comes from berlin." he seemed quite delighted with this discovery. "what's the good of it to us, then?" i ask. that depresses him. "no, it is not much good, i'm afraid," he agrees. "it seems to go straight from berlin to heidelberg without stopping at munich at all. well then, where does the . go to? it must go somewhere." five minutes more elapse, and then he exclaims: "drat this . ! it doesn't seem to go anywhere. munich depart . , and that's all. it must go somewhere!" apparently, however, it does not. it seems to be a train that starts out from munich at . , and goes off on the loose. possibly, it is a young, romantic train, fond of mystery. it won't say where it's going to. it probably does not even know itself. it goes off in search of adventure. "i shall start off," it says to itself, "at . punctually, and just go on anyhow, without thinking about it, and see where i get to." or maybe it is a conceited, headstrong young train. it will not be guided or advised. the traffic superintendent wants it to go to st. petersburg or to paris. the old grey-headed station-master argues with it, and tries to persuade it to go to constantinople, or even to jerusalem if it likes that better--urges it to, at all events, make up its mind where it _is_ going--warns it of the danger to young trains of having no fixed aim or object in life. other people, asked to use their influence with it, have talked to it like a father, and have begged it, for their sakes, to go to kamskatka, or timbuctoo, or jericho, according as they have thought best for it; and then, finding that it takes no notice of them, have got wild with it, and have told it to go to still more distant places. but to all counsel and entreaty it has turned a deaf ear. "you leave me alone," it has replied; "i know where i'm going to. don't you worry yourself about me. you mind your own business, all of you. i don't want a lot of old fools telling me what to do. i know what i'm about." what can be expected from such a train? the chances are that it comes to a bad end. i expect it is recognised afterwards, a broken-down, unloved, friendless, old train, wandering aimless and despised in some far-off country, musing with bitter regret upon the day when, full of foolish pride and ambition, it started from munich, with its boiler nicely oiled, at . . b. abandons this . as hopeless and incorrigible, and continues his search. "hulloa! what's this?" he exclaims. "how will this do us? leaves munich at , gets to heidelberg . . that's quick work. something wrong there. that won't do. you can't get from munich to heidelberg in a quarter of an hour. oh! i see it. that o'clock goes to brussels, and then on to heidelberg afterwards. gets in there at . to-morrow, i suppose. i wonder why it goes round by brussels, though? then it seems to stop at prague for ever so long. oh, damn this timetable!" then he finds another train that starts at . , and seems to be an ideal train. he gets quite enthusiastic over this train. "this is the train for us, old man," he says. "this is a splendid train, really. it doesn't stop anywhere." "does it _get_ anywhere?" i ask. "of course it gets somewhere," he replies indignantly. "it's an express! munich," he murmurs, tracing its course through the timetable, "depart . . first and second class only. nuremberg? no; it doesn't stop at nuremberg. wurtzburg? no. frankfort for strasburg? no. cologne, antwerp, calais? well, where does it stop? confound it! it must stop somewhere. berlin, paris, brussels, copenhagen? no. upon my soul, this is another train that does not go anywhere! it starts from munich at . , and that's all. it doesn't do anything else." it seems to be a habit of munich trains to start off in this purposeless way. apparently, their sole object is to get away from the town. they don't care where they go to; they don't care what becomes of them, so long as they escape from munich. "for heaven's sake," they say to themselves, "let us get away from this place. don't let us bother about where we shall go; we can decide that when we are once fairly outside. let's get out of munich; that's the great thing." b. begins to grow quite frightened. he says: "we shall never be able to leave this city. there are no trains out of munich at all. it's a plot to keep us here, that's what it is. we shall never be able to get away. we shall never see dear old england again!" i try to cheer him up by suggesting that perhaps it is the custom in bavaria to leave the destination of the train to the taste and fancy of the passengers. the railway authorities provide a train, and start it off at . . it is immaterial to them where it goes to. that is a question for the passengers to decide among themselves. the passengers hire the train and take it away, and there is an end of the matter, so far as the railway people are concerned. if there is any difference of opinion between the passengers, owing to some of them wishing to go to spain, while others want to get home to russia, they, no doubt, settle the matter by tossing up. b., however, refuses to entertain this theory, and says he wishes i would not talk so much when i see how harassed he is. that's all the thanks i get for trying to help him. he worries along for another five minutes, and then he discovers a train that gets to heidelberg all right, and appears to be in most respects a model train, the only thing that can be urged against it being that it does not start from anywhere. it seems to drop into heidelberg casually and then to stop there. one expects its sudden advent alarms the people at heidelberg station. they do not know what to make of it. the porter goes up to the station-master, and says: "beg pardon, sir, but there's a strange train in the station." "oh!" answers the station-master, surprised, "where did it come from?" "don't know," replies the man; "it doesn't seem to know itself." "dear me," says the station-master, "how very extraordinary! what does it want?" "doesn't seem to want anything particular," replies the other. "it's a curious sort of train. seems to be a bit dotty, if you ask me." "um," muses the station-master, "it's a rum go. well, i suppose we must let it stop here a bit now. we can hardly turn it out a night like this. oh, let it make itself comfortable in the wood-shed till the morning, and then we will see if we can find its friends." at last b. makes the discovery that to get to heidelberg we must go to darmstadt and take another train from there. this knowledge gives him renewed hope and strength, and he sets to work afresh--this time, to find trains from munich to darmstadt, and from darmstadt to heidelberg. "here we are," he cries, after a few minutes' hunting. "i've got it!" (he is of a buoyant disposition.) "this will be it. leaves munich , gets to darmstadt . . leaves darmstadt for heidelberg . , gets to--" "that doesn't allow us much time for changing, does it?" i remark. "no," he replies, growing thoughtful again. "no, that's awkward. if it were only the other way round, it would be all right, or it would do if our train got there five minutes before its time, and the other one was a little late in starting." "hardly safe to reckon on that," i suggest; and he agrees with me, and proceeds to look for some more fitable trains. it would appear, however, that all the trains from darmstadt to heidelberg start just a few minutes before the trains from munich arrive. it looks quite pointed, as though they tried to avoid us. b.'s intellect generally gives way about this point, and he becomes simply drivelling. he discovers trains that run from munich to heidelberg in fourteen minutes, by way of venice and geneva, with half-an-hour's interval for breakfast at rome. he rushes up and down the book in pursuit of demon expresses that arrive at their destinations forty-seven minutes before they start, and leave again before they get there. he finds out, all by himself, that the only way to get from south germany to paris is to go to calais, and then take the boat to moscow. before he has done with the timetable, he doesn't know whether he is in europe, asia, africa, or america, nor where he wants to get to, nor why he wants to go there. then i quietly, but firmly, take the book away from him, and dress him for going out; and we take our bags and walk to the station, and tell a porter that, "please, we want to go to heidelberg." and the porter takes us one by each hand, and leads us to a seat and tells us to sit there and be good, and that, when it is time, he will come and fetch us and put us in the train; and this he does. that is my method of finding out how to get from one place to another. it is not as dignified, perhaps, as b.'s, but it is simpler and more efficacious. it is slow work travelling in germany. the german train does not hurry or excite itself over its work, and when it stops it likes to take a rest. when a german train draws up at a station, everybody gets out and has a walk. the engine-driver and the stoker cross over and knock at the station-master's door. the station-master comes out and greets them effusively, and then runs back into the house to tell his wife that they have come, and she bustles out and also welcomes them effusively, and the four stand chatting about old times and friends and the state of the crops. after a while, the engine-driver, during a pause in the conversation, looks at his watch, and says he is afraid he must be going, but the station-master's wife won't hear of it. "oh, you must stop and see the children," she says. "they will be home from school soon, and they'll be so disappointed if they hear you have been here and gone away again. lizzie will never forgive you." the engine-driver and the stoker laugh, and say that under those circumstances they suppose they must stop; and they do so. meanwhile the booking-clerk has introduced the guard to his sister, and such a very promising flirtation has been taking place behind the ticket-office door that it would not be surprising if wedding-bells were heard in the neighbourhood before long. the second guard has gone down into the town to try and sell a dog, and the passengers stroll about the platform and smoke, or partake of a light meal in the refreshment-room--the poorer classes regaling themselves upon hot sausage, and the more dainty upon soup. when everybody appears to be sufficiently rested, a move onward is suggested by the engine-driver or the guard, and if all are agreeable to the proposal the train starts. tremendous excitement was caused during our journey between heidelberg and darmstadt by the discovery that we were travelling in an express train (they called it an "express:" it jogged along at the rate of twenty miles an hour when it could be got to move at all; most of its time it seemed to be half asleep) with slow-train tickets. the train was stopped at the next station and b. was marched off between two stern-looking gold-laced officials to explain the matter to a stern-looking gold-laced station-master, surrounded by three stern-looking gold-laced followers. the scene suggested a drum-head court-martial, and i could see that b. was nervous, though outwardly calm and brave. he shouted back a light-hearted adieu to me as he passed down the platform, and asked me, if the worst happened, to break it gently to his mother. however, no harm came of it, and he returned to the carriage without a stain upon his character, he having made it clear to the satisfaction of the court--firstly, that he did not know that our tickets were only slow-train tickets; secondly, that he was not aware that we were not travelling by a slow train; and thirdly, that he was ready to pay the difference in the fares. he blamed himself for having done this last, however, afterwards. he seemed to think that he could have avoided this expense by assuming ignorance of the german language. he said that two years ago, when he was travelling in germany with three other men, the authorities came down upon them in much the same way for travelling first-class with second-class tickets. why they were doing this b. did not seem able to explain very clearly. he said that, if he recollected rightly, the guard had told them to get into a first-class, or else they had not had time to get into a second-class, or else they did not know they were not in a second-class. i must confess his explanation appeared to me to be somewhat lame. anyhow, there they were in a first-class carriage; and there was the collector at the door, looking indignantly at their second-class tickets, and waiting to hear what they had to say for themselves. one of their party did not know much german, but what little he did know he was very proud of and liked to air; and this one argued the matter with the collector, and expressed himself in german so well that the collector understood and disbelieved every word he said. he was also, on his part, able, with a little trouble, to understand what the collector said, which was that he must pay eighteen marks. and he had to. as for the other three, two at all events of whom were excellent german scholars, they did not understand anything, and nobody could make them understand anything. the collector roared at them for about ten minutes, and they smiled pleasantly and said they wanted to go to hanover. he went and fetched the station-master, and the station-master explained to them for another ten minutes that, if they did not pay eighteen shillings each, he should do the german equivalent for summonsing them; and they smiled and nodded, and told him that they wanted to go to hanover. then a very important-looking personage in a cocked-hat came up, and was very angry; and he and the station-master and the collector took it in turns to explain to b. and his two friends the state of the law on the matter. they stormed and raged, and threatened and pleaded for a quarter of an hour or so, and then they got sick, and slammed the door, and went off, leaving the government to lose the fifty-four marks. we passed the german frontier on wednesday, and have been in belgium since. i like the germans. b. says i ought not to let them know this, because it will make them conceited; but i have no fear of such a result. i am sure they possess too much common-sense for their heads to be turned by praise, no matter from whom. b. also says that i am displaying more energy than prudence in forming an opinion of a people merely from a few weeks' travel amongst them. but my experience is that first impressions are the most reliable. at all events, in my case they are. i often arrive at quite sensible ideas and judgments, on the spur of the moment. it is when i stop to think that i become foolish. our first thoughts are the thoughts that are given to us; our second thoughts are the thoughts that we make for ourselves. i prefer to trust to the former. the germans are a big, square-shouldered, deep-chested race. they do not talk much, but look as though they thought. like all big things, they are easy-going and good-tempered. anti-tobacconists, teetotallers, and such-like faddists, would fare badly in germany. a german has no anti-nature notions as to its being wicked for him to enjoy his life, and still more criminal for him to let anybody else enjoy theirs. he likes his huge pipe, and he likes his mug of beer, and as these become empty he likes to have them filled again; and he likes to see other people like _their_ pipe and _their_ mug of beer. if you were to go dancing round a german, shrieking out entreaties to him to sign a pledge that he would never drink another drop of beer again as long as he lived, he would ask you to remember that you were talking to a man, not to a child or an imbecile, and he would probably impress the request upon you by boxing your ears for your impertinence. he can conduct himself sensibly without making an ass of himself. he can be "temperate" without tying bits of coloured ribbon all about himself to advertise the fact, and without rushing up and down the street waving a banner and yelling about it. the german women are not beautiful, but they are lovable and sweet; and they are broad-breasted and broad-hipped, like the mothers of big sons should be. they do not seem to trouble themselves about their "rights," but appear to be very contented and happy even without votes. the men treat them with courtesy and tenderness, but with none of that exaggerated deference that one sees among more petticoat-ridden nations. the germans are women lovers, not women worshippers; and they are not worried by any doubts as to which sex shall rule the state, and which stop at home and mind the children. the german women are not politicians and mayors and county councillors; they are housewives. all classes of germans are scrupulously polite to one another; but this is the result of mutual respect, not of snobbery. the tramcar conductor expects to be treated with precisely the same courtesy that he tenders. the count raises his hat to the shopkeeper, and expects the shopkeeper to raise his hat to him. the germans are hearty eaters; but they are not, like the french, fussy and finicky over their food. their stomach is not their god; and the cook, with his sauces and _pates_ and _ragouts_, is not their high priest. so long as the dish is wholesome, and there is sufficient of it, they are satisfied. in the mere sensuous arts of painting and sculpture the germans are poor, in the ennobling arts of literature and music they are great; and this fact provides a key to their character. they are a simple, earnest, homely, genuine people. they do not laugh much; but when they do, they laugh deep down. they are slow, but so is a deep river. a placid look generally rests upon their heavy features; but sometimes they frown, and then they look somewhat grim. a visit to germany is a tonic to an englishman. we english are always sneering at ourselves, and patriotism in england is regarded as a stamp of vulgarity. the germans, on the other hand, believe in themselves, and respect themselves. the world for them is not played out. their country to them is still the "fatherland." they look straight before them like a people who see a great future in front of them, and are not afraid to go forward to fulfil it. good-bye, sir (or madam).